and he has vainly sought in the strife of soften one; for in the great din of life, where mind and the sweets of victory an adequate we are compelled so often to contend with recompense for the death of those soft hours. inimical forces to strike mortal blows upon Having gone, as all things must go, they those whose religion is hatred, malice and left no equivalent in the future-but not all uncharitableness-the heart becomes therefore in sadness does he write this- often very much hardened, and needs these rather in deep joy, and as though he had soothing recollections. What matters it if said

"Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heaped up flowers,"

so wholly flooded is his heart with the me-
mory of that young frank face. She wore
a pink dress, he remembers-all children
should wear either pink or white-and her
hair was in long bright curls, and her eyes
were diamonds full of light. He thought
the birds were envious of her singing, when
she carolled clearly in the bright May
morning.

He wove her a garland of flowers for her hair-and she blushed as she took it from his hands. She had on a small gold ring and a red bracelet, and since that time he has loved red bracelets-considering them far prettier than the more elaborate ornaments, though they should be heavy with "barbaric pearls and gold." In those times the trees were greener than at present, the birds

the mind yearns for a whole universe of
contempt to pour out on some hypocritical
Pharisee, and in the yearning is, spite of
itself, embittered and subdued to what it
works in, "like the dyer's hand"-what
matters it if, banishing these corroding ha-
treds and contempts, the heart can take re-
fuge in dear memories of some soul, the

purest and noblest that ever dwelt for a
space upon our earth? Those memories
console us-that light floods all the gloomy
present:-for my past, so full of those happy
and inspiring recollections, and dear images,
thanks! thanks!
P. I.

Va., May, 1853.

sang more sweetly, and the streams ran far Thoughts on following a Child to the

more merrily. They thought so at least, as
they sat down under a large oak, reaching
over the brook, and he read to her, with
shadowy, loving eyes, nearly full of tears,
old
songs that

"Dallied with the innocence of love,

As in the olden age."

-Well, well! It was a bright hour and time and scene: may it never die for him wholly. Very sad, too, to recollect. He is afraid-though joyful also. It is well to think of it in the dazzling afternoon here, when the night is so long dragging the sun into the west. Come, cool night, and bring me dreams of youth and love! Come, soft night, and open my heart with memories!

And now my sketches end. Brief as they are, they have not been in vain. It is well to give a tangible form, "a local habitation and a name," to scenes and recollections of personages which shone for us long years ago, and have come down full of light to the present day and hour. Such memories

Grave.

We followed in silence the coffined clay,
From which sadly in death we had parted;
And we felt we had tasted that bitter cup,
That is drained by the broken-hearted.

We thought of the precious little form

That so lately in tears we had shrouded; And we thought of the bright and happy home Whose light was so darkly clouded.

We thought of the mother whose heart was torn
By a double stroke of sorrow;

And we thought that the lonely grief of to-day,
Might be lonelier still on the morrow.

We thought of the father who soon must hear
His loss in the land of the stranger;
Who perhaps was then deeming his beautiful child
As safe from every danger.

We thought-of his bearing his grief, afar
From her who was wont to cheer him ;-
Of his lonely pillow wet with tears

Where she could not be near him.

And we thought of the forms his eye would miss
As he came to his darkened dwelling,
And we thought of the tones that death had stilled
Which Memory then would be telling.

GLEAMS AFTER GLOOMS;

OR "JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING."

He

the rigging. He served at the pumps. became serviceable in many ways; so that, when, from sickness, the vessel became shorthanded, the Captain, who had noticed his

A COTTAGE CHRONICLE OF CHRISTMAS IN THE SOUTH. efforts and performances, readily engaged

BY A SOUTHRON.

(Concluded.)

IX.

him as an assistant-seaman for the rest of the voyage. The consequence was, that he not only worked his passage free, and got a little money besides, but made several friends, to whom he felt that he might safely look in any future emergency.

It is a great and virtuous secret to know how to crouch to Fortune. She likes sub- The voyage was a long, but, to William mission. Sylla knew this, one of the few Downton, not a tedious one, for the simple great men who did; and never claimed reason that he was patient, and was employany of his successes as his own. It is ed. San Francisco was at length reached in also a great secret to accommodate one's self safety; and from that place his father rereadily to one's situation, so as to extract ceived the first letter from his son. It was from even what is a mishap a wholesome ad- written in good spirits, and reported him as vantage; and to make inconvenience and already engaged to set out with a party for adversity the source of a new strength. Wil- the mines. This party was composed of sevHam Downton had possession of both these eral of his fellow passengers, who had been secrets. They were due equally to the nat- pleased with the proofs which he had given, ural constitution of his mind and body, and on shipboard, of his strength, manliness, into the habitual training of his youth to pa-dustry, and cheerful courage. The party tient labour. He had enjoyed but little of were joined by some whom they found in what the world, too often unjustly, describes San Francisco and who were known to them as learning. From schools and books he had in the States. These latter already posgleaned but little. But he knew a great deal sessed of some knowledge of the mines, the of himself, and a good deal of other men. people, the climate and the country, were of This knowledge, with his training, brought eminent use to the new comers. William, him patience, forbearance, circumspection, as he wrote his father, "hud felt his way among energy, and a frank readiness to serve and them." This, also, is one of the great sebe useful; and here in brief, we have pretty crets of success, enabling a person always to nearly the whole social requisites for a good set down his feet firmly. He did not enter man, and a proper citizen. He had been into many details, but he gave sufficient clues baffled by Fortune, but he complained not. to enable the father to arrive at very fair He could endure, and he did so, in the only conclusions as to his companions, his progress manly way, without a murmur. He had and his hopes. In the latter respect the youth been disappointed; but he was not queru- was cautious, and, whatever might be the lous; and he hoped and he prayed,-cheer- extent of his own anticipations, he took care fully and with equal faith and resignation. to avoid any thing which might lead to exTo wait patiently is one of the great secrets travagant anticipations at home. Another, of success. But not to wait idly. It was a and another letter, at intervals between part of William Downton's wisdom-rather them of a month or six weeks, written hura habit with him than a principle per- riedly and as occasion offered, continued haps to be doing and acquiring. On very cheerful in tone; and the family rather shipboard, where he would be, probably, inferred the favorable prospects of the adfor several months, his instinctive ques- venturer from this cheerfulness of tone, tion of himself was, what he could do, and than from any actual facts which he stated. what he could learn. The way he took After this, however, all tidings of him ceased to answer the question, was to see in what for a long while. Week after week was the way he could be useful. He assisted the boy despatched to the neighboring post office, sailors at the ropes. He learned to climb but without receiving any letters. SomeVOL. XIX-44

times the old man, suspecting the neglect of say that there's something very worthless the postmaster, whom he knew to be indif- that one ought to get rid of; and old friends ferent and incompetent, rode to the village may mean, therefore, only such worn out and insisted upon looking over the letters for articles as have lost all their value. It's now himself, a privilege, by the way, which, a-nigh going on forty-five years since we've whether illegal or not, was readily granted been a-living alongside of one another. We've him. But he looked in vain; and days and been reckoned pretty good friends all that weeks, and months,-the interval at last ap- time, and I'm thinking I aint been a-wanting proaching years-went by, and the old man to good neighbourship, whenever there was and his daughters began to dread lest the a chance for me to help you. You've helped noble youth had only gone to the land of me in my troubles, and I thought you quite gold to seek an unknown burial place. Their friendly in doing so: but if you, living alonghopes utterly died away during his absence side of me, and seeing the misfortune that's and continued silence. been eating up my field for the last three years, now need to be told that I hav'nt the means to pay any thing on your principal, why then I see there's precious little use in telling you any thing; and all that I have to

X.

Meanwhile, what of the progress of af- do is just to fold my arms, look on, and let fairs at home? The father roused himself! you work your will on me. I have only to up after the departure of his boy. He had say to you, now, that I've brought the full been a successful practical farmer in years interest on the bond, and am ready to pay it past, and he felt that his right hand had lost down; but unless I sell lands or negroes, I nothing of its cunning. He resumed his can just now pay you nothing on the princioccupations with his wonted vigor, and took pal.”

off the keener edges of his griefs, by the ac

"Well, well, sit down, Jacob Downton," tivity of his life, and the earnest prosecution answered the other, with a rough sort of of his labors. His first act after the opening good humour in his manner-“ Sit down like of the New Year, was to ride over to his a neighbour, and put your feet to the fire as creditor, Peter Barclay, and pay up the in- if you felt neighbourly."

terest upon his bond. He found Peter be- "Taint so easy for an honest man to look side his hall fire in close communion with and behave so, Peter, if the real feeling aint the young physician, Lanham, who had be- there to make him do so without teaching;" come an almost daily visiter either to the old but, even as he spoke, Downton took the seat lady or the young one. He was prosecuting that was offered him. His hat he laid down his suit to both ladies with the vigor of a on the floor beside his chair: his gloves of young conqueror. At first Jacob Downton woollen and home-knit were put carefully was received rather coldly by both Peter into it: his hickory staff, with buck's head, Barclay and his guest: and when he said, resting between his thighs; and, his hands "I've come, Peter Barclay, to pay up the freed, he thrust his fingers thoughtfully into interest on my paper," the latter replied, the long, thin, streaming locks of his silvery rather quickly-"Aint it nigh time, Jacob white head, just as he would have done in Downton, that you paid up some of the prin- midsummer, his forehead streaming with percipal ?" spiration. The solemn calm of his manner and Old Downton, at these words, drew back, movements-the subdued dignity and firmand clutched his pocket-book, with the air ness of his voice-the quiet, grave, rebuking of one about to hurry it from sight, as if ap-glance of his large blue eyes, had sensibly prehensive of robbery. His look, keenly impressed Peter Barclay and his companion, fixed on his creditor, was very calm, but very the doctor. When fairly seated and comsad and stern. He replied slowly, as if after posed in his chair, Jacob Downton resumed: deliberate reflection"God has put his hands heavily on my "When people speak of old friends,' old head, Peter Barclay, for the last few Peter Barclay, I reckon they only mean to years, and I'm sorry to think that an old

friend, like yourself, should have thought it mine, or some foolish notion of a higher sort altogether right to try to give HIM help, (as of person for her husband, you drive from if he needed it,) to crush down a poor, bro- her a man who cleaves to her honestly, and ken old man such as me. You've driven thus gives you the best security for her my poor boy, as I may say, into the land of happiness hereafter." bondage; yet you won't be denying me, Peter "Well," said Peter Barclay, making a Barclay, that once upon a time, you did en- bold effort, "the long and short of it, neighcourage him, and wasn't unwilling that he bour Downton, is just this :-I've changed should have your daughter, Ellen." my mind in regard to your son, and I'm Peter Barclay fidgetted a little in his chair thinking of quite another person for my and seemed disquieted. He looked confu- daughter. It's no use to talk about it any sedly round at Dr. Lanham, who sat with farther. Thing's have changed: that's all. half-shut eyes and head thrown back, appa- I'm not going to be hard upon you for your rently no ways interested, smoking that cigar principal: I'll give you time; and give you of antique fashion, vulgarly called the "long credit for interest on the bond." nine," of which he always carried with him. "There's your money, Peter Barclay,a bunch of some dimensions. Jacob Down- and I thank you for the time you give me. ton's eyes followed those of Peter Barclay, I'll pay you the principal some day, like an when the latter glanced in the direction of the honest man, though I leave my children begdoctor, and his look instantly changed from gars. You called my son the son of a beggravity into contempt. But he said nothing, gar already, Peter. 'Twarn't kindly said, turned his eyes again upon Barclay, and Peter;-'twarn't like an old friend, or even waited for the latter to deliver himself in reply. He did so, after a few moments hesitation.

"Well, Jacob Downton, to say I drove your son away to Californy, aint just right, you see. All I wanted of him was to keep away from Ellen. It was because he would be hanging about Ellen constantly that I was angry. If he'd agreed, as I asked him, to look elsewhere for a wife, I'd never ha' quarrelled with him.”

"But you can't deny to me, Peter Barclay, that you, one time, wanted the match."

"Why, I remember some three years ago, we two did say something together about it, as a thing that might happen when the young folks got old enough."

an old acquaintance. William Downton is no beggar; nor, unless God so decrees in spite of him, will his father even be a beggar. But I forgive you the offence to me. You were angry. But I can't forgive you the wrong that you're a-doing to the two children. You give up my William, and turn him off, as I hear, for this young doctor here. Now you don't understand human nature, or woman nature, Peter. Woman nature thinks through its eyes, pretty much; and where it fastens upon a man like William Downton, who is, to common persons, pretty much what a full blood is to a mule or a tacky, why it can't give up the feeling for him. The mind of the woman sets with the heart; and the heart goes with the eyes;-and though "'Twas you spoke to me, Peter, and I only this young doctor may be quite honest and answered you. You brought up the subject good and skilful in physic, yet as he's only yourself; and when nature, in the boy and a half sort of a man, without any personagirl did what, mayhap, we never could have ble appearance for a woman's eyes-indeed, made 'em do,-made 'em turn their hearts they mostly call him little and ugly,—how to one another,—you said you were glad, can you expect Ellen to give up William, and and encouraged the boy constantly at your take"house. He pleased you then, Peter; and afterwards he vexed you only because he was true and faithful to your child! If you get angry with those who are true and faithful, what do you mean to do with those who are false! And now, whether its money that blinds you to the sorrows of your child and

Here the plain spoken old man was arrested by an outburst from Dr. Lanham. The peppery little fellow jumped to his feet, dashed the remnant of his "long nine" into the fire, and, with cheeks red as a boiled lobster, and foaming at the mouth, cried out:

"You impertinent old rascal, do you mean