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DR. EBENEZER LEARNED, 1835

QDnaowed by

DR. TIMOTHY WELLINGTON, 1853

NATHAN PRATT, 1875

HENRY MOTT, 1889

ELBRIDGE FARMER, 1892

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MARIA C. ROBBINS
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ELI ROBBINS, 1892

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Digitized by the Internet Archive

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http://www.archive.org/details/godeysladysbook22phil

GODEY'S

■

LADY'S BOOK

LADIES' AMERICAN MAGAZINE.

EDITED BY

MRS. SARAH J. HALE,

AND

MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY
MISS E. LESLIE

A CONTRIBUTOR TO EACH*NUMBER.

VOLUME XXII.— JANUARY TO JUNE.

1841.

PHILADELPHIA:

LOUIS A. GODEY

211 CHESTNUT STREET.

■

o_

LADY'S BOOK.

JANUARY, 1841.

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE FESTA DI PIE DI GROTTA.*

Fair breaks the morn o'er Naples' beauteous Bay:
Ting'd with her roseate hues, the wavelets play
Along the pebbly sands ; the wild sea-mew
Screams forth his joy ; all nature feels anew
The freshening impulse that from slumber springs:
New life is quickening in the meanest things;
The grass is rife with crickets: o'er the stream
The gnats are waltzing in the young sun-beam.

But earlier up, and livelier far than they
Are the blithe dwellers of this land to-day.
Behold they come from hamlet and from town,
This way the festive groups are pouring down.
What brings these early rovers to the Bay? —
It is the Virgin's festival to-day.
And see, the gay procession draws more near,
And hark, this gladsome strain salutes my ear.

SONG.

See, the sun he is risen, up, up, and away

To the Grot of the Virgin that looks on the Bay.

O Ave Maria ! a good Mother she ;

Then no stinted return let our gratitude be.

She has prayed to her Son, and the boon is our own,

In our full fields and vineyards the blessing is shown.

Then sing Ave Maria ! and up, and away

To the Grot of the Virgin that looks on the Bay !

See the grapes are fresh gathered, the choicest are there
That the vineyard can boast, or tlie trellis can bear.
Let the spirit of Abel beat warm in each breast,
And, like him, give to heaven of the fairest and best;
Of the autumn's rich store let the heart be profuse,
Bring the richest and ripest our fields can produce.
Then sing Ave Maria ! and up, and away
To the Grot of the Virgin that looks on the Bay!

Let the artisan speed him; up, up, and away!
Not a cloud dim the joy of this festival day.
As for cark and for sorrow, O leave them behind,
If one care cross the thought, give it all to the wind.
The Good Mother has smiled on her children, and we
Will be happy to-day, as good children should be.
Then sing Ave Maria ! up, friends, and away
To the Grot of the Virgin that looks on the Bay.

Let the maid leave her distaff, and up, and away;
For no blessing will light on the task done to-day ;
Like the queen of the May let her come trimly dressed,
Or like bride for the spousal deck'd forth in her best;
And who knows if her eye in the throng may not see
The bridegroom marked out in fate's future decree?
Then sing Ave Maria! and up, and away,
To the Grot of the Virgin that looks on the Bay !

Let the sailor be here, who so oft from afar

Has hailed Her of the ocean the fair guiding star ; f

The Mother of Him, who, when waves roared around

All tranquilly lay in his slumber profound;

And when he looked forth on the troublous sea

How the storm sank to rest upon dark Galilee !

Then sing Ave Maria! and up, and away

To the Grot of the Virgin that looks on the Bay.

Let the fisherman, leaving his nets on the strand,

Come hither, and share in the joys of our band ;

For how often has he in the tempests of night,

Turned his eye to yon Grotto, where cheering and bright,

Beams thy lamp, Holy Virgin ! while hope gushes free

In the Ave Maria his lip breathes to Thee.

Then let him not linger, but up, and away

To the Grot of the Virgin that looks on the Bay.

* The Festa dipie di Grotta, takes place on tlie 8th of Sep-
tember. It is one of the principal and most interesting of the
numerous holidays enjoyed by the populace of Naples. It is
sacred to a presumed miraculous image of the Virgin, placed
in a small chapel at the entrance to the Grotto of Posilippo,
whence the name of the festivity. As it occurs in the autum-
nal season, the finest fruits are borne along in procession, to
serve as an offering to the Madonna della Grotta, whose mira-
culous interposition is said to have once saved the city from
VOL. XXII. 1

destruction. Nothing can be more picturesque than the
groups of peasantry going to and returning from the chapel.
Numerous boats also, gaily decorated, are seen skimming
along the blue waters of the Bay. Indeed, the whole scene
is one of the highest interest as well to the eye of the painter,
as to the mind of the moralist who delights in the contempla-
tion of the innocent enjoyments of a happy people.

t See the touching old hymn, Ave Maris Stella, &c.

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

Written for the Lady's Book.

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

X STORY OF DOMESTIC LIFE.
EY MISS LESLIE.

PART I.

The morning subsequent to their arrival in Phila-
delphia, Harvey Woodbridge proposed to his bride
(a New York beauty, to whom he had recently been
united, after a very short acquaintance) that she should
accompany him to look at the new house he had
taken previous to their marriage, and which he had
delayed furnishing till the taste' of his beloved Char-
lotte could be consulted as well as his own. Mean-
while they were staying at one of the principal board-
ing-houses of his native city.

Ten o'clock was the time finally appointed by the
lady for this visit to their future residence : and her
husband, after taking a melancholy leave (they had
been married but seven days) departed to pass an
hour at his place of business.

When he returned, Mr. Woodbridge sprang up
stairs three steps at a time (we have just said he had
been married only a week) and on entering their
apartment he was saluted by his wife as she held out
her watch to him, with — " So, after all, you are ten
minutes beyond the hour !"

" I acknowledge it, my dear love" — replied the
husband — " but I was detained by a western cus-
tomer to whom I have just made a very profitable
sale."

" Still" — persisted the bride, half pouting — " people
should always be punctual, and keep their appoint-
ments to the very minute."

"And yet, my dearest Charlotte" — observed Wood-
bridge, somewhat hesitatingly — " I do not find you
quite ready to go out with me."

" Oh ! that is another thing" — replied the lady —
" one may be kept waiting without being ready."

" That is strange logic, my love" — said Wood-
bridge, smiling.

" I don't know what you call logic" — answered
the beautiful Charlotte. " I learnt all my logic at
Mrs. Fooltrap's boarding-school, where we said a
logic lesson twice a week. But I am sure 'tis much
easier for a man to hurry with his bargaining than
for a lady to hurry with her dressing ; that is if she
pays any regard to her appearance. I have been
pondering for an hour about what I shall put on to
go out this morning. I am sadly puzzled among all
my new walking-dresses. There are my chaly, and
my gros des Indes, and my peau-de-soie, and my
foulard — "

" If you will tell me which is which" — interrupted
Woodbridge — "I will endeavour to assist you in
your choice. But from its name (foulard, as you call
it,) I do not imagine that last thing can be a very
nice article."

"What fools men are!" — exclaimed the lovely
Charlotte. — " Now that is the very prettiest of all
my walking-dresses, let the name be what it will. I
always did like foulard from the moment I first saw
it at Stewart's. I absolutely doat upon foulard. So
that is the very thing I will wear, upon my first ap-
pearance in Chesnut street as Mrs. Harvey Wood-
bridge."

" Don't" — said her husband, surveying the dress as
she held it up — " it looks like calico — "

" Say don't to me" — exclaimed the bride, threat-
eningly— " calico, indeed ! — when it is a French silk
at twelve shillings a yard — a dollar and a half as you
foolishly say in Philadelphia."

" Well, well" — replied Woodbridge, pacifyingly —
" wear whatever you please — it is of no consequence."

" So then, you think it of no consequence how I
am drest ! I dare say you would not grieve in the
least if I were really to go out in a calico gown — I
did suppose that perhaps you took some little interest
in me."

" I do indeed" — answered Woodbridge.

" You confess then that it is but little."

"No — a very great interest, certainly — and you
know that I do. But as to your dress, you, of course,
must be the best judge. And to me you always look
beautifully."

" To you, but not to others — I suppose that is
what you mean."

" To every one" — replied the husband — " I ob-
served this morning the glance of admiration that
ran round the breakfast table as soon as you had
taken your seat. That little cap with the yellow
ribbon is remarkably becoming to you."

" So then, it was the cap and not myself that was
admired !" — said the wife. — " I am sure I am much
obliged to the cap. Yellow ribbon, too ! — To call it
yellow when it is the most delicate primrose. As if /
would wear a yellow ribbon !"

" Indeed, my love" — answered Woodbridge — " you
must forgive me if I am not au-fait to all the techni-
calities of a lady's toilet. I acknowledge my igno-
rance with due humility."

" You well may — I was absolutely ashamed of you
one evening at our house in New York, when Mrs.
Rouleau and the two Miss Quillings and Miss Bias-
fold were present, and we were all enjoying our-
selves and discussing the last fashions. And thinking
you ought to say something by way of joining in the
conversation, you called my deep flounce a long
tuck."

" I'll never do so again" — said Woodbridge, imi-
tating the tone of a delinquent school-boy.

The foulard silk was energetically put on ; the fair
Charlotte pertinaciously insisting on hooking it up
the back entirely herself: a herculean task which, in
his heart of hearts, her husband was rather glad to
be spared. And not knowing that spite gives
strength, he stood amazed at the vigour and dexterity
with which his lovely bride put her hands behind her
and accomplished the feat. When it was done, she
took a long survey of herself in the glass, and then
turned round to her husband and made a low curtsey,
saying — " There now — you see me in my calico
gown."

Woodbridge uttered no reply : but he thought in
his own mind — " What a pity it is that beauties are
so apt to be spoiled!" — He might have added —
" What a pity it is that men are so apt to spoil them."

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

At length, after much fixing and unfixing, and
putting on and taking, off the finishing articles of her
attire (particularly half-a-dozen pair of tight-fitting
new kid gloves, none of which were quite tight
enough) her ignoramus of a husband again offending
by calling her pelerine a cape and her scarf a
neckcloth, and mistaking the flowers in her bonnet
for little roses when he ought to have known they
were almond blossoms, Mrs. Harvey Woodbridge
sullenly acknowledged herself ready to go out.

During their walk to the new house, our hero
endeavoured to restore the good-humour of his bride
by talking to her of the delightful life he anticipated
when settled in a pleasant mansion of their own. But
his glowing picture of domestic happiness elicited no
reply ; her attention being all the time engaged by
the superior attractions of numerous ribbons, laces,
scarfs, shawls, trinkets, &c, displayed in the shop-
windows, and of which, though she could now take
only a passing glance, she mentally promised her-
self the enjoyment of making large purchases at her
leisure.

They arrived at their future residence, a genteel
and well-finished house of moderate size, where all
was so bright new and clean, that it was impossible
for the bride not to be pleased with its aspect, as her
husband unlocked the doors and threw open the
shutters of room after room. Mrs. Woodbridge re-
joiced particularly on observing that the ceilings of
the parlours had centre circles for chandeliers, and
she began to consider whether the chandeliers should
be bronzed or gilt. She also began to talk of various
splendid articles of furniture that would be necessary
for the principal rooms. " Mamma charged me" —
said she — " to have silk damask lounges and chair-
cushions, and above all things not to be sparing in
mirrors. She said she should hate to enter my par-
lours if the pier-glasses were not tall enough to reach
from the floor to the ceiling ; and that she would
never forgive me if my mantel-glasses did not cover
the whole space of the wall above the chimney-pieces.
She declared that she would never speak to me again
if my centre-tables were not well supplied with all
sorts of elegant things, in silver, and china and co-
loured glass. And her last words were to remind
me of getting a silver card basket, very wide at the
top that the cards of the best visiters might be spread
out to advantage. The pretty things on Mrs. Over-
buy's enamelled centre-table are said to have cost not
less than five hundred dollars." — " Was it not her
husband that failed last week for the fourth time ?" —
asked Woodbridge. — " I believe he did" — replied
Charlotte — " but that is nothing. Almost every body's
husband fails now. Mrs. Overbuy says it is quite
fashionable." — " In that respect, as in many others,
I hope to continue unfashionable all my life" — re-
marked Woodbridge. — " That is so like pa' " — ob-
served Charlotte. — " He has the strangest dread of
failing ; though ma' often tells him that most people
seem to live much the better for it, and make a
greater show than ever — at least after the first few
weeks. And then pa' begins to explain to her about
failing, and breaking, and stopping payment, and
debtors and creditors, and all that sort of thing. But
she cuts him short, and says she hates business talk.
And so do I, for I am exactly like her."

At this information Woodbridge felt as if he was
going to sigh ; but he looked at his bride, and, con-
soled himself with the reflection that he had certainly

married one of the most beautiful girls in America ;
and therefore his sigh turned to a smile.

They had now descended to the lower story of the
house. "Ah!" — exclaimed Charlotte — "the base-
ment, back and front, is entirely filled up with cellars.
How very ridiculous !" — " It does not seem so to
me" — replied Woodbridge — "this mode of building
is very customary in Philadelphia." — " So much the
worse" — answered the lady. — " Now in New York
nothing is more usual than to have a nice sitting-
room down in the basement-story, just in front of the
kitchen." — "A sort of servants' parlour, I suppose" —
said her husband. " It is certainly very considerate
to allot to the domestics, when not at work, a com-
fortable place of retirement, removed from the heat,
and slop and all the desagremens of a kitchen."

" How foolishly you always talk" — exclaimed Mrs.
Woodbridge. — " As if we would give the basement-
room to the servants ! No we use it ourselves. In
ma's family, as in hundreds of others all over New
York, it is the place where we sit when we have no
company, and where we always eat."

" What ! — half under ground" — exclaimed Wood-
bridge — " Really I should feel all the time as if I was
living in a kitchen "

" It is very wrong in you to say so," replied the
lady — " and very unkind to say it to me, when we
had a basement-room in our house in New York,
and used it constantly. To be sure I've heard ma'
say she had some trouble in .breaking pa' into it —
but he had to give up. Men have such foolish notions
about almost every thing, that it is well when they
have somebody to put their nonsense out of their
heads."

" I never saw you in that basement-room" — ob-
served Woodbridge.

" To be sure you did not. I do not say that it is
the fashion for young ladies to receive their beaux in
the basement room. But beaux and husbands are
different things."

" You are right" — murmured Woodbridge. — " If
atosays admitted behind the scenes, perhaps fewer
beaux would be willing to take the character of hus-
bands."

They now descended the lower staircase, and went
to inspect the kitchen, which formed a part of what
in Philadelphia is called the back-building. Wood-
bridge pointed out to his wife its numerous conve-
niences ; upon which she told him that she was sorry
to find he knew so much about kitchens. They then
took a survey of the chambers ; and on afterwards
descending the stairs they came to a few steps branch-
ing off from the lower landing-place, and entered a
door which admitted them into a narrow room in the
back-building, directly over the kitchen. This room
had short windows, a low ceiling, a small coal-grate,
and was in every respect very plainly finished.

" This" — said Woodbridge — " is the room I in-
tend for my library."

" I did not know I had married a literary man" —
said Charlotte, looking highly discomposed.

" I am not what is termed a literary man" — re-
plied her husband — " I do not write, but I take much
pleasure in reading. And it is my intention to have
this room fitted up with book-shelves, and furnished
with a library-table, a stuffed leather fauteuil, a read-
ing-lamp, and whatever else is necessary to make it
comfortable."

" Where then is to be our sitting room ? "

4

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

"We can seat ourselves very well in either the
back parlour or the front one. We will have a rock-
ing-chair a-piece, besides ottomans or sofas."

" But where are we to eat our meals ?"

" In the back parlour, I think — unless you prefer
the front."

" I prefer neither. We never ate in a parlour at
ma's in spite of all pa' could say. Down in the base-
ment story we were so snug, and so out of the
way."

" I have always been accustomed to eating quite
above ground" — said Woodbridge — " I am quite as
much opposed to the burrowing system as you say
your good father was."

" Oh ! but he had to give up"— replied Charlotte.

" Which is more than I shall do" — answered her
husband — looking very resolute. " On this point my
firmness is not to be shaken."

" Nobody asks you to eat in the basement story" —
said Charlotte — " because there is none. But this
little room in the back-building is the very thing for
our common sitting-place — and also to use as a din-
ing-room."

" We can dine far more agreeably in one of the
parlours."

" The parlours, indeed ! — suppose somebody should
chance to come in and catch us at table, would not
you be very much mortified ?"

" By no means — I hope I shall never have cause
to be ashamed of my dinner."

" You don't know what may happen. After a trial
of the expenses of housekeeping, we may find it ne-
cessary to economize. And whether or not, I can
assure you I am not going to keep an extravagant
table. Ma' never did, in spite of pa's murmurings."

" Then we will economize in finery rather than in
comfort" — said Woodbridge. " I do not wish for an
extravagant table, and I am not a gourmand; but
there is no man that does not feel somewhat meanly
when obliged, in his own house, to partake of a paltry
or scanty dinner; particularly when he knows that he
can afford to have a good one."

" That was just the way pa' used to talk to ma'.
He said that as the head of the house earned all the
market-money — (only think of his calling himself the
head of the house,) and gave out a liberal allowance
of it, he had a right to expect, for himself and family,
a well-supplied and inviting table. He had some old
saying that he who was the bread-winner ought to
have his bread as he liked it."

" And in this opinion I think most husbands will
coincide with Mr. Stapleford" — said the old gentle-
man's son-in-law.

" There will be no use in that, unless their wives
coincide also" — remarked the old gentleman's daugh-
ter. " However, to cut the matter short, whatever
sort of table we may keep, this apartment must cer-
tainly be arranged for an eating-room."

" But we really do not require it for that purpose" —
replied her husband, with strange pertinacity — " and
I must positively have it for a library."

" The truth is, dear Harvey" — said Charlotte, coax-
ingly — " I am afraid if I allow you a regular library,
I shall lose too much of your society — think how
lonely I shall be when you are away from me at your
books. Even were I always to sit with you in the
library, (as Mrs. Deadweight does with her husband,)
it would be very hard for me to keep silent the whole
time, according to her custom. And if, like Mrs.

Le Bore, I were to talk to you all the while you
were reading, perhaps you might think it an inter-
ruption. Mrs. Duncely, who has had four husbands
(two lawyers, one doctor, and a clergyman) all of
whom spent as little time with her as they could,
frequently told us that libraries were of no use but to
part man and wife. Dear Harvey, it would break
my heart to suppose that you could prefer any thing
in the world to the company of your own Charlotte
Augusta. So let us have this nice little place for our
dining-room, and let us sit in it almost always. It
will save the parlours so much."

" Indeed my dear Charlotte, I do not intend to get
any furniture for the parlours of so costly a descrip-
tion that we shall be afraid to use it."

" What ! — are we not to have Saxony carpets, and
silk curtains, and silk-covered lounges, and large
glasses, and chandeliers, and beautiful mantel-lamps ;
and above all, a'n't we to have elegant things for the
centre-table ?"

" My design" — answered Woodbridge — " is to fur-
nish the house throughout, as genteelly, and in as
good taste as my circumstances will allow : but al-
ways with regard to convenience rather than to
show."

" Then I know not how I can look ma' in the
face 1"

" You may throw all the blame on me, my love."

" Pray, Mr. Harvey Woodbridge (if I may venture
to ask) how will these plain, convenient, comfortable
parlours look when we have a party?"

" I do not furnish my house for the occasional
reception of a crowd of people, but for the every day
use of you and myself, with a few chosen friends in
whose frequent visits we can take pleasure."

" If you mean frequent tea-visits, I can assure you,
sir, I shall take no pleasure in any such trouble and
extravagance — with your few chosen friends, indeed !
when it is so much cheaper to have a large party
once a year (as we always had at ma's): asking every
presentable person we knew, and every body to whom
we owed an invitation; and making one expense
serve for all. Though our yearly party was always
an absolute squeeze, you cannot think how much we
saved by it. — Pa' called it saying grace over the
whole barrel — some foolish idea that he got from Dr.
Franklin."

" For my part" — remarked Woodbridge — " I hope
I shall never be brought to regard social intercourse
as a mere calculation of dollars and cents. I would
rather, if necessary, save in something else than make
economy the chief consideration in regulating the
mode of entertaining my friends and acquaintances."

"Then why do you object to saving our parlours
by using them as little as possible ?"

" When our furniture wears out, or ceases to look
comme il faut, I hope I shall be able to replace it
with new articles, quite as good and perhaps better —
particularly if we do not begin too extravagantly at
first."

" I suppose then your plan is to fit up these par-
lours with in-grain carpets, maple-chairs, and black
hair-cloth sofas: and instead of curtains, nothing but
venitian blinds."

" Not exactly — though young people, on com-
mencing married life in moderate circumstances, have
been very happy with such furniture."

" More fools they ! — For my part, I should be
ashamed to show my face to a morning visiter in

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

such paltry parlours. That sort of furniture is scarcely
better than what I intend for this little up-stairs sit-
ting-room."

" If this little room is devoted to the purpose you
talk of, we must there show our faces to each other."

" Nonsense, Mr. Woodbridge ! — How can it pos-
sibly signify what faces married people show to each
other?"

" It signifies much — very much indeed."

" To put an end to this foolery" — resumed the
bride — " I tell you once for all, Harvey Woodbridge,
that I must and will have this very apartment for an
eating-room, or a dining-room, or a sitting-room, or
whatever you please to call it — to take our meals in
without danger of being caught at them, and to stay
in when I am not drest and do not wish to be
seen."

" The hiding-room I think would be the best name
for it" — murmured Woodbridge.

" Only let us try it awhile" — persisted the fair
Charlotte, softening her tone, and looking fondly at
her liege-lord — " think how happy we shall be in this
sweet little retreat, where I will always keep a few
flower-pots — you know I doat on flowers — imagine
your dear Charlotte Augusta in a comfortable wrapper,
seated on a nice calico sofa, and doing beautiful wor-
sted work: and yourself in a round jacket, lolling in
a good wooden rocking chair either cane-coloured
or green, with slippers on your feet, and a newspaper
in your hand. We can have a shelf or two for a few
select books. And of an evening, when I do not
happen to be sleepy, you can read to me in the Sum-
mer at Brighton, or the Winter in London, or Al-
macks, or Santo Sebastiano. I have them all. Bro-
ther Jem bought them cheap at auction. But I never
had time to get to the second volume of any of them.
So we have all that pleasure to come. And I shall
be delighted to have those sweet books read aloud
to me by you. You will like them far better than
those Scotch novels that people are always talking
about."

Woodbridge looked dubious. Finally, being tired
of the controversy, he thought best to end it by say-
ing— " Well, well — we'll let this subject rest for the
present." — But he resolved in his own mind to hold
out for ever against it.

At their boarding-house dinner-table, Mrs. Wood-
bridge informed a lady who sat opposite, that she was
delighted with her new house ; and that it was a love
of a place ; particularly a snug little apartment in the
back-building which Mr. Woodbridge had promised
her for a sitting-room, to save the parlours, as they
were to be furnished in very handsome style. Wood-
bridge reddened at her pertinacity, and to divert the
attention of those around him from a very voluble
expose of what she called her plans, he began to talk
to a gentleman on the other side of the table about
the latest news from Europe.

From this day our heroine spoke of the little sit-
ting-room as a thing of course, without noticing any
of the deprecatory lookings and sayings of her hus-
band. And she succeeded in teazing him into allow-
ing her to choose all the furniture of the house with-
out his assistance : guided only by the taste of one
of the female boarders, Mrs. Squanderfield, a lady
who had been married about a twelvemonth, and
after commencing house-keeping in magnificent style,
her husband (whose affairs had been involved at the
time of their marriage,) was obliged at the close of

the winter, to make an assignment for the benefit of
his creditors ; and the tradesmen who had supplied
it took back the unpaid furniture.

After her parlours had been fitted up in a very
showy and expensive manner (not forgetting the cen-
tre-table and its multitude of costly baubles) Mrs.
Woodbridge found that these two rooms had already
absorbed so large a portion of the sum allotted b}r
her husband for furnishing the whole house that it
was necessary to economize greatly in all the other
apartments : and to leave two chambers in the third
story with nothing but the bare walls. This discre-
pancy was much regretted by Mr. Woodbridge, even
after his wife had reminded him that these chambers
could only have been used as spare bed-rooms, which
in all probability would never be wanted as they did
not intend keeping a hotel ; and that as to encouraging
people to come and stay at her house (even her own
relations) she should do no such expensive thing. —
" You may depend on it, my dear," said she — on the
day that they installed themselves in their new abode,
" I shall make you a very economical wife."

And so she did, as far as comforts were concerned,
aided and abetted by the advice of her friend Mrs.
Squanderfield who counselled her in what to spend
money ; and in what to save it she was guided by the
precepts of Mrs. Pinchington, another inmate of the
same boarding-house, a widow of moderate income,
whose forte was the closest parsimony, and who had
broken up her own establishment and gone to board-
ing ostensibly because she was' lonely, but in Teality
because she could get no servant to live with her.
The advice of these two counsellors never clashed,
for Mrs. Squanderfield took cognizance of the dress
and the parlour arrangements of her pupil, while Mrs.
Pinchington directed the housewifery: and both of
them found in our heroine an apt scholar.

We need not tell our readers that the fair bride
carried her point with regard to the little apartment
at the head of the stairs, which she concluded to de-
signate as the dining-room, though they ate all their
meals in it ; and it became in fact their regular abid-
ing-place, her husband finding all opposition fruitless,
and finally yielding for the sake of peace.

It took Mrs. Woodbridge a fortnight to recover
from the fatigue of moving into their new house :
and during this time she was denied to all visiters,
and spent the day in a wrapper on the dining-room
sofa, sometimes sleeping, and sometimes sitting up at
a frame and working in worsted a square-faced lap-
dog, with paws and tail also as square as cross-stitch
could make them ; this remarkable animal most mira-
culously keeping his seat upon the perpendicular side
of an upright green bank, with three red flowers
growing on his right and three blue ones on the left.
During the progress of this useful and ornamental
piece of needle-work, the lady kept a resolute silence,
rarely opening her lips except to check her husband
for speaking to her, as it put her out in counting the
threads. And if he attempted to read aloud, (even
in Santo Sebastiano) she shortly desired him to desist,
as it puzzled her head and caused her to confuse the
proper number of stitches allotted to each of the
various worsted shades. If he tried to interest her by
a really amusing book of his own choice, she always •
went fast asleep, and on raising his eyes from the
page he found himself reading to nothing. If, on the
other hand, he wished to entertain himself by read-
ing in silence, he was generally interrupted by some-

ANACREONTIC BALLAD.

thing like this, preluded by a deep sigh — " Harvey
you are not thinking now of your poor Charlotte
Augusta — you never took up a book and read during
the week you were courting me. Times are sadly
altered now : but I suppose all wives must make up
their minds to be forgotten and neglected after the
first fortnight. Don't look so disagreeable: but if
you really care any thing about me, come and wind
this gold-coloured worsted — I want it for my dog's
collar."

The fortnight of rest being over, Mrs. Woodbridge
concluded to receive morning visiters and display to
them her handsome parlours : which for two weeks
were opened every day for that purpose during the
usual hours of making calls. Also she availed her-
self of the opportunity of wearing in turn twelve new
and beautiful dresses, and twelve pelerines and collars
equally new and beautiful.

Various parties were made for his bride by the
families that knew Harvey Woodbridge, who was
much liked throughout the circle in which he had
visited : and for every party the bride found that she
wanted some new and expensive articles of decoration,
notwithstanding her very recent outfit ; she and her
ma' having taken care that the trousseau should in
the number and costliness of its items be the admira-
tion of all New York, that is of the set of people
among which the Staplefords were accustomed to
revolve.

When the bridal parties were over, Woodbridge
was very earnest that his wife should give one her-
self in return for the civilities she had received from
his friends ; for though he had no fondness for parties
he thought they should be reciprocated by those who
went to them themselves, and who had the appliances
and means of entertaining company in a house of
their own and in the customary manner. To this pro-
posal our heroine pertinaciously objected, upon the
ground that she was tired and worn out with parties,
and saw no reason for incurring the expense and
trouble of giving one herself.

" But" — said her husband — " have you not often
told me of your mother's annual parties. Did she
not give at least one every season?"

" She never did any such thing" — replied Char-
lotte— " till after / was old enough to come out. And
she had as many invitations herself, before she began
to give parties as she had afterwards. It makes no
sort of difference. Ladies that dress well and look
well, and therefore help to adorn the rooms are under
no necessity of making a return (as you call it) even
if they go to parties every night in the season. Then,
if, besides being elegantly drest, they are belles and
beauties (here she fixed her eyes on the glass) their
presence gives an eclat which is a sufficient compen-
sation to their hostess."

" But if they are not belles and beauties" — observ-
ed Woodbridge, a little mischievously.

" I don't know what you are talking about !" — re-
plied the lady with a look of surprise.

" Well, well" — resumed the husband — " argue as
you will on this subject, you never can convince me
that it is right first tb lay ourselves under obligations,
and then to hold back from returning them, when
we have it amply in our power to do so."

" I am glad to hear you are so rich a man. It
was but last week you told me you could not afford
to get me that case of emeralds I set my mind upon
at Thibaut's."

"Neither I can. And excuse me for saying that
I think you have already as many articles of jewel-
lery as the wife of a Market street merchant ought
to possess."

" Are the things you gave me on our wedding-day
to last my life-time. Fashion changes in jewellery
as well as in every thing else."

" It cannot have changed much already, as but a
few weeks have elapsed since that giorno felice. How-
ever, let us say no more about jewels."

" Oh ! yes — I know it is an irksome topic to hus-
bands and fathers and all that sort of thing. Pa' was
always disagreeable whenever Marquand's bill was
sent in."

" To return to our former subject" — resumed
Woodbridge — " I positively cannot be satisfied, if
after accepting in every instance the civilities of our
friends, we should meanly pass over our obligation
of offering the usual return. I acknowledge that I
do not like parties; but having in compliance with
your wishes accompanied you to so many, we really
must make the exertion of giving one ourselves."

" If you disapprove of parties you ought not to
have a party. I thought you were a man that always
professed to act up to your principles."

" I endeavour to do so. And one of my principles
is to accept no favours without making a return as
far as lies in my power. I disapprove of prodigality,
but I hate meanness."

" It is wicked to hate any thing. But married men
get into such a violent way of talking. When pa'
did break out, he was awful. And then, instead of
arguing the point, ma' and I always quitted the room,
and left him to himself. He soon cooled down when
he found there was nobody to listen to him : and the
next day he was glad enough to make his peace and
give up."

Woodbridge could endure no more, but hastily left
the room himself: and Charlotte walked to the glass
and arranged her curls, and altered the tie of her neck-
ribbon ; and then sat down and worked at the ever-
lasting dog.

[To be continued.]

Written for the Lady's Book.

ANACREONTIC BALLAD,

When sparkling nectar from the skies
To mortals by great Jove was giv'n;

'Twas meant to soothe man's cares and sighs
And make Earth's wilderness a Heaven !

BY MRS. C. B. WILSON, OF LONDON.

She breathed into the ruby wine
Love's melting kiss to charm the draught.

But Beauty seized the cup divine
And ere man's thirsty lip had quaffed,

And thus, 'tis no Lethean bowl

For when the madd'ning draught ia o'er
New fires inflame the lover's soul,

And rage more fiercely than before I

FALSE PRIDE.

Written for the Lady's Book.
PRAYERS AT SEA

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

Prayer may be sweet, in cottage homes
Where sire and child devoutly kneel,

While through the open casement nigh
The vernal blossoms fragrant steal.

Prayer may be sweet, in stately halls
Where heart with kindred heart is blent,

And upward to the Eternal Throne
The hymn of praise melodious sent.

But he, who fain would know how warm
The soul's appeal to God may be,

From friends and native land should turn,
A wanderer on the faithless sea: —

Should hear its deep, imploring tone
Rise heavenward o'er the foaming surge,

When billows toss the fragile bark,
And fearful blasts the conflict urge.

Naught, naught around, but waves and skies,

No refuge where the foot may flee,
How will he cast, oh, Bock Divine !

The anchor of his hope in Thee.

London, Eng.

Written for the Lady's Book.

FALSE PRIDE.

A TALE OF EVERY DAY LIFE. BY MISS MARY W. HALE.

" Julia, who was that ordinary looking creature with
you to-day ? A new acquaintance which your very
republican taste has made, I suppose."

"Not at all, She was a poor Irishwoman, who,
being a stranger in town, had lost her way and applied
to me to set her right. As I was going in the same
direction, I offered to show her the street she was
seeking."

"And in a few days she will be calling to thank you
for your kindness, and you can do no less than return
the civility. You carry your crude notions so far."

" She must be a cunning magician truly ; since I
gave her no clue by which she could find me, nor did
I even learn her own name, though with the ready
loquacity of her people, she gave me many particulars
of her life."

" Well," said the laughing Ellen, " how you can
disgrace yourself in such a manner, I cannot under-
stand. You had as lief walk with an Irishwoman as
a prince, and are as lavish of your smiles on a beggar
as you would be on a Right Honourable Countess.
For my part, I hope I may never stoop so far as to
walk the entire length of Tremont street with a low
Paddy-woman."

" A low Paddy-woman, my dear Julia, as you term
her, if she have the kindly feelings of our nature, is
far more entitled to attention than the tinsel beauties
who oftener receive it. A rough exterior may often
hide the purest and kindest heart. I should not wish
any more than yourself, to consider as my intimate
friend an uneducated Irishwoman."

" But why not, my cousin fair ? Your practice is
against your theory, for that you say teaches you that
one is as good as another."

" You misunderstand me. As worthy a gentle word,
a kind service, as deserving of polite treatment under
all circumstances as the wealthiest and most noble.
You smile. But a person entirely ignorant of the forms

of society, often shows herself a far greater proficient
in that politeness which springs from the heart. My
good will and my kind services I trust I render to all,
as occasion demands. My intimate friendship and
the warmth of my affections must depend upon causes
over which I may have no control, but which still are
very powerful. A cultivated mind, high moral and
religious principle, these you know I consider essen-
tial requisites, and you scarcely do me justice when
you confound the mere kind office I render a fellow
creature, with the love I cherish for my nearest and
dearest friends. No, love ! you are far dearer to me
than any Irishwoman can be. That I think you
have foibles, you may be aware. That you have
many excellent qualities I have often told you. But,
Ellen, your false ideas of pride are at the foundation
of all your defects. A little more experience and
knowledge of human nature will, I trust, effect a
reformation," said she, smiling.

Ellen was almost tempted to be angry, but there
was a sweetness in her cousin's reproof which car-
ried conviction to her heart, and the angry thought
rested unspoken on her lip.

" And now," continued Julia, " let me ask who
was with you on Tuesday? A gentleman by his
dress, a scholar by pretension, a flatterer by profes-
sion. In short, Charles Harbury is no acquaintance
to be courted or to be proud of."

" But, Julia, you are so particular. There are
very few you consider as good as you, and besides
you are so cold and calm, that one might as well
melt an iceberg, as your hard and flinty heart. Per-
haps Herbert Seymour — "

" Stop, my dear, you know my opinion of our early
playmate, that he is every thing good and noble.
Surely she who can count as a friend so lofty a cha-
racter, cannot covet the attentions of a man like
Charles Harbury."

FALSE PRIDE.

" But how stiff he is, and I think somewhat unpo-
lished and appears so little at his ease. When he
tries to say a civil thing, he does it as though he had
committed a blunder. Now Charles is so graceful
and accomplished."

" And because the coin is well polished, it passes
current with you, though it be counterfeit, and you
are inclined to forget the baser metal which the shin-
ing surface conceals."

" But, Julia, he visits in the first society. The
Linwoods, the Mercers, and Grace Selwyn, whose
smile is a gem, and whose word a passport, say he is
irresistible."

" Your opinion, then, is a matter of faith merely,
and your judgment is the reflected taste of others.
Seriously speaking, a rogue with the assistance of his
tailor, and his own effrontery, may pass even through
the first society. But tell me, Ellen, who is really
most disgraced, I who walked the length of Tremont
street, with a poor, but neatly clothed Irishwoman,
or you, who travelled the same distance with the
fashionable but idle Charles Harbury ? I should not
wish my brother to consider him a near friend, still
less a lady, and that lady my dear cousin Ellen.
Herbert Seymour had the courage to tell you of your
faults, and thus he won your ill favour."

" Herbert Seymour again, that paragon ! O that he
would return to lay his laurels at my cousin's feet.
Verily, he hath no dearer friend. I should like to
hear him ' pop the question.' It would be done with
a grace all his own."

" A truce to such jesting. Dear Ellen, may you
never learn that they who flatter you most, are not
your truest friends. Herbert's most keen reproof is
of more value than the gilded compliments of those
who say you never do wrong ; for it would be uttered
in kindness and in truth. His worth may pass a
while unregarded, while Charles Harbury wins and
wears the favours of the ladies. A day of reckoning
will come, however, even in this world."

" Well, as long as he is the fashion, I suppose
humble I may tolerate him, and if the wealthy lionize
him, why may I not bestow the poor pittance of my
smile upon him ?"

" There is the mischief. The wealthy, from their
position in society, take the lead, and whom they
patronize, be he a strolling foreigner or an idle coun-
tryman, their imitators are sure to favour. The rich
should make merit the passport to their notice, and
until gentility is graduated by a higher standard than
mere wealth, or fashion, or external grace, we shall
have no aristocracy of worth. Mankind is long in
learning wisdom from experience ; but until we have
a conviction that all well dressed females are not
duchesses, and that valets sometimes assume the title
of count without the dignity, quiet, unobtrusive good-
ness will have little chance of reaching the position
it may be eminently calculated to adorn. No, Ellen,
our standard is an external one, not that which
reaches the heart and inner life ; and notwithstanding
our boasted republicanism, we are at heart as much
devoted to the tinsel, glare, and unmeaning ceremony
of fashion, as ever a monied aristocracy in the old
world. I war with your favourite theory, my cousin,
but you have yet to learn sad, though salutary les-
sons."

Ellen and Julia Clement were cousins, yet sisters in
affection. Still their characters were totally unlike, as

their previous conversation would imply. There was
a lofty greatness in the soul of Julia, which manifested
itself in all she did and uttered, a fearless independence
and an unconquerable attachment to truth. It was
less the lip than the heart which spoke, so .carefully
did she make the former the faithful mirror of the
latter. Hers was no conventional politeness, for it
sprung from the loving depths of her own kindly
nature. And when a friendly service was to be done,
she asked not who the recipient might be, though, in
truth, her gentle offices were oftenest performed for
those whom the fashionable world scorned to succour.
Money could purchase kindness for the wealthy, but
the poor of this world were they to whom she " was
rich in good works." And yet her own means were
limited. She was the faithful almoner of the abun-
dance of others, but the poor loved scarcely more
the needed bounty, than the kind voice of her who
brought it j- and the gift often remained unheeded, till
her own blithe step and warm smile had left their
threshold.

Ellen was all impulse, yet not always considerate.
She called herself generous, yet even her generosity
was selfish. She loved better to give a costly bauble
to one who could afford to purchase it, than bestow
needed charity on a suffering and worthy object.
She would walk miles to accommodate a fashionable
friend, but, to use her own words, she would not dis-
grace herself by being seen with a poor Irishwoman.
And yet she had the germs of much that was good
and with skilful management, might have been a
most estimable girl. Her mother had died during
her early childhood, and little responsibility had de-
volved on her, as the family was managed by a
faithful and worthy housekeeper. Mr. Clement asked
little beyond seeing his daughter well dressed and his
elegantly furnished rooms filled with wealthy and
fashionable guests. Thus the really fine mind and
noble nature of his daughter neglected and ungovem-
ed, retained, amid the errors which choked it, scarcely
a trace of real and disinterested kindness.

On the death of her father, about one year previous
to the time our narrative commences, she had become
a resident in her uncle's family. The sterling sense
and good example of her cousin, if it did not entirely
reform, did much to improve her character. She
seemed at times to desire the lofty, yet not unfeminine
independence of Julia ; but false pride was indeed the
root of all her defects, and a true sense of the dignity
of virtue and the authority of goodness, could not be
grafted in a moment upon her preconceived opinions.
The influence of her frivolous companions clung
round her, and she moved as in a charmed circle,
fearful of forfeiting caste among her fashionable ac-
quaintances, by opposition to their theory.

But a change was to come over her, and Julia's
words were almost as prophecy, when she told her
that she had yet to learn sad, though salutary lessons.
Her property, ample enough for her support, had been
entrusted to the care of a villain, and within two
years from her entrance into her uncle's family it was
entirely swept away, and Ellen Clement, stricken and
desolate, found that to the loneliness of orphanage,
were added the trials of poverty.

Her uncle's income, though sufficient for the main-
tenance of his family, was limited ; and he used the
strictest economy in his expenditures. On him, she
could not depend, and other connexion to whom she
could reasonably look for support, she had not.

FALSE PRIDE.

And where then turned she for aid, in the hour
of her sad trial ? To the fair, frivolous beings, who
had lavished their smiles on her. golden hours ? To
the butterfly Harbury," who had fluttered the most
gaily around her shrine. Poor Ellen ! alas ! she
found them but broken reeds. For a short time, they
mourned with sickly sentiment the change that had
come over her fortunes, canvassed her situation at
their splendid parties, recognized her at first with a
slight bow, and then passed by with a vacant stare,
" on the other side."

No, not to these summer friends did she turn, for
she would have turned in vain; but to her cold-
hearted, singular cousin. It was she who held her
feverish hand, and bathed her throbbing temples, who
soothed her with a sister's kindness, and sympathized
in her sorrows with the depth of a sister's love. Hers
was not the affected sympathy which, in endeavour-
ing to comfort, too often inflicts a deeper wound.
Solace derived from the springs of deep and fervent
piety, she shed over her broken spirit, and Ellen,
deserted by those who had vowed eternal friendship,
found herself cherished with added kindliness by her
whose opinions she had ridiculed, and whose charity
she had so often attacked.

It was a short time after the public announcement
of the loss of her property, that the cousins were
sitting in their neat little parlour, talking over the
past, and laying plans for the future. A note was
brought to Miss Clement, which, on opening, she
found to contain sundry small bills to the amount
of $50. She commenced a perusal of the billet, but
words cannot express the indignation of her feelings,
which sent the blood in one tumultuous rush to her
cheek and temples. It was as follows:

Miss Clement — We are sorry to hear of your trou-
ble, and have made up a purse among us to remind
you of our sympathy. We trust you will receive it
in good part. Charles Harbury thinks you will pro-
bably open a school, or take in sewing. He says
you would do capitally at the first, you paint and
draw so beautifully. We shall do what we can for
you. We miss you very much from our parties.
Yours, Grace L. Selwyn.

" They shall suffer for it," were her first words,
" and they who have thus unfeelingly insulted me,
shall yet sue humbly for my notice. What shall I
do ? what shall I say ? Oh ! my heart is full. I
could, I could almost — "

" Be ye angry and sin not," whispered the kind
voice of Julia Clement. " Return the bills uncom-
mented upon to the heartless Miss Selvvyn : an angry
rejoinder would but increase the difficulty. The trial
is great but strong in the might which comes alone
from God, all shall yet. be well. We will suffer toge-
ther, dearest, a school we will open, and you shall
show your hollow-hearted coterie how a Christian
can suffer, and what constitutes true greatness and
real wealth."

" But to be thus deserted," said Ellen. " The gay
and the frivolous see no merit in me, now that my
wealth has fled, while I have done nothing to deserve
the love of the truly good and wise. I am alone,
alone."

" Not alone, dear Ellen. The worldly may for-
sake you, but they whose opinion is most estimable,
will love you better for your trials, and value you
higher for your struggles. And God is even now

speaking from the cloud, and shedding his peace over
the troubled waters of your soul. Herbert Seymour,
think you he will change ?"

"Julia, I taunted and scorned him in my days of
pride and empty pleasure. Distant and silent, he may
be forgetful. What did I to merit his remembrance ?
I see it too late ; he was a sincere friend. But false
pride blinded my vision, and now I have awoke from
the gilded dream."

" Herbert seems to have gained in your good
graces, my sweet cousin. Your radiant countenance
as you thus recur to the past, would compensate for
the tossings of your head, and the gentle frowns where-
with you awed him from your presence. You are
changed, dear Ellen, and can bear this recurrence to
other days."

" Changed, yes, dear, dear Julia, but even now the
blight sometimes falls on my heart, and pride makes
me ashamed of my altered circumstances. Oh ! that
my father had bequeathed the care of my property to
your dear parent, instead of his dishonest partner,
Morven. But pray for me, that into whatever depth
of poverty I may yet fall, the sustaining grace of God
may be my stay. May my heart hush its repinings,
and may it be humbled as that of a child."

The project of the school succeeded admirably.
Julia Clement was the life and soul of the enterprise,
and Ellen, who had really received the best instruc-
tion which our city affords, was highly accomplished,
and concurred in her cousin's well matured and well
executed plans. It was Julia's friends who patron-
ised them, and the school soon became well filled
and highly reputed. Ellen's character gained daily
in strength and beauty. Impulse became principle,
and yet she lost not the eager enthusiasm of her
nature. The depths of her pride were broken up.
Bitter experience had taught her, that when wealth
has flown the friendship of the world also takes
wings and flies away. To gain a comfortable main-
tenance seemed now her only aim ; while the eternal
riches of the spiritual kingdom, was the fair goal of her
fondest desires. Never had she so well appreciated
the inexhaustible wealth of a human mind ; and new
beauties were daily unfolding to her expanding vision.
Julia, noble and disinterested, gazed on her in joy ;
and often as she witnessed a proof of her self-conquest
her own eye glistened, and the silent approving tes-
timonial was far dearer than the more vehement
adulation lavished on her, by the gay companions
of her prosperity.

And Julia's work was truly a labour of love, for
the sum rightly due to herself, she generously gave
to Ellen, and would receive no other remuneration
than the weeping thanksgiving of her grateful cousin.

It was towards the close of a bright day of June,
that sweetest and most radiant of the sisterhood.
The sweet briar and jessamine sent in their mingled
odours, through the window at which Ellen, alone
and thoughtful, was seated. Her thoughts were
communing with the past, yet not in sorrow. She
went forward to the future, yet not in despair. She
saw the hand of God in her trials, He had been with
her through the dark valley, and the full adoration
of her heart went up to Him, even for the chasten-
ings of His Providence.

She was interrupted in her reverie, by the entrance
of Julia, whose beaming countenance told of some
unexpected good fortune : and she seemed to have
caught a portion of her cousin's enthusiasm, as her

10

FALSE PRIDE.

usually calm tone gave way to the eager exclama-
tion,

" He is coming, he is coming, Herbert Seymour.
I hold a letter in my hand, which says at the farthest
he shall be here on Thursday."

"A letter from Herbert is no strange circumstance,
my animated cousin. Judging from the frequent
recurrence of his favours, and the little mystery which
has seemed to hang over them, and also from your
exceeding great joy, I might suppose he had come to
carry away a happy bride. Your secrets are your
own, my fair cousin, and though you have not blessed
me with your confidence, you have my kindest wishes,
my most fervent prayers, my more than sister." Still
there was a lurking sadness in her tone, as she added,
" do not dismiss me from your new home."

" Never ! never ! while I have a home, you share
it, at least, till you enter yourself on a wife's duties.
Ellen, you are a jewel, and the heart of any man
may safely trust in you."

It was in the secrecy of her own room that Ellen
mused upon the events of that sunset hour. The
mist vanished before her gaze, and she seemed as one
who has awaked from a blessed dream. She had
made a shrine in her heart of hearts for the absent
Herbert, and unseen of all, almost imperceptibly to
herself, had fed its incense flame. In other days his
love might have been hers, and she then rejected the
gift. And now he had cast by her affection as worth-
less, and had asked and won the heart of her cousin.
But not his rising fortunes, did she now, penniless
heiress, worship : but the rich graces of his intellect,
and the high tone of his character, first gained her
esteem, and then, unsought, won her love. What
earnest strivings, what fervent prayers, that lonely
chamber witnessed, but prayer brought peace, and
submissively she resigned the star of her existence to
her favoured cousin.

It seemed as if her cousin Julia had penetrated
her secret, for she never mentioned Herbert's name,
and Ellen appreciated the kindness. Thursday came,
and with it, arrived the expected guest. His meeting
with the cousins was frank and kind, and he seemed
to have forgotten that any change had come over the
fortunes of Ellen. And Ellen — Herbert might almost
fancy that the Ellen Clement of former days stood
before him, so restrained was her greeting, but that
the tones of her voice were kinder, and her lip wore
not the cold scorn it had been wont to assume.

Another sunset gladdened the circle of the Clements,
rich, gorgeous, and glorious ; yet never on the gazing
eyes of one member of that happy household, stream-
ed so blessed a light ; for, at that hushed and holy
hour, Herbert Seymour and Ellen Clement sealed
themselves to each other, in a union which death
itself, though it might interrupt, could never destroy.

" And now, Julia, tell me about the matter," said
Ellen, as they were indulging in a little harmless
gossip the following morning.

" Truth, my gentle cousin, and has not Herbert
himself unravelled the mystery, if mystery there be ?
I suppose the future engrossed his mind too much for
one thought of the past to find entrance."

" Herbert mentioned, indeed, something about a
plot, but as it was your affair more than his, he said
he should refer me to you for an explanation."

" A fine abettor he, to leave all the plan at my
door, while he reaps all the benefit. And suppose

your ladyship had said nay to that one little question,
which he has travelled so far to ask you, what would
you have said to me ? That there has been a plot
against you, most sweet and innocent cousin, let me
candidly own, but that the agents in it were your best
and most loving friends, you must fully credit.

" I have known from our girlhood, that Herbert
valued you far higher than myself, and was aware that
previous to his departure, a sincere attachment had
taken the place of his boyish preference. You need
not ask why his love never took the form of an ex-
plicit declaration. What often deters a portionless
lover from asking the hand of a wealthy heiress?
Pardon me, dear Ellen, but he knew that his poverty
brought upon him your scorn, and often has he wished
that the gifts of fortune and graces of person were
his, to lay at your feet; but not one iota of his un-
conqerable-integrity would he sacrifice, even to possess
your love.

" At length came a lucrative offer from the South.
There was much at that time, misguided and errone-
ous as were your views, to bind him to you. On the
perfect ingenuousness of your nature, the tenacity with
which you clung to and vindicated even your unwor-
thy friends, the winning hopefulness of your disposi-
tion, he placed much dependence. " Time may change
her views," said he. " A growing knowledge of the
world, and the example of her cousin, may work
wonders." He departed, and though repulsed by your
sometimes cutting sarcasm, and convinced that he
bore not one spark of even your kind interest, he left
behind his heart with me, in trust for yourself. A
hazardous experiment you think, if I may judge from
your smile; but he knew me no girl to pine in a hope-
less attachment for one whose heart she knew to be
another's. In due time, and it was the most blessed
hour of your life, your property vanished, and you
were thrown on the cold, callous sympathy of your
pretended friends. But the key which locked from
your touch the treasures of earth, unlocked to your
eye, wealth which moth nor rust could corrupt. Your
trial was sanctified to you. From the ashes of your
crumbling treasures, arose as the Phcenix, the dove-
like wing which bore your affections to heaven.

" When Herbert heard of your affliction, and he
heard it nearly as soon as it was known to us, think
you his love grew cold? Providence had lavished
His smiles on him. Steady, persevering industry,
found him rising in the esteem of all who knew him,
and the possessor of a gradually increasing property.
He heard the intelligence with pain, it is true, and yet
he viewed your altered fortunes as a chain which
bound you yet closer to himself. Do you wonder
that, with his love unchanged, he should not have
come to you, confessed his affection, and plighted his
troth ? At that time, he was not in a situation to
marry, he knew not what might be your own feelings,
and pardon me, I told him it was best to be silent for
a time. The school was our united project, though
by great good fortune, Grace Selwyn insultingly pro-
posed it. I wished myself to watch the growth of
your character beneath the pressure of your worldly
affliction, to mark the daily discipline it would undergo
in its new duties. A school would furnish the means
of pecuniary independence, would discipline and
strengthen your mind, and I was willing myself to
make any sacrifice to aid you. I wished you to have
no hope for the future, save your own unaided ex-
ertions. I desired you to be unconscious that one,

HE CAME NOT.

II

whose love might well be precious to the noblest of
women, was watching over and caring for you. Her-
bert, to be sure, has borne the time rather impatiently.
He has been fortunately unable to come North, but
has heard faithfully of you, at no distant intervals.

"And now dearest, need I tell you the change
which has come over you ? You feel it in your own
altered estimate of the world and its friendship, in the
deep and unwavering faith with which you now rest
on the goodness of the Almighty. No hope of earthly
love, strong and all-conquering though it be, has
wrought it; but the gradual developement of princi-
ple within you. Think you I have sounded Herbert's
praises in your ears, for the last year, for nothing, till
you almost thought the iceberg had melted beneath
his influence ? I marked your flushed, then pale cheek,
when I announced his coming, and read at once, your
self-delusion and your inward struggle. Oh ! how my
heart leaped to tell you all, but that I felt I ought to
leave to the happy Herbert."

" Most blessed cousin ! what thanks I owe you,"
said the grateful girl, as she threw her arms around
Julia, and for a season the cousins remained folded
in a silent embrace. Hope and memory were busy
with both, and their hearts were too full for utterance.
Ellen was the first to speak, and as if thinking audi-
bly, she said,

" And yet I am disappointed."

" Disappointed ! not disagreeably so, that Herbert
should have chosen the very one, whom of all the
world, you most hoped he would choose. Make him
over then to me, if you repent your bargain,"

" But to think, after all, you are not to grace your
own happy home."

" Spare your regrets. Julia Clement must remain
Julia Clement, all her days; nor must you pity her,
that she has so chosen to do. Pardon me, that I
have had one secret from you. But taking counsel
of my own judgment, and that of my parental advi-
sers, I have taken the step which I thought best" —
and there was a mischievous glance of her eye to
Herbert, who had just entered — " our good cousin
Ernest has expressed his kind opinion of your humble
servant, and so we expect a double bridal, in due time.
I know you considered my affections otherwise dis-
posed of, and this spared my own feelings, and left you
more free to act.

" But Ellen our harmless plot has succeeded, and
our warmest desires for you are granted. Bless the
day that took from you your hope in earthly riches."
She paused; then, with a good humour at which none
could take offence, she archly said, " and ask your
own happy heart, which is now most worthy your
regard, the ' graceful, accomplished,' but profligate
Charles Harbury, or the ' stiff, somewhat unpolished,
and sometimes ill at ease' Herbert Seymour?"

Written for the Lady's Book.
HE CAME NOT

BY MISS E. S. NORTON.

He came not! — she had watched for him,

Many a weary day ;
And Hope deferred had stole the bloom

From her fair cheek away.

He came not! — those gazelle-like eyes
With mournful lustre shone,

Her voice a world of sorrow breath'd
In its sweet plaintive tone.

Yet, was she not less beautiful

Though the rose had left her cheek,

And though her melancholy smile
A breaking heart did speak.

But oh ! hers was the loveliness

Prom which, with aching heart,

The gazer turns away and weeps
For that which must depart.

He came not ! — woe for her young heart,

Bereft of all most dear !
Its sweet buds blighted in the spring,

Why should she linger here ?

Softly she faded, day by day,

Just as a half-ope'd flower,
Whose fragile stem rude hands have bruised,

Within its native bower.

It blooms awhile amid the rest,

As sweet and fair as they,
Only a paler sadder hue

Tells of its slow decay.

But while they still are in their pride,

Gently its petals fall ;
From the gay throng is scarcely missed

The loveliest of all.

E L P I S,

A lady of the fifth centmy, descended from one
of the most considerable families of Messina, was
first wife of the celebrated Boethius. Like her hus-
band she was devoted to science and shared with him
his literary labours. She examined passages and
transcribed quotations, and the same ardour eminently
appeared in both. Far from withdrawing him from
his studies, she was sedulous to animate him when
he grew languid in them. In her, all the accom-
plishments of the head and heart were united. She
had a fine taste in literature, particularly in poetry,

and was a shining example of every virtue ; so that
she must have been a delightful companion of this
eminent philosopher and statesman. Indeed, each
are said to have thought their destinies equally envi-
able. She had the happiness of seeing her two sons,
Patritius and Hypatius raised to the consular dignity,
which their father had also several times enjoyed, but
she died before any of his latter misfortunes had be-
fallen him. After the death of this beloved wife,
Boethius married again, and is said to have been
equally fortunate in his second choice.

12

THE FAIRY S PROFFER.

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE FAIRY'S PROFFER.

BY MRS. ANNAN, LATE MISS A. M. F. BUCHANAN.

"If fairy times should e'er return
To bless this dull, prosaic earth,
And some bright shape should proffer me

Her wondrous gifts of magic birth ;
I would not ask Aladdin's lamp,

Nor yet Fortuniq's purse of gold,
But something richer far than these, —
The merry heart that ne'er grows old !"

Quoted from Memory.

"Gentle maiden! choose thy dower!
To thy will I bend my power !
Shall I Beauty's light impart? —
Priceless gift to woman's heart,
Down from that of sceptred queen,
Unto hers of village- green; —
Worshipped shalt thou walk the earth,
As too bright for mortal birth."

" Fairy! slight must be the boon
That would pass away so soon!
In a day, the roses laid
On the cheek of mortal, fade ;
And, as flies the vaunted hue,
Scoffing go its minions too,
Leaving her it graced, to hide
Grief and shame in lonely pride !"

" Truly said, but there is love
Beauty-worship high above ; —
That, unchanging, shall be thine
In a quiet household shrine ;
Eager hands shall on thee tend,
Earnest lips their blessings send ;
Loving fondly, thou shalt share
Life's sweet tasks in blissful care !"

" Holier gift, yet hardly less
Far from that of happiness!
Mark the mother's drooping head
O'er the sick and dying bed !
Mark the widow's scalding tear
O'er an idol husband's bier !
Sorrow every hearth must know, —
Love but deepens it to woe !"

" Wouldst thou wealth?— a woof of gold
O'er thy pathway shall be rolled !
Pageants that shall be thy train
Monarchs might be proud to gain ;
Treasures rare with thine own hand
Thou shalt glean in every laud.
Or, from every land, shall meet
Tribute-bearers at thy feet."

" Keep it ! weary is the lot
Seeking wants where wants are not,
Pampering sated ear and eye,
Heaping all that gold can buy,
But to trample it as dust ;
Scanning with a cold distrust
Every bosom, till our own
Chills and hardens into stone !"

"Knowledge then thy wish would be? —
Wide its vaults shall ope for thee!
From each casket take the store, —
I can still unlock thee more ;

At thy mandate age by age

Shall upcast its buried page;

Lips, whence none would wisdom seek,

Oracles to thee shall speak."

'"Tis a boon that none may scorn,
Yet is bliss of knowledge born ?
Human records still have been
Tales of weakness, woe, and sin;
Science writes upon her urn
Little 'tis that man can learn, —
Scarce the first bright drops are quaffed
Ere Death starts to snatch the draught?'

" Yet there is a gift to name !
Maiden, thou must welcome Fame!
In thee, beautiful and strong,
Shall awake the power of song,
Ever, where its echoes thrill,
Luring myriads to thy will, —
Myriads that in light and bloom
Through all time shall keep thy tomb !"

" Not for me the fate of one
Held a bright crowned skeleton !
They who loudest swell her praise,
Who hath won Fame's meteor-rays,
Deem the spirit's wealth is 6hed
That the halo may be fed ;
Deem it vain where none may live
Life's sweet sympathies to give!

"Judge me not of thankless mind
Thus to answer, fairy kind!
But the common lot I crave,
While a pilgrim to the grave ;
And, of showers that drop for all,
Be it honey, be it gall,
That I still may drink my part
With a light and trusting heart !"

" Have the wish thou choosest well !
Now I sign thee with a spell, —
Unto thee shall gleam a star,
Where the thickest storm-clouds are;
Where but dross to others seem,
Unto thee shall jewels gleam ;
Where but weeds to others spring
Flowers for thee be blossoming !

" Sorrow thou shalt win to smile,
Suffering of its pangs beguile,
Age shall greet thee gay as youth,
Charmed deceit with words of truth ;
Blest to all, a mark is set,
Sweet one ! as an amulet,
From the soul upon her brow
Who can wisely ask as thcu I"

AN INCIDENT DURING A SIEGE.

13

Written for the Lady's Book.
AN INCIDENT DURING A SIEGE.

BV MRS. MARY H. PARSONS.

'A woman of Ancona, heart-broken by the exhaustion of her two sons, and helpless of other relief, opened a vein in her left
arm ; and having prepared and disguised the blood which flowed from it with spices, and condiments (for these luxuries still
abounded, as if to mock the cravings of that hunger which had slight need of any further stimulant than its own sad neces-
sity), presented them with the beverage: thus prolonging the existence of her children, like the bird of which similar ten-
derness is fabled, even at the price of that tide of life by which her own was supported."— Sketches from Venetian History.

Night closed around the beseiged city — night and
silence. No sound of laughter, or of mirth, was
heard within its walls ; men looked ghastly from long
and sore famine, and in each other's faces they read
despair. The moon shone out in her glory, the
heavens were tranquil, and OhT how beautiful — but
man, poor suffering man, had neither tranquillity nor
hope ! They looked up grimly into the faces of their
fellows, and they murmured in broken voices, we
starve ! There were no words of cheer, or of conso-
lation ; physical suffering had exhausted sympathy.
The human face was shorn of its beauty, and the
strong frame of manhood wasted unto feebleness;
ever they passed and repassed, silently, save when the
low wailing voice of childhood went out upon the
still air, moaning for bread !

Let us enter one of the stateliest mansions of
Ancona — a room wherein were gathered the many
luxuries that minister to the wants of the great ; upon
a seat of cushions at the open window, sate a noble
lady ; she looked forth upon the noiseless multitude,
and her pale brow was knit, and suffering ; her large
eyes of shining black were moistened with tears, and
her lips, though carved as of old, softly and delicately,
were quivering with the anguish of her heart. Agnes
Visconti was a mother ; her two brave boys had been
among the defenders of the city since early morning,
without food, save that which was loathsome to the
sight and taste, and of that not enough to sustain
them. The hour drew near when she might expect
them home ; food had not passed her own lips that
day, but what was that to a mother who looked upon
her children and saw them perishing for bread, when
she had none to give ? She heard their approaching
footsteps, painful and slow ; they who had bounded
to meet her, as the young deer upon the hill side,
when he scents the air of early morning ! She rose
not, but her eyes were bent strainingly upon the door,
and her hands were folded tightly over her bosom, as
though she might conceal the tumultuous throbbings
of her heart. The youngest entered first — a youth
of nineteen summers, with an eye loving and gentle,
and a face of boy-like beauty, that famine had not
been able to destroy ; brave he was, and full of en-
thusiasm, and nobly, for one of his tender years, had
he battled for his country, but his strength was spent ;
he tottered up feebly to his mother, and sinking down
by her side, he murmured despairingly — " Mother,
mother ! I am weary, and would die."

" Enrico, my son ! God help thee, for other help
is there none !" In sore and terrible anguish, that
mother clasped the boy to her heart, hot tears fell
upon his wasted face, as her long thin fingers
smoothed back his shining hair, while her voice,
hollow and broken, uttered, " Bread ! for my children,
give me bread !" Her eyes wandered heavily to her
eldest born ; he stood with arms folded, gazing forth
VOL. XXII. 2

gloomily upon the changed, and famished fellow-men
beneath him.

" Pietro, son, how is it with thee ?" said the
mother with faltering voice, for she shrank from the
answer.

" Mother, mother, what am I ? Our city, our fair
city will fall ! The wily Venetian, and the relentless
Christian will triumph over her ; and Oh, God ! the
brave men who have borne so uncomplainingly, will
be cut down as foul things that cumber the path of
the victor ! Oh, Ancona, Ancona ! how freely would
I pour forth the last drop of my blood could I save
thee !" and the proud soldier bent his head to con-
ceal the burning tears that gushed from his eyes.
The heart of Agnes thrilled within her bosom ; some-
thing of a mother's pride, even in that hour of agony,
mingled in her yearning love as she looked upon her
first born. In all Ancona there was none more be-
loved and esteemed, than Pietro Visconti; lofty, and
enthusiastic by nature ; clear judging, and energetic
of purpose — he was admired for his indomitable
courage, trusted for his skill, and loved for his court-
eous bearing ; already he held high command in the
army, and, but that his own fate was involved in that
of his native city, the future had been before him full
of hope and promise. He mourned Ancona. Alas !
the light had gone out from his own eye, the colour
from his lips, the strength from his frame ; hunger
was gnawing at his heart strings, and the mother, as
he sank exhausted upon the cushions, almost feared
to see hitn die before her.

Enrico slept; she moved him gently from her
arms ; it was fearfully like death that profound and
heavy slumber ; yet Agnes blessed it — it brought for-
getfulness. She rose up, but. ere she left the room
a maiden entered of some twenty summers ; it was
Eudora, the betrothed of Pietro. The dark eye of
the pale girl glanced mournfully upon her lover, and
then rested upon Agnes : — " How fares it with you
all?" she said sadly, and the low tones of her sweet
voice were broken, and faint. The mother shook
her head despondingly, and as she moved from the
room she pointed to Pietro. " Comfort him I" it was
all the reply. Pietro's face was buried in his hands ;
Eudora stole softly towards him, and she laid her
own hand tremblingly upon his : — " Cheer up, mine
own, there is yet hope ! Put your trust in a God
who will never suffer our wicked enemies to triumph."
Pietro uncovered his face, and looked into the soft,
and tender eyes that were beaming upon him, the
colour came faintly over his wan face, as he took the
young girl into his arms and blessed her : — " You
never murmur, love ; so frail, and tenderly nurtured
too ! you never complain; from the first you have
been unselfish, and cheered me when my heart was
sinking in despair ; but Eudora I can hope no longer."
" Hope on !" she answered, " we may receive the

14

OH, LET MB WEEP.

expected succours ere the night be over ; Oh ! for
your mother's sake, and for the sake of that young
sleeping brother — hope on !"

" Eudora, I have looked upon fearful scenes this
night — helpless women and children, and strong men,
stretching out their ghastly hands to God, and shriek-
ing for bread ! the cry went down into my heart, and
it stifled every feeling but despair."

Eudora trembled as she listened to words like
these, from one who had borne so bravely, and un-
complainingly the evils of his lot : and he was fear-
fully changed within the last few hours — so worn, so
feeble, so utterly exhausted ; the tears ran over her
face, although she struggled hard to subdue them.
Pietro drew her towards him, and kissed the pale
cheek, and quivering lips. " Do -not weep, love," he
said tenderly, " though our fortunes are dark, and
terrible, they are shared together." The words had
scarcely passed his lips, when a faintness came over
him, his head sank down among the cushions, and he
lay powerless, and almost insensible. Eudora wept
no more, the anguish of that hour was too great for
tears, a choking and convulsive cry for " bread !
bread !" escaped her, and she sank feebly down by
his side. Turn we to the chamber of the mother.
Agnes Visconti sat alone, the light of a new-created
hope sparkled in her eyes ; while calm, lofty, and re-
solute, was the expression of the still fine but faded
features. She bared the, white arm that had in other
days been famed for its beauty — with a sharp instru-
ment that lay on the table before her, she opened a
vein; drop by drop the blood oozed out into the
bowl beneath ; it ran slowly, for she had hungered
long : the light streamed upon her pale face, upon the
dark eye that rested sadly, and resolvedly upon the
life-blood as it ebbed away. " It is for my children,"
she thought, " mine own ! — what if it shortens life for
a brief season ? it may save them both. Oh ! Thou,
who judgeth by the secret thoughts of the heart, re-
ward me by their deliverance !" The face of the
high-souled woman grew deadly pale, a faint sickness
came over her, but her purpose faltered not. " Bone
of my bone," she murmured, " flesh of my flesh, I am
ready to die for them !" and again she was strength-
ened, till her purpose was accomplished. She bound
up her arm, and as her enfeebled frame allowed, she

mixed the rich spices she had prepared with the blood,
and bore it with tottering steps to her famishing
children.

" You are ill," said Eudora, rising as Agnes en-
tered the room, " very ill, I am sure you are changed
since you left us."

" Nay, tis nothing," replied Agnes abruptly. " Rouse
thee, Pietro, drink and live !" The young man stirred,
but the sight of food awakened a momentary strength,
he grasped the bowl, and drained it to the dregs.
" My mother, the pangs of death were upon me, you
have saved me ! whence came the food ?"

" Content thee, it was mine !" and the emphatic
tones of his mother silenced further inquiries in the
overwearied and exhausted man. He slept again.
Enrico was roused with difficulty, and as he drank
what his mother had apportioned for him, it was with
pain, and much effort. " He is saved for the present,"
thought the ^wretched mother, "Oh! that to-morrow
may bring deliverance to Ancona, and her famishing
children !" She sank feebly down, and Eudora
could only weep, and look hopefully on ; aid there
was none.

The morrow came, a long day of fearful suffering,
but it passed at last: sunset was on the distant hills,
twilight began to shadow the earth ; lo ! on the far
summit of Falcognesa appeared a long and glittering
line of lights ; banners waved in the air, and anon
the sound of martial music was borne upward and,
onward, a shout that seemed to part the air, and
make the firm land quiver, went up from the delivered
city. " The succours ! the succours ! God help us
they are come, there is bread, bread for the starving !"
Ancona was free.

" Gently, Oh ! gently, she will die," said Enrico,
as they raised the head of Agnes. They gave her
nourishment, she revived, looked around, and a smile
such as angels wear, hovered on her white lips.
" God has sent us help my children."

" Mother, mother ! there is blood in the bowl from
which we drank last night — it was your own !" —
and Pietro knelt down by her side as he asked the
question.

" It was but exchanging the worn out tree for
the strong and vigorous sapling ; bless ye my chil-
dren !"

*MMW/^

Written for the Lady's Book.

OH, LET ME WEEP

EY JULIET H. LEWIS.

; She had borne unkindness coldly, and to those who knew her
addressed kindly by one whom she loved

Oh ! let me weep, and chide me not — ■

Bear with me in my grief!
Long will it be ere I shall know

Again such sweet relief.

Thy tones of melting tenderness

Fell strangely on my soul,
And stirred the waters of the heart

Beyond my weak controul.

I, all unmoved, have borne neglect,
And deemed grief's fountains sealed,

But feelings, scorn could never move,
Thy tenderness revealed.

The clouds, in their fierce wrath, may burst
Above the desert land,

not she appeared destitute cf sensibility: but, on being
she burst into tears." — Old Tale.

And leave no trace of fallen showers
Upon the burning sand.

But let the breeze move o'er the waste,

Where late the storm did lower,
And sands, that mocked the raging rain,

Will own the zephyr's power.

And thus, I calmly could have borne

Unkindness, e'en from thee !
But oh ! my heart is all unschooled

To love, or sympathy.

Oh check not, then, the long pent drops,

But let them flow the while,
Better to shed the heart-felt tear,

Than wear the mirthless smile.

ANTONIO SALVINI.

15

Written for the Lady's Book.

ANTONIO SALVINI

A TALE.
BY MRS. K. F. ELLETT.

It was the last evening of the carnival at Rome.
The Corso exhibited a scene of tumultuous revelry ;
indulged in the more eagerly by all ranks, because
the season of unbridled festivity was just at its close.
The windows and balconies of the houses were hung
with rich draperies, and filled with gaily dressed
spectators. Seen in the fading light, they showed
like moving masses of gay colors, streaming with
ribbons and feathers. The trottoirs were set out
with chairs and benches, which were occupied by
rows of masks. The street was thronged with pe-
destrians, masked and unmasked, in all possible va-
rieties of costume, mingled together in the utmost
confusion. Vast numbers of females also appeared,
in holiday attire, variously decorated. Some were
dressed in white even to their masks, with shepherd-
esses' hats ; some were in black dominoes, their
heads covered with black silk hoods; others went
as Jewesses, while some were without masks, in un-
obtrusive apparel. A continual procession was kept
up by two rows of carriages, each vehicle close be-
hind another, and compelled to go very slowly by
reason of the crowd. These abounded also in fan-
ciful ornaments ; the horses being sometimes masked,
and the coachmen dressed like old women or witches ;
masks, chattering in various languages, were clinging
on every side to the carriages. The clamor of tongues,
talking, shouting, and quarrelling, in all dialects, min-
gled with the sound of numerous musical instruments,
was perfectly indescribable.

Among the various groups, rich and poor, thus
fooling it in disguise, was a company of young men,
dressed in the most extravagant and fanciful style, as
a company of mountebanks. They threw Punch and
Harlequin into the shade, and even the Pagliataccio
or popular clown, who, arrayed in white, usually
creates a great sensation, could excite no mirth,
when they were present. They were welcomed
everywhere with laughter and shouts, and pelted with
showers of comfits, by the delighted multitude. The
leader was a tall figure, masked and completely dis-
guised as principal charlatan. He was addressed by
the name of Signor Formica ; and went about dis-
tributing liberally to every one he met, reliques, charms,
and prescriptions for different diseases, adapting his
gifts to the taste and apparent circumstances of his
auditors and accompanying them by sallies of drol-
lery, that, absurd as they sometimes were, never
failed to raise a laugh among the bystanders. He
chiefly professed to cure the infirmities of the mind ;
and pronounced, in prescribing his remedies, precepts
of austere morality, or witticisms that carried with
them the most poignant satire. He would address
some well-known miser, as labouring under a disease
of too much gold, and send him away in alarm,
mercilessly pelted with bits of plaster by the specta-
tors ; or he would salute some one in a monk's cowl
as a woe begone lover, and commended him to the
black eyes of a bevy of Jewesses. But his satirical
shots were in great part directed against the artists

then in vogue in Rome, particularly Bernin, who at
that time held the sceptre, and was in fact, the tyrant
of art. The populace were always ready to applaud
any bon mots launched against those who stood so
high.

While his mountebank companions were playing
all sorts of antics among the crowd, Signor Formica
slipped away quietly, and came up to a figure in a
black domino, who walked in the procession, and
looked on, though apparently without a desire to
mingle in the gaieties.

" You seem like myself, good signor," said he to
the domino, " to have no particular business here,
will you for love, or for a couple of scudi, conduct
me to the dwelling of Carlo Rossi?"

" Carlo Rossi is not in Rome," replied the other
retreating ; " and if he were, he would not care to be
pestered with such jugglers as thou, go thy way ; I am
in no mood for fooling."

" What, Antonio ! my fellow Salvini, is it you ?"
cried the charlatan.

The domino started with evident surprise, but an-
swered sullenly —

" If I have the misfortune to be known to you, I
pray you make me not the butt of your wit, I am a
poor subject for mirth. I was a fool to come forth
to-night."

" Nay, you shall not think so — you will not, pre-
sently !" cried the mountebank, seizing the domino's
reluctant hand. The other attempted to break away
from him ; but throwing his arm around him to de-
tain him, the mask whispered a word in his ear.

Never was there change more sudden and com-
plete than in the domino's demeanor. He scarcely
suppressed a cry of joy ; caught the hand of his com-
panion, kissed it, and pressed it to his bosom with all
the rapture of a lover ; stammered a few broken
words, and seemed scarcely to restrain himself from
clasping the mask in eager embrace.

" Signor Formica ! Signor Formica !" shouted an
hundred voices.

" I must go," exclaimed he. " Not a word now !
At ten — the gardens of Vigna Navialla ! Look! la
mia guovernante I would you like to see our masque !
I shall act as Signor Formica. Come then — without
the Porta del Popolo !" and before he could say more,
he was actually carried off by the multitude.

A huge car now made its appearance, covered with
tapestry, and decked with branches of laurel. In the
midst of the evergreens, and sheltered by them from
the incessant showers of plaster and confections, sat
eight or ten black dominoes ; and on a kind of throne
was placed a female figure, richly dressed and veiled,
holding a wreath of myrtle in her right hand. As
they slowly advanced she waved her hand, and her
train began a chaunt accompanied with loud instru-
ments of music. Signor Formica ascended the steps
of the car, and placed himself at the lady's feet, with
many a mute gesture of gallantry. She let fall the
wreath on his head; the music sounded louder ; the

16

ANTONIO SALVIKI.

concourse became more dense, and the multitude
pressed after the car as it rolled towards the private
theatre, where the comedy was to be enacted. Then,
as it was dark, preparations were made for putting
out the Carnival, as the saying went. The different
masks appeared with lighted tapers ; the endeavour
of each being to blow out his neighbour's candle and
keep his own unextinguished. This strife of course
gave rise to still greater merriment and confusion.

We turn now to a different scene ; an ancient and
gloomy apartment belonging to the Ziani palace.
This once stately mansion was almost desolate ; for
misfortune had overtaken the late Count Ziani, who,
compelled to fly his country, had died impoverished
in a foreign land. His children, heirs of his name
only, were brought up by a relative, whose kindness,
however, could not shield them from all the bitter
evils attendant on reverse of fortune. He too, was
dead, and the brother and sister were now all in all
to each other.

A lamp dimly illuminated the spacious gothie room,
but gave sufficient light to discover its inmates. One
was a young man apparently about twenty-eight
years of age, of noble figure, and handsome though
haughty features. He wore a long Spanish mantle ;
and his cap, garnished with the plume worn univer-
sally by cavaliers of rank, lay on a table near the
door. Standing in the centre of the room, he was
evidently labouring under extreme agitation. His
face was pale as death ; his lips were compressed ;
his hand grasped unconsciously the hilt of a short
dagger concealed in the folds of his dress. Beside
him stood a young girl, of form slight, but exquisite
in symmetry. One small white hand was resting on
his shoulder ; the other clung to his arm ; but the
face — oh ! how touchingly beautiful was the face, so
imploringly raised to his ! The dove-like, blue eyes
were suffused with tears, that trembled on the long
silken lashes. There was a slight, scarcely percep-
tible tinge of the rose on her white cheek, evidently
called up by extraordinary emotion, and delicately
contrasted with the marble paleness of her brow.

u You — Rina," said the young man, in answer to
her eloquent entreaty, " you should be the last to
detain me. I were a coward to let such an insult
pass unpunished !"

" No, brother," returned the young girl, " it would
rather be cowardly to seek his life in secret."

" In secret ! I tell thee, I will give the miscreant
the advantage of fair combat. He may prove, an he
be able, that my blood is as unsullied, aye, more so,
than his own !"

" Brother — brother !" cried the maiden, twining
her arms more closely round him, " for so small a
thing will you peril your life, so dear to me ?"

" Is it so small a thing that the dastard Rodrigo
Falcone has dared, aye, in public dared, to speak
lightly of thee — to ridicule our poverty — to say thou
wouldst need to beg for an husband — that — "

"Albert," said the maiden, while a slight expression
of scorn passed across her lovely features, " the
Signor Rodrigo's taunt has no power to move me,
even to transient anger. I despise him too much
for anger. Do not all of his own rank, save his
obsequious flatterers, who look upon him as the heir
of his princely uncle, despise him for a profligate,
dishonoured cavalier ? Do you the same, I implore
you. Let him see that his unmanly gibe, uttered to
wound you, has failed of its effect.

" I will have his heart's blood," muttered the
young man ; but even as he spoke, his anger seemed
in a measure to give way, and he suffered his gentle
sister to lead him to a seat at the further end of the
apartment, and to unfasten and remove his cloak.
After a long pause of gloomy reflection, he spoke
again.

" There is one way, Rina, in which we may effec-
tually triumph over him who has dared insult you.
The Falcone family are of ancient and high lineage.
The Count Melchior, the uncle of detested Rodrigo,
loves you well. Nay, it was but last night he made
me proposals for your hand."

Had young Ziani marked the sudden and deadly
paleness on the countenance of the maiden before
him, he might have been startled from the project
he was unfolding ; but he was too much absorbed in
his own feelings, intense for the moment as they
were.

" The Count di Falcone is bosom friend to the
Constable of Colonna ; he is rich ; he is noble and
honourable. Rodrigo, as you truly said, expects to
inherit his wealth. Rina, say but that you will marry
the Count, and I will forego all other revenge."

" I love him not," said the young girl. « I cannot
wed whom I do not love."

" Yet he is most worthy a devoted heart !" pleaded
the brother. " Yet more !" and taking her hand, he
drew a picture of splendour, most beguiling to a
maiden's heart, especially to one who had shared in
the lofty dreams that had wasted his own youth.
He painted the happiness and renown she might enjoy
as the Countess di Falcone; the admired of princes —
the patroness of art. All was ineffectual ; he could
not kindle in her pure breast the unholy flame of am-
bition. Disappointed, and again agitated by con-
flicting feelings, he dropped her hand, and strode
rapidly across the room several times, occasionally
murmuring to himself, as if struggling for courage
to communicate some intelligence of a more distress-
ing nature.

" Listen to me," said he, at length, and while he
spoke, his voice became low and husky with emotion,
" you know not to what we are reduced — you know
not my pressing strait — I am a beggar! Within
one week, unless I have relief, which I know not
where to claim, these halls, the patrimony of our
fathers, must be sold to strangers, and I must fly
from my country, a disgraced and penniless outcast."
The unhappy maiden buried her face in her hands,
but made no reply.

" For months past," he continued, « a secret an-
guish has been gnawing my heart, and wearing me
to the grave. I have concealed it while I could, for
I would not blight your youth by such a knowledge.
Your cheerfulness has been my only sunshine in the
midst of gloom. It is now no longer possible to
avert or conceal our ruin.

"You may save yourself and me. A small portion
of the wealth that may be yours, can yet rescue our
name from public scorn, can save the last heir of our
unhappy house from beggary and exile — dragging on
the wretched remnant of an existence, which, but for
you, his own hand should ere this have terminated."
"My brother! my brother!" sobbed the poor girl;
and throwing herself into his arms, she wept so long
and bitterly, that even his proud heart was moved.

"I am a villain," he cried, striking his forehead
remorsefully, " to say aught to grieve you thus ! Bui

ANTONIO SALVINI.

17

I feel sometimes as I were a madman. Pardon me,
Rina, pardon me !" and kneeling, his arm clasped the
weeping girl's waist. " It is base in me to urge you
so. Let me but revenge the insult of this cursed
Rodrigo, an I give him but a scratch, 'twill cool my
feverish hate — and then I will — yes, for your sake, I
will school me to patience."

" Leave me but a few hours alone — to decide,"
faltered Rina.

A gleam of hope, spite of his better feelings, light-
ed up her brother's face as he answered hastily :

" 'Till to-morrow — the day after — when you please.
But, think of yourself — not me — my sister !"

So saying, he led her to the door of her chamber,
kissed her forehead, and silently retired.

Shall we look within that sanctuary of maiden grief?
She might have been seen, for the long hours that
intervened till midnight, sitting motionless as some
fair statue, her loosened hair falling over her shoul-
ders— her eyes gazing on vacancy — her hands clasp-
ed in the hopeless anguish of one who saw no es-
cape from despair. How could she reveal to her
haughty brother that she loved — loved unsought —
yet with all the wild abandonment of feeling peculiar
to her clime — one to whom rather than see her wed-
ded, he would have torn the heart from his bosom ?
One who, though for his talents and noble bearing
admitted into aristocratic circles, could boast no ad-
vantages of wealth or of high descent. She could
have spurned the pomp of rank, the honours of an
ancient name — but such were the breath of life to
her brother, and could she bow down that proud
spirit to the dust ?

She rose, at length, and walked to the window.
The moon was obscured by dusky clouds, and the
breeze moaned sadly among the vines and orange
trees in the court below. The noise of the festival
was stilled ; but the sound of music was yet occa-
sionally heard ; and now and then a burst of merri-
ment from a group of late revellers, growing fainter
in the distance, told that sleep had not yet descended
over the city.

Rina stood long at the casement, while the me-
mory of the few happy hours she had enjoyed, swept
like a dream over her heart. She saw once more
the form that had so long haunted her fancy ; the
eyes that had beamed unutterable love when they met
hers, love which the lips dared not speak, seemed to
gleam forth from the lonely darkness, expressing mild
reproach. Then came back to her soul the stern
reality, and flinging herself on her couch, she gave
way to a burst of passionate sorrow ; her bosom was
convulsed with sobs ; her tears — the tears of lonely,
bitter anguish, the terrible and eternal farewell of love
to the heart where it had reigned supreme — flowed
without restraint. That conflict was at length over ;
her agitation subsided, at least, its outward exhibition
was controlled; and rising, she went into a small
oratory adjoining her chamber, where she knelt for
an hour in prayer before the Virgin.

When her prayer was ended, she took up a small
silver lamp, and descended once more to the apart-
ment where she had left her brother.

Had a spectre met her view, she could not have
been more startled than at sight of the change wrought
by suffering in his pallid and haggard features. He
was pacing the room with heavy tread, but stopped
instantly when he saw his sister, and came towards
her.

2*

" So late a watcher !" remonstrated he, in a tone
of tenderness, for his heart upbraided him ; " nay —
Rina — you do wrong — "

" Albert !" said she, speaking in a calm, though
low voice, " I cannot bear to see you thus. The
blessed Virgin has answered my prayers for strength.
I will do all you have asked — I will wed the Count."
" May the saints bless you, my sister !" exclaimed
the young man. "And you will — you must be happy!"
As he came near to thank her, he received her sense-
less form in his arms.

The garden of Vigna Navialla was brilliantly
lighted and decorated. The custode, or superintend-
ent, well pleased with the success of his festive pre-
parations, was busy giving orders here and there,
lecturing the servants and sending messengers on
various errands. In one of the arbours sat two men
in earnest conversation. One was a young man of
about twenty-five, of a staking figure, and remark-
ably prepossessing countenance. A single glance at
the other, even from the most casual observer, could
not fail to discern the man of genius. His mobile
brow, and keen flashing eyes, and the rapidity and
decision of his movements, showed that the spirit
within was all perception, fire, and feeling. He was
richly dressed, and had a dashing, reckless air about
him, that well comported with his general character.
In short, he was no other than the celebrated poet
and painter, Salvator Rosa ; the admiration of Italy,
the chosen companion of her nobles and princes.

" Ha ! ha !" he exclaimed, in the midst of their
grave conversation, as if a new idea had suddenly
occurred to him, " you must laugh with me, dear
Antonio, to think what a surprise we have prepared
for mine excellent friends! I came but last night
with post horses from Florence, and having figured
all day as Signor Formica, they cannot know I am
here. At dusk I sent a circular billet to twenty who
love me best, begging each one to meet me in all
secresy, at this place. Each will imagine me fallen
into some new difficulty — banished from Florence,
&c„ and will fly with the speed of friendship to my
rescue. The mad fellow, Salvator, is always in
trouble — but they must lend a hand to help him forth!
Ha, ha ! Salvini mio — will they not be amazed to
find the wild fellow at the head of a well furnished
table? I shall feast them jovially — then mount my
horse, and back to Florence, before my Roman per-
secutors know of mine adventure!"

The effort at a smile with which his young com-
panion responded to his mirth, was not unobserved
by Rosa, but before he could notice it, the garden
was filled with approaching guests. The astonish-
ment and confusion of every one, at his brilliant re-
ception, so different from what he expected, equalled
the painter's anticipations. Having singly and alto-
gether given utterance to their surprise and agreeable
disappointment, they embraced the jovial Salvator,
and after rallying him on this new instance of extra-
vagance, joined heartily in the merriment raised at
their expense.

" 'Tis still as 'twas wont to be !" observed Paolo
Minucci, a dear friend of the painter. " While your
rival, the frugal Poussin, was lighting out of his
dwelling with one sorry taper, some prelate or anti-
quarian, you — prodigal Salvator — used to entertain in
your splendid gallery, the wit and learning of Rome."
" May it ever be," ejaculated' the artist, " that wit
and learning enter freely as the sun into my abode !

ANTONIO SALVINI,

But come, friends, the supper waits." And he led
the way into a sumptuous saloon, where all was set
forth that could delight the eye or the palate ; the
delicacies of every land — the choicest and costliest
wines ; nor was there lack of music to fill the pauses
of the conversation, which soon waxed louder and
more joyous than the music itself. Never was there
a kinder or merrier host ; never were there lighter
hearted revellers. The hours flew as if winged by
magic. What treasures of pointed remark, of sportive
wit, of sparkling repartee, were there scattered — a
wealth of gems, with none to gather them !

"Most excellent Minucci," said Salvator, at the
close of the banquet to his friend, " you have lacked
in one thing, in that you have not brought with you,
to crown our mirth to-night, your kitchen Demo-
critus. How fares it by the way, with his gravity —
il mio Filosofo Negro! I remember me of many a
gay encounter with him — a fair joust, lance against
lance. He would play the grinning moralist right
well in our little theatre."

" He could read you, truly, a lesson !" said a coarse
voice just behind him. Salvator turned quickly, and
a roar of laughter from the whole table greeted a
rubicund figure, who now advanced from the midst
of the attendants. This personage was a domestic
in the household of Paolo Minucci, holding a place
between a house steward and a chef-de-cuisine; a
shrewd and sagacious fellow, of much native humour,
a fit type of those misnamed fools, formerly deemed
indispensable in a noble's household, and who were
sometimes much wiser than their masters.

This " grinning philosopher," with whom Salvator
was wont to encounter wits, had a greasy face,
whose expression of shrewd cunning mingled with
buffoonery, justified his claim to the title bestowed
on him. He saw that the company were disposed to
indulge him in a speech, and proceeded boldly.

" You do not need me to remind you, master, of
your mad and notorious extravagance."

" But," remonstrated Salvator, with a glance at the
company, as if preparing them to enjoy the juke,
" you would not have me penurious, denying myself
the luxury of my friends' society, and yours among
the number? I squander money on philosophical
principles."

" Your time might be better employed," grunted
the kitchen moralist.

" Nay, if you come to that, il mio Filosofo Negro"
said the painter, " you well know that often in the
hours I have fooled away with you, I might have
earned an hundred scudi."

" Da vero!" exclaimed the steward with eyes wide
open. " Eh bene ! signor padrone mio — siete dunque
un gran goffo .'"*

The guests shouted at this unexpected sally, and
Salvator ordered a brimming cup of wine to be
poured out for the fellow, who swallowed it at a
draught, and after a scraping acknowledgment, threw
himself into an oratorical posture and went on:

" What is all this talk about philosophy, indepen-
dence, and the like ? Suppose your philosophership
should lose your voice by a cold, your hand or your
leg by a fall, what becomes of this same philosophy ?
Where then would be our famous Signor Rosa? —
Salvator Rosa the improvisatore ? Salvator Rosa the
marvellous painter? — Salvator Rosa the poet and

* Well, then, signor my master, I must say you are an
arrant blockhead.

actor ? No — marry ! 'twould be then Salvator Rosa
the cripple — Salvator Rosa the pauper — Salvator
Rosa the mendicant ! Santa Madre ! I see him now,
standing at the porch of one of our holy churches,
with his staff and bossolo,* stunning the good devo-
tees as they pass, with ' Carita, Signori Cristiani
mieiP Philosophy, in sooth! I never could see the
beauty of that philosophy which leads to the staff and
the bossolo !"

Having delivered this speech with much gesticu-
lation, the steward wiped his greasy face and retired.
Peals of laughter greeted his warning, administered
with such emphasis; but Salvator sat with folded
arms, and despite his merry mood, an expression of
melancholy stole across his features.

" It is well said," cried he at length, " though the
lesson be given from the lips of a fool. From this
hour, friends, I date my reform. I will become as
frugal as Poussin himself. I will meet old age, infir-
mity, the world's neglect, in panoply of gold !"

" Be as prudent, caro, as you will," said one of the
guests ; but never let us see our charming Salvator
transformed into a churl."

" Eh !" cried the painter, springing up, and throw-
ing himself into a ludicrous attitude, " Eh ! you wish
then, to see me thus reduced, standing in a church
porch, with my staff and box, and my whining « Ca-
rita, Signori Cristiani miei V "

" I perceive," cried Minucci, laughing, " that my
half-witted cook has done more for you, Rosa, by an
image, than all the sage counsels of your learned
friends have been able to effect. I approve highly
your resolution. Come, my good, sirs, let us drink
a new toast — Here's to Salvator Rosa, the prudent,
the considerate, the reformed Salvator Rosa !"

All stood up to pledge him, and Salvator, turning
to the harpsichord, improvised an affectionate part-
ing song to his friends before they bade him good
night.

An hour after, the painter, in company with his
young friend Salvini, entered a dwelling in the street
Rippetta. They passed in silence to an apartment,
small but well lighted, and fitted up as a painter's
studio.

" You know, Salvator," said the young man, he-
sitatingly at length, " that I have never felt such
reverence, from my deepest heart, for any master, as
I feel for you. I style myself the unworthy follower
of Annibal Caracci, and have studied the productions
of Guido Reni. But never did I conceive the full
greatness and sublimity of the art, till I stood before
your purgatory in the Convent of San Giovanni Ca-
serotti. Never had I a true vision of the terrible,
till I saw that living sea of flame. Never could I
imagine the perfection of the majestic, till I saw the
divine complacency depicted in the countenance of
your Virgin, as seated above in glory she looks down
on the suffering souls below. The originality of your
works, the savage wildness and solemn desolation
of your landscapes, so distinct from the luxuriant but
tamer creations of Lorraine and Poussin, have made
on my mind a profound impression, which must affect
me throughout my future life."

Salvator smiled at his enthusiasm — the young man
continued,

" I pondered on those glorious visions till I too
dreamed of fame. I will own to you that my highest
of earthly ambition has been to be approved by you.
* Charity box.

ANTONIO SALVINI.

19

Yet now, when I come to the test, I tremble while
I implore you to judge impartially and severely."

So saying, he brought to Salvator, one after an-
other, several sketches and finished paintings. Rosa
examined them all with attention but without remark,
till he came to the last — a Magdalen at the Saviour's
feet. Having contemplated this some time in silence,
he turned with a smile of delight and embraced his
young friend, who wept tears of joy.

" Have good heart, my Antonio !" cried he, " you
were born for the triumphs of our noble art. I will
not flatter you by saying that you now match the
grace of Guido, or the strength of Annibal. But I
can say with safe conscience that you already surpass
their boasted masters in the Academy — Tiarini —
Gessi — Sementa — aye, Lanfranco himself!"

What a proud moment was this in the life of the
poor and neglected artist !

" Have you not applied," asked Rosa, " for admis-
sion into the Academy of St. Luke ?"

Antonio blushed as he replied, " I have ; but to an
obscure surgeon, who dared meddle with the pencil,
they had no answer but scorn."

" The miscreants ! Had they seen this, when they
refused ?" asked Salvator, touching the picture of the
Magdalen.

" No," said the young man, in some embarrassment,
" that has been finished but a short time, and no one
but yourself has seen it."

" I have it !" cried the warm-hearted painter. " To-
morrow begins the annual exhibition at the Pantheon.
I will stay another day in Rome. Send your picture
there, early ; affix no name, and leave the rest to me.
Now, since you admire allegorical things, I will show
you the sketch I have made for a new etching, which
I mean to leave as a memorial of myself. He drew
forth a roll of paper, and asked with a laugh,

" Will it not pass, think you, for a moral delinea-
tion of Salvator Rosa ?"

It was the sketch of the famous piece which after-
wards received the name of The Genius of Salvator
Rosa.— The scene represented a wooded spot, with
a fragment of a fine architectural ruin, shaded by
cypress trees. Before them stood the dignified figure
of a philosopher in the Roman toga, holding the old
Roman balance in his hand. Near him stood a
satyr, with an arch demoniac look, holding a roll of
paper in his hand, which he pointed towards the
balance. At the feet of both reclined a figure, who
was carelessly rejecting the treasure wealth pours
from her cornucopia, while a dead dove lay on his
bosom. The eyes of the figure were turned on a
representation of Liberty, who presented her cap.
Painting, in the back ground, leaned on an entabla-
ture, sketched with a human form ; while underneath
were engraved the following lines :

" ' Ingenius, liber, Piotor, succensor et aequus,
Spertor opum, mortisque, hie meus est genius."

When the merits of this novel production had been
discussed, Salvator turned again to his friend's picture.

" Your Magdalen," said he, " is not, after all, the
serious penitent. She is a guileless, lovely maiden ;
but such an one as Guido alone could have created.
How exquisite is the softness of those eyes; and that
mouth is Cupid's bow! — There is soul in every
feature! Santa Maria! Antonio, you must have
painted truly from inspiration ; or rather, I will swear
that the original lives — aye, lives in this breathing

world ! Confess it, Antonio ! You love, and you have
copied here your beauteous mistress. Is it not so ?"
" I have indeed," said the young artist with down-
cast eyes, " given some faint likeness, in expression,
to one whom — I adore — but — "

" Her name ?" cried Salvator. " What damsel in
Rome possesses such angelic beauty V

"It would be profanation in me to utter her
name," said the young man, with a sigh. " She is
too far above me !"

" And yet thou hast looked into her eyes, and
drunk inspiration from that heavenly brow? Cos-
petto, man ! what woman, were she a queen, would
not be honoured by a true artist's devotion ? Ply
thy pencil, win fame and fortune, and the love of wo-
man turns to thee, as the flower to the sun."

" Ah !" cried the youth, " how joyfully would I
lay fame and fortune at her feet ! But, I am a poor
surgeon, she the scion of an ancient house. She has
a brother the haughtiest of the nobles of Rome."

"Give love his wings, then, and kneel at the
shrine of Art. She brooks no divided worship. She
is a fair, coy damsel, but she brings with her an im-
mortal dower. Live, Antonio mio, for your art !"

With this exhortation, as it was late, Salvator left
his friend. Salvini stood long with folded arms,
gazing on the picture of his Magdalen, but his thoughts
were with her he loved so hopelessly.

Salvator's anticipations were soon realized. All
Rome was in raptures with the new picture, presented
under the sanction of Rosa's approbation, as the work
of a deceased young artist, his intimate fnend. The
connoisseurs affirmed that since Guido's day, so won-
derful and admirable a creation had not been seen.
The members of the Academy vied with one another
in their praises. When their enthusiasm was at its
height, Salvator astounded them by the public decla-
ration that the lauded picture was the production, not
of a deceased artist, but of the young surgeon, Anto-
nio Salvini.

What could they do ? Their sentence of applause
was passed; the connoisseurs were mad after the
artist. They made a virtue of necessity, and Anto-
nio Salvini was elected by acclamation a member
of the Academy. — The young man stood at the
height to which he had so long looked with vain
hope. Fame was his — fortune promised to shower
upon him her golden treasures. With a heart full
of gratitude and triumph, he bade adieu to his friend
Rosa, who returned to Fiprence.

A few mornings after the first exhibition of his
picture, Antonio, who was at work in his studio,
being now able to give up all professional occupation
for the pursuit of his art, rose to receive a stately
cavalier, richly habited, who saluted him with dignified
courtesy, and said he came to bespeak a portrait from
his pencil.

" You must know," said he, " I fancy I can trace
an inexplicable resemblance, both in feature and ex-
pression, between your Magdalen and a lovely friend
of mine ; in short, my betrothed bride, I wish you to
paint her portrait. Can you take the first sitting to-
morrow ?■"

The painter promised, and the cavalier withdrew,
after announcing his name as the Count di Falcone.
What were his feelings, when the Count conducted
him the next day to the apartment of Rina di Ziani?
Whatever they were, he resolved to struggle them
down into his heart of hearts, and to appear unmoved,

20

ANTONIO SALVINI.

though he could not deny himself the luxury of once
more beholding her. She was attired for the sitting
in a robe of pale rose colour, a narrow fillet of gold
encircling her head, and turning back the profusion
of her brown ringlets, which were suffered to fall
down the back of her neck to the waist. Her atti-
tude was pensive, but the most beautiful imaginable.

The lovers met, who had loved without owning it
to each other. A careless observer might have-seen
in neither the signs of emotion. A bright flush rose
to the maiden's brow ; then receding, left it pale as
sculptured marble ; but she commanded herself suffi-
ciently to receive with dignity the supposed stranger,
whom the Count introduced to her as an artist wor-
thy her patronage and regard. , Not a word was said
of their previous acquaintance, and the Count looked
from one to the other in surprise ; for he could not
but notice Rina's agitation. Salvini cast his eyes
on the ground, nor ventured once to lift them, till,
palette in hand, he was about to commence the pic-
ture. Then he fixed them on her face in one long
burning gaze. His secret soul once more drank in
the light of those lovely eyes ! He attempted, with
trembling hand, to draw the first outlines of the por-
trait. He strove to master his emotion, and pursue
his task like one who looked only with an artist's
eye on that surpassing vision of beauty. In vain !
all swam before his sight ; his brain seemed to reel,
his bosom swelled as if his heart was bursting. Ab-
ruptly throwing down pencil and palette, he muttered
some excuse of sudden illness, and rushed from the
room and from the house. Through the streets like
a madman he passed, heedless of observation, nor
stopped till he reached the open space beyond the
city, where, in a paroxysm of agony, he threw him-
self on the ground, laid his forehead to the cold earth,
and wept aloud.

Night came on, moonless but clear, and found
him still wandering alone among the silent ruins.
He felt a melancholy relief in lingering among these
mouldering relics of ancient greatness, for his heart
felt no longer sympathy with living men. It was
late when he returned to the city. He passed through
the street Vergognona, as the most obscure, on his
way homeward. As he entered the narrow street, he
saw a horseman, habited like a man of rank, set
upon by three or four masked bravoes. Their design
was evidently to murder him, though they found un-
expected resistance in the coolness and intrepidity
with which the person attacked defended himself.

Salvini took no second thought, but rushed at
once into the fray to the assistance of the dismounted
horseman, not without a secret hope, perhaps, that
some chance blade might terminate his own sorrows.
He fought with such desperation that two of the
assassins were soon stretched on the ground, and the
others took to flight. The attendant of the cavalier,
who had fled at the first encounter, and roused the
neighbourhood with cries for help, now galloped
back, officious in forcing his assistance on his master.

"Get thee hence, Pedro," cried the cavalier.
" Thine aid is ever lacking when it is needed. —
Thanks to St. Julian and this good youth, I have
not a wound. Heaven reward thee, young man ! —
but ha ! thou art bleeding ! Help — help ! — a surgeon
hither! — Run Pedro, for thou canst run! — Lean
upon me, good signor !"

" It is but a slight wound — stay not for me, I pray
you !" muttered Antonio, who recognized in the ca-

valier, the Count di Falcone. He strove to turn
away, but felt that his strength was fast leaving him;
and before he could utter another word, he had
fainted from loss of blood.

Surgical aid was speedily procured, and Falcone
had his preserver carried to his own palazzo. The
wounded assassin, the survivor of the two struck
down, was delivered over to the civil authority. On
examination, he confessed that he with his comrades
had been suborned to murder the Count previous to
his contemplated marriage, by his nephew Rodrigo.
Upon this disclosure the whole matter was quieted ;
the prisoner was sent from Rome ; but the Count,
although for the sake of his family, he still owned in
public his unworthy relative, cast him off in private,
with contempt. Rodrigo found himself unable longer
to support his assumptions founded on expectations
from his uncle, and, baffled in his wicked schemes,
sought distinction by his crimes in other lands.

Our story now introduces us to an apartmant in a
splendid palace in one of the principal streets of Rome.
The room was hung with tapestry of velvet embroi-
dered with gold, and with paintings of the earlier
shools of Italian art. The cornices were wrought
with quaint devices ; and huge Venetian mirrors stood
on each of the four sides, reaching from the floor to
the lofty ceiling. The carpets were of velvet, and
there were cushioned seats embroidered with armorial
designs, and marble tables, supporting vases of silver
filled with flowers ; while etchings, medals, gems, and
books, splendidly bound, ' were scattered around in
confusion, attesting the refined taste of the owner of
this sumptuous abode.

The apartment was occupied by two ladies, very
different in appearance. The elder was tall in stature
and of full and majestic proportions. She was appa-
rently in the prime of womanhood — in its matured
prime — though she seemed older when you looked
upon her face. The features, though still fine, bore
the traces of care and of suffering. Her complexion,
though faded, bespoke her a native of a northern
clime. Not a streak of gray, however, mingled with
the brown hue of her locks, which were half covered
by the veil fastened at the back of her head. That
head had once worn a crown — yet slept it now
scarce less uneasily — for it was Christina, the ex-
queen of Sweden. Disappointed in her many schemes
for obtaining power and influence among the sove-
reigns of Europe, she was now living in retirement
at Rome, cultivating her taste for the liberal arts ; or
as those who esteemed her not, asserted, employing
the talents of Bernin, and a host of inferior artists,
in inventing gewgaw carriages and other toys for her
display.

The queen was seated on one of the rich sofas,
and beside her a young girl in an attitude of the
deepest dejection, yet looking so beautiful in her woe,
that she might have seemed, at first sight, a sculptured
representation of some penitent saint. It was Rina
di Ziani, and this was her bridal day, but how little
accordant were the gems that glistened in her hair
with the sadness in her eyes !

" Your resolution is a noble one," said Christina
to her youthful companion, whom she had long loved
as a child, and who confided every thought to her.
" Your brother is restored to health — to society —
you have been his preserver from the grave. And
he has a noble heart who is to be your husband."

" A noble heart, indeed !" faltered Rina. " The

CHILDHOOD'S LAUGH.

21

greater shame for me that I cannot love him ! But
he shall never know that — that — "

"That you love another?" said Christina. " Trust
me, he knows it already. Think you, one like him
could fail to read, aye, at the first glance, a woman's
heart — a heart so guileless as yours, sweet maiden ?"

Rina sighed deeply, and grew paler as she heard
this, but she answered with calmness,

" Then the worst is past. He knows all — yet, he
still claims my hand."

" Not so," said the queen, rising. " He has com-
missioned me to give you back your plighted troth —
to absolve you from your promise — to commit his
cause to your unbiassed feelings. Obeying only the
impulse of friendship, he has already freed your bro-
ther from his difficulties — but scorns to ask reward
for a deed of generous affection. Is not such a man
worthy your love, dearest Rina ? Nay, calm your-
self, act worthily a high born maiden, and my friend :
for lo ! they come to learn your decision."

Before the agitated girl could make any reply, the
folding doors were thrown open, and Albert di Ziani,
pale and thin from recent illness, entered, supported
by the Count di Falcone. Rina would have flown
to her brother, but Christina detained her, and again
reminded her that she was called on to accept or
reject her suitor. Without a moment's hesitation,
walking up to the Count, the young girl placed her
hand frankly in his.

" Your generous friendship," she said, " extended
to the unfortunate, shall never make me ungrateful
enough to forget it. My hand is freely yours."

The Count took and kissed it respectfully. " Did
this inestimable gift," said he, " embrace the heart
also, I would not yield it in exchange for an empe-
ror's crown. You have spared my pride, sweet .lady,
the pain of a refusal ; let me now bestow this hand
where I feel certain the heart is given. Nay, tremble
not, fair one ! your brother knows all ; his reverence
for genius has conquered the prejudices of birth ; and
for myself, I am only repaying the debt of a life
saved by giving up a treasure more precious than
life."

The poor bewildered Rina thought herself in a
dream. All objects around her were confused, and
floated dizzily before her eyes. The next moment
Salvini, her own Salvini, knelt at her feet, and she
wept on the bosom of her royal friend.

A few days after, the nuptials of the high-born
daughter of the house of Ziani and the famed artist,
Antonio Salvini were celebrated. Need I say they
were happy, or that they prized as the most inesti-
mable blessing of life, the friendship of the Count di
Falcone ?

Salvator Rosa, in his subsequent residence at
Rome, took great delight in witnessing the happiness
to which he had contributed by elevating Salvini to
his appropriate sphere. And he used to remark, in
his satirical way — that the members of the Academy
of St. Luke had done wisely in electing an artist
skilful in a surgical capacity, since they had so fre-
quently occasion for his services, to re-set the un-
happy legs and arms which the academicians were in
the daily habit of distorting.

Written for the Lady's Book.
CHILDHOOD'S LAUGH

A lahgh ! a brimming laugh of joy —

From childhood's lips it peals,
And every ear on which it falls

A thrill of rapture feels —
Stem brows relax, and lips will curl,

With something like a smile,
Although the cause of that wild mirth

Be all unknown the while.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

Up springing by the dusty way,

Rise many a joyous group —
The kite soars high, the ball rebounds,

And darts the merry hoop —
The woods re-echo once again,

To boyhood's noise and glee,
And tiny mills beside the brook

Are turning fast and free.

