THE OLD SOLDIER. RIVER OF LETHE. BY ROSE RAMBLE. By thy bright water's magic stream, I oft would rest and gladly dream That blest oblivion's pall were cast O'er all the sad and troubled past. When comes regret like spectre dark Thy stream is bright, O magic river; Thou canst from grief and pain deliver : Yet he who quaff's thy crystal stream May ne'er recall the past again. If power were mine, would I not shrink pause as on thy waves I gaze One prayer of gratitude to raise ? Though bright-winged birds sweet songs may sing, In waving boughs soft zephyrs play. Though fairest flowers bend o'er thy wave No, no; I'll ne'er the past resign, Fast by the throne of God, there flows THE OLD SOLDIER. BY REV. 8. H. ELLIOT. I HAD called him the old Pensioner; but a moment's reflection convinced me that this would be an error. He was a petitioner, not a pensioner. The old soldier served in the American army during the Revolution. He went into the service at the age of seventeen, when a mere boy, in the place of one who had been drafted and who had a dependent family. Many a long and wet and cold night he slept upon the ground during that service, many a comrade lost at his side in the hour of battle, many a grave dug for a fellow-soldier, many a stern shock of the foe resisted, that he might secure the freedom of his native land from the oppressor. I saw him when the war had long passed by. He was old and gray-haired. More than eighty years had gone over-him. His countenance was mild and venerable, although the iron frame of the soldier was bent somewhat with age; still his voice was clear and strong, his eye was bright, his heart cheerful. And he would recount to us the scenes of other days, as though living in them, still an actor. When the war closed, he betook himself to a trade and followed it till he was past fifty years old. About this time he began to suffer a lameness in one of his limbs, and a cancer made its appearance. This arose from his night exposures during the war. In a year or two more, he lost his wife. When I first knew him, he was over eighty years of age, and thirty-three of those years had been years of suffering from the lameness and humor referred to. Thirty years he had been a widower. He was the sire of a numerous house. His children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren gathered about, and showed him the kindest attention and reverence. A devoted daughter consecrated her life to his comfort. The entire family circle denied themselves to cherish and support their venerated father. On a gentle hillock, just nigh to which flowed the shrubbery-bound creek that came down in a meandering flow through the meadows, and shaded by the far-spreading branches of an old oak tree, stood the old cottage home of the soldier. Like himself, it was worn nearly away, and the fence that guarded the enclosed grounds was also weak, brown and tottling. The ancient piazza was almost gone: all looked worn and antique, the barns, the sheds, the wagons, and carts; and still an air of comfort rested around the premises. And the old burying-ground where the neighboring families carried their dead, occupied the southern slope of the same hillock on which the house was built, just beyond the garden fence. Within the dwelling, the great neatness that was every where displayed, made amends for the dilapidated appearances without. And in one corner of the sitting-room, near the open fireplace, with his staff in his hand, sat the soldier with gray locks, and stalwart frame, and cheerful countenance-the soldier of eighty years, and the petitioner to Congress for a pension! TWENTY YEARS he had petitioned that body respectfully and earnestly for relief. But he had no documents. In the excess of his patriotism in earlier days, and relying on his own strength and ingenuity for securing him the means of living, he had destroyed them. The years rolled on, "SHADY SIDE." and of his acquaintances and comrades in the army, at last none survived. He became old, and infirm, and poor. When want pressed upon the old soldier, at the earnest solicitations of his friends, he made out his case as he could best recollect it, and by honorable senators, the PETITION of an old, time-worn veteran of the Revolution went before the Great American Congress. “Twice and again" he thus knocked at the doors of the nation: a beggar soldier, bruised, and gray, and patriotic, lay at the door. Honorable names ought to obtain for him at least a pittance of the national funds, for his sufferings were at times utterly inexpressible. One generous effort more. He obtains the trembling signatures, the real autographs of three or four octogenarians in the parish, certifying his actual service in the army, the name of the captain of his division, and his present penury. But the petition met with opposition. It was wanting some material facts, and Senator and Representative failed to secure it a hearing. The soldier grew weaker as time rubbed him more roughly. The aged witnesses referred to, one of them over ninety, at last died. The veteran of the war remained the oldest male inhabitant of the town. But no answer comes from the halls over which the proud banner of the country waves, and still he is a patriot! "There is no land like this, no government so good, no people so great. God's blessing on it." I have heard him thus eulogize his country when myself the bearer to him of tidings that crushed his heart. At last, trembling and weak and old, the soldier lay down and died. His daughter smoothed the pillow of the old man for his last repose, and son and daughter and a numerous household gathered in respectful silence around the couch where the petitioner died. He was a Christian man. Never did he sit at meat but he first, in full and earnest voice, asked Heaven's blessing. Daily he laid his beating heart before the Throne; and when he breathed his last, a great and good, though poor and humble and neglected soldier of the army of the Great Revolution, who did his part to gain the victories of the eight years, war, went, it may be, an accuser of his brethren to the courts above. Having been called to attend his funeral, which took place about one year ago, I dictated the following note on my return, which, however, was not forwarded, toe talented and worthy Sena tor of the district by whose assistance we had anticipated the relief of Congress: Hon. R. S. B―n: Dear. Sir: I have this afternoon been called 891 to the funeral of a common acquaintance. Mr. OLIVER