Rome, under the just and equitable sway of the two Antonines, enjoyed for more than forty years freedom from religious persecution. But when years had fled, when persecution again raged, the noble house of the Fabricii stood fast to the faith of their fathers. It is to such as they that we owe the preservation of that sacred fire which had nearly gone out in the darkness of the middle ages. To such spirits as were those of the lady Octavia and her companions in exile are we indebted for the transmission of that divine grace, which, though nearly uprooted by the plowshare of persecution, sown in sorrow, and watered by the blood and tears of martyrs, had become a goodly tree, throwing out its giant branches to far distant lands, and is destined ultimately to overshadow the whole earth. May not we of a far-distant and happier age, with profit search the annals of the past, and dwell lovingly upon the lives and virtues of those to whom, under God, we owe the possession and the enjoyment of our civil and religious liberties? state was bound in ices, or yielded only to the pickax. Broken ranges of hills tinted with their purple line the blue of the horizon. Through their gorges wild wind-harps play when winter holds his court. Cottages are perched, like eagle nests, upon the cliffs, and patrician mansions luxuriate amid lawns of velvet. White sails dance at the will of the breeze; boats glide beneath bridges, or between islands of verdure, like the gossamer in the sunbeam. Steep declivities, of a broken, sandy surface, studded and crowned with evergreens, gaze at themselves in the mirror which the river holds at their feet. Bold, unexpected reverses of scenery keep attention awake, and almost lead you to fancy yourself in Scotland. Suddenly one of the embracing rivers changes its character. It had mildly wound its way through green meadows, receiving with complacence the kiss of the humblest shrub that fringed its banks. You would not believe it to be the same, when opposing rocks rouse the antagonistic principle in its bosom. With Demosthenic fury, it rushes tumultuously against them, uttering stormy eloquence. It MEMORIES AND LEGENDS OF CONNECTICUT. gushes out in milky whiteness; it tosses foam IT NUMBER I. BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. MY NATIVE PLACE. "Sweetly wild, sweetly wild, Were the scenes that charm'd me when a child." T has been sagely said that "every one has a native place;" and with this unanswerable proposition we couple the remark, that they are prone to consider it the most Eden-like spot on earth's surface. Witness the Greenlander in his subterranean cell, the African under his palmtree, the Highlander among the trosachs, or the blast-defying hunter in the wilds of Oregon. My own birthplace had no such contrasts to overCaressed by two rivers, like an indulged child, it wore the fairest drapery; while the sea, flowing at the distance of less than a score of miles, had no power to disturb it by hoarse threatenings, though it insensibly softened the summer atmosphere. come. Variety and abruptness of change marked the landscape. Here and there rose bold, beetling cliffs, like a citadel, surrounded by impregnable parapets. Expanses of the softest green were interspersed where lofty elms uplifted columns of umbrageous shade, or willows wept downward into the streams. Every brooklet was like dancing crystal. Gardens put forth early flowers, while the soil in some other portions of the and spray upon the tall trees, as if to reproach the neutrality that could thus look on, and help it not. Wounded and broken, it falls in countless cascades upon a channel of pointed rock, like "Damien's bed of steel." Compressed and prisoned between perpendicular precipices, towering like the turrets of a castle, it creeps slowly through the pass, with a Lethean blackness— the river of despair. Gazing into its depths, you seem to catch from it the spirit of forgetfulness, and lose the imagery of the passing world. Methinks a murmur rises to fancy's ear-the last wail of the hunted Pequot. Driven fiercely on before their conquerors, the Mohegans, the remnant of that wasted tribe here took that fatal plunge to eternity. See we the broken forms of those despairing warriors mingling with the dark, sullen waters? Is it their shriek that surmounts the clamor of the cataract? Raising your eyes, lo! another "change hath come over the spirit of its dream." Unchained, untroubled, broad and free, it reflects the smile of the skies, while upon its distant shores fair abodes peer through vistas of green. At some distance from this romantic dell, and surrounded by pleasant mansions, is that where I first saw the light. On each side of its gateunshrinking sentinels-was a dark spruce; one spreading its arms in goodly show, the other more diminutive, and never able, by any force of culture, to equal its competitor. Its broad front, turned toward the rising sun, boasted no decoration, save the white rose and the sweetbrier, trained in alternate columns to its eaves. A small court-yard of velvet-like turf, a spacious meadow in the rear, traversed by a swift, clear brook; and large gardens, with their terraces, fruit-trees, and flower-beds, made the peaceful domain beautiful. My early associations are with