There were some who laughed, to be sure—there are always some that laugh and poh! at romances in real life—and some there were who said it was all fal de ral, the idea of a man and woman of _such_ an age marrying for _love_. I only wish in its marvelous “progress” the world had not journeyed up to that icy peak whence all human love, and love matches among humans, is to be regarded as the folly of fools, and the madness of delusion! Let the miserable woman now reading this page, who in her girlhood wedded wealth—or the wretched man who in his youth was led captive by the deceitful smiles of beauty—let these, if there be any such—and I know very well there are multitudes—look for once within the peaceful cottage where our hero and the dear heroine live, and if they do not speedily begin to think with amaze on their own paltry lives, and wonder when their romance is to begin, then—why then—I will not strive any more to teach the people! Look you, reader, and more especially if you be young and beautiful, do not sell your birthright for a tasteless mess of pottage—ah, in that case you may as well begin to look for a tragedy, and a fearful kind of denouement, instead of a romance and a pleasant closing of the scene! And furthermore the Wayside Voice saith not. * * * * * THE PILGRIM’S FAST.[1] BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD. ’Twas early morn, the low night-wind Had fled the sun’s fierce ray, And sluggishly the leaden waves Rolled over Plymouth bay. No mist was on the mountain-top, No dew-drop in the vale, The thirsting summer-flowers had died, Unknelled by autumn’s wale. The giant woods with yellow leaves The blighted turf had paved, And o’er the brown and arid fields No golden harvest waved. And calm and blue the cloudless sky Arched over earth and sea, As in their humble house of prayer The Pilgrims bowed the knee. The gray-haired ministers of God In supplication bent, And artless words from childhood’s lips Sought the Omnipotent. And many a brave and manly heart, And woman’s gentle eye, Inured by discipline to wo, Were raised in suppliance high. No wild bird’s joyous song was heard, No sound from shore or height, With mute but mighty eloquence Had Nature joined that rite: The drooping corn and withering grass Upon the hot earth lay: The lofty forest-trees had stooped Their aged heads to pray. The sultry noontide came and went With steady, fervid glare; “Oh! God, our God, be merciful,” Was still the Pilgrims’ prayer. They prayed, as erst Elijah prayed Before the sons of Baal, When on the waiting sacrifice He called the fiery hail.