A SHORT ESSAY: WHICH IT IS HOPED MAY PROVE A LOOSENER OF STRINGS TO THE PURSES OF THE N essay upon gold; bright, beautiful gold! What an interesting subject to man, because it fills his heart in the market-place-because it causes him to ponder with brow on hand at the fireside, when he should hush the whisperings of his counting-room's presiding god, by paying better heed to the sweet voices of his household deities. Gold! gold! How many hearts pine for it as bringing honor-how many hands close over it with a more earnest pressure than that which answers the greeting of a friend-how many eyes glisten over it that never glistened over tales of wo! brings the gracious nod from leaders of fashion and rank to the owner of bonds and mortgages, be he never so poor in soul, and makes dull the vision of such, when spiritual wealth goes by in a brother's form, whose material pockets, alas! know only a shilling. It gives some, carriages, and leaves rough travelling boots for labor-plodding feet. It graciously puts out its jewelled hand to help the millionaire up the rounds of social fame, while the poor shilling one lifts up his tattered foot with bitter disappointment, for a similar ascent. It takes the life of rarest fish and fowl to gratify the pampered tastes of its fastidious favorites, and makes dear Mother Earth find roots and such cheap things for her pauper sons. How powerful it is! It It is to warm your hearts, high upper-ten,'-it is to hint most tenderly to you, that this word on gold is written. Man will not realize the virtue that lies buried in glittering stones; he will not see the balm for stricken hearts which is hid therein; and so revels in selfish luxury and unblessed ease. He makes of it a bed of thorns, when it might give sweet rest to the weary-hearted, and be to himself a pillow of down when night and memory come. He chooses the bead that rises to the wine-cup's brim, rather than the grateful tear which overflows the eye of All this it does, and more; yet I will be its blessing poverty. He uses it to lead the young champion! I will speak a good word for gold, and thoughtless through the path which has a the root of evil '-the abused of tongues and pens. pleasant guide-post, but at the end a grave with no The abuse knows no abatement, as we dare not light around it, when he might lead them, by its praise, for fear good, anxious people, would think well-used power, to a final resting-place, the way we loved it better than we ought! If any who to which would shine with deeds whose brightness read this should judge me sorrowfully-if the good would go before them to God's throne. He has pity me that I seem better to prefer a setting of given gold a voice in the affection's council-he gold than a crown from the jewels of their love-has thrust it into holy matters-he has perjured listen to the end of my simple story, and then for my sentence. There is no one I hope will think that I have been so petted by fortune, and have had my lap so loaded with its bright gifts, that I in gratitude and great affection have resolved to write its eulogy. It is not so. It is through admiration of the good deeds it does in darkness and in light (and without the expectation even of a fee as reward for my strange zeal) that I have become its champion. lips with it when uttering the marriage vow. Yet gold is good and beautiful, and its goodness shall not be hidden beneath a bushel, by reason of my dumbness. Oh! how thickly cluster bright visions before me as I write! Hosts of little ones, smiling at new frocks and shining feet; mothers with tearful eye and the clasped hands of gratitude; fathers, with a new visitor in their hearts-dear Hope. I see the lowly roof brightened, the hearths once cold, 27 glowing with a heat that sheds the living glow of cheerfulness upon the faces clustered round, the sick room with a fresh sun-ray in it through mercy's care. With a quickened sight I see the right hand's escapings so stealthily done, lest the left should know the deed. The luxury denied, that some more needy one might be gladdened thereby. I watch the secret visits of those the world misjudges, to dark and crowded places, and see them give, with liberal hand, to the hungry and the shivering. I see gold stealing through all kinds of channels into cold dwellings, and leaving there smiles all the more welcome for having been long away. How can I help becoming the champion of such a benefactor? 