TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

This work has no errata. The following typos were corrected:

• [p. 82]: chesnuts → chestnuts

The table of contents is on [page 5].

Index of illustrations:

1. [Book cover]
2. [The Indian Chief]
3. ["Continue the command of your passions; make virtue the scope of all your actions."]
4. [Gall & Inglis logo]

Olive Leaves

The Indian Chief.—[P. 229].

OLIVE LEAVES.

OR,

SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.

BY

MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

GALL & INGLIS.

PREFACE.

An Olive Leaf was the first gift of the Earth after the Flood, to the sole survivors of a buried race. It was borne by the Dove, spreading a timid wing over the surging waters, so lately without a shore.

The plant thus honoured, as the love-token of a World, rising in freshness from the wrecks of the Deluge, has long been a consecrated emblem of peace. It then brought the joyful tidings to the voyagers in the lonely Ark, of a home once more upon the green earth; and has since cheered many a Christian heart, with the assurance that the bitter waters of strife had abated.

These, my simple "Olive Leaves," would fain be love-tokens to you, sweet young friends, who may chance to take them in your hand. Buds of the olive and of the rose, are ye: pour forth the spirit of peace and love, as ye unfold and ripen on the pilgrimage of life, that you may be gathered at its close, where their bloom is eternal.

L. H. S.

Hartford, Connecticut.

CONTENTS.

OLIVE LEAVES.

The Lost and Found.

I have something to say to the young, about the advantage, as well as duty of obeying their parents. My story will be of an interesting boy, by the name of Charles Morton. He had a pleasant temper, and almost always wore a smile. He ardently loved his sister Caroline, who was several years younger than himself; and whenever he came from school, would ask for her, and take her in his arms, or guide her tottering footsteps.

But Charles, with all his kindness of heart, had a sad fault. He would sometimes disobey his parents, when he was out of their sight. He did not remember that the Eye of God always saw him, both in darkness and in light, and would take note of the sin that he committed, though his parents knew it not. At a short distance from his home, was a beautiful river, broad and deep. His parents had strictly charged him never to venture in, and had explained to him the danger which a boy of eight years old would incur, in a tide so strong. Notwithstanding this, he would sometimes seek a spot where the banks, or the trees upon the shore, concealed him, and take off his shoes, and step into the water. He grew fond of wading, and would occasionally stay in the water a long time. Then, he greatly desired to swim. He frequently saw larger boys amusing themselves in this way, and longed to join them. But he feared lest they might mention it to his father, and determined to go alone.

Here was the sin of the little boy, not only in continuing to disobey, but in studying how to deceive his kind parents. One fine afternoon in summer, school was dismissed at an earlier hour than usual. Now, thought Charles, I can make a trial at swimming, and get home, before my mother misses me. He sought a retired spot, where he had never seen his companions go, and hastened to throw off his clothes, and plunge into the water. He did not imagine that it was so deep there, and that the current was so exceedingly swift. He struggled with all his might, but was borne farther and farther from the shore. The sea was not a great distance from the mouth of the river, and the tide was driving on violently, and what could he do? Nothing, but to exhaust his feeble strength, and then give up, and be carried onwards. He became weary of beating the water with his feet and hands to no purpose, and his throat was dry with crying, and so he floated along, like a poor, uprooted weed. It was fearful to him to be hurried away so, with the waters roaring in his ears. He gave up all hope of seeing his dear home again, and dreaded the thought of being drowned, and devoured by monstrous fishes. How he wished that he had not disobeyed his good parents; and he earnestly prayed God to forgive him, and have mercy upon his soul.

At Charles Morton's home, his mother had prepared a bowl of bread and milk for him, because he usually was hungry when he came from school.

At length she began to look from the window, and to feel uneasy. Little Caroline crept to the door, and continually called "Tarle, Tarle!" But when the sun disappeared, and Mr. Morton returned, and nothing had been seen of the dear boy, they were greatly alarmed. They searched the places where he had been accustomed to play, and questioned his companions, but in vain. The neighbours collected, and attended the father in pursuit of his lost son. What was their distress, at finding his clothes in a remote recess, near the river's brink! They immediately gave him up as drowned, and commenced the search for his body. There was bitter mourning in his once happy home, that night. Many weeks elapsed, ere little Caroline ceased calling for her "dear Tarle," or the sad parents could be comforted. And it was remembered amid their affliction, that the beloved child whom they had endeavoured to teach the fear of God, had forgotten that All-seeing Eye, when he disobeyed his parents.

But while they were lamenting their lost son, he was not dead. While faintly struggling on the river, he had been discovered, and taken up by an Indian canoe. He had been borne by the swift current far from the place where he first went into the water. And it was very long after he was rescued, before he came to his senses, so as to give any connected account of himself. Then, he was greatly shocked at finding himself in a boat, with two huge Indians. He shrieked, and begged to be taken to his father's house; but they paid no attention to his cries, and silently proceeded on their voyage. They wrapped a blanket around him, because he had no clothes, and offered him some parched corn, but he had no heart to eat. By the rough tossing of the boat, he discovered that they were upon the deep sea, and the broad moon rose high, and shone long, ere they drew near to land. Stupefied with terror, one of the Indians carried him in his arms to a rude hut, and gave him to his wife.

"What have you brought?" said she, as she loosened the blanket, and discovered the dripping locks and shivering form of the affrighted child.

"A white pappoose," answered the hoarse voice of the husband. Poor Charles looked up with a cry of horror and despair. The woman regarded him earnestly for a moment.

"He is like my son that I buried," said she, and she folded her dark arms around him, and wept. She kindled a fire to warm him, and pressed food upon him, but he was sick at heart. She laid him in the rude bed of her dead child, and he sobbed himself into a deep, long sleep. It was late in the morning when he opened his eyes. Who can describe his distress! No kind parent to speak to him, no little sister to twine her arms around his neck. Nothing but a dark hovel, and strange Indian faces. The woman, with her husband and father, were the sole inhabitants of the hut, and of this lone, sea-girt island. A dreadful feeling of desolation came over him, and he laid down his head, and mourned bitterly. The red-browed woman pitied him, and adopted him into her heart, in place of the child she had lost. She brought him the coarse garments of her dead son, and he was obliged to put them on, for he had no other.

His heart sunk within him, when on going out of the door, he could see no roof save the one where he had lodged. Some little rocky islands were in sight, but none of them inhabited. He felt as if he was alone in the world, and said, "This is the punishment of my disobedience." Continually he was begging with tears, to be taken to his home, and the men promised "when we go so far again in the boat, we will carry you." But their manners were so stern, that he began to fear to urge them as much as he wished. So every night, when he had retired to sleep, the woman said to her husband, "We will keep him. He will be contented. His beautiful blue eye is not so wild and strained, as when you brought him. My heart yearns towards him, as it did over the one that shall wake no more."

She took him with her to gather the rushes, with which she platted mats and baskets, and showed him where the solitary bittern made her nest, and how to trace the swift steps of the heron, as with whirring wing half spread it hasted through the marshes to the sea. And she taught him to dig roots, which contain the spirit of health, and to know the herbs that bring sleep to the sick, and staunch the flowing blood: for she trusted that in industry, and the simple knowledge of nature, he would find content. At first, she brought him wild flowers, but she perceived that they always made him weep, for he had been accustomed to gather them for his little Caroline. So she passed them by, blooming in their wild recesses, and instructed him how to climb the trees where the grape-vine hung its airy clusters. And she gave him a choice bow and arrow, ornamented with brilliant feathers, and encouraged him to take aim at the birds that sang among the low branches. But he shrank back at the thought of hurting the warbler, and she said silently,

"Surely, the babe of the white woman is not in spirit like his red brother. He who sleeps in the grave was happy when he bent the bow and followed his father to the chase."

Little Charles spent a part of each day in watching the sails, as they glided along on the broad sea. For a long time, he would stand as near the shore as possible, and make signs, and shout, hoping they might be induced to come and take him to his home. But an object so diminutive, attracted no attention, and the small island, with its neighbouring group of rocks, looked so desolate, and the channel so obstructed and dangerous, that vessels had no motive to approach it.

When the chill of early autumn was in the air, the Indian woman invited him to assist her in gathering the golden ears of the maize, and in separating them from their investing sheath. But he worked sorrowfully, for he was ever thinking of his own dear home. Once the men permitted him to accompany them, when they went on a short fishing excursion; but he wept and implored so violently to be taken to his parents, that they frowned, and forbade him to go any more in the boat. They told him, that twice or thrice in the year they performed a long voyage, and went up the river, to dispose of the articles of their manufacture and purchase some necessary stores. They should go when spring returned, and would then carry him to his parents. So the poor little boy perceived that he must try to be patient and quiet, through the long, dreary winter, in an Indian hut. The red-browed woman ever looked smilingly upon him, and spoke to him with a sweet, fond tone. She wished him to call her mother, and was always trying to promote his comfort. After Charles had obtained the promise of her husband and father, to take him home in the spring, his mind was more at rest. He worked diligently as his strength and skill would permit, on the baskets, mats, and brooms, with which the boat was to be freighted. He took pleasure in painting with the bright colours which they obtained from plants, two baskets, which were intended as presents for his mother and Caroline.

The Indian woman often entertained him with stories of her ancestors. She spoke of their dexterity in the chase, of their valour in battle. She described their war-dances, and the feathery lightness of their canoes upon the wave. She told of the gravity of their chiefs, the eloquence of their orators, the respect of the young men for those of hoary hairs. She related instances of the firmness of their friendship, and the terror of their revenge.

"Once the whole land was theirs, said she, and no white man dwelt in it, or had discovered it. Now, our race are few and feeble, they are driven away and perish. They leave their fathers' graves, and hide among the forests. The forests fall before the axe of the white man, and they are again driven out, we know not where. No voice asks after them. They fade away like a mist, and are forgotten."

The little boy wept at the plaintive tone in which she spoke of the sorrows of her people, and said, "I will pity and love the Indians, as long as I live." Sometimes, during the long storms of winter, he would tell them of the Bible, in which he had loved to read, and would repeat the hymns and chapters which he had learned at the Sabbath school. And then he regretted that he had not exerted himself to learn more when it was in his power, and that he had ever grieved his teachers. He found that these Indians were not able to read, and said, "Oh that I had now but one of those books, which I used to prize so little when I was at home, and had so many." They listened attentively to all that he said. Sometimes he told them what he had learned of God, and added,

"He is a good God, and a God of truth, but I displeased him when I was disobedient to my parents."

