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It survived, but it had a weak side,
And so had its wearer, perchance,
Since I left it on stairs to abide,
At a house where I went to a dance.
A lady ran into my hat,
My poor hat!
She demolished my invalid hat!

INNOCENT SURPRISES.

I am somewhat inclined to the opinion, that, if positive legislation
could be brought to bear upon this subject, making it a criminal
offence for one person deliberately to concoct and designedly to
spring a surprise upon another, society would derive incalculable
benefit from the act. For the ordinary and inevitable surprises of
every-day life are sufficiently frequent and startling to content even
the most romantic disposition; entirely dispensing with the necessity
of those artfully contrived, embarrassing little plots which one's
friends occasionally set in motion, greatly to their own diversion and
the extreme discomfort of the surprised unfortunate. For he who has
ever broken his skull on a treacherous sidewalk, or received from the
post a dunning missive when he expected a love-letter, or arrived one
minute late at the car-station, or taken a desperately bad bill in
exchange for good silver, or been caught in a thunderstorm with white
pantaloons and no umbrella, knows that the unavoidable surprises of
life are in themselves staggerers of quite frequent occurrence, and
require not the aid of human invention. But the surprises which we
most dread are not those which _naturally_ fall to us as part of the
misfortune we are born to inherit; not those which result from
unforeseen accidental circumstances, from carelessness on our own part
or from the folly of others, from revolutions in the elements or in
the affairs of nations; these we _can_ bear, by using against them the
best remedies we possess, or by viewing and enduring them as wisdom
and philosophy teach us to do. No; our only prayer, in this
connection, is that we may be saved from our friends; not from their
carelessness, but from their deliberate schemes against our security.

In order to reconcile this apparent contradiction in terms, take the
following instance of a friendly propensity. You walk into your house
at dusky twilight, at that particular hour of evening at which your
_own brother_, if he be a reasonable being, would not expect you to
recognize him; one of your family extends his (or her) head from the
parlor, and calls upon you at once to enter, and greet "an old
friend." You obey, and are immediately confronted with an individual
whose countenance wears an expression associated with some
reminiscences of your youth, but so dim and undefined is it, that you
cannot, for the life of you, give it its appropriate name or
place. What is to be done? The recollections of early childhood are
expected spontaneously to burst forth from under a heap of later and
more vivid associations, and the name, residence, business, and whole
history of the unwelcome guest are called upon to suggest themselves
within a second's time.

After a long moment of painful hesitation, during which you have in
vain tried to _stare_ his name out of him, you clutch at a struggling
idea, and blurt out the name of one of your former associates. You do
this, not by any means because common sense or conviction suggest the
course, but simply because something must instantly be done. The
result, of course, is, that you hit upon the wrong name; and now your
kind friends can do no more for you; even if they rush to the rescue,
and formally introduce the stranger, it is of no avail. The deed is
done; you are placed in a position of awkward mortification, which
both the stranger and yourself will never forget, and never cease to
regret.

Why it is that the feeling of shame which follows upon such mishaps
attaches itself exclusively to the innocent sufferers, rather than to
those who are the cause of the suffering, I never could
understand. This kind of diversion betrays a want of humane
consideration in the contriver. It is infinitely more cruel and
unamiable than Spanish bull-baitings, or the gladiatorial shows of the
ancients, inasmuch as a shock to the finest feelings of human nature
is harder to bear, and longer in duration, than the momentary pang
induced by witnessing a merely physical suffering.

THE OLD SAILOR.

In my school vacations I used occasionally to visit an old sailor
friend, a man of uncommon natural gifts, and that varied experience of
life which does so much to supply the want of other means of
education. He must have been a handsome man in his youth, and though
time and hardship had done their utmost to make a ruin of his bold
features, and had made it needful to braid his still jetty black locks
together to cover his bald crown, his was a fine, striking head yet,
to my boyish fancy. I loved to sit at his feet, and hear him tell the
events of sixty years of toil and danger, suffering and well-earned
joy, as he leaned with both hands upon his stout staff, his body
swaying with the earnestness of his speech. His labors and perils were
now ended, and in his age and infirmity he had found a quiet haven. He
had built a small house by the side of the home of his childhood, and
his son, who followed his father's vocation, lived under the same
roof. This son and two daughters were all that remained to him of a
large family.

