THE MOUNTAIN COTTAGE.

THE natural scenery of Scotland is celebrated, wherever the name of that beautiful country is known. But after making all proper allowance for early prejudices, I believe that there are many parts of our own country whose scenery is inferior to none in the world. He who has stood on the heights of the Catskill, or admired the shores of our northern lakes, or wandered over the often abrupt and broken mountains which extend from Canada to Connecticut, or trod the sublime scenes which stretch along the great valley of Virginia, needs not to be informed how many and diversified are the beauties of our native land. Many of these scenes are at a great distance from each other; they have never been celebrated in story or song; they stand wild in their native dress, and too little known to be admired. I confess myself an admirer of the sublime and beautiful works wrought by the fingers of Deity, and scattered over our land; whether exhibited in the wild world of waters as they leap down the cataract, or in the majestic river as it rolls its mighty burden of waters in silence through the lofty forest, or in the swelling hills, and spreading vales, watered by a thousand rivulets.

For the purpose of enjoying some romantic scenery, on a warm afternoon in June I left the little village where I had been residing, for a solitary walk. It was in the southern part of New England, about a dozen miles from Long Island Sound. After roaming from hill to hill, now gazing at the fertile plains covered with the richest garments, and now looking at the dark blue waters at a distance, with here and there a white sail slowly moving upon their surface, I found myself among the wildest works of Nature. I had wandered over a mountain covered with timber of different kinds, so steep that it could with difficulty be climbed by seizing the bushes which grew on its sides, and now found myself in a gap between two ranges of steep mountains. Delayed on the hills in search of minerals, it was not till near sunset that I came into this gap, sometimes known by the name of " the Den." It is a fearful place, extending several miles, with high and steep hills on each side, separated just wide enough to admit a foaming stream between them, while their dark shaggy tops seemed to scowl, as if in disdain, at the waters that were dashing at their feet. The stream is dark and deep, now whirling in eddies ere it bounds and dashes over opposing rocks, and now silently and sullenly moving along, as if indignant at the obstacles which stand in its way. There was a little path along the side of the river, trodden chiefly by single

persons, though sometimes passed by a team. Besides this, you could see no traces of man. The frowning pines sighed on the top of the mountains-the rocks reared their eternal breast-works -the savage stream dashed along in its pride, and all around was solitude. It was just sunset; there is an indescribable stillness attending the setting of a summer's sun, which every feeling bosom notices. He threw a veil of gold over the heads of the aged pines on the hills at my left, and sank with a stillness that seemed like a stop in the wheels of nature. It seemed as if the wild flood murmured with a less hoarse voice at this moment, and the heron on its banks forgot his screaming. I might not have remembered this moment, had it not, in a measure, prepared me for what followed.

About a mile from the entrance of "the Den," was an opening on the side of the eastern mountain, and nearly half way up its summit stood a small but neat cottage. It was in the midst of woods, save a place cleared around it for a little barn, a garden, a sheep-cote, and the little winding path which led to the door. The small habitation, the garden, &c., were not only neat and in good repair, but I noticed that they even had something like ornament; for a lovely honey-suckle was creeping over the mossy roof, and some beautiful flowers were waving in the garden. Though somewhat surprised at seeing these signs of life, I soon recollected that this must be the habitation of James Orwell, "the mountain cottager," whose character I had lately learned, and in whose history I had taken a lively interest.

James Orwell, whose house I was now approaching, was a native of Scotland. He had come to this country some fifty years before, in the hope of becoming rich. This country was then new, and he had little experience that was of any value. During the revolutionary war, he had a little shop in a village near the sea, where he traded on a small scale. He had acquir ed a pretty property, when the village was burned by the enemy, and in an hour he lost all his earnings. This stroke was heavy to one who had placed his whole heart upon property, and the more so, as it was unexpected. For a time he was cheered by the hope of remuneration by government, but this hope was soon dashed and he was discouraged. He gradually became morose and disgusted with mankind; and with a wife whom he had lately married, and an infant son, he retired to the lowly retreat where his cottage now stands. Here he had lived unmolested, for more than twenty years, having little to do with the world, save when he went to the neighboring village once a fortnight, to dispose of the wooden dishes which he made at home. He was unsocial and rather repulsive during all this time. But about three years ago his wife was suddenly taken

sick, and in a few days died. At the time this event took place, there was a revival of religion in the next village. The old man invited the neighboring minister to attend the funeral of his wife. It was then that the minister endeavored to soften and sympathize with him; and there are but few whose hearts will not soften at such a season. He gradually gained his confidence, and more gradually drew his attention to the great subject of personal religion. At the time of his wife's death, the old man had an only daughter with him, then about fourteen years of age. His only son had the restless disposition of his father; and at the age of fifteen, had left his home and gone to sea. Before the close of the revival, the good pastor had the pleasure of numbering the hardy Orwell and his daughter among the work, and of rejoicing that these sheep upon the mountains were gathered into the fold of Christ. From this time the appearance of the old man was greatly altered. Instead of sauntering over the hills on the Sabbath, and selecting the best maple trees of which to make his wooden dishes, he was now seen going regularly to the village church, with his cheerful daughter hanging on his arm. Every Lord's day he was seen in season at his seat, dressed in his threadbare drab coat, with his silvery hair hanging in ringlets over his shoulders. His neck was surrounded by a red silk handkerchief; a black vest and pantaloons, and a smoothworn cane completed his dress. As the people saw how great was the change in the old man, how devout was his attention to the duties of religion, and saw his daughter sitting by him, and both mingling their notes of praise in the sanctuary, they all felt that there must be something in religion. I said that from the time of the death of his wife, the old man and daughter were both regularly seen in their humble seats on the Sabbath; but for a few Sabbaths previous to my visit at the cottage, they had both been missing; and the reason was known-because the daughter had been too unwell to go out.

Possessing naturally a slender constitution, she had of late been drooping; and people of the village who loved her much on account of her amiable quatities, all shook their heads with a sigh, and declared they feared that she was not long for this world. Her first symptoms were those of a cold; but it was soon discovered that she had a fixed cough; and the little burning hectic spot which played over her cheek in the early part of the day, told that the worm of disease was preying at the vitals. Yet this mountain floweret was wasting so gradually, that many of her friends hoped it would recover and flourish. The father looked upon the decaying form of his child, and saw that her days were marked by the finger of death, and that she could not pass their limits. From the hour of her close confinement,

he scarcely ever left the side of her bed, as if by paternal kindness he wished to ease the last moments of the spirit which he could not detain. The daughter saw that she could not live; but she looked upon the disease which was fast conquering the body, as a deliverer who was to lead her from captivity to glory. When her father was by, she was cheerful and apparently composed; yet when he was absent, a tear was often seen to stand in her eye, as she looked out of her window upon her little garden before the house, and thought how lonely she should leave her poor father. The father, too, seemed occasionally to have the same reflections, as he gazed upon the sunken face of his child, with an earnestness that showed how much he felt.

They talked of their little earthly plans, as if each was unwilling to realize that they were soon to be separated. Thus week after week went by, every hour of which left the moments of her life till fewer, till the afternoon on which I visited them, when it was believed that her last hour had come.

Thus much I knew of the inhabitants of this little dwelling, ere I entered it. On entering, I found the daughter lying in one corner of one of the two small rooms which the house contained, on a neat small bed, at the foot of which sat the disconsolate father. The good clergyman was sitting at its head. After a needless apology for my intrusion, I became a silent spectator, and felt how great was the privilege. The pastor was in close conversation with this lamb of his flock, which was about to leave him, and he was conversing about her departure. When he ceased, there was a silence for a few minutes.

"Just raise my head," said the dying girl, " and let me look out of my little window once more." Then turning to her minister, she said with feeling, "notwithstanding our troubles, there are many delights in our world. There is my poor flower garden -it will soon be grown over with weeds; there is the river-it will continue to run and murmur as if I were here. I hoped I would see the sun once more before he set, but he is already behind the mountain; then there are my two poor pet lambs, that I have fed so long-poor things, they will not have any one to love them, and take care of them as I have done; oh, it is hard to leave all these-but hardest of all to leave my poor father! Oh, what will he do when I am gone; who will take care of him when he is sick, and love him as I can? Oh, my dear father, I hoped that I should do all this, and repay some of the many, many kindnesses I have received from you! But the will of God be done!" "I pray that it may be," said the old man, "though I am stripped of all my earthly comforts. But compose yourself, my dear child, God will provide for me while I stayit will not be long before I follow you-I am almost ready to be

taken. I thought that I could never meet this hour; but God gives me strength according to my day."

"Your father shall never suffer," said the minister, " and God will deal kindly towards him. You are exhausted, and had better be quiet a while."

"But, father, I had forgotten one thing-it is my poor brother Henry; he may not be alive now-and if he is, he is not thinking of us. I cannot remember much about him, but I have often prayed that he might return to you in your old age—that we might both live to see him; but more have I prayed that God would make this wanderer his child. Should he ever return I wish you to give him my Bible and hymn-book-there they are, they both have his sister's name in them; tell him it was my dying request that he should read these places where the leaves are turned down; and tell him that he was made for eternity— to repent and prepare to follow me. Oh that we might all meet in heaven! Now, Mr. S., I wish you would pray with me, for I am almost gone; pray for my poor brother-for my father-that my brother who is far away might return to him. Oh, pray that Christ would receive my soul, for I have done with earth.”

The clergyman opened the Bible, and read that consoling portion of scripture which is recorded in the fourteenth chapter of John; when we knelt by the bedside, and he fervently addressed the throne of mercy.

While we were engaged in this sacred duty, the door softly turned upon its hinges, and a fine, well-dressed young man came in. He looked wild at first, but by the time the prayer was finished, the whole scene before him was fully explained. We arose from our knees, and no one spoke. The stranger was standing and gazing in a kind of stupid surprise; he looked at the old man, and then at the daughter, and his eyes filled with

tears.

"It is my Henry," said the old man, stretching out his aged arms, and unable to rise. "My father, do you live and do you yet remember me?" and in a moment he was in his father's arms. The sister gave a hectic sob and fainted away, but when she revived, her hand was within that of her brother. "My dear Charlotte, I did not expect to find you so sick, but we will nurse you up, and you will be well again in a few days." "You deceive yourself, my dear Henry, I have but a short time to live; but I am glad to see your face once more. Oh, I feel that I have now a new tie to bind me to earth, but it must be broken. Oh, Henry! it would be a dreadful thing to die, but for the hope that I am a Christian, and the Christian can never die. How long is it since you left us, Henry?" "It is six years this spring; you were then a little girl, and I hoped when I kissed you and my