For there is something in the glee,

The laughing of a child,
That speaks to e'en the coldest heart,

It rings so free and wild ;
'Tis like the music of a bird,

That hath no tone of care,
But poureth its exceeding joy

Upon the summer air.

'Tis like the odorous breath exhaled

From out the dewy flower,
That telleth of its quiet bliss

In every sun-light hour —
Or like the insects' ceaseless hum

From grove or verdant spot,
Where they are telling all day long

Their joy-abounding lot.

It is a free, a guileless laugh,

That brings a pang to none —
And welleth from a crystal heart,

That hath no sorrow known —
And wheresoe'er that laugh shall fall,

It will a dream restore
Of by-gone glee, and careless mirth,

And childhood's days once more.

And by-gone pranks, forgotten long,

Return till each has smiled,
To think how very smart he was

And witty, when a child —
And retrospective sighs are heaved,

So sadly boys have changed
Since he along the forest way,

Or by the sea-shore ranged.

The gay child's laugh is everywhere,

And sad indeed were earth,
If never on the weary ear

Came childhood's voice of mirth.
Oh ! were that hush'd, a murky gloom

On every thing would rest,
And heavy press the weight of care

Upon each human breast.

Then never check that sinless mirth,

But freely let it swell,
For 'mid the pleasant sounds of earth

This works the holiest spell —
It tells of hours of innocence,

When love and trust were given,
And it may whisper yet again

The words of peace and heaven.

22

A LIFE OF FASHION.

Written for the Lady's Book.

A LIFE OF FASHION

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

falsehood

Is worse in kings than beggars."— Cymeeline.

" My dear Sarah, can it be possible that you were so
uncivil as to send word to Mrs. Douglass that you
were engaged, when she called on you ?" said the
fashionable Miss Delmere as she entered the drawing
room of her cousin.

" I am afraid I must plead guilty," said Mrs. Hil-
dreth with a smile, " I was engaged in making Christ-
mas pies and had given orders to be denied to every
one."

" But why did not your servant say you were not
at home?"

" Simply because that would not have been true."

" Good Heavens ! cousin Sarah, you talk as if it
were a matter of no consequence to offend a person
like Mrs. Douglass ; I am sure I would take some
pains to preserve the friendship of one who enjoys so
much distinction in society ;" said Miss Delmere.

" If she really merits that distinction, Fanny, she
will not be displeased at my homely fashion of speak-
ing the truth," replied Mrs. Hildreth, quietly.

" But are you ignorant, Sarah, that such a message
as you sent is almost an insulting one ? Every body
understands that ' not at home,'' means ' engaged,"1 and
why not use the form of expression prescribed by
common custom ?"

" Let me ask you, in reply, Fanny, if not at home
means engaged, why may we not use the actual
words ?"

" Oh, because the first is a more polite method of
expressing your meaning."

" That is to say, it is more polite to utter falsehood
than truth."

" How can you use such coarse expressions, Sarah ?
a falsehood indeed ! if custom has given such a signi-
fication to the words, there is no untruth conveyed
in them," exclaimed Miss Delmere, indignantly.

" But how shall we make children and servants
understand the nice distinction between the original
meaning of words and their present fashionable im-
port ?"

" Very easily, I should think."

" I doubt it, coz ; if our domestics are taught to
utter untruths — I beg your pardon — I mean certain
forms of expression, for our accommodation at one
time, they will certainly assume the privilege of
making use of them at another, for their own conve-
nience; and I am sure it would be utterly impossible
to teach little children the importance of truth when
they find it habitually violated in the conventional
language of society."

" One would think you were descended from the
ancient race of Puritans, Sarah, you make so serious
a matter of a harmless expression which, after all is
said, is indispensable. A lady cannot be always
ready to receive morning visiters, and it is looked
upon as an offence against politeness, if she pleads
occupation as an excuse for not seeing her friends."

" Let me tell you my ideas on the subject, Fanny,"
said Mrs. Hildreth. " If a visiter be kept waiting at
the door while the servant takes her name to the lady

of the house, and then the message is returned that
she is engaged, I think the visiter has reason to com-
plain of uncivil treatment, because she has been
individually excluded ; but if the answer be alike to
all, if without inquiring the name, or leaving the
visiter in doubt as to her right of admission, the
servant replies that Mrs. So and So is engaged, I see
no real cause of offence."

" Well, you may be right in a moral point of view,
but I can assure you the world thinks differently,"
said Miss Delmere ; " for my part if a lady were to
deny herself to me, under the plea of being engaged,
I should never call on her again."

" Is it not strange, Fanny, that the world should
be more willing to forgive idleness than industry, and
that the simple fact of finding a friend employed should
induce you to banish her from the charmed circle of
fashion ? I never refuse to see a friend, unless I am
actually engaged in some occupation which I cannot
leave, but, if I am not mistaken, Fanny, I have
known you to give orders that you were not at home,
merely because it was too much trouble to be dressed
in time to receive company."

" I suppose I must now plead guilty," said Miss
Delmere, laughing, " but surely it is better to deny
one's self at once, than to waste the time of a visiter
while one is dressing."

" There is a very simple method of obviating that
difficulty, Fanny, a lady should always be attired with
sufficient neatness to be able to see her friends, in her
breakfast dress, if they call at an early hour ; and she
can by a very trifling exertion, be generally ready for
company at the hour prescribed by fashion. I am
speaking now of those whose fortune enables them
to have the assistance of servants, and whose time is
therefore much at their own disposal."

" But judging from your example, Sarah, fortune
will not always procure the assistance of servants,
otherwise you would not have been making pies
yesterday, while your cook stood looking on."

"There are some things which I prefer doing
myself, Fanny, although I am enabled to hire ser-
vants. My husband enjoys home-made luxuries far
more than he could the inventions of a French con-
fectioner, and this alone would be a sufficient induce-
ment for me to continue my old fashioned system of
housekeeping ; but I have another reason ; I do not
wish my daughters to grow up with the idea that the
kitchen is a place they must never enter."

" You differ then from your acquaintance Mrs.
Holman, who told with great apparent satisfaction,
that her little daughter, on seeing a servant come out
of the basement door, while she was descending the
hall-steps, inquired " who lived down there ?"

" I wish my children to become acquainted with
every department of womanly duty, Fanny, and I
should blush for myself, if they did not often see me
busied in my kitchen among my servants. In our
country, mutations of fortune are of such frequent
occurrence, that I think our children should receive

A LIFE OF FASHION.

23

such an education as may enable them to encounter
any reverses."

" Then you had better teach them trades, Coz."

" No, Fanny, if we give our children a good edu-
cation, and firm principles, they can always make
their way through the world. A man of industrious
habits and correct feelings will generally succeed
sooner or later in life, and if a woman be thoroughly
conversant with the duties of her sex, she can always
find employment for her time and talents. The great
error in the modern system of education is, that it is
calculated too much for display, too little for use.
Sons are brought up with the idea that they must get
rich suddenly, by speculation rather than by industry;
and our daughters are taught to sing, play, dance,
and dress, in order to obtain a splendid establishment
in marriage. Such is the plan, although not openly
avowed, and hence the multitude of bankrupt mer-
chants, and wretched wives, young enough to be still
at their studies."

" You are severe, cousin."

" Not more so than the occasion justifies, Fanny.
In a country so thoroughly commercial as ours, there
must be continual fluctuations in the affairs of indi-
viduals ; the millionaire of to-day, may be the bank-
rupt of to-morrow ; and therefore we ought to be
prepared for all contingencies."

" Then you would have people live like paupers,
from the fear that they may hereafter become poor."

"No, cousin, those who have wealth, honestly ac-
quired, have a right to enjoy it ; but this may be done
without ruining the habits of our children. I look
upon those as most happily situated in life, who pos-
sess a competence only, and are thus enabled to com-
mand the comforts and elegancies of society, without
being tempted to indulge in useless and expensive
luxuries."

" We have wandered far from our subject, Sarah ;
who would have thought that a discussion on the
simple subject of ' not at home ' should lead to a dis-
sertation on education and luxuries ?"

" It was a more natural sequence than you sup-
pose, Fanny ; if we begin by yielding obedience to
the dictates of fashion in slight things, we shall find
the habit increase upon us, until it becomes the
heaviest of all thraldoms."

" Then you think that I shall learn all kinds of
falsehood from persisting in denying myself to com-
pany," said Miss Delmere smiling.

"Let me tell you seriously what I think, dear
Fanny," said Mrs. Hildreth kindly ; " you are, as
you well know, a beauty, a belle, and an heiress ;
naturally warm hearted and affectionate, fashion
has done much to spoil you, but has not quite
succeeded; you are still a being of noble impulses
and superior intellect, but pardon me if I tell you,
that those noble impulses will be quelled, and that
fine intellect obscured by the vanity of your present
course of life. I remember, Fanny, when falsehood
was a stranger to your lips, when your ingenuous
countenance was a true index of your pure mind,
and now, though you have not yet seen your five
and twentieth summer, the whitest-haired diplomatist
in Europe might envy you your perfect power over
every feature, and every tone. You have studied the
art of dissimulation as carefully as if craft had been a
duty, and thanks to the discipline of the ultra-fash-
ionable society in which you have lived, you have
well learned the lesson."

" You compliment me, cousin."

" Nay, Fanny, we now speak as friends and rela-
tives ; I am some ten years your elder, and you know
I can have no sinister motive in what I say, but
when I see a creature whose noble nature should
have commanded general regard, bowing herself down
to wear the chains of false and fickle fashion, actu-
ally placing herself lower in the scale of creation
than she was originally formed, I cannot but grieve."

"Cousin Sarah, I will tell you what I never
breathed to mortal ear; I am as weary of the life I
lead as ever was a galley slave of his chains."

" Why not then break through the web woven
about you, my dear Fanny?"

" It is too late; I have lived on poisons till they
have become my proper nutriment. I cannot live
without excitement, and though I would give worlds
to feel as you do, I would not for worlds lead the
quiet life that alone can cherish and satisfy such feel-
ings as yours."

" Suppose adversity should visit you, Fanny, could
you not then learn the pleasures of retirement and
usefulness."

" No, coz, no, it is too late, I tell you ; in the
world of fashion I have lived and in it I will die."

" And can nothing but the present life demand your
attention ? Were not your powers of mind given for
something more than a life of frivolity and a death
of thoughtlessness. Fanny, you are living but for
time — know you not there is an eternity V

" Hush, Sarah, do not talk so solemnly, you make
me nervous: listen to me a moment, and I will show
you some of the workings of an ill-regulated, ill-
directed mind. You know how proud and ambitious
I was in childhood — how anxious to eclipse all my
companions in attainments and learning : had that
ambition been properly guided, I might now have
been a usefully intellectual being ; but my poor mo-
ther thought nothing worthy of attention which did
not tend to my advancement in the fashionable world,
and in compliance with her wishes, I became only a
' most accomplished'' girl.* Then she undertook to des-
troy what she called ' youthful illusions ;' and her hand,
aye the hand lhat should have nurtured the delicate
plants of purity and truth, and tenderness, in my
young heart, attempted to root them out like noxious
weeds. She wished me to become a fashionable
belle, and my feelings might have interfered with
her ambitious schemes, so they were to be ruthlessly
destroyed. But at my first outset in life, I had nearly
disappointed all her plans. Do you remember Arthur
Morland?"

" The young missionary, who so early devoted
himself to the gospel ministry, and left every enjoy-
ment at home to become a pastor for the scattered
flock in the far west ?"

" The same, cousin ; you remember that his re-
mote relationship with my father, made him an in-
mate of our house for many months, while he was
preparing himself for his vocation. I was then very
young, frivolous, foolish, vain, but capable of appre-
ciating virtue and intellect. I learned to love Arthur
Morland with more than a sister's fondness, and I
mistook his kindly sympathy for a warmer feeling. I
cherished my blind affection for him in the midst of a
course of gaiety and folly, and was only checked by
the tidings of Arthur's determination to become a
missionary. The grief that I then felt, convinced
me of the nature of my regard for him, and though I

24

A LIFE OF FASHION.

knew my mother would never consent to what she
would consider so degrading an alliance, I resolved
to share his future lot. I had been taught that the
hand of the young and beautiful heiress of my father's
wealth would be a prize to any man, and thinking
Arthur's humble fortune prevented him from aspiring
to such a gift, my vanity led me to act a most un-
womanly part. My cheek burns while I tell it,
Sarah, but I did humble myself before the being whom
I almost worshipped, and offered him the hand for
which others sued in vain. I was rejected — calmly,
affectionately, but firmly, was my proffered love re-
fused. Arthur mistook my character, and deemed
me in reality the frivolous creature which circum-
stances made me seem. He might have made me
what he pleased, but he looked upon me as one who
who could only be a stumbling block in the path of
his duty. He kept my secret, but we parted never
to meet again. From that hour I was a different
creature. To repress every kindly feeling of my na-
ture, to revenge my weakness upon myself became
my only desire, and I found a sort of malignant
pleasure in making myself the mere heartless being
that he had believed me. It is six years since I de-
voted myself to such a career of folly, and you know
how well I have performed the task I allotted myself.
My brilliant accomplishments, my beauty, and my
anticipated fortune, have procured me many suitors,
but my heart sickens at the thought of marriage.
The deep and bitter mortification which I suffered at
the hands of Arthur Morland, is yet too vividly re-
membered ; I cannot consent to be the wedded thrall
of one of his sex. Now, the mask has been lifted,
coz, and you have seen the skeleton visage beneath,
but remember — never — not even to me, must the
subject be alluded to. Words are idle medicaments
for a wounded spirit, and the triumphs of society are
all that can now satisfy my vain longings."

" But surely they do not satisfy, dear Fanny."

" No matter ; look upon me henceforth as a per-
fectly heartless woman of fashion ; mine shall at all
events be a brilliant career, a#d the circles of fashion
shall long remember the name of Fanny Delmere.
Adieu — chere cousine — I dare not stay to listen to
all the kind things you would say — they might bring
tears to my eyes, and then — then — I should not ap-
pear in the usual splendour of my charms at the ball
to-night." With these words, a bitter smile on her
lip, and her beautiful eyes suffused with the tears she
pretended to dread, Fanny Delmere hurried from the
apartment, and entered her carriage.

" What a noble nature is there wasted !" thought
Mrs. Hildreth, as she watched her from her window,
" ignorant of the duties of religion, and destitute of
moral culture, what a garden of weeds has her heart
become !"

Few women ever excited a greater sensation in
society, than the brilliant and beautiful Miss Delmere.
Her manners were perfectly fascinating, and she had
a degree of tact which enabled her to adapt herself to
the tastes of all. Yet she was by no means a co-
quette. The petty arts practised by women of infe-
rior attractions, were beneath the attention of a
creature who moved amid the gay crowd as a queen,
exacting no homage but receiving it as if it were her
birthright. With intellect sufficiently acute to charm
the wisest — a power of displaying her varied but su-
perficial knowledge, that rendered her quite irre-
sistible to the scholar — a skill in bandying repartee,

which captivated the man of wit — a softness of man-
ner exceedingly attractive to the man of refinement,
together with a perfect knowledge of the world, Fanny
Delmere was certainly exalted above her sex, and yet
how inferior with all her attractions, to

" Her who makes the humblest hearth
Happy but to one on earth."

Happiness cannot exist without goodness ; and amid
the brilliant flowers which crowned the brow of for-
tune's favourite, the humble but odorous blossoms of
truth, humility, and piety, had never mingled their
sweets.

But a change, as sudden as that which comes upon
the face of the summer sky when the thunder cloud
sweeps over its brightness, soon befell the beautiful
heiress. Her father died suddenly, and, upon looking
into his affairs after his decease, it was discovered
that he had been for the past two years on the verge
of bankruptcy. His pride had forbidden any retrench-
ment in their expensive mode of life, and all his
energies had been directed to the task of keeping up
his credit as long as possible. What was now to be
the situation of the flattered and triumphant beauty.
Still in the bloom of her youth, and with all the pride
of Lucifer, son of the morning, in her heart, how was
she to come down from her pride of place, and submit
to a life of dependence, or else of labour. Her mother,
— she who had laid the foundation of all her errors,
now embittered her mortifications by a perpetual re-
currence to the past, and reproached Fanny for her
repeated refusals of the brilliant offers which had been
made her in her prosperity. Fanny's temper was not
one which adversity was likely to soften and subdue.
The sudden desertion of her summer friends, the
slights she was daily called to endure, the necessity of
struggling with grasping creditors for the mere pittance
which was to keep soul and body together, all con-
tributed to acerbate her feelings. She determined
at all hazards to regain the position she had lost, and
silencing the dictates of pride, she accepted the offer of
Mrs. Hildreth, that she should become an inmate of
her house. Placing her mother, (for whom she
seemed to feel not one spark of affection) in a cheap
boarding-house a few miles from the city, she com-
menced a new career. The field which was opened
to her by her residence with her cousin, was one for
which she was scarcely prepared, since she was now
to become only one of the multitude, where she had
formerly reigned the queen. But adapting herself
with her usual tact to her condition, Fanny Delmere
now became as charming in her gentleness and hu-
mility, as she had formerly been in her assumption of
power. She now had an end and aim. Heretofore
she had only sought to arouse her jaded spirits by the
excitement of success, but now she was in pursuit of
a home and a fortune. One of her father's largest
creditors was a man whose head was whitened by
the snows of more than sixty winters, and whose
body was bent with the infirmities of disease as well
as time. Immensely rich, but with a temper un-
governable and querulous ; he had quarrelled with
every relative and now depended for daily comforts
upon the mercenary cares of those whose attentions
he could purchase with his gold. His grasping
avarice which would fain have extorted the last
dollar from the widow and orphan, led to several in-
terviews between the parties, and the frost of age
and selfishness had melted before the sunny smiles

MAN S FIRST OFFERING.

25

of the beautiful Fanny Delmere. All her witcheries
were put in practice, and arts which she would have
scorned to use in the day of her prosperity, were now
exerted to their uttermost to win the favour of a
peevish old man. Completely infatuated by her
beauty, and flattered by her attentions to him, Mr.
Goldbourne became a constant visiter to the beautiful
orphan. In vain Mrs. Hildreth pointed out to Fanny
the folly of allowing herself to be waited upon by the
rich old miser. His carriage was at her command,
his servants awaited her pleasure, even his money was
freely dispensed to afford her gratification, and Miss
Delmere only resolved that he should offer himself as
a sacrifice to restore her to her former position in
society. For this purpose she controlled her haughty
spirit, and courted the old man with the most humble
subjection to his whims, until transported by her ap-
parent perfections, he offered her his hand which she
immediately accepted.

Pained and mortified by conduct so grossly mer-
cenary, Mrs. Hildreth did not conceal her dissatisfac-
tion at Fanny's marriage. But the ambitious woman
of fashion cared little for the approbation of her
friends, and thought only of decorating her husband's
stately mansion, so as to re-appear with splendour in
the gay world. Still in the zenith of her charms, and
now the mistress of unlimited wealth, she meant to
build up her throne higher than ever, and hurl con-
tempt upon those who had slighted her adversity.

But the friends of her youth had scarcely found
time to welcome her return to the scenes of gaiety —
scarcely had they been admitted to gaze upon her
elegantly furnished mansion, and wonder at its de-
crepid master, when the doors of that stately abode
were closed against all visiters, and the beautiful
bride was called to perform the wifely duties by the
bedside of her sick husband. Mr. Goldbourne was
seized with paralysis, which reduced him to total
helplessness for many months, and finally settled in his
limbs, leaving him a perfect cripple. Such a state of
things had not been very remote from Fanny's calcula-
tions when she became the wife of a man more than
twice her age. She certainly had looked forward to a
brief period of married life, and it can scarcely be un-
charitable to suppose that she had anticipated a season
of independent and wealthy widowhood. But she was
little prepared for the fate which really awaited her.

Perfectly helpless in body, but as clear headed as
in the days of his vigorous manhood, Mr. Goldbourne,
though confined to his bed, managed his affairs with
a degree of prudence almost amounting to parsimony.
His temper, always bad, now became infinitely worse,
while jealousy and suspicion of his wife's conduct and
motives took possession of his mind. He would not

trust her from his sight, and from her hand only
would he take his food and medicine. Of the monies
with which from time to time he was compelled to
entrust her, she was obliged to render a strict account,
and the meanest domestic in her household was hap-
pier, in her humble lot, than the rich Mrs. Gold-
bourne.

In the mean time, Mrs. Hildreth had pursued the
quiet tenor of her way, giving and receiving happiness
from her domestic relations. The truthfulness of her
character, as expressed in the conversation which
introduced her to the reader, became the inheritance
of her children, and she had the gratification of seeing
her theories fully realized in the brilliant success of
her own amiable, gifted, and true hearted daughters.
Mingling in society with all the buoyancy of youth,
they were never tempted to falsify their own natures
by a. blind adherence to the rules of fashion. Truth,
pure and undented,- was the robe in which their mo-
ther had clothed them in infancy, and its snowy folds
were yet unstained when the lamp of life waned at
the dawn of eternity. They had become happy wives
and mothers long ere the slavery of Mrs. Goldbourne
had ceased, and while Mrs. Hildreth sat a time-
honoured guest at the fire-side of her children, cousin
Fanny still dragged out a miserable existence by the
sick bed of the impatient invalid.

Years passed on, and still Mr. Goldbourne lingered
among the living. To use the forcible language of
Dante, " He seemed like one whom death had for-
gotten to strike." He appeared to die ' half a grain
a day,' yet even this slow decay could scarcely have
allowed of so long a duration of mere breath. For
thirty years was the beautiful and ambitious Fanny
the sick nurse of her querulous husband. Fearing to
offend him, since she was wholly in his power with
regard to her future fortune, she submitted to ail his
caprices, hoping each year would be the last. She
had borne with the evils of her lot, until the gnaw-
ings of secret discontent seemed to have consumed
her very heart. At length, at the age of ninety-six,
the infirm old man was released from the burden ot
life, and a fortune of some six thousand per annum
became the reward of the long-expectant wife. But
the precious boons of youth and health had been lost
for ever. The ambitious beauty had lived upon the
hope of future triumphs until the frosts of nearly
sixty winters had withered the roses of her cheek
and whitened the dark beauty of her raven locks.
She may still be seen occasionally at fashionable wa-
tering places, like a troubled ghost haunting the
scenes of past enjoyments. Her diamonds are of the
finest water, her dresses of ' the three-piled velvets,'
and herself "a wreck of ajirst-rate"

Written for the Lady's Book.

MAN'S FIRST OFFERING.

BY MRS. S. J. HALE.

VOL.

When Nature in infancy smiled,
All innocence, beauty, and love,

Ere sorrow had blighted, or sin had beguiled,
Or the serpent had banished the dove;

Then man, as Jehovah's own child,
Worshipped his Father above —

The bine vault of heaven his temple sublime,

His altar, creation— his oifering time.

xxii. — 3

The " seventh" of all was the tithe,

The heart the pure censer of fire,
The incense was hallow'd with gratitude blithe,

That bade it to heaven aspire,
(Then change had ne'er troubled, for Time had no scythe,)

And angels responded the choir,
'Till soft, sweet, harmonious, it floated around,
Like the spirit of harmony breathing in sound.

26

THE PARLOUR SERPENT.

Written for the Lady's Book.
THE PARLOUR SERPENT.

BY MRS. C. LEE HENTZ.

Mrs. Wentworth and Miss Hart entered the break-
fast room together, the latter speaking earnestly and
in a low confidential tone to the other, whose coun-
tenance was slightly discomposed.

" There is nothing that provokes me so much as
to hear such remarks," said Miss Hart, " I have no
patience to listen to them. Indeed, I think they are
made as much to wound my feelings as any thing
else, for they all know the great affection I have for
you."

" But you do not say what the remarks were, that
gave you so much pain," answered Mrs. Wentworth,
" I would much prefer that you would tell me plainly,
than speak in such vague hints. You will not make
me angry, for I am entirely indifferent to the opinion
of the world."

Now there was not a woman in the world more
sensitively alive to censure than Mrs. Wentworth,
and in proportion to her sensitiveness, was her anxiety
to know the observations of others.

" If you had overheard Miss Bentley and Miss
Wheeler talking of you last night as I did," continued
Miss Hart, " you would not have believed your own
ears. They said they thought it was ridiculous in you
to make such a nun of yourself, because Capt. Went-
worth was absent, and to dress so plain and look so
moping. One of them said, you did not dare to visit
or receive visiters, while he was away, for that you
were as much afraid of him as if you were his slave,
and that he had made you promise not to stir out of
the house, or to invite any company while he was
gone."

" Ridiculous ! — nonsense !" exclaimed Mrs. Went-
worth, " there never was such an absurd idea. Capt.
Wentworth never imposed such a restraint upon me,
though I know he would rather I would live retired,
when he cannot attend me himself in the gay world.
It is not despotism, but affection, that prompts the
wish, and I am sure I feel no pleasure in dressing,
shining, and mingling in society, when he is exposed
to danger, and perhaps death, on the far deep sea."

" I know all that, my dear Mrs. Wentworth,"
replied Miss Hart, insinuatingly, " and so I told them ;
but how little can a heartless and censorious world
judge of the feelings of the refined and the sensitive.
It seems to be a general impression that you fear
your husband more than you love him, and that this
fear keeps you in a kind of bondage to his will. If I
were you, I would invite a large party and make it as
brilliant as possible, and be myself as gay as possible,
and then that will be giving the lie at once to their
inuendos."

" It is so mortifying to have such reports in circu-
lation," said Mrs. Wentworth, her colour becoming
more and more heightened and her voice more tre-
mulous. " I don't care what they say at all, and yet
I am half resolved to follow your advice, if it were
only to vex them. I icill do it, and let them know
that I am not afraid to be mistress of my own house
while its master is absent."

" That is exactly the right spirit," answered the
delighted Miss Hart, " I am glad you take it in that

way. I was afraid your feelings would be wounded,
and that is the reason I was so unwilling to tell
you."

But though Mrs. Wentworth boasted of her spirit
and her indifference, her feelings were deeply wound-
ed, and she sat at the breakfast table, cutting her
toast into the most minute pieces, without tasting
any, while Miss Hart was regaling herself with an
unimpaired appetite, and luxuriating in fancy on the
delightful party, she had so skilfully brought into pro-
mised existence, at least. She had no idea of spend-
ing the time of her visit to Mrs. Wentworth, in
dullness and seclusion, sympathizing in the anxieties
of a fond and timid wife, and listening to a detail
of domestic plans and enjoyments. She knew the
weak side of her character, and mingling the gall she
extracted from others, with the honey of her own
flattery, and building her influence on their ruined
reputations, imagined it firm and secure on such a
crumbling foundation. — It is unnecessary to dwell on
the genealogy of Miss Hart. She was well known
as Miss Hart, and yet it would be very difficult for
any body to tell precisely who Miss Hart was. She
was a general visiter, one of those young ladies, who
are always ready to fill up any sudden vacuum made
in a family — a kind of bird of passage, who having
no abiding place of her own, went fluttering about,
generally resting where she could find the softest and
most comfortable nest. — She was what was called
excellent company, always had something new and
interesting to say about every body, then she knew so
many secrets, and had the art of exciting a person's
curiosity so keenly, and making them dissatisfied widi
every body but herself, it would be impossible to follow
all the windings, or discover all the nooks and corners
of her remarkable character. It was astonishing to
see the influence she acquired over the minds of those
with whom she associated, male as well as female.
She was a showy, well-dressing, attractive looking girl,
with a great deal of manner, a large, piercing, dark
eye, and an uncommonly sweet and persuasive tone
of voice. Mrs. Wentworth became acquainted with
her, a very short time before Capt. Wentworth's de-
parture, and esteemed it a most delightful privilege
to have such a pleasing companion to charm away
the lingering hours of his absence. Acting upon the
suggestions of her friend, and following up the deter-
mination she had so much applauded, she opened her
doors to visiters and appeared in society with a gay
dress and smiling countenance.

" What a change there is in Mrs. Wentworth,"
observed Miss Bentley to Miss Hart as they met one
morning at the house of a mutual friend. " I never
saw any one so transformed in my life. She looks
and dresses like the most complete flirt I ever saw ;
I suspect Capt. Wentworth has very good reason to
watch her as he does."

Miss Hart shrugged her shoulders and smiled sig-
nificantly, but did not say any thing.

" It must be a very pleasant alteration to you,"
continued Miss Bentley, " the house seems to be fre-
quented by gentlemen from morning till night. I

THE PARLOUR SERPENT.

27

suppose you have the grace to appropriate their visits
to yourself."

" I have nothing to say about myself," answered
Miss Hart, " and I do not wish to speak of Mrs.
Wentworth otherwise than kindly. You know she
is excessively kind to me, and it would be ungrateful
in me to condemn her conduct. To be sure I must
have my own thoughts on the subject. She is cer-
tainly very imprudent and too fond of admiration.
But I would not have you repeat what I have said,
for the world, for being in the family it would have
such weight. Be very careful what you say, and
above all, don't mention my name."

Miss Bentley was very careful to repeat the re-
marks to every one she saw, with as many additions
of her own as she pleased, and the unutterable lan-
guage of the smile and the shrug was added too, to
give force to the comments. Mrs. Wentworth, in
the mean while, unconscious of the serpent she was
nursing in her bosom, suffered herself to be borne
along on the current, on which she had thoughtlessly
embarked, without the power to arrest her progress,
or turn back into the quiet channel she had quitted.
The arrival of her brother, a gay and handsome
young man, gave additional animation to her house-
hold, and company flowed in still more continuously.
Henry More, the brother of Mrs. Wentworth, was
the favourite of every circle in which he moved.
With an uncommon flow of spirits, a ready and grace-
ful wit, a fluent and flattering tongue, he mingled in
society unaffected by its contrasts, unwounded by its
asperities, and unruffled by its contentions. He seem-
ed to revel in the happy consciousness of being able
to impart pleasure to all, and was equally willing to
receive it. He was delighted to find a fine-looking,
amiable girl, an inmate of his sister's dwelling, and
immediately addressing her in his accustomed strain
of sportive gallantry, found that she not only lent a
willing ear, but was well skilled in the same language.
Though Miss Hart was still young, she had outlived
the romance and credulity of youth. She had a pre-
cocious experience and wisdom in the ways of this
world. She had seen the affections of many a young
man, with a disposition open and ingenuous as Hen-
ry's, won through the medium of their vanity, by
women, too, who could not boast of attractions equal
to her own. She believed that juxtaposition could
work miracles, and as long as they were the inmates
of the same house, participating in the same pleasures,
engaged in the same pursuits, and often perusing the
same book, she feared no rival. She rejoiced, too,
in the close-drawing socialities of the winter fire-side,
and delighted when a friendly storm compelled them
to find all their enjoyment within their own little
circle. Mrs. Wentworth, who had once been cheer-
ful and serene in clouds as well as sunshine, was now
subject to fits of despondency and silence. It was
only when excited by company, that her eyes were
lighted up with animation, and her lips with smiles.
She dreaded the reproaches of her husband, on his
return, for acting so contrary to his wishes, and when
she heard the night-gust sweep by her windows, and
thought of him exposed to the warring elements, per-
haps even then clinging to the drifting wreck, or
floating in a watery grave, and recollected the scenes
of levity and folly in which she was now constantly
acting a part, merely to avoid the censures of the
very people she detested and despised, she sighed and
wept, and wished she had followed her bosom coun-

sellor, rather than the suggestions of the friend in
whom she still confided, and on whose affection she
relied with unwavering trust — It was strange, she
could hear Miss Hart ridicule others, and join in the
laugh ; she could sit quietly and see her breathe the
subtle venom of slander over the fairest characters,
till they blackened and became polluted under her
touch, and yet she felt herrelf as secure as if she were
placed on the summit of Mont Blanc, in a region of
inaccessible purity and splendour. So blinding is the
influence of self-love, pampered by flattery, strength-
ened by indulgence, and unrestrained by religious
principle.

One evening, and it chanced to be the evening of
the Sabbath day, Henry sat unusually silent, and Miss
Hart thought that his eyes were fixed upon her face
with a very deep and peculiar expression — " No," he
suddenly exclaimed, " I never saw such a counte-
nance in my life."

" What do you see so remarkable in it ?" asked
she, laughing, delighted at what she supposed a spon-
taneous burst of admiration.

" I don't know ; I can no more describe it, than
one of those soft, fleecy clouds that roll melting away
from the face of the moon. But it haunts me like a
dream."

Miss Hart modestly cast down her eyes, then
turned them towards the moon, which at that moment
gleamed with pallid lustre through the window.

" Your imagination is so glowing," replied she,
" that it invests, like the moonlight, every object with
its own mellow and beautiful tints."

" Jane," continued he, without noticing the com-
pliment to his imagination, and turning to his sister,
who was reading intently, " Jane, you must have
noticed her — you were at the same church."

" Noticed her !" repeated Miss Hart to herself, in
utter dismay ; " who can he mean ?"

•'Noticed who?" said Mrs. Wentworth, laying
down her book, " I have not heard a syllable you
have been saying."

•'■ Why, that young lady dressed in black, with such
a sweet, modest, celestial expression of face. She
sat at the right hand of the pulpit, with another lady,
in mourning, who was very tall and pale."

" What coloured hair and eyes had she ?" asked
his sister.

" I could no more tell the colour of her eyes, than
I could paint yon twinkling star, or her hair either.
I only know that they shed a kind of glory over her
countenance and mantled her brow with the softest
and most exquisite shades,"

" I declare, Henry," cried Mrs. Wentworth, " you
are the most extravagant being I ever knew. I don't
know whether you are in jest or earnest."

" Oh ! you may be sure he is in earnest," said Miss
Hart. " I know whom he means very well. It is
Miss Carroll. Lois Carroll, the grand-daughter of

old Mr. Carroll, the former minister of church.

The old lady with whom she sat is her aunt. They
live somewhere in the suburbs of the city — but never
go any where except to church. They say she is the
most complete little methodist in the world."

" What do you mean by a methodist ?" asked
Henry, abruptly — "an enthusiast?"

" One who never goes to the theatre, never at-
tends the ball-room, thinks it a sin to laugh, and
goes about among poor people to give them doctor's
stuff, and read the Bible."

28

THE PARLOUR SERPENT.

'.; Well," answered Henry, " I see nothing very
appalling in this description. If ever I marry, I have
no very great desire that my wife should frequent the
theatre or the ball-room. She might admire artificial
graces at the one and exhibit them in the other, but
the loveliest traits of her sex must fade and wither
in the heated atmosphere of both. And I am sure
it is a divine office to go about ministering to the
wants of the poor and healing the sick. As to the
last item, I may not be a proper judge, but I do
think a beautiful woman reading the Bible to the
afflicted and dying, must be the most angelic object
in the universe."

" Why, brother," said Mrs. Wentworth, " what a
strange compound you are. Suph a rattle-brain as
you, moralizing like a second Johnson."

" I may be a wild rattle-brain, and sport like a
thousand others in the waves of fashion, but there is
something here, Jane," answered he, laying his hand
half seriously, half sportively on his breast, " that
tells me that I was created for immortality, that spend-
thrift of time I am still bound for eternity. I have
often pictured the future, in my musing hours, and
imagined a woman's gentle hand was guiding me in
the path that leads to heaven."

Mrs. Wentworth looked at her brother in asto-
nishment. There was something in the solemnity
of his expressions that alarmed her, coming from one
so gay and apparently thoughtless. Miss Hart was
alarmed too, but from a different cause. She thought
it time to aim her shaft, and she knew in what course
to direct it."

" This Miss Carroll," said she, " whom you admire
so much, has lately lost her lover to whom she was
devotedly attached. He was her cousin, and they
had been brought up together from childhood and
betrothed from that period. She nursed him during
a long sickness, day and night, and many thought
she would follow him to the grave her grief was so
great."

" Her lover," exclaimed Henry, in a mock tragedy
tone. " Then it is all over with me — I never would
accept the second place in any maiden's heart, even
if I could be enshrined there in heaven's crystal. Give
me the rose, before the sunbeams have exhaled the
dew of the morning, or it wears no charms for me."

Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Wentworth laughed, rallied
Henry upon his heroics, and the beautiful stranger
was mentioned no more. Miss Hart congratulated
herself upon the master stroke by which she had dis-
pelled his enchantment, if indeed it existed it all. She
had often heard Henry declare his resolution never
to marry a woman who had acknowledged a previous
affection, and she seized upon a vague report of Miss
Carroll's being in mourning for a cousin who had
recently died, and to whom she thought she might
possibly be betrothed, and presented it as a positive
truth. Finding that Henry's ideas of female perfec-
fection were very different from what she had ima-
gined she was not sorry when an opportunity offered
of displaying those domestic virtues, which he so
much extolled. One night, when Mis. Wentworth
was prepared to attend a private ball, she expressed
her wish to remain at home, declaring that she was
weary of dissipation and preferred reading and medi-
tation. She expected Henry would steal away from
the party, and join her in the course of the evening,
but her real motive was a violent toothache, which
she concealed that she might have the credit of a

voluntary act. After Mrs. Wentworth's departure,
she bound a handkerchief round her aching jaw and
having found relief from some powerful anodyne, she
reclined back on the sofa and fell at last into a deep
sleep. The candles burned dim from their long, un-
snuffed wicks, and threw a very dubious light, through
the spacious apartment. She was awakened by a
tall, dark figure, bending over her, with outspread
arms, as if about to embrace her, and starting up, her
first thought was that it was Henry, who had stolen
on her solitude, and was about to declare the love
she had no doubt he secretly cherished for her. Bui
the figure drew back, with a sudden recoil, when she
rose, and uttered her name in a tone of disappoint-
ment.

" Capt. Wentworth," exclaimed she, " is it you ?"

" I beg your pardon," said he, extending his hand
cordially towards her, " I thought for a moment, it
was my wife, my Jane, Mrs. Wentworth — where is
she ? Is she well ? — Why do I not see her here ?"

"Oh! Capt. Wentworth, she had no expectation
of your coming so soon. She is perfectly well. She
is gone to a quadrille party, and will probably not be
at home, for several hours — I will send for her di-
rectly."

" No, Miss Hart," said he, in a cold and altered
voice, " no, I would not shorten her evening's amuse-
ment.— A quadrille party — I thought she had no taste
for such pleasures."

" She seems to enjoy them very much," replied
Miss Hart, " and it is very natural she should. She
is young and handsome, and very much admired, and
in your absence she found her own home compara-
tively dull."

The Captain rose and walked the room with a
sailor's manly stride. His brows were knit, his lips
compressed, and his cheek flushed. She saw the iron
of jealousy was entering his soul, and she went on
mercilessly deepening the wound she had made.

" You will be delighted when you see Mrs. Went-
worth— she looks so blooming and lovely. You have
reason to be quite proud of your wife — she is the belle
of every party and ball-room. I think it is well that
you have returned." This she added, with an arch,
innocent smile, though she knew every word she
uttered penetrated like a dagger, where he was most
vulnerable. " How thoughtless I am," she exclaimed,
" you must be weary and hungry — I will order your
supper."

" No, no," said he, " I have no appetite — I will
not trouble you. Don't disturb yourself on my ac-
count— I will amuse myself with a book till she
returns." r

He sat down and took up a book, but his eyes
were fixed moodily on the carpet, and his hands
trembled as he unconsciously turned the leaves. Miss
Hart suffered occasional agony from her tooth, the
more as she had taken off the disfiguring bandage, but
she would not retire, anticipating with a kind of sa-
vage delight, the unpleasant scene that would ensue
on Mrs. Wentworth's return. The clock struck
twelve, before the carriage stopped at the door. Mrs.
Wentworth came lightly into the room, unaccompa-
nied by her brother, her cloak falling from her shoul-
ders, her head uncovered, most fashionably and ele-
gantly dressed. She did not see her husband when
she first entered, and throwing her cloak on a chair,
exclaimed, " Oh ! Miss Hart, I'm so sorry you were
not there, we had such a delightful party — the plea-

THE PARLOUR SERPENT.

29

santest of the whole season." Her eye at this mo-
ment fell upon her husband, who had risen upon her
entrance, but stood back in the shade, without mak-
ing one step to meet her. With a scream of surprise,
joy, and, perhaps terror too, she rushed towards him,
and threw her arms around him. He suffered her
clinging arms to remain round his neck for a moment
while he remained as passive as the rock on the sea-
beat shore, when the white foam wreaths and curls
over its surface, then drawing back, he looked her
steadfastly in the face, with a glance that made her own
to quail, and her lip and cheek blanch. She looked
down upon her jewelled neck and airy robes, and wished
herself clothed in sackcloth and ashes. She began
to stammer forth some excuse for her absence, some-
thing about his unexpected return, but the sentence
died on her lips. The very blood seemed to congeal
in her heart, under the influence of his freezing glance.

"Don't say any thing, Jane," said he, sternly.
" It is better as it is — I had deluded myself with the
idea, that in all my dangers and hardships, to which
I have exposed myself chiefly for your sake, I had a
fond and faithful wife, who pined at my absence and
yearned for my return. I was not aware of the new
character you had assumed. No," continued he, im-
petuously, entirely forgetful of the presence of Miss
Hart, " I was not prepared for a welcome like this. I
expected to have met a wife — not a flirt, a belle, a vain,
false-hearted, deceitful woman." Thus saying, he sud-
denly left the room, closing the door with a force that
made every article of the furniture tremble. Mrs.
Wentworth, bursting into hysterical sobs, was about
to rush after him, but Miss Hart held her back —
"Don't be a fool," said she, " he'll get over it directly —
you've done nothing at which he ought to be angry;
I had no idea he was such a tyrant."

" He was always kind to me before," sobbed Mrs.
Wentworth. " He thinks my heart is weaned from
him. Now, I wish I had disregarded the sneer of the
world ! It can never repay me for the loss of his
love."

" My dear Mrs. Wentworth," said Miss Hart,
putting her arms soothingly round her, " I feel for
you deeply, but I hope you will not reproach yourself
unnecessarily, or suffer your husband to suppose you
condemn your own conduct. If you do, he will
tyrannize over you, through life — what possible harm
could there be in your going to a private party with
your own brother, when you did not look for his
return ? You have taken no more liberty than every
married lady in the city would have done, and a hus-
band who really loved his wife, would be pleased and
gratified that she should be an object of attention and
admiration to others. Come, dry up your tears, and
exert the pride and spirit every woman of delicacy
and sense should exercise on such occasions."

Mrs. Wentworth listened, and the natural pride
and waywardness of the human heart, strengthening
the counsels of her treacherous companion, her sor-
row and contrition became merged in resentment.
She resolved to return coldness for coldness and scorn
for scorn, to seek no reconciliation, nor even to grant
it, until he humbly sued for her forgiveness. The
husband and wife met at the breakfast table, without
speaking. Henry was unusually taciturn, and the
whole burthen of keeping up the conversation rested
on Miss Hart, who endeavoured to entertain and
enliven the whole. Capt. Wentworth who had all
the frankness and politeness of a sailor, unbent his
3*

stern brow, when he addressed her, and it was in so
kind a voice, that the tears started into his wife's
eyes, at the sound. He had no words, no glance for
her, from whom he had been parted so long and
whom he had once loved so tenderly. Henry, who
had been absorbed in his own reflections, and who
had not been present at their first meeting, now no-
ticed the silence of his sister and the gloom of her
husband, and looking from one to the other, first in
astonishment, then in mirth, he exclaimed, " Well, I
believe I shall remain a bachelor, if this is a specimen
of a matrimonial meeting. Jane looks as if she were
doing penance for the sins of her whole life, and Capt.
Wentworth as if he were about to give a broadside's
thunder. What has happened ? Miss Hart resem-
bles a beam of sunshine between two clouds."

Had Henry been aware of the real state of things,
he would never have indulged his mirth at the expense
of his sister's feelings. He had no suspicion that the
clouds to which he alluded arose from estrangement
from each other, and when Mrs. Wentworth burst
into tears and left the table, and Capt. Wentworth
set back his chair so suddenly as to upset the tea-
board and produce a terrible crash among the china,
the smile forsook his lips and turning to the Captain
in rather an authoritative manner he demanded an
explanation.

" Ask your sister," answered the Captain, " and
she may give it — as for me, sir, my feelings are not
to be made a subject of unfeeling merriment. They
have been already too keenly tortured, and should at
least be sacred from your jest. But one thing let me
tell you, sir, if you had had more regard to your
sister's reputation, than to have escorted her to
scenes of folly and corruption during her husband's
absence, you might, perhaps have spared me the mi-
sery I now endure."

" Do you threaten me, Capt. Wentworth !" said
Henry, advancing nearer to him with a flushed brow
and raised tone. Miss Hart here interposed, and
begged and entreated, and laid her hand on Henry's
arm, and looked softly and imploringly at Capt.
Wentworth, who snatched up his hat and left the
room, leaving Henry angry, distressed and bewilder-
ed. Miss Hart explained the whole as the most
causeless and ridiculous jealousy, which would soon
pass away and was not worth noticing, and urged
him to treat the matter as unworthy of indignation.
She feared she had carried matters a little too far;
she had no wish that they should fight, and Henry,
perhaps, fall a victim to excited passions. She was
anxious to allay the storm she had raised, and she
succeeded in preventing the outbreakings of wrath,
but she could not restore the happiness she had des-
troyed, the domestic peace she had disturbed, the
love and confidence she had so wantonly invaded.
Nor did she desire it. Incapable herself of feeling
happiness from the evil passions that reigned in her
bosom, she looked upon the bliss of others as a per-
sonal injury to herself; and where the flowers were
fairest and the hopes the brightest, she loved to tram-
ple and shed her blasting influence. As the serpent
goes trailing its dark length through the long grasses
and sweet blossoms that veil its path, silent and dead-
ly, she glided amid the sacred shades of domestic life,
darting in ambush her venomed sting, and winding
her coil in the very bosoms that warmed and caress-
ed her. She now flitted about, describing what she
called the best and most ridiculous scene imaginable ;

30

THE PARLOUR SERPENT.

and the names of Capt. Wentworlh and his wife were
bandied from lip to lip, one speaking of him as a ty-
rant, a bear, a domestic tiger — another of her as a
heartless devotee of fashion, or a contemner of the
laws of God and man. Most truly has it been said
in holy writ, that the tongue of the slanderer is set
on fire of hell, nor can the waters of the multitudi-
nous sea quench its baleful flames. One evening
Henry was returning at a late hour from the coun-
try, and passing a mansion in the outskirts of the
city, whose shaded walls and modest situation called
up ideas of domestic comfort and retirement, he
thought it might be the residence of Miss Carroll,
for, notwithstanding Miss Hart's damper, he had not
forgotten her. He passed the house very slowly,
gazing at one illuminated window, over which a
white muslin curtain softly floated, and wishing he
could catch another glimpse of a countenance that
haunted him as he said like a dream. All was still,
and he passed on, through a narrow alley that short-
ened his way. At the end of the alley was a small,
low dwelling, where a light still glimmered, and the
door being partially open, he heard groans and wailing
sounds, indicating distress within. He approached the
door, thinking he might render relief or assistance,
and stood at the threshold, gazing on the unexpected
scene presented to his view. On a low seat, not far
from the door, sat a young lady, in a loose, white
robe, thrown around her in evident haste and disorder,
her hair partly knotted up behind and partly falling
in golden waves on her shoulders, holding in her lap
a child of about three years old, from whose ban-
daged head, the blood slowly oozed and dripped down
on her snowy dress — one hand was placed tenderly
under the wounded head, the other gently wiped away
the stains from its bloody brow. A woman, whose
emaciated features and sunken eyes spoke the ravages
of consumption, sat leaning against the wall, gazing
with a ghastly expression on the little sufferer, whose
pains she had no power to relieve, and a little boy
about ten years of age, stood near her, weeping bit-
terly. Here was a scene of poverty, and sickness,
and distress, that baffled description, and in the midst,
appeared the outlines of that fair figure, like a de-
scended angel of mercy, sent down to console the
sorrows of humanity.

" This was a dreadful accident," said the young
lady, " dreadful," raising her head as she spoke, and
shading back her hair, revealing at the same time, the
heavenly countenance which had once before beamed
on Henry's gaze. It was Lois Carroll, true to the
character, Miss Hart had sarcastically given her, a
ministering spirit of compassion and benevolence.

" She will die," said the poor mother, " she'll never
get over such a blow as that. She fell with such
force and struck her head on such a dangerous part,
too. Well, why should I wish her to live, when I
must leave her behind so soon ?"

" The doctor said there was some hope," answered
the fair Lois, in a sweet, soothing voice, " and if it
is God's will that she should recover, you ought to
bless Him for it, and trust Him who feedeth the
young ravens when they cry to Him for food. Lie
down and compose yourself to rest. I will remain
here through the night, and nurse the poor little
patient. If she is kept very quiet, I think she will be
better in the morning."

" How kind, how good you are !" said the mother,
wiping the tear from her wasted cheek, " what should

I do without you ? But I never can think of your
sitting up the whole night for us."

" And why not for you ?" asked Lois earnestly.
" Can I ever repay your kindness to poor Charles,
when he was sick, and you sat up, night after night,
and refused to leave him ? And now, when you are
sick and helpless, would you deprive me of the op-
portunity of doing for you, what you have done for
one so dear to me ?"

A pang shot through Henry's heart. This poor
Charles, must have been the lover for whom she
mourned, and at the mention of his name, he felt as
if wakening from a dream. The love that bound the
living to the dead, was a bond his hand would never
attempt to loosen, and turning away with a sigh, he
thought it would be sacrilege to linger there longer.
Still he looked back to catch one more glimpse of a
face where all the beatitudes dwelt. He had beheld
the daughters of beauty, with all the charms of na-
ture aided by the fascinations of art and fashion, but
never had he witnessed any thing so lovely as this
young girl, in her simplicity, purity, and gentleness,
unconscious that any eye was upon her, but the poor
widow's and weeping orphan's. He had seen a fair
belle in ill humour for an hour, because a slight acci-
dent had soiled a new dress, or defaced a new orna-
ment, but Lois sat in her blood-spotted robes, regard-
less of the stains, intent only on the object of her
tenderness, and that a miserable child.

" Surely," thought he, as he pursued his way home-
ward, " there must be a divine influence operating on
the heart, when a character like this is formed. Even
were her affections free and not wedded to the dead,
I should no more dare to love such a being, so spi-
ritual, so holy, so little of the earth, earthy, than one
of those pure spirits that live in the realms of ether,
77 what has my life hitherto been ? Nothing but a
tissue of recklessness, folly, and madness. I have
been trying to quench the heaven-born spark within
me, but it still burns, and will continue to burn, while
the throne of the Everlasting endures."

Henry felt more, reflected more, that night, than
he had done, for five years before. He rose in the
morning with a fixed resolve, to make that night an
era in his existence. During the day, the poor wi-
dow's heart was made to " sing for joy," for a supply
was received from an unknown hand, so bounteous
and unlooked for, she welcomed it a gift from heaven.
And so it was, for heaven inspired and also blest the
act.

Miss Hart began to be uneasy at Henry's deport-
ment, and she had no reason to think she advanced
in his good graces, and she had a vague fear of that
Lois Carroll, whom she trusted she had robbed of all
power to fascinate his imagination.

" By the way," said she to him, one day, as if
struck by a sudden thought, " have you seen that
pretty Miss Carroll since the evening you were speak-
ing of her?"

" Yes," answered Henry, colouring very high, " I
have met her several times — why do you ask ?"

" No matter," said she, petrified at this information,
" I saw a lady yesterday, who knows her intimately,
and her conversation reminded me of ours on the
same subject."

" What does the lady say of her character?" ask-
ed Henry.

" What every one else does, who knows her — that
she is the greatest hypocrite that ever breathed. Per-

THE PARLOUR SERPENT.

31

fectly selfish, self-righteous and uncharitable. She
says, notwithstanding her sweet countenance, she has
a very bad temper, and that no one is willing to live
in the same house with her."

" You told me formerly," said Henry, " that she
was over charitable and kind, constantly engaged in
labours of love."

" Oh, yes," answered she, with perfect self-posses-
sion, " there is no end to the parade she makes about
her good works, as she calls them, but it is for osten-
tation, and to obtain the reputation of a saint, that
she does them."

" But," said Henry, very warmly, " supposing she
exercised this same heavenly charity when she be-
lieved no eye beheld her, but the poor whom she re-
lieved, and the sick whom she healed, and the God
whom she adores, would you call that ostentation ?"
" Oh, my dear Mr. More," cried Miss Hart, with
a musical laugh, " you do not know half the arts of
the sex. There is a young minister and young phy-
sician too, in the neighbourhood, who know all her
secret movements, and hear her praises from morning
till night — they say they are both in love with her,
but as her cousin hasn't been dead long, she thinks
it proper to be very demure — I must say frankly and
honestly, I have no faith in these female TartuffesP
" Nor I neither," added Henry, with so peculiar a
manner, that Miss Hart started and looked inquisi-
tively at him, with her dark, dilated eyes. She feared
she had hazarded too much, and immediately ob-
served,

" Perhaps in my abhorrence of duplicity and hypo-
crisy, I run into the opposite extreme, and express
my sentiments too openly. You think me severe,
but I can have no possible motive to depreciate Miss
Carroll, but as she herself stretches every one on the
bed of Procrustes, I feel at liberty to speak my opi-
nion of her character, not mine only, but that of the
whole world."

Henry made some evasive reply, and turned the
conversation to another topic, leaving Miss Hart lost
in a labyrinth of conjecture, as to the impression she
had made on his mind — where and when had he
met Lois Carroll, and why was he so reserved upon
a theme, upon which he had once been so eloquent ?
She sat for half an hour after Henry left her, pon-
dering on these things, and looking at one figure in
the carpet, as if her eyes grew upon the spot, when
her thoughts were turned into another channel, by
the entrance of Captain Wentworth.

She believed that she stood very high in his favour,
for he was extremely polite to her, and showed her so
much deference and attention, that she had no doubt
that if Mrs. Wentworth were out of the way, he
would be at no loss whom to choose as a successor.
Her prospects with Henry grew more and more du-
bious— she thought, upon the whole, the Captain the
finer looking and most agreeable man of the two.
There was no knowing but he might separate from
his wife, and as they seemed divorced in heart, she
thought it would be much better than to remain to-
gether so cold and distant to each other. There was
nothing she feared so much as a reconciliation, and
as long as she could prevent Mrs. Wentworth from
manifesting any symptoms of submission and sorrow,
she was sure her husband's pride would be unyielding.
She had a scheme on hand at present, which would
promote her own gratification, and widen the breach
between them.

There was a celebrated actor in the city, whom she
was very desirous of seeing, and of whom Captain
Wentworth had a particular dislike ; he disliked the
theatre and every thing connected with it, and Miss
Hart had vainly endeavoured to persuade Mrs. Went-
worth to go with her brother, in open defiance of her
husband. — Henry manifested no disposition himself,
and never would understand the oblique hints she
gave him : she was determined to make a bold attack
upon the Captain himself.

" Captain Wentworth," said she, carelessly looking
over the morning paper, " dont you mean to take Mrs.
Wentworth to see this superb actor ? she is dying to
see him, and yet does not like to ask you."

" She 's at perfect liberty to go, as often as she
pleases," replied the Captain coldly — " I 've no wish
to control her inclinations."

"But she will not go, of course, unless you ac-
company her," replied Miss Hart, " not even with
her brother."

" Did she commission you to make this request ?"
" Not precisely ; but knowing her wishes, I could
not forbear doing it, even at the risk of your dis-
pleasure."

" If her heart is in such scenes, there can be no
possible gratification to confine her body within the
precints of home."

The Captain walked several times up and down the
room, as was his custom when agitated, then abruptly
asked Miss Hart if she wished to go herself.

She wished it, she said, merely to avoid singularity,
as every body else went, but had it not been for Mrs.
Wentworth, she would never have mentioned it.

The Captain declared that if she had the slightest
desire, it was a command to him, and the tickets
were accordingly purchased.

Late in the afternoon, Captain Wentworth sat in
the dining-room, reading. As the sun drew near the
horizon, and the light grew fainter, he sat down in a
recess by a window, and the curtain falling down,
completely concealed him. In this position he re-
mained while the twilight darkened around him, and
no longer able to read, he gave himself up to those
dark and gloomy reflections which had lately filled
his mind. He thought of the hours when tossed upon
the foaming billows, he had turned in heart towards
his home,

" And she, the dim and melancholy star,
Whose ray of beauty reached him from afar,"

rose upon the clouds of memory, with soft and gilding
lustre. Now he was safely anchored in the haven of
his hopes and wishes, but his soul was drifted by
storms, wilder than any that swept the boisterous seas.
The very effort of preserving outward calmness, only
made the tempest fiercer within. This new instance
of his wife's unconquerable levity and heartlessness,
filled him with despair. He believed her too much
demoralized by vanity and love of pleasure, ever to
return to her duty and allegiance as a wife.

While indulging these bitter feelings, Miss Hart
and Mrs. Wentworth entered the dining room, una-
ware of his presence. Miss Hart, as usual, was
speaking in an earnest, confidential tone, as if she
feared some one was listening to her counsels.

" I beg, I entreat," said she, " that you would rally
your spirits, and not let the world see that you are
cast down by his ill treatment. All the fashionable
people will be there to-night, and you must remember

32

THE PARLOUR SERPENT.

that many eyes will be upon you ; and pray dont
wear that horrid unbecoming dress, it makes a per-
fect fright of you, muffling you up to the chin."

" It is no matter," replied Mrs. Wentworth, des-
pondingly, " I dont care how I look — the only eyes
I ever really wished to charm, now turn from me in
disgust ; I 'm weary of acting the part of a hypocrite,
of smiling, and chattering, and talking nonsense,
when I feel as if my heart were breaking. Oh ! that
I had not weakly yielded my better reason to that
fear of the world's censure, which has been the ruin
of my happiness."

" I would never suffer my happiness to be affected
one way or the other," cried Miss Hart, " by a man
who showed so little tenderness or delicacy towards
me. I wonder your affection is not chilled, nay ut-
terly destroyed by his harshness and despotism."

" Oh ! you little know the strength or depth of a
woman's love, if you deem it so soon uprooted. My
heart yearns to be admitted once more into the fold-
ings of his — a hundred times have I been tempted to
throw myself into his arms, implore his forgiveness,
and entreat him to commence anew a life of confi-
dence and love."

Miss Hart began to laugh at this romantic speech,
but the laugh froze on her lips when she saw the
window curtains suddenly part, and Captain Went-
worth rushing forward, clasp his astonished wife in
his arms, exclaiming " Jane, dear Jane, that life is
begun." He could not utter another word.

When, after a few moments of intense emotion, he
raised his head, tears which were no stain upon his
manhood, were glistening on his dark cheek. Miss
Hart looked on with feelings similar to those which
we may suppose animate the spirits of darkness,
when they witness the restoration of man, to the for-
feited favour of his Maker. There was wormwood
and bitterness in her heart, but her undaunted spirit
still saw a way of extrication from all her difficulties.

"Really, Captain Wentworth," exclaimed she,
laughing violently, " the next time you hide yourself
behind a curtain, you must draw your boots under ; I
saw the cloven foot peeping out, and spoke of you as
I did, just to see what Mrs. Wentworth would say,
and I thought very likely it would have a happy re-
sult— I am sure this is a finer scene than any we shall
see at the theatre."

" That you have deceived me, Miss Hart," answer-
ed the Captain, " I acknowledge to my shame, but
my eyes are now opened. My situation was acci-
dental ; no, I should say providential, for I have made
discoveries, for which I can never be sufficiently
grateful. Jane, I have been harsh and unjustly sus-
picious, I know, and richly deserve all I have suffered,
but from the first hour of my return, this treacherous
friend of yours, discovering the weakness of my
character, has fanned the flame of jealousy, and fed
the fires that were consuming me. I despise myself
for being her dupe."

" Oh ! Miss Hart," cried Mrs. Wentworth, " how
could you be so cruel ? you whom I so trusted and
thought my best and truest friend."

« I have said nothing but the truth to either," cried
Miss Hart boldly, seeing all subterfuge was now vain,
" and you had better profit by it. Every body has a
weak side, and if they leave it unguarded and open to
the attacks of the enemy, they have no one to blame
but themselves. I never made you jealous, Captain
Wentworth, nor your wife credulous, and as I leave

you wiser than I found you, I think you both ought
to be very much obliged to me."

Thus saying, with an unblushing countenance, she
left the apartment, and recollecting the next morning
that a certain lady had given her a most pressing in-
vitation to visit her, she departed, and no one said
" God bless her."

Henry, who had seen full as much as he desired
of her, hardly knew which rejoiced him more, her
departure or his sister's happiness. Indeed the last
seemed the consequence of the first, for never was
there such a transformation in a household. There
was blue sky for stormy clouds — spring gales for
chill east winds — love and joy for distrust and sor-
row.

Henry had seen the physician and minister whom
Miss Hart had mentioned as the lovers of Lois Car-
roll. The young physician happened to be a bald,
broad faced man, with a long nose, which turned up
at the end, as if looking at his forehead, and the
young minister, a man whose hair was frosted with
the snow of sixty winters, and on whose evangelical
countenance, disease had written deeper lines than
those of age. Charles, too, the lover-cousin, proved
to be an only brother, whose lingering hours of dis-
ease she had soothed with a Christian sister's holy
ministrations. He became a frequent, and as he had
reason to believe, a welcome visiter, at the house.
He found Lois skilled in all the graceful accomplish-
ments of her sex — her mind was enriched with oriental
and classical literature, her memory stored with the
brightest and purest gems of genius and taste ; yet,
like the wise men of the East, who brought their gold
and frankincense and myrrh, to the manger of the
babe of Bethlehem, she laid these precious offerings
in lowliness of spirit, at the feet of her Redeemer.
All at once, Henry perceived a cloud come over the
confidence in which he was established there. The
good aunt was cold and distant, Lois, though still
gentle and kind, was silent and reserved, and he
thought he caught her melting blue eyes fixed upon
him more than once with a sad and pitying expression.
" What has occurred ?" asked he, with the frank-
ness so peculiar to him — when for a moment he was
left alone with her. " I am no longer a welcome
guest."

" Forgive us," answered Lois, her face mantling
with earnest blushes, " if we feel constrained to deny
ourselves the pleasure we have derived from your
society. As long as we believed you the friend of
religion, though not her acknowledged votaiy, our
hearts acknowledged a sympathy with yours, and in-
dulged a hope that you would ere long go goal for
goal with us for the same immortal prize. But an
infidel, Mr. More ! Oh! my soul," continued she,
clasping her hands fervently together, and looking
upward, " come not thou into his secret."

" An infidel," cried Henry, " and do you believe
me such, and condemn me as such, unheard, without
granting me an opportunity of vindication ?"

" We would not have admitted the belief from an
authority less respectable. The intelligence came
from one who had been an inmate of your family,
and expressed for you the warmest friendship. We
were told that you ridicule our faith, make the Bible
a scorn and mockery, and expose us as individuals to
contempt and derision."

" It must have been that serpent of a Miss Hart,"
exclaimed Henry, trembling with passion, " that scor-

THE PARLOUR SERPENT.

33

pion, that fiend in woman's form, whose path may be
traced by the slime and the poison she leaves behind.
The lips which could brand you Lois, as a hypocrite,
would not leave my name unblackened. My sister
received her into her household, and her domestic
happiness came near being the wreck of her malig-
nant arts — I could give you any proof you may ask
of her falsehood and turpitude."

" I ask none," cried Lois, with an irradiated coun-
tenance, " I believe your assurance, and rejoice in it.
I cannot describe the pain, the grief I felt that one
so kind to others, could be so cruel to himself."

Lois, in the godly simplicity of her heart, knew not
of the warmth with which she spoke, or of the vivid
expression that lighted up her eyes. Henry thought
if ever there was a moment when he could dare to
address her as a being born to love, and to be loved
with human tenderness, it was the present. He began
with faultering lips, but in the intensity of his feelings
he soon forgot every thing, but the object for which
he was pleading, with an ardour and a vehemence
that made the unsophisticated Lois tremble. She
trembled and wept. Her heart melted before his im-
passioned declaration, but she feared to yield imme-
diately to its dictates.

Their course of life had hitherto been so different,
their early associations, their pursuits and habits —
she dreaded lest he should mistake the fervour of his
attachment for her, for the warmth of religious senti-
ment, and that the temptations of the world would
resume their influence over his heart. " Let us still
be friends," said she, smiling through her tears — " till
time has more fully unfolded our characters to each
other. We are as yet but acquaintances of a day, as
it were, and if we hope to pass an eternity together,
we should pause a little before we become fellow trav-
ellers in our pilgrimage. The love of a Christian,"
continued she, a holy enthusiasm illuminating her face,
" cannot be limited to the transient union of this
world — it soars far, far beyond it, illimitable as space,
and everlasting as the soul's existence." Henry felt,
while listening to this burst of hallowed feeling, that
to possess the love of Lois Carroll here, without a
hope of re-union beyond the grave, would be a dark
and cheerless destiny, compared to the glorious hopes
that now animated his being.

It was about two years after this, Miss Hart took
passage in the stage, and started for the habitation of
some obscure relative who lived in a distant town.
She had gone from family to family, indulging her
odious propensity, flattering the present, and slander-
ing the absent, till her character, becoming fully
known, all doors were closed against her, and she
was compelled to seek a home, among kindred she
was ashamed to acknowledge. "Whose beautiful
country-seats are those?" asked a fellow-passenger,
pointing to two elegant mansions, that stood side by
side as if claiming consanguinity with each other.
" The first belongs to Capt. Wentworth, and the other
to Mr. Henry More, his brother-in-law," answered
Miss Hart, putting her head from the window, as they
passed — " you must have heard of them." " No,"
said the stranger, "Is there any thing remarkable
connected with them ?" « Nothing," replied she, with
one of her significant shrugs, " only the Captain is one
of your dark Spanish Knights, who lock up their
wives, and fight every body who looks at them ; and
his lady likes every other gentleman better than her
husband — and they could not agree, and the whole

city were talking about them, so he took her into the
country, and makes her fast and pray, and do penance
for her sins. The other gentleman, Mr. More, mar-
ried a low, ignorant girl, who had never been accus-
tomed to good society, so, being ashamed to intro-
duce her her among his friends, he immured himself
in the country also. They say he is so wretched in
his choice, he has turned a fanatic, and there is some
danger of his losing his reason." At this moment
one of the horses took fright, and springing from the
road, the stage was upset, with a terrible crash. Miss
Hart, whose head was projecting from the window,
was the only one who was seriously injured. She was
dreadfully bruised and mangled, and carried insensible
into Capt. Wentworth's house. The stranger, whose
curiosity was excited by the description he had just
heard, and seeing the inhabitants of both dwellings
were gathering together in consequence of the acci-
dent, assisted in carrying her, and lingered as long as
he could find a reasonable excuse for doing so. " I
believe that young woman's jaw is broken," said he,
when he rejoined his fellow passengers ; " and it is a
judgment upon her — I know there is not a word of
truth in what she has been saying. If ever domestic
happiness, as well as benevolence, dwelt on earth, I
verily believe it is in those two families."

It was long before Miss Hart recovered her con-
sciousness, and when she did, and endeavoured to
speak, she felt such an excruciating pain in her jaw,
as prevented her utterance. It seemed a remarkable
instance of the retribution of Providence, that she
should be afflicted in the very part which she had
made an instrument of so much evil to others. Her
jaw-bone was indeed broken, and there she lay, wri-
thing in agony, incapable of speech, indebted to the
beings she hated, because she had injured, for the
cares that prolonged her miserable existence. She
could not speak, but she could see and hear, and her
senses seemed sharpened by the bondage of her tongue.
Mrs. Wentworth and Lois too, hovered round her,
with gentle steps and pitying looks, and the tenderest
alleviations ; and for this she might have been prepa-
red. But when through the shades of evening, she
heard the deep voice of the once haughty and ungov-
ernable Capt. Wentworth, breathing forth humble and
heartfelt prayers, while his wife knelt meek and lowly
by his side, when she heard the gay and gallant Henry
More, reading with reverence God's holy word, and
joining with Lois in hymns to the Redeemer's praise,
she rolled her eyes in wild amazement, and her dark
spirit was troubled within her. " There seems a re-
ality in this," thought she. "The worldling become
the saint, and the lion transformed into the lamb!
How happy they look, while I — poor, wretched, man-
gled creature that I am !" Paroxysms of agony fol-
lowed these reflections, for which there seemed no
mitigation.

She lingered for a long time speechless and in great
suffering, but at length recovered with a frightful dis-
tortion in the lower part of the face. When she first
beheld herself in a mirror, the shock was so great as
to produce delirium, and when that subsided, a gloom
and despair succeeded, from which they vainly en-
deavoured to rouse her by the soothings of sympathy
and the consolations of religion. She felt that, like
Cain, she must carry about an indelible brand upon
her face, and cried like him, in bitterness of spirit,
" My punishment is greater than I can bear." It was
intolerable to her to look upon the fair, serene coun-

34

ERNESTINE.

tenances of Mrs. Wentworth and Lois, and to see too
the eyes of their husbands follow them with such love
and delight, and then to draw the contrast between
them and her own disfigured beauty and desolate lot.
She expressed a wish to be sent to her relatives, and
the wish was not opposed. She received from them
a grudging welcome, for they had felt her sting, and

feared that serpent tongue of slander, whose ancestral
venom is derived from the arch reptile, that lurked in
the bowers of Eden.

Woe to the slanderer ! — To use the language of the
wise man, " her end is bitter as wormwood, and sharp
as a two-edged sword — Her feet go down to death,
her steps take hold on hell."

h-^-*****"

Written for the Lady's Book.

TO WORDSWORTH,

WRITTEN AT RYDAL MOUNT.

BY MRS

IYDIA

0 England! — full of years, yet passing fair,

1 drink thy beauty, with a child's delight,
The tear upon ray face. — Thine ivied heights,
Beneath whose base 'twould seem that Time had paus'd
Like an o'erspent destroyer, and laid down,
Feigning to sleep and let their glory pass, —

Thy proud baronial mansions, deck'd with all
That wealth can win from art, but more than these,
Thy rural charms, thy mist-encircled hills.
Wearing their emerald crowns, thy crystal tarns
Glassing themselves amid the velvet meads,
Thy green, green hedges, with their tufted bloom,
Thy cottage children playing 'mid the flowers
That make their thatch-roof 'd homes so beautiful,

. SIGOURNEY.

These well repay me to have dar'd for thee
The tempest-swoln Atlantic, tho' unus'd
To perils on the deep.

But most of all
That I have found thee in thy lake-girt bower,
Whose music thrill'd my heart, when life was new,
That I have seen thy face, and heard thy voice,
Is glorious gain, for on the sacred walls
Of the soul's cabinet, where she retires,
To muse amid her treasur'd imagery,
Henceforth shall be thy picture, mild with thought,
And sublimate with genius, ne'er to fade,
Till death shall darken all material things.

London, Eng.

Written for the Lady's Book.
ERNESTINE.

BY ESTHER WETHERAJ.D.

Count Albert Durberg succeeded to the title and
estates of his uncle at the age of twenty-two. —
Rich, handsome, and his own master, it would have
required a very superior mind to resist the many
seductions which surrounded him in the gay city of
Vienna. Count Albert did not attempt resistance.
Accustomed from early youth to follow each sug-
gestion of fancy, with little or no restraint from his
fond guardian, he now launched out upon the sea of
dissipation, and though at times he thought that his
bright anticipations of happiness had not been rea-
lized, he banished so disagreeable a reflection by
plunging still deeper into the giddy vortex, where he
foolishly imagined he should find the bliss of which
he was in search.

But there was one thought he could not banish,
even when among his gay companions ; one reflec-
tion which served to embitter each cup of pleasure
ere tasted. A clause of his uncle's will required him
to marry before the age of twenty-five, a young lady,
the antiquity aud purity of whose descent must equal
his own ; if he failed to comply, the title and estates
would go to another branch of the family. Count
Albert almost cursed the memory of the good old
man, who thus forced him to resign his liberty when
just beginning to enjoy it. Lady after lady was
proposed to him by his officious friends ; but, deter-

mined to put off the evil day as long as possible, he
invariably found some insuperable objection.

Two years passed rapidly away. Count Albert's
twenty-fourth birth-day came, and whilst celebrating
it with peculiar magnificence as the last he could
thoroughly enjoy ; for a married man he must be, or
a beggar before his twenty-fifth, he began to reflect
on the prospect before him. Little did he know of
the virtue, the tenderness, the loving-kindness of
woman, or the happiness of a well regulated house-
hold where she presides, for his mother had died
when he was young, and no kind sister or aunt had
been left to supply her place. His opinions had been
principally formed in the society of his gay associates,
and their estimate of her character was very low.
Nor did the intimacy he had formed with some of
the most brilliant and fascinating belles of Vienna,
tend in any degree to weaken his prepossessions
against the sex; their charming manners had not
blinded him to their coquetry and selfishness; such
a wife would be a torment to him ; indeed he felt as
if he should hate his partner were she an angel, for
how could he love, when obliged to marry whether
he loved or not?

In this state of mind was Count Albert when the
beautiful Ernestine Erwald made her appearance at
Vienna. She was the eldest daughter of a widowed

ERNESTINE.

35

Countess who had lived in a retired manner since
her husband's death, devoting herself to the education
of her two children.. Ernestine was now fifteen,
and her mother thought it essential she should be-
come acquainted with persons of her own rank, that
she might acquire those easy and finished manners
which render a lovely and accomplished woman so
captivating. The childlike simplicity, grace, and
beauty of Ernestine made some impression on Al-
bert, and her ingenuousness and timidity assured him
against coquetry ; if he must marry, he knew no
one who would suit him better, or give him less
trouble ; in other words he wished to have a wife
whom he could neglect as much as he pleased, with-
out danger of retaliation or complaint ; her happiness
was of no consequence to him, he thought not of it
for a moment.

Count Albert's mind was soon made up, the pre-
liminaries settled, and Ernestine became the Countess
Durberg. Ignorant of her husband's reasons for
marrying, the young lady felt highly flattered that
one of such acknowledged rank and fortune should
have chosen her to be his companion, and repaid
him by the warmest attachment.

The first four weeks were passed at one of the
Count's chatteaus, a few miles from the city; they
walked, rode, and sang together ; together they wan-
dered through the delightful gardens, together they
visited the cottages of the poor. Ernestine was
perfectly happy, and would have wished to remain
there for ever. Not so her husband, he was soon
weary of so quiet a life; even his wife's innocence
and simplicity became distasteful to him; he longed
for excitement, excitement of some kind seemed ne-
cessary to his existence. He had now secured his
rank and fortune, all that remained was to seek for
happiness his own way. They returned to Vienna.
Ernestine was suddenly awakened from her dream
of bliss, to find herself deserted and alone when she
least expected it; for never had she looked more
beautiful, or taken more pains to please ; each day
she practised new songs, aud dressed "herself with
the greatest care, hoping he might return and reward
her with a smile ; in vain ! he would come late in
the night, and retiring to his own apartments, she
would see him no more till he was ready to start on
some new excursion. She dared not remonstrate ;
her timidity increased with every day's neglect; it
was evident he loved her not, she had failed to cap-
tivate the only one who had interested her young
affections ; yet why had he married her ? that ques-
tion she could not solve, but was at length enlight-
ened, by accidentally overhearing a conversation
between two of the servants; then all was explained,
and Ernestine wept in bitterness of heart over her
blighted hopes and future prospects. Her health de-
clined under so many trials ; the promise of extreme
beauty she had given at the time of her marriage
seemed unlikely to be fulfilled ; her face was color-
less and wan, and her figure, instead of acquiring
fullness and majesty, was more slight and drooping
than it had been the year before. Twelve months
neglect had wrought these changes. Albert was not
often harsh, but utterly cold and indifferent, which
was quite as hard to bear. Her physician ordering
country air and exercise, she determined to leave
Vienna, not for weeks only, but for years. She ac-
cordingly wrote an affecting appeal to her husband,
telling him, that as she had completely failed in ren-

dering herself agreeable, or awakening his interest
and love, the sooner a separation took place, the
better it would be for the happiness of both. Count
Albert, though slightly piqued at her resolution, did
not oppose it ; he was willing to throw off even the
slight restraint of her presence, and after reminding
her that the step was her own, gave her to under-
stand that he should be in no haste to make over-
tures of reconciliation. She did not expect that he
would, nor was it her wish, unless a total change
took place in his character and habits, which was
very unlikely.

The place she chose for her retreat, was the chateau
where the few happy weeks of her married life had
been spent. With what different feelings did.she now
approach that venerable mansion, almost hidden by
oaks and other forest trees, planted by the count's
grand-father, who had made this his favourite resi-
dence. She was then all joy and exultation, diffusing
happiness wherever she moved, unconscious that he
who proudly supported her, and listened with apparent
pleasure to the exclamations of his admiring tenantry,
would be the first to change her joy into mourning,
her exultation into the deepest despondency.

But Ernestine did not quite despair; she looked
back upon former years, and remembered weeks and
months of unalloyed happiness, when her mornings
had been passed in reading and study, and her even-
ings in the society of a few chosen friends, or in ac-
companying her mother to visit and relieve the poor.
To resume this kind of life as far as lay in her power,
she thought would be far better than to spend her
time in useless and sinful repining, and her mind
would thus be kept from dwelling too much on one
whose unkindness and selfishness had been so unex-
pected and terrible; she had no hope of recovering
her tranquillity whilst residing under the same roof
with Albert, and this decided her to ask a separation.

When Ernestine reached her new home, the first
thing she did was to send her mother a circumstantial
account of her husband's treatment, and her inability
to support it, joined with a request that her sister Ada

might be permitted to spend some time with her

Madam Erwald, very much distressed at her daugh-
ter's unhappy marriage, though proud of the strength
of mind she had displayed in leaving one so unworthy,
readily consented, provided Ernestine would superin-
tend the different branches of Ada's education, and
persevere in her endeavours to regain the peace and
happiness she had lost at Vienna. She was herself
unable to visit her at this time, on account of the ill-
ness of a sister.

Ada, who had always been warmly attached to
Ernestine, improved rapidly under her tuition, and her
presence, by giving employment to the Countess, and
relieving her from the loneliness she had experienced
almost ever since her marriage, was of incalculable
benefit. When the hours devoted to study were passed,
the two sisters rode or walked out together, and were
soon regarded by the poor of the neighbourhood, as
ministering angels. Ernestine became every day
more convinced she had done right, and would not
have lived over again her year of married life for
worlds. Peace soon came back to her troubled bo-
som, and with peace came health, and with health,
beauty. Many persons of rank, who lived in the vi-
cinity, sought an acquaintance with the Countess, and
were as much delighted with her goodness and amia-
bility, as astonished at her extreme loveliness, which

36

ERNESTINE.

appeared to increase every day. When the time allot-
ted for Ada's visit expired, and the mother appeared
to claim her child, she was highly gratified to observe
the change in Ernestine's health, and so anxious were
both sisters to be left together, and so visible their
improvement, that after remaining some time, she re-
turned home, leaving Ada established at the chateau.
There we shall leave them for the present, and return
to count Albert.

For some time after his wife's departure, no change
took place in the Count. His days and nights were
passed in the same unceasing round of dissipation,
with the same worthless companions, who scoffed at
marriage and all its holy ties; and if he sometimes
thought of Ernestine, it was rather to congratulate
himself that he was comfortably rid of her, than to
lament her loss.

He soon heard that a residence in the country had
greatly improved her appearance ; to this he paid no
attention, having concluded some time before that her
beauty was not of the style he admired.

An Italian singer with large black eyes and raven
tresses had come to Vienna, and almost turned his
brain; from that moment all beauties with light hair,
golden, auburn, or brown, became insipid, and would
probably remain so until some new fantasy had driven
the Italian out of his head.

Six months after Ernestine's departure, Count Al-
bert came to the conclusion that happiness was not
to be found in his native city, and determined to visit
Paris — delightful Paris ! — of which he had heard so
many glowing descriptions. He departed, without
seeing again his young wife, and was soon in the
midst of the pleasures and frivolities of that gay ca-
pital. But ennui found him even there, and he again
sought relief in change. In the succeeding four
years he visited almost every country in Europe with
the same success, and at the end of that time was
again in Paris, where he was overtaken by a long
illness. With no friend to cheer him, and only a
hired nurse to smooth his pillow, he had leisure to
reflect on his conduct towards the innocent and con-
fiding Ernestine. In spite of the selfishness which
had always been a prominent feature in his character,
he felt condemned. The devoted tenderness she had
displayed towards him during their residence at the
chateau, had certainly merited some return, yet what
return had he made ? He shuddered when he re-
membered her pale face and drooping form, and
thought on the suffering he had caused to one whom
he had solemnly sworn to love and cherish. Was it
too late ? might he, if spared, succeed in making her
forget the weary months she had passed in his splen-
did mansion ? or would her abhorrence be so strong
as to prevent the possibility of a reunion ? At all
events he would return to Vienna and attempt a re-
conciliation, for he was tired of wandering, and
wished to settle down and be at peace.
*********

Four years had passed since Ernestine and Ada
took up their residence at the chateau. The latter
was now a lovely girl of sixteen, and though not so
brilliant as her sister, possessed many of her graces
and accomplishments. It was time she should appear
in society, and Ernestine was persuaded to leave the
quiet home she loved, and accompany her to the
capitol. The extreme beauty of the Countess soon
drew around her many admirers, who wondered at
the perversity of human nature, as they gazed on her

fascinating face, and listened to a voice which put to
shame all the opera singers who had visited Vienna
since the memory of man. What a strange being
Count Durberg must be, to leave such a charming
wife and wander through the world alone. The
Countess could not help feeling somewhat flattered
on perceiving the effect her appearance produced,
having been deeply mortified by her husband's neglect;
but all thought of herself soon gave way to uneasiness
for her sister. Ada's youth and beauty had attracted

the notice of the Baron R , one of the former

associates of Albert, who seemed determined to win
her affections ; and though he was said to be tho-
roughly reformed, and to have a good and amiable
disposition, she feared for the result. But Ada feared
not, her confiding heart was quickly won, and when
Ernestine one day read to her that passage of Cor-
neille, in which one of his heroines so pathetically
describes the difference between a lover and a hus-
band,

"Tant qu'ils ne sont qu'amants nous sommes souveraines,
Et jusqu' a la conquete ils nous traitent de reines ;
Mais apres rhym6n6e ils sont ruis a leur tour — "

hoping thereby to moderate her anticipations, she
only smiled sweetly, and reminded her sister that
there were exceptions to every rule.

" And I hope the Baron will be one of those ex-
ceptions," said the Countess, " but if we are deceived
in him, you shall not endure lonely months of anguish
as I did, for I will stay with you till assured of your
felicity." Ada kissed her sister, telling her that nothing
could give the Baron and herself greater pleasure than
to have her with them, and also added that she would
persuade him to pass part of the summer at her fa-
vourite residence.

At the end of the season their nuptials were cele-
brated, and Ada, faithful to her promise, prevailed on
the Baron to spend three or four months at the cha-
teau. They were happy months to all, for though
Ernestine sometimes thought of her own blighted
hopes whilst gazing on the happy Ada, she was too
thankful for the many blessings which surrounded
her, to repine.

The Baron and Ada did not leave Ernestine with-
out exacting a promise that she would shortly return
their visit, and the next season found her again at
Vienna, admired and caressed by all. She had fre-
quently said, she should regard the return of her hus-
band as the greatest misfortune, from a fear that he
would be suddenly seized with a desire to reclaim his
rights ; so, when the Baron heard that he was return-
ing to Vienna, he took care not to say a word to her
on the subject, hoping that when the Count arrived,
his penitence would do more to conciliate her than
the persuasions of a third person.

The Count reached Vienna one afternoon when
the Baron chanced to be from home, and not wishing
to present himself till he had seen his friend, and
secured his good offices, he despatched a hasty note,
requesting to see him as early next morning as con-
venient. He then dressed for the opera, and going
very early, watched the entrance of the different
parties, with many of whom he was acquainted. At
length two ladies and a gentleman entered a box near
his own, and rivetted his attention. The ladies ap-
peared to be sisters, and were very beautiful, but the
eldest more particularly attracted his notice. She ap-
peared about twenty years of age ; her figure was

OUR LIFE IS AS A SHADOW.

37

perfect, her features and complexion beautiful beyond
description : her eyes were of deep blue, with a soft,
tender expression, and the rich auburn ringlets she
had thrown carelessly- back from her face, fell on
shoulders whiter than ivory.

Count Albert had never seen one so lovely ; he
gazed on her with passionate admiration, and noted,
with a feeling of jealousy, for which he could not
account, the attentions of the gentleman who accom-
panied them. Suddenly she raised her hand, and he
beheld on one of her fingers a jewelled ring, of pe-
culiar construction, which he had presented to his
bride, during their short residence at the chateau.

He fell back and almost fainted — was it a dream ?
or was that brilliant being the same pale, timid, heart-
broken girl he had so coldly parted from. He looked
again, a sweet smile played on her lovely features,
and that smile, yes, he could not be mistaken, that
smile was the smile of Ernestine.

He drew back into the farthest corner of the box,
and could his neglected wife have seen the expression
of agony which passed over his face, as he reflected
on his former unkindness, and the probability that
she would never again consent to place herself in his
power, she would have thought him sufficiently
punished.

As the Baron rose from the breakfast table, next
morning, he handed a note to Ernestine, who glanced
her eye over it, and suddenly became pale as death.
It was from Albert, entreating her pardon, and re-
questing an interview. She was silent for some mo-
ments, and then said, " It is useless, I can never place
confidence in him again."

" But you will not refuse to see him," said the
Baron, " he has suffered much from illness, still more
from remorse ; and the hope of seeing you, and the
hope to have his pardon from your lips, has brought
him to Vienna at this inclement season, though his
health was too delicate to undertake such a journey."

" I have pardoned him long since," said the
Countess, "tell him so, that is sufficient; let him not
ask for more."

" No, that is not sufficient," said Ada, throwing
her arms around her sister, " he loves you now, loves
you as tenderly as the Baron loves myself, and if you
refuse him, you destroy every hope of happiness he
has formed from re-union with you, and may I not
add, throw away your own ? for you have often told

me you were happy whilst you thought he loved
you."

Ernestine could no longer resist ; she consented to
see him, and the result of the interview was, that if
he conducted himself with strict propriety for six
months, and at the end of that time felt the same
anxiety to renew their union, she would no longer
oppose his wishes.

Albert's fear of positive rejection had been so
great, that his joy knew no bounds when he received
this promise. Great part of every day was spent
with the Countess, and his love and admiration in-
creased with each new proof of her goodness of
heart. How blind he must have been, not to discover
sooner that true happiness was only to be found in
the society of a virtuous and amiable woman.

The good people of Vienna looked on in astonish-
ment ; never had they seen a lover more infatuated
with the charms of his mistress, than Count Albert
with those of his so long deserted wife, and all won-
dered how long the fair lady would punish him for
his former neglect. But their wonder was of short
duration, for six months soon pass away, and at the
end of that period, a superb entertainment was given
at the Baron's, to celebrate their re-union, after which
they proceeded once more to the chateau, where they
were received by Madam Erwald, who had for some
time resided with her daughter; and joined soon
afterwards by the Baron and Ada, whose happiness
seemed increased two-fold by that of their sister and
friend.

Count Albert, in accordance with the wishes of his
wife, determined to make his chateau his future sum-
mer residence, and before autumn, had improved the
house and grounds so much, that the Baron and Ada,
as well as Ernestine, thought it a paradise, and even
the Count, was sorry when the time came for remov-
ing to the capitol.

Next spring the Baron bought an estate in the
neighbourhood, that they might have the pleasure of
seeing each other every day, and never did two
families live in more perfect harmony.

Count Albert still blesses the hour when he re-
solved to return home, and seek in peaceful and
tranquil pleasures, and in the society of his angel
wife, that happiness which he had vainly sought in
years of wandering and dissipation.

Written for the Lady's Book.
"OUR LIFE IS AS A SHADOW.

BY MISS LOIS BRYAN.

The dream was sweet, but could not last,
The vision bright, but soon 'twas past:
The morning sun was glorious too,
But soon it changed its golden hue,
And, robed in clouds of threatening form,
Betokened fast approaching storm.
Thus falsely youth's bright dream has shone,
And lured the thoughtless votary on,
'Till, like a transient meteor light,
It disappeared in sorrow's night :
And hope's fair visions too are flown,
That once in heavenly brightness shone,

xxii. — 4

And smiles, that erst upon the cheek,
Of health and happiness could speak;
All, all are fleeting, false, and frail ;
The sunken eye, the cheek so pale,
The quickened pulse, the shortened breath,
Proclaim the swift approach of death.
But let the transient glories die,
We will not heave one longing sigh,
Nor wish them back, in all their power,
To smile upon the parting hour,
While pleasures new, and joys untold,
The opening gates of heaven unfold.

THE STRANGER'S HEART.

THE WORDS BY MRS HEMANS.

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Dolce.

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Thou think'st thy children's laughing play,
A lovely sight at fall of day;
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd —
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast :
Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend,
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then, doth the stranger's eye grow dim —
Far, far are those who prayed with him.

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land —
The voices of thy kindred band —
Oh ! 'midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart !
The stranger's heart ! Oh ! wound it not !
A yearning anguish is its lot ;
In the green shadow of thy tree,
Oh ! let the stranger rest with thee.

40

A SINGULAR FACT.

Written for the Lady's Book.

A SINGULAR FACT.

NOT WITHOUT

MORAL TO THE WISE.

BY MRS. M. M. WEBSTER.

Some time during the current century, the attention
of the public mind was painfully arrested, and held in
a state of strange perplexity for an indefinite period.
A circumstance of peculiar interest had recently
transpired, in which a number of the most prominent
characters in the place were unwillingly implicated.
For months it was shaded by mystery, and the nov-
elty of the proceeding, added to the feeling it involved,
created unusual sensation, but like all things it passed
away, and is now perhaps scarcely remembered by
others than the actors in the drama. The leading
incidents are, however, borne on the records of the
times, in a city in the north of Europe, where it took
place.

" I know not if the tale be true,
As I received, I give it you." — Ancient Bard.

In 180 — in the city of ■

it was announced

in the usual way, that a very extraordinary trial was
about to take place. At the appointed time the
judges were set, and the case was opened.

At the bar of the court stood a female of remarka-
ble appearance ; her stature was above the ordinary
size, and her wan and meagre countenance indicated
an acquaintance with poverty and wretchedness, coe-
val with her existence, and yet an air of dignity
strangely obtruded, and marked her being, with its
changeless seal. By her side, nestling close to her,
as if overcome by terror, stood a little girl, appar-
ently not more than twelve years old, of such singular
beauty, and endowed with so much grace and sweet-
ness of demeanor, as to win all hearts. The woman
was arraigned for divers frauds, successfully practised
at different times.

The first indictment went to prove that she had
sold a child to a wealthy citizen, fully ten years since,
had received the purchase money, and signed a con-
tract, relinquishing all claim to the child. This sum
was paid by her request, in the form of a life annuity,
which had been regularly received until within the
two last years, when it ceased, the child suddenly
disappeared, nor had she, or the mother been heard
of from that time, until within a few weeks of the
time of her appearance before the court. Evidence
was given, that the lady of the person who had
bought the child at the time spoken of, was then in
a state of hopeless lunacy from its loss. At the time
of the purchase she had just buried her little daughter
of two years old, and being inconsolable, the afflicted
husband discovered, as he thought, some symptoms
of hallucination of mind in the beloved partner of his
bosom; determined to leave nothing undone, that
might contribute to her repose, and having been
riding about in search of objects to amuse her, just
as the vehicle stopped at their door, the woman pre-
sented herself with the child in her arms, and entreat-
ed him to purchase it. Singular as was the request,
the gentleman acceded to it, and the more willingly,
as the bereaved mother fancied that a strong likeness

existed between the little creature, and her own lost
one.

The woman was evidently a beggar, as she was
known by the servants of the family, and recognized
as such by other persons in the vicinity. Notwith-
standing which, the child was purchased, the mother
discharged with permission to visit it occasionally,
and the young pauper was soon invested with all the
comforts,~sharing at the same time the affectionate
attention and caresses, of the deceased heiress of the
family. As she grew up, she was attended by the
best masters in every branch of education suited to
her age, and being uncommonly docile and beautiful,
the devotion of her adopted parents knew no bounds.
She seemed, indeed, fully to occupy the place of the
lost one.

Thus all went smoothly for nearly eight years.
The visits of the mother gradually decreased in
frequency, after the first two years, as it was not
thought expedient that the child of fortune and dis-
tinction should know and acknowledge any other
parent, more especially one in the most humble and
perhaps degraded walks of life. For an additional
sum the woman was prevailed on to leave the
city, which she did for a short time only, but was
occasionally seen watching about the house, but
evinced no disposition to molest the child or her pro-
tectors, until the time above specified, when by her
repeated visits and importunate applications, she so
annoyed the inmates of the mansion, that some threat
was found necessary to restore peace. Still she
continued daily to assail them with her cries and
lamentations, refusing money, and fearless of punish-
ment.

The situation of the family was perplexing in the
extreme. The child had become so greatly attached
to those whose kindness had prompted them to do so
much in her behalf, that she was as unwilling to
leave them, as they were to part with her. Thus
they continued to suffer from the intrusions and bad
conduct of the woman, until by some long unex-
plained mystery the child disappeared, and with it
the real mother. Diligent search was made for them
in vain, not a trace was left by which they could be
identified in a large metropolis, where many persons
lived who knew not of the existence of the parties,
or of the distress occasioned by their loss. The be-
reavement thus cruelly effected, was second only in
poignancy to the first, and the lady bewailed her
condition as if bereft of hope, and every earthly com-
fort. Months flew by, but time brought no allevia-
tion, no soothing influence was extended to the un-
happy lady, who continued to refuse all consolation.
At length, the deep and settled melancholy terminated
in mental alienation, which by turns evinced a love
of solitude, and anon showed itself in wild frenzy.
Sad indeed was the change so quickly and so wo fully
wrought in that distressed family, in but a short space
of time. No toil, no expense was spared to search
out the wretched vagrant, and recover what was

A SINGULAR, FACT.

41

considered the victim of her cupidity, destined it was
feared, to a life of misery. No. trace was discover-
able, and the disconsolate husband and his maniac
partner, saw nothing but sorrow and loneliness in the
dark vista that separated them from the tomb. The
features of their loved child, who, like a young flower,
had perished in the very bud of being, had been in-
delibly engraven on the fond hearts of the parents.
For a length of time, they had considered the little
adopted as sent by heaven to fill the vacancy occa-
sioned by her loss, and they had clung to her as the
last hope of life, the pillow of their declining age, the
only connecting link between them and the world.
Now all was lost ; that fair link was broken, the
beautiful flower they had reared with so much care,
if crushed by the hand of the fell destroyer, who
levels all distinctions, could better have been borne,
and given up with a more chastened resignation, than
in the present circumstances of despair and doubt.

But we will turn from this picture of woe, and
mark the progress of the venial mother, and her ill-
starred offspring.

In a remote part of the same city, lived a princess
of the blood royal. She was in the wane of life, a
widow without children. Fond of retirement, and
devoted from early life to those little beings that
spread a halo of delight around the fire side and table,
she had often received into her dwelling the young
members of her neighbours' families, and for whole
days together would mingle in their innocent pursuits,
delighting no less than themselves in every thing
which could contribute to their pleasure and amuse-
ment. Blessed with wealth beyond her utmost wish,
she would lavish hundreds on this her chief delight,
gathering together all who would partake of her
bounty, making their little hearts glad in the enjoy-
ment of ever varying pastimes.

One morning she had been to the court to pay
her obeisance to the crowned majesty, who was only
a distant relative. As the state coach in which
she rode, drew up to the gate of her palace, she dis-
covered sitting upon the steps of the portico a woman
of squalid appearance, and miserable dress accompa-
nied by a little girl of great beauty and uncommon
grace. It was about noon, and in the heat of sum-
mer.

The child was resting on the shoulder of her com-
panion seemingly in great agitation. Her bonnet
was thrown off, and her flaxen hair, unbraided and
neglected, fell in great disorder over her marble brow
and neck. She wore a soiled dress of rich materials,
which consorted as little with the apparent station
of herself and her companion as could well be ima-
gined. The air of ease and elegance which was ex-
hibited by her every motion, contrasting so forcibly
with the awkwardness of her protectress, called forth
the ready sympathy of the Princess, who hastily in-
quired their errand, and whence they were.

The woman arose and approached nearer to the
princess, making an attempt to salute her by as re-
spectful a courtesy as she could, at the same time the
child, at her bidding, followed her example, yet in a
totally different manner. She then explained the
object of her visit, assuring the princess that she had
suddenly become so poor as to be unable to continue
the education of the little girl, and rather than see
her endure the poverty and privation to which herself
was destined, she had formed the plan of placing her
in some proper asylum, and herself retiring from the

world. She related many fictitious incidents in her
life, and in answer to inquiries made, told the most
remarkable tales, to account for the discrepances of
manners and appearance, in her child and herself.
The benevolent princess lent an attentive ear to all
she said, and humanely offered her a home for them
both ; which she decidedly refused, saying, she should
leave the city, never to return, so soon as her little
daughter was disposed of. She then offered her on
sale, which though shocking to the delicate sensibility
and refinement of her auditress, she after a little re-
flection agreed to, deeming it better to place the child
for ever beyond the reach of so inhuman a parent,
rather than suffer her to remain with one whose ex-
ample would contaminate her innocence, let her
precepts be what they might. The sum required was
considerable, but the princess readily agreed to ad-
vance it, which she accordingly did on entering the
house. The child was consigned to her care, and
the mother, taking an affectionate leave of her, de-
parted.

During the period of the transaction the little girl
stood bathed in tears, but apparently unable to make
any resistance by act or word. After her mother
left her, she seemed spell bound, until the soft, sooth-
ing words of the princess had in some measure re-
assured her. Her promises of protection were reite-
rated, and her sympathies shown in a variety of ways.
By degrees the little deserted one recovered her self-
possession, and entered into conversation with her
new patroness, receiving food with gladness, and re-
turning with meek gratitude every kindness bestowed
on her. New apparel was speedily prepared for her,
and every elegant comfort the heart could desire,
arranged for her use. Instruction in the various
branches of learning, and accomplishments, were
procured, and as the princess discovered the great
progress she had already made, she was struck with
wonder. The amiable child paid such unremitted
attention that she promised to be little short of a
prodigy. Daily, her elegant but unobtrusive manners,
together with the quiet yet unremitted attention paid
to her studies, won upon the heart both of the prin-
cess and the persons employed to teach her, who all
declared they had never before had so docile and in-
telligent a pupil, in one so young. She returned with
interest every evidence of affection, as well as attention,
received, and with the grace belonging to the high
born, evinced herself not unworthy the care of the
princess, who soon became sincerely attached to her.
In a little while every vestige of sorrow was driven
from her young brow. The sunlight of life's spring-
time, dispelled the clouds which had hitherto been
occasionally seen to darken her fair countenance, as
if some painful remembrance darted across her mind.
Her beauty increased with the care exercised by her
patroness, who became so fond of her charge as to
be scarcely satisfied without her. She accompanied
her wherever she went, and the young creatures who
had so often met together at the palace, for the pur-
pose of passing a day of delightful enjoyment to
themselves and to the princess, were convened toge-
ther, thus indulging in innocent pleasures and re-
creations, which too many of advanced age, forgetting
the pleasures of their own young existence, would
deny to those around them, as useless and tending
to demoralize.

Thus passed nearly twelve months more of this
young creature's life. Gratitude for the blessings she

42

A SINGULAR FACT.

received rilled her little heart, which responded to
every warm affection.

In all things, she confided implicitly in the affec-
tions of the princess, but if ever an inquiry was made
touching her former way of life, a burst of tears was
the only reply. Her patroness at length gave over
all hope of solving, through her means, the mystery
which enveloped her parentage ; and seemed willing
to await the issue of time and circumstances, hoping
that some event would draw aside the veil, secretly
determined, that as any allusion to past scenes occa-
sioned so much terror, as well as distress, that she
would remain in ignorance, rather than wound the
sensitive feelings of the child. No tidings of the
mother had ever reached her, since she received the
purchase money, and she sincerely hoped that nothing
would cause her re-appearance, which would naturally
disquiet her little charge, who, she had every reason
to believe, feared, rather than loved, a mother who
had acted so equivocal a part towards her offspring.

Thus passed the year in which the little foundling
became as happy as the guileless and unreflecting
season of youth, aided by all that was kind and con-
sistent in her patroness, and all that was charming
in life, could combine, to impart to her little heart.
At the end of that period she disappeared suddenly,
as in the former instance, nor was she again seen or
heard of by the inmates of the palace, notwithstand-
ing the diligent search instituted, and the large re-
wards offered for her recovery.

The princess, in the execution of other humane
plans, and the enjoyment of the young society she
had gathered around her, ceased to think of the little
mysterious one with other feelings than those of re-
gret, lest the exchange she had made should not
prove advantageous to her. Accustomed to philoso-
phize, and draw rational conclusions even from un-
common events, she did not hastily form and disse-
minate opinions which had not a shadow of probabi-
lity for a basis, but rather waited patiently after every
effort was made to regain the lost child, until circum-
stances should be developed, as she doubted not they
would in process of time, to explain the instrument
and cause of so strange an abduction. Although
sincerely attached to her little protegee, she yet had
displayed sufficient firmness not to suffer an increase
of affection to warp her mind, and thereby hide from
her the truth, that any thing, however dear, held by
such a tenure, should not be beloved with such deep
rooted devotion, as to endanger happiness, in case the
tie was severed by death or accident. The circum-
stances in which she had before been placed, spoke
too plainly to a mind evenly balanced, and much
given to reflection, of the uncertainty of all human
enjoyments, for one possessing so much wisdom, to
embark her hopes in one frail barque. She therefore
disciplined her feelings to abide whatever was inflicted
by an overruling Providence, enduring, as best she
might, the evils of her lot, whilst she enjoyed with
gratitude and true Christian feeling, the many bless-
ings she had received.

Not long after the disappearance of the child, a
rumour was afloat, that a woman and child had been
taken up under somewhat suspicious circumstances
in regard to the woman, the child, not however being
implicated. A mystery seemed to envelope them
which was scarcely to terminate with their existence.
Another unsuccessful attempt to make a sale of her
child, was attended by severe treatment to the mother.

A warrant was obtained for prosecution, and the
utmost rigour of the law intended to be enforced.
But after the second day's trial, the sufferings of both
the victims, claimed an extension of mercy. The
mother was seized with a severe illness which soon
terminated her wretched existence. But before her
death, she acknowledged the impositions she had
practised in various ways, made known the means by
which she had twice stolen the child from the care
of those to whom her seemingly mercenary spirit had
consigned her for life, and made a full and complete
statement of her views in regard to the child, and
her reasons for acting with so much duplicity.

She had been born in a sphere of life, which she
was unwilling her child should occupy. She had,
therefore, from the first hour of its birth, laid plans
which she afterwards deliberately put in execution,
with the assistance of a few paupers who frequented
the quarter of the city before alluded to, and who had
been the recipients of the bounty respectively, both
of the wealthy merchant and the princess, who had
selected, and occasionally employed the most intelli-
gent of those beggars, on errands, and in their kitchens,
on great gala days. From which circumstances
they became known to the servants generally, and
themselves became acquainted with every part of the
establishments, ready, from want of sound principle,
and willing, by the offer of reward, to steal the child,
who had, in both instances, been placed under the
care of confidential servants, who, in fact, were utterly
ignorant of the contrivance, as they had been bound
hand and foot by one pauper, or more, whilst the
mother, assisted by others, bore off the poor child in
triumph. Dreadful threats and imprecations had
been used to the attendant, and likewise to the child,
to cause them to disavow any knowledge of the
proceeding. This caused such agony to the poor
sufferer, when questioned by the princess. The
wretched woman who had acted so complicated a
piece of treachery, declared that she had in the first
case, only been governed by maternal love and soli-
citude ; and that, desiring that her child should receive
the advantages of education and society, from which
she was naturally precluded in the sphere in which
she was born, fell upon this expedient for her ad-
vancement in life. That she, and other paupers had
become acquainted with the loss of the merchant's
child, and determined, if possible, to place her own in
that eligible condition. Fortune and circumstances
favoured her design, in the success of which she felt
for a time entirely satisfied.

But in her wanderings to and fro, she had disco-
vered, by the aid of her friends and emissaries, that
a better situation could be obtained in the house of
the princess, whom she had expected to dupe as she
had done the unsuspecting merchant, and his luckless
wife. To some extent she succeeded. But her own
health beginning to decline, and the workings of na-
ture's grand master passion, maternal love, again
induced the wretched being to take her child from
the present place of safety and respectability, and as
was her intention, retire with it from the world to a
distent part of the kingdom. This she found it diffi-
cult to perform fiom her increased illness, and her
lack of funds, for she had already exhausted her purse,
by the supplies given to her comrades in treachery
and imposture. She therefore made another effort
to sacrifice to her own interests the child she so much
loved. But being suspected of some mal practice she

THE TWO TREES.

43

was apprehended, and committed for trial. Witnesses
were readily found to prove the identity of the child.
But before the examination was gone through, the
miserable woman was called to a higher tribunal,
there to be judged, not only of actions, but of intend-
ed evil.

The unfortunate child, having no legal protector,
remained under the care of the municipal authority,
until an English gentleman being struck by her sur-
prising beauty, and deeply interested in the fate of the

pauper orphan, received her from the court, carried her
to London, where her education was completed, and
she attracted the attention of a young West Indian,
a relative of her patron, who married her and took
her to his plantations. No further account of her
remains, as she was never again heard of in her na-
tive country, after her marriage.

But in her career, the hand of a mysterious Pro-
vidence is revealed, " whose ways are past finding
out.'"

~****++^>f>W*

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE TWO TREES.

BY CAROLINE T. ORNE.

In a green and lowly valley

Stood a fair and graceful tree;
And among its drooping branches,

Many a warbler carolled free.

Underneath its pleasant shadow,

In the summer sunset hours,
Danced the gallant youths and maidens

Crowned with wreaths of blooming flowers.

Hither, from life's toil and labour,

Oft the aged came to rest ;
Flying feet of sportive children

On the velvet greensward prest.

Here they wove the wild flower garland,

On the pleasant morn of May;
And they raised their glad young voices,

Warbling many a joyous lay.

Near that tree the bubbling waters

Ever sparkled in their flow ;
O'er the white and shining pebbles,

Murm'ring soft, and sweet, and low.

Wand'ring breezes, perfume laden,
Played around that favoured tree ;

Breathing through its soft green foliage,
Pleasant airs of mirth and glee.

All around that gentle valley,
Lofty hills rose proud and high ;

Piercing with their crested summits
Through the clear and bright blue sky.

On the loftiest peak, full proudly,
And with giant arms outspread,

All its green leaves waving freely,
An old oak upreared its head.

Oft it gazed on scenes of beauty,

On the wide and verdant plain,
Village church, and busy hamlet,

Waving fields of ripened grain.

In its strong and sturdy branches,

Oft the eagle built its nest,
And the mountain torrent thundered,

O'er the rough rock's rugged crest.

Many years the storm out-braving,
Laughing all its power to scorn,

It had seen its weaker brethren,
By the whirlwind rent and torn.

As some rich man, high in station,
Gazes with contempt and scorn,

On his less exalted neighbour
Lowlier placed, or lowlier born;

So the oak for many a season,
With disdain and haughty pride,

Viewed the tree that in the valley
Grew the rippling stream beside.

This world's wealth is vain and fleeting ;

Pride oft goes before a fall ;
And the sudden rushing tempest,

Oft will stoutest hearts appal.

And one day the mutt'ring thunder
Through the heaven's wide arches rolled,

And the fiercely flashing lightning
Kent the black cloud's massy fold.

All the rock-cliff shook and trembled,
At the sound of fear and dread;

Shrunk the streamlet — paused the torrent.
Leaping from its rocky bed.

As the pure and humble-minded

Unto sorrow meekly bow,
Not against the storm contending,

Which has power to lay them low;

So the Elm-tree humbly bending
Stood with garments torn and rent ;

In the valley lowly drooping,
All its branches bowed and bent.

But its root was all uninjured,

And its heart was strong and true ;

And a day of pleasant sunshine
Might its outward form renew.

