pure dreams that rough needs, perhaps, trod daily under foot. But music interprets these, and weaves into the humming refrain the haunting, dreamy fancy, the swaying rhythm, and we see how lovely and how fair it is.

There is another very different kind of music, which startles us by its attraction, and it is with wonder that we find it so beautiful, since it is the music of evil itself; for instance, the superbly characteristic part of Mephistopheles in "Faust." Every note is full of mockery and taunting, from the wild, unearthly drinking-song with which he silences the frightened revellers at the fair, to the diabolic insinuations of the serenade. At the very door of the sanctuary, as Margaret lies prostrate in woe, comes the shuddering, despairing music with which he recalls old days of innocence and joy,-"Recollect the days before," and the half-uttered prayer dies away. To this same class belongs the rage of "fierce Arbuus," and the harsh dissonances of the Furies in the pure and lovely "Orpheus" of Gluck; and the wrath of the fallen spirits in Haydn's "Creation," otherwise so full of grand, orderly harmonies, and of the celestial sweetness of the first fresh Eden life. You could not take away these without destroying the grandeur, the symmetry, the perfectness of the whole. These sounds of pure and tender melody reveal themselves most exquisitely against the tones of shadow and death, as we never know the perfect fairness of light until it cleaves its shining path through darkness.

There are many lives in which we see sorrow, and even sin, hold the place of these harsh discords. Overpowered and guided by love, evil has its use in life, and develops and quickens higher forms of good. It comes sometimes in the shape of sorrow, that awakens the light and careless soul, and opens to its sight the new, grand world of realities, and inspires to heroic and strong efforts. Would the sufferer,

when he looks back, even though he feel

again, by sympathy, the bitter pain, the darkness and woe, as his imaginary earth reeled to its foundations under his feet, and the heavens were darkened over him, would he give up this pain which awakened him for any of his old charms? He sees how all his after life drew in new color and strength from this; the deeper fulness, the fresher tenderness, the richer vitality of all existence afterwards, and he thinks of his former self, with pity and wonder, as of one asleep or dead.

It comes sometimes in the darker form of his own sin, permitted that he might look once into its face, and turn away, shuddering, forever from its dread presence. A man has perhaps lived on the surface of life, content with outward forms, satisfied with pleasures of the body, never once lifting his eyes to the grand and silent heavens that witness against so narrow and poor a life. Suddenly a sharp temptation overcomes him; he slips and falls. Familiar faces turn away from him, delight has gone from his days, he sees himself for the first time, and sees how naked and blind and weak he was. Then the angelic melody, low and trembling, begins to thrill along the keys, in sweet and quivering prelude, which shall afterwards grow, through the long and sweeping fugue of yearning, to the strong, full chords of attainment. But thus, and only thus, might his life-music begin. Not without pain, not without sorrow, not without harsh dissonance, can the highest form of melody ever fully reveal itself to us. "There is also an artistry in life;" and it is well for us sometimes to see what it is that, spoken in marble, in color, in form and tone, echoes deep and far down in us also, so that the most unlearned feel, though they do not know, its exceeding fairness.

"The life that leads melodious days" must needs know failures, and combat and sorrow; but its greatness is, that through all, and over all, it rises to ever higher ends and aspirations.

Ella F. Mosby.

IN

N the old colonial days the towns and settlements in the vicinity of Plymouth Rock had very small and widely scattered populations. The great tide of civilization which arose around that first steppingstone rolled onward in its course, "setting towards the north," till it reached Boston; there breaking itself into a million waves, its civilizing elements flooded the country. Why this mighty current should have left its parent shores is easily explained: the country was barren, sandy and stubborn to cultivate; the water privileges were far from good, and yearly becoming worse. Among those who did remain in the neighborhood of the Landing, were reckoned some of the noblest of the May Flower's descendants. Down through the long years of sunshine and rain that have nurtured and watered their planting, deep footprints of those first fathers are everywhere visible in the Pilgrim settlements. Even the names which were uttered so tremblingly on that dreary voyage across the ocean are still kept through successive generations; indeed, quite a portion of any town near Plymouth retains among its population the surname of some of the forefathers.

At the time of which we write, the people, beside possessing the names of the Puritans, held many of their characteristic virtues, and were most devout in all matters of religion. Before churches were established in all the towns about Plymouth, it often became necessary to travel six or eight miles in order to attend meeting, and not being endowed so richly with worldly fortune as with spiritual gifts, they were obliged to walk this distance, making the journey mostly through woods, by narrow footpaths, often through the cold, deep

snow.

The women of those early days were imbued with the most fervent virtues of their husbands. This was their rule, perhaps we might say spiritual thermometer, which determined whether they should attend service in the meeting-house on the Lord's day: If a woman, rising on a cold morning, found she could dress herself and

make her bed before going to the fire, she felt it was her duty to go to meeting, although she must walk five or six miles through Plymouth woods. Calling to mind the fact that sleeping rooms were not heated then, that even the snow sometimes sifted through the loose roof and fell upon the bed coverlet, we are amazed at such womanly courage for religious belief. How far would the faith of the women of this century go were it put to such a test? Would it not freeze, wrapped in furs and conveyed over much frequented roads ?

Although religion meant so much to the Pilgrims and their early descendants, they could not entirely abandon their liking for what was essenced with royalty; "my lord and lady” signified a great deal in their estimation. The keeping of a strict family record was sacred to them, and had its place in every Bible. The family coat-ofarms, though it might be but a cheap print, hung upon the walls, which were without other ornament. The side-board, while it might be rude in structure, was considered an almost indispensable article of furniture, a Puritanic weakness, and whenever the awe-inspiring parson called, or a respected friend dropped in, the toddy closet was always visited.

Among such a people of so marked characteristics, there is always some one person of most peculiar habits and disposition who appears as the hero of the people, or their shame. Some districts have had Rip Van Winkles; some, Tam O'Shanters; some, William Tells; but the striking peculiarity of our pilgrim town was the Town Clerk.

While his characteristics were distinct, and set him apart from his fellow-men, his forcible attempts to act the gentleman, his boast and show of classical learning, and his deep love for little children, constituted the chief peculiarities of this personage. His claim to the honor of a gentleman was highly respected by all who knew him, and the display of that honor seemed to be the people's pride. He had been born in what is termed the ranks of gentlemen; indeed, he could remember that remarkable

OC

incident in his child-life when his grandfather, the mighty Governor of Massachusetts colony, placed his hand upon his infant head; and he recollected that he really felt just a little pat of affection trembling under the touch of that stern dispenser of Puritanic justice. Then, too, he had attended the school at Cambridge, and the people boasted that he knew the Latin dictionary, and could preponderate all others in conversation by his weighty language and use of the word homo. Though now, through many diversities of fortune, casioned by his endeavors to be the gentleman, he had come to mingle with the people of this place, he still held the highest position among them, one which gave him full opportunity to gratify his eccentricities. Little did it matter that he had no palatial residence; every household in the town welcomed Lim, and although he possessed no permanent abiding-place, but stayed with one family for a few months, then with another for about the same length of time, and so on through the town, he was thus enabled to secure variety for his physical needs, and opportunities for displaying his dignity among his townsmen. All cherished his respectability, and strove to answer all the wants of the Clerk.

On a fine day the Town Clerk, or, as he was most generally called, Mr. Samuel the Recorder,might have been seen coming over the hills to pay a visit to the family whose turn it was to receive him. When he was seen slowly approaching in the distance, there was a general commotion in the house. The wife turned a new log on the fire, and called to her husband to run down cellar and bring up the leg of ham so long stored away for company. The children shouted, "Mr. Samuel! mother, Mr. Samuel, the Recorder, is coming!" then running to the window, glued their faces against the panes to catch the first glimpse of their friend. Even the mother laid down the bacon to look at that procession of state as it drew near. He moved along in a very calm manner, his right hand holding a little bundle of clothing and a walking-stick, his left hand and arm tenderly embracing his Latin dictionary and the record book. In the morning sunlight the bright brass but

tons on his much-worn dress-coat gleamed like gold in the eyes of the children. His shoes fitted well his small feet, and the grey mixed stockings were without a wrinkle on his finely shaped legs. His breeches, though a little patched here and there, were ornamented with silver knee buckles, and his shirt bosom, with its neat yet unassuming ruffle, was as white as the best washerwoman in the town could make homespun linen. His hair, now silvered with grey, was most carefully combed from his broad, low forehead and tied behind with a new piece of ribbon, the last gift he had received, given in consideration of his longing for whatever belonged to genteel apparel. His face was almost stern with calmness, and his walk was slow and measured, though, as he would have said, he was much encumbered by his impedimenta.

When he reached the house the good woman met him at the door, made a deep courtesy, and relieved him of his luggage, while he saluted her much as though he were conferring a great honor by departing from his dignity sufficiently to nod. Being ushered into the best room, the sire of the household was received into the Recorder's presence, pulling off his hat to Mr. Samuel with one hand, and reaching him a glass of toddy with the other. Then the older children were summoned, and when the pretty little maid took hold of the sides of her apron very daintily, and smilingly made her courtesy, when the awkward big brother bowed with a slight inclination of the head and much scuffling of the feet, the gentleman in the Recorder almost gave way to a smile, and he took them by the hand; but when the little ones were led into the room he quite forgot his dignity, and moving uneasily in his chair, handed each a cake which he had brought for them, and kissed their foreheads. Now the baby was brought to him, which was so overwhelming that the Recorder smiled most andibly, took the child from its mother's arms and tossed it up and down right merrily; in half an hour he became so wonderfully affected by its presence that he stooped to the most ungentlemanly conduct by rolling on the floor with the baby, and playing tag with the other children.

After the dinner was over, at which Mr. Samuel presided with much pomp and no little delicacy of taste, the busy house-wife went to the best chamber and brought down the carefully preserved light-stand; then the Recorder arranged his books upon it and proceeded to his afternoon's work. He cut his pen very skilfully, placed the ink-bottle conveniently, and slowly opened the town records, which seemed to possess a magical charm for him; then, with a tone of pleasing authority he demanded of the good woman the number of births there were to record. With the utmost precision he wrote upon the attractive pages before him most beautifully formed words. The children looked with curious wonderment as he slowly and with all due ceremony wrote so neatly the age and baptism. When, after a few hours, he had written as much as the records needed, he folded the book carefully away in its canvas bag, and put it beyond the reach of the children. After writing a letter for the family, for all the town sought such a favor because of his fine penmanship,- he put aside his work for the day and perused his Latin dictionary.

But the special attraction which the Recorder possessed was his wonderful genius for relating stories, in which both old and young took special delight. So when the evening time drew near, the kind mistress lighted the candles, heaped up the fire on the andirons, and brought in a bowl filled with luscious "russ'tings." Then the children gathered about the Recorder, who held the baby on one knee and the next in age upon the other; the master took his pipe and curled the smoke in glowing wreaths in the chimney corner, and the mother sat beside the spinning-wheel while she knitted some soft yarn into a stocking. Thus seated, the Recorder would tell his charming tales, which were as fascinating as Scott's novels. He always related, as a prelude to his tales, the story of the May Flower, and with music in his tone, strove to impress upon the minds of those about him the great military history of Captain Standis, and the wonderful healing power of Doctor Fuller; and little Miles, upon the Recorder's knee, would then stiffen

straight and clench his fist, to express his veneration for these noble ancestors.

Soon he told them of the great city of Boston, of its powerful rulers, and finally of his own grandfather, the Governor; when he spoke of the latter he was always reminded to smooth his shirt ruffle, to straighten back in his chair, and to use a few Latin words in his narration. Now he told them of the witches in a town called Salem, and how the Devil was supposed to hold counsel with them. The mistress shuddered when he said: "And our sainted fathers hung the wretches." For, notwithstanding her exceeding hatred for the Evil One in man or woman, her woman's soul pitied the poor misetables. The eldest daughter drew nearer to her mother and looked timidly over her shoulder towards the door, fearing the devil might come in. But at last came a story for the young

er ones.

He told them of some dear little children whom the Pilgrims fondly loved, but who grew sick and died because it was so cold and cheerless in their new home. And they were buried on a hill in a very sunshiny place; but no one knew just where they lay, for their heartstricken fathers levelled off their graves so that the Indians might not know that any of their number were dead, or that sickness was among them. When the Recorder told how sadly they buried the little ones, and took courage to live on themselves, he wept silently, the master took down the Bible, and then the whole household knelt to thank God for such noble ancestors.

So day by day passed along, and the Recorder prolonged his visit to this family, for he was writing out their genealogy, putting some inscriptions into the Bible, and teaching the big brother to decline homo.

When the spring-time came, an affection of the heart which had long troubled the Recorder, caused him much sickness, so he still remained with them. Of late he had grown quite feeble, and he loved to sit by the south window and breathe the fresh, warm air which came from the meadow. A gentleman still, his love for the little ones was quite changing the severity of his style into an old gentleman, which always

means tenderness. His delight was in the children, for, beside his peculiar love for them, the extremities of life, infancy and old age are mutually attracted.

Now for many days he had watched the children as they played with the beetles under the butternut trees near his window, or as they climbed the old wagon, whose timbers were so rotten it could not be moved without breaking, so it was left to fall to pieces with time and climate. And to-day as he sat now looking carefully in his Latin dictionary, now listening to the shouts of the children, some of whom were playing with the well-sweep, while the quiet little maid sat on the grass painting the gate, -a post with several cross-bars, using some fine needles for a brush and her tongue for a palette, while the Recorder was thus reading and watching and

listening, he looked towards the old wagon down by the fence. As he noted the age of the wagon, one of the little ones climbed upon the wheel, when it tremblingly tottered to the ground, broken in all its parts. The butternut trees by the window breathed a soft, low sigh, and the sweetly scented air blew gently over the Recorder's face and fanned his white hair from his brow, and while Nature gave him sleep, God gave him rest.

And I think they made his couch among the graves of the little ones who died so long ago, and were laid away on the sunshiny side of the hill; for daisies grow all about his grave, and they seem like the blessings of little children. The moss has covered the Latin all over that was printed on the stone which marks his resting-place, and only "Town Clerk" remains. Annie H. Ryder.

CA

AMDEN, one of the oldest towns of South Carolina, settled by Quakers in 1760, is situated in a salubrious part of the State, on the eastern shore of the Wateree River.

Scarcely a vestige of the "peaceful sect who sought refuge from persecution in the Carolinas is now to be found, save at Belvidere, Albemarle County, N. C. At that place there is a flourishing community of several hundred persons, who wear the costume and use the peculiar phraseology of "Friends." They live almost exclusively by themselves, holding their immemorial monthly, quarterly and yearly meetings. They are held in high esteem by all classes of people, and their boarding-school has always been extensively patronized by South

erners.

Many places in the eastern portion of South Carolina were colonized by the Huguenots, who, as early as 1562, sailed into Port Royal, and landing on an island, erected the Fortress of Carolina, and engraved the lilies of France.

Camden is historic ground, rife with associations of the Revolution. Here was the scene of the Southern campaign of 1780. Cornwallis was encamped in the town, and Lord Rowdon at Hobkin's Hill,

Carolina.

about a mile distant. The building which served as headquarters for the former, stood unimpaired, save by the hand of Time, until the late Rebellion, when, in "Sherman's raid," it was complete demolished, scarcely one stone being left upon another.

We have De Kalb Street and De Kalb House, and on the grounds of the Presbyterian church there is a monument erected to the memory of that intrepid leader. This marble obelisk bears the simple inscription, "Here lie the remains of Baron De Kalb, a German by birth, but in principle a citizen of the world." The cornerstone of this monument was laid by Lafayette, De Kalb's intimate friend. The old mansion where our country's benefactor, Lafayette, was entertained when on a visit here, is pointed out with pride by the inhabitants.

This town, originally designed as the capital of the State, was laid out on an extensive scale. The few streets it contains are regular, straight and broad; and as most of them lead into the surrounding wooded districts, they are very pretty in perspective. Like a majority of southern towns it is sparsely populated, and the houses comparatively far apart, affording