wonder he did not know the writing. How feeble the traces of the pen-how blotted was it with tears-how disfigured this last earthly work of his once loved wife!

MY OWN DEAR CLARENCE,-We have met for the last time on earth, and soon my spirit will be at home among the loved of other years. But in that glorious abode of light, I shall never forget thee. Thy love, precious as life itself, which shed such a brightness upon my way, will surely again turn to me, and thy tears will sanctify my place of rest. Let me be buried on the banks of our lovely stream, and dearest, as you wander there, let no gloom overshadow the place. Our child will soon follow me, and then, when bereft of both, how sad and desolate will you be, for no other love can again be as ours. Tell Georgine I forgive her she has injured herself more than me. I forgive thee also, my own, and do not mourn as one without hope. Turn your eyes away from the fleeting, unsubstantial shadows that bespread this earth, and lift up your vision to Hope's rainbow-arch spanning the horizon of sorrow and despair. In the dear places consecrated to our affection, I will be present to thee as a consoler. I can write no more. Adieu.

ANNIE.

THE parlor of the Westerly homestead! But where are the gay and joyous occupants? Where are Annie and sweet little Mary? A tablet, with the simple inscription, "My Annie and Mary. We shall meet in Heaven," marks their place of repose, and the stream sings as sweetly, and the birds carol as blithely as before they were there laid to rest. Ay more so! and the flowers seem to bend more gracefully into the stream, and many cluster lovingly over the ashes of those undivided hearts. Where is the faithful old Elsie? She is calmly resting by the side of those, whom she so unselfishly cared for in life and whom she so soon followed. Where is the queenly, but unprincipled Georgine? Discovering that Clarence was restored to himself again, and no longer ensnared by her artifices, refusing to wed her, who had so seduced him in thought and word from the path of duty, she abruptly left his house the very day after the funeral, and he had never discovered any traces of her. Where is Clarence? In his favorite chair-but not the youthful Clarence with his beaming eyes, his dark hair and high, unwrinkled brow. It is the Clarence Westerly

with gray hair and sorrow-dimmed eyes and bowed, sunken frame-the widowed and childless minister of God, who, meekly and reverently, breaks the bread of life to his rustic, small congregation of believers, never failing, by tokens which speak his own experience, to tell them that "the way of the transgressor is hard."

There is another occupant of the old parlorthe same we have seen watching over the sleep of Annie and Mary-but she has grown much older. She is speaking now to Clarence in a mild, subdued tone, as he takes from a peculiar drawer in his escritoire, two small, time-worn letters, and is gazing out at the grave of his wife and child. "Do not read those letters, to-day, my dear son, surely your repentance has washed out your guilt, and Annie, who never ceased loving you on earth, is not unmindful of you

above."

"I know it, my more than mother, I know it, I feel it. To-day, I have passed through a strange experience. You know I was called this morning to the bedside of the dying. Judge of my surprise to see the once gay and beautiful Georgine Rossiter, my companion in wrong, now an attenuated, miserable, dying woman— a woman that bore the impress of a life of evil, and that life so near its close! Memory speedily and faithfully performed its mission—it carried me back to those halcyon days when I was a proud husband and tender father-when the beloved of my youth and heart pledged to me fond vows of affection-when this home was an earthly paradise! Then passed in solemn review before me, those days of passionate infatuation, when I sent my gentle, loving wife and beauteous child without this threshold to dieay, to die-and am I not a murderer? And then came the dreadful waking from this long paralysis of the heart, when I read the last words of my Annie-then came the desertion of Georgine, whom I fain would have wakened with me to repentance-and now she was before me, dying. She entreated my forgiveness, and said that Annie's forgiving her, wretch that she was, had haunted her continually in the midst of crime, and after the breaking up of many families by her intriguing arts, she had resolved to come, like the prodigal son, and ask forgive ness of me, for she had asked it of her God in abasement and tears, and she wished only to have her form laid by the side of her parents. She told me, moreover, that her scheme at the outset, was to make me untrue to my wife, and

cause me to elope with her to some place where we should be unknown. Thank God! I was not left to this crowning act of villainy, for I have received a heavy punishment for the sins I have already committed. As I looked my last on the wan face of Georgine, and saw her com- · mitted to the earth, I felt more than ever, that the way of the transgressor is hard.'"

