370 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
JUNE 7 
veil, Imagination, unchecked by Reason, revel¬ 
ed in the freedom of the hour. 
But whether had Fancy flown ? Backward, 
and still backward, even to the sunny days of 
•bildhood. 1 saw tnysclf a merry child, hand 
in hand with a fair-haired youth, stepping gaily 
to the rj thni of our buoyant hearts— trlpplDg 
lightly over years, freighted with such Joyous 
hopes that I marvel that not even a shadow re¬ 
vealed the frowning visage of the Future. 
Oiiarlky WtMON, as well as myself, was an 
orphan, but each had found a happy, pleasant 
home with my uncle, whose wife was Char¬ 
ley's oldest and only living sister—a frail, gen¬ 
tle Jady, fifteen years his senior. 
From childhood we had reveled in mirtbful- 
ness and innocent Joy. Together had gamboled 
in the park, frightening the timid fawns from 
their leafy coverts—chasing the bright-winged 
butterflies, ill emblems of the phaintoms of the 
coming years; or, seated in the grotto, with a 
double thread, would weave garlands meet for 
fairies' brows, ami the glowing vision of our 
happy future—a future which neither dreamed 
could bring aught but the realization of our 
fondest, hopes. 
Too soon the cloud flecked with Its unwel¬ 
come presence the hitherto rose-tinted horizon 
of our lives. At fifteen I was sent to a ladles' 
seminary, and Charley was in the military 
school at West Point. The long, friendly let¬ 
ters from the young cadet were first among the 
garnered sweets of the nest five years. 
He came to attend the graduation of my class 
and escort me home. Painting had been my 
favorite study, and the only one In which 1 ex¬ 
celled. With feelings akin to pride I led him 
to the gallery where, in silent beauty, hung my 
stolen gleams from nature. One. my favorite 
and masterpiece, bad elicited much attention 
and many flatt ering compliments. " MAT, how 
could you paint so sad and ominous a picture? 
It sadden* me. I do not like It.*' were his com¬ 
ments as, after a long and critical inspection, 
he turned from It to others. 
The confluence of two rivers the foreground 
brilliant with bright flowers, beautiful birds, 
sparkling fountains—and in'the cool shadow of 
the trees lay t lie various toys of childhood. The 
background lay In deeper shade, with ( lie wind¬ 
ing river lost In the distance. Each bank was 
strewn with the wrecks of earthly greed and 
gain—the miser's hoarded treasure, the bacha- 
nali.m’s broken cup, the withered laurel, the 
broken scepter, the tarnished crown ; all min¬ 
gled In the general ruin. 
Just where the stream diverged wore two l iny 
boats, the foaming ripples down the stream 
showing that together they have thus far trav¬ 
ersed its smooth surface, but the hands of Fate, 
one on either prow, had severed their course, 
and were propeillngtliein up the dlvorgcnt chan¬ 
nels. Two youths, in whose countenance hope 
and despair were strangely blended, were vainly 
struggling against the unseen power; the boy 
plying the oars of his boat, with every nerve 
strained to Its utmost tension ; the girl In hers, 
teckontng him to follow with one hand, with 
the other pointing toward the shadowy dis¬ 
tance where, amid dark clouds, gleamed two 
starry crowns. 
This was the picture, and the sequel had 
proven that thus, unwittingly, I had limned 
our future lives. 
I had wondered at my own conception ques¬ 
tioned if it were prophetic, or the chance chi¬ 
mera of a heated brain. But no cloud from 
the future should darken my present, which 
still glowed In the rose tints of purest happi¬ 
ness. And why should I doubt Its continu¬ 
ance? The seal of our betrothal sparkled upon 
my finger, and when Charley's education in 
military tactics was completed, our lives were 
to be united. Still, together, l he two boats 
glided merrily up the glassy stream. 
My uncle was delighted with my artistic skill 
and attainments, and surprised me one morn¬ 
ing by asking bow soon I could be ready to 
leave for the Continent. He t hought a glimpse 
of the works of the old masters would delight 
and benefit me. Aunt had long been contem¬ 
plating the tour, and they had concluded to 
sail soon as possible. 
I wrote to Charley, advising him of our 
speedy departure and urging his company. 
That was impossible; but ho came to say 
“ Farewell" with strange shadows on bis usually 
sunny brow. “ May, I am glad, and yet regret 
your going. I fear wc have arrived at the conflu¬ 
ence of the streams, and those relentless hands 
are Interposing between our future course." 
