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diff --git a/old/55383-0.txt b/old/55383-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0722fa5..0000000 --- a/old/55383-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7350 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 4, -October 1849, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 4, October 1849 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - J. R. Chandler - J. B. Taylor - -Release Date: August 18, 2017 [EBook #55383] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 1849 *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from -page images generously made available by Google Books - - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - VOL. XXXV. October, 1849. No. 4. - - - Table of Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Other Articles - - A Year and a Day - The Engraver’s Daughter - Jasper St. Aubyn - The Recreant Missionary - Minnie Clifton - Ibad’s Vision - A Harmless Glass of Wine - The Village Schoolmaster - An Adventure of Jasper C—— - Effie Deans - Wild-Birds of America - Editor’s Table: The Means of a Man’s Lasting Fame - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music, and Fashion - - Alice - The Fountain in Winter - A Parting Song - The Light of Life - The Bride of Broek-in-Waterland - Song - Northampton - A Thought - Speak Out - The Willow by the Spring - We Are Changed - Le Follet - I Love, When the Morning Beams - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: L. Clennell, pinx. A. L. Dick sc. - -THE BAGGAGE WAGGON. -Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine.] - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - VOL. XXXV. PHILADELPHIA, OCTOBER, 1849. NO. 4. - - * * * * * - - - - - A YEAR AND A DAY: - - - OR THE WILL. - - - BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER. - - - CHAPTER I. - -There was once in the city of Philadelphia a poor author whom chilling -disappointments and the biting stings of adversity had brought nigh the -grave—whose high hopes, ardent ambition, and glowing aspirations for -fame, were all quenched and broken beneath the pressure of penury and -wo. The wife, too, of his bosom had passed on to the shadowy land before -him, and now beckoned him to that blissful home beyond the grave where -sorrow and trouble are unknown. One fond tie still bound him to life. He -was a father. No other guide—no other friend had that fair young girl, -over whose innocent head scarce sixteen summers had flown, and for her -sake he still clung to a world whose charms else had long ceased to -attract. - -And there was an old man whom the world called unfeeling and miserly, -who day by day passed by the humble home of the author. And day by day -as he passed along, saw at the window a pale young face bent over the -endless seam, and a small white hand never tiring busily plying the -needle. Or sometimes marked the child’s own feeble strength tasked to -support the tottering steps of suffering manhood to the open window, -that the air of heaven might revive that languid frame, while the -hollow, racking cough, and the fever spot on the cheek, like a rose -rooted in the grave and blossoming in beauty above, told too plainly -consumption had made its victim sure. - -And then one day when the window was darkened, and he missed the pale -young face, the heart of the old man smote him as he passed along, and -turning he gently sought admittance, and from that time over the bed of -the sufferer the thin, white locks of the old man mingled with the -golden ringlets of Florence. - -Heaven surely had first softened his heart, and then guided his -footsteps thither, for, like a ministering angel he came to the house of -sorrow to soothe the last moments of the dying man, and protect the -fatherless child. - -Cheered once more by the voice of kindness—his feeble frame invigorated -by healthful nourishment—surrounded by comforts long unknown, or -remembered but as a dream in the dark night of poverty he had passed -through—what wonder the sick man rallied, and for a time gave way to -the flattering hope that he might yet leave a bright legacy to his -child—a name crowned with imperishable fame. His mind, long shattered -by sickness, caught back something of the fire of youth, and once more -his trembling hand seized the pen as the powerful instrument through -which riches and honor were to flow in upon him. But, as the meteor -which for an instant shoots over the wave in sparkling beauty, and then -sinks in the darkness of the fathomless gulf below, was the momentary -out-flashing of that once brilliant mind, ere the darkness of the grave -encompassed it. - -When he felt the power of death too surely pressing upon him, he took -the hand of the old man and placed it on the head of his kneeling child -with a look pleading for kindness and protection. The heart of old Abel -May answered to this silent appeal, and stooping down he imprinted a -kiss upon the brow of Florence, solemnly promising never to forsake her. -The dying man raised his eyes in gratitude to heaven, and with a last -effort clasping his beloved child to his breast, expired. - -The sad duties left for the living to perform over the venerated dust of -those we have loved, were ended with tears and lamentation—and now in -the wide world had Florence no friend but old Abel May. - -“Florence,” said the old man, “I have long since buried the ties of -kindred—they could not survive ingratitude and distrust. I had but one -left to love—but one whom selfishness and sordid expectations did not -bind to me—and now he too has gone. I am now as much alone, my child, -as you—I in the winter of age, you in spring’s freshest bloom. You -shall be to me as the dearest of daughters, as pure and precious in my -eyes as God’s sacred word—although as my wife the world only must know -you. Then, Florence, will you give yourself to me; will you look upon me -in the light of that beloved parent whose loss you now deplore—will you -confide yourself to me in your loneliness and helplessness?” - -And the innocent girl, lifting her meek blue eyes to the furrowed -countenance of the old man, threw herself confidingly upon his bosom, -and wept her thanks. - -They were married; and then, as some priceless jewel committed to his -charge, which to guard and cherish was henceforth to be his pride and -happiness did Abel May bear home the young orphan. - -For many years he had occupied a large mansion near the outskirts of the -city, whose dark granite front and heavy wooden shutters kept constantly -closed, imparted an air of chilliness and gloom to the neighborhood of -flashy brick houses and light airy cottages by which it was environed. -Abel May lived alone, keeping no domestics, and either preparing his own -meals, or partaking of them at a restaurateur’s. Occasionally the woman -whom he employed to do his washing was admitted to sweep and arrange his -sleeping room and the little parlor adjoining. The other apartments were -always locked, baffling all the curiosity of which no doubt the good -woman partook with others. - -Various opinions and rumors were afloat concerning him in the -neighborhood, through which however the old man steered steadily and -regardlessly. - -Not greater was the surprise of the captive princess in the fairy tale -on awakening one morning and finding before her window a sumptuous -palace rearing high its golden columns, where alone frowning rocks and -dark, turbid waters had before stood, than was the amazement which -pervaded the neighborhood, when early one morning they were aroused from -slumber by the _clink—clink—clink_ of the busy hammer, the crashing of -tiles, and sonorous fall of boards upon the pavements. And behold, every -window of that gloomy house was thrown wide to the glare of day—workmen -were on the roof—workmen were scaling ladders—workmen were tearing off -those clumsy shutters, while within, workmen in paper caps and white -aprons were busily wielding the several instruments of their handicraft. -Day after day their labors went on, and day after day added to the -astonishment of the neighbors. Plate-glass and light Venetian blinds -soon supplanted the small window panes and wooden shutters—a tasteful -portico and marble slabs supplied the place of the clumsy iron railing -and high stone steps so jagged and worn. Carpenters, masons, and -painters speedily completed the interior renovation, and then followed -heavily laden drays bearing rich furniture—and upholsterers flew from -room to room giving the last graceful touch of taste and fashion to the -arrangement of the various articles. - -Next came the overwhelming announcement that old Abel May was married, -and that the sylph-like, graceful form, and sunny ringlets of the fair -young girl sometimes seen bending from the window, or leaning on the arm -of the old man, like a lily grafted on some withered branch, belonged to -no other than the bride—and wonder ceased not, but rather grew with the -“food it fed on.” - -Not much less was the surprise of Florence at finding herself suddenly -the mistress of a home so charming. She had never connected the idea of -wealth with the plainly dressed humble old man who had so benevolently -administered to the comforts of her dying parent, and cheerfully did she -prepare to follow him to a home, no matter how lowly, so that love and -kindness were to be found there. When, then, old Abel May, lifting her -tenderly from the carriage which bore them from the church wherein the -solemn rite making them man and wife had just been pronounced, and led -her into apartments so splendid, with all that a refined taste might -approve, or a fastidious eye applaud, was it strange that for a moment -the young orphan doubted whether all was not, indeed, a dream or a fairy -creation, such as the pen of her father had often sketched for her -amusement—for never did her waking eyes or her sober senses dwell on -aught so rich and beautiful. Yet neither the elegance by which she was -surrounded, nor the charms which novelty lent to her new existence, -could for a long time withdraw her mind from dwelling on the irreparable -loss she had sustained. Happily, youth is not prone to despondency; hope -in the bright future buoys them exultingly over the billows of -disappointment which engulf so many sorrow-stricken hearts, and -therefore as time wore on it made the old man’s soul rejoice to see -smiles chasing away the tears from the countenance of this dear child. - -The education of Florence had been conducted solely under the careful -tuition of her father, and her active mind, regulated and nourished by -judicious application. In the French and German languages she was a -correct scholar, and had attained some little proficiency in drawing; -yet of music or other elegant acquirements she knew nothing. - -Hard are the lessons of adversity; and that his humble means precluded -his bestowing on his child those accomplishments for which nature had so -eminently qualified her, was often a source of deep regret to her fond -parent; but now, under the fostering care of the old man, how splendidly -did her talents develop themselves. Music and painting opened for her a -new world of enjoyment, and no expense did her kind protector withhold -to gratify to the fullest extent her eager desire for improvement. He -engaged the most eminent masters to attend upon her, nor did the -proficiency of the pupil shame their skill. - -Very limited was the society which Abel May admitted within his walls, -and those only such as he considered worthy of his friendship and -confidence. This gave no disquiet to Florence; indeed, company rather -pained than pleased her. Her most delightful hours were those in which -she could add to the happiness of the old man, by the exercise of those -agreeable sources of entertainment owing their origin to him, or when -with pencil or book, alone in the beautiful little apartment which the -same kind hand had fitted up expressly for her use, the moments flew -unheeding in the all absorbing interest they inspired. - -Occasionally, at the Opera or Theatres, old Abel May appeared with his -beautiful young wife; or perhaps, in the delightful coolness of a -summer’s morning, ere yet the noisy din of the city pervaded the air, or -the dust of its countless thoroughfares swept over the dewy freshness of -night, they sauntered through the silent streets or shady avenues of -Washington Square. But more frequently still within the sacred precincts -of Laurel Hill were they seen to wander. In one of its most retired -spots, where a cluster of drooping willows brushed the dew-drops from -the tall, rank grass, and the murmur of the wave below came up sadly yet -sweetly upon the ear, a plain monumental stone was planted. “My Father -Sleeps,” was the only sign it bore; and to this consecrated spot did -their steps most often turn, for well did one fond heart know _who_ -slept so peaceful there, and over this hallowed grave the fair form of -Florence bent in filial devotion. - -Wherever she appeared the admiration she attracted was universal; and if -some were prone to pity her lot, as being bound by such indissoluble -ties to old Abel May, they were quite at fault by her bright, sunny -countenance which certainly bore no traces of hidden sorrows for their -sympathies to probe. This might have flattered the pride of the old man -while it aroused his fears. His own life he knew, in the common course -of nature, could not be prolonged many years, and then what was to -become of that young girl thus thrown a second time upon the world, so -beautiful and so unprotected. - -There was but one person whom he ever mentioned in terms of affection to -Florence, and this was his nephew, and the only son of a favorite -brother, long since dead, who bore his name, and whom he had destined -for his heir. But for many years young Abel May had not been heard from, -and his friends had finally given up all expectations of ever seeing him -again. It was said that being repeatedly reproached by envious relatives -on account of the interest his rich uncle manifested for him, calling -him a poor gentleman—a hanger-on—only waiting to step into dead men’s -shoes, with remarks of the like nature, originating in low, vulgar -minds, and that being a lad of high spirit, he became disgusted and -angered, and vowing he would either make his own fortune or never -return, young May suddenly disappeared. - -At length age and infirmities pressed more and more sorely upon the good -old man. Soon he could no longer leave the house or even his -chamber—and then it was he felt how rich a treasure he possessed in -Florence. With how much tenderness and love did she watch over him, -patiently enduring with all the querulousness and complainings of an old -age racked with torturing pains; never weary, neither by day nor by -night, ever devising, ever executing some plan which might soothe his -troubles either of body or mind. - -The old man died, leaving his fortune to Florence, upon one -condition—the strangest, surely, that ever guided the pen of a dying -man. - -Never was so singular a will written—never was any thing more absurd! -And for more than a month, which is certainly a long time for any wonder -to stand its ground against the constant pressure of newer marvels, for -more than a month after the coffin and the tomb had alike received their -due, the city rang with the whimsicality of the last will and testament -of old Abel May, who by this said will had compelled his young, blooming -widow either to marry within a year of his demise, or otherwise forfeit -to relatives innumerable that fine fortune which, with this proviso, he -had bequeathed to her alone. The motives which actuated him were -doubtless intended as a kindness to the young girl whom his death would -leave unprotected. He overlooked the dangers to which he thus exposed -her from the crafty wiles of the spendthrift and fortune-hunter, or he -trusted, perhaps, that her innocence and loveliness might shield her -against their artifices. - -From marble-columned squares and by-lanes—from suburban cottages and -distant villages, disappointed relatives came flocking in like a flight -of hungry crows, one and all croaking forth the will a forgery; or that -their beloved relative, for whom weepers a yard long streamed in the -wind, and black veils fluttered hopefully, through weakness of body and -consequent imbecility of mind, had been influenced by an artful young -wife to draw up the unrighteous instrument to which his signature was -attached. A likely story, truly, that passing by uncles and nephews, -aunts and nieces, to say nothing of innumerable cousins of the first and -third degree, he should have thrown his whole fortune into the hands of -a young girl, one, too, whom they all were convinced he had married only -that she might nurse his old body when gout or rheumatism should rack -his bones, but that he also should have added to this unheard of folly -his commands for her to marry, and by that means allow his hard-earned -riches to pass into the hands of nobody knows who—any beggar she might -choose to call up from squalid rags to fine linen and broadcloth, why -that passed all bounds of belief. There had been intrigue and treachery -somewhere; poor old Abel! it brought tears into their affectionate eyes -even to think of it. - -But, unfortunately alike to their jealous affection and hopeful schemes, -the lawyers possessed a quietus in a certain document drawn up and -attested by competent witnesses, which ran thus: - -“Whereas jealous and evil-minded persons may seem inclined to dispute my -last will and testament, I hereby declare in the presence of —— and of -——, that, as my dear wife, Florence, has been to me the kindest and -most tender of wives, denying herself for my sake those pleasures and -amusements natural to her youth, and has cheerfully devoted herself to -nursing a poor, feeble old man, I do in token of my love, approbation, -and gratitude, give unto her without reserve all the property of which I -may die possessed, both personal and real. And furthermore, I do most -earnestly entreat of her to choose some deserving young man whom she may -take as a husband, and that she may be happy in such choice, and be -rewarded thereby for her goodness to me, I pray God! And that she may be -influenced the more readily perhaps to comply with this, my last -request, I do hereby declare that unless within one year from my demise -she does make such choice, and marry in accordance, I do annul and make -void my will in her favor, my fortune in such case to be disposed of as -stipulated in my will and testament.” - -Now when the smiling lawyers holding such a damper over the high hopes -of the solemn conclave of mourners, made known to them the existence of -this last document, uncles and aunts bounced out of the house like -roasted chestnuts seething and smoking with the fire of anger. - -Not so the young nephews and the gallant cousins. Down they went on -their knees before the young widow, swearing she was divine—an angel—a -goddess—and right glad were they that the sensible old gentleman had -given her his fortune, for she deserved it, in faith she did—and they -hoped she would marry immediately; heavens! any body might be proud to -receive her hand—what was the paltry gold in comparison. - -And each one of the seven secretly resolved to woo and win her, -and—_the fortune to boot_! But Florence only cast down her eyes and -wept unfeigned sorrow for the loss of a kind old man—her husband and -benefactor. - - - CHAPTER II. - -Florence May was, indeed, a bewitching little widow—only eighteen, and -with nearly half a million of dollars in her rosy little palm. The -evening star bursting through a cloud was not more bright than were her -eyes twinkling through the veil of sable crape, or if perchance some -saucy zephyr brushed aside the envious _weed_, what charming flowers -were thereby disclosed—what tempting roses and lilies, and sweet, blue -violets, all bathed in the golden sunshine of her glittering tresses. -Ah, yes—and then the golden sunshine of those glittering guineas—truly -was she not a most adorable widow! - -And never was a poor little widow so tormented with lovers since the -world began. _Dingle, dingle, dingle_, quoth the door-bell incessantly; -_tap, tap, tap_, urged the maid at the entrance of her private -sitting-room, until the poor child wearied of shaking her little head, -and uttering a “No!” to their various demands for admittance. With -cards, and tender _billet-doux_, her tables were overburthened, while -pluming themselves upon their relationship, the seven cousins and -nephews intruded without ceremony into her presence, eyeing each other -with jealous defiance, and snarling and snapping like a parcel of angry -lap-dogs. - -“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” - -“I do bite my thumb, sir.” - -“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” - -“No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir—but I bite my thumb, sir.” - -The neighborhood were kept alive with surmises as to who would win the -rich heiress, daily expecting to see a gay wedding party issuing forth, -in contrast to the gloomy funereal spectacle so lately before them. Yet -weeks and months rolled on uneventful. What could it mean? Was the widow -crazy or bewitched? How could she remain so unconcerned when her fortune -was at stake! Day after day was poverty stealthily drawing nearer, in as -much as she still neglected to fulfill the terms on which her fortune -rested, and yet she moved about as careless and indifferent as though -the comforts and elegancies which surrounded her were unconditionally -hers—what a strange creature she must be! - -It was thus reasoned the “lookers on in Venice.” - -Six months of widowhood were passed. Florence was still unmarried; and -once more the relatives took heart against despair, and golden visions -mingled in their day-dreams. Her obstinacy was to them inexplicable—for -they knew upon the separate assurances of the several nephews and -cousins that she had had _unexceptionable_ offers, and if from those -choice specimens of man she could not select a husband, why, of course, -they had reason to hope she never would be married. - -Such was the state of affairs, when one day Florence received the -following note, written in an unknown hand, accompanied with a bouquet -of beautiful flowers: - - “MADAM,—I have seen you, and who that has once looked upon you - but must adore you! I dare not approach you, nor would I mingle - with the throng of flatterers around you. Enough for me to - worship at a distance, and to guard with my whole soul that - treasure which may never be mine. My life I would willingly lay - at your feet, but there are important reasons why you should not - know me. Of one thing, madam, rest assured, you have a friend - who will secretly watch over you, and guard you from every - danger.” - -Upon a mind so artless as that of Florence, this singular note, which -was without signature, produced a very pleasing influence, and excited a -lively interest for the unknown writer. The idea of possessing such a -friend inspired her with a degree of confidence such as she had not -known since the death of her husband. Nor to that one note did the -unknown limit his attentions—they were manifested in various ways. -Ofttimes in the sweet language of flowers they were spoken—or to her -little boudoir some rare and exquisite painting found its way. Books, -too, with penciled margins, all evincing a pure and elegant perception; -music, which, when awakened by her fingers, breathed the very spirit of -melody; and when from the same unknown hand there came a beautiful cage, -whence the tiny warbler trilled forth in sweetest notes her favorite -airs, Florence was lost in amazement. Who, then, was this mysterious -person who so well understood her tastes, and who was thus ever studying -her happiness? The note had stated: “There are important reasons why you -should not know me.” And Florence was possessed of too much delicacy, -and had too much respect for the writer of the note to seek to penetrate -the mystery. Yet by the use which she made of his gifts, her silent -thanks to the donor were expressed, and insensibly yielding to the -delightful associations they called forth, she felt as if some kind -guardian was ever near shielding her from evil. - -Oft amid the rich braids of her hair those fragrant flowers were -intertwined, or rested above a heart not less pure than themselves. The -books acquired a new interest that other eyes had dwelt also upon their -pages; and never did her fingers so skillfully or so tenderly touch the -keys, as when before her was the music which the unknown had conveyed to -her; many times, too, the soft, sweet tones of a flute were heard -echoing the strain. When first they reached her ear, Florence hushed her -instrument and closed the window; but at midnight, again and again the -same sweet strains floated around her, and then she felt it could be no -other than the unknown, who, in music’s gentle voice, addressed her, and -this belief added greatly to the charmed life she was leading, thus -mysteriously watched over and protected. - -It was now that chance brought her acquainted with a person whom we must -allow to introduce himself to the reader by the following letter: - - “_From Charles Crayford to his friend, Hastings._ - - “I am in luck, my dear fellow; give me joy, for Fortune, blessed - goddess, hath at length wafted me to the favor of wealth and - beauty. ’Pon my soul, I know not which I am the most in love - with, the person or the fortune of the divinity. Her name is - May—Florence May. She is a widow—a young, blooming, bewitching - widow, with half a million at her own free disposal, and, - happily, without a relative in the world, or jealous guardian to - cavil about disparity of fortune, or pry into secrets. - - “‘But how—and when—and where—did you meet your divinity?’ you - ask. Listen, then, and admire my policy. - - “Passing down Chestnut street in a somewhat moralizing - vein—unheeding the light forms and bright eyes flitting past - me, and coining some new device to elude the importunities of my - landlady and tailor, when, just as I reached the Washington - House, the whole moving multitude came to a sudden halt—the - cause of which I never even thought to ascertain—for “more - attractive metal” at that moment drew my attention. On the steps - of the hotel, my eye caught the fairest vision ever mortal - beheld. It was that of a young and beautiful girl, but whether - descending from the house, or newly alighted from Paradise, may - I forfeit her guineas if I can tell. She was accompanied by a - respectable looking middle-aged woman, whom I judged to be a - domestic. I noticed the heavenly eyes of this beautiful creature - were bent with pity upon a pale, sickly little girl, who was - trying to sell a few bunches of flowers among the crowd. - - “‘Will you buy my flowers?’ said the child to a fashionably - dressed lady—‘Will you buy my flowers—only a _fip_.’ - - “‘Really,’ exclaimed the fine lady, taking no notice whatever of - the gentle voice and beseeching looks of the little girl—‘these - genteel beggars are an insufferable nuisance!’ - - “‘Will you buy my flowers?’ again asked the child of a pompous - old gentleman, who stood pulling and vaporing before me—‘Buy my - flowers, sir?’ - - “‘Out of the way—quick—be off—or I will have you taken up for - a vagrant!’ cried the pompous gentleman, elevating his - gold-headed cane and shaking it over her head. Hastings, you - should have seen the bright glow of indignation which flushed - the cheeks of my charmer as this rude speech met her ear! My - good genius nudged my elbow, and prompted me to pity the poor - child. ‘Come here, my dear, and I will buy your flowers,’ I - said. The frightened little girl sprung quickly to my side and - looked imploringly up in my face. ‘And where do you live?’ I - continued, confident that the eyes of the fair one were upon me, - and taking out my tablets, I affected to note down her - answer—then slipping some money into her hand, (what - improvidence you will say,) I added—‘Keep the flowers, my poor - child, perhaps you can sell them again.’ ’Pon my soul, the look - of approbation which beamed from her eyes, as mine _casually_ - glanced toward the beautiful unknown, would have melted the - heart of a miser to compassion. The crowd now began to move. In - passing the little flower-girl my divinity endeavored to slip - some money into her hand, but in the confusion and press of the - moment it fell upon the pavement. I quickly picked it up and - gave it to the child, and—lucky dog—received a bow of thanks - and a sweet smile as my reward. Now mark the continued favors of - the jade Fortune. That very evening, I don’t know what tempted - me to call upon those prosy, clever people the Livermores, and - there who should I meet but the same bewitching fair one. Ah, - Hastings, ‘there is a divinity that shapes our ends;’ have I not - proved it to you? I saw at once she recognized me as the hero of - the morning’s adventure, and having then made my appearance in - the character of _excellence_, I now topped the same part to - perfection. I found her as far superior in mental as in personal - charms to those around her, and when my hostess whispered me - that she was also the uncontrolled mistress of a fortune, my - heart melted at once—_in the crucible of Mammon!_ The next day - I took the liberty to call upon her, and was most graciously - received, and have been a frequent visiter since. You should - hear my conversation, Hastings—you would discredit the evidence - of your senses. I affect morality and virtue—quote Cowper and - Milton, and hint at charities committed _sub-rosa_. Think of - becoming the husband of such a young, pretty dove-eyed - creature—ay, and to husband the money, too, instead of marrying - age and deformity for the sake of the gilding! By the way, I - find my fair one wastes her fortune prodigiously upon paupers - and charitable institutions. I shall look after this by and by; - in the meantime, I am willing she should consider me a pattern - of disinterested goodness. - - Yours, - C. CRAYFORD.” - - - CHAPTER III. - -It was no wonder that Florence should have been deceived by one so -artful and designing as Crayford. Her first introduction to him was -calculated to impress her strongly in his favor—a vantage ground which -he knew well how to maintain. His conversation so artfully fraught with -morality—the correct and refined taste he manifested for music, for -painting, and all those acquirements which were so delightful to -her—his well argued schemes of philanthropy, added to an elegant person -and insinuating address, might have deceived one less ingenuous and -confiding than Florence. In him all those delightful influences with -which the unknown had surrounded her seemed concentrated; in fact, as -one and the same she began gradually to blend them in her imagination. - -Day after day, therefore, was the dangerous Crayford admitted to her -presence, and each day more securely planting himself in her favor. In -the meantime the seven nephews and cousins made common cause, and fought -bravely against this new aspirant, whom they saw plainly was fast -bearing off the prize from them, until alarmed by several very -unequivocal threats from Crayford, they vanished, leaving the field to -him. - -But where, all this time, was the friend who had so ardently pledged -himself her protector, surely now was the time when his voice should not -be silent. - -A small casket was one day placed in the hands of Florence, which, on -opening, she found to contain a brooch, representing a stem of the lily -of the valley, emblem of purity and innocence, composed of beautiful -pearls, but around which a small, glittering snake was entwined. The -head of the reptile, its forked tongue darting fire, was bent over the -sweet floweret as if with its noxious venom it would destroy it forever. -The snake was of emeralds—the eyes and tongue of small sparkling rubys. -On lifting the brooch, a folded paper dropped from it, on which was -traced in the same well known characters: - -“Beware, pure and innocent lily—the charmer is near, but his breath is -poison!” - -To Crayford alone she knew this singular warning could refer, and it -caused her at first both dismay and sorrow. Could it be, then, that he -was a villain! Could it be that under an exterior so pleasing vice and -deformity could hide itself; no, it was impossible! Florence had no room -in her heart for suspicions so cruel toward any one. Of friendship -abused—of confidence violated, or of the heart’s warm affection -betrayed, that most bitter lesson of life she had yet to learn. Ah, -happy those, who, on their journey through life, may never meet with its -truths! - -And was it not unjust, she argued, to receive implicitly the words of -one unknown to the prejudice of one whom she did know, and who appeared -every way so estimable. Might she not also attribute to jealousy this -singular interference of one who had already declared himself to be her -lover. The more she dwelt upon this conclusion, the more reasonable it -appeared; and finally closing the casket, she prepared to fulfill an -engagement with Crayford to visit the Academy of Fine Arts. - -In the drawing-room she found him already waiting for her, and -apologizing for her delay, they immediately set forth upon the intended -expedition. - -Never had Crayford appeared more brilliant, more fascinating than this -morning; and was it strange that the warning of the unknown should have -passed from her thoughts as a dream. As they reached the corner of —— -Square, Florence suddenly observed a young woman, very pale, and meanly -attired, who, leaning against the iron railing, was fixedly gazing upon -her with a look of such utter despair and misery, as excited at once her -pity and curiosity. A miserable cloak closely enveloped her person, the -hood of which was held tightly around the lower part of her face by her -thin white hand, yet did not conceal the ghastly pallor of her -countenance. Her eyes were uncommonly large, and of a soft, lustrous -black; it even seemed to Florence they were filled with tears, and her -brow looked as cold and pure as the brow of the dead. - -“What beautiful eyes!” said she, in a low voice to her companion; “pray -look!” - -As Crayford sought the wretched object Florence pointed out, he started -as though an adder had stung him, and would have hurried on, but the -girl, with an impatient gesture, as if to address him, sprang a step or -two forward: - -“Poor creature! let us hear what she has to say,” said Florence. - -“Excuse me, my dear Mrs. May,” replied Crayford, with an effort at -calmness, “I cannot submit you to the importunities of that woman; is it -possible you have never seen her—it is Nell, the crazy fortune-teller!” -then throwing her a half dollar, accompanied by a look which Florence -did not observe, he passed on with his lovely companion. - -“Poor creature! she should be taken care of!” exclaimed Florence. -Looking back, she saw the money still glittering upon the pavement, -while the girl, with her form slightly bent forward, her arms extended -before her, and her small, thin hands clasped together, seemed the very -personification of despair. - -They soon reached the Academy. At the entrance they encountered several -persons, some entering, others leaving the building. As they were -ascending the steps, a voice close to the ear of Florence, whispered, - -“_Beware of the serpent!_” - -She started and looked quickly around, but saw no one to whom she could -attribute the remark. An old gentleman and lady were behind her, and -with the exception of a spruce, dandified individual, she could discover -no one else. It was sometime, however, ere she could recover from the -agitation into which this had thrown her; and Crayford, attributing her -abstraction entirely to her pity for the poor fortune-teller, exerted -all his skill as a connoisseur to draw her attention to the beautiful -creations of the painter and sculptor. He was successful, and the mind -of Florence soon engrossed alone by the pleasing objects around her. - -Several times, in passing through the rooms, her eyes encountered those -of a gentleman dressed in deep mourning, who seemed to be regarding her -with a sad and mournful gaze. At first she thought nothing of it; but -when again and again she met the same sad expressive eyes, she could not -suppress a feeling of agitation. - -They spent some hours here, and were about retiring, when, in one of the -galleries, Florence observed the same gentleman standing at a little -distance attentively regarding a fine group of statuary. His profile was -turned toward them, and struck with the intellectual cast of his -features, Florence pointed him out to Crayford. - -“Heavens, he here!” he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon him, while a -mortal paleness overspread his features; then aware his agitation must -appear singular to his companion, he added, “I met that gentleman abroad -under circumstances of very strange interest; some other time I will -explain—if you please we will now pass on.” - -As they reached the door Florence looked around, but the stranger had -disappeared. Once, as they threaded their way homeward through the busy -crowd, she thought she met the same mournful eyes, but ere she could -take a second look they had vanished. - -Poor Florence! what conflicting thoughts distressed her when left to her -own reflections, for notwithstanding her resolution of the morning, her -confidence in Crayford began to be shaken, and that it was so pained -her. She longed for some kind, sympathizing friend to whom she could -confide her doubts, and who would counsel her how to act. Among her few -acquaintances she knew of none capable of advising her, and the good old -woman who acted as her housekeeper, although she loved her dear young -mistress, and would go to the ends of the earth to serve her, could be -of little assistance in a case like the present. She did not love -Crayford, yet she felt he was one who had interested her more than any -person she had ever met with, one whom, perhaps, she might learn to -love; and then, should he prove the villain, should she find that the -warnings of the unknown were but too true—what would be her fate! At -one moment she resolved to dismiss him forever from her presence, and -the next her heart accused her of prejudice and injustice. Poor girl! -never had she felt so unhappy as when that night she rested her aching -head upon her pillow. Hark! what sweet music floats around her, and -insensibly yielding to its soothing power, she sunk into a gentle, -refreshing slumber. - -When she awoke the sun was already glinting bravely through the muslin -window-shades, and with a much lighter heart, she sprang from her couch. -Remembering she had invited Crayford to breakfast with her, she hastily -made her toilet. A small pleasure party, acquaintances of Florence, had -been formed for Cape May. They were to start at an early hour, and -Crayford had so earnestly pleaded to make one of the number, that -finally she had consented. They were to breakfast together, and then -proceed to the place of rendezvous. - -Just as Florence was about descending to the breakfast-room, a note was -handed her. She turned pale as she took it, for she saw it was from the -unknown. With a trembling hand she broke the seal and read: - -“Ere it may be too late, listen to the warning voice of your friend. Let -me arouse you from that pleasing repose, which, like the calm preceding -a tempest, lulls you in such fancied security, let me bid you shun -Crayford—shun _him_ whose breath would sully the purity of an -angel—shun him as you would the viper in your path!” - -As Florence finished reading, she sunk into a chair, and covering her -face with her hands, burst into tears. - -“Mr. Crayford is below, ma’am,” said a servant, entering. - -Alas! how should she act! There was a truth and earnestness about the -note she dared not disregard, and a few moments’ reflection determined -her to avoid him until she could learn either the truth or falsehood of -these heavy accusations. She therefore bade the servant say that a -violent headache would preclude her from joining the intended -excursion—and she also sent a note of the same purport to the lady -manager of the party. - -In a few moments she saw Crayford leave the house. Could she have read -the thoughts then passing through his mind, she would have found full -confirmation of her worst fears. - -She now determined upon a bold step, and with trembling hand addressed a -note to her mysterious counsellor: - -“If you are really my friend, why do you thus shun me; why, if honest, -thus clothe yourself in so much mystery? What proof have you to give me -of your sincerity? Alas! I fear, none; and yet I would not have it so, -for the thought of your friendship has been very pleasant to me! What -reliance can I place upon the assertions of one who thus shuns inquiry, -against the character of a person bearing the semblance of so much worth -as Crayford? I have a right to demand proofs of what you have stated; -and I now do so, which, if you withhold, I shall deem all your -accusations against that individual as base forgeries. God judge the -right!” - -This note she sealed, and ordering the servants to inform her when the -usual messenger from the unknown should again appear, she sat down to -reflect upon the singular position in which she found herself placed. - -It was not until the following morning that Florence had an opportunity -to forward her note. From her window she at length saw the lad coming -down the street with a basket of beautiful roses. She immediately ran -down, and as he rang the bell she opened the door quickly, and placing -the note in his hand, bade him deliver it to his master. The next -moment, how gladly she would have recalled him, so imprudent appeared to -her the course she was pursuing. It was too late, however—and in a -state of much agitation she now awaited the result. She had not to wait -long. In the course of an hour she received an answer couched as -follows: - -“You demand proof, and you shall have it. Thank God that you are -sufficiently alarmed to ask it. Go, then, to No. 7 —— Lane, and -inquire for a Mrs. Belmont. Be not dismayed at what is before -you—shrink not from a step which may save you from wretchedness. Go, -then, pure and lovely one, and fear not. One will be near you who will -protect you with his life.” - - [_Conclusion in our next_ - - * * * * * - - - - - ALICE. - - - BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. - - - As in yonder woods I wandered, - By the river-side, - On the bitter past I pondered, - On the gladness I had squandered, - And upon my erring bride, - By her dying sanctified. - - Pleasure from a crystal chalice - Once I gladly drained; - Lived we in a fairy palace, - Wildest passion, I and Alice; - Every object seemed attained, - Every joy my soul had gained. - - While I trusted her, and thought her - Honest as she seemed; - While I fondest worship brought her, - And my glowing glances taught her - Of the love which from them gleamed, - I awoke—I had but dreamed. - - After she became a mother, - Leaving me her child, - Fled she from me with another— - With a man I thought my brother. - Fate its mountain on me piled, - And my mind grew rapt and wild. - - So it was, he treated vilely - One who trusted him; - Thus did she with action wily - Lull me, ere she left me slyly— - Left me for her passion’s whim, - With my life-lamp growing dim. - - Sad I sat me by my lattice, - Where the faded flowers, - Withered poppies, seared clematis, - And the damp-mould which begat is - By the long-neglected hours, - Seemed in harmony with my powers. - - Thus my life-lamp’s fitful shimmer - Faint and fainter shone; - Thus its fastly-fading glimmer, - Daily growing dim and dimmer, - As I brooded there alone, - Lit my happiness o’erthrown. - - Day by day thus wrapt in sadness, - Sat I quiet there; - Desperately rejecting gladness, - Wooing the approach of madness, - Nursing wrongs with savage care, - Whose nurture would create despair. - - Time at length it soothed me slightly, - Covering o’er my care; - Made me bear my woes more lightly, - Think my honor less unsightly; - But her absence made her fair, - Though criminal beyond compare. - - Years had past, and in this Babel - Of continual din, - I had striven, as I was able, - Till the silver streaked the sable - Of my hair, which growing thin - Showed decay which must begin. - - Years had past, but naught could fetter - Love I should have spurned; - Every day I loved her better— - Shame upon me! Then I met her, - In the wo that she had learned, - Under the blow which she had earned. - - By her death-hour’s turbid river - Stood her trembling soul; - And she asked me to forgive her, - By her shame, which would outlive her, - By her anguish past control, - By the hell which was her goal. - - Could I at such time refuse her - Such a sad request? - Could I then of crime accuse her— - At that moment harshly use her? - So I bade her pass to rest, - With forgiveness on her breast. - - Smiled the Magdalen, and prayed me - With a feeble pride, - Prayed me by the God who made me, - That when in the earth they laid me - It should be her form beside— - Hers, my false and fallen bride. - - As I stood in pity by her, - Looking in her face, - Could I this small boon deny her? - Pride revolted, but a higher, - Holier feeling took its place, - And I smiled the sought-for grace. - - This thing won, another favor - From me she did pray; - That, forgetting her behavior, - Ere death’s rising waves would lave her, - I would bend and on that day - Kiss her chill lips as she lay. - - This I did, and as she started - At my warm lip’s touch, - From her form the spirit parted, - Leaving me thus riven-hearted, - Held in Sorrow’s iron clutch, - Smiling never, suffering much. - - In the dark-brown shade I wander— - Sadness at my side; - Growing of my sorrows fonder, - As upon the past I ponder, - And upon my erring bride, - Who, as I forgave her, died. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: _Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine._ - -THE ENGRAVER’S DAUGHTER.] - - * * * * * - - - - - THE ENGRAVER’S DAUGHTER. - - - BY HARRY SUNDERLAND. - - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - -Little Dora Stilling was but six years old when her best friend went to -Heaven. She was a beautiful child, and her father, Mark Stilling, an old -engraver, loved her with a species of blind idolatry. Stilling was by -birth a German, and his reading had not gone much beyond the childish -romances peculiar to his country, which had left upon his mind an -indelible impression. At twelve years old he was apprenticed to an -engraver, and since that time had seen little of the world beyond the -room in which his noiseless occupation happened to be. His mind, -therefore, remained half asleep, and the dreams that passed through it -had little in common with the real life around him. He was an old man -when he married, and his wife, who passed with many, who did not know -better, as his daughter, died a few years after their only child, Dora, -was born. - -Upon the death of his wife, the heart of Mark Stilling turned toward the -sweet child she had left him, with an affection made jealous and -intenser by his loss. For her he desired all good in the world’s power -to bestow; but as to what was the greatest good he had but vague -notions. As he grew older, and his mind drooped toward second childhood, -from the ideas and feelings of his earlier years the dust of time was -blown away, and all was as distinct and fresh as if the spring-time of -life were but yesterday. Images of beautiful maidens, wooed by princes -in disguise, floated before his imagination; and then his thoughts would -turn to Dora, who grew more and more lovely in his eyes every day. -Nothing short of some such consummation for his child, he felt, would -ever satisfy him. - -It was little wonder that the old engraver loved Dora with an absorbing -affection; for, opening like a rose, she displayed to his eyes some new -feature of loveliness every day, as well in mind as in body. While he -sat at his work, tracing out upon the hard, polished steel forms of -beauty, Dora was ever present in his mind, more beautiful than any -creation of the painter’s pencil he had yet been commissioned to copy. - -Swiftly the years glided on, and Dora became less and less a child. As -soon as she was able to go to school, she was placed under the care of -the best teachers in the city, and from that time every dollar earned by -Stilling, beyond what the simple wants of nature demanded, was spent -upon his daughter, that she might be thought accomplished in every -thing, and thus made a fit companion for the best in the land. He wished -her to be, in one word, a _lady_—and, in the engraver’s mind, a lady -was something more than the term conveys in its usual acceptation. - -But as Dora grew up lovely and accomplished as her parent’s heart could -desire, she exhibited a simplicity of taste, and a love for useful -employments, that her father did not in the least approve. Fond old man! -Half insane, under the delusion himself had conjured up from among his -early fancies, he felt, whenever Dora’s hands were engaged in work, that -she was degrading herself, and ever sought to keep her above the -necessity of entering into any domestic occupation. Dora, as her mind -grew clearer, saw the weakness and folly of all this. She saw that her -father was old, and growing feebler and less able to work every day, and -that his income was steadily decreasing; and she felt that, before a -very long time, upon her would fall the burden of his as well as her own -support. One day she came to him and said— - -“Dear father, you are getting old, and your strength is failing. Let me -go and learn a trade, and then I can work for you.” - -The old man caught for breath two or three times, like one suddenly -deprived of air. - -“A trade, did you say, child!” He spoke in a low whisper. - -“Yes, father, a trade. Let me learn some trade, so that I can help you. -I am young, and you are old. You have worked for me since I was child; -now let me work for you.” - -“No, no, Dora! You shall not learn a trade,” replied Stilling firmly. -Then he added, in a chiding voice, “How could you think of such a thing! -You must look higher, my child. You are as good as any lady in the land, -and may take the place of the best.” Here his voice grew animated. -“Don’t you remember the story of the light-haired maiden whom the king’s -son saw, and loved better than all the proud court ladies, because she -was beautiful and good; and how he came in a splendid chariot, and -carried her away and made her his bride? True, there are no kings -here”—the old man faintly sighed—“but there are many rich and great -people. No—no—Dora, you shall not learn a trade.” - -Dora understood well what her father meant by these allusions, for he -had often talked so before, and sometimes more plainly; and she knew -that it would be of no use to argue against him. So she said no more -about learning a trade. But she engaged more diligently in every useful -thing that came to her hand, and sought, by every means in her power, to -add to her father’s comfort. - -Almost alone as Mark Stilling was, and possessing none of those -cultivated tastes and accomplishments necessary for one who would -introduce a young girl like his daughter into society, the old man saw -weeks and months go by, after Dora had become a woman, and yet his -lovely flower remained hidden by the wayside. He looked upon her as she -came in and went out, and wondered that all the world was not captivated -by her beauty. And as he grew older, and his intellect became feebler -and feebler, this one idea took a still stronger hold upon his mind. - -Dora, at the age of nineteen, began to feel great concern for her -father. Both body and mind it was plain to her were failing rapidly; and -orders for work were much less frequent than they had been. But even if -work had been as abundant as before, he had less ability to perform it; -and this was daily decreasing. Again she asked permission to learn a -trade; but it was met with as firm an opposition as before, and on the -same ground. - -“I must have some means of supporting myself and father,” she said -thoughtfully to herself, “for it will not be long that he can keep at -work. What shall I do? He will not let me learn a trade.” She reflected -for a long time, and then, as if all had become clear to her, she -clapped her hands together and murmured—“Yes—yes. That shall be it. I -will devote myself to my music until I become proficient enough to -teach.” - -Already much money had been expended on Dora’s musical education, and -she played and sang well. But she was not skilled enough to be able to -give instructions. So from that time she spent many hours each day at -her piano; and also practiced on the guitar. As the old man listened to -her warblings, how little dreamed he that all this was but the learning -of a trade, against which his mind had so revolted. - -As we have said, the old man became less and less competent to perform -his work well and expeditiously, and it gradually left him and went into -other hands. His income thus reduced, it became necessary to abridge the -expenses of his household, or fall in debt, something for which Stilling -had a natural horror. The first step downward, and one that it hurt the -engraver much to take, was the giving up of the neat little house in -which he had lived, and taking apartments in a second story, at half the -rent formerly paid. Dora urged strongly, when this change was made, to -have their domestic sent away. - -“I can do all the work, father. Let Ellen go, and then we will save -nearly half our living.” - -But the old man would not listen a moment to this, and silenced his -daughter by an emphatic “No.” - -Yet for all this care in keeping Dora above the sphere of usefulness, -her charms had not won for her a distinguished lover. Still Dora had a -lover, and this was less wonderful than it would have been had her sweet -face not pictured itself on some heart. But her lover was only a humble -clerk in a store where she had often been to make purchases. He was as -simple and earnest in all his tastes and feelings as Dora herself. Their -meetings were not frequent, for young Edwards had been told of the old -engraver’s weakness, and did not, therefore, venture to call upon his -sweetheart at her home. - -At length so little work came that Stilling did not receive more than -sufficient money to buy food, and actual privation began to creep in -upon himself and daughter. Stern necessity required the dismissal of -their domestic, and then the old man busied himself in household -matters, in order to keep Dora as far as possible above such menial -employments. As age crept on, and his intellects grew still weaker, he -clasped his fond delusion more closely to his heart, and observed all of -Dora’s movements with a more jealous eye. - -For as long a time as a year had the faith of Dora and her lover been -pledged. Their meetings were generally in the street, on a certain -appointed afternoon of each week. Then they walked together and talked -about the future, when there should be no barrier to their happiness. -But the young man, as time wore on, grew impatient; and his pride -occasionally awakened, telling him that he was as good as the old -engraver, and worthy, in every respect, to claim the hand of his -daughter. Sometimes this feeling showed itself to Dora, when the maiden -would be so hurt that Edwards always repented of his hasty words, and -resolved to be more guarded in future. - -“Let me call and see you at your father’s,” said Edwards, one day as -they were walking together; “perhaps I may not be so unwelcome a visiter -as you think.” - -“Oh, no, no! you must not think of it,” replied Dora quickly. - -“But where is this to end?” inquired the young man. “If he will not -accept me as your lover, and you cannot become mine except with his -consent, the case seems hopeless.” - -Dora did not reply at the moment, and they walked along for some time in -silence. - -“There is a way. I have thought of it a great deal,” at length said the -young girl. She spoke with some hesitation in her manner. - -“What is it?” inquired her lover. - -Dora leaned toward him, and said something in a low voice. - -“That’s not to be thought of,” was the quick reply of the young man. - -Dora was silent, while her bosom, as it rose and fell quickly, showed -that her feelings were much disturbed. - -The suggestion, whatever it was, appeared to hurt or offend the young -man, and when they separated, it was with a coldness on his part that -made tears dim the eyes of Dora the moment she turned from him. - -On their next meeting both felt constrained; and their conversation was -not so free and tender as before. It took some weeks for the effect of -Dora’s proposition, whatever it was, to wear off. But after that time -the sunshine came back again, and was brighter and warmer than before. - -One day, it was perhaps four or five months after the little -misunderstanding just mentioned, the old engraver was visited by a -stranger, whose whole appearance marked him as either a foreigner or one -who had lived abroad. He wanted him, he said, to copy on steel, in his -most finished style, the miniature of a lady. As he mentioned his errand -to the engraver, he drew from his pocket the miniature of a young and -exquisitely beautiful woman, set in a costly gold locket. Mark Stilling -took the picture, but the moment he looked at it his countenance -changed. - -“Is it not a beautiful face?” said the stranger. - -“I have seen it before,” remarked the engraver, with a thoughtful air. - -“Have you?” was the quick inquiry. - -“Yes. But of whom is it a likeness?” asked the old man. - -“Of one,” said the stranger, “who has flitted before me, of late, the -impersonation of all that is lovely in her sex. As she passes me in the -street, I gaze after her as one would gaze at an angel. A skillful -painter, at my request, has sketched her face, taking feature after -feature, as he could fix them, until, at last, this image of beauty has -grown under his pencil. And now I want it transferred to steel, lest -some accident should deprive me of its possession.” - -While the stranger thus spoke, Stilling sat gazing upon the miniature -with the air of one bound by a spell. And no wonder—for it was the -image of his own child! and it seemed, as he looked into the pictured -face intently, as if the lips would part and the voice of Dora fall upon -his ears. Then he turned his eyes upon the dignified, princely looking -stranger, and the thought came flashing through his mind that his dream -of years was about being realized. Dora was the lovely unknown of whom -he had spoken with so much enthusiasm; with whom he was so passionately -enamored. - -“Will you do the work for me?” said the stranger, breaking in upon the -old man’s revery. - -“Yes—yes,” answered Stilling. - -“How long do you want?” - -“Two months.” - -“So long?” - -“Yes, to do it well.” - -“Take, then, your own time, and charge your own price. Here are fifty -dollars,” and the stranger handed the engraver some money. “I will call -every day while the work is progressing, that I may look at the sweet -picture upon which you are engaged.” - -“How large shall it be?” inquired the engraver. - -“Just the size of the miniature,” replied the stranger. Then rising, he -said, as he bowed to Stilling, “I will see you again to-morrow about -this hour.” - -On the next day, when the stranger called, Dora was sitting by her -father. An exclamation of delight was checked upon his lips, as his eyes -fell upon the beautiful girl; but his noble face expressed surprise and -undisguised admiration. - -“The lovely original!” dropped at length from his tongue. - -“My daughter,” said the engraver. - -Dora rose up and made a low courtesy. - -“Your daughter! How strange! You did not tell me this yesterday.” - -“No. But she is my child—my only child—and I love her better than I -love my life.” - -Light kindled in the old man’s face, and a quiver of excitement was in -every nerve. It was only by an effort that he refrained from giving way -to the most extravagant praises of Dora, who sat, with her eyes meekly -cast upon the floor. - -On the next day, the stranger called again, and found Dora, as at the -previous visit, with her father. This time he spoke to the maiden in a -familiar, yet respectful way. Every look he directed toward her was one -of admiration; yet not a glance of this character escaped the watchful -eyes of her father. - -From the first Mark Stilling regarded the stranger with especial favor. -After the meeting with Dora it was settled in the old man’s mind that -fortune was at length to crown with joy his dearest wish in life. All -suspicion was lulled to rest in his mind. The fact that the stranger -withheld his name, but confirmed him in the belief that he was either a -nobleman in disguise, or connected with some wealthy and distinguished -family at home. - -Week followed week, and the stranger came every day to mark the progress -of the plate, the execution of which he did not countermand. He never -staid over an hour at a time, and that was mostly spent with Dora, whose -musical abilities he highly praised, and whom he always asked to play -for him. The little parlor of the engraver was on a different floor from -that on which he worked, and so, while playing for the stranger, Dora -was always alone with him. - -Stilling was in no way surprised when the stranger asked the hand of his -daughter in marriage. Dora was born to be a lady, and now had come the -fufillment of her destiny. The poor old man’s mind was so infirm that it -could not go beyond this simple idea. No doubt came to trouble him; no -suspicion disturbed his happy dream. More than the stranger told him he -believed; for as to who he was, or to what station Dora would be -elevated, he was silent. But Stilling asked nothing on this head. He -believed all he wished to believe. The offer for his child’s hand he -felt to be a noble offer, and he yielded his fullest consent. - -And so Dora was married to the stranger. But not until five minutes -before the ceremony was performed, did Stilling know that his name was -_Edwards_. The marriage took place in Stilling’s little parlor. After -the rite was over, and the minister had retired, the bridegroom took the -old man’s hand, and said to him, as he pointed to the finished plate -containing the head of Dora. - -“That, father, is your last work. You can rest now after so many years -of labor. Come, there is a carriage at the door; we will go to our new -home.” - -Stilling was half bewildered, yet happy. Without a pause or objection, -he suffered his children to take him to another home. That home was -really a modest one; but in the eyes of the fond old man it was little -less than a palace. - -On the morning after the marriage, the moustache of young Edwards -disappeared, and he went forth daily from that time and engaged in his -regular business. But the engraver, who now began to sink rapidly both -in mind and body, dreamed not that Dora’s husband was only a clerk, -whose yearly income fell below a thousand dollars. - -In less than a year Mark Stilling slept with his fathers, deeply mourned -by the child he had loved with so strong and blind a passion. He was -ignorant to the last of the deceit that had been practiced upon him, and -as firmly believed that the kind and affectionate young husband of Dora -was of noble blood, and one of the great ones of the land, as that the -sun arose and set daily. And he was far happier in this belief than he -would have been with all as real as he imagined. - - * * * * * - - - - - JASPER ST. AUBYN; - - - OR THE COURSE OF PASSION. - - - BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. - - - (_Continued from page 150._) - -Thus passed the afternoon, until the evening meal was announced, and -Jasper was left alone, with nothing but his own wild and whirling -thoughts to entertain him. He was ill at ease in his own mind, ill at -ease with himself and with all around him. Vexed with Durzil -Bras-de-fer, for offering in the first instance to take him as a partner -in his adventure, and then for failing at the pinch to back his offer by -his stout opinion; vexed with his father for thwarting his will, and yet -more for rebuking him publicly, and in the presence of Theresa, too, -before whom, boy-like, he would fain have figured as a hero; and lastly, -vexed with Theresa herself, because, though kind and gentle, she had not -sat by his bedside all day, as she did yesterday, or devoted all her -attention to himself alone, he was in the very mood to torment himself, -and every one else, to the extent of his powers. - -Then, as his thoughts wandered from one to another of those whom he -thought fit to look upon as having wronged him, they settled on the most -innocent of all, Theresa; and, at the same moment, the wild words, which -he had uttered without any ulterior meaning at the time, and with no -other intent than that of annoying his father, recurred to his mind, -concerning village maidens. - -He started, as the idea recurred to him, and at first he wondered what -train of thought could have brought back those words in connection with -Theresa’s image. But, as he grew accustomed to his own thought, it -became, as it were, the father to the wish; and he began to consider how -pretty and gentle she was, and how delicate her slight, rounded figure, -and how soft and low her voice. Then he remembered that she had looked -at him twice or thrice during the day, with an expression which he had -never seen in a woman’s eye before, and which, though he understood it -not, did not bode ill to his success; and lastly, the worst, bitterest -thought of all arose in his mind, and retained possession of it. “I will -spite them all,” he thought, “that proud, insolent young sailor, who, -because he is a few years older than I, and has seen swords drawn once -or twice—for all, I doubt if he can fence or shoot any better than I, -or if he be a whit more active—affects to look down upon me as a -stripling. His young friend, truly! let him look out, whether he have -not cause to term me something else ere he die. By God! I believe he -loves the girl, too! he looked black as a thunder-cloud over Dartmoor, -when she smiled on me! And my father—by my soul! I think he’s doting; -and her dainty ladyship, too! I’ll see if I cannot have her more eager -to hear me, than she has shown herself to-day. I will do it—I will, by -all that’s holy! Heaven! how it will spite them!” - -Then he laid his head down on the pillow, and began to reflect how he -should act, and what were his chances of success in the villainy which -he meditated; and he even asked himself, with something of the boy’s -diffidence in his first encounter with woman, “but can I, can I win her -affection?” and vanity and the peculiar audacity of his race, of his own -character, made answer instantly, “Ay, can I? Am I not handsomer, and -cleverer, and more courtly; am I not higher born and higher bred, and -higher mannered, not only than that seafaring lout, but than any one she -has ever met withal? Ay, can I, and ay, will I!” - -And in obedience to this last and base resolve, the worst and barest -that ever had crossed the boy’s mind, no sooner had they returned from -the adjoining room, after the conclusion of the evening meal, than he -contrived entirely to monopolize Theresa. - -First, he asked her to play at chess with him; and then, after spending -a couple of hours, under the pretence of playing, but in reality gazing -into her blue eyes, and talking all sorts of wild, enthusiastical, -poetical romance, half earnest and half affected, he declared that his -head ached, and asked her to read aloud to him; and when she did so, -sitting without a thought of ill beside his pillow, while their fathers -were conversing in a low tone over the hearth, and Durzil was absent -making his preparations for the next day’s journey, he let his hand -fall, as if unconsciously, on hers, and after a little while, emboldened -by her unsuspicious calmness, imprisoned it between his fingers. - -It might have been that she was so much engrossed in reading, for it was -Shakspeare’s sweet Rosalind that the boy had chosen for her subject, -that she was not aware that her hand was clasped in his. It might have -been, that, accustomed to its pressure, from his involuntary retention -of it during his lethargic sleep on the preceding day, she let it pass -as a matter of no consequence. It might have been, that almost -unsuspected by herself, a feeling of interest and affection, which might -easily be ripened into love, was already awakened in her bosom, for the -high-spirited, handsome, fearless boy, who in some measure owed his life -to her assistance. - -At all events, she made no effort to withdraw it, but let it lie in his, -passive, indeed, and motionless, save for its quivering pulse, but warm -and soft and sensitive. And the boy waxing bolder, and moved into -earnestness by the charms of the position, ventured to press it once or -twice, as she read some moving line, and murmured praises of the -author’s beauties, and of the sweet, low voice that lent to those -beauties a more thrilling loveliness, and still the fairy fingers were -not withdrawn from his hold, though her eye met not his, nor any word of -hers answered his whispered praises. - -At length a quick, strong step came suddenly to the door of the room, -and almost before there was time for thought, the door was thrown open, -and Durzil Olifaunt entered. - -Instantly Theresa started at the sound, and strove to withdraw her hand, -while a deep blush of shame and agitation crimsoned her cheeks and brow, -and even overspread her snowy neck and bosom. - -It was not, as that bold boy fancied at the time, in the vanity and -insolence of his uncorrected heart, that she knew all the time, that she -was allowing what it was wrong, and immodest, and unmaidenly to endure, -and that now she was afraid and ashamed, not of the error, but of the -detection. - -No. In the perfect purity of her heart, in the half pitiful, half -protecting spirit which she felt toward Jasper, first as an invalid, and -then as a mere boy—for although he was, perhaps, a year her senior, who -does not know that boys in their eighteenth year are a full lustre -younger than girls of the same age—she had thought nothing, dreamed -nothing of impropriety in yielding her hand to the boy’s affectionate -grasp, until the step of the man, whose proffered love she had that very -day declined, led her to think intuitively what would be _his_ feelings, -and thence what must be Jasper’s, concerning that permitted license. - -But the wily boy, for, so young as he was, he lacked neither sagacity to -perceive, nor audacity to profit by occasion, saw his advantage, and -holding his prize with a gentle yet firm pressure, without so much as -turning his eyes to Durzil, or letting it be known that he was aware of -his presence, raised it to his lips, and kissed it, saying, in a low, -earnest tone, - -“I thank you, from my very soul, for your gentleness and kind attention, -dearest lady; your sweet voice has soothed me more than words can -express; there must be a magic in it, for it has charmed my headache -quite away, and divested me, moreover, from the least desire to seek -glory, or the gallows, with your bold cousin.” - -The eyes of Durzil Bras-de-fer flashed fire, as he saw, as he heard what -was passing; and he made two or three strides forward, with a good deal -of his old impetuosity, both of look and gesture. His brow was knitted, -his hands clinched, and his lip compressed over his teeth, so closely -that it was white and bloodless. - -But happily—or perhaps, unhappily—before he had time to commit -himself, he saw Theresa withdraw her hand so decidedly, and with so -perfect a majesty of gentle yet indignant womanhood, gazing upon the -audacious offender, as she did so, with eyes so full of wonder and -rebuke, that he could not doubt the sincerity or genuineness of her -anger. - -Acquitting her, therefore, of all blame or coquetry, and, looking upon -Jasper as a mere boy, and worthy to be treated as such only, reflecting, -moreover, that he was for the time being, shielded by his infirmity, he -controlled himself, though not without an effort, and with a lip now -curling scornfully, and an eye rather contemptuous than angry, advanced -to the fireside, and took his seat beside his uncle and Sir Miles, -without taking the slightest notice of the others. - -In the meantime, Theresa, after she had disengaged her hand from Jasper, -and cast upon him that one look of serene indignation, turned her back -on him quietly, in spite of some attempt at apology or explanation which -he began to utter. Walking slowly and composedly to the table, she laid -down on it the volume of Shakspeare which she had been reading to him, -and selecting some implements of feminine industry, moved over to the -group assembled round the hearth, and sat down on a low footstool, -between Durzil and her father. - -No one but the two young men and herself were aware what had passed; and -she, though annoyed by Jasper’s forwardness, having, as she thought, -effectually repelled it, had already dismissed it from her mind as a -thing worth no further consideration. Durzil, on the other hand, though -attaching far more importance to his action, saw plainly that this was -not the time or the place for making any comment on it, even if he had -been capable of adding to Theresa’s embarrassment; while Jasper, -mortified and frustrated by the lady’s scornful self-possession, and the -free-trader’s manifest contempt, had no better mode of concealing his -disappointment, than by sinking back upon his pillow, as if fatigued or -in pain, and feigning to fall gradually asleep—a feint which, as is -oftentimes the case, terminated at last in reality. - -Meanwhile, the two old men continued to talk quietly, in rather a -subdued tone, of old times and the events of their youth, and thence of -the varied incidents which had checkered their lives, during the long -space of time since they had been friends and comrades, with many a -light and shadow. And as they, garrulous, as is the wont of the aged and -infirm, and “_laudatores temporis acti_,” found pleasure even in the -retrospect on things, which in their day were painful, the young man sat -beside them silent, oppressed with the burthen of present pain, and yet -more by the anticipation of worse suffering to be endured thereafter. - -Nearly an hour passed thus, without a single word being exchanged -between Durzil and Theresa; he musing deeply, with his head buried in -his hands, as he bent over the embers of the wood fire, which the -vicinity of the cottage to the water’s edge rendered agreeable even on -summer evenings, and she plying her needle as assiduously as if she were -dependent on its exercise for her support. - -Several times, indeed, she looked up at him with her candid, innocent -face, and her beautiful blue eye clear and unclouded, as if she wished -to catch his attention. But he was all unconscious of her movement, and -continued to ponder gloomily on many things that had, and yet more that -had not, any existence beyond the limits of his own fitful fancy. - -At length tired of waiting for his notice, the rather that the night was -wearing onward, she arose from her seat, folding up her work as she did -so, and laid her hand lightly on her cousin’s shoulder— - -“And are you really going to leave us to-morrow, Durzil?” she said, -softly. - -“For a few days only,” he answered, raising his head, and meeting her -earnest eye with a cold, sad smile. “I am going to ride down to-morrow -afternoon as far as Hexwerthy, where I will sleep, and so get into -Plymouth betimes the following day.” - -“And when shall you come back to us?” - -“I shall not stay an hour longer than I can avoid, Theresa; and I think -that in three days I may be able to arrange all that I have to do; if -so, you may look for me within the week—at furthest, I shall be here in -ten days.” - -“And how long may we count on keeping you here, then? It will be long, I -fear, before we shall meet again.” - -“The ship cannot be fit for sea within three weeks, Theresa, or it may -be a month; and I shall stay here, be sure, until the last moment. But -as all mortal matters are uncertain to a proverb, and as none of us can -say when, or if ever, we shall meet again, and as I have much to say to -you before I go to sea this time, will you not walk in the garden with -me for an hour before breakfast to-morrow?” - -“Surely I will. How can you doubt it, Durzil?” - -“I do not doubt it. And then I can give you my opinion about the young -nightingales, which we forgot, after all, this morning. I dare say they -will turn out to be hedge sparrows.” - -“I will be there soon after the sun is up, Durzil, and that I may be so, -good-night, all,” and with the word, kissing her father’s brow, and -giving her hand affectionately to Durzil, she courtesied to the old -cavalier, and left the room without so much as looking toward Jasper, -who was, however, already fast asleep, and unconscious of all sublunary -matters. - -Her rising, though she had not joined in the conversation for the last -hour or more, broke up the company, and in a few minutes they had all -withdrawn, each to his own apartment; and Jasper was left alone, with -the brands dying out one by one on the hearth-stone, and an old tabby -cat dozing near the andirons; this night he had no other watchers, and -none were there to hear or see what befell him during the hours of -darkness. - -But had there been any one present in that old apartment, he would have -seen that the sleep of the young man was strangely restless and -perturbed, that the sweat-drops stood in large cold beads upon his brow, -that his features were from time to time fearfully distorted, as if by -pain and horror, and that he tossed his arms to and fro, as if he were -wrestling with some powerful but intangible oppressor. - -From time to time, moreover, he uttered groans and strangely murmured -sounds, and a few articulate words; but these so unconnected, and at so -long intervals asunder, that no human skill could have combined them -into any thing like intelligible sentences. At length with a wild, -shrill cry, he started up erect in his bed, his hair bristling with -terror, and the cold sweat flowing off his face like rain-drops. - -“Oh, God!” he cried, “avert—defend! Horror! horror!” Then raising his -hands slowly to his brow, he felt himself, grasped his arm, and sought -for the pulsations of his heart, as if he were laboring to satisfy -himself that he was awake. - -At length, he murmured, “It was a dream! The Lord be praised! it was but -a dream! and yet, how terrible, how vivid. Even now, I can scarce -believe that I was not awake and saw it.” - -But as his eye ran over the objects to which it had become accustomed -during the last days, and which were now indistinctly visible in the -glimmering darkness of a fine summer night, he became fully satisfied -that he had been indeed asleep; and with a muttered prayer, he settled -himself down again on the pillow, and composed himself to sleep once -more. - -He had not slept, however, above half an hour before the same painful -symptoms recurred; and after even a longer and more agonizing struggle -than the first, he again woke, panting, horror-stricken, pale and almost -paralyzed with superstitious terror. - -“It was!” he gasped, “it was—it must have been reality. I saw her, as I -did last night, tangible, face to face; but, oh God! what a glare of -horror in those beautiful blue eyes—what a gory spot on that smooth, -white brow—what agony—what supplication in every lovely feature. And -he, he who dealt the blow—I could not see the face, but the dress, the -figure, nay, the seat on horseback—great God! they were all mine own!” - -He paused for a long time, meditating deeply, and casting furtive -glances around the large old-fashioned room, as though he expected to -see some of the great heavy shadows which brooded in the dim angles and -irregular recesses of the walls, detach themselves from their lurking -places, in the guise of human forms disembodied, and come forth to -confront him. - -After a while, however, his naturally strong intellect and -characteristic audacity led him to discard the idea of supernatural -influence in the appalling vision, which had now twice so cruelly -disturbed him. Still, so great had been the suffering and torture of his -mind during the conflict of the sleeping body and the sleepless -intellect, that he actually dreaded the return of slumber, lest that -dread phantom should return with it; and he therefore exerted himself to -keep awake, and to arm his mind against the insidious stealing on of -sleep, from very fear of what should follow. - -But the very efforts which he made to banish the inclination, wearied -the mind, and induced what he would most avoid; and within an hour he -was again unconscious of all external sights and sounds, again terribly -alive to those inward sensations which had already terrified him almost -beyond endurance. - -This time the trance was shorter, but from the symptoms which appeared -on his features, fiercer and stronger than before; nor, as before, when -he awoke, did the impression pass away which had been made on him before -his eyes were opened. No; as he started up erect, and gazed wildly, -scarce as yet half awake, around him, the first thing that met, or -seemed to meet, his staring eyes, was a gray, misty shadow, standing -relieved by a dark mass of gloom in the farthest angle of the chamber. -Gradually, as he stared at it with a fascinated gaze, which, had it been -to save his life, he could not have withdrawn, the shape, if shape it -were, drew nearer, nearer, with a slow, gliding, ghastly motion. - -The moon had by this time arisen, and cast a feeble, ineffectual light -through the mass of tangled foliage which curtained the large -diamond-paned casements of the cottage, streaming in a dim, misty ray -across the centre of the chamber. Directly in the middle of this pallid -halo, as if it had been a silver glory, paused, or appeared to pause, -that thin transparent form—so bodiless, indeed, it seemed, that the -outlines of the things which stood beyond it, were visible, as if seen -through a gauzy curtain. A cloud passed over the moon’s face, and all -was gloom; yet still the boy’s eyes _felt_ the presence of that -disembodied visitant, which they could now no longer distinguish in the -darkness. - -At this moment, as if to add a real terror to that which, even if -unreal, needed no addition, the cat, which hitherto had been sleeping -undisturbedly by the warm ashes on the hearth, uttered an unusual -plaintive cry, most unlike to the natural note of her species, whether -of pleasure or of anger, and rushed at two or three long bounds, to the -bed on which the boy was sitting up in voiceless horror. Her eyes glared -in the darkness, like coals of livid fire, her bristles were set up like -the quills of the porcupine, her tail was outspread, till it almost -resembled a fox’s brush. - -The cloud drifted onward, and the moon shone out brighter than before; -and there he still saw, that tall white shape, clearer, distincter, -stronger than when he first beheld it. The cat cowered down upon the -pillow by his side, with a low wailing cry of terror, her back, -bristling in wrath but now, was humbly lowered, dread of something -unnatural had quelled all her savage instincts. - -Clearer and clearer waxed the vision, and now he might mark the delicate -symmetrical proportions of the figure, and now the pale white outlines -of the lovely face. It _was_ Theresa Allan. Yet the fair features were -set in a sort of rigid cataleptic horror, full of dread, full of agony -and consternation; and the blue eyes glared, fixed and glassy, without -speculation; and right in the centre of the brow there glowed, like a -sanguine star, a great spot of gore. - -The thing seemed to raise its arm, and point with a gesture of majestic -menace, right toward the terrified beholder. Then the white lips were -parted with a slow circular distortion, showing the pearly teeth within, -and——if a voice came forth from those ghastly lips, Jasper St. Aubyn -knew it not, for he had sunk back on his pillow—if, indeed, he had -ever, as he believed to the day of his death, raised himself up from -it—in a deep trance, from which he passed into a dead, heavy, dreamless -stupor, which continued undisturbed until the sun was high in the -heavens, and the whole household were afoot, and busied about their -usual avocations. - -In the meantime, she whose image, whether in truth it was _an eidolon_, -or merely the idea of a diseased mind and preoccupied spirit, had been -so busy during the hours of darkness, had awakened all refreshed by -light and innocent slumbers, with the first peep of day, and arising -from her couch had descended into the garden, still half enveloped in -the dewy vapors of the summer night, half glimmering in the slant -radiance of the new-risen sun. - -She was the first at her appointment, for Durzil had not yet made his -appearance, and she walked to and fro awaiting him, among the flowery -thickets and sweet scented shrubberies all bathed in the copious -night-dews, half wondering, half-guessing, what it could be that he -should so earnestly desire to communicate. And as she walked, she -considered with herself all that had occurred during the last three -days, and the more she considered, the less was she able to comprehend -the workings of her own mind, or to explain to herself wherefore it was -that she could not divest herself of the idea that the crisis of her -life, the fate of her heart was at hand. - -That she had rejected Durzil’s proffered love, his honest, manly love, -she knew that she ought not to regret, for she felt surely that she -could not love him in return as he ought, as he deserved to be loved; -and yet she did almost regret it. Then she began to ask herself why she -did not, why she _could_ not love him, endowed eminently as he was with -many high and noble qualities; and she was soon answered, when she -considered how far he fell short of her standard, in mental and -intellectual culture, in all that pertained to the secret sympathies of -the heart, to the kindred tastes and sentiments, to that community of -hopes and wishes, which, under the head of _eadem velle atque nolle_, -the Roman philosophical historian has declared to be the sole base of -true friendship, might he not better have said of true love. - -Thence by an easy and natural transition the girl’s thoughts turned to -the young stranger—to his magnificent person and striking intellectual -beauty—to his singular and original character, so audacious, so full of -fiery and rebellious self-will, so confident in his own powers, so -daring, almost insolent toward man, and yet, at the same time, so -fraught with gentle and romantic fancies, so rapt by romance or poetry, -so liable to all swift impressions of the senses, so humble, yet with so -proud and self-arrogating a humility toward woman. - -She thought of the tones of his beautifully modulated voice, of the -expression of his deep, clear, gray eye; she remembered how the one had -melted, as it were, almost timorously in her ear, how the other had -dwelt almost boldly on her face, yet with a boldness which seemed meant -almost as homage. - -She mused on these things; and then paused to reflect how helplessly and -deathfully he had lain at her