One more scene, and this hasty sketch is closed. It is the glorious summer time-the vinecovered piazza is filled with sad hearts and tearful eyes, for the clay-cold form of their beloved pastor is arrayed for the grave in that old parlor where he passed the saddest and happiest moments of his existence. That life on earth is now closed. Mrs. Laight was faithful to Annie's request, for she transferred the love which she bore to Annie to him-she led him tenderly to the outguishing fountains of salvation-she wiped the tears from his mournful eyes and encouraged him to become a Herald of the Cross -a true preacher of the everlasting gospel. Truely, she had her reward in the affection of Clarence, the love, prayers and blessings of his little flock of believers. She still lives in the old homestead, for such was Mr. Westerly's wish, and often may she be seen gazing out on the graves of the household, and she ever feels as she thinks of the dead,

ADA was timid and sensitive from her earliest childhood, painfully so to a nature as gentle as hers. The joyousness of her young being was clouded by intercourse with less delicate natures, and the glad happy childhood seemed more like the thoughtful years of budding womanhood. She was strongly susceptible to happiness, and keenly alive to cheerful influences, whether coming from Nature or from the sympathy of friends. The transition from rapturous joy to the deepest sorrow that childhood knows, was like the flash of lightning in a Summer rain. Reading a book, listening to a story, a word spoken by a friend, or an anticipated pleasure, was the all absorbing passion of the

moment.

She was not pretty, though her blue eyes and brown hair, when her face was sunny, made that face not an uninteresting one whereupon to look, her mother often said, that "the tears seldom dried on her little Ada's cheek, but joy as well as grief bid them flow." Her temperament was nervous, and consequently she was oftentimes fretful.

Ada loved flowers, and poetry, and birds, and, more dearly than all else, her friends. A most vivid imagination was united with a delicate body which peopled her inner world either with beautiful pictures, or convulsed her being with strange fantasies. She had a morbidly religious soul, keenly alive to the slightest faults and imperfections of her youth, while her impulsive

ness was constantly running into waywardness, leaving her little to do, save to commit errors and to weep over them.

When quite young, Ada passed through a religious excitement, that swept over her sensitive soul like a whirlwind, and for a time shattered her joyousness of spirit and health of body. Her days were passed in sacrificing youthful pleasures, for self imposed tasks better belonging to the cloistered walls of a nunnery than to the season of girlhood. Her nights were passed in tears and prayer. She read only exciting books of religious biography. Happy for her that a reaction came. Through the advice of a friend, her mind was directed to more substantial reading, and catching the impression of the passing moment, she gradually passed into a calmer spiritual world.

Then came a season when poetry absorbed her soul. Not written verse wholly, but the beautiful creation glowing with unwritten inspiration. Ah! the delightful change from a state of wild fanaticism to the calm beauty of Nature. The love of God, that lifted the violet blue eye in gratitude to the skies, that bubbled in the meadow brook, a silvery stream of joy, that gushed in the insect's hum, and in the melody of birds, now held her young soul in thraldom. Providence led her spirit to his throne, through his goodness and the exceeding beauty of his works. While the terrible threats and fears of cold hearted creeds that pass for religion, only drove her into doubt and bewilder

ment.

Ada had a playmate, a lad who worshiped her as the divinity of his soul. She only worshiped an ideal love, and the admiration of her companion was not pleasing to her. She treated with girlish lightness the affectionate attentions of her young lover. She received them as all maidens do, but she never returned the kiss at parting, and when the door closed upon his form she sang merry songs and forgot him. He lived till early manhood, then sickened and died, -good and noble on earth, and ever after attended Ada as her guardian spirit. In her womanhood she learned how much her friend was to her. The kiss became holy which she imprinted upon his lips in her dreams at night. She took his hand in hers, and when she awoke from her dream-sleep, that hand beckoned her on to virtue and holiness. She then saw how a friendship becomes purified when bereft of the sensualism of the flesh. She loved her friend in Heaven as she never did on earth.

I am anticipating. I have not yet done with Ada's youth, and will go back to her as we left her in the green lap of her native fields, growing happy under the cheerful influence of a calm love for the author of the universe.

When Ada was approaching into womanhood she was stricken by a slow painful disease, that cut her off from the enjoyments of out door life, and led her to look within herself for resources for an alleviation of her wearisome pain. Then she turned from unwritten poetry to the living words of the old poets. Shakspeare, Milton and Wordsworth. The latter was her favorite, the simple beauty of Wordsworth's verse accorded well with her mind, and she read, and re-read and pored over the pages with the same intenseness that characterised all her acts.

