"I would not try," said Marian, shaking her head sadly. Yes, but other people have done good." 66 0 yes, but not women by arguing. O no, no, Caroline, we never ought to put our weakness forward, as if it could guard the truth. You know the wrong side may find stronger arguments than we are able to do-mind I don't say than can be found of course truth is the strongest of all, but we may be overpowered though the truth is not. We women should not stand out to argue for the truth any more than we should stand out to fight as champions in the right cause." "And is this the reason you never would argue?" "I don't know-I mean no, it was only because I had nothing to say; I knew when a thing was right, but could not tell why, and the more you asked, the more I did not know." "And do you know now ?" 66 Sometimes," said Marian, "not often, but Mr. Wortley taught me some things, and one grows up to others. But I could never explain even when I know." "For instance-" said Caroline laughing. "O that came, I don't know how. Have I said so much?" "A great deal that is very nice. Good night, Marian." "COME AGAIN." I AM an old woman standing at midnight by the window, gazing with a look of despair upwards to the clear spangled firmament, and down upon the still, white earth, on which no one is so joyless and sleepless as myself. My grave is nigh-I can discern it from the casement; it is covered over only with the snow of age-not with the green bright garlands of youth. Alas! I have brought nothing with me out of my whole rich life-nothing with me but errors, sins, a wasted body, a desolated soul, a breast full of poison, an old age full of remorse. The beautiful days of youth flit before me like spectres, and shadow forth that bright morning on which my mother first placed me on the highway of life, when I beheld two paths; that on the right hand leading by the narrow sun-track, to a wide peaceful land full of angels, light, and music; that on the left, descending by a broad road, into dark caverns, dropping with poison, and full of gloom and sultry vapours. Those vapours hang about me now-the drops of poison are on my_tongue! Frantic, and with grief inexpressible, I appeal to Heaven. "O give me back my youth again! Place me once more on the highway of life, that I may choose otherwise than I did!" I see fiery exhalations dancing on the marshes, extinguishing themselves in the churchyard, and I cry, "These are emblems of my days of folly!" I see a star shoot downwards, and in falling seem to dissolve upon the earth: my bleeding heart whispers, "Like unto me!" I am The giant shadows of centuries pass before me; the Evil Genius tempts Eve's fallen children; the lily-moon gazes down in sadness, the earth quakes, and the glorified ones who once trod the soil below, weep for compassion! In the midst of this paroxysm of wild teeming fancy, suddenly dulcet melody flows down from the old Church steeple, like unto solemn Church anthems. greatly moved and troubled. I look round upon the cold white earth, and think of the loves and friends of youth, who, better and happier than I, followed the narrow sun-track, and disappeared from my laughing eyes and jeering taunts. "O that I had also chosen it !" I exclaim; "for then, beloved mother, I should have fulfilled your instructions; then should I have escaped this tempest of suffering, nor shuddered at the approach of that once diminutive horror, now a monster, creeping nearer and nearer, whose name is Death." In feverish recollection, I behold myself as I was in my youth, gay and blooming, crowned with roses, and bounding over the greensward with elastic footfall. I cover my dim eyes, I can endure the vision no longer; the contrast of "what I was, and what I am," is too agonizing. Hot streaming tears mingle with the snow; inconsolably and unconsciously I sigh, “Only come again-youth, sweet youth, come again!" And it came again: I had only been dreaming: I am still young! My errors and my sins alone are no dream and O! merciful GOD, I can still turn back to the narrow sun-track, which leads to the wide land of angels, and light, and music: I can still avoid the broad road which conducts to the foul caverns of perdition! Turn with me, thou who readest, if thou art pondering which way to go! Lest thou too one day call out, full of anguish, not dreaming, but in dread reality, "Come again, beautiful youth, come again." But it will not "come again." C. A. M. W. THE LITTLE FISHER BOY. "Now, Willie, dear, go to bed. Thou's been up two nights already, and needs some rest; take a bit o' breakfast, and then off.' "But I cannot, mother; for I told Ned I'd be with 'em at one o'clock, to go out with the nets again. We have nothing in the house but what I brought this morning, and little Lily is so poorly." "Never heed, Willie," replied the anxious mother, "but go to bed, my boy; for I cannot bear to see thee pining away in this manner." "O mother, never mind me!" answered the boy. "GOD helps them that helps themselves, and if I cannot work for you, who will, mother, now that father's gone?" It was in vain that the little lad remonstrated; the mother's love persuaded him to retire to his bed. And much did he need it. For two whole nights his watch had been on the deep, toiling for fish, yet catching none. His little eyes were almost closed as he struggled to keep awake; his limbs were weary, yet withal he was afraid that he should not be able to awake in time to commence his labours again. Not until he had gained a solemn promise from his mother that he should be I called in two hours' time, would he consent to lie down on his humble couch, after he had prayed his heavenly FATHER to bless his sleep. When he had enjoyed his brief repose, he set out to join the boat, which was some miles from his home. His way lay by the lake's still side, through leafy shady dells, and over mountain paths; yet without a murmur he plodded on his way, footsore and weary, until he reached the last point which jutted out into the sea. It was a high and noble piece of land, ever welcome to the eye of the Englishman returning from his sojourn in foreign climes. Upon its heights no living creature dwelt, save the goats that pastured