But the Oak-tree, high and haughty,
When the storm-cloud passed away,

Shivered, blackened, torn and blasted,
All its boughs in ruin lay.

Its proud heart was crushed and broken,

All its bravery was gone —
Such the fate of scornful proud ones

Trusting in themselves alona.

44

NEW YEARS EVE.

Written for the Lady's Book.

NEW YEAR'S EVE,

OR, AMUSEMENTS AT HOME

BY MRS. S J. HALE.

" You are grave this evening," said Mrs. Marvin
to the Schoolmaster — " I fear you are a little unwell."

" Or the fire is a little too bright," said Ellen, smi-
ling.

Now, if there was any thing which the School-
master perfectly detested, it was an anthracite coal
fire. He considered it little better than homicide to
traffic in such a commodity, as he maintained that it
could never be used without endangering health, if not
life. Its dry heat, he said, shrivelled the brain; its
intense brightness destroyed the eye-sight; its fine dust
corroded the skin; its vile gas poisoned the lungs. —
He had talked many an hour on this subject with
Mrs. Marvin, trying to persuade her to burn only
wood, the kind of fuel he used himself, and which
those who valued their health ought always to burn.

It is true that he would not controvert what Ellen
often urged, namely, that in England they chiefly
burned coal, and that the English people were healthy.
But he replied that the English used soft coal only,
and that their damp atmosphere prevented its fine par-
ticles of dust, which are so deleterious, from rising
and mingling with the air of the apartment, as with
us.

There was another reason which Ellen assigned as
the cause of the Schoolmaster's dislike to coal fires —
he could not poke them. In his own room this was
his constant practice. A wood fire always requires
attention; the coals must be stirred, or a stick put on
or taken off, or the bellows used. All these things
furnished that sort of necessary bustle, which amused
the intervals of study, during the long evenings that
the Schoolmaster passed at home. But a coal fire,
hard coal, when once fairly ignited, must be left wholly
to itself — it was as independent of the poker as a
petted child is of its mother; and the good School-
master had never been able to manage either. So,
as he had refused to receive these ungovernable pupils
into his school, he now as steadfastly resisted all per-
suasions to try the experiment of burning anthracite.
He hated it.

" You are both wrong, for once," said he, with an
answering smile to that of Ellen — "the fire is not
too bright, and my health is excellent."

" But you look so serious, and on New- Year's Eve,
too," said Ellen.

" Yes — but is it not the proper time for grave
thoughts?" returned the Schoolmaster. "How much
is said and sung about the dying year, and the reflec-
tions which the season should inspire ! And yet, Ellen,
I am not sad. In truth, I have enjoyed my walk
hither exceedingly, and my musings have been very
pleasant."

" Then I presume you are exemplifying the axiom,
that " happiness is a serious thing," said Charles
Howard, laying down Mrs. Norton's new Poem, in
which he had been so deeply engrossed as hardly to
notice the entrance of the Schoolmaster.

" The happiness arising from reflection is generally
so," replied the Schoolmaster; "though its expres-
sion is sometimes as wild and joyous as the pleasures
of mere sense. The " Eureka" of Archimides was,
I dare say, shouted as merrily as any hurrah of a
Sophomore over his feast of stolen turkey and unpaid
champaign. It is, however, only in the overflow of
the soul that such transports are manifested; though
I think true wisdom is generally cheerful."

" I am glad to hear you say so," exclaimed Mrs.
Marvin, with a degree of energy she seldom manifes-
ted— " I am glad to find you do not think our people
are becoming utterly frivolous because they are not
as sober as the old Puritans. I feel as if the world
was improving, because Christians are permitted to
enjoy this life, as well as to hope for enjoyment in the
life which is to come."

" Yes, my dear Madam — such is the Christian's
privilege. I hope the time will come when all who
enjoy the privilege of wealth, will use it as Christians
ought — in promoting real happiness."

" If you hope for such a time, I presume you be-
lieve it will come," said Charles Howard.

" I do indeed," replied the Schoolmaster, " and it
was my faith in this improvement, which, as I came
along, gave me such pleasant reflections. I looked
on the clear cold sky, and the thousand stars above,
and thought of the mighty revolutions, the astonish-
ing changes those silent witnesses of God's power
and goodness, had seen take place in this, our earthly
abode ; and as my mind ran over the long catalogue,
though many dark events there were, and much to
bring pain, and shame, and remorse to the soul of
man, yet there was light predominating over the
darkness, and I rejoiced in the hope and firm belief
that the blessed time was fast hastening on. Every
year now tells with loud voice, its own history of
improvements, and instead of indulging in sad reflec-
tions because another year of my life has passed, I
feel glad that I am about to enter on a new year,
which I trust will go on, developing the great pur-
poses of the benevolent Author of the Universe."

" And yet the past year has carried sorrow and
disappointment to many hearts," said Mrs. Marvin ;
"I do not mean the loss of friends; death, we all
know, is the price we must pay for life, but how
many families have been reduced from affluence to
poverty."

"These things happen because we do not yet under-
stand how to use wealth," returned the Schoolmaster.

" You promised to give us your thoughts on this
subject," said Charles Howard ; " I hope you have
come prepared for this evening, otherwise we shall
have to study autographs, shall we not, cousin Ellen?"

" No, indeed, I shall not allow you a peep in my
book of treasures this evening," said Ellen ; " to own
the truth, I have been sadly disappointed : I expected
no less than four new gems, and only one has come.

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

45

The next time we all meet together, I intend to
surprise you."

"Ah! you forget that we are to pass to-morrow
evening here; shall you be ready to show us these
rare names then ?" inquired the Schoolmaster.

" I hope so," replied Ellen.

" What new heroes have you discovered," inquired
Charles.

" I have not searched for heroes ; they are too
plenty already," returned Ellen : " I give the prefer-
ence to my own sex."

"That is right," said the Schoolmaster; "the
moral power, in which your sex excel, is yet to rule
the world. The empire of physical strength, in which
lay man's superiority, is waxing old, wearing out. I
have no respect for the woman who does not love
and respect her own sex. You do right to place the
autographs of those women whose genius is carrying
forward this moral refinement of taste and talents,
among your gems."

"But who are these favoured empresses of the
soul," inquired Charles. " Let me see one at least."

" Bide the time, cousin," said Ellen, taking the
book of autographs he was about opening, "You
forget that we are to have a lecture on the use or
abuse of wealth, I really have forgotten which."

" So have I," said the Schoolmaster. " But I
recollect we were talking of the sudden reverses in
fortune, which have so frequently occurred in our
country within the last five years ; and I told you
that I had some reflections on the subject, written
by a friend of mine, which I would read to you. I
found, on looking the sketch over, that it is rather
desultory ; so I will leave you to fix the title after
hearing it." He took out the MS, and read as
follows :

" That is a fine line of Cowper's ; " God never
made an independent man." He never bestowed an
eminent blessing on any man to be lazily enjoyed.
It is folly — worse, it is sin, to say, that a man of in-
dependent wealth has a right to live as he pleases.
He has no such right. Improvement is the law of
our being, from the highest man to the lowest, and
in exact proportion to his privileges and capacities ;
and the Creator has entailed sickness, imbecility,
misery, and death on the idle, that is, the ungrateful,
recipients of his goodness.

" It is a common thing for all of us to speculate
upon the relative happiness of different situations in
life; and perhaps there are few, no matter in what
sphere they move, who cannot imagine more happi-
ness in some other situation ; yet, if our fancy were
granted — how sadly we should be disappointed !

" It is" wisely ordered that a proportionate price is
set upon every distinguished blessing which one per-
son enjoys over another. Learning has its days and
nights of exhausting labor — success in the fine arts
must be purchased, often by the sacrifice of health —
always by that of ease. Opposition, envy and de-
traction follow the steps of every aspirant for fame.
Riches, too, and the pleasures they can purchase,
so universally coveted, are accompanied by ennui,
satiety, and indifference. Besides, if we could see
the wretchedness that often follows the loss of great
wealth, we should pray as devoutly as did Agur —
" Give me neither poverty nor riches."

" There are few reverses so hard to bear as the
change from great wealth to great poverty, and of all
the children of misfortune, few find so little pity ;

and yet they need our sympathy, for few have their
hearts wrung so bitterly as those who were once rich
and are now poor. They have to struggle with them-
selves and the whole world. Perhaps their property
has been inherited, and they have lived in the enjoy-
ment of all the pleasures and attentions which wealth
could procure, but could hold only by the frail tenure
of purchase ; suddenly the scene is changed, they
are levelled with the poor ; nay, they are far lower
than the poor, for they must work now, and where is
the sinewy arm, and vigorous body, and patience of
toil, and submission to dictation, and the thousand
little slights and wrongs which sting like an adder ?
And where is the necessary knowledge of their daily
drudgery ?

"Refinement too, has^ lent a keenness to their
sensibilities, both mental and physical, which it is the
blessing of the poor to be exempted from. A deli-
cate taste, and elegant manners, and a pride that was
noble in its sphere, superadded to a thousand fastidi-
ous wants, as craving as nature itself, all conspire to
torture them.

" What a perfect mockery must be their recollec-
tions ! The born poor have their friends, but for the
fallen poor, there are few sympathisers — they are iso-
lated in the world, left and abandoned of their
" velvet friends." Most truly has Shakspeare said,

' The world is not for aye, and 'tis not strange,
That e'en our lives should with our fortunes change;
For 'tis a question left us yet to- prove,
Whether love leads fortune, or else fortune love;
The great man down, you mark his favourite flies,
The poor advanced, make friends of enemies,
And hitherto doth love or fortune tend,
For who not wants shall never lack a friend,
But who in want a hollow friend shall try,
Directly seasons him his enemy.'

" And now we shall see the character of the man.
If his trust has been in his wealth alone ; if he has
let his hours run idly to waste, in unprofitable plea-
sures, then, by a perversion of his nature, he has
made folly necessary to his very existence, and the
moment he is brought out into the healthy atmosphere
of the world, to take an active part in its concerns,
he withers away like some exotic plant, which can
thrive only in the luxurious climate to which it has
been accustomed. But if he has availed himself of
those golden hours for improvement, which were all
his own, and in the leisure which his independence
permitted, has made the present the preparation for
the future ; if he has filled his mind with various
knowledge, and filled his soul with love to God and
love to his neighbour, then he is shielded in the om-
nipotence of virtue. He who can meet adversity with
a brave composure, and conquer it by patient, perse-
vering industry, holding fast his faith in God, and
cherishing kind feelings towards his fellow man, he
is the most exalted being on this earth. Tried,
tempted, suffering, he has not fallen, and the thicker
and fiercer the persecution and wrongs he may en-
dure, the stronger and more purified will be his soul.
He stands like some solitary rock, in the midst of
the wild ocean, around which the lightnings glare and
the winds roar, and the waves beat angrily, but the
rock stands.

" It is evident, then, that improvement is our law,
and excellence our destiny ; and we may well feel
indignant to see wealth dozing in his easy chair, or
standing with folded arms, indifferent to the misery

46

NEW YEAR S EVE. EDITORS TABLE.

he might relieve, or the good he might so widely
diffuse. If men so pre-eminently blessed with the
means of excelling as the wealthy are, would exert
these means, not so much in assisting others to rise,
as in rising themselves, we might see improvement
walking onward with a giant's step, overthrowing
error, and building up truth in its place.

" We want to see those who are living in the con-
stant sunshine of God's bounty, live true to their
trust, true to their own souls, as if they thanked him
for his gifts. We as yet hardly know what man can
do under the most favourable circumstances, for ge-
nius has almost always been a beggar ; and his as-
pirations, though they come from his inmost soul, in
sublime and stirring music, come from a fountain of
bitter waters. His best years have too often been
consumed in struggling against starvation, or scanty
means, or worse than all, neglect — till it is grown
almost into a proverb, that Poverty is its most es-
sential attribute.

"We do not believe that talent is developed in the
best and most healthy way, by penury. The melody
of the Poet, who writes for bread, will be wild from
very suffering, and the enchantment of his song
leaves us with as much pain as pleasure, at the agony
which drew it forth — his pictures are too dark, and
his language too often that of complaint, scorn, or
displeasure. We want to see the strings of the
lyre swept by the hand of one who is in love with
his God and his fellow men. We want to hear the
soul poured out in anthems of gladness, which shall
wake up the souls of all in gratitude to the Great
Giver."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Mrs. Marvin, "That is
just the kind of poetry I should like to read."

" And in which I predict American poets will, one
day, excel," said the Schoolmaster.

" Or in none," observed Charles Howard. " It is
evident that the poets of our new world must seek
out new themes, or be content to rank only as imi-
tators."

" Which they will never do," said the Schoolmas-
ter, " for genius must create. And that we have this
creative spirit, in its most potent power among our
people, no one who is familiar with the extravagances
and wild dreams and schemes of the last few years
can doubt. We have seen it in its desolating and
demoralizing power ; let us hope and pray that the
coming year may be the beginning of a better order
of things — when the energies of the mind and soul
will be exerted to do good, not to gain wealth."

" Do you really think, then, that the noble spirit of
enterprise, which works such wonders when seeking
to obtain temporal prosperity for the individual, can
ever be made an auxiliary to the moral and religious
improvement of society ?" inquired Charles Howard.

" Certainly I do, and that this spirit only needs to
be sanctified to become the best ally of true piety,"
returned the Schoolmaster. " Is it a nobler spirit of
enterprise to hazard thousands at a throw, for the
paltry ambition of becoming a richer man, than judi-
ciously to turn this money into channels where it will
do good to millions, by public or private charities,
widely diffusing religious truths and sound learning,
encouraging honest industry and sterling talent, and
founding the public prosperity in the stability and
glory of its institutions ? Believe me, the time will
come, when we shall see those things in their right
aspect."

" And then you think that John Lowell rather
than John Law will be the pattern for enterprising
young men," said Ellen.

"Yes — and that the young ladies will have no
hesitation in preferring those who follow the example
of the former," replied the Schoolmaster, as he seized
the poker and gave the decaying coals a rousing stir.
This broke the train of grave conversation, and the
remainder of his stay was passed in that happy, we
may say almost mirthful mood which we hope all our
young readers enjoyed last evening. And let those
who are no longer young, remember that goodness
and thankfulness should always be cheerful. To all
such — a Happy New-Year !

EDITORS' TABLE.

"Whatever are the acknowledged advantages of travel,"
says Madame de Stael, " it is certainly one of the most me-
lancholy pleasures of life." She had a heart to feel the pain
of partings, which those who visit on their journeys must
endure. It is sad to leave those we love, or with whom we
have made pleasant acquaintanceship, and pass on our way,
never, perhaps, in this world to meet again. The present
rapidity of travelling, also, by separating us, as it were, with
the wand of a conjurer, at once from those with whom we
would fain have lingered, seems to deepen and darken the
stream of oblivion which is to flow between us. The farewell
sigh has scarcely escaped our lips before they must smile a
welcome to new objects and other friends. Thus we pass on,
and when the round of our journey is completed, there remains
on our memory the images of many things, but more like a
confused dream, or a vision which imagination has raised,
than realities which we have seen and felt.

There must be some new way for tourists to communicate
their adventures and impressions. — Wuuld that a Daguerre-
otype of the mind could be invented! This dull medium of
pen, ink, and paper was only fitted for lumbering stage coaches
and boats dependent on wind and tide. Now that the Fire
King has lent his sceptre to the locomotive, and his breath to

the steam vessel, the traveller can only give a dash here and
a jot there, and let readers fill up the picture, from memory
or fancy, as they choose.
*********

In journeying through our country, one pleasant reflection
will arise in the mind of every hoping philanthropist — that
here moral power is predominant. No military array, no in-
terference of government by physical force is seen or felt.
The people every where govern themselves — that is, submit
to and maintain the laws they have themselves made. It is
this predominance of moral power which gives to all our
lafe cities their broad resemblances of character — the slight
shades of difference, arising from the difference of manner in
which the physical improvement of each large community is
sought, will be hardly perceived, when we feel that all are
exerting their energies for the advancement of learning and
religion, for the preservation of morals and order. To be sure
there is an apparent difference between New York, where
all is, "bustle, brick, and business," where every man seems
ambitious of making or spending a fortune, and Philadelphia,
looking as calm and dignified as a retired gentleman, who
feels himself rich enough for comfort and does not care fur
show. Yet in both cities the master minds are directing

editors' book table.

47

public attention to the improvement of schools, the ameliora- it has hitherto enjoyed, will be appreciated during the year

tion of suffering, the establishment of lectures and other on which we are entering. The character of our publication

means of mental and moral progress; subjects of universal is too well known to require explanation— we can only say,

interest, in which all benevolent hearts may rejoice ; omens that we shall aim to continue, in conformity with the spirit

of success which the good every where hail with delight, and of the age, its progressive improvement,
which are seen, alike amid the bustle of New York and the
quiet of her sister Philadelphia.

By the way, there is something very pleasant and impres-
sive in the regularity of the streets and the uniformity of the

dwellings of this nice city. It seems the ahode of order, the Memoirs, Correspondence, and Comic Miscellanies, by James

place of brotherhood. The spirit of its good and great Foun- Smith. Edited by his brother, Horace Smith. Now in the

der is still there. — " I love," said he, in his letter to his wife, press. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

" sweetness mixed with gravity, and cheerfulness tempered YVe nave been favoured vvjth a v;ew 0f some of the sheets

with sobriety." But what we intended most particularly to 0f tn;3 publication, and promise ourselves much satisfaction,

note is, that everywhere we found our own sex engaged in the upon a perusai 0f the whole work. Every body has heard

work of benevolence. Indeed this is the trait of woman's 0f the author of the Eejected Addresses, but few, until they

character now most fully developed, because most actively have dipped into this work, will have imagined the rich vein

employed. Her ability as an educator is not yet understood, 0f numour of the best table talker in Europe,
or hardly imagined, even by those who best appreciate her

powers of mind and heart. But the sceptre of charity is now
trusted to woman's hand, and in all the cities from Boston to
Washington, we found her considered as the ministering angel
to whom the poor and suffering were looking for sympathy and

The Clockmaker : or Samuel Slick on his Journey. Lea &
Blanchard: Philadelphia, 1840.

We cannot say that the present volume is quite so agree-

relief. At this season how much is required of those who are able as those of the same series, which have preceded it, for

known as the charitable. Though we hold, with the opinion of though the Clockmaker has lost nothing of his philosophy or

the venerable Increase Mather, that " for charity, Boston hath acuteness, the novelty of his style is considerably worn off,

not many equals on the face of the earth," yet we are glad and and his attraction is in so far lessened. Still, however, he

proud to bear witness that from Boston to Washington, we retains all his original humour, and his remarks upon charac-

found every where this spirit of ■disinterested kindness actu- ter are not less keen and penetrating than when he first set

ating our sex. Yes even in the federal city, where the deadly out on his travels.

Upas of party strife is too often permitted to poison the atmos-

phere of social and moral feeling, we still found woman in her Poor Jack. by Captain Marryatt. 2 vols. Carey & Hart. Phi-
true sphere, studying how best to relieve want and promote ladelphia, 1840.
the moral improvement and happiness of those around her. g;nce Captain Marryatt's visit to this country, we confess

But while dwelling on this theme of charity, as most ap-
propriate for our monthly interchange of thought with our
readers at this season, we are not advocating the indiscrimi-
nating bestowal of alms. Indeed, we think very little good can
ever be effected in such a way. It is the encouragment we

that we have conceived a strong prejudice against him, and
we cannot now relish his productions as we once did. It is
but justice to him to say, however, that to those who are fond
of this description of books, Poor Jack will prove not less
entertaining than "Peter Simple" or " Jacob Faithful," the

rive to the poor and dependent to exert their own faculties, ,atter 0f which it strongly resembles. It is a coarse, but spi-

which only can be of permanent service to them or to society.
To employ the poor at a just price, and pay them promptly
for their services, is wise benevolence in the rich, for it pre-
vents pauperism and crime.

We never like to hear the rich and poor spoken of in invi-
dious comparison, as though the sufferings of the latter were
caused by the luxury of the former. Honest industry, judi-
cious enterprise, and careful management, deserve to succeed,
as they generally do in our country, and to stigmatize all
who thus obtain wealth as aristocrats and enemies of the
poor, is wrong, and may be the source of a fountain of troubled
waters which will sweep away what is most beneficial and
beautiful in our social fabric. Still the poor have one cause
of complaint against some who employ them, which we wish
could be remedied— it is that their wages are not punctually
paid.

A lady employs a seamstress or washerwoman, from mo-
tives of charity perhaps. The poor woman carries home the
work on which she has laboured cheerfully through the day, for
she had the hope of her wages to sustain her, and is bid — to
call to-morrow for her pay. She may be destitute of a morsel
of bread for her hungry children, of a stick of wood to warm
her cold hearth— yet the lady thinks not of this; it is not
convenient for her to pay the few cents she owes the poor
workwoman, though she may probably expend dollars during
the same day in luxuries. These things may not be done de-
signedly, but when thoughtlessness becomes injustice and
inflicts distress on others, it is not a small fault. And our
friends well know our fervent zeal to make or find our own
sex perfect. — May we be able to give such a record for the
coming months, and amid the many changes which await all
who hail this New Year's day, may the purpose of each heart

remain true to that divine charity which has enjoined us to

rited sketch, of a certain class of society, and is full of ludi-
crous incidents and humorous dialogues.

Lives of the most eminent French Writers: by Mrs. Shelly
and others. 2 vols. Lea & Blanchard, 1840.

In these two very handsomely printed volumes, we are fur-
nished with brief, hut well written biographies of the most
distinguished French writers of the last three centuries, be-
ginning with Rabelais and Montaigne, and coming down to
Madame de Stael. Besides the information imparted in re-
gard to the individuals themselves, publications of this kind
are admirably calculated to beget a curiosity to become fa-
miliar with the events to which they refer, and in this way
to encourage a proper taste for the classical French literature.

Mercedes of Castile: or, the Voyage to Cathay. 2 vols. Lea
& Blanchard: Philadelphia, 1840

The first voyage of Columbus, and the incidents which
preceded, accompanied, and followed in the train of that
wonderful event, have furnished Mr. Cooper themes for one
of the best novels he has yet produced. The plot of the tale
is simple, but it is managed with much skill, and the charac-
ters are conceived and drawn with great ability of portrait-
ism.

We wish Mr. Cooper had spared us the flippant preface,
which, however witty he may think it, is sadly deficient in
that quality.

Poems, by J. N. McJilton. Otis, Broaders, & Co. Boston,
1840.

This collection has been made at the urgent solicitations

love our neighbour as ourselves. And as our generous wishes of the author's friends. It contains many pieces of superior

for the happiness of others, always enhance our own enjoy- merit. Mr. McJilton has a fervid imagination and he writes

ment and anticipations for the future, we feel assured that with much ease and grace, as our readers whom he has fa-

our exertions to make the Lady's Book worthy of the favour voured with frequent contributions can bear witness.

48

EDITORS BOOK TABLE.

Young Ladifs Companion: by Margaret Cox. Columbus, J.
N. Whiting. J. Whetham & Son, 144 Chestnut street,
Philadelphia.

This is the second edition, and a very beautiful one it is,
of a work which we have before taken occasion to praise. It
is a series of familiar letters from an aunt to her niece, and it
furnishes advice on various subjects of conduct and study, in
a forcible and pleasing manner.

Ten Thousand a Tear: Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

We have received another instalment of this capital book.
There is a magnificent scene in it between Tittlebat and
Lady Cecilia, where the former is seen in a new character —
that of a lover.

The Christian World — Another number of this excellent
publication has appeared.

of the toilette, for which it can be made use of, as velvet. We
see it in robes, pelisses, mantles, shawls, bonnet trimmings,
and even ornaments for the hair : nor will its use be confined
to any particular time of the day; for it will be in equal fa-
vour in morning and evening dresses. — Black lace is also
much used for trimmings.

Muffs are now in use in London, stuffed with air. They are
rendered much lighter, without in the least diminishing their
warmth.

Dressing the Hair. — There is a decided tendency to change
the style of hair dressing ; for the mode of dressing the hinder
hair so very low is by no means generally becoming.

Coiffure Guitana. — Such is the name given to a head-dress
that has just been seen; it is composed of black velvet and
silver blond lace ; made to be placed very far back upon the
head, and the interior of the brim trimmed with two half
wreaths of roses, which descend upon the cheeks ; the silver
blond is arranged behind so as to fall upon the neck.

The Budget of the Bubble Family, by Lady Bulwer.
& Brothers,

Harper

A readable book, and that is all, Such jokes we never saw
introduced in a novel before. They have one merit, however,
they are old acquaintances. Lady B. had better stop book-
making; she only makes matters worse between her husband
and herself; and besides, so much spleen may lead the public
to suppose that Bulwer had indeed an unhappy partner.

American Melodies. Linen & Fennel, New York, and H. F.
Anners, Philadelphia.

Compiled by George P. Morris and dedicated to Dr. J. K.
Mitchell. Volumes of praise are comprised in these two
names. What better man could have been selected than
Gen. Morris for so arduous a task. Himself a poet, and a
delightful one. Never can that delightful song of "Woodman
spare that Tree" be forgotten. It will last as long as our lan-
guage. The embellishments by L. P. Clover are very pretty.

Military Magazine. Huddy & Duval.

Two more numbers of this work have been issued since our
last. It increases in interest with every number. The en-
gravings and colouring are of the first style of merit.

The Abbey and other Tales, by Mrs. Gore. Lea &. Blanchard,
Philadelphia.

A good collection by a clever author. The writings of Mrs.
Gore always give satisfaction.

Master Humphrey's Clock and Charles O'Malley still con-
tinue to increase in interest — they are both delightful woiks.

A correspondent is informed that we will publish occasion-
ally pieces of sacred music. We also thank him for his kindly
notice of the Book. He is correct — no such plates as ours are
published in any other magazine in this country, nor in Eu-
rope. Separately, they are worth the price of the Book.

It will be seen that this number is entirely composed of
contributions from Female writers.

The Editor of the Herald, at Ann Arbour, Mich., says,
speaking of one of our numbers,

" The Fashion plate, in one respect, affords us much grati-
fication. It shows that tight sleeves for ladies' dresses have
become fashionable, and will, for a time, again exhibit the
beautiful contour of a lady's arm. We should rejoice to see
each draggling bishop sleeve made up into a bed quilt.

That most ingenious invention of weaving glass with silk
is proceeding with great success. The patterns woven are
beautiful in the extreme, and have induced many persons to
select them for curtains and other ornamental furniture.

The Lady's Book for one year, and Sir Walter Scott's no-
vels, complete, will be sent to any person who will send us
Ten Dollars, postage paid.

A literary gentleman of this city, who reviews books, aye,
and writes them too, having lately changed his residence to
very airy apartments, in a spacious building, the lower part
of which is occupied by a mangier of clothes, sent us the fol-
lowing :

To Hudson's Court my traps I move,

Where this will be the go:
I shall be mangling books above,

They mangling clothes below.

We copy the following letter from one of our subscribers,
at Areola, Ala.

Areola, Marengo Co., Alabama, Oct. 25i/i, 1840.
Mr. L. A. Godey — Being one of your subscribers, who was
unfortunate enough to loose the August number of your in-
valuable periodical, by the lose of the North Carolina, I would
avail myself of this opportunity to request you to send me the
engravings which you say that you can be able to supply. I
assure you that I regret exceedingly the loss of the number,
but as we are all liable to such accidents, when we trust to the
waves, we must not grumble. Let me assure you, that as one
of your subscribers, I am perfectly satisfied with the remune-
ration which you offer, as it was more than I expected.

Yours, etc., A. C. C.

The plate of Fashions presented in this number has never
been surpassed, even by ourselves. conic.

___ The publisher's interest will render it necessary to make

the Lady's Book superior to what it has been in former years,
Velvet.— Of all the materials introduced this season, there if sxich a thing is possible. At least, this number shows that
is not one that is so generally employed in every department he commences well.

*; i *

pjiS1^^ _3^j

' ' v

^p^^^f^b|L^u '.^pif^

GODEY'S

LADY'S BOOK.

FEBRUARY, 1841.

Written for the Lady's Book.
NIAGARA.

BT PROFESSOR. W.

'Tis morn. — The rooky steeps and woodland scene
Lie curtain'd in the mist, which like a screen,
Shrouds all the landscape; as when, fold in fold,
Dun clouds of battle o'er yon plain were rolled,
On that fierce day of agony and strife. *
With such loud tumult is this scenery rife;
For hark! from yon dim cope of mist are pealed
Thunders more dread than those of battle-field;
More awful, bursting from that misty cloud,
That wraps the turmoil in its mystic shroud.

Those deep-voiced thunders are thy morning song,
Niagara! booming the wild woods along.
And, see ! as peals that everlasting hymn,
The sun's broad disk is peering o'er the brim
Of yon dark forest. How its wavy line,
Tipped by his golden ray, is seen to shine
With kindling lustre, till the wood entire
Would seem to burn with unconsuming fire.
In opening glory mounts the Lord of day;
'Till touch'd by th' influence of his genial ray,
The misty veil is rising. Thinner grows
The ascending vapour, and in glimpses showa
The spreading scene below ; till the last fold
That hides the glorious prospect is uprolled ;
When, clad in gorgeous vest of every hue.
Bursts the wild scene of wonder on the view!
The sun is up; the flashing waters gleam
With rainbow sparklings in his living beam:
Where can that sun behold in his career,
A spectacle like that which greets us herel
See yon vast curve of waters ! how they sweep

* The Battle of Chippewa.
VOL. XXII. 5

WALTER.

With whirl incessant o'er the giddy steep;
Awful they plunge ! and merging into day,
Toss with their giant arms the whirling spray,
Which rearing in mid heaven its feathery crest,
Reflects the rainbow on its glorious breast,

'Tis night.— The moon is in the cloudless sky :
She looks on thy tumultuous scenery,
Niagara ! as when with gaze of love
Soft pity would some ruthless deed reprove.
When mellowed in her soft and silvery ray,
How do thy awful terrors melt away;
The flashing furies of thy headlong tide,
Calmed into molten silver, sweetly glide ;
The billowy foam that chafed and knew no rest,
Seems like a string of pearls upon thy breast;
Nay, the hoarse pealing of thy voice sublime
Is softened to a tone of silvery chime;
And seems a requiem to the dreams of rest
Of those on whom the daisied turf is pressed
On yonder plain ; who for their country died,
And who, as ebbed away life's lingering tide,
Heard in thy voice the hymn of victory,
And felt it smooth their passage to the sky.

Upon the heart how mighty is the power
Of such a scene, in such a moonlight hour.
To earth, proud knee, and worship at this shrine
Of Deity, how hallowed, how divine !
For where on earth, by human footstep trod,
Is there a spot so speaks the pres nt God
As this vast scene of awfulness and power,
So dressed in beauty at this midnight hour! '

50

JESSIE ARMSTRONG,

Written for the Lady's Book.

POEM.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBDM, BY ELIZA EARLE.

" Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my latter end be like his."

Thou who thus wishest, in life's early morning,

While joy's bright clusters in thy path are strewn,
Give earnest heed to each celestial warning,

That points thy footsteps to the heavenly throne.
The Holy Spirit, by its admonitions,

Reveals full oft to man the Sovereign will,
Engraving on his heart the sure conditions

By which God's righteous law he may fulfil.

Blest condescension — ask, it shall be given,

Seek, and the treasure thou shalt surely find,
Knock, and the portals of indulgent Heaven

Shall open to thy truth-illumined mind.
But how escape the hour of dread temptation !

How keep my soul unspotted from the world!
The fiery trial, the severe probation,

When pleasure's banners all shall be unfurled.

Oh ! cast away these gloomy, dark presages,

Thy source of help, thy mighty Saviour near,
Thy soul, if anchored on the Rock of Ages,

Need dread no trial, no temptation fear.
Thus, if thou yieldest to these visitations,

All earthly joys shall poor and tasteless seem.
Earth's scenes may change, yet still shall time's mutations

Pass by thee as the fabric of a dream.

And, in life's desert, many a bright oasis

Shall give the presage of those pastures green,
Where bliss is founded on a changeless basis,

And life's eternal waters cheer the scene.
Then bow in spirit to these admonitions,

And ask for aid and counsel from on high,
Live, like the righteous, by God's requisitions,

And, like the righteous, thou shalt surely die.

' "«^^rf/^^5/Www«.

Written for the Lady's Book.

JESSIE ARMSTRONG — THE LILY OF LINNDALE,

BY MRS. M. ST. LEON LOUD.

The silver sounds of a church bell went ringing
through the sweet still air of a Sabbath morning,
and long ere they ceased, the winding paths which
led away among sunny slopes and green hollows to
the little church of Linndale, were trodden by quiet
feet hastening to the morning service. If the beauty
of external objects may be supposed to aid in the
devotion of the heart, truly the worshippers in that
humble edifice must have been " fervent in spirit."
Situated on an eminence in one of the most pictu-
resque and lovely valleys of Scotland, it commanded
a view of a small lake with its clear surface breaking
" into dimples which laughed in the sun." On the
opposite side rose a wall of dark rocks, of a castel-
lated appearance ; from the top long vines floated like
pennons in the breeze, and masses of pendant wild
flowers, and mosses gemmed with bright blossoms
hung from the crevices, like dilapidated but gorgeous
tapestry, overshadowing the water which lay dark and
still below. No line had fathomed its fearful depth,
for there was a wild legend connected with the spot
which caused it to be shunned by the fisherman,
although in such a locality " the red trout groweth
prime." Beyond, a deep and tangled forest bounded
the horizon. The eastern bank presented a beautiful
contrast. The tiny waves went rippling over white
sand, kissing with a murmuring sound of gladness,
« the lip of the flowery lea," while the ground rose
gradually, now swelling into knolls covered with
white daisies, among which the sky-lark rejoiced to
rear her young ; then sinking away into fairy valleys
where the sweet scented Planta genista lured the
wandering bee to a perfect Golconda of yellow
farina. About a mile from the lake the undulating
surface rolled up suddenly into a mountain, towering
to the clouds, accessible to no foot save that of the
eagle who built her eyrie far up among the crags.
Down a dark and narrow gorge foamed a mountain

stream, known by the name of the Fairy Linn.
Taking a headlong leap from a rock at the mouth of
the ravine, it fell in a shower of glittering spray into
a basin, where it tossed and chafed like a proud
spirit thrown suddenly from a palmy height into the
vale of obscurity. Then, as if wearied with its fruit-
less efforts and becoming reconciled to its fate, it
stole quietly away through sweet green meadows,
and mingled with the waters of the lake. On its
banks the wild flowers bloomed thick and fresh —
beautiful emblems of the joys to be found in an hum-
ble path, while the high places of life are often barren
and sterile. A little above the church the Fairy Linn
was spanned by a low arched wooden bridge, nearly
hidden by the luxuriant larch and willow which grew
on the banks. The simple service was concluded,
and the congregation gathered about the door ex-
changing the kindly greetings which so well become
the brethren of one family. For ourselves, we love
these lingerings after worship, the warm shake of the
hand, the neighbourly inquiries, and the kind words,
the memory of which goes with us through the week
and lightens its burthens. One after another the
little groups dispersed to their homes which lay
nestled here and there among the " banks and braes"
of bonny Linndale, like children on their mother's
bosom. With one of those groups, consisting of
four persons, by your leave gentle reader, we will go,
and, crossing the rustic bridge, ascend a sloping lawn
and enter with them the dwelling of Duncan Gra-
ham, or as he was styled, the Laird of Linndale.
For many generations the Grahams of Linndale had
been sole proprietors of that beautiful valley, and ex-
ercised a kind of patriarchal influence over its inha-
bitants, but none of them had ever claimed a larger
share of their affections than the present Laird.
Pious and benevolent, no tale of distress reached his
ear in vain, and the rents of his tenants were almost

THE LILY OF LINNDALE.

51

nominal. When, as it sometimes happened, their
crops failed, or disease carried off their cattle, and
they presented themselves at quarterday with a scanty
supply of siller, he would say, " Take it back, mon,
and replenish the farm ; wi' the blessing o' God, ye'll
hae mair anither time;" and it came to be a proverb
in Linndale, " as generous as a Graham." Yet,
though rich in the world's gear, beloved by his de-
pendants and respected hy his equals, Duncan Gra-
ham was emphatically a " man of sorrows." All
without was fair, but within his home there was a
blight. Three sons and two daughters in the bloom
of youth had death taken from his house, and when
he laid their bright locks in the dust he thought that
his cup was full, but it was yet to overflow. One
son alone remained, and happier had it been for Dun-
can and Alice Graham to have buried him beneath
the green grass of that quiet churchyard, beside his
brothers and sisters, than to have known as they did,
that despising the counsel of his parents and casting
behind him the fear of God, his best years had been
spent among the base and profligate. At the age of
sixteen he left his father's house and sought the
court of a dissolute monarch, where his beauty, wit,
and graceful manners procured him favour. For five
years his parents had not looked upon his face, and
they only knew he was alive from rumours which
now and then reached that secluded valley, of a
daring and reckless career of wickedness which
caused them to mourn for him as one worse than
dead. The slight form of Alice bent like a reed
before the blast; the canker which corroded her
heart had furrowed her cheeks, and dimmed her eyes
till her years seemed twice their number. Like the
sturdy oak bearing up against the storm which has
shorn away its towering pride, the tall, manly figure
of the Laird was unbowed, but not unscathed ; his
hair had become silver, and in his eyes there was a
restless expression of wretchedness, which showed
that the fountain of life was troubled. Now, however,
a ray of hope dawned on their hearts ; the prodigal
was returning. He had squandered the freshness of
youth in riot and dissipation till he fed on the husks
of pleasure, and belie.ved, in the weariness of an un-
satisfied spirit, that they were insufficient for his
desires. Even the love of the Lady Isabel Gordon
palled upon his heart, and broken in health and spirit
he resolved to seek once more the simple, pure enjoy-
ments of home, and those whom he knew would
clasp him to their bosoms forgetful of the thorns his
ingratitude had planted there. He came, but in the
faded, miserable being before them, they could scarce-
ly recognize their son. Again did his mother watch
over his couch as in infancy, sitting by him through
the long, still hours of the night, that her own hand
might administer the cooling drink to his fevered lips;
and when in a dreamy delirium he murmured words
which chilled the blood at her heart, she would pray
that the fire of affliction might purify his spirit, even
though it destroyed his body. After many months
of suffering, it pleased Him who chastened to stay the
disease, and as he slowly recovered, and began to
feel once more an interest in the things of life, there
came a dim remembrance of another form than his
mother's which had haunted his sick chamber ; of a
cool, soft hand pressed on his burning forehead,
soothing its wild throbbings ; and a voice which in
the vague wanderings of his mind he fancied the
music of paradise. It was Jessie Armstrong, the

orphan child of an early friend of Duncan and Alice
Graham, the beloved daughter of their adoption. Her
father was the younger son of a poor but noble Scot-
tish family, who early went abroad' to seek his for-
tune, but the only wealth he realized was the love of
a young and beautiful daughter of sunny Italy. The
blight of poverty to which they were doomed, soon
withered the delicate flower, and she expired within
a year after their marriage, leaving an infant daughter.
Stricken and bowed to the earth by his heavy afflic-
tions, Walter Armstrong returned to his native land,
but his strength only sufficed him to reach Linndale,
where in the dwelling of Duncan Graham he died,
bequeathing to him his sole earthly legacy — his
little Jessie. The very desolateness of the orphan
endeared her to them, and the heart of Alice, torn
by its own bereavements, found a solace in adminis-
tering to the necessities of the friendless stranger
thus thrown on them for protection. As she increased
in years, her surpassing loveliness and gentle dispo-
sition grew upon their hearts till she became as the
very apple of their eyes, the light and music of their
otherwise lonely habitation. Inheriting from her
father the bright, transparent complexion of his race,
she possessed the raven hair, the large, dark, beaming
eyes, and ardent temperament of a southern clime.
Towards those whom she loved, her feelings flowed
forth with an intenseness characteristic of that land
whose very atmosphere is love. Beautiful in her
perfect trustfulness was the orphan of Linndale.
Doubt and disappointment had never yet fallen coldly
on the innocent brightness of her young spirit ; the
sunshine of sixteen summers rested on her heart,
and their flowers were unwithered in her path ; why
was it that at times there passed over her features
an expression of sadness, so intense, so hopeless? —
while in those full dark orbs there seemed an un-
known depth of sorrow which caused the beholder
to weep, and believe that the clouds which hovered
over her birth, were yet to deepen into impenetrable
gloom.

It was not for one like Allan Graham to dwell
unmoved, beneath the same roof with Jessie Arm-
strong, yet her presence awed him, and he who had
soared with an eagle's strength into the very blaze
of high born beauty, and wandered unharmed amid
the stars in the galaxy of Scotland's fairest, now sat
beside the Lily of Linndale, veiling the admiring
glances which he was wont to bestow freely on
others, as if he feared their unholy warmth might
wither its freshness. Not in her ear did he dare to
whisper words of idle flattery, but in tones which he
was skilled to modulate to the softest cadence, he
called her his sister, his sweet sister, and blessed the
affliction which had brought him under her gentle
ministry. Allan Graham was not capable of love in
its higher and holier interpretation, but he had put
forth all his powers to gain the affection of the young
and lovely Isabel Gordon, the titled heiress of Scot-
land's proudest peer: that by making her his bride
he might gain at once an eminence to which he could
never otherwise dream of aspiring. He succeeded,
but Lord Gordon was unyielding in his pride of an-
cestry— the Lady Isabel pined under restraint, and a
dark shadow of uncertainty rested on his hopes. In
the utter selfishness of his hard and worldly heart, he
resolved to create for himself an interest in the bosom
of the orphan, which should outlast the wreck of his
ambitious schemes ; to open a fresh and gushing foun-

52

JESSIE ARMSTRONG,

tain, leaving it to be filled up by the whirling sands
of the desert he had caused.

Days and weeks flew by, yet Allan was an invalid.
To sit by him and read for his amusement the wild
legends of her native land, or the still wilder tales
of Highland origin ; to gather the early flowers and
explain to him their fairy language ; or with the con-
fiding love of a sister to unfold the thought of a pure
and innocent heart, was to Jessie the beginning of a
new and delicious existence, and she wondered how
she had ever borne the solitude and dullness of her
home without him. He was her brother — why should
she not love him? She could not believe that one
so kind, so gentle, so affectionate to his parents, was
the base and profligate being which rumour had re-
presented. No ! he had been foully belied, and cast-
ing aside all suspicion, she gave herself up to a dream
of happiness so perfect that she deemed not it could
ever be broken. At length, as summer advanced, he
went forth into the warm sunshine and balmy air of
his native valley. The fragrant smell of the heather
wafted from the distant uplands, came to him laden
with health; and as he scooped up in his hand and
drank the sparkling water of the Fairy Linn, it seem-
ed the very elixir of life, renovating his wasted ener-
gies, and stimulating his languid frame with the
vigour of youth. Ere midsummer there was not a
dell, or dingle, or shadowy path in Linndale which
they had not explored together. They had angled in
every pool of the Linn, and often in the stillness and
hush of evening as they leaned over the railing of the
little bridge, she had listened to words so full of ten-
derness that it had been sin to doubt them. He
spoke of his past life — its sins, and its follies, with a
tone of penitence so sorrowful and sincere, that the
innocent Jessie was touched with sympathy for his
sufferings rather than abhorrence of his crimes ; and
with that delicate flattery which finds its way most
readily to the heart of woman, ascribed to her gentle
influence his new-born aspirations after a nobler state
of existence. She knew that she loved, but not until
he spoke of Isabel Gordon, and her quick eye de-
tected a change in his expression, did Jessie Arm-
strong fathom her own heart, and she almost shrieked
as she felt how utterly her life with all its hopes, was
bound up in the love of Allan Graham. Was he
deceiving her? As the thought crossed her mind,
her eyes fell on the deep pool below the bridge with
the moonlight sleeping peacefully on its calm surface,
as if wooing her to escape from the burning agony
of that moment. Perceiving her agitation he drew
her to his side, and said softly, " What ails thee, my
sweet sister ?" but she shrank from him as if there
had been profanation in the word, and burying her
face in her hands, sobbed deeply. Touched with
pity for the desolate orphan, whom his falsehood
would render still more desolate, and feeling in his
inmost soul that the jewels of a kingdom were but as
dust in the balance when weighed against love like
hers, he passed his arm gently round her and whis-
pered, " Jessie ! wilt thou be to me more than a
sister — a bride ? Look up, my own lily, and tell me
that thou wilt." Slowly she raised her head, and her
face gleamed pale — very pale in the moonlight as she
answered, " Wouldst thou break the heart of one
fond and trusting as thou hast described the Lady
Isabel to be ? No ! not for me, though mine — mine

must break too Leave me, Allan, leave me ! Would

to God we had never met." " Listen to me Jessie,"

said Allan, " I love not the proud and haughty beauty,
but thee my sweet wild flower, will I cherish in my
bosom; canst thou not trust me, Jessie? Wilt thou
not be mine — mine for ever?" Her head sunk on
his shoulder, and the holy stars above, alone wit-
nessed the vows which bound the very soul of Jessie
Armstrong to the false, the perjured Allan Graham.

That night was to him, one of sleepless anxiety;
he had not dreamed of such utter devotedness in
woman, and he felt the wrath of God would justly
follow him were he to betray one whose earthly
happiness was in his power. The stately beauty of
Isabel had failed to touch his heart, but the love of
Jessie had grown upon him as it were, like the fine
and delicate fibres of the moss, which takes root in-
sensibly on the hardest rock, and flourishes where
the garden flower could not exist. Yet how could
he consent to relinquish the rank and wealth which
a union with her would secure to him ? Coldly and
deliberately therefore did he resolve to sacrifice the
orphan of Linndale on the shrine of worldly ambition,
yet as day after day, a deeper tenderness beamed on
him from her melting eyes, and the rose on her cheek
grew brighter in his presence, as flowers expand in
the sunshine, he knew not how to break her dream
of happiness, conscious as he was that it would never
be renewed. Summer passed away, yet still he lin-
gered ; there was something so spell-like in the love
he had awakened, that he dared not cast it from him.
The brilliant hues of early autumn were deepening
into the brown and sombre colours of its latter days ;
the lark no longer soared high, pouring forth her
joyous song among the very clouds, but hovered just
above the withered grass with a short wailing cry ; the
wind sighed mournfully as it bowed the slender willows
which fringed the banks of the Fairy Linn, scattering
their pale silvery leaves on its bosom, and Allan Gra-
ham knew that he must ere long depart ; the restless
spirit within him was urging him on to the fulfilment
of the destiny which his own uncontrolled passions
had marked out for him, when a letter arrived from
the father of Isabel Gordon. His hereditary pride had
yielded to affection for his child, and he entreated
Allan to return. Linndale with its quiet and holy
enjoyments, the long enduring kindness of his aged
parents, all that had passed between himself and
Jessie, faded away before the bewildering visions of
splendour which rose up before him. The vows he
had so often breathed seemed in the remembrance
but idle promises, lightly spoken words, which would
pass from the mind of the simple maiden to whom he
had uttered them, like the rainbow from the summer
sky, and thus striving to deceive himself he sought
her whom he had so deeply and fearfully wronged.
She was sitting on a low seat between his father and
mother, reading, and when he entered, her eyes wan-
dered from the book and rested lovingly on his face.
Avoiding the glance, and speaking rapidly as one
who performs a painful task, he said, " Father and
mother, and you, my sweet sister, I must leave you
for a while ; pressing business demands my presence
elsewhere. Do not weep, mother — see, Jessie sets
you an example of fortitude ; I shall return in the
spring, and we will all be happier than ever. And
now farewell." He took the motionless hand of
Jessie — their eyes met, and he grew chill with horror,
for he seemed to look far into the clear depths of the
pool beside the bridge, with the white sand at the
bottom, shifting and forming into the snowy drapery

THE LILY OF LINNDALE.

53

of the grave. She spoke not — he turned from her,
and the withered, trembling hands of Duncan and
Alice Graham were joined above the head of their
only son, bat the words of their blessing rung in his
ears like a curse. Rushing from the house he flung
himself on his horse, and the clang of flying hoofs
roused the eagle from her eyrie — screaming she rose,
and soared away till she was lost among the clouds.
Not until the broad blue lake became a shining speck
in the distance, and the forest lay like a dark streak
on the horizon, did Allan Graham breathe freely.

Christmas came, and high revel was held within
the walls of a stately mansion where Scotland's no-
blest knights, and the fairest of her high born dames
had met to celebrate the bridal of the Lady Isabel
Gordon. Arrayed in rich satin from the looms of
France, and glittering with diamonds which well
suited her queen-like beauty, she moved forward to
the altar, her flashing eyes bent on the ground, and
her gloved hand resting lightly on the arm which was
extended for her support. The priest rose up — the
few but solemn words were spoken, and Allan Gra-
ham stood before men, the happy and envied possessor
of a heart and and hand for which princes had sighed
in vain, and the honoured son of the Earl of Gordon;
but in the sight of his Maker, the false lover — the
perjured husband. How like, and yet how unlike,
were the two young and beautiful beings who thus
lavished the first freshness of their hearts on one so
utterly unworthy. The love of Jessie was like the
deep stream which flows on silent, yet powerful in
its strength, sweeping away every barrier, till it gains
the ocean and loses itself in its native element. That
of Isabel resembled the mountain torrent, rejoicing
in its waywardness, but which dammed up, would
turn aside and pursue its course joyously as before.
In one it was a passion, deep and absorbing; a flame
which the floods of falsehood could not quench, a
principle which would cease to act but with life itself.
In the other, it was an emotion subservient to her
own proud will, slighted or scorned, it would turn to
hatred. A month passed, during which the bridal
festivities were continued, but at the end of that time
an uncontrollable desire to visit Linndale took pos-
session of Lady Isabel ; she was tired of pleasure, and
she had heard so much of its beauty, that she was
sure she would be very happy there — at least for a
time, and Allan, wearied with her importunity, at last
consented to return with her to his native valley.
Never had line or message passed between him and
the forsaken Jessie, and forming a courtier's estimate
of woman's faithfulness, he believed that she had long
since forgotten him, and that they would meet as
brother and sister only. Often had he spoken of her
to Isabel, and almost longed that she should see and
admire the transcendent loveliness of his little wild
flower, but now he trembled at the thought of meet-
ing her — his coming and his marriage alike unan-
nounced ; yet such was the wish of Isabel, and he
had already learned that her wishes were to be the
law of his future life.

Spring came with unwonted beauty. The March
winds had melted the frozen water of the lakes, the
hills were beginning to look green on their southern
exposures, and the snow was fast disappearing from
the north side of hedges and hollows. The willows
were assuming a livelier green, ere they donned their
summer drapery, and a few early wild flowers peeped
from sunny banks as if to reconnoitre before their
5*

more timid companions emerged to the upper air.
The Fairy Linn, swollen almost to overflowing by the
melting of snow among the mountains, rushed on in
wild and turbid current, and foaming through the
narrow arch of the bridge, formed a whirling eddy
below it, covered with floating fragments of bark
and the smaller branches of trees, which during the
preceding summer had collected on its banks. It
was one of those days which sometimes occur even
in that month of wind and rain, when summer, strug-
gling to regain her empire, obtains a transient victory
over the retreating frosts of winter. The sun looked
down through a soft, hazy atmosphere, on the balmy
repose of the fresh green earth, and the few birds that
had tarried through the winter testified their joyful
surprise by carolling their loudest songs.

Never had Linndale looked so beautiful in the
eyes of Jessie, as with lingering steps she approached
a spot which for many months she had not failed to
visit daily. In her loneliness she had formed com-
panionship with the Linn ; its murmur soothed her,
for it seemed like the voice of one whose memory
was ever present with her. Often did she linger till
darkness gathered round her, and the bright stars re-
flected on its surface, were to her imagination like
the eyes of Allan smiling on her, and with a mys-
terious joy in her heart she would seek her pillow
and dream of his return. Through many long and
solitary months, in which she received no visible token
of his love, she hoped, on pleading for him in her own
heart the excuses which love alone knows how to
frame, till life became a weariness with " hope defer-
red," and her mind trembled on the verge of reason.
Now, as she looked at the dark stream which hurried
on just below her, throwing up its white foam at her
very feet, an unusual sadness settled on her spirits,
and she murmured, " Why should I wait ; I have
looked for his coming till my eyes are dim and my
strength is wasted — he will never return, he has for-
gotten the orphan whom he vowed to love — who
would have died for him. Father of mercies!" she
exclaimed wildly, as her ear caught the distant tramp-
ing of horses, " can it be? yes! yes! it is Allan!
I know his horse's tramp," and springing with the
lightness of a bird upon the slender railing which
bent beneath her weight, she stood balanced above
the foaming Linn, her slight form trembling, and her
dark eyes dilated with eagerness as she strained them
to catch the first glimpse of her lover. Near and
nearer came the sounds, one moment more and she
will see him — now the angle of the mountain is
turned — yes ! it is Allan Graham, but he comes not
alone. By his side rode a lady on a noble steed,
which she managed with inimitable skill, her close-
fitting habit, displaying the perfect symmetry of her
rounded figure. A plume of white ostrich feathers
drooped from her riding cap, half shading a face
which sparkled with delight, as with animated ges-
tures she talked with her companion. Little dreamed
that proud and happy lady of one so near whom her
appearance had blasted as with a lightning stroke.
One glance revealed the truth to the heart of the
unhappy girl; she knew with the prescience only
vouchsafed to those who love, that she looked upon
the Lady Isabel Gordon — the bride of Allan Graham,
Who can tell the volumes of thoughts which were at
that moment condensed into one agonizing pang in
her brain — a gulf seemed to yawn before her, and
she sprang from the railing, down, down into that

54

JESSIE ARMSTRONG THE LILY OP LINNDALE.

deep and whirling pool. A portion of her white dress
still floated like a foam wreath on the water as their
horses' hoofs rung on the bridge, and the clear, sweet
laugh of the Lady Isabel sounded above the rushing of
the Linn.

A little girl had crossed the bridge a short time
before Allan Graham and his bride arrived, and
seeing Jessie, offered her in the artlessness of childish
affection, a bunch of violets, and went on her errand.
When she returned, there was no one on the bridge,
and the flowers lay crushed as if a horse had trodden
on them. Thinking they had been dropped by mis-
take, the child carefully selected those which had
sustained the least injury, and called at the Laird's
to restore them to Jessie — alas! she had passed
away like the perishing blossoms — flung aside and
trampled in the dust.

Ere nightfall it was known through the length and
breadth of Linndale that sweet Jessie Armstrong was
drowned, and all night long torches were gleaming
on the banks of the Fairy Linn ; every pool from the
lake to the foot of the mountain was explored, but in
vain — and day-break found a group, weary and dis-
pirited, gathered on the bridge. They all knew that
it was Jessie's favourite resort, and concluded that
in the unusual nearness and agitation of the water,
she had become dizzy, and had fallen over the railing.
Silent and sad, men, women, and children departed to
their homes, for Jessie Armstrong had dwelt among
that plain, but kind-hearted people, and gone in and
out at their cottages on her errands of mercy, like a
being from another sphere, and wherever she appeared
blessings were called down on her bonny head.

In the dwelling of Duncan Graham there was weep-
ing and lamentation. The last earthly prop seemed
stricken from those who were tottering into the
grave, but what were their feelings to his who had
caused this misery. Allan Graham lay on his bed
in a darkened room, no food had passed his lips, nor
had he closed his eyes in sleep since he came under
his father's roof. Beside him sat his new made bride,
pale and stupified with grief and pity for her husband,
for she believed that the sudden and awful death of
his sweet sister was the cause of his overwhelming
agony. Earnestly she besought him to be comfort-
ed— she would be to him wife and sister, but in vain,
and she feared he would never rouse from the death-
like lethargy which seemed creeping over him.

On the morning of the third day, a shepherd who in-
habited a hut on the opposite side of the lake, search-
ing for a lamb which he thought had fallen over the
precipice, discovered a dark object in the water at
the foot of the crag. Hastening by a winding path to
the beach, he jumped into his skiff and pulled swiftly
across the lake, and in less than two hours, a dozen
boats well manned, rowed slowly up to the fearful
spot. There, floating like a worthless weed on the
water, lay the Lily of Linndale, her pale face turned
up to the sun, which shone as brightly as if he had
never looked upon sorrow and death — her long black
hair streaming far down among the water weeds,
and the gentle waves moving her arms with a life-
like motion. Long before noon the orphan of Linn-
dale was shrouded in her coffin, and the bell tolled
out deep and loud for the departed. As the first
stroke echoed through the stillness of the valley,
Allan Graham sprung to his feet. " They have found
her," he exclaimed, " I must look on that face once
more."

Silently Isabel took her husband's arm, and they
were soon in the church-yard. There lay the newly
dug grave, with the fresh earth piled at its sides, and
hear it, on a rude bier, stood the open coffin with the
balmy air of spring kissing the unconscious brow of
the fair creature, who but for him, might now have
been a thing of breathing beauty.

Slowly they made their way through the crowd,
until the pale and haggard face of Allan was bent in
fearful contrast over her who lay there hushed in a
sleep so like the repose of life, that a mysterious awe
crept through the hearts of the beholders, and they
almost expected the long silken fringes would rise,
and the eyes beam forth with intelligence, and more
than one hand was held for a moment over the
slightly parted lips, whose pure vermilion was un-
faded, as if in doubt whether the warm breath did not
actually come from between them. The bright, yet
delicate tint on her cheeks, seemed to come and go
with a varying motion, like the lights and shadows
in the heart of a rose ; and the dazzling whiteness of
her forehead was dewed by cold drops of perspiration,
which were no sooner wiped away than they again
rose to its polished surface.*

Long did Allan Graham gaze upon his work. At
length, the coffin lid was closed, and the Lily of
Linndale, to whom the sunshine, the flowers, and the
singing birds, had been sources of indescribable hap-
piness, was shut up in solitude and utter darkness
for ever. None, not even his parents, knew that her
destroyer stood before them, for he had bound her by
a solemn promise, never to breathe their loves, even to
the winds, till the time arrived when he could claim
her as his bride before the world. Faithfully did she
keep it, and it had preyed upon her life like the hid-
den fire, which burns not the less fiercely for being
smothered. The dreadful secret was locked in his
own bosom, and it burned upon his soul like the be-
ginning of that fire which would never, never be
quenched, neither in this world, nor the world to
come, yet there was a ray of comfort in the thought
that Isabel could never know his falsehood. Had he
forgotten there was an eye upon him, before whose
searching beams the thoughts of the heart of man are
laid bare ? and a power which could reveal his guilt,
although he deemed it hidden beyond discovery?
That night, worn out with mental suffering, and
bodily exhaustion, Allan sunk into slumber; but it
was feverish and restless. Isabel sat by him with a
heart saddened and subdued by the scenes she had
witnessed. She felt that she had grown rapidly old
in the knowledge of sorrow, and with a softened
spirit she knelt, and leaning her head on her hus-
band's bosom, prayed that in her tenderness he might
be comforted. Her touch seemed to give shape and
substance to the dim visions which haunted his pil-
low, throwing his arms around her, and clasping her
closely to his heart, he murmured, " Dearest Jessie,
we will never part again ; I won the Lady Isabel for
her wealth and rank — not for love — but they are
worthless, Jessie, and they could not make me hap-
py. I have left them all, and now we will go far,
far away, where she cannot follow us. They told
me, sweetest, that thou wert dead — it was but a
dream — thou art too lovely to die. Nay, turn not
from me, nor hide thy face with thy dark tresses —
they are wet — and thou art strangely cold — my kisses

* A fact witnessed bv the author.

THE PAST.

55

will warm thee." And his lips were pressed on the
brow of Isabel, who still knelt, cold, and almost as
motionless as her whom he addressed. Slowly she
disengaged herself from his embrace, but the effort
awoke him, and starting up, he exclaimed wildly,
" Jessie, my own Jessie ! — was it but a uream ? It
is too true — she is dead — dead." Every trace of
tenderness vanished at once from the heart of Isabel,
the bitter feelings of a deceived and injured woman
rose up within her, and the haughty spirit of her race
flashed from her eyes as she bent them on the quail-
ing being before her. " Listen to me, Allan Graham,"
she said, in a tone which froze the blood at his heart ;
" listen to the last words thou wilt ever hear from my
lips, for Isabel Gordon will henceforth be to thee but
a name. I am thy wife, but thou art not my lord —
nor shalt thou ever enjoy one tittle of the wealth for
which a loving heart was consigned to the dust. As
for me — the daughter of Lord Gordon is no pale lily
to droop at thy treachery — I hate — I scorn thee —
and remember, if ever thou darest to pollute by thy
presence the air I breathe, the warder shall loose the
bloodhounds upon thee, and thou shalt be hunted
down like the veriest reptile that grovels on the
earth !" She left the room, and with the first dawn
of morning, mounted her horse, and accompanied by
her servant, rode swiftly away. In a few months, a

green mound rose protectingly on either side of the
orphan's grave, and Allan Graham was laird of Linn-
dale. Unable to remain in the Eden which his crimes
had converted into a desert, he fled with the mark of
Cain branded on his soul; and his fair inheritance
passed into the hands of strangers. The judgments
of God are sure, though not always speedy in their
accomplishment.

Many years had passed away, when a horseman
halted on the bank of a broad and rapid river. He
had ridden in hot haste, for the jetty sides of his
steed were flecked with foam, and his breathing
laboured, yet his toil was not over. Looking up at
the clouds which threatened a tempest, he exclaimed,
" This will be a wild night, and I have many miles
to ride ; I must cross — we have performed greater
feats than this, my good steed and I." Deep and
powerful was the stream, yet long and gallantly the
noble animal breasted the current. The heavens
above grew darker with the gathering storm, and the
waves, lashed by the wind, hurried on more wildly;
horse and rider were borne away, and Allan Graham
met his doom.

The lady Isabel dwelt with her father, and by her
orders a plain white slab was placed over the grave
of Jessie, on which was simply inscribed the name of
the Lily of Linndale.

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE PAST.

BY THE REV. EDWARD M'CLURE.

The pow'r of Mem'ry wakes to disenthral

The spirit from its slumber ; and recall

Those dreams of Love — those dreams of earliest Hope

That pleased awhile, and then for ever broke.

Fair, fond illusions of the youthful brain,

Whose visions fade, yet oft return again.

E'en now, as twilight's melancholy hour
Around me throws the mantle of her power,
The scenes of" auldlang syne" like clouds arise
In various colours, and fantastic dyes;
And o'er the surface of the mem'ry fling,
The outlines of a wild imagining.

As in a mirror, see them all again !
The pleasant valley and the smiling plain,
The grove, the fountain, and the jasmine bower,
The moss crown'd ruin of the lonely tower,
(Where ghosts are seen, and moonlit fairies glide
In pomp of heraldry and silent pride.)
Wigornia* spreading where in days of yore
The Severn's banks were dyed in human gore —
Mild Severn ! on whose deep and placid stream
The stars reflect their soft and silver gleam.

Sweet river ! are thy waters flowing still
Beneath the shadow of the wood crown'd hill?
Stands there the church, whose venerable spire
Gleamed in the sunset, like a shaft of fire ?
The Iov'd companions of my early days
Exist they now, thy scenery to praise ?
Where wanders he, who roamed the silent wood,
A prey to melancholy's deepest mood,
And pictur'd, on the ever varying cloud,
The spirit's form, the spectre's vapoury shroud?

Friends of my early days! where are ye now?

Ah ! why that sadness stealing o'er my brow?
Why does the mind at once instinctive turn,
Where yonder willow shades its lonely urn?
Why ? but because my PEWTRESsf roams no more,
Lov'd Severn ! on thy oft frequented shore —
Gone is he, like thy wave, far, far away,
Where life dissolves not as the ocean spray.

Sev'rina ! often as in thought I stood
Musing in depth of holiest solitude,
While evening o'er thy peaceful waters threw
A tint of gold, or shade of deeper blue —
Might fancy view thee as a thing of life,
With passion fraught, and every feeling rife,
And still suggesting, as the mood inclin'd,
Food for the wrapt, and speculative mind.

And you, ye dark and solitary woods!
Oft does my spirit haunt your solitudes,
It loves to linger o'er your solemn shades,
Where erst amid the glens and op'ning glades,
I wreath'd the flowers, and hail'd the breath of spring
Or heard the pensive Philomela sing.

Dear to me ever is the spot, where grows
My native blue bell, and the red wild rose,
With rapture still I view the glowing scene,
Deck'd as of yore in all its smiling green.
High o'er my head, the elm majestic towers,
Around me bloom the lonely forest flowers,
In front, a landscape water'd by a stream,
Whose noiseless flow inspired the poet's theme.

But ah 1 'tis gone — vain, vain delusion all,
The past is shrouded in a gloomy pall,
Those days to me are like the spectred dead,
And Fancy's Dream — alas ! — alas !— is fled.

* Wigornia — the ancient name of Worcester, England.

t An early friend.

56

KADUR.

For the Lady's Book.
KADUR.

AN EASTERN SKETCH, FROM THE POLISH OF KRASICKI.

In the city of Damascus, there lived a man named
Kadur, who stood at the end of a bridge daily, to beg
for assistance from the passers. Every one who saw
him pitied and aided him. He was, indeed, an object
of misery. In addition to being so small of stature,
and blind of an eye, he was hunch-backed, and so
lame, that it was only with much labour he could
walk. Losing from sickness his teeth, it caused him
to stammer so much, that his words were with diffi-
culty understood. By begging for a considerable
time, he had amassed a sum of money, with which,
when it increased sufficiently for that purpose, he
intended to purchase a small farm, and end the re-
mainder of his days in honesty and happiness.

Not far from the bridge where he was in the habit
of standing, there was an ancient burial ground. In
a corner of this, secure as he thought from intrusion,
he concealed his little store, and after adding any to
it, which he might receive during the day, he retired
to rest in a house which stood near the place. One
morning as it began to dawn, he proceeded to the
spot where so many of the departed reposed, with the
intention of adding his earnings for several days back,
to the general stock. When he came there he found
the ground disturbed, and his money stolen. Filled
with grief and disappointment, he tore his hair and
garments, and wept bitterly. The neighbours, hear-
ing his cries, hastened to the place, where they found
Kadur pale, emaciated, and hardly breathing. They
revived him as soon as possible, gave him some money,
and departed. He, unable to express his anguish,
ran to the river that he might drown himself. After
arriving there, he seated himself on the shore, and
mused on his unfortunate situation. Bent down
with the burthen of sorrow, he suddenly sprang up
to leap in the water, but being lame, he lost his ba-
lance by rising so suddenly, and fell to the ground.
Immediately he perceived a venerable old man, of
majestic mien, who asking him the cause of his de-
spair, and learning it, gave him what he could spare,
and then reasoned with him on the folly of his inten-
tions. His arguments were convincing, and Kadur
relinquished the thought of committing suicide, but
determined to leave the place of his misfortune, and
proceed abroad.

He therefore bid a farewell to his benefactor, and
proceeded towards Bagdat. He walked slowly, for
his lameness did not permit him to do otherwise, and
subsisted upon the alms he received from travellers.
Already was he more than half the distance, when
he was overtaken by some merchants who were
going to Bagdat. They asked him where he was
proceeding. He endeavoured to answer them, but
Stammered so much in the attempt, that their laughter
was excited. A second trial and his tongue proved
more fortunate, and he explained to them his desti-
nation ; when, taking pity of his lameness, they suf-
fered him to ride on one of their camels. Accepting
readily the permission, he thanked them for their
generosity. After a few days having travelled toge-
ther, a thick volume of dust was perceived at a dis-
tance. The merchants were alarmed, and not with-

out cause, for it proceeded from the approach of some
robbers, who immediately on arriving, attacked them.
The merchants defended themselves bravely, but as
the robbers were of superior number, they were over-
come, but not till several had been killed; the sur-
vivors were taken prisoners, and Kadur among the
rest. The robbers took from them their garments,
and afterwards killed them. Kadur was reserved to
the last ; but the robber who searched him observing
the poorness of his garments, and his want of money,
said to his comrades, " Let us spare the life of this
beggar," to which they all consented.

One of them, who was blind of an eye, and lame,
approaching Kadur and discovering a similarity in
their appearances, commenced laughing. Calling the
others, he said, " I thank all of ye, for sparing the life
of this beggar. I never saw any one in my life who
so resembles me, and were I not convinced I have
no brother, I should suppose we were twins." He
approached Kadur, and slapping him on the shoulder,
exclaimed, " Brother ! thou hast undertaken a long
and painful journey, with but scanty means. Take,
therefore, this skin and- coat, and go wherever thou
listest." He then put the coat and the skin upon
Kadur. All the rest looking at him, laughed heartily
at his appearance, and every one gave him a piece
of money, the whole of which added together,
amounted to a considerable sum. The robbers after
having shared the booty equally among themselves,
proceeded in one direction; but Kadur went on his
way to Bagdat. He soon arrived at a town near
the capital. As he was entering the gates, the com-
mander of the guard approached him abruptly, and
cried, " It is Gulmach ! arrest him !" The people
around fell upon him, and in company with the com-
mander, conveyed him before the Cadi. When
Kadur stood before the Cadi, the commander said —
" This is that Gulmach, by whom a few days since
my brother was killed. He has the same coat and
skin upon him, as he wore when performing the
deed." Witnesses were called, and being deceived
by the dress, and the great resemblance, testified on
oath, that it was indeed Gulmach. And so, despite
his protestations to the contrary, Kadur was con-
demned to suffer death.

Kadur called on the courts of Allah, and implored
the judge and witnesses, but it was all in vain. The
executioner being prepared, threw the skin from the
shoulders of the kneeling man, when the commander
arrested his arm, and turning to the Cadi, exclaimed,
" Judge of the believers, I retract my accusation !
Appearances deceived both myself and the witnesses.
Gulmach, I know is of a good shape, but this man
has a hunched back which the skin had concealed
from us." The same thing said the witnesses, and
the executioner was ordered to retire. Those who
now gazed on Kadur, pitied and bestowed alms upon
him, and made him free. Thanking Allah for his
good fortune, he again proceeded towards Bagdat.

Shortly after, he overtook a man carrying a burden
on his shoulders. They saluted each other, and as
they were both going to Bagdat, they determined to

m

KADUR.

57

travel in company. After a few days when they
were leaving a forest, and the sun cast his beams
upon them with exceeding ardour, Kadur's compa-
nion said to him, " let us sit here in the shade
and rest, till the heat of the day has abated." They
seated themselves, therefore, and the other laying his
bags near him, went to sleep. When he awoke he
observed some, nuts growing on the bushes, and
arising took a few of them. Kadur did the same, but
taking them into his mouth, being destitute of teeth,
he was not able to crack them, and threw them away.
His companion laughed immoderately and said, " See
the advantage of teeth. You should have taken care
of your own. Had you done so, you would have
been able to crack nuts." And speaking thus, he
took one, cracked it, eat it up, and a few moments
afterward fell on the ground. Kadur approached him
quickly, but he was no more. He therefore seated
himself on the ground and wept.

After a while he perceived a traveller upon an ex-
cellent horse, after whom came several others. When
this man perceived Kadur weeping, and near him a
dead companion, he alighted from his horse, and in-
quired the cause of the catastrophe. Kadur related
the manner of the event, and showed the fruit, after
eating of which his companion died. " Thank Allah
that thou art not dead also," said the stranger, " that
fruit is the most venomous of poisons. He who
tastes of it, almost in the very moment, dies." He
then ordered the body to be buried, and allowing
Kadur to mount behind one of his servants, he took
him with him. Shortly after they arrived at a very
splendid mansion. They alighted from their horses,
and the stranger, who was the owner of the house,
took Kadur by the hand, and they entered. Passing
through rooms embellished on all sides with beautiful
statuary and paintings, they at last arrived at an open
gallery, from which a beautiful sight presented itself.
They seated themselves on splendid sofas, and the
master of the house commenced the discourse, thus :

" It is the mercy of Allah !" said he, " that gives
us the means to console the afflicted among our
fellow men. Thou hast told me of the accident
which even now occurred to thee ; I pray thee relate
to me the circumstances of thy life." Kadur com-
menced to tell him all that had ever happened to him,
especially since the time his property was stolen from
the cemetery. After this the table was set, and when
supper was over, the master of the house conducted
Kadur to the apartments designed for him.

When Kadur arose next morning, he found a ser-
vant in waiting for his commands, and also new
dresses in which to array himself. Shortly after his
host entered and they amused themselves with con-
versation until the dinner was prepared. After this
was over they rode out together on very splendid
horses, and when their ride was ended, they entered
the garden. Here, the host took him to a beautiful
kiosk, from which there was a very enchanting view
of a lake. The sherbet arrived, and when somewhat
refreshed by it, different topics were discussed ; and
as Kadur had a very clear understanding his judicious
remarks pleased the ears of his entertainer.

For two whole weeks Kadur remained at the house
of this charitable man, during which time many
amusing conversations took place. Kadur never
having seen such a place before, almost imagined it
to be the place destined for the souls of the virtuous
faithful. Once when the day was about to close, the

host requested him to walk with him. He led him
through strange byways into the grove, where high
and stately trees were planted, and amid which little
brooks meandered and murmured. The night was
calm, and the light of the moon which found its way
through the branches, gave a melancholy aspect to
the place, that deluded the observer into pleasant
thoughts. After walking some distance, a strong
light came suddenly before the eyes of Kadur, and
looking up he beheld a magnificent palace from the
windows of which the light proceeded. Bewildered
with the sight, he exclaimed, " I see already the
Paradise promised by the Prophet." The other
smiled at his warmth, and conducted him up the steps
into the interior. They entered, and passed through
a chamber containing gold and marble, illuminated
by thousands of lights, and cheered by the enchanting
strains of music which stole softly around.

Kadur was bewildered with happiness. His host
turned to him and said, " It is in thy power to be-
come the master of all these things," saying which,
he clapped his hands. The side-doors opened, and
six negresses entered, and with them a person short
of stature, humpbacked and lame, and covered from
head to foot, with a veil of cloth of gold. The little
person bowed, and the negresses parted to the right
and left and stood in attendance. "This is my
daughter," said the host, " the heiress of all I possess.
If thou wilt consent, I will bestow her on thee in
marriage." Kadur was on the point of falling at his
feet, when he arose, approached his daughter, and
took off her veil. Kadur ihen beheld, although in
the prime of her youth, that her face was wrinkled,
she was blind of an eye, and her mouth was furnished
with tusks, like those of the wild-boar. Though
shocked at first, he overcame his dislike and replied
to the host, that with all his heart he would take her
to wife ; and then the music, which had ceased on
her entrance, was resumed. They then entered an-
other room where baths with refreshments were pre-
pared. Kadur was seated by the side of his betrothed,
and seemed to be in the ecstasy of joy. When the
evening feast was over, his entertainer led Kadur
into his cabinet, where seating themselves on rich
carpets, the former spoke thus: —

" Fate did not like to make me happy; and thou
seest how degraded in person is my daughter , yet
she is rich in accomplishments, and goodness of dis-
position. Many have wished to wed her; but when
I, though it is contrary to the customs of our country,
showed them my daughter, though I spoke of her
many accomplishments, they left my house. Having
found thee deformed by nature like my daughter, I
began to think that thou wert he, who by the decrees
of Allah, should make her happy. But it may be a
sacrifice on thy part, yet I will not take it amiss if
thou wilt tell me thou dost dislike her." Kadur
replied that he did not look upon external show;
and as he was assured of her good qualities, preferred
them to the most charming of appearances.

This relieved the anxiety of his host. Rising up,
he went to his daughter, while Kadur observing the
doors of the cabinet open, entered the garden, and
seating himself on the banks of a canal, commenced
to muse on his extraordinary fate. His reflections
had lasted for some time, when the place on which
he sat, quaked and trembled; a loud peal of thunder
was heard, and Kadur fell with his face to the earth.
After he was somewhat recovered from his fright he

58

THE MANIAC MAID.

lifted his head; when before him stood the same
person he had seen when about to drown himself.
The sage approached and spoke.

" Fate is used as an empty word. That which
Allah predestines for man is his fate. At one time
thou wert about to drown thyself for the loss of filthy
lucre, but thou mayest recollect thy lameness pre-
vented thee from accomplishing it, and detained thee
until I had removed those ungodly thoughts from thy
mind. Moved with what I told thee, thou didst cease
to grieve. Thy stammering made the merchants
laugh, yet, on account of it, thou wert pitied by them.
Because thou wert a poor beggar thy life was spared ;
having a hump preserved thee from execution ; being
possessed of no teeth, thou shunned the poisonous,
nuts ; and now being hump-backed, lame, and blind,
wealth and happiness attend thee. Didst thou ever
expect it ? Never more complain, repent of that thou
once uttered, and remember that which mankind call
misfortune is often the best gift of Allah ?" The sage

touched Kadur. The hunch disappeared — the lost
teeth were replaced — the foot became straight, and
the stature increased. When the transformation was
complete, the sage disappeared.

Kadur fell on his face, and gave praise to Allah.
When he had ended his prayers, he perceived his
entertainer hastily approaching him. When he ar-
rived it was with news that the deformity of his
daughter had entirely disappeared. Seeing Kadur
likewise changed, he led him to his betrothed, who
was so altered that at first sight he did not recognize
her. She had become taller, and when her father
removed the veil from her face, it was found mantled
in extraordinary beauty. With unutterable joy they
celebrated the happy nuptials. Kadur having now
obtained a beautiful and loving wife, passed his life
in peace, whilst his wife's honest and charitable sire,
beheld before his death, the children and grand chil-
dren of his daughter gather around him.

T. D. E. & P S.

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE MANIAC MAID,

BY P. KENYON EILBOURNE.

' She heeds not how the mad waves leap

Along the rugged shore ;
She looks for one upon the deep

She never may see more."— Mrs. Sale.

A brave young sailor knelt

Before fair Rosalie ;
No happier maiden dwelt

In all the land than she !
But those hright hours are over,

The billows and the breeze
Have borne her gallant lover

Far off upon the seas •

Alas ! for Rosalie !

Her cheek is wan and pale;
She wanders by the sea,

And watches every sail ;
When winds and breakers roar,

And lightnings round her burn,
She sits upon the shore

And sighs for his return I

At eve, when naught is heard

But the roar of the dashing wave,
And the voice of the lone sea bird

That sings from her coral cave,
She wanders forth, all lonely,

The rocks and cliffs among,
And to the cold sea, only,

Pours forth her mournful song.

" When will he come ?" she muttered,

In a low and stifled tone ;
And deep were the vows she uttered,

As by the wave-wash'd stone
She knelt, in holy sorrow,

And pour'd her prayer of grief,
And sighed for the morrow,

To bring her heart relief.

" When will he come? I've sought him

For many a weary night,
The bark that should have brought him

Has not appeared in sight.
Ah ! has the angry billow

O'erwhelm'd him in the sea,
And made its bed his pillow ?

It cannot, cannot be !

" How pure, how brave, how fearless

The soul that dwelt in him !
'Twould seem an eye so tearless,

Old Death could never dim !
When cold night-storms are flinging

The surges to the clouds,
His merry ballad singing,

He climbs the slippery shrouds !

" And can it be — O Heaven !

Has that angelic form,
By blasts and tempests driven,

Gone down amid the storm?
And have the waves swept o'er him,

And set his spirit free ?
Then I alone deplore him,

For none will weep but me !"

" When will he come ?" Poor maiden !

Well may thy tear-drops start!
With dews thy locks are laden,

A pall is on thy heart !
The terrors of the ocean —

The last bewild'ring call —
The billow's wild commotion —

He sleeps beneath them all!

" When will he come?" Ah, never !

The all-engulfing wave
Hath closed o'er him for ever,

And seal'd his silent grave.
The storm may sweep above him,

And rock the restless deep,
Nor wind nor wave can move him,

Or break his quiet sleep.

•' When will he come ?" O, leave him

To slumber with the dead;
The genii will receive him

In his far deep ocean-bed !
On this lone desert stay not,

He will return no more I
The mountain wave survey not —

Oh ! leave the gloomy shore !

DEAF AND DUMB.

59

Written for the Lady's Book.

DEAF AND 'DUMB;

A TALE.
BY THOMAS J. BEACH.

"It will be an ugly storm — the clouds come up thick
and fast. Jack, do you and Lilla help your mother
into the cart; this blanket will be no protection
against the wind and rain that's hurrying up that sky."
The speaker was a man of apparently nearly fifty
years, and the observation was the result of a glance
at a lurid southern sky, through the opening of a
common gipsy's tent, among, perhaps, a dozen of a
similar kind, which formed a little encampment some
paces removed from the turnpike road, at a point be-
tween Dartford in Kent, and London.

In obedience to the order, a boy of about twelve,
and a pretty girl of fourteen, turned to assist a de-
crepid female, whose form was emaciated by ill
health. She was unable to rise from the recumbent
posture she had assumed, and even the strength of
the children proved insufficient to support her in an
erect one ; as she was in the act of falling, the man
sprang towards her, and lifting her with ease in his
arms, carried her from the tent to a large travelling
cart a few yards distant, followed by the boy and
girl. Having comfortably deposited his burthen,
from the shafts of the cart, which were sustained hori-
zontally by the customary mode, he hailed the gang
of which he was the apparent head, and having com-
manded their attention, he advised them to " strike all
the tents and repair to the carts," of which there were
two more belonging to the party, or to " see to the
fastenings and make the blankets secure, for they
were going to have a heavy blow."

A portion of the party took the trouble to strike
the tents and repair to the better shelter of the carts,
to which they were generally accompanied by the
women and children ; while others contented them-
selves with a few blows of a heavy beetle on the
pegs, and then " turned in" to abide the pelting of the
storm. In a few minutes it commenced with large,
heavy falling drops ; a vivid flash of lightning darted
from the horizon to the zenith ; the thunder rolled in
broken masses, as if struggling up the closed path of
its swift precursor, and with the effort, shook down a
torrent of rain. The trees rang with the pattering
drops upon their emerald dress, and the grateful earth
gave up an incense of curling vapour in acknowledg-
ment of its relief. But the fury of the tempest was
not yet ; the boisterous wind leaped forth from the
clambering clouds, and swept along the sky with
hasty wing and noisy scream ; man and brute sought
refuge from its violence, and the helpless birds were
whirled, piping with fear, along the leafy air. The
hurricane passed on, and to a general position of
shelter, the little glade on which the gipsies were en-
camped being nearly encompassed by trees, they
were indebted for an escape, with the loss of a single
blanket which had deserted its post below, and taken
a very useless one, on the top of an adjacent oak.
During the brief prevalence of the wind, the other
agents of the storm seemed to have suspended action;
but with the theatre of their former glee once more
vacated, they returned to their unfinished offices
again. The whole sky was filled with the dim pre-

sence of the storm, and from every part the light-
ning lanced the air ; the grandeur of the scene had
been dissipated by the angry wind, and a sense of
dread stole upon the mind as each succeeding flash,
grew brighter and more near, and the quick vigour-
ous thunder seemed a presence awful and unseen.
At this time there was observed on the brow of a
hill in the highway, two persons, a gentleman and
lady, on horseback, completely drenched and tempest-
torn ; their reeking steeds were on a fast trot, and
approaching the reserve of the gipsy party — to whose
view they would have been lost in a few seconds by
the intervening trees, as the road declined, but at
that instant a stream of lightning blazed across the
immediate vicinity ; and, simultaneous with the flash,
a sharp and rattling volley of thunder, like the dis-
charge of a whole park of artillery, rent the elements
with fearful joy. A cry from Lilla drew the atten-
tion of her father to the travellers ; the form of the
female was prostrate on the bank by the road-side,
while the horse which she had ridden was lying near
her in the road, perfectly still and evidently dead.
The gentleman in her company was still bestriding
his horse from very necessity, as the frightened ani-
mal plunged from side to side, under the tight curb
and firm hand of his rider. The gipsy sprang from
the cart, and followed by the principal part of his
male companions, was instantly at the scene of cala-
mity. The restive horse was seized, and the rider
dismounting, flew to the poor girl stretched senseless
on the bank ; raising her to his bosom, he discovered
she lived, and gladly accepting the offer of the poor
accommodation of the gipsy's cart, he took the
young beauty in his strong embrace to the humble
and welcome shelter thus afforded. The gypsies
had examined the fallen animal, and found his
breast and forelegs singed with the fluid that had
produced death, while the shoes were strained and
almost torn from the blackened hoof. Leading the
gentleman's horse, which, though high mettled, had
now become comparatively quiet, the party followed
in the rapid steps of its master to the encampment,
where such restoratives as could be obtained were
promptly applied to the stricken girl, and not without
effect; little Lilla, who appeared to be about the same
age as her temporary patient, and not less beautiful,
was very active and impatient for the recovery of the
invalid. Continued bathing of her head in cold
water, and chafing the palms of the hand and the
soles of the feet with warm vinegar, at length pro-
duced tokens of improvement; a quickening pulse
grew under the touch, and presently the eyes opened
with a vacant stare ; they soon, however, brightened
with a look of recognition, and as he, on whose arm
her head reposed, stooped and kissed her lips, the
kiss was returned, and she burst into tears.

" My poor daughter !" exclaimed the agitated pa-
rent, and turning to the gipsy, he remarked, " she is
better now — she will soon be well again."

The woman proposed that the young lady's wet
clothes should be removed, and that some of Lilla's

60

DEAF AND DUMB.

should be substituted, assuring the father that they
were " perfectly clean, and would not soil the skin
of a princess." The offer was cordially accepted,
and Lilla, turning to the restored girl, told her she
should have her best dress, and accordingly produced
a holiday frock rarely bedizzened with surplus finery.

"Is'n't it pretty," asked the gipsey-girl, eyeing
first the frock and then the lady, who was to enjoy
the advantage of so much elegance; but the lady did
not deign a reply, either by word, or sign, or look.

"Alas! my pretty maid," said the father, "my
poor child is yet ignorant of your kindness; she is
unfortunately deaf and dumb."

" Deaf and dumb !" exclaimed Lilla. " Oh, I
never saw any one really deaf and dumb, before." i->

"Really deaf and dumb!" echoed the gentleman ;
" why, have you ever seen any one who pretended
to be thus afflicted?"

Lilla, who had been reproved by a look from her
father, d.d not answer the question, but turned with
deep interest to the young lady. Her father, by his
fingers, signified his desire that she should change
her apparel, and, with a smile for Lilla, who he readily
conjectured had unthinkingly betiayed a secret, quitted
the cart with its gipsy proprietor, to whom he explained
their accidental exposure in such weather; being out
for a ride on pleasure with his daughter, the storm
had gathered considerably in the rear before he ob-
served it, and then hoping to make the mansion of
his friend, Sir Carleton Howes, for shelter, they
pushed on ; finding, at last, that they were overtaken,
and not even a cottage near, as the wind grew they
had taken the lee of the hill, which, with a group of
trees, screened them from the extreme violence of the
tempest. On pursuing their way, afier the abatement
of the wind, they had only covered the top of the
hill when the accident occurred which had detained
them. At the suggestion of the gentleman, the gipsy
mounted his horse and bore a request to Sir Carleton,
that a carriage might be sent immediately for the
service of his friend. The mansion was less than a
mile from the spot, and the gipsy galloped off. On
returning to the cart, the gentleman found his daugh-
ter in conversation with Lilla, who manifested a re-
markable facility in the manual alphabet, for one who
had never seen a " real deaf and dumb person before."
The young lady had expressed herself much delighted
with the fine frock, and Lilla's vanity was abundantly
gratified, while she could not entertain a doubt that
it .was far superior to the fine cloth riding-habit,
which, since the rain had discontinued, had been
hanging before a large fire in front of the cart.

In due time, the gipsey returned in Sir Carleton's
carriage, the bearer of a note of condolence from
that gentleman, closing with an excuse for not ap-
pearing personally, in consequence of being confined
to his elbow chair with the gout, which had been
greatly augmented by the circumstance of his having
been knocked out of his chair and half way across
the room by a flash of lightning, that passed within
two inches of his nose, broke a decanter of port on
a hand-table by his side, and then escaped in a hurry
up the chimney; all of which was, in fact, nothing
more than that Sir Carleton, very much frightened
at a loud stroke of thunder, suddenly started ; thus
producing a twinge in his leg he started again, and
with his elbow knocked over the port, which would
have been a very happy result, had not Sir Carleton
ordered the decanter to be replenished with a full bot-

tle. He tendered the hospitalities of Carleton house
to his friends of the gipsy encampment, with the
profuse liberality for which the worthy baronet was
distinguished.

Lilla and her lovely but unfortunate friend, had
quite an affectionate parting, the latter having re-
stored the finery of the gipsy girl with a handsome
douceur, and habited herself in her own clothes. On
quitting the gipsy, the gentleman presented him with
a purse that afterwards proved to contain twenty
guineas. He also gave Lilla a kiss and a crown, of
which she very wisely estimated the latter at the
value of five shillings in advance of the former. And
thus they parted never to meet again, and yet destined
to produce great effect on each other's dearest hopes.
The carriage disappeared at a turn in the road, and
the gipsy with Lilla's hand in his, walked slowly
back to his limited tenement, the humble cart.
*********

It was towards the close of the year 18 — , two
years subsequent to the event just related, that an
English physician arrived in a merchant ship at New
Orleans, in North America, from London. He was
a man somewhat advanced in years, generally of re-
served manners, but when brought into conversation,
very unassuming and frank, with a certain absence
of formality that was directly accounted for by his
devotion to his profession, which rumour not only
said was unexampled, but proof was abundant in the
monopoly of the Doctor's time and society by his
library, in which he had arranged a small laboratory.
The unobtrusive mode of life which chaiacterized
Dr. Leroy's, for that was the name of the physician,
would have had the effect to keep the circle of his
acquaintance very limited, but for the circumstance
that he was accompanied by a young and very beau-
tiful girl, his only daughter, his only child, his darling
Helen, and she was deaf and dumb. She had scarcely
passed her sixteenth year, yet her exquisite form dis-
played symmetry that perfection alone could imitate.
Her face was radiant with beauty, and each feature
challenged the gaze of envy. Her hair was raven
black, and her dazzling eyes radiated the lustre of her
hair; her skin was not of purest white, but lighily
flushed with southern blood, that sometimes mantled
on her cheek to heighten beauty, that the beholder
thought could never be improved. From her father,
such rare points of beauty did not seem to spring,
and conjecture made her the child of an Italian mo-
ther. There was a bland dignity in her manner,
which, while it encouraged no familiarity, did not
spurn the homage of admiring eyes. She was the
idol of many hearts, and passion only found its anti-
dote in that she was a mute; yet there were some
who could not thus subdue the ardour of their admi-
ration, but expressed it in costly presents, and the
beauteous stranger accepted them with a naive thank-
fulness, that her condition made a charm to the giver.

There was among her admirers an estimable and
worthy youth, by name Frank Howaid, the pet of
fortune and the favourite of his sphere ; he deeply
felt the lovely Helen's charms and resolved to possess
her, to woo her in her own language, to win her
affections, to inquire into her intellect, and if it was,
though dark, but capable, to marry her, and live and
die the adorer of her person, and the tutor of her
mind. He solicited the permission of her faiher, and
it was in this interview with him that he first learned
the object of Dr. Leroy's visit to America, and heard

DEAF AND DUMB.

61

with intense interest that it was to effect the cure of
his daughter's affliction. Dr. Leroy knew that the
scheme was an entirely new one .in the materia me-
dica, as natural mutes had been ever considered in-
curable. He then stated to young Howard, that he
had by the merest accident become possessed of the
manuscript of an early traveller in Western America,
from which he had gathered the conviction that there
was a cure known for persons born deaf and dumb ;
and the only doubt he had to annoy him, was, whe-
ther the cure could be effected after infancy, but he
had some good reasons to believe it could. The
manuscript asserted that there were tribes of North
American Indians, amongst whom a deaf and dumb
person was never found, and with whom common
deafness was unknown, save in the extremely aged ;
and one instance, and that but a slight affliction of
which the sufferer seemed ever ashamed, was all that
ever came to the knowledge of the writer. The
intention of Dr. Leroy was to pursue this investigation
alone and unaided, and until he had fairly tried the
experiment, he should withhold his consent to his
daughter's marriage. At the same time as he in-
tended to remain at New Orleans a week or two
longer, he extended to Mr. Howard a free invitation
to visit him and his daughter at his hotel.

Dr. Leroy's scheme was the theme of much dis-
cussion amongst all people, during the week subse-
quent to its developement ; some laughed at his cre-
dulity; others thought there was something in it;
" they did not see why mutes should not be cured as
well as anybody else ;" and some of the learned ap-
plauded the Doctor and gave his experiment their
earnest sanction, and himself their warmest wishes
for success. He had more than one offer of compa-
nionship but he declined them, candidly stating that
should he discover this " philosopher's stone of mute
humanity," he should avail himself of the profits of
such a discovery, to establish a fortune before he gave
the secret to mankind. Sanguine with hope the day
approached for his departure ; his daughter he had
made arrangements to leave at the residence of a
friend, some few miles removed from the Mississippi.
It was on the day preceding that he had appointed
for his departure, that a frightful tragedy occurred to
delay him. Young Howard had, as was his wont
of late, passed up the stairs to the little parlour used
by the Doctor as his library or laboratory, and find-
ing no one there, he pushed on to the adjoining room,
the usual sitting apartment of Miss Leroy. A quarter
of an hour had elapsed when the Doctor came from
that room habited for a walk, cane in hand and pro-
ceeded down stairs ; at the door, however, he found
that it threatened rain, and calling a waiter he desired
him to run up stairs to his daughter's room for his
umbrella ; he might knock at the door as Mr. How-
ard was there, and would answer him. The waiter
obeyed, and had entered the library when he heard a
scuffle in the next room, the breaking of a pane of
glass, a slight guttural scream peculiar to mutes, and
a heavy fall of a body on the floor; and as he stood
still with alarm,' the door was unlocked and suddenly
opened, and Miss Leroy sprang out and nearly upon
him, with a short dagger in her hand stained with
blood, her dress torn and bespattered, her face pale
and hair dishevelled. Detaining the man with a firm
grasp, she endeavoured to explain something which
he could not understand, but certain that she had
killed some one, he called hastily for assistance from
VOL. XXII. 6

the top of the stairs. Several persons rushed to the
spot, and immediately after them Dr. Leroy. He
caught his daughter exhausted and faint in his arms,
her resolution and energy apparently failing her, the
moment she felt the security of his presence ; the
dagger dropped from her hand. In the other room,
lay the yet bleeding and warm corpse of Frank
Howard, twice stabbed to the heart ; a sofa was
overthrown, a broken fan, and a portion of Miss
Leroy's frock lay upon the floor, and the room was
in all the apparent disarray of a hasty struggle. Cu-
riosity gratified in that quarter, it turned towards the
Doctor and his daughter, the former having taken a
seat with the pale and now weeping girl by his side.
Dr. Leroy briefly explained that violence had been
offered to his child, who, under the indignation from
such an offence had defended her person at the cost
of her assailant's life. He desired that a coroner and
a magistrate should be summoned forthwith, which
was accordingly done. A jury was procured and a
verdict rendered consistent with the evidence of Miss
Leroy and that of the waiter, that " the deceased
came to his death, in consequence of wounds inflicted
with a deadly weapon in the hands of Hebn Leroy."
The magistrate in attendance at once admitted Miss
Leroy to bail in the recognizances of her father only,
though an abundance was offered, to appear and an-
swer for the death she had caused, at the ensuing
session of the court, which commenced on the fol-
lowing week.

The day of trial came, and a -formal indictment
for manslaughter had been found against the young
lady, to which she was called to answer. Her evi-
dence was briefly given ; the deceased had been
lavish of his gifts to her, but as it subsequently
appeared with an unholy purpose ; he had once before
made overtures of a questionable nature, which,
availing herself of her infirmity, she had feigned to
misunderstand ; she had not informed her father of
this circumstance, having determined upon a repe-
tition of the offence, to dismiss the lover from her
presence and forbid him the house. On the fatal
occasion her father left them together, and could
scarcely have passed out of the library when the de-
ceased quietly and cautiously locked the door, then
taking a dagger from his bosom, he made a sign that
she was in his power ; knowing her inability to make
other than the common noise of mutes, he felt the
security of his position and advanced towards her ;
she flew towards the window, and in the hurry to
raise the sash, thrust her fan through a pane of glass.
Howard then seized her arm and struggled with her
into the middle of the room, when the dagger fell
from his hand, and both of them made a simultaneous
effort to secure it. Miss Leroy, as she expressed
herself, unfortunately grasped it, and in an instant,
without reflection, twice plunged it into the body of
her persecutor. He fell — she looked at him a mo-
ment and fled with horror from the scene, on the
conviction that he was dead. Unlocking the door,
she encountered the waiter in the library, and it was
from this circumstance that she considered it " unfor-
tunate" that the dagger fell into her hands, as her
safety would have been insured without the extremity
to which she had resorted. The evidence of the
waiter corroborated circumstantially the statement
of the lady, and the absence of all other motive to
commit the deed, satisfied the jury, who acquitted —
honourably acquitted the lovely prisoner, Helen Leroy

62

DEAF AND DUMB.

without leaving the box. The court house rang with joyed the unbounded satisfaction of announcing to
the huzzas of the multitude, and so general was the his friends the arrival of Dr. Leroy in New Orleans,
feeling of approbation, that but a trifling official effort accompanied by his beautiful daughter — nay more,
was made to suppress the impropriety. he had the proud gratification of informing his guests

This distressing affair thus terminated, the Doctor that the Doctor had honoured him by making his
permitted nothing to delay active preparations for his first visit to his house, and was now in an adjoining
departure, and about two weeks subsequent to the apartment, and would forthwith avail himself of an
trial, in company with his lovely and heroic daughter, introduction to this distinguished company. A small
he quitted New Orleans, and the many friends who party was observed to quit the ball for the dressing-
now acknowledged the greatest interest in the result room, and presently leaving the house, they entered
of his expedition. His purpose, he stated, was to leave an elegant family carriage which drove hastily off.
his daughter at the residence of a friend in the interior, They were the immediate blood relations of Frank
who had kindly offered her the shelter of his roof and Howard.

the protection of his family, during the absence of her Mr. Franklin continued his position at the upper
father on his Indian tour ; and it was in consequence end of the apartment, while several of the friends of
of a previous acceptation of this offer, that he now felt the new comers were despatched to conduct them in.
constrained to refuse the numerous and urgent requests Helen, leaning on the arm of her father, seemed to
of his friends, to leave his daughter in the enjoyment diffuse from the exquisite perfection of matured beauty
of the hospitalities of the generous Orleanois. Helen, an added light to the apartment, as they passed up
too, preferred the country, as the absence of her father an avenue of youth and loveliness, to the place occu-
might be prolonged beyond the time he had prescribed, pied by Mr. Franklin, who, seizing the Doctor by the
and she dreaded to encounter the sickly season in the hand, congratulated him on his return and gave him
city, alone and unacclimated, a choice victim for a cordial welcome to his house. Turning to his
disease. And they left New Orleans. daughter — a marvel ensued which thoroughly as-

********* tounded every person who was fortunate enough to
A year had elapsed after the departure of the Le- be present. Dr. Leroy desired her to make an ac-
roys from the city, and conjecture had some time knowledgment of the kindness they had experienced
since satisfied itself in the conclusion, that the absence at the hands of Dr. Franklin. To the utter asto-
and silence of the Doctor and his daughter, was irishmen t of the company, the dumb spake, the young
attributable to the circumstance that, the expedition lady lifted her eye to the curious, anxious, and in-
having failed in its object — to avoid the shame and credulous gaze of their host, and in a few brief and
chagrin he would feel in meeting his friends at New broken words, with a peculiarly novel accent and
Orleans, and exposing himself and those who had delivery, expressed her grateful sense of his goodness
favoured his speculation to the ridicule of others less to herself and her father, strangers in a strange land,
credulous — he had availed himself of his privacy and Her voice and manner reminded one of broken music
returned to Europe in hopeless disappointment. In- from some rare instrument,touched by a pupil's hand,
deed the friends of the scheme had submitted with It was sweet, trembling and low ; her ear was ready
the best possible grace to the jest of their companions, to a whispered voice, and now the vague and uncer-
and the whole affair was passing into oblivion, borne tain look of the mute, was changed to the quick, in-
011 by the current of events. telligent glance of the willing, prompt and accom-

It was the month of* February, and all Orleans plished mind. It seemed as if art had completed
was alive with busy preparation to celebrate with what nature had begun, and for once perfection dwelt
festival the approaching anniversary of Washington's upon the earth, and the common curse had failed to
natal day. At the house of a distinguished citizen, blur it. Had magic been employed, or was the
and one who had manifested particular interest in Dr. mystery the result of mortal skill ? Dr. Leroy ex-
Leroy's experiment, a magnificent ball was in anti- plained it.

cipation, and tickets had been issued to all the elite After having conducted his daughter to the house
of the city. The day of rejoicing came, and at night of his friend, he had instantly pursued his way to the
the mansion of Mr. Franklin was illumed with a untravelled west, having well acquainted himself from
blaze of light, and jocund with the gaiety of its in- such information as was accessible beforehand, of the
mates. Rare melodies from chosen musicians filled localities of the particular tribes whom he contem-
the air, and the gay dance with its glittering devotees plated visiting. Apparelled for the task, he purchased
made beautiful the scene. In the midst there was a a stout pony and departed. The more minute parti-
pause — it began with whispers near the door — a culars of his journey he should dispense with the
murmur arose — amazement sat upon the features of relation of at present, inasmuch as he should publish
those who seemed to have become participants of the a detailed account of his trip in due time, which
news — some of the dancers suddenly stopped — then would contain a variety of interesting facts, geologi-
others — at length, all — inquiry flew from one to an- cal, botanical, aboriginal, &c, never yet laid before
other — alarm took possession of the ladies, and a the public. In brief, after many adventures and
single scream was likely to have produced a scene fruitless investigation amongst several tribes and
of unmitigated distress, where all was a moment branches of tribes dissevered from the original, and
before harmony, safety, beauty and joy. Several retired under inferior chiefs, he found his secret in a
ladies fainted — others shrieked for protection from dwindled band, dismembered from a once powerful
fire — the gentlemen sprang to the windows, when tribe, distinguished for nothing but a brute spirit
the voice of Mr. Franklin was heard, and his face of warfare and thirsty carnage. Travelling as
all dressed in smiles seen above the rest upon an a " medicine," he enjoyed a perfect immunity from
elevation at one end of the apartment, and confusion assault, while he was frequently made the object of
as instantly became order. Curiosity enforced pro- lavish hospitality and Indian generosity. By the aid
found silence, and Mr. Franklin stated that he en- of some simples, he had the good fortune, in a few

DEAF AND DUMB.

63

instances, to effect a prompt cure or relief of tempo-
rary maladies, which ran before him trumpet tongued
and paved his way with welcomes, from friendly even
to hostile tribes, and in one instance he became the
mediator between parties of the youth of two tribes,
who were likely to involve their people in a general
war. But his secret — what was that ? He would
not divulge it^— its sole property was the cure of deaf-
ness, and that cure had in the first instance of the
application of the remedy, proved full and complete
in six months. His expedition had occupied him five
months, and on his return his anxiety had of course
induced him to commence the experiment forthwith,
and preferring the seclusion of the country to the
excitement of the city he determined to ascertain the
virtue of his Indian prescription, or prove its ineffi-
ciency before he visited New Orleans. In two
months his patient began to experience violent con-
cussions in the ear, that would startle her, even from
her sleep; these gradually became more frequent and
less violent, till they assumed the nature of a throb
or pulsation, and at length merged into a gentle and
perpetual murmuring with an evident sensibility of the
patient to the effect of sound. Noise, produced at
a distance of some yards by the clash of metals,
would command her attention, and the tick of a
watch placed close to her ear was so violent upon
the sensitive tympanum as to produce a blinking of
the eyes at every tick, just as any person would be
affected by a loud noise, as the clapping of hands or
the report of a pistol in proximity to the ear. In
a short time this extreme sensitiveness disappeared,
and she grew accustomed to the tones of the human
voice and continually delighted in the unmeaning
sounds uttered by her own untutored tongue. At this
point the work of tuition commenced, and she became
the pupil of sound, acquiring the delivery of the al-
phabet with great facility, and rapidly advancing under
the constant instruction of her delighted parent. The
connection of letters, the formation of words from
distinct syllabic sounds, and the proper use of familiar
phrases were readily understood by so anxious a pupil,
and during this term of her scholarship the organs
of sound were perfected, and her hearing was acutely
obtained. Within eight months from the time of the
application of the remedy, all this, and more had been
accomplished; for the gratified company at Mr.
Franklin's had the satisfaction to find that, the once
speechless beauty could with little difficulty sustain a
free conversation, and with less prompting for a
proper word than is required, very often, by those
who have enjoyed the use of both their ears and
lungs, since the day upon which the world was blessed
with their nativity. Thus was the evening made
memorable by an event which would form an epoch
in the history of physiology, and, at the same time,
endue with a well-grounded hope, the thousands of
deaf and dumb in the civilized world, and carry to the
bosoms of many families the liveliest emotions of hap-
piness and joy.

Dr. Leroy was in a short time overwhelmed with
congratulatory epistles from all parts of the Union,
and in compliance with the requests of his friends
and his own desire, he announced his intention to
receive another patient, and one only, with a view
of testing again the virtue of the remedy, before it
could suffer in its reputation, in the event of one
failure amongst many patients. He had several pro-
positions from various places, and, at length, took

under his care a youth from Ohio, who made his
appearance at the Doctor's hotel, with his propositions
in his hand, consisting of a draft at sight on a bank
in Cincinnati, for five thousand dollars, and a pro-
missory note for the payment of twenty thousand
dollars, " when the cure shall be effected, for value
received."

' Dr. Leroy immediately commenced with his new
patient, who proved to be a lad of shrewd nature,
though not apparently very apt to learn from a system
of education. In a short time the symptoms de-
scribed by the doctor, in the case of his daughter,
began to develope themselves in the youth, and in
much the same space the work of cure progressed,
till in a second instance it was complete, effected, as
it were, in presence of his friends and the people of
New Orleans. The instruction of the youth had not
proceeded with that rapidity displayed in the person
of Helen Leroy, as the doctor, of course, had not been
so assiduous in this respect, not professing the duties
of the schoolmaster as well as of the physician ; nor
was the lad's ability to learn equal to that of Helen.
The young man continued to remain with the doctor,
who was now making arrangements for the accom-
modation of six patients, with each of whom he was
to receive the sum of five thousand dollars in advance,
and an equal amount when the cure should be com-
pleted. In due time they came, and upon com-
mencing with them the doctor announced his pur-
pose of presiding over an institution, at some central
point of the country, which should be fee to all
mutes of the United States, if Congress would allow
him a fee from those sent from abroad, one half of
which he proposed to devote to a fund for the erec-
tion and support of a national academy for the edu-
cation of his indigent recovered patients. Such a
suggestion every body was confident would meet with
the approbation of the national legislature, and the
friends of the scheme determined at once to put it in
motion.

It was at this juncture of affairs when a gentleman
arrived in a ship from England, who instantly waited
on Dr. Leroy requesting a private interview. To
this private interview which took place on the night
after the arrival of the Englishman, a Mr. Lawrence
of Kent, at New Orleans, we must admit the reader.
It took place at the Hotel of Mr. Lawrence, who, as
soon as he was closeted with the doctor, introduced
himself as the agent of Lord Edward Melville, and
stated that he had been despatched with proposals
from that nobleman, to Dr. Leroy, which, if accepted,
would require the departure of the doctor for England,
without delay. Dr. Leroy requested him to name
the proposals. Mr. Lawrence did so, prefacing with
the remark that under any other circumstances but
the extraordinary discovery which had borne the
doctor's fame to Europe, his proposals would be
deemed not only liberal but princely. " Lord Melville
authorizes the payment in drafts, negotiable in New
Orleans, of the sum of thirty thousand pounds sterling,
previous to setting sail for England, and further,
proffers the doctor a like sum on the success of his
undertaking, which consists of a professional visit, to
England for the purpose of effecting the cure of Lord
Melville's only child, a beloved daughter, and a mute."
Mr. Lawrence expatiated on the manifest advantages
which must accrue to the doctor in the event of his
success, with a patient in so elevated a circle of
English society, and dwelt upon the immense fortune

64

DEAF AND DUMB.

he must inevitably realize in Europe. He had seen
the doctor's publication signifying his intention of
confining himself to the United States, and depreca-
ted it with much energy, while he commended the
philanthropy of his heart. He also knew that he had
some patients on hand, but suggested that such as
would accompany him to Europe for the anticipated
benefit, should do so ; and those who declined should
have returned to them the five thousand dollars which
had been paid. The doctor was not bound to them,
and could not be expected to forego such important
personal interests for the benefit of those who might
at any future period obtain the advantages of his
discovery. Besides, finless he reaped a present har-
vest it would soon be taken from him, in all proba-
bility, as several enterprising persons had already de-
parted for the territory west of the Rocky Mountains,
in quest of the charm by whose magic so great a
good was realized. The doctor smiled, and merely
observed that they had no dear child to urge them on
as he had had, and doubted, if they escaped the dan-
gers of the journey, if their resolution would keep
them on ; besides they had not the information that
he possessed ere be began his pilgrimage, without
which he was confident he should never have ob-
tained what he sought.