"An easterly bank and a westerly glim are certain signs of a wet
skin!" said the fisherman, pointing to the heavy black masses of cloud
that hung over the eastern horizon, one morning when I had risen at
sunrise for a day's fishing. "'T won't do; don't go out to-day!
There's soon such a breeze off shore, as, with the heavy chop, would
make you sick enough! Besides, the old dory won't put up with such a
storm as is coming. No fishing, my boy, to-day."

His old father said, "Stephen is right. There is a blow brewing." And
he came to look, leaning on his cane. "Stay in to-day."

I yielded, and the sky during the morning slowly assumed a dull,
leaden hue. The storm came on in the afternoon, heavily pattering, and
pouring, and blowing against the windows, and obscuring the little
light of an autumn twilight. I wandered through the few small rooms of
the cottage, endeavoring to amuse myself, while the light lasted, with
two funeral sermons and an old newspaper. Then I sat down at a window,
and I well remember the gloomy landscape, seen through the rain, in
the dusk:--the marsh, with the creek dividing it, the bare round
eminence between the house and the beach, or rather the rocky cliffs,
and on either side the wide, lonely sands, with heavy foam-capped
breakers rolling in upon the shore, with a sound like a solemn
dirge. At a distance on the left, half hidden by the walnut-trees, lay
the ruins of a mill, which had always the air of being haunted. A
high, rocky hill, very nearly perpendicular on the side next the
house, was covered on the sides and top with junipers, pines, and
other evergreens. As the darkness thickened, I left the lonely "best
room" for the seat in the large chimney-corner, in the kitchen. The
old wife tottered round, making preparations for the evening meal, and
muttered recollections of shipwrecks which the storm brought to her
mind. Now and then she would go to a window, turn back her cap-border
from her forehead, put her face close to the glass, shading off the
firelight with her hand, and gaze out into the darkness.

"Asa did not go out either, thank the good Father!" she said. The dog
whined piteously. "St! St! Poor Scip! Here, shall have a piece! Good
dog! A fearful night indeed it is."

The two men came in from the barn, shook off the wet, and drew near
the fire.

"Just such a night, twenty-nine years ago come August, we ran afoul of
Hatteras. You remember, old woman, how they frighted ye about me,
don't ye?"

Amidst such reminiscences we were called to supper. I remember being
solemnly impressed when that old man, bent with hardship and the
weight of years, clasped his hands reverently, and in rude terms, but
full of meaning, asked a blessing upon their humble board. I remember
the flickering light from the logs burning on the hearth, and how it
showed, upon the faces of those who sat there, a strong feeling of the
words in which rose an added petition in behalf of those on the mighty
deep.

Supper being ended, the old man took down the tobacco-board, and, when
he had cut enough to fill his pipe, handed it to his son, who, having
done the same, restored it to its nail in the chimney-corner. Then
they smoked, and talked of dangers braved and overcome, of pirates,
and shipwrecks, and escapes, till I involuntarily drew closer into my
corner, and looked over my shoulder. Suddenly the dog under the table
gave a whining growl.

"I never seed the like o' that dog," exclaimed the fisherman, turning
to me. "I thought he was asleep. But if ever a foot comes nigh the
house at night, he gives notice. Depend on it, there's some one
coming."

The door of the little entry opened, with a rush of the whistling
wind, and a man stepped in. The dog half rose, and though he wagged
his tail, in token that he knew the step to be that of a friend, he
kept up a low whine. A young man, muffled to the eyes, and with the
water dripping from his huge pea-jacket, opened the kitchen-door.

"William Crosby, why, what brings you out in such a storm as this?
Strip off your coat, and draw up to the fire, can't ye? Where are you
bound, then, and the night as dark as a wolf's throat?"

The young fisherman made no answer, unless by a motion of his hand. As
he turned back the collar from his face, we saw by the waving light
that it was pale as death. The long wet locks already lay upon his
cheeks, making them more ghastly as he struggled to speak. "O Stephen
Lee, it's no time to be sitting by the fire, when old Asa Osborn is
rolling in the waters. A man's drownded; and who's to get the body for
the wife and the children--God pity them!--afore the ebb carries it
out to sea?"

The old man drew his hand across his forehead, and rose. I looked at
him as he drew up his tall figure, and looked the young messenger full
in the eye. In a low, deep whisper, he said, "Who, William, did ye
say? You said a man's drownded,--but tell me the name again."