18 66 66 What motto has our national coin upon its forehead? Liberty!" Oh! let it be "liberty" to the crushed heart, the bowed spirit of the poor! And what a freedom it will give to your own weight of care, and lightness to any sorrow you may have! Liberty" to the burdened with debt Liberty" to the bound in vice, brought on by hopelessness! Oh, what a blessed thing to give such liberty! Poor, blind, deluded men, who keep great heaps of it, and think not that their golden liberty has become a chain of iron to keep their spirits down from the glad swelling of the generously free. Let us see how gold joins beauty and goodness, when it adorns earth's face with gardens of rich, rare plants. It has encouraged cultivation to bestow its labor on nature's wild but beautiful bouquet until it has made of it a rare thing, multiplying its beauties and increasing its costliness, until it has become the business of many to bring together all the gentlé company of flowers, from north and south, from east and west, to bud and bloom under the same rays. The GOOD of this lies in the influence, so sweet and holy, which nature breathes upon the heart o man through the perfume of its flower-incense to Him, who makes the wilderness to blossom for his children's happiness. You may say, "Yet how can I do good in this matter of bud and blossom?" There is a room with a low, dark ceiling; the room is small and close; upon the floor is a carpet, faded, but clean; and chairs once gay with paint, are ranged along the walls, ancient memorials of better days; upon the bed, covered with a neat quilt, lies the consumptive,-a young girl, with poverty for her birthright, and with a soul alive to beauty and pleasant things. bound wherever it may, steals to her like some spirit's mockery of her happiness. There are no ornaments, no gems, no hangings of silk or velvet, with their look of luxury and voice of comfort, bidding her be grateful that fortune has used her parents well, and kept her from being a burden to them. Oh, no! She sees the care-worn face of a mother bending over her, and hears at times the father's whispered counsel, about the giving up of another comfort for her sake. She has no one fair thing to look upon as she lies there with weary eyes. The cold snow is on the ground, covering every sign of life, not leaving the smallest tuft of green to warm her gaze with. At last a messenger comes from some kind being who has heard of the sick girl's slow decline. He comes from the rich-handed and gentle-hearted, to bring luxuries for the taste and comfort for the body. But dearer than all to that young spirit, pining for the fields as they looked when she left them for the couch of pain, is the gift he brings of flowers-bright, perfumed, glowing flowers! They come to her like playmates of her youth; for are they not all there, leaf, and bud, and full-blown rose, such as she gathered to her breast before it grew faint with lingering death? Ah, yes, they are there, and day after day brings fresh tokens from the flower-world, that through the cold, dark, gloomy winter's day they still smile on and hope for spring. So she, patient now that she has the "alphabet of angels" ever by her side, and can daily read its delicate teachings of "strange truths," waits with hopefulness that messenger who shall renew her lost spring-time in heaven. See you the good there is in this? If you see any, let your feet find out the way to dwellings of the sick, and in your hands bear flowers to them, which shall give the close, dark room a fragrance, which to the invalid will seem like paradise. These flowers will give to your own soul a perfume sweeter than the breath of the world's praise or the incense of fame. Gold has nobly beautified the face of earth with benevolent institutions, which rise like offerings of God's rich stewards to their poorer and distressed brethren. What a merciful work has gold here done! It has furnished homes for the sick and destitute--it has given places of refuge to those who have wept repentant tears, places in which they will receive the encouragement to reform. It has called the seaman from low haunts and miser hands, and led him to a quiet "Homo," where the still small voice cannot be drowned in noise and rioting. Let the soul rejoice that the sailor now is cared for like a brother, by those who always safe The visits of mercy's angels have been few to that sick chamber. Day after day has the young girl mused upon the sorrowful lot her God has given her. She scarcely repines at it, but visions of the smiling earth come in upon the monotonously dwell upon the "steadfast earth." That as he scene before her, and the ringing laugh of some young creature like herself, but with a foot free to steps upon the shore there are extended to him hands of earnest welcome, which are not striving for his gains, but seek to lead him to pleasant lently together, waiting, in wondering grief, the places for his body and mind. That he is dealt dreadful doom foreshadowed on their mother's with in truth, that the Bible is made a familiar and face. precious book to him. That intelligence springs up from weeds of habit and