GODS AND MORTALS.

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BY A. K. GARDNER, M. D., AUTHOR OF “OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES.”

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Monday 19th of March, 1849, was one of those beautiful days which make Spring so delightful. The smiles of nature never appear more charming than when they expel the frowns of winter. At the time above-mentioned, the world had just thrown off its fleecy mantle, preparatory to making a new toilet for the coming season. One would have imagined that the wardrobe of mother earth was very scantily provided, for the day previous her soiled coat of snow was sent to the washerwoman, who had employed the whole twenty-four hours in soaking the poor garment, scouring it with sand, and drenching it with continual showers of rain-water, so that when finally in a state to hang up to dry, scarcely a patch could be found, and those not apparently much benefited by its severe laundress. Mother Earth was surely in a most unfortunate state! Her old clothes not come home from the wash, and the new ones not ready to put on. She determined at first to lie a-bed till one or the other were ready for use. But Dame Luna was then mistress, and absolutely refused to harbor such an impoverished individual. “Credit, indeed!” she echoed. “To trust you I shall truly be a Luna-tic.” You should have seen this individual, as she stood with arms akimbo, in the fullness of her pride. Her face pale with anger, and her eyes losing their usual mildness, glared forth upon our unfortunate mother. None could account for this unwonted spirit. Some of the fixed stars, however, very different from our M. P.’s, who sometimes sleep on their posts, had noticed Mistress Luna walking in the Milky Way; and it was charitably supposed that she had been taking a little too much of the celebrated punch of that locality. These celestial M. P.’s had winked at the matter, and hence all the trouble.

Hinc illæ lachrymæ.

The irate Luna was inflexible. In spite of all that could be said, she persisted in turning our mother out of the house.

Think of the mortification of our common parent, standing on the threshold of night, without a rag to cover her nakedness. Just then came Aurora on her morning’s work to put out the gas. Her beautiful face and neck were covered with crimson blushes, as she discovered the situation of our poor mother Earth.

“Hide yourself quickly,” she cried, “for Phœbus is coming, riding in the chariot of day.”

Now our mother had for some time carried on a little flirtation with him. She called him Apollo in those happy days; but for some time there had been a coldness between them. He was of a warm and impetuous disposition, and fond of having every thing bright about him. He objected to her white dress, which he considered to reflect upon his taste. It is true that this colorless robe, with only a few green pine sprigs upon it, did give mother rather a frigid and puritanical air. If he should be so offended at this dress, she thought, though a gay youth, I fear me much he will be greatly scandalized at seeing me with none.

Aurora’s lantern, by good fortune, showed to my mother a little strip of Crocuses, with which she hastily covered her bosom. It was truly a scanty scarf—merely a pattern of the spring fashions, which the manufacturer had sent on in advance of the season for a specimen—nevertheless it was some protection. Her benumbed form she wrapped in a rosy mist, which was found overhanging the horizon, and by the time that Mr. Apollo, Hyperion Phœbus, came up, she was in a most delightful demi-jour ready to receive him. Mr. Phœbus was entranced; and, to tell the truth, our mother was warmed up at his presence.

From that time an ardent attachment commenced. Throwing aside the mists of formality, and the fogs of prejudice, they appeared imbued with a mutual spirit, created for one another, and shortly after parson Summer united them together in the happiest of states.

I have described to you the proceedings of celestials; but we mortals have a commonplace way of doing up these little matters, far more interesting to us to my fancy. A ferry crossed—a short trip in the cars, and we are landed in the centre of a charming neighboring city. A bright sky and balmy air give vivacity, and life, and joy to all. Still a step further, where the tall spire casts its lengthened shadow across the way.

We enter the church, and many colored lights from diamond panes shed a mellowed hue around. Its oaken benches are filled with the smiling faces of friends and neighbors. There are few greetings for us, and the solemnity of the place, and the occasion, have an opportunity to exert that influence which the most thoughtless cannot entirely escape in a similar situation.

A moment longer and the organ’s roll announces the entrance of the surpliced priest. The pure lawn bespeaks respect for the unspotted character of the man of God. And now a general rustle of dresses and smothered whispers say that the bridal party approach. The gentle bride whose color rivals the hue of the camellias that adorn her jetty hair, leans on the arm of one who henceforth is to be her all in all—for whom she leaves parents, family, friends, home and country. Is it strange that the cheek is blanched and the eye moist? His is a firm step and a manly form, and a gentle eye. Affection looks out at every glance, while pride and good-fortune rejoice together. “Happy is the bride that the sun shines upon,” runs the adage. But the sun is not more ominous for good, than the mutual affection which gilds all around with its beams. Next comes the sister, whose sympathies, from nearness of age and common interests are strongest, her warm heart evincing itself by a hurried breath and a nervous step. Behind follow the dear friends of her youth, whose path so long the same, now separates, and the only brother, on whom falls the hope of the family, its perpetuated name, future reputation, and influence.

Now as they kneel about the altar, while parents, sisters, friends, stand silent around, one wish animates all that “God may have them in his holy keeping.” The service goes on. Those pledges of mutual love and fidelity—oaths, not lightly to be taken, never to be broken—vows, registered in heaven by the Great Jehovah, the almighty witness—are said. The warm-hearted father gives away the bride. The ring—the benediction—and again the fresh air salutes us. The most important of all earthly rites is finished. It is a solemn occasion. Those who have passed through this scene, are forced to recall it to themselves, to examine if they have kept the faith—to make good resolutions for the future. To the young a lesson is given. Thoughtfulness is compelled to the importance of proper care in the selection of a partner, so that inclination and duty may go hand in hand together. The rolling peals of the organ grow fainter and fainter behind us.

Still another scene. A lordly mansion, whose wide-oped doors invite our entrance. From the sanctity of the church, the sanctuary of home receives us. The voices of friends and the merry laugh greet our ears. All is gay and joyous. Out of the pale of the church the lovely bride, with blushing cheeks, receives the envious congratulations of her friends.

The table that groaned with the feast now yields its rich supplies. The wassail bowl spreads gayety around. But hush! the clang of glasses, and the busy tongues are stilled. A manly voice, with mellowed cadence, reads a heartfelt epithalamium—an ode becoming a laureat—to the health and prosperity of the young couple.

The occasion was indeed worthy of the brilliant pen of the gifted authoress. Its reading produced various effects upon its auditors. Some wondered at its beauty, some were impressed with the honor done. Those of sensibility wiped their overflowing eyes, wondering whether it was the intrinsic beauty of the poem or its peculiar appropriateness that so moved them. All felt its influence, for the children of the heart, like the carrier-pigeons, fly always to their native home.

A toast! a toast! To the bride and the poetess—and on went the feast.

The hour for separation approaches. The rolling ocean is to divide the daughter from her tender mother, beloved father, and friends. Their pangs of parting cast the only gloom upon the occasion. But now all is over. The business of every day life, with its noise, and bustle, and heartlessness, is again resumed. The scenes just described have left their subjects of contemplation too lightly treated in this day of frivolity and Fourierism, viz., the sacredness and responsibilities of marriage, and the affectionate devotedness of loving, trusting woman.