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the humdrum affairs of poor plodding wash-women."

"Ah, Ellen; your twelve years wisdom may teach you that the history of such as old Margaret cannot be interesting; but as the leaves of life are unrolled by the busy fingers of time, you will learn that the history of the heart, the fearful, mysterious human heart, is the same in a measure, through all the varied and intricate foldings of this shadowy existence. Margaret has had her dreams-high, glorious, wonderful dreams. I knew her in her joyous childhood, when she was the pet of fond parents, the idolized favorite of loving brothers and sisters. The sunny radiance of happiness ever smiled on the rosy lip. Her dark eye glanced in the bright beams of hope, for to her spirit's eye the world was bathed in hues of rainbow splendor, and she dreamed not that sorrow could ever efface the glorious tints that love and happiness penciled upon the horizon of her life's opening sky. Every thing wore a charm for her young spirit; when the young morning looked forth from his orient chambers, chasing away the dark shadows that curtained the slumbering world, the happy child rose with a song in her heart to blend with the glad gush of music that swelled on every breeze; and the aspirations of her adoring soul went upward to the throne on high, like the soft mists that creep so silently up from the shady vale, or the bosom of the silvery waters, to the purer air that flows around the blue crested mountains. No dream of loveliness that ever wooed almost to madness the frenzied soul of the artist, was more beautiful than bright-eyed Margaret Clifton."

"O now you are fooling us, grandma," laughed Ellen Lee. "Isn't it funny that you should think of making us believe that she was ever beautiful?"

"Indeed my child, she was beautiful as a dream of morning, when the glorious hues of fairy land are hovering around the half awakened spirit. Her dark eyes shone with the radiant light of a lofty and poetic mind. The soft rose-tint played in changeful blushes on the fair round cheek, and the pure high brow was crowned with waving curls of glossy brown, that danced in their silken softness to the breath of the wooing zephyr. But she possessed beauty of a loftier stamp than that of finely chiseled features, rich tresses, or complexion of lily and rose. The high beauty of the soul was hers; and through the good providence of that God she VOL. XX.

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adored in her childhood, and still leans upon and worships in her old age, she still retains that beauty. She was cheerful in those young days; joyous as the lark that floats upward on the wing of the morning, to pour the full tide of song on the higher waves of the atmosphere; and warble among the roseate clouds, the sweet carol he has learned from the dreamy tones of drowsy flowers, that have swayed murmuringly to the cool breath of the summer night winds. Her spirit was attuned to music. The harmonies of the universe met a response in her adoring heart. Her soul leapt up to the wild chant of the gale, as it rang through the sounding solitudes of the dark old forests; or melted in thrilling sympathy as the nightingale trilled her plaintive melody through the embowered glens, until the inanimate forms of nature seemed vocal with the low-voiced echoes of spirit lyres, as they swept on viewless pinion across the mystic cerulean, swelling the harmonial symphonies of praise to Him who poured the day-spring from on high to flood with glory the revolving earth,— who studded the solemn banners of night with gems of eternal beauty; and penciled with hues from the fountain of light, the gorgeous coronet of the storm. Yes, she was a vision of beauty, in face and form; the personification of loveliness in her mental character. But the charmed lot of woman was upon her, the bright, the sinless Margaret. The lot to tread awhile in rosehued bowers of dream-land; to have bright visions of human excellence, and sweet aspirings after that spiritual beauty that sets its high seal on the reverent brow; to dream the soft delusive dreams, that wrap the yearning soul in the golden glow of paradise; and then to see the cold, hard brush of reality applied to the alluring picture, and the rainbow tints all swept away, as the purple hues of morning fade before the dark shadows of the storm. She loved, as one of her pure, romantic nature alone can love; and when she stood in her radiant beauty before the shrine where human hearts are pledged for weal or wo, no heart in that gathered throng but beat more quickly as the solemn words were said whose spell must last while the life-stream ebbs through its mystic channels."

