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1857.]

The Theater.

173

a home in another place. He was married. And judging from appearance similar thoughts might have been harbored elsewhere.

The last time we visited the place where the old home was, the rest of the family had already left it, unknowingly to us. On our way thither we noticed many familiar objects, among which was the school house in which we commenced our literary course, and in which we once recited a goodly portion of Mother Hubbard, while we were learning the alphabet. Night overtook us before we reached our destined place. As we approached it, we thought we saw the accustomed light through the window. Gates opened as before, and the path had still the same turns in it. But there was a strange "watch" on guard that night. Also, an unaccustomed voice answered to our call at the door. In an instant we stood at the fireside; but it was no longer father's fireside. Neither he, nor mother, sister nor brother were there. Others bought it, and sought to make it their home. We recognized some old pieces of furniture in the house; but reflection made us unusually quiet that evening. Our wants being cared for, we were glad to retire for the night. But we slept not in our accustomed bedroom. Next morning we took an early walk out to see the fields. Went also to the barn and other buildings, and opened many doors as if hunting something. Soon we left to see a friend. Returned towards evening. Took another drink at the good old spring. And the number of children, who had taken our place in the house and in the yard, we saw now, also, amuse themselves on the bank of the same stream which was once such a pleasant spot to us. Then we were ready to depart. And as we went, every familiar object seemed anxious to bid us good-bye. In turn, we could wish all a feeling farewell. And now, as we reflect over that home, and think that it was common to father and mother, sister and brother, we cannot but wish that we might all have hope of another home that shall be common-even a home in a "better country."

A

On our way from the house we directed our course towards a little graveyard, that is marked off between two neighboring farms. There a young sister was buried eighteen years ago. We were in the habit of visiting her grave whenever we came near home, and could not pass it by this time. Nothing marks it but plain, nameless tombstones. stranger cannot distinguish it. We felt sad that it was not better marked. We wished, also, a peaceful rest to those ashes. Then, with a heavy heart, we plodded our way towards the fireside of friends. Afterwards we saw a part of the family start for the "West," and since, we often wonder how they like the "New Home."

THE THEATER.

"THE theater was from the very first

The favorite haunt of sin: though honest men,
Some very honest, wise and worthy men,
Maintained it might be turned to good account;
And so perhaps it might but never was.
And now such things are acted there as make
The devils blush; and from the neighborhood,
Angels and holy men, trembling, retired."

ROBERT EMMET AND HIS LOVE.

'Twas the evening of a lovely day-the last day of the noble and illfated Emmet.

A young girl stood at the castle gate and desired admittance into the dungeon.

She was closely veiled, and the keeper could not imagine who she was nor that any one of such proud bearing should be an humble suppliant to the prison door-however, he granted the boon-led her to the dungeon, opened the massive iron door, then closed it again, and the lovers were alone. He was leaning against the prison wall with a downcast head, and his arms were folded upon his breast. Gently she raised the veil from her face, and Emmet turned to gaze upon all that earth contained for him-the girl whose sunny brow in the days of boyhood had been his polar star-the maiden who had sometimes made him think the world was all sunshine. The clanking of the chains sounded like a death knell to her ears and she wept like a child. Emmet said but little yet he pressed her warmly to his bosom, and their feelings held a silent meeting such a meeting perchance as is held in heaven only, when we part no more. In a low voice he besought not to forget him when the cold grave received his inanimate body-he spoke of by-gone days-the happy hours of childhood, when his hopes were bright and glorious, and he concluded by requesting her sometimes to visit the places and scenes that were hallowed to his memory from the days of his childhood, and though the world might pronounce his name with scorn and contempt, he prayed she should still cling to him with affection, and remember him when all others should forget. Hark! the Church bell sounded and he remembered the hour of execution-the turnkey entered, and after dashing the tears from his eyes, he separated them from their long embrace, and led the lady from the dungeon. At the entrance she turned and their eyes met-they could not say, farewell! The door swung upon its heavy hinges, and they parted forever. No! not forever! is there not a heaven?

At sunrise next morning he suffered gloriously; a martyr to his country and to liberty.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers,

Its leaves by soft winds fanned,
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-

The last of their fair band.

'Twas in the land of Italy; it was the gorgeous time of sunset in Italy; what a magnificent scene! A pale emaciated girl lay upon the bed of death. Oh it was hard for her to die far from her home in this beautiful land, where flowers bloom perennial, and the balmy air comes freshly to the pining soul. Oh! no; her star had set; the brightness of her dream had faded; her heart was broken. When ties have been formed on earth, close burning ties, "what is more heart-rending and agonizing to the spirit, than to find, at last, the beloved one is snatched away, and all our love given to a passing floweret." Enough; she died the betrothed of Robert Emmet-the lovely Sarah Curran. Italy contains her last remains; its flowers breathe their fragrance over her grave, and the lulling notes of the shepherd's lute sounds a requiem to her memory.

1857.]

I Want Mother-Hope.

175

I WANT MOTHER.

AN old man lay on his sick-bed struggling with death. Disease had worn out his body, and so affected his mind that he was insensible to all things and persons around him. His family, and one or two other friends, stood by his bed-side, for it was evident that he had but a few minutes to live. He rolled his head, as if in great pain, and made several efforts to speak. At length we could distinguish the words, "Mother! I want mother! Why don't mother come?" His mother had been dead nearly fifty years. He was probably unconscious that he had a wife and children and grand-children around him, or that he was himself anything but a child. When he was really a child, he had his troubles, as all children have, and then he used to carry his little griefs to his mother, for he knew that she would sympathize with him, and her voice would comfort him. He only knew now that he was in trouble, and he thought if his dear mother would come, she would comfort him.

