If you are willing to agree to these conditions, I am willing to do for you whatever lies in my power." It seemed very strange to Mary Packton that the wizard should have said any thing about prayer to God; but she could not feel otherwise than pleased, for it was a kind of guarantee that the prescriptions of the enchanter could not be so desperately bad; so she agreed to the stipulations he had proposed. Dr. Ambrose hereupon left the room, having intimated that he would be absent about half an hour. Half an hour was not long for a wizard to prepare such a powerful charm as the present case required; so Mary Packton sat patiently in the arm-chair. Once or twice she was disturbed and frightened by the appearance of the black dog on the window-sill; but her own thoughts occupied her so much, that many imaginary fears were kept away. Yes, Mary Packton had many a bitter thought to occupy her mind. All her young dreams of wedded happiness had vanished; the man to whom she had bound herself for life, had disappointed her, and was utterly changed from what he had been during their courtship and the first few weeks of their wedded life, and henceforth there remained for her nothing but years of anguish and distress. That would be a precious charm indeed which could restore her husband's love, and make him any thing like what he had been before. While Mary Packton was absorbed in these reflections, the door opened, and Dr. Ambrose made his appearance. He had in his hands a small box, which was carefully papered up, and a letter, which contained the spell that was to operate with such wonderful effects. Putting them into his visitor's hands, he told her she would find full directions for their use when she arrived at home, and opened both the paper and the box. "Remember the conditions," said the Doctor. "Come again this day two months, if we are both alive. Farewell!" and before Mary Packton could thank him, or make any observation, he had left the room. That evening Henry Packton was going out to see his mother, and so his wife determined to take advantage of the opportunity to examine the paper and the box. Had they come to her under any ordinary circumstances, she would have opened them on her way home; but she was half frightened, and was rather glad to defer it for a while. Evening came, and Henry Packton went out; and now for the opening of the charm! With trembling hands the young wife broke the large seal, and unfolded the long sheet of paper, which contained several lines of what appeared the most perfect nonsense. Over these she pored for a considerable time, and, from the disposition of the letters, she could not but think that they formed words, if only she could read them; but who was to supply the key? Then she opened the box, which was filled with diamond-shaped lozenges, and which contained also a slip of paper, which, to her great delight, was the key to the characters she had just been puzzling over in vain. It contained an alphabet, in two rows, and the directions simply were: "Substitute the bottom for the top, and, where there is an italic, the top for the bottom!" This she at once proceeded to do, and the following combination of letters produced the following result: "Consider whether the blame which thou wouldest lay upon another, be not, to a great degree, chargeable upon thyself. "Remember that others are imperfect, as well as thou. "Consult another's happiness before thine own. Had such good advice as this come to Mary Packton in more common guise, like many another she might have rejected it; but she had promised the reputed wizard faithfully to abide by his directions, and she felt herself under an obligation to do so, whether she would or no. It was long before Henry Packton came home, and she had ample time to think over the lines which lay before her; and that thought was not without its good effects. As she pondered over the first sentence, and faithfully examined her past wedded life, she found that, short as it had been, she had been sadly deficient in the duties of a wife; that she had been selfish and petulant and uneven in her temper; and her conscience told her that much of the misery she had endured was to be laid upon herself. Then she passed on to the second, and she could not but own that she had foolishly expected perfection in her husband; that she thought he ought to bear with all her tempers, while she was not to bear any thing on her part; that, in point of fact, while claiming every allowance for herself, she was not willing to make any for him. Then came the third head. What had Mary Packton been? Selfish, pre-eminently selfish. What did she give up for her husband? when did she put his wishes before her own? Alas! alas! the more the young wife thought, the more did she feel condemned-the more did she realize that she had only to thank herself for much she had endured. Nor was she guiltless on the fourth point either; she had often spoken to her husband most improperly, and had taunted him with not loving her, whenever he had denied her slightest wish. "Give double love for double hate." What had she