"O, now you are making a real love story of it. Who would ever have thought of any thing romantic in Maggie Nelson's history?"

“Much of the romantic abounds in the history of every person. Could we unclasp the sealed volume of the hearts that throb unnoted around us, we should read the tale of bliss or wo, which

is only successfully imitated by writers of fic

tion."

"Imitated! Why do you really suppose that people have such feelings and sufferings as we read of in stories?"

"Stories of fiction are of course exaggerations, so far as the writers are concerned; yet no human imagination can realize-no pen however graphic, delineate the sorrows that corrode the secret springs of life in many a heart that is veiled from us by a mantle of coldness and reserve. We seek the dreams of imaginative writers to wile away the idle hours, and forget in their perusal the hearts that are suffering, wasting away under disappointment and fruitless exertions; that are throbbing with anguish under our very eye, and breaking with concealed tortures, for which human language has no sign."

"But did she love unworthily? Was she won like other silly damsels by a fair face and fine speeches?"

"No. She made a good choice, so said the world. Horace Nelson was one of the world's favorites; an only son, the beloved of his father, the joy and pride of his mother and sisters. He possessed talent too of no common order, had won the highest collegiate honors, and had been admitted to practise at the bar with a high reputation for forensic abilities. And all went brightly for awhile with Margaret. The years swept by on happy pinions, and the young wife became a happy mother. And when the bright blue orbs of her young son looked smilingly upon her from day to day, she felt how great was the responsibility resting upon her glad and loving spirit to train him up for happiness, for honor, and high usefulness. His morning had dawned brightly, but what was the noontide of his life to disclose? Years passed on, and the mother's love and pride grew strong in the heart of Margaret, and so absorbed was she in the guidance of that young immortal entrusted to her care, that she failed at first to notice the occasional long absence of the husband she adored. But as time sped by with noiseless wing, her heart began to feel that a change had passed upon that heart where her own reposed. She could not own to herself that he, so loved, so trusted, could fall from the high place where her adoring soul had enshrined him; but at last the fearful truth was pressed upou her bleeding heart, and she bowed her head in agony to the painful assurance that her husband was a hopeless inebriate.

Then came the long days of alternate hope

and fear; the lonely night vigils which sorrow held by the desecrated shrine of wedded love; the bitter tears of hopeless misery, that bring no relief to the breaking heart. Seasons of weary neglect passed away; the roses paled on the cheek of that devoted wife, yet she still hoped on-hoped even against hope, that the hour of redemption might yet arrive, and the idol of her young love be freed from the blighting curse that rested on his soul.

Cares pressed heavily upon her, other children clustered around her,-unhappy recipients of a mother's hopeless love. Day by day, and year by year, that once bright home grew dark and gloomy; and at last the spectre, want, threw her baleful shadow over the home circle; and such wretchedness as cannot be portrayed, was the bitter portion of Margaret.

Who can imagine the agony-the darkness and desolation that presses on the heart of the lonely and neglected wife, as she sits through the long night hours, watching the radiant stars that shine so coldly on their thrones of light; while he who swore at the altar to protect and cherish while life should last, is debasing the godlike intellect which proves him akin to the angels. How often she knelt in her desolation, and prayed that He who hushed to peace the stormy waters of Galilee, would still the wild tempest of sorrow, and once more bind her brow with the garland of peace. She had removed with her husband to a distant city; her parents we were dead, and their wealth had passed into the hands of strangers. A sad lot was hers, yet she never wavered in the high faith which had shed a halo around her young spirit; and she walked humbly, trustingly, though sorrowfully along her weary way, striving with woman's hopeful love to shield her boy from the contaminations of a large city But her son wearied of the close, hot air of the miserable rooms which poverty obliged them to occupy. He must play in the clear bright sunshine that glanced on the flashing waters, and drink in the pure breezes of heaven, that came cool and fresh from the shimmering seas, or wafted the aroma of blossoms from the green fields and flowering shrubs. O that some angel might meet the children of the poor, when they congregate together in the crowded streets of great cities. George Nelson had no father; no kind heart to watch over his young footsteps, and lead his active spirit in the way that leads to purity and peace. Dearly as he loved his mother, and the little sisters that looked sadly on him with their soft bright eyes,

yet the sight of their privation was working a curse on his sensitive spirit.

