And thus I know that while my life endures
I must divide two loving, tender hearts!

But if you heard him pouring forth his faith,
His happy, Christian faith, in burning words,
And saw his cheerful life, you would not say
He was a melancholy man!

Strang.

Well, well,

Marg.
Holding long converse with thee. I was glad,
For there is little to divert thy thoughts

In this dull place - no horsemen pass this way;
And since the road was cut beneath the mountain,
But rarely a foot-traveller. Whence came he?
Was he some scholar travelling in these parts-
Or came he from the city?
Old Man.

I do not doubt the man is good and kind,
And in your presence wears a happy face.
But I have seen him in his mountain-valley,
When the dark fit is on him, sad enough!
I scarce know;
Old Man. God help me! I have sundered them Something he said of dwelling in the city,
But what, I have forgot; my memory fails me,

too long!

Strang. True, it must ever wound a generous I am a weak old man! But sing to me

nature

To know it is a bar to others' bliss!.

But see, the evening cometh down apace.
I must depart - but if you will permit me,
Since I have business which within the city
Will keep me for a season, I will come
And have some profitable talk with you;
For with old age is wisdom- and instruction
With length of days; thus said the wise of yore.
Old Man. Come you, and welcome;-I but rarely

see

The face of any one, for few prefer

The converse of the old- they say forsooth,
His faculties are darkened with his years;
What boots it talking to so old a man!

Strang. Good night, my venerable friend, - be

sure

I hold it as a privilege to talk

With an experienced, ancient man like you.

[He goes.

Old Man. A proper cordial spirit! a prime spirit!
He must have aged parents whom he serves
With dutiful respect, and my grey hairs

Are reverenced for their sakes! So was youth taught
When I was young; we scoffed not at the old,
Nor held them drivellers, as youth does now;
This generation is corrupt, and lax
In good morality;-saving my daughter
And Ugolin, none reverence my years.
Alas, the thought of them brings bitter pangs
Across my soul!-This man knows Ugolin,
And saith he has his melancholy hours-
Perchance my cheerful daughter has hers too!-
Too long I've sundered them, for that they mourn:
What do I know but 'neath this show of duty
They wish me dead! - Ah, no! it is not so;
Shame on myself for harbouring such a thought!

MARGARET comes out.

Marg. Father, the sun is sinking 'neath the boughs Of yonder lime and see, the gilded dome

Within the city now is lighted up;

"T is late, my father, and the evening air

Some comfortable hymn-I ever loved
Music at sunset in my better days.

Margaret sings

Oh Lord! before thy glorious face
My human soul I will abase;

Nor pride myself because I know
The wonders of the earth and skies!
When the stars set, and when they rise;
And when the little flower doth blow,
And seasons come and go!

Oh, how can man himself present
Before thee, the Omnipotent,

The Omnipresent Deity,
And not abhor the daring pride
Which his poor soul had magnified;

And not shrink back, appalled to see
How far he is from thee!

Yet, Source of love, and life and light,
The one existence - Infinite!

Thou dost regard thy creature man;
With mercies dost enrich his lot!
Hast blessed him though he knew it not
From the first hour his life began,

To its remotest span!

Oh God! I will not praise thee most
For that which makes man's proudest boast-
Power, grandeur, or unshackled will-
But to thy goodness will I raise
My most triumphant song of praise,
And cast myself in every ill

Upon thy mercy still!

Old Man.

"T is a sweet hymn, a comfortable hymn!

My daughter, God is good, though man is weak,
And doubteth of his providence!

Marg.
He is -
He is a god of mercy more than judgment ! —
But hark! those are the sounds of eventide;
The booming of the beetle, and the cry,

Will chill thy frame!-Give me thy hand, dear Shrill as a reed-pipe, of the little bat;

father,

And lean on me, I will support thee in.

And the low city-hum, like swarming bees;
And the small water-fall, I hear them now:

Old Man. Nay, 't is not chill! these summer eves These mark the closing eve: now come within,

are warm;

Let me enjoy the sun while yet I can.

I have your supper ready, and will read
To you awhile in some religious book.

Old Man. Well, well-I am but like the ancient He almost curses life, so does he long

servant

Of our good Lord, I do put forth my hand
And others gird and lead me where I would not!

SCENE II.

[They go in.

Night-fall —a room in the cottage. In the far part, the old Man's bed, with the curtains drawn round it. - Margaret sits within a screen at her work; a small lamp is burning beside her.

Marg. I'll sing a hymn, it oft hath cheered his
spirit

In its disquietude - Oh Lord forgive him,
If he say aught injurious of thy mercy —
He is a weak, old man!

6

To pass away in death, which he conceives
The portal of immortal youth and joy.
Never did aged man abhor his years
Like my poor father! "T is, I must believe,
Only the weakness of a feeble spirit,
Bowed down beneath his threescore years and ten!
Ugo. Margaret, thou hast performed a daughter's
part;

I did allow thy father's claim to thee,-
Now list to mine. Do thou make him my father,
And let him dwell with us; we'll comfort him-
Our bliss will reconcile him to his life!

Marg. Alas, thou know'st he will not leave this
roof!

Sorrow and love have bound him to these walls
He'd die if we remove him; and thy duties,
As the good pastor of a worthy flock,

[She sings. Bind thee unto thy mountains! Ugolin,

Bowed 'neath the load of human ill,
Our spirits droop, and are dismayed;
Oh Thou, that saidest peace, be still,'
To the wild sea, and wast obeyed,
Speak comfortable words of peace,
And bid the spirit's tumult cease!

Could I believe this weary waiting for me—
This seven years' tarriance on a daughter's duty,
Fretted thee with impatience, I would yield
Thee back thy faith, and give thee liberty

To choose elsewhere; but I have known thee well,
Have known thy constancy, thy acquiescence
With the great will of God, howe'er unpleasing
To our poor souls; so let us still perform
Our separate duties! When my father needs
My care no longer, 't will be a great joy
To have performed my duty unto him;
And all the good, life has in store for us,
Will come with tenfold blessing!

Old Man.

Hast thought my tarriance long? I would have sped What dost thou need?
To thee ere sunset, but I stayed to comfort
A mother in affliction; a poor neighbour;
Wife of the fisherman, whose son hath fallen
Into the lake, and was brought home a corpse!
A worthy son, the comfort of the house.

Marg. Alas, poor soul! it is a great affliction!
Ah Ugolin, this is a world of sorrow,
And, saving for the hope the Christian bears
In his dear faith, a dark and joyless world!
Ugo. It is not oft thy spirit is o'ercast-
I see thee ever as a gentle star,
Shedding kind, cheering influence!

Is he still here?
Marg.

I thought I heard him speak,

He is, shall he come to thee?

Old Man. No, no,-I tell thee no! dear daughter

no!

I saw him in my dream, and when I woke

I heard him speak with thee: let him go hence!

Marg. Dear father, thou art dreaming still, be

sure!

Thou art not speaking of good Ugolin —

It was his voice thou heard'st!
Old Man.

Good Ugolin!

Ay, ay, perchance it might be Ugolin!

I was in dreams-I thought it was the man
Who did converse with me beside the door;
It was a dream-a strange, unpleasing dream.
But go, my child, · -it only was a dream,
For rarely dost thou see poor Ugolin;
Yet ere thou go, smoothen my pillow for me!
[Margaret adjusts the pillow, and draws
the curtains.

Ugo. Thy father is not well, dear Margaret, His sleep is sore disturbed.

A master of the art; make way for him!

Marg.
"T was but a dream;
There came a stranger and conversed with him
An hour ere sunset, and he sees so rarely
The face of man, that it becomes a terror
To him in sleep; besides, his mind was burthened
Before he went to rest.

Ugo.

[A bell tolls the hour.

The time wears on;

I must not tarry longer, or the hour

Will be past midnight ere I reach my home.

I will be here to-morrow ere the sun set.

Sweet rest to thee, my Margaret, and good dreams,
And to the poor old man!
[He embraces her.
Marg. Farewell, good Ugolin! [He goes out.
[Margaret fastens the door; then, after
listening a few minutes by her father's
bed, she retires to her own chamber.

SCENE III.

[The Old Man takes the sling, but attempting to throw, his arm drops powerless. The youths turn away and laugh.

Old Man. Curse on this arm! am I a laughing stock?

Let me go hence, I am an aged fool!

Yet that I might but only shame those scoffers
I'd yield my hope in heaven!

Strang. [reconducting him to his seat.] My friend,
you shall!

Vain-glorious fools! to laugh the old to scorn.
I told you I was skilled in medicines;
The secret virtues of all plants and stones,
And earths medicinal, are known to me;
And hence I have concocted a strong draught
Of wondrous power-it is the Elixir Vitæ,
For which the wise of every age have sought.
[He presents a small flash
Drink this, my friend, and vigorous life shall run
Throughout your frame; you shall be young anon;
You shall be even as these; and more than these!
Old Man. Give me the flask! I'll shame the
insolent :

Noon of the next day—the saloon of a house in the
city, opening to a green on which young men are
engaged in athletic sports- the old Man sits in a I will outsling these mockers!
large chair looking on; the Stranger stands beside
him.

But let us now regard the youths before us;
Behold their manly forms, their graceful limbs,
Supple, yet full of force Herculean.

Look at their short, curled hair; their features' play;
Their well-set, noble heads; their shoulders broad;
Their well-compacted frames, that so unite
Beauty and strength together! Such is youth.
Old Man. I once was such as they.
Strang.
Look at that boy,
Throwing the classic discus! such as he
The old Greek sculptors loved; look at his skill,
How far, how true he hurls!

Strang.

[He takes it eagerly, then pauses as if
deliberating; smells at it, and looks at
it between his eye and the light.
Drink, my friend.

Old Man. Said'st thou it would restore my van

ished youth?

Strang. Yes, yes! will give thee youth, and strength and beauty

Will give thee youth which is imperishable!
Old Man. And I shall live, enjoying life on earth?
Strang. Yes, wilt enjoy upon this glorious earth
All that the young desire!
Old Man. [giving it back.] I'll drink it not!
I'll none of it-it is an evil thing.

Strang. What, to be such as these, an evil thing!
Did they not laugh at thee, and mock thine age?
Old Man. Ay, what is youth but folly? Now 1

see

The sinfulness of my unholy wishes:

I thank thee, God, that thou hast kept my soul
From this great snare! Oh, take me, take me hence,
A feeble man, I am not of your sort!
Strang. [aside.] A curse upon thee, and thy feeble-
ness. [He speaks to four of the young men.

My friend, the litter will be here anon;
These will conduct thee safely to thy daughter:
Give me thy hand, old friend, I fain would serve thee.
Old Man. Let me go home: I am a weak old man.
[The four youths accompany him out.
Strang. A weak old man! a weak old whining
fool!

If pain and hunger could have made him mine,

Old Mar. attempting to rise.] Give me here a He should not thus have left me: but I know

sling,

I will excel them all!

Strang. [supporting him.] You shall, my friend! [To one of the youths.] Give here a sling, good Decius; here you see

The soul is only strengthened by oppression.
I still will speak him fair-I will flatter him,
And stir up that impatient soul of his,
Till his own act shall make him mine for ever
Now let him rest awhile, and bask i' the sun,

The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin of our dear brother here departed, we therefore comis the law, mit his body to the ground: earth to earth; ashes But thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory to ashes; dust to dust: in the sure and certain hope through our Lord Jesus Christ." of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ."

Is pastor Ugolin! There then is buried
My hope of that repining, weary soul!
Death was before-hand with me. I ne'er dreamed
Of his sands running out, just yet at least;
Life is a slippery thing! I'll deal no more
With any mortal who is turned three-score!

[He hastens off.
[The funeral train moves away, preceded
by choristers chanting.

"I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, write, from henceforth, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; even so saith the spirit, for they shall rest from their labours."

This second defeat of Achzib was like a blow given by an unseen hand; it was an event altogether out of his calculation. He had heard how the spirit of the old man, in its moments of irritation, poured forth reproaches and murmurs against God, which would have been mortal sin had the heart responded to them. But his spirit resembled water in its dead calm, corrupt and unsightly, which nevertheless when agitated by the tempest overleaps its barriers, throws off its impurities, and rushes on in a strong, bright torrent. His discontent and his impatience were almost meaningless on his own lips; but addressed to him as the sentiments of another, to which he was required to assent, he started from their sinfulness, beholding, as it were, his own reflected image. This was an event beyond the range of Achzib's idea of possibilities. He was sceptical to all that virtue in human nature, which great occasions bring into action, though it may have lain dormant for half a life, and which may be regarded as a store in reserve for extraordinary emergency.

"How," inquired Achzib, "has her loss been so very great?"

"Know you not," rejoined the other, "that a mother mourns most, suffers most, for the child least worthy of her love? Man knows not to what an extent that mother's heart has suffered: it has been

wounded unto death, and yet it lives on, enduring a life more painful than death, a life quivering with the sting of outraged love!"

"Was he not young," inquired Achzib; "how then has he committed so great sin?"

"You cannot have attentively regarded these things," replied the stranger, "or you would know that, for a young man, the most perilous of all conditions is to be the son of a widow; for losing the authority, the counsel, the example of a father, he falls into numberless temptations, against which a mother can be but an insufficient defence. Besides, young men, too often having experienced the easy, irresolute, uncertain government of a mother in their boyish years, cease to regard her with respect as they approach manhood."

66

But," said Achzib, recalling to mind the firm principle and devoted affection of the Poor Scholar, "I have known such arriving at manhood, armed at all points against temptation, and cherishing in their souls the most ardent love, the most holy reverence for a mother."

"God forbid," replied the stranger," that I should say all mothers are inadequate to the government of a son, or all sons incapable of estimating, and gratefully rewarding the unwearied solicitude, the neversleeping affection of a mother; for I myself know a widow who has trained three noble sons from their fatherless boyhood, maintaining her own authority, and nurturing in their souls every virtuous and manly sentiment; and who now, adorning manhood, are as a crown of glory to her brow. And it may also be received as a truth, that love and reverence for a widowed mother will be as much a preservation from evil as the authority of a father-but these are the exceptions to the general rule, which is as I have said, that the sons of widows are the most peculiarly liable to temptation, and the least defended against it."

"I believe you to be right," replied Achzib, not a little pleased with the hint, which had inadvertently been given him. "I believe you are right! and of all temptations to which a young man so circumstanced is exposed, those of pleasure would be the most besetting," continued he, remembering the first sin of poor Luberg.

The old man seemed, as it were, to have slipped from his grasp; and, half angry with himself for being overcome by so apparently weak an opponent, he turned from the burial-place and walked on, he hardly knew whither, for many hours. At length he was recalled to his own identity by coming upon a village church-yard, where a funeral was taking place. The dead seemed to have been of the lower class of society, if you might judge by the appearance of the coffin, its humble appurtenances, and its few attendants; but there was a something about its chief and only mourner, which told that misfortune had brought her thus low. Yet was her whole air melancholy and wretched in the extreme; and so 'Exactly so," said the stranger: "the timid, enerharrowed by grief, so woe-stricken, so wholly self-vating system of female government, gives the heart abandoned, that no one could see her for a moment a bias towards pleasure, without strengthening it for without knowing that it was her son who had been resistance, or even enabling it to discriminate becommitted to the dust, the only child of his mother, tween good and evil. This is the snare into which and she a widow. such generally fall; and there is hardly a sin more

Achzib remarked this to an observant stranger who sorrowfully degrading, or one which holds its victim stood by.

more irreclaimably: he is as one self-conducted to sacrifice; a captive, who rivets on his own fetters while he groans for freedom: for the indulgence of those vices miscalled pleasure, while they deaden the will, leave quiveringly alive the sense of degradation