Ernest Linwood; or, The Inner Life of the Author

—"rose like a stream
Of rich distilled perfume."

I never heard any thing sound so sweet and heavenly. It came in, a sublime chorus to the thoughts we had been uttering. It reminded me of the song of the morning stars, the anthem of the angels over the manger of Bethlehem,—so highly wrought were my feelings,—so softly, with such swelling harmony, had the notes stolen on the ear.

Ernest raised himself from his reclining position, and his countenance glowed with rapture. I had never seen it wear such an expression before. "Old things had passed away,—all things had become new."

"There is peace,—there is pardon," said he, in a voice too low for any ear but mine, when the last strain melted away,—"there is joy in heaven over the repenting sinner, there is joy on earth over the returning prodigal."

CONCLUSION

Two years and more have passed since my heart responded to the strains of the Gloria in Excelsis, as sung by Edith on the night of her brother's return.

Come to this beautiful cottage on the sea-shore, where we have retired from the heat of summer, and you can tell by a glance whether time has scattered blossoms or thorns in my path, during its rapid flight.

Come into the piazza that faces the beach, and you can look out on an ocean of molten gold, crimsoned here and there by the rays of the setting sun, and here and there melting off into a kind of burning silver. A glorious breeze is beginning to curl the face of the waters, and to swell the white sails of the skiffs and light vessels that skim the tide like birds of the air, apparently instinct with life and gladness. It rustles through the foliage, the bright, green foliage, that contrasts so dazzlingly with the smooth, white, sandy beach,—it lifts the soft, silky locks of that beautiful infant, that is cradled so lovingly in my father's arms. Oh! whose do you think that smiling cherub is, with such dark, velvet eyes, and pearly skin, and mouth of heavenly sweetness? It is mine, it is my own darling Rosalie, my pearl, my sunbeam, my flower, my every sweet and precious name in one.

But let me not speak of her first, the youngest pilgrim to this sea-beat shore. There are others who claim the precedence. There is one on my right hand, whom if you do not remember with admiration and respect, it is because my pen has had no power to bring her character before you, in all its moral excellence and Christian glory. You have not forgotten Mrs. Linwood. Her serene gray eye is turned to the apparently illimitable ocean, now slowly rolling and deeply murmuring, as if its mighty heart were stirred to its inmost core, by a consciousness of its own grandeur. There is peace on her thoughtful, placid brow, and long, long may it rest there.

The young man on my left is recognized at once, for there is no one like him, my high-souled, gallant Richard. His eye sparkles with much of its early quick-flashing light. The shadow of the dismal Tombs no longer clouds, though it tempers, the brightness of his manhood. He knows, though the world does not, that his father fills a convict's grave, and this remembrance chastens his pride, without humiliating him with the consciousness of disgrace. He is rapidly making himself a name and fame in the high places of society. Men of talent take him by the hand and welcome him as a younger brother to their ranks, and fair and charming women smile upon and flatter him by the most winning attentions. He passes on from flower to flower, without seeking to gather one to place in his bosom, though he loves to inhale their fragrance and admire their bloom.

"One of these days you will think of marrying," said a friend, while congratulating him on his brilliant prospects.

"When I can find another Gabriella," he answered.

Ah! Richard, there are thousands better and lovelier than Gabriella; and you will yet find an angel spirit in woman's form, who will reward your filial virtues, and scatter the roses of love in the green path of fame.

Do you see that graceful figure floating along on the white beach, with a motion like the flowing wave, with hair like the sunbeams, and eye as when

"The blue sky trembles on a cloud of purest white?"

and he who walks by her side, with the romantic, beaming countenance, now flashing with the enthusiasm, now shaded by the sensibility of genius? They are the fair-haired Edith, and the artist Julian. He has laid aside for awhile the pencil and the pallette, to drink in with us the invigorating breezes of ocean. Let them pass on. They are happy.

Another couple is slowly following, taller, larger, more of the "earth, earthy." Do you not recognize my quondam tutor and the once dauntless Meg? It is his midsummer vacation, and they, too, have come to breathe an atmosphere cooled by sea-born gales, and to renew the socialities of friendship amid grand and inspiring influences. They walk on thoughtfully, pensively, sometimes looking down on the smooth, continuous beach, then upward to the mellow and glowing heavens. A softening shade has womanized the bold brow of Madge, and her red lip has a more subdued tint. She, the care-defying, laughter-breathing, untamable Madge, has known not only the refining power of love, but the chastening touch of sorrow. She has given a lovely infant back to the God who gave it, and is thus linked to the world of angels. But she has treasures on earth still dearer. She leans on a strong arm and a true heart. Let them pass on. They, too, are happy.

My dear father! He is younger and handsomer than he was two years since, for happiness is a wonderful rejuvenator. His youth is renewed in ours, his Rosalie lives again in the cherub who bears her name, and in whom his eye traces the similitude of her beauty. Father! never since the hour when I first addressed thee by that holy name, have I bowed my knee in prayer without a thanksgiving to God for the priceless blessing bestowed in thee.

There is one more figure in this sea-side group, dearer, more interesting than all the rest to me. No longer the wan and languid wanderer returned from Indian shores, worn by remorse, and tortured by memory. The light, if not the glow of health, illumines his face, and a firmer, manlier tone exalts its natural delicacy of coloring.

Do you not perceive a change in that once dark, though splendid countenance? Is there not more peace and softness, yet more dignity and depth of thought? I will not say that clouds never obscure its serenity, nor lightnings never dart across its surface, for life is still a conflict, and the passions, though chained as vassals by the victor hand of religion, will sometimes clank their fetters and threaten to resume their lost dominion; but they have not trampled underfoot the new-born blossoms of wedded joy. I am happy, as happy as a pilgrim and sojourner ought to be; and even now, there is danger of my forgetting, in the fulness of my heart's content, that eternal country, whither we are all hastening.

We love each other as fondly, but less idolatrously. That little child has opened a channel in which our purified affections flow together towards the fountain of all love and joy. Its fairy fingers are leading us gently on in the paths of domestic harmony and peace.

My beloved Ernest! my darling Rosalie! how beautiful they both seem, in the beams of the setting sun, that are playing in glory round them! and how melodiously and pensively, yet grandly does the music of the murmuring waves harmonize with the minor tone of tenderness breathing in our hearts!

We, too, are passing on in the procession of life, and the waves of time that are rolling behind us will wash away the print of our footsteps, and others will follow, and others still, but few will be tossed on stormier seas, or be anchored at last in a more blissful haven.

THE END.

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