Thus had we parted. Thus, to-night, through 
the darkness, doubt and Tears of life, was I jour¬ 
neying t he lonely way to our re-union ; but not 
yet would I awake to the present. Dream on, 
Bad heart,—revel In the sweet. Illusion of the 
"might have been,”for over thy darkened hori¬ 
zon glimmers no ray of brightness from the 
yet to be. 
Two years passed amid Italian skies —two 
years, during which I had little thought or care 
for aught hut jny own chosen art. From t he 
promise of the past I was reaping a golden har¬ 
vest. My friends returned to America, and still 
I lingered amid the enchanting scenery, copy¬ 
ing the beat in nature and in art—drinking full 
draughts of inspiration from the entrancing 
conceptions of Raphael and Angelo's mighty 
achievements, grateful that, at least, I was per¬ 
mitted to cross the threshold of the groat Tem¬ 
ple of Art which enshrined such immortal 
genius. 1 hud no thought, no care for similar 
fame. 1 painted for the same reason that the 
robin sings or the poet writes; in no other way 
could 1 give expression to the surging waves of 
feeling flooding my soul. 
I heard from Charley Wilson often. In¬ 
deed, except my uncle’s family, he was the only 
correspondent I had retained. 
In the fall of I 8 W I had commenced prepara¬ 
tions for my return when 1 received a letter 
from Charles, saying he intended embarking 
for the Continent in a few weelu—coming to 
perfect himself in the science of modern war¬ 
fare, (fortifications, intrenchmonts, Ac., &c,.,) 
and wished roc to remain, and we would make 
the homeward trip together. 
lie never came. Weeks lengthened into 
months crc I heard from him again. During 
this period came the distant murmur of the 
approaching storm, thrilling every nerve with 
strange and awful apprehension. I would not 
return until after hearing from Charley, and 
thus I waited until, Instead of sham fights, the 
mock campaign and the counterfeit tinsolry of 
war, tbo equipped soldier, the field of carnage, 
of dying and of dead, wero the nightly visions 
haunting my weary brain and, alas ! desolating 
my beloved land. 
Then rainc letters from Charley, who, with 
Ills command, was "at the front"—letters so 
full of faith in the final triumph of Right—so 
full of trust in the Good Father’s protection, 
and so much confidence in the Joys of the fu¬ 
ture, that, unconsciously, I began to feel the 
same sweet rest and peace. 
My uncle had received a commission and was 
also in the field, and they wore all very desirous 
of my remaining on the Continent until the 
return of peace. Therefore, in an agony of 
suspense, 1 waited— why I never knew, for what 
I little dreamed until In the summer of 1864 
came the terrible message, “ Charley Wilson 
was dead—died the death of the Christian sol¬ 
dier, with the shout of victory upon his lips." 
The body had been placed by his parents in 
Annapolis. 
For weeks life and deat.li struggled in a 
mighty contest. Life won the victory, and, 
weak as an infant, I began the race anew, feel¬ 
ing 1 had survived even the hope of earthly Joy. 
In the taking of Atlanta my uncle received 
his death wound. My aunt's health had been 
feelde for years, and site survived her husband 
but a few months—thus severing the last tie 
binding me to ray native land. Since tbe com¬ 
munication other death I had received no direct 
intelligence from home, nor did 1 wish for any. 
1 became a restless wanderer, remaining but a 
few days or weeks in a place. 
Painting still for that which bad been the 
thank offering of my rejoicing, thankful heart, 
now proved the balm to ease ami quiet its tu¬ 
multuous throes—I soon discovered that suffer¬ 
ing clot lied the canvas in the richer, deeper 
.hues unknown to happiness. 1 found a strange, 
weird pleasure in loitering amid old ruins and 
picture galleries, whose volcoless eloquence 
thrilled my soul with mysterious sympathy and 
awe. 
Thus for two years I had wandered, trying in 
my great weakness to bear uncomplainingly 
my heavy cross, seeking no Lethean fount, save 
in the tender earn and compassionate love of 
my Redeemer, rejoicing that “Earth has no 
sorrow that Heaven cannot cure,"—two years, 
when iu the cathedral at Antwerp, amid the 
finest paintings of Vandyke and Udbenb, I 
first mot Carlos dm Walters and Ida Invalid 
mother. Here, where, every glance was an in¬ 
spiration and every sound entrancing melody, 
formality vanished, and for the first time during 
my eight years' exile I 1 ecamo interested in 
strangers—the tall, handsome man and the fair, 
frail lady mother over whom he watched so 
tendorly. 