At length, Spring appeared. The heart of little Charles leaped for joy, when he heard the sweet song of the earliest bird. Every morning he rose early, and went forth to see if the grass had not become greener during the night. Every hour, he desired to remind them of the long-treasured promise. But he saw that the men looked grave if he was impatient, and the brow of his Indian mother became each day more sad.

The appointed period arrived. The boat was laden with the products of their industry. All was ready for departure. Charles wept when he was about to take leave of his kind Indian nurse.

"I will go also," said she; and they made room for her in the boat. The bright sun was rising gloriously in the east, as they left the desolate island. Through the whole voyage she held the boy near her, or in her arms, but spoke not. Birds were winging their way over the blue sea, and, after they entered the river, poured forth the clearest melodies from shore and tree, but still she spoke not. There seemed a sorrow at her breast, which made her lip tremble, yet her eye was tearless. Charles refrained to utter the joy which swelled in his bosom, for he saw she was unhappy. He put his arm round her neck, and leaned his head on her shoulder. As evening approached, they drew near the spot, where she understood she must part from him. Then Charles said eagerly to her,

"Oh, go home with me to my father's house. Yes, yes, come all of you with me, my dear, good people, that all of us may thank you together for having saved my life."

"No," she answered sorrowfully: "I could not bear to see thy mother fold thee in her arms, and to know that thou wert mine no more. Since thou hast told me of thy God, and that he listened to prayer, my prayer has been lifted up to Him night and day, that thy heart might find rest in an Indian home. But this is over. Henceforth, my path and my soul are desolate. Yet go thy way, to thy mother, that she may have joy when she rises up in the morning, and at night goes to rest."

Her tears fell down like rain, as she embraced him, and they lifted him upon the bank. And eager as he was to meet his parents, and his beloved sister, he lingered to watch the boat as it glided away. He saw that she raised not her head, nor uncovered her face. He remembered her long and true kindness, and asked God to bless and reward her, as he hastened over the well known space that divided him from his native village.

His heart beat so thick as almost to suffocate him, when he saw his father's roof. It was twilight, and the trees where he used to gather apples, were in full and fragrant bloom. Half breathless, he rushed in at the door. His father was reading in the parlour, and rose coldly to meet him. So changed was his person, and dress, that he did not know his son. But the mother shrieked. She knew the blue eye, that no misery of garb could change. She sprang to embrace him, and fainted. It was a keen anguish to him, that his mother thus should suffer. Little Caroline clung around his neck, and as he kissed her, he whispered "Remember, God sees, and punishes the disobedient." His pale mother lifted up her head, and drew him from his father's arms, upon the bed, beside her. "Father, Mother," said the delighted boy, "forgive me." They both assured him of their love, and his father looking upward said, "My God, I thank thee! for this my son was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found."

Childhood's Piety.

If the meek faith that Jesus taught,
Admission fail to gain
Neath domes with wealth and splendour fraught,
Where dwell a haughty train,
Turn to the humble hearth and see
The Mother's tender care,
Luring the nursling on her knee
To link the words of prayer:
Or to the little bed, where kneels
The child with heaven-raised eye,
And all its guileless soul reveals
To Him who rules the sky;
Where the young babe's first lispings keep
So bright the parents tear,
The "Now, I lay me down to sleep,"
That angels love to hear.

Frank Ludlow.

"It is time Frank and Edward were at home," said Mrs. Ludlow. So she stirred and replenished the fire, for it was a cold winter's evening.

"Mother, you gave them liberty to stay and play after school," said little Eliza.

"Yes, my daughter, but the time is expired. I wish my children to come home at the appointed time, as well as to obey me in all other things. The stars are already shining, and they are not allowed to stay out so late."

"Dear mother, I think I hear their voices now." Little Eliza climbed into a chair, and drawing aside the window-curtain, said joyfully, "O yes, they are just coming into the piazza."

Mrs. Ludlow told her to go to the kitchen, and see that the bread was toasted nice and warm, for their bowls of milk which had been some time ready.

Frank and Edward Ludlow were fine boys, of eleven and nine years old. They returned in high spirits, from their sport on the frozen pond. They hung up their skates in the proper place, and then hastened to kiss their mother.

"We have stayed longer at play than we ought, my dear mother," said Edward.

"You are nearly an hour beyond the time," said Mrs. Ludlow.

"Edward reminded me twice," said Frank, "that we ought to go home. But O, it was such excellent skating, that I could not help going round the pond a few times more. We left all the boys there when we came away. The next time, we will try to be as true as the town-clock. And it is not Edward's fault now, mother."

"My sons, I always expect you to leave your sports, at the time that I appoint. I know that you do not intend to disobey, or to give me anxiety. But you must take pains to be punctual. When you become men, it will be of great importance that you observe your engagements. Unless you perform what is expected of you, at the proper time, people will cease to have confidence in you."

The boys promised to be punctual and obedient, and their mother assured them, that they were not often forgetful of these important duties.

Eliza came in with the bread nicely toasted, for their supper.

"What a good little one, to be thinking of her brothers, when they are away. Come, sweet sister, sit between us."

Eliza felt very happy, when her brothers each gave her a kiss, and she looked up in their faces, with a sweet smile.

The evening meal was a pleasant one. The mother and her children talked cheerfully together. Each had some little agreeable circumstance to relate, and they felt how happy it is for a family to live in love.

After supper, books and maps were laid on the table, and Mrs. Ludlow said,

"Come boys, you go to school every day, and your sister does not. It is but fair that you should teach her something. First examine her in the lessons she has learned with me, and then you may add some gift of knowledge from your own store."

So Frank overlooked her geography, and asked her a few questions on the map; and Edward explained to her a little arithmetic, and told a story from the history of England, with which she was much pleased. Soon she grew sleepy, and kissing her brothers, wished them an affectionate good-night. Her mother went with her, to see her laid comfortably in bed, and to hear her repeat her evening hymns, and thank her Father in heaven, for his care of her through the day.

When Mrs. Ludlow returned to the parlour, she found her sons busily employed in studying their lessons for the following day. She sat down beside them with her work, and when they now and then looked up from their books, they saw that their diligence was rewarded by her approving eye.

When they had completed their studies, they replaced the books which they had used, in the bookcase, and drew their chairs nearer to the fire. The kind mother joined them, with a basket of fruit, and while they partook of it, they had the following conversation.

Mrs. Ludlow. "I should like to hear, my dear boys, more of what you have learned to-day."

Frank. "I have been much pleased with a book that I borrowed of one of the boys. Indeed, I have hardly thought of any thing else. I must confess that I put it inside of my geography, and read it while the master thought I was studying."

Mrs. Ludlow. "I am truly sorry, Frank, that you should be willing to deceive. What are called boy's tricks, too often lead to falsehood, and end in disgrace. On this occasion you cheated yourself also. You lost the knowledge which you might have gained, for the sake of what, I suppose, was only some book of amusement."

Frank. "Mother, it was the life of Charles the XII. of Sweden. You know that he was the bravest soldier of his times. He beat the king of Denmark, when he was only eighteen years old. Then he defeated the Russians, at the battle of Narva, though they had 80,000 soldiers, and he had not a quarter of that number."

Mrs. Ludlow. "How did he die?"

Frank. "He went to make war in Norway. It was a terribly severe winter, but he feared no hardship. The cold was so great, that his sentinels were often found frozen to death at their posts. He was besieging a town called Frederickshall. It was about the middle of December. He gave orders that they should continue to work on the trenches, though the feet of the soldiers were benumbed, and their hands froze to the tools. He got up very early one morning, to see if they were at their work. The stars shone clear and bright on the snow that covered every thing. Sometimes a firing was heard from the enemy. But he was too courageous to mind that. Suddenly, a cannon-shot struck him, and he fell. When they took him up, his forehead was beat in, but his right hand still strongly grasped the sword. Mother, was not that dying like a brave man?"

Mrs. Ludlow. "I should think there was more of rashness than bravery in thus exposing himself, for no better reason. Do you not feel that it was cruel to force his soldiers to such labours in that dreadful climate, and to make war when it was not necessary? The historians say that he undertook it, only to fill up an interval of time, until he could be prepared for his great campaign in Poland. So, to amuse his restless mind, he was willing to destroy his own soldiers, willing to see even his most faithful friends frozen every morning into statues. Edward, tell me what you remember."

Edward. "My lesson in the history of Rome, was the character of Antoninus Pius. He was one of the best of the Roman Emperors. While he was young, he paid great respect to the aged, and when he grew rich he gave liberally to the poor. He greatly disliked war. He said he had 'rather save the life of one subject, than destroy a thousand enemies.' Rome was prosperous and happy, under his government. He reigned 22 years, and died, with many friends surrounding his bed, at the age of 74."

Mrs. Ludlow. "Was he not beloved by the people whom he ruled? I have read that they all mourned at his death, as if they had lost a father. Was it not better to be thus lamented, than to be remembered only by the numbers he had slain, and the miseries he had caused?"

Frank. "But mother, the glory of Charles the XII. of Sweden, was certainly greater than that of a quiet old man, who, I dare say, was afraid to fight. Antoninus Pius was clever enough, but you cannot deny that Alexander, and Cæsar, and Bonaparte, had far greater talents. They will be called heroes and praised, as long as the world stands."

Mrs. Ludlow. "My dear children, those talents should be most admired, which produce the greatest good. That fame is the highest, which best agrees with our duty to God and man. Do not be dazzled by the false glory that surrounds the hero. Consider it your glory to live in peace, and to make others happy. Believe me, when you come to your death-beds, and oh, how soon will that be, for the longest life is short, it will give you more comfort to reflect that you have healed one broken heart, given one poor child the means of education, or sent to one heathen the book of salvation, than that you lifted your hand to destroy your fellow-creatures, and wrung forth the tears of widows and of orphans."

The hour of rest had come, and the mother opened the large family Bible, that they might together remember and thank Him, who had preserved them through the day. When Frank and Edward took leave of her for the night, they were grieved to see that there were tears in her eyes. They lingered by her side, hoping she would tell them if any thing had troubled her. But she only said, "My sons, my dear sons, before you sleep, pray to God for a heart to love peace."

After they had retired, Frank said to his brother,

"I cannot feel that it is wrong to be a soldier. Was not our father one? I shall never forget the fine stories he used to tell me about battles, when I was almost a baby. I remember that I used to climb up on his knee, and put my face close to his. Then I used to dream of prancing horses, and glittering swords, and sounding trumpets, and wake up and wish I was a soldier. Indeed, Edward, I wish so now. But I cannot tell dear mother what is in my heart, for it would grieve her."