None can guess, save those who have witnessed the result, how wrong and sorrow can warp the young soul, and drag it down from its loveliness and innocence. Disrespect, anger, hatred, took the place of that confiding love, which is the child's only safeguard from sin; and when George was eighteen he was inured to the degradation of poverty, and no stranger to the mysteries of iniquity.

And deeper grief was weaving its mantle of gloom for the soul of Margaret. Two of her little ones sickened, and in a few days passed from the darkness of their wretched home, to the bright gardens above, where angels train the blossoming vines in the fadeless bowers that bloom on the banks of life's glorious river. Ought we to mourn thus sadly when the young immortals seek early their home on the spirit shore? They escape the sorrows that blight the trusting spirit-the low sad wail of misery shall never thrill their young heart-strings, for they stand on the flowery margin of the crystal fountain of life, and learn the glad song that rings from the lyres of the blest, through the lapse of eternal years.

Yet the head of that worn mother bowed in bitter grief over those sweet young faces, as they were laid on the coffin pillow; and her soul yearned for that rest which they had gained. Darker and darker grew the sky above her, more desolate the wide world around. The husband to whom she had plighted her soul's truth when life's young morning smiled on the sweet flowers of hope, had become a thing of terror and scorn. The light of intelligence that once lit up the beaming eye, had given place to the rolling, vacant stare of idiocy. The intellect that once held the listening multitude in rapt admiration, had been shrouded in the pall of self degradation; and he who had sworn before the holy altar to love, to protect and cherish the fair girl by his side, was now dependant upon her labor for the scanty food which his abused nature required.

In the fearful period when the pestilence went abroad on destroying pinion, breathing blight, and terror, alike at noonday or at the solemn midnight, Horace Nelson was among the first who fell a victim to the terrible scourge. When the holy stars looked quietly down on the rippling waters, and the hushed breeze scarcely woke an echo amid the silent leaves, the dead cart bore from that miserable home the once

loving, high souled man of honor, to rest in the pauper's burying ground. But two days elapsed ere little Flora, the last remaining daughter, was folded in the mantle of the shadowy angel, but the beauty that crowned the other dying cherubs, and rested on their cold, still lips, even in the coffin, was not here. The distorted features, the livid hue, that characterizes the fearful scourge, made the mother turn in involuntary terror from the face that had nestled so lovingly in her bosom. She sunk in despair almost, and never stirred when stranger hands bore forth that blighted flower, to brighten no more the dark pathway of her life. But when their footsteps died away, and the wheels were heard rumbling in the distance, she heaved a quick gasping sigh, and said like one of old, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away." Then the long sealed fountain of tears welled forth, and the sore and throbbing brain found relief, and the burdened heart at last grew still, baptized in the soothing dews of love and hallowed trust. Kneeling by the couch of her last remaining child, she silently poured out her sorrows into the ear of Him who watches the young sparrows when they fall; and worn out with sorrowful vigils with the dead and dying, and wasted with hunger and bitterness of spirit, she slept the weary sleep of exhaustion, with her head resting on the couch of her only son. He awoke at early dawn to find his mother reclining by his side. Remorse smote that young spirit; young in years, yet all too old in the blighting experience that shrouds the life of the soul. He wept the bitter tears of regret, shame, and sorrow, as he thought of all she had suffered, and of his own mis-spent days. More sinned against than sinning, (though he knew it not) was that wretched lad who now saw the utter desolation of that mother who had ever been to him an angel of kindness.

The stricken spirit struggled in that hour of grey twilight to rise above the dark influences that had clouded the young heart's pure trusting love, and holy innocence; and he resolved to break the dark bands that bound him down to poverty. Strong hope sprung up in his heart. He would be a man, he would strive with the world, and win for his poor mother a home and a competence. Alas for the resolves of neglected childhood, and contaminated youth. Few are the hands reached forth at the right moment to rescue the falling spirit.

For a while he strove to stem the tide of opposing influences, but the mother was sick for

long months, and attended by the hand of charity, and the lonely boy had none to cheer, none to encourage him, save outcasts like himself. In that lonely period habits long begun, had gained an influence over him which could never be counteracted.

When Margaret arose once more from her bed of sickness, she yearned to come back to the old place. It seemed to her sorrowing heart that she could find somewhat of the happiness that blest her youth, if she could hear the winds sing again through the apple boughs, and listen to the robin's carol among the cherry trees, or the whip-poor-will's plaint in the adjacent thicket. She pined for the sweet breath of flowers that bloomed by the remembered window, where often she had watched the mellow twilight fading from the arching sky, and gathered rich lessons of wisdom from the open volume, till gathering darkness veiled the page. Through the long days of her sickness there had been intervals of blissful ease, a half-consciousness that deluded the fluttering spirit with visions of the olden time, when sitting by her mother's side she breathed the rich perfume of lilac or rose; and listened with rapture to the chant of the fresh breeze that bore on its wings the wild moan of the waves, and mingled its dying cadence with the melody of forest-lyres that floated from mountain and valley, and rose in a harmonious swell, like the song of the lute or the light toned guitar. And when her health was sufficiently restored, she came by weary and toilsome stages, to this pleasant valley where her happy infancy and childhood had been passed. But poor Margaret found not the home she knew in the bright days of youth. Strangers dwelt in the home of her parents, The grove was gone to make room for new improvements, and the old timeworn church had been taken down, and a new and imposing edifice stood in its place. And when she entered the sanctuary of worship, she felt indeed that she was a stranger. I knew her when a young girl, and had been present at her wedding; so when I heard of her return, I sought her out, and extended to her that friendsip she so much needed,

Her son, by this time near twenty-two, was a fine looking young man, and to us who knew not the canker that had preyed upon his heart, bid fair to be the support and consolation of his mother's declining years. In less than two years he led to the altar a fair young being, beautiful as the spring-time flowers, and alas, as frail. It was not long before the besetting sin

that brings blight and ruin to so many noble hearts-so many happy circles, began to show its fearful influence. George Nelson lived in that sweet little cottage just over the brook, whose silvery song makes music through the live-long night, and its cool, damp breath gives a richer green to the shrubbery that half hides the building from view. O how often our hearts ached at sunset, when we walked over the little bridge, to spend a few moments with the lone widow; for in a little nook near the brook-side, sheltered by the interlacing boughs that shut out the prying sunbeams, we were almost sure to find the poor, pale Agnes, looking wistfully toward the village. She would smile-a faint, sad smile as I approached her, and rise and go into the house with me, talking all the while in a merry strain, or singing, may be, some light carol of the olden time. But I was not deceived. I knew this feigned merriment was but the white foam that gathers on the wave,that seems so calm and still; while far down, the dark waters are fretting against the jagged rocks.

A few more months, and Agnes lay on her death-bed. Those small white hands, where the delicate veins seemed like purple threads, were thin and transparent, and but for the tracery of life's mysterious meshes would scarce be noticed on the snowy counterpane. Her life was slowly ebbing out, yet the spirit's concentrated love beamed in her soul-lit orbs, and rested ever and anon upon a tiny bud of being that lay sleeping by her side. She had looked for love, the high, the pure; she had given her soul's adoration to one whom her fond imagination had endowed with all noble qualities. She had made her an idol, and bound it around with the tendrils of her own heart, and gave it the rich incense of woman's undying love. She found that idol clay, yet hers was not a nature to bewail that worship. So for a few short months she looked sadly out on the ever varying beauties of nature, and then lay quietly down to find that rest in the embrace of the Savior, which human love had denied her. That long tried mother stood by her, consoling her in the solemn hour of departure, and the young husband was there too; crushed and heart-broken by a sense of his own sin. "I have murdered you, Agnes," he cried in husky tones, "I have murdered you, my own life; yet God knows how well I have loved you. O if you could live, I might yet reform."

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have always been kind to me. Never has a frown, or an unkind word from you cast a shadow on my heart. Remember love we shall soon meet, where the flowers are all deathless, and the bright skies are never overcast with clouds. Take little Margaret, for I have named her after our mother; cherish her as a sweet blossom to remind you of me. I shall not forget you in the land to which I go, and if the beings of that bright sphere are permitted to visit the scenes where the soul has been gladdened, I shall come to you often, though unseen; and wait with joy to greet you on that starry shore."

"You will not wait long. I cannot live now. I have poisoned the cup of life for you, and that corroding memory will soon wear out the links of life's mysterious chain."

He spoke but too truly. In three days Agnes was laid in the quiet mansion where earth's weary ones forget their sorrows. One would think the circumstances of her death would exert a restraining influence on the erring man; but sorrow and remorse increased the madness that follows intemperance. Before little Margaret was a year old, her wretched father filled a drunkard's grave. Poor Margaret did not bear this all unmoved; she had been more or less than woman if she had. But she still trusted in that God she had worshiped in her youth-who adorns the green meadows with the smiles of his love,—who heedeth the cry of the famishing raven, and careth for the sparrows of the field. She has lived for the lovely little grandchild, who is now the only link that binds her to earth. To cultivate that infant mind-to inspire it with a love for all things pure and beautiful-to lead it up to maturity in that trusting love which is a shield and a support in the hours of human trial, is her highest ambition.

And she will go on in her secluded pathway, striving to fulfill her mission in the manner most acceptable to that Savior who toiled sorrowfully over the dusty thoroughfares of life, to show us the excellency of that life, which in humble trust leads us ever nearer the throne, where gush the pure waters of spiritual peace. All the bright dreams of her youth have faded; those yearning hopes which are the crown of joy to woman's heart so long as she can dream of their fulfillment, have been crushed and blighted. Yet her faith in God has not failed, and she looks forward with joyful hope to that glad morning when she shall rest from earth's trials in the bosom of eternal love. Nor is her lot wholly unblest even here. Sympathy, and love and

trust are meted out to her, as to one of the noblest of sorrow's children.

Now from the simple story of poor Margaret learn this truth; that a pure, loving, trusting spirit, is a talisman to sustain the sorrowing heart in the darkest hours of trial-that a firm dependance upon Him who sits enthroned within the circles of ineffable light, will lessen the burden of poverty, wrong and woe, and calmly lead the soul down the shadowy vale to the portals which open to those glorious realms where truth unrolls her star-gemmed banner on the cloudless air; and the kind angel who wore on earth the pale lineaments of sorrow, lifts her radiant brow to the arching heaven that is bright with the glory of the Father."

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I SIT beside the casement, with the soft air stealing through

'Tis the balmy breath of evening all laden with the dew,

And its viewless finger strayeth o'er my flushed and fevered brow;

Like a spirit touch it seemeth, 'mid the twilight shadows now.

Out in silent worship gaze I, out upon the starry night,

And my soul goes forth in homage to the glorious God of light,

And it craves one earnest blessing from the Father who is love,

And the pure and spotless angels, round his glo

rious throne above

For the dear and ever cherished, whom my heart as fondly shrines

As the flower enfolds the dew-drop ere the morning sunlight shines ;

And a prayer my heart is swelling that my inmost soul gave birth,

That their guardian power may shield thee-ever from the ills of earth;

That the mantle of His glory, more radiant than

the sun,

Be thy portion when the trials and the toils of earth are done.

Now, a sweeter breath of fragrance floats across the dewy lawn, Wakening sad, yet pleasant memories of the happy days agone;

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