Beyond the lonely mountain-mere, To seek the wild lairs of their kind, The mournful-eyed, white-footed deer Then passed and left no trace behind. The sepulchre none earthly knows, Wherein the peaceful Hermit sleeps, But God above his long repose His guardian watch forever keeps! June 1. THE DEAD NEVER GROW OLD. BY REV. T. B. THAYER. Many years the dust hath lain Of his presence bears no trace; Young as when on earth he trod, Standing by the throne of God. The dead are the only people who never grow old. The man of four-score years and more remembers his father and mother as they were in his youth or childhood. If they died when he had numbered only half a score of years, he does not in his thought of them add to their age the three-score and ten years which he has lived since. At eighty they are the same to him as when he was ten; they have not changed at all since the day they died. Through all the toils and conflicts and sorrows of seventy years, the sweet face of his sainted mother has hung in the portrait gallery of his memory, as fresh and fair as when he took his last look of her. That manly and graceful youth, though he died long time ago, is the same in the thought of his father; every lineament, every look, every expression of the face. The father himself has grown old, and is beginning to bend under the weight of years; but the son is still a young man, as fair in look, as erect in form, as elastic in step, as ever-and he will always be so to his father. And so with the mother and her babe. The child dies, and is always a child thenceforth. Half a century may pass by, but it adds nothing to the age of the little prattler, who left her far back as long ago as that. Leigh Hunt says, with truth, that "those who have lost an infant, are never, as it were, without an infant child. They are the only persons who, in one sense, retain it always, and they furnish their neighbors with the same idea. The other children grow up to manhood and womanhood, and suffer all the changes of mortality. This one is rendered an immortal child. Death has arrested it with his kindly harshness, and blessed it into an eternal image of youth and innocence." And the words of Ainsworth are as truthful as they are beautiful, when he says, "the little boy that died, so long ago, is an eternal child; and even as he crept over the threshold of God's gates ajar at the beckoning of the Lord; so ever in the heart his parting look, with heaven shining full upon his brow, the beauty that the heart grew warm beholding, remains untouched by time, even as the unrent sky that let the wanderer in." This is one of God's kindly compensations for the loss which death inflicts. The bereaved only have friends who never change. The fair-haired lad who went away in the flower of his age, never grows to manhood or age in the memory of his brothers or sisters; and the gentle girl who fell asleep in death, however long ago, still holds her place in their hearts, as young, as gladsome, as winning, as lovely as before the angel called her. The opening bud remains in all its beauty and sweetness; and it will never pass into the full-blown rose, and fade and droop, and cast its withered leaves to the earth. The country Parson has a passage which illustrates this peculiar feature in our thought of the dead: "Your little brother or sister, that died long ago, remains in death, and in remembrance the same young thing forever. It is fourteen years this evening since the writer's sister left this world. She was fifteen years old then-she is fifteen years old yet. I have grown older since by fourteen years, but she has never changed as they advanced; and if God spares me to four-score, I never shall think of her as other than the youthful creature she was when she faded. The other day I listened as a poor woman told of the death of her first-born child. He was two years old. She had a small washing-green, across which was stretched a rope that came, in the middle, close to the ground. The boy was leaning on the rope, swinging backwards and forwards, and shouting with delight. The mother went into her cottage, and lost sight of him for a minute; and when she returned the little man was lying across the rope, dead. It had got under his chin: he had not sense to push it away; and he was suffocated. "But the thing which mainly struck me was, that though it is eighteen years since then, the mother thought of her child as an infant of two years yet it is a little child she looks for to meet her at the Golden City. Had her child lived he would have been twenty years old now; he died, and he is only two: he is two yet; he will never be more than two. The little rosy face of that morning, and the little half-articulate voice, would have been faintly remembered by the mother had they gradually died into boyhood and manhood; but that day stereotyped them: they remain untouched." The poem which follows is a tender expression of this thought; and reveals the pleasing fact, that the "little