Part 15

The soft warm air scarcely stirred the leaves of the vine, that clustered about the bower of Eve, as she lay with pale cheek and languid limbs, her first born daughter resting upon her breast. Adam had led his sons to the field, that their sports might not disturb the repose of our first mother, and the low murmur of the tiny cascade, the monotonous hum of insects, and happy twitter of unfledged birds, all wooed her to slumber; yet she slept not. She looked with a mother's deep unutterable love upon the face of her babe, yet tears were in her eye, and anxiety upon her brow. Herself the last, the perfection of the Creator's workmanship, she still marvelled at the surprising beauty of her daughter. She looked into its dark liquid eye, and drank deep from the fountain of maternal love. She pressed its small foot and hand to her lips, hugged it to her full heart, and felt again the bitterness of transgression. She thought of Paradise, whence she had expelled her children. She thought of generations to come, who might curse her for their misery. She thought of the sweet beauty of her child on whom she had entailed sorrow, suffering and temptation. She felt it murmuring at the fountain of life while it stretched its little hand to her lips. She turned aside the thick leaves of the grape vine, and looked out upon the still blue sky, over which, scarcely moved the white thin clouds. "My daughter," she faintly articulated, "thou knowest not the evil I have done thee. Let these bitter tears attest my penitence. Let me teach thee so to live, that thou mayst hereafter obtain in another world the Paradise thou hast lost in this--lost by thy mother's guilt. O, my daughter, would that I alone might suffer, that the whole wrath of my offended Creator might fall on my head and thou, and such as thou, might escape." The tears, the penitence of Eve prevailed; a Heavenly messenger was despatched to console her, to lift her thoughts to better hopes and less gloomy anticipations.--Since the sin of our first parents, and their banishment from Paradise, these angel visits had been "few and far between," and our first mother hailed his approach with awe and pleasure. "Eve," kindly spake the divine visitant, "thy sorrow and thy penitence are all known to thy Creator, and though thy fault was great, he yet careth for thee. I am sent to comfort thee. As thou didst disobey the commands of God, death has been brought, indeed, upon thy posterity, but thy children may not curse thee. Thy daughters shall imitate thy penitence, and so secure the favor of Heaven. To each one shall be given a spirit, capable of resisting temptation, and assimilating to that holiness from which thou hast departed. Though sin and death have entered the world by thy means, thy children will still have only their own sins to answer for, and may not justly reproach thee for their errors." "True, Lord," responded Eve, "but the altered sky, the hard earth that scarcely yields its treasures to the labor of Adam, and the changed natures of the animals that once meekly and kindly sported together, all tell of my disobedience, and my daughter will turn her eyes upon me when suffering and trial come, and that look will reproach me as the cause. I am told that our children shall equal in number the leaves of the green wood, and the earth shall hereafter be peopled with beings like ourselves. I shrink to think on the mass of sorrow I have brought upon my daughters."

She looked fondly on her babe, and timidly raised it towards the beneficent being who paused at her bower. "When men shall become numerous, and there shall be many beings like these, fair and frail, may not their beauty--" She paused and looked anxiously up. "Speak, Eve," said the messenger, "thy request shall be granted. I am sent to bestow upon thee whatever thou shalt ask, for this thy first born daughter." "I scarcely know," resumed Eve, thus encouraged, "but I would ask for this first daughter of an erring mother, _something_, to warn her of even the approach of sin, something, that will whisper caution, and speak of innocence and purity. Something, Lord, that will remind us of Paradise." "Hast thou not all that, Eve, in the voice within, the voice of conscience?" Eve dropped her head upon her bosom. "But that monitor may be disregarded, my daughters may, like their unhappy parent, stifle its voice and heedlessly neglect its warnings. I would have something, that when flattery would mislead, beauty bewilder, or passion lead astray, would outwardly as it were bid them take heed, warn them to shrink from the very trail of the serpent whose insidious poison may corrupt and destroy. Hast thou nothing that will be to the innocent, the virtuous, like a second conscience, to cause them to shrink even from the _appearance_ of evil?" The angel smiled, and answered our mother with kindness, and a look of heavenly satisfaction. "Most wisely hast thou petitioned, O Eve. Thou hast asked blessings for thy posterity, not for thyself. Thy daughters shall bless thee for the gift thy prayer has obtained." The spirit departed. The gift he bestowed may be seen on the face of the maiden when she shrinks from the too admiring gaze, when her ear is listening to the tale of love, or flattery, when in the solitude of her own thoughts she starts at her own imaginings, when she shrinks even from her own reflected loveliness in the secrecy of home; or abroad, trembles at the intrusive touch, or familiar language, of him who _should be_ her guide, her protector from evil. That gift was the _blush_.

THE WIDOWED BRIDE.

