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Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 6, December 1849
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
              VOL. XXXV.      December, 1849.      No. 6.


                           Table of Contents

                 Fiction, Literature and Other Articles

          The Conscript
          Jasper St. Aubyn
          Three Pictures: Sunrise—Noonday—Night
          Major Anspach
          Self-Devotion
          A Case of Gold Fever
          My First Love
          The Death of Cleopatra
          The Two Cousins: A Mas-Sa-Sanga Legend Of Western
            Canada
          Unfading Flowers
          Wild-Birds of America
          Editor’s Table
          Review of New Books


                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion

          To My Steed
          Summer’s Night
          The Death of the Year
          The Cottage
          The Misanthrope
          Alice Vernon
          Song. On the Wide World I Am Sailing.
          The Broken Reed
          The Old Wooden Church on the Green
          The Fairies’ Song
          Pleasant Words
          Dirge. On the Death of a Young Lady.
          Passing Away
          The Undivided Heart
          Le Follet
          My Life is Like the Summer’s Rose

       Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE DEPARTURE.]



                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

        VOL. XXXV.     PHILADELPHIA, December, 1849.     NO. 6.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             THE CONSCRIPT;


                         BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

The family of the Widow Berien had risen from their evening devotions,
and were preparing to hasten to bed that they might rest from the toils
of the day past, and to prepare for the fatigues of that which was to
come. One by one they had taken leave of the mistress of the house, and
had withdrawn, and Louise advanced to give her mother the evening kiss
and receive the evening benediction—when the mother pointed to a chair
and requested her daughter to sit down. The movements of the girl
evinced an understanding of the object of her mother, and her
countenance showed that she had drawn herself up to sustain the rebuke
which had been prepared for her, for when both were seated Louise turned
her face to her mother to discover, if possible, by the appearance of
severity there, how the storm was to commence.

“You have seen Adolph again, to-day,” said Madam Berien, in a mild tone,
and with a glance which conveyed nothing like anger.

“I met him returning from the field.”

“And what did he say?”

“It is scarcely necessary for me to repeat what he said or what I
replied—it was probably not much different from what others in similar
circumstances say. Not greatly different from what passed between you
and my father at our ages, and in our situation.”

“And that, Louise, shows me that you still persist in the resolution to
marry Adolph.”

“I have changed neither my inclinations nor my wishes so far as I may
resolve on such matters.”

“And my opinions are to go for nothing?”

“Can you say that, dear mother? Can you say that your opinion, your
command, and your wishes go for nothing, when for two years I have
postponed our union solely in deference to your _wishes_, and here renew
my promise, that while I will marry no one but Adolph, in my present
state of feeling, I will assuredly not marry him until you shall have
given your consent, or at least, withdrawn your opposition.”

“My consent will not easily be obtained under existing circumstances. I
do not object to the condition, appearance, or general conduct—”

“On what then, dear mother, have you founded your hostility to Adolph?”

“On nothing. I have no hostility to Adolph—I wish him well—I love him
as the son of my cousin, on his father’s side, and his mother was the
friend and companion of my childhood, and both of them were my long
continued neighbors—but—”

“But what, mother? Tell me, is there any secret reason for your dislike
to the connection with the family? Has he or have his parents committed
crimes which would bring disgrace upon us if known? Tell me; I would not
do aught that might be construed into discredit; nor would I have my
happiness destroyed by vague insinuations—speak to me, mother, plainly.
I can bear the truth. I have too much of your own character to shrink
from what I ought to know or ought to do, and I have also too much of
your firmness to relinquish a settled object on account of imaginary or
only great difficulties. I can bear disappointment if it is in the way
of duty, or I can meet and conquer obstacles. Let me know on what ground
I stand. If Adolph has committed aught against the laws, or if there is
aught against his condition which should operate with the most delicate
and fastidious, I can and will relinquish all association with him. I
know how necessary his presence is to my happiness, but I know also how
cherished is the good name of the family.”

“Louise, you know how amid all the tumults of the revolutions with which
the country has been visited; revolutions that shook the throne and
altar—revolutions that in attempting to purify the political condition
of the nation destroyed its religion; you know, how amid all these
tumults and disorganizations, when religion had been driven by the sword
from her temples, and by ridicule from our dwellings, I have sought to
cherish her in our domestic circle. Morning and evening have I gathered
you around our family altar, and sought to keep alive in you the faith
which has been the salvation of man, and which must be the guardian of
woman’s position and woman’s purity.”

“I know, dear mother,” said Louise, as she recalled all the cares and
labor which had been used to keep her feet in the ways of truth. “I
know, dear mother, how great has been your devotion; how constant your
vigilance in our behalf, and how your service has been that of the
priest at well as the mother.”

“And thus, my dear child, while the wickedness and folly of our people
have done more against religion than heresy itself would attempt, while
the services of the altar have been performed to such a meagre audience,
that the voice of the priest has been echoed along the vacant aisles of
the church, and no impressions of religion on the Sabbath have
sanctified a thought on the other days of the week; nay, when as in some
of the neighboring cities and villages, the priest himself has poured
ridicule on his office, and made the mysteries of religion a theme for
mirth and laughter, till children have done mockery to their God and his
service, by mimicking in their plays the solemnities of the sanctuary,
and have been encouraged and rewarded by the laughter and applause of
men and women; have I not sought to save you from the contamination, and
to keep alive in your heart the love of God and a conformity to the will
of his Church?”

“You have, you have, dear mother, and I sometimes have thought when I
have kneeled with you in morning and evening devotion, that you had
gathered up the fragments of the consecrated yet broken altar, to erect
a place of sacrifice in your own heart, and I have loved religion more
that you have pleaded its cause, strengthened its sentiment in my bosom,
and stood forward for all the duties and services which may be performed
by one of our sex. And I know, dear mother, that the will for the
sacraments, the pure intentions which you excite are better, more
profitable to us than the sacraments themselves without such intentions.
But why, dear mother, do you now with such solemnity recall these
things; why, when alluding to my relations with Adolph, do you refer to
your religious zeal and effective exertions? Poor as have been the
fruits from your cultivation of my religious sentiments, have I ever
denied or derided what you taught? has my conduct ever done injustice to
the lessons of love and purity you have imparted? or have I ever said
aught that intimated a doubt of, or disrelish for, the doctrine and
service of our holy church? I ask not in anger; I ask not, indeed, in
unsanctified confidence, but I ask in sincerity—if I have offended
against God and the church, let me know my errors; nay, while sensible
of my want of zeal and efforts toward perfection, I avow myself ready
and willing to improve by any advice or corrective which you may
impart.”

“I have not, my dear child, had reason to doubt of the exactness and
purity of your faith—no observation which I have been able to make, and
I have carefully watched—oh! how vigilant must a widowed mother be over
the purity of faith and conduct of her orphan daughter—I have, I repeat
to you, found nothing in your faith to reprove, nothing in your religion
and stated exercises unworthy of a Christian. But—”

“But, mother—but—what can you mean? You talk to me earnestly of my
association with, and my affection for Adolph—you allude to my faith
and my conduct, and say that you find nothing in my faith to censure,
and nothing in my _religious_ exercises unworthy a Christian, but you
omit to approve of my _conduct_. You avoid reference to that, unless you
were approaching it with the terrible—‘But.’”

“I was approaching it—and—”

“Does my mother mean that there is aught in my conduct, my conduct with
Adolph, because it is evident that the remarks all tend
thitherward—does my mother suspect impropriety of conduct in
me—mother, mother, for Heaven’s sake, spare me that imputation. For me
and my thoughts, my inmost thoughts, your chamber has been as much the
seat of the confessional as the place of the altar, and not a feeling of
my heart, not an impulse of passion, not a motive or a wish has been
withheld from you that would have been uttered in explanation or
confession to the priest. I know there is wrong, dear mother, in the
world. I am human, with human passions and human weaknesses, but not a
thought of impurity has ever been uttered to me by Adolph, or been
suggested by our relations with each other. Blessed queen of purity! in
this thing I am innocent, in word and thought. Dear mother, let me not
suffer—let not Adolph suffer in your estimation upon such a suspicion,
he is above such weakness and wickedness, and I should need no further
monition from Heaven to avoid his society, than the discovery that his
words, nay, that our meeting suggested thoughts unsanctioned by my
religion, unworthy of your approval.”

Louise paused in her vehement appeal. She had gone to the very verge of
propriety in her asseverations, and she saw nothing in her mother’s
countenance which indicated any change of sentiment. The girl felt for a
moment indignant. The language of her mother implied a charge of the
most painful character, and though it might not reach to the extent
which, at first, she seemed to suppose, yet she felt that maidenly
propriety is scarcely less outraged by an imputation of habitual
association with the dangerous and the impure, than by a charge of crime
committed—and she started at the bare hint of the wrong, and was stung
to the soul when her vehement disclaimer seemed to work no change in the
mind of her accusing mother.

The warmth of Louise’s feelings betrayed no disrespect to her mother,
and perhaps the good woman felt pleased at the sensitiveness of her
daughter on such a subject. Still there was no removal of the objection
which was felt against Adolph, and she replied:

“Your justification of your conduct, and your sensitiveness on the
subject to which you supposed I referred, show how important you and all
deem the fame of a young woman; how essential to her is not only a pure
mind, but an unsuspected character; and that to which I have referred is
so intimately connected with what you suspect, that I shall take your
virtuous indignation at what you imagined my allusion, as almost as
applicable to my meaning as to your suspicions.”

“What is it you mean, mother?”

“I mean, that with all the kindness of Adolph’s manners—with all the
respect he has shown for me, and his affection to you, he is tainted
with the infidelity of the times, and not merely neglects the offices of
the church, but ridicules the Christian religion.”

“Never, mother, never; depend on it, some one has slandered Adolph to
you.”

“Does Adolph frequent, I will not say the _sacraments_ of his church,
but the church itself?”

“I see him frequently there.”

“You see him there, my daughter, when he expects you are ready to
return—but never does he assist in the services of the church?”

“I am not able to assert how often he attends the church, mother; but I
think as frequently as most of the young men of this department, at
least, of our village.”

“That may be, my child, but it is of the general prevalence of
irreligion in which it seems that Adolph shares, that I complain—and
you know, my daughter, that following your father’s advice, on his
death-bed, I have said in the language of the King of Israel, ‘as for me
and my house, we will serve the Lord.’”

“And God forbid, my dear mother, that I should hinder the fulfillment of
your pious resolution, or be an exception in your religious family.”

“And yet you will be, if you yoke yourself unequally with one who, if
not a heretic, is only not _that_ from his indifference to any
religion.”

“I will not, of course, assume that yoke without your approval.”

“That is in a spirit of obedience; but, my daughter, it would be better
if instead of limiting yourself not to marry any one without my
approval, you would consent to advise with me as to some proper person
among your acquaintance whom you _would_ marry.”

“My dear mother, the only equality in such a yoke of convenience would
be the perfect indifference with which each would regard the other.”

Louise was not a little shocked at the remarks made by her mother. She
loved Adolph, and she knew well enough that he did not frequent the
church, though she had never heard him ridicule religion, his respect
for her and her religious habits would have prevented that outrage. But
she could not shut her eyes to the fact that Adolph lived _out_ of the
influences of her church, and she knew well that her mother would never
consent to her union with such a man. She mingled the subject in her
prayers before she sought her bed, and gave the whole night to the
anxiety which it caused.

Next day Louise opened her heart to Adolph, by expressing her fears that
he had neglected the duties of his religion.

Adolph sought to evade the matter by some playful remarks, but he
discovered that Louise was more than usually in earnest.

“Your mother is in this,” said he.

“She is—and she adds, that I shall never marry a man who neglects the
requirements of religion.”

“Why, is she going to make a priest of me?”

“I hope not,” said Louise; “for in that case we should be further from
our marriage than we now are.”

“What does she require?”

“She requires that you forbear, in the first place, any remarks against
religion; and secondly, that you frequent the church, at least.”

“I will do that to please her and you, at any rate,” said he.

“You will do it from a higher motive, I hope,” said she.

The result of the conference between Louise and Adolph was the promise
on his part to be constant at church on all holydays, and to forbear any
remarks which could be construed into a disrespect for religion and its
ministers.

Louise retired gratified at what she had gained, but not without some
sense of the unworthiness of the motives of her lover, and with many
doubts whether she ought to depend on such a shallow change.

Adolph loved Louise—he promised readily—but he smiled in his heart at
her seeming confidence. The truth was Adolph _had_ ridiculed religion;
not so much from any doubts of its truth, or any conclusions to which he
had been led by argument, as by the necessity of improper association,
the power of that state of mind that builds up skepticism as a sort of
retreat from the stings of conscience. The moral principal of Adolph had
suffered much from his associations.

It was a source of much gratification to Louise that Adolph kept his
word—and Madam Berien could not deny that he was punctual in his
attendance at the church, if not exceedingly edifying in his deportment.
This brought Adolph more within the influence of Madam Berien’s family,
and that influence could not fail of being beneficial; he certainly was
saved from much wrong if he was not influenced to do a great deal of
what was right.

Such however was the force of example, that Adolph’s habit of going to
church seemed to be growing into a principle. And influenced by the
delicate persuasion of Louise he even commenced a preparation for the
sacraments. The progress in the work of piety was most gratifying to his
betrothed, and even received some applause from her mother. The good
woman was at length persuaded to give her consent to the union of her
daughter with him, and the marriage was to take place immediately after
Easter.

We need not speak of the happiness, and the bustle which such a consent
produced in the family. With Louise it was a calm joy. It was to be the
fulfillment of her heart’s dearest wish. She had as she believed
prepared herself for it by humble prayer and careful watching, and she
had aided in fitting her lover to be her husband, by a gentle
forbearance with his peculiarities, and delicate suggestions as it
regarded his errors. He was a better man, more worthy of being the
son-in-law of her mother.

Adolph felt that he had enough in Louise to make him forget the follies
of his previous life, and though he had not the most entire confidence
in himself, yet he knew that with her vigilance and her delicacy he
should be in little danger of being less worthy of her than he then was.

It is due to truth to say, that while Louise put confidence in the
_resolution_ of her lover, she did not feel that he was out of danger
when out of her influence—danger not yet of open vice and profligacy,
but of a neglect of religious duties and a resumption of those habits
which had so nearly made shipwreck of him before. But he was not to be
out of her influence—he was not to be removed from beneath her watchful
eye. The marriage which was to take place in a few weeks would make him
an inmate of her mother’s house, where, indeed, already the sweetness of
his disposition and his manly bearing had made him a favorite. So that
Madam Berien, while she thanked God for the earnestness with which she
had dealt with her daughter and his regard, confessed that his conduct
now was irreproachable, and that even the religious sentiment seemed to
be fully re-established in him.

It was near the close of a day early in April, that the family of Madam
Berien was gathered around a table which seemed supplied with almost
every thing but eatables. It was the finishing up of the
wedding-dresses, and they had been about so long that there was no more
pretence at concealing their uses, or hesitancy in referring to the
ceremony and the time when they were to be used.

Madam Berien had just finished, for the twentieth time, a detail of the
arrangements, when the curé arrived. He was always a welcome visiter at
the house. His labors were lightened by the beautiful example of the
family, and his wants in some measure supplied by their charitable
piety. He was at home, for he felt that he might indulge there in any
little sallies of wit and pleasantry, without the danger of having his
language quoted to sustain irreverence; and he could speak of religion
and its offices, with a certainty that those with whom he conversed
sympathized with all his feelings.

In the midst of the appropriate merriment, in which real happiness
rather than boisterous mirth seemed to predominate, a knocking at the
door announced the approach of a stranger. He was ushered into the
humble apartment, and presented the appearance of a veteran soldier of
some consideration in the service.

“I have been directed,” said the military visiter, “by persons in the
village, to call at this house for citizen Adolph Lefevre. As my
business is of an important kind, madam will, I hope, excuse my
intrusion upon her domestic privacy.”

Adolph rose, and announced himself as the person inquired for.

“In that case,” said the visiter, “I have reason to be gratified with my
call; the nation cannot fail to derive service from so finely
proportioned a soldier. I bear, sir, to you a notice that you have been
honored with a call to be mustered immediately into the service—as a
conscript.”

“A conscript! I am, sir, a conscript for 18—, but not of the present,
nor even of the next year.”

“I am aware, citizen conscript,” said the military gentleman, growing
more and more civil as he meant to be more and more imperative, “I am
aware of the year of your conscription, but the necessities of the grand
army have compelled the emperor to anticipate a year or two; and you,
who would otherwise have been no candidate for the cross of the legion
of honor for two years at least, are now presented with the opportunity,
which, of course, every Frenchman desires, of serving your country,
without any such delay.”

The officer presented Adolph with a paper which contained the order for
his departure, fixed the day, and named the place of rendezvous; and
then, with military grace, took leave of the family.

It is not possible to describe the misery which this order had brought
into the family. Six months before, Adolph would have thought less of
the dangers of the camp, and Madam Berien would have felt relieved by
his departure; now, the thought of separation was terrible. The
certainty seemed for a time to have paralyzed the family. The marriage
was, of course, to be postponed.

“I could,” said Louise, to the curé, “I could have sustained the blow
better, had I perfect confidence in the strength of Adolph’s power of
resistance. It is not my disappointment that makes me weep; if I know my
heart, dear father, it is the apprehension for Adolph’s moral safety. He
must be exposed to all the debasing influences of a great army, and to
all the dangers of association with men who make a mockery of all that
is holy in religion, and all that is decent in morals; and he must stand
the taunts and jibes of some of those from whom he has recently been
attracted. He will fall, assuredly.”

“Let us pray for his endurance of the trial,” said the curé.

“Let us find some one,” said Louise, “that will assist to sustain his
resolution of good, that will watch over him, and admonish him of his
dangers.”

“Who shall do that,” said Father Rudolph, “but who e’er it may be, he
turneth a sinner from his ways, and hideth a multitude of sins. It is a
blessed office.”

“Father,” said Madam Berien, “are there now no chaplains in the army?”

“Alas, my child!” said the venerable curé, “war is not carried on now
with that formality and parade which once distinguished it. The rapid
movements of the troops give but little chance for religious
impressions, and the morals of a camp seem to preclude the hope of any
demand for clerical aid.”

“How few of our army escape death or incurable wounds!” said madam.

“Alas!” said Louise, “it is the camp more than the field that I dread;
death or wounds are less injurious than the decayed morals.”

There was trouble in the family of Madam Berien, trouble in the heart of
Adolph. He was too young, too much a Frenchman of the time, to express
an open regret at joining the army, and so he mourned his separation
from Louise, and the disappointment of his marriage hopes, secretly. He
dreaded the dangers of the association. He had really improved; he had
begun to love virtue as he loved Louise; and he feared the consequence
of the want of her influence in the cause of his improvement.

The night before the departure of the few conscripts which were to leave
the village, was spent by Adolph at Madam Berien’s; the curé was present
most of the time.

In the morning the busy movement in the place denoted that all were
ready.

Louise had only one word of farewell, one kiss to give, and her part was
accomplished—and her heart sunk within her as she placed upon Adolph’s
neck a little medal, which she carefully hid beneath his dress.

The ferry-boat that crosses the river some distance above the village,
received the conscripts, and many of their friends, who would accompany
them to the rendezvous beyond the river.

The neat uniform of the regiment sat well upon Adolph’s manly form; and
as he stood on the boat and took his parting glass with one of the
principal dignitaries of the village, he looked as if he deserved golden
instead of worsted epaulets. One friend only accompanied the youth—it
was his faithful dog, Ponto, who shared in


                       THE CONSCRIPT’S DEPARTURE.

The regiment was mustered—it joined others—and in a few days was on
its march to be united with an attachment of the grand army.

The army of the French, in those days to which we refer, was not of a
kind to be overlooked, whereever it encamped, or whithersoever it
marched; but just in proportion to the obtrusiveness of the whole was
the indistinctness of its parts; and though each man in the ranks was
made to feel something of personal identity, yet few out of the ranks
looked upon the marshaled host as any thing less than one vast machine
which a master-mind had formed, and a master-hand was directing; and to
have supposed that a single soldier could have found distinction, or
acquired note, unless by some excessive crime, or excessive courage,
would be like identifying a drop in the ocean, or expecting some
particle of matter to assert and confirm its indisputable right to
distinction.

All heard of the progress and the victories of the army, but none knew
exactly who were included in that little sentence, “one thousand killed
and wounded;” and the heart of Louise sunk within her as occasional
bulletins of battles reached the village, with statements of daring
courage, of admirable conduct, and of numerous deaths. Letters were then
not common from the army, at least from private soldiers.

Time passed, and Louise obtained permission of her mother to visit a
relative at a distance; it was deemed a good opportunity to repair her
health and spirits by a change of scenery and of company; and so she
left her mother with more than usual evidence of grief at departure, for
Louise, though affectionate, was not timid, and she rarely anticipated
danger in any undertaking of her own; and such was her self-possession,
that she never suffered from any of those incidents of travel which so
often disturb the nerves of more delicate persons.

A battle had been fought, and a German city yielded to the arms of the
French. The wounded were disposed of in the hospitals, churches, and
hotels of the conquered city.

Adolph lay stretched out upon a well prepared bed in a small chamber,
quite apart from some of his wounded brethren. A musket-ball had passed
through his body, escaping the vital parts, but producing a wound which
it was feared would, from the lack of regular attendants, and the warmth
of the weather, prove mortal. He had suffered much, and his system was
not in a condition to aid nature; still he rather improved. One morning,
while he lay ruminating on the change in his affairs, he saw the surgeon
of the regiment entering the room, followed by a young, slightly-built
person, who seemed to have very little of the military in his movements
or his dress; his face, for a moment, sent back the thoughts of Adolph
to the home of his boyhood and youth; he started, as if some sudden pain
had seized him, but looking again, he heard the name of the stranger
announced. It was Klemm; he was the secretary to the general commanding
the city.

“I have come,” said Klemm, sitting down beside the bed of Adolph, “to
assist in taking care of some of our wounded.”

“Of _our_ wounded,” said Adolph.

“Yes, _our_ wounded; for, though my pronunciation is rather German than
French, I am a native and a citizen of France, educated in Germany, and
bearing in my speech pretty strong proofs of my master’s powers of
instruction, and my own of imitation. I have left some of the volunteer
nurses with others, and have come to do my best by you. I have some
acquaintance with the art. Is this your dog?”

“Yes, this is Ponto the second; his predecessor, whom I brought from the
village with me, perished in the same action in which his master
received his present wound; and long used to the company of a faithful
dog, I procured this, the nearest resemblance to old Ponto that I could
find, and have christened him after his predecessor.”

“And transferred your affections from the old to the new companion?”

“Not entirely yet, but nearly, I think; he is likely to inherit the love
as well as the name of the deceased.”

“Love is a quality easily transferred, then?” said Klemm.

“Why, yes; we soldiers, who are quartered in favorable positions, do
certainly find it a convertible commodity.”

“I will dress your wound,” said Klemm.

When the office had been performed, and Adolph was settled quietly down
upon his well beaten pillow, Klemm said, “It is now time for me to
repair to my duties at head-quarters, and you would better compose
yourself to sleep. Do you need the assistance of a chaplain as well as a
nurse?”

“To confess the truth,” said Adolph, “I believe I could about as well
dress my wound myself, as to go over some of those troublesome prayers
with which my boyhood was unutterably bored. I think, however, that a
little sleep would be about as refreshing as prayers.”

Just as Klemm was withdrawing, Adolph called to him.

“Do I understand that you are to act as assistant surgeon or nurse in
this building?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think I shall recover, for I have felt no dressing like this
since I was shot; and probably in a few weeks we may have a frolic
together, for I perceived as they brought me hither that the place is
not wholly destitute of females.”

Considerable familiarity grew up between the wounded man and his nurse.
The exceeding delicacy of the attentions of Klemm, his soothing care,
his skillful application of all the prescriptions of the surgeon,
created in Adolph a spirit of gratitude which then found expression in
words, but which he hoped would have other exponents at a future time.

“I see you wear a token,” said Klemm, as he took hold of the medal which
had been placed round the neck of the soldier. “I should think that one
who wore this would not fail in his daily devotions. Or is this a love
token?”

“Well, rather more of love than religion, I imagine.”

“Oh, then your heart has suffered as much as your body?”

“Why that might be the token of another’s love for me, rather than of
mine for her.”

“That is true, indeed; the medal itself might have been bestowed as a
token of love for you; but surely, if worn by you, it was worn as a
token of love for another.”

“Why, to say the truth, it has been worn without much thought any way;
but if you will look at it, you will see that it has saved my life by
breaking the force of a ball.”

“It has certainly suffered considerably,” said Klemm, as he gazed at the
crushed medal.

“It is strange,” said Klemm, some days afterward, when dressing the
wounds of Adolph, “that you should wear a religious medal on your neck,
and appear to be inattentive to services for which such things are worn,
and even indifferent to the motives for which this particular one was
given.”

“Do you know the motive?” said Adolph.

“You told me some days since, that it was rather a token of love than
religion.”

“In which I think it proper to say I was wrong.”

“You awaken in me a curiosity by your remarks which I certainly have no
right to expect will be gratified.”

Adolph, whose fault of character it was to yield to immediate
influences, professed himself willing to explain, desiring it to be
understood, however, that the names he should use with regard to the
absent, should be fictitious. “My own follies are justly visited on me,
but I have no right to connect respectable names with mine in this
situation.”

Adolph, changing the name of the village and that of Madam Berien’s
family, related to Klemm the circumstances of his life—his love for
Louise, his irreligious habits, his restoration to propriety, his call
to the army, and added that the evil associations of the camp had
obliterated not only the sense of respect which he had begun to feel for
religion, but it had really led him back to skepticism; and his life in
the army had of late been in accordance with his want of belief.

“Of course,” said Klemm, “you retain your affection for things and
persons of this world, notwithstanding your loss of belief in the
doctrines that relate to that which is to come?”

“Not entirely.”

“Have you ceased to love Louise—do you love another?”

“Neither; but I confess to you that as I released myself from the
trammels which the religious opinions of Louise placed upon my mind and
conduct, I felt less respect, and consequently less love for her.”

“Does your respect and love go together?”

“My love for her was almost entirely dependent on respect. She was my
superior in education, my teacher in religion.”

“And so she put on airs, did she—played the school-mistress?”

“I should certainly do injustice to her were I to admit the force of
your query. She led me back into religious observances less by any thing
masculine in her character than by the evident disinterestedness of her
conduct, and the conviction that however little I might respect the
requirements of religion, I certainly found the results of the outward
observances of the rules the best for myself.”

“Do you still love Louise?”

“Can I love her, and live as I have lived for these last six months? I
ask seriously.”

“I will answer _that_ when I can ascertain how intimately your
self-respect is connected with that respect which you say was the fount
of your love for Louise.”

“It is certain that for some months after I entered the army, my
resolutions for good were well maintained, and I thought that my
affections for Louise were augmented by absence. But I fell into the
habits of those with whom I associated, and I soon found that they
shared the opinions which my earlier companions professed; and I confess
to you that my old skepticism returned, and though my sufferings here
have certainly prevented me from the indulgence of dissipation into
which I had fallen, yet I do not find that my religious belief has
returned with my change of conduct.”

“Probably not, your change of conduct, as you call it, is only the
necessity of your position, and you have perhaps sinned as heartily
here, within sight of death, as when you were in the full flush of
health.”

“And, by the way, Mr. Klemm, that is the unkindest remark you have made
to me yet, and smacking the least of German accent of any sentence you
have uttered. How much your voice resembles Louise’s!”

“Do I resemble her much in other respects?”

“You are not as tall, and you are darker; beside, your shock of hair
resembles her splendid head about as much as your guttural German does
her pure French.”

“Adolph,” said Klemm, in accents far more _Germanic_ than those recently
used, “would you seek to renew your relations with Louise if you were
now permitted to return?”

“The only weakness which I ever knew in Louise was her love for me, and
that, I have occasion to know, would not allow her to marry me with my
present vices.”

“Could you not conform to the customs of her family without a change of
opinion?”

“Would you advise me to do it?”

“Would you do it?”

“Klemm, you have seen too much of my character for me to affect to
conceal much from you. I repeat it, I do not find myself disposed to any
sanctimonious display of piety; I cannot and will not submit myself to
the mortifying sacraments of the church. But if I could play the
hypocrite, I would not deceive Louise if I could; and I suppose it is an
evidence of my want of love for her now, that I will not do this to
secure her as my wife. What say you?”

“I will answer you to-morrow,” said Klemm, as he hastily left the room.

“All gone! all impressions of piety erased, all holy resolutions
abandoned, all faith shipwrecked, all progress given up, all religion
relinquished; yet what is that last sentiment he utters, ‘I would not
deceive her even to make her my wife.’ Surely while the sentiments of
religion are clouded, while their effect is denied, they are lying deep
in the heart, buried, but not lost—silent, unseen, but surely not
dead.”

Adolph was recovering slowly, and his nurse sought to comfort him with
the assurance that he would soon be allowed to return home upon a
furlough.

“Why should I desire to return home,” said Adolph, “a wreck of what I
have been—a wreck in mind and body, my health ruined and my faith
destroyed? I take back nothing which caused my departure to be
regretted.”

“You have heard, then, that Louise, apprised of your situation, has
resolved to discard you?”

“No, I have not heard it, but I feel it; and, moreover, I cannot and
will not impose upon her faith in me.”

“I think if you could resolve to resume your religious duties there,
notwithstanding all that has passed here, though she should know it all,
she would receive you. But shall I invite a priest into your room?”

“To have me laughed at by the whole regiment. I have little to confess
that I have not told you—nothing, indeed, that you may not fully
understand by what I have said.”

“But I have no functions to grant absolution, whatever you may confess.”

“Has any one more than you have? Is not the whole system one of
priestcraft? What do priests know more than I do, and for what are they
seeking to bring me under their care, unless to augment their power, and
increase their comforts?”

“Perhaps you have an inclination to listen to teachers of another creed?
They are in the next town.”

“Oh no, they are all alike in one thing, however they may differ in
other matters, to rule others and help themselves.”

“Was Father Rudolph of that class?”

“No, apparently not—but how do _you_ know Father Rudolph? Or how did
you know that I was acquainted with him?”

Klemm bit his lip—“It is not difficult to ascertain who have been your
friends, as in your delirium you were very free with their names.”

“Did I repeat _her_ name.”

“Only as Louise. But you are apparently set against the clergy.”

“Yes.”

“Have you thought really of their influence on your life? Have you
considered that much of all that you call morals is indeed the effect of
their religious teaching?”

“That is _religion_ not the _priest_.”

“I speak for the _instrument_, I confess; but a clergyman is to religion
what an army is to a _war_—and you might as well think of conducting a
national contest without officer and soldier, as a moral, religious
contest without a clergy. And I doubt whether you have any idea of
religion, unless it be a sort of restraint upon certain actions and
passions. You mean morals when you say religion, and as you have seen
morals exist where there was no profession of religion or observance of
prescribed devotion, you think that such a morality is an independent
system. Let me correct that idea. I agree that we find morals without
religion, but I do not agree that morals would exist without it, and
thousands of our young officers (I heard some of them last evening,)
assert with philosophic gravity, that they are moral (they mean good)
without religion. How vain—how short-sighted. They overlook the great
fact that their morals are good habits founded on the religious
teachings and practice of their mothers or priests, and that all the
credit which they claim for their philosophy is due to Christianity, and
that less settled in habits, or less reflective than they now are, they
would fall with the first temptation that presented. What do you say to
that Adolph?”

“I say nothing now—proceed.”

“I will proceed to make a personal application. To whom was the virtue
of your childhood and youth due? Certainly to your virtuous, religious
mother.”

“Did you know my mother?”

“What a question!”

“If not, how did you know that she was religious?”

“Because you said that in your childhood you were religious and had a
mother. You gave me a knowledge of the cause when you stated the
effect.”

“But my mother was neither a _priest_ nor a _religeuse_.”

“No, but she frequented the sacrament of the church, and attended to the
instruction of a priest, and thus became _religious_. But you admit that
falling into bad company your morals became, if not depraved, at least
vitiated, and that you began to despise religion when you neglected
morals.”

“But when I began to reform, certainly I did not owe my change of
purpose to a priest, and I only intended the reformation in my morals.”

“To whom then were you indebted for moral improvement?”

“To Louise.”

“And did not Louise owe her instruction to the same priest whom you had
neglected? Nay, is it not probable that she applied to Father Rudolph
for advice in the very matter of your reformation, and that he
prescribed the condition on which she was to indulge her affections and
encourage yours?”

“I cannot say that it was not so. But Louise was pretty independent in
her manners, and would scarcely have asked the priest’s advice with
regard to a lover.”

“Do you know any thing temporal of greater consequence than matrimonial
engagements, or any relation more likely to have effect upon what you
seem to think the priest has a legitimate right to meddle with?”

“I do not believe the priest interfered.”

“I know he did.”

“You _know_?”

“It is most natural that he should have done it. And now permit me to
suggest still further, that while you owe the lessons which Louise gave
you to the good father, you owe the reformation which you commenced to
the remains of religious instruction in your heart. Undoubtedly it was
your love to Louise that gave her influence over you, but it was
religion that made her efforts successful.”

“You confuse me—I do not assent, but I cannot now contend.”

“I will leave you—leave you with this single remark, that not only did
you owe your former reformation to religion, but there is religion now
dealing with your heart, and your affection for Louise will return with
the ready admission of religious instruction and the performance of
religious duties.”

“I think I love her now as well as ever.”

“Then I shall hear more to-morrow of your experience.”

The night was one of nervous irritability, and poor Adolph presented to
the surgeon the next morning, one of the worst cases of relapse in the
hospital, and Klemm was early summoned to the room of his patient. The
day was passed in painful aberration of mind, and short unrefreshing
sleep.

The evening found the sufferer somewhat relieved.

“What can I do for you more?” said Klemm, as he smoothed down the pillow
after assisting Adolph to acquire a comfortable position.

“That voice again!” said Adolph, “and no German.”

“I have got clear of my German accent by conversing with you.”

“Only at times,” said Adolph.

“Can I do nothing more for you?”

“Nothing, I believe.—Did you prepare for the priesthood?”

“No. I had neither inclination nor vocation.”

“I am sorry.”

“Adolph you are very sick—sick, less from the pain of your wound than
from the tumult of your mind. I am unable to assist you. Let me invite
in a clergyman, who is in the hospital.”

“Are there any here?”

“One. The terrible state of the wounded in some of the wards has
compelled the officer to admit a priest.”

“Is there contagious disease?”

“Yes.”

“Do you not fear for yourself?”

“_Die vollige Liebe treibet die Furcht aus._”

“What’s that?”

“Remember the words. I will call in the clergyman.”

And before Adolph could either consent or refuse Klemm had left the
room.

In a short time a priest entered the chamber of Adolph, and proceeded to
make himself acquainted with the state of his penitent’s mind, and then
to attend to the duties of his sick call.

Adolph was calm and settled when Klemm returned, but not communicative.

Klemm then announced his departure a duty, and the fact that Adolph
would, as soon as his strength would permit, be allowed to return home.

The parting of the friends that evening was truly affecting. Klemm was
made to promise a visit to the village—“Though,” said he, “I may make
an impression on Louise unfavorably to you.”

“I do not fear that,” said Adolph.

“_Die vollige Liebe treibet die Furcht aus_,” said Klemm. “A German
quotation which I will show you in the original, or at least explain to
you when we meet in your village.”

Klemm took leave of Adolph and Ponto, the faithful dog, and proceeded on
his journey.

Men gather to see a regiment, a single company, or even a little squad
depart for the camp—but few look out for the returning wounded—they
come back singly and sorrowful. The wagon that was passing the ferry
house nearly opposite the village in which resided Madam Berien, stopped
for a moment, and a soldier, war-worn and wounded, stepped slowly from
the vehicle, followed by his dog. He entered the house, and as he closed
the door upon a small parlor, he found himself confronted by a female.

“Adolph!”

“Louise!”

“And your mother?”

“Well—all well.”

“And Ponto,” too, said Louise, as the affectionate dog, after
reconnoitering round her, sprang up to receive his share of the
caresses—“Ponto, too, come back.”

“Yes. But this is not Ponto that left the village with me. How comes he
to be so familiar with you?”

“Your wounds are better?”

“I am well nearly. I need only rest—only your kindness, and I shall be
ready for another campaign,” said he with a melancholy smile.

The boat awaited the passengers, and a few on the opposite shore were
waiting for the


                          CONSCRIPT’S RETURN.

Adolph was received by the villagers on the shore with hearty welcome,
and was conducted toward his former residence. As he entered the little
hamlet, he turned slowly into the church, and at the foot of the humble
altar poured out to Heaven the thanks which swelled up in his heart for
his return. And near him one heart gushing with love and gratitude was
breathing out its thanksgiving that the wanderer had first sought the
house of God.

[Illustration: THE RETURN.]

The post-office the next day supplied a letter, without post-mark,
giving Adolph an officer’s commission for the gallantry that saved his
colonel’s life at the imminent risk of his own, and extending his
furlough for a year.

“But Louise,” said Adolph, “how your complexion has suffered since I saw
you.”

“I have been absent for some weeks.”

“Yes, and these mountain relatives of yours always look of about the
same color as one of their ripe grapes.”

Adolph having now some position, and a source of reliance upon his good
resolution, presented himself before Madam Berien to solicit formally
the hand of her daughter.

The matter _had_ evidently occupied the worthy lady’s attention, as she
consented at once, referred to an early day for the marriage, and
desired that her own house might be the residence of her son-in-law and
his wife.

“Surely, Providence is too good to me,” said Adolph, when he announced
to Louise the result of his negotiation.

“Has it ever failed you when you really relied upon it?”

“Did it not allow me to be sent to the army, and to suffer horribly? I
do believe I should have died without Klemm.”

“Has not your campaign resulted in the adoption of a sounder code of
morals, a restoration to religious exercises, and the acquisition of
rank, and in our almost immediate marriage? And will not Klemm be here
at our wedding?”

“I hope so, but faith Klemm is such a well-made handsome little fellow,
that I might wish him to tarry until after our marriage. I should not
like to find him and you chatting German sentiment together in the
German language.”

“And why not, Adolph?”

“I might _fear_ that the sleek little secretary would outshine the
wounded lieutenant.”

“Fear, Adolph! You would not _fear_.”

“Why not?” asked he, with a smile.

“_Die vollige Liebe treibet die Furcht aus_,” said Louise, with a strong
German accent.

“Good Heaven, Louise! where did you find that quotation, and where that
accent and look?”

“Why, the quotation is from the Bible, and the accent is as true German
as my grape-raising relatives know how to give.”

No Klemm arrived as Adolph hoped, and so the bridal party set forward to
the church where Father Rudolph was awaiting their arrival. The simple
but interesting ceremony was concluded, and as the party rose from their
last genuflection toward the altar, Louise whispered into her husband’s
ear:

“Klemm has come!”

“Where—where is he? Oh! how I long to have him share in the happiness
which I enjoy, and he _will_ share in it, for it is of his own
producing. Oh! Louise, could you but know—but I have told you all I can
tell; yet I cannot express what I feel for that young man’s beautiful
devotion to my good—to him alone, next to God, am I indebted for this
day’s unspeakable delight.”

“I thought you owed it to _me_,” said Louise.

“To you—to you indeed, that you are mine—but to him that I was made
worthy of your acceptance. Dear Louise, I am _afraid_ you must share—”

“Afraid, Adolph—‘_Die vollige Liebe treibet die Furcht aus._’”

“Louise, you confound me—whose is that tone of voice—whose that arch
look? Surely you are not yourself now?”

“Not this moment, Adolph. Just _now_ I am Klemm!”

The sacrifices of Louise had been accepted in Heaven—of course they
were appreciated on earth, and “perfect love which casteth out fear,”
had lured the wanderer back to religion, and had been rewarded in its
good performed and the power of doing good.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                              TO MY STEED.


                           BY S. D. ANDERSON.


    Come forth, my brave steed, for the dew’s on the flowers,
    And we will away with the speed of the hours;
    The breath of the summer-time rides on the gale,
    And health is abroad on each mountain and dale.

    Come forth, for the lark is alive with his song,
    And the bound of my pulses is life-like and strong;
    It is gladness to see the wild fire of thine eye,
    And feel thy light tread as the breeze rushes by.

    Come forth, my own Arab, the Sun is asleep,
    And the tears of the morning thy dark mane shall steep;
    Thou shalt drink from the gushes of Summer’s cool streams,
    E’er the flow of the fountain is tipt with morn’s beams.

    Come forth to the greenwood whilst perfume is there,
    And we’ll start the wild deer from his slumbering lair;
    The leap of the cascade, and dash of the spray,
    Shall echo more faint as we hurry away.

    Come forth, my brave steed—far truer art thou
    Than the smile on the lip, or the light on the brow;
    More faithful than promises lovers may breathe,
    Or the garlands of fame that a nation may wreath.

    Come forth—I am ready—hurrah for the hills,
    Whilst the harp-string of pleasure with ecstasy thrills;
    No hour like the morning—no scene like to this
    In all the wide world, for a moment of bliss.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           JASPER ST. AUBYN;


                       OR THE COURSE OF PASSION.


                       BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.


                      (_Concluded from page 262._)


                              CHAPTER II.

                            _The Sacrifice._

                        Ask any thing but that.

An hour had not quite passed, when, as she sat alone in her little
gayly-decorated study, with its walls hung with water-color drawings of
her own execution, its tables strewn with poetry and music of her own
composition, and her favorite books, and her own lute—her little study
in which the happiest hours of her life had been spent, the first hours
of her married life, while Jasper was all that her fancy painted
him—his step came along the corridor, but with a slow and hesitating
sound, most unlike to the quick, firm, decided tread, for which he was
remarkable.

She noticed the difference, it is true, at the moment, but forgot it
again instantly. It was enough! It was he! and he was coming once again
to seek her in her own apartment; he had a boon to ask of her—he had
promised to love her—he had called her “his dear Theresa.”

And now she sprung up, with her soul beaming from her eyes, and ran to
meet him. The door was opened ere he reached it, and as he entered, she
fell upon his neck, and wound her snowy arms about his waist, and kissed
him fifty times, and wept silent tears in the fullness of her joy.

And did not his heart respond in the least to her innocent and girlish
rapture; did he not bend at all from his bad purpose; was there no
melting, no relenting in that callous, selfish nature; was, indeed, all
within him hard as the nether millstone?

He clasped her, he caressed her, he spoke to her fondly, lovingly, he
kissed, like Judas, to betray. He suffered her to lead him to his
favorite seat of old, the deep, softly-cushioned, low arm-chair, and to
place her footstool by his side, and nestle herself down upon it as she
used to do, with her arms folded negligently across his knee, and her
beautiful rounded chin propped upon them, with her great earnest eyes
looking up in his face, like unfathomable wells of tenderness.

And he returned her gaze of fondness, unabashed, unembarrassed; and yet
it was sometime before he spoke; and when he did speak at length, his
voice was altered and almost husky. But it was from doubt how best he
might play his part, not that he shrunk from the task he had imposed
upon himself, either for shame or for pity.

“Well, my Theresa,” he said, at last, “have you thought whether you will
make this sacrifice?”

“No, Jasper, I have not thought about it; but if you wish me to make it,
I will make it, and it will be no sacrifice.”

“But I tell you, Theresa, that it is a sacrifice, a mighty and most
painful sacrifice; a sacrifice so great and so terrible, that I almost
fear, almost feel that it would be selfish in me to ask it of you.”

“Ask it, then; ask it quickly, that you may see how readily it shall be
granted.”

“Can you conceive no sacrifice that you would not make to please me?”

“None, that you would ask of me.”

“Theresa, no one can say what another _might_ ask of them. Husbands,
lovers, brothers, have asked strange sacrifices—fearful sacrifices, at
woman’s hands; and—they have been made.”

“Ask me, then, ask me,” she repeated, smiling, although her face had
grown somewhat pale as she listened to his words, and marked his
strangely excited manner. “I repeat, there is _no_ sacrifice which you
would ask of me, which I will not make. Nay more, there is none which I
should think a sacrifice if it is to preserve your love to me, when I
feared that I had lost it forever, though how, indeed, I knew not.”

“We shall see,” he said, affecting to muse with himself, and ponder
deeply. “We shall see; you are a great historian, and have read of all
the celebrated women of times past and present. You have heard of the
beautiful Mademoiselle Desvieux, she who—”

“She who was the promised wife of the great, the immortal Bossuet; and
who sacrificed her own happiness, freeing her lover from the claims she
held on him, lest a wife should be a clog upon his pure yet soaring
ambition, lest an earthly affection should wean him from a higher love,
and weaken the cords that were drawing him toward heaven! I have—I have
heard of her! Who has not—who does not revere her name—who does not
love her?”

“And what think you of her sacrifice, Theresa?”

“That it was her duty. A difficult duty to perform, you will say, but
still her duty. Her praise is, that she performed it gloriously. And yet
I doubt not that her sacrifice bore her its own exceeding great reward.
Loving as she loved, all her sorrows must have been changed into
exultation, when she saw him in after days the saint he became, the
saint she helped to make him.”

“And could you have made such a sacrifice, Theresa?”

“I hope so, and I think so,” she replied, with a little hesitation. “But
it avails not now to think of that, seeing that I cannot make such. She
was a maiden, I am a wedded wife.”

“True, dearest, true. I only named her, to judge by your opinion, of
what I wish to learn, ere I will ask you. There was another sacrifice,
Theresa, a very terrible sacrifice, made of late, and made to no
purpose, too, as it fell out—a sacrifice of far more doubtful nature;
yet there be some who have not failed to praise it.”

“What was it—do you praise it?”

“At least I pity it, Theresa.”

“What was it—tell me?”

“After the late rebellion at Sedgemoor. Have you not heard, Theresa?”

“No, I think not—go on, I want to hear it; go on, Jasper.”

“There was a young man, a cavalier, very young, very brave, very nobly
born, and, it is said, very handsome. He was taken after the route of
that coward, Gray of Werk’s horse—cast into prison, and, when his turn
came, tried by the butcher, Kirke—you know what that means, Theresa?”

“Condemned,” she said, sadly. “Of course he was condemned—what next?”

“To be hung by the neck upon the shameful gibbet, and then cut down,
while yet alive, and subjected to all the barbarous tortures which are
inflicted as the penalty of high treason.”

“Horrible! horrible! and—what more, Jasper?”

“Have you not, indeed, heard the tale?”

“Indeed, no. I pray you tell me, for you have moved me very deeply.”

“It is very moving. The boy had a sister—the loveliest creature, it is
said, that trod the soil of England, scarce seventeen years of age, a
very paragon of grace and purity and beauty. They two were alone in the
world—parents, kinsfolk, friends, they had none. They had none to love
but one another, even as we, my Theresa; and they did love—how, you may
judge. The girl threw herself at the butcher’s feet, and implored her
brother’s pardon.”

“Go on, go on, Jasper!” cried the young wife, excited almost beyond the
power of restraining her emotions by the dreadful interest of his tale,
“and, for once, he granted it?”

“And, for once, as you say, he granted it. But upon one condition.”

“And that was—?”

“And that was, that the young girl should make a sacrifice—an awful
sacrifice—should submit, in a word, to be a martyr for her brother’s
sake.”

“To die for him—and she died! Of course, she died to save him; that
were _no_ sacrifice, none, Jasper—I say none! Why _any_ woman would
have done that!”

“It was not to die for him—it was to sacrifice herself—herself—for
she was lovely, as I told you—to the butcher.”

“Ah!” sighed Theresa, with a terrible sensation at her heart, which she
could not explain, even to herself; “and what—what did she?”

“She asked permission to consult her brother.”

“And he told her that he had rather die ten thousand deaths than that
she should lose one hair’s breadth of her honor!” cried Theresa,
enthusiastically clasping her hands together.

“And he told her that life was very sweet, and death on a gallows very
shameful!”

“The catiff! the miserable, loathsome slave! the filthy dastard! I trust
that Kirke drew him with wild horses! The gallows were too good for such
a slave.”

“Then _you_ would not have made such a sacrifice?”

“_I_—I!” she exclaimed, her soft blue eyes actually flashing fire; “I
sacrifice my honor! but lo!” she interrupted herself, smiling at her own
vehemence, “am not I a little fool, to fancy that you are in earnest.
No, dearest Jasper, I would no more make _that_ sacrifice, than you
would suffer me to do so. Did not I make that reservation, did I not say
any sacrifice, which you would ask of me?”

“Ay, dearest!” he replied gently, laying his hand on her head, “you do
me no more than justice there. I would die as many deaths as I have
hairs on my head, before you should so save me.” And for the first time
that night Jasper St. Aubyn spoke in earnest.

“I know you would, Jasper. But go on, I pray you, with this fearful
tale. I would you had not begun it; but now you have, I must hear it to
the end. What did she?”

“She did, Theresa, as her brother bade her. She sacrificed herself to
the butcher.”

“Poor wretch! poor wretch! and so her brother lived with the world’s
scorn and curses on his head—and she—did she _die_, Jasper?”

“No, my Theresa. She is alive yet. It was the brother died.”

“How so? how could that be? Did Kirke then relent?”

“Kirke never relented! When the girl awoke in the butcher’s chamber,
with fame and honor—all that she loved in life—lost to her for
ever—he bade her look out of the window—what think you she saw there,
Theresa?”

“What?”

“The thing, that an hour before was her brother, dangling in the
accursed noose from the gibbet.”

“And God did not speak in thunder.”

“To the girl’s mind, He spoke—for that went astray at once, jangled and
jarred, and out of tune forever! _There_ was a sacrifice, Theresa.”

“A wicked one, and so it ended, wickedly. We’ll none of such sacrifices,
Jasper. If we should ever have to die, which God avert in his mercy, any
death of violence or horror, we will die tranquilly and together. Will
we not, dearest?”

“As you said but now, may the good God guard us from such a fate,
Theresa; and yet,” he added, looking at her fixedly, and with a strange
expression, “we may be nearer to it than we think for, even now.”

“Nearer to what, Jasper? speak,” she cried, eagerly, as if she had
missed the meaning of the words he last uttered.

“Nearer to the perils of the law, for high treason,” answered her
husband, in a low, dejected voice. “It is of that I have been anxious to
speak with you all the time.”

“Then speak at once, for God’s sake, dearest Jasper! speak at once, and
fully, that we may know the worst;” and she showed more composure now,
in what she naturally deemed the extremity of peril, than he had looked
for, judging from the excitement she had manifested at the mere
listening to the story of another’s perils. “Say on,” she added, seeing
that he hesitated, “let me know the worst.”

“It must be so, though it is hard to tell, Theresa; we—myself, I mean,
and a band of the first and noblest youths of England—have been engaged
for these three months past in a conspiracy to banish from the throne of
England this last and basest son of a weak, bigoted, unlucky race of
kings—this cowardly, blood-thirsty, persecuting bigot—this Papist
monarch of a Protestant land, this James the Second, as men call him;
and to set in his place the brave, wise, virtuous William of Nassau, now
Stadtholder of the United Provinces. It is this business which has
obliged me to be absent so often of late, in London. It is the failure
of this business which has rendered me morose, unkind, irritable—need I
say more, you have pardoned me, Theresa.”

“The failure of this business!” she exclaimed, gazing at him with a face
from which dismay had banished every hue of color—“the failure!”

“Ay, Theresa, it is even so. Had we succeeded in liberating England from
the cold tyrant’s bloody yoke, we had been patriots, saviors, fathers of
our country—Brutuses, for what I know, and Timoleons! We have
failed—therefore, we are rebels, traitors and, I suppose, ere long
shall be victims.”

“The plot, then, is discovered?”

“Even so, Theresa.”

“And how long, Jasper, have you known this dreadful termination?”

“I have foreseen it these six weeks or more. I knew it, for the first
time, to-day.”

“And is it absolutely known, divulged, proclaimed? Have arrests been
made?” she asked, with a degree of coolness that amazed him, while he
felt that it augured ill for the success of his iniquitous scheme; but
he had, in some sort, foreseen her questions, and his answers were
prepared already. He answered, therefore, as unhesitatingly as if there
had been one word of truth in all that he was uttering.

“It is _all_ known to one of the leading ministers of the government; it
is not divulged; and no arrests have been made yet. But the breathing
space will be brief.”

“All, then, is easy! Let us fly! Let us take horse at once—this very
night! By noon to-morrow, we shall be in Plymouth, and thence we can
gain France, and be safe there until this tyranny shall be o’erpast.”

“Brave girl!” he replied, with the affectation of a melancholy smile.
“Brave Theresa, you would bear exile, ruin, poverty with the outlawed
traitor; and we might still be happy. But, alas, girl! it is too late to
fly. The ports are all closed throughout England. It is too late to fly,
and to fight is impossible.”

“Then it remains only that we die!” she exclaimed, casting herself into
his arms, “and that is not so difficult, now that I know you love me,
Jasper.” But, even as she uttered the words, his previous conversation
recurred to her mind, and she started from his arms, crying out, “but
you spoke of a sacrifice!—a sacrifice which I could make! Is it
possible that I can save you?”

“Not me alone, Theresa, but all the band of brothers who are sworn to
this emprise; nor them alone, but England, which may, by your deed,
still be liberated from the tyrant.”

She turned her beautiful eyes upward, and her lips moved rapidly,
although she spoke not. She was praying for aid from on high—for
strength to do her duty.

He watched her with calm, expectant, unmoved eyes, and muttered to
himself, “I have gained. She will yield.”

“Now,” she said, “now,” as her prayer was ended, “I am strong now to
bear. Tell me, Jasper, what must I do to save you?”

“I cannot tell you, dearest. I cannot—it is too much—you could not
make it; nor if _you_ would, could I. Let it pass. We will die—all die
together.”

“And England!” exclaimed the girl, with her face kindling gloriously;
“and our mother England, must she perish by inches in the tyrant’s
clutch, because we are cowards? No, Jasper, no. Be of more constant
mind. Tell me, what is it I must do? and, though it wring my heart and
rack my brain, if I _can_ save you and your gallant friends, and our
dear native land, I will save them, though it kill me.”

“Could you endure to part from me, Theresa—to part from me forever?”

“To part from you, Jasper!” No written phrase can express the agony, the
anguish, the despair, which were made manifest in every sound of those
few simple words. A breaking heart spoke out in every accent.

“Ay, to part from me, never to see me more—never to hear my voice; only
to know that I exist, and that I love you—love you beyond my own soul!
Could you do this, Theresa, in the hope of a meeting hereafter, where no
tyranny should ever part us any more?”

“I know not—I know not!” she exclaimed, in a shrill, piercing tone,
most unlike her usual soft, slow utterance. “Is this the sacrifice you
spoke of? Would this be called for at my hands?”

“To part from me so utterly that it should not be known or suspected
that we had ever met—ever been wedded?”

“Why, Jasper,” she cried, starting, and gazing at him wildly, “_that_
were impossible; all the world knows that we have met—that we have
lived together here—that I _am_ your wife. What do you mean? Are you
jesting with me? No, no! God help me! that resolute, stern, dark
expression! No, no, no, no! Do not frown on me, Jasper; but keep me not
in this suspense—only tell me, Jasper.”

“The whole world—that is to say, the whole world of villagers and
peasants here, do know that we have met—that we have lived together;
but they do not _know_—nay, more, they do not _believe_, that you _are_
my wife, Theresa.”

“Not your wife—not your wife! What, in God’s name, then, do they
believe me to be? But I _am_—I _am_—yes, before God and man, I _am_
your wife, Jasper St. Aubyn! That shame will I never bear. The parish
register will prove it.”

“Before God, dearest, most assuredly you _are_ my wife; but before man,
I grieve to say, it is not so; nor will the register, to which you
appeal—as I did, when I first heard the scandal—prove any thing, but
against you. It seems the rascal sexton cut out the record of our
marriage from the register, so soon as the old rector died. He is gone,
so that he can witness nothing. Alderly and the sexton will not speak,
for to do so would implicate themselves in the guilt of having mutilated
the church-register. Alderly’s mother is an idiot. We can _prove_
nothing.”

“And when did you learn all this, Jasper?” she asked, calmly; for a
light, a fearful yet most clear illumination began to dawn upon her
mind.

“Last night. And I rode down this morning to the church, to inspect the
register. It is as I was told; there is no trace of the record which we
signed, and saw witnessed, on its pages.”

“And to what end should Verity and Alderly have done this great crime
needlessly?”

“Villains themselves, they fancied that I too was a villain; and that,
if not then, at some after time, I should desire to profit by their
villainy, and should then be in their power.”

“Ha!” she said, still maintaining perfect self-possession. “It seems, at
least, that their villainy was wise, was prophetical.”

“Theresa!” his voice was stern, and harsh, and threatening—his brow as
black as midnight.

“Pardon me!” she said. “Pardon me, Jasper; but you should make allowance
for some feeling in a woman. I am, then, looked upon as a lost, fallen
wretch, as a disgrace to my name and my sex, a concubine, a harlot—is
it not so, Jasper?”

“Alas! alas! Theresa!”

“And you would have me?—speak!”

“I would not have you do it; God knows! it goes nigh to break my heart
to think of it—I only tell you what alone can save us—”

“I understand—it needs not to mince the matter; what is it, then, that
can save us—save _you_, I should say rather, and _your_ friends?”

“That you should leave me, Theresa, and go where you would, so it were
not within a hundred miles of this place—but better to France or Italy;
all that wealth could procure you, you should have; and my love would be
yours above all things, even although we never meet, until we meet in
heaven.”

“Heaven, sir, is for the innocent and faithful, not for the liar and the
traitor! But how shall this avail any thing to save you, if I consent to
do it? I must know all; I must see all clearly, before I act.”

“Are you strong enough to bear what I shall say to you, my poor
Theresa?”

“Else had I not borne to hear what you _have_ said to me.”

“It is the secretary of state, then, who has discovered our plot. He is
himself half inclined to join us; but he is a weak, interested, selfish
being, although of vast wealth, great influence, and birth most noble.
Now, he has a daughter—”

“Ah!” the wretched girl started as if an ice-bolt had shot to her very
heart, “and you—you would wed her!”

“That is to say, _he_ would have me wed her; and on that condition joins
our party. And so our lives, and England’s liberties, should be
preserved by your glorious sacrifice.”

“I must think, then—I must think,” she answered, burying her head in
her hands, in truth, to conceal the agony of her emotions, and to gain
time, not for deliberation, but to compose her mind and clear her voice
for speech.

And he stood gazing on her, with the cold, cutting eye, the calm,
sarcastic sneer, of a very Mephistopheles, believing that she was about
to yield, and inwardly mocking the very weakness, on which he had
played, to his own base and cruel purposes.

But in a moment she arose and confronted him, pale, calm, majestical,
most lovely in her extremity of sorrow, but firm as a hero or a martyr.

“And so,” she said, in a clear, cold, ringing voice, “this is the
sacrifice you ask of me?—to sever myself from you forever—to go forth
into the great, cruel, cold world alone, with a bleeding, broken heart,
a blighted reputation, and a blasted name? All this I might endure,
perhaps I would—but you have asked _more_ of me, Jasper. You have asked
me to confess myself a thing infamous and vile—a polluted wretch—not a
wife, but a wanton! You have asked _me_, your own wedded wife, to write
myself down, with my own hand, a harlot, and to stand by and look on at
your marriage with another—as if I were the filthy thing you would name
me. Than be that thing, Jasper, I would rather die a hundred fold; than
call myself that thing, being innocent of deed or thought of shame, I
had rather _be it_! Now, sir, are you answered? What, heap the name of
harlot on my mother’s ashes! What, blacken my dead father’s stainless
’scutcheon! What—_lie_, before my God, to brand myself, the first of an
honest line, with the strumpet’s stain of blackness! Never! never!
though thou and I, and all the youth of England, were to die in tortures
inconceivable; never! though England were to perish unredeemed! Now,
sir, I ask you, are you answered?”

“I am,” he replied, perfectly unmoved, “I am answered, Theresa, as I
hoped, as I expected to be.”

“What do you mean?—did you not ask me to do this thing?”

“I did _not_, Theresa. I told you what sacrifice might save us all. I
did _not_ ask you to make it. Nay, did I not tell you that I would not
even suffer you to make it?”

“But you told me—you told me—God help me, for I think I shall go mad!
Oh! tempt me no further, Jasper; try me no further. Is—is this true,
that you have told me?”

“Every word—every word of it, my own best love,” answered the arch
deceiver, “save only that I would not for my life, nay, for my soul,
have suffered you to make the sacrifice I spoke of. Perish myself, my
friends! perish England! nay, perish the whole earth, rather!”

“Then why so tempt me? Why so sorely, so cruelly try this poor heart,
Jasper?”

“To learn if you were strong enough to share in my secrets—and you
shall share them. We must fly, Theresa; not from Plymouth; not from any
seaport, but from the wildest gorge in the wild coast of Devon. I have
hired a fishing-boat to await us. We must ride forth alone, as if for a
pleasure party, across the hills, to-morrow, and so make our way to the
place appointed. If we escape, all shall be well—come the worst, as you
said, my own Theresa, at least we shall die together.”

“Are you in earnest, Jasper?”

“On my soul! by the God who hears me!”

“And you _will_ take me with you; you will not cast me from you; you
will uphold me ever to be your own, your wedded wife?”

“I will—I will. Not for the universe! not for my own soul! would I lose
you, my own, own Theresa!”

And he clasped her to his bosom, in the fondest, closest embrace, and
kissed her beautiful lips eagerly, passionately. And she, half fainting
in his arms, could only murmur, in the revulsion of her feelings, “Oh,
happy! happy! too, too happy!”

Then he released her from his arms, and bade her go to bed, for it was
waxing late, and she would need a good night’s rest to strengthen her
for the toils of to-morrow’s journey.

And she smiled on him, and prayed him not to tarry long ere he joined
her; and retired, still agitated and nervous from the long continuance
of the dreadful mental conflict to which he had subjected her.

But he, when she had left the room, turned almost instantly as pale as
ashes—brow, cheeks, nay, his very lips were white and cold. The actor
was exhausted by his own exertions. The man shrunk from the task which
was before him.

“The worse for her!” he muttered, through his hard-set teeth, “the worse
for her! the obstinate, vain, willful fool! I would, by heaven! I would
have saved her!”

Then he clasped his burning brow with the fingers of his left hand, as
if to compress its fierce, rapid beating, and strode to and fro, through
the narrow room, working the muscles of his clinched right hand, as if
he grasped the hilt of sword or dagger.

“There is no other way,” he said at length; “there is no other way, and
I _must_ do it—must do it with my own hand. But—can I—can I—?—” he
paused a moment, and resumed his troubled walk. Then halted, and
muttered in a deep voice, “By hell! there is naught that a man cannot
do; and I—am I not a man, and a right resolute, and stout one? It shall
be so—it is her fate! her fate! Did not her father speak of it that
night, as I lay weak and wounded on the bed? did I not dream it thrice
thereafter, in that same bed? though then I understood it not. It shall
be there—even there—where I saw it happen; so shall it pass for
accident. It is fate!—who can strive against their fate?”

Again he was silent, and during that momentary pause, a deep, low,
muttering roar was heard in the far distance—a breathless hush—and
again, that long, hollow, crashing roll, that tells of elemental
warfare.

Jasper’s eye flashed, and his whole face glared with a fearful and half
frenzied illumination.

“It _is_,” he cried, “it _is_ thunder! From point to point it is true!
It is her fate—her fate!”

And with the words, he rushed from the room; and within ten minutes, was
folded in the rapturous embrace of the snowy arms of her, whose doom of
death he had decreed already in the secrets of his guilty soul.


                              CHAPTER III.

                          _The Deed of Blood._

                 It rose again, but indistinct to view,
                 And left the waters of a purple hue.
                                                 BYRON.

Throughout that livelong night, the thunder roared and rolled
incessantly, and from moment to moment the whole firmament seemed to
yawn asunder, showing its inner vaults, sheeted with living and
coruscant fire, while ever and anon long, arrowy, forked tongues, of
incandescent brightness, darted down from the zenith, cleaving the
massive storm-clouds with a crash that made the whole earth reel and
shudder.

Never, within the memory of man, had such a storm been known at that
season of the year. Huge branches, larger than trees of ordinary size,
were rent from the gigantic oaks by the mere force of the hurricane, and
whirled away like straws before its fury. The rain fell not in drops or
showers, but in vast sheeted columns. The rills were swollen into
rivers, the rivers covered the lowland meadows, expanded into very seas.
Houses were unroofed, steeples and chimneys hurled in ruin to the earth,
cattle were killed in the open fields, unscathed by lightning, by the
mere weight of the storm.

Yet through that awful turmoil of the elements, which kept men waking,
and bold hearts trembling from the Land’s End to Cape Wrath, Jasper St.
Aubyn slept as calmly as an infant, with his head pillowed on the soft
bosom of his innocent and lovely wife. And she, though the tempest
roared around, and the thunder crashed above her, so that she could not
close an eye in sleep; though she believed that to-morrow she was about
to fly from her native land, her home, never, perhaps, to see them more;
though she looked forward to a life of toil and wandering, of hardship,
and of peril as an exile’s wife, perhaps to a death of horror, as a
traitor’s confederate, she blessed God with a grateful heart, that he
had restored to her her husband’s love, and watched that dear sleeper,
dreaming a waking dream of perfect happiness.

But him no dreams, either sleeping or waking, disturbed from his heavy
stupor, or diverted from his hellish purpose. So resolute, so iron-like
in its unbending pertinacity was that young, boyish mind, that having
once resolved upon his action, not all the terrors of heaven or of hell
could have turned him from it.

There lay beneath one roof, on one marriage bed, ay, clasped in one
embrace, the resolved murderer, and his unconscious victim. And he had
tasted the honey of her lips, had fondled, had caressed her to the last,
had sunk to sleep, lulled by the sweet, low voice of her who, if his
power should mate his will, would never look upon a second morrow.

And here, let no one say such things cannot be, save in the fancy of the
rhapsodist or the romancer; such things are impossible—for not only is
there nothing under the sun impossible to human power, or beyond the aim
of human wickedness, but such things _are_ and have been, and will be
again, so long as human passion exists uncontrolled by principle.

Such things have been among ourselves, and in our own day, as he who
writes has seen, and many of those who read must needs remember—and
such things were that night at Widecomb.

With the first dappling of the dawn, the rage of the elements sunk into
rest, the winds sighed themselves to sleep, the pelting torrents melted
into a soft, gray mist; only the roar of the distant waters, mellowed
into a strange fitful murmur, was heard in the general tranquillity
which followed the loud uproar.

Wearied with her involuntary watching, Theresa fell asleep also, still
clasping in her fond arms the miserable, guilty thing which she had
sworn so fatally, and kept her vow so faithfully, to love, honor, and
obey.

When the sun rose, the wretched man awoke from his deep and dreamless
deep; and as his eye fell on that innocent, sweet face, calm as an
infant’s, and serene, though full of deep thoughts and pure affections,
he _did_ start, he _did_ shudder, for one second’s space—perhaps for
that fleeting point of time, he doubted. But if it were so, he nerved
himself again almost without an effort, disengaged himself gently from
the embrace of her entwined arms, with something that sounded like a
smothered curse, and stalked away in sullen gloom, leaving her buried in
her last natural slumber.

Two hours had, perhaps, gone over, and the morning had come out bright
and glorious after the midnight storm, the atmosphere was clear and
breezy, the skies pure as crystal, and the glad sunshine glanced and
twinkled with ten thousand gay reflections in the diamond rain-drops
which still gemmed every blade of grass, and glistened in every
flowret’s cup, when Theresa’s light step was heard coming down the
stairs, and her sweet voice inquiring where she should find Master St.
Aubyn.

“I am here,” answered his deep voice, which for the moment he made an
effort to inflect graciously, and with the word he made his appearance
from the door of his study, booted to the mid-thigh, and spurred; with a
long, heavy rapier at his side, and a stout dagger counterbalancing it
in the other side of his girdle. He was dressed in a full suit of plain
black velvet, without any ornament or embroidery; and whether it was
that the contrast made him look paler, or that the horror of what he was
about to do, though insufficient to turn his hard heart, had sufficed to
blanch his cheek and lips, I know not, but, as she saw his face, Theresa
started as if she had seen a ghost.

“How pale you look, Jasper,” she said earnestly; “are you ill at ease,
dearest, or anxious about me? If it be the last, vex not yourself, I
pray you; for I am not in the least afraid, either of the fatigue or of
the voyage. For the rest,” she added, with a bright smile, intended to
reassure him, “I have long wished to see _la belle France_, as they call
it; and to me the change of scene, so long as you are with me, dearest
Jasper, will be but a change of pleasure. I hope I have not kept you
waiting. But I could not sleep during the night for the thunder, and
about daybreak I was overpowered by a heavy slumber. I did not even hear
you leave me.”

“I saw that you slept heavily, my own love,” he made answer, “and was
careful not to wake you, knowing what you would have to undergo to-day,
and wishing to let you get all the rest you could before starting. But
come, let us go to breakfast. We have little time to lose, the horses
will be at the door in half an hour.”

“Come, then,” she answered, “I am ready;” and she took his arm as she
spoke, and passed, leaning on him, through the long suit of rooms, which
now, for above a year had been her home in mingled happiness and sorrow.
“Heigho!” she murmured, with a half sigh, “dear Widecomb! dear, dear
Widecomb, many a happy hour have I spent within your walls, and it goes
hard with me to leave you. I wonder, shall I ever see you more.”

“Never,” replied the deep voice of her husband, in so strange a tone,
that it made her turn her head and look at him quickly. A strange, dark
spasm had convulsed his face, and was not yet passed from it, when her
eye met his. She thought it was the effect of natural grief at leaving
his fine place—the place of his birth—as an outlaw and an exile; and
half repenting that she had so spoken as to excite his feelings, she
hastened to soothe them, as she thought, by a gayer and more hopeful
word.

“Never heed, dearest Jasper,” she said, pressing his arm, on which she
hung, “if we do love old Widecomb, there are as fair places elsewhere,
on the world’s green face, and if there were not, happy minds will aye
find, or make happy places. And we, why spite of time and tide, wind and
weather, we _will_ be happy, Jasper. And I doubt not a moment, that we
shall yet live to spend happy days once more in Widecomb.”

“I fear, never,” replied the young man, solemnly. It was a singular
feeling—he did not repent, he did not falter or shrink in the least
from his murderous purpose; but, for his life, he could not give her a
hope, he could not say a word to cheer her, or deceive her, further than
he was compelled to do in order to carry out his end.

The morning meal passed silently and sadly; for, in spite of all her
efforts to be gay, and to make him lighter-hearted, his brow was
clouded, and he would not converse; and she, fearing to vex him, or to
trespass on what she believed to be his deep regret at leaving home,
ceased to intrude upon his sorrow.

At length he asked her, “Are you ready?” and as he spoke, arose from the
table.

“Oh yes,” she answered, “I am always ready when you want me. And see,
Jasper,” she added, “here are my jewels,” handing him a small ebony
casket “I thought they might be of use to us, in case of our wanting
money; and yet I should grieve to part with them, for they are the
diamonds _you_ gave me that night we were wedded.”

He took it with a steady hand, and thrust it into the bosom of his
dress, saying, with a forced smile, “You are ever careful, Theresa. But
you have said nothing, I trust, to your maidens, of our going.”

“Surely not, Jasper, they believe I am going but for a morning’s ride.
Do you not see that I have got on my new habit? You have not paid me one
compliment on it, sir. I think you might at least have told me that I
looked pretty in it. I know the day when you would have done so, without
my begging it.”

“Is that meant for a reproach, Theresa?” he said, gloomily, “because—”

“A reproach, Jasper,” she interrupted him quickly, “how little you
understand poor me! I hoped, by my silly prattle, to win you from your
sorrow at leaving all that you love so dearly. But I will be silent—”

“Do so, I pray you, for the moment.”

And without further words, he led her down the steps of the terrace, and
helped her to mount her palfrey, a beautiful, slight, high-bred thing,
admirably fitted to carry a lady round the trim rides of a park, but so
entirely deficient in bone, strength, and sinew, that no animal could
have been conceived less capable of enduring any continuous fatigue, or
even of making any one strong and sustained exertion. Then he sprung to
the back of his own noble horse, a tall, powerful, thorough-bred hunter,
of about sixteen hands in height, with bone and muscle to match,
capable, as it would appear, of carrying a man-at-arms in full harness
through a long march or a pitched battle.

Just as he was on the point of starting, he observed that one of his
dogs, a favorite greyhound, was loose, and about to follow him, when he
commanded him to be taken up instantly, rating the man who had held the
horses very harshly, and cursing him soundly for disobeying his orders.

Then, when he saw that he was secure against the animal’s following him,
he turned his horse’s head to the right hand, toward the great hills to
the westward, saying aloud, so that all the bystanders could hear him,

“Well, lady fair, since we are only going for a pleasure ride, suppose
we go up toward the great deer-park in the forest. By the way,” he
added, turning in his saddle to the old steward, who was standing on the
terrace, “I desired Haggerston, the horse-dealer, to meet me here at
noon, about a hunter he wants to sell me. If I should not be back, give
him some dinner, and detain him till I return. I shall not be late, for
I fancy my lady will not care to ride very far.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, Jasper,” she replied, with an arch smile,
thinking to aid him in his project. “It is so long since I have ridden
out with you, that I may wish to make a day of it. Come, let us start.”

And she gave her jennet its head, and cantered lightly away over the
green, her husband following at a trot of his powerful hunter; and in a
few minutes they were both hidden from the eyes of the servants, among
the clumps of forest-trees and the dense thickets of the chase.

At something more than three miles’ distance from Widecomb House, to the
westward, there is a pass in the hills, where a bridle-road crosses the
channel of the large brook, which I have named so often, and which, at a
point far lower down, was the scene of Jasper’s ill-omened introduction
to Theresa Allan.

This bridle-road, leading from the sparse settlements on Dartmoor to the
nearest point of the seacoast, was a rough, dangerous track, little
frequented except by the smugglers and poachers of that region, and lay
for the most part considerably below the level of the surrounding
country, between wooded hills, or walk of dark gray rock.

The point at which it crosses the stream is singularly wild and
romantic, for the road and the river both are walled by sheer precipices
of gray, shattered, limestone rock, nearly two hundred feet in height,
perfectly barren, bare, and treeless, except on the summits, which are
covered with heather and low, stunted shrubbery.

The river itself, immediately above the ford, by which the road passes
it, descends by a flight of rocky steps, or irregular shelvy rapids,
above a hundred feet within three times as many yards, and then spreads
out into a broad, open pool, where its waters, not ordinarily above
three feet deep, glance rapidly, but still and unbroken, over a level
pavement of smooth stone, almost as slippery as ice. Scarce twenty yards
below this, there is an abrupt pitch of sixty feet in perpendicular
height, over which the river rushes at all times in a loud foaming
waterfall, but after storms among the hills, in a tremendous roaring
cataract.

The ford is never a safe one, owing to the insecure foothold afforded by
the slippery limestone, but when the river is in flood, no one in his
senses would dream of crossing it.

Yet it was by this road that Jasper had persuaded his young wife that
they could alone hope to escape with any chance of safety, and to this
point he was leading her. And she, though she knew the pass, and all its
perils, resolute to accompany him through life, and, if need should be,
to death itself, rode onward with him, cheerful and apparently fearless.

They reached its brink, and the spectacle it afforded was, indeed,
fearful. The river swollen by the rains of the past night, though, like
all mountain torrents, rising and falling rapidly, it was already
subsiding, came down from the moors with an arrowy rush, clear and
transparent as glass, yet deep in color as the rich brown cairn-gorm.
The shelvy rapids above the ford were one sheet of snow-white foam, and
in the ford itself the foam-flakes wheeled round and round, as in a huge
boiling caldron, while below it the roar of the cataract was louder than
the loudest thunder, and the spray rolling upward from the whirlpool
beneath, clung to the crags above in mist-wreaths so dense that their
summits were invisible.

“Good God!” cried Theresa, turning deadly pale, as she looked on the
fearful pool. “We are lost. It is impossible.”

“By heaven!” he answered, impetuously, “I must pass it, or stay and be
hanged. _You_ can do as you will, Theresa.”

“But is it possible?”

“Certainly it is. Do you think I would lead you into certain death? But
see, I will ride across and return, that you may see how easy it is, to
a brave heart and a cool hand.”

And, confident in the strength of his horse and in his own splendid
horsemanship, he plunged in dauntlessly, and keeping up stream near to
the foot of the upper rapids, struggled through it, and returned to her
without much difficulty, though the water rose above the belly of his
horse.

He heard, however, that a fresh storm was rattling and roaring, even
now, among the hills above, and he knew by that sign that a fresh
torrent was even now speeding its way down the chasm.

There was no time to be lost—it was now or never. He cast an eager
glance around—a glance that read and marked every thing—as he came to
land; save only Theresa, there was not a human being within sight.

“You see,” he said, with a smile, “there is no danger.”

“I see,” she answered, merrily. “Forgive me for being such a little
coward. But you will lead Rosabella, wont you, Jasper?”

“Surely,” he answered. “Come.”

And catching the curb-rein of the pony with his left hand, and guiding
his own horse with his right, holding his heavy loaded hunting-whip
between his teeth, he led her down into the foaming waters, so that her
palfrey was between himself and the cataract.

It was hard work, and a fearful struggle for that slender, light-limbed
palfrey to stem that swollen river; and the long skirt of Theresa’s
dress, holding the water, dragged the struggling animal down toward the
waterfall. Still, despite every disadvantage, it would have battled to
the other side, had fair play been given it.

But when they reached the very deepest and most turbulent part of the
pool, under pretence of aiding it, Jasper lifted the jennet’s fore-legs,
by dint of the strong, sharp curb, clear off the bottom. The swollen
stream came down with a heavier swirl, its hind legs were swept from
under it, in an instant, and with a piercing scream of agony and terror,
the palfrey was whirled over the brink of the fall.

But, as it fell, unsuspicious of her husband’s horrible intent, the
wretched girl freed her foot from the stirrup, and throwing herself over
to the right hand, with a wild cry, “Save me! save me, my God! save me,
Jasper!” caught hold of his velvet doublet with both hands, and clung to
him with the tenacious grasp of the death-struggle.

Even then—even then, had he relented, one touch of the spur would have
carried his noble horse clear through the peril.

But no! the instant her horse fell, he shifted his reins to the left
hand, and grasped his whip firmly in the right; and now, with a face of
more than fiendish horror, pale, comprest, ghastly, yet grim and
resolute as death, he reared his hand on high, and poised the deadly
weapon.

Then, even then, her soft blue eyes met his, full, in that moment of
unutterable terror, of hope and love, even then overpowering agony. She
met his eyes, glaring with wolfish fury; she saw his lifted hand, and
even then would have saved his soul that guilt.

“Oh no!” she cried, “oh no! I will let go—I will drown, if you wish it;
I will—I will, indeed! Oh God! do not _you_—do not _you_—kill me,
Jasper.”

And even as she spoke, she relaxed her hold, and suffered herself to
glide down into the torrent; but it was all too late—the furious blow
was dealt—with that appalling sound, that soft, dead, crushing plash,
it smote her full between those lovely eyes.

“Oh God!—my God!—forgive—Jasper! Jasper!”—and she plunged deep into
the pool; but as the waters swept her over the cataract’s verge, they
raised her corpse erect; and its dead face met his, with the eyes
glaring on his own yet wide open, and the dread, gory spot between them,
as he had seen it in his vision years before.

He stood, motionless, reigning his charger in the middle of the raging
current, unmindful of his peril, gazing, horror-stricken, on the spot
where he had seen her last—his brain reeled, he was sick at heart.

A wild, piercing shout, almost too shrill to be human, aroused him from
his trance of terror. He looked upward almost unconsciously, and it
seemed to him that the mist had been drawn up like a curtain, and that a
man in dark garb stood gazing on him from the summit of the rocks.

If it were so, it was but for a second’s space. The fog closed in
thicker again than before, the torrent came roaring down in fiercer,
madder flood, and wheeling his horse round, and spurring him furiously,
it was all that Jasper St. Aubyn could do, by dint of hand and foot, and
as iron a heart as ever man possessed, to avoid following his victim to
her watery grave.

Once safe, he cast one last glance to the rocks, to the river, but he
saw, heard nothing. He whirled the bloody whip over the falls, plunged
his spurs, rowel-deep, into the horse’s sides, and with hell in his
heart, he galloped, like one pursued by the furies of the slain, back,
alone, to Widecomb.


                              CHAPTER IV.

                            _The Vengeance._

               A change came o’er the spirit of my dream,
               The wanderer was returned.
                                                   BYRON.

It was not yet high noon, when, wet from spur to shoulder with mud and
spray, bloody with spurring, spotted from head to heel with gory
foam-flakes from his jaded horse’s wide-distended jaws, and quivering
nostrils, bareheaded, pale as death, and hoarse with shouting, Jasper
St. Aubyn galloped frantically up to the terrace-steps of Widecomb
House; and springing to the ground, reeled, and would have fallen
headlong had he not been caught in the arms of one of the serving men,
who came running down the stone stairs to assist him.

As soon as he could collect breath to speak, “Call all!” he cried, “call
all! Ring the great bell, call all—get ladders, ropes—run—ride—she
is gone—she is lost—swept over the black falls at Hawkshurt! Oh God!
oh God!” and he fell, as it seemed, senseless to the earth.

Acting—sheer acting, all!

They raised him and carried him up stairs, and laid him on the bed—on
_her_ bed—the bed whereon he had kissed her lips last night, and
clasped her lovely form which was now haply entwined in the loathsome
coils of the slimy mud-eels.

He shuddered. He could not endure it. He opened his eyes again, and
feigning to recover his senses, chid the men from his presence, and
again commanded, so peremptorily, that none dare disobey him, that every
servant—man, woman, maid or boy—should begone to the place he had
named, nor return till they brought back his lost angel’s body.

They believed that he was mad; but mad or sane, his anger was so
terrible at all times, and now so fierce, so frantic and appalling, that
none dared to gainsay him.

Within half an hour after his return, save himself, there was not a
human being left within the walls of Widecomb Manor.

Then he arose and descended slowly, but with a firm foot and unchanged
brow, into the great library of the Hall. It was a vast, gloomy, oblong
chamber, nearly a hundred feet in length, wainscoted and shelved with
old black-oak, and dimly lighted by a range of narrow windows, with
dark-stained glass and heavily wrought stone mullions.

There was a dull wood-fire smouldering under the yawning arch of the
chimney-piece, and in front of the fire stood an old oaken table, and a
huge leathern arm-chair.

Into this Jasper cast himself, with his back to the door, which he had
left open, in the absence of his mind. For nearly an hour he sat there
without moving hand or foot, gazing gloomily at the fire. But, at the
end of that time, he started, and seemed to recollect himself, opened
the drawer of the writing-table, and took out of it the record of his
wretched victim’s marriage.

He read it carefully, over and over again, and then crushed it in his
hand, saying, “Well, all is safe now, THANK GOD!” Yes, he _thanked God_
for the success of the murder he had done! “But here goes to make
assurance doubly sure.”

And with the word he was about to cast the paper which he held into the
ashes, when the hand of a man, who had entered the room and walked up to
him with no very silent or stealthy step, while he was engrossed too
deeply by his own guilty thoughts to mark very certainly any thing that
might occur without, was laid with a grip like that of an iron vice upon
his shoulder.

He started and turned round; but as he did so, the other hand of the
stranger seized his right hand which held the marriage record, grasping
it right across the knuckles, and crushed it together by an action so
powerful and irresistible, that the fingers involuntarily opened, and
the fatal document fell to the ground.

Instantly the man cast Jasper off with a violent jerk which sent him to
a distance of three or four yards, stooped, gathered up the paper,
thrust it into his bosom, and then folding his arms across his stalwort
breast, stood quietly confronting the murderer, but with the quietude of
the expectant gladiator.

Jasper stared at the swarthy, sun-burned face, the coal-black hair
clipped short upon the brow, the flashing eyes, that pierced him like a
sword. He knew the face—he almost shuddered at the knowledge—yet, for
his life, he could not call to mind where or when he met him.

But he stared only for an instant; insulted—outraged—he, in his own
house! His ready sword was in his hand forthwith—the stranger was armed
likewise with a long broadsword and a two-edged dagger, and heavy
pistols at his girdle; yet he moved not, nor made the slightest movement
to put himself on the defensive.

“Draw, dog!” cried Jasper, furiously. “Draw and defend yourself, or I
will slay you where you stand.”

“Hold!” replied the other steadily. “There is time enough—I will not
baulk you. Look at me!—do you not know me?”

“Know you?—not I; by heaven! some rascal smuggler, I trow—come to rob
while the house is in confusion! but you have reckoned without your host
this time. You leave not this room alive.”

“That as it may be,” said the other, coolly. “I have looked death in the
face too often to dread much the meeting; but ere I die, I have some
work to do. So you do not know me?”

“Not a whit I, I tell you.”

“Then is the luck mine, for I know you right well, young sir!”

“And for whom do you know me?”

“For a d—d villain always!” the man answered, “two hours since, for
Theresa Allan’s murderer! and now, thanks to this paper, which, please
God, I shall keep, for Theresa Allan’s—husband!”

He spoke the last words in a voice of thunder, and at the same time drew
and cocked, at a single motion, a pistol with each hand.

“You know too much—you know too much!” cried Jasper, furious but
undaunted. “One of us two must die, ere either leaves this room.”

“It was for that end I came hither! Look at me now, and know Durzil
Bras-de-fer—Theresa Allan’s cousin! your wife’s rejected lover once,
and now—your wife’s avenger!”

“Away! I will not fight you!”

“Then, coward, with my own hands will I hang you on the oak tree before
your own door; and on your breast I will pin this paper, and under it
will write, ‘HER MURDERER, taken in the fact, tried, condemned, executed
by me,

                                               “‘DURZIL BRAS-DE-FER.’”

“Never!”

“Take up your pistols, then—they lie there on the table. We will turn,
back to back, and walk each to his own end of the room, then turn and
fire—if that do not the work, let the sword finish it.”

“Amen!” said St. Aubyn, “and the Lord have mercy on your soul, for I
will send it to your cousin in five minutes.”

“And may the Fiend of Hell have yours—as he will, if there be either
Fiend or God. Are you ready?”

“Ay.”

“Then off with you, and when you reach the wall, turn and fire.”

And as he spoke, he turned away, and walked slowly and deliberately with
measured strides toward the door by which he had entered.

Before he had taken six steps, however, a bullet whistled past his ear,
cutting a lock off his hair in its passage, and rebounded from the wall,
flattened at his feet. Jasper had turned at once, and fired at him with
deliberate aim.

“Ha! double murderer! die in your treason!” and the sailor leveled his
pistol in turn, and pulled the trigger; had it gone off, Jasper St.
Aubyn’s days were ended then and there; but no flash followed the sparks
from the flint—and he cast the useless weapon from him.

At once they both raised their second pistol, and again Jasper’s was
discharged with a quick, sharp report; and almost simultaneously with
the crack, a dull sound, as of a blow, followed it; and he knew that his
ball had taken effect on his enemy.

Again Durzil’s pistol failed him; and then, for the first time, Jasper
observed that the seaman’s clothes were soaked with water. He had swam
that rapid stream, and followed his beloved Theresa’s murderer, almost
with the speed of the stout horse that bore _him_ home.

Not a muscle of Durzil’s face moved, not a sinew of his frame quivered,
yet he was shot through the body, mortally—and he knew it.

“Swords!” he cried, “swords!”

And bounding forward, he met the youth midway, and at the first
collision, sparks flew from the well-tempered blades.

It was no even conflict, no trial of skill—three deadly passes of the
sailor, as straight and almost as swift as lightning, with a blade so
strong, and a wrist so adamantine, that no slight of Jasper’s could
divert them, were sent home in tierce—one in his throat, “That for your
lie!” shouted Durzil; a second in the sword arm, “That for your coward
blow!” a third, which clove the very cavity of his heart asunder, “That
for your life!”

Ten seconds did not pass, from the first crossing of their blades until
Jasper lay dead upon the floor, flooding his own hearth-stone with his
life-blood.

Durzil leaned on his avenging blade, and looked down upon the dead.

“It is done! it is done just in time! But just! for I am sped likewise.
May the Great God have mercy on me, and pardon me my sins, as I did this
thing not in hatred, but in justice and in honor! Ah—I am sick—sick!”

And he dropped down into the arm-chair in which Jasper was sitting as he
entered; and though he could hardly hold his head up for the deadly
faintness, and the reeling of his eyes and brain, by a great effort he
drew out the marriage record from his breast—Jasper’s ball had pierced
it, and it was dappled with his own life-blood—and smoothed it out
fairly, and spread it on the board before him.

Then he fell back, and closed his eyes, and lay for a long time
motionless; but the slow, sick throbbing of his heart showed that he was
yet alive, though passing rapidly away.

Once he raised his dim eyes, and murmured, “They tarry—they tarry very
long. I fear me, they will come too late.”

But within ten minutes after he had spoken, the sound of a multitude
might be heard approaching, and a quick, strong, decided step of one man
coming on before all the rest.

Within the last few minutes, Durzil had seemed to lose all consciousness
and power. He was, indeed, all but dead.

But at these sounds he roused like a dying war-horse to the trumpet; and
as the quick step crossed the threshold, he staggered to his feet, drew
his hand across his eyes, and cried, with his old sonorous voice,—it
was his last effort—

“Is that you, lieutenant?”

“Ay, ay, captain.”

“Have you found her?”

“She is here,” said the young seaman, pointing with his hand to the
corpse, which they were just bearing into the room.

“And he—ha! ha! ha! ha!—he is—there!” and he pointed, with a
triumphant wafture of his gory sword, toward Jasper’s carcass, and then,
with the blood spouting from his mouth and nostrils, fell headlong.

His officer raised him instantly, and as the flow of blood ceased, he
recovered his speech for a moment. He pointed to the gaping crowd,

“Have—have you—told them—lieu—lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell—tell them—l-let me hear you.”

“You see that wound in her forehead—you saw it all, from the first,” he
said, to the crowd, who were gazing in mute horror at the scene. “I told
you, when I took you to the body, that I saw her die, and would tell you
how she died, when the time should come. The time has come. He—that
man, whose body lies there bleeding, and whose soul is now burning in
Tophet, murdered her in cold blood—beat her brains out with his loaded
hunting-whip. I—I, Hubert Manvers, saw him do it.”

There was a low, dull murmur in the crowd, not of dissent or disbelief,
but of doubt.

“And who slew master?” exclaimed black Jem Alderly, coming doggedly
forward; “this has got to be answered for.”

“It is answered for, Alderly,” said Durzil, in a faint but audible
voice. “I did it—I slew him, as he has slain me. I am Durzil Olifaunt,
whom men call Bras-de-fer. Do any of you chance to know me?”

“Ay, ay, all on us! all on us!” shouted half the room; for the frank,
gallant, bold young seaman had ever been a general favorite. “Huzza! for
Master Durzil!”

And in spite of the horrors of the scene, in spite of the presence of
the dead, a loud cheer followed.

“Hush!” he cried, “hush! this is no time for that, and no place. I am a
dying man. There is not five minutes’ life in me. Listen to me. Did any
of you ever hear me tell a lie?”

“Never! never!”

“I should scarce, therefore, begin to do so now, with heaven and hell
close before my eyes. Hubert Manvers spoke truly. I also saw him murder
her—murder his own wife—for such she was; therefore I killed him!” He
gasped for a moment, gathered his breath again, and pointing to the
table, “that paper, Hubert—quick—that paper—read it—I—am
going—quick!”

The young man understood his superior’s meaning in an instant, caught
the paper from the table, beckoned two or three of the older men about
him, among others, Geoffrey, the old steward, and read aloud the record
of the unhappy girl’s marriage.

At this moment the young vicar of Widecomb entered the room, and his
eyes falling on the paper, “That is my father’s hand-writing,” he cried;
“this is the missing leaf of my church register!”

“Was she not—was she not—his—wife?” cried Bras-de-fer, raising
himself feebly on his elbow, and gazing with his whole soul in his dying
eyes at the youthful vicar, and at the horror-stricken circle.

“She was—she was assuredly, his lawful wife, and such I will uphold
her,” said the young man, solemnly. “Her fame shall suffer no wrong any
longer—her soul, I trust, is with her God already—for she was
innocent, and good, and humble, as she was lovely and loving. Peace be
with her.”

“Poor, poor lady!” cried several of the girls who were present,
heart-stricken, at the thought of their own past conduct, and of her
unvarying sweetness. “Poor, poor lady!”

“Hubert—Hubert—I—I have cleared her—char—her character, I have
avenged her death; lay me beside her. In ten—ten minutes I shall
be—God—bless—bless you, Hubert—with Theresa! A—amen!”

He was dead. He had died in his duty—which was
justice—truth—vengeance!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            SUMMER’S NIGHT.


   BY SAM. C. REID, JR. AUTHOR OF “SCOUTING EXPEDITIONS OF THE TEXAS
                             RANGERS,” ETC.


    The busy hum of day has passed,
      And countless millions with the sun
    Have set, for wo or weal the cast—
      What’s said is said—what’s done is done.

    And with the purple and the gold
      There sinks many a soul to rest;
    Hopes are wrecked—all fates are told—
      The rich made poor, the poor made blessed.

    Twilight’s beauteous mantle now
      The earth enwraps, near and afar—
    Casts her influence o’er each brow,
      While peeps from heaven a single star!

    That star to some is life and hope,
      To others though, despair and gloom—
    Each twinkle reads the horoscope
      Of life, from cradle to the tomb!

    Night now takes Twilight by the hand
      And leads her to her own blue sphere,
    Then calls forth her sentinel band—
      At once ten thousand stars appear!

    Hail, Queen Goddess! then shout the band
      As, rising in her silvery car,
    The Moon, with sceptre in her hand,
      Bids Night her veil aside to draw!

    Now blessed are they who can enjoy
      An hour of such a summer’s night—
    Speak, ye dungeons, life’s alloy,
      Ye sick, diseased, ye barred of sight!

    Oh! for a crevice in the wall,
      To let one ray of moonlight in,
    ’Twould ease their hearts, and hope recall,
      While they repented of their sin.

    And restless, turning on his bed
      The wasted form cries out with pain,
    As raising up his fevered head,
      Oh, God! that I were well again.

    And oh, the blind! _none_ feel for ye,
      Shut out from scenes so lovely bright,
    Most painful thought—they cannot see—
      Their night is day—their day is night!

    The streets are crowded with the gay,
      The voice and laugh of girls are heard,
    Mellowed by the silver ray
      Of happy thought or witty word.

    Speak! ye millions, who joy and gaze
      Upon the silvery charms of night,
    Can ye a tear of sorrow raise
      For those deprived of scenes so bright?

    But why ask ye? no themes like these
      Your thoughts make sad—of other things
    Ye think, while onward wafts the breeze
      And the night bird sweetly sings.

    And yet, there is many a heart
      To whom the moonbeams give no light,
    Those strings with wo do almost part,
      Swept rudely by the cold world’s blight.

    No soothing ray melts o’er their souls,
      No breeze lulls sweetly o’er those chords,
    That beat and sigh, like sea o’er shoals,
      For sympathy’s kind, loving words.

    A blue spot in a stormy sky,
      From which a star gleams purely bright,
    Is like the smile or tearful eye
      To those whose hearts are dark with night.

    Then feel for th’ pris’ner, sick and blind—
      E’en the forest-rose, the desert-tree,
    The sprig of grass, kissed by the wind,
      Receive its kindest sympathy.

    Oh, Summer’s night—man’s Eden hours!
      All Nature thrills with thy delight,
    Th’ greenwood, rocky streams and flowers,
      Th’ murm’ring sea, th’ beach, the mountain height.

    Then give thy soul’s gratitude to Him
      Who made the orb “to rule the night,”
    And with the prayer of Cherubim
      Pour forth thy heart’s inmost delight.

    And learn to feel for another’s wo,
      While to Heaven thou breath’st thy prayer—
    Foul _prejudice_ from thy breast forego,
      And let _sympathy_ reign ever there.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE YEAR.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                         THE DEATH OF THE YEAR.


                           BY HENRY B. HIRST.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

    It was a dreary night
      In the latter years of time,
    When a man, with shrunken limbs
      And a forehead white with rime—
    With the rime of weary hours
    Whose paths were not of flowers—
    And a beard of snowy white,
    Walked slowly through the night.

    Pale Hecate, overhead,
      Shone coldly on his brow;
    His eye was sunken and dim,
      His cheek had lost its glow,
    But his step, so full of pride,—
    The manhood of his stride,
    Gave this antiquated thing
    The appearance of a king.

    The moon went sadly down
      To a level with his way,
    And the heavens became opprest
      With vapors dark and gray
    As Saturn, with his beard,
    And glass, and scythe, appeared:
    The old man journeyed on,
    Growing weaker and more wan.

    Like a shadow, on his path
      With a silence, such as dwells
    In the desolate dell of death
      Where we hear not even our knells,
    Did Saturn slowly pass
    With his fatal scythe and glass:
    The traveler looked not back,
    But kept steadily on his track.

    From the earth which lay below,
      Until then so black and dumb,
    Came the roar of many a gun,
      With the roll of many a drum,
    And the mingling strains of lute,
    Clarion, cymbal, fife and flute;
    And among them, like a knell,
    Rose the clamor of a bell!

    The wanderer heard the sound,
      And with patient, suffering eyes
    Gazed reproachfully on high,
      Through the dark, unpitying skies;
    But Saturn raised his steel
    And the old man ceased to feel;
    And they laid along his bier
    The cadaverous Old Year.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                              THE COTTAGE.


                            BY J. HUNT, JR.


    How pleasing it is, in this world of digression,
      To pause, and to ponder some period fled;
    The home of my infancy made an impression
      Which only will perish when mem’ry is dead.
    That rough, rugged farm, how dear did I love it,—
      The barn by the orchard, and spring by the rill;
    No spot upon earth which I so much covet,
      As that where our Cottage once stood on the hill.
    The rudely built Cottage, the old-fashioned Cottage,
    The one-story Cottage, that stood on the hill.

    Beside its broad hearth-stone, at evening, I’ve listened
      The tale that my grandfather told of the wars;
    He’d speak of his battles, while tears his eyes glistened,
      And prove what he stated, by showing his scars!
    ’Twas then that my young heart beat high for the glory
      Of aiding some measure, Fame’s parchment to fill,—
    By giving in song, or relating in story,
      My love for that Cottage, which stood on the hill.
    The rudely built Cottage, the old-fashioned Cottage,
    The time-honored Cottage, that stood on the hill.

    That time-honored Cottage—no dream or delusion—
      For ’neath its old roof dwelt affection and friends;
    The seat of contentment and quiet seclusion,
      Where goodness found favor, and evil amends.
    What would I give could I once more regain it,
      And have the same feelings my bosom to fill?
    Alas! it’s in ruins—love cannot retain it—
      Tears gush for that Cottage which stood on the hill.
    The rudely built Cottage, the old-fashioned Cottage,
    The one-story Cottage, that stood on the hill.

    Though parted by distance, those scenes of my childhood
      Rise fresh in my mind, when to them I recur—
    I fancy I visit the vale and the wildwood,
      Where flowers yield perfume, like India’s myrrh;—
    And then, in the warmth of the deepest emotion,
      I stand as in youth on the banks of that rill,
    And hear in its gurgle a song of devotion.
      With mine, for the Cottage that stood on the hill.
    The rudely built Cottage, the old-fashioned Cottage,
    The one-story Cottage, that stood on the hill.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            THREE PICTURES:


                         SUNRISE—NOONDAY—NIGHT.


                            BY CAROLINE C——.


               “Like a clear fountain, his desire
                 Exults, and leaps toward the light,
               In every drop it says ‘Aspire!’
                 Striving for more ideal height.”
                              —
           “Looking within myself, I note how thin
             A plank of station, chance, or prosperous fate,
           Doth fence me from the clutching waves of sin;
             _In my own heart I find the worst man’s mate!_”
                                               J. R. LOWELL.

An artist was passing slowly through the thorough-fare of a great city,
where for a few days he was sojourning.

He was a young man, and the few years of his life, if they had proved
heavy and sorrowful in experience, had at least left no dark impress on
his forehead. His figure was strikingly elegant, and the face manly, and
very beautiful; it might well have been taken to represent the Genius of
Thought, so calm, elevated, and ennobled by spiritual excellence was it.

The artist was a poor man; you could guess that by the worn garments in
which he was attired, for from the figure, bearing, and whole appearance
of the youth, it was evident that he was not of that class of geniuses
who affect shabbiness in personal appearance, in the name of
eccentricity.

And he was an ambitious young man, too. A glance into his studio, where
constantly and diligently he toiled in his vocation, had told you that.
It would seem by the constant emendations he would make, and by the
finished style he labored to impart to all he did, that nothing short of
superior excellence or perfection in his art, would satisfy him.

He has come into the open air this morning, not because he is wearied
with his work, for it is a source of continual delight to him—neither
in search of amusement, but to ponder on a thought which has long
harbored in his mind—three pictures should be his fame. From his quiet
studio he would send into the world a moral lesson that should delight
and instruct, and leave in the world an abiding moral influence. Not
only did Martin Gray long to win for himself a proud name on the earth,
but with the poets and the preachers he would fain lift up his voice and
teach—he also would be a priest and a reformer, and by his works he
would testify to the infinite beauty of holiness and virtue.

The artist’s heart beat joyfully as he revolved this idea in his
mind—his hope was high—his hand was skillful.

“If my name only ranks with the masters’ some day—if I can do some real
and substantial good in my generation! I cannot labor too hard to secure
these ends,” he said to himself as he passed, unconscious of the noise
and confusion about him, along the street.

Mechanically turning at the first corner, Martin moved on to quarters of
the city where the strife and confusion of life were more subdued.

At once he stood silent, as though changed suddenly to marble, then a
heart-cheering cry of joy and surprise burst from him, and “I have found
it! I have found it!” he cried—“here is sunrise at last!”

There were children playing in the street, poor little children, boys
and girls, whose only play-ground was that hot and dusty place. But in
the person of one, the quick eye of the artist detected extraordinary
beauty, though decked in rags almost as extraordinary.

The unconscious child was a girl, six or seven years of age, faultless
in form and feature, the very embodiment of one of Martin Gray’s ideals.

It was not solely the exquisite loveliness of the child’s face, though
the shape and coloring were perfect—but beside the dark rich hair,
which fell in such unheeded profusion on the shoulders of its little
mistress—and beside the deep, sapphire-blue of the large languid eyes,
and the classic regularity of every feature, there was an expression, a
_soul look_, which intensified her natural beauty, and stamped her as
the owner of an intellect whose range was far higher than that reached
by any of her playmates.

“Tell me your name, little angel,” said the artist, in the excitement of
his delighted surprise.

“My name is Alice Flynn,” was the prompt answer, accompanied by a smile
and frank look of inquiry, which read very plainly “what is _your_
name—and what do you want of me?”

“Have you a mother? Where does she live? Go with me to your home—I must
speak with her.”

The child answered these queries by at once leaving her playmates—the
artist followed her quickly, and in a few moments they entered a narrow
byway. Passing a short distance through it, little Alice paused before a
shabby old frame house, which seemed every day on the point of bidding
an eternal farewell to all things terrestrial.

“This is the place where we live, sir,” she said, with the sweetest
voice in the world; “will you come in?”

“The little girl is yours, ma’am, I believe,” said Martin, as he stood
in the presence of what seemed to him an ogress—a gigantic woman who
certainly could lay but little claim to beauty, when compared with the
“child-angel” who called her mother.

“Yes—she wasn’t lost was she? Or was she up to mischief in the street,
just tell me that?”

“No, no—nothing of the kind,” said the artist quickly—but not in the
least daunted by the washer-woman’s unamiable greeting—“I was struck
with her appearance—and now that I have at last an opportunity of
accomplishing an object I have long contemplated, I trust you will not
object.”

“Lord, sir, what is it ye want—speak it out quick can’t ye—my work is
waiting for me, don’t ye see? Do you want the child’s front teeth, or
her hair? I’ve sold her hair twice to a barber, but her teeth—”

“You mistake me,” exclaimed Martin Gray, sharply, for he was disgusted
with the cruel words of the old beldam. “I am an artist—I would like to
take her likeness—will you permit me to do so?”

“No! what would you do with it? The girl’s about spoiled now with
people’s telling her how beautiful she is. To be sure the child _is_
well enough”—this with a sort of brutish pride—“in looks, but beauty
don’t give us bread, and her good looks only spiles her—she’s getting
proud and hateful since people have told her so much about it, the
little fool!”

“If that is so, I fear it is not the wisest course to let her play so
much in the street with other little folks,” said Martin.

This approach to advice aroused the woman’s ire. “Where’s she to be
kept, I’d like to know that? A poor woman like me as _arns_ her bread by
the sweat of her face has little time to be looking about after the
young ones. People like me can’t keep their children to home like other
folks, who have plenty of room indoor and out. So you see, young man,
your advice aint worth much any how.”

“Of course, madam, you know your own business best; but, seriously, you
cannot mean to refuse my earnest request. I assure you it will be the
greatest favor to me if you will suffer me to take the child’s picture.
I am willing to pay you for the privilege.”

“Then it shall be done,” said the woman, brightening up. “How much will
you offer?”

“Two dollars,” answered the young man, “and I will pay you more at some
future day—but I also am poor.”

Poor fellow, he spoke the truth indeed, for the two dollars were just
half the contents of his old faded purse at that moment.

“Well, she may go for that. Here Alice, you’re gwine to have your face
painted—let me brush you up a little.”

“No—no, I pray madam, leave her to me. I will take her to my studio as
she is; I would not have her appearance changed in the least—the
drapery of the child does not need any alteration, I will bring her to
you again in an hour.”

“Well, she’ll be safe enough, I ’spose, go on.”

“Are you going to paint my face, sir? What for? Will it hurt me?” asked
Alice Flynn as she, with Martin, passed along the streets hand in hand.

“Not your _face_, child,” answered the artist, “I’m going to paint a
face _like_ yours—that is all.”

“What for?”

“To hang up in my room, and then perhaps to sell it some day for a great
deal of money.”

“Sell me! sell my face!” and the little innocent laughed, and wondered
why any body should want to buy a face like hers!

Martin, too busy with his own thoughts, made no answer to her many
exclamations of astonishment and wonder. Two steps at a time, with the
girl in his arms, did the delighted youth ascend the three steep and
narrow flights of stairs which led to the poor little attic room he
dignified with the “name, style, and title” of studio.

A barren place it seemed to little Alice Flynn, for such a nice
gentleman to live in—indeed scarce a whit better than her own poor home
was it.

“Are you poor, too?” she asked, with childlike confidence—and a most
unchildish and unnatural sadness was in her voice as she spoke.

“Yes, I am poor—I paint pictures for a living, Alice. I shall not grow
rich in a day,” said the artist, and his words were uttered with not
quite the usual, light-hearted happy tone.

Probably my reader will not soon, if ever, see the original painting
executed on that day which ever after remained a date so memorable in
the recollections of Martin Gray. Let me, therefore, here state that the
Sunrise was a portrait quite dissimilar to those we usually see of young
children.

“Now lie quietly, Alice, for a moment,” said Martin. He had placed her
on the ancient lounge, the only reasonable piece of furniture in the
room. “Now close your eyes—ah! not _so_ close, let them be half open,
as though you were just waking up—now I will paint a picture the world
shall wonder at! Yes, I also will make a Sunrise!”

Quietly and motionless, as though bereft of life, the child lay and
watched the artist’s movements; in him she forgot herself, consequently
had none of that intense consciousness of expression so often
perceivable in the portraits of people who become immortalized, and
perpetuated on—canvas!

What a sight to see! the lonely desolate places where the impoverished
children of Genius, the painters, sculptors, and poets, have with
patient but almost hopeless toil wrought out their wonder-works!

Oh! eyes whose range of vision was circumscribed by four contracted
walls, have looked on scenes of rarer and richer beauty than travelers
in many climes have seen; and voices, husky, tuneless with want and
grief, have breathed, even when tortured with the death-agony, songs,
that the world has hushed its mighty voice, and its tumultuous heart to
hear; warriors have conquered on battle-fields, whose inspiration was
the song that burst from the dying son of poverty, while pain and fever
prostrated him, who kept back by force of mind the advance of death,
until the strain of glory should be fully and perfectly conceived!

An hour passed, and not for one moment had the hand of the artist
paused—it is enough to say that even he was satisfied with the progress
he had made in those swift-winged sixty minutes.

Upon the easy couch Alice had fallen asleep, unperceived by the young
painter—he awakened her with some regret, but the time he had promised
to keep her with him was passed, and Martin had little inclination to
brave the wrath of the mother’s tongue. Thoughtfully he led the child to
her home, and when he parted with her there, it was with a heart full of
sorrow, for he knew that a life of hardship, and want, and temptation,
was in store for the beautiful girl.

“Poor and handsome,” thought he—“God protect her! To be sure it would
be a sad sight were the innumerable host of poor people all hideously
ugly—and as to the _necessity_ of the thing, such folks would seem to
require the simple pleasure of being admired, inasmuch as they are
debarred from participating in all amusements and enjoyments that cost
money, and beauty costs nothing. And yet Heaven have mercy on the poor
family that boasts of a beauty! as surely as the sunshine, pride will
creep in under the door-sill or by the window, and certainly in a covert
manner. The pretty daughter must be prettily dressed, even at the
expense, and by the self-denial of the more plainly gifted remainder of
the family. Then come struggles, heart-bitterness and envy—God be
thanked if hatred and malice do not also come! Now there’s that little
Alice Flynn—if she were only my sister, or one over whom I had the
shadow of control! Oh! that I were only rich! She ought to be educated!
Heavens! what a smile—and what a mind she has—she thinks! God defend
her!”

Indulging in such thoughts as these Martin had passed again through the
crowded streets, quite unmindful of all things save that one high
project he had conceived, which now, he for the first time felt
convinced might be really performed. Once more we find him before his
easel, and how he labored there! Six days, morning and evening, he
worked on his creation, and Saturday night saw him looking upon it with
such intensity of satisfaction, as betokened a very happy heart—for it
was finished, and his heart and his mind had declared it “very good!”

The following week there was to be an exhibition of the paintings of
native artists in New York, and to the rooms prepared for this purpose
Martin conveyed his work, and it was not perhaps without a thrill of
pride that he placed it among the multitudinous proofs of genius there.

The Sunrise was unframed, and having been among the last brought in, it
occupied an obscure and unfavorable position. But Martin surveyed it
with the eyes of a lover—he knew its superior merit, and he fancied
that others would behold it in just such a light. But Martin was
destined to be disappointed not a little; during the first days of the
exhibition, while the rooms were filled to overflowing, but little
attention was attracted toward his portrait. Sometimes it was so
fortunate as to attract an exclamation of surprise, and a momentary
glance of admiration—and once or twice a group of young people stopped
a moment to honor it with examination, but there were works of well
known artists which must be criticised and applauded—there were “first
attempts” of rich and fashionable men which must be praised—and
besides, it was on the whole taken for granted by universal consent,
that the best pictures occupied the most prominent stations, and that
those condemned to the back-ground must necessarily be only passably
good or mediocre.

By degrees Martin began to take these facts into consideration—and then
it was only by great effort he managed to keep his hopes alive, that
some good fate was yet in store for his darling.

An early hour on the morning of the fifth day found him once more
attracted to the rooms, he would endeavor to secure for his child a
position more prominent, for some of the paintings had been already
removed by their masters.

But two persons were there when he entered. They were a lady and
gentleman in deep mourning, and they were standing before _his_ Sunrise!
Passing up the long hall slowly, with his eyes directed to the thickly
covered wall, where he saw what only an artist could, the outwritten,
burning hopes of a multitude of men, he contrived to keep watch of the
two who remained so long motionless and speechless before the pictured
child.

“Do you know the author of this work, sir; and if it is for sale?” asked
the stranger as Martin drew near.

“I have an acquaintance with the artist,” answered he, “but the
painting, I think, is not for sale.”

“Why should it be placed here then?” asked the gentleman quickly, and
with great evident disappointment.

“Because, sir, there is something dear to the heart of the author of a
work, beside the money which the sale of it would bring. I feel at
liberty to answer you frankly as you have asked—the artist hoped that
by this work attention might be attracted to his skill, for he is a
young man necessitated to labor, and, as yet, altogether unknown in his
profession.”

“I admire the genius of the young man, he will succeed in making himself
known beyond all doubt. But perhaps I might offer for this picture a sum
great enough to satisfy even him.”

There was a silence, and there was in the lady’s eyes such a beseeching
look as she glanced from the picture toward Martin, that his
determination was almost vanquished, but he looked down and said:

“The painting is my work—I cannot part with it at any price.”

“It is yours! and you will not sell it! Mr. Artist, you do not, cannot
know how much you refuse us! We had a child, a darling little girl, she
was an angel to us—she is lost to us, is dead, young man!—and this
portrait! it is so like her, at any cost I would secure it. Name your
price, high as you value your beautiful work, consider that to us it is
infinitely more valuable! the hours of labor you have spent upon it have
endeared it to you—it is more to us though than even that, it is life
to us, for it brings _her_ back again!”

The lady trembled as her companion pleaded with the artist so earnestly.
It was not in Martin Gray to deny a plea so sad and so heartfelt. “It
shall be yours,” he exclaimed, “permit me to retain the work but a few
days, and it shall then be returned to you.”

A thankful glance of the tearful eyes of the bereaved mother was what
Martin thought at that moment a full reward.

“God bless you, sir! you have made us happy! If five thousand dollars is
any compensation, they are yours!”

That was another kind of reward! The young artist thought both
invaluable; and it was with a light heart that with the picture in its
case, he carried it once more to the attic studio.


                              CHAPTER II.

Martin Gray’s fortune was made, and ever after was he a firm believer in
presentiments, for the Sunrise had in very truth been the making of him.
In the midst of his good fortune, the generous heart did not forget the
poor child whose beauty had so materially aided his genius. Previous to
his departure for the old world, he placed a well-filled purse in the
hands of the mother, saying, “Your child is an extraordinary girl. This
money will be sufficient to secure her a good education—pray do not
neglect it, for she will be an honor and a great help to you some day.
Promise me that you will keep her out of the street as much as is
possible, and that you will send her to school. I am going abroad, when
I come home again she will be many years older than now, nearly a woman.
Give me your promise she shall be sent to school.”

“Yes, she shall go, and as to keeping her out of the street, I s’pose I
might as well undertake to—Well, yes, I’ll try my hand at it.”

“Be kind to her!”

Martin traveled abroad; he studied in Italy—he studied in Germany—he
journeyed through nearly all Europe. Among artists, and
artist-patronizers, the success of his first exhibited picture was
well-known, the Sunrise was every where commented upon, and the papers
liked to talk of the young artist Martin Gray, of his skillful hand, and
generous heart!

But during the years of labor and study spent abroad, his one great idea
remained unaccomplished. The second picture which he had designed as a
continuation of the Sunrise, was untouched. The imagination was not to
be suffered to do the work in this instance either—but the second work,
even as the first had been, should be a portrait.

Still his hands had not been idle. In Paris his studio (it was not there
an attic!) became a point of interest and fashionable attraction, and in
Hamburg the American artist dwelt neither in poverty nor obscurity. The
walls of his rooms were adorned with evidences of his capabilities, and
beside the honors heaped upon him, in a pecuniary point of view, his
labors had made his fortune.

Years passed on, and Martin was at home again; at home and among a
multitude of friends, though when seven years ago he sailed from the
great city he might easily have counted the voices that came to bid
adieu and God-speed. But fame and fortune wonderfully enhance the feeble
interest felt in the once poor son of Genius—so Martin Gray proved it.
His friendship was sought for as most honorable, his words were quoted,
his dress and style imitated—fair ladies trilled his songs, (for he was
something of a poet, too,) and as a “lion” the young exquisite was
pronounced by fathers, mothers, and daughters, as perfect, charming, and
altogether unexceptionable.

“Well, what in the way of amusements, Frank?” asked the artist, as
arm-in-arm with a city gallant, he strolled along Broadway a few days
after his arrival in New York.

“What! not heard yet that _Alice_ gives a musical entertainment
to-night? My good fellow you ‘argue yourself unknown’ by such unseemly
ignorance,” gayly said his companion, the Hon. Francis Dundas.

“Indeed, I must confess to ignorance; who is this great singer,
Alice—some newly risen star, is she not?”

“Yes—but the few who have heard, say a star that bids fair to prove on
closer examination of the first magnitude, and that even an artist’s
eyes can detect no defect in her matchless beauty.”

“And which point of the compass does she hail from?”

“Oh! she is a native of our city. Her rare beauty some time since
attracted the attention of old H——, the millionaire—he does something
toward educating her; she turns out a woman, or girl of uncommon
talents, and has determined to become a public singer. I am told her
history is a complete romance, wanting nothing of tragedy or comedy to
make it irresistibly interesting.”

“A singer—a genius—and a beauty! we will hear her by all means!”
exclaimed Martin enthusiastically.

And they did hear her.

It was not a “grand entertainment.” The singer Alice was the sole
performer. She had preferred that it should be so, that her merits and
powers, whatever they were, might be estimated at their worth.

Small and select was the audience before which she appeared; it was
composed of people of refined taste, who could fully appreciate all the
excellencies of style and manner, and whose approbation a young
debutante might rejoice to win. How young she was! how truly and
perfectly beautiful! There was a slight flush on her cheek which was
else pale as marble, that told how strongly the chords of her brave
heart were struck. She sang—oh! the voice whose tones filled the high
hall was like that we hear in dreams, when angels come to keep watch
over us, chanting through the long hours of the night! During the whole
first part of the concert there was intense silence, for there was an
intense gratification felt by the audience that was deeper than could be
uttered, and the smiles, and tears, and breathless interest evinced,
were to the maiden tributes more acceptable than tumultuous applause had
been.

“She is a wonder!” “a miracle!” “what a voice!” “what a style!” “and
then to think she is only seventeen or eighteen!” Such and like
exclamations escaped from every heart as “Alice” withdrew at the close
of the first part from the saloon.

Frank Dundas turned to his companion—

“Well, Gray, what do _you_ think of her? Your wits seem wandering.”

“I am lost! it is divine! I have never seen or heard her equal. Tell me,
what did you say is her name; the face haunts me; I could swear I have
seen it before.”

“Tut! swear not at all. It’s not likely you have ever seen her before
to-night. Perhaps she corresponds with some fairy-queen or lady-love
born of your own prolific fancy. Is it not so? I can well conceive such
a thing possible, though I’m neither poet nor artist.”

Martin bowed to save himself from the necessity of a reply, for he was
deep in thought, and through the obscurity of the distant Past his
memory was striving to grope her way.

After a few moments the singer appeared again in the saloon.

“Did you say her name is Alice?” asked Martin Gray, as his eyes for the
second time rested upon her. “Alice—Alice what?”

“I have never heard—she is only known by that name. She does not need
so many cognomens as we less gifted individuals, and I suppose intends
that the world shall know without being told further, who is meant when
the singer _Alice_ is spoken of.”

“Dundas, I have seen that face before, you may depend upon it—will you
believe it? during all my residence in Europe I have sought with
desperate earnestness, but in vain, for a face just such as hers.”

“Pray wherefore? Are you not the sworn foe of all lady-loves save the
sweet goddess of painting?”

“Hush! love has had nothing to do with my search—pretty faces are to be
found every where; and though an artist, I am free to say the man who
marries a woman for her beauty is a poor fool. Did you ever see my
picture called Sunrise, painted seven or eight years ago?”

“Remember it? Why, my dear fellow, to be sure I do, and what a grand
lift it gave you before the ‘darling public;’ I would be stupid indeed
to forget that picture or its author. A copy of it has been the best
ornament of my room for years!”

“Well, perhaps you know—though of course you could not, for I never
spoke of my intention to another—but ever since that picture was
finished, I have determined to make it one of a series, by painting two
others, one of such innocent loveliness arrived at womanly perfection,
and the third was to be the image of crime, or beauty ruined; and the
three I hoped to offer a moral lesson to the world. Never till to-night
have I seen one worthy to take the second place in the series. I see her
now, and I have an impression that amounts almost to a conviction, that
this woman is that child.”

“She lives on Tenth street. If it is your wish we will visit her
to-night when the concert is finished, or to-morrow—perhaps, however,
you would prefer calling upon her alone?” said Frank Dundas with a
hearty co-operating look of voice and manner.

“By all means accompany me—we will go in the morning, and I will lay my
life on it, that singer’s name, when a child, was Alice Flynn!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

At eleven the following morning the lady was alone in her simply
furnished apartment, in a boarding-house on Tenth street. The beauty
which had dazzled all who beheld her on the previous night, did not owe
any thing to dress or to lamp-light, it bore the inquisitive glance of
the sunshine well.

Alice received her guests, the Hon. Frank Dundas, and the artist Martin
Gray, with a grace and ease of manner which delighted them. She spoke
with the enthusiasm of youth of the art in which she was so great a
proficient, and every word she uttered revealed a mind well cultivated,
refined, and innately noble.

A half hour passed speedily by, but the Honorable gave no sign of an
intention to depart. The artist, who had surveyed her as he would an
exquisite production of art, first rising to take his leave, said—“I
have a favor to urge, madam, it is a very great one; I am painting a
series of portraits, will you permit me to take yours as a
representation of Noonday?”

“It would be a very poor representative of the glory and majesty of the
theme you have chosen. Pardon me, I must decline an honor so unmerited.”

“Permit _me_ to judge that,” said Martin Gray earnestly. “It is an idea
I have long desired to carry out; I wished to make the picture an exact
likeness, and therefore sought a beauty that was perfect, so there
should be no work left for my imagination—now that the object of my
long search is found, do not deny me this great privilege. If you will
only accompany some of your friends to my studio, by showing to you the
Sunrise, I can better explain what it is I wish; or perhaps you will
suffer me either now or to-morrow to escort you thither.”

“To-morrow,” she answered, “I will come. Ere then you may, I trust, find
one elsewhere to represent your ideal.”

“That is utterly impossible. To-morrow, then, before the rooms are
filled with visiters, I shall look for you,” said Martin, with a
decidedly grateful accent and look, and the young men walked slowly
away.


                              CHAPTER III.

The Noonday was nearly finished. The city was ringing with the
surpassing beauty and the matchless voice of the young singer Alice. And
Martin Gray’s numerous and powerful friends every where declared that
the picture on which he worked so diligently, would add the greenest
leaf to his glory-wreath.

The artist loved his picture—loved he the original? No! he could have
worshiped the canvas on which that matchless face was impressed, but
when he looked on Alice, and listened to her beautiful words and the so
musical, delicious pronunciation, though he saw and heard with the most
enthusiastic admiration, it was still only that of the artist—the
_man’s_ heart was untouched.

He had never shown to her the “child-angel.” After his call upon
“Alice,” so strengthened was become Martin Gray’s persuasion that it was
_the_ Alice of bygone recollections, that he feared to hazard the
display of the portrait to her.

Let us see if his precaution was a wise one.

It was the last sitting. On the following day the lady was to depart
with a distinguished company of singers, on a long professional tour
through the Western and Southern cities. She had risen, for the hour was
passed, and stood looking for the last time on the beautiful works of
the artist, which adorned the room.

“Do you remember,” said Martin, approaching her, “I promised to show you
the portrait which I called the Sunrise, pardon me that I have not done
so before, this is the one.”

He raised his hand and turned to the light a small picture, which for
the few past days had looked upon the wall.

A broken exclamation of surprise, rather than the usual tribute of warm
praise, escaped the young creature.

“Did _you_ paint this?” she asked. “Pray tell me when and how?” she
added, recovering her self-possession immediately.

“I was a youth, very poor and needy, having some talent, and a great
deal of taste for sketching and painting. Very unfortunately, as I
thought, I was forced either to altogether resign this employment so
delightful to me, or to pursue it in order to supply myself with food
and clothes. To me it must not be a pastime—I could not hesitate
long—it became my profession. But I had, what to you may seem an
inconceivable dislike to painting faces merely as a workman paints
letters on a sign. I imagined that it was just as easy to win the smiles
of dame Fortune by picturing only the exceedingly beautiful, and giving
them emblematic names, and I was not altogether wrong. Passing one day
through the streets of this very city, I came upon a group of children
playing—one of that little band struck me as being nothing short of
perfection, I could think of nothing as I looked on her, but how
beautiful a sunrise!—how splendid will be the day that ensues! At my
request the child guided me to her home, it was a poor one, and therein
bore a great resemblance to my own. The mother consented that I should
take the child’s likeness, and—this is it, I never saw the little one
again. Afterward, as I have told you, for many years I traveled in
Europe, but though constantly on the look out, I never found a Noonday
worthy to follow a Sunrise like this child’s. I thank you, madam, that I
have in you, and in my own city, at last found what Europe could not
show me.”

“May I ask,” said the lady, with face slightly averted from the gaze of
Martin Gray, “may I ask the name of the girl?”

It was the question which of all others the artist most wished her to
propose, and he watched her closely, as in a careless tone that belied
his glance, he said—

“I remember it very well—it was Alice Flynn!”

“Thank you—it is indeed a lovely picture! You have amply deserved, sir,
all the honors that are, or can be awarded to you.”

Martin Gray attended her to the carriage that stood in waiting, but
Alice the songstress did not look upon him till she gave him her hand in
parting, when he saw her face, then, the artist knew he had not been
deceived; she was pale as death.

A few months afterward, came from a city far to the South, a letter to
our _hero_, its contents were a five hundred dollar note, and these
words:

“The child for whose education you so generously provided when both she
and yourself were poor and unknown, would fain convince you that with
increase of years, and fortune, and happiness, she has not
forgotten—that she is not ungrateful. All the good that has fallen to
her in this life she is glad and proud to trace directly to you, to that
one act of well-timed charity. May the God of Heaven for ever bless you.
The ‘Sunrise’ and the ‘Noonday’ of your life you have made unspeakably
glorious, may the night be without a cloud, and complete in its
magnificence!”

It required no shrewd _guesser_ to determine for Martin Gray the author
of this brief note. The cities of the South were at that very moment
vieing with each other in lauding the Northern songsters, and the queen
of beauty and of song, the lady “Alice”—and the artist rejoiced in her
brilliant success, and waited with impatience till he should see and
speak with her again.

In the years when honors thickly clustered around his brow, when Fortune
had laid many of her choicest gifts at his feet, there was yet one thing
wanting to complete his happiness.

There were few homes on earth so beautiful as his, and his wife and
children (for Martin in course of time became an old man,) were all that
the heart of man could desire. There were no lines betokening care, or a
fierce strife with the world, on the artist’s handsome face. He had
labored, and that constantly, it is true, but his had not been a
wearying toil, rather such as had been intensely satisfying. The visions
of beauty with which he mentally surrounded himself; had never been
frightened away by rough and harsh experience—to him even as in his
youth, “all things beautiful were what they seemed!”

Many enchanting, perfect works had gone forth from the rooms of Martin
Gray into the world, but there were two original ones for which he
rejected every offer, however extravagant. Copies and engravings of them
had been given to the public, but the canvas on which his fingers worked
while his eyes were gazing on the loveliest and most perfect specimens
of beauty to his mind conceivable, were precious beyond all price to
him.

The series had not been completed, for Martin Gray had never seen a
human being fearfully beautiful, and irrevocably fallen, whereby to
represent the “Night.” And as years passed on, his heart more earnestly
and continually hoped that he never might.

The great artist is dead. The passing visions of a beautiful fancy have
forever flitted away—“he sleeps the last sleep”—but his works live
after him. They live to speak to us of their creator—to tell us of his
goodness, of the deep unfathomed spring of human love within his heart.
He sleeps, but he has left a name that is cherished by his country, and
his genius is a source of national pride. How well is he remembered and
loved by those who knew him! And the students in his own glorious art,
with what enthusiasm and reverence do they cherish a memory of him!

During his widow’s life his studio remained as he had left it—it was a
Mecca to which for years pilgrims most devout resorted. To many that
artist’s rooms were sacred places; standing in them they breathed the
air of inspiration, and held sweet communings with the spirit of the
Beautiful.

Of the sublime lessons, and they were many, which spoke forth from those
walls, there was one that made the gazer shudder and turn pale. No one
gazing on the three faces which were separated from all other paintings
wrought by the same hand, could have resisted the conviction that the
artist had meant, ay, and that he had succeeded in conveying to the mind
of the gazer, a deep and awful moral lesson, for the “Night” was with
the “Sunrise” and the “Noonday!”

It was marvellous, it was dreadful to trace the great resemblance
between the likeness of the angelic little child, the incomparably
beautiful maiden, and the splendid, but fallen woman!

The same bright curling hair, the same deep, sapphire eyes, the fresh
bloom on the fair cheek, the graceful form—they were unmistakeable. But
oh! there was an expression on those features of the eldest woman, that
the innocent child and the guileless maiden could not have
interpreted—it was a bold, defiant look, that told it was a sorrowful
and an ever-to-be-lamented day that saw her come before the world to
wrestle for its honors—a very siren, but ah! how weak to strive against
its sinful allurements, its awful temptations.

They are one and the same, said every heart that gazed upon them.
Reader, _they were_! For the “Night” was also a _portrait_, and the last
work of Martin Gray!

Alas! alas! sweet Alice! splendid and courted Alice! wretched and ruined
Alice!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            THE MISANTHROPE.


                         BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.


                            Speak no more!
  Thou canst not comfort me. I’d rather hear
  The serpent’s hiss than speech from a false heart.
  There was a time thy voice had power to calm,
  And lay the fiend within me: Let me rest
  Lonely and cursed amid my wretchedness;
  I have ventured all and lost—’twas Destiny!
  There are dark spirits moving through the world,
  Casting a saddening influence over all
  Within their vortex: Such perchance is mine;
  With its wild, fitful struggles, and its gleams
  Now good, now evil, stronger with my strength
  The eclipse of Heaven’s brightness. Who can read
  The unknown language of the human heart,
  Though writ in fiery characters? Where the power
  To judge an erring creature, when the thoughts,
  Hidden even to himself, cannot be fathomed
  Save by Omniscience? In thy hollow hand
  Measure the waters of the depthless sea,
  Or with far-seeing vision through the expanse
  Of yonder firmament of Heaven, speak
  Of that which is to be, though yet unseen
  In its bright pages: Easier task for man
  Than judge his brother justly. To myself
  I am a mystery, why not to thee?
  The waters of my heart are deeper far
  Than plummet ever sounded. Oh, dark Future!
  Thy veil once lifted, will the power be given
  To note their secret depths. Why have I trusted
  But to be deceived? and not by man alone!
  Why have I ever loved, if but to love
  Has been to bind myself upon the wheel
  Of wretchedness? The punishment of gods!
  Why should I ask for sunshine on my heart,
  If with it, it must wither? ask thyself.
  Reading thine own heart’s secret, thou may’st learn
  How much I needed sympathy. My path,
  Now filled with rankest weeds, might have been pure
  Under thy smile and teaching. Now, too late!
  To wrestle with the world for an existence,
  Bowed, but not crushed by Fate, is of itself
  Enough to turn the heart to bitter gall,
  And make it curse, where, in its sunnier hours,
  It might have shed a blessing. Fortune’s smile,
  Unto the favored, clothes the earth with flowers;
  Its frown, alas! will make the brightest spot
  Black as a demon’s glance—its fruit as bitter
  As the Dead Sea’s—and like it naught but ashes!
                          The meanest thing,
  Infuriated in the hunter’s toils,
  Turns at the last with fierce and vengeful cry
  To battle with its foe; and some there are,
  Lost to all hope, in their own quiv’ring flesh
  Implant their poisonous venom, choosing thus
  To be themselves their executioners,
  Than fall upon the spear of might and wrong.
  Such do I fear myself: That I have been,
  In happier days, a lover of my kind—
  Heart as capacious, hand as firm and true,
  As ever graced the proudest in the land.
  I have been thus—ANSWER! what am I now?
  I have found coldness where I looked for love—
  Ingrates ’mid friends—the half averted head,
  With the neglectful glance, that seemed to say,
  Thou art not of us now! Half-way to meet
  And pay back scorn by scorn, keener than that
  The eye of man e’er threw upon me—thus
  Was I ever—thus will ever be:
  Though it heap coals of fire upon my head,
  And writhe me with its tortures, still my soul,
  Strong in its desperate fury, asks no boon
  But hate, to be repaid by darker hate—
  Failing in that, to die unwept, unsung.
  Madness is not my portion—I shall live!
  And from the chaplet round the brow of Fame
  Yet seize, perchance, a leaf. Love in my heart
  Is not yet all extinct: what it has been,
  Brighter and purer than the present hour,
  Has fled forever! Yet I cannot live
  Unloving and unloved. But hand in hand
  With my ambition, upward must it rise,
  Subordinate, yet true unto the truthful.
  Into the channels where deceit has crept—
  Into the hearts unfaithful—o’er the paths
  Of those who have repaid my love with guile,
  The blast of my sirocco hate shall sweep,
  Sudden to rise and swift to overthrow.
                  Such are my thoughts.
  Would they were written on my brow, that all
  Might read the tale untold. My story’s brief.
  ’Tis the twin passions—they have mastery,
  And sway my pulse of life.
                  There are brief moments
  When passion lieth sleeping, and my mind
  Reveling in its dominion, far removed
  From petty cares and struggles, soars aloft
  (Smiling amid its tortures, then forgotten,)
  Through the dark Future; with untiring wing,
  Restless as the young eaglet, seeks the sun
  Of light, and truth, and wisdom: or retiring
  Back to the brilliant, unforgotten past,
  Where every foot of earth contains a portion
  Of immortality, seeks out its mate,
  That may have wrestled with the storms of Time
  And won the victor’s crown: or, from the page
  Of mighty spirits, who have left a deep
  And never-failing well of giant thought,
  Feeding my flickering lamp of life, nor dream
  There is a world elsewhere, but in the visions
  The arch-enchanters have raised up for Time!
  God’s blessings on ye, noble-hearted men!
  How often to this saddened soul of mine
  Have ye brought strength and hope! Earth has not
  Jewels so rare, as those ye thickly scatter
  Upon the wind for your posterity.
                      To me your voices,
  In the still midnight, in the garish day,
  Have ever gently come: I trust in you—
  And ye are faithful: Rest forever with me.
  The prophet lore of Israel—the sound
  Of swelling harps by Grecian wizards strung—
  Promethean echoes!—the ever-burning page
  Of England’s brighter days—the undying song
  Of richest Shakspeare—and the noble strains
  Of master-minds drinking their inspiration
  From his pure fountain—all the mighty line—
  Sweeps by this distant shallow generation,
  The monody of Time!
                      Sweet friends!
  My heart henceforth must nestle in your loves,
  Or be forever lost. When forgotten,
  For a brief period, ’mid the worldly strife
  And emptiness of things, how sinks my spirit,
  Imprisoned ’mid the iron bars of forms.
  I have no hope of happiness in life,
  That is not bound up with the mighty past.
  The present is a Hell—the future, dark.
  Earth’s comforters are for the happy few.
  No denizen am I. I stand alone.
                    Alone, for judgment?
  Stormy and wild my passions—full of sins,
  Grievous and bitter. Who shall succor me?
  I looked to love—I found it hollowness.
  I looked to hate—I found it bitterness.
  Unto ambition—and it smiled upon me
  But to elude my grasp:—unto a future,
  My stubborn heart refuses its belief.
  I have not learned deceit, nor schooled myself
  To be a hypocrite. What I am, I am!
  The secret sin of man—Hypocrisy—
  Can never mate with me: Would that it could.
  Wer’t so, I would not suffer as I must.
  Could I but veil myself thus from men’s eyes,
  And seem the thing I am not, I might live
  Happier in this world’s love. But let that pass.
  I will not bend my knee, or lose one spark
  Of Heaven’s heritage—my manhood’s truth—
  But trample on the vampires of the world,
  Who fatten on the blood of noble things.
  What though the strife’s unequal? Let me fall,
  Strong in my ruined hopes; the shrine profaned
  Within the inner temple, is to me
  Dearer than all now opened to my soul;
  So let me die with prayer upon my lips,
  And like old Israel’s stricken one, pull down
  A glorious desolation in my fall!
              Wild are my thoughts, oh God!
  And wilder still the passionate heart that beats
  With a fallen angel’s power. There liveth not
  Among earth’s myriads, a more restless spirit,
  So formed for good or ill!
                        I have been gentle,
  Loving and kind to all. My curse has been
  To feel the unkind thought—to doubt all truth—
  Of woman and of man. Naught’s left me now
  But shaken confidence and cheated hopes,
  A long and drear account to be repaid
  With interest manifold. The restless fire
  That has preyed upon my brain, and blasted life—
  Destroyed my peace, and made me stern and strong
  As the avenging fury, must recoil
  Upon the heads of those whose path has been
  In triumph o’er my heart.
                        Shall I then spare?
  Who spared me where I trusted most? Whose hand
  Clasped firmly mine? Speak! whose kind word,
  When sorrow was upon me, came unto me,
  As it should come, in peace, and bid me hope?
  The butterflies that thronged around my steps,
  But to fly from me when the sun went down?
  I think of them, not to give blow for blow,
  But to tramp out their false hearts ’neath my heel.
  They left a sting behind—but yet I live!
  Ay! they shall feel I live.
                          Their loss was naught.
  The serpent’s tooth was nearer to my heart
  That tortured me to madness. I had loved;
  Thou knowest it. Call it love—idolatry!
  For it was my religion. All but that—
  Power, wealth and friends—I could have lost,
  Hadst thou but trustfully still kept thy vow,
  Calming the raging fever of my brain!
  Well! when these painted lizards crawled aside,
  And I clung, like the wretched mariner,
  Unto a straw, I deemed a plank, for life.
  Whose voice came o’er the deep and angry sea,
  Bidding me be of faith and hope? Speak, now!
  What! art thou voiceless? Nearer, bend thine ear!
  Nay, shudder not—there’s “method in my madness!”
  I would not shriek it out aloud, for fear
  The sound might create revelry in Hell!
                Not the one I loved.
  Not hers, whose every thought was mine—not hers,
  Who should have searched my deep, unquiet heart,
  And soothed it in its agony. Oh no!
  Too hard a task to ask this boon of her,
  Whose dearest thought seemed but to learn the way
  To help to crush—not save.
                        Oh God! forgive me!
  How much of sorrow, sin and shame, my life
  Would have been guiltless of, had but the one—
  The only one of earth—reached forth her hand,
  And with that hand, her heart, to lift me up
  And keep my manhood pure.
                            It was a dream!
  I only deemed it but her duty here;
  I may have asked too much! ’Tis over now.
  The sharpest strife is o’er, and I must be
  Sufficient to myself. The past can ne’er
  Recall itself to me, but with my tears,
  That have been tears of blood. Would that the fate
  Of the Olympus-stricken Niobe
  Had been mine also—that I had been marble.
  Oh charity! oh love! how much we need
  Thy softening power. Ye, whose hearts are bowed
  Before a great Creator; ye, whose thoughts
  Should be all purity—cannot ye feel
  The power given you to soothe and calm
  The troubled souls of weary-hearted men,
  Who wrestle, like the Titan, ’gainst the power
  Of the Omnipotent! Hurling ever back
  Against the thunderer’s bolts, an avalanche,
  Cleft from the cloud-topped hills of human pride,
  The settlings of a world of hate and scorn.
                          So fades my life,
  And with it, all the poetry of youth,
  The summer of existence—lost forever.
  As fleeting as the bubble, Reputation—
  As false as social ties—delusive all—
  The mirage of the world.
  In this, my deep communing with myself,
  New strength has come upon me. Oh, my soul!
  Gird on thy armor of Indifference,
  And forth into the world to toil and strive,
  Bearing thy secret ever present to thee,
  Lest weak Humanity should tamely yield
  Unto its earlier promptings: Up and work!
  There is a pathway left for Lucifer;
  All portals are not closed. Up, up, the time
  Is present now; fearless and bold press on;
  Stay not for counsel or impediment,
  But, like the Roman matron’s chariot,
  Pass recklessly upon thy destined course,
  Though Nature’s holiest ruin stops the way.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             ALICE VERNON.


                      BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.


    There is many a bright star gleaming,
      In memory’s distant sky,
    And their soft light is streaming
      On days long, long gone by.
    And often hover round me
      The loved and lost of yore,
    Ere cankering care had found me,
      Or life’s young dream was o’er!

    We see at early morning
      Soft hues steal o’er the sky,
    Its eastern arch adorning,
      To glad the raptured eye,
    But deem not their complexion,
      Like flowers in joyous spring,
    Is caused by the reflection
      From passing angel’s wing!

    E’en thus, our thoughts concealing.
      We watch o’er woman’s cheek
    The hues of beauty stealing,
      With hearts too full to speak,
    And little think those blushes,
      Like June’s young roses fair,
    Come when some angel brushes
      His loving pinions there!

    O, fair young ALICE VERNON,
      To thee fond memory turns,
    As loving sun-flowers turn on
      Their stems when noon-day burns!
    We roamed the woods together
      In life’s young break of day,
    Ere clouds and wintry weather
      Had shadowed o’er our way!

    Bright were thy braided tresses,
      As braided sunbeams are,
    And like a glimpse of Heaven
      The smile that thou didst wear.
    That smile still haunts my memory
      Like tale of fairy land,
    And oft in dreamy mood I see
      Thy form before me stand!

    Sweet, laughing ALICE VERNON,
      It seemeth strange to me,
    And yet they tell me Time hath laid
      His heavy hand on thee!
    I cannot deem thee faded,
      Though weary suns have set
    On weary, weary, weary days
      And years since last we met!

    I feel it now—the fairest things
      Are doomed to pass away,
    And yet my heart the firmest clings
      To those that first decay!
    And so, sweet ALICE VERNON,
      I turn to thee always,
    As flowers their stems will turn on
      To drink the sun’s bright rays!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                 SONG.


                    ON THE WIDE WORLD I AM SAILING.


    On the wide world I am sailing,
      My bark is on the tide;
    The lead and the line are trailing,
      And the spread sail reaches wide.

    With the ebb and flow I’m gliding,
      Adown the stream of Time;
    ’Mong breakers oft I am riding,
      And o’er the wrecks of crime.

    ’Mid troubled waves wild dashing,
      When storms and tempests come;
    ’Mid heaven and earth’s wild crashing,
      My life-boat is my home.

    Then out on the wild world roaming,
      In troubles or in sport;
    On the stream of Time wild foaming,
      My cold grave is my port!
                             AGNES.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             MAJOR ANSPACH.


                   FROM THE FRENCH OF MARC FOURNIER.


                      (_Concluded from page 286_)

[Illustration]


                              CHAPTER IV.

We should be seriously grieved if the expression _sage_ of which we made
use at the end of the preceding chapter should lead the too credulous
reader into a dangerous error.

The tendency of this edifying history is to prove, on the contrary, in
the most simple and incontrovertible manner, that however man may subdue
his passions and limit his enjoyments to the rigorous circle traced by
fortune, it is sufficient that these passions exist, and that he is
their slave, to disturb the most philosophical mind, and to excite
tempests that are the more violent because concentrated in a narrow
space. Of what import are the dimensions of the scene? A perturbation in
a glass of water is a tempest full of horror to the fly who ventures to
brave its dangers. Well, the worthy Major Anspach was this imprudent
insect.

One fine day in April, when the air was soft and balmy, the descendant
by the female line of the last Dukes of Lorraine, having brushed with
the greatest care his long brown overcoat and his black plush
pantaloons, sought, at his usual stately pace, his favorite
resting-place, and its perfumes. The frequenters of “Provence in
Miniature,” as that end of the garden is called. Children, nurses, young
men and girls, were so well acquainted with the “man of the bench,” that
no one was permitted to usurp the seat which so long possession had
consecrated to his use; what, then, was the painful surprise of the
major on approaching his domain to find it occupied!

His first impulse was to take the affair in the simplest form of view,
to go up and explain to the audacious invader of his privileges by what
a continuous occupation he, Major Anspach, Baron of Phalsbourg,
descended in the female line from the last Dukes of Lorraine, had
acquired the exclusive right to sit in that angle of the wall, between
the jasmine and the flowering roses.

But the necessity he would be under of divulging his birth was repugnant
to his pride; and as the individual occupying the bench—_his_
bench—was an old man like himself; long like himself, thin and unhappy
like himself, and who appeared, like himself, not to enjoy many of the
luxuries of life, and whose face, like his own, bore traces of long
suffering, and painful struggles with adversity; our worthy major
contented himself by throwing upon the unknown the glance of an old
lion—who on returning to his den and finding it occupied by another old
lion dying, passes on—so our major. “It assuredly is only a temporary
occupant,” said he mentally—“a walk to the end of the avenue and he
will have departed.”

But he deceived himself—he wandered from walk to walk, from avenue to
avenue, passing and repassing his “Paradise Lost,” shooting fiery
glances from his eyes upon the indiscreet possessor of the coveted seat;
but this last, took no notice of the menacing looks of our unhappy and
irritated old friend, and continued peacefully to sun himself whilst
gazing with melancholy eye upon the joyous circle of young girls who
danced up almost to his feet.

The sun neared the horizon—the shadows began to lengthen—and, at last,
twilight overspread the landscape; then the unknown arose, and making a
turn or two to relieve his limbs, slowly disappeared by the Rue St.
Honoré.

M. Anspach returned home in feverish exasperation.

On the following morning the sun again shone out beautifully, and our
friend the major proceeded to finish elaborately his toilet. He had
grown calm, and reason suggested that yesterday’s intruder could have no
motive, for two days in succession, to make him miserable; nevertheless
the old gentleman was unhappy—for at his age a day lost is something!

On arriving at the Tuileries, the first object to which he directed his
longing eyes was his bench, and there again was seated his perverse old
substitute. The major was astounded! He made a move as if to go and tear
the invader from a place of happiness of which he was so unjustly
deprived; but old age controls impulse, and the major felt that he could
not depart from those rules of politeness which belonged to his rank and
former position in society. It was a flagrant imposition it was true:
there was even a kind of impertinence in the conduct of the intruder,
who must have observed how much the major was chagrined by his adverse
possession the day before.

All this was plausible, but it would not justify a quarrel: and,
whatever the right of the major to the estate shaded with roses and
jasmine, its assertion at first view offered something so absurd, and
even ridiculous, that it hardly consorted with the dignity of the
descendant by the female side of the last Dukes of Lorraine.

These reflections, which presented themselves confusedly to the mind of
the major, as he wended his tedious way among the walks, did not however
calm his irritation. He wandered without object among the cross-alleys
of the garden, running against passengers, and even the trees and
benches, and chairs, like a dismasted ship at the mercy of winds and
waves.

It was really painful to see that long overcoat trotting about, going,
turning, and returning, its owner given up to a thousand diverse
emotions, in which were intermixed chagrin, unhappiness and regret.

As often as this changeful temper brought the old man opposite to his
lost Eden—that is to say, the bench and bower of roses where
imperturbably sat his rival, the major raised his eyes upward and heaved
so lamentable a sigh that the passers by, not knowing the cause, were
struck with wonder.

The next day Major Anspach returned, timid, nervous, breathless, and
filled with inquietude—there again was the _executioner of his
happiness_!

Once again in the morning M. Anspach dragged himself to the spot,
without strength and without hope—he could scarcely raise his longing
eyes from afar toward his terrestrial paradise, where, as usual, sat his
tormentor, like the implacable angel of destruction; that impassive
face, that form, as long, as thin, as venerable as the major’s own, but
infinitely more enduring in its cruelty—than the patience of its
victim!

This excitement could not last without seriously affecting the major’s
health; he took to his bed; a burning fever raged in his blood; weeks of
unconsciousness passed by, and a long convalescence only permitted him
to walk slowly along the Boulevard, with cane, and umbrella to shade him
from the influence of the raging Dog Star; he sighed deeply and
constantly. When his thoughts rested upon his past happiness, the wounds
opened afresh, and he would stand for a long time plunged in melancholy
reverie, interrupted only by nervous tremblings and audible groans.

When, at last, he was entirely able to resume his walks, instead of
revisiting the Tuileries, he studiously avoided them, and turning his
course by the Rue du Bac, passed on to the Luxembourg; he wished to
cheat his heart. But the effort was unsuccessful notwithstanding his
heroism—the habits of old age are tenacious because they are egotistic.
The Luxembourg presented no object that he loved, neither the people he
was accustomed to see, nor the palace of his kings, which at times he
had worshiped with stolen glances; neither the kindly memories of the
past, suggested by the sight of objects on the other side of the river.

At the end of some days, the major felt that he would infallibly return
to his bed if he continued to quarrel with his inclinations; but in the
apprehension of again meeting his adversary—whom he had come to regard
with a mixture of hatred and fear—he conceived a most extravagant
project. It is necessary, in order to admit for a moment that such an
idea could enter the mind of one with head as gray as that of the major,
to reflect that the infatuation of the old man, instead of relaxing
during the paroxysms of fever, and passing away with its weakness, only
became concentrated and fixed as an incurable mania.

Whatever it was, he resolved to put it in execution the very day of its
conception, if necessity forced him.


                               CHAPTER V.

“Palsambleu!” the old major exclaimed to himself, as he crossed the Pont
Royal; “I have an idea that things have changed a little in three months
in ‘Little Provence,’ and that my gentleman, tired of waiting to see my
chagrin, has vacated his place—or at least some new rascal has taken it
into his head to finish the other’s work; that is, to disgust me with
existence. Bah! that’s all nonsense, I shall find my little bench
smaller than ever—if however Fortune is still against me—then, mille
diables, I will show him that I am a Phalsbourg—morbleu!—a descendant
of the Lorraines, corbleu!—a gray musqueteer!—bombs and cannon!—and
we will see whether this fellow will keep his ground. It is indifferent
to me whether I die by the stroke of a sabre, or of a little bench
usurped. By the bye! how long is it since my last duel? Let me see!
forty two years! Humph! that’s rather a long interval for the honor of
Phalsbourg. But that duel had great results, and cost me dear—one
hundred thousand crowns! I would like to know whether my money went to
the bottom of the sea with that Palissandre—whom may Heaven confound!
When I think that we endeavored to cut each other’s throats for that
little sinner Guimard!—a little fool! who had no other merit, on my
conscience, but that she was her mother’s daughter—another adventuress
who so completely turned inside out the pockets of the infatuated and
unfortunate Soubise.”

Major Anspach hummed a tune as he lounged along with a most gallant air
in the long brown _scabbard_ which he called his overcoat, and which
gave something so extravagant to his appearance, that the gate-keeper at
the Tuileries had some remorse for letting him pass: nevertheless, the
major, when he had entered the orangery, resumed his gravity and
dignified deportment; besides, he stretched out his neck and held his
head so proudly, that his length was increased beyond all conception,
giving one an idea of the sword of a Swiss guard perambulating the
garden.

The promenade offered that day every imaginable splendor—the sunlight
danced upon the liquid surface of the fountains, and its red rays
piercing the interstices of the foliage, bathed the atmosphere in
glittering vapor—the rays of warm light striking upon the marble
statues, started them as it were into being, while Reverie, with bended
head, seemed to throw its somniferous influence over flowery meads and
shaded walks—and Zephyr, escorted by voluptuous Idleness, sought each
wooded recess like a nymph of Délos under the sacred laurel.

We dare not affirm that our ex-musqueteer sensibly enjoyed the delights
of the garden, thus illumined by the morning sun as we have described
them, for it is the opinion of philosophers that a less pleasure is
swallowed up in a greater one—the little bench, its roses and jasmine,
alone entered his thoughts, and at that moment for it alone he lived.
His eyes on approaching it were directed timidly toward the little seat,
and who can describe the bounding pulsation of his heart on perceiving
it vacant! And besides, how much was it embellished since he last beheld
it! the roses had climbed up and mingled with the jasmine, and formed a
delicious bower of perfume and beauty, almost concealing the little
bench in its deep recesses.

A hundred thousand pounds weight, and something more, slid from the
heart of the dear old major, and enabled him for the first time in three
months to breathe freely. His emotion was so great that his limbs
tottered, and he was obliged to cling to an orange tree for
support—tears sprang to his eyes—he tried to utter some words to
himself that he might hear his own voice, as if he doubted the evidence
of his senses—but he could only bring forth inarticulate sounds whilst
his chest heaved convulsively. He fell into a reverie. “The storm that
lowered on his house” was about to be dissipated, and he had now only to
combat the unhappy daughter of Memory—talon-fingered Regret!

In celebrating thus in thought his returning happiness Major Anspach
resumed his march, and walked along with eyes cast down, as if overcome
with his own pleasant thoughts, when he raised them he was within two
feet of his Mecca. He suddenly bounded backward as if an adder had stung
him, and then stood breathing wildly and with glassy stare—his rival
was there!

The reader would be wrong to conclude that the ill opinion formed in the
mind of Major Anspach regarding the unknown was a just one. The face of
the old man was wrinkled like that of an old soldier of Italy, as
painted by M. Charlet, giving evidence of years of hardship spent in the
service of his country—and if his countenance was somewhat austere,
that severity in his looks was softened by something of amiability and
sweetness.

It was easy to perceive that he had suffered much and long. His person
partook of the military rigidity of his countenance, the blue coat he
wore over a white waistcoat buttoning to the throat, with nankeen
pantaloons, and buckled shoes, indicated a fashion long gone by, and its
well-brushed surface, though worn, presented to the eye a tout ensemble
which claimed the respect of the stranger. In a word, there existed
between the unknown and the major so many points of resemblance, that it
required the blind aversion which had taken possession of the latter to
prevent a feeling of the warmest sympathy springing up between him and
his antagonist: but far from perceiving these symptoms of a poverty
noble and proud in his rival, and which should have inclined him to
stretch out the arms of a brother rather than those of an enemy, the
descendant of the Phalsbourgs, blinded with rage, could scarce recover
himself sufficiently to salute the stranger with a touch of his beaver
of very sinister augury.

The unknown returned the salutation with much urbanity and
self-possession.

M. Anspach, this duty to politeness performed, mechanically as it were,
drew his hat down over his eyes and made a step forward.

At this gesture his rival smiled, and looked around him as if to make
his visiter comprehend that it was impossible from the narrowness of his
quarters to offer him hospitality.

M. Anspach observing this pantomime, smiled also, but it was a bitter
smile. He made increditable efforts to recover his voice.

“I believe I see in you a lover of the Tuileries,” observed he of the
blue coat, bowing gracefully, “and that you have come, like myself, to
enjoy here the fine weather?”

“It is three months since I have enjoyed it, sir,” the choking major
answered, rolling his eyes.

“True—I have remarked your absence.”

“Ah!” growled M. Anspach de Phalsbourg.

That “_ah!_” was a little fiendish.

“You appear to suffer,” rejoined he of the blue coat, “and are
fatigued,” he added, without offering, however, to yield his seat.

“You are right,” replied the major, all at once recovering the use of
his epiglottis. “Yes, sir! I _am_ fatigued—no one was ever more
fatigued.”

The major made a pause as if gathering himself up for an encounter—then
stepping up boldly under the very nose of his adversary, continued:

“Hear me, my very _dear_ sir. I have not the honor to know you, but I
take you to be an honorable man; besides, your exterior pleases me; you
suit me well, and I should be pleased if you will permit me the honor of
cutting your throat.”

The blue coat drew back in astonishment, mingled with fright; he began
to think he had to deal with an insane person, but the major,
interpreting the movement, continued—

“Do not judge the horse by his harness”—assuming at the same time a
port full of dignity and well-bred self-possession. “You will have in me
an antagonist not unworthy of the sword of a man of honor—and if
reasons altogether personal did not at present oblige me to ask as a
favor the permission to conceal my name, you would learn that I was of a
blood which has never dishonored the veins through which it ran.”

“Then, sir,” replied the unknown, in a tone almost serious, “I am
delighted by the accident, whatsoever it may be, that brings us
together; for the name I bear, though I boast not of it, is one of the
most esteemed in Angoumois.”

“This meeting is delightful!” chimed in the major.

“Nevertheless,” resumed our blue coat, rising as he spoke—“perhaps you
will do me the pleasure to explain to me to what unexpected cause I owe
the honor of your challenge?”

“You shall have it in few words. You have not formally insulted me, I
acknowledge, but you have nearly killed me—and I plainly perceive from
the course you have taken that you will eventually accomplish it. I
prefer to anticipate my end.”

The unknown reseated himself; for the idea returned that he was
conversing with a lunatic. But this time the major, appearing to
comprehend most perfectly the suspicions of his enemy, shrugged his
shoulders and smiled in disdain, as he said—

“I hoped that your age, sir, would have prevented any precipitate
judgment concerning my motives; but I see that I was mistaken, for you
appear to partake of that vulgar prejudice which puts beyond the pale of
a just opinion all that apparently outrages the conventionalities of
social life. Be pleased, then, to excuse the strangeness of my address,
and I dare hope that you will reconsider your opinion, when you know the
just grounds I have to seek the honor of a meeting with you.”

The composed and self-possessed manner with which these last words were
spoken, struck the unknown, and he again stood up, while the major,
throwing a rapid glance over the blue coat, continued—

“I believe, sir, you are in a condition to feel some sympathy for those
whom fortune has not deigned to favor. I can, then, without a blush
acknowledge to you that I am one of her victims. Happily, I have not
received in the New World, where I passed many years, severe lessons of
wisdom and moderation without profiting somewhat by them. I have been
twice entirely ruined, and yet am consoled by my philosophy. Returning
from America, I saw myself neglected—even repulsed—by my royal
masters, to whom I had consecrated the best years of my life—a
king—princes who have not deigned to extend the hand of friendship to
an old and faithful servant, and who let him grow old in indigence and
want. Well, I am still resigned, and for more than ten years have lived
without complaint, in a state bordering on the extremest misery. But you
know, sir, that man’s strength is not inexhaustible—there is a point
beyond endurance—it is to that point you, sir, have brought me—”

“I, sir? I?”

“You will see, sir. The necessity I was under to contract my desires has
conducted me, little by little, to a modesty of enjoyment which will
astonish you. Our desires increase with fortune; but a wise man has
strength of mind enough to diminish them in inverse ratio to his
misfortunes. Mine, sir, are concentrated upon an object so humble that I
might well believe it beyond the caprice of destiny. The object of which
I speak is the little bench where you are seated—where, since the 17th
of April, you, sir, have come to seat yourself each day, a little
earlier than it was my custom to come out to rest myself. For two years
I have taken a fancy to this spot in the garden. I love that bench—that
shade—those flowers. In summer I come here in the sweet morning hour,
peacefully to enjoy the perfume of these honeysuckles. In autumn—in
winter—the smallest ray of sunshine upon the corner of the garden wall
reflects its heat upon that narrow bench, making it a delightful
resting-place for the worn out frame of an old man. What shall I say?
This sweet resort obtained soon such an empire over me, that I had but
one end—but one desire to gratify—the least sunshine upon the roofs
which my garret overlooks—the least smile of heaven had for me, a poor
old man, more intoxicating charms than ever glance of a mistress to the
most devoted lover. It was a real passion—a love with all its joys and
delicious griefs—a cloudy or a rainy day threw me in despair, and I
felt all the torments of absence from the thing I loved—but was the
morrow beautiful, I made the most brilliant toilet I could imagine, and
ran to my little bench, convinced that I should find its pleasures
increased.

“Is it necessary to tell you now, sir, that since the 17th of April you
have driven me from my paradise, and that you have become my
executioner!

“I have but little more to say but that when I was a gray musqueteer I
would have killed any one who raised his eyes toward my mistress; you,
sir, have done more than raise your eyes toward her—you have robbed me
of her—you have taken my little bench. It is more than an insult. It
is, believe me, a murder—an assassination. Then, sir, give me again
that seat; assure me on your honor that you will respect my right in
future, or name your place and weapons.”

The unknown listened to the major with increasing interest; the impress
of a thousand contrary feelings flitted by turns across his countenance,
and an observer might have remarked at times that lively combats were
going on within.

When M. Anspach ceased to speak, waiting the answer of our blue coat,
the latter walked backward and forward for some time in silence, a prey
to a visible sorrow, which the major could not but respect.

At length he stopped, and fixing upon the major a grave and melancholy
look, replied—

“I am an old soldier, and the alternative you offer is not repugnant to
me. I, too, for three months have had the habit of resorting to this
sweet spot, and to it I have consecrated the last enjoyments of a life
without happiness.

“You speak of your misfortunes,” added he, with a serious smile; “mine
do not cede to them in number or severity: I was noble and wealthy
before the Revolution, but on my return, after a long absence, I found
France republican, and I too became a republican from love to her. My
nobility was opposed to public opinion—I renounced it. My wealth
appeared to insult the public poverty—I offered my entire fortune upon
the altar of my country. The enemy menaced our frontiers—I hastened to
join the phalanx under Moreau. I gave my all to France—my name, my
blood, my fortune. But Bonaparte appeared, and nothing remained for me
to offer to the expiring Republic but my tears and my despair. Advances
were made to me—I rejected them. They would have restored my fortune
and my rank—I preferred my honor and my misery—and it was only in
1815, when France made a last effort, that I prepared to die at
Waterloo. Alas! much better would it have been to have died there!
Prisoner, and designedly overlooked in the exchanges, (for you are aware
that it could not be forgiven to a count to have fought for France,) I
was banished to the end of Russia, dragged to Tobolsk, and abandoned
there without resources to all the horrors of nakedness and hunger.

“How I escaped from those deserts would not interest you. Heaven has
permitted me to revisit France, and here I am a mark for the resentments
of the throne; regarded as a traitor to the monarchy, and contemned by
those who to-day might aid me.”

The old man on concluding these words slowly crossed his arms upon his
breast, his head drooped, as if memory remounted the lapse of years of
misfortune, and without apparent consciousness of the presence of his
interlocutor.

The major, let us say it to his praise, had equally lost sight of the
subject of their quarrel. Touched by this recital, which awakened in his
heart sensibilities somewhat moss-grown by age, he approached the
unknown, and placing his hand upon his arm, said in a voice filled with
emotion—

“Providence has had its secret designs, my dear count, (for I perceive
you bear that title,) in permitting two unfortunates such as we are to
cross each other’s path; and if I experience something soothing to my
pain in listening to the recital of your sorrows, it is in thinking that
you have met the only person in the world capable of sympathizing with
you as you deserve.”

“You forget, my dear sir,” replied the blue coat, smiling blandly, “that
we have to cut each other’s throats to-morrow.”

The major hung his head in confusion.

“Hear me,” said the old soldier of the Republic. “I do not really think
that this affair is important enough to fight about. Confess, besides,
that such pastime does not become our age. Ah! there was a time I did
not say so! In coming from the theatre, I as willingly went to fight at
the Porte Maillôt as to laugh at the Café Procope. Sir, would you
believe it, he who speaks to you has fought and been wounded, and
afterward voyaged six thousand miles to seek his antagonist, and all
because one evening Mademoiselle Guimard, the younger, let her
handkerchief fall!”

“What do I hear!” exclaimed Major Anspach, making a start of surprise,
“you said—you—ah! mon Dieu!”

“What do I see! you tremble—you become pale—do you know any thing of
that unhappy affair? Ah! sir, if it is true that you do, render me a
service that I will never forget—tell me what has become of Major
Anspach?—but now I think of it, you said you had been a gray musqueteer
under the Comte D’Artois—perhaps you have known the major—you
certainly must have been acquainted with him—ah! speak. I only possess
six hundred francs of revenue, but I would give it all only to see the
major once more before I die.”

“You are then the Chevalier De Palissandre?” murmured the grand-nephew
of the Guises by the female line, who had fallen upon the little bench
from a faintness he in vain endeavored to overcome.

“I inherited the title of count on the death of my two brothers, but
you, sir—may I believe—my eyes do not deceive me!—those features! Oh,
speak once more—you are—”

“Yes, count. I am—I am your ancient rival—”

“Oh, joy! Heaven is just—it would not let me perish without seeing him
once more. Oh! if you knew, my dear baron, how often since your
departure from France—your flight I may call it—I have cursed the
ill-fortune which did not allow me to arrive in London in time to join
you—I was acquainted with the rascality of your banker, and not wishing
to entrust to his hands the fortune which you had left in your carriage,
I hastened after you to inform you of it—to advise you of your danger
of loss through him in time to remedy it. Missing you there, I did not
feel myself relieved of the obligation to seek you. I followed you to
the Havana—I pursued your traces, but meeting contrary winds and
tempests, the vessel in which I embarked failed to overtake you, and I
was obliged to renounce the dearest object of my life.”

“Well, chevalier—that is to say, sir count—pardon me the neglect. Take
the hand I offer you, and let us bless the good fortune which permits us
to meet in our unhappy circumstances, in which we both have need of the
friendly offices of the other.”

“What the devil do you say, D’Anspach?” cried the count, crushing in his
own the offered hand of the major. “What do you say about unhappy
circumstances? There are none hereafter for you, my friend—you are
rich, devilish rich—I believe, devil take me! that you are a monstrous
millionaire!”

The old major fixed his eye on De Palissandre in stupid astonishment.

“Notwithstanding your surprise, it is nevertheless true,” continued the
count, “for despairing of ever seeing you again, I took the only course
which remained, which was to wait until you should yourself return to
seek your 300,000 francs. But not wishing to resemble the bad servant in
the parable who buried his talent in the earth, and not believing your
money safe in France, I returned to London, placed your little fortune
in the hands of one of my friends connected with the East Company—and
remember, major, that forty years have passed away since that! May I go
to the devil, if I can pretend to tell you what the honorable baronet
has done to multiply your francs; but his son, who succeeded him in
business fifteen years ago, and with whom I have corresponded since my
return from Russia, wrote me the other day that the funds invested in
the house of Ashburton & Co. amounted to nearly eight hundred thousand
pounds sterling—twenty millions of francs! It seems like a fairy tale!”

We will not attempt to paint the expression upon the face of Major
Anspach. He remained for a long time without speech or color—his eyes
shut—like a man half-killed by some overwhelming blow, and who seems
bewildered in his mind—at length his features regained their natural
appearance, his cheeks their color; he drew a long sigh, opened his
eyes, and saw before him M. de Palissandre anxiously watching the effect
of the crisis—stretched out his arms and threw them around the neck of
his old friend; shedding torrents of tears.

When the first effervescence of feeling was a little subdued, the major
seized the hand of the count anew. “Hear me, Palissandre—if you do not
promise me to submit yourself without the slightest remark to my wishes,
I take to witness my great grand-aunt, who was cousin in the eighth
degree removed of Monsieur de Guise le Balafré, that I will go to
London, receive my millions, and on my return will throw them into the
sea. Ma foi! it will only be the second fortune old ocean owes to me.”

“Sarpejeu! speak then!”

“Well, then, we will live together—be happy—be rich together—and
_both shall have new suits of clothes_!—and when we have lived long
enough, I hope Heaven will put an end to us both at the same time. I
shall give immediate orders for the purchase, at whatever cost, of the
lands of De Phalbourg and our Castle de Palissandre. Then we shall have
two fine estates, and you will see what lots of nephews and nieces, who
do not know us to-day, will spring out of the earth as it were,
expressly to continue the rank and blood of the two noble houses. We
shall not want for heirs, depend upon it!”

The two friends again embraced each other—the treaty was concluded.

Then the count and baron, with arms interlaced, marched from the
Tuileries with a step which would have done honor to two voltigeurs of
Louis Quinze—

And the little seat?

We feel ashamed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth. Yes, dear lady reader, Major Anspach in departing forgot to
salute even with a parting glance that little embowered seat, perfumed
with jasmine and rose—the object of so much tender regard, and for
which a single hour ago he was willing to risk cutting throats with a
stranger. Alas! Mademoiselle, love will not last forever even at sixty
years! Nevertheless, it must be confessed the little bench, like your
sex, soon obtained consolation.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            THE BROKEN REED.


                            BY S. S. HORNOR.


    Many a maiden, if she knew
      The sorrows of an injured wife,
    Would robe herself in sable hue
      When entering on married life.

    Oh, man! be careful how you deal
      With one so tender and so pure;
    Remember that a wife can feel
      A wound for which there is no cure.

    Like to the fond, confiding dove,
      Howe’er so gay and blithe before,
    Repel the promptings of her love,
      Her spirits sink to rise no more.

    Teach her but that she loves in vain
      And life becomes a worthless part;
    The streams of love rush back again
      And choke the fountains of the heart.

    Though she may flourish for awhile,
      The counterfeit of what she’s been.
    The secret sadness of her smile
      Tells, but too plainly, death’s within.

    ’Twere better she were never born
      Than feel the shaft of anger dealt;
    The deep contempt, the bitter scorn,
      That many a suff’ring wife has felt.

    Remember you’re her only stay;
      And every slight and insult shown
    Will fester unto deep decay,
      Until the grave shall claim its own.

    Then, with affection trifle not,
      Nor smite the breast you should protect,
    Lest mem’ry sad should haunt the spot,
      Where lies the victim of neglect.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             SELF-DEVOTION.


                               BY GIFTIE.


Upon the margin of a blue stream that ran singing through a lonely
valley among the green hills of New England, there stood in the olden
time, a low cottage, built of logs, and half covered with woodbine and
wild honeysuckle. The small patch of Indian corn near it hardly deserved
the name of a garden, and the dense forests that surrounded it, showed
that as yet civilization had penetrated but little way into the wilds of
the new world. Yet the variety of wild flowers which, transplanted from
their native glades, blossomed around the low doorway, and the air of
neatness that pervaded the rude establishment, proved a degree of
refinement greater than was usual among the Indian tribes.

It was now the hour of twilight, and not a sound was heard save the low
murmuring of the wind as it swept through the dark recesses, and swayed
the tangled branches of the mighty forest-trees. In one of the two small
rooms into which the cottage was divided, an aged Indian and his squaw
were seated beside a rude couch, where lay the form of a dying woman.
Her delicate complexion and light hair betrayed her English origin, and
she was still young, and had once been beautiful, though her face bore
the traces of a wo more heavy than the weight of years. Yet peace was
there, and the smile of calm resignation which rested upon her features,
told that not in vain had been the sorrow which had bowed her to the
grave. At the foot of the couch stood a missionary—one of those holy
men whose lives of toil and suffering were passed in the vain endeavor
to counteract the effects of the vices introduced among the Indians by
their foreign oppressors.

The chieftain lifted his head from his breast and said, in a low tone,
“She is passing away. The fair flower we would have cherished upon our
hearts is withered.”

At these words the dying woman opened her eyes, and a smile broke over
her pale face as she said, “Mourn not for me, kind father; and thou,
tender mother, weep no more. Ye would not keep a bird from its native
sky, that its song might cheer you. Even like a bird my spirit would
spread its wings that it may fly away and be at rest.”

The Indian mother raised her eyes wildly and wrung her hands as she
gazed on her adopted child. Then swaying her body to and fro, she
murmured in the half singing half wailing tones of an Indian lament,
“Will not our hut be very desolate, my bird, when thy song is hushed;
and who will bring us light like the light of thy starry eyes? Shall we
not miss thy voice at eventide when we kneel to the God thou hast taught
us to worship? Leave us not—leave us not, for our life goes with thee
to the grave!”

The missionary raised his hands to heaven, and a lofty faith spoke in
his voice, as he said, “Mourn ye not, nor weep. The exile departeth for
her native land, the wanderer for her father’s house. A light is fading
from your path, but another star shall soon be added to the Redeemer’s
crown. The flower ye would have cherished hath drooped amid these alien
skies, but it shall bloom in fresher beauty in the Paradise above.”

As he finished speaking, the dying lady placed in his hands a
manuscript, bidding him read it when she was dead; and then, with one
farewell look of love on the kind faces that surrounded her, she closed
her eyes wearily, and crossing her small white hands upon her breast,
she composed herself as if to sleep. There was a long silence, broken
only by the low wailing of the Indian woman, as she murmured in an under
tone, “The way is long, the way is dark; oh, bird of the bright eye,
thou soarest out of sight! who shall tell us the path to the spirit-land
when thy singing voice is hushed? Wo for us! wo, wo—for the way is
dark!” Gradually these low moans seemed to reach the ear that was fast
closing to earthly sounds. The lips of the dying moved, as if in a vain
effort to speak, and at length, in faint tones, she whispered, “They
shall be gathered out of every kindred and tribe and nation, and there
shall be one fold and one Shepherd. I know—I know that my Redeemer
liveth.” A brilliant smile lighted her whole face with an expression of
triumph, as she uttered these words of hope, and even in speaking them,
the spirit fled.

That evening the missionary opened the manuscript. It read as follows:

“You have been kind to me, and have respected the sacred silence of the
sorrow which has worn out my life. There are moments when every heart
yearns for sympathy, and the long closed fountains of the soul flow
again. Such a mood is on me now, and therefore I open to you this
long-sealed heart.

“Of my childhood I will say little, save that it passed like a fairy
revel. Heiress of unbounded wealth, and last of a long-descended and
honorable family, I was loved with a lavish and doating fondness, until
a sudden and terrible disease, that cut down my parents in the pride and
glory of their days, left me an orphan. From that grief, which, for a
time, was so violent as to threaten the destruction of life and reason,
I never fully recovered. Even when change of scene, the progress of
time, and the natural elasticity of youth had so far changed me, that I
appeared to have forgotten my sorrow, there lay ever upon my heart the
shadow of the tomb. After a time I was sent to reside with my aunt, at
the north of England. She was waiting in the castle gate to receive me
when I arrived there, and beside her rode her only son—my Cousin
Gerald.

“How slight a thing may seal the whole future of our lives. We greet
with a careless word and a momentary glance those whose fate is to color
our own forever, and then pass on unthinking that henceforth our destiny
is fixed. And yet the first time I saw him his image was stamped on my
heart. Sorrow, change, wrong, despair have passed over it—but that
image is there still. As I write, the curtain of the past seems drawn
back, and again I greet thee, Gerald Bellamont. Again I meet the gaze of
those flashing eyes—I hear the low, rich music of thy voice, and I feel
the floods of deep, unquenchable love, rising in my soul for thee—thou
loved so vainly.

“Days, weeks and months passed on, and we spoke not of love, perchance
knew not that the fatal spell was upon us. But at last the dream was
broken—the hours of peaceful affection passed away. Gerald left us for
a tour on the Continent, and with the struggle of that first parting
came the knowledge of all that we were to each other—came the tumult,
the trembling, the fearfulness of love.

“At first the tedious hours were relieved by frequent letters from him,
so full of tender affection, and withal so overflowing with youthful
enjoyment of the new scenes around him, that even my fond heart was
content to have him absent. Then letters came more seldom—then ceased
altogether—and then, in the midst of our wonder and anxiety, he
appeared suddenly in his old home; but so changed from the merry-hearted
boy to the reserved, thought-stricken man, that my timid nature was
abashed, and I dared not question him concerning the change which I
_felt_ had come over his inmost being.

“We were wedded; and if I detected, even amid the bridal festivities, a
shade of sadness on my husband’s brow, I strove to console myself with
the hope that now he was mine—mine forever; the love so deep, so
self-sacrificing, which I would every moment lavish upon him, could not
but chase away the bitter memories which oppressed him. Residing on my
own estate near London, our house was the resort of the noble and the
gay; and amid the exciting whirl of this new life, little time was left
for anxious thought. I entered into the pleasures which surrounded me
with the zest of a young and joyous heart; and for a few months life was
filled with sunshine—and the hours flew swiftly away; ah! why came so
soon that night of agony on which there dawned no morrow.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“I was dressed at last—ready for the fancy ball. My costume, which had
been selected by Lord Bellamont, had been pronounced perfect by my
maids, and even my fastidious taste could suggest no improvement. After
one parting glance of satisfaction at the mirror which reflected my
brilliant figure, I descended to the library, where I knew Gerald waited
for me, expecting to be welcomed with that smile of admiration which
woman so highly prizes from the lips of love. To my surprise, Gerald did
not turn at my entrance; and as I approached the window where he sat, I
found him gazing at a small picture, with which he was so intently
occupied as to be unconscious of my presence. It was a full-length
female figure. She stood with one arm thrown across a lyre, and one
raised to heaven. A long, dark curl had strayed from her bandeau of
pearls and rested on her neck, and the hair was parted back smoothly
from her high brow. The face was passing beautiful, with a fire in the
dark eyes, and on the small mouth, an air of lofty determination which
might have become a priestess at the altar of sacrifice. Beneath was
written—Leonore St. Clair.

“As I stood behind him, hesitating how to break his revery, Gerald
started up suddenly, and tearing the picture to pieces, threw the
fragments out of the window, where the night wind scattered them far and
wide. He watched them with a look made up of scorn and grief, and was
turning away with a sigh, when he first saw me standing near him. A deep
flush passed over his face, and he looked earnestly, almost sternly at
me for a few moments. I was as much confused as himself, though I scarce
knew why, but I had sufficient command of myself to ask some question
about the picture—I know not what. Folding me in his arms, he kissed me
again and again before he answered. ‘I will tell you about it some
time—do not ask me now. I thought it destroyed long ago, until by
accident I found it to-night. It is a relic of something I must
forget—I would gladly forget;’ and he pressed me passionately to his
heart, with words of deep tenderness. Was I mad, was I blind, that even
then no foreboding whisper told my heart its doom? Yet at that moment I
thought only that he was unhappy; and when I saw him smile again, the
suspicion fled, that for a moment had disturbed me, and, gayest of the
gay, proudest of the proud, I mingled with the throng which filled the
saloons of Lady Gordon.

“Late in the evening, as leaning on the arm of Lord ——, I wandered
from room to room, seeking refuge from the crowd and the oppressive
heat, we found our way into the library, where but few had collected. As
we entered, we were greeted by a strain of music so sweet and thrilling,
that I involuntarily pressed forward to listen. On a sofa near us the
musician was seated. One arm, exquisitely moulded, and white as snow,
was thrown across a harp, as she drew from the strings a few simple
notes. She was dressed in white satin, which was not more purely
beautiful than her complexion, and was without ornament, save a few
pearls that gleamed among the braids of her raven hair, and on her bosom
she wore a single white rose—its leaves were withered. The instant I
saw her, I had a dim recollection of having seen that face before, and
while I was striving to recall the time and place, she commenced
singing. Never heard I music like the melody she uttered. It might have
been thought the voice of an angel chanting the songs of heaven; but,
alas! though the voice was of heaven, the song was earthly. She sang of
love—not the happy love of that better land, but sad, broken-hearted,
such as woman’s hath too often been—utterly vain and hopeless.

        ‘I love thee not—and yet thy name,
          A word, a thought of thee,
        Can flush my cheek and thrill my frame,
          Almost to agony.

        ‘And rarely do I think of thee,
          Save at some lonely hour,
        When memories of the buried past
          Come over me with power.

        ‘Or when upon the moonlit air,
          I hear the sound of song,
        Or a low music, like thy voice,
          Borne on the wind along,

        ‘Touches some fragment of the chord
          That lies all shattered now,
        Stirring its thrilling tones to tell,
          Of thy forgotten vow.’

“At this moment I was startled by a deep sigh near me, and looking up,
saw Gerald standing in the deep shadow of the window recess. He was
gazing on the singer, who sat directly before him. The lady heard the
sigh—their eyes met, and the glance which flashed from them, spoke
volumes. For a moment she seemed confused and agitated, then with a look
of proud anguish, and a voice that faltered not in its clear, low tones,
she finished the song.

        ‘Farewell—farewell! My dearest hope
          Is that we ne’er may meet;
        That passing years may teach my heart
          To scorn thee, and forget.’

“Her lips quivered, and her pale cheek became crimson as she concluded,
and I fancied tears trembled in the depths of her dark, radiant eyes.
She turned her face toward Gerald, and for a moment they continued
gazing on each other with a look full of sorrowful love, of agony and
despair. It was not till she had left the room that I found strength to
speak. ‘Who is she?’ I asked. The answer told me the whole story. It was
Leonore St. Clair.

“When and how he had met her I knew and thought not. It was enough to
know that she loved him—that his whole soul was given to her, and that
I—oh God! I was unbeloved. My brain seemed to burn, and my heart ceased
to beat—and yet I did not faint. There is a fearful strength in woman’s
heart, of which she is unconscious till the hour of her uttermost agony.
Turning from the brilliant scene, I passed through the window into the
garden. There was one walk which had been left unlighted, and thither my
steps were bent. It led to a small temple, which had been erected to
Cupid, and a lamp that hung over the altar, showed the figure of the
sleeping boy; but the recesses of the temple were in deep shadow. I
entered, and threw myself on a seat in the darkest corner. Was it
_chance_, or was it ordered by the mysterious Providence which revealed
to me the fearful secret that was to blight my happiness forever?

“As I lay there striving to still the tumult of my thoughts, footsteps
approached, and Leonore St. Clair entered, followed by my husband. She
cast a hurried glance around, but saw me not, and then turning to him,
said, haughtily, ‘Leave me, rash man. Is it not enough that you once
cold and cruelly deceived me, but must you thus force yourself into my
presence, and revive the memory of feelings I deemed long since dead.
Leave me—I command you!’ and she motioned him away with an impatient
gesture. I leaned forward to hear the reply. ‘Say not so, Leonore. Hear
me—nay, turn not away, for you must hear me. Long ere I knew you I was
betrothed to another. She was gentle and beautiful; oh, dearest, can you
blame me that I shrunk from breaking her kind and faithful heart. Would
you have taken my hand if it were stained with her tears? Would you have
accepted a dishonored name? Too well I knew you, too deeply had I read
your noble nature to dream of doing aught but to bow in silence to my
sad destiny. Nay, more, deeply, wildly as I loved you, until that last
day we spent together on the Rhine, I knew not that I was beloved in
return; I had been told you were the promised bride of another. Then,
when I first knew that you were free, and I—I bound to another; I
cannot speak of this—I cannot think of it; sometimes I fear I am going
mad.’

“I did not hear her answer, for as he spoke he drew her to the steps of
the altar, and they sat down together. They conversed some time in a low
tone, and I heard the sound of weeping. At last they rose, and as the
light fell full on their faces, I saw they were both fearfully agitated.
She drew her hands from his with a look of passionate despair. ‘Go,
now,’ she said, ‘go, while I have power to bid you leave me. God knows I
shall never forget you; but from this moment we must never, never meet
again.’

“‘I go,’ he replied, sadly; ‘yet ere we part, Leonore, I ask one
kiss—the first, the last. Let me press you once to this heart, and it
will be nerved to endure all things.’

“She fell into his arms—he clasped her to his bosom, and I saw their
lips meet. Another moment and he had turned from her. ‘Farewell!’ he
said, in a low, hoarse tone. ‘Farewell, _forever_!’ was the response.

“She remained standing until the sound of his steps had died away, and
then flung herself down heavily on the marble floor. Even in that first
hour of misery I felt no hatred of her. I longed to creep to her bosom,
and mingle my tears with hers, and echo the sobs that came thick and
gaspingly from her lips. After a while she rose slowly, and leaned
against the altar, while words came from her lips, faint at first, and
broken, but growing louder, till I could distinguish them. ‘To die—to
die! It would be but a moment of agony, and then all is peace. Why
should I tremble? What can the world be to me henceforth but a living
tomb? And he—the vainly loved; ah! Gerald, were I gone forever—couldst
thou not soon learn to forget me? For thy sake, beloved, I dare die.’ As
she spoke she took from her bosom a small phial, and as it passed before
the light, I saw it was full of a red liquid. Almost involuntarily I
sprung forward and dashed it to the ground as she raised it to her lips.
‘Do not—do not commit murder!’ I whispered breathlessly. She gazed at
me wildly for a few moments, pressed her hands to her brow, and sunk
fainting to the floor.

“I supported her till she revived, and with her first breath of
consciousness she asked my name. I did not reply. Just then we heard
voices calling her. She sprung up hastily, and I was astonished at her
self-possession—for I was new in the school of misery, she poor thing,
knew what it was to smile, while her heart was breaking. For a while she
buried her face in her hands, and when she looked up, save a slight
trace of tears round her eyes, all trace of emotion had vanished from
her features. Seizing my arm as I stood leaning for support against a
pillar, she drew me forward to the light, saying, in a tone too proudly
bitter ever to be forgotten, ‘You have seen and heard much—more than
could have been wrung by years of torture from the proud heart of
Leonore St. Clair. Yet when you see me, you shall know how bravely a
strong soul can sustain itself when all its hopes are crushed, and life
is a burden. You shall see how my calm, haughty mien shall fling
defiance at you if you choose to publish my secret. Tell me, girl—who
are you?’

“‘I am the wife of Gerald Bellamont.’

“With a start of horror and a faint cry, she dropped my arm and fled
from the spot.

“Do you wonder that I can think and write of this with calmness? I tell
you there have been moments when, as the flood-gates of memory were
opened, and the buried past came rushing back over my soul, I have cried
out in my agony, and prayed to drink of the blessed fountain of Lethe,
and forget forever. But this is past now. A higher faith hath taught me
the meaning of this fearful lesson, a higher hope sustains me than was
ever born of human love. Truly earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot
cure.

“The night was far spent ere I reached my home. My husband came soon
after. I heard him enter his chamber, and for a long time I listened to
the sound of his heavy steps as he paced the floor. At last he threw
himself on the bed, and then all was still. Nature could endure no more,
and I fell asleep. Wild and terrible were the visions that flitted
around my couch. I was in a vast banqueting-hall, and with me the
companions of the last night’s revel. Again I saw the flowers, the
lights, the bright, happy faces, and again the dancers whirled by me.
The night waned, the stars went out one by one, and daylight shone in on
the dying lamps; yet still those wild revelers flew by me. The sun rose
up and shed his fervent beams upon us. The flowers faded, and the faces
of the dancers grew wan, and one by one they dropped down and died. The
twilight crept over the hills, and night came on—not radiant with
stars, and redolent with the breath of flowers, but horribly dark—the
realization of impenetrable gloom. And slowly from out of that blackness
came forth the form of a woman, clothed in white, and grasping a lyre,
from the strings of which she drew forth no sound. Over her head a veil
was thrown, hiding her face, and descending in wavy folds to her feet.
She moved not, breathed not—all was still as the silence of the tomb.

“Light rose no more upon me, but I saw all things in that deep darkness
more distinctly than ever. _Years_ passed over me. I saw the finger of
Time smite the walls of my prison-house, and they crumbled to dust. The
grass grew up from the decaying floor, and became longer and longer,
till its dull rustling answered to the moaning wind. From the dust of
those beings, once so full of life and loveliness, the ivy weed sprung
and wound itself round the roofless pillars till the vast charnel-house
was green and beautiful as a garden.

“Then there came around me, as I stood there in my awful solitude, faces
and forms that looked out fitfully from the darkness, and then
disappeared. They wandered around, they stood beside me, some gazing on
me with pale, spiritual faces, bright, yet mournful in their loveliness,
and some with the countenances of fiends, that laughed horribly at my
desolation. And there was one form that took its place beside that
marble figure, and fixed upon me the glance of its dark eyes, reaching
forth its hands as if in vain efforts to approach me. Amid a thousand
phantoms I should have known him—it was Gerald.

“I had borne all things else in my dreadful destiny, but I could not
bear the mournful expression of that dear face. Tears, blessed tears
came to my relief. I sprung forward, the fetters that had bound me
seemed broken, and I would have flung myself into his arms, when
suddenly that long, motionless figure interposed itself between us, and
as her hand swept the lyre-strings, there came from them a strain of
unearthly melody. It was repeated from the distance, and on its pealing
echoes there came the sound of voices mingled with the tramping of many
feet, and forth from the darkness there came, two by two, a band,
clothed in garments of sable blackness, and girdled each with a girdle
of living fire; and on the girdle, and on the forehead of each were
written, in letters of blood, these words, ‘forever and forever.’ They
passed slowly by, and in passing each turned and looked at me. I
shuddered at the sight, for it was like the faces of the damned.

“Suddenly I felt myself seized and borne onward by an invisible force.
Then there rose on the air a low, wailing anthem, that might have been
the dirge of a lost soul, and as it grew louder and nearer, directly
before me there seemed as it were a great curtain rolled up, and I was
in a vast cathedral. We stood before the altar; around me were ranged
that band of fearful ones, with their burning girdles, and before me the
priest, dressed in his pontifical robes, and wearing still that cincture
of living fire. The marriage ceremony proceeded—it was finished, and I
turned to receive the bridal kiss. The person at my side turned also,
and I saw his face—it was Gerald. With a cry of joy I sprung forward to
his embrace, when suddenly there came that marble form between me and my
beloved. She fell into his arms, she was pressed to his heart, she
received the kiss which should have been mine alone. Then rose again
that strain of dirge-like music—then pealed the shouts of fiendish,
mocking laughter; the whole scene vanished from my sight; I felt the
ground pass from under my feet, and from the immense distance I heard a
voice cry, ‘Come, come, come—come to the judgment of the deceived and
the deceiver.’ With these words I felt myself borne swiftly through the
air. A giant’s strength would have been vain against the force which
held me—I was powerless as an infant.

“We passed with the speed of a whirlwind through the region of clouds
and storm, and left star after star behind us, till we reached the
bounds of the visible universe. Still there appeared system after system
of worlds, each with its suns and stars, and still our flight was
onward—onward, while ever and anon there came through the blue ether,
the echo of that awful summons, ‘Come, come, come!’ At length we reached
the bounds of inhabited space, and entered the lone fields of chaos. And
now faintly there came upon my vision another star, which seemed flying
on its way as if pursued by the spirit of wrath. We approached it
rapidly—it was a world on fire. I saw forms that wandered to and fro,
striving in vain to fly from their torments—‘hateful, miserable, and
hating one another.’ They ran to and fro, they plunged into rivers that
rolled in sullen billows through that world of despair, and shrunk back
howling, for the waves were of liquid fire. They glared horribly on one
another with their fiery eyes, and raised their hands with deep curses
to where, in the lurid sky above them, burned in blood-red letters, the
curse of their awful sentence, ‘forever and forever!’

“Upon the verge of this fiery world we paused, and for a few moments
there was a deep and fearful silence. Then the band of dark spirits
opened their ranks and led forth the form of a man. It was Gerald. I saw
them hover with him over the fiery abyss. I saw his impotent struggles
to escape; and breaking from the power that held me, I cried, ‘I am
thine, beloved—take me with thee—in the midst of guilt and anguish,
thine, still thine!’ An instant more and I should have reached him,
when, with a wild laugh, _that_ form came again between us. Slowly she
raised from her features the shadowy veil—it was the face of Leonore.
With a sharp cry, I started from her. The spell which had bound me was
broken. In mercy I awoke.

“Trembling, scarcely daring to think it all a dream, I drew aside the
curtains to look around, and beheld my husband standing before me. He
was frightfully pale and haggard, his eyes were dim and bloodshot, and
startled at his appearance, and for a moment half forgetting the
dreadful secret I had learned, I threw my arms around him, and drew his
face down to mine. A deeper shade passed over his brow, and he sighed
heavily as he pressed his lips to my cheek. I could not return the kiss.
I could not speak. Perhaps he did not notice my silence, for in a few
moments he told me that he had received letters requiring his immediate
presence in France, and had made preparations to leave in a few hours.
Some more words he spoke, but I knew not what they were, and then
clasping me convulsively to his heart, he bade me try to sleep again,
and left me.

“Sleep—oh mockery! What had I to do with sleep or rest, while I bore
within me the blight of a sleepless wo! How may I tell of the weary days
that succeeded? At first there were hours of frantic misery—tears of
wild and passionate despair. Then came the silent sorrow—the dull
heart-aching that so slowly and surely wears out the life. Had I loved
Gerald less, I might have called pride to my aid—I should have felt
resentment or jealousy, but judging him from the fullness of my
forgiving heart, I had none of these emotions, which might have nerved
me to forget my wrongs. Once after that fatal night I saw Leonore at the
Opera, where I had been carried by the solicitations of my friends. She
was fearfully changed. The rich fullness of her form was gone, the bloom
had faded from her cheek, and her eyes were dim, as if she too had wept
tears of vain sorrow. She sat among her gay and splendid companions,
silent, motionless, abstracted.

“That night I returned home to find a new affliction. Lights were
flitting to and fro, and the servants avoided me as I entered—for none
cared to tell me the sad tidings. Lord Bellamont had returned home
violently ill, and when I entered his bed-chamber, I found the physician
already there, striving to rouse him from the stupor into which he had
fallen. Sorrow and sickness had written deep lines on that dear face,
and even amid the weakness of delirium he seemed to battle with the
strong heart’s agony. Seven days I sat beside his pillow. I faltered
not—I wearied not. Seven nights I saw the twilight steal over the
hills, and the moon fade from the sky, and I slept not. Naught but a
love like mine could have endured these torturing vigils. My whole being
resolved itself into one intense thought of him—one fervent prayer that
he might not go down in the noonday of his life and beauty to be a
dweller with the dead. For myself—my resolution was taken. I would no
longer be the living mildew on his brightest hopes—the fetter that
bound him from all he loved best. Ah, woman’s heart is strong, and He
who formed it for love and sorrow, alone knows how much it will endure
ere it break.

“Religion forbade that I should for his sake give up this mortal life,
else I would willingly have died, but I could give up the _life_ of
_life_—sacrifice all that made earth joyous or beautiful—break the tie
that bound him to misery and to me. I could leave him. Poorly as he had
requited my love, he was still the chief pleasure and glory of my
existence. Even then to hear his voice, to watch the return of health to
his enfeebled frame, to gaze upon his face in silence and unheeded, was
the sole happiness left me, and that, even that I gave up for his sake.
Ah, Gerald, could I know that when free thy heart turned back once, only
once, after the lost one, I would not regret the sacrifice. Alas! it was
vain—all in vain. Let me hasten on, lest my brain grow wild again with
these fearful memories.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“My preparations were soon made. Fortunately for my purpose, one of the
servants had some relatives who were to emigrate to America, and I had
at his request, supplied them with the requisite means. I sent for him,
and with a calmness at which I even then wondered, I told him I wished
to send under his care a young friend, whom I requested him to treat
with respect and attention, as grief for the loss of a friend had made
him slightly insane. He promised to take the charge, and appointed the
place where I should meet him, suspecting nothing of my design. Why
should he? Too well had that fatal secret been kept; my nearest friends
knew nothing of what had passed.

“The parting hour came too quickly. I was calm, for there was neither
hope nor fear in my heart. I only knew that I must leave Gerald, and
what else remained to me in life. I stained my face till I was dark as a
gipsy, and cut off the long, silken tresses of which I was once so
proud. Then clothing myself in the garments of my page, I secreted about
my person a small amount of money, and taking a bundle of clothes in
order to sustain my assumed character, I was ready to depart. At the
threshold of the door I paused, and unable to go without seeing him once
more, I stole softly to the room where my husband lay sleeping; I knelt
by his couch, over which the moonlight fell brightly, and gazed into his
face with that earnest look which a drowning man might give of earth and
sky ere the blue waters closed over him forever. As I gazed, the sleeper
stirred, a smile passed over his face, and he spoke my name. That one
word unnerved me. Tears rose to my eyes, and hope, which I had deemed
long since dead, sent her low, thrilling whisper through my heart. For a
few moments I was swayed with conflicting emotions, as visions of past
days rose before me. It was not long. Again came the thought of the last
few months of sorrow, and I could no longer doubt. Rising with a new
resolution, I went to the table that stood near and wrote a few
lines—the transcript of my heart’s despair.

“‘Farewell, Gerald—_I know all_; I can no longer endure to be the cause
of wo to you, whom I love far more than life. Ere you read this I shall
be gone from you forever. Be happy, for I shall never return from that
last resting-place to cast a shadow over your soul. God knows I blame
you not. It was sufficient of blessedness for me that I was worn a
little while on your heart, though I be now cast aside like a withered
weed to perish.’

“Folding the letter, I laid it on the pillow. Still he slept, but the
smile had faded from his face, and I bent over him and pressed on his
lips one last kiss—the seal of my sacrifice. The touch disturbed him,
and I paused to catch the words that he spoke, as he turned restlessly
on his pillow—the last words I might hear from him. It came—the word
was ‘Leonore.’

“Silently, as if that word had been a curse to cling to me through life,
I turned and left him. Without a pause I tracked the mazes of the garden
and the park—heedless, tearless, miserable. As I came near to the Park
Lodge, lights were glancing in the cottage, and a carriage stood at the
door. The children were already seated in it, and soon the parents came
to the door, and as I leaned exhausted against a tree, I saw the
parting, and heard the sound of low sobbings, of blessings, and of
prayers. Alas! I had departed, unblest, unwept. I know not what spell
was in the sound, but in a moment I was collected and firm, and entering
the carriage I wrapped myself in my cloak, and as they asked me no
questions, we rode in silence from the spot which contained all that was
dear to me on earth. Morning was breaking before we reached the vessel,
whose sails were spread, and her deck crowded with passengers. A short
time sufficed to place us among them, and in a few moments the anchor
was weighed, and the vessel dropped down the river.

“After this there is a long, long period of which I remember nothing.
The various incidents of our voyage and our arrival in the new world,
passed before me like the vague and changing scenes of a dream. The
necessity for action taken away, my whole being sunk into a sort of
apathy, and heart and mind seemed palsied. From this state I was roused
by finding that preparations were being made to send me back to England,
and a vague horror seized me at the thought, though I had no
recollection of the past. With the cunning of insanity, I made no
objection to the plan, but one day, unnoticed, I rambled away from the
village, and for many days wandered on through the woods without aim or
motive, save the vague fear of something behind. I remember reaching at
last the top of a high hill, amid a violent storm of thunder and
lightning, and there night closed around me, dark and mirky, and beneath
the pouring rain I lay down on a bare rock and slept. There I was found
next morning by the Indian chief whose wigwam has from that time been my
home. A long sickness which ensued reduced me to the brink of the grave,
and for many weeks I was insensible to the care of my kind nurses, but
their simple skill and constant attention at last triumphed over the
violence of disease, and I awoke to reason and—wo is me—to a
recollection of the long hidden past.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“It was Gerald—it was my husband! Merciful heaven! after so many years
of painful separation did we meet again!

“I had been sick and weak for some days, and my Indian father had led me
forth one sunny morning into the green old woods, where I reclined,
concealed by flowering shrubs, upon the mossy trunk of an old tree.
Suddenly we heard the tramp of horses, and winding along the narrow path
came a band of armed men, and their leader was Lord Bellamont. His face
was stern and pale, and there lay the weight of years which were not
his, in the thin, gray locks which floated over his brow; yet at the
first glance I knew him, and rising almost unconsciously, I followed
after him. Mile after mile I went on unheeding, and my kind protector
accompanied me without a question, for he saw that a great purpose
nerved my feeble frame. When the noontide heat had passed, we reached
the top of a small hill, and in an open level plain below, we saw
hostile armies arrayed for battle. One long hour I watched the waving of
that snow-white plume, hither and thither among the soldiers, till at
last it was struck down. Horribly distinct even now is the agony of that
moment, when my straining eye was fixed on that spot with an intensity
which through the confused mêlée of the fight never for one instant
wavered. When the course of the conflict swept the armies further down
the plain, I rose and went to the spot. I knew him—ghastly and bleeding
as he was, and God gave me strength to know that he was dying, and yet
to endure.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“A few hours after he opened his eyes, and the pain of his wounds seemed
relieved. I had laid him on my own bed, and was kneeling beside him.
‘Pray for me,’ he said, faintly, ‘for I must die, and there is guilt on
my soul.’ I bowed my head lower, and tears fell from my hot and aching
eyes. As I listened to that well-remembered voice, all the wild joy of
our first love came rushing back over my soul, and over-powered by the
recollection, I fainted.

“When I recovered, they told me that the missionary we had sent for had
arrived and was with Gerald. I crept silently into the room, and stood
concealed behind a screen, which had been arranged to protect the
sufferer from the draught of air. He was speaking in a low, mournful
tone, but I heard every word distinctly. ‘It was a wild, and sad, but
not a guilty love,’ he said. ‘My own heart would have scorned me, had I
brought shame on the young head I have bowed even to the grave with a
weight of sorrow too heavy to be borne. I looked upon Ella in her young
beauty, and strove to forget the dark, spiritual eyes of Leonore. We
were wedded—Ella and I—and when I spoke the bridal vows, it was with a
heart as pure as if she whose destiny had been so fatally linked with
mine, was what she now is, an angel in heaven, I loved her; but that
hopeless and ideal passion was only part of my remembrance of the
beautiful scenes of sunny Italy; and while those sad thoughts chastened
all present joy, they interfered not with the love I bore for Ella.
Perhaps, had I understood better the deep, thoughtful nature of my
gentle and joyous bride, I had after a while forgotten Leonore. But,
wrapped in painful musings, I heeded not the manifestations of her
sensitive nature, and regarded her only as the play-fellow of my
thoughtless youth—too airy and brilliant to understand my saddened
heart.’ He paused for a few moments, and then continued, in an agitated
tone, ‘We met once more—Leonore and myself—oh, that I had died ere
that evening. I knew not of her presence until I heard her singing a
plaintive melody, and before it ended, she met my impassioned gaze. I
saw the thrill of agony that shook her frame, and when she left the
room, I followed; for the sight of her suffering maddened me. Then were
wild words spoken—words which left lightning traces on more than one
heart and brain. There were tears which seared as they fell—there was
one long kiss, when our two souls rushed into one, and fell back,
crushed and bleeding, from that fearful embrace. There was one wild,
despairing farewell, and we were parted forever. The next morning I left
England, and for months wandered over the Continent like a spirit of
unrest, till at length wearied and sick with that heart-sickness which
no art can cure, I returned home to die. Ella was absent when I reached
my home. I remember being seized with a sudden fainting as I entered the
room, and then all is a vague dream, till I awoke one morning as from
sleep, and found myself weak as an infant. Then, as I slowly recovered,
I first became aware of the exceeding strength of woman’s love. My wife,
who, like an angel of mercy, had watched over my sick bed, whose gentle
and patient tenderness had endured all things without a complaining
word; oh, my father, spare me the recital of what followed—she knew
all—she left me, that I might once more be free; she hoped I might be
happy.’

“For a long time he was silent, and when he spoke again, his voice was
feeble and broken, and he wiped the large drops from his brow.

“‘There is but one scene more. I sat alone in my deserted house, and
prayed to die, for my grief was too heavy to be borne. Suddenly a
carriage drove to the door, and a letter was handed me. It contained but
few words, but those few I can never forget. ‘The time is come when
without guilt thou mayest look upon me. The love which men give the
dead, even the living may forgive. Now, when passed away from thee
forever—now only may I say—_I love thee!_’’

“‘I descended to the carriage, and they drove me to the door of a large
mansion, where I was met by General St. Clair. His face was sad but
stern, as he seized my arm, and simply saying it had been the last
request of Leonore, he led me to a darkened room, and left me. On a
couch near the window lay a form covered with a heavy pall. I raised it,
and saw Leonore reclining there in the perfect beauty of repose. I knelt
beside her, and pressing her cold hand to my aching heart, spoke her
name. But the dark lashes moved not on her cheek—never more might those
glorious eyes flash forth their welcome at my coming—never more would
those pale lips open with words of greeting. She was dead, and the guilt
of a double murder lay upon my soul.’

“Again there was a deep silence, and I heard the slow, labored breathing
of the dying man. The priest bent over him, saying ‘Son, there is mercy
for the guiltiest—despair not.’

“‘I do not despair,’ replied he, fervently speaking with effort. ‘The
time for that passed away with the hour when calmed and humbled I knelt
at the altar of my God, whose dealings with me even then I understood
not, and consecrated my life to his service.’

“‘Thine hour is come. Son, art thou ready to depart?’

“‘There was one hope,’ he replied, faintly, ‘one last hope that my fatal
life might end in peace. But God hath ordered otherwise, and it is
well.’

“‘What was that hope?’ asked the priest.

“‘I heard not long since that Ella was not dead. That she escaped to
this new world. I hoped to find her, and solace her for years of
suffering by my deep devotion. Oh, my God!’ he added, suddenly clasping
his hands together, ‘why couldst thou not grant this last prayer of a
broken heart. To see her, to hear her say that I am forgiven—to die
upon her breast—’

“I could restrain myself no longer, and rushed forward, exclaiming,
‘Gerald, my love, my husband! behold me here, loving thee, forgiving
thee, even as when for thy sake, I left thy country and thy home!’ I
sunk, half kneeling, on the floor beside the bed. He gazed on me a
moment in speechless wonder, and then, with the supernatural strength of
life’s last effort, lifted himself from the pillows, and clasping his
arms around me, drew me close, close to his heart. Oh, the blissful
repose, the unmingled ecstasy of that moment. Forgotten were my wrongs
and my sorrow—the agony behind, and the desolation before—the coming
and the bygone despair.

“Closer and closer grew his embrace, and his face touched mine. ‘My
wife, my bride—receive the last kiss of him who is now wholly thine!’ I
raised my head, and his cold lips pressed mine. I felt his form sink
slowly beneath me, and the clinging arms relax their hold. I knew that
the spirit had fled, and thanked God for that one hour of bliss which
left me alone again on earth.”

Here the manuscript ceased suddenly, and though some words had been
added, apparently at a later date, the hand of the writer must have been
weak indeed, for they were illegible.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                         A CASE OF GOLD FEVER.


                             BY JOHN JONES.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

Mr. Edwards Perley was not a man of wealth, although, at different
periods of his life, he had been the owner of property valued at from
one hundred thousand dollars to half a million. But this property being
either in Texas land scrip, South Carolina gold mines, Western town
lots, Mulberry trees, Maine wild lands, or other people’s promises to
pay, Mr. Perley had never been able to realize what was so nearly a
splendid fortune within his grasp. The revolution in Texas destroyed the
value of Mexican grants, in which he had become largely interested, and
the sale of square leagues of the “best cotton land in the world,” not
only ceased suddenly, but the bills received for previous sales came
back upon him dishonored. This was a sad damper on the golden hopes of
the enthusiastic Mr. Edwards Perley. For a couple of years he had been
selling land scrip from Bangor to New Orleans; and had been out on the
Red River twice, during the time, with a surveying company, whose
business it was to locate the little league-square lots. On these
expeditions, he had become rather intimately acquainted with alligators
and ague, and, on his return, deemed it no more than prudent to keep
himself quiet until he regained his complexion, and the healthy
roundness of his limbs and features. Mr. Perley worked hard in this
matter; but it suited his temperament. He was no plodding genius,
content to count sixpences first, then shillings, and so on until
dollars began to appear. Not he. In that slow way to wealth he could not
walk.

Just as Mr. Perley, who valued his property at hundreds of thousands of
dollars in the present, and looked upon it as possessing an annually
duplicating quality—just as Mr. Perley had selected a beautiful site
for building a palace in New York, and had decided upon the plans
submitted by a distinguished architect, the troubles in Texas destroyed
the value of his scrip, and down he went to ruin like a collapsed
balloon; and dozens of his confiding friends went with him.

But Mr. Edwards Perley had too much native buoyancy of character, too
much hope in life, to be put down by ill-natured fortune after this
summary manner. In the wreck and ruin in which he was involved, he
managed to get hold of a plank on which to float ashore. With a few
hundred dollars, which he had contrived to save, under a self-enacted
“homestead exemption” law, he opened an exchange office in Wall street,
on a very small scale. Though his business operations scarcely reached,
for a time, the aggregate of hundreds per day, there were not a few of
his acquaintances who believed his transactions to be limited only by
thousands; and they were indebted to him for their ideas on the subject.
Give a man the reputation of doing a large business, and business will
be sure to come. So it was in the case of Edwards Perley. Talking and
boasting were of great use to him. In a few years he was getting along,
as the saying is, “swimmingly.” But, like the man who, after creeping
along for a week in a stage-coach, grows impatient if the cars do not
make thirty miles an hour instead of twenty, Mr. Perley, as soon as
affairs became prosperous with him again, grew dissatisfied with what
appeared a slow accumulation, and began to look around him for some good
speculation. He was not long in finding what he sought.

But it is not our purpose to follow Mr. Perley through the various
stages of his Carolina gold and Morus Multicaulis fevers; nor to
minutely detail his operations in Western lands and town lots. As it had
been in Texas land scrip, so it proved in all these. The visionary
speculator, who sought wealth for its own sake, and was too eager for
its possession to be willing to give back to society an equivalent of
useful acts, after running a wild course for a few years, again tripped
and fell. This time he found it much more difficult to recover himself.
But with an elasticity of feeling that few possess, he went hopefully to
work, and by dint of magnifying his own peculiar abilities, and his
knowledge of business, induced a shrewd, calculating Yankee, who had a
few thousand dollars, to join him in business.

For a year or two, Perley was content to move on slowly. After that, he
grew ambitious and restless again. The fire had not burned out; it was
only covered for a while. Of Jenkins, his partner, he had no very high
opinion. He considered him a mere plodding genius, whose mind was in no
way suggestive. He would do for a well beaten track, but for enterprise
he was nobody. So he thought. But Jenkins had rather more shrewdness
than his partner gave him credit for. He belonged to the class of men
who think a great deal before they act, and who, therefore, rarely make
mistakes in business matters. He understood Perley “like a book,” and
was, therefore, prepared to counteract, judiciously, all his efforts
that were not wisely directed. Reactions of this kind becoming, as
business grew into importance, more and more frequent, Mr. Perley felt
restless under them, and often lamented that affairs were not entirely
under his own control.

This was the aspect of things when the golden news from California
startled the most sober-minded with its tale of wonder. Perley believed
every word of the first account, while Jenkins coolly took the liberty
of doubting the whole story.

“It’s preposterous,” said he.

“But look at the official nature of the intelligence,” urged Perley.

[Illustration: _Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine._
A CASE OF GOLD FEVER.]

“Officials can lie as well as other people. It’s all a speculation to
get settlers out there. Don’t tell me of gold scattered about as thick
as jack-stones.”

Perley maintained the other side of the question, and soon had the
satisfaction of pushing most abundant confirmations into the face of his
partner.

“Well,” said Jenkins, “what of it? Suppose there is gold there? It
doesn’t make me any better off.”

“But it will make you better off, if you seize the advantage now offered
to every energetic and truly enterprising man.”

Mr. Jenkins opened his eyes rather wider than usual; then shrugging his
shoulders, he answered:

“My business creed is—‘Let well enough alone.’”

“And mine,” replied Perley, “is to seize upon every advantage that
offers.”

At this point the conversation was interrupted, and as neither party,
for good reasons, thought it advisable to renew it, the subject did not
come up between them for several days. During this time Perley could
think of little else but California, and the golden harvest it
presented; and the more he thought of it, the more fully satisfied was
he that an immense fortune might speedily be realized by trading in that
region. What was in the way, when blankets sold for ten dollars each, a
pair of boots for double that sum, flour for sixty dollars a barrel, and
every thing else in proportion?

“The fact is, Jenkins,” said he, renewing the subject not many days
after the first conversation, “we must make some of this hay while the
sun is shining.”

“The golden hay, you mean.”

“I do.”

“How are we to make it?”

“By going sickle in hand to the field, and reaping with the rest.”

“Suppose the field should be reaped before we get there?”

“That cannot be. The gold region is a thousand miles in length and
several hundreds in breadth. There is enough for all who will go for the
next ten years.”

“I must beg leave to doubt that,” coolly replied Jenkins. “It’s all a
feverish imagination. Gold dazzles the eyes and keeps men from seeing in
a clear light.”

“But, my dear man,” said Perley, “look at the facts and judge for
yourself. Take Governor Mason’s statement.”

“Very well. Suppose we believe all the governor says, what then? Why,
the man who finds an ounce of gold a day has to pay about sixteen prices
for the necessaries of life, and, so is no better off than the man here
who earns a dollar in the same time. The only way in which he can
accumulate gold is to live like a savage.”

“But, I wouldn’t go to _dig_ gold!”

“Go! Surely you do not think seriously of going?”

“I certainly do.”

“I’m sorry to hear you say that, Mr. Perley. We are doing exceedingly
well and our business is growing. Last year it doubled, and is in a fair
way of doubling itself again this year.”

“But what is such a rate of increase to the golden gains that are now
offered? Nothing—nothing.”

Mr. Jenkins could not talk as fluently as his partner, and was in this
instance, as he had been once or twice before, silenced but not
convinced.

Daily there came some fresh intelligence touching the gold deposits in
our new possessions, and the note of preparation for a speedy flight was
sounded in all directions. The newspapers teemed with exciting
statements, and every man you met in the street, on ’change, or in the
social circle, had something to say about California. Daily the fever
increased, and particularly with Mr. Edwards Perley, until he began to
be slightly delirious. But, though the epidemic raged all around him,
Mr. Jenkins remained calm and cool. If any one talked to him about
California, he shook his head with an emphasis that left no doubt as to
the state of his mind.

“My California is here,” he sometimes replied. “Wait for ten years, and
see then who is best off. If gold is so abundant as they say it is, and
obtained so easily, I shall benefit as well as those who dig for it.
‘Come easy, go easy,’ you know. The man who picks up a pound of gold
wont value it as much as he who earns it by the sweat of his brow, and
will part with it far more easily. So, after all, the gold will flow
from the hands of those who gather it freely, through all the channels
of trade, and we who continue in the pursuit of useful employments, will
be likely to reap the most abundant harvest.”

“All this,” Perley said, “was little better than nonsense. ‘Give me a
bird in the hand, and you may have two in the bush.’”

“Just my own sentiment,” returned Jenkins. “I have the bird in the hand
here, I can’t let it go for two in the bush away out on the Pacific.”

Still the fever went on increasing.

“Mr. Jenkins,” said Perley, as he was about leaving the store one
afternoon, “I wish you would drop down to my house this evening, I want
to have some talk with you.”

“Very well,” replied the partner. So about eight o’clock he called down.

“I want to see you in order to have a more serious talk about
California,” said Perley. “I am satisfied that the subject has not had
in your mind the consideration it demands, and that if you saw it as I
do, you would not be so insensible to the extraordinary advantages that
are now offered.”

Jenkins felt in no mood for argument or controversy, though his mind was
as clear as a bell, and his purpose as immovable as ever. So he bent his
head in a listening attitude, and looked up from under his drooping
eyelashes, willing to listen, but firmly resolved not to be started from
the rock upon which he had fixed himself.

The first proposition made by Perley, after eloquently setting forth the
advantage of turning all their capital and energy into this new field,
was to charter a vessel, put their whole stock of goods on board, and
take a flight to San Francisco. But the wonderful profit to be made did
not in the least tempt his phlegmatic, long-headed partner, who was
beginning to calculate the amount of advantage he might gain in the
approaching dissolution of co-partnership—for to that he saw it would
come.

“You will not go,” said Perley, on receiving a positive negative to this
proposal.

“No, not for twice the inducement. I am not going to risk my life, nor
abridge my comfort, in a wild enterprise like this, when I am doing well
at home.”

Perley leaned back, looked to the ceiling, and mused for some moments.

“Very well,” said he, “if you are unwilling to assume so great a risk,
let me go out with an adventure, and you remain at home.”

But Jenkins was growing wider awake every moment. Having once
entertained the idea of getting rid of his partner, and coming into the
undivided advantage of his business, he had no notion of agreeing to any
thing short of that. So he affirmed, in his quiet way, that he would
have nothing to do with the gold bubble in any form.

“Then we must dissolve,” said Perley, half fretfully. He was restive
under the check-rein of his cool-tempered partner.

“As you like about that,” was imperturbably answered. It would have
taken an eye well skilled in the signs of human emotions to have
detected, in the immovable face of the calculating Yankee, the smallest
indication of pleasure. Yet his pleasure was great.

The proposition thus made and agreed to, was forthwith carried out. As
Perley was determined upon a dissolution at all hazards, and, as his
partner affected entire indifference, the odds were altogether against
him, and he was compelled to accept of any arrangement that suited the
other. So excited was he about California, and so eager to get off, that
he accepted, as his half of the business, a portion of old, and, to a
great extent, unsaleable stock, and shipped it by the first vessel that
sailed for Monterey and San Francisco. Its real value in the New York
market was about five thousand dollars; its estimated value in the
settlement ten thousand, and its prospective value as an adventure at
the gold diggings fifty thousand. Above this, three thousand dollars in
cash were paid to Mr. Perley. Two thousand were left for the support of
his family, and one thousand he took with him.

Three weeks after the vessel in which he had shipped his goods sailed,
the impatient Mr. Perley, who neither thought nor dreamed of any thing
else but gold, and who already saw himself surrounded with heaps of the
precious lumps and scales from Feather River, left New York in a steamer
for Chagres. As to what Chagres was really like, and as to the real
nature of the journey across the Isthmus, Mr. Perley had no correct
notion. He had thought of a town with comfortable accommodations, and
when those around him talked of canoes and mules as the means of
transportation to Panama, something elegant, like a Venetian gondola, or
a richly caparisoned animal, was present to his imagination. A few mud
huts, with their naked inhabitants, was all he found, upon being
disgorged, with some two hundred others, in the rain, to join a
congregation of nearly a hundred others, who had arrived on the day
before, and who were awaiting the return of canoes from Cruces.

Mr. Perley, like most men of his class, never gave as much attention to
little things as prudence required. The man who couldn’t waste time and
precious thought on so insignificant an article as a linchpin, was about
as wise as Mr. Perley in many of the affairs of life. His friends had
nearly all asked him in regard to his outfit.

“Oh, that is all right!” or, “I’ve taken good care of that,” he would
unhesitatingly answer. Yet, on reaching Chagres, he had neither tea,
coffee, sugar, bread nor meat in his possession. He had money, and this
he knew to be all powerful in procuring supplies of any kind; at least,
such had been his experience in life. But he was about coming into some
new experiences. Neither food nor lodgings were to be had from the
natives at Chagres, for “love or money.” Such a sudden influx of Yankee
gold diggers was a thing altogether unanticipated and unprovided for,
and those who came had, therefore, to provide for themselves.

A week was spent at Chagres before Mr. Perley was lucky enough to
procure passage up the river in a canoe, with one of the five trunks of
merchandise he had brought with him in the steamer—the remaining four
were left behind, with instructions to have them sent over to Panama as
quickly as possible. He never saw or heard of them afterward! During
this week the poor man nearly starved, for all he could get to eat was
an occasional hard biscuit from some fellow passenger. It rained nearly
the whole time, and night and day he was in the open air. Wet to the
skin, when affirmed of Mr. Perley, was about as literally true as ever
the saying was or will be. In this plight, with a fever of rather a more
serious character than the gold fever, our adventurer embarked in a
canoe, for the privilege of sitting in one end of which, or lying flat
on the bottom, for three or four days, he paid the moderate price of
fifty dollars, and then thought himself lucky. For a hundred dollars
more he was to share the scanty food of his traveling companion, who,
wiser than he, had more accurately counted the cost, and prepared
himself for the contingencies of the journey.

On the day after leaving Chagres, the sun came out from beneath a veil
of clouds, and poured its hot rays upon the head of Mr. Perley. Under
this he wilted down like a leaf before the fire. On the second day he
was so ill that he could not hold up his head; and by the time he
reached Cruces, instead of being in a condition to take his place on a
mule’s back, he was utterly prostrate in body, and delirious with fever.
Seeing this, and considering him as good as dead, his companion, after
possessing himself of his money and trunk, gave the natives who had
brought them up twenty dollars to take him back to Chagres in their
canoe.

When distinctly conscious once more, Mr. Perley found himself on
shipboard, with the rush of waters around him. He was as weak as an
infant in body, and almost as weak as an infant in mind. Ideas came
confusedly, and faded ere he was able to separate the tangled mass. In a
few days he was enough recovered to connect his thoughts, and to call up
events to the period of his embarking from Chagres. Beyond that, his
memory did not serve him. He soon after became apprized of the fact that
he was on his way to New York, and might expect to be there in less than
a week.

On arriving at home, Mr. Perley was as one who had risen from the grave.
News of his illness, with a prophecy of his certain death, had reached
New York by a previous arrival. Slowly recovered the disappointed man,
and as health came flowing once more along his veins, his thoughts were
again turned toward El Dorado, whither he had sent an adventure, and
from which, he yet hoped to realize a splendid fortune. Of his five
trunks and the money he had taken with him no traces remained. Even he
had some pretty well grounded doubts of ever seeing them again; and in
this matter his doubts only foreshadowed the truth.

A month after Mr. Perley’s return to New York, he was preparing to start
again, although thousands and thousands had gone before, and were
choking up all the avenues of communication to the Pacific and along the
coast. His friends urged him not to risk his life again; but his goods
were on the way to San Francisco, and here was his only chance to
realize a fortune. So he got himself ready for another flight. But just
as he was on the point of starting, the vessel in which he had shipped
his goods returned to port, so much damaged by a storm as to be unfit to
weather the Cape. When she put to sea she was scarcely equal to the
voyage, and insurance could only be effected at very high rates. A heavy
leak had damaged, more or less, a great portion of the cargo, among
which were the goods of Mr. Perley. This damage, so far as Mr. Perley
was concerned, was assessed at one thousand dollars, and paid. The
balance of his goods were sold off at auction, in a spirit of
recklessness engendered by a temporary despondency, for two thousand
dollars more. And thus ended Mr. Perley’s California expedition!

Disappointed, disheartened and almost beside himself, the unfortunate
man wandered about the city in a state of irresolution for a month or
two; while his old partner, the cool, shrewd Yankee, was rejoicing over
the fine business which had come exclusively into his hands, and saying
to himself—“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.” At last Mr.
Perley’s organ of Hope became again active; and, as intelligence from
the gold region came with so many drawbacks, he concluded to try his
fortune once more at home, and so, with the three thousand dollars that
remained, started his old exchange business in Wall street, where he may
now be seen counting his uncurrent money, and sighing over the smallness
of his gains.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                  THE OLD WOODEN CHURCH ON THE GREEN.


                           BY HENRY MORFORD.


    They are all laying hands on the things I loved best,
      They are all closing up my dim past,
    They are all heaping sods upon Memory’s breast,
      Till but little is left me at last;
    But I sometimes look back to the things of old time,
      And I think of the things that have been,
    And the memory comes, like a nursery rhyme,
      Of the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

    It is little and old in this plentiful age,
      It has neither a steeple nor bell,
    It is bowing its roof to the pitiless rage
      Of the storms it has battled so well;
    It is guiltless of glass, and the paint’s washed away
      In the storm and the sunshine, I ween,
    For no kind hand attends, for this many a day,
      To the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

    Beneath the mossed roof the small swallow-nests hang,
      And the bees hive and swarm in the eaves,
    And the loosed shutters swing with a sorrowful clang
      When the wind through the old church-yard grieves;
    Neglect and decay are around the old walls,
      Dark ruin looks over the scene,
    Oh, sad is the sound of the lone foot that falls,
      Round the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

    Yet I’d rather to-day they should crumble away,
      Earth’s proudest and loftiest pile,
    Built up as a mock for neglect and decay,
      To stand while the broad heavens smile—
    Than tear off one shred from its moss-eaten roof,
      Or call it the shabby and mean,
    For we’re all, when grown old and neglected enough
      Like the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

    And I hear the sweet voices that chanted within,
      Oh! many a summer ago,
    Still chanting the hymn when the eve closes in,
      Though they echo from heaven, I know;
    And I sit in the pew where they sat by my side,
      And as back in the shadows I lean,
    I hear the low prayers that echoed and died
      In the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

    I will weep when it falls, I will smile while it stands,
      As winter on winter goes by,
    Protected by naught but invisible hands,
      Till I sleep in its shade when I die;
    Let them bury me there in a mound poor and low,
      When the blast of the winter is keen,
    That the winds that wail over me pass as they go
      The Old Wooden Church on the Green.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: OPERA EXTRAVAGANCE.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             MY FIRST LOVE;


                          OR THE NIGHT-KEY.[1]


                          BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.


-----

[1] Herlotzsohn, in his Experiences, relates a story similar to the
following.

-----

Although a stricken bachelor, I cannot speak without emotion of my first
love. An eastern philosopher says—it is with first love as with a first
cigar; one precipitates himself upon it, luxuriates to the utmost in the
draught, and when it is over, is sensible of a melancholy unlike that
induced by any other loss. I suppose I may consider myself particularly
fortunate, having felt no reaction after my first cigar, and finding
equally harmless consequences from my first love. I do not mean to say
that I was so happy as to find the passion returned; ah, no! for then—I
should have been a Benedict. I mean that I imbibed all of bliss which
belongs to the feeling, without hazarding the loss of my peace; I
enjoyed it while it was permitted to last, with but a few trifling
drawbacks, and that without stirring a fountain of remorse or regret to
sprinkle with bitterness my future years.

In the winter of 18— I chanced to lodge in —— Place, in the
establishment then kept by Mrs. ——. My apartment was on the third
floor, and overlooked the street; the room immediately back of it, which
I used for my books and papers, looked into a small court, and commanded
a view through the windows opposite, of the parlor on the second floor
in the rear, which was occupied by the young lady to whom my attention
was devoted. She and her mother had been inmates of the house but a
short time, when the sight of her, seated at her embroidery-frame near
the window, took my heart captive at once. She had long, fair ringlets,
that seemed touched with gold when the light fell on them; her
complexion was beautifully fair, with a rose-like tint in her cheeks;
the bright line of her lips disclosed pearly teeth, and she had the
finest turned neck and shoulders nature ever fashioned to put art to
shame. But her hand—that small, white, dimpled hand, which she often
held up in my view, while selecting a shade of worsted, threading her
needle, counting the stitches, or practicing any of the little
coquetries of her work! No sculptor could have rivaled the perfection of
that hand. Those taper fingers drew the string which sped Cupid’s arrow
to my heart. I often tried to draw that hand, and as often gave up the
task in despair, for it never was still long enough. Sometimes I saw it
wandering over the strings of her guitar; for almost always, of an
evening, she played and sang, and then, after having watched her tuning
it, how I hated the envious curtains that were so closely drawn to shut
out paradise from my longing eyes. For hours I would stand at my window,
having no other occupation than feeding the pigeons that gathered about
the frame, observing her by stealth as she worked or watered the flowers
that lived under her care, or petted a delicate canary-bird, whose cage
hung on the wall outside. I had no pleasure so great as that of gazing
upon her; yet I could plainly see that my devotion was unmarked, for she
was near-sighted, and could not, at even a short distance, perceive that
she was so earnestly regarded. To that circumstance, in all probability,
I owed the liberty I enjoyed.

I always retreated from the window when her mother approached, for she
had eyes that rivaled those of a lynx. She was tall, moreover, with
black eyes and hair; rather robust in person, and with an unmistakable
air of hauteur, which proved quite as effectual as she could have wished
in keeping people at a distance. Her voice was naturally harsh and
imperious, though usually subdued in its tones, except on occasions when
sudden irritation caused the speaker to forget her dignity. Even in her
gentlest moods it had a latent sharpness that twanged uneasily on my
ears, especially when I remembered how necessary it was to secure the
favor of this haughty lady, in order to advance a step toward the
accomplishment of my hopes with the lovely daughter.

Thus, then, stood the case; I was desperately, irremediably in love with
this young girl; ready for any venture to win her, but uncertain how to
commence an acquaintance, for I was not even among the privileged number
of her visiters. We lodged under the same roof; we sat at the same
table, though at different ends of it; but I knew no one of whom I could
ask an introduction to her; and I felt, alas! that my position in life
did not quite entitle me to enter the list of her suitors without such
formalities as might smooth over a surprise. I was a painter; rising in
my profession, it is true, and numbering many friends, but as yet,
having fortune only in prospect. Mrs. Elwyn, for that was the name of
the mother of my charmer, was independent, though not rich; and having
in early life moved much in fashionable society, and been much admired,
was very proud, and would scarcely have owned among her acquaintances
one who depended on the labor of hands or head for a maintenance.
Neither she nor her daughter ever entered the common drawing-room; and
those of the lodgers who knew her slightly, spoke of her as distant and
unsocial, except to the favored few whom she thought worth cultivating,
on account of their possession of worldly advantages. She was precisely
the sort of woman on whom I would never have wasted an act of courtesy,
had she been the mother of any other daughter. But in the fair Gertrude
there was such a bewitching unconsciousness of her own superiority, such
an appealing eloquence in silence, to the sympathy of those around
her—such an air of child-like humility, mingled with just enough of the
graceful pride of woman, as completed the fascination her beauty had
begun, and inspired one with a wish to please even her repulsive parent.
I saw her not only at meals, but occasionally out of the house, at
concerts or the Opera. To me she was the soul of the music, and the
finest symphony of Beethoven would have been lifeless without her. At
church I met her now and then, and sometimes walking; but Mrs. Elwyn
never vouchsafed me the most distant bow of recognition. She seemed by
intuition to guess my bold wishes and frown upon them. Gertrude was
always modestly looking down; but at intervals the fringe of her blue
eyes would be suddenly lifted, disclosing a world of witchery beneath,
to be quickly veiled again, as if she knew she was transgressing. It was
the evidence of this consciousness on her part that fanned my love
continually into a brighter flame, and caused me to revolve various
expedients to secure to myself the enjoyment of her society.

I thought of painting her picture as she sat embroidering at the window,
and sending it as a present to the mother; but I lacked as yet,
sufficient confidence in my talent for the art, in which I was but a
student, and the terror of her condemnation, both of the artist and the
lover, was too formidable to be encountered. A dread of her cold
penetration prevented me also from putting in execution a cherished
project; that of offering my services to teach the beautiful Gertrude
Italian, which I knew she wished to acquire. The very day I had mustered
up courage to resolve on the experiment, I heard that Mrs. Elwyn had
hired a teacher—a dark-visaged, whiskered fellow, whom, from that
moment, I wished in the dungeons of Spielberg.

Was there ever a more hopeless case of love; yet I was not unhappy, for
I had the privilege of seeing her, unawed by fear of interruption; and
my passion was not yet so encrusted with selfishness that it demanded
more. I lived in the present, and hope colored the future with rosy
light; even the feeling of disappointment was but momentary. I almost
dreaded a change, though I knew this could not satisfy me long, and that
a wilder, more impetuous, and less amiable stage was to follow. Already
the first sweet, sparkling foam of the cup had been quaffed; beneath was
that which bewilders the brain and steals away the senses.

I had been reading one night till past midnight—for strangely enough, I
had a taste for novels after the beginning of the romance of my
life—when my attention was arrested by hearing a carriage stop in the
street before the door. Presently the bell rang, not very gently. A
short pause, and it was again rung; while I was conscious of a twinge of
sympathy for the late comer; for the night was piercing cold, and the
wind came in hoarse blasts, rattling the window-panes, and sending a
chill through the bones. The contrast offered by my snug apartment, with
its crimson curtains and chintz-covered sofa, and the dying glow of the
embers thrown on the Venetian rug, was peculiarly suggestive of ideas of
comfort. I thought how hard it must be for the porter to be summoned out
of his warm bed in the little chamber at the back of the court, and
judged the applicant for admission at such an hour justly punished by
delay.

Again, and again, and yet again sounded the bell, each time with a more
prolonged and angry pull, as if the person at the door, with patience
exhausted, was resolved to take the house by storm. A thought darted
like lightning through my brain. I had seen Miss Elwyn that evening, in
full dress, passing with her mother through the hall. They had gone to a
party—they had returned late. I sprung to the window—threw it open;
and sure enough, though it was too dark to distinguish any object, I
heard with sufficient distinctness the shrill, complaining tones of the
mother.

By good luck I was still dressed, and I lost not an instant. Snatching
up the light, I hastened down two flights of stairs, to the front door.
My heart beat; my breath came quickly; I felt as if the crisis of my
life were at hand. I should meet her face to face; I should speak to
her—should render a service that demanded acknowledgment, and might
open for me a vista of happiness; I grasped the handle of the door, and
with trembling hands unlocked and opened it; there was a rush of wind,
and—my light was extinguished.

“You sleep like a night-watcher, sir!” screamed the angry voice of Mrs.
Elwyn, as she pushed her way in. “To keep us standing half an hour in
the cold! We might have caught our death! You deserve to lose your
place; I shall make complaint of you in the morning, depend upon it.”

While she spoke, the daughter’s silken mantle brushed past me, and her
gloved fingers pressed something into my hand. I had no time to explain;
I could not have uttered a word; my breath seemed to forsake me, and my
silly bashfulness held me motionless, as if chained to the spot. I stood
there till the ladies had ascended the first flight of stairs—the mamma
grumbling as she went—still grasping mechanically in my hand what the
fair Gertrude had placed therein. Ere long, however, my self-possession
returned; I ascended to my room, lighted the candle, and examined the
gift. My beloved had presented me with half a dollar.

It was quite evident that both had mistaken me for the unlucky porter,
at that time snoring in his dormitory; and that the gentle girl had
bestowed the coin by way of consolation for her mother’s chiding. I
kissed the piece of silver which had come from her hand, and was a token
of the benevolence of her heart. A ray of hope gleamed from its polished
face. The matter must necessarily be explained; the mistake must be
rectified. This would lead to an interview; and I would trust fortune
for the rest.

After due deliberation, I came to the conclusion that as the affair in
some points wore a comical aspect, it would be best to present it in
that light. I took my pencil and hammered out some poetry, which was to
be sent with the half dollar to the fair donor. Under the veil of a
sprightly and facetious effusion, I thought, more could be said, than in
a grave note; and no offence could be taken at verses meant for a _jeu
d’esprit_, describing the feeling experienced when the coin touched my
palm, as “shocking”—which word terminated the line—imperative
necessity called for a rhyme—it ran as follows:

        “Oh, had the gift been but a glove—or stocking!
         Such token from _thy_ hand a joy had given,
         I would not barter for the joy of heaven!”

I was not much used to writing poetry; but on reading over the missive,
it struck me as combining humor and sentiment in a manner peculiarly
felicitous. The lines could not fail to make an impression; she would,
perhaps, reply; all would fall out as I wished, and I should look upon
that night as the most fortunate of my life. I mended a crow-quill, and
copied the verses neatly on rose-colored paper, resolving to send them
the first thing in the morning. She would then see they had been written
impromptu. It was late when I threw myself on the bed, and late when I
awoke. No benevolent genius warned me in the visions of slumber.

The next day I folded the money and verses together, and dispatched the
package to my charmer by the maid. I was frequently at my post of
observation; but not once did I catch a glimpse of her at the window.
The guitar was silent—the embroidery-frame untouched. Toward evening I
waylaid the chamber-maid, and having crossed her hand with a piece of
silver, inquired particularly how my dispatch had been received.

“Why, sir,” was the answer, “the young lady only laughed, and showed the
paper to her mother; and Mrs. Elwyn threw it into the fire, and said as
how she wondered how you could have had the impudence; but she expected
you did not know any better.”

A blight fell upon my hopes; I had evidently committed an error. That
unlucky “stocking!”, it was that which had played me false—which had
offended the lady’s sense of propriety—which had suddenly let down a
partition-wall between me and the accomplishment of my hopes. But
through the chinks of that now impassable barrier, Gertrude appeared
lovelier than ever. A thousand wild projects floated through my brain. I
would hire bandits to assail her; would rush in time to the rescue, and
be wounded in her defense. I would play the incendiary, and bear her in
triumph through the flames; I would get up a quarrel, and fight a duel
for her sake. But these were only feverish fantasies—castles built in
the air—which melted in the cold current of reality. I could perceive
plainly that at table, when I stole a glance at her, Mrs. Elwyn had
grown colder and statelier than ever. She never honored me by a look,
and, worse than all, Gertrude did not appear. It was not till after two
days I learned, by mere accident, that she had taken cold on that
eventful night, and was indisposed.

But ill luck cannot last always. The beautiful girl soon reappeared at
meals as blooming and radiant as usual; and, oh joy! again I was so
happy as to behold her seated at the window, and watch the movements of
her delicate fingers over the strings of her guitar. Here was a bliss of
which no frowning matron could deprive me. One day, too, as in my
eagerness to drink in the tones of her music, I had softly opened my
window, and was imprudently leaning forward, rapt in a trance of bliss,
I saw an unmistakable smile on her lips. Yes, she smiled; and though at
the same moment she drew back, and let the guitar slide from her lap, my
heart was thrilled by the knowledge that she was at last aware of my
secret. What woman could be insensible to homage so delicate and
unobtrusive. Hope once more stirred within me. The next morning I bribed
the maid to leave on her table, as if by mistake, a just published
number of the “Home Journal,” in which was a poem of rare beauty, which
aptly expressed my admiration and my love. I had ventured to draw a
light pencil line around the verses, which I hoped she might perceive
and understand. My little ruse succeeded. A servant brought me the paper
in the evening, saying it had been left by mistake in Mrs. Elwyn’s
apartment; but it bore evidence of having been carefully read.

It was not safe to venture often on such expedients; but the fourteenth
of February was at hand; and the most timid lover might avail himself of
its privileges. Valentines of all descriptions, for all stages of the
tender passion, were to be had at the fancy stores; and a little
alteration made them original. On the morning of the festival, one,
delicately painted on embossed paper, and glowing with sentiment, was
dispatched to the fair Gertrude, and was followed by one for each day of
the week succeeding. I received none in return—but I was not
discouraged; it was enough that mine were read.

I was now at the height of my content; for there was a charm in the sort
of mystery that enveloped our intercourse, the more delightful to me,
because I had the authority of all the romances I had ever read, for
believing that it was the best nourisher of affection. Fancy would
invest with a thousand gifts and graces, the lover whom she knew not,
yet whose devotion was breathed into the air around her. Flowers would
succeed verses as the messengers of the heart; I should grow bolder in
time, till every obstacle was triumphed over. Such would have been the
natural course of things but for the awkward interruption which brings
me to the conclusion of my story.

I had gone one evening to a supper given by a bachelor friend, and
returned late from the scene of mirth and revelry. As I walked rapidly
down —— Place, for the night was chilly, and the street covered with
snow, I saw two ladies alight from a carriage in front of Mrs. ——’s
house. I hastened my pace; a thrill of joy penetrated my breast; it was
she—my beloved, with her mother; and both were, by a happy chance,
destined to be obliged to me. I sprung up the steps, murmured a “good
evening,” and drew out my night-key. I was surprised to find how much
courage, nay, even pride, I derived from the possession of this little
instrument. Briefly apologizing to the ladies for thus venturing to save
them the trouble of summoning a servant, I thrust the key in the lock,
and turned it with all my force. It snapped violently; I drew out the
fragment, and, to my horror, discovered that in my haste, I had not used
the night-key, but the key of my chamber.

“I really—beg ten thousand pardons,” I faltered—“it was the wrong
key—”

“The key is broken!” cried the shrill voice of Mrs. Elwyn. “It is
dreadful to be kept standing here!” She pulled the bell furiously.

In affright I pulled it also; the porter’s hurried steps were presently
heard in the hall, and he was rattling at the lock.

“Open the door!” cried the lady, impatiently.

“I cannot unlock it!” said the man within; “there must be something in
the key-hole.”

“The broken key!” screamed Mrs. Elwyn, with an angry glance at me; “so
officious, to insist—”

“Mother!” pleaded the soft, low voice of Gertrude; for she saw that the
dame was forgetting herself.

“It must—it can—I will run for a locksmith!” I exclaimed. I saw that
the carriage had driven off.

“And we are to stand here alone, perhaps to be insulted by any drunken
vagabond!” cried Mrs. Elwyn. “But go—nothing else can be done. Make
haste—why do you wait?”

A locksmith lived in the next street; I flew thither; by chance he was
still up, and as soon as his tools could be collected, he hastened to
the spot. There stood the angry lady, her teeth chattering with cold,
her mantle covered with the snow-flakes that had begun to fall,
murmuring at the delay; her daughter was leaning in silence against the
side of the door; and within could be heard the grumbling of the porter.
I could not see Gertrude’s face, even if I had been calm enough to read
its expression.

The skillful locksmith, with the ready tact of his profession, soon
comprehended the difficulty, and having tried to pick the lock, decided
that it must be done from the inside. A ladder was in requisition, to
enter by the window above. Mrs. Elwyn was in despair at this
intelligence, and broke out into complaints and reproaches, intended for
me, which I heard but imperfectly, as I ran to borrow a ladder of some
firemen in the neighborhood. It was brought by two of the company, who
were followed by several others eager to learn what was going on. These
were joined by some late idlers, while the windows of the adjoining and
opposite houses, as well as those of our own, were thrown open, and a
multitude of heads thrust out to see what was the matter. A pretty scene
for the crowd-hating, aristocratic, haughty Mrs. Elwyn! For once,
unmindful of her dignity, she stood giving voluble directions to the
locksmith, already at the window, calling to him with flurried emphasis,
to be careful not to throw down the flower-stand, or break the vase full
of goldfish—which articles belonged to her. As for me, my only feeling
was one of absolute despair, for I knew that my transgression, with its
consequences, was unpardonable. We obtained entrance at last, and I
heard the farewell of my love in the indignant rustle of Mrs. Elwyn’s
mantle, as she swept up stairs. A day or two after she and her daughter
departed on a visit to Washington, and when they returned, took lodgings
elsewhere. I heard in a few months of Gertrude’s marriage, but felt no
sorrow, for the spell was broken. That midnight scene, with the
mortification it caused me, was a harmless termination to my First Love.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA.


 BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD
                              HURDIS,” &c.


        _Guard._ What work is here? Charmian, is this well done?
        _Charmian._ It is well done, and fitting for a princess,
            Descended of so many royal kings.
                                                 SHAKSPEARE.

     AUGUSTUS CÆSAR. DOLABELLA.
      _Augustus._ Dead! say’st thou? Cleopatra?

      _Dolabella._             She sleeps fast—
  Will answer nothing more—hath no more lusts
  For passion to persuade—nor art to breed
  Any more combats. I have seen her laid—
  As for a bridal—in a pomp of charms,
  That mocked the flashing jewels in her crown
  With beauty never theirs. Her bridegroom one
  Who conquers more than Cæsar—a grim lord
  Now in the fullest possession of his prize,
  Who riots on her sweets; seals with close kiss
  The precious caskets of her eyes, that late
  Held—baiting fond desire with hope of spoil—
  Most glorious gems of life; and, on her cheek,
  Soft still with downy ripeness—not so pale,
  As sudden gush of fancy in the heart
  Might bring to virgin consciousness—he lays
  His icy lip, that fails to cause her shrink
  From the unknown soliciting. Her sleep
  Dreams nothing of the embrace, the very last
  Her eager and luxurious form may know,
  Of that dread ravisher.

      _Augustus._             If it be true,
  She still hath baffled me. My conquest sure—
  My triumph incomplete! I had borne her else,
  The proudest trophy of a myriad spoil,
  In royal state to Rome. Give me to know
  The manner of her death.

      _Dolabella._             By her own hands,
  That conscious still, commended to her breast
  The fatal kiss of Nile’s envenomed asp;
  That subtle adder, that from slime and heat
  Receives a gift of poison, whose least touch
  Is a sure stoppage of the living tides.

      _Augustus._ Her death commends her more than all her life!
  ’Twas like a queen—fit finish to a state,
  That, in its worst excess, passionate and wild,
  Had still a pomp of majesty, too proud
  For mortal subjugation! She had lusts
  Most profligate of harm—but with a will,
  That, under laws of more restraint, had raised
  Her passions into powers, which might have borne
  Best fruits for the possessor. They have wrought
  Much evil to her nature; but her heart
  Cherished within a yearning sense of love
  That did not always fail; and where she set
  The eye of her affections, her fast faith
  Kept the close bond of obligation sure.
  This still should serve, when censure grows most free,
  To sanctify her fault. In common things
  Majestic, as in matters of more state,
  She had besides the feminine arts to make
  Her very lusts seem grateful; and with charms
  That mocked all mortal rivalry, she knew
  To dress the profligate graces in her gift—
  Generous to very wantonness, and free
  Of bounty, where Desert might nothing claim—
  That Virtue’s self might doubt of her own shape,
  So lovely grew her counterfeit. O’er all,
  Her splendor, and her soul’s magnificence.
  The pomp that crowned her state—luxurious shows
  Where Beauty, grown subservient to a sway
  That made Art her first vassal—these, so twinned
  With her voluptuous weakness, did become
  Her well, and took from her the hideous hues
  That else had made men loathe!
                          I would have seen
  This princess ere she died! How looks she now?

      _Dol._ As one who lives but sleeps; no change to move
  The doubts of him who sees, yet nothing knows,
  Of that sly, subtle enemy, which still
  Keeps harbor round her heart. Charmian, her maid,
  Had, ere I entered, lidded up the eyes,
  That had no longer office; and she lay,
  With each sweet feature harmonizing still
  As truly with the nature as at first,
  When Beauty’s wide-world wonder she went forth
  Spelling both art and worship! Never did sleep
  More slumberous, more infant-like, give forth
  Its delicate breathings. You might see the hair
  Wave in stray ringlets as the downy breath
  Lapsed through the parted lips, and dream the leaf
  Torn from the rose and laid upon her mouth
  Was lifted by that zephyr of the soul
  That still kept watch within—waiting on life
  In ever anxious ministry. Lips and brow—
  The one most sweetly parted as for song—
  The other smooth and bright, even as the pearls
  That, woven in fruit-like clusters, hung above,
  Starring the raven curtains of her hair—
  Declared such calm of happiness, as never
  Her passionate life had known. No show of pain—
  No writhed muscle—no distorted cheek,
  Deformed the beautiful picture of repose,
  Or spoke th’ unequal struggle, when fond life
  Strives with its dread antipathy. Her limbs
  Lay pliant, with composure, on the couch,
  Whose draperies loosely fell about her form,
  With gentle flow, and natural fold on fold,
  Proof of no difficult conflict. There had been,
  Perchance, one pang of terror, when she gave
  Free access to her terrible enemy;
  Or in the moment when the venomous chill
  Went sudden to her heart; for from her neck
  The silken robes had parted. The white breast
  Lay half revealed, save where the affluent hair
  Streamed over it in thick disheveled folds,
  That asked no further care. Oh! to behold,
  With eye still piercing to the sweet recess,
  Where rose each gentle slope, that seemed to swell
  Beneath mine eye, as conscious of my gaze,
  And throbbing with emotion soft as strange,
  Of love akin to fear. Thus dwelling still,
  Like little billows on some happy sea,
  They sudden seemed to freeze, as if the life
  Grew cold when all was loveliest. One blue vein
  Skirted the white curl of each heaving wave,
  A tint from some sweet sunbow, such as life
  Flings ever on the cold domain of death;
  And, at their equal heights, two ruby crests—
  Two yet unopened buds from the same flower—
  Borne upward by the billows, rising yet,
  Grew into petrified gems, with each an eye
  Eloquent pleading to the passionate heart
  For all of love it knows! Alas! the mock!
  That Death should mask himself with loveliness,
  And Beauty have no voice, in such an hour,
  To warn its eager worshiper. I saw—
  And straight forgot, in joy of what I saw,
  What still I knew—that Death was in my sight,
  And what was seeming beautiful, was but
  The twilight—the brief interval—betwixt
  The glorious day and darkness. I had kissed
  The wooing bliss before me, but that then
  Crawled forth the venomous reptile from the folds
  Where still it harbored—crawled across that shrine
  Of Beauty’s best perfections, which, meseemed,
  To shrink and shudder ’neath its loathly march,
  Instinct with all the horrors at my heart.

      _Augustus._ Thus Guilt and Shame deform the Beautiful!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THE FAIRIES’ SONG.


                              BY HEINRICH.


    Stars are twinkling bright above us,
        Music calls us on;
    Shades of eve that guard and love us,
        Veil the hallowed lawn;
            Hand in hand,
            All the band,
        Dance we till the breaking dawn!

    Hark! the gently swelling measure!
        Twine the magic rings!
    Dance, while lasts our nightly pleasure,
        While the bluebells ring;
            And above,
            ’Mid the grove,
        Nightingales in chorus sing.

    Far away all human voices!
        Spirits far away!
    Naught but Fairy Elf rejoices
        Where the Fairies play;
            Play and dance,
            ’Neath the glance
        Of the moon’s reflected ray!

    Faster! Faster! Night is waning;
        All must end with night.
    Russet clouds of morn are staining
        Phœbe’s silvery light;
            Sisters, hark!
            ’Twas the lark!
        Fairies! Fairies! Take to flight.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            THE TWO COUSINS;


                A MAS-SA-SANGA LEGEND OF WESTERN CANADA.


                  BY G. COPWAY, OR KAH-GE-GA-GAH-BOWH.


There lived among the hills of the North two most intimate friends, who
appeared to have loved each other from the hour of their earliest
childhood. In summer they lived by a beautiful lake, in autumn on the
banks of a noble river. In appearance they were nearly similar,
apparently of the same age as they were of the same size. In their early
days a good old Indian woman attended to their wants, and cared for
their wigwam. Together they strolled among the green woods and shared
the results of their ramblings. Years passed by, and manhood came. They
used larger bows and arrows. One day the old lady took them by her side
and said—“The nation to which we belong fasts, and now I want you to
fast, that you may become great hunters.” So they fasted.

As spring advanced they killed a great many wild ducks, and kept the old
woman of the wigwam busy. In the latter part of the year they killed
large numbers of beavers, with the furs of which they clothed their
grandmother and themselves. In their journey one day they made an
agreement, to the effect, that if when they fasted the gods were kindly
disposed toward one, he would inform the other.

In the fall they were far from the rivers, but yet moved toward the
north, where, as they knew, the bears most resorted.

During that winter they killed a great many, as also during the month of
March ensuing.

At the close of one of their hunting expeditions, they turned their feet
toward their home, at which they arrived at a late hour. As they
approached, they heard the sound of several voices besides that of their
grandmother. They listened. They knew that strangers were in the wigwam,
and entering beheld two young and beautiful damsels, seated in that part
of the room in which they generally rested during the night. To the
young hunters the young women appeared very strange and modest. At
length the old lady said to the young men—

“Nosesetook—my children—I have called these two young women from the
south, that they may aid me in taking care of all the meat and venison
you bring home, for I am getting old and weak, and cannot do as much as
I used to. I have put them by your sides that they may be your
companions.”

When the last words were spoken they looked upon each other, and soon
left to wander by themselves in the forest around. They consulted
together as to whether they should comply with her request. One said he
should leave the wigwam. The other said that if they left there would be
no one to supply their aged grandmother. And they finally agreed to
remain in the wigwam and pay no regard to the new-comers.

They slept side by side every night, and agreed that if either should
begin to love one of the young strangers they would inform the other,
and would then separate forever. In February they obtained a vast amount
of game, as the bears having retired to their winter-quarters were
easily found and captured.

It was observed one evening that one of the young men gazed very
intently at one of the strangers, and the next morning as they went out
he asked the other whether he did not begin to love the young damsel who
sat on his side of the birchen fire. He replied negatively.

It was observed that one of the cousins appeared to be deeply absorbed
in thought every evening, and that his manners were very reserved. After
a fortunate hunting-day, as they were wending their way home with their
heavy burden of bear and deer, one accused the other of loving the young
woman. Tell me, said he, and if you do, I will leave you to yourselves.
If you have a wife I cannot take the same delight with you as I did when
we followed the chase.

His cousin sighed and said, “I will tell you to-night as we lie side by
side.” At night they reasoned together and agreed to hunt. If they did
not meet with success, they must separate.

The next morning they went to the woods. They were not far distant from
each other. The one who was in love shot only five, while the other
returned with the tongues of twenty bears. The former was all the time
thinking of the damsel at home, while the latter sought out his game
with nothing else to divert his mind.

On their return home the lucky man informed his grandmother that he
should leave the next day, and that what he should kill on the morrow
must be searched after, as he should not return to tell them where he
had killed the game. His cousin was grieved to find that his mind was
made up to leave, and began to expostulate with him to change his
determination, but he would not be persuaded to do so.

The next day, the young man who was to leave bound a rabbit-skin about
his neck, to keep it warm, and having painted himself with red and
yellow paints he left; his cousin following just behind, entreating him
not to go. “I will go,” said he, “and live in the north, where I shall
see but four persons, and when you look that way you will see me.”

They walked side by side until he began to ascend, and as he did so, the
other wept the more bitterly, and entreated him more perseveringly not
to leave him. The cousin ascended to the skies, and is now seen in the
north, Ke-wa-din Ah-nung (North Star,) still hunting the polar bear;
while the other wept himself to naught before he could arrive home, and
now he answers and mocks everywhere everybody. He lives in craggy rocks,
and his name is Bah-swa-nay (Echo.)

The young maidens lived for a long time in the south under ambrosial
bowers, awaiting the return of their lovers, until one fell in love with
mankind, and the other yet lives in that country, awaiting the return of
her lover, where

                  ——“she looks as clear
        As morning roses, newly washed in dew.”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           UNFADING FLOWERS.


                            BY T. S. ARTHUR.


Thirty years ago, a small, barefooted boy, paused to admire the flowers
in a well cultivated garden. The child was an orphan, and had already
felt how hard the orphan’s lot. The owner of the garden, who was
trimming a border, noticed the lad, and spoke to him kindly.

“Do you love flowers?” said he.

The boy replied, “Oh yes. We used to have beautiful flowers in our
garden.”

The man laid down his knife, and gathering a few flowers, took them to
the fence, through the panels of which the boy was looking, and handing
them to him, said as he did so,

“Here’s a nice little bunch for you.”

A flush went over the child’s face as he took the flowers. He did not
make any reply, but in his large eyes, as he lifted them to the face of
the man, was an expression of thankfulness, to be read as plainly as
words in a book.

The act, on the part of the man, was one of spontaneous kindness, and
scarcely thought of again; but, by the child, it was never forgotten.

Years went by, and through toil, privation and suffering, both in body
and mind, the boy grew up to manhood. From ordeals like this, come forth
our most effective men. If kept free from vicious associates, the lad of
feeling and mental activity becomes ambitious, and rises in society
above the common level. So it proved in the case of this orphan boy. He
had few advantages of education, but such as offered were well improved.
It happened that his lot was cast in a printing office; and the young
compositor soon became interested in his work. He did not set the types
as a mere mechanic, but went beyond the duties of his calling, entering
into the ideas to which he was giving verbal expression, and making them
his own. At twenty-one he was a young man of more than ordinary
intelligence and force of character. At thirty-five he was the conductor
of a widely-circulated and profitable newspaper, and as a man, respected
and esteemed by all who knew him.

During the earnest struggle that all men enter into who are ambitious to
rise in the world, the thoughts do not often go back and rest,
meditatively, upon the earlier time of life. But after success has
crowned each well-directed effort, and the gaining of a desired
position, no longer remains a subject of doubt, the mind often brings up
from the far-off past most vivid recollections of incidents and
impressions that were painful or pleasurable at the time, and which are
now seen to have had an influence, more or less decided, upon the whole
after life. In this state of reflection sat one day the man we have here
introduced. After musing for a long time, deeply abstracted, he took up
his pen and wrote hastily—and these were the sentences he traced upon
the paper that lay before him.

“How indelibly does a little act of kindness, performed at the right
moment, impress itself upon the mind. We meet, as we pass through the
world, so much of rude selfishness, that we guard ourselves against it,
and scarcely feel its effects. But spontaneous kindness comes so rarely,
that we are surprised when it appears, and delighted and refreshed as by
the perfume of flowers in the dreary winter. When we were a small boy,
an orphan, and with the memory of a home forever lost too vivid in our
young heart, a man, into whose beautiful garden we stood looking, pulled
a few flowers, and handed them through the fence, speaking a kind word
as he did so. He did not know, and perhaps never will know, how deeply
we were touched by his act. From a little boy we loved the flowers, and
ere that heaviest affliction a child ever knows—the loss of
parents—fell upon us, we almost lived among them. But death separated
between us and all those tender associations and affections that, to the
hearts of children, are like dew to the tender grass. We entered the
dwelling of a stranger, and were treated thenceforth as if we had, or
ought to have, no feelings, no hopes, no weaknesses. The harsh command
came daily and almost hourly to our ears; and not even for work well
done, or faithful service, were we cheered by words of commendation.

“One day—we were not more than eleven years old—something turned our
thoughts back upon the earlier and happier time when we had a true home,
and were loved and cared for. We were once more in the garden and among
the sweet blossoms, as of old, and the mother, on whose bosom we had
slept, sat under the grape arbor while we filled her lap with flowers.
There was a smile of love on her dear face, and her lips were parting
with some word of affection, when, to scatter into nothing these dear
images of the lonely boy, came the sharp command of a master, and in
obedience we started forth to perform some needed service. Our way was
by the garden of which we have spoken; and it was on this occasion, and
while the suddenly dissipated image of our mother among the flowers was
re-forming itself in our young imagination, that the incident to which
we have alluded occurred. We can never forget the grateful perfume of
those flowers, nor the strength and comfort which the kind words and
manner of the giver imparted to our fainting spirit. We took them home,
and kept them fresh as long as water would preserve their life and
beauty; and when they faded, and the leaves fell, pale and withered,
upon the ground, we grieved for their loss as if a real friend had been
taken away.

“It is a long, long time since that incident occurred; but the flowers
which there sprung up in our bosom, are fresh and beautiful still. They
have neither faded nor withered—they cannot, for they are unfading
flowers. We never looked upon the man who gave them to us that our heart
did not grow warm toward him. We know not now whether he be living or
dead. Twenty years ago we lost sight of him; but, if still among the
dwellers of earth, and in need of a friend, we would divide with him our
last morsel.”

An old man, with hair whitened by the snows of many winters, was sitting
in a room that was poorly supplied with furniture, his head bowed down,
and gaze cast dreamily upon the floor. A pale young girl came in while
he thus sat musing. Lifting his eyes to her face, he said, while he
tried to look cheerful,

“Ellen, dear, you must not go out to-day.”

“I feel a great deal better, grandpa,” returned the girl, forcing a
smile. “I am able to go to work again.”

“No, child, you are not,” said the old man, firmly; “and you must not
think of such a thing.”

“Don’t be so positive, grandpa.” And as she uttered this little
sentence, in a half playful voice, she laid her hand among the thin gray
locks on the old man’s head, and smoothed them caressingly. “You know
that I must not be idle.”

“Wait, child, until your strength returns.”

“Our wants will not wait, grandpa.” As the girl said this, her face
became sober. The old man’s eyes again fell to the floor, and a heavy
sigh came forth from his bosom.

“I will be very careful and not overwork myself again,” resumed Ellen,
after a pause.

“You must not go to-day,” said the old man, arousing himself. “It is
murder. Wait at least until to-morrow. You will be stronger then.”

“If I do not go back to-day, I may lose my place. You know I have been
home for three days.”

“You were sick.”

“Work will not wait. The last time I was kept away by sickness, a
customer was disappointed; and there was a good deal of trouble about
it.”

Another sigh came heavily from the old man’s heart.

“I will go,” said the girl. “Perhaps they will let me off for a day
longer. If so, I will come back. But I must not lose the place.”

No further resistance was made by the old man. In a little while he was
alone. Hours went by, but Ellen did not return. She had gone to work.
Her employer would not let her go away, feeble as she was, without a
forfeiture of her place.

About mid-day, finding that Ellen did not come back, the old man, after
taking some food, went out. The pressure of seventy years was upon him,
and his steps were slow and carefully taken.

“I must get something to do. I can work still,” he muttered to himself,
as he moved along the streets. “The dear child is killing herself, and
all for me.”

But what could he do? Who wanted the services of an old man like him,
whose mind had lost its clearness, whose step faltered, and whose hand
was no longer steady? In vain he made application for employment.
Younger and more vigorous men filled all the places, and he was pushed
aside. Discouraged and drooping in spirit, he went back to his home, and
there awaited the fall of evening, which was to bring the return of the
only being left on earth to love him. At night-fall Ellen came in. Her
face, so pale in the morning, was now slightly flushed; and her eyes
were brighter than when she went out. The grandfather was not deceived
by this; he knew it as the sign of disease. He took her hand—it was
hot; and when he bent to kiss her gentle lips, he found them burning
with fever.

“Ellen, my child, why did you go to work to-day? I knew it would make
you sick,” the old man said, in a voice of anguish.

Ellen tried to smile and to appear not so very ill; but nature was too
much oppressed.

“I brought home some work, and will not go out to-morrow,” she remarked.
“I think the walk fatigued me more than any thing else. I will feel
better in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.”

But the girl’s hope failed in this. The morning found her so weak that
she could not rise from bed; and when her grandfather came into her room
to learn how she had passed the night, he found her weeping on her
pillow. She had endeavored to get up, but her head, which was aching
terribly, grew dizzy, and she fell back under a despairing consciousness
that her strength was gone.

The day passed, but Ellen did not grow better. The fever still kept her
body prostrate. Once or twice, when her grandfather was out of the room,
she took the work she had brought home, and tried to do some of it while
sitting up in bed. But ere a minute had passed, she became faint, while
all grew dark around her. She was no better when night came. If her mind
could have rested—if she had been free from anxious and distressing
thoughts, nature would have had some power to react, but as it was, the
pressure upon her was too great. She could not forget that they had
scarcely so much money as a dollar left, and that her old grandfather
was too feeble to work. Upon her rested all the burden of their support,
and she was now helpless.

On the next morning Ellen was better. She could sit up without feeling
dizzy, though her head still ached, and the fever had only slightly
abated. But the old man would not permit her to leave the bed, though
she begged him earnestly to let her do so.

The bundle of work that Ellen had brought home, was wrapped in a
newspaper, and this her grandfather took up to read some time during the
day.

“This is Mr. T——’s newspaper,” said he, as he opened it, and saw the
title. “I knew T—— when he was a poor little orphan boy. But, of
course, he don’t remember me. He’s prospered wonderfully.”

And then his eyes went along the columns of the paper, and he read aloud
to Ellen such things as he thought would interest her. Among others was
a reminiscence by the editor—the same that we have just given. The old
man’s voice faltered as he read. The little incident, so feelingly
described, had long since been hidden in his memory under the gathering
dust of time. But now the dust was swept away, and he saw his own
beautiful garden. He was in it and among the flowers; and wishfully
looking through the fence stood the orphan boy. He remembered having
felt pity for him, and he remembered now as distinctly as if it were but
yesterday, though thirty years had intervened, the light that went over
the child’s face as he handed him a few flowers that were to fade and
wither in a day.

Yes, the old man’s voice faltered while he read; and when he came to the
last sentence, the paper dropped upon the floor, and clasping his hands
together, he lifted his dim eyes upward, while his lips moved in
whispered words of thankfulness.

“What ails you, grandpa?” asked Ellen, in surprise.

But the old man did not seem to hear her voice.

“Dear grandpa,” repeated the girl, “why do you look so strangely?” She
had risen in bed, and was bending toward him.

“Ellen, child,” said the old man, a light breaking over his countenance,
as though a sunbeam had suddenly come into the room, “it was your old
grandfather who gave the flowers to that poor little boy. Did you hear
what he said?—he would divide his last morsel.”

The old man moved about the room with his unsteady steps, talking in a
wandering way, so overjoyed at the prospect of relief for his child,
that he was nearly beside himself. But there yet lingered some embers of
pride in his heart; and from these the ashes were blown away, and they
became bright and glowing. The thought of asking a favor as a return for
that little act, which was to him, at the time, a pleasure, came with a
feeling of reluctance. But when he looked at the pale young girl who lay
with her eyes closed and her face half buried in the pillow, he murmured
to himself, “It is for you—for you!” And taking up his staff, he went
tottering forth into the open air.

The editor was sitting in his office, writing, when he heard the door
open, and turning, he saw before him an old man with bent form and snowy
head. Something in the visiter’s countenance struck him as familiar; but
he did not recognize him as one whom he had seen before.

“Is Mr. T—— in?” inquired the old man.

“My name is T——,” replied the editor.

“You?” There was a slight expression of surprise in the old man’s voice.

“Yes, I am T——, my friend,” was kindly said. “Can I do any thing for
you? Take this chair.”

The offered seat was accepted; and as the old man sunk into it, his
countenance and manner betrayed his emotion.

“I have come,” said he, and his voice was unsteady, “to do what I could
not do for myself alone. But I cannot see my poor, sick grandchild wear
out and die under the weight of burdens that are too heavy to be borne.
For her sake I have conquered my own pride.”

There was a pause.

“Go on,” said T——, who was looking at the old man earnestly, and
endeavoring to fix his identity in his mind.

“You don’t know me?”

“Your face is not entirely strange,” said T——. “It must have been a
long time since we met.”

“Long? Oh yes! It is a long, long time. You were a boy, and I unbent by
age.”

“Markland!” exclaimed T——, with sudden energy, springing to his feet
as the truth flashed upon him. “Say—is it so?”

“My name is Markland.”

“And do we meet again thus!” said T——, with emotion, as he grasped the
old man’s hand. “Ah, sir, I have never forgotten you. When a sad-hearted
boy, you spoke to me kindly, and the words comforted me when I had no
other comfort. The bunch of flowers you gave me—you remember it, no
doubt—are still fresh in my heart. Not a leaf has faded. They are as
bright and green, and full of perfume as when I first hid them there;
and there they will bloom forever—the unfading flowers of gratitude. I
am glad you have come, though grieved that your declining years are made
heavier by misfortune. Heaven has smiled on my efforts in the world. I
have enough, and to spare.”

“I have not come for charity,” returned Markland. “I have hands, and
they would not be idle, though it is not much that they can accomplish.”

“Be not troubled on that account, my friend,” was kindly answered. “I
will find something for you to do. But first tell me all about
yourself.”

Thus encouraged, the old man told his story. It was the common history
of loss of property and friends, and the approach of want with declining
years. T—— saw that pride and native independence were still strong in
Markland’s bosom, feeble as he was, and really unable to enter upon any
serious employment; and his first impulse was to save his feelings at
the same time that he extended to him entire and permanent relief. This
he found no difficulty in doing, and the old man was soon after placed
in a situation where but little application was necessary, while the
income was all-sufficient for the comfortable support of himself and
grandchild.

The flowers offered with a purely humane feeling, proved to be fadeless
flowers; and their beauty and perfume came back to the senses of the
giver when all other flowers were dead or dying on his dark and dreary
way.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                         WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.


                          BY PROFESSOR FROST.


[Illustration]


            LABRADOR AUK, OR PUFFIN. (_Fratercula Arctica._)

We have already remarked that there are but two species of the true Auk.
The Puffin belongs to the sub-genus Fratercula. Of the singular figure
of this bird our engraving gives a true representation; of its habits,
Selby gives the following account, which is corroborated by other
writers who have described it.

“Although the Puffin is found in very high latitudes, and its
distribution through the Arctic Circle is extensive, it is only known to
us as a summer visitant, and that from the south, making its first
appearance in the vicinity of its breeding stations, about the middle of
April, and regularly departing between the 10th and the 20th of August.
Many resort to the islands, selecting such as are covered with a stratum
of vegetable mould; and here they dig their own burrows, from there not
being any rabbits to dispossess upon the particular islets they
frequent. They commence this operation about the first week in May, and
the hole is generally excavated to the depth of three feet, often in a
curving direction, and occasionally with two entrances. When engaged in
digging, which is principally performed by the males, they are sometimes
so intent on their work as to admit of being taken by hand, and the same
may also be done during incubation. At this period I have frequently
obtained specimens, by thrusting my arm into the burrow, though at the
risk of receiving a severe bite from the powerful and sharp edged bill
of the old bird. At the farther end of this hole the single egg is
deposited, which in size nearly equals that of a pullet, and, as Pennant
observes, varies in form; in some instances one end being acute, and in
others equally obtuse. Its color when first laid is white, but it
becomes soiled and dirty from its immediate contact with the earth: no
materials being collected for a nest at the end of the burrow. The young
are hatched after a month’s incubation, and are then covered with a long
blackish down above, which gradually gives place to the feathered
plumage, so that at the end of a month or five weeks they are able to
quit the burrow, and follow their parents to the open sea. Soon after
this time, or about the second week in August, the whole leave our
coasts, commencing their equatorial migration. At an early age the bill
of this bird is small and narrow, scarcely exceeding that of the young
Razor-bill at the same period of life; and not till after the second
year does this member acquire its full development, both as to depth,
color, and its transverse furrows.

“In rocky places, they deposit their single egg in the holes and
crevices. The length of the bird is about twelve inches. The half of the
bill nearest the head is bluish; the rest red. The corners of the mouth
are puckered into a kind of star. The legs and feet are orange. The
plumage is black and white, with the exception of the cheeks and chin,
which are sometimes gray. The young, pickled with spices, are sometimes
considered dainties.”

[Illustration]


              THE LITTLE AUK. (_Mergulus Melano Leukos._)

The Little Auk, or Sea Dove, is an example of the genus Mergulus. It
braves the inclemency of very high latitudes, and is found in immense
flocks on the inhospitable coasts of Greenland, Spitsbergen, and
Melville Island. Here they watch the motion of the ice, and when it is
broken up by storms, “they come down in legions, crowding into every
fissure, to banquet on the crustaceous and other marine animals which
lie there at their mercy.

“The Little Auk is between nine and ten inches in length; the bill is
black and the legs inclining to brown; the plumage is black and white;
and in winter the front of the neck, which is black in summer, becomes
whitish. It lays but one egg, of a pale, bluish green, on the most
inaccessible ledges of the precipices which overhang the ocean.” Such
are the accounts of the naturalists and voyagers who have visited the
arctic regions. With its name of Sea Dove, its apparently delicate
structure, and its daring and heroic habits of life, it affords a most
inviting theme to the poet.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            PLEASANT WORDS.


                            BY CAROLINE MAY.


    Pleasant words are as an honey-comb, sweet to the soul, and
    health to the bones. PROV. xvi. 24.

    Many truths the Wise man gives
      To his sons and daughters,
    As pure and useful, strong and bright,
      As streams of living waters;
    But one I choose from all the rest,
    And call it now the very best.

    Pleasant words, he says, are like
      A comb of fragrant honey;
    The savings-bank of thriving bees,
      Whose cells contain their money,
    Where they, in little space, lay up
    The gains of many a flowery cup.

    “Sweet to the soul,” they gently soothe
      In days of bitter anguish;
    “Health to the bones,” they cheer the sick
      And lift the heads that languish;
    And with their care-dispelling chime,
    They touch the heart at any time.

    O! let us then ask God to plant
      In us His flowers of beauty,
    And teach us to watch over them
      With humble, patient duty;
    Sweet flowers that grace both age and youth,
    Love, meekness, gentleness and truth.

    For, as honey is not found
      Where no flowers are blowing,
    So, unless within our hearts
      Love and truth are growing,
    No one upon our lips will find
    “Pleasant words,” sincere and kind.

    But, unlike the fragile flowers,
      Who die—as soon as ever
    They have given their honey up—
      The more that we endeavor
    To lavish kindness everywhere,
    The more we still shall have to spare.

    “Pleasant words!” O let us strive
      To use them very often;
    Other hearts they will delight,
      And our own they’ll soften;
    While God himself will hear above,
    “Pleasant words” of truth and love.

    “Pleasant words!” The river’s wave
      That ripples every minute
    On the shore we love so well,
      Hath not such music in it;
    Nor are the songs of breeze or birds,
    Half so sweet as “pleasant words!”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                 DIRGE.


                     ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.


                         BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.


    Mournfully toll the bell:
      Gently bear earth to earth;
    Solemnly chant the knell;
      Death claims a mortal birth.

    Virgins, strew early flowers,
      Plucked from the snow in spring;
    Emblems of her sad hours—
      Smiling while withering.

    She was a gentle one:
      Pure as a seraph’s tear;
    Too soon her task was done;
      Born but to disappear!

    Low chant her requiem;
      Close o’er her breast the sod;
    Angels, teach her your hymn,
      While winging her way to God.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             PASSING AWAY.


                             BY ANNIE GREY.


    ’Tis written on the early flower,
      By a single faded leaf;
    ’Tis written with terrific power
      Upon the burning cheek.

    ’Tis written with an iron pen
      Upon that old man’s brow;
    And mark its tyrant impress when
      It touched thy darling now.

    ’Tis written on the fleeting smile
      And on the falling tear;
    ’Tis seen upon that old quaint dial,
      And in the grave-yard near.

    ’Tis written in thy mother’s touch,
      And in thy father’s care;
    These may not—though they love thee much—
      They may not linger here.

    Here, too, we see on friendship’s bond
      Its shadowy impress laid;
    The love we deemed so true, so fond,
      Its own dark grave hath made.

    Yet surely there is one thing here
      Which may not pass away—
    ’Tis early love, so fond, so dear,
      It cannot yield its sway?

    Oh! mark the eye averted now,
      And list to that scornful word,
    And see the cherished broken vow—
      E’en this hath the mandate heard.

    ’Tis written, then, on all things here,
      On smiles, on tears, on joy, on wo,
    On that we prize, on that we fear,—
      All teach alike that we must go.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          THE UNDIVIDED HEART.


               AFTER THE MANNER OF AN EARLY ENGLISH POET.


                               BY MYRRHA.


    When the rich merchant sendeth out his store,
      To multiply in foreign lands and seas,
    He scattereth it to every friendly shore,
      And spreads his sails to every favoring breeze.

    Then, if one bark, more luckless than the rest,
      Should chance make shipwreck on some fatal coast,
    Seeing he is of many more possest,
      He comforts him, although that one be lost.

    But one rich argosy holds all my store—
      If harm befall that one, what comes of me?
    Must I in beggary wander evermore,
      Subsistence craving of cold charity?

    How should I bear to think upon the day
      When Fortune’s gifts were showered upon my head
    Would not my misery more heavy weigh.
      In view of happiness remembered?

    Then let me rather trust my life also,
      In that one ship where all my riches be,
    That wheresoe’er she goeth I may go,
      And toss with her upon the faithless sea.

    Then, if the tempest bow the sturdy mast,
      And horrid billows sweep the shuddering deck,
    When every help and every hope is past,
      Calmly I’ll perish with my treasure’s wreck.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            EDITOR’S TABLE.


                           THE PARTING YEAR.

[Illustration]

        “Why sitt’st thou by that ruined hall,
          Thou aged earl, so stern and gray?
        Dost thou its former pride recall,
          Or ponder how it passed away?”
        “Know’st thou not me?” the deep voice cried:
          “So long enjoyed, so oft misused;
        Alternate in thy fickle pride,
          Desired, neglected, and accused!

        “Before my breath, like blazing flax,
          Man and his marvels pass away!
        And changing empires wane and wax;
          Are founded, flourish, and decay.
        Redeem mine hours, the space is brief,
          While in my glass the sand grains shiver;
        And measureless thy joy or grief,
          When time and thou shalt part forever.”
                             WALTER SCOTT.

The waning year is, to most minds, a season of reflection. And it is
good to pause and think, occasionally; to glance along the receding
vista of months, and review our actions ere too great a distance makes
their memory indistinct. Time seems to linger on his journey, to pause
by the crumbling ruins of earthly things, and point us to the past, that
we may gather therefrom lessons of wisdom for the future.

And now, as we stand on the verge of the parting year—as the last line
in its record of events is about being written, it is but to obey the
dictate of reason to let our thoughts run back. Time we cannot recall,
nor change the past. What we have done is done forever. Then, why, it
may be asked, turn our thoughts thitherward? Why not look in hope to the
future? It is that we may look to the future with brighter hopes, made
more certain through repentance and good resolutions.

What we are is of more, far more importance to us than what we seem to
others, or what we have gained in worldly goods. Our thoughts, then, as
we review the days and weeks in the closing circle of months, should
linger rather upon the purposes and acts of our moral life, than upon
the impression we have made upon others, or the amount of earthly
treasure we have gathered in from the harvest-fields of the world. A
good reputation may be lost through slander; riches may take to
themselves wings and fly away; but of the heart’s conscious rectitude no
event external to ourselves can rob us. It is true gold, which neither
moth nor rust can corrupt, and of which not even death itself can rob
us.

In turning back our thoughts upon the past, then, let us examine all our
acts in the light of their prompting ends. There is no act without a
purpose, and the purpose gives quality to the act. A selfish and bad end
makes an act evil, which might be innocent if done with a good end. A
man may pursue his worldly business with the same energy and success
that marks the course of his neighbor, and be all the while laying up
treasure above, while the latter gains nothing but the treasure on
earth, which, in a few years, passes into the coffers of another, while
he, naked and poor as he came into the world, recrosses the mortal
bourne, and is seen no more among his fellows. The great difference lies
in the end with which each prosecutes his daily calling. A good end
keeps in view what is just to the neighbor, while a selfish end causes a
man to disregard and even trample upon others’ rights.

As time points his trembling finger to the past, let each one, then,
carefully review the history of the year, so far as himself is
concerned, and, in reviewing it, look earnestly at the purposes which
have governed his various actions. These, in their accumulations, are to
make the future happy or miserable. Gold gained in a total disregard of
others’ rights or feelings, never has nor never will bring happiness;
for, in the acquisition, the mind takes an evil form in accordance with
its purpose, and such a form precludes the possibility of happiness.
Honor and fame acquired in like manner, will as certainly bring pain and
disappointment.

The great question then is—How far have I advanced in the year toward
that true humanity which is built up into a beautiful form, through good
purposes coming forth into good deeds? Just so far as this true humanity
has been attained, _and no further_, has the waning year been a well
spent and profitable year.

Is your mind not satisfied with the review measured by this standard?
Let the fact be wisely improved by a better life in the future. Begin
the next year with this higher standard in your mind, and resolve to
live up to it as far as is in your power.

There is one reflection connected with this theme that should produce a
strong impression. It is our present that makes our future. What we
purpose and do to-day throws forward its effect upon our coming years.
And this is the result of every day’s life. What would not some of us
give if we could change the rebuking past? But, alas! what is done is
done forever. The present with its deeds flits by and becomes the
unchangeable past. We may repent of our wrong doings, but repentance
cannot extract the sting from memory. With this thought, which should
alone prompt to right living in the future, we close our brief sermon;
commending its teachings to the wise and simple, the rich and the poor,
the old and the young, the learned and the unlearned, with the hope that
it may be like a nail in a sure place, or, like apples of gold on
pictures of silver.


                     THE POLITICAL WORLD FOR 1849.

                           BY J. R. CHANDLER.

It seems meet that we should take some note of the times in which we
live, and not allow a whole year to pass without a record of some of
those startling incidents by which it has been distinguished. We do not
pretend to publish “the news”—we do not mean to make commentaries upon
the political changes which are constantly occurring. There are papers
specially devoted to such matters, and they do their duty with fidelity
and satisfaction. We, however, think it proper (useful we mean, and
therefore proper,) to give a simple abstract of great political changes
and convulsions that have occurred in 1849. It may instruct some; it
will probably send many more to the records of the times to gain minute
information of such startling affairs. Some it may lead to reflect upon
the mutability of human productions, and the causes which have wrought
out such remarkable effects. Others will probably be ready, while they
mourn over the suffering and kindle at the bold steps and courageous
conduct of the uprising oppressed, abroad, to rejoice at the peace and
happiness secured to our own beloved country by the institutions of
republicanism which we enjoy, and to inquire whether such signal
advantages are not worth a vigilance that shall detect the first
movement, or the dangerous neglect that may jeopard the liberties of the
people and the peace and prosperity of the country.

We desire to sit down and make a small daguerreotype view of the nations
abroad, that our Magazine may close the year 1849 with such a picture as
would make ordinary readers, even the ladies, who are only ordinary as
they are the _general_ readers of our book, understand the changes which
are yet to take place. But we are compelled to write nearly a month
before we nominally publish, so that much may transpire between the
inkstand and the reading-desk; much that may change the whole
complexion, the features even of European politics, and cast either a
shade or a light across the Atlantic. Again, while we sit down to adjust
our instrument to catch the manners living as they rise, to receive and
fix the forms of nations upon our plates, they, instead of awaiting
their little moment, to give a perfect image, start into some revolution
and thus mar the picture which we would have strong, clear and distinct.
The troubles which beset the whole of Italy a year ago are, if not
settled, at least becoming less. The affairs of the various independent
governments seem to be so directed as to insure a return to something
like the position they held more than two years since.

In ROME, whence the Pope had been driven by the revolutionary power, the
French army in Italy established itself, after a free use of its heavy
batteries. For a moment it seemed that nothing more was intended than
the restoration of the Pope to his temporal power. But either the
President of France had a concealed motive in sending Oudinot with an
army into Italy, or the uplifted voice of the liberal portion of Europe
caused him to declare that he wished to prevent Austria and Spain from
gaining influence in Rome, and he desired with the return of the Pope,
to see the government (under his holiness) secularized.

Meantime the Pope, at Gaeta, apparently enjoying all the distinction
which his elevated position as spiritual and temporal chief could claim,
has been far from happy. He has seen into the motives of France, and
cannot be ignorant now of the spirit, the interested spirit, likely to
influence other nations which may undertake to restore him to Rome with
all his former power. Nay, it is evident that he is now weighing the
consideration whether it is best for his spiritual mission, and his
temporal comforts and honors to receive back such rule—he sees that the
times have changed, and he is evidently pausing to see how he may change
with them without exposing himself to the outrages to which his former
liberal movements exposed him.

VENICE that held out against the Austrian forces was compelled to
capitulate. She loses the distinction which she had retained, and her
condition as a free port is lost. Austria has even desired to build up
Trieste at the expense of Venice. It should be remarked, however, that
the political offences of the Venetians have been more leniently dealt
with than had been anticipated. The leaders of the revolt were removed
to Corfu by the French before the Austrians entered the city. Venice and
Venetian Lombardy are again the appanages of the Austrian crown.

There was an attempt at a revolt in the IONIAN ISLANDS, a quasi republic
under the protection of Great Britain. The disturbance took place in
Cephalonia, and the political outbreak was the occasion for a band of
ruffians to undertake to plunder and assassinate. A leading citizen of
Argistile was, with his family, burnt to death. Vigorous measures were
adopted by Mr. Ward, the high commissioner of the British government for
the Ionian Islands, and finally order was restored.

FRANCE—The year 1849 opened upon France in the enjoyment of the
_fierce_ youth of Republicanism, with a President elected almost
unanimously by the people, and with a National Assembly almost ready to
expire by its own peculiar organization. A new Assembly was elected and
was organized in May, and early in June the President, Louis Napoleon
Bonaparte, sent to that body his message, which, for the first time in
European history, contained a statement of the situation of the country
minutely set forth, and was thus far republican. Unfortunately the
President took occasion to set forth his own views and determinations in
a tone far more in accordance with those of his uncle, the Emperor
Napoleon, than like that of those who should supply his model—the
Presidents of the United States.

It may be noted that the revolutions of France have been very costly,
and her debt has been fearfully augmented by the convulsion that drove
Louis Philippe from the kingly throne and placed Louis Napoleon in the
presidential chair.

The election of Louis Napoleon to the presidency did by no means secure
the tranquillity of France; so many men leading various sections, that
united only _against_ one portion, were unprovided with power when the
union was to be in _favor_ of one man, that no sooner was the president
installed than those who had done most to make a place for him were
willing to do more to get him out of a place. And it cannot be denied
that the movements of France, or rather of Louis Napoleon, for really he
seems to be France, upon Rome, were not at first calculated to
conciliate the Red Republicans, and are now as little likely to satisfy
the opposite party; each will remember its peculiar cause of dislike,
but neither will keep in mind its occasion for approval. The truth is,
France is not yet essentially republican in its system. The people of
France would, by a large majority, vote to fight for a republican form
of government for their country, but they do not seem to comprehend the
true policy of a republic, and it may be doubted whether the tendency of
a single legislature, and the weight of Paris is not toward
centralization—most anti or at least unrepublican. France must look to
the federation of her departments. The president of France has made
various tours in his republic, and has been received with various
degrees of respect and courtesy, as his principles were more or less
approved, or, perhaps, as the people were more or less republican or
monarchical in their views. And it may be remarked, that every where he
has taken occasion to say that “order, system, and conservatism,” were
necessary to the prosperity of France; an idea well enough in the
abstract, but evidently, considering the speaker and the hearers,
intended to intimate that France needed less revolution among the
people, and more permanency in her executive. When he visited the
neighborhood of Ham, where he had been for a long time a prisoner, on
account of a rebellion against the established government, he was
reminded by some obsequious citizens of his sufferings and his
deliverance. But instead of launching out into a tirade against tyranny
in general, and especially that which confined him there, he took
occasion to preach a homily in favor of established power, and confessed
his error in being one of those who rose against it. Fenelon, when he
ascended the pulpit to denounce his own book, did not assume a more
self-condemnatory air, nor did he more regret his offences against
ecclesiastical rule, than did Louis Napoleon _his_ outrage upon the
kingly government; and this, too, in presence of a people that had
assisted within two years to put down a king, and had, by their votes,
elected him to office, in the place of that king.

France has placed herself, or was placed by her president, in a very
delicate position, with regard to other European powers, by her
interference in the Italian contest. She now complains that the Pope
does not acknowledge the services which she has rendered, (he certainty
seems to be very ignorant of any advantage which France has wrought for
him,) while the president declares that Rome must be secularized, and
must grant a _full_ amnesty to political offenders. France has her
attention now drawn toward the peculiar situation of affairs between the
Porte and the Emperor of Russia, in which England and France seem to
understand each other.

While the continent of Europe has been embroiled for the last year in
all kinds of contests, GREAT BRITAIN seems to have enjoyed unusual
tranquillity at _home_. The imperial parliament repealed the old
navigation laws which had been operative for two centuries. By the new
enactments greater freedom is given to vessels of other countries to
trade between the several ports of Great Britain; and in other countries
where reciprocal commercial treaties are established, the ships of Great
Britain will have similar advantages.

Peace is not productive of historical interest, and we have only to say,
that Great Britain has settled her troubles in the East by defeating the
Indian forces raised against her power; and she has commenced her
troubles in the _West_, by sanctioning certain laws passed by the
parliament of the Canadas to remunerate those who lost property in a
former rebellion. The truth is, there has grown up a strong and violent
hostility between the English residents in Canada and the French; and
the latter, with some of their allies, having a majority, passed the law
for indemnity, which the governor, Lord Elgin, signed; and this brought
against him the English party. The Home Government sanctioned the action
of his lordship, and this has led some of the English party to talk of
throwing off the English yoke, and uniting Canada with the United
States. It is probable that Great Britain has held Canada about as long
as is possible—and perhaps quite as long as is profitable.

The Queen of Great Britain has, with her husband and children, attended
by a numerous court, been visiting to Ireland and Scotland, and has been
eminently successful in conciliating the people of these parts of her
empire, and has done more to restore kind feelings and establish
herself, than all the arms which she could have sent against the
disaffected. She is at once popular and powerful, and sustains a bad
system by her gentleness and her sterling worth.

It is to the glory of Great Britain that in all the disturbances in
Europe of late, she has sought, by her intervention, to save the people
from the consequences of a bloody war, and in all cases she has appeared
as the friend of the weakest side, her mediation was not often accepted.
In the case of the unhappy war between Prussia and Denmark, about the
miserable affair of Schleswick Holstein, her offer was accepted, and
peace was restored.

DENMARK. We have little to say of this kingdom excepting that by her
superior naval force she redeemed her credit, somewhat impaired by the
success of the Prussians on the land; and the effective blockade induced
her enemy to listen to the proposition of Great Britain to mediate. The
result was the settlement of the difficulties about Schleswick Holstein.

PRUSSIA. The attempt to create a federative government in Germany has
not yet proved successful. Various plans have been proposed, and a
constitution, not unlike that of the United States, was nearly adopted.
But when the states which are to compose the federation have been so
long entirely independent, and have exercised the privileges of complete
sovereignty, they do not readily yield up their independence, and hence,
after moving toward a union, they start off, alarmed at the chance of
being lost sight of in the shadow of the larger states. The intention of
forming a confederacy is still cherished, and may be realized. Prussia
must, of course, have a leading voice in such a movement. But the power
of the continental monarchs rests, and must continue to rest, upon the
army, and consequently war, that weakens the nation, must, for a time,
give strength to kings. But as the strength which is imparted to the
human system by the use of opium, it will destroy in time what it was
intended to support.

AUSTRIA has had a sort of triumph; her arms have been successful in
Italy, and, with the aid of Russia, she has put down the rebellion in
Hungary. Yet Austria is weaker now than before her triumphs, and is
regarded with less favor, more hatred, more contempt than formerly. The
necessity of changes in her government; the necessity of destroying her
own rebellious cities; the necessity of applying to Russia for help,
have taught that power to feel that it is not only vulnerable, but that
it is perishable. And a few more such convulsions, even though Russia
interfere, will dismember the Germans, and set free her injured
dependencies.

HUNGARY. The brilliant effort of Hungary to cast off the yoke of Austria
promised for a time to be gloriously successful. The character of
Kossuth was so beautiful, his manners so conciliatory, his plans so
wise, and his power with the army so complete, that the world was
prepared to hail and welcome the old kingdom back to independence.
Austria was defeated. Her armies were beaten, and the rickety old
tyranny appealed to Russia for help—to Russia, the last refuge of
tyranny that exists. And Russia poured her _rubles_ down upon the plains
of Hungary, and corrupted one of the generals that had been entrusted
with power; and then she sent her herds of serfs and generals to receive
the concessions which she had _purchased_. And so Hungary sinks back
into a dependence upon Austria, liable at all times to be claimed and
fleeced by Russia.

We had wished, we confess, that Hungary would have freed herself—but
she must abide her time. Bem, Kossuth, and many other generals, with
numerous companies of soldiery, escaped into the Turkish dominions,
under a pledge of safety from the Sultan. But Russia, true to her
principle of pursuing her offenders, demanded these unfortunate
fugitives. The Sultan became alarmed, and asked the Hungarians to
renounce their faith, and adopt Mohamedism, and then they would become
citizens, and might not be claimed. Some assumed the turban, others
refused. But it is probable that Russia will find occasion in these and
other matters to make war on Turkey; if so, France and England must look
to what they have called the balance of power in Europe.

It is worthy of remark, that while Russia is settling the disturbance in
Hungary, the western principalities of Turkey seem to be uniting with
Greece to assert some of the rights of man. We know not what will
result—but it appears as if there was going forth a voice which is
crying “_war—war_ to tyranny and oppression!” Its denunciation may
indeed serve to make the hand of power clutch more closely the neck of
its victim, but the grasp must be spasmodic—strong, perhaps stronger
than formerly, at least, the neck is growing more sensitive—but the
grasp will be loosed, and the people will be allowed to go and form
their own government and enjoy their own rights.

There have been few changes on this side of the Atlantic. The most
important movements have been in California, where the tide of
immigration attracted by gold and retained by a new feeling of civicism,
has swollen into the materials for a new government. The opinion
entertained at one time that the attempt to form a territorial
government for California would embarrass the National Administration by
giving rise to the question of the extent of slavery, by the application
of what is called the “Wilmot proviso,” seems to have subsided by the
project of inducing California to make application at once for admission
into the Union as a _State_, of course the Wilmot proviso would have no
operation on such an appeal.

No changes of consequence have occurred in South America. Improvement in
the sciences, peace, and order will strengthen republican institutions,
and republican feelings, and we may hope that prosperity and happiness
will ere long be the lot of those whom Providence has placed in a
Heavenly climate and on a most productive soil, but whose stimulated
passions have made a hell of their country, and denied to the soil the
produce which it might have brought forth.

Excepting the fearful prevalence of cholera in various parts of the
country, the UNITED STATES have continued in the enjoyment of political,
moral, and social blessings; and we may hope that Providence will
continue to smile on the efforts of its patriots to sustain the
institutions with which their country is blessed, and to make each
citizen sensible of the vast advantages he enjoys over the subjects of
foreign powers. And if God, who hitherto has poured out his choicest
favors on our beloved land, should vouchsafe his blessings hereafter, we
may see her wielding power for the good of mankind, and teaching other
nations the true use of government. Not doubting but this will be the
case, we think we see down the vista of time our country becoming the
mild dictator to the world, and her peaceful government sheltering the
injured from other lands and correcting the injurer. And while such a
prospect is held out we may look, as the cause and consequence thereof,
for peace and moral worth, and

        From Darien to Davis one garden shall bloom
          When war’s wearied banners are furled,
        And the far-scented zephyr that wafts its perfume
          Shall silence the storms of the world.


                           PROSPECTIVE!—1850.

MY DEAR JEREMY,—Have you ever taken a long-bill on the wing of a July
morning? Not a note at eight months, flying in the market at a heavy
discount—but a genuine long-bill, an old woodcock, springing up at your
feet with whistling and whirring wings, and doing his uttermost to get
out of the way, without waiting for the formality of invitation expended
upon a certain Mr. Tucker? “You have not.” Well, I shall not attempt the
task of teacher after HERBERT, but you can have no conception of the
cool head and steady nerve required to do it well. To an old hand, with
dog and gun, with a constitution inured by exercise, it is the glory of
the world’s excitements, and as far above the lust of money-getting, as
poetry is above note-shaving.

I took my tramp this summer, of three months, among the hills and
marshes where this bird—which is a bore in one way only—loves most to
congregate, and saw our old friend, “the iron pump” of copper notoriety
looking as dry as his purchasers and quite as rusty. I could not resist
the impulse to take a crack at him, at forty yards, with my
double-barrel, as at an imaginary copper-head. The excavations looked
like the ready-made graves of speculators, who somehow or other had not
come there to be buried. The very faces of the rocks had been twisted
into grimaces, and seemed with their yellow eyes to be grinning at one;
so shouldering my gun, and whistling to give strength to an imaginary
band playing

        “Over the river to Charley,”

I went down into the valley, and took vengeance for bills long
dishonored, upon bills that I honor long.

But, Jeremy, we cannot submit to the “vagabond propensity,” as the old
farmers call it, of roaming with dog and gun over mountain and meadow,
though the morning dew has made the air redolent of sweets, and from
every bush and blade of grass nature has hung her pearls invitingly, and
lit up, as with the blaze of a torch, the gum and maple trees; though
the pure air and fresh water have given health to eye and cheek and
vigor to the frame, we must away to the turbulent city, and within its
pent up streets and among its crowded artisans and tradesmen wrestle for
bread, and shutting out from the heart its glimpses of heaven and repose
in the country, grapple with toil, work on, and hope on! Yet with a sure
and an abiding trust and faith.

With the opening of the New Year the periodical campaign brings thought
and labor. What a world within itself is this business in Philadelphia
alone—how stirring the competition—how diverse the interests—how
various the success. The unparalleled rise in the business within one
short year has been the result of diligent application. The publishers
have most gloriously bought their own success, and have raised their
works to such a point of beauty and excellence that money can go no
further. The spirit of a just competition has urged each man to do his
very uttermost to give his readers all that can by possibility be
crowded, in the way of beauty and excellence, into his work. Every
dollar received goes back in renewed outlay, in costly embellishments
and articles. Nothing in Europe at twice their price can at all approach
the illustrated American Monthlies in the beauty and costliness of their
appointments. At the head of _all_ stands
“GRAHAM”—Proud—Imperious—Supreme. He has no long line of broken
promises to come up in judgment against him, but for ten long years has
steadily gone on increasing in the face of all opposition, until he now
stands unapproachable and alone, among the highest class of literary
monthlies in the land. There are others of a lighter
class—successful—highly successful—but his is the proud honor of
having lifted the tone of his literature, and the quality of his
engravings, up to the highest European standard of excellence in all
respects. There is yet another class, who deal in promises—and promises
only—whose best numbers come up to the meanest promise only of their
printed circulars, but who go on crowding promise upon failure to
redeem, until the virtues of their acts are lost in the fog they
raise—fortunately their works also. More than a score of such have we
seen entombed—some we have helped to bury—but they come again, like
the locust, annually, and swindling a few dupes out of their money,
annually die. This is the class which does business altogether by


                    THE SUCTION AND PUMPING PROCESS.

[Illustration]

From this party, we shall no doubt be favored, with very
extravagant-looking show-bills, and plenty of them—long bills drawn
upon the credulity of people who fill an imaginary subscription list,
and are very liberal in remittances, and whose wonderful sagacity in
waiting until 1850, will be duly heralded, and in type announced. The
existence of any periodical of the slightest pretension to elegance or
ability, not having been heard of before, and only known among that
benighted class, whose urgent literary tastes would not allow them to
suffer and to wait.

Having seen our friends of “The Suction and Pumping Process” fairly in
the field, let us survey the ground. On the whole, things look rather
brilliant; a number of “new volumes with superb inducements,” are
already announced, and with the usual cheering before starting, the
entertainments for 1850 promise to be rich and various beyond parallel.
Ingenuity, it seems, is not exhausted, nor are novelties entirely run
out. What have we here?

One of the ladies’ magazines actually promises to “_outstrip_” all its
cotemporaries! A novel sort of assertion, truly, for a genteel ladies’
magazine; yet a proceeding, one would think, that cannot be carried very
far with any sort of propriety. The grace of modesty and the delicacy of
its position alike forbid it. Such things, if really attempted, will
drive the meeker and weaker brethren entirely from the contest. We
may—but scarcely can—tolerate the pretty large liberties which have
been taken with the dresses of ladies elsewhere in engravings and
fashion plates. Let it stop here. Give us models of art, even if they
are a little nude; we can stand that—but this is touching on the
province of the model artists; and as the _elder_ magazine, we cannot
allow it—positively. Jeremy, if you have any influence with these
people, stop this thing, I pray you.

Phew!—but what _is_ this?

It appears that under cover of fire-works, with sky-rockets,
blue-lights, shooting-stars, or something of that sort, we are to have a
grand conflagration, perhaps immolation of fashionable and pretty women;
for another ladies’ magazine, audaciously—in order to offset the other,
we suppose—promises, “_a blaze of beauty throughout the year!_”

        Heavens! “can these things be,
        And overcome us like a summer cloud,
        Without our special wonder.”

And this is actually put out in the bills, before a Christian country,
in the nineteenth century, and the police look on, and are silent!

Ah! this comes home to “our hearts and our bussums.” _What do we read?
“All_ the distinguished writers and authors of this country and Europe
are engaged.” The deuce they are? Oh Lord!—Our office then may be
closed, during business hours hereafter, we suppose.

_Overlooked, by George!_—News! news! “The acknowledged Blackwood of
America, 1850.” Now is that old vagabond coming back again, after having
enjoyed our hospitalities for two seasons—’42 and ’43?

If Blackwood were to come in spirit shape, this I think would be his
story, Jeremy:

“You see I was coming along, when a tall fellow, our old friend, cries,
‘How are you, Mr. Blackwood?’

“‘Come in here,’ says he, seizing my elbow, and in an instant I found
myself deceived, swindled, jostled in among the wrong set. A parcel of
puritanical looking dogs, sitting cheek by jowl, with long gowns, play
actors, medical students, penny-a-liners, seedy old boys and silly
school girls. I suppose they took me for a Mormon or a Shaker, or
perhaps a clown, and dragged me in, to add to the novelty of the
collection. But Scotch manners wouldn’t allow me to be rude, so I said,
very politely, to the tall gentleman, if _that_ is whisky-punch you have
on the stove, I’ll take a tumbler of it. Heavens! you should have heard
the yell that went up, and seen the horrible faces; so seeing the way
the wind set, I gave one or two of them a knock over the skull with
ebony—bestowed my parting benediction upon the whole company—ladies
excepted—and came at once to head-quarters.”

Now, Jeremy, I don’t know what you may think of this business, but I say
I have been silent long enough under various aggressions, and hereafter,
I take the cudgel and trounce any son of a gun who poaches on my manor.
Why do you know that people have the audacity to say that theirs is the
_oldest_ magazine, when the Casket, which we bought, and on which Graham
was based, started in 1826, and had its colored fashions and wood
engravings printed on tinted paper long before any of them opened their
eyes. The mezzotints I was the first to put to magazine use on a large
scale; and Burton’s Magazine, which was incorporated with this, gave the
first that Sartain ever did for a magazine of large circulation; and yet
these young fellows, with the down yet upon their chins, affect the
experience of years, and learnedly talk about teaching their grandfather
how to snuff. I care nothing about this, but that it has gone far
enough; and they will after a while begin to believe their own
stories—a bit of self-deception that it is a pity they should be
subjected to.

But, Jeremy, we live in a funny world, and even with our criminal code,
and prison discipline, I fear me, the moral reformer has a vast work to
do. The shades of right and wrong, as worked up in the woof of practical
life, are not of colors which contrast very strongly. They form rather
the figures of a kaleidoscope. Is there not a little gambling done, in
the way of “specimens” in literature, as well as in “specimens” in
copper? Do the samples shown as “inducements” always honestly represent
the real article afterward put upon the purchaser? Oh! very nice, rigid
and self-complacent moralist, “with good fat capon lined,” why are thy
hands held up in such affected holy horror at thy brother, who has
stumbled and fallen, “because he has done this thing;” when printed
records of thy falsified pledges and assertions, fill the post-towns of
the country, the Union over! The lie in type and upon record, is it less
venal, because multiplied by thousands, than that by word, which palms
upon the unsuspecting a sinking fancy stock! Let the canting, praying
hypocrite, of all trades, go down into his own heart, and clear it of
its “dead men’s bones, and all uncleanness,” before, with bastard
honesty, he casts a stone at his most desperate brother.

Ah, Jeremy, is there not a thriving business done, by men professing to
be respectable, by “The Suction and Pumping Process,” in most of the
trades of life—even in the very honorable business of manufacturing and
selling goods? Ay! in the thousand well dressed, painted living lies,
that stare at you in the streets, and from behind counters, and impose
upon the ignorant—is there no rascality? When goods are put upon the
poor and ignorant hired girls at high prices—the remnants of shabby
gentility—are the shopkeepers honest do you suppose? In the poisoned
rum, that is sold for _good_ (God defend us!) and which sends
destitution, misery, and crime into the hovels of the poor—is there no
weight of damnation, past finding out? Is every marble palace, with
steeds prancing at the door, the monument of a good man’s well spent
life; has every stone and carved niche been paid for by money honestly
earned? Are the laces, and feathers, and gold and jewels, that flash
upon us and glitter in the sun, _all_, always the well-earned rewards of
honest and praiseworthy toil? Much of the money thus lavishly displayed,
and on which an insolent pride fattens and corrupts, may it not be the
legitimate reward of a sin that would taint the fingers of a thief? Hold
up thy head, young brother, and keep thy heart pure; all is not lost!
the courage to dare, the power and will to do are thine! Up! and against
wrong and oppression of every shade, set thy face as a flint, and with
conscious might and truth, press on! The world is before thee where to
choose—it is thy battle-ground! Do nobly, and thou art man—meanly, a
more creeping thing than a worm a upon whom every coward braggart will
set his heel. Aye on! there is yet to come—thank God—a reckoning-day,
of motives and of actions, when assumption shall be stript—deceit
exposed—the hollow heart laid bare, and when the secret sin of pride
and self-complacency, dragged from its hiding-place, shall be thrust,
blazing into its face.

My dear Jeremy, there is a consolation in this—we shall see one of
these times, every man’s motive for the acts he has committed
revealed—whether it is only the poor devils cast down, forsaken,
down-trodden and despised, that die in the ditch, who are damned; or
whether he only is on his way to heaven—the sleek and lucky moralist
who dozes over his wine—who thinks he can pave his way to heaven with
ingots, however got, that shall be saved. That will be a sight worth
seeing, Jeremy, for it will open the eyes of the Universe, and make all
things even. We can afford to wait for even this, can we not? It will
not be long.

                                                              G. R. G.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Poems. By Robert Browning, Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 2
    vols. 12mo._

This edition of Browning is almost a facsimile of the beautiful London
edition, published by Chapman & Hall, the only real difference between
the two being that the American reprint costs less than half as much as
the London original.

Browning, for the last four or five years, has been steadily advancing
to fame; and having overcome by the pure strength of his genius all
outward and some inward obstacles, is now widely recognized as a new
force in English letters. Next to Tennyson, we know of hardly another
English poet of the day who can be compared with him. He possesses
striking excellences both of thought and diction, but he is so
indisputably an originality, that he is compelled to create the taste
which appreciates him. Like almost all the poets of the new school, he
is “high contemplative,” scorns rather than courts the means of
popularity, and is more pleased by conquering one reader than by
enticing many. In his distaste for the stereotyped diction and ideas of
English poetry, he is apt to go to the opposite extreme of obscurity.
There is a beautiful willfulness, a delicious bit of the devil, in him;
accordingly many of his verses seem thrown off in an imaginary boxing
match with professors of square-toed rhetoric and critics of the old
school. This independence and pugnacity are sometimes carried to that
extreme of recklessness, which indicates self-conceit and supercilious
arrogance, rather than a wrestling with the difficulties of expression.
“Sordello,” a poem which the author has now suppressed, was a tangled
mass of half-formed thoughts and half-clutched sentiments, tottering
dizzily on the vanishing points of meaning; and the publication of such
a piece of elaborate worthlessness was an insult to public intelligence
which would have consigned to deserved damnation, any poet who did not
possess sufficient genius to retrieve his reputation.

In his best works, Browning appears as a poet gifted with a large reason
and a wide-wandering imagination; but his reason and imagination do not
seem to work genially together—are sometimes in each other’s way—and
in their operation they sometimes strangle each other. He thinks broadly
and deeply, and he shapes finely; but the thought does not commonly seem
born in music, but rather born _with_ music; and he often gives the idea
and the illustrative image, instead of the idea in the illustrative
image. Sometimes, in reading him, we wish he would abandon poetry for
metaphysics, so sure and clear is his analysis and statement of mental
phenomena; and then again some magnificent comparison, metaphor or
image, or some exquisite touch of characterization, makes us wish that
he would abjure metaphysics, and cling to poetry. Compared with
Tennyson, his nature would be called hard, and be said to lack
mellowness and melody. That sensuous element in poetry, which proceeds
from fusing thought, sensation, and imagination—the spiritual and
physical—into one sweet product, “felt in the blood,” and felt along
the brain, he does not appear to have reached; but then the burning
words, struck off like sparks from the conflict of flint and steel,
which come from him in his periods of real excitement, seem to the
reader sufficient compensations for his comparative absence of softness
and harmony. He may not delight so much as Tennyson, but he gives the
mind a wider field to range in, inspires a manlier feeling, and
indicates a greater capacity. The very fact that all his works are cast
in a dramatic form, even though the dramatic element is often more
formal than real, shows that his mind has a healthy affection for
objects, and steadily resists its own subjective tendencies.

The first poem in the collection is “Paracelsus.” This is an attempt to
exhibit the influence on character of knowledge disjoined from love, by
a delineation of an aspiring and noble nature, smitten by a restless
thirst to know, and ruined by “the lust of his brain.” The poem is not
poetically conceived; its central idea is not organic, not the
germinating principle of the whole, but rather an abstract proposition
logically developed; and, accordingly, the mechanical understanding not
the vital imagination is predominant throughout. Besides, though it
exercises the brain not unpleasantly, it hardly gives poetic pleasure;
and so far from comfortable is the general impression it leaves, that
the reader recurs to it only for deep or delicate thoughts and
imaginations which are separately beautiful. As a whole, it is not
philosophical enough for a treatise, nor beautiful enough for a poem.

“King Victor and King Charles” is a drama containing four characters
moderately well conceived and discriminated, but evincing dramatic
genius not much above Bulwer’s, though profounder in sentiment, and
richer in imagination. The most dramatic passage is where Polyxena
seizes her husband’s hand, when he is on the point of yielding to a weak
amiability of nature, and conjures him to sacrifice her happiness and
his to duty. It is the passage commencing—

        “King Charles! pause here upon this strip of time,
         Allotted you out of eternity!”

“Colombe’s Birth Day” is a sweet and beautiful dramatic poem, abounding
in intellectual wealth. The characters of Colombe and Valence are
vigorously drawn. The scene between them in the fourth act, where he
confesses his love, is grand and exhilarating as an exhibition of
character and passion. But the idea of the play, that of representing
the triumph of love over wealth and rank in a woman fully susceptible of
the charms of the latter, is the animating life of the piece. We hardly
know, out of Fletcher and Shakspeare, a play where fidelity to a
sentiment is represented with such ethereal grace.

In “Luria” and “The Return of the Druses,” an intimate acquaintance is
shown with the best and worst parts of human nature, and the development
of the characters indicates that the author’s dramatic skill grows with
exercise. Luria is a noble character, original in conception, and finely
developed from “within outwards.” “A Soul’s Tragedy” has many marked
excellences of thought, and diction, and exhibits one of the most
hateful qualities in human nature, with a blended dramatic coolness and
individual abhorrence, singularly felicitous.

The “Dramatic Lyrics” are very striking, and are full of matter. “Count
Gismond,” “Porphyria’s Lover,” “The Confessional,” “The Lost Leader,”
and “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” we should select as, on the whole, the
best. The latter, written for little William Macready, exhibits the
peculiar vein of humor in which Browning excels, and of which we have
indications all over his works. The commencement we will venture to
extract:

                          “Rats!
        They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
          And bit the babies in the cradles,
        And ate the cheese out of the vats,
          And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles.
        Split open the kegs of the salted sprats,
        Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
        And even spoiled the women’s chats,
              By drowning their speaking
              And shrieking and squeaking,
        In fifty different sharps and flats.”

But the grandest pieces in the volume are “Pippa Passes,” and “A Blot in
the ’Scutcheon.” The latter, in the opinion of Dickens, is the finest
poem of the century. We think there can be detected in it that hardness
of touch which characterizes the other dramas, but the depth and pathos
of the matter, and the approach to something like impassioned action in
the events, make it wonderfully impressive. Once read it must haunt the
imagination forever, for its power strikes deep into the very substance
and core of the soul. Thorold’s adamantine pride, and Guendolen’s sweet
woman’s sympathy, and Mildred’s awful sorrow, can never be forgotten.
Mildred’s repetition, in moments of agony or half-consciousness, of the
lines—

        “I was so young—I loved him so—I had
         No mother—God forgot me—and I fell—”

exceeds in pathetic effect any thing in English dramatic literature
since the Elizabethan era.

We hardly know how to express our admiration of “Pippa Passes,” making
as it does the “sense of satisfaction ache,” with its abounding beauty.
In this piece the author’s nature seems for once to have become fluid,
and gushes out in melodious thought and passion. Pippa herself is one of
poetry’s most exquisite creations, and, among her many “passes,” those
she makes into the hearts and imaginations of a thousand readers, ought
not to be overlooked. The design of the play is new, and it would be
difficult to state in an intellectual form the source of its charm. Its
completeness is in its seeming incompleteness. The grandest scene is
that between Ottima and Sebald, the fine audacity of which carries us
back to the elder period of the English drama. The greatest instance of
imagination in Browning’s works is contained in this scene. We give it
below:

        “Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;
         Swift ran the searching tempest overhead,
         And ever and anon some bright white shaft
         Burnt through the pine-tree roof—here burnt and there,
         As if God’s messenger through the close wood screen
         Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,
         Feeling for guilty thee and me.”

The dedication of “Pippa Passes” is beautifully ingenious;

                           “I DEDICATE
        MY BEST INTENTIONS, IN THIS POEM, MOST ADMIRINGLY,
                    TO THE AUTHOR OF ”ION,“—
                           MOST AFFECTIONATELY TO
                                 MR. SERJEANT TALFOURD.”

We trust that the elegant edition of Browning, which we have here
noticed, will make him widely known in the United States. The volumes
are in Ticknor & Co.’s best style, both as regards type and paper.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Physician and Patient, or a Practical View of the Mutual
    Duties, Relations and Interests of the Medical Profession and
    the Community. By Worthington Hooker, M. D. New York: Baker &
    Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a timely production, written by a man who appears to have
sterling honesty as well as sterling sense, and devoted to a subject as
interesting as any which can engage the attention of the community. We
hope it will attract sufficient attention to insure its extensive
circulation, and bring it within the notice of all families. The author
grapples with his subject thoroughly, and almost exhausts it. Owing to
the various forms, genteel and vulgar, which quackery has assumed in our
day, no person, intelligent or ignorant, is safe from some one mode of
its operation, as it has contrivances for every age, disposition, grade
of mental development, and social station. Dr. Hooker has gone
elaborately over the whole matter, and has really given the philosophy
as well as the facts of empiricism, both as it exists out of the
profession and in it. He does not spare those physicians who follow
medicine as a trade, instead of pursuing it as a profession, “and study
the science of patient-getting to the neglect of the science of patient
curing,” while in showing the processes of the quack in experimenting on
the credulity of his victims, he has done an essential service to the
health of the community. We can but reiterate the hope that the volume,
full as it is of practical wisdom, will be extensively circulated, and
do its part toward enlightening the most quack-ridden people on the face
of the earth.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _History of England from the Invasion of Julius Cæsar to the
    Abdication of James the Second. By David Hume. Boston: Phillips,
    Sampson & Co. Vols. 1, 2, 3, 4, 12mo._

This edition of Hume is uniform with the same publishers’ edition of
Macaulay. It is neatly printed in good sized type, and is placed at a
price sufficiently cheap to bring it within the reach of the humblest
reader. It is reprinted from the last and best London edition, and is
prefaced by Hume’s delightful autobiography. It is needless to inform
our readers that the work is a classic, and ranks with the greatest
historical works ever written in this world. But though its fame is
wide, we doubt if the generality of the reading public give it their
attention. This is really abstinence from pleasure as well as
instruction, for Hume is among the most fascinating of narrators. His
style is simple, clear, racy, and flowing, beyond that of almost any
English historian, and being but a translucent mirror of events and
reflections, it attracts no attention to itself, and therefore never
tires. The wonder of the book is its happy union of narration and
reflections and the skill with which every thing is brought home to the
humblest capacity. It belongs to that class of works in which power is
not paraded, but unobtrusively insinuated in thoughts carelessly
dropped, as it were, in the course of a familiar narration of
interesting incidents. “Easy writing,” said Sheridan, “is cursed hard
writing.” The easy style of Hume is an illustration. The reader, at the
end, feels that he has been keeping company with a great man, gifted
with an extraordinary grasp and subtlety of mind, but during the journey
he thought he was but chatting with an agreeable and intelligent
familiar companion.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Success in Life. The Merchant. By Mrs. L. C. Tuthill. New York:
    Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

The present volume is the first of a series of six, in which the
authoress intends to indicate the _rationale_ of the successful
merchant, lawyer, mechanic, artist, physician and farmer, illustrating
each department by biographical anecdotes. We have here, as the leader
of the series, a volume on The Merchant. The style is gossiping, without
much pretension to beauty or correctness, but the matter indicates a
shrewd mind and extensive miscellaneous reading. There is one chapter
devoted almost wholly to Robert Morris, a man whose amplitude of mind
comprehended both statesmanship and commerce, and whom Burke might have
adduced in proof of his assertion, that he had known merchants with the
large conceptions of statesmen, and statesmen with the little notions of
pedlars. Mrs. Tuthill chats very agreeably of Morris, and among other
anecdotes of him, gives a laconic letter he wrote to some French
officers in the American army, on their insolently demanding an
immediate settlement of their arrears of pay. Here it is, and it is a
good example of cutting knots which cannot be untied: “Gentlemen,—I
have received this morning your application. I make the earliest answer
to it. You demand immediate payment, I have no money to pay you with.”
We extract this letter as a model to those of our readers who are often
puzzled, under similar circumstances, to hit upon the right mode of
announcing such uncomfortable demands to perform the impossible.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Sketches of Life and Character. By T. S. Arthur. Illustrated
    with Sixteen Engravings, and a Portrait of the Author.
    Philadelphia: J. W. Bradley, 48 North Fourth Street, 1849._

Mr. Arthur’s name, as a delineator of American character and manners,
and an earnest and sincere advocate of sound, uncompromising morality,
is already familiar to the reading public, not only in the United States
but in Europe. His object, in every production of his able pen, is well
understood to be utility—utility in the highest sense of the word, that
which has reference to man’s eternal wellbeing. In his lighter as well
as in his graver effusions, the same exalted object is always kept
steadily in view. He writes to improve the characters and exalt the aim
of his readers. This is the secret of his wide-spread popularity. Men
love and respect those who exhibit a steady, consistent, and persevering
adherence to principle. In the princely mansions of the Atlantic
merchants, and in the rude log-cabins of the backwoodsmen, the name of
Arthur is equally known and cherished as the friend of virtue, and the
eloquent advocate of temperance.

The work before us is a judicious selection made by the author himself,
from his most popular tales. His numerous admirers will rejoice in an
opportunity to possess themselves of so considerable a number of his
best performances, not in the fugitive shape of articles for the
journals, but in an elegant volume of over four hundred octavo pages,
richly illustrated with engravings, and handsomely got up in every
respect. We predict for this volume a very extensive sale, and
particularly recommend it as a highly appropriate gift-book in the
present holyday season. As it is a subscription book, it will be sold
only by agents. Mr. J. W. Bradley, 48 North Fourth street, Philadelphia,
is the publisher, and persons at a distance can order it from him.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _History of the French Revolution of 1848. By A. De Lamartine.
    Translated by Francis A. Darivage and William S. Chase. Boston:
    Phillips; Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an admirable translation of a work requiring something more than
a knowledge of French to be well translated. The spirit is rendered as
well as the letter. The book itself, will outlive all of Lamartine’s
other productions, from its connection with a great historical event,
even if it were not invaluable as a psychological curiosity. No reader
who penetrates into its animating spirit, curious to discover in
Lamartine’s individual character the source of its miraculous
self-content can resist the impression that the author considers himself
so much a god, that he would not be in the least surprised if a band of
fanatics should erect a temple for his worship. No man, whose nature was
not in his own estimation raised above human nature, could possibly have
the face to present such a work as the present to the public eye. It is
a sentimental apotheosis of the writer. The reader finds the narrative
of the events of the revolution altogether inferior in interest to the
exhibition of Lamartine, and he is lost in wonder as he thinks what must
be the character of a nation in which such a man could be lifted into
power. The author, beyond any man we have ever known through history,
fiction, or actual life, can fasten his gaze on himself as mirrored in
his self-esteem, and exclaim, “thou art beautiful and good.” Old John
Bunyan, in descending one day from the pulpit, where he had preached
with tremendous power, was accosted by an old lady with the compliment,
“Oh! what a refreshing sermon!” “Yes,” replied Bunyan, “the Devil
whispered in my ear to that effect as I came down.” Now this devil is at
Lamartine’s ear all the time, but Lamartine mistakes him for an angel.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Puritan and his Daughter. By J. K. Paulding. New York;
    Baker & Scribner. 2 vols. 12mo._

We are glad to welcome Mr. Paulding back again to the land of romance,
even though he enters it with a somewhat jaunty air, and a somewhat
scornful toss of his head. There is a bitter, if we may not call it
saucy, brilliancy about our author, which we think is rather a
recommendation than otherwise, and in the present volumes he has
exhibited it to his heart’s and gall’s content. The work is dedicated,
in a humorously reckless and critic-defying preface, to the “most high
and mighty sovereign of sovereigns, King People,” and scattered through
the novel are abundant pleasant impertinences, sufficiently marked by
individual whim and crotchet, to stimulate the reader to go on reading,
even should the interest of the story flag. We have only had time to dip
into the work, here and there, but have read enough to know that it
“means mischief,” and that it has more than Mr. Paulding’s common
raciness and plain speaking.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The approach of the holydays is, as usual, marked by the advent of new
publications.

Among the most beautiful that have been laid upon our table are _The
Life of Christ_, by the Rev. H. Hastings Weld, and a new
edition of Dr. Johnson’s admirable _Rasselas_. These works are published
by Messrs. Hogan & Thompson, in the most finished and
approved manner, conforming in style to _Paul and Virginia_, and the
_Vicar of Wakefield_, issued by the same gentlemen last year. We cannot
speak too highly of the typographical execution of the volumes before
us, or the magnificent binding in which they are enclosed. Both are
superb, and reflect credit alike on the publishers, and the artists who
have invested with new charms, two volumes which deservedly merit a
place in every library.

                 *        *        *        *        *

_The Poet’s Offering_, is the title of a splendid volume of nearly six
hundred pages, edited by Mrs. HALE, and published by Messrs. GREGG &
ELLIOTT. It is beautifully illustrated, and will, we think, prove one of
the most popular gift books of the season—for it is a gift book—as the
fair editor justly remarks, on a new plan, the contents of which are of
more value than the cover, and she does not assume too much, when she
declares that in this volume will be found the most perfect gems of
genius the English language has preserved since the days of Spenser.
More than four hundred authors are quoted, and in the arrangement of the
book, great care has been taken to exhibit the peculiar excellencies of
each writer. That Mrs. Hale has acquitted herself admirably in the
execution of an arduous undertaking, is an unquestionable fact, and her
efforts have been nobly seconded by the liberality of the publishers, in
sparing neither labor nor expense to prepare for the public taste a most
beautiful, valuable, and acceptable volume.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

PARIS, Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61.
_Coiffure de_ Hamelin, _pass. du Saumon, 21—Chapeau de M^{me}._
  Baudry, _r. Richelieu, 87_.
_Plumes et fleurs de_ Chagot, _r. Richelieu, 81—Eventail de_ Vagneur
  Dupré, _r. de la Paix, 19_.
_Robes de_ Camille—_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. Choiseul, 2^{bis}_.
Graham’s Magazine]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                   MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER’S ROSE.


                          WRITTEN BY THE LATE
                       HON. RICHARD HENRY WILDE,
                              OF GEORGIA.

                           MUSIC COMPOSED BY
                              AN AMATEUR.

   Presented by Edward L. Walker, 160 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.

[Illustration]

    My life is like the Summer’s rose,
      That opens to the morning sky,
    But ere the shades of evening close,
      Is scattered on the ground to die;
    But

[Illustration]

    on that rose’s humble bed,
      The sweetest dews of night are shed,
    As if heaven wept such waste to see,
      But none shall weep a tear for me.

    My life is like the autumnal leaf.
      That trembles in the moon’s pale ray;
    Its hold is frail, its date is brief,
      Restless and soon to pass away;
    Yet ere that leaf shall fall or fade,
      The parent tree shall mourn its shade;
    The winds bewail the leafless tree,
      But none shall breathe a sigh for me.

    My life is like the print that feet
      Have left on Zara’s burning strand;
    Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
      The track shall vanish from the sand.
    Yet as if grieving to efface
      All vestige of the human race,
    On that lone lone shore loud moans the sea,
      But none shall e’er lament for me.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been
corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below.
For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.

page 323, miserable, loathsame slave! ==> miserable, loathsome slave!
page 329, avoid followiug his victim ==> avoid following his victim
page 329, with hell in in his ==> with hell in his
page 330, and seemed to re-recollect ==> and seemed to recollect
page 344, by the Rue St. Honore. ==> by the Rue St. Honoré.
page 350, was earthly. She sung of love ==> was earthly. She sang of love
page 355, Now, when past away ==> Now, when passed away
page 355, “Again their was a ==> “Again there was a
page 360, played and sung, and ==> played and sang, and
page 366, through the pannels of ==> through the panels of
page 366, “How indellibly does ==> “How indelibly does
page 366, a true home, and was ==> a true home, and were
page 372, trample upon other’s rights. ==> trample upon others’ rights.
page 372, of other’s rights or feelings, ==> of others’ rights or
  feelings,
page 374, Napoleon in the presidental ==> Napoleon in the presidential
page 374, that Great Britian has ==> that Great Britain has
page 375, ricketty old tyranny ==> rickety old tyranny
page 377, stone and carved nitch ==> stone and carved niche
page 379, is beautifully ingenius; ==> is beautifully ingenious;
page 379, of mental developement, ==> of mental development,





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