Our rooms were In the same hotel, and It soon 
became a pleasure to spend n part of each day 
with the pat ient sufferer, while her son in Ids 
studio was transmuting canvas into gold. Thus 
our intimacy increased until their return to 
England, when, at tlielr urgent solicitation, I 
accompanied them. Here in their palace home 
I spent the winter, wondering If I had not lost 
my Identity amid such magnificence. But the 
old pain at my heart would very soon assure 
me of the reverse. I had given my dear friends 
the story of my life, and was therefore sur¬ 
prised and pained when CARLO!} offered the 
whole of Ids noble, unselfish heart In exchange 
for the broken, withered fragments of mine. 
He did not expect a return of affection, but 
would lie grateful and happy if I could bestow 
my hand, quite willing to trust to the future 
for the offering* of the heart. 
We wore married, and never had 1 regretted 
the union. We spent the summer in a general 
tour of the British Isles, and in the fall went to 
Dresden to revel amid those galleries of gar¬ 
nered gems. I think I lovod my husband, but 
If I did l certainly had worshiped Charley. 
Thus passed two and a half years,each day a 
new revelation of the unfathomable depth of 
love In which 1 reveled with Increasing delight. 
Our dear mother was with us, happy In our so¬ 
ciety and casting a gonial glow over all our 
pleasures. 
Again must I bow at the shrine of my broken 
‘ Idol, hear again the voice of Love, saying, “Set 
your affection on things above, not on things 
of earth.” One evening in February Carlos 
came from the studio complaining of chills and 
illness. But tho best medical skill, l he anxiety, 
the agonizing prayers, were ineffectual to de¬ 
tain the pure spirit from ite desired rest. In 
less than a w eek he died— died. No, rather en¬ 
tered into life. Left us joyfully singing: 
Into the harbor of Heaven now I glide: 
I’m home at last.” 
Softly I drift on Its bright silver Md»; 
I’m home-” 
Angels beyond the River may hare caught 
the conclusion of the triumphant strain and 
tuned their harps in glad response, but the 
echo was not wafted to mortal ears. Truly, he 
traa home, and the reflection of its joys rested 
like a halo on his feature*. 
"Though Thou slay me, yet will T trust in 
Thee," groaned the bereaved mother, as she 
mourned her only son. Had 1 In the least 
doubted my love in the past, T fully realized 
now the precious treasure I bad lost and the 
deep affection I felt for him. Death is such n 
revelation of the heart. Our union bad been 
one bright, gala day of Joy, but how dark Its 
night, how ray less appeared the future years; 
and how hard for my poor lacerated heart lo 
say “Not my will but 'J'hiuc be done." Still 
through the darkness and gloom. Faith caught 
the otmlns of triumph from Bethany’s broken 
sepulchre—" t am the resurrection and the life. 
He that beiicvcth in me, though he were dead, 
yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and 
bolieveth In me shall never die." Heavon 
seemed very near to my earth-worn spirit t hen. 
I felt I need but close my eyes to enter the 
pearly gates, within which, not only all the 
hopes of the Future were anchored, but all the 
dearest treasures from earth were garnered. 
Hearts nro worthless until broken by sorrow 
and purified by sanctified suffering. From a 
life of careless indifference I awoke to higher 
and nobler views of its duties and responsibili¬ 
ties, seeking to imitate the crucified One in His 
deeds of benevolence and love. 
In the winter of ICTO, for the first time since 
Charley's death, I felt a strong desire to re¬ 
turn to America. T longed tb visit his grave 
and lay the stricken heart's pure offering of 
flowers upon the sacred shrine. It was very 
hard for my dear mother to acquiesce, but 
finally she gave a reluctant consent, insisting 
on my return in the full. 
The long, lonely, weary journey terminated 
at last, and tho train stopped at Annapolis. 
The streets were thronged with the military 
and citizens, and great preparations had been 
made for tbe decoration services. I felt. I could 
not join in that ostentatious parade, and pro¬ 
ceeded Immediately to the cemetery. Once, in 
the long agos, I had visited the place with the 
dear oue for whoso quiet resting place I now 
sought. 
