Weekly Trinity journal., 1858-07-03
NO. "a.

pointed heart-sck, and longing for the compan-
ionship of the pure minded and holy, they would
stay the anothema that trembles on the hallowed
lip of religion, and would let her, in the hours Of
anlicton, 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
n spiritless statue the words were spoken, the
gestures made, and the gay actress smiled on the
gaping, wondering crowd, but the heart of the
tromda was heavy and cold as the sleetcoatcd
rocks of Labrador. My pet, who used to sleep
behind the scenes, and whom | used to kiss ten
derly and joyously as mother could, when my
heart was swelling with the brief sovereignty Of
the stage queen, was gone. There was not one
ON nll the earth whose words could start the up
gushing fountain of affection like Mary's half ar
ticulation of mamma rs she reused from her
little bed when we were to go home.
Rest thee, sweet little foundlingl thou, who
with Thy sweet angel face contest to ME through
the drapcry of dreams; the curtains which rose
at thy boundary of time revealed glorious stage,
whore archangcls, and the sanctided of all time
come to the foot-lghts to welcome thee in, and
to put upon thy snless tongue the familiar nelo-
dies of Heaven | know, If children there are
permitted to look from the watch-tower 20 "a
the narrow avenues toward the confines of
Time, there is one little angel who now and then
leans from the parNpct with her wings a.plumc,
waiting for some one to rcnd the murky clouds
that hover over the valley Of sin.
Again sought among the dwelling places OF
the lowly and the poor and found another to re-
place my lost pet. Oh, how tondcrly nurturcd
that neglected child until she began to look up
in my face and clNsping 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 shadow of gone-out
hope. But in 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
dstrust of the world and felt the ice.fetters fall
ling from about the fountains of life.
Let the fugitive, tired of life afraid of death,
disrustful 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 ostcntatious tears for sin
stricken world. Rather let her sit down by the
door.slll Of the lowly; let her lean on the strong
arms that are bronzed to labor, which strike i'm
pulsive blows in defence of the weak, and which
gather the strength of iron slncws at the touch
of appealing helpcsancss
Under the shadow Of n little tree, beyond 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
blottcd out. None but an actress can understand
how she looks ack-buck to the hours of triumph
forgotten by all but herself, as queen dethroncd
loves to think Of the trumphal professions in
which her young heart beat at the homage of the
multitude | am proud of tho profession which
a false and uninstructed morality would prescribe
and blot from among the Arts. What art is no
bier than that ennobed by the greatest poets of
our tongue In what is he who in living pictures
successfully represents the dead heroes Of past
time, inferior to the great masters of painting
and sculpture?