given? Ten hard words for every one that he had given her. And as to the last sentence of Dr. Ambrose's list, how had she spent her time and strength? No doubt she had done a few stitches of needlework, and played a few of her favorite airs, and painted some little water-color sketches; but what else, except a few novels read, had she to show for her time? Nothing, absolutely nothing. As soon as her honeymoon was over, she was without a motive in life. two months reappeared before the Doctor with a very different face from that which she had when she came to consult him first. "My dear young lady," said Dr. Ambrose, "do not thank me, but thank the One who has given you strength to fulfill Scriptural precepts, and who has vouchsafed a blessing on your efforts. Considering how much both you and your husband, as only children, had been indulged, and knowing as much of human nature as I do, you need not be surprised that I guessed, with tolerable accuracy, the source of your trouble. One only reward I ask, and that is, that you will disabuse my worthy neighbors of the idea that I deal in witchcraft. I should like to live among them, and do them good in those diseases, in the treatment of which I have passed my life; but I have no access to them, owing to the absurd notions which I find they entertain of me, of my housekeeper, and even of my poor dog." "But tell me before I go," said Mary Packton, "what was the use of those diamond-shaped lozenges, which seemed certainly to have a wonderful effect?" "When Athenadorus, the philosopher, went to take his leave of Augustus Cæsar, he left him this rule: 'O Cæsar, remember that when thou art angry, thou neither speakest nor doest aught till thou hast repeated over distinctly the Greek alphabet.' I took a hint," said Dr. Ambrose, "from him, and gave you those lozenges, with directions to let one melt in your mouth before you answered, when you were angry, to give you time for reflection, and for your passion to cool down. There is no harm, I hope, in such natural magic as that." For two long months did Mary Packton battle with herself, and earnestly seek for higher strength than her own. Honestly and continuously did she endeavor to work out all the precepts she had received; and though at times she failed, still she recovered her ground again, and tried more earnestly than before. And wonderfully did the Doctor's charm act. When Henry Packton found that his wife did not scold him on every opportunity, but made allowances for him, and was gentle toward him, he kept from many a thing which he knew she did not like. In many instances he perceived that his wife had evidently laid her own wishes aside, and cared for his; and to her great delight she found that he began in some degree to do the same. Most of the unkind words which had been heard in the young people's house, had commenced with the mistress of it; but now they were kept back, and so quarrels were not begun; and when any came first from the husband, they were not answered, and so they ended soon. If Henry grieved her, Mary Packton, according to the directions of her charm, made fresh efforts to please him, although it cost her a sore struggle to keep down the old spirit of revenge. And lastly, according to her instructions from the Doctor, she occupied herself a good part of every day in some act of benevolence, either among her poor neighbors or at home. Thus passed the two months; and by the end of that time the charm had begun to work on Henry Packton as well as on his wife; cheerfulness once more came back to their dwelling, and it almost seemed as though the honey-plishments and no attainments nor dress can ever moon had commenced afresh. Space would fail us if we were to try to chronicle all the young wife's struggles, all her failures, and the minute particulars in which she had to work out the Doctor's charm. Suffice it to say, she succeeded at the last; and at the end of the Gentle reader! if you will do as Mary Packton did, you may gain happiness for yourself, and diffuse it to others. If you will seek strength from above, as she did, however difficult the task of controlling self, you will succeed. Such charms as she used, it is almost impossible to resist.London Leisure Hour. THE TRUE GENTLEMAN. No man is a gentleman, who, without provocation, would treat with incivility the humblest of his species. It is a vulgarity for which no accom atone. Show me the man who desires to make every one happy around him, and whose greatest solicitude is never to give just offense to any one, and I will show you a gentleman by nature and practice, although he may never have worn a suit of broadcloth, nor ever heard of a lexicon. ELEGIAC POETRY. BY T. M. GRIFFITH. NE of the most prominent features of poetry appeals to the understanding, to the reason, as well as the sensibilities; its scope is more general. Poetry generally has its principal charm in the power of influencing the heart. Poets have ever succeeded best, as they have most directly kept within this province of their mission. Homer wrote not to convince the judgment, nor to delight the