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قراءة كتاب Eventide A Series of Tales and Poems
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EVENTIDE
A SERIES OF
TALES AND POEMS.
By
EFFIE AFTON.
"I never gaze
Upon the evening, but a tide of awe,
And love, and wonder, from the Infinite,
Swells up within me, as the running brine
From the smooth-glistening, wide-heaving sea,
Grows in the creeks and channels of a stream,
Until it threats its, banks. It is not joy,—
'Tis sadness more divine."
Alexander Smith.
BOSTON:
FETRIDGE AND COMPANY.
1854.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
J. M. HARPER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
Stereotyped by
HOBART & ROBBINS,
New England Type and Stereotype Foundery,
BOSTON.
To the
FIRESIDES OF THE WESTERN WORLD,
With the fond Hope
THAT ITS PAGES MAY SERVE TO ENLIVEN OR ENTERTAIN SOME FEW
OF THOSE EVENING HOURS WHEN PLEASANT FACES GATHER
ROUND WARM, GLOWING HEARTH-STONES,
This simple Volume
IS UNOBTRUSIVELY PRESENTED,
BY THE
UNKNOWN AND NAMELESS AUTHOR,
WHO WOULD RATHER FIND WARM HEARTS AMONG HER READERS
THAN WIN THE LAURELS OF A TRANSITORY FAME.
Transcriber's Note:
There are two instances of illegible words in this text, both as a result of ink blots.
They have been indicated as [illegible].
PREFACE.
When the sun has disappeared behind the western mountains, and the stars sparkled o'er the blue concave, we have been accustomed to sit down to the compilation of this unpretending volume, and therefore it is called "Eventide." O, that its pages might be read at that calm, silent hour,—their follies mercifully overlooked, their faults as kindly forgiven.
Fain would we dedicate this "waif of weary moments" to some warm-hearted, watchful spirit, who might shelter it from the pitiless assaults of the wide, wide world. But will not our simple booklet prove too insignificant a mark for the critic's arrows?
In the language of another, we confidently say, melancholy is indifferent to criticism.
Thus,
"In our own weakness shielded,"
O, Reading Public, we steal upon you 'mid the falling shadows, and lay "Eventide" at your feet.
CONTENTS.
- WIMBLEDON; OR, THE HERMIT OF THE CEDARS,7
- SCRAGGIEWOOD, A TALE OF AMERICAN LIFE,245
- ALICE ORVILLE; OR, LIFE IN THE SOUTH AND WEST,329
- COME TO ME WHEN I'M DYING,401
- ELLEN,404
- I'M TIRED OF LIFE,405
- LINES TO A FRIEND, ON REMOVING FROM HER NATIVE VILLAGE,407
- HO FOR CALIFORNIA!409
- N. P. ROGERS,411
- LINES,413
- HENRY CLAY,415
- THE SOUL'S DESTINY,417
- LINES TO A MARRIED FRIEND,419
- NEW ENGLAND SABBATH BELLS,421
- MY HEART,423
- OUR HELEN,425
- MY BONNET OF BLUE,427
- DARK-BROWED MARTHA,429
WIMBLEDON;
OR
THE HERMIT OF THE CEDARS.
CHAPTER I.
"The stars are out, and by their glistening light,
I fain would whisper in thine ear a tale;
Wilt hear it kindly? and if long and dull
Believe me far more deeply grieved than thou."
Clear and loud on the hushed silence of the midnight hour rang the chimes of the village clock, from the tall steeple-tower of the quaint old church of Wimbledon, while several ambitious chickens rose from their neighboring perches, piped a shrill answering salute, and sank to their nocturnal slumbers again. But nor clock nor chanticleer disturbed Wimbledon. Still she slept on beneath the blossoming stars; and by their soft, inspiring light, with your permission, gentle reader, we'll enter the sleeping village.
Dim gleams of snowy cottages, peeping through a wealth of embowering vines, steal on our star-lighted vision as we roam along the grassy streets, and we scent the breath of gardens odorous with the sweets of dew-watered flowers. Above and around