Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/32

r0 ILL LUCK. sity; and set forth for Broadhall one evening, the coldest, dreariest yet: it had rained for three days, the roads were muddy, doors creaked, gates clung together, lights burnt dimly, oh, it was dolorous!

“I did not wait, nor was I led into a state-parlor at the Gladstones, nor did I find splendor and company-manners. The family were assembled in the good old sitting-room, at table, secretary, and fireside; big logs were blazing in the chimney, and lent their glow to the furniture, and curtains of red moreen, or of bright new ehints. Many ornaments were about the room, all cheap or of home manufacture: the good engravings on the walis were framed in paper; the books were on shelves of pine adorned with leather work, some vases were filled with green leaves and berries, a few flowers stood in one— and a fine large pot of English Ivy draperied a corner of the apartment with its fresh sprays of green; the pot I observed was a grape-jar, painted to imitate an Etruscan vase. “Mr. Gladstone, the picture of happy old age, eat by his fireside in a chair of his children’s covering, in slippers of their working; while Sue, at the table, was writing off long lists of names from hie bank-books, and filling out circulars. Her mother was knitting beside her, Fred was studying his lesson, Fanny dressing a doll; Kate sat at the secretary puzzling overs composition, Frank was kneeling on the hearth-rug, composing—s kite. I can see them all now! Fred is a lawyer, Fan a wife, Kate an authoress, Prank a sea captain; but I see them all, and Sue, with her big noee, her dear, good face, in their midst, merry and genial and self-oblivious; simple in manners, neat in dress, attentive, yet not absorbed in her work. She remembered me at once, with the old frankness expressed her pleaeure at meeting, introduced me to her kindred, made me a place by the fireside—one, thank God! I have never lost—and then without farther apology promised to talk with me soon, when her work should be done, and returned to the writing, yet found time for pleasant words in every pause of conversation, found time to take up her mother’s stitches if they dropped, to help Fred in his sum, to bend over poor Kate, whom. the composition sorely puzzled, and clear away her difficulty by a sensible word or two, or a question or two. Then she camo to the fire, and while conversing with me cut colored papers for Frank, and gave most judicious advice with regard to the construction of his kite.

“No, cousin, they did not impose upon Sue's good-nature: it was her way to help every one, to make every one feel dependent on her. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I cannot take a journey, or dress, or entertain visitors, or say my prayers without her assistance. What should I do if she died?—become another man, with humbler endowments, less power, less enjoyment. She keeps my heart calm and my brain clear; it is her sweet way of asserting woman’s right, she works through all others, but she works right bravely and well.

“My story is ended. Another lamp was kindied that evening, and all the winds of earth have not extinguished, nor made its light wane yet. I saw in vision e beautiful home, a beautiful life, and dear Sue has helped me find them both. I cannot think of her as unlovely, for wherever she goes she bears a blessed, peaceful, genial atmosphere: in her presence beauty is sure to look more beautiful, and wit to flow more freely, and music to sound more sweet, and laughter has a merrier ring, and the very lamps burn brighter when she comes! I was dreaming of love, of home-joys, home-content. I tell you, cousin, these true homes are a type and foretaste of heaven, and beauty is but an outward expression of that which grows here constantly, a breathing life!

“The valise ready so soon? But I need not go for half an hour yet. Come, Sue, and help us with our metaphysics.

“Physics instead! Who except yourself would have thought of that cough mixture? Oh, talk of Florence Nightingale—all honor to her!—but I believe there are thousands of Florence Nightingales scattered in earthly homes, unrecognized by strangers, but blessed by their own: in many, many a home-Scutari their shadow is kissed as they pass!”

TO ILL

LUCK.

BY FRANCES HENRIETTA SHEFFIELD.  Ill luck, thou molt abused sprite, I pledge thee in red wine tonight, For never friend my eyes have seen That hath so faithful to me been.

Go where I will I cannot dodge thee, Rest where I may I still must lodge thee, Thou lovest me so well, good faith, I know we shall not part till death. 