With hair floating in sunny light, and down the old man's cheek, from a slight wound oned folks. his forehead. the dormant blood-thirstiness in the tiger-heart of the soldier, who now swore that if the old man did not instantly repeat the words after him, he would shoot him dead. And, as if cruelty were contagious, almost the whole party agreed that the demand was but reasonable, and the old hypocritical knave must preach or perish. "Damn him," cried one of them, in a fury, here is the Word of God, a great musty Bible, stinking of greasy black leather, worse than a whole tanyard. If he won't speak, I will gag him with a vengeance. Here, old Mr. Peden the prophet, let me cram a few chapters of St. Luke down your maw. St. Luke was a physician, I believe. Well, here is a dose of him. Open your jaws." And with these words, he tore a handful of leaves out of the Bible, and advanced towards the old man, from whose face his terrified wife was now wiping|joy; "ay—ay, you will be all happy to-night, when off the blood. The sight of it seemed to awaken seemingly wreathed with flowers of heavenly azure, with eyes beaming lustre, and yet streaming tears, with white arms extending in their beauty, and motion gentle and gliding as the sunshine when a cloud is rolled away, came on over the meadow befor the hut, the same green-robed creature that had startled the soldiers with her singing on the moor, and crying loudly but still sweetly, "God sent me hither to save their lives." She fell down beside them as they knelt together; and then, lifting up her head from the turf, fixed her beautiful face, instinct with fear, love, hope, and the spirit of prayer, upon the eyes of the men about to shed that innocent blood. They all stood heart-stricken, and the executioners flung down their muskets upon the green-sward. "God bless you, kind, good soldier, for this," exclaimed the child, now weeping and sobbing with you lie down to sleep. If you have any little daughters or sisters like me, God will love them for your mercy to us, and nothing, till you return home, will hurt a hair of their heads. Oh! I see now that soldiers are not so cruel as we say!" Lilias, your Samuel Grieve was nearly fourscore; but his sinews were not yet relaxed, and in his younger days he had been a man of great strength. When, therefore, the soldier grasped him by the neck, the sense of receiving an indignity from such a slave, made grandfather speaks unto you;- his last words arehis blood boil, and, as if his youth had been renew-leave us-leave us-for they are going to put us to ed, the gray-haired man, with one blow, felled the death. Soldiers, kill not this little child, or the waruffian to the floor ters of the loch will rise up and drown the sons of perdition. Lilias, give us each a kiss-and then go into the house." That blow sealed his doom. There was a fierce tumult and yelling of wrathful voices, and Samuel Grieve was led out to die. He had witnessed such The soldiers conversed together for a few minutes, butchery of others- and felt that the hour of his and seemed now like men themselves condemned to martyrdom was come. "As thou didst reprove die. Shame and remorse for their coward cruelty, Simon Peter in the garden, when he smote the High smote them to the core—and they bade them that Priest's servant, and saidst, The cup which my were still kneeling to rise up and go their waysFather hath given me, shall I not drink it!' So, then, forming themselves into regular order, one now, oh, my Redeemer, do thou pardon me, thy frail gave the word of commaud, and, marching off, they and erring follower, and enable me to drink this soon disappeared. The old man, his wife, and little cup!" With these words the old man knelt down, Lilias, continued for some time on their kuees in unbidden; and, after one solemn look to Heaven, prayer, and then all three went into their hut-the closed his eyes, and folded his hands across his child between them-and a withered hand of each breast. laid upon its beautiful and its fearless head. THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT. His wife now came forward, and knelt down beside the old man. "Let us die together, Samuel; but, oh! what will become of our dear Lilias?" "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," said her husband, opening not his eyes, but taking her hand into his," Sarah-be not afraid." "Oh! Sam- The following was inspired hy the facts elicited uel, I remember at this moment, these words of by investigating the condition of the children emJesus, which you this morning read-Forgive ployed in the mines, factories, &c. of Great Britain. them, Father, they know not what they do.'" "We are all sinners together," said Samuel, with a loud Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers! voice-we, two old gray-headed people, on our knees, and about to die, both forgive you all, as we hope ourselves to be forgiven. We are ready-be merciful, and do not mangle us. Sarah, be not afraid." It seemed that an angel was sent down from Heaven to save the lives of these two old gray-head Ere the sorrow comes with years? The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young flowers are blowing from the West; 36 But the young, young children, O my brothers ! They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the play-time of the others, In the country of the free. Leave us quiet in the dark of our coal-shadows "For, oh!" say the children, "we are weary, And we cannot run or leap: Do you question the young children in their sorrow, If we cared for any meadows, it were merely Why their tears are falling so? The old man may weep for his to-morrow, Which is lost in long ago, The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost! They look up with their pale and sunken faces, For the Man's grief untimely draws and presses "Your old Earth," they say, "is very dreary! Our young feet," they say, "are very weak! Few paces have we taken, yet are weary Our grave-rest is very far to seek! Ask the old why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewild'ring, And the graves are for the old. "True," say the children, " it may happen Little Alice died last year, the grave is shapen We looked into the pit prepared to take her, Was no room for any work in the close clay! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying-Get up, little Alice, it is day!" If you listen by that grave in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries; Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the new smile which has grown within her eyes. For merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud, by the kirk chime! "It is good when it happens," say the children, "That we die before our time!" Alas, the young children! they are seeking They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall on our face trying to go; And underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow; For all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark underground, All day long the wheels are droning, turning, Till our hearts turn, and our heads with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places! Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that droopeth down the wall, Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling, All are turning all the day, and we with all! All day long, the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, "O, ye wheels, (breaking off in a mad moaning,) Stop! be silent for to-day!" Ay, be silent let them hear each other breathing, For a moment, mouth to mouth; Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing, Of their tender human youth; Let them feel that this cold metallic motion, Is not all the life God giveth them to feel; Let them prove their inward souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheel! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, As if fate in each were stark! And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the weary children, O my brothers! For the blessed One who blesseth all the others, They answer-Who is God, that He should hear us, Pass unhearing-at least, answer not a word; And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door. Is it likely God with angels singing round Him, "Two words, indeed, of praying we remember; Our Father! looking upward in our chamber, We say softly for a charm.* We say no other words except Our Father! INSTINCT OF CHILDHOOD. BY JOHN NEAL. And we think that, in some pause of angel's song, He may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather. And hold both in his right hand, which is strong.ing branches of a prodigious elm-the largest and Our Father! If He heard us, He would surely (For they call him good and mild) Answer, (smiling down the steep world very purely,) Come and rest with me, my child.'" "But no," say the children, weeping faster, And they tell us of His image is the master "Go to," say the children; up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find! Do not mock us! we are atheists in our grieving, We look up to Him, but tears have made us blind!" Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye teach? A beautiful child stood near a large open window. The window was completely overshadowed by wild grape and blossoming honey-suckle, and the droophandsomest you ever saw. The child was leaning forward with half-open mouth and thoughtful eyes, looking into the firmament of green leaves forever at play, that appeared to overhang the whole neighborhood; and her loose, bright hair, as it broke away in the cheerful morning wind, glittered like stray sunshine among the branches and blossoms. Just underneath her feet, and almost within reach of her little hand, swung a large and prettily covered bird cage, all open to the sky! The broad plentiful grape leaves lay upon it in heaps-the morning wind blew pleasantly through it, making the very music that birds and children love best-and the delicate branches of the drooping elm swept over it—and the glow of blossoming herbage round about fell with a sort of shadowy lustre upon the For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, basin of bright water, and the floor of glittering And the children doubt of each! And well may the children weep before ye, They are weary ere they run! They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun! They know the grief of men, but not the wisdom, They sink in their despair, with hope at calm, Are slaves without liberty in Christdom, Are martyrs by the pang, without the palm! Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly- They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, For you think you see their angels in their places, "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation! Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart? Trample down with mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants! And your purple shows your path, The report of the commissioners present repeated instances of children, whose religious devotion is confined to the repetition of the two first words of the Lord's Prayer. "A spirit of pure and intense humanity, a spirit of love and kindness, to which nothing is too large, for which nothing is too small, will always be its own "exceeding great reward." sand within the cage. "Well, if ever!" said the child; and then she stooped and pulled away the trailing branches and looked into the cage; and then her lips began to tremble, and her soft eyes filled with tears. Within the cage was the mother bird, fluttering and whistling-not cheerfully, but mournfully-and beating herself to death against the delicate wires; and three little bits of birds watching her, openmouthed, and trying to follow her from perch to perch, as she opened and shut her golden wings, like sudden flashes of sunshine, and darted hither and thither, as if hunted by some invisible thing—or a a cat foraging in the shrubbery. Therc, now! there you go again! you foolish thing, you! Why what is the matter? I should be ashamed of myself! I should so! Hav'nt we bought the prettiest cage in the world for you? Hav'nt you had enough to eat, and the best that could be had for love or money-sponge cake—loaf sugar, and all sorts of seeds? Didn't father put up a nest with his own hands; and havn't I watched over you? you ungrateful little thing! till the eggs they put there had all turned to birds, no bigger than grasshoppers, and so noisy-ah, you can't think! Just look at the beautiful clear water there and the clean white sand-where do you think you could find such water as that, or such a pretty glass dish, or such beautiful bright sand, if we were to take you at your word, and let you out, with that little nest full of young ones, to shift for yourselves, hey ?" The door opened, and a tall benevolent looking man stepped up to her side. The father looked down among the grass and shrubbery, and up into the top branches, and then into the cage-the countenance of the poor little girl growing more and more perplexed and more sorrowful every moment. "But father-dear father!" laying her little hand on the spring of the cage door, "dear father! would you ?" "And why not, my dear child?" and the father's eyes filled with tears, and he stooped down and Well, father-what is it? does it see any kissed the bright face upturned to his, and glowing thing?" as if illuminated with inward sunshine. «Why "No my love, nothing to frighten her; but where not ?" is the father bird?" "He's in the other cage. He made such a to-do when the birds began to chipper this morning, that I was obliged to let him out; and brother Bobby, he frightened him into the cage and carried him off." "Was that right, my love ?" "I was only thinking, father, if I should let them out, who will feed them?" "Who feeds the young ravens, dear? Who feeds the ten thousand little birds that are flying about us now?" "True, father; but they have never been impri"Why not, father? He would'nt be quiet, you soned, you know, and have already learned to take care of themselves." know; and what was I to do?" "But, Moggy, dear, these little birds may want their father to help to feed them; the poor mother bird may want him to take care of them, or sing to her? 46 Or, perhaps, to show them how to fly, father?" "Yes, dear. And to separate them just nowhow would you like to have me carried off, and put into another house, leaving nothing at home but your mother to watch over you and the rest of my little birds ?" The child grew more thoughtful. She looked up into her father's face, and appeared as if more than half disposed to ask a question, which might be a little out of place; but she forbore, and after musing a few moments, went back to the original subject: "But father, what can be the matter with the poor thing? you see how she keeps flying about, and the little ones trying to follow her, and tumbling upon their noses, and toddling about as if they were tipsy, and could'nt see straight." "I am afraid she is getting discontented." "Discontented! How can that be, father? Has'nt she her little ones about her, and every thing on earth she can wish, and then, you know, she never used to be so before." "When her mate was with her, perhaps." Yes, father; and yet now I think of it, the moment these little witches began to peep-peep, and tumble about so funny, the father and mother began to fly about in the cage, as if they were crazy. What can be the reason? The water, you see, is cool and clear; the sand bright; they are out in the open air, with all the green leaves blowing about them; their cage has been scoured with soap and sand; the fountain filled; and the seed box-and-| and-I declare I cannot think what ails them." "My love, may it not be the very things you speak of? Things which you think ought to make them happy, are the very