feet, when he was drawn forth from that -deep red whirlpool; and how so sickly those fine eyes swam when she -first beheld them. How small a thing would have extinguished, and -forever, the faint spark of life which then feebly fluttered in his -bosom; how child-like he had yielded himself to her ministration, and -with how piteous yet grateful an expression he had acknowledged, when he -awoke from his first trance-like stupor, midway as it were between life -and death, the gentleness of her protection. - -Most true it is, that pity is akin to love; where pity, as is seldom the -case from woman toward man, can exist apart from something approaching -to contempt; where it is called forth by the consequences neither of -physical nor mental weakness. Still more is it the province and the part -of woman to love whom they have protected. - -With both sexes, I believe that to have conferred, rather than to have -received kindness—to be owed rather than to owe gratitude—is conducive -to the growth of kindly feeling, of friendship, of affection, love! But -with a true woman, to have been dependent on her for support, to have -looked up into her eyes for aid on the sick-bed, for sympathy in mortal -sorrow, to have revived by her nursing, to have been consoled by her -comforting—these are the truest and most direct key to her affections. - -Theresa thought of all these things, and as she did so, her bosom heaved -almost unconsciously a sigh, and a tear rose unbidden to her eye. She -almost loved Jasper St. Aubyn. - -Again, the recollection of his boldness on the previous evening, of his -half forcible seizure of her hand, of the kiss he had so daringly -imprinted on her soft fingers, of the too meaning words which he had -addressed to her, and of the tone, which conveyed even more of -consciousness and confidence than the words themselves, all rushed at -once upon her mind; and, though she was alone, she started, and her face -crimsoned at the mere memory of what she half felt as an indignity. - -“And could he think me,” she murmured to herself, “so light, so vain, so -easy to be won, that he dare treat me thus at almost a first interview? -or was it but the rashness, the imprudence, the buoyancy of extreme -youth, inspired by sudden love, and encouraged by his own headstrong -character.” She paused a moment, and then said almost aloud, “Oh, no, -no, I will not believe it.” - -“And what will you not believe, Theresa?” said a clear, firm voice, -close behind her, “what is it that you are so energetically determined -not to believe, my pretty cousin?” - -She started, not well pleased that even Durzil should have thus, as it -were, stolen upon her privacy, and overheard what was intended for no -mortal ear. Theresa was as guileless as any being of mortal mould may -be; but even the most artless woman cannot be altogether free from some -touch of instinctive artifice—that innocent and gentle guile is to -woman what nature has bestowed on all, even the humblest of its -creatures, her true weapon of defence, her shield against the brute -tyranny of man. And Theresa was a woman. She replied, therefore, without -an instant’s hesitation, although her voice did falter somewhat, and her -cheeks burn, as she spoke— - -“That you are angry with me, cousin Durzil.” But then, as she felt his -cold, clear, dark eye how piercingly it dwelt upon her features, -reading, or striving to read, her very soul, she continued, seeing at -once the necessity of placing him on the defensive, so as to turn the -tide of aggressive warfare, “but _I_ am angry with _you_, I assure you; -nor do I think it at all like you, Durzil, or at all like a true -cavalier, as you pretend to be, first to keep a lady waiting for you, I -don’t know how long, here alone, and then to creep upon her, like an -Indian, or a spy, and surprise what little secrets she might be turning -over in her own mind. You must have trodden lightly on purpose, or I -should have heard your step. I did not look for this at your hand, -cousin Durzil.” - -He still gazed at her with the same dark, fixed, piercing glance, -without answering her a word; and, although conscious of no wrong, she -met his gaze with her calm, candid, truthful eye, she could not endure -his suspicious look, but was fluttered, and blushed deeply, and was so -much embarrassed, that had not pride and anger come to her aid, she -would have burst into tears. But they did come to her aid, and she cried -with a quivering voice and a flashing eye— - -“For what do you look at me so, Durzil? I do not like it—I will not -bear it! You have no right to treat me thus! it is not kind, nor -courteous, nor even manly! If it be to brow-beat me, and tyrannize over -me, that you asked me to meet you here, I could have thanked you to -spare me the request. But I shall leave you to yourself, and return -home; and so, good-morrow to you, and better breeding, and a better -heart, too, cousin Durzil!” - -But though she said she was going, she made no movement to do so, but -hesitated, waiting for his answer. - -“You must be greatly changed, Theresa,” he said bitterly, “to take -offence at so slight a cause, or to speak to me in such a tone. But you -_are_ greatly changed, and there’s an end of it.” - -“I am not changed at all,” replied the girl, still chafing at the -recollection of that scrutinizing eye, which she perhaps felt the more, -because conscious that her own reply had not been perfectly sincere. -“But I do not allow your right to pry meanly into my secret thoughts, or -to catechise me concerning my words, or to accuse me of falsehood, when -I answer you.” - -“Accuse you of falsehood, Theresa! Who ever dreamed of doing so?” - -“Your eye did so, sir,” she replied. “When I told you that I was -determined ‘not to believe that you were angry with me,’ you fixed your -glance upon me with the expression of a pedagogue, who having caught a -child lying would terrify it into truth. I am no child, I assure you, -Durzil, nor are you _yet_ my master. Think as you may about it.” - -It was now Durzil’s turn to be confused, for he could not deny that she -had construed the meaning of his look aright; and would not, so proud -was he and so resolute, either deny or apologize for what was certainly -an act of rudeness. - -After a moment’s pause, however, he looked up at her from under downcast -eyelids, with a look of defiance mingled with distrust, and answered -bluntly, - -“I do not believe that _was_ your meaning, or that you were thinking -about me at all.” - -“And what if it were not? Am I bound, I pray you, to be thinking of -nothing but you? I must have little enough to think of, if it were so.” - -“You might at least have told me so much frankly.” - -“I thank you, cousin Durzil,” she made answer, more proudly, more firmly -than ever he had heard her speak before. “I thank you, for teaching me a -lesson, though neither very kindly, nor exactly as a generous gentleman -should teach a lady. But you are perfectly correct in your surmises, -sir. I was _not_ thinking of you at all; no more, sir, than if you were -not in existence, and if I answered you, as I did, sir, _falsely_—yes! -_falsely_ is the word!—it is because, in the first place, you had no -right to ask me the question you did, and, in the second, because I did -not choose to answer it! Now, cousin, allow _me_ to teach you -something—for you have something yet to learn, wise as you are, about -us women. If you ask a lady unmannerly questions, hereafter, and she -turn them off by a flippant joke, or an unmeaning _falsehood_, -understand that _you_ have been very rude, and that she does not wish to -be so likewise, by rebuking your impertinence. Now, do you comprehend -me?” - -“Perfectly, madam, perfectly. You have made marvelous strides of late, -upon my honor! Yesterday morning an unsophisticated country maiden—this -morning a courtly, quick-witted, manœuvring, fine lady! God send you, -much good of the change, though I doubt it. I can see all, read all, -plainly enough now—poor Durzil Bras-de-fer is not high enough, I trow, -for my dainty lady! Perchance, when he is farther off, he may be better -liked, and more needed. At all events, I did not look for this at your -hands, Theresa, on the last morning, too, that we shall spend together -for so long a time.” - -Angry as she was, and indignant at the dictatorial manner he had assumed -toward her, these last words disarmed her in a moment. A tear rose to -her eyes, and she held out her hand to him kindly. - -“You are right, Durzil,” she said, “and I was wrong to be so angry. But -you vexed me, and wounded me by your manner. I am sorry; I ought to have -remembered that you were going to leave us, and that you have some cause -to be grieved and irritable. Pardon me, Durzil, and forget what I said -hastily. We must not quarrel, for we have no friends save one another, -and my dear old father.” - -But Durzil’s was no placable mind, nor one that could divest itself -readily of a preconceived idea. “Oh!” he replied, “for that, fair young -ladies never lack friends. For every old one they cast off they win two -new ones. See, if it be not so, Theresa. Is it not so with you?” - -She looked at him reproachfully, but softly, and then burst into tears. -“You are ungenerous,” she said, “ungenerous. But all men, I suppose, are -alike in this—that they can feel no friendship for a woman. So long as -they hope for her love, all is submission on their part, and humility, -and gentleness, and lip-service—once they cannot win that, all is -bitterness and persecution. I did not look for this at _your_ hand! But -_I_ will not quarrel with you, Durzil. I dealt frankly with you yester -morning; I have dealt affectionately with you ever; I will deal tenderly -and forgivingly with you now. I only wish that you had not sought this -interview with me, the only object of which appears to have been the -embittering the last hours of our intercourse, and the endeavoring to -wring and wound my heart. But I—” - -“If you had dealt frankly with me,” he interrupted her, very angrily, -“you would have told me honestly that you loved another.” - -“Loved another! What do you mean? What other?” - -So evident was the truth, the sincerity of her astonishment, that -jealousy itself was rebuked and put to silence in the young man’s bosom; -and he endeavored to avoid or change the subject. But the womanly -indignation of the fair girl was now awakened; her pride had been -touched; her delicacy wounded; her sensibilities availed in the -tenderest point. - -“Leave me!” she said, after a little pause, during which she, in her -turn gazing upon him, now bewildered and abashed, with eyes of serene -wonder, not all unmingled with contempt—“Nay! not another word—leave -me—begone! You are not worthy of a woman’s love—you are not worthy to -be treated or regarded as a man. Leave me, I say, and trouble me no -more. Poor, weak, mean-spirited, vain, jealous, and ungenerous, begone! -You know—no man knows better—the falsehood of the last words you have -spoken. No man knows better their unfeelingness, their ungenerous -cruelty. But if I had—if I had loved another—in what does that concern -you? In what am I responsible to you for my likings or dislikings? Once -and for all be it said, I love you not—should not love you, were you -the only one of your sex on the face of God’s earth—and I pray God to -help and protect the woman who shall love you—if ever you be loved of -woman, which I for one believe not—for she shall love the veriest -tyrant that ever tortured a fond heart, under the plea of loving.” - -“I go,” he replied. “I am answered, once and for all. I go, and may -_you_ never need my aid, my forgiveness.” - -“Forgiveness!” she exclaimed, with a contemptuous glance. “Forgiveness! -I know not what _you_ have to forgive! But you should rather pray that I -_may_ have need of them; then may _you_ have the pleasure of refusing me -at my need.” - -“Ah! it is thus you think of me. It is time, then, that I should leave -you. Fare you well, Theresa.” - -“There is no need for farewells at present. The day is early yet; and I -trust still to see your temper changed before you set forth on your -journey. It would grieve my father sorely that you should leave us -thus.” - -“He will not know how I leave you. He will see me no more for -years—perhaps never!” - -“What do you mean?” - -“That I shall mount my horse within this half hour, and return no more -until I shall have twice crossed the Atlantic. So fare you well, -Theresa.” - -“Fare you well, Durzil, if it must be so. And God bless you, and send -you a better mind. You will be sorry for this one day. There is my hand, -fare you well; and rest assured of this, return when you may, you will -find me the same Theresa.” - -He took her hand, and wrung it hard. “Farewell,” he said. “Farewell; and -God grant that when I do return, I find you the wife, and not the -mistress, of Jasper St. Aubyn.” - -Ungenerous and bitter to the last, he winged the shaft at random, which -he hoped would pierce the deepest, which he trusted would prevent the -consummation he most dreaded—that she _should be_ the wife of the boy -whom he had saved, whom he now hated. - -The other contingency, at which he had hinted basely, unmanly, brutally, -he knew to be impossible—but he knew also, that the surmise would gall -her beyond endurance. That, that was the cruel, the unworthy object of -the last words Durzil Bras-de-fer ever exchanged in this world with -Theresa Allan. - -He turned on his heel, and, without looking back once, strode through -the garden, with all his better feelings lost and swallowed up in -bitterness and hatred; entered his own apartment, and there wrote a few -lines to his uncle, to the effect that in order to avoid the pain of a -parting, and the sorrows of a last adieu, he had judged it for the -wisest to depart suddenly and unawares; and that he should not return to -Widecomb until his voyage should be ended. - -Then, leaving the house, where he had passed so many a happy hour, in -hot and passionate resentment, he mounted his horse and rode away at a -hard gallop across the hills toward Hexwerthy and Plymouth. - -The last words he uttered had gone to Theresa’s heart like a death-shot. -She did not speak, or even sigh, as she heard them, but pressed her hand -hard on her breast, and fell speechless and motionless on the dewy -greensward. - -He, engrossed by his selfish rage, and deafened to the sound of her fall -by the beatings of his own hard heart, stalked off unconscious what had -befallen her; and she lay there, insensible, until the servant girl, -missing her at the breakfast hour, found her there cold, and, as at -first she believed, lifeless. - -She soon revived, indeed, from the swoon; but the excitement and -agitation of that scene brought on a slow, lingering fever; and weeks -elapsed ere she again left her chamber. When she did quit it, the fresh -green leaves of summer had put on their sere and yellow hue, the autumn -flowers were fast losing their last brilliancy, the hoar-frosts lay -white, in the early mornings, over the turf walks of her garden, ice had -been seen already on the great pool above the fords of Widecomb, and -every thing gave notice that the dreary days of winter were approaching, -and even now at hand. - -The northwest winds howled long and hollow over the open hills and -heathery wolds around Widecomb Manor, and ever as their wild melancholy -wail fell on the ears of Theresa, as she sat by her now lonely hearth, -they awoke a thought of him, the playmate of her happy childhood, from -whom she had parted, not as friends and playmates should part, and who -was now ploughing the far Atlantic, perhaps never to return. - -A shadow had fallen upon her brow; a gloom upon her young and happy -life. - -And where was he who unconsciously, though not perhaps unintentionally, -had been the cause of the cloud which had arisen, and whence that -shadow, that gloom? Where was Jasper St. Aubyn? - - - PART II. - - - CHAPTER I. - - A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. - The lady of his love was wed with one - Who did not love her better. - BYRON. - -Two years had passed away since Durzil Bras-de-fer set sail on the -Virginia voyage, and from that day no tidings had been heard of him in -England. - -In the meantime, changes, dark melancholy changes, had altered every -thing at Widecomb. The two old men, whom we last saw conversing -cheerfully of times long gone, and past joys unforgotten, had both -fallen asleep, to wake no more but to immortality. Sir Miles St. Aubyn -slept with his fathers in the bannered and escutcheoned chapel adjoining -the Hall, wherein he had spent so many, and those the happiest, of his -days; while William Allan—he had preceded his ancient friend, his old -rival, but a few weeks on their last journey—lay in the quiet village -church-yard, beneath the shade of the great lime-trees, among the leaves -of which he had loved to hear the hum of the bees in his glad boyhood. -The leaves waved as of old, and twinkled in the sunshine, and the music -of the reveling bees was blithe as ever, but the eye that had rejoiced -at the calm scenery, the ear that had delighted in the rural sound, was -dim, and deaf forever. - -Happy—happy they. Whom no more cares should reach, no more anxieties, -forever—who now no more had hopes to be blighted, joys to be tortured -into sorrows, and, worst of all, affections to breed the bitterest -griefs, and make calamity of so long life. Happy, indeed, thrice happy! - -There was a pleasant parlor, with large oriel windows looking out upon -the terrace of Widecomb Hall, and over the beautiful green chase, -studded with grand old oaks, down to the deep ravine through which the -trout stream rushed, in which the present lord of that fair demesne had -so nearly perished at the opening of my tale. - -And in that pleasant parlor, within the embrasure of one of the great -oriels, gazing out anxiously over the lovely park, now darkening with -the long shadows of a sweet summer evening, there stood as beautiful a -being as ever gladdened the eye of friend, husband, or lover, on his -return from brief absence home. - -It was Theresa—Allan no longer, but St. Aubyn; and with the higher rank -which she had so deservedly acquired, she had acquired, too, a higher -and more striking style of beauty. Her slender, girlish stature had -increased in height, and expanded in fullness, roundness, symmetry, -until the delicate and somewhat fragile maiden had been matured into the -perfect, full-blown woman. - -Her face also was lovelier than of old; it had a deeper, a more -spiritual meaning. Love had informed it, and experience. And the genius, -dormant before, and unsuspected save by the old fond father, sat -enthroned visibly on the pale, thoughtful brow, and looked out -gloriously from those serene, large eyes, filled as they were to -overflowing with a clear, lustrous, tranquil light, which revealed to -the most casual and thoughtless observers, the purity, the truth, the -whiteness of the soul within. - -But if you gazed on her more closely, - - You saw her at a nearer view - A spirit, yet a woman too. - -You saw that how pure, how calm, how innocent so-ever, she was not yet -exempt from the hopes, the fears, the passions, and the pains of -womanhood. - -The woman was more lovely than the girl, was wiser, greater, perhaps -better—alas! was she happier? - -She had been now nearly two years a wife, though but within the last -twelve months acknowledged and installed as such in her husband’s house. -It had been a dark mystery, her love, the child of sorrow and -concealment, although she might thank her own true heart, guided by -principle, and lighted by a higher star than any earthly passion, even -the love of God, it had not been the source of shame. - -Artfully, yet enthusiastically, had that bold, brilliant, fascinating -boy laid siege to her affections; and soon, by dint of kindred tastes, -and feelings, and pursuits, he had succeeded in winning the whole -perfect love of that pure, overflowing soul. - -She loved him with that fervor, that devotion, of which women alone are -perhaps capable, and of women, only those who are gifted with that -extreme sensibility, that exquisite organization, which, rendering them -the most charming, the most fascinating, and the most susceptible of -their sex, too often renders them the least happy. - -And he, too, loved her—as well, perhaps, as one of his character and -temperament could love any thing, except himself; he loved her -_passionately_; he admired her beauty, her grace, her delicacy, beyond -measure. He understood and appreciated her exquisite taste, her -brilliancy, her feminine and gentle genius. He was not happy when he was -absent from her side; he could not endure the idea that she should love, -or even smile upon another, he coveted the possession of a creature so -beautiful, a soul so powerful, and at the same time so loving. Above -all, he was proud to be loved by such a being. - -But beyond this he no more loved her, than the child loves its toy. He -held her only in his selfishness of soul, even before his passion had - - “Spent as yet its novel force, - Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.” - -But he knew nothing, felt nothing, understood nothing of her higher, -better self; he saw nothing of her inner light—guessed nothing of what -a treasure he had won. - -He would have sacrificed nothing of his pleasures, nothing of his -prejudices, nothing of his pride, had such a sacrifice been needed to -make her the happiest of women. While she would have laid down her life -for the mere delight of gaining him one moment’s joy—would have -sacrificed all that she had, or hoped to have, save honor, faith and -virtue. And to yield these he never asked her. - -No! in the wildest dream of his reckless, unprincipled imagination, he -never fancied to himself the possibility of tempting her to lawless -love. In the very boldest of his audacious flights, he never would have -dared to whisper one loose thought, one questionable wish in the -maiden’s ear. It had, perhaps, been well he had done so—for on that -instant, as the night-mists melt away and leave the firmament pure and -transparent at the first glance of the great sun, the cloud of passion -which obscured her mental vision would have been scattered and dispersed -from her clear intellect by the first word that had flashed on her soul -conviction of his baseness. - -But whether the wish ever crossed his mind or not, he never gave it -tongue, nor did she even once suspect it. - -Still he had wooed her secretly—laying the blame on his father’s pride, -his father’s haughty and high ambition, which he insisted would revolt -at the bare idea of his wedding with any lady, who could not point to -the quarterings of a long, noble line of ancestry; he had prevailed on -her, first to conceal their love, and at length to consent to a secret -marriage. - -It was long, indeed, ere he could bring her to agree even to that -clandestine step; nor, had her father lived but a few weeks longer, -would he have done so ever. - -The old man died, however, suddenly, and at the very moment when, though -she knew it not, his life was most necessary to his daughter’s welfare. -He was found dead in his bed, after one of those strange, mysterious -seizures, to which he had for many years been subject, and during which -he had appeared to be endowed with something that approached nearly to a -knowledge of the future. Although, if such were, indeed, the case, it -was scarce less wonderful that on the passing away of the dark fit, he -seemed to have forgotten all that he had seen and enunciated of what -should be thereafter. - -Be this, however, as it may, he was found by his unhappy child, dead, -and already cold; but with his limbs composed so naturally, and his fine -benevolent features wearing so calm and peaceful an expression, that it -was evident he had passed away from this world of sin and sorrow, during -his sleep, without a pang or a struggle. Never did face of mortal -sleeper give surer token of a happy and glorious awakening. - -But he was gone, and she was alone, friendless, helpless and -unprotected. - -How friendless, how utterly destitute and helpless, she knew not, nor -had even suspected, until the last poor relics of her only kinsman, save -he who was a thousand leagues aloof on the stormy ocean, had been -consigned to the earth, whence they had their birth and being. Then, -when his few papers were examined, and his affairs scrutinized by his -surviving, though now fast declining friend, St. Aubyn, it appeared that -he had been supported only by a life-annuity, which died with himself, -and that he had left nothing but the cottage at the fords, with the few -acres of garden-ground, and the slender personal property on the -premises, to his orphan child. - -It was rendered probable by some memoranda and brief notes, found among -his papers, the greater part of which were occupied by abstruse -mathematical problems, and yet wilder astrological calculations, that he -had looked forward to the union of his daughter with the youth whom he -had brought up as his own son, and whose ample means, as well as his -affection for the lovely girl, left no doubt of his power and -willingness to become her protector. - -What he had observed, during his sojourn at the cottage, led old Sir -Miles, however, who had assumed as an act of duty, no less than of -pleasure, the character of executor to his old friend, to suspect that -the simple-minded sage had in some sort reckoned without his host; and -that on one side, at least, there would be found insuperable objections -to his views for Theresa’s future life. And in this opinion he was -confirmed immediately by a conversation which he had with the poor girl, -so soon as the first poignant agony of grief had passed from her mind. - -In this state of affairs, an asylum at the manor was offered by the old -cavalier, and accepted by the orphan with equal frankness, but with a -most unequal sense of obligation—Sir Miles regarding his part in the -transaction as a thing of course, Theresa looking on it as an action of -the most exalted and extraordinary generosity. - -In truth, it had occurred already to the mind of the old knight, so soon -as he was satisfied within himself that Theresa’s affections were not -given to her wild and dangerous cousin, that he would gladly see her the -wife of his own almost idolized boy. For, though of no exalted or -ennobled lineage, she was of gentle blood, of an honorable parentage, -which had been long established in the county, and which, if fallen in -fortunes, had never lost caste, or been degraded, as he would assuredly -have deemed it, by participation in any mechanical or mercantile -pursuit. He had seen enough of courts and courtiers to learn their -hollowness, and all the empty falsehood of their gorgeous show—he had -mingled enough in the great world to be convinced that real happiness -was not to be sought in the hurly-burly of its perilous excitements, and -incessant strife; and that which would have rendered him the happiest, -would have been to see Jasper established, tranquilly, and at his ease, -with domestic bonds to ensure the permanency of his happiness, before -his own time should come, as the Lord of Widecomb. - -And such were his views when he prevailed on Theresa to let the House in -the Woods be her home, until at least such time as news could be -received of her cousin; who, certainly, whatever might be the relative -state of their affections, would never suffer her to want a home or a -protector. - -He had observed that Jasper was struck deeply by the charms of the sweet -girl; he knew, although he had affected not to know it, that, under the -pretence of fishing or shooting excursions, he had been in the almost -daily habit of visiting her, since the accident which had led to their -acquaintance; and he was, above all, well assured that the girl loved -him with all the deep, unfathomable devotion of which such hearts as -hers alone are capable. - -Well pleased was he, therefore, to see the beautiful being established -in the halls of which he hoped to see her, ere long, the mistress; and -if he did not declare his wishes openly to either on the subject, it was -that he was so well aware of his son’s headstrong and willful temper, -that he knew him fully capable of refusing peremptorily the very thing -which he most desired, if proffered to him as a boon, much more urged -upon him as the desire of a third party—which he was certain to regard -as an interference with his free will and self-regulation—while, at the -same time he feared to alarm Theresa’s delicacy, by anticipating the -progress of events. - -Thus, with a heart overflowing with affection for that wild, willful, -passionate boy, released from the only tie of obedience or restraint -that could have bound her, poor Theresa was delivered over, fettered as -it were, hand and foot, to the perilous influence of Jasper’s artifices, -and the scarce less dangerous suggestions of her own affections. - -It was strange that, quick as she was and clever, even beyond her sex’s -wonted penetration, where matters of the heart are concerned, Theresa -never suspected that the old cavalier had long perceived and sanctioned -their growing affection. But idolizing Jasper as she did, and believing -him all that was high and generous and noble, seeing that all his -external errors tended to the side of rash, hasty impulse, never to -calculation or deceit, she saw every thing, as it were, through his -eyes, and was easily induced by him to believe that all his father’s -kindness and father-like attention to her slightest wish, arose only -from his love for her lost parent, and compassion for her sad -abandonment; nay, further, he insisted that the least suspicion of their -mutual passion would lead to their instant and eternal separation. - -It was lamentable, that a being so bright, so excellent as she, -believing that such was the case, and bound as she was by the closest -obligations, the dearest gratitude to that good old man, should have -consented, even for a moment, to deceive him, much more to frustrate his -wishes in a point so vital. - -But she was very young—she had been left without the training of a -mother’s watchful heart, without the supervision of a mother’s earnest -eye—she was endowed marvelously with those extreme sensibilities which -are invariably a part of that high nervous organization, ever connected -with poetical genius; she loved Jasper with a devotedness, a singleness, -and at the same time a consuming heat of passion, which scarcely could -be believed to exist in one so calm, so self-possessed, and so -innocently-minded—and, above all, she had none else in the wide world -on whom to fix her affections. - -And the boy profited by this; and with the sharpness of an intellect, -which, if far inferior to hers in depth and real greatness, was as far -superior to it in worldly selfishness and instinctive shrewdness, played -upon her nervous temperament, till he could make each chord of her -secret soul thrill to his touch, as if they had been the keys of a -stringed instrument. - -The hearts of the young who love, must ever, must naturally resent all -interference of the aged, who would moderate or oppose their love, as -cold, intrusive tyranny; and thus, with plausible and artful sophistry, -abetted by the softness of her treacherous heart, too willing to be -deceived, he first led her to regard his father as opposed to the wishes -of that true love, which, for all the great poet knew or had heard, -“never did run smooth,” and thence to resent that opposition as unkind, -unjust, tyrannical; and thence—alas! for Theresa!—to deceive the good -old man, her best friend on earth—ay, to deceive herself. - -It is not mine to palliate, much less to justify her conduct. I have but -to relate a too true tale; and in relating it, to show, in so far as I -can, the mental operations, the self-deceptions, and the workings of -passion—from which not even the best and purest of mankind are -exempt—by which an innocent and wonderfully constituted creature was -betrayed into one fatal error. - -She was persuaded—words can tell no more! - -It was a grievous fault, and grievously _Theresa_ answered it. - -When ill things are devised, and to be done, ill agents are soon found, -especially by the young, the wealthy, and the powerful. - -The declining health of Sir Miles St. Aubyn was no secret in the -neighborhood—the near approach of his death was already a matter of -speculation; and already men almost looked on Jasper as the Lord, _in -esse_, of the estates of Widecomb Manor. - -The old white-headed vicar had a son, poor like himself, and -unaspiring—like himself, in holy orders; and for him, when his own -humble career should be ended, he hoped the reversion of the vicarage, -which was in the gift of the proprietor of Widecomb. The old man had -known Jasper from his boyhood, had loved Theresa, whom he had, indeed, -baptized, from her cradle. He was very old and infirm, and some believed -that his intellect was failing. Between his affection for the parties, -and his interest in his son’s welfare, it was easy to frame a plausible -tale, which should work him to Jasper’s will; and with even less -difficulty than the boy looked for, he was prevailed upon to unite them -secretly, and at the dead of night, in the parish church at the small -village by the fords. - -The sexton of the parish church was a low knave, with no thought beyond -his own interest, no wish but for the accumulation of gain. A -gamekeeper, devoted to the young master’s worst desires, a fellow who -had long ministered to his most evil habits, and had in no small degree -assisted to render him what he was, only too willingly consented to aid -in an affair which he saw clearly would put the young heir in his power -forever. - -He was selected as one of the witnesses—for without witnesses, the good -but weak old vicar would not perform the ceremony; and he promised to -bring a second, in the person of his aged and doting mother, the -respectability of whose appearance should do away with any scruples of -Theresa’s, while her infirmity should render her a safe depository of -the most dangerous secret. - -And why all this mystery—this tortuous and base deviation from the path -of right—this unnecessary concealment, and unmeaning deceit? - -Wherefore, if the boy were, indeed, what he has been described, and no -more, impulsive, willful, rash, headlong, irresistible in his -impulses—if not a base traitor, full of dark plots, deep-laid -beforehand—wherefore, if he did love the girl, with all the love of -which his character was capable, if he had not predetermined to desert -her—wherefore did he not wed her openly in the light of day, amid -crowds of glad friends, and rejoicing dependents? Why did he not gladden -the heart of his aged father, and lead her to the home of his ancestors -a happy and honored bride, without that one blot on her conscience, -without that one shadow of deceit, which marred the perfect truthfulness -of her character, and in after days weighed on her mind heavily? - - [_To be continued._ - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FOUNTAIN IN WINTER. - - - BY BAYARD TAYLOR. - - - The northern winds are raw and cold, - And crust with ice the frozen mould; - The gusty branches lash the wall - With icicles that snap and fall. - - There is no light on earth to-day— - The very sky is blank and gray; - Yet still the fountain’s quivering shaft - Leaps upward, as when Spring-time laughed. - - No diamonds glitter on its brink, - No red-lipped blossoms bend to drink, - And on the blast, its fluttering wing - Is spread above no kindred thing. - - The drops that strike the frozen mould - Make all the garden doubly cold, - And with a chill and shivering pain - I hear the fall of sleety rain. - - The music that, in beamy May, - Told of an endless holyday, - With surly Winter’s wailings blent, - Becomes his dreariest instrument. - - The water’s blithe and sparkling voice, - That all the Summer said, “rejoice!” - Now pours upon the bitter air - The hollow laughter of despair. - - So, when the flowers of Life lie dead - Beneath a darker Winter’s tread, - The songs that once gave Joy a soul - Bring to the heart its heaviest dole. - - The fresh delight that leaped and sung - The sunny bowers of Bliss among, - But gives to Sorrow colder tears, - And laughs to mock our clouded years. - - * * * * * - - - - - A PARTING SONG. - - - BY PROFESSOR CAMPBELL. - - - Free—as the lonely eagle free— - A leaden sky is o’er me— - I’m out upon a leaden sea— - A wide, cold world before me. - Wait’st thou to woo a breeze, my bark? - The eager wave’s upheaving - Chideth thy stay—the little lark - Her upward way is cleaving. - - Hymn-bird, how oft thy glorious note - Hath trumpeted the day, - When bark and I were both afloat - Upon our wandering way. - For I have wandered many an hour, - My trusty bark, with thee, - And culled full many a breathing flower - Of wildest Poesy. - - In those bright hours, when gliding down - Each flower-reflecting stream, - When health, hope, fancy—all had thrown - Their light o’er boyhood’s dream— - Ah! little did I dream, my boat, - That thou and I should be - Alone upon the world, afloat - Upon the wide, wide sea. - - Yet speed we forth—what care I now - That once those bright hours shone? - Is there a blight upon my brow? - No—’tis enough, they’re gone. - Then speed we forth—we leave behind - A home still passing fair, - Some spot to call a home to find— - I know not—care not where. - - Be it but distant, distant far, - Across the billowy deep, - Where thought and passion cease to war— - Where misery may sleep. - Sleep! no—’tis but a foolish thought, - That may not, cannot be— - O’er the wide world there is no spot - Of sleep for misery. - - Wherever winds the ocean fan, - To-morrow’s born and dies, - Wherever man deceiveth man, - And woman lisps and lies— - In city, or in solitude, - In banquet-hall, or cell— - The past—the past will still intrude— - Memory—the wretch’s hell. - - Chance choose the clime—I only seek— - To what else tortures bound— - The spirit feel no vulture beak - Of pity in the wound. - Then speed we forth—ay, speed we forth— - I know not—care not where; - Thou’lt build on any spot of earth - Thy lone, proud home, Despair. - - So leap, so leap, brave heart, brave will— - Misery hath taught to know - Still the fierce strength invincible, - That springs to meet the blow. - False friends—fond hopes—mad joys of old - May not forgotten be— - But room, and hurrah! for joys untold - Of brave heart’s victory. - - This joy’s infectious—bounds my bark, - As prouder far to bear - Her master, now the heav’ns are dark, - Than when they smiled most fair. - The purpling waters, as they leap - Around her eager prow, - Laugh out in sympathy, and keep - Dark commune with me now. - - On, on, my bark, thy gallant keel - Is bounding merrily— - Tossing the white foam, thou dost feel - That now we both are free. - And we are free—oh! we are free— - A sky of storms is o’er us— - A glorious strife, to end with life - And victory, before us. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LIGHT OF LIFE. - - - BY MRS O. M. P. LORD. - - - Thou can’st not dream of darkness now, - My child! so full of radiant light - Thy morning breaks, with song of birds; - That beaming eye no gloomy night - Discerns, when weary petals close, - And birds with folded wing repose. - - Nor would I change this fair design; - As well the dew might fall at noon, - Or fierce December’s coming blast - Assail the shrinking flowers of June, - As fall o’er hearts in light arrayed, - From dim, prospective ill, a shade. - - And yet, my darling child, the night, - With starless depths, may come, and day, - The sunniest e’en, hath gloomy hours; - What then will cheer the darkened way? - Lo here! where deepest shade appals, - The Saviour’s constant footstep falls. - - Seek thou, my child, the record oft, - When faint thy weary heart, and dim - With tears thine eye; our varied life - Revealed in his appears; from him - A light doth pierce the shadows through, - Which fall on heaven’s long avenue. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE RECREANT MISSIONARY, - - - JUDAS ISCARIOT: - - “Who also betrayed Him.” - - - BY CAROLINE C——. - - -Thus always, the last mentioned among the holy Apostles, and with the -brand of shame attached to his name, is Judas Iscariot, the traitor, -brought before us. And inasmuch as from the lives of them, who in all -circumstances continued faithful to their Lord, lessons of the highest -benefit may be drawn by the teachable mind, I am constrained to think -there comes to us a lesson and a warning we may not lightly heed, from -him who “by transgression fell.” He, too, when the Voice was heard -crying in the wilderness gave willing heed; he, too, amid the eager -crowd was seen listening anxiously to the inspired word of John the -Baptist; he, too, when the meek Saviour came, attended on His preaching, -and his heart was stirred by the words of entreaty and condemnation that -he heard. He, too, would fain believe, and be forgiven, and be numbered -among the disciples of the new king. - -When, as one of the twelve Apostles, he was chosen, and in a peculiar -manner recognized by the Saviour as one of his own household, Judas -rejoiced—for he doubtless conceived that if Christ’s kingdom was to be -of an earthly nature, it was certainly a great advancement, and a high -honor, to be chosen publicly as one of His chief ministers. How then -must he have listened to the words of Jesus, when, after he had selected -the Twelve, he charged them with their duty, and told them all that they -must bear and suffer for His sake. “In the world ye shall have -tribulation and sorrow—but, be of good cheer, I have overcome the -world.” One cannot but think that the latter part of this declaration -must have fallen with little weight on the disappointed heart of Judas. -The Saviour had consecrated them to their holy work—to the lives of -persecution, and sorrow, and pain, which He knew awaited them—he was -calling down the power of his spirit to rest and abide with each of -them, the power which should enable them to release guilty humanity from -its load of sin, wherever it should be felt in its oppressiveness—and -while in humility the eyes of some of those disciples were fixed upon -the ground, unto his majestic countenance others were raised, catching -from his fervid devotion the spark of heavenly fire that was to make -them indeed beacon lights on the mountain of Truth! By the words he -uttered, he bade them remember the difficulties which would beset -them—fully pointing out to them the thorny path which they must tread. -Not with the conviction that a life of ease was before them went they -forth. They had enlisted as soldiers in His service, it was therefore -meet that they should know the dangers of the hostile country through -which they were to pass. “Behold I send you forth as sheep amidst -wolves!” Danger, privation, and perchance a horrible death were the foes -they were to meet. - -But, those dangers all revealed, He did not leave them struck down, as -it were, by the heavy weight of the cross they had chosen to bear—kind -words, encouraging promises, assurances of his fatherly protection and -guidance fell from his lips, and comforted and cheered them. - -There was one heart on which the words of the Saviour fell with chilling -force—in his hearing, was now forever decided the question as to the -nature of Christ’s kingdom and service. When Judas heard that calm, deep -voice telling of the power of the enemy into whose hands they were -voluntarily placing themselves—when he became convinced of the danger -and wo which would encircle them on every side—that the prison might -prove their place of abode—that the scourge and instruments of torture -would be the welcoming extended to them in the world—that contumely, -shame and reproach, and despiteful treatment would inevitably meet them -in all their wanderings, he shrunk back—when he listened to the -promises Jesus made to them of rest in heaven, of the continued care of -God, which nevertheless might not preserve them from a death of torture -and ignominy—when he reflected that the rewards promised were none of -them of a temporal nature, and were to be made good only in the dim -future, in another existence that was called eternal, he shrunk from the -prospect of so much present misery, to be endured for a reward so -vague—he forgot the weight of glory that was to be revealed, or, if he -remembered it at all, the future of bliss was so far distant, and the -promises so obscure, that they fell like dust in the balance of that -scale where wo, vexation and privations innumerable were to be weighed. -Better, ah far better, he thought, that former life of labor and -obscurity he had led, than a life of such publicity and danger as he was -now to lead. None ever molested him _then_, quietly and peacefully he -had lived till that hour when he lent too willing an ear to the -compassionate words of Him who spoke, not as man, but as God and -Saviour. - -And yet despite this irresoluteness, when the young man thought of his -companions who were setting forth so zealously on the path at whose very -threshold he faltered, he was almost constrained to rush boldly onward -with them. His pride shrunk from the thought of proving so soon recreant -to the cause which he had espoused so gladly and earnestly. - -That first moment when he wavered in his zeal—when his determination -faltered—we may count as the moment of his downfall, of his fearful -ruin—that moment when the first bewildering thought rushed into his -brain, what shall I gain by this life of self-denial?