maiden," dying, is always a little maiden, and the "little vacant chair" ever after sacred to her memory. Still my heart and eyes are turning Standing idly in the corner Ever standing idly there: In the fullest tide of rapture, In my life's serenest hour, Faded from my yearning eyes, Oh! the sorrow of that moment; Close on throbbing heart and brain, Waking thoughts of gloom and madness Like the captive's heavy chain. Years have passed, and grief's wild torrent Ever in the shades of twilight Wrap the world in tender gloom, Comes a welcome, fairy vision, Stealing to my lonely room Seeming, like a ray of sunshine, All the darkness to illume. "MISSING." BY MISS M. REMICK. The roses of the summer Cluster upon the vines, In hearts of gold and crimson The fading sunset shines, I watch them from my window, But tears will come apace, For the glistening leaves of roses I see an absent face. The green fields fade before me, To-day, the Jessamine blossoms, Her hands lie drooped and still, Their hopes, their life, their all. Not Antietam, not Richmond, The brow grown hot with pain; What silent tears they weep. Homeward the ranks are coming, They reach us day by day, Unto that little cottage May he return I pray; Or if some Southern prison Has drawn his last faint breath, May some kind comrade bear them The parting prayer of death! EVERY man hopes for happiness; and it is this hope that bears him up through all the ill of life. Take it away, and to him there is sunlight only in the grave. IT MRS. B.'S PURCHASE. T was a dull cold morning, and I felt snappish and irritable. Why should I blush to confess it. If my physical powers are forced to succumb to a complication of disorders, how shall my mental ones escape the effects of a series of annoyances? Had they not commenced with the opening of my eyes at eight, when I so reluctantly emerged from my blankets one hour and ten minutes before the usual time? Why did I do so? Because it was the horror of sensitive young housekeepers-the day when the great wash comes off, when the whole house smells nasty, and everything feels damp and sticky. It is a rule in our establishment-all our rules are laid down by Mr. B.'s mamma, in whose infallibility his faith is greater than mine that on these hateful mornings the mistress of the house should prepare the breakfast, another detestable task! It is so nice on a frosty morning to hurry out of bed at the last moment, dress in a bustle, and pop down stairs to a bright blaze and hot coffee. Instead of which little luxuries I shivered in a shawl for half an hour, watching the stubborn fire which never will burn up at my touches if I insert the poker ever so gently. Then behind the coffee-pot comes that Betsey with the assurance that what with the skirts, and petticoats, and handkerchers, and the fine things, Mrs. Pumphrey says it's quite impossible for two pair of hands to get through them without some one does the hanging out. What a prospect! To stand in our garden exposed to the exquisite glances of Myrtle Villa and Honey-suckle cottage, shaking out cold dabs of wet linen with a furious northeaster disfiguring my nose, and making living pincushions of my fingers. Must I be made the sufferer because the draught in our new house afflicts me with continual sneezing? Can I help it if fashion compels me to don extra under clothing and achieve greatness? But we must all bend to circumstances, and what can a woman say who hasn't a clean collar in her drawer? So I sighed, but consented. Next comes Mr. B., with his disagreeable habit of making up the weekly accounts over the buttered rolls, to the utter destruction of my appetite. this?-a five or a three? You bring your book to a pound more than it ought to be. What a very bad arithmetician you are, Cecy." I don't reply to this, for which graciousness I am rewarded with four sovereigns for the velvet mantle it was impossible to do without, but am positively refused a new dress for Mrs. Fitzbrown's party. "No, no, I was too bad-realy too bad; every week something new was wanted. He was quite certain I had plenty of dresses already. Well, if I had not, better decline the invitation. He didn't want to go; much rather spend the evening at home, or at his mother's. It was no use shedding tears. No, he was not unfeeling, but he could not afford such extravagance. There!" and there he ended, by walking away in a huff, and leaving me to put the four sovereigns in my portmonnaie, and think-but no, I will not repeat what I thought, as I sat toasting myself in front of the fire, and mending a hole in my winter glove, doleful preparations for unwilling assistance in the laundry depart ment. The garden gate creaked on its hinges, I thought of my papillotes, and dreaded visitors. A peep through the curtains relieved me; it was only a young man in sailor's attire, with a large bundle under his arm. Was he some brother or cousin of Betsy's come to hinder her? Have people no consideration? I would answer him myself, and request him to call