"Now, Tom," said I, "you must keep in the background at first, while I prepare them. Where shall we go first?" "Oh! to my mother," replied Tom. We passed through Putney Bridge, and Tom's bosom heaved as he looked towards the residence of Mary. His heart was there, poor fellow! and he longed to have flown to the poor girl, and have dried her tears; but his first duty was to his parents. We soon arrived abreast of the residence of the old couple, and I desired Tom to pull in, but not turn his head round, lest they should see him before I had prepared them; for too much joy will kill as well as grief. Old Tom was not at his work, and all was quiet. I landed and went to the house, opened the door, and found them both sitting by the kitchen fire in silence, apparently occupied in watching the smoke as it ascended up the spacious chimney. "Good morning to you both," said I; "how do you find yourself, Mrs. Beazeley?" "Ah! deary me!" replied the old woman, putting her apron up to her eyes. "Sit down, Jacob, sit down," said old Tom; "we can talk of him now." "Yes, now that he's in heaven, poor fellow!" interposed the old woman. "Tell me, Jacob," said old Tom, with a quivering lip, “did you see the last of him? Tell me all about it. How did he look? How did he behave? Was he soon out of his pain? And -Jacob where is he buried?" "Yes, yes;" sobbed Mrs. Beazeley; "tell me where is the body of my poor child." "Can you bear to talk about him?" said I. "Yes, yes; we can't talk too much it does us good,” replied she. "We have done nothing but talk about him since we left him." "And shall, till we sink down into our graves," said old Tom, "which won't be long. I've nothing to wish for now, and I'll never sing again, that's sartain. We sha'n't last long, either of us. As for me," continued the old man with a melancholy smile, looking down at his stumps, "I may well say that I've two feet in the grave already. But come, Jacob, tell us all about him." "I will," replied I; "and my dear Mrs. Beazeley, you must prepare yourself for different tidings than what you expect. Tom is not yet shot." “Not dead!" shrieked the old woman. "Not yet, Jacob;" cried old Tom, seizing me by the arm and squeezing it with the force of a vise, as he looked me earnestly in the face. "He lives: and I am in hopes he will be pardoned." Mrs. Beazeley sprang from her chair and seized me by the other arm. "I see I see by your face. Yes, Jacob, he is pardoned, and we shall have our Tom again.' "You are right, Mrs. Beazeley; he is pardoned, and will soon be here." The old couple sank down on their knees beside me. I left them, and beckoned from the door to Tom, who flew up, and in a moment was in their arms. I assisted him to put his mother into her chair, and then went out to recover myself from the agitating scene. I remained about an hour outside, and then returned. The old couple seized me by the hands, and invoked blessings on my head. "You must now part with Tom a little while," said I; "there are others to make happy besides yourselves." "Very true," replied old Tom; "go, my lad, and comfort her. Come, missus, we mustn't forget others." 66 Oh, no. Go, Tom; go and tell her that I don't care how soon she is my daughter." Tom embraced his mother, and followed me to the boat: we pulled up against the tide, and were soon at Putney. "Tom, you had better stay in the boat. I will either come or send for you." It was very unwillingly that Tom consented, but I overruled his entreaties, and he remained. I walked to Mary's house and entered. She was up in the little parlor, dressed in deep mourning; when I entered she was looking out upon the river; she turned her head, and preceiving me, rose to meet me. "You do not come to upbraid me, Jacob, I am sure," said she, in a melancholy voice; "you are too kind-hearted for that." "No, no, Mary; I am come to comfort you, if possible." "That is not possible. Look at me, Jacob. Is there not a worm a canker - that gnaws within? The hollow cheek and wild, flaring eye, once so beautiful, but too plainly told the truth. "Mary," said I, "sit down; you know what the Bible says 'It is good for us to be afflicted."" "Yes, yes," sobbed Mary, "I deserve all I suffer; and I bow in humility. But am I not too much punished, Jacob? Not that I would repine but is it not too much for me to bear, when I think that I am the destroyer of one who loved me so?" "You have not been the destroyer, Mary." "Yes, yes; my heart tells me that I have." "But I tell you that you have not. Say, Mary, dreadful as the punishment has been, would you not kiss the rod with thankfulness, if it cured you of your unfortunate disposition, and prepared you to make a good wife?" "That it has cured me, Jacob, I can safely assert; but it has also killed me as well as him. But I