TUCKER, the aged man and soldier who has petitioned Congress through yourself and others for relief-and for twenty years in vain— ̧ has left the world. He died within the walls of his own dilapidated mansion in the adjoining town of Woodbridge, just at the friendly hour of noon on the day of public Thanksgiving, surrounded by his children, grandchildren, and greatgrandchildren. He died in the house where he had continually resided fifty years, being lame thirtythree, and a sufferer from a cancer produced during the night exposures of the Revolutionary service. Thirty years ago he buried his wife, and with fortitude and Christian resignation has borne himself manfully through every trial, and through all his distressing sufferings to the period of life. Either from the absence of the requisite. documents or the brevity of his service, his repeat ed petitions to Congress have been disregarded. This upright, cheerful, prayerful, patriotic soldier and Christian has at length ceased to need, and will no longer ask the bounty of his countrymen to comfort him in his old age. He has entered the mansions of rest above.-YOU CAN WITHDRAW THE PETITIONS. SHADY SIDE is a simple, natural and truthful narrative of life in a country parsonage; or rather a most life-like and vivid picture of the actual, the real, as it is daily experienced in the homes and the hearts of hundreds of laborious pastors who are stationed as watchmen, not on the high towers of Zion, but in her lowliest places; filling up unnoticed breaches in her walls; standing as porters at her postern gates, or humble door-keepers within the house of God. As the name Shady Side implies, the sombre tints prevail throughout the picture, and the deep shadows almost hide the lights; but what of that?-the light of heaven is gleaming in the far horizon; and the pathway of our travellers through the earthly dark, winds upwards and away to that celestial gate through which the heavenly glory shines so bright. This admirable little work is kindred to its predecessor, "Sunny Side," in many other respects than its title, and its general aim and scope. The mantle of the accomplished authoress of the former narrative has fallen with a 392 THE PROPHETIC DEW-DROP. double portion of her spirit upon the writer of the latter. It has the same naturalness and truthfulness of conception which made Sunny Side an "o'er true tale;" the same noble ideal of womanly and Christian character, and the same unpretending elegance and simplicity of style. This story has a moral, too, like that; and will do great good by the wholesome lessons to which it is indirectly calling the attention of the churches and the Christian public generally. In the present state of society, the ordination Vow must be a vow of poverty and self-denialto the utter renunciation of all the temporal goods which secular life and business offer to enterprise and industry. If, then, earnest, devout and able men-men whose energy and ability would insure them success in any trade or profession are willing to forego all their chances of a prize in the lottery of life and business, that they may devote themselves to the service of the Church, they ought not to be regarded as religious mendicants who live on her charities, but as laborers worthy of their hire, who are to be cheerfully and liberally supported and cared for, in sickness as well as in health, in the decrepitude and uselessness of old age, as well as in their manly prime, when they are able to bear the heat and burden of the day. But these little books have a lesson and a moral, stern and admonitory, to pastors as well as people, and to pastors' wives and families as well as to those in whose midst they are placed to live and labor. What patience and painstaking devotion to his work; what self-renunciation; what faith, and patience, and courage, and hope are needed to make the faithful pastor -a pastor deserving the support, and love, and confidence of a faithful and generous people! And then the pastor's wife. What a beautiful, but unapproachable ideal; what an inimitable model of womanly excellence is the gentle, the patient and loving Mary Vernon; wise, and strong, and earnest to combat with the ills of life; quiet, decided, self-possessed; commanding reverence, yet never wanting in those winning amiabilities which gain the heart, and make her worthier still of love than reverence! Such models are angelical, and utterly unapproachable by any woman's wit or wisdom; by learning, talents or accomplishments; by native ease, or grace, or goodness. It is by prayer, and self-communion, and the indwelling love of God and goodness, that such outward results in conduct and character are realized; and thrice blessed are the noble Marthas and loving Marys who sit at Jesus' feet, and learn of Him until they catch His spirit, and reflect the beauty and glory of His divine life in the little sphere of daily life and duty where His providence has placed them. Of late, the question of " Woman's Rights" has been much debated and discussed; and wise, and liberal, and honest minds have expressd very contradictory and conflicting views on this much-vexed question, fand, therefore, both Woman's Rights and Woman's Wrongs are subjects still debatable between Progressives and Conservatives; but Woman's CAPABILITIES, a cognate subject, is no longer on the docket to be tried or argued. That is settled. The "Log Cabin," and kindred portraitures of life among the lowly, to which we may now add "Shady Side," speak volumes on this subject, and show what unwrought veins of precious virgin ore lie hid in woman's intellect and heart, waiting but liberal culture, and a generous approving smile from wiser heads and stouter hearts, to add inestimably to the wealth and worth of our standard and current literature. THE PROPHETIC DEW-DROP. BY E. L. E. A THOUGHTFUL child, with pallid brow, Along the garden's glistening path, The sun has gathered in his wrath. A beautiful and matchless bow. "Now look, my son," the father cried : "The morning dew is gleaming yet; In yonder sky, with gorgeous pride, Those gems are gloriously reset. "No more the careless hand of man To earth may dash their glory down, But, purified by God's own plan, They sparkle in a heavenly crown. "Then learn, my son, the gems of love That first from mortal life are riven, With lustre purer far in heaven." Thus spake the sire; but of the child, Prophetic words to him were given: For soon his spirit was exhaled Like morning dew-drops into heaven. |