again at a more convenient season, and opened the hall door quickly to prevent his slipping round by the side-gate. Smiling and bowing he ascended the steps, and inquired, in a strong, Irish accent, if he had the honor of addressing the lady of the house? I assented. Cautiously looking round he informed me in a whisper that he had just come home from "Ingy," and smuggled some beautiful shawls, which he'd be pleased to show me. There could be no harm in looking, and I permitted him to open his packet in the hall, and place them on my shoulders. Pretty, certainly, but I would not be coaxed into buying. Was I not going to purchase the mauve-colored velvet mantle on which my heart had been set for three weeks? The sailor slowly refolded his articles, and taking up a smaller parcel, carefully wrapped in a silk handkerchief, he said he would tempt me with a sight of that, for he didn't think he'd “Hum, seven and seven are fourteen. What's sell it. He'd get more for it if he took it home with him to his own country. This excited my miss that. "I was sorry to have detained the curiosity, and I asked what it was. "Why, my ladyship must know he had a cousin who was own maid to one of the young Queen of Spain's own maids, and the queen had given her maid a dress which didn't just fit, and the maid of honor had parted with it to her own maid's own cousin the sailor, because he thought it would be a great thing to bring home for the English ladies to look at, and I was the first that should see it." While delivering this round-about account, he shook out and held up a handsome brocaded satin, made up in the latest Parisian fashion, and evidently my size. Here was one of Mr. B.'s ridiculous notions refuted, that short women looked preposterous in large patterns. If her Most Catholic Majesty wore large patterned dresses, what impropriety could there be in Mrs. Cecilia B. doing the same? "Wouldn't I like to try it on?" Well, I thought I should, so calling Betsy to keep watch over the spoons, &c., I ran up stairs and donned the royal robe. My glances at the toilet glass assured me that it was exceedingly becoming, and that it only wanted taking in round the waist, shortening in the sleeves, and lengthening in the skirt to fit'me perfectly. Fancy the sensation I should create at Mrs. Fitzbrown's in this! Brocaded satin! And I had never gone beyond cheap silks, through John's stinginess! I carried it back with a sigh. "If your ladyship's heart's set upon that," said the man, “I suppose I must let you have it, though I'd make more by exhibiting it." From mere curiosity I inquired the price. "Well, to oblige me, he'd let it go for seven pounds ten, and that was next to giving it!" I shook my head, and resolutely looked away from those shining folds, which he was turning in all directions for the pleasure of Betsy, who went into ecstacies of admiration. It was just possible that I could wait a few weeks for the mantle, and make it out of the housekeeping, but my purse had only two shillings in it, besides Mr. B.'s gift. The sailor saw my hesitation. "If it was the ready money was troubling me, he would not mind taking something in exchange." An excellent proposition! but I ran over the list of my wardrobe without being able to fix on any thing I could spare. The pink silk? No, it was too new and pretty. The gray? No--John would man, but must decline purchasing." "He was quite indifferent. He didn't care about selling at all, though he wouldn't mind taking off the odd ten shillings, as I seemed to wish for it. But he was sure of a customer round the corner." Round the corner! Could he mean that rich ugly Miss Mogg? I should be ready to bite myself if I saw her in it! Stay! A bright thought! I had an ugly dingy old bracelet Uncle William had given me, so old-fashioned I could not wear it, and hated the sight of it. As I said to Mr. B. at the time, "if he wanted to make his favorite niece a present, why not let it be a silver teapot, or a necklace that I should not be ashamed to put on." The bracelet produced I offered it with my four sovereigns in exchange for the royal garment, and after many protestations that he was losing by the bargain, it was concluded. After the first excitement of possession had subsided, I began to wonder what Mr. B. would say. The colors were very bright-too bright, but I had plenty of black lace, which would tone it down beautifully, besides, was I always to confine myself to Quaker costume to please his sober-minded mamma? I decided upon taking no notice of looks, and trusting to woman's wit, if any remarks were made on the unusual magnificence of my appearance. The crimson and purple flowers of my new dress danced before my eyes all the rest of the morning, and helped me to recover my equanimity. Indeed, I was able to meet Mr. B. at the dinner-table as graciously as if he hadn't shamefully misbehaved himself, about my extravagance as he called it. In the course of the evening, as I sat running my lace together to form flounces, he