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strike the fatherless and the blind? I turned you time to speak. In the meantime, his fall and apout too, and now we may go upon the world our parent illness occasioned such a wild cry from his selves, and must, for there's neither bed nor bed-wife and children, as struck William with terror ding, bit nor sup, under this miserable roof.” equal to, if not greater than theirs. Jane's cool

Jane's tears fell fast during this disclosure of ness and good sense, however, soon made all plain circumstances so calamitous, and which, to her and intelligible. A draught of water, brought by who saw the scene about her in all its horror, was one of his daughters, relieved him; the guineas absolutely frightful.

were gathered up, for the paper had fallen to the “ William, dear,” she said, "for God's sake, put ground, and to their utter delight they found that them out of pain at once."

it contained, as we have said, thirty guineas, which “Philip,” said her husband, “ I thought you and William declared to be their own. your wife knew me better than to suppose that I “ Weren't we right," said the wife, “ weren't wouldn't forgive you—but no matter now. In the we right, Philip—that didn't come till after he had presence of God I here forgive you and yours, and forgiven and blessed us. Now we may have heart I beg that the blessing of the Almighty may come to work, and will have heart to work.” down and remain with you all."

Philip could not shed a tear; on the contrary, he A murmur of satisfaction amounting to some- trembled like an aspen leaf, and appeared rather thing that might be termed a kind of melancholy like a man detected in crime, than one who had ecstasy ran through the whole family after he had received so seasonable and providential a favor. spoken.

Nay, he was incapable of reckoning the money “Come nearer me, Philip,” said the orphan. now, which he had only reckoned a moment be“Come nearer me.

fore, and occasionally stared vacantly about him, as He then, as was his wont, passed his hand over if he could scarcely comprehend what had just tahis gaunt features, after which he felt those of the ken place. wife and of their children.

“ Willy,” said he, addressing his own wife, “Come,” said he, “ don't despair ; what if you Willy, you don't know-" do starve ? Philip, be a man-if you were harsh “ Philip, dear,” said the wife, “be calm, you to the orphan, you fed and kept the orphan. don't know what you're doing or saying either." Harsh! weren't you harsh to your own children? Willy,” he continued eagerly, still address. You think of your harshness, but you forget that sing her, "you don't know-you don't know what you took the fatherless child into your struggling you have saved me from-you don't-you don'tfamily when no one else would. Give me thai, from shame—from shame—from a disgraceful Jane ; you know what I mean.”

death." The wife placed a rag, rolled up and tied with a William and his wife now both besought him to thread, in his hands.

be calm again, they gave him a draught of water, “ Did you think,” he proceeded," that I didn't and by soothing and mild persuasion succeeded in forgive you ? or did you think I remembered your restoring him to a rational perception of what bad failings, and forgot your goodness? I never for- occurred. William also, who was himself pos got you. Take that and get food—but your faces—calmer, insisted that he should exercise a manly your faces—I'm in spirits, Philip—I'm in spirits— degree of firmness, and reminded him that the and, oh God! you were brought to this! Jane, pressing wants of his family must be forthwith Jane-their faces-_"

supplied. The wife, as being the cooler of the He covered his sightless eyes with his two two, undertook this, and in less than an hour an hands, and wept longer and louder than even Jane abundant meal was prepared in the public house, herself, who knew that he seldom shed tears at where they all adjourned to partake of it. all, had ever remembered him to do before.

Never, perhaps, was a more vivid degree of Philip, on receiving the unseemly parcel, went happiness produced in any family than in Philip's, close to the rush-light, and on opening it, found a nor by means more affecting, and at the same small paper, within which, on further inspection, time more providential. To redeem his furnitura was contained gold to the amount of thirty guineas, out of the landlord's hands, and disembarrass bimbeing nearly the whole amount of our hero's saving self of his small incumbrances, was Philip's first during the preceding seven years.

act on the succeeding day. In addition to his A gleam of wild light flashed from his hollow house and garden, he took a few acres of laad, eyes.

bought a cow, and ere many weeks passed, found “ Betty," he shouted, “it is gold—it is go-" himself in circumstances of comfort and indepen

He staggered towards her as he spoke; but ere dence such as he had never known before. he reached the window at which she stood, he The observations of the neighbors now took a fell, but did not become utterly insensible ; his different turn from those in which they bad inface got even paler than before, and his lips so dulged so long, as they considered Philip's porerty dry and parched, that he was unable for a short 'and sufferings a judgment.

