THE WIFE. BY MRS. LUCY K. WELLS. " [Concluded.] "THE bitterness of my sorrows is taken away, now that I can rest in the sweet assurance that they are permitted by my heavenly Father Father! what sacred memories cluster around that word. The home of my childhood rises again before me, with images of quiet and peace, and delightful confidence in the protection and care of a friend too kind to do wrong, and too wise to err. All this, and more than all this, do I now feel towards my Heavenly Father. It is the filial, unwavering confidence of the child, raised from earth by the ethereal spirit of Heavenly faith and love. Prosperity did not again beam upon my path. I have felt all the evils of penury, and the exhausting effects of toils far beyond my strength; but these things I scarcely felt. Indeed, when hope is gone, and pride is crushed, and the tempest in the soul has subsided to the calmness of despair, though the world just then begins to pity, the keenest anguish is over-the death-struggle is past. The barbed arrow remains, indeed, to rankle at the heart, but the spirit closes in some measure above the wound, and the sufferer yields to the sweet influence of human sympathy, and the deeper and more abiding consolations of religion. "My course is well nigh finished; sorrow and toil have ripened the seeds of consumption that were implanted in my feeble frame, and soon shall I enter those mansions where sin and sorrow are unknown. My helpless orphans I can cheerfully leave to the care of Him who mercifully calls himself the Father of the fatherless. But for one-for the sake of that highly-gifted, but misguided spirit, I would willingly linger still longer on the shores of mortality, in the hope of yet reclaiming him. If it may not beHeavenly Father, thy will be done." After a short pause she resumed: "You have heard the brief history of my life. I told you, at the commencment, of one lesson that I hoped it might teach you. Is there any other instruction or warning which my dear girl would draw from the melancholy recital ?" "Oh, yes, I understand you; you allude to Henry-I saw you turn pale and your lips quiver a few weeks since, when he described the convivial, wine-drinking party he had just left; and I marked, too, the mingled sorrow and anger in your countenance, while listening to his keen ridicule of the thorough-going temperance societies. Alas! I knew not what cause you had for sorrow. Something, indeed, I knew, but had no suspicion that intemperance in a husband caused such deep anguish of spirit. I was thoughtless enough to join in his mirth; but forgive me, dear Mrs. N. I see now the ruin that is suspended over him, and I will never see him more. "No, my dear Anna, I do not advise to that course immediately. He is yet young, and you may save him. Tell him the story Tell him the story of my life; tell him my illfated husband began by wine-drinking-that it was thus the toils were wound around his free and noble spirit, till he is crushed, withered, blighted-melancholy wreck of all he once was. Perhaps you may convince him of his danger. But if you cannotif he cannot be persuaded from honest conviction of impending wretchedness, to enter with all his heart the ranks of total abstinence, then, as you value all you hold dear on earth, resolve to see him no more, but banish him from your society, and his memory from your heart." * After this melancholy interview, Mrs. N. failed so rapidly that it was evident but a few days on earth remained for her, and a messenger was dispatched with the melancholy tidings to her distant parents. The aged father came alone to take a last look of the beloved being whom in infancy and youth he had so tenderly shielded from the ills of life. What passed at their parting hour I know not for the father and the daughter held their last communing, on this side eternity, alone. But, is there a grey-haired father, or a mother, from whom have departed in the midst of the sweet yet exhausting cares of a parent, who cannot imagine, far better than words can tell, the thrilling emotions of such a parting? There are those yet living who will remember her patience, her unvarying meekness of spirit, and such will readily believe that not a word of censure, that no tones but those of pity for the author of her sufferings, passed her lips. She had never murmured, and now, with the living portals of Heaven open before her, she seemed like a pitying angel, reluc tantly, yet patiently, lingering awhile on earth. A scene yet more trying to the mother's heart remained, in parting from her eldest daughter, who was to return with her grandfather. The last words of counsel had been spoken by the mother, the last admonition had fallen upon her daughter's ear, and now they were voluntarily to take death's parting before the hour of dissolution arrived -a harder task, methinks, than when the near approach of the dazzling glories of the eternal world makes earthly objects grow dim to the view. To feel that during the last lingering days on earth, we shall miss the sweet voice of a beloved one-that she who received the mother's first kiss cannot mark the last look of affection, nor receive the last sigh of the departing spirit, must add bitterness even to a dying hour. But the sacrifice was required, and that gentle mother, depending on an unseen arm for support, meekly, yet firmly met the trial. "Dress me," said she to her attendant, "in my accustomed dress, and place me in the easy chair. I would not have my daughter remember me as clad in the white habiliments of the grave." Her request was complied with, and the hectic flush upon her cheek and the unwonted brightness of her eye, gave her the look of health even on the threshold of the grave. Her daughter gazed at her for a moment with mingled admiration and unutterable tenderness; "Mother, dear mother," she whispered, as she threw her arms around her neck, "you will yet be well and happy." "Yes, in Heaven, my love," she replied, feebly pressing her daughter to her bosom. "Go now, my daughter, and may God-your mother's God go with and bless. you." One long, silent kiss, and the daughter has vanished, and the rattling of the carriage-wheels which conveyed her from her home, fell upon her mother's ear. A slight convulsive shudder passed over her frame, but she clasped her hands and closed her eyes in silent prayer, and every trace of emotion vanished from her countenance. He It was a Sabbath evening in autumn-the noiseless foot-fall, the hushed tones of the voice, and the looks of awe and sadness in that abode of sorrow, told that the last struggle was approaching. The patient sufferer awoke from a long and heavy slumber, which they had feared would be her last, and inquired in a feeble tone for her husband. And where was he? Alas I know not! had not been watching by her bedside, nor had he been seen in the house of God. But one who knew his accustomed haunts, soon sought him out, and led him to that chamber of death. He approached the bedside with a careless air, saying, "Well, how is it with you now?" "I am dying, my husband," she replied, placing her thin hand pale hand in his. He staggered back a few paces, and throwing himself into a chair, groaned and wept aloud. The shock had sobered him, and now remorse, with her ten thousand talons, was busy at his heart. He thought of her as she was when he first took her from the warm shelter of her father's home-he remembered the uncomplaining meekness with which she bowed her head to the storms that had beat upon her, and then the memory of his own ingratitude for love like hers, of the indifference, neglect, and poverty, which had now brought her to an untimely death, awoke the gnawings of the undying worm. "Calm yourself for my sake, my husband," she whispered, "it is the last kindness I shall require of you; but for your own sake, remember your immortal soul. I can add nothing to what I have already said to you; I can but pray that a merciful God would arrest you in your course before it be too late-for ever too late." Her children were now brought to receive her last blessing. "Come hither, "I am going You have heard me talk of my dear ones," she said with a heavenly smile. away from you for a little time. Heaven as my home; my Heavenly father calls for me now, and I am going there; but if you remember my counsels and love the Saviour, we shall soon be together. There the inhabitants shall no more say I am sick; there is neither sin nor sorrow, for God himself shall wipe all tears from my eyes. Are you not willing I should go?" The elder children wept bitterly; but a fine, noble-looking boy, six years of age, crept close to her, and whispered, "Yes, dear mother, you may go, for papa makes you cry so often here. You wont weep there Í not go any more, and may too? I won't be afraid of the grave, if it is deep and dark, if you are there; and you said the Saviour was there once, too-so he knows it all, and will not let the heavy clods hurt me." "No, my dear children, nothing can harm you, if you are followers of that which is good. Remember this if you are ever in sadnessremember, and may God Almighty watch over and bless"-her voice was choked-one convulsive shudder of the frame-one gasp for breath, and all was over. Her body was consigned to its last resting place in the village church-yard, while that father, with an unsteady step and flushed face, led by the hand his daughter, who seemed to feel that she was now indeed more than an orphan. The little ones followed two and two, and as the procession passed, the traveller turned aside and waited with uncovered head, and that reverence which grief ever commands from the human heart. The rattling of the clods upon the coffin, usually so mournful, as breaking the last tie that linked us to the departed, was now a pleasant sound. Thou art safe, at last, gentle sufferer; meekly didst thou drain the bitter cup which was presented to thy lips, and now thou dost drink of the river of the water of life, which flows from the throne of God. Thy soul bathes itself in that fountain with a contented and peaceful delight, and shall never more know the vain thirsting of an immortal spirit for happiness that this world can never bestow. THE SABBATH. THE celebrated Wilberforce ascribes his continuance for so long a time, under such a pressure of cares and labors, in no small degree to the conscientious and habitual observance of the Sabbath. O, what a blessed day," he says, "is the Sabbath, which allows us a precious interval wherein to pause, to come out from the thickets of worldly concerns, and give ourselves up to heavenly and spiritual objects. Observation and my own experience have convinced me that there is a special blessing on the right employ. ment of these intervals. "One of their prime objects, in my judgment, is to strengthen our impressions of invisible things, and to induce a habit of living much under their influences. O, what a blessed thing is Sunday, interposed between the waves of worldly business, like the Divine path of the Israelites through Jordan. Blessed be God, who hath appointed the Sabbath, and interposed the seasons of recollection. It is a blessed thing to have the Sabbath devoted to God. There is nothing in which I would commend you to be more strictly conscientious, than in keeping the Sabbath holy.” THE LUMBERMEN. " BY J. G. WHITTIER. COMRADES! round our woodland quarters Through the tall and naked timber, Gleam the sunsets of November O'er us, the South-land heading On the night-frost sounds the treading Fast the streams with ice are closing, Colder grows the sky, Soon on lake and river frozen Shall our log-piles lie. When with sounds of smothered thunder, On some night of rain, Lake and river break asunder Winter's weakened chain, Down the wild March-flood shall bear them Or where steam, the slave, shall tear them Be it starlight, be it moonlight, In these vales below, When the earliest beam of sunlight Streaks the mountain's snow, Crisps the hoar-frost keen and early To our hurrying feet, And the forest echoes clearly All our blows repeat |