The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1853-06-02
For the National Era.
MARY: A MAY M0RY
by HARRIET N. MOVES.

Railway train went putting and shrieking
away, leaving me alone, stranger, in the
heart of an inland city.
Unaocustomed to the great world, bewildered
| by the confusion and din of the depot and I'M
certain of finding, in the modern Babel, the
objects of my search, was for moment fear
full and dsheartened. The memory of moan
ing voice, long unheard, now calling my name,
the thought of the wild, weary eyes looking
eagerly for me through the lonely nights and
lingering days, recalled my self possession and
the frmness Of my purpose, as stood, embar
raised and irresoute on the steps of the depot.
had a brave heart again, as the carriage
rumbcd away over the newly laid pavement,
bearing me on and on through deserted streets
and dirty avenues--looking more desolate and
dirty in the rain - and up the long ascent
leading to the Lunatic Asylum,
Far up in the country, only a few days be-
| fore, had received message so touchingly
importunate that had no heart to refuse obe-
dience-the message which had brought me
| here.
AS the carriage rolled away, and assembled
| the successive flights of stone steps and crossed
| the gravelled walks Of the terrace from the
street to the Asylum, my heart beat tumultu-
| ously that was 30 near her--my unfortunate,
insane step-mother. reproached myself not
for the first time, that had loved her, compass
sionated her. so little. | reproached myself
that the years gone by should have 80 deaden-
ed in my soul the memory of being whose
life had been the benediotion Of my childhood.
| could not now refuse the tenderness withheld
| so long, for the heavy shadows had parted
above her, and, in clear light, the gates of the
Eternal City were unfolding to the restored
| vision.
In the hall, the porter muttered aloud the
address of my admittance card: Mary Som
ers-Ward 6, No. IT'S. Oh, yes; will show
you" And he led the way--a long way it
seemed to me--through wide deserted halls,
with dormitories on either side signalling at
an iron-plated door, which was unlocked from
the inner side | shuddered as entered the
room. That could be no quiet spirit which
occupied it | read it in the small, high win
dow, heavily grated, the bare stone floor, the
single seat builded in a niche of the WALL
read it. most of oil, in the worn, haggard ex-
preston of the remembered face, turned eager
ly toward me as | entered,
/" Is she sane a' inquired, hastily, of the at
tendant as passed her at the door.
Perfectly 80. She has been, at intervals,
for month"
Leave me alone with her. then"
And she withdrew.
| | approached the bed, timidly knelt by it,
and, taking the thin, white hand in mine, and
covering it with my tears, thanked God, silent
ly, that this hour had come She looked on
me with a bewildered, earnest glance. It
passed away in moment, and those eyes met
mine again, as they had fingered in my memo
ry- clear, serene, and beautiful, shining
through the shadows of the far-oH past. In
their light, | forgot, for moment, the black
years which had come between forgot all
IN thee old, yearniug tendernebs that had blessed
my childhood | had no reproaOhes that there
| had been no light for me in the darkness, since
it was shining on me now. Such an hour will
not come to me again, until the long-loved
long parted, meet in the resurrection forgetful
in present bliss, of all that has gone before
My mother!n "God bless you, my child
my child" were the only words we uttered
striving through binding tears, to look upon
each other.
ooh, how the years have gone by she said,
at length, sadly 1t was but yesterday
know it was but yesterday, since looked upon
you last and yet there are many years on you,
my child there are deep lines on your brow
the plain, strong marking of the anxious, years.
Oh it must have been long ago! How strange
that after the years of forgetfulness, Death
should bring to me, again, the old memories,
Yes Death has brought them to me, my child.
Death, for which ! cried SO despairngly 80
bitterly years ago, is coming to me now |
must tell you, while can, why have appeal.
cd TO you. One wish has been closely in my
heart, which can in no way persuade myself
TO yield. Remembering you, as have done, |
have felt that you ut least would not deny me.
Carry me back to the old church yard Of my
native village-carry me back, and bury me
by Lewis Liaumc. For fulfilling my wishes,
the world cannot harm you and It is no mat
ter to me what it may say Of me, for shall be
beyond eproaches-beyond rebuke. Promise
me, now that you will bury me there--prom.
| ise me, now"
IL will MOTHER willD
God bless you for that my child. And
could also wish that in your heart may be re-
membered with kndliness--with charity For
this have determined to recall tho past not
minutely, for, in life like mine, the deepest
and strongest influences lie beyond the roach
of words | can only tell you its commonest,
its most obvious experiences. DO you remem-
| Der the old brown house upon the hillside the
orchard stretching beyond il, and the old elms,
which embraced each other above It. the
naples by the doorway and the lilacs under
the windows. where the birds builded their
nests and sung their lives away, years agone?n
"Yes, it was long ago; but remember it
| all, mother"
ooh it was lovely place ought to have
been happy there, perhaps; but, even to-day
its memory recalls with torturing dist nctness
the darkest years of my lde--years that made
me what ! am, and placed me here When
Louis Liaume died, he did not anticipate such
| Il haA ha
guardian of my orphaned childhood his for
tune had furnished me ample opportunities for
the improvement of fine tastes in the study Of
| everything good or beautiful; and, devoting
himself diligently and patiently 10 the work, he
had instructed me carefully in the sciences, in
which he was 80 rare. no brilliant OH enthusi-
asst His death suddenly left me alone, and
pennlesr, for he had made no will. Accus-
| toned from nv earliest recollection, TO the &C.
clusion Of his study the solitary companion of
his walks and his travels abroad, ] had nc
CURED no Just knowledge Of the world A
wider observation Of human nature, keener
instinct in discriminating character, might have
warned and preserved me. ! never understood
why your father sought me tor wife. Tic
might have compassionated me for my friend.
lessness; he might have respected me for my
talents he might have loved me. But John
Somers was no. the man TO pity, respect or
love- any human being but himself tell you
as il seems to me now, for at seventeen | looked
upon all men through the medium which the
tenderness and generosity Of Louis Lisume had
given me. Your father was twelve years my
senior a wife had become necessity Is an
ovcrseer for his motherless children and with
words of afrectionate tenderness which ! had
not the discernment TO perceive a. unmeaning
conventonalities, he won me to the task In
my isolation, my utter loneliness in the world,
| had q gratitude for his protection, which
kindlness and affection might have made the
passionate alteration OF which my being was
capable. But there are some souls no different
in THAR whole oy0anization that between them /