"Yes, Gran'sir, I did say it. Old Uncle Ase Flemming, he and the
minister went out a fishing in the morning. The minister got his boots
off in the water, and after a long time he's swum ashore. But poor
Uncle Ase--. Stephen, come along. His poor wife's gone down to the
beach, now."

They left the house, and I shut the door after them, and came back
softly to my seat by the old man's knee.

Once before I had seen him, when a heavy sorrow fell upon him. It was
on a beautiful summer's day, and the open window let in the cool
breeze from the sea. He was sitting by it in his arm-chair, looking
out upon the calm water, buried in thought. His favorite daughter had
long been very low, and might sink away at any moment. The old dog was
at his feet asleep. The clock ticked in the corner, and the sun was
shining upon the floor. Some friends sat by in silence, with sorrowful
countenances. His little grandchild came to his side, and said,
"Mother says, tell Grandpa Aunt Lucy's gone home."

The old man did not alter his position. For some time he sat in deep
thought, looking out with unseeing gaze, and winding his thumbs, as
before. Of five fair daughters, three had before died by the same
disease, consumption. He had seen them slowly fade away, one by one,
and had followed his children to the grave in the secluded
burying-ground, where the green sod was now to be broken to receive
the fourth.

Rising slowly, he walked across the room, and, taking the well-worn
family Bible, returned with it to his seat; and, as he turned the
leaves, he said in a low tone to himself, "There's only one left now!"
Then he sat entirely silent, with his eyes fixed upon the sacred
page. He did not utter one word of lamentation, he did not shed a
tear, but as he turned his eye on me, in passing, its expression went
to my heart. Stealing softly out, I left him to the silent Comforter
whose blessing is on the mourner.

Now the scene was changed. One was suddenly taken from his side who
had been a companion from boyhood to old age. They had played and
worked in company; together they had embarked on their first voyage,
and their last; and they had settled down in close neighborhood in the
evening of their days. Each had preserved the other's life in some
moment of peril, but took small praise to himself for so simple an act
of duty. Few words of fondness had ever passed between them. They had
gone along the path of life, without perhaps being conscious of any
peculiarly strong tie of friendship binding them together, till they
were thus torn asunder. The death of a daughter, long and slowly
wasting away before his eyes, could be calmly borne. But this blow was
wholly unforeseen, and his chest heavily rose and fell, and by the
bright firelight I saw tears rolling over his weather-beaten cheeks.

"A child will weep a bramble's smart,
A maid to see her sparrow part,
A stripling for a woman's heart;
Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen
The hard-drawn tears of bearded men."

The fury of the storm being abated, I resolved to follow Stephen down
to the shore. He was not in sight, and I knew not what direction to
take. It was a gloomy night, the transient glimpses of the moon
between driving masses of clouds only making the scene more wild and
appalling. I could see the tops of the tall trees bending under the
fury of the blast, ere it came to sweep the beach. The heaving billows
were covered with foam, far as the eye could reach, and, rising and
tumbling, seemed striving with each other as they rolled on towards
the sands. I had seen storms upon the ocean before, but never had it
presented so awful and majestic an appearance. As the breakers struck
upon the shore, and sent a huge mass of water upon the sands, their
sullen roar mingled with the howling and rushing of the wind, and
filled me with awe.

There were torches upon the beach, and as I drew near, I saw the
fishermen run together to one point. The body had just been washed
ashore, and lay stretched upon the sands. The head was bare, and long
locks of white hair streamed down upon the shoulders. The heavy
pea-jacket was off from one arm, as if he had endeavored to extricate
himself from it in the water. The sinewy arms lay powerless and free
from tension then, but they told me that, when they first drew him
from the surf, both hands were grasping a broken oar with such
strength that they were unable to loose his hold, till suddenly the
muscles relaxed, and the arms fell upon the ground. They turned the
body, and a little water ran from the mouth. Then, gently raising it
upon their shoulders, they bore it home.

LAUGHTER.

In some individuals the risibles lie so near the surface that you may
tickle them with a feather. In others, they are so deeply imbedded in
phlegm, or so protected by the crust of ill-humor, that a strong
thrust and a keen weapon are required to reach them.

A laugh is in itself a different thing in different individuals. Some
persons laugh inwardly, unsocially, bitterly. It is a pure grimace on
your part when you join in their merriment, unless you are superior to
the fear of ridicule. On the other hand, there is a laugh of so
contagious a nature, that you are irresistibly moved to sympathy while
ignorant of the exciting cause, or out of the sphere of its
influence. You will laugh loud and long, and afterwards confess that
you had not the least gleam of a funny idea, all the while.

You doubt the power of the sympathetic laugh? Come with me into the
nursery. Here is a rosy little horror, a year and a half old. Sit down
and take him upon your knees. Hold his dimpled hands in yours, and
look steadily into his roguish eyes. Repeat a nursery rhyme, no matter
what, in a humdrum recitative; he is sober, and very attentive.
Suddenly spring a mine upon him with a "Boo!" His "Hicketty-hick!"
follows, and his eyes begin to shine. Repeat the experiment.
"Hicketty-hick!" again, more heartily than at first, with the baby
encore, "Adin!" The same process awakens the rapturous little pearls
again and again, and you are quite in the spirit of the thing
yourself. Now for a more ecstatic burst. You purposely prolong his
suspense; he is all atilt, expecting the delightful surprise. You
drawl out each word; you drone the ditty over and over again, till
every tiny nerve is tense with expectation. "Boo!" at last, and over
he goes, in the complete _abandon_ of baby glee; his cherry lips are
wide asunder, his head hangs powerless back, and the "Hicketty-hicks"
burst tumultuously from his little, beating throat. And _you_, sir;
what are _you_ doing? Laughing, I declare, in full roar, till the
tears run down your cheeks. You catch the boy in your arms, toss him,
almost throttle him with kisses, and so enhance the merry spasms, that
mamma, who has a philosophical instinct with regard to excited nerves,
and dreads the reaction, comes to the rescue.

Let me introduce you to another effective laughter. You shall not hear
a sound, yet you cannot choose but laugh, if she does, quiet as she is
about it. See how her shoulders shake,--and look at her face! Every
feature is instinct with mirth; the color mounts to the roots of the
hair; the curls vibrate; the eyes sparkle through tears; the white
teeth glisten; the very nose and ears seem to take a part; like
Nourmahal, she "laughs all over," and while you wonder what the joke
may be, you are laughing too.

Do you feel dismal, or anxious? You should hear L. tell a story. She
is one of the very few who can undertake with impunity to talk and
laugh at the same time. Look and listen, while she describes some
comic occurrence. There is no unladylike, boisterous noise, but
musical peals of laughter come thick and fast; and faster and thicker,
preternaturally fast and thick, come the words with them. And yet each
word is distinct; you do not lose a syllable. And I should like to see
the man who can resist her, if she chooses he should laugh, even at
his own expense.

There is an odd sort of power, too, in the gravity with which B.
tells a humorous anecdote. He invariably maintains a sober face while
every body is in an agony of laughter around him. Just as it begins to
subside, the echo of his own wit comes back to him, and, as if he had
just caught the idea, he bursts into one little abrupt explosion, so
genuine, so full of heartiness, that it sets every body off upon a
fresh score.

Nothing so melts away reserve among strangers, nothing so quickly
develops the affinities in chance society, as laughter. A person might
be ever so polite, and even kind, and talk sentiment a whole day, and
it would not draw me so near to him as the mutual enjoyment of one
heartfelt laugh. It is a perfect bond of union; for the time being,
you have but one soul between you.

TO STEPHEN.

I saw thee only once, dear boy, and it may be, perchance,
That ne'er again on earth my eyes shall meet thy gentle glance;
Years have gone by since then, and thou no longer art the child,
With earnest eye, and frolic laugh, and look so clear and mild;
For thee, the smiles and tears and sports of infancy are gone,
And youth's bright promise, gliding into manhood, has come on;--
And yet thine image, as a child, will ever stay with me,
As bright as when, so long ago, I met and welcomed thee.

What was the charm that lay enshrined within thy smiling eyes?
What made me all thy childish, winning ways so dearly prize?
It was thy likeness to another,--one whose looks of love,
No longer blessing earth, were met by angel eyes above.
Yet thou hadst not the golden hair, the brow of radiant white,
Nor the blue eyes so soft and deep, like violets dewy bright;
But the smiles that played about thy mouth, the sweetness in thine
eyes,
The dimpling cheek that said, "Within, a sunny spirit lies,"
The true and open brow, the bird-like voice, so free and clear,
The glance that told, "I have not learned the meaning yet of fear,"
And more than all, the trusting heart, so lavish of its treasure,
In simple faith, its earnest love bestowing without measure;
These, more than lines and colors, made a picture, warm and bright,
Of one whose face no more might cheer and bless my earthly sight.

