The Potter journal. [volume] (Coudersport, Pa.) 1857-1872, 1858-10-07


choolr.;stress still some of you love her
under that nar.e
When it became known among
the bOarders that two Of their number had
joined hands to walk down tie long path
o. life side By side, there was as yen mav
suppose 10 small sensation | confess
p:tied our landlady. 1t took Ler all OF a
suddi, i,-she said. Had not known that
We was kcu;n' companY, aud never mis-
trusted anything partic lar. Ma'am was
right to better herself. Didn't look vcry
rugged to take care Of feniiy,.but could
get hired haa'p, she calc lafed. The
great maternal instinct came c.owding up
in her soul just then, and her eyes wan
dered until they settled on her daughter.
- No, poor, dear woman, that
could not have been. But am dropp;ug
one Of my internal tears for you, with this
pleasant smile on my face all the time.
The great mystery Of Gods providence
is the permitted crushing out Of Towering
instincts. Life is maintained by the res
piretion Of Oxygen and of sentiments. In
the lorg catalogue Of scientific cruelties
there is hardly anything quite so painful
TO think of as that experiment of putting
an animal under the bell Of an air-pump
and exhausting the air from il r never
saw she accurSed trick performed Lous
Doo There comes a time when the
souls Of human beings, women, perhaps,
more even than men, begin to faint for
the atmosphere of the affections they were
made 70 breathe Then it is that Society
places its transparent bell glass over the
Young woman who is to be the subject of
one OF It's fatal experiments. The element
by which only the heart lives is sucked
out OF her crystalline prison. Watch her
through its transparent walls her bosom
is beaying; but it is in a vacuum. Death
lis no riddle compared to this. I yepem-
ber a poor girls story in the " Eook OF
Martyrs." The "dry-pan end the gradu-
al Ere" were the images that frightened
her most. How many have wi,herad and
wasted under as slow a torment in the
walls Of that larger lnquisitlon which we
call Civilization!
Yes, my surface thought laughs at you,
you foolish, plain, oyerdressed, mincing,
cheaply organized, se!f-saturated young
person, whoever you may be, now read
ing tEis.-little thinking you are what |
describe, and in bi'ssful Inconsistencies
that YOU are destined to the lingering
asphyxia Of soul which is the lot of such
nIuititudes worthicr than yourself. But
It's only my surtace-thous sht which laughs.
For that great procession OF the UNLOVED,
vino not only wear the crown of thorns,
but must hide it under the locks of brown
or gray,-unde, the snowy cap, under the
chilling tu.brn,-hide 1t even from them
selves, per haps never know they wear it,
though it kills them, is no depth
Cf tenderness in my nature ;hat Pity has
not sounded. Somewhere, somewhere
love is in store for them the universe
must not be allowed to fool them so cruel |
ly. What infinite pathos IN the small.
half-unconscious articles by which unat- |
5ractive young persons seek to recommend !
the nseiyes to the favor Of those towards |
Enom oCr dear sisto ), the uoi,Yed, like |
the rest, are ilagel!ed b. thci. God-giyen
Instincts
Read what the singing -woman--one to
ten thousand Of the suffering womcu-i
scli ue, anl think Of the gric:s that Gie
uusD0[en. Nature is in earnest waec
she ma woman: and there are women
enough lying n the next churohyard with
very commonplace Llue slate-stoncs at
their head and feet, for whola It vas JUS,
as true that "ali sounds Of life assumed I
one tone o. love-" as for Letitia Landon, |
ui whom Elizabeth Browning said it; but
she could give words to her grief, aud
they could not,-Will you hear few
stanzaJ OF mine!
The VOICELESS
We count the broken res that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,-
But Ger their silent sisters breast
The wi!d flowers who viii stoop to number |
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them - |
Alas FOR these that never sing,
Bot die with all their music in theml
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts sad story
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown Of glory!
Not where Lcucadian breezes sweep
Ger Sappho's memory haunted biliow,
But where tue glistening night-de dews weep
On Eameless sorrows charchylcd pillow.
0 hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death uourS out his cord al wine