fancy; there was an irresistible impulse that guided his pen of fire. We believe his opening invocation was sincere "Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring Of woes unnumber'd, heavenly goddess sing !" Our household poets-Cowper, Burns, Moore, Young, etc. are admired because of the deep feeling that pervades their poetry. The old Greek poets, and the earlier of the British poets, excel in the use of tragedy-in this the deep feelings of the soul are stirred to the utmost; and poetry assumes its most powerful, though less pleasing aspect. The elegy combines simplicity and pathos. The term has always been confined to a tender or mournful class of poetry. The most admired, and altogether the most complete poem of the English language, is of this classGray's Elegy will ever be pointed to as a masterpiece. And yet there is not to be found the deep feeling of tragedy, nor the flow of imagination, nor any highly-wrought pictures of the fancy in these immortal stanzas; their charm is in their simple pathos, so perfectly brought out in every line, as in the following: "Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed." Cowper's life was one of mournful interest. How amiable was his character; how confiding his friendship; how gentle his conduct! And yet what a settled melancholy attended his fate! That refined sensibility, so conspicuous in all his writings, has made him a universal favorite. His "Address to his Mother's Picture," is a perfect model of its kind. The following passage, which the reader has probably more than once read before, possesses the true qualities of elegiac poetry to a greater extent than the above: "My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead, Some of the richest poetry of our language has been drawn almost from the heart's-blood of those devoted sons of song, who, in wretchedness extreme, yet gave delight to thousands. This was the case with Cowper. To Milton's blindness we owe that sad lament "Thus with the year Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn," and, perhaps, even the grand conception of "Paradise Lost." Bruce, from the depths of extreme poverty, and overcome by wasting disease, produced those inimitable "stanzas," every line of which expresses a deep and overpowering melancholy: "Now spring returns; but not to me returns The vernal joys my better years have known; Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, And all the joys of life with health are flown. And count the silent moments as they pass——— And bid the realms of light and life adicu. I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe; There let me wander at the shut of eve, When sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes; There let me sleep forgotten in the clay, Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise." That deepest of all English poems-Young's "Night Thoughts"-is the result of a threefold them entire, as one of the best specimens of bereavement: American elegiac poetry : "Thrice flew his shaft, and thrice my peace was wounded, And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her hour." While we listen to the strains of the sorrowstricken bard, and follow his contemplations through the measures of his sad " Complaint," we can scarcely regret the misfortune that gave such a production to the world. While there are very few whose writings are all limited to the department of elegiac poetry, choice specimens are found from nearly all our popular poets; and these in many instances are their most admired pieces. What has Burns written more beautiful than "The Banks o' Doon?" "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; While I'm sae weary, fu' o' care!" Even Hood, perhaps the greatest of English humorists, owes his highest popularity as a poet, to those affecting verses on childhood : "I remember, I remember, The house where I was born; The little window where the sun came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the night had borne my breath away." American poetry is yet in its infancy; hitherto our poets have chiefly found their inspiration from the works of nature, and their productions have been too much confined to the description of American scenery. Bryant's "Thanatopsis" may, perhaps, be classed under elegiac poetry; one of his sonnets is worthy to be placed beside those of Bowles and Wordsworth: "Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine Too brightly to shine long; another spring As light winds, wandering through groves of bloom, Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes calmly, and without pain; And we will trust in God to see thee yet again." Charles Sprague is eminently the poet of the affections. His style is similar to that of Wolfe; and, like the latter, his reputation will rest chiefly upon his elegies. His lines on the death of his sister are so touching and beautiful that we give "I see thee still; Remembrance, faithful to her trust, Calls thee in beauty from the dust; Thou comest in the morning light, Thou'rt not with me through the gloomy night; In dreams I meet thee as of old; Then thy soft arms my neck infold, And thy sweet voice is in my ear; In every scene to memory dear, I see thee still. I see thee still, In every hallowed token round; I see thee still; Here was thy summer noon's retreat; I see thee still; FUNERAL OBSEQUIES OF A LOST SOUL. THAT, were it right to conceive such a thought, WHAT would be the funeral obsequies of a lost soul? Would myriads of angels, following it with bowed heads and folded wings, be a procession equal to the occasion? Would the muffled thunder of the skies, and the wild wail of universal nature, be a dirge expressive enough of the terrible disaster-meet music for this dead march? Were every star to become a funeral torch, and every tree to be covered with crape, and the whole earth clad in sackcloth, and creation, that has so long travailed in pain, to utter her grief in one loud groan, it would not be a scene sufficiently expressive of that loss of losses-that unspeakable wreck-that death of deaths—a lost soul! THE CHAIN OF SACRED PROPHECY. HERE stretches through the word of God one for them in their deliverance out of the house of bondage. Or, bend your steps to Tyre and mark the naked rock where fisherman his T continuous chain of prophecy, the first link net, and from which the very earth is scraped It in Paradise and the last link in heaven. reaches from man fallen in Eden to man restored and perfected at the right hand of God; and such is the clearness of the predictions on the one hand, and such on the other the exactitude of their fulfillment in all instances where the fulfillment is consummated, that it may be truly said | that prophecy is history anticipated, and history is prophecy fulfilled. This coincidence has been happily compared to the taches and loops in the tabernacle of witness, which exactly corresponded each to the other; and so there stretches along through all generations a series of predictive taches, which in succession, as events hasten on, receive one by one their loops of fulfillment, and shall continue to receive them, till at last all the loops shall have been attached to their taches, and then it shall be seen that not a single tache lacked its corresponding loop. In relation to the accomplishment of prophecy we may be said to have the advantage of the primitive saints, while in relation to the miracles they had in some sort the advantage of us. If they, as eye-witnesses of the miracles, must have felt them to be more impressive than we at this distance can easily do, yet we have a large amount of prophecy fulfilled or fulfilling which to them was all future. The glory of the prophetic Scriptures is an ever-accumulating glory; the evidence they furnish gathers strength from year to year and from century to century; their accomplishment presents a continuous miracle, one always appealing to our senses as well as to our understandings. Unbelievers ask for a sign, something which they can behold. We bid them look into the prophetic page, and then look into the world around them, and, lo! there are signs on every hand. Can you turn to Edom, and see no miracle there? Can you contemplate Babylon, and discern no miracle there? Can you gaze on Nineveh, and discover no signs and wonders there? Go to the British Museum and ponder the gigantic relics of Nineveh which have been disinterred from their mighty sepulcher and brought to light in these latter days to confound the skeptic and confute the gainsayer. Go to the wilderness of Sinai and study the mystic inscriptions written with a pen of iron and graven on the stupendous tablets of the rocks-inscriptions, we have little doubt, rich in memorials of the wanderings of Israel in the desert, and of the prodigies wrought away. Or, betake yourselves to Syria, to Palestine, and, lo! miracles meet you at every step. Nay, tarry at home, and note the Jew that passes your door and looks imploringly in your face; observe that strange, mysterious man, with his distinctive features, his antique aspect, his individuality of character and peculiarity of mien, all bespeaking him of remotest lineage and portentous history. Consider that people scattered over the whole earth like oil flung abroad upon the face of the ocean, every-where diffused but no where blended; clearly distinguishable however intermingled; "peeled," persecuted, and trodden under foot, yet ready to stand forth a mighty nation disentangled from all other kindreds so soon as the voice shall be heard that will summon them to their own desolate land and bid Jerusalem shake herself from the dust and put on her beautiful garments, lay aside the weeds of her widowhood and clothe herself in bridal attire, enlarge her lap and expand her bosom to receive the multitude of her returning children, while she exclaims, in the amazement of her heart, "These, where have they been?" God has kept them for their land and their land for them. The man who can walk amid the desolations of Judea, or gaze on the outcasts of Israel, and then doubt whether the books that foretold all this were written by the God that performed all this-would not "be persuaded though one rose from the dead." |