Page:Peterson magazine 1849.pdf/392

 PETERSON'S MAGAZINE >

Wo L.

oc ToBER, 1849,*

PHILADELPHIA,

XVI.





P A L A C ES BY

[Entered,

M.R.S.

A N D ANN

S.

PR IS ON S.

S.T.E.P. H. E. N. S.

l
 * 5. to the

Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by Edward Stepheiis, in the Clerk's Office of the strict Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.] con TINUED F Rox PAGE 94.

CHAPTER X.

must not be broken off in the middle. Here, in the desolate room where he was an object of so much

Miss LANDoN says in one of her exquisite novels care, I must gather up the tangled thread of my story. that the history of a book—the feelings, sufferings and There is nothing to interrupt me now-no faint moan, experience of its author would, if truly revealed, be no gentle and patient call for water or for fruit. The often more touching, more romantic, and full of in couch is empty—the room silent; nothing is here to terest than the book itself—alas, alas, how true this

interrupt thought save the swell of my own heart

is with me. How mournful would be the history of these pages could I write of that solemn, under cur rent of grief that has swept through my heart while each word has fallen, as it were, mechanically from: my pen. I have written in a dream, my mind has been at work while my soul dwelt wholly with an other. Between every sentence fear, and grief, and keen anxiety have broken up, known only to myself,

the flow of my own tears. And she sat waiting for her brother, that kind-hearted old huckster-woman, waiting for him on that Thanks

givingraight, with the beautiful faith which will not

yield-up is hope even when everything that can rea sonably inspire hope has passed away. The hired-man had escorted the Irish girl on a visit

to some “cousin from her own country;” and Robert leaving no imprint on the page which my heart was was acting as charioteer to the Warren family. Thus tracing. My brother, my noble, young brother, so it happened that Mrs. Gray was left entirely alone in good, so strong, so full of hopeful life. How many the old farm-house. times have I said to my heart as each chapter was The twilight deepened, but the good woman, lost in commenced, will he live to see the end? By his profound memories, sat gazing in the fire, unconscious bed-side I have written—with every sentence I have of the gathering darkness: even her housewife thrift turned to see if he slept, or was in pain. We had was forgotten, and she sat quiet and unconscious for began to count his life by months then, and as each the time. There stood the table, still loaded with the period of mental toil came round, the wing of ap Thanksgiving supper—nothing had been removed proaching death fell more darkly over my page, and for Mrs. Gray had no idea of more than one grand over my heart. Reader, do you know how we may course at her festive-board. Pies, puddings, beef, live and suffer while the business of life goes regu fowl, everything came on at once a perfect deluge of larly on, giving no token of the tears that are silently hospitality, and thus everything remained a feast in shed? ruins. When her guests went away, the good lady, Here, here! between this chapter and the last he partly from fatigue, partly from the rush of thick, died. The flowers we laid upon his coffin are scarcely coming memories, forgot that the table was to be withered; the vibrations of the passing bell have but cleared. The lonesome stillness suited her frame of just swept through the beautiful valley where we laid mind, and thus she sat, motionless and sorrowful, him down to sleep. While I am yet standing bewil brooding amid the vestiges of her Thanksgiving sup dered and grief-stricken in “the valley and shadow per. She was aroused from this unusual state of abstrac of death,” for we followed that loved one even to the brink of eternity, rendering him up to God when we tion by a slight noise among the dishes, and supposing might go no further, even there comes this cry from that the sleek, old house-cat had broken bounds for the outer world, “write—write!” once, she stamped her foot upon the hearth too gently And I must write-my work like his young life for much effect, and brushing the tears from her eyes,