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WrioLE No. 158.1
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•T LIEUT. G. W. PATTEN, U. I. A.
Sword! wLitth sleepest in thy sheath!
thou not the trumpet's br ath.
Where the column, deep with death,
Tarries for thy nest?
•Know'st thou not the lot is thine,
Glitt,ring in the sun, to shine
F,,remrst 'mid the forming line?
Wake thee from thy zest,
Swora!wYch &Mt in dArkness
Girded fast unto my thigh,
Beest thou not 'irtinst yonder sky
Banners sweeping low?
N ever thus may'st thou remain—
Yield thee to my hand again,
For the tear of crims•m stain
Down thy cheek must now.
SworL! when first thy changing tight
Flashed athwart my youthful sight,
Playfully I ealledi thee bright
As an angel's form.
Years have past—nor yet we part—
Thou art wedded only heart,
Tho' I often feel than art
Dreadful es the storm,
Sword! altho' thy bos -- -n's sheen
'lt:oidend by and pnlish'd keen,
%Vheresoe'er its glance is seen
Shadow'd 'tis with fear,
'Thc' thy smile seems mild and meek,
Such as Love's own eyes might speak,
Yet the smile will leave the cheek
Where its light appears.
Sword! I deeply love thy ray!
'Fig to me the light of day—
Yet, oh! yet thou tak'st away
Bridgroom from the bride:
Pointing onward to the star
On the crest of Glut—
Thou dust urge to fields of war, •
Breaking hearts allied,
Sword: tho' tearful be thy g tt,
Once again thy blade I lifd
O'er my steed—a met-or swift,
• Flashing shalt thou wave
Thm shalt strike in many wars,
Battle for thy country's laws.
Thou shalt plead the orphan's cause
O'er the Fatriut's grave.
Sword of beauty! sword of fear !
Shoutings mad are on my ear— -
Steel! where art thou?--THOU .eftT HEM
Faithful to the list,
'Mid the battle's heartless hum—
'Mid the roaring of the drum—
Cry, "huzza"—l come—WE come, •
Rushing like the blast.
• "There may be a cloud without a rain.
bow, but there cannot be a rainbow without
My soul were dark,
But for the golden light and rainbow hue,
That, sweeping heaven with their triumphat
Break on the vie'
Enough to feel
That God, indeed, is good! Enough to know
Without the gloomy clouds he could reveal
No beauteous bow.
Why is a handsome woman like bread?
Am. R,cause she is often toasted.
Why is love like a potatoe?
.oat. B2Ctitl3"! it shoots from the eye.
From the Dublin University Magazine
flow I became ac q uainted with the
circumstances I am about to narrate, or
when they occurred, the reader must not
liiquiie. 1 have taken the liberty of ar
ranging the incidents, so that their nar
ration will afford no clue whatever to the
solution of those questions. The read.
er must be content to accept of the assu
rance of an old friend, that the narrative
of this chapter is a true account.of events
which, to my own knowledge, did actu
Ellen Irving was the only child of a
clergyman, well known and respected in
the neighborhood of Dublin—a man dis
tinguished in the church by every quality
calculated to ensure popularity and com
mand respect, he filled for many years a
prominent position in the public eye. By
the mysterious dispensations of that Prov
idence which so often takes away "the
excellent of the earth," just when earth
seems to want their excellence most, he
was removedin the very prime of his life,
and the very height of his usefulness.
A beautiful monument in the pariah
church of erected by his surviving
parishioners, bears record that they felt
his removal as a bereavement. Just over
the costly memorial of his people's grief,
a small marble tablet, plain and unador
ned, except a deep sable border can by
called an ornament, records in a few
ple and expressive lines, the Burrow of his
widow—a sorrow far transcending the
grief, the tale of which is inscribed op the
proud monument below.
