Autumnal leaves: tales and sketches in prose and rhymeChild, Lydia Maria
General
Autumnal leaves: tales and sketches in prose and rhyme
Child, Lydia Maria
American essays -- 19th century; American fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, American
supplication came over him, and he poured forth an ardent prayer. With
fervid eloquence, he implored for themselves an humble and resigned
spirit, and for their little one, that, living or dying, good angels
might ever carry him in their protecting arms. As they rose up, his wife
leaned her head upon his shoulder, and with tearful eyes whispered:
“God help us, this and every day,
_To live_ more nearly as we _pray_.”
* * * * *
That same morning, Alfred rode to church in his carriage, and a servant
waited with the horses, till he had performed his periodical routine of
worship. Many-coloured hues from the richly-stained windows of the
church glanced on wall and pillar, and imparted to silk and broadcloth
the metallic lustre of a peacock’s plumage. Gorgeous in crimson mantle,
with a topaz glory round his head, shone the meek son of Joseph the
carpenter; and his humble fishermen of Galilee were refulgent in robes
of purple and gold. The fine haze of dust, on which the sunbeams fell,
gleamed with a quivering prismatic reflection of their splendour. From
the choir descended the heavenly tones of Schubert’s Ave Maria. They
flowed into Alfred’s ear, but no Touchu was with him to lay her wand
upon his heart. To a visitor, who sat in his cushioned pew, he whispered
that they paid the highest price for their music, and had the best that
money could command. The sermon urged the necessity of providing some
religious instruction for the poor; for otherwise there could be no
security to property against robbery and fire. Alfred resolved within
himself to get up a subscription immediately for that purpose, and to
give twice as much as Mr. Duncan, whatever the sum might be. Utouch, who
had secretly suggested the thing to him, turned somersaults on the
gilded prayer-book, and twisted diabolical grimaces. But Alfred did not
see him; nor did he hear a laugh under the carriage, when, as they
rolled home, he said to his wife, “My dear, why didn’t you wear your
embroidered shawl? I told you we were to have strangers in the pew. In
so handsome a church, people expect to see the congregation elegantly
dressed, you know.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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