* Well, well," they exclaimed, "it was good, example of attachment, a melancholy history of after all, to give food and shelter to the orphan; love that defies time, and will not decay. Free see how it has come back to him at last. To be from the audacious importunity of common mendisure he suffered for his severity to him, but now cancy, they were the passive recipients of benevohe's rewarded for keeping him."

lence, which, if it came to them at all, came withDuring six weeks did our orphans remain in out solicitation. their native place; a period sufficiently long to Still did they fill their little space in the world, enable them to revisit every acquaintance they and enjoyed a certain degree of obscure celebrity. had, and to linger hand in hand about scenes which Almost every one knew them by sight, though but moved their affections by many a sweet and many few were acquainted with their history. Go into a painful recollection. Every day Jane saw those what company you may, in whatsoever part of the who had protected her, and was able to make kingdom you please, and upon inquiring, you would them such simple presents as satisfied them of her find that our humble orphans were not only well gratitude. Their circumstances, indeed, had much known, but that they left an impression of enduring improved in her absence, and she found their pros- constancy and respect upon every one who saw perity advancing. A heart so affectionate could them. So pure, indeed, was this virtue in both, not be insensible of this, for it is only due to her that it was legible in their persons and counteto say, that the apprehension of finding them in nances even to the simplest observer: in other distress had filled her with deep concern. Even words, their modest and amiable appearance told for Lacey's family they had small presents; and the history of their hearts. upon going to wait upon the worthy doctor, they But now must we approach the last scene of found that the history of their generosity to Philip this simple and uneventful history; the fiat of God had preceded them. Indeed, it made no little noise had passed ; and the orphan girl, for so cannot we in the village, and in a few days had extended to forbear calling her, must be left alone. the remotest corner of their native parish.

One morning, after they had been thirty-five How mysterious are the ways of Providence years together without the intervention of a single when imperfectly known, and how beautiful when day's separation, William took up his clarionet and rightly understood! Who could have ever ima- went out with Jane, to play, she supposed, for gined that the gratitude of a being so utterly help- their daily food. She observed that he was more less as our blind boy, would have returned to his silent than usual, but in a little while she percold benefactor at a crisis so distressing, and with ceived that he labored under either depression of a fulness of bounty that rendered him independent, spirits or positive illness. and more than repaid him for kindness so grudgingly Willy, dear,” said she, “I'm afraid you're not bestowedBut so it was; and often do the con- well this morning.” tingences of life present us with instances quite as “I feel no sickness," he replied, " but I long to striking and remarkable.

go home”-for so they termed their native hamlet. At length the finances of our orphans being “ You remember, Jane,” he proceeded, “how the Dearly expended, they deemed it full time to re- children, when we were young, used to return turn once more to their usual mode of life. Having, home tired with their day's play, and glad to get therefore, visited, for the last time, every spot that leave to lie down and sleep." was dear to them, not excepting the churchyard “Sure every one knows, dear, that that's the where their parents lay, they bade farewell to their case with all children.” friends and the village, which saw them no more “It is,” said he, “and with more than children. for a time.

Jane, it's my case now, and it will be yours. I'm afraid the day will come, and that before long,

when you will feel as desirous to lay down your CHAPTER IX.

head and sleep beside me, as ever a tired child did Time passed, under whose silent progress youth, on its mother's breast.” manhood, and old age lapse into each other, with- “Dear, I am still afraid," said his wise, “that out ever being able to distinguish the visionary line you're unwell.” which separates them. Years grew upon our or

“I'm not sick, he repeated, “but my heart, Jane, phans, and brought with them infirmity and decay. is heavy, and I feel that either it or something

The constant exposure to all the vicissitudes of else is drawing my feet towards the spot where a variable climate added considerably to the natu- I'd like to lie down and sleep at last. We will go ral effects of age. They grew feeble, they grew to it. I cannot stay away.” old, and in proportion as they wore down, so did “We will,” said Jane ; “but, William, dear, tell their power of pleasing become gradually less. me if any thing troubles you." Still, however, they proceeded side by side, even “ I am disturbed, Jane,” he replied; “I am disas they had always been, meek and melancholy, turbed—not sorrowful on my own account, but I patient alike under sunshine and storm; a touching'am on yours. Don't inquire now-not now, I will

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tell you when we go home ;—it's enough to say failed him, his limbs became feeble, and his heart that I'm warned, and it's best to be prepared." drooped as if oppressed by a sorrow which, as be

William,” said she, anxious to cheer and en- himself said, foreboded death. courage him," don't be alarmed, you know your One evening about a fortnight after his retoro spirits were always inclined to be low,” for so she" home," on hearing that the sun shone warmly termed the placid melancholy which during life and calmly, he begged to sit outside the door, and ran through his temperament.

desired Jane to sit with him. His wish was com. “ Yes, but since our marriage, Jane, they were plied with, and he appeared to muse for some liine, never full of sorrow till now; my heart is low, and occasionally wasting his hand to and fro in the there is a fear over me that I never had before.” | light.

“ Well, dear,” said the faithful creature," the “I will know it yet,” he murmured—“I will day is dark enough to put any one into bad spirits. know it yet— I will see it, I will see it—and phy About twelve o'clock the sun will shine out, and should I be sorry? Oh," he exclaimed in a low you'll get brighter and pleasanter."

voice-it's for her—it's for her-how will sbe live He shook his head, and touched his clarionet alone. Jane,” said he aloud. with his open hand in evident abstraction, and after “I am here," said she, “here at your side." murmuring something which she could not hear, “Ay,” said he," where you ever were.

Well they both proceeded in silence.

did you keep the vow your love gave the blind Their journey home was accomplished in a few boy-well did you keep it." days—the music of his clarionet still appealing to “William,” said his wife, bursting into tears, the kind-hearted for their support. One thing, "you're thinking of nothing but death-and it may however, did not escape Jane's observation, and not be so near as you suppose." that was, that he played as they went along “It's near me, Jane-my · Bonnie Jean,' it's scarcely any other tune than his favorite “Bonnie near me, and I'll tell you how I know it. I dreamt Jean."

the night before the morning we set out for home William,” said she, “why don't you change that I was in some place that I didn't know, and I the tune oftener, you've played hardly any other thought I heard two voices saying to me— Witune but your own;" for so he always calledit. liam, your bed is made, come and lie down.' I

He stood, on hearing this, and shook his head felt as if I knew the voices, although I cant se] in a mournful manner.

how—but I was sure they were my father and my “Is that true?" he inquired.

mother's. I thought they brought me orer to the “ Indeed it is,” she returned, "you have hardly bed, and desired me to feel how white and soft i played any other."

What bed is this? I inquired. It's the He simply answered—“I didn't know it-I bed of peace,' said they. I then felt it with my wasn't aware of it; the heart—the heart, Jane, hands, and, as they said, it was soft and easy-bat will have its way."

something softer still was strewed here and there They had now arrived near their birthplace, and over it. What is this?' said 1, lifting one of them as his exhaustion and fatigue were greater than he up. Its a rose-leaf,' they answered—them tha: had for some time felt, they both entered it in si- have loving hearts sleep upon them. I then po lence. Here, as every where else, they found the my hand down to feel them again, but instead of vestiges of death and change-prosperity and de- either the rose-leaves or the bed, I found my head cline. Philip, the doctor, and almost all the se- on what I well know-their own grave." niors of the hamlet were gone, and another gene- “Well,” replied Jane, " but I hope that dream ration in their place, toiling on in the busy struggle isn't for death. of life. Philip's sons and grandsons were now Bring me now," said he, without noticing what in their own houses, each and all of them comforta- she said—“ bring me in and let me lie a while ea ble and prosperous. The orphan’s boon appeared the bed." to have had a blessing, for from the day on which She did so, and after about half an hour be said, it was bestowed, until that on which he came get me my clarionet." among them for the last time, every thing went "I am afraid you haven't strength to play it." well with them and theirs.

she observed ; “maybe it would injure you even to They lodged with Philip's youngest son, whose make the trial.” attentions were full of kindness and grateful re- “I like to have it I like to have it about me, ** spect to the grey-haired benefactor of his family. he replied—“except yourself and it, where bad I a

Jane now imagined that rest and comfort would friend ?" recruit the strength and cheer the spirits of her * William, I cannot keep my tears in," said the husband. During a week or so her hopes were wife," there's something in the sorrowful way you sanguine, for he felt no particular illness. A gra- speak that breaks my heart.” dual decay of all his natural functions seemed to “Jane, we lived a happy life together, dear, and have absolutely weighed him down; his appetite that should prevent your sorrow; but how is it that

was.

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my heart goes back in spite of me to the early Jane, though deeply affected, prepared to comply. time."

"Sit beside me, dear," said he, “sit beside me"I don't know," said she, “it's the same way and, Jane, at no time be far from me-don't sit far with mine. I remember the Sunday you thought away, but just that I can hear your breath." I deserted you, as if it was yesterday, and I think He then got her hand in his, and seldom, indeed, I see you wandering with a breaking heart about were these beautiful verses, steeped as they are in the fields, believing that your own Jane was faith- domestic tenderness, ever sung with deeper pathos less to you because you were blind."

or purer feeling. On coming to the last two lines, "You remember too,” said he,“ how I used to

"Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go, fall asleep and often cry myself asleep with my And sleep together at the foot, John Anderson my jo!" head upon your breast when I was a boy. And

she failed, and instead of finishing them, wept bithow is it, Jane, that we don't think of all the hard

terly. ships we suffered then, although we do of all that

“If you didn't cry," said he,“ passed when we first loved one another?"

you could sing

them out, the words are sorrowful and true-we " Because," she replied, wiping her eyes, the

will sleep together-my bed's made-don't-don't heart won't forget any thing it loves." ** Jane, you mustn't cry,” said he, “ keep your we'll both stroll together where we often were be

-Jane, if you don't cry, I'll go out to-morrow, and spirits up. I am not low-spirited. I am very fore-and we'll think of what I still like, the early happy. As long as you're with me I'm happy. times—the early times. I'll sing you a song. Sure it's childish to cry because we happen to be speaking of the early times. I'll sit up on the bed.

• I'm wearin' awa, Jean,

Like snaw when its thaw, Jean, side; gire me your hand-there—I'll do-now

I'm wearin' awa, Jean, bring in Philip."

To the land of the leal. "Philip, dear," said she, with surprise, for Philip had no son of that name living. "Alick you mean.

• There's nae sorrow there, Jean, " I am very well able to play yet," said he, not

There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,

The day's aye fair, Jean, noticing her—" bring in Philip till I play him his

In the land of the leal. favorite "the Blackbird' "-for this, indeed, had been Philip's favorite tune.

• Dry your glistening e'e, Jean, His affectionate wife's heart sank at this obvious

My soul langs to be free, Jean, confusion in his memory, but she thought it better

Angels wait on me, Jean,

To the land of the leal. to bring Alick and permit him to have his way. In truth the poor woman could deny him nothing.

• Ye've been leal and true, Jean, The man and his wife were accordingly brought

You're task's near done now, Jean, into the room, having first been cautioned as to his

And I'll welcome you, Jean,

To the land of the leal.' He smiled on hearing them, like a man very much gratified.

Jane,” he proceeded, "you're changed-you're · Philip,” said he, “ I want to play you ‘The changed—don't cry, my darling—if you are, sure Blackbird.' It's a sweet tune, and has many a I am changed too, but our hearts are the same. lear in it; no wonder you like it.”

Let me feel

you, dear-your poor face has indeed He then commenced, and to their utter surprise sorrow on it—but you're crying—were they bad to played “Bonnie Jean,” without at all appearing you at home. Philip was rough to me, but if you conscious of his error.

let me lay my head upon your breast, then you " I could once have done it better,” he said, may cry over me when I fall asleep." ** but I am not so strong now in breath as I used to

All present were shedding tears; but the last be—still it's sweet and goes to my heart, or rather words, by which his wife perceived that his heart, for many a long year it has never been out of it. as he said, wandered back to the early times, shook Jane,” said he, “ Jane!"

her delicate frame with such an intensity of mute But this last proof of his undying and uncon- affection as she had never felt before. scious affection had utterly overcome her-she sat He lay in this tender and affecting position for weeping beside the bed, and could not answer him about ten minutes, when he started suddenly from for some time.

her bosom, and saidYou're crying, Jane,” said he,“ but you

“ I'm going." mustn't cry-dry your eyes, I want you to sing “What is it you say, William, dear ?" said the me ‘John Anderson;' many a time she sung it for wife. me, Philip; and little you knew then how happy she “ 'Twas their voices,” said he, “ their voices. and I were-indeed little the world knew it—but Didn't you hear them say, “your bed’s made, and we were, and that was enough; Jane, sing 'John the roses spread on it-come away ?!” He then Anderson,' and when you've done, I'll sing a song added, in a voice that became instantly more calm

and rational, “ Jane, what have I been saying

lapse of memory.

for you."

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W, B. E

was it a dream? I am weak-let me lay my head

Leave the lone sleeper to her tranquil rest,

'Tis one her later life can never know, on your breast for a while. There's something wrong with me. What is this—what is this?”

For woman's destiny so sad at best,

Its darkest shadows on her path will throw, Jane kissed his cheek; and then, laying his

To love, to hope, to comfort, yet to weep. head on her bosom, felt him give a slight struggle, These are her portion-let the dreamer sleep! one deep sigh, and the next moment he who had Watertown, Mass. been her orphan boy-her orphan lover, had passed away to that life where there are neither tears nor sorrow A few weeks after his interment, the afflicted

THE MUSSULMAN'S DEITY. widow found that her heart could not be still. The only bequest he had left her was the memory

A few years ago, when travelling in Asia Minor, I 728i. of his love and sorrows, and his clarionet. But, ted the town of Thyatira, one of the seven candlesticks of as we said, her heart refused to be quiet; it could read it in some inscriptions. At the Khan or caravar serai

the Apocalypse. This name was written Theatters, as I not rest, and even if it had, the man whom her where I lodged, there were travellers from various parts of husband's bounty had been the means of making Turkey. Among others, was a Dervish from Coniah, e bere independent, did not offer her an asylum. It was there is an extensive tekèh, or Monastery, for the Meslevi now to her a melancholy pleasure to traverse the order of Dervishes.

Osman-Zadeh was a venerable personage, of courtes scenes over which they had for so long a period of

manners and skilled in all the learning of the Dervistes. human life gone hand in hand together. In this Our intimacy increased by frequent conversations. He. way she now passes her life, as well from inclina- finally, as an evidence of his friendship and confidence, tion as necessity; and still does the same touching read to me a poem written by himself upon the Being and delicacy of feeling, the same unexampled beauty attributes of God. Time did not allow me to have a cu of abiding attachment, characterize her. Every of it made, could I have had the consent of Osman- Zedet week-day in some part of the metropolis may she I however took notes at the moment, as the poem impressed

me sensibly with its beauties. From tliose potes, I have be seen walking slowly along, with an expression written the few following stanzas, which may conrey some on her pale features and person inexpressibly way- imperfect idea of the Dervish's muse and of Mossulmaa worn and lonely. She solicits nothing, but merely theology. displays the clarionet bound with crape-an affect

Fluvanna, Va., July, 1841. ing memorial in the eyes of the humane, of their

Nor earth nor sky, nor time nor space, humble occupation, and of the unprecedented at

Confine that essence bright, tachment that subsisted between this orphan couple.

Ages are all, and every place
London, June, 1841.

Illumined by his light.
Before the starry worlds did shine

In order round his throne,
He was, in majesty divine

Creator, He alone.
THE ORPHAN'S REST.

To him, in Heaven, no forms of things,
Break not the visions mid her slumbers gleaming,

On earth below, compare ; Leave on that placid face, the smile of sleep,

Darkly unseen, yet from him springs Too soon will pass the pleasure she is dreaming,

Light, which all creatures share. Rouse not the sleeper who must wake to weep!

His attributes, persection are, It may be, that she sees her mother's eyes,

Allah is good alone, Looking upon her from the far blue skies !

All Being's nurtured by his care, Stay not that hushed forgetsulness of woes,

But He has need of none. Which only comes to childhood's quiet rest;

His life is not like mortal life, Breathe not a word to stir the deep repose

By food and drink upheld, By wbich the peaceful slumberer is blest;

He seels no pain of passion's strife, Sleep may reknit the ties, to wake must sever,

By which weak man's impelled. Leave her the dream, of wbat is lost forever!

His all-creating power and might, Too fair for grief to press, seems that young brow

Made earth and sky and sea, Bathed in its sunny waves of golden hair;

Upsprung the universe to light,
Yet the bright lip, where happy smiles should glow

He spake but, “ Let it be!"
Must learn to lisp the weary words of care,
And those still eyes grow dim with heavy tears,

In Him who over all presides,
And silent sorrowing through lonely years !

Fast destined by his will, For times will be, when neither wish nor grief

Know ledge of each and all resides,

Man acts with freedom still.
Can bid the visions of her childhood stay,
When no sweet sleep will bless with kind relief,

He sees the past, what is to be,
The orphan's desolate and dreary day.

Of what bas been or is, And that soft smile shall long have past away

In time and in eternity, From lips that suffering early taught to pray.

Knowledge alike is his.

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