By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

The Morn awoke in Hindostan, And blushing, left the couch of Night, While soon her rosy smiles began, To flood the dewy earth with light. While yet the sultry day was young, Came forth a happy bridal band, With sunny smiles and English tongue, Which spoke them of a distant land; They gathered round an altar-stone, Erected to the one Most High, Standing in solitude alone, Mid signs of dark idolatry. Then two came slowly from the crowd; _He_ with a bearing bold and proud, A haughty smile and flashing eye, Darkling with love's intensity; While she, the high-born English bride, Drew closer to that one dear side; Her eyelids drooped, her cheek grew pale As snow, beneath the bridal veil, As if the weight of her own bliss Were all too much of happiness, To thrill her heart and light her eye Beneath another's scrutiny. On crimson cushions dropped with gold The youthful pair together bow; Before that priest in surplice-fold They clasp their trembling fingers now; A prayer is heard--the oath is said-- That gentle creature lifts her head-- A voice has thrilled into her heart, Like music breathed to it apart,-- To lie there an abiding spell, To haunt forever memory's cell-- To mingle with her latest breath And light the very wing of death. Her vow was uttered timidly-- With half a murmur, half a sigh; Yet the low faltering sound confessed The love that brooded in her breast.

The golden ring is on her hand-- She is pronounced a wedded bride; Oh say, why does she lingering stand So long that altar-stone beside? And whence the misty tears that dim The sunny azure of her eye? Why leans her slender form on him? Why does she sob so bitterly? Well may she weep, that fair young bride; For up the Ganges' golden tide, Mid jungles deep, where beasts of prey With pestilence hold deadly sway, Where the wild waters fiercest sweep, And serpents in their venom sleep, Beneath each dewy leaf and flower, That gentle bride must build her bower.

In the cool shadow of the shore, With snowy streamers floating wide, To the light dipping of the oar, The budgerow swept o'er the tide; The soft breeze ling'ring at her prow, Where many a garland graceful hung, In hues of purple, gold and snow, And on the rippling waters flung An odor sweet and delicate, As that which all imprisoned lies, Unknown to man as his own fate, Within the flowers of Paradise.

Beneath an awning's silken shade, Where the light breeze its music made, With woven fringe and silken cord, Sat the young bride with her brave lord. Her hand in his was ling'ring still, And every throb of his full heart Met her young pulses with a thrill, And sent the blood up with a start, To that round cheek but late so pale And blanched beneath the bridal veil. A tear still trembled in her eye, Like dews that in the violet lie; But breaking through its lovely sheen, The brightness of her soul was seen, Like light within the amethyst, Which told how truly she was blest; Though as she met his ardent gaze, Like the veined petal of a flower Her eyelids drooped, as from the blaze Of some loved, high, but dreaded power. As bound by some subduing spell, In beauty at his side she bowed. The bridal robe around her fell, Like fragments of a summer cloud; The loosened veil had backward swept, And deeply in her glossy hair, Like light, the orange blossoms slept, As if they sought new beauty there; And pearls lay softly on her neck, Like hailstones melting over snow, Save when the blood, that dyed her cheek. Diffused abroad its rosy glow, And playing on her bosom-swell, With every heart-pulse rose or fell.

Up went the sun; his burning rays Broke o'er the stream like sparkling fire, Till the broad Ganges seemed a-blaze, With gorgeous light, save where the spire Of some lone slender minaret, Threw its clear shadow on the stream, Or grove-like banian firmly set, Broke with its boughs the fiery gleam; Or where a white pagoda shone Like snow-drift through the shadowy trees; Or ancient mosque stood out alone, Where the wild creeper sought the breeze; Or where some dark and gloomy rock Shot o'er the deep its ragged cliffs, Inhabited by many a flock Of vultures, and its yawning rifts Alive with lizards, glowing, bright, As if a prism's changing light Within the gloomy depths were flung, Where like rich jewels newly strung, The sleeping serpent stretched its length, And nursed its venom into strength.

Where the broad stream in shadow lay, The bridal barque kept on her way, While every breeze that swept them o'er, Brought loads of incense from the shore; Where each luxuriant jungle lay A wilderness of tangled flowers, And budding vines in wanton play Fell from the trees in leafy showers, Flinging their graceful garlands o'er The rippling stream and reedy shore; The lily bared its snowy breast, Swayed its full anthers like a crest, And softly from its pearly swell, A shower of golden powder fell Among the humbler flowers that lay And blushed their fragrant lives away; There oleanders lightly wreathed Their blossoms in a coronal, And the rich baubool softly breathed A perfume from its golden bell; There flower and shrub and spicy tree Seemed struggling for sweet mastery; And many a bird with gorgeous plume, Fluttered along the flowery gloom, Or on the spicy branches lay, Uttering a sleepy roundelay; While insects rushing out like gems, Or showery sparks at random flung, Through ripening fruit and slender stems There to the breathing blossoms clung, Studded the glowing boughs and threw O'er the broad bank a brilliant hue.