wish not to live; and I trust, in a few short months, to repose by his side." "I hope you will have your wish, Mary, very soon, but not in death." "Merciful heaven! what do you mean, Jacob?" "I said you were not the destroyer of poor Tom - you have not been, he has not yet suffered; there was an informality, which has induced them to revise the sentence." "Jacob," replied Mary, "it is cruelty to raise my hopes only to crush them again. If not yet dead, he is still to die. I wish you had not told me so," continued she, bursting into tears; "what a state of agony and suspense must he have been in all this time, and I-I have caused his sufferings! I trusted he had long been released from this cruel, heartless world." The flood of tears which followed assured me that I could safely impart the glad intelligence. "Mary, Mary, listen to me." "Leave me, leave me," sobbed Mary, waving her hand. "No, Mary, not until I tell you that Tom is not only alive, but-pardoned." "Pardoned!" shrieked Mary. "Yes, pardoned, Mary, - free, Mary, and in a few minutes will be in your arms.' Mary dropped on her knees, raised her hands and eyes to heaven, and then fell into a state of insensibility. Tom, who had followed me, and remained near the house, had heard the shriek, and could no longer restrain himself; he flew into the room as Mary fell, and I put her into his arms. At the first signs of returning sensibility I left them together, and went to find old Stapleton, to whom I was more brief in my communication. Stapleton continued to smoke his pipe during my narrative. - "Glad of it, glad of it," said he, when I finished. "I were just thinking how all these senses brought us into trouble, more than all, that sense of love: got me into trouble, and made me kill a man, got my poor wife into trouble, and drowned her, - and now almost shot Tom, and killed Mary. Had too much of HUMAN NATUR lately, nothing but moist eyes and empty pipes. Met that sergeant yesterday, had a turn up: Tom settled one eye, and, old as I am, I've settled the other for a time. He's in bed for a fortnight, couldn't help it,-human natur." I took leave of Stapleton, and calling in upon Tom and Mary, shaking hands with the one, and kissing the other, I despatched a letter to the Domine, acquainting him with what had passed, and then hastened to the Drummonds and imparted the happy results of my morning's work to Sarah and her mother. "And now, Sarah, having so successfully arranged the affairs of other people, I should like to plead in my own behalf. I think that after having been deprived almost wholly of your dear company for a month, I deserve to be rewarded." "You do, indeed, Jacob," said Mrs. Drummond, " and I am sure that Sarah thinks so too, if she will but acknowledge it." "I do acknowledge it, mamma; but what is this reward to be?" "That you will allow your father and mother to arrange an early day for our nuptials, and also allow Tom and Mary to be united at the same altar." "Mamma, have I not always been a dutiful daughter?" "Yes, my love, you have." "Then I shall do as I am bidden by my parents, Jacob; it will be probably the last command I receive from them, and I shall obey it; will that please you, dear Jacob?" That evening the day was fixed, and now I must not weary the reader with a description of my feelings, or of my happiness in the preparations for the ceremony. Sarah and I, Mary and Tom, were united on the same day, and there was nothing to cloud our happiness. Tom took up his abode with his father and mother; and Mary, radiant with happiness, even more beautiful than ever, has settled down into an excellent, doting wife. For Sarah I hardly need say the same; she was my friend from childhood, she is now all that a man could hope and wish for. 7781 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. MARSTON, PHILIP BOURKE, an English poet and essayist; born in London, August 13, 1850; died February 13, 1887. He was the child upon whom Miss Mulock wrote the poem "Philip, my King." In his fourth year cataracts began to form upon his eyes, and he soon became totally blind. He was, however, well educated, manifested unusual precocity, contributing verse to the "Cornhill Magazine" and other periodicals. "Song-Tide," his first volume of poems, appeared in 1870. This was followed, in 1875, by "All in All," and by "Wind Voices" in 1883. "Garden Secrets appeared posthumously in 1887, and " A Last Harvest" in 1891. BEFORE AND AFTER THE FLOWER-BIRTH. Before. FIRST VIOLET. Lo here! how warm and dark and still it is: SECOND VIOLET. Indeed I cannot tell, nor do I care: It is so warm and pleasant here. But hark! FIRST VIOLET. As if our sisters all together sang Seemed it not so? SECOND VIOLET. More loud than that it rang; And louder still it rings, and seems more near. |