I bod endured the long, perilous journey to 
And -a ffravt t Poor heart! wlmt comfort hast 
thou here? I laid my flora) offerings upon tho 
insensate marble and watered them with my 
bitter tears. Kora long time I yielded to the 
abandonment of grief; but overtasked nature 
asserted her claim my head dropped upon the 
cold st.ono, like n grieved child upon the bosom 
of its mother. I think I must have slept, for I 
became suddenly conscious of the approaching 
crowd. Not having an opportunity to escape 
unobserved, and not wishing to be driven from 
that hallowed spot, I drew my heavy veil moro 
closely over my face and awaited their de¬ 
parture. 
“Comrades,” spoke a voice which thrilled 
every nerve, "here affection hath superseded 
gratitude. Sorrowing mourner, permit us to 
blond tho offerings of a grateful Country with 
tbe aacred ones of tho heart. Let tac harp and 
crown receive an added luster from tho victor’s 
wreath of triumphal palm. Permit un to mingle 
our sorrow with yours, for our mutual loss in 
the death of tho Christian hero,—the brave 
Captain WILSON.” 
" ‘ Captain' did lie say V Why, my Charley 
ranked far above that; but It Is so easy to mis¬ 
understand. But that voice! surely I dreamed, 
butaucli a delightful one, I prayed it might last 
forever. " With my head resting In my hand, my 
elbow upon the cold marble, I listened en¬ 
tranced to eloquence snob us only a dead hero 
can evoke from the lips of a livingone. I dared 
not raise my eyes to the speaker, lest tho sweet, 
illusion bo dispelled. Tho magical witchery of 
that richlv-niodulated voice, with just a minor 
refrain of sadness trilling through Its artistic 
periods, annihilated the past weary years, and 
again, with CHARLEY, I skimmed the crystal 
stream of time, with Fancy, Instead of Fate, at 
the helm of our fairy barque. Again tbe life¬ 
blood surged through my veins with the buoy¬ 
ancy of youth. Life's richest blessings might 
yet be mine—I would wait and hope. Poor, 
foolish heart, how evanescent every thrill of 
joy 1 For what dost thou wait? Ah! the fnr- 
off springtime of rejuvenated mortality—the 
dawning hours of renewed creation, and the 
! only Btar of Hope gleams over the jasper sea, 
1 beyond the dark river. 
Unheeded, tho crowd dispersed, and still I 
lingered, the strange fascination of that voice 
vibrating through every avenue of my soul. 
And why had they called him " Captain ?" What 
did it mean? The slabs over the graves gave 
nothing but the initials, while the shaft In Jhe 
center of the lot bore the memorial, dates, &c. 
1 now, for the first time turned to this and 
read, “Capt. Carl Sfmner Wilson." I saw no 
more. The earth glided from beneath my feet 
and left me, a waif, floating in mid-air. I real¬ 
ized the suspension of the material functions, 
mingled with such a delightful sensation of 
rest and peace, that 1 neither thought or cared 
for an awakening. I fancied myself sailing over 
a mystic sea, just beyond the boundary’ of time. 
Binging the happy songs of childhood and 
dreaming tho sweet visions of those earlier 
years. But through It all rang the music of that 
beloved voice, lulling my soul as no cradle song 
had ever done. 
“ Can she, will she, live ? Oh, doctor, do give 
me one ray of hope I” 
“ I think the crisis now passed, and with tho 
best of care she will recover. But it has been 
a critical case.” 
What did it mean, end where was I ? I tried 
to open my eyes, but the lids were so heavy that 
I thought I would sleep again. Thus, in a semi- 
unconscious state, I passed several days, when 
one morning, opening my eyes with a feeling of 
returning life, there stood the Charley Wil¬ 
son of the post, happy, grateful tears coursing 
down his noble features. 
“Thank Goo, May, that you live I" 
I did not feed one bit like fainting; for had I 
not been conscious of his presence ever since 
the revelation of the marble shaft? He had 
taken me to Ids uncle’s, which had been ills 
home since his resignation nt the close of the 
war. Here for two weeks the dear Aunt IIcth 
of the past had been my untiring nurse, watch¬ 
ing with a m< ther's anxiety for the least gleam 
of consciousness. Here 1 enjoyed a convales¬ 
cence such as few afflicted mortals ever knew. 
Hope is such a stimulant, lor soul and body! 
