diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/60128-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/60128-0.txt | 12810 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 12810 deletions
diff --git a/old/60128-0.txt b/old/60128-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5e5ab7b..0000000 --- a/old/60128-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12810 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 1, January -1852, 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. XL, No. 1, January 1852 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - -Release Date: August 18, 2019 [EBook #60128] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JANUARY 1852 *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by Google Books - - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XL. January, 1852. No. 1. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - A Life of Vicissitudes - A Good Investment - The Lost Deed - Emma la Vellette - Imagination and Fact - The Artist’s Love - A Rich Man’s Whims - True Romancing - Claire Neville - How Charley Bell Became Senator - A Leaf from the Journal of Florence Walton - A Story for Christmas - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music, and Fashion - - The Kiss - The Closing Scene - Lines - Lucy’s Dirge - Sonnet.—Lake Superior - Logan’s Vow - Winter - Impromptu to the Author of “The Ocean-Born.” - The Triumph of Genius - The Sabbath of the Soul - Te Laudamus - The Poet’s Choice - Translation. Odes of Horace. Book I. Ode XXIII - Appearances - Funeral of Allston - The Prisoner’s Death-Bell - Sonnet.—Light - Unspoken - To a Dandelion - Why Do I Weep for Thee? - Graham’s Paris Fashions - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.] - - - - - CONTENTS - - OF THE - - FORTIETH VOLUME. - - JANUARY, 1852, TO JUNE, 1852. - -A Life of Vicissitudes. By G. P. R. James, 1, 129, 269, - 378, 484, 601 -A Good Investment. By T. S. Arthur, 13 -A Rich Man’s Whims. By the Author of “Fanny and 52 - Francis,” -A Leaf from the Journal of Florence Walton. By Miss 89 - Susan A. Stuart, -A Story for Christmas. From the German, 97 -Anna Temple. By Jane Gay, 161 -A Reply to Dwight, 404 -A True Irish Story. By Redwood Fisher, 408 -A Literary Gossip with Miss Mitford, 433 -A Canter to California, 512 -Arab and Camanchee Horsemen, 550 -Beauty’s Retreat. By Henry W. Herbert, 310 -Benjamin H. Brewster. By G. R. G. 422 -Claire Neville. By H. L. Jones, 74 -Charlotte Corday. By Julia Kavanagh, 206 -Campaigning Stories. By the Author of “Talbot and 241 - Vernon,” -Emma Lavallette. By P. 30 -Edith Morton. By Miss S. A. Stuart, 577 -First Ambition. By Ik Marvel, 203 -Ferdinand de Candolles, 586 -“Graham” to Jeremy Short. By G. R. G. 128 -Graham’s Small-Talk, 220 -Granny’s Fairy Story, 227 -Graham’s Small-Talk, 332 -Graham’s Small-Talk, 446 -Graham’s Small-Talk, 559 -Graham’s Small-Talk, 670 -How Charley Bell became Senator, 85 -Hoe’s Machine Works, 565 -Imagination and Fact. By A New Contributor, 39 -Impressions of England. By Miss F. Bremer, 361 -Letty Rawdon. By Thos. R. Newbold, 196 -Law and Lawyers. By John Neal, 254 -Literary Gossip, 666 -Mozart’s Don Giovani. By John S. Dwight, 150 -Milton. By B. H. Brewster, 280 -Nature and Art. By Samuel Martin, 180 -Nelly Nowlan to Her Aunt. By S. C. Hall, 540 -Nelly Nowlan’s Experience. By S. C. Hall, 655 -Optical Phenomena. By T. Milner, M. A. 344 -Oliver Goldsmith. By A New Contributor, 369 -Optical Phenomena. By T. Milner, M. A. 461 -Philadelphia Navy-Yard, 117 -Père La Chaise, 202 -Spectral Illusions. By Thos. Milner, A. M. 234 -Stratford-on-Avon. By Frederika Bremer, 450 -S. A. Godman. By C. H. Wells, M. D 464 -The Lost Deed. By E. D. Eliot, 17, 185, 290 -The Artist’s Love. By the Authoress of “The 45 - Conspirator,” -True Romancing, 67 -The Physiology of Dandyism. By Thompson Westcott, 120 -The Death of the Stag. By H. W. Herbert, 124 -The Miser and His Daughter. By H. Didimus, 288 -The Philadelphia Art Union, 325 -The First Age. By H. Didimus, 355, 543, 640 -The Bower of Castle Mount. By Aeldric, 385 -The Condor Hunt. By Wm. F. Lynch, 412 -The Cariboo. By Henry W. Herbert, 426 -The Two Isabels. By Mrs. S. C. Hall, 438 -The Game of the Month. By H. W. Herbert, 455 -The Physiology of Dandyism. By Thompson Westcott, 468 -The Crystal Palace. By H. Greeley, 473 -The Legend of the White Nun. By J. Popham, 506 -The Pampas Fired by the Indians, 519 -The Master’s Mate’s Yarn. By H. Milnor Klapp, 525, 624 -The Arabs at Amboise, 547 -The Ghost-Raiser, 591 -Tom Moore. By Bon Gaultier, 593 -Two Ways to Manage. By the Author of “Clovernook,” 619 -Titus Quinctius Flamininus. By Henry W. Herbert, 643 -What Glory Costs the Nation, 415 -Was the World Made Out of Nothing? 432 - - - POETRY. - -Autumn Rain. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 160 -A Charm. By A. J. Requier, 279 -April. By Mrs. E. L. Cushing, 353 -Away. By B. B. 354 -A Thought of the Future. By Cora, 431 -A Mother’s Prayer. By M. G. Horsford, 542 -At the Water’s Edge. By Phœbe Carey, 549 -A Farewell. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 576 -Bless the Homestead Law. By L. V. Smith, 287 -Beautie. By Mrs. E. J. Eames, 414 -Carrie. By Lilian May, 539 -Dei Gratia, Rex. By W. E. Gilmore, 252 -Death. By S. Henry Dickson, M. D. 316 -Ernestina. By Ernestine Fitzgerald, 176 -Elpholen. By A New Contributor, 267 -Funeral of Allston. By Elihu Spencer, 88 -Flowers and Life. By Mary Howitt, 119 -Fragment from an Unpublished Poem. By J. M’Carrol, 178 -Faded and Gone. By S. J. C. Whittlesey, 384 -Fanny. By A New Contributor, 467 -Granny and I. By Eliza Sproat, 118 -Homer. By Trueman S. Perry, 518 -Impromptu to the Author of “The Ocean-Born.” By A 44 - Reader, -I’ll Blame Thee Not. By J. A. Tinnon, 253 -If I Were a Smile. By Richard Coe, 407 -I Think of Thee. By V. B. L. 546 -I Woo Thee, Spring. By W. A. Sutliffe, 618 -Joy and Sorrow. By Richard Coe, 195 -Lines. By James M’Carrol, 12 -Lucy’s Dirge. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 29 -Lake Superior. By Wm. Alexander, 29 -Logan’s Vow. By Edward J. Porter, 38 -Lines Written on St. Valentine’s Day. By G. D. Prentice, 232 -Leora. By A New Contributor, 233 -Life’s Voyage. By Th. Gregg, 279 -Lines on a Vase of Flowers. By E. A. Lewis, 315 -Love. By A. J. Requier, 342 -Lines on some Violets. By E. Anna Lewis, 420 -Lines. By T. Buchanan Read, 585 -Magdalene. By Mrs. Mary G. Horsford, 147 -Moorish Memories. By W. H. C. Hosmer, 149 -Memory. By Lydia L. A. Very, 342 -Mona Lisa. By Mrs. Mary G. Horsford, 377 -May Morning, 453 -My Mother’s Spirit. By K. Thornton, 494 -Magdalen. By L. L. M. 494 -Ode on Idleness. By T. Yardley, 177 -Our Childhood. By Jane Gay, 253 -Our Minnie’s Dream. By A Reverist, 654 -Rain and Sunlight in October. By S. Martin, 178 -Rail-Road Song. By T. H. Chivers, M. D. 205 -Rosalie. By Mrs. E. L. Cushing, 495 -Religion. By J. Hunt, Jr. 642 -Sonnet. Light. By Wm. Alexander, 104 -Snow. By J. P. Addison, 184 -Stanzas. By R. Penn Smith, 195 -Song. By M. 354 -Song. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 360 -Song of the Spirit of the North. By William Albert 403 - Sutliffe, -Sonnet.—Art. By Wm. Alexander, 403 -Sorrento. By C. P. Cranch, 425 -Stanzas. By Sarah Helen Whitman, 472 -Sonnet.—Amor. By Wm. Alexander, 505 -Song. By L. L. M. 618 -Shakspeare. By Erastus W. Ellsworth, 623 -Sonnet.—Pleasure. By Wm. Alexander, 654 -The Kiss. By E. Anna Lewis, 11 -The Closing Scene. By T. Buchanan Read, 12 -The Triumph of Genius. By E. C. Kinney, 51 -The Sabbath of the Soul. By C. H. Stewart, 51 -Te Laudamus. By Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, 66 -The Poet’s Choice. By Richard Coe, 73 -Translation. Hor. Ode XXIII. By D. R. K. 73 -The Prisoner’s Death-Bell. By H. H. Weld, 96 -To a Dandelion. By Erastus W. Ellsworth, 105 -To Mary on Earth. By A. J. Requier, 160 -To Adhemar. By E. Anna Lewis, 160 -The Spirit of Beauty. By A. M. Faris, 202 -The Star of Destiny. By Anne G. Hale, 204 -The Dying Rose. By Mrs. E. J. Eames, 211 -The Page, 232 -The Deserted. By Miss Mattie Griffith, 298 -The Babes of Exile. By Effie Fitzgerald, 309 -To a Friend in the Spirit Land. By L. 324 -The Forest Fountain. By Ig. L. Donnelly, 341 -The Last Song. From the German, 343 -To a Canary Bird. By Wm. Gibson, 377 -The Autograph of God. By G. W. Bungay, 407 -To Miss Light Underwood. By J. R. Barrick, 411 -The Destruction of Sodom. By M. Judkins, 421 -The Urn of the Heart. By Mattie Griffith, 458 -The Sigh. By E. Oakes Smith, 472 -The Stars. By Rev. S. Dryden Phelps, 472 -The Mother’s Answer. By J. C. R. Dorr, 483 -The New Garden. By Emily Herrmann, 505 -The Isle and Star. By Geo. D. Prentice, 511 -To One Afar. By E. Anna Lewis, 524 -The Phantom Field. By O. I. Victor, 623 -The Pledge. By John Neal, 639 -To a Beautiful Girl. By J. R. Barrick, 639 -The Orphan’s Hymn. By E. Anna Lewis, 642 -To Adhemar. By E. Anna Lewis, 662 -Unspoken. By A. J. Requier, 105 -Winter. By Alice Carey, 43 -What do the Birds Say? 233 -Write Thou upon Life’s Page. By G. Grey, 315 -What Dost Thou Work For? By C. F. Orne, 592 - - - REVIEWS. - -Aylmere. By R. T. Conrad, 108 -Poems. By Richard Henry Stoddard, 109 -The Golden Legend. By H. W. Longfellow, 214 -Miscellanies. By Rev. James Martineau, 216 -Lectures on the History of France, 327 -The Podesta’s Daughter. By G. H. Boker, 328 -The Works of Shakspeare. By H. N. Hudson, 441 -Utterance. By Caroline A. Briggs, 442 -The Book of Ballads. By Bon Gaultier, 555 -Pynnshurst, 556 -Course of the History of Modern Philosophy, 663 -The Works of Daniel Webster, 664 - - - MUSIC. - -Why Do I Weep for Thee? Words by George Linley. Music by 106 - W. V. Wallace, -Love’s Messenger. Music by Matthias Keller. Words from 212 - the German, -Oh Share My Cottage. Composed by R. C. Shrival, 225 -Stars of the Summer Night. Words by Longfellow. Music by 227 - H. Kleber, -Sweet Sunny Isle. Composed by John H. Taylor, 337 -The Shepherd’s Song. Composed by John Roland, 451 -Hour of Fond Delight. Composed by Alexander Lee, 562 - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: THE PET FAWN. -Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Halpin] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XL. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1852. No. 1. - - * * * * * - - - - - A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES. - - - BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. - - - HOW I CAME TO HAVE IT. - -I was one time traveling in France. I was a young man without -object—without occupation. Literature was the last thing in my -thoughts—indeed I believe it never would have entered into them, but -for a word or two of encouragement from an American gentleman, most dear -to me after a lapse of five-and-twenty years, most high in my esteem as -a man, and in my admiration as an author. He gave the first impulse to -my mind in a certain direction. His opinion was confirmed by another, -equally dear, and equally admired by us both, and I became in -consequence of an accidental meeting in a remote city of France, what I -am, and what I am proud to be—a literary man. - -It was some time after this accidental meeting that I was traveling in -another Department, as they call it now-a-days, or Province as they -called it long ago, when I stopped at an inn or hotel, God bless the -mark!—in the famous city of Rennes, the capital of Brittany. The town -is a fine old quiet town, which looks as if a good deal of sleep had -been the portion of the inhabitants since the revolution; but -nevertheless, it has a great number of pleasant people in it, a great -number of agreeable social parties, much elegance and grace in its -higher circles, and a numerous collection of beautiful faces and -forms—for all of which I am devoutly thankful, as in duty bound. - -One’s first advent to such a town, however, can never be particularly -gay. The circumstances which brought me there, and detained me there for -a long time, could not be matters of interest for the general public, -but I will own that the first day-light view of the city, though -striking and in some degree beautiful—and there are few towns for which -I have such a lingering love; perhaps on the same motives which made De -Coucy love Fontenoy—was in some degree dull and monotonous; and before -I delivered the few letters of introduction which I brought with me, I -took a stroll through the streets, with no very pleasant feeling or -anticipation. - -I had previously passed through that deeply interesting part of France, -the Bocage, where deeds of heroism enough were enacted to have made -ancient Rome really great—where heroes fought and died, with a -constancy and a quiet fortitude which would have shamed warriors of old, -and have put the stoic to the blush. - -It is a bright and beautiful land, notwithstanding the desolation which -the fierce wrath of the multi-form tyranny of republicanism inflicted -upon it—notwithstanding the decimation of its inhabitants, and the -spilling of the noblest blood that France had ever produced. The dim -embowering lanes, deep cut between the fields; the arching boughs over -head, the vineyards, and the orchards, the quiet little villages, nooked -in bosky shade; the frequent farm-houses, and the châteaux great and -small, which thickly dot the whole of that peculiar region, had produced -an effect—strange to say—gay—cheerful—and pleasant, rather than sad, -notwithstanding all the gloomy memories of glorious deeds unfruitful, -and heroic courage rewarded by death, with which the whole air is -loaded. France may boast of her conquests—of the successes which were -obtained by the fierce irruption of the barbarous hordes into dismayed -and unconnected lands—of the talent of her generals—of the courage of -her plundering troops—of triumph, bitterly atoned by forgotten -humiliation; but her real glory lies in La Vendee. - -I had gone through this beautiful country—this country dear to the -heart of every one who loves honor more than success, and I had come to -the extreme point of the frontier, where a great city had possessed the -means, and never used them, of rendering gallant devotion triumphant. - -The feeling with which I viewed it was, perhaps, not that of -disappointment; but a sort of gloom pervaded my mind, a sensation of -solitariness—of isolation, not common in French cities, where every one -usually seems ready to take upon himself the character of acquaintance, -if not of friend. - -On entering my inn, which was one where dinner was served _à la carte_. -I chose from the bill of fare, such viands as I thought proper, and sat -down to read the newspaper in the public room till the meal was served. - -While thus occupied, two or three people came in and went out again; but -one person remained, spoke a few words to the waiter, seated himself in -a chair on one side of the long wooden board which served as a very -unornamental dinner-table, and taking up one of the public papers, began -to read. - -After a time I gave a glance at him, and I thought I recognized the -features. A second look showed me that I had seen him more than once -before in various towns of France. I had even a faint recollection of -having met him in good society in England. So it proved; for a short -time after, the stranger’s eye turned upon me, and he immediately -remembered me. Our acquaintance, previously, had been confined to a few -words, and an occasional bow when we met; but here we were seated -together in a dull inn, in a dull town in Brittany—cast as it were upon -each other for society; and it may be easily supposed that we soon -became more intimate, although I did not altogether like or understand -my acquaintance. He was certainly a good-looking man, but his appearance -was somewhat singular. He was tall, very powerful in frame, though -rather meagre than otherwise, full-chested, broad-shouldered, thin in -the flank, long and sinewy in limb. His nose was strongly aquiline, his -eye over-arched by a very prominent eye-brow, was dark, bright and -quick. He wore neither whisker nor mustache, and I remarked that his -teeth were beautifully white and perfect, although at this time he must -have been considerably above fifty. His dress never varied at any time I -saw him, consisting of a black coat, waistcoat and handkerchief, drab -breeches, and English top-boots. His hat always shone like a -looking-glass, and his gloves always fitted beautifully, and seemed to -be fresh that day. I found that he spoke English and French with equal -facility, and I never could get any one to tell me what was his country. -Frenchmen, who heard him speak, declared at once that he was French, and -that no foreigner could ever acquire the accent so perfectly. -Englishmen, and myself amongst the number felt sure that he was English, -judging by the same test; and I am rather inclined to believe now, that -he was in reality a Russian spy. He never, by any chance, alluded to his -country, to his profession, or to his habits—except indeed, one day, -when he called himself a wandering spirit, rarely remaining more than -three days in the same place. He must have been well acquainted with -Rennes, however; for he knew every nook and corner in the city, and had -evidently some knowledge of a great many people in it, for he bowed to -many, spoke to several; but although I afterward asked several persons -whom I had seen him thus recognize, who he was, none of them could tell -me, and most of them seemed not much to like the subject. - -The first night, we dined together, and shared a bottle of very good -wine, which he, either by prescience or memory, recommended as the best -which the house could afford. We talked of the town, and of that part of -France, and of La Vendee, and in the end, finding I was curious about -relics of the ancient times, he offered to take me to some curious -places in the vicinity of the town. On the following morning we set out -in a carriage from the inn—and here let me notice his scrupulous -exactness in paying his precise share of every expense incurred. He -never sought to pay more, but would never consent to pay less. On our -return, our conversation naturally fell upon all we had seen. We talked -of the Chouans, and the Vendean war, and all the gallant deeds that were -done in those days, and from that we turned to the Revolutionary history -in general, and especially to the campaigns of Massena, and the -Arch-Duke Charles, and Suwarow in Lombardy and Switzerland. He gave me a -number of curious anecdotes of those personages, and especially of -Suwarow, whom he told me he had himself seen leading on a charge, with a -jockey-cap upon his head, a switch in his hand, a boot upon one leg, and -a silk stocking on the other. - -“Those were strange times,” he said, “and many of the greatest, and most -striking events in history which occurred about that time, are already -hardly remembered, from the fact that so many marvelous actions were -crowded into so short a space of time, as hardly to leave room to see or -to collect them. I was about thirty at the time of that terrible -struggle in Switzerland,” he added, “and my memory is quite perfect upon -the subject; but when I talk with other people upon those things, and -especially with historians, they know little or nothing about them.” - -“You must have gone through some strange adventures, I should think,” I -answered. - -“Oh dear no,” he replied, “my life has been an exceedingly quiet and -tranquil one; but if you are curious about that period of history, I -have got a manuscript which fell into my hands accidentally, giving some -interesting particulars of a young man’s life in those days. There is a -good deal of nonsensical sentimentality in it, but it may amuse you, and -if you like to take the trouble to read it, I will lend it to you.” - -I accepted his offer right willingly, but the conversation turned soon -to other things, and he and I both forgot the manuscript that night. - -On the following day, at breakfast, he announced to me that he was going -to start by the Diligence at noon, for Nantes, Bordeaux, and Madrid. I -laughingly asked what would become of my reading the manuscript then. - -“Oh, you shall have it! You shall have it,” he answered. “We shall meet -again I dare say, and then you can give it back to me.” - -Before he went, he brought it down—a large roll of somewhat yellow -paper. Conceiving it might be valuable, and without the slightest idea -of prying into his affairs, I asked where I could send it to him, if we -did not meet soon. - -He replied, with a very peculiar smile, “it does not matter. It does not -matter. If I do not see you before thirteen years are over, I shall then -be seventy years of age or dead, and you may do with it what you -please.” - -More than twenty years have now passed, and we have not met, and I give -the manuscript to the world with very little alteration, trusting that -if the writer of the autobiography which follows should ever see these -pages, he will claim his own and forgive their publication. I will only -add, that when I received the manuscript, I certainly thought that my -good friend of the inn was the writer of it himself. In reading it over, -however, and especially in correcting it for the press, I perceived that -could not be, as the age of the parties must have differed by fifteen or -sixteen years. - - - THE FIRST FISH. - -Most men have a faint and distant notion from whom to look for -parentage—that inestimable boon for which the most miserable often feel -the most grateful—inestimable, not only because it confers upon us, if -we will, an immortal hereafter of unrevealed joy and glory, but because -nobody ever has, ever will, or probably ever can, estimate it rightly. -Parents consider their children as under an undischargeable debt of -gratitude to them for bringing them into the world at all, without -sometimes fully considering a parent’s duties as well as his rights. -Children are too apt to make light of the obligation, as well as many -another obligation which succeeded it—the care of infancy, the guidance -of youth, the love, unextinguishable in all but very cold and stony -hearts, which attends our offspring from their birth to our own -death-bed. It may be argued that all these acts and feelings on the part -of parents, are but in obedience to a law of nature: that the man or -woman is like the eagle or the dove, is impelled to nurture, protect, -defend his offspring. But if so, the law of love and obedience of the -offspring to the parent, is equally binding; and he who neglects the -one, is equally a rebel to nature, and to God, as he who neglects the -other. - -Most men, I repeat, have a faint and distant notion from whom to look -for parentage. This is not without exception. Good, as a general rule, -the exceptions are quite sufficient to prove it. I myself am one. That I -had a father, I take for granted: that I had a mother is perfectly -certain. But as to who my father and my mother were, was for many years -a question much more doubtful. - -However, I will tell you all about it, and you shall judge for yourself. - -My first recollections of the world are surrounded by somewhat strange -scenery. Figure to yourself, reader, a town situated on the top of a -high hill, like an eagle’s eyrie, but far more solid and substantial. -The streets are paved with large round stones, and a gutter in the -centre, tracking out like rays at every cross-road: the houses, -stone-built, and somewhat ponderous, are tall and short, wide and -narrow, as in most other towns, but there are some very fine churches in -a somewhat severe style in the place, and it seems to possess two -peculiar characteristics. Whether, because so far elevated that nothing -could obstruct the drainage on every side, or because at that high point -it caught the clouds as they whirled by, and attracted the wrath of -every storm by its menacing front, it was the cleanest town in the -universe. In vain did cooks and old women throw out cock’s-heads -divested of their combs, and the gizzards of ducks and fowls—in vain on -the Saturday night was every gutter in the place made the receptacle of -all the dust of all the houses—in vain were a number of other untidy -tricks practiced to defile the highways, and offend the olfactories of -the passing stranger—before the Monday morning all was clear -again—except in very rainy seasons, when I have known a dust-heap lie -for a fortnight. This was one of its peculiar characteristics: -cleanliness. - -I cannot help thinking there is something very merry in dirt. The very -merriest people I have ever seen in my life have been the dirtiest; but -perhaps, after all, the impression to this effect which I have received, -may be attributed to my residence in that old town, where the exceeding -cleanliness I have mentioned, was closely associated with that of -dullness. The very cheerful summer sun, as he looked down into the open -streets, held up as upon a pedestal to his view, looked dull and even -sad. The clear light of the summer day had a cool, calm, gentlemanly -melancholy about it, which did not serve to rouse or to enliven. One -looked up the street and saw a man, a single solitary man, so lost in -the yellow sunshine at the end, that you could not tell whether he had -pike, pitch-fork, or crosier in his hand—three-cornered hat, or round, -or cap of liberty on his head. One looked down the street toward the -valley below, and could hardly make out whether the lonely carriage -drawn by four beasts of some kind, had really four horses, or four -mules, or four rats without a tail—amongst them. Not another being did -you see. No heads were put out of windows—no idle figures presented -themselves before the doorways. Curiosity seemed dead in the place, as -well as every thing else; and although the sound of a carriage -wheels—especially coming from below, where there was a post-house—was -very rare, it seemed not to awaken any interest in the inhabitants -whatsoever, at least not more than was displayed in just raising the -eyes from the calves’ feet, or the sheep’s trotters which were preparing -for dinner, to look for one instant at the vehicle, as it passed. If an -earthquake had rumbled up and down the street, it could not have -produced less excitment—and probably would not have produced more. The -carriage went in peace and sunshine upon its way, and the cook or the -good house-wife bent her attention to her dishes again. - -But let me say a little more of the town before I proceed farther; for -it is an object of great interest to me, even in memory. From the hill -on which it stood, and the old walls which surrounded it on every side, -rising up from the verge of the descent, and looking like the -battlements of a raised pie, might be seen a very rich and beautiful -country, with a river running round the base of the large rock on which -one stood. The situation was a very commanding one; for though rising -ground, deserving the name of high hills, was to be seen in the -distance, and many a sweep and undulation lay between, yet the elevation -of the town was sufficient to domineer over the whole country around -within any thing like cannon-shot. The walls, however, were destitute of -guns; and the various gates, with their old stone arches, seemed formed -for no other purpose than to let the morning and evening sun shine -through, and the country-people to bring in eatables and drinkables for -the supply of the place. They afforded, too, a place of refuge for -certain old gentlemen who engaged themselves in examining all itinerant -merchants, making good women open their baskets, and running long iron -things, like spits, into loads of hay and straw, in order to make sure -that there was no wine or brandy concealed within. For all these -services they exacted a trifling toll, or excise duty, upon a great -number of articles of provision brought into the town. They were very -unobtrusive people, however, seldom, if ever seen, except in the early -part of market-days, and ever ready to retreat into their little dens by -the side of the gate, as soon as their functions were performed. The -great church stood at one side of a little square, free and open -enough—always very clean, like the rest of the town, but always looking -exceedingly cool also—for the very summer sun looked cool there, as I -have observed, and one hardly felt the difference between June and -December, if the day was clear. I don’t know why all that square never -looked gay or cheerful—for it seemed to have every thing to make it so; -and I have seen it, on days of festivity, tricked out in all that could -assist. On the Sunday, a great multitude of the good people of the town, -dressed out in their brightest attire, were continually flocking in and -out of the church. On festival days you would see garlands of flowers, -and banners, and rich vestments, and beautifully dressed altars under -arbors of green leaves, and a little body of soldiers, with gay -uniforms, glittering muskets, and cocked-hats, would appear to keep the -ground as a procession passed. But still it never looked cheerful. All -these objects were seen in that clear, cool light in such a way as to -make them look frosty. - -Perhaps one cause of the general sombreness of the town, and the -impression of uninhabitedness which it gave, might have been that there -were no shops in the place. This may seem an extraordinary fact—but so -it was. There were no real, proper, _bona fide_ shops, with good, wide, -open fronts showing their wares. As one walked along the principal -street, indeed, which led through a large, heavy, white stone arch, down -the easiest slope of the hill into the open country, here and there, in -the window of what seemed a private dwelling-place, and which could only -be reached by ascending a flight of steps from the street, one might see -a ham hanging up, or a string of sausages, or some other edible thing. -Again, farther on, you would see a small brass basin nailed to a -door-post, and again, in another window, a lady’s cap, or a string or -two of ribbons. When in want of any article, you climbed the steps, you -had to open a door, and then another door, before you arrived at the -person whom you expected to furnish them. When you got in you would find -a tolerable store of different kinds of articles, gathered together in a -neat little room, somewhat dull and shady, and not the least like a shop -in the world. It would have puzzled any one in such a cell to judge -accurately of the color or quality of what he was purchasing; but I must -do the good people the justice to say that they did not at all take -advantage of this obscurity to cheat their friends and customers, but -that all they sold was generally good and what it pretended to be—more, -indeed, than can be said of most goods and chattels at the present time. -The irregularity of the streets, too, might have had some part in -creating the sombreness—for they turned and wound in an inconceivable -manner, and the houses, built according to the taste and will of the -owner, without any regard to regularity—some sticking out six or seven -yards beyond its neighbor—some turning at one angle and some at -another—some towering up, and others crouching down—had an exceedingly -awkward habit of casting long, blue shadows, whichever way the sun -shone, in hard, straight lines, unbroken by even a cloud of dust. - -I have never seen any other town like it but one, and that is the town -of Angouleme. Perhaps it was Angouleme—though I cannot be quite sure; -for it is long, long ago since I was there, and events and circumstances -of a very mingled character have drawn line after line across the tablet -of memory, till even the deep strokes graven upon it in early years are -only faintly traceable here and there. - -In looking back as far as my mind will carry roe into the past, there -comes first a cloud—a pleasant, summer-like cloud, not altogether -shapeless, yet very faint and soft in the outlines, and varying -strangely as I look at it. Now it takes the form of a beautiful lady, -with two or three lovely children playing around her. I am among them; -but whether I am one of them or not I cannot tell. Then it changes to a -tall, somewhat youthful-looking man, with a sword at his side, and a -great broad belt over his right shoulder. Heavy buckskin gloves he must -have worn; for I remember quite well the hard touch of them between my -little fingers. I see his jack-boots, too, even now. They are the very -plainest part of the cloud. But the masses roll over—and what is seen -next? A French château, with as many little towers as a cruet-stand, -some square, some round, some with conical roofs, some with long gables, -and at the end there is a small building, which, in the nonsensical -slang of London house-agents, would be called semi-detached. It has a -little spire, like that of a church, and a bell in it. Probably it was -the chapel of the château; and there is a fountain playing before the -house in the morning sun, surrounded by gay beds of flowers, formed into -strange shapes, as if cut out by those ingenious instruments with which -cooks produce variety in the patterns of fancy pie-crust. But it is all -a cloud, never fixed, and never very clearly defined. - -The first distinct and definite recollection that I have, is that of -finding myself in the town I have mentioned, and in the house of one of -the clergy of the place—an excellent good man, if one ever lived. But -that is a general recollection, and the most clear as well as the -earliest of my more particular recollections is that of having sat by -the side of a large pond, or little lake, formed by the stream which -flowed round the hill, and with a good stout rod of very plain -construction, and a tremendously thick line and large hook, throwing in -some kind of bait, I forget what, in the desperate hope of catching a -gigantic pike, which was reported to frequent that water. My line lay in -the tank for a long while without the slightest movement of the little -cork float attached to it. I got somewhat weary, and began to think -fishing poor sport. I laid my rod down upon the bank, gathered a heap of -stones, and began throwing them as far as I could toward the centre of -the piece of water. This was not pure idleness; for I had some -indefinite notion, I believe, of driving the fish nearer to the shore. -The day had hitherto been fine. A bright, soft, sleepy light, had lain -upon the bosom of the water. But it was now about four o’clock, and the -day began to change. First there came a shadow, then a breeze tossing up -little waves, then thick, dashing drops of rain. I ran some twenty steps -back under a little ledge of the rock, which afforded some shelter; for -it would seem I had been possessed with a notion in my early youth, that -I ought not to get wet; and there, from my little den, I looked out at -the storm as it swept over the lake. It struck me then as very -beautiful, and I dare say would have struck me more now; for through the -thick drops, I could see here and there the blue sky shining like a -loving eye watching the earth, and to the westward came a gleam of gold, -telling that the storm would not last long. - -What induced me to look down for my rod and line, I do not know; but -when at the end of a quarter of an hour I did so, the float had totally -disappeared, and the rod itself, though heavy enough to my notions, -seemed suddenly endowed with the power of locomotion, and was walking -away into the water. One dart forward, and I caught it, just as it was -pitching over, but it had been nearly tugged out of my hand again ere I -had got it fast. With triumph and with joy I found that there must be a -fish at the end of the line, and a large one. I had caught gudgeons -enough in my day, but I had no notion how to manage a large fish now I -had hooked him. The only art I had was to pull away, and perhaps it was -quite as lucky as not; for had the united strength of myself and the -fish been superior to that of the line, the latter must have given way. -But as it was, the fish was somewhat exhausted by his first tugs at the -rod, and he suffered me very quietly to draw him in within a few yards -of the shore. Luckily the line, though twisted round the top of the rod, -was carried down to my hand, though without any reel; but there were -some twenty or thirty yards of line wound upon a piece of stick beyond -my hands. Luckily I say, for just as I was pulling my captive on, and -could catch a sight of his glorious bulk, he seemed to me to put his -tail in his mouth, and then with a great spring darted rapidly away. The -top of the rod broke through in a moment, and the line ran through my -hands like a knife. I caught it on the winder, however, and checked my -enemy in his course. He gave a sulky tug or two, but then suffered me to -pull him in again, and a desperate struggle we had of it when he found -himself once more coming near the bank. When I found I could not manage -him, I gave him line off my hands; and then refreshed, though with a -heart I am ashamed to say beating how fast, I hauled away, and joyfully -found his resistance diminishing. It was the labor of nearly an hour, -however, before I got him close up to the bank, and then twice he got -away from me, once, nearly bringing me into the water by the sudden dart -he gave as I kneeled down to lift him on shore. At length, however, I -landed him safely, and judge of my joy when I beheld a trout weighing -five pounds at least, and magnified by my imagination to ten or fifteen. - -He had got the hook quite down into his throat, which probably was the -secret of my success; for had it been in his mouth, he and I must have -pulled his jaw off between us. I did not stop even to make an attempt to -take it out, but gathering up the fragments of my rod, while he lay -panting and flapping on the grass, I lifted him up by the hook and -carried him up triumphantly toward the town. I would not go in through -the ordinary gates, however. I believe it was that a fear seized me lest -I should be charged a duty on my fish; but as the house where I lived -was close to the walls, and had a little garden in one of the old -towers, through which there was a door and a stone stair-case, I hurried -thither, found my way in by the back-door, and venturing to do what I -had never done before, hurried, uncalled, into the room of good Father -Bonneville at an hour when I knew he was always at study. Happily it was -Thursday: I knew there was no fish in the house, and that our dinner, on -the following day, was destined to be pumpkin-soup and a salad. This -might well excuse my presumption, and it did. - -Never in my life did I see a man more delighted than good Father -Bonneville, though he hurried away a book which he had been reading when -I came in—I believe it was the Old Testament—as if there had been -something very shameful in it. He admired the trout immensely, looked at -it on one side and then on the other, declared it the finest trout he -had ever seen, and patting me on the head, asked me if I had really -caught that all by myself. - -I assured him that I had had no help whatever, and then added, slyly, -“You know it is Friday to-morrow, Father.” - -“Ah, my son, my son,” he replied, with a rueful shake of the head but a -smile upon his lips, “we must not think too much of improving our fare, -especially on meagre days; but the fish is a very fine fish -notwithstanding, and we will have it for dinner to-morrow.” - -I have dwelt long upon this little incident; for it was a very important -one in my eyes at the time, and was not altogether without its influence -upon my life. But I shall only pause to state here that Father -Bonneville made more of me from that time forth than he had ever done -before. Previously he had contented himself by giving me my lessons -daily, by speaking a few kindly words to me at meal times, and turning -me over for the rest of the day to his good old housekeeper. Now, -however, I seemed to be fit for something better. Father Bonneville was -very fond of fish, as most priests are, and every Tuesday and Thursday -evening I was down at the banks of the lake or of the river; and as I -had great perseverance, and rapidly became skillful, Father Bonneville -very rarely went without fish of some kind for his dinner on Wednesdays -and Fridays, so that fasting became somewhat of a farce—except in Lent -indeed—except in Lent, when he made tremendous work with us. - - - A PRIEST’S HOUSEHOLD. - -I must give my pictures of the early part of my life, detached and -phantasmagoria-like as they appear to the eye of memory. But yet I will -supply as far as possible any links of connection which are afforded by -that power which is to memory what the second rainbow, which we -sometimes see, is to the first—the reflection of a reflection—I am not -quite sure that that is philosophical—but it is a figure, and it is -pretty—so let it stand, it will do for Boston—the power I speak of is -commonly termed reminiscence—a shadow of remembrance which overtops the -mountain, and is seen indistinctly after the prototype has sunk behind -the steep—God bless me, I am getting into Boston again. Well, upon my -life I will be sober, notwithstanding the sixteen gallon act. - -The catching a fish was my first great exploit in life, and I could -evidently see that Father Bonneville paused and pondered over it, as was -his character; for he was a very considerate and thoughtful man, by no -means without powers of observation, and a great habit of reasoning _a -priori_, which sometimes misled him a little. He made me tell him the -whole story of the catching of the fish, and of how I had managed it. -You may judge I dilated not a little, partly from the interest of the -subject to myself, and partly from the difficulty which every child, and -every novelist in three volumes, finds in clothing his thoughts in brief -language. I found afterward that he had deduced his own conclusions from -premises which I had afforded; and I am happy to say they were all -favorable to me. He had deduced, I learnt, from my catching the rod -before it fell into the water, that I possessed considerable quickness -and presence of mind. He had inferred from the fact of my having got the -line through my hands before I attempted to strain the rod, that there -was a great deal of cautiousness and foresight in my disposition; and by -the pains I had taken, and the labor I had undergone, without flinching, -or growing rash or angry, he was led to believe that I was of a most -persevering, undaunted, and resolute disposition. In a word, he learned -to think me a being more deserving of care and cultivation than he had -previously imagined; that I was not a mere baby to be taught his A B C -in any science, and that there was a soil, beneath the green freshness -of my youth, which might be cultivated to great advantage. - -But let us give a slight sketch of the good Father, as he sat with his -little tight-fitting black cap upon his head, looking like one half of a -negro melon. The dress was insignificant—mean—out of the way, which is -worse. The plain cassock and bands, the scapulary and the cross, and the -grand three-cornered hat, had not surely much to recommend the -individual member of the profession. There was no trickery of dress. -There was no superfluous ornament. Even the assumption of manner was -repressed, and, as far as I can recollect, he always seemed to remember -sensitively, that a priest in the chair or the confessional derived -whatever authority he possessed from a higher source, which conferred -none upon him as an individual. The reverse of this feeling is the -crying sin of the priesthood of all the creeds I know, and especially of -his own. Most men would listen reverently to the expounders of God’s -will, when they are expounding his will, if they would not carry their -_cathedra_ into the drawing-room or the parlor with them. It is very -wise, indeed, to make a marked distinction between the minister and the -man, and still more wise to make a marked distinction between the -functions of the minister and the man; for where the two are blended -together—either through the stupidity of the people or the arrogance of -the priest—it will be found nine times out of ten that the weaknesses -of the man (not to notice vices or crimes) overwhelm the qualities of -the teacher. Amongst a nation, indeed, who, as a nation, acknowledge no -authority but themselves, either in matters civil, politic or -religious—where every man is at liberty to set up his own little God -Almighty in his garden, and to worship him after what fashion he -pleases—this distinction is not so necessary; for each minister being -chosen by the flock which he has to instruct, must know beforehand -tolerably well what is the sort of pabula best suited to their palates, -while the flock, on their part, having chosen their man, with their eyes -very wide open, must either stultify themselves, or cry him up as one of -the bright lights of the age. If not, why did they choose him to light -them? They become as much interested in his personal as in his public -character—for it is very disagreeable for an elder of a congregation, -unless he have some personal quarrel with his dear friend, the minister, -to lay his hand upon his heart and say, “I have been grievously -mistaken”—and many a small offense—nay, many a great one in the pastor -is smoothed over and polished with the varnish-vanity of a loving -congregation, who adore themselves in the minister they have selected, -and even in the very church are worshiping themselves, in him, instead -of the Deity. Of all sorts of idolatry in the world—and there are -many—surely the worst in the eyes of a pure Being must be self -idolatry. - -I have strayed from my subject; but a bold leap, and we are back again. -See him there, sitting in his easy arm-chair, with the little black cap -upon his head, to cover the work of time rather than the ravages of the -razor, with the soft, silky locks, now almost snow-white, floating from -underneath it, and the dark garments, never laid aside except when at -rest, enveloping the whole figure. Yet what an air of calm and tranquil -dignity in the very disposition of that figure, and in that mild, -benignant face. Where are the cares and sorrows of life? What have -anxious thought, and the arduous duties, well performed, of a laborious -profession done in this case? Where are the pangs, the sicknesses, the -wasting force of disease, the corporeal pains, the uneasy weakness of -senility? They are not there. He rests in his chair as easily as a -child—ay, and as gracefully too. Oh, the balm, the blessed balm, such -as Gilead never knew, of a pure, high, and holy heart, which, preserving -and refreshing continually the spirit that dwells within it, with that -aromatic odor of the tree of life, imparts a portion of the sovereign -antidote even to the frail form of clay, and guards it against the shock -of time, or the wearying war of circumstances! Few of the impatient, the -irritable, the passionate, the children of caprice, the slaves of vice, -the hunters of excitement, ever see the age to which Father Bonneville -had already attained, and those who do, reach it enfeebled, worn out, -toil-broken, and shriveled up by the struggles, and the wanderings, and -the difficult passes, and the burning suns, which they themselves have -sought and found upon the way. Father Bonneville’s had been a quiet and -a placid life—I know nothing of his history—I never heard it—but the -part I speak of was written on his face. Father Bonneville’s had been a -quiet and a placid life—I am quite sure of it: otherwise he could have -never lived to be the calm, happy, benignant old man he was at -sixty-three. On his face you hardly saw his age; for it was as smooth as -a boy’s, but those white hairs, and the necessity of using spectacles -now and then, betrayed the fact that he was not quite so young as he -once had been. His teeth—I recollect them as they were even then, quite -well—were beautifully white and even, but the old man used to say, that -though he hoped his tongue was true, his mouth was an artful hypocrite; -for it put its best arguments forward, and kept all that were worthless -and unserviceable behind; in other words, that the front teeth might be -good enough, but that those hard-working slaves of the stomach, the -grinders, were gone—and this was, probably, the cause of his love of -fish. Heaven bless the finny fellows! they are seldom, any of them, -tough, and the worst one has to fear is a bone or an indigestion; though -it is rather hard, I think, to be pulled out of a fresh stream, and put -upon a gridiron. - -Father Bonneville was a very learned man, too, as well as a good one. He -had read very much, for he had much leisure; had studied many languages -and many things, and moreover had reasoned upon what he studied. All -this I found out afterward; for at the time I speak of, though he made a -point of instructing me himself every day, the store of erudition -required for my mental food was but small. His lessons were given in a -very different way from any other lessons that I ever received or ever -heard of. He would sit down and open a book, and then begin to talk to -me upon some apparently indifferent subject; but somehow before five -minutes had passed, he had always contrived to bring the conversation -round to something which the book contained, or which it explained, or -which it elucidated. Then we would read a sentence or two, and then -pause, and comment, and converse, sometimes remarking the language, and -the niceties of style and grammar, sometimes dwelling upon the thoughts -expressed or the facts related. It is wonderful how this course -impressed every thing upon my mind. All that I read seemed to be -surrounded by a sort of artificial memory; for every word was connected -with these conversations, and the one always served to bring the other -to remembrance. It took a little longer time, it is true; I read one -page of Cæsar where another boy might read two; but I both remembered -and understood what I had read, and possibly the other might not; nor am -I at all sure that I did not make as much progress in the end. - -Where I got the first rudiments of education I do not know; for I cannot -remember the period that I could not read or write, when I could not add -up a sum with tolerable exactness, or draw helmets, and swords, and -battle-axes, and very ugly faces, and men with enormous pig-tails, on -the first leaf of a spelling-book. I have a faint idea that I was very -ill when I first came to the house of Father Bonneville, and that -illness may probably be the sort of gauze curtain which hangs between -the eye of memory and the period antecedent, not altogether hiding the -figures beyond, but rendering them confused and indistinct. - -Having said thus much of my kind friend and preceptor, I must take some -notice of the other tenant—the only other tenant of the house. This was -the good priest’s housekeeper, who was probably some four or five years -older than himself; but yet as busy, bustling, active a little body as -ever was seen, doing every thing and trying to do more. What were the -qualities for which Father Bonneville originally chose her to -superintend his domestic affairs, I really do not know; but it certainly -was not for her beauty—perhaps it might be for the reverse. Nature -intended evidently, at first, to cast her in what I may call the -pippin-headed mould; for her head was as round as a ball, furnished with -two eyes like sloes, and not much larger; but by some freak of nature, -the nose had been infinitely projected. It always seemed to me as if her -parents, or nurses, had been in the custom of lifting her up by it, as a -sort of handle, and it certainly had not decreased in volume in latter -life. She was a little woman too, hardly fitted to carry such a burden, -but strong, well-formed, and neither lean nor fat. Her excellent health -and spirits, she attributed to never having drunk any cider, though she -had lived in the cider provinces. - -“No, no,” she said, “I always knew better than that, if cider is dear at -three sous, wine is cheap at ten. It is not much of either that I drink, -as heaven knows and Father Bonneville, but when it is not water, it -shall be wine.” - -I must point out to the reader more particularly her manner of -connecting heaven and Father Bonneville together; for it was very -characteristic of her mind, and she did it on all occasions. Indeed the -two ideas seemed so intimately blended in her mind that they could never -be separated. She was a good creature as ever lived, and looked up to -all that was good, and it is probable that as, in her humility, she put -both heaven and Father Bonneville very, very far above herself indeed, -the two objects got confounded in the distance. - -She was a very good creature indeed, as I have said, and oh, how I used -to teaze her! She bore it with wonderful patience and good humor, -sometimes laughing with me, sometimes laughing at me, sometimes -affecting to be very angry, but still mending my clothes, setting my -little room to rights, giving me any good thing she could lay her hands -upon, and showing me all the kindness and tenderness of a mother. I am -afraid, however, that there was a more serious storm than usual brewing -about the period I speak of; for I not only continued to teaze poor -Jeanette with my boyish fun, but I had added a great deal to her labors -and embarrassments by leaving fish-hooks, and bits of line, and broken -rods—some of the fish-hooks covered with worms too, in her kitchen, and -her pantry, and the most sacred places of her own particular domain. But -just at that time, came the catching of the trout I have mentioned, and -that immediately cured all grievances. Not that I mean to say, that the -good woman was moved by any peculiar passion for fish herself; for she -would not have deprived Father Bonneville and me of a morsel of it for -the world, but from that moment she became aware that there was some -utility in fish-hooks—that they were made for some other purpose than -running into her hands, or littering her table. I provided in short -something which could gratify the good Father’s taste, and that was -quite sufficient apology for all offenses in the eyes of his worthy -housekeeper. - -With these two, such as I have depicted them, I passed several years of -my early life. I must have been about nine when I caught the trout, and -if I ever had been a weak or sickly boy, I certainly was so no longer. I -could not have been ten, I am sure, and I must have been there at this -time for some years—sufficient at least to let the memory of other -scenes fade away. My time passed sweetly and pleasantly. I had plenty of -wholesome food. I had exercise for the mind and exercise for the body. -Quiet and still, the place certainly was. Amusements, for persons of my -age, there were none in the town itself, except when there was some -great Church fete, or when some Italian led through the town a bear or a -monkey, or carried a marmot, or an instrument of music, and when once in -the year the great fair took place, which brightened up the town for -three whole days. Nevertheless, I was very contented. I loved Father -Bonneville sincerely. I loved good Jeanette, too, sincerely; but with -another sort of love—rather, I suspect, with that peculiar kind of -affection with which a child regards a doll, the head of which has been -knocked upon the door till it has neither nose nor eyes. Assuredly I had -not deprived the good housekeeper of those serviceable features, but I -had misused her tenderness, and teazed her till I loved devotedly that -which I teazed. I loved them both, then, and well I might; for two -better people never existed. - -The reader, perhaps, may ask, “are we to have nothing but good people in -this book?” - -Let him wait a little. We shall find their foil presently, and pray do -not let any one fall into the mistake of supposing that there is any -thing inherently monotonous in goodness. Far from it. It has as infinite -variety as evil. Its scope is as extensive, from the most sublime deed -of devotion or self-sacrifice, to the smallest act of kindness. Nay, it -is more vast than evil; for I cannot but think that goodness embraces -all things, while evil only touches a part. It is because the mind of -man is too small to comprehend the magnitude of goodness that he fancies -it limited, as a child gazing at the sky, thinks that there is a blue -wall to space. It is because his mind is too dim and feeble, too much -accustomed to struggle with impurer things, that he cannot reach its -heights or penetrate its depths, and conceive the infinite variety it -affords. The salmon can leap up the cataract, or dart against the -current of the turbid stream, but he cannot soar into the sky like the -eagle, and at one glance take in a world below. The most sublime thing -in the whole universe is goodness, and it is the sweetest too. - -Happy, right happy do I believe myself to have been thus, in youth, -associated with two such good and kindly beings. At that period of life, -the plastic nature of the child receives, in a great degree, its future -shape and form. The impressions are deep, and, once hardened, -ineffaceable: the character receives its bent, the mind its tone and -coloring, and although I may have done many things in life which I -regret, and which they could not have approved, yet their goodness has -been always in my memory as a light-house to show me the way across the -dark and struggling waters of life, and to welcome me home to port, -however far I may have wandered astray. - -I cannot conceive any greater blessing can be bestowed on youth than the -companionship of the really good. I speak not of the stiff and rigid. I -speak not of the harsh and the severe. I speak not even of the -self-denying, the sober, and the circumspect. The example of anchorite -or puritan, never effected much upon the heart of youth. But I speak of -the really good, and they are not good if they are not gentle; for the -reverse of gentleness is wrong. I speak of the good who learn from the -fountain of all goodness to be happy, and to make happy; and who know -that it is part of the commandment, to enjoy. - - - THE FIRST ADVENTURE. - -One of the most remarkable epochs of a man’s life is when he first -begins to think. Philosophers suppose—at least many have supposed—that -what is called thinking, goes on from birth, or very nearly so; but -either this is a mistake, or they and I are talking of different things. -What I mean by thinking is not the process of putting two or three ideas -together, which commences with a child as soon as it has two or three -ideas to put, but an operation of the mind, in which all the mind’s -servants are called upon to bear a part—where imagination comes to aid -reason, and memory and observation bring the materials, and judgment -measures the work. We all must have felt, in looking back upon our past -life, that there has been a certain period at which flood-gates, as it -were, have been opened suddenly, and a torrent of thought has flowed in -upon us. The period itself will generally be somewhat indefinite to -remembrance; for we none of us mark this new thing at the time that it -occurs. We feel—we know—we enjoy; but we do not sit down to chronicle -the moment when the new world of thought burst upon our sight. All any -man can say, is, “About such and such a time, I began to think”—he -generally adds, “deeply”—to contrast that period, with the period of -_impression_ gone before, which he confounds with _thought_. In fact it -may be very difficult—for I do not wish to dogmatize—to say where -thought exactly begins, and mere reception of idea, in either a simplex -or a complex form, ends. It may be that thought is as a mighty stream, -beginning in a very minute rill; but there certainly is one place where -the river suddenly swells tremendously. I cannot say that I thought -much, if at all, on any subject till I was more than ten years old. In -conversing with Father Bonneville, who tried hard to teach me to think -without appearing to do so, my answers were more pictures of my -impressions than of my thoughts; but about twelve years old, thought -began to come upon me fast and strong. I can remember quite well many a -time, on the Tuesday and Thursday evenings, in the spring time of the -year, sitting by that little lake, or wandering by the banks of the -river, and falling into deep and even sombre reveries, in the course of -which I tried every thing that I had learned or knew, by faculties which -seemed to have sprung up suddenly within me. The world seemed full of -wonders that I had never seen before, and I began to take interest in -things which before had been to me flat and unprofitable enough. It was -not alone the aspect of nature, the lake, the stream, the wood, the -field, the rock, the mountain, the blue sky, the passing cloud, the -rising and setting sun, the wandering moon, or the bright eyes of the -twinkling stars, nor the flowers and shrubs, nor the birds of the bough -and sky, nor the beasts of the field and plain, that gave me matter for -thought, but man came in for his share, and man’s doings—and I am -afraid woman’s, too. I would listen to the political talk of the day, -which, God help me, I had cared naught about before, although there were -events passing which influenced the fate of even children. I would hear -of the strife of parties, and of the rise of new opinions, which shook -the world to its foundation, and I would marvel and wonder at all I -heard, and meditate over it in my solitary seat by the lake. If I could -not understand, it mattered not; the subject was all the more a plea for -revery. - -I could not help remarking likewise, that Father Bonneville was a good -deal affected by the tidings which arrived from time to time. He became -very thoughtful, too—nay, very sad. There was a look of anxiety—of -apprehension—about him. His cheerful moments were few, and he would -often shake his head slowly in melancholy guise, and sigh profoundly. - -One little circumstance, which occurred at this time, gave me cause to -think that the good Father, besides his general regret for various -violent scenes which were occurring at the time, had some cause for -personal dread. I have mentioned that he was well acquainted with -several languages, and from the earliest period I can recollect he had -read with me at least one page of English every day. It was our custom, -too, to frequently talk in English. How I first learned the language I -do not know, but it seemed to me then, as I am now well aware is the -case, that I spoke it with more ease and fluency than he did, though, -perhaps, with not so much accuracy. At the period I am speaking of, -however, he discontinued our English readings, and I could perceive that -all the English books had been put away out of sight. Moreover, he gave -me a hint that it might be better not to converse in English any more, -for a little time at least; and though I sometimes forgot myself, I -obeyed his injunctions tolerably well. - -All this gave me matter for thought, and now the stream and the tank -were not sufficient for me. I must walk far away into the woods: and I -fancy that my long absence, even in my play hours, gave some uneasiness -to the good priest. He was fond of taking me with him through the -streets of the town, and thus detaining me from my solitary walks, when -at length he began to doubt whether the town or the country was the best -school for my leisure hours. I remember on one occasion, when he went to -visit a man of the parish, who was lying sick, though not mortally ill, -he made me go with him, and after keeping me some ten minutes in the -house, we took our way back again, passing across the market-square. A -number of men with bare arms were busily engaged in the middle of the -open space erecting a curious-looking instrument, consisting of a little -platform, and some raised pieces of timber, the use of which I could not -conceive. A little crowd of men, women, and boys were gathered together -round—and I would fain have stood and gazed likewise. But Father -Bonneville hurried silently on, with his eyes bent upon the ground. It -was not till I plucked him by the _soutane_, and pointing to the spot, -asked what that could mean, that he took any notice of what was going -on. I could see his face turn a shade paler, and he gave a slight -shudder as he replied, “mean, my son?—that is the guillotine.” Without -another word he pursued his way, and I accompanied him. On the following -day I heard from good Jeanette, that a man was to be executed at noon; -and I confess I had the strongest inclination in the world to go and -see. The desire arose from no cruelty of disposition—no taste for -blood—but it arose in mere curiosity. Youth very seldom attaches any -definite idea to death. It is an acquired dread that death inspires. -Others tell us about its being terrible, till we become convinced it is -so; and the sight of the dying or the dead fixes the gloomy terror -forever in our minds. No one had ever talked to me about death at this -time; and in wishing to go to the execution, it was with no desire to -see a man die, and still less suffer. I only looked upon him as a person -about to exhibit himself in new and strange circumstances, and a -rope-dancer or a conjuror would have answered my purpose quite as -well—perhaps better. However, I was not destined that day to see one or -the other. Long before noon, Father Bonneville ordered the windows to be -shut up, as if there were a death in the house. He staid at home -himself, and passed the time in prayer, in which Jeanette and I joined -him; after which he read two penitential sermons as soon as he thought -the execution was over, and then ordered the windows to be opened again, -after a new rush of feet past the house had announced to us that the -blood-loving populace were going down to the suburbs at the foot of the -hill. - -If good Father Bonneville had kept up the same practice, his house would -have been shut up, before long, five days out of seven in the week, and -his domestic prayers would have occupied at least one-quarter of his -whole time. Executions became numerous, agitation of the public mind, -disquietude, tumult, violence, followed rapidly. No man felt himself -safe: every one dreaded his neighbor; each hour had its peril; the -meanest act of life became of consequence. There was no free-hearted -easiness, no social cheerfulness; all the amenities of life were -banished, till despair supplied a gayety of a chilly and a death-like -sort, to cast an unwholesome blaze upon the darkening times like the -lights that flit about the graves of the dead. The spirits and the -energies of Father Bonneville fell completely for a time. He a good deal -neglected my instruction during a couple of months—strove to give it, -but could not fix his attention. At other times when I was not sitting -with him, I was left to do much as I pleased, and my wanderings were now -prolonged. Sometimes I would extend them five or six miles beyond the -foot of the hill, especially toward the north and west, where a number -of objects of great interest, as they seemed to me, lay concealed in the -depths of a country, not fully populated and very little explored by the -traveler. There was a curious old house there, completely in -ruins—nothing in fact but the shell—with the doors gaping like dead -men’s jaws, and the windows mere eyeless sockets. The outside, however, -had once been very beautiful, richly arabesque, and ornamented with -small pillars of a dark-gray marble, in a style which, I believe, -belonged to the early part of the fifteenth century. The interior was -crowded with young trees, rooted amongst fragments of decaying joists -and roofing, while the windows were all trailed over with brambles and -self-sown climbers. The jackdaws nested in the tall towers, and the owls -slept till nightfall in the undisturbed chimney; but the social swallows -built no habitations beneath those eves. - -Farther on, there was an older building still, mounted on its little -rock, with a small, but deep tank on one side, a river on the other, and -a foss once traversed by a drawbridge, running round the rest of the -base, and joining the river at the pond. I once waded through the -stream, for the drawbridge had long returned to dust, to see what was in -the house above. I was ill repaid for my pains. All was vacant and in -ruin. There was a large, tall, square building, two lesser towers and a -wall, but not a vestige of wood-work remaining. It must have been long -completely dilapidated; for in the great-court, with one of its gnarled -roots knotted round a fragment of masonry, was an oak which must have -taken more than two centuries to grow. The two buildings were strangely -contrasted in style: the gay, airy lightness of the one: the stern, -heavy simplicity of the other, were the records of two past ages; but -they, the ages which brought them forth, the people which had built -them, and the feelings which lent them their characteristics, had all -passed away. The epitaph for the grave-yard of all terrestrial things -should have been written on both their fronts—“_Fuimus_.” - -It was one day in the autumn time, when the leaves were brown, and the -light mellow, and the birds had ceased their song, but the grasshopper -still prolonged his chirping, that I had wandered out in this direction -an hour or two after noon. It is a very pleasant land that -Antoumois—for I am certain that it was there, although I have no proof -of it—with its vineyards and its corn-fields, and its woods -interspersed, and here and there wild, ill-shapen rocks starting up in -one’s way, and presenting strange, unusual forms and clefts and caverns -innumerable. There had been a good deal of rioting in the town in the -morning. In fact the regular municipal government might have been -considered as almost at an end, and anarchy was advancing with rapid -strides. I no longer wanted to see executions: the turbulence of the -people did not amuse and did not frighten me, but it annoyed me. My ears -were tired of shouts and screams, and I was sick of the Marseillaise to -my very heart. I longed to see the old town in its clear, calm, sober -light again, with the streets uncrowded by victims, and unpolluted by -the disorderly rabble of the suburb. Gladly I escaped out into the -country, and I believe good Father Bonneville was glad to see me go. I -had walked on past the first house I have mentioned, and was about -mid-way between it and the second. I was wandering on along a little -foot-path, not sufficiently frequented to prevent the velvet moss from -growing quickly upon it, and had very nearly arrived at a spot where one -of those bold, rugged and fissured rocks which I have mentioned, rose up -in the midst of the wood, and forced the path to take a turn. Suddenly, -when near the angle, a woman and a child turned the corner advancing -with wild and rapid steps. The child, a beautiful little girl, of some -seven years old, dressed in a costume of the higher classes, but with -nothing but her own beautiful curly hair upon her head, was crying -bitterly. The woman—evidently a lady of some rank and station—shed no -tears; but there was a look of wild, anxious terror, almost amounting to -frenzy, on her face. The moment she beheld me she started back, dragging -the child with her, and uttering a low scream. But an instant’s thought -made her pause again; and she fixed her deep, inquiring eyes upon me -when she saw that I was but a boy and alone. She was very beautiful, -though very pale, and her face was in some way familiar to me. As I -gazed at her with some surprise, and not untouched by the fear which she -evidently felt herself, I saw that various parts of her dress were dyed -and dabbled with blood. I had stopped when she stopped, and remained -somewhat bewildered while she fixed upon me that earnest, penetrating -look. Suddenly, some thought or remembrance seemed to strike her, and -letting go the child’s hand, she darted forth and grasped my arm. - -“Are not you the boy whom I saw some months ago at Father Bonneville’s?” -she asked in a low and hurried voice. - -“I live with him, madam,” I replied; “but what blood is that upon your -dress?” - -“My husband’s,” replied the lady, in a tone so low, so icy, so full of -deep despair that it seemed to freeze my very heart. “They have just -murdered him before my very face, because he would not give them powder -when he had none to give.” - -Then she put her hand to her head for a few moments, and the little -girl, still weeping bitterly, crept up to her side, and took hold of her -gown. - -“Here,” said the lady, disengaging the child’s hand and putting it in -mine, “take her to Father Bonneville—tell him what has -happened—beseech him to keep her in safety for two or three months. I -will come and claim her if I live so long. If not, let him send her to -England and think me dead. You will take care of her—you will be kind -to her—you will guide her safely?” and she fixed her large, dark eyes -full upon me, seeming to look into my soul. - -She had taken little notice of the child, who was now crying more -bitterly than ever, and murmuring that she would not go. For my part, I -promised all that she desired, but she hardly listened to me, -exclaiming, almost immediately I began to speak— - -“Stay! she must have some means. Here, here,” and she took from her -pocket two rolls of coin, wrapped up in paper as was much the custom in -France in those days. One of these she gave to me, enveloped and sealed -as it was. The other, she broke as one would break a stick, and I -perceived it contained louis-d’ors, by one of them falling out upon the -ground. I stooped to pick it up, but she said in the same hurried tone— - -“Never mind, never mind. Speed is worth all the gold in the world. Here, -take this half and go.” - -Then stooping down, she kissed the little girl a hundred times, pressed -her to her heart, laid her hand upon her head and looked up to heaven; -and now the tears fell plentifully. From time to time, however, she -whispered a few words in the child’s ear, and they seemed to have a -great effect. She wept still, and somewhat clung to her mother; but -when, at length, the lady replaced the child’s hand in mine, saying, -“Now go, go, and God Almighty be your God and Protector,” she made no -further resistance; but with bent head, and eyes dropping fast, ran on -beside me. - -Suddenly I heard a voice cry, “Stop, stop!” and turning round, saw the -lady running fast after us. She caught the child’s hand and mine with a -quick, eager grasp, and looked up on high, seeming to consider something -deeply, and I could see the pulse beating in her beautiful neck with -fearful force. At length, however, she dropped our hands with a deep, -heavy sigh, and murmured, “They will never hurt two children—surely, -they will not hurt two children. Go on—go on—” - -She turned sadly away, and walking on, I was there in the forest leading -the little girl by the hand, and with a walk of more than four miles -before us. - - [_To be continued._ - - * * * * * - - - - - THE KISS. - - - BY E. ANNA LEWIS. - - - Two lovely beings near me stood, - The one a tall and blooming youth, - The other in sweet maidenhood, - All wreathed with smiles, and love, and truth. - - He gazed upon her beaming face, - As if his soul lay mirrored there, - Then drew her close to his embrace— - But shrinking back, she said—“_Take care!_” - - “It never gave me joy,” he sighed, - “The dew from saintly lips to sip— - I’d rather quaff the lava tide - That flushes Passion’s burning lip.” - - “Then go,” she said—“I spurn thy kiss— - Go, kneel at glowing Venus’ shrine, - And drink thy fill of wanton bliss— - Thy lip shall never feed on mine.” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CLOSING SCENE. - - - BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. - - - Within his sober realm of leafless trees - The russet Year inhaled the dreamy air, - Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, - When all the fields are lying brown and bare. - - The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills - O’er the dim waters widening in the vales, - Sent down the air a greeting to the mills - On the dull thunder of alternate flails. - - All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued; - The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low; - As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed - His winter log with many a muffled blow. - - The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, - Their banners bright with every martial hue, - Now stood like some sad beaten host of old - Withdrawn afar in Time’s remotest blue. - - On slumberous wings the vulture held his flight; - The dove scarce heard his sighing mate’s complaint; - And, like a star slow drowning in the light, - The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. - - The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew— - Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before; - Silent, till some replying warder blew - His alien horn, and then was heard no more. - - Where erst the jay, within the elm’s tall crest, - Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young; - And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, - By every light wind like a censer swung:— - - Where sang the noisy masons of the eves, - The busy swallows, circling ever near, - Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, - An early harvest and a plenteous year:— - - Where every bird that charmed the vernal feast, - Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, - And warned the reaper of the rosy east— - All now was songless, empty and forlorn. - - Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, - While croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom; - Alone the pheasant drumming in the vale - Made echo to the distant cottage loom. - - There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers, - The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night, - The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, - Sailed slowly by—passed noiseless out of sight. - - Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, - And where the woodbine shed upon the porch - Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there - Firing the floor with his inverted torch;— - - Amid all this, the centre of the scene, - The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread - Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien, - Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. - - She had known Sorrow: He had walked with her, - Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen crust; - And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir - Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. - - While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom - Her country summoned, and she gave her all; - And twice War bowed to her his sable plume— - Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall. - - Re-gave the swords; but not the hand that drew, - And struck for Liberty its dying blow; - Nor him who, to his sire and country true. - Fell ’mid the ranks of the invading foe. - - Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, - Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; - Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone - Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. - - At last the thread was snapped—her head was bowed, - Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene— - And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, - While Death and Winter closed the Autumn scene. - - * * * * * - - - - - LINES. - - - BY JAMES M’CARROLL. - - - How oft, while wandering through some desert place, - I’ve met a poor, pale, thirsty little flower, - Looking toward heaven, with its patient face, - In dying expectation of a shower. - - And when the sweet compassion of the skies - Fell, like a charm, upon its sickly bloom, - Oh! what a grateful stream gushed from its eyes - Toward Him who cared to snatch it from the tomb. - - And, oh! when all its leaves seemed folding up - Into the tender bud of other days, - What clouds of incense, from the deepening cup, - Rolled upward with the burden of its praise. - - And then I thought, in this dry land of ours - How few, that feel affliction’s chastening rod, - Are like the poor, pale, thirsty little flowers, - With their meek faces turned toward their God. - - How few, when angry clouds and storms depart, - And all the light of heaven reappears, - Are found with incense rising in a heart - Dissolved, before His throne, in grateful tears. - - * * * * * - - - - - A GOOD INVESTMENT. - - - BY T. S. ARTHUR. - - -“That’s a smart little fellow of yours,” said a gentleman named Winslow -to a laboring man, who was called in, occasionally, to do work about his -store. “Does he go to school?” - -“Not now, sir,” replied the poor man. - -“Why not, Davis? He looks like a bright lad.” - -“He’s got good parts, sir,” returned the father, “but—” - -“But what?” asked the gentleman, seeing that the man hesitated. - -“Times are rather hard now, sir, and I have a large family. It’s about -as much as I can do to keep hunger and cold away. Ned reads very well, -writes a tolerable fair hand, considering all things, and can figure a -little. And that’s about all I can do for him. The other children are -coming forward, and I reckon he will have to go to a trade middling -soon.” - -“How old is Ned?” inquired Mr. Winslow. - -“He’s turned of eleven.” - -“You wont put him to a trade before he’s thirteen or fourteen?” - -“Can’t keep him home idling about all that time, Mr. Winslow. It would -be his ruination. It’s young to go out from home, I know, to rough it -and tough it among strangers”—there was a slight unsteadiness in the -poor man’s voice—“but it’s better than doing nothing.” - -“Ned ought to go to school a year or two longer, Davis,” said Mr. -Winslow, with some interest in his manner. “And as you are not able to -pay the quarter-bills, I guess I will have to do it. What say you? If I -pay for Ned’s schooling can you keep him at home some two or three years -longer?” - -“I didn’t expect _that_ of you, Mr. Winslow,” said the poor man, and his -voice now trembled. He uncovered his head as he spoke, almost -reverently. “You aint bound to pay for schooling my boy. Ah, sir!” - -“But you havn’t answered my question, Davis. What say you?” - -“Oh, sir, if you are really in earnest?” - -“I am in earnest. Ned ought to go to school. If you can keep him home a -few years longer I will pay for his education during the time. Ned”—Mr. -Winslow spoke to the boy—“what say you? Would you like to go to school -again?” - -“Yes, indeed, sir,” quickly answered the boy, while his bright young -face was lit up with a gleam of intelligence. - -“Then you shall go, my fine fellow. There’s the right kind of stuff in -you, or I’m mistaken. We’ll give you a trial at any rate.” - -Mr. Winslow was as good as his word. Ned was immediately entered at an -excellent school. The boy, young as he was, appreciated the kind act of -his benefactor, and resolved to profit by it to the full extent. - -“I made an investment of ten dollars to-day,” said Mr. Winslow, -jestingly to a mercantile friend, some three months after the occurrence -just related took place, “and here’s the certificate.” - -He held up a small slip of paper as he spoke. - -“Ten dollars! A large operation. In what fund?” - -“A charity fund.” - -“Oh!” And the friend shrugged his shoulders “Don’t do much in that way -myself. No great faith in the security. What dividend do you expect to -receive?” - -“Don’t know. Rather think it will be large.” - -“Better take some more of the stock if you think it so good. There is -plenty in market to be bought at less than par.” - -Mr. Winslow smiled, and said that, in all probability he would invest a -few more small sums in the same way and see how it would turn out. The -little piece of paper which he called a certificate of stock, was the -first quarter-bill he had paid for Ned’s schooling. For four years these -bills were regularly paid, and then Ned, who had well improved the -opportunities so generously afforded him, was taken, on the -recommendation of Mr. Winslow, into a large importing house. He was at -the time in his sixteenth year. Before the lad could enter upon this -employment, however, Mr. Winslow had to make another investment in his -charity fund. Ned’s father was too poor to give him an outfit of -clothing such as was required in the new position to which he was to be -elevated; knowing this, the generous merchant came forward again and -furnished the needful supply. - -As no wages were received by Ned for the first two years, Mr. Winslow -continued to buy his clothing, while his father still gave him his -board. On reaching the age of eighteen, Ned’s employers, who were much -pleased with his industry, intelligence, and attention to business, put -him on a salary of three hundred dollars. This made him at once -independent. He could pay his own boarding and find his own clothes, and -proud did he feel on the day when advanced to so desirable a position. - -“How comes on your investment?” asked Mr. Winslow’s mercantile friend -about this time. He spoke jestingly. - -“It promises very well,” was the smiling reply. - -“It is rising in the market, then?” - -“Yes.” - -“Any dividends yet?” - -“Oh, certainly. Large dividends.” - -“Ah! You surprise me. What kind of dividends?” - -“More than a hundred per cent.” - -“Indeed! Not in money?” - -“Oh no. But in something better than money. The satisfaction that flows -from an act of benevolence wisely done.” - -“Oh, that’s all.” The friend spoke with ill-concealed contempt. - -“Don’t you call that something?” asked Mr. Winslow. - -“It’s entirely too unsubstantial for me,” replied the other. “I go in -for returns of a more tangible character. Those you speak of wont pay my -notes.” - -Mr. Winslow smiled, and bade his friend good-morning. - -“He knows nothing,” said he to himself, as he mused on the subject, “of -the pleasure of doing good; and the loss is all on his side. If we have -the ability to secure investments of this kind, they are among the best -we can make, and all are able to put at least some money in the fund of -good works, let it be ever so small an amount. Have I suffered the -abridgment of a single comfort by what I have done? No. Have I gained in -pleasant thoughts and feelings by the act? Largely. It has been a source -of perennial enjoyment. I would not have believed that, at so small a -cost I could have secured so much pleasure. And how great the good that -may flow from what I have done! Instead of a mere day-laborer, whose -work in the world goes not beyond the handling of boxes, bales and -barrels, or the manufacture of some article in common use, Edward Davis, -advanced by education, takes a position of more extended usefulness, and -by his higher ability and more intelligent action in society, will be -able, if he rightly use the power in his hands, to advance the world’s -onward movement in a most important degree.” - -Thus thought Mr. Winslow and his heart grew warm within him. Time proved -that he had not erred in affording the lad an opportunity for obtaining -a good education. His quick mind acquired, in the position in which he -was placed, accurate ideas of business, and industry and force of -character made these ideas thoroughly practical. Every year his -employers advanced his salary, and, on attaining his majority, it was -further advanced to the sum of one thousand dollars per annum. With -every increase the young man had devoted a larger and larger proportion -of his income to improving the condition of his father’s family, and -when it was raised to the sum last mentioned, he took a neat, -comfortable new house, much larger than the family had before lived in, -and paid the whole rent himself. Moreover, through his acquaintance and -influence, he was able to get a place for his father at lighter -employment than he had heretofore been engaged in, and at a higher rate -of compensation. - -“Any more dividends on your charity investment?” said Mr. Winslow’s -friend, about this time. He spoke with the old manner, and from the old -feelings. - -“Yes. Got a dividend to-day. The largest yet received,” replied the -merchant, smiling. - -“Did you? Hope it does you a great deal of good.” - -“I realize your wish, my friend. It is doing me a great deal of good,” -returned Mr. Winslow. - -“No cash, I presume?” - -“Something far better. Let me explain.” - -“Do so, if you please.” - -“You know the particulars of this investment?” said Mr. Winslow. - -His friend shook his head, and replied, - -“No. The fact is, I never felt interest enough in the matter to inquire -particulars.” - -“Oh, well. Then I must give you a little history.” - -“You know old Davis, who has been working about our stores for the last -ten or fifteen years?” - -“Yes.” - -“My investment was in the education of his son.” - -“Indeed!” - -“His father took him from school when he was only eleven years old, -because he could not afford to send him any longer, and was about -putting the little fellow out to learn a trade. Something interested me -in the child, who was a bright lad, and acting from a good impulse that -came over me at the moment, I proposed to his father to send him to -school for three or four years, if he would board and clothe him during -the time. To this he readily agreed. So I paid for Ned’s schooling until -he was in his sixteenth year, and then got him into Webb & Waldron’s -store, where he has been ever since.” - -“Webb & Waldron’s!” said the friend, evincing some surprise. “I know all -their clerks very well, for we do a great deal of business with them. -Which is the son of old Mr. Davis?” - -“The one they call Edward.” - -“Not that tall, fine-looking young man—their leading salesman?” - -“The same.” - -“Is it possible! Why he is worth any two clerks in the store.” - -“I know he is.” - -“For his age, there is not a better salesman in the city.” - -“So I believe,” said Mr. Winslow, “nor,” he added, “a better man.” - -“I know little of his personal character; but, unless his face deceives -me, it cannot but be good.” - -“It is good. Let me say a word about him. The moment his salary -increased beyond what was absolutely required to pay his board and find -such clothing as his position made it necessary for him to wear, he -devoted the entire surplus to rendering his father’s family more -comfortable.” - -“Highly praiseworthy,” said the friend. - -“I had received, already, many dividends on my investment,” continued -Mr. Winslow; “but when that fact came to my knowledge, my dividend -exceeded all the other dividends put together.” - -The mercantile friend was silent. If ever in his life he had envied the -reward of a good deed, it was at that moment. - -“To-day,” went on Mr. Winslow, “I have received a still larger dividend. -I was passing along Buttonwood street, when I met old Mr. Davis coming -out of a house, the rent of which, from its appearance, was not less -than two hundred and twenty-five dollars. ‘You don’t live here, of -course,’ said I, for I knew the old man’s income to be small—not over -six or seven dollars a week. ‘O, yes I do,’ he made answer, with a -smile. I turned and looked at the house again. ‘How comes this?’ I -asked. ‘You must be getting better off in the world.’ ‘So I am,’ was his -reply. ‘Has anybody left you a little fortune?’ I inquired. ‘No, but you -have helped me to one,’ said he. ‘I don’t understand you, Mr. Davis,’ I -made answer. ‘Edward rents the house for us,’ said the old man. ‘Do you -understand now?’ - -“I understood him perfectly. It was then that I received the largest -dividend on my investment which has yet come into my hands. If they go -on increasing at this rate, I shall soon be rich.” - -“Rather unsubstantial kind of riches,” was remarked by the friend. - -“That which elevates and delights the mind can hardly be called -unsubstantial,” replied Mr. Winslow. “Gold will not always do this.” - -The friend sighed involuntarily. The remarks of Mr. Winslow caused -thoughts to flit over his mind that were far from being agreeable. - -A year or two more went by, and then an addition was made to the firm of -Webb & Waldron. Edward Davis received the offer of an interest in the -business, which he unhesitatingly accepted. From that day he was in the -road to fortune. Three years afterward one of the partners died, when -his interest was increased. - -Twenty-five years from the time Mr. Winslow, acting from a benevolent -impulse, proposed to send young Davis to school, have passed. - -One day, about this period, Mr. Winslow, who had met with a number of -reverses in business, was sitting in his counting-room, with a troubled -look on his face, when the mercantile friend before-mentioned came in. -His countenance was pale and disturbed. - -“We are ruined! ruined!” said he, with much agitation. - -Mr. Winslow started to his feet. - -“Speak!” he exclaimed. “What new disaster is about to sweep over me?” - -“The house of Toledo & Co., in Rio, has suspended.” - -Mr. Winslow struck his hands together, and sunk down into the chair from -which he had arisen. - -“Then it is all over,” he murmured. “All over!” - -“It is all over with me,” said the other. “A longer struggle would be -fruitless. But for this I might have weathered the storm. Twenty -thousand dollars of drafts drawn against my last shipment are back -protested, and will be presented to-morrow. I cannot lift them. So ends -this matter. So closes a business life of nearly forty years, in -commercial dishonor and personal ruin!” - -“Are you certain that they have failed?” asked Mr. Winslow, with -something like hope in his tone of voice. - -“It is too true,” was answered. “The Celeste arrived this morning, and -her letter-bag was delivered at the post-office half an hour ago. Have -you received nothing by her?” - -“I was not aware of her arrival. But I will send immediately for my -letters.” - -Too true was the information communicated by the friend. The large -commission-house of Toledo & Co. had failed, and protested drafts had -been returned to a very heavy amount. Mr. Winslow was among the -sufferers, and to an extent that was equivalent to ruin; because it -threw back upon him the necessity of lifting over fifteen thousand -dollars of protested paper, when his line of payments was already fully -up to his utmost ability. - -For nearly five years, every thing had seemed to go against Mr. Winslow. -At the beginning of that period, a son, whom he had set up in business, -failed, involving him in a heavy loss. Then, one disaster after another -followed, until he found himself in imminent danger of failure. From -this time he turned his mind to the consideration of his affairs with -more earnestness than ever, and made every transaction with a degree of -prudence and foresight that seemed to guarantee success in whatever he -attempted. A deficient supply of flour caused him to venture a large -shipment to Rio. The sale was at a handsomely remunerative profit, but -the failure of his consignees, before the payment of his drafts for the -proceeds, entirely prostrated him. - -So hopeless did the merchant consider his case, that he did not even -make an effort to get temporary aid in his extremity. - -When the friend of Mr. Winslow came with the information that the house -of Toledo & Co. had failed, the latter was searching about in his mind -for the means of lifting about five thousand dollars worth of paper, -which fell due on that day. He had two thousand dollars in bank; the -balance of the sum would have to be raised by borrowing. He had partly -fixed upon the resources from which this was to come, when the news of -his ill-fortune arrived. - -Yes, it was ruin. Mr. Winslow saw that in a moment, and his hands fell -powerless by his side. He made no further effort to lift his notes, but, -after his mind had a little recovered from its first shock, he left his -store and retired to his home, to seek in its quiet the calmness and -fortitude, of which he stood so greatly in need. In this home were his -wife and two daughters, who all their lives had enjoyed the many -external comforts and elegancies that wealth can procure. The heart of -the father ached as his eyes rested upon his children, and he thought of -the sad reverses that awaited them. - -On entering his dwelling, Mr. Winslow sought the partner of his life, -and communicated to her without reserve, the painful intelligence of his -approaching failure. - -“Is it indeed so hopeless?” she asked, tears filling her eyes. - -“I am utterly prostrate!” was the reply, in a voice that was full of -anguish. And in the bitterness of the moment, the unfortunate merchant -wrung his hands. - -To Mrs. Winslow, the shock, so unexpected, was very severe; and it was -some time before her mind, after her husband’s announcement, acquired -any degree of calmness. - -About half an hour after Mr. Winslow’s return home, and while both his -own heart and that of his wife were quivering with pain, a servant came -and said that a gentleman had called and wished to see him. - -“Who is it?” asked the merchant. - -“I did not understand his name,” replied the servant. - -Mr. Winslow forced as much external composure as was possible, and then -descended to the parlor. - -“Mr. Davis,” he said on entering. - -“Mr. Winslow,” returned the visitor, taking the merchant’s hand and -grasping it warmly. - -As the two men sat down together, the one addressed as Mr. Davis, said— - -“I was sorry to learn a little while ago, that you will lose by this -failure in Rio.” - -“Heavily. It has ruined me!” replied Mr. Winslow. - -“Not so bad as that I hope!” said Mr. Davis. - -“Yes. It has removed the last prop that I leaned on, Mr. Davis. The very -last one, and now the worst must come to the worst. It is impossible for -me to take up fifteen thousand dollars worth of returned drafts.” - -“Fifteen thousand is the amount?” - -“Yes.” - -Mr. Davis smiled encouragingly. - -“If that is all,” said he, “there is no difficulty in the way. I can -easily get you the money.” - -Mr. Winslow started, and a warm flush went over his face. - -“Why didn’t you come to me,” asked Mr. Davis, “the moment you found -yourself in such a difficulty? Surely!” and his voice slightly trembled, -“surely you did not think it possible for me to forget the past! Do not -I owe you every thing?—and would I not be one of the basest of men, if -I forgot my obligation? If your need were twice fifteen thousand, and it -required the division of my last dollar with you, not a hair of your -head should be injured. I did not know that it was possible for you to -get into an extremity like this, until I heard it whispered a little -while ago.” - -So unexpected a turn in his affairs completely unmanned Mr. Winslow. He -covered his face and wept for some time, with the uncontrollable passion -of a child. - -“Ah! sir,” he said at last, in a broken voice, “I did not expect this, -Mr. Davis.” - -“You had a right to expect it,” replied the young man. “Were I to do -less than sustain you in any extremity not too great for my ability, I -would be unworthy the name of a man. And now, Mr. Winslow, let your -heart be at rest. You need not fall under this blow. Your drafts will -probably come back to you to-morrow?” - -“Yes. To-morrow at the latest.” - -“Very well. I will see that you are provided with the means to lift -them. In the meantime, if you are in want of any sums toward your -payments of to-day, just let me know.” - -“I can probably get through to-day by my own efforts,” said Mr. Winslow. - -“Probably? How much do you want?” asked Mr. Davis. - -“In the neighborhood of three thousand dollars.” - -“I will send you round a check for that sum immediately,” promptly -returned the young man, rising as he spoke and drawing forth his watch. - -“It is nearly two o’clock now,” he added, “so I will bid you good day. -In fifteen minutes you will find a check at your store.” - -And with this Davis retired. - -All this, which passed in a brief space of time, seemed like a dream to -Mr. Winslow. He could hardly realize its truth. But it was a reality, -and he comprehended it more fully, when on reaching his store, he found -there the promised check for three thousand dollars. - -On the next day the protested drafts came in; but, thanks to the -grateful kindness of Mr. Davis, now a merchant with the command of large -money facilities, he was able to take them up. The friend, before -introduced was less fortunate. There was no one to step forward and save -him from ruin, and he sunk under the sudden pressure that came upon him. - -A few days after his failure he met Mr. Winslow. - -“How is this?” said he. “How did you weather the storm that drove me -under? I thought your condition as hopeless as mine!” - -“So did I,” answered Mr. Winslow. “But, I had forgotten a small -investment made years ago. I have spoken of it to you before.” - -The other looked slightly puzzled. - -“Have you forgotten that investment in the charity fund? which you -thought money thrown away.” - -“Oh!” Light broke in upon his mind. “You educated Davis. I remember -now!” - -“And Davis, hearing of my extremity, stepped forward and saved me. That -was the best investment I ever made!” - -The friend dropped his eyes to the pavement, stood for a moment or two -without speaking, sighed and then moved on. How many opportunities for -making similar investments had he not neglected! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LOST DEED. - - - A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM. - - - BY E. D. ELIOT. - - -Last summer I visited, for a few weeks, a romantic inland town, in the -northern part of New England. While there, some old papers accidentally -fell into my hands, and among them I found the following story; which -appeared to have been thrown into the form of a legend, and thus handed -down through several generations. - -The family it relates to were originally among the principal families -residing in the good old town of Salem, toward the close of the old -French war. No branch of the family remained in the place at the time of -the Revolution of ’76; and their name even is now forgotten in the -vicinity, or only to be found on some old tomb-stone. This legend served -me to shorten a weary, sultry, mid-summer hour, and, courteous reader, -with the hope that it may do you the same kind service, I give it to you -without further comment. - - * * * * * - -The Fayerweather estate was purchased by the first of that family who -appeared in Salem, of a person of the name of Boynton. The estate was -situated in that part of Essex street since called “Old Paved street,” -from its having been the first, and for many years the only one, in the -town which afforded its passengers the convenience of a substantial -stone pavement. - -The man Boynton, of whom Mr. Fayerweather purchased the land, was not -much respected in the town; he had but little reputation for honesty; -but Mr. Fayerweather having secured the title deeds, when he paid down -the purchase money, saw but little reason to fear his title being called -in question; therefore immediately on coming into possession, he built -on it a fine mansion. It was a large and respectable looking edifice, -built in the best style of the day; its date was the same with that of -the noted one in which the witches were tried, and which can yet be seen -standing in a green old age, at the corner of North and Essex streets, -having survived the decay and downfall of all its cotemporaries. The -solid beams and rafters of the Fayerweather mansion might have held -together equally as long, but not many years ago they were ruthlessly -torn down to make room for a more showy house of bright red brick, built -in the modern style. - -Mr. Fayerweather lived in quiet possession of his land long enough to -see it nearly doubled in value, by his improvements and the increase of -dwellings in that part of the town. At his decease his only son took -possession of the homestead. Boynton’s death took place shortly after. -And now an unexpected claim was set up by his son and daughter, Jemmy -and Nanny, to an undivided moiety of the land, in right of their mother; -and a deed was produced by them, proving their title to this moiety by -purchase in her maiden name, with a date prior to her marriage. The -second Mr. Fayerweather perceived at once the knavery which had been -practiced upon his father, by the old sinner Boynton; but he not being -able to bring himself to contest the point by a recourse to law—of -which he entertained a horror—Jemmy and Nanny proceeded to establish -their claim by taking possession. They removed the little -ill-conditioned building which served for their dwelling, so near the -line which separated the garden and grounds immediately about the -mansion, from the rest of the land, that the hedge of shrubbery marking -the division might conveniently serve them equally well as an inclosure. - -Their injured neighbor had no means of redress, however annoyed; and -being of a Christian spirit, still further subdued by affliction—having -lost his wife and several children in succession—he thought more of -securing possessions in another and better world, than of resisting -encroachments on those remaining to him in this. Few, however, are the -evils in this life which are found to be wholly unattended with benefit. -Even the fraud of old Boynton, the aggressions of Jemmy and Nanny, their -continual warfare with the kitchen division of his household, resulting -not seldom in a pitched battle with broomsticks—even these served a -good purpose to the sorrowing invalid. Like a perpetual blister, their -irritation sometimes aroused his spirit, in danger of sinking into -apathy or dejection; and by quickening the flow of his blood, and giving -it a more lively action, perhaps produced a favorable effect upon his -health. It is certain that his life was prolonged to a much greater age -than was prophesied when he took possession of his disputed inheritance. -At his death his estate fell to his son, also an only one, who in turn -became the occupant of the homestead, and whose family furnishes the -principal subject of the pages which follow. - -Mr. Fayerweather, the third of the name in Salem, removed from Boston, -where he had married and had resided for several years. He was a man of -great worth, and of good sense, though with some eccentricities. The -handsome property which he inherited, together with that which fell into -his hands by his marriage, constituted him a wealthy man without any -addition; he, however, engaged in commerce for a few years, but not -finding it to his taste, he retired from business soon after his removal -to Salem, and led a quiet though useful life; one of the most beloved -and respected among the heads of the town. His good lady was -distinguished, principally, for kindness of heart, and an almost -laughable simplicity; though in her youth she had possessed much beauty, -and of a kind on which Time can scarce find it in his heart to lay his -withering fingers; spiteful as the old wretch usually is to lilies and -roses and lovely features. This well-matched pair had but two -children—both sons; a niece, however, left an orphan in infancy was -adopted by madam, (this title, in those days, was always borne by -matrons in the higher station,) and she became equally beloved by Mr. -Fayerweather. - -Jemmy Boynton never married; despairing, probably, of finding a helpmate -equally as saving and lynx-eyed, as to the main chance as his amiable -sister. Nanny Boynton’s reasons for leading a single life were never -fully known. Perhaps she never received an offer; though being for many -years reputed the richest heiress in Salem, this does not seem probable, -even had her personal charms not been quite irresistible. - -However the case may be, the brother and sister lived together in much -harmony; the fraternal tie being strengthened by bonds of principal and -interest. Still they were far from being agreeable neighbors to the -family at the larger house, whose quiet they succeeded in disturbing -almost daily. Madam kept herself as much aloof from them as she could, -consistently with her nature, which was kindly disposed to every -creature that breathed, and led her to do them all the good in her -power. Of this they availed themselves to their no small profit. They -levied contributions, under the name of loans, upon her larder, her -flour-barrel, and her meat-tub; seldom replenishing their own scanty -stock of provisions, until a supply from her store-room had served them -a week. The kitchen utensils were in constant requisition. The servants -sometimes took upon them to resist these exactions, when such a clamor -would be raised, as to throw poor madam into hysterics; in terror of -which and in mercy to his own ears, her good spouse was fain to give -orders that Jemmy and Nanny should have whatever they asked for, without -contention or debate. - -This was to the unbounded indignation of Aunt Vi’let; a -sable-complexioned dame, who ruled in the kitchen with despotic sway, -and held old Scipio, her niece Flora, and Peter the footboy, in -wholesome subjection; often extending her dominion to the parlor, where -she found no difficulty in overawing madam; and even Mr. Fayerweather, -though he sometimes proved refractory, as in the above instance, yet he -generally found it his safest course to submit in silence to Aunt -Vi’let. - -If there was a being in the world, toward whom Vi’let bore a decided -antipathy, that being was Nanny Boynton. This antipathy was partly -caused by the conviction that the latter was addicted to witchcraft; a -belief in which, not being yet wholly dispelled from the minds of the -ignorant and uneducated in Salem. In Vi’let it existed in as full force -as any of the articles of her religious creed; it might, indeed, be said -to be one of them—and her feelings toward Nanny were governed by it -accordingly; imputing to her agency every untoward event which occurred -in the family generally, but more particularly her own private mishaps, -her ailments and vexations. No fear, however, found a place in her -feelings toward her enemy; for had the latter attacked her, backed by -him of the cloven foot, in bodily shape, she was of a temper and spirit -to hold her ground and berate the foul fiend to his face; and if he had -not fairly turned and fled, panic-struck at the torrent of abuse -accompanying her adjurations, he had proved himself, indeed, a brave -spirit. - -The brawls and disturbances occasioned by the hostility of these two -high-spirited maidens—for Vi’let too had forsworn matrimony—rendered -it the first object of Mr. Fayerweather’s wishes to remove the Boyntons; -and he endeavored to prevail upon them to relinquish their claim for a -reasonable compensation; but for many years in vain, their residence in -his neighborhood was much too profitable and convenient for them to be -easily induced to change it. - -George Fayerweather, the elder of Mr. Fayerweather’s two sons, being the -hero of this legend, it may be as well to give some account of his -boyhood, especially of those events and associations that had some share -in the formation of his character. Though in strength and frame a young -giant, he had delicate, handsome features, and a complexion which seemed -to defy the effect of sun or wind, rosy cheeks, and long, curling, -golden hair. He resembled his mother very much; and madam could not -always avoid betraying her fond pride in this living image of herself, -as she smoothed his hair, and turning each golden lock over her finger, -formed it into ringlets round his blooming face and ivory throat, after -her daily operations of washing and dressing him. These offices she took -upon herself until he was eleven years old, and there is no knowing how -much longer she might have chosen to perform them, if his father had not -interfered—“Finding,” as he said, “the boy was in danger of becoming a -conceited, effeminate coxcomb—which no son of his should be.” - -One morning Mr. Fayerweather was reading in a small apartment, which -opened out of the sitting-room, formerly used by him as a counting-room, -and still retaining the name, though it might have been dignified with -the title of library, being lined with book-shelves well filled. The -door was half open, and hearing some one enter the sitting-room, he -looked up and saw his son, who had just undergone the above-mentioned -dressing operations under his mother’s hands. The boy, not perceiving -his father, went up to the large looking-glass which hung over the -marble slab, where he stood apparently admiring himself, while he took a -handful of sugar-plums from his pocket, and putting them into his mouth, -ate as he gazed. - -Mr. Fayerweather, with difficulty restraining his indignation, left the -room quietly by another door, which opened at the foot of the stairs, up -which he went. He descended quickly, bringing a silk gown of his wife’s -on his arm, and a lace cap in his hand, and softly approached George, -who was still absorbed in the contemplation of his own image. Seizing -the boy, who, paralyzed with shame, could make no resistance, he -stripped off his upper garment, and put the gown and cap on him; then -taking him on his knee, he began to trot and dandle him, singing, “High -diddle diddle.” George’s rage obtained the mastery; he struggled and -kicked with the strength of a half-grown Hercules, and at length freeing -himself from his father, he stripped off the gown and stamped upon -it—madam’s very blue-watered tabby! then catching a glance at himself -in the glass, and seeing the cap on his head, he tore it in two, and -flying up to the glass, with one blow of his fist, broke it into a -thousand pieces. The tempest now subsided in a torrent of tears, and the -poor boy ran off to hide his shame. - -His father, when he saw the result of his experiment, almost repented -having carried it so far. He did not think of the value of the glass, -though he had sent “_home_” for it, at the cost of fifty guineas; and in -its elaborately carved and gilded frame, it was the pride of all “Paved -street”; nor madam’s blue-watered tabby, though it was her fourth -best—indeed, she rather preferred it to her Pompadour lustring, having -an idea that Mr. Fayerweather thought it becoming to her complexion—the -value of these twice-told he would have thought well-bestowed if they -cured George of his girlish vanity, and called forth in him a manly -spirit; but he regretted having outraged the feelings of his son. He, -however, courageously repressed the yearning which he felt to go and -soothe the boy and do away the effect of his severe lesson by sweetmeats -and caresses. He very sensibly left George to himself for a while. - -Madam was out at this juncture. I pass over her lamentations, on her -return, at the injury done to her favorite gown and cap, and the still -louder ones which escaped her at the sight of the broken looking-glass; -suffice it to say, that Mr. Fayerweather promised her a green damask to -replace her outraged tabby, and to send home for a pair of glasses by -the next vessel. George did not make his appearance at dinner, but his -father manfully resisted his inclination to seek for him, and succeeded -in keeping down madam’s hysterics, by diverting her mind with some news -which he told her relating to the king and queen. He did not, however, -prevent her from heaping up a plate with every dainty the house -afforded, and giving it to Scipio, with a charge “not to leave till he -had found the child, and made him eat his dinner.” - -Tea-time came, and no George took his accustomed seat, as near his -mother’s apron-strings as possible. On the door being opened, however, -which led into the passage between the sitting-room and kitchen, his -voice was heard in pretty loud and determined tones, and Vi’let -expostulating with him; which somewhat allayed madam’s fears that her -pet had run away and jumped into the river, or had cried himself sick. -The tea-things were cleared away, but he did not appear. Amy, who had -presided at the tea-table, went to the window and looked out, thinking -her uncle had been almost too hard upon poor George. - -It was near the close of a fine day in mid-winter. The sun was just -setting, and the whole atmosphere appeared kindled into one bright red -flame, giving a rosy tint to the new-fallen snow, which lay deep upon -the ground, smooth and undrifted, and covering every roof; while the -grotesque figures of the long icicles which hung from the eaves were -glittering in the ruddy light. The moon’s broad disk was full in view in -the east, but as yet her rays of silver were lost in the brighter glow -of twilight. Amy thought how pleasant a sleigh-ride would be, if the -culprit could be taken into favor, and they could all go. - -The hour passed without its accustomed cheerfulness to the family -within. Mr. Fayerweather paced the room, with his hands clasped behind -him, as usual, when his mind was not perfectly at ease. Madam had taken -her knitting, and was seated at one side of the fire-place, occasionally -giving a gentle sigh; while little John counted his marbles into her -lap, for want of a more convenient place, and missing his brother very -much, but not venturing to ask why he did not come in. The room was warm -from the fire of hickory which had blazed in the wide chimney all day, -but which was now reduced to a mass of burning coals covered with white -ashes. This was the hour in which it was customary for Scipio, preceded -by Vi’let as pioneer, to make his appearance with a log as big as he -could lug, to lay the foundation of the fire for the next day. - -After some altercation having been heard in the passage, Vi’let entered -alone with a more portentous scowl than usual, and surveying Mr. -Fayerweather over her spectacles, muttered something which sounded -marvelously like “an old Turk,” and “folks being in danger of their -lives;” then making a dive into the coals with her huge kitchen-shovel, -she gave a deep sigh, which ended in a grunt, and continued her -grumbling, her last audible words being “a poor, broken-hearted family.” -All this passed unheeded by them, as “only pretty Fanny’s way.” - -No Scipio followed; but in his stead, in came Peter, with his milled -cap, his striped homespun and tow apron, carrying a log larger than -usual; on seeing which, Mr. Fayerweather, whose nerves were still -vibrating, broke out in wrath, as the log fell into the hollow made to -receive it by Vi’let, throwing the coals and ashes far out over the -hearth. - -“Peter, how dare you come into the parlor with the log? Do you not know -it is Scipio’s work, you blockhead? And what did you bring in such a log -as that for? Did you mean to break your back, to save me the trouble of -breaking your head?” - -The boy turned his face around to Mr. Fayerweather, who stood aghast at -seeing him; for the streaked and clouded visage which met his view, did -not belong to Peter, but to his own son, who had involuntarily doffed -the milled cap from habitual reverence as his father spoke. - -“Why, Mr. Fayerweather, it’s George, if I’m alive!” screamed his mother; -“and he has cut off all his beautiful curls, and his face is all -streaked with I don’t know what! It will never come white again. What -upon earth has got into the boy!” - -George was silent for a moment; at length he muttered, “I don’t mean to -be dressed in girl’s clothes again.” - -“You are right, my man,” said his father, speaking with some difficulty, -and shaking his son’s hand, he continued; “now you make me proud of you; -but you need not wear Peter’s clothes, and you should not have lifted a -log as big as a cider-barrel—it might have strained your back.” - -The boy’s countenance brightened as his father spoke; at the last words -he held his head boldly up and said, “It did not hurt me at all, sir—I -can lift a log twice as big as that. I mean to bring in all your wood, -to pay for the looking-glass, I—” his lip quivered, and he could not -finish. - -The father’s eyes twinkled; he coughed, and made one or two ineffectual -efforts to speak; but all would not do—and he was obliged to quit the -room precipitately, to hide his emotion. In a moment he was heard -calling out to Scipio, in a voice between a sob and a shout, to bring -out the sleigh; and now, his eyes dried and his throat cleared, Mr. -Fayerweather was himself again. - -“Come, my dear,” he said to madam as he returned, “put on your cloaks, -you and Amy, and we’ll all have a sleigh-ride. There’s the moon just up, -and it will be as light as day; the sleighing is like glass. George, my -man, be quick, and go put on your own clothes, and wash your face—I -intend you shall drive.” - -The sleigh was brought out, and they all got in; madam and her niece on -the back seat, and Mr. Fayerweather and the two boys on the front, -where, having seen them comfortably seated, well cloaked and blanketed, -their feet at the hot bricks, of which Vi’let always kept a supply at -the kitchen fire, summer and winter, the reader and I will leave them, -being somewhat in haste to finish this part of my story. - -George from this moment put off childish things; his fair complexion and -rosy cheeks became a source of serious mortification to him; and he -endeavored by exposure to all kinds of weather, to bring them to a more -manly hue. He began now to mingle with other boys of his age; and the -noble and generous spirit which appeared in him, on every occasion that -could call it forth, rendered him a great favorite with his companions. -The smaller boys looked up to him as their champion; the weak and -defenseless—as he considered the whole tribe of the lower animals to -be—he took under his especial protection; and wo to the merciless boy -who infringed on their rights, by depriving them of their liberty, or by -any other act of cruelty toward them in his sight. His prodigious bodily -powers, his fearlessness and spirit of adventure, made him a leader in -every bold enterprise. - -There is apt to exist, in every town, a rivalry and jealousy between the -inhabitants of different parts; this spirit was maintained to an unusual -degree between the population of the eastern and western sections of -Salem—the “Down-in-towners” and the “Up-in-towners,” as they were -respectively called. This feeling displayed itself among the boys -particularly, and on every occasion of their meeting. It was even said -that the flock of geese which led their goslings to feed in the vicinity -of “Broadfield,” and often breasted the waters of “Mill Pond,” and those -which, more adventurous, dared the waves washing the “Neck,” often took -the field against each other in hostile array, when dire would be the -hissing and great the loss of feathers. This, however, is not vouched -for; but it is certain that the biped youth without feathers, had -regularly a grand pitched battle of snow-balls every winter near the -first of January; and the victorious party usually maintained their -superiority for the remainder of the year, and held possession of the -play-ground, then the common, constituting a kind of border territory, -being situated at nearly an equal distance between the eastern and -western extremities of the town. This common has since become a fine -promenade, shaded with trees, forming Washington Square. - -For several years the Down-in-towners had been victorious in the annual -fight; probably they being mostly the sons of sea-faring men, their -_bringing-up_ had rendered them stronger and more fearless than the -“land-lubbers,” as they called the boys of the west end. But as soon as -George Fayerweather took the field, the face of affairs was wholly -changed; the foe was routed in every engagement, and the play-ground was -so quietly yielded to the Up-in-towners at length, that the possession, -losing all its glory, ceased to be an object; and George prevailed on -his band to cede it back to the Down-in-towners, urging that it properly -belonged to them, and that it was a shame to keep them out of their -right. This trait of magnanimity gained him many friends among the sons -of Neptune at the east end, and finally brought about a peace between -the hostile powers. - -Among George’s new acquaintances was one whom he liked particularly, -because he was almost as bold and fearless as himself; but more -especially, because he had once done him the extraordinary favor of -falling through the ice as they were skating down to “Baker’s Island,” -thereby affording George a glorious opportunity of showing his prowess -in pulling the lad out of the water at the manifest peril of his own -life. It would be difficult to say which felt the most obliged on the -occasion, George or Dick Seaward; but the foundation was then laid of a -strong and lasting friendship between the parties. - -About two months after this event Captain Seaward returned from a long -voyage in the Two Pollys, and Dick lost no time in bringing about an -acquaintance between his father and his friend. The latter went by -special invitation one evening to eat cocoa-nuts, and see the -curiosities which the captain had brought home. The old salt took a -liking to George at first sight, and, in his rough way, spared no pains -to entertain him. He appeared like some hero of romance to his wondering -guest; and pleased with the lad’s admiration, he ransacked his memory, -stored by voyages of five-and-twenty years, for marvelous adventures, -unheard of perils by shipwreck, pirates, etc. His narrative, interlarded -with high-sounding and mystic terms, such as “Mawlstroom,” “Tuffoon,” -“Mousoon,” “Kamskeatshy,” and the “Chainymen,” produced much such an -effect on his hearer’s excited imagination, as Don Quixote might have -experienced at hearing the adventures of Amadis de Gaul from his own -mouth. - -The captain then displayed his curiosities; these were numerous and -strange, and served in some sort as illustrations of his discourse. -There were elephant’s tusks and ostrich’s eggs, the sword of the -sword-fish, and the saw of the saw-fish; there was a nautilus’ shell, -which might have carried a boat’s crew; and there was the entire skin of -an enormous snake, which the captain intended to have stuffed and hung -as a capital ornament round the best room. There was one upon which Mrs. -Seaward set an especial value, it being the first gift the captain had -brought her home, when he was “a courting her.” This gift of true love -was an elephant’s tail, with about twenty black bristles on it, the size -of darning-needles, and looking like polished whale-bone; but the one -upon which her spouse particularly prided himself, was the gaping jaw of -a monstrous shark, with its triple row of teeth, suggesting the -pleasurable idea of one’s leg or arm, or half one’s body serving as a -_bonne bouche_ to the monster. These treasures were displayed before -George’s admiring eyes, and he looked upon the possessor of them with a -feeling almost amounting to awe. - -A word or two more regarding these same curiosities: after being handed -down through several generations, they were among the first deposited in -the Salem Museum upon its being founded; and they there formed a -nucleus, around which has been gathered, from time to time the present -noble collection. - -But to return to our narrative; when George rose to take leave at this -first visit, the captain, overflowing with good-will, brought out two -cocoa-nuts, a pine-apple, and a pot of foreign sweetmeats— - -“Here, you may stow away these for your ma’am;” (the pockets were -capacious in those days) “and mind, don’t forget to ax your sir to let -you come down next Wednesday, and you and Dick may go over the Two -Pollys.” - -The desired permission being obtained, the two lads were taken to visit -what was nearest to its proud owner’s heart—after his “old woman and -Dick”—his good vessel the Two Pollys. To describe George’s ecstasy at -the view of the new world now presented to him would be impossible. He -examined every part of the vessel—let himself down the sides, and -clambered up again—bestrided the bowsprit—ran up the shrouds—and, -before the captain could call out—“Take care, boy, do you mean to break -your neck!” he was swinging by his two hands from the top-mast. The -frightened seaman swore a tremendous oath, and threatened the -nine-tails; but by the time George had reached the deck, which he did in -a whole skin, his terror for the boy’s life was changed into admiration -at his daring. - -“Your sir ought to make a sailor of you; it’s a shame that such a lad as -you should be a land-lubber.” - -So thought George, and his resolution was from this moment taken. - -The chief part of his time, out of school, was now spent on board the -Two Pollys; and in the course of a month he was nearly as well -acquainted with every part of the vessel—knew the name of every mast -and sail, of the ropes and the yards, and understood their management -nearly as well as an ordinary mariner of half a dozen years’ standing. -But the climax to George’s enjoyment was yet to come. - -One evening his father received a call from Captain Seaward, accompanied -by his son Dick. Mr. Fayerweather, although somewhat surprised, gave his -guest a very cordial reception, and ordered out his best wine. The -captain took the glass, and after the accustomed “My sarvice to you,” -drank off the wine and smacked his lips; then clearing his throat he -opened his business. - -“I come to ax a favor of you, Mr. Fayerweather; d’ye see, Captain -Brayton sets sail to-morrow, if the wind’s fair, on a v’yage to the West -Ingees, and he’ll touch at New York going out, to see a vessel of his’n, -that’s laying there, and only waiting for his orders to come home. Now, -Captain Bob Stimpson and I, and one or two more of us old fellows, think -of taking the trip with him as far as New York, and coming back in his -vessel. I’m going to take my boy here with me, and I want you to let -your son George go. I ha’n’t said nothing to him about it, bethinking -myself, as how if you wa’n’t willing he’d be disappinted, and I knew he -wouldn’t go without your leave, and I’m sure I shouldn’t think o’ taking -him. We expect to be gone three days.” - -Mr. Fayerweather was pleased with the honest bearing and hearty -good-will of his weather-beaten guest, but he hesitated about letting -George go; the company not being altogether exactly such as he would -have chosen to trust his son with for so long a time; although all who -were named bore the character of worthy men. He was endeavoring to frame -a refusal that would not wound the captain’s feelings, when his son -entered the room. On hearing his old friend’s errand from Dick, George -expressed so much delight at the proposed expedition, that the fond -parent prevailed over the prudent one, and the consent was given. -Captain Seaward took his leave, with a charge to George to be ready by -two o’clock next morning, if called for. - -We pass over his mother’s expostulations, and Vi’let’s evil prognostics, -who said she had seen Nanny Boynton that very day, “sowing seed in the -ground backward, and talking to herself all the while, when she went -over to scold Dinah for not bringing home the brass kettle she had -borrowed.” George was deaf to all. He was up and dressed next morning by -one o’clock; the wind, however, had no mind to be hurried, and did not -choose to set fair till day-break, when Dick appeared with his summons, -and off the two lads set in high spirits. - -His mother would probably have passed a very melancholy day, it being -the first time her son had been out of her sight, with the prospect of -being absent longer than a few hours; but her husband taking occasion to -intimate that his counting-room wanted a thorough cleaning, and his -book-shelves putting in order—a task she always superintended herself, -aided by her niece—he hinting, moreover, that he should be glad of -their assistance in making out a catalogue of the books, which had long -been needed, ample employment was afforded to all three, to keep George -from their thoughts. - -It was now about the middle of June. The summer had so far been dry and -dusty, and every thing appeared languishing for want of rain. At length -Dame Nature, like a notable housewife, began to feel her temper rise at -the dirt and disorder of every thing belonging to her. She rated her -house-maids soundly—“Idle hussies! that did nothing but loiter and -sleep night and day; they had not done a stroke of work to tell since -the March cleaning; they did not even earn the breath they drew! There -were her beautiful grassy carpets, not three months old, an inch thick -with dust; their flowers were all faded and their turf dried up and -withered. Her windows! not a star could shine through them; and as for -the curtains, they were of such a color, it would puzzle a philosopher -to tell what they were made of. Her crystal and once clear fountains -were unfilled, and the bright surface of their mirrors covered with -green slime. She was actually ashamed the sun should look upon such a -scene of neglect! The slothful, lazy jades had better bestir themselves, -for not one of them should get into their beds till every hole and -corner was cleaned, and put into thorough order; or she would know the -reason why!” - -The elements roused from their lethargy, and chafed by their imperious -mistress, sighed and muttered—the clouds huddled together scowling, and -sending forth a low murmur of discontent, dropped a few angry tears. The -winds brandished their besoms, and with one sweep made dust, leaves and -branches, and even small trees, scuttle-doors and hen-coops all fly -before them. It was an unlucky day for ancient buildings! The roof of -one respectable old barn, whose shingles had for some time been moving -up and down like feathers on a fowl’s back, was at length seen sailing -with great dignity across the street, to the manifold terror of two old -women who kept a huckster’s shop there; but whose premises, however, -escaped uninjured, it alighting very considerately on the field behind -their house. The winds having performed these feats, rested awhile to -take breath. The lightnings now flashed and the thunders roared; the -clouds dashed from their brimming pails the torrents, which rolling over -hills and valleys and through streets and lanes, formed rivers in the -gutters, and carried all before them, which the winds had scattered in -their way, into the sea. - -In the afternoon of this day, two hours before sunset but after tea, -Madam Fayerweather and her niece took their accustomed seat at a -pleasant window in a small apartment which served as a kind of ante-room -to madam’s own chamber. On one side a door opened at right angles with -the head of the front stairs, and from which a long passage led through -this story. Facing this door was the one which opened at the head of the -back stairs; while a third, opposite the window, led into madam’s -chamber. Vi’let was seated at the kitchen-door, directly beneath the -window, solacing herself with her pipe; while Tabby winked and purred at -her side. - -Jemmy Boynton’s kitchen and wood-shed, at the distance of some rods, -were nearly hidden from sight by a hedge of tall lilacs and rose-bushes -bounding Mr. Fayerweather’s premises on this side, the view took in -gardens, orchards and fields extending to the North river, (a small -inlet from the sea so called,) the whole space of which is now covered -with streets and houses. - -Amy was reading to her aunt, who, with a large basket of fragments of -silk of various colors at her side, was deeply engaged in an elaborate -piece of work, concerning which she affected a great mystery, keeping -its purpose and destination a profound secret. Both aunt and niece were -so much engrossed by the subject of the book—it was Clarissa Harlow, -which had lately been received from England—that the darkening sky and -rising wind had escaped their notice. A loud scream from Vi’let aroused -their attention. - -“O! the massiful s’us! there’s the old witch flying away at last! Land’s -sake alive! O-h-h-h!” - -They both looked out, and behold! there was Nanny Boynton in good -earnest—at least so their terrors made them believe—high in air, her -red cloak fluttering, amidst a cloud of dust, shingles, staves of old -tubs, broomsticks, etc. etc. - -She directed her course south, and was soon lost to view, while the -dismay of madam and Amy deprived them of the power of utterance. At -length, on Amy’s turning her eyes to the spot whence she supposed the -whirlwind had caught up their ill-fated neighbor, what met her sight but -the object of their terrors herself, on firm ground, but despoiled of -cloak, ’kerchief and cap; her lean and bony arms bare and extended, and -each separate hair of her gray locks on end; giving her much the -appearance of one of the weird sisters in the midst of an incantation. - -The aunt and niece were expressing their relief at Nanny’s escape from -being carried off bodily, when the recollection of her son, exposed on -the water to the fury of a hurricane, now darted into the mind of the -former. She shrieked out: - -“Oh, George! my child, my child! what will become of you! Oh, Mr. -Fayerweather, why did you let him go!” she exclaimed to her husband, who -at this moment entered the apartment. - -He was ashy pale, but no other indication of the dreadful apprehension -under which he was suffering was visible on his countenance, and not -being able to nerve himself to bear the sight of his wife’s agonies, -should she know how strong were the grounds for her fears, he endeavored -to make light of them. - -“Oh, my dear, do not be in trouble about George; he’s far beyond the -reach of this little squall; he and Dick have probably been in New York -these two hours.” (Mr. Fayerweather hoped devoutly to be forgiven for -thus belying his conscience, well-knowing that implicit confidence would -be placed in his assurances.) “He and Dick, I have no doubt, are now -patroling the streets with eyes and mouths wide open at the wonders they -see.” - -“Well, I am rejoiced if they are out of the reach of this hurricane; but -I hope Captain Seaward will not trust them alone in New York streets; I -have always heard it is a terrible place for children. Sometimes they -are kidnapped as I have heard tell,” replied Mrs. Fayerweather, her -fears somewhat quieted. - -“Oh, you need not be afraid of that, my dear; the captain promised -faithfully that he would not suffer George to go out of his sight,” said -her husband as he left the apartment, and Amy resumed her book. - -The gust, after several vain attempts to shake the solid old mansion -from its foundation, at length relaxed its efforts and fell into a calm; -the sky cleared up and the sun went down in tranquil beauty. Before its -disc had wholly disappeared, however, it was surrounded by a light haze, -which gradually spreading and deepening, at length assumed the form of a -dark thunder-cloud, reaching nearly to the zenith. - -A flash of lightning was the signal for the whole household to assemble, -and before the low, deep bass of the distant thunder reached their ears, -they were all collected within madam’s chamber and its nearest -precincts. The bed was her own retreat, and she would have been glad to -have given the whole family a place on it could they have found room. -Amy, whose fears were scarcely less, seated herself on a low stool by -the bed-side, and leaning her arms on the bed buried her face in the -counterpane. Vi’let without ceremony ensconced herself in the -easy-chair, rocking to and fro and groaning out at intervals, “Oh, that -old witch!” while old Tabby, who did not choose to be left alone in the -kitchen, crowded in by her side, and took her full share of the cushion. -Not finding another low seat, Flora took the floor at the side of Miss -Amy, and leaned her arms on a chair in imitation of her young mistress; -and Peter placed himself at first on the top-most of the back stairs, -but by degrees, as the storm increased, edged further into the -apartment, and at length after a loud clap of thunder, planted himself -on one leg against the side of the door, with his woolly poll half in -his mistress’s chamber. John, who enjoyed a thunder-storm above all -things, took his station at a window where he could best see the -lightning, while his father and Mr. Wendell, a young lawyer who was an -admirer of Amy, and was now added to the family party, paced up and down -the long passage, extending their walk into the antechamber -before-mentioned, in a corner of which Scipio had placed himself. - -Though the long summer twilight had but just commenced, darkness had -suddenly covered the face of all things, when a dash of lightning, more -intense than the sun, quivered for a moment through the passage and in -the chambers, accompanied by a crash of thunder. - -“The massiful s’us!” groaned Vi’let. “The lawful massy!” ejaculated -Flora. Poor madam could only whisper, “O dear! dear!” Amy trembled. - -“That’s royal!” cried John, starting up and clapping his hands. - -“Be silent, boy,” said his father, sternly—“is this a time—” - -“Mr. Fayerweather, my dear, are you sure George is safe?” madam -implored. - -“Oh, yes, my dear,” replied her husband, “he’s safe as we all are—in -the hands of Divine Providence. Peter, get candles.” - -A chattering of teeth was heard, but the statue did not stir from its -pedestal. - -“Scipio, do you?” - -“Please, master, it’s Aunt Vi’let’s business to get ’em ready,” said -Scip in a trembling voice. - -The worthy gentleman, not feeling himself equal to an encounter with -Vi’let in such an extremity, said— - -“Well, it will be the shortest way to get them myself,” and made -preparations to do so; at which Vi’let, safe in the easy-chair, -displayed great indignation. - -“Why don’t you go, Scip? there’s master going himself, if I’m alive. I -wish I was near you, I’d see if you didn’t stir your stumps.” - -A low grumble was heard from Scip in the ante-room. - -“Hold your tongue, you black nigger,” returned Vi’let from the -easy-chair; “aint ye ’shamed yeself? ’sturbing madam and all the good -family with your clamor. If I was master I would soon clear the house of -you all.” - -During this colloquy, or rather monologue, John, starting up, made but -two steps over the stairs and soon reappeared with lights. Mr. -Fayerweather then took up the prayer-book which, with the large bible, -lay on the table in the inner chamber, and asked his young friend if he -would read prayers, his own broken voice sufficiently showing himself -unequal to the office. Mr. Wendell, with a little hesitation took the -book, turned over a few leaves, while the household all assembled -kneeling in the chamber; when, amidst the roar of the storm without, his -voice was soon heard, in tones solemn and low, like some spirit of peace -rebuking the angry elements. He read with deep feeling a part of the -evening service, with prayers for the midst of a storm. This act of -submission and trust in Him who rules the tempest and makes the -whirlwinds to obey, calmed the spirits and elevated the thoughts of the -little assembly. Madam soon fell into a gentle slumber, and Vi’let’s -nasal organs gave tokens that she had followed her mistress’s example. -Flora and Peter ditto. - -The storm at length somewhat abated, but Mr. Fayerweather resumed his -walk. After a while he stopped suddenly for a moment, and then -exclaiming, - -“The Almighty be praised! there’s George’s voice,” and ran down stairs, -followed by John, Mr. Wendell and Amy. - -Loud and rough voices, but in high good-humor, with shouts of laughter, -were now heard rapidly approaching the house. They all opened the -front-door together, and in crowded Captain Seaward, Captain Bob -Stimpson and the two lads. Captain Seaward said— - -“Here, Mr. Fayerweather, I’ve brought George home t’ye, safe and sound.” - -Captain Bob Stimpson, in order to draw the attention of the company to -himself, cleared his throat with a humph, in which were harmoniously -blended the German guttural and the French nasal, and striking his huge -cane on the floor, added—“And if there’s another two such lads in the -whole province of Massachusetts Bay, I am not Captain Robert -Stimpson!—why, they saved the vessel and the lives of us all.” - -Here Captain Seaward chimed in. - -“D’ye see, Mr. Fayerweather, the gale was sich a one as not many of us -had often been out in afore; and at one time when it blew so strong as -to threaten to capsize the vessel, one of the ropes got loose, and it -was needful for somebody to go aloft and make it fast without loss of -time, or the vessel would have gone to pot in less than no time. Not a -lubber of a sailor would stir, but they all stood staring at each other -like so many sculpens. Brayton’s stout-hearted enough, but he’s lame, -and Stimpson here and I are both old and clumsy”—Captain Bob Stimpson -fetched a grunt—“but we were going to try what our old carcases could -do, when them ’ere two lads pushed afore us, and were up the shrouds in -a twinkling and fastened the rope. The vessel was saved, but she was so -much strained that we were obliged to put back for repairs, and for -Brayton to get some better hands. So, now we’ll shake hands and bid ye -good-night.” - -Mr. Fayerweather tried hard to prevail on the two sea-worthies to stay -and eat supper; but Captain Seaward excused himself, alleging that his -“old woman would be skeared about them;” his friend, Stimpson, adding— - -“And my daughter, Judy, will cry herself to pieces, if she doesn’t see -her sir to-night.” - -The noise below now aroused Madam Fayerweather, who called out between -sleeping and waking: - -“What’s the matter, Amy?—Mr. Fayerweather?” Then thoroughly awake, she -exclaimed— - -“Where are they all gone?” and rising from the bed, said in a louder -tone—“Vi’let, what upon earth is the matter?” - -Vi’let snored out, “It’s that ’ere Scip; he’s the torment and plague of -my life—he’s always making a hullagaloo.” - -Here the whole party entered the chamber. What was madam’s surprise at -seeing George! When she discovered that he had been out in all the -storm, she complained loudly of having been kept in ignorance of his -danger. - -“As if I was not his mother, and had not a right to know every thing -about him; but it’s the way you always do, Mr. Fayerweather, and I do -not take it kindly of you at all. I should have had a fit had I known -that he was on the water all this time.” - -And madam was near falling into one at the idea of it; but the fear that -her son might be half-starved, and not be able to get any thing to eat -if she should take up the time in having hysterics, made her think -better of it; so she desired Vi’let to get a good supper and make George -some white wine-whey. Vi’let, punching Peter down stairs before her, and -followed by her satellite Flora, made her descent, grumbling and -muttering at having _vittles_ to get at that time o’ night. - -They had an excellent supper, during which George related all the -wonders which he and Dick had seen and performed on that memorable -day—and if he felt somewhat lifted up, might he not be pardoned? After -supper Mr. Wendell took his leave, and the family sought repose; though -not before offering up fervent thanks for George’s preservation. - -The shrill reveille of the barn-yard trumpeter early aroused Nature from -her slumbers, and fearing she had overslept herself from the fatigues of -yesterday, she threw off her dark counterpane and donned in haste her -gray kirtle. The bull-frog had ceased tuning his eternal bass-viol, and -with the beetle, the whippowil, the owl, and other roysterers of the -night, had gone to bed. All was still, excepting that here and there -might be heard the soft twitter of some warbler who was to take part in -the grand chorus of the morning, as nestled among the branches he tuned -his little pipe. Her wearied handmaidens were yet sleeping after their -night’s toil; and their indulgent mistress left them awhile longer to -their repose, for never had they better performed her bidding. The -eastern casements were new hung in draperies of rose-color and gold, and -the morning-star was peeping in, to see that all was in order for his -monarch’s arrival; while the moon still lingered near the western -portal, to take one look at his joyous visage before her departure. The -west-wind now woke, and sweeping fragrance from the new-born flowers, -gently fanned the face of the careful matron as she cast a pleased eye -over her fair domain. Her fountains were filled to the brim and gleamed -in the early light; her fresh green turf was glittering with gems, and a -diamond hung from every leaf of her foliage. But the paling of the -morning-star now gave notice of the sun’s approach; and spying his -steeds advancing over the ocean, and her broad mirrors reflecting his -glance on their burnished surfaces, she gave the signal for the morning -concert to strike up, and all radiant with smiles welcomed her lordly -visitor. The moon meekly courtesied her adieu. - -Vi’let was early astir this morning. She went down stairs, her cap on -one ear, very much out of humor at having the house to put to rights -again, “arter working like a dog all yesterday from sunrise till -midnight.” Routing up Scip and Peter, and setting Flora to put the -breakfast-room in order, she then placed the coffee and chocolate on the -fire, and the cakes into the Dutch-oven to bake—this, the reader will -recollect, was before the era of cooking-stoves and ranges—after which -she called out to Flora to know if Dinah had brought back the -frying-pan. - -“No, Aunt Vi’let,” returned Flora, in a deprecating tone; “but you -mustn’t blame me, for I told her you’d want it this morning to fry the -flap-jacks.” - -“That’s always the way with that old witch, Nanny; if she gets any thing -out of anybody, they’ve good luck to get it again—Pete’, what are you -gaping at me for? Why don’t you clean master’s shoes, you lazy nigger? -What’s Scip’ poking about—why don’t he bring in the stuff to make the -fire burn? Breakfast wont be ready till nine o’clock, and madam will be -down scolding so that the house wont hold her—sich a life as I lead!” - -Here she went across the yard to the hedge dividing her master’s -premises from those of Jemmy Boynton, thrust her head through the lilacs -yet in full bloom—the white linen border of her cap turned back, -setting off to great advantage her ebony complexion—and called out, - -“Dinah!”—then louder and sharper, “Dinah!”—no Dinah appeared. - -“What the old gallows ails the gal, that I must split my throat a -screeching arter her!” then raising her voice to the utmost -pitch—“Di-i-ina-ah!” - -Here Dinah’s head appeared out of a little square window in the -out-house. - -“What’s wanting, Aunt Vi’let?” - -“What’s wanting?—the frying-pan’s wanting—what d’ye think?” - -“Laud ’a’massy, Aunt Vi’let, I forgot all about it; we had sich a rumpus -here yesterday.” - -“Rumpus! yes, I ’spect you _had_ a rumpus! I only wonder the house wa’nt -blowed away. Them as lives with witches must ’spect to ride in the air -some time or ’nother.” - -“Hush! Aunt Vi’let,” cried Dinah, in a voice somewhat lower. Here she -ran across the yard to the place of rendezvous, frying-pan in hand, and -added, in a whisper, “I reckon she’s got sharp ears; I wonders sometimes -how our most privatest conversations gets to her hearing.” - -“Has she got her cloak back?” asked Vi’let. - -“No, she han’t got it yet; but I ’spect she’ll get it to-day; the wind -blowed it over to South fields, and it got stuck in the top of a tree. -They had sich a time about it last night, I thought they’d raise the -neighbors, case Tom Duckenfield wouldn’t go and look arter it, arter -he’d rung the bell for nine. She ’clared she’d put him in jail for the -one-and-sixpence he owed her for milk; and Tom said she’d better take -care, or he’d let out about the bran, he see her steal, that old Swasey -begged for his pig, to feed her cow.” - -“The bran from old Swasey’s pig!” exclaimed Vi’let in indignation; “I -guess she needn’t steal much bran! the cow gets all her living out of -our barn. She gets in when the gate is shut fast! the old witch knows -how. Pete’ says he see her lift up the latch with her horns; now, what -nat’ral cow, that’s _raly_ a cow, would have sense to do that, I want to -know! Oh, I see’d well enough what she raly was, one night last winter.” - -“Why, what was it?” asked Dinah, with ears and eyes wide open for the -marvelous. - -“Why it was just afore nine o’clock, and I heard old Tabby miaow -terribly at the kitchen-door. I opened it, and in she flew, looking as -if she was skeared to pieces! her tail was as big as that,” (doubling up -her fist.) “So I looks out to see what it was as frightened her so, -when, a standing inside the barn-door, I see’d—as true as you stand -there—I see’d a woman, all in white, without n’ary head! it had a -handkercher in its hand, and it kept a waving it back’ards and -for’ards—” - -“I should ha’ swounded away dead,” said Dinah. - -“So would anybody but me; but I kept up my courage, for my temper ris; I -thought Nanny was at the bottom of it all along, though I know’d it was -a sperit—for I’ve see’d enough on ’em,” she continued, her imagination -kindling with the subject; “and it rolled its eyes, and—and—” - -“But, Aunt Vi’let,” observed Dinah, submissively, “I thought you said it -hadn’t n’ary head.” - -“Hold your tongue, you fool! what do you keep ’terrupting me for? Where -was I? Well, then, it fetched a sithe—sich a sithe!—I couldn’t stand -it no longer; so I called master out. ‘There, sir,’ says I, ‘now I hope -you’ll believe your own eyes’—for he always laughs and ri-dicules at -witches and ghosts, and all them sort o’ things. So I tell’d him—and -out he goes. I see all the time he was skeared enough, only he was -’shamed to show it afore me; but when he got to the barn-door, he set up -sich a laugh—you might a hearn him into your house. I ’clare it made my -hair stand on eend to hear him. ‘Here,’ says he, ‘Vi’let, your woman -without a head is changed into a cow’s hind legs and tail!’ and sure -enough, it was the beast then, but I know’d well enough what it was -afore. Howsomenever, it wan’t no use a telling him; so I takes a skillet -of biling water, that was on the fire, to bile some eggs—for our folks -must always have some mess o’nother hot for supper, to keep me at it -slaving from morning to night; not but I likes a little bit o’ suthen -comfortable myself afore I goes to bed, and the most part on it comes -into the kitchen. So I was going to fling it on to her, to see what -she’d turn into next; but master tell’d me to let her alone, for the -barn wouldn’t miss a little hay. Did you ever hear any thing so -’diclous! I tell’d him—” - -“Aunt Vi’let! Aunt Vi’let!” was now heard from the kitchen-door; “the -cakes is burning, and mistress wants to know if breakfast wont be ready -soon.” - -“And why don’t Flora take the cakes out of the oven, then! Can’t nothing -be done without me?” cried Vi’let. “For the laud’s sake, give me my -frying-pan, and let me go, or I shall have the whole house arter me.” -She went into the kitchen in a hurry, took up her cakes, and fried her -flap-jacks. - -After their morning devotions, the Fayerweather family, in high spirits, -gathered round the breakfast-table. This was laid in the western room, -before an open glass-door, which looked into the garden. The cool -morning breeze, after frolicking among the flowers, found its way in at -the door, and mingling its stolen perfumes with those of the coffee and -chocolate, played antics with the table-cloth. - -I might here describe the breakfast; but as there was nothing -appertaining to it which greatly differed from a modern one, I will just -ask the reader to imagine his or her own family circle—which is, -doubtless, the most agreeable in the world—in the best possible humor, -and with excellent appetites, before a repast exactly suited to the -taste of each individual of said family, seasoned by all the wit and -liveliness possessed by each, in a peculiar degree, and my task will be -accomplished in the best possible manner. - -From this memorable period, all George’s accustomed avocations became -tedious and disagreeable to him. Greek and Latin, in both of which he -had made an unwilling progress, under Master Goodwin, of the grammar -school, to prepare him for college, he now actually loathed; and his -father found he must give up the hope nearest his heart, of ever seeing -his eldest son distinguished in one of the learned professions. - -“Well, my boy,” he said at last, “if, as you say, you are convinced you -can never make a scholar, as it is not my way to drive a nail that will -not go, I consent to your giving up Greek and Latin; though I _did_ hope -to see you in one of the professions which your grandfathers followed so -creditably. As to your going to sea, remember, it is wholly against my -inclination. I shall expect you to continue at school two years; then, -if you make such progress in general learning, and in studies connected -with navigation, as to give me reason to hope seeing you something above -the mate of a Marblehead skipper, I will then consent, though I should -much prefer your going into a counting-house in London.” - -The youth, satisfied with the hope of obtaining his father’s consent to -his following the sea on any terms, promised faithfully to do all that -was required of him; and, moreover, possessing some common sense, a -quality not usually abounding in characters of his stamp, he set his -mind to applying itself with energy and perseverance to the studies -dictated by his father and Master Goodwin. - -During the two years specified, two events of note occurred in the -Fayerweather family; one was Amy’s marriage. This was conducted with all -the state due to so important an occasion. The time for Amy’s “_walking -bride_,” as it was termed, for the three Sundays succeeding the wedding, -happened to be unfortunately in the early spring, the first Sunday -falling on Easter, near the beginning of April. The bridal procession, -consisting of the happy pair walking arm-in-arm, four bridemaids and as -many groomsmen, set off from Mr. Fayerweather’s and paraded the whole -length of Essex street to the end of St. Peter’s, where stood the church -of wood dedicated to the same saint, lately replaced by a handsome -gothic edifice of stone. - -The bride was attired in a rich white satin; her fair neck shaded by a -tucker of costly Brussels’ lace, a ruffle of the same falling over her -dimpled elbow. Her sharp-pointed shoes, with heels three inches high, -were of white brocade, with a silver flower in the toe, and brilliant -paste buckles, nearly covering the instep. Any thing in the shape of -hat, bonnet, cloak or scarf would have been altogether _outré_ on such -an occasion. The large fan which it was customary for the bride to -carry, and to hold up gracefully to shade her face, was mounted with -white leather on which was painted, in lively colors, the wedding train -of Isaac and Rebecca; Rebecca in a sacque, with triple ruffled cuffs, -and Isaac in a full-bottomed periwig; walking side by side, through -arches festooned with flowers, followed by six pairs of young nymphs -holding the Jewish bride’s train; whilst a winged Cupid, with bow and -arrows, and a Hymen, with his torch pointing to the church in the -distance, marshaled the procession. A pair of turtle-doves, imagined to -be cooing, sat on the arch directly over the heads of the happy couple. -This fan was the wonder and admiration of the _élite_ of Salem. - -Mr. Wendell was in a coat of milk-white broad-cloth, with nether -garments of white satin, and paste knee-buckles; and a white satin -waistcoat flowered with silver, in the button-hole of which was placed a -large bouquet of hyacinths, which Amy had coaxed to bloom for the -occasion. A chapeau-bras held under his arm completed his equipments. - -It was a raw and disagreeable day in this least pleasant of the seasons -in New England; with an east wind—which sourest and most ill-tempered -of the children of Eolus usually blows on the seacoast from the -beginning of April until the end of May, and oftentimes encroaching far -into June. By a miracle the bride did not catch a cold. On the second -Sunday she wore her second suit, a rose-colored damask, and on the third -a straw-colored paduasoy; each week “sitting up for company” every day, -with her attendants, in the afternoon for ladies, and in the evening for -gentlemen, drest in the habiliments she wore on the Sunday beginning the -week. These indispensable ceremonies were usually performed under the -roof of the bride’s parent or guardian; after which the new-married pair -took possession of their own house. That of Mr. and Mrs. Wendell, as -will be seen presently, was situated at a very short distance from Mr. -Fayerweather’s, where Amy still spent the greater part of her time. - -The other event of importance that took place during George’s two years -of probation was the obtaining of a quit-claim by Mr. Fayerweather from -Jemmy and Nanny Boynton. This he had obtained through the assistance of -his new nephew, Mr. Wendell, and without paying more than one third more -than it was worth. After securing this deed or quit-claim the kind uncle -converted Boynton’s house and his old ware-house, which stood near it, -into a pretty residence for the young married couple, in order, as he -said, to have Cousin Amy still under his own wing. As soon as the -important negotiation with the Boyntons was concluded, Mr. Fayerweather -came with all possible haste to make the joyful communication to the -family. As he laid the document in triumph on the table he said, - -“There, my dear, I have got the quit-claim at last from the Boyntons. -The land is all our own now.” - -On hearing these words, madam aroused herself from a deep reverie and -exclaimed, - -“La! Mr. Fayerweather, you don’t say so; how thankful I am. How did you -prevail on them?” - -“Oh, Wendell and I were too strong for them; though Nanny, I believe, -would still have held on if I had not offered a good deal more than I -had intended; and she was not satisfied after all; but I don’t care, I -have the deed, and now we shall be rid of them.” - -The two lads, who were laying their heads together at the window, and -planning, it is to be feared, some mischief, started up in a transport— - -“Then we’ll have a bonfire out in the field to-night, as high as the -house, in spite of them,” cried John, “to-night’s Gunpowder Treason.” - -“Yes,” added George, “and we’ll burn Jemmy for Pope; I know a capital -way to get his old wig.” - -“You’ll do no such thing, boys,” interrupted their father; “you may make -your bonfire up to the moon if you will, but let Jemmy Boynton alone—we -are quit of him now, and you shall give no occasion for any more brawls -with him or Nanny either.” - -“With Nanny! no indeed!” and madam, clasping her hands, cast her eyes -upward, rolling them in a very remarkable manner. - -The youths went out, and their father was following them, when a “Mr. -Fayerweather, my dear,” stopped him short, and he turned round to his -better half, who, he saw, was dying to make some very momentous -communication. - -“Well, my dear, what is it? What have you to tell me?” - -“Oh, my dear, I meant to have told you before, but you were so full of -business this morning that I had not a chance; but I think you ought to -know.” Madam looked awful and mysterious. - -“Why, what was it? Did Nanny’s red cloak take another flight?” - -“La! no, my dear—you’ll never forget that, I believe—but this is what -took place in our own kitchen, and I saw it with my own eyes.” - -“Well, what was it then? I am all impatience to know?” - -Madam cleared her voice—“Why, I happened to be in the kitchen -yesterday, just before tea-time, when Dinah came over to borrow half a -pint of meal to make some porridge for Nanny, so I asked Dinah what was -the matter with her? for you know that nobody takes porridge but when -they are sick, and not then, if they can afford a little posset, or even -oatmeal gruel with raisins in it. Dinah said, she was sure she did not -know what ailed her, but she was so nervous and cross there was no -living in the house with her. I reproved Dinah for talking so of her -mistress, and after she was gone I told Vi’let to make some nice -sack-posset, and carry it over to Nanny; you know, with all their money, -they scarcely afford themselves the necessaries of life. Vi’let grumbled -enough, and said ‘water porridge was good enough for witches, and too -good, too;’ however, she went to get the skillet to boil the milk in, -and when she came back with it in her hand, what should slip in between -her feet but a monstrous great black cat. Old Tabby always fights all -strange cats, but when she saw this, she slunk away, and hid herself -behind the settle. Vi’let was going to strike the strange cat over with -the skillet, but I would not let her—not bethinking myself that it was -any thing more than a common cat—though it was the biggest one I ever -saw—but it seemed to be nothing more than skin and bone, and it rubbed -up against me and mewed so pitifully, that I told Vi’let not to hurt the -creature, but to give it something to eat. Vi’let said she wasn’t going -to do no such thing; and if I wanted to give Christian folks’ vittles to -evil sperits I might get it myself. Then she tried to strike it again; -when the creature, or whatever it was, hunched up its back and spit at -her; and then it set up an awful yowl and disappeared. I thought I saw -it go out after Dinah; but Vi’let said it banished up chimney; and she -was sure Nanny sent it to bewitch us all. And this morning she says she -was pinched black-and-blue all night, so that she couldn’t sleep a wink, -and took three crooked pins out of her sleeve, which she was sure she -never put there, for she has only two, and one of them hasn’t any head. -She showed me her arm that was pinched so; it was certainly very much -swollen, though I couldn’t see any black-and-blue marks for the color of -her skin. I am pretty sure _I_ felt some twitches, too, in my right arm; -and this morning I had the strangest cramp in my foot. I wet my finger -and crossed the place, and the cramp went off; but I feel all the time -as if it was coming on again. Now what do you think of all this, Mr. -Fayerweather? Don’t you think it high time Nanny was seen to?” - -Mr. F. looked comical. - -“Now what are you laughing at?” said madam, in an unwonted pet; “I’ll -never tell you any thing again, if Nanny bewitches us all together, -which it’s likely enough she’ll do, now we have the land against her -will.” - -“Don’t be offended, my love,” said her husband; “I was only pleased to -have my mind made easy on one score—you’ll never be hanged for a witch, -I am sure; and as to Nanny, why, I think you may safely leave her to -Vi’let—I’ll match her with any witch in the Bay Province.” - -Madam was appeased, though not wholly satisfied, but, as in duty bound, -said no more, not being quite sure as to the twitches; and having, -moreover, a vague suspicion that Vi’let’s swollen arm might be -occasioned by the rheumatism, though she would have scarcely ventured -such a surmise to Vi’let herself. The matter of the strange cat she -dismissed from her mind. - -George’s two years of probation passed rather slowly to him; but at last -they came to a close. He had improved his time to the entire -satisfaction of his father, having made such progress in his studies as -to reflect great credit on Master Goodwin, and also prove his own -industrious application. His predilection for a sea-faring life had -rather strengthened than abated, and his father could no longer withhold -his consent. A favorable opportunity was all George waited for, which -soon presented itself. Captain Brayton was going on a voyage up the -Mediterranean, and was to proceed to London, and touch at several -European ports in coming home. He had a good crew, and Captain Seaward -made interest with his old friend to take his son and George as light -hands, and to keep them under his especial protection, lamenting at the -same time that the Two Pollys, which was lying in the dock, undergoing -some repairs, could not be made ready for the voyage. - -Before Captain Brayton sails, we beg leave to introduce to the reader -another one of young Fayerweather’s acquaintance Down-in-town. - -He, also, bore the title of captain, which was accorded to all who, like -himself, had ever been a ship-master—old Captain Bob Stimpson—a short, -thick-set man, with legs like a mill-post, the upper parts encased in -leather breeches, the lower parts in blue worsted stockings, with smart -shoes fastened with huge silver buckles of great brilliancy. His wig, -which had once been black, was rendered nearly red by age, and formed a -setting to his redder face, which matched well with his huge bottle-nose -of the same fiery hue. But do not mistake, gentle reader; Captain Bob -Stimpson was a temperate man. He usually wore a brown coat and -waistcoat, out of which latter appeared ostentatiously the ruffle of his -shirt, broader than usual for the fashion of the day. He was a man of -substance, and owner of a rope-walk, at the door of which he was usually -found seated, pipe in mouth. - -What could a youth of seventeen find in the society of such an old -codger of fifty-two? Can you guess, my fair reader? He had a -daughter—the Down-in-town beauty, she was called; a girl of whom any -father might have been proud. - -She was his only child; her beauty was a rare specimen of the blonde, -with a high polished forehead, and exquisite features. A slight drooping -of the lid at the outer corner of her clear blue eyes, sometimes gave a -shade of sadness to her lovely countenance; but when animated, these -eyes became bright and merry, and her face was radiant with dimpled -smiles. - -Captain Stimpson’s house was considered a fine one for the time in which -he lived. It was a large square building, situated in the midst of a -spacious terrace, of which the under part was improved for shops, for -the sale of ready-made seaman’s clothing; and the lawn in front of his -house was directly over their roofs. The ascent to the terrace was by a -long flight of stone-steps, situated between two shops. The lawn was -covered with fine grass, bordered with rose-bushes and lilac-trees, and -a broad gravel-walk through the centre led to the house. This was of -three stories, with a cupola on the top, which cupola the two captains -used for a look-out, when vessels were coming in or going out; it -commanded a view of the harbor; the house being situated in that part of -the town now called Neptune street, or as they used to say, “down on the -wharves.” There was nothing further remarkable about the house, -excepting the cap of the front-door, which was ornamented by a figure of -Neptune, with his trident—the wonder and admiration of all the young -mermen of the vicinity. - -George first saw Judith Stimpson—conceive of a beauty with such a -name!—as he went with Dick, one summer afternoon, on some errand from -the father of the latter to Captain Stimpson. She was with a little -troop of companions who were on an afternoon’s visit to her, having -finished all the tasks of sewing and knitting which their prudent -mothers had set them. As yet pianos were scarcely invented, and there -was but one spinnet in the place, and this was viewed by some with -distrust, as having a secret connection with witchcraft. Judith and her -companions issued from the house for a game of romps on the terrace. It -was not in those days considered as infringing on decorum for girls of -thirteen to play at “blindman’s-buff,” “old Tickleder,” or -“hide-and-seek” in the open air. The little girls had just formed the -magic circle around the beautiful Judith, who, dressed in a yellow -grogram, with elbow-sleeves and ruffles of worked cat-gut over her -round, white arms, was dancing with great glee, and singing in a voice -rather loud for a young lady of her years, “Ring around the maiden in -Uncle Johnny’s garden,” her light, silken curls flying in every -direction round her glowing and innocent face, when who should appear on -the terrace but the two young men! Away scampered the girls, vainly -endeavoring to reach the house before their tormentors could catch them. - -Judith was caught by Dick, who pretended to insist strongly on taking -the forfeit she had incurred, while she blushed and struggled to free -herself from his grasp. George, seeing the pain and confusion she -evidently felt at being thus surprised, insisted on Dick’s releasing her -without the forfeited kiss; and it was then he first observed her great -beauty and modesty. While his friend went into the house to do his -errand, he so improved his acquaintance with the little girls that he -soon became foremost in their plays. At “hide-and-seek” and “old -Tickleder,” he was found incomparable. They were just forming a circle -in “Ring around the maiden,” round Betty Brayton, a little black-eyed -girl, the intimate friend of Judith, the hand of the latter of whom -George had taken care to secure, when Dick came out. He, after teazing -the girls and rallying his friend a little, drew him, rather -reluctantly, away; not, however, before George had gathered a rose, and -flinging it at Judith, said slyly, in a rather low tone, “Keep that for -my sake.” From this time he seized every opportunity of improving his -acquaintance with Judith; and several keepsakes passed between them. -Those from Judith being extorted rather than given, and those from -George received with a merry laugh. - - [_To be continued._ - - * * * * * - - - - - LUCY’S DIRGE.[1] - - - BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. - - - She was not made - Through years or moons the inner weight to bear - Which colder hearts endure till they are laid - By age in earth. - Byron. - - May is here with golden tresses, - Tresses wreathed, with flowers— - Tresses starred with dew-drops gleaming - In the pleasant south-wind streaming, - Giving many-colored dresses - To the fields and bowers— - May is here with golden tresses— - Tresses wreathed with flowers, - - May is here, my little maiden, - Maiden, passing fair! - Maiden, like a seraph gifted, - Ever high in thought uplifted - Earth above, with sorrow laden, - Darkness and despair— - May is here, my little maiden, - Maiden, passing fair! - - Hark! a voice replieth sadly— - Sadly, like a dirge— - Sadly, like some childless mourner, - “To the church-yard they have borne her, - And torn hearts are throbbing madly, - Washed by Sorrow’s surge”— - Hark! a voice replieth sadly— - Sadly, like a dirge. - - “Oh! she longed for May to greet her - With a honied kiss— - Greet her where bright eyes were glancing, - And the forms of sylphs were dancing - In the sunny lawns to meet her - With the boon of bliss— - Oh! she longed for May to greet her - With a honied kiss. - - “Ah! the sun of May is sailing - Through yon azure deep— - Sailing with a face unclouded, - But sweet Lucy, pale and shrouded, - Heareth not the voice of wailing - In her dreamless sleep— - Though the sun of May is sailing - Through yon azure deep.” - - Like the wondrous flower she faded, - That unfolds at night— - Faded, but in fields Elysian - She rejoiceth angel vision, - While a wreath for her is braided - That will know no blight— - Like the wondrous flower she faded, - That unfolds at night. - - Oh! too oft the ghastly reaper - Moweth down the young— - Reaper, of the scythe unsparing, - For the stricken little caring, - Though they bend above the sleeper - With their hearts unstrung— - Oh! too oft the ghastly reaper - Moweth down the young. - - Fare thee well! bright child of Heaven, - Heavenly dreams were thine— - Heavenly beauty gave forewarning - Of departure in life’s morning, - And to thee a soul was given - Filled with thoughts divine— - Fare thee well! bright child of Heaven, - Heavenly peace is thine! - ------ - -[1] The subject of the foregoing tribute was chosen May-Queen by her -mates. When the day of festivity arrived she lay wrapped in her little -shroud. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNET.—LAKE SUPERIOR. - - - BY WM. ALEXANDER. - - - Superior! wondrous lake! compared with thee, - What tiny lakelets doth earth’s face disclose! - Thy bright blue waters never know repose, - But, sea-like, fret, foam, rage continually— - High “pictured rocks” still battlement thy shore, - Around thee woods their sombre shadows cast, - Where Red-man pitched his wigwam in time past, - Or danced his war-dance to the music of thy roar— - Now on thy surface no canoe is seen, - For ’mid the wild-flowers which anigh thee bloom, - Sleeps the bold Indian, death-cold in his tomb; - Remembered as the things that once had been, - While wild-birds o’er him do his requiem sing, - Or flying o’er thee dip their sparkling wing. - - * * * * * - - - - - EMMA LA VELLETTE. - - - BY P. - - -About twenty years ago, there lived near the pretty town of Launceston, -in Cornwall, an elderly maiden lady named La Vellette. She was of French -origin, and had emigrated to England about the commencement of the first -French Revolution. She was remarkable for the simplicity of her manner, -and the amiability of her character. Exhibiting but little of that -vivacity which usually characterizes her fair countrywomen, she -nevertheless displayed a subdued cheerfulness, which, while it did not -stimulate mirth, never tended to arrest a merry laugh or an innocent -joke. In person she was small, and her features, though marked by age, -and saddened by care, still bore the lingering traces of beauty. Her -neat, retired, and snug little cottage, which, in summer, used to peep -forth beneath a forest of honeysuckle and ivy, and her prim and -Quaker-like simplicity of dress, were in happy harmony with her -disposition. Living in my youthful days within a few yards of her -residence, I was frequently invited with my playmates to visit her -garden. Gradually I became an especial favorite; and I used to feel so -much at home in her company, that I needed no invitation to pay her -frequent visits. She seemed to take a high degree of interest in my -amusements, and that of my companions; and when any conflicts arose from -the mysteries of a game at marbles, or from the strategy in -hide-and-seek, she would be the first to heal up the difficulty, and -restore amicability. Another valuable trait, which, boy as I was, I -could not help observing, was the unwavering resignation which she -always exhibited; while on the other hand, I was remarkable for my -impatience, and a somewhat irritable disposition. And when, as often I -did, I laid my complaints before her, when I grieved about the loss of a -favorite top, or the death of a favorite pigeon, I was always met with -her sympathy, and gently chid for my discontentment. Soothing me with -her mild but sorrowful smile, she would draw me to her bosom, and strive -to show me the folly of grieving for an unavoidable loss, and the duty -of submitting manfully to misfortune. - -To her neighbors her early history was involved in some degree of -obscurity. They knew she was a French _emigré_, that many years ago a -favorite sister had died, and that she had been deprived of her parents -at an early age. They had heard it rumored that she had suffered from -severe misfortunes—that her connections had been people of rank, and -while they all knew she enjoyed a competence, some conjectured she was -even wealthy. Other stories of a romantic character were sometimes -circulated, but unsupported by any degree of certainty. - -My esteem for her grew with my growth, and I have reason to believe that -it was reciprocated; but as I advanced in years, my visits became less -frequent, from unavoidable circumstances. At length the period arrived -when I was called upon to leave home for a situation in a foreign land, -and as I had often felt a strong desire to become acquainted with her -history, I called upon her on the day previous to my departure to take -my farewell, and to see if I could have my curiosity gratified. After I -had expressed this wish with all the delicacy my confusion enabled me, -and had excused the request by intimating the possibility that we might -never meet again, she consented to leave me a brief account after her -death. And that event, she added, is not far hence. Something tells me -that my pulse will soon cease to beat, and my heart to throb. I have -long waited for Heaven’s messenger; I have long panted for that land -“where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at -rest.” She then gave me a few words of advice, she pressed her lips upon -my cheek, placed a small parcel, containing a gold watch and ring, into -my hand, and then, in a broken voice, bade me farewell. - -Her anticipation of death was speedily realized. I was told that, about -eleven months after my departure, while reading her Bible in an -arm-chair, she suddenly and silently vanished, like one of heaven’s -stars, into the other world. Among her papers was a packet directed to -me, in which was the following brief sketch of her early life. - -I was born in the year 1770, at the village of St. Marc, near Lyons, in -France. I was the youngest of three children, having had a brother and -sister. My parents were connected with families of rank, and, though -well-off, were not wealthy. My mother was a woman of delicate -constitution, and of a most amiable disposition. She looked upon her -husband as the beau-ideal of perfection, and with a mother’s partiality, -she thought her children were paragons of beauty. My father was -certainly a kind, handsome, and an intellectual-looking man. In after -life I had opportunities for observing many families, and I do not -remember any father who was fonder of his home, more devoted to his -wife, or more affectionate to his children. Many years have passed, and -many strange scenes have racked my mind, since I last saw his dear face; -yet the recollection of his features are still as fresh upon my memory -as if I had seen him to-day. He loved study and his books; and, though -an aristocrat by birth, and a gentleman by fortune, he was a sincere -friend of the people, and an enemy to the profligacy and oppression of -the court. He was not, that I am aware of, a believer in the -republicanism then advocated. He thought France was then unfit for a -democratic government. He maintained that all institutions, to be -permanent, must be gradual in their growth. The strong and stately oak, -flourishing through centuries, slowly acquired its vigor and dimension; -the animalculæ springing into life, in a moment of time, becomes as -suddenly extinguished. “What my country needs,” said he, “is not a -universal suffrage, but freer institutions; not a republic, but -opportunities and experience to fit her for it.” He no less decried the -irreligious doctrines by which liberal opinions were then so frequently -accompanied. “France,” he would say, in his clear, manly voice, “will -never be really free until she is religious. The reign of virtue and -order must always accompany the reign of freedom. Without these -requisites she may conquer, but only to be defeated; she may establish a -republic, but it will be only a despotism in disguise.” - -These opinions did not seem to please many of his auditors, and he would -frequently leave a political club with feelings of grief and despair. He -saw no hope for his country so long as her shackles remained—and he -mistrusted the wisdom of the reforms which the people desired to -introduce. - -My sister was about two years older than myself. She was fairer and -prettier than I was, and bore a strong resemblance to my mother. She had -light hair, large, clear blue eyes, and a tall and graceful figure. - -My brother was five years my senior. He was in every respect, but in -affection, unlike the rest of us. At an early age, I remember, he -exhibited marks of a powerful frame, with an active, bold, and -enthusiastic disposition. His mind, naturally good, was improved by an -excellent education; and though carefully watched over by an attentive -father, he could not prevent him from imbibing very extravagant notions -about government, and very loose opinions upon religion. - -The limits to which I purpose to confine myself, precludes the -possibility of mentioning any of the incidents connected with my -childhood. I shall therefore pass them by, and in the following pages, -merely allude to those events which may be of interest, and I hope of -profit. - -Suitors made their appearance as my sister and myself approached -womanhood. For some time I did not discover any one who attracted my -attention. Having every comfort I desired, and parents upon whom I -doated, I was in no hurry to divide my affection. But we are told that -every woman must, sooner or later, fall in love—and my experience -formed no exception. At a party given by a neighbor, I was introduced to -a young man, who struck my attention, and who in a short time won my -heart. His name was Alfred Pomiville. He was admitted on all hands to be -very prepossessing; and I thought he was a model of manly beauty. My -parents had formed the humane and sensible resolution of allowing their -children the disposal of their own affections, reserving, of course, the -right of approving or disapproving of their choice. When, therefore, my -father became acquainted with my partiality for Alfred, he did not -accuse me of disobedience, but endeavored to study his disposition and -to ascertain his character. Measuring his feelings by mine own, I -thought the more closely Alfred was studied the more he would be -admired. I was therefore surprised when I found my father forming a -somewhat undecided opinion of him, and entreating me to be cautious -before I gave away a woman’s dearest treasure—her heart. I promised -obedience to his advice; but with the characteristic weakness of most of -our sex, when our affections are engaged, I speedily forgot my promise, -and went on confiding and loving. In the course of a few months I -observed with much pleasure that he gradually rose in my father’s -estimation; with my mother he was from the first a favorite; and my -brother and sister both considered him agreeable. To me he was kind and -affectionate in the highest degree; he studied my smallest wish, and -seemed devoted to my happiness. Within a year after our acquaintance he -was recognized by my parents as my future husband, and then I saw naught -but smiles and sunshine before me; then I thought, in the weakness of my -heart, I had attained the summit of human happiness, and could defy -misfortune. - - * * * * * - -As time flew on, the dark clouds of the Revolution advanced. It was now -evident to every observing eye that a fearful storm was at hand. The -most hair-brained courtier, strutting through the balconies of -Versailles, heard the distant rumblings of the coming thunder and stood -aghast. Even the political agitators trembled for a moment at the -prospect they had created. My father therefore became more anxious, more -active, and less at home. At length the storm burst. The indignant voice -of fifteen millions could no longer be controled. Then followed that -unparalleled era of romance and crime, of heroism and pusillanimity. -Then commenced the first of a series, not yet completed, of modern -popular reaction against political oppression. We had, ere this, removed -to Paris, and we saw what has been called the commencement of the -Revolution. But I must pass over the dreadful scenes which subsequently -passed before our eyes. They have now long enjoyed an unenviable -notoriety, forming alike a warning to the oppressed and their -oppressors. Strange to say, after a little while, we were able to hear -the awful events around us with comparative composure, so easy does our -nature become accustomed to circumstances. No doubt this was in a great -measure owing to the confidence we entertained of the safety of our -family. My brother was one of the popular favorites, and so seemed -Alfred. My father, though conservative in his republicanism, and an -uncompromising opponent of infidelity, was admired by all who held his -opinions, and respected by those who differed with him. Our relatives, -most of whom were aristocrats in sentiments as in rank, had ere this -emigrated to Germany. - -The Revolution gathered force as it rolled along, and my father’s -disappointment increased as he observed the acts which accompanied its -progress. We now felt it was unsafe for him to remain, and at our -earnest wish, he appointed an old domestic to take care of his property, -and consented to leave France with us for England. Alfred accompanied us -to Paris, and my parents agreed that we should be immediately united, -and that he should then accompany us in our exile. A priest, an old -acquaintance, who had sought for shelter under our roof from the popular -excitement, was appointed to perform the marriage ceremony. The gloom -which had lately hung heavily upon me now disappeared. I was confident -of a speedy release from further trouble and looked forward to our -future residence in England with much anxiety. - -The morning of the day fixed for my bridal at length arrived. I remember -I slept very little on the preceding night. When I arose the day seemed -delightfully fine, which I looked upon as a favorable omen. Habited in a -plain white dress, I descended to our little parlor, where Alfred and -all the family, except my father, were assembled at breakfast. The -latter, I was told, was absent on business relative to our departure. -The ceremony was not to take place until one, and we highly amused -ourselves during the intermediate time, in projecting future schemes, -and building pretty castles in the air. My sister drew a very charming -picture of our English residence—Alfred gave us amusing and extravagant -descriptions of the English—and I endeavored to estimate how much I -should enjoy the English scenery, its picturesque cottages, its snug -little gardens, and the luxury of peace and safety. And then Alfred drew -me by his side, and whispered compliments in my ear, and assured me that -stores of happiness awaited us. Thus pleasantly the time flew on until -the clock struck one, when the priest reminded us that the hour for our -wedding had arrived. At that moment a knock was heard at the door, which -Annette declared was our father’s. The missal was then opened, and my -sister placed the chairs in order. Then my heart began to palpitate, and -a nervousness come over me which young ladies, I presume, are accustomed -to experience upon such occasions. As I was advancing with Alfred toward -the priest, I happened to turn my eyes to the window fronting the -street, where I saw my dear father in the executioner’s cart, on its way -to the guillotine! - -To describe the feelings which I experienced when this dreadful sight -presented itself, would be impossible. Nearly forty years have passed -since then, during which I have witnessed many never-to-be-forgotten -scenes, and experienced many uncommon trials, yet that moment stands out -in greater prominence than any other event of my life, and even now my -hand trembles and my eyes become dim as the recollection of it returns -to my memory. - -Upon recovering from the insensibility which the shock produced, I was -met with another catastrophe, no less appalling than its -predecessor—the death of my mother! It seems she also had observed my -father on his way to execution, and the sudden fright operating upon a -diseased heart, produced a sudden and fatal attack. Thus the hour which -I fancied was to make me happy became the commencement of a series of -misfortunes; the day which was to have rescued us from danger carried my -father to the scaffold and fitted my mother for the grave! Truly says an -old French proverb—“_L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose._” - -My marriage was of course postponed. So soon as we were able we made -preparations for the burial of our deceased parents. On the day after -that duty was accomplished, tidings reached us that our estates were -confiscated, adding poverty to orphanage. Collecting our little stock of -money and jewels, we nevertheless determined to leave France for -England. It was agreed, for it was necessary, to make our escape by -different routes, so as to avoid notice and lessen the possibility of -detection. It was also agreed that we should meet at a friend’s house in -London. Accompanied by my sister, we reached Toulon, which was then in -the hands of the royalists, where we found an English ship which carried -us safely to England. - -But my troubles did not end here. My sister was naturally of a weak -constitution, and the fatigues of our journey, and the excitement -consequent upon our losses, had greatly increased her debility, so that -upon our arrival in London I found it necessary to place her under -medical treatment. The family where we agreed to rendezvous were -royalists, and they had left for Germany, to join the invading army -against France. We were therefore in a strange country, with an -imperfect knowledge of its language, friendless and almost moneyless. -Oh! how different was our condition to that which we a few weeks -previous had anticipated! Some time, however, elapsed before I allowed -these circumstances to depress me. My nerves seemed to strengthen with -the increase of my difficulties—a faculty, which I think, is peculiar -to our sex, and which, alas! they are often called upon to exercise. I -also buoyed myself up with the hope of the speedy arrival of my brother -and Alfred, and I used every means by which they might become acquainted -with our address. At last my little resources were almost exhausted, my -poor sister still lingered unimproved, and I had received no news of -their arrival, nor intelligence of their whereabouts. I had tried, but -in vain, to obtain employment, and I almost began to despair of any -relief but death. The doctor told me that medicine was of no use to my -sister, and recommended nutritious diet, which I had not the means of -procuring. He, and the people with whom we boarded, also importuned me -for money, and payment of what I owed deprived me of all I possessed. We -therefore felt it necessary to remove to a small, ill-ventilated room, -in the outskirts of the city. After this my poor sister became worse. -The want of proper food, of pure air, and medical advice, aggravated her -disease. I fortunately, after very great exertion, obtained employment -in making fancy collars, which by hard labor enabled me to earn about -one shilling a day. Deducting half of that sum for rent, we had only -three shillings per week to board with. With this I used to purchase -oatmeal, and we converted it into what the Scotch call porridge. Annette -seemed at first to like it, but her partiality for it speedily changed, -and the only food she subsequently cared for, which my means enabled me -to procure, was milk and toast. Her illness was also aggravated by the -disorderly persons who boarded in the house, and when I entreated the -landlord to command silence, he roughly told me I was welcome to leave -if I felt uncomfortable. She was now so weak that removal would have -extinguished the faint spark of life which remained, and I was therefore -compelled to submit to this annoyance. One or two of our fellow-lodgers -did take compassion on our condition, and showed us a little kindness. -An old woman, named Grassett, the wife of a pensioner, sometimes visited -our room, and gave us a cup of nice tea, or would wait on my sister -while I worked at my collars, or endeavored to snatch a little sleep. We -had also occasional visits from a pious French priest, who, though he -could not alleviate our sufferings, often cheered us with his sympathy. -My sister lingered on for about ten months, sometimes worse and -sometimes better. On the evening of a day in the month of December she -seemed livelier than I had seen her for a long time before, which -afforded me a hope of her ultimate recovery. She sat up in her bed, and -with her sweet voice endeavored to convince me that there were happy -days in store for us, and of the strong probability of the speedy -arrival of Alfred and our brother. And then she would kiss my care-worn -cheeks, and smilingly assure me that I had lost none of my beauty. I -assumed an assent to all she said, because I knew it would afford her -pleasure. - -While conversing in this manner, the postman arrived and handed me a -letter. Pointing to the address which was in French, and to the writing -which resembled my brother’s, she exultingly declared it was his, and -playfully demanded that I should never more doubt her predictions. For a -moment I fancied it was his, and the bearer of good news, but the first -words, “Dear Miss,” dashed away all these expectations. I however -endeavored to hide my emotion, because I was intently watched and -incessantly questioned about its contents. As I read on, the particulars -of my brother’s adventures became gradually unfolded—at last the finale -was reached, he had been arrested within a few miles of the frontier, -and then met with the fate of his father. So wrote the friend who -obtained a few hurried words from him previous to his execution, and who -promised him to communicate this intelligence to us. But strange to say, -when I reached this dreadful part of the letter, my stupefied brain felt -my sister’s arms suddenly clasped around my neck, heard her sob, as she -kissed me, “poor dear Emma,” and then remain silent. In a few minutes I -felt somewhat restored, I ventured a glance upon her face, and she -seemed to be asleep. I removed her arms, and as I gently tried to awake -her, the awful truth revealed itself that she, too, had departed. -Whether it was produced by reading my brother’s fate upon my -countenance, or by any physical infirmity, is to me a mystery. - -Some hours must have elapsed before I returned to consciousness. I awoke -as from some horrible dream, but the dreadful reality quickly returned. -And as I heard the thunder roaring and the rain pouring without, and -observed the gloom within, the fatal letter on the door, and my dead -sister by my side, I became reckless with despair. Grief refused to pay -her tribute to misfortune, my heart seemed to harden, my head seemed to -burn. I fancied Heaven and earth had conspired to injure me. - -A raging fever followed, accompanied with delirium, and I was told, that -as I lay under its influence I would call upon my parents, my sister and -my brother, and entreat them to send for me. At other times I upbraided -Alfred for his absence, and then expressed a confidence in his arrival, -and framed excuses for his delay. Anon I would promise to be good to -him, to wait upon and watch over him, to make him happy and deserve his -love. - -At the moment the first gleam of reason returned, I observed persons -carrying my sister’s corpse from the room, in a coffin composed of a few -rough boards, which seemed to be clumsily nailed together. I recognized -their object at once, and entreated that I might be allowed to give her -one last kiss before they consigned her to the grave. With a little -grumbling they removed the lid, and as I pressed my lips upon her cheek -I truly envied her condition. I then asked for a ringlet of her hair, -but I was told that they had all been cut off and sold to a hair-dresser -to meet the expenses of her funeral. A choking sensation now seized me, -I fell back and buried my face in the bed-clothes, and my dead sister -was removed. - -In a little while I felt somewhat relieved. My eyes—those safety-valves -to a sorrow-stricken heart—became suffused with tears for the first -time since my illness. I also now experienced that a some thing was -wanting; my conscience troubled me, but I could not tell why or -wherefore. I also startled myself by conjecturing that my misfortunes -were intended for some wise purpose, and that that purpose had some -reference to myself. I reviewed my past life, but I could not then -remember any act of mine which deserved punishment; indeed, I felt a -degree of complacency, because I fancied I was so much better than many -whom I remembered, and had done my duty as a daughter, a sister, and as -a friend. But the feelings which produced these inquiries wore off with -my recovery; it was reserved for a future period to make a deeper -impression. - -Some of the people of the house extended a rough kind of sympathy to me, -and Mrs. Grassett continued a constant attendant. One day she mentioned -the death of the kind old French priest who used to visit us, and added -that an English clergyman, who visited the poor in the neighborhood, had -made inquiries and expressed a desire to see me. I may here mention that -my father descended from a Huguenot family, and though they felt -themselves obliged to conceal their opinions after the edict of Nantes, -yet they continued to disseminate them privately among their household. -I felt, therefore, little compunction in accepting this gentleman’s -offer, particularly at that moment, when I very much needed some one -with whom I could converse. On the day after I consented to see him he -called upon me. His name was Bonner. In appearance he was about fifty, -with a pale, expressive and benevolent face. He spoke French fluently, -and alluded to my recent loss with much delicacy and feeling. Although I -was then unable to comprehend all he said upon religion, I soon felt at -home with his manner, and desired him to visit me as often as possible. - -As soon as I regained a little strength, he recommended me to seek the -situation of governess, and offered me a letter of introduction to a -family with whom he had a slight acquaintance, who, he believed, were in -want of one. I gladly accepted his offer. The name of the family was -Curtis. The father had been a soap and candle manufacturer, but had -amassed wealth by successful speculations. He was little more than forty -in age—he had a stout figure, a long, narrow face, a hooked nose, -sharp, deep-set eyes, and a broad mouth. His wife was a daughter of a -man of family, who had become poor by extravagance, and who silenced his -unmarried creditors (so Mr. Curtis once told me) by presenting them with -his daughters. This occasioned him to remark, in a moment of anger, that -he had purchased his wife for six hundred pounds. She had been educated -as a lady—that is, she could speak French slightly, dance, sing, play -on the piano, and read novels. Her daughters were three in number. The -eldest, Jemima, when I first came, was sixteen; the second, Dorothea, -was fourteen; and the third, Angelica, about twelve. I think they bore a -greater resemblance to their father than to their mother. I will not -particularize their features, because I fear I might betray ill-feeling, -which I fear has already exhibited itself. I will merely observe, that -though not prepossessing, they were not ugly. They had very great -dislike to poverty, and much reverence for wealth and rank. - -These young ladies, Mr. Curtis informed me, (for Mrs. C. rarely troubled -herself about such matters,) were to be educated in music and drawing, -French and Italian, from ten to four each day, and during the remainder -I would be expected to occupy myself in writing for him, or in -needle-work for the family. For these duties, if performed in a -satisfactory manner, I should receive at the end of the year ten pounds. -I thought the salary was rather small, and I feared the labor would be -too laborious, but I dared not refuse to accept the offer, because I -doubted my ability to obtain a better situation, and I dreaded a renewal -of the privations I had undergone. I therefore consented to enter upon -these duties on the following morning. - -When I arrived Mr. Curtis called me apart, and observed that he had -heard the French were generally familiar and gay in their manner, but he -would warn me that any familiarity, or the slightest appearance of -freedom toward his daughters, would be met with my immediate dismissal -and forfeiture of salary. I must confess, that when I heard this -injunction, a remembrance of my family mantled my cheeks with a blush of -pride, and it was with difficulty that I could suppress a flood of tears -which were gushing to my eyes when I conjectured the shock my poor -mother would have felt had she been a listener. I assured him, however, -that I hoped never to give them cause to complain of my rudeness or -discourtesy. - -With this promise I was directed to my bed-room, which was a garret, on -the back part of the house. - -It was with no little nervousness that I commenced my duties on the -following morning. On entering the class-room, I found the young ladies -at their lessons. They slightly returned my bow, and seemed to regard me -with a good deal of curiosity. At last I summoned courage to inquire the -branches they were studying, and the progress they had made, which -request they complied with after a little whispering and delay. I then -laid before them the system I purposed to pursue, to which they nodded -an approval. - -As I anticipated, I found my duties were laborious and not very -agreeable. The young ladies seemed to think a governess ought not only -to teach but to do. If they found a branch of arithmetic difficult, an -explanation was insufficient, I was also expected to solve its problems. -If a picture which they were copying ceased to be attractive, I had to -complete it, and then it was exhibited to visitors as a specimen of -their ability. In their music lessons I could rarely prevail upon them -to follow my directions, when, I regret to say, I would exhibit a little -annoyance, and then they would leave the piano, and lodge a complaint -with their father. - -I remember upon one occasion I was very anxious that Jemima should learn -a very pretty French ballad, which had been taught me by my mother. I -was, moreover, desirous that if she sang it at all, she should sing it -well. I took great pains in teaching, but she seemed very indifferent -about learning it. When I urged her to practice it, she became -impatient, and flung the song into the fire. As it was a copy made by my -sister, I could not help weeping when I saw it enveloped in flames. At -this moment Mr. Curtis entered the room in company with two ladies. -Jemima immediately gave him an incorrect account of the cause of my -tears, and he refused to hear my explanation, and expressed his -impatience in seeing a governess giving herself such airs about a -valueless piece of music. His companions nodded an assent to his -remarks, and sympathized with Miss Curtis for the annoyance, they were -sure, I occasioned her. Perhaps I was really a little irritable at -times, when I fancied they endeavored to displease me; but on the whole, -I am sure, I was too easy and obliging, and I thought my heart would -have broken, when I heard them speak so disparagingly of me. - -I may also mention another little reminiscence of my musical experience. -Mr. Curtis frequently gave dinner-parties to gentlemen exclusively. On -one occasion, while sitting over their wine, one of the company -expressed a desire to hear Miss Curtis on the piano. This wish was -acquiesced in by the others—and they accordingly entered the -drawing-room to have it gratified. She played a pot-pourri of national -airs. After the music had ceased, a Scotch gentleman, who was somewhat -beyond the verge of sobriety, asserted that one of the airs—the Blue -Bells of Scotland—had been incorrectly played. Mr. Curtis overheard the -remark, and he replied that if that was the case, the fault was -mine—and he ordered that I should be immediately sent for. You may -suppose I was very much astonished when I entered the room, and found it -filled with strange faces, and that I was much more frightened when I -heard Mr. Curtis, addressing me in a loud voice, demanding to know if I -expected to be kept and paid for incorrectly teaching music to his -daughters? Upon receiving a somewhat indistinct explanation, I -tremblingly endeavored—holding on to a back of a chair for support—to -convince him that the alterations complained of were variations, and -that the fault, if any, was the composer’s, not mine. Some of the -gentlemen seemed to feel for my situation, and endeavored to defend me; -but this exasperated him the more, and, with a very violent expression, -he ordered me to leave the room. - -I ran back to my little garret, stupefied and affrighted. I believed I -was the most unfortunate being in the world. I looked out upon the -stars, which were now peeping through the heavens, and imploringly asked -if my troubles were never to cease? - -On the following morning I communicated to Mr. Curtis my desire to -leave, and he replied that I might do so whenever I paid him the money -he had advanced me to purchase some articles of clothing. Our agreement -was, he said, that I should be paid provided I gave satisfaction; but as -I had not done so, I was not entitled to any remuneration. I had no -means for repaying him, I had no one to give me advice or render me -assistance, and therefore I felt myself compelled to remain. The -clergyman, Mr. Bonner, who recommended the situation to me, had left -London for another part of England. - -Upon accepting it, I agreed to do any writing which Mr. Curtis might -require, but I by no means anticipated the quantity which he daily laid -before me. In the evenings it was necessary to take the documents he -gave me to copy to my chamber, where I would work without intermission -until my task was completed, or until drowsiness and fatigue compelled -me to rest. Often during these occasions, about the hour of midnight, -the letters would swim before my eyes; the glare of my candle became -unbearable, and I would feel a knocking sensation at the back of my -head. At these moments my imagination was more active, and my -sensibility more acute. When I heard the sound of music, of mirth and -merriment in the rooms below, past scenes would present themselves in -painful distinctness; the merry days of childhood, my happy home, and my -kind companions. My dear mother would return and give me that look of -mingled love and sympathy which a mother only can bestow. My father and -brother would stand by my side, and whisper a word of encouragement, and -promise happier days. My sister would come back, in her sick dress, and -repeat her last words, “Poor, dear Emma!” And then the thought of Alfred -would renew conflicting hopes and fears. At one moment I would fancy he -was dead, and then convince myself he was alive, and conjecture a -favorable cause for his non-arrival. And so I would go on, hoping and -fearing, thinking and dreaming, until my candle had sunk into the -socket, or my aching head made further labor impossible. - -It was necessary that I should get up at an early hour every morning, -because, in addition to the writing which I was unable to finish on the -previous evening, I had to dress the young ladies’ hair—a more -difficult undertaking than it is now. After this Mr. Curtis required me -to button-up his gaiters, because his stoutness prevented him from doing -it himself, and he said I did it better than any of the servants. If I -had completed my writing, he would give me a nod of approbation, and -sometimes promise the payment of my salary, for the period he had -formerly refused it. This would give me encouragement, and make me labor -cheerfully, for it held out the hope of leaving. - -Heavy as my duties were, I should have felt them much lighter if my diet -had been more nutritious, and my opportunities for out-door exercise -more frequent. With the exception of my visits to church on Sundays, I -could rarely obtain more than two half-hours for walking through the -week. My stomach gradually became so weak, on account of these -disadvantages, that I was frequently unable to taste the food laid -before me. My meals were sent to my room. The butter I had for breakfast -and tea was purchased by Mr. Curtis from one of his tenants, and was -called “pot-butter.” It smelt so disagreeable, that I was forced to ask -the girl to remove it from my table. I also enjoyed the privilege of the -tea-leaves which came direct from the parlor, and after a time, I was -indulged with fresh tea on Sundays. I considered this a great favor, -because the servants had to drink milk and water. My bread was -home-made, and I used to find it dark in color, and difficult of -digestion. At dinner I enjoyed a joint, cold or hashed, which came from -the parlor on the preceding day, and what I left was then sent to the -kitchen. - -The close of the first year at length arrived. I repeated to Mr. Curtis -my wish to leave, because my failing health was unequal to my duties. He -stared at me with apparent wonder, and then declared his astonishment at -my ingratitude, and his surprise at my complaint. He endeavored to -assure me that I ought to feel highly indebted to him for the shelter he -had afforded me; and that my labors, for a governess, were unusually -light. By way of closing the conversation, he again hinted, that if I -did leave, I could not expect any salary; and when I ventured to ask the -reason, he frowningly alluded to our relative position, and censured my -presumption in asking him for an explanation. - -I was conscious that I was undeserving such treatment, but my -defenseless condition rendered resistance impossible, and I was obliged -to remain another year. When I communicated this intention to Mr. -Curtis, he gave me, to my surprise, half of the amount due me, and -promised the remainder when my agreement terminated. - -My duties continued unaltered, my health gradually grew worse, and in a -few months, I was laid upon a bed of sickness. The family wanted to send -me to the hospital, but the doctor assured them I was unable to bear the -removal. He attributed my illness to over-exertion, and a want of -out-door exercise. I had become pale and emaciated. A look of premature -old age had spread itself over my countenance. My head seemed stupefied, -melancholy forebodings were constantly troubling me, and I was -frequently subjected to fits of crying. I had lost all appetite for -food, and all love for life. Like Natalie, I longed “for the grave and -nothing more.” - -A great change had come over me since my former illness. The loneliness -of my situation, and the recollection of my losses, had frequently drawn -my attention to matters beyond the grave. I gradually felt the necessity -of studying as well as reading my Bible; and I began to look forward to -the Sabbath more as a day for religious instruction than as a day of -rest. As the subject of religion became nearer and dearer to me, I -experienced a feeling of confidence and resignation which I had never -felt before. I became less irritable when misfortune assailed me, and -looked upon it as intended for some wise purpose. During my present -sickness, I felt very much the need of a clergyman, but for some -unaccountable reason, Mr. Curtis refused to allow one to be sent for, -and threatened my removal to a hospital if I mentioned my wish to the -physician. - -The doctor was kind and skillful. By his attention, and the diet he -recommended, I was declared convalescent after the lapse of nine weeks. -But when I had recovered I did not regain my former strength, and was -unable to go through with my former duties. The family speedily saw -this, and Mr. Curtis then informed me that my services were no longer -required. He presented me with an account, in which I was credited with -nine pounds for salary, on which he requested me to write a receipt. -After handing it to him he returned me another, in which I was charged -fourteen pounds for board, etc., during my illness. That, he remarked, -extinguished the amount due me, and left a balance of five pounds in his -favor, which, out of kindness, he did not intend to charge. - -This disappointment very much surprised me. My physician refused to make -any charge for his attendance, and I never expected, as my illness was -produced in Mr. Curtis’s service, that he would be less liberal. I was, -therefore, once more thrust upon a strange world, weak, moneyless and -friendless. - -After I left his house, I wended my way to my former residence, for I -had no where else to go to. Upon arriving I was told that my old room -was occupied, and I was sent to one adjoining it. I felt very lonely -that day. The scenes around forcibly brought back the recollection of my -dead sister, and recalled my subsequent disappointments and my cheerless -prospects. I did not know what to do, or where to go. But there was not -wanting, amid this despondence, a degree of confidence in the -superintendence of a Higher Power, which I formerly did not enjoy. - -About nine in the evening Mrs. Grassett entered my room, and expressed -her delight at my return. She said she would have called before, had she -not been engaged in waiting upon a sick stranger, who occupied my former -room, and who she did not think would live much longer. When I inquired -about him, she replied that he was a foreigner, with an unpronounceable -name, and desired that I should visit him with her, as I might be able -to converse with him in his native tongue. After a moment’s -consideration I consented to do so. I found the room greatly altered. -The walls were actually black with dust, the plaster on the ceiling -seemed on the point of falling off, the window was covered with cobwebs, -and the bed-linen seemed very much in need of washing. - -We found the patient asleep, his face buried in his pillow. A moment or -two afterward he awoke, and asked, first in French and then in broken -English, for a little water. I turned to observe his features, and -notwithstanding his hollow cheeks, his distended eye-balls, and his -disheveled hair, I recognized my long expected Alfred. My surprise was -so great that I sprang forward, threw my arms around his neck, and -alternately laughed and wept for joy. - -He was suffering from typhus fever, and had been confined to his bed for -eleven days. I gathered from him subsequently, that the last time he saw -my brother was when we parted in Paris—that he did not hear of his -death until some months after it occurred—that he had been compelled to -remain in France some time after we left—that he had been in London for -two or three months before I saw him, but he was unable to find me—that -by some accident he had lost the money he brought with him to England, -and was driven by necessity to seek for shelter in the place where I -found him. I asked for some further information, not from mere -curiosity, but from the interest I took in every thing which concerned -him. He chided me for doing so, because it implied a want of confidence, -and the fear of exhibiting that was sufficient to stop all further -inquiries on my part. - -The moment my surprise abated I commenced to wait upon him. I had three -shillings and some odd pence in my pocket, which I placed into Mrs. -Grassett’s hands, to purchase what necessaries she could with it for our -patient. I now forgot all the trials which a few minutes ago weighed so -heavily upon me; and with a lighter heart than I had felt for a long -time before, I endeavored to put the room in order, and to add to his -comfort. - -Within a few days my little sum was exhausted. I then obtained fifteen -shillings from a pawnbroker for a gold case in which my mother’s -miniature had been set. This supported us for nearly ten days, and -before the expiration of that time I succeeded, after much exertion, in -obtaining collar work. I labored upon this principally during the -moments Alfred slept, and earned from five to six shillings per week. -With the exercise of economy, and the sale of the remaining trinkets -which belonged to me and my sister, I was able to succeed pretty well, -and to support Alfred somewhat comfortably. - -Nearly six weeks elapsed before he recovered. His sickness made him a -little irritable, and sometimes my inexperience made me displease him. -My anxiety to please him sometimes confused me, and he would censure me -for my stupidity. - -For nearly four weeks Mrs. Grassett and myself would wait upon him in -turns of twelve hours each. His sickness required unremitting attention, -but I can truly say my labor about him was indeed a labor of love. The -hope of sparing him one pang made the longest day seem short; and the -hope that his life might be spared gave an unqualified pleasure to my -exertions. Oh! how often during dark nights, when all eyes but mine were -closed in sleep, have I watched his features, to seek for traces of -returning health, as if my life depended upon his. Every expression of -pain he exhibited had a sympathetic influence upon myself; every -appearance of revival upon his looks spread a corresponding change upon -mine own. And when gentle slumber had crept over him, I would kneel by -his side, and in a subdued voice pour forth a supplication to Heaven, -that his life might be spared. I felt as if he was the last and only -link which bound me to earth. - -Whenever an opportunity offered, I drew his attention to religion. -Sometimes he would listen to me with attention, and at others he begged -me to be silent on account of his debility. - -Occasionally I tried to amuse him by singing some of our old French -ballads, when the evening was too far advanced for my collar work. At -other times I read interesting works, from a neighboring circulating -library. - -At length he became better, and we were to be married so soon as he -could leave his room. Then hope once more drew back the curtains of -despair. The future brightened again. During his sickness he seemed -dearer to me than he ever was before. I felt as if he was now my own, to -love and cherish, to live for, and, if need, to die for. - -As his strength increased he agitated himself in conjecturing how he -could obtain a livelihood; but I endeavored to convince him of my -ability to earn a very comfortable maintenance for us both. - -On the second day after he left his room, and three days previous to -that fixed for our marriage, a letter reached him from Bonn, enclosing -some money, and communicating the death of his uncle, who had bequeathed -to him all his property. The receipt of this news gave us much joy. I -looked upon it as an unequivocal guaranty that my troubles were ended. -It may have been selfish in me, but I confess I felt a little -disappointment when he informed me that this communication necessitated -a further delay of our marriage until his return from Germany. I fancied -that as we had been separated so long we should not be parted again so -quickly, but he strove to convince me that his immediate absence was -necessary, and I at last cheerfully assented. He left on the day which -had been fixed for our wedding, and it was agreed he should return on -the following month. - -Within a few days after his departure I again fell sick, arising, -perhaps, from my late exertions and insufficient rest. It was -accompanied with the same loss of appetite, nervous fits of crying, -lowness of spirits, and occasional attacks of delirium, which I had -formerly suffered from. My sane moments, however, were enlivened by -pleasing anticipations of Alfred’s return; and I even felt grateful he -was ignorant of my sickness, because I believed it would spare him much -pain and anxiety. I did not recover so soon as I expected. My physician -did not seem to understand my complaint so well as his predecessor. - -Four weeks had now elapsed since Alfred departed, and I heard no news of -his return. Three or four days more elapsed without intelligence, and I -became alarmed. At length a letter arrived, addressed to me in his -hand—and my heart throbbed with joy. I felt so delighted, that I -committed, what some will call a piece of extravagance, that is, I -kissed the address, because I was convinced it was his writing. I then -hurriedly broke the seal and began to read the contents. The first -paragraph informed me that he had taken possession of his uncle’s -property, and that it was more valuable than he had supposed, and was, I -fancied, conveyed in cooler language than I expected. The next paragraph -had reference to matters of little importance, but as I read on, another -communication rose up, which made the blood freeze in my veins, and -seemed to suspend the beating of my heart. It told me that now our -relative conditions were greatly changed—that he feared our -dispositions were incompatible—that our marriage was impossible. As I -read on with a brain throbbing and burning, with a bosom struggling -between doubt and despair, I observed an invitation to reside with him, -and a promise to give me a settlement if I subsequently desired a -separation. I think one more paragraph concluded the letter, but I could -read no further. I alternately laughed and cried. I declared it was all -a vile forgery, and then something told me all was true. I declared it -was a dream, but anon the dread reality stared me in the face. At last -every thing seemed to disappear. For many a long day reason deserted me. - - * * * * * - -About two years after, I felt as if I had awakened from a sleep, and I -found myself in a very respectably furnished room, with an elderly lady, -who was apparently watching me. I had a somewhat confused remembrance of -both her and the room, though I could not divine her name, nor remember -how I had become acquainted with her. She also appeared as much -surprised as myself, from the earnest and dubious look she directed -toward me. She arose from her chair, and introduced herself as Mrs. -Burnett, I hardly knew what to say, or what inquiry to make. After a -moment, I ventured to ask if I was not staying in her house—to what -circumstance I was indebted for that favor, and whether I had not been -suffering from insanity?—for that dreadful truth gradually came to my -mind. Perceiving that I was restored to reason, she answered all my -inquiries, and communicated much more than I anticipated. She informed -me how that my father’s old and faithful steward had by some means -prevented the confiscation of his property from being executed—how that -he had, a few months after my departure, disposed of it, and escaped to -London with the proceeds, for the purpose of handing it to me. How that -he used great exertions, after his arrival, to find me, and in the midst -of them fell sick and died. Before his decease, he lodged the money in -the hands of her husband, who was a banker, together with every -information he could give which might lead to my discovery. That Mr. -Burnett had renewed his efforts, but after several months he abandoned -them as useless. That shortly after he was appointed to be one of the -inspectors of a metropolitan lunatic asylum, and at one of his visits -there, he found an inmate bearing my name. Upon making inquiries from -the keeper, and at the house where I had boarded, (where he examined -some books and papers which belonged to me,) he satisfied himself that I -was the person whom he and the steward had sought for; and as he heard a -favorable character of me, he removed me to his house, in the hope of -affording better treatment than I was likely to receive in the asylum. - -You may suppose this explanation very much surprised me; but the -unexpected recovery of the proceeds of my father’s property did not -produce much gratification. I was not sorry I now possessed a -competence, though I did not feel glad. I felt very grateful to my -deliverers, and to Him by whom my life had been spared; but it was -accompanied with a recklessness and indifference about my future -prospects. My disposition also seemed to have changed into a settled -sadness, which has never since altogether left me. - -My kind friends wished me to remain with them, but, with many thanks, I -declined their invitation. I wanted to leave London, and upon that -determination I came to Cornwall, and occupied the little cottage where -we became acquainted. - - * * * * * - -Many years have passed since these trials happened; and as the sweetest -perfumes are derived from the bitterest drugs, so these dark clouds have -produced many bright and sunny days. True, they are associated with -painful reminiscences, but they have been followed with incalculable -advantages. Amid their severest strokes I can now recognize the hand of -a just but benevolent Father. If in my subsequent career I could bear -disappointment without discontent, and misfortune without repining; if I -could feel resignation suppressing impatience, and contentment -controlling ambition, I owe it to the struggles which I have endeavored -to describe. It is in the rugged vale of tribulation that the path to -human happiness is found. - - * * * * * - - - - - LOGAN’S VOW. - - - BY EDWARD J. PORTER. - - - It was not by the war-fire’s light, - With bright flames upward wreathed - Into the cloudless sky of night, - My battle vow was breathed; - It was not while the warriors flew, - With scalp-locks flung on air, - The mazes of the war-dance through, - My spirit poured its prayer. - - Nor while the battle’s stormy strife - Shook the deep forests wide, - And tomahawk and scalping-knife - Flashed in their gleaming pride. - Alone I stood, amidst the dead, - When the spirit of repose, - That long had clasped my heart, had fled - And vengeance waked her throes. - - The dead were round me; yes, my own, - The beautiful, the young; - Their calm looks waked the anguished tone - From Logan’s spirit wrung. - Then, only then, the wild flame woke, - And waved its scorching wings, - That, curbless in its frenzy, broke - My spirit’s slumberings. - - The silence of the midnight hour, - Unbroken by a sound, - Hung over all, with spell-fraught power - Beneath its stillness bound; - I stood, as stands the forest’s pride, - When all its leaves are strown, - Swept by the whirlwind wild and wide, - In desolation lone. - - Changed in an hour, the white man’s friend - Gleamed in his war array; - The league forever at an end, - And lighted hatred’s ray: - Dark records traced by widow’s tears, - And wailings sad and low, - Have borne wild tales to other years - Of Logan’s vengeful vow. - - * * * * * - - - - - IMAGINATION AND FACT. - - - BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. - - - Imagination’s world of air, - And our own world. - Halleck. - - The world is of such stuff - As dreams are made of, and our little life - Is bounded by a sleep. - Shakspeare. - - S’ai che lá corre il mondo ove piu versi - Di sue dolcezze il lusinghier Parnaso - E che ’l vero condito in molli versi, - I piu schivi allentando ha persuaso. - Tasso. - -People seem to have an idea that facts are every thing in the business -of the world—the only considerations in the philosophy of human -progress. Opposed to what is merely imaginary, facts are allowed to have -much dignity. Your practical reasoners look for facts; facts “are the -jockies for them”—such as they can see, hear, handle, or demonstrate; -while the imaginations are mostly held synonymous with the worthless, -the unsubstantial and the ridiculous. They seem to say in the spirit of -one of Congreve’s characters—we forget which—“fiddle-faddle, don’t -tell me of this and that and every thing in the world; but give me -mathematical demonstration.” Now we do not go so far as the philosopher -Bayle, who, on the other hand, affected to laugh at mathematical -demonstration; but we think, “under leave of Brutus and the rest,” that -facts do not seem, and have not seemed to be so exclusively essential to -“the cosmogony of the world,” to the history and progress of mind and -the general business of things, as some solid authorities think. Without -troubling our heads, in this gossiping paper, with the subtleties of -Berkley and others, who knock all creation into the compass of a man’s -perceptions—establish the column of the unsubstantial universe on the -pentagonal base of the senses—we have an idea that a vast amount of the -fictitious and imaginary is blended with our regular business of being, -doing and suffering. Human nature has, in all times, contrived a little -gilding, to make the bitter pill of life go down. Tasso truly says—in -his Invocation to the Virgin Mary for a muse—at the opening of his -“Gerusalemme Liberata”— - - For well thou knowest, the world more fondly turns - To old Parnassus’ consecrated spot; - And truths which graceful poetry adorns - Win while they please us; and a spell is wrought - For the most subtle and reluctant thought. - Thus, for the sickly child, by friendly wile, - The cup’s deceptive edge, with sweetness fraught, - Lures to the bitter potion—he the while - Drinks life and health from the judicious guile. - -Not alone have the edges of the cup of life been touched in this way, -but the contents of it have always been dashed with large doses of the -same emollient. Reality is not such a delightful thing, after all. The -false and the phantasmal have ever been considered the necessary -complements, as it were, of our condition here. - -If we take away from the amount of what the world possesses that which -belongs and is due to the imagination merely—what is not authentic, and -could not be sworn to in a court of justice—what will be left? Let us -take it away—and what then? There is a sudden solitude in the world. -The beautiful is vanished, and the hard, blank remnant of things is full -of gaps, and desert places, disastrous flaws and a strange silence. -There is nothing now, but facts in this macrocosm. But, believe us, ’tis -a very rude, cold place to live in—much worse than ever it was before; -and that—in the opinion of the pale pessimist over the way there—was -bad enough in all conscience. They who first found out this world, and -roamed about on it, had scarcely called it very good when they began to -make it better, by peopling its too extensive solitudes—creating -phantasms and imaginations for it, where there were none before. The -unclothed reality of things was too bare and blank, beautiful as it was, -for the first human beings that walked the earth. They looked to the -elements, and the infinite host of heaven, and following their -unanswerable instincts, they began to make mysteries, airy fabrics and -visions. They imagined a god for the cope and the clouds of the -firmament, and he wielded the thunderbolts from a high mountain; -another, shaped after the most perfectly formed of men, resided in the -sun, - - “The lord of life and poesy and light:” - -His sister was the goddess of the earth’s satellite— - - “Astarte, queen of heaven, with crescent horns, - To whose bright image nightly by the moon, - Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs.” - -They heard gods in winds and in fire—and altars to these were among the -earliest raised. They saw a terrible divinity in the vastness or angry -billows of the sea, and imagined a crowd of lesser beings to haunt its -caverns and depths. The forests were sacred to the universal Pan—his -fauns, sylvans and satyrs; every oak had its hamadryad, every river its -naiad or potamid; the oreads took charge of the flowery meadows, and the -napææ wandered forever in the shady valleys. Impatient of mere reality, -men filled the universe with phantasies and theories— - - “The intelligible forms of ancient poets— - The fair humanities of old religion, - The power, the beauty and the majesty - That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, - Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring, - Or chasms or watery depths.” - -Suppose we demolish all these graceful fallacies, and the poetry, also, -in which they are embalmed. What a throng of splendid deeds, of heroic -and beautiful figures—demigods, warriors, kings—bright women and brave -men, moving in gorgeous panorama over the vast back-ground of -antiquity—is extinguished in the darkness! The creations of the ancient -poets and imaginative writers have filled up a space in the earlier ages -of the world, which without them would be a blank and lost to the human -mind, as much as the pre-Adamite chaos is. What a disinheritance it -would be to take away the Iliad and Odyssey! to obliterate Hector, the -kind-hearted and manly hero; and Priam with his mighty sorrows a -suppliant for his dead son; and the warring Achilles— - - “Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer,” - -and the wandering Ulysses, seeing strange shores and cities, and the -varying manners of men! Not alone would much be wanted in the want of -these venerable works, but in the want of all that literature which they -inspired and gave rise to in after time. The succeeding poets and -dramatists of Greece and Rome drew light from Homer, as Milton’s stars -did in their golden urns from the sun. They took his historic -imaginations and characters as their models, and reproduced them in -forms which the world will not willingly let die, and which it prizes -nearly as much as the Institutes and Pandects of Justinian, or any thing -else of that authentic and substantial kind. - -To come to our own familiar literature, the fictions of our insular or -continental writers are as favorably and generally remembered as the -historic facts of the English-speaking peoples. In our genial moments, -when the mind desires to be refreshed or pleased it will revert, with an -almost universal preference, to what is imaginary, or adorned with the -graces of imaginative literature; and half the world regard with as much -attention the men and women of Shakspeare and Scott as those of Hume and -Prescott. And how intimately and lovingly we give our interest to the -words and actions of these imaginary beings! What a world of thought and -life is in the dramas of Shakspeare! There is the venerable Lear, driven -out into the storm, and talking the finest philosophy to the wild -elements, that so feelingly persuade him what he is; and Hamlet, so -sententious in his antic disposition; the fair Ophelia, and the prosy -old courtier, Polonius; and the immortal bed-presser, and huge hill of -flesh—the greatest liar and the greatest favorite in the world; and -Macbeth, with his terrible hags on the heath, and his more terrible -wife; and Richard, wooing Lady Anne, or fighting desperately his last -battle. Then there are the witty and adventurous Rosalind, and - - “The gentle lady wedded to the Moor;” - -and Portia, the beautiful, wise young judge; and the impassioned Juliet, -with the southern lightnings in her veins; and Miranda, the enchantress, -of an enchanted island—and all that magnificent array of womanhood -which reflects for ever the unequaled genius of Shakspeare. - -We have also the creations of Scott—coming nearest of any to those of -the great dramatic poet, and enjoying even a more general popularity. -Successive generations prize them as an imperishable legacy, and the -memory has a pleasure in conjuring them up—so vivid and picturesque in -their colors and outlines: The hall of Cedric, the Saxon—the swineherd, -the templar, the gorgeous tournament at Ashby de la Zouche, Friar Tuck, -the storming of Torquilstone, the Black Knight, fighting as if ten men’s -strength were in his single arm; and the beautiful Jewess—what splendid -series of images—bringing back so vividly the old pomp and circumstance -of the feudal times! We shall never forget the feelings with which we -first read Ivanhoe, and there found all our vague feelings of romance -and dreams of knightly doings put into such spirit-stirring expression. -Then how true is the picturesque bravery of Fergus McIvor— - - “All plaided and plumed in his tartan array;” - -and the marching of the Scottish clans; the fine old Baron Bradwardine, -the high-spirited Flora, and the tender Rose. We see the fierce Balfour -of Burley, slaying the guardsman at Drumclog, or raving in his cave; and -the swords of the Solemn League and Covenant waving in desperate tumult -on Bothwell Bridge. Edgar and Lucy walk to the haunted spring, Caleb -Balderstone performs laughable prodigies of cunning to save the credit -of Wolf’s Crag, and the last Lord of Ravenswood disappears awfully into -the “Kelpie’s flow,” - - “And his name is lost for ever moe.” - -Norna of the Fitful-Head, speaks her wild rune of the reimkennar to the -spirits of the North wind; “bold Magnus, the son of the earl;” Minna, -Brenda, Cleveland, Claude Halcro, feast, love, fight and rhyme in the -Udaller’s charmed isle. Diana Vernon, on horseback, clears her -five-barred gate and gallops by; Rob Roy cries “claymore,” and Bailie -Nichol Jarvie fights his highlandman with a hot coulter, and goes up -perilously to the Clachan of Aberfoil; Jeannie Deans stands in the -presence of Queen Caroline, pleading for the life of her sister, while -the Duke of Argyle puts his hand to his chin whenever her Majesty or the -Duchess of Suffolk are in danger of a random hit from the lips of the -unconscious advocate; Monkbarn’s discovers the remains of a Roman -_prætorium_, and Edie Ochiltree comes up and says: “Prætorium here, -prætorium there; I mind the bigging o’t!” The Knight of the Leopard and -the disguised Soldan fight their chivalrous duel in the desert, and then -feast together at the spring, and Richard Plantagenet, leaping from his -sick-bed, in spite of the Hakim, tears down the standard of Austria from -the mound at Acre, and hurls the giant Wallenrode from the top to the -bottom of it. Dominic Sampson exclaims “prodigious!”