116 WITHERED FLOWERS.
sleeping myself that I slumbered sitting up in
my big chair, got the nightmare, and bumped
my head against the table.
But I was up and out in time, and found the parson, and got it straight at last, and he tried; to console me for all my trouble by saying,
“It might be worse; you might be going to be married yourself.”
“God forbid!” said I, fervently; then remem- bered that he was a clergyman, and apologized.
But he laughed heartily, and said,
‘It was so evidently heartfelt that I really think it was not irreverent.”
What an awful day I had of it! Damon sent for me, and I had to go. First, he reviled me; for my bruised forehead, and vowed that I had been on a spree, and that it really was enough to ruin a man’s character to present a friend with such a mark on his face as there was on mine. Then he read me a brief but dreadful lecture on the enormity of my conduct generally, and figuratively spat upon me (as the foulest reproach) the name ‘‘fusty, musty, crusty old bachelor.”
There was a world of things to do—he always was the worst fellow for leaving matters to the latest moment—and when he was not reviling me, he was praising his intended, or telling me what a happy dog he was, or pitying me for being a disconsolate old crow.
I may have been guilty of my little errors in my life, but whatever they have been, certain it is that the purgatory I endured that day ought to have atoned for them ; and the most provok ing thing was, that, whether he reviled me or pitied me, or talked about our old friendship, it was so evident that he was ridiculously, idiotically happy, that he was no more sensible of the horror of his position than a blind man would be of a precipice.
Friend, the morrow came, I was up at early dawn—at the’church precisely at eight. Would you believe it! only that one can believe any- thing of a man capable of falsifying all his old sentiments as Damon had done! Late the even ing before it had been decided to have the cere mony nearly half an hour earlier, so that as I entered the chapel the clergyman was just con cluding the performance ; and the little group of relatives, who had felt it their duty to get up and be present, glared at me as if I ought to be ashamed of myself-and I really felt conscience stricken, though for what I could not have told.
That is all! The last of them is gone - the band of old bachelors is definitely wasted to a single span. There hang the pipe and glass here I sit and recall the by-gone days, and see the ghosts of good fellows sitting about, and hear them laugh and talk, and the past grows so real that it is only with an effort I rouse myself to the mournful truth that they are all gone lost ! Damon latest ! Sold, betrayed, buried- no, I mean married!
WITHERED
FLOWERS .
BY MRS. EMMA DIX.
Who placed ye here, bright memory flowers?
Sweet emblems of fair Summer hours,
Within this Sacred Book ?
Had ye a mission to fulfill,
To call again with magic skill,
Some fond or gentle look?
Perhaps ye decked a mother's pride,
When time on rapid wing did glide,
Crowning her life with joy;
Sweet token of some happier morn,
That blushed above its tiny form,
One day without alloy.
Mayhap a bride, with modest grace,
Had twined ye 'mid the fleecy lace
Shading her maiden brow;
What hopes ye brought, sweet memory flowers,
Of other days and fonder hours,
Fair records of a vow.
Maychance bedecked some dear loved one,
Fit emblem of the life just done,
As fair, and bright, and ble t;
Soothing the pathway to the tomb,
A gentle flower in early bloom,
Seeking its joyous rest.
Fair, smiling flowers, once bright and gay,
Withered hopes of a happier day,
Speak, and tell me all:
My childhood seemed as bright and fair,
Its faded dreams can well prepare
The soul to obey its call.
I'll place ye back; ye long have lain,
Some joy or care, some grief or pain,
That long hath slept untbought;
Mayhap the one who placed ye here,
Is floating in another sphere,
By God and angels taught.
Sleep on, sweet flowers, the tears will start,
When memories crowd within my heart,
An orphan's sad and lone;
The best beloved, each kindred tie,
Like your bright joys, must fade and die
Our brightest days have flown.