"No, no, don't tell her so, dear Frank, and pray, never be a soldier. I have heard her say, that father's ill health, and most of his troubles, came from the life that he led in camps. He said on his death-bed, that if he could live his youth over again, he would be a meek follower of the Saviour, and not a man of blood."

"Edward, our father was engaged in the war of the Revolution, without which we should all have been slaves. Do you pretend to say that it was not a holy war?"

"I pretend to say nothing, brother, only what the Bible says, Render to no man evil for evil, but follow after the things that make for peace."

The boys had frequent conversations on the subject of war and peace. Their opinions still continued to differ. Their love for their mother, prevented their holding these discourses often in her presence; for they perceived that Frank's admiration of martial renown gave her increased pain. She devoted her life to the education and happiness of her children. She secured for them every opportunity in her power, for the acquisition of useful knowledge, and both by precept and example urged them to add to their "knowledge, temperance, and to temperance, brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness, charity."

This little family were models of kindness and affection among themselves. Each strove to make the others happy. Their fire-side was always cheerful, and the summer evening walks which the mother took with her children were sources both of delight and improvement.

Thus years passed away. The young saplings which they had cherished grew up to be trees, and the boys became men. The health of the kind and faithful mother became feeble. At length, she visibly declined. But she wore on her brow the same sweet smile which had cheered their childhood.

Eliza watched over her, night and day, with the tenderest care. She was not willing that any other hand should give the medicine, or smooth the pillow of the sufferer. She remembered the love that had nurtured her own childhood, and wished to perform every office that grateful affection could dictate.

Edward had completed his collegiate course, and was studying at a distant seminary, to prepare himself for the ministry. He had sustained a high character as a scholar, and had early chosen his place among the followers of the Redeemer. As often as was in his power, he visited his beloved parent, during her long sickness, and his letters full of fond regard, and pious confidence, continually cheered her.

Frank resided at home. He had chosen to pursue the business of agriculture, and superintended their small family estate. He had an affectionate heart, and his attentions to his declining mother, were unceasing. In her last moments he stood by her side. His spirit was deeply smitten, as he supported his weeping sister, at the bed of the dying. Pain had departed, and the meek Christian patiently awaited the coming of her Lord. She had given much council to her children, and sent tender messages to the absent one. She seemed to have done speaking. But while they were uncertain whether she yet breathed, she raised her eyes once more to her first-born, and said faintly, "My son, follow peace with all men."

These were her last words. They listened attentively, but her voice was heard no more.

Edward Ludlow was summoned to the funeral of his beloved mother. After she was committed to the dust, he remained a few days to mingle his sympathies with his brother and sister. He knew how to comfort them, out of the Scriptures, for therein was his hope, in all time of his tribulation.

Frank listened to all his admonitions, with a serious countenance, and a sorrowful heart. He loved his brother with great ardour, and to the mother for whom they mourned, he had always been dutiful. Yet she had felt painfully anxious for him to the last, because he had not made choice of religion for his guide, and secretly coveted the glory of the warrior.

After he became the head of the household, he continued to take the kindest care of his sister, who prudently managed all his affairs, until his marriage. The companion whom he chose was a most amiable young woman, whose society and friendship greatly cheered the heart of Eliza. There seemed to be not a shadow over the happiness of that small and loving family.

But in little more than a year after Frank's marriage, the second war between this country and Great Britain commenced. Eliza trembled as she saw him possessing himself of all its details, and neglecting his business to gather and relate every rumour of war. Still she relied on his affection for his wife, to retain him at home. She could not understand the depth and force of the passion that prompted him to be a soldier.

At length he rashly enlisted. It was a sad night for that affectionate family, when he informed them that he must leave them and join the army. His young wife felt it the more deeply, because she had but recently buried a new-born babe. He comforted her as well as he could. He assured her that his regiment would not probably be stationed at any great distance, that he would come home as often as possible, and that she should constantly receive letters from him. He told her that she could not imagine how restless and miserable he had been in his mind, ever since war was declared. He could not bear to have his country insulted, and take no part in her defence. Now, he said, he should again feel a quiet conscience, because he had done his duty, that the war would undoubtedly soon be terminated, and then he should return home, and they would all be happy together. He hinted at the promotion which courage might win, but such ambition had no part in his wife's gentler nature. He begged her not to distress him by her lamentations, but to let him go away with a strong heart, like a hero.

When his wife and sister found that there was no alternative, they endeavoured to comply with his request, and to part with him as calmly as possible. So Frank Ludlow went to be a soldier. He was twenty-five years old, a tall, handsome, and healthful young man. At the regimental trainings in his native town, he had often been told how well he looked in a military dress. This had flattered his vanity. He loved martial music, and thought he should never be tired of serving his country.

But a life in camps has many evils, of which those who dwell at home are entirely ignorant. Frank Ludlow scorned to complain of hardships, and bore fatigue and privation, as well as the best. He was undoubtedly a brave man, and never seemed in higher spirits, than when preparing for battle.

When a few months had past, the novelty of his situation wore off. There were many times in which he thought of his quiet home, and his dear wife and sister, until his heart was heavy in his bosom. He longed to see them, but leave of absence could not be obtained. He felt so unhappy, that he thought he could not endure it, and, always moved more by impulse than principle, absconded to visit them.

When he returned to the regiment, it was to be disgraced for disobedience. Thus humbled before his comrades, he felt indignant and disgusted. He knew it was according to the rules of war, but he hoped that he might have been excused.

Some time after, a letter from home informed him of the birth of an infant. His feelings as a father were strong, and he yearned to see it. He attempted to obtain a furlough, but in vain. He was determined to go, and so departed without leave. On the second day of his journey, when at no great distance from the house, he was taken, and brought back as a deserter.

The punishment that followed, made him loathe war, in all its forms. He had seen it at a distance, in its garb of glory, and worshipped the splendour that encircles the hero. But he had not taken into view the miseries of the private soldier, nor believed that the cup of glory was for others, and the dregs of bitterness for him. The patriotism of which he had boasted, vanished like a shadow, in the hour of trial; for ambition, and not principle, had induced him to become a soldier.

His state of mind rendered him an object of compassion. The strains of martial music, which he once admired, were discordant to his ear. His daily duties became irksome to him. He shunned conversation, and thought continually of his sweet, forsaken home, of the admonitions of his departed mother, and the disappointment of all his gilded hopes.

The regiment to which he was attached, was ordered to a distant part of the country. It was an additional affliction to be so widely separated from the objects of his love. In utter desperation he again deserted.

He was greatly fatigued, when he came in sight of his home. Its green trees, and the fair fields which he so oft had tilled, smiled as an Eden upon him. But he entered, as a lost spirit. His wife and sister wept with joy, as they embraced him, and put his infant son into his arms. Its smiles and caresses woke him to agony, for he knew he must soon take his leave of it, perhaps for ever.

He mentioned that his furlough would expire in a few days, and that he had some hopes when winter came of obtaining a substitute, and then they would be parted no more. He strove to appear cheerful, but his wife and sister saw that there was a weight upon his spirit, and a cloud on his brow, which they had never perceived before. He started at every sudden sound, for he feared that he should be sought for in his own house, and taken back to the army.

When he dared no longer remain, he tore himself away, but not, as his family supposed, to return to his duty. Disguising himself, he travelled rapidly in a different direction, resolving to conceal himself in the far west, or if necessary, to fly his country, rather than rejoin the army.

But in spite of every precaution, he was recognized by a party of soldiers, who carried him back to his regiment, having been three times a deserter. He was bound, and taken to the guard-house, where a court-martial convened, to try his offence.

It was now the summer of 1814. The morning sun shone forth brightly upon rock, and hill, and stream. But the quiet beauty of the rural landscape was vexed by the bustle and glare of a military encampment. Tent and barrack rose up among the verdure, and the shrill, spirit-stirring bugle echoed through the deep valley.

On the day of which we speak, the music seemed strangely subdued and solemn. Muffled drums, and wind instruments mournfully playing, announced the slow march of a procession. A pinioned prisoner came forth from his confinement. A coffin of rough boards was borne before him. By his side walked the chaplain, who had laboured to prepare his soul for its extremity, and went with him as a pitying and sustaining spirit, to the last verge of life.

The sentenced man wore a long white mantle, like a winding-sheet. On his head was a cap of the same colour, bordered with black. Behind him, several prisoners walked, two and two. They had been confined for various offences, and a part of their punishment was to stand by, and witness the fate of their comrade. A strong guard of soldiers, marched in order, with loaded muskets, and fixed bayonets.

Such was the sad spectacle on that cloudless morning: a man in full strength and beauty, clad in burial garments, and walking onward to his grave. The procession halted at a broad open field. A mound of earth freshly thrown up in its centre, marked the yawning and untimely grave. Beyond it, many hundred men, drawn up in the form of a hollow square, stood in solemn silence.

The voice of the officer of the day, now and then heard, giving brief orders, or marshalling the soldiers, was low, and varied by feeling. In the line, but not yet called forth, were eight men, drawn by lot as executioners. They stood motionless, revolting from their office, but not daring to disobey.

Between the coffin and the pit, he whose moments were numbered, was directed to stand. His noble forehead, and quivering lips were alike pale. Yet in his deportment there was a struggle for fortitude, like one who had resolved to meet death unmoved.

"May I speak to the soldiers?" he said. It was the voice of Frank Ludlow. Permission was given, and he spoke something of warning against desertion, and something, in deep bitterness, against the spirit of war. But his tones were so hurried and agitated, that their import could scarcely be gathered.

The eye of the commanding officer was fixed on the watch which he held in his hand. "The time has come," he said, "Kneel upon your coffin."

The cap was drawn over the eyes of the miserable man. He murmured, with a stifled sob, "God, I thank thee, that my dear ones cannot see this." Then from the bottom of his soul, burst forth a cry,

"O mother! mother! had I but believed"—

Ere the sentence was finished, a sword glittered in the sunbeam. It was the death-signal. Eight soldiers advanced from the ranks. There was a sharp report of arms. A shriek of piercing anguish. One convulsive leap. And then a dead man lay between his coffin and his grave.

There was a shuddering silence. Afterwards, the whole line was directed to march by the lifeless body, that every one might for himself see the punishment of a deserter.