I might have taken another and a shor
ter method of tellingany readers that his
wife survived hini; but I confess I have
never gazed on that tablet without feeling
my heart touched—as if there was some
thing in its erection that told better than
many words the character of her that pla
ced it there. In the monument below
there was enough, more than enough, to
satisfy the vanity of grief. The public
tribute to public worth—the long inscrip
tion where the sculptured figures bear the
storied, urn, and art has chiselled with
her choicest imitation the forms of 1110U1*-
ning—near there was more than enough
to satisfy the vanity of wo —the wily sa
cred vanity of the heart --but over and
above it all, more precious in its.simpllei•
ty, more touching in its unpretending sor
row, is placed' the simple tablet, which is
the offering to the memory of the dead, of
her to whom that memory was most hal
lowed. The heart of the widow demands
for its memories a tribute peculiar to
themselves—the grief with which no
stranger can intermeddle, would not unite
in its record with the sor ors of the mul
At the time of het tatner's death, Et tl
was about s^ven years of age. with this
child of many hopes and many prayers,
Mrs. Irving returned to a seclUded resi
dence near the village of Clontarf. Her
husband, unlike but too many of the cler
. had left his family in a competence
which amounted almost to affluence. Mrs
Irving was induced to select Clontart as
her place•of residence, by the vicinity of
her husband's only brother, a gentleman
who had acquired a large fortune as a
merchant. He had sever married. His
sister . , a lady who had sometime passed
the period when ill-nature attaches to
unmarried ladies the name of old maid,
had lived with nim fur many years. He
made no secret of his resolution to die an
old bachelor, and being warmly attached
to his brother, he had declared his inten
tion of leaving the great mass of his large
fortune to Ellen. After Mr. Irving's
death he had earnestly pressed Mrs le
ving to make his house her home. This
oiler, however, that lady had declined.
With all that was amiable and upright in
his character, the merchant united a deep
respect for religion—neither he, however,
or his sister seemed to feel its importance
as Mrs. Irving had been taught by her
husband to do. She knew that the first
wish of his heart was that Ellen should be
trained up with more than a respect for
religion. and Mrs. Irving believed that
she could better fulfil his wishes by keep
ing Ellen in a home, over all the manage.
went of which she herself should have
the full control. A beautiful situated
cottage, was procured for her in the im
mediate ncighborittiod of her brother-in
law's residence. This arrangement gave
her all the advantages of his society and
his counsel, while it left her still to bring
up her child in a home where she should
learn to see piety and regulating princi
ple of every movement.
My readers must suppose some years
to have elapsed, and time of course, to
have brought its change on all parties.
The old maid, Miss Trying, had became
Mrs.—'.not by the regular title of matrimo
'ny, but by that unauthorized assumption
saga aainurny, OLYH ONIBTITI7TION, OND DESTINY."
A. W. lIDNEDICT PUBLASHOR AND PROPRIETOR.
HUNTINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA, WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1838,
of martronly dignity, which some one has
facetiously termed brevet-rank. The
inerchantitad grown aided and richer, and
us Ins hairs grew whiter, his disposition
I appeared to grow still more kind. Ellen's
'nether was beginning to sink with years:
sorrow had hastened on the steps of old
age—and Ellen herself had become a wo
man, and without flattery, a lovely wo
man, Descriptions of female• beauty are
justly excluded from all naratives of
whicii the writers desire to pretend to the
reputation of common sense. Without
any piratical interference with the pecu
liar property of fashionable novel writers:
an interference which would be as cruel
as dishonest—l may perhaps be permit.
ted to say that Eller, was now about twen
ty-two years of age, rather low of stature
with black hair, features full of intelli
gence and good humour, a very white and
high forehead, and eyes through which
"her soul looked." and that soul was full
of softness and affection My readers
may fill up the description as they
I must, too, introduce them imte a new
character; with whom it is desirable, fur
the progress of my narative, that they
should make acquaintance. Mrs. Irving 's
brother hail been also a clergyman in the
north of Ireland. .He too had died, bony
ingan only child, but he lett him nearly
altogether unproVided for. Charles
\Vilson had just completed his first year
in College, with distinguished success,
when the unexpected death of his father
left him parentless and almost pennyless
In the world. His mother was many
years in her grave, and all he inherited
from his father was a good name, and a
few hundred pounds to struggle through
a world where a good name is said to be
but a poor inheritance, and merit and tal
ents without wealth are but too frequent
- • •
-As Charles stood by the grave of his
father, hi felt the bitterness of all this
He heard the clods of dust fall with a deep
echo on the coffin of his parent, and it
seemed like a knell to proclaim 'to him
that he was alone in a cold and heartless
world. In bitterness of soul he. returned
front the rave, which seemed to have coy
ered all his hopes and prospects on earth.