It was during this year's sickness that Ada first felt the bliss of loving, and it made the long summer days of weariness bright and beautiful as an Eden. The morning was pleasant, for it brought along with pain the face of her beloved. The night was welcome for she sat in the twilight with one whose presence was more than the love of parents or sister. Another friend came to Ada at this time. A lady of exceeding beauty of life, and with a mind keeping pace with the rapidity of her spiritual growth. She knew her first, through another, and had learned to love her ere they had met. Life was beautiful to her now. It was more than beautiful, it was great and glorious. One moment of it was worth all the past years of her existence.

Ada had a brother and sister who were dear to her, and to whom she was indebted for much growth in mental and spiritual things. A peculiar bond of sympathy now existed between Ada and her brother. They were both invalids, and both had loved. The lady who had drawn out his noble affections, was Ada's new friend.

Another year passed, and returning health came to the young girl, and soon after she was a happy bride. Then a new page in the book of life was opened for her to read. Quiet and leisure gave her opportunities to store her mind with valuable knowledge, and her days were passed in calm enjoyment that found its chief happiness in the love of her husband.

The second year of her marriage was opened by a new blessing. An angel baby opened its tiny eyes, and stretched out its feeble hands imploringly for protection. Ada threw open her heart and took in the little angel, and blessed God for so good a gift. A few short weeks and

the baby drooped and died. Then came Ada's first great sorrow. Bitterly she grieved for the bird that had sung its song and flown, leaving but the echo of its spirit-voice to cheer her breaking heart.

Health and new scenes of interest now again absorbed her soul, and she sprang from her sorsow to new objects of thought and action. Ada like many others had felt how kind a providence it was that heals the wound that each fresh trial makes in the soul. She thanked God that she could think of her departed joy, as a gift loaned only to be returned.

There were times in Ada's life when she was shaken by the strong winds that blow occasionally around even the beloved fireside of home, and grow wilder as we go out into the world. One thing she lacked; a calmness to meet each event with trustful cheerfulness. Little things troubled her. She wept tears of real agony over every day occurrences.

Such as a trustful

soul would brush away as cobwebs that necessarily gather in our parlors.

Two years slid on, in which time Ada's love for books, particularly the poetry of English literature, grew to an absorbing passion. In her own beautiful pictures and romances she lived, with but a slight wish to depart from it. Ah! she was growing selfish; letting the great world where so much was waiting to be done, and so few willing hands to do it, pass by her, and clinging more closely each day to her own imaginary realm of thought. Providence foresaw the result, and called her out of her narrow sphere, and placed in her arms another immortal soul to protect and educate. A little daughter with golden hair and soft blue eyes lay upon her bosom, helpless and feeble, but beautiful in its innocence.

Then Ada's mother-love returned, and each day as she pressed her lips to its white cheek, she held up her feeble arm, as if jealous that it would be torn from her embrace. Love, anxiety, fear, any thing but a calm reasonable affection, contended for mastery. The enjoyment was never without the pang. She prayed with tears that her child might be spared her, and she strove to utter in feeble words, "Not my will but thine be done," but it came only half-way from her heart. Ah! Ada must pass through still more shadows ere the sunlight will be bright around her soul.

The darkness came all too soon. It came not as formerly. The golden haired child grew VOL. XX.. 35

exceedingly lovely. The trial came to the mother, not through the infant, but from other sources which none but an all-seeing God could devise as the best discipline for her soul.

First came the death of her new friend, the lady whose love had been to Ada a treasure of wealth and a daily joy. All in a moment when she was thinking of her friend as well and happy, came the news of her sudden death. Then the twilight began to gather into indistinct darkness. Then she groped in the shadows for light, -then all objects were seen but faintly, and alas! her staff of faith was too slender to guide her out of the shadowy bewilderment into the brightness of perfect love.

Then came pecuniary trial, and friends who had seemed faithful looked cold and withdrew their sympathy. Ada was too proud or rather too weak to weep when calculating eyes were looking to see how she bore her trial; she smothered the flame in her bosom, and let it knaw upon her strength till she drooped like a sick infant, throwing herself into the arms of her friends a worn out, nervous, despairing creature, more feeble even than her child, who still looked up with smiles upon its heart-broken mother. Ah! how did the shadows deepen ! Twilight faded away, and murky darkness enveloped her world of thought and being. In vain did she cry "enough, enough, oh God,”— it was not enough.