vile companionship, until the hardy veteran of the sea becomes as gentle-hearted as a child. Is this not good? If there be good in it, give these almoners some of your surplus store, and it will call down a blessing from Him who watches the mariner on the great deep. What beautiful pictures are bought with gold, what music tones it can call forth! But far more beautiful than painted scenes, like those in parlor and hall, can your gold give to memory, and far sweeter strains than even Jenny Lind's can it store up. Here is one picture-an old grey-headed man worn with want and years, now with fresh grief gazing upon his son-the only hope of the little family-who, on his bed, seems dying for want of proper food and care. His wife with bloom of cheek and brightness of eye faded by the flowing of bitter tears, sees death threatening her young husband's life, and no power in her hands to keep back the icy touch. A group of little ones sit si Let your gold and care change such a scene to one of gladness, and it shall become a picture to your memory, which shall have for its bright setting an approving heart! And the music your ears shall drink in beneath that lowly roof shall be more sweet, more moving, than whole choirs of voices, and whole bands of instruments; it will bo the tones of gratitude. Generous gold! How can the tongue of man speak so debasingly of such brightness to dark rooms, such food to hungry lips! Such a joy to the charitable, such an instrument of healing to the sick and distressed! Call it not alone" the root of evil," let your hearts resolve that it shall henceforth be a charm, a spell, which like an echo shall repeat words spoken, it may be far away, and so keep ever a tone of gratitude from the relieved fresh in your soul. There are white garments and golden harps for the faithful stewards of the Most Highthink ye those are faithful who count their gains and turn the key upon them with secret and selfish joy? A MEMORY. In my boyhood's blessed hours, Loved I well a merry maiden;And my memory still is laden With the perfume of fair flowers, Gathered in its blooming bowers. She at school was in my class; Often then were we together; Ah! love made it winsome weather; Like a spring rill o'er the grass, Did our being's current pass. We each other's feelings knew, But death breaks the strongest ties; TO MARY. Dear love, I think on thee with deep delight: And like faint music through the woods at eve, Or the melodious murmurs of a stream, Thy seraph voice floats to me, and I grieve That this is all unreal, and that thou Art never constant with me, save in thought-as now! PARK BENJAMIN. DEAR KATE,-Here I am in New-York-the now stirring the spirit by a burst of martial melody; great, busy, bustling world of New-York; and yes, that is music; there is mind, there is soul, after my year's rustication in a quiet Southern vil- there is impulse, there is character in what I now lage, you may be sure that my poor little head is hear, and you must excuse me while I hasten to almost turned! Even now, while I am writing, the open window, and linger there till I catch the there is a diabolical hand-organ, grinding under faintest echo of the rapidly-retreating harmony.the window its mechanical music, with a disgusting There! It is gone-like so many of life's pleasures little monkey-a caricature upon poor humanity--only to linger in the memory. Well! God be playing its "fantastic tricks before high heaven!" praised for that! Do not, I entreat you, suppose me in a pet, for after all, I acknowledge that hand-organs, and even monkeys, have their uses, as well as their abuses, and may, by a serious, philosophizing mind, be turned to very good account; but, just at this moment, I may perhaps be pardoned for wishing them somewhere else. Ah! now comes a band of music-real music! breathed through various instruments by the breath of human beings, playing in accordance, keeping mutual time, obeying the same harmonious impulses, now delighting the ear and affecting the heart by a soft and plaintive strain, and Day before yesterday I visited Greenwood, your beautiful cemetery. Oh, I wish I could reveal to you all the secret and varied workings of the mind within, as I wandered with a chosen friend-a kindred spirit-through that beautiful aud conse. crated ground. Thoughts too big for utterancetoo spiritual and mysterious to be clothed in words -came crowding thick and fast upon me, till at length I could contain myself no longer, and the tide of softened feeling overflowed its barriers; for tears, not bitter tears, came trickling down each cheek. To add to the solemn interest of the occasion, the bell was tolling for a funeral. It was the LETTERS FROM A SOUTHERNER IN NEW-YORK. 31 funeral of a little Southern boy, who had died while pursuing his