It wai necessary for him to remain a
few days at his f lther's late abode. He
was there aone; and during these days
of sol;tude, it is easier to conceive than to
describe the feelings that pass through his
bosom. Few persons but those who have
experienced them can ever conceive the
mingled feelings which enter into the
pride and the ambition of a young man,
successful in:his:first entrance into Col-
lege. Indistinct hopes of the future grow'
upon the imagination, and mix themselves
up with the hollowed recollections of the
past. - Many a one that will read these
pages will remember that the sweetest di
most sacred ingredient in that lionoi able
pride is the joy that success may bring to
a parent's heart—the knowledge that a
father's and a mother's eye will grow
brighter at the news of the distinction of
a son. Charles had felt all this. Many
a time had his mind been excited in
the laborou's struggle of competition, by
the thought of his lather. Many a time
I had the satistaction of his success been
enhanced by the pride that
. glistened in
his father's eye—it was a union is which
the puresi sympathies and emotions of
our nature hallowed and beautified the
passion of personal distinction, and the ,
pride of personal success. But his father
was new gone, never more .to be glad at,
the honours of his boy—he felt his heart to
be stricken down—the stay of his pride
and his ambition was broken, and the
feelings that leaned upon it hung drooping
on the ground.
The violence oh grief subsided into the
cold and‘cheer!ess feeling of desolation,
Me regarded himself as an outcast on the
world. He was poor, and he fancied him
self friendless. His pride could not bear
the notion of struggling with the real ills,
of poverty, and with a• thousand others,
which heamagined to belong to it. He
had confidence enough-in his own talents
to believe that he might depend on them,
but when he thought of raising himself
by their exercise, lie felt as if he was a
pennyless adventurer, and his spirit could
ill brook the taking of a character which
the proud ones of the earth regarded at
once with suspicion and contempt, . He
was ready to give up all his prospects
rather disc meet the sneers and the re—
pulses °fa world which he pictured to
himself all that was selfish and cold. A
simple inekdent taught him a lesson, if not
truth, certainly one of usefulness.
The evening before he was to leave
for ever the place of his birth, he went
alone to take a last farewell of his father's
grave. Unseen as he thought by any eye
he threw himself upon its new laid turf,
and he sobbed as if his heart a ould break.
All the feelings which I lave attempted
to describe rushed through his bosom. In
bitterness of soul he wandered from tomb
,to tomb, until he eftme tip the low wall by
which the church-yard was seperated from'
the parsonage where his infant days had
been passed, but which never must be his
home again. He had now no home. Ev
ery spot called back some recollection of
former days —and the brown hues of a
cloudy March evening, which was rapidly
dosing in, shed over each familiar spot a
sober character, that was suited to his
state of mind. The little stream still
purled through the grove, where many a
time he had searched for the blue-bell or
the May-flower. The old thorn still rose
in its rude and jagged antiquity, behind
the rustic seat. where his father had often
taught him the lessons of religion, Every
shrub was familiar—he could tell alniost
every blade of grass within the precincts
of the place that "should know him no
more." No wonder that his heart was
full; he leaned against the grave-yard -wall
and again gave vent to a flood of tears .
