Moods
perceived how fast she was laying down the things of this world, and
making ready to take up those of the world to come. Her father was her
faithful shadow; bent and white-haired now, but growing young at heart
in spite of sorrow, for his daughter had in truth become the blessing of
his life. Mark and Jessie brought their offering of love in little
Sylvia's shape, and the innocent consoler did her sweet work by making
sunshine in a shady place. But Moor was all in all to Sylvia, and their
friendship proved an abiding strength, for sorrow made it very tender,
sincerity ennobled it, and the coming change sanctified it to them
both.
April came; and on her birthday, with a grateful heart, Moor gathered
the first snow-drops of the year. All day they stood beside her couch,
as fragile and as pale as she, and many eyes had filled as loving
fancies likened her to the slender, transparent vase, the very spirit of
a shape, and the white flowers that had blossomed beautifully through
the snow. When the evening lamp was lighted, she took the little posy in
her hand, and lay with her eyes upon it, listening to the book Moor
read, for this hour always soothed the unrest of the day. Very quiet was
the pleasant room, with no sounds in it but the soft flicker of the
fire, the rustle of Faith's needle, and the subdued music of the voice
that patiently went reading on, long after Sylvia's eyes had closed,
lest she should miss its murmur. For an hour she seemed to sleep, so
motionless, so colorless, that her father, always sitting at her side,
bent down at last to listen at her lips. The lips smiled, the eyes
unclosed, and she looked up at him, with an expression as tender as
tranquil.
"A long sleep and pleasant dreams that wake you smiling?" he asked.
"Beautiful and happy thoughts, father; let me tell you some of them. As
I lay here, I fell to thinking of my life, and at first it seemed the
sorrowfullest failure I had ever known. Whom had I made happy? What had
I done worth the doing? Where was the humble satisfaction that should
come hand in hand with death? At first I could find no answers to my
questions, and though my one and twenty years do not seem long to live,
I felt as if it would have been better for us all if I had died, a
new-born baby in my mother's arms."
"My child, say anything but that, because it is I who have made your
life a failure."
"Wait a little father, and you will see that it is a beautiful success.
I _have_ given happiness, _have_ done something worth the doing; now I
see a compensation for all seeming loss, and heartily thank God that I
did not die till I had learned the true purpose of all lives. He knows
that I say these things humbly, that I claim no virtue for myself, and
have been a blind instrument in His hand, to illustrate truths that will
endure when I am forgotten. I have helped Mark and Jessie, for,
remembering me, they will feel how blest they are in truly loving one
another. They will keep little Sylvia from making mistakes like mine,
and the household joys and sorrows we have known together, will teach
Mark to make his talent a delight to many, by letting art interpret
nature."
Her brother standing behind her stooped and kissed her, saying through
his tears--
"I shall remember, dear."
"I have helped Geoffrey, I believe. He lived too much in the affections,
till through me he learned that none may live for love alone. Genius
will be born of grief, and he will put his sorrow into song to touch and
teach other hearts more gently than his own has been, so growing a
nobler and a richer man for the great cross of his life."
Calm, with the calmness of a grief too deep for tears, and strong in a
devout belief, Moor gave his testimony as she paused.
"I shall endeavor, and now I am as grateful for the pain as for the joy,
because together they will show me how to live, and when I have learned
that I shall be ready to come to you."
"I think I have served Adam. He needed gentleness as Geoffrey needed
strength, and I, unworthy as I am, woke that deep heart of his and made
it a fitter mate for his great soul. To us it seems as if he had left
his work unfinished, but God knew best, and when he was needed for a
better work he went to find it. Yet I am sure that he was worthier of
eternal life for having known the discipline of love."
There was no voice to answer now, but Sylvia felt that she would receive
it very soon and was content.
"Have you no lesson for your father? The old man needs it most."
She laid her thin hand tenderly on his, that if her words should bring
reproach, she might seem to share it with him.
"Yes, father, this. That if the chief desire of the heart is for the
right, it is possible for any human being, through all trials,
temptations, and mistakes, to bring good out of evil, hope from despair,
success from defeat, and come at last to know an hour as beautiful and
blest as this."
Who could doubt that _she_ had learned the lesson, when from the ruins
of the perishable body the imperishable soul rose steadfast and serene,
proving that after the long bewilderment of life and love it had
attained the eternal peace.
The room grew very still, and while those about her pondered her words
with natural tears, Sylvia lay looking up at a lovely picture that
seemed leaning down to offer her again the happiest memory of her youth.
It was a painting of the moonlight voyage down the river. Mark had given
it that day, and now when the longer, sadder voyage was nearly over, she
regarded it with a tender pleasure. The moon shone full on Warwick,
looking out straight and strong before him with the vigilant expression
native to his face; a fit helmsman to guide the boat along that rapid
stream. Mark seemed pausing to watch the oars silvered by the light, and
their reflections wavy with the current. Moor, seen in shadow, leaned
upon his hand, as if watching Sylvia, a quiet figure, full of grace and
color, couched under the green arch. On either hand the summer woods
made vernal gloom, behind the cliffs rose sharply up against the blue,
and all before wound a shining road, along which the boat seemed
floating like a bird on slender wings between two skies.