On--on they went; a fanning breeze Came sighing through the balmy trees, And undulating o'er the stream Rose tiny wavelets, like the gleam Of molten gold, and crested all With a bright trembling coronal, Like that which Brahmins in their dream Lavish upon the sacred stream. Then all grew still. The sultry air Lay stagnant in the jungles there-- The sun poured down his fervent heat; The river lay a burnished sheet; The floweret closed its withered bell; From the parched leaf the insect fell; The panting birds all tuneless clung To the still boughs, where late they sung; The dying blossoms felt the calm, And the still air was thick with balm. All things grew faint in that hot noon, As Nature's self lay in a swoon.

And she, that gentle, loving fair, How brooks her form the sultry air? Most patiently--but see her now! What fear convulses her pale brow? And why that half-averted eye, Watching his look so anxiously? The scarlet burning in his cheek-- Those lips all parched and motionless? Oh! do they fell disease bespeak? Or only simple weariness? One look! the dreadful certainty Wrings from her heart a stifled cry; And now half phrensied with despair, She rends the blossoms from her hair, And leaping to the vessel's side She drenched them in the sluggish tide; Then to the cushions where he lay, Senseless and fevered with disease, Panting his very life away, She rushed, and sinking to her knees, Raised softly up his throbbing head, And pillowed it upon her breast-- Then on his burning forehead laid The dripping flowers, and wildly pressed Her pallid mouth upon his brow, And drew him closer to her heart, As if she thought each trembling throe Could unto his, new life impart. Wildly to his she laid her cheek, And backward threw her loosened hair, That not a glossy curl might break From off his face the sluggish air. The noon swept by, and there was she Counting his pulses as they rose, Striving with broken melody To hush him to a short repose, Bathing his brow and twining still Her fingers in his burning hand, Her heart's blood stopping with a chill Whene'er he could not understand, Nor answer to her gentle clasp; But dashed that little hand away, Or crushed it with delirious grasp, Entreating tenderly her stay. Father of heaven! and must he die? She breathed in her heart's agony, As up with every painful breath, Came to his lips the foam of death, And o'er his swollen forehead played, Like serpents by the sun betrayed, The corded veins whose purple swell, With his hot pulses rose and fell.

Those drops upon his temple there, The rolling eye, the gloomy hair, The livid lip, the drooping chin, And the death-rattle deep within, That speechless one, so late thy pride-- There lies thy answer, widowed bride!

Half conscious of her misery, Like something chiselled o'er a grave, She placed her small hand anxiously Upon the lifeless heart, and gave One cry--but one--of such despair, The jackall startled from his lair, And answered back that fearful knell, With a long, sharp and hungry yell.

A slow and solemn hour swept by, And there, all still and motionless, With rigid limb and stony eye, The widow knelt in her distress. With pitying looks the swarthy crew Around the tearless mourner drew, And trembling strove to force away From her chill arms the senseless clay. Slowly she raised her awful head; A slight convulsion stirr'd her face; Close to her heart she snatched the dead, And held him in a strong embrace; Then drawing o'er his brow her veil, She turned her face as strangely wild, As if a fiend had mocked her wail, Parted her marble lips and smiled. Twice she essayed to speak, and then Her face drooped o'er the corpse again, While forth from the disshevelled hair A husky whisper stirred the air. 'Nay, bury him not here,' it said, 'I would have prayers above my dead;' Then, one by one, the timid crew, From the infected barge withdrew: Helmsmen and servants, all were gone; The wife was with her dead alone.

With no propelling arm to guide, The barque turned slowly with the tide, And on the heavy current swept Its slow, funereal pathway back, Where the expiring sunbeams slept, Like gold along its morning track. The day threw out its dying gleam, Imbuing with its tints the stream, As if the mighty river rolled O'er beds of ruby--sands of gold.

As if some seraph just had hung In the blue west his coronet, The timid moon came out and flung Her pearly smiles about--then set, As if she feared the stars would dim The silvery brightness of her rim; Then in the blue and deepening skies The stars sprang out, like glowing eyes, And on the stream reflected lay, Like ingots down the watery way; And softly streamed the starry light Down to the wet and gloomy trees, Where fiery flies were flashing bright, Afloat upon the evening breeze, Or like some fairy, tiny lamp, Glow'd out among the stirring leaves, And down among the rushes damp, Where Pestilence her vapor weaves, Till shrub and reed, and slender stems, Seemed drooping with a shower of gems.

The Widow raised her head once more, Turned her still look upon the sky, The lighted stream and broken shore; Oh, God! it was a mockery, --The bridegroom--Death--upon her breast For aye possessing and possessed! With the deep calmness of despair, The mourner raised his marble head, And on the silken cushions there, With icy hands, composed the dead; Then tore her veil off for a shroud, And in her voiceless mourning bowed.

