way!" "Twas sounded in every tolling of the to guide him back if he were a wanderer on bell, and was written upon the wall in characters earth. Oh! did his old, dark, repulsed thoughts of light, by every flash of the bonfires. Beside never return. her-for she could not sleep-little Mel stood weeping. At last her mother said to her, "Tell me all, child, again, that he said to you when he left ?" The only thing which Eppen and Melanie possessed in common now was ardent love for their lovely daughter. But little Mel did not aet as the element which harmonises by its presence discordant substances. And yet to see her husband's pure affection for his daughter, would sometimes inspire Melanie with a throbbing hope that perhaps some spark yet lingered there for "Oh, ma, he came to me with tears in his eyes and kissed me over and over again; he said he'd have to leave me then, but he'd come back again." Here the two sobbed together for a long time; her. Oh! how her heart fainted within her at the little girl then continued, the timid thought; gladly would she have died Then I caught hold of his jacket and begged that instant to have known it true. But this she him not to leave me there in the dark woods, that could never know or believe save in a dream or I was afraid. I told a story there, ma, I was'nt a fever; for Andy's lips were sealed to her, as afraid for myself; he said he'd see that I was'nt much as were those of her son. In the day time hurt. Oh! ma, how I begged him not to leave he paused not in her presence unless to dandle me. I told him I knew he'd get lost, and then for an instant his lovely little daughter. I told him to think how distressed you and pa and I would be"-here the child sobbed violently. "What did Andy say then, love?" asked Melanie. Melanie's grief was perpetual, poignant, almost inhuman. Her sole support was that which she was taught when she first recollected the Parsonage as her home, "He doeth all things "Why he cried as if his heart would break. well." Deserted, neglected, and not relieved by Then he jerked away from me, and ran off say-death! "it is well!" ing he'd come back by and by. And then, ma, I ran after him crying and calling out, 'Come back Andy, please just come back, and tell me goodbye and kiss me once more-just once!" Here the mother and daughter wept together long and loudly. 64 Oh, ma, I thought my heart would break when Andy left me there, I thought if I could only call him back and bring him here to see you once before he left, that I would be happy, but no he was gone!" Day now began to dawn in the east; and at intervals from then till about ten o'clock, all the various parties that had gone out to hunt after the lost child, returned from their fruitless search. There was a great deal of excitement in the village during the day. But the people talked, the mother wept, and the father sought in vain; Andy could not be found. At last Eppen returned and locked himself in his room to his own wild feelings; he cared for none on earth that he knew of. V. You might have mingled with all the peasantry of the old world in the days of pestilence and hunger, and in every cottage you would find a Philamon and Baucis compared with the in mates of the Parsonage. No one would have believed that piety had ever taken up its abode there, or least of all that it had ever seen a merry wedding, for no where had every trace of happiness been so thoroughly erased from the threshold. Coldness and apathy gathered there, until the surrounding grounds, uncultivated, sprang forth in weeds and briars : and there too snakes were bred as emblems of the diabolical influence which seemed to gloat over the whole. We have said that every trace of happiness had been erased from the hearthstone at the Parsonage; so at least it was destined to be, for the remaining idol was to be torn therefrom. The narrative is brief and sad, let us hasten through it. Andy Eppen was colder now than ever to his wife, because to his former coldness was added that of suspicion, which obscures the brightness Since the loss of her twin-brother, little Mel of men's minds as rust on steel. Did it never had never been the same lively child. She seloccur to him that one word of sympathy from dom spake except to her mother when alone, and Melanie, had he suffered himself to receive it, then she would dwell with rapture on the memowould have caused him more joy than the recov-ry of the loved one who had gone. She took ery of his son. Did it never come back upon but little interest in the things around her; and him, when he devoured his grief in privacy, that Melanie saw that her daughter was pining tohappiness could then be found in his own house, ward the tomb. Sometimes she was tempted to which would cause ineffable joy to his lost son if pray that she might pine away as fast! The he were an angel, and would be the truest light physician advised a change of air for the little girl, and she was taken to a watering-place; "write on her tomb," said the philosopher of old scarcely however had she arrived and walked to Darius, "the names of three who have not sufabout the green grounds, when she desired to re-fered adverse things, and I will raise thy wife from turn home. By her bedside at home her mother death!" Were that her only epitaph the tomb sat from day to day to see the flower fade gradu- would have remained unlettered. ally away from her home; whilst the wretched, unweeping father, remained in his room, to his own meditations. Of what sort they were God knows! The afternoon was very fair and pleasant when little Mel died. She turned from a refreshing sleep, about an hour before the sun had spent its course, to her mother and said cheerfully "Ma kiss me and I'll tell you my dream." Her mother kissed her fondly and then pressed her to her bosom. "I