He was startled by a step close besides
him—he turned round, unwilling that a
stranger should have surprised him in his
grief. It was a relief to him to find that
it was old Robert Browne, sexton, who '
had Imo vn him from his childhood. Ile
been long a servant of his fathers fam
ily; when appointed to the office of sexton'
he occupied a cottage on the glebe land,
and still regarded himself as a servant of
"his reverance." 'there was something
ir his appearance suited to his office. His
dress was sombre, and, without being
threadbare, its shape and fashion was of
the olden time. In one hand he carried
a shovel, in the other the huge key of the
church-yard gate. There was a slight
hobble in his gait, which was perceptible
as lie trod upon each of the grave mounds
with which the yard was full. He trans
ferred the key to the hand which held
the shovel, and touched his hat to Charles
with a respect that seemed accorded as
much to his gm icf as to his station.
"Master Charles," said the old man,
"I don't wonder that ,:n;;;;; tyke
this sore to heart; but it's God's will, and
the poor master was ready for it. he is
happier in his , .grave to-night than many
are out of it. '
Charles muttered an indistinct assent.l
"We must all submit to the will of
God," continued the old man, "I ask ,
your pardon, sir," he added, after a pause,
"for so bold, but let an old man
that loved the poor master epeak to you.
I seen you sir, when you was sobbing on
the grave beyant. I thought your grief
was more violent than a Christian's
ought to be--snore than your father would
like to see, we must submit to God's
"It is not always easy," replied
Charles. "You don't know, Robert,
what it is to be left a lonely orphan in
"Indeed, sir," replied the old man. "I
knew it once," and a sigh escaped him as;
he spoke. "Just at your age I was left
without father and moth lr in one week
and what was more, I didn't know where
to get my dinner the day after they were
buried; and I thought my heart would
sink in my bosom. But my mother's last
words were to me, that God was the father
of the fatherless. ' and they gave me com
fort, and from that day to this 1 never
.knew what it was to want. And I have
brought up a goodly family, and s‘!en
them well settled in the world but Sally,
that's. with .me yet, and is a comfort to
my old age, and her mother's Thank
God, Master Charles, you're good at the
learning, and go on well in the College;
there is no fear but you'll come to good,
though I often heard the poor master say
he had nothing to leave you but a good
name; but, indeed, as I said to his rever
ence, that was better than riches with a
"But . 'Robert," said the other, "the,
world does not think so—it's a cold and
heartless world fora person to go through
—a good name is little thought of with.
out money. It's a selfish world, Robert"
said Charles, bitterly.
"Master Charles-," replied the old man,
"it's not for an ignorant man like me to
teach a College-bred gentleman like your
self, but old men sometimes know things.
Now, it's odd enough that a great many
ladies and gentlemen, I've remarked, are
fond of speaking that way of the world;
but, in troth, 1 don't just think it's
out so bad; it's wicked enough, God help
it, but there are many kind and good peo
ple in it: and ns to selfish, why every one
looks to their own, as it's only proper
they should; but, indeed, Master Charles
I believe that in the world there are plen
ty of people to do a good turn in reason
to a neighbor. I never could understand
them that was always complhicing of the
selfishness of the world, unless, may be,
that they would expect that every one
would put themselves out of their own
way for them they might know nothing
about, which to my mind would not be
reasonable at all; but for kindness within
reason, I think the world is far better than
you might think, considering the wicked
ness that's in it." •
There was something in the shrewd
common sen.e of the old sexton thit jar
red upon the gloomy philosophy in which
Charles had been indulging. btill he felt
( that there was truth in what he said; he
mused for some time; at last he replied.
"I'm alraid, Robert, it's but a poor
world for one without either money or]
friends to get on.
"Don't say that, Mister Charles. if a
man will stay complaining of the world;
it's the long odds but he'll nake reason
for himself tofind fault with it; but, it
one will only just think nothing about
whether the World's good or bad, but see
what, with God's help he can do for him
self, and do it--and if he will trust, Mas.
ter Charles, in One who is far better than
any one on this earth, he'll find, I'm thin
king, that the world's nothing to complain
of, and wonder how ever he could hsve
thought it so bad. Many persons, I'm
thinking, complain of the world because
it won't do for them that will do nothing
Their conversation was interupted by
the appearance of Sally, the old man's
daughter, of whom he had spoken. She
came bounding over the graves as lightly
as if nothing of death were under the sod
--her long black hair flowing down u pon
her shoulders, and her black eyes laugh
ing with the glee of youth. It was impos•
sible to avoid being attracted by her sin
gularly handsome figure, which ner light
st-ps showed oil to great advantage. On
perceiving Charles she stopped and see
med confused; her confusion appeared to
procetd from the feeling that her levity of
manner was inconsistent with his grief.