there. Rich herbage grew adown its steep and craggy slopes; a matchless view of the boundless ocean is commanded from its highest point. Attractions beyond this it may not have many; yet has it one beyond all others for the Christian soul who regards the ruined temple of the LORD as His temple still. In days long since gone by, when Christian sailors were thrown into peril on the deep by angry storms and raging tempests, they were wont to make vows to GOD that they would present some thank-offering to Him, if they reached the land in safety. Many a shrine was clad in richer honour from these votive offerings; and along the shore are the remains of many a simple temple, raised to commemorate deliverances from shipwreck. One of these little Chapels stands upon this point of land of which I am now writing. True, it is now waste and desolate; there is nothing, save the lines of the windows, and the marks where once the altar stood, to show to what sacred purposes it was once devoted. No guardian hand is there to ward off the in truder's careless steps. There the bird builds its nests, and the beasts of the field find shelter. Many a gay and thoughtless visitant may stand there to watch the beauties of the scenery, and yet not so much as cast a single glance at the little chapelry, which has stood there for more than four hundred years. Yet is it still a temple of the LORD, though the chant no longer breaks upon the ear; though the unceasing prayer is no longer offered up for them that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy themselves on the great waters. Willie, however, was not one of these. He was, it is true, but a boy of some fourteen years old; but he was thoughtful beyond his years, and learned beyond his station,--learned, I mean, not in earthly matters, but in that heavenly science which fits and prepares souls for heaven. He had been carefully instructed by his parish Priest in the true faith and practice of a Churchman; and none, perhaps, ever felt greater joy than the little fisherlad, when for the first time he approached the sacred altar to receive the Body and Blood of CHRIST. Without any show or spiritual pride, he strove to walk as a Christian child should, serving his GOD, and doing his duty in that station of life in which it had pleased GOD to place him; he was, in a word, a boy of good principles and holy life. He had many troubles and many trials, yet he never repined, never thought he could do too much for his widowed mother. Night and day he was always prepared to join in his perilous pursuit; but never with so much pleasure as when they pushed off from the head." And why?—because the water was calmer and smoother, or the rocks were not so dangerous? Not so; but because he could say his prayers, unseen by mortal eye, in that consecrated chapel, and ask the LORD of sea and land to protect the sailor boy. 66 It was for this reason that Willie bent his steps to the Head, instead of going direct to the shore, where the men, somewhat tired of waiting, were hailing him. The sun was bright and fair; not a dark cloud was there in the heavens above, not a ripple on the deep blue waves below. The wide expanded bay lay gentle as a child asleep; and when, ever and anon, its waters touched the shore, no giant chant burst from their lashings, but a calm and gentle undertone, soft as mellowed music at a distance. For a moment he gazed upon the scene, and a cloud stole over his face, as he knelt him down and said his simple prayer. "O GOD, Who rulest all things by Thy mighty power, do Thou take me under Thy care, now that I am going upon the sea, and preserve me from dangers seen and unseen. Give Thy angels charge concerning me; and if the waves should rise, and a storm come, say unto them, Thus far shall ye go, but no farther. And if Thou shouldst call me away, grant that I may find a rest in paradise, and awake from the sleep of death to a life of glory; through JESUS CHRIST Our LORD." He finished his prayer, and hastened to the boat to receive the chidings of the crew, for what they regarded as his superstitious notion of stopping on the "head," before he would go afloat. Little did they know that he had been conversing with the angels, and with GOD, and gaining support and strength in his weakness. Two hours have passed away, and the boat is well out to sea; for the day is so glorious, that it has tempted the fishermen to leave their usual course. The ribald jest and foolish talk are indulged in by the men, and now and then an oath breaks out, because no fish has yet been caught. Meanwhile Willie sits silent and alone. Why lad, what's come to 'ee to-day? thou doesn't say a word." "I cannot tell," exclaimed another; "he isn't generally so mopish as this, and if we hadn't tried his mettle afore, I should ha' said he wer' afraid." "Afraid!” cried another, with an oath, "of what, I should like to know? A child might guide the boat on such a day as this; there isn't wind enough to fill the sails." "I wish," said Willie, supplicatingly, "you would not swear; I'm not afraid, but, somehow, I feel as if I should never see my mother any more. I've known ships go down in calmer seas than this. The wind's in the wrong quarter for us to be out so far as this, and yon dark speck, which has just come east'ard, tells me there's a storm brewing." "Tut, tut, be of good cheer; the lad has seen a fairy on the hill, or been frightened by some nonsense or other." "No," replied he; "but though I always leave home as if I should never see it again, I could hardly tear myself from it this morning, and nothing but the thought of my poor mother would have made me come. See, the speck is bigger and bigger, and you know well enough it's never seen there without a storm." "The lad is right," said a sturdy veteran, who had hitherto remained quiet; "and time it is for us to make for shore." "Not a bit of it!" exclaimed the rest. Pretty fools we should be, and a rare laugh would the others have at us!" "As you will," rejoined the boy; "but I hope, Ned, you won't be angry with me, if I sing a song I have learnt lately; and if the storm comes, and any of you escape, tell my mother my last prayer was for her." So he sang |