—that moment when -the chilling conviction of the folly of his enthusiasm in the service of -Christ crept over him—that moment of unguarded temptation when Satan -obtained a hearing, that was his trial-time—then he was found -wanting—_then he fell_—then was he lost to the cause he had vowed to -support. - -And yet in that moment of hesitation it is not to be supposed that Judas -had the courage, or even the wish, forever to reject and disown his -master, Jesus. We cannot believe that he had crept into the camp of -Salvation under false colors, merely to spy out its secrets, its most -vulnerable points, that so he might deliver the great chief of the army -into the hands of his enemy. Not so. It was impossible for the man to -harden in unbelief; for such convincing proof of the might and divinity -of Jesus had been given him, as it was not possible for him to reject. -And as he pondered on the gentle and touching loving kindness that -Master had shown toward him and his apostolic brethren, it may be that -the desire to aid and to serve him became for the time stronger even -than his natural cowardice and selfishness. And this may be the reason -why he resolved for a little time, at least, to be considered by the -people as one of the followers of Jesus. And in making this decision -there may possibly have revived in the man’s heart a little of that -fervor of spirit which he had once felt for the sacred cause. - -So it was, that again his face turns toward the upward path, and for a -season he will continue therein. Thus goes he forth on his mission, -entertaining in his heart two guests, whose hopes and aspirations, whose -every end and aim are totally at variance. Love of the world, of his -former life of careless sin, and of money, that root of all evil, was -there; and there also was a standard bearer from the camp of Heaven, who -came upholding a banner which, at the will of the entertainer, he would -have gladly unfurled upon the highest battlement of the castle of his -soul—against which the powers of sin and darkness were knocking, and -demanding entrance, with voices which reverberated through every secret -corner of the tenement. - -That banner once unfurled, the importunate foe would flee in haste—oh, -why was the word not spoken—the word which would so speedily have -scattered those convulsing legions? Because—ponder upon it, thou who -art halting between two opinions—because the master of that castle -faltered at his post through fear and indecision. - -He has gone forth now on the path of discipleship, and his works of -miraculous power proclaim him. At his call and command the gates of -oblivion are opened, and the dead come back to life—the sick, laid on -their couches of pain and agony, arise and walk at his word; and the -gospel of mercy and salvation sounds with marvelous success when its -blessings are proclaimed by his eloquent tongue to the weary, and the -poor, and the heavy-laden. The evil spirits suffered to torment them who -would fain tread in the right path are cast forth, and then the -sorrowing repentant goeth on his way rejoicing! But, as he works all -this good for others, his own mind is tormented by the conflicting -voices which are calling to him. He stills the tempests in the minds of -the distressed, and those burdened with cruel doubts, but in his own -breast there is a storm raging continually, which he _cannot_ command to -silence. He holds up to the parched and dying creatures surrounding him -a cup, while he proclaims, “Ho ye that thirst! buy wine, buy milk, -without money and without price!” “Drink, and ye shall not thirst -again!” while he himself is dying of thirst—and ever as he raises to -his own lips the cup which contains the healing for the nations, his -spirit shrinks back from the draught—it will not drink—it is gall and -wormwood to him! - -He lifts his voice, and conviction and peace fall upon them who listen -to him. Repentance is hurled to the sinful heart with the words, “His -yoke is easy, and His burden light!” while himself is drooping and -fainting under the weight of deceit which is upon him. Wherever he goes -he proclaims “Peace!” to the children of men—and peace visits all who -will hearken to him. But in his own breast—ah, _there_ is warfare and -strife, the accusings of conscience, the warnings of wrath to come! In -the chambers of sickness, where the dying were restored to health; by -the wayside, where the foully diseased were cleansed—before the opened -tomb, whence at his call the dead came clothed once again with the -garment of life, amid the multitudes who listened with deepest interest -to his most forcible words, alone, in the solitude of his own heart, or -when in holy communion of thought with the faithful brethren, alike at -all times, and in all places, heard he the still small voice of his -accusing spirit. - -The outward form of grace was his, but the purification had not -penetrated into the recesses of his heart! The agonizing knowledge that -at each onward step he was plunging deeper and deeper into the sin which -could not be forgiven—the continual remembrance that he was dispensing -to others the mercy of that God who would forget to be gracious to him, -may be easily conjectured; but may Heaven spare us all from such agony -of conflicting thoughts and hopes as must have been the daily and -nightly companion of Judas Iscariot, long before he came out from the -disciples’ ranks to betray his lord into the hands of sinners! - - * * * * * - -In the magnificent chambers of the High Priest, adorned with so much -costliness and luxury, Caiaphas sat in state. Ushered in by menials, a -young man enters timidly to the presence of the haughty potentate. - -The dignity of mien which once distinguished the ambassador of the Lord, -which would not bend to the splendor of court or king, is no longer to -be seen in Judas. The meanness of servility speaks in every motion, -every word of the man—his self-respect is gone, and with it all the -confidence of manhood. But if the craftiness of the stranger’s -appearance struck most unfavorably on the High Priest, how much more -must he have been startled and amazed, as Judas unfolded the reason of -his appearance there; and it was not till his mission was fully revealed -that Caiaphas recognized in the craven supplicant one of those far-famed -Apostles, with whose names he was already familiar. - -The proud man must have shrunk back in horror from the revolting -proposal of Judas—for, though it placed within his reach the -accomplishment of one of the highest wishes of his life, (the -deliverance of Christ into his hands,) yet the means by which he was -offered the capture were opposed to all the principles of his creed of -manly honor. Could he in all his high mightiness stoop to receive the -prisoner at the hands of one who had been his friend—his companion and -ministering servant? No—he must certainly at the first have turned away -contemptuously from the detail of such consummate villainy; it must -surely have been more than even he could countenance—for though not -wont to cavil at the means employed, when any wished for end was to be -gained, yet Caiaphas _must_ have wondered, as the question burst from -the covetous impatient heart of Judas, “What will ye give me, and I will -deliver him unto you?” But as the High Priest pondered on that question, -gradually his spirit ceased its noble revolting, he began to lose sight -of the contemptible, horrible treachery of the man on his knees before -his throne, and he felt something like rejoicing in the thought, that -the object he had so longed to accomplish, was within his reach at last. -Therefore it was not long ere he turned with a more readily listening -ear, and began to _bargain_ with the Apostle! - -At length the agreement was made—the covenant formed—the price of the -Saviour’s life was set, and the thirty pieces of silver were paid into -the hands of Judas! And then the traitor arose, and went from the -presence-chamber of Caiaphas, but faintness was within his dastard -heart, and the flush of shame upon his forehead, and with downcast eyes, -and hasty step he went, for in his hands he bore the proofs of his -condemning guilt and sordid meanness; knowing also that even the enemies -of Christ, gladly as they would receive Him into their power, had shrunk -from taking the prisoner from an apostle’s hands. But, the contract was -made, the wages of sin were in his hands; for Judas there was no going -back; onward—onward—onward he was impelled by the unchained fiend -within him, to work out his own eternal ruin. - -He must know rest neither day nor night—constantly he must be on the -alert, that Jesus should not altogether escape him—and when the -favorable moment arrived, he was to deliver Him up to the rulers! - -And with that price of the innocent blood in his hands he dared still to -labor and associate with the holy Apostles, dared to express submission -and reverence for the God who read his every inmost thought. It seems a -thing almost incredible—for the paltry sum of money he had dared -appoint himself the judge to deliver the prisoner into the executioner’s -hands! Already he had been guilty of taking money from the common purse -of the disciples, which was entrusted to him, in order that he might -gratify his selfish desires—and this guilt was known to Jesus, but the -compassionate Saviour had refrained from making it known; it would have -brought down dishonor on the holy cause which Judas at the best served -so unfaithfully, and would have heaped on the sinful man’s own head -shame and condemnation, had the transaction been made known -publicly—thus he was still suffered to retain his post of trust and -honor. - -Were we not daily beholding crimes, only less heinous than those of -Judas, it would be difficult indeed for us to conceive his guilt! We -could not believe it possibly within the range of human capability to -sin, that he would sacrifice even his God for money! The Saviour’s -blood—it was indeed a high price to pay for thirty pieces of silver! -But, though his crime was such as has placed the name of Judas the very -first on the long, long list of human guilt—though, from the very -nature, and necessity of things, there never can be another soul stained -with sin so deep and dreadful, though now, when as a completed whole we -survey our blessed Saviour’s life on earth, we stand aghast as we think -on his betrayer, yet, my reader, who among us shall dare to say that had -we lived in those days we surely would have been guiltless of the blood -of that just man? There is nothing easier than to accuse our “first -parents,” Adam and Eve, of an unaccountable transgression—it is very -easy to _say_ that nothing could ever have tempted _us_ to the -commission of a crime so great—I would assuredly be the last to _dare_ -uphold Judas in his deadly sin, or to endeavor to cleanse from his name -the terrible blackness of the crime attached to it—it was monstrous -guilt of which he through all the ages has stood convicted, but I -repeat, by no means was it unaccountable! - -Think of our world, and of human nature as it is now, after so many -centuries have passed, and the light of knowledge has spread far and -wide. Consider what the covetousness, the folly, the ambition of the -heart work among us now; behold even at this hour, what multitudes are -there among us who are scoffers, and deniers, and mockers of the Lord -who bought them! Ah, were it a veritable truth which the Jews believe -and assert, that the Messiah has not yet come, even now would not be -found wanting the vengeful unbelievers, the betrayer, the judge, the -proud religion, the cross, and the thorny crown, and earth and heaven -would be rent again with that cry which a false-hearted people wrung -from Him who died upon the cross! - -The feast of the Passover was at hand, and the little band of apostles -which had been widely dispersed, fulfilling every where they went their -onerous duties, met together once more to celebrate the feast. - -And at eventide the holy men assembled in the “upper room” of a house to -which Jesus had directed them, wherein they had made ready for the -ceremonial celebration. But it was a new feast, to partake of which the -Saviour had called them together. The forms of the ancient days were -being fast set aside; there was no more need that the lamb should be -slain in commemoration of the mercy of God in a time when his people -were in most dire necessity—soon was a Lamb to be sacrificed whose -efficacious blood was to save, and cleanse from sin all who would have -faith in God and his crucified Son. And it was meet that _that_ night, -when the feast of the Passover was wont to be celebrated, should be -chosen for the superseding of a dead form by a more living faith. The -consecrated bread and wine, the emblems of His sacred body and blood, -these were the symbols to be used—there was not any longer need for the -shedding of the blood of beasts. - -The twelve were all together. They had come rejoicing that they might -meet again with their Master in safety and peace, that they might once -more listen to His words and counsel whom they loved so well. In their -short time of separation they had met all of them with wonderful -success, and the scornful, harsh rebukes they had oftentimes been forced -to listen to, they had patiently, ay, gladly endured, for it was all for -Him, and they could not but rejoice that they were counted worthy to -suffer shame for His name. But reproach, and contumely, and condemnation -of the world, was not all that they had met; they had looked on eyes -their words had caused to brighten with joy—they had heard voices, sad -and desponding, raised in hymns of thanksgiving and rejoicing—they had -seen many hopeful manifestations of repentance, had pointed out to many -the straight path and the narrow way leading to eternal life. Well might -they come as faithful stewards with gladness and haste at the call of -their Lord! - -Did I say _all_ came with rejoicing to look upon their Master’s face -again? nay, verily, _not all_! - -One in their midst whose words had flown far over the land, who had -besought sinners most effectually to repent, who had given to many a -most blessed hope, came among them to partake of the feast of the -Passover, to offer to his brethren the hand of fellowship, wherein he -had so recently clapped with greedy joy the infamous price of the -Redeemer’s blood! - -_He_ came with a troubled mind, feeling that he had no right to commune -with the more faithful eleven, and dreading to meet the glance of the -Searcher of Hearts. He knew full well, that though his brethren and -fellow-laborers beheld his successful preaching with gladness, that they -could see no further—they could do no more than judge him by his -outward acts, which had, as far as their knowledge went, been always -blameless—but he also knew that He who had bidden them to the supper -gazed with more than human power of vision into his evil heart, that He -saw and beheld the vile thing which he had done; full well the fearful -sinner knew that the flimsy veil he had been able to fling over his -guilt, was far from being efficient to screen him from the scrutinizing -gaze of his Lord. - -Oh, how like the knell of condemnation must those mournful words have -fallen on the ear of Judas: - -“Verily I say unto you that one of _you_ shall betray me!” - -It was the sudden death of every hope of concealment. - -Fear and wonder filled the minds of the faithful eleven. One of _them_ -betray their beloved Master? It was a thought inconceivable to them. -With astonished looks they turned from one to another, and with full -confidence in the integrity of their hearts they asked, “Lord, is it I?” - -Solemnly upon the stillness broke that answer. - -“He that dippeth his hand into the dish with me, the same shall betray -me, and wo unto that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed, it had been -good for that man had he never been born.” - -When these fearful words of warning were pronounced, and every voice was -hushed, and every heart was awe-struck, again was heard the trembling -voice of Judas the guilty, echoing faintly, and as though irresistibly -_compelled_ to utter the words, “Master, is it _I_?” - -The sad eyes of the eleven were fixed upon their brother and their Lord, -and oh what a thrill of horror must have run through every heart as the -answer “_Thou hast said_,” was whispered in a tone of sorrowful reproach -by the Saviour, who knew that he was already betrayed! - -When Judas saw the reproachful expression that every face wore, and was -thus assured that his treachery was known, he felt his place was no -longer amid the faithful followers and servants of Jesus—he knew well -enough the just horror with which the holy men surrounding him would -look upon his ingratitude and soul-destroying guilt. He had still sense -enough left to feel that he should no longer remain among those who had -such cause to deeply deplore the desecration he had done the service of -Christ; and, too, his inclination for, and pleasure in that service, and -his desire to remain in that holy company was gone. He had chosen -another master, even the Evil One—he must fight under another banner, -even that of the Blackness of Darkness! - -Publicly he had parted with his heavenly portion for a mere handful of -silver, and now what part or lot had he in the work, to do which a clean -heart and a right spirit were so pre-eminently required? -Self-forgetfulness, constancy, devotion, truth, he lacked all these! how -then could _he_ further the cause of the Redeemer? Judas must have gone -from that chamber of mournful feasting feeling himself to be a doomed -man, bearing upon himself the full weight of the heavy curse of God! - -An impassable barrier, an unfathomable gulf lay now between him and the -works of holiness—a separating wall built even by his own willing hands -up to the portal of heaven, shut him forever from the hope of mercy or -the possibility of repentance! - - * * * * * - -It is night. Over the Garden of Gethsemane is spread the shadow of a -dark cloud. The moon’s light is obscured; or, where at intervals it -appears between the broken clouds, its dim rays render the sadness and -silence of the place only more mournful still. To the quietness and -retirement of that garden, One has come whose soul is filled with sorrow -even unto death! He has spoken kindly words of love to his disciples, he -has bidden them tarry in the garden to watch with Him; but though Jesus -would fain have them nigh, his agony and suffering were too great for -any but the Father to witness, therefore he went apart from them, and -falling on his face, in the depth of anguish he prayed, “Oh! my Father, -if it be possible, let this cup pass from me—nevertheless not as I -will, but as Thou wilt!” - -Bending submissively to the will of that Father in all things, he could -drink even the bitterness of that cup wherein was garnered a whole -world’s sin. Three times was the agonized prayer repeated, and still the -aid from heaven was not sent, nor the bitter cup removed! Oh, reader, by -that night of unexampled agony, by the blood-drops which burst from -_our_ Saviour in the extremity of His anguish, bedewing the ground of -Gethsemane—by the remembrance of the cross-planted Calvary—by the -bitterness of that draught the dregs of which were not spared, how are -we taught, and warned, and implored to consider well the value of that -sacrifice which He has made _for us_! Can’st thou think on that night of -unexampled agony and longer refrain from flinging thyself wholly, with -no reserve, at the foot of the blood-stained cross? Oh never suffer the -remembrance of that night of passion to fade from thy mind or from thy -heart—let it cling to thee continually, inciting to patience, and -courage, and faith, till thou hast learned by them to enter the path -from which His death has taken the sorrow, to which His agony has lent -the glory! Thus shall the cross-crowned Calvary prove to thee a sure -reliable ray that shall guide thee to heaven; thus shall the blood-dew -shed in Gethsemane, spread a reviving freshness over the dying tree of -Faith, which perchance is drooping even at this moment in thy heart! - -The Saviour’s last prayer is breathed forth when the sound as of a -multitude breaks on his ear—full well He knoweth who it is that is now -hastening on and entering the Garden sanctified by His presence to take -Him captive. Foremost among the ruthless intruders comes one whose -treacherously smiling face tells of guilt, and ill-concealed shame, and -remorse. He treads through the else silent garden, where the night -blooming flowers are just opening, shedding their rich perfumes abroad; -but Judas heeds not the beauty and tranquillity of that -place—carelessly his feet trample upon the fair blossoms unfolding, -which though crushed still rise again as the weight is removed, and -their perfumes ascend to heaven on the evening air, a living witness -against him. - -The multitude come armed as if to the fray—swords and staves are in -their hands, curses and execrations escape their lips, and thoughts of -fiery vengeance and hatred fill their minds. He whom they seek stands -awaiting them. He makes no effort to escape, though had He willed it, -His Father had instantly sent legions of angels to deliver him. No—his -hour was come! the hour for which He left the brightness of the heavenly -kingdom—the hour for which he had put on mortality had arrived—he -would not delay it. - -The torches which the arch-traitor and his companions bore fell on the -little group of men they sought—the defiant Apostles, and the calm and -unmoved son of Mary. The multitude faltered in their purpose as they -looked upon these men—the bold, brave-hearted Peter, the loving John, -the humble, faithful, affectionate James, and the man Christ Jesus whom -they came to make captive. Sorrow, such as never beamed from the eyes of -a mortal being, and the consciousness of a power that was able to -scatter at once, as chaff, those who had come out to make Him captive, -spoke from His countenance distinctly and audibly to their sin-hardened -minds. - -But Judas—Judas hesitated not. When he saw the Man he was to betray -standing before him, making no effort to escape, he dropped the torch -which had lighted him on his awful mission, and flinging his arms around -the Divinity, _he kissed Him_! and as he embraced with the lips the God -he had offered to betray, Judas cried aloud in a tone of affectionate -and joyful recognition, “Master! Master!” - -Aside from the horrible, daring guilt of Judas, there is something -humiliating and revolting in the thought of the traitor’s assuming -friendliness, and love even, as the guise under which to make successful -his nefarious scheme. A kiss, the most fond, familiar greeting; by that -Christ was made known to those who came to take Him by violence, as -though He were a thief, or a common offender, or breaker of the laws of -the land! - -Of the remainder of that night the Scriptures tell us naught of the -betrayer. We do not hear of his appearing before Caiaphas as a witness -against his Lord—all his part in that most awful transaction seems to -have been fulfilled—the accusation and condemnation were for others to -make. It is no pleasant task to picture to the fancy the manner in which -the remaining hours of Judas’ life must have passed. The torturing of -conscience—the deadly fear—the sting and constant consciousness of -guilt which _must_ have tormented him, is what the mind shrinks from -contemplating, but to which it returns, as if of necessity, again and -again. - -The deed was accomplished, there remained nothing further for him to do, -and so he went out from the sacred garden by himself, that he might be -alone, and count over in security and feast his eyes on the fruits of -his guilt. Ah, that shining treasure! those thirty pieces of silver! At -the moment when for the first time a full conviction of the iniquity of -his deed swept over his thought, and could be kept back no longer by his -will, then it was, if ever, that he _needed_ to strengthen his covetous -heart; and how better could he accomplish that than by keeping in -constant sight the much loved riches he had gained? - -But while he counted over the glittering heap, how very strange! he did -not rejoice in it as he had thought to! Possession had robbed -anticipation of all allurements and pleasure, and while alone, watched -only by the eye of his God he counted over the riches, constantly -haunted him those words Jesus spoke on the night of the feast of the -Passover, “it were better for that man had he never been born!” Judas -already was accursed—already was given over to the power of the -tormentors; already his terrified mind was conjuring up the death and -sufferings of the Saviour he had betrayed, and that coveted, cherished -silver was as a stone hanging about his neck, dragging him down, down to -the depths of the sea of perdition! - -When the first rays of daylight streamed over Jerusalem, might have been -seen, I fancy, the form of Judas Iscariot wandering through the city, -seeking to escape from his condemning thoughts; oh, the accusations, so -fraught with everlasting wo, his heart must have whispered to him, when -the sunlight fell upon him and the fresh breeze of morning fanned his -brow! - -Before the palace where the judges still slept, the wretched man paced -to and fro, bearing with him the thrice accursed silver which burned his -bosom—burned his soul. As yet there were few signs of life in the -silent streets. Only the humblest laborers had come forth to begin with -the earliest light their day of toil. Judas gazed on them as they went -calmly and cheerfully about their accustomed tasks, oh, how wistfully! -Could _he_ only once more know that lightness of heart which innocence -alone confers! Could _he_ but look on the glad light of the sun, and see -there no accusing form which now incessantly uprose before his -imagination! Could he but listen to the voice of Nature, without feeling -that for him she sung only a far-resounding chorus of condemnation! -Could he only go forth to his peaceful labor, and forget that fearful -looking for of judgment which now alone awaited him! - -As by degrees the streets filled with men, and women, and little -children, how suspiciously and consciously his eyes glanced at all who -passed by him, the greetings of the companions of former days were -unreturned, or misunderstood, for Judas wondered how that _any_ should -speak to _him_! And when the Pharisee went by, folding his robes closely -about him, lest they might come in contact with the garments of the poor -publican, when with a supercilious look which said so plainly, “Stand -back, for I am holier than thou!” he felt the justice of the unspoken -rebuke though it did come from sinful humanity. And when troops of gay -and innocent children passed on, their voices of mirth and gladness -filling the air which was ere long to echo with the dying Saviour’s cry -and the mocking shouts of unbelieving Jews, he crept more closely to the -wall, fearing lest his sin penetrated garments might by a touch convey -contamination! - -At last the palace-gates were opened, and breathlessly Judas rushed -within, and entered unbidden, unannounced and alone the presence chamber -of Caiaphas, where he had stood so recently to bargain for the blood of -Jesus Christ! - -Already the chief priest, and the scribes and rulers had gathered -together to confer respecting the fate of their prisoner. How astonished -must they have looked upon the haggard, guilt-stricken man who came so -suddenly before them! No wonder if they started in fear as they saw the -despairing look of his blood-shot eyes, for the glare of a maniac was in -them. With outspread hands he held the dear-bought money toward them, -while the wailing of a spirit doomed forever to despair broke forth in -the words, “I have sinned! I have betrayed the innocent blood!” - -In fearful mockery and derision came back the answer, “_What is that to -us! See thou to that!_” - -Vainly did he look for sympathy there! Hardened, selfish, sinful, they -could not even feel for him who had been all too late aroused by the -tortures of remorse to a sense of his most awful guilt. It was a vain -thing to appeal to them to receive again the silver and let the precious -prisoner go free! - -Oh, what marvel that the wretched man should have shrunk from an -existence which he was well assured would never be blessed by one hour -free from the maddening tortures of his conscience? What wonder that he -hastened from the presence of the fiendish Caiaphas to die before the -sentence of condemnation had been passed on the Master whom his -treachery had given to the cross? What wonder, reader, that the wretched -man perished by his own hands? and can the wildest hoper believe that -his was not an eternal death? - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BRIDE OF BROEK-IN-WATERLAND. - - - A DUTCH ROMANCE. - - - BY CHARLES P. SHIRAS. - - - One night, when skies were bright and calm, - I left my home in Amsterdam; - I cast my schuyt from moorings loose - And steered across to Wilhelm Sluis: - Upon the North Canal I sailed; - The wind was fair and never failed. - Quoth I: “My prow shall kiss no sand - Till I reach Broek-in-Waterland.” - - Before an hour I saw the town, - And soon the tapering mast was down; - But ere I left my graceful schuyt - I heard the music of a flute; - And songs of love and shouts of joy - Upon the wind came floating by. - Quoth I: “They seem a happy band - That dwell in Broek-in-Waterland.” - - I walked upon a winding street - That seemed too clean for mortal feet, - Ere long a stranger met my gaze— - What joy!—one loved in boyish days! - Quoth he: “We revel here to-night, - That all may share in my delight, - For soon I’ll claim the fairest hand - In happy Broek-in-Waterland.” - - As thus he spoke, we walked along, - And soon were mingled in the throng; - He vowed, in all a lover’s pride, - That I should see his chosen bride, - And soon he cried: “Behold her now, - Yon maiden of the peerless brow. - The richest, claims the fairest hand - In happy Broek-in-Waterland!” - - I looked, and swift as lightning dart - A hopeless anguish seized my heart! - It once had been my lot to save - A maiden from the Zuyder’s wave; - I bore her to her friends on shore, - And never thought to see her more; - Nor did I, till I saw her stand - Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland! - - But why such grief? for what to me - This maiden saved from Zuyder Zee? - She knew me not before that day, - Scarce saw me ere I turned away. - I heard her voice, I saw her face, - Yet asked nor name nor dwelling place. - Then why this grief to see her stand - Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland? - - Love’s deeds are wild—his power divine! - The maiden’s eye had glanced to mine! - I heard her speak of thanks to me, - My heart was moved and yet was free; - But parting told, and told too late, - That love had mingled with my fate; - And now another claimed her hand - And heart, in Broek-in-Waterland! - - Grown sick at heart, I turned to go, - Lest men might see and mock my wo; - But one cried out: “Oh stir not forth, - A storm has risen in the north!” - I looked, the sky, of late so blue, - Was hung in clouds of darkest hue; - An ocean-storm had reached our strand, - And burst on Broek-in-Waterland! - - I turned, and heard the maidens shout: - “What reck we for the storm without, - For joy is mistress here within— - Again! again! the dance begin!” - The waltzers float around the floor— - But stay! what means that dreadful roar, - Those shouts of grief or stern command, - In peaceful Broek-in-Waterland? - - Alas! the troth too soon was known, - The northern dykes were overthrown; - And far and wide the vengeful waves - Their victims swept to markless graves! - How changed this scene of wild delight! - Some shrieking fled, some swooned in fright; - The bravest hearts were now unmanned - In hapless Broek-in-Waterland! - - The bride, who had betrayed no joy, - Yet seemed in truth more sad than coy, - Looked quickly round, with dauntless brow, - And cried: “Come death or freedom now!” - Strange words were these! but marked by none, - For even the lover now had flown, - And I, alone, for her had planned - Escape from Broek-in-Waterland. - - Thus far, it seemed she knew me not; - I turned to draw her from the spot; - But long before I reached her side, - She saw—she knew me! and she cried: - “The guardian of my life restored! - My own, though seeming lost! adored! - With thee I dare all storms withstand, - Come! fly from Broek-in-Waterland!” - - Around my neck her arms were prest, - She laid her cheek upon my breast, - Then, yielding, swooned, as if no harm - Could pass the shelter of my arm! - An age of thought swept through my brain, - And joy that rose to fearful pain: - “All mad!” I shrieked, “some demon’s wand - Is held o’er Broek-in-Waterland!” - - ’Twas but a moment! then I knew - A chance with every moment flew; - For as I bear her through the street - The waves come dashing round my feet. - My schuyt floats on the deepening tide; - By struggling long I reach her side. - With oar and sail at my command, - We’re saved from Broek-in-Waterland! - - An hour has past—in Wester Dock - The maid recovers from the shock; - But, danger past, deep blushes rise, - Hot tears of shame start from her eyes; - She feels that fear hath made her bold, - That all her secret love is told - For one who, calmly, saw her stand - Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland! - - But love hath power, and bears the will - To clear all doubts with matchless skill! - Before the weeping maid I kneel, - My own long cherished love reveal; - Believing all, she checks her sighs, - And, smiling, gently lifts her eyes, - To tell me why I saw her stand - Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland. - - “With strangers I have dwelt,” she said, - “For I’m a lonely orphan maid. - They loved me not, and would have sold - My hand to one who offered gold. - I scorned him, for I knew his soul - Was lost to virtue’s safe control. - He was a stranger—born in Gand— - No son of Broek-in-Waterland!” - - “Yet hold! he was my friend,” said I; - “I loved him well in days gone by.” - She answered: “But your friend in youth, - In manhood left the paths of truth. - For wealth, how steeped his soul in sin! - How basely sought my hand to win! - And vainly hoped to see me stand - His bride in Broek-in-Waterland!” - - “Why _vainly_ hoped?” I quickly cried. - “I scorned their power,” the maid replied— - “I loved”—she paused—I knew the rest, - And clasped her closely to my breast. - I felt that she was truly mine, - By honor’s law, by law divine, - That none with shame our flight could brand, - From hapless Broek-in-Waterland. - - We never thought of storm or calm, - But held our course to Rotterdam. - The gale had fallen to a breeze, - And sails were spread to greet the seas. - We bade our native land adieu, - And o’er the waste of waters flew; - And soon we touched a foreign strand - Far, far from Broek-in-Waterland! - - And there, in lawful marriage rite, - We claimed the triumph of our flight; - But many a year had passed before - We touched again our native shore. - No traces of the storm were seen, - The meadows waved in brightest green! - We wept with joy once more to stand - In happy Broek-in-Waterland! - - * * * * * - - - - - MINNIE CLIFTON. - - - A HEART-HISTORY. - - - BY EMMA C. EMBURY. - - - “I wish that those whose vocation it is to tell stories would - deal less in the details of human events, and give us a glimpse, - sometimes, of the hidden springs which move the human machine, - and influence its volition.” - -In these stirring times of revolution and anarchy, of experiment and -discovery, of mighty changes and astounding vicissitudes, it would seem -as if a story so simple and uneventful as that I am about to relate, -ought to be prefaced by an apology for its very simplicity. But let the -world wag as it may there will ever be a few dwellers by the woodland -brook, a few sojourners at the cottage door, a few wayfarers along the -by-paths and green lanes of quiet life who will like to listen to the -“still small voice,” that counts the throbbings of a single human heart -amid all this sounding tramp of nations. The tale of wild adventure and -startling incident charms us by its very wildness and improbability—the -story of life’s many-colored changes draws us from our own commonplace -cares—the glowing record of passionate love comes to us like a -realization of our own early ideal, and for all these narratives there -are many readers. But who will ponder over the quiet domestic details of -a life which wasted slowly away, unmarked even by the ordinary events -which checker woman’s tranquil existence, and colored with so sober a -gray that even the rose-tint of love’s romance scarce brightened its -dull hue? Who will read such a record save those whose own life presents -to their remembrance the same sober volume of tear-blurred pages? Earth -holds too many such, but the world knows not of them. Life has been to -them a monotonous round of anxiety and care—a November day of clouds -unbroken by a single sunbeam, and thus youth passes away, and hope dies -out, and in time they forget their own identity, living on to old age -with their souls dead within them and their hearts dry as dust. “The -heart may break yet brokenly live on,” but even this is happiness -compared to the slow, _chronic_ heart-withering, which in its dull but -certain progress, leaves no remembrance of any healthier or more vivid -existence in the past. - -The father of Minnie Clifton was one of those gifted and graceful (too -often also GRACELESS) persons on whom society generally bestows the -mysteriously comprehensive epithet of “_fascinating_.” He was -exceedingly handsome, possessed many of those superficial -accomplishments which the indiscriminating and good-natured world -regards as the blossomings of genius, and was master of the most perfect -tact in the display of his various gifts. It is in no wise extraordinary -therefore that the elegant Charles Clifton should have been one of the -most consummate “_lady-killers_” of his time, and that the innumerable -hearts he was said to have broken, or at least cracked, during his -fashionable career should have won for him, among graver people, the -despicable title of a “_male flirt_.” At the age of forty-five, when his -credit with his tailor was utterly exhausted, and when his too faithful -mirror convinced him that— - - “Years may fly with the _wings_ of the _hawk_; but, alas! - They are marked by the _feet_ of the _crow_,” - -he condescended to bestow himself upon a young and pretty heiress, who -eloped with him from boarding-school. Fortunately for him, his wife -proved to be one of those tender, devoted, womanly creatures, who never -call in the aid of the head to destroy the illusions of the heart. Her -love for her husband long outlived the qualities, real or imaginary, -which had first called it into being, and in the dull selfish egotist of -the fireside she could still see the brilliant and attractive man of -fashion who had won her gratitude by deigning to accept her fortune and -affection. When a woman is won unsought, in other words, when she loves -_first_, she is always doubly enslaved by her affections, and this was -decidedly the case with Mrs. Clifton. She fancied she could never do -enough for her selfish husband, and he soon showed himself the despot -when he found himself possessed of a slave. As he grew older he became a -martyr to gout, and in the slovenly, plethoric, testy-looking, elderly -man, who swore at his pale wife fifty times a day, and kept his only -child in bodily fear by his fierce threats—none of his former friends -would have recognized the “_model man of fashion_.” - -In the atmosphere of such a home, Minnie imbibed her first ideas of -womanly duties and womanly rewards. She idolized her gentle mother, and -that mother’s idea of home duties and virtues was condensed into one -single article of faith—perfect submission to the will of a husband and -father. Mrs. Clifton’s mind was too feeble, her experience too limited, -and her affection to her husband too extravagant to allow her to -entertain the slightest doubt of his wisdom or his virtue. She honestly -believed woman to be the inferior creation, and her ideal of a wife was -the patient Grizzel of the old Fabliaux—a creature whose will, whose -wishes, whose very sense of duty was to be placed at a husband’s mercy. -That men might be found whose noble, generous, self-forgetting affection -would place woman like a queen upon the throne of their hearts, asking -nothing in return but the enlightened and true devotion of a loving -nature, was an idea that never had been presented to her imagination. -She fancied that hers was but a common lot, and therefore she early -trained Minnie to the servitude which she supposed would accomplish her -destiny. - -Minnie inherited none of the rare beauty which had been her father’s -greatest charm. She had the soft dove-like eyes, the pale clear -complexion, and the peculiar delicacy, almost fragility of frame which -she derived from her mother. These personal traits, combined with her -timid, gentle manner, her perfect good temper, and quiet undemonstrative -tenderness of nature, made her seem merely one of those commonplace -children whom old ladies are apt to praise as good quiet little girls. -Yet Minnie had a fund of practical good sense, together with a certain -playfulness of fancy, and a quick perception of the beautiful as well as -the good in life, which if properly trained and cultivated might have -made her a very superior woman. But in her early home patience, good -temper, and industry were the only qualities called into exercise, and -neither her father nor her mother knew or cared for any thing beyond the -useful attributes in her character. As she emerged from infancy, she -gradually became the little domestic drudge, for the rapid waste of her -mother’s fortune soon reduced them to the narrowest