cause of all their trouble, you see. The father and mother are separated. How can they teach their young to fly in that cage! How teach them to provide for themselves?" The father looked up and smiled. Worthy of profound consideration, my dear; I admit your plea; but have a care lest you overrate the danger and the difficulty, in your unwillingness to part with your beautiful little birds." "Father!" and the little hand pressed upon the spring, and the door flew open-wide open! Stay, my child! What you do must he done thoughtfully, conscientiously, so that you may be satisfied with yourself, hereafter, and allow me to hear all your objections." "I was thinking, father, about the cold rains, and the long winters, and how the poor little birds that have been so long confined would never be able to find a place to sleep in, or water to wash in, or seeds for their little ones." In our climate, my love, the winters are very short; and the rainy season itself does not drive the birds away; and then, you know, birds always fol. low the sun; if our climate is too cold for them, they have only to go farther south. But in a word, my love, you are to do as you would be done by. As you would not like to have me separated from your mother and you; as you would not like to be imprisoned for life, though your cage were crammed with loaf sugar and sponge cake-as you-” "That'll do father! that's enough! Brother Bobby hither Bobby! bring the little cage with you; there's a dear !" Brother Bobby sang out in reply; and after a moment or two of anxious inquiry, appeared at the window with a little cage. The prison doors were opened: the father bird escaped; the mother bird immediately followed, with a cry of joy; and then came back and tolled her little ones forth among the bright green leaves. The children clapped their hands in an ecstacy, and the father fell upon their necks and kissed them; and the mother, who sat by, sobbed over them both for a a whole hour, as if her heart would break; and told her neighbors with tears in her eyes. have done for her; giving her the best room that we could spare; feeding her from our own table; clothing her from our own wardrobe; giving her the handsomest and shrewdest fellow for a husband within twenty miles of us; allowing them to live together till a child is born; and now, because we have thought proper to send him away for a while, where he may earn his keep-now, forsooth! we are to find my lady discontent with her situation!" 46 Dear father!" "Hush, child!" Ay, discontented-that's the word-actually dissatisfied with her condition! the jade! with the best of every thing to make her happy-comforts and luxuries she could never dream of obtaining if she were free to-morrow-and always contented; never presuming to be discontented till now." "And what does she complain of father?" "Why, my dear child, the unreasonable thing complains just because we have sent her husband away to the other plantation for a few months; he was idle here, and might have grown discontented, too, if we had not picked him off. And then, instead of being happier, and more thankful-more thankful to her heavenly Father, for the gift of a man child, Martha tells me that she found her crying over it, calling it a little slave, and wished the Lord would take it away from her-the ungrateful wench! when the death of that child would be two hundred dollars out of my pocket-every cent of it!" "After all we have done for her too!" sighed the mother. "I declare I have no patience with the jade!" continued the father. "Father-dear father!" "Be quiet, Moggy? don't teaze me now." "But, father!" and, as she spoke, the child ran up to her father and drew him to the window, and threw back her sun-shiny tresses, and looked up into his eyes with the face of an angel, and pointed to the cage as it still hung at the window, with the door wide open! The father understood her, and colored to the eyes; and then, as if half ashamed of the weakness, bent over and kissed her forehead-smoothed down her silky hair-and told her she was a child now, and must not talk about such matters till she had grown older. "Why not, father?" "Why not? Why bless your little heart! Suppose I were silly enough to open my doors and turn her adrift, with her child at her breast, what would become of her? Who would take care of her? who feed her?" « Who feeds the ravens, father! Who takes care of all the white mothers, and all the white babes we see?" "Yes, child-but then-I know what you are thinking of; but then-there's a mighty difference, let me tell you, between a slave mother and a white mother -between a slave child and a white child." Wearing no friend-like smile When thine heart is not within, Making no truce with fraud or guile, No compromise with sin. Open of eye and speech, Open of heart and hand, Holding thine own but as in trust For thy great brother-band. Patient and stout to bear, Yet bearing not for ever; Gentle to rule, and slow to bind, Like lightning to deliver! True to thy fatherland, True to thine own true love; True to thine altar and thy creed, And thy good God above. But with no bigot scorn For faith sincere as thine, Remembering Him who spake Where two or three in my name meet I bar thee not from faults- Since that primeval stain! |