O, that children could now understand what precious things their young affections are! It is sad to see how soon they sometimes part with them, and how easily they are even made ashamed of them! Boys who love to lay their heads in a mother's lap, to kneel by her side and offer their prayers to God, and who feel as though they could not go to sleep without her coming to their bed and kissing them, and saying a parting "good night," are sometimes ashamed of this simple and sweet attachment Bad children, such as are spoken of in Proverbs xxx. 17, ridicule them for these expressions of artless love and call them babyish. When they become old enough to go out into the world, evil companions teach them that it is childish and unmanly to follow the counsels which they received in childhood, and laugh about "anxious mothers ;" and they are too often successful in their mean efforts to wean them from the purest and happiest affections which belong to this world. They then part with the best love of earth forever.

HOPE.

BY GEORGE W. BENNETT.

THERE'S many a cloudy morning
Brings forth a glorious day,

And sheds rich fragrance o'er the earth,
Like flowers in early May.

Then let not hope desert her throne,
Though dark your hours may scem,
For soon the clouds will disappear,
And all be light again.

POETS' GRAVES.

CHAUCER was buried in the cluister of Westminster Abbey, without the building, but removed to the south aisle in 1556; Spencer lies near him. Beaumont, Drayton, Cowley, Denham, Dryden, Rowe, Addison, Prior, Congreve, Gay, Johnson, Sheridan and Campbell all lie within Westminster Abbey. Shakspeare, as every one knows, was buried in the chancel of the church at Stratford, where there is a monument to his memory.

Chapman and Shirely are buried in St. Giles', in the Fields; Harlowe, in the churchyard of St. Paul's, Deptford; Fletcher and Massinger in the churchyard of St. Saviour's, Southwark; Dr. Donne in Old St. Paul's; Edm. Walker in Beaconfield churchyard; Milton in the churchyard of St. Giles', Cripplegate; Butler in the churchyard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden; Otway no one knows where; Garth in the church at Harrow; Pope in the church at Twickenham; Swift in St. Patrick's, Dublin; Savage in the churchyard of St. Peter's, Bristol; Parnell at Chester, where he died on his way to Dublin; Dr. Young at Walwyn, in Hertfordshire, of which place he was the rector; Thompson in the churchyard at Richmond, in Surrey; Collins in St. Andrew's Church, at Chichester; Gray in the churchyard of Stoke Pogis, where he conceived his "Elegy;" Goldsmith in the churchyard of the Temple church; Falconer at sea, with "all ocean for his grave;" Churchill in the churchyard of St. Martin's, Dover; Cowper in the church at Dereham; Chatterton in a churchyard belonging to the parish of St. Andrew's, Holborn; Burns in St. Michael's churchyard, Dumfries; Byron in the church at Hucknall, near Newstead; Crabbe at Trowbridge; Coleridge in the church at Highgate; Sir Walter Scott in Dryburgh Abbey; Southey in Crossthwaite church, near Keswick; Shelley "beneath one of the antique wood grown towers surrounding ancient Rome;" and Keats beside him "under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius."

TO BLOSSOMS.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,
Then go at last.

What! were ye born to die
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

1857.]

My Pilgrim's Pouch.

177

MY PILGRIM'S POUCH.

БУ NATHAN.

MOUNT SINAI, March 18, 1857, WE arrived here day before yesterday, after thirteen days of most delightful Desert traveling. Our last few days at Cairo were spent in visiting some more of its neighboring antiquities. On a very hot day we rode out to Heliopolis, the On of the Bible, (Gen. 41: 50,) where Joseph got his wife, and where Mohammedan tradition says Moses had been a Pagan Priest before he fled from Egypt. Ruins like vast mounds cover the ground, but not a habitable ancient dwelling marks the site of the once proud metropolis of the Egyptian religion and learning. We stood under the tree in whose shade tradition says the Virgin and the infant Saviour rested, when she fled into Egypt. It is an old sycamore, with a thick gnarly trunk and two stout limbs, evidently only the remains of its former greatness. About a mile beyond this, is the famous obelisk, which was erected twenty-three hundred years before our era, and said to be the oldest known obelisk in existence. This and the large pyramid are monuments which carry us back to remotest antiquity. One feels a singular pleasure in standing at the base and on the summit of edifices which Abraham, Jacob, Joseph and Moses saw.

The daughter of the Pasha of Egypt was about starting on a pilgrimage to Mecca, prior to which she furnished a variety of festivities for a series of days. The street before her palace was spanned with a large canopy, lit up with chandeliers after night, and lines of lamps were suspended from ropes stretched along the streets. During the day music and dancing were served up under it to thousands of delighted spectators. The music consisted of a number of melodeous pipes, sounding very much like common willow pipes, and a set of drums and tamborines, on which a flat thumping noise was kept up, where each one seemingly followed his own time. This confusion of discord and wild fandangoes, were quite an event for the lovers of amusement in Cairo.

"The sports of children satisfy the child."

On the 14th of March we started for Mt. Sinai and Jerusalem. We had now reached the land where camels were the only vehicles of travel. When these "ships of the Desert" were rowed to our door, we found that to their natural height, which is very considerable, piles of comforts, saddle-bags, carpets were added, which raised our seats into a region to which few carriages or riders of other countries can aspire. Several miles out of Cairo we met our baggage camels, which had been started the previous day. Our caravan consists of nine camels, led by ten Bedouins, armed with short swords, bowie-knives, several with guns flung across their shoulders. They bound over the Desert, wild and with elastic step, true pictures of their native untutored freedom. No superfluous apparel encumber their limbs-nought save a turban, a loose short gown with a girdle, and pieces of dried hard skin tied to the soles of their feet as

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