mode of life, and -when her father came home from the club, where he could still keep up -appearances, to the small, ill-furnished house where his extravagance -had imprisoned his wife, it was Minnie who waited on his caprices and -ran at his call like a servant. As he became diseased and still more -reduced, matters grew worse, and poor Minnie’s home became the scene of -discord and discomfort, as well as the abode of positive want. Mr. -Clifton grew into a sick savage, Mrs. Clifton sunk into querulous -discontent, and Minnie was little more than the recipient of the -ill-humor of both. - -Yet Minnie loved her parents dearly, and not a murmur ever escaped her -lips, however unreasonable might be the demands upon her childish -patience or her limited time. But she was destined to a heavier thraldom -than that which nature had imposed. One of those local epidemics which -sometimes devastate a neighborhood broke out near them, and both her -parents fell victims to it while she lay in a state between life and -death. When she recovered her consciousness she learned that her father -and mother had been buried a week before, and she was now a poor -friendless orphan. The tidings, uncautiously communicated, caused a -relapse which brought her a second time to the brink of the grave. But -the principle of life is wonderfully strong in youth, and after many -weeks of suffering Minnie was restored to health. During her -convalescence she gradually learned all the circumstances of her -bereavement from a kind and careful nurse, in whose neat and pleasant -apartment she found herself domiciled. - -“But how came I here?” asked the bewildered child, as she looked out -upon the green fields that surrounded her present abode. - -“Let me answer you, my little cousin,” said a strange but pleasant -voice, as a tall young stripling entered the room. - -The explanation was soon given. There was a certain Mrs. Woodley, the -maternal aunt of Mrs. Clifton, who, offended at her imprudent marriage, -had refused to hold any intercourse with her. This lady had a son -pursuing his studies in the metropolis, who had accidentally heard -Minnie’s story told by a benevolent physician. To Hubert Woodley such a -story would have been felt as a call upon his sympathies under any -circumstances, but when he found upon inquiry that the child was his own -blood relation, he acted promptly and decidedly. Minnie was removed to -healthy country lodgings, and when all danger was over he wrote to his -mother requesting her to give Minnie a home with her for the future. To -his doting parents Hubert’s will was law, and he was fully authorized to -bring his little cousin home as soon as her health would bear the -journey. - -How many people there are in the world who perform all the duties of -life, and apparently enjoy a fair proportion of its pleasures, yet are -as utterly deficient in all that goes to constitute a warm, generous, -sympathizing heart, as if they had been mere animals! They are like -machines, moving with clock-like regularity in their own narrow circle, -doing exactly what their “hands find to do,” but never seeming to -suspect that the head might suggest, or the heart might impel to higher -duties or broader responsibilities. Such were the new friends who now -came forward to claim the friendless orphan. - -Mr. and Mrs. Woodley were dull, plodding, commonplace people, who had -begun life in a very small way, and by close attention to the “day of -small things,” had grown moderately rich, exceedingly selfish, and -tolerably fat. Mr. Woodley had made his fortune by such minute -accumulations that he might perhaps be pardoned for literally believing -that - - “Trifles make the sum of human things.” - -And to those who hold the belief in “predestinate missions,” Mrs. -Woodley’s taste for watching over the trivialities of existence proved -that she was born “to look after candle-ends and cheese-parings.” As -soon as they had collected what they considered a competent fortune they -had retired to a country town, where the attractions of a new -brick-house, planted in the midst of a broad and treeless meadow, proved -irresistible to the utilitarian tastes of both, especially as it could -be purchased at a low price. In this new home the good couple had ample -opportunity to gratify their peculiar tastes. Mr. Woodley raised his own -vegetables, and occasionally was not above selling any surplus produce -of his land to a neighbor, while his wife succeeded in making her house -the very pattern of cold formal neatness, merely at the expense of -hospitality, good-humor, cheerfulness, and everything like rational or -intellectual occupation. She scrubbed, and scoured, and scolded, until -she drove her single servant to desperation, when a new one was found to -go through the same ordeal for awhile. She saw no company, because it -was expensive and troublesome—she went no where because she was too -busy at home—she enjoyed nothing, not even her own neatness, because -there was always some mote in the sunbeam, or some grain of dust in the -air which either had, or would, or might fall somewhere in the midst of -her cleanliness. - -One only feeling seemed to have lived and thrived in the stiff hard soil -of these people’s hearts, and this was their love for their only son. It -is true it had required the death of eight other children to concentrate -and condense parental affection into any thing like a sentiment upon the -remaining one, but all there was of love in their natures was -unreservedly bestowed upon Hubert. - -To such parents and in such a home Hubert might well seem like a human -sunbeam. He was one of those light-hearted, merry-tempered, affectionate -boys, who are always such loveable creatures in early youth, and whose -characters are in after life entirely formed by the mould and pressure -of circumstances. The only strong quality in his whole nature was -ambition, but this ambition was without fixed aim or purpose. To go -beyond his companions in whatever they chose to undertake was his usual -object, but he never struck out a path for himself. His earliest friends -had become students, and therefore Hubert was a student with them; his -versatility and quickness of mind enabling him to keep pace with -plodding industry, and sometimes even to emulate genius. He was tall, -well-made, and handsome, but a physiognomist might have detected -infirmity of purpose in his flexible, loosely-cut lips, and phrenology -would have turned in despair from a head which exhibited such a -deplorable want of balance. But at eighteen Hubert was handsome enough -to satisfy a mother’s pride, and warm-hearted enough to be agreeable to -every one. - -Hubert’s kind feelings had been especially called forth by the desolate -child whom he had rescued from distress, perhaps from death. He looked -upon her as his especial charge, and the gratified self-love which is -apt to mingle with all our better feelings, made him cherish her with -unusual tenderness. But Minnie had been so unused to kindness that she -shrunk almost in dismay from her cousin’s boyish gayety and boisterous -attentions. Disappointed by her cold quiet manner and unconquerable -sadness, Hubert soon ceased all attempt to call her out from her shy -reserve, and as he soon returned to the city to resume his studies, -Minnie was left to learn the routine of daily duties by which she was -expected to repay her debt of gratitude to Mrs. Woodley. - -Minnie was twelve years old when she entered the dull and quiet home in -which she was thereafter to dwell, apart from all companionship with -youth, and chained by the strong fetter of gratitude to the most -exacting of domestic despots. Timid, submissive in temper, and meek, -both from natural temperament and from early experience of suffering, -she was precisely the docile, uncomplaining, unresisting slave that -realized Mrs. Woodley’s ideal of a poor relation. Of course she was -thoroughly and severely drilled into an intimate knowledge of all the -important minor duties of life. Her early taste for books was diligently -repressed, her delicate perceptions of every thing good and beautiful -were sadly confounded by Mrs. Woodley’s practical views of life, and -from a child of great intellectual promise, she was gradually -transformed into a faithful, unwearied, and industrious upper servant, -in a household where eating and drinking and house-cleaning were such -important objects of existence, that the whole soul must be devoted to -them. - -And thus passed on the sunny years of childhood and the beautiful days -of early girlhood, while not one ray of the sunshine, nor one gleam of -the beauty ever blessed the eyes and heart of poor Minnie. A dull calm -stole over all her faculties, and in time she might have become the mere -machine which her benefactress could best appreciate, had it not been -for the occasional visits which Hubert Woodley paid to his quiet home. -Hubert was one of those restless versatile beings who in early life -often exhibit something so resembling genius that they are allowed to -indulge a sort of dreamy indolence, which their friends mistake for the -waywardness of superior powers. He was something of an artist, a little -of a poet, an easy conversationist, and, as he had really studied much, -was certainly superior to most youths of his age. But whether he would -concentrate himself upon any one pursuit, or whether he would remain an -idle dreamer, or whether, as his father secretly hoped, he would finally -centre his ambition upon the rewards of wealth and become a man of -business, was yet doubtful. He deferred a decision as long as possible, -and it was rather to put off the necessity of choosing a course of life -than from any other motive, that he determined to make the tour of -Europe. - -For more than four years Hubert wandered about the world with a vague -purpose and aimless projects, happy only in escaping from the dull -monotony of home, until a long-continued illness, contracted by -imprudent exposure in the Campagna de Roma, at length sent him to -England in the hope of benefiting by the skill of a celebrated physician -there. During his stay in that land of wealth and comfort, Hubert found -himself surrounded by new and powerful influences. He had learned that -he was not born to “build the lofty rhyme,” and as he walked through the -rich galleries of art in Italy, he had discovered that he was not a -painter. What then was his destiny? He still had his old restlessness of -ambition, and felt that he must be something in order to satisfy his own -cravings. As he stood on the quay at Liverpool, and looked abroad upon -the winged ships and crowded storehouses, the mystery of his being was -suddenly solved. Commerce was the most liberal of deities to her true -votaries, and riches would command rank and control talent. The same -sudden impulse which had formerly made him fancy he would be an artist, -now decided him to become a merchant and a man of fortune. He determined -to return to his native land and devote himself to business. His next -letter to his father made known his present views, and while his father -gladly made all necessary arrangements for his new pursuit, Hubert -hastened his preparations for revisiting his long deserted home. - -It is an old proverb that “opportunity makes thieves,” and I once heard -an old maid say that “opportunity makes wives;” one thing is most -certain—that _propinquity often makes lovers_. When Hubert returned he -found Minnie wonderfully developed in her personal appearance. She was -now nineteen, with a graceful figure, a face combining delicacy of -feature with great sweetness of expression, and manners of the most -winning softness. Yet she was not one calculated to excite admiration, -still less was she a person to be fallen in love with suddenly, but -there never was a creature so eminently fitted to glide quietly into -one’s heart of hearts as gentle Minnie Clifton. Hubert had seen much of -women while abroad, but a creature so like “the angel of one’s home,” -had never before crossed his path. Had he met her in society she would -have been like a lovely picture placed in a wrong light, but in the -narrow circle of home every trait in her exquisitely feminine character -was unconsciously displayed to the best advantage. - -Mrs. Woodley, like all selfishly affectionate mothers, had long dreaded -the time when her influence over Hubert would be superseded by that of a -wife. Unwilling to have him leave her for another home, she was quite as -unwilling to resign her authority, and sink into merely the dowager -dignity of “old Mrs. Woodley,” yet her good sense told that she could -scarcely hope to retain the sceptre of power for many years longer. -Nothing could have happened so effectually to disappoint her fears and -brighten her hopes, as this dawning affection of Hubert for his “little -cousin,” as he still called her. With a daughter-in-law so thoroughly -trained to submission, so docile, so perfectly good-tempered, so exactly -moulded after Mrs. Woodley’s own model, she could have nothing to fear -either for herself or for Hubert. As for Mr. Woodley he had become -really attached to the quiet girl who aired his shirts, mended his -stockings, brought him his slippers, and always made his second cup of -tea quite as good as the first. He wanted Hubert to marry and settle -down to business, but he hated change of all sorts, and if Minnie became -Hubert’s wife the whole affair could be settled without either expense -or trouble; therefore, after talking the matter over with his good lady, -it was decided that nothing could have turned out better for all -parties. - -Minnie was the only one who was ignorant of these new plans and -projects. From the time when Hubert had entered her sick-room, and -uttered his kindly greeting at the moment when she felt herself the most -desolate of human beings, she had regarded him as something more than -mere mortal. But when he returned from Europe, so much improved in -person, so polished by society, and with a mind enlarged by travel, she -looked upon him almost with awe as well as admiration. Unaccustomed as -she was to kindness or appreciation, it is not strange that she should -have been entirely unaware of Hubert’s growing attachment to her. She -felt that the atmosphere of her home had become a more congenial -one—she was conscious that every thing had grown brighter even to her -sad and serious eyes, since he had taken up his abode among them, but -she did not dream of the individual influences which were about to waken -her to a new perception of life and its enjoyments. - -But the chief defect in Hubert’s early character was indecision. He -loved his cousin Minnie, but, somehow or other, he hated to put it out -of his power to change if he pleased. He wanted to be unshackled by any -bond except his own inclinations, and feeling very sure that no rivals -could ever interfere with his plans, he made no open avowal of his love -for the present. He devoted himself to business with an ardor that -showed he had at last found his true bent, and that money was actually -the true aim of his ambition. He lived a lonely retired sort of life, -being only one of the “singles” in a large private boarding-house, and -as he never gave suppers, or went to parties, not even the servants were -interested in him. Once a month the stage set him down within a quarter -of a mile of his father’s door, and then he found himself in the -enjoyment of all the attentions that could be lavished upon him for the -few days of his stay. To say that he beguiled the time during his visits -by making love to his cousin, would be hardly fair, but he certainly -said and did things which a woman of the world, without any great -stretch of vanity might have understood as love-making. - -Thus passed on month after month, and Minnie was unconsciously drinking -deep from that fountain of freshness which had so lately sprung up in -her lonely path, while Hubert lived in the full enjoyment of all that -sweet unconsciousness, which lent such a charm to her manners, such new -loveliness to her gentle face. It was not until more than two years had -passed that, in an unguarded moment, he was led into such a warm -expression of his feelings as to require some decided explanation. He -then spoke out plainly and manfully, avowed his love and asked Minnie to -become his wife. Terrified at the excess of her own emotions, shocked at -her own apparent ingratitude toward her benefactors in being thus made -happy by what she could not hope they would approve, Minnie could only -weep. But when Hubert assured her that his parents would willingly -receive her as a daughter, she gave her whole soul up to the enjoyment -of such unlooked for bliss. Yet, even in that moment of full -unrestrained affection, why did Hubert counsel silence for the present, -and secrecy until he should fix the moment for frank disclosure? - -Convinced that matters were going on as they wished, the old people -asked no questions. Perhaps Mrs. Woodley was not sorry to defer the -period which would elevate Minnie from the humble position of a poor -relation into the condition of an equal, so Hubert was allowed to manage -matters in his own way, and a stranger would have seen nothing in the -manner of the quiet family which portended any change among them. Indeed -to no one but Minnie herself had this new state of affairs made any -difference. To her, the sad and lonely and unloved orphan, the -consciousness of being at last beloved for her own sake, lent a charm to -every thing in life. But her heart had been too early crushed to regain -the elasticity and buoyancy which ought to have belonged to her youth. -She was happy, deeply, entirely happy, but no one could have suspected -the fervid thankfulness of her prayerful happiness, beneath the quiet -demeanor which had now become so habitual to her. It was when alone, in -the solitude of her own chamber, that she gave way to the emotions which -almost overpowered her. It was on her knees that she poured out the -fullness of her joy to Heaven—it was only for the eye of her Heavenly -Father to see the swelling surges of that sea of happy emotion, which -she was too timid, too self-distrustful to exhibit to her lover. - -Perhaps there are no people so completely enslaved by habit as those who -are only moved by impulse. Persons who have fixed principles of action -govern their lives by those principles, and habits are only the -secondary forms which those motives assume. But when a man is thoroughly -impulsive, and only to be stirred through some strong emotion, a large -part of his life must be controlled through the unconscious agency of -circumstance and habit, unless, indeed, he should be one of those human -volcanoes, occasionally to be met with, who are never in repose except -the moment after an explosion. Hubert Woodley was a perfect -exemplification of the apparently anomalous fact that a man may have -noble and generous impulses yet be involved in a net-work of selfish -habits. The selfishness which he had inherited from both parents was -overlaid by so much that seemed good and beautiful in his nature, that -its existence was utterly unsuspected by every one, and certainly -unknown to himself. Yet it was this very quality which had made him -ambitious at first of the renown of the scholar, and afterward of the -fame of the painter, and now actuated him to seek after great wealth. -Self was the soil in which every thing grew, even the herbs of grace, -which embellished and concealed the base source from whence they sprung. - -Hubert loved Minnie as well as he could love any one beside himself, but -he knew nothing of that affection which makes self a forgotten idea, and -concentrates the whole being upon another. His love had been a fancy -growing out of the novelty of finding so sweet a flower in such an -ungenial spot. Then the desire of approbation, which had always been a -latent propensity with him, stimulated him to make love to her. The -vague stirrings of passion, the necessity of some habitual stimulus to -make home endurable, and the cravings of an unoccupied heart made up the -rest of those mixed motives which led him first to stir the quiet depths -of Minnie’s half-frozen soul. He enjoyed the excitement of her feelings, -just as one might enjoy their first glass of champagne. His brain was -not in the least bewildered, but the effervescence gave him a new and -pleasurable sensation. He liked to hear the hurrying of her quiet -footsteps as she came forward to meet him at the door; he loved to see -the flitting blush come over her pale face when he took her hand in his; -and it was with a sort of epicurean pleasure he felt the trembling of -her shrinking frame as with an excess of maiden reserve she would glide -from his encircling arm in some moment of endearment. - -But never once did Hubert reflect on the rights which all these things -were gradually giving her over him. Never did he consider that those -quiet depths of affection which but for him would have been sealed -forever, were now destined to become a fountain of sweetness, or a pool -of bitter waters, according as he directed their flow. - -Months had now become years, and yet the relations between the cousins -remained unchanged. Living amid all the gentle ministry of affection, -Hubert scarcely felt the want of any thing beyond what he had already -won. Minnie was tender, gentle and affectionate, ever meeting him with a -smile of welcome, ever studying all his humors, never thwarting his -moods, never exacting any return except such as his own whim might -dictate; content if he was cold and absorbed, grateful and happy if he -was affectionate in his manner; and Hubert certainly enjoyed some of the -pleasantest privileges of married life, without any of its attendant -evils, and therefore he was content to go on year after year, heaping up -money, of which he had become exceedingly careful, and growing richer -every day, while his marriage seemed just as much hidden in the mists of -the distant future as it had been years before. - -But changes will occur in human life, not withstanding all our efforts -to prevent them. The Woodleys had a sort of morbid dread of a wedding, -but they did not seem to remember that there might be such a thing as a -funeral to alter the aspect of affairs, until one fine morning, just as -Mrs. Woodley had succeeded in turning the whole house out of the -windows, preparatory to what she called her “spring cleaning,” she was -struck with apoplexy, and died in a few hours. The shock was a terrible -one to the family, and in addition to the grief of such a loss, the -fearful quiet of the house, now that the voice of the restless mistress -was silenced forever, pressed with overpowering weight upon the spirits -of the survivors. But there was little of the sentiment of affection to -embalm the memory of the dead. Mrs. Woodley was buried, and under the -direction of Minnie the house cleaning was completed, after which -matters seemed to resume their old course. Mr. Woodley said something to -Hubert about “settling himself,” and giving the house a mistress, now -that his poor mother was gone. But Hubert looked down at his deep -mourning dress, and seemed shocked at his father’s irreverent haste in -suggesting such ideas, at such a moment. So nothing more was said on the -subject. - -In the meantime, what thought, and what felt, and what said Minnie? She -_said_ nothing—she _thought_ she was most unreasonable and ungrateful -not to be perfectly contented—she _felt_ as if the best years of her -life were gliding away, and bearing with them the youth, and freshness -and cheerfulness which were her chief claims upon Hubert’s affection. - -Ten years had passed away since the quiet, half-acknowledged engagement -which bound the cousins to each other, and opened for Minnie a vista of -happiness which seemed ever receding as life advanced. Ten years had -passed and Minnie was certainly changed. The unsatisfied yearnings of -affection, the wearing anxiety of hope deferred, the dull stagnation of -a life whose destiny seemed decided, yet never fulfilled, all aided the -work of time, and the thin, pale, careful-looking woman of -nine-and-twenty was only the shadow of the quiet, gentle, graceful -creature of nineteen. Busied in accumulating wealth, Hubert had scarcely -noticed these gradual changes, but when the shock of his mother’s death -awakened his faculties, and startled up his home feelings, _then_ he -beheld Minnie’s faded face in the mirror of his own altered heart. At -thirty-four he was as handsome as ever, notwithstanding the lines of -care which Mammon had stamped on his brow. He was rich, too—rich even -beyond his hopes; he felt full of the energy of animal life, for his -health was perfect, and he began to fancy that he had made a mistake in -confining himself to so monotonous a kind of existence. There was an -uncomfortable routing of conscience whenever he caught himself thinking -of Minnie’s faded looks, so, with his usual palliating policy, he -resolved to settle up his business, spend a winter in Washington, and -marry Minnie the following spring. - -His business was soon arranged, he retained a special partnership in the -lucrative concern, leaving all responsibility in the hands of trusty -persons, and, without informing Minnie of his _final_ intentions, set -off on his winter’s pleasuring. It was just as well that he was silent -on the subject, for it would only have increased the turpitude of his -conduct. His good looks, pleasant manners, and great wealth, made him a -favorite in that emporium of speculation. His vanity, which had been -kept so long in abeyance by his love of money, was called forth by the -flatteries and attentions of society. He was surrounded by beautiful and -gifted women; he lived in a constant whirl of excitement, and the -remembrance of his home, haunted by the sad-eyed spectre of the woman he -had once loved, became utterly disgusting to him. - -The end of all this may easily be guessed. One night Hubert sat until -dawn, pondering over a letter which he wanted to write, which he felt he -must write, yet which he knew not how to shape into words without -branding himself as a villain. At last the letter was written and -dispatched; he had not quite satisfied himself, but it read thus: - -“I write to you, my dear cousin, because I want you to inform my father -of an event which may not be altogether pleasing to him, but which you -can soften away so as to quiet any irritation he may feel. You perhaps -know, Minnie, that he has always wished _you_ to become my wife, indeed -I partly made him a promise to that effect, ages ago, at the time when -you and I had some boy-and-girl love-passages—do you remember them, my -little cousin? or have you forgotten our moonlight rambles, and all our -juvenile love-making when I first returned from Europe. It seems to me -like a far-off dream, and yet it was only ten or twelve years ago. -Well—I was a romantic boy then, and you as romantic a little girl—my -father always liked you, and fearing I might be led into bondage by some -strange Delilah, he wanted to make a match between us. My mother, poor -soul, liked your housewifery, and so she joined in the plot. Had we been -married _then_, Minnie, we might have been a quiet, comfortable couple, -treading in the footsteps of my honored parents; I, daily growing pursy -and plethoric, you a matron, in all the dignity of lace-caps, growing -more learned every year in the management of children and the making up -of baby-linen. When I look back at the past, Minnie, I can almost find -it in my heart to wish it had been so. But perhaps it is best as it is. -If under the excitement of my boyish passion I ever said any thing to -you, Minnie, which could involve any bond between us, I pray you to -forgive me, and to attribute it entirely to my ignorance of my own -nature. We have lived on terms of the closest intimacy ever since I -found you, a little sick and suffering child, without a friend or -protector in the wide world. It has been a bond closer than that of -brother and sister, because it had much of the peculiar piquancy which -belongs only to that sweetest of all relationships, which early entitled -me to call you my little cousin. But I am dallying with old -recollections, when I should be telling you of coming events. I am going -to be married, Minnie; you will wonder when I tell you that my bride has -not yet counted her eighteenth summer. She is the prettiest little fairy -in the world, and as artless as a child, indeed she has not been _out_ -in society, so I have plucked the flower with the morning dew yet fresh -upon it. My father will object to her youth, and will conjure up the -image of my mother, armed with her bunch of keys, the insignia of her -old-fashioned housekeeping. But you must make my peace with him, Minnie. -My intention at present is to take furnished lodgings in New York, where -I can be near my business, which I mean to resume as soon as this affair -is settled. You will of course remain with my father and watch over his -declining years, unless you should marry, when I shall take care that a -suitable provision be made for you. And now, my dear cousin, having -wearied you, doubtless, as well as myself, with this long epistle, I bid -you adieu; trusting that my father may not be inexorable under your kind -ministry, I shall wait with some impatience for your reply.” - -Such was the heartless, yet craftily worded letter which was put into -Minnie’s hands, as she sat watching beside the sick-bed of poor Mr. -Woodley, who had been stricken with paralysis, and now lay between life -and death. It would require a colder heart and more graphic pen than -mine to describe her feelings. Fortunately for her Mr. Woodley was -utterly insensible, and there was no one to witness her emotion. When -the doctor came to visit the patient at evening, he looked amazed at the -change which he saw, not in the sick man, but in the gentle nurse. - -“You are ill, Miss Clifton, suffer me to send a nurse for Mr. Woodley, -and let me persuade you to go to bed.” - -“If I am not better tomorrow, doctor, I will accept your kind offer, but -I would rather watch him to-night!” - -The next morning the good doctor found Minnie looking as pallid as a -corpse, though she had now obtained more control over her nerves. She -refused to give up her charge, but she requested the doctor to write to -Mr. Hubert Woodley and inform him of the event which had befallen his -father. In the course of the following day came a Washington paper. With -trembling hands Minnie unfolded it and looked at the list of marriages. -She had conjectured truly; Hubert had been married the day after he -wrote the letter which had crushed that gentle and loving heart. - -The doctor’s letter did not reach Hubert until his return from his -bridal tour. Leaving his wife among her relatives to lament over the -interruption which this untoward event would necessarily make in her -wedding festivities, he hastened to his father’s bedside. But Mr. -Woodley had lost the use of every faculty. He did not know his son—he -could not lift his hand to welcome him—all that remained to him of life -was the merest animal existence; he could take food and sleep, but all -hope of restoration to reason and the use of his limbs was out of the -question. - -“He may linger thus for years,” said the doctor, in reply to Hubert’s -questioning. - -Hubert could ill bear to see his father’s distorted visage, but it was -worse, far worse, for him to look upon the ghastly pallor which had -settled on the face of Minnie. She scarcely raised her eyes to his face, -and the hand she extended toward his proffered grasp was cold and -nerveless. He could not stand it. In three days he was again in -Washington, and as his father was so accommodating as to live on, the -round of projected gayeties was not interrupted. Hubert daily received -tidings from the doctor respecting his father, until it was decided that -death was yet far distant, and this living death might be dragged out -through many months, when all present anxiety ceased. - -His first care was to secure a provision for Minnie, hoping in this way -to relieve his conscience of the terrible load which weighed upon it. -The house where she had so long resided with his parents was secured to -her for life, together with a small annuity, to commence at his father’s -death, _on condition that she remained with his father during the -remainder of his existence_. It was a cruel precaution, for Minnie would -never have dreamed of deserting her benefactor. To look upon the -ghastliness of death for the rest of her life—to humor the caprices and -minister to the diseased appetite of a gibbering and restless corpse -(for such seemed the stricken man) was the fulfillment of her destiny. - -For five years Minnie lived on in this dreary and solitary manner, the -helpless invalid and a single servant forming the whole household. But -it mattered little to her now. A dull torpor had gradually crept over -her feelings. She was like an automaton, moved by some other mechanism -than that of her own volition. Long ere Mr. Woodley dropped into the -grave, she had grown gray, and wrinkled, and bent, like one in extreme -old age. At length the end came. The last spark of life went out, and -Mr. Woodley was consigned to darkness and the worm. Again Hubert came to -look upon the wreck he had made. She made a feeble attempt to tell him -her future plans. She wished to enter a recently established charity for -“poor gentlewomen,” but the pride of the man of wealth revolted at such -a scheme. He refused to permit her to depend on any other than himself -for a support, and Minnie felt that the time was past when she could -have earned her own maintenance. The last remnant of her womanly pride -was crushed by the strong hand of him who had ruled her whole life with -a rod of iron. She lived a dependent on the bounty of Hubert Woodley, -dwelling in the house where he had wooed her in her days of girlish -loveliness, and fed by the dole with which he had silenced his remorse, -until she had counted her half century of sorrow; then, weary and worn -out in mind and body, she sunk into the grave, with none to mourn over -her, none to treasure any memorial of her existence. Hubert, of course, -took possession of her few effects. He found among her papers a lock of -sunny brown hair, which he well remembered to have given her, and the -cruel letter which had announced his marriage. There were no -love-gifts—he had been too cautious to commit himself by such trifles. -As he sat alone in that dreary old parlor, with its sombre paper, its -dark carpet, its high-backed perpendicular chairs, and that dreadfully -monotonous clock ticking as loudly as if it would fain awaken the -conscience of the solitary occupant of that melancholy apartment, he -felt a superstitious awe steal over him which he could not overcome. He -threw the letter and the lock of hair into the smouldering embers of the -wood fire upon the hearth, and as the flame leaped up to consume those -remnants of the past, the drooping figure of Minnie Clifton stood -between him and the sudden blaze. A wild cry broke from his lips, he -started from his seat, and at that moment a servant unclosed the door. -To the day of his death Hubert Woodley believed that by the mysterious -agency of fire, burning as it did into the very soul of that mystery -which involved the happiness of a human being, he had called up the -spectre of the wronged and joyless object of his early love—the victim -of his selfishness—whose whole life had been like a dull and dreary -dream. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONG. - - - BY THOMAS FITZGERALD, EDITOR CITY ITEM. - - - Ah! do not speak so coldly, - Cold words my heart will chill; - If I have loved too boldly, - Oh, let me worship still. - - The pure heart loves forever, - To its own likeness true, - And though fate bids us sever, - I’ll love, I’ll love but you! - - The heart will throb in sorrow - If from its idol torn, - Nor elsewhere joy will borrow - If love’s return be scorn. - - Then do not speak so coldly, - Cold words my heart will chill; - E’en if I’ve loved too boldly, - Oh, let me worship still. - - * * * * * - - - - - IBAD’S VISION. - - - BY RICHARD PENN SMITH. - - -Ibad the Dervise, instead of feeling proud in the right of the Source of -All Good, shrunk from his sight as if unworthy of the hand that had -fashioned him. He did not worship as the birds and children worship, -with songs and joy, but he built himself a cell, and there, in solitude, -worshiped his God, amidst groans and torture screaming—“Yahu, ya allah! -I am not a Naeshbendee, and live not among sinful men.” The birds and -the children in their simplicity thank the Prophet, and even while dying -sing their gratitude. Ibad worshiped in suffering, believing that -temporal torment, self-inflicted, would be acceptable in the sight of -him who gave all to render man happy. The children and the birds -understand God’s dispensations better than did Ibad the dervise. - -Ibad slept and had a vision. He beheld a broad and extended path over a -verdant meadow, where balmy breezes sported in the sunbeams. A stalwort -figure suddenly appeared, with head erect, front of pride, and with eyes -that quailed not while staring at the eye of day. Onward he strode, and -seemed to spurn even the path he trod, and as he gazed at the sun, his -shadow that dogged his heels was tenfold his colossal stature; yet the -shadow was willing to follow, without an attempt to lead the way. The -figure was Ambition; the shadow Dependence, hunting in his trail. - -Onward they strode. The pathway was strewed with flowers and tempting -fruit, when suddenly a fascinating figure stept beside Ambition—it was -Friendship, and Friendship cast his shadow also—a shadow as substantial -as the substance. - -The four marched proudly on, Ambition, Friendship and their shadows, and -as they traversed the level pathway they mutually laughed, -self-satisfied—Friendship smiled and simpered, while Ambition chuckled -in his sleeve. - -A change came over Ibad’s vision. The sun was overshadowed, murky clouds -hung over their path, and Ambition entered a wilderness where no light -glimmered to guide him; he knew that Death had spread a snare before -every footstep; but he knew not where the pitfall had been spread. - -Ambition, as he entered this dark passage, looked up to the heavens for -light, but the sun was sleeping; he turned to his gay companion -Friendship who had prattled over the flowery meadows in the sunshine, -but Friendship was not there; he looked behind him—all was darkness, -and even the sycophantic shadow that had crawled at his kibes had -deserted him. Ambition exclaimed in bitter irony—“Can I not, in the -dark day of my progress leave even a shadow behind me! Have both -Friendship and my shadow vanished together because a cloud is upon me! -Forward; emerge from the present gloom, and the sun will laugh in your -eye to-morrow, and then you will find Friendship with his cheerful face, -simpering beside you, and your shadow will assume ten fold its former -dimensions, will mimick more accurately every motion of your body, and -stick more closely to your heel while you walk in the sunshine.” - -The morning sun arose, and as Ambition emerged from his dark and thorny -pathway, his road became light, broad and fragrant. The fresh breeze was -as wine to his wearied spirit, and he winked and smiled at the sun in -the pride of his manhood. Friendship came up smiling beside him, and as -they again walked together, their tall dark shadows followed closely -upon their heels, fantastically mimicking their motions, as if even -their shadows were endeavoring to deceive each other. - -They now approached a precipice. Their path became narrow, and still -more narrow as they ascended, until finally Friendship jostled Ambition -in endeavoring to maintain his foothold, at the same time striving to -take the lead. Even their unsubstantial shadows jostled each other in -like manner. “The path hath become too narrow for us two,” cried -Ambition, as he coolly hurled Friendship headlong down the precipice, -without even casting a glance upon his destruction. - -He was now alone, without even the shadow of Friendship to sustain him; -still onward he strode up the dizzy height, while his own shadow, at -every step, diminished in its immense proportions. At length his course -was intercepted by a perpendicular barrier, upon which there was no safe -foothold. He looked behind him and discovered that his shadow had -departed; he looked down upon his feet to ascertain upon what safe -pedestal he stood, and lo! there was nothing more substantial than the -heels of his shadow to sustain him; its gigantic outline had dwindled to -a pigmy. He raised his proud head and exclaimed exultingly—“but one -daring leap is required to surmount this obstruction, and then all will -be sunshine!” He made the leap; he touched the rocking pinnacle where -all his hopes were perched; his shadow, true to him in sunshine -followed, but he found no foothold there, for in an instant he -overtoppled and fell on the other side, and he and his shadow -disappeared forever. - -“And is it so?” cried Ibad as he awoke. “Is the path of life too narrow -to admit of Friendship without being jostled, and too dangerous for -Ambition to tread in safety; and must that proud being disappear as a -meteor, without leaving behind even a shadow of his existence! Yahu, ya -allah! Praise to thee! I am no Naeshbendee, and live not among sinful -men!” - -Ibad retired to his solitary cell, where he feared not the selfish -duplicity of Friendship, and as his sole ambition was to worship the -Prophet, he apprehended no barrier in his pathway; and though he might -disappear from the eye of man as a shadow, he felt that the shadow he -had cast in this world would be gathered up, and become substance in the -sight of God through eternity in the next. - - * * * * * - - - - - A HARMLESS GLASS OF WINE. - - - BY KATE SUTHERLAND. - - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - -“Rose, dear,” said Mrs. Carleton to her daughter, whom she met at the -door of the dining-room, with a decanter of wine and glasses on a -waiter, “who is in the parlor?” - -“Mr. Newton,” replied the young girl. - -“The young man from New York?” - -“Yes.” - -“You are going to take him wine?” - -“Yes. It is only hospitable to offer him some refreshment.” - -Mrs. Carleton stood with her eyes resting on the floor for some moments, -in a thoughtful attitude. - -“I rather think, Rose,” said she, as she lifted her eyes to her -daughter’s face, “that it would be as well not to hand him wine.” - -“Why, mother?” inquired Rose, looking curious. - -“We know nothing of the young man’s previous life and habits.” - -“Why do you say that, mother?” asked Rose, who did not comprehend the -meaning of what had been uttered. - -“He may have been intemperate.” - -“Mother! How can you imagine such a thing?” - -“I know nothing of him whatever, my child,” replied Mrs. Carleton, “and -do not wish to wrong him by an unkind suspicion. My suggestion is -nothing more than the dictate of a humane prudence. I have recently had -my thoughts turned to the subject of intemperance, and, by many forcible -illustrations, have been led to see that the use of even wine, -unrestrictedly, is fraught with much danger. We never can know whose -perverted taste we may inflame, when we set even wine before guests of -whose history we know nothing. It is, therefore, wiser to refrain. But -you have left Mr. Newton alone, and must not linger here. Do not, -however, present him with wine. After he is gone we will talk on this -subject again; when I think you will be satisfied that my present advice -is good.” - -Rose left the wine on the sideboard, and went back to the parlor, -wondering at what she had heard. After the young man had gone away, she -joined her mother, when the latter said— - -“You seemed surprised at my remarks a little while ago; and I was, -perhaps, as much surprised when like suggestions were made to me. But -when, from indisputable evidence, we become aware that our actions may -wrong others, we are bound by every consideration to guard against such -injurious results. You know how painfully afflicted the family of Mr. -Delaney has been, in consequence of the intemperate habits of Morton?” - -“Yes. Poor Flora! the last time I was with her, he passed us in the -street so much intoxicated that he almost staggered. Her heart was so -full that she could not speak, and when I left her, a little while -afterward, her eyes were ready to gush over with tears.” - -“Unhappy young man! So young, and yet so abandoned.” - -“Until I met him, as just said, I thought he had reformed his bad habit -of drinking,” said Rose. - -“It was in order to refer to this fact that I mentioned his name just -now,” returned her mother. “He did attempt to do better, and for some -months kept fast hold of his good resolutions. But, in an evil hour, he -fell, and his temptress was a young girl of your own age, Rose. A few -weeks ago he went to New York on business. While there, he visited the -house of a relative, where wine was presented to him by a beautiful -cousin, and he had not the resolution to refuse the sparkling draught. -He tasted, and—you have seen the result.” - -“Oh, mother!” exclaimed Rose, “I would not have that cousin’s feelings -for the world!” - -“She acted as innocently as you would have done just now, my daughter.” - -“Was she not aware of his weakness?” - -“No. Nor had she ever been told that for one whose taste is vitiated, it -is dangerous, in the highest degree, to take even a glass of wine.” - -“I am so glad that I did not offer wine to Mr. Newton!” said Rose, -drawing a long breath. - -“Mr. Newton,” returned the mother, “may never have used intoxicating -drinks to excess. He may not be in danger from a glass of wine.” - -“But I know nothing of his previous life.” - -“And, therefore, it is wisest to take counsel of prudence. This is just -what I want you to see for yourself. To such an extent has intemperance -prevailed in this country, that the whole community, to a certain -extent, have perverted appetites, which are excited so inordinately by -any kind of stimulating drink as to destroy, in too many instances, all -self-control. Another case, even more painful to contemplate than that -of Morton Delaney, occurred in this city last week. I heard of it a day -or two since. A beautiful young girl was addressed by a gentleman who -had recently removed here from the South; and her friends seeing nothing -about him to warrant disapprobation, made no objection to his suit. An -engagement soon followed, and the wedding was celebrated a few days ago. -The father of the bride gave a brilliant entertainment to a large and -elegant company. The choicest wines were used more freely than water, -and the young husband drank with the rest. Alas! before the evening -closed he was so much intoxicated that he had to be separated from the -company; and, what is worse, he has not been sober for an hour since.” - -“Oh, what a sad, sad thing!” exclaimed Rose. - -“It is sad, sad indeed! What an awakening from a dream of exquisite -happiness was that of the beautiful bride! It now appears that the young -man had fallen into habits of dissipation, and afterward reformed. On -his wedding night he could not refuse a glass of wine. A single draught -sufficed to rekindle the old fire, that was smouldering, not -extinguished. He fell, and, so far, has not risen from his fall, and may -never rise.” - -“You frighten me!” said Rose, while a shudder went through her frame. “I -never dreamed of such danger in a glass of wine. Pure wine I have always -looked upon as a good thing. I did not think that it would lead any one -into danger.” - -[Illustration: W. P. Frith W. H. Egleton - -ROSE CARLTON. -Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine] - -“Even the best of things, my child, may be turned to an evil purpose. -The heat and light of the sun is received by one plant and changed into -a poison, while another converts it into healthy and nourishing food. -Pure wine will not excite a healthy appetite, although it may madden one -that has become morbid through intemperance. Here is the distinction -that ought to be made.” - -“Is it not dangerous, then, to serve wine in promiscuous companies?” - -“Undoubtedly. I did not think so a little while ago, because the subject -was not presented to my mind in the light that it now is. To this custom -I can well believe that hundreds who had begun the work of restricting -their craving appetites owe their downfall. Where all are partaking, the -temptation to join in is almost irresistible; especially, as a refusal -might create a suspicion against the individual that he was afraid to -trust himself.” - -“I will be very careful how I offer wine to any one again,” said Rose. -“I would not have the guilt of tempting a man to ruin upon my conscience -for all the world.” - -“The more I ponder the subject,” remarked Mrs. Carleton, “the more -surprised am I at myself and others. I invite some friends to an -entertainment, or to spend a social evening, and I serve wine to my -guests. Among them is a man who has fallen into intemperate habits at -one time of life, and whose present sobriety is dependent upon his rigid -observance of the rule of total abstinence. He is, it may be, the -husband of my most cherished friend. I place wine before him with the -rest. He is tempted to break his rule, and falls. Ah, me! How many -hundreds of such cases occur in our large cities.” - -Mrs. Carleton was a widow in easy circumstances, and moved in -fashionable society. She entertained a good deal of company, and did it -in the fashionable way. When gentlemen called at her house, wine was -invariably set before them; and when she gave parties, wine was always -served to her guests. But, suddenly startled into reflection, she saw -that the practice was a dangerous one, and determined to abandon it. On -this resolution she acted, much to the surprise of many of her -acquaintances. Some said she was “queer,”—others decided that it was a -foolish notion; while others pronounced her conduct positively absurd. -But she did not in the least swerve from her purpose. Wine was no more -placed before her guests. - -The visits of Mr. Newton to Rose, which at first were only occasional, -became more and more frequent. A mutual attachment ensued, which ended -in marriage. No wine was provided at the wedding party—to many a -strange omission—and Rose observed that at the parties given them by -friends her husband invariably let the wine pass him untasted. Curious -to know the reason for such abstemiousness, she one day, some months -after marriage, said to him— - -“Do you never drink wine?” - -The question caused Newton to look serious; and he replied in a simple -monosyllable. - -“Don’t you like it?” inquired Rose. - -“Yes; too well perhaps.” - -The way in which this was said half startled the young wife. Newton saw -the effect of his words, and forcing a smile said— - -“When quite a young man, I was thrown much into gay company, and there -acquired a bad habit of using all kinds of intoxicating drinks with a -dangerous freedom. Before I was conscious of my error, I was verging on -rapidly to the point of losing all self-control. Startled at finding -myself in such a position, I made a resolution to abandon the use of -every thing but wine. This, however, did not reach the evil. The taste -of wine excited my appetite to such a degree that I invariably resorted -to brandy for its gratification. I then abandoned the use of wine, as -the only safe course for me, and, with occasional exceptions, have -strictly adhered to my resolution. In a few instances young ladies, at -whose houses I visited, have presented me with wine, and not wishing to -push back the proffered refreshment, I have tasted it. The consequence -was invariable. A burning desire for stronger stimulants was awakened, -that carried me away as by an irresistible power. You, Rose, never -tempted me in this way. Had you done so, we might not have been as happy -as we are to-day.” - -A shudder passed through the frame of the young wife, as she remembered -the glass of wine she had been so near presenting to his lips. Never -afterward could she think of it without an inward tremor. And fears for -the future mingled with her thoughts of the past; but these have proved -groundless fears, for Mr. Newton has no temptation at home, and he has -resolution enough to refuse a glass of wine in any company, and on all -occasions. Herein lies his safety. - -“What! refuse a harmless glass of wine?” will sometimes be said to him. -To this he has but one answer. - -“Pure wine may be harmless in itself; so is light—yet light will -destroy an inflamed eye.” - - * * * * * - - - - - NORTHAMPTON. - - - BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. - - - Ere from thy calm seclusion parted, - O fairest village of the plain! - The thoughts that here to life have started - Draw me to Nature’s heart again. - - The tasseled maize, full grain, or clover, - Far o’er the level meadow grows, - And through it, like a wayward rover, - The noble river gently flows. - - Majestic elms, with trunks unshaken - By all the storms an age can bring, - Frail sprays whose rest the zephyrs waken, - Yet lithesome with the juice of spring. - - By sportive airs the foliage lifted, - Each green leaf shows its white below, - As foam on emerald waves is drifted, - Their tints alternate come and go. - - And then the skies! when vapors cluster - From zenith to horizon’s verge, - As wild gusts ominously bluster, - And in deep shade the landscape merge;— - - Under the massive cloud’s low border, - Where hill-tops with the sky unite, - Like an old minster’s blazoned warder, - There scintillates an amber light. - - Sometimes a humid fleece reposes - Midway upon the swelling ridge, - Like an aerial couch of roses, - Or Dairy’s amethystine bridge: - - And pale green inlets lucid shimmer, - With huge cliffs jutting out beside, - Like those in mountain lakes that glimmer, - Tinged like the ocean’s crystal tide: - - Or saffron-tinted islands planted - In firmaments of azure dye, - With pearly mounds that loom undaunted, - And float like icebergs of the sky. - - Like autumn leaves that eddying falter, - Yet settle to their crimson rest, - As pilgrims round their burning altar, - They slowly gather in the west. - - And when the distant mountain ranges - In moonlight or blue mist are clad, - Oft memory all the landscape changes, - And pensive thoughts are blent with glad. - - For then, as in a dream Elysian, - Val d’Arno’s fair and loved domain - Seems to my rapt yet waking vision, - To yield familiar charms again. - - Save that for dome and turret hoary, - Amid the central valley lies - A white church-spire unknown to story, - And smoke-wreaths from a cottage rise. - - On Holyoke’s summit woods are frowning, - No line of cypresses we see, - Nor convent old with beauty crowning - The heights of sweet Fiésole. - - Yet here may willing eyes discover - The art and life of every shore, - For Nature bids her patient lover - All true similitudes explore. - - These firs, when cease their boughs to quiver, - Stand like pagodas brahmins seek, - Yon isle, that parts the winding river, - Seems modeled from a light caique. - - And fanes that in these groves are hidden, - Are sculptured like a dainty frieze, - While choral music steals unbidden, - As undulates the forest breeze. - - A gothic arch and springing column, - A floral-dyed, mosaic ground, - A twilight shade and vista solemn - In all these sylvan haunts are found. - - And now this fragile garland weaving - While ebbs the musing tide away, - As one a sacred temple leaving, - Some tribute on its shrine would lay; - - I bless the scenes whose tranquil beauty - Have cheered me like the sense of youth, - And freshened lonely tasks of duty, - The dream of love and zest of truth. - - * * * * * - - - - - A THOUGHT. - - - BY ISAAC GRAY BLANCHARD. - - - The flower springs by the fountain-side, - And blooms its little day; - Speechless it lives the life it has, - And silent fades away. - O, I would not be like the flower, - To perish in the mould, - And leave no record of my heart, - No fond affection told. - - Let beauty be to others given, - And beautiful array— - To those who, like the flower, are but - Ambitious to be gay; - I only ask the pen, the tongue, - That can the heart unfold, - That the deep beauty of the soul - Be not unsung, untold. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. - - - BY C. M. FARMER. - - -Gentle reader! allow me to introduce to your consideration the -characters of Mr. Brigs, (_soi disant_ Allen Brigs, Esquire,) and his -distinguished lady Mrs. Polly Brigs. Imagine a stout built, corpulent -“five footer,” with a very big head, on which there never was hair -enough to make a decent pair of whiskers, and on which, consequently, -rode a red wig, curled as many different ways as the sunbeams point; -with the largest of all large noses, into which he incessantly—or at -least fifty times in each day—thrust the raw rappee with no small -degree of relish; little pop-eyes, just large enough to see every body -in church at one and the same time; a blue silk vest, striped cassimere -pantaloons, a leviathian shad-belly coat, and a milk-white cravat tied -in a double bow before, and surrounding a collar made _partly_ of very -coarse linen, and _mostly_ of very stiff starch, which came up on either -side to his ears, sustaining the equilibrium of his head. Of course, his -head could only move in two directions—backward and forward—without -manifest danger to the implements of hearing thereto attached, all set -off by a pair of cork-sole boots six and a quarter inches across the -instep when on, the toes of which looked right into the master’s face; -and here you have Allen Brigs—alias, Mr. A. Brigs, Esquire. - -Mr. Brigs had undoubtedly seen the eclipses of a great many years. -According to his own averment, he had “waded through as many snows as -there were hairs on his wig;” and as he had repeated this averment so -many times, and nobody had ever evinced any inclination to contest the -point with him, he had persuaded himself that he was _ipso facto_, a -“very old man.” Be this as it may, Mr. Allen Brigs was not the man to be -eschewed for his aged stupidity. He was amusing and buoyant as a boy. He -never took the unnecessary trouble to correct himself for errors in -language, no matter how gross, but would leave that to be done by any -body who chose to “take it up.” If he was asked if it was Jonah who -swallowed the whale, he would reply in the affirmative, and when -corrected, would invariably answer—“Zooks! it’s all the same in -Dutch—just _vice versa_, as the lawyers say—that’s all!” - -In short, Mr. Allen Brigs was a man not to be scared by any “livin’ -warmint,” two-legged, or four-legged, male or female—a perfect man of -the world in business—“a real out and outer”—crushing all opposition -to his own schemes, and believing in his heart that every body was a -fool who did not coincide in all things with him, Mr. Allen Brigs. - -Mrs. Brigs was some ten years the junior of her partner in life, and was -a lady in every sense of the word. It was evident that she had _once_ -been beautiful, but that once had been past a long time; and now, where -then dangled the glossy curls, (not _false_ curls—girls never wore -false curls in those days,) she displayed two huge bows of yellow -ribbon. These were necessary ornaments, however, for they were -appendages to a very neat frilled cap. Mrs. Brigs had never been known -to wear a stay-body frock, or a bustle—indeed, such things were not -then in fashion—she never wore sleeves of the mutton-leg cut; nor were -they ever so tight as to render the arms useless members, but always -large enough and small enough to be comfortable. Mrs. Brigs never could -endure small shoes—consequently, she never was compelled to endure the -pains incident to corns. She was an inflexible knitter and darner, and -though Mr. Brigs never had but one pair of socks, they never had a hole -in them, because whenever the legs wore out she would leg them, and when -the feet wore out she would foot them. Mrs. Brigs was so good -herself—so artless and unsuspecting, that she thought every body else -was good, and artless, and unsuspecting too. Mrs. Brigs was literally -the very woman for Mr. Brigs, and that gentleman was the very man for -Mrs. Brigs. Hence, it can only be inferred that they lived happily -together—so happily, indeed, and contentedly, that they were known but -to be loved. A peaceful country village was their home. A ten acre farm -of fertile land, through which murmured a dear, bright stream - - “That wound in many a flow’ry nook,” - -was the _fee simple_ property of Allen Brigs. A pretty little -white-washed house, almost hidden by the clustering fruit-trees, was -their humble tenement. A handsome little garden, tastefully laid out, -occupied the space between the house and rivulet, and here Mrs. Brigs -sought recreation when burthened with the _ennui_ of knitting and -darning. A cow and calf—a sow and pig—a horse, and a yard full of -poultry of every species, composed the family stock. And with all these, -and nothing more, they were rich—rich in the honesty of their own -hearts which knew no covetousness—contentment was theirs, and that was -riches. They were surrounded by kind neighbors—some affluent, but not -aristocratic. An athletic son of sixteen, and a beautiful daughter of -twelve, were their only offspring. Solomon Brigs was his father’s sole -help, but they managed every thing to admiration. Nanny was a sweet -tempered child—affectionate and dutiful. Every body loved her, and she -loved every body. Notwithstanding she was a country girl, there was a -native, witching, fascinating grace in her every movement. She was so -active, and gay, and cheerful—so full of life and joy—and so mild and -modest! She had never known sickness: health flowed through every vein, -and glowed in her soft dark eyes and blooming cheeks—and her smiling -face was a sure index to her pure heart. Her finely shaped head, and -intelligent forehead, bore testimony to her keen susceptibilities. - -Solomon was a smart boy—so said his knowing father; and though he had -made no higher attainments than reading, writing, and cyphering to the -single rule of three, he knew how to plough the corn, and hill the -potatoes, and weed his sister’s flower-beds. He could not solve a -problem in mathematics, but he could jump higher and hallo louder than -any boy in the village, large or small. - -Nanny was a proficient in the art of housekeeping, but not in French, -painting, &c. &c. She, too, could read, write, and cypher, and Mr. Brigs -considered that enough book learning for _his_ children. It was all _he_ -knew, and there was danger in too much. But we come now to give our -characters a more conspicuous place in the public mind. - -It was one cold morning in December, when the snow was thick on the -ground, and a luxuriant fire was blazing on every hearth in the village, -and when nobody living would have thought of visiting, except Miss -Lachevers, the housekeeper of John Doe, next door neighbor to the -Brigses, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane. As I said, it was cold—extremely cold; -but Miss Lachevers, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane, did not regard cold weather. -Now, whether a _young_ lady, living to the age of forty odd, becomes -invulnerable to the piercing air of a December morning, or whether the -young lady in question was differently constituted from other people, I -shall not attempt to decide—probably the latter. Nevertheless, on this -same morning, almost as soon as the sun showed his face, Miss Lachevers -peeped in at the door of Allen Brigs. Mr. Brigs was drying the morning’s -paper by the fire, while Mrs. Brigs busied herself “clearing away” the -breakfast table. Solomon and Nanny were both reading from the same book, -the story of “Aladdin’s Lamp.” - -“Good mornin’ to you,” said Miss Lachevers, introducing her body as well -as her head—“cool mornin’ this.” - -“Rather,” replied Mr. Brigs senior, laying down the paper and rubbing -the palms of his hands hard enough together to erase the skin. “Come to -the fire, Betty—be seated—have off your bonnet.” - -The finishing clause of this address proceeded from the voluble tongue -of Mrs. Brigs; and Nanny arose from her seat to hand Miss Lachevers a -chair. - -“Don’t trouble yourself, child—I never have time to sit. I must go back -in one second. It’s trot, trot, from mornin’ till night, with me. I just -stepped in,” she continued, turning her eyes on Mrs. Brigs, “to ask you -all if you’ve hearn the news?” - -“What news?” inquired Mr. Brigs senior, glancing first at the paper on -the chair and then at the early visiter—“any body dead or dying—or any -steamship busted—or any thing of that species?” - -“Oh, no!” said Miss Lachevers, “nothin’ of that are character. But -somethin’ more important and _novel_ than either.” - -All eyes were now turned toward the significant countenance of Miss -Betty Lachevers, who still remained standing. Mr. Brigs senior, not -exactly understanding the application of the word “novel” to the sudden -intelligence of any thing new—having never heard it applied to any -thing but a book—requested Miss Lachevers to explain herself. Mrs. -Brigs insisted that Betty should take a chair and tell all about it; and -Solomon and Nanny continued their reading, as if nothing _novel_ was -going on. - -“Why, raly,” said Miss Lachevers, drawing a seat, and depositing her -person thereon, “I haint hardly got time to tell you. But it’s wonderful -to think of. The fact is, a young schoolmaster arrived in town last -night, and I hear it’s his intention to set up a school here for the -eddication of youth; and the worst of all is, nobody knows who he is, or -where he come from. His name I heered, but I almost forgot it—it’s -Dubbs—or Grubbs—or Dobbs—or somethin’ like that. They say he’s a -wonderful genus, smart as can be, and full of larning. He stopped at old -Jenkins’s, cross the way—whether he means to board there _I_ can’t -say—but there he is. I s’pose we’ll get a peep at him to-day. For my -part, I should like to know why he put up at old Jenkins’s.” - -“A schoolmaster!” repeated Mr. Brigs, the elder, with emphatic surprise. - -“Yes—a reg’lar built, yankee schoolmaster,” replied Miss Betty. - -“Come to teach the children how that the earth revolves round the sun, -instead of the sun revolving round the earth, and things of that -extravagant natur’, I s’pose?” - -“To be sure he will,” said the young lady, “and he’ll be after coaxin’ -your children into his notions—see if he don’t.” - -“Not he!” consequentially returned the old man—“Sol has too much sense -for any Yankee that ever lived yet; and I guess Nanny will have enough -to do to larn of her mother. Not he!” and Mr. Brigs inflicted two slaps -on the left side pocket of his blue vest. - -Mrs. Brigs sighed, and Miss Lachevers coughed—whether for want of -something to say, or to render what she had said complete, it matters -not—but she coughed, and bidding a hasty adieu, left the room. - -Mr. Brigs settled himself down to read the paper, and his lady settled -herself down to her favorite exercise—knitting; while Solomon and Nanny -repeated to each other surmises as to the probable appearance of the new -comer—his age—dress, &c. - -The day passed away, and night came on. Tea was over, and this happy -little family had gathered around the cheerful fire. A gentle tap was -heard at the door, and a voice pronouncing the simple -word—“housekeepers.” - -“Come in,” responded Mrs. Brigs, and in came Mr. Jenkins, followed by a -young man apparently about twenty-two, with black hair and eyes, -straight, tall, and erect, handsome, and of a genteel and prepossessing -appearance, who was introduced by his conductor as Mr. Timothy Dobbs. - -“My friend,” said Mr. Jenkins, after being seated, and taking an -accurate survey of the premises, “has come among us for the purpose, he -says, of opening a school. He is an orphan, of very superior -endowments—brings with him ample credentials of his capacity, and -expects to find patronage for his support from the inhabitants of our -village.” - -Mr. Dobbs bowed a concurrence in the remarks of Mr. Jenkins, and hoped -that Mr. Brigs could furnish him with board and a convenient room in his -house. - -“Ah, that’s it!” said Mr. Jenkins, recollecting the object of his -visit—“that’s what we’re a coming to. This gentleman, Mr. Brigs, wishes -to reside in your family, and to eat at your table, sir. I hope—I -s’pose you can accommodate him, Mr. Brigs?” - -Mr. Brigs said that he could, and that he should be happy to serve him, -Mr. Dobbs, in any other manner possible. Matters being thus considered, -and terms agreed on, Mr Jenkins arose to depart; having first satisfied -Mr. Dobbs that he, Dobbs, would be sure to sleep soundly that night, and -assured him of the total absence of all danger from external assaults -under the roof of so great and good a man as his friend and neighbor -Allen Brigs. - -Before retiring to rest, Mr. Dobbs acquainted himself with the -characters before him, by conversing with them, and each of them, on -various topics; and found to his satisfaction that they were kind and -noble-hearted people. The characteristic traits of Mr. Brigs were rough -and unique, yet there was a generous frankness about him—such a flow of -spirits and good humor—that he considered him a pleasant man. Nor was -Mrs. Brigs unlike her husband in these particulars. To tell the truth, -Mr. Dobbs was pleased. More than once did he get a full view of the -sweet face of Nanny; and more than once did Nanny blush to catch his -eye. Timothy admired her modest looks, and fancied that he _might_ one -day love her. He wondered how old she was, and blest his luck that he -had fallen into that particular family, where such a beautiful face as -hers might shed its sunny smiles about him—perhaps to cheer many of his -tedious moments. He fancied she _must_ be young, yet she seemed already -expanding into womanhood. Such perfect symmetry of form, and grace of -carriage, he had never seen in a country girl: and then the rich -intelligence that beamed through her soft dark eyes, convinced him that -she was born to follow some more noble pursuit than housewifery. - -The hour grew late, and Timothy bade good-night, and crept softly to his -room, where fatigue soon lulled him to sleep. But he dreamed! Yes, he -dreamed of one sweet angelic being, whom he had only seen once—only -once—and that sweet being was Nanny! - -“Zooks!” said Mr. Brigs, after Timothy had left the parlor—“but he -seems to be a clever youth. Nanny, what do you think of him—eh?” - -“I don’t know, father,” replied Nanny—“but—I think—he’s quite -handsome.” - -“Handsome! Yes, and I reckon he considered Miss Nanny Brigs a leetle -specimen of the handsomest girl he ever saw. I saw him a squintin’ on -that side of the house.” - -“Oh, father!” cried Nanny, faintly blushing. “I’m sure he _looked_ at us -all—he looked at Solomon, too.” - -“What’s his name, father?” inquired Solomon—“Stobbs?” - -“Dobbs—Timothy Dobbs, I think, and that’s all I know about him yet: but -we’ll find what kind of a chap he is soon, I guess. I expect he’s a -squirt, any how.” - -“I hope not,” said Mrs. Brigs. - -“And I hope not, too,” rejoined Mr. Brigs; “but we’ll see!” - - * * * * * - -Time sped on. The village school was in a flourishing condition. Pupil -after pupil had been added to the charge of Mr. Timothy Dobbs, the -“great unknown,” until (to use a cant phrase) he had his hands full. It -is very natural to suppose that our village schoolmaster had become very -popular among all the villagers, and particularly so in the discerning -eyes of Miss Betty Lachevers, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane. Notwithstanding -the violent protestations of Mr. Brigs against the idea of suffering his -children to become scholars of Mr. Dobbs, the old gentleman had -confessed his wrong in that respect, and now protested with the same -vehemence, that Mr. Timothy Dobbs was the finest fellow that ever lived; -and that it would be high treason in any parent or guardian to refuse -children and wards generally, the benefits of Mr. Dobbs’s seminary of -learning; and he (Mr. Brigs) was firmly of the opinion that Solomon and -Nanny would one day become the successors of their tutor in the office -of “eddicating youth;” and on this hypothesis, he built the future -prospect of the erection of the “Brigs’ College,” to be called after his -own name, and of which, as a matter of course, Solomon was to be -principal professor. Mr. Brigs saw all this as clear as a whistle, and -he had no doubt that his prophecy would be fulfilled. Mr. Dobbs -continued to board and lodge at Mr. Brigs’ house. Nanny grew more lovely -and interesting every day, and made rapid advancement in her studies. -Solomon declared that Mr. Dobbs paid more attention to his sister than -to any other young lady in the school—to her instructions he meant; and -that he believed seriously, that Mr. Dobbs had a notion of making her -his assistant—in the school he meant. Miss Lachevers always happened to -hoist the window of Mr. Doe’s parlor at the particular moment when the -schoolmaster, Nanny, and Solomon passed the gate, on their return from -school; and as it was as invariably the case that Mr. Dobbs walked -closer to Nanny’s side than Solomon’s, the former young lady never -failed to give her features an expression of scorn—at least, whenever -her eye met Nanny’s. It might have been necessary for Miss Betty to -hoist the window on all these occasions, for some domestic purpose, such -as dusting, &c., and therefore she could not help seeing the passers by; -she, however, at such times looked unusually prim, but Mr. Dobbs seemed, -in every case, unconscious that the eyes of any third person were upon -him, for he never turned his on either side, but looked straight -forward. One day Nanny actually had her arm in that of the schoolmaster, -when the walking was very bad on account of snow, and then Miss -Lachevers looked daggers, and from thenceforth her deportment toward our -innocent heroine grew cold and formal. Perhaps Miss Betty had different -views of village etiquette from other young ladies, and thought it -extremely rude for a young lady to lock arms with a gentleman, under an -acquaintance of four years and a half; or perhaps she considered the law -of primogeniture applicable to her individual case, and thought that if -_any_ body was to lock arms with the schoolmaster, it should be herself, -as she was _rather_ older than Miss Nanny Brigs. Nevertheless, she did -not make her visits to Mr. Brigs’s less frequent. She would -sometimes—though altogether accidentally—chance to “fall in” when Mr. -Dobbs was there; and whenever that event occurred, she made herself -extremely agreeable—so she thought. But Mr. Dobbs was a sober-minded -man, of keen perception and sound views of propriety, and could read her -writing as well as she could herself. Nor was it long ere his disgust -was manifested at her sociable behavior, which caused her to bestow upon -him the classic epithet of “itinerant pedagogue.” And now matters took -another turn. - -A year had passed away since the “itinerant pedagogue” first opened his -school. The population of the village had considerably increased. Uncle -Sam had established a post-office there. Lachevers’ lane was become the -principal thoroughfare of the “town.” Stores—groceries—and tailor’s -shops had been erected; sign-boards hung out and nailed to the window -shutters. A handsome church “with tapering spire,” and surrounded by -young trees, was now the Sabbath rendezvous of the villagers. The -school-house had been enlarged—the play-ground enclosed—and every -thing wore a new aspect. Miss Betty Lachevers, after exhausting all her -efforts to captivate Timothy Dobbs, had abandoned him to the more -attractive charms of Miss Brigs; and the former young lady was now -scarcely ever seen, save at church on Sundays. A Sabbath-school had been -opened in the basement-room of the village church, of which Timothy was -superintendent, and Solomon and Nanny teachers; and the signs of the -times bade fair to verify the predictions of Mr. Brigs with regard to -colleges, &c. in general. But, still _all was not right_! Timothy had -declared his love to Nanny, and had received an answer of satisfaction. -He had solicited the consent of her parents, and had received a -REFUSAL!! Not that Mr. Brigs thought him unworthy of the hand of his -daughter, but because his history was still enveloped in mystery and -obscurity. Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Brigs, and Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Brigs, -and half a dozen more misters and mistresses, had used all means to find -out his origin, but to no effect. He would always, when spoken to on -that point, fall into a state of dejected gloom, and evade all questions -bearing on his nativity; and this was a barrier which intervened between -him and the object of his affections. - -A large oil painting ornamented the wall over the fire-place, -representing a young mother, with an infant on her breast, reclining on -the left arm of a man, who was defending her with his right, from the -assaults of a ruffian. A beautiful girl lay weltering in blood near the -surviving group; and the husband seemed to have received several -dangerous wounds, from which large drops of blood were falling. It was a -scene of deep and thrilling interest, and expressive of some awful -tragedy. It was also well executed, and the languishing despair which -beamed from the face of the young mother would almost seem, at times, to -convert the painted canvas into a mass of animation. At this picture Mr. -Dobbs was often seen to gaze with sad countenance and quivering lip; -while the throbbings of his temples told that the mind was at work with -melancholy thoughts. He became sad and cheerless, avoided all company -(but Nanny’s) as much as possible, and was sometimes found weeping. Yet -none knew the cause of his silent grief. Nanny observed the effect which -had been wrought on him by the picture, and communicated the fact to her -mother. - -“He seems,” said she, “to take a sad pleasure in looking at the -painting. He showed me a miniature yesterday, which is the express image -of the lady with the infant child in her arms; and when I had examined -it, and returned it to him, he pressed it to his lips, and the tears -fell from his eyes. There must be something strange connected with his -history!” - -“And did he say nothing about the miniature or the painting?” inquired -Mr. Brigs. - -“Nothing!” replied Nanny, “I saw the subject gave him pain, and I feared -to ask him any thing about it.” - -“Where is the miniature?” asked Mrs. Brigs. - -“He keeps it in his vest pocket,” answered Nanny. “I will beg him to -show it to you, mother—I know he will.” - -“No, child—don’t. I will inquire into the secret myself. But Nanny, did -you never hear the story of the painting over the fire?” - -“No,” said Nanny; “what is it?” - -“Ah! it’s an awful thing—all true as Gospel—dreadful!” - -Here Mrs. Brigs requested her daughter to ask her no questions, and she -would tell her some other time. The young girl’s fears were excited, but -she concealed them within her own bosom. - - * * * * * - -“Mr. Dobbs,” said Mrs. Brigs one evening, “what on earth ails you? You -look like you have lost the best friend you had in the world. Do pray -tell us what has made you so gloomy for so many days.” - -Timothy sighed deeply, and a crimson flush suffused the cheek of Nanny. -Mr. Brigs turned up his collar, and ran his fingers through his gray -locks, and looked very hard at Mr. Dobbs. Solomon looked very hard at -his father; and Mrs. Brigs looked at every one in the room alternately. - -“Come,” said Mr. Briggs—“Come, Mr. Dobbs, let’s hear what’s the matter. -Remember, young man, you are among friends; and if I can do any thing -for you—why, I’ll do it. Come, now, let out. Don’t kill yourself for no -trifle, young man.” - -“I feel much obliged to you,” replied Timothy, “and will ask but one -favor. I cannot now tell you what ails me; but there is something in -this house which gives me great anxiety. I have long wished to make the -inquiry, but had not the courage. Tell me, then, what is the meaning of -that picture which hangs before me?” - -“Zooks!” cried Mr. Brigs, “and is it the picture that has caused all -your bad feelings, Mr. Dobbs?” - -“It is,” returned the schoolmaster; “and I wish to know what it means!” - -The surprise of Mr. Brigs and Solomon may be better imagined than -described. The old gentleman drew out his red silk handkerchief and -rubbed his eyes, stuffed it into his pocket again, and stared with all -his might right into the schoolmaster’s face. Solomon stared also; and -laying down the book he was reading, prepared himself to hear something -strange. Mrs. Brigs and her daughter were before partially acquainted -with the cause of Timothy’s disease—at least, they knew that it sprung -from the oil painting in question. All was now deep interest, awaiting -the development of some wonderful discovery. - -“Ah!” said Mrs. Brigs, “it’s a solemn thing that! It used to make me -sick to look at it; but it’s a long time since it was hung up there, and -I’ve got used to it. Still it sticks deep into my heart—it does! It -tells a sad story—but you shall hear it, Mr. Dobbs!” And Mrs. Brigs -began. - -I will not give the reader the story in the very words in which Mrs. -Brigs gave it to Timothy; because that is impossible: for she paused -more than once to wipe away the big tears, and to sob; and was obliged -to commence afresh as many as three times before she satisfied herself -that she was in the right path, and had begun at the beginning. But, as -I said, she began, and the following is the substance of the narrative: - - - THE STORY OF THE PICTURE. - -John Bloomfield, a merchant of London, was the father of two children, -to wit: Arthur Bloomfield and Polly Bloomfield, now Polly Brigs, wife of -Allen Brigs. He came to this country about two years anterior to the -commencement of the Revolution, and settled on a handsome country-seat, -near the place where now stands our village. Mrs. Bloomfield died during -the passage across the Atlantic; so John Bloomfield was a widower. - -At the time of his migration Arthur was twenty and Polly sixteen years -of age. The latter was shortly afterward married to Mr. Brigs; and the -widowed father dying, Arthur determined to sail for the West Indies, for -the purpose of trading on the capital inherited from his father, which -amounted to some five hundred pounds sterling. - -Within one year after he left America, he heard that the long expected -conflict between the two nations had begun, and being fired with a love -of liberty, he returned home to join the army of Washington, to aid in -repelling the invaders from the American soil. He brought with him a -young and lovely wife, who, shortly subsequent to his return, gave joy -to his heart by the birth of a son. - -The sister of young Mrs. Bloomfield, a still more lovely girl, -accompanied her brother-in-law hither; and so beautiful was she, that -many gallant knights paid homage at her shrine. Alice was -modest—pleasing—fascinating—and none saw her but to love. - -Arthur fitted up the late domain of his deceased father; and leaving his -family, soon after the birth of his son, under the supervision of his -wife’s sister, prepared himself for a season of warfare. - -Mr. Brigs was settled where he now resides, but his was then the only -tenement in existence there: so Mr. Brigs may be considered as the -founder of the village. With the property obtained by marriage he -purchased the soil on which he built, together with such implements of -husbandry as present wants required. The distance of two miles -intervened between the two families—consequently, they enjoyed the -intercourse of neighbors, though it was not very frequent that they -interchanged visits. They were, however, neighbors, and Mrs. Brigs -ministered, as much as in her lay, to the wants of Mrs. Bloomfield -during her confinement. - - * * * * * - -The struggle of death was drawing to a close. Arthur Bloomfield had -returned to his family, and was happy—happy because his life had been -shielded amid the strifes of war—happy because health was again the -property of Mrs. Bloomfield—happy _because he was a father_! - -One calm evening in spring, when a thousand blushing flowers - - “Distilled sweet fragrance through the air,” - -and when all nature reflected the smiles of God’s benevolence, Arthur -Bloomfield was seated with his family in the shady alcove, recounting -the dangers to which he had been exposed, and from which Providence had -rescued him. - -“Come,” said he, “let us bow ourselves before God, where we are, and -return him thanks that we are all again together.” And they fell upon -their knees on the green grass, while the father breathed forth his -gratitude to his Maker, in a slow, touching, solemn prayer. Tears stood -in the eyes of Alice, but she wiped them away with her soft hand, and -the mother presented her infant boy before the throne of Heaven, for a -blessing before she arose. - -A sudden report of fire-arms threw a shock on the frames of the two -females, and caused a deadly paleness to overspread the countenance of -Arthur. - -“Mercy!” shrieked Mrs. Bloomfield, clinging to her husband. “What can it -be?” - -“Be composed, dear,” returned the man; “this arm shall defend you!” And -taking the child in his arms, he led the way quickly to the house, -where, securing themselves within doors, they awaited the final issue. -Mr. Bloomfield armed himself with a sword, and planted his stand at the -open window, where he could overlook the foreground, and detect -approaching danger. - -The moon shone brightly, lighting up the landscape with her mellow -beams, and shedding rays of grandeur on the world. There he stood, the -only earthly protector of his wife and son and sister-in-law, hardly -daring to hope success, in the event of an attack from a nightly -assassin; while the fear-stricken females breathed heavily and -tremulously near his back. - - * * * * * - -That night of blood and death passed away, and the first beams of the -morning sun penetrated the dismal room where lay the bleeding bodies of -three mortal beings—a husband—a wife—and youthful maiden!—The infant -son was not there: the murderers had borne him away, and no traces of -them could ever be found! - - * * * * * - -When the spring flowers again sent forth their fragrance, and the -twittering birds began to build their nests, and when the ice and snow -of winter had melted, and bud and blossom made the forest green; and the -winds blew softly and pleasantly; and when every thing told that the -cold season was gone, and sweet spring had come, busy preparations were -going on throughout all the village for a wedding. Every little house, -and tree, and fence had been newly whitewashed. The church steeple -looked whiter than when first built, and every face beamed with a -brighter smile, and every cheek glowed with purer health than ever. And -whose wedding was it? Rumor abroad said it was one Mr. Dobbs, a -schoolmaster, who was about to espouse the pretty Miss Brigs. But all -the villagers _knew_ that the parties to be joined in wedlock were Mr. -Timothy Bloomfield (formerly Dobbs) and his sweet cousin, Miss Nanny -Brigs, daughter of Allen Brigs, Esq. Miss Betty Lachevers, on hearing -the degree of relationship between the “itinerant pedagogue” and Miss -Nanny, had become perfectly reconciled to everybody, and to Miss Nanny -in particular, and the day previous to the wedding it was generally -understood that Miss Betty Lachevers was to be “chief cook and -bottle-washer.” - -The morning of the 15th of May, seventeen hundred and—no matter -what—was clear and beautiful. The church-bell began to ring, and the -villagers began to pour forth by two-and-two, dressed in their best, and -each bearing a bouquet of richest flowers. They all proceeded to the -house of God, where before earth and heaven, the pious minister united -two pious hearts, between which there existed an attachment “sweeter -than life and stronger than death.” - -“Zooks!” said old Brigs, on this happy occasion, “I always thought well -of the boy, but I’ll eat my hat if ever I thought he _was_ my nephew, -and _was to be_ my son. Well! well! well!” And Mr. Brigs looked as -pleasing as he knew how. Mrs. Brigs looked pleasing too. Solomon looked -saucy at his sister, and she blushed and looked saucy at Solomon. -Timothy felt as happy as ever man felt: and all was joy and life and -gayety. - -A few weeks more, and a petition was presented to the Legislature of one -of the New England States, signed by one hundred and fifty inhabitants -of the village, praying for an act incorporating the “Classical Seminary -of S.” and within a few more weeks the “Classical Seminary of S.” was -filled with pupils; and Mr. Brigs _lived_ to see his prophecy fulfilled; -and _died_ to be mourned by all who had ever known him. - - * * * * * - - - - - SPEAK OUT. - - - BY S. D. ANDERSON. - - - Men who battle for the right, - ’Mid the darkness of the night, - Looking ever for the light— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Rulers at the helm of state, - Seek ye for the narrow gate, - Through which pass the truly great?— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Ye who preach, and ye who pray, - Smother not in mist and spray - Thoughts that straggle for the day— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Dreamer, up! strike, for the hour - Brings the man, as does the shower - From the budding bring the flower— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Young men, linger not behind, - With the dead in will and mind, - Let the blind be ever blind— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Teachers, ye who plant the seed, - Nurse it in its hour of need, - With the sunlight of thy deed— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Old men, fathers, would ye see - Footprints of the Deity - Round the homes of infancy?— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Searchers after truth and right, - From the vessel’s topmost height - See ye glimpses pure and bright— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Poet, if thy mission be - To uplift humanity, - Let the world thy spirit see— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Brother, bend ye at a shrine, - Differing far from me and mine, - If ye think that light divine— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Stranger, with thy little band, - From a distant father-land, - Yearn’st thou for a kindly hand?— - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - Men, of every creed and clime, - Hear ye not the tones sublime - Swelling on the march of Time? - Speak out! - Fear ye nothing but the wrong. - - * * * * * - - - - - AN ADVENTURE OF JASPER C——: - - - OR HOW TO SELL A CLOCK. - - (FOUNDED ON FACT.) - - -“Madam, can I sell you a clock to-day?” inquired a pedler, as he was met -at the door by the woman of the house at which he had stopped. - -“No,” replied the woman, civilly, yet decidedly, “we want no such -article.” - -“I have several fine clocks, madam,” said the pedler. - -“Very likely,” said the woman, “but we want none”—at the same time -retreating a few paces from the door. - -“May I ask,” inquired the pedler, advancing within the door a little, -but cautiously and civilly, as the woman retreated—“may I ask, madam, -whether you have a clock?” - -The woman cast I will not say an indignant look at the clock-man—but a -look certainly not kind; at the same time saying with some spirit—“we -want none of your clocks, sir.” - -The pedler took a seat. - -The scene which we have thus briefly described occurred, some years -since, in the “Old Dominion;” but in what particular section we are not -at liberty to say. The house at which it occurred was a well-looking -habitation; old, indeed, but kept in clever repair. It was owned and -occupied by a farmer of some consideration in those parts, but singular -and very set in his way. Like some others, in other quarters, he had -imbibed strong antipathies against Yankeedom and all its inhabitants. He -fairly hated the sight of a pedler; and, although disposed to treat his -species with civility, he had not at all times been so fortunate as to -do so. In several instances, indeed, he had dismissed with some severity -these itinerant merchants, who had offered their commodities for sale -within his precincts. Even his dog seemed to know when one drove up, and -snarled and growled with more than ordinary spirit, to the evident -satisfaction of the master. As to purchasing an article of any of the -detestable fraternity—that he would never do—no not he, whatever were -his necessities. And he was true to his word. For more than once, it had -happened that articles had been offered just at a time when he needed -them, and which could not be obtained in the retired situation in which -he lived—but he would not even look at them. The corn might remain -unhoed, and the house never be swept, before he would purchase a hoe or -a broom of a pedler. - -The sentiments of Mr. M——, moreover, had obtained no small notoriety -among the pedling fraternity. They all understood the matter—those we -mean who conducted this sort of trade in those parts; and although -several, prompted by a more than ordinary share of confidence in their -selling powers, had made a visit to the place, determined not to leave -the game - - Till they had run it down, - -they had all to a man been foiled. The Virginia farmer was proof against -their strategy. In general, he was civil—but he could be stormy and -tempestuous, especially if urged by a traveling merchant to purchase, -when he had peremptorily refused. And so set had he become, that on more -occasions than one, he had urged his wife never, in his absence, to -purchase any article, especially not a clock. I am not certain that in -terms he had forbidden her. But she knew his wishes; and being a good -woman, she intended to act accordingly. - -The day we are speaking of Mr. M—— had gone to a neighboring town, a -few miles distant, to transact some business; expecting, however, to -return the same evening. - -Shortly after his departure, which was early, the pedler of whom we have -already made mention drove up, with the hope of disposing of a clock. -Whether he was apprised of the absence of the lord of the manor has not -transpired; but he was not ignorant of the task before him. He had -received ample information from several of the profession of the unlucky -star that presided, when they made the experiment; and, moreover, they -had predicted his similar ill success. - -“Never mind,” said he—“I’ll try my hand, and if Jasper C. fails it will -be the very first time.” - -And Jasper C. was in truth no ordinary specimen of a Yankee. Whether -from New Hampshire, Massachusetts, or Vermont, he scarcely knew himself, -as in all those States his parents had lived—but in the limits of which -one they happened to be, at the precise time he first opened his eyes on -this mundane sphere, he never could quite ascertain. He had all the tact -and shrewdness of the Codfish State, and all the hardness and -impenetrability of the Granite State—and I may add, all the -determination of a Green Mountain boy. If there was only a nook or angle -where these States could unite, that would be the precise spot—the very -sharpest point I mean—where Jasper C. had his beginning. But however -these matters may be, he was a Yankee—and one of the “straightest -sect”—a keen, sharp-sighted, ready-witted man, of some two or three and -twenty. He was a great tactician at selling—no matter what was the -article or commodity, he could always sell; and he delighted in nothing -more than to follow hard upon a brother pedler, and to compare notes -with him at the end of their common tour. Generally, Jasper could show -more dollars taken in a given time than any brother pedler who traveled -in the “Old Dominion.” He had some confidence, therefore, and he had a -right to it. And, besides, his personal appearance was in his favor; but -what was of more consequence, he was well-mannered. He was seldom put -off his guard, and seldom betrayed into language which he had occasion -to recall. - -Such was Jasper C——, the pedler, who made his appearance at the house -of Mr. M——, at the time and under the circumstances already named. - -He had made known his errand, and had received a denial. Most pedlers -would have retired. _He_ took a seat. There was a seeming rudeness in so -doing, especially as the woman had given no such invitation; but the -manner of his doing it divested it of all impropriety. It was taken -hesitatingly and with an appearance of weariness; and still more in his -favor, he did that which is not always done by pedlers, he civilly -removed his hat. - -Minutes passed—or they seemed minutes to the pedler—during which he -sat in silence pondering upon the course most likely to ensure -success—the woman, meanwhile, employing herself in brushing the hearth, -adjusting the chairs, with other operations indicated by that very -expressive household term—“putting things to rights.” At length Jasper -C—— ventured to say, “Madam, with your leave, I’ll show you one of my -clocks.” - -“You may show as many as you please,” said the woman, “but we want -none—havn’t I already told you?” - -She had, indeed, so told him; but, nevertheless, the pedler had done -better than he feared. He had gained one point, and what his experience -had taught him was an important point—he had permission to show his -clocks. In a short time, therefore, he was again entering the door, -bearing in his hands a handsome-looking clock—brass wheels, mahogany -case, gilded at various points, and withal a pretty landscape, painted -on a glass in front, below the face. In short, it was a fair specimen of -Jerome’s best Bristol made. Fortunately—so the pedler thought—the -mantle happened to be unoccupied, and there, in the centre, the clock -was duly installed. It was wound up, and soon began its duty—click, -click, click. - -The pedler resumed his seat. - -I said he had gained something. So he thought; but despite of all that -he had done, the woman seemed as unmoved as a marble statue—she took -not the slightest notice of him, or his clock. This was strange. The -pedler thought so. He had encountered adverse circumstances before—had -doubled many a point of difficulty and perplexity, and forewarned and -forearmed had expected to meet on this occasion, perhaps refusal; but he -didn’t well know how to manage such sheer indifference. He would have -tasked his wits—and he did task them; but somehow they seemed to -forsake him at the precise moment, when he singularly needed their -assistance. Moreover, in the very midst of his perplexity, the woman, -who had taken a seat with her back turned toward him and his clock—a -position which, under ordinary circumstances she would have avoided as a -breach of civility—rose of a sudden, and taking some needle-work which -she had in her hand, wended her way through an adjoining door into some -other part of the house. It seemed as if she intended to carry her plan -and purpose of marked indifference to the _ne plus ultra_; and the -pedler would have given up all hope of success but for one -circumstance—quite a trivial one—and yet it left a hook to hang a hope -on. As the door closed, the pedler noticed that the woman more than half -turned round, and did—he was quite sure of it—she did cast a momentary -glance at the clock. And that look was voluntary. It cost her effort—it -betrayed curiosity—the pedler didn’t quite despair. - -But his hopes were ere long again on the ebb. The woman seemed to have -no disposition to return; at least she didn’t make her appearance; and -with a good deal of reason the pedler thought that she did not intend to -return. Whether this was her resolution I cannot say—quite probably she -supposed that he had departed. Be this, however, as it may, the pedler -was giving up, and had actually risen, and was in progress toward the -clock, with a view to deport it once more to his wagon, when the door -creaked, and the woman again entered. - -She seemed inclined to pause—and, perhaps, did pause—but, what was -more to the pedler’s purpose, he fancied that she was about to hazard -some remark—he hoped a commendation of the clock—at least a word as to -its good appearance. But he mistook. She did, indeed, speak—a word or -two only, however; but for the life of him, the pedler couldn’t decide -whether the drift was for or against him. “I wish Mr. M. was at home,” -said the woman, “he—” she paused. - -What was she going to add? The pedler would have given almost the price -of a clock to have had his doubts resolved. “_He_”—did she mean that -her husband could decide for himself? So the pedler wished to believe, -while his better opinion, judging from her manner, was, that she meant -to intimate that her husband would be even more summary—more -indifferent he could not appear—more set and determined was impossible. -But putting the construction upon her words most favorable to his -present interests, he ventured to supply what she had failed to say, -“Yes, indeed,” said he, “if Mr. M. were at home, I dare say he wouldn’t -lose such a bargain as I would give him.” - -“_Bargain!_” the pedler had unconsciously used a word of talismanic -power the world over. “Bargain!” that word seemed to arrest the woman’s -attention—and for the first time she raised her eyes and fairly looked -at the clock. And so it happened, that, at this critical moment in the -history of that clock, and in the proceedings of the pedler in relation -to a sale of it, it struck one, two, three, up to eleven. Its tones were -soft, musical, attractive. It ceased—and for a moment there was -silence, but it was soon interrupted by the woman’s adding, “It -certainly strikes prettily!” - -The ecstasy of the pedler was near being betrayed; but it was for his -interest to conceal his pleasure, and so rising, he moved toward the -clock, saying, “Its striking _is_ good—better, I think myself, than is -common;” at the same time opening the door and pulling the striking -wire, upon which its musical tones filled the room. - -“It does sound well,” said the woman. - -“Good!” whispered the pedler to himself. - -“Havn’t there recently been some improvements in clock-making?” asked -the woman. - -“Better and better,” thought the pedler—“Madam,” said he, rousing from -his transient reverie, and responding to her question, “you asked me -about improvements? O yes, divers improvements—clocks are made -now-a-days in great perfection, and very cheap—but—I was about making -a proposition in reference to that clock—” but he was cut short in the -very sentence— - -“I can save you all trouble of that sort,” said the woman, “I may take -none of your clocks.” - -“There again,” thought the pedler, “all aback!” and now, how to retrieve -lost ground, he was quite at a loss. But a second thought came to his -aid. The language of the woman was peculiar—“I _may_ take none.” - -“Madam!” the pedler resumed, and with some little more assurance, “I was -going to put this clock to you on such terms as that _you_ may, or any -other woman in the wide world might take it.” - -The woman listened. She raised her hand to her forehead—she -hesitated—she seemed inclined to ask a question, and at length she did -inquire— - -“How do you sell your clocks?” - -Had the pedler ventured to raise his eyes, they would have resembled -stars of the first magnitude; but he was too politic to betray his sense -of the vantage he was gaining, and therefore rather coolly remarked, -“You seem so reluctant, madam, to purchase a clock, that I’m at a loss -how to reply. But if you will take one, I’ll put it pretty much at your -own price.” - -“You will?” said she, her countenance relaxing into a sort of smile, -mingled with a spice of incredulity. “That’s not a common way with you -pedlers.” - -“O no,” said he, “we live by our trade, and must make a trifle at least -now and then; but we must sell, if we don’t make much.” - -While the pedler was thus remarking, the woman had approached near the -clock, and for the purpose, it would seem, of examining it—the pedler -hoped with reference to a purchase. And by way of helping on this -decision, he opened the clock—displayed its machinery—and cautiously -recommended it, by saying, “it’s a handsome piece of furniture, you -see—useful—and, with your leave, it occupies just the place for it.” - -“It looks well,” rejoined the woman, “but—” she paused, “I—” she -began, and again stopped. At length, however, she added, “I may not -purchase it.” - -She had laid a more than ordinary emphasis, perhaps unconsciously, on -the word _purchase_. “What!” thought the pedler, “does she expect me to -_give_ her a clock?” No, he could not give the clock. That would deprive -him of an anticipated and now much desired triumph. But matters now -stood in such a position as to demand prompt and decisive action. The -pedler, therefore, met the emergency like a tactician. “Madam,” said he, -“I ask no money for the clock. I am willing to take such articles in -payment as you have to spare, and at your own price.” - -The woman fairly stared. The matter wore a new phase. - -“I mean just as I say, madam,” said the pedler, observing her apparent -surprise. “Just what you have to spare, and at your own price.” - -“But what do you ask for the clock?” - -“Fifteen dollars—the small sum of fifteen dollars.” - -The woman took a seat. For a few minutes she seemed to be abstracted and -lost. But at length returning to the subject, she said, “On the terms -you propose, I will take the clock.” - -That was the decision which the pedler had been looking for with all -imaginable desire, and now no time was to be lost—and none, indeed, was -lost. - -“Follow me,” said the woman, rising and leading the way to an outer -room, where was standing a cask with about a bushel of flaxseed, which -she said had been there time out of mind. Her husband had often wished -it away, and now the pedler might take it. - -“All right,” said the pedler, “and at what price?” - -“Three dollars,” replied the woman—it was double the price of clean -fresh seed. - -“Agreed,” said the pedler, his mind running over the loss he must -sustain on this basis; but loss or no loss, he was glad to sell a clock. - -“What next, madam?” inquired the pedler. - -“Well,” said the woman, beginning fairly to exult at the good bargain -she was making, and even luxuriating in the thought, as how her husband -would himself be pleased at her skill in bargain-making, “we’ve got a -calf you may take.” - -“A what?” asked the pedler, a cold shudder following hard on the -annunciation. - -“A calf, sir,” repeated the woman, “you said you would take any thing we -had to spare.” - -“Right, right,” said the pedler, recovering himself as well as he could, -“a calf—O yes, all the same, that is, nothing amiss by way of trade in -this world; turn it to account, I dare say.” - -By this time the woman had conducted our hero to a small pen, with a -southern exposure, adjoining the barn, and there lay a—skeleton! - -“This is the calf,” said the woman. - -The pedler started back involuntarily; he bit his lips, and for a moment -was on the point of demurring. What on earth was such a sickly-looking -creature worth? What could he do with it? How could he carry it? These, -and half a score of kindred questions flitted across his mind. The -pedler was perplexed; he was out-generaled; but re-installing his waning -confidence with the thought, that as a dernier resort he could deposit -the sorry-looking brute under some hedge by the wayside, like a veteran -soldier in the “battles of life,” he marched up to the emergency, and -with commendable good humor, said, - -“Yes, yes—a calf, truly—but is it alive?” at the same time half -spurning it with his foot. “Yes, and alive ’tis, surely. I thought it -was dead; here, you young ox, rouse up.” - -The calf yawned. - -“Well, it does breathe, upon my soul,” said the pedler; “yonder old cart -can’t yawn.” - -“Indeed,” said the woman, her countenance relaxing into a veritable -smile, “indeed, I thought myself, at the instant, that the creature was -dead. It has been ailing for more than a week, and my husband said only -yesterday, that he believed it would die; and he didn’t much care how -soon it did die. It looks a little better, I think.” - -Better! the pedler could have cracked a marble. But there was no -escaping from his dilemma. So with as good a grace as was possible, he -inquired, “What price do you put upon the calf?” - -“Only ten dollars,” replied the woman. - -The pedler started. “Ten dollars!” he fairly exclaimed with surprise. -“Ten dollars! who ever heard of such a price for a calf just gasping.” - -“You are committed,” dryly observed the woman. - -“I see I am—committed—out-generaled, madam.” - -“Isn’t it fair?” asked the woman. - -“Fair!” repealed the pedler, “fair as the day itself; right—all right; -ten dollars—never mind, turn it to account, I dare say.” - -This half-way controversy about the calf was thus summarily settled, and -a few other matters added, the clock was paid for. But the pedler did -not feel to boast, as they say. He was vanquished, and yet the victor. -He had made a _bona fide_ sale of a clock where all hitherto had failed; -and though for the present he couldn’t show the shiners for his bargain, -he hoped in some way to bring up arrearages, and return to tell a fair -story to his compeers. - -The blood freshened his cheeks a good deal more than usual, it must be -confessed, as he helped the helpless “young ox” to mount. It was quite a -lug, as they say; and, to tell the truth, he was right glad when his -wagon, with its added contents of dying stock, and dead stock, was -fairly outside of the yard in the public highway. - -On emerging from the premises of farmer M. he turned south toward V——n -Court House, situated some few miles distant. He had now time to lay his -plans. In the interval there were few dwellings, and even if there had -been, he was in no mood for any new adventure just in that region. As we -have already intimated, however, the pedler was a man of large -experience; and more than this, he had profited by it—he had acquired -tact—he was well fitted to extricate himself from difficulty, and that -of the most perplexing kind. - -From an occasional inquiry of a passing traveler, he ascertained that -the court was in session at V——n Court House; and his plan of -operations was predicated upon this welcome intelligence. He thought -that if it proved so, he might make a demonstration to some profit. - -On reaching the ample green, on which the Court House stood, he was -satisfied that the court was in session. Accordingly, he drew up at some -little distance from the front door, unhitched his horses, and made -ready. Shortly after, the court adjourned. The throng, in goodly -numbers, issued from the building; and it so happened that they were in -great good humor—a cause having just been decided the right way to -please the populace; and of this sort of people there was an abundance, -with a commendable sprinkling of a somewhat higher grade. At this -critical moment the pedler stepped upon his cart, and in quite a civil -way, begged to announce to the gentlemen, that he had some few articles -on sale, which he would be happy to show them. - -The crowd gathered round, and the inquiry rose thicker and faster, “What -you got?” “What you got?” - -Responding to the already clamorous demand, the pedler, with a calm and -composed front, said that if the gentlemen pleased, he would take the -liberty to exhibit a specimen of _flaxseed_. He had paid a large price -for it, and not having a great quantity, he would sell only a spoonful -of it to an individual. In this way he could give them all a chance; but -mark it, gentlemen, if you please, said he, “I sell only one spoonful to -an individual; one spoonful—not a thimbleful more.” - -“Price?” inquired a farmer, who thought much of choice seeds. - -“One dollar, gentlemen, per spoonful,” said the pedler. “I know it’s -high—but _such_ flaxseed, gentlemen, you don’t see every day.” - -“A dollar for a spoonful of flaxseed!” exclaimed a man—one of the old -settlers, with a long pendent queue to his back—“I have been a long -time in these parts, but I never heard such a price for a spoonful of -flaxseed.” - -“A fair price, I dare say,” said a man standing by, “a fair price, if -it’s the genuine—the genuine—there, now, I can’t think of the -kind—it’s the new sort. I’d give five dollars, if I couldn’t get a -spoonful without. Only for seed, sir—for seed.” - -“Pray, Mr. Pedler,” said another, “is this seed imported?” - -“Why I rather think it was. I _im_ported it.” - -“From what country did it come?” asked another. - -“Well, that’s more than I can say, whether from Flanders, or Ireland, or -New Holland.” - -But these names were enough; and as the last seemed to linger longest on -some one’s mind, he immediately exclaimed, “New Holland! yes, I dare -say—a grand country for flax,” and presently the multitude had improved -upon these hints—in part facts, and in part surmises—and round it -went, that there was flaxseed of a choice kind, just in from New -Holland; and one man, who seemed to know something of geography, and -whose logic was about equal to what he knew of the face of the earth, -declared that as it had come some thousands of miles, it was, -_therefore_, probably a very long or tall kind. - -“Gentlemen!” said the pedler, who had watched the increasing enthusiasm -with the most solid satisfaction, and who thought it quite time to make -a strike, “gentlemen, one dollar per spoonful for this flaxseed—your -only chance, don’t expect ever to offer flaxseed here again; last -chance, gentlemen—who’ll—” - -He was cut short by the advance of a clever, and even staid looking man, -who said, “I’ll take a spoonful.” - -“And I”—“and I”—“and I,” said half a dozen voices all together. - -“One at a time, gentlemen,” said the pedler, “serve you all, and just as -fast as I can—the sooner I get through the better.” - -And so he went on, parceling out the flaxseed, and pocketing the -dollars, till at last he had the pleasure—and a profound pleasure it -was—to stow away in his money-wallet the 75th dollar for the 75th -spoonful of flaxseed taken from an old cask in the out-room of Mr. M., -in the “Old Dominion,” in part pay for a clock, but which some of the -purchasers would have it had come direct from New Holland. - -“Seventy-five dollars for the flaxseed,” said the pedler, “seventy-five -dollars—seventy-five—that will do.” - -And now the pedler’s voice was again heard, and on a somewhat higher -key. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I’ve a still more remarkable article to -dispose of—only one, and only one can have it; and the question is, who -will be the fortunate purchaser. Gentle—men, this _calf_ is for sale.” - -The welkin rung. “A calf for sale!” said half a dozen. “Come, walk -up—who’ll buy? Who wants a calf?” - -“You’d better sell yourself,” said a roughish-looking stripling, -addressing the pedler. - -“Quite likely, my man,” responded the pedler. “I lately felt a good deal -more like a calf than I do just now. But I’ll sell the calf first, and -then think about selling myself. This calf for sale. Who bids?” - -“Price?” said one. - -“Twenty-five dollars,” replied the pedler. - -“What breed?” asked another. - -“Well, you all see, as for that matter, that he’s _short horns_.” - -“Very plain matter of fact, that,” said a good-natured, jolly sort of a -fellow. “Is he Durham, or what is he?” - -“That’s more than I know—he’s _short horns_, but whether Durham or -Dedham—how can I tell?” - -“Durham!” exclaimed a prompt, rosy-cheeked fellow, stepping up; “why, -you simpleton, don’t you know the value of the creature you are -selling—even a bigger simpleton might see with half an eye that he’s -Durham; look at his white spots—he’s handsome as a picture.” - -“Handsome!” retorted another, “I wonder where you see beauty.” - -“Well,” said another, “never mind for beauty—what’s his name, Mr. -Pedler?” - -“Well,” said the pedler, “I don’t know exactly what to call him. I guess -we’ll call him Dromeo.” - -“Romeo, you fool,” said a voice in the crowd. - -“Oh, yes, what a mistake—funny enough,” said the pedler. “Romeo, -gentlemen, Romeo—who’ll bid?” - -And now, as in case of the flaxseed, the praises of Romeo went the -rounds, till there was even a controversy who should have him. - -Suffice it to say, a square-built man was the purchaser. The money was -paid, even before Romeo was let down on to terra firma. But that -operation was now gone through with, and the first result was that the -calf fell like a flounder. - -“O, aint you ashamed of yourself, Romeo,” said the pedler; “come, stand -up in the presence of these gentlemen.” - -Romeo, however, couldn’t find his legs, as they say; and the pedler had -to explain and apologize for his want of manners. “He had been a little -ailing,” he believed, “but the person of whom I purchased him, said he -looked better.” - -“No wonder if he does ail a little,” said a man who was helping him to -stand up, “it’s a long voyage he’s come, and cattles are quite likely to -get sick on a voyage.” - -“That, indeed,” said another, “he looks like as if he’d been very -sea-sick—I dare say he was.” - -“He needs something to eat,” said the pedler, “it’s a good while that -he’s been fasting.” - -“Well,” said the purchaser, with some assurance, and well satisfied with -his bargain, “plenty of milk hard by—come, boys, give him a lift into -the wagon, and I’ll import him a little further.” - -Accordingly, some half a dozen hands were soon occupied in raising Romeo -into the farmer’s wagon. - -Meanwhile, the pedler rolled up the bills, and safely deposited them in -his pocket-book, which, on returning to its usual place, he said, “One -hundred dollars! one hundred dollars for a clock!—a clock sold to Mr. -M., of ——! One hundred dollars—that will do!” - -No time was now lost by the pedler in re-hitching his horses, which -done, he left for head-quarters, there to tell and exult over the -success of his experiment in selling a clock. The multitude, which had -been some time thinning, now left the Court House and its precincts to -their solitude. - - * * * * * - -Our story summons us once more, but briefly, to the farm-house of Mr. M. - -At about half past seven that same evening, the farmer having returned, -was quietly seated with his wife at the supper-table. He seemed, though -wearied, in excellent spirits. Several circumstances had occurred during -the day to put him in good humor. And for some reason his wife looked, -he thought, more than ordinarily interesting; she was dressed with more -taste. The room was neat and tidy; the light shone more brilliantly, and -the table had a better bill of fare; in short, Mrs. M. had exerted -herself to give her husband as kind and welcome a reception as she well -could. And she had evidently succeeded. He seemed pleased, while she -herself was unusually cheerful and sociable. - -She had just turned out a third or fourth cup of tea for Mr. M., and was -in the very act of handing it to him across the table, when from an -adjoining room was heard the clock striking one, two, three, four. - -Mr. M. had taken the cup, but it fell as suddenly as if at that instant -a paralysis had seized his arm—the cup broke, and the tea flooded the -table; at the same time the glance of a kindled eye shot across at his -wife. - -“Caroline!” said he, in a sharp and inquisitive tone. - -“Husband!” at the same time exclaimed Mrs. M. “My dear husband, will you -hear me?” - -“No,” said the exasperated man, “hear what? What is the meaning of all -this? No, I don’t want to hear any explanation. You have violated—” - -“My dear husband,” interrupted Mrs. M., “only hear me—one instant—one -brief explanation.” - -“None,” said he, rising from his chair. At the same time his wife rose, -and approaching him, gently laid her hand upon his shoulder, and -supplicated his calm and kind attention to her explanation. - -“Have you purchased that clock?” he inquired. - -“Husband! may be I’ve done wrong,” she replied, “but how can you judge -till you hear?” - -Mr. M. was a man of impulse, as the reader will readily perceive—and -yet he was kind in his nature; and when reason was permitted to speak, -he was disposed to listen and judge with candor. - -At his wife’s request he resumed his seat. She drew her chair to his -side. She explained. First she spoke of the calf, and of the ten dollars -allowed her for it. - -“You recollect, husband,” said she, “that only yesterday you wished it -dead.” - -“Ah! that, indeed,” said Mr. M., his choler beginning again to wax hot, -“but I had rather lost twenty calves than patronize one of those -detestable pedlers. You knew my wishes.” - -“I did, my husband; and but for the opportunity of getting rid of -articles absolutely valueless to us, I should never have presumed to -have made such a purchase.” - -“Well, let that pass,” said the husband, his own good sense confessing -that she got a large price for what he had wished off his premises—only -he didn’t wish to be thought patronizing a pedler. - -“You got a large price,” he added. - -“Well,” replied Mrs. M., “the clock-man,” she avoided the mention of the -word pedler, “allowed me to name my own price, and I aimed in the whole -to please you.” - -“To please me!” said Mr. M., petulantly. - -“Not to excite your displeasure rather, I should have said.” - -“Well, and what next?” - -“You place me in trying circumstances.” - -“You placed yourself there,” interrupted her husband. - -“Yes, according to your view of the case,” said Mrs M., “and you make me -regret that I could suffer myself to be tempted to take a clock; but I -see no way but to proceed and tell you the whole.” - -“Certainly,” said Mr. M. - -“Well, then, husband, you recollect that cask of old flaxseed out in—” - -“Flaxseed!” he exclaimed, his voice absolutely sounding over the whole -house, at the same time the blood rushing to his face, “flaxseed!—did -you sell that flaxseed? Is it, then, possible?” - -“Pray,” said Mrs. M., “what is the meaning of your unwonted excitement? -What have I done to raise this awful storm?” - -“Done?” said he, “done? That flaxseed!—was it, then, that?” he paused. -“And pray what did you get for it?” - -“There was nearly a bushel of it,” replied Mrs. M., “and I was allowed -three dollars for it.” - -“Three dollars a bushel!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it must be that—it must -be.” - -The whole truth was now before him. He understood the length and breadth -of the matter. His wife was the dupe of a keen and practiced pedler; but -she was less a dupe than himself. Slowly putting his hand into his -pocket, he took thence a paper, which he handed to his wife, and bid her -open it. She did so; and in it was a spoonful of what was once -_flaxseed_. - -Judge her surprise! - -“Husband!” said she, “what does this mean?” - -“Mean?” said he, “why it means that I am more of a fool than yourself. -You sold a bushel of flaxseed for three dollars, and I paid one dollar -for a spoonful of it. That is what it means.” - -“How so?” asked Mrs. M. - -The story was soon told. He was one of the seventy-five who had that day -purchased the flaxseed. He had left the ground before the selling was -through, and hence was ignorant as to the fate of the calf. But now the -whole was unraveled. And while husband and wife both experienced some -mortification of feeling, the joke was too good to allow any protracted -disturbance of their composure. - -Mrs. M. procured another cup, as her husband declared that the matter of -the clock shouldn’t deprive him of his usual allowance of tea, -especially after a day of such fatigue. - -The meal was at length finished; but before that, both had recovered -their equanimity, and even smiled at the strange events of the day. The -pedler didn’t escape some little malediction for the part he had acted; -but Mr. M. declared that a man deserved some credit who could carry his -purposes despite of such obstacles; but after all, he thought his wife -the better salesman, who could dispose of a bushel of old flaxseed for -three dollars, and a calf as good as dead for ten dollars. - - * * * * * - - - - - EFFIE DEANS. - - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - -Among the delightful creations of the fancy of the great “Wizard of the -North,” his story entitled “The Heart of Mid-Lothian” stands -conspicuous, and perhaps maintains a higher degree of popularity than -any other of the numerous productions of his pen. Of course, every -reader is familiar with the narrative, and we think all will be -gratified by an examination of the beautiful picture of the unfortunate -EFFIE DEANS, which graces the present number of our Magazine. It is from -the burin of Mr. T. B. WELCH, and is executed in the most finished style -of that very superior engraver. The point of time chosen by the artist -for the delineation of his subject, is that at which the procurator -Sharpitlaw causes himself to be conveyed to the cell of the miserable -girl, for the purpose of eliciting information respecting the haunts of -Robertson. The great novelist tells us that “the poor girl was seated on -her little flock-bed, plunged in a deep reverie. Some food stood on the -table, of a quality better than is usually supplied to prisoners, but it -was untouched. The person under whose care she was more particularly -placed said, ‘that sometimes she tasted naething from the tae end of the -four and twenty hours to the t’other, except a drink of water.’” - -[Illustration: _PAINTED BY S. BENDIXEN._ - -EFFIE DEANS. - -_ENGRAVED BY T. B. WELCH FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE._] - - * * * * * - - - - - WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA. - - - BY PROFESSOR FROST. - - -[Illustration] - - - THE WHOOPING CRANE. (_Ardea Americana._) - -Flocks of this bird are found during the autumn season in the Middle and -Western States, and along the shores of the great lakes. In summer they -resort in countless numbers to their breeding places, in the high -northern latitudes, from which they are again driven at the return of -the arctic winters. These migrations are regular, and extend from the -vast plains of South America to the snows of the Arctic Circle. - -While performing these immense journeys, the Cranes pass at such a -height in the air as to be invisible, stopping occasionally at some -favorite resting place in the line of their route. They are frequently -seen at those periods in the marshes and rice plantations of the South, -and in much smaller numbers near Cape May, where they are known by the -name of Storks. At those times they attract much attention, principally -of course from sportsmen; and a small number remain at the Cape all -winter. Here they wander in the mud, searching for worms; or if on the -wing they keep near the shore, sailing from place to place with a low, -heavy flight, and uttering a loud piercing cry, which may be heard two -miles. From this scream, and its occasional modulations, the bird has -received its name. If wounded, the Whooping Crane boldly faces his -pursuers, attacks dog or man, and has been known by one stroke to drive -his bill through the gunner’s hand. It is, however, a difficult bird to -shoot, on account of its shyness and vigilance. When a flock rises from -the ground it ascends spirally to a great height, each member sending -forth the piercing scream, which, uniting with the others, and ringing -through the air, fills the beholder with a feeling approaching to -terror. - -The favorite localities of the Whooping Crane are impenetrable swamps, -salt marshes, and small ponds or lakes near the sea. Here it hunts its -prey, passes its social life, feeds and nourishes its young. Their nests -are made of long grass, raised more than a foot above the ground, and -usually hidden among unfrequented swamps. The eggs are two in number, of -a pale blue color, spotted with brown. Thousands are reared every summer -at these favorite haunts, the young setting out in the following season -with the others, for the more genial climate of the South. This bird is -frequently eaten, and is said to be palatable. Its common food is worms, -insects, mice, moles, etc. It is the tallest bird indigenous to the -United States, measuring four feet six inches in length, and when erect -five feet in height. The bill is truly formidable, being six inches -long, an inch and a half thick, straight and extremely sharp. The -general color, excepting that of the head and the primaries, is pure -white, many of the feathers on each side lengthening into graceful -plumes, like those of the ostrich. The legs and thighs are black, thick -and strong. The tail, in common with that of the species, is covered by -a broad flag of plumage, which sets off the gracefulness of this truly -graceful bird to full advantage. - -It is supposed on good authority that the species known by naturalists -as the Brown Crane is but the young of this bird. It appears to extend -also across Behring’s Straits and throughout the great part of northern -Asia. It has likewise been confounded with the Canadian Crane, whose -habits are thus described by Major Long: “They fly at a great height, -and wheeling in circles, appear to rest, without effort, on the surface -of an aerial current, by whose eddies they are borne about in an endless -series of revolutions. Each individual describes a large circle in the -air, independently of his associates, and uttering loud, distinct, and -repeated cries. They continue thus to wing their flight upward, -gradually receding from the earth until they become mere specks upon the -sight, and finally altogether disappear, leaving only the discordant -music of their concert to fall faintly on the ear, exploring - - “‘Heavens not its own, and worlds unknown before.’” - -The distinction, however, between these two species is now clearly -ascertained. - -[Illustration] - - - THE CEDAR BIRD. (_Ampelis Americana._) - -This bird is also known by the names of the Crown Bird, and the Cherry -Bird. It abounds in the United States, and is found as far south as -Mexico, and northward to Canada. During the Summer months flocks of -Cedar birds are found in the mountainous tracts of our country, where -they find abundant food in the whortleberries with which, at that -season, the Blue Mountains, the Alleghanies, and the Cumberland abound. -At the approach of autumn they leave these haunts, and descend to more -cultivated, to feed upon the berries of the sour gum and red cedar. The -latter is their favorite food; a small flock is not unfrequently seen on -one small cedar tree; and here they gorge themselves to such an extent -that they may easily be taken by the hand. This voracity does not leave -the bird even in captivity; for instances have been known of a tame or -wounded one gormandizing upon apples or berries, until it choked to -death. They are also fond of grapes, ripe persimmons, and almost every -kind of berry; but the pursuit of insects, which they sometimes indulge -in, appears to originate rather from a love of sport, or of mischief, -than from any preference to that kind of food. During the season of -fruit they are fat, tender, and much esteemed for the table; but they -become almost worthless when obliged to live upon insects. - -The Cedar Bird is noted for its graceful figure, the beauty of its -plumage, and for the tuft or crown which adorns the head, and which it -can elevate or depress at pleasure. The feathers are of the texture of -fine silk or down, glossy and beautiful. It has long been confounded by -foreigners with the European Chatterer, but is much smaller than that -bird, possesses marked differences of plumage, and specific differences -of nature. Its usual note is but a feeble lisp, generally uttered while -rising or alighting. When flying they move in parties of fifty or sixty, -crowded closely together, and on reaching a tree alight in the same -compact manner. Of course the sportsman is enabled to do terrible -execution, sometimes destroying half a flock at a single discharge. -Their great enemy is the farmer; and when we take into consideration how -perseveringly they endeavor to harvest his cherry orchards, even to the -last gleaning, in spite, too, of guns and scare-crows, it must be -acknowledged that he has better cause for war against them than in many -instances of supposed feathered aggressions. The Cedar Bird, however, -increases rapidly; and a singular circumstance connected with its habits -is the unusually late time at which it begins to build. This is supposed -to be owing to a scarcity of food in the spring. The nest is not begun -before the second week in June. It is located on a cedar tree, or in -some orchard, usually in a forked branch ten or twelve feet from the -ground. The bottom is composed of coarse dry stalks of grass, and the -whole is lined with very fine threads or blades of the same material. -The eggs are three or four in number, white, with a bluish cast, very -sharp at the point, and blunt at the other end, the whole surface marked -with small round black spots. After being hatched the young are fed for -a while on insects, and afterward on berries. If the nest be attacked -the parent birds utter no cry, but will sometimes make a show of defence -by snapping the bill, elevating the crest, and attack with mimick fury -the object which disturbs them. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE WILLOW BY THE SPRING. - - - BY J. HUNT, JR. - - - Near to my old grandfather’s cot, - A small stream murmurs by; - And from its bank a spring pours out, - Whose waters never dry; - Beside that spring a willow stands— - A tall and stately tree— - Oh, would you learn what charms it hath? - I’ll tell its charms to me; - The willow by the spring, - The willow by the spring; - Oh, may it live and strength receive, - While Time the moments wing. - - My mother, on her bridal morn, - Two twigs inserted there; - And twining them together close, - United thus the pair; - She left them to the charge of Fate, - To flourish or to fade; - But taking root, they freely grew, - And gave the spring a shade; - The willow by the spring, - The willow by the spring; - Oh, may it live and strength receive, - While Time the moments wing. - - How oft have I, when but a child, - And e’en in later years, - Sat ’neath that willow’s drooping boughs, - And bathed its roots in tears; - Not for a sadness which I felt, - From pains that pressed my heart; - But Mem’ry, with her troop of thoughts, - Bade Feeling’s fountain start; - The willow by the spring, - The willow by the spring; - Oh, may it live and strength receive, - While Time the moments wing. - - When on the cultured plains of life, - A wedded pair I see, - Who, true to each, together cling, - I think upon that tree; - There, green in age, it broadly spreads - Its branches to the sun— - Distinct, two trunks appear in view, - And yet, they “twain are one.” - That willow of my home, - That willow of my home; - Oh, may it live and strength receive, - One hundred years to come. - - * * * * * - - - - - WE ARE CHANGED. - - - BY EDITH BLYTHE. - - - We are changed—we are changed—The time was once - That our hearts were light and free, - And the song and the laugh rang out in tones - Of merry, blithesome glee: - We are changed—we are changed—for grief and care - Have wrought the work of years, - And our smiles have fled, and our eyes grown dim - With burning bitter tears. - - We are changed—for our hearts no longer now - Can echo the songs of mirth, - And the sunbeams are few, and the shadows dark, - That seem to encircle the earth. - The step has grown slow that was buoyant and light, - When erst the green forest we ranged; - Our fair dreams have fled, and hope’s bright star is gone— - And we feel we are changed—we are changed. - - * * * * * - - - - - EDITOR’S TABLE. - - - THE MEANS OF A MAN’S LASTING FAME. - - - BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER. - - -As a general rule, we must look to the earliest years of a man to -ascertain the facts and circumstances which have influenced the conduct -and produced the result of his latest years; just as we ascend to the -sources of a stream, to find what has caused the color and quality of -its water; on looking a little down we find those assisting or -disturbing accidents that divert or direct its current. - -But while the quality of a man’s mind may be dependent upon the gifts of -God or the culture of his infancy—while we may trace up from the last -effort of matured greatness to the earliest movement of the nascent -powers, the influence of the first directing causes, and see how -qualities were improved and greatness achieved; while all the colors of -the mind seem to be derived from infancy, and the fame of the youth is -made obviously referable to the culture of the nursery and the fireside -circle, we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that even in later years, -when the tone or the color of the mind becomes fixed, when the qualities -have insured fame and eminence, some unseen, and by the world -unsuspected, cause operates to disturb the onward course, impede the -progress, lessen the influence, and thus diminish the greatness of the -gifted one that has been “the observed of all observers,” as a -projecting rock divides the current at the mouth of a stream, or an -accumulated bar prevents a depth and destroys the usefulness of a river -which has flowed steadily, beautifully and profitably from its source in -the mountain to its entrance into the sea. - -And, not to drop the simile, we see some men moving on in constantly -augmenting consequence, swaying public opinion and enlightening public -sentiment, and seeming to bid fair to swallow up in their fame the -credit of all, by making all tributary to them, when suddenly they sink -from observation; drop from the course they have pursued, and are lost -to sight, just as the rivers of Florida flow along with augmented volume -toward the Gulf, as if to gather themselves into a glorious estuary, -when suddenly they sink into the earth, and are lost amid the -subterranean caverns that abound in a country of such peculiar -geological formation, and like - - The Niger escape the keen traveler’s eye, - By plunging or changing the clime. - -We see around us numerous instances of this kind of autumnal failure. -History is full of them. Our country presents cases of remarkable -strength. And as it acquires years and augmented numbers, more will -present themselves, and as the means of observation increase, and -publicity becomes greater, of course attention will be more drawn to the -fact; and perhaps the causes, too, will be better understood, I do not -know that they will be avoided; if we are right in our conjectures as to -their causes, then we fear that they will continue—and while they -continue they will produce like effects. - -I am about to speak of the disturbing cause of manhood—the hidden -influences to harm to which he is exposed—something that comes in -manhood to defeat the hopes and expectation of childhood and youth, -something that paralyzes the arm lifted in the harvest field, for which -seed-time had been appropriately used, and vernal showers and summer -suns had done their work of good. I must not, however, be supposed to -intimate that all attention is not due to infancy and childhood, to -insure the man of worth, or that all of goodness and most of greatness -in age are not the consequence of early devotion. We know it is—but we -are not hence released from the necessity of inquiry, what it is that -defeats the labors given to age—what is it that strikes down the man in -his upward march—what is it that suddenly, to the appearance of the -world, but perhaps slowly to the sufferer, withdraws the vital stamina -of his mind, and leaves him powerless, hopeless, _ambitionless_! The -tree that sheds its deciduous leaves in autumn, may have in itself no -powers to renew its foliage in the spring, and if sentient would feel -that the sap which was receding from its branches would never again -flow, to promote its growth and restore its beauty—but the world would -know nothing of the blight until spring had brought out other trees, and -exposed its nakedness and death, then it might concern the arborator to -inquire what had affected that “which promised ere long to be the pride -of the wood and prince among the neighboring trees.” Is man less worthy -of consideration than insensible wood? But man does not regard his kind; -he acknowledges a law for all of nature beside, but for himself and his, -he submits all to chance, and fate becomes the providence of submission. -If with the season a single class of birds omit their advent—or come in -less considerable numbers than was their wont—forthwith the philosopher -peers into nature, compares her laws, and with infinite research comes -to guess at the motive which influenced the motion of the feathered -tribe. “But man dieth and wasteth away.” The immortality upon which he -is seizing fades in his grasp, or his hand becomes palsied—few or none -reach the point at which they aim, and there is no one to ask the reason -of the failure, or to explain the causes which have disappointed the -aspirant of his fame and the world of its advantage. - -“Of how much more value are ye than many sparrows!” - -I have often in moments of reflection upon the fame and conduct of -particular, distinguished men, felt a great anxiety to know something of -their private life, that I might be able to judge of the cause of the -disappointment which their life’s close had worked for their friends and -admirers. I have put the question to some one who might have more -knowledge than I of the individual to whom I referred. - -“Oh, he drinks too much.” - -“That is true—anybody can see that. But how does it happen that such a -person should drink too much?” - -“The constant demand upon his intellect gave him a habit of stimulating, -and that is a good way toward intoxication.” - -“But I do not see in his pursuits that kind of demand for stimuli which -poets are supposed to have? I think that drinking is rather an effect -than a cause.” - -Such questions and such answers, with such conclusions, were frequent. -Accident at length led me to a closer knowledge of the circumstances of -one person, whose fame seemed to pale before the effectual fires of some -hidden conflagration. - -Blackstone had taken his place at the bar of his native county, and -extended his practice to the various courts of the State, so that he -seemed, in a few years, to have got possession of a position for which -many had given a life time of labor. The amount of his business at the -bar did not hinder him from distinguishing himself in the halls of the -legislature, and his commanding eloquence commended him to the people of -both parties as a representative in Congress, where his career fulfilled -all the expectations of his warmest political friends, and justified the -vote in his favor of his political opponents. - -Years passed away, and the habits of this popular and eminent citizen -were less exemplary than the fame of his talents would require, and -while his many friends had to confess a bitter disappointment, he seemed -dissatisfied with himself, and constantly in need of something which no -one seemed able to impart. He lost the high position which he had -reached, and the world wondered at the change; all, of course, censured -the recusant, and blamed him justly, because there was that in his -habits which shocked the temperate. “No man in these days,” it was said -with emphasis, “no man can expect to sustain himself in any public -position who neglects the proprieties of life by indulging in -intemperate use of spirituous liquor.” - -Here was a cause for the lapse in the upward course. To drink too much -is to be unable to ascend—we do not mean a play upon a vulgar -designation for inebriety, when we say that he who drinks too much has -in him a too heavy load to take with him to the temple of desirable -fame. - -But admitting intemperance as the proximate cause of the change in the -man’s conduct—may we not be allowed to suspect that there was a remote -cause—some less potent influence working the evil, but producing -through the agency of liquor? In other words we did inquire into the -circumstances of Blackstone and found that there was a remote cause, and -we found also what that cause was: - -Blackstone’s fine person and commanding talents, gave him the welcome -_entrée_ of the first families of West Virginia: whether these are equal -to the real F. F. V. of the eastern portion of the State, we do not -know, but they were glad to find Blackstone among them. He married a -young woman of good education—we mean of considerable school -learning—and she was beside handsome and agreeable. She admired the -position which Blackstone had achieved—was pleased with the fame of her -husband, and not a little elated at the distinction which his character -and popularity conferred on her. The world all saw that Mrs. B. was -proud of her husband—the world as usual made a mistake. She was proud -of being Blackstone’s wife. The reflected honor was most grateful, and -she enjoyed it. She appreciated the distinction which she possessed, -almost as highly as she did the abundant supply of money which her -husband’s position at the bar enabled him to supply. - -But Mrs. Blackstone never thought much about the manner in which the -money was acquired, and never for a moment thought of the ingredients of -her husband’s fame. She knew that Mr. B. was a distinguished lawyer, but -it never occurred to her that the maintenance of his position demanded -as much exertion as did the attainment thereof. She knew by common fame, -by the newspapers, and by other tokens, that her husband was one of the -most distinguished speakers of that speaking portion of the country, and -she knew, because all said, that his speeches in the halls of -legislation or at the courts of justice were not merely verbal -outpourings, they contained deep thought and persuasive arguments, and -constant instruction. But it never occurred to Mrs. B. that these -gigantic works of her husband were the result of efforts; that without -due preparation he would have failed in the midst of his argument, and -that each glorious exposition of the law to the court, each elucidation -of the constitution to the Legislature demanded that its successor -should be as well sustained, should add to his fame for learning and -acumen, and that consequently new study, new labor, new intensity of -application, could alone secure to the gifted speaker the fame which his -antecedent argument had acquired. To her, we say, such an idea never -occurred. She seemed to think, or at least her conduct would warrant the -conclusion that she thought, the eloquence and the learning of her -husband were as little the result of exertions as was his physical -proportion, and that one of his great speeches was as easily made as was -a pedestrian movement from his house to the office. The truth is, she -thought nothing about it. - -A friend whose business calls him frequently to the West, tells us that -he was at one time an inmate of Mr. Blackstone’s family for some -weeks—that on one occasion the whole town had been wrapt in admiration -at one of his magnificent addresses in the court-house—it was a speech -which if it had been the only one of any man’s life would have insured -enviable fame. Our informant, roused from the deep absorption which the -speech produced, hastened at its close to the dwelling of Mr. B., that -he might sit and enjoy the rich effect which the language and tone had -produced upon his mind. Mrs. B. was in the parlor, and he informed her -of the unexampled efforts and success of her husband. She merely -remarked that she had heard him speak often before their marriage but -never since. - -Of course, a lady was not going to laud her husband; she was modest. - -Later in the evening, the visiter was sitting in the library, when Mr. -B. entered that portion of the house. He was exhausted, mentally and -physically. He knew that he had done great things, and he desired, as -all men do, to have his wife share in the pleasure—nay, to double the -pleasure to him by her kind, affectionate, partial commendation of his -labors, and hearty rejoicings at his success. - -“It was, Cornelia,” said he, “one of my most fortunate hits, and when I -summed up the testimony and presented the cause of the injured widow, -there was not a dry eye in the court-room; and the gallery was crowded -with ladies. Mrs. Campbell sat in front, listening with the most marked -attention—” - -“Did she—what dress did Mrs. Campbell wear?” - -“Dress—but——” - -It was ever thus. Whatever effort Blackstone made—whatever applause -abroad followed his exertions, there was an entire want of sympathy at -home. Not that Mrs. B. was without high mental powers, not that those -powers lacked cultivation; but she had no knowledge of what a public man -expects of his home, no comprehension of the great fact, that no -out-of-door applause, no huzza of the multitude, no approval of even a -judicious public is complete in its effect upon the recipient, unless -sanctioned and sealed by the council at home—a council the head and -chief of which is the wife, but which includes every member of the -domestic circle. Distinguished men are not candidates alone for -_applause_. They receive the censure, the vituperation, and persecution -sometimes of those whose views they may oppose. Whose good they can no -longer promote—for whom they have done the ninety-nine good acts but -failed in their attempt at the hundredth—and that failure cancels all -obligations for former success; how prospective is public gratitude! - -Blackstone of course had his opponents, and when he entered his house, -stung with insults from impeached motives, and felt how faithless had -been those upon whom he had leaned, a word or two of kindness, one -intimation that he could and would survive all such attacks. One gentle, -soothing strain from a wife who knows or ought to know the most -sensitive spot on which the public thong had fallen, and who can apply -the soothing ointment of affection—one cheering word would have lifted -him over the difficulty and made him feel that in himself he had the -material of resistance, and the weapons of final victory. A glass or two -of brandy stiffens the nerves and rallies the mind to its wonted -tone—that application must, of course, be increased in amount whenever -renewed, or the effect will cease—and we need not tell what must be the -consequence of such a resort. - -The remedy of wife-like sympathy, domestic soothing, may indeed, like -the latter, need augmentation by frequency of application—but it comes -from a source that is never dried up by use, that increases by drafts -upon it—and produces no injurious effects upon the mind or body made -recipient of its soothing power. - -I know now, because I know more than I have above related, that the -errors of Blackstone, his short-coming, the comparative dimness of his -once glowing fame which seemed marked to “shine more and more unto the -perfect day;” his want of perseverance—his new habits of -remissness—his loss of fame—all, all are due to a want of _home_—of -that which makes his house his home—makes home—home. - -I speak not here of the thousand instances in which incompatability of -temper forever precludes family enjoyment—where vice, or what is next -to vice, want of domestic proprieties, disturb the peace of home; I cite -no instance of the defeat of a man’s high purpose, and the baffling of -the noble aims which elevated talents and finished education may form—I -quote not shipwrecks like those which may be due to the vulgar mind or -the vicious course of the wife—such causes are usually as obvious as -their effects. The men of more spirit than judgment breaks away from the -destructive cause, and tries to acquire an independence of home. Man is -not independent of home, if he has a place which he calls home, and all -his life, and all his conduct, and all his experience must and will -derive their coloring in no mean degree from that home, however man may -treat its condition or seek to place himself beyond its influence. - -The distinguished Mr. Coke of South Carolina, seemed to me in some -considerable intercourse, to have rather a brilliant fancy, but to lack -that severe discipline which goes to make a man truly and permanently -great and popular—yet he seldom failed in producing a considerable -effect on an audience which he addressed, whatever might be the subject, -and nervous as was his system—he rarely evinced on the morning after a -defeat any tokens of irritation or discouragement. His wife made it her -business, and it became her pleasure to be an auditor of his -narrations—to hear his complaints against individuals at the moment of -anger and seem to forget his charges when returning equanimity led him -to speak in a different tone and temper of his vigorous and sometimes -successful antagonist. - -He never came from a public exercise of his talents without being -willingly compelled to give an account of the whole matter to his -family, unless it was unpleasant; in that case his wife was the -attentive soothing listener. - -The triumph of the forum or the ‘stump’ (pardon the Americanism,) was -doubled in the joy which the narration gave to the family, and the -unpleasant occurrences of such arenas were never referred to in the -family, so that Coke was sure of pleasure at home, whatever may have -been the pleasure abroad—he was sure of delicate sympathy at home -whatever may have been the vexation abroad. His fireside was the seat of -pleasure—his house was his home—his home was a home. - -What is the result of all this? The course of Mr. Coke as all know has -been onward and upward—not with the swiftness or the sunlike aim of -Blackstone—but steadily, constantly, and successfully. Charge Mrs. -Blackstone with having impeded the course of her gifted husband, and she -would start with anger at, and abhorrence of the charge. She had never -disgraced him by misconduct, nor hindered him by interference. - -Credit Mrs. Coke with having been the cause of her husband’s success, -and she would be not less astonished; she knew nothing of the subjects -of which her husband had acquired fame by speaking; she had consequently -never assisted in his preparation for public display, nor added an idea -to his brief. - -The cold negative of Mrs. Blackstone had chilled her husband into -indifference or disgust. - -The cheering warmth of Mrs. Coke’s affectionate attention and timely -attendance had inspired her husband with that proper degree of -self-respect which is necessary to self-dependence, and her soothing -sympathies had lulled unfriendly feelings toward others, so that he lost -nothing of acquired popularity by injudicious utterance of irritated -feelings. - -It would not be difficult to adduce numerous instances, in divers walks -of life, of the good effect of matrimonial sympathy upon the success of -the husband and the position of the family. Very little can be expected -of a man abroad who lives in a state of constant indifference at -home—who has there no encouragement to efforts, and no gentle soothing -in failure, no inspiriting by the utterance of confidence in his powers, -who gathers no gentle pride by those hearty, warm, open plaudits at the -fireside, which would have shocked his feelings if offered abroad. - -The merchant needs it, when his adventure is in imminent danger, or his -losses exceed his expectations. The mechanic requires it when planning -some work from which a kind of fame and a hoped for credit are to flow. - -The laborer has as much advantage from the encouraging tone of his -wife’s voice as has any other man, and disappointment has its sting -poisoned or extracted, just as the woman sees proper to meet the evil. - -“If a man would be rich he must ask his wife.” This is an old and a true -proverb, and applies as much to the riches of fame and station as to -those of pecuniary estimate. And if a man hopes to rise in life, let him -as a means of ascent carefully weigh the character of her who is to be -his companion—let him investigate closely her habits of sympathizing -with others, and her ability to conform to his situation. Wealth, -beauty, talents, education, are all desirable in woman, all appropriate -to her position, all contribute to her means of true usefulness. But -coldness, selfishness, indifference to the tastes and feelings of -others, and consequent uselessness as a wife, are all quite inconsistent -with those other attractions, and render them worthless—a means of -annoyance rather than a source of pleasure. - -Constant affection, household knowledge, unfailing sympathy with the -wishes, views and efforts of the husband, good common sense, are those -jewels of a wife’s inheritance which are infinitely above all others, -though eminently consistent with those usually so highly valued. - -Let no female reader think the dignity or the rights of her sex invaded, -nor the wrongs neglected, and start up to declare what a miserable state -a bad husband imposes upon a wife; we are speaking of an independent -evil. We know how much misery is brought into families, and how all good -is banished by the follies and wickedness of the husband. But our -business now is to speak of the errors of the wife—faults of character -which it seems almost impossible to correct in the individual, but which -must be looked to and avoided by those who look to marriage as a means -of happiness and advancement. The person must be avoided: faults of -conduct are more or less easily corrected, as they more or less depend -upon the character, condition, or temper of the individual. But, alas! -when, after repeated monitions, and as repeated failures, people come to -say “it is her way,” then it seems almost impossible to hope for -success. - -It appears to us, however, worth while for men, and women too, to look -at the circumstances to which we profess only to have referred. Let them -weigh the value of domestic peace—let them estimate the worth of home -attractions and home pleasures, and let some one sit down and look -calmly and philosophically at the influence of family peace, family -pleasure, family support, upon the character and condition of a man—of -the husband—and then see whether what _we_ have noticed is not worth -the notice of others. - -We do not say that the man of learning wants a learned wife, nor that -the statesman needs a political partner. But both need a wife who will -sympathize in their feelings, will try to improve advantages and -mitigate evils, and thus to bring to the house and the fireside the -great sources of man’s happiness and man’s triumphs. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _A Second Visit to the United States of North America. By Sir - Charles Lyell, F. R. S. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. - 12mo._ - -Sir Charles Lyell is the exact opposite of those English tourists who -emphasize the little peculiarities of American character, and pass off -their caricatures as national traits. He is a rigid man of science, -without sufficient humor or imagination to seize upon individual -peculiarities, and confines himself altogether to facts and sensible -remarks. He is essentially a moderate man in mind as well as in -disposition, and thoroughly conscientious, good-natured and -unimpassioned. His eye for scenery is that of a man of science, not of a -poet; he observes geology and botany, not mountains and sunny slopes of -green hills; and through the whole book there is not one example of his -mind rising above the dead level of calm observation and classification, -even in the presence of the most beautiful and sublime scenes of nature. -In regard equally to men, institutions, and scenery, he seems incapable -either of admiration or dislike, and from his utter lack of -sensitiveness to any impressions, the reader is made to wonder how he -can be any thing but a bore to himself. His moderation is perfect. He -discusses the copyright question and the question of slavery in a manner -so cool and just as to distinguish him from all other English tourists, -and also from all American chatterers on those word-flooded themes. If -he is thus destitute of glow and enthusiasm, it must be admitted that -these defects have their compensations. His statements are always -reliable. The geological information the volumes contain is of course -beyond cavil, but his observations are almost equally just on the -subjects of religion, education, and the practical working of our -political institutions. He may not convey much information to an -American, but it is but proper to admit that his tolerant and -conscientious representations will be sure to dispel many errors and -prejudices in the minds of his own countrymen. An Englishman is apt to -consider it a duty to believe every thing bad against the United States, -and it is pleasant to think that a man with the social and scientific -position of Sir Charles Lyell has the disposition as well as the power -to present the good side of our society for foreign contemplation. - -In the eighth chapter of his first volume, Lyell discusses the Sea -Serpent, and comes to the conclusion that it is a Basking Shark. Since -his book was published the creature has been seen again off Nahaut -Beach, and the shark hypothesis completely overturned. We perceive that -Agassiz believes in the Serpent, and his opinion is almost as -authoritative as Lyell’s reasonings. - -An interesting chapter in these volumes is devoted to the reprints of -English books, in the course of which the author gives an account of the -mammoth establishment of the Harpers. In the course of the year 1845 the -publishers sold two millions of volumes. Their success with particular -books seems to have filled Lyell with as much wonder as he is capable of -feeling. They sold 80,000 copies of the Wandering Jew, and 40,000 copies -of Bulwer’s Last of the Barons. Up to April, 1849, they had disposed of -40,000 copies of Macaulay’s History, at prices varying from four dollars -to fifty cents, and they calculated that the publishers of other -editions had sold 20,000, making in all 60,000 copies of one book in -about three months. The circulation of the same work in Great Britain -had been almost unprecedented, considering that the price was thirty-two -shillings, and yet during the same period only 13,000 copies were -disposed of. Since that period the English circulation has risen to -20,000, and we doubt not the American has nearly reached 80,000. Lyell -seems to think, in alluding to these facts, that what the English author -loses in money by an absence of copyright in America, he makes up in -popularity and fame. - - * * * * * - - _The Liberty of Rome: A History with an Historical Account of - the Liberty of Ancient Nations. By Samuel Eliot. New York: Geo. - P. Putnam. 2 vols. 8vo._ - -This work, though composed of two solid octavos, each numbering five -hundred pages, is still but the beginning of a series. The adventurous -author intends to follow them up with a line of successors, devoting a -brace of volumes to the Liberty of the Early Christian Ages, another to -the Liberty of the Middle Ages, and still another to the Liberty of -Europe since the Reformation. In addition to these, separate works are -to be produced on the Liberty of England and that of America. Few, even -among the giants of one idea, could contemplate such a vision of labor -without despair, but Mr. Eliot has fully made up his mind to undertake -the task; and there seems to be in him a power, possessed by few -scholars, of unflinchingly looking in the face a prospect of dogged -work, which will probably carry him through the business. The present -volumes are able, full of learning, inspired by a genuine love of -liberty and a genuine sense of religion, and are not deficient in -historical sagacity. They reflect great credit on the author’s industry -and ability, and, in many respects, are an addition to historical and to -American literature. It would be foreign to our purpose to attempt an -abstract of his labors, stretching as they do over a vast field of facts -and principles, but it can be confidently asserted of his book, that it -can hardly be read without increasing our knowledge, and inspiring an -admiration of the author’s spirit, and a respect for his learning. If -Mr. Eliot fails in securing the attention of a large class of readers, -it will not be because he has nothing of importance to communicate, but -because he does not exactly understand the best mode of communicating -it. His style is generally languid, oppressed with words brought in to -limit propositions, and the sentences are unconnected by that fusing -spirit which gives directness and movement to narration and -disquisition. These defects are perhaps the more observable, as the -style is ambitious to the extent of suggesting an effort after -correctness, and, with little freshness and energy, is replete with -images seen through an unimaginative haze of words, and implying the -absence rather than the possession of poetical power. The fault of the -work, in short, is the fault of a person unpracticed in composition, and -substituting a heavy rhetoric for a natural style; the merits are of a -kind which the purest and raciest writers might be proud to claim. - - * * * * * - - _The Penance of Roland, a Romance of the Peine Forte et Dure, - and Other Poems. By Henry B. Hirst, Author of Endymion, etc. - Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16 mo._ - -This volume, though it contains nothing equal in classic beauty and -grace to the exquisite poem of Endymion, has striking merits of another -kind, indicating that the author’s genius is versatile, and can roam at -will into many regions of song. The Penance of Roland is a long and -spirited ballad story, giving free play to a variety of strong passions, -and hurrying the reader swiftly along on a rushing stream of musical -verse to the conclusion. The author has united narration and description -in such an artistical manner, as to make his representations of scenery -and moods of mind aid instead of obstructing the story; and he produces -a strict unity of effect, by making every thing serve the dominant idea -of the poem. In this power of grasping a leading idea, of conceiving a -poem, Mr. Hirst is ever pre-eminently successful. This was the great -charm of Endymion, and it is just as observable in the smaller pieces -contained in the present volume as in that longer work. Of the whole -nineteen there is not one which is merely a collection of melodious -lines, embodying certain fancies and imaginations, but each is a short -poem, imaginatively conceived and artistically executed. We have no -space to refer to them individually, but it can be said of them -generally, that they display a profound insight into the mysteries of -melody both in metre and rhythm, and evince great strength and subtilty -of imagination in the embodiment of varying moods of mind. The volume is -a rich addition to the poetical literature of the country. - - * * * * * - - _History of the National Constituent Assembly. By J. F. Corkran, - Esq. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -The author of this interesting volume was in daily attendance at the -National Assembly for some months, and his book is a record of his -personal observation of men and debates, including a view of the -measures introduced into the Assembly, and the mode in which they were -discussed. The author is an Englishman, and his eye is not always -perfectly accurate in his perception of French character; but he is far -beyond most of his countrymen even in this particular. He gives -tolerably correct views of the different factions which divided the -nation after the Revolution of February—the Red and the Moderate -Republicans, Socialists, Communists, Bonapartists and Monarchists; and -some capital portraits are drawn of Lamartine, Louis Blanc, Cremieux, -Garnier Pages, Arago, Marie, Murrast, Thieré, Barrot, Berryer, Dupin, -Rollin, Cavaignac, Mole, and Marshal Bugeaud. One of the most -interesting portions of the volume we have found to be the account of -Pierre Leroux. Mr. Corkran is evidently ignorant of the fact that Leroux -is one of the profoundest metaphysicians of France, that he not only -demolished the Eclectic system of Cousin, but is himself a man with -positive philosophical ideas, and accordingly he considers him simply as -a political socialist, who fails as a public speaker. Leroux is thus -described: “Beneath a prodigious mass, or mop, of black hair, as wild -and entangled as the brushwood of a virgin forest, slumber a pair of -misty, dreamy eyes, while the spectator’s ears are regaled with the -sounds of a sing-song voice, going through an interminable history of -human society, from the earliest days to the present time, for the -purpose of showing that the world has hitherto been on a wrong social -track, and struggling in the toils of a great mistake.” It seems that -Leroux was in the habit of reading his speeches, and though he at first -obtained the ear of the Assembly, he was ruined by having it proved upon -him that he was in the custom of reading one of his own unsaleable -printed pamphlets instead of a speech written for the occasion. Mr. -Corkran says, “when he attempted to read afterward, a resolution was -gravely proposed that no books should be read at the tribune. Well do I -recollect the scowl with which the philosopher slowly ascended the -tribune.” - - * * * * * - - _The Magic of Kindness; or the Wondrous Story of the God Huan. - By the Brothers Mayhew. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. - 16mo._ - -The authors of this little volume are the same who wrote the popular and -charming book entitled, “The Good Genius that Turned Everything into -Gold;” and their present contribution to a cause equally good, has the -peculiar interest of a fairy tale in the treatment of facts historically -accurate. The subject of benevolence, and the miracles it works, have -rarely been presented in a manner more likely to win converts among -readers of all dispositions and capacities. The illustrations by Kenny -Meadows and George Cruikshank, are excellent; and the same may be said -of the typography of the volume. - - * * * * * - - _The Elements of Reading and Oratory. By Henry Mandeville, D. - D., Professor of Moral Science and Belles Lettres in Hamilton - College. A New Revised Edition. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 - vol. 12mo._ - -Here is a work on Elocution deserving the title of scientific, -excelling, as it does, in the generalization and statement of laws any -book of the kind published on either side of the Atlantic. It would be -impossible in our limited space to give an account of the author’s -method, but it certainly is most thorough in pronunciation, punctuation, -modulation, the classification of sentences, and emphasis. It is not -only an admirable book for schools, but it contains much to interest -every person who would write and speak the English language accurately, -and there are few English scholars so accomplished as not to be able to -obtain new and valuable information from its perusal. - - * * * * * - - _History of Julius Cæsar. By Jacob Abbott. With Engravings. New - York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 18mo._ - -The series of Mr. Abbott’s histories appear in such rapid succession -that we presume they have attained great popularity. Certainly few books -are better calculated to improve and instruct young minds. The present -volume is devoted to Cæsar, one of the world’s three military wonders, -and his eventful life is portrayed with much vigor and clearness of -narration. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: -Anaïs Toudouze - -LE FOLLET - -PARIS, Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61. -_Costumes de_ Camille -_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. Choiseul 2^{bis.}—Fleurs de_ Chagot ainé, _r. - Richelieu, 81._ -_Eventail de_ Vagneur Dupré, _r. de la Paix, 19_ - -Graham’s Magazine] - - * * * * * - - - - - I LOVE, WHEN THE MORNING BEAMS. - - - PREPARED FOR “GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE” - - - By D. W. Belisle. - -[Illustration] - - I love when the morning first dawns. - To hie to the mountains away, - And list while the lark in the lawns - Sings sweetly its earliest lay; - I love when the morning first dawns. - To hie to the mountains a-way, - And list while the lark in the lawns - Sings sweetly its earliest lay, - When the last star grows dim, and the hills - Bask in the bright beams of the morn, - Oh - -[Illustration] - - then let me stand by the rills, - Oh then let me stand by the rills, - And give a loud blast on my horn...... - A loud blast on my horn, - a loud blast on my horn, - a loud blast, a loud blast on my horn. - Oh then let me stand by the rills, - And give a loud blast on my horn, - And give a loud blast on my horn. - And give a loud blast on my horn. - - I hear on the hill-tops the sound, - It ringeth o’er mountain and lea, - And waketh sweet accents around - In music far out on the sea; - Its cadences gently subside, - Like vespers that chant out the day, - Then softly on echoes they ride, - Till lost in the distance away. - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic -spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been -corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. -For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to -condition of the originals used for preparation of the eBook. - -page 193, Able May answered to ==> Abel May answered to -page 195, Able May, who by this ==> Abel May, who by this -page 195, linen and broadcloath, why ==> linen and broadcloth, why -page 197, my eye eye caught the ==> my eye caught the -page 199, she know of none ==> she knew of none -page 201, his mind an indellible ==> his mind an indelible -page 205, glory, or the the gallows, ==> glory, or the gallows, -page 205, of look and jesture. ==> of look and gesture. -page 207, that had occured during ==> that had occurred during -page 222, his two faithful mirror ==> his too faithful mirror -page 223, accidently heard Minnie’s ==> accidentally heard Minnie’s -page 226, passed and Minne was ==> passed and Minnie was -page 227, strange Dalilah, he ==> strange Delilah, he -page 228, BY THOMAS FIZGERALD, ==> BY THOMAS FITZGERALD, -page 228, he felt a superstious ==> he felt a superstitious -page 241, “I—” she begun, and again ==> “I—” she began, and again -page 243, of whom he purchased ==> of whom I purchased -page 243, House and its precints ==> House and its precincts -page 244, me!” said Mr. M., petulently. ==> me!” said Mr. M., petulantly. -page 249, abundant sppply of money ==> abundant supply of money - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 4, -October 1849, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 1849 *** - -***** This file should be named 55383-0.txt or 55383-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/3/8/55383/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from -page images generously made available by Google Books - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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