—Dirk Hatterick -strangles Glossin and shoots Charlotte Cushman—Meg Merrilies we should -say, but it is all one—who recognizes young Bertram and dies hard. Hal -o’ the Wynd “fights for his own band” on the Inch of Perth, in the mêlée -of the clans Chattan and Quhule. Tristram l’Hermit, hangs the trees -around Plessis les Tours with Zingaris, like acorns. Louis and Charles -the Bold ride together into Liege by a breach in the walls, and the head -of the savage De Lamarck secures to the Scottish soldier the hand of -Isabel Croye. The Highland Widow mourns over her condemned son with all -the tragic truth of Æschylus or nature; the Last Minstrel sings a wild -epic of goblin gramarye—the Leaguer of Branksome—knights and -ladies—the lists and the festival. Roderick and the Knight of Snowdon -fight by the ford of Coilantogle; Constance perishes awfully in her -convent cell, and Marmion dies like a courageous knight, at Flodden - - “Charge, Chester, charge; on, Stanley, on— - Where the last words of Marmion!” - -All these, and more, come thronging at the call of the wizard. And with -them will also pass before the reader’s or muser’s eye the extravagant -hero of him who “smiled Spain’s chivalry away;” Doctor Primrose and his -delightful family, Parson Adams, Sir Roger de Coverley, Evangeline, -Ichabod Crane, and a thousand others, which every body’s memory will -distinguish for itself—just as every eye shapes its proper rainbow. -They have all the distinctness of reality, and it is by an effort that -we draw the line between them and _bona fide_ characters. - -Many of these last, in fact, are little better than the fictions of -poets, dramatists and romancers. The histories of the venerable Bede, -Geoffrey of Monmouth, etc. are half imaginative. There are outlines of -truth in them— - - “The truth is there; but dashed and brewed with lies.” - -The history of Scotland, for ages, from the reign of Fergus, and of -Ireland from the days of Heber, Heremon and Ith, down to the conquest of -the country by Strongbow, are just as fanciful as the metrical romances -of Scott and Moore. Then, for the annals of Greece; Herodotus, the -patriarch of history, sets down almost every thing he hears from the -lying priests of Egypt, or that he can gather from vague tradition; and -people don’t exactly know whether to call the Cyropædia of Xenophon a -romance or an authentic narration. Plutarch romances at times like the -Scuderis. An old English author, Taylor, says, of his fallacies and -blunders in the lives of the orators—_mendaxille Plutarchus qui vitas -oratorum dolis et erroribus consutas, olim conscribillavit_. Neibuhr has -got into our old history of Rome and laid about him like an iconoclast. -He destroys a crowd of our beliefs, and makes a solitude in the first -ages of Rome—so wonderful and picturesque in our school-boy days. He -makes a solitude and calls it truth. He demolishes Mars, Rhea Sylvia, -Romulus and Remus and the Wolf—Numitor, Evander, and so forth. Under -the flourishing of his pen they make themselves into thin air in which -they vanish. Then the Tarquins, their insolence and expulsion; Lars -Porsenna of Clusium, the siege of Rome, Cocles on the Bridge and Scævola -at the flaming Altar—all are inventions of Fabius Pictor, Ennius, -Nævius, and others. This portion of the history of Rome, says the -German, should be called the Lay of the Tarquins, and is just as -authentic as the Lay of the Nibelungen! “Livy’s _pictored_ page,” (if we -may be permitted to make a critical emendation of Byron’s phrase in the -spirit of Bishop Warburton’s Notes on Shakspeare,) is allowed to be just -as fallible as it is brilliant. Thus we have a vast amount of what is -called ancient history confounded with the professed creations of -fanciful minds; and there does not seem to be any very marked difference -between Agamemnon or Ajax, and Cecrops or Codrus; between Æneas or Dido, -and Numa or Clelia—they are all equally distinct or indistinct. Scott’s -King Richard, singing a roundelay and exchanging a buffet with the Clerk -of Copmanhurst, is as firm on the canvas as Alfred baking his cakes, or -Canute sitting on a chair to rebuke his flatterers on the sea-shore. - -And even as regards the more modern and authentic annals of history, we -do not think they have paid much more respect to the actual truth of -things than do the fictionists. Sir Robert Walpole used to say to his -friends, “Don’t read history; that must be false.” And Sir Walter -Raleigh, looking from the window of his prison in the Tower, and -witnessing a quarrel in the court-yard or the street, and the -after-testimony of the by-standers respecting it, was tempted, it is -said, to throw his History of the World into the fire, in despair of -ever being able to gather any thing like truth from conflicting -authorities. And, certainly, the differences of historians—their doubts -concerning motives, and their disagreements concerning facts, tend to -give us very unsettled ideas of history in general. Writers have sent -Col. Kirke down to us from James the Second’s reign with a very black -and bloody renown. But he was not half so black as he was painted by the -whigs; and the story of the poor girl whose husband he hanged before her -eyes, in the morning, though she had dearly purchased his life on -Kirke’s own terms, is pronounced by Ritson to be an impudent and -bare-faced lie. The story is much older than Kirke. Richard the Third is -also one of the historical reprobates; though it is not unlikely that -the young princes were not murdered in the Tower, and that Perkin -Warbeck was really the prince after all; as truly as the surreptitious, -warming-pan prince is known to have been the true son of James the -Second, in spite of the Protestant historians. Then there are Jack Cade -and Wat Tyler; these have been receiving cruel wrong at the hands of the -annalists. They dared, in an age when the rights of the people were -imperfectly understood, and the influence of the feudal system still -strong in the nation, to take up arms and go to war with the king and -the nobles for liberty! Their sufferings and provocations were -undeniable, and their spirit was certainly heroic—kindred to that which -glowed in the bosoms of Melchthal, Furst, and Stauffacher, at the -Brunnens of Grutli. The Swiss peasants were successful, and are held in -honorable remembrance forever. But the Englishmen failed, and are set up -as scarecrows and _Indibria_, upon the field of history. Poor Tyler and -Cade were animated by the same kind of blood which boiled in the face of -a tyrant at Naseby, Marston Moor, Dunbar, and elsewhere—which warmed -the hearts of the exiles on the cold rock of Plymouth, and flowed so -freely at Lexington and Bunker Hill. We should honor these English -rebels—in spite of history, and in spite of Shakspeare. It is -remarkable to see this myriad-minded man, so full of the finer -humanities of our nature, yet incapable of sympathizing with the cause -and feelings of the mass of the lower classes. But Shakspeare was a man -of his era—to which, with an astonishing and happy wizardry, he obliged -chronology and human nature to conform; he dreamed as little of the -later evangils of democracy as he did of the Daguerreotype and the -electric telegraph. In this way Cade, Richard, and a thousand others are -in the hands of the historians, tricked out as much in the colors of -imagination as in those of fact. - -No man can be sure of the lesser details of the annals, though he may -put faith in some of their great facts. We are not indisposed to allow -that there was a man named Julius Cæsar; though whether he ever said, -_Quid times? vehis Cæzarem_, in the boat, or _Et tu Brute!_ when the -republicans set upon him in the senate-house, is not quite so credible. -Most of these picturesque properties of character or fact, so to speak, -are furnished by the fancies and after-thoughts of the narrators, or -fabricated wilfully for a purpose. We need not go very far back in -history to discover the truth of this. In a late memoir (Achille de -Vaulabelle’s) of the “Two Restorations,” we are told that an old story -of the consternation of the members of the Directory, on its violent -dissolution by Bonaparte, in 1800, was a false one. There was no -hurry-skurry, nor jumping out of windows, any more than when Oliver -Cromwell put an end to the Long Parliament. Again, that glorification -made on the sinking of the _Vengeur_, in an engagement with the English -fleet, during the first French revolution, has been latterly put out of -countenance. The story in France was, that, being terribly damaged, this -ship sunk with all on board, her flag flying, and the crew shouting, -“Long live the republic!” Carlyle adopted this version in his history, -and makes quite a cartoon of it, in his own outlandish phraseology. But -on the appearance of the story in an English work, a naval officer who -witnessed the affair of the _Vengeur_, wrote a letter to the Times, in -which he stated that, instead of going down with true republican -devotion, the poor French sailors, small blame to them! jumped -overboard, and tried to save themselves, and that some hundreds of them -were rescued in the British boats. That message, said to have come from -the dying Dessaix to Bonaparte, on the field of Marengo, (“Tell the -First Consul I die regretting I can no farther serve him and France,”) -was fabricated in the bulletin by the aforesaid consul himself. The -story of the Duke of Wellington lying in the hollow square of the Guards -at Waterloo, and, on the advance of the French, crying, “Up, Guards, and -at them!” is as untenable as our own famous saying—“A little more -grape, Captain Bragg!” or the military speeches of the great generals of -antiquity, as recorded by Tacitus, Sallust, Cæsar, and the rest of the -writers. Then, as regards great facts, different nations give different -accounts. Ask who gained Waterloo? “We did,” say the Prussians. “We gave -vast assistance,” say the Belgians. Ask John Bull, or rather, don’t; his -answer would be rather brief than polite. We should like to see a -history of the campaigns in Greece of Darius, Xerxes, and Mardonius, -written by Persians. All history is more or less deserving of Sir Robert -Walpole’s designation. Hume, in one of his letters to Robertson, -alluding to the publication of Murdin’s State Papers, which threw -unexpected light upon the annals, exclaims, “We are all in the wrong!” -And, indeed, Hume himself is among those to whom we are mostly indebted -for the imaginative character of history. He had little of the industry -of Gibbon, and trusted very much to his own sagacity for his views. He -was also a tory, and became, in his scorn of whiggery, the apologist of -the Stuarts. His history is charming as a composition, but errs in its -colorings of facts and its conclusions from them. - -Imagination, as we have said, seems the complement of the world of facts -and things, in all mental exercises, except the logical and -mathematical. If we contemplate nature it enhances what we behold. The -mountains, rivers, forests, and the elements that gird them round about, -would be only blank conditions of matter, if the mind did not fling its -own divinity around them. Nature was thus endowed from the -beginning—when men heard voices in the winds, and the supernatural -inhabitants of terra firma, - - “Met on the hill, the dale, forest or mead, - By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, - Or on the beached margent of the sea;” - -or, in the train of powerful Poseidon, - - “Took in by lot, ’twixt high and nether Jove, - Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles.” - -And the modern lovers of nature, though they no longer recognize the -mythologic people of the ancient beliefs in her picturesque -wildernesses, clothe them with the attributes of the mysterious abstract -power which is over all things. And, in the towering of her peaks, the -murmur of her forests and seas, the roar of her storms, the singing of -her nightly stars, they find revelations and prophecies of higher and -farther existences. In this respect, the modern poetry of nature has a -nobler scope and purer inspiration than the ancient. Wordsworth and -Byron speculate more sublimely than Lucretius. - -In another sense, the imagination materially imposes upon facts. In -contemplating cities, works of art, ruins, or scenes of nature, we -almost always appreciate them for the associations that belong to -them—the imaginations they excite. Look at a gray bleak sort of plateau -between mountains and the sea, and you see little to admire. But let -somebody say, “that is Marathon!” while the blood thrills at the name, a -flood of glory flashes over the immortal ground; the air is thick with -phantoms— - - To the hearer’s eye appear, - The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror’s career— - The dying Mede, his shaftless, broken bow; - The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; - Mountains above, earth’s, ocean’s plain below; - Death in the front, destruction in the rear! - -It is this quality of the imagination which gives old countries their -superior attractions when compared with new soils. At the sight of -battle-fields, religious houses, cathedrals, castles, either in ruins or -otherwise, we are pleased in calling up a crowd of shadows from the -dust, and finding a sort of mysterious companionship with them during -our passing reveries. - -Campbell says very well, that distance lends enchantment to the view, -and it is generally true of the human mind that it regards the past with -a feeling of tenderness—a disposition to make the best of it. There is -a certain charm in Time, whom we regard as the dominator of us all; and -the ruins or remnants of any thing speak an impressive warning of our -own evanescent fate. That belief in the good old times is an instinct -too strong for the philosophy of most of us. We have a thousand proofs -that they were rude, bad, ignorant times. But the poetry of our nature -will not be reasoned with, and we believe with the bard— - - Not rough or barren are the winding ways - Of hoar Antiquity, but strewn with flowers. - -Any thing old or historic is appreciated in proportion to the scope it -gives to the imagination—to point a moral or adorn a tale. We gaze on -the wild hill, vale, stream or forest of a new country, with none of -those feelings which fill us in beholding similar objects in an old -land. The former may be as fair or fairer to see; but, as - - “A primrose by the river’s brim, - A yellow primrose was to him.” - -of whom Wordsworth speaks, so the latter is a stream, a forest, a -hill—nothing more. The nameless savages had the place from the -beginning, and the solitude. The other is a tradition, a romance, a -memory. In the valley is the legendary well, and the fairy ring; by the -stream is the fortalice of the feudal period, or the abbey dwindled to a -few ivied walls and the oriel, on the site of a bloody battle where a -king fell fighting, a thousand years ago; and, on the slope of the hill -stand the Druid stones, in a circle, set there, certainly, in the -ancient time of the giants, who descended from Thor and - - Lived in the oldé days of King Artour. - -As Webster, the old English dramatist, says: - - We love these ancient ruins; - We never tread upon them, but we set - Our foot upon some reverend history. - -They receive all their witchery from the imagination of him who surveys -them. This faculty is potentially mingled with all that is most real in -nature; nay, it would seem to be as much a reality as any thing else we -call such. The preacher calls the world a vain shadow, and the Berkleyan -philosopher calls it a huge accident of the five senses; and Shakspeare -is inclined to think there is nothing that is but thinking makes it so. -The practical men, therefore,—the directors of railways, the managers -of stock, and the owners of electric telegraphs cannot be considered to -have matters all to themselves. The poet and the romancist control as -much of the “thick rotundity of the world” as they; and certainly the -most enchanting portion. Schiller gives us in an admired lyric, the idea -that the imaginative being was forgotten by Jove in the distribution of -the earth; but received a general invitation to the Court of Olympus. -Our nether “maker,” or “finder,” does still, of course, avail himself of -this privilege; but not as one without alternative. He has a great share -and dominion in all sublinary things; and his castles in the air may be -found as firmly fixed, after all, and as well tenanted, as any existing -on any other element. - - * * * * * - - - - - WINTER. - - - BY ALICE CAREY. - - - Now sits the twilight palaced in the snow, - Hugging away beneath a fleece of gold - Her statue beauties, dumb and icy cold, - And fixing her blue steadfast eyes below; - Where in a bed of chilly waves afar, - With dismal shadows o’er her sweet face blown, - Tended to death by eve’s delicious star, - Lies the lost day alone. - - Where late with red mists bound about his brows - Went the swart Autumn, wading to the knees - Through drifts of dead leaves shaken from the boughs - Of the old forest trees; - The gusts upon their baleful errands run - O’er the bright ruin, fading from our eyes, - And over all, like clouds about the sun, - A shadow lies. - - For, fallen asleep upon a dreary wold, - Slant to the light, one late October morn, - From some rough cavern blew a tempest cold, - And tearing off his garland of ripe corn, - Twisted with blue grapes, sweet with luscious wine, - And Ceres’ drowsy flowers, so dully red, - Deep in his cavern leafy and divine, - Buried him with his dead. - - Then, with his black beard glistening in the frost, - Under the icy arches of the north, - And o’er the still graves of the seasons lost, - Blustered the winter forth. - Spring, with your crown of roses budding new, - Thought-nursing and most melancholy fall, - Summer, with bloomy meadows wet with dew, - Blighting your beauties all. - - O heart, your spring-time dream will idle prove, - Your summer but forerun the autumn’s death, - The flowery arches in the home of love - Fall, crumbling, at a breath; - And sick at last with that great sorrow’s shock, - As some poor prisoner pressing to the bars - His forehead, calls on mercy to unlock - The chambers of the stars: - You, turning off from life’s first mocking glow, - Leaning it may be still on broken faith, - Will down the vale of autumn gladly go - To the chill winter, death. - - Hark! from the empty bosom of the grove - I hear a sob, as one forlorn might pine— - The white-limbed beauty of a god is thine, - King of the seasons, and the night that hoods - Thy brow majestic, brightest stars enweave— - Thou surely canst not grieve. - - But only far away - Mak’st stormy prophecies—well lift them higher, - Till morning on the forehead of the day - Presses a seal of fire. - Dearer to me the scene - Of nature shrinking from thy rough embrace, - Than summer, with her rustling robe of green, - Cool blowing in my face. - - The moon is up—how still the yellow beams - That slantwise lie upon the stirless air, - Sprinkled with frost, like pearl-entangled hair, - O’er beauty’s cheek that streams. - How the red light of Mars their pallor mocks. - And the wild legend from the old time wins, - Of sweet waves kissing all the drowning locks - Of Ilia’s lovely twins. - - Come, Poesy, and with thy shadowy hands - Cover me softly, singing all the night— - In thy dear presence find I best delight; - Even the saint that stands - Tending the gate of heaven, involved in beams - Of rarest glory, to my mortal eyes - Pales from the blest insanity of dreams - That round thee lies. - - Unto the dusky borders of the grove - Where gray-haired Saturn, silent as a stone, - Sat in his grief alone, - Or where young Venus, searching for her love, - Walked through the clouds, I pray, - Bear me to-night away. - - Or wade with me through snows - Drifted in loose fantastic curves aside, - From humble doors where love and faith abide, - And no rough winter blows, - Chilling the beauty of affections fair, - Cabined securely there. - - Where round their fingers winding the white slips - That crown his forehead, on the grandsire’s knees, - Sit merry children, teasing about ships - Lost in the perilous seas; - Or listening with a troublous joy, yet deep, - To stories about battles, or of storms, - Till weary grown, and drowsing into sleep, - Slide they from out his arms. - - Where, by the log-heap fire, - As the pane rattles and the cricket sings, - I with the gray-haired sire - May talk of vanished summer-times and springs, - And harmlessly and cheerfully beguile - The long, long hours— - The happier for the snows that drift the while - About the flowers. - - Winter, wilt keep the love I offer thee? - No mesh of flowers is bound about my brow; - From life’s fair summer I am hastening now. - And as I sink my knee, - Dimpling the beauty of thy bed of snow, - Dowerless, I can but say, - O, cast me not away! - - * * * * * - - - - - IMPROMPTU TO THE AUTHOR OF “THE OCEAN-BORN.” - - - BY A READER. - - - Oh! once again resume thy potent pen, - Thou pleasing stranger and heart-moving man, - And lead our thoughts back captive once again, - As thou alone of others only can. - Thy “Slaver” long had lingered in our mind, - And called forth hopes of future fame for thee, - When came thy “Cabin-Boy,” so fair and kind, - To set our heart’s best thoughts and feelings free— - Say, was he real? Truth seemed written - On every line that in the tale was shown, - And maidens fair by the ideal were smitten, - And sighed because the real was unknown. - Silent and passionless our hearts had beat - For months, and feared thou hadst resigned thy sway, - And earth-cares closely clung around our feet, - When sprung thy “Ocean-Born” to joyous day. - Thy beauteous “Garcia,” pure as e’er a star, - Called forth all pity, sympathy and love; - We dreaded lest the ending, darkling far, - Would all too fierce and desp’rate for her prove; - But for the son who, born of such a pair, - Thy wondrous pen portrayed so truly good, - The picture thou hast drawn so passing fair, - To us it seemed as by thee he had stood. - Oh! cease not yet—nor deem it labor vain - The treasures of thy mind to bring to view, - Let the creations of thy soul again - Their joyous power spread over us anew. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE ARTIST’S LOVE. - - - BY THE AUTHORESS OF THE CONSPIRATOR. - - - THE TABLEAU. - -The curtain arose and a murmur of applause greeted the beautiful scene -that appeared. An open window unclosed on a valley sleeping in the -moonlight, and the over-arching heavens glittering with its quiet stars. -Beside the window leaned the lady, her head half-turned from the page -who knelt at her feet, and clasped her hand between his tremulous -fingers: and she—oh how divinely fair was that girl! She represented -one of a royal race, and well did she look the character she had -assumed. The turn of the graceful head, the curve of the red lip -belonged to the royalty of beauty, and there was a pretty air of -condescension in the attitude she assumed toward the kneeling youth; -while he looked up to her and sent forth his soul in the deep gaze he -bent upon her face. The first fond dream of the enthusiast’s heart was -realized, and his spirit bowed in homage before the ideal of his young -imagination. - -The curtain fell—the page raised her hand to his lips and passionately -kissed it. A faint flush came up to the cheek of the girl, and a -half-mocking smile flitted across her crimson lip. - -“You forget, young sir, that we are only _acting_. One would suppose -from your manner that you are really in earnest.” - -The tone jarred on the highly excited feelings of the youth, and he -sprang to his feet, the warm blood mantling his fine features with its -sunny glow. - -“Your pardon, Miss Selwyn,—I forgot that we were acquaintances of but a -day’s standing: yet if you could read the dreamer’s heart, you would not -wear that smile which seems to mock my enthusiasm. You see before you a -boy in years, but if the age of man may be measured by the wild -aspirations—the burning hopes of a heart whose reveries are as -passionate realities, I am not a mere youth. Oh beautiful,”—he -continued, again kneeling before her, “my soul bows before the -incarnation of a lovely spirit, in a form fitted to enshrine it. I feel -that it is so, for _He_ who made you so gloriously lovely, would not -place a cold or selfish heart in so exquisite a casket. My fancy has -pictured such forms among the angels of heaven, and my unskillful hand -has essayed to sketch them, but ever without success. When we met, my -heart at once went forth to greet its predestined idol, and I felt that -my dreams had found a reality.” - -The girl who listened to this wild rhapsody with a little fear and more -surprise, was one who had been reared amid the artificial refinements of -life, and it was probably the first genuine burst of feeling which had -ever met her ear. The daughter of a man of wealth, and a mother devoted -to fashion, her education had been carefully intended to model the -character of the future belle. The parents looked on her unrivaled -beauty with pride, and the vain mother anticipated the renewal of her -own triumphs in the person of her daughter. Flattered and spoiled from -childhood, it was quite wonderful that one natural trait should still -have remained in her vain little heart; but nature sometimes asserts her -power where art has done most to arrest and deface her beauties. Thus it -was with Julia Selwyn. Sincere feeling even to the world-hardened ever -finds an echo in the breast, and the mocking smile died from her lips as -she felt the deep charm of the young stranger’s singular avowal. - -The two had met that morning for the first time. Arthur Mervin was the -son of one of Mr. Selwyn’s early friends, who had that day arrived in -Philadelphia, with a letter of introduction from his father, containing -a request that Mr. Selwyn would aid the youth in obtaining admittance -into the studio of a distinguished painter, as his pupil. - -At the moment of his arrival, a party was rehearsing the tableau which -were to be presented in the evening at a splendid entertainment, given -in honor of Miss Selwyn’s _debut_ in the world of fashion. The most -important one;—the one in which the beauty was to burst on the -enraptured eyes of her father’s guests in all her loveliness, was the -lady and the page—and—oh, dire disappointment! The young cousin who -was to enact the page, had been seized with an inflammatory sore throat, -and his medical attendant positively prohibited his leaving his room. - -What was to be done? Mrs. Selwyn glanced over the list of her young -acquaintances, and could not find one to appear in the tableau with her -fair daughter, who would not look coarse when placed in comparison with -her refined loveliness. - -She wished the tableau to be perfect—to be talked of as the most -beautiful one of the season, and, in the midst of her perplexity, when -her husband ushered in the son of his friend, one glance at his graceful -person and fine features convinced her that she need look no -farther,—the page was found. - -Her daughter was sent for, and after an animated conversation of -half-an-hour, the lady found means to introduce her request so naturally -and gracefully, that after a moment’s hesitation, with a glance at Julia -and a bright flush of the cheek which spoke volumes, Mervin consented to -play the part of the page. - -How would that worldly mother have shrunk from allowing him admittance -within the charmed circle of her daughter’s fascination could she have -divined the effect this casual introduction was to have on that -daughter’s future life. - -The son of a farmer of moderate means who was encumbered with a large -family, it appeared too absurd to guard against Mervin’s admiration. -Julia was born to be admired: she had been educated to glitter in the -sphere of fashion, and understood her own position too well to allow her -feelings to become interested in a mere flirtation with an obscure -artist. - -The young painter was full of genius and enthusiasm; the walls of his -studio were ornamented with sybils, angels, and Madonnas, in each of -which might be recognized a striking resemblance to the face of his -young love, and his passionate soul poured forth his adoration in -“thoughts that breathe and words that burn.” The homage of genius gave -an eclat to her daughter which gratified the vanity of Mrs. Selwyn, who -fancied that she had sufficiently warned Julia against allowing her -heart to become interested, by speaking of the utter impossibility that -Mervin should for years be in a situation to ask her to share his -destiny. - -“All this adulation is very pleasant my love,” said she, “and makes you -the envy of many a fair rival, but remember it is only as incense to -your vanity that it must be regarded. Mr. Mervin is clever, and has -talent enough to make a very agreeable addition to our _soirees_, but a -suitor to you it is quite impossible he should aspire to become.” - -The rose faded from the cheek of Julia in an instant. “He is gifted with -extraordinary abilities, mother. A distinguished path is before him.” - -“Yes—but think of the years of toil that must intervene. The best -portion of his life must be devoted to his exacting profession, and when -the pulse is fevered with application—the eyes dimmed, and the hair -blanched with time, he may be what is called great; but the spirit of -life, of love, and hope, will be exhausted in the struggle. From the dim -waste of the past, the voice of fame will sound but as a funeral dirge, -wailed over the courage and enthusiasm which bore him upward and onward -in his course.” - -“Disappointment must come to all, mother; but in the exciting occupation -you describe there is much happiness to be found. The days of all must -fall into the ‘sere and yellow leaf,’ but the man of genius can at least -look back with pleasure to his toil, and reflect with just pride on the -rewards he has won. Ah how superior are such memories to those hoarded -by the mere butterflies of fashion, of a petty triumph over some -insignificant person whose wealth lifts them into ephemeral notoriety.” - -“Child—Child! how you are running on! Your cheek is flushed, and your -eyes sparkling.—This will never do. I hope this young painter has not -made what romantic young ladies call ‘an impression’ on your heart, for -in that case my doors must be closed on him.” - -Julia was calm in a moment. The pupil of the fashionable Madame Lecompte -had been assiduously taught the art of controling the outward show of -emotion, and young as she was, Julia Selwyn did not shame the lessons of -her preceptress. - -“My dear mother, how can you have such a fancy! Mr. Mervin does not make -love to me without I construe his verses into declarations. Do you fear -that I shall be so unmaidenly as to give my heart unsought? He knows -that a union between us is impossible, but that does not prevent this -frail fading beauty from being his inspiration and his muse. A few -fleeting years, and some younger and fairer face will claim his homage, -while I shall pass down the stream of time only remembered as the -_ci-devant_ belle. When his fame is at its zenith, I shall be -forgotten.” - -“I am glad that you have so much common sense, my dear. When we can -speak calmly of being forgotten by an admirer, it is a sure sign that -the feelings are not deeply interested in him. You were never intended -for the wife of a poor man, and there is one—but I must not betray your -father’s plans. He will never force you to accept any one who is -disagreeable to you, but there is a person in view who is so suited in -age, fortune, and in short, every thing, that we have set our hearts on -seeing you his bride. I will not name him, lest the knowledge of our -wishes should make you shy. I shall leave him to make his own way, -love—no questions—I am silent as death. Good-bye—I must see the new -case of millinery opened at Madam ——’s. I will bring you a Parisian -hat of the newest style.” - - * * * * * - -Julia buried her face in her hands and remained in deep and painful -thought. She had instinctively known all that her mother had just -expressed relative to Mervin; yet she would not reflect on it. - -A year had passed since the first impassioned declaration of the young -painter. His lips had uttered no word of love in that time, but his -devotion of manner had expressed all that the most exacting mistress -could have asked. Julia fancied that she received his homage merely as -the incense due to her unrivaled charms—that her own heart was still -unscathed—yet why did she listen for his step, and turn listlessly away -from her usual occupations until shared by him? Why did the faint -crimson steal to her cheeks as he sat beside her and spoke in those low, -earnest tones, so different from the _persiflage_ of the set in which -she habitually lived? Enthusiasm ever finds in the hearts of the young a -chord which vibrates to the touch of him who possesses it, and before -she was aware of her danger, that of Julia Selwyn was devotedly attached -to Mervin. - -Nature and education were at war within her. The consent of her parents -would never be given to her union with him she well knew—and too much -of worldliness still clung to her, to be willing to descend from her -high estate to link her fortunes with those of her poor, though gifted -lover. Yet her heart shrank from the sacrilege of giving herself to -another. She might for years remain the idol of the hour, until her -beauty began to wane, and in those years, perhaps Mervin might achieve a -degree of celebrity that must lead to fortune—if not—she could then -fulfill the desire of her parents in bestowing her hand on some wealthy -suitor. - -The lover destined for her by her parents made his appearance, and in -spite of her mother’s determination not to reveal his name, Julia at -once detected the anxiety of her parents that Mr. Herbert should succeed -in winning her. He was young, and rather handsome, with quiet, -gentlemanly manners; but when compared with the young painter he -appeared very commonplace. - -Herbert was already in possession of a handsome estate, and owned a -large interest in the firm of which her father was the principal. He was -just the sort of person Julia felt safe in trifling with. He had no -romance, and was of an extremely indolent temper—for years he would be -content to creep toward an object he had once proposed to himself to -attain. He was not jealous, and with perfect calmness saw the girl he -contemplated as his future wife, flirt with the gayest and handsomest -men of the city. He seemed to possess some assurance in his own mind -that she must eventually yield to the fate which decreed her to become -Mrs. Herbert, and until that time arrived, she might enjoy her liberty -as best suited her inclinations. - -In the meantime Mervin pursued his career with astonishing success. The -enthusiasm of his soul was thrown into all he attempted, and urged on by -the overpowering passion of his heart, it was no wonder that he -accomplished well whatever he undertook. Amateurs declared his talents -to be of the highest order, and brother artists acknowledged his -success, considering his years and opportunities for cultivation, to be -unprecedented. His future greatness was confidently predicted, and a few -of the patrons of the fine arts met together, and consulted on a -proposal to send him to Europe, that so promising a genius should -possess every facility for perfecting his style by the study of the old -masters. - -A liberal fund was subscribed for that purpose, and offered with such -delicacy that Mervin felt no hesitation in accepting it as a loan, to be -repaid when his exertions had won the means of so doing. - -His preparations were soon completed, and a farewell visit to his family -made. Then came the first bitter trial of his life—the parting from -Julia Selwyn. The inexperienced youth, ignorant of the conventional -distinctions of society, had uttered the first promptings of his heart -to the object of his suddenly awakened passion; but a few weeks sufficed -to show one of his quick perception and nice tact, the wide gulf that -separated the daughter of a reputed millionaire from the humble child of -genius. In words his passion had never since been expressed, yet Julia -felt that to the last throb of that impetuous heart she would be the -dearest of earthly objects. - -He could not leave her thus—she had ever smiled on him, and from her -own lips he must learn his fate. The years of toil which lay before him, -would, for her sake, be sweet, and his heart trembled as he contemplated -his future if no such bright hope rose over its distant horizon. If it -were denied, deprived of all motive for exertion, he must sink at once -into insignificance. The pride of genius—the consciousness of powers -which raised him above the mass of his fellows, was bowed before the -consuming passion that formed the inspiration of his day dreams, and the -theme of his sleeping visions. - -With feelings alternately elevated or depressed, as hope or fear -prevailed in his mind, he repaired to the mansion of Mr. Selwyn. He -found Julia alone, apparently awaiting the arrival of her party to -attend a ball, for her dress was in the latest style of elegance. As he -entered, she arose from the examination of a book of engravings, and -advanced to meet him. - -“She knows that I am about to leave my native land, and yet she could -array herself for a ball,” thought Mervin, and his cheek grew paler than -before. Julia noted the emotion, and frankly extending her hand said— - -“I knew you would come, and though ready to go to Mrs. Lacy’s party, I -feigned a headache, and staid at home to receive you. I did not know—I -did not hear that you had finally decided to leave, until we were nearly -ready to enter the carriage.” - -Mervin pressed the hand she extended to him to his lips and heart in -uncontrollable emotion. - -“Ah, beloved Julia! in this hour I must again pour into your ear the -passion that masters my whole being. As you shall answer this night, -will my fate for good or evil be decided. How I dare venture to ask you, -the beautiful, the flattered, to wait for years until a poor artist has -achieved independence, I know not, but the hope is in my heart, Julia, -that you will not deem me presumptuous. Oh, beloved, the future with its -bright promise of fame is cheerless, without the hope is given that I -may attain the idol of my youth. Speak—let me know my doom! I go forth -sanguine in hope, and certain of success speedily won—or I carry with -me a heart so crushed—so blighted by the disappointment of its dearest -wish, that the energy to accomplish any thing worthy of myself will -never revive.” - -Tears were in Julia’s eyes. All her worldliness, all her hesitation had -vanished at the sound of his words: she was only the loving and beloved -woman, ready to share his lot, whether that lot were gloomy or bright. - -“The hope is yours,” she whispered. “Is it not a brighter destiny to be -the artist’s love than the bride of him whose fortune is his only claim -to the station he holds? The day will come when my parents will be proud -to give me to you. When that time arrives, take with you the assurance -that you will find me free from other ties, with a heart glorying in the -reputation you have won by your own exertions.” - -“With such a reward in view, what toil will be too great, what probation -too tedious to be borne! Oh, Julia, you have given me a motive which -will enable me to triumph over every obstacle. But in the years that -must elapse before I can rationally hope to claim my bride, how will you -evade the persevering pursuit of this Herbert?” - -“Do not fear him, Arthur. He is like a tortoise in pursuit of a bird on -the wing, when following me. I can suffer him to belong to my train for -years and still be no nearer marrying him than now. Besides, the -inexplicable anxiety of my parents to see me united to him, will prevent -them from giving decided encouragement to the addresses of any other -lover. So you see it is rather on advantage to have so dilatory a -suitor.” - -“The influence of your parents will be entirely in his favor—you will -be firm, my beloved—you will not yield. Remember, if you do, that you -will be answerable for one human destiny. Your confession of this night -has blended your fate, irrevocably with mine. You cannot draw back -without rending the ties that bind me to reason—perhaps life.” - -“I shall have no wish to draw back, Arthur. Though vain and worldly, -there is enough nature still left in my heart to appreciate and return -your affection. When the last hope of life has departed, I may yield and -become another’s; but while your love remains as my beacon-light to -happiness, I will continue true to my plighted troth.” - -Much further conversation ensued, and just as they parted, Mervin -repeated her own words, “Remember, love, till the last hope of life has -departed, you are mine, and mine alone.” - -Julia repeated them solemnly, happily, unconscious in how different a -sense from that understood by the lover, they would be acted on. - - * * * * * - -Two years passed by. The most favorable accounts were received of the -progress of Mervin. He had passed the greater portion of that time in -Italy, and several beautiful specimens of his rapid improvement had been -transmitted to his friends in his native land. The lovers contrived to -keep up a correspondence, though the letters were few and far between, -as the greatest caution was observed to prevent the parents of the fair -_fiancée_ from suspecting the romantic attachment of their daughter. -Julia well knew that such a discovery would be followed by a command to -trifle no longer with the pretensions of Mr. Herbert. - -Already they had manifested both impatience and displeasure at her -conduct to that gentleman. He still continued the same placid and -attentive lover; never elated by the smiles of his mistress, nor -depressed by her frowns; he pursued the “even tenor of his way,” -seemingly assured of final success where a more mercurial person would -have despaired. - -At length the crisis in the destiny of the belle approached. One morning -her father entered her room and requested a few moment’s uninterrupted -conversation with her. Julia sent her young sister from the apartment -and prepared to listen to a remonstrance in favor of Mr. Herbert’s -pretensions. - -“My daughter,” he began, “the time has arrived when I can no longer -postpone the explanation of our position in regard to Mr. Herbert. You -have trifled with him so long, that I despair of ever seeing you -voluntarily become his wife.” - -“And is there any absolute necessity that I should unite myself to a man -I can never love, father?” - -“So much the worse, child. Love, at any rate, is a mere chimera—an -ignis fatuus, that misleads the young. At all events you must make up -your mind to marry Herbert, or I am a ruined man.” - -“How can that result be brought about by my refusal to accept him?” -faltered poor Julia. - -“It is a story, my dear, I would not care to tell you, if it could be -avoided; but I see no hope of influencing you by other means—so you -must e’en hear it. Sit down, and don’t look so alarmed. You are pale as -death, and trembling like a frightened dove.” - -Julia sunk back in her seat, and prepared to listen with as much -calmness as she could command. - -“The father of Herbert and myself commenced life together, and for many -years our united exertions were eminently successful. He decided to -retire from the firm, when an elegant sufficiency had been acquired. He -had but one child to provide for, and I made no objection; but as my -family was larger, I thought it incumbent on me to continue my -exertions. The half of Herbert’s gains was withdrawn from the firm, and -invested in real estate secured to his son. The other moiety continued -in my hands. At his death he bequeathed his claims on me to George, with -a bequest to you of half the funds in my possession, on the condition -that you shall become the wife of his son; if not, the whole amount is -to be paid to George Herbert on the day he attains his twenty-fifth -year. In two more weeks, if you do not accept Herbert, I shall be called -on to pay a sum amounting to more than my whole fortune. As my -son-in-law, he pledges himself to allow me to retain the use of this -money until I can advantageously settle with him, and altogether waives -his claim to the legacy left to you. My affairs are now in such a state -that it will be ruinous to me to attempt a settlement; so you must even -make the best of it, and give your hand to an honest man who will render -you as happy as the most of your sex.” - -“And is this the _only_ alternative?” asked the pale girl. “Will not Mr. -Herbert grant you a longer time without demanding so great a sacrifice -on my part?” - -“The truth is, Julia, you have flirted with Herbert long enough, and he -thinks you have not treated him quite well. If I make such an appeal to -him, his cold temper will be roused, and he will be off altogether, -which would be a misfortune of no common magnitude; for I must tell you -that there is not the least chance that I shall ever be able to pay a -fraction of this money; and only as the husband of my daughter can I -prevent him from taking such steps as will ruin me at once. On one hand, -it is a choice of poverty to all you love, and on the other, a good -husband with plenty of money. You are too sensible to be romantic; and -besides, as you have never yet fallen in love, you have no predilection -to plead.” - -At his last words arose the appalling recollection of her clandestine -attachment—and she cast herself at the feet of her father. - -“Pardon me, my father, and pity me! I have loved—I do love, with a -depth and truth that death alone can destroy. Ask me not to wed this -man, for I am plighted heart and soul to another.” - -“To whom?” was the stern question. “I know of no one who receives the -encouragement of a lover, save Herbert.” - -“One far away—seeking distinction in a foreign land. Oh, blight not the -promise of his young years by compelling me to falsehood and desertion.” - -“What! that beggarly painter, Mervin! And is it for him you have -slighted the highest in station—the brightest in intellect! For two -years you have carried on this deception unsuspected—I have but one -atonement to demand for such duplicity. Accept Herbert, and it shall be -forgotten—refuse, and you are no longer a child of mine.” - -Vain were the pleadings of the unhappy girl—vain her appeals to his -better feelings. Glad of a pretext to treat her with such harshness as -to drive her into his measures, Mr. Selwyn availed himself to the utmost -of the one which was offered. She was literally left no choice between a -marriage she detested, or expulsion from the paternal roof. - -It is doubtful whether the parents would have carried their resentment -so far, had she finally refused compliance with their wishes; but there -was so much at stake, that both father and mother scrupled not to use -every endeavor to urge her into the proposed union. - -The constitution of Julia had never been robust; and the conflict in her -feelings brought on a severe attack of illness, from which she very -slowly recovered; and there was a brightness in the large-pupiled eyes, -and a clear spot of rose upon her cheek, which seemed to speak of early -decay and death. She went out once more, and listened with apparent -acquiescence to the wishes of her parents in regard to her marriage. - -Herbert was roused into something like interest, and his attentions were -unremitting. Julia received them passively—she felt herself a victim to -a fate she had no power to control, and yielded to the will of those -around her. Yet she could not write to Mervin; she could not tell him -who trusted her that she was about to wed another. No words could convey -to him the wearing persecutions of which she had been the victim, even -could a daughter bring herself to write such things of her parents. Her -energies were destroyed, and she felt herself borne forward on the -current of events, without the power to avert the doom they had awarded -her. - -As the fall advanced, a slight cough alarmed her mother, and again the -physician was summoned. Julia earnestly desired to see him alone. He -found her in her room with a small parcel on the table before her. - -“Doctor,” she said, with a faint smile, “you are called on to restore -health to the hopeless. You know that to be an impossible task. I wish -you to tell me honestly and truly, how long you think I can live.” - -“Pooh! Miss Julia! you are too young to talk of dying. Many long and -happy years are, I trust, before you.” - -“You would flatter me with a hope that is not dear to me. Long life I -now ask not—desire not. I ask you as a man of honor—as a Christian—if -you think it possible for me to recover? To die is now my only wish.” - -“So the young always say when disappointment meets them. Your pulse is -quick—you are feverish; but I think these symptoms will pass away. A -winter in a warm climate I shall recommend to Mr. Herbert as the best -thing for you; and I hope to see you again quite restored.” - -“In a warm climate? What country will you recommend?” she asked -abruptly. - -“The South of France—or Italy.” - -“Italy! Oh, let it be Italy! I could die contented there; but I will not -consent to go. I dare not consent to be united to Mr. Herbert unless you -will assure me that the last hope of life is past.” - -The doctor looked at her as if doubting her sanity. - -“You are young to lie down in the grave with resignation. There is some -mystery here, my young friend, which is wearing your life gradually -away. Can you not confide in me? I may be able to serve you.” - -“Only in telling me the truth, and in writing a few lines for me to one -who is far away—not dreaming of the blow that is about to fall on him. -Poor Arthur! My grief is now more for him than for myself. You are a -friend of Mr. Mervin’s, Doctor. Write to him, and inform him of my -marriage; and tell him that my last promise was inviolate. I was his, so -long as a hope in life remained. You may tell him that there was no -escape from this loveless marriage, and the sacrifice of life itself -will test the truth of my affection for him. _Now_ will you order me to -Italy? that I may die amid the bland airs and lovely scenes which -surround him. The consciousness that I am in the same land, will gild -the remnant of my waning life.” - -The physician was deeply touched. He saw that in her face which spoke to -his heart of her rapidly approaching fate, and his voice faltered as he -replied, - -“You shall go to Italy—and I will fulfill your request. Mervin shall be -apprised in the gentlest manner of all you desire. Would that I could -serve or save you, but the wound lies too deep for my skill to reach.” - -She smiled faintly. “It is a consolation to know that by the sacrifice -of the frail remnant of my existence, I can secure to my young -sister—to my parents, the enjoyment of a competence at least. Mr. -Herbert has promised me that the wealth bequeathed to me by his father, -on the condition that I became his bride, shall be secured to my sister, -encumbered with an annuity to my parents. You probably know that the -affairs of my father are inextricably involved, and this will be their -only dependence; but, doctor, I have made one proviso, to screen my -sweet Ellen from the misery that has been my portion. She is to enjoy -the absolute right of choosing her partner for life herself.” - -“These,” she continued, taking the parcel from the table, “are _his_ -letters. They are few—but very—very precious. Take them—destroy -them—I cannot do it—and I would not have them returned to him. It -would be too bitter to have the memorials of wasted affection thrown -back on the heart from which they emanated.” - - * * * * * - -A few more weeks rolled by, and the sacrifice had been completed—the -victim had been offered up at the shrine of selfishness and false pride. - -The arrangements of Herbert were so liberal as to free Mr. Selwyn from -all apprehensions for the future. He was not avaricious; and in his -anxiety to please the fading bride his money had literally purchased, he -was willing to lavish his fortune with a profuse hand. He loved Julia as -much as his calm heart was capable of loving any thing; and in the sunny -clime to which they were bound, he confidently looked forward to her -recovery from the effects of what he called her slight cold. Her parents -had never for an instant allowed him to suspect that, on her part, there -was the least repugnance to the union; and she had coquetted with him so -long, that she shrank from laying before his cold gaze, the history of -her secret affection for his rival. - -They embarked for Europe, and Julia bade a last farewell to the land of -her birth. As its shores faded in the distance, she felt the sad -conviction that her eyes had rested on them for the last time. - -So far from renovating her exhausted frame, the sea-voyage had a -contrary effect; and when they at last entered the bay of Naples, the -young bride was carried on deck to breathe her last sigh in sight of the -land which contained the unconscious Mervin. - -The letter of the kind physician had not reached its destination, and -Mervin was still pursuing his brilliant career with the fond hope of -soon being in a situation to claim his betrothed. - - * * * * * - -A solemn procession passed a group of artists collected together at a -corner of one of the principal streets. The corpse of a young female was -borne past them on a flower-strewn bier, to one of the principal hotels. -A close carriage followed, containing a single mourner. An inquiry was -made as to who the deceased was. - -“A young American lady.” - -An undefinable feeling of sympathy with his bereaved countryman, induced -Mervin to separate from the group, and join the procession. As it -entered the hotel, he was about to follow and offer his services, when -he met a servant belonging to the establishment to whom he was well -known. The man stopped and addressed him. - -“The American signor who has just arrived wishes an artist to take the -likeness of his wife, before she is buried. As you are a -fellow-countryman, I was about to seek you, signor—for your pictures -are justly renowned, and this lady is even now very beautiful. The -gentleman is too deeply afflicted to see you himself.” - -“What is his name, Guiseppe?” - -“Signor Hibut, or Hobut—I cannot tell which.” - -The sound of the name, in the Italian’s pronunciation, appeared so -little like the real one, that his old rival never once occurred to -Mervin—and without further hesitation he dispatched a servant to his -studio to bring the requisite materials for his task. - -He was ushered into the chamber of death; and a cold thrill of emotion -almost unnerved him as he looked on the bier, with the sharp outline of -a human form clearly defined beneath the white coverlet that lay above -it. The withered flowers which were strewn over it, seemed but to mock -the stern conqueror who had laid his strong grasp on the marble form of -the dead, and he removed them, though he withheld his hand from raising -the veil which shrouded her features, until the servant who had been -sent to his studio had fulfilled his commission and departed. - -It was a bright day, and the garish sun streamed into the room. With the -eye of his profession for effect, he lowered the crimson curtains before -the windows, that their reflection might throw the rosy hue of life on -the pallid features he was to delineate. - -He paused as he stood beside the bier, with his hand upon the linen that -shrouded her features. Some deep emotion appeared struggling in his -mind, and he withdrew his hand. Ashamed of his hesitation, with a sudden -effort he threw back the covering, and with a cry, sunk upon the floor. - -An hour passed, and with glazed eyes, and horror-struck visage, the -painter cowered beside the bier, with his immovable gaze fixed on the -still face before him. - -“His wife!” he muttered at intervals; “His wife!—false—false to me—I -that loved her so madly—trusted her so fondly! His wife—his wife!” - -At length he arose, and seizing his brush, commenced painting with a -rapidity and success that surprised himself. The picture speedily grew -under his hands into life and beauty; but it did not represent the dull -room with its lifeless inmate. The starry heavens, and the green vale -were faithfully delineated—a young girl, in the pride of successful -beauty, leaned against an open window—and he livingly portrayed the -peerless loveliness of the embodiment of his young ideal. - -Before her knelt a youth wearing the features of the artist himself, but -so changed—so full of the anguish of a broken spirit, that one glance -revealed the history of his slighted love and maddened heart. - - * * * * * - -Mervin went forth from that apartment with faltering steps, and the cold -dew of agony upon his brow. How he reached his home he knew not. He -found a letter on the table—it was the long-delayed communication of -Dr. L——; he retained self-command enough to read and understand its -contents—but it was the last effort of his over-wrought mind. - -His words to his lost love had been prophetic! The tie that bound him to -reason was rent—the bright promise of his opening years buried in the -grave of his young idol. - -Some kind friend restored him to his native land; and he now wanders -about the home of his father, a melancholy and harmless wreck. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE TRIUMPH OF GENIUS. - - - ILLUSTRATED BY AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF SCHILLER. - - - BY MRS. K. C. KINNEY. - - - He paused upon the river’s brink, a friendless fugitive, - And in despair’s wild moment asked—“Why should I longer live? - Deep are these waters, dark and cold, but deeper is my wo, - And peace, methinks, lies underneath the river’s tranquil flow.” - - ’Twas but a flash of sulphurous light from the great Tempter’s mind, - On sorrow’s cloud that sudden gleamed, the poet’s soul to blind! - It passed like lightning, and he saw again a living world— - The teeming land, the river free, the snowy sail unfurled. - - The glowing sunset, gilding spire, and mast, and forest-tree, - Shed light on his enshrouded mind—he felt ’twas joy to be— - To be _himself_—fair Nature’s child—ay, Truth’s and Freedom’s own, - Born to a boundless heritage—heir to a laurel crown! - - “I will not die, but live,” he said, “while lives the truth divine— - For Nature and for Art I’ll live—no common life be mine; - This deathless spirit wounded now in struggling to be free, - Shall in its conscious strength arise and claim its destiny! - - “Not that the sovereign, who pursues a rebel with his frown, - May see my coronet all green, when fades his ducal crown; - Not that the sire, whose wrath condemned his reckless son to shame, - May hail that son brought back in the triumphal car of Fame— - - “But that I feel the living soul of Poesy within, - Urging the liberated thought its mission to begin; - A work eternal bids me on—I cannot, will not die, - Till the vast deep of human mind shall onto deep reply!” - - The traveler to a foreign clime now reverent stands beside - The noble statue of a bard, a nation’s love and pride; - Unto whose living works both worlds in admiration turn, - Philosophy, through beauty’s form and music’s tone, to learn. - - In calm, colossal grandeur towers that statue on the spot - Where once a youthful poet stood to mourn his hapless lot— - From whence he fled a fugitive, stamped with the rebel’s name, - There Schiller dead, yet living, speaks his own immortal fame. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL. - - - BY CHARLES H. STEWART. - - - The vesper bells are softly peeling - A call to prayer; - Like angel’s songs the sounds are stealing - Far up the azure aisles of air. - - A wish, truth’s offspring, now is winging - To realms untold— - Through the high heaven of thought upspringing - To the _true_ temple of the soul. - - Hope, like a weary pilgrim, kneeling, - Stoops at the shrine - And worships with a holy feeling, - Half human seeming, half divine. - - Now thoughts flit through fond mem’ry’s temple - To times of old, - When worship at the heart’s high altar— - Pure as the stars—but ne’er so cold. - - And ’mid the future’s sky is gleaming - Hope’s burning star, - And Fancy’s eye drinks in its beaming, - Undying brightness from afar. - - The heart is like mind; her empire— - Wide as the sky— - Vast in its spirit realm, it maketh - All that we are of Deity. - - Thou lovely world of heaven, thy vision, - Surpassing rare, - Shall mock my mind’s ideal Elysium - With joys that ever cycle there. - - Though oft in gloom its dawn comes stealing, - And tear-drops stream, - Dimming its light, the spirit healing, - Wings its far flight pure and serene. - - The incense of the soul is stealing - Beyond the sky, - From censers lit with fire of feeling, - To spirit realms of Deity. - - Those evening bells, once softly peeling, - No longer ring; - But thoughts, as pure as seraphs kneeling, - Ascend to an eternal spring. - - Now eventide is hushed in rest— - Day has departed, - And blithe come forth the bold and blest, - And low the sad and broken-hearted, - - But as successive years may roll - Their waves away, - Those bells may break upon the soul, - Sweet to the low and sadly to the gay. - - * * * * * - - - - - A RICH MAN’S WHIMS. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “FANNY AND FRANCIS.” - - -“Well, Arthur, what next!” said a grave-looking young man of -twenty-five, to his friend. - -“What next; upon my word I cannot answer that question at this moment, -in fact, I am not quite released from my last undertaking. One must be -off with the old love before they are on with the new, you know.” - -“It appears to me,” said Abram Snow, “that you had better remain where -you are till times improve a little. I do not make enough to pay my -board, yet it is better to remain than to do worse.” - -“I suppose you are right,” said Arthur; “but I see no difference between -your career and mine as it respects money affairs, excepting that you -have a thousand dollars at interest, and I have a thousand dollars in -odds and ends. Yes, there is a difference, Snow, for when business is -brisk again you will get a good salary, for the world considers you as a -prudent, steady fellow, and an excellent book-keeper, while I shall -think myself fortunate in being sent to the West Indies as supercargo.” - -Arthur Hazarelle was led on orphan when quite young, and his little -patrimony was just sufficient to educate and support him till he was -fourteen years of age. From that time until his twenty-fifth year he had -changed from one occupation to another, sometimes twice in a year, and -it could not be said that he had a particular talent for any branch of -business. He certainly was ambitious, and he exerted himself to the -utmost for every employer he was with; but though useful and exemplary -in his conduct, yet some unforeseen event set him adrift. It was -impossible almost to count up the number of places he filled during the -ten years before our little story commences, the last one was about as -promising as any in which he had been engaged, but in one week from the -time he had this conversation with Abram Snow, the auctioneer with whom -he was engaged took it into his head to die, and even the thousand -dollars worth of odds and ends died with him. - -Poor Arthur! after paying his week’s board and his washerwoman he had -not more than a dollar in his pocket, and he was honest enough to tell -this to his landlady. - -Women are tender-hearted, and Mrs. May was as weak as the rest of her -sex; so she pitied Arthur, and talked over her feelings before one of -her boarders, a surly, ugly old man, who never opened his lips without -finding fault, and who was always watching Arthur from the corner of his -eye. - -“Good enough for him—better than he deserves, Mrs. May,” said Mr. -Crosbie, “a rolling stone gathers no moss; why, the wealth of the Indies -would not stick to such a squib—here, there and every where. To my -knowledge he has changed places twice or thrice a year ever since he was -fourteen years old.” - -“That may all be true, Mr. Crosbie; but from what I know of him it was -none of his fault. I am quite unhappy about him, for I know very well -that he will not stay one moment in my house unless he can get money -enough to pay his board.” - -Mr. Crosbie made no answer but—“humph”—and left the room. He was a man -apparently well advanced in years, ugly in face, and all over out of -joint, he meddled with no man’s business, and in return, prevented -others from interfering with his. But of all the eyes that were ever set -in mortal head his were the most keen and piercing—he seemed to read -the bottom of your soul at a glance. - -As he left the room he met Arthur Hazerelle with a small traveling trunk -in his hand, and on Mrs. May coming out, he shook hands with her -cheerfully, and wished her a good-morning. He had often felt uneasy -before the searching expression of Mr. Crosbie’s eye, and it made him -actually shudder at this moment. He seemed to have lost the power of -will. - -“Which way are you bound?” said the old gentleman, fixing his eye still -more firmly on Arthur’s face. “If you are going to Berrydale, back of -the granite hills, here is a letter for you.” - -Arthur stared at him not only with astonishment but dismay, for he had -but the moment before decided on going there, and had not communicated -his intention to any one. - -“If you are going, say so,” growled out the man, “for the cars start at -nine, and you have no time to lose.” - -Arthur mechanically took the letter, put it in his pocket, and raising -his hat, walked out of the house, feeling certain that Mr. Crosbie was -staring at him from the street door, Mrs. May from the green blinds in -the parlor, and the servants from the basement window. - -On his way he stopped to say good-bye to Abram Snow, who was hard at -work at his desk. He was not at all surprised at the flitting, but there -was one excellent trait in his character, he never intruded his advice -upon any one. He wrote down his friend’s address—Berrydale—and -thrusting a cigar in Arthur’s hand, they parted. - -“The _cars_,” thought Arthur, “no cars for me, I must walk the whole -distance, for a dollar will not pay the fare even.” So he stepped -lightly along, no way discouraged, for he never yet had left a place—or -rather, a place had never left him without his having the prospect of -another. He had not gone more than two miles before he was overtaken by -a singular looking man, dressed in a brown linen frock-coat and -pantaloons, with a brown cap, a brown umbrella and a brown carpet-bag. -He wore spectacles, had a remarkably long nose and chin, and when he -came up with Arthur begged him not to walk so fast. - -Arthur turned hastily to see who had accosted him so unceremoniously, -and the man smiled. It was a pleasant smile certainly, but it did not -accord with the peculiar style of his face, at any rate Arthur took no -notice of him, and walked on. - -“Why did not you put your trunk in the cars?” said the man, “you would -walk much more to your satisfaction if you were not so weighed -down—here, give me one end of it, and let us trudge on together; my -carpet-bag is not heavy enough to incommode me.” - -So saying, he caught up one end of Arthur’s trunk and on they went -together; the stranger whistling carelessly, and the young man very much -surprised, and somewhat amused at the oddness of the stranger’s manner -and appearance. - -“It is very kind in you,” said Arthur, laughing out loud, “but my little -trunk is not heavy, as you perceive; I dare say your carpet-bag is of -twice the weight.” - -“Four times,” said the man, “but I am more used to carry heavy parcels -than you are. How far are you going?” - -Arthur told him, and then they fell into the common chat of strangers, -and thus they proceeded till two o’clock, when both, weary enough, -entered a small tavern to rest and take a luncheon. They had exchanged -names on the road, and Arthur found that his new acquaintance was called -Galton Springle, and that he was a schoolmaster on his way to a small -school now vacant near Drizzletown. As this place lay in Arthur’s route, -and the man was not offensive in his manners, our young friend was quite -willing that they should proceed together. - -Ham and eggs and an apple-pie made up their dinner, and as this was soon -provided and soon dispatched, they still lingered on the sofa, or wooden -settle rather, when Galton Springle proposed smoking. He had about a -dozen cigars, in a box at the bottom of his bag, and offered one to -Arthur, who refused, recollecting that his friend, Abram Snow, had given -him one at parting—he took it from his pocket, but what was his -surprise on opening the little roll of stiff brown paper, to find -instead of a cigar, a roleau of ten cent pieces! - -Galton Springle looked at the opening of this little paper from the -corner of his eye and smiled to himself, for he saw that the contents -were unknown to the young man. He made no observation, however, but -calling for a candle, lighted his cigar and began to smoke. As he made -no further offer of one to Arthur, the latter pocketed his roleau and -leaned back against the wall, thinking over the past and hoping brightly -for the future. There could not be more than three dollars, he thought, -in the roll, but even this sum was a great deal for Snow to give, and it -was so delicately given that Arthur felt truly grateful and promised -thousands in return. When the cigar was finished and the reckoning paid, -they proceeded on their journey till evening, when they rested again, -but this time it was on a bench near the tavern door. - -“If we rest awhile,” said Springle, “we shall be fresh enough to reach -Drizzletown by ten o’clock, and you can then share my room, or have one -to yourself if you like. There is a very decent tavern there and the -charges are very moderate, so let us remain together for the night, at -least.” - -In half an hour they took up their baggage and went on, though poor -Arthur began to flag, for he was unaccustomed to such severe exercise, -whereas Springle seemed as light of foot as when they first met. By ten, -however, they reached Drizzletown, and as the moon was at the full, -Arthur saw a few scattered houses, without any attempt at regularity as -it respected their position, and no appearance of a street at all. - -Arthur saw that Springle was as much a stranger to the host of the -little inn as he was himself, so he presumed that this was his first -visit to the place, and yet the man knew the road so well, and spoke of -the people residing there in so particular a manner, that he could not -suppose this was his first visit. A bowl of bread and milk constituted -their supper, and as Arthur preferred a room to himself, they were shown -to separate chambers and retired for the night. - -The young man slept soundly till eight o’clock, and when called to -breakfast saw that he was alone. He was told that his companion had left -the house at daylight, leaving his carpet-bag and a letter. The -tavern-keeper said that in lounging about the door he had seen an -acquaintance and had gone off with him. After breakfast the letter was -brought, and to his surprise it was directed to himself, it ran thus— - - “An unforeseen circumstance has occurred which obliges me to - return to the city whence I came, and as I have plenty of - clothing there, I make you a present of the carpet-bag and its - contents. Do not part with the bag, however, let your - necessities be ever so great, as I value it very highly, though - I part with it to you. When you are settled to your liking leave - your address in this house, and the man, Mr. Somers, will - forward it to me. - - Yours, - Galton Springle.” - -“Do you know this man, this Galton Springle?” said Arthur to the -landlord. “He is a stranger to me, and yet he makes me a present of this -bag and all that it contains.” - -The landlord did not know him, had never seen him before, and thought -him the ugliest hound that ever lived—evidently envious of Arthur’s -good luck, and tormenting himself with the probability of his possessing -the bag himself had he known that the owner was not to return. - -There was still ten miles to walk before Arthur could reach Berrydale, -and what was worse, the road wound round a mountain, so that there was -an ascent of three miles before he could reach the railroad that ran -through the village to which he was going. Being now encumbered with -more baggage, and having money enough to indulge himself, he hired a -wagon to take him to Berrydale, where he arrived just as the dinner was -smoking on the table of a small inn. - -Mr. Green, the landlord, knew Arthur, and of course gave him a -landlord’s welcome. In a few minutes, after washing the dust from his -face and hands, he was seated at the table with his host and family, and -two strangers. - -“And what brought you here Mr. Hazerelle?” said the landlord, -good-humoredly, “I hope whatever it is, you are to stay some time with -us—I presume you are on a shooting frolic.” - -“My stay depends upon yourself and your neighbors, Mr. Green. I see by -the papers that you are in want of a teacher, and feeling myself -competent, I intend to offer myself as a candidate.” - -The landlord looked at him with astonishment.—“What! you, you a country -schoolmaster! why times have fallen heavily upon you I fear!—But -really, if you are disposed to teach, I will answer for it you shall -have the preference.” - -As he said this, his eye lighted on one of his guests, and there was -such an expression of malignity in the man’s face, that he started. This -man had only arrived a few minutes before Arthur. He came, with two -heavy, uncouth looking trunks, and two ugly looking dogs; ordered a -bed-room for himself, a kennel for his dogs, and then took his seat at -the table. - -“I intend to offer myself as candidate too,” said this man to Arthur, -“so we start fair, young man; I will set my acquirements and -recommendations against yours, and then wait the issue.” - -“If it depend upon letters of recommendation,” said Arthur, “you will -surely succeed, for I did not bring one, and I am but slightly known to -my good friend here.” - -The landlord turned round and winked slyly at his wife, for the idea of -such a gnarled, old hickory knot, as this man, with his spiteful eye and -face, pretending to compete with Arthur was too ridiculous. Mr. Green -was a landholder, and a justice of the peace, he was in high request as -a politician, had money at interest, and had four children to educate. - -When dinner was over, the stranger whose name was Godfried Darg, drew -near to Arthur, and in a sort of snuffling voice, breathing hard through -the nose between his sentences, he “begged to box the compass with him.” -Arthur smiled, and said “he had no objection; he might be questioned on -any subject which came within the reach of the advertisement, and -perhaps something further.” So the rough man began to spout Latin. -Arthur acquitted himself very well, and to the satisfaction of the other -stranger, who had taken dinner with them, and who now drew near also, to -listen. - -There are very few persons who would have indulged this queer-looking -old fellow in this whim, but as we observed, Arthur was good-natured, -and being indifferent about the issue, he let the man draw out the -little learning he possessed. Mr. Conway, the other stranger had been in -France, and understood the language well, and in a short time he found -that Arthur left his antagonist far behind in that language. Darg said -nothing at the end of the French trial, but proceeded at once to the -German, he was foiled here too, and so they went on from one branch to -another, Mr. Conway deciding in his own mind that the young man was an -excellent scholar, and would suit his own purpose exactly. - -Godfried Darg having ‘boxed the compass’ without tripping up his rival, -now descended to the minor points.—“Can you mend pens as quickly as I -can?” said he, cutting up and making half-a-dozen pens in a shorter time -than ever pens were made before. - -“There you beat me over and over,” said Arthur, “for I never made a -decent pen in my life, I use steel pens, or rather a gold pen -altogether.” - -“Can you teach the children to dance?” said Darg:—“Here,” said he, -getting up, and cutting two or three of the old fashioned pigeon -wings,—“can you do this?” - -Arthur and all present laughed heartily, and the young man acknowledged -that he had the advantage there too, “for he did not teach dancing.” - -“Let him take the situation,” said Conway, as the old man left the room -to feed his dogs, “I am looking out for a teacher, and you are just the -one to suit me. Here you will only get one hundred and fifty dollars a -year, and very plain board; whereas, with me you shall have three -hundred, and live upon the fat of the land.” - -Of course, this offer was better than the one Arthur came to seek; and -he told Mr. Conway that he should talk the matter over with Mr. Green, -and then give him an answer. But Mr. Green shook his head; he had no -great opinion of Conway, who was the principal of the grammar-school in -Drizzletown, and had about forty boys under his care. They knew little -of him, and for his part, he said, he did not care to know more. He -advised Arthur to rough it with them until something better offered, and -promised to give him board for a very moderate sum. - -This decided Arthur—for he longed for rest and ease of mind; and if he -remained here, he should be with a man who felt a friendly interest in -his welfare. The next morning at ten o’clock the trustees of the school -were to meet—and there were already nine candidates even for so humble -a situation. The good-hearted landlord told Arthur not to be cast down, -for, according to his judgment, the trustees would decide in his favor -unanimously. His only wonder was, that such an ill-looking fellow as -Darg, though he might have a pocket-full of letters, should presume to -expect an acceptance. - -One by one the candidates were examined, and one by one they departed. -Godfried Darg requested to be questioned last—and Arthur’s turn now -came. He could not help smiling as he saw the solemn pomposity of the -committee, not one of whom were judges of the real merits of a -candidate—and he felt that before them he had no chance. All at once he -recollected the letter given to him by Mr. Crosbie; and stepping up to -the gentleman at the head of the table, whose name he learned was -Barnes, asked if that letter were for him. - -Mr. Barnes took the letter, nodded his head gravely, and opened it—he -read it—passed it to his neighbor, who in his turn read it—and so it -went around the table. When they had all finished it, Mr. Barnes said, -“I believe, gentlemen, I can anticipate your sentiments—and so, with -your leave, I shall beg Mr. Hazerelle to retire.” - -“What is there in that letter,” said Arthur, to Mr. Barnes, “which -refuses me a hearing? I came here by the invitation of your -advertisement; and as to the letter which has given you, as I perceive, -an unfavorable opinion of me, the writer of it has no more knowledge of -me than I have of any gentleman here present—not so much, in fact.” - -“We are not bound to answer questions, young gentleman,” said Mr. -Barnes; “we are sorry if you are disappointed, but you must leave us -just now, as there is another person to examine, and our time is short.” - -Arthur could not help laughing, in spite of his chagrin; and yet his -fingers tingled with a desire to box the speaker’s ears. He made his -bow, however, and told his kind friend, Mr. Green, how cavalierly he had -been used. Mr. Green was too much surprised to make a remark; and his -wife observed, with much anger, that old Crosbie ought to be tarred and -feathered, for taking away the character of an innocent man. Arthur told -them that he must get sight of the letter, for until he knew what had -been alledged against him, he could not defend himself. And while they -were yet speaking, Godfried Darg entered with his dogs, to say that he -had been found worthy, and should enter on his duties the beginning of -the week. He nodded impudently to Arthur, and observed as he went to the -kennels, that it was a pity the young gentleman had not been accepted, -as he had too much learning to be allowed to starve for the want of -employment. - -Martha Green, the landlord’s daughter, whispered something in her -father’s ear, and he shook his head. She spoke to her mother, who -listened with more complacency, for she beckoned her husband out of the -room. - -“I shall just say a few words to you, Mr. Hazerelle,” said the landlord, -as he returned, “and they are this: there is your room, and here is your -table; and in my house you remain until you can get some employment. I -did hope that what I said to those ninnies yonder would have been -sufficient to satisfy them; as it is, however, they can employ this -rough old fellow if they choose, but they shall have no child of -mine—and that will worry them a little. After dinner, I shall propose -something to you which I hope will suit you better than to torment -yourself with young children.” - -At dinner Godfried Darg conducted himself quietly and respectfully—the -very reverse of his conduct before he was chosen schoolmaster, at which -the little party were surprised—for they expected he would be a perfect -nuisance. He ate in silence, and as soon as he finished, got up, took -the bones from his own, and, in fact, from all the plates at table, and -went to the kennel to feed his dogs—Howler and Barker, as he called -them. - -“Now, come here, Mr. Hazerelle,” said the landlord; “let us sit on this -bench, and enjoy our cigar, while I tell you of a plan suggested by my -daughter, Martha. Over yonder,” pointing to a forest about a mile -distant, “hidden from our sight though, is a fine old stone building, -and in that old stone building—a perfect castle it is—lives a fine old -woman, proud as Lucifer though, who has a fine young girl under her -care. This lady has a son, as proud as herself, who has continued single -to this day—being well-nigh to fifty years of age—because he could not -find any one good and high enough for him. There the family has lived -for thirty years. We cannot make Mr. Herman out exactly, for he never -comes frankly and cheerily amongst us; so we have to guess a great -deal—and perhaps we sometimes guess wrong. At any rate, some people say -that he wants to marry his mother’s beautiful ward; and some say she is -his daughter—and so we go on and know nothing certain, but that there -they are, and there they will remain till they die. Sometimes we see Mr. -Herman”—Arthur started—“every day for weeks together, and then he is -absent for one, two, and three months at a time. Madam Herman, as the -folks call her, has never been seen on this side of that forest; but -that pretty creature, Grace Gordon, comes to our village-church, and -sometimes rides about the country on horseback with Mr. Herman, or an -old groom.” - -“What sort of a looking man is this Mr. Herman?” said Arthur. “I once -knew a gentleman of that name, and he interested me exceedingly.” - -“Oh! he could not have been our Mr. Herman, for he is not an interesting -man at all. His personal appearance is well enough, but the expression -of his face is unpleasing; and he is so wrapt up in his own conceit, -that he scorns to talk. I don’t think he ever asked me a question in his -life, not even such questions as people ask out of pure -good-fellowship—as what do you think of the weather, or how will the -crops turn out?” - -“It cannot be the one I know,” said Arthur, “for he was quite a talker, -and interested himself in every thing that was going on—but let me not -interrupt you.” - -“Well, this young lady, Miss Grace, wants to learn the German language; -and they have advertised far and near for a teacher, one who would give -two lessons a day, an hour each time, for six months. Now my daughter -hinted, that as you were disappointed about the school, you might be -more fortunate if you applied to Madam Herman.” - -“I certainly should have no objection,” said Arthur; “but I fear that -they would require better references than I could give. You see that -even my superiority over Mr. Darg was of no use.” - -“Oh, you forget the letter; it was _that_ which decided your fate—we -must get hold of it somehow. But what I was going to observe is this, -you can write a note to Mr. Herman, and offer yourself as a teacher of -the German. You can but try—faint heart, the proverb says, never won -fair lady; and Grace Gordon is worth the winning. You see, my young -friend, that we have sprung over the fence to get sight of a wedding -before you have seen the bride.” - -So the kind-hearted innkeeper and his family talked the little plot -over, and dropped a few words of assurance now and then to Arthur, and -when bedtime came he had made up his mind that he would make the -attempt, giving such references as were in his power. He had been twice -to Berrydale on shooting excursions, and quite won the hearts of Mr. -Green’s family, the boys in particular, two of whom accompanied him each -time—they were his sworn friends, and were loud in their praises of his -good-nature in breaking off his sport to teach them some of the -mysteries of the art. Mrs. Green knew Mrs. May, the lady with whom -Arthur had boarded for several years, and of course she was well -acquainted with every particular of the young man’s life. - -“If he has chopped and changed about in out-door business,” said Mrs. -May, “he has been constant to me, and when he is not to be found at my -house it is because there is not money enough in his purse to pay his -board. How he lives till I see him again, I cannot tell, but I ask no -questions, and he asks no favors.” - -Arthur looked around his peaceful, quiet little room, and at the gentle, -harmonious prospect spread before his window, and thought how pleasant -it would be to live there forever. He was weary of change—no fault of -his, poor fellow—and thought that no office would be beneath him, if -there was a possibility of securing a humble retreat like this. And yet -Arthur was ambitious in the true sense of the word. - -When they sat down to breakfast Mr. Darg was not there, the hostler said -he whistled to his dogs at break of day, and walked off with them toward -the brook. The horn was sounded and search made, but he came not, and -they finished their breakfast without him. Mrs. Green told the girl to -keep the coffee hot as he would no doubt soon come in from his ramble, -and she went up stairs to attend to her duties. In a few minutes she -returned, with a letter directed to Arthur, it had been found under the -old man’s pillow, and she stood by while Arthur read it. - -“Well,” said he, “this is as singular an adventure as the one at -Drizzletown,” and he read out as follows: - - “Sir,—I am heartily tired of keeping school already, though I - have not yet begun, and so vacate in your favor. If any of your - pupils turn out clever fellows, tell them how much cleverer they - would have been if I had been their master. I consulted my dogs - this morning at break of day, and I am pretty sure they thought - the confinement of a kennel quite as irksome and unwholesome as - I should teaching thick-headed boys in a forlorn, comfortless - school-house. When you go to the city during vacation, you can - hear of my whereabouts of Mrs. May, for an old fellow living - there, by the name of Crosbie, knows all my concerns. Meantime I - ask your acceptance of my shaving-apparatus, it is rather too - good for you, but as I heard you ask the innkeeper for a razor, - I concluded the present would be acceptable. If you ever get a - chance I wish you would spit in the face of that solemn ass - Barnes, and call Mr. Herman a fool, for me, will you? - - Yours till death, - Godfried Darg.” - -They laughed very heartily at this strange epistle, and one of the boys -rushed up stairs for the shaving-box. It was indeed a beautiful affair, -and all the articles were of the very finest quality; but what created -great surprise was the contents of a note found on the top of a little -steel-box which fitted nicely in one of the divisions. The note ran -thus: - - “Within the little steel-box is the miniature of the lady you - are destined to marry, this box you are not to open till you see - my two dogs, Howler and Barker, and then by consulting them you - will find out the way to open the box, for it has a curious - fastening, and cannot be opened but by their connivance unless - it is broken, and if broken, the miniature will be destroyed. I - think you can depend on yourself in this particular, but be sure - to spit in Barnes’ face, and if you could add a tweak of the - nose and a kick, you would greatly oblige me. - - G. D.” - -Of course it was agreed on all sides that the little box should remain -quietly untouched just where it now lay, but they made themselves very -merry over the letter and note. As to applying again for the school not -one of the family would listen to it, not even if Mr. Barnes came in -person to make the offer. - -“No!” said Davie, the youngest boy; “not if he were to fall down on his -knees and beg you to go.” - -This created a laugh again, and this good-heartedness was very soothing -to poor Arthur. - -Not one of the children would take the letter to Herman Hall, and the -hostler was too shabby a looking fellow to be sent on such an errand to -so grand a place, so Martha’s lover, Garry Lovel, a young man who worked -Mr. Green’s farm _on shares_, undertook to deliver it himself. There -need not have been such confabulations on the subject, for Garry did not -get farther than the porter’s lodge, an awful gloomy looking place, -Garry said, and the porter was as awful-looking and gloomy as the lodge. -He was told that an answer would be sent in the course of the day, and -he therefore need not wait, and the young man said he put wings to his -feet and a quarter of a mile between him and the porter before he got to -an ordinary walk. - -“If I were you, Mister Arthur,” said Garry, “I never would set foot in -yon hall, for there is something wrong there. I can’t believe that -honest people would shut themselves up in that dull, musty sort of way, -unless they had something to conceal. You had far better turn farmer, -here is a fine chance, for neighbor Fielding wants to go West, and he -would rent his farm for a trifle.” - -“Do take it,” said Mrs. Green. - -“No,” said Martha, blushing; “let him take father’s farm on shares, that -will be easier, for I want Garry to take the next farm.” - -Then there was a merry shout of laughter, and the boys declared she was -right, and that Arthur should stay with them, and they would plough and -reap for him while he tinkered about, shot birds, and caught fish. - -Toward evening the answer to his letter came, he was requested to call -at Herman Hall at ten o’clock the next day, and then he might decide -whether the terms would suit him. - -At ten o’clock he was at the porter’s lodge, where the solemn-looking -personage who had so awed Garry stood ready to receive him. A low, -garden-chaise, with a pair of handsome ponies, was waiting for him, into -which he seated himself. The ride was enchantment. No fairy dream could -have conjured up the beautiful scenery which opened to his view at every -turn of the road. Arthur was lost in rapture, he forgot his humble -circumstances and his slender fortunes, for his whole soul was filled -with lofty thoughts, he seemed elevated to the companionship of angels, -and he gloried that he was a man after God’s own image. “Angels,” -thought he, as the carriage moved slowly along, “could not feel happier, -nor have purer emotions than I enjoy this moment. I have had the fear of -God before me and have reverenced Him always, but here I love -Him—_these_ are His glorious works. Cities are made by men.” - -Arthur had lived in cities always, and his little excursions, hastily -made, and very limited in duration, were for the purpose of fishing or -shooting, and always with a dull companion, like Snow, who fished and -shot in the same way that he kept books—pursuing the one act, the one -thought which he proposed doing. - -Herman Hall had been in the possession of the family for more than a -century; it was originally selected on account of its beauty and fine -prospects, and art had assisted nature in embellishing it. Arthur -entered the mansion-house a far different man than he was an hour -before. A new sense—a new feeling had been given to him. - -His name was announced by the footman, and the man who received it -passed it to another, who opened a parlor door, and then came forward to -request him to walk in. With his mind filled with such a blaze of glory -as that through which he had passed, the petty formalities of a common -man, better in external gifts than himself, seemed as nothing, so that -when Mr. Herman waved his hand to a chair, Arthur seated himself with as -much ease as if he had been worth a million. - -“This is your letter I presume,” said Mr. Herman. Arthur bowed. “You are -competent to teach the German language”—another bow,—“and what are -your terms?” - -Arthur smiled, for the truth is he never thought of terms, he concluded -there was a set price, and that there would be no difficulty on that -score. - -“You shall name your own terms, sir,” said he, “I have never taught, but -I understand the method of teaching, and therefore leave the minor -consideration to you.” - -“We shall say a dollar an hour, if that sum suits you,” said Mr. Herman, -and Arthur was quite satisfied. He was to begin in the course of an -hour, and until the young lady was ready, he was requested to walk in -the library. - -A library! A private library! Arthur had seen several of them, and had -been in the city, and in circulating libraries, but he never, even in -works of history and fiction had read of any to equal the extent and -magnificence of this one. This library occupied the whole ground floor -of a wing of what might be called a castle, and no book was beyond the -reach of the hand. The roof or ceiling was supported by forty columns, -the base of each being ten feet square, five feet high, and filled with -books. There was just space enough between each column for a person to -pass with ease, and there were lounges and chairs scattered about in -every direction. This curious library contained all that was valuable -and rare, and not an author of note was omitted. One column was devoted -to Shakspeare alone, with every commentator from the earlier to the -present time, and here, as if by instinct, Arthur seated himself. He was -soon buried in the charms of the author’s fancy, and when the servant -announced that the ladies requested to see him, he had some difficulty -to bring his thoughts down to a level with a dollar an hour. - -After walking through an interminable suite of apartments—all to -impress him with the wealth and consequence of the owners, he was -ushered into a small room, such as ladies are fond of calling a -_boudoir_, here sat two ladies, the younger of whom rose as he entered. - -“Pray be seated,” said Madam Herman, waving her hand in the same -gracious manner as her son,—“Sit here, and let me request you to listen -to certain preliminaries before you begin your duties.—If you dislike -them, we can part at once?” - -“Oh, let the preliminaries suit yourself!” said Arthur, “and I shall -make no objection, provided I may spend one hour a day, or even less, in -that glorious library, why, madam, I shall never dream of remuneration, -there is food and raiment, and every thing that can delight the soul, at -the foot of one column alone—the one devoted to Shakspeare!” - -Mrs. Herman stared at him with perfect amazement. He heard a clear -ringing laugh as if in the next room, and on glancing his eye toward the -window, there sat the young lady, brimful of smiles and blushes, with -her head bending over a piece of embroidery. - -The young man came down from his stilts at once. Shakspeare—the -library—the glorious scenery—all vanished, and there he sat a humble -teacher of the German language, for one dollar an hour. - -“The preliminaries, young man,” said the old lady, stiffly, not -regarding his rhapsody, or subsequent embarrassment—“are few, but must -be complied with strictly.—Hear them out without interruption, and then -decide for yourself.” - -“At ten o’clock precisely you are to be in this room, there is your -seat, and there is the lady who is to receive instruction.” Arthur rose, -and bowed to this lady, who half rose and blushed exceedingly. “I shall -remain in the room, and give notice when the hour expires. There is to -be no conversation excepting what relates to the language you are -teaching, and when the hour is expired you can go to the library, or -ride out, or amuse yourself on the grounds, till the servant announces -to you that it is time to dress for dinner. You are to dine with us.” -Arthur did not like this part of the arrangement, and sat uneasily in -his chair.—“Go to your room as soon as the dessert is removed, and be -your own master till five o’clock, when another hour of your time will -be required; I shall be in the room as before, and give you notice when -the hour is up, and the family then sees you no more till ten the next -day, excepting that this lady will preside at the breakfast and tea -table. You are to remain with us until the lady is sufficiently grounded -in the language to proceed in it by herself, and you are neither to -leave the place, nor see any one till that time arrives.” - -The same clear laugh was heard in the next room, and with a glance of -his eye, he saw that the young lady held a handkerchief to her -face.—Arthur rose;— - -“I had no idea madam that I was to be the happy inmate of this paradise, -but as it is your pleasure, I agree to the terms excepting, that once a -week I must have the privilege of seeing one or two of my humble -Berrydale friends. The porter’s lodge can be our place of rendezvous, -and all that they shall ever hear from my lips is, that I am happy -beyond my hopes. I think it is the desire to remain unknown to the -people in the neighbourhood, which gives rise to your request that I -hold no communication with them.” - -Mrs. Herman made no reply—she pointed to the table where books, paper, -and pens lay, and began to knit with dignified solemnity. - -He took his seat opposite to the young lady, (whose name had not been -mentioned by Mrs. Herman,) but drew his chair so that his face was -partly hidden, for he wanted to catch glimpses of his pupil’s face, -unseen by Mrs. Herman. He took up the books, examined them, and -selecting one, began to read. - -“The language must appear harsh to you,” said he, “but as soon as you -have acquired the pronunciation, you will like it exceedingly.—I was -acquainted with a gentleman who had a great desire”— - -“No anecdotes, if you please, Mr. Hazerelle,” said Mrs. Herman,—“Please -to recollect.” Arthur really was “struck all in a heap,” particularly as -he again heard the laugh in the next room. The young lady pitied his -confusion, but the laugh was irresistible, and she joined in it. What -could Arthur do better than to laugh also? Instead of ordering him to -leave the house as he expected, the old lady begged them to proceed, as -“minutes made up hours.” - -He got through the first lesson without further remark, though the young -lady could scarcely keep her countenance, and when the hour had expired, -Mrs. Herman rang a little table bell, and the servant who came in was -requested to show Mr. Hazarelle his chamber. - -As soon as Arthur had shut his room door, he threw himself on the sofa -and laughed heartily, but what was his amazement when he heard the same -clear ringing laugh as before. - -“Upon my word,” thought he, “this is a queer place. All solemn nonsense -on one side—all puerile formality on the other—and harlequinism in the -centre.—Truly, I am curiously hemmed in, and can scarcely hope to steer -clear among such an odd set.—Who can that merry laugher be?—I -certainly have heard that clear bell voice before!—Where can I have -heard it?”— - -“But the more he thought,” as the children say, “the more he could not -tell;” so he looked round his chamber, and there, to his surprise, was -his trunk, his carpet-bag, and his dressing-case. Really this is taking -things for granted, thought he; why these articles must have been sent -for the moment I entered the house; they thought I should be a fool to -refuse compliance with their terms, which, in fact, they might safely -infer had I hesitated. - -Now our readers must not suppose that Arthur was a sorry fellow, and -willing to put up with insult. On the contrary, he was high-minded and -brave, and from an equal would receive no provocation. But he was -forbearing to the weak and nervous; and in the present case, it would be -absurd to resent either the folly of Mrs. Herman, or the impertinence of -the laugher, even could he find him out. Besides, there was an air of -mystery and enchantment around the people and place, which was very -captivating to a young man. - -The hours slipt away at the column of Shakspeare, and a servant informed -him that it was time to dress for dinner, which business did not take -him many minutes to accomplish, as he was one of those rare persons -whose dress is never out of order. “Dust never sticks to him,” as homely -Mrs. May used to tell her friends—a saying which Mrs. Green was fond of -repeating to _her_ friends whenever his name was mentioned. - -Now for an extraordinary scene, thought Arthur, as the servant bowed him -down to the dining-room. I shall see a magnificent service of plate and -a royal dinner. But he was disappointed in one respect—for though the -dinner-service was splendid, yet the dinner itself was simple beyond all -imagination. The table was set for four persons, Mrs. Herman was at the -head, her son at the foot, and Arthur and Grace Gordon opposite to each -other. Fricasseed chickens and boiled ham constituted the meat part of -the dinner; but there was a number of dishes of delicate vegetables, -delicately cooked, and a variety of fine fruit for dessert. - -There was neither wine nor ale, but pitchers of ice-water in -abundance—and all seemed to eat with an appetite. Madam Herman helped -liberally, but talked sparingly. Mr. Herman uttered not a syllable, -Grace Gordon was in high spirits, and laughingly asked a few questions -in German, such as she had learned in the morning, Arthur answered her -gravely, according to contract—and thus the first dinner passed. - -As the library was a great novelty, Arthur betook himself to the -Shakspeare column again, and there he remained until five o’clock, when -he was summoned to the study. He found Madam Herman seated in her -rocking-chair, and Grace Gordon at the table, with a smile on her face -of dubious meaning, and her handkerchief more than once raised to hide -it. - -If the lesson was a dry matter-of-fact business, he was fully rewarded -by the quickness of the young lady’s apprehension; she perfectly -comprehended what Arthur had taught her in the morning, and he feared -her progress would be so rapid, that he should not remain in this -enchanted castle very long. He turned round to Madam Herman, when she -rung the little bell for the servant to bow him out, and observed that -Miss Gordon had made great progress already. The old lady made no reply, -but drew up with quiet dignity, and there was scorn on her features. -Miss Gordon blushed and held down her head, pitying the young man’s -embarrassment, and again, from the half-open door the same clear laugh -was heard. - -Arthur stood for a moment irresolute, he had half a mind to quit the -house at once; for the disagreeable manners of the old lady, the cold -formality of her son, and the laugh, which seemed as if in mockery, were -more than a counterpoise to the great benefits and pleasures of his -situation. But the young lady was unexceptionable in her manners; she -was not, to be sure, familiar, or even social, as is always the case -between teacher and scholar; but there was nothing offensive—and it was -a pleasure to look at her beautiful face. He stood irresolute, however, -and probably would have made his parting bow, had not his eye glanced at -the following words, evidently written that moment—_never take offense -where none is meant_. - -A grateful bow and a deep blush convinced the young lady that she should -not lose her teacher. Arthur was bowed out of the room as before, and -jumping in the chaise which the servant said was waiting for him, he -rode down to the lodge to see his friends, who were to meet him there at -six o’clock. The four boys, Mr. Green, and Garry, were all clustering in -the room waiting for him, and his heart warmed with joy on receiving -their honest, hearty greeting. Garry asked if he might tell Mrs. Green -and Martha to come the next day—and the boys declared that they would -be there also. There was a delicacy about these unsophisticated people -which prevented them from asking questions, as soon as they heard the -terms of his contract at Herman Hall. Arthur told them, however, that he -was quite happy, and that his pupil would not want his assistance more -than a month, as she learned very quickly. - -The servant presented himself at the door, and Arthur found it was time -to bid his honest friends adieu, promising to see them once a week at -that hour—and so they reluctantly parted. On his return to the house, -he was shown to a small room adjoining the library, and on the table was -the tea equipage. The man asked if he would like to go to his chamber -before taking tea; and Arthur, supposing this part of the etiquette, -followed him up stairs, where, as usual, the door was opened for him, -and, with a low bow, the servant retired. After arranging his hair and -dress, he sat at the casement enjoying the beautiful prospect, and -regretting that it would, like a dream, so soon fade away—for he was -quite certain that the lady would master the most difficult part of the -language in less than six weeks. - -How strangely are we constituted, and how little do we know of what the -mind is capable. In a few hours Arthur was a changed man. The petty -anxieties of a business life, all originating in the necessity of -providing for daily wants, were cast aside, never to be resumed -again—for new feelings, new hopes filled his whole soul. He never -before understood the greatness, the goodness of God; he never -comprehended His power over creation, and that all things, all that was -beautiful, was the work of His hand. It was in this magnificent solitude -that his heart opened to all this glory; and it seemed as if a film had -fallen from his sight. Men _cannot know God in cities_! - -New faculties have been given to me, thought he, on descending to the -tea-room. I am in communion with a holy and chaste spirit, which will, I -know, sustain me; and the future, so dreaded, I now look forward to with -a certainty of success. My heart is made up of love and charity—and -every human being shall have a claim upon my tenderness. Even the weak -and infirm of purpose I shall endeavor to comfort and advise; and as to -this beautiful girl, so far, so infinitely my superior—why may I not -love her as a dear sister, love her in secret and— - -He was by this time in the room, and there, at the head of the table, -sat the beautiful girl, who had just passed through his mind in such -near relationship. Wholly unprepared for her presence—for he had -forgotten that she was to preside at the breakfast and tea-table—he -started back in the fear that the servant had made a mistake. - -Grace Gordon half rose, smiled, and bid him take a seat. Instead of the -silence and reserve of the dinner-table, Arthur found himself in -animated conversation, and he was pouring out his feelings, when he -heard the same clear, loud laugh as before. - -Relieved from restraint, for the absence of Madam Herman left him at -liberty, he arose as if to see who it was that had thrown an air of -ridicule on his conversation. Grace Gordon put her finger to her lip and -pointed to his chair, and this, at once, subdued the anger which was -fast rising, and determined him to wait for a more suitable opportunity -to gratify his curiosity. - -“You are good-tempered I hear, Mr. Hazerelle, and good-temper is a gift -which few possess. Perhaps, however, you have not been severely tested. -Many people pass for good-tempered who are irritable and irascible when -thwarted.” - -“It depends altogether upon the person who provokes me,” said Arthur. “A -woman, for instance, is always sure of forbearance, be she ever so -disposed to find fault, and a man walks untouched, though he might -insult me, if I consider him as an inferior. So, you perceive, I am -good-tempered with a qualification, and it depends upon the character of -our friend in ambush whether I am to take offense at that clear, ringing -laugh. If he is in any way connected with you, he may indulge his -risible propensities to the utmost, for I am certain that I can submit -to such gaucheries for the very short time I am to be honored by your -kindness.” - -“Short time, Mr. Hazerelle! Well, if you call a twelvemonth short, be it -so,” said she. “Why, did you suppose I could thoroughly understand the -German language in less time than that?” - -“In less than a twelvemonth! Yes, in less than three months you will be -able to speak and read fluently; there is no fear of your being a dull -scholar. It would be my interest to find you obtuse of intellect, for to -live and breathe in this atmosphere is a happiness I never expected to -enjoy—the library itself is full compensation for more of my time than -I so freely give to you.” - -Here followed another laugh, and as there was now a perfect -understanding between the young lady and himself, he resolved to take no -notice of it. He arose, however, and shut the door, but he might have -spared himself the trouble for it was opened in an instant. - -Arthur smiled good-humoredly, and observed that the merry gentleman was -no doubt a privileged person, one who had a control over the destinies -of the house, or such an eccentric way of amusing himself would not be -allowed. - -Miss Gordon colored, and was about to make reply, when the laugh -commenced again and continued so long that there was an end of further -conversation; the lady rose with much embarrassment, said she hoped to -meet him there at breakfast, and then departed through the door whence -the laugh came. - -Arthur found it amounted to this—he must do one of three things—to ask -no questions, enter into no conversation with Miss Gordon or any of the -family—request to take his meals by himself—or quit the house. It was -very irksome, certainly, to sit in perfect silence when there was one -person, at least, who had conversational powers; it was likewise irksome -to see people moving about him all day, to know that they all had -communion with one another, and that he alone should stalk about the -house and grounds in utter silence, save the two hours when he was -engaged in teaching. He walked out to consider of it in the open air, -and after an hour’s ramble through groves and walks, breathing delicious -perfumes, he returned with the determination to bear with the eccentric -humor of the family and remain with them until the winter set in. - -It certainly was very disheartening to meet no pleasant voice on his -entering the house, and to go to his solitary chamber without a kind -_good-night_ from a living soul, yet Arthur did not murmur. If he were -always thankful for “small benefits,” he had reason to be grateful now, -for here all the comforts and luxuries of life were in abundance, and -there were two great pleasures added to all this—the library and the -beautiful face and pleasing manners of his pupil. - -He took a long walk, and returned more elevated, more grateful and -humble than ever, it was a perfect fairy-land all around, and why should -the foolish manners of the inmates of the house disturb his -tranquillity. He strove to keep the thought uppermost that it was to -these very eccentric people he owed his happiness, so he was shown to -the breakfast-room with feelings disposed to submit to what, under other -circumstances, would be so difficult to bear. - -Miss Gordon was already there, and to Arthur’s surprise and confusion, -she held out her hand with a kind good-morning and a pleasant smile. The -conversation was trifling, he kept a rein over his thoughts and let none -but such as were mere commonplace go forth to excite the merriment of -the person in the next room, for Arthur presumed he was there, as the -door was still half open. Just at parting he made the unlucky -observation, that as he had taken sufficient exercise for the morning he -should go again to the library, for there he should find -friends—friends who had always cheered and consoled him. - -He might, to be sure, have omitted the speech, simple as it was, yet how -could one so entirely alone avoid feeling this loneliness—it was no -cause of mirth to others, certainly, and yet the man in the next room -laughed merrily. - -“What a magnificent mind it was that planned this library,” said Arthur, -pointing to it, as the lady and he left the room. - -She smiled faintly, however, and as they separated, replied that “it was -planned—as well as the house and grounds—by the laugher in the next -room.” - -“Alas!” thought Arthur, when alone in the library, “he is undoubtedly -insane; he is, perhaps, Miss Gordon’s father, or some near relative, and -being harmless, is allowed to amuse himself in any way he likes. I see -it all now, and his laughter shall annoy me no longer; but where have I -heard it before?” - -All at once the truth flashed upon him, in Mr. Graham’s office, where he -studied law for a year, he often saw a gentleman by the name of Herman, -who certainly resembled the one who was the owner of this estate. He was -a great talker, and a great laugher—the very clear, bell-like, musical -laugh he had heard so frequently. - -The present Mr. Herman was grave, taciturn, frivolous and formal, with -gray hair and broken teeth; whereas the one he formerly knew was much -younger looking, with dark hair and perfect teeth. Mr. Graham took great -pleasure in his society, for he was full of anecdote and had been a -traveler; Arthur, also, was much amused with his gay and easy manners, -and it was quite a regret to them all when Mr. Herman left the city. -Arthur had often inquired after him, but Mr. Graham heard nothing from -or of him, and so he faded away from their memory. It seemed, therefore, -almost a certainty that he was in some way connected with the family of -the Hermans where Arthur now was. - -Day after day Arthur went through the same routine, the young lady -making great progress in German, and he making great progress in love, -for could it be expected that he was to sit in earnest conversation for -two hours every day, and be at the same table with her at all times, -without losing his heart. Whether Grace Gordon loved him in return, was -another matter; no one could judge if she did, for her attentions were -only those of a lady to a gentleman, and even the haughty old lady, -Madam Herman, could find no fault. - -What puzzled Arthur more than any thing else was this, Mr. Herman was -never seen excepting at dinner, where he went or what he did was a -mystery; he certainly never was in the library, for there Arthur went at -irregular times, so that he would of course have been seen. He never was -about the grounds, and Arthur had no stated times of walking or riding -there; he might, however, take an airing with Madam Herman, for she went -out regularly, and he sometimes met the carriage. He never questioned -the servants, for his honor and pride prevented that, and Grace Gordon -never alluded to her family at all. Yet it must be presumed that the -young man had curiosity, and if he had not, there were his friends at -the inn, they were dying to know what was going on within that wide -extent of high stone wall. The old schoolmaster of Berrydale, who had -read something of China in a geography book, called it the _Celestial -City_, and ardently longed to enter the gates to take a peep there, he -did make one attempt, but the porter at the lodge knew better what his -place was worth than to let a stranger enter. - -Arthur had now been there two months, and had never left the place, his -friends paid their evening visits about once a week, for there had been -a wedding to occupy them, and Martha and Garry were now man and wife. -The winter was at hand, and not a word was said of the period when his -instructions were to cease. Grace Gordon and he were on the most -friendly footing imaginable, and could now converse very well in German, -but though her progress was astonishing, yet Madam Herman never opened -her lips to wonder or praise. - -Deep, deeper in love did poor Arthur get every day—a hopeless love he -knew it to be, and yet he would not have given up the tormenting -pleasure for the world; he wished, and dreamed his wishes over and over -again, that Grace Gordon was as poor as himself, for he thought there -was a possibility then of winning her affections. For any thing he knew -to the contrary, she _might_ be poor, but how was he to find it out, -unless the embargo on words was taken off. At every turn he met a -domestic, but he knew them not even by name, all his wants were supplied -in the most exact and liberal manner, but he asked no questions, and -their respect for him prevented any approach toward familiarity. - -He had walked and ridden over every part of the estate with the -exception of an inclosure, which he was given to understand, in the very -beginning, was appropriated to the use of the domestics, and into which -visitors never entered. A road from the next market-town reached this -inclosure, and every thing wanted for the family was brought here in -carts and wagons. A dense hedge of cedar, eight feet in height, which -extended to the right and left, prevented any one from seeing what was -passing on the other side, and Arthur thought that this was all in good -taste and good keeping with the general plan. It was impossible to guess -at the extent of this inclosure, for the hedge, or fence made a number -of circuitous bends, and thus rendered it deceptive to the eye. - -One morning he strolled out as usual, and took the path that led to the -cedar-hedge, for the ground there was well-beaten and very pleasant to -the feet. He walked leisurely, his mind occupied with the one object of -the deepest interest to him—Grace Gordon. Starting from his day-dream -he looked at his watch, and found it time to return, that he might -prepare for breakfast. He quickened his pace, therefore, and endeavored -to retrace his steps, but he made a mistake in one of the turnings and -went backward instead of forward. The error was not discovered until he -reached an immense iron-bound gate, which at that moment was slowly -opened by some one on the other side. He waited until the man who was -opening the gate, and whose voice he heard, should make his appearance, -for he really was at a loss to know which way to proceed. What was his -surprise to find that the gate-opener was Mr. Herman himself, and that -following him closely was a troop of young people, all in high spirits, -and apparently on the most familiar terms with him. A second glance -assured him that it was not the Mr. Herman of yesterday, gray-headed and -formal, but the Mr. Herman he formerly knew, with the same merry, clear, -ringing laugh which he recollected so well. - -The gentleman started on seeing Arthur, but appeared not to know him, he -raised his hat however, and then turned to his young companions, who -were as much amazed as himself at the rencontre. He could see at a -glance that Grace Gordon was not among them, but they evidently must be -her friends. They all walked briskly away, and as he turned to look at -them, saw that Mr. Herman was running at full speed, and the whole party -after him. He stood at the open gate and for the first time saw the -inside of the hedge, and to his astonishment found that he was in the -rear of the mansion, for there, about a quarter of a mile off, was the -back-court, and several of the domestics whom he recognized, passing to -and fro. - -One of the men who stood near the gate, came forward as Arthur was about -entering, and said that Miss Gordon was waiting breakfast for him, and -“that the chaise should be brought round in an instant.” - -“This is very curious,” thought Arthur, “why not enter the house this -way? Here I shall not have to walk more than two or three hundred yards, -whereas it will be half an hour’s ride to reach the front.” - -However, the chaise was brought to the gate, and after riding fast for -twenty or thirty minutes, Arthur was brought to the front of the house, -and as quickly as possible he made his toilet, and was ushered to the -breakfast table. - -“You are welcome back,” said Miss Gordon, blushing deeply, “I thought -you had left us never to return. We sent scouts after you in every -direction, fearing at first you had lost your way, but Madam Herman -thought that would be impossible.” - -“But it was possible,” said Arthur, “for I did lose my way, and I hope -you will pardon my having kept breakfast waiting so long, I do not -deserve such kindness.” - -“Oh, as to that,” said Grace Gordon, “there is no one injured but -yourself, for I breakfasted an hour ago!” - -Arthur was on the point of speaking of the troop of young people that he -met coming out of the gate, but he stopped, for this was infringing on -the rules—rules which he never forgot one instant. Miss Gordon seeing -him about to speak, waited for a moment, and then proceeded to pour out -his tea. - -“And you really lost your way, Mr. Hazarelle, it is no wonder when you -recollect how many windings and turnings there are. If I were to follow -the cedar-hedge, I should undoubtedly be puzzled, for that doubles and -winds about in every direction. Did you not meet any one in your walk?” - -“Yes, several; I blundered along till I reached a gate,—” - -“Indeed!” said Miss Gordon, “and was the gate open?” - -“No, the gate was opened when I reached it, I saw one of the domestics, -or rather he saw me, and it was from him I learned that the breakfast -was waiting. Miss Gordon,—I never was placed in so awkward a position -in my life. I have submitted to conditions, which, to one of my nature, -are very painful and mortifying,—for you must yourself despise me for -submitting to them.” - -“You have acted honorably, Mr. Hazarelle,” said she, with much feeling, -“and an honorable man must always be respected. You may be assured that -I deeply feel for the mortification and privations you endure, and would -lessen them if I could. One day or other—very soon perhaps—you will -learn why you have been thus bound down to rules which must at least -appear strange, if not ridiculous. You will find us grateful for the -service you have rendered me, and I hope to be under obligations to you -for several months to come.” - -“Grateful!—Miss Gordon,—it is for me to speak of gratitude, for there -has been as much happiness crowded in the few months of my residence -here as would spread over the whole of an ordinary life. I shall leave -my heart, and all that life is worth in this beautiful retreat, and that -I may not be utterly miserable by incurring your hate, it is better for -me to go as soon as possible.” - -“Oh! you must not talk of leaving us yet,” said she, pretending not to -understand him, “for how shall I get on with the German? I am not so -well grounded in the language, as that I can study by myself.” - -“You can improve without assistance, I assure you, and you will have -opportunities this winter of meeting with many who speak the language. -As to me, though I shall be near you when you are in the city, yet the -difference in our prospects will prevent our meeting,—I shall be -nothing there but a humble clerk; or perhaps, a humble teacher.” - -Tears came in the young lady’s eyes, but she did not dare to trust her -voice, and Arthur proceeded. - -“There is not a more solitary being in the world than myself, for I do -not know that I have a relation, and yet there is no one that so -ardently desires the love and sympathy of kindred. With a heart thus -alive to tender emotions, judge, therefore, dear Miss Gordon, how -impossible it is not to admire the beauty, talent, and excellence of the -lovely being who honors me with her confidence. I have awakened from -this bright dream, and must go while I have the power.” - -Miss Gordon rose, but trembled so much that she was compelled to sit -again. Arthur approached to bid her farewell, for he now found that it -was impossible to remain near her after making this confession, but -seeing her distress he drew back, and said in a low voice, he would -write a few lines of thanks before he left the house. Just as he was -leaving the room, he had the glimpse of a gentleman, who appeared to -come from the library, and it occurred to him that it must be Mr. -Herman. He was too much agitated, however, to dwell on so trifling a -circumstance, yet he could not help wondering which of the two gentlemen -it was. When in his chamber, he wrote to Mr. Herman, thanking him for -all his kindness and attention to his pleasures and comforts, and -regretting that it was not in his power to remain longer. He gave his -respectful compliments to Madam Herman and Miss Gordon, and said that he -should send for his effects in the course of the afternoon. - -The servant took the letter to Mr. Herman, who by note requested Arthur -to meet him in the library before he departed. After writing a few lines -to Miss Gordon, our hero left his pleasant chamber,—and no one can -imagine with what regret,—and entered the library. Mr. Herman as usual, -waved his hand to a chair. - -“You are leaving us, Mr. Hazerelle,” said he, “I presume you think Miss -Gordon is sufficiently advanced in her studies to get on without a -teacher.—Is that your reason for going at this time?” - -“Miss Gordon has made great progress,” said Arthur, “and if she could -meet with a few clever Germans now and then, she would soon be master of -the language.” - -“Do you leave us because you think she has no further need of your -assistance, or have you other reasons; we have no wish to part with you -for a month or two, if convenient for you to remain?” - -“Mr. Herman,” said Arthur, rising, his face crimsoned all over, “have -you never been young—do you forget that I am but twenty-four, and that -my heart is as susceptible as if I were heir to all this estate? Do you -think it possible to be in the society of so lovely a woman as Miss -Gordon without becoming attached to her? I assure you, sir, that this -was unforeseen by me. Had I been aware of her excellencies, I should not -have placed myself in a situation which I know is to render me unhappy -for life. You ask for my reasons, I tell them to you -frankly—good-morning.” - -In the midst of all the agitation which this avowal called forth, Arthur -could not avoid observing the effect it had upon Mr. Herman. He rose -slowly, his eyes were opened to the utmost, and his hands were -outspread, but he spoke not; in fact, the boldness and honesty of the -speech took him completely by surprise—and Arthur had walked out of the -house before he recovered his recollection. - -As Arthur had not made known his intention to the servants, for the -whole was the impulse of the moment, no carriage was in waiting; but -before he had proceeded a mile, the chaise and ponies overtook him, and -on entering it, he saw his carpet-bag, trunk, and dressing-case in the -bottom of the carriage. As he was now released from all obligations, he -asked the coachman whether Mr. Herman had a brother. The man said he had -not. He then inquired whether the gentleman who came through the gate -where he stood, in the morning, was any relation of the family? The -answer was, he did not know. As it was evident that the fellow had -instructions not to be communicative, Arthur forbore further -question—and they rode on at a rapid pace. - -Our hero had at that moment vague thoughts of rising in the world, -penniless though he was, having an indistinct hope, too, that Miss -Gordon would listen to his suit, if he had an independence to offer her. -As to the old lady or her formal son, he did not trouble himself about -their approbation; in fact, he knew that, as far as their approval went, -the thing was entirely out of the question. He had, however, given Mr. -Herman a good fright about it, and this amused poor Arthur in the midst -of his painful feelings—and he wondered what Madam Herman would say -when told of it. - -But they did not reach the porter’s lodge, and yet they drove fast, and -nearly half an hour had elapsed. On looking round—for he had been so -absorbed in thought as not to observe the road they were going—he saw -that they were riding in an easterly direction, and presently they -entered a thick woods. He told the coachman that he was taking him the -wrong road, and that he must turn back; but the man said they would come -out right in a few minutes; that he thought it would be a pleasant ride -this way, as Mr. Hazerelle had never been there before. - -After leaving the woods they got on a common wagon road, and then making -a circuit of half a mile, they reached the lodge; and the porter stood -there ready to assist in taking out the luggage. As soon as it was -placed on the floor of the room, the coachman jumped on the seat, and -was out of sight in a moment. - -“Step this way,” said the porter; “please to go down these steps, and -then walk to the end of that long passage, and you will see a white -door, through which you are to pass; you will there meet with a friend, -who will conduct you safely to Berrydale.” - -“Why not go out at this door, my friend? This is the one leading to the -stage-road—I prefer going this way.” - -“So should I, too,” said the porter, “if I thought there was any harm in -going a pleasanter road. You will not repent going to the end of the -long passage. You have only to descend six steps.” - -“Often as I have been here,” said Arthur, “I never saw that dark passage -before.” - -“For a very good reason,” said the porter; “the door was always locked, -and Mr. Herman had the key. He came here this morning and opened it -himself. You perceive that this door is locked, and that the windows are -grated—so that, in truth, there is no way of getting out but down -through that narrow passage.” - -“Well, if that is the case,” said Arthur, good-humoredly, “I must go -that way. This is, however, the oddest of all odd things; but it is of a -piece with the rest,” continued he to himself—respect for Grace Gordon -preventing him from speaking lightly of the family. He descended and -walked through the long passage which was only lighted at the end by a -small window, or loop-hole, giving just light enough to see the white -door, a flight of seven or eight steps leading to it. On opening it, he -entered a handsomely-furnished parlor, with a table in the centre, on -which was some fine fruit. He did not stop, however to taste it, but -went to a folding-door opposite, and to his surprise, found himself in a -lady’s boudoir—for there, on the table, were books, needle-work, and -embroidery. What can all this mean, thought Arthur; surely the Herman -family are a little deranged. Pride and wealth have caused them to act -thus strangely. Heaven grant that Grace Gordon has none of their blood -in her veins. - -As this thought passed through his mind, he heard the clear, gay laugh -of his old acquaintance. For he now was convinced that it was the Mr. -Herman he formerly knew, and whom he had seen that morning. He sprang to -a door, which stood partly open, and there, to his surprise, he saw, not -Mr. Herman, but Godfried Darg, and his two dogs, Barker and Growler. - -“Ah! are you here, my good friend,” said Arthur, shaking hands with him. -“You gave us the slip in an odd way; and I have to thank you for a very -valuable present.” - -“Did you spit in old Barnes’ face, and give him a kick, as I requested?” - -“No,” said Arthur, laughing, “I had no chance; for instead of becoming -teacher to a score or two of village children, I had the honor of—” - -“Yes, yes, I know it; Herman told me all, and told me of your fine -speech this morning.” - -“Why who are you, that can be so familiar with so reserved a gentleman -as Mr. Herman?” - -“Who am I? Why plain Godfried Darg. But are you not a pretty fellow, to -fall in love with a lady so entirely out of your reach. Did I not give -you a dressing-case, in which lay the miniature of the pretty little -girl that is to be your wife? Did not my note tell you that you were not -to open the box till Barker and Growler gave you leave?” - -“And have I not obeyed your directions?” said Arthur, smiling; “if you -take the trouble to go to the porter’s lodge, you will see the case, and -find that the box is untouched. Confound all this mystery—what does it -mean? Why am I singled out for such necromancy; and why am I here in -this singular place, when my wish is to be with my quiet, honest friends -of Berrydale?” - -“And so you took me at my word, and never opened the little box?” - -“I had two very good reasons for not doing it—the first was that you -requested me not to do it until I had consulted your dogs, if you -remember; and the second reason was, that the picture which you said the -box contained, would be broken if I attempted it—at least so you said -in your note.” - -“Did you ever read the letter which old Crosbie told you to hand to -Barnes?” - -“No—it was destroyed, I heard; but I shall insist on hearing the -contents the moment I see Mr. Crosbie.” - -“You need not ask him; here is the letter—I persuaded the old ass, -Barnes, to give it to me—there, read it.” - -“Upon my word,” said Arthur, laughing; “I do not wonder at my dismissal; -I am only surprised that I was not complimented with the kick which you -requested me to bestow upon Barnes.” - - “To Mr. Barnes,—Sir, The bearer of this letter is a pert - jackanapes, and is full of conceit. He boasts that he will rule - you, and all the gentlemen in the neighborhood, with a rod of - iron. He is going to make you pull down the old school-house, - and oblige you to dress the boys in uniform. In short, he - promises himself that he will turn every thing upside down, and - leave you and your four respectable colleagues out when it is - time to elect new trustees. He is so daring, that you must be - cautious how you act; and above all things, do not let him know - the contents of this letter—just dismiss him coolly when he - presents himself. - - Yours, - P. Herman.” - -Arthur read this curious epistle aloud, and started when he saw the -signature. “Surely,” said he, “Mr. Herman, the solemn, grave, upright -owner of Herman Hall, never could have written this letter—if he did, -he is crazy!” - -“He did write it, and he is not crazy; but why do we sit talking -nonsense here when so much is to be done.” - -“I do not know what _your_ business may be, Mr. Darg, but mine is to get -away from Herman Hall as quickly as possible; will you accompany me to -Berrydale?” - -“Not I; why there is a great deal going on here; for instance, there are -a number of pretty girls in the house, and there is to be a wedding. Ah, -you start, yet I tell you the truth, there is to be a wedding here this -very evening; instead of going to Berrydale you had better remain here -and get a peep at the bride.” - -“If it is Miss Gordon—but that is impossible.” - -“And why is it impossible? she is very beautiful and very accomplished; -so that it is the most likely thing in the world. Why, I would take her -without a cent to her portion, if she would have me.” - -Arthur now determined to find his way out of this mysterious place, and -he was the more anxious as it was barely possible that what Darg said -respecting Miss Gordon might be true, so he walked to the door opposite -and opened it, and there lay his carpet-bag, his trunk and -dressing-case—he turned to express his surprise, but Darg had -disappeared. - -“I will open the case now,” said Arthur, “and trust to luck not to break -the miniature. I am the sport of some one, and I will put an end to it.” - -So saying, he opened the dressing-case, and was just in the act of -breaking open the little steel-box, when Galton Springle stood before -him. - -“I have found you at last,” said the man, “why how closely you have kept -yourself. Did I not tell you to leave your address at the inn?” - -Arthur was stooping over the case when Springle entered, and on raising -up suddenly, he struck the man in the face and crushed the spectacles; -instead of letting Arthur assist him, he rushed into the adjoining room -and shut the door. - -“I do believe the fellow had a mask on his face,” thought Arthur, “for I -heard something crackle and crush as my head struck him. What brings -such a man in a house of this kind; and if he has a mask, why may not -Darg be disguised also?—and old Crosbie, it always struck me that his -eyes were too deeply set. If I come in contact with them again I will -soon find out.” - -He had scarcely touched the dressing-case to recommence his attempt, -when in came the identical Mr. Crosbie. - -“Oh, you are there, my friend, are you!” said Arthur, seizing him; “you -gave me a letter to Mr. Barnes, did you; I shall take the liberty of -tweaking your nose for the compliment.” - -Off came the nose, and off went Mr. Crosbie, and after him rushed -Arthur; but being unacquainted with the intricacies of the place he lost -sight of him, and on opening a door what was his surprise to find -himself in a large parlor, surrounded by a number of persons, and Mr. -Herman in the midst of them, laughing merrily. - -“Walk in, walk in, Mr. Hazerelle,” said Mr. Herman; “what, you found out -that old Crosbie had a paper nose, were you not ashamed to expose the -poor fellow?” - -But Arthur had no ear nor eye for him—in the centre of the group stood -Grace Gordon, holding in her hand the little steel-box, which a servant -had that moment put there. By her side was Abram Snow, looking just as -quiet and grave as when in the counting-house. - -After shaking hands, Arthur turned again to Grace Gordon, for she seemed -to be the most sane among them. - -“Where are Barker and Growler?” said she, laughing. “Godfried Darg, call -your dogs.” - -Mr. Herman whistled, and both dogs came racing into the room. - -“Now, Arthur,” said Mr. Herman, “here are Barker and Growler, set down -the steel-box and let them open the case.” - -“I have no desire to see the face of any other lady than this one,” said -Arthur, approaching Miss Gordon and taking her hand. “There is some -mystery here which I cannot fathom, but with her I am safe; whatever may -be the plans and manœuvres of others, here there is no guile.” - -“There,” said Mr. Herman, “the dogs have opened the box with one bite.” - -“Or rather, you pressed a spring and opened it,” said Grace, laughing, -“for I saw you. Now let Mr. Hazerelle see the miniature.” - -“Come here, Arthur,” said Mr. Herman, “stand behind Miss Gordon while -she opens the box; now look over her shoulder and see the lady you are -to marry.” - -Arthur looked over the shoulder of Grace, and he saw her lovely face -reflected from the little mirror in her hand—it was the most natural -thing in the world to kiss the cheek which was so near his lips, and -there was a laugh from every one in the room, the clear, musical laugh -of his old tormentor being heard above the rest. - -“Well,” said Mr. Herman, “we did not intend to have the ceremony -performed till evening, but as Arthur has pulled off old Crosbie’s nose, -and crushed Springle’s face, the plot cannot go on, so we will ask the -clergyman to walk in—he is in the library—and put poor Arthur out of -suspense. Welcome Mr. Green, and you, too, good lady—ah, there comes -Garry Lovel and his wife, and all the boys. Yes, Arthur, I know how to -appreciate the kindness of your friends, and see—there is good Mrs. -May, too—am I not a good manager?” - -Every thing was ready, and before Arthur could ask for an explanation of -what had occurred, he stood up and became the happy husband of Grace -Gordon. - -“Now step in this room,” said Mr. Herman, after the ceremony was over, -“and let me tell you how this has happened.” - -“Oh, never mind,” said Arthur; “I care not how it has been brought -about, for the sole wish of my heart has been gratified.” - -“But Grace Gordon has no fortune, and as you have none, what are you -going to do?” - -“Arthur,” said Grace, “bear with him just now, he is jesting. Mr. -Herman, did you not promise me that all mystery should cease the moment -we were married?” - -“Well, well, I submit. And now be as happy as you both deserve—after -this I must act like other folks, I presume, but I shall never enjoy -myself thoroughly again.” - - * * * * * - -Mr. Herman became his own master and heir to a large estate at -twenty-one. He began to build immediately, and the plan of the house and -grounds was a type of his character. He was full of plots and -contrivances, and there were, therefore, long passages under ground and -labyrinths at every turn. Arthur Hazerelle was his intimate friend, and -prevented him from ruining himself by taking the management of his -pecuniary affairs, so that at the end of five years the house and -grounds were finished to suit the whimsical fancy of the owner, and his -income was not diminished. - -Unfortunately, Mr. Hazerelle loved the same lady on whom his friend had -placed his affections—but this did not disturb the friendship of the -young men. Mr. Hazerelle was accepted by the young lady, and his friend -withdrew from the world, determined never to marry. In the course of a -few years, Mr. Hazerelle and his wife both died, leaving one son to the -guardianship of Mr. Herman. Aware of his own faults, faults which he -considered as having arisen from an early knowledge of the great wealth -to which he was heir, he determined upon bringing up his friend’s child -in ignorance of what he intended to do for him. - -He was one of the most active men in the world, and luckily his means -were excellent, so that he could execute all the romantic schemes that -he planned. He took no one into his confidence, but through the means of -his great wealth he had the power of accomplishing whatever he wished. -Every thing which happened to Arthur was in consequence of his agency. -He had him educated in the most eccentric manner, giving him an insight -into law, medicine and commerce. Every change in the young man’s -prospects which appeared the result of accident, was owing to him, and -that he might learn something of Arthur’s real character, he frequently -lived in the same house with him. - -When he found that Arthur was humble and good-tempered, and that he -struggled hard against his fate, he thought it was high time to make him -amends. He was sure that prosperity would not undo the work of years, -and that he had acted his part as a guardian well. - -One of his gardeners lost his wife, leaving a child a few weeks old—it -was a girl, and her father did not live long after the death of his -wife. Mr. Herman took the child, and determined, if she had a good -intellect, to educate her for Arthur. She was both intelligent and -beautiful, so that he waited with impatience for the time when Arthur -should be twenty-four, as that, according to his notion, was the age of -discretion. - -Grace Gordon had been in his confidence from the time she could -comprehend it, and from dwelling upon the plan so long had learned to -like it. Many and many a time had she seen Arthur when in the city with -Mr. Herman, but she could not persuade him to bring Arthur to what might -be considered his own home. - -Mr. Herman never left off his love of mystery and plotting, and when -little children hung round him he would turn himself into a gypsy and -tell their fortunes, which made them laugh; or he would be a shipwrecked -sailor, and tell a melancholy story, and make them weep; but he seldom -told them a sad tale, for he loved to hear them laugh, and he was the -greatest laugher of them all. - - * * * * * - - - - - TE LAUDAMUS. - - - BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH. - - - “The darkness and the light are both alike to thee.” - Oh, Christ! thou very Christ! not as a God, - One and eternal, treading with thy feet - The rounded worlds, which, with a ruby glow, - Give back the touch in music breathing roll, - Till all the azure dome bows to the light, - Flushed with exultant joy, and sings aloud - To harps of sapphire, amethyst and pearl. - Not as the leader of embannered hosts - That wait thy bidding; the glowing seraph, - Bright cherub, or the archangelic throng, - Grave in the virtue of eternal years— - Fair in the beauty of eternal truth— - Sublime and joyful in eternal youth— - Not all thy goings forth with level eyes, - And even tread, harmonious, self-involved— - Thyself Love, Beauty, Truth, and seeing these - In all, through all, from angel’s anthem tone - To feeblest pulsing in poor human heart:— - Not all thy earth-love mission, thy deep prayers - On Olivet, and all thy weary grief - Until Gethsemane beheld thee bleed - At every pore, o’er faith betrayed, and love - That wearied, though its watch was but an hour— - Thy breaking bread to hungry lips—thine eye - That pitied every shape of wo—thy tears - For Lazarus—thy more than love for her, - The loving Mary, unrebuked, though frail— - Thy scornings of hypocrisy and wrong— - Thy goings up and down for good to earth, - And writing on its forehead a new name,[2] - Even as incarnate Evil walked the earth, - And branded on its face the mark of Cain,[3] - So did thy loving hand efface the mark, - Thy footsteps leave a blessing for the curse— - For this I bless thee, and all this would take - Into my soul of souls, and walk with Thee; - Yet not for these do I so much adore; - . . . . . . . But thou didst go. - Down to the very grave—like unto ours - Thy death-pang—thy effulgent limbs did lie - “In cold obstruction.” Oh! pitying soul of Man! - For this I praise thee—worship and bow down, - Sing with the evening stars and morning light. - When the great glory of the sun walks forth, - I shout the resurrection and new life; - For thou with light didst penetrate the dark, - Thy footsteps waked “old chaos and dim night.” - Legions of melancholy shapes that wailed - Their being, mourning they should be a blot - Upon the garments of enrobed light, - Their voice a discord when the swelling hymn - In God’s majestic dome rolled through all space, - In silence saw thy foot the barrier press - Of their uncheered vault, with a strong tread, - Itself a light, till downward more and more - The inverted arch recoiled, and thou didst stand, - Amid their ghostly and distorted shapes - Serene and fair, thrice beautiful and calm. - Death and Hell—Darkness and Pain! Oh, my God! - We see their marks, we know not what they are, - But Thou, oh Christ! didst walk the dread abysm, - And from thyself a permeating light - Made darkness day. The adamantine bond - Broke from its clasp, and knew itself no more; - The jangling chord, that its own discord wailed, - Slid into music with a heavenly song, - Chaotic shapes, that slunk from light, behold - Thy beauty and upsprung to perfect grace; - The shadow was no more a shadow left— - Deformity no more could find a place— - Evil had turned itself unto the Good, - For Light and Love had breathed themselves again - Upon our earth, unto the very depths - Where Death and Darkness reigned; and God had said, - As when Creation woke, “Let there be light”— - Oh Christ! dear Christ! for this I worship Thee. - Thou didst tread through all man’s fearful pathway, - And we go down unto the grave in trust, - For we behold thy footstep there, a light, - And catch the trailing of thy robe, as on - We go in our dim way through death to Thee; - And not without a hope, thus shadowed forth, - That in God’s universe shall cease to be - The Blackness and the Sorrow and the Wrong! - ------ - -[2] “Jesus stooped down and wrote upon the ground.” - -[3] “And the Lord said unto Satan, ‘Whence comest thou?’ Then Satan -answered the Lord and said, ‘from going to and fro in the earth, and -from walking up and down in it.’” - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: A bouquet of pink roses, also containing small yellow and -blue flowers with a bird perched on the topmost rose.] - - * * * * * - - - - - TRUE ROMANCING. - - -In a large, pleasant garden, laid out in the old fashioned style, two -young friends were walking together one summer evening. Sometimes they -would sit down on a grassy slope, looking at the bright clouds in the -western sky; then rising together in the most friendly manner, they -would walk beneath the arching trees, stopping often to pluck flowers, -and many-patterned leaves, from the low hanging boughs, but ever and -anon they talked busily together, and their conversation soon turned -upon their early recollections. - -“I remember well the first time I ever saw you, Magdalene,” commenced -the younger one. “It was a still summer day, soon after we first moved -here. Every thing at home was in confusion. Our scanty load of furniture -had been tossed into our neglected old house, apparently to arrange -itself. Our one girl, with noisy undirected zeal, went stumbling about, -falling over chairs, and breaking crockery; while my poor father, sick -and irritable, lay upon a bed, fuming at every thing. Unnoticed and -wondering, I sat in a corner, amused for a time by the chaos by which I -was surrounded. But at length I grew very weary at the voices of -displeasure and vexation, that grated so harshly upon my ears. Looking -up at the window, I saw how brightly the sun was shining upon the green -waving trees in the avenue beyond; and with a sudden longing for quiet I -slipped out at the door. Our own garden, a square of bare ground was by -no means inviting; but beyond grew a row of tall, beautiful trees, that -seemed to bound a large flower-garden, and farther still, a little wood -with a low stile, enchanted my fancy, and promised me an easy entrance. -Oh! I cannot tell you how beautiful it looked, to a child brought up in -the close dismal streets of a large city. I felt as if I stood in -Fairy-land. Every thing seemed to have a marvelous light,—a mysterious -shading cast over it, which gave me a sensation, as if something strange -and wonderful were hidden behind every bush, or at every corner around -which I passed. As I went on, my childish attention was attracted by the -pretty iron railings which bounded the garden, and looking between them, -I saw a well-kept lawn, and smooth walks, winding around mounds of green -turf. On one of these mounds, you were sitting, reading with a calm air, -perfectly in keeping with the scene around. I thought you much older -than you really were, for you were tall for your age. You seemed to me -so striking in your dark blue dress, with your beautiful features, that -I immediately ran over in my mind all the heroines I had ever read of, -but as I could not find one that exactly resembled you, I thought of a -name for you, and had commenced to connect a long story with it, when a -voice from the house called you, and to my great disappointment, you -went in. I continued for awhile to look in upon the wide garden, but I -felt as if the life of the scene, and the heroine of my story had -departed with you.” - -“Ah! yes, Franzchen,” answered her companion, “from the first, you were -romantic and fanciful. But I remember well, with what childish -superiority I at first looked down upon you. When Aunt Katrine told me -one day, that she was going to bring little Franzchen Deshalbens to see -me,—I cried contemptuously—What, Aunt!—That girl, with such a little -unwashed face, and such great black eyes to see me!—I don’t like babies -for play-fellows! But before you had been with me long, I learned to -like you well enough, and think I might possibly find pleasure in the -companionship of one younger than myself. You remember, we went into the -garden, and as we sat upon the mound, you told me the story of ‘the fair -lady and the genii.’ I soon forgot my disdain, and besought you to -continue, until the moon rose upon your endless and enchanting -recitals.” - -“Yes, indeed! Magda. I too remember with what dignity you received me. -But that only pleased me, because it corresponded with the character I -had drawn out for you, of a great princess. But I think I should have -been a little overawed, if Aunt Katrine had not spoken so kindly to me. -Then when I commenced to speak of my favorite stories, you seemed to -think such things so far beneath you, that I did not expect the interest -with which you afterward listened.” - -“And then, Franzchen, I used to come to the fence at the foot of the -garden, to see you sitting on the ground, building a castle with small -sticks, and you, little muddy thing, would look up with your great dark -eyes, to tell me of some new tale you had been reading, and you would -fix upon a character in it for each of us. Sometimes you were the hero -or heroine of the piece, and would tell the whole in the first person. -What a changeful, chameleon-like creature you made yourself out to be. -Now you were the brave knight, Sir George, and rode fighting for -Christendom; and now as the sorrowful Griselda, you told me of your -cruel, task-exacting aunt, until the tears came into my eyes; or you -spoke of yourself as ‘the fair one with the locks of gold,’ while all -the time your curling black hair fell over your face. Do you know, -Franzchen, I often envy you those curling dark locks? Stay now, while I -arrange these white jasmins in your hair. Flowers never look so well in -mine.” - -“Dear Magda, how can you envy me, with your beautiful, light, braided -hair? Do you know, last night, I thought you looked like an old Grecian -statue, with your fine features, and tall, fine figure; and you spoke to -every one with so much ease and self-possession.” - -“There, now! Franzchen. You are running away again from all common -sense, into the crazy region of your imagination. Do not try to make a -heroine of me, I beseech you, or expect me to take all your fancies for -realities. But it is growing late. I hope you are not too romantic to -eat any supper.” - -As they returned to the house, they were met by Aunt Katrine. “Here, -girls! come quickly,” she cried. “I have a letter for Magdalene, from -her father’s sister, the high and mighty Baroness of Radgardin.” - -Now this aunt of Magda’s,—a pretty, foolish, ambitious woman, had -married a nobleman of high birth, and great wealth, whose sister was a -margravine. Great indeed, was the dignity of the noble Baron of -Radgardin, and great was the elation and self-consequence of his -baroness. Had not Magda grown up uncommonly beautiful and striking in -appearance, it may well be doubted whether she would have taken so much -interest in her, as she now seemed to. But as it was, she liked to have -her handsome niece with her, and had already many ambitious designs -connected with her. Her darling scheme at present, was to marry her to -the young Count Hugo, the son of an old friend of the baron’s, and she -constantly remarked that Magda, a beauty, and somewhat of an heiress, -should hold up her head, and remember, that she was the niece of the -Baroness of Radgardin, and the grand-daughter of the Baron of Roderkamp. -She had now written to invite her to pay her a visit, as she expected to -have much noble company at her house, to whom she was anxious to -introduce her. - -Among the rest, she was to be honored by the presence of Count Hugo, and -she went so far as to hint that her family were always remarkable for -beauty, and as some of them had already done so well in the world, Magda -also, under her guidance, might do equally so. At the close, she added, -“My dear child, you must come. I have seen your father, and he said that -the only obstacle that would prevent your coming was, that you had a -friend staying with you, whom you had promised to accompany on a visit. -You must prevail upon your friend to delay this visit, and come with -you. My carriage shall be at your door next Tuesday—so be sure and be -ready.” - -Magda laughed heartily as she read the letter. “But we will go, -Franzchen,” she said, “for we shall have a fine time no doubt, and -besides that, I have seen this Count Hugo, and like him very much. So -does my father. I have often heard him speak very highly of him.” - -But Franzchen looked upon the matter very seriously, and never doubting -but that Magda had only to appear to conquer the whole world, she -cried,—“But Carl Engleford, Magda, what is to become of poor Carl -Engleford?” - -“Oh, never mind Carl Engleford! I tell you, Franzchen, I’m very -ambitious, and I want to see Count Hugo again. But we must write to your -cousin and delay our visit there.” - -This cousin of Franzchen’s whom they spoke of visiting, was a -good-natured, but high-tempered woman, who had never been able to bear -with Monsieur Deshalbens’ perverse and irritable temper; but at his -death she would gladly have taken charge of her little cousin; Magda -however would never consent that she should be separated from her, and -they compromised the matter by going often to pay her a long visit, but -this might easily be delayed on so important an occasion as the present. - -“We shall want a good many things,” said Magda, with a prudent and -business like air, after a few minutes consideration; “I shall go at -once to my father and get a draft for each of us. Shall I manage every -thing myself?” - -“Pray do,” said Franzchen, who was still thinking of Carl Engleford. - -Magda found plenty to occupy her, and busied herself with preparing and -packing; but at length the eventful day arrived, and with it the -baroness’s carriage. - -“Is Lisette to go with us?” asked Franzchen, as she saw the girl -descending the stairs, bonnet on and band-box and parcel in hand. - -“Certainly. We must have a waiting-maid at Radgardin castle,” answered -her companion. - -They set off in high spirits. After a long and somewhat wearisome ride -they approached the castle. - -It was a magnificent building, situated upon a winding river, which -swelled out into a little lake before it. The commencement of the water -was hidden from view by deep, dark woods, terminated by a distant range -of blue mountains. Franzchen was fairly enchanted, as the coachman, -exciting the spirited horses, whirled them at full speed along the -smooth, level road entering the extensive pleasure-grounds. - -“Oh, Magda, look, look!” she cried, “what beautiful glimpses we catch of -the water as we pass among the trees, and how finely the road winds down -to the river!” - -Magda had been there before, but she now joined heartily in her friend’s -admiration. Soon they drew up at the gate of the castle, were ushered up -stairs, and received in the vestibule by the baroness. - -“Oh, my dear Magda, how delighted I am to see you—I knew you would -come. Although I am rusticating here in the country just now, we shall -not be very dismal, I can assure you. I have a delightful party coming -to see me. The Margrave and Margravine of Baralt, the Landgrave of -Durathor, the Dowager Countess of Hinkle, Baron Logrum, and better than -all—” - -Here she was interrupted by her niece, who drew Franzchen forward to -introduce her to her aunt, who immediately drew herself up—“was much -gratified at the honor Mademoiselle Deshalbens had done her in -accompanying her niece to her little country-house”—“hoped she was not -fatigued by the journey,” and so on. - -After the usual inquiries and compliments had been gone through with, -they were conducted to a handsome room, opening on a balcony overlooking -a modern flower-garden behind the castle. The baroness left them to rest -and refresh themselves. She was soon followed by a servant bearing -fruits and refreshments on a gilded waiter. - -But Franzchen thought not of eating as she stood at the window looking -out upon the terrace. So looking doubtfully at her companion, who was -busily engaged directing Lisette to unpack the trunks, she began: - -“Oh, Magda, how pleasant it would be to run down and look at the river. -We could so easily descend these steps and pass through that gate.” - -“No, indeed, Franzchen. You must lie down immediately and go to sleep.” - -“What! I go to sleep! It isn’t night yet!” - -“But we have been traveling all day, and to-night we are to be -introduced to a great party. If we do not rest now we shall be horribly -weary when evening comes, and look frightful and stupid.” - -“But, Magda, I’m not sleepy at all. It will be of no use to lie down.” - -“But you must, Franzchen; you must eat and sleep, or you will look thin -and pale, and I don’t want you to look like a scarecrow.” - -“I don’t want to look like a scarecrow, either. Do you think I shall?” - -“Of course you will if you don’t lie down. Now do, dear Franzchen.” - -“Well, then, if I must,” said Franzchen, sighing as she turned away from -the window. - -Magda smiled as she saw her lie down and in a few minutes fall fast -asleep, but without thinking of following her example, she was turning -again to Lisette, when the baroness looked in. - -“Do you not want to rest, my dear?” - -“No, aunt; I never sleep in the day time.” - -“Well, then, leave Lisette and come with me a moment, I want to have a -talk with you.” So saying, she led the way to the balcony, and after a -few compliments on her manners and appearance, she began. “Now, my dear -child, who is this friend of yours, this Mademoiselle Deshalbens?” - -“She is an orphan,” answered Magda. “Her father came to our neighborhood -when she was very young, and purchased a house near to ours. When he -died he left her, with a moderate fortune, to the guardianship of my -father, who had taken a great deal of interest in her.” - -“Who was her father? Were you acquainted with him before?” - -“No, they were perfect strangers, but we liked Franzchen so much, that -we would gladly have had her with us always. Monsieur Deshalbens was -French. His health was very poor from the time we first became -acquainted with him; his wife, who was a German, had died some time -before.” - -“A Frenchman! and nobody I suppose. My dear Magda, you must be careful -what acquaintances you form. At your time of life it is very important. -Now, don’t look so indignant, my dear, I’m not finding fault with your -friend in the least, you know, for she seems to be a harmless little -creature, and her manners are very pretty, only wanting in style of -course. But how much better it would be if all your acquaintances were -selected from high-life, and your intimate friend should be a baroness, -or a lady something, at least.” - -“If all she wants is a little mann—” - -“There, now, my dear, why should you take offense at what I have said? -It was only meant to guide your conduct in future. Do not let us speak -of it any more now. I want you to give me your opinion about a little -walk I am having made down here. Come, let us go and see it.” So saying, -she descended from the balcony with a smiling countenance, and Magda -followed, to hear that Count Hugo was expected every moment—was such a -handsome young man—so brave, so distingué, etc. - -When Franzchen opened her eyes, it was quite evening. The room was -brightly lighted by a chandelier from the ceiling, and Magda was -standing beside her, waiting for her to awaken. She jumped up, wondering -that she had forgotten herself for so long a time, and asking how her -companion had slept. - -“Excellently well, dear Franzchen. But it is time you dressed. The -baroness has been here. She says that every one has come, and we must -descend to the drawing-room as soon as we can. Come, I will arrange your -hair myself, for I have set Lisette to altering a little your white -gauze dress with the blue trimming.” - -“But how will you get dressed, Magda?” - -“Don’t you see that Lisette has already braided my hair? She can finish -dressing me in a minute. Now, pray, don’t open your eyes so wide. I did -not sleep quite as long as you, that is all.” - -“But my white gauze dress with the blue trimming! Where did it come -from? I never saw it before.” - -“Why, I ordered it, to be sure, and plenty more beside. Did you think, -you little ignoramus, that we were coming without any thing to wear? But -now, let me do your hair.” - -“How kind you always are, Magda! I never thought of it.” - -“I know that. You never paid a visit to the Baroness of Radgardin -before, and don’t know of what importance such things are in her eyes.” - -“But, Magda, what are you putting those pearls in my hair for? They are -the prettiest ornaments you have. You must wear them yourself.” - -“Oh, no! I’m going to wear my little tiara, my golden crescent, that we -used to call the crown. It is more suitable, you know.” - -“Suitable! To what?” - -“Why, to my exalted expectations, to be sure! You forget Count Hugo.” - -“Has he come?” asked Franzchen, eagerly. - -“Yes, some time ago; and I have seen and talked with him. There! Now, -pray, don’t give such another start, for you have disarranged all the -curls I had just finished brushing. Sit still, and I will tell you all -about it. I did not feel at all inclined to sleep, and I went down the -terrace, with the baroness, to see a new walk she is having made. We -were in full discussion concerning it, when we heard a voice behind us -and turning, saw Count Hugo, who had left his horse with a servant at -the entrance of the park, that he might, as he told us, have the -pleasure of walking slowly through it, and enjoying the fine views.” - -“I like him for that!” cried Franzchen, who was growing quite excited. -“That is just what I should have liked to have done! I hate those -indifferent sort of persons, who pass every thing by without the least -admiration, and would not walk a step out of their way to see the most -beautiful scene in the world. But what next, Magda?” - -“Only that we had a pleasant little conversation, and I like him better -than ever. After paying his respects to the baroness, he hastened to -claim my acquaintance, and stayed talking to me until my aunt, alarmed -for my toilette, carried him off.” - -“Oh, I am so glad! I’m sure he must like you very much, Magda! It seems -like a dream. How stupid I was to sleep all the time.” - -“Not at all,” said Magda, quietly, as she gave the last touch to -Franzchen’s hair. “There comes Lisette with the dress.” - -The toilette was at length completed, and Magdalene announced her -intention of descending immediately. - -Franzchen, who always delighted in seeing her friend handsomely dressed, -could not refrain from a little innocent admiration, but danced around -her, examining her from head to foot, and exclaiming, “You look like -some great queen, Magda, in your white satin dress, and your little -golden coronal.” Magda smiled quietly, and thought little Franzchen did -not look at all amiss in the white gauze dress, her dark curls fastened -back by the bandeau of pearls, and her eyes sparkling with delight. - -As they were ushered into the brilliant saloon, the baroness came -forward and introduced them to one and another, until Franzchen was -almost bewildered. First they must curtsey to this stout lady in blue, -and the noble margravine, then smile sweetly on that good-tempered old -gentleman, and gratefully on this condescending great landgrave. - -Then advanced from the crowd, a thin, elderly gentleman, with rather a -vacant countenance, and stiff manner, accompanied by a younger one, with -bright, brown eyes, and a lively, pleasant face. They welcomed Magda -with much friendliness, and were introduced to Mademoiselle Deshalbens -as Baron Radgardin and Count Hugo. - -Franzchen’s eyes fairly danced. She felt as if she was in an enchanted -land, and although, after the first introduction was over she was left -almost unnoticed in the crowd, she was fully occupied in admiring the -brilliancy of the lights, the gay appearance of the lamps, and above -all, in watching Magda dancing with Count Hugo, who evidently admired -her greatly, and seized every opportunity of conversing with her. - -At length a sandy-haired young man, whose countenance left the -impression of a perfect blank upon Franzchen’s mind, requested her to -dance. She arose to join the set, but was so busy thinking and admiring, -that she hardly knew what she was doing; but she danced with the -unconscious grace that was natural to her. - -“Mademoiselle Deshalbens moves like a zephyr,” remarked the count, who -had been watching the new-comer with considerable satisfaction—and -Magda smiled assent. - -After the dancing and supper were over, a walk was proposed upon the -terrace—and every gentleman hastened to escort some fair lady to the -promenade. - -As Franzchen stood waiting, she saw the count looking for Magda, who was -already walking with Baron Logrum. As he turned away disappointed, he -noticed her standing alone, and hastened to beg the honor of conducting -her. - -She desired nothing more than the opportunity of becoming acquainted -with him; and although at first she stood a little in awe of him, she -had a natural gift at making herself at home with every one, and -inducing them to talk. But the count was no difficult subject. He spoke -with the ease of an intelligent, well educated man, and the wit of a -young and lively one. - -He commenced at once about Magdalene, whom he rejoiced again to have -met. Then they admired the pleasant walk, the fine view, and the bright -moonlight; and at length they wandered off into a comparison of their -favorite writers, whom they discussed with an animation that astonished -a very prim and proper couple, who walked just behind them, alternately -answering with yes and no’s, to questions asked at minute intervals. - -By the time they returned to the saloon, Franzchen felt almost as if -they were old friends, and thought how much better one free and earnest -conversation was than a thousand silent meetings. - -“I like the count very much,” she said, as she returned with Magda to -their room, after the company had dispersed; “and he talks so much of -you.” - -“You do not wonder so much now, that I could forget Carl Engleford, -while thinking of him?” - -“No.” Franzchen was obliged to confess that she was no longer surprised -at it. - -It may easily be imagined that the two friends rose rather late upon the -ensuing morning; but that was the custom in that noble house—and the -midday sun was shining brightly when Lisette entered with the coffee. - -Magdalene and Franzchen sat opposite each other in their loose -morning-dresses, and entered into a regular gossip, as they sipped their -coffee, on the events of the preceding day. - -They talked over the kind though stiff baron, the ambitious baroness, -the condescending landgrave, and last, but not least, the agreeable -young count. - -“I always had a high esteem for him,” said Magda, “from what I have -heard of him. And I think he is more truly polite and polished than any -one I have ever met with.” - -“I think so, too,” said Franzchen; “he is so gentle and kind; and I like -so much to see his eyes twinkle, when he says any thing merry.” - -“Yes, he really has beautiful eyes, so full of life and intelligence.” - -“And then, Magda, his manners are so simple and unaffected. I was -afraid, because he was a count, and very rich, that he would be haughty -and self-conceited; but he is not so at all—is he?” - -“Not in the least,” responded Magda; and so they agreed that they were -very well pleased to have met him. - -“Good news! good news!” cried the baroness, when she next found Magda -alone. “The count is going to stay with us awhile, for he is quite at -leisure for some time to come. Ah! I know well enough to whom it is -owing. He was delighted with the party last night, and expressed great -pleasure at meeting you here, expressing at the same time the highest -admiration of your appearance and manners—so dignified and lady-like!” - -Magda smiled, blushed, and said he was really too complimentary. - -“Oh, he admires you exceedingly; and he likes your little friend, too. -He says there is something very bright and lovely in the expression of -her face, and that the contrast between you is very becoming to you -both. Was it not good-natured of him to take so much notice of her?” - -“No, he only showed a due discernment, I think,” answered Magda. - -“Oh, my dear, you are so fond of her! But to do her justice, she really -dressed herself with good taste last night, which is a thing I like to -see. And you did also, Magda; only I did not like your head-dress quite -so well.” - -“That is because nature has not bestowed upon me such fine dark curls, -ma’am.” - -“Well, she has pretty hair. But, my dear, we must make good use of the -time while the count is with us.” - -“I shall certainly endeavor to,” said Magda, as she went to join -Franzchen and the count in the park. - -One fine evening the two friends, accompanied by Count Hugo, who was now -their constant companion, strolled down to the river. As they looked -toward the blue distant mountains, Franzchen wished for wings that she -might fly away to their dim summits; but Magda thought it would be far -more agreeable to glide over the clear surface of the water. - -The count seized upon the idea with alacrity. “Yes, that is the very -thing,” he cried. “And, see! here is a little boat all ready. Will you -not trust yourselves to my guidance? I am a good boat’s-man, I assure -you.” - -“Oh, delightful!” cried Franzchen. “You shall row us in the path that -the moon has marked out for us; and we will glide down the stream like -the fairies we hear of in old stories, in their little walnut-shell -boats.” - -“But what if we should tip over?” suggested the prudent Magda. - -“Then we would float along like the sea-nymphs, with flowing locks -spread out upon the water. I think, to bathe in this beautiful river -would be quite pleasant.” - -“And only think,” interposed the count, “what a fine opportunity I -should have of displaying my gallantry in rescuing you by those flowing -locks, and swimming with you to the land.” - -“Oh, my poor head! It makes me shudder to think of it,” said Magda, -clasping her hands above her. “That might do for water-nymphs, if they -have hair of ropes, and skin like leather; but for poor human beings, me -thinks, it would be more romantic than agreeable.” - -“But there is really no danger,” replied the count; “and I shall -consider it as an imputation upon my skill, if you do not try it.” - -Franzchen jumped into the boat, Magda followed, and Count Hugo, placing -himself at the helm, soon showed himself skillful in the use of the oar. - -The moonlight shining like silver upon the still water, the dark trees -and bushes casting deep, mysterious shadows upon the margin, the fresh -evening air, and the showers of diamonds falling from the oars, all -combined to carry Franzchen, keenly alive to every thing picturesque, -into the seventh heaven. Unable to contain herself, she broke forth with -her clear voice into a little river song, in which she was quickly -joined by her companions. Then Count Hugo begged for another, and -another—and so they floated on, making the echoes resound with sweet -sounds until they came to a little island, where the count moored the -boat to the shore, and springing out, offered them his hand. - -They made the circuit of the island, and then sat down on the craggy -roots of some old trees, looking toward the dark woods on the opposite -side of the river. - -“This little island reminds me of a story you were telling me the other -day, Franzchen,” said Magda. - -“Oh, tell it us! tell it us again!” said the count, seating himself -opposite to them. “This is the very time and place for it; and that -alone is needed to make the evening perfect!” - -Franzchen thought it quite perfect already, but she readily consented, -on condition that they also should relate something in their turn. She -then commenced a little anecdote concerning a prince, who once possessed -a large province, with a small island upon the coast, to which his -predecessors had been so greatly attached, on account of its extreme -beauty, that they had built a palace upon it, and held there their court -during the fairest months of the year. There, one by one, his ancestors -had been gathered to their rest—and tradition associated with that spot -the fate of their line. Year by year the king grew more attached to his -island heritage; and through many sorrows and misfortunes, he clung to -it as a reminiscence of the past, and a safeguard for the future. At -length a powerful and ambitious neighbor made war upon him, defeated -him, and drove him to take refuge upon this one small island, the last -of his possessions. As long as he could retain it he was not without -hope; but when this also was taken from him, the unfortunate king -wandered, exiled and broken-hearted, in a foreign land, and at length -returned in disguise, old and friendless, to die upon the ground -consecrated to his race. - -Franzchen always entered with her whole heart into every thing she -related, however insignificant; and she now described with great effect -the loveliness of the island, and the despair of the exiled monarch. Her -eyes beamed, and her voice rose as she told of the conflict, and fell -again into sadness, as she spoke of the defeat, the exile, and the sad -return. - -Count Hugo moved nearer as she proceeded, and looked at her with -increasing interest and pleasure; and Magda smiled, for she had often -experienced the living interest which Franzchen threw, like a magic web, -over all her recitals. Then she and Count Hugo must also relate -something; and though they could not pretend to compete with Franzchen, -yet the eager interest she took in all that was said, acted almost like -inspiration; and the tales and traditions went round, until Magda, -startled by the lateness of the hour, rose to return. - -After that the count liked nothing better than to prevail upon Franzchen -to draw upon her retentive memory for the stories and anecdotes in which -she delighted; and then they would enter into airy and mystical -conversations, and such abstract philosophical questions, that Magda -declared she was fast taking leave of her seven senses, and running the -risk of colds, chills, and all kinds of disasters, by sitting upon the -grass, and walking through the park at all hours of the day. - -So passed the time for days and for weeks; for Count Hugo prolonged his -stay, and, indeed, he seemed very unwilling to take his departure at -all; and the baroness, triumphant in the success of her plans, would not -hear of Magda’s leaving. - -Day after day Count Hugo walked out with them, read to them, and seemed -to take increasing interest in their society. - -After leaving Magda and the count alone, Franzchen often found them -engaged in earnest conversation, when they would appear evidently -embarrassed by her return. Then the count would jump up, offer her his -seat, and enter at once into an animated discussion upon the first -subject that entered his head. This Franzchen looked upon as a very -natural proceeding, and a matter of course. Sometimes it struck her, -that he talked too much to her, that he paid her more attention, and -consulted her wishes even more than Magda’s; but that was only a little -awkwardness, and Magda was not of a jealous disposition. - -At length they came to the conclusion that the visit to Franzchen’s good -cousin could be postponed no longer. So they reluctantly fixed upon the -day for their departure, and the baroness could not prevail upon them to -delay it. - -On the last evening they went to take a farewell walk in the park. Magda -was silent and thoughtful, Franzchen decidedly dismal, and Count Hugo -seemed uneasy and absent-minded. Franzchen at length, to break the -silence, doubled a large leaf into a cup, and pretending to be very -thirsty, dipped up water from the river, and offered it to her -companions, under the pretence that it was the choicer nectar. Count -Hugo declared the river water was detestable, begged her not to taste -it, and said he would bring her some from the spring. In vain she -protested that she would wait until she returned, that she could not -think of letting him go all the way back to the spring. He was only too -happy to be of any service—and he darted away. - -“And so we really must go to-morrow,” said Franzchen, sadly, after -standing a moment looking after him. “What shall we do without Count -Hugo, Magda?” - -“But we need not part with him. He only waits for permission to -accompany us to-morrow to your cousin’s.” - -“Does he, indeed? Oh, Magda, surely you will grant it.” - -“I have nothing to do with it, Franzchen. I shall never exert any -influence over him but that of a friend.” - -“Why, Magda, I always supposed—” - -“But Carl Engleford,” interrupted Magda, archly. “What would become of -poor Carl Engleford! And now,” she said, speaking more seriously, “let -me assure you, dearest Franzchen, that I have never for a moment thought -of the count for myself. It is for you I have sought his society; it is -for your sake I have prolonged our stay; and it is for your sake alone -that the count has remained with us. Forgive me a little innocent -deception. The baroness manœuvered for me, and I must needs manœuvre a -little for you. Now the count has fairly engaged me on his side. He -loves you truly; and it has long been my most earnest wish to see you -look favorably upon him.” - -“Ah, yes!” cried Count Hugo, who at that moment appeared among the -trees, bearing a pitcher of water, which he let fall hastily as he -rushed forward to seize her hand. “Loveliest Franzchen! have you not -long seen how I delight in your society, and how miserable I should be -without you! It is, indeed, your permission I wait for! Will you not -grant it?” - -Magda quietly descended after the pitcher, which had been rolling down -the sloping ground in a most perilous manner, while the count poured -forth such a torrent of persuasion and beseeching looks, that before the -bewildered little Franzchen well knew what she was about, she had -granted the desired permission, and allowed him to cover her hand with -kisses, in gratitude therefor. But although she had consented rather -hastily, yet, on recovering her senses, and considering the matter, she -did not feel inclined to retract; and her first thought on the following -morning was, “How glad I am Count Hugo is going with us.” - - * * * * * - -Great was the triumph of the baroness, when she heard that the count was -to accompany her guests; but immense was her astonishment and -disappointment, when she discovered that it was as the declared suitor, -not of Magdalene, but of Franzchen; and severe would have been the -upbraidings which her niece would have had to bear, for not acquainting -her sooner with the true state of things, had not Count Hugo, before -their departure, earnestly thanked her for the great kindness and -discretion with which she had discerned his feelings, and aided him in -seeking the society of her young friends. Whereupon, she thought it best -to conceal her dissatisfaction, under the pretence of great penetration. -And, after all she thought, Baron Logrum is richer than the count, and -evidently admires Magda greatly; and so—and so— - -And so ended the visit to Radgardin. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE POET’S CHOICE. - - - BY RICHARD COE. - - - “Standing now before thee, Colin, - Are my coz and I; - Tell me truly, now, dear Colin, - While we’re waiting by, - Which the prettier of the twain, - My sweet coz or I? - - “See my locks so bright and golden, - Braided o’er my brow; - See mine eyes so blue and heavenly, - And my pretty mou’, - And my teeth of pearly whiteness, - Fairer none I vow? - - “See my cousin’s locks of raven, - On her brow so white, - And her gentle features graven - With a calm delight! - Do not fear mine anger, Colin, - But decide aright.” - - Colin stood awhile uncertain, - Then he made reply— - “Fair to me thy locks so golden, - Beautiful thine eye; - Pearly teeth so white and even - Ne’er before saw I! - - “Locks of raven like thy cousin’s - Lovely are, I ween, - Features all so calm and holy - Seldom e’er are seen! - To decide which is the prettier, - Two such maids between, - - “Is too nice a task, sweet maiden, - For such youth as I; - One is like the morning sunrise, - One the evening sky; - Both so beautiful and lovely - That they charm the eye!” - - Now with hands enclasped together, - Sweetly to behold, - Light they bounded o’er the heather - Raven locks and gold: - While beside me, spell-entrancéd, - Stood young Colin bold! - - Then, afar, I heard them singing - Colin’s sweet reply— - “One is like the morning sunrise, - One the evening sky,” - Till their voices in the distance - Sounded like a sigh! - - Came the evening shadows o’er us, - As we lingering stood, - Clothing landscape all before us, - Mountain, vale and wood, - With a darkness like the spirit’s - Melancholy mood! - - Then unto young Colin turning, - “Colin! sir,” said I, - “I will take the morning sunrise, - Thou the evening sky, - And, within our souls, forever - Wear them till we die!” - - * * * * * - - - - - TRANSLATION. - - - ODES OF HORACE. BOOK I. ODE XXIII. - - - BY D. R. K. - - - Like frightened fawn, when on the mountain air - The crashing hunt comes sweeping near its lair, - Trembling it stands, uncertain which to fly, - The rustling leaves, or stag-hounds dreadful cry, - So thou, my Chloe, when thy swain appears, - Thy pallid checks disclose full well thy fears; - Thy trembling steps, thy downcast eyes, attest - The tumults that assail thy tender breast. - - Wherefore this causeless fear? this false alarm? - Thou surely canst not think I’d do thee harm? - When thy fond swain with eager steps draws nigh, - With greater signs of fear, thou wouldst not fly - Gætulia’s lion, with its dreadful roar— - Helvetia’s wolf or Thracia’s savage boar. - Oh! calm thy fears and yield me up thy charms— - Forsake thy mother’s for thy lover’s arms. - - * * * * * - - - - - CLAIRE NEVILLE. - - - BY H. L. JONES. - - -Death was in the house; in the room; in the small pallet where, side by -side, lay the mother and her newly born child. - -Poverty was there, too, hard-featured and repulsive always, but now -hanging her head and hiding her face before the stern reality of the -dark angel. What mattered it how the soul took its departure? whether in -state, with many mourning eyes gazing, and white stoled priest with -lifted hands at the bedside; or desolate and wholly forsaken of man as -was Clara Neville’s on her straw-bed in her lonely hovel? It mattered -not—and yet may our last moments be cheered by the silent and tearful -love of friends—as we start on our dark voyage, may we hear the -cheering tones and be buoyed up by the affectionate throbs of the -beloved hearts around us! - -Pestilence had come among the inmates of the hamlet. They were not -barbarians, else, to leave the couch of death untended. But bereavement -and selfishness and mortal fear had done its work. The few who remained -were dying alone, and of this number was Clara Neville and her young -daughter. Her husband in a distant land, her kindred estranged or dead, -she met her fast coming fate alone, but with one all-absorbing anxiety. -With that anxious will, she had kept herself, as it were, alive—that -she might not leave her little one in the world behind her. While the -death-damps hung on her own brow, her straining gaze yet rested on the -form and face of the pale infant, whose fluttering breath grew shorter -and shorter every instant. Still she clasped her baby close to her poor -heart, with the energy that death itself could not subdue, and when at -length the limbs straightened in what the mother knew was the last -convulsion, Clara cast her eyes to heaven, and closing her speechless -lips, in a glad smile passed away. - -So it seemed at least. But help was nighest when it seemed farthest -away. The door of the hovel was flung open—the serene air poured in; -gentle hands ministered at the couch, and restoratives and cordials on -lip and brow brought back the life that seemed to have left its -dwelling. The disease had reached its crisis, and the eyes of both -mother and child once more opened on the world. - -Clara, weak and half insensible still from the deadly illness she had -suffered, scarcely looked at the pure, white linen of her bed, the -little comforts and luxuries about her, or the gentle and watchful -Sister of Charity who bent over her, with the cool draught or the -nourishing mixture. She looked only at the sleeping cherub at her bosom, -without power to smooth, as she longed to, the brown curls on the -forehead, or to kiss the gentle eyes in their pleasant sleep. Then she, -too, sunk into such a sleep, long and refreshing, and hour after hour -the Sister sat by the bed, till the night passed and the morning, and -the sun came against the white curtain at the head of the silent bed. -Nature was kindly dealing with Clara and her young baby; they slept and -gathered strength to live. Stronger and deeper came the breath of -both—more rapidly ran the rosy current over the calm faces of both, -till Nature, drawing from her deep wells of love, moistened the thirsty -lip of one, at the moment the glad throb of the other’s heart woke them -both to happy existence. Clara nursed her child and had no words to -express her joy. The watchful Sister saw the emotion that pervaded her -frame, and placing her finger on her lip, prepared a composing draught -for the young mother. - -Many days passed of the kindest care and the most rapid recovery. Both -mother and child were so well as no longer to need the constant aid of -the Sister. But she sat with Clara the evening before her departure, her -kind face lighted up with benevolence and interest in those she had -saved from death. - -“Holy Mary grant it may be best for both of you!” ejaculated she, as her -fingers mechanically sought her rosary and moved rapidly over it. - -“Amen!” said Clara, piously. - -“You have tasted the bitterness of death once. You can never dread it so -much again. I have attended many death-beds, I never saw any thing so -nearly like it as yours was; but for a little warmth about the heart, I -should have been quite discouraged; and then when I tore open your vest -the crucifix lay there, and I was almost sure you were living. Our -Blessed Mother would be loth that the pillow on which Jesus rested -should be hard and cold; and sure enough it was not half an hour before -your eyes opened.” - -“Dear Sister Martha,” said Clara; “I had dreams in that half hour which -I shall never forget to the last day of my life.” - -“Tell me them if you may. The dreams of those who have passed from death -back to life, must be foreshadowings and pictures of the life beyond. -Holy St. Ignatius had many such, when exhausted with excessive fasts he -lay in death-like swoons on the floor of his cell. Tell me, then, I pray -you, in what form death came to you.” - -“Like two vast dark wings, which grew darker and darker, and folded -closer and closer over me, till at last they seemed to brood over me, as -I have seen birds over their young. There was nothing strange or gloomy -about them—nothing frightful. They seemed to have a right there, and I -knew what it was; only I could not look at or attend to its approaches, -because I waited and watched first for the soul of my darling to pass. I -said it with my thought to the dark wings, and it replied—‘You shall -pass away together.’ Then it came closer to me, like a watching mother -to the bed, and I felt it come down on my eyes like a shadow, and then I -seemed to sleep a long, long while. Such a sleep as one is half -conscious of, and the refreshment of which he fully enjoys. - -“When I awoke, I found or felt myself in the folds, as it were, of a -cloud. It was rose-colored, and seemed made of music—but the music was -not set harmony either, and seemed composed of all natural soothing -sounds. The whisper and rush of the wave on the sea shore, the murmur of -the brooklet, or the sighing of the wind among the trees or over the -long grass; all sounds that are associated with peace and loveliness -filled and seemed to compose this cloud, for there was a mingling of -senses, so to speak, or rather all that was most lovely in sound and -color and odor embathed and permeated my being without my perceiving, -far less analyzing, the source of my pleasure. At length, as if the -natural body were changed for a spiritual one, I began to ascend and -descend on the pillowy clouds above and about me, I moved voluntarily, -and was conscious of an independent existence. Slowly came back the -memory of life and of its relations. But though I remembered my baby -entirely, I was without that agonizing anxiety for her with which I had -died. There were many soft female faces about me as I lay there, and -presently I felt that the Blessed Mother herself was among them, for she -leaned over me and smiled; and then, I knew without her telling me, that -my own baby was the one she held in her arms and gave to me. I cannot -express to you the home-feeling that this gave me. All about me grew -more soft and lovely, the forms and features of all more and more -distinct, as if they were careful not to oppress the new-born soul with -excess of beauty. - -“But when the rose-cloud floated away and the clear blue beyond of the -very heavens, sprinkled with starry light, of which our firmament in a -clear wintry night gives you but a feeble idea, I felt then the activity -of a spirit. With the celerity of thought we traversed, in bands or -alone, the infinite space, where we learned God in its beauty and -vastness, and learning Him, adored Him. It was but a beginning, a moment -of eternity that I had begun to taste, yet what years I seemed to myself -to live! Once only I saw the Holy Jesus, and then He spoke so gently the -words, ‘A little while, and where I am, you shall be also. Suffer your -little one, also, to come unto me, and forbid her not; she will remember -her first moments in heaven.’ - -“And then the next thing I remember was a dull, sluggish feeling, of -almost pain, and a choking sensation; and then, your face, full of -compassion, my kind Sister, beamed on me and consoled me. It had been a -grievous change from heaven’s angels, but that I found one of mercy on -earth.” - -“Very little like an angel,” said Sister Martha, with a smile; “but tell -me now, how the angels look.” - -“That is just what I cannot do,” said Clara, “no more than I can tell -how the soul looks that beams in your eye, but is not your eye,—how the -tears well up from your tender heart, and soften but do not suffuse. Ah! -with what body do they come? Something that without seeing, we love, and -before which, body, and feature, and form, even in this life melt away. -Even here we love what we never saw or can see, how much more in a -world, where thought meets thought with purest eloquence, unimpeded by -words or tones, where the glance of an eye speaks a clear reply to every -question you ask, and gentle affections lapse your soul in perpetual -joy. You love them, these angels, without knowing why, and without the -need of sight to feed the feeling.” - -“You have seen very much, Clara,” said the pious sister, “I would I -might die, to learn thus, how to live.” - -“Yes, life can never seem to me as it has done. I would that so it might -have looked to my darling child. I would that she might have the memory -of that fond embrace, and those touching words of the Divine Saviour.” - -Sister Martha never forgot this incident in her monotonous and yet ever -varied existence. In the varieties of pain and suffering which she -witnessed and relieved, she constantly remembered the young Clara and -her eventful entrance into a life which promised so little to innocence -and poverty. From time to time she traced her path, and administered -such consolations and assistance as were consistent with her own duties, -and when ten years after, Mrs. Neville sunk into a sleep of death, -Sister Martha closed the eyes of the parent, and bore the weeping child -to the convent of Chaillot, where she would have at least a shelter, and -the kind care she needed. - -Since her birth, Clara, or as the Sisters of the French Convent called -her, Claire Neville, had neither seen nor heard from her father, but her -mother, who had received no intelligence of his death, had constantly -looked forward, even to the day of her death, to a re-union with him -upon earth, and not an hour before she died, she had told the beloved -being, for whom alone she wished to live, that she was convinced that -she should not depart, without once more being consoled by his presence. - -A few moments before her final departure, her vivid fancy, acting on the -hope that had so long filled her whole being, produced the resemblance -for which she sighed. She raised her eyes to the door, and a glad -expression of recognition, illumined them with more than mortal light; -and while those about her in vain sought for the object of her mental -sight, she was evidently in a state of happy conviction that the so -long-lost was found, and that her child had, when most she needed it, -found a friend and a father. Her lips moved, but uttered no sound—she -gazed at her child, and smiled,—and, in that smile, passed into a -world, where is no more death. - -Claire remained at the convent, which was within a mile of the small -town of Chaillot, on the French coast; and, by rendering such services -as her tender age would permit—and by her unvarying sweetness and -gentleness, endeared herself to the sisters, and as they said, amply -repaid them for the slight expenses she incurred. - -But, deprived of the society of children, and having no person about -her, with whom she could precisely sympathize, the young girl grew up -with an isolation of spirit, easy to foresee, and a prematurity of -character, consequent on her position, which strangely contrasted with -her childish face. Her eyes, which were of a clear blue, had a sweet -seriousness in their depths, so far removed from the glad _insouciance_ -of childhood, as to startle you as you gazed, and for the moment to fill -you with awe, as if in the presence of a spirit—at least such was my -own feeling the first time I saw her. - -I had been ordered to the south of France for my health, and had been -stopping for a week in the town, near which the convent of Chaillot was -situated. Its white walls could be easily seen through the trees around -it, and from its windows the far-reaching sea suggested images of lonely -and solemn grandeur, in unison with the secluded character of the pious -inmates. From this institution, of all the passive virtues, came forth -alternately bands of those heroic spirits, the Sisters of Mercy, who -relinquishing the life of quiet inaction, which the convent induced, -went with their hearty sympathy, their cheerful aid, and their -unshrinking labor, into every abode where poverty, sickness, or even -pestilence cried out for a helping hand. - -Often a victim to this open-handed charity, this sublime self-sacrifice -would be brought home to the convent, to breathe her last. But never was -there a gap in these heroic ranks. As fast as one brave spirit fell, the -place was filled by another, animated by her example, and eager to take -up her cross. It was to this place, that the little Claire, taught by -the example of Sister Martha, looked forward as to the fulfillment of -her destiny. For this purpose, her education had, at the early age of -fourteen, fitted her for a nurse; and in the convent she was called on, -in all the little cases of illness which needed a soother. Nobody could -spread a plaster so smoothly as Claire—nobody could place a pillow so -nicely under the head as Claire—no one stepped so softly, spoke so -gently, bathed so coolly, as Claire—none murmured so monotonously the -rosary, or sung in a low tone the Ave Maria, so as to bring sleep on the -strained eyelids, as Claire—and her gentleness and assiduity had -entirely won the hearts of the good Sisters. - -One day, it was late in the afternoon, I had gone down on the beach to -walk, as my habit was, for some hours. The character of the shore for -miles, which was exceedingly bold and rocky contrasted with the smooth -expanse and soothing murmurs of the sea; and debarred by my want of -strength, from scaling the rocks, as I longed to do, I used to wander on -the white, hard sand, with a free feeling of delight, and an animating -glow, that was second only to the sense of power with which the strong, -firm step of the mountaineer springs from one cliff to another. - -On the afternoon I mention, this effervescence of the blood, which -induced a corresponding elevation and sensitiveness to the spirit, kept -me in a perpetual state of enjoyment, which I did not attempt to -analyze, but was content to feel. The sun had set, and the brilliant -hues over the water continually broke in little rainbows on the crested -waves. The air, balmy and fresh, was full of life. The birds wheeled and -circled in graceful joyousness over the lapsing, and seemingly conscious -ocean, which swelled and whispered its mysterious replies. For the first -time I felt my own spirit in harmony with nature in this aspect. -Formerly, an undefinable terror took possession of me at being left -alone with the ocean. It was the same with the sky. Many a time I have -glanced timidly at the depths of the sky, and shrunk from it, as if it -were from the presence of the Creative Power; and always when the whole -breadth of the sea stretched out his leviathan length before me, it awed -and oppressed me to such a degree that I did not like to walk alone on -the beach. Every wave, as it dashed up the smooth “untrampled floor,” -had come laden with sounds of lamentation. I had continually thought, as -I looked at it, how deceitful it was, in its beauty, and how its -magnificence and pomp covered sorrowing, and wrecks, and heart -breakings. But now, for no reason, all was different. The ocean seemed -like a great angel of God’s mercy, beautiful, vast, and conscious. It -married with the sky, and reflected all hues of beauty and glory, and -sang out songs of praise to the Power that made them both. My spirit -rose and mingled with the simple majesty of the scenery. I too felt -myself a child of God, and could understand and worship him. In my heart -were echoed the dim soundings of the sea; in my thoughts sparkled the -watching stars, and the still lingering sun-beams. The transcendant -beauty, above all form, yet which reveled in creative forms; the -vastness and vague splendor of nature, in this view, all spoke of the -Infinite in my soul. Deep called unto deep to praise Him, and I paced -hurriedly to and fro, with an excitement and elevation of soul that -rendered me insensible to the passage of time. - -The water was already dark with the reflection of night, when a light -touch startled me, as if I had received an electric shock. I looked up -and saw a sweet, serious figure at my side. - -“Madame is not aware that the evening is chill,” said she, gently. - -“Chilly is it?” I answered. “It seems very warm.” - -“You have been walking a long time—hours. Will Madame permit me to go -home with her?” - -She mingled the formal politeness of a stranger with the familiar _tu_ -that seemed induced by kindness and anxiety. I felt the feverish glow on -my cheek, and replied, “that I had probably walked beyond my strength.” -Already the re-action of lassitude and weakness crept over me, and I -could hardly walk, as we turned toward the village. - -“It is half a mile to the village. You are very weak. Permit me to -attend you to the convent near. It wilt be no inconvenience. Lean on me, -dear Madame.” - -She spoke these words calmly and slowly, but, as if she were to be -obeyed. I followed her mechanically, or rather tottered along by her -side without question. I felt too much exhausted to talk, and also the -need of immediate repose and care in my wearied condition. - -A few minutes walk brought us to the convent gate. An old man, who was -also the gardener, opened it, and two of the sisters hurried to the door -to receive us. A slight gesture from my guide, produced profound -silence, and I was at once taken to a room and a bed. - -I awoke from an unconscious state, produced I supposed by the sedative I -had drank immediately on my arrival, and looked languidly around me. I -remember my first feeling was one of surprise at the comfortable -appearance of every thing near and about me. I had never been in a -convent before, and had supposed, with the vague notions of -Protestantism about convents, that I should be put in a cell at least, -with probably a death’s head and cross-bones for furniture, and a -hair-cloth and thongs for entertainment. On the contrary, I felt myself -lying on a down-bed—muslin curtains gathered in delicate folds above -it—the windows shaded with the same material—waving lightly to and fro -in the summer night air. The oaken floor so highly polished, and the -neat table holding a nurse-lamp and some phials. Besides that, there was -no look of a sick-room. The lamp shone on the mild face of the Madonna -of Sassoferato, whose clasped hands and conventual garb seemed to make -her the tutelar genius of such a scene; and below, was the never-failing -crucifix of ivory on a bronze stand. - -Not a sound, but the sighing of the leaves against the window, -interrupted the midnight quiet of the scene. Refreshed and composed by -the judicious treatment I had received, I lay calmly recalling the -preceding evening, and wondering what my landlady at the village would -think of my being out all night. I might have spared any anxiety on that -account, as I afterward learned, as the good Sisters had at once -dispatched a messenger to assure her of my safety. In that small place -the arrival of a stranger is an event. The seclusion of a convent is -favorable to curiosity, and my name, situation, health, and person, were -perfectly well-known to all the good Sisters, though I had not chanced -to meet one of them. - -A distant strain of music broke the silence around me. I started, and -raising myself in bed undrew the curtains. A figure clothed in white -approached the bed, and I recognized at once the face of my yesterday’s -companion. - -“Do not be startled. It is only the Sisters.” - -She bent her sweet face over me, like an angel watcher. - -“You have been sitting by me all night, my dear,” said I. - -“Oh! that is nothing,” she answered, cheerfully. “I like to keep awake -in the night.” - -“But what can you have to occupy yourself with? Surely, you cannot be -satisfied with telling your beads over?” - -“I have my netting by me, and then there are always one’s thoughts and -memories.” - -“And your memories, my dear,” said I, “what are they? What can you -remember that is not so mingled with pain and deprivations, that the -contemplation of it must be sad rather than pleasant?” - -In reply, she told me in her own simple and touching manner the story of -her mother’s death, and the almost revelation that preceded it. - -“And how do you feel about it yourself?” said I. - -“I fully believe, madam, that such an impression would not have been -vouchsafed by the good God to my mother, unless it had been true, and -important also that I should know it.” - -“Then you still look for your father, my child?” - -“As I look for the sunrise to-morrow,” she answered, raising her clear -eyes to heaven. “Some day he will certainly come.” - -“And meanwhile!” - -“Meanwhile, I think of him continually. I imagine always how he would -like to have me conduct myself, and in all my little troubles I look -forward to the time when I shall feel no more sorrow. You will not think -me superstitious, madam, when I tell you that my mother’s heart is very -near to mine, and often I am conscious of heavenly thoughts that I am -sure are of her whispering to my spirit.” - -I would not for the world have disturbed fancies so sweet and holy as -filled the breast of this lovely child with any doubts of their reality, -even if I had not been more than half inclined to agree with her in the -belief of spiritual intercourse with the departed. - -“But, Claire,” said I, after a long pause, “it is a strange and terrible -thought, one at which we instinctively revolt, that close to us, by -night or by day, is a haunting spirit, even if it were our mother’s. It -seems to me I should so dread the answer, that I could never gather -courage to speak to such a spirit, if I believed it could and would -answer me.” - -“I suppose it would not answer. Ah! if it could do so, would it not long -since have responded to the agonized cry of the bereaved! But, though it -is not to sense that it speaks, the impression is not the less vivid or -credible. It is not what you see with your mortal eye, dear lady, that -you believe most fully and heartily. Even if we were to see the beloved -form or hear the beloved tones, a something would whisper to us of doubt -and incredulity. It would be ‘an optical illusion,’ or ‘a derangement of -the auricular organs,’ and we should very soon come to believe ourselves -entirely mistaken in the impressions we had received. It is only the -mind itself that can take distinct cognizance of its own objects.” - -“You speak like a philosopher, dear Claire. Where have you learned to -consider the subject so deeply?” - -“Of Father Angelo,” replied the young girl, simply. - -“And he is your confessor, I suppose,” said I. - -“Yes, madam; and my best friend. For dear Sister Martha, who has told me -of my early life, could not resolve my doubts and fears, and the -thousand anxieties that I should naturally feel, and I have been both -relieved and enlightened by free conversation with Father Angelo. He -must have suffered much himself, for his heart is so tender and his -manner so soothing, and yet he always strengthens one’s spirit so much, -with his calm views of another life, in this life of ours. Till he came -to us I never knew fully what sympathy was. The Sisters but half -understood me, and when I saw the excellence of their lives, when I -watched their hardy activity and their daily devotion to duty, I used to -feel sure that theirs must be the true thought that led directly to -right action, and that my world of fancies and mysteries must be a -morbid and unhealthy one. Still I felt constantly that ‘I heard a voice -they could not hear,’ and never till last summer, when Father Angelo -came to us, did I at all understand myself.” - -“And now that you do understand yourself, you are happy, my child?” I -asked. - -“As happy as one with unoccupied affections can be, madam. I feel that I -have much love that has never been called into action, and I fancy that -my father when he comes will fill my heart. Meantime, I see why it is -that there are depths in my soul that no plummet can sound, and where -the voice of God alone calls forth an answer. Sometime or other, either -in this world or a future one, these deep voices will find musical -utterance, and the harmony of the affections, which alone is wanting to -the harmony of nature, will make my being what God intended it to be.” - -“You are happy, my dear child, to have such a confidence; it comes -sometimes after suffering and sorrowful experiences, but seldom in the -bloom of life.” - -“And I should have wandered long and unhappily but for the guidance of -Father Angelo,” said Claire, her eyes radiant with grateful affection -whenever she spoke of this father of her best thoughts. - -I became curious to see Father Angelo. - -“When will he come here again?” I inquired. - -“To-morrow at furthest,” said Claire. - -“Then I hope I shall see him.” - -“Assuredly, if madam desires it,” said Claire, with a pleased look. “But -apparently, madam is a Protestant?” - -“Oh, I do not want to confess to him,” said I, laughing. - -“Pardon me, madam. But have you never felt that it would be a great -pleasure and privilege to confess?” - -“Assuredly not, Claire,” said I, more seriously. - -“Madam has had dear friends then, to whom she could express every -thought—confess every fault—and to whom she could apply in every -difficulty?” inquired she. - -“No—not always,” answered I, hesitatingly; “but, Claire, we believe -that to God alone we should confess.” - -“God alone can absolve,” said Claire, devoutly, “by the mouth of his -minister, the repenting heart. But there are so many things we wish to -say to an earthly friend, and to which we must receive an answer—” - -“But we believe the Bible to be a sufficient guide to all our darkness -and doubts.” - -“Morally I know it is, madam. And I do not say that its precepts will -not reach every variety of intellectual difficulty. But I have found -that conference with a superior mind is a great relief and pleasure, as -well as guide, in understanding the doubts that often weigh on the -mind.” - -“Unquestionably it is so, Claire; but we find those superior minds in -the circle of our acquaintances, in our husbands, brothers, and the -friends to whom we attach ourselves. We have not the need of confession -that you feel, isolated as you are from any guiding mind.” - -“Yes, madam, that is true. I can see that in such a case confession -would not be so necessary; but with us it is a great need.” - -She drew the curtains as she spoke, and sat silently at her netting. I -lay revolving in my mind for a long time the conversation I had been -holding with this strange girl. There was something in the maturity of -her mind and the dignity of her manner, that contrasted greatly with the -extreme youthfulness of her figure and face. Her eyes had a quiet -serenity that seemed the result of having attained, at a bound, the goal -to which humanity generally reaches after long and painful experiences -and mental vicissitudes that leave their unmistakable marks on the face. -But in Claire’s face, seen by the pale light of the room, was an angelic -wisdom, pure and high. Yet she did not look satisfied; or rather, she -was satisfied only in the thought of a future different from the calm -present. - -I asked myself how would this sweet flower bear transplanting? She had -no ties but those of gratitude to the place she was in, and as a sphere -of usefulness, some one more strong and hardy could fill it better than -she did. She evidently looked and longed for the arrival of her father, -more from “the necessity of loving” than from a filial feeling. I did -not myself believe that he was in existence, or that if he were, he was -worthy of her affection, or he would long ere this have sought her out. -Thoughts like these kept me wakeful, and when I undrew the curtain again -to speak to Claire, I found she had gone softly out, and her place was -supplied by a stout “Sister,” to whom I had no inclination to speak. She -told me, in answer to my query, that day was nearly breaking, and I sunk -to sleep in the hearing of the distant music of the morning-hymn. - -The sun was already high in the heavens when I awoke. Claire was sitting -by the side of my bed, and at my first motion, spoke to me with a -cheerful smile that well corresponded with the serene brightness of the -day. - -“Father Angelo has been here for some time, madam; I have been telling -him about you, for truly, madam, I feel as if I had known you a long -time, instead of only one night. He will be glad to see you.” - -“And I shall like to see him, Claire. But as I feel myself, thanks to -your kindness, quite recovered, I will not receive him so entirely in -dishabille.” - -In a few momenta I was dressed, and walking in the small garden attached -to the convent. Claire left me for a short time, and then came out -followed or rather attended by her friend. - -He was dressed in the common black robe of his order, with the cowl -thrown back so as fully to display his head and throat. For the first -time, I understood that he was not a monk, but only a clergyman, as we -should say. A priest, and not a very old one either. Certainly he had -never numbered more than thirty-five years. His face was entirely pale, -and his temples covered with dark hair, while his red lips and white, -even teeth had the grace of feminine contour. - -I was struck with the gravity, even to sadness, of his manner, no less -than with the beauty of his person. He uttered in a low, quiet voice the -usual benediction, and then asked me to listen to him, as he had much to -say to me. I replied with some surprise, that I was quite at his -service, and leading me to a rude garden-seat, over which honeysuckles -and roses made a natural bower, he said quietly to Claire— - -“You will leave us, Claire, for half an hour; and send Sister Mary with -some of her coffee and best buns.” - -This was not precisely the confessional I had anticipated; and in spite -of the little flutter of my spirits, this picture of myself, in high -colloquy with a Catholic priest, sipping hot coffee and eating nice -buns, was so laughable, that I could hardly keep my face in a state of -suitable gravity. - -Sister Mary’s white buns and fragrant coffee were delicious indeed. -While I partook of them, Father Angelo leaned his head on his hand in -profound abstraction. His complete absorption continued for some minutes -after the nun had left us alone. At length he raised his head, and -looking steadily at me, said abruptly, - -“I suppose it is vain to attempt any thing like a conversion of your -principles to the true church.” - -“Entirely so,” I answered, “as I was born and educated I shall probably -remain.” - -“So I thought.” - -Again there was a long silence. What it was to end in, I could not -guess; but I determined not to break it. My companion was evidently -agitated and uncomfortable. His red lips became pale and quivering, and -his brow bent. He rose from his seat, and paced back and forward on the -graveled walk. After some time had elapsed in this inward conflict, he -seated himself once more by my side, and taking my hand, addressed me -thus: - -“Pardon me for saying that I require from you a solemn promise of -secrecy in regard to what I am about to communicate.” - -I was somewhat prepared for a communication, it is true; but not at all -disposed to bind myself to secrecy with a stranger. He seemed to read my -thoughts, for he fixed his bright eyes on mine, and then dropped them -with an expression of embarrassment. - -“I should not have asked you, madam, for this pledge of secrecy, but -that it is of much importance—and—and I think you can receive no -inconvenience—possibly—” - -He stopped entirely, but again raised his eyes with an expression so -imploring, that I said at once, - -“Say on, sir. I promise you that nothing but the most imperative -necessity shall make me disclose to any one what you may tell me.” - -“Thank you,” said he, eagerly; “it is not on my account that I desire -secrecy. But there are many reasons—the good of the church—evil -tongues. When I have told you all, these reasons will readily suggest -themselves to your own mind. You are surprised that I should choose to -make an entire stranger my confident in a secret. But in the first -place, you are not entirely unknown to me. I have interested myself in -you somewhat; and there have been persons enough ready to tell me of -your ‘birth, parentage, and education.’ Of your mind and heart, Claire -has told me much this morning, in a long conversation we have had; and, -in short, circumstances make it necessary that I should confide in you.” - -There was something so heartfelt in the tone in which Father Angelo -spoke, something so entirely sincere, notwithstanding the mystery in -which the affair was enveloped, that I repeated what I had before said: - -“Whatever you wish to say to me, sir, I am ready to hear, to keep -entirely to myself, and to assist you to the best of my power.” - -He looked greatly relieved, and proceeded. - -“You have divined, before this, madam, the reason of my wish to confide -in you. You are a foreigner, a Protestant, a widow, and independent in -your actions. Claire needs all these for her friend and efficient -adviser.” - -“Claire! then it is of her you wish to speak? I supposed your secret -concerned yourself. She has told me of her own life.” - -“She has told you what she knew,” said Father Angelo, with the same -abruptness as before. Indeed, through the whole of our interview, there -was an earnestness which dispensed with the usual forms almost of -civility. - -“I have been waiting, watching for such an event as your coming, ever -since last year, when I first became fully acquainted with Claire, and -saw how unsuited she was to a conventual life. She has warm feelings and -superior intellect, and she is fretted continually by the discrepancy -between her inward and outward life. She would be a companion to you, -and—she has some means—” he stopped, and a slight flush passed over -his pale face. “I should not wish her to be a dependent on the bounty of -any person.” - -“I understand, however, from Claire herself,” said I, “that her mother -died poor, and that she has been indebted to charity for her support. -This father of hers—if he be living—” - -“You think he must be a wretch,” said Father Angelo, calmly, “so to -desert those who have every claim on his care. Be it so. He is a wretch. -And most wretched is he, that, seeing before him the form of his child, -and listening to the outpourings of her angelic soul, he should be -barred from acknowledging kindred with it, and forced, for the very love -he bears her, to tear her from him forever. - -“If you will accede to my earnest request, take Claire with you to -America—care for her—watch over her—be to her all that, alas! her -father must not be—and I shall feel that all, and a thousand times more -than all I deserve, and all I live for, is granted, and shall at once -enter a convent of La Trappe. I long for it—I long for eternal silence; -and have only retained my present position, that I might find Claire, -read her character, and do what I could to unfold and strengthen it. -That mission is accomplished. Her native strength of wing has already -carried her mind beyond what my feeble flights can follow. She soars to -regions of purity and peace, where my soul cannot revel, unless after -long years of penance and suffering. She loves the ideal parent, who is -to her the personification of all virtue; and it is impossible, and -ought to be so, for me to sully her thoughts with the reality which to -her must always be a source of disappointment and mortification, and to -me inexpressible shame.” - -This revelation was not unexpected to me, so far as regarded the -relationship of the two parties; but it filled me with much matter for -meditation. I had no curiosity to know the events of Father Angelo’s -past life. The lines of suffering, and the traces of strong passions, -were marked deeply on his marble brow, and composed even to severity as -his manner now was, I could read under the habitual restraint of his -expressive face, that no slight agony had wrought on a naturally proud -and sensitive spirit, before it could compel itself to forego its -sweetest pleasures rather than breathe on the purity of the beloved -object. - -After some time passed on my side in revolving what I had heard, and -what I was expected to do, and on his, in a distressful silence that -watched painfully for my first word, I asked, - -“But about Claire’s religious influences. She will have few of the kind -she has been accustomed to; and all her indirect influences, you must be -aware, will not be very favorable to her religious constancy.” - -“I think she will become a Protestant. You are surprised that I should -be willing to trust her in such an atmosphere. But there are some minds -that are cast, so to speak, in a Protestant mould; and hers is one. She -has not a great deal of faith, and her mind naturally tends so much to -inquiry, perhaps I should say skepticism, that I found it difficult to -lead her. I may as well say at once, that my own reasons for adopting -the profession and character of a priest, were first to discover her, -and know her mind more intimately than I could do in any other position; -and secondly, because the Catholic faith promises more to me than any -other religion. I feel the need of what it has to give; but to Claire, I -can see its spirit and forms are not so necessary. I am not bigoted nor -intolerant, as you see. Perhaps I am not a good Catholic. But I wish you -to understand that I am not acting against my conscience.” - -“These are strange words from a Catholic priest,” said I, looking at -him. A flush of impatience crossed his face again. - -“I need not qualify my words to you, I am sure. What I need—a wretched, -debased sinner—stripes—fasting—silence—and digging my own grave -daily—are not the necessary aliment of Claire’s soul, fresh from the -forming hand of the All-Pure.” - -“Then I understand that Claire, if I take her, is to be like my own -child; that no interference of any kind with my authority or influence -is to be allowed?” - -“There is no person living authorized to interfere,” said Father Angelo, -sadly. “Her father will be dead to her. And God will reward or punish -you as you deal by this forlorn and most angelic child.” - -“I accept the trust,” said I, with the same solemnity that was expressed -in the manner of the unhappy father. He took my hand in his, and holding -it up, repeated a short prayer in Latin, which I took to be an -invocation, but I said nothing; and, indeed, was so agitated and -exhausted that I could not speak. - -“I shall leave this place this morning,” said he, with a more composed -voice, “and shall send to you such information as may be necessary to -her future welfare in any possible contingency.” - -He rung a bell which stood on the table, and Claire came into the -garden, as if she had been in waiting. He made a sign to her to attend -to me, and as soon as I had taken the restorative she hastened to offer, -rose to go. I shall never forget the look of anguished affection that -spread over his pale face, as he murmured above Claire’s bright head the -customary benediction. His whole being seemed one thrill of pain. -Stooping over he pressed on her forehead a kiss of such love! and then -without another word hurried away. - -Claire looked astonished, as well she might, for she had never seen him -agitated before, though, as she said, she conjectured he must have -suffered much. - -“He feels sorrowfully at leaving you, my child,” said I, “he tells me he -is about leaving this part of the country.” - -She looked at me, as if she wondered at his communicating such an -intention to me, rather than to herself, but was too delicate to inquire -further. - -The same afternoon a package came to the convent, directed to me, and -contained, among other things, a letter from Father Angelo “to his -beloved daughter in Christ Jesus”—in which he recommended her to accept -the proposal I had made of taking her with me to America, and containing -besides some affectionate words of advice. It was brief, and I could -easily see that many feelings had prevented his being more prolix. - -I then entered more fully into the subject with Claire, of her leaving -her native country for mine. I found, to my great joy, that she was not -only willing but desirous to go with me, and that a night’s free -converse with me had given me much of her affection. - -“I have not dared to think, dear madam,” she said tearfully, “how -‘doubly lone’ I should be when you were gone.” - -“And you think you shall not long for the seclusion of Chaillot, and the -hymns of the Sisters?” - -“Oh, I dare say I shall long to see them. But meanwhile I do so long to -be with you, and to see something and somebody in the world!” - -“And you will be my own daughter?” I asked her now more seriously—“do -you know how much that implies? If I give you all I shall require much -from you.” - -“Not more than all my heart,” answered she gayly, “and that you shall -certainly have.” - -“Till somebody else asks for it,” said I to myself. - -The remainder of my stay at Chaillot was cheered by the occasional -visits of Claire, but the most of the time she spent at the convent, and -among the poor of the village, who loved her and mourned her departure. -When at last the vessel bore us both away from France she was deeply -affected. I was glad to see it: glad that mere curiosity and interest in -novelty had not dulled her heart to one sympathy. - -Arrived at Boston, we met the kind faces of friends, how kind and how -dear, we never feel till an ocean has separated us, and soon found -ourselves quietly established at my own residence, as if not a week had -passed since I was last there. Claire gained in a northern climate all -she needed to make her perfect—strength of body, and consequent -strength of mind. She was never weary of the bold natural scenery in -which New England abounds, and wandered and climbed till I used to beg -her to take care of herself for my sake. - -All this time I had a plot in my head. For what woman was ever without -one? Had I not a son, whose image was seldom absent an hour from my -memory, yet whose name I was careful not to mention to Claire? Who could -tell what might be in the future, if I did not mar its brightness by my -own interference? So I patiently waited the result of accidental -influences. I expected Herbert home by the next packet. He had been -prevented from meeting me in France, and accompanying us home, by -illness, and I had availed myself of the escort of some friends who were -coming to America, without waiting for his recovery. - -We had been returned for more than two months. The autumnal tints -already brightened with consumptive red the rich verdure of summer, and -the harvest-moon shone out with a calm brilliancy that almost mocked the -daily sun. Claire was delighted with Nature under its bold American -features. As I watched the daily development of her taste, and delighted -to see its refinement and richness, I felt that I could not have desired -more in a daughter, than was thrown as it were by the bounty of -Providence into my lap. - -We had been sitting in the old portico, with shawls wrapt about us, and -watching the moonlight on the clumps of trees, as it silvered and -sprinkled them with heavenly glory, and neither of us had for a long -time spoken. Claire, who connected all still, solemn beauty with the -thought of her lost mother, was, I doubted not, thinking of heaven and -her; and I was myself recalling my short and eventful acquaintance with -her father. Claire rose from her seat, and walked down the avenue a -short distance, then turned and stood by a fountain, which played by the -side of a larch tree. It was a pretty picture. The fountain, the tree, -and the moon, that embathed the girl, the fountain, and the tree in soft -splendor. Claire had removed her shawl from her shoulders, and stood -with it dropping off her arm, as motionless as a statue. Her bright, -waving hair lay over her shoulders—and like the spirit of the scene she -stood. - -As I, too, followed down the walk, I was conscious of a second figure, -which, as I approached, came out from the shadow of a tree. Once in the -light, I recognized Herbert, and did _not_ scream. Neither did I beckon -to him to look at, and fall in love with, the beautiful being before us, -because I felt very certain that if it were to be done, there could not -be a better time for him to do it without my aid. And with a -self-command, which I believe is rare among match-makers, I beckoned to -him to retire to the house, while I went forward to Claire. - -She was still motionless, absorbed in thoughts of a not painful -character, as was evident from the placid expression of her lifted eyes. - -“You will take cold, Claire,” said I, gently. - -“Thank you,” she answered, in her sweet French accent, “I am not afraid. -You know I am used to all hours and weathers.” - -“But I am going in now. My son has arrived. You have never heard me -speak of him, I believe—but I have felt considerable anxiety about him. -An anxiety which is now happily relieved by his arrival.” - -She looked a little surprised, but made no inquiry and followed me into -the house. I was curious to see the effect of this her first -acquaintance with an accomplished and eminently attractive man. Hitherto -she had seen no person above the common peasantry of the small town of -Chaillot, except Father Angelo. - -Three weeks after this evening, Herbert came into my room, whence Claire -had just gone to take a walk, and throwing himself into a chair, wiped -the wet from his forehead and hair in a state of unquestionable -agitation. - -“Come, mother! help me—help me, or I sink!” - -“What, really overcome? You, the redoubtable! the renowned! the -invincible! Can I believe my eyes!” answered I, laughing heartily—for -love-sickness, like sea-sickness, gets no sympathy—and I was really -pleased to see Herbert, for once, undoubtedly in earnest. - -“Now, a truce to your satire, mother mine. And a truce to your smiles -even. I wont allow that there is any occasion for grief either; but the -fact is, I cannot live, now, without Claire and her love—and she knows -it—” - -“Knows it!” - -“Yes!” said Herbert, impatiently; “and that’s the devil of it! While I -was endeavoring to wind myself softly, soothingly, you see, into her -tender heart, not to break it, you know, but just to set all its -faculties and springs fluttering, like pigeons, and to watch how she -should blush, and sigh, and droop—till, just at the right point, I -meant, when she least hoped and expected it, when she should -despairingly throw herself down, half senseless with excitement and -hopelessness—then, I meant to have stepped in. Now, mother, don’t -_say_, What an insufferable puppy! for I feel it enough, I assure you. -The fact is, I didn’t know myself what I did mean till half an hour -ago.” - -“Is it possible! Why, Claire has been reading to me nearly or quite half -an hour, and has just gone out to carry some comfort to old Nurse -Dobbins. No appearance of maiden agitation about her, my poor son, but -as calm as a clock.” - -The fact was, I had noticed that her cheek had a slight pallor, and had -recommended the walk myself; but this I did not think it necessary to -mention. - -“Doubtless!” was the pettish reply. “I wonder if she is not all ice—or -rather, whether she has a heart for any thing but old women!” - -“She certainly has a heart, and one well worth the winning, Herbert. But -not in the fashion you have been used to. All-conquering knight that you -are—you must lay down your tinsel and frippery, and don the helmet of -sterling gold, and break a lance for honor bright, if you would win -favor from this child of nature.” - -“Isn’t she, mother?” said Herbert, enthusiastically, “isn’t she the -noblest, and loveliest, and sweetest creature that ever the earth -presumed to bear up? You love her, I know; teach me how to love her, so -that she may love me! for it is true what I tell you. I cannot live -without her pure and beautiful heart!” - -I had never seen Herbert thoroughly moved before. Under an exterior of -frivolity he concealed the real fervor and enthusiasm of which I knew -him capable. But it had been long since I had seen him at all excited -about any thing. That Claire should interest him, was only allowing him -a pure natural taste; but that Claire should not have reciprocated the -sentiment she excited, puzzled me, I allow—for I was a parent. - -“Tell me, mother,” he continued—or would have done so, but that Claire -just at that moment entered the room, with her basket on her arm. Her -pale cheek now flushed with a rapid walk, was brilliant with health, and -her eyes met both Herbert’s and mine with a buoyancy and serenity, as -little like a love-stricken girl as could well be imagined. I saw -Herbert’s cheek turn pale, as he suddenly rose and springing through the -window upon the lawn, whistled to his dog, and walked rapidly away. - -Claire looked after him, and then meeting my inquiring eye, she stood -with hers looking clearly into my face. - -“And so my poor Herbert has no chance?” said I. - -She seated herself by me with a little embarrassment, which became her a -thousand times more than the serene self-possession so habitual to her. - -“My beloved mother—my benefactress!” she stopped. - -“Not a word of that, Claire. Hearts are to be given, and not bought. But -how comes it that you see nothing lovable or winning about Herbert? He -seems perfectly hopeless.” - -“I might have seen, indeed I did see, a thousand charming qualities in -Mr. ——,” said Claire, with grave simplicity, “but that he seemed to be -only amusing himself with me, and not in earnest about any thing. Least -of all did I believe him in earnest when he professed love for me. Love! -which I have always looked on as something so holy, so sacred, so -ennobling! a trust so solemn as another’s heart, not to be taken without -awe and trembling! Believe me, dearest mother, I did not once think, nor -can I now, that Mr. —— had an earnest thought in the whole matter. -Evidently he has only been amusing himself, and trying perhaps to amuse -me with the idea of having made a conquest. He mistook me altogether.” -She drew her head up a very little, with an expression that spoke of -wounded pride; but instantly dismissed it, and resumed her usual -affectionate look. - -“I hope you will not think any more about it, dear Claire. These things -are best dismissed from the thoughts. Shall we go on with our reading?” - -I spoke hurriedly, for, in truth, I was severely disappointed. I did not -think how much so, until I listened to the calm, decided tone, and -looked on the quiet face of Claire. Things looked hopeless for Herbert; -and I could not help sympathizing with him in his keen disappointment. -Meantime, as I knew affection could not be reproached into existence, I -endeavored to divert both my own mind and hers from a painful subject. - -Absence is said to be the death of love, I believe it is sometimes the -birth of it. Certainly, Herbert, if he had tried a thousand ways to -Claire’s heart, could not have hit on a likelier road than that which -led him away from her, under the pretence of going to Niagara Falls. - -“My body will go in search of the picturesque, mother,” said he, with a -faint attempt at gayety, “but my soul remains at home. It will haunt -you—both; and I charge you listen to its whispers that shall be in your -ears night and day!” - -“Farewell, Claire!” was all he said to her; and when he was gone, she -sat for some minutes, looking into the heart of a flower she was holding -in her hand, as if trying to solve a problem too difficult for her. - -Days passed, and weeks. We talked, and walked, and rode, and read by -turns, as we were wont to do, before this vision of Herbert had passed -over and breathed on the mirror of her pure heart. But no longer was her -eye clear, and her brow serene. She was disturbed and restless. An enemy -had come in to her heart to steal away its peace. When we read poetry, a -consciousness in her voice, gave meaning and depth to every passionate -tone; and when we walked in the November woods, their melancholy beauty -woke sad feelings kindred to the scene. I saw that her sensitive nature -was touched to its depths. She had begun to think, not that she was -loved, for her standard of that passion was too high to leave her in -such an error; but how sweet it would be to be loved. Her heart, like a -lonely harp-string, vibrated in every breeze, and seemed asking vainly -for its completing harmony. - -She did not ask me to read to her any of Herbert’s letters. I wished she -would, and once read to her what I thought a very capital description of -the cataract. But she only said composedly that my son had described the -scenery, and not his own impressions on seeing it. - -“I don’t believe any reality on earth could equal the descriptions we -have had of Niagara. It would need heaven and hell almost to body forth -the ideas that travelers have called up. I can only hope to be able, if -ever I see it, to forget all that I have ever heard about it, so as to -shrink before its magnificence as I should feel bound to do.” - -“Suppose we try, Claire?” said I. - -“With all my heart,” answered she, evidently glad in her restless state -to be going somewhere. I had previously told her that Herbert had gone -to Quebec. - -In a week’s time Claire and myself, with a man-servant, had reached -Albany, and there took the canal-boats to Buffalo. The wearisome journey -by stage-coach had admirably prepared us for the monotonous ease of the -boat. Fortunately there were very few passengers, and we lay in our -little clean white berths and rested and read as quietly as if we had -been in our own rooms. - -On reaching the Falls we were too thoroughly wearied to attempt more -that night, and went to our beds. - -On our way, a fellow passenger, experienced in sight-seeing, had -recommended to us to take our first view from the American side, and -from below, instead of the usual view from Table Rock. We therefore -crossed the river a little distance below the Falls, without giving way -to the temptation of gazing for a moment at the view before us, though -the roar was terrible in our ears. Then we walked on the American side, -closer, closer till we were within twenty feet of the cataract. The -spray dripped over us, the rocks were slippery to our feet, the roar of -a thousand floods seemed in our bewildered ears; and below, as it were, -the reverberating yells of damned spirits tossing, and whirling, and -dashing and howling forever. Then we looked up. The volume of water -seemed coming down from the very heavens upon us. We uttered a faint cry -of terror—turned round and fled. That is to say, we fled several yards. -No matter. We were impressed sufficiently with the physical grandeur of -the scene. It was oppressive, overwhelming. Afterward, when we roamed -over all these rocks and took views from every point, and gazed at the -cataract’s wondrous beauty as well as power, we found a moral grandeur -with which our souls sympathized, and to which they rose to enjoy and -adore. These jottings down of our impressions can give no idea to one -who has not visited the Falls, and to one who has, will scarcely enhance -his recollections. I mention them only to illustrate a trait of Claire’s -character. - -A mother with her child were wandering along among the loose stones and -sharp rocks close to the terrible whirlpool from which we had just -turned. The mother had let go the child’s hand, and he, a lad of some -four or five years old, slipped from the stone on which he stood, and as -a natural consequence was in imminent danger of his life. But one rock, -and that slippery and sloping, intervened between the little fellow and -certain death. The mother screamed, but was motionless from mere horror; -Claire, who at once forgot every thing about her but what was connected -with the living drama before her, pulled at a stroke her scarf from her -neck, and giving me one end to hold, while she held the other, slid her -feet rapidly down to the very brink of the torrent, caught the boy -firmly by his foot and stood holding him. She was as pale as death, but -as firm and strong in her attitude as if she stood on the parlor floor. -She dared not move, and I had not strength, and was too distrustful of -the strength of the scarf, to dare to pull them up. - -As we stood thus it seemed hours, though it could scarcely be half a -minute before relief was obtained by a rope thrown by a strong arm from -behind over the form of Claire, which fully supported her in her -perilous position. Immediately after she was clasped in the arms of a -man in a cloak, whom we had seen sitting near us in an absorbed -attitude, seemingly regardless of all about him. He had sprung from his -seat, caught up a boat-rope, which I perfectly remembered afterward to -have stepped over, thrown it around Claire, so as to support her, and -then giving the noose to my servant, who stood close but inactively -behind, steadied himself by the other end of the rope, slipped and -sprang down by Claire, caught up the boy with one hand and tossed him up -to his mother, and then bore the now fainting Claire carefully up to the -bank. - -The boy screamed wildly with fright, and the mother was voluble with her -thanks and offers of assistance. Claire remained still and motionless in -the arms of the stranger, and I watched the spray dash over her marble -face. Presently her eyes opened slowly, with a deep sigh. She looked at -her preserver and a beautiful color overspread her face. Then for the -first time I also looked at him, for to this moment no one had spoken -but the woman whose carelessness had put in jeopardy three lives. - -He had bent his head down to hers and had kissed her forehead, rosy with -returned consciousness. She replied by pulling her arm over his neck and -kissing, not his forehead, but his very lips. The woman and her boy had -gone, the servant discreetly retired, and there in the sound and rush of -many waters, in the turmoil of elemental war, the still, small voice of -two loving hearts, lately so near to death, was heard and registered. - -“But you wrote me, Herbert, that you were setting off for Quebec last -week. Who could have dreamed of finding you here?” - -“And so I did go to Quebec. But I used it up in two days, and then came -on here once more. In my then state of mind it was a relief to place -myself where you found me, and listen to the roar of the water from -morning till night. Now, I don’t care how soon we go away.” - -We did journey, however, for some weeks; and when we returned and were -once more in our own quiet parlor at home, I asked Herbert to come with -me to my room. - -“I am going to read you something, Herbert. Something about Claire.” - -Then I opened the packet which Father Angelo had given me. First there -was the official announcement, or rather a copy of it, of Father -Angelo’s admission to the Convent of la Trappe, in Piedmont, and his -consequent death to the world and every body in it. Then a separate -packet contained such particulars of his life as he deemed necessary for -me to know, and to communicate to Claire, if I thought proper, or to -whomsoever she should hereafter marry. There were also papers conveying -a small amount of property to her. Enough for her subsistence should she -be deprived by misfortune of my support. - -The man had been sinned against and was also a great sinner. He had -sinned against the young English girl, Clara, whom he had seduced from -her home under the false pretence of marriage, and whose fidelity to him -and trust in him had continued to her gentle death. Afterward to win for -himself the means of keeping up his dissipated habits he had recourse to -forgery, and had escaped in disguise, and narrowly, with his life. After -that he went to Rome; by a run of luck in gambling he obtained the means -of making a handsome appearance in society there, and by his -cultivation, taste and fine manners, so impressed an Italian family of -some distinction that he married one of the daughters. The marriage was -an unhappy one. His wife eloped with his friend, and the old drama of a -duel was acted over. Finally his resources were exhausted, and either -reason or conscience suggested to him the claim which a wife and child -had on his memory. At all events, he became an altered man, took holy -orders, obtained permission to travel, and did travel in search of his -long-forgotten wife and child. After a long search he found Claire. He -sought her society. He became her confessor and her friend. He learned -her pure heart, and her enthusiastic devotion to the memory of her -parents. Then the iron entered into his soul. He felt the impossibility -of presenting himself to such an innocent being as the realization of -such an ideal as hers. He now dreaded any chance by which his -relationship could become known to her, as much as he had heretofore -eagerly sought her. All he could do for her he did, but he constantly -watched an opportunity to secure to her an efficient friend, who could -take her into the world, and withdrawing her from the dull and confined -life she then had, put her into the way of forming connections for -herself which would in some degree lead her to forget or cease to look -for her father. The agony of being forced to deny himself every parental -caress, lest he should be forced to explain his relationship, and -consequently the reasons for his long and unpardonable estrangement, -made him wish a thousand times he were dead indeed, and he said he -longed every hour for the time to arrive when he should take the vow of -eternal silence, for such only harmonized with the gloom of his soul. - -It would be wearisome to go through all the details of such a life, of -such talents abused, of such a mournful old age. - -We talked the matter over freely and fully, and Herbert concluded with -me that it was best to burn the package, that under no possible -combination of circumstances could it fall into her hands. It should be -his happiness he said to make her forget to look for her father. - -How he found out how much she could bless him—and when she discovered -that though he was full of faults, she loved him, faults and all, I -cannot tell; but every body’s experience will furnish similar instances -for themselves or others. - - * * * * * - - - - - APPEARANCES. - - - BY J. HUNT, JR. - - - It is not by an outward show - To judge where sorrows first begin - An old, thatched cot, for aught we know, - May have a “banquet hall” within. - - How true this rule will oft apply, - To some who fill life’s lowly part; - Their very looks may Pain descry, - And Joy be seated in their heart. - - * * * * * - - - - - HOW CHARLEY BELL BECAME SENATOR. - - -The whole matter is this. - -The tea-things had just been cleared away, the baby just got fast asleep -and laid in his crib, my wife just got fixed by the round-table making a -blue velvet cap for him, and I had just got comfortably settled in my -arm-chair on the other side of the table, when Tom returned from the -post-office through the rain and mud and dark bringing one letter. My -wife gave a pish! when I told her it was not from her mother, but -apologized immediately for her expression when I informed her that the -letter—broad, thick and with a vast deal of ink in the -superscription—was from Charley. Giving the wick of the lard-lamp -another turn she begged me to read it aloud. - -Tearing off the envelope—drawing my chair a little nearer the fire and -clearing my throat I read— - - Rev. W.—— - - “_My dear W._—Elected! Apart from all nonsense and affectation - I am heartily glad of it! of course I received the - congratulations of every body here quietly, as if it was all a - matter of course that I should be elected Senator, but with you - I have no reserve. Know then, my _very_ dear W., that I am glad - I am elected. For three reasons. First, because I am elected - while just barely of the requisite age: Second, because I am - elected by an overwhelming majority—20 to 1: Third, because it - places me out in a free and higher field of usefulness and - energy. Why I feel as if I had just begun my life. I have not - attained the _end_—only the beginning of my ambition. I don’t - think that it ought to be branded as _ambition_—this feeling of - mine either. I _don’t_ think it is ambition. It is a purer - feeling—A wish, an eagerness, a _nature_ to be doing, - influencing, bettering as wide a sphere as I possibly can. I was - elected without any _art_ on my part whatever. I told the people - exactly what I was, and what I intended to try to do if they - elected me. I intend to be just exactly what I am! If I were to - try to appear other than exactly _that_ I would look as well as - feel mean—my arm would falter in every gesture, my tongue - stammer, my knees shake—I would become weak—weak physically, - mentally, utterly! A pure-minded, single-intentioned, - whole-souled manner in thought, word and deed has borne me thus - far like a straight arrow from a true bow. It is the shortest, - best way to cleave the future, I know. - - “There is a fourth reason why I do rejoice in my election. It is - because I know that _you_ will rejoice in it. It is _you_ my - friend who have made me high-thoughted and far-thoughted. It is - _you_ who during the last twenty years have been my good - genius—in your conversation when present with me—in your - correspondence when absent from——” - -I read the rest of the letter to my wife, but it is entirely too -flattering to me to be coolly written out here. Indeed I remarked all -along, through the three more pages which followed, to my wife, that his -encomiums were only the warm expressions of a warm soul unusually -excited, and which must be taken with all allowance. - -Charley’s letter flushed me through and through. That my old friend -should be elected Senator to congress from his State I hoped but hardly -expected. Intimate companionship with a friend, you know, has a tendency -to dwindle him in our eyes. Don’t misunderstand! Intimacy with such a -man as Charles Bell makes one love and prize him more and more—but does -_not_ make one think more and more that such a man is suited to be a -grave and reserved Senator. It is just as it is with the Swiss peasant -whose cabin is on a side of Mont Blanc—the hoary old mountain does not -appear a tithe so sublime to him as it does to some traveler in the -distance. - -I say I felt thoroughly warmed and rejoiced. I arose, put all my wife’s -spools and scraps off the table into her lap, laid my portfolio and -ink-stand upon it, begged my wife to absorb herself in her baby’s velvet -cap, dipped my pen in the ink and now have written thus far. - -All my past intercourse with Charley rushes to my lips now, as tears do -sometimes to one’s eyes. I want to tell just as briefly and distinctly -as possible how he has risen from nothing to what he now is. I know much -better than he—and if he reads this, it will do him good. Any-how, I -feel in the mood of writing, and before I go to bed, if my baby don’t -wake with the colic and my wife don’t interrupt me I will tell you -exactly how Charley Bell became a United States Senator. - -The fact is, too, that I have a half-hope that some youth may read this -and may get a word which may wake _him_ to a higher and nobler life than -he has ever yet dreamed of. If the eye of any such a one rests on these -pages, just one word my fine fellow. Forget for a little while that -everlasting Julia whom you fell in love with last Tuesday a week ago, -and read with all your soul of souls. - -I cannot exactly say when I did _not_ know Charley. He is some three -years older than myself—he being about eighteen, and I about fifteen -years of age when our friendship began to be a thing to be remembered. -He looked when I saw him a year ago exactly as he did when we used first -to chat cosily beside his fire-side, about Bulwer and Dora Anson. He is -of a medium size, handsome, earnest face, forehead broad rather than -high. There is a peculiar gentleman-look about him, wherever he is or -whatever he is doing. He has such an enthusiastic sympathy with every -man, woman and child he meets with that he is popular of course. - -His peculiarity, however, always consisted in a hunger after personal -excellence. From our first acquaintance we made a distinct arrangement -to tell each other of our faults as plainly as words could convey -meaning. If he did not faithfully do his part toward me in this -arrangement I am very, very much mistaken. He thought _aloud_ about -me—told me exactly what I _was_, and what I was _not_. I did the same -in regard to him. We have acted thus for many years now. We have been of -vast benefit to each other—and will continue to be till we die. - -I do verily believe that this arrangement had a good deal to do in -making him the man he is. - -Just in this way. - -When we first became intimate, and had made our arrangement as above, I -opened the war by talking to him as follows: - -“Charley, my fine fellow, you are ambitious to be a good speaker. -Now—you remember our little arrangement about correcting the faults of -each other?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, the plain fact is you have got a most miserable, squeaking voice. -Your chest is narrow, you stoop, you don’t have that broad, strong, -manly appearance which is almost essential to a speaker.” - -I saw he winced under this. He _felt_ eloquence deeply—he _thought_ -eloquently—and forgot that the thought must be _expressed_ eloquently, -or it is eloquence only to himself. - -That afternoon he made a pair of dumb-bells—and I do verily believe -that he has hardly missed a day from that to this in which he has not -exercised his chest and his voice in every possible way. No one would -ever think _now_ that he was not always the broad-chested, -powerful-voiced orator he is. - -It strikes me that even this little event had something to do with -Charley in his becoming a Senator. You never saw a narrow-chested man -who had any voice, energy or eloquence in your life. If _you_ have got a -stoop, my boy, you had better correct it if you ever intend being any -thing. - -I received from him one day a very, very plain exposition of one of my -many faults. Never mind what it is. He pointed it out to me as you would -point out a rattlesnake in a thicket to any companion you chanced to be -walking with. I saw it—this vile fault of mine—and have been hunting -it, and striking savagely at it, whenever I detect it stealing through -my conduct with its accursed insidiousness ever since. Alas! it is “only -skotched not killed” yet. But that is another matter. I only mention it -to say that his very plain remarks gave an edge to my remarks, as I -observed— - -“You are right, Charley, perfectly so—and I war against that accursed -fault forever. But it reminds me of one of _yours_.” - -“Eh?” - -“Charley, you have a vile, offensive, disgusting habit of chewing -tobacco. It is loathsome. If you would only keep the weed in your mouth, -why it would only poison yourself—but you will be everlastingly -spitting out its juice—and it poisons _me_—poisons me through sight, -smell, hearing and feeling. Don’t use it any more.” - -True to his own true nature, he never took another quid. Whether this is -one cause of his blooming health and firm nerve I will not say. I _will_ -say that it is one cause of his astonishing popularity with the -ladies—whether _they_ know that it is or not—and thus one cause of -this election of his as Senator. - -These faults of ours! I said they are like snakes. So they are. -Sometimes a man catches sight of one of them lying full-length in its -loathsomeness in his own conduct or conversation. Suppose the fault is -self-conceit?—a disease of mentioning one’s self at all times, which -you have contracted. Well, you see the same fault in some fool or other, -or some Charley Bell tells you of it. The knowledge falls like a flash -of daylight on the vice—you see it! If it would only perish—crawl -_out_ of you, it would be well. But the vile thing—crawls _into -you_—like a snake into its hole. It does not show its head while you -are watching for it. A day or two passes. You forget about it—and it is -out—drawing its filthy trail through all your conduct again. - -This is _not_ a digression. Because I wanted to say that Charley was a -man of too strong a desire after personal excellence not to wage eternal -war after such vermin. A shrewd observer would have known the existence -of his besetting faults only by the unusual prominence of just the -opposite virtues, just as you recognize the former drunkard in the man -who has a special horror now of all that can intoxicate. - -There were several minor defects in Charley’s character, which I pointed -out to him, but which he has so completely conquered that I have -forgotten what they were. - -I really must say something about that Dora Anson affair. - -Dora was the brunette daughter of an established lawyer in our inland -village. I see her as distinctly before me while I write, as if she -_was_ before me. She was some sixteen years of age—had the usual amount -of education and mind—was unaffected—warm-hearted—black haired and -eyed—rosy-lipped—woman-rounded form. Charley fell in -love—astonishingly in love with her. I was amazed. He was of an -intellectual, though impulsive nature; and she had no conversational -power—nothing in the world but a lively, natural, voluptuous sort of -beauty, to recommend her to him. - -Astonishingly in love. He made love to her by flowers, and was accepted -in the same way, before he went to college. He was absent a year. The -very night of his return he went to a party at her father’s, which -happened that night. He got a seat near her toward the close of the -evening—in a low voice made a passionate appeal to her, although -surrounded by company—went home—wrote her a still more passionate -letter. He was too impulsive—frightened her—had his letter returned, -and came to me, and as we sat on a log in the moonlight, told me the -whole. He was about twenty years old then, and the affection had -quickened, expanded, strengthened his heart even more than that -chest-exercise had his lungs. There was a depth, and breadth, and force -about his affection for Dora which stirred up his whole being. It rolled -through him like a sea, deepening and washing out the sands of his heart -till that heart became deep and broad. For months that love lived and -worked in him; at last it died out like the steam from the engine of a -steamship. - -When I see his hearty affection for his friends—his warm sympathy for -all among whom he mingles, which gives him his wonderful popularity, I -can trace it all back to that development of his heart under the hot -summer of that love of his for Dora Anson. I do believe that the genial -smile, the cordial manner, the melting persuasiveness of his tones, all -owe their development, if not their origin, to that culture of his -heart. The sun may have set which shone on his soul, but it left that -soul all ruddy and ripe from its warm rays. If Dora had jilted him, it -would have left him a soured man. If she had married him, it would have -left him a satiated man. In either case it would have injured him. But -she did not jilt him—did not marry him; he outgrew so sensuous a love -as that, and somehow or other they drifted apart. - -I believe, however—and my wife, to whom I have just mentioned it, -agrees with me—that his connection with Mr. Nelson had very much to do -in making him the man he is. - -You see, when Charley had finished his law-studies, his father and -mother were dead. He never had any brothers or sisters. One or two -thousand dollars was his fortune. Being a young man—now some -twenty-five—of fine appearance, and talents, and manners, he attracted -the attention of Mr. Nelson, a keen and rich lawyer in the village, and -in a few weeks he was settled in his office as a junior partner. For -some six months Nelson seemed wonderfully attached to -Charley—continually spoke of him with the loudest praise—over-rated -him, in fact. At the close of this period, however, he suddenly took -just as violent a set against Bell as he had before for him. Nobody ever -knew the reason of this. I don’t think Nelson himself did. The truth is, -the elder partner was a singular man. He always dressed neatly in -black—was rather thin, with a stooping shoulder, a retreating forehead, -a quick way of talking, and a rapid step. He was excessively hospitable -and generous, more for the sake of being a sort of protector and -superior of the guest than any thing else. Self-will was _the_ trait of -his character. - -But I am writing about Charley, and have got no time to paint this -Nelson. Enough to say that he took as vehement a dislike to Bell as he -before had a liking. He ridiculed and opposed and thwarted him with an -astonishing bitterness. Bell, at first, was staggered with -astonishment—then cut to the very soul with such unkindness from the -last man on earth from whom he expected it. But it did him great good. -It corrected his blind confidence in every man completely, and gave him -a quiet watchfulness of men in all his dealings with them, which was of -immense benefit to him. It destroyed in an instant all his false and -colored ideas of things. The faults of his character which Nelson -pointed out and ridiculed, and made the ostensible cause of his -alienation, were forever corrected—just as a wart is burnt off by -corrosive sublimate. Nelson’s extravagant depreciation of him after such -extravagant praise of him, gave him, in one word, an impulse to prove -himself unworthy that depreciation and more than worthy the former -praise, which did more for him than if his senior partner had given him -years of the most careful instruction and countenance. Besides, it threw -him suddenly on himself—made an independent man of him forever. Just -what that chest-exercise did for his lungs, that Dora affair did for his -heart, this Nelson matter did for his will—it deepened and broadened -and strengthened it to an unusual degree—it did very much toward making -him a Senator. - -My wife agrees with me that the little love affair of his with Marie -McCorcle had not much if any effect on our friend. Failing a little in -love with her when he was some twenty-six years old, for a remark she -made in a speech when May Queen, he proposed in a note—was rejected in -a note. Mounting his horse, he took a ride of some eleven days on -business somewhere. On his return he was over with it, except of course -the feeling of pique. The first day of his ride he chanted, as he told -me, the words of her rejection to “Old Hundred,” all day long, over and -over and over. The next day it was to a faster tune. He trotted his -horse rapidly back, making his hoofs keep time to the swiftest jig of -his recollection, as he rode into town with the words of her rejection -still on his lips. - -The rest of my task is a pleasant one. I like to think about Annie -Rennaugh—I love even to write her name. She was a cousin of Dora’s and -resided in the same town. I cannot say that she was pretty—but I can -say that she was beautiful. Just in this way. She was of a small, -modest, quiet appearance. You would hardly look at her twice if you saw -her in a promiscuous company. Only become acquainted with her, however, -and an irresistible charm is upon you. There is such a delicious ease in -all she says and does—such a deep mirth and artless confidence in her -that conquers without observation. - -She was a special friend of Charley’s. He confided to her from the very -first all his affair with Dora. I saw him one evening at a party with -her. She was seated in a chair by the door, with a saucer of -strawberries and cream in her lap. He was seated at her feet in the -doorway—enjoying the summer air—conversing in a low, earnest tone with -her as they took alternate teaspoonsful of the fruit. They were talking -about Dora—Charley’s _ideal_ Dora—as earnestly as if they were talking -love on their own account. - -Well, the full moon of Dora’s influence waxed into the full orb of its -influence upon her lover, and then waned, and waned. His friendship, -however, for Annie increased slowly—slowly, but most surely. When he -was whirled away for those four weeks by Marie McCorcle, he told her all -about it, and had, as usual, all her sympathy. Then he was off for -college and corresponded with her regularly. I was with him in college. -Many a time has he torn up—at my advice—the long letter he had written -her, because it was entirely too warm, even though it was directed in -the most _fraternal_ manner possible to “My dear Sister Annie,” and -signed, “Your affectionate brother, Charles.” - -You can see immediately how it all ended. A friendship begun in mere -indifference had ripened through six years into deep, genuine affection. -He never dreamed that he loved Annie until he found that she was -essential to his existence. For the first time he knew what true love -was. He found that it was _not_ the sensual flush of passion, such as -warmed him under the hot beauty of Dora—that it was _not_ the fever of -the imagination which diseased him under the moonlight of Marie. He -found that love was not a passion but a feeling; was not a fit but a -condition; was not a hot flush of blood, but the quick, even, -everlasting flow of the heart’s tide, giving health and life to the -whole man. - -I am writing nothing but actual fact, and so I cannot say how he told -Annie his love and how she accepted him. He has talked to me—I do -believe in all it amounts to several hundred hours—about Dora and -Marie. He has quoted to me at least one dozen dozen times every word -that ever passed between him and them, but he never told me any thing -about his love conversation with Annie. They are married. They seem -perfectly happy in the quiet possession of each other and of the -blue-eyed baby boy that laughs in their arms. - -This was the making of Charles Bell. A remark of mine has led to the -development of his noble form, and the establishment of that full health -so essential to successful labor. His love for Dora has expanded his -heart and warmed and flushed him all through and through with an -affection and persuasion and love, that shows itself in his every tone -and smile and clasp of the hand and word. His affair with Marie has -cultivated his imagination perhaps. His painful experience with Mr. -Nelson has corrected all false ideas of men—has given him caution, -self-possession, self-reliance and energy. He has learned to meet things -as they come; to do his utmost, and then, not only not murmur at -whatever happens but actually to acquiesce, to rejoice in every event. -Annie is an infinite blessing to him. He is full of impulse, and she, by -a silent, irresistable influence, controls and directs it. He is full of -noble aspiration but inclined to be fickle—she is ever pouring oil on -the fire of his soul as with an unseen angel hand—is silent and -uncongenial when he wanders from his better self—and thus draws him -quietly but irresistibly back. - -Of course there were many circumstances in politics and situation which -conspired to elevate him to his present position. I have only alluded to -the quiet under-current of his private life. I wrote what I have written -only because I felt like doing so. I do not think either he or Annie -will be offended at my freedom should they read this—especially as I -have not mentioned his State or his real name. I am heartily sick of all -romance and romantic ideas and descriptions of men and women, but I do -look upon the “Hon. Charles Bell and his amiable lady,” as the -Washington papers will call them, as two of the finest persons in all my -knowledge. Both are most sincere Christians, and singular as it may seem -to some, I regard their companionship and mutual influence as one which -is to last not only through this poor world, but through all eternity. I -would like exceedingly to write out my ideas on this point, but I cannot -do it now. Besides, the editor may be married to a second wife, and in -that case, would most certainly refuse admission to this little sketch -in the pages of his magazine. - - * * * * * - - - - - FUNERAL OF ALLSTON. - - - BY ELIHU SPENCER. - - - Speaking of Allston, I was told in Boston that his funeral was - by torch-light, after nine in the evening, and one of the most - impressive and befitting ceremonies ever witnessed. _New York - Correspondent Nat. Intelligencer._ - - Not in the glare of day— - Not to the common eye: - But lay that dreamless brow away - When night is on the sky— - When darkness drops her noiseless pall, - And torches light the funeral. - - Not in the glare of day— - Not in the pomp of wo: - Let nature veil the sanctity - Of tears, that none may know - Whose hushed but earnest griefs belie - The clamors of hypocrisy. - - Not in the glare of day— - Not by the reeking mart: - He loved the lone and twilight way, - The night-fall of the heart— - When, passion, pride and sense subdued, - The spirit wrought in solitude. - - Not in the glare of day— - Not to the common eye: - And though ye lay that brow away - When night is on the sky, - Long years shall yet remember well - The poet-painter’s burial. - - * * * * * - - - - - A LEAF FROM THE JOURNAL OF FLORENCE WALTON. - - - BY MISS SUSAN A. STUART. - - - “It was not strange, for in the human breast - Two master-passions cannot co-exist.” - - -“What a picture of delicious comfort, dear Aunt Mary,” said Cora Norton, -as throwing herself into the luxurious depths of a _Voltaire_ chair, and -placing her pretty little feet on the low fender, she looked around her -Aunt Mary’s _snuggery_. - -A cold, misty rain was falling without; but the ample crimson curtains -were drawn closely, so that no evidence of the inclemency of the weather -was visible within to its two inmates. The cheerful, crackling fire -threw over the chamber and its occupants “fitful gleams and red,” as -drawn closely on the opposite sides of the fire-place they chatted -cosily together. - -“Yes, Aunt Mary, you have so much comfort, so much repose, that I can -enter _con amore_ into your feelings, as you thus sit so tranquilly in -your well-lined, little nest, and take a bird’s-eye view of the -bustling, plotting, never-resting world. But, dearest aunty, your -darling little pony has just tired me sufficiently, so as to leave me in -a state of quiescence, in which state one of your pleasant reminiscences -of by-gone days would prove very acceptable. I hope, my dear aunty, you -know how to take a slight hint, for I am awfully modest about asking -favors.” And she crossed her little hands demurely on her lap, settled -herself still more comfortably, and with an asking smile on her roguish, -pretty face nodded her head in a very patronizing manner at her aunt, -saying, “_Commencez-donc, s’il vous plaît, ma bonne_.” - -“Well! my little chatterbox, is your tongue worn out at last, and you -really wish to play the part of listener! But, what shall I tell you? -Let us see! Florence Walton,” continued the old lady musingly, as she -rubbed her spectacles with her silk apron. “Yes, yes, she is given to -ridicule herself, and might _one_ day suffer from it, as my poor -Florence has done. Here, Co, count the stitches for the heel in this -stocking for me, with your young eyes, and I will try to think over -something about her.” - -“You have seen Florence Walton here,” said Mrs. Jordan, as Cora handed -her knitting back to her, “but you must forget her looks, if you wish to -have before your mind’s eye the proud, beautiful girl of my narrative. A -petted and spoiled child was Florence, when she and I were school-mates. -An only child—beautiful, talented, and winning in her affectionate -ways—with parents, who were the happy _slaves_ to her slightest -caprices, how could it be otherwise?” - -“I remember, as though but yesterday, when she was ushered in among us -school-girls by Madame Gaspard. As natural, we all sat silent and -restrained before the new-comer, who, unused to school-discipline, and -in all the freedom of her, but just-quitted, home-circle, was in the -habit of giving speech to the first thoughts that presented themselves -to mind, without caring for their fitness, and too proud to show respect -for our opinions, like another school-girl among utter strangers would -have done. - -“Yes! I recollect it as freshly as yesterday, and see before me now the -bright, fearless creature, as with an impatient toss of her glossy -ringlets she said half-pettishly—‘Pleasant as my home, indeed! I wish I -was there now, at any-rate, for I feel here as a cat _must_ feel in a -strange garret.’ And a smile parted her saucy lips, as we broke into -hearty laughter at this _compliment_ from the new girl. - -“That quaint phrase of Florence Walton’s introduced her at once, and -frolick and fun finished the evening. Many, and many were the scrapes -that her wit and laughter-loving propensity has brought upon her, but -through all her affairs beamed forth the evidence of a noble, generous, -bold, but quick temper, impossible to daunt, but, like the generality of -impulsive temperaments, led child-like and trusting through the -affections. I have seen Florence in after-years, for we were -school-mates a long, long time, throw herself in a perfect abandonment -of tears on her bed, after answering saucily and with light laughter, -some friend whom she dearly prized—and yet, after remonstrances from me -and advice for the future would reply—‘In vain, dear Mary, all your -good advice, and so would be my promises of amendment, were I foolish -enough to make them. I know, dear friend, my besetting sin—know it, and -I assure you, I most deeply deplore my weakness, which would prevent me -from making good any promise I might make you or myself for the future. -As well ask the bird not to fly, or the fish not to swim, as to make me -promise when irritated, not to use my only weapon—ay! sharper, I will -admit, than a two-edged sword. Mary, it is my misfortune more than my -fault. I have felt—keenly, bitterly felt—how wrong I am in acting -thus. In casting from me by ridicule and foolish jests, friends whose -affection I dearly prize. Oh! you cannot tell how I have struggled—how -in my own heart-communings I have determined to be more guarded for the -future. But the future was ever as the _past_. My sin is too strong, and -I too weak.’ - -“Many such conversations have we held together and I, Cora, was a wicked -sinner myself, then, and knew not God, nor the efficacy of prayer, -therefore I could not tell the erring, but warm-hearted girl, to cast -her burthen at the foot of the Cross; and that from the knowledge of her -_weakness_ would come her _strength_, for that He, the Mighty One, loved -to help the weak ones, who come as suppliants to his throne. Ah! yes, we -were wicked, and only thought of such things not being _respectable_, -instead of their sinfulness! - -“Time sped on, working his changes as he ever does, and our school-days -passed like our girlhood, never to return. Florence and I made every -promise of everlasting friendship when we parted; kept, too, I believe -as faithfully as if made in more mature years. The first letter I -received from her after we had both left for our homes, told me of the -death of her father, which was very sudden. The newspapers announced -shortly after this, the demise of her remaining parent, and my heart -clung still more fondly to her, poor thing, for she had no brothers or -sisters to sympathize with her in this sad bereavement. She was now -alone to struggle with the cold world, which made no allowance for her -faults of the head, but were visited upon her as crimes of a darker die. - -“Years elapsed, and nothing more reached me of Florence. I married your -uncle, dear Cora, and spent many, many happy years with him _here_, in -my little nest as you term it, when death also came to tear him from me. -Then, too, with my sorrow, came the oftener thoughts of my girl-friend, -Florence Walton. Wondering had she ever married—was she a mother, a -widow—and still above all came the wish that I could see her once -again. I had written to her frequently, but my letters were never -answered, and so I began to imagine that time had blotted out _my_ name -from ‘memory’s page,’ or that she had gone forth into the world under -some other cognomen, and that my letters had failed to reach her. -Somehow, I could never think her dead, there was too much life and -liveliness in my ideal of her, to join them together. - -“Other thoughts began to have influence over me, when one day among -letters and papers, came one, bearing my name in her own hand-writing! -That old, familiar penmanship brought back, like some fondly remembered -strain of music, thoughts of childhood’s happy days, and my heart leaped -forth in love welcome to the writer ere I broke the envelope. How much -more were my feelings stirred within me, when the warm, passionate -nature of Florence beamed forth in every line. She proffered a visit to -me, telling me, that she too had known sorrow, deep, lasting—and when -she thought of my happiness, she could not bear to lay open the still -tender wound; but I had suffered, as she had very recently learned, and -could therefore without additional heart-pangs give my sympathy to a -friend, my own, old, wayward, school-friend.” - -“How quickly did I respond, and urge her to come speedily, and she -came.” - -“Yes, dear aunty,” said Cora, “I recollect her now. I was a tiny one, it -is true, but I remember well a lady, who dressed in mourning, and was -accustomed to walk evening after evening up and down the broad portico -with you, while I, too, would endeavor to keep pace with you, till tired -out I have thrown myself across the door-step and slept, unconsciously, -until you became aware of ‘my small existence,’ and gave me to Elsie, to -put in bed.” - -“Yes, dear Co, I plead guilty; for the fascination of Florence’s -conversation, tinctured, too, with sadness, was sufficient to make any -one forget their own identity. It was during that visit she narrated all -that happened to her during our separation. But, as I am but little -skilled as a _raconteuse_, I will, after Elsie has given us our tea, -lend you her journal to glance over. She said, when she gave it to me, -‘This journal, my dear Mary, will bring me and my trials sometimes -before your eyes; for I cannot bear to be utterly forgotten by the one -being who has loved me through evil as well as good report. Besides, I -think it sinful to remind myself, by looking over these blotted -pages—which, strange incongruity as it may appear, I cannot bear the -idea of destroying—as they make me unhappy and discontented, by -recalling times past, that were better forever to lie buried in -Oblivion’s stream.’ - -“There, Co, is the manuscript—rather formidable in its closely written -pages; but to me, so full of interest, that I should have read it were -it six times as long. So, read it to yourself, dear, after you have -given me my tea, and then I will attend to my little domestic concerns; -for though ’tis, indeed, but a ‘wee nest,’ yet the birds of the air do -not minister to me.” - -“Thank you, dear aunty. Now, Elsie, my good Elsie, please hurry with the -tea-waiter; for I am so famished with _curiosity_ to read these yellow -leaves, that I will pardon any supper, if ’tis not _comme il faut_, if -you will only hurry!” - -My readers will imagine the refreshment past—the wick of the lamp -raised—the shade adjusted—and the fair Cora, with her head supported -by one tiny hand, hid in a shower of curls, seated at the centre-table, -in the most comfortable of all chairs, and deeply intent upon the pages -of - - - THE JOURNAL - -_Tuesday night, June._—Well, ’tis over. To-day I arrived in my new -home; and setting aside my longing after a _home_-feeling, which I have -ever felt since the death of my dear, dear mother, there is no place -that promises more domestic enjoyments than Alton; especially if Clare, -my cousin, will love me and let me love her. She is a pretty girl, not -beautiful, I admit, but sufficiently comely. My good, kind uncle, too! I -can love _him_, I know; for how careful—how very, very tender was he of -my feelings on our road hither. My room, also, is very nicely arranged; -and as I glance around, I think I may again be happy, _even_, though I -am dependent on my uncle’s bounty. I must to sleep now, for I am too -sleepy now for aught else. - -_Monday._—Several days have elapsed since I last wrote; and I begin to -love my old uncle in reality. There is yet another member of our small -family circle, whom I did not see the first day of my arrival. It is an -old lady, claiming cousinship with my Uncle Alton, and carrying herself -with quite an “_air_” to myself. Very strict, too, she seems in her -religious views; and yet sadly lacking in herself that charity for -others which, in my eyes, is the light, “pure and undefiled.” Ah, me! I -must stop, or I shall be wanting in that which I am so lauding. How -lonely—how very lonely do I yet feel! no nearer my _home_ of the heart -yet, I fear me. My uncle I love; but—my Cousin Clare is so strange. Can -she love, or is she like one of those incomprehensible characters of -whom I have read, who keep all those feelings hidden deep within their -heart of hearts, until they die away of themselves, leaving them in -reality as callous as she now seems to me. I have tried to settle myself -to my usual employments. I sew, I read, and tune my guitar occasionally; -and often wander out, with my books, into those grand old woods around -Alton, and sitting there under their deep, dark shadows, find -companionship in my thoughts. My Cousin Clare I did ask once to -accompany me, but was refused, on account of household duties; and Mrs. -Dudley added, with an expression of countenance, to emphasize her -speech, “Clare, Miss Walton, thinks of others besides herself. For my -part, I never admired those tramps through the woods, of which some -young ladies are so fond.” And her mouth was settled into that -self-complacent expression, as if perfectly satisfied of the effect -produced on me—imagining that poor I must be abashed into utter -prostration before the majesty of her disapproval. Nevertheless, I still -walk, and will continue doing so, with or without approval, which I -neither value nor seek. - -_Thursday night, July._—What a difference will the arrival of an -agreeable person make in a country-house. Now, yesterday and to-day are -so rapid, compared with the preceding weeks. There has been an arrival -at Alton. No less a personage than Col. Dudley, a nephew, by marriage, -to my old plague. His health, it seems, is not very good—and he passes -the summer here to re-establish it. He lives in the “sunny South,” and -gives me some glowing descriptions of it. I have some one now who is in -reality a companion; but, although this seems equally agreeable to me, -and to himself, it does not seem to be relished as well by Mrs. Dudley. - -_Sunday, September._—Many weeks have elapsed since I have written in my -journal. I have been so happy, that I took no note of time. Col. Dudley -has been my constant companion; and Mrs. Dudley, his aunt, though always -making little plans and plots to draw him into her own and Clare’s -society—from which I am as much excluded by my own choice, as their -habitual reserve—has not succeeded as yet. I am sure to find him at my -side, whether in a walk or ride. And these same glorious woods—so old, -so grand—how beautiful they are becoming now, as the “melancholy days” -draw nigh. What made the poet say the autumn days were the “saddest of -the year.” I am sure he must have been indulging in a poetical license, -for to me they are infinitely joyous and gladsome. I know—I feel that -Hugh Dudley loves me; and yet why does he not ask me to be his. Perhaps -he waits for a manifestation of my feelings for _him_; but _that_ I -shall never evince, dearly as I love him. I know that he is proud—so -much so, that much as I love a proud man, it becomes almost a fault in -him. But I am also proud; and where I most love, there am I always the -most reserved. I wish him to know “I would be wooed, and not unsought be -won.” - -_Wednesday night._—How happy! how immeasurably happy am I! I can hardly -realize these joyous feelings! I have just entered my chamber, too -excited for sleep; and seeing my journal lying close to the -writing-desk, have opened it to put in words, my joy. It appears -unaccountable to me, how, for one moment, I could have imagined myself -happy before, when I compare my present ecstatic feelings to what I can -remember of ever experiencing. It seems that my heart is opening in -love, to the whole world. I could even take Mrs. Dudley with the kindest -affection to it, if she would allow me; but why or wherefore she -_dislikes_ me, and _will_ manifest that feeling for me. Even my -perceptions of the beautiful have grown so much the more lively; and the -meanest thing of earth—the mossy trunk—the cloudlet—the sky—the -stream—the wild-flower—are _all_ floating in an atmosphere of light -and beauty. And why is all this? Oh! my proud heart, you are now -satisfied; and you can answer, why this ecstatic feeling. _I love_ and -_I am loved_! Hugh Dudley—_my own_ Hugh—has told me this in words—so -wondrously eloquent—and has, at last, sued me to become his wife. He -wished our marriage to take place at once; but for all sufficient -reasons, I have begged him to defer it till next summer. Then I will go -forth with him among strangers—with him who is my world. I have found -at last my _home_ of the heart. ’Tis in his love—his ardent, -disinterested love. And why did I not marry him at once, and go with him -to his own sunny home? I could not, proud heart that I am, bear to owe -the very dress in which I should be decked at the altar, to the bounty -of my uncle—how much less to Col. Dudley. Though I have a home with -them—that is, shelter and food—yet my right hand should be cut off, -ere I would take pecuniary aid from any. They all look cold upon me now, -even my uncle. I have ever conducted myself respectfully—nay, even -affectionately toward him; but, for some reason or other, he has altered -toward me, and I have drawn myself again into my reserve. I have -undoubtedly thwarted some cherished plan of his, with respect to Clare -and Dudley; but even my _dependence_ on him—_gratitude_ will not be -forced—will not allow me to regret what has happened. Oh! so -contented—so blest am I—that cold looks from the world are unregarded, -so long as I am conscious of his love. I had been sick, and sad, for two -days and more; my heart and head seemed bursting, for I could hear, in -my chamber (where sickness kept me prisoner) the sound of mirth and -enjoyment going on below. Even the unwonted laugh of Clare was echoing -merrily, as if my absence kindled a fire of joy in her bosom of ice; and -my jealous heart told me she was happy, because of the attentions of -Col. Dudley. I could not endure the thought of his wasting upon her one -smile—one word beyond those of common civility. Very, very wicked was I -on that bed of sickness; for every time I could hear the voice of Mrs. -Dudley calling upon my cousin, in a gladdened tone, I would half utter -aloud, “Yes! that vile old woman is satisfied now. She thinks he will -love that icicle—that automaton.” Yes, wicked I was, indeed; but then, -sick and suffering, I should have been treated with more sympathy by -those under whose roof I then was eating the bread of dependence, it -would have made it less bitter—not near so choking. _One_ ceremonious -visit for the day from Clare—one message of inquiry from my uncle, was -the sole interest that was bestowed upon me. How can it be wondered at, -then, if my heart grew bitter toward them; ay, even to him, for if he -inquired, it was never told me. But the bitterness I felt toward him was -different from that which I felt toward my uncle and cousin. When I -reflected on their conduct, there was a mingling of anger and revenge; -when on him, the tears would rush to my eyes, an aching feeling to my -heart, and I would say, “Could I only die now, would he shed one tear, -or be saddened by the cold, pale face of her whom he must have known -felt something for him beside mere friendship.” And then I would hide my -eyes in the pillow, and weep in pity over the sad fate of myself which I -thus pictured. - -As these bitter, bitter thoughts careered through my brain—increasing -its ache—how did I sigh for the rest of the grave. “For the living know -that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they -any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. Also their -_love_, and their hatred, and their envy is now perished; neither have -they any more a portion for ever in any thing that is done under the -sun.” I snatched my journal—in my longing to unburthen myself of my -weight of wo—and scribbled what I here transcribe, but which from shame -I have since torn out: - -“Why, oh Father! didst thou see fit to throw me here in this bitter -world, to suffer and to struggle _alone_! Alone must I suffer—alone am -I in my love—alone in my despair—and when dying solitary, and I am -bore to the rest of the grave, I shall be unwept, unthought of. Well! be -it so; only, Father, teach me to bow in submission and to drink without -murmuring of the bitter cup. I already look upon the tomb, as the -storm-tossed mariner to his haven of safety, ‘where the wicked cease -from troubling and the weary are at rest.’ Ah! how few care what the -motherless one, cut off from the world by poverty and other adverse -circumstances, must endure. My wishes and my hopes are mine, and mine -_alone_. I feel, as I imagine the deaf and dumb one does, whose heart is -full of love, and bright, warm, beautiful fancies, and who cannot give -them words. To whom can I utter them? All, all these feelings must be -forever buried in the depths of mine own sad heart, and nothing but the -froth, the foam, and the weeds, be thrown on the surface for the world’s -gaze. Oh! how I envy those who have fond parents—a dear brother—a -loving sister. How I long for a sympathy—a resting-place for my -affections, which I despair of ever finding on earth, but which I hope I -may realize with Him, the Father, who has given me this capability of -loving.” - -This was written after hearing what my imagination—heated with fever -and jealousy—construed into a light laugh from Dudley, immediately -under my window. I knew it was _him_, for I heard the crashing sound of -his boot-heel on the gravel, and the mingling tones of his aunt and -Clare. They had all been walking—for I sprang from the bed to ascertain -the fact. Yes, walking! For Clare was leaning on his arm; her sun-bonnet -dangling by the string from her hand, and to my jealous eye she had -never looked so near to beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed, and a smile -_almost_ loving parted her lips as she looked up into his face. They had -stopped to admire a flower, over which Mrs. Dudley still leaned, and -he—apparently—was describing some of the same kind he possessed. How I -hated Clare, at the moment, there standing with her hand upon his arm, -when there was no necessity for the support; loving him, too, as I knew -she must—though in what manner I could not picture to myself—for I had -ever thought from her impassable nature it was the blood of _fishes_ -which filled her veins. As I looked upon the group my dejection became -intensified into agony. I felt utterly _alone_, and I wished for some -kind Samaritan to pour the oil of sympathy into my bleeding wounds. It -was then I wrote, and in the despair of my soul I felt that all was -vanity and bitterness, and that I had deceived myself entirely—yes, -blindly deceived myself. _He_ cared not for _me_—whilst I was writhing -in pain, _he_ was merrily and gleefully laughing with those whom he -knew, as well as I did, loved me not. - -How changed my feelings now from those penned above, wrung from me by -jealousy and despair! ’Tis as if I had been groping in some dark, -noisome cave alone—ay, alone and fearful—and had suddenly entered an -inner chamber, before unknown, where a thousand lights are dancing and -reflecting against its brilliant columns and gem-like stalactites -pendent from its illuminated sides and dome—so beautiful—so sudden has -been the change. To begin at the beginning and tell how came this -change. - -For three days had I kept my room. On the afternoon of the third I stole -out unobserved, as I thought, and made my way to the old, sombre-looking -forest—my favorite haunt—where, under its dark, umbrageous trees, amid -its gloom and solitude, I sought for companionship for my own sad -thoughts. Seated on a fallen tree, turning with my foot the dry leaves -listlessly, and hearing the moaning and sighing of the breeze through -the tree tops. No other sound reached me; but I started up wildly—for -sickness had made me nervous—as a hand was laid upon my arm, and -scarcely heard his loved voice, softened into tenderness, for the loud -beating of my own poor heart. - -“I hope that I have not frightened you much, dear Florence. Have you, at -last, got well?” - -“Not entirely; but I am better, Colonel Dudley, though still I have some -remains of my headache.” And I closed my eyes, which were rapidly -filling with tears, and turned from him my face, that he might not -observe them. - -“Your illness has been a sad, sad trial to me, Florence,” said he, -softly. “I missed you more than I can tell you. My nights have been -sleepless from anticipation and from disappointment at not seeing you, -as I hoped each day to do, when I arose. How I sighed for your -companionship. Even after I went to my chamber last night, I again left -it when the whole house seemed to be quiet, and wandered _here_ to your -favorite spot where so oft I have listened to you. I have inquired each -day concerning you till I am fearful I tired the patience of both your -cousin and uncle. They said you were only slightly unwell, but that it -was your custom to keep your room when annoyed by companionship not -pleasing to your taste, made fastidious by a long residence in the city -and by novel-reading! You see how candid I am, but I have my reasons for -being thus explicit. I thought them unkind—I began to think if I were -the one who had wearied you, and memory, faithful to your charming ways, -said at once ‘no’—for I could see that my company was more welcome than -that of my aunt and your cousin. Nay, start not from me, dear Florence, -I mean nothing to injure the most sensitive delicacy, but to show you -the meditations to which I have been led by your sickness, and let you -decide for me whether my future is to be happiness, almost too great for -reality, or entire wretchedness. I blame you not for not seeking the -society of either your cousin or my aunt, for neither are, or could be -congenial; and who, I am sure, from some cause or other, are not -friendly to you. Tell me now, why did you not send me even one word, -formal though it might have been, to my bouquet—arranged with as much -skill as I possessed, and bearing its Oriental meaning for your eye to -read?” - -“Your bouquet!” And in my surprise I turned to him my face, forgetful of -my tears. “When did you send it—and by whom?” - -“Tears, dearest Florence! Did you not receive it? But say that, and a -load will have been lifted from my heart. Did not Miss Clare bring you -one from me yesterday morning?” - -“Never; nor even the simplest inquiry has reached me from you.” And my -eyes looked the reproach I did not utter. - -“Strange, very strange! What could have been their motives for this -conduct? Yesterday, dear Florence, I sent a bouquet, hoping that it -would commence what I have so long wished but feared to tell you. I sent -you a rose-bud and other flowers, of which you yourself told me the -language when we sat by the window, one rainy afternoon, longing to be -out for this same walk. You laughingly did as I requested you, -instructed me into their meaning, and I said that when I sent a bouquet -so arranged, the lady who might receive it must think it uttered what I -feared to say. Ah! Florence, I was sure that you knew I was speaking in -serious earnestness, for your face colored brightly, and I could see the -trembling of the little fingers as you began to untie the flowers, -though you carefully kept your face averted. Will you be angry with me -when I say, that I began _then_ to hope what I so earnestly wish to ask -from you? Do you not understand me, Florence?” - -I answered not, but sat with face averted, and head bowed, to hide the -emotions his words caused. - -“Your answer is needless, for I know that you long ago have understood -my heart. Yes; last night in this your favorite spot I sat me down to -think upon you, and your winning, artless character. I felt that with -you I should be content to exclaim, - - ‘Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place, - With one fair spirit for my minister, - That I might all forget the human race, - And, hating no one, love but only her.’ - -And that fair spirit you are conscious, sweet Florence, must be -yourself. Say, will you be willing, dear one, to minister to me through -life?” - -I could hardly repress the low cry of joy which sprung from my heart to -my lips, yet I did so, and sat apparently calm at his side, whilst he -continued still more passionately— - -“Yes; _you_, dearest Florence, are the fair spirit whom I devotedly -love. Tell me, can you—will you be mine? And, though a desert be not -our dwelling-place, make with your love a paradise of my earthly -habitation. Say—answer me _now_, Florence, dear one—will you be my -wife?” - -I did not answer—I could not; but I leaned my face against his -shoulder, and, as his arm encircled me, he bent down his head and -whispered what answer he wished me to make. We left _our_ favorite walk -engaged—with _one_ hope—_one_ love—_one_ joy. As if in charming -coincidence with our happiness, how gloriously beautiful was the aspect -worn by surrounding objects. And we asked one another, in sympathy, -could any thing in England, France, or Italy—in the way of trees—be -equal to our forests, as they then appeared? So many kinds—so many -shades—so differing in foliage: now dense and rich in living green—now -sparse, showing the satiny boughs of the elm, or the rich brown trunk of -oak, or its mossy covering—now the light, feathery foliage waving as in -spring—all so varying, yet commingling, and from their very contrasts -making the effect more striking, and forming a whole of harmony, like -unto some gorgeous picture. And then the sunset, as we stood on a rising -hill to gaze upon his setting, on this our happy evening! ’Twas as -glorious as ever Italia’s sky could boast. Little cloudlets of burnished -gold, whose upper edge wore a pale violet hue, were floating in a sea of -rose; whilst above and around was the pure azure canopy. And all these -were changing in form and tint, as lower, and still more low, sunk the -sun—like the fabled changes of the dying dolphin—till the whole -sobered down into the soft gray of twilight. Then we turned for our walk -home. How tenderly did he fold my shawl around me, and whisper lovingly -as he drew my hand under his arm, that I must be careful now of my -health for _his_ sake, if I would not for my own! - -As we turned into the graveled walk leading directly to the house, we -met Clare and Mrs. Dudley. I saw them before he was aware they were -approaching, for his head was bent toward me as he uttered words of joy -which thrilled my heart, so long aching for sympathy and _his_ love, -with a happiness almost amounting to agony. How red grew my face as -their eyes looked full upon us! How surprised the stare, how cold their -passing salutation to us both! But little either of us recked now. Every -thing with me was forgotten but the certainty of his loving me, and my -promise to become his wife. When he has gone—ah! here comes the gloomy -shadow in my picture of light. I will form some plan to make sufficient -money, that I may not be dependent on any one for my simple outfit, and -then we will marry, as I said, next summer. Now, I can only think of my -happiness, which is too ecstatic for me yet to realize. - -_Tuesday, Oct._—A fortnight has dragged on—ah! yes: how truly is it -described when I say _dragged_ since _his_ departure, and I wonder to -myself how was it possible that I ever should endure this place without -him—my sunlight!—my joy! In one of the literary papers which my uncle -takes is a notice of premiums, to be awarded to the successful -competitors, for tales, essays, etc. I have determined to become one. I -have often written—may I not succeed? I _will_ succeed. I have a good -plan, too, for a story, founded upon an incident in the life of my old -hero-like grandfather. So, adieu my old friend, my journal, for awhile; -for I must bend all my existent energies on my _prize_ story—as I -_will_ it to be. In doing that and answering Hugh’s letters, the time at -my disposal will be entirely taken up. The prizes will be awarded before -Christmas. I am beginning to think Mrs. Dudley and Clare suspect my -engagement to Hugh. - -_November 28th._—Joy! joy! and now for the details—to confide to you, -my journal, in what that joy consists! My uncle opened the mail-bag, as -usual, this morning whilst we sat at breakfast. There were two gentlemen -present, beside our family circle, and one of them, a wealthy gentleman -from a neighboring city, and who has always shown himself peculiarly -polite and attentive, at the same time an interesting and intellectual -companion. Mrs. Dudley and Clare—I forever _couple_ them together, for -it seems to me they have only _one_ mind for their two bodies, and of -course, but a small portion for each—imagine I am “setting my cap” for -him; and according to their general custom, endeavor to set me in the -worst possible light in his eyes. Well! _revenons à nos moutons_, my -uncle placed two letters before me as my share of the precious bag, -remarking as he did so: - -“One from your punctual correspondent at the South, and one from -Philadelphia. What beau in that city, Floy, do you write to?” - -“Why, Miss Walton”—in a most insulting tone, said Mrs. Dudley—“is not -this foolish correspondence with my nephew dropped by _him_ yet? If it -were not for its improbability, I should begin to fear there was -something serious in it; but, then your encouragement of his attentions -was so very open, that Clare and I said it could only have been for your -amusement and his, to make the time pass to two idlers. But, once for -all, pray inform me as _his_ aunt, did you ever dream of any reality in -your game?” - -How the hot blood rushed to my temples as I convulsively grasped the -letters to place in my pocket. Yet my pride came to the rescue at this -wanton insult, and at which her assistant in her schemes, Clare, sat -smiling, triumphantly rejoicing in this vulgar attack—so turning to -her, with a light laugh of scorn, I replied: - -“_Your nephew!_ Humph! Yes; your supposition does credit to your _ever_ -rightly judging and far-seeing mind. My flirtation with _your kinsman_ -could, of course, be only for one’s amusement in the country!” - -I had paid her back, certainly, for the poor, wicked old creature’s face -colored up in anger as she said: - -“Oh! very well, very well, indeed, Miss Walton. That is a nice speech -for a coquette to make about an absent gentleman in the presence of -another.” - -I made _her_ no further answer, but finishing my coffee, left the room -to read my letters. I could not help making this answer to her at the -time; yet, I sincerely regret it now. It seems like treason against my -love to utter such a thing about _him_, even to retaliate upon her. The -first letter I opened was from Hugh Dudley—breathing the most devoted -love—begging me to shorten his term of exile, and let him come, at -once, to claim me for his own. The other was from the editor of the -——, and contained a check for one hundred dollars! My story had -obtained the second prize. Now, I _can_ think about what Hugh has -written, I will write to him to-morrow, and tell him I will consider his -proposition. I must not grant it at once, for I am ashamed to let him -see how much I love him. - -_December 18th._—How busy they are preparing for Christmas; yet I -cannot enter into their feelings of mirth. A presentiment is haunting -me—a shadow, like the gloom of the grave, is around me. I cannot answer -why this is so. Foolish that I am! I have gone forth to my favorite -walk; I have recalled the words—the vows of love—his tender looks, as -he offered them; and yet the cold, dead feeling at my heart will not be -driven forth. As I entered the parlor yesterday, in the dim twilight, -softly—for I was thinking sadly, as I am wont _now_—I heard Mrs. -Dudley say to Clare, “_Depend on it, Hugh Dudley will not marry_ HER _at -least_.” I do not think she saw me; but Clare’s cold eyes rested on me -with a most malignant glance, as I quickly drew back, ere they should be -aware of my entrance. I know, oh, heart of mine! how foolish ’tis for me -to grieve. Is this the confidence I have in his love—his vows—his -honor—to be thus shaken for _one_ moment by the assertions of an -evil-minded and plotting old woman, who manifestly hates me. I _will_ -tear this feeling from me. I will not despond—I will trust in you, my -own noble-hearted Hugh. - -_January._—’Tis strange! no letters from Col. Dudley. Can he be ill? -Oh! this sickening suspense—this living death! I fancy, too, that my -enemies—for so I must call Mrs. Dudley and Clare—watch me -narrowly—triumphantly. What can it mean? Oh, Father! in thy mercy, -spare me this anticipated misery! Let the bitter cup pass from me, if -thou wilt; for I feel my utter weakness and inability to bear up under -these harrowing thoughts. Impossible! I will not pen any thing against -his truth. He must be sick. Not even to this mute witness of my love -will I own, that even in _thought_ I suspect him. I will show him this -one of these days yet to come, when the happiness I then shall feel will -repay me for all my sorrows—and then he will know how much he was -loved. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” says the song—and it is -true with me, at least, I wonder, is it the case with him. I will go -down now—for everybody is away to-day, shopping in the neighboring -town—and play all his favorites, and cheat myself with the belief that -he is beside me—that I feel his warm breath play among my curls—that, -on the lifting of my eye, I shall meet his glance, so full of love and -trust, as to shame me in my inmost heart for ever _thinking_ he could -prove false. - -_February._—Oh, God! how unspeakably miserable am I. And you, old -friend, that has been the record of my joy—my short dream of -happiness—be also the page upon which I chronicle my grief—my deep -despair. I am calmer now; I did think that I should have crazed under -the blow; but the Father has strengthened and borne me up. I had been -expecting an answer to my last letter from Hugh, (oh! how anxiously, for -’twas past the usual time,) when one day my Uncle Alton sent for me. - -“Florence,”—as I entered—“I have a package for you, sent under cover -to myself. I am afraid that this will prove a sad trial to you; but as -you have your own self to thank for it, I am in hopes, for your sake, it -will not occasion you much heart-grief. I am playing the part of Job’s -comforters; but I cannot help saying to you, that you should remember -how you speak of the absent, for sooner or later, they always are -informed of bad speeches by some injudicious friend.” - -“What does this long preface lead to, Uncle Alton,” said I, with a -smile, though my heart felt heavy as lead, and as cold. “Surely I am not -mixed up in any of the neighborhood slander, I hope. I always thought -that you did me the justice to imagine that I care little, and talk -less, of the worthies who compose the society attainable at Alton.” - -My uncle, by this time, had handed me the package which he had been -separating from its envelop; and he now coldly, I may say sternly, -addressed me, - -“Hugh Dudley, Florence, has written me that you and himself were -engaged—solemnly pledged to each other to wed the coming summer. From -your speech, made in public, in the presence of his friends and -relative, from whom he has received the information, he now releases you -from your chains, that he thinks must have been galling, to call forth -from you, in public, so unprovoked, so cruel a speech. What renders it -still more stinging, was the fact, that Mr. Hilton, one of the gentlemen -present, has ever been an enemy of Dudley’s, and on his return home (for -he lives not very far from him) repeated it among a certain set. After -Dudley heard of this he gave the more ready credence to his aunt’s -letter, which came whilst the subject was in agitation in his thoughts. -He wrote to me, as your nearest friend and protector, explaining his -conduct, and requesting me to hand you your letters. It has grieved me -to hear of this conduct, heartless as I must call it, from my sister’s -child.” - -I felt like throwing myself at my uncle’s feet, and begging him to plead -for me with Hugh in my great misery; but, at this moment I looked up, -and saw Mrs. Dudley standing near the entrance, and peering on me with -such a smile of malicious triumph, that crushing back my real feelings -of agony with my al-conquering pride, I said lightly, though it seemed -as if my heart were weeping blood the while— - -“Do not trouble yourself, uncle, about my incapacity for bearing this, -especially as you say it was brought on me by my own means. Inform Col. -Dudley when you write, that I accept my release with thanks, and never -have, nor could ever claim relationship with some of his kin, but with -the same feelings of loathing and disgust I experience when some hideous -and dangerous reptile crosses my path.” - -I was nerved by my anger against Mrs. Dudley to say this, and to act the -part I assumed, of carelessness, for I took up the package with a light -laugh, thanked my uncle, and dropped a very lowly reverence to her as I -approached the door, saying, “I hope, my dear madam, that your truly -_Christian_ heart is now at rest, having seen the end of our game, begun -to relieve the tedium or worse of a country-house, blessed with such an -inmate as your venerable self.” - -I have a dim recollection of seeing her eyes open wide and still wider -with perfect amaze, and the words “heartless flirt,” fell from her lips. -I reached my room, though my pride was fast ebbing, and locked myself -in. I opened the bundle—my own letters came tumbling therefrom, and -_one_ from _him_. I put it here, that with the record of my willful -error, its punishment may also be seen. - - “Miss Walton,—I return you your letters, and your vows of - love—when the substance is not possessed, how worthless is the - shadow. I scorn myself for having loved one who could so - wantonly trifle with a trustful, loving heart, which has been - taken when proffered, to throw away as a worthless object. May - you be happy, but that I am afraid you will not be. I hope that - you will be more careful of the next heart that you may witch to - love you. At least, never say of him in the presence of either - friends or enemies, “he will do well enough to amuse one’s self - with in the country!” I again say, may you be happy, and as my - happiness can only be in forgetting you, I shall never seek to - hear of you; and rest easy that this will be the last letter - with which you will ever be troubled from the hand of - - Hugh Dudley.” - -It was over! and I sat long silent and motionless with the letters -before me. I then determined to bear uncomplainingly my fate, and never -let _him_ know the agony which his thus breaking _our_ engagement had -caused me. “Did I die from it,” was my proud resolution, “I will die in -silence. He, to believe so quickly, so readily, an assertion made -against me, by an enemy of his, and proved by an enemy of mine. Did he -ask me, ‘Was it so—and wherefore?’ No: but acted on the information, -careless of my pain—oh! well he knew that I loved him—and exulted in -it from revenge. Had he asked me, oh! how humbly would I have -acknowledged my fault, and throwing myself more trustingly on his love, -how would I have prayed for forgiveness, till the proud man, in his -strength, would have been softened by my tears, and taken me again in -love to his bosom.” But it was over, and she who had caused this misery -should not triumph. I jumped from my seat, bathed my eyes, curled my -hair elaborately, decked myself in a most becoming dress, and on seeing -my ashy cheeks, in the glance I gave into the glass, for the first time -painted them with carmine. I then descended into the drawing-room. Mr. -Harold, the wealthy merchant from the city, whom I have spoken of, had -returned the day before, on a visit to my uncle, and for him, and to -him, I played and sung. I was in my wildest spirits. I kept up this -farce for weeks whenever the eyes of the household were upon me, till I -thought in the struggle my mind must give way. At this crisis a letter -came from a cousin of my mother, to whom I had written to ask for an -asylum, gladly welcoming me to her home—for she was aged and infirm, -and wanted companionship. I accepted at once; received a cold -acquiescence from my uncle—a still more indifferent one from my -cousin—and set out for my new home in Kentucky, determined to hide -myself forever from the eyes of those whose triumph was built on the -ruins of my happiness. Oh! Hugh, could you have known how deeply I have -repented of that speech, wrung from my wounded pride, even you would -have forgiven me and loved me still—but you never, never loved as I did -you. But it is, as I said, all, all past; my dream is ended, and I now -walk sadly my allotted time on earth, a sorrower and a sojourner in a -vale of tears. - - * * * * * - -Here ended this sketch from her journal; and Cora Norton sat at first -meditating, with her head still leaning on her arm. Turning at last to -her aunt, who was dozing across the room, she said— - -“What has become of Col. Dudley, Aunt Mary?” - -“Ech! what!” exclaimed the old lady; and then being thoroughly roused, -she took her knitting from the floor, where it had slipped during her -nap, received from Cora her spectacles, and upon her niece repeating her -inquiry— - -“He is now,” said Aunt Mary, gaping and rubbing her eyes, “the husband -of Clare Alton, and lives in his far distant home—at least so I heard -about five years since, the only time I ever heard of him. It is said -that the match was made up for him entirely by his aunt, and that Clare -is an excellent housekeeper—raises more chickens and turkies than any -lady in the neighborhood. She, as my informant told me, is quite the -_model_ housewife of her neighbors, and has finished a hexagon -bed-quilt, of I don’t know how many thousand patches. As to herself and -the colonel, they get along very politely I believe— - - “Living together as most people do, - Suffering each other’s foibles, by accord, - And not exactly either one or two.” - -And now, Cora love, it is bedtime. Need I ‘point a moral’ to the journal -you have read? Ah! no, you say. Well! when that little rattling tongue -of yours seems disposed to laugh and say flippant things about your -lovers, think of my girl-friend, Florence Walton, and profit by her -dear-bought experience.” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE PRISONER’S DEATH-BELL. - - - BY REV. H. HASTINGS WELD. - - - Blessed be His name whose messages of peace - Not to the worldly or the proud are borne: - Whose light bids in the dungeon darkness cease, - Whose mercy clothes him whom the world has shorn. - - Vain are the efforts of vindictive power, - Vain are its chains to bind a spirit down; - For that to Heaven in prayer can calmly soar - When earthly foes in utmost fury frown. - - Death to the youthful is untimely wo— - Death to the happy is a fearful grief— - But weary age is not averse to go:— - The captive welcomes even death’s relief. - - What then to him the frowning prison-walls— - The clanking chain, the tyrant’s vengeful spite? - From the freed spirit every shackle falls— - Earth’s gloom is lost in Heaven’s glorious light. - - * * * * * - - - - - A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS. - - - FROM THE GERMAN. - - -“‘Does thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee.’ -That is in the Bible, to be sure, but it is no remedy for this terrible -pain,” sighed the suffering Pastor Seidelman, “for if it goes from my -hands I have it in my feet, and if I were to cut off all my limbs what -would become of his reverence?” - -“Ah, Conrad,” said his faithful nurse and wife, and smiled through her -tears, “you are always so cheerful in the midst of your sufferings.” - -“And why not, Catharine? Am I master of this pain, or its slave? And can -I not always imagine that these limbs belong to some one else, and that -I have nothing to do with them? But the hardest to bear is, that the -miserable things keep me here in this arm-chair, whilst every thing -without there is so blooming and beautiful; the wall-flowers and -harebells are just as fine, or finer in my garden than in Herman & -Hübner’s—that I cannot on this glorious evening feast upon strawberries -with you all in the arbor, and that you, dear Catharine—this is the -worst—must be confined here to nurse me. Has the spring-time of our -life all vanished?” - -“Ah, Conrad,” said his wife cheeringly, and stroked his pale cheeks, “we -have so many blessings left—our love and our children. Let us thank God -for all—for our joys, and for our sorrows too. Ah, if you could only go -to the springs at A——.” - -“Yes, yes,” said the pastor, “but never mind. The springs are distant -and dear. I have given it up long ago. Sometimes, indeed, it seems as if -it would be a little thing for my lord count up on the hill to treat his -old pastor to the journey. But he must need all his money for the gay -life he leads at the capital—oh, no! he is not to be thought of, nor -the springs either.” - -This had been the conclusion for the last ten years of every -conversation between the worthy people, whenever the subject was the -health of the good pastor. What availed him his duties so faithfully -performed, the love and veneration of his flock, his gay world of -flowers just outside the door, and his circle of blooming children? -There he sat in the great arm-chair, while without the birds were -singing, the lindens in full leaf, the little six-years-old Paul was -exercising a troop of wooden soldiers, the gentle Hermine dancing -merrily, and in a distant part of the garden the beautiful Theodora was -walking with her youngest brother, the little pet, Ernst. Indeed, the -worthy Seidelman might well be happy, surrounded by all these treasures. -But he was bowed down by disease, not of mind, but of body; and he was -very poor, though that was no one’s fault but his own. For how in the -world was any one with such a soft heart ever to grow rich. His house -was always open to the needy, and not rarely to the wolf even in sheep’s -clothing, and often when on his return from some wedding, his wife would -search anxiously in his pockets for the fee, he would say, with a look -of shame and contrition, “Don’t be vexed, Catharine, I have given it to -Gottlieb, he has broken his leg;” then both would smile through their -tears, and the orders to the butcher for the next week would be -countermanded. - -But one other grief burdened the worthy people. Anxiety on account of -their favorite child Theodora, just eighteen years old, and so gentle, -who became every day more and more estranged from them. In his sleepless -nights of pain, she left the care of her father entirely to her mother -and her sister Hermine, and shut herself up in her room, where they saw -her candle burning until long after midnight, and to their anxious -questionings she gave only confused, unsatisfactory replies. But now, -when the roses in her cheeks had begun to fade, her father and mother -had determined that, when twilight came, when she always went to walk in -the large garden, they would penetrate into her securely-locked -apartment, and solve, if possible, the sad riddle. And they had selected -this evening for the attempt. - -There she strolled through the dark linden walks on this lovely summer -evening, with her little brother. But there was even more joy in her -heart than in the glad singing of Ernst, and the setting sun mirrored -itself in her eyes, sparkling with delight. “Sink into thy golden -cradle, thou friendly light; with thy setting arises a holyday for us -all, thy Easter morning, oh, dear father.” Thus she exulted, all -unconscious of the treachery meditated against her by the anxious love -of her parents. And just at this moment, when, full of happiness, she -bent down over a hedge of roses, suddenly the fate of her future life -stood before her, a youth of most prepossessing appearance. He started -at the sight of the fair girl, and greeted her with evident -embarrassment. Theodora, too, was confused, she knew not why, and her -handkerchief dropped from her trembling hand while she turned hastily -away. He picked it up, hastened after her, and in a gentle voice, but -with a foreign accent, begged pardon if his sudden appearance had -alarmed her, and hoped that on so beautiful an evening he might not be -the cause of shortening her walk. But her walk was interrupted, and she -turned toward home much sooner than she had intended, just in time to -frustrate, for this evening at least, the design of her parents, who -were just upon the point of ascending the stairs to her room. - -And now, when supper was finished, and the pastor was lighting his -evening pipe, with the children playing around him, what heavy parcel -does Theodora bring in, and what drops are those shining upon her cheek? -“My dear father,” she said, “I bring you here the money—a hundred -dollars—which I have earned for you. It is little, but it is enough to -carry you to the springs. Now you will be well once more,” and she sunk -into his arms. - -Imagine the happiness of this moment. The children left their play and -gathered round their parents; the father weighed the gold incredulously -in his hand, and the whole secret was disclosed amid thanks and kisses. -Upon the altar of filial love Theodora had laid the hard earnings of her -needle. For two long years she had sewed and embroidered with -unremitting industry, while every one else was sleeping. Her cheeks -indeed were pale, and she had been for a while estranged from those who -were dearer to her than all the world beside, but she had gained the -reward that she had striven for so long. - -“Present arms!” cried Paul to his soldiers; “don’t you see, you rogues, -in whose presence you are standing?” - -“Yes, dear one,” said her father, “you have worked hard indeed for me, -for us all, and thy days shall be long in the land which the Lord thy -God giveth thee.” - -More brightly than the star-spangled heaven without, shone the heaven -glittering with new hopes and joys within the little parsonage. “You -will be well again,” cried the children, “you will be able to dance just -like us.” - -“Yes,” answered their father, “to dance, and ride, and—but only think, -Catharine, of my really going to the springs! I can hardly believe it.” - -They all talked over the journey with the comforting conviction that it -was no longer a mere vision, and it was unalterably determined that -Theodora should accompany her father. The council sat until far into the -night, that every thing might be discussed—what they should carry with -them, and through what towns and villages they should pass on their -journey. But when the village watchman called “Twelve o’clock,” the -father knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and said, “Children, it is -late, we shall have a whole day to-morrow.” Paul shut up his soldiers in -their barracks made by some old folios on the lowest shelf of the -book-case, and certainly the god of slumber never embraced happier -people than the inhabitants of that little cottage. - -Theodora alone could not sleep. Her mind was too much excited to be -quickly composed to rest. As the moon shining on drops of dew causes -them to emit sparkles in the dark night, which vanish again suddenly, so -dreams and fancies sprung up in Theodora’s mind, and she hardly -suspected that the stranger in the park was the chief cause of her -excitement. Without any distinct thoughts of him, and without the -remembrance of a word that he had said, his image was, in the confusion -of her mind, like the foundation color in a landscape, like the _thema_ -in one of Beethoven’s symphonies. Only in her short morning slumber did -his image present itself, as he handed her the handkerchief. But the -dream vanished before the clear light of the morning sun, and the day -with its busy plans and thousand occupations dissipated the half-formed -visions of the night. Again, however, twilight came with its shadows, -its cool breezes, and its memories, and as she again strolled down the -garden with her little brother, her heart fluttered with feelings of -alarm and anxiety. She feared that the young stranger would suddenly -stand before her again, as he had done upon the preceding evening, and -yet she could not keep away from the dangerous spot. But no stranger -appeared; she glanced timidly down the dark walk, but nothing was to be -seen. - -At last, lost in thought, she stood before the very rose-bush where she -had first seen him the day before. But her reverie was suddenly -interrupted, for Ernst sprung from behind a large lilac-bush, dragging -the stranger with him, and crying, “I have you, you rogue; you want to -play hide and seek with Dora, do you? Away with you!” With a frank smile -the young man, yielding to the child, approached the blushing girl, who -would fain have turned away. “Hold him fast,” cried Ernst, “or he will -run away, and before I can get my horsemen out to follow him he will be -beyond the mountains.” - -“That will he not, my little fellow,” said the stranger, and then -turning to Theodora, he frankly confessed that only the hope of seeing -her again had prevented his continuing his journey with his father. He -told her—but who can tell with pen and ink what a youth, only twenty -years old, who has at first sight fallen head over ears in love, says to -a beautiful girl, at such a romantic hour and on such a lovely spot? - -Theodora herself hardly knew what he had said, but only (when two hours -afterward she slowly walked toward her dear home) that he had poured out -the most ardent protestations of love, and that, although obliged to -leave on the morrow for, she knew not what part of the country, he had -promised to return. Whence had come that sparkling ring upon her finger, -and whither had gone the rose that she had worn all day long in her -bosom? His name she knew was Robert, but all else that he had said about -himself and his family had vanished from her mind. He was going away on -the morrow with his father, whither, she had not the remotest idea, and -to inquire about him was out of the question. The vision had vanished, -but the diamond on her finger sparkled consolingly, and she drew it off, -to keep it carefully until it should be redeemed by the donor. - -The next day was consumed in preparations for the journey, and on the -following morning, after all had been refreshed by the hot coffee, and -the father had prayed, “May God bless our goings out and our comings -in,” he was warmly packed in the neat traveling-carriage, with Theodora -at his side; leave was taken of the dear ones who must stay behind, and -they drove off. As the tall tops of the trees seemed to nod a kindly -farewell in the fresh morning air, Theodora thought longingly of the -last few days, and shrunk from the unknown future. She determined to -lock up her hopes and fears in her own breast—for how could she speak -of them to her father. An accidental meeting with a young stranger was, -as she would fain persuade herself, such a commonplace occurrence; and -her father, too, was so occupied with the journey, with thoughts of the -old friends whom he should see, and, above all, with the flowers which, -whenever they passed a garden, threw him into ecstasies, that a fit -opportunity never presented itself. - -As they approached A——, through a beautiful landscape, they met -glittering equipages and horsemen, and gayly-dressed parties of -pedestrians. Music sounded from the lighted saloons, and a new world -opened itself around the young girl. But anxious emotions filled her -heart, and she longed for the quiet home-circle of mother, brothers and -sisters. - -Still she breathed more freely as she entered her quiet little room in -their lodging-house, where every thing was so neat and convenient; even -the piano had not been forgotten, and the window opened upon the pretty -little garden belonging to the house, where were green lindens, fragrant -lilies, and an arbor of woodbine, like the one in dear R——. “Oh -heavens!” cried her enraptured father, “there is the double lychnis -chalcedonia, blooming in greater perfection than my single one; and -there (it can be no dream) there, Theodora, is the white Georgina, which -I have never seen before, growing among those pinks and carnations.” - -Every thing was delightful. Their domestic arrangements were soon made, -and, on the following morning, the spring which was to give health to -the invalid was tried, while Theodora sat at home in the garden and -worked. - -Many parties of fashionable promenaders passed by, and troops of -horsemen galloped past; but Theodora heeded them not; and when her -father returned, she was ready to receive him; they partook of their -frugal meal, and then came singing and the piano. But early one morning, -as she sat at work—heavens! who was that who flew by upon his foaming -English steed? She dropped her work in her agitation, but the stranger, -no less surprised, reined in his horse, sprang off, rushed up the little -garden, and greeted her with the warmest expressions of his surprise and -pleasure. - -Scarcely capable of replying, Theodora returned his greeting, but -instantly her confusion overcame her, and she asked, with a deep blush, -how he, whom she had thought so distant, came to be just here. - -“O, this place,” was his reply, “is the destination of my poor father’s -journey.” - -“Then you are here for the same purpose that we are?” asked she. “What -is your father’s disease?” - -“Ah! let me be silent upon that point,” sighed Robert; “I am very -unhappy. But I trust in God that these clouds will clear off; and now -that I see you, all seems brighter and more hopeful. And,” continued he, -gazing searchingly into her clear, calm eyes, “I am very vain; but your -looks tells me, Theodora, that you still remember those happy meetings -in R——. You shall learn to know me; you shall not find me unworthy of -your love; and then I will place the decision of our fate in your -father’s hands, and _my_ father, too—why can I not lead you to him now, -and say, ‘See, father, the happiness of your only son.’” - -“And why do you fear him?” said Theodora, “does he know me?” - -“I must not say,” sighed Robert; “the hand of fate is heavy upon me now; -but here and there I can discern through the clouds the clear blue of -heaven. O, trust in me, Theodora, if I am an outcast _now_, trust my -heart, full of love, if there is in yours one spark of interest in me.” - -The thorns in this declaration pressed deep into the heart of the poor -girl. Confidence, love, and doubt raised a wild warfare in her breast; -she saw the heaven of her pure first love so overclouded, and she saw -Robert depart with a heavier heart than she had ever known before. The -next day, and the next, while her father was bathing, Robert was with -her; and although her confidence in him grew continually, the riddle -grew more dark and mysterious. - -“Say not a word even to your father of our love,” said Robert; “I plead -only for a little time, and I myself will open my heart to him.” - -As long as he was with her, she felt consoled, but with his departure, -her peace fled. - -The happy father, in the meantime, did not perceive his daughter’s -increasing melancholy. Two weeks had done wonders for him; every day he -grew stronger. The reviving air breathed new life into the worthy man. -“O, my child,” said he, joyfully, throwing open the gate one day, at the -commencement of the third week, “what do you think I have seen? You will -scarcely believe it; but it is really so—a _Banksia serrata_, in full -bloom, stands in the castle garden. O, Dora! the exquisite contrast, -such heavenly blue and gorgeous yellow! I—but you must see it; and, -only think, the gardener has promised me a shoot! God _has_ blessed our -goings out and our comings in; only see how well I can move my arm; in -another week I shall be as well—better than ever. But there is so much -misery here—if I were only rich; and there is one man so wretched, who, -dressed in a miserable old gray coat, walks about all day amongst the -gay and happy—if I only had a little money for him, he should find his -health, too, in these glorious baths.” - -Thus spoke the old man out of his grateful, child-like soul, and never -noticed how little part Dora took in his joy and kind wishes, or how -pale she had grown. But the next morning, deeds followed the good -pastor’s words. On his return from the bath, he hastened to the garden, -and there stood the flower that he so dearly loved, with its magnificent -leaves and petals upon which the sun shone, making the dew-drops glitter -with a thousand rainbow tints, and on every side bloomed the rarest -plants. “Great, indeed, are the works of the Lord,” said the enthusiast, -taking off his cap reverently. Just at this moment the old man in the -gray coat, his head bent down, and his hands behind him, as usual, -passed by. “Ah! _Banksia serrata_,” murmured the pastor to himself, “no -misery should exist where you bloom in such beauty;” and half -unconsciously he put his hand into his pocket, drew out his purse, -slipped it in the old man’s hand, and then vanished in the crowd. “Now -you will have a happy day,” cried he, in his innocent joy; “perhaps it -may cure you—who knows.” But now, like the book of the Evangelist, -which was first honey and then bitterness, a serious consideration -rushed on the mind of the pastor. He had sacrificed upon the altar of -humanity far more than half the pittance which was supporting him at the -baths, and had barely enough remaining to pay for the journey back to -R——. “Theodora,” he said, as he entered their little room, “you must -pack up every thing; I have done a foolish thing—my heart ran away with -my head; I have given away the twenty dollars that were in the purse, -and the purse besides. We must go home in two days at the furthest, if -we do not wish to beg our way back.” - -“Oh yes,” cried Theodora, bursting into tears, “let us go to-day—as -soon as possible!” - -“What is the matter, my child?” asked her father, terrified and amazed -at her tears. - -Ah! unconscious father, while you stood before your beloved flower, and -returned thanks to Heaven for its beauty, the heart of your poor child -was broken, and the rose of her pure love crushed. - -Theodora had been working all the morning in the garden, as usual; but -not as usual did Robert appear at the appointed time. In her anxiety at -his non-appearance she was not even allowed the blessing of retirement -and silence—for the talkative landlady brought a friend to the garden, -whom she wished to introduce to the pretty stranger from R——. Now if -Robert came, he would have to retreat—for the departure of these -gossips was not to be thought of. But he came not; and she was listening -in despair to the last stroke of ten o’clock, when a dashing barouche -whirled by, containing upon the back seat two gaudily-dressed ladies, -between whom sat—Robert. - -He boldly threw a kiss to poor Dora, and the ladies, lifting their -eye-glasses, honored her with a long stare, followed by a burst of -laughter. Theodora grew pale. - -“Do you know that man?” asked the landlady; “he is the most dissipated -fellow here, and a gambler by profession.” - -“And his companions,” added the friend, “are low people from the -capital.” - -Poor Theodora! with difficulty she kept from falling, but the paleness -which overspread her face alarmed the good landlady, who hurried her -into the house and administered all kinds of restoratives. When she was -alone tears came to her relief—“Ah!” sobbed she, “how could such fair, -earnest words come from a heart so vile. But I will pluck this love from -my heart, and then farewell peace and hope in this life.” - -“Yes, let us go from this dreadful place,” said she to her father when -she had told him all; “you are quite well again. And this ring—he gave -it to me as a pledge of his truth; take the glowing jewel from me, -father dear, it burns into my soul.” - -“My poor child,” said her father, “you will indeed be happier in our -quiet home; as for this ring, it could only have been given to you by -one to whom thousands are as nothing; only by some wretched gambler. And -all this mystery that he has preserved. Oh, yes! I see it all. Thank -God, my child, that he has delivered you from a gambler, that he has -separated your lot from his, for whom there is no love, no home, who can -live only in the heated air of the saloon, amidst the despairing cries -of the losers and the greedy exclamations of the few whom chance favors! -Pack up every thing; the day after to-morrow we will set out for dear, -quiet R——, where Heaven will rain down peace upon thy heart, as it has -already poured its blessing of health upon me.” - -Thus with affectionate words did the father drown, at least, the voice -of sorrow in his poor child’s heart, and for the first time, at the -approach of evening, she accompanied him into his sanctum, the garden. -But the brilliant colors of the flowers pained her with the contrast -between them and her own heart. Red is the color of happy love, and ah! -Theodora, these are not for thee—there under the weeping-willow blooms -thy flower, its leaves are the color of the blue above, and although the -faithless waves at its foot are always flowing on, its image is always -mirrored in them; so, Theodora, will thy love remain while the river of -thy life flows on, and faith will ever repeal in thy heart—“Forget me -not.” - -“_Banksia serrata_,” cried her father joyfully, and led her to the -beautiful plant. She gazed enchanted. Here was no gaudy mixture of -colors, no dazzling brilliancy. Gentleness seemed to breathe in the -fragrance wafted from the flower, that heavenly blue—it was her own -forget-me-not exalted to honor. Her eyes filled with tears, the sight -had comforted her, and she loitered quietly back through the long -promenade with her father; outshining in her simple beauty the crowd of -fashionables collected there at that hour. - -“There he is,” said her father, trying to elude the recipient of his -morning’s bounty. - -But the old man had seen him, and stepping up to him, growled out—“Sir, -a word with you.” - -“Go, wait for me there, upon that bench, Dora,” said her father. And she -went timidly. - -“What,” said the stranger, “is that your daughter? I suppose she is -good-for-nothing, but she is a pretty creature, certainly. - -“As concerns yourself,” he continued, in broken German, “it would, I -suppose, be impolite if I should say, ‘My friend, are you a knave or a -fool?’ so I will restrain my curiosity, and only ask how you know me?” - -“Sir,” replied the pastor, “I do not know you.” - -“Oh, don’t deny it,” said the other; “was it not you who slipped the -purse into my hands this morning? You think to plant your grain in -fruitful ground. Few here look as ragged as I, but how came you to know -of the gold under the rags? But this stupid speculation of yours will -never succeed.” - -“Sir,” interrupted the pastor, with dignity, “what do you think of your -fellow men?” - -“The worst,” said the old man; “they are all as good-for-nothing as I -am. But you have thrown your money away, which you seem to need -yourself.” - -“No, I have not thrown it away,” replied the pastor; “you are sick, my -friend.” - -“I am not your friend; I have no friend.” - -“O, wretched indeed are you if you have no friend; then indeed you have -nothing. Yes, you are really ill in body and mind. What I could do to -cure the disease of the first I have done, and it is not worth speaking -of, but to relieve the last I can bring to my aid, though I am very -poor, the consolation of sympathy and—religion. I am the Pastor -Seidelman, from R——.” - -“What! the Pastor Seidelman!” cried the old man; “and that beautiful -girl is your daughter?” - -“She is,” replied the pastor; “you know nothing of us, but let me know -enough of you to afford you all the consolation in my power.” - -So saying, he drew the old man to a seat under the lindens, and sat -down. His heart, overflowing with gratitude for the blessing of his -renewed health, poured itself out toward the stranger in words so full -of sympathy that they seemed half to provoke a spark of kindliness in -the stranger’s breast. - -“By heaven!” he cried, “you are the most endurable man I have yet met -with in my wretched life, and ten times better than I. Is it so? Can I -find such a thing as a friend?” - -“It is certain,” said Seidelman; “I am your friend.” - -“But I am a wretched beggar, crazed by the ingratitude with which my -native country, England, has sent me helpless out into the world. I can -never reward your kindness—I can give you nothing but my misery. Will -you still be my friend?” - -“Come with us to R——,” cried the pastor, “we are poor, too, but you -shall not want loving care, and Theodora shall nurse you.” - -“Ah, call the girl here,” said the stranger; and Theodora modestly -approached. - -The countenance of the old man grew more and more cheerful as he talked -with the honest pastor and his lovely daughter. But suddenly he started -up, grasped the pastor’s shoulder with trembling hands, and -stammered—“I am ill—I must go home.” Then, refusing their offers of -assistance, he promised to meet them on the same spot the next day, and -was quickly lost in the crowd. - -The pastor and his daughter returned to their lodgings, thinking and -speaking of nothing but the strange old man. - -“We sent him away,” cried the landlady, as she met them at the -garden-gate, “he has been here twice; quite pale with terror, but it is -good for him.” - -“Who?” asked the father. - -“Why the gambler, to be sure.” And poor Theodora shrunk into a dark -corner of the room. - -Her father inquired his name and direction of the landlady, and -immediately inclosed the costly ring to him in a note which ran thus: - -“Sir—Commissioned by my daughter, Theodora, and with her full -countenance, I return to you this ring, of which we have as little need -as the honor of your society.” - -The next day they hoped again to meet the old man, but he was no where -to be found, and even their gossiping landlady knew nothing of him—so -they were obliged to give up all hope of seeing him again. - -Early on the following morning they set out for their dear home, and as -the carriage drove through the avenue of trees before the house, and -Theodora in vain endeavored to conceal her fast falling tears, which -came so fast at the remembrance of the happiness now fled forever, some -one behind them panted out— - -“Hold—for Heaven’s sake, stop!” - -“Robert!” cried Theodora, and sunk back, almost fainting. - -“Drive on,” said her father; and the driver cracked his whip, and the -light carriage flew swiftly from its pursuer, whose exclamations were -soon lost in the distance. - -But just as they reached the extreme end of the village, a dashing -vehicle from the opposite direction rattled by. Heavens! there on the -back seat, between the two bold, gaudy ladies, sat—the gambler. As the -lightning illumines the dark night, did the truth flash upon Theodora’s -mind. The faithful lover who had pursued her carriage, and from whom she -had so unrelentingly fled, could not be identical with the man whom they -had just seen apparently returning from some nightly revel. The -resemblance was indeed wonderful, but it was only a resemblance. - -“Oh, Robert, Robert!” sobbed the unhappy girl, “how wretched I am.” - -“Trust in God, dear child,” said her father; “all is for the best. His -ways are not as our ways.” - -“Ah! all hope has gone, and I—I alone am guilty!” - -Three weeks ago how much happiness the little carriage had contained, -but now how dark every thing seemed. Still as they approached the dear -home, their sorrow grew milder, and when on the fifth day they were -greeted by the _patois_ of their native province, thoughts of their -return were uppermost in Theodora’s mind. Her father brought back what -he had scarcely dared to hope for in this life, health, and she had some -little token for each member of the dear circle. A warm shawl for her -mother, the embroidered kerchief for Hermine, a book for Ernst, and a -sabre for the young soldier. - -And now the white tower of the castle of R—— gleamed in the twilight, -and on every side dear familiar objects greeted them. There the pine -wood, and now over the forget-me-not brook under the hanging-boughs of -the willows around the mill, and they were in the village. And what a -joyful welcome awaited them here. “It is our dear pastor,” resounded -from all sides, caps were waved, and hands thrust into the carriage -windows. The pastor bowed right and left with emotion, but as the -carriage drove by the church he uncovered his venerable head, and a -grateful prayer gushed from his overflowing heart. - -As they turned the corner, and the peaceful parsonage embowered in its -magnificent trees stood before them, mother and children came hastening -to meet them with cries of joy. “Children,” cried the pastor, “it has -all gone!—you need no longer creep round so quietly, and try not to -touch me. Come here! and pinch me, I am really well again, and we must -thank the dear Lord and Theodora for it.” - -“Oh dear sister! O father! mother! brother!” sounded on all sides, and -there was no end to the joyful welcome. And the noise and glee all began -anew when the trunks were unpacked, and the presents produced. And the -questions and answers! Paul wished particularly to know how many lions -and tigers his father had seen on the journey. Hermine, how the ladies -in A—— were dressed, and the mother what they had for dinner. All were -satisfied, and went happy to bed. - -But the morning came, the day passed, and in the evening there wandered -in the park unhappy love. But Theodora suffered no longer in secret, her -mother’s heart and her father’s kind words offered healing to her -wounded soul, although she felt that for her there was no happiness -left. On the sixth day the post brought a letter for Theodora. She -handed it tremblingly to her father, and sank upon a seat, while her -father read aloud to her, as follows— - - “Theodora, my Theodora, I am the happiest of mortals! Wherever I - turn I see nothing but happiness and joy. The sky is clear and - blue above me, and you love me and will always love me. You have - repelled me, but indeed you knew me not. You have left my ring - in the hands of vice, but how could you know it? Did I not - myself doubt my own identity when I first saw him? Is not that - vile fellow, Rodel, my perfect double? But all is right again, - and I have your ring upon my finger. Hear how it all came about. - The day after you left, I went to the promenade overwhelmed with - agony at your departure, and your manner toward me. There I saw - the detestable gambler, Rodel, and a ray of light from his - finger caught my eye. I looked at it more attentively—it was - the very ring that I had given you. I felt that I must instantly - know how he came by it, and perhaps it would unravel the - mystery. - - “‘Sir,’ said I, turning to him, ‘you have a fine stone there.’ - - “‘Do you like it?’ said the fellow with assumed nonchalance, - ‘_ma foi_, it does not look amiss, and from a fair one too.’ - - “‘I controlled myself, followed him to his room, and stepping up - to him, said coldly and seriously— - - “‘Mr. Rodel, be pleased to tell me upon this spot how you came - by that ring.’ - - “‘_En vérité mon enfant_,’ laughed he, ‘you are very amusing, - but I am not in a joking humor, what do you want of me?’ - - “‘The ring,’ replied I, ‘and an open confession of how you came - by it.’ - - “‘I can easily tell you that, the more readily as I think you - already guess the truth. I received it from my lady fair, Miss - Theodora S——. Ah! my dear fellow, she is _un morceau de - prince_.’ - - “Your name, dear love, sounded to my heart like a thunderclap, - but only because such lips dared to pronounce it, for I never - for an instant supposed that he owed the ring to any thing but - some miserable fraud. Without allowing myself to be outwardly - disturbed by the man’s impudence, ‘no more of this,’ I said, - ‘give me the ring this moment, or I will immediately inform Gen. - B—— of the ingenious trick by which he lost his two thousand - louis d’ors yesterday. You may have seen me before? I have also - seen you, and although yesterday it was none of my business, and - I did not feel myself called upon to act as guardian to your - dupes, to-day the office suits me exactly. So choose—the ring, - and an explanation, or the general’s whip, and my pistols.’ Pale - and trembling, the wretch drew the ring from his finger and - handed it to me with your father’s note. I hastened away with my - heart filled with happiness. All was clear to me—only your - grief in being so deceived troubled me. No, my Theodora, I am - not unworthy of you. Tell every thing to your father, and - commend me to his love. I would write to him but I cannot. Yes, - Theodora, there is mystery still, the time for explanation is - not yet arrived, but I can see nothing but joy in store for us. - Trust in my fervent eternal love as I trusted in yours. It is - impossible for you to answer this, for you do not know where I - am; I, myself do not know where I may be to-morrow. But soon I - shall be with you, never to leave you but to be always your own, - - Robert.” - -Theodora’s eyes now sparkled with love and joy, but her father silently -folded the letter again and gave it to her. - -“How, father?” she asked, “you say nothing!” - -“What can I say?” replied her father. “He has acted nobly, and that he -really loves you is clear to me. But, beware my child, the tempter goeth -about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.” - -But a new life had begun for Theodora. She soon knew the dear letter by -heart, and thought only of _his_ return. Thus a week passed away, and -another, when the post again brought a letter for her father, marked -_private_. - -“From my dear friend, Dr. S——, of the springs at A——, said he, as he -locked himself into his study, and seating himself in his arm-chair, -read the following— - - “Dear old Friend,—I have so little time for writing any thing - but prescriptions in this busy place, that you will be surprised - indeed to receive this. But your happiness is mine, and I can no - longer keep secret what I know is in store for you. The twenty - dollars that you in your simple benevolence slipped into the - hands of the old gray-coat, has brought you interest indeed. - That shabby was Sir William C——, the rich English banker, who - diseased in body, and plunged into insane misanthrophy by the - death of his wife, and of all save one of four children, to whom - he was devotedly attached, spent this summer at the springs. At - the urgent solicitation of his only son, a young man of most - prepossessing manners and appearance, I had been for some time - attending him, when you met him in the garden. Your kindness to - him when you could not know him, his conversation with you, and - your warm, humane nature made the greatest impression upon him, - and so moved him that he was immediately afterward seized with a - violent attack of illness, which proved a favorable crisis, and - his health both of body and mind is completely restored. His - gratitude to you knows no bounds. He is now, by my advice, - traveling through Italy previous to coming to R——, where he - intends to present himself at your door in his former shabby - dress, and require at your hands the friendship you so - generously proffered him. As for his son, ask your daughter, - Theodora, she can tell you far more about him than I can. All - this I should not have told you, but how could I help it? With - the warmest congratulations, and repeated injunctions laid upon - you to keep the secret from your wife and children better than I - have been able to keep it from you, believe me, my dear old - friend, truly yours, - - Herman A——.” - -It was long before the worthy pastor became convinced that all this was -no dream, but when the reality burst upon him, he folded his hands, and -his heart was filled with love and gratitude to God. “But,” said he to -himself, “how can I keep all this from my dear Catharine? Heaven grant -that that for the first time in my life I may keep my tongue between my -teeth, and not betray every thing as my old friend here has done.” - -“Father,” said his wife at supper, “your face shines like Moses, when he -came down from the mount. What did the doctor write about?” - -“Oh!—he—why of course about every thing that is going on at the -springs, about the flowers, and my _Banksia serrata_.” - -“And nothing,” asked Theodora, “of the old man and—and—” - -“Why, what should he know of them?” said her father. “Doubtless the -young fellow has forgotten our existence, dear Dora, but don’t be -troubled, we are so happy here.” And then he bit his lips, and swallowed -the secret as best he could, and as he was obliged to do fifty times a -day. - -Thus the autumn passed, the winter came, and with it that joyous time, -which, for the sake of the dear child born long ago in Bethlehem, makes -children of us all. But no news of the absent ones; only the -intelligence from the capital that the count had sold his castle of -R——, and that the new lord would take possession at Christmas. - -“Well, well,” said the pastor, “the new lord can hardly be worse than -the old one, and very easily better and more generous, so we may in -future have a merrier Christmas than this will be, for this time, -children, affairs look rather gloomy.” - -“Ah! we know, father,” cried the joyous children. “You always say -so—you always try to frighten us with the idea of no Christmas, but it -always turns out well. Didn’t Ursula slip in yesterday evening, at the -back-door, with a splendid Christmas tree? We didn’t see it, to be sure, -but we heard it. And didn’t mother and Dora gild the apples and nuts, -and cut out the stars yesterday evening? You thought we were in bed, but -we peeped.” - -“Well, well,” laughed their father; “to-morrow will be Christmas-eve, -and of course you will go to bed bright and early, that you may be up in -time the next morning.” - -“No, no,” shouted the children; “to-morrow evening is just the time when -the Christ-child comes to us. Have we not just seen Ursula making our -Christmas-cake? Oh, dear, angel of a father, we will be so good.” - -The next day all without was dreary and stormy; the heavy snow-flakes -fell all day long, but within it was bright and cheerful. Ursula had -swept and dusted every nook and corner of the house, and the fires all -burned brightly. In the study the father and mother were busy all the -morning; the children, meanwhile, looked wisely at one another, and -tried to keep back the smiles that would dimple out every moment. - -At three o’clock, according to the custom of the house, the holyday -began. The fragrance of the fresh Christmas-cake was wafted through the -house, mother and children were all dressed in their holyday attire, and -the father, easy and happy that the morrow’s sermon was prepared, sat -and smoked in his arm-chair. At four o’clock Theodora came in from the -gardener’s, where she had been in all the storm to carry a slice of the -Christmas-cake, with the intelligence that strangers had arrived at the -village inn. - -This news made the good pastor restless, and after pacing up and down -the room, he went to the window, and rubbing the moisture from the pane, -looked out. And there, just round the corner, crept the old man in the -gray coat, with his hands behind him, as formerly, and he walked up the -steps and knocked at the door. “Courage,” said the pastor to himself, -and hastened out to meet him. - -“Here I am,” said the old man, in a hollow voice, his looks bent on the -ground, “I have fortunately arrived here at last, but I am weary and -ill, and I have no one to pity me. Do you remember your kind words; will -you take me in? What! No reply?” - -The honest pastor could not reply. This was what he had so long looked -forward to, and now he was really grieved that the kind heart of the old -man could not enjoy the brief pleasure of his little surprise. But as he -stood silently there, the old man raised his eyes, met that look of love -and sorrow, and threw himself into his arms. - -“No,” cried he, “no longer bent with age, but erect and strong—away -with dissimulation! O my benefactor, I am—” - -“Stay!” interrupted the pastor, “there shall indeed be no dissembling in -this happy moment. Sir William C——, I know you. The doctor wrote me -all about you.” - -“Take me, then, to your wife and children; they are mine, you are mine, -but you must take me for payment, and keep me for the rest of my life.” - -“Hush!” said the pastor, “my wife and children know nothing of the -secret, now see what they will say. Come in, dear guest, come in.” - -“Ah!” cried Theodora, joyfully, “our old man from A——.” - -The children gathered round, the mother welcomed him cordially, and -seated him in the arm-chair by the bright fire. - -Speechless he looked round upon them all, but kept Theodora’s hand in -his while his gaze rested with evident satisfaction upon her lovely -face. - -“Light the colored Christmas candles, Catharine,” said the father, “and -seat yourselves all round the table.” - -Then he opened his desk, took from it the doctor’s letter, stroked his -wife’s cheek, and said— - -“Ah, Catharine, all this has weighed upon me like a mountain, but now -all that I know, you, dear ones, shall know, too, and our guest here -shall tell us whether it be true or no.” - -And then he read the doctor’s letter. Let whoever can, imagine the -variety of emotions that overcame all the listeners; the astonishment of -the mother, the gentle emotion of the guest, the alternate red and white -that overspread Theodora’s cheek, and the delight of the little ones. - -“Here I am, dear ones,” said the old man, at the end of the reading, -“and here I shall stay, in dear, cheerful Germany.” - -“Where then is—is—” stammered Theodora. - -But just then the door was flung open, and there stood Robert, his eyes -beaming with love and joy. - -“Oh, Robert! my Robert!” she cried, and would have rushed toward him, -but overcome by her happiness, she sank into her mother’s arms. The old -man took his son’s hand, and turning to the pastor, said, - -“May I woo your daughter for my noble son?” - -“May I,” continued Robert, “be your son, O, dear friend?” - -“And may I say,” interrupted his father, “that I have bought the castle -yonder, and that I beg your daughter’s acceptance of it as a bridal -gift?” - -“My son! my daughter!” cried the weeping parents, and embraced the -lovers, while the children crowded round the old man. - -“But now for supper!” cried the pastor, “if there is any one here who -can ever eat again; and, mamma, pray see that it is a real Christmas -feast.” - -And then they seated themselves round the table, and the old man, -looking round upon the happy faces about him, told how he had finished -the tour of Italy, and had determined to live for the rest of his life -in beautiful Germany. Then raising his glass, he drank a heartfelt toast -to them all. “And I have ordered every thing for your comfort at the -castle at Lee & Hammersmith’s, London; and for you, dear friend,” -turning to the pastor, “the choicest collection of plants will arrive -shortly.” - -“Oh, heaven!” sighed the pastor, “How have I deserved this—the _Banksia -serrata, Plumeria_, and divine _Strelitzia_.” - -“How?” said his guest, holding up the purse which Seidelman had slipped -into his hand at the springs; “see your twenty dollars here—the purse -shall always remain in the family, and our posterity shall read what is -embroidered upon it—‘Charity brings interest.’ But what makes the -little ones so restless?” - -“Ah!” said their father, “they want to go to bed;” and he and his wife -quietly left the room. - -“No, no!” cried the children, “now the holy child is coming, wait until -we hear his little bell, and then we shall go, and you, brother Robert, -and all.” - -And soon the longed-for bell sounded, the children rushed into the -study, and bore along the older ones with them. - -There was the Christmas heaven before them, with its shining lights and -stars. Theodora sprang forward to take from the table her new white -dress, and forgot her castle. Hermine danced round her new work-box, -Ernst round his tool-chest, and Paul was immediately absorbed with his -terrific cannon, and new troops of soldiers. - -The mother, coming behind the pastor, slipped on him his new -dressing-gown, and he uncovered the corner of the table, where were her -pretty slippers and muff. - -“O, ye happy ones,” said Sir William, with tears of real feeling, “how -easy would it be for me to cover this table with gold, and say, ‘Take -it—it is all yours,’ but could it give you one moment of the happiness -that these simple gifts of love afford you. O let me be a child with -you!” - -“Yes, yes, we will all be children,” cried they, and embraced each -other, while the pastor raised his eyes to heaven, and blessed them, -saying, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.” - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNET.—LIGHT. - - - How beauteous art thou, sacred light! How sweet - To view thee gushing from the golden sun, - As he his morning race begins to run! - Than time or thought alone, thou art less fleet— - Where shall we seek thy primal dwelling-place? - About His throne, who ever girt with thee, - Lay on the bosom of eternity; - Who lit the stars, which radiate through space— - Lo! from the east in billowy tide thou flowest, - Gilding the hill-tops and the heavenly spires— - Empurpling ocean with a myriad fires— - Great light, thou sun! o’er heaven thou proudly goest; - Nor ever standest still, as once, of old, - Till setting thou hast bathed all with thy molten gold. - - A. - - * * * * * - - - - - UNSPOKEN. - - - BY A. J. REQUIER. - - - As, sometimes, the tumultuary deep - Sinks to serene repose, - When sunset visions o’er its bosom creep - As o’er a couch of rose; - - So, sometimes, the bright Caspian of the soul - Is sudden hushed and stilled, - As with the glow of some wild hope as goal - Its trancéd depths are filled. - - “Maid of the twilight eyes! that musest late - What star breaks on thy brow - With the resplendence of a Heavenly Gate, - Greeting its angel now?” - - The humid azure of her virgin dream, - Spanned from the realms above - By an all-dazzling Iris! thought—trust—theme— - Life-consecration—Love! - - Come with me to the rustic paths and see - A mute scene eloquent; - That rude cot, reared where the daisied lea - Is with the mountain blent. - - A form of lovely womanhood which bends - O’er a much daintier thing— - Eyes fixed with something that so far transcends - The strength of shattered suffering. - - Armed Cæsar, with his legions, dared not break - Their concentration wild; - Life ventured—periled on a single stake! - And won:—her first born child! - - Come with me where the artist-hand hath wrought - The crown of all its toil— - The spiritual idol madly sought - In the hot brain’s turmoil; - - Come where the monumental dead have laid - Their thrice-anointed dust— - Where priest and martyr, bard and sage, have paid - The debt all mortals must; - - Come where the spells of wizard Nature wrest - Sublimity from sod— - Where Lohmon gleams in paradisal rest, - Niagara preaches God; - - Come thou and learn, the inmost glow of soul - Hath no terrestial token; - And that, while Polar Oceans freeze and roll, - It never can be spoken! - - * * * * * - - - - - TO A DANDELION. - - - BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH. - - - Thy face, my friend, is beauty-pale, - And doth a slender sweet exhale, - And here is but a homely vale, - And fancy draws - No dearness out of song or tale, - In thine applause; - - And some there are who only prize - The blossoms wooed from foreign skies, - In odors drenched and dewy dyes, - But thou shalt be - Companion to my fonder eyes, - And kin to me. - - When I shall praise a flower the more - Because its gilded portals pour - The sweetness of a foreign shore, - I’ll jog with those - Who drop the rhyme’s laborious oar, - And flow in prose. - - All themes that Love and Honor use, - All tender, soul-inspiring views, - And all the raptures of the muse, - Howe’er we roam, - Like the sweet Grace that shuns abuse - Begin at home. - - And where my steps are frequent led— - In beaten haunts—where’er I tread, - Are seeds of wit and wisdom spread, - That not abound, - Only because my heart and head - Are stony ground. - - Thou claimant of a mutual birth - Poor kinsman of a fickle hearth, - Flower of the bleak New England earth, - I cannot deem - Your modest crown so little worth - In my esteem. - - When spring returning, odor-sweet, - Touches the turf with tinsel feet, - Thy fresh rosette once more we meet, - By sun or shade, - Like Joy to smiles, with generous greet, - Or just displayed. - - But soon thy little youth is gone, - Thy ample-headed age comes on, - And thou a standing wig dost don, - Of seedy hair, - Frayed by the winds, till bald as stone, - Thy skull is bare. - - Ye sacred, sweet, sonorous Nine— - Dear Floras of the bowers divine— - Should Age discrown my sable twine - Of hairy weed, - Give me to say—This pate of mine - Has gone to seed. - - * * * * * - - - - - WHY DO I WEEP FOR THEE? - - - WORDS BY - GEORGE LINLEY. - COMPOSED BY - W. V. WALLACE. - SUNG BY - MISS CATHARINE HAYES. - - Published by permission of Lee & Walker, 162 Chestnut Street, - _Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments_. - -[Illustration: musical score] - - Why do I weep for thee? - Why weep in my sad dreams? - Parted for aye are we, - Yes! parted like mountain streams. - -[Illustration: musical score continued] - - Yet with me lingers still - That word, that one last word, - Thy voice, thy voice yet seems to thrill - The heart’s fond chord. - Why do I weep for thee? - Why do I weep for thee? - - - II. - - Once, ah! what joy to share - With thee the noontide hour; - Then, not a grief nor care - Had canker’d the heart’s young flow’r - The sun seems not to shed - A radiance o’er me now, - Save mem’ry all seems dead, - Since lost, since lost art thou. - Why do I weep for thee? - Why do I weep for thee? - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Aylmere, or the Bondman of Kent; and Other Poems. By Robert T. - Conrad. 1 Vol. Philadelphia; E. H. Butler & Co._ - -The author of this volume is one of those rare organizations, -intellectually, which have the power of transmuting whatever they touch -into gold. As an orator, he sways his audience at will; as a writer, he -storms the reader’s judgment by logic and declamation welded into one; -and as a poet, he now charms the fancy with the grace and delicacy of -his imagery, and now makes the heart throb with his fiery and -impassioned words. - -“Aylmere” is a dramatic poem, originally written for Mr. Forrest, and -still played, under the name of “Jack Cade,” by that eminent tragedian. -Though parts of it may derive additional power, on the stage, from the -magnificent bursts of the great actor for whom it was composed, the true -beauty of the drama, we think, can only be enjoyed by those who peruse -it, at leisure, in the closet. Many passages, indeed, are suppressed on -the boards, in order to bring the play within accustomed limits; and the -benefit of these the spectator loses entirely. - -The drama of “Aylmere” is founded on the famous insurrection of 1450, in -which the English peasantry were headed by a physician, known -indifferently as Jack Cade, Aylmere, Mendall and Mortimer. The theme is -one peculiarly fitted for a republican poet. Goaded by intolerable -wrongs, social as well as political—insults to their women, contumely -to themselves, public taxes that reaped them to the last stubble, and -private exactions on the part of the nobility, that gleaned what little -regal rapacity had left—the people, in which we comprise the yeomen and -burghers, as well as the villeins, rose in a body, marched on London, -exacted the death of the infamous lord-chamberlain, and procured a -charter from the king, guarantying to the commonalty the rights and -privileges demanded by their leader. But scarcely had these concessions -been granted, when a collision, provoked probably by the royal party, -occurred between the citizens of London and the followers of Cade: the -insurgents met with a repulse; and the late terrified aristocracy -rallying, a total defeat and dispersion of the peasantry ensued. Aylmere -himself was hunted down, like a wild beast, and mercilessly put to -death. The concessions granted were revoked. And, for centuries after, -English historians in the interest of the upper classes, blackened the -name and misrepresented the motives of the ill-fated Kentish reformer. - -What nobler task could a republican poet set before himself, than to -rescue the reputation of this martyred hero from obloquy and shame? -Well, too, has Judge Conrad fulfilled his pious labor. The principal -character of the play is Aylmere, of course; indeed he may be said, in -one sense, to be the entire play. His lofty courage, his abhorrence of -wrong, his high aspirations after liberty, and the fiery enthusiasm -which he breathes into his followers, form, as it were, the deep -undertone, whose thunders roll incessantly through this grand anthem of -freedom. Other characters, however, contribute materially to the action -of the piece, and furnish the author with opportunities to display his -dramatic powers. The portrait of Marianne, the wife of Aylmere, is drawn -with great tenderness of feeling, and delicacy of touch: she is, like -her own native Italy, a vision of immortal beauty hallowed and -sanctified by wo. The cruel, vindictive and insolent Say; the gay, -careless, yet not wholly wicked Clifford; the friend of the people, -Friar Lacy; and the yeomen, Wat Worthy and Will Mowbray, all stand -prominently out from the canvas. - -The drama is full of noble poetry. It would give us pleasure to quote -more largely from it, in proof of this; but the quantity of books upon -our table, requiring notice, forbids a monopoly of our limited space by -one. We cannot, however, resist making a few extracts. Here is one, in -which Aylmere, after his return from Italy, eloquently describes the -bondage which he shared in common with his fellow-Englishmen. - - Ten years of freedom have not made me free. - I’ve throttled fortune till she yielded up - Her brightest favors; I have wooed Ambition, - Wooed with a fiery soul and dripping sword, - And _would not_ be denied; I turned from her, - And raked amid the ashes of the past, - For the high thoughts that burn but cannot die, - Until my spirit walked with those who now - Are hailed, as brethren, by archangels:—_Yet,_ - _Have I come home a slave—a thing for chains_ - _And scourges—ay, a dog,_ - _Crouching, and spurned, and spit upon._ - -In fine contrast to this picture, is the following one of Italy, _as -Italy was four centuries ago_. - - ’Tis free; and want, fear, shame, are aliens there. - In that blest land the tiller is a prince. - No ruffian lord breaks spring’s fair promises; - And summer’s toils—for freedom watches o’er them— - Are safe and happy; summer lapses by, - In its own music; - And pregnant Autumn, with a matron blush, - Comes stately in, and with her, hand in hand, - Labor, and busy Plenty. Then old Winter, - With his stout glee, his junkets, and a laugh - That shakes from his hoar beard the icicles, - Makes the year gay again. There are no poor - Where freedom is. - -The whole of the following is in the same fine strain. - - _Worthy._ Behold! He comes! he comes! - - _Enter_ Aylmere. - - _Lacy._ Thank Heaven! thou’rt free! - - _Aylmere_, (_laughs._) Ay, once more free! within my grasp a - sword, - And round me freemen! Free! as is the storm - About your hills; the surge upon your shore! - Free as the sunbeams on the chainless air; - Or as the stream that leaps the precipice, - And in eternal thunder, shouts to Heaven, - That it is free, and will be free forever! - - _Straw._ Now for revenge! Full long we’ve fed on wrong: - Give us revenge! - - _Aylmere._ For you and for myself! - England from all her hills, cries out for vengeance! - The serf, who tills her soil, but tastes not of - Her fruit, the slave that in her dungeon groans, - The yeoman plundered, and the maiden wronged, - Echo the call in shrieks! The angry waves - Report the sound in thunder; and the heavens, - From their blue vaults, roll back a people’s cry - For liberty and vengeance! - - _Lacy._ Wrong on wrong! - Are there no bolts in heaven? - - _Aylmere._ _No swords on earth?_ - _He’ll ever be a slave, who does not right_ - _Himself. The heavens fight not for cravens. Let us strike,_ - _Strike for ourselves, and Heaven will strike for us._ - -The ensuing are nervous and striking. - - All would o’ertop their fellows; - And every rank—the lowest—hath its height - To which hearts flutter, with as large a hope - As princes feel for empire! But in each, - Ambition struggles with a sea of hate. - He who sweats up the ridgy grades of life. - Finds, in each station, icy scorn above, - Below him hooting envy. - - My lord, if you seek power in this, remember, - The greatness which is born of anarchy, - And thrown aloft in tumult, cannot last. - It mounts, like rocks hurled skyward by volcanoes, - Flushes a guilty moment, and falls back - In the red earthquake’s bosom. - -The tragedy violates, in some of its details, the facts of history. Thus -Aylmere, instead of being defeated and betrayed, as in the real story, -perishes, in the drama, at the very hour that the charter is granted. -The change enables the author to give a fine artistic scene as his -closing one. Marianne, the wife, having been separated from her husband -at the outset of the insurrection, falls into the power of Lord Say. -While thus a prisoner she is accosted with dishonorable proposals by -Lord Clifford, whom she stabs to escape indignity. For this heroic act -she is thrown into the castle dungeon, scourged, and visited with other -brutalities, till she loses her reason. Escaping eventually, she rejoins -her husband. In Aylmere’s last interview with Lord Say, when the latter, -dying, poniards the former, she rushes in, her intellect restored, as is -often the case before death, and perishes with her lord. This furnishes -the material for the closing scene, which is most dramatically -conceived. Clasping the fair corpse in his arms, the hero is himself -sinking into death, when suddenly loud huzzas in the street, call him -back to life. He starts up with a wild cry of exultation, and asks -eagerly what it means. The attendants reply, “the charter!” and, as they -speak, the parchment, duly sealed, is brought triumphantly in. Aylmere -rushes to it, kisses it, clasps it to his bosom, and exclaiming that the -bondmen are avenged and England free, totters toward Marianne, falls, -and dies. - -But the drama is not the only poem in the volume, for some fifty -fugitive pieces ensue, the chance contributions of a life devoted -generally to pursuits more stern. Several of the last of these -originally appeared in the pages of this magazine: we may mention “The -Sons of the Wilderness,” and the “Sonnets on the Lord’s Prayer.” -Generally they are distinguished by great felicity of expression, a -vigorous imagination, touches of exquisite pathos, and a lofty scorn of -whatever is base, cruel, or wrong. As examples of the gentler mood of -the author’s muse, we would point out two poems, which evidently relate -to a mother and her daughter: the first, “Lines on the death of a Young -Married Lady,” and the second, “To Maggie.” The sonnet, “To My Wife,” is -also very beautiful. As specimens of Judge Conrad’s more indignant mood, -we refer to the sonnets, “On the Invasion of the Roman Republic,” and to -“Fear.” - -The poem, “To My Brother,” is one that would have made the author’s -reputation, even if he had written nothing else; and “Freedom” contains -stanzas that but few other living poets could have penned. To say that -it exhibits the power of the fourth canto of “Childe Harold,” would -imply imitation, of which certainly no one can accuse Judge Conrad. But -we may remark that it has the same nervous style, the same exalted -imagination, with an original conception that is all its own. In -perusing this and other poems in this volume we instinctively regret -that Judge Conrad has not devoted himself entirely to poetry. Such -powers as his, concentrated on a pursuit so congenial to him, could not -but have produced results that would have adorned American literature, -not only temporarily, but throughout all time. - -We cannot take leave of our author without going back to the dedication, -which is addressed to the poet’s father, and which, though often quoted -in print since the appearance of the book, we venture to quote again. - - TO JOHN CONRAD, ESQ. - - How much that Young Time gave hath Old Time ta’en; - Snatching his blessings back with churlish haste, - And leaving life a wreck-encumbered waste! - And yet I murmur not—for you remain! - You and my mother, and the hoarded wealth - Of home, and love, and high and hearted thought, - Which Youth in Memory’s wizard woof enwrought. - These are “laid up” where Time’s ungentle stealth - Can reach them not. And ’tis a joy to bring - This humble garland, woven in the wild. - Back to the hearth and roof-tree of the child: - The wearied heart bears home its offering. - If it relume the approving smile of yore— - Guerdon and glory then—father, I crave no more. - - * * * * * - - _Poems. By Richard Henry Stoddard. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & - Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -It is impossible to open this volume at any page without feeling that -the author is a poet, and a poet whose promise is very much greater even -than his performance. Every poem is bright and warm with imagery and -feeling—poetical expressions are showered with a liberal hand—the -verse has that soft and fluent movement which indicates that the -thoughts they convey come from a teeming mind in a gush of melodious -sentiment—and the impression left on the reader’s imagination is of a -singularly rich, sensuous, fertile and poetical nature. Every poem, -almost every line, is a protest against the prose of thought and the -prose of life, and all the objects of sense are studiously idealized and -heightened into “something rich” if not into “something strange.” The -author seems to dwell in a dream of life, peopled with beauties if not -with Beauty, and sweetly abandoning himself to the soft and subtle -sensations they imaginatively excite. Pleasure, but a pleasure more than -mortal, seems to be his aim and aspiration, and infinitely provoked is -he when the hard facts of life protrude their misshapen but solid -substance into his meditations, and mock his luxurious illusion. - -Now the mood out of which this profuse idealization of thoughts and -sensations proceeds is undoubtedly poetical, but it should be exhibited -in connection with higher and sterner qualities, and at best indicates -the youth of the poetic vision and faculty. But, it must be admitted, -that Mr. Stoddard has represented it in all its deliciousness, and no -person can read his volume without being filled and stimulated with its -sweetness and melody, and luxuriant fancy and opulence of sensuous forms -and images. It indicates, to some extent, a sensitive and imaginative -nature overmastered by the pleasant scenes and airy beings in which and -with whom it revels—possessed instead of possessing—and therefore -lacking that individual power which wields dominion over its own -resources, selects, discriminates, rejects, governs, and, in the highest -sense, combines and creates. Accordingly he does not inform objects, but -is rather informed by them—does not pass into them by an internal force -but is rather drawn into them by their external attraction—and thus -leaves an impression rather of fertility than power. There is a great -difference between the poet who merges himself in objects, and the poet -who allows objects to immerge him. In the one case he is a victor, in -the other a captive. - -As a result of this exceeding sensitiveness to impressions, Mr. Stoddard -is open to the influence of other poets; for when a poet once ceases to -exercise a jealous guardianship over the individuality of his genius, he -is liable to be overcome by the superior power of the natures with whom -he sympathises. Now, Mr. Stoddard is no copyist or imitator, much less a -plagiarist, but he evidently has an intense love for the genius of -Shelley, Keats and Tennyson, and sympathises so deeply with them that he -catches the tone and tune of their spirits—sometimes sets his own songs -to their music—and thus gives us original thoughts and images that -_sound_ like theirs because conceived in their spirit. Thus in the -“Castle in the Air” there is an original line which still has the mark -of Shelley’s individuality upon it: - - “Like some divinest dream upon the couch of sleep.” - -It would be easy to select many more illustrations of this unconscious -imitation, proving, not that Mr. Stoddard is a borrower, but that he is -not on his guard against the magnetic power of other minds, exercised as -it is through the most subtile avenues of mental influence. It should be -his ambition not to differ in degree from the poets he loves, but to -differ in _kind_. It is better to be Stoddard than to be a Tennysonian, -especially, as in the present case, when Stoddard contains within -himself the elements of a new individuality in letters, with a force and -flavor and fragrance of his own. - -We have been thus prolix and minute in characterizing some of the -peculiarities of this volume, because we are convinced that the author -is a man of genius, and has a right to be tried by laws of criticism -severer than those which apply to the common run of versifiers. But we -are not insensible to the excellencies of the poems; willingly plead -guilty to the charge of having read the volume with delight, and trust -that we shall entice many of our readers into the same pleasant -employment. They evince thought, sentiment, fancy, imagination, delicacy -and depth of nature; every thing but directing will and a broad -perception of the true poetical relations of the ideal and the actual; -and these will come with the growth of his mind, and a larger and more -genial experience of life. We had marked many passages to illustrate our -idea both of his merits and his defects, but we have no space at present -to quote them. The gorgeous “Castle in the Air,” the leading poem in the -volume, would furnish many a splendid example of the fluency and -fertility of his genius. “The Witch’s Whelp” is an original conception -of a different kind. The Songs and Sonnets, toward the close of the -volume, are perhaps, the most individual and essentially original poems -of the collection, and some of them display uncommon subtilty and -sharpness of mental vision. - - * * * * * - - _A Book of Romances, Lyrics and Songs. By Bayard Taylor. Boston: - Ticknor, Read & Fields, 1 vol. 16mo._ - -Bayard Taylor’s peculiarities as a poet are the same which have won him -so much popularity as a man, and refer to his character as well as his -mind. Fine, however as is the impression conveyed by his numerous prose -works, we think that no reader can carefully peruse the present volume -without feeling that the best embodiment of the man is in these poems. -They are thoroughly genuine, recording the thoughts and aspirations -nearest and dearest to the author’s heart and brain, and o’erinformed -with the life of a thoughtful, imaginative and genial nature. Some of -them are darkened by a recent affliction, and to those friends who know -how deep and acute that affliction was, they can hardly be read without -tears. But the majority of the poems express the essential happiness of -the author’s spirit, and communicate happiness to the reader. That -descriptive power, which has made him one of the most fascinating of -modern writers of travels, is of course active in the present volume in -its most exquisite form. Indeed, as a poet, he does not so much describe -as represent scenery, picturing it forth to the imagination in words and -images which seem the mental counterparts of the objects before his eye. -As a descriptive poet alone, he would rank high among contemporary -authors, but he is also a close and subtle observer of the operations of -thought and passion, as modified by individual character, and numerous -pieces in this volume indicate intensity and concentration of thought, -exercised on some of the most elusive and etherial laws and facts of the -spiritual nature. In addition to all this, his style of expression is -pure, energetic and picturesque, and varies readily with his themes. The -best poem in the volume, and one which we think has good pretensions to -be ranked with American classics, is “Man-da-Min, or the Romance of the -Maize,” an Indian legend of great beauty, and, in Taylor’s version, -exquisite in idea and masterly in execution. “Hylas,” “Taurus,” “The -Summer Camp,” “The Odalisque,” “The Pine Forest of Monterey,” and “The -Waves,” are likewise of great merit, and exhibit the variety as well as -power of the author’s mind. Cordially do we wish success to this volume, -and trust that Taylor will live to write, and we to welcome many like -it. - - * * * * * - - _The Home Book of the Picturesque, or American Scenery, Art and - Literature; with Thirteen Engravings on Steel, from Pictures by - Eminent Artists, Engraved expressly for this Work. New York: - George P. Putnam. 1 vol. folio._ - -The American public have become so accustomed to Mr. Putnam’s -enterprise, that they may not be surprised even by this splendid example -of it—a volume essentially American, yet in engravings, letter-press, -and general execution equal to the best English annuals, and in the -merits of its literary matter far superior to them. The cost and trouble -of getting up the book may be conceived, when we mention that the -pictures from which the exquisite illustrations of the volume are -engraved, are scattered among many collectors, and that the execution of -the plates exhibits the utmost skill and finish which the art of -engraving has reached in America. The essays which accompany the -engravings are by what old Jacob Tonson called “eminent hands.” Irving -contributes a paper on the “Catskill Mountains,” which seems like an -essay accidently left out of the “Sketch Book,” and is certainly worthy -of a place among the most charming productions of his genius. Cooper’s -article on “American and European Scenery,” is a carefully meditated and -attractive disquisition on a subject which has occasioned endless -discussion, but which was never treated so thoroughly and temperately -before. Tuckerman’s “Over the Mountains” is an admirable essay. “Scenery -and Mind,” by Magoun, is the most eloquent, thoughtful, scholarly and -tasteful of his productions. Willis contributes a brilliant and sensible -paper on “The Highland Terrace,” in his most fascinating style. The -artists whose landscapes make the beauty of the volume, are Durand, -Huntington, Beekwith, Talbot, Kensett, Cropsey, Richards, Church, Weir, -Cole and Gignoux. - -Altogether, the volume is the best exhibition of American art in -connection with American literature we have ever seen, and must take the -lead among the gift-books of the season. - - * * * * * - - _The Human Body and its Connection with Man, Illustrated by the - Principal Organs. By John James Garth Wilkinson. Member of the - Royal College of Surgeons of England. Philadelphia: Lippincott, - Grambo & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -The author of this curious and attractive volume is well-known as the -English editor of Swedenborg’s works, and the writer of Swedenborg’s -life, and, in the opinion of Emerson, is “a philosophic critic, with a -co-equal vigor of understanding and imagination comparable only to Lord -Bacon’s.” Without attempting to discuss the accuracy of this opinion, -which is at least the result of a study of Mr. Wilkinson’s whole works, -it is sufficient to say here that the author of this volume is one of -the most vivid, pointed and striking writers of the century; and that, -however solid or doubtful may be his pretensions to great scientific -merits, there can be no doubt of the brilliancy of his rhetoric and the -fertility of his intellect in original thoughts. A review of the present -work we do not intend to give, but simply recommend it to all readers as -a powerful, independent, suggestive and stimulating book, lifting the -study of anatomy and physiology into a fine art, and abounding with new -views both of the body and the mind. The chief peculiarity of Mr. -Wilkinson seems to us to be a singular vigor and audacity of will, in -some cases running into offensive dogmatism, but generally exercised in -freeing his intellect from the trammels both of accredited skepticisms -and authorities, and in stamping his own opinions with such force upon -the mind of the reader, as to create himself into a kind of authority. -There is muscular health and strength in every sentence of his -remarkable book, and a seeming gladness in the exercise of his faculties -which is wonderfully inspiring to the reader. - - * * * * * - - _The Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. - With Engravings by Baker from Designs by Billings. Boston: - Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -Hawthorne may have written more powerful stories than those contained in -this volume, but none so truly delightful. The spirit of the book is so -essentially sunny and happy, that it creates a jubilee in the brain as -we read. It is intended for children, but let not the intention cheat -men and women out of the pleasure they will find in its sparkling and -genial pages. The stories are told by a certain Eustice Bright to a mob -of children, whose real names the author suppresses, but whom he -re-baptizes with the fairy appellation of Primrose, Periwinkle, Sweet -Fern, Dandelion, Blue-Eye, Clover, Huckleberry, Cowslip, Squash-blossom, -Milk-weed, Plantain and Butter-cup. The individuality of these little -creatures is happily preserved, especially in the criticisms and -applications they make after each story is told; and the reader parts -with them unwillingly, and with the hope (which the author should not -disappoint) of resuming their acquaintance in another volume. The -stories, six in number, are classical myths, re-cast to suit the -author’s purpose, and told with exquisite grace, simplicity and -playfulness. The book will become the children’s classic, and, to our -taste, is fairly the best of its kind in English literature. It is a -child’s story-book informed with the finest genius. - - * * * * * - - _The Captains of the Old World, as Compared with the Great - Modern Strategists, their Campaigns, Characters and Conduct, - from the Persian to the Punic Wars. By Henry William Herbert. - New York: Charles Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This volume is all alive and glowing with the fiery characteristics of -Mr. Herbert’s genius, while it has at the same time the best results of -his earnest, independent thinking, and profound and accurate -scholarship. The title sufficiently declares its purpose, and its -execution is worthy of the theme. It gives a most animated account of -the Greek and Roman tactics and military organization, and of the lives -of the great ancient commanders, commencing with Miltiades and ending, -for the present, with Hannibal. Themistocles, Pausanius, Xenophon, -Epaminondas and Alexander, are learnedly and eloquently sketched, and -parallels are drawn between them and the celebrated captains of modern -times, in which the author shows a knowledge of military science as well -as his usual power of vivid painting. The work is dedicated to Professor -Felton, of Harvard University. It cannot fail to have that wide -circulation which it so eminently merits, for it happily combines -elements of interest which will recommend it equally to scholars and the -mass of readers. - - * * * * * - - _The Life of John Sterling. By Thomas Carlyle. Boston: Phillips, - Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This is one of the most powerful of Carlyle’s many productions, and, as -a biography, is to be ranked among the best in English literature. It -bristles as usual with the author’s harsh scorn of every thing he is -pleased to call cant, falsehood, and moonshine; but there are glimpses -in it of deep and genuine tenderness, and, of all his works, it best -indicates the humanity of the man. The mental characteristics of -Sterling himself, are drawn with a loving and friendly yet -discriminating pencil, and the few events of his life are narrated with -singular skill. The sketches of Sterling’s friends and contemporaries, -especially the portrait of Coleridge, add much to the interest of the -volume. There are specimens also of a sort of savage humor equal to -Carlyle’s best efforts in that kind. The style, though full of vigor and -flashing with imagery, is as craggy and uneven as ever; exhibiting, in -the constant recurrence of a few slang words, how formal after all is -this inveigher against formulas, and how his hatred of affectation -becomes itself a sort of cant. But the soul of the book is sound and -manly; and no one can read it without feeling that he has been in -communion with a deep and great, if somewhat embittered nature. - - * * * * * - - _Putnam’s Home Cyclopedia Hand-book of the Useful Arts. By T. - Antisell, M. D. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12 mo._ - - _Hand-Book of Universal Biography. By Parke Godwin. New York: - George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -These volumes belong to a series of six, each complete in itself, under -the general title of “Putnam’s Home Cyclopedia.” They will be found very -useful and valuable to all classes of readers, containing a vast amount -of classified information in the most compact form. The Hand-Book of the -Useful Arts should be in the possession of every mechanic in the -country. The Universal Biography, by Parke Godwin, is based on Maunder’s -book on the same subject, but re-written, extended, corrected, and in -every way improved. The whole series will make an invaluable library of -reference. Each volume contains some eight or nine hundred closely -printed pages. - - * * * * * - - _The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World, from Marathon to - Waterloo. By E. S. Creasy, M. A. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 - vol. 12mo._ - -The idea of this valuable volume is taken from a remark of Hallam on -Charles Martel’s victory over the invading Saracens, which he calls one -of “those few battles, of which a contrary event would have essentially -varied the drama of the world in all its subsequent scenes.” Mr. Creasy -is Professor of History in University College, London, and is well -fitted to do justice to his great theme. The battles described are -Marathon, Syracuse, Arbela, and Metaurus; the victory of Arminius over -the Roman legions under Varus; the battles of Chalons, Tours, and -Hastings; Joan of Arc’s victory at Orleans, the defeat of the Spanish -Armada, and the battles of Blenheim, Pultowa, Saratoga, Valmy, and -Waterloo. The execution of the work is excellent. The liberality of the -author’s mind is indicated by his lofty conception of the power and the -mission of the United States, given in the introductory remarks to his -description of the battle of Saratoga. - - * * * * * - - _Legends of the Flowers. By Susan Pindar. New York: D. Appleton - & Co. 1 vol. 16mo._ - - _Memoirs of a London Doll. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 - vol. 16mo._ - - _Tales from Catland, for Little Kittens. By an Old Tabby. - Boston: Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -These beautiful little volumes are designed for children, and are -admirably adapted for their purpose of delighting the young. The stories -display ingenuity of invention, and a talent for reaching the minds of -children of no ordinary character. The engravings are uncommonly well -executed. Those in Ticknor & Co.’s books are from designs by Billings. - - * * * * * - - _A Class Book of Chemistry. By Edward L. Youmans. New York: D. - Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -A capital volume, designed chiefly for academies and schools, but -containing matter more important to readers in general than even to -school-boys. It is a work in which the leading principles of chemistry -are familiarly explained, and applied to the arts, agriculture, -physiology, dietetics, ventilation, and the phenomena of nature. The -writer is well qualified for his task, for he seems perfectly to -comprehend the ignorance of the majority of readers on the subjects he -explains, and accordingly directs his explanations primarily to exactly -those principles which require illustration, before the mind is fitted -to take in their applications. - - * * * * * - - _Lives of the Queens of Scotland and English Princesses - Connected with the Royal Succession of Great Britain. By Agnes - Strickland, Author of the Lives of the Queens of England. Vol. - 2. New York: Harper & Brothers. 12mo._ - -This volume contains the lives of Mary of Lorraine, the second queen of -James V., and Lady Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lenox. These -biographies are quite able and interesting, giving vivid pictures of -Scottish feuds, life, and manners in the sixteenth century, and -exhibiting considerable research into the interior history of the time. -The next volume will, we presume, be devoted to Mary, Queen of Scots. - - * * * * * - - _Sir Roger de Coverley. By the Spectator. Boston: Ticknor, Reed - & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -Addison’s Sir Roger is as universally known and appreciated as any -creation of the comic genius of England; but the papers in the Spectator -which refer to him have never before been collected in a volume by -themselves. This is done in the present delightful work, and we commend -it to our readers as a gem both of typography and genius. - - * * * * * - - _Sketches in Ireland. By W. M. Thackeray. Philadelphia: T. B. - Peterson._ - -This work abounds with the finest touches of the author’s satirical -pencil, and for close observation of life, is worthy of the fame of the -author of “Vanity Fair.” The accompanying illustrations are from -drawings made upon the spot by the author, and are, some of them, -ludicrous enough. - - * * * * * - -_Crosby and Nichols, of Boston_, have sent us some eight or ten -delightful little story-books for children, to which we call the -attention of parents in these holyday times. - - * * * * * - -Dentistry.—Our attention has recently been called to the very superior -mechanical execution of full sets of teeth, manufactured by a young -townsman of ours—J. Sothoron Gilliams, Esq.—which in all respects -surpass any thing of the kind we have elsewhere observed. Doctor -Gilliams, however, brings to the practice of his profession, not only -the nice observation of years of the superior skill of his father, but -also a thorough medical education and assiduous attention to the -mechanical arrangement and finish of his labors. It is a mistaken -notion—but one that is common—to suppose, that a poor shoemaker or an -indifferent tailor may make a very tolerable dentist, and we are sure -that a few more examples of thorough education for the practice of the -profession, such as Dr. Gilliams has secured, will do much to send -adrift the vast army of pretenders and quacks who now torture and fleece -humanity as surgeon dentists. It is strange, that while no man would -thoughtlessly put a horse into the hands of one of these fellows, yet -people are to be found who will allow them to afflict and disfigure the -mouths of their daughters with perfect indifference. We trust, however, -that among the many thousands who read “Graham” none will hereafter -suffer themselves to be duped by ignorant pretenders, with high-sounding -titles, while gentlemen of education and superior skill—but who -modestly keep silent—are in the midst of us. - - * * * * * - -The Volume for 1852.—Our readers will see from the style in which the -January number is put forth, that we are in earnest for 1852 in our -efforts to render “Graham” superior as a work of literature and art. The -plan marked out and indicated in our prospectus of greatly increasing -the literary matter of each number, we shall resolutely adhere to, and -as we claim the merit of first suggesting and adopting the change, we -trust that those who partially follow us in January, will not grow weary -in well-doing as soon as the subscriptions have been made up for the -year. - -How far our readers may have opportunities of observing the practice of -some publishers, who fill sheets with promises which are never thought -of after the January number is issued, we cannot say—but we now ask -some little attention to the matter for 1852. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: Graham’s Paris Fashions.] - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic -spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and -punctuation errors have 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 available for -preparation of the eBook. - -page 18, the Boynton’s; and he ==> the Boyntons; and he -page 89, in the which state one of ==> in which state one of -page 104, knew work-box, ==> new work-box, - - -[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 1, January 1852] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 1, -January 1852, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JANUARY 1852 *** - -***** This file should be named 60128-0.txt or 60128-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/1/2/60128/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - 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. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - |