Here is another package. Let the fire purify them; never say you know your friend till his tombstone is over him.
What Solomon says “handwriting is an index of character?” Give him the cap and bells, and show him those bold pen-marks. They were traced by no Di Vernon! Let me sketch the writer:—A blushing, smiling, timid, loving little fairy, as ever nestled near a true heart; with a step like the fall of a snowflake, and a voice like the murmur of a brook in June. Poor little Katie! she lays her cheek now to a little cradle sleeper’s, and starts at the distant footstep, and trembles at the muttered curse, and reels under the brutal blow, and, woman-like—loves on!
And what have we here? A sixpence with a ribbon in it! Oh, those Saturday and Wednesday afternoons, with their hoarded store of nuts and candy—the broad, green meadow, with its fine old trees—the crazy old swing, and the fragrant tumble in the grass—the wreath of oak leaves, the bunch of wild violets, the fairy story book, the little blue jacket, the snowy shirt-collar, the curly, black head, with its soft, blue eyes. Oh, first love, sugar-candy, torn aprons, and kisses! where have ye flown?
What is this? only a pressed flower; but it tells me of a shadowy wood—of a rippling brook—of a bird’s song—of a mossy seat—of whispered leaf-music—of dark, soul-lit eyes—of a voice sweet, and low, and thrilling—of a vow never broken till death chilled the lips that made it. Little need to look at the pictured face that lies beside me. It haunts me sleeping or waking. I shall see it again—life’s trials passed.
A CONSCIENTIOUS YOUNG MAN.
“There is no object in nature so beautiful as a conscientious young man.”— Exchange.
Well; I’ve seen the “Sea-Dog,” and Thackeray; and Tom Thumb and Kossuth; the “Bearded Lady” and Father Matthew; the whistling Canary, and Camille Urso; the “white negro,” and Mrs. Stowe; “Chang and Eng,” and Jenny Lind; and Miss Bremer, and Madame Sontag. I have been to the top of the State House, made the tour of the “Public Garden,” and crossed the “Frog Pond.” I’ve seen Theodore Parker, and a locomotive. I’ve ridden in an omnibus, heard a Fourth-of-July oration, and I once saw the sun rise; but I never, never never saw “a conscientious young man.”
If there is such an “organization” on the periphery of this globe, I should like to see him. If he is, where is he? Who owns him? Where did they raise him? What does he feed on? For whom does he vote? On what political platform do his conscientious toes rest? Does he know the difference between a Whig and a Democrat? between a “Hunker” and a “Barnburner?” between a “hard-shell” and a “soft-shell?” between a “uniform national currency” and a “sound constitutional currency?” Does he have chills, or a fever, when he sees a bonnet! Does he look at it out of the sides of his eyes, like a bashful, barn-yard bantam, or dare he not look at all? Does he show the “white feather,” or crow defiance? Does he “go to roost” at sun-down? and does he rest on an aristocratic perch? I’m all alive to see the specimen. My opera-glass is poised. Will he be at the World’s Fair? Might I be permitted to shake hands with, and congratulate him! I pause for a reply.