The good doctor was not, however, proof against
the golden arguments of Mr. Lawrence, and before
the interview was closed he had acceded to the terms ;
to secure his adherence to which, the agent proposed
the delivery of the drafts into his possession on the
following evening, upon the interchange of signatures
to the respective bonds. Upon the following evening
the bonds were duly signed, and the doctor was re-
quired to depart in two months from the date of the
same, the interim being necessary for the correspon-
dence with the relatives of his patients. To avoid
suspicion of his design on the part of the public to
whom he now stood in a certain degree pledged, the
doctor proposed to return each pupil to his friends,
in consideration of the approach of the sickly season,
with instructions to such as chose to accompany him
to Europe, to assemble at New Orleans, at or before
the expiration of the two months, while with his
daughter he would take a trip into the country; and
the agent, if he thought proper, might also make a
summer jaunt into the interior for his own enter-
tainment and recreation. They would separate, how-
ever, at once, to meet again at the appointed time.
The drafts were paid to Dr. Leroy, and he was pledg-
ed to the agent of Lord Melville.

Upon the following day the doctor confided his
views to some intimate friends, hinting that his pur-
pose with regard to the United States would be de-
layed only and not abandoned, and he received a
ready sanction of the measures he had taken for his
own aggrandizement. The mutes were severally
despatched with the necessary conditions of their con-
tinuance with the doctor; who with his beautiful
daughter and his Ohio patient, now the fellow pupil
of Helen, once more deserted New Orleans and their
friends for the wholesome country air.

The season proved a healthy one, and the two
months had nearly expired, when Mr. Lawrence, who
had employed the intervening time in the country,
returned to New Orleans. Four of the doctor's pu-
pils had also taken their respective apartments at his
hotel, and the time approached for the departure of
the whole party for England, and the doctor had not

yet arrived. The appointed day came and no tidings
were received of Dr. Leroy; it passed, a week, a
month had elapsed and the impatience of Mr. Law-
rence induced him to put inquiries on foot respecting
the cause of this strange absence. The friends of
the doctor aided the investigation, and the papers
carried abroad advertisements describing him, his
daughter, and the youthful protege from Ohio, who
had been known as a master Lindley. A strict in-
quiry, however, throughout the state of Ohio failed to
discover a family of the name of Lindley in which a
mute had ever been known. The mystery began to
thicken yet no developements were made. The
mutes at New Orleans had again returned to their
homes, and months and years went on and no one
could tell the whereabouts of the doctor, his daughter
or the boy of Ohio. The agent of Lord Melville
ascertained that the drafts had been negotiated by
Dr. Leroy prior to his departure from New Orleans.
Here ended all. It was generally supposed that the
three had been murdered in the southern country on
the discovery by some desperate characters of the
doctor's wealth, but there was no clue even to their
departure from the city. With him was gone a se-
cret, the loss of which the world would deplore, and
Mr. Lawrence returned to England the messenger of
disappointment to his employer, greater than he could
bear. Lord Melville in a few months sunk into the
grave, and the voiceless girl retired to a convent in
France.

Here, according to common usage, the task of
the narrator should terminate, but that the preceding
pages have developed events which are doubtless to
most of our readers new, strange and inexplicable.
As it is also a fact that but for the sequel, obtained
by the merest accident and affording a key to the
mystery, the foregoing circumstances would never
have been revived, we feel bound to submit an unre-
served and detailed relation of the associating facts.

******

In the autumn of the year 18 — , fourteen years
subsequent to the time heretofore spoken of, the
writer paid a visit of curiosity, in company with an
esteemed friend, a resident of New Orleans, to many
of the public places and amongst them the prisons
of Paris, being in sojourn at that city for a divided
purpose, business and pleasure. In one of these
dismal abodes of the criminal, brief breathing places
antecedent to galley labour, or robing chambers to the
Place de Greve, we found three poor wretches under
sentence of death ; it was Saturday and the gaping
guillotine was to be sated with their blood on the
subsequent Monday. Two of the prisoners were
listening with devout attention to the spiritual in-
struction of a reverend gentleman of the Catholic
faith seated between them, while the third sat apart,
reclining carelessly on his elbow, and regarding with
a dogged and somewhat contemptuous bearing the
more consistent occupation of his companions, who
were repeating with much earnestness the responses
in Latin, connected with some particular ordinance
of their faith. Impressed with the thought that, be-
lieving in another doctrine, he had been neglected by
the officiating priest, we entered into conversation
with him and questioned him as to the state of his
mind. He answered us in bad French, and finding
that he spoke English perfectly, the conversation was
afterwards carried on in that tongue. "The priest"
he said, " had offered him his services but he decline d

DEAF AND DUMB.

65

them. He was no religionist and he expected no-
thing now, if what the priests said, was true; he
should take his chance; he was brought up in a dif-
ferent belief and it was too late to change now." We
asked him with what persuasion of Christians he as-
sociated himself. He replied that he was no Christian,
and declined any further remark on that subject. In
answer to our questions, whether he was English or
American, he confessed himself the former, but with
a round oath declared that he much preferred the
latter place; he had lived there some time in his
youthful days, and was delighted with it. My friend
told him that he was an American.

" Humph," exclaimed the prisoner, carelessly, " and
from what part ?"

" From New Orleans," was the reply.

" Indeed," said the criminal ; " I know New Or-
leans very well. How long have you resided there?"

" I was born there, and have spent the greater
portion of my life in that city," replied my friend.

" Ah, well — it is a growing city," and the man
paused as if uncertain what he should do, yet he evi-
dently desired to say more.

" Is it long since you were there ?" inquired my
companion.

" Yes — that is — it is some dozen years or more.
I remember a strange discovery took place about the
time I was there — a certain Doctor had effected a
cure of some deaf and dumb persons ; his name I
think was — let me see — "

" Leroy," said my friend, " I have sad cause to
remember it well. His visit to America cost me the
life of a dear brother — "

" Ha !" exclaimed the prisoner, " your name ?"

" Howard — Charles Howard — my brother's name
was Frank."

"Good God ! is it possible !" ejaculated the prison-
er, clasping his manacled hands with much energy.
" You never heard what became of the Doctor, I
suppose," he added.

" Never," replied Howard, " from the time of his
mysterious disappearance till the present hour; it was
generally supposed that with his daughter and pro-
tege he was murdered."

The felon smiled.

" You know something in relation to it, and per-
haps can explain it all ; will you impart what you
know," inquired Howard.

" I will think of it ; I am to die at eight on Mon-
day. If you will take the trouble to visit me to-
morrow, I may perhaps — I will rub up my memory,
and will — tell you something. You must leave me
now, as it is time to close the cell for the evening,
and the jailer is impatient. Do not fail."

We assured him that he should see us as early as
we could obtain admission, and took leave of him
with feelings of intense curiosity.

By a special order we procured admission on the
following day, and were conducted to the cell of the
condemned. They were absent, the jailer said, in
the chapel of the prison attending to their own funeral
sermon. When it was concluded, they were recon-
ducted to the cell, our new acquaintance entering
with a careless air, and flinging his chain heavily
down, he adjusted the link to the staple in the wall,
where it was fastened by the jailer, when, seating
himself on his iron bedstead, he motioned us to his
side. After some preliminary conversation, in which
an unsuccessful effort was made to touch him with
6*

the awful fate that awaited him, he waved all further
observation on that subject by desiring our attention
to what he had to relate. His narration was free
and unreserved, and made full and complete by the
questions which from time to time were put by How-
ard. The substance of it will be found annexed,
which we have arranged as a faithful sketch of

THE STORY OF THE CONDEMNED.

My father was the son of parents in moderate
circumstances, who in order to secure to him the
benefits of a good education, placed him at a board-
ing school in Rochester. Naturally of an unsettled
disposition and impatient of confinement, a severe
flagellation for a petty fault as he has told me, induced
him to run away. Ignorant of the adjoining country,
night found him tracing a narrow path in the woods,
which presently conducted him to the merry circle
of a gipsy bivouac. His earlv prejudices against the
race alarmed him at this discovery, and he would
have avoided an introduction to the party, had not
the quick eye of a young girl caught a gleam of the
fire reflected from the gilt buttons of his jacket, as he
stood half concealed in the underwood. A hail from
the men at once determined him to meet them, and
in the spirit of adventure, after faithfully relating the
facts of his case, he accepted their proffered hospitality
of a supper and a blanket, and for the first time in his
life, and most unwittingly withal he went to sleep, not
" lordly," but gipsy drunk with gin. The next day
he found sufficient amusement in the novelty of his
situation, and wanted no persuasion to join the
youthful throng in their woodland sports and merri-
ment. His fate was sealed, he became attached to
their vagrant life, and continued with them eight
years and in that time travelled near the whole of Eng-
land. At the age of twenty-two he grew enamoured
of a beautiful girl some two or three years younger
than himself; she was the daughter of the chief
of the gang, and my father, who had grown in
favour by his daring and cunning exploits, was an
accepted suitor, and the nuptial day was appointed.
In the mean time, however, my revered parent was
detected in a burglary, tried, convicted, and sentenced
to seven years' transportation. In New South Wales
he acquitted himself with great credit in the capacity
of servant in the Governor's house, and enjoyed an
opportunity, which he improved, of completing a good
English education, the foundation of which had been
laid years before. He served his time and returned
to England, resolving to have no further connexion
with his former friends. His resolution, however,
could not utterly suppress his curiosity to know what
had become of Lilla, his former inamorata. Having
supplied himself with some funds, perhaps by his indus-
try, but more probably by picking a pocket, he looked
up a party of gipsies, and by inquiry informed him-
self that Lilla was now at the head of the gang, her
father having died a year since ; and that her spirited
management of affairs had made her a great favourite.
She was still single, and beautiful as ever, and was
supposed to be with her party, near Colchester, in
Essex, where the fair was about to take place. For
this city my father posted with due haste, found his
beloved faithful to her first attachment, and moved with
much joy at his return. This may appear strange
to you, sir, but to those familiar with life amongst
our vagrant race, such instances of enduring affection
are by no means miracles, nor indeed very rare,. My

66

DEAF AND DUMB.

father's resolution was not proof against his love,
and he was duly united to his beautiful Lilla, accord-
ing to the ceremonies of our people, and formally
installed chief of the gang. The first offspring of
their union was a girl, who was also named Lilla ;
two years afterwards my mother gave birth to a boy.
I am that boy. She had no other children, and of us
she was passionately fond. Years passed on, and
according to my father's assertion, he always con-
templated removing us, his children, from the influ-
ence of gipsy life before it had power to hold us by
its peculiar fascinations, or to command our ad-
herence by an association with its followers or a
participation in their iniquities. I had nevertheless
attained the age of twelve years, when one of two
events occurred, which paved the way for our aban-
donment, for ever, of our party and our tribe.

One day, during a violent thunder storm, a young
lady, in company with her father, was thrown insen-
sible from her horse, which was killed under her by
lightning near our encampment in Kent. Necessity
compelled them to accept the temporary shelter and
accommodation which my father tendered. In the
course of their brief sojourn, my father learned that
his guest of an hour was no other than Lord Mel-
ville, one of the richest noblemen of Kent. His
daughter, who was his only child, was deaf and dumb,
and her father, who seemed absolutely to live in the
happiness and enjoyment of his daughter, made ma-
nifest, even to us, the deep grief to which he was the
suffering martyr, in consequence of what he was
pleased to term, such an afflicting dispensation of
Providence. He looked upon my sister with feelings
akin to envy, as she prattled her nonsense to him,
and discoursed, by the use of her fingers, with his
silent girl. He dropped the observation that he would
willingly part with half his fortune, nay all he was
worth in the world, and change places with us, if his
poor child but enjoyed the common gifts of nature
as developed in the person of my lively sister. This
was evidently the besetting calamity of his life, and
it was made to appear in every turn of the conver-
sation. After a time, his lordship, with his daughter,
departed for the mansion of Sir Carleton Howes, in
that gentleman's carriage, which, in acknowledgment
of a note from his lordship, had been sent for the
accommodation of his daughter.

It was but a few weeks subsequent to this event,
that my mother died in consequence of a second
attack of epilepsy, the first having, some time previ-
ously, completely prostrated her nervous system, and
left her a helpless invalid. This was the second of
those circumstances of which I just now spoke in
connection, as having effected our separation from
gipsy life. My father one morning assembled the
" gang," and delivered to them a brief address, stating
his purpose to leave them for ever, and taking with
him a handsome sum of money, and a valuable col-
lection of jewels which had accumulated in the pos-
session of the ladies of the gang, which were by in-
dividual right his own, as the husband of Lilla, though
by general tenure, the property of the band, accom-
panied by one of our old companions, an artful man
named Elcomb, myself, and Lilla, he departed. There
was not one dared to question his acts, for they knew
his hand had been stained with gipsy blood, the con-
sequence of disobedience. I need not explain — I
should regret to say that I, in addition, knew that he
had other blood upon his head, in a highway robbery,

in which, though but a boy, I was by accident a par-
ticipant.

My father took possession of a small house, a few
miles out of London, and from that time Lilla and
myself were ordered to be deaf and dumb. We had
often assumed these misfortunes before, as they aided
deception in fortune-telling amongst the villagers, but
now without a knowledge of the object to be accom-
plished, we were subjected to the practical effects of
various devices on the part of my father and his com-
panion Elcomb, to betray us from our assumed con-
dition. We had certain hours of recess, in which my
father lavished his attentive care on our instruction ;
with Lilla he was nervously observant, and with
natural gifts of no ordinary quality, she became in a
short time quite an accomplished girl. Her person
began to develope itself, and, though the evidence of
a brother may be deemed partial, a more lovely being,
and one more calculated to fascinate the eye and cap-
tivate the heart of man, I never saw. The admixture
of the pure gipsy blood of her mother, with the quali-
ties of the Saxon father, was most happy in producing
a being that approached so near to personal perfec-
tion. In the school in which our young days were
spent, however, vice preponderated over virtue, and
beneath so fair an exterior, the subtle elements of
crime, though dormant, yet lay obedient to the
tempter's hand, and wakeful to the slightest touch.
That tempter was her father. In the presence of
Elcomb, he one morning explained the plan, which
with him he had matured.

[Here the narrator finds it unnecessary to detail
the explanation given by the condemned, as it has
already been seen in the fulfilment throughout these
pages. It also becomes condensed in the sequel.]

My father, whose real name was Leroy, now re-
sumed it with the title of Doctor prefixed, and accom-
panied by Lilla, who exchanged that for the more
christian name of Helen, set sail for New Orleans,
the whole plan having been conducted with a single
eye to the amount to be extorted from Lord Mel-
ville, as an inducement for the pseudo-doctor to visit
England, and undertake the cure of his child. At
New Orleans he found his proposition quite accepta-
ble to popular credulity, and success, chiefly through
the instrumentality of my sister, whose art and beauty
were equally unrivalled, soon became certain. She
was loaded with presents, which she took good care
never to refuse. Of course, the whole story relative
to the manuscript of Indian travel, was a sheer fabri-
cation. An awful consequence of the fraud, however,
ensued, and in relating this, I only repeat the tale as
it was told to me by both my father and sister ; you,
Mr. Howard, fortify yourself, to hear the true history
of your brother's death.

Young Howard was admitted to a familiarity which
his frank nature urged him to use even to the habitual
freedom of a member of the family ; he was com-
pletely the slave of that beauty which had artfully en-
chained him. On that fatal day, memorable to his
friends by his awful death, he had passed up stairs,
and entered the room before he was noticed by its
inmates, my father and sister, who were at that un-
lucky moment holding a conversation in a low tone
of voice ; Howard was of course stupified with aston-
ishment to hear and behold the beloved of his soul, in
free conversation. Words, uttered in tones musical
as a harp, by her he had deemed voiceless by nature,
transfixed him to the spot, himself as mute as he had

DEAF AND DUMB.

67

deemed his love. He heard the boast that the vile
plot in which they were engaged was more profitable
than gipsy life, and in an instant, 'the secret was be-
fore him in its most repulsive form. They were
English gipsies then, engaged in one of the most
daring frauds, that perhaps was ever conceived. The
lovely being too, whom his heart believed was an
angel in sojourn below, forbade to speak lest she
should betray the joys of heaven — whose young
breast, he almost feared the sweet south wind might
visit too roughly — was now fallen, fallen — fit to
mate with Lucifer, not with her fellow-creature, man.
He was first observed by Lilla, who slightly shrieked;
my father started and blushed, doubtless with shame,
that he had suffered himself to be thus detected ; but
he was immediately afterwards deathly pale. Then
Howard should have fled, and had he known the
man, he would have done so. Desperate, but col-
lected, my father approached him, and pointed to a
chair, then calmly locked the door.

" Well, sir," he began, addressing Howard, " you
know all. There is the object of your love — what
do you propose ?"

" Propose, sir," replied Howard ; " I have nothing
to propose."

" You will not betray us," said my sister. Howard
started at the sound of her voice, and looked at her
long and fixedly. He was suffering the conflict of
his resolution and his love.

" I am lost in astonishment," he exclaimed.
" You will not betray us," repeated my sister.
"Such a nefarious scheme must necessarily be ex-
posed," he replied, in a tone of authority.

" Nay, sir, there is no necessity for it," my father
observed in an ambiguous tone ; " for instance, your
wealth will compensate me for the failure of the
plan ; will you marry the girl ?"
" Of course, I cannot."

" Then there is but one alternative," said my father.
" To make her my mistress, I suppose," interrupt-
ed Howard, unsuspectingly.

" No, boy, it is this," exclaimed my father, in deep
guttural tones that seemed to hiss through his teeth,
and snatching a Spanish dagger from Howard's vest,
he plunged it rapidly twice into his heart. The young
man fell dead. Still coolly, but hastily, arranging what
was to follow, my father left the room, and slowly
descended the stairs. At the door of the hotel he
paused, and held one of the waiters in conversation a
minute relative to the weather, and concluding that it
would rain, directed the man to go up stairs for his
umbrella. It was for the footsteps of the waiter that
Lilla eagerly listened, as she remained locked in the
room with her dead admirer. They came, and she
at once commenced in the room a pretended struggle,
rushed across the apartment, thrust her arm through
a pane of glass, tore her fan, and lastly, raising the
body of Howard nearly erect, with a scream she
threw it heavily to the floor. Unlocking the door,
she rushed out with the dagger in her hand. What
followed, you know full well ; the trial, the acquittal,
and the shouts of the multitude in honour of the sup-
posed heroine. Oh, how willingly mankind is duped.
I now go briefly to explain the rest. On quitting
New Orleans, instead of going to the Rocky Moun-
tains, they went together to a little village in Ohio,
where by appointment I met them, having landed
according to the plan, at New York, a short time
previous. Here we had a small house, and my father

worked at the turning business, of which he professed
to have some little knowledge. He did very little
work, however, as we had plenty of money, though
we kept an outward appearance of great poverty.
When sufficient time had expired, my father and
Lilla again set out for New Orleans, and it was
managed so as to arrive at the time of a great fete
in honour of the birth-day of Washington. Nothing
could have been better conducted. The practical evi-
dence of the success of the Indian tour was given
before a crowded ball-room, and the next day, not
New Orleans alone was to enjoy the triumph, for
letters were despatched by the company that had
been present, to all parts of the Union.

In due time I came on as a patient, bringing with
me a draft for five thousand dollars, which had been
kindly sent for the purpose by my generous parent.
You know the history of the extraordinary cure he
wrought in me. It brought him several patients, and
a large sum of money. But the climax was approach-
ing. Elcomb remained in England, and received all
newspapers, letters and documents relative to the as-
tonishing events going on in America ; a portion of
which, such as were relevant to the purpose, were
duly put into the possession of Lord Melville. My
cure had satisfied his lordship, and now, aware of the
vast harvest of wealth which was open for the doctor
to gather in America, got impatient for these ser-
vices for his daughter, he despatched the brother of
his steward, Mr. Lawrence, with full power to put the
doctor in possession of thirty thousand pounds, if that
sum would tempt him to visit England. This was
done, and you know under what circumstances we
left New Orleans. My father having converted the
bulk of his ill-gotten wealth into a bill of exchange
on Paris, conveyed us with him to Philadelphia, from
which port we sailed under an assumed name for
Lyons, where we had nearly arrived before the time
we were expected in New Orleans. What followed
in America you know better than I do, but of the
fate that was reserved for us, you are ignorant. My
father, after giving a third of the whole profits of the
scheme to Elcomb, who met us in Paris, purchased
a small farm in Lombardy where we lived in compa-
rative quiet, till Elcomb, having squandered his share,
came and demanded fifty thousand francs, which was
denied him. He threatened to inform of the murder
of Howard, and expose the whole affair. Fool, he
ought to have known that the same arm was still as
strong as ever. The threat was scarcely out of his
lips, when his skull was cleft with a blow from the
poker, dealt by my father's hand. Elcomb was buried
in a little wood on the farm, and there was an end
of the traitor.

It was but a few months after this event, that Lilla
went off in company with a colonel of horse. Her
desertion from his roof preyed on my father's thoughts
so heavily, that it produced a melancholy which gra-
dually impaired his mind, and his body was found one
morning in the brook on his farm, into which he had
either fallen by accident, or had thrown himself, and
was drowned. Lilla lived a courtezan at the court
of Charles the Tenth, where I saw her on visiting
Paris ; she was shot dead at the Hotel de Ville, on
one of the trois jours of July. Sir, I am the last of
the guilty four. My history is brief: I chose the
gaming table as my passport to punishment. I was
playing a few weeks ago with a young nobleman, at
Frescati's ; he accused me of foul play — I gave him

68

ON SEEING, AT HOLYROOD PALACE, ETC.

lie ; he returned it with a blow, and I stabbed him to
the death. To-morrow morning the executioner will
exhibit to the gaping multitude, the " Finis" of my
brief edition of villany. I have one request to make,
gentlemen ; that, as a return for what I have taken
the trouble, voluntarily, to impart, you will attend me
to the place of execution.

We assured him we would do so, and then urged
him to the contemplation of his fate, proffering our
services to the direction of his mind to the hope set
before him. He peremptorily forbade any interference
on this subject, declaring that if it produced any effect
on him at all, it would be one of distress. We left him,
hopeless of rendering him the slightest spiritual aid.

On the following morning the party were just about
to set out for the place of execution, when we arrived
at the prison. The streets were thronged as the black
van passed through them. We were at the foot of
the guillotine, before I observed it, and, looking up,

a shudder ran through my frame. I was sitting by
Leroy, who looked at me and smiled. He whispered
a wish that he could die before his companions, say-
ing that he did not like the idea of witnessing the
operation upon others. I spoke to the executioner,
and obtained from him the favour. The clock struck
the hour appointed and the victim rose, grasped our
hands firmly in his, begged Howard's forgiveness for
whatever agency he might indirectly have had in the
death of his brother, bade us farewell, and with a
firm foot mounted the steps of his funeral throne;
placing himself against the plank, he was pinioned to
it, and, to the question of the executioner, replied that
he was ready. The board was tilted to a horizontal
position, and his bare neck lay directly beneath the
suspended blade. A black wand waved from the
window of the officer's carriage, the bolt was drawn,
the ponderous knife rushed clanging down the grooves,
and the head of young Leroy rolled from our sight
for ever.

Written for the Lady's Book.

ON SEEING, AT HOLYROOD PALACE, THE CANDELABRA WHICH MARY, QUEEN OF
SCOTS, BROUGHT FROM FRANCE.

BY MRS. LVDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

And didst thou bear this relic here

From France, where genial sunbeams shine,

Where ripen'd, sweet, thine early bloom,
Thou fairest flower of Stuart's line ?

And say, at twilight's dusky hour,
Did shadowy wings around it glide,

And imag'd forms of lost delight,
Flit mournful o'er its fretted side?

But did its light grow dim and cold,
Amid thy realm so drear and lone,

Whose ruthless manners unrefin'd,
So ill interpreted thine own?

Ah, were thine errors all resolv'd,

To their first elemental fount,
Would not thy dark and evil times

Share deeply in their dire amount?

We may not say, we only know

Their record rests with Him on high,

Who judgeth not like finite man,
With partial, or vindictive eye.

I've stood upon the castled height,
Where green Carlisle her turrets rears,

And mus'd upon thy prison cell,
Thy fallen hopes, thy captive tears,

When from Lochleven's guarded fosse,
From Langside's stormy gleam of bliss,

Thou threvv'st thyself on woman's faith,
On kindred blood — for this 1 — for this !

I've mark'd along the curdled moat,
Thy stinted walk, 'mid soldiers grim,

And dream'd thine echoed footsteps still,
Came mingling with thy vesper-hymn.

Yet, naught 'mid all thy storied lore
Hath brought thee to my soul so near,

As every household vestige slight,
Old Holyrood doth treasure here.

Thy chair of state, thy couch of rest,
Too oft, perchance, of wakeful woe,

The classic arras coarsely wrought,
The walls where ancient pictures glow,

The work box, whence thy tasteful hand
Drew forth the embroidery rich and rare,

And in that quiet toil forget
The rankling thorns of regal care,

The basket, where thy infant's robes,
With blush of kindling pride were plac'd,

As warm thy raptur'd bosom drank
The joys that none hut mothers taste,

Thy closet nook, thine evening board,
Rude Darnley's armour scatter'd nigh,

Fierce Ruthven's hoarsely murderous shout,
And Rizzio's shrill, imploring cry.

Thy pangs, thy faults, thy fearful doom,
Come thronging back, with magic power,

And wake the pitying tear for thee,
Old Scotia's bright and smitten flower.

Edinhurg.

Nobility is not only in dignity and ancient line- very nobility, and this nobility bringeth man to dig-
age, nor great revenues, lands, or possessions, but in nity. Honour ought to be given to virtue and not to
wisdom, knowledge, and virtue, which, in man, is riches.

REPENTANCE.

69

Written for the Lady's Book.

REPENTANCE.

BY MISS M. A. FAIR MAN,

« Fanny Sedley, Fanny Sedley," shouted little Em-
ma Preston, as she rushed joyously into the room
where the lady was sitting with the elder Miss Pres-
ton, " I have just got a letter for you from the post-
office — and I guess who wrote it too — give me a
kiss and you shall have it. Oh, Augusta! see how
red her cheek is."

Miss Sedley, hardly conscious of what she did,
held out her hand for the letter. " The kiss first,
Fanny, the kiss first," exclaimed the little girl, ro-
guishly putting her hands behind her, and holding up
her sweet mouth. Then suddenly changing her mind,
she tossed the letter into the lady's lap, clasped her
neck for an instant, and laughing and shaking her
rich auburn ringlets flew away as quickly as she had
entered.

" Careless, light-hearted childhood," murmured
Miss Sedley, as her eyes followed the bright creature
through the open door; " Oh, that for one little hour
I could recall the happiness of that blessed season!"

" Ah, dear Frances !" Miss Preston replied,
" through all our lives, our bountiful Father in
heaven scatters the materials of happiness about
us; is it not our own fault if we fail to arrange and
combine them so as to produce it ?"

Miss Sedley sighed, and shook her head sadly.
'"The mind is its own place,' Augusta, and is little
moved by external things. Think you the fabled
' music of the spheres,' if it should break upon the
ear, could soothe to peace a despairing spirit ?"

" Well, the elements of our happiness or misery
be within us, let us not accuse the harmonies of na-
ture, while our own passions produce the discord."

" But, Augusta, nature implanted these passions,
then why are we to blame when we follow where
they lead ?"

" Because God has given us reason and conscience
to guide and control them."

"Alas! how often do reason and conscience turn
traitors to duty."

"Rather say that we wilfully refuse to listen to
their ' still small voice' "

" Be it so ; still they prove too weak for their
office, and the passions remain paramount."

" But, remember Frances, it is not from any ne-
cessity which we cannot control, but because we
choose to have it so, we give the reins to our passions
and then say that they overmaster us, we choose to
follow our own inclinations, rather than the higher
and safer lights which God has given us, and then
seek to wash our hands of the responsibility by say.
ing we could not help it, we did but follow the gui-
dance of feelings that nature had implanted. But is
the plea valid ? Will it be admitted ? If we will
break through the barriers to evil which our Father's
love has placed about us ; if we will not only refuse
to hear reason and conscience, but turn away from
His revealed word, and put from us His grace, which
if we trust, will keep us in the hour of temptation,
shall we not richly deserve the threatened penalty?''

Miss Sedley turned away with a gesture of impa-
tience, " You know, Augusta, I have no sympathy
with sentiments like these."

" Oh, that you had, dear Frances ! Oh, that your
unquiet spirit knew the peace of trusting in a Savi-
our's love, an Almighty Father's care !"

Miss Sedley gave no answer, for she had fixed her
eyes upon the letter, and seemed wrapped in its con-
tents, but, alas ! the bright flush of eager expectation
soon died away, and she grow pale and cold as
marble.

" Yes, Charles," she murmured to herself, for she
had evidently forgotten the presence of her friend,
" we have indeed no other alternative ; and shall we
shrink from this ? — never, never. They think all our
hopes are crushed, but we still cling to one of which
they dream not. They may multiply the barriers
which part us ; they may increase their strength, till
this poor frame of earth yield to its fate — but the free
spirit laughs at them all. — Aye, they may divide us
in life, but they cannot sever us in, death."

Augusta grew sick and faint, as a dim perception
of the terrible meaning of these words, broke upon
her mind. Once or twice she essayed to speak, but
could produce no sound, and to rise, but her limbs
utterly refused to support her; she was compelled
therefore to hear while Miss Sedley continued in
half audible murmurings to respond to the sentiments
of her letter.

" Ah ! why indeed should we continue to endure
life when it becomes one long, long, agony? When
the weary and overburdened spirit sighs for repose,
why should we not ' loose the silver cord,' and lay
us down in our quiet resting-place ?"

As she pronounced the last words, a thought of' the
something after death,' for the first time seemed to
strike her, and a slight shudder passed over her frame.
" Our quiet resting-place — are we sure of that ? If we
should find the tale of an hereafter true too late? —
if after death there be a judgment — but / will not
think of that, I will not think of that"

Augusta, meanwhile, had been gathering up her
energies, and considering what was best to be done,
and she now glided noiselessly from the room, to
seek counsel from her mother.

" Alas !" said Mrs. Preston, when she had finished
her thrilling tale, " what a strange and fearful influ-
ence has this Eliot acquired over her. I did not
before suspect that she had drank so deeply at the
poisoned fountain of his infidelity."

" Oh ! it is heart-breaking to think of it — to think
that the purity of her mind is sullied — her religious
principles shaken — her sense of moral obligation
weakened, and the energy and enthusiasm of her
character, that rightly directed might have achieved so
much, wasted upon a worthless object. She little
thought when she stepped aside from the " charmed
circle of propriety,' and permitted the seducing homage
of this ' bold, bad man,' whither that first step in evil
would lead."

70

REPENTANCE.

" I have always considered that step but the natu-
ral consequence of a mistaken education. Beautiful
and gifted beyond the ordinary lot of woman, and the
sole daughter of her doting parents, she has been
flattered all her life long, and scarcely a shadow of
restraint laid upon her wayward humours even in
childhood ; she grew up, therefore, not vain and fri-
volous, that were a lesser calamity, but proud, and
self-willed, with an unwarrantably high opinion of
herself. Then she was taught to consider intellectual
attainments of the first importance ; while religious
principle, the only safe and infallible guide, and which
should always be made the basis for the superstructure
of education, was kept in the back ground. Her impe-
tuosity of feeling was rather encouraged than checked,
and her imagination originally too vivid and predomi-
nant, was cultivated, almost exclusively, at the expense
of the graver faculties of the mind. She was also al-
lowed to follow, unrestrained, her own fancy in reading,
and she fed upon the fine-spun theories of poets and
romance writers, till ' all for love, and the world well
lost,' was the creed by which she determined to abide,
long before a fit subject offered to test the sincerity
of her devotion to it. Poor, misguided girl ! had but
a tithe of the pains that made her what she is, been
given to inculcate truth and wisdom, she might have
been the joy, as she is now the grief of her mother.
Nor would she then have permitted the attentions of
this abandoned man. For a woman of delicacy and
principle shrinks from the contaminating approach of
vice. She may pity, but cannot hold communion
with it."

While Mrs. Preston was intent upon tracing effects
to their causes, Augusta stood trembling with impa-
tience and anxiety, awaiting the conclusion of this
long speech. " But, mother," she said, as soon as it
was finished, " what is to be done — what can we
do?"

" I fear, my child, we can but watch with her and
pray for her ; there can be little hope from argument
or persuasion in the present state of her mind."

" Alas ! no. She remains to their influence ' im-
passive as polar ice to the sunbeam. Oh! mother!
my heart sinks within me at the thought."

" What then would you do, Augusta ? Send back
the unhappy girl to her infirm and almost heart-
broken mother; or leave her to her own wayward
will?"

"Neither, dear mother. But I would do just what
I ought — watch and bear with her patiently."

"Well, we will go to her now; it is not best she
should brood long over the contents of such a letter."

They paused before the half open door of Miss
Sedley's apartment, for she was walking rapidly back-
wards and forwards, in a fit of high excitement, that
often succeeded one of deep despondency, in her im-
petuous and undisciplined mind. The paleness and
statue-like composure of her face was gone — every
feature seemed to speak — a dark red spot glowed in
her cheek — rays of living light flashed from her
eyes — and her delicately moulded lips, just parted,
seemed ready to pour forth the uncontrollable emo-
tion which swelled her heart.

"Aye," she said, in her own full, clear, harmonious
tones, " Charles Eliot is yet true to himself and to
me — he lives only in the atmosphere of love — he
has given up his soul to the delicious sentiment — the
ethereal essence pervades his whole being, no grosser
element commingles with it. Ah! once, for an in-

stant, my woman's heart shrunk within me — but now
it is worthy to claim communion with his. It trem-
bles not, it falters not — it has caught a spark of his
inspiration."

Mrs. Preston threw wide open the door of the
apartment, and stood before the fancied heroine, as
she pronounced the last word. " What an unintel-
ligible rhapsody, Frances, to a plain person like me,"
she said, in her own inimitably calm and quiet way,
at the same time fixing her mild, searching eye upon
the startled girl ; " I dare say it has a meaning though,
if it could but be made palpable to my dull percep-
tion— pray, explain it."

Miss Sedley, heroine though she were, could not
stand that look, nor the cutting sarcasm of the words;
abashed and blushing, after an ineffectual struggle to
bear it bravely, her dark, flashing eyes were abso-
lutely compelled to bend their beams upon the carpet.
Indeed, Mrs. Preston was the only one of whom she
stood at all in awe. That lady's perfect integrity,
excellent sense, almost unerring judgment, and entire
consistency, commanded a respect, and exerted an
influence, which she was too proud to acknowledge
even to herself.

Mrs. Preston paused for an answer, but none came,
and she went on. " Now this living in an ' atmos-
phere of love,' the ' ethereal essence,' and ' one
heart's catching inspiration from another,' is all mys-
ticism to me ; I don't understand a word of it. Just
to oblige me, step . down from your pedestal, and
make it level to the comprehension of such a plain
common-sense person as myself. — No answer? —
Well, perhaps I ask too much. I am doubtless un-
worthy to listen to revelations of such mighty import,
which may be a sort of free-masonry, and the sign
communicable only to the initiated."

Again she paused for a response, but Frances only
said in a hesitating way which was a striking contrast
to her usually decided manner, " You have been a
wife, Mrs. Preston, and — and — "

After waiting a reasonable time for the conclusion
of the sentence, Mrs. Preston with a slight tremu-
lousness of tone, replied, " Yes, Frances, I have been
a wife and a happy one ; but that does not render at
all more intelligible the high-flown nonsense to which
I have been listening. My husband was a man
of sense and a Christian, and he asked, and I gave,
only such love as God permits one of his rational
creatures to bestow upon another — not idolatry, not
an attachment exclusive, absorbing, and supreme ;
which demanded the sacrifice of reason, principle,
duty, and happiness, here and hereafter, but a tranquil,
rational, tender sentiment, which was the charm of
my existence. But this infatuation of yours — what
is its character? and what its object? Infatuation
is its fit designation ; for love it is not, in the pure,
and proper, and blessed sense of that much abused
word."

Miss Sedley raised her astonished eyes. " You
doubt it!" said Mrs. Preston. "I believe enduring
love must rest upon enduring qualities — upon that
higher, holier portion of our being, whose hope and
destiny is heavenward. Grace, beauty, manner, may
charm for a little while ; but the pure, confiding, self-
sacrificing affection, which continues unchanged
through all the cares, sorrows, and reverses of life,
is more a tribute to moral excellence, than personal
attractions, or even intellectual eminence. Now upon
what rests yours Frances? — upon your own imagi-

REPENTANCE.

71

nation, which has embodied in your lover every per-
fection, and erected him into the ' God of your idol-
atry'— truth had nothing to do in the affair. But is
it not better to listen to her voice before it be too late?
Is it not better to look at the future, as it must be,
if passed with such a man, rather than through the
rainbow-tinted prism which hope and imagination
present to you."

" You are talking, Mrs. Preston, as if Charles
Eliot" — she hesitated.

" Were just what he is, Frances — a hopeless pro-
fligate."

" No, no, no," exclaimed Miss Sedley, vehemently,
springing from her chair and walking rapidly about
the room, the dark red spot which had burned in her
cheek, during the whole conversation, deepening to
crimson, and suffusing her whole face. " Mrs. Pres-
ton, he went to New York unsullied by a thought
of evil. There he was assailed by strong temptation
such as neither you nor I can estimate. You know
his person, his genius, his manners. They won uni-
versal admiration. Invitations clustered, dinner-party
succeeded dinner-party, the wine flowed, and fatal
habits were fixed ere he was aware of danger. But
his lofty spirit will not always remain enslaved — he
is struggling in his bonds — he will break them — he
will be free."

" Frances, he tells you so ; but it is an idle tale.
He did not go to New York ' unsullied by a thought
of evil.' Long before he went there, even in his
boyhood, he doubted, what now he disbelieves. That
is the secret of his vices. He had here," and she
laid her hand upon her heart, " no restraining princi-
ciple, no fear of God ; — therefore, I repeat it, he is a
hopeless profligate."

Miss Sedley covered her face with her hands while
her whole frame shook with emotion. " I cannot
believe it ! He will forsake unhallowed pleasures for
the pure delights of a happy home. He will yield to
the gentle influence of domestic ties, his heart is full
of kind and tender affections. — Ah ! love is trustful
and fearless — I will dare to risk it."

" And so add another name to the long list of
weak and wretched women, who have wrecked their
happiness on that false hope. You are trusting to
the influence of domestic ties; in other words, to
your own influence ; to reclaim him. But Frances
what has it done in its first freshness and strength,
in its very spring-time ? Has it fixed him to any
steady occupation? Has it won him from a single
vicious habit, from one erroneous opinion ? Alas !
it has just power enough to make him eloquent in
professions ; but for every good and useful purpose
has proved utterly impotent. You trust to a hair, to
bind a giant "

" If it be so, I have nothing more to do on earth,"
said Miss Sedley, bitterly,

" Perhaps that would be true, Frances, if you
were sent here merely to gratify a wayward fancy —
if that were the end of your being. If God gives us
life, health, and strength, this fair world for our
dwelling-place, and exactly adapts every sense to
enjoy its beauty, fragrance, and harmony — kindred
and friends, and the delightful sympathies which link
us to our race — the soul and its god-like attributes —
the heart with its exquisite chords, responding to the
lightest touch — above all, the crowning grace, the
priceless treasures of His Word, His Son, His Spirit,
to guide, redeem, and sanctify us, and fit us for a

blissful immortality; aye, if he bestows all these
gifts, so rich, so various, so multiplied, that the mind
feels its own impotence as it attempts to enumerate
them, that we may live for self alone, forgetful of the
great Giver, and unmindful of our high duties and
higher destiny, then indeed we have nothing more to
do on earth the moment we choose to think so. —
But if our responsibilities are commensurate with our
talents — if all the heart and the devotion of the whole
life, be due to our beneficent Father — if every one
of our fellow-beings has a claim upon our sympathy
and kind offices always, when in our power to render
them — if we are but servants, and must give an ac-
count to our Master at an appointed time — then,
Frances, we have enough to do to task our utmost
powers ; enough to fill the most expanded mind, and
the most active hands ; — nor may we quit our station
when we please ; but patiently wait the summons of
Him who placed us here."

These words struck the right chord. Frances
betrayed great agitation while Mrs. Preston pro-
nounced them. She buried her face in her hands,
and struggled, but in vain — her feelings, always im-
petuous, at length burst forth.

" Oh ! I knosv I have been for months a worthless
being ; a weight upon my poor mother's heart ; a
grievous burden to my unequalled brother. One
selfish purpose has absorbed my being, made me re-
gardless of their love, careless of their feelings, un-
grateful for their sacrifices ; it has -fettered my spirit
to earth, and kept it unmindful of its duties, its hea-
venward destinies. Conscience, conscience ! how
often has it told me of wasted time, and perverted
talents, and lost opportunities for usefulness — but I
refused to listen. Now it will be heard — now I feel
it all, bitterly, despairingly."

" Bitterly you may, but not despairingly, my dear,
while there is forgiveness in heaven, or a gospel that
proclaims ' peace and good-will' on earth."

" Forgiveness, peace ! Oh ! what have I to do
with them while that fearful vow hangs over me,"
she exclaimed, in a voice of agony.

" That vow. What vow, Frances ?" Mrs. Pres-
ton asked, with unmoved calmness, and self-posses-
sion.

Miss Sedley gasped for breath as she turned away
and covered her face. Recovering herself, she ex-
claimed, " That vow ! — oh ! no matter, we wont talk
of it. But my hand is promised, and even if I would
perhaps I have no right to go back."

" Frances, it was an unholy compact ; disallowed
with your father's dying breath, yet unsanctioned by
a mother's blessing. Besides, Eliot is not, and never
will be, in a condition to claim its fulfilment. He
who is content in the first vigour of manhood to live
a pensioner upon the bounty of friends, will hardly
have energy enough in after life, to provide for the
wants of a family."

Frances groaned in bitterness of spirit. " Take
away that hope and all that remains to me of life is
a dreary blank."

" You will find duties and responsibilities enough
to fill it, Frances."

"Never, never. Extinguish the sentiment which
has so long formed my world — my whole of exist-
ence and life is without hope or interest — a waveless
sea. Earth left bare, barren, bleak, desolate, not a
trace of vegetation upon its bosom, where could my
poor heart find rest ?"

72

REPENTANCE.

" Where all God's rational creatures must find it,
if they find it at all — in Him. You talk, my dear,
as if this passion were enough to occupy your whole
life. It cannot be, for it has fixed upon an object
so worthless, that it must needs pass away at the
lightest stirrings of awakened reason and conscience.
An immortal spirit can be satisfied only with what is
as enduring as itself. The love that first rises to
God, who is its source, and then flows out in words
and deeds of kindness to all His creatures — such love
alone, Frances, is worthy of beings with gifts and
capacities like ours."

" Blessed are the pure hearts that feel it — but
mine — alas, alas !"

" Blessed indeed ! and yours may be one of them,
dear Frances. Are there any circumstances which
you cannot control, that prevent your becoming a
blessing to yourself, your friends, the world ? — any
thing which withholds you from fulfilling the duties,
of life, but your own perverse, selfish inclination ?
Think well of it ; let reason, truth, and plain common
sense decide the question. In the mean time, I will
go to my domestic affairs, and hear your conclusion
hereafter."

A dark shade sat upon Miss Sedley's brow when
Mrs. Preston left her. " Perverse and selfish ! — is
Mrs. Preston right in applying such harsh epithets to
me ?" she murmured to herself. " Are they true ? —
Alas, alas ! are they not true ? Perverse and selfish
inclinations! Why am I not to my mother, what
Augusta is to hers — her chief earthly stay and bless-
ing ? Why am I not beside her now, in the first
months of her widowhood, when her feeble frame
and stricken heart, require the gentlest ministerings
of affection? — wherefore have I left a brother to
perform those offices of love which belong more ap-
propriately to a daughter's hand ? Is it not because
my mother's peace of mind was less dear to me than
my own wayward will ? because I would not yield to
her wishes and remonstrances ? Oh ! I have been
wrong, very wrong ; I see and feel it all now." And
she buried her face in her hands and gave way to a
burst of anguish.

" Charles, Charles, you ask of me too much. —
Shall I sacrifice a mother's, a brother's happiness —
my own — even my hope of heaven, at your bidding ?
Since I lent an ear to his arguments and tried to be-
lieve them; since I put away my Bible, and the
blessed faith it teaches; since I have followed my
own will, regardless of the ' still small voice' of con-
science, have I known one peaceful hour ? And
what have those opinions done for him ? have they
led him to distinction, usefulness, happiness ? or to —
Oh ! that way I cannot look — and yet it had been
better, perhaps, if I had looked that way long, long
ago ; if I had dared the scrutiny at first, I should not
now have to look back upon so many wretched,
wasted months. Yes, Mrs. Preston is right. That
fearful promise ! with what a leaden weight it presses
upon my heart ! But now I dare not keep it. I
dare not go unbidden into the presence of that Being
who gave me life for noble purposes, with all those
purposes unfulfilled. — And will he persist ? Oh, no,
he cannot ! for there is yet time, and I will write and
plead with him so earnestly that I must prevail."

In this way Frances continued long to commune
with herself. Her thoughts, indeed, were often indis-
tinct and unconnected ; but they had taken a more
rational aspect. For a few of the following days her

anxiety was agonizing. She wrote letter after letter ;
long before the hour in which the mail usually ar-
rived from her native village, she was upon the road,
listening for the first sound of the wheels which con-
veyed it. But day after day she haunted the road,
and the post office in vain. No letter came for her;
and as she walked sadly homeward, Augusta, (for
that faithful friend always accompanied her) felt that
her step grew more and more feeble, and that each
succeeding day, she leant more heavily upon her arm.

One morning, while the girls were out upon their
accustomed errand, Mrs. Preston was called to the
parlour to see the brother of Frances who had just
arrived. She hastened joyfully to him; but the first
glance at his pale, care-worn face, alarmed her.
" Everard," she said, as he relinquished her hand and
sank down, " are you the bearer of evil tidings ?"

" I am, to my poor sister. The wretched Eliot
is no more !"

" And he died by his own hand ?"

" Yes. But how could you know it ?"

She rapidly sketched the events of the last few
days. " Then what he wrote and left upon his table
was indeed true," said Sedley, mournfully. " That
since they despaired of a union here, they had en-
gaged to meet where the hard hand of tyranny could
not reach, and the cold voice of interest was unheard,
and the rigid uncompromising opinions, which he
believed were called moral or religious principles,
would no more check the warm gushings of the
heart."

" Miserable man ! gone to his account with all his
sins upon his head !"

" But she is saved ; my misguided, precious sister ;
and better thoughts, you believe, are taking possession
of her mind ?"

" I am sure of it, Everard."

" Dear, dear Frances ! But this intelligence — how
shall we break it to her ? and how will she bear it ?"

" If she sees you, Everard, we shall not need to
tell her ; she will read it all in your unexpected arrival
and care-worn face. You had better retire therefore,
until Augusta and I have in some measure prepared
her."

The door opened and Miss Sedley entered. " Eve-
rard here !" she exclaimed almost with a scream ;
"then all is over!" She pressed her hand upon her
heart, and fainted. Her brother conveyed her to bed,
and it was many days before she left it. Fever and
delirium followed.

It was a balmy morning in May ; the flowers yet
drooped with the early dew, that trembled and spark-
led like "fluid diamonds" in the sunbeams ; the tender
foliage of the trees, just burst from the wintry enve-
lope, wore its softest freshest green ; the merry birds
poured forth one full glad symphony; and life, beauty,
and happiness, filled the earth, the air, the waters.
On such a morning Miss Sedley, just risen from a
sick bed, reclined on an easy chair by the open win-
dow, and bared her pale brow to the breeze, which
bore a perfumed tribute from many an orchard, white
with the " herald blossoms of spring." Long she
sat, with her eyes fixed upon the surrounding scenery:
at last she turned them upon her friend. " How
beautiful!" she said, in a tranquil, chastened manner,
so different from her former vehemence ; " how beau-
tiful! Augusta, have I been blind till now? or did
nature never wear so fair a face before ?"

REPENTANCE.

73

" To me nature's face is fair," replied Augusta,
" through all its various phases; even when ' wrapped
in its winding-sheet of snows.' "

" Yes, I believe it," said Frances, returning her
smile. " I remember when I first came here last
summer, how you always would stop to look at that
brawling little stream, leaping, and dancing, and spark-
ling, among the rocks — but the river, the * beautiful
river,' you used to call it — you would stand upon its
brink, as if transfixed by some fairy spell, and gaze
upon its broad blue surface, and then upon the green
rich meadows which stretch along its banks, and the
sylvan islands that dot it ; and if a bird flitted before
us, or breathed a ' wood note wild,' your eyes bright-
ened, your cheeks glowed. But summer with its
beauties passed away, and the many-tinted leaves of
autumn wrapt you in delight. Winter came, and I
wondered if you would find charms in his stern, cold
face. Yes, you saw rainbow hues in every icicle,
and discovered ten thousand beautiful forms in the
delicate tracery on the frosted windows; when the
earth was covered with new-fallen snow, and every
tree and shrub drooped with the burden, if happily,
the sun struggled through his dark drapery of clouds,
then, all nature was to you a fairy palace encrusted
with gems ; and in a piercing night, when we were
gathered round the fire, you pointed out the stars,
shining more brilliantly in the clear, cold air.

" Forgive me, my dear, that then I thought those
sentiments childish and frivolous ; now, I see they
sprang from a correct taste, a pure heart, and just
conceptions of Him who made all things ; now I can
sympathize in them. Since I learned, through faith in
his Son, to approach God as my Father, a renova-
ting spirit has breathed upon my mind, I seem to have
new faculties, new perceptions, new sources of feeling
and happiness. I have looked on this landscape a
thousand times with a heart unmoved as marble ; but
now it throbs with delight. Now, this perfumed
breeze, yonder white cliffs, just visible in the distance,
the birds' sweet song, all, all, this beautiful creation,
even the delicate tints of this first rose of spring, and
the little dew-drops which gem its leaves, are to me
ministers of gladness ! Surely the wondrous change
must be within, for all without remains the same."

" Yes, dear Frances," Augusta replied, fondly kiss-
ing her cheek, " the heart alone is changed ; its trea-
sures are garnered up in heaven."

The next morning, they were again by that win-
dow ; Frances watching with undisguised earnestness
the long sweep of road visible from it ; and Augusta,
though she tried to fix her eyes upon her work, steal-
ing many a glance in the same direction.

"To-day Everard is coming again," said Miss
Sedley ; " that precious brother. Ah, Augusta ! if
humility were not one of the lessons I have been
learning of late, the weight of obligation I am under
lo him and to you, would press me to earth. A
proud spirit could never bear it. But now I love to
think how duty and affection can triumph over the
selfishness of our nature. Yet I fear Everard will
grieve when he sees your pale cheek and — but it is
not pale now ; that bright glow tells me he is coming.
Yes, just beyond the long line of maples; and how
rapidly he drives, now that he sees the home of all
his hopes."

In a few minutes Sedley was with them, and
Frances as she returned his fond kiss, inquired in a
tone made tremulous by anxiety, about her mother.
VOL. XXII. 7

" Oh ! tell me, Everard, that I have not quite broken
her heart."

" She is much better, my dear," he replied in a
cheerful tone, " nay, I may almost say well, and re-
joicing in her daughter's renovated mind — your last
letter is the cordial which restored her."

" Renovated mind ! — yes, renovated, I trust, by
grace from Heaven. Ah, Everard ! I found sickness
a stern, but salutary teacher. Long hours of help-
lessness taught me, ' to commune with my own heart,
upon my bed, and be still.' There, too, I learned
more perfectly what, indeed, I had begun to learn
before, from the life of Mrs. Preston and Augusta,
the great end of my being. You thought, my dear
friend, when you reasoned with me day after day,
and submitted with immovable sweetness to my per-
verse humours, that I was entirely unsusceptible of
right impressions. Light, even then, was breaking
upon my mind, but I refused to acknowledge it. I
obstinately closed my eyes against it, but could not
utterly shut it out. Then came his last letter, claim-
ing the fulfilment of that sinful promise, made months
before, in a moment of utter abandonment and des-
peration." Here her voice faultered and she dropped
her head upon her brother's shoulder.

" Dear Frances," he said, " do not dwell upon
these painful subjects now; spare yourself till you
have more strength."

" No, dear Everard, I have been sighing for weeks
to open my heart to you, I cann6t rest till I have
done it. You both know the power of his pen.
The impassioned eloquence of that letter again won
the empire of my heart ; I yielded myself wholly to
its influence ; and if Mrs. Preston had not broken the
spell, by her calm reasoning, and plain common sense,
I should have been lost — lost. I wrote to him, and
believed, or tried to believe, he would listen to me —
oh, those days of agony ! But you came, and weeks
followed, of which I can give no account ; then others
of child-like helplessness and blessed reflection. Now
has come the time for action — -the time to prove the
sincerity of my penitence for wasted years. I know
that you and Augusta have delayed your union for
months, that I might have a pleasant home here, at a
distance from the influence which was destroying me,
I know you still intend to delay it, until you shall
think it safe to take me home, or till you can make
arrangements for removing to some other place, far
from those painful associations. No such sacrifices
shall my friends make for me. I would not speak
it proudly, but I think I am myself again. For me
you shall no longer be separated from Augusta ;
neither shall you leave the place where your worth is
known, your talents appreciated, and where you see
a friend in every familiar face. Nor shall my mother
be parted from the home her husband bequeathed to
her — the home of their early love — the place where
his last breath parted — a spot encompassed by the
tenderest and most sacred associations — I will go to
her there, God's grace helping me, and bind up the
heart I have almost broken. There, where in the
spring time of my life, in its first freshness and
strength, self was the god of my idolatry, my own
will the compass by which I steered my frail bark
through time's tempestuous sea, there will I return,
and erect in my heart an altar to the true God. His
Word will calm the troubled waters, and safely guide
my shattered vessel into the Port of Peace."

74

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

Written for the Lady's Book.

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

A STORY OP DOMESTIC LIFE.

BY MISS LESLIE.

[Continued from page 6.]
PART SECOND.

Finding it utterly impossible to prevail on his wife
to consent to a large party, Woodbridge next endea-
voured to persuade her to invite a few families at a
time (sociably, as the ladies call it,) till they had thus
gone round all their acquaintances.

" Why this is worse than the other way" — ex-
claimed Charlotte — " really, Mr. Woodbridge, I am
surprised at you. Did I not tell you, when we were
first married, that ma' never had any evening com-
pany whatever, except when she gave a squeeze once
in the season. The expense of having a few people
at a time is endless, and there is no eclat in it either,
as there is with a large general party; so it is an
absolute throwing away of money."

" Then let us have a large general party."

" Harvey you really make me sick. Will you
never cease harping on the same subject. Is it an
affair of life and death, our paying back again what
we owe to the people who saw proper to invite us.
Shall we lose our characters if we do not ?"

« Yes."

" Was there ever such nonsense."

" Our characters will so far suffer that we shall
be justly considered mean, sordid, and inhospitable."

"Will any one ask us why we do not invite com-
pany. How can they know what reasons we may
have ? And then again how business-like to regard
the thing as an affair of debtor and creditor ! But
men will be men."

" Charlotte" — said Harvey Woodbridge — " I am
tired of this foolish contention — and I insist — (yes- —
I positively insist) on a few of our friends being in-
vited to take tea with us to-morrow evening. Next
week we will have a few more, and so on, till we
shall have entertained at our own house, the whole
circle of our acquaintances."

" But when these people paid me their bridal
visits" — said Charlotte — " I carried my politeness so
far as to hint to every one of them a general invita-
tion to come and see us of an evening without cere-
mony, as soon as they chose."

" No matter"— returned her husband — " why
should they hasten to avail themselves of a mere ge-
neral invitation, when there is no reason for their
not receiving a special one. Among women, I know
very well that volunteer visits are only made where
there is a very familiar intimacy ; and never when
the parties are but newly or slightly acquainted. —
Again — supposing that any of these ladies or gentle-
men were to take you at your word — are we ever
prepared for unexpected guests ? — Could we receive
them in this vile room that you insist on living in ;
or in the cold dark parlours, with the fire out, and no
lamp lighted."

Mrs. Woodbridge began to conclude that, for this
time, she had best give up to her husband ; and there-
fore, with a very ill grace, she finally consented to
his desire ; and he felt so happy at having carried his

point, that he apologized for the epithet he had be-
stowed on the sitting-room ; and conceded that, used
in moderation, there was some convenience in having
such places.

Accordingly, invitations were given to three mar-
ried couples, one widow, two young ladies and three
young gentlemen ; all of them being among those of
our hero's friends, who stood highest in his esteem,
from whom his wife had received the utmost civility,
and in whose eyes he was most anxious that she and
her domestic arrangements should appear to the
greatest advantage. In the interim, he took particu-
lar care to be as amiable to her as possible : only once
giving her occasion to say that " all men were
fools."

Harvey Woodbridge came home from his store in
excellent spirits, anticipating the most pleasant even-
ing he had yet enjoyed in his own house. Anxious
to keep his wife in good humour, he had foreborne
during the day to offer any suggestion as to the pre-
parations for the evening ; merely hinting his hope
that every thing would be arranged in a liberal and
convenient manner.

" Why should you doubt it ?" — replied Charlotte —
" But I am not going to tell you a word beforehand.
Perhaps I shall surprize you."

" So much the better" — said Woodbridge gaily —
and he resolved to trust entirely tq his wife, and to
ask no questions : calculating greatly on this surprise
that was in store for him, and feeling persuaded that,
on this their first reception of evening company, she
would take care that all should be selon les regies.

But, " a change came o'er the spirit of his dream"
when he found that at seven o'clock the parlours
were not lighted ; Mrs. Woodbridge, who had not
yet began to dress, averring that people never arrived
till at least an hour after the time specified, and that
she would encourage no useless waste of oil. About
ten minutes past seven the door-bell rang, our heroine
flew to her toilet, and Mr. Woodbridge had the mor-
tification of seeing the first detachment of visiters
make their entrance by the light of a dim and newly-
kindled fire ; the ladies leaving their cloaks and hoods
in the entry, Charlotte having given orders that no-
body should be shown up stairs. The servant man
now hurried to light the lamps which stood on the
centre-tables, in each parlour, omitting those on the
mantel-piece, because he knew that they were unfur-
nished with oil, as they had never yet been prepared
for use.

In a very short time, all the guests had arrived,
and Woodbridge was obliged for nearly an hour to
entertain them entirely himself; his consort not being
ready to make her appearance. Finally, the beautiful
Charlotte came down elegantly and elaborately drest:
and smiled, and looked sweet, and expressed to the
company her regret at not being aware of their inten-
tion of coming so early, and her delight at their having
done so, as by that means she should have the plea-
sure of enjoying a larger portion of their society.

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

75

Then she took her seat, changing it occasionally
so as to afford each of the guests a share of her talk.
They were all intelligent people", with cultivated
minds and polished manners, and Woodbridge, who
was well able himself to sustain a part in rational
and amusing conversation, thought his wife had never
talked with less tact and more folly. She discoursed
with untiring volubility on new style bonnets, new
style shawls, and remembered with surprising accu-
racy the exact figures of certain new style mousse-
lines de laine, embroidered chalys, and brocaded
satins. And she varied her declamations by describ-
ing divers patterns for worsted work, particularly the
new style dog that she was doing for the cover of a
tabouret, and to which she was going to give a com-
panion in the shape of a basket of fruit, to be taken
in hand for another tabouret as soon as the present
occupant was out of the frame.

After a while, the attention of the visiters began
to flag ; all seemed to grow dull and tired, and our
hero felt that he was becoming dull and tired himself,
and in fact quite out of spirits. The truth was, he
wanted his tea, and thought that all the company did
the same ; and his only hope was now in the exhila-
rating influence of " the cups that cheer but not in-
ebriate." The time-piece showed the hour of nine,
and still there was no sign of tea. He wondered
that it did not appear, and was at a loss to conjecture
what had retarded it.

At last, the conversation subsided into silence, and
after a dead pause, Mrs. Woodbridge proposed music.
For herself she had never been able to acquire any
proficiency in the art, and therefore did not profess
to play. But she had insisted on the purchase of a
highly ornamented instrument as an elegant piece of
furniture for the back parlour, and because, as she
said — » No decent house is without a piano."

She sat two young ladies down to the overture to
La Cenerentola played as a duet, and which she said
was "ma's favourite." During the move which gene-
rally takes place when music is about to commence,
Woodbridge found an opportunity of saying in a low
voice to his wife — " I wish the music had been de-
ferred till after tea. We have already waited too
long, and want something to brighten us."

"People must be badly off when their brightness
depends upon tea" — replied Charlotte, also sotto
voce — " is that the only excuse you can make for
being so stupid this evening — you and your select
friends. But sensible people are always stupid — at
least J find them so." — Then turning away from her
husband, she walked into the other parlour, and tak-
ing her seat beside a lady who was looking over the
splendid annuals that lay on the table, our heroine
remarked that a figure in one of the plates reminded
her of a celebrated actress then performing at the
Chestnut street theatre ; and from thence she ran into
a minute description of the costume of that actress
in every character in which she had seen her. The
truth was that our fair Charlotte never observed or
remembered any thing concerning a play, except the
habiliments of the performers : her eyes being chiefly
engaged in wandering round the boxes, and taking
cognizance of the caps, turbans, feathers, flowers,
and other head ornaments there displayed.

The overture to La Cenerentola was played me-
chanically well, the musicians (like the hearers)
being tired before it began. When it was over, the
young ladies rose from the instrument, and returned

with the rest of the company to the other room : and
it was well they did so, for in a few minutes the
back-parlour lamp died out, self-extinguished for want
of sufficient oil.

At length, Mrs. Woodbridge desired her husband
to touch the bell, and he obeyed with alacrity, thinking
to himself — " Now we shall have tea, to a certainty."
The servant man made his entrance : and (to the
utter dismay of our hero) he handed round a waiter
set out with diminutive glasses of weak sour lemon-
ade, and a silver basket half-filled up with a large
thickly folded damask napkin, upholding some very
small thin slices of stale tasteless sponge-cake.

" Is this the surprise she promised me" — thought
Woodbridge — almost betrayed into an audible excla-
mation. But he checked himself, and with height-
ened colour proceeded to do the honours of the ban-
quet, imagining (and it was not altogether "fancy's
sketch") that he perceived a look of disappointment
in the countenances of the whole company, none of
whom had taken their tea at home, having all under-
stood that Mrs. Woodbridge's invitation included
that refreshment. His wife, however, smiled on ;
and assured the ladies that they would not find the
lemonade too strong, and that if any cake could be
considered wholesome, it was sponge-cake eaten in
moderation.

The remainder of the evening dragged on still
more heavily than the former ; Woodbridge being too
much annoyed either to talk himself or to be the
cause of talking in others ; and also watching anx-
iously, but vainly, for the appearance of something
else in the way of refreshments. It was scarcely ten
o'clock when one of the married ladies signified to
Mrs. Woodbridge that she must go home on account
of her baby. All the other guests seemed eager to
avail themselves of the first symptom of breaking up,
and hastened to take their leaves ; their hostess as-
suring them that it was quite early : that she had not
enjoyed half enough of their company: that she hoped
they had spent as pleasant an evening as she had
done : and that she trusted it would not be long
before they repeated their visit, and that they might
rely on being always treated in the same unceremo-
nious manner. " You had better not put that in" —
thought her husband, as he glanced at her with ill-
concealed disapprobation.

When all the company had departed, and the hus-
band and wife were left to themselves, our hero
(making an effort to throw as much mildness into
his tone as possible) inquired why there had been no
tea for the visiters.

" Because I did not choose to go to any unne-
cessary trouble and expense" — was the reply.

" You went round yourself," — said Woodbridge —
" and gave the invitations verbally. Of course you
asked them to come to tea."

" There is no ' of course' in the case. I do not
remember saying any thing about tea. Perhaps I
did, and perhaps I did not. None of ma's friends
ever gave tea, whether the company was large or
small. And Mrs. Pinchington told me herself that
when she kept house she always expressly asked her
friends to come after tea. I wish i" had done so, and
then these people would not have expected any."

" But why should they not expect any ? At their
own houses they on all occasions have tea. Is tea
and its appendages so enormously expensive that we
cannot afford to give them to our friends ?"

76

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

" I am always at a loss to know what you can
afford, and what you cannot. When after a great
deal of trouble I had made you understand what blond
was, did you not object to my giving eight dollars a
yard for seven yards of blond trimming to go round
the skirt of that gros d'Afrique I had made for Mrs.
Hillingdon's ball. To be sure I did get the blond
notwithstanding : and it was not my fault if it caught
in the flowers of Miss Wireblossom's skirt and was
half torn to pieces that very evening. Then when I
fell in love with that superb gold card-case at Thi-
bault's, did you not meanly refuse to let me have it,
merely because you had' given me a silver one already.
And now when I try as much as I can to economize
in things that are of no consequence, you are dis-
pleased at my not giving tea to these people, as if
they could not just as well have all drank their tea
at home."

" Undoubtedly they would have done so, had it
been possible for them to foresee that they would get
none at our house. Did you not invite them to come
at an early hour ?"

» Yes — but I did not suppose they would be so
simple as to take me at my word. And I asked
them to come socially, just to meet half a dozen
friends. Therefore they need not have expected any
thing."

" Socially ! — Yes, we were all very social indeed.
The truth is that persons accustomed to the refresh-
ment of tea, feel the want of it in the evening after
the fatigues of the day are over. And if they chance
to go without it, they always miss its exhilarating
effects. I wonder you did not want it yourself."

" Oh ! I am not such a fool as to let my vivacity
depend on a cup of tea. Besides — I had some made
for myself, and I drank it in the sitting-room before
I came down. When I had done, the pot was filled
up with water, and left by the fire — I dare say it is
there yet, and if you are in distress for tea, you can
go and get some of that. For my part I am very
sleep}'', and very tired of all this nonsense, and I will
not hear another word on the subject. But I can
assure you this is the last time you shall ever prevail
on me to invite evening visiters. If my society is
not good enough for you, I shall not assist in bring-
ing other people here to entertain you."

So saying, she flounced up stairs, and her husband
sighed, and went out to a restaurant in quest of some-
thing by way of refreshment : experience having
taught him that nothing was to be had in the house.
The lovely Charlotte did not speak to him all next
day, and gave no token of her knowledge that he was
in existence, except that she contrived for dinner
something that she knew he particularly disliked.
Finally, he was fain to bribe her into good humour
by the gift of a turquoise ring.

Time passed on, and Harvey Woodbridge became
sadly apprehensive that for him the bonds of married
life would never be " golden chains inlaid with down."
As his mental vision cleared, the beautiful Charlotte
Augusta seemed every day to grow less and less
beautiful. And too often his recollection dwelt on
some favourite adages of his grandmother, such as —
" Handsome is that handsome does" — and " Marry
in haste and repent at leisure."

No home could be more cheerless than that of our
hero ; notwithstanding that his wife piqued herself
greatly on her domestic qualifications, after the pat-
tern of her ma'. But her housewifery consisted only

in the perpetual practice of a mean sordid and annoy-
ing parsimony, carried into the most minute details
of every thing connected with comfort. While at
the same time there were no limits to her extrava-
gance in all that related to the adornment of her own
person. And her passion for dress, increasing by
indulgence, soon superseded even her love for fine
parlour furniture ; taking care only to preserve what
they had already by using it as little as possible. Till
they learn by experience men have but a faint idea
of the sums that can be expended on the external
decorations of a woman who is resolved on being the
first to adopt every new fashion, and the first to
throw it aside for another, and who takes a silly
pride not only in the costliness but in the number of
her dresses. As Mrs. Woodbridge never gave any
thing away, a spare room (or rather a room which
could not be spared, and ought to have been appro-
priated to a better purpose) was filled with receptacles
for her discarded finery : discarded in many instances
after having been worn but two or three times.

With the usual selfishness and folly of women
whose ruling passion is a love of dress, our heroine
seemed to think that almost every cent expended for
any other purpose was taken wrongfully from the
fund which ought to be devoted exclusively to the
adornment of her own person. Now that her par-
lours were furnished, she appeared to consider all
expenditure for the comfort or convenience of the
establishment as an encroachment on her self-assumed
right to be indulged in every new and costly vanity
that fashion and ostentation was continually intro-
ducing into female attire. Yet though her milliner
and mantua-maker were the most modish, and there-
fore the most extravagant in their charges that Phi-
ladelphia could support, if she wanted any other sort
of work to be executed, she would walk to the most
distant suburbs of the city in all the torture of tight
shoes, to make a hard bargain with a cheap seamstress ;
or she would absurdly hire a carriage for the purpose
of conveying her to cheap (or rather low-priced) stores
in remote places : where, by Mrs. Pinchington's ac-
count, she could buy articles of household necessity
at a cent or two less than in the best part of the
town.

In charity Mrs. Woodbridge gave nothing. When
her feelings sometimes prompted her to afford relief in
a case of severe distress that chanced to fall in her way,
her hand was stayed by some such reflection as that
a quarter of a dollar would buy her a yard of ribbon,
or a half dollar the same quantity of narrow edging :
that seventy-five cents would pay for a pair of white
kid gloves, and that a dollar would purchase a flower
sprig. Therefore the money remained in her purse to
be expended in some article of similar utility to the
above.

A book was one of the last things she would have
thought of purchasing for herself; and she even look-
ed displeased whenever her husband bought a new
one for his own reading ; and wondered what people
that had the Athenaeum to go to, and also a share in
the City Library, could possibly want with any more
books.

As is usually the case in families where the prac-
tice is ultra economy our heroine was always in
difficulties about servants, some of whom left her or
were dismissed by her in two or three days : and few
that were worth having remained more than a week,
for good servants can easily obtain good places.

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

77

She usually began her daily routine by keeping her
husband waiting an hour or more beyond the ap-
pointed breakfast time, for it was always a difficult
task to her to get up in the morning, and it was
deferred and* delayed as if it could be dispensed with
altogether. On this subject no remonstrance on the
part of her husband ever made the slightest impression;
her pretence being that early rising was injurious to
her health. And if he resorted to the desperate
measure of eating his breakfast without her, he was
punished by her not speaking to him for the remain-
der of the day. When breakfast was over, Mis.
Woodbridge devoted an hour to scolding the servants,
and five minutes to arranging her scheme of parsimony
for that day. This she called superintending her
household affairs. Then, having taken off her wrap-
per, and spent two hours in making a very recherche
toilette, she issued forth in a superb dress-bonnet, with
every thing to match, and passed the remainder of the
morning in costly visits to the fashionable shops, and
to the fashionable milliners and mantua-makers ; and
in leaving cards at the doors of such of her acquaint-
ances as lived in handsome houses, and dressed ex-
pensively. The only persons with whom, on making
her calls, she desired an interview, were her cronies
Mesdames Squanderfield and Pinchington. Friends
she had none.

About three o'clock Mrs. Woodbridge went home
and undressed for dinner, which in her house was
always a paltry and uninviting repast : such as her
husband would have been really ashamed of if seen,
and which it was certainly politic to serve up in the
privacy of the little dining-room. As it was, he
thought that at his own table he never felt exactly
like a gentleman ; and his genteel feelings were
brought still lower at times when for a day or two
he found his house without a single domestic : a con-
dition to which a menage of this description is not
unfrequently reduced. Indeed, their servants very
often left them on account of the scanty supply
of kitchen utensils, averring that they were not al-
lowed things to do their work with.

Of afternoons, the fair Charlotte, continuing in
her dishabille, and establishing herself permanently up
stairs for the remainder of the day, pursued her wor-
sted work for a while, and then took a nap till tea-
time, and another after tea, while her husband went
to the Exchange to read the news by the eastern
mail. During the remainder of the evening, by the
glare of a small, low, shadeless lamp, she made
herself an occupation with a bit of trifling and useless
sewing, interrupting him every few minutes with some
querulous remark if he was reading to himself, and
falling into a doze if he was reading aloud. About
nine o'clock, (and sometimes before) she always began
to be very fidgetty on the subject of having the lights
and fires extinguished, the house shut up, and prepa-
rations made by all within it to go to bed with the
utmost dispatch : implying that she saw no use in
wasting fuel and oil any longer : and always worrying
without ceasing till she had carried her point of a
general retirement at an unseasonably early hour.

If a gentleman called in the evening to see Mr.
Woodbridge, the parlour fire had gone out, no lamp
had been lighted there, and all below was gloomy
and cheerless. It was a formidable undertaking to
clear out the grate and rekindle the fire, and to make
an astral lamp burn which was not in order for want
of being in nightly use ; and our aggrieved hero soon

7*

found that of the two evils, the least was to entertain
his friends in the ever obnoxious dining-room : Mrs.
Woodbridge, to avoid being caught in dishabille,
always taking flight to her own chamber before the
guest could find his way up stairs. Under these cir-
cumstances, it was not surprising that their house
was soon relieved from the inconvenience of visiters,
and that the husband and wife were left to the full
enjoyment of each other's society; except when he
occasionally indulged himself by going to the Athe-
naeum for an evening of quiet reading in a well-
warmed and well-lighted room : even though sure to
incur the penalty of finding his lady speechless all the
next day.

Mrs. Stapleford had several times volunteered to
quit for a while the delights of her beloved New York,
and make a visit to her daughter even in Philadel-
phia ; but was always put off with some trifling excuse
from our heroine. Mrs. Woodbridge was well aware
that notwithstanding the close parsimony that pre-
vailed in the paternal (or rather maternal) mansion, her
mother, when a guest at the house of another person,
was greatly displeased if all things were not conduct-
ed on the most liberal scale.

Finally, however, Mrs. Stapleford was allowed to
come. She disappointed her daughter by not admir-
ing sufficiently the handsome parlour furniture, which
(on inquiring the prices of all the articles) she took
much pains to prove could have been purchased far
better and infinitely lower in New York. In return,
Mrs. Woodbridge resolved to make no alteration in
her domestic arrangements during the visit of her
mother; saying when any thing was unusually mean
or comfortless — " You see, nra',I keep house exactly
on your plan." — And indeed she rather outdid her
pattern.

Mrs. Stapleford sometimes hinted a desire that this
strict adherence to her plan might be dispensed with,
but her dutiful daughter would make no improvement,
and endeavoured to persuade her mother that, in
Philadelphia, servants and all other things were far
worse, and more difficult to procure than in New
York. Woodbridge was annoyed, ashamed, and
angry nearly the whole time. The visit was by no
means a satisfactory one to any of the parties : and
Mrs. Stapleford, instead of remaining a month (as she
had at first intended) stayed but a week ; alledging
that she was obliged to hurry back to New York
that she might not lose Mrs. Legion's grand annual
ball, for which there were never less than six hundred
invitations sent out.

Each of the two brothers of our heroine came at
different times on business to Philadelphia, but wisely
stayed at a hotel. Both were invited to take a family
dinner at their sister's house : she assuring them that
they need not expect any thing more than she would
have had for her husband and herself — "As you
know" — said she — " that one never stands on cere-
mony with one's brothers." — This entire absence of
ceremony was indeed so very apparent that the young
Staplefords concluded, for the future, not to forego
an excellent dinner at an excellent hotel for the
scanty and unpalatable repast provided by their sister.

On the first of these occasions, our hero bore his
vexation in silence ; on the second he expostulated
with his wife when they were alone in the evening.
But she replied that the dinner was quite as good as
any they ever had in ma's house, and just such as
her brothers were used to at home ; adding — " Har-

78

WOMAN S RIGHTS ILLUSTRATED.

vey Woodbridge, I wonder you are not tired of con-
tinually trying to make me change my plans. What
reason have you to suppose me one of those trifling,
weak-minded persons that can be persuaded to any
thing? No — from my earliest childhood I was
always distinguished for firmness of character. I
remember when only five years old, because pa'
bought me a doll for a Christmas gift, when he knew
I wanted a pearl ring, I held out for a whole week ;
and all that time I would neither play with the doll
or even look at it, nor kiss pa' at bidding good night.
So that on New Year's day he was glad "to get the
pearl ring for me, as ma' had been advising him all
the while. No — no — have you yet to learn that
firmness is my forte ?"

" That obstinacy is, I have learnt most thorough-
ly"— replied her husband — "and that united with
your other fortes is fast wearing away the peace of

my life. You really seem to be trying your utmost
to make my home irksome to me."

" Then you will have the more excuse for spend-
ing your evenings at your beloved Athenaeum. You
had better go there now."

" I will take you at your word" — replied Wood-
bridge, rising to depart.

" Harvey" — said his wife, as he was about to
leave the room — " as you have to pass Mustin's in
your way, you may as well take this bit of brown
worsted and try to match it for me — I can't go on
with my work to-morrow, till I get some more of it."

" Confound the worsted!" — exelaimed her husband,
turning angrily away from her.

And as he hastily shut the door and precipitately
ran down stairs, she struck up melodiously the re-
frain of " Sweet — sweet home."

[To be continued.]

Written for the Lady's Book.
WOMAN'S RIGHTS ILLUSTRATED.

BY MISS MARY AUGUSTA COFFIN.

" The world's proud empire leave to man,
But by maternal love,
Oh ! raise his hopes, his aims, to share
Your heritage above." — Mrs. Hale,

There stood beside his mother's form,

A bright exulting boy,
With buoyant step, and kindling glance,

That flashed his spirit's joy.
Upon his broad and open brow

The dark hair richly hung;
Aud grace and beauty like a robe,

Around his light form clung.

But thoughtful and attentively,

That fair head soon reclined,
As unto wisdom's holy fount

She led his wakening mind.
And with a mother's gentle tact,

Creation's skill displayed;
And bade him see how wonderful

Each living thing was made.

Then eagerly he questioned her,

Of things the bright earth bore ;
And sought to know each mystery

Of Nature's hidden lore.
And oh ! it was a blessed sight,

To see his earnest eye,
Catch with such vivid interest,

Each word of her reply.

But soon her voice took deeper tone,

As that young heart she led,
To look through nature up to Him,

Who nature's scenes hath spread.
And bade him ever seek His care,

Whose all-sustaining power,
Provided even for the wants

Of the sparrow and the flower.
********
Years passed away; that hounding boy

Had grown to thoughtful man;
And 'mong9t the gifted of the earth,

A high career he ran.

His name was sounded from the lips

Of childhood and of age,
Linked with the glorious deeds that win

A heavenly heritage.

His pen showed forth the purity

Of virtue's holy shrine :
Religion as a beacon threw

Her light on every line.
Undaunted 'midst the worldly throng,

As one inspired he taught;
And many a heart with blessings owned.

The good his life had wrought.

'Twas thus he stood : — but words are vain

To paint her extasy,
Whose care stamped on that noble mind,

The truths of piety.
She on whose knee he lisping learnt,

His first pure prayer to heaven ;
Whose voice unto his thirsting mind

Had wisdom's precepts given: —

And with its earnest tones impressed

Deep on his youthful heart,
The beauty and the peacefulness

Religion's ways impart —
Whose tender and devoted love,

Had gained o'er him such power,
That but one thought of her could calm

E'en passion's stormiest hour.
********
Oh! ever sacred be the ties,

That nature's laws impart ;
'Tis man must rule the multitude,

But woman sways his heart.
And oh ! be this her highest aim,

To guide his path aright ;
The glory that he wins will then

Reflect on her its light.

GEMS AND REPTILES.

79

Written for the Lady's Book.
GEMS AND REPTILES;

AN OLD STORY

NEW DRESS.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

" O dear ! what a naughty girl I am — I must be
naughty, for nobody loves me, and nobody speaks
kindly to me. My aunt and cousin tell me every
day I live, I am the worst girl in the world. It must
be so — and yet I don't know what it is that I do, so
very bad." — Little Blanch looked round, for she
thought somebody was close to her ear, and whis-
pered " Nothing — nothing." But she must have been
mistaken. There was no one in sight , and now she
could only hear the wind kissing the little daisies,
and laughing in the willows, and teazing the long
slender branches, that stooped down to play in the
fountain.

Blanch set the pitcher upon the green bank, and
bent over to look down, down, into the clear waters,
as they bubbled up in the shadow of the hill, and
then trickled away over the pebbles, eddying round
the roots of the old trees, and then sparkling away
off in the sunshine, flashing and dimpling in the light,
like some living, beautiful thing sporting in the mea-
dow grass and the overshadowing trees.

Blanch began to feel quite happy, though she
couldn't tell why — and then she looked down into
the fountain, and saw her own eyes peeping up, and
she laughed — and the girl in the water laughed —
and both laughed together, 'till the old woods took
up the chorus, and the hills and rocks sent it back
again.

" O dear, what a noise I am making — and my
aunt will be angry with me for staying so long."

Blanch looked once more into the water, but the
little girl from beneath did not laugh this time ; on
the contrary, her face was quite pale and sad, and
Blanch looked into her melancholy eyes 'till the
tears gushed to her own, and fell into the water. The
drops circled away in dimpling lines, growing larger
and larger, and completely hiding the face of the
little girl in the water.

Blanch rubbed her eyes, and looked again, for she
saw something exceedingly beautiful, stirring the
pebbles at the bottom of the fountain. She held back
her hair with both hands, and looked down close;and
still, for there, right beside her own face, she saw a
most lovely being, smiling, and holding up its small
pale hands,

Blanch let her hair fall, 'till it almost blinded her
eyes, and even dipped into the fountain, while she
held out both hands to the little lady of the water.

" Thank you," said the beautiful creature, spring-
ing lightly to the bank, and smoothing her long curls,
and smiling in the eyes of the little girl.

" You are a good girl, Blanch, and I mean to be
your friend ; that is if you are always good — for
should you become sinful you couldn't look upon me,
or I speak to you."

She said this in a low, sad voice, and the little
girl thought she was then even prettier than when
she smiled.

The lady sat still a while, plaiting the pretty flow-

ers that grew around into a coronal ; for it is likely
she knew the child was so curious to mark her
strange dress, that she could hardly hear a word that
might be said.

Blanch had heard of water nymphs, but she had
been told they had sea-green skin and eyes, and hair
hanging like the sea-grass all about their shoulders.
She thought they must be very ugly, and was quite
certain the beautiful creature beside her could not be
one of these.

The lady's cheek and neck were of the pure colour
of the inner lip of the ocean shell, growing of a
brighter, and brighter hue, till just below the eye, it
became of that rich beautiful tint, we find upon the
shell as we look in, in, to its very heart. Then her
hair was soft and bright, like long threads of amber,
waving and glittering in the light. Her eyes were
of the deep, deep blue, seen upon the surface of the
muscle-shell, but so soft, so liquid in their lovingness
and beauty, that Blanch thought she could never tire
in looking at them. Her voice was like breathed
melody ; soft and murmuring, like the sound of the
shell when held to a human ear.

She had a coronal of pearls about her head, and
bracelets of the same upon her arms. Her robe was
curiously wrought of exceedingly small shells, like
gold and silver, all strung together. It was fastened
at the shoulder with a large emerald, and her girdle
was of amethysts and diamonds. Her sandals were
of pearly shells, streaked with pink, the tellina I
think, and were fastened with a fillet of the sea-
weed.

" You may call me Fontana, Blanch," said the
lady, placing the chaplet of flowers upon the brow
of the child.

Blanch smiled, and pulled the little daisies, for she
couldn't just think what to say.

" Would you like some of these pearls, and dia-
monds, Blanch?"

" Oh, they are very beautiful," said the child, " but
I should have no time to play with them. Dear, dear,
how long I have staid ! Oh, my aunt will scold." —
She took up the pitcher and was hurrying away, in
great trouble, but Fontana detained her,

" You must not go yet, Blanch. I will see that
your aunt doesn't scold you; so sit down and let us
talk awhile."

Blanch was very loath to stay, but Fontana was so
gentle, and promised so earnestly that all should be
well, that at last she sat down again by the foun-
tain.

" If you don't want pearls and diamonds, Blanch,
what do you wish for? What shall I do for you?
Shall I punish your aunt and cousin for treating you
so ill?"

" Oh no, no," said the little girl very earnestly,
" they treat me so because I am so very naughty.
How could you think of such a thing ? I'm sure I
never did."

80

GEMS AND REPTILES.

Fontana smiled, and kissed the cheeks, and eyes,
and lips of the child.

" I love you dearly, Blanch, and do wish you could
think of something I could do for you."

Blanch dropped her eyes, as if thinking earnestly ;
and then her face dimpled all over with smiles, as
she said,

" I wish you could help me to be good, so that
my aunt and cousin, and every body, will love me —
I should be quite happy then."

" What, don't you want to be rich, and ride in a
coach, and have servants, and dress grandly — and
then let your aunt and cousin be poor, and go with
bare feet, just as you do !"

" Oh dear, no," said Blanch, turning quite pale,
"how could you think of such a thing?"

" Well, let your aunt and cousin be rich, too, then
wouldn't you like to dress grandly, Blanch ?"

" Oh dear, I only want to be good, and be loved,"
said the poor girl, turning her head away quite sor-
rowfully.

Fontana took her in her arms, and kissed her
many times, and Blanch felt the tears upon her
cheek ; she heard sweet far-off melody; the sky seemed
brighter than ever, and she thought she must be
dreaming, she felt so happy. Then the lady placed
her upon the green bank, and when the child looked
round, there was nothing to be seen or heard, but
the birds singing in the trees, and the water leaping
over the white pebbles.

" Oh dear, dear, my aunt will scold me," and she
filled the pitcher and ran home just as fast as she
could go.

Her aunt met her at the door, and had opened her
mouth to utter hard words, and raised her hand to
give her a blow on the ear, when the sight of the
coronal upon the girl's head arrested her.

" Blanch, where did you get this ? Was there
ever any thing so beautiful !" and she tore it from
the child's head, and held it to the light where it did
look truly exquisite, for every little leaf, and bud, and
flower, was made up of innumerable small gems of
the purest water,

" Come in, child, and tell me all about it."

Blanch did tell every word, for there was some-
thing within, that told her she ought to tell the truth,
and the whole truth. Sometimes her aunt laughed,
and sometimes she frowned, but when she came to
that part, where the lady would have given her fine
clothes, and a coach to ride in, her cousin called her
" a poor, mean spirited fool — so then you only asked
to be good, you precious little fool, did you?" she
said scornfully.

The tears came into Blanch's eyes, and fell upon
her lap.

"What is that rolling about in your lap?" said
Adeline. " I never saw such tears before ; they don't
soak in ;" and the heartless girl shook them upon the
floor. Sure enough, they rolled away, clear, brilliant
diamonds, large as peas.

Adeline laughed and scrabbled after them, and told
Blanch to " cry away ;" she liked such tears. But
the little girl laughed as well as her cousin, and
scrabbled too for the diamonds, it made her feel so
happy to see smiling faces.

" I will go down to the well, too," said Adeline,
" and see if I cannot get something handsome."

She soon came back, flushed and angry; she de-
clared there was nobody to be seen at the well, and

Blanch must have found the gems, and then have
invented the story as an excuse for staying so long.
She struck Blanch upon the shoulder, and shook her
rudely.

" Don't be angry, cousin, you shall have all the
pretty stones," cried the child, offering those she had
picked up.

But she had no sooner opened her mouth to speak,
than pearls, and diamonds, and all precious stones
fell therefrom, and rolled upon the floor, and flashed,
and sparkled in the sunlight, 'till the room seemed
all paved with jewels.

For many days Adeline said nothing further
about going to the well, for both she and her mother
were so occupied in fastening the gems upon their
dresses, that they had no time, even to scold poor
little Blanch; and she was now the happiest child in
the world — she smiled, and sang all day, and was so
attentive to all the wants of her aunt and cousin, that
she seemed to know what was desired even before
they spake. She wished, in the guilelessness of her
young heart, that she only had a whole mine of
jewels to give them, so thankful did she feel for gentle
words and kind looks.

It was soon found, that jewels came from the mouth
of Blanch, only when she returned a gentle reply to
the harshness of others — her tears were gems only
when they were the tears of compassion or of sorrow.

Adeline was making a lily, all of pearls — she
hadn't quite enough to finish it. Half in earnest,
half in sport, she gave Blanch a blow, saying, " Cry,
child, I want some more pearls."

Blanch had never felt just so before ; her face red-
dened, and she was about to make an angry reply,
when she felt a dash of water all over her face. She
stopped short, and looked about, but no one was near
but Adeline. Then she thought of the sinful feeling
within, and knew it must have been Fontana, that
sprinkled the drops in her face. Blanch knew she
had felt wrong, and she shed tears of penitence —
they were pearls.

" Come, Blanch," said Adeline, " take the pitcher,
and I will go down to the well with you — I like the
lady's gifts vastly ; and shall know better what to ask
for than you did."

The child did as she was bid, stepping, with her
little bare feet, lightly over the stones and brambles ;
and prattling all the way about the beauty, and dress
of the lady, and wondering she had never seen her
but once.

When they came to the fountain, all was still; the
waters looked clear and cool, and they peered down,
down, but nothing was to be seen, but white stones,
rounded by the water flowing over them, and the small
fish darting about in the sunshine. They sat down
upon the bank, hoping the lady might appear. But
she did not — -no one approached, but a little old wo-
man, with a lean wrinkled face, who came from the
woods, leaning heavily upon a staff, for she was bent
nearly double with age.

Both girls looked earnestly at her, till she drew
near, and sank down upon the grass beside them.

" I am faint and weary, ladies — will you give me
to drink from the fountain ?" said the old woman, in
a low, trembling voice,

Little Blanch descended the bank instantly, to do
as she was desired — but Adeline cruelly spurned her
with her foot, saying, " Get up, you old hag, I wouldn't
give you a drink, not I."

GEMS AND REPTILES.

81

The old woman gl'anced at the hard-hearted girl
with a severe and searching look ; and slowly rose
from the ground. The old staff became a wand of
ivory — the lean face became soft and round ; the
bent form erect and graceful, and the beautiful lady
of the fountain stood before them. She was even
more splendidly attired than before, and her look
more sweet and. tender,

" Dear, dear Fontana," said Blanch, springing
towards her. The lady took her to her bosom, and
again, and again kissed her cheek ; then the child
heard yet again that low, sweet melody, as if the very
air, and every thing about were full of it — again all
was still — and now the two girls stood alone by the
fountain.

" How strange," said little Blanch, " when she is
gone, I can hardly think I have seen any thing in
reality — it seems so like a dream, or the pleasant
thoughts I have when I am all alone."

" Pretty well, too," said Adeline ; " she could only
frown upon me" — she stopped short, for just then a
small green lizard hopped from her mouth, and the
terrified girls ran home fast as they could go.

Adeline struck Blanch, and said she had bewitched
her ; and every time she spoke, small snakes and
toads darted from her mouth — then she would cry
with horror and vexation, when bugs and spiders fell
from her eyes.

Poor Blanch stood by, weeping and wringing her
hands, and the pearls and precious stones rolled all
about the room, for no one heeded them. She
thought of a thousand things, but not one that had
any prospect of relieving her cousin.

" Oh dear, dear, I wish Fontana were only here !"
cried Blanch. She felt a slight sprinkle upon her
face, and then she knew the lady must be near. Then
she began to think Fontana very cruel to punish her
cousin so, and wished she were only visible, and she
would tell her so. All at once some one whispered
close to her ear, and said,

" Are not pride, and anger, and cruelty, like lizards,
and toads, and serpents ?"

" Oh dear, dear, try to feel gentle, cousin Adeline;
perhaps they come because you are angry."

" Angry," cried Adeline, stamping with her feet,
" isn't this enough to make any body angry ? I
wish I had hold of that old woman, and I would
tear her all to pieces."

Just then a large serpent sprang from her mouth,
and both her mother and Blanch ran out of the
house.

Years passed away, and Blanch had become an
exceedingly handsome maiden, with a skin like the
embrace of the rose and lily, and eyes clear, soft and
blue. She was still gentle and loving, like a little
child, with a smile always ready for a cheerful look,
and a tear for a sad one. Some thought it goodness
alone, that made her so beautiful; others thought it
the kisses of the lady of the fountain, for she still
sometimes appeared, when Blanch was sad or un-
happy, and spoke words of hope and consolation.

Adeline too, had grown a tall, proud girl, with
large black eyes of glittering brightness, and a step
like a queen. There were yet times when the reptiles
sprang from the mouth of the violent girl, in her
moments of pride or irritation. Sometimes amidst the
splendour and triumph of a ball, she would be obliged
to retire in the greatest confusion, for pride, and envy,
and malice, would bring the reptiles to her throat.

Blanch still wept her pearls and spoke all sorts of
precious things, and the fame of the two girls spread
far and wide. Many came to see them, hoping they
might witness things so very strange. But the girls
didn't speak gems or reptiles just to please strangers,
they came unbidden, indicating always the exact
state of their hearts.

In spite of the reptiles Adeline had many suitors,
for her beauty was of the noblest kind. She con-
trived to keep Blanch out of sight, and so obscured
in old uncouth garments, that her beauty was only
noted by those who observed her closely, or saw her
often.

So Adeline had all the lovers, and all the company
to herself; and poor Blanch wore old clothes, and
worked all day for her aunt and cousin. She gave
them all her jewels, and tried to make them look
beautiful whenever they went to the grand balls and
parties, to which they were invited; while she staid
at home, and did all the work, and then got nothing
in return but blows and harsh words.

In this way, though Blanch was much talked of,
very few had seen her.

At last, a gentleman commenced building a de-
lightful little cottage close to the dwelling of the two
girls. The gardens were arranged with the greatest
taste, and bowers with vines and shrubbery of every
kind, and ponds filled with fish, and brooks with
rustic bridges thrown over them, made all seem the
work of enchantment.

Adeline did nothing but arrange her dress and
jewels, and play upon her harp close to the window
where the stranger directed the labourers ; and when
he would look up and smile, or present her flowers,
she was good-natured all day.

Blanch was delighted, and tried very hard to make
her cousin look beautiful; and did just as she was
bid, which was to keep out of sight of the strange
gentleman. Blanch thought it an easy matter to do
this, for she didn't much like his looks, and thought
him not half so elegant as a young servant she some-
times saw in the garden attempting to arrange the
flowers, and to transplant them ; but he was so awk-
ward, spilling the earth and breaking the pots, that
she couldn't keep from laughing to see him work —
then the master would appear, and scold and rave, and
Blanch would find her eyes filling with tears in spite
of all she could do.

She one day told Adeline she thought the servant
much handsomer than the master, and there was that
about him, that appeared much more noble.

Adeline was indignant, and said she was no judge,
and many other things that proud, love-sick girls are
apt to utter — but her mother seemed much pleased
with the idea; thought it might be so, and winking
to her daughter declared Blanch was quite in love,
and it would make an excellent match.

Blanch hadn't thought of this, and she blushed and
hung down her head.

Every day now her aunt and cousin tried to throw
her in the way of the young servant, and even were
at some pains to dress her and arrange her hair, that
she might look becoming. Adeline, it is true, was
too much occupied with the master to pay much atten-
tion to the affairs of the servant, only so far as to
encourage his advances, for she thought this a fine
way to dispose of her poor cousin, by degrading her
into a marriage with a menial.

Poor Blanch was greatly distressed at all this ma-

82

GEMS AND REPTILES.

nosuvring, and grew every day more pale and gentle,
and a great deal more beautiful too ; for love always
softens, as well as exalts the style of beauty.

She sometimes wished she had never seen him, for
she couldn't help looking through the lattice where
the vines grew thickly, to see him at his work amongst
the flowers, and he would sometimes look up, too,
and she was certain he was growing pale and me-
lancholy; and she thought it not unlikely that he
might be in love with her cousin Adeline, and grow-
ing sad because there could be no hope for him.
And Blanch wept in holy compassion for the poor,
young servant.

So she took her pitcher in her hand, and went
down to the fountain. She wept a long time, she
could hardly tell why. Fontana came and kissed her
cheek, and wiped her tears with gossamer muslin.
Blanch saw that she smiled faintly, and looked quite
sad, so she tried to talk of pleasant things.

" How I love you, Blanch," said Fontana ; " you
must have all you desire. What shall I do for
you?"

" Smile upon me, dear Fontana ; there is no one
else to love me — and when you smile I am quite
happy."

There was a rustling in the bushes — Fontana had

disappeared, and the young servant stood beside her.

Blanch, hardly knowing what she did, darted away,

but the stranger seized her hand, and begged she

would stay just for a moment.

" I know you are unhappy, Blanch ; I have often
seen you weep, and even now, I heard you say there
was no one to love you. I love you, Blanch, more
than I can express — "

His voice trembled, and he pressed her fingers to
his lips. Blanch looked up, and the kind, earnest look
of the stranger, and the gentle tones of his voice, so
wrought upon her young heart, all unused as it had
been to kindness and sympathy, that she covered her
eyes with her hand, and burst into tears.

They were not pearls ; they were the natural tears
of a young and trusting heart.

All at once she remembered that her cousin was
waiting for the water; and disengaging her hand
she ran home, leaving, in her agitation, the pitcher
at the fountain.

When she reached the house, both aunt and cousin
were at the door, angry at her long absence — for the
stranger of the cottage had that very morning made
proposals of marriage, and Adeline was impatient to
arrange her toilet in the most captivating style.

" Where is the pitcher, you idling hussy ?" they
both cried in a breath.

" I left it at the well," replied Blanch, trembling,
and blushing.

" Left it at the well !" said Adeline, striking her
on the face.

Blanch hesitated, but she felt the drops upon her
face, and knew she ought to confess the truth. So
she told all.

Adeline's anger gave way to the triumph of malice,
for she was delighted to think Blanch would marry
the servant of her own husband. So while she
talked, the toads and snakes sprang from her mouth,
but the family were so used to them, that they took
no notice of them.

Poor Blanch only covered her face with her hands,
while the pearls fell from between her fingers, and
dropped amongst the grass at the threshold.

At this moment the young servant appeared at the
door, bearing the pitcher of water ; and he looked as
if he knew just what it meant, when he saw the
pearls and reptiles all about.

For many days nothing was seen of the young
stranger, and poor Blanch grew quite pale and dis-
pirited. Adeline was in high spirits, she ridiculed
Blanch, teased and scolded her all in a breath, and
then when she wept, she laughed, and said she should
have the more jewels for her bridal. Blanch disliked
Adeline's lover more and more every day ; for though
she thought he might be rich, he seemed low-bred
and vulgar, and as ignorant as any dolt about. And
then he was so loaded with finery he must at the
very best be a conceited coxcomb. But as long as
her cousin was pleased she had no right to say a
word.

The day for Adeline's marriage arrived, and after
Blanch had dressed her cousin, and done all the work
she could do, before the arrival of the guests, her aunt
took her and thrust her down into an old cellar, half
filled with mire and water, that she might not be seen
by any of the company.

Adeline looked splendidly, with her proud beauty,
and magnificent attire. The ceremony was just over,
when they all heard the sound of carriage wheels and
the trampling of horses. The bridegroom looked
from the window, and was the first to go out and
kneel to the stranger. All was awe and amazement.
The guests had just time to observe the splendour
of the carriage, and the rich livery of the servants,
and the six snow-white steeds, when a gentleman
richly dressed in velvet and cloth of gold, entered the
room.

" Where is Blanch ?" he inquired, looking sternly
round.

" Blanch is dead," replied the aunt solemnly.
"Dead?" repeated the stranger, turning pale, while
the bridegroom stared with astonishment.

" Dead !" he again repeated, " it cannot be ; ho,
here, search the house," he cried to his servants.

The bridegroom would have gone too, but Adeline
haughtily detained him.

The aunt rose in great rage. " I demand, sir, by
what right you order my house to be searched."

" The right that the king has over the lives and
property of his subjects," replied the stranger with
great majesty. Then removing the plumed cap, and
velvet cloak, the young servant of the new cottage
stood before them. Every head was uncovered, and
every knee bent in the presence of the king. Adeline
and her mother turned pale. The king went on.

" The fame of the goodness and beauty of Blanch
had reached even to our palace, and I came here
disguised as a servant, that I might learn the truth.
I find the half has not been told me, and I have now
come to claim her for my bride."

The servants returned, but could find nothing of
Blanch. Aunt and daughter tried to suppress their
exultation.

At this moment the door softly opened, and Fon-
tana appeared leading in Blanch, pale and trembling,
but more beautiful than ever. She was dressed in
robes of the most magnificent material, and diamonds
glittered upon her brow and girdle, and pearls encir-
cled her arms and neck.

Fontana laid the hand of Blanch within that of the
king, who knelt to receive it, while the fair girl
blushed and cast down her eyes.

THE RIVER, THE RIVER.

83

" Thus," said the lady, " are the good sometimes
rewarded even in this life."

Then turning to Adeline and her mother, she said,
" I leave you to the punishment prepared in your own
hearts — to the envy, and malice, and hatred, that
torture more than the fiends of darkness."

The same priest, who had married Adeline to the
servant of the king, performed the ceremony for
Blanch, and her royal lover.

Fontana pressed the bride to her bosom, and Blanch
heard again that sweet, low melody, as the beautiful
1 ady of the fountain disappeared.

We need not say that Blanch was gentle, and
loving, and good, when she became a queen. Her
subjects almost adored her, and the king used play-
fully to say, " They were dutiful subjects to him,
only from love to his wife."

Blanch did all in her power to make her aunt and
cousin happy, and even sent for them to court ; but
their evil dispositions produced so much disorder that
the king banished them to the cottage he had built
beside their old dwelling. Blanch often wept for
them, and sent them many proofs of her kindness and
remembrance.

K-^-f+r*

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE RIVER, THE RIVER!

BY DR. J. K. MITCHELL.

The river, the river !
It flows on for ever,
By many a mouth,
Far, far to the south,
It pours its wild flood to the ocean for ever !
From the hills of the west,
From the eagle's wild nest,
From the lakes of the north,
His vast waters break forth,
And gather and gather to swell the great river. —
Tho' the pines frown in snow
Where his spring-waters flow,
Yet the lemon and lime
Bless the warm sunny clime,
Where meets Mississippi the ocean for ever.

Chorus.

The lone Indian and deer

On his wild cliffs appear,

Where the frowning old wood

Shades the deep boiling flood,
As foams o'er the rapids the white roaring river;

While in climes far below,

Where the orange trees blow,

Stately cities are seen,

On the shore smooth and green,
And image themselves in the broad glassy river.

Chorus.

The fierce Indian's canoe

Cuts the lone waters thro',

As he hears in the dark,

New to him, the wild bark,
Of the steamer that ploughs to its sources the river;

With the flame on her brow,

And the foam 'neath her prow,

And hoarse thundering sides,

On, the meteor-ship glides,
And casts her fierce glare on the far flashing river.

Chorus.

The great rivers of earth

Love the clime of their birth,

And the flowrets that blow

At their sources, still glow,
Where ocean is waiting their waters to gather ;

But to him leap the rills,

From the North's icy hills,

And to him flow the brooks ,

Where the burning sun looks
On fruits and on blossoms that flourish together.

Chorus.

Father Time he grew gray

As he watch'd the decay

Of the woods of the East,

'Till their loneliness ceas'd.
And slowly was peopled each famous old river ;

But 'twas here in a day,

That, like storm-clouds, away

Pass'd the wildness and gloom,

Lone and dark as the tomb,
And millions and sunshine were bright on the river.

Chorus.

Aye, the woodsman, whose stroke

The wild echoes awoke,

Of the dark woods, now sees,

Where he fell'd the old trees,
Fair towns on the banks and white sails on the river.

Mighty river then on,

With the wealth of each zone,

Bearing swiftly with thee

To the full freighted sea
The tribute of virtue and freedom for ever!

Chorus.
Great river, great river !
Flow, flow on for ever :
And still may'st thou be,
From thy hills to the sea,
The home of the free, and the bless'd of The Giver !

[The Music, which is original, will Tie published soon.']

•WM^^/TWw

Every wanton and causeless restraint of the will The last argument of the poor, whenever they have
of the subject, whether practised by a monarch, a recourse to it, will carry more, perhaps, than per-
nobility, or a popular assembly, is a degree of tyranny, suasion to parliament, or supplication to the throne.

84

A PAIR OF BROKEN HEARTS.

Written for the Lady's Book.

A PAIR OF BROKEN HEARTS,

BY HENRY F. HARRINGTON.

In an inverse ratio to the amount of population in
any city or town, is the extension of its scandal,
tittle-tattle, and the interference of one neighbour in
the affairs of others. This is the most natural and
philosophical thing in the world ; although spoken of
frequently, as a singular and' peculiar discrepancy in
the habits of different localities. In London, Paris,
and even New York — those modern Babels — wilder-
nesses of humanities — one has full enough to do to
compass his own affairs — to preserve the conscious-
ness of his own identity, indeed — without a thought
of what others may concern themselves about. In a
smaller collection of human kind, such as Boston,
where there is less jostling and scrambling — where
business proceeds in a calmer flow, and one has time
and room occasionally to take breath, and look
around him, out of the circle of selfish interest, into
those with which others have circumscribed them-
selves, one is not by half so secure from observation,
as in the larger places, and cannot shelter himself
behind the rushing crowd. Accordingly, it is most
truly objected against Boston, in drawing comparisons
between that city and elsewheres, that there is far too
much prying curiosity — and one must be constantly
on his guard lest his secrets be no secrets at all. But
when the smaller village is taken into account, where
every head may be counted that passes by one's
door, and every occupant of every house can be
called by name by every body and any body — his
business told — his prospects, hopes, fears, habits, and
all other interesting et ceteras minutely commented
upon — it is necessary to act as though all the world,
or all the town — which amounts to the same thing —
was looking on ; and even to think with a good deal
of care, lest some prying busybody should discover
the result of even that very concealed operation.

It can be no source of wonder, therefore, that, in
a half day after the arrival of Margaret Leland from
Connecticut, on a visit to her cousin in C , Mas-
sachusetts— every body having known that she was
coming, every body should have received information
that she had come ; and have waited impatiently for
an invitation to the party, that, according to custom,
would undoubtedly be given on her account, by the
aforesaid cousin, Mr. Gale.

The party was assembled ; and all had opportunity
to scrutinize the appearance of her who was the
centre of attraction. She was rather petite in figure ;
graceful in every motion, with fair hair, a well mould-
ed forehead, a mild blue eye with a gentle loving
look, and a small expressive mouth — and so bashful
was she withal, that the colour came like a flood to
her face and neck, whenever she was introduced, and
she could scarcely articulate a word. One and an-
other attempted to converse with her, but monosyl-
lables were all the replies she gave to question upon
question, when monosyllables would answer — and
where not, as few words as a reply could be con-
densed into. So the talkative and unthinking, deci-

ded, at once, that she was a nobody ; and left her at
last to herself.

Philip Lawrence did not arrive at Mr. Gale's, on
the occasion, until the evening was far spent. He
was a young lawyer of the village, but so talented,
yet unassuming, so ambitious and energetic, yet with
sympathies so enlarged, that he was universally po-
pular, and on the high road to fame and honour. He
was handsome too — handsome as an eye flashing his
soul's activity, and a face expressing the high qualities
I have ascribed to him, could make him. He soon
sought acquaintance with Margaret Leland, as mere
politeness dictated, and entered into conversation
with her — if that can be called conversation, where
all the talking is on one side. His winning address,
however, gradually dissipated her timidity, to such a
degree, that he obtained some little insight into her
feelings and her history.

He became interested; for she was an orphan, de-
pendant for support on an uncle, with whom was her
home. More than this, he saw that she struggled
with the painful bashfulness that threw a veil over
her true nature ; and now and then, amid crimson
blushes and a choking voice, spoke words of deep
thought, or tender and ardent feeling. He dreamed
of her; and in the morning called upon her. This
was perfectly consistent with the common courtesies
of life.

Mrs. Gale was with her when he greeted her, but,
called away by domestic matters, soon retired. Left
to herself, freed from the observation of a third person,
the restraint under which Margaret laboured partially
deserted her, and Lawrence's tact relieved her yet
more, so that she finally forgot herself, and her blue
eyes became animated with expression, and she re-
vealed delightful sentiments and the treasures of a
cultivated mind in a melodious, playful voice ; no more
the Margaret Leland — the speechless, actionless girl
of the evening before, than the dim ray of heaven,
that struggles through a mist, is like the dazzling
brightness of the unclouded sun. How Lawrence
drank in her words ! With what a look of disap-
pointment, he heard the announcement of other visit-
ers— the arrogant fellow ! — when he had been sitting
alone with the sweet girl, two whole hours !

I warrant me if he had a writ to draw, that after-
noon, there were a dozen errors in it !

It was a case of love — if not at first sight, so near
it as to be worthy of rank in the same category. It
was such first sight love, too, as sustained triumph-
antly the fearful test of time, and grew stronger at
every interview. Before many of those sweet inter-
views, it burst its bounds, too torrent-like, to be
longer dammed up ; and the pledge of eternal faith-
fulness was given and returned. Lawrence suggested
what Margaret's own heart too suggested — that her
uncle should be immediately written to, that his con-
sent might be obtained to their attachment. She
turned pale when he spoke of him, however, and

A PAIR OF BROKEN HEARTS.

85

Lawrence gathered from her that her relative was a
stern man, strict in attention to the things of religion,
and having little sympathy with those of earth ; so
that her feelings misgave her somewhat, in relation
to his blessing on their loves. But she wrote speed-
ily, and Lawrence too, wrote — the latter to declare
his love, and solicit her uncle's approbation — the
former to endorse his declaration with the witness
of her interest in his suit.

No answer came ; but in three weeks — three little
weeks from the day of their first meeting, the uncle
himself appeared, to conduct Margaret home. He
saluted her kindly, and was courteous to Lawrence,
though he avoided a word upon the subject so en-
grossing to their minds. The very next day after
his arrival — short period for lovers to prepare their
minds for a long, long parting ! — she was to go ; and
in the evening they stole to their trysting place, a
pleasant and lonesome dell, and there renewed their
vows of eternal — eternal fidelity! and so they parted.

They had promised to write to each other ; Law-
rence to commence the correspondence. He did not
long delay to fulfil the delightful charge, and before
many days, despatched a letter filled with the over-
flowings of a boundless and fervent love. An answer
was soon returned, freighted with the same heart-
cheering contents, and all seemed to go forward,

" Merry as a marriage bell,"

which Lawrence heard, in prospective, pealing forth
its tones of joy for his own gladsome bridal. A se-
cond letter was sent with no longer pause than at
first, and he awaited impatiently her second sweet
reply.

But it was some time before it came — long enough
to fill him with the strongest and most painful appre-
hensions for her welfare. He feared she might be
ill — even dead — for what will not love fear, that is
love indeed ? — and had many a mind to start away,
and hasten to her home. He did not fear — no, not
for one poor instant — the dreadful reality that burst
upon him from the calm, cold, heartless words that
struck upon his eye in that longed-for letter. Could
it be Margaret's hand that had traced the appalling
lines? It was — there could be no hope that an
enemy had counterfeited her precious signature to a
vile and despicable forgery ! It was her hand, in-
deed— and what did the letter say ?

It addressed him first as " Sir ;" a chilling mono-
syllable, when it comes from the hand of one from
whom we had hoped for words of kind affection — it
is so full of premeditated, determined coldness. But
to the letter. It read thus :

" Sir — Several weeks have elapsed since my visit

to C , and in that time, I have had opportunity for

reflection upon the peculiar events which transpired
while I was there. The result is, that I must look
upon the engagement entered into between us, as a
hasty, ill-judged affair, in whatever light it may be
viewed ; but in one respect, it is especially uncongenial.
Since my return, my heart has been particularly in-
terested in the things of another world, and your
religious belief, so diverse from my own, opposes an
insuperable bar to any further communication between
us. Let me request of you, therefore, that our cor-
respondence may cease from this moment ; and I beg
you to forget what has passed between us, as it will

VOL. XXII. 8

soon be forgotten by me. With prayers for your
welfare, I am respectfully yours,

" Margaret Leland."

" Can the heart so suddenly change," thought
Lawrence, in pale heart-sickness, as he laid the letter
down ; " is it the province of religion to throw a
blight upon the sours best sympathies ? No — there
is a spell upon her — she is not herself — she is not
my retiring, modest, self-distrusting Margaret, whose
heart could no sooner harbour a thought of guile,
than heaven itself! I will solve the mystery — absolve
the spell at once !"

He sat down, in all the conflict and rush of his
feelings, and wrote a reply. He conjured her to
reflect once more — to fathom her heart and see if so
great a change had really come over it. He pictured
the dreams of happiness he had indulged in, from the
hope of passing over life's chequered path with her —
the despair that assailed him now. " We do differ,"
he continued, " in religious belief — but do we not
go to the same fountain for the waters that slake onr
immortal thirst ? Do we not worship the same hea-
venly Father, and trust in the same blessedness here-
after ? And if, in minor points, I do not think that the
Bible teaches what you believe it to teach, must the
decision of our judgments, ungovernable as those
judgments are by the will, interpose the insuperable
bar you speak of? Oh, with the same heaven in
view, the same father as its light and glory, the same
Saviour enthroned upon his right hand, can we not
love our neighbour and imitate the blessed example
of that Saviour together, though our beliefs may travel
in different roads."

Such was the tenor of the reply ; and the feverish
anxiety with which Lawrence awaited its effect, may
easily be conceived. But day after day went by, after
full time had elapsed for her to receive the letter and
forward an answer, and no word came from her.
The suspense finally overcame his self control, and
he committed his heart to paper again — not so ten-
derly as before — for then he had written wholly in
kindness; but he gently reproached her now, and
protested against the treatment he was receiving.
This missive extorted a rejoinder. It was short, and
oh, how bitter to him ! This was it :

" Sir — In a former communication, I stated my
feelings so fully, as to preclude the necessity for any
further exposition ; and anticipated, on that account,
to be relieved from thought upon the subject. It is
a matter of astonishment and pain to me, therefore,
that you persist in persecuting me with letters, from
which no advantage is to be derived. I can consent
only to acknowledge the reception of both your com-
munications, and conclude with asserting, that my
heart is irrevocably fixed in its present views; and I
repeat my request, that you will cease to force a cor-
respondence upon me, which has become a fatigue
and a burden. Yours,

"Margaret Leland."

The heart of a true man may find only indifference
in the object of its affections, and yet love on with
a flame made brighter by the coldness it has met —
but let them be the mock for ridicule or scorn, and
the spell is broken and for ever ! Lawrence's eye
flashed fire when he rose from the perusal of this
insulting letter, and while a smile of mingled contempt

86

A PAIR OF BROKEN HEARTS.

and humiliation wreathed his lips, he felt that all was
over ; that he had thrown off the incubus upon his
soul, and was free again — free, because he proudly
considered that he had been linking his dearest, ho-
liest sympathies, to an unworthy object — because he
was not the abject thing, to be trampled in the dust
and lick the foot that trod upon him ; but had bound-
ed back from the blow, unharmed, and guarded
against a second stroke. From that moment, Mar-
garet Leland was to him as she had never been. He
threw her letters into the fire — threw tbo, the lock
of her fair hair, that he had dissevered from her
tresses at their last well-remembered meeting. The
sight of it made his bosom heave for a moment, and
his lip to tremble ; but the emotion soon ceased, and
he gave up his thoughts again to his business; look-
ing upon the romantic episode in his fortunes, that
had arrived to so strange a climax, as an idle dream.

It is remarked that if a man loves twice, his second
love will be precisely the reverse of the first ; not in
character, it may be, but in form, feature, expression,
in all the most striking characteristics. It may or
may not be true ; the question is open for discussion
and observation ; but it is certain that Lawrence's
second love differed strikingly from his first. With
as full a measure of sweetness, amiability, and talent,
which had seemed to be prominent in Margaret Le-
land, Eliza Thornton was comparable in nothing
else. Margaret was retiring, yet fervent in feeling ;
Eliza was always calm and self-possessed — never
thrown off her guard, yet never forward. Margaret
was under the average stature ; Eliza was somewhat
above it, although well proportioned. Margaret's
eye was a pensive blue ; Eliza's a dark, lustrous hazel.
Margaret was impulsive in action ; Eliza collected
dignified, and measured.

Ought I to do Lawrence poetic justice — to pre-
vent him from ever loving again, and introduce some
other circumstance to fill up the measure of my story ?
I will not say, a word now of the reasons why it is
out of my power to dispose of my hero as I choose ;
and I will only join issue with such a decision, and
declare that in my idea, to fall heartily in love again,
was just the very thing he ought to have done. But
whether he ought so to have done or not, so he did
do, and it is my duty as a faithful chronicler to relate
the fact.

He loved Eliza Thornton with his whole heart,
for Margaret Leland was nothing to him now.
There was not the enthusiasm in his present affection
which had characterized the former ; but it was as
deep and full ; and became more and more absorbing
as the virtues of its object revealed themselves more
and more. At first he could not help drawing com-
parisons between Margaret and Eliza ; now he was
so full of Eliza, that Margaret ceased to attract
even a thought. He was happy again.

A party was given by a lady of his town, and he
attended with Eliza, in high spirits. In the course
of the evening, as he was standing by the piano, lis-
tening attentively to a song, he caught the eye of a
lady who was sitting alone upon a sofa, on the other
side of the apartment. She had been awaiting an
opportunity to speak to him, and seized the present
to beckon him to her. He seated himself beside her.

" I am happy to greet you, madam," said he ; " you
have been absent from town several weeks. When
did you return ?"

" This very day, Mr. Lawrence ; and had not our
friend assembled her acquaintance to-night, I should
have sent for you to pass the evening with me."

" Indeed ! I rejoice that I am so high in favour
with you, as to be so early remembered."

" Do not flatter yourself — I have important news
for you, and for you alone. We are too much ex-
posed here, for me to communicate it."

" You excite my intensest curiosity. Pray give
me a clue to this very particular information."

" I have been in N , you know !"

The lady said this very significantly. The town
she named, was the one in Connecticut, wherein
Margaret Leland resided. He blushed as the con-
sciousness came over him, that it was of her his in-
formant was about to speak ; but having no interest
in her now, aside from mere curiosity, and that curi-
osity being naturally very strong, he did not disguise
his impatience to be possessed of the information.

" Let us adjourn to the piazza," said he, " we
shall be free from interruption there."

He led the way, and conducted his companion to
the designated spot; then expressed his impatience to
hear what she had to communicate.

" It is of Margaret Leland you are about to speak,"
said he, " I should really be happy to hear of her.
Indeed I wish her well. I can think of her with
calmness now."

" It is indeed of Margaret I have to tell you," she
replied ; " and I shall say what I have to say, with
pain, though I feel it to be a duty to speak; as you
will hear it with greater pain."

" You astonish me !" he rejoined, " Pray go on."

" It will be something of a story, but I have no
doubt that you will hear me patiently. I have been
with my niece at N , as I said, and as was na-
tural, one of my first inquiries after my arrival there,
was of Margaret Leland. My niece told me, that
she was yet unmarried, nor did there seem any pros-
pect of her union to any ; that she had lost her spirits,
remained almost constantly at home, and had so
changed in appearance, that she feared, with many
others, she was going into a decline. I was promised
to see her, which I soon after did, in a small social
party, and I confess that I scarcely knew her. Al-
though I was the only stranger to her, present, she
sat apart the most of the time, with her eyes on
vacancy, as though she had no sympathies with any.
I had known her, you may remember, here, and
sought an early opportunity to speak with her. The
moment I came to her, and she recognized me, she
turned deadly pale and gasped, so that I feared she
was fainting ; but after resting her head upon her
hands, for a few moments, she recovered a degree
of composure. But she would not — could not, I
should rather say — talk to me, and feeling that I was
painful to her, I soon went to another part of the
room. When the hour for leaving came, we were
putting on our bonnets, as it happened, at the same
time, with no one by, and with a hasty motion and
tremulous accent, she laid her hand on my arm, and
said,

" ' I have seen no one from C since I left there,

until yourself. Do you know Mr. Lawrence — and
well'?' she added, in a low tone.

" I do," I answered, " well, very well. Did I pre-
sume ?"

" Oh no," replied Lawrence, « go on — go on !"

" ' Then see me awhile to-morrow. I will call upon

A PAIR OF BROKEN HEARTS.

87

you' — and pressing my hand, she left me. You may
imagine that I was prepared and anxious for her
visit, in the morning, taking especial care to be alone
and to secure our conference from interruption. She
came early ; exhibited manifest traces of mental suffer-
ing ; and every word and action was hurried and dis-
composed by her intense emotion. Anxious to throw
off the load that rested upon her mind, she had no
sooner seated herself by my side, than, waving any
preliminary conversation upon general things, she
entered at once upon the matter that possessed ab-
sorbing interest for her.

" ' I must pour out my feelings to some one,' she
said, bursting into a flood of tears, as she spoke,
' some one who knows him for whom I have suffered.
You know' — she hesitated.

" Yes," said I, guessing at her meaning, " I know
wholly of your love."

" ' Then I can speak freely ; and I pray you be
silent in regard to what I may say, until you meet
him, but tell him all — all ! for it is that he may do
me justice, that I unbosom myself to you. You say
you know of my love ; and do you know of the cir-
cumstances that have occurred since I left C ?'

" ' Yes," answered I, " I regret to say it, I do.'

" « Nay, hear me,' she continued, ' before you re-
proach me. I will begin my story with my return.
My uncle did not so much as refer to Mr. Lawrence,
or my engagement to him, for several days ; — not
until after I had received his first letter. He took it
from the post office and delivered it to me, without a
word ; but after I had read it, he came to me, and
requested that he might see it. I hesitated to give it,
stammering something in excuse, when he authorita-
tively demanded that it should be given to him. I
fear him — I am dependant upon him — I was con-
signed to his charge by my dying mother — and I did
not dare to refuse ; so I gave it to him. He read it
before me, and then, closing it calmly, began to
question me. He asked if no change had come over
my feelings ; and when I answered ' no,' he told me
that he could never give his consent to our union —
that he looked upon Mr. Lawrence as a heretic, from
his difference in belief, and he could not peril the
salvation of the soul of one of whom he had the
charge, by linking her to such a man. ' But reply
to his letter now as you will,' said he, when he had
finished, ' without bias from what I have been saying ;
but I charge you not to hint what I have told you.'
I wrote accordingly, as I felt ; and a second letter
came in answer. In the mean time, he often talked
with me upon the subject, growing stronger and
stronger in his opposition, and frequently questioning
me whether I still loved Mr. Lawrence. I could not
lie to him and my own heart, and I told him as often i
that I did. At last, he became angry, and with fear-
ful looks and tones, bade me not dare to send a word
to Mr. Lawrence, without his first seeing the letter.
I cannot tell all — enough that every word of those
horrible letters were dictated by him, and I was
forced to write them — loving Mr. Lawrence all the
time, with my whole heart, as I do now !"

Lawrence had not spoken nor stirred to this period
of the narrative ; but his breathing had become more
and more audible, until he finally clung to the railing
for support. But at the climax of the terrible truth,
he exclaimed —

"Oh, heaven! could it be! — Poor, poor Marga-
ret!"

Man as he was, his agony found relief in tears.
His friend continued —

" There was a pause after she had thus spoken,
during which she wept freely; then she checked het
sobbing, and said :

" ' I am selfish ; I must surely fatigue you with my
grief. But tell me of Philip. Is he well ?'

" ' Yes,' said I.

" ' And happy ?'

" I could only answer ' yes,' though I would have
given my life to answer ' no.'

" ' Well, I am glad,' she continued, ' he deserves
to be happy. He thinks me, doubtless, a treacherous,
deceitful creature — perhaps has forgotten me.'

" I was silent. She read in that silence more than
the truth.

" ' He is not married ?' she said, in earnest, yet
faltering inquiry.

" ' No,' was my reply. ' Not married,' and then
she fathomed the truth, and mournfully exclaimed —

" ' He loves another ! — I feared it. Heaven bless
him, and give him joy unceasing with the one he has
chosen anew !' And with this outburst of feeling, too
agitated for further words, she kissed my hand fer-
vently, and hastily left me. I did not see her after.
And now I have fulfilled her request ; for no mortal
has heard from me a syllable of her sad story, except
yourself."

" I thank you, I thank you !" said Lawrence,
tremulously, in a low voice. " I will see you again,
when I am calmer. Good night !"

Without rejoining the company, he hurried to his
home ; and there shutting himself in his room, passed
a night of sleepless misery. All his love returned in
its pristine vigour — yes, a hundred fold increased, for
the poor suffering Margaret, the victim of demoniac
injustice. But then his newly affianced love ! — He
was a wo-stricken man indeed !

My tale is done. " What ! done !" I hear you
say, reader. " Done ! in the very crisis of interest —
the very point of all ?"

I can only sympathize with your vexation and an-
swer " yes."

For I have been writing no coinage of the brain.
I have but told what has but lately been acted, on the
chequered stage of life. I could name to you the
parties — the lover, the loved, and that uncle, too ;
with prayers upon his tongue — a venerated man, high
in honour as a pillar of the church, and yet, withal,
the assassin of that poor girl's earthly happiness, the
perpetrator of the foulest deceit !

I not long ago saw a letter from him whom I have
named Philip Lawrence. It was written on the
anniversary of his engagement to Margaret Leland ;
and its tone of sadness, heart-seated, made me grieve
indeed. He says therein that he had done nothing
to renew his acquaintance with his first love, for he
felt himself pledged to the second; and loved her in-
deed, but the memory of the former would come up
before him, and poison every hope. The day, the
consecrated day on which the letter was written, he
was keeping in solitary self communion, with the
world shut out, every pulsation of joy stilled, and his
heart robed as it were in sackcloth and ashes.

Scholars are frequently to be met with, who are
ignorant of nothing — saving their own ignorance.

88

THE SOFT ANSWER.

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE SOFT ANSWER.

BF T. S. ARTHUR.

I'll give him law to his heart's content, the scoun-
drel!" said Mr. Singleton, walking backwards and
forwards, in a state of angry excitement.

" Don't call harsh names, Mr. Singleton," said
Lawyer Trueman, looking up from the mass of papers
before him, and smiling, in a quiet, benevolent way,
that was peculiar to him.

" Every man should be known by his true name.
Williams is a scoundrel, and so he ought to be called !"
responded the client, with increasing warmth.

" Did you ever do a reasonable thing in your life,
when you were angry?" asked Mr. Trueman, whose
age and respectability gave him the license to speak
thus freely to his young friend, for whom he was en-
deavouring to arrange some business difficulty with
a former partner.

" I can't say that I ever did, Mr. Trueman. Bat
now, I have good reason for being angry; and the
language I use in reference to Williams is but the
expression of a sober and rational conviction," replied
Singleton, a little more calmly.

" Did you pronounce him a scoundrel before you
received his reply to your last letter," asked Mr.
Trueman.

" No, I did not. But that letter confirmed my
previously formed impressions of his character."

" But I cannot find in that letter any evidence
proving your late partner to be a dishonest man. He
will not agree to your proposed mode of settlement,
because he does not see it to be the most proper way."
" He won't agree to it, because it is an honest and
equitable method of settlement, that is all ! He wants
to over-reach me, and is determined to do so if he
can !" responded Mr. Singleton, still excited.

" There you are decidedly wrong,"' said the lawyer.
" You have both allowed yourselves to become angry,
and are both unreasonable, and, if I must speak plainly,
I think you the most unreasonable in the present
case. Two angry men can never settle any business
properly. You have very unnecessarily increased
the difficulties in the way of a speedy settlement, by
writing Mr. Williams an angry letter which he has
responded to in a like unhappy temper. Now, if I
am to settle this business for you, I must write all
letters that pass to Mr. Williams in future."

" But how can you properly express my views and
feelings ?"

" That I do not wish to do, if your views and
feelings are to remain as they now are, for any thing
like an adjustment of the difficulties under such cir-
cumstances, I should consider hopeless," replied Mr.
Trueman.

" Well, let me answer this letter, and after that, I
promise that you shall have your own way."

" No, I shall consent to no such thing. It is the
reply to that letter which is to modify the negotiation
for a settlement in such a way as to bring success or
failure ; and I have no idea of allowing you, in the
present state of your mind, to write such a one as will
most assuredly defeat an amicable arrangement."
Singleton paused for some time, before making a

reply. He had been forming in his mind a most
cutting and bitter rejoinder to the letter just alluded
to, and he was very desirous that Mr. Williams should
have the benefit of knowing that he thought him a
" tricky and deliberate scoundrel," with other opinions
of a similar character. He found it, therefore, im-
possible to make up his mind to let the unimpassion-
ed Mr. Trueman write this most important epistle.

" Indeed I must write this letter, Mr. Trueman,"
he said. " There are some things that I want to say
to him, that I know you wont write. You don't
seem to consider the position in which he has placed
me by that letter, nor what is obligatory upon me as
a man of honour. I never allow any man to reflect
upon me, directly or indirectly, without a prompt
response."

" There is, in the Bible," said Mr. Trueman, " a
passage that is peculiarly applicable in the present
case. It is this — A soft answer turneth away wrath,
hut grievous words stir up anger. I have found this
precept, in a life that has numbered more than double
your years, to be one that may be safely and honour-
ably adopted, in all cases. You blame Mr. Williams
for writing you an angry letter, and are indignant at
certain expressions contained therein. Now, is it
any more right for you to write an angry letter, with
cutting epithets, than it is for him ?"
» But, Mr. Trueman — "

" I do assure you, my young friend," said the
lawyer, interrupting him, " that I am acting in this
case for your benefit, and not for my own ; and, as
your legal adviser, you must submit to my judgment,
or I cannot consent to go on."

" If I will promise not to use any harsh language,
will you not consent to let me write the letter?"
urged the client.

" You and I, in the present state of your mind,
could not possibly come at the same conclusion in
reference to what is harsh and what is mild," said
Mr. Trueman, " therefore I cannot consent that you
shall write one word of the proposed reply. I must
write it."

" Well, I suppose, then I shall have to submit.
When will it be ready ?"

" Come this afternoon, and I will give you the
draft, which you can copy and sign."

In the afternoon Mr. Singleton came, and received
the letter prepared by Mr. Trueman. It ran thus,
after the date and formal address.

" I regret that my proposition did not meet your
approval. The mode of settlement which I suggested
was the result of a careful consideration of our mu-
tual interests. Be kind enough to suggest to Mr.
Trueman, my lawyer, any plan which you think will
lead to an early and amicable adjustment of our busi-
ness. You may rely upon my consent to it, if it
meets his approbation."

" Is it possible, Mr. Trueman, that you expect me
to sign such a cringing letter as that !" said Mr.
Singleton, throwing it down, and walking backwards
and forwards with great irritation of manner.

THE SOFT ANSWER.

89

" Well, what is your objection to it," replied Mr.
Trueman, mildly, for he was prepared for just such
an exhibition of feelings.

" Objection ! How can you ask such a question ?
Am I to go on my knees to him and beg him to do
me justice. No ! I'll sacrifice every cent I've got in
the world first, the scoundrel !"

" You wish to have your business settled, do you
not?" asked Mr. Trueman, looking him steadily in
the face.

" Of course I do ! — Honourably settled !'.'

" Well, let me hear what you mean by an honour-
able settlement?"

" Why I mean — "

The young man hesitated a moment, and Mr.
Trueman said,

" You mean a settlement in which your interest
shall be equally considered with that of Mr. Wil-
liams."

" Yes, certainly. And that — "

" And that," continued Mr. Trueman, " Mr. Wil-
liams, in the settlement, shall consider and treat you
as a gentleman."

" Certainly I do. But that is more than he has
done !"

" Well, never mind. Let what is past go for as
much as it is worth. The principal point of action
is in the present."

" But I'll never send that mean, cringing letter,
though."

" You mistake its whole tenor, I do assure you,
Mr. Singleton. You have allowed your angry feel-
ings to blind you. You, certainly, carefully consi-
dered, before you adopted it, the proposed basis of a
settlement, did you not ?"

" Of course I did."

" So the letter which I have prepared for you, states.
Now, as an honest and honourable man, you are, I
am sure, willing to grant to him the same privilege
which you asked for yourself, viz. that of proposing
a plan of settlement. Your proposition does not
seem to please him : now it is but fair that he should
be invited to state how he wishes the settlement to
be made. And in giving such an invitation, a gen-
tleman should use gentlemanly language."

" But, he don't deserve to be treated like a gentle-
man. In fact, he has no claim to the title," said the
young man.

" If he has none, as you say, you profess to be a
gentleman, and all gentlemen should prove by their
actions and their words that they are gentle-men."

" I can't say that I am convinced by what you say,
but, as you seem so bent on having it your own way,
why, here, let me copy the thing and sign it," said
the young man, suddenly changing his manner.

" There now !" he added, passing across the table
the brief letter he had copied, " I suppose he'll think
me a low-spirited fellow, after he gets that. But he's
mistaken. After it's all over, I'll take good care to
tell him, that it didn't contain my sentiments !"

Mr. Trueman smiled, as he took the letter, and
went on to fold and direct it.

" Come to-morrow afternoon, and I think we'll
have things in a pretty fair way," he said, looking up
with his usual pleasant smile, as he finished the direc-
tion of the letter.

" Good afternoon, Mr. Singleton," he said, as that
gentleman entered his office on the succeeding day.

" Good afternoon," responded the young man.

"Well, have you heard from that milk and water
letter of yours ? I can't call it mine."

" Yes, here is the answer. Take a seat, and I
will read it to you," said the old gentleman.

" Well, let's hear it."

" Dear George — I have your kind, reasonable,
and gentlemanly note of yesterday, in reply to my
harsh, unreasonable, and ungentlemanly one of the
day before. We have both been playing the fool;
but you are ahead of me in becoming sane. I have
examined, since I got your note, more carefully, the
tenor of your proposition for a settlement, and it
meets my views precisely. My foolish anger kept
me from seeing it before. Let our mutual friend,
Mr. Trueman, arrange the matter, according to the
plan mentioned, and I shall most heartily acquiesce.
Yours, &c."

" He never wrote that letter in the world !" ex-
claimed Singleton, starting to hi? feet.

" You know his writing, I presume," said Mr.
Trueman, handing him the letter.

" It's Thomas Williams' own hand, as I live !"
ejaculated Singleton, on glancing at the latter. " My
old friend, Thomas Williams, the best natured fellow
in the world !" he continued, his feelings undergoing
a sudden and entire revolution. " What a fool I
have been !"

" And what a fool / have been !" said Thomas
Williams, advancing from an adjoining room, at the
same time extending his hand towards Singleton.

" God bless you, my old friend !" exclaimed Single-
ton, grasping his hand. " Why what has been the
matter with us both ?"

" My young friends," said old Mr. Trueman, one
of the kindest hearted men in the world, rising and
advancing towards them. " I have known you long,
and have always esteemed you both. This pleasant
meeting and reconciliation, you perceive, is of my
arrangement. Now let me give you a precept that
will both make friends, and keep friends. It has
been my motto through life ; and I don't know that
I have an enemy in the world. It is

" A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous
words stir up anger"

DIVERSITY OF OPINION.

I willingly concede to every man what I claim
for myself — the freest range of thought and expres-
sion ; and am perfectly indifferent whether the senti-
ments of others on speculative subjects coincide with
or differ from my own. Instead of wishing or expect-
ing that uniformity of opinion should be established,
I am convinced that it is neither practicable nor de-
sirable ; that varieties of thought are as numerous,
and as strongly marked, and as irreducible to one
standard, as those of bodily form ; and that to quarrel
with one who thinks differently from ourselves, ivould
be no less unreasonable than to be angry with him
for having features unlike our own,

FREEDOM OF INQUIRY.

Let not the freedom of inquiry be shackled. If it
multiplies contentions amongst the wise and virtuous,
it exercises the charity of those who contend. If it
shakes, for a time, the belief that is rested only upon
prejudice, it finally settles it on the broader and more
solid basis of conviction.

CHRISTMAS HYMN

THE POETRY BY

MRS. SARAH J. HALE,

THE MUSIC COMPOSED EXPRESSLY FOR THE LADY'S BOOK,

BY G. KINGSLEY.

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Hail! Hail! the hap - py morn, When Christ, Our Lord, was born — Sound, sound His praise!

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The Prince of Right'ous - ness, He came our world to bless, The Prince of Right'ous - ness, He

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gzrzfzczzzzzz^z4_rzp_r|zrr__g_gzzcz|zrzzrzt|:_c4-:g-T_zz:zzt-zzzz

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came the world to

The

jlorious hymn of " peace" On earth

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II.

Angels the song began,
And then to ransom'd man

The strain was given —
Hark ! joining sweet and wild,
The voice of simplest child,
Bless'd by his Saviour mild,

May sing of Heaven.

III.

Peace, peace ! what blissful sound !
Let hope and joy abound

This happy day.
We praise thee, God above —
Our lives thy blessings prove —
Thanks for thy light and love

Our souls would pay.

■

IV.

Sound ! sound the loudest strain !
Let earth, and sky, and main,

The anthem raise ;
Father ! thy love we bless —
Spirit! we beg thy grace —
Saviour ! we ask thy " peace,"

When God we praise.

92 ALL IS VANITY.

Written for the Lady's Book.

"ALL IS VANITY."

BY MISS JULIET H. LEWIS.

"There is, near this place, a large mound containing human bones partly disinterred, and a tree standing not far off with
the print of a man's hand upon it. It was perhaps the burial place of a nation, more ancient than the Red Men." — Letter from
Ohio.

" Oh ! I have worshipped loveliness, and bowed 'neath beauty's spell —
While on my heart, how tenderly, Love's thrilling magic fell.
Wild! mad! was my idolatry, and then the dream passed o'er,
And my crushed heart turned loathingly from all it loved before.
And then with disappointment's goad I sought the ranks of war,
And o'er the murky battle-field there hung a lurid star,
Which in long after years looked down with its fierce gleaming eye,
Piercing my spirit's inmost depths in silent mystery.
And luring on resistlessly, my restless, thirsting soul;
Through unknown paths I followed it to seek — an unknown goal !
False, as the light in beauty's eye, I proved the meteor — Fame !
Though Glory flings her glittering ray upon my honoured name-
Though nations chaunt the conqueror's praise — though gazing crowds caress —
What boots it to the aching heart, that yearns for happiness?
Then let me sink, unsung, beneath oblivion's sweeping wave,
For I have burst the chains that bound Ambition's blinded slave.
But though my heart is scathed and seared, by Disappointment's fire,
Amid the wreck of former hopes, there lingers one desire —
I would retrace my wearied steps, back to my childhood's home;
Methinks, in every passing breath, soft voices whisper— " come !"
Familiar faces fondly, smile upon me in my sleep,
But when my arm would clasp, they flee, I can but wake and weep.
Around me in my lonely hours, Remembrance flings her chain,
With gentle hands her captive leads back to that home again.
I rest not on the stranger's ground, I rest not on the sea,
'Tis long since earth hath yielded aught save weariness to me,
In death I might not find repose beneath a foreign sky,
Methinks my bones will only rest where my forefathers lie.
Beloved ones! I will return unto thy gentle care,
My sun is setting, lo ! I come, to die amid ye there."

And homeward, now, the wand'rer turned, and eagerly pressed on,
That ere his shattered bark should wreck, the haven might be won.
And though 'twas only Hope's dim light that faintly beamed afar,
He trod his onward path, as when he followed Glory's star.
Aye! as unswervingly, as when it lured him first to roam,
And now behold he stands beside his long forsaken home.

Demon of Change ! thy ruthless step doth crush Hope's fairest flowers,

And wantonly thou'st revelled here, amid his native bowers.

The very tree his boyhood loved, the green, broad, spreading oak,

Stands there a blighted, blackened thing, seared by the lightning's stroke;

And e'en the brook, whose bounding waves, his tiny vessels bore,

Has turned from its accustomed path beside the cottage door;

And Solitude sits brooding by the still deserted hearth,

Which oft has echoed to the sounds of revelry and mirth;

And sullen Gloom, with cloud capped brow stands proudly frowning near,

While Silence in her voicelessness bids welcome to him here.

Gone is the glance of tenderness the mother gave her boy- —

Gone is his sire's approving look — his brother's brow of joy —

And gone the sweet, confiding face, his gentle sister wore —

All these beamed brightly round that hearth, in those blest days of yore.

" Where !" answer him ye forest shades, " where have those loved ones fled,

Roam they afar in other lands, or rest they with the dead?"

He turned in silent anguish from the mocking ruin there,

As echo's answer "dead!" came back, upon the summer air.

His old ancestral sepulchre is now his only home,

And lo ! the woe worn wand'rer stands beside his father's tomb.

But ruthless hands have marred the spot, each well known trace has fled —

The fallen stone, the shattered urn, tell of the noble dead.

RETROSPECTION.

93

And scattered bones, and grinning sculls, lie round exposed and bare
Kindred to which .his heart had clung — the loved — the lost — were there !
Forms which his arm encircled oft, in youth, lie at his feet,
Brows which his lips had warmly pressed in parting, thus they meet!
Aye ! thus they meet ! they changed by death, and he by passion's strife,
And who may tell, which saddest seems, the " change of death or life I"
The strong man like an infant reeled and grasped a slender tree,
While the tried heart within him burst, with its deep agony.

The serpent glides affrighted by, into a scull, its hole —
(Proud is the reptile's hiding place " the palace of a soul")
The toad hides 'neath a human hand, and then peers out at him,
The startled vulture soars aloft, shrieking his requiem.

Years passed — a strong and hardy tree, the slender sapling grew,

And o'er those bleached, unburied bones, its branches proudly threw;

Its leaflets waved luxuriantly upon the passing air,

Its boughs hung rich, its trunk was strong, but bore the hand-mark there.

Vain was the summer sun's bright glance, vain the refreshing rain.

For 'neath that iron grasp of death, it never grew again.

Written for the Lady's Book.
RETROSPECTION:

TO WHICH IS APPENDED AN INCIDENT.

BY A LADY.

When about nineteen or twenty years of age, I went
to visit a friend, residing in a village not many miles
from Boston, where my own home was located.
How vividly do I at this moment recall that fine, old
fashioned, but elegant mansion, in which on that and
other occasions, I passed many happy hours ! — and
thou ! sweet Catherine ! its presiding genius. At this
instant, I distinctly see before me the soft hazel eye,
and the rosy dimpled mouth, which ever looked and
spoke their welcome to one far, far less fortunate in
the world's estimation than thou wert, but who was
only more loved and caressed by thee on that account.

And here, forgive me, gentle reader, for a moment's
pause, as memory drinks in the past, and the eventful
features of my friend's early life appear in silent re-
view before my mind's eye. That life was a romance,
almost from beginning to end. Deprived of both
parents in the short space of one little week, and left
pennyless at the early age of six years ; adopted by a
wealthy and childless uncle, brought up to every
luxury and with every advantage, beautiful and ac-
complished, and admired and courted quite as much
for her extraordinary charms of person and character,
as for the wealth with which it was believed she
would be liberally endowed ; — such was my sweet
Catherine a short time before I made the particular
visit, a recurrence to which led to this little sketch :
but the history ended not here.

Her uncle suddenly died, and without a will ! —
Idolizing his adopted child, and fully intending to
make her heiress of his wealth, he nevertheless pro-
crastinated the legal step which should secure it to
her ; and Catherine, stunned by the loss of one who
had been her best friend on earth, never once cast a
thought on her own fate, till she found herself almost
as poor as when first she came to his home and his
heart, and more than ever an orphan ! But there
was one who had long loved her in secret, whose
affection she returned with all the wealth of her
matchless heart ; he " had never told his love," for

he was poor, and would not offer a portionless hand
to her whose suitors were among the wealthiest and
proudest of the land. But now, emboldened by the
thought that all barrier between them was removed,
he whispered his tale of love, and received an ac-
knowledgment, unlooked for, undreamed of, till then ;
what but joy to them was the loss of that golden
dross, which had been but a glittering barrier to their
happiness ? They were married, and I have reason
to believe that my friend never for a moment repented
her choice. Seven years of quiet happiness was hers,
that happiness " which passeth show," and then a
consumption, so gradual, so gentle, and imperceptible,
that even her most watchful friends anticipated not
the result, seemed as the peaceful messenger which
bore her to an eternal home.

But for my little adventure — I have hardly the
heart to relate it now — rushing memories of many
happy hours spent in her loved society, sweep across
my page, and would fain efface my words as I write.

The house in which my friend resided during all
the years of her happy life, and with which all my
associations of her are intimately blended, was situ-
ated considerably back from the road, and with a
beautiful garden on front and rear, and a side en-
trance, which instead of the principal one, was always
used by intimate friends; indeed the large hall which
terminated in a handsome entrance on the front, was
seldom used, unless on particular occasions, and many
of the front rooms were also unoccupied. At the
time I refer to, Catherine was a second time an or-
phan ; and as her uncle's estate was not yet settled,
and she was entitled, as one of his nieces, to a portion
of his property, she still remained in the home of her
youth ; her lover had gone on a southern voyage for
the benefit of his health, and she was residing with
two elderly females, relatives of her deceased uncle.
These two ladies occupied a large front room of the
extensive mansion, while Catherine and myself slept
in an apartment on the opposite side of the spacious

94

OH SING THAT GENTLE STRAIN AGAIN.

entiy. The domestics were at some distance from
either of these rooms, in a further part of the house.

The inmates of the opposite chamber had long
since composed themselves to rest, and all things were
still — but Catherine and myself thought not of sleep,
our whole souls were absorbed in the full delicious
intercourse of affectionate confidence. Catherine
was not one of those sentimental, trifling characters,
who must have a confidant for all -their little trials
and adventures, and even though intimate with her
in the purest and strictest sense of the term, from
the time' we were children, she had never given me
the least reason to suspect her love to him to whom
she was now betrothed, until the fact of their engage-
ment had taken place ; — while uncertain of his feel-
ings, nothing could have drawn the precious secret
from her bosom; — but now that heaven had blessed
her, as she believed beyond her dearest hopes, how
rich was the glow of happiness which suffused her
cheek and brow, as she told me of all his disinterest-
ed affection. Then came the tale of his illness and
departure, (for I had been separated from Catherine
for some time previous, and I knew no particulars) —
and after this, the theme was changed to that of her
revered father, for so she always delighted to call
him, of his violent illness, and sudden death. The
touching interest with which Catherine's recital in-
vested this latter subject, had awakened ail the sym-
pathy of my nature, and I wept with her, as a re-
newal of all the circumstances also renewed all the
tenderness of her grief. To cheer her, I alluded to
the present probable state of her beloved friend, and
from thence the conversation easily turned into a
sublimated and spiritual channel. Catherine and
myself had always differed respecting the great sub-
ject of religion in some important particulars, and we
had always mutually and freely exchanged our sen-
timents. Now she was particularly desirous of know-
ing my opinions respecting the state of departed
spirits immediately after quitting this mortal body.
She knew that the belief which I entertained upon
this subject was somewhat peculiar, and I, for my
part, longed to seize so favourable an opportunity of
imparting to her open and candid mind some of the
truths with which my own had been blessed.

Lost in converse so sacred as this, we had forgot-
ten the hour, and all unnoticed was the flickering
light, just ready to expire in the socket, when we
both at the same instant paused, and involuntarily
held our breaths to listen. — I distinctly heard a sound
from the opposite chamber, as of some one very

stealthily endeavouring to raise a window. " Hark"
said Catherine, almost below her voice, " did you not
hear something ?"

I pressed her hand in token of assent, and we
again listened anxiously; the noise was more dis-
tinctly heard by us both, and we could not doubt
that some one was softly forcing up a window in the
apartment occupied by the old ladies, and hardly
separated from our own, by the wide entry, for the
doors of both rooms stood open. Involuntary horror
seized upon us — the lateness of the hour, the absence
of any man in the house who could protect us — the
nature of the converse in which we had been indulg-
ing, all conspired to excite our imaginations in the
highest degree — we looked at each other in silence,
and pale as death — uncertain whether to quit the
room, or hide ourselves within it, or to attempt
awakening the inmates of that from whence the
sounds proceeded, when a shriek, more appalling than
any thing I ever imagined — and even at this distance
of time, it chills my blood to recall, proceeded from
the opposite chamber. There was no longer room
for hesitation — paralysed by fear, we were without
the power to move — and to me at least, the image
of one of the poor old ladies with an assassin's knife
at her throat, could have afforded no increase of ter-
ror ; and the instant of suspense was an age of suf-
fering, when a calm voice was heard to say, — " Why
Betty, what's the matter ? the room seemed close,
and I rose to open a window, but as quietly as I
could, to avoid disturbing you." Oh ! kind reader —
you may freely laugh at this denouement, and so can
I, noio — but then, the relief was so sudden, so un-
looked for, all excitement of feeling was so instantly
exhausted, that my strength also abandoned me, and
I had only enough consciousness to sign to Cathe-
rine not to call any one, but to hand me a glass of
water from the dressing table near. I recovered pre-
sently, and as soon we could, we crept into bed,
and closely clinging to each other, we dropt to sleep,
after a short and agitated interval, during which we
breathed an earnest prayer of gratitude to Hun, who
always watched over us.

The next morning we indulged in a hearty laugh
at our causeless alarm, but it afforded a salutary les-
son to me, which I never afterwards forgot.

Ah ! my beloved Catherine ! years have passed
since that little adventure ; thou art gone from my
side — but memory loves to linger on thy bright
image, and hope glances at the future, when we per-
haps shall meet to part no more for ever.

Written for the Lady's Book.

OH SING THAT GENTLE STRAIN AGAIN,

BY ANDREW m'MAKIN.

Oh sing that gentle strain again,

And I will list the while,
Its notes will soothe my bosom's pain

My aching heart beguile.
Fair reason wandering from her track.

In trouble's darkest hour,
Hath oft been lured in gladness back,

By music's soothing power.

Then sing, &c.

Oh take thy dulcet lute again,

And breathe its magic spell,
Such tones might well the soul enchain,

As in some fairy dell.
Like yon poor widow'd fluttering dove

Beneath the serpent's gaze
In vain each throe to soar above

Or 'scape the dazzling maze.
Then take, &x.

EDITORS TABLE.

95

Written for the Lady's Book.
TO A LOCK OF HAIR.

BY GEORGE HIL L W RITTEN AT EPHESU

Where is the forehead, white and high,

The dancing curls, as round some fair
And snowy alp the light clouds fly,

Where are they, where ?

Still sporting with the summer air,
Thy sister tresses — do they wave

Around the living brow, or share
Its couch, the grave?

As murmurs of its distant sea,

Its long-lost home, the ocean-shell,
Thoughts, feelings wake, at sight of thee,

'Twere grief to tell :

Words, tones, though mirth-born, yet the knell
To hopes of which from memory's gloom,

Thy dark braids, like a woven spell,
The shades untomb.

Token of hours — but they are not !

And other skies are o'er me here,
And stars, to rule my wayward lot

But not to cheer.

From dreams of thee I start, to hear,
Remote — where bends the palm-tree lone,

And Ruin heaps her desert bier —
The night winds moan:

For love's soft words and softer sigh,

The jackal's solitary scream :
And yon pale star is not the eye

That lights my dream.

A gentle form in sleep I seem
To clasp, but wake — wild rocks intrude,

And waters roll their misty stream
Through solitude.

EDITORS' TABLE.

"And savage winter rules the year."

There is no month when this iron sceptre is so heavily felt
as during the present one. February is cold, rugged, inhos-
pitable, and if it were not for St. Valentine's day, would
scarcely relax his frozen features with a smile through his
whole reign; standing midway between the enjoyments which
winter first brings and the promises of the coming spring,
February seems to repel both; and the greatest pleasure he
imparts is the knowledge that his time is short. And yet his
one glorious day — the birthday of Washington — is it not
sufficient to hallow this month to the Americans as one of the
most important in our history?

There seems something in the very gloom and atmosphere
of the season, congenial with the greatness won by a good
man — for such superiority is almost always gained by sacri-
fices and sufferings severe as the blighting storm ; through
enmities and envyings bitter as the cold wind laden with
frost and snow. — And this discipline it is which forms the
true hero.

" In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms,
Nursed and matur'd, the pilot learns his art;
Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict forms
The lofty spirit and enduring heart." ,

These are the sentiments which this month naturally in-
spires, and which every American mother should strive to
impress on the hearts of her children. The mother of Wash-
ington, by training her son in habits of truth, obedience,
temperance, industry, and self-denial, laid the foundation of
his greatness in the goodness of his character. Providence
directed that his talents and energies, as they unfolded,
should be devoted to the service of his country, and this gave
him fame — but had he never emerged from private life he
would still have been that noblest work of God — an honest
man. And such, it should be the ambition of every mother
to make her son— a Washington at home.

There are so many helps, as they are called, in education
now-a-days, that parents are in danger of taking up the idea
that their care is not really essential, or may be dispensed
with at their pleasure. This is a great, and often proves a
fatal mistake. True, the common schools will do much for
the intellect, Sabbath schools for the knowledge of morals —
but it is at home that the heart is trained to reverence that
which is good, to love, and cherish the pure affections and
feelings, which make the happiness of a virtuous life. And
these flowers of the human soul, which, in childhood begin
to open, require to be tended by the hand of maternal love.
Yes, the mother's eye, which is the sunlight of the little

being just beginning to grope its way through this dark " cold
world of ours," must point the path, her smile must be the
reward of the first efforts to duty ; and her conversation, and
example are the seals which stamp, for good or for evil, the
character of her child.

Some reformers there are who are zealously urging the
cause of " Woman's Rights"— we are anxious she should be
instructed to perform her duties. If she will faithfully dis-
charge the latter, she need not trouble herself about the for-
mer. Will a good son consent that his mother— that any
mother should be wronged or oppressed?

Let all mothers train up their sons to be good men, and we
should have good legislators, who would speedily reform what
is now unjust and injurious in our laws. And remember
that good sons will make good husbands and fathers, thus
securing and perpetuating the happiness, and improvement
of social and domestic life.

We did not anticipate the homily we have given, when
beginning this paper — but the month is congenial to sober
thought. We hope it will awaken such in the hearts of our
readers, and that each fond mother, as she bends over the
cradled sleep of her babe will resolve that, as far as lies in
her power, her children shall be trained to do good.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We owe an apology to our kind contributors for the omission
of any notice of their favours in our last number. The truth
is, we were touring it, while preparing the " Book" for Janu-
ary, and though one may read while they run, it is not very
convenient to write while on a round of visiting. But now
we are again in our own quiet study, and can look over at
our leisure the effusions of the thousand poets who honour us
with their confidence. One thing we hope our young friends
will bear in mind— that though few men or women can write
poetry, yet all can feel its beauty and purity in their hearts
and exemplify its high and holy sentiments in their lives. Now
to our task. The following articles are accepted.

The Missionary's Wife.

The Last Song Bird.

Flowers and Fairies.

The Bride's Remembrance of Home.

Autumn Musings.

The following we must decline,

Jesus IVept— Good thoughts, but expressed in a common-
place manner.

Song of Winter— Rough as the blasts of Siberia— it could
be set to music only by one who was able to dispense with
rhythm and harmony.

The Lover's Adieu.

96

editors' book table.

Broken Vows.

Thoughts on the New Year.

These three poems have each some beautiful thoughts and
harmonious lines; but there are more faults than merits, and
and so we lay them aside.

Then we cannot admit this long prosy story — Margaret —
in five chapters. But the author must not be discouraged.
She can write better.

editors' book table.

The Life and Writings of Samuel Johnson, L. L. D. Selected
and arranged by Rev. W- P. Page. 2 vols. New York,
Harper & Brothers. Philadelphia, Carey &. Hart.

The selections here made from the works of the great Eng-
lish moralist, are chiefly taken from the Rambler, the Idler,
&c, and comprise many of his most valuable essays. The
object, of the selection as stated by the compiler, is to furnish
a connected series of articles tending to the moral improve-
ment of the heart, and certainly richer materials for that
purpose could not any where be found than in the writings
of Dr. Johnson. The biographical memoir which is prefixed,
was not written by GifFord, as is erroneously stated in the
preface, but by Arthur Murphy, the well-known translator
of Tacitus, &.c.

Selections from the American Poets, by William Cullen Bry-
ant. 1 vol. Harper &. Brothers, New York. Carey & Hart,
Philadelphia, 1841.

All the contents of this volume are good, unquestionably,
but it scarcely merits the compliments which have been be-
stowed upon it. Not only has Mr. Bryant omitted many who
deserved a place in his volume — as for example Conrad, Ro-
bert Morris, R. P. Smith, C. W. Thomson, and others of our
own city— but the passages chosen are not in all instances
characteristic of their authors. Still the volnme is a very
pleasant one, and we have no doubt will find its way into
very general circulation.

Selections from the British Poets by Fitz Greene Halleck. 2
vols. Harper &. Brothers, New York. Carey &. Hart, Phi-
ladelphia, 1840.

These volumes contain very many elegant extracts from the
British Poets, from Spenser toourown day, selected as would
reasonably be expected from the well-known taste of the com-
piler, with great care and judgment.

The History of England, from the earliest period to 1839.
By Thomas Keightly, 5 vols. Harper & Brothers, New
York. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia, 1840.

This is a valuable contribution to our current literature.
It brings within reach of the ordinary reader, in an accessible
shape, a complete history of England, from the Roman con-
quest to the present time, compiled from the most authentic
sources, and written in a free, and agreeable style.

Tlie Literary Amaranth, of Prose and Poetry, by N. C.
Brooks, 1840. Kay & Brother, Philadelphia.

Mr. Brooks is a very agreeable writer, both in prose and
poetry. Of a polished and cultivated mind, all his productions
bear the impress of a just taste and ample acquirements; and
the tendency of all is to promote the higher morals. The
present volume is handsomely bound in embossed morocco,
and it is embellished with several plates.

The Dream and other Poems, by the Hon. Mrs. Norton.
Carey & Hart, Philadelphia, 1841.

This elegant volume contains several poems of considerable
length, which may be justly ranked among the most graceful
and polished parlour productions of the day. Besides these,
it also contains many of Mrs. Norton's fugitive pieces, and is
altogether a most valuable collection.

are employed, the author has given an account of the different
complicated machinery generally in use, and especially those
which are most common in this country. To our young lady
readers, a work of this kind will prove particularly valuable.

The Rural Life of England, by William Howitt. Carey &
Hart, Philadelphia, 1841.

This is a very delightful book. It is written in a style of
freshness that cannot fail to charm all classes of readers; and
the subjects to which it relates are of universal interest. The
Rural Life of England — why there is something in the very
title which captivates attention, and calls up images of rustic
happiness and repose — of boskey bourne and tangled dell —
of smooth-trimmed lawns and flowing rivers — and better than
all, of a contented, devout, and comfortable people. But the
scope of this work is broader than a mere description of coun-
try life and its pursuits. It goes fully into the history of all
the objects it describes — it goes back into the past and traces
out effects to their causes; and in its modest, unpretending
way, furnishes a keen, and philosophical survey of the struc-
ture of English society.

The publishers deserve great praise for the handsome man-
ner in which this work has been got up. It is truly elegant.

Visits to Remarkable Places, Sec. By William Howitt. 2
vols. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia, 1841.

Another charming production of the same gifted pen; and
not less interesting than the former. Mr. Howitt possesses
a remarkable aptitude in description, and contrives to make
his pictures so life-like, you almost fancy them to exist before
you. In reading of Hampton Court— of Stratford on Avon —
of Compton Hall — of Penshurst — of Bolton Priory — of the
Moor of Culloden — We enter as fully into the incidents related
as if they were actually present, such is the power of the
narrator, and the force of the narrative. This work is also
published in the most beautiful style.

Memoirs, Correspondence, and Comic Miscellanies of the late
James Smith. Bv Horace Smith. 2 vols. Carey & Hart,
Philadelphia, 184i.

Every body is familiar with the author of " Rejected Ad-
dresses ; and all know that he was a man of great wit and
distinguished acquirement. It is not so generally known
perhaps, that he excelled in prose composition of a familiar
character, no less than in poetry, and that his essays were as
full of point as his epigrams. Besides a well-written memoir,
this collection contains his principal productions, and abounds
in entertainment.

The Tower of London, by W. H. Ainsworth. Lea & Blanch-
ard, Philadelphia.

A beautiful edition of this work has been issued by this
firm, handsomely illustrated in Yeager's best manner. Ains-
worth is a rapid writer, his books are most of them upon
popular subjects — witness his Crichton and Jack Sheppard.
This latter we do not admire. Next to the former the book
we are now noticing is probably his best novel.

The Renunciation. Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia.
A very pleasant novel and exceedingly well written. The
plot novel and original. The heroine is a beautiful conception.
Her character is one that can do no harm, but on the contrary
must do much good, even in the view of those persons who
object to novel reading.

CMalley and Master Humphrey are creeping along. It is
tantalizing to read such excellent works at intervals. They
are both of the kind that you could commence at twelve at
night, and finish by breakfast time the next morning and feel
none the worse for it.

Application of the Science of Mechanics to Practical Purposes. Our friends of the press and our subscribers will be pleased

By James Renwick, L. L. D. New York. Harper & Bro- to learn that we have made an arrangement to furnish them

thers, New York. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia, 1840. with some original contributions from Theodore S. Fay, Esq.,

This is a familiar essay designed to explain and illustrate lately one of the editors of the New York Mirror, and whose

the practical application of the science of mechanics. For novels and miscellaneous writings are so well know^i in this

this purpose, besides a full detail of the various means which country and Europe,

«u

GODEY'S

LADY'S BOOK.

MARCH, 1841.

Written for the Lady's Book.

MATHEMATICAL ABSTRACTION.

BY PROFESSOR W. J. WALTER.

Poets have sung in numbers high
Abstraction's deep philosophy,
When man, to fancy's power resigned,
Revels in day-dreams of the mind,
And, from each outward thing abstracted,
Of mental forms is all compacted.

Our Painter ventures not so high :
He leaves to others to untie
Such knotty metaphysic notions,
Content with every- day emotions.
He leaves a Milton free to soar
Where never mortal reached before ;
He ventures not to track his flight
Across chaotic depths of night,
'Till on Creation's farthest bound
His daring dizzy flight is found.

A lowlier sphere his view embraces,
A humbler theme his pencil traces;
Fain to portray some little fraction
Of queer and whimsical abstraction,
And realize, if so he can,
That oddity— the Absent Man.

'Tis done, and see him here before ye,
Seated in all abstraction's glory ;
Intensely wrapp'd his dreamy mood in,
And deeply o'er his Euclid brooding;
No thought of earth is his, I wot ;
His very breakfast is forgot;
Untouched those buckwheat cakes remain,
The fragrant coffee tempts in vain !
His saucepan on the stove is boiling:
Yet it is not the egg that's spoiling ;
VOL. XXII. 9

For see, he does his best endeavour
To boil— not egg, but patent-lever;
Timing with gravity the minute ;
When the tit-bil is done within it.
The being who thus dwells alone
In a creation of his own,
How loudly men will ridicule,
How rate him as the veriest fool ;
And yet how oft those very elves
Might turn the laugh against themselves;
Happy, were nothing but a smile
Waked by their harmless freaks the while I
May we not trace our own day-dreamer
In many -a wild fantastic schemer?
The blower-up of air-born bubbles,
Big with his own and others' troubles?
At length he wakens from his dream :
Abortive proves each deep-laid scheme;
Each towering castle*built in Spain,
Like frost-work melting quick again.
The man has been abstracted; true —
And the poor dupes' deposites too!
And many a ruined wretch is near
To pour deep curses in his ear.
True, like our simple self-deceiver,
He has not boiled his patent-lever,
For, after worse than fruitless toil,
The deuce a lever's left to boil I
And far from any 'vantage gained,
He has not e'en his egg retained ;
Nay more, the miserable elf
In the hot water finds himself.

98

THE NEW MINISTER.

Written for the Lady's Book. •

THE NEW MINISTER.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

" What kind of a sermon did the new minister give
you this morning ?" asked Ellen May of her sister
Mary, as the latter came in from church on a bright
Sabbath morning in the pleasant month of June.

" O, it was delightful!" replied Mary with anima-
tion. " He's a splendid looking man, with an eye as
bright as a diamond. And such a voice ! It was
the finest for an orator I ever heard."

- " What was the text, Mary ?" said Mrs. May* with
a grave countenance.

" Why, it was — it was," responded Mary, taken
by surprise. " It was in the — I declare, mother, I
cannot recall it at this moment ; but, it's oh my
tongue's end. It was in the — It was there where
it speaks about — about — "

" You paid more attention, I see, to Mr. Elbert-
son's eyes and voice than to his sermon, Mary," said
her mother, seriously. " I'm afraid I shall not like
our new minister if his person is to make a deeper
impression than his words."

" Indeed, mother, it was an elegant sermon," urged
Mary, " and now, I remember the subject. It was
on the ' Beauty of Holiness,' and the text was, ' Be
ye holy, for I am holy.'" Mary's voice sunk into
a lower and more serious tone, as she repeated this
brief portion of the holy Word. " I never felt so
like being religious in my life, as I did while he was
preaching. The life of holiness was so beautifully
pictured. If I were to hear such sermons every Sun-
day, I am sure I should be much better than I am."

" You were pleased, then, with the new minister,
Mary," said her father, who came in, in time to hear
her closing remark. He had paused at the door a
few moments to have a parting word with a neigh-
bour.

" Indeed I was," replied Mary, warmly.

" And how did you like him, father ?" asked Mrs.
May, looking into her husband's face, with an ex-
pression that indicated no small degree of concern.
She was a womau whose thoughts were much occu-
pied on religious subjects, and she, therefore, felt a
good deal of anxiety about the new minister who was
to take the place of good old Mr. Morrison, recently
removed, by death, from his labours.

The husband smiled, and remarked, in a quiet
tone,

« He certainly preached an excellent sermon, as
Mary says."

" But is he at all like dear, good, old Mr. Morri-
son ?" said Mrs. May, the rising moisture dimming
her eyes as she thought of the gray headed old minis-
ter who had preached to them for the last thirty
years.

" No, he is not like Mr. Morrison. No two men
are alike. And there are few of the same class of
men as Mr. Morrison left. Every new generation
differs in some degree from the preceding one, and
the ministers differ as much as the people."

" Then I shall not like Mr. Elbertson," said Mrs.
May, despondingly. " I don't think I can ever hear
him preach."

"Yes, mother, you will like him, I am sure you
will !" spoke up Mary, with warmth and animation.
" Don't you think she will, father," she added.

" Indeed, Mary, I cannot tell. Your mother was
very much attached to the excellent minister who has
been taken away from us, and I should not be at all
surprised if she would be a long time in getting re-
conciled to the loss. Mr. Elbertson is a young man.
But, notwithstanding his fine talents, and, I trust,
sincere piety, he is a very different person from old
Mr. Morrison. He may be a better minister, and a
better man, but — "

" Never ! never !" said Mrs. May, with warmth,
interrupting her husband.

" I did not say that he was," replied Mr. May,
smiling pleasantly at his wife's warmth of expression.
" I was only going to suppose a case."

" But it is wrong to suppose what is not true,"
said Mrs. May. " Mr. Elbertson never was, and,
never will be as good a man, or as good a minister
as Mr. Morrison." '

" But you have neither seen him, nor heard him
preach, mother," said Mary.

" No, nor never wish to," resumed Mrs. May,
evidently losing command of her feelings.

" Well, never mind, mother," said Mr. May, sooth-
ingly. "It is not right, you know, to form an unfa-
vourable opinion of any man, before having a fair
opportunity to become acquainted with his true cha-
racter. You must go to hear Mr. Elbertson, and
then, I have no doubt but that you will think well
of him."

That evening Mr. Ellis and his wife came in to
sit an hour or two.

"You were not at church," this morning, Mrs.
May," said Mrs. Ellis, after her bonnet and shawl I
were taken off and handed into the next room by
Ellen.

" No, I couldn't well leave home," replied Mrs.
May.

" Of course, you didn't hear our new minister,"
said Mrs. Ellis, in rather an equivocal tone. " He
doesn't preach like good old Mr. Morrison, I can tell
you that. I, for one, shall never be reconciled to the
change."

" I am sure I shall not," responded Mrs. May.
" I don't think I can ever hear him preach. I am
told that he is a young, foppish fellow : one of your
preachers that try to create a sensation :" and Mrs.
May shook her head, while an expression allied to
sadness flitted across her countenance.

" There is something of the dandy about him, I
must confess," said Mrs. Ellis. " And, as to his
preaching, it was nothing at all like Mr. Morrison's."

" Ah me !" sighed Mrs. May, " I wish the dear
good old man had only lived a little longer."

The new minister was also the burden of conver-
sation between Mr. Ellis and Mr. May.

" How were you pleased with Mr. Elbertson ?"
asked the former.

" Why, I must confess that I am prepossessed in

THE NEW MINISTER.

99

his favour," replied Mr. May. " His manner and
style of sermonizing is so different from that of our
late pastor, that it is not easy at once to be recon-
ciled to so great a change. Any change, even for
the better, shocks the feelings, and hinders the judg-
ment from estimating it truly."

" But it a'n't possible that you mean to intimate
that Mr. Elbertson is a better minister than Mr.
Morrison was?" said Mr. Ellis, in surprise. " Why,
my dear sir, he wont bear comparison with him. I
am surprised at the vestry for making so unsuitable
a choice!"

" But you judge him prematurely," replied Mr. May,
in a calm but earnest tone of voice. " He is a young
man, and was evidently ill at ease this morning in his
new position. He seemed to me to feel that in the
minds of the congregation there must, all the while,
be an involuntary process of comparison going on,
between him and the venerable and much beloved
man, who had so long stood at the desk where he
was standing. He has some mannerisms about him,
but every minister has these, and they are only un-
pleasant when first observed. Mr. Morrison had
some peculiar to himself, but we were so used to him,
and liked the man so well, that we did not see them."
" I am sure I never could see any," responded Mr.
Ellis, catching, in the true spirit of controversy, at the
last remark. " His like I never expect to see again.
And, as for this Mr. Elbertson, the more I think
about him, the more do I feel dissatisfied. It is a
shame to place such a man over the sainted Mr.
Morrison's congregation ! I almost wonder that the
old man can sleep quietly in his grave."

Mr. Ellis was evidently warming, and, as he allow-
ed his feelings to become excited, the more blind did
he become in his perceptions of the character of the
new minister. Perceiving this, Mr. May made an
effort to change the conversation, but could not suc-
ceed ; and was forced, for nearly the whole evening,
to oppose a mild remonstrance to the severe things
that were said about^the new minister. In these
strictures all joined but Mary, and she was on the
side taken by her father.

While these animadversions are going on, let us
look in upon the unconscious subject of them. We
will find him seated at a table in his chamber, with
his head resting upon his hand. His new position
has agitated him, in spite of every effort he can make
to keep his feelings calm. He is a young man, of fine
talents, well educated, and deeply conscious of the
responsibilities attached to his sacred office.

Thus seated, the thoughts that passed through his
mind, troubled him. His reception by the people,
over whom he had been called as a minister, it seem-
ed to him, was not cordial.

" Surely," he said, mentally, " they are disappointed
in me. It was not well for one so young to take the
place ot that long tried, faithful, and aged servant."

Just at this moment, there was a loud knock at his

door, and Mr. Bisbee, one of the vestrymen, entered.

" Good evening, good evening, Mr. Elbertson !

How do you do to-night," he said, bustling in, and

taking a chair on the opposite side of the table.

" Quite well," responded the minister, endeavour,
ing to smile cheerfully, but in vain. But so much
occupied was Mr. Bisbee with his own thoughts, that
he did not perceive the feebleness of the smile, nor
the alrnost sad expression that followed it.

" I dropped in, this evening, Mr. Elbertson," began

his visiter, " to have a little talk with you in a friendly
way. I am a free spoken man, you must know; but
I always mean well. Every thing with me is honest
and above board. And, so I will just say to you,
that, as I know the people here a great deal better
than you do, a few hints, such as I can give, may be
of great use to you."

" I shall certainly be indebted to you for any such
kind offices," replied Mr. Elbertson, endeavouring to
rouse himself up to that state of indifference which is
often assumed as a protection to the feelings.

" I mean all well, you may be assured, sir," said Mr.
Bisbee. " And so I will come at once to the point.
In the first place, your sermon was too long to-day,
by a quarter of an hour. Mr. Morrison never preach-
ed over thirty minutes, and the people can't endure
to sit any longer. And then you reasoned too much ;
Mr. Morrison always brought a subject right home
to the feelings of the congregation, in the most sim-
ple, touching way imaginable. I am not alone in
this opinion, for I have talked with twenty since this
morning about it, and they all agree with me, that
such kind of preaching wont suit here. And then,
no one ever heard the strange hymn you gave out.
It was in the book it is true ; but Mr. Morrison
always stuck to the old familiar hymns that we have
known and sung ever since we were children. And
I must say, that you had too much action; Mr.
Morrison used to lay his hand upon the Bible so im-
pressively, and never lift it or wave it about more
than once or twice during the whole sermon. I have
heard this particularly objected to in you. I am thus
frank, Mr. Elbertson, because I know you are desi-
rous of pleasing the people; and unless you know
what they like, how can you please them?"

" I am certainly indebted to you, Mr. Bisbee,"
said the young minister, quietly, " and shall endeavour
to profit by your hints."

» That is right — that is right, Mr. Elbertson," re-
sponded his visiter, warming with pleasure at the idea
of the good office to the church and minister both,
that he was performing. " It is some satisfaction to
advise a man, when he is willing to profit by what
you say. But another thing : I have heard some
object to your dress. They don't think it as plain
as becomes a minister."

" I really don't see how I can dress plainer," re-
plied Mr. Elberson, glancing down at himself. " My
clothes are new and fit me well. You certainly
would not have me go with soiled or shabby clothing."
«0 no — no indeed, sir. But then," said Mr.
Bisbee, " there is something in the way your clothes
are made and put on, that kind of looks foppish. It
would be well if you could remedy this in some way.
Mr. Morrison always dressed very plain."

" He was an old man, you must remember, Mr.
Bisbee," said Mr. Elbertson, " and dressed as became
his age. I am a young man, and must dress as be-
comes my age. In all things there should be fitness
and propriety. And you should remember, that it is
the kind and quality of the garments which clothe
the mind, that are of most importance. My external
clothing I have made after the fashion in which all
men around me wear it. Beyond that, it costs me
but few thoughts."

" But if the way you dress offends your brethren,
are you not bound to change for their sakes?"

" If they are offended without any real cause ex-
isting in me, then the cause is in them, and it is cer-

100

THE NEW MINISTER.

tainly more important that they should remove the
real cause from themselves, than the imaginary one
from me. Unkind and censorious feelings involve a
greater wrong, certainly, than a simple suit of well
fitting clothes, made in the way that other men wear
\ them."

To this Mr. Bisbee was at a loss to reply. It was
to him, altogether, a new form of argument.

" I trust I have not offended you, Mr. Elbertson,"
he said, " by the freedom of my remarks. I assure
you I spoke in the utmost sincerity."

" I do not doubt that, Mr. Bisbee ; and it would
ill become me, as a minister, to be offended at the
sincere admonition of any one of my people. Still,
I may be able to perceive errprs in them as readily
as they can perceive them in me. The fault found
with me, as far as you have brought it to my notice,
is altogether in mere forms and externals. Nothing
has been said in reference to the purity of the doc-
trines which I taught, nor of their power, through
divine aid, to change the heart."

" O, no, sir, no," responded Mr. Bisbee quickly.
" The doctrine was sound enough, it was only the
manner."

" Then, don't you perceive," said the minister,
mildly, but with impressive earnestness, " that you
have stopped to criticise the conformation of the shell,
while the kernel, in which all the substance resides,
has been suffered to fall to the ground ?"

Mr. Bisbee was silent, and the minister proceeded.

" There are duties, reciprocal, between a minister
and the congregation. And especially is there a
duty, of charity and forbearance due from a congre-
gation towards a new minister, whom they have in-
vited to take charge of them. A moment's reflec-
tion will tell them that, if he is sincere in his calling
as a minister, he will endeavour to preach for their
good. For a time, at least, until the embarrassments
of his new position shall have worn off, and until he
shall begin to feel at home among his people, should
they treat him with great consideration. Instead of
expecting and exacting every thing from him, they
should yield something of their own for the sake of
the stranger. By and by, they will know each other
better, and charity, like a tender vine, in its sponta-
neous growth, will spring up, and unite them in the
bonds of Christian fellowship."

When Mr. Bisbee went away that evening, it was
with very different feelings than those which moved
him to call upon the new minister. He found him
to be a man of a different stamp of character alto-
gether than he had supposed him. He was mortified
at his meddlesome and weak interference, but not by
any means soured in his feelings towards Mr. Elbert-
son, for the mild, earnest mariner of that individual
had disarmed him.

On the next Sabbath morning, the minister entered
the pulpit with subdued feelings. He had experienced,
daring the week, various trials from the unguarded
expressions of many of the members, who too freely
objected, one to this peculiarity, and another to that.
At times, he had almost given way to despondency ;
but remembering in whose cause he was labouring,
and in whom he put his trust, he looked upwards,
and received strength to sustain him. After going
through the regular services, he announced his text
in a voice that slightly trembled. The words were —

" Bear ye one another's burdens."

The impressive and somewhat subdued tone of his

voice, and the devout and elevated expression of his
countenance, had the effect to throw the minds of
such of his congregation as had before been disposed
to find fault, off of the minister, and to fix them upon
his subject. And in this, before he was done, they
found enough suited to their peculiar conditions.
Perhaps, of all who were present, Mr. Bisbee besi
understood the whole bearing of the sermon. He
never once thought of the strange hymn, the excess
of action, nor did he observe that Mr. Elbertson's
dress was at all unbecoming. And certainly he did
not think the sermon long, although it extended to
just one hour.

Among those present were Mrs. May, whose hus-
band, backed by the persuasions of Mary, had in-
duced her to go. A great many allegations had been
made in her presence against the new minister by
sundry neighbours' during the week, and instead of
finding her estimation of him at all increased, it was
at a lower ebb than ever. Of course, she was in no
way prepared to hear with an unprejudiced mind.

" I never heard a sermon like that before, in my
life," said Mary, as the family entered the house to-
gether, after the conclusion of the service.

Mrs. May was silent.

" Did you, mother ?" said the prepossessed daugh-
ter, not at all satisfied to have her mother remain un-
committed in the minister's favour.

" Of course I have, many a time," replied Mrs.
May, in a tone indicating a slight degree of irritation.

" Well, I'm sure I never did," responded Maiy.
" Wasn't it a most excellent sermon, father ?"

" It was certainly a good sermon, Mary, and I
hope, as you admire it so much, you will endeavour
to practise some of its precepts," replied Mr. May.

" I can at least try," said Mary, in a tone more
serious.

On that evening Mr. Bisbee called in to see Mr.
May.

" Well, I think our new minister improves," he
said, after he was seated. " I took the liberty of talk-
ing to him a little on last Sunday evening, and I am
pleased to find that he has taken some of my hints.
Didn't you like him much better this morning, Mr.
May ?"

" Yes, I think I did ; though I was well pleased
with his sermon on the last Sabbath," replied Mr.
May.

" Well, I'm sure I didn't see any thing extra in
his discourse," said Mrs. May. "There was too
much finery about it for me. It made me almost cry-
to think that good old Mr. Morrison's place should
be filled by such a young, foppish looking fellow with
his fine motions, and milk and water doctrines. He
was afraid to say ' hell,' I suppose ; and talked as
tenderly about sinners going away into eternal banish-
ment as if he were afraid of offending them. Mr.
Morrison wouldn't have mouthed the matter in that
way. He'd a' given them sound doctrine in the
words of Scripture. Such kind of preaching won't
do, Mr. Bisbee. This young fellow will no doubt
turn the heads of all the girls in the village, as he has
already turned our Mary's; but no good'll come, see
if it does, of you vestrymen having selected a young
fellow instead of some good, old time minister."

Mrs. May spoke with warmth, for she felt a good
deal excited. She had not before spoken so freely ;
but once in the way of speaking her sentiments on
the matter, she found that her ideas flowed more

THE NEW MINISTER.

101

freely than she expected they would, and that, in
r-eality, she had a good deal more to say on the sub-
ject than she thought she had. A tap at the door
interrupted further remarks, and much to the surprise,
and some little to the confusion of Mrs. May, the
individual of whom she was so freely speaking, en-
tered in company with a neighbour.

The smile that played upon his handsome features,
and the respectful manner with which he took Mrs.
May's extended hand, on being introduced to her,
changed wonderfully in a moment, the hue of her
feelings. Mary's heart fluttered, and Ellen endea-
voured to assume a more graceful position. We will
not detail the conversation that ensued. When Mr.
Elbertson went away, he left few serious objections
behind him; though still Mrs. May could not help
contrasting him in some things, with the late la-
mented Mr. Morrison.

On the next evening, Mr. and Mrs. Ellis dropped
in again, and it was not long before the subject of the
new minister was introduced. Indeed, little else had
been talked about in the village since Mr. Elbertson's
arrival.

" So, you were at church, yesterday, Mrs. May,"
said her friend.

" Yes, I did venture out," replied Mrs. May, smiling.
"Well, how* did you like Mr. Elbertson?" con-
tinued Mrs. Ellis.

" Why, he preached a pretty fair sermon," said
Mrs. May, very deliberately.
Mrs. Ellis shook her head.

" It wasn't any thing like good old Mr. Morrison's
sermons, Mrs. May. Ah, me ! We shall never look
upon his like again."

" No, it was not at all like Mr. Morrison's ser-
mons. But, then, Mrs. Ellis, no two men are alike.
Different ministers have different gifts, and we should
judge them according to their gifts. I should never
have tired of Mr. Morrison, but now that he has been
taken away from us, it seems to me right that I
should endeavour to be reconciled, and look upon
the one who has been called to fill his place with un-
prejudiced eyes."

A single evening's contact with Mr. Elbertson, in
his social character, had done much to dispel Mrs.
May's hastily formed prejudices ; and the moment her
better impressions were opposed, they were roused
into activity, and from feeling more kindly towards
him, she was prompted to speak in his favour. Thus,
she confirmed, by bringing them out into words, her
gradually forming good opinions.

As Mr. and Mrs. Ellis were walking home that
evening, the latter said, with a peculiar emphasis upon
her words,

" Mr. Elbertson has become a great favourite of
Mrs. May's."

" Ah, indeed," responded her husband, " how has
that happened?"

" 0, she's got a couple of grown up daughters, you
know," said Mrs. Ellis, giving her head a toss ; al-
though this peculiar and expressive motion couldn't
be perceived by her husband, as they were walking
in darkness.

" True, I never thought of that. It is strange how
a little self interest will warp persons' opinions and
change their views. But Mr. Elbertson is not going
to fancy one of her girls."

" No, indeed," responded his wife, " not he. Humph !
How weak some people are ! A pretty minister's
9*

wife one of them would make. Why, I've known
them both since they were so high !" reaching down
her outspread hand, to indicate the distance at which
these young ladies' heads once stood from the ground,
and to enforce this strong argument against them.

It so happened, that when Mrs. Ellis awoke the
next morning from sleep, she found herself shaking
with an ague-fit. This was soon succeeded by a
raging fever, and for more than a week she remained
extremely ill; at the end of that time her life was
despaiied of. But, at the crisis of the disease, the
turning point was in her favour, and she began slowly
to recover. The principal remembrance that she had
when her thoughts were calmed by returning health,
and the wanderings of her imagination fixed, was the
fact that Mr. Elbertson had frequently been to see her,
and as often talked to her and prayed with her in
the most earnest and affectionate- manner. Every
day he still continued to call in, and his manner was
so tender towards her, and his conversation so tem-
pered with mild encouragement, and gentle admo-
nition, that every former prejudice was dispelled.

" How mistaken we have been in Mr. Elbertson,"
she said, one day to her husband, after she could sit
up a little. " I shall never again judge any one
hastily."

" We have erred, it is true," he replied. " And I
hope we shall never forget the excellent lesson for
future conduct that you have drawn from it."

The church members that we have introduced,
were not the only ones who were dissatisfied with
the new minister; nor were the prejudices of all so
easily dispelled. Mr. Elbertson had to go through
many hard trials from this cause, and he was often
much discouraged. But he was a consistent Chris-
tian, and the power of consistency will always over-
come prejudice. One by one, those who were dis-
posed to find fault, were thrown by some unlooked-
for circumstance into contact with him, in such a
way as to be gratified by his ever kind manner. Thus
he gradually acquired a power and influence in his
new position, not exceeded by that which even good
old Mr. Morrison possessed.

It was something like a year from the time when
the new minister came into the village, that nearly
one third of its young folks, and a good proportion
of the old men and matrons, were assembled at Mr.
May's pleasant cottage. Something unusual, of course,
was going on ; and, whatever it was, every one seem-
ed pleased about it.

Presently, there was a movement in the house, and
all the gay young people in the garden and on the
green before the door, hastily pressed in to witness
the — what ? — Why, the marriage ceremony ; for there
was to be a wedding, and Mary May was to be the
bride. A venerable minister from a neighbouring town,
was already in the centre of the floor with the prayer-
book in his hand, and before him with flushing cheeks
and eyes cast down to the floor, stood Mary May,
and by her side was — who ? — Why, the new minister.
No one kissed the young bride's cheek with more
earnest fervour than did Mrs. Ellis, and no one was
more officious in his efforts to prove himself pleased
than Mr. Bisbee. Mrs. May soon forgot the ex-
cellent qualities of good old Mr. Morrison, in the
more attractive ones of the young minister, whose
voice never seemed so eloquent, nor his manners so
winning, as when he addressed her by the tender
name of " mother."

102

A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

Written for the Lady's Book.

A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

BY MISS M

BROWNE, LIVE R'P O O L

Every body knows that every English country vil- splendid black horse, Eblis, (that name sadly puzzled

lage has its great man — the Squire, the Vicar, or the
Lord of the Manor, as the case may be. But most
villages have likewise a remarkable man, a person-
age not necessarily a member of any particular class
of society. The remarkable man of Friarscroft was,
unquestionably, Dr. Foster.

Friarscroft is a small village situated at some dis-
tance from the metropolis. It lies in a quiet valley,
amidst well cultivated slopes, interspersed with patch-
es of rich woodland, and really is a beautiful spot,
with its scattered white houses, its Elizabethan par-
sonage, and its tall graceful church-spire shooting up-
wards from a clump of dark yew trees.

About the middle of the irregular street stood the
Doctor's house — an old fashioned edifice with pointed
gables and white walls, thickly embowered in ivy,
clematis, and honey-suckle. It stood near the road,

the natives !) mixed medicines under the Doctor's
directions, and delivered the same at the houses of
the sick.

His patients were the only society with which
Doctor Foster held any communication. He uni-
formly refused the squire's invitations to dinner, the
clergyman's to supper, the old ladies' to "tea and
turn out," They persecuted him for a year or so, but
after that they let him alone. He never made any visits,
save professional ones, and never undertook cases of
nerves or vapours, except to order a blister in the
one case, and a dose of rhubarb in the other, which
prescriptions were so effectual that a nervous or va-
pourish subject was soon hot to be found in his neigh-
bourhood. But in cases of real suffering no one could
be kinder in manner, or more regular in attendance,
than the Doctor, although it was always observed

just within a neat row of white palings, and its green that the poorer the patient, the more cheerfully were

door displayed a large brass plate, whereon the name
of Doctor Foster was engraved in very legible cha-
racters. That door had a strange, unnatural appear-
ance, amidst the rich tapestry of leaves and flowers.

The back part of the dwelling, however, had no
such blemish. The transome windows looked out
on a sloping garden, terraced after the fashion of for-
mer days, and full of clipped yews and quaint flower
plots. It terminated in a smooth green declivity,
sloping to the border of a beautiful stream, which
here made a graceful bend, widening a little where

the Doctor's services given. He seemed to soften
towards the parish poor more than all, and his silence
and sternness gave way as he listened to the detail
of their sufferings, and cheered them with the lan-
guage of sympathy and consolation.

Of his skill nobody entertained a doubt, although
some fanciful persons did once attempt to bring in a
rival in the person of Mr. Augustus Popjoy, a spruce
Cockney. But after Mr. Popjoy had sojourned three
mortal months with Mrs. Bell, of the post-office,
without gaining further patronage than that of two

it swept from the covert of willows and alders which old maids and a pet lap-dog, he departed one morn-

nearly met over its current a little higher up.

Here dwelt Doctor Foster — the only medical
practitioner in Friarscroft, or within some miles there-
of. He was about the middle height, rather stout,
and extremely muscular. His garments were always
of a by-gone fashion — that is to say, he wore knee
breeches, square-toed shoes, with large silver buckles,
an antiquated coat and waistcoat, and a huge black
wig. He was barely thirty when he first came to
Friarscroft, but even then he was similarly clad, and
during his long residence there the difference of his
age was only marked by the increasing rotundity of
his person, and the change his bushy eye-brows under-
went, from black to grizzled, from grizzled to white.

His eyes were dark, quick, and intelligent, his fea-
tures well shaped, yet his countenance was by no

ing without beat of dram, leaving his landlady his
creditor for three. months rent, his two maiden cus-
tomers minus a medical man and a beau, and poor
Shock with a dose of medicine administered on the
previous evening, which put a period to that amiable
quadruped's existence in the course of the day.

Doctor Foster's house was no less singular than
its master. It was filled from top to bottom with
"curiosities," as his housekeeper called them. There
were birds of rare plumage crowding glass cases on
every shelf. There were strange reptiles, preserved
in spirits — cabinets of shells and insects — instru-
ments, of which the use could only be guessed — and,
above all, books in quantity so numerous, and in
bulk so immense, that some of the ignorant did not
fail to ascribe to Dr. Foster the character of a con-

means prepossessing. There was something stern in jurer. But, besides these marvels, there was one

his brow, heightened by an air of extreme reserve,
and the close compression of lips, which seemed
shut as with a clasp. You were astonished when
he spoke, almost startled ; and yet that deep, rich,
sonorous voice was any thing but disagreeable.

On his first arrival in Friarscroft, his family con-
sisted of an old woman, who acted as cook and
housekeeper, a young girl who assisted her, and a

closet that excited ihe curiosity of every gossip in the
village — aye, and of some who were not gossips, too.
The Doctor repeatedly sate there late at night, and
though Mrs. Gage, the housekeeper, had listened
many a time on the stairs in the dead of night, and
applied her eye to the key-hole, she. was as often
baffled in her laudable pursuit of knowledge, by the
dead silence of the room, and the key-hole being

boy, whose duties were compounded from those of stopped with the key, which was turned within,
footman, groom, and journeyman, inasmuch as he She declared, however, that once she heard some-
cleaned knives and shoes, looked after the Doctor's body muttering low in the closet, and that another

A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

103

time her master came suddenly out before she could
slip away, and, as he locked the door behind him,
cast on her a look which froze the very blood in her
veins.

Darker and darker grew the surmises of the wor-
thy lieges of Friarscioft as to the contents of the
closet. Could the Doctor be a body snatcher, and
had he there concealed the mangled remains of a
fellow creature? But, if so, from whence did the
Doctor procure his " subjects," and how were they
conveyed unseen into his premises ? In a village
watched by the Argus eyes of seven wakeful spin-
sters, and two ancient watchmen, it was next to im-
possible that such a thing could pass undetected. It
was more likely that this mysterious closet was a
receptacle for the skeletons and preparations, need-
ful in the Doctor's profession — so said the more en-
lightened. It was most likely the Doctor was a
wizard, and practised the black art in this secret
chamber — so said the ignorant and superstitious.
Each settled the question to his own fancy, and, the
Doctor meanwhile went on in his daily course, as
undisturbed as if there had never been any question
about his concerns at all.

He had occupied his domicile in Friarscroft some
six or seven years when an incident occurred which
again set his neighbours on the qui vive respecting
his affairs. They had always been wondering about
him since he came amongst them, but the circum-
stance to which I allude increased their curiosity to
a degree that was almost unbearable.

It was a calm starry night in Autumn. All Fri-
arscroft was wrapt in repose, and only one solitary
light was seen gleaming from a window in the Doc-
tor's house. Suddenly the sound of approaching
wheels startled several of the inhabitants from their ■
slumbers. It was too early for the arrival of the
mail — too late for the return of any of the peaceful
villagers from the county town. Nearer came the
sound — the rattle of a carriage driven fast and furi-
ously. Divers curious persons leaped from their
beds, but before they could reach the windows of
their apartments the phenomenon had disappeared. —
It was only those who were fortunate enough to re-
side near the centre of the street, who had the satis-
faction of seeing the vehicle stop suddenly before
Doctor Foster's door, and of hearing his night-bell
violently rung. The disturbance was occasioned by
a chaise and four with lamps, and as soon as the
steps were let down, on the opening of the Doctor's
door, a female figure bearing a large bundle descend-
ed from the. carriage and entered the house. Half
an hour elapsed before the- door re-opened — then the
Doctor himself came forth, supporting the lady,
wjiom he assisted into the carriage. He lingered
an instant beside it — then bade the post boys drive
on, and the chaise was whirled rapidly out of sight.
The Doctor stood gazing after it, quite unconscious
what observing eyes were watching him from the
opposite side of the street, and after musing, as it
seemed, for some minutes, returned slowly to his
house and closed the door.

A few additional circumstances transpired next
day, through the medium of Mrs. Gage. She stated,
that on hearing a noise in the house, on the previ-
ous night, she ventured to peep from her chamber,
and saw her master conducting a lady into the mys-
terious closet. Not knowing what was going on,
&he thought it best to steal down stairs, and « see if

she could hear what they were doing." She heard the
Doctor speaking very low and steadily, but she could
not make out the words he said, except " Lucy" and
" forgive." And then she heard the lady sobbing as
if her heart would break, and entreating the Doctor
to take care of somebody or other. On hearing them
moving, as if they were coming out of the closet, she
flew back to her room, and did not dare to look out
again until she heard the carriage drive off. Her
master went immediately to his room, but she heard
him walking up and down all night as he always
did when any thing vexed him. In the morning she
was summoned to his dressing room, where he
showed her a little girl of about two years old, who
was sleeping on a sofa. He told her the child must
be taken great care of, as it was the orphan of a very
particular friend. Mrs. Gage ventured to inquire the
infant's name, and was told, somewhat sharply, she
was to be called Miss Emily. Further the deponent
knew not, and some might have imagined the whole
story to be a figment of Mrs. Gage's active imagina-
tion, had she not held in her arms the lovely little
child who was the heroine of her tale.

Of course Miss Emily was an object of no small
interest. Various were the conjectures as to her pa-
rentage— strict was the scrutiny which her dress and
features underwent. But there was nothing in the
clear blue eyes — the fair childish face, and the sim-
ple white frock, which gave the desired information.
" Pity she was not a little older," said every body,
for she might then have remembered something
which could have furnished a clue to the mystery;
but, unfortunately, the only words she could speak
intelligibly were " Mamma," and " Dash," or, as she
she pronounced it, " Dass," which latter name being
applied by her to every spaniel she saw, it was con-
jectured she had left a favourite dog in her former
home. As any attempts to penetrate this second
mystery of the Doctor's were found to be useless,
they were soon given up, and the curiosity the child's
arrival had at first excited, was replaced by the kinder
feelings of affectionate interest awakened by herself.
She throve wonderfully under Mrs. Gage's care, and
made herself friends wherever she appeared, not more
by the extreme beauty of her person, than by her
affectionate disposition, and winning ways. A hap-
pier little child never existed. She seemed to have
that rare gift — a perpetual fountain of joy within
herself. She had that sweet and sunny nature which,
ever bright itself, sheds gladness on all around it. She
was happy at home or abroad ; happy in the Doc-
tor's quiet garden, where she trotted about, singing
her childish hymns — happy in her walks, her visits,
her plays, with or without companions, and, perhaps,
happiest of all in the society of a large rough-haired
dog, procured by her guardian from some distance,
and joyfully recognised as " Dash" from the moment
of his arrival.

For some time Doctor Foster displayed but few
tokens of especial regard for the child so mysterious-
ly consigned to his charge, beyond exceeding care
of her health, and an anxiety to heap upon her every
species of childish finery that he could devise. But
the aspect of affairs changed when Emily was trans-
formed from an infant into a lovely little girl of
seven. The Doctor seemed suddenly smitten with
the conviction that she would not always remain a
child, and that it was incumbent on him to educate
her — so her education commenced accordingly. She

104

A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

was no longer left to the care of Mrs. Gage, she
was no longer permitted to spend hours in the fields,
with Dash for her sole protector and companion. —
She wa3 now the alternate plaything and pupil of the
Doctor, and her education his constant hobby. Read-
ing she had already learnt, she scarcely knew how,
and Doctor Foster was surprised and delighted to
discover what rich veins of thought, and feeling, and
imagination, were already openingsin her mind. The
fairy tales she had read were scarcely more fanciful
than the fairy scenes she imagined, and now that the
Doctor condescended to take an interest in her pur-
suits, her mind expanded rapidly, and her little heart
warmed and gladdened under that genial sympathy.
A music master was procured at considerable ex-
pense from the country town', and, with this excep-
tion, her guardian generally superintended her stu-
dies himself. He was an excellent linguist — a man
of deep and varied information, and now the stores
which had for years lain buried in his solitary mind,
were brought to light for the benefit of his lovely and
beloved ward. " She is not like her mother, thank
Heaven !" was his muttered expression, while gazing
on her animated face and listening to her gay voice
— " She is not like her mother, as I feared, at first,
she would have been !"

I have called my story a Romance, and, therefore,
I ought to keep my mystery till near the end of its
narration ; but I deem it better to quit the beaten
ground of tale tellers in general, and hasten to an
explanation of so much as may render the Doctor's
mutterings intelligible.

The mother of Emily was a most beautiful and
accomplished woman — one who had in her youth
been the object of much admiration, and of one
affection as sincere as ever glowed in a human
breast. She had been early betrothed to him who
loved her so truly, but had deserted him when a suitor
richer, more fashionable, and of higher rank, sued for
her hand; That forsaken lover was Doctor Foster.
It was to this circumstance that Friarscroft was in-
debted for its remarkable man. As soon as the first
agony of his disappointment had subsided, he deter-
mined to leave his native place at once and for ever.
He had no near relations living, except a sister, who
was happily married to a worthy country Baronet.
Independent of his profession he had a considerable
property, and with this he retired to Friarscroft, a
nook where he might spend the remainder of his life
— " the world forgetting, by the world forgot."

The fair cause of his self-banishment fluttered on,
for some time, the giddy denizen of a circle as heart-
less as herself. During her years of prosperity she
became the mother of two sons, who both died in
their infancy. But a darker day — an hour of retri-
bution— was at hand. The extravagance of herself
and her husband, had already reduced their fortune to
a trifle. Discontent, uneasiness, and discord, stole
gradually into their home. The temper of Mrs. Les-
lie was not proof against her various vexations, and
her health proved as fragile. Her husband grew
weary of her and sought a refuge from his comfort-
less home, and pining wife, amidst all kinds of dissi-
pation. In the midst of all this gloom, the little
Emily made her appearance, and, strange to say,
awakened in the sore and crushed heart of her mo-
ther an affection with which she had never welcomed
the infants born in her happier days. Mr. Leslie died
soon after the birth of this child, and his widow strug-

gled awhile to keep up some appearance of her former
grandeur, amongst the fast fading splendours of her
mansion. But her health was declining — her re-
sources nearly exhausted — and she was deeply in
debt. Her proud spirit spurned the idea of returning
to her own relations; and her husband's connections,
who had always been averse to his marriage with
her, quietly dropped her acquaintance. In this emer-
gency she resolved to entreat the aid of her slighted
lover. It was a strange contradiction in that proud
nature ! She, who scorned to apply to her own rela-
tives in her distress, felt almost a pleasure in the
thought of being obliged to him she had injured. —
Perhaps she felt that there was something like expia-
tion in the humiliation — or, perhaps, she felt that her
most solid ground of reliance was in the sterling
truth and kindness of his nature. Her plan was soon
laid. She gathered together the little remnants of
her property and her really valuable jewels, resolving
to fly to the Continent. She left town suddenly, ac-
companied only by her little girl. With that child she
felt she was about to part for ever. She had deter-
mined to take her to Dr. Foster's house, and entreat
him to shelter and cherish her. She felt her days
were numbered, and the thought of dying abroad and
leaving her unprotected babe amongst strangers, was
insupportable. We have seen the event. She did
reach the Doctor's residence, and at a much later
hour than she had intended, in consequence of an
accident on the road. The Doctor was shocked,
astonished, grieved, and, at first refused to accept the
guardianship of the infant. But there was one argu-
ment which he felt to be irresistible. " I am dying,"
said the mother, and she drew back the veil from her
faded face ; " I am dying, and how can I leave my
only child, a stranger in a strange land ? Yet so must
she be left — a wretched, unprotected orphan, if you
refuse to receive her."

Her haggard cheek with its hectic flush, the fear-
ful brightness of her hollow eye, the altered tone of
her voice were indeed sadly corroborative of her as-
sertion that her death was near at hand. The Doc-
tor's heart melted within him.

" Lucy Leslie," he said, as he took her wasted
hand in his — " you have sinned, but you have suffered
— from my heart I freely forgive you the falsehood
which has cast a shadow over my whole existence.
Fear not for your child — she shall be well cared for.
But remember, if at any future day you should be
anxious to reclaim her, you will not be permitted to
do so. She must be mine — wholly and entirely mine ;
and no change of circumstance must ever induce you
to attempt even to see her. This you must promise —
solemnly promise — or I cannot grant your request,"

" I promise," said Mrs. Leslie, her voice half
choked by sobs — " It will not be long ere I shall be
beyond the temptation of breaking my vow."

Her foreboding was fulfilled — she died at Florence,
about six months after Dr. Foster accepted the
guardianship of her daughter. How religiously he
kept his promise of protection we have already seen.

I must now entreat my readers to imagine an in-
terval of ten years, during which Emily Leslie has
been gradually changing from a sweet child into a
lovely girl, from a lovely girl to a graceful, budding
woman. She is " little Miss Emily" no longer, but
a fair, tall, intelligent maiden of seventeen.

It was a bright summer evening, and Emily Leslie

A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

105

sat in the pleasant solitude of Doctor Foster's garden.
The whole scene had something fanciful and pictu-
resque in its features and its grouping. Here was
the house, half cottage, half mansion, with its small
windows, glittering and flashing in the last sunshine
from amongst the embowering leaves. There were
the tall old trees, their spires already darkly drawn
against the cloudless sky, and their bolls yet bright
in the golden glow. There were flowers of every
hue and of the rarest kinds. There were birds of
bright plumage and lovely song filling a small aviary
on one side the lawn, and, fairer than all, there was
Emily Leslie herself, seated on the sloping turf, one
pretty hand supporting her temples and partially over-
shadowed by the rich ringlets of her chestnut hair,
the other resting on the collar of a small white
Italian greyhound who was standing by her side, and
gazing into her face, with his large, loving, dark eyes.
Two other dogs were near her — the one a large
superannuated spaniel — deaf, blind, cross, (but still
dear, for he was the Dash who had been her playmate
in childhood ;) the other a splendid black Newfound-
land. There was- a slight shadow on her brow — a
tear in her rich blue eye — and yet she had no definite
cause for sorrow. True, her life was a most secluded
one; for Doctor Foster, year by year, had been
quietly withdrawing her from the little world of Friars-
croft, until she was never seen by her neighbours,
save at church, or in some country excursion, where
her guardian invariably accompanied her. But then
he was so kind, so solicitous for her happiness at
home ! He had gathered round her all the refine-
ments and luxuries of life — music, flowers, graceful
pets of every description — dress and ornaments, the
richest and rarest, and such books as he had read
himself and approved as fit for her perusal. But
there was one class of works which he carefully ex-
cluded from her library — novels or love tales in verse
or prose were never permitted to meet her eye. No
book in which the happiness of love is depicted, no
poem calculated to awaken a thirst in her heart for
the sweet waters of affection was ever placed within
her reach. He seemed to dread that she should even
hear of love ; and was nervously miserable whenever
she expressed any curiosity about the contemplated
marriages in the village, which she could not but
hear of through the medium of Mrs. Gage. Yet
nature had implanted feelings hi Emily's heart which
it was not in the power of education to crush, and,
while her visions were pure as an angel's thoughts,
they were one and all of affection, deep, tried, immor-
tal love — of some bright being, still unknown, whose
very existence should yet be blended with hers. Still
unknown? Nay — on that summer evening there
was a remembered face smiling through her dreams,
an eye fixed on her very soul, a memory that drew
her sweet tears from their fountain. She had looked
upon that being, and, though she owned it not, even
to herself, she loved. It was in the village church-
yard, that she had beheld the face that so haunted
her remembrance. She was leaning on the Doc-
tor's arm, and he had paused for a few minutes to
speak to some recovered patient — the only person on
whom he would have bestowed more than a passing
word. Emily was looking around her at the little
crowd, with the childish interest of one who seldom
sees a strange face, when suddenly her eyes encoun-
tered those of a young and handsome man who was
gaaing on her in evident admiration. It was but an

instant ere she withdrew her eyes, and felt the burn-
ing blood rushing over her brow and cheek, but even
that instant had sufficed to impress the stranger's
image on her heart Ever since had it been present
with her — those thick dark locks, those noble fea-
tures, those deep, gentle, expressive eyes! Since
that eventful Sabbath, she had been much alone, for
the Doctor was much occupied in consequence of the
breaking out of an epidemic in the village, and oh,
that dangerous loneliness ! How did the heart of that
young innocent maiden, thus left to its own thoughts,
ponder over the beautiful image so lately brought
before her, until it became a portion of her very ex-
istence.

On the evening in question Doctor Foster had left
home to pay a professional visit at some distance,
and his return was not expected until a later hour
than usual, so Emily had wandered to her favourite
spot, and was wiling away the time in that tender,
romantic dreaming, which may be very unprofitable,
but is very beautiful notwithstanding !

And there she sat, until the sun had long set, her
little captive birds had twittered themselves to sleep,
and the dew was beginning to rise in the opposite
meadows. Suddenly the dogs pricked their ears, and
the Newfoundland essayed a low dissatisfied growl.
Emily started — raised her head, and lo ! the being
of her dreams stood before her.

Who was he? — whence had he come? These
were questions she did not ask. — She trembled, she
was speechless. The rich colour fled for a moment
from her cheek, and then rushed back tumultuously
to her very temples. She hid her face in her delicate
hands, and murmured, " Oh, why — why are you
here !"

" Then you have riot forgotten me, fair, beautiful
being !" said the stranger, and the sound of his voice
was so melodious that it sank at once into her in-
most heart ! " You will not upbraid me," he conti-
nued, " for you know, even as I feel, that we have
only met to mingle our hearts for ever !" He took
her hands in his, she did not withdraw them. — Do
not blame her — she was ignorant — unworldly — a
child ! She sank into the stranger's arms and wept !

% % % % * , % % % ■%

" Oh, leave me, leave me, Ernest !" was Emily's
hurried exclamation, as she heard the tramp of her
guardian's steed echoing through the village street.

" Farewell then, dearest, brightest, best !" said the
youth, in that taking-f or -granted phraseology, which
lovers are so apt to use, even though they are but
slightly acquainted with the good qualities of their
idols. He pressed her to his heart and was gone.

From that hour the whole current of Emily's Jeel-
ings were changed. A breeze had blown over the
calm stream of her life, and though its waters were
still clear, nay, even brighter than before, they were
no longer calm. A star had shone through the
twilight quiet of her existence, and her soul turned
instinctively towards it as to her solace and guide.
How the lovers contrived to meet unseen I know not,
but somehow or other they did manage an interview,
almost every day, and what was still more extraor-
dinary, three weeks went by and nobody found it out.
Yet Emily Leslie was by no means perfectly happy.
She felt as if she were ungrateful and unkind, she was
ashamed of the deception which she felt she was prac-
tising, and the whispered converse at her chamber
window, and the delicious stolen meeting, sweet as

106

THE VILLAGE ROMANCE.

they were, ieft a sense of restlessness and uneasy
self-upbraiding on her mind.

And now that my story is coming to a crisis, now
that my Emily is thoroughly established in a maze
of love and perplexity, it is time that I should show
how veritable a heroine I have been fortunate enough
to meet with, and how, like that other Emily in Mrs.
Radcliffe's matchless romance, the " Mysteries of
Udolpho," she was instrumental in unveiling the
secrets of a mysterious chamber — even of that closet
in the Doctor's abode, which had so well and worthily
employed the tongues and imaginations of the inha-
bitants of Friarscroft. The master of the mansion
was absent. Emily had lingered in her apartment
till a later hour than usual, owing to some trifling
indisposition, and in passing down stairs perceived
that the door of this chamber was a little open. The
key had evidently been turned and withdrawn in a
hurry so as to prevent the lock catching, and to this
accident Emily was indebted for the opportunity of
solving a mystery, which had been always as care-
fully hidden from her as from the rest of the world.
She hesitated for a moment; but curiosity is strong,
and never since the days of Blue Beard was there a
woman who could resist a mysterious closet! So
Emily pushed open the door and saw — no skeleton,
no half dissected corse, no sight of horror, but a
small neatly furnished chamber, almost surrounded
by shelves, well stored with books. There was one
object, however, which at once caught and rivetted
her attention — the portrait of a lovely woman, which
hung opposite the door.

Where had she seen that face ? She had no dis-
tinct idea of who it resembled, yet it seemed as fami-
liar to her as her own. Nay, she almost fancied that
the small rose mouth, the delicately arched brows,
the open smooth forehead, bore some likeness to the
features of that fair face which greeted her every
morning in her mirror. But the dark eyes, so deep,
so piercing in their concentrated light, and the raven
hair wound smoothly round the small graceful head —
where had she seen these ?

Surely in her dreams, in the visions of her child-
hood ! That face had bent over her infant couch —
had stooped to kiss her there — years, years ago ! —
The tide of sudden remembrance flowed over her
heart, and sinking on her knees before the portrait,
she murmured "mother."

A hand was laid heavily on her shoulder; she
screamed, started, and sank at the feet of Doctor
Foster. It was some minutes ere she recovered from
her terror, and then her first thought was that by her
intrusion she had for ever offended the kind hearted
but eccentric being, in whose arms she now lay sob-
bing like a child. But she had no cause for fear. He
put back the ringlets from her brow, and impressed
a paternal kiss on her fair forehead, and soothed her
with words, so kind and gentle, that her confidence
was quickly restored. And then the twain sat down
and conversed, long, long. It seemed as if the
hoarded feelings of a life, the history of his early love,
the tale of his motives and hopes for years, were
poured out at once, in one burning torrent of elo-
quence, from the lips of Doctor Foster. He told
Emily how she had been given to his care — how he
had striven not to love her — how, in spite of himself,
she had won the first place in his heart, and grown
unto him even as a daughter — how he had been
seized with a jealous foreboding, that if she were

permitted to mingle in society some one would step
between him and his one treasure, and that he should
be left a lonely old man, with a desolate spirit and a
silent hearth. But here Emily could bear no more
in silence — could no longer conceal the secret that
was burning in her heart, and amidst her tears, and
sobs, and prayers for forgiveness, Doctor Foster be-
came the confidant of the story of her love.

That the worthy man was a little angry, and a
good deal hurt, my readers will easily believe. Per-
haps they will think he had a right to be so in a
much more terrible degree. But he timely recollected
that it was by his means Emily had been kept in
almost total ignorance of the world and its ways, and
that the loneliness of her life, acting on a susceptible
heart and vivid imagination, had only produced a
natural result. Very soon, his greatest anxiety was,
that he who had gained Emily's affections, might
prove worthy to retain them. It was dreadful to
imagine that his cherished Emily might possibly be
the dupe of some designing adventurer, and that her
pure love and faith should be wasted on one unde-
serving of the blessing.

That very evening Emily Leslie walked with her
lover in the shrubbery, led him to her aviary, to in-
troduce him, (as she said,) to a new inhabitant, and
presented him to no less a curiosity than Doctor
Foster; who she had arranged should meet them
there. To her extreme surprise, the youth was won-
derfully self possessed. He bowed to the Doctor
with great politeness, and even offered him his hand,
which under the circumstances, it is not remarkable
the Doctor did not take. There were a few moments
of awkward hesitation, when the young man suddenly
spoke, a glow of animation lighting up his handsome
face — " It is time to put an end to this silly mystery,
which seems to be making us all so very uncomfort-
able, and therefore, my dear, kind, odd uncle Foster,
let me introduce myself to you, as your dutiful though
somewhat romantic nephew, Ernest Ringwood, of
Ringwood Coppice, and son of that worthy lady,
Dame Margaret Ringwood, whose maiden name was
Foster. As to Emily," continued the speaker, taking
her hand fondly, " I had long heard of the lonely
beauty, whom my uncle, after the manner of some
tyrant magician of old, held in the thraldom of his
enchanted castle, and as report said the fair captive
was designed for his bride, I resolved, at all hazards,
to obtain a sight of such a prize, and if she were such
as I pictured her to myself, to start a rival candidate
for her hand. How fair, how gentle, how infinitely
lovelier than my loveliest imagining I have found
her to be, I need not tell you, but I trust my uncle
will forgive his scapegrace nephew, and seal my
pardon with the gift of this little hand, to me the
richest boon on earth."

My romance is ended, as a good romance should
end, with the perfect contentment of all the parties
therein concerned. Doctor Foster abandoned his
design of training Emily for a state of single blessed-
ness, and gave her away at the altar of Friarscroft
church, about three months after the date of the
above explanation. He continued to practise the
healing art a little longer in his secluded village,
when, feeling more lonely than he had anticipated,
he yielded to the solicitations of the youthful pair,
and took up his abode at Ringwood Coppice, a near

THE DOVE S ERRAND.

107

neighbour of Sir Ernest and his lady. The house
in the centre of the village is still occupied by a me-
dical man, but he has a plump good-humoured wife,
and seven sturdy children; moreover, he visits, gos-

sips, and prescribes much after the manner of common
mortals. He may be a skilful practitioner, and a
worthy man, but he cannot fully supply in Friarscroft
the place of its remarkable man — its Doctor Foster !

«»«w//^///<w.

Written for the Lady's Bool,

THE DOVE'S ERRAND

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

Under cover of the night,
Feathered darling, take your flight!
Lest some cruel archer fling
Arrow at your tender wing,
And your white, unspotted side
Be with crimson colour dyed: —
For with men who know not love
You and I are living, Dove.

Now I bind a perfumed letter
Round your neck with silken fetter;
Bear it safely, bear it well,
Over mountain, lake, and dell.
While the darkness is profound
You may fly along the ground,
But when Morning's herald sings,
Mount ye on sublimer wings!
High in Heaven pursue your way-
"Till the fading light of day,
From the palace of the west,
Tints with fleck'ring gold your breast.
Shielded from the gaze of men
You may stoop to Earth again.

Stay then, feathered darling, stay,
Pause, and look along your way.
Well I know how fast you fly,
And the keenness of your eye,
By the time the second eve
Comes, your journey you'll achieve,
And above a gentle vale
Will on easy pinion sail.
In that vale with dwellings strown
One is standing all alone,
White it rises 'mid the leaves,
Woodbines clamber o'er its eaves,
And the honeysuckle falls,
Pendant, on its silent walls.
'Tis a cottage, small and fair,
As a cloud in summer air,

By a lattice, wreathed with flowers,
Such as link the dancing hours,
Sitting in the twilight shade,
Envied dove, behold a maid !
Locks escaped from sunny band,
Cheeks reclined ou snowy hand,

Looking sadly to the sky,
She will meet your searching eye.
Fear not, doubt not, timid Dove,
You have found the home of love !
She will fold you to her breast —
Seraphs have not purer rest;
She your weary plumes will kiss —
Seraphs have not sweeter bliss.
Tremble not, my dove, nor start,
Should you feel her throbbing heart;
Joy has made her bright eye dim —
Well she knows you came from him,
Him she loves. Oh, luckless star !
He from her must dwell afar.

From your neck her fingers fine
Will the silken string untwine;
Heading then the words I trace,
Blushes will suffuse her face ;
To her lips the lines she'll pres~s,
And again my dove caress.
Mine, yes mine — oh, would that I
Could on rapid pinions fly —
Then I should not send you, dove,
On an errand to my love:
For I'd brave the sharpest gale
And along the tempest sail ;
Caring not for danger near,
Hurrving heedless, void of fear
To hear but one tender word,
Breathed for me, my happy bird !

At the early dawn of day,
She will send you on your way,
Twining with another fetter
Round your neck another letter.
Speed ye, then, oh, swiftly speed,
Like a prisoner newly freed ;
O'er the mountain, o'er the vale
Homeward, homeward, swiftly sail!
Never, never pause a plume,
Though beneath you Edens bloom ;
Never, never think of rest
'Till Night's shadow turns your breast
From pure white to mottled gray.
And the stars are round your way —
Love's bright beacons they will shine,
Dove, to show your home and mine \

"—t+SS+S*^^ f+f*+**~~

THE MAN OF BUSINESS.

An uninterrupted intercourse with the world, oppresses titude of a friend stings him at this hour, and the

the man of business and ambition. The strongest pride of a superior wounds him the next. In vain

spirit must at length fail and sink under it. The he flies for relief to trifling amusements. These

happiest temper must be soured by incessant returns may afford a temporary opiate to care, but they

of the opposition, the inconstancy, and the treachery communicate no strength to the mind. On the

of men. For he who lives always in the bristle of the contrary, they leave it more soft and defenceless,

world, lives in a perpetual warfare ; here, an enemy when molestations and injuries renew the attack,
encounters ; there, a rival supplants him. The ingra-

108

THE LAZY YOUNG LADY.

Written for the Lady's Book.
THOUGHTS AT GRASSMERE.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

Ho ! dark Helvcllyn, prince amid the hills,

That each upon his feudal seat maintains

Unwav'ring sovereignty — hast thou a tale

Fur gentle Grassmere, — that thou thus dost droop

Thy plumed helmet o'er her face, and look

So earnestly into her mirror'd eyes?

A tale of love, perchance — for she, methinks,
Doth listen coyly — while the flitting cloud
Leaves mingled light and sunshine on her hrow.
Shelisteneth down, through all her chrystal depths;
And the lone emerald that adorns her breast
Trembleth.—

And sure, 'tis fit that ye do hold
Some speech of tenderness, in scenes like these, —
Where from the very beauty of Hi3 works
God doth bespeak man's love for Him, — and all
Whom He hath made.

And who can musing roam
'Mid such exuberance of glorious charms,
Nor find his heart expanding with new warmth,
And kindliness to all.— Humbled it takes
The cup of blessing from a Father's hand —
Half satiate, though unworthy of its bliss —
And in o'erfiowing charity, would fain
Grasp every creature. —

A uthor of our joys !
So give this charity in u9 to grow
And bring forth fruit— that wheresoe'er we roam
On this wide earth, all whom we meet may seem
The children of one Parent — and to us
Brethren and friends.

England.

THE LAZY YOUNG LADY

As in the brute creation nature has created the sloth,
the use of which animal our zoologists have never
been able to discover, so in the young lady creation
we find an analogous class, whom from their habits
we denominate the lazy young lady (doniina pigra.)

The lazy young lady was never known to get
through the pronunciation of an ordinary monosylla-
ble in less than thirty seconds. Assuredly she must
have a wonderful taste for the beauties of language —
for from her drawl it is plain, that she is determined
on enjoying as long as she can eveiy word that she
utters, just as a prudent economical child sucks his
barley sugar instead of biting it to pieces at once.
Then observe the lazy young lady's attitude. Such a
perfect lounge on the very easiest and lowest chair
which she can pick out. We verily believe she knows
every chair in the room by its comparative softness,
or possibly, (as we have sometimes thought) she may
have been born with an intuitive power of knowing
the easiest chair at first sight. If it is winter, too,
her cheeks are always most particularly red, from her
custom of dragging the said chair as near to the fire
as possible, and sitting there for hours, with her feet
on the fender, buried in huge worsted shoes, which
remind you of the north pole and Captain Ross.

The lazy young lady is sometimes thin, and some-
times fat, but generally the latter. On any sudden
concussion her cheeks will shiver like a jelly. If
you will believe her, she always has a headache — but
for our own part we strongly suspect, that this head-
ache is very often a pure invention to gratify her
lazy propensities. It is quite delightful to hear her
colloquies with " mamma." " My dear, run and tell
Betty that I want her directly." " Hadn't I better
ring the bell, mamma ?" says the lazy young lady.
" No, my dear, you know that your uncle Tom is
ill, and the bell might wake him — go yourself."
" Yes, mamma," drawls the lazy young lady, and
drags herself along to the door at the rate of the
minute hand of her own watch. At the door, how-
ever, her resolution to go all the way to Betty, (who
perhaps may be up stairs making the beds,) fails her
completely. To mount those pyramidical stairs is
too awful a prospect. Accordingly, she stops at the
bottom, and bawls out as loud as she can, " Betty,

Betty, mamma wants you — make haste." This done»
she crawls back, like an old woman of a hundred, to
her easy chair, and flings herself down, in a most
terrible state of fatigue from her late exertions.

Presently the clock strikes eleven. "Now, my
dear," says mamma, " go and practise." " The clock
on the stairs hasn't struck yet," says the lazy young
lady. At last the clock on the stairs strikes. The
lazy young lady makes two efforts to rise from her
chair without success. One would think that some
invisible power held her back. " Oh, mamma," she
cries out at length, " mayn't I put off practising till
twelve ? It will do just as well." " No, my dear,"
says mamma, who kno\vs perfectly well, from expe-
rience, how cunning the lazy young lady can be
when she wants to put off business;" "No, my dear,
go at once." The lazy young lady waddles off at this
authoritative admonition, casting many a wistful
glance backwards at the easy chair. You hear her
sigh as she opens the door, which she closes with a
bang, to save trouble. If you listen sharply, you will
now hear heavy feet dragging slowly up stairs. Pre-
sently a low, monotonous sound comes through the
ceiling from the study, as of somebody practising on
the piano-forte. At first, it is tolerably quick. Alle-
gro, perhaps, but never presto. From allegro, it
subsides in a few minutes to allegretto, and so to an-
dante. Mamma listens with painful attention. What
can be the matter ? now only two or three notes are
heard at wide intervals. Now the music has stopped
altogether. Up jumps mamma, and is met at the door
by the lazy young lady returning from her practising.
" What's this, Amelia ?" says mamma ; " you haven't
been practising ten minutes." " I thought it was an
hour," says the lazy young lady. " I am so tired,
mamma, I really can't practise any more now." By
this time she has reached the fire. The easy chair
is too tempting. Down she flops, and remains there
in the same position till she is forced to go and dress
for dinner. By the time dinner is half over she comes
back. Every thing is cold. Papa scolds, mamma
frowns, brothers frown, and call her "lag last."
" Why can't you be quicker ?" says mamma. " Really,
mamma," says the lazy young lady, " I came as
quick as I could. I ran all the way down stairs."

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

109

Written for the Lady's Book.
MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE,

A STORY OF DOMESTIC LIFE.

BY MISS LESLIE.

[Continued from page 78.]
PART THIRD.

During a slight access of graciousness (purchased by
the gift of a diamond pin) Harvey Woodbridge pre-
vailed on his consort to engage a cook that had lived
a long time in his father's family ; and also to take a
waiter that had been for many years a servant to the
brother of our hero, a gentleman residing in Balti-
more. Both these domestics were excellent in their
way, and (as far as permitted by what Mrs. Wood-
bridge called her plans) they performed their duties
well. Her husband now thought that he would avail
himself of the convenience of having a very good
cook and a very good waiter, and invite some gen-
tlemen to dine with him : trusting that the displeasure
he had evinced on the occasion of the evening visit-
ers, &c, would operate as a warning to his wife and
induce her to make a proper provision for the dinner
party.

But the dinner party, as soon as he ventured to
propose it, met a decided disapproval from the lady,
who said she did not see the use of a parcel of men
dining together, and that if money must be spent,
there were better ways of spending it : and that she
fully expected she should have to live all her life with-
out an India shawl. Her husband being very anxious
to carry his point, reminded her that they had not yet
had an opportunity of displaying their fine French
china dinner set and other elegancies appertaining.
And then he called her Charlotte Augusta, and assured
her that a pretty woman always looked peculiarly
well presiding at her own table, and doing the ho-
nours to a company of gentlemen.

At length, after much assenting and dissenting,
and agreeing with a bad grace and disagreeing with
no grace at all, the dinner was finally undertaken,
and fixed for the following Thursday. Interviews
between Mrs. Woodbridge and Mrs. Pinchington
commenced forthwith.

In the mean time, as the appointed day drew near
our hero had frequent and increasing misgivings, and
at last ventured to question his wife concerning her
preparations.

" You need not be afraid to leave every thing to
me" — replied Charlotte — " pa' often has gentlemen
to dine with him (much as it annoys ma') so I know
very well what arrangements to make. And I have
very good advisers, beside my natural judgment.
Even if I were incapable of preparing for dinner-
company, men have no business to be cot-betties."

"What is a cot-betty?" asked her husband.

" I wish you were as ignorant of the character as
you are of the name" — replied the lady sharply. —
" A cot-betty is what ma' used to call pa.' A man
that meddles with house affairs, and undertakes to
advise his wife about her domestic concerns ; instead
of sticking to his store or his office (or whatever
place he goes to) and giving his whole attention to
providing the money for his family expenses, as all
men ought."

VOL. XXII. 10

Harvey Woodbridge did not like to be classed
among the cot-betties ; though, as young ladies are
now brought up, a capable cot-betty may prove a very
valuable husband. Therefore, he, after this, held his
peace with respect to the dinner-party : which for-
bearance he was only enabled to exercise by closing
his eyes, ears, and understanding against much that
he saw, heard, and suspected.

At length the eventful afternoon arrived, and Mr.
Woodbridge left his store at an early hour, and re-
paired to his dwelling-house to be ready for the re-
ception of his guests. To his surprise he found that
no table had been set in the back-parlour. This was
a thing that he could not on this ocsasion have an-
ticipated : and hastily running up stairs, he found it
laid in the more-than-ever obnoxious little dining-
room, which looked even smaller and meaner than
usual. His vexation was intense, and hastening to
the apartment of his wife, whom he found at her
toilette. " How is this" — said he — " I had not the
most distant idea of the dinner table being set to-day
in any other place than the back parlour. That vile
little room will not do at all. It is too small, too
narrow, and the ceiling is too low."

" I did not expect we were to dine on the ceil-
ing"— replied Mrs. Woodbridge. But this attempt
at a witticism did not succeed; and her husband
plainly expressed his displeasure at finding that his
friends were to be entertained in what he called in
his anger " that abominable hole."

" It is neither a hole nor abominable" — answered
the lady — " but a nice comfortable apartment. And
you pay me a great compliment by talking of it in.
that outrageous manner, when you know it is my
pet place, where you have spent so many happy hours
in my society."

" Fudge !" — exclaimed Woodbridge, turning away
from her, completely out of patience.

" If domestic happiness is fudge" — resumed his
wife — " I shall be sorry enough for having quitted
ma', and left my own city to go away to a new place
and live with a strange man."

" It is true" — said her husband, with a sort of
sigh — " we were almost strangers to each other when
we married."

"And all this fuss" — pursued Charlotte — " is about
dining in a dining-room, as if it was not always the
most proper place. Do not we continually read of
dining-rooms in the English fashionable novels. The
very lords and ladies do not dine in their parlours or
drawing-rooms, even when they have company."

" The dining-rooms of the English gentry" — re-
plied Woodbridge — "are very different apartments
from that paltry little place of ours. I have no ob-
jection to a dining-room, provided that it is commo-
dious and pleasant, and that it has an air of gentility
as well as convenience. But I cannot endure the
idea of making my guests eat their dinner in the
worst apartment of my house, though I have yielded
to the infliction myself."

110

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

" And I" — said Mrs. Woodbridge — " cannot en-
dure the idea of having our parlour furniture greased
or stained or injured in any way, even by one single
dinner. Never supposing such a thing would be
wanted, I did not get a parlour crumb-cloth, and the
one we have up stairs is too small to save any other
carpet than that of the dining-room."

" And is this the reason you have set so small a
table. Worse than all, my friends will not have elbow-
room."

" I never saw a man yet" — replied Charlotte —
" who could not somehow or other manage to con-
vey his dinner to his mouth. When a large table is
set, there must be a great deal to cover it : and it is
not my way to provide more than is necessary. I
know very well how ma' managed when pa' would
have dinner company. And besides, I have consulted
Mrs. Pinchington. She was so kind as to accompany
me to market yesterday."

"Surely on this occasion" — said Woodbridge, with
a look of alarm — "you are not going to mortify me
before my friends with the sight of a mean and scanty
dinner."

" There will be dinner enough" — replied his
wife coolly — " and even if there should not, (as I
heard a man say in a play,) nobody calls for more at
another person's table. The fact is, I so hate extra-
vagance that, as I have often told you, it is really a
pleasure to me to save in every little thing as much
as I can."

And she finished adjusting before the glass a new
laced pelerine that she had bought the day before,
and which Mrs. Squanderfield assured her was cheap
at forty dollars.

"You Philadelphians" — she added — "think there
can never be too much on the table, and I am told
that the further south the worse."

" Two of my guests are southern gentlemen" —
said Woodbridge — " and I am convinced that all
who dine with me to-day have been accustomed to
1 sit at good men's feasts.' "

" Harvey" — said his wife — " do not make me un-
comfortable, or I won't come to table. I feel very much
like hysterics already. I have been annoyed enough
with Phillis this morning."

" Phillis, who was brought up by my mother" —
exclaimed Woodbridge — " there cannot be a more
excellent cook."

" Rather too excellent for me" — replied Charlotte,
" I have been thinking for some time of parting with
her. Mrs. Pinchington tells me (and I have found
it so myself,) that it is cheapest to keep cooks that
are not considered very good. And as to particu-
larity about food, it is a thing I am not going to
encourage. Ma' never did. Phillis is the last pro-
fessed cook I shall ever be troubled with. This
morning she was so vexed at my not having things
as extravagant as she thought proper, that she said
something that made me angry, and I packed her out
of the house. So then I had to coax Mary to get
the dinner."

" What, Mary — the raw Irish girl — the chamber-
maid. Surely she knows nothing about cooking. It
would have been better at once to have sent out and
hired a professed cook for the day."

" So Caesar had the assurance to tell me, and he
did prevail on me to let him go for an aunt of his,
who goes out cooking at what she calls a low price,
a dollar a day. But, as Phillis had already made a

beginning, I was determined not to give more than
sixty-two cents, so we could not agree ; though at the
last I did offer her seventy-five. As for my giving a
dollar for cooking one dinner, it was quite out of the
question : so there was nothing to be done but to set
Mary about it."

" I would rather have given ten dollars ! Mary
is little better than an idiot."

" How can you say so, when she came from New
York, where she had lived a whole month with ma'.
And even if she is rather stupid, there is the less
danger of her objecting to any thing I tell her to do.
Ma' could never get along with smart servants. But
I wish you would go down stairs. Your friends will
be arriving presently."

" Caesar, of course, has obeyed the orders I gave
him about the wine" — said Woodbridge.

" He wanted to do so" — replied the wife — " but
between you and him I found there was wine enough
got out for twenty people instead of eight. So I made
him put back the half of it. He began to look gruff,
and then — "

" Charlotte ! Charlotte !" — exclaimed the alarmed
husband — "if you have turned Caesar out of doors —
Caesar who lived ten years with my brother, and is so
useful and so faithful — "

"Do not be frightened" — replied Charlotte — "Cae-
sar would not go. He had the insolence to say he
should wait till Mr. Woodbridge came home."

" He is a good fellow" — said Woodbridge — " and
I am obliged to him for not deserting me this day."

" Don't talk of his goodness. When I threatened
to tell Mrs. Pinchington of him, he held down his
head to keep from laughing in my face,"

A ring at the door-bell now announced that the
guests were beginning to come, and Woodbridge
smoothed the discomposure of his countenance, and
hastened down stairs to receive them. His lady did
not appear till the gentlemen had all assembled, and
she then made her entrance through the folding-doors
of the back-parlour, and proceeded gracefully to the
front ; elegantly drest, and looking as sweet and in-
nocent as if incapable of uttering one unamiable
word, or conceiving one unamiable thought. Just so
she had looked when Woodbridge was first intro-
duced to her at a party in New York.

All the gentlemen having arrived, Woodbridge
took an opportunity of asking his wife, in a low voice,
if it was not time that dinner should be announced.
Upon which, she whispered to him that she was
waiting for Mrs. Pinchington, who had kindly volun-
teered to come and support her on this her first ap-
pearance as hostess at a gentleman's party. In
about half an hour Mrs. Pinchington came, excusing
herself for being detained by an unexpected visiter ;
but in reality having prudently stayed to secure a
good dinner at her boarding-house. Mr. Woodbridge,
though she had become his besetting antipathy, was
obliged to offer Mrs. Pinchington his arm ; and his
face flushed with shame as Charlotte, all smiles and
sweetness, accompanied by his principal guest (a
gentleman from Virginia) led the way up stairs into
the paltry dining-room : and he bit his lips at the first
glance at the table, though it was profusely orna-
mented with flowers.

The festive board was so short, that the guests
could scarcely squeeze into their places, and the
dtning-room was so narrow that the said table had
to be set over to one side, that Caesar might have

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

Ill

space to pass along on the other. When all were with
some difficulty seated, Mrs. Woodbridge with great
sangfroid began to send round some thin greasy ash-
coloured broth, being a decoction of cold veal with a
few shreds of vermicelli floating in it, and highly-fla-
voured with smoke ; Mary having forgotten to cover it
while it was simmering over an ill-made fire. This
potation, Mrs. Pinchington, afterswallowing a spoonful
or two, announced to be a delicious white soup. The
unfortunate man whose duty it was to perform the
part of host, proceeded to help a piece of boiled hali-
but served up without draining, but it looked so san-
guinary that no one chose to try it : for even the
lovers of what is called rare beef seldom have a fancy
for rare fish. For the second course, the soup was
replaced by a small tough round of par-baked beef,
black on ihe outside, and raw within, and denomi-
nated bccuf-a-la-mode: the a-la-moding being a few
cloves stuck over the top which had been previously
rubbed with powdered allspice: this beef Mrs. Pinch-
ington declined tasting lest it should prove too rich
for her. The bottom dish was a meagre roast pig,
(called " delicate" by Mrs. Pinchington) accompanied
by a little tureen of watery panada, termed, on this
occasion, bread-sauce. After the company had pre-
tended to eat of these things, Caesar was desired to
bring on the third course. The third course was a
dish of hard bony mutton chops, which were to have
been cotelettes a la Maintenon, but which Irish Mary
had produced au naturel : and also a dish of some-
thing begun as croquettes, but ended as mere minced
veal, washy and tasteless. Afterwards was introduced
as a bonne-bouche, two pair of split birds sprawling
on greasy slices of ill-made toast, and called game by
the ladies but known to be pigeons by Cassar and the
gentlemen. All the vegetables prepared for this
dinner were few in number, small in quantity, half-
boiled, half-drained, and mixed with that disgrace to
a lady's house, cooking butter, its disagreeable taste
predominating through all disguise, and rendering
every thing unpalatable. The fourth course was at
the top a superb glass bowl half full of a pale lilac
liquid, consisting of faintly sweetened milk that had
been skimmed till blue, and was then tinged with
something pinkish. This was dignified by the name
of floating island ; the island being a spoonful of
cream taken from the said milk and beaten up with
sufficient white of egg to give it " a local habitation
and a name," by forming a small heap in the centre
of the bowl. At the bottom sat a dish containing a
few cones of boiled rice that had been moulded in
wine-glasses, the summit of each cone decorated with
a red spot made by sticking on a mashed cranberry.
This part of the dessert was highly recommended to
the company by Mrs. Pinchington, who assured them
that rice was a delicious thing and " so pure." The
centre confection was a flat leathery pancake deno-
minated omelette soufflee, the very sight of which
would have made Fossard tear his hair. This strange
affair had been manufactured under the immediate
superintendence of Mrs. Woodbridge herself, who did
it exactly " ma's way." The side-dishes held a few
very small stale tartlets about the size of a half dollar
procured at a low-priced cake-shop, each containing
a half tea-spoonful of mysterious marmelade, made
of some indescribable fruit mounted in marvellous
heavy paste. These tartlets Mrs. Pinchington called
" little loves."

We need not attempt to depict the sufferings of our

excitable hero during the progress of this dinner, or
to tell how continually his resolutions to bear it man-
fully were on the point of giving way. In vain did
he try to repress the outward and visible signs of vex-
ation, mortification, indignation and all the other
ations that in spite of his efforts to conceal them were
flushing his cheek, knitting his brow, compressing
his lips, and trembling in his voice. Once he found
his hand rambling through his hair, and once, he
found his teeth gritting against each other; but on
both these occasions he recollected himself in time to
smile an unnatural smile, and to talk some random
talk.

But Mr. Woodbridge's disgust and anger did not
quite rise to its climax till he tasted the madeira
which, when he purchased it, he knew to be of the
first quality, and which he now found had been
greatly diluted with water after being decanted; evi-
dently to make it go further. On glancing at his
wife he met her eye watching his, and he saw by her
guilty look to whom he must attribute the adultera-
tion. Had she been able to draw the corks, it is
most probable that the hock and champagne would
not have escaped a similar allongement.

Poor Caesar well understood and deeply sympa-
thized in the numerous annoyances that assailed Mr.
Woodbridge at this unhappy dinner : to say nothing
of the griefs that were more particularly his own.
He prided himself greatly on his skill and alertness
in the art of waiting on compauy, on his savoir
faire in arranging, on his dexterity' in excuting, and
in the harmonious but unquestionable authority with
which he could give a tone to the movements of the
apt and well-tutored " coloured gentlemen," that on
similar occasions had always been employed to assist
him. Mrs. Woodbridge having persisted in not hiring
a single additional waiter, Caesar had so much to do
that he had no chance of doing any thing well, or
of displaying his usual tact in seeing without seeming
to see, and anticipating the wishes of the guests.
To-day he felt " his laurels withering on his brow,"
but his crowning horror was the sight of Irish Mary,
wheu Ire had to receive from her the dishes at the
door of a little back staircase that led down to the
kitchen. Having put on her worst costume to cook
in, she presented herself in full view, slip-shod, and
bare-heeled, in an old dirty gown its sleeves dipped
in grease, a ragged and filthy apron, her handkerchief
pinned awry over one shoulder and leaving the other
exposed, and her elf-locks hanging about her ears.
On handing in each dish she took an opportunity of
standing awhile with her stupid whitish eyes and her
large heavy mouth wide open, to stare at the company,
till Cassar shut the door in her face ; upon which
affront her murmurs and threats were audible all the
way down stairs.

This dinner appeared endless to all concerned in
it, except to Mary, who taking no note of time, and
being unprovided with the organ of clock-knowledge,
had nothing ready when wanted, or indeed for a long
while after. The dusk of evening had darkened the
table, and the guests were feeling about among the
spotted oranges and worm-eaten apples, the cooking.
raisins and the stony-sheiled almonds that had been
set on subsequent to the removal of the cloth. Mr.
Woodbridge after waiting in vain for his wife to
order lights till it became so dark that he could
scarcely discern her, gave several hints to that effect :
but she continued hint-proof. He then audibly de-

112

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

sired Caesar to bring them. Caesar on passing near
Mrs. Woodbridge was detained a few moments by a
low talk from her, and the result was two candles
only. Immediately after their introduction, she made
a signal to Mrs. Pinchington, and both ladies left the
table; Mrs. Woodbridge taking an opportunity of
telling Ceesar it was not worth while to light the
entry-lamp as the gentlemen would soon go. Hav-
ing reached her own apartment Mrs. Woodbridge
changed her dress and threw herself on the bed, ex-
claiming that she was dead with fatigue : and Mrs.
Pinchington prepared to go home, escorted by Caesar,
who was rung up for the purpose. She took an
affectionate leave of her hostess, assuring her that she
should report everywhere how delightfully the dinner
had gone off, and expressing her hope to be at many
more exactly like it. "Oh! Jupiter!" exclaimed
Caesar, for a moment forgetting where he was. Mrs.
Woodbridge frowned, and Mrs. Pinchington stooped
down to tie her walking-shoes.

In consequence of having to walk behind this lady
to her lodgings, Caesar to his great vexation was
unable to superintend the making of the coffee, and
when he got home he found that Mrs. Woodbridge,
in her impatience to hurry the departure of the gen-
tlemen, had ordered Irish Mary to prepare and carry
it in herself; and the weak, cold and muddy beverage
was left in every cup, almost untasted by the com-
pany.

The guests departed : and Caesar cleared away the
table sighing heavily over the disgraces of the day;
and confirmed in his resolution of seeking another
place when he found his Hibernian colleague lying
intoxicated on the kitchen floor.

Harvey Woodbridge passed the remainder of the
evening extended on one of the parlour sofas, and
endeavouring to devise some plan for expanding the
mind and heart of his wife, improving her disposition,
and rendering her ideas and practices less mean and
less selfish. Knowing, however, that she could not
have been blind to all the inconveniences and vexa-
tions which, on this occasion particularly, had arisen
from her ill-judged parsimony and her wilful perseve-
rance in it, he imagined her touched for once with
compunction, and perhaps sincerely disposed to try
and do better for the future. " This after all" —
thought he — " may prove a salutary lesson to her.
She cannot be always incorrigible. I will spare her
feelings to-night, and refrain from all expostulation
till to-morrow ; and then I will reason with her as
calmly and mildly as I can."

He rose early next morning and took a walk to
Schuylkill, willing to defer a little longer his intended
remonstrance. On his return, breakfast was not
ready, and Charlotte had not come down. He tried
in vain to read the newspaper : but threw it aside, and
traversed the room till she made her appearance ; and
Caesar at the same time brought in the tray.

As soon as the repast was over and the breakfast
apparatus removed, our hero commenced his expos-
tulation, making a strong effort to control his feel-
ings and to speak with calmness. Without referring
to former subjects of similar annoyance, he tried to
confine himself entirely to the dinner-party : setting
forth with all the eloquence of truth the shame and
mortification she had caused him by her unhappy
notions of ultra-economy, so absurdly and annoyingly
put in practice on that much-to-be-regretted occasion ;
lessening both her and himself in the eyes of his

guests, all whom, as he said, had a just right to con-
sider themselves treated with disrespect at being set
down in a gentleman's house to so paltry an enter-
tainment, and in so paltry a room.

" If you talk this way, Harvey" — said Charlotte
Woodbridge — " I shall go off into strong hyste-
rics."

This threat, however, had lost its effect ; for though
Harvey had often heard of hysterics he had never
seen them.

" Charlotte" — said he — " this is no time for folly.
Believe me when I assure you that I am now seri-
ously determined to insist on a general reform in the
whole tenor of your household arrangements. I am
completely disgusted with living in this manner, and
I will submit to it no longer. My patience is ex-
hausted with the vain effort of suppressing my vexa-
tion, and in trying to endure in silence the innume-
rable petty annoyances with which you contrive to
embitter every hour of my life; and I am still more
tired of ineffectual remonstrances, and useless bicker-
ings about trifles."

" Why then do you bicker ?"
" Nonsense ! — Is not domestic misery composed
chiefly of trifles : each a unit in itself, but the whole
when added together making a large sum total."
" I despise business talk."

"Charlotte — Charlotte! — I doubt if in reality you\
are as silly as you would seem to be."

" Yes, I am — and so you will always find me. As
I never had the least wish to be sensible, I did not
trouble myself to try. Ma' always said that sensible
girls got but few beaux, and did not go off well.
Her only care was that I should grow up pretty, and
be handsomely and fashionably drest. So I always
had plenty of beaux, and I did go off — to be sure it
was no great go. And, now, though I am a married
woman, I see no reason why I should not wish to
look well and be admired just the same as before.
As to the management of the house and all that sort
of thing, I again assure you that I shall not make
the least change in my plans now or ever — do you "
attend to your business, and I will manage mine."

" Oh ! Charlotte" — exclaimed her husband, having
listened to this tirade as much in sorrow as in anger,
" Can nothing make any impression on you. Or
rather, why are all your sayings and doings so per-
verse and wilful, when there must at the bottom of
your heart be some latent touch of tenderness for the
man who loving you sincerely, was willing to take
you upon trust, without any previous knowledge of
your temper and habits; and who so frankly and
fondly entrusted his happiness to your keeping."

" ' Nobody asked you, air,' she said" —

was the reply of our wayward heroine, singing a line
from a well-known ballad, and making a low curtsey ;
" did you not fall in love the moment you were in-
troduced to me at Mrs. Vanvemigen's party, where
I wore my rose-coloured aerophine with the satin
corsage and the coquille trimming, and carried in
my hand a silver bouquetaire with six dollars worth
of hot-house flowers in it ? And did not you steal a
sprig of heliotrope from my bouquet, and put it to
your lips instead of your nose — I saw you do it !—
And did not you follow me all about the room, and
talk to nobody else, and give me your arm to the
supper-table, and go without your own supper that
you might accompany me back to the front drawing-

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

113

room and get a seat on an ottoman beside me ? And
did not you wait at the door to put me into the car-
riage, though my pa' and brothers were along ? And
then you know very well how you came next morn-
ing the moment the clock struck eleven, (a full hour
before any reasonable creature thinks of making a
visit :) and how you bespoke yourself to escort me to
Miss Semibreve's musical soiree; and whenever a
song finished and a piece began did not you look
delighted, because then you could talk to me all the
while, as nobody is bound to listen to pieces ? Did
you not from that time visit me twice a day, and go
every where with me even to church, and actually
come to a proposal on our way home, at the corner
of Broadway and Warren street. And did not you
detain me on the door-step till I consented, scram-
bling hold of my hand and tearing my white kid
glove ? And the very moment we were engaged did
not you bounce after me into the front parlour and
ask pa' ?"

" I plead guilty to all this" — replied Woodbridge —
"Next time I will be less precipitate."
" So will I" — said Charlotte.
"We are talking very absurdly" — resumed Wood-
bridge — after a short pause — " I began this conver-
sation with an earnest desire to make a serious im-
pression on you, and to awaken your good feelings ;
for I hope and trust you are not entirely without
them."

" Feelings" — replied our heroine — " I do not
know why I should be suspected of want of feeling.
I am sure I always cry at the theatre when I see
other ladies with their handkerchiefs to their eyes,
for then I am certain there is something to be cried
at. When I was a little girl I actually sobbed one
night at the play, when Cinderella's sisters made her
stay at home from the ball. It is not a month ago
ihat I looked very serious when every one else was
laughing at that wicked Petruchio not allowing his
wife to have her new gown and cap. However, I
suppose I had best say nothing about Petruchio — as
it may not be quite safe for me to put him into your
head."

" Charlotte — Charlotte" — exclaimed her husband
— " no more of this folly : but listen attentively to
what I am going to say. In the first place I insist
on your giving up Mrs. Pinchington and Mrs. Squan-
derfield."

" What, my best friends ! — my most intimate
friends ! — the only true friends I have !"

" Your husband is your best and truest friend."
" You really make me laugh — as if husbands and
friends were not totally different things ! — Do you
think I could ever talk to you, and consult you on
all occasions, as I do these two ladies."

" Supposing then that that were impossible — have
you not become acquainted with other ladies far su-
perior to these for all purposes of conversation and
consultation."

" How should you know — men are no judges of
women. I can assure you that of all the ladies I
have met with in Philadelphia, Mrs. Pinchington and
Mrs. Squanderfield are the most to my taste."
" I am sorry to hear it."

" I tell you again that I shall always regard them
as my best and dearest and only friends. Both of
them are so fond of me that they actually grieve if
they do not see me every day. They have nothing
so much at heart as me and my good."
10*

" I wish they would let you and your good alone !"
" That is not your own wit, Mr. Woodbridge —
I heard a man say something like it in a play. No
— the interest they feel in me is quite astonishing,
and they always give me proper advice, just such as
I like to take ; and as they have nothing to do but to
go about and see people, they always have a great
deal to tell me of such things as I like to hear. As
to this dinner that has so much affronted you, / have
the most cause to be offended at your finding fault
with it after all the trouble it gave me. So I assure
you it is the last dinner party I will ever preside
over."

" Would you wish me to invite my friends to dine
with me at a hotel, as if I had no means of enter-
taining them at home."

" No, indeed — when ma' was on here, she told
me that pa' had tried that experiment, and that the
expense was enormous ; and besides, the leavings
were all lost, as they could not be had to furnish
family dinners afterwards. People can live, I sup-
pose, without having dinner company, or indeed any
company at all. And much as you despise yester-
day's entertainment, the expense of it actually fright-
ened me. However, I can tell you, for your com-
fort, that we dine to-day upou the cold things that
were left."

" What cold things ?"

" No matter what. When pa' would have dinner
company, ma' never sent to market for a week after-
wards."

" And was he contented to dine on scraps for a
week ?"

" Contented or not, he had to do it for years and
years. To be sure at last he got into a very pro-
voking way of dining at a hotel whenever he expect-
ed a scrap dinner (as you call it,) at his own table."
" I will follow your worthy father's example, and
dine to-day at a hotel."
" Are you in earnest."

" Yes, I am. If you will not listen to talking, I
will try what virtue there is in acting."
" Why it will cost you a dollar or more."
" I know it. But I shall at least, obtain a dollar's
worth of comfort, and have a chance of composing
my temper, and dining in peace."

" I have no more time to waste with you" — said
his wife, seeing that he was determined on accom-
plishing this new feat. " I must go to Madame
Tourtelot's at eleven o'clock, to be fitted for my pearl-
coloured figured satin and my fawn-coloured lustre-
silk. But to think of your throwing away a dollar
upon a dinner for yourself. — The extravagance of
men is awful."

She then repaired to her own apartment ; and her
husband too much ruffled to pursue his expostulation
with the temper he desired, prepared to go out.

In the entry he was way-laid by Caesar, who in-
formed him that he wished Mr. Woodbridge to suit
himself with another waiter by the end of the month,
adding — " Indeed, sir, I am sorry to leave you, but I
seem as if I could not stand things no longer, 'spe-
cially Irish Mary. Her head is so muddled from
yesterday, that I found her, when she was getting
breakfast, haggling at the loaf with the side of a fork
instead of a knife, and saying — " Oh ! but it's hard
this bread is to cut, then." And I catched her
greasing the griddle with the end of a candle, and
when I stopped her short in her wickedness, she

114

THE SEA-BIRD S FLIGHT.

said — " Ah ! and what would ye have then — grase
is grase all the world over." Indeed, sir, you don't
know how hard it is to live day in and day out with
a woman that's a born fool."

" Yes, I do" — thought Woodbridge — and he al-
most sighed to think that he had not, like Caesar, the
resource of changing his home. However, he
merely replied — " Very well, Caesar — you may refer
to me for a character" — and with a heavy heart he
walked to his store.

That day, resolving to put his threat into practice,
our hero did dine at a hotel. His wife, after finish-
ing her dress-fitting, shopping, and card-leaving, went
to take her dinner, as the guest of Mesdames
Squanderfield and Pinchington, at their boarding-
house. She found that both those ladies had gone
together up the river ; one on a visit to an acquaint-
ance at Burlington, the other to see a relative living
at Bristol. Nevertheless she accepted the slight invi-
tation of her former hostess, the mistress of the esta-
blishment, to stay and dine with her, as the dinner-
bell was about to ring.

Towards evening, Mr. Woodbridge came home in
much better temper ; and was disposed to enter into
a cheerful conversation with his wayward Charlotte.
But she kept a sullen silence; and at the tea-table
she" steadily put aside every thing he offered her, help-
ing herself to it immediately after. When their un-
comfortable tea was over, her husband again tried to
reason with her on the subject of that perverseness
which was undermining his affection, and destroy-
ing their peace. She made not a word of answer,
but lay motionless and speechless, reclining on the
sofa. After a while, she turned to the wall and threw
her handkerchief over her head. — " She is touched

at last" — thought Woodbridge. — " To hide her face
and weep in silence is a good symptom. I have hopes
of her yet." — He then softened his tone, and made
a tender and powerful appeal to what he called her
best feelings. In conclusion, he rose from his chair,
went to her in much emotion, and taking her passive
hand, addressed her as his beloved Charlotte. Still,
she replied not. He gently withdrew the handker-
chief from her face. — She was fast asleep.

Her husband sighed — replaced the handkerchief;
resumed his seat before the dull and ashy fire ; folded
his arms : and gazed awhile on the ceiling. Then he
took up a book, but held it unconsciously for half an
hour, forgetting to open it. At last he started up, and
went out to revive himself by a walk in the open air.
Finally, on passing one of the theatres he strolled in
and placed himself in the back of a box ; but though
his eyes were fixed on the stage, he had rio percep-
tion of any thing that he saw, and no comprehension
of any thing he heard. He only knew when the
performance was over by finding that the lights were
extinguishing and the benches vacated. He then
went to his cheerless home, and found that his wife
had retired for the night and was sleeping with her
usual tranquillity.

Next morning their breakfast passed exactly like
the tea of the preceding evening, and Woodbridge
went to his store in silent despair. When he again
came home he found that though yesterday he had
dined at a hotel to escape the threatened leavings of
a vile dinner, his wife, with malice prepense, had
kept these " shadows of a shade" to set before him
to-day, and as long as they could be made to last.

[To be continued.]

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF SPRING

BY PROF. W. J. WALTER.

The sterner hours of Winter fly ;

Spring comes with all her graces,
And where cold forms late met the eye,

Fair lines of beauty traces.

Nature her volume spreads to all; —
To him who proudly reasons ;

To him, content with what may fall,
As heaven the lesson seasons.

Thus, though the fruit by sober thought

Be in due hour expected :
Yet will the graceful foliage not

By reason be rejected

What's life devoid of grace — the soul

To all its vigour lending;
Into one bright harmonious whole

Each harsher contrast blending ?

Written for the Lady's Book.
THE SEA-BIRD'S FLIGHT

BY R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, L.L.D.

Once, when the spirit of the storm
His shadow o'er the sea did fling,

I saw a bird of fairy form,
And snowy hue, and fragile wing.

Strong was the tempest— but her flight
Breasted it many a weary mile ;

For always gleamed upon her sight,
In the mid seas, one verdant isle.

In fiercer eddies gushed the wind,

Weaker the sea-bird's wings did grow,

Until, at length, with strength declin'd,
She sank into the waves below.

Is it not thus, to all of earth,

Some far-off home by Faith is given,
To which aye tends our soaring forth—

Vainly, unless sustained by Heaven !

THE PASSAGE OF A NIGHT, ETC.

115

For the Lady's Book.

THE PASSAGE OF A NIGHT;

OR, THE BENEFACTRESS.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF THE YEMASSEE, GUY RIVERS, ETC,

" Thou and I long since are twain;
Nor think me so unwary or accursed,
To bring my feet again into the snare
Where once I have been caught; I know thy trains,
Though dearly to my cost ; thy gins and toils;
Thy fiir enchanted cup, and warbling charms,
No more on me have power; their force is nulled;
So much of adder's wisdom I have learned,
To fence my ear against thy sorceries."

Samson Jlgonistes.

" At length I was permitted to behold my benefac-
tress. The messenger who brought my quarterly re-
mittance was the bearer of a letter, the first which
had ever been addressed by her to myself, in which
this grateful permission was accorded. I read and
re-read it a thousand times. My first emotions were
those of pleasure ; — a pleasure enhanced by the hope
of satisfying a curiosity, which, awakened in my ear-
liest boyhood, had never yet been gratified. Why
had I been so kindly treated, so well provided for, so
affectionately considered, in all the changes of my
brief existence, my sickness and my health, by a lady
of such high condition? Why, again, should she,
whose care and consideration had been so unvarying
and decided, have shown so little desire to behold
the object of her bounty ? Years had elapsed since I
had become her charge. Years, to me, of continued
satisfaction, if one small matter be excepted. There
was one alloy to my enjoyment, which, in its most
rapturous moments, my boyhood did not cease to
feel. It was the mystery which overhung my origin.
Who am I ? was the question, not so natural to the
boy, yet natural enough to the sensitive and thought-
ful. I was both sensitive and thoughtful ; and my
boyish associates, on this very subject, contrived to
keep me so. Their inquiries disordered me — their
surprise at my ignorance alarmed me — their occa-
sional doubts gave me pain, and the suspicions of
their minds readily passed into my own. ' Who am
I ?' was the perpetual inquiry which my mind was
making of itself. I could address it no where else.
My tutor, with whom I also lodged, declared his
ignorance, and I believed him. He was too good a
man, too kind, and himself betrayed too great an in-
terest in the question, not to have spoken sincerely.
He saw my disquiet and endeavoured to allay it ; and
the endeavour added to the burden, since it sufficient-
ly declared his equal inability and desire. His anxiety,
though unequal to, was not unlike my own. I know
not if his conjectures led him to like conclusions
with mysolf. I only know that mine were sufficiently
painful to extort my tears and tremors.

"Vainly, at each quarterly return of the agent of
the Baroness, did I endeavour, by question and in-
sinuation, to gather from him some clue to the facts
of which I sought to be possessed. He had been the
person who brought me to the school — who made
the contract for my education and support with my

tutor — and who, alone, through each successive pe-
riod of my life afterwards, had been the medium for
conveying the benefactions of my friend. To whom
then could I so naturally apply ? From whom could
I hope to obtain better information ? Besides, he al-
ways treated me with marked affection. I can re-
member, when a mere child, how frequently he took
me upon his knee, how kindly he caressed me, what
affectionate words he poured into my ear ; the gen-
tleness of his tones, the tenderness of his regards !
Nor as I advanced in years did his attentions alter,
though they assumed different aspects. He was more
reserved, though not less considerate. If he no longer
brought me toys, he brought me books; if he no
longer took me on his knee, he lingered with me
long, and seemed to regret the hour that command-
ed his departure. There was something, too, so I
fancied, in what he said, did, and looked, that be-
trayed the fondness of one who had known me with
a tender interest from the beginning. His arms,
perhaps, had dandled me in infancy ; he had been my
follower, my attendant. But why linger on conjec-
tures such as these ? My speculations ran wild, as I
thought, over the circumstances of my condition, and
painfully resolved, hour after hour, the secret of my
birth.

" From Bruno, however, I could obtain nothing.
When questioned, he affected a stolid simplicity
which, even to my boyish understanding, seemed
wholly inconsistent with his. I knew that he was
no fool — still less was I willing to consider him a
churl. My conclusion was natural. He knew
something. He could tell me much. Could he not
tell me all, and where could be the motive for con-
cealment ? The answer to this question inevitably
overwhelmed me for a time, until the elasticity of
the youthful heart could disencumber itself from
the desponding tendency of a premature activity of
thought. The only motive of concealment must be
guilt. I was the child of sin — I was the foredoom-
ed of suffering. My present anxieties gave a gravity
and intensity of expression to my features which did
not become one so youthful. I felt this — I felt the
seeming unnaturalness of my looks and carriage, but
how couid I relieve myself? I felt the pain of thought
— thought unsatisfied, and could already imagine
how natural was the doom which visited the sins of
the father to the third and fourth generation.

116

THE PASSAGE OF A NIGHT ;

" When I failed to extort from the cunning of
Bruno the secret which I was persuaded he yet pos-
sessed, I turned naturally to the letter of my benefac-
tress. I read and re-read it, each time with the hope
of making some discoveries — of finding some slight
clue to the truth, which might relieve my anxiety.
An ambiguous sentence, the latent signification of a
passage — and how many of these did my desire en-
able me to discover in a billet of twenty lines ? —
awakened my hopes and caused my heart to bound
with double pulsation. But when I had gone
through it again and again, until my head ached,
and my senses seemed to swim, I was compelled to
acknowledge to myself that there was nothing in
the epistle that I had not readily comprehended at
the first. It simply expressed the writer's gratifica-
tion at the improvement and good conduct of the
youth whom she had thought proper to educate and
provide for, until manhood should bring around the
period of independence ; and expressed though without
emphasis — and how earnestly did I look for this qua-
lity in every word, syllable and point ! — a very natural
desire to remark, with her own eyes, the personal de-
portment and carriage of her protege — subjects which
she seemed to regard as equally important with my
intellectual improvement, and of which neither my
letters nor my exercises — which were duly transmit-
ted to her by my tutor — could give her much, if any,
satisfaction. Failing to find any occult signification
in the language, I next addressed my scrutiny to the
style and manner of the letter — the hand-writing, the
air, the round ings equally of letters and periods. How
soon, where the hopes and anxieties are awakened,
will the boy learn to think, examine and become ana-
lytical ! To trace the mind of the writer in his pen-
manship is a frequent employment with the idly cu-
rious ; but a deep interest led me to the same exer-
cise. The style of the composition was clear and
strong, but it struck me as quite too cold for the be-
nevolent tenor which the note conveyed. Why
should one speak the language of reserve whose
deeds are the very perfection of generosity ? Why
should the tones be frigid where the sentiments are
as soft as summer and sweet as its own bird-music ?
There was, to my mind, some singular contradictions
in this. I.could very well understand how one, doing,
or about to do, a benevolent or generous action,
should speak of it as slightly and indifferently as pos-
sible— nay, should avoid to speak of it all, if to avoid
it be within the nature of the occasion ; — but this did
not apply to the character of the epistle I examined.
The writer spoke freely of her friendly purposes ; but
her language to the recipient was cold and freezing.
If she had said nothing of what she had done and still
meditated, and had spoken to me in more elaborate
tones, I should have been better satisfied. But there
was not an unnecessary word in the whole epistle —
not one which I could fancy put in at the moment
when the current of feeling being at its height for-
bade the reserve of prudence, or the cautious consi-
derateness of deliberate and calculating purposes.
There was evidently considerable pains taken — so
my youthful judgment inferred — in the reserved lan-
guage and manner of this letter ; and why should my
benefactress, moved only in what she had done by a
high but ordinary sentiment of charity, strive to ex-
press herself in such language to a boy ? This ques-
tion led me into newer intricacies, from which, I
need scarcely add, I did not readily extricate myself.

The penmanship of the writer did not call for a less
earnest examination than the language which she em-
ployed. It was evidently feminine in its character,
but how masculine in its tone. The utter absence of
ornament was a deficiency, which struck me as
forming a surprising feature in the hand-writing of
a lady. She ' used capitals constantly in begin-
ning words as well as sentences; bat these capi-
tals exhibited the cold Gothic aspects of the Roman,
rather than the lively ontemented outlines of the
Italian letters. The T of her signature, for exam-
ple, was a simple perpendicular stroke, carried much
below the line, with a thick heavy cap upon it, hav-
ing a dip at each end almost as great as that of an
umbrella. The letters were remarkably clear, but
how irregular. They seemed to have been written
under a determination to write, even against desire
and will — dashed spasmodically down upon the pa-
per, not coherent, and leaving wide gaps between the
several words, into which an ingenious hand might
readily have introduced other words — such as I
fondly conjectured might have given to the composi-
tion that friendly warmth and interest in my fate,
which it seemed to me it needed more than any thing
beside. My grand conclusion, on finishing my study,
was this, that the writer had taken some pains to
write indifferently'; that the studied coldness of the
letter was meant to conceal a very active warmth
and feeling in the writer ; and — though I may not
be able to define the sources of this conjecture so
well as the rest — that this feeling, whatever might
be its character, was not such as could compel the
admiration or secure the sympathy of mine. This
conclusion may seem strange enough when it is re-
collected that Lady T. was my benefactress, who had
always carefully anticipated my wishes ; provided for
my wants ; afforded me the best education which the
condition of the Palatinate afforded, and, in all re-
spects had done, through charity, those kindly deeds
which could not have been exacted by justice. The
next moment I reproached myself for ingratitude — I
prayed for better thoughts and more becoming feel-
ings— but my prayer was not vouchsafed me. The
conclusion which I have already declared, had taken
a rooted possession in my mind, and I commenced

my journey to the Castle of T with a mixed

feeling of equal awe, anxiety, and expectation.

" I now remarked some alteration in the looks and
bearing of my companion, Bruno, which also sur-
prised me and awakened my curiosity. Hitherto, he
had always seemed a person of little pretension, hav-
ing few objects, and those of a humbler class; a
mere yeoman, a good retainer — in which capacity he

served at T— Castle — modest in his deportment,

without arrogance of any kind, and, in all respects, a
very worthy personage. I do not mean to say that he
now assumed the appearance of one who had become
less so ; but he certainly was no longer the quiet, sub-
dued and somewhat melancholy man whom I had
heretofore been wont to find him. A certain boyish
lightness of manner and gaiety of speech distinguish-
ed him as we rode together ; — and though these
qualities might not be altogether inconsistent with
what is becoming in a man of forty, yet were they,
at the same time, very far from corresponding with
the usual characteristics which he had borne in our
previous intimacy. Until now I should have called

OR, THE BENEFACTRESS.

117

him a dull person, possessed of good, benevolent feel-
ings ; rather grave and sombre in his discourse, and,
altogether, having no qualities to recommend him to
a higher destination than that which he filled in the
Castle of the Baroness. Now, he suddenly became
the man of spirit — his words were mirthful, his
voice musical, his opinions playful and even witty,
and not urifrequently he would burst into little catches
of song, that sounded unpleasantly in my ears, since
I could neither conjure up cause of merriment in
my own mind, nor conjecture the sources for so
much of it in his. Nor did this conduct seem the
result of simple natural feelings — the play of health
in an exercise which was agreeable, or of sensations
which lie beneath the surface only, and obedient to
the summons of any cheerful wayfarer, who, having
no cares, is susceptible of the most ordinary pleasures.
There was an air of positive exultation in his looks,
a triumphant consciousness in his manner, which he
vainly strove to hide, and in the business of which I
quickly inferred from his frequent smile and searching
gaze upon me, I, myself, had no little interest.
When I commented on his gaiety and spirit, he
would suddenly control himself; relapse, as it were
by an effort, into his ancient gravity, and, possibly,
mutter a few clumsy words of denial; — but his strug-
gle to contain himself did not long continue, and be-
fore we reached the end of our journey, he had fully
surrendered himself to the joyous mood which pos-
sessed him on our setting out.

" Having no knowledge of Castle T , I en-
deavoured by a series of direct questions to obtain
from him as much information as possible in respect
to it and the Lady thereof. He seemed to be sur-
prised at the avowal of my ignorance on the subject
of the Castle, and surprised me even more by ex-
pressing his wonder at the fact ; concluding by as-
suring me that I was born in it — -at least he had
been told so. His mention of my place of birth ne-
cessarily provoked an eager renewal of my old in-
quiries, but to these I obtained no satisfactory an-
swers. Enough, however, was shown me by what he
said, and still more by what he looked, that he knew
much more than he was willing, or permitted, to re-
veal. His reserve increased the mystery ; for if any
of my acquaintance had ever convinced me of their
unequivocal regard, it was my old friend Bruno.
That he should know, yet withhold, the secret, the
desire for which was making my cheek paler every
day, and filling my heart with the gloom that sel-
dom afflicts the young, argued, to my understanding,
a painful history, which, perhaps, when heard, I
should wish for ever buried in oblivion. When I in-
quired after my benefactress, as I had frequently done
before, his brow became clouded, and it was only at
such moments that he seemed to part easily with
that gaiety of manner which had striven to cheer
our tedious journey. Stern glances shot from be-
i neath his bushy grey eyebrows, and his lips became
. compressed, as closely as if some resolute purpose of
hostility was gathering in his mind.

" It seems to me, Bruno, that you love me no
I longer. You will not. answer my questions — ques-
tions which seriously affect my happiness — and yet
it is clear to me that you can do so. Why is this ?
! Why should there be any mystery in the case of one
so poor, so humble, such a dependant as myself?"

"Love you, Herman! Do I not love you?" he
exclaimed; and I could see a big tear gathering

within his eye, as he replied in reproachful accents —
" Ah, my son, you know not how much I love you ;
you know not now — perhaps you will shortly know,
and when you do, you will see that what I have
withheld from you, was wisely withheld, There is a
season given for truth, Herman, and if Bruno for-
bears the truth in your ears, it is only that he may
wait for the season."

" But why should you not tell me of Lady T ?

I should like to form some idea of, and to love her,
before I see her."

"Then you do not love her?" he demanded with
some quickness; and I could perceive a smile gleam
out upon his countenance, in which I fancied there
was an expression of bitter satisfaction. His ques-
tion confused me — it conveyed a reproach which he
certainly never intended. Could it be possible that.
I did not love my benefactress — one to whom I owed
so much — to whom, indeed, I owed every thing? I
blushed, hesitated, stammered, and, before I could
reply, he again spoke, and anticipated the feeble
excuse which I was preparing.

" But how should you love her ?" he exclaimed in
tones rather of soliloquy than conversation. " How,
indeed ! It would have been wonderful, indeed, if
you did."

Here he arrested himself in the manner of one who
thinks he has said too much. The true feeling with
which he spoke I gathered rather from the tone of his
utterance than from what he said. The words, how-
ever, might have been made to apply much more in-
nocently than the emphasis permitted me to apply
them.

" How, what mean you, Bruno ?" I demanded
with an astonishment which was sufficiently obvious.
He endeavoured to evade the effects of his error with
the adroitness of a politician.

" How could you be expected to love a person
whom you had never seen — whom you do not know
— of whom, indeed, you know nothing ?

" Except by her bounties, Bruno."

" True, these demand gratitude, but seldom awaken
love, unless by other associations. Mere charity,
gifts and favours, have but little value unless the do-
nor smiles while he is giving — speaks kind words,
and looks affection and regard. The Baroness has
erred, if your affection was an object in her sight, in
not personally bestowing her bounty and showing to
your own eyes, the concern which she felt in your
success, and the benevolence she intended. Without
these, her bounty could scarce secure your love ; and
the feeling which dictates it might have no such mo-
tive for its exercise — might be dictated by pride,
vanity, the ostentation of a virtue ; or, indeed, might
be the consequence of a simple sense of duty."

" Duty ! How should it be the duty of the Baron-
ess to provide for my support and education."

" Nay, I say not that such is the case. I simply
suggest one of the causes of that favour which men
are very apt, when they name, to confound with be-
nevolence." •

" But why should you speak as if it were doubtful
that the Baroness really desires to secure my affec-
tion. Do you know, Bruno, that she does not?"

" He or she who aspires to secure the affection of
another will scarcely succeed by the mere act of
giving in charity. The gift must be accompanied by
other acts, other expressions, which shall exhibit the
attachment which the giver desires to awaken. It

118

THE PASSAGE OF A NIGHT ;

must be shown that there is a pleasure felt in the
benevolence, that the heart which bestows enjoys a
kindied satisfaction with that which receives. Ag
for any knowledge on the subject of the feelings of
the Baroness, I pretend none. I but state a general
truth when I say, that, if her object had been to
make you love her, she should have carried her gifts
in person, shown herself frequently to you, counselled
you from her own lips, exhorted your industry and dili-
gence, prompted your ambition, cheered your labours,
and encouraged all your honourable desires."

" Ah, if she had done this, Bruno."

" Doubtless you would then have loved her, and
then she would have been — "

He paused abruptly; the same stern expression of
countenance denoted the suppression of a sentiment,
such as more than once before during our dialogue
had seemed to fill his mind with bitterness. I eagerly
demanded of him the conclusion of the sentence, and
with a smile which was half a sneer, he replied,

" Then she would have been — secure of your love."

I smiled also, and, perhaps, a like sarcastic sneer
passed over my own lips, as he came to this lame
and impotent conclusion.

" Bruno, you deceive me, and possibly wrong my
benefactress. You know more than you will tell
me. There is some strange mystery in this busi-
ness— "

" Which I believe, Herman, but—"

" Which you know, Bruno."

" Perhaps so ; but let me ask you, Herman, my
dear Herman, do you believe me to be your friend ?"

« I do."

" That. I have ever shown you kindness, watched
over you, counselled you, guided you, protected you,
done all, in short, that a father could have done for
the son he most loved ?"

" Truly, good Bruno, I believe, I think, I know
that you have been all this to me. You have sup-
plied those performances, which, if your thinking be
right, the benevolence of the Baroness imprudently
omitted."

" Enough, Herman. Believe then a little more.
Believe that he who has been friendly and faithful
hitherto, without hesitation, without exception, with-
out going back, and without sign of reluctance, will
still be true, faithful and affectionate. There is some-
thing that I might say, but not wisely, not benefi-
cially for you, and therefore I forbear to say it. But
the time will come, I think it will come very soon,
and all my knowledge shall then be yours. Mean-
while be patient and learn the first best lesson of
youth — learn to wait! By learning to wait, you
learn to endure, and in learning to endure, you learn
one of the principal arts of conquest. I speak to
you the lesson of experience, of my own experience.
Never did a young man pass through a more trying
term of endurance than myself. I have suppressed
my nature, stifled the passions of my heart, kept down
those struggles of my soul, which, as they would have
vainly striven for any release, were premature ; and,
after twenty years of bondage I am at length free.

Your visit to the Castle of T , is the epoch of

my emancipation."

Having thus spoken, Bruno became suddenly silent,
and no effort that I could make could induce him to
resume the conversation. Yet, how had this conver-

sation excited me! — what strange connexions did it
occasion among the thoughts and fancies of my mind.
Where had he obtained the power to speak with so
much authority, words so full of animation, thoughts
so far beyond his seeming condition. His words
seemed to lift and to expand himself. His eye glit-
tered with the fire of an eagle's as he spoke, his lip
quivered with equal pride and enthusiasm, and his
form, it seemed to rise and tower aloft in ail the
majesty of a tried and familiar superiority. The
mystery which enwrapped my own fate, seemed of a
sudden to envelope this man also. He had dropped
words which indicated an alliance of our destinies,
and what could he mean, when, at the close of this

speech, he said, that my visit to the Castle of T

was the epoch of his emancipation. The words rang
in my ears with the imposing solemnity of an oracle,
but though I felt, in vain did I strive to find some-
thing in them beyond their solitary import. They
increased the solemnity and anxiety of those feelings
which oppressed me on my nearer approach to the

gloomy towers of T Castle. As we came in

sight of them I could perceive that the countenance
of my companion assumed an expression of anxiety
also. A dark cloud, slowly gathering, hung about
his brows, and at length spread over and seemed to
settle permanently upon his face. He now seldom
spoke, and only in answer to my inquiries and in
monosyllables. Something of this, in the case of each
of us, may have been derived from the sombre and
gloomy tone of every thing in the immediate neigh-
bourhood of this castle. The country was sterile in
the last degree. We had travelled the whole day and
had scarcely encountered a human being. But few
cottages skirted the cheerless and little-trodden path-
way over which we came, and a general stuntedness
of vegetation and an equally general poverty of re-
source in all respects, fully accounted to us for, and
justified the absence of inhabitants. Bruno, however,
informed me that the country on the other side of the
lake on which the castle stood, and from which it
derived its resources, was as fertile and populous, as
this was the reverse. A succession of little hills,
rugged and precipitous, which were strewed thickly
over our pathway, added to the difficulties of our
approach, and the cheerlessness of tire prospect. The
castle was gray with years — one portion of it entirely
dismantled and deserted — the residue in merely habi-
table condition — the whole presenting such a pile as
would be esteemed as a ruin, among a people of ro-
mantic temperament, but carefully avoided by the
superstitious as better calculated for the wanderings
of discontented ghosts, than as a dwelling for the
living. The wall which was meant to protect it from
invasion on the side we came, was in a worse state
of dilapidation than even the deserted portions of the
castle, and we entered the enclosure through a fissure,
and over the overthrown masses of lime and stone
by which it had been originally filled. There were
too many of these openings to render formal parts or
gateways necessary. Within the enclosure I had an
opportunity to see how much more desolate was the
prospect the nearer I approached it. Its desolation
increased the feelings of awe with which the mystery
of my own fate, the ambiguous words and manner
of Bruno, and the vague conjectures I had formed in
reference to my benefactress, had necessarily filled
my mind ; and I was conscious, on first standing in
the presence of the Baroness, of far more apprehen-

OR, THE BENEFACTRESS.

119

sion than gratitude — an apprehension not so credit-
able to my manhood, and only to be excused and
accounted for, by the secluded and unwo Idly manner
in which my education had been conducted.

The Baroness met me with a smile, and such a
smile ! — I could not comprehend its language. It
was clearly not that of affection ; it did not signify
hatred — shall I say that it was the desperate effort
of one who seeks to look benevolence while feeling
scorn ; that it was a smile of distrust and bitterness,
the expression of a feeling which seemed to find the
task of receiving me too offensive and unpleasant
even to suffer the momentary disguise of hypocrisy
and art. I was confused and stupified. I turned
for explanation to Bruno, who had accompanied me
into the presence; and the expression in his face did
not less surprise me than that in the face of the
Baroness. His eyes were fixed upon hers, and his
looks wore an air of pride and exultation ; not dissi-
milar to that which I have already described as dis-
tinguishing them while our dialogue was in progress.
There was something also of defiance in his glance,
while gazing on the Baroness, which puzzled me the
more. Her eyes were now turned from me to him.

"And this then is the — the youth — the " She

paused. I could no longer misunderstand those
accents. They were those of vexation and annoy-
ance.

"The same!" exclaimed Bruno, "the same, my
I lady, and a noble youth you see he is ; well worthy
of your patronage, your love!"

There was a taunting asperity in his tones which
struck me painfully, and at length stimulated me to
! utterance and action. I rushed forward, threw my-
self at her feet, and, while I poured forth my inco-
| herent acknowledgments for benefactions, would have
1 seized and carried her hand to my lips. But she
! shrunk back with an impulse if possible more rapid
i than my own, her hands uplifted, the palms turned
I upon me as if beckoning me away, her head averted,
I and her whole attitude and manner that of one suffer-
ing contact from the thing it loathes.

" No, no ! None of this. Take him away. Take
i him away."

I rose upon my feet and turned to Bruno. His
form was erect, his eye was full of a stern severity
as he gazed upon the Baroness which seemed to me
strangely misplaced when I considered his relative
position with the noble lady to whom I owed so
much, and, it would seem so unaccountably, so unna-
turally. Bruno paused and did not regard me as I
approached him. Hjs eyes were only fixed upon his
mistress. She repeated her injunction, with a wild
and strange addition :

" Have you not had enough ? Would you drive
me mad ? Away with him. Away !"

"Come!" he exclaimed, turning to me slowly, but
with an eye still fixed upon the Baroness, whose face
was averted from us. He muttered something further
which I did not understand, and we were about to
depart, he frowning as if with indignation, and I
trembling with equal apprehension and surprise.

" Stay !" she exclaimed, " where would you take
him, Bruno ?"

" To the hall below, your ladyship."

" Right, see to his wants. His chamber is in the
northern turret."

" There !" was the abrupt exclamation of Bruno.

" There ! There !" was all the reply ; a reply rather

shrieked than spoken, and the manner of which, as
well as the look of Bruno when he beheld it, con-
vinced me that there was something occult and mys-
terious in the purport of her command. Nothing
more, however, was spoken by either the Baroness
or himself, and we left the presence in silence toge-
ther.

We descended to the salle a manger, where we found
a bountiful repast prepared. But neither of us seemed
disposed to eat, though the long interval of abstinence
since the morning meal, would, at another time, and
under different circumstances, have justified a vigorous
appetite and an enormous consumption of the various
viands before us. I remarked one thing in the ma-
nagement of the feast which occasioned my astonish-
ment. There was a regular taster of the several
dishes, who went through his office before Bruno
invited me to eat. I had heard and read of this
officer and the objects of this precaution in the his-
tory of past and barbarous centuries, but that he
should be thought necessary in a modern household
and in a Christian country was a subject of very
natural wonder; and I did not hesitate to say as
much to my companion and friend. But my com-
ment only met his smile; he did not answer me, but
contented himself with assuring me that I might eat
in safety. He even enlarged on the excellence of some
of the dishes, most of which were new to me. I did
little more in the progress of the repast than follow
the example of the taster, who, his office over, had
instantly retired, but not before casting a glance, as
I fancied, of particular meaning towards Bruno, who
returned it with one similarly significant ! I observed
that all the retainers exhibited a singular degree of
deference to this man, that his wishes seemed anti-
cipated, and his commands were instantly obeyed.
Yet he spoke to them rather in the language of an
intimate companion than a master. He was jocose
and familiar, made inquiries into their exclusive con-
cerns, and seemed to have secured their affections
entirely. It was not long before I discovered that
this was the case. From the salle a manger, as neither
of us cared to eat, we retired after a brief delay, and
leaving the castle, emerged by a low postern into an
open court which had once been inclosed and covered,
but of the inclosure of which only one section of the
wall remained, connecting the main building with a
sort of tower, which, as I afterwards found, contain-
ed the apartments assigned me by the Baroness. To
this tower Bruno now conducted me. Crossing the
court, we entered a small door at the foot of the
tower, which my conductor carefully bolted behind
him. We then ascended a narrow and decaying
flight of steps, which, being circular, gradually con-
ducted us to an upper chamber of greater height from
the ground, than looking upward from below, I had
at first esteemed it. This chamber was in very good
repair, and, at one time, seemed indeed to have been
very sumptuously furnished. There was, however,
an air of coldness and damp about the apartment
that impressed me with unpleasant sensations. But
a single window, and that a small one, yielded the
daylight from the eastern horizon, while two small,
narrow doors that appeared to have been shut up for
a century and more, occupied opposite sections of the
northern and southern walls. The little aperture at
the head of the stairs was closed by a falling trap,

120

THE PASSAGE OF A NIGHT J

and fastened or not at the pleasure of the incumbent,
by a bolt in the floor above. A massive bedstead of
carved columns, and antique pattern, stood almost
beside the trap, making flight easy by that means in
the event of such a proceeding seeming desirable. A
venerable table, of the same style and century as the
bedstead, stood in the middle of the apartment, sump-
tuously covered with a rich damask cloth, the massive
fringes of which swept the floor around it. The
solitary window of the apartment was shaded by a
curtain of similar hue, but of softer and finer material.
But the upholstery and decorations of my chamber,
or my prison, for such it seemed with all its decaying
splendour, called for little of my notice then, and
deserve not that of my reader. A casual glance
sufficed to show me the things of which I have spo-
ken, and I do not think I bestowed upon them more.
There were matters far more serious in my mind and
important to my interest. Two stools which the
apartment contained, afforded seats to Bruno and
myself; and I scarcely allowed myself to be seated,
before I demanded an explanation of the strange
scene through which we had gone with my benefac-
tress.

" A little longer, dear Herman — be patient a little
longer, and then you shall have no cause to complain
of me. I shall strive soon to convince you of my
wishes for your happiness and welfare, and, perhaps,
of the continued labours which I have undergone,
having your fortunes in view only. " Yet, I do not
promise you to unfold the mystery entirely, or even
partially, which enwraps this castle, and its unhappy
mistress. Perhaps, I cannot. I confess freely, there
is something beyond my knowledge, thought not, I
trust, beyond my power. Should I succeed in what
I purpose, and this very night may show, then may
you expect such a revelation as will satisfy your
curiosity and make you better content with your
position. Of one thing I may assure you, your for-
tunes are better than you think them, the prospect
is favourable before you, and the time is not far dis-
tant when you may realize my hopes in your behalf,
and reap some of the fruits of my toils. But I must
leave you now. Nay, do not stay me, and do not
seek to question me further. I cannot now, I will
not speak more on this subject. It is your interest
that calls me from you."

I would have detained him for further questions,
spite of his admonition, but he broke away from me,
and was hurrying through the small southern door
of the apartment, when he suddenly stopped.

" Herman, I had almost forgotten a most import-
ant matter. I must give you some cautions. This
door, you perceive, has a bar, which drops within
these fissures of the wall and secures it thoroughly.
You will close it after me and keep it fast at all
hours. Do not open it to any summons unless it be
mine, and even my voice, or what may seem to be
my voice, must not persuade you to violate this cau-
tion. When I desire entrance you will hear these
sounds, but no words" — here he breathed, rather
than whistled, a slight note, interrupted by a singular
quaver, which seemed the very soul of mystery —
" above all," he continued, " let no woman's voice
persuade you to undo the bar."

" But suppose the Baroness should send ?"

" Do not you hear ? She may send, nay I am
sure she will, she may come herself."

" But I must then open ?"

" No, not then ! Not for your life."
" Ha, Bruno ! What may this mean ?"
" Inquire not now, my son ; but believe me that
my precautions are not idle, not unnecessary. I live
but to serve and save you."

" Save me ! You confound me, Bruno."
" Yes, I have saved you until now, and require
nothing but your obedience to be your preserver still.
Do as I ask, as I command you ! and all will be well,
and we shall be triumphant."

His words were no less strange to me than had
been those of the Baroness, and what was more
strange than all, was that sudden air of authority,
parental, indeed, which he now assumed for the first
time. I did not, at the moment, feel the greater sin-
gularity of my own tacit obedience, without disputa-
tion, to the authority of this man. I acted, all the
while, as if under the sway of an instinct. His eye,
in the next moment, gave a hasty glance to the soli-
tary window of my chamber, and to the door in the
southern wall of the apartment. ,

" That door is almost unapproachable," he said,
seeing that my eye followed the direction of his, " it
leads to an abandoned terrace which overhangs the
lake. The portion of wall which connected it with
the castle is almost in ruins. Still it may be well
that you should keep it bolted. The window, which
is grated, and inaccessible, will yet afford you a pretty
view of the neighbouring mountains, which, as there
is a lovely moon to-night, you will be able to distin-
guish readily. Should the hours seem tedious in my
absence, you can amuse yourself by looking forth.
But, let me warn you at parting, Herman, open to
no summons but mine."

He left me at these words, and left me more per-
plexed, if not more apprehensive than ever. My
meditations were neither clear nor pleasant. Indeed,
I knew not what to think, and, perhaps naturally
enough, ended by distrusting my counsellor. The
change in his deportment and language had been no
less marvellous than was the reception which I had
met with from the Baroness. The inference seems
usually justified that where there is mystery there
is guilt also ; and Bruno had evidently been more
mysterious and inscrutable than the Baroness. She,
indeed, had spoken plainly enough. Looks, words
and actions, had equally denounced and driven
me from her presence ; and ignorant and innocent
of any wrong, performed or contemplated, I neces-
sarily regarded my benefactress as the victim of sud-
den lunacy. Still, it was impossible to reconcile the
conduct of Bruno, however strange and unaccount-
able it might seem, with the idea of his unfaithfulness.
He certainly, so far as I knew, had ever been true
to my interests He had been something more. He
had shown himself deeply attentive to all my feelings.
Never had father bestowed more tender care on a
beloved son, and shown more of parental favour in
his attachments than had been displayed towards me
from the first by this person. It was not easy now
to distrust him ; and racked by conflicting conjectures,
I passed two weary hours, before any thing happened
to divert my thoughts from speculations which brought
me no nigher to the truth. In the mean while, I
had made sundry attempts, by looking around me, to
lessen the influence of my thoughts upon my feelings.
I examined my chamber with the appearance, if not

OR, THE BENEFACTRESS.

121

the feeling of curiosity. I mounted to the window,
and, for a little while, was soothed by the soft, silvery
light of the moon, as it seemed to trickle down the
brown, discoloured sides-of the rocks that rose in the
distance, hill upon hill, until the last was swallowed
up in the gloomy immensity beyond. The moon
herself, in the zenith, was beyond my glance. But
this prospect did not relieve the anxiety which it
failed to divert.. I turned from the pleasing picture,
and resuming my seat beside the table in my gloomy
apartment again surrenderd myself up to those medi-
tations which, however, were soon to be disturbed.
My attention was called to the door through which
Bruno had taken his departure, and which, though I
did not then know the fact, led through a long dismal
corridor, to a suite of rooms beyond. A distinct tap,
twice or thrice repeated, was made upon the door. I
was on the eve of forgetting the solemn injunctions
of my companion, and had nearly risen from my seat
for the purpose of opening if. I recollected myself,
however, before doing so ; and maintained an inflex-
ible silence. But I could not stifle the beatings of my
heart which, on a sudden, seemed to have acquired
fourfold powers of pulsation. I almost tottered under
my emotion ; and nothing but a resolution of the
most stern character, and the feeling of shame that
came to my relief and reproached me with my weak-
ness, enabled me to preserve a tolerable degree of
composure. I kept silence and my seat — suppressed
my breathings as well as I could, and with ears
scarcely less keen than those of the watch dog, when
the wolf-drove trots about the enclosure, did I listen
to the mysterious summons from without. Again
and again, though still in moderate force, as if some
caution was necessary to prevent the sounds from
reaching other senses than my own, were the taps
repeated upon the door ; and after a full quarter of an
hour, passed in a condition of suspense the most
trying and oppressive, I was at length relieved by
hearing the tread of retiring footsteps preceded by the
murmurs of a voice which I had never heard before,
and none of the words of which could I distinguish.
I breathed more freely for awhile, but for a while only.
Perhaps an hour had elapsed ; it might have been less,
it certainly could not have been more ; I had fallen into
a sort of stupor, akin to sleep, for nature was not to
be denied her rights, even though care had begun to
insist on hers ; when the summons was renewed upon
the entrance, and, this time, with a considerable in-
crease of earnestness. Still, I followed the counsel
of Bruno, returned no answer, and strove to retain
my position in the most perfect silence. The knock-
ing was repeated after a little interval, but with the
same want of success. Then I heard voices. A
whispering dialogue was evidently carried on between
two persons. How acute will the ears of anxiety
become when sharpened by apprehension. I heard
whispers, evidently meant to be suppressed, through a
stone wall nearly three feet in thickness. The whis-
pering was succeeded by a third summons, to which
I paid as little attention as before, and then the whis-
pers were exchanged for murmurs, sharp, quick mur-
murs, in the tones of that voice, which, once heard,
could never have been forgotten. It was the voice
of the Baroness. I could now distinguish her words ;
for, in her passion, she lost all her prudence. " Said
you not that you saw them enter together ?" The
reply was inaudible, though the whisper which con-
veyed it was sufficiently so.
VOL. XXII. 11

" And you saw Bruno go forth alone ?"

Again the whisper, which must have been affirma-
tive.

" And he took the way to the convent ?"

The response was immediate, and I suppose affir-
mative, also, though still in a whisper too soft for me
to hear.

" Then he must be here !"

The remark was followed by a louder knocking,
in the intervals of which my name was called three
several times in the voice of the Baroness; each
time with increased emphasis, ,and evidently under
the influence of a temper, roused from the first, and
growing momently more and more angry, under dis-
appointment. I began to reproach myself with my
conduct. How could I justify this treatment of my
benefactress? By what right did I exclude her, and
what reason could I give to myself or others for such
disrespectful treatment? The discussion of this
question in my own mind led to various and conflict-
ing resolves. My reflections all required that I should
answer the summons and open the door to the mis-
tress of the castle ; but my feelings, swayed equally
by the mystery of my situation, and the singular in-
fluence which Bruno had acquired over me, were
opposed to any compliance. While I debated, how-
ever, with myself, I heard another voice without — the
voice of Bruno — which seemed to produce as much
annoyance and fluttering among my nocturnal visiters,
as their summons had occasioned in my own excited
heart. His tones were loud, and -he seemed to be
under as much excitement as the Baroness. The
words of his first address were clearly audible.

" Ah, madam," he exclaimed, (tit is as I appre-
hended ; you have then violated your promise — you
have dared !" —

" Dared — dared !" was the almost fierce exclama-
tion in reply.

" Aye, madam, dared. You knew the penalty of
faithlessness when you complied with the conditions;
can it be that you would defy it. How is it then — "

" Stand from my way, insolent !" cried the Baron-
ess-, interrupting him in haughty accents, and evident-
ly moving forward.

" Willingly," was the answer ; " willingly, but I
go with you for awhile. Dismiss the girl."

Strange to say, this command, for command it was,
was instantly obeyed. I heard the Baroness clearly
address a third person, of whom I knew nothing,
but whom I conceived to be the person meant by
Bruno, in terms which despatched her from the pre-
sence. The dialogue between the two was then
resumed, but the sounds gradually died away from
my ears, as it seemed, in consequence of the parties
retiring to some more distant spot. My agitation
may be fancied all the while. So long as the inter-
locutors were within hearing, I was more composed
and quiet. When I ceased to hear them and to be
conscious of their neighbourhood, my anxiety became
utterly unrestrainable. I defied the fears which op-
pressed me, the warning which had been given me,
the nice scruples of propriety and delicacy, which, at
another time, I should have insisted upon as para-
mount to every other law. I lifted the bar from the
door, which I opened, and emerged into the long and
gloomy gallery of which I have already briefly spoken.
I was resolved to pursue the parties, and satisfy that
intense curiosity — a curiosity which was strictly jus-
tified by my own entire dependence upon the circum-

122

THE PASSAGE OF A NIGHT ;

stances in progress — possibly, for life and death, weal
and woe, bondage and freedom — which was preying
upon me like a fever. Wilh many misgivings, some
momentary scruples, and a few fears, all of which I
contrived to keep in subjection, I pursued this gallery
with the most cautious footstep, resolved to hear the
dreadful truth, for such I now esteemed it to be, upon
which turned the mysterious history of my birth and
fortunes. I groped my way almost in entire dark-
ness, along a ruinous part of the castle. The gallery
seemed to be winding, and there were openings in the
wall, which I felt on each hand, at intervals, and
which seemed to indicate othar chambers and- apart-
ments. Through these, a chill wind passed, confirm-
ing me in the belief that they were ruinous and de-
serted, and satisfying me that the parties I pursued,
were not to be found in either of them. At the end
of the gallery, I was stopped by a door, and beyond
it the voices were again heard, sometimes low, at
other times in angry emphasis, but seemingly with
little or no cessation, either of one or of the other.
The words were seldom sufficiently audible to be
syllabled clearly, and my curiosity would not suffer
me to remain satisfied. I tried the door, which, to
my great joy, was unfastened ; and advanced with
increased caution into a second, and small apartment
which seemed a dressing room. A faint light gliding
through a chink in the opposite wall, together with
the distinct voices of the persons I sought, guided me
to a spot, where I could see them with tolerable ease,
and hear all their words distinctly. The chamber
into which I looked was similarly furnished with my
own. It seemed to have been equally unoccupied.
An ancient ottoman received the form of the Baron-
ess, who, as she spoke, alternately rose from, or sunk
back upon its cushions. She scarcely uttered a sen-
tence without accompanying it with great and cor-
responding action ; now rising from her seat and ad-
vancing passionately upon her companion, with hand
uplifted, as if to strike, eye flashing fury and resolution,
while her lips poured forth a torrent of impetuous
indignation and rage; — then suddenly receding at the
close of her words, she would sink back as if exhausted
upon the ottoman, burying her face within her hands,
and sobbing with disappointed anger. Bruno, mean-
while looked the very embodiment of coolness and
resolution.

" Ulrica," I heard him say, as I approached the
aperture, " these are follies from which you should be
now freed. They are frenzies which must only de-
stroy you, while they do no good to your purpose,
enfeeble you in my sight, and humble you in your
ownk Of what avail is all this violence — of what
avail your further struggles to prevent that consum-
mation which is, at length, at hand : let me implore
you to be wise, ere it be too late. Welcome with a
smile the necessity which you can baffle no longer."
"Welcome it with a curse, welcome it with death,
rather. Well do you call it a necessity, it is a ne-
cessity like death, and as such, and such only, shall it
have my welcome."

"And the wise welcome death with a smile, if only
because it is a necessity," replied Bruno. " You
cannot now escape me, you cannot longer evade
compliance with my wishes. Long, long, and wea-
risome, indeed, have been my labours. I have, at
length, triumphed ! I have succeeded in my purpose,
and am at length the master of your fate. I witness
your struggles with sorrow, as they only drive you

on the more certainly to humiliation — perhaps to
madness. It is pity, Ulrica, genuine pity, and no
other feeling which would move me to implore of you
a willing concession of that which you can no longer
avoid to make. The necessity is now inevitable, and
I would spare you those further struggles which tend
only to your exhaustion. You are so completely in
my power, that your hatred and fury no longer awa-
ken my indignation."

" Do you exult, wretch ; do you then exult ? Be-
ware ! You are not yet secure of your triumph."

" I am. Let this night pass only without harm
to the boy, and all is well, and our triumph is com-
plete. I am then your master."

" Master ! Master ! Away, insolent, and leave me.
You are still my slave."

" No, Ulrica, you know better than this. The
epithet is no longer applicable. I am your master
and the master of your fate."

" Slave ! Slave ! Slave !" was the oft repeated and
bitter exclamation, which came forth from her lips in
foamed impotence.

" If to. conquer is to acquire the rights of a master,
then are these rights mine. Still I say not ' woe to
the conquered.' No, Ulrica, again, and again, I con-
jure you to seek favour and to find it. It is still in
your power — it is in your power while this night
lasts — to receive indulgence. Be merciful to your-
self as well as to him, the youth, who now, for the
first time, from that awful hour of storm and medi-
tated crime, the hour of his birth, enters the dwelling

" Say it not, man — wretch, fiend ! Hell's curses
and consuming fire be upon that hour, and the vile
thing of which you speak. Slave ! Hence ! Hence
and leave me : and hear from my lips — lips which
have seldom spoken the language of vengeance and
of hate in vain, that the night is not yet over, and he
who shouts at the close of one day may howl ere the
beginning of another."

" I do not despise your threats, Ulrica — I fear
them ; — but I guard against them also. Did you fancy
that you could penetrate to that chamber undisco-
vered by the watchful eyes that for the last seventeen
years have been busy in penetrating every movement
of your mind and soul."

" Accursed period ! Fiend, wherefore will you tor-
ment me with the recollections of that time ?"

" Curse not the time, Ulrica, but the deed which it
witnessed, and the worse deeds to which it led — your
deeds, Ulrica, not mine — your free and voluntary
deeds, to which neither the counsels of wisdom, nor
of others, but your appetites and evil passions impelled
you. You have called me slave repeatedly to-night —
it is your favourite epithet when you deign to speak
of, and to me. It is now time that I should relieve
myself from the epithet, as I am now able to prove
myself your master, and the master of your fate. If,
seventeen years ago, I was the bondman of your
father, annexed to the soil, his serf — your slave — I
have been emancipated from all such relationships by
your crime. You asserted the power which was
transmitted you, to command my obedience. You
required of me a service, as a slave, which released
me from all obligations of that condition ; and though
I wore the aspect, the demeanour, the buiden of the
slave, from that moment I resolved to be one no
longer. When that boy "

"Curse him ! — Hell's curses be upon him and you!"

OR, THE BENEFACTRESS.

123

was the fiendish exclamation, accompanied by looks
equally fiendish.

" Those curses, Ulrica, will cling to your neck and
strangle you for ever !" was the stern and indignant
answer of Bruno to this interruption. " Of one thing
be certain, they neither vex me nor baffle me in my
purpose. They have never hitherto done so, nor
shall they now, when my labours are on the eve of
successful completion. But I resume: when that boy
was born, I resolved to secure him from the fate of
the others ! Did it not prove my fitness for freedom
when my mind was successful in the struggle with
my master. How long has that struggle continued —
what has been its history— what now is its termina-
tion? My triumph — my continued triumphs — my per-
fect mastery over you ! I have baffled you in your
purposes — prevented many — would I could have pre-
vented all of your evil deeds and desires; protected
the innocent from your hate — preserved the feeble
from your malice, and secured, to this moment, the
proofs equally of your crime and my superiority. Did
these achievements seem like the performances of a
slave? Did these betray the imbecility, the ignorance,
or the pliability of the slave ? No, Ulrica, no ! He
who can rank with his master has gained a sufficient,
perhaps, the only sufficient title to his freedom ! But
that title was already gained when you descended to
the level, and contented yourself with sharing the
pleasures of the slave, when you were willing "

A torrent of the most terrific imprecation, in a
voice more like the bursting of a thunder bolt, drown-
ed the narrative of the speaker, and prevented me
from hearing the conclusion of a speech, the tenor
of which equally surprised and confused me. What
Bruno said was just enough to advance me to a
mental eminence, from whence I could survey only
a sea of fog, and haze, and mystery, much deeper
than before. When his words again became intelli-
gible, he had discontinued his reminiscences.

" Hear me, Ulrica. You know not yet the extent
of my knowledge. You dream not that I am familiar
with your secrets even beyond the time when I was
called to share them. 'Till now I have kept the
knowledge from you, but when I name to you the
young but unhappy Siegfried ! His fate — "

" Ha ! Can it be ! Speak, man, monster, devil ! —
How know you this ? Hath that vile negress be-
trayed me ?"

" It needs not that you should learn whence my
knowledge comes. Enough that I know the fate of
the unhappy Siegfried — unhappy because of your pre-
ference, and too vain of his elevation from the lowly
condition of his birth, to anticipate the fearful doom
which in the end awaited him ; and to which, I, too,
was destined. But the kind providence which has
preserved me, did not suffer me to be blinded and
deceived by the miserable lures which beguiled him to
his ruin, and which you vainly fancied should mislead
me. You would have released my limbs from fetters
to lay them the more effectually upon my soul. You
commanded my submission, you enforced it, but you
never once deceived me. I saw through you from
the first, and prayed for the strength to baffle and
overcome you. I obtained it through prayer and
diligence ; and more than once it was my resolution,
as it long has been in my power to destroy you, and
deliver you without time for repentance, to the fearful
agent of evil, which has long had possession of your
heart. That boy has saved you more than once.

The thought of him, the thought of what he was, and
should be, to you, has come between me and my
purpose. You have been spared thus long, and it is
with you to declare, in this place, and at this moment,
whether you will be wise in season, whether you will
forego the insane hatred which has filled your bosom
from the hour of his birth, and accept the terms of
peace and safety which I now offer you for the last
time. Hear me through, Ulrica, and know that I do
not heed your curses. I am too strong, too secure
in my position, to be moved by the idle language of
wrathful impotence. This night must determine equally
for him and yourself. To-morrow, which witnesses
his public triumph, will be too late for you unless to
share it. I have already seen his Holiness who will
be here at noon, armed with plenary powers to search
and examine ; and it needs only that I should point
my finger, and your doom is written, here and eter-
nally. You are not in the temper to die ; and you
may escape for repentance. Nor is the condition a
hard one. The youth is noble, intelligent and hand-
some, he will do honour to any house. It is only to
acknowledge "

" Say no more, slave ! Base, blackhearted, bitter
slave ! Say no more to me on this hateful subject.
You have deceived me long ; but you have not yet
baffled me, as you insolently boast. Still less are you
the master of my fate ! — The master of my fate ! —
Ha ! ha ! ha ! That were indeed, to be humbled to
the dust. Away fool, and know that my foot shall
yet be upon your neck, while your false tongue licks
the ground in which you grovel. Away ! I defy you
now, and spit upon you with disgust and scorn. Give
me way, that I may lose sight of your false and hate-
ful aspect."

The words of the man were full of a calm, but
bitter sorrow, as he stood before her.

" For your own sake and safety, Ulrica, I implore
you. Be not rash ; yield to the necessity which must
go forward, yield to it with grace, and all may yet be
well. There is still time for safety and for repent-
ance. On my knees, Ulrica, I supplicate you to be
more merciful to yourself, to me, to him !"

" Never, never !" she exclaimed, as, with violent
hand and sudden blow, she struck the speaker, who
had knelt before her, over the yet unclosed lips, and
rapidly passed towards an opposite entrance. He did
not rise, but continued to implore her.

" This, too, I forgive, Ulrica. Once more I pray
you !"

" Slave ! Slave ! Slave ! Do your foulest — base
traitor, I defy you."

She disappeared in the same instant, and Bruno
rose slowly and sorrowfully to his feet; while, trem-
bling with equal wonder and apprehension, I stole
back with hurried but uncertain footsteps to my
chamber, and hastily fastened the door behind me.

I naturally expected that Bruno, in a short time,
would follow upon my footsteps, and deep, indeed,
was the solicitude with which I waited for his coming.
No words could convey to the understanding of an-
other, the singular and oppressive feelings, doubts and
anxieties which had been awakened in my mind by
the strange and terrible scene which I had wit-
nessed. The curious relation in which the parties
stood to each other — the calm assurance and stub-

124

THE PASSAGE OF A NIGHT ;

born resolution which was shown by Bruno, in defi-
ance of one whom I had regarded only in the light
of a mistress equally without reproach or fear — her
fury, which, as it awakened no respect in him, was
the sufficient proof of her weakness and his power —
his mysterious accusations, which I was too young
to comprehend and too inexperienced to trace ; — and
not least, the fearful threats to" which every sentence
which he uttered, tended — subdued all my strength,
and made me weaker in limb and in heart than the
infant for the first time tottering on uncertain foot-
steps. There was something, also, in the brief
space which he allowed the Baroness — but the sin-
gle night on which she had already entered — for re-
pentance before doom, which fearfully increased the
terrors with which my imagination invested the
whole fearful subject. And what could be the judg-
ment— what the penalty — for those crimes, of which,
as nothing was known to me, all seemed rash, dark
and overwhelming ? The more I strove to think, the
more involved I became in the meshes of my own
wild-weaving fancies ; and, failing to fix upon any
certain clue which might lead me to a reasonable
conclusion, I strove, at length, in headache and vexa-
tion, to dismiss all thought from my mind, patiently
awaiting the approach of Bruno and the morning for
the solution of my doubts and conjectures. But
Bruno and the morning promised to be equally slow
in their approaches. The stillness of death now
overspread the castle, and the buzzing of a solitary
insect within my chamber, acquired, in the tomb-like
silence of the hour, a strange and emphatic signifi-
cation to my ear. Hopeless of Bruno's immediate
return — as nothing could be more natural than the
conclusion that his labours must be great that night
in preparation for those morning results of which he
had spoken so confidently, I determined to yield my-
self to slumber ; and without undressing, I threw my-
self upon the massive and richly decorated couch of
my chamber. But I might as well have striven for
flight to the upper clouds, as to win the coy and
mocking sleep which I desired. My imagination was
wrought up to an almost feverish intensity. The
breathing of the wind through a crevice startled and
distressed me, and in the very silence of the scene
and hour I felt a presence which stimulated my fan-
cies and increased my anxiety and dread. I no
longer strove to sleep. I rose and approached the
little window, and looked down upon the court —
There, the moonlight lay, spread out like a garment,
so soft, so spiritual, that thought naturally became
mysticism as I surveyed it, and the vague uncertain-
ties of the future crowded upon the arena of a pre-
sent world. I could fancy shadows — which were
images rather than shadows — which passed to and
fro in the cold, thin, but hazy atmosphere, that tossed
their wild arms above their marble brows, as, melt-
ing away in the distance, they gave place to wilder
and pursuing aspects. Sounds seemed, at length, to
accompany these movements, and that acute sense
of the marvellous, which all men possess in propor-
tion to their cultivated and moral nature, and which
seems a quality of sight and hearing only — a thing
ail eyes and ears — conjured syllables from the im-
perfect sounds, and shrieks of pain from the vague
murmurs which now really reached my ears from a
distance, and which, probably, were only murmurs of
the wind over the little lake that lay at the foot of
the castle. As this conviction stirred my mind, I re-

membered the door to which the attention of Bruno
had been drawn for a momeint while he was discuss-
ing the securities of my chamber. I remembered
that this door, as he described it, led to the terrace
which immediately overlooked the lake. The re-
membrance, in my feverish state of mind, led me to
desire to survey this scene, and I approached the
door, and had already begun to undo the fastenings,
which, by the way, I found far less firm and secure
than my friend had imagined. The niches of the
wall, into which the bar was dropped, were crumbling,
and decayed to so great a degree, that the shoulder
of a vigorous man, from without, might, without
much effort, have driven it from the slight fragments
which still held it in its place. Nor was even this
degree of violence necessary to effect an entrance.
From a further examination I discovered that the
wall had been tampered with — a fragment of the
stone dislodged, though not withdrawn, through the
opening of which, a hand from without might readily
lift the bar, and obtain access. The cement having
been carefully scraped away, the stone was suffered
to remain, so nicely adjusted to the place, that it
was only in one point of view that I could discern
a faint glimmer of the moonlight through the aper-
ture. The suspicions of Bruno, not to speak of my
own, received strong confirmation from this discove-
ry ; and my apprehensions being naturally aroused, I
now strove for means to secure the door which I had
been about to open. It was apparent to me that I
was now threatened with danger from without. I
looked about my chamber, and my eye rested upon
the massive table standing in the midst. I immedi-
ately seized upon that, and piled it, though with some
difficulty, against the door. While I meditated in
what manner to increase my defences, my ear, which
had acquired all the keen sensibilities of an Indian
scout on the edge of an enemy's encampment, de-
tected a light buzzing sound, which drew my atten-
tion to the terrace. But I had scarcely stooped to
the aperture, when a scream — a torrent of screams —
rang so suddenly on the late silent atmosphere, that
I was staggered, almost stunned, as if a thunderbolt
had on the instant fallen at my feet in the deep still-
ness of the unbroken forests. The sounds came
from the terrace, and as soon as I could recover
from the enfeebling effect of my first surprise, hear-
ing the screams still repeated as wildly as ever, I
obeyed the natural impulse of my feelings, and pre-
pared to rush out to the scene of clamor. I dashed
the table from the door, against which I had taken
such pains to bear it, and tearing the slight fasten-
ings away which otherwise secured the entrance, I
threw it open and darted upon the scene. The ob-
ject that met my eyes that instant, fastened my feet.
There stood the Baroness, about twenty steps from
me, and at nearly the same distance from a door in
the opposite wall, which was open, and from which
she had evidently emerged. Behind her stood a ne-
gress — a dwarf — the blackest, strangest, and most
hideous looking animal I had ever in my life beheld.
The Baroness had been approaching my apartment —
her face was towards me, but her eyes were turned
— nay, fixed and frozen, it would seem, as if in the
contemplation of some object upon the parapet
which overlooked the lake. Her attitude exhibited
the intensest and strained action of insanity. One
hand — the left — was uplifted, and averted, as if to
hide her eyes from the object which they yet reso-

OR, THE BENEFACTRESS.

125

lutely strained to see. In the other hand, glistening
in the moonlight, was a poinard bared, and borne
aloft, as if designed for immediate service. I shud-
dered with an uncontrollable emotion of sickness —
heart-sickness — as I associated the dialogue to which
I had listened, with this instrument of death. But,
though her progress had evidently been towards my
chamber, her eyes were not now given to me. Her
thoughts — if thought she had — were all elsewhere.
Her fancies were hurrying her to other worlds, and
scenes, and objects, visible to no senses but her
own. Wildly she pointed to the parapet overlooking
the lake, and gazed and spoke — a speech whose every
accent was a scream of agony — as if still in sight
lay some object of hate and fear, which she vainly
struggled not to see.

" There — there — will it never sink — will it never
die — will those hideous eyes never turn away ! Down,
down ! — Thrust it down when I command ye — the
rock is heavy in its garments — the lake is deep, deep,
and still, and silent — down with it slave — for ever
from my sight ! Or, if ye tremble, set me free and I
will do it — I have no fears — none! none!"

Thus, fixed and terrible, ghastly and staring wild,
with idiot frenzy, she stood gazing and intent upon
the fancied object in her sight — immovable, seem-
ingly, as a statue, and conscious of nothing beside.
I lost my fears in the contemplation of hers, and
approached her, though hardly with any distinct pur-
pose. She seemed not to notice my approach — not
even when the negress who followed in her train
rushed to her at my appearance, and strove, with an
excitement of manner only less than her own, to di-
rect her attention upon me. But the wretched one
turned not once aside at the interruption. Her eyes
had but the one direction, and could not be averted ;
and her incoherent language was poured forth in ra-
pid, though inconsecutive syllables, to the object of
her mind's vision, which so effectually froze to dark-
ness all her capacities of sight. Never did I behold
— never could I have fancied or believed a spectacle
so wild and fearful. Imagine for yourself a woman,
once eminently beautiful — of a dark and mysterious
beauty — tall in form — majestic in carriage- — in little
more than the prime of life — wearing the dignity of
age, yet, in every look, movement, feature, and ges-
ture, exhibiting the impulsive force and passionate en-
ergy of youth; — her person bending forward — her
eyes straining as if to burst from the burning soc-
kets— her lips slightly parted, but with the teeth
gnashing at occasional intervals with a spasmodic mo-
tion— her hair, once richly black and voluminously
massive, touched with the grey that certainly ensues
from the premature storms of a winter of the soul, es-
caping from all confinement, and streaming over her
cheeks and neck — the veins of neck and forehead swell-
ing into thick ridges and cording the features with a ten-
sion that amply denoted the difficulty of maintaining
any such restraint upon them ! — Imagine such a wo-
man ! — the ferocity of the demon glaring from her eye,
in connection with the strangest expression of terror
which that organ ever wore — the raised dagger in
her hand — her hand uplifted — her foot advanced —
and so frozen ! — so fixed in the rigidity of marble ! —
the image above the sepulchre — no unfitting emblem
of the dread and enduring marriage, which nothing
can ever set asunder, between unrepented Guilt, and
unforegoing Death !

I was nearly maddened even to behold this spec-
11*

tacle, and it was a relief to me, when with a no less
terrible and terrifying energy she shook off the torpor
which stifled life in all its wonted forms of expres-
sion, and renewed those fearful tones of memory and
crime, which, though revealing nothing, amply testi-
fied to an equal and elaborate narrative of shame,
and sin, and suffering.

" There ! there !" she exclaimed, still addressing
herself to some imaginary object which seemed to
rest or to rise before her upon the parapet which over-
hung the lake — "There again ! — its hands — its little
hands — will nothing keep them down ! They rise
through the water — they implore — but no ! no ! It
were a mistaken mercy now to save ! — let me not
look — let me not see — will you not fling it over — the
lake is deep — the rock is heavy in its little garments
— it will soon sink from sight for ever, and then — then
I shall be safe. Ha ! it goes — it goes at last ! — Do
you not hear the plunge ! — the water gurgles in its
nostrils — closes over it, and — God spare me, what a
piercing shriek — Another ! another ! — Keep me not
back — I will look if it be gone ! — No ! no ! its little
face smiles upon me through the white water !"

And this was followed by a shriek, piercing like
that which she described, which penetrated to the
very marrow of my bones. With the cry she bound-
ed towards the parapet, looked wildly down into the
lake at the foot of the castle, then recoiled with a
scream to which every previous cry from her lips was
feeble and inexpressive. The climax of her frenzy had
been reached. I was just in time to save her. She
fell backward and I received her in my arms. The
shock seemed to bring her back to* a more human
consciousness. Her eyes were turned upon my own;
and new intelligence seemed to rekindle them with
their former expression of hate — her hand vainly
strove to use the dagger against my person. In the
effort it fell nerveless at her side, while a sudden dis-
charge from the mouth and nostrils drenched my gar-
ments with her blood.

Bru??o at that instant appeared and received her
from my arms. The relief was necessary to me —
I could not have sustained her much longer. I was
sick almost to exhaustion. I felt unable to endure
a sight to me so strange and terrible, yet I strove in
vain to turn my eyes away. They were fixed as if
by some fearful fascination. Hers, too, were now
riveted upon me. At first, when I transferred her to
the arms of Bruno, they were turned upon him ; but,
in the next moment, as suddenly averted with an ex-
pression of loathsomeness and hate, which suffering
had not softened, nor the seeming approach of death
diminished of any portion of intensity. On me they
bestowed a more protracted, but scarcely a more
kindly expression. Broken syllables, stifled and
overcome by the discharge of blood, struggled feebly
from her lips ; and, fainting at last, she was borne to
the chamber from which she had emerged at the be-
ginning of that scene, the purposes of which seemed
to me so inscrutable, and the progress of which was,
in truth so terrible. Medical assistance was sent for,
and every succour bestowed in the power of skill and
humanity. Need I say, that a deep interest in her
fate affected my bosom. A vague conjecture, dark
and strange, which coupled the fate and history of this
noble but wretched lady with my own, had naturally
arisen in my mind, from the dialogue to which I had

126

THE PASSAGE OF A NIGHT ;

been a listener. What was she to me ? I shuddered
with an apprehension and painful terror whenever
this question suggested itself to my thoughts. What
was she not ? What had she not been ; and what had
been her purposes — her baffled purposes? Let me
not fancy them lest I madden.

" It is no subject of regret, Herman," were the
first words of Bruno, when, yielding the Baroness up
to her attendants, we retired to another apartment.
" God has interposed to save us from a greater trial,
and to save her from an exposure even more hum-
bling than this. The dawn of another day, the sight
of which she will now be spared, would have been
worse than death to a spirit such as hers.

" But, will she die, Bruno ? Can she not be saved ?
is it certain ?"

" It is; and I am glad of it for your sake, as well
as hers.

" For my sake ?"

" Ay ! the moment of her death puts you in pos-
session of this castle and all her estates."
« Me !"
" You."

" And I am"

" Her heir — yet not her heir. You are the heir
to a power beyond hers, and which proved her des-
tiny. Her death makes atonement at once to the
living and to the dead. She now, involuntarily,
compensates for a long career of injustice. But in-
quire no further ; death, which will place you in pos-
session of your rights, will, at the same time, deprive
you for ever of a knowledge of certain secrets,
which, had she lived till to-morrow's noon, must have
been revealed in order to compel that justice which has
been too long denied. It is fortunate that she will

perish thus — fortunate for her — for you — for "

He paused, and with an impulse which I could
not withstand, I desperately concluded the sentence —
" And for yourself!"

" For me ! Ha ! — Can it be ? — Herman, my son,
what have you done ?"

" Followed you through the corridor, when, this
evening, you led the Baroness away from my apart-
ment."

" And did you trace our footsteps — did you find
us where we were — did you hear what was spoken ?"
"All! All!"

He covered his face with his hands, and groaned
aloud in the bitterness of an anguished and disap-
pointed spirit.

" This pang," he exclaimed at length, " I had
hoped to spare you. I have toiled for this at all
seasons and hours, by night and day, in crowds and
solitudes. Unhappy boy! your curiosity has won for
you that partial knowledge of the truth which must
only bring delusion, doubt and anxiety."

" But why should it be partial, Bruno. I know
from what you have already said, that you know
more, that you know all. You will complete my
knowledge, you will terminate my doubts."

" Never ! Never ! If God has spared me, by his
act, this night, that dire necessity from which, he well
knows I would have shrunk, shall I now voluntarily
seek it ? No ! No ! The fearful chronicle of shame
is sealed up for ever in her death. Blessed dispen-
sation ! Her lips, can no longer declare her folly,
and mine shall be silent, on her shame. You have
heard all that you can ever hear of these dreadful
mysteries."

" Nay, Bruno ! Say not this, I implore you. Tell
me, at least, tell me, that this most fearful woman is
not "

I shrunk from naming the word, the word signify-
ing the relationship which I suspected to exist between
us, which, indeed, seemed now to be infinitely more
than a doubt, a suspicion. I looked to him to com-
prehend, to answer, without making necessary the
expression of my fear. But he was silent, and I
forced out the reluctant word.

" Tell me, Bruno, tell me at least, that this fearful
woman is not — my mother."

"And of what avail if I should tell you this?
Would that terminate your doubts — would that satisfy
your curiosity?"

" It would — it would."

"No, Herman, I know your nature better — to
know this would only lead to other and more annoy-
ing questions, questions which, if answered, would
take peace from your mind for ever. You would
know next — "

He now paused.

" Yes !" I exclaimed, " I would then seek to
know — and I now do — what was he, Bruno — my
father — and what is the secret of your power over
her — and who are you?"

" Let it be a matter of thanks with you, Herman,
in your nightly prayers, that you can never know
these," was the hoarsely spoken reply. I threw my-
self at his feet, I clasped his knees, I implored him
in tears and supplications, but he was immovable.
He pressed me to his heart, he wept with me, but he
told me nothing.

At dawn we were summoned to the chamber of the
Baroness. A crisis was at hand. His Reverence,

the Cardinal , whose presence had been expected

at a late hour in the day, and for another purpose,
had been solicited to attend in haste, and had com-
plied with Christian punctuality, with the demands
of mortal suffering. But his presence effected nothing.
The miserable woman clearly enough comprehended
his words and exhortations. She listened without
look of acknowledgment, or regret, or repentance.
She heard his prayers for her safety, and a smile of
scorn might be seen to mantle upon her lips. The
Host was elevated in her sight, and the scorn deep-
ened upon her countenance as she beheld it. Truly
was she strong in her weakness. The sacred wafer
was presented to her lips, but they were closed in-
flexibly against it. The death struggle came on ; a
terrible conflict between fate on the one hand and
fearless passions on the other. The images of horror
will never escape from memory. They are engraven
there for ever. She raised herself to a sitting posture
in the bed, without assistance. The effort was mo-
mentary only. But, in that moment, her glance,
which was fixed on me, was the very life-picture of a I
grinning and fiendish malice. The expression hor- '
rifled the spectators. His eminence once more lifted
the sacred emblem of salvation in her sight, and the
last effort of her struggling life, was to dash it from
his hands. In that effort, she sank back upon the
pillows, a fresh discharge of blood took place from
her mouth, and strangulation followed. The suffer-
ings of the mortal had given place to those of which
there can be no mortal record.
*********

OR, THE BENEFACTRESS.

127

And I was the master, undisputed, of all these
domains. And Bruno had gone, none knew whither.
Nothing more could I fathom of these mysteries, but
there was one search that I instituted, one discovery
that I made, which tended to deepen them yet more,
in seeming to give them partial solution. That little
lake, I had it drained, and just beneath the wall of the
parapet, we found the tiny skeleton of an infant —
bleached and broken into fragments, but sufficiently

perfect to leave no doubt of its original humanity.
A rude fragment of stone such as composed the outer
wall inclosing the castle, lay upon its little ribs. Need
I say that I gathered up, with the solicitude of a
nameless love, every remnant of this little relic, that
it was inurned with the tenderest care, and consigned
to sacred keeping with the feelings of one, who knew
not well that he might not even then possess, though
he had never known, the love of an angel sister.

Written for the Lady's Book.

P R O P H E C Y. — T O

BY MISS JULIET H. LEWIS.

Come, let me read thy destiny
Thou bright and joyous one !

Come, let me throw aside the veil
Which round thy path is hung.

Away with fabled mirror now,

For 'tis not in my power
To call upon its shadowy face

The past, or future hour.

And mine is not the wizard skill ;

Nor mine the art to see,
From lines upon thy dimpled palm,

What lot is marked for thee.

But cast aside the waving hair
That shades thy sunny face,

And clings around, as though it loved,
So fair a resting place.

And let me gaze on cheek, and brow,
And smiling mouth, and eye —

'Tis thus, fair maiden, I would read
To thee, thy destiny.

In all thy light and loveliness
Thou stand'st before me now.

With tenderness within thine eye,
And genius on thy brow.

And one will own thy witchery —
Will bow the willing knee —

And lay his heart upon thy shrine
As a meet gift for thee.

A pure and holy flame will rise
Within that breast of thine,

And tokening acceptance, round
The grateful offering twine.

I read— that on thy horizon
Will rise a wreathing cloud

And gathering in its onward course
The whole expanse 'twill shroud.

But vapours, shadowy, and light

Upon the summer sky,
Mar not the heavens on which they rest,

But rather beautify.

And thus 'twill be with that strange cloud

So full of mystery,
That throws its light and shade, upon

Thy future destiny.

And in thy young, and joyous heart
New feeling, now will move, '

A hope of joy — a. fear of woe —
Lady! that cloud is love!

No wild ambition, now, is thine —

No panting thirst for fame —
No high desire to win thyself

An all undying name.

But him thou lovest will urge thee on,

Though toilsome be the way,
That thou may'st gather for thy brow

A garland of the bay.

Thou'lt listen to the longings high

Which in his spirit dwell,
'Till round thy gentler soul is cast

The same resistless spell.

Then, thou wilt weave thy touching lays
And charm the hearts of men —

Sweet Empress, in the realm of mind!
Thy sceptre is the pen !

Nay ! start not at my prophecy,

Nor deem it may not be :
For change must come o'er all things here,

And change will come o'er thee.

Nature. — We really talk of nature as of a god-
dess, and say she renews her youth and beauty, and
puts on the green robe of Spring, the flowery mantle
of Summer, and Autumn's ripe, sheafy crown. But
the energy of nature is only the breath of the Al-
mighty— the Creator : her beauty is but the reflection
of his benevolence : her bounty is the overflowing
of his ever-during love for the creatures he hath
made. Rely on Him, and thou wilt never be for-
saken, never destitute, never in despair.