Suddenly, there was some confusion; and all eyes turned towards a horseman, approaching at breathless speed. Alighting, he attempted to raise the dead man, who had fallen with his face downward. Gazing earnestly upon the rigid features, he clasped the mangled and bleeding bosom to his own. Even the sternest veteran was moved, at the heart-rending cry of "Brother! O my brother!"

No one disturbed the bitter grief which the living poured forth in broken sentences over the dead.

"Gone to thine account! Gone to thine everlasting account! Is it indeed thy heart's blood, that trickles warmly upon me? My brother, would that I might have been with thee in thy dreary prison. Would that we might have breathed together one more prayer, that I might have seen thee look unto Jesus of Nazareth."

Rising up from the corpse, and turning to the commanding officer, he spoke through his tears, with a tremulous, yet sweet-toned voice.

"And what was the crime, for which my brother was condemned to this death? There beats no more loyal heart in the bosom of any of these men, who do the bidding of their country. His greatest fault, the source of all his misery, was the love of war. In the bright days of his boyhood, he said he would be content to die on the field of battle. See, you have taken away his life, in cold blood, among his own people, and no eye hath pitied him."

The commandant stated briefly and calmly, that desertion thrice repeated was death, that the trial of his brother had been impartial, and the sentence just. Something too, he added, about the necessity of enforcing military discipline, and the exceeding danger of remissness in a point like this.

"If he must die, why was it hidden from those whose life was bound up in his? Why were they left to learn from the idle voice of rumour, this death-blow to their happiness? If they might not have gained his pardon from an earthly tribunal, they would have been comforted by knowing that he sought that mercy from above, which hath no limit. Fearful power have ye, indeed, to kill the body, but why need you put the never-dying soul in jeopardy? There are those, to whom the moving of the lips that you have silenced, would have been most dear, though their only word had been to say farewell. There are those, to whom the glance of that eye, which you have sealed in blood, was like the clear shining of the sun after rain. The wife of his bosom would have thanked you, might she but have sat with him on the floor of his prison, and his infant son would have played with his fettered hands, and lighted up his dark soul with one more smile of innocence. The sister, to whom he has been as a father, would have soothed his despairing spirit, with the hymn which in infancy, she sang nightly with him, at their blessed mother's knee. Nor would his only brother thus have mourned, might he but have poured the consolations of the Gospel, once more upon that stricken wanderer, and treasured up one tear of penitence."

A burst of grief overpowered him. The officer with kindness assured him, that it was no fault of theirs, that the family of his brother was not apprized of his situation. That he strenuously desired no tidings might be conveyed to them, saying that the sight of their sorrow would be more dreadful to him than his doom. During the brief interval between his sentence and execution, he had the devoted services of a holy man, to prepare him for the final hour.

Edward Ludlow composed himself to listen to every word. The shock of surprise, with its tempest of tears, had past. As he stood with uncovered brow, the bright locks clustering around his noble forehead, it was seen how strongly he resembled his fallen brother, ere care and sorrow had clouded his manly beauty. For a moment, his eyes were raised upward, and his lips moved. Pious hearts felt that he was asking strength from above, to rule his emotions, and to attain that submission, which as a teacher of religion he enforced on others.

Turning meekly towards the commanding officer, he asked for the body of the dead, that it might be borne once more to the desolate home of his birth, and buried by the side of his father and his mother. The request was granted with sympathy.

He addressed himself to the services connected with the removal of the body, as one who bows himself down to bear the will of the Almighty. And as he raised the bleeding corpse of his beloved brother in his arms, he said, "O war! war! whose tender mercies are cruel, what enmity is so fearful to the soul, as friendship with thee."

Victory.

Waft not to me the blast of fame,
That swells the trump of victory,
For to my ear it gives the name
Of slaughter, and of misery.
Boast not so much of honour's sword,
Wave not so high the victor's plume,
They point me to the bosom gor'd,
They point me to the blood-stained tomb.
The boastful shout, the revel loud,
That strive to drown the voice of pain,
What are they but the fickle crowd
Rejoicing o'er their brethren slain?
And, ah! through glory's fading blaze,
I see the cottage taper, pale,
Which sheds its faint and feeble rays,
Where unprotected orphans wail:
Where the sad widow weeping stands,
As if her day of hope was done;
Where the wild mother clasps her hands
And asks the victor for her son:

Where the lone maid in secret sighs
O'er the lost solace of her heart,
As prostrate in despair she lies,
And feels her tortur'd life depart:
Where midst that desolated land,
The sire, lamenting o'er his son,
Extends his pale and powerless hand,
And finds its only prop is gone.
See, how the bands of war and woe
Have rifled sweet domestic bliss;
And tell me if your laurels grow
And flourish in a soil like this?

Silent People.

It was supposed in ancient times, that those who were deprived of hearing and speech, were shut out from knowledge. The ear was considered as the only avenue to the mind. One of the early classic poets has said.

"To instruct the deaf, no art could ever reach,
No care improve them, and no wisdom teach."

But the benevolence of our own days has achieved this difficult work. Asylums for the education of mute children are multiplying among us, and men of talents and learning labour to discover the best modes of adding to their dialect of pantomime the power of written language. The neighbourhood of one of these Institutions has furnished the opportunity of knowing the progress of many interesting pupils of that class. Their ideas, especially on religious subjects, are generally very confused at their arrival there, even when much care has been bestowed upon them at home.

A little deaf and dumb boy, who had the misfortune early to lose his father, received tender care and love from his mother and a younger sister, with whom it was his chief delight to play, from morning till night. After a few years, the village where they resided was visited with a dangerous fever, and this family all lay sick at the same time. The mother and daughter died, but the poor little deaf and dumb orphan recovered. He had an aged grandmother who took him to her home, and seemed to love him better for his infirmities. She fed him carefully, and laid him in his bed with tenderness; and in her lonely situation, he was all the world to her. Every day she laboured to understand his signs, and to communicate some new idea to his imprisoned mind. She endeavoured to instruct him that there was a Great Being, who caused the sun to shine, and the grass to grow; who sent forth the lightning and the rain, and was the Maker of man and beast. She taught him the three letters G O and D; and when he saw in a book this name of the Almighty, he was accustomed to bow down his head with the deepest reverence. But when she sought to inform him that he had a soul, accountable, and immortal when the body died, she was grieved that he seemed not to comprehend her. The little silent boy loved his kind grandmother, and would sit for hours looking earnestly in her wrinkled face, smiling, and endeavouring to sustain the conversation. He was anxious to perform any service for her that might testify his affection; he would fly to pick up her knitting-bag or her snuff-box when they fell, and traverse the neighbouring meadows and woods, to gather such flowers and plants as pleased her. Yet he was sometimes pensive and wept; she knew not why. She supposed he might be grieving for the relatives he had lost, and redoubled her marks of tenderness. She often perused with great interest, accounts of the intelligence and happiness of the deaf and dumb, who enjoy a system of education, adapted to their necessities, and thought if any thing could separate her from her beloved charge, it would be that he might share such an inestimable privilege.

At length, the eyes of this benevolent lady grew dim through age, and when the little suppliant, by his dialect of gestures, besought her attention, she was unable to distinguish the movements of his hands, or scarcely the form of his features. It was then her earnest request that he might be placed at the American Asylum in Hartford, for the education of the deaf and dumb. There, when his first regrets at separation had subsided, he began to make rapid improvement. He became attached to his companions and teachers, and both in his studies and sports, was happy. When he had nearly completed the period allotted for a full course of instruction, a conversation like the following took place one evening, between him and a preceptor whom he loved:

"I have frequently desired to ask what were some of your opinions, before you became a pupil in this Institution. What, for instance, were your ideas of the sun and moon?"

"I supposed that the sun was a king and a warrior, who ruled over, and slew the people, as he pleased. When I saw brightness in the west, at closing day, I thought it was the flame and smoke of cities which he had destroyed in his wrath. The moon, I much disliked. I considered her prying and officious, because she looked into my chamber when I wished to sleep. One evening, I walked in the garden, and the half-moon seemed to follow me. I sought the shade of some large trees, but found she was there before me. I turned to go into the house, and advised her not to come, because I hated her. But when I lay down in my bed, she was there. I arose and closed the blinds. Still there were crevices through which she peeped. I bade her go away, and wept with passion, because she disregarded my wishes. I suspected that she gazed at me, more than at others, because I was deaf and dumb, and that she would tell strangers of it, for I felt ashamed of being different from other children."

"What did you think of the stars?"

"They were more agreeable to me. I imagined that they were fair and well-dressed ladies, who gave brilliant parties in the sky; and that they sometimes rode for amusement, on beautiful horses, carrying large candles in their hands."

"Had you any conception of death?"

"When my little sister died, I wondered why she lay still so long. I thought she was lazy to be sleeping when the sun had arisen. I gathered violets, and threw them in her face, and said in my dialect of signs, "Wake up; wake up!" And I was displeased at her, and went so far as to say, "What a fool you are!" when she permitted them to put her in a box, and carry her away, instead of getting up to play with me.

"Afterwards, when my mother died, they told me repeatedly, that she was dead, dead; and tried to explain to me what death meant. But I was distressed when I asked her for bread, that she did not give it to me; and when she was buried, I went every day where they had laid her, waiting, and expecting that she would rise. Sometimes I grew impatient, and rolled upon the turf that covered her, striking my forehead against it, weeping and saying, "Mother, get up! get up! why do you sleep there so long with the child? I am sick, and hungry, and alone. Oh, Mother! mother! get up!" When I was taken to my grandmother's house, I could no longer visit the grave, and it grieved me; for I believed if I continued to go and cry there, she would at length hear me and come up."

"I know that more pains were taken to instil religious principles into your mind, than are commonly bestowed upon the deaf and dumb. Will you tell me what was your opinion of the Supreme Being?"

"My kind grandmother laboured without ceasing, to impress me with reverence for the Almighty. Through her efforts I obtained some idea of the power and goodness which are visible in creation; but of Him, who wrought in the storm and in the sunshine, I was doubtful whether it were a strong man, a huge animal, or a vast machine. I was in all the ignorance of heathen sin, until by patient attendance on your judicious course of instruction, knowledge entered into my soul."

He then expressed to his teacher, the gratitude he felt for the blessings of education, and affectionately wishing him a good night, retired to repose.

Instances of the development of kind affections and religious hopes, are often touchingly displayed among the children who share in the privation of hearing and speech. This was peculiarly the case with two little silent sisters, beautiful in person and of gentle dispositions. Their names were Phebe and Frances Hammond. The eldest was a very fair, interesting child. She was deaf and dumb from her birth, but from infancy showed quick perceptions and a lively attention to every object that passed before the eye. She seemed perfectly happy, when the little sister, two and a half years younger, and like herself mute, was old enough to play with her. She would lead her with the greatest gentleness, keeping watch lest she should get hurt, with a tender, continual care. When they were permitted to amuse themselves out of doors, if she saw any thing approaching which she feared, she thought not of herself, but encircled the little one in her arms, and by cries sought for her relief and protection. If they wished to climb a fence, she would proceed at first, alone, trying every part, to be sure of its safety, ere she returned to aid her darling sister, keeping a firm hold on her as she ascended, and jumping over on the other side, to extend her little arm and lift her tenderly down. It was a touching sight, to view these silent children, at their healthful sports upon the smooth green lawn, or beneath the shade of spreading trees, supplying as it were, the deficiency of Nature, by an increased exercise of the sweetest, most sustaining affections.

Ere long, they expressed their desire to attend school, that they might "learn to do, like other children." Here they were very diligent, and by great attention from the instructress were taught to sew, to write, and to spell many words. Visitants of the school expressed surprise at the neatness of their needle-work, and chirography.

When they were brought by their father, from their home in Massachusetts, to the Asylum for the deaf and dumb, in Hartford, Phebe was ten, and Frances seven and a half years old. There was at that time a regulation in force, that no pupil under the age of ten years, could be received, being supposed unable to derive full benefit from their system of instruction.

Yet these little silent sisters, who had been together night and day, whose features and garb were the same, the smile or the sadness of one face being suddenly reflected on the other, as if but one soul animated two bodies, how could they be parted? The idea of a separate existence, a divided pleasure, had never entered their minds. Now, they gazed on each other with an expression of the deepest anguish. They folded each other in their arms. No power of speech was so eloquent as their imploring looks. The law relaxed its prohibition in their case. They were permitted to remain together.

Phebe took her seat immediately among the one hundred and forty pupils, forgetting in her desire to learn, the embarrassment of a stranger. Little Frances was more diffident, and clung to her as to a mother, never for a moment disappointed in finding the tenderest sympathy and love. Soon they became cheerful and happy. Their affectionate hearts were open to every innocent pleasure. Though the youngest in school, they were so docile and industrious as to obtain a rank among the best scholars; and when the lessons of each day were over, they comforted themselves with their sweet, sisterly love. If one received the simplest gift, it was instantly shared; if it could not be divided it was considered as the property of both.

Phebe taught the little one to keep her clothes without spot or stain, and to put every article in its proper place. She led her by the hand wherever she went, and if there was a tear on her cheek she kissed it away. Little Frances looked up to her, with the most endearing and perfect confidence. When they went home, at the vacations in spring and autumn, the affectionate deportment of these beautiful mute children, and their progress in the dialect of signs, as well as in written speech, was admired by all. After they had enjoyed the benefit of instruction somewhat more than two years, Phebe was observed to have a slight cough, and being taken ill, was obliged to return to her parents. Symptoms of consumption were too plainly revealed to be mistaken. As she became more emaciated and feeble, she desired to be carried every day at a certain hour, into an unoccupied room, and left for a while, by herself. On being asked why she wished this, she answered that she might better lift up her thoughts to Him who heareth prayer.

"In heaven," she said, "there are babes, and children, and persons of every age. I think I have seen this in my mind, in a bright dream. I am so weak, I shall die. I pray that I may go to heaven. Oh! I wish Frances to love God. She is my good sister."

She was asked if it was her wish to live and be restored to health. She replied,

"No, I would see Jesus."

So, in quietness and peace, the voiceless spirit of the loving child departed, to rejoice, we trust, amid the melodies of heaven. Sweet, sisterly affection seemed to have been her principal solace, here below. And if it was capable of imparting such happiness to these deaf mutes, surely the children who are blessed with hearing and speech, might still more fully enjoy, and exemplify it. All who have brothers and sisters should perform their duty tenderly towards them, with constant gratitude to Him who has vouchsafed them the comfort of such relations.

Any little departure from kindness, will cause painful remembrances in a time of bereavement. A boy was seen often at the grave of a brother, younger than himself. He hid his face upon the grassy mound and wept bitterly. A friend who once saw him there, said, "How much you loved your brother." But he replied through his tears, "My grief is because I did not love him more."

We have spoken of silent people. I can tell you of one who suffers a still heavier calamity. At the same Institution for the deaf and dumb, is a girl, to whom noonday and midnight are the same, who takes no pleasure in the summer landscape or the fair changes of nature, hears not the sound of brooks bursting loose in spring, nor the song of birds, nor the laughter of the young child, neither looks upon the face of mother or of friend. She is not only deaf and dumb, but blind. Her name is Julia Brace. Her earliest years were spent in the home of her parents, who were poor, and had several younger children. Of all their movements she was observant, as far as her state would allow; and when the weather was cold, would sometimes kneel on the floor of their humble dwelling, to feel if their little feet were naked as well as her own. If she ascertained that others, and not herself, were furnished with shoes and stockings, she would express uneasiness at the contrast. Her perception, with regard to articles of dress, was more accurate than could have been expected, and when any gifts were presented her, soon ascertained and preferred those which were of the most delicate texture. Seated on her little block, weaving thin strips of bark with bits of leather, which her father who was a shoemaker threw away, she constructed for her cat, strange bonnets, or other ornaments, equally rude, and yet not wholly discordant with the principles of taste.

Sometimes, when the mother went out to a day's work of washing, she left Julia, notwithstanding her peculiar helplessness, with the care of the younger children. On such occasions, she evinced more of maternal solicitude, and even of skill in domestic legislation than could have been rationally expected.

Once, when a dish had been broken, she imitated what she supposed might be her mother's discipline, and shook the little careless offender with some force. Then placing her hand upon its eyes, and discovering that it wept, and considering the act of discipline complete, she hastened to take it in her arms and press it to her bosom, and by preserving tenderness, soothe it into good-humour and confidence.

While yet a child, her parents were relieved from the expense of her maintenance, by some charitable ladies, who placed her in the family of an elderly matron who kept a small day-school. Her curiosity was now called forth into great activity, to search out the employments of the scholars, and try to imitate them. She observed that much of their time was occupied with books. So she held a book long before her own sightless eyes. But no knowledge visited her imprisoned mind. Then, she held an open book before the face of her favourite kitten, feeling its mouth at the same time, and perceiving that its lips did not move, shook its shoulder and rapped its ear, to quicken its imitation of the studious children.

Trifling as these circumstances are in themselves, they show perception, and perseverance, struggling against the barriers that Nature had interposed. Needle-work and knitting had been taught her, and from these employments she drew her principal solace. With these she would busy herself for hours, until it became necessary to prompt her to the exercise that health required. Counterpanes, patiently constructed by her, of small pieces of calico, were sold to aid in supplying her wardrobe, and specimens of her work were distributed by her patrons, to prove of what nicety and industry the poor, blind, and silent girl was capable.

It was sometimes an amusement to her visitants to give into her hand their watches, and test a peculiar sagacity which she possessed, in restoring each to its owner. Though their position with regard to her, or to each other, was frequently and studiously varied, and though she might hold at the same time, two or three watches, neither stratagem nor persuasion could induce her to yield either, except to the person from whom she received it. This tenacity of principle, to give every one his own, might be resolved into that moral honesty which has ever formed a conspicuous part of her character. Though nurtured in poverty, and after her removal from the parental roof, in the constant habit of being in contact with articles of dress or food which strongly tempted her desires, she has never been known to appropriate to herself, without permission, the most trifling object. In a well-educated child, this might be no remarkable virtue; but in one, whose sealed ear can receive no explanation of the rights of property, and whose perfect blindness must often render it difficult even to define them, the incorruptible firmness of this innate principle is truly laudable. There is also connected with it a delicacy of feeling, or scrupulousness of conscience, which renders it necessary, in presenting her any gift, to assure her repeatedly, by a sign which she understands, that it is for her, ere she will consent to accept it.

After her admission into the Asylum for the deaf and dumb, in Hartford, her native place, efforts were made by one of the benevolent instructors in that Institution to teach her the alphabet. For this purpose raised letters, as well as those indented beneath a smooth surface, were put in requisition. Punctually she repaired to the school-room, with the seeing pupils, and spent hour after hour in imitating with pins upon a cushion, the forms of each separate letter. But all in vain. However accurate her delineations might sometimes be, they conveyed no idea to the mind, sitting in thick darkness. It was therefore deemed best that it should pursue those occupations which more immediately ministered to its comfort and satisfaction.

It has been observed that persons who are deprived any one sense, have additional vigour infused into those that remain. Thus blind persons are distinguished by exquisite delicacy of touch, and the deaf and dumb concentrate their whole souls in the eye, their only avenue to knowledge. But with her, whose ear, eye, and tongue, are alike dead to action, the power of the olfactory organs is so heightened, as almost to form a new and peculiar sense. It almost transcends the sagacity of the spaniel.

As the abodes which from her earliest recollection she had inhabited, were circumscribed and humble, it was supposed that at her first reception into the Asylum, she might testify surprise. But she immediately busied herself in quietly exploring the size of the apartments, and smelled at the thresholds, and then, as if by the union of a mysterious geometry with a powerful memory, never made a false step upon a flight of stairs, or entered a wrong door, or mistook her seat at the table. At the tea-table with the whole family, on sending her cup to be replenished, if one is accidentally returned to her, which has been used by another person, she perceives it in a moment, and pushes it from her with some slight appearance of disgust, as if her sense of propriety had been invaded. There is not the slightest difference in the cups, and in this instance she seems endowed by a sense of penetration not possessed by those in the full enjoyment of sight.

Among her various excellencies, neatness and love of order are conspicuous. Her simple wardrobe is systematically arranged, and it is impossible to displace a single article in her drawers, without her perceiving and reinstating it. When the large baskets of clean linen are weekly brought from the laundress, she selects her own garments without hesitation, however widely they may be dispersed among the mass. If any part of her dress requires mending, she is prompt and skilful in repairing it, and her perseverance in this branch of economy greatly diminishes the expense of her clothing.

The donations of charitable visitants are deposited in a box with an inscription, and she has been made to understand that the contents are devoted to her benefit. This box she frequently poises in her hand, and expresses pleasure when it testifies an increase of weight, for she has long since ascertained that money is the medium for the supply of her wants, and attaches to it a proportionable value.

Though her habits are perfectly regular and consistent, yet occasionally, some action occurs which it is difficult to explain. One summer morning, while employed with her needle, she found herself incommoded by the warmth of the sun. She arose, opened the window, closed the blinds, and again resumed her work. This movement, though perfectly simple in a young child, who had seen it performed by others, must in her case have required a more complex train of reasoning. How did she know that the heat which she felt was caused by the sun, or that by interposing an opaque body she might exclude his rays?

Persons most intimately acquainted with her habits assert, that she constantly regards the recurrence of the Sabbath, and composes herself to a deeper quietness of meditation. Her needle-work, from which she will not consent to be debarred on other days, she never attempts to resort to, and this wholly without influence from those around her. Who can have impressed upon her benighted mind the sacredness of that day? and by what art does she, who is ignorant of all numerical calculation, compute without error the period of its rotation? A philosopher who should make this mysterious being his study, might find much to astonish him, and perhaps something to throw light upon the structure of the human mind.

Before her entrance at the Asylum, it was one of her sources of satisfaction to be permitted to lay her hand upon the persons who visited her, and thus to scrutinize with some minuteness, their features, or the nature of their apparel. It seemed to constitute one mode of intercourse with her fellow-beings, which was soothing to her lonely heart, and sometimes gave rise to degrees of admiration or dislike, not always to be accounted for by those whose judgment rested upon the combined evidence of all their senses. But since her removal to this noble institution, where the visits of strangers are so numerous as to cease to be a novelty, she has discontinued this species of attention, and is not pleased with any long interruption to her established system of industry.

The genial influences of spring wake her lone heart to gladness, and she gathers the first flowers, and even the young blades of grass, and inhales their freshness with a delight bordering on transport. Sometimes, when apparently in deep thought, she is observed to burst into laughter, as if her associations of ideas were favourable, not only to cheerfulness, but to mirth. The society of the female pupils at the Asylum is soothing to her feelings, and their habitual kind offices, their guiding arm in her walks, or the affectionate pressure of their hands, awaken in her demonstrations of gratitude and friendship. One of them was sick, but it was not supposed that amid the multitude that surrounded her, the blind girl would be conscious of her absence. A physician was called, and she was made to understand his profession by placing a finger upon her pulse. She immediately arose, and led him with the earnest solicitude of friendship to the bedside of the invalid, placing her hand in his with an affecting confidence in the power of healing. As she has herself never been sick, it is the more surprising that she should so readily comprehend the efficacy and benevolence of the medical profession.

Julia Brace is still an inmate of the Asylum at Hartford. She leads a life of quiet industry, and apparent contentment. Some slight services in the domestic department supply the exercise that health requires, and the remainder of the time she chooses to be employed in sewing or knitting. Visitants often linger by her side, to witness the mystical process of threading her needle, which is accomplished rapidly by the aid of her tongue. So, the tongue that hath never spoken is still in continual use.

Her youth is now past, and she seems to make few, if any, new mental acquisitions. Her sister in calamity, Laura Bridgman, of the Institution for the Blind in Boston, has far surpassed her in intellectual attainments, and excites the wondering admiration of every beholder. The felicity of her position, the untiring philanthropy of her patron, Dr. Howe, and the constant devotion of an accomplished teacher, have probably produced this difference of result, more than any original disparity of talents or capacity.

Julia, in her life of patient regularity, affords as strong a lesson as can be given of the power of industry to soothe privation and to confer content. While employed she is satisfied, but if at any time unprovided with work, her mind preys upon itself, not being able to gather ideas from surrounding objects, and having but a limited stock of knowledge to furnish material for meditation. If this poor heart which is never to thrill at the sound of a human voice, or be lifted up with joy at the fair scenery of earth, and sky and waters, finds in willing diligence a source of happiness, with how much more gladness should we turn to the pursuits of industry, who are impelled by motives and repaid by results which she must never enjoy!

Dear young friends, who can see the smile on the faces of those whom you love, who can hear their approving voices, who can utter the words of knowledge, and rejoice in the glorious charms of nature, who know also that life is short, and that you must give strict account of it to God, how faithfully and earnestly should you improve your time! You who have the great, blessed gift of speech, be careful to make a right use of it. Yes: speak kind, and sweet, and true words, and so help your own souls on their way to Heaven.

Laura Bridgman.

THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL, AT THE INSTITUTION FOR THE BLIND, IN BOSTON

Where is the light that to the eye
Heaven's holy message gave,
Tinging the retina with rays
From sky, and earth, and wave?
Where is the sound that to the soul
Mysterious passage wrought,
And strangely made the moving lip
A harp-string for the thought?
All fled! all lost! Not even the rose[1]
An odour leaves behind,
That, like a broken reed, might trace
The tablet of the mind.
That mind! It struggles with its fate,
The anxious conflict, see!
As if through Bastile-bars it sought
Communion with the free.
Yet still its prison-robe it wears
Without a prisoner's pain;
For happy childhood's beaming sun
Glows in each bounding vein.
And bless'd Philosophy is near,
In Christian armour bright,
To scan the subtlest clew that leads
To intellectual light.
Say, lurks there not some ray of heaven
Amid thy bosom's night,
Some echo from a better land,
To make the smile so bright?
The lonely lamp in Greenland cell,
Deep 'neath a world of snow,
Doth cheer the loving household group
Though none around may know;
And, sweet one, hath our Father's hand
Plac'd in thy casket dim
Some radiant and peculiar lamp,
To guide thy steps to Him?

[1] Laura is deprived of the sense of smell, which in Julia's case is so acute.

Humble Friends.

Kindness to animals shows an amiable disposition, and correct principles. The inferior creation were given for our use, but not for our abuse or cruelty. Many of them add greatly to the comfort of domestic life, and also display qualities deserving of regard. The noble properties of the dog, the horse, and the "half-reasoning elephant," have long been known and praised. But among the lower grades of animals, especially if they receive kind treatment, traits of character are often discovered that surprise or delight us.

Cats, so frequently the objects of neglect or barbarity, are more sagacious than is generally supposed. The mother of four young kittens missed one of her nurslings, and diligently searched the house to find it. Then she commenced calling upon the neighbours, gliding from room to room, and looking under sofas and beds with a troubled air. At length she found it in a family in the vicinity, where it had been given by her mistress. Taking it in her mouth, she brought it home and bestowed on it her nursing cares and maternal caresses for a few weeks, then carried it back to the same neighbour, and left it in the same spot where she found it. It would seem as if she wished to testify her approbation of the home selected for her child, and desired only to nurture it until it should be old enough to fill it properly.

A cat who had repeatedly had her kittens taken from her and drowned immediately after their birth, went to a barn belonging to the family, quite at a long distance from the house. She so judiciously divided her time, as to obtain her meals at home and attend to her nursery abroad. At length she entered the kitchen, followed by four of her offspring, well-grown, all mewing in chorus. Had she foresight enough to conclude, that if she could protect them until they reached a more mature age, they would escape the fate of their unfortunate kindred?

A little girl once sat reading, with a large favourite cat in her lap. She was gently stroking it, while it purred loudly, to express its joy. She invited a person who was near, to feel its velvet softness. Reluctant to be interrupted in an industrious occupation that required the use of both hands, the person did not immediately comply, but at length touched the head so abruptly that the cat supposed itself to have been struck. Resenting the indignity, it ceased its song, and continued alternately rolling and closing its eyes, yet secretly watching, until both the busy hands had resumed their employment. Then, stretching forth a broad, black velvet paw, it inflicted on the back of one of them a quick stroke, and jumping down, concealed itself beneath the chair of its patron. There seemed in this simple action a nice adaptation of means to ends: a prudent waiting, until the retaliation that was meditated could be conveniently indulged, and a prompt flight from the evil that might ensue.

The race of rats are usually considered remarkable only for voraciousness, or for ingenious and mischievous inventions to obtain the gratification of appetite. A vessel that had been much infested by them, was when in port fumigated with brimstone, to expel them. Escaping in great numbers, they were dispatched by people stationed for that purpose. Amid the flying victims a group was observed to approach slowly, upon the board placed between the vessel and the shore. One of those animals held in his mouth a stick, the extremities of which were held by two others, who carefully led him. It was discovered that he was entirely blind. The executioners making way for them, suffered them to live. It was not in the heart of man to scorn such an example.

Another of our ships, while in a foreign port, took similar measures to free itself from those troublesome inmates. Amid the throngs that fled from suffocating smoke to slaughtering foes, one was seen moving laboriously as if overburdened. Climbing over the bodies of his dead companions, he bore upon his back another, so old as to be unable to walk. Like Eneas, escaping from the flames of Troy, perhaps it was an aged father that he thus carried upon his shoulders. Whether it were filial piety or respect for age, his noble conduct, as in the previous instance, saved his life and that of his venerable friend.

Sheep are admired for their innocence and meekness, more than for strong demonstrations of character. Yet the owner of a flock was once surprised by seeing one of his fleecy people rushing to and fro beneath his window, in great agitation and alarm. Following her to the pasture, where she eagerly led the way, he found a fierce dog tearing the sheep. Having put him to flight, he turned in search of the messenger, and found her in a close thicket, where she had carefully hidden her own little lamb, ere she fled to apprize the master of their danger. This strangely intelligent animal was permitted to live to the utmost limit of longevity allotted to her race.

The instinct of the beaver approaches the bounds of reason. Their dexterity in constructing habitations and rearing mounds to repel the watery element, surpasses that of all other animals. A gentleman who resided where they abound, wished to ascertain whether this was inherent, or the effect of imitation. He took therefore, to his house, an infant beaver, ere its eyes were opened. It was an inmate of his kitchen, where one day, from a leaky pail, a small stream of water oozed out upon the floor. Out ran the little beaver, and collected sticks and clay, with which it built a dam to stop the passage of the tiny brook.

An Indian, going out to shoot beaver, saw a large one felling a lofty tree. Ere he gave the finishing strokes, he ascended a neighbouring hill, throwing his head about, and taking deep draughts of air. The Indian, who stedfastly regarded him, supposed that he was taking an observation of which way the wind blew: as when he made his last effort on the tree, he made use of this knowledge to shelter himself from injury at its fall. He then measured the trunk into equal lengths for the height of the house he was to build, and loading his broad tail with wet clay, made a mark at each division. Uttering a peculiar cry, three little beavers appeared at their father's call, and began to knaw asunder the wood at the places which he had designated.

"When I saw this," said the Indian, "I turned away. Could I harm such a creature? No. He was to me as a brother."

Among the insect tribes, the ant sustains a good character for foresight and industry, having been cited by the wise monarch of Israel as an example and reproof to the sluggard. Their almost resistless force in the tropical countries, where they move in bodies, shows the power that the feeble may acquire through unity of effort and design.

When Dr. Franklin was on his embassy in France, soon after our Revolution, he one morning sat musing over his solitary breakfast, and perceived a legion of large black ants taking possession of the sugar-bowl. His philosophic mind being ever ready for experiments, he caused it to be suspended from the ceiling by a string. They returned. The sweet food was above their reach. It was worth an effort to regain it. One placed himself in a perpendicular position, and another mounted upon his shoulders. Others ascended the same scaffolding, each stretching to his utmost altitude. Down fell the line. Yet it was again and again renewed. Then the Babel-builders disappeared. Had they given up the siege? No. They had only changed their mode of attack. Soon they were seen traversing the ceiling, and precipitating themselves upon the coveted spoil, by the string that sustained it. Here was somewhat of the same boldness and perseverance that led Hannibal across the Alps, to pour his soldiers down upon astonished Italy.

Thus the spider that sought so many times to fasten its frail thread, and at length succeeded, gave a profitable lesson to King Robert the Bruce, when he ruminated in discouragement and despair on his failing enterprises.

Parrots are generally considered as senseless repeaters of sounds and words, that convey neither sentiment nor feeling. Now and then, there seems some variation from this rule. A parrot who had been reared with kindness, selected as his prime favourite the youngest child in the family. By every means in his power he expressed this preference. The little girl was seized with a severe sickness. He missed her in her accustomed haunts, and turning his head quickly from side to side, called loudly for her.

At length, the fair form, stretched in its coffin, met his view. In wild and mournful tones, he continued to utter her name. He was removed far from the room, but the shrill echo of his voice was still heard amid the funeral obsequies, pronouncing with frantic grief the name of his lost Mary. Ever afterwards, when the sound of the tolling bell met his ear, the fountains of memory were troubled, and the cry of "Mary! Mary!" mingled with the mournful knell, till it ceased.

Since so many interesting properties are discovered in the inferior creation, where, perhaps, we least expected them, it is well to search for such traits of character as deserve our regard, and consider them as humble friends, that we may better do our duty to them, and please Him who has entrusted them to our protection.

Butterfly in a School-Room.

Gay inmate of our studious room.
Adorn'd with nature's brightest dyes,
Whose gadding wing, and tissued plume,
Allure so many wandering eyes.
The breath of eve is gathering bleak,
And thou dost shrink beneath its power,
And faint, or famish'd, seem'st to seek
The essence from yon withering flower
Haste to thine own secluded cell,
And shield thee from the chilling blast,
And let the honied casket well
Supply a fresh and free repast.
Hast thou no home? Didst thou provide
No shelter from autumnal rain?
Hast thou no cheering board supplied
From all the treasures of the plain?

What wilt thou do 'neath wintry skies?
Behold! the charms of summer fade,
Thy friend, the labouring bee, was wise
Ere on their stalks the plants decay'd,
Frail insect! shivering 'mid the storm,
Thy season of delight is past,
And soon that gaudy, graceful form,
Shall stiffen on the whelming blast.
Companions dear! whose frequent glance
Marks yon fair creature's brilliant hue,
Methinks, its wing in frolic dance,
Doth speak in wisdom's lore to you:
Seek not to flutter, and to flaunt,
While a few years their courses roll,
But heed approaching winter's want,
And store the sweetness of the soul.

A Brave Boy.

There are ways in which boys may show true courage, without being forward and bold in contention. It often requires more to avoid it. To show forbearance when they are provoked, or to tell the whole truth when they have committed faults, are proofs of more lofty and high principle than to imitate the fighting animals, and repel force by force, or the fox-like ones, and practise cunning. To live at peace, may need more firmness than to quarrel; because one is to control our passions, and the other to indulge them.

The bravest boy is he who rules himself, and does his duty without boasting. I have known some beautiful instances of this class of virtues, and will mention one that is now in my mind.

A widow, who was the mother of several children, resided in a pleasant part of New England. She faithfully nurtured and instructed them, and one of her precepts was, that when they had any difficult duty to perform, they should ask strength from above. Her youngest was a boy of eight years old, active and intelligent. He was not only obedient to her, but attentive to his studies, and beloved by his instructors.

One fine summer afternoon, when there was no school, he was walking on the banks of a river that beautified the scenery of his native place. He admired the silver stream as it sparkled in the sunbeams, and the rich verdure that clothed its banks. Suddenly, a large boy plunged in, as if for the purpose of bathing, though he did not divest himself of any part of his clothing. Soon, he struggled in distress, as if ready to sink.

Ralph Edward, the son of the widow, had been taught to swim. Throwing off his boots and his little coat, he hastened to the relief of the drowning stranger. He found him nearly senseless, and though much larger than himself, and nearly twice his age, succeeded by great exertions in bringing him to the shore. There, he supported him against a bank, until he had thrown from his mouth a quantity of water, and was able to thank his benefactor. He confessed that he was ignorant of the art of swimming, but had a great desire to learn, and had no idea that the river was so deep and swift. When he was able to proceed on his way, Ralph Edward returned home. His head was giddy, and his breast throbbed with the efforts he had made He went to his little chamber, and throwing himself upon the bed, wept bitterly. His mother heard him moaning, and inquired the cause of his grief. He told her he could not forget the convulsed features of a half-drowned boy, and the pain he seemed to feel when he gasped for breath upon the bank. Then, in compliance with her request, he related all the circumstances.

"My son, do you know that you have been in great danger? Have you never heard that the grasp of drowning persons is fatal?"

"Oh, yes. But mother, what could I do? Should I stand still, and see him die? Had I waited for other help, he must have sunk to rise no more."

"Was he your friend?"

"I do not even know his name. I think he is a servant in some family not far off. I have seen him driving a cow to pasture, but never spoke to him until to-day."

"How were you able to swim, and support a boy so much larger than yourself?"

"Mother, I cannot say. I only know that I remember what you told us to do when we had any difficult duty to perform, and I begged for strength of our Father who is in Heaven."

The mother comforted her child, and soothed his agitated nerves, and gave him her blessing. After that he slept sweetly and awoke refreshed. Trembling at the risk he had run, she still was thankful for the spirit that had moved him to do good to a stranger, and the piety that had made him mindful of the great Giver of strength and Hearer of prayer.

She reflected with gratitude also, upon his humility. He did not say boastfully, "I have rescued a boy from the river, when he was ready to sink. He was larger than I, but I did it all alone. He is almost twice as old too, and does not even know how to keep himself up in the water, while I can swim as well and boldly as a man."

No. He came home without alluding to the occurrence, as if it were a matter of course, to help those who were in need. He complained not of fatigue, though every nerve was strained and tremulous. He went silently to his own secluded room, and shed tears of pity at the remembrance of the struggles of the sufferer. The true greatness that prompted this forgetfulness of self, was as remarkable as the courage that snatched a fellow-creature from danger.

May Morning.

May is here, with skies of blue,
Tuneful birds of varied hue,
Blossoms bright on plant and tree:
Ye, who love her smile of glee,
Leave the city's thronging streets,
Meet her in her green retreats,
And, with thrilling heart inhale
Perfumes from her balmy gale.
Come! for countless gifts she bears;
Take her cordial for your cares:
Cull the charms that never cloy,
Twine the wreaths of social joy,
And with liberal hand dispense
Blessings of benevolence:
For when Spring shall fade away,
And the year grow dim and gray,
These, with changeless warmth shall glow
Mid the hills of wintry snow,
And undying fragrance cast,
When the Spring of life is past.

The Huguenot Grandfather's Tale.

It is doubtless known to my readers, that the Huguenots were French Protestants, who on account of religious persecution fled from their country. The Edict of Nantz was a law made by Henry IV. of France, allowing liberty of conscience, and safety to those who dissented from the faith of the Church of Rome, the established religion of the realm. This edict was repealed by Louis XIV. in 1685; and the Protestants, or Huguenots, as they were generally called, left their country in great numbers and sought refuge in foreign lands. Thousands found a peaceful home in this western world, and their descendants are among the most respected and honoured inhabitants of our happy country.

Once, on a cold wintry evening, somewhat more than a century since, a bright light was seen streaming from the casement of a pleasant abode in Boston, casting cheerful radiance upon the snow-covered pavement. Within, by a blazing hearth, a group of children gathered around their mother, and the white-haired grandsire, singing with sweet voices, their evening hymn. Then, as the mother led away the little ones to their rest, the eldest, a boy of about twelve years old, drew his seat near the arm-chair of the aged man, and gazing affectionately on his mild, venerable countenance, said,

"Please, dear grandfather, tell me another of your good stories about our ancestors."

"So, I asked, in my boyhood, of our blessed grandmother, tales of olden times, sitting close at her feet, when the lamps were just lighted. Even now, I think I see her before me, with her silver locks, her brow but slightly wrinkled, and her eye beaming with a brilliance like youth, as she granted my request. My brothers and sisters loved and respected her, as a being of a superior order. Her memory of early scenes was clear and vivid, even in extreme age, when passing events made but a slight impression. I perceive that my own memory is assuming somewhat of the same character, and dwells with peculiar delight among the people and events of ancient times."

"Those are exactly what I delight to hear. I love the conversation of those who can tell what happened long before I was born. I will listen most attentively to whatever you shall be pleased to relate."

"I shall tell you of my grandfather's first visit to Paris. He was then about two years older than yourself, and was taken thither by his father, who held a military command under Lord Teligny, who, you remember to have seen in history, was son-in-law to the great Admiral Coligny. They were summoned to attend and take part in the public demonstrations of joy which marked the nuptials of young Henry of Navarre, and the princess Margaret. This was in the spring of 1572. The Queen of Navarre, with her son and suite, had just arrived, and were received with great pomp and festivity. Charles IX. was at that time king of France. He was a treacherous, vacillating character, and ruled by his mother, Catharine de Medicis, who was far more wicked than himself. To further her own plots, she induced him to treat the Protestant noblemen with marked attention. He complimented the manly beauty of De Teligny, the dignified deportment of the Baron de Rosny, and the philosophy of the Count de la Rochefaucault. He was fond of being seen walking arm in arm with the great Admiral Coligny, whom he often addressed by the title of "Mon Pere." Among the gallant, high-spirited Huguenots of rank, who dared and did so much for conscience' sake, Coligny was at that period the most distinguished.

His whole life was marked by decided and habitual piety. Prayers, and the chanted praise of psalms, arose up twice a day from his household. The officers both of France and Germany, who often surrounded his hospitable table, were the witnesses of his humble devotion. For as soon as the cloth was removed, he rose up, with all who were present, and if there was no minister there, rendered himself, earnest thanks to Almighty God. The sacred worship which he enjoyed in the quiet of his family, he endeavoured as far as possible to establish in the camp and in the army.

Many of the French nobles followed under their own roofs the religious example of Coligny. For he was ever exhorting and impressing on them the importance of daily, practical piety, saying that it was not enough that the father of a family should himself lead a holy life, unless he led and induced his household to follow his footsteps and imitate his example."

"Was Jane, Queen of Navarre, a Protestant?"

"Yes, and distinguished by the most devoted piety. She had not been long in Paris, ere she was seized with mortal sickness. Some suspected it to be the effect of poison, administered by Catharine, that this formidable protector of the Protestants might be out of the way, ere her plot to destroy them was hazarded. When the Queen of Navarre saw that her end drew nigh, she called her son to her bedside, and charged him solemnly to maintain the true religion, to take a tender care of the education of his sister, to avoid the society of vicious persons, and not to suffer his soul to be diverted from duty, by the empty pleasures of the world. With patience and even cheerful serenity of countenance, she endured the pains of her disease, and to her mourning friends said, "I pray you not to weep for me. God by this sickness calleth me to the enjoyment of a better life." It was on the 9th of June, 1572, that she departed, with the prayer of faith on her lips, and the benignity of an angel."

"Was your grandfather in Paris at the time of the marriage of Henry and Margaret?"

"He was, and attentively observed the splendid scene. The 18th of August was appointed for the nuptial ceremony. An ample pavilion was erected opposite to the great church of Notre Dame. It was magnificently covered with cloth of gold. The concourse of spectators was immense, and their shouts seemed to rend the sky, as the youthful pair appeared in their royal garments. When Henry, bowing almost to the feet of his beautiful bride, took from his brow the coronet of Navarre, the ladies admired his gracefulness, and the freshness of his auburn hair, which inclining to red, curled richly around his noble forehead. The princess had a highly brilliant complexion, and was decorated with a profusion of splendid jewels.

The Cardinal of Bourbon received their vows. There seemed some degree of displeasure to curl his haughty lip. Probably he was dissatisfied that all the ceremonies of the Romish church were not observed. For as the prince was a Protestant, and the princess Catholic, the solemnities were of a mixed nature, accommodated to both. It had been settled in the marriage contract, that neither party should interfere with the other, in the exercise of their different religions. To give public proof of this, as soon as the nuptial ceremony was performed, the bride left the pavilion to attend mass, and the bridegroom to hear the sermon of a Protestant divine. Acclamations and music from countless instruments loudly resounded, when the royal couple again appeared, and proceeded together to the magnificent bridal banquet. Charles presented his sister with 100,000 crowns for her dower, and in the festivities which succeeded the marriage, who could have foreseen the dreadful massacre of St. Bartholomew?"

"I have read in my history of that frightful scene. Dear Grandfather, how soon did it follow the nuptials which you have described?"

"Less than a week intervened. The ringing of the bells for morning prayers, at three o'clock, on Sunday, August 24th, was the signal for the Catholics to rush forth and murder the Protestants. The holy Sabbath dawned in peace. The matin-bell, calling the devout to worship a God of mercy, was heard. Man came forth to shed the blood of his unsuspecting brother. The work of destruction began in many parts of the city, at the same moment. Tumult and shrieks and uproar increased, until they deepened into a terrible and universal groan. The streets were filled with infuriated soldiers, and almost every habitation of the Huguenots became a slaughter-house. Infants were transfixed on pikes, and women precipitated themselves from high windows and battlements, that they might die without outrage. Thirty thousand fell victims in this horrible massacre, which extending itself from Paris to the provinces, was not satiated until more than twice that number had been sacrificed."

"What became of your grandfather during this scene of horror?"

"At the commencement of the tumult, his father hastily armed himself, and supposing it some temporary disturbance, went forth to aid in quelling it, commanding him to remain in the house. He obeyed until he was no longer able to endure the tortures of suspense, and then rushed out in search of a father whom he was never more to behold. Hasting to the quarters of Lord Teligny, his friend and benefactor, he found him mortally wounded, and faintly repeating the names of his wife and children. He then flew to the Hotel de St. Pierre, where Admiral Coligny lodged. But his headless trunk was precipitated from the window, and dragged onward by blood-smeared men, with faces scarcely human.

He had been wounded previous to the massacre. On Friday, the 22nd, he was coming from the Louvre, with a group of noblemen. He walked slowly, reading a petition which had been presented him. As he passed the cloister of St. Germain, he was shot by an arquebus loaded with three balls. His left arm was deeply wounded, and the fore-finger of his right hand carried away. No trace of the assassin, who had been employed by the Duke of Guise, could be found, though the friends of the Admiral made persevering search.

As the surgeon on examination feared that the copper balls were poisoned, this illustrious man supposed that his hour had come, and turning to his lamenting friends, said,

"Why do you weep? For myself, I am honoured to receive these wounds, for the holy cause of my God. Pray him to strengthen me."

The massacre commenced while it was yet dark, on Sunday morning, and the Duke of Guise, dreading lest Coligny, notwithstanding his injuries, should escape, and by his courage and influence reanimate the Protestants, hastened to his lodgings with three hundred soldiers. Knocking at the outer gate, they demanded admission in the name of the king. The gentleman who opened it, fell, stabbed to the heart.

The wounded Admiral, in his apartment, was engaged in prayer with a minister who attended him. A terrified servant rushed in, exclaiming,

"My Lord, the inner gate is forced. We have no means of resisting."

"It is long since," replied Coligny, calmly, "that I prepared myself to die. Save yourselves all who can. Me, you cannot defend. I commend my soul to the mercy of God."

He arose from his bed, and being unable to stand upright, on account of his wounds, supported himself with his back against the wall. The first who burst into his chamber was a grim German, servant to the Duke of Guise.

"Are you the Admiral?"

"Yes. I am he."

And the illustrious man, fixing his eyes without emotion on the naked sword of his murderer, said, with the dignity of a Christian,

"Young man! you ought to respect my age and infirmities."

The answer of the assassin was to plunge his weapon deep in that noble bosom. The Duke of Guise traversed the court below, with breathless impatience. To his fierce spirit, every moment seemed an age.

"Is the work done?" he asked.

"It is finished, my Lord!"

He demanded to see it, with his own eyes. They raised the body of the Admiral to cast it down to him. Still faintly respiring, it seemed to cling to the casement.

At length, the ruthless murderers precipitated it into the court-yard. Guise wiped with his handkerchief the face suffused with blood, and gazing intensely upon it by the flaring lamps, exclaimed,

"It is the man."

Rushing into the streets, he bade, with hoarse cries, the work of death to proceed, in the name of the king.

While our ancestor was hurrying in amazement and terror from place to place, he met a boy of nearly his own age, whose placid countenance and unmoved deportment strongly contrasted with the surrounding horrors. Two soldiers apparently had him in charge, shouting "To mass! to mass!" while he, neither in compliance nor opposition, calmly continued his course, until they found some more conspicuous object of barbarity, and released him from their grasp. This proved to be Maximilian Bethune, afterwards the great Duke of Sully, prime minister of Henry IV., who by a wonderful mixture of prudence and firmness, preserved a life which was to be of such value to the realm. He was at this time making his way through the infuriated mob, to the College of Burgundy, where in the friendship of its principal, La Faye, he found protection and safety."

"Please not to forget what befell our relative."

It was in vain that he attempted to imitate this example of self-command. Distracted with fear for his father, he searched for him in scenes of the utmost danger, wildly repeating his name. A soldier raised over his head a sword dripping with blood. Ere it fell, a man in a black habit took his arm through his, and with some exertion of strength led him onward. They entered less populous streets, where carnage seemed not to have extended, before he perfectly recovered his recollection. Then he would have disengaged himself, but his arm was detained, as strongly as if it were pinioned. "Let me seek my father!" he exclaimed. "Be silent!" said his conductor, with a voice of power that made him tremble. At length he knocked at the massive gate of a monastery. The porter admitted them, and they passed to an inner cell. Affected by his passionate bursts of grief, and exclamations of 'Father, dear father!' his protector said, 'Thank God, my son, that thy own life is saved. I ventured forth amid scenes of horror, hoping to bring to this refuge a brother, whom I loved as my own soul. I found him lifeless and mangled. Thou wert near, and methought thou didst resemble him. Thy voice had his very tone, as it cried, 'Father, father!' My heart yearned to be as a father to thee. And I have led thee hither through blood and death. Poor child, be comforted, and lift up thy soul to God.'"

"Was it not very strange, that a Catholic should be so good?"

"There are good men among every sect of Christians, my child. We should never condemn those who differ from us in opinion, if their lives are according to the Gospel. This ecclesiastic was a man of true benevolence. Nothing could exceed his kindness to him whose life he had saved. It was ascertained that he was not only fatherless but an orphan, for the work of destruction, extending itself into many parts of the kingdom, involved his family in its wreck. The greatest attention was paid to his education, and his patron instructed him in the sciences, and particularly from the study of history he taught him the emptiness of glory without virtue, and the changeful nature of earthly good. He made him the companion of his walks, and by the innocent and beautiful things of nature, sought to win him from that melancholy which is so corrosive to intellect, and so fatal to peace. He permitted him to take part in his works of charity, and to stand with him by the beds of the sick and dying, that he might witness the power of that piety which upholds when flesh and heart fainteth.

During his residence here, the death of Charles IX. took place. He was a king in whom his people and even his nearest friends had no confidence. After the savage massacre of St. Bartholomew, which was conducted under his auspices, he had neither satisfaction nor repose. He had always a flush and fierceness upon his countenance, which it had never before worn. Conscience haunted him with a sense of guilt, and he could obtain no quiet sleep. He seemed to be surrounded by vague and nameless terrors. He fancied that he heard groans in the air, and suffered a strange sickness which forced blood from all the pores of his body.