« AnteriorContinuar »
looked around. Some one said, “ Walter.” Is he here? I should like to see him very much.'
Nobody replied directly; but his father soon said to Susan, 'Call him back, then ; let him come up.' After a short pause of expectation, during which he looked with smiling interest and wonder on his nurse, and saw that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the room. His open face and manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a favorite with Paul; and, when Paul saw him, he stretched out his hand, and said, 'Good-by!'
"Good-by, my child!' cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head. • Not good-by?'
“For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. “Ah, yes !” he said placidly, “good
Walter, dear, good-by!' turning his head to where he stood, and putting out his hand again. Where is
“ He felt his father's breath upon his cheek before the words had parted from his lips.
« « Remember Walter, dear papa,' he whispered, looking in his face. Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter.' The feeble hand in the air, as if it cried * Good-by!' to Walter once again.
6. Now lay me down again,' he said ; and, Floy, come close to me, and let me see you.'
+ Sister and brother wound their arms around each
other; and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them locked together.
“How fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves. They always said so.'
Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. the banks were now! how bright the flowers growing on them! and how tall the rushes ! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on; and now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the bank ?
“ He put his hands together as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so behind her neck.
“. Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face. But tell them that the print upon the stairs of school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining as I go.'
“ The golden ripple of the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion, — the fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll; the old, old fashion, - death!
6. Oh! thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, — immortality. And look upon us, angels of young children, with regard not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean."
The chapter containing the foregoing is headed in the novel, “What are the wild waves saying ?”
A beautiful song has been written by some one with that title, which is twined with the memory of Dickens and little Paul. It will fitly close this chapter.
• What are the wild waves saying,
Sister, the whole day long,
I hear but their low, lone song ?
(There it sounds wild and free);
In dreams it is still with me.
• Brother, I hear no singing.
'Tis but the rolling wave, Ever its lone course winging
Over some ocean cave:
Dashing against the shore;
Mingling with its roar.
“ No: it is something greater,
That speaks to the heart alone.
That dwells in that mighty tone.
“ Yes: but the waves seem ever
Singing the same sad thing;
To guess what the surges sing.
What is that voice repeating
Ever by night and day?
Or a warning that calls away?
“ Brother, the inland mountain,
Hath it not voice and sound ?
As it bedews the ground ?
Curtained and closed and warm,
With those of the distant storm?
w Yes; but there's something greater
That speaks to the heart alone: 'Tis the voice of the great Creator
That dwells in that mighty tone."
The Reality of Fiction.-- David Copperfield. – Opinion of Fraser's Magazine.
The Shipwreck. - Uriah Heap.- Little Em'ly.- A Lone, Lorn Os ur.
“The gnashing billows heaved and fell;
Wild shrieked the midnight gale;
0. W. HOLMES,
« There is sorrow on the sea." --JER. xlix. 23.
SENSIBLE writer in “ The Christian Ex-
of argument, Charles Dickens was a benefactor to the readers of “David Copperfield,” and to those who have witnessed the touching drama of “ Little Em'ly," founded upon the same.
The story-telling and the story-reading propensity are utterly indestructible; and the following passages
from that excellent article on “ The Reality of Fiction ” show where lies the danger in the literature of the imagination: