You told me they came from the world on high, I DO SO LOVE PICTURES! 66 "I Do So love pictures," exclaimed a sorrow-stricken woman, smiling in the midst of tears that we had caught her shedding over a little child's picture book; even these rude and simple illustrations affect me now as readily as they did when I was a very wee' girl. Indeed more; for I confess you have found me sentimentally crying over these coarse and hardly explainable prints." She wiped the tears away from her mild grey eyes, and bent her head again to the little book. "Here," said she, pointing to the figure of a nurse laying a babe in its father's arms, "nine such have I borne on my bosom; frail, beautiful things, with eyes that told me all I wished to know, long before the soul found vent between the lips of coral. "Gabrielle was the first; my heart was bound up in her. They deemed her an angel, and truly, truly, for the Lord that gave, called her back home in a few short months but she was so heavenly, that this old home seems sacred because she smiled into being here. Isa-dear little laughing Isadore--hung her golden harp next on the willow of our sad hopes, and passed away singing 'O sweet Jerusalem! O my sweet Saviour-Father!' so lightly and happily amid 26 her pain, that our tears were more sacredly joyful over her little dead body, than were our smiles when shewas first laid in my arms. Eddy, with curls like silver flakes, and eyes of blue, took the next deep hold on our love; he was so gentle tempered and unearthly beautiful, that it did not seem a sin to worship him, and so we set him up in the holiest niche of the heart. But God crumbled the idol, and at His voice the gentle child, with all his angelic loveliness, faded into darkness, till but the pedestal stands bearing only his dear footprints. 66 Then Alice and Lilly, my twins, that lived just long enough to dance over the fields and gather handfulls of the old-fashioned buttercup, that poetry of flowers to the child— who used to sleep with both little heads upon my bosom, both little hands locked together, with lips, and cheeks, and veined eye-lids, and fair, light locks; and smiles, even in dreams, so much alike, that one seemed to the other as the shadow of a rose-bud in clear water will seem to the bud itself. 66 They slept in one coffin; and young fingers scattered roses over brow and upon bosom,-and there was great grief at their burial. 46 Here is another little picture, Giving away the bride.' That recalls Mary-the true, timid, gentle-hearted Mary. I agonized over the cradle for her life, when the frail baby-form was shaken by the breath of dissolution,-and God spared her until I gave her away at the altar. I did not know I was giving her to death. She never lived to press the lips of her first-born. When all the golden wealth of hope, of new affections, of joyous young mother-life, were showering at her feet, she passed into heaven, whispering, For me to die is gain-Yes,' folding her white fingers, and lifting her holy eyes, great gain.' "Pardon me if I weep: there were three more. Agnes, the sainted, who from her infancy held converse with silvery-haired men, and told them such things of heaven as are sometimes put into the mouths of babes and sucklings.' She slept in peace before she had reached the age of ten years; and many a minister of God followed her to the sacred place of burial. And even as I felt that her pure spirit might then be floating above, around me, I could not but exclaim,—¦ though I heard the creaking of the coffin as they lowered it into the grave, 'Blessed be God for the loan of that angel: I deserved not the gift.' 66 Ellis and Harry you knew," and for a moment her sobs came thick and fast; but she recovered her self-possession, and pointed to a little engraving of a river, a boat, and some wild rocky scenery. "My beautiful Ellis perished while striving to save the life of his comrade's only sister. It is all before me now; the stifled voices at the door, the thrilling exclamations of gathered neighbours, the howling of Fido, his pet dog; that sickly faintness that seemed to dissolve my very soul; that awful shuddering of the nerves; that irresistible desire to look forth, and the hand on my heart, and the voice in my spirit holding me back-it is all before me now! My poor husband besought me to move, to weep, to speak, but I could not. Had the fall of an empire depended upon the shedding of one tear, I could not have shed that tear. Well, it is all over. Ellis has lain in his grave for fifteen years; and my Harry, the only boy I raised to manhood, lies to-day where the ocean sighs an eternal requiem, as it sweeps above his lifeless body." 66 She sobbed slightly-the sob was echoed. I turned my head, and shall I ever forget the thrill that struck through my whole frame ! Not ten paces off stood a tall young man, with tears upon his dark lashes, and his black eyes glistening. Hope was painted upon his cheek, his arms were raised, his form swayed forward, and that holiest of earthly names, trembled on his lips. I could not forbear grasping the hand of my friend. I was wild with mingled apprehension and joy. She too turned, and with a shriek that unlocked the fountain of my tears, exclaimed, Harry, Harry, my boy !" and in another moment was locked closely in his arms. O, that scene! I have tried again and again-I cannot portray it. Language is faint-feeling inadequate. It is one of those blisses that compensate for years of anguish. Why should I prolong my sketch, save to say that young L- is the staff and stay of his aged mother; that he treats her with a reverence such as few parents elicit; that she is to him the light of his eyes, the blessing of his fireside. Ah! I shall never forget that hour of mingled pain and pleasure, when I heard those simple words from the heart of my friend-" "I do so love pictures.". WHICH IS BEST? Which is best ?—To build a light-house that shall save many vessels from being wrecked, or a life-boat that shall rescue a few wretches from the wrecks that occur for want of a light-house? Which is best?-To prevent crime, or to punish it? Which is best?—To train up a boy in the fear of God, or punish the man for breaking human laws? AFFECTION OF THE NIGHTINGALE. By remarkable good fortune, one of the most extraordinary of these songsters has recently taken full possession of my garden. I call the gay, the joyous fellow, "extraordinary," for I never yet heard such perfect freedom of song, from any of the tribe-much as I have had to do with them. And what makes me value the merry little rogue the more, is his almost incredible tameness. He sings the night through, just under my chamber window, and seldom leaves the garden, by day or by night, for more than a few minutes at a time. I usually rise to greet him at five o'clock in the morning; and on venturing an humble imitation of his swelling note, he flies to me at once. Seating himself on a shady bough, and bending slightly forward, there he remains holding converse with me, so long as my time permits me to tarry; and he improves such music the while, that I can hardly tear myself away from him. He knows my voice, and I know his. Thus do we, morning by morning, change familiarities; and greatly do I love to return, after the fatigues of a day of toil, to renew our intimacy. I believe the pleasure is quite mutual. ex I cannot but imagine that this bird possesses an unusual charm; for he has drawn into one focus a host of blackbirds, thrushes, robins, blackcaps, and other vocalists, whose orchestral accompaniments, blending with his own heavenly voice, almost lead us to suppose we are in fairy-land. They rehearse early in the evening; and the concert, once commenced, lasts until long after sunrise. I need hardly say, that I now retire to rest with my window open.—Mr. Kidd. |