Then came a year when God and all beautiful things seemed to herto withdraw themselves from her presence, and only beckoned to her in her night dreams, from their Eden land, but when morning came disappeared with delusive step. How welcome to her were these intervals of joy. Ah! how sweet to fondle her child in her arms, and to feel her husband's kiss upon her pale cheek, and live in the smile of a quiet, domestic love. But the rising sun drove the good angels away, and demons came in their place to torment and torture with beautiful remembrances of past days.

At the end of one year the sunshine began to fall dimly, in faint streaks, only enough to heighten the darkness upon which the sunbeams fell. What will not one gleam of light do? Before its cheerful influence darkness backward withdrew itself farther on into gloom, till at last the fairy sunbeam chased away the heavy shadow. Feeble creature! poor Ada! her trial was but half over, upon the heels of returning reason, came prostration of body, and a year of wearisome pain followed; when in the night

time tossing on her pillow she groaned for light, and long ere evening came, the weary eye and languid frame cried aloud for darkness.

Faintly at first, but more clearly did the revelation of the past reveal itself to her spiritual eyes. Calm and submissive she lay in the arms of God, awaiting his will. How beautiful then seemed the solution of the riddle, how small a thing did her trial become, compared with the prize she had won, the prize of a confiding trust in God, a calm, steady faith in Providence. Life, and all the beautiful relation of it, now revealed themselves to her in a new light. With this new feeling in her soul, sprang up a desire to live, to know what a quiet, trusting womanhood

was.

The boon was granted her, health bloomed upon her cheek, light beamed from her eye, and hope filled her soul.

Her little gentle daughter came and took her hand, and once more Ada entered upon the social duties of life. Ah! the storm had not been without its good results. The restless, fitful woman became the calm and trusting mother. Spiritual truths burst upon her sight that before were dimly seen. Sunshine and shadow alternately fell upon the domestic hearth, but the brightness of God's love shone over all, and she learned that every joy has its attendant pain, every object its lengthened shadow, and she only smiled as they danced together upon the walls of her home.

F. M. CHESEBRO.

A SISTER'S TRIBUTE TO A BROTHER.

OBITUARY OF MR. EDWARD DODD.

OUR sympathies have been rarely touched more keenly than by the receipt of the following letter from our esteemed friend and correspondent, Miss MARY A. H. DODD, announcing the death of her youngest brother, Edward. It is a sad, sad bereavement; but no one can speak of his worth more fittingly than she who prized him so dearly because she knew him so well, and therefore we give our correspondent's letter to our readers. Heaven help the bereaved household! Her brother Julius died of the same disease-a man of fine intellect and character, and of great promise. ED.

HARTFORD, Dec. 7, 1851.

DEAR MR. BACON :-Since my last communication to the Repository I have been called to

part with my youngest brother, the only one left at home, a home which is now lonely indeed. He died on Sunday, the last day of November, at the age of 26. He had been long an invalid, the first sure symptoms of decline having appeared four years ago. After that he went a sea voyage, visited Leghorn, Florence, and Messina, and was absent five months. His health was much improved by the voyage, and remained so for a year and a half, but in September of 1850, he was again prostrated, and since then has been slowly but surely failing, day by day. He was not reduced to such weakness as many are in consumption, having been able to sit up, and walk about the room, till the last day of his life; but he suffered much from wakefulness, and in recalling the long days and nights he had passed with so little rest, it is consoling to believe that he is now with Him "who giveth his beloved sleep."

He was ever good and gentle; patient and uncomplaining through his long illness; and in reviewing his past life his friends have nothing to remember to give them pain.

His mind was highly stored with information, and though so much younger than myself, I was accustomed to look up to him as possessed of superior intelligence, and was invariably guided by his opinion upon any subject doubtful to myself. There was no question I could ask him, connected with literature and art, which he was not able to answer; and the names of all writers, of artists, sculptors, poets, and all who have in any way distinguished themselves in the world, were familiar to him as household words. Books were his constant companions, through his whole life; they beguiled the weariness of his long confinement, and were not laid aside till the day before his death.

His countenance was highly intellectual, and his eyes were like wells of thought. His features were never distorted by pain, and his eyes never lost their mild and beautiful expression till veiled in the film of death. There was no expression as of one who had suffered upon his countenance, after the last change passed over it; but a holy calm, an almost speaking look rested there, as if the etherealized spirit in departing had left an impress which even Death could not efface.

God, in his wisdom has removed him to a higher life, and though we could not resign him, even to the All-Father, without anguish and tears, we trust that he is not wholly lost, but gone before us to Heaven.