Mrs. Hale.

Discretion. — There are many more shining
qualities in the mind of man, but there is none
so useful as discretion; it is this, indeed, which
gives a value to all the rest, which sets them at
work in their proper times and places, and turns
them to the advantage of the person who is pos-
sessed of them. Without it, learning is pedantry,
and wit impertinence ; virtue itself looks like weak-
ness; the best parts only qualify a man to be
more sprightly in errors, and active to his own pre-
judice.

128

THE COURSE OF LOVE ; OR,

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE COURSE OF LOVE;

OR, THE QUARREL AND THE RECONCILIATION.

Whispering tongues can poison truth ;

And constancy lives in realms above;

And life is thorny, and youth is vain;

And to be wroth with one we love

Doth work like madness in the brain.— Coleridge.

The Roman mythology was, after all, a very inge-
nious affair. If it was not true, it was at least philo-
sophical. Their plan appears to have been, to give
a name and a shrine to every specific moral influ-
ence. It was an inductive faith ; a kind of phreno-
logical religion, which abandoning the theoretic unity
of spirit, sought analytically to recognize and identify
each independent manifestation of spirit, and to fix it
as a primary essence that had been known and felt.
The gods were accordingly nothing more than organs
of the Divinity. Among these, none was more at-
tested by the consciousness of men, than that which
was termed the genius loci. We have roamed, only
for the sake of this genius loci. Our story has no
connexion with mythology in general, except as it
deals with influences which the high fancy of a Ro-
man might well have deemed divine.

This genius loci, which bustles amidst camps, and
is enshrined in cathedrals — which reigns over " the
plain of Marathon," and overshadows " the ruins of
Iona," is no where more a " presens Divus" than at
an evening party. Let thirty persons assemble at
Mrs. A.'s, and they are gay, mirthful, and brilliant ;
laughter is the language of their feelings, wit the form
of their thoughts. Transport the same people to Mrs.
B.'s, and they are spell-bound beneath the sway of
dullness ; speech is paralyzed, and wit is frozen at its
fountains. There is a general desiccation of humour;
a magnetic sleep of intellect. A nameless dread cur-
dles every heart ; the very limbs of people move spas-
modically. The rose which in the former place
would be a votive gift to Venus, might here be hung
beneath the ceiling as the emblem of Harpocrates.
All this is the work of the genius loci.

By the delightful racket which reached her ears as
she ascended the steps, Miss Stuart was glad to per-
ceive that the party to which she was going was a
soiree of the Mrs. A. class ; and when she entered the
drawing-room, she found with pleasure that the com-
pany so far resembled the concluding entertainment
of " The Vicar," and that if there was not more wit
than was usual, there was at least more laughing,
which answered the end as well. A dozen married
women on ottomans were grouped around Mrs. Chat-
ter, who was detailing the miraculous and amusing
incidents of her recent visit to the Falls ; and further
on, was a circle of young ladies surrounded by an
equal number of" white-gloved beaux." Miss Stuart,
having paid her compliments to the lady of the house,
approached the laUer company. Every female eye
was at once fixed upon her dress ; the glance of every
man was detained by her smile.

"What a beautiful ribband!" said the well-bred
and amiable Miss Gall, gazing at the white pendant
which hung from her hair ; " you got it at Levy's ;
Ma' and I saw it there ;" meaning to let Miss Stuart

know that the ornament which she had selected had
been seen and rejected by herself.

" What a lovely oouquet you have got !" said Miss
Candid, who would not perhaps have paid the tribute
so readily if she had not observed that one of Miss
Stuart's gloves was slightly torn in the palm.

" Do you know, my dear Mary," said Miss Gnome,
coming behind her, " that your dress is unhooked ?
Oh ! no, it is not. I was mistaken ; it is all right :"
and having succeeded in her object of annoying and
discomposing Miss Stuart, she turned away to offer
kindnesses in another quarter.

Miss Stuart sat down, and was soon surrounded
by a little circle of beaux.

After a few minutes, Miss Candid brought up a
young gentleman of very striking appearance, whose
fine forehead, brilliant eye, and intellectual counte-
nance, had more than once attracted the passing
glance of Miss Stuart.

" Permit me to present Mr. Egerton."

At the same moment, a polite young lady who was
sitting next to Miss Stuart, rose and walked to an-
other part of the room, and Walter Egerton dropped
into her chair. He listened to the remarks which
Miss Stuart's admirers were addressing to her, and
when any thing was said by which the speaker in-
tended to convey a peculiar elegance of flattery, Wal-
ter's ingenuity quietly deduced from it some conclu-
sion which turned it into rudeness, and completely
overthrew the complacency of its contriver. By this
tactic, which excited the amusement of the lady, he
gradually dispersed the whole band.

" These young gentlemen," said Walter, when he
found himself alone with Miss Stuart, " seem to have
appreciated the kindness of my observations, and
have rewarded them in the most gratifying manner
that was possible. Their conduct, like the recent
statue of the ladies to the Duke of Wellington, ex-
hibits more gratitude than taste. I am afraid, how-
ever, that my taste will not very readily excite your
gratitude."

" You are paying but an indifferent compliment to
my taste," replied Miss Stuart, archly.

" Your taste may find something to approve of in
your companion, since genius usually creates what it
admires, and loves to fix those creations in vacancy."

" The eye of genius, like that of the eagle, loves
ever to be fixed on that which is most brilliant," re-
plied Miss Stuart, with admirable gravity.

"Genius must in this case, then, have that attri-
bute of the divine ; that it delights to contemplate it-
self. Nothing but the controlling law which you have
laid down would induce us to believe that Miss
Stuart's eye was ever on herself."

The lady laughed outright. " You have truly out-
done the labours of the king of the French, Mr. Eger-

THE QUARREL AND THE RECONCILIATION.

129

ton. He has striven to restore the form of Versailles ;
you have revived all its spirit. The next time we
meet, I expect to see you with a waistcoat coming
down to your knees, and your hair in a bag."

" Miss Stuart might be sure that nothing but the
embodied presence of all that is royal in beauty, and
courtly in demeanour, could inspire complaisance into
so uncouth a person as myself."

Miss Stuart turned away her face, and hastened to
change the conversation.

"What do you think of that head?" said she,
pointing to a bust of Lord Byron.

" Those features should be carved in lava, rather
than in marble," replied Egerton.

" They are carved in his poetry, and that is a
never-cooling lava."

" Think you that lava will never cool nor pale ? —
Fame, like a State, or an easterly storm, must grow
slowly if it would last long : and the reason is, that
men are tardy to discover, and reluctant to admit in
a contemporary those high and hardy virtues which
stand the wear of ages. A man may be both popular
and famous, but never for the same qualities. Popu-
larity has no relation to fame, except as it may afford
a presumption, founded on the natural connexion be-
tween different faculties of the mind, that he who has
shown talent of one sort, is likely to have powers of
another kind, and that the tree which bears an at-
tractive flower will likewise produce a vigorous fruit.
Interest, whether founded on narrative, sentiment, or
style, is that which gives currency to the writings of
a contemporary ; for they are looked at as events of
the stirring world. But we take up an old writer in
those hours of repose and retirement, when, the spirit
wasted by the interests of the world, desires to be
calmed and refreshed, and strengthened by commu-
nion with that which is above the world; for such a
purpose, we seek only that which elevates, purifies,
and comforts ; we seek truth, and not power. Can
Byron serve such an object ? When a century shall
have thrown its crust over his volcanic fire, the foot
that penetrates beneath, will find nothing but ashes
and smoke."

" Certainly," replied Miss Stuart, " mere force will
never ensure to an author, what Lamb calls diu-
ternity of being read.' Truth of substance, or grace
of form are the only qualities in composition to which
immortality is given. And there is this difference
between them, that truth will preserve a writer from
oblivion, and make him be read by the learned, and
give him a name on the earth ; but that is like the
immortality of Tithonus, who had unending life, but
without perpetual youth. Gracefulness alone will
cause an author's genius to be an eternal presence
among men, and his words to be always on the lips of
society ; for we will not voluntarily court frequently
any thing but the bland and the pleasant. Young's
stern satires have in them a wider comprehension
and a profounder justice than those of Pope; but the
exquisite polish of the latter has made his couplets be
like gems that are set in every finger ring, while the
ruder sculptures of Young grow dusty on the mantel-
piece. Gray has more grace than Dry den, and is
more popular. Truth fills the bookshelves; grace
lies on the centre-table."

"Avery just remark, and applicable to Byron's
works taken as a whole, and to his greater pieces
taken separately. But his ballads, and certain passa-
ges in his larger poems, have a perfect gracefulness.

His manner has, in some instances, an amazing like-
ness to Gray's. I speak of Gray as seen in his odes,
not in that tedious, common-place, and spiritless effu-
sion— ' The Elegy.'

' Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep !
Isles that crown the Egean deep!
Fields that cool Ilissus laves !'

"I have more than once caught myself instinc-
tively attributing those lines to Byron. Yet Byron
knew where to stop ; which Gray did not, for the
latter's taste was delicate but not chaste. Byron
would never have added the lines which follow those :

' Or where Meander's amber waves
In ling'ring lab'rinths creep.'

" That is passing beyond the sweetness of Parme-
giane into the lusciousness of Carlo Dolce. Here is
a couplet of Byron's as harmonious as any other that
I ever heard :

' The lady and her lover, left alone,
The rosy flood of twilight sky admir'd.'

" The first line," said Miss Stuart, " is too much
like cloth in the shops, measured with ells."

" Take this stanza, which is faultless ; as exquisite
in melody as in sentiment.

' Then think upon Calypso's isles,
Endear'd by days gone by ;
To others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh.' "

" That is like some of the enchanting melodies
which we meet with in Fra Diavolo. If we seek
harmony, the battle scene in " The Siege of Corinth,"
out-does the famous ' Abssynian Maid.'

' Lightly and brightly breaks away
The morning from her mantle grey,
And the noon will look on a sultry day.
Hark ! to the trump and the drum
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn,' &c.

" Byron's inmost soul, like Goethe's, was haunted
by the spirit of harmony. His mind was imbued
with that which the great German said was l the true
element whence all poetry springs, and into which it
all returns,' — music. No poet of our time, not even
Campbell, whose ear is fine, has the same exquisite
sensibility to touching sound and tuneful measure.
We do not find those artful and delicious combina-
tions of syllables in Wordsworth."

" But after all, are not those things, pettitesses,
which are not only far inferior in value to the senti-
ments which poetry embodies, but which even as
matters of taste hold no very elevated rank ? Rhyme
was the invention of a degraded age, and notwith-
standing Dr. Johnson, has never been preferred by the
best judgment. Those coincidences or harmonies
of sound in successive syllables which partake of the
nature of rhyme, seem open to the same censure."

" I believe you are right. They are not found in
the greatest works of the greatest poets. Those
which we have in Virgil, the ' formosam resonate doces
Amaryllida Sylvas,' which Johnson said that all mo-
dern poetry could not rival in harmony, occur in his
boyish Eclogues ; there are none in the Eneid or more
finished Georgics. There are none in the ' Paradise
Lost ;' many in the youthful ' L' Allegro' and ' II
Penseroso.' "

130

THE COURSE OF LOVE; OR,

There was a brief pause. Miss Stuart held in her
hand a cape jessamine, which she was carelessly
striking against her chin from time to him.

" Are you trying to deepen the fragrance of that
jesmine ?" asked Walter.

"Your conversation, Mr. Egerton, which was
critical has become absolutely grammatical ; it has
gone through a declension. Erom the topics of the
Academy to the dialect of Corinth, what a descent !
Do you not think that you will please me more by
talking upon such subjects as imply that I possess a
reasonable intelligence, than by offering me extrava-
gant and impossible flatteries ?"

" Pardon me, delightful lady ! I had learnt from
De Stael that a woman of genius is always more
pleased by compliments to -her beauty than to her
sense. Upon that I acted. Henceforth I will amend
the maxim, and will believe that a woman who pos-
sesses both genius and beauty in equally eminent
degree, is more gratified by a tribute to the former
than to the latter."

" You could not have thought me very beautiful,
or you would not have paid me a direct compliment
of that kind."

" Then, you see I was right. You are more sen-
sitive on that subject than on the other."

" Indeed I am not. I am not sensitive on either."

" Let me hope that you are on both ; for on both
you are sure to be abundantly gratified."

" I need not say to a person of your delicacy of
intelligence, Mr. Egerton, that compliment is the
least refined species of conversation. I may say, too,
not the most worthy of a person of genius ; for only
he who fails to reach the heart by the clear shafts of
of wit, will dip the point of his arrow in the sweet
poison of flattery. I told you that you would please
me more by talking of literature. I am probably
presumptuous, however, in supposing that you wish
to please me."

" Indeed, you do me utter injustice, It is the wish
nearest to my heart. It shall henceforth be the
guiding purpose of my life."

At that moment, some one approached, and, with
the good-breeding so usual at parties, interrupted the
conversation. Others gradually came up, and Walter
finding the prospect of a continued tete-a-tete hopeless,
rose and walked away.

The recollection which his new acquaintance left
in the mind of Egerton, as his thoughts that night
reviewed this scene, was as soft as the brightness of a
vernal flower. There was a gentleness, a sweetness,
an exquisite repose of character, in this person, which
filled the fancy while it delighted the heart. She was
fair, even to splendour of countenance, but without
the pride of beauty. She had a ready and sparkling
wit, but was free from the vanity of intellect. She
had neither the offensive egoism of self-admiration,
nor the more morbid egoism of depreciation and dis-
trust of self. She attracted on the instant, and im-
pressed forever, each person that was favoured by her
notice ; and the secret of the charm mainly consisted
in never for a moment thinking of herself. She did
not know whether she was pretty or not, whether she
was agreeable or not : she never for a moment con-
sidered the subject. Though incapable of assumption,
she had too much genuine modesty ever to seem
diffident : for what is termed diffidence, or, more pre-
cisely, mauvaise honle, springs from an overweening
regard to the opinions of others. Following the im-

pulse of natural propriety, she always spoke as well as
she could, and always acted as correctly as she knew
how; and by never thinking about the result, the ex-
cellence which she attain-jd had that unconsciousness
which, as a modern philosopher has accurately said,
belongs to perfection in every thing. Elle ne s'ecoutait
jamais. She was always equal to the occasion, whe-
ther by readiness of thought or propriety of conduct.
Calm, placid, pleasant, she gratified the mind but
never fatigued it ; she refreshed the spirit, without
stimulation ; and enchanted the imagination more by
what she was than what she said.

The mystery of the effect which she produced,
consisted perhaps chiefly in the moral confidence
which she inspired. No one conversed with her
without at once perceiving that she was " first in
virtue as in face." The quietness of goodness rested
upon her; the peace of purity overshadowed her.
She did not boast that angular religion of creeds and
systems which deals in those points and corners
which belong to form and are not attributes of sub-
stance. Piety with her was of the nature, not the
mind only ; its influence was seen beyond the intellect,
in the character. It was the condition of her being;
it was not as a perfume which her soul sometimes
inhaled that it might be refreshed and pleased ; it was
the common air her spirit always breathed. With
her, virtue was instinctive. She was one of those

Who do not ask if duty's eye

Be on them ; who, in love and truth,

Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth;

Glad hearts! without reproach or blot;

Who do that work, and know it not.

With her

Love was an unerring light,
And joy its own security ;

So natural, so necessary was goodness to her, that it
might be doubted whether in her it was a virtue.

As Walter reposed that night, his waking visions
were portions of a single object. He looked upwards
as he lay, and there was fixed upon him a pair of
eyes ; how bright were those eyes ! He turned to the
side, and a smile shone upon him ; how soft was that
smile ! He felt no passion; his spirit was bathed in the
light and life of love. A calm enjoyment of her spiritual
presence shrouded his feelings. The thought of those
curling ringlets, that glance of lustrous loveliness,
that open brow, that smile of benignant beauty, that
white and fascinating hand, that form of moulded
grace, moved over his heart with a delicious pain.
There was something in her aspect which seemed so
familiar and so friendly to his spirit, that his mind
rested on her thought with the happy peace of perfect
confidence, He recalled their conversation, and was
delighted with the delicacy of feeling which her re-
marks displayed, the fineness of thought which they
exhibited; and he seemed to feel the most entire
sympathy with her mind and heart in their intimate
and most peculiar movements.

The character of Walter was such as to render
him particularly susceptible of love. Amid many
endowments of a rare order, he had much of the
rapid and intense fancy of the poet. If his glance
fell upon a countenance of distinguished fairness,
though it were of a stranger passing him in the street,
his feelings on the moment flashed into a passionate

THE QUARREL AND THE RECONCILIATION.

131

adoration of her beauty: and in intervals of occupation,
standing and sitting, going abroad and returning
home, he was dreaming only of her, and scheming
baseless plans of happiness of which she was the
source and the partaker. This lasted till the effacing
influence of the days wore down the impression, and
left his heart free to a similar influence from some
other quarter. Often, the persons whose images
were thus idolized remained for ever unknown to
him ; and for those with whom he became acquainted,
his worship rarely lasted till the close of the first
interview. These wild and enthusiastic dedications
of feeling were the irresistible outbreaks of a mind
condemned to a common world, yet finding the yoke
of common life too tedious to be borne. His vanity,
for those that are visionary are, by a metaphysical
necessity, always vain, induced him, oddly enough,
to affect a certain character of licentiousness; and
if he met with a handsome woman in an humble
condition he would often follow the thing up, until
she was completely in his power. But when the
object was fairly won, the goodness of his heart
always interposed, and forbade him to ruin the inno-
cent and defenceless. He often dropped hints which
induced his friends to imagine that he was something
of a libertine ; not unwilling to be " le fanfaron des
vices qu'il n'avait pas." But never had he harmed a
maiden ; never had he soiled the record of his life
with one recollection of purity destroyed.

On the whole it will appear that he was a person
possessing strong natural feelings which, if they were
sometimes warped, were not depraved ; feelings which
in spite of many waywardnesses were very noble and
lofty. Peculiarly susceptible of temptation, he was
very open to influences of good. His character was
of a simple and genuine sort. His emotions had the
free and rich luxuriance of nature ; with whatever
upwardness of tendency nature in her best condition
may exhibit, with whatever weakness nature in her
happiest destiny must inherit. Exposed to the action
of unfavourable circumstances, his history would pro-
bably be a dark one : left to his own impulses, his
career would certainly be downward, for in feeling,
and in life, and in the course of things in every sort,
the natural current is towards evil: if deeply impress-
ed by elevating influences he might become a gene-
rous, true, and high-hearted man.

The moral effect which such a person as Miss
Stuart would have upon Walter was likely to be as
fortunate as the spiritual was delicious. The calling
forth and colouring of all his better qualities seemed
like a transformation of his nature. His mind breathed
nothing but goodness, nobleness, gentleness. Never
and by none, had the deathless sympathies of his moral
being been addressed as they were by her. The an-
swer to that mute appeal was high and full. He
dedicated his nature and his existence'to her. He
abandoned his life and his soul to her.

A few evenings after this Walter again met Miss
Stuart. When he looked more calmly at the splendid
glory-cinctured image which he had enshrined in his
fancy as the representative of this person, he feared
that an encounter with the real being would throw
down his mounting visions and shock him with a
fatal disappointment. But when he entered the room,
and gazed again upon her soft and soul-like counte-
nance, and listened tohervoicewhichin tones of music
told thoughts of sense, he felt a yet deeper impression
than in his brightest reveries he had experienced ; he

felt that he had not before realized how beautiful,
how lovely she was. They talked long and ardently.
Walter exerted himself to the utmost, and the confi-
dence of glowing hope gave to his mind and spirit a
rich and dashing vigour which enabled him to do full
justice to his powers, and to feel satisfied with him-
self. And when, towards the close of their discourse,
he led the conversation to softer and more intimate
topics, and with delicate indirection disclosed in some
measure the feelings which filled his bosom, he was
persuaded that his passion was not wholly unan-
swered. In truth, Miss Stuart liked him much ; she
admired the brilliance of his remarks, and was pleased
with the fine tone of sentiment which pervaded his
character. The energetic beauty of his countenance,
and his fine person and graceful manners did not
wholly fail, in this instance, of that influence which
they had on every female heart.

They continued to meet frequently, and at every
interview her feelings were more and more impressed.
No such direct declaration had yet been made by him,
as called upon her to examine carefully what was the
exact condition of her sentiments, and thus insensibly
and unconsciously emotions grew up within her
bosom, which had she been more clearly aware of
their nature and degree, she might not so freely have
admitted to her heart. A person of so much pru-
dence and true modesty would never have suffered
herself to go even thus far, if she had entertained any
uncertainty as to his feelings. But upon that subject
there could be no doubt whatever.. The depth and
entireness of his devotion were displayed in the thou-
sand nameless points of act and look and manner
which escape the notice of an uninterested spectator,
but never fail to reach the consciousness of her who
is the object of them. In every thing which he said,
and did, in the discussion of the most abstract and
impersonal topics, as much as when he laboured to
form an expressive compliment, his passion was ap-
parent. Love was the posture of his nature, rather
than the colouring of his thoughts. The " knacks,
trifles, nosegays," which the poet has told us are
" messengers of strong prevailment in unhardened
youth," were not wanting to memorialize a feeling
which had not yet been plainly uttered. Duly as Miss
Stuart descended from her dressing-room after pre-
paring for a party, a bouquet with Mr. Egerton's
compliments was waiting for her in the di'awing-room ;
and the acknowledgments for these tasteful presents
always rendered their meeting a cordial one, and the
discussion of their composition formed an inexhaust-
ible subject of spirited conversation.

One evening Miss Stuart was returning from a
long walk in the country with her father. It was
quite dark when they reached the suburbs of the city.
As they hastened along with some rapidity, for Miss
Stuart had an engagement for that evening, she saw
a little way down one of the intersecting streets a
young man who was giving a woman some money;
as they passed, she heard him say " Good night ! my
dearest !" The voice struck her ear as a familiar
one, and as she looked quickly round, she discerned
distinctly by the light of the lamp, the features and
figure of Walter Egerton. She felt a shock like ice,
through her heart. A faintness came over her frame,
and her arm within that of her companion shook so
much that her father asked her if she was ill. She
replied that she was only fatigued and cold; and
made a powerful effort to control the sickening para-

132

THE COURSE OF LOVE ; OR,

lysed sensation which crept over her. She talked
nervously about one thing or other, but without con-
sciousness of what she was saying. When they
reached home, she hastened to her room, and throw-
ing herself on her couch, burst into tears.

Never had she felt so wretchedly. The brightness
of the world and all her hope in life seemed in an
instant extinguished for ever„ A dull and sullen
misery encompassed her. Then for the first time
she knew how much she loved this person ; and when
she realized that he whose image was blended so
sweetly and so sacredly with all her best and holiest
thoughts, that he whose brilliance and loftiness of
spirit she had so fondly admired, was a false, and
worthless, and degraded man, there was nothing for
her but to weep ; and " weep the more because she
wept in vain." She who had been so happy in her-
self as never even to know the guilt of others, was
now mingled with the history of a man of vice ; she
who in innocent confiding frankness had given forth
her soul's truest friendship, had been but the dupe and
plaything of the vanity of a libertine, or at most had
shared for an hour the wandering affection of a self-
' ish betrayer. What a cold, bitter, bruising insult was
his attention to her! She now saw in his insincerity
the cause of his not sooner having made a declaration
of his passion. From this grief what relief should
she find ? She felt too prostrate even for prayer.
So fully did the thought of the guilt of others occupy
her mind and oppress her heart, that she felt as if she
were guilty herself.

After some time, the maid came to her room to
suggest to her that it was time to dress for a party to
which she was going. She sent her to tell her mother
that she did not feel well and should send a regret.
Mrs. Stuart presently came up with a fine bouquet in
her hand.

" I wish, my dear," said she, " that you would
make an effort to go to-night. It is an invitation
which I know your father wishes particularly to be
attended to, and I am sure that he will be a good deal
disappointed if you refuse. He will go with you
himself. You will feel better after you are dressed.
Besides, Mr. Egerton has sent you so elegant a bou-
quet to-night, that I really think you should so far do
justice to his gallantry as to exhibit it."

" Well, mamma," said this amiable girl, " if you
and papa wish it, I will go ; but I really am not
well."

" Lie down a little while, my dear. You are pro-
bably fatigued by your walk. You will be better
after resting."

As soon as her mother was gone, Miss Stuart rang
the bell.

" Tell Henry," said she to the attendant, « that I
wish him to go to the public gardens and get me the
richest bunch of flowers that can be cut."

" He shall see," she added to herself, " that I am
not dependent upon him for bouquets."

Walter Egerton came to this party shortly after
Miss Stuart had entered the room. When he went
in, he observed that she was looking pale ; and the
glance of aversion which she cast at him as he ap-
proached, assured him that she was offended at him
for some cause or other. She held a very brilliant
bouquet, but it was not the one which he had sent
her. He paused for a moment and changed colour ;
hesitating whether he should speak to her. She saw
these signs of guilt, and they deepened her conviction

of his falseness and added vigour to the determination
which she had taken.

He came up to her and bowed. She surveyed his
person coldly and deliberately ; then casting down her
eyes leaned forward and made a slow and stately
bow. She then turned to her companion and began
to talk about some private affair. Walter waited for
an opportunity to speak ; but none was given, and he
presently retiied.

Half an hour after, she was sitting alone. Walter
walked towards her.

" It would be idle for me," said he, " to avoid the
knowledge that you are offended at me for something.
It would be equally useless to conceal how deeply
my feelings are interested in you, or to deny the deep
pain which your conduct gives me. I am a frank
person : I like frankness in others. Will you pardon
the liberty I take in asking that you will do me the
favour to say what crime I have committed, or what
is the cause of your altered manner?"

Miss Stuart looked very pale, and deeply agitated.

" It is impossible," she replied, in a low but de-
cided tone, " that I should continue to hold any in-
tercourse with a person for whose character I have
ceased to entertain even the smallest respect. You
will be good enough to consider our acquaintance as
henceforth wholly terminated. My regret is that it
ever existed. Had I known what I now know, it
never should."

With these words she arose and walked to an-
other part of the room. Walter remained for some
time motionless. His face showed that deep feelings
were at work in his bosom ; — feelings, as it might
seem, of indignation and wounded pride, rather than
of shame or mortification. After a time he rose to
leave the room. As he passed Miss Stuart, he said
to her —

" I obey the command which you have uttered. If
I am to be the victim of womanish suspicion and the
sport of womanish caprice, I am glad thus early to
be delivered. But you may one day regret it. Fare-
well for ever."

Thus it was that the lapse of a few hours severed,
as it seemed irreconcilably, a happy union, and in
the place of mutual love, planted in one bosom a
deep disesteem and a quick resentment in the other.

In all the history of Love — "doing and suffering"
— the lot of woman is less fortunate than that of
man ; more enduring of the pangs of passion ; less
enjoying of its pleasures. Where affection has been
given vainly or wrongly, and the painful turbulence of
the craving heart is to be sustained or subdued, man
has a thousand active outward occupations, in whose
interest and agitation he may forget himself; he may
throw himself into the hardening tumult of life, and
in the stern service of ambition render himself cal-
lous to the softer sorrows of humanity, or betake
himself to the petrifying atmosphere of broad misan-
thropy and drain the wine of passion — rage. But to
these wild caverns of relief the tenderness of female
feeling cannot fly. " Woman's quiet hours," which
fit her to endure, unfit her to conquer grief. In the
peace of solitary meditation she is the unresisting
prey of memory and thought. The more Miss Stuart
strove to think down her regard for Walter, the
more it deepened through her being. En songcant
qu'ilfaut Voublier., elle s'en souvient. She was glad
that she had broken off all communication with him,

THE QUARREL AND THE RECONCILIATION.

133

in the first moment of excitement ; for she felt that it
would have been too painful to have done so upon
reflection. It is not when we are borne upon the
breeze that we know its strength : it is only when
we would stem it, that its violence is perceived : and
thus Miss Stuart never knew how fully her spirit was
imbued with love until she strove to cast out its in-
fluence.

One afternoon she set out to pay a visit of charity
to a bed-ridden old woman, who had long been one
of her pensioners. It was some time since she had
been to see her, and when she entered the room, she
was struck with the improved appearance which
things had assumed during the interval. There were
many conveniences about the aged sufferer which
had not been there formerly ; and when she came
out into the front room she found that the window
had been fitted up as for a shop, and the grand-
daughter of the old woman — a very beautiful Irish
girl — was sitting at work on a laced collar.

" Well, Margaret," said she, " I am glad to find
that matters are going so well with you. You seem
to have opened a shop since I was here."

" Yes, ma'am," replied the girl ; " and it's all
owing to one of my friends ; and a kind friend he
has been to me."

"A gentleman, is it?"

" Indeed, ma'am, he is a gentleman ; and the nicest
gentleman ever I knew. He gave me money to
open this little shop, and he has given money to
James — that's a friend of mine, ma'am — to set up a
shop for his self next door to us, and when he gets
well agoing, we're to get married, you understand.
And it's all owing to Mr. Egerton; for without him
we should not have been able to do so for a long
time, and, may be, never."

" Mr. Egerton, did you say ? Is his name Walter
Egerton ?"

" Ah ! you know him then, do you, ma'am ? Yes,
his name is Mr. Walter Egerton ?"

" I think I must have seen him once with you in
the street at night ; and, I confess, I did not think
better of either you or him. But I am sorry to think
any thing bad of you, Margaret."

"Oh! ma'am," said the girl — her countenance
deeply suffused, and her dark eyes glowing with of-
fended modesty and pride — " if you think any thing
bad, indeed, indeed, you are mistaken. Mr. Egerton is
one of the best and virtuousest men in the world. He
never offered love to me in this world ; never, never.
I told him about grandmother and myself and James,
i and he said he liked me and would make us happy.
\ And he has done so ; for he's done what I told you
| for James and me, and the comforts that grandmother
j has, came from him. Oh ! indeed he's a good man,
I is Mr. Egerton."

" Are you, certainly, the same person whom I saw
i him giving money to one evening, when he told you
I to meet him in the same place the next night at eight
o'clock ?"

"Yes, ma'am, it was me. The money he gave
me was to buy something for grandmother. He
never would give me any money for myself, and I
would not have taken it ; but he gave it to grand-
mother for me, and said he would not have any thing
in return."

The attention of Margaret had been attracted to
:the varying countenance and agitated manner of
Miss Stuart during this conversation.
VOL. XXII. 12

" Oh ! I see," said she, after a pause, as she fixed
her bright eye upon her, and laid her hand on her
arm, " You are the lady that Mr. Egerton loves ; and
that's the reason you're so curious. He told me that
he was in love with a lady who was the best and
most beautiful person in the world ; and by the de-
scription, ma'am, it must be you. You are a happy
woman, ma'am ; for it is not every lady that has as
nice and good a gentleman for her lover as Mr.
Egerton. But if you think worse of him for seeing
him with me, you do him wrong. He is true to you ;
I know he is true to you."

The story which Margaret told was even true.
Egerton met her one evening as he was rambling in
the outskirts of the town, and being struck with her
beauty, according to his character as we have sketch-
ed it above, had entered into conversation. She told
him her artless story, and with that generous feeling
which was the leading quality in his heart, he had de-
termined to gratify all her modest wishes.

Since his dismissal by Miss Stuart, Walter had
not gone at all into society. He knew how unjustly
he had been treated ; he knew his own innocence
and merit ; and that sustained him. But he knew that
his own statements on the subject would go for no-
thing, even if his self-respect had permitted him to
offer an explanation. He hoped that time might bring
out the fairness of his conduct, and to that he trusted
for reparation.

A party was given by one of his near relatives and
he was obliged to go to it. Miss Stuart was in the
room. He did not go near her, but sat down in a
retired corner and began to examine some views of
Rome, In a few minutes Miss Stuart stood beside
him and pronounced his name. Her voice trembled
so much that her words were scarcely intelligible.

" Mr. Egerton,'' she said, " I have done you wrong;
can you forgive me ?"

" Forgive you, Miss Stuart !" said he, as he clasped
her hand in his ; " forgiveness cannot mate with
adoration."

Walter knew veiy well the cause of Miss Stuart's
resentment ; for, on the occasion on which she had
seen him in the street, he had also seen her. He had
no difficulty, moreover, in guessing by what means
the alteration in her feelings had been effected. But
his refinement told him that it was a subject which
must not be dwelt upon.

" I seek not, Miss Stuart," said he, " to know the
cause of your past displeasure : it is enough for me
that it has past away."

" I was hasty — I was unjust. I hope you will
pardon me."

" Dearest Miss Stuart ! do not talk so ; let the past
be forgotten. This reconciliation makes me inex-
pressibly happy. You may make me yet happier by
permitting me to hope that my ardent, my devoted
love for you will not be unrewarded."

" Your nobleness of character deserves more than
my poor love," said the modest, blushing girl. " Such
as it is, it is yours."

Walter raised her hand to his lip, and felt through
all his being a sensation of perfect joy.

ERROR.

It is common to men to err ; but it is only a fool
that perseveres in his error ; a wise man, therefore,
alters his opinion, a fool never.

134

THE METROPOLIS BY MOONLIGHT.

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE METROPOLIS BY MOONLIGHT,

A MIDNIGHT RAMBLE.
BY GEORGE D. STRONG.

Midnight in the city ! — There is something in the
very thought which awakens visions of romance, and
on a quiet and breezeless night during the summer
solstice, I donned my beaver, and like a modern
Knight Errant started forth in quest of adventures.
The moon rode high in heaven, and myriads of stars
flashed and sparkled in a sea of azure !

Aloft the spires of the city lifted their white shafts
to the skies, and sleeping tranquilly in the moonlight,
mansion and cottage, column and architrave stretched
their varied architecture on every side. As I issued
forth, the sound of my own footsteps came strange
and lonely to my ear, and their echoes appeared like
the alarum cry of the guardian sentinels of the sleep-
ing city, heralding the approach of a spy on its mys-
teries.

The mighty Babel slept, but its feverish throes in-
dicated the unquiet and turbid slumber which haunts
the overtasked victim of excitement. A shrill and
solitary cry of Fire ! aroused the watchmen from
their nustitations, who caught up and re-echoed the
alarm, until with the heavy roll of numerous engines
and the shouts of the firemen, which rapidly increased
in strength and volume, the before silent streets were
the scene of no little tumult.

It was soon ascertained that the alarm proceeded
from a chimney on fire, and the grumbling opponents
of the Persian Fire-worshippers slowly returned to
their homes, leaving the metropolis again to its re-
pose. The night was uncommonly sultry, and the
open casements of those whom necessity or choice
had left to breathe the heated atmosphere of the
city, offered a ready access to scenes, which would
otherwise have been hidden to the eye of casual cu-
riosity.

Passing a vacant lot in one of the less frequented
streets, the mournful howl of a large mastiff arrested
my notice. The animal stood motionless in the mid-
dle of the inclosure, uttering at intervals a most dole-
ful cry, which in the stillness sounded startling and
ominous. On turning round, a light from a neat two
story dwelling on the opposite side of the street, at-
tracted my attention. In the centre of the front room
lay the corpse of one recently deceased. The watch-
ers, two young men, apparently overcome by fatigue
or lassitude, were asleep; the living and the dead, for
the time being, equally oblivious to the passing scene.
At the head of the body two massive plated candle-
sticks, with lighted wax candles, exhibited the fea-
tures of a young female. The smooth, alabaster-like
forehead, and Grecian outline of the nose, proved that
death had arrested the career of one blooming in the
pride of beauty and loveliness. And there she lay, a
frail mockery of her former self — an empty vase,
from which the flowers and the perfume of life had
departed !

As I thought of the agonized mother, whose ex-
istence was wrapped up in hers, and of the manly
youth to whom she had plighted her virgin vows,
left stricken and desolate, I turned mournfully from
the spot. Verily the wail and lamentation should be

for the living, and not for the dead. I had not pro-
gressed ten steps when the merry laugh of a group
of youths and maidens, assembled in the drawing
room of a contiguous dwelling, induced me to pause.
The white dresses, wreaths of flowers, and other
bridal decorations of two of the ladies, and the appro-
priate apparel of the young gentlemen, indicated the
object of their meeting. The faces of the bride and
groom were radiant with hope and joy, and the full
gush of merriment overspread every feature of their
laughing companions. The shaft of death had, with-
in a few short paces, laid low the form of one who
but yesterday was as bouyant as any within their
circle, but in the bliss of unconsciousness of the
solemn event their young hearts beat responsive to
the merry notes of the skillfully played violin.

" On with the dance, let joy be unconfined ;
No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet."

Proceeding onward, I encountered the prostrate
form of a seedy wine-bibber, who, in default of a better
couch, had stretched himself at length on the pave-
ment. His loud snore, and the choking sound which
issued from his throat, proved the depth and potency
of his libations; and his impeded respiration, and the
twitching of the nerves of his face and mouth, at-
tested that " the way of the transgressor is hard."

As he lay on his back, with his face full in the
light of a neighbouring lamp, the broad, lofty brow,
prominent Roman nose, and short upper lip, imparted
the belief that no lack of talent had sunk him to the
depth of his present degradation.

Perhaps an insane devotion to guilty pleasure, or
the fascinations of dissolute companionship, or the
prostration of ill-founded hopes, or the shock of sud-
den calamity, or the treachery of pretended friendship,
or the violation of plighted vows, had lured him to
the guilty precipice. While dwelling with saddened
spirit on the infatuation which induced the commis-
sion of suicide on the fairest prospects, and led to the
debasement of the loftiest endowments of genius, two
fashionable young men about town made their ap-
pearance, evidently flushed with wine. As they passed
the drunken man, they burst into peals of laughter,
one of them remarking to his companion that " if it
hadn't have been for that old fool, Truman, he would
have left Ned Collins as gloriously fuddled as that
fellow." I longed, at the moment, for the mirror cf
the sorcerer, that those neophytes in dissipation might
have viewed their own portraits a few years in ad-
vance !

While threading the intricacies of a narrow, and
badly-paved street, the say sallies of a little party
occupying the attic of a shabby-genteel looking build-
ing of two stories high, caught my ear.

The low casements were flung entirely open, and
I could distinctly hear every word that passed.

From their conversation they were writers by pro-
fession, whose literary emoluments were far from
satisfactory. The one nearest the window, who

THE METROPOLIS BY MOONLIGHT.

135

occupied the head of the table, was dressed tastily,
but his apparel was in the later stages of decay; and
as far as my position offered opportunities for obser-
vation, the dress of his associates was in keeping with
his.

" Come, Ernest," said a tall, and rather slender
member of the coterie, " I'll give you a toast which
you will all drown in a bumper. Here's to the union
of Taste and Genius, the only union we have yet had
the courage to solemnize. Hip, hip ! hurrah ! The
Union of Taste and Genius. Hurrah, hip, hip !
hurrah !"

" By the way," began another speaker, " are you
aware that our crony Ormond, has embalmed the
charming Estelle in rhyme ? By Jove we must have
the document. Come, come, Ormond, no blushing.
We are .your guests for the nonce, and can lay claim
to the intellectual, as well as the physical, delicacies
of the banquet."

" Let's have the recitation by all means," respond-
ed the rest of the company, and after a few faint
apologies, the individual near the window rose, and
in a sweet voice, but, with a slightly affected manner,
recited the following

LINES TO ESTELLE.

Oil, ask not that my shattered lute

Should wake a joyous tone,
Too long the slumh'ring chords were mute,

The once loved touch to own:
When youthful hopes, as bright as brief,
Like flowers, have withered, leaf by leaf,

Their primal fragrance flown —
'Twere sin to mock their dull decay
By careless jest or mirthful lay.

Yet, if the cadence of my lyre

Thy onward pathway cheers,
I'll e'en essay, though quenched the fire

Which burned in happier years :
Thy silvery voice, if aught, will call
My earth- bound spirit from its thrall,

And bid it court the spheres —
'Till free from earthly blight or stain
It soars on eagle wings again.

Then let the miser worship gold,

The bacchanalian wine,
A lovelier idol I behold,

In those bright eyes of thine.
Beneath their glances I'll forget
The evils that our path beset,

Nor e'er again repine.
That love, whose fervid kiss endears,
Though born in smiles, may die in tears.

" Bravo ! Ormond, bravo, my boy," exclaimed one
of the party.

" Well, I vow the effusion is clever," said one,
who, I inferred from the tone and manner of his

remark, was a rival, a little envious of the applause
bestowed on the recitation.

"Clever," shouted the first speaker, who was evi-
dently fast becoming ' Bacchi plenus.' " Clever ! 'tis
positively captivating. Ormond, my chum, you have
brushed the dew from Parnassus. You stride your
Pegasus with the air of an equestrian troubadour.
The ' gaye science' is your debtor, for your address
to your ' ladye love,' shall be married to an appro-
priate melody. If you lived in an age in which poetry
was appreciated, your brows would long since have
been circled by the laurel. A bumper to my chum,
Ormond — fill to the brim boys, to the brim !" Here
the jolly devotee at the altar of Bacchus tossed off the
contents of his goblet and volunteered a song, which
he prefaced, by observing it was the production of the
rival poet, who at this compliment to his muse be-
came marvellously cheerful and conciliatory.

Clearing his throat with another bumper, the vo-
lunteer melodist trilled forth the following

The dew-gemmed flowers one morn agreed,

As nations have before them,
To choose from out the verdant mead

A queen to govern o'er them.
But after various votes and cheers
The saucy Commons snubbed the Peers,

The last this hostile message hurled ;
" Your grovelling schemes will fail ye,

The Violet's banner you've unfurled.
We vow we'll crown the Dahlia."

Then gushing perfumes filled the air,

From flowery lips ascending,
The Attic wit — the fancy rare —

Their varied beauties blending.
Then came, to fright the startled ears,
The rallying-cry, " death to the Peers."

But patriot blood in Yankee veins
Not all its force discloses,

For Spartan faith in Violets reigns,
And valour blooms in Roses !

While yet the angry contest swayed,

Like wind stirred beds of clover,
My gentle Lydia's footsteps strayed

The sun-lit champagne over;
Charmed by her beauty, grace and mind,
The rival queens their claims resigned,

And rapturous shouts the valleys fill,
From groves and jasmine bowers,

And nature crowns my Lydia still,
The peerless queen of flowers!

Here the applause of the whole party becoming
obstreperous, and the laudable effort of each to make
himself heard, being, strange to say, unsuccessful, I
was fain to turn my attention to other occurrences,
which may or may not, form the subject of future
communications.

TRIM'S EXPOSITION OF THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT.

Pr'ythee, Trim, quoth my father, what dost thou
mean by " honouring thy father and mother ?" Allow-
ing them, an' please your honour, three half-pence a
day, out of my pay when they grew old. And did'st
thou do that, Trim ? said Yorick. He did, indeed,
replied my uncle Toby. Then, Trim, said Yorick,

springing out of his chair and taking the corporal by
the hand, thou art the best commentator upon that
part of the Decalogue ; and I honour thee more for
it, corporal Trim, than if thou hadst had a hand in
the Talmud itself.

136

JUSTICE.

Written for the Lady's Book.

JUSTICE.

BY HENRY F.

Man's perceptions are finite ahd limited. He is
unable to pierce beneath the outwaid conduct of his
fellows ; he cannot look into the secret chambers of
the heart, and unveil motives to action, and estimate
capacity of restraint. He is compelled, therefore to
a comparatively arbitrary execution of his justice.
Of all the crimes that ever were committed, no two,
perhaps, ever deserved the same degree and quality
of punishment ; because no two of the guilty were
ever stimulated by precisely the same degree and
quality of self-government, under similar circum-
stances. The mental powers are as diverse as the
lineaments of the human countenance : and of the
countless millions of countenances that have been
upon the earth, no two were ever perfectly alike.
Man is compelled, through his own imperfection, to
enact codes of statutes, and to arraign and punish
violators — with very limited modifications — in uni-
formity with this general standard. But he is con-
scious, at the same time, that pure justice demands
something far more closely adapted to diversities of
character — something, however, never to be attained
by him, howmuch so ever he may desire it, and ap-
proximate towards it ; for it can be realized only by
an all-wise and all-seeing Deity.

Again, all justice, in its original and most promi-
nent intention, is disciplinary, not expiatory. It anti-
cipates the future — does not revenge the past; would
fit the guilty to be good citizens, and warn the inno-
cent against guilt, rather than mete out its awards in
the light of satisfactions for wrong. Its loftiest and
most delightful attribute is mercy; and it is manifest
that, in this light, there is many a criminal, could the
heart be read, of whom all punishment is superero-
gatory ; with whom the horrors consequent upon the
commission of their evil deed and its attendant ex-
posure and shame, would fully operate to prevent a
recurrence ; and with whom the punishment that may
be inflicted, operates rather to harden than to disci-
pline the character.

But, notwithstanding the depth of human hypo-
crisy, and the weakness of human perception, I am
convinced that the range of discretion of judges, in
the infliction of punishment, is far too limited. I am
conscious, that the moment it should be admitted as
a guiding principle, that comparative purity of motive
and incentive to the commission of crime, and sub-
sequent evidences of deep repentance, were to influ-
ence punishment — even in so far, perhaps, as to
supersede it altogether — there might be a plenty of
crocodile tears, and many a hardened wretch would
plead a piteous tale of his injured innocence, in justi-
fication of his sin. But the poorest principle that in-
dividuals can go upon, either for their own happiness
or the advancement of the race — is that of suspicion —
a fear of all profession, because men have sometimes
been treacherous and hypocritical heretofore. Trust
in the inherent goodness of human nature, is of vital
consequence to its improvement and dignity; and I
know not why it should not exert the same influence
in the administration of the law as in the intercourse
of society.

HARRINGTON.

An attendance upon a court of criminal judicature,
for a short time, by any one not infected with the
suspicion of human virtue I have adverted to, will
inspire sad convictions of the validity of my positions,
and a regret, that, although, as has been remarked,
perfect justice cannot be attained, some nearer ap-
proximation to it is not energetically and determinedly
sought. The views I have expressed were originally
suggested by such a course of observation of the
economy of justice ; I bear strongly in memory an
affecting instance of its arbitrary enforcements and
its inadequacy to effect its highest purposes, conse-
quent on its present imperfection.

I was in the court roomrof the Municipal Court

of Boston in the year , when a number of pri-

soneis were brought to the bar for sentence. The
eye rests with mingled feelings of contempt, horror,
pain, and commiseration upon those branded with
the seal of ignominy, and shrunk from as contami-
nating outcasts from their kind ; and, while the offi-
cers were placing these in the dock, and were unlock-
ing the handcuffs which had secured them, two and
two, while they were brought from prison, I regard-
ed them with an earnest gaze. The first, who was
called upon, was a hoary-headed wretch, with a
countenance disgustingly deformed by disease, who
was habited in the motley livery of a state prison
convict. He had been repeatedly an inmate of the
state prison for burglaries, and was now brought up
as what is designated by the law — a third comer; to
receive an additional sentence. There were none to
befriend him — none to care for him — and in a few
moments he was disposed of; receiving his award in
morose and dogged silence. The next was a tall
man, with a large, dark, speaking eye, and a promi-
nent forehead — whom I had known as a respectable
teacher of youth. He was well connected, and there
were no ordinary inducements to the violation of the
law. But he had been detected in passing counter-
feit money — the proofs of his concernment with a
regular gang of swindlers and counterfeiters were
signal, and, although a strong effort was made for his
acquittal, it had been ineffectual. And now he stood
with his fellow-guilty, for his final condemnation.
Shame had reduced him to a skeleton ; and, when his
name was called, he rolled his eyes, in a wild stare,
once or twice around the court room, and then, after
fixing them for a moment, with an intense expression,
on the face of the judge, dropped them to the floor,
while his face became more deadly pale than before,
and the perspiration of agony glistened on his fore-
head. After a few words of solemn reproof and
warning, the judge pronounced his sentence, and he
was led away. Thus, one after another was disposed
of; until, at length, one only remained. He was a
very — very young man — apparently not more than
twenty years of age. He had kept his face concealed
beneath his handkerchief while his associates had
been sentenced, and now, when, at the sound of his
name, he tremblingly rose upright, and bent his mild
eye on the clerk, there was something about the
contour of his forehead, the expression of his face,

JUSTICE.

137

and his whole natural action, so in signal contrast
with his situation — so contrary to what we are ac-
customed to realize in the criminal — that the eyes of
all in the court room — although the most were fami-
liar with the motley garb of crime — were involunta-
rily turned towards him in curiosity and interest of no
ordinary description. He had evidently suffered no
long imprisonment ; for he had nothing of the sallow-
ness of complexion incident to protracted confine-
ment ; but his cheek was transparent rather, and the
deep crimson blush that now mantled over it, con-
trasted strongly with his natural pallor. His head
was far from being broad, as is most frequently the
case with characters of decided activity either in good
or evil, and his expression had all the mildness and
trustful uncertainty of womanhood, rather than the
boldness of careless perversity. At the proper season
his counsel rose to make some remarks in mitigation
of sentence ; but had uttered only a few words when
with a graceful gesture and a voice whose tones were
bland. and winning, the young prisoner suddenly in-
terrupted him ; and the tears which he had till now,
succeeded in repressing, burst freely forth, half cho-
king his utterance, as he said, humbly and implo-
ringly—

"May I tell my story myself, if it is not improper?
I wouldn't wish to do any thing improper."

Lawyers are usually unwilling that their clients
should utter a word in their own behalf, as the result
usually operates to prejudice rather than to aid their
cause. " He who manages his own cause," says the
stale proverb, " has a fool for his client." But at
the present time, the young criminal had no sooner
spoken, than his counsel earnestly seconded his re-
quest, and when permission had been granted by the
court, sat down with a look of ardent gratification ;
which constituted strong prima facie evidence with
ihose accustomed to the peculiarities of courts, that
there was something unusual in the circumstances
attending his client's crime, and secured the more
unbroken attention. And the event justified their
conclusions. The young man poured out his over-
flowing heart in a tale of wo, so simple, so artless,
and so pathetic withal, that there was not a dry eye
in the whole court room. I was scarce able to con-
tain myself; and for a month afterwards, devoted my
best energies to relieve him wholly from a punish-
ment, which, under the circumstances, was no better
than an outrage on humanity and justice. But I will
not anticipate my purpose. Let me frame his history
into a little tale ; interweaving no more of fiction than
will serve to give connection to disjointed occur-
rences.

We will call him Edward Miller ; for his real name
has escaped from my treacherous memory, and, indeed,
I should not wish to employ it, did I remember it still.

S He was born in a town in the state of New Hamp-

I shire, bordering on the line of the sister state of Mas-

; sachusetts, of pious and thriving parents ; and when
of proper age, was sent to one of the excellent aca-

, demies which abound in New England — I think that
at Exeter — to obtain a knowledge of the more pro-
minent branches of an English education. He was

| of retiring and studious habits, and made rapid pro-
gress in his studies ; so that, after a few years, although

i then very young, he returned and opened a school in
his native town. Ardent, susceptible, and possessing
strong affections, he became attached to a young lady

; of the village, and being happy in a return of his
12*

affection, they became " engaged.'1'' This, doubtless,
by many, will be pronounced a rash and foolish step.
But I declare my verdict strongly to the contrary. I
have seen enough of human nature and of the influ-
ence of woman to cast my vote with that master
observer — Ben Franklin, for early marriages — or
early "engagements," which for our present purpose,
amounts to the same thing. I strongly repudiate the
calculating policy of those who would make a good
settlement the great essential in the formation of the
marriage bond, and affection a dependant contingency.
The influence of woman with the young, just dash-
ing into the world, is the great conservative principle
against improvidence and immorality ; and I feel that
I have just ground to look with suspicion upon his
virtue, who, having passed unmarried into middle age,
declares himself " not to be a marrying man." Sub-
mission to this influence is a theme for glorying, not
for shame. Our state-prisons and penitentiaries, in
the vast disproportion of the married to the unmar-
ried among their inmates, afford triumphant testimony
to the worth of woman. My hope of the moral
progress and full emancipation of the world in the far
future, now strong and unquenchable, would take
rather the hue of despair, were not woman the leaven
of the lump, or were she other than she is. Political
economists, if they are any thing better than mere
theoretical speculators, will be slow to decry the,
strong efficiency of woman. One of the most pro-
minent statesmen of Connecticut, of the last genera-
tion, was farmer of the school fund; amounting, I
believe, in his hands, to two millions of dollars. In-
stead of investing this great sum in stocks or in the
hands of wealthy and responsible capitalists, he made
it a principle to loan it in small amounts, of from one
to five hundred dollars, and without security, to
young men just beginning the world, not worth a
penny, it may be, emigrants, perhaps, to the far west,
about to locate themselves thousands of miles from
their native state. And yet he has been heard to
declare that he never lost a single dollar of the money .'
How did he accomplish this apparently impossible
result ? Simply by requiring every wife to sign the
note for the money, jointly with her husband. It
rendered the note not a whit the more binding, but
the feeling of personal responsibleness resting on
every woman, from the thought that her own signa-
ture was pledge of redemption, would not suffer her
to rest or to allow her husband rest, until all had
been paid. Early marriages, say I, if there be true
affection, for they are better than houses and lands.

But the school which young Miller taught was
only a casual resource ; and he was now earnest to
obtain an occupation, with which he might identify
his earthly interests. At this period, he received a
letter from an elder brother, resident in Boston,
strongly urging him to visit the city, as it would
be in his power to obtain a situation for him. He
gladly availed himself of the invitation, bade adieu
to his parents and to her who was now the star of
his guidance and his hope, and with little more than
sufficient to pay the cost of his conveyance, started
for the metropolis. On searching for his brother, on
his arrival, he was surprised to find him the keeper
of a miserable cellar, in an obscure and dirty part
of the city, where he made a show of selling a mise-
rable assortment of cheap and common goods, but
seemed to have few customers, and to be indifferent
even to them. Edward received only evasive replies

JUSTICE.

to his eager inquiries and expressions of astonishment,
but having been cordially welcomed, and being tho-
roughly ignorant of the world, he entertained no sus-
picions, imagined all to be right, and placed himself
implicitly under the direction which his brother seemed
anxious to assume over him. This brother — this
fiend, I might well call him — whom we will name
Samuel, introduced him immediately to his own
boarding house, and desired him to make himself
perfectly easy, and amuse himself with roaming over
the city, seeing its strange sights and listening to its
strange sounds; for he himself would undertake to
make the proper inquiries for a situation, which he
did not doubt would be immediately successful. Thus
passed several days ; Samuel -regretting at the close
of each, his ill success, making new promises and
inspiring new hopes for the morrow; and Edward
relying upon his love and his word ; for who would
doubt the fealty of a brother?

In the meantime, the brothers spent every evening
in various scenes of amusement. It was now the
theatre, now a public ball-room, and always in ques-
tionable company. Edward was of a naturally timid
and religious turn of mind, which had received a still
stronger bias from the example and precepts of his
parents; and he shrunk at first from those scenes
which he had been taught to look upon as dangerous,
and laid his head, night after night, upon a sleepless
pillow, whereon sighs and tears bore witness to a re-
proachful conscience. But Samuel wound his toils
most cunningly and fatally about his victim. He al-
lured him, from time to time, into conversation upon
religious topics ; and while he seemed to support the
great principles of duty, suggested doubts, and now
and then threw in a sneer, which spread the black
venom of its pollution through every vein and artery
of Edward's moral frame. At this critical period,
Edward received a letter from her to whom his
thoughts often turned in these trying hours of anxious
misery and self-reproach, sympathizing with his lone-
liness, fondly hoping for his prosperity, and stimula-
ting his resolution in duty. It cut him to the heart —
he went to his lodgings scarce able to contain his
wretchedness, and threw himself on his bed and
wept ; and then and there, too, he resolved anew to
break from the shackles which had bound him so
lately hand and foot. Suspicions, dim and indistinct
indeed, and yet startling, assailed him, of Samuel's
intentions and purposes; and as they obtained yet
greater strength from a review of his conduct, he
started from the bed — hastily paced the floor — took
a survey of his position with that rapidity in which
thought acts upon an emergency — and determined to
leave the city at once — to start away on foot, with-
out an instant's delay, penniless and alone, and trust
in God to aid him to his home. He could then ex-
plain all to Samuel, remit the money for his board,
and be happy again. But when he had even placed
his hat on his head, and his thumb on the door latch,
then, when a few moments more would have seen
him well away, hastening on, and gathering fresh
courage as the city disappeared in the distance — and
his home — the home too, of all dearest to him on
earth, was brought nearer to his thoughts — the door
opened, and Samuel, his tempter, stood beside him.
He had anticipated the action of the letter upon Ed-
ward's mind, and hurried to counteract its impression.
He was smiling and gentle ; never adverted to the let-
ter, seemed utterly unconscious of Ed ward's perturba-

tion, and expressing his gladness that he found him
all ready to go out, took him by the arm and sallied
forth. Edward submitted, and sealed his doom. He
lacked that priceless treasure, moral courage ! He
lacked the power to face this designing brother — the
mortal foe of his soul — and bid him come onward at
his peril! That evening bound him yet firmer to his
own destruction !

A month had finally passed away, and there was
still no success in the search for a place ; which pro-
duced a constantly increasing inquietude in Edward's
mind; for every week was creating an additional
debt for board, which he had no present means to
satisfy. His wardrobe too, required replenishing ; for
Samuel had volunteered, in the letter which had be-
guiled him to the city, to provide him with all neces-
sary clothing so soon as he should arrive, and en-
joined it upon him not to obtain any at home. But
he now seemed wholly regardless or forgetful of his
pledge, and that same lack of moral courage, which
prevented Edward from a declaration of his suspi-
cions, kept him silent in respect to his necessities.
And now, too, he was introduced to darker scenes of
frailty than before. He felt that he was lost.

But at this time a situation offered itself in a retail
dry goods store, in Washington street. The remune-
ration was trifling; but Samuel insisted that it was
as good an offer as could be obtained — perhaps with
truth — and persuaded Edward to accept it. He did
so, and soon won the confidence of his master. But
his dress, he was conscious, was too much worn to
enable him to maintain a respectable appearance ; and
he entered the store every day with blushing and
shamefacedness. His master finally suggested, that
he needed new apparel, and then recourse to his bro-
ther was rendered necessary. This was the climax
which that brother had been striving to produce, and
had been impatiently expecting. Then he changed
his tone. Then he declared himself too poor to
aid Edward — threw the burden of his support wholly
upon his own shoulders — but suggested — oh how
cautiously ! that he should take from his master's
store broadcloth, and the other necessary materials
for clothes — he could soon return them — it would
not be stealing — it would only be anticipating his
salary a little — no harm would be done to any bod}''.
Well may it be supposed that Edward shrunk in
horror from the proposal. But he was every day
assailed, he was separated from all good influences ;
and when, a second time, and less delicately, his
master told him that his dress was unfit to be worn
behind his counter, he yielded — and the goods were
stolen.

Let me hurry to a conclusion. The brow of the
hill once turned, the sinner goes down the steeps of
vice at a swift gallop, for his fire-breathing charger
has the bits in his teeth. Edward had cast his die.
Before long, his landlady desired payment for his
board, and again Samuel refused to assist him — he
would, however, furnish him with the money, provi-
ded, he would visit his master's store in the night
and purloin sundry designated goods. Oh, how he
wept and prayed his brother to be released from the
terrible alternative ! But Samuel was inexorable.
His prayers should have gone elsewhere — to heaven !
He should have turned from his brother, whose ear
was shut, to God, whose ear is ever open. But he
had ceased to pray to God ; and who is safe, who
does not so pray ?

JUSTICE. SENSIBLE PRESENCE.

139

He took the goods — he became a thief — and it
was but the commencement of a system of knavery,
in which he was only the tool of his brother. He
received no share of the profits of the sin, for, now
that he was in the power of his brother, all the ac-
cursed wickedness of that brother was displayed in
full, and he forced his victim to his work, by the
most appalling threats. Who will envy Edward his
life at that period ? Who does not feel for his blight-
ing agony of spirit at every word of kindness from
a master whom he had so wronged? Again, and
again, when, alas! too seldom, good influences came
over him, when his father's happy fireside, his mo-
ther's smile, his Mary's love, his own innocence,
came up in his gushing memory; he would resolve
to reveal all — to bear the consequences — the shame;
but to endure no longer — to sin no longer ! Again
and again, he went to his master's side, with the
words of confession all burning in his thought; but
the demon of fear chained his tongue to silence — he
muttered some trivial expression — and turned all
powerless away !

By and bye, through that glorious and irresistible
decree, by which all the foul pollutions of error, that
may be hidden far down in the depths of the wide
rolling current of truth, are finally whirled to the sur-
face, and exposed to the gaze of all — the wrong be-
came known — it matters not how — and while the
real knave and wretch escaped, Edward was arrested
and thrown into prison, to be branded for ever as a
felon and an outcast !

He was tried — convicted — and now stood at the
bar for sentence. The tale I have related is the
same he told, with sobbing and with tears. There
was no egotism — no unworthy desire for self-excul-
pation at the expense of his brother, but all truthful
and truthlike, and corroborated by the testimony of
every one conversant with the circumstances. But
the sense of justice in its administrator was fettered
by irreversible statutes. He mitigated the punishment
as far as was in his power. He might have sent
him for a long period to the state prison — he award-

ed him, however, only three years in the House of
Correction.

But any period of punishment, however short, I
felt to be unnecessary to achieve the ends of justice ;
while, so far as his own moral good was concerned.
I was equally satisfied that the state prison, except
in name, would have been better for him than the
house of correction ; for in the former, communication
between the prisoners is entirely prevented, while in
the latter, it is partially free; and the thoroughly
depraved have ample opportunity to infect the more
innocent with their own abandonment. I sought
out his master, who heartily joined me in efforts for
his liberation. We applied at once to the proper
source — the council of the state. We procured the
recommendation of the judge and the district attorney,
to mercy, and appeared before the council. But, in
their dignified and mighty presence, our enthusiasm
was frozen — we could not excite their sympathy by
inoculation with the strength of our own — there was
no rich and prominent advocate to set forth our
cause, and to fix the attention of their high mighti-
nesses— so our pains were lost.

And there he has been for three years — to waste
his energies and to harden his soul. There he has
been, to learn to feel that he is outcast and abandon-
ed— to have the brand of Cain set deep in his fore-
head ! There he has been to grow cold in his sym-
pathies, and to gather from his depraved companions
the lessons of crime that may penetrate his heart,
remould it from its pristine virtue and make it black
and loathsome. There he has been, to lose the love
of her whose love might have inspired him anew and
given him moral life anew ! There he has been, I
fear, alas ! that the world might lose a true man to
the cause of progress, and win one helper more to
stay it in its onward march and pull it down into
degradation. I feel too sadly, that this is but one
of ten thousand instances, to prove the position I
assumed in the outset, that a deceitful fiend is too
often robed in the garb of justice, and laughs while
she mocks her decrees !

Written for the Lady's Book.

SENSIBLE PRESENCE.

BY T. ODIORNE.

O there's a charm in feeling that we trust
In that Eternal One who reigns supreme,
Whose watching eye is over us for good,
Wake or asleep — a charm that soothes the soul
Like Gilead's balm, and fills the heart with peace !
And it is wonderful, that his regard,
Not only vast and universal is,
But to each being in the world extends,
Though ill-deserving. Wondrous clemency!
'Tis to the soul that feels that blessing true,
The richest luxury which Heaven bestows:
So he who rests complacent, merg'd in God,
Ne'er greatly frustrate nor deceived shall be,
But oft, when least expected, be most bless'd.

Still, men of ardent feelings will aver,
That, in the musings of the grateful mind,

To dwell on kindness that extends abroad,
As manifest in ever-during streams
Of bounteous blessings upon all mankind,
Is act of contemplation far more grand:
Which is indeed most true ; and yet I feel
Joyous at thoughts of his especial care,
Nor would I quench the fire of nobler minds,
At fountain kindled of Eternal Love;
But strive to catch some portion of their flame,
When they a breeze enjoy that stirs the soul,
Not only dwelling with sublime delights,
On bounteous blessings to the world at large,
But imitating Heaven in doing good.
Most perfect bliss consists in giving bliss ;
For it is social — all in love absorb'd,
Lost in fruition of delights, full-soul'd.

LET ME SING LOVE! LET ME SING LOVE!

AS SUNG BY MISS SH ERR IFF.
MUSIC COMPOSED BY

GUSTAVUS BLESSNER.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1840, by J. G. Osboume, in the Clerk's Office of the Eastern District
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II.

Yes I love ye, yes I love ye,

Now do ask me nothing more ;
But behave ye, but behave ye,

Like ye always did before.
Do not doubt me, do not doubt me,

But be faithful and be true;
And I'll have ye, yes, I'll have ye,

If a thousand others sue.

142

EDITORS TABLE.

EDITORS' TABLE

"It is a sad and lamentable truth," thus wrote the Rev.
Timothy Flint, "after all the incessant din we have heard
of the march of mind, the talk about Lyceums, and the inter-
minable theories, inculcations, andeulogies about education,
that the present is an age of unbounded display and notoriety,
of exhaustless and unquenchable burning ambition, and not
an age of calm, contented, ripe and useful knowledge for the
sacred privacy of the parlour. Display, notoriety, surface and
splendour, these are the first aims of mothers, and can we
expect that the daughters will drink in a better spirit? To
play, sing, dress, glide down the dance and get a husband is
the lesson; not to be qualified to render his home quiet, well-
ordered and happy."

We think Mr. Flint exaggerated the matter; still, as a
friend of ours and of our sex quoted this opinion, and begged
us to use the influence of the Lady's Book to correct these
follies and faults, we will give some ideas on female education,
which seem to us important.

We think that in the training of our daughters, the useful
and ornamental are not made to harmonize sufficiently. It is
not enough that woman understands the domestic department;
for if that be her chief knowledge, she will be very apt to
direct her thoughts too much to the physical good of her
household, and neglect the moral and intellectual capacities
of her children. Still, the young American lady should be
taught to feel that an anquaintance with every branch of
" household good" is as indispensable to her thorough fash-
ionable education, as the knowledge of music, drawing, or the
modern languages, and that to understand plain needlework
is much more requisite than skill in embroidery. There is
time enough from infancy to maturity to learn all these things;
the difficulty is how to introduce them advantageously, so as
neither to perplex nor disgust, into the course of the young
lady's education. Some changes must be made in the mode
of training before this can be effected. The boarding school
should never be considered as finishing the young lady. Till
this idea of finishing is exploded, female education will be
something apart from domestic life, will be considered as
incompatible with our common duties as religion has been,
by some, falsely represented to be with our real pleasures.
But more on this subject next month. In the mean time, we
wish our readers, young ladies, particularly, to reflect on the
picture presented by Mr. Flint, and see how far it represents
their own characters. Self examination is not a very pleasant
duty, if we fear that conscience may whisper " This truth is
meant for thee." But there is great pleasure in rousing the
dormant powers of heart and mind in a resolution that though
the world may flatter and entice, yet we will cherish

"The spirit of domestic peace
Which, calm and gentle as the brooding dove,
And ever murm'ring forth a pleasant song,
Is powerful as the sword of Cherubim
To guard the happy hearth. She hath a smile
That sinks into the sullen soul of vice,
And wins him o'er to virtue."

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We have had, of late, such an ocean of articles for the
Lady's Book flow in upon us, that half are not yet opened.
So our friends must have patience. The following are on file
for publication.

" The Hawiianian Testament."

" To a friend, on hearing of his Marriage Engagement."

"Evening preceding Commencement."

"A Melody."

" The Lad that I love."

" The Poet's Pilgrimage."

" The Death of Achilles — a Poem, in two Cantos."

" Evenings at a Friend's." Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4.

"Domestic and Social Claims on Women."

" Popular Prejudices."

" The Mourner."

"The Poetry of Childhood."

Our list of rejected articles must, as usual, be more extend-
ed, but some of these are above mediocrity ; and were we not
so overstocked with literary wares of the kind, we might
select a few that we now decline. Among the best of these
are

Maternal Affection—Poetry of Tears — The Red Man's Re-
venge— Forest Leaves — A Bridal Tribute to Kale— and Wo-
man's Tenderness. — Then we have The Philanthropy of the
Divine Being— excellent in idea, but poor poetry. In the
same category we must place the following half dozen poems,
viz. The Seraph's Voice— Stanzas — Life— Raptures of the New
Born Soul— Ye Stars which are the Poetry of Heaven — and
Elegiac Lines on the Death of a Friend.

There are several prose articles which we must also de-
cline. Thanksgiving Day,— Sketch of a Missionary among the
Indians — My Mothet — (this article is written so " beautifully
fine," that we cannot take the trouble to decipher it) — an
The Past. We will give a short extract from this last article,
partly, because it is such an excellent specimen of the Rosa
Matilda style, and partly to show that M. D'Hauteville is not
the only forsaken husband that should excite our sympathy.
The writer, after describing very sentimentally, the sweet
scenes of his boyhood, thus proceeds:

" I wooed a beautiful woman, and her name was Mary.
She was the idolatry on which the altar of a living/affection
was built. I won her, as I thought, and we were married.
A few months only had passed by, when I discovered that she
loved me not. How this knowledge was revealed I will never
tell. I loved her still, and tried to awaken in her bosom the
past memories of our courtship, but she was full of other
thoughts, and would not remember that she had promised to
love me for ever. I tried kindness to win her back, but it
failed. I endeavoured to transport her beyond the coldness
of a frozen heart, into the sunny regions of love — but she
would not go with me there. In the evening — in the latest
hour of its twilight, I would go with her adown the banks of
some limpid stream; and list to the ripples of its waters, and
the roar of some far distant cascade, and the song of the whip-
poor-will, and show her the twin stars of heaven. I would
then talk of love, and tell her of the long lime those stars had
loved, and been happy. I would sit down beside her, and take
her hand into mine, and press it — but these things every one
failed to rekindle again the flame of her decayed love!"

Sketcher is declined.

How beautiful the Stars are, do.

Glaucus of Versailles, Ky, do.

We agree with " Old Drury," touching the Merits of Norma,
and hope that the Messrs. Fry will be amply remunerated
for their industry, genius, and enterprise; but we do not
admit theatrical notices in our magazine We are not opposed
to theatres — on the contrary — but we have not room; and
besides, there are daily and weekly papers enough to discuss
the subject.

A. N. M. of Louisville, is informed that we cannot repub-
lish the tale sent us. Our columns demand original contribu-
tions.

Isabella Weston is too much like a story by Mrs. Hentz,
published some time since; the only difference being, one
nostrum was for the hair, the other for the complexion — in
both cases what was left was fatal to one of the family.

editors' book table.

Glimpses of the Old World; or excursions on the Continent,

and in the Island of Great Britain. By the Rev. John A.

Clark. 2 vols. W. Marshall & Co., Philadelphia, 1840:

The author of this interesting work, (Rector of St. Andrew's

Church, formerly under the care of the beloved and lamented

Dr. Bedell,) has been very favourably known to the religious

EDITORS BOOK TABLE.

143

and literary public as the author of " Mirth about Zion," —
" Pastor's Testimony," &c, also as Editor of the " Christian
Keepsake." These " Glimpses" of what he saw abroad during
his travels in the years 1337.& 8, will fully sustain his repu-
tation as a chaste and vigorous writer, who, while pleasing,
aims to improve his readers. There is an unstudied expression
of his thoughts and feelings in the work before us, which
commands confidence in his statements, and which will win
the attention, though the scenes described are those with
which every reader of modern travels is familiar.

It is the reflections — the simple, straight-forward manner
in which he tells the effect on his own heart and mind of what
he saw and heard, that gives freshness and charm to his
descriptions. He is a Christian philosopher. The following
extract will illustrate our meaning:

" The Pantheon is built in the form of a Greek cross. In
the centre rises a majestic dome, supported within and adorn-
ed without by splendid columns. This structure, built for a
place of worship by Louis XV., and dedicated to the Patron
Saint of Paris, was desecrated during the Revolution, and by
a decree of the Assembly converted into a cemetery, tor the
great and distinguished men of France. The bodies of Vol-
taire and Rousseau, among others, are deposited here. As I
looked upon their sculptured tombs, and upon the monuments
erected over men of kindred characters, whose greatest fame
i was gained by scattering ' firebrands and death' through the
I world, I could not but think, with what emotions these men
j will come forth at the blast of the archangel's trump, from
I amid the ruins of their marble dwelling, around which proud
short-sighted man, tried to throw a golden halo of glory." —
Vol. i. page 472.

Dr. Clark first landed at Gibraltar, made the tour of the
continent, and then visited England. His descriptions and
remarks respecting the last country are very interesting — he
attended numerous public meetings, and became acquainted
with many distinguished men, whose fame is as well known
here as at home. We have no room for long extracts, or we
would give the author's glimpses of some of these great ones
of the earth, because they are those who do good. But one
short sketch from life, in Italy, we cannot omit, as it concerns
those for whom we prepare our Book— our own sex —

"Another feature in the aspect of rural scenery on the
continent quite different from our own, is the appearance of
females, in large numbers, participating in the toils of the
field. This we see more or less throughout the continent:
but I have no where seen woman so much degraded by all
sorts of menial labour as in Italy. In one place on the road
we saw at least one hundred young girls, mixed up with as
many rough, coarse men, carrying baskets of earth some fifty
rods upon their heads, for the purpose of filling an embank-
ment or road. The service which our dirt carts and Irish
ditchers perform, in this country, is, in many instances, done
by woman. I have often seen females by scores in the fields
using the hoe, or fixing up the vines. They are frequently
employed as drivers of donkeys and mules, in transferring
burdens from one place to another. It is no uncommon occur-
rence to see them driving those animals, laden with manure.
Heathenism and paganized Christ ianity degrade woman to a
level with the slave. Genuine Christianity alone assigns to
her the sphere for which she was intended by her Creator,
and elevates her to her proper station in society."

Who, among our countrywomen, will not bless God that
she was born in America ?

Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship and Travels. From the
German of Goethe. 3 vols. Lea & Blanchard, Philad.

This new edition of the great German's celebrated work,
has the advantage of being revised and edited by Thomas
Carlyle, who, in the preface to the third volume, has given a
short, but very spirited sketch, of Goethe's first literary
efforts. Carlyle is a devout worshipper in the temple of Ger-
man mysticism, and his earnest spirit probably comprehends
more of the allegories, in the " Travels," than any of his
readers — except the Transcendentalists — will presume to do.
There is much in the volume to admire; and less to which
objections, in a moral point of view can be made, than in the
"Apprenticeship." Many curious remarks as well as lofty
thoughts, are scattered, like flowers on the green lap of May,
through these "Travels." Here is a specimen:

" An affectionate attention to what we possess makes us
rich, for thereby we accumulate a measure of remembrances
connected with indifferent things. I know a young man who

got a common pin from his love while taking leave of her;
daily fastened his breast-frill with it, and brought back his
guarded and not unemployed treasure from a long journeying
of several years. In us little men, such things are to be
reckoned virtue.
************

" Yes ! even beyond the limits of our being, we are able to
maintain and secure ; we transmit discoveries ; we hand down
sentiments, as well as property.
************

"Commonly the son disperses what the father has collect-
ed— collects something different, or in a different way. Yet
if we can wait for the grandson, for the new generation, we
find the same tendencies, the same tastes."

Goethe was exceedingly fond of music, and seems to have
entertained extravagant ideas of the effects which might be
produced by song. As every new thing is usually pregnant
with some useful hints, and our systems of education have
not yet reached perfection, some innovator may like to try
this novel way of" instruction and arithmetic."

"Song is the first step in instruction; all the rest are con-
nected with it, and attained by means of it. The simplest
enjoyment, as well as the simplest instruction, we enliven
and impress by song; nay, even what religious and moral
principles we lay before our children, are communicated in
the way of song. Other advantages for the excitement of ac-
tivity spontaneously arise from this practice, for in accustom-
ing the children to write the tones of what they are to utter,
in musical characters, and as occasion serves, again to seek
these characters in the utterance of their own voice ; and
besides this, to subjoin the text below the notes, they are
forced to practise hand, ear, and eye at once, whereby they
acquire the art of penmanship sooner than we would expect;
and as all this in the long run is to be effected by copying
precise measurements and accurately settled numbers, they
come to conceive the high value of mensuration, and arith-
metic, much sooner than in any other way. Among all ima-
ginable things, accordingly, we have selected music as the
element of our teaching; for level roads run out from music
towards every side."

There are axioms respecting emigration in these " Travels,"
which would have gladdened the heart of Daniel Boon— so
much do they accord with his practice. The " moving" spirit
of our countrymen is recognized as the basis of excellence
and usefulness, by the German philosopher. We give a short
extract.

" In a wide view of things, therefore, we must look on pro-
perty in land as one small part of the possessions that have
been given us. Of those the greatest and most precious part
consists expressly in what is movable, and in what is gained
by a moving life !
************

" It has been said, and over again said — where I am well,
is my country ! — This consolatory saw were better worded :
where I am useful is my country! At home, you maybe
useless, and the fact not instantly observed ; abroad in the
world, the useless man is speedily convicted. And now, if I
say: Let each endeavour every where to be of use to himself,
and others, this is not a precept, or a council, but the utter-
ance of life itself."

He concludes the volume with this pithy poem, which
would be a capital song for a backwoodsman.

" Keep not standing fix'd and rooted,
Briskly venture, briskly roam !
Head and hand, where'er thou foot it,

And stout heart are still at home.
In each land the sun does visit
We are gay whate'er betide;
To give room for wand'ring is it
That the world was made so wide."

We have said nothing of the " Apprenticeship" contained
in the two first volumes, because that part of the work is best
known among us, having been reprinted some years since,
though this edition is far preferable. It is indeed beautifully
got up, and will be a favourite with all admirers of Goethe.
There is a gem that we wish could be set apart from the
work — the " Confessions of a Fair Saint." This is one of the
most beautiful sketches of the formation of a pious character
we ever read — the sentiment is pure as "Holy Writ." It
would make a popular little volume, and a precious one too.

AlderCs Quinctilian. Marsh, Capon, Lyon & Webb. Boston.

We notice this work again in order to correct a mistake,

which we unaccountably made in the December No. On an

examination of the book, wo thought the editor had omitted

144

EDITORS BOOK TABLE. FASHIONS.

the famous criticism on the Latin and Greek authors, which
occupies a portion of the tenth book of the " Institutiones
Oratorite," but this wa9 an error as we found on again looking
over the book. It had strangely escaped our notice

We are glad to make this correction, as the retaining of this
passage adds an additional value to the work.

Who shall be Heir? By Miss Ellen dickering, author of the
Fright, &c. E. L. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

If Miss Pickering had never written any thing but the
Fright, she might rest her fame upon that, but the novel now
under notice will add another wreath to her brow. It is
piquant, interesting and witty. The scene at Mrs. Weston's,
where they all meet to ascertain who shall be the Heir, is full
of interest. The characters of Rosalind and Vivian are almost
too perfect, as is that of Cottrell too bad — but take it all in
all, it is an admirable novel.

The Hour and the Man. Harper & Brothers, New York.
Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

Harriet Martineau is the author of this work, and it is
Harriet Martineauish throughout — good, bad, and indifferent,
prejudice and intolerance. We prefer believing Napoleon
Bonaparte, in reference to the torturing and death of Toussaint
in France, to Miss Martineau. There may be a want of gal-
lantry in this assertion, nevertheless we make it. We cannot
but bear in mind the, to say the least of them, queer stories
that Miss M. related of our own country. The incidents in
the work cannot be otherwise than interesting.

Miscellaneous Essays, &c, by T. Babington Macauley.
We are pleased to learn that Messieurs Carey & Hart are
to give an edition of the above popular work, which is shortly
to appear in 3 vols. The first and second of these volumes
are partially and favourably known, by the striking extracts
which have adorned the pages, not only of English journals,
but of our own. The attractive novelty will be the 3d volume,
which is to contain a number of Essays, Criticisms, Graphic
Sketches, &c, new to the public. Mr. Macauley is one of the
most chaste and agreeable writers of the day, and these vo-
lumes will prove highly acceptable to the lovers of original
thinking, enlivened by wit, and tempered by the best taste.

.#71 Address to the Union Literary Society, of Miami Univer-
sity. By the Rev. J. McArthur. New York, 1840.

" Utility characterizes the works of God," says the writer,
and '.' Utility" is the subject of his address. He has done it
justice.

The Principle of Christian Union. By William Hague.
Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln, pp. (51.

This is an excellent little work, from the pen of one of the
most popular and powerful clergymen of his sect, the Baptist,
in this vicinity. We hope Christians of all denominations
will read this appeal.

The Boston Book, volume third, is very neatly got up, and
the literary part quite creditable to " Boston folks." Pub-
lished by G. W. Night.

The Musical Reporter. Saxton & Pierce, Boston.
An excellent work, and one well adapted for those about to
make music a study. Useful also to those who are proficients
in tn"at delightful science.

The Young- Ladies'" Journal. Linnen & Fennell, New York.
Welcome to the good work. We are happy to hail every
magazine intended either for the edification or amusement
of the fair sex. Mrs. A. S. King, the Editor, is capable of
conducting such a magazine.

The Iris, is another Monthly, also published in New York,
but our copy is mislaid, and we cannot tell by whom.

The JVew Jersey Magazine. A. L. Dennis, Newark, New
Jersey.

Another Richmond in the field — they are all welcome, there
is room enough for them all. Enterprise and a munificent
outlay of capital, will command success.

History of the United States, from the first Settlement as Co-
lonies, to the close of the administration of Mr. Madison,
in 1837. By Salima Hale. New York ; Harper & Brothers.
Carey & Hart, Philadelphia, 1841.

A compendious history of the United States, suitable for
the general reader, and, at the same time, adapted to the
use of schools, has been a desideratum. This work of Mr.
Hale seems well adapted to supply the want, both in its ar-
rangement, and so far as we can judge from a hasty glance
at its contents, the attention which has been paid to accuracy
of detail.

The Social Choir. We are glad to learn that the third
volume of this popular selection of choir music, is in prepara-
tion. Its editor, Mr. George Kinsley, deserves what he has
so signally attained — the favour of those who wish to make
music a familiar and pleasant amusement of the fire-side.

We have received a story from the author of Losing and
Winning, and Sensibility. The former has been copied into
most of our principal papers, and highly praised. The Editor
of the New York Mirror, in his paper of January 30th, says:
" We recommend Winning and Losing to the especial atten-
tion of all our readers. It is a story of every day life, exceed-
ingly well told, and full of interest. It should be printed in
letters of gold, and circulated from one end of the land to the
other. It will do more good than a thousand homilies We
know nothing of the writer, or we would cheerfully publish
his name. The sketch was selected for these columns by a
constant reader, who found it in an old newspaper, which had
been literally read to pieces. If we are not mistaken, it was
published some years ago in the Southern Literary Messen-
ger, a monthly work that does honour to the periodical lite-
rature of the country."

The Mirror is correct, it did appear originally in that Maga-
zine. We shall shortly publish our story, which we are sure
will command as attentive a perusal as Losing and Winning.

It will be perceived, in this number, that we give a plate
of entirely a different character from any of our others. We
are determined to please all tastes, and while there is nothing
to offend in it, there is much to amuse, and we thus publicly
tender our thanks to Mr. A. L. Dick, for the beauty of the en-
graving. We also give two fashion plates — one of fancy, with
beautiful head dresses, and the other, the actual spring
fashions.

DESCRIPTION OF FASHION PLATE.

Fig. 1. — Cambric dress. Corsage half high, with an edging.
Full waist, tight sleeves, six ruffles on each sleeve, from the
shoulder to the elbow, in divisions of two, cuffs trimmed to
correspond. The skirt has three wide tucks, trimmed with
edging — this portion of the dress will be very fashionable.
Pink sash, and buckle, plain straw bonnet, flowers inside. —
Worked pocket handkerchief.

Fig. 2. — Plain corsage, lace cape, tight sleeves, trimmed at
the wrist with a pointed cuff". The skirt is silk, of any colour,
to suit the fancy, three bias folds. Chip bonnet, trimmed with
flowers. Parasol of watered silk.

Fig. 3. — Walking dress. Corsage high and full, worked
chemisette, with two collars. Bishop sleeves — a cap at the
top, with pinked trimming. Band at the wrist to correspond.
Open skirt, with sash, trimmed each side in a similar manner.
Cambric under dress, with a flower scollopped at the bottom.
Worked pocket handkerchief— a most beautiful spring dress,
and will even answer with lighter material for a summer
fashion.

T >J £ S r II A Y K- D'T T !E

G 0 DE Y'S

L A

' S BOOK.

APRIL, 1841.

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE STRAY KITTEN

BY PROF. W. J. WALTER.

Far from scenes of city life,

— Scenes with cant and tumult rife,

Collins, by his magic spell,

Wafts us to the woodland dell

Where the rustic virtues dwell.

See the pretty group before ye,

True to life the simple story;

Where to truth the pencil's true,

Fancy little has to do,

For a single'glance can frame

All the painter's scope and aim.

'Tis a pretty baby treat.

Nor, I deem, for man unmeet;

He may learn a lesson, too,

Pretty innocents, from you ;

He may learn a piece of knowledge

Not obtained in books or college:

Such philosophy as finds

Entrance e'en to infant minds ;

Such philosophy as teaches

More than worldly wisdom preaches;

Which explains the high revealings,

Nor forgets the humblest feelings

In the heart which grandame nature

Has bestowed on every creature!

Which the loftiest feeling prizes,

Yet the lowliest not despises,

Which with a kitten sympathizes.

Had I Wordsworth's graphic art,
Master-pen, and warmth of heart,
Which in verses, quaint yet fitting,
Paints— "The Falling Leaves and Kitten;
Then a sister-art might aid
Scene like this so well portrayed,
Bidding it to live again,
Coloured by the Muse's strain,
And with twofold interest strike —
Different, yet how alike 1

In some venturous hour, no doubt,
Anxious mother being out,
Prudent warnings disobeyed,
A Kitten from its home has strayed.
'Tis too much the way, forsooth,
The child believes himself a youth ;
Youths beyond their teens not grown,
Dash into the world alone;
It shows spirit, clever lads,
To be wiser than their dads.

Worthies of romance may roam,
Without e'en a thought of home,
Without caring for what's good in
Solid beef and wholesome pudding;
With our Kitten 'tis not so:
Soon does he begin to know,
That, the love of independence,
With its wild romantic tendence,

VOL. XXII. 13

Is a blessing incomplete
Without something good to-eat.
This first lesson from the book
Of experience, somewhat shook
Kitten's courage; for he found
Hunger's logic sage and sound.
Well his case the saw will suit: —
" U'est le premier pas que coute."

In this moment of dejection
Caused by many a home reflection,
Lucky sight ! among the trees,
Like his own, a cot he sees ;
And around the threshold, gay,
Merry children at their play;
O, at such a cheering sight
How bis heart leaps up outright.
Briskly does our hero speed,
Quick the step when sharp the need.

When the group the Kitten spy
Quick they quit their revelry,
And the frolic game forego,
Pleased a deeper joy to know :
For good deed will joy impart
Even to an infant's heart
Sweet in embryo here to see '
Gentle hospitality,
And that sympathy of mind
Which expands beyond our kind.
Prompt relief is kindly sought,
Filled with milk the bowl is brought ;
Beckoning finger is held out
To dispel each cause of doubt,
For your kitten is a creature
Cautious to excess by nature,
By descent he has it from
His suspicious parent, Tom.
Chirping lip, in tone subdued,
Tempts shy stranger to his food.
Fain would little Tabby eat
Of the kindly proffered treat;
What his longing to regale
Is evinced by outstretched tail,
Where the sympathy is sole
For the milk within the bowl ;
While in round and whiskered face
Lurks the caution of his race,
One so young, what selfish blindness,
Tempted more by milk than kindness!
But those fears will soon be quelled,
Every doubt will be dispelled,
In that cottage, blythe and free,
Inmate soon will Kitten be ;
He will take his useful station
In the mousing occupation,
And forget 'mid joys of home,
Every wish again to roam.

146

AN EVENING'S CONVERSATION

Written for the Lady's Book.

AN EVENING'S CONVERSATION ABOUT AUTOGRAPHS

BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE.

'" How many curious devices there have been for
perpetuating the names of distinguished persons,"
said tne Schoolmaster, as he carefully turned over
the leaves of Ellen Marvin's Book of Autographs.
" This paper-and-ink system seems a very fragile
hold on immortality here below ; and yet it may
prove more enduring than the plaies of brass and
pillars of marble so ostentatiously set up in the olden
times."

" I think the pictorial records of the Ethiopians
and ancient Thebans were the best device," said
Charles Howard ; " because with the name they con-
nect the event or achievement which made it famous."

" That might be true, if we could rightly interpret
their paintings and hieroglyphics," returned the School-
master. " But as we shall never be sure that this is
done, I do not see how the renown of any particular
hero of those ancient days is to be resuscitated."

" I am glad of it," said Ellen ; " I am sure we
have famous people enough among the moderns,
without going back to the bricks of Babel for auto-
graphs. I want names with whose associations I can
feel sympathy."

" How far back in the ages does your sympathy
extend, cousin Ellen?" inquiied Charles Howeid.

" Only to the age of print," replied the laughing
girl, " I have quite a fancy for old Doctor Faust, and
would vastly prefer his autograph to that of Charle-
magne."

" For my part," said Mrs. Marvin, " I should prize
the names of Luther, Calvin, and Melancthon — those
are my heroes."

" You would doubtless like to add those of Huss
and Cranmer, and the good John Rogers, also to
your list," said the Schoolmaster.

" If the last could be appended to a MS. copy
of his ' little book' to his children, it would be an
invaluable treasure to you, Ellen," said the student.

" In truth, it would," she replied, " and I think
you would prize it too, if it contained a marginal
note stating the precise number of his children, as
that question has always seemed to puzzle you."

" Yes, it has so," replied her cousin, " but I would
not wish to have it solved. I like to know that all is
not known. I would not, on any account, have the
mystery of the man in the iron mask cleared up, or
the real l Junius' discovered. It would spoil so many
ingenious theories and wise conclusions, and after all
do no good. Let the world have something to guess."

" And discover a new ' Junius,' every ten years,"
said the Schoolmaster. " But Ellen, what female
names of past times would you most value ?"

" Why, I should like Catharine Von Borne ; as the
beloved wife of Martin Luther, I think her one of the
most interesting women of her age. And Anne
Bullen, because she was one of the most tender mo-
thers— flattering even her murderer, the king, in order
to keep him kindly affected to her daughter. Then
I would like that of Jane Grey, because she was so
innocent and wise, and Mary Stuart, because she was
so beautiful and witty — "

" And Elizabeth?" said Charles Howard.

" No, no — I detest her name and character," said
Ellen. " She was vain, selfish, arrogant and heart-
less. She should have been a man, for she really
had great talents for government, and was, for those
iron times, a very good sort of a despot to her people.
But I never can bear to think of her as one of my
own sex ; for there was scarcely a trait of womanly
feeling or affection to love in her whole long career."

" Well, she was flattered enough while she lived,
if she was not loved," said the Schoolmaster, "as all
queens will be. Here I see one of your newly added

treasures is the present reigning queen of song her

name is written very fair — "

QJUy^cC^y A( oVrs

C!£

" As it should be to represent fairly the fair writer,"
said Charles Howard, looking over the shoulder of the
Schoolmaster. " Pardon me ; I was impatient for
a peep at the name of one of my especial favourites.
I think Mrs. Norton is not only deserving of respect
for her talents, but she has a warmer claim on my
heart, I sympathize in her sufferings."

" Why, Charles, I never heard you express this
before ; when I have been telling you over and over
again, that Mrs. W. who knew her well, both at
Paris and London, positively declared she was an
innocent and injured woman, you have always, as I
thought, blamed her for leaving her husband's pro-
tection," said Ellen, warmly.

" I have altered my opinion," said the student. " I
have had opportunities of hearing, as I think, the
truth of the matter, and I no longer blame Mrs.
Norton for refusing to live with her husband. The
abuse she has suffered from him and his friends, I
believe, is chiefly, if not entirely, undeserved."

" And then only think of the cruelty of not allow-
ing her even to see her little children — her three
beautiful boys, whom she loved so well," said Mrs.
Marvin. " I wonder her heart is not broken."

« The boasted laws of England were more cruel
and unjust than pagan usages in that respect," said
the Schoolmaster.

" But the law is changed now, you know," ob-
served Charles. " The late act of Parliament gives
ample protection to the mother's right to her children.
They cannot be taken from her till they are, at least,
seven years of age ; unless it is proved that she has
been unfaithful to her husband. And this ameliora-
tion of the common law — in other words the abro-
gation of the barbarous practice of a barbarous cus- |
torn — for Christianity exalts, almost sanctities the
office and the rights of the mother — was mainly
effected in consequence, as I have understood, of the
public indignation at the cruelty practised towards
Mrs. Norton by her husband ; he refusing her access

ABOUT AUTOGRAPHS.

14?

to her children, even for a parting interview. So her
sufferings will, no doubt, spare the sufferings of more
lowly, but not less loving mothers."

" Let us hope so for the character of our own sex.
Men, who make the laws, should be most careful of
the interests of the helpless and dependant. Very
few women leave their husbands in comparison with
the number of husbands who abandon their wives —
and though the sacredness of the marriage contract
should be most carefully upheld, yet I do not think
it could be done by giving to husbands the power of
compelling their wives to reside with them, or punish-
ing them for withdrawing, by keeping their young
children from them. There are sufferings enough,
which the poor, lone creature, who is neither maid,
widow, nor wife, must endure, without inflicting
this."

" No good wife ever left a good husband," said
Mrs. Marvin. " And it is very doubtful to me whe-
ther a wife ever improved her own happiness by
leaving a bad husband. At any rate, I should never
counsel a young lady to marry, unless she felt such
affection for the man of her choice, that she could
bear with him, even though he should prove unworthy.
It is an awful responsibility which man or woman
takes, when they, either of them, break the solemn
vows they have made before God to love each other
and live together."

" As a general rule, your remarks are undoubtedly
true," said the Schoolmaster. " Still the laws of God
as well as man, make some exceptions. I think we
can judge by the conduct of the separated wife whe-
ther she had good cause for the step. If she is right,
the afflictions she has suffered, even the obloquy she

' has dared, will raise, refine, and purify her character.
She will not become a mere worldly woman — she
will seek to do good to others, by her charities, her
talents, and her kindly virtues. And thus it has been
with Mrs. Norton. Her conduct, since her separation

s from her husband, has been above reproach ; and her
genius has been, as it were, endowed with new life ;

\ for genius often seems to require crushed affections
for its sacrifice. Some of her latest poems are
touchingly beautiful from this very cause."

" I see she is styled by some of the English Re-
viewers, ' The female Byron,' said Ellen. " I was
sorry, for it seemed to imply more of passions than
affections, and the last are so much the province of
woman's poetry, that I thought the critic paid her a
poor compliment."

" Critics often consider more the effect, than the
truth of their comparisons," said Charles Howard.
" It was a very pretty turn of expression, ' this female
Byron,' and Mrs. Norton may have fallen a little too
much into his habit of dwelling too much on her
own sorrows. — But there the similarity ceases. She
is tender and devotional, in her sorrows and wrongs,

Byron terrible and misanthropical in his injuries and
resentments."

" There is one poem, ' The Forsaken,' which, I
think has much of the Byronic spirit and sentiment,"
said Ellen. " You see I have preserved it with the
autograph, though I do not think it a good or fair
specimen of Mrs. Norton's best poetry; still it has
been much admired for its deep feeling and energy
of expression." — She read as follows :

"I knew, I knew the end would come,

And thou hast willed, and wc must part.
But oh ! though banished from thy home,

Thou canst not thrust me from thy heart.
No— vainly wide wiih all its storms,

Between us rolls the distant sea,
Though many a mile divide our forms,

Thy soul shall still be full of me !

" When the glad daylight shall arise.

And wake to life thy troubled breast;
Or thou shalt miss the laughing eyes

That hung enamoured o'er thy rest;
When from the midnight blue and deep,

The sad moon gleams o'er land and sea,
The night winds in their rushing sweep

Shall bring thee back the thought of me.

"And thou shalt shrink before my name,

And sigh to hear the lays I sung;
And curse the lips that dare to blame

Her, whom thy own reproaches wrung.
Thy life is charmed ! a weary spell

Shall haunt thy spirit day by, day ;
And shadows in thy home shall dwell

Of scenes for ever past away.

"Years— chilling years — shall slow glide by,

And find thee lonely, joyless, still :
And forms more fair shall charm thine eye,

Bat have no power the heart to fill.
Even while they pledge thee passion's vow,

The sudden pang that none may see,
Shall darken on thine altered brow —

Thou'lt answer them — but think of me.

" When languid sickness numbs each limb

Fancy shall bring my stealing tread
And weary eyes, with watching dim,

To visit thy forsaken bed.
Go, rove through every clime on earth,

And dream thy falsehood sets thee free ;
In joy, and pain, in love, or mirth,

I still shall haunt thy memory."

" It is skilfully written," said the Schoolmaster,
" but not to be compared in pathos, and that deep
truth to nature which so surely touches the heart, to
several of her poems, in which she has alluded to her
children. They are beautiful : I think she excels in
depicting the sorrowful emotions of the soul, rather
than in the grand and powerful. But here is a name
the owner of which is yet to wear the laurel," and he
pointed to

(VPP%

/"[ by%jJx>*

" She is," continued the Schoolmaster, " the most cal talent than any female writer now living in Great
original — in other words, she has more native poeti- Britain."

148

AN EVENING S CONVERSATION

" She wrote for a long time over the signature of
'Delta,' in Blackwood's Magazine," said the student,
and every body supposed the writer one of the mas-
culine gender. I have heard that even Professor
Wilson had no suspicion that the writer was a woman,
or young girl, as she was when she first offered her
productions."

" I presume, cousin, that you think this was, in
western style, a mighty fine compliment to her talents,
that she should write so like a man," said Ellen, toss-
ing her pretty head, quite in the heroine style.

" No, my dear sensitive coz, I meant no such
thing," said Charles Howard. " I do not think that
higher genius is evinced in the war song than in the
cradle hymn, when both are perfect of their kind ;
though their merit is different."

" That is true," said the Schoolmaster. " The
battle song may stir armies to mighty acts of daring,
perhaps of patriotism; the cradle hymn will mould
the minds and hearts of generations to pure thoughts
and good deeds. The first may make a man regard-
less of his own life, the second makes him regard the
lives and happiness of others. And as it is easier to
teach the world evil than good, so the poet who
rouses and gives license to the selfish passions is
more successful than one who endeavours to calm,
sanctify, and restrain. Hence the poetry of woman,
which is usually of the latter class, is called tame,
insipid, spiritless. But as the moral nature of man
becomes more cultivated, the literature that addresses
itself to the human feelings will be more and more
appreciated. We shall loathe mere descriptions of
animal pursuits and pleasures. But to return to
Miss Cook — she has written some fine stanzas —
those entitled ' Washington,' are of superior merit ;
and of the kind which makes her masculine fame, I
presume, though I think, not the best specimen of her
poetry."

" I recollect a short poem, that pleased me much,"
said Eilen ; " it began

'HuUl up your heads, ye sylvan lords,
Wiive proudly in the breeze ;
Our cradle bands and coffin boards
Must come from the forest trees.'

"Oh, yes— I recollect it," said the Schoolmaster;
"it affords a good sample of her genius. The idea in
the third line was never, probably, expressed before —
it strikes the reader at once as original, bold, and
true. Such new thoughts, vivid as a flash from a
dark cloud, and strong enough to paint the rush of
the cataract, are not unfrequent in her productions.
She wants a little sweetness, a little grace at times ;
but she will gain these, by and by, when she is mar-
ried. She only needs to become a wife and mother,
to know the real tendernesses of the heart, and then
her lyre will assume all the softness it needs to make
its tones perfect ; it is now, at times, rather harsh."

" I am told she is not very fond of society," said
Ellen ; " and lives quite retired."

"But those who are well acquainted with her
speak highly in praise of her disposition," said Charles
Howard. " She probably endeavours to avoid the
heartless, who only wish to know her as a ' lion.' "

" She is in the right," said the Schoolmaster ; " and
besides, evinces her superior talents. It is only the
vain, who are never of the highest order of genius,
that are willing to be made a show. Miss Cook does
not need flattery for her inspiration; she has tasted
the true Helicon."

" I hope you will not praise her so highly as to be
under the necessity of using severity on my favourite,"
said Mrs. Marvin.

"Who may she be?" asked the Schoolmaster,
looking hastily up.

" Why, the next autograph ; there, is not that
name one to be loved and respected?"

/uty ^c^a^c,

i&7

e^&*s

" ^c/i^^t*/" t+l^l^fcuZZ, du-jrftfcc&^

" Yes, indeed," exclaimed Charles Howard. " My
old friend, Mrs. Hofland, whose stories my mother
allowed me to read on Sundays. What treasures I
thought them. ' The Son of a Genius,' gave me
some excellent lessons."

" She has done much good, in a quiet, womanly
way," said the Schoolmaster, " and deserves to be
respected. Why did you think I should be severe
on her?"

" Merely because it is contrary to the rule or the
practice of critics to praise every body," said Mrs.
Marvin.

" My mother thought the time for ' slashing' had
come, I suppose," observed Ellen. " But I intend
to have the writers of my autographs as sacred as
my friends. No one must abuse them to my face."

" You hold them to the doctrine of ' degrees,' I
hope," said the Schoolmaster. " You do not wish
the same measure of praise lavished on each ?"

" Oh, no — make the variety of epithets as great
as possible, only say something very kind of dear
Mrs. Hofland," replied Ellen.

" It is difficult to praise with discrimination," said
the Schoolmaster, " because we have so few terms or
phrases to express the good and beautiful ; while if we
choose to censure, there are severe epithets of all kinds
in abundance; I have often thought that this copious
vocabulary of evil words was one reason why many
critics affected the ' slashing' style. It requires little
talent to condemn a book ; it is very easy to say ill-
natured things of the writer; but to praise well is
difficult, because commendation, kindness, love, have
never been the spirit of the world, and therefore our
language does not express such feelings truly or har-
moniously."

" The reason, then, which makes praise so often
seem exaggerated, I presume," said the student, " is
that our terms are not sufficiently distinctive, they

ABOUT AUTOGRAPHS. FAREWELL COLUMBIA.

149

do not convey an image of any particular excel-
lence to the mind, but only an outline of all forms
of excellence, which we are never willing to allow
one person to monopolize. And so before we distrust
or ridicule the kind-hearted critic we should endeavour
to improve the language in which he expresses his
thoughts so imperfectly."

" Yes — the more we cherish the kindly feelings,
the more eloquent we shall become in expressing
them. The French will coin a word for home when
they have the thing. The expression will, after a
time, follow the sentiment," said the Schoolmaster.

"And all this time you have said not a word of my
favourite," observed Mrs. Marvin.

" She does not need it," returned the Schoolmaster.
" She has that which is better than praise, the love
and confidence of her readers. She has always
aimed at doing good, and her works are free from
sickly sensibility or overstrained sentiment. But she
is more popular in her own country than she ever
has been or ever will be in ours. The truth is, that
she is of the old school — a thorough and devoted
admirer of every thing English, as it has been. She
does not advocate progress, simply because, in her
mind, there is no need of improvement — or at least,
no need of change. She teaches duties, however, as
they lie around the daily paths of life, with much
fervour, and has done, as I before observed, much
good."

" I have here a letter from her to an American
lady, in which she gives this account of her works,"
said Ellen, and she read as follows :

" ' I send you my last production, and perhaps the
last. I trust the young (for whom I have written
thirty-six volumes of one sort or other,) will find
something good in it, or at least, nothing evil ; but
beyond this it has little merit, for I am, in fact,
wearied out as to invention, having written forty
volumes of Tales and Novels, besides those for chil-
dren, and innumerable articles in Annuals, Magazines,
I and Reviews, and all within thirty years. In early
life I scribbled, but burned my productions. Besides
my literary labours, I have been an indefatigable

sewer in every kind of woman's work, and men's
too, if it were wanted, for I loved to conquer diffi-
culty.' "

" She is an excellent woman, I doubt not," ob-
served the Schoolmaster. " The letter does honour
to her head and heart, as Lady Bulwer would say.
She has certainly set an example of industry to her
sex."

" Only think — she has written nearly eighty vol-
umes !" said Ellen, " Why do you smile, cousin
Charles ?"

" I was thinking," replied the student, " how dis-
proportioned often was the fame acquired with the
amount written. That one grand lyric, ' The Burial
of Sir John Moore,' has given a wider and more en-
during fame to its author, Wolfe, than Mrs. Hofland
has gained by her thousands of pages."

" Exemplifying the difference between talent and
genius," said the Schoolmaster. "Talent gives to
society its circulating medium of literature, to make
a financial comparison ; sometimes in pure gold,
oftener in silver, and there is in our days, plenty of
small change. But Genius, when he visits the earth,
always bestows rare and precious gems. The one
you have named is a diamond that will never tarnish
or grow pale."

" What a bright world we should have, if all per-
sons were gifted with genius !" exclaimed Ellen.

"And a very miserable one, unless the human
constitution was greatly altered," replied the School-
master. " We want rest and the refreshment of com-
mon things. We could not exist long, if life were a
state of excitement and extasy. One Byron was
enough to set the world in an uproar, and quite suffi-
cient for his time. And besides, what value would
autographs possess, if every name was distinguished ?"
" In that case," said Charles Howard, " Ellen
would have to enlarge her book, and make

' The earth its binding and the sky its page.'"

" Which I shall not do, till this is filled," said
Ellen, closing the book.

wa*^*^-^

Written for the Lady's Book.
SONGS OF THE NEW WORLD.

BY MRS. C. B. WILSON, LONDON.
FAREWELL COLUMBIA.

The wand'rer doom'd to plough the pathless deep

Sighs for the peaceful home he leaves behind ;
And on the visions of his troubled sleep

Float phantom-forms, within his mem'ry shrin'dl
The scenes of Infancy, fond thoughts supply

Where in life's morn, his footsteps wended free,
And his lip murmurs with a half-drawn sigh

" Farewell, Columbia ! Oh ! farewell to thee '."

The pilgrim doom'd 'mid other lands to roam,
In mem'ry turns to view the happy past,

To trace the spot of Boyhood's gleesome home,
And linger upon days, too blest to last ;

13*

Again to fancy's vision scenes arise

That bring him back those hours of youthful glee,
And his lip murmurs, as his bosom sighs —

" Farewell, Columbia! Oh J farewell to thee !"

And many a kindred heart, and smiling eye,

That ne'er may ble3s his life's lone path again,
Sweep o'er his mind, and tender thoughts supply,

Soft as the balm of summer's gentle rain.
And, as beneath the mists of twilight skies

The melting dew, refreshes flower and tree ;
So Hope sustains the wand'rer while he sighs

" Farewell, Columbia ! Oh 1 farewell to thee !"

150

INFATUATION ; A TALE OF THE TIMES.

Written for the Lady's Book.

INFATUATION; A TALE OF THE TIMES.

BY A LADY.

At the close of a brilliant day in summer — smiling
summer — a day that had been signalized by one of
those great civic events which characterize the history
of a people — two ladies might be seen seated in a
quiet parlour of a small though not inelegant man-
sion in one of our northern cities. A profound silence
reigned throughout the streets, save occasionally
when a lonely horseman, or a barouche laden with
the fairest of America's daughters, might be seen re-
turning from their evening ride. The sunset was
lying upon the city in warm, gorgeous, and glowing
radiance ; each ray of light seemed mellowed into
beautiful shadow ; and the clouds themselves curtain-
ed the fair earth with a splendid drapery of scarlet
and purple. It was the repose of the sun, and he
sank to his evening rest in magnificent beauty — such
as has been described as the prerogative of the sweet
South, and as a not unfrequent appearance in an Ita-
lian heaven ; but such as rarely visits our cold and
sober skies with its more than imperial glory. — Mrs.
Hemans wrote glowingly of the going down of the
sun.

• his farewell-

Unlike the world he leaves— is calmly bright ;
And his last mellowed rays around us dwell,
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight."

So probably thought the elder of the two ladies we
have mentioned, as she staried from a long reverie,
and, with something of the fervour of youth, des-
canted upon the beauty of the evening. The most

respectable inhabitants of A , had on the day we

have described, given a public dinner to their distin-
guished fellow citizen, and profound statesman, Mr.

B , in token of their high esteem for his private

worth, and their right appreciation of many important
services rendered to their country. An immense
building had been erected for the purpose of the din-
ner, in one of their public squares ; and, at the time
we have opened our narrative, the feters, and the
feted were engaged in that " feast of reason and flow
of soul," which are the usual concomitants of the
assembled wisdom and intelligence of a free people.
* * * * * *

" I have not observed the sunset, dear mother,"
said the younger of the ladies (for they were mother
and daughter) replying to the rhapsody of the former,
" notwithstanding your unwonted enthusiasm. I was
thinking that if / only were a man, what a speech I
would have made to-day at the Ausonian ! I would
have addressed the multitude with the wisdom of
Cicero, and the eloquence of Demosthenes. They
would send me to Congress, where a whole senate
should sit entranced as they listened to me, whilst

' With the strong rein of commanding words
I'd manage, guide, and master the eminence
Of men's affections.

And draw, divert, dispose and fashion men
Better than force or rigour can direct 1'

" A most statesmanlike determination, truly," re-
plied Mrs. Fletcher to this burst of feeling ; « but one

that I must acknowledge as somewhat unfeminine.
Were you really a man, (which Heaven be praise
you are not,) you would I presume become
of those indomitable characters who ' seek the bubbl
reputation even at the cannon's mouth."

" I would live to acquire fame," answered Alice
" such a fame as should make men wonder as the
worshipped ; and, even now, fettered as I am by what
is considered the delicacy of my sex — I feel an im-
patient spirit to be doing something greater and bette
than my position in the world's eye would justify,
The fact is, the world needs reforming ; and wome
should be permitted to take an active part in thi
work. They should rouse from passive inactivity,
and employ themselves in a more enlarged capacit;
than as darners of stockings, artificers in embroider
or skilful combiners of the ingredients of a pu<
ding !"

Mrs, Fletcher prepared to remonstrate with he
daughter on sentiments which evidently displease^
her, but which she had not till now heard her ex
press, when she was interrupted by the entrance of
fair and beautiful girl, whose whole appearance indi-
cated the possession of a gentle spirit, as well as thi
attributes of mind.

" My dear aunt and brilliant cousin," she said
after replying to the salutation of Mrs. Fletcher am
her daughter, " what did I hear as I entered abou
darning stockings and making puddings ? Alice
looking as contemptuously, as if the bare idea of doin
either were a degradation — as scornfully, forsoot
as if you had compelled her to sully her fair hand;
with the washboard and scrubbing-brush. What i:
the matter, my charming coz? Don't you remember
the purport of an old axiom that has gone the round;
of our papers, 'no. sensible man ever thought a beai
tiful and accomplished wife, worth half as much a:
one that could make a good pudding ?' Now I am
too liberal to agree entirely to this very circumscribed
idea, yet I believe there is some truth about it. We
should all learn to be useful."

" Truth about it !" exclaimed Alice, indignantly,
" it's very well for you, Josephine Hamilton who
never possessed a spark of ambition, to talk about
domestic economy — you, who would be satisfied
with simply doing the duty to which you are called
as~a poor, weak female, without having any nobler
desires — you, who the other day, defended the cha-
racter of Edward Worthington, a man without a
shadow of intellect and no aspiration for greatness —
with a face as long as a country parson's, and man-
ners all awkwardness and timidity. It's very well
for you to pretend to prate about being useful — but
give me duties above and beyond it !"

" You must first define what duties are ' above and
beyond' being useful," said Mrs. Hamilton who had
not before spoken, though joining the little coterie at
the same time with her daughter. « There is much
comprehended in those two little words. They include
charity, benevolence, disinterested kindness, besides
many essential duties to our fellow creatures, some of
which, require to be enforced not only by precept, but

INFATUATION ; A TALE OF THE TIMES.

151

example. There is nothing ' above or beyond' such
high privileges save our hopes of. Heaven — these are
indeed paramount aspirations, to possess which, we
must first ' do our duty in that state of life to which
it has pleased God to call us.' "

Alice looked at her aunt with a sort of contemp-
tuous stare, which went far to declare that from that
moment she was to be condemned in her mind as an
" inveterate croaker," and began impatiently to turn
over the leaves of a book she had been reading.
There was a pause in the conversation, which, awk-
ward as it was, none of the persons present seemed
inclined to break. Mrs. Hamilton understood the
feelings of her niece, and waited their revulsion. Jo-
sephine had met her cousin's haughty and impetuous
reply to her remark with her usually quiet spirit; and
Mrs. Fletcher was astonished, mortified and angry,
in discovering what she deemed a sudden change in
her daughter's disposition and impulses. With a
violent effort, however, she subdued her thoughts,
and directed the conversation into a new chan-
nel, till the entrance of the gentlemen returning from
the fete before alluded to, dispelled that constraint of
manner which each one had felt anxious yet unable
to overcome. Josephine looked at her father, as he
attempted to give some illustration of the great men
who had addressed them, with an expression of disap-
probation totally foreign to her usual glad attention ;
she was fearful that he was unconsciously touching
on what she intended should be from that day forbid-
den ground when in the presence of her cousin, and
that his conversation might excite in Alice, a renewal
of her unpleasant feelings. Happily, her fears were
not realized ; and, after a short time, the Hamiltons
departed. Mrs. Fletcher felt that all was not right
with her daughter, and she dreaded to make her hus-
band a confidant of her fears. He would not have
been an harsh counsellor; but she excused herself
from doing her duty, on the score that her husband
was perplexed with business, and she would not trou-
ble him with her trials at home. Alas ! when this is
the case with husband and wife, " there is something
rotten in the state of Denmark." Where there is a
fear of mutual confidence, to which of the parties
concerned is the fault generally attributable ? Mrs.
Fletcher had had the sole education of her daughter,
without any interposition of paternal authority, and
she discovered too late, the want of her own exertion
of a proper discipline over her ductile mind. Alice
retired to her chamber but not to rest — her whole
frame was in a state of excitement — her only feeling
that of thorough indignation, that " every thought
and action of a woman must be squared and cribbed
and maimed to the rule and fashion of the world's
opinion !"

Though born of the same parents, no two persons
could be more opposed in character than were Mrs.
Hamilton and her sister. But those traits which
in youth presented only slight shades of difference,
had in marriage developed themselves in striking con-
trast. Nor is it an uncommon thing, to find strong
diversities of character amongst the members of one
family. Society would be indeed wearisome and
monotonous, were every one governed by the same
principles, or actuated by the same impulses. Yet in
families as well as nations, is required a governing
power to direct to right conduct, and to counteract
pernicious influences. It was in the government of
their families, that the difference to which we have

referred, first exhibited itself. Mrs. Fletcher had
married a man absorbed in business, with whom,
accumulation was the Alpha and Omega — the end
and aim of life. Consequently his wife received no
assistance from him in the education of her family.
She considered the restraints of the school-room inju-
rious to her little ones, and following up the maxim
that " rules were only made for schools," she became
lax in her discipline, and her children, lawless and
disobedient. A contagious disease infecting the
neighbourhood where she resided, deprived her of her
three youngest offspring in early childhood, whilst
the eldest alone remained to become the victim of
over-indulgence, as she was already the spoiled child
of fortune. Alice's education was faulty in the ex-
treme ; possessing naturally strong capacities, though
illy directed — weeds of bitter prejudice, and aspirations
after elevated station took possession of her mind,
unwittingly fostered by her mother. Mrs. Fletcher
had inspired Alice with a desire for pre-eminence — a
desire that she would be something in life ; without
distinctly defining what that something was, and with-
out guarding her from improper influences. She had
probably no other object in this ambition than a dis-
tinguished marriage for Alice ; but she did not under-
stand her daughter's character. Her aim was to
acquire a reputation for genius ; and having an entire
disbelief in female inferiority, she would have made
her husband but a puppet in her hands. She was
determined to stand on her own foundation, as the
defender of what she deemed the rights of woman —
she would become by her own efforts, the benefactor
of her sex. Unfortunately for Alice, there were
at that time other females, the bent of whose minds
led them in a similar direction, with whom she be-
came intimately acquainted, and whether for good or
evil, the sequel will show.

Mrs. Hamilton was likewise left alone in the edu-
cation of her only daughter, though from a widely
different necessity. Her husband was a bright orna-
ment in the legal profession ; possessed of a mighty
intellect, and powers of reasoning rarely equalled.
He excelled both as a pleader and a counsellor — his
fame had spread throughout the land — he was pur-
suing a career of important usefulness; and, it was
only when he looked at his wife and daughter, that
he regretted his time was his country's — not his own.
Still, there were occasionally, moments of leisure
which he devoted to his family; and in the dawning
intellect of the young Josephine discovered a bud of
blessed promise, expanding gently under the best of
influences — that of a mother, who, like the Roman
matron with her 'jewels,' valued her child's mind, as
a precious casket committed to her charge, which
she was anxious to adorn with the gems of meekness
and humility. She would not place an artificial
embankment about it, to conceal as it were, any
mental deformity ; the whole structure was laid bare
to her gaze, and she implanted thereon a thorough
basis for moral as well as mental advancement. Nor
did she altogether neglect those extraneous trifles
that please in society — she endeavoured first to clothe
her mind in the simple, proper, and rich garb of the
virtues, and when this was done, she decorated her
person with the graces of fashion.

We have lingered thus long over the description
of the principal personages in our narrative, as ne-
cessary to the development of our. plot, even as the
arguments appended to the " Iliad" of Homer, or the

152

INFATUATION ) A TALE OF THE TIMES.

" Paradise Lost" of Milton, are received as illustra-
tions of their succeeding chapters.

A few weeks after the conversation, related in our
first chapter, Mr. Hamilton ,with his family, removed
into the country, where he was ^he owner of an old-
fashioned hereditary mansion, large and spacious
enough to occupy the ground of three modern cot-
tages. Myrtlegrove borrowed nearly all its beauties
from the advantages of its locality. It occupied a
shady nook retired from the main road — a spot which
both nature and art had decorated with most lavish
profusion. Wide-spreading elms, and gigantic syca-
mores shaded the northern entrance, towering their
proud heads aloft, and planted like " ancestral bul-
warks" by kindred of the olden time — high balconies
with their clustering foliage of jessamine and honey-
suckle, " the myrtle woven round the casement, and the
cedar by, shading the sun" — looked towards the south,
whilst east and west, a magnificent landscape lay
spread before the view, presenting, like the glowing
pictures of Claude, not images of the ideal alone, but
a reality that seemed steeped in sunshine. Nor were
the grounds belonging to the house less beautiful than
the lawn in its immediate vicinity. The exuberance
of creation was every where discernible — abundant
fruit-trees of every description ;

" Queen lilies, and the painted populace
Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives."

flowers of every variety " in glory and in multitude
rivalling the constellations," spring up as if by en-
chantment. The fairest of the insect race hovered
around; the beautiful butterfly fanned his bright wings
in the odorous air of a spot it had selected as a fitting
abode for its fairy revels — and, at night when all was
still, glittering fire-flies — those " evening revellers"
danced in myriads among the boughs and branches,
and emitted their light, like golden drops, from the
bright canopy of Heaven. Such was Myrtlegrove,
and the traveller as he stopped his horse to admire
its peculiar loveliness, mentally applied to it the ex-
pression of Miranda,

" If the ill spirits had so fair an house,
Good things would seek to dwell in it."

The pleasure of enjoying the society of his friends,
was a gratification, which, owing to a variety of in-
dispensable engagements occupying him in town, Mr.
Hamilton was obliged to reserve for the country, and,
on the present occasion, his beautiful residence was
filled with agreeable people. It is only necessary for
us to enumerate such of these personages as are es-
sential to our narrative. The Fletchers were of the
party ; and the son of a distinguished Senator from
the south — Arthur Cleveland, besides a young man
of some four and twenty years, whose name we have
once before given to our readers. Edward Worthing-
ton possessed none of those adventitious advantages of
mere personal beauty, that can at a glance captivate
a fair lady. A naturally weak constitution, with a
remarkably rapid growth, had given him any thing
but a prepossessing appearance ; his height, too, was
somewhat remarkable — more than six feet — and a
slight awkwardness that might have passed unnoticed
in another, was from his unusual size, rendered doubly
conspicuous. He was not, however, as Alice Fletcher
has described him, " all awkwardness and timidity,
without a shadow of intellect, and no aspiration for
greatness," his gaucherie of manner, vanished before

those whom he loved — his diffidence was the result
of ill health, and his intellect, like the buried diamond,
needed only to be brought to light to prove its purity.
Unlike the clay and the gold as they are found
moulded together, it required neither sifting or analy-
zation ; there was no complicate admixture of good
and evil. He had lost his parents in his childhood,
and during his minority had been a ward of Mr.
Hamilton's. Alice had chosen to make him the object
of her ridicule, and no occasion for sarcasm was suffer-
ed to pass unheeded. Josephine had often remon-
strated with her cousin against her unfeeling remarks,
but to no effect; and she only received as a rejoinder,
" please yourself, Josey, with papa's quondam ward,
and your bashful man, the Irish Giant, and leave the
rich southerner, Arthur Cleveland to me." Now this
same Arthur Cleveland was in appearance the very
antithesis of Edward Worthington; the rich bloom
and sunny brightness of health mantled on his cheek,
and the light of intellect sparkled in his eyes. Pass-
ing through a boyhood of unalloyed happiness — the
conscious object of pride, hope, and parental affection,
and seeing before him, a long and bright career of
noble action, he was like the free bird of the moun-
tain, his ambition was as boundless as the illimitable
ocean ; and his spirits were as elastic as the air. He
was pursuing the profession of the law, with Mr.
Hamilton, and, in the attainment of legal knowledge
was making rapid strides. Accessible to intercourse,
and possessing great freedom of thought as well as
action, his society was sought by Alice, as one cal-
culated to advance her peculiar views ; and she ex-
erted every means which the fascinations of her beauty,
the brilliancy of her wit, or the liveliness of her rail-
lery could effect to subdue him to her purpose. It
chanced one day, that the family at Myrtlegrove had
assembled in the library, where Mr. Hamilton was
unpacking a case of books, that had been forwarded
from his bookseller, and the ladies were watching his
progress as attentively, as if in anticipation of the last
new novel.

" Unless you are fond of politics, ladies," said Mr.
Hamilton, archly, observing their eagerness, " I fear
your expectations will be disappointed. I find no-
thing of importance here, save the congressional
speeches of last winter, bound like standard editions;
and a valuable collection of law books for my young
friend, Mr. Cleveland."

" I am really disappointed," said Josephine, reply-
ing to her father's remark, " I was expecting those
works, the catalogue of which I gave you in the city ;
but if you have not received them, the speeches will
do for a rainy day, for I can say with Florence Las-
celles, that to politics I am never indifferent ; they al-
ways inspire me with contempt or admiration, accord-
ing to the motives of those who bring the science in-
to action."

" A wise answer, my daughter — but I regret, as
you do, the non-arrival of the anticipated books, par-
ticularly the admirable work, entitled ' Woman's
Mission,' originally suggested to the English author-
ess, by the perusal of that excellent production of the
French writer, M. Aime Martin, ' Sur VEducation
des Menes."

" And, in what does the author believe Woman's
Mission to consist?" asked Mr. Cleveland.

" In being instrumental, under Providence, for the
moral regeneration of the world," replied Mr. Hamil-
ton— " In being restorers of God's image in the hu-

infatuation; a tale op the times.

153

man soul. Nor can there," he added, " be a nobler
destiny — a more heaven-fraught mission !"

Alice Fletcher had listened to this little colloquy
with some attention, and Edward Worthington had
looked up from a volume he was examining with a
countenance all animation.

" Woman must act, then," said the former, " and
no longer suffer herself to be trampled on as an infe-
rior creation ; she should be permitted to have a voice
in the assemblies of the people — she should be placed
at once on an equality with man."

" You would place her, then, in a very ludicrous
position, my dear niece," remarked Mr. Hamilton,
" such a position as would, at best, present only a sa-
tire on her sex — you would place her in power as an
usurper; and in the attainment of this mistaken ele-
vation, you would procure for her only a l Procrustes

bed' she would soon discover ' how uneasy lies the

head that wears the crown.' "

" Yes, take from woman all her rights," said
Alice, with great indignation, " and your mighty,
magnanimous sex rises step by step in the great scale
of their being ! Chain and fetter woman to her own
fire-side — make her little better than the compulsory
promoter of the daily comforts of man — and you
show therein no selfishness of purpose — you simply
leave higher and more important duties in the hands
of that part of the human race, in their own estima-
tion, better fitted to perform them efficiently !" She
spoke with great bitterness of spirit, as she added —
" I at least will be no nullifier of woman's rights !"

" Woman's rights !" exclaimed Edward Worthing-
ton, who had not before taken any part in the con-
versation, and who now startled the little assembly by
his emphatic ejaculation. — " It is all a chimera — and
here is a passage to the purpose — ' Woman has no
rights ; at least none that would empower them to
fill those masculine niches in the world, which would
authorize them to kill their fellow creatures as sol-
diers ; cajole them as statesmen ; or cheat them as
lawyers. A woman's proper and only empire is her
home, and unless her nature could be physically
changed — that is, unless she should cease to be wo-
man— it never can or ought to be any other.' "

" But I think I can produce a passage still better
to the purpose," said Josephine Hamilton, " from the
writings of one of our native authoresses — a sweet
poetess, and a sound-minded woman. She says —
' Man might be initiated into the varieties and mys-
teries of needle-work ; taught to have patience with
the feebleness and waywardness of infancy, and to
steal with noiseless step around the chamber of the
sick ; and woman might be instructed to contend for
the palm of science, to pour forth eloquence in sen.
ates, or to « wade through fields of slaughter to a
throne.' Yet revoltings of the soul would attend this
violence to nature, this abuse of physical and intel-
lectual energy ; while the beauty of social order would
be defaced, and the fountain of earth's felicity broke
up. We arrive, then, at the conclusion. The sexes
are intended for different spheres, and constructed
in conformity to their respective destinations, by
him who bids the oak brave the fury of the tem-
pest, and the Alpine flower lean its cheek on the
bosom of eternal snows. But disparity does not ne-
cessarily imply inferiority. The high places of the
earth, with all their pomp and glory, are indeed ac-
cessible only to the march of ambition, or the grasp
of power. Yet those who pass with faithful and un-

applauded zeal through their humble round of duty,
are not unnoticed by the ' Great Taskmaster's eye'
— and their endowments, though counted poverty
among men, may prove durable riches in the King-
dom of Heaven."

" Right, right, my daughter !" exclaimed Mr. Ham-
ilton, whilst the bright radiance of paternal pride suf-
fused itself over his fine, intelligent countenance. —
" You have read us an admirable extract, and I think
we may well be pardoned for expressing our own
ideas in the words of another, especially when we
find language more forcible than our own. I believe
I have with me some passages from the work which
led to our present conversation, that may be in point
to our argument" — and he pulled from his note-book
a slip of paper, from which he read as follows : — " It
is in vain to seek in political institutions, or intellec-
tual cultivation, the moral regeneration of mankind.
This can only be done by the cultivation of the reli-
gious and moral portion of their nature, which cultiva-
tion no government has yet attempted ; over which, in
fact, governments and public institutions have little or
no control. The most powerful of all moral influences
is the maternal. On the maternal character depends the
mind, the prejudices, the virtue of nations; in other
words, the regeneration of mankind. The principle of
divided labour seems to be a maxim of the divine gov-
ernment, as regards the creature. It is only by a con-
centration of powers to one point that so feeble a be-
ing as man can achieve great results. Why should
we wish to set aside this salutary law, and disturb
the beautiful simplicity of arrangement which has
given to man the power, and to woman the influence,
to second the plan of Almighty goodness ? They are
formed to be co-operators, not rivals, in this great
work ; and rivals they would undoubtedly become, if
the same career of public ambition, and the same re-
wards of success were open to both. Woman, at pre-
sent, is the regulating power of the great social ma-
chine, retaining, through the very exclusion complain-
ed of, the power to judge of questions by the abstract
rules of right and wrong — a power seldom possessed
by those whose spirits are chafed by opposition, and
heated by personal contest."

" And, now, my recusant niece," said he, looking
at Alice, " are not the rights of woman — or rather
the claims made for woman — sufficiently exalted?"

But Alice made no reply to her uncle's question :
and Edward Worthington observed —

" That there was but one remark to be added —
women must move quietly in the great work to which
they are called — they are denied the eclat of being
reformers to society ; and there must be a deep prin-
ciple at the root of female education, to induce women
to acquiesce in the plan which assigns to them the
responsibility without the fame. This principle is
their disinterested love, and generous self-devoted-
ness; and it is the manifestation of these qualities
which is so much needed for the regeneration of so-
ciety. If we wish, then, to know the political and
moral condition of a state, we must ask what rank
women hold in it. Their influence embraces the
whole of life. A wife — a mother — two magical
words, comprising the sweetest sources of man's fe-
licity. Theirs is the reign of beauty, of love, of rea-
son. This is always a reign ! A reign glorious enough
for all but the indomitably arrogant !"

A cloud was gathering over the brow of Alice —
she seemed ready " to let slip the dogs of war," and

154

infatuation: a tale of the times.

Mrs. Hamilton knowing that such darkness forebode
a storm, hastened to put an end to the colloquy. She
told the young folks that their horses were being ac-
coutred for a ride, and she despatched them to their
rooms to prepare themselves also. Half an hour af-
terwards and the gay equestrians were on the road,
caracoling their proud steeds with the easy grace of
Die Vernon or Harry Hotspur.

The library conversation, however, was not so
soon forgotten by those who took part in it. In the
lives of individuals there are moments which give a
character to their exisience — moments which are fol-
lowed by consequences imperfectly apprehended at
the time, leading eventually to a course of conduct]
which proves to be either a blessing or a bane.

Whatever good or pleasing impression the beauty
or the wit of Alice had produced on the heart of Ar-
thur Cleveland, it was entirely effaced by the discov-
ery of her unfeminine sentiments — sentiments which
he believed were only repressed by the presence of
her aunt and uncle ; for though she condemned the
one as a croaker, and the other as a bigoted moralist,
they were the only persons who could restrain the
outpourings of her impetuous and eccentric mind ;
and there were times when even their efforts proved
ineffectual. He sought her society no longer — but
in the presence of Josephine Hamilton, whose mind,
if less versatile and more reserved, was solid and well-
directed, and possessed of those lofty qualities of in-
tellect, which are capable of being made subservient
to as much perfect happiness as can exist on earth,
he found an enjoyment both pure and permanent.
Her great strength of memory, and the rich copious-
ness of its stores — aided by an imagination, which, if
not brilliant, was refined and etherial — exerted for no
purposes of display, but elicited only by the genius of
another, excited his sincere admiration; and Joseph-
ine, unknown to herself, was gaining a powerful in-
fluence over his life and actions.

The health of Edward Worthington (which from
his childhood had been delicate, from which, and his
rapid growth, fears were entertained that he might be-
come the victim of consumption) improved beyond
all expectation, by his residence at Mr. Hamilton's
beautiful retreat. The bright traits of his character
were no longer in the shade, and the awkwardness of
his manner, proceeding mainly from timidity, vanish-
ed in the presence of his guardian's happy family, even
as the mists from the mountain disappear from view
in the effulgence of the morning sun. Josephine had
been his playmate in the confiding hours of early
youth; and when he was prevented by weakness from
joining the sports of his companions, who scoffed and
laughed at him for " his girlishness," as they called
it, she was the " mimic champion of his wrongs" —
the brave defender of his boyish rights. Can we won-
der if, in after years, she was " his paragon, his dream
of joy" — or deem it unnatural, if, in the perfect pu-
rity of her heart, she had reposed her brightest hopes
of earthly happiness on the unsullied altar of his af-
fections.

The Fletchers remained at Myrtlegrove but a fort-
night after the conversation in the library, during
which time Alice was seldom visible. She confined
herself to her apartment, being, as she said, " engaged
in writing ;" and the old black servant, who had been
some time in the family, was continually despatched
with letters to the village post-office ; and he once
told Josephine that " he sartainly believed Miss Ally

was 'scribing public doc'ments, for he never seed any
body but her father send off such great packages."

There was evidently a want of confidence in the
Fletcher family, ar.d an air of mystery about the con-
duct of Alice, which both Mrs. Hamilton and her
daughter observed with sorrow, though they permit-
ted her to depart unquestioned. Mrs. Fletcher was
out of health — and the was ordered to the South for
change of air ; but, strange as it may seem, Alice
did not accompany her. Mr. Fletcher escorted his
wife as far as Richmond, where he received letters
requiring his instant presence at the West, on mat-
ters of urgent business, and he was obliged to leave
her, though not until he had seen her comfortably
established at the house of some early friends, who
gladly received her with the open-hearted hospitality
so characteristic of the inhabitants of the Old Do-
minion.

We must now pass over some months in our
story. A delightful and invigorating autumn had
succeeded a brilliant but enervating summer; and
the Hamiltons had returned to the city, and con-
templated passing the ensuing winter at the seat of
government. Mr. Hamilton had been elected Repre-
sentative to Congress — and he would not depart
without his family. Arthur Cleveland and Edward
Worthington were to accompany them. The former
was anxious to hear the debates; and the latter was
to go as private secretary to Mr. Hamilton, whose
business (demanding great sacrifices, if he yielded to
the public wish, and went as the people's representa-
tive) required the employment of a person of trust.
The private property of young Worthington justified
him in accepting the appointment — he had no other
occupation to neglect, his health having prevented
him from entering into business. Mrs. Hamilton had
desired her niece to join them for the winter, dislik-
ing to leave her in her lonely home — but Alice de-
clined the invitation, nor could any entreaty induce
her to relinquish her resolution, much to the sur-
prise of her cousin, who, in the prospect of a ' winter
in Washington,' anticipated not merely a succession
of levees, parties, and balls — but a purely intellectual
gratification, in witnessing for the first time in her
life the assembly of the collective wisdom of her
country.

It chanced the morning previous to their intended
departure, that Josephine was reading one of the
daily journals, when she suddenly uttered an excla-
mation of surprise, and the paper fell from her hands.
Mrs. Hamilton looked up in amazement, and her
daughter recovering herself, read as follows:

" A meeting of the ' Female Moral Reform Society,'
will be holden on Tuesday next, at the Tontine Chapel
at 4 o'clock, to take measures for the suppression of
vice and immorality among men — and also to take
into consideration the utility of publishing a weekly
journal to be devoted to the objects of this society.
A punctual attendance is requested.

Alice Fletcher, Secretary."

Here, then, was the commencement of Alice's
plan of action. She had unfortunately renewed a
former intimacy with one of her youthful school-
companions — who was a very Wolstonecraft in
fanaticism; and, who finding in Alice, a mind full of
rancorous feeling, at what she deemed the inferiority
of woman's privileges — had moulded her to her pur-

INFATUATION J A TALE OF THE TIMES.

155

pose, and induced her to place her name thus boldly
before the public. Alice had resumed her acquaint-
ance with this infatuated and artful woman, previous
to her visit at Myrtlegrove— and it was her undue
influence, aided by a faulty education, which had pro-
duced the change observable in her character and
conduct. It was to this woman she had written,
while she excluded herself from her true friends in
the country. Though on the eve of his departure,
Mr. Hamilton delayed it for some days, for the pur-
pose of remonstrating with his niece, on her strange
and improper conduct. He represented to her, that
she was losing caste, among the discreet and good —
that she was taking a step, the folly of which, she
would surely live to repent. He placed the subject
before her in its true light — he told her of the stigma
she would bring upon her family — he delineated in
eloquent and forcible language, a delicate female
descending from her high station of loveliness and
truth, to follow phantasy — to acquire an unenviable
and unfeminine notoriety. He exhorted, reproved,
and expostulated, but to no effect; be entreated her
to go with them to Washington — but she refused to
do so, with a haughty manner as if declining a con-
descension. She was of age, she said, and would act
for herself! Mr. Hamilton trembled for the effect
which this conduct was calculated to produce on the
mind of her sick mother and absent father — for he
knew they would ultimately hear of it ; and he again
admonished Alice, trying with pathos to appeal to her
better feelings; but she seemed determinately im-
moveable; and, sick at heart, he was finally compel-
led to leave her to her own reflections.

*****
Josephine Hamilton became the belle at Wash-
ington. Not that she courted popularity — not that
she loved to be the cynosure of all eyes — not that
she valued the homage of a crowd ! Her father's ele-
vated position obliged her to go much into society,
where the beauty of her person, and the intelligent
simplicity of her conversation, aided by an indefinable
grace of manner, that seemed to borrow its fascina-
tion from the entire absence of all affectation, made
her an universal favourite. Those that were brilliant
in rank, and high in favour at home; — foreign am-
bassadors— diplomatists, and attaches — doctors, law-
yers, and merchants — those who felt honoured by
her smile, or encouraged by her notice, sought their
opportunity to present for her acceptance, their hearts
and " worldly goods." She was admired, 'and, like
all beauties, flattered. But how did she receive this
flattery? She smiled at its nothingness — and would
have said with one of our most gifted poetesses, that

; Woman's heart,-

A true, proud, loving woman's ne'er was won,

By that most worthless hauble, Flattery.

Your thoughtless words betray their own light falsehood,

For we are very sure, when lips o'erpraise,

The mind must undervalue our true worth,

And wrong our intellect, — deeming we try,

With child-like eagerness and love, to catch

Your bribe for hearts — your rainbow-lit illusion." —

Mrs. Hamilton wondered that her daughter was so
fastidious — and when, urged by the young and bril-
liant Cleveland, to advance his suit, she placed before
her the advantages of such a match, both in a moral,
mental, and pecuniary view — Josephine answered
simply, that " she did not love him, and, that not for

a universe would she marry without love." " You
taught me yourself, my dear mother," she added,
" that a love created by brillancy of wit, dignified sta-
tion, splendour of living, or beauty of external ap-
pearance, is built upon the sand, and having no sure
foundation; it cannot resist the "roaring of the
winds, or the rocking of the waves."

" Yes," said Mrs. Hamilton, " but Arthur Cleve-
land has other than these extraneous qualities — he
would " love, cherish, and honour" his wife with a
lasting affection — he would"

" Say no more, dearest mother," interrupted Joseph-
ine, " I know that he has pure morals, and a proud
intellect, and, that in every respect, he is worthy of
my regard. Tell him so from me. Assure him of
my gratitude — but say to him with all gentleness and
delicacy, that whilst I cannot love, I shall never cease
to esteem him."

We have already hinted to our readers, that
Josephine's affections were placed upon another —
and that other, was her early love. Edward Wonh-
ington, though in the unimportant capacity of secre-
tary to Mr. H, had acquired celebrity, and been an
acute observer of political events. He was acknow-
ledged as the author of several important papers on
government policy, and the best plans for the regula-
tion of the public currency — papers which were long
afterwards regarded as works of authority; and al-
luded to frequently in the speeches of Congressional
men, as the explicit exponents of their own proposi-
tions. And when Edward Worthington with a name
not " unknown to fame," made proposals in due form
to Josephine, what was her reply ? " We have long
loved each other, dear Edward, and require no pro-
mises for future faith. I should be unworthy of the
frankness with which you have treated me, were I to
affect any foolish airs of reserve. This is the proud-
est moment of my life, and may the future receive its
brightness from the happiness of the present hour."

We must now return to the affairs of Alice. She
experienced a feeling of remorse after the departure
of her uncle, but a mistaken pride would not allow
her to retrace her steps — and the new friends by
whom she was surrounded, led her on from step to
step, till being completely infatuated, she was no
longer governed either by judgment or reason. Her
false theory of what was right, became an absolute
belief, and in the practice of error, she thought she
was acting for conscience and truth. Many were the
true friends who sought to bring her back by gentle-
ness and their own example, to better and purer im-
pulses— but they tried in vain. She was determined
and resolute to pursue her course. Opposition seemed
to lead only to angry dissension — and with hearts
aching at her obduracy, her friends were reluctantly
obliged to leave her to her headstrong ways.

The first intelligence that reached the Hamiltons
after the marriage of their daughter, was of a very
melancholy nature. Mrs. Fletcher had continued to
decline, till the information of Alice's conduct threw
her into a nervous disorder which rapidly put an end
to her existence; — whilst her husband, harassed by
the unsuccessful termination of a visionary specula-
tion, which involved his property to an immense ex-
tent— mortified by his daughter's dereliction from
feminine duty — and distressed by the death of his
wife, was rendered peculiarly liable from a state of
mental anxiety, to the infection of a contagious dis-

156

INFATUATION ; A TALE OF THE TIMES.

ease which was then ravaging the cities of the South.
The physician advised his return, but he was reck-
less of life, and taking no means to prevent it, he im-
bibed the infection, and after an illness of ten days,
breathed his last in a land of strangers. And what
effect had these sad events upon the mind of Alice?
They were made known to her with the kindest con-
sideration for her feelings, by Mrs. Hamilton. She
received the heart-rending intelligence with the most
apathetic indifference — too much absorbed in her
own pursuits, to view any event with fearfulness or
sorrow, save such only as might prove an obstacle
to her headlong course. The " Moral Reform So-
ciety," from want of funds, died " a natural death,"
and was soon forgotten in a new excitement. In this
she engaged with her usual impetuosity ; and it was at
a meeting held by a society of which she became a
member, in regard to this subject, that Alice Fletcher
ultimately met with her final downfall from all that was
womanly; and became the derision of the other sex,
as she was already the contempt of her own. The
building in which this meeting was held, was attacked
by the canaille, or mobocracy as it was termed, of the
city, and attempts were made to effect an entrance
among the assembled females. Alice advanced to the
window, and addressed the incensed multitude — an
act which but increased their indignation. The result
was that they were ejected from the building.

Her brain seemed to be on fire ; — excitement
had succeeded to excitement, till reason tottered on
its throne — there was no Lethean wave to drown
the memory of her degradation, and a severe illness
was the consequence. At this juncture Mrs. Worth-
ington sought out her abode, but there was a decided
aberration of intellect, and Alice knew her not. By
the advice of his physician, Mr. Hamilton had her
conveyed by slow stages to Myrtlegrove, trusting in
its quiet shades to restore her to health and useful-
ness. Her aunt and cousin, with unshaken fortitude,
watched daily by her bed — but their efforts, aided by
the best medical advice, proved unavailing. An en-
tire alienation of mind took place — there were no
hopes of her recovery — and unwillingly, though ne-
cessarily, they were obliged to send her to an Asylum
for the Insane, where she lingered for many years,
believing herself a queen in her castle, and its unfor-
tunate inmates her rebellious subjects. She died, as
she had lived, in the exertion of a false and imagina-
ry superiority.

We need scarcely tell our readers that the union of

Mr. and Mrs. Worthington proved an eminently hap-
py one, being founded on mutual esteem of charac-
ter, and a love which had "grown with their growth,
and strengthened with their strength."

" Does it ever occur to you, my love," said her
husband, some years after their marriage, as he sat
in his wife's apaitment, teaching his eldest child, a
fine boy of four years old, to put the letters of the
alphabet into syllables — " Does it ever occur to you,
how many brilliant matches you rejected, for an awk-
ward, ungainly fellow like me ? There's your old

beau, Mr. A , has been elected Mayor of the

City, and will, in time, be Governor — and there's that

grave and dignified student, Mr. B , who has

received the honorary degree of L.L.D., and may,
perhaps, attain a greater elevation. There, I see you
begin to repent, my dear Josey."

" Not I," said his wife, looking at him with a smile
of joyfulness. "In the woids of a Roman matron,
which I have read in a dialogue, I can truly say, that

' I do not care for greatness —

It is a thing lives too much out of doors,

'Tis any where but at home ; you will not find it

Once in a week at its own house.' "

« Hear me out," interrupted her husband. " Mr.

C has had the highest office of public trust in the

United States bestowed upon him — and the accom-
plished Mr. D has been made Ambassador Ex-
traordinary to the Court of St. James ! They have
eclipsed me entirely — and their proud consorts — oh,
how they will queen it over my poor little wife !"

" Well, let them do so," said his wife, as she
laughed, her own sweet laugh sounding clear and hap-
py, and vibrating through her husband's heart, like
the richest melody of music —

" ' My Queendom is to be a simple wife ;
This is my government, my husband's house,
Where, when he sits with me, he is enthroned
Enough ! Ycu smile, but Juno be my witness ,
I'd rather see him with his boy upon
His knee, than seated in the Consul's chair
With all the Senate round him !'

» These are my jewels," said Josephine, as she re-
ceived her babe from the arms of its nurse, and look-
ed with pride at her noble boy. " It shall not be my
fault if they attain maturity without acknowledging
and illustrating the happy effect which a well directed
maternal influence is calculated to exert for the moral
regeneration of mankind."

™m«*^^/'

Written for the Lady's Book.
TO H. H.

I gazed upon a dewy star,
As twilight robed the plain ;

And oh ! I thought 'twas lovelier far
Than all the glittering train.

I loved that star ! to me, its beam

Was dear as it was fair ;
And gazing, I would fondly dream

Some kindred heart was there.

And once I madly dared to hope
That star might leave the sky,

Or shed upon my eye alone
Its tender witchery.

Forgive, sweet star, my selfish heart,

I would not dim thy ray;
For dearer to me far thou art,

Than all the blaze of day.

Shine on! shine on! yet ever be

My being's polar star ;
And still I'll turn to gaze on thee,
And bless thee from afar. E.

G. C.

THE FLOWER OP SOUVENANCE.

157

For the Lady's Book.

ROMANTIC INCIDENTS IN BRITISH HISTORY.

THE FLOWER OF SOUVENANCE; OR, THE TOURNAMENT BETWEEN LORD SCALES AND COUNT DE

LA ROCHE OF BURGUNDY", A. D. 1467.

BY PROFESSOR W\

WALTER

Tournaments are so intimately connected with the
romantic associations of the days of chivalry, that a
minute description of a very memorable one, cannot
fail to be read with interest, and more especially at a
time when an attempt has been made, and is again
making, to revive these doings of the olden time.
The combat which forms the subject of our paper,
was fought in Smithfield between Anthony Rivers
Lord Scales, and the Count de la Roche, in the reign
of Edward the Fourth. Some account of these cham-
pions may be acceptable to the reader.

The person selected by Lord Scales to be his op-
ponent in the tournament, was conspicuous in the
martial enterprises of Burgundy. Though an illegi-
timate son of the head of that house, he was honour-
ed both in his own and foreign countries and was
familiarly known by the title of Messire Antoine
de Bourgougne, Compte de la Roche. He was
created knight of the Golden Fleece in 1456, and in
1462, he engaged to fight in the lists with Philip de
Crevecceur, as the champion of an oppressed lady : a
feat which was performed in Brussels. He appears
to have been a true son of chivalry, for we find that
he had sent " letters of request," as a challenge was
then termed, to Lord Scales, some years previous to
the adventure of the Flower of Souvenance, from
performing which Lord Scales was prevented by the
wars and divisions in England.

Anthony Wydeville, the English champion on this
occasion, was the eldest son of Lord Rivers, by Ja-
quetta, Duchess of Bedford. He married Elizabeth,
heiress of the Lord Scales, and was summoned to
parliament under that title, in right of his wife. Two
years after his marriage, King Edward visiting his
father's manor of Grafton, fell in love with his sister
Elizabeth, and privately married her in 1464, and she
was crowned at Westminster the year following. In-
consequence of this royal connection our champion
was advanced to honours, and became an influential
personage.

It was a short time previous to his sister's coro-
nation, that the singular adventure took place, on
which our narrative is founded. We are fortunately
enabled to give an account of the transaction in the
champion's own words, as contained in his " letters
of request" to his opponent, which we translate for
the benefit of such of our readers as are not acquaint-
ed with the French language of that period; though
we can hardly promise to preserve that naivete of man-
ner, which constitutes their principal charm.

THE WRITING AND ARTICLES SENT BY THE LORD
SCALES TO THE COUNT DE LA ROCHE OF BOUR-
GOUGNE.

Right noble, worthy, and renowned knight, and
right worshipful lord, I recommend me to your noble
and good remembrance as devotedly as one knight
may to another, sending you my letters of request,
that we two may assemble in arms, and by the proof
VOL. XXII. 14

thereof increase that renown, which is the true life
of nobleness. God knoweth that the greatest desire
I have in the world is to give this honourable and
laudable proof of true knighthood ; and principally to
the intent, that, by the said means, I may enjoy the
acquaintance and friendship of one whose virtues and
prowess are known to me, and of which the renown
is spread and published through all Christendom ; and
also trusting, that, by you and your alliance, I may
have knowledge of the right honourable and trium-
phant house of Bourgougne, of which I repute myself
the right humble servant and kinsman, and which, as
far as in me lies, I desire to serve and honour. For
these reasons, most worshipful lord, you must know
that my greatest desire and total affection is, above
all things to find means to accomplish the thing
above rehearsed, which will do us so much honour as
to procure us the fraternity and love which two
knights may have to each other by arms, and as a
prologue to this noble work, I write to you of a
goodly adventure that hath lately befallen me, re-
quiring of you in all affection, and by the worship
which you bear to knighthood, to take heed in this
matter, and do me so much honour as to discharge
me of my bond ; and in so doing and accomplishing
the same, I shall ever repute myself your most be-
holden knight.

Truth it is, that on the Wednesday next before the
solemn and devout day of the Resurrection of our bless-
ed Redeemer, I did, for certain causes of mine, approach
the Queen of England and France, my sovereign lady
to whom I am right humble brother and subject. And
as I was speaking to her Highness kneeling, with
my cap from off my head, as my duty was, I wot not
by what adventure, nor how it happened, but all the
ladies of her court came around me ; and before I
could know what they intended, they of their bene-
volence did tie about my right knee a collar of gold
garnished with precious stones in the form of a letter;
the which, to say the truth, when I perceived, I felt
it nearer my heart than my knee. And to the same
Collar was attached a noble Flower of Souvenance,
enamelled, and in the manner significant of an enter-
prise. And at the same moment, one of them said
to me with demureness and yet with courtesy; " Sir
Knight, for this time you must take it in good part;"
and so they all of them withdrew to their places.
Quite abashed at this adventure, I rose up, and was
going to thank them for the great honour they had
done me, when on taking up my cap, which I had
dropped in the confusion of the moment, I found
within it a writing on fine parchment sealed with a
small thread of gold only. I immediately concluded
that it contained the wish of the ladies aforesaid, as
to what I was to do and accomplish for the Flower
of Souvenance, which they had bestowed upon me.
Then did I right humbly thank the Queen, that, of her
good grace, she had suffered so much honour to be
done me in her noble presence ; and the same did I

158

ROMANTIC INCIDENTS IN BRITISH HISTORY ;

also to the ladies who had made me that noble present.
Then went I forth before the King of England and
France, my sovereign lord, as I was in duty bound to
tell him of my adventure, and to tell him of the enter-
prise with which I was charged. I presented him
the said letter, so closed, beseeching him right hum-
bly that it might please his Highness to do me the
grace to consent to the will of the ladies in this
regard, and that he would give me leave to fulfil the
contents of the said letter for the adventure of the
said Flower of Souvenance. The King of his grace,
brake the thread of gold, and caused the said letter
to be read, and the request therein contained he libe-
rally granted me. The following articles were then
drawn up :

1st. Article. — In the worship, reverence, and help
of our blessed Saviour, and of St. George, the patron
and watchword of Englishmen; to the augmentation
and increase of knighthood, to the recommendation
of nobleness, and for the glorious study of arms and
worthiness, to eschew the idleness of lost time, and to
obey and please my fair lady : I, Anthony Wydeville,
Lord of Scales and Nucelles, Englishman, have, this
27th day of April, 1465, received from the said ladies
the gift of a rich collar of gold, and in the same
hanging a noble Flower of Souvenance, which of
their grace they have tied to my right knee ; the
which Souvenance, by the good pleasure and leave
of the king, my sovereign lord,'I have taken as an
enterprise, and charge myself therewith to finish and
perform, by God's grace, the arms following : First,
I shall be bound by express command to appear in
the noble city of London, at the day and hour ap-
pointed, in the month of October next coming, before
the king, my said sovereign lord, or his deputy, my
judge in this party, against a nobleman of four line-
ages, and without reproach, at my choice, if such
present himself against me.

2d. Article. — That we shall assemble on horseback,
armed each of us after his pleasure, in saddles of war,
without any advantage, or evil purpose or weapon ;
that we shall run one course with the spear only, the
spear-head being ground ; that then we shall take hi
hand our trusty swords, and shall fight, be it with the
foyne or with other strokes, each of us to his advan-
tage, to the compliment of thirty and seven strokes
to be smitten between us two.

3d. Article. — I shall deliver spears and swords,
whereof my opponent shall have the choice.

4th. Article. — And if it happen (which God fore-
fend) that one of us should be cast to the ground out
of the saddle, without fall of the horse ; be it of the
stroke of the spear or of the sword, the Arms shall
be holden as accomplished.

5th. Article — And if it so be (which God forefend)
that one of us be hurt, either by the spear or the
sword, beyond the power of returning the blow, the
Arms shall be holden for accomplished as above.

THEN FOLLOW THE SECOND ARMS ON FOOT.

1st. Article. — That we shall do Arms on foot,
armed as it appertaineth to noblemen, and may bear
buckler or target as it may please us ; that we shall
be weaponed with spears, axes, and daggers ; that we
shall make only one course of the spear, and then we
shall fight with the other weapons, till such time as
one of us shall be borne to the earth, or be at all
points unweaponed.

2d. Article. — That I shall deliver the said weapons,
of which my opponent shall have the choice. That
if any question arise, it shall be submitted to the
judgment of the king. That I shall be bound, at my
own cost, to procure of the king good and sufficient
safe conduct for the nobleman and others that shall
do me the honour to come and meet me in combat,
according to the tenure of these articles, and for such
a number of attendants and horses as they shall
require.

On the Friday following, in the presence-chamber,
the king ratified the above articles, and gave per-
mission to Lord Scales to accomplish the enterprise,
and to send the Herald, Chester, with the letters
and articles to Bourgougne. When this had been
attested by the High Constable, under his seal, Ches-
ter began his voyage without delay, and reached
Brussels on the 30th of April, when he executed his
commission ; and after having been entertained in the
most honourable manner, took his leave on the 10th
of May, bearing with him Bourgougne's reply to Lord
Scales. On Thursday, the 23d day of the same
month, he reached Greenwich, and made his report
to the king in person.

Before presenting the reader with Bourgougne's
letter, we must not omit some of the ceremonies
that took place on the presentation of the Flower
of Souvenance. We give it in the words of Chester,
the Herald.

" In the presence of the Lord Charles of Bour-
gougne, and a large assemblage of his nobles, I
delivered the letter of the Rt. Hon. Anthony Wyde-
ville, Lord Scales. After the reading of the same,
the Lord Charles answered, ' Do your charge, we
license you.' Then the said herald went into another
chamber, took the Lord Scales' coat of arms upon
his person, and bore on high in his hands, the Flower
of Souvenance, covered with the lower border of a
rich kerchief; and bringing it thus honourably, he
made three obeisances at approaching the presence,
and after the third obeisance let fall the lower
border of the kerchief which covered the emblem
of enterprise. Bourgougne then approached, and
asked leave to touch the Flower of Souvenance,
in proof of his readiness to fulfil the articles which
had been read. Permission being granted, he said
to Chester the Herald, ' I pray you recommend me
right lovingly to the Lord Scales, my kinsman, and
say, that I thank him right heartily for the honour
he hath done me by his writing, to the edifying and
the increasing of honour ; and for the fulfilment of his
honourable request, I take upon me, by license of my
Prince, to touch this Emblem of Enterprise, and
oblige myself to accomplish these his articles.' He
then respectfully touched the Flower of Souvenance,
and making a reverent obeisance, he took one end
of the kerchief in which the emblem was borne, and
the Lord Charles the other, and so covered the said
Flower of Souvenance worthily, as it had come into
the presence. -Then the said Chester kneeling to the
Duke said ; ' Right High and most puissant Prince,
meekly I beseech you to pardon me for my simple-
ness, and the rudeness of my speaking.' The Duke
answered ; ' Chester, ye are right welcome !' Then
Chester departed with the Emblem. Before leaving
Brussels he was presented by Bourgougne with a
rich robe furred with sables, the same that he wore
at the touching of the noble Emblem ; he also added
his doublet of black velvet, garnished with points,

THE FLOWER OP SOUVENANCE.

159

and with the sleeves clasped with gold, and a purse
of fifty Reinish guelders. On his departure, he was
accompanied for a league out of Brussels with an
honourable cortege of nobles and gentlemen."

botjrgougne's reply to the lord scales.

" Noble and worshipful Lord —

I recommend me to your remembrance as heartily
as possible, and thank you affectionately, and as in
duty bound for your letter written to me by Chester
the Herald, and for the agreeable tidings it contains;
as also for the enviable honour done me, in present-
ing to me the noble Flower of Souvenance ; for the
which I so much and so much thank you, that in no
wise can I express the same. And in your gentle
letters you show me such honour, love, and friendship,
that all my life I can never requite the same. And
now, noble and worthy lord, for the honour of knight-
hood, for the desire of love and alliance with you,
and to discharge you of your bounden duty and obli-
gation, I have, this first of May, touched the rich
Souvenance of your enterprise, in proof of my com-
pliance with your honourable request, and of my ac-
ceptance of the contents of the articles presented;
and, with God's help, I intend to pass into the realm
of England, at the time and day in the said articles
appointed to accomplish our feat at arms. I require
of you, on your part, that in like manner you will so
dispose and arrange your doings, that the desire of us
both may come to effect. For the present I write
no other thing to you, but to pray to the Redeemer
of mankind to give you of honour and wealth your
heart's desires. Written at Brussels, and signed with
my own hand this 4th day of May.

" Your beholden

" BOURGOUGNE."

On the 18th of the same month, he arrived at
Greenwich, whence he was conducted to London
by the Earl of Worcester, constable of England,
accompanied with a number of the nobility and
gentry. The cortege came by water, and seven
barges and galleys, all richly decked out in arras and
cloth of gold, were provided for the occasion. There
he was met by a procession, at the head of which
was the English monarch, attended by his nobility.
They were met at St. Paul's by a number of the
clergy, a number of bishops in their mitres received
him with incense at the door, and conducted him to
the high altar, where he made his offering. The
11th of June was fixed for the Tournament, and the
scene of action was to be Smithfield.

On the appointed day, the king proceeded in state
to Smithfield, and took his seat in " the place judicial"

! arranged for him. He was attended by a long train
of nobility and gentry, all dressed for the occasion

i in staid robes of state and ceremony. The trumpet
sounded, and the Lord Scales made his appearance.

i He was armed cap a pie and mounted on a courser
gorgeously caparisoned. Before him were borne two
helms, the one by the Duke of Clarence, the king's
eldest brother, the other by the Earl of Arundel ; the
two spears and swords were borne by the Earl of

, Kent, the Lord Harry of Buckingham, and the Lords
Herbert and Stafford. The Constable and Marshal

i coming up to the bars, demanded of the champion,

'in the king's name, the cause of coming, and were

i answered by him, that it was to accomplish the feat

of arms comprised in certain articles sent by him to
Bourgougne. The king then commanded him to
enter ; the barrier was opened, he presented himself
before the king, and after doing reverence, retreated
to a splendid pavilion prepared for him in the south-
east corner of the field, over which was seen waving
the banner of St. George.

Immediately after Bourgougne made his appearance
at the barriers. He was, if possible, more gorgeously
arrayed than his antagonist, and was attended by
seven Esquires. The horses were harnessed in
trappings of crimson and gold, hung round with bells
of silver, which gave animation to the spectacle. The
royal permission having been given for the champion
to enter the lists, he presented himself before the king,
and spoke as follows : " Right high, mighty, and ex-
cellent Prince, I am come hither before your presence
as my judge in this party, to accomplish the acts of
Arms contained in certain articles sent me by your
Lord of Scales, under the seal of his arms, which I
here hold."

The king gave him safe conduct, and license to
perform his enterprise. He then departed to his pa-
vilion in the western corner of the ground, where he
helmed himself openly. In the mean time the spears
and swords were brought to the king, who examined
them, and then sent them to Bourgougne to make his
choice of each. The trumpets then sounded, and
the following Proclamation was delivered in a loud
voice by the Herald at arms.

" Since it is so, that the most Christian and victo-
rious Prince, our liege Lord Edward the Fourth, by
the grace of God King of England and of France, and
Lord of Ireland, hath licensed and admitted the right
noble and worshipful lords and knights, the Lord
Scales, brother to the most high and excellent
Princess, the Queen our Sovereign Lady, and the
Count de la Roche, of Burgundy, Earl of Roche and
Lord of Beresae, to perform certain deeds of arms
comprised in certain articles delivered to his Highness
by the said Count, sealed by the said Lord Scales,
with the seal of his arms ; for the augmentation of
martial discipline, and knightly honour, and for the
defence of the right of kings and princes, and their
estates public : — for so much we charge and command
you, on the behalf of our most dread Sovereign Lord
here present, and on my Lords the Constable and
Marshal, that no manner of man of what estate, de-
gree or condition whatever, approach the lists, save
such as be assigned, nor to make any noise, mur-
mur, or shout, or any other manner of token or sign
whereby the said right noble and worshipful lords and
knights, who this day are to do their arms within
these lists, shall be moved, troubled, or comforted,
upon pain of imprisonment, fine, and ransom, at the
king's will."

Then the Constable commanded a herald to cry;
Laissez aller! Then both the champions grasped
their lances, and spurring their coursers, leapt forth
from their pavilions into the arena. They then ran
a course courageously, meeting in the very front
of the king's judicial seat, but neither hit his adver-
sary. Then the Lord Scales cast aside his spear,
and his garde-bras, and threw open his beaver ; Bour-
gougne did the same. But the Lord Scales was the
more expeditious ; he therefore fetched a circuit, and
assailed his antagonist with a thrust in the neck.
He parried the blow, and struck his opponent a home
blow on his helmet. In the heat of the onset,

160

THE STORM AT SEA.

Bourgougne's horse became ungovernable, and rushing
upon the iron pike upon the fore part of Lord Scales'
saddle, was wounded in the eye and nostrils, and
reared up with such violence as to fall backwards and
throw his rider. The Lord Scales seeing his oppo-
nent on the ground, turned towards the royal seat
and held up his sword ; and seeing Bourgougne could
not rise, he rode straight to the King, and tearing off
the trappings of his horse, showed that he had no
champron — armour for the horse's nose and cheeks.
The King then commanded Bourgougne to be taken
up and brought before him; and as it had been stipu-
lated that on the failure of one horse another might
be demanded, he was asked if he wished it, and his
answer was that he declined ,it. When asked if he
were wounded, he thanked the King, said he was not
materially hurt, and was ready to do his arms on foot
on the morrow. The meeting then broke up.

On the following day, the champions met with
nearly the same forms as on the preceding, the same
noblemen bearing the weapons for the combat on
foot, consisting of two casting spears, two axes, and
the same number of daggers. When these weapons
were presented to the king, he examined the spears
with care, and observed that they were too danger-
ous for men who were merely to perform " an act of
pleasance." He therefore ordered them to be laid
aside, and commanded the combatants to confine
themselves to the other weapons. No sooner had
the herald given the signal Laissez aller! than the
Lord Scales threw open the curtains of his pavilion,
and proceeded into the arena, as lightly as a carpet-
knight to the dance ; he stood examining his axe, and

tossing itgaylyfrom hand to hand. Bourgougne was
not backward to meet him. They advanced to the
front of the King's seat, and encountered each other
manfully, the Lord Scales exclaiming three times,
" St. George."

" The battle," says Olivier de la Marche, who was
a witness of the same, "was very fierce; I never saw
a fight with axes more fiercely contested ; if the Lord
of Scales displayed coolness and agility, sure Monsieur
Bourgougne gave good proof that he was a true
knight, experienced in arms, and an adept in the craft.
The former fought with the broad edge of his axe,
the latter with the small end ; the strokes followed
thickly, and were struck home. The Lord Scales cut
through one of the ribs of Bourgogne's coat of mail,
but in return he received a blow from his antagonist
on the visor, which seemed to stun him for a moment.
The King perceiving that the encounter grew warm,
and that the combatants were for having recourse to
their daggers, cried in a loud voice, Whoo ! and yet
two or three powerful blows were exchanged before
they desisted. The Lord Scales fought with his
visor open, which was thought very jeopardous ; the
Count fought with his closed, but opened it towards
the close of the action. They were then brought
before the King, who commanded each of them to give
the other the hand, and to love one another as true
brothers in arms ; which they did, for they immedi-
ately interchanged as courteous and friendly language
as could be imagined. They both quitted the lists,
carrying their axes on their shoulder, to show that
they had not been unweaponed. And so they retired
each to his lodging."

Written for the Lady's Book.
THE STORM AT SEA,

BY MRS. ELIZABETH D. HARRINGTON.

Hark! to the deep breathed thunder of the waves!

Hark ! how with demon voice and demon might,
They sound through all their dark and solemn caves,

War's dreadful 'larum to the ear of night !

Fierce to the battle, lo ! how swift they fly !

Swelling and foaming in their mad career !
Their silver banners now salute the sky,

Now, sinking, mingle with the darkness drear !

Fiercer and fiercer wears the frantic night !

Million on million voices stun the air!
The mighty winds come howling to the fight,

Like long-pent lions bounding from their lair!

Its brilliant horror now the lightning lends !

The pealing thunder mingles with the roar
Of falling torrents, and wild Tumult rends

Sea, air, and heaven, from shore to viewless shore!

Unearthly sounds! Sweet Sleep, affrighted, sighs,
Spreads her soft wings and flies your harsh domain ;

While Terror pale, with strained and fiery eyes,
And silent Awe begin their solemn reign !

God — in the hollow of thy hand we lie!

Death's eager shaft is round us and above;
But clear-eyed Faith, all trustful, points on high

To that blest beacon-light, thy perfect love !

FORMATION OF CHARACTER.

The bias of our intellectual and moral character is
in general given long before we are capable of reflect-
ing on the operation of our own faculties. We re-
ceive it from the circumstances in which we are first
placed, and it is in the power of a wise and benevo-
lent superintendence, which it is the proper business
of education to exert, to give it a direction which will
contribute essentially to the improvement and happi-

ness of the mind to the latest period of existence.
Education comprehends the direction and modification
of all impressions, so far as they are within human
control, which are made upon the intellectual and
moral agent, and its object is to bring all the faculties
of the mind to perfection, and to guard against what-
ever influences appear capable of preventing or re-
tarding its progress in improvement.

ELLEN CAMPBELL.

161

Written for the Lady's Book.

ELLEN CAMPBELL

A TALK OF DOMESTIC LIFE.

11 How excellent is woman, when she gives
To the fine pulses of her spirit sway !
Her virtues blossom daily, and pour out
A fragrance upon all, who in her path
Have a blest fellowship."

" Will you please to walk up stairs, Miss Landon,
sister Ellen is in the dining-room," said a little girl
to a young lady who had called early one winter
morning at the the house of Mr. Campbell, a rich mer-
chant of P .

" Good morning, Mary," said Ellen, meeting her
friend on the landing, " I thought you would find our
breakfast-room more pleasant than the parlours. It
is warmer here," she added, as she ushered her into a
neat and comfortable apartment, where a large coal
fire was burning briskly.

" The warmest place is the best, such a morning
as this," replied her shivering guest, seating herself
with an air of much satisfaction by the cheerful fire ;
" but what are you about, Ellen ? Don't let me inter-
rupt you" — and she glanced towards the table that
stood in the centre of the room, on which were
placed the breakfast-tray, and a large bowl of warm
water.

"Well, then, if your ladyship will excuse me, I
will go on with my present employment," returned
Ellen, smiling, and resuming her station at the table.

" Truly, you look very interesting in that morning-
dress and white apron, and a coarse towel in one
hand and a coffee-cup in the other — what a beautiful
picture you would make. Oh ! that I had an artist's
skill to paint you."

" Your humble servant," retorted Ellen, laughing,
" is most happy to be in any situation that will call
forth such a burst of eloquence. Pray, proceed, Mr.
Speaker."

" Well, Miss Ellen Campbell, mistress of all an-
cient and modern languages, skilled in mathematics,
and versed in philosophical research, distinguished

At that moment, to the sudden interruption of the
fair speaker, the door of the breakfast-room opened,
and Ellen's little brother, followed by her two young-
est sisters, ran into the apartment.

"Good-bye, sister, I am going now," cried he,
springing towards her for a parting kiss.

" Stop, stop, Harry, not so fast, my dear — go,
speak to Mary — your old friend Mary. There, that
is a good boy — now take Caroline's hand, and re-
member to wait till she calls for you at noon. Try
to bring home good marks," said she, kissing the lit-
tle girls.

" I shall tell Miss Lucas you helped me in my trans-
lation," whispered Caroline, who was just com-
mencing French.

" Tell her you first tried very hard yourself, dear
— but you must walk fast or you will be late," and
she hurried them away.

" What affectionate little creatures they are," said
Mary, as Ellen closed the door after them. " I wish
14*

John and Bell were like them. I can't bear to have
them with me — they are always teazing me to help
them with their lessons, or troubling me with their
noise. But do tell me, Ellen, how you spend your
time now — do you study as much as you expected to,
when you left school? You remember our long con-
versation on this subject, one evening ?"

" I remember it well, Mary. I do not study as
much as I then supposed I should, for I find there
are so many things that a woman ought to know, of
which I am ignorant, that I do not spend more than
two hours a day with my books."

" Two hours a day ! why I can't find even a half
an hour. What with my music, for besides prac-
tising on the piano, I take lessons on the harp, now,
and my needle-work, you know I am embroidering
the chairs for mamma, and the calls I have to receive
and return, I cannot find time for reading. I have
read but few, very few, English books, since we left
school. I read a little Italian, for mamma is so
anxious that I should go on with that. How do you
spend your time."

" I am almost afraid to tell you, for fear of seeing
some new caricature of myself, but if you will pro-
mise not to laugh, or inflict any new titles upon me,
you shall take a little peep behind the curtain."

" Oh ! if that is all, you need not hesitate. I will
be as grave as you please, and control my risible mus-
cles as much as possible," and Mary drew herself up,
erect in her chair. " You may imagine me any dig-
nified personage you choose; so proceed without
delay."

"As soon as I left school," replied Ellen, smiling,
" mamma entrusted my own room to my special care.
Among my first duties in the morning is putting this
in order, so that it may look neat even to her obser-
vant eye. The hour immediately before breakfast, I
spend with the children, in assisting them with their
lessons, which I find a very useful employment both
to myself and them, as it obliges me to review many
of my old studies. After breakfast and prayers, I ac-
company mamma into the kitchen, and take what
she calls a ' lesson in domestic economy' — here I am
generally busy under her directions for an hour. The
next two hours I pass in my study, and afterwards
take my sewing until the dinner hour. This is one
of the most pleasant parts of my day, as we do not
have many morning visiters, and mamma and I are
usually alone. But, Mary, I am wearying you by my
long description."

" Oh ! no, go on — I am exceedingly interested."

" After dinner I give Caroline a lesson on the piano,

and then we walk till tea. My evenings are spent in

practising and sewing, and sometimes when we have

no company, I take turns with papa in reading aloud."

162

ELLEN CAMPBELL.

" But, pray, Ellen, of what use is all your Latin
and Greek, and the knowledge you studied so hard
to acquire at school, if you are to spend your time
now in keeping your room in order, in learning to
sweep and dust, and cook, and mend; why it is a
waste of time for you to do what a servant can do."
" Time is certainly of more value than money. I
should think your remark just, were I to employ my-
self in these occupations to such an extent as to ne-
glect all mental culture — but, Mary, I cannot think
that hour thrown away which is passed in acquiring
a knowledge of those duties, which, if I am never
obliged to perform myself, I ought to know how to
direct others to do. As for my studies, if my atten-
tion is to be so confined to them that I must give up
that acquaintance with domestic arrangements, which
a woman must possess to make her home pleasant,
and herself respected and beloved by its inmates, it
would have been better for my parents to have given
me a plain English education, or such a one as fe-
males acquired in the days of our ancestors."

" How eloquent you are, Ellen ! It is a pity your
arguments should be lost — but, really, I never could
endure to spend my time in this strange way. I do
not trouble myself about such things. I hate plain
sewing; I never took a stitch of mending in my life."
" I acknowledge that in themselves such duties
are not always pleasant ; but if we feel that we can
in this way contribute to the happiness of those we
love, the most tiresome task becomes delightful. I
confess I feel more pleasure when mamma praises
me for a successful effort in this department, than I
did at school, when commended by our teacher for
having translated my lesson well."

" I wish you success in all your domestic exploits,
Ellen, but I have neither time nor inclination for
them. You will make a fine, matronly housewife, no
doubt. But here I have been sitting all this time,
without telling you the object of my early call."

Mary then proceeded to inform her friend, that the
design of her visit was to insist upon Ellen's joining
a select company of her young friends to meet the
next evening.

« I have invited but a very few," she said, as Ellen
hesitated ; " and you know all who are to be present
but Miss Duval, a young lady from the South, who
is staying with my cousin, and even if you did not,
Charles Grafton would protect you from a host of
strangers. Now, do not blush so deeply," she added,
observing the crimson flush that overspread her com-
panion's face, " we all know how matters are going
on between two of our friends."

After several lively sallies, much to Ellen's dis-
composure, having obtained the desired promise, the
laughing girl departed.

Ellen Campbell and Mary Landon had been school-
mates together. They had resided near each other,
and for several years had been constant companions.
They were about the same age, and had both left
school when eighteen, about three months before the
conversation recorded above, took place. Though
associating intimately together, they were totally un-
like in all their plans, wishes, and aims. The object
of Mary's studies and accomplishments was to gain
admiration — of Ellen's, to render herself more useful,
more capable of diffusing happiness around her. To
shine in society, to be praised by its flattering throng,
as intelligent, accomplished, and lovely, was Mary's
ruling desire — to be esteemed and beloved by the do-

mestic circle Ellen's ardent wish. Mrs. Campbell
believed that " woman's province is home," that here
she ought to shine, to comfort and gladden ; and
taught not only by precept, but by her mother's bright
example, Ellen early learned to value most highly
those acquisitions which would fit her to be useful
and happy at her own fire-side. Educated with such
different views and feelings, it was but natural, that
when they were no longer thrown by circumstances
together, and especially after Mr. Landon's removal
to a distant part of the city, the intimacy existing be-
tween the young friends was gradually relinquished,
and soon gave signs of total decay. They still called,
however, at each other's dwellings, still spoke kindly
when they met, and occasionally passed an evening
together.

Ellen found Mary's " select company" much larger
than she had expected, and not feeling disposed to
join the gay groups collected in different parts of the
room, she gladly took refuge in a quiet corner to
which Charles Grafton directed her. Here being
joined by several young friends whose feelings were
congenial with her own, she hoped to spend a plea-
sant, rational evening. Above affectation, and free
from all pedantry or desire of display, there was an
ease and simplicity in Ellen's manners, that, united
to youthful vivacity, gave great charms to her intelli-
gent conversation. She was not beautiful, but intel-
lect and feeling were written on every feature of her
face. Her countenance might, indeed, be styled the
"index of her soul," for in its ever-varying expression
might be read every thought and desire of her warm
heart. Strangers might pass her by, unnoticed, but
in proportion as she was known by those who could
appreciate her value, she was admired and loved.

" What do you find so attractive in this corner ?"
said Mary Landon, interrupting a conversation in
which the little circle had become so engrossed, that
they had almost forgotten the circumstances by which
they were surrounded. " O, here is Ellen, according
to her usual custom, stowed away in some quiet nook,
looking with contempt through the ' loop-holes' of
her retreat on the great ' Babel' around her. Do you
think I mean to let you sit here all the evening ? No,
no, I have not come to increase your party, but to
scatter it," added she, refusing a seat which had been
offered her ; " Miss Duval has heard of you, Ellen,
from my cousin, and wishes for an acquaintance. I
have promised to introduce you. Don't look so disr
consolate, Mr. Grafton," she continued, as Ellen rose
to accompany her, "you are at liberty to follow in
in our train."

" How beautiful !" whispered Grafton, as, after the
usual compliments between the ladies, he led Ellen
to a seat near the fair stranger.

Miss Duval's face was, indeed, one of almost fault-
less beauty, her form delicately proportioned, and her
manners soft and winning in the extreme. Arrayed
in a dress of the most finished elegance, her dark
hair arranged in rich clusters round her brow, she re-
clined gracefully on a sofa, surrounded by a group of
admirers, who hung with delight upon every word
that fell from her lips. Ellen thought her the most
fascinating creature she had ever seen. For a short
time she, too, joined in the admiration such wit and
such beauty excited, but gradually the sense of plea-
sure diminished, until, at last, she sighed to see that
one, on whom nature had lavished so many charms,
was yet so entirely destitute of those qualities which

ELLEN CAMPBELL.

163

alone could endear her as a companion and friend. —
Conscious of her claims on the attention of those
around her, and vain of the general notice she at-
tracted, Miss Duval drank in eagerly the praises that
met her ear, while every look, word, and action, was
characterized by a desire of display. Wearied by the
elegant nonsense, for such alone could be styled the
conversation around her, Ellen felt relieved when the
soft notes of the piano attracted the attention of the
group, and Miss Duval was petitioned to play. Graf-
ton begged to be allowed to hand her to the instru-
ment, and with a smile of bewitching sweetness she
yielded to his request, and placed her small white hand
on his arm. In a most difficult piece of music she
exhibited a brilliant and finished execution, and then
turning to the sprightly air of a popular song, she
poured forth her full, rich voice, filling the apartment
with sweet melody. Murmurs of applause followed
each attempt, but Ellen heard them not, for her eye
was rivetted on Grafton, who hung over the fair min-
strel with the most devoted attention, and, at last, led
her smiling from the instrument, and placed himself
by her side on the sofa. Ellen did not wonder that
Miss Duval appeared gratified by his marked notice,
for handsome, intelligent, and polished, Grafton could
scarcely fail to please. In vain she tried to converse
with her usual animation — her eye still followed all
his movements with an anxiety so painful and ab-
sorbing, that every effort at conversation became
more and more forced, and she, at length, became
quite silent. Vexed that she had not more self-com-
mand, and perplexed with the new and painful emo-
tions that filled her mind, she gladly welcomed the
hour when the party broke up, and she found herself
alone with Grafton, on their way home. He was all
gaiety and spirits, and said he had never passed a
more delightful evening. Ellen sighed, remembering
the quiet hours they had enjoyed at her parents' fire-
side. If Grafton heard her sigh, he did not, as usual,
ask the cause, but abruptly broke the long silence
that followed, by inquiring how she was pleased with
the young stranger. Ellen answered with her usual
frankness and sincerity. He was silent for a moment,
and then commended her discernment, but in a man-
ner so cold, so unlike that which he usually wore to-
wards her, that she feared he was displeased.

"Surely, he cannot admire Miss Duval," thought
she, " who is so unlike what he has told me a woman
ought to be, and what she mast be to command
his esteem. Why is he displeased at my reply re-
specting her ?"

Ellen could not answer the question, and scarce-
ly knowing how to act, she felt relieved when, on
reaching home, they parted.

The father of Charles Grafton and Mr. Campbell
had been friends and classmates at college, and even
after they had entered on the duties of manhood, had
preserved for several years a kind and constant inter-
course. They both married early in life, Mr. Grafton
selecting the West for his residence, while his friend
remained in his native place. No intercourse had
taken place between the families until three months
before the commencement of our narrative, when Mr.
Campbell received a letter from his old friend, intro-
ducing its bearer as his eldest son, who wished to
spend a few months in the city before entering upon
the practice of law, for which profession he was de-
signed. Mr. Campbell received the young stranger
with all that warmth and kindness which his early

intimacy with his father would naturally inspire, in-
viting him to consider his house as his home, and
himself a member of its cheerful circle. It had been
arranged that Charles was to reside with the gentle-
man, under whom his studies were to be pursued, but
he readily promised to spend all his leisure hours with
the family of his friend. Nor was his promise for-
gotten. Evening after evening found him their de-
lighted guest, the sharer of all their domestic happi-
ness. Charles discovered attractions there which no
other society could present. Henry, Mr. Campbell's
eldest son, was a pleasant and intelligent companion,
and Ellen more than realized his beau-ideal of female
loveliness. She combined all the simplicity and fresh-
ness of girlhood with the depth and reflection of ma-
turer years. Between them there existed that conge-
niality of thought and feeling which is so delightful to
youthful minds. They read, sang and walked together,
and it soon became evident that a stronger tie than
friendship united their young hearts. Ellen had seen
nothing of the world, and Charles, though several
years her senior, had tasted only of its pleasures.
The future was. bright before them — experience had
cast no shadow over their path — all to them was new
and beautiful. Charles had never openly avowed his
attachment to Ellen, but only a formal declaration
was wanting, all that looks, and actions, and " whis-
pered words" could speak, had long been told, and,
unconsciously, yet with all the warmth and unshaken
confidence of youth, she loved and trusted him. Ac-
customed to be the sole object of his exclusive and
open attentions, she had marked, with surprise and
pain, the evident admiration for another which his
conduct had evinced on the evening spent at Miss
Landon's ; for one, too, who, in her high estimate of
his character, Ellen felt was unworthy of his regard.
She tried to convince herself that this alone was the
cause of the conflicting emotions that agitated her
bosom, but her heart whispered too loudly the fearful
truth, and in that hour of serious reflection she dis-
covered with what intensity all her desires and hopes
were concentrated round one frail being.

Several weeks passed after the evening spent at
Miss Landon's, and Ellen saw but little of Charles
Grafton. He called several times, but his visits were
short and hurried. He assigned as a cause the many
engagements pressing upon him, as the time appoint-
ed for his return to his family approached. There
was generally a reserve and embarrassment in his
manner towards his former friends, that destroyed all
the pleasure of their intercourse, or, as was some-
times the case, a gaiety evidently forced, and follow-
ed by moments of painful abstraction. At length,
even these occasional meetings were discontinued,
and they only heard of him as mingling in the cir-
cles of fashion, one of the most flattering and devoted
of Miss Duval's admirers. His character now ap-
peared in its true light. Brilliant, intelligent, and
amiable, he had not that strength of mind, that fix-
edness of purpose, and firmness in the path of recti-
tude, which are so essential in the formation of cha-
racter, and the want of which can be supplied by no
other qualities, however pleasing. Fascinated by
Miss Duval's beauty and accomplishments, and gov-
erned by his fancy and the transient feelings of plea-
sure her society afforded, he did not pause to consider
the motives of his actions, but lavished on her those
attentions which his conscience told him belonged to
another. As he had never openly avowed his attach-

164

ELLEN CAMPBELL.

ment to Ellen, he tried to convince himself that in
his intercourse with her he had only acted as any
man had a right to do — that his words and actions
did not necessarily express a stronger regard than
friendship — and, if misinterpreted, he did not deserve
blame. Still, he really esteemed Ellen, and often,
when wearied with the gay scenes around him, me-
mory recalled the peaceful hours he had enjoyed with
her, he felt with pain and mortification how unwor-
thy he had proved of her pure and noble trust. He
would willingly have retraced his steps, sought again
his former place in her regard, but he knew that her
affections were too entirely under the control of an
enlightened judgment, ever to be bestowed on one,
who had shown that he possessed not those high and
heavenly principles which influenced her own con-
duct. He longed to seek new scenes and employ-
ments, and gladly welcomed the hour of his depar-
ture, when, after a hurried interview with Mr. Camp-
bell's family, he actually found himself on his way
home.

There is nothing more painful to a noble mind
than the knowledge that its affections have been
misplaced — that the friend on whom it relied has
proved unworthy of its trust. The more entire the
confidence, the more intense is the pain produced by.
the discovery of deception.

When the thought first crossed Ellen's mind that
she was forsaken by one who had sought and obtain-
ed her young heart, she repulsed it as unworthy of
herself, and unjust to him. But the eye of love can-
not long be deceived, and from his altered manner,
far more convincing than words, she soon learned the
truth. Had the whole world risen up and accused
him of neglect, she would have stood firm in un-
shaken confidence — but that averted eye, that cold
address, that dread of any allusion to the past, spoke
a language that could not be mistaken. Long, weary
days, and sleepless nights followed. Ellen would
have concealed the bitter anguish that bowed down
her spirit, and she strove to maintain that cheerful-
ness that had ever made her the life of her happy
home — but the effort seemed vain. Her smile lost
its brightness, and her voice its playful tones. Her
pale cheek, and the tears that could not always be
repressed at the delicate, though silent, expressions of
sympathy, from the loving group around her, told to
those faithful hearts a tale of secret grief. There is
one ear that is ever opened to the sorrows of the chil-
dren of men, and into His bosom, whom she had
early chosen as her Redeemer and Guide, she poured
forth all her sorrow, and found that balm, which no
earthly hand can bestow.

Ellen could not believe that Grafton would leave
her, perhaps for years, without an explanation, or, at
least, some expression of sorrow for the misery he
had caused, and with a kind of indefinite hope, she
dreaded yet longed for the hour of his departure. The
desired moment came, they met, they parted, without
one word or look of regret ! During their brief inter-
view, Grafton's manner was embarrassed, and agitated,
but Ellen, calm and dignified, with a woman's pride,
exhibited no trace of emotion. There was even a
smile on her pale lips, as she wished him a safe return
to his home and friends, though in her heart, the
bitter, fearful consciousness that she was indeed for-
saken, desolate, alone !

It is not easy to convince the judgment, when
biassed by prejudice, but oh! how much more easy,

than to control the deep, unmeasured feelings of the
heart, Ellen knew that Grafton was unworthy of her
esteem and confidence, that he was not what she had
believed him to be, and yet it seemed to her that she
could never cease to love him — never forget. But
her mind soon rose superior to the stroke that had
reduced its wonted strength, and she determined, in
humble reliance on His assistance, whose " strength
is made perfect" in man's weakness, not to suffer
herself to be a victim to the indulgence of feeling.
With all the mental energy she had acquired from
study and early discipline of mind, she endeavoured
to oppose the current that threatened to sweep away
every barrier. She removed from her sight every
object, however dear, that had a tendency to recall
the past — destroyed all the little mementoes he had
given her, once so highly prized, so precious — laid
aside the books they had perused together, and sub-
stituted in their places, others that required her most
patient thought and attention. She gave up those
hours of lonely musing, so pleasing yet dangerous
to her sensitive and wounded spirit, and sought to
interest herself in the happiness of those around her,
to busy her thoughts in the minutias of domestic life,
and in seeking thus the happiness of others, to forget
herself. This effort at self-control was very painful,
and, at first, attempted with little hope or prospect
of success. The slightest trifle could awaken .recol-
lections that destroyed all the composure she had
struggled to gain, and the same severe efforts were
to be again repeated. Still she persevered, seeking
not to do her own will, but the will of her " Father
in heaven," and finding sweet peace in the knowledge
that all trials, however severe, would " work together"
for her lasting good.

Two years passed rapidly away, and Ellen looked
back upon that early affliction as the greatest bless-
ing of her life, and as she reaped the benefits of the
painful lessons it had taught, her heart rose up con-
tinually in gratitude and love to the Almighty Dis-
poser of her ways. Her affections had lost none of
their native fervour, but chastened and subdued, they
followed the dictates of her judgment, matured and
strengthened by necessary discipline. Once she had
been in danger of being led astray by a brilliant and
easily excited imagination, but the veil had been re-
moved from her eyes, and she had looked upon things
in some degree, as they really were, and now, though
still demanding constant control, it retained generally,
its subordinate station in her mind, imparting, yet,
that glow and beauty to the every day scenes of life,
which give such charms to youth. Of Charles Grafton
she had heard, as having married a rich and beautiful
girl, and with her leading a life of fashionable dissi-
pation. The tidings had awakened the deepest regret,
not for herself, but for him, that he had so soon de-
parted from those pure principles that had appeared
to influence him in early life. While she rejoiced in
her own escape from temptation, her fervent prayers
arose that he might be led back again to the " path
of peace." Regarded by her parents not only as an
affectionate daughter, but a faithful and devoted
friend, and endeared to her brothers and sisters as
their most beloved companion, counsellor and guide,
Ellen's hours passed rapidly and usefully in her own
cheerful home.

" I do hope that is no one coming in to call you
away, sister Ellen," said little Harry Campbell, one
evening when in the midst of a story to which he was

ELLEN CAMPBELL.

165

listening with the most intense interest, he heard the
door-bell ring, and immediately after a movement in
the hall,

" So you want to keep sister all to yourself, my
son," remarked his father, smiling.

Before the little boy could reply, the door of the
parlour was thrown open, and a gentleman of a tall,
commanding figure entered. Mr. Campbell rose with
his usual politeness to welcome the stranger.

" Am I then so entirely forgotten ?" inquired their
guest, while an arch smile passed over his fine fea-
tures.

" Frederick Leslie !" burst at once from the lips
of the astonished group, as they recognized a long
absent, but not forgotten friend, and pressed eagerly
around him to offer their affectionate greetings on his
return.

Five years had, indeed, altered the wanderer. The
handsome, graceful youth from whom they had parted
with so much regret, had returned in all the vigour
and pride of manhood. He was the eldest son of Mr.
Campbell's mercantile partner, and had been the fa-
vourite playfellow and companion of his children.
When at twenty ye,ars of age he had been selected
by his father to act as his agent in a foreign port, he
had separated from them with much sorrow. Through-
out his protracted absence, in the hurry and bustle
of life, he still remembered them, and on his unex-
pected return, his first inquiry, after receiving the
embraces of his family, was for the friends of his
youth.

Seated now at their quiet fireside, near Henry, his
loved and faithful friend, and opposite to Ellen, from
whose speaking countenance his eye seldom wander-
ed, he answered their kind and eager inquiries, and
with that noble frankness and graceful ease that won
him admiration and esteem, wherever he moved, re-
counted his adventures during those long years of ab-
sence. In the interest caused by this recital, the
evening wore away, nor was it until a late hour that
the young friends rose to separate.

" I did not expect to find you so much altered,
Miss Ellen," said Frederick, as he took leave of her
for the evening, " I have always pictured you to my
mind as the timid, blushing school-girl, whose books
and umbrella I was so anxious to carry every stormy
day; I should have rejoiced then," he added, in a
lower tone, while a slight flush crossed his manly
brow, " if it had rained all the year round."

Frederick Leslie had returned, at the desire of his
father, to fill an important station then vacant in a
flourishing town in the west. The time appointed
for his departure arrived, but still he lingered amid the
scenes and friends of his youth, nor did he leave them,
until he had obtained from Ellen the promise, that
she would share through life, his home, his fortune
and his love.

" So your friend, Ellen Campbell, is married, Mary,"
said Mr. Lennox to his wife, (formerly Miss Landon)
about a year after the events recorded above.

The remark seemed to arouse his wife, who, after
their return from the dining-room, had thrown herself
languidly on the sofa, while her husband perused in
silence, the long columns of a newspaper.

" Indeed ! I did not know her marriage was to
take place so soon," replied Mary, in a tone of un-
usual interest. " Well, I hope she may be happy.
Frederick Leslie is a fine young man, very active and
enterprising, but not such a person as I supposed

Ellen would select. I should not think he would
suit her at all."

" Why not, pray ?" inquired her husband,

" O, he is not literary enough for Ellen. You
know how fond she is of books. Even when we
were young girls, she would prefer spending an even-
ing alone, in reading, to going out to the most pleas-
ant party imaginable. She was always a strange
girl about some things."

" If her oddities are all of this nature, I should
think they would be rather pleasant to her husband,"
replied Mr. Lennox, archly.

" She is going to live in the west, too," continued
his wife, without noticing his remark, " in a small
country town, and will have very little, if any conge-
nial society. I don't-see of what use her talents and
accomplishments are to be in such a situation, where
she may find it difficult to get even servants to work
for her. I should die of ennui I am sure."

" It is very probable you would," returned her
husband with a smile of bitterness, " but perhaps
Ellen is so romantic as to expect to find sufficient
happiness in her family and home."

" She will be disappointed if she does," answered
Mary, quickly. Mr. Lennox threw aside his paper
and hastily left the room. Mary listened to his rece-
ding footsteps, until she knew from the sound of the
street door closing, that he had left the house, and
then, throwing herself back upon the sofa, sank into
a train of melancholy reflections.

But a little more than a year had passed, since, as
a youthful bride, she had been an object of envy to
the gay circle in which she moved. Her husband
was one of the most wealthy and fashionable young
men of the city, and Mary was proud of the conquest
she had made, while he, dazzled by her wit and bril-
liant accomplishments, did not pause to consider
whether one, who shone with such eclat in society,
would grace with equal ease the more retired scenes
of domestic life. He did not wish that his wife should
give up society, but, when after their bridal festivities
were over, and they returned to the every day scenes
of life, he found that she was dissatisfied, if obliged
to pass an evening without the excitement of com-
pany, and displeased if he was not able to accompany
her to every place of fashionable resort, he felt cha-
grined and disappointed. Her total ignorance of do-
mestic concerns was often, too, very annoying; but
the most serious evil was her excessive extravagance,
that, in the present state of his affairs, which had of
late become somewhat embarrassed from the pressure
of the times, was absolutely startling. He had com-
municated to her some of the cares that were press-
ing upon him, but had failed to arouse her energy or
incite her to exertion, and, perplexed and discouraged,
he sought in other scenes, the comfort denied him at
home. It was on the evident alteration in his man-
ner towards her, that Mary mused, and she might,
perhaps, have determined to endeavour to win back
his affections by the gentle and soothing tenderness
of a wife, had not the entrance of a fashionable visiter
banished all her reflections.

It was with the entire consent and approval of her
parents, that Ellen became the wife of one, who had
known and loved her from her childhood. There was
sufficient congeniality in their dispositions to produce
the most perfect harmony of feeling, and yet that
difference in character, which fitted them to be mutu-
ally a blessing and support to each other.

166

ELLEN CAMPBELL.

Amid all her bright visions of future happiness with
the companion of her choice, Ellen could not break
asunder the tender ties that bound her to the home
and friends of her infancy, without the most painful
emotions ; yet strong in that love

"That taking in its hand the joys of home,
The tenderest melodies of tuneful years,
Yea, and its own life also, lays them all,
Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast,"

she turned with unshaken trust to him who was now
to be her earthly " all," and departed to dwell amid
new and distant scenes.

It was at the close of a beautiful day in autumn,
that, after a long and wearisome journey, the travel-
lers beheld, at a distance,. their long desired home.
The road, during the last day, had been through a
rough and uncultivated portion of the West, where
no vestige of civilization met the eye, excepting at an
interval of many miles, when the low, rude cabin of
the hardy settler, with his few acres of cleared land,
rose to show, that, even here, the white man's foot
had penetrated, and sought to procure, amid its un-
frequented wilds, a hard-earned, yet independent sub-
sistence. From the solitude of this mountainous
district, they had passed into a more fertile and cul-
tivated country, until, having ascended an intervening
hill, they saw, stretched out beneath them, the little
village that was henceforth to be their abode. It lay
in quiet beauty before them, encircled by a chain of
gentle hills, that seemed to shut it in from all the
world, and gradually increasing in height as they
extended towards the west, were lost in the dark
outline of the distant mountains, that there lifted their
noble summits to the clouds. Their sloping sides
were, in some places, waving with rich fields of golden
grain, while, in others, the lofty forests still stood in
all their native pride, robed in the varied and brilliant
hues with which autumn paints each fading leaf. The
sun, amid clouds of parting splendour, was sinking
slowly beneath the horizon, its last rays still lingered
over the quiet landscape, tinging with glittering radi-
ance the low spire of the village church, and reflect-
ing, with mellow light, on the clear bosom of a mur-
muring stream, the little dwellings and gardens that
rose on its banks. It was a scene of peaceful love-
liness, and the travellers paused and gazed on it in
silent delight and admiration.

" That is our home, my Ellen," said Frederick,
breaking the silence, and pointing as he spoke to a
large, white dwelling, that embosomed in blooming
gardens and green fields, looked fitted indeed to be
the abode of domestic love and peace. " How often
during the last long year, I used to climb this hill,
that I might know how it would appear, when first
it met your view, and anticipate that happy hour,
■when it would no more be lonely."

The tears that filled Ellen's eyes were her only
reply.

In her new home, Ellen found herself surrounded
by difficult and untried duties. The only servants
whom she was able to procure were ignorant of the
proper manner of discharging their offices, and re-
quired the most patient and minute teaching, while,
with her own skilful hands, she was obliged to pre-
pare all the little delicacies she needed. Surrounded
by such circumstances, Ellen rejoiced daily, that in
youth, instead of seeking only accomplishments, her
attention had been given to the more retired and un-

ostentatious duties of domestic life, and felt amply
repaid for every exertion by her husband's smile and
commendation. To him, home was the sweetest spot
on earth, while every day revealed some new excel-
lency in her character, who was its ornament and
treasure. Thrown early upon his own resources
amid the active labours of public life, Frederick had
found but little time or opportunity for literary pur-
suits. His information had been derived chiefly from
observation and reflection ; he had studied character
as he saw it every day developed by men around him,
and learned from experience those lessons, which
impart true wisdom. Possessing, thus, that peculiar
knowledge which rendered him a shield and a guide
to the youthful inexperience and artless simplicity of
his wife, he found in her a companion, not only fitted
to bless, with kind sympathy and love, but, by her
superior intellectual acquirements, to elevate the tone
of his mind, correct and purify his taste, and ennoble
his whole character.

Years of checkered joy and grief hastened by.
Fair children grew up in their path shedding gladness
round the domestic health. Within their home all
was still happiness and peace, though sorrow and
death had entered it. Of their first-born it had been
written " he is not," but they had ever added, in
meek faith and submission, " God hath taken him."
Gray locks were mingled with the dark hair that had
once graced the brow of Frederick Leslie. Ellen's
cheek was paler, and her eye had lost some of its
youthful brightness, but her countenance still retained
that peaceful expression, that had rendered her face
so lovely in girlhood. For her children she unlocked
the rich treasures of her intellect, and with a mo-
ther's love trained their youthful minds, and imparted
that knowledge which would make them most useful
and happy in future years. Every hour bore witness
to the blessed effects of her gentle teachings.

A long, cheerful winter evening was drawing to a
close. It had passed quickly amid the youthful mirth
of the smiling group that had been seated at the bright
fireside, enjoying with their happy parents the innocent
and heartfelt delights of a family circle. The warm
parlour was now almost deserted. The laughing
babe, the pet and plaything of the loving group, lay
locked in its calm slumbers, in the low cradle by its
mother's side. The rosy cheeked boy that had sat,
exulting, on his father's knee, and the gentle child
who had stood quietly by his side, holding his hand
in hers and sharing with her merry brother, the
amusement their fond parent afforded them, had
kissed their soft " good night," and reposed in each
other's arms. One fair girl, the eldest of the band,
alone lingered to finish the last pages of a volume she
had been intently perusing, in spite of her little bro-
ther's repeated invitations to " come and hear papa's
funny stories." She, too, soon received their parting
caress, and, with a noiseless step, stole quietly from
the room. Frederick's eye watched with a father's
pride each movement of her light, graceful form.

"She is so much like you, Ellen," he said, seating
himself by his wife, and gently taking her hand in
his, " she has the same dark hair and eyes, the same
blush and smile, that I used to admire so much when
you were a timid girl, and I, a bashful, awkward boy.
Whatever may be her lot in future years I can ask
for her no higher blessing, than, that in character, in
mind and heart, she may resemble her beloved mo-
ther."

HAWTHORNDEN. 167

" I thought, my love," he continued, while his prize I had gained, but every hour since that happy

voice trembled with feeling, as he saw the emotion day has taught me how rich a gift, how invaluable a

of his lovely wife, " when I brought' you a fair bride treasure I obtained in Ellen Campbell!"
to this distant home, that I knew the value of the C.

Written for the Lady's Book.

HAWTHORNDEN.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE POET DRUMMOND, WHO FORMERLY RESIDED THERE.
BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

I woo'd thy spirit, sweetest bard,

Here, in thy native wild,
The bright stream murmuring on beneath, —

The rock above me pil'd.

I stood beside the ancient oak,*

By thee so classic made,
And listen'd for thy tuneful voice

Within thy favourite glade.

They show'd the weapon of the Bruce —

Why was such relic there ?
A swordt amid the peaceful shades

That Nature made so fair!

Along thy labyrinthian caves

With wondering glance I trod,
And rested on thy garden seat

Amid the flower-strewn sod.

Yet ah ! our times are not like thine,

We tread a beaten track,
The sound of ringing gold we love, —

Come, with thy sweet lyre back : —

Yea, come, with all the soul of song,

Nurs'd in this hallow'd dell,
And teach us of the high delights

Thou here did'st learn so well: —

Nor let us from" these varied scenes

Of strong enchantment part,
'Till we have better learn'd to prize

The music of the heart. England.

* A large and venerable tree, under whose spreading branches the poet Drummond received a visit from Ben Jonson,
whom he addressed with characteristic simplicity,

"Welcome — welcome — royal Ben:"
While the laureate replied,

" Thank ye— thank ye — Hawthornden."

f The sword of Robert Bruce, which among other relics, is exhibited at Hawthornden, the present seat of Sir Francis
Drummond Walker.

ABUSE OF WORDS.

One of the most powerful instruments of vice, the ciety advances in civilization, the power of this en-
most fatal of all its poisoned weapons, is the abuse of gine does not diminish. To give harsh deeds soft
words, by which good and bad feeling are blended to- names is one of the evils of refinement. In prevent-
gether, and its deformity concealed, from an apparent ing this confusion ; in preventing this abuse of words ;
alliance to some proximate virtue. Prodigality and in sustaining a high tone of moral feeling, by giving
dissipation are liberality and high spirit. Covet- harsh names to harsh deeds, the preservation of the
ousness, frugality. Flattery, good breeding. As so- boundaries between virtue and vice mainly depends.

168

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

Written for the Lady's Book.

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

A STORY OF DOMESTIC LIF]

BY MISS LESLIE.

[Concluded from page 114.]
PART FOURTH.

It chanced that just at that time Mr. Stapleford, the
father of our heroine, had some commercial business
which made it necessary for him to visit Philadelphia
and Baltimore. He left New York in the earliest
morning line, and having reached the Delaware and
dined in the boat, his attention, as he sat reading on
deck, was withdrawn from the newspaper by the
conversation of two ladies who occupied seats just in
front of him. One of the dames proved to be Mrs.
Squanderfield. She had come on board at Bristol,
and expressed great delight at meeting her friend,
Mrs. Pinchington, who had been taken in at Burling-
ton. Both ladies talked in a very audible under-tone,
and Mr. Stapleford thought of changing his place 'till
he was startled by hearing the name of his daughter.
Curiosity then triumphed over every other considera-
tion, and, keeping his eyes on the paper, he sat still
and listened.

" A-propos^ my dear Mrs. Pinchington" — proceed-
ed Mrs. Squanderfield — "you have not yet told me
the particulars of the great Woodbridge dinner. I
was out when you came home from it — and yester-
day morning, as we went up the river, you know how
I was beset by that persevering man, Mr. Bulkwor-
thy, who monopolized me the whole time ; as, to say
the truth, he always does whenever we meet."

" You seemed very well pleased to be thus monpo-
lized" — replied Mrs. Pinchington, with a Sardonic
smile. — " If you had chosen to change your seat, he
could not have made much progress in following you,
with his immense size and his gouty foot. However,
my dear Mrs. Squanderfield, let me advise you, as a
friend, to take care what you are about. Old fat men
are not always rich : though silly girls and dashing
widows seem to think so. Neither is the gout always
caused by high living, and therefore a proof that they
have a great deal to live on. Besides, by not paying their
debts, they may get the gout at other people's expense."

"How you run on" — answered Mrs. Squander-
field— evidently desirous of changing the subject. —
" But do tell me how the Woodbridge dinner-party
went off. I suppose, as usual, Mrs. W. was superb-
ly drest. I know she got every thing new for the
occasion, for I was with her when she bought all her
paraphernalia. That pearl-coloured figured satin
could not have cost less than fifty dollars by the time
it was made up — and that laced pelerine was forty.
What a passion she has for laced pelerines. I know
that she has six others, all equally elegant and costly.
Then the blond cap and French flowers, that she
bought to wear on the back of her head, was fifteen.
When I am out shopping with Mrs. Woodbridge, it
almost makes my hair stand on end to see how readi-
ly she agrees to buying the most extravagant things,
and things which she cannot possibly want. I cannot

imagine where she finds room to stow away all her
dead stock. Her husband will find that the dressing
alone of his pretty doll will add to his annual ex-
penses, not merely hundreds of dollars, but actually
thousands. I was telling my friends at Bristol all
about the Woodbridges ; and they agree with me that
the poor man little knows what is before him. I have
asked several New Yorkers about her family, and
they say that old Stapleford's wife is a bye-word, even
there, for her extravagance in dress."

Mr. Stapleford changed colour, and looked off from
his paper, and could not suppress a deep sigh — and
then made an effort to appear more intent on his read-
ing than ever.

" I have heard, also" — continued Mrs. Squander-
field— " (and from persons who have been at her
house,) that in her domestic concerns there never
was a meaner skin-flint than that same Mrs. Staple-
ford. One of my New York friends told me she had
a cook that had once lived at Stapleford's. On some
grand occasion, when they were to have an apple-
pie, Mrs. S. gave out six apples to pare and quarter;
and then she came into the kitchen and counted the
bits of apple, and because there were only twenty-two
pieces instead of twenty-four, she scolded the cook
violently, and ended by calling her a thief. So the
woman went right out of the house, leaving the din-
ner at a stand. Of course she told the apple-story
every where, and in a day or two it was all over
New York."

Mr. Stapleford's sigh was now audible — for he re-
membered this cook, (the best they ever had,) and he a
was well aware of the circumstances attending her
departure. The ladies, however, were sitting with
their backs that way, and did not observe him. After
pausing a minute to take breath, Mrs. Squander-
field proceeded —

" But about this dinner — it must have gone to Mrs.
Woodbridge's heart to get it up. I long to know all
the particulars."

" It would take me till to-morrow morning to tell
the whole" — replied Mrs. Pinchington — "so at pre-
sent, I can only give you a slight sketch. Well — in
the first place we were ushered into that wretched
hole that she calls the dining-room : though it's their
sole abiding-place, morning, noon, and night. There
was a little bit of a table set eater-cornered to give |
more space ; notwithstanding which we were all
squeezed flat by the time we had got wedged into
our seats. The only waiter was their man Caesar,
for she could not open her heart so far as to hire an
assistant even on that extraordinary occasion, the
first dinner company they have ever had. The
dishes were handed in by a horrid Irish girl, all filth
and rags, who stood staring, open mouthed, the whole
time — never having seen such great doings before."

" But do tell me what they had by way of eatables"
— cried Mrs. Squanderfield.

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

169

"Why there was a soup which tasted exactly like
smoked dish-water. And a hard, tough, black-look-
ing piece of beef — and a morsel of half-raw fish. The
chief dish seemed to be a pig, that looked as if he
had been killed just in time to save him from dying,
and which I know she got at half-price, for I went
to market with her myself. Then, by way of game,
were some pigeons, with scarcely a mouthful of flesh
on their tones, split in half, and looking as flat as
boards. The butter was detestable, and would have
spoiled every thing, only that every thing was spoiled
before. The dessert was utter trash — milk — and rice
— and froth — and a few miserable cheap tarts, made
of nothing : and a little decayed fruit, turned with
the best side uppermost. And as dusk come on, we
had to poke about among the things all in the dark,
for she would not allow us candles to eat by. But
the wine — the wine above all — I forgot to tell you of
the wine. It had actually been watered to make it
go further. Think of gentlemen at a dinner party
filling their glasses with wine and water !"

"Wretched, indeed! — But how did the sensitive
Mr. Harvey Wood bridge live through all this?"

" Oh ! poor miserable creature" — replied Mrs.
Pinchington — " he really moved my compassion — I
absolutely felt for him. I wish you could have be-
held his face when his eye first glanced over the din-
ner-table— I could scarcely keep from laughing all
the time, to see how ashamed he was of every thing,
and how he laboured to conceal his mortification;
the natural man peeping out in spite of himself. It
was really too good to see how he tried to smile, not
knowing that his smile was only a ghastly grin. And
how he twinkled his eyes and essayed to look plea-
sant, when he felt the fire flashing from them ; and
how he twitched his brows to smooth them, when he
found they were contracting into a frown ; and how
he endeavoured to soften his voice and talk agreeably,
lest he should break out into an open fury."
"And how did his wife take all this?"
" His wife — it was best of all to see how she sat
in her finery, with a coolness that really amounted to
impudence, and looking as sweet and amiable as if
she was presiding at the best spread table in the
world, and enjoying the satisfaction of the company.
That woman has not an atom of either sense or feeling.
For my part, I was glad to get away as soon as I pos-
sibly could, that I might indemnify myself at our own
tea-table for the miserable dinner I had pretended to
eat. Young as she is, Mrs. Woodbridge is certainly
the meanest woman I ever yet met with — and I have
a good chance of knowing, for she consults me about
all her plans, as she calls them."

"And she is also the most extravagant" — rejoined
Mrs. Squanderfield. — " I ought certainly to know,
when I so often go shopping with her."

"The fact is" — rejoined Mrs. Pinchington — "she
will drive that husband of hers to desperation be-
fore long."

Mr. Stapleford could listen no more. He threw
down his newspaper, started up, and walked the deck
in unconcealed perturbation : forgetting where he was,
and regardless of all observers. In the mean time,
Mesdames Squanderfield and Pinchington continued
to regale each other with alternate and exaggerated
anecdotes of the meanness and extravagance of their
friend Mrs. Woodbridge, till the boat arrived at
Chesnut street wharf — from whence the two cronies
proceeded to their lodgings, arm in arm.
VOL. XXII. — 15

The unhappy father of our heroine had been too
much absorbed in his own irritated feelings to be
conscious of the progress of the boat. He looked not
at either shore — he recognized none of the land-
marks ; and he only started from his painful reverie
when the boat touched the pier and the roaring of
the steam announced that its work was over for that
day. On landing, he almost unconsciously replied to
the importunities of a hack-driver, threw himself and
his baggage into a coach, and repaired to the dwell-
ing of his son-in-law.

On arriving at the house, the front door was open-
ed by Cassar, (who yet lingered in the establishment)
and the old gentleman exclaimed — "Where is that
dining-room — I know she is there." He then, be-
fore Cassar could show him into the parlour, ran
straight up stairs, and found the place intuitively.

The young couple had just concluded their slen-
der dinner, at which Woodbridge (to whom nothing
was more intolerable than silent anger, and who al-
ready longed to conciliate his wife, almost on any
terms) had been trying in vain to force a conversation.
But Charlotte held out, and answered only in sullen
monosyllables — it being her way when she knew she
had done wrong to behave always as if she was the
person that had most cause to be offended. They were
both struck with surprise at the unexpected appear-
ance of Mr. Stapleford. When they recovered, Har-
vey shook hands with him, and Charlotte kissed her
pa', and asked him if he had dined.

" Yes" — he replied, struggling to keep down his
wrath — " I dined in the boat — I have had my dinner
— Are you not glad ? But I am hot and thirsty, and
I want some drink."

" What will you have, pa' ?" — inquired Charlotte.
- — " Here is some nice water."

" I want some brandy also" — said Mr. Stapleford.
— "Water is weak — it does not drive away care. —
Give me some brandy, too — I must have it."

Woodbridge rang the bell, and Caesar was desired
to bring some cool water ; after which our hero silent-
ly brought some brandy himself, and placed it on the
table, while Charlotte looked pale and amazed.

Mr. Stapleford mixed a tumbler full of strong
brandy and water, and then said to his son-in-law —
" Shall I mix one for you ? — I have become quite
clever at the business."

" I never drink brandy" — replied Woodbridge.
" Then I hope to Heaven you never may" — said
the old man, fervently, and raising his eyes, in which
the tears seemed to glisten. But he passed the back
of his hand across them, paused a moment, then
snatched up the glass, and hastily swallowed the half
of its contents.

"There" — said he, throwing himself into a chair
— " you see what I have come to — I — your father-
in-law — and her father. Have you not heard it? —
Don't you know it ? — I am a drunkard now — I am
— I am. It is a shameful, dreadful vice. It came
upon me by slow degrees; but it has come — and
every body knows it — you see it in my face, don't
you? — Look at me — look — I bear about me the un-
failing signs — you know I do."

They looked at him — it was too true. There
was that redness in his face which never can be mis-
taken for the honest glow of health.

" Do you know what has made me a drunkard V'
— resumed Mr. Stapleford — " A bad wife. A wife may
be bad, and yet she may neither play cards, nor tip-

170

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

pie, nor betray the honour of her husband — But
she may destroy his peace, she may undermine his
happiness, she may wear out his love by the everlast-
ing rubbing of petty annoyances. I have read — (for I
once did read) — that one of the severest tortures in-
flicted by the Romish Inquisition, was a contrivance
which caused water to fall unceasingly, day after day,
week after week, month after month, in single drops,
one at a time, upon the head of the miserable cap-
tive. I, too, have had my drops — and I know what
I have suffered from them. And she that selfishly
and heartlessly inflicted that suffering was my wife —
your mother Charlotte — and I fear that you are in-
deed her true daughter."

" Dear pa" — said Charlotte — "pray don't talk so
dreadfully — and, above all, before Harvey."

" I will — I will" — exclaimed her father — " and be-
fore Harvey, above all, will I do it. Let him take warn-
ing, for I know that he needs the lesson. Do not ex-
change glances at each other — I am not intoxicated
yet — I am quite sober still, and I know exactly what I
am saying. But while I can yet do so, (for now I have
begun with the poison I must keep on) I will tell you
what I heard in the Delaware boat to-day. There
were two women taken on board, (ladies, I suppose
I must call them.) I chanced to sit where I over-
heard their conversation, and I could not help listen-
ing, when my ear was struck with your name, and I
found they were talking about my daughter. Perhaps
it was dishonourable to sit and listen ; but I am not
an honourable man now — I do things every day that
once I should have shuddered at. I found that these
women knew you well."

" Mrs. Squanderfield and Mrs. Pinchington, I sup-
pose"— said Woodbridge, turning to his wife.

" Yes" — continued Mr. Stapleford — " those were
their names. One of them had been at a dinner-
party, here, in this little room ; and she detailed it all
to her companion, broadly and coarsely enough,
but still I knew that, in the main, her statement was
true. She described and ridiculed the paltry, con-
temptible dinner, and its wretched arrangements ; and
Woodbridge's ill-concealed efforts to repress his shame
and mortification. Then as one of these women
talked about your meanness, the other discussed your
extravagance : and told of the money you were con-
tinually throwing away in useless finery for the de-
coration of your own person, while you denied your
husband the comforts which every gentleman has a
right in his own house to expect, if he can furnish the
means of procuring them. I listened to their talk,
and I understood it all — I felt it all — for I knew by
sad experience what it was."

" Is it possible" — said Charlotte, with quivering
lips — " that Mrs. Squanderfield and Mrs. Pinchington
could have talked of me in that manner — and in a
public steam-boat, too !"

"They were your friends, Charlotte" — said her
husband — "your dearest, best — your only friends —
your aiders and abettors in the practice of your two
besetting sins."

" The vile, false, wicked creatures" — exclaimed
Mrs. Woodbridge — " I will never speak to them
again."

" I am delighted to hear it" — said Woodbridge —
" and earnestly do I hope you will keep that re-
solution."

" Listen to me, Charlotte" — said Mr. Stapleford,
trying to speak with more composure — " Listen to

me, also, Harvey Woodbridge, and may both of you
profit by the lesson. I married Mary Holman when
we were both very young. I was then a clerk in a
merchant's counting-house — she was the daughter of
a poor clergyman. Her beauty first attracted me, and I
thought she had been well brought up. Necessity had
obliged the family to be notable and industrious, and
to economize in superfluities. Her mother often told
me of Mary's talent for housewifery, and of her inge-
nuity with her needle, and how clever she was in the
art of making a genteel appearance at a small ex-
pense. I thought I had drawn a prize in the lottery
of marriage, and I loved her with my whole heart.
We took possession of a small plainly-furnished two-
story house in a remote street, and I thought we
might live respectably and comfortably upon my sala-
ry. I soon discovered my wife's innate passion for
dress, which in her father's house, she had been un-
able to indulge. But now that she was a married
woman, and emