Eventide

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Eventide, by Effie Afton

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Title: Eventide A Series of Tales and Poems
Author: Effie Afton
Release Date: December 26, 2006 [EBook #20185]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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Produced by Curtis Weyant and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images produced by the Wright American Fiction Project.)

EVENTIDE
A SERIES OF
TALES AND POEMS.

BY
EFFIE AFTON.
"I never gaze Upon the evening, but a tide of awe, And love, and wonder, from the Infinite, Swells up within me, as the running brine From the smooth-glistening, wide-heaving sea, Grows in the creeks and channels of a stream, Until it threats its, banks. It is not joy,-- 'Tis sadness more divine."
ALEXANDER SMITH.

BOSTON:
FETRIDGE AND COMPANY.
1854.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
J. M. HARPER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

Stereotyped by HOBART & ROBBINS, New England Type and Stereotype Foundery, BOSTON.

To the
FIRESIDES OF THE WESTERN WORLD,
With the fond Hope
THAT ITS PAGES MAY SERVE TO ENLIVEN OR ENTERTAIN SOME FEW OF THOSE EVENING HOURS WHEN PLEASANT FACES GATHER ROUND WARM, GLOWING HEARTH-STONES,
This simple Volume
IS UNOBTRUSIVELY PRESENTED,
BY THE
UNKNOWN AND NAMELESS AUTHOR,
WHO WOULD
RATHER FIND WARM HEARTS AMONG HER READERS THAN WIN THE LAURELS OF A TRANSITORY FAME.

Transcriber's Note:
There are two instances of illegible words in this text, both as a result of ink blots. They have been indicated as [illegible].

PREFACE.
When the sun has disappeared behind the western mountains, and the stars sparkled o'er the blue concave, we have been accustomed to sit down to the compilation of this unpretending volume, and therefore it is called "Eventide." O, that its pages might be read at that calm, silent hour,--their follies mercifully overlooked, their faults as kindly forgiven.
Fain would we dedicate this "waif of weary moments" to some warm-hearted, watchful spirit, who might shelter it from the pitiless assaults of the wide, wide world. But will not our simple booklet prove too insignificant a mark for the critic's arrows?
In the language of another, we confidently say, melancholy is indifferent to criticism.
Thus,
"In our own weakness shielded,"
O, Reading Public, we steal upon you 'mid the falling shadows, and lay "Eventide" at your feet.

CONTENTS.
PAGE
WIMBLEDON; OR, THE HERMIT OF THE CEDARS, 7
SCRAGGIEWOOD, A TALE OF AMERICAN LIFE, 245
ALICE ORVILLE; OR, LIFE IN THE SOUTH AND WEST, 329
COME TO ME WHEN I'M DYING, 401
ELLEN, 404
I'M TIRED OF LIFE, 405
LINES TO A FRIEND, ON REMOVING FROM HER NATIVE VILLAGE, 407
HO FOR CALIFORNIA! 409
N. P. ROGERS, 411
LINES, 413
HENRY CLAY, 415
THE SOUL'S DESTINY, 417
LINES TO A MARRIED FRIEND, 419
NEW ENGLAND SABBATH BELLS, 421
MY HEART, 423
OUR HELEN, 425
MY BONNET OF BLUE, 427
DARK-BROWED MARTHA, 429

WIMBLEDON;
OR
THE HERMIT OF THE CEDARS.
CHAPTER I.
"The stars are out, and by their glistening light, I fain would whisper in thine ear a tale; Wilt hear it kindly? and if long and dull Believe me far more deeply grieved than thou."
Clear and loud on the hushed silence of the midnight hour rang the chimes of the village clock, from the tall steeple-tower of the quaint old church of Wimbledon, while several ambitious chickens rose from their neighboring perches, piped a shrill answering salute, and sank to their nocturnal slumbers again. But nor clock nor chanticleer disturbed Wimbledon. Still she slept on beneath the blossoming stars; and by their soft, inspiring light, with your permission, gentle reader, we'll enter the sleeping village.
Dim gleams of snowy cottages, peeping through a wealth of embowering vines, steal on our star-lighted vision as we roam along the grassy streets, and we scent the breath of gardens odorous with the sweets of dew-watered flowers. Above and around we hear the musical stir of the night wind among boughs and branches of luxuriant foliage, while ever and anon it comes from afar with a deep-toned, solemn murmur, as though it swept o'er forests of cedar and mournfully-echoing pine. Still roaming on, the low rippling of flowing waters comes soothingly to our ears, and we pause on the bank of a flower-bordered river that goes sweetly singing on its way to the distant ocean. A tiny sailboat lies in a sheltering cove, rocked gently to and fro by the swaying current. On a hill beyond the stream we mark a large white-belfried building, relieved against a dark background of wide-stretching timber-land. And turning our delighted footsteps down an avenue of lofty cedar and linden trees, there rises at length before our vision a splendid mansion, built after a most beautiful style of architecture, with deep, bay windows, long corridors and vine-covered terraces. Magnificent gardens, displaying the perfection of taste,