spring hyacinths and violets; with hearing golden carved names, and mill-wheels dash passionately in this, Nature's once secluded sanctuary. The money-changers have come into the temple. Perchance, in revisiting my birth-spot, it would have been pleasanter to have found it as in its days of old. But it matters little, since its picture hangs in the halls of memory, to fade not till she herself is dead. FUTURE. OWEVER universal has been the anticipa HOWEVER universe, and however powerful pears drop hard and heavy from the tall old THE HOME AND THE COMPANIONS OF THE trees; with searching for the red and white strawberries, that ran lovingly together through the long sunny arena; with inhaling the fragrance of large yellow peaches from their propped and laden boughs; and with lingering in a vine-clad summer-house, singing my own little thoughtsongs, for children think as well as love. The old place that gave the first page to my life's picture-book has now put on other garments. But its simple, comely features, unmodified, are set as a seal forever on the heart, that still trembles with the love it bore for it, and for the loved ones who dwelt beneath its roof. tion of the future, and however powerful its influence over the mind, reason did not venture to give a form and locality to its conceptions; and the imagination, even with its loosest reins, failed in the attempt. Before the birth of astronomy, when our knowledge of space terminated with the ocean or the mountain range that bounded our view, the philosopher could but place his elysium in the sky; and even when revelation had unvailed the house of many mansions, the Christian sage could but place his future home in the new heavens and in the new earth of his creed. Thus vaguely shadowed forth, thus seen as through a glass darkly, the future even of a Christian, though a reality to his faith, was but a dream to his reason; and in vain did he inquire what this future was to be in its physical relations, in what region of space it was to be spent, what duties and pursuits were to occupy it, and what intellectual and spiritual gifts were to be its portion. But when science taught us the past history of our earth, its form, and size, and Yonder, too, was the lone church, sheltered and shouldered by lofty masses and ledges of rock. It was anciently of wood, and weather-stained with a tower, not very symmetrical or imposing. But modern hands have been laid upon it, and many of its time-honored lineaments are annihilated. It would be in vain to say to the pulpit, what has been so often said from it, "Know thyself." Where is thy majestic sounding-board, thy quaint cushion, and the square, high-backed pews upon which thou didst so solemnly look down? Where are the urchins who, with sly knives, would whittle their inserted bannisters, notwithstanding the harsh ministries of the stal-motions-when astronomy surveyed the solar wart tithing-man? Where is the venerated brow that rose above thee, Old Pulpit, white with many winters, and lips that spoke to reverent listeners the message of God? system, and measured its planets, and pronounced the earth to be but a tiny sphere, and to have no place of distinction among its gigantic compeers and when the telescope established new systems of worlds far beyond the boundaries of our own, the future of the sage claimed a place throughout the universe, and inspired him with an interest in worlds, and systems of There is a sighing answer to my question from a haunt where my childhood loved to wander the neighboring burial-ground. Yes; I understand it. The changes of death and the changes of life are around. My own little bark thread-worlds-in life without limits, as well as in life ing its brief course among them—a timid, stranger keel-soon to sink uurippling, and be remembered no more. Busy and marked has been the magic of transmigration in my native place. Masts peer over warehouses where were erst the smooth green sward or the scarcely visited waters. From yon beautiful cataract those lofty trees have disappeared, whose trunks were covered with deeply without end. On eagles' wings he soared to the zenith, and sped his way to the horizon of space, without reaching its ever-retiring bournd; and in the infinity of worlds, and amid the infinity of being, he described the home and the companions of the future, where man shall realize his true, his unending life, and where his joys shall multiply and his soul enlarge forever.-Brewster's More Worlds than One. THE FOREST SPRING. BY WILL S. PETERSON. In the joyous reign of summer, When the southern breezes blow, That is bubbling from the spring; For it leaves behind no sting! O'er me wave the leafy branches, In the softly sighing breeze, Which is playing, like a lover, With the tresses of the trees; And around me, in the clover, Hum the honey-hunting bees. Mother Earth is full of beauty, In her summer glories drest; Here, upon her lap reclining, Like an infant, will I rest, And enjoy the healthful current That is flowing from her breast. Beverage of man's invention, And the product of the vine, For the willing slaves of wine; Which she from the clouds distills, That my stainless goblet fills! That the bacchanalian sips. Resting here beside her fawn, Has her glowing lips immersed, Had the red man's nature curst. And the Indian wanders westward, Spirit-broken and forlorn, Through the change of every year, Just as when the Indian maiden Quaffed its waters pure and clearJust as when across its bosom Fell the shadow of the deer. The glad heart's spontaneous tribute OUR SISTER. BY LUELLA CLARK. 'Twas the time when the early May flowers Were bright on the hill-sides brown, And the rills, released but lately, To the dales were dancing down; And the fresh green leaves were sprouting A lonely, vacant place- On her lip the bridal vow. She went when the rosy morning Was just greeting the young green leaves, And the sunlight was gayly glancing Along on our cottage eavesWas silently, softly streaming O'er shutter and curtained pane, That all night on the leaves had lain. On her pathway may never grow dim, Shall dawn on our yearning eye, REMINISCENCES OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. THE OCEAN BURIAL. BY SAMUEL N. MILLERD. CHAPTER I. The husband turned to a bright-haired boy of some three years, who was seated upon the floor, deeply absorbed with a book of engravings which lay open before him. Calling him by name, the father beckoned him to the bedside, and, lifting THE golden light of a declining sun was stream. his light form, placed him in the arms of the ing in at the open door and window of a luxurious state-room, on board of one of the magnificent steamships that ply between San Francisco and Panama. On a low couch in that room, propped up by pillows, was a youthful female, upon whose countenance the signet of death was but too plainly to be seen. The glazing eye, the pallid lip, the high, pale brow, upon which the death-damp was already gathering, gave unerring evidence of the destroyer's presence. Standing at the bedside, with one of the invalid's hands locked in his own, was a man of some thirty or thirty-five years of age, who, from time to time, wiped the moisture that gathered upon the forehead of the dying woman. In the face of the sufferer, though wasted to extreme emaciation by long and severe illness, could be traced the lineaments of a countenance that had once been very beautiful. It was a deeply impressive scene. The departing sun, whose broad disc was already half immersed in the distant waters, shone fitfully through the apartmentnow glancing across the snowy coverlet, then upon the gilded moldings with which the room was ornamented, and then falling full upon the face of the invalid, and lighting it up with a strange and unnatural luster. Onward sped the noble vessel, rocking slowly from side to side as she rose and fell upon the long, majestic swell of the tranquil ocean. "Grieve not, beloved, that you must leave me here," said the dying woman; "it is well-all well. I have had a voice sounding in my ears, and saying, 'Fear not; for I have redeemed thee; I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee; and through the rivers they shall not overflow thee.'" There was a pause of some moments, and then she added, “I had hoped to see my home once more to die amidst familiar scenes, and lay this wasted form beside my mother's in our own quiet burial-ground. But God has otherwise ordered; his will be done." A deep and solemn stillness pervaded the apartment, broken only by the stifled sobs of the husband, as, with averted face, he strove to conceal the emotion that caused his strong frame to tremble like an aspen. "Is our child here, Robert?" dying woman, She pressed him to her bosom, and closed her eyes; the lips moved as if in silent prayer; then bending slightly forward, she imprinted upon his open forehead the kiss of fond affection-eloquent token of the deathless love that dwells within a mother's breast. "God bless you, my darling," she murmured, "and guide you and keep you to the end!" A tear trembled upon the eyelid; then coursing its way slowly over the pale cheek, fell upon the face of the wondering child. "Robert," she said, while her words, though uttered slowly and with much difficulty, fell upon the ear with a distinctness almost startling, "Robert, will you promise me to watch over our boy; to guide his youthful feet in the paths of virtue and uprightness; guard him from the snare of the destroyer, and teach him to love God and keep his commandments-will you promise me, my husband?" To this solemn question the husband responded an earnest "I will." "And now," continued the invalid, resigning the child to his father's arms, and sinking back upon her pillow, "I feel that the hour of my departure is at hand. Dim shadows are gathering around my sight, and a voice within tells me that my hold upon the things of time will soon be loosened. 'Tis sweet to feel now that the arms of everlasting love are underneath me, and to know" her voice sank suddenly to an indistinct murmur; a change came over her features; she gasped for breath, and the light of life seemed to glimmer feebly on its altar-a mere spark which the lightest breath would extinguish forever. After the lapse of a few moments the features relaxed; the paroxysm had passed, and the vital powers seemed rallying again as if to prepare for the final conflict. "The bitterness of death will soon be passed," she murmured, "and then, on the green shore of that blessed land where life knows no blight and the heart feels no pang, I will await your coming. It matters little that the deep must be my resting-place, and the foaming billow my winding-sheet-that eye that neither slumbers nor sleeps will watch over my ashes; and in the morning of the resurrection we shall meet again-meet where happiness is unbroken and joy perennial, Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns.' And when you reach our home, Robert, when you stand in the halls where we were wed, and bow around the sacred altar where we have so often kneeled together, do not mourn for me as though lost forever, but remember I have only gone before-have but preceded you a little in reaching that blessed home to which, I trust, we shall one day be gathered. Tell-my-fatherthat I❞ the voice became indistinct, the words died away upon her lips, and she spoke no more. For the space of two hours the taper of life continued to flicker in its socket; then went calmly out; and when the moaning night-wind came sighing around the silent ship, it seemed a dirge for the departed spirit. CHAPTER II. Robert Moreland and myself were school-fellows and playmates together in one of the beautiful villages with which the interior of the Empire state abounds. In the year 1835 I removed with my parents to the then far west; and for six years our knowledge of each other was limited to the scanty gleanings of an irregular and disconnected correspondence. But though thus widely separated, neither absence nor the constant succession of changes that sweep across life's current, could entirely dissever the tie that had so firmly bound us in the halcyon days of our boyhood. At the end of that period we were again brought together in the halls of science-fellow-travelers in the toilsome pathway of collegiate life. In the summer of 1842 I accepted Moreland's invitation to spend a vacation at his home-a beautiful town in Massachusetts, whither his family had removed some years previously. I here became acquainted with Catharine Mansfield; then the fiancee, and afterward wife of my friend. Though possessed of a high order of beauty, and a form cast in nature's finest mold, Miss Mansfield was indebted for her greatest attraction to other and far different qualifications. The talismanic power that drew all hearts toward her, and by which she became at once the ornament and idol of the circle in which she moved, consisted in the kindness of heart, the sweetness of temper, the gentleness of disposition, and the modesty and unobtrusiveness of demeanor, which, joined to a refined taste and cultivated intellect, have ever constituted the highest adornment and brightest charm of the female character. She was a decided, earnest, consistent Christian. Her religion was free alike from the blind devotion of the zealot and the cold insensibility of the formalist. In the social circle and around the domestic fireside, at home and abroad, her presence was like the sunbeam, warming and cheering all who came within its influence. Her marriage with Moreland took place soon after his admission to the bar; he having devoted himself to the study of the law at the close of his collegiate course. After practicing his profession with decided and flattering success for three years, he received and accepted an offer of partnership in a house of established reputation and extensive practice in San Francisco. Accompanied by his wife and infant child, he embarked for California in the spring of 1851, and, after a prosperous voyage of twenty-eight days, reached in safety the El Dorado of the Pacific. Fortune smiled upon his efforts. He entered at once into a lucrative practice, and the day seemed not far distant when they might return to their home with a sufficiency of this world's wealth, But a dark cloud came at last to dim their horizon, and to shut out the sunlight of their happiness. At the close of the second year of their residence in California, Mrs. Moreland's health began to fail. She continued to decline during the year following, till it became evident that her days upon earth were numbered. The earnest longing of her spirit now seemed to be for her home. "O, take me home, Robert!" was her oft-repeated exclamation; "I can not bear to die here; let me see my home once more!" The request was heeded, and they were soon embarked for that home which the stricken one was never destined to see. She died, as described in the previous chapter, on the second day after leaving Acapulco. I was a passenger in the ship in which they sailed; and it was mine to stand by the bedside of the dying woman, to assist in committing her form to the deep, to shed the tear of sympathy with my early friend over his irreparable loss, and to go with him to that darkened home, from out whose portals, as a happy bride, he had brought her who was now sleeping beneath the blue wave of the distant Pacific. CHAPTER III. At ten o'clock in the evening of the night succeeding that in which the events narrated in the first chapter took place, a little company was gathered upon the quarter-deck of the steamer Golden Gate, to witness the burial of Catharine Moreland. The night was lovely in the extreme. Far over the sleeping waters, now smooth and glassy as a mirror, the moon was shedding floods |