How tranquilly I could now wait for tin; so¬ 
lution to the events which had severed our 
lives. But weeks gli led by with no allusion to 
the past. One evening he noticed a letter on 
my table addressed to Mrs. dr Walters. He 
glanced at it a moment, and then, taking a scat 
near, said if the effort would not weary me lie 
would bo very grateful for the history of ray 
life since we parted. 
“May," he said, at Its conclusion, “your life 
hath been the happier one. You mourned your 
loss in my death, rejoicing in my supposed re¬ 
lease from sin and Buffering. I knew you lived, 
but dead to me, not even knowing why you had 
thus proved recreant, to your plighted troth. I 
received a terrible flesh wound and a broken 
arm the day my cousin was killed, and In the 
report, tho names were changed. I did not 
learn of this until my recovery. I then wrote 
you, but you must have left Naples ere the let¬ 
ter arrived, and in your wanderings no other 
over reached you. Immediately on tendering 
my commission 1 visited the Continent, wan¬ 
dering from city to city, from one picture gal¬ 
lery to another, looking for my lost fairy. At 
Dresden I saw you with your husband, Ids hap¬ 
py, tender expression and manner showing that 
ho appreciated and would guard well the jewel 
lie had won from me. I had troubled at the 
possibility of finding your grave amid those 
stranger skies, but, alas i 1 must make it in my 
own heart. I must learn the most bitter lesson 
conned by mortal tho un-lovlng of the heart’s 
cherished one—the immolation of its idol. I 
stepped behind a pillar and you paused within 
a j ard of my retreat, unmindful that the boats 
had crossed path* only to diverge Into still 
wider channels. Since that hour I had heard 
nothing of you. When J saw you at. my cou;in'e 
grave, the wind* truth flashed upon me ; you 
still believed me dead, and by your wldow’cd 
garments I knew you had turned from the grave 
of your husband to t hat of your first love. May, 
permit mo to say It, that w-as the happiest mo¬ 
ment of iny life. I saw 7 you recognized my 
voice, which I could scarce control for very 
joy. When I saw you leave the grave to read 
the inscription upon the monument, I knew 
doubt had entered your soul aud you wero try¬ 
ing to solve the problem of life from death. The 
stone gave the solution, and you fell fainting 
In my arms. May, we have been severely dis¬ 
ciplined, but I trust are bettor prepared for our 
life-work than if this bitter experience had not 
boon ours. Together lei us erect a mausoleum 
for the Fast, and cover It with the flowers of 
our happy future—a future radiant with the 
brightness of an eternity of joy. But, May, 1 
have wearied you. Are yon ill?" 
“ Not ill, but very happy. This sudden gleam 
of sunshino upon my darkened path nearly 
overpowers me.” ♦*♦*** 
A happy bridal. Aunt Rr.'TH insisted upon 
making it a brilliant affair—a general re-union 
of old friends and relatives. At flrst I objected 
—but It would not uffect my happiness, aud if it 
would add to hcr’s, it were selfish to refuse. 
One evening in September — an evening so 
lovely I fancied a stray glory-beam from Heaven 
illuminated nature- loving hands crowned the 
brow with orange blossoms, where the cypress 
had so lately twined. About my dress, only, 
had I been particular. In a simple muslin, of 
purest white, I stood beside tho altar, at lost, 
the bride of Charley Wilson. Wo sailed 
Immediately for Liverpool, for had i not prom¬ 
ised my dear mother to return In the fall ? She 
received us both a* children, my noble husband 
winning his way to her unselfish heart hy his 
genial, sunny temperament, so much like the 
dear son for whom she mourned. She would 
not consent to our leaving until spring, when 
we intended to return to our American home. 
Of what mysterious links hath tbe chain of 
life boon wrought! We have seen the star of 
Hope sink beneat h the horizon w ith no prom¬ 
ise or prospect of a rising beam. Through im¬ 
penetrable clouds of darkness we have followed 
our unseen Leader, trusting that, ever, “If led 
in paths we had not known." all would ho well 
at last, for where doth He lead his people but 
to Himself, and where is that. but. Heaven? 
Ilut the darkness hath flown— the bright Min 
of Joy illuminates the present and the future. 
Hand In hand we journey down the years, the 
thank-offering of our grateful, rejoicing hearts 
ascending like sweet incense to His Throne. 
- — * V---- 
Fame is an undertaker that pays but little 
attention to tbe living, but bedizens the dead, 
furnishes'out their funerals, and follows them 
to the grave.— Colton. 