So long she lay forgetful of herself and all about her, that Moor saw
she needed rest, for the breath fluttered on her lips, the flowers had
fallen one by one, and her face wore the weary yet happy look of some
patient child waiting for its lullaby.
"Dear, you have talked enough; let me take you up now, lest the
pleasant day be spoiled by a sleepless night."
"I am ready, yet I love to stay among you all, for in my sleep I seem to
drift so far away I never quite come back. Good night, good night; I
shall see you in the morning."
With a smile, a kiss for all, they saw her fold her arms about her
husband's neck, and lay down her head as if she never cared to lift it
up again. The little journey was both a pleasure and pain to them, for
each night the way seemed longer to Sylvia, and though the burden
lightened the bearer grew more heavy-hearted. It was a silent passage
now, for neither spoke, except when one asked tenderly, "Are you easy,
love?" and the other answered, with a breath that chilled his cheek,
"Quite happy, quite content."
So, cradled on the heart that loved her best, Sylvia was gently carried
to the end of her short pilgrimage, and when her husband laid her down
the morning had already dawned.
FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD,
By the Author of "The Gayworthys," "Boys at Chequasset"
_1 vol., 12mo. Elegant fancy cloth. Price $1.75._
This charming story fills a void long felt for something for a young
girl, growing into womanhood, to read.
It depicts that bewitching period in life, lying between FOURTEEN and
TWENTY, with its noble aspirations, and fresh enthusiasms. It is written
by a very accomplished lady, and is "_the best book ever written for
girls_."
A lady of rare culture says,--
"'Faith Gartney's Girlhood,' is a noble, good work, that could only have
been accomplished by an elevated mind united to a chaste, tender heart.
From the first page to the last, the impression is received of a life
which has been lived; the characters are genuine, well drawn, skilfully
presented; they are received at once with kind, friendly greeting, and
followed with interest, till the last page compels a reluctant farewell.
"'The book is written for girls, growing as they grow to womanhood.' The
story has an interest, far beyond that found in modern romances of the
day, conveyed in pure, refined language; suggestive, pleasing thoughts
are unfolded on every page; the reflective and descriptive passages are
natural, simple, and exquisitely finished.
"In these days, when the tendency of society is to educate girls for
heartless, aimless, factitious life, a book like this is to be welcomed
and gratefully received. Wherever it is read, it will be retained as a
thoughtful, suggestive--if silent--friend."
MAINSTONE'S HOUSEKEEPER.
By Miss Eliza Meteyard (Silverpen).
_1 vol., 12mo. Elegant fancy cloth. Price $1.50._
Douglas Jerrold gave this distinguished English authoress this "_nom de
plume_," and her style has the point, brightness, and delicacy which it
suggests.--This is not a cook book as the title might mislead some to
suppose, but a fresh, vigorous, powerful story of English country life,
full of exquisite pictures of rural scenery, with a plot which is
managed with great skill, and a surprise kept constantly ahead so that
from the opening to the close the interest never flags. There is life in
every page and a fresh, delicate, hearty sentiment pervades the book
that exhilarates and charms indescribably.
The heroine--Charlotte the housekeeper--is one of the finest characters
ever drawn, and merits unqualified commendation.
As a whole, for beauty of style and diction, passionate earnestness,
effective contrasts, distinctness of plot, unity, and completeness, this
novel is without a rival. It is a "midnight darling" that Charles Lamb
would have exulted in, and perhaps the best as yet produced from a
woman's pen.
SIMPLICITY AND FASCINATION.
BY ANNE BEALE.
_1 vol., 12mo. Elegant fancy cloth. Price $1.50._
It is not often that such a sound and yet readable English novel is
republished in America.
The due mean between flashiness and dulness is hard to be attained, but
we have it here.
There is neither a prosy page nor a sensational chapter in it.
It is a nice book for a clean hearth and an easy chair.
It is a natural, healthy book, written by a living person, about people
of flesh and blood, who might have been our neighbors, and of events,
which might happen to anybody. This is a great charm in a novel. This
leaves a clean taste in the mouth, and a delicious memory of the feast.
The tone of it is high and true, without being obtrusively good. Such a
book is as great a relief amid the sensational stories of the day, as a
quiet little bit of "still life" is to the eye, after being blinded by
the glaring colors of the French school.
This novel reproduces that exquisite tone or flavor so hard to express
which permeates true English country life, and gives to it a peculiar
charm unlike any other, which one having once seen and felt, lives as it
were under a spell, and would never willingly allow to fade from their
memory.
Too much cannot be said in praise of Simplicity and Fascination.
PIQUE:
A Tale of the English Aristocracy.
_1 vol., 12mo. Elegant fancy cloth. Price $ 1.50._
Three thousand eight hundred and seventy-six new books were published in
England this last year, which is about the average number of past years.
Thirteen years ago Pique was first published in London, and up to the