That holy sorrow might have awed The very wind--but mockingly It flung his matted hair abroad, As trifling with her agony, And with a low and moaning wail Bore on its wings the bridal veil; Then came a cold and starry ray, And on his marble forehead lay. Father of heaven! she could not brook That floating hair, that rigid look. With one quick gasp she forward sprung, And to the helm in frenzy clung, Until the barque shot on its way Where a dense shadow darkest lay; And there, as shrouded with a pall, The barge swept to the very shore; The fell hyena's fiendish call Rang wildly to her ear once more, And from the deep dark solitude She saw the hungry jackall creep, And whimper for his nightly food, Where many a monster lay asleep Just in the margin of the flood, As resting from a feast of blood. Around the corpse the widow flung Her snowy arms, and madly clung To that cold bosom, whence a chill Shot through her heart, and frantic still Her eyes in horror turned to seek That prowling beast, whose hungry jaws Worked fiercely and began to reek With eager foam, as with his paws He tore the turf impatiently, And howling snuffed the passing clay. It was not that she feared to die; In the deep stillness of her heart, Her spirit prayed most fervently There with the dead to hold its part. The only boon she cared to crave, Was for them both a christian grave; But oh! the agonizing thought! That in her madness she had brought That loved and lost one, for a feast, To vulture and to prowling beast, Where all things fierce and wild had come To howl a horrid requiem.

But soon a stronger current bore The freight of death from off the shore; Again the trembling starlight broke Above the still and changing clay, And with its pearly kisses woke The widow from her trance, who lay Convulsed and shivering with dread, Her white arms clinging to the dead; For yet the stilly night wind bore The wild beasts' disappointed roar. Within the far o'erhanging wood, A bulbul listening to her heart, Poured forth upon the air a flood Of gushing love;--with lips apart The widow clasped her trembling hands, And bent her ear to catch the strain, As if a seraph's low commands Were breathed into her soul;--again, That heavenly sound came gushing out, Like waters in their leaping shout; Over her heart's deep frozen spring The gentle strain went lingering, And touched each icy tear that slept With sudden life, until she wept.

* * * * *

Again the lovely morn awoke Upon that temple still and lone; Its rosy bloom in gladness broke, And to the holy altar-stone Came down subduedly and dim, Through painted glass, o'er sculptured limb: Outstretched within that gorgeous gloom, Shaded by pall and sable plume, As chisseled from the very stone, The Bridegroom lay. A broken moan Rose up from where the Widow bowed, Her forehead buried in the pall, Her fingers grasping still the shroud, And every limb betraying all The agony that wrung her heart. It was a sad and fearful sight, That lifted head, those lips apart, When through the dim and purplish light Those who obeyed the bridal call Now gathered for the funeral; A soft and solemn strain awoke The silence of that lofty dome, And through the fretted arches broke The music surging to its home; Then with a firm and heavy tread The bearers slowly raised the dead; She followed close, her trembling hand Still clenched upon the gloomy pall, In snowy robes and pearly band, As at her wedding festival; And in her bright disshevelled hair A broken orange-blossom lay, Withered and all entangled there; Fit relic of her bridal day; Thus onward to the tomb she passed, Her white robe swaying to the blast, And mingling at each stirring breath There with the drapery of death.

JACK DOWNING'S VISIT TO PORTLAND.

By Seba Smith.

In the fall of the year 1829 I took it into my head I'd go to Portland. I had heard a good deal about Portland, what a fine place it was, and how the folks got rich there proper fast; and that fall there was a couple of new papers come up to Downingville from there, called the Portland Courier and Family Reader; and they told a good many queer kind of things about Portland and one thing another; and all at once it popped into my head, and I up and told father, and says I, I'm going to Portland whether or no; and I'll see what this world is made of yet. Father stared a little at first, and said he was afraid I should get lost; but when he see I was bent upon it, he give it up; and he stepped to his chist and opened the till, and took out a dollar and gave to me, and says he, Jack, this is all I can do for you; but go, and lead an honest life, and I believe I shall hear good of you yet. He turned and walked across the room, but I could see the tears start into his eyes, and mother sot down and had a hearty crying spell. This made me feel rather bad for a minute or two, and I almost had a mind to give it up; and then again father's dream came into my mind, and I mustered up courage, and declared I'd go. So I tackled up the old horse and packed in a load of ax handles and a few notions, and mother fried me some dough-nuts and put 'em into a box along with some cheese and sassages, and ropped me up another shirt, for I told her I did n't know how long I should be gone; and after I got all rigged out, I went round and bid all the neighbors good bye, and jumped in and drove off for Portland.