studies in one of the city schools. His young school companions, all in uniform, and each with a badge of mourning hanging from the left elbow, marched solemnly and silently to deposit the mortal remains of the youthful stranger in his Northern grave! My busy mind instantly wandered to his home and mine, in the land of the sunny South! Had he a father? Had he a mother? Had he brothers and sisters who were yet to learn the mournful tidings that the dear little fellow who had left them, recently perhaps, in all the healthful buoyancy of his young existence, had closed his eyes in a land of strangers, and was sleeping his last sleep so far away from his Southern home? Or, was he an orphan, whose young days had been shaded by sorrow? Then, perhaps, he had gone to join the sainted dead! Then, perhaps, he had gone to complete a family in heaven! Glorious, delightful, soothing thought! At any rate, I knew that his young spirit was in the keeping of an infinitely-merciful Father, and there, well cared for, I was content to leave the little Southern boy. designate the resting-place of a youthful wife who had but recently departed to her eternal home. What a world of meaning must that one word convey to the bereaved husband, when, solitary as he must be now, his lonely footsteps seek that sacred spot! Let me tell thee, sorrowing husband, thy Mary is not lost to thee, she has but gone before;' and if thou hearest and heedest well the voice which issues from that marble tablet, it shall be well with thee! They never cau be lost to us, whose memories we love! Here lie thine ashes, dearest Mary! Those who knew thy heart, sweet Mary! Knew how pure its throbbings were; Yes, the tender mourning. Mary! All our comfort and our pride; Oh! to heaven our spirits guide! Be our guardian angel, Mary! Be our brilliant polar star! From earth's storms, and clouds, and darkness, And when from earth's loud turmoil, Mary! Let the mem'ry of thy meekness Teach us, loved one, how to mourn! I saw, too, the monument which has been re Near the entrance, sat a lady clad in the habiliments of the deepest mourning. She had been,. probably, or was going, to the grave of some loved one, "to weep there," as Jesus did! She had been mitigating or increasing the pangs of separation by the views and feelings she had been indulging at that loved-one's grave! Perhaps her sorrow was a sanctified sorrow, and she had meekly yielded up the chosen one of her heart, at the summons of her Heavenly Father, resolved to wait patiently for the period of a blissful re-union.cently erected over the grave of Dr. Abeel, the If so, she had experienced the truth of the Saviour's words" Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted!" But if not, if, in the insanity of grief, she had been dwelling on the past, disregarding the injunction of the apostle to forget the things which are behind, and press forward to those which are before, how doubly was she to be pitied! Ah, mourning heart! didst thou but know, that, when we view the matter rightly, the dead are with us, more potently and beneficially than they were in life, thy sorrow would be turned into a pensive joy, creating within thee and around thee precious and purifying influences! I pass by the splendid monuments which attract the attention of every stranger, to mention one which arrested my footsteps by its exceeding simplicity and beauty. It was a plain white marble shaft, upon which was inscribed one single word, and that was "MARY." I always loved the name, but was never before so struck with its unpretending beauty. It was the name of the virgin mother of our Lord, it was the name of her whom Jesus loved, and of the erring one whose pardon he pronounced so graciously. And here it was, to Chinese missionary. I knew and loved him well, and yet my feelings, when I stood beside his grave, had not a tinge of sadness! Indeed, why should they have? He had fought the good fight, he had finished his course, he had kept the faith, and I knew that he was in actual possession of his crown of glory! It was, then, a time and a place for joy and for triumph, and not for mourning and despondency. The Christian hero had gone to his reward, was that a cause for sadness? I have not emptied my heart of half its tide of feeling, but I must forbear; time would fail me, and perhaps your patience also, were I to attempt it. Have you ever noticed, in your Greenwood rambles, a deeply-shaded spot, most appropriately labelled " Twilight Dell?" "Tis there I would like to lay my weary head, when the toils and cares of life are over! Next to a grave in the fardistant West, where some of my loved ones sleep, or in my own Southern home, where my kindred lie, would I prefer one in the beautifully-shaded Twilight Dell of Greenwood! Yours, affectionately, |