dimmed thy innocent brow. Hadst thou lived, thou wouldst have been a high souled delicate maiden, and thou wouldst have felt the wrongs of woman most keenly. "Her lot would have been on thee-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay." Thus would it have been with thee, my darling. But now thou art safe-it is well! NO. VI. AUGUST 7th. My mother's birth day! No, I cannot turn from the "Past" entirely, however hopefully and trustfully I may be looking forward to the Future. I would not if I could. It is a part of my existence, and though unsatisfactory and imperfect each act, viewed from the present, may appear; they none the less existed, weav ing a web of sombre colors, which now binds itself tightly around me, and I cannot unfetter myself if I would. Ah! yes, the present is what the past has made it; and the future will be what the past and present will make that. I will read all these blotted leaves once more; then, with a chastened heart for the "duty that lies nearest," I will turn from these sorrowful records, and patiently read the the pages of to-day. Mother! my own mother, can I outlive your memory? Even the writing of that holy name, has unsealed the fountains of the past, and the pent-up waters come rushing, foaming and bubbling up, all the more frantic for having been so long checked! I pause to read the name. There is nothing in each of those little letters, taken separately; but joined together, as I have just written it, is it not a magic word? There are none like it. Some may say that "wife," "sister," "friend," are as magical—oh! no, no; each of these are sweet, hallowed names; but "mother," is holy, "devotional." Ah! yes, thou wert right there, poor Edgar Poe, if wrong in all else. These flowers were gathered from my mother's grave, the last of August, 18- The thistle was in full bloom-and the little flower, looking delicate and pure as heaven, was directly on the top of the grave. As I plucked the thistle, I said, "this shall be a memento of the thorns that were ever in her pathway whilst here on earth: and as I gathered the star-like flower, I said, " surely I may hope, that she is where flowers without thorns, bloom never to fade, and where tears are wiped from all eyes." The blue sky was bending lovingly down upon me, and a few white clouds floated tranquilly and slowly by, as if loth to leave me alone. I gazed long into the deep sky, and all the glory above me; then down upon the green grave by my side. I saw-I felt all these things; but there was no mother's voice to break the solemn silence, and a deep sadness stole over me. I questioned aloud, "mother-mother, art thou near me? dost thou know thy youngest born, thy own loved one is standing by this green grave, that covers the earthly remains of that cherished form that was once so dear to me? Oh! mother, would that I could lay my head upon thy faithful bosom, and shed tears that would relieve this bursting heart! Would that I could hear that soothing language from thy lips once more, that so often lulled life's early fever! "Do the best thou canst, and angels can do no better;" and with fast flowing tears I retraced my footsteps. That was the last time I visited her grave; and during my homeward walk, how vividly the dying scene, and every particular of the last day of her sojourn with us here, rose before me. I was alone with her, the most of that day, from choice-little dreaming however that her end was so near-yet I have felt all the more grateful for that privilege. She breathed her last breath out on the shoulder of her youngest born -the youngest of ten children! It was over:-I spoke to her, but there was no answer. Then I clasped my arms tightly around her, and putting my lips close to her ear, that had ever been open to my cry, I whispered "mother." There was no motion; and that ter rible silence revealed the whole extent of my misery. For the first time since I existed, I was cut off entirely from that being, who loved me so tenderly, and who would at any time, have laid down her life for my own. "Alone! (I cried aloud) alone in the wide world, without a mother!" Since, I have felt grieved for those lamentations, for who shall say that the echoes of those cries did not fall on the spirit's ear, and hinder its upward flight; for every wail of sorrow struck some chord in that large sympathising heart of her's, while dwelling here below. Poor mother! thou are not forgot ten. Years have rolled on-the burdens of life have fallen heavily on thy child. Sickness, sorrow, and suffering have been her portion. She is still, as of yore, thy "pale faced one;" but to this paleness, is added deep scars-canst thou see them, mother dear? They speak of a sad, sad experience, that has descended with many other things into the past; but the scars remain ! She has not murmured at these things, for often times they come to us as blessings in disguise; though doubtless they tinge the character. Thou knowest how abhorrent the thrall of fashion is to her, but oh! mother, answer thy child-has she made any progress toward that higher life that God has graciously bestowed upon us all, if we will but enter in, notwithstanding our external circumstances? Yes, it is indeed true, that "we are all, here in this life, subject in a certain degree to circumstances; but above these, there stands unshaken, an eternal order. To go into this, to to find our place in it, is the problem given to us all; and it is possible to all to solve it." Dear mother, when weariness and disgust creep over thy child, be thou her guardian angel, and enable her with fresh courage, to plume anew her wings, and endeavor most earnestly to soar into that "eternal order;" to strive with her whole soul to solve the problem of life. NO. VII. SATURDAY NIGHT, Sept. 10th. "WHAT shall I say of my child? All might seem hyperbole, even to my dearest mother. In him I find satisfaction, for the first time, to the deep wants of my heart. Yet thinking of those other sweet ones fled, I must look upon him as a treasure only lent. He is a fair child, with blue eyes and light hair; very affectionate, graceful, and sportive." Thus wrote Margaret Ossoli, of her little Angelo; and I placed these words at the head of this leaf, that I had written in my journal, some years before. My little cherished son lies asleep on the couch. He is as beautiful as an artist's dream of a cherub. I gaze upon him, and while listening to his quiet breathing, I ask myself the question, "What has the future in store for my precious one?" My heart beats quick, and a suffocating sensation oppresses me, when for a moment I picture to myself that possible future; but I try to drive back and repress these anxious fears, and say, "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." He is so beautiful, and so wayward! wished me to send his likeness, but it has never been transferred to canvass; yet it is indelibly painted on my heart. Here is his picture. Fair alabaster skin; light ringlets (that were flaxen in early infancy, but are now a shade or two darker) parted on the forehead, leaving the little calm, placid brow, and the meek, earnest, questioning blue eyes exposed to the beholder! the oval face and dimpled chin! the mouth is of surpassing sweetness, combined with a degree of roguishness which is at times irresistible. The features are small and delicately chiseled-the most infantile face-the entire character of it is innocence. Some say it is the face of a girl, others say, "no, it is the face of a boy;" but to me it is the face of an angel! He is manly |