The nature, beautiful and pure, he carried to the skies,
Has been trained by angel teaching, has been watched by seraph eyes.
Dear boy! through this cold world _thy_ earth-bound feet have trod;
and now,
Is the loving heart still thine? Hast kept that true and open brow?

THE OLD CHURCH.

There are certain old-fashioned people who find fault with the
luxuriousness of our churches, and ascribe to the warmth and comfort,
which contrast so strongly with the hardships of early times, the
acknowledged sleepiness of modern congregations. For my part, I see no
necessary connection between discomfort and devotion. _My_ soul, at
least, sympathizes so much with its physical adjunct, that, when the
latter is uncomfortable, the former is never quite free and active.

Let me call to remembrance the church my childhood knew, with its
capacious square pews, in which half the audience turned their backs
upon the minister; the seats made to rise and fall, for the
convenience of standing, and which closed every prayer with a clap of
thunder; its many aisles, like streets and lanes; the old men's seats,
and the queer but venerable figures that were seen in them,--some with
black-silk caps to protect their bald heads from the freezing draughts
of air from the porchless doors; the old women's seats, on the
opposite side; the elevated row of pews round the sides of the church,
and the envied position of certain little children who had an
extensive prospect through the open pew-top within doors, and a view
of the hay-scales and the town-pump through the window besides. Those
windows, in a double row, with the gallery between,--how regularly I
counted the small panes, always forgetting the number, to make the
same weary task necessary every Sunday! The singing-seats, projecting
from the central portion of the gallery, furnished me with another
hebdomadal study, in large gilt letters of antique awkwardness, which
so impressed themselves on my mind that I see them now. This was the
golden legend: "BUILT, 1770. ENLARGED, 1795." I remember hearing a wag
propose to add as another remarkable fact, "SCOURED, 1818."

Opposite to the singing-seats towered the pulpit, from which the
clergyman looked down upon us like a sparrow upon the house-top. He
seemed in perpetual danger of being extinguished by a huge
sounding-board. Very earnestly I used to gaze at the slender point by
which it hung suspended, and wished, if it _must_ come down, that I
might make the gilt ornament at the apex, resembling a vase turned
upside down, my prize. Under the pulpit was a closet, which some one
veraciously assured me was the place where the tithingman imprisoned
incautiously playful urchins. The terrors of that dark, mysterious
cell had little effect on my conduct, however, as I was not entirely
convinced of the existence of any such lynx-eyed functionary.

The largest church in the county, it was, however, well filled, many
of the congregation coming five and some even six miles, and remaining
there through the noon intermission, which, on their account, was made
as short as possible. But in winter the vast airy space had a peculiar
and searching chill. No barn could be colder, except that the numerous
footstoves made some little change in the air during service. The
minister stood upon a heated slab of soap-stone. I used to watch this
in its progress up the broad aisle and the pulpit stairs, under the
arm of the boy from the parsonage, and the irreverent way in which he
made his descent, in view of the assembly, after depositing his
burden, was thus rebuked by an old lady who was always droll and
quaint. "Why, Matthew, when you come down the pulpit stairs of a
Sunday, you throw up your heels like a horse coming out of a
stable-door."

Older grew the church, and colder; and if people then staid at home on
Sunday afternoons, they had a better excuse for doing so than their
successors can muster. The chorister, even, was frequently among the
missing, but was charitably supposed to be subject to the ague.
Efforts were made to prevail upon the elderly part of the parish to
permit the introduction of stoves with long funnels. They scorned the
enervating luxury! Their fathers had worshipped in the cold, and their
sons might. But ah! how degenerate were the descendants of the noble
old Puritan church-goers! The services curtailed to half their proper
length, yet finding the patience of the listeners all too short! The
degenerate descendants carried the day, however, the most bigoted of
their opposers becoming disabled by rheumatism. The old sexton,
resignation to inevitable evils being a lesson he had had much
opportunity to learn, submitted with a good grace, though very much of
opinion that fires in a church were an absurdity and a waste. The
stoves were provided, and an uncommonly full attendance the next
Sabbath showed the very general interest the matter had excited. How
would it seem? Would any one faint?

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