With a natural propriety of feeling,
which often in persons of an humbler rank
anticipates the effect of those conventian I
rules which bind their superiors, she stop
ped and sobered down her manner to a
suitable gravity. 'll ith a blushing hesita
ton she offered her simple condolence.
"Master Charlcs, I'm sorry for your
Charles's reply was anticipated by the
reproof of her father for climbing over the
church-yard wall, Sally, it seemed, had
been sent by her mother to call the sexton
to his supper, and had found a short way
to fulfil her message ovcra part of the wall
which had partly fallen down, • •
"Indeed, Sally," said the tr'.d rran.
1"you are too wild; you are getting a wo
man now, and must not be getting on with
the ways of a wild girl."
His reproof, however. was delivered in
a mild tone, and he could not conceal the
satisfaction with which he looked on the
sylph-like form of his really handsome
daughter. She looked up srcly and said.
"Father, I'll get old and sober time
enough, I'm only a wild girl yet; They
aay," she added thonghttally, "that none
know sorrow sooner than those that are
born vith a light heart, so I may make Ohe
most of mine."
"Sally," said Robert, "Master Charles
is leaving us to-morrow, for good and all"
--his voice faltered as he spoke, "the
last of the old stock is going away;" and
he struck the spade deep into the ground,
and folded his arms across it, Sally's
eyes filled with tears. " Well, God bless
him wherever he goes. Master Charles,"
she added, "will you ever think of Glen
, valia, and the poor old parsonage here?"
Charles felt his emotionikovercove him;
large tears streamed down his cheeks;
the little party were silent for some time;
Charles leaned with his back to the wall;
old Robert still resting, on his spade, and
Sally standing, looking wistfully up into
the boughs of as old hawthorn that shot
out its gnarled and straggling branches
over the graves of the dead. The sexton
was the first to break the silence; he spuko
as if unsciees of the presence of his cots.
ell, many a grave !have dug in this,
churchyard, and many a one, gentle and
simple, I have seen laid low:,bdt never
did I grieve for a mortal as for him tbat
I last put in; I hope those that come after
him may be like him,"- •
He dropped the spade on which he bad
been leaning; he advanced towarnds
Charles, and grasped both his hands;
"Master Charles, God Almighty bless
you, and keep you wherever you go; and
maybe, when you are a great man in the
College, you would be sometimes be coin
ing back to look at his reverence's grave;
and I'm thinking, Master Charles, you'll
be a very great man before you're too'
proud to come tosee old Robert Brown;
it would do my old eyes good if 'I could
once see you in your father's pulpit, and
yet, maybe I might live to ace you made
provost, or some other post as good, in the
college." • •
"Sally," Said the old man "bid Master
Charles good bye; the old master was al—
' ways fond ot you, fonder nor one *wild
think from your wild ways. I hope when
Master Charles sees you next, you'll not
be as wild as you are now."
"I'm thinking maybe he'd see me wilder
•—but l pray God, be may see me as light
hearted, though indeed my heart is sore
for the old , master; but father," she
.f.Vc L. IV. No. 2.
added thoughtfolll, ~t hi to& the t whe ZS
a light-headed body COITIV4 0;1
thorn they can epee; so I been! the Too
plc tell. .Ma3lie it was vpeeing of use,
that put iuto my head; so mind, Master
'Charles, when next we meet I may be
wilder, but not en I•ght hearted."
She 'laid Ott,* eIaMS in a half solemn
hair eheerfli tune of roiCc; there was th..l
apperstitlon the mentioned connected
with the tree—that Llf-witted pereons,
when standing under it, become endue-1
pith the gift of epeeing or prophecy.
She took L Inn les's offered hand—t•Goni
by, Nl:tater C: arleea" she said, "God tikes
you and keep you: and maybe," she mi..
ded, looking up at the tree, "when neu t
we meet you'd have much need of Ins
tier fatherrebuked ter for what he dee
med her ill-timed levity.
"Indeed, father," she said, "I could net
help it. Master Charles knows my heart
is sad, God help me, far them that's
indeed, lather, there is no lightness in my
words; they come lute mw head, as if
could not help to say them; maybe they
have their meaning. God bless you again
Charles took her extended hand; he
almost involuntarily imprinted on it a kiss
—'Geod bye, Sally, and Gad bless you.'
As he grasped the rough hand of the old
'sexton he felt a warm tear fall on his (men.
''God bless you again,' said the old man,
'Mind, Master Charles, don't Mind abu•
sing the world, but see what . you can do
fur yourself in it, and trust tit God, sir.
I'm like David, Master Charles, I have
been young; and now em old, yet never
saw 1 the righteous forsaken, or his seed;
no, never, Master Charles, never'—ho
did not finish the quotation; he could not
bear to use an expression that would evens
imply the possibility of his old pastor's .
son being brought to beggary.
This conversation the reader must sup
pose to have occurred a few yars ;previous
to the time at which I have chosen to coin
tnence my narrative. Charles had taken
the old Mall's advise. lie had not abused
the world, but tried what he could do for
himielf in it, and old Robert's words had
turned out true. He obtained a scholar
ship in the university, and a ith the help
01 this, and a lew hundred ponnds which
his father had left him, he was able I
make his way to the bar; the profession to
which he had chosen t devote himsell.
His prospects were now fair of advance
ment in life. lie had made many friend'',
and had met with Much kindness, nod
began seriously to wonder how ever he
had believed the world to be so bad.
Other hopes too had come in to anitnato
his efforts. When children, he and Ellen
Irving had been playmates, and the recol -
lection of her childish beauty had never
wholly last their influence ou his mind..
When his collegiate pursuits fixed his res
idence in Dublin, it was of course natural
that he should be frequently at his aunt's'
and in the society of his cousin, perhaps
equally n dual that he should form for
her an affection which he persuaded him-,
self was returned. Not that ever a word
of love had passed between them;Charles'
pride prevented this.' He knew that El.
len was the heiress• to a large fortune. ' he
determined that he - would not seek he*
hand until he could appear not altogether
to seek it as an adventurer. With ths
natural enthusiasm of youth, he imagined
that the attainment of his profession would
immediately place him in a position in
which he might honorably seek it. H 6
knew that Ellen felt for him as he did for
her, and on this assurance he was content
Mrs Irving was not unaware of Charles's
feelings towards Ellen, and she more than
suspected thesi feelings to be returned.
She uid not, hoverer, feel it right or ne
cessary to discourage him. In Charles's
principles she had_the fullest confidence.
he was not one of tl.ose who sob;
her daughter a good match, or rather
had different notions of what consti •
a good match. She did not covet great
wealth for her child, but happiness, and
she believed that with a competence hap
piness might be found. She feared liow! , v
er, that her brother•in-law might enter
tain different feelings; and, although she
Was determined to act as She thought right
whenever her daughter's happiness would
be concerned, she rather desired that she
might not be obliged toact contrary to the
wishes of one who she naturally regarded
as her protector. .
Chailea's father had hOen succeeded at
Glenvale by a Mr. Leesou, who hail been
recommendedt to the appointment by the'
possesion of some aristocratic counexionq.
At the time of Mr. Wilson's death, Mr.
Irving had very kindly undertaken to set-'
tle some matters of business with the new
incumbent. This created an acquain—
tance between theso gentlemen, which
was subsequently kept up.
Mr. Leeson had a nephew, a yourg man
who had just succeeded to tho family
property, and was haw presumptive to is
title now in the possession of some very•
distant relative. lie had been educated