dreamed, ma, that I saw brother in a far off country. He looked lovelier and finer than ever; he was not crying as when he left me in the woods; and there he wanted me to come and live with him. He said that he could'nt live without me; and that if I'd come he'd love mema-ma-don't cry, I told him I could'nt leave you. And when I told him so, he said that I'd have to come soon-don't cry, ma, he meant that the doctor would send me there for my health. And then he told me that he would love me as much in that bright and lovely country, as pa loves you here. I'll be loved a great deal then, won't I ma?" Melanie started and turned pale as she looked in the face of her dying child. Unperceived Eppen had been standing at the door looking on the same sight which angels looked on from above. A stifled sob betrayed his presence-he could stand it no longer; the old dark thoughts of years gone by prevailed, and Andy wept on the neck of his wife in the presence of his dying child! "Oh! he will love me that much in that land!" In an ecstacy of joy the fair girl clasped her hands; and so as the sinking sun faded from the chamber she breathed her last. "God help me, Mel, I loved both before you, yet you only are left to love me; oh! forgive"There in the chamber of death as they wept, they could not utter their emotion; it were idle for the pen to attempt it. Many wept next day as they laid the body of the little girl to rest in the silent tomb, beneath the green trees which sighed in the old church yard. They could but weep to think of the heavy sorrows that had fallen on the family at the Parsonage, and wondered too that it was so. In the large congregation which surrounded the small grave, there was not one who did not recall some bereavement sustained at the hand of death; the brother, the sister, the parent, or the child lay beneath the sod, and little Mel's grave was a fresh opening to each wound. All have such wounds; With the afflicted pair it was not now as it had been in their former sufferings. Andy felt now with new emotion the omnipotence of sympathy, it mingled with his grief a sacred pleasure; he could now kneel by his fireside with his loved Melanie, and pray for preparation to meet in heaven those who had gone before! Often they would walk to the grave of their loved child, there would talk of her dying words, and wonder too if her dream had come true-if the two were twins in the better land as on earth. One morning, Melanie repaired alone, as she often did in spring, to the grave yard; no sooner had she cast her eyes upon the tomb of her lost one, than she started back pale with terror; on the stone in wreaths of rose buds and violets twined with ivy, were framed the words "My Sister!" A superstitious feeling crept over her, for she could but believe that the angel form of her son had placed the words there. She hastily gathered up the flowers and carried them home; she did not breathe, however, what she had seen; she was afraid to, she knew not why, and so kept it in her own heart as something to shudder at. New life dawned upon the Parsonage now; the weeds were quickly rooted from the garden, and flowers at the front smiled in acknowledgment of Melanie's tender care which did not neglect the least thing in nature, that raised its head above the ground. It was her reward now to have a smile and kiss of affection from her husband, on his departure or return; her happiness was as if her youth were renewed, as if her wedding-day had returned, and she again sang "Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay. Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers, Things that are born to fade and fall away Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours!" Ah no! She did not look upon her Andy now, as you or I would look upon him, with his face wrinkled somewhat with care, and his head turning gray, as it had been since the loss of his son. she saw him handsome and happy as he pressed the ring upon her finger; and as for herself she felt as young as he appeared. The two felt more and more dependent on each other as they went on; they staid with each other more now, and felt a mutual interest growing day by day between them. And at last if you could see Andy's unhappiness when Mel was not present, you would have surely thought he was making up in loving her now for the time he had lost in apathy! VI. In a neat room of a country house, not an hundred miles from the village which has been the scene of the main portion of this narrative, there sat two youthful persons with whom we now have to do. About the girl there is a singularly sweet expression of face; she is apparently much more staid than the young man. But who is he? You may well ask that, for without an introduction, none would ever recognise him as the same fine boy that in a period long passed, kissed his sister in the wood for the last time on earth; so grown and changed was Andy now, you would never have known him! beauty, but when these have ceased, my affection will not fade-no never!" Maria had started up and turned pale. She fixed her eyes upon him but did not speak until they were dry, and her face as calm as ever. "I'd never thought it, Andy. When I first met you a poor boy, seeking employment, I don't know that I was curious for your history. You confided it all to me, unbidden; and I could but honor a design so noble, as I thought. If my feelings had become interested in one who sacrificed the dearest relations of home and life for that design-I did not know it until you told me that you were about to leave! Go on now-I consent." Andy's utterance was choked, and he could only press her hand to his lips in silence. Finally, however, he arose and as he left the room said, "I shall now go to my room and thank my father above, Maria, that I ever met you!" "Maria," said he tearfully, "my object is accomplished: that for which I gave up home and all its endearments. I shall now return to bless, if I may, their mutual love." Maria's face was usually calm; indeed Andy had never seen her in tears until now. "When I left home and wan- In the first stage-coach that afternoon, Andy dered to Mr. Limnef's-your father's-door, fe- started for the home from which he had been so vered and sick at heart; I thank God that you long estranged. It was his birth-day; and on the met me there! A slight resemblance to my little way he thought over the strange portion of his hissister that's gone, inspired me more than any-tory which had occurred since nine years before thing else, probably, to open my heart to you. he had left his father's house; how slowly had Oh! it is a memorable item in our history, Maria, they passed! And in their passing, Andy's mind, when we meet with those who count our feelings if not his body, had grown old, almost as much worthy of themselves, and so adopt them. And so as if they had been nineteen instead of nine. had I not met with your cordial sympathy and It was just dark when he arrived; and he enencouragement, Maria, oh, I fear I should have tered softly at the side-door of the house. And given up and returned to claim my love so dear-still more softly, save for his beating heart, he ly bought, or at least to have saved Melanie from kneeled at the parlour door, where about the the grave!" Here both wept audibly; the agitated youth pressed Maria's hand and continued-" over her resting-place, I am now going to mingle my tears with those of my dear parents; to tread again the same spot where with her bursting heart she cried once more Andy-just once.' Oh, Maria! had I gone to her then, I should never have left her" same hour he had kneeled nine years ago, and heard his father's first harsh word to his mother; the word which had decided him to leave! Little thought Eppen, when he uttered it, of the bonfires it would kindle-of the noise and the madness; little did he dream that it was making his boy an alien, and bespeaking an early grave for his loved little Melanie! The husband and wife had been talking over the scenes of the past; for it was the birth-day of those they had loved for a short time on earth. They had wondered again and again if both were now in the better land, unvisited by sickness and sorrow. At last Melanie, pale and trembling, spake Maria had not uttered a word in all the time, but sat weeping. "I am going back now to try and bless the declining years of my parents with duty and affection; but how, oh! how shall I leave you who have been to me so good and kind. Though I have laboured for my own support in your father's family, yet I would have "Forgive me, Andy, if I have kept anything performed double sooner than gone elsewhere from you. But I have somewhat to say, which and lost the support of your friendship and smile. I have often tried to speak, but could not. Some "Shall I lose it now? Shall my heart yearn strange spell seems to have kept me silent until in vain for the sympathy which it can find alone now. One very bright morning, shortly after in your own? Listen, Maria, to my parting re-little Melanie's death, I happened to walk to the quest. May I one day come again and take you grave-yard alone-and oh! what think you met to the Parsonage to be my wife. Oh! say that my eyes? there, on the tomb, were the letters you'll come, and fill the void which the grave of woven of flowers, My Sister !" little Mel has made at our hearth-stone. I'll not only love you now in the days of your youth and Oh, Melanie! tell me if my son lives." "I know not. I know it was weak, but I half believed then, and now, that they may have fal- | that you would be again loved as you deservedlen from the hand of my boy in heaven, with the oh, mother, these things supported me and cheerdew that covered them!" ed me! "Oh, Melanie! why did you not tell me❞— the anxious man rose-"Oh! if little Andy did place those letters there"— "And now my work is accomplished, thank God! but in the conflict little Melanie has gone❞— Andy could scarcely speak-" perhaps she is "I'll answer for that!" exclaimed the son rush- now looking on us from her bright home above. ing in the room. "Oh God!" exclaimed Eppen, and in a moment the three were joined in an embrace, which told of a joy purer and deeper than we can describe. But my dear parents, I shall supply her place soon, as far as on earth it can be, with one who is lovely, and who will assist me in comforting your sinking days with love and care, one who has been my only solace in all my trials "My noble boy come back!" sobbed the fa- since I left you; and with whom I have visited ther. my dear sister's grave, where, with flowers "Oh dear Andy-why could you leave us?" wreathed by her hand, I wrote the words, 'My said Melanie as soon as she could speak. Sister!""" "Pardon me, my father, and I will tell you all," said he holding the hand of each. “God bless you tell on," cried the old man. "In all the land there was no one with more to make him happy at my age, than had I. You both know well that my slightest wish was always gratified; I was almost idolized by all. But oh! from some source or other, a dreadful thought would often flit upon my mind, that the love which you, my father, lavished upon me was at the cost of that love to another whom I almost adored, and whose hand I now hold!" Eppen groaned and bowed his head, as he said "tell on." Forgive me, my dear father-but I saw that I had taken the place in your affection which was due to my mother. Oh! the thought was a very terrible one for a boy of ten years to hold. I thought that if I was taken from you, it would tell you your dependence on your once loved wife for happiness? "There was but one person to whom I told my design; an old dear friend of yours, mother, and one to whom your heart was open, it was Mrs. Nance; she endeavored to dissuade me, and has often begged me to return when I would go to her for information; though she kept her promise not to betray my secret. "What you have said, my son," said Eppen, as soon as Andy had finished, "is too true. God knows I did not intend to treat my dear Melaine with neglect, but I did so―and fearfully have I paid for it. It is by the deepest affliction that I have been brought again to love her and you together, as I do now." "As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are his ways higher than our ways, and his thoughts than ours!" said Melanie. VII. CONCLUSION. There was another wedding-party at the Parsonage soon afterward: a wedding too, on as fair and bright a summer-night as ever any wedding was on. Mrs. Nance did her share, too, toward strewing the room and the dinner with roses and daisies. There never had been such a happy time in the village as when young Andy Eppen was married to Maria Limnef. The sun acknowledged it by sinking in the West without a cloud, and the moon agreed thereto by lighting the folks to and fromthe Parsonage. The wind "I went to Mr. Lemnif's and labored for my likewise gave in its consent to the opinion, by support, there I have been ever since. Oh! how not howling or playing pranks with peoples' I have been tempted to return at times. When hats and bonnets, and other proper clothing. It beneath this roof that being for whom I would was a place for young girls to catch beaux, and have at any moment lain down my life-rest- for said beaux to become desperate--was this ed on her death-bed; when I knew that one word from me would cheer up her sinking frame. Oh how I was tempted to return! But no-I would not have returned scarcely though it had been to raise her into life." wedding. How then, on the face of the earth, could it be otherwise than merry and happy! Never was bride more admired than Maria Eppen; and every one said in a whisper how like she was to little Mel that died. The obser The three wept together in silence for a long vation caused a shade of sadness it is true; a time, the youth then continued: "The thought of wiping from your eyes those tears of anguish which I have seen so often, when you knew it not, and the confidence I felt thought of how happy she would be if she were present, contradicted by a thought of how much happier she was being absent-but all this flitted away with the music and the laughing, the kiss ing and the eating. We hope the reader will pardon us for making use of this last word; but observation has made manifest to us that people, at weddings, never think of living on love so much as brides' cakes; and that feasts of reason are the remotest of all sublunary feasts from their minds. Music, laughing, kissing and eating! Whew! what a coronet of brilliance for the brow of Hymen have we woven unconsciously; and thus, like Synesius, rendered that deity "concealed," during supper-time at least, "by its own effulgence!" The wind, as we have before intimated, did not take any mean advantage of the guests as they went home after the wedding; on the contrary it snuffed the moon of all its cloudiness, for the better accommodation of the same. Now we-the writer and the reader-cannot any more follow the folks to their respective mansions from the Parsonage, than we could twenty odd years ago, when the first wedding took place at the same place. And so, just for the sake of old acquaintance, let us return with Mr. and Mrs. Nance. We have the greatest conceivable affection for them, and always have had, and always will; and that alone would induce us to accompany them. Mrs. Nance said this was a wedding-we are serious in the assertion-at least it was what she called a wedding. In these days of innovation, it is important to know the old nomenclature, and we have therefore stated this fact of Mrs. Nance. Mr. Nance assented. "Here," said Mrs. N., "you and I get ready, go to the wedding, come back again without any colds in our heads." "Or tears in our eyes," suggested Nance. "No half frozen Hornets to take care of." "Nor sleep lost." "None at all-none whatever." Mrs. Nance waved both hands, “and then William, look upon that carpet-do you see any crane on that whole carpet disfigured?" Mr. Nance saw none, though he put on his spectacles to it. “Mark me, William, when Andy Eppen and Maria grow old, they will not have to look back at bonfires, and children running off and dying early; and what will you inquire then, William, if you are alive?" How came it so ?" said Mr. N., quietly. The Qui fit Maecenas was answered at last, by Because they got married like Christian people, in the season of green trees, and flowers, and birds. When," continued she vehemently, "there's no snow to cover and hide peoples' paths, nor wind nor weather to give them their deaths!" "Umph!" assented Nance. At times, o'er Melancholy's stormy tide, Of thy bleak eye, austere Philosophy, MARCIUS. THE ENGLISH LITERATI.* Perhaps a greater interest attaches to the lives of successful authors than any other class of distinguished persons. We hear of great deeds of arms, and we feel a natural desire to see the noble captain who has achieved them—the man who has seemed to bear a charmed life amid the rage of embattled hosts and the desolation of iron tempest. But we have no inordinate wish to be made acquainted with him in private, to see him apart from the great pageant wherein he moves, as he is seen by his valet, and to hear the ordinary staple of his conversation. We stand before a picture or a statue, as in an at *The Living Authors of England, by Thomas Powell, New York: D. Appleton & Co., 200 Broadway: Philadelphia: George S. Appleton, 164 Chesnut Street, 1849. |