San Andreas independent., 1858-07-17

faint she lays her aching head on the pil-
low, and kneels by the little bed of her
sick child, disappointed, heart-sick, and
longing for the companionship of the pure
minded and holy, they would stay the
anathema that trembles on the hallowed
lip of religion, and would let her, in the
hours of affiiction, hide in some unclaimed
cleft in the Rock of Ages.
played again, but it was without aim,
soul or ambition. The house was full,
but | was like aspiritless statue; the words
were spoken, the gestures made, and the
gay actress smiled on the gaping, wonder
ing crowd, but the heart OF the aronaan
was heavy and cold as the sleet-coated
rocks Of Labrador. My pet, who used to
sleep behind the scenes, and whom |
used to kiss tenderly and joyously as a
mother could, when my heart was swell
ing with the brief sovereignty of the stage
queen, was gone. There was not one on
all the earth whose words could start the
the up-gushing fountain of affection like
Mary's half articulation of ''Mamma," as
she reused from her little bed when we
were to go home.
Rest thee, sweet little fondling. thou,
who with thy sweet angel face comest to
me through the drapery of dreams; the
curtains which rose at thy boundary of
time revealed a glorious stage, where
archangels, and the sanctifed of all time,
come to the foot-lights to welcome thee
in, and to put upon thy sinless tongue the
familiar melodies of Heaven | know, if
children there are permitted TO look from
the watch-tower down the narrow avenues
toward the confines of Time, there is one
little angel, who now and then leans from
the parapet with her wings a-plume, wait
ing for some one to rend the murky clouds
that hover over the valley of SIM
Again [ sought among the dwelling
places of the lowly and the poor, and
found another to replace my lost pet. Oh,
how tenderly [ nurtured that neglected
child, until she began to look up in my
face, and clasping her tiny arms about my
neck would call me +" Mamma"
They would have taken her from me,
but [ clung to her with the desperation
of one growing mad and grasping the last
shadows of gone-out hope. But in a place
of strangers, hunted down to that city Of
refuge which lies behind the strong arms
and generous hearts of people too chival-
rous to deny woman sanctuary, [ forgot
my distrust of the world, and felt the ice
fetters falling from about the fountains of
life.
Let the fugitive, tired Of life, afraid of
death, distrustful Of human sympathy or
consolation, go down among the cottages
of the people. Let her not sit down to
rest on the door sill of the rich or great;
let her not lay her wasted hand on the
altar Of the church, or look for moisture
under the eyelids that weep ostentatious
tears for in-stricken world. Rather let
her sit down by the door-sill Of the lowiy;
let her lean on the strong arms that are
bronzed to labor, which strike impulsive
blows in defence of the weak, and which
gather the strength of iron sinews at the
touch of appealing helplessness.
Under the shadow OF little tree, be-
yond the reach of all but the occasional
recollection of demon-haunted night of
the soul, look back on my professional
life not without deserving here and there
new pictures that | would not have blotted
out. None but an actress can understand
how she looks blackjack to the hours of
triumph forgotten by all but herself, as
queen dethroned loves to think of the tri-
umphal professions in which her young
heart beat at the homage of the multitude.
| am proud of the profession which false
and uninstructed morality would prescribe
and blot from among the Arts What
art is nobler than that ennobled by the
greatest poets Of our tongue? In what is
ne who in living pictures successfully rep
resents the dead heroes of past time, in
ferlor to the great masters of painting and
sculpture?