looked up from his book, and said: "Oh, Cecy, I quite forgot to tell you what young Gilt, the jeweler, said the other day about your bracelet; that one you shed so many tears over!" I worked on without answering. What could be coming next? "He says those stones are lost in the heavy setting. If you like to let him have them, he will, for a mere trifle, form them into a handsome modern pair." I felt quite overcome. are good ones?" I asked. "Did he say the stones "Really valuable' were his words," said Mr. B. "He had seen and admired them while in my last touches are always interrupted by an your uncle's possession." angry shout from below, to the effect that Mr. B. positively will not wait any longer. Am I coming? If not, say so, and he will dismiss the fly at once. 66 And he had known this for days! I stamped with vexation. Why didn't you tell me sooner?" said I. He looked surprised, and repeated, "Why did I not tell you sooner? Because it escaped my memory." I was exasperated at his coolness. "It's always the same, Mr. B.," said I; "anything that concerns me is neglected. You use me scandalously, sir!” Mr. B.'s face grew as red as my own. "If I had dreamed of being abused like this, madam," said he, "I would not have mentioned it at all. Of what consequence is it, after all?" I took my candle and retired, trying to console myself with a hope that when the man discovered the real value of the despised trinket, he would bring it back. But he never did. It is useless dwelling on my loss. The appointed evening for Mrs. Fitzbrown's evening party, the party of the season, at length arrived, and I forgot the troubles of the past. Now all St. John's Wood knew that that very good natured old lady was at this trouble and expense for the sake of her cousin, Fred Dashington, who had married a pretty milliner to the astonishment of our set and horror of his papa. At first he was discarded, then forgiven, with the condition that he never presumed to appear in his native halls at Circus Road any more; but Mrs. Fitzbrown trotted backwards and forwards so perseveringly that her good offices effected a total reconciliation, and this important evening was to be the first appearance in public of the now happy family. Some fortunate creatures doubtless find the dressing for the evening one of its greatest pleasures, but that happiness is denied to me. I have scarcely commenced when Mr. B. puts his head in at the door, with "I'm quite ready, Cecy; now, don't be very long, there's a good girl!" I promised compliance. In five minutes Betsy appears, "Master sent me to know how you are getting on, ma'am." I send as civil a message as I can. Another five minutes, and again a messenger. “Please'm, master said, I'd better tell you it only wants two minutes to eight; the fly'll be here directly, and he don't like it kept awaiting." This time I send an answer which secures me a longer respite: but who can do themselves justice when constantly disturbed at their toilet in this manner? Then He grew cooler as soon as I made my appearance, and said: "Are not you-hum-rather over-rather more dressed than usual this evening, Cecy?" "Not that I am aware of," I answered carelessly, and drew on my gloves. "I can't recollect seeing you in that dress before," said the tiresome creature walking round me. "Don't I look very pretty in it, dear?" and I looked at him with a smile. "Hum-yes," he answered, kissing the face I raised to his; "you always look pretty, Cecy, but-" "But, but,” I said, "I thought you were in an immense hurry," and ran down stairs, leaving him to follow, and inwardly delighted at escaping without a lecture on his mamma's elegant sobriety of costume. We were not late, but already the rooms were so crowded it was difficult to make our way to the hostess. I was very happy, for I saw admiring glances cast at my regal attire, and I felt myself every inch a queen as I smiled and chatted with one and another. The slight chill caused by John's disparaging looks had quite worn off, when Mrs. Fitzbrown, with whom I am a great favorite, sought me out to introduce me to the bride and bridegroom. They had retreated to Mrs. Fitzbrown's boudoir, and a few of their most particular friends were assisting in the difficult task of keeping Mr. Dashington senior in a good humor. At our entrance, Mr. and Mrs. Dashington junior quietly slipped from the circle and advanced to meet us. As the old lady eagerly went through the proper forms, concluding with a hope that we should be excellent friends, I bent gracefully, and the timid bride raised her eyes. With a faint exclamation she sank on a chair. The gentleman looked at me, bit his lip, and muttered some inquiry in his lady's ear. She covered her face with her hands, and he hastily led her from the room. While Mrs. Fitzbrown and I were asking each other the meaning of the unaccountable behavior, Mr. Frederic returned to apologize for Mrs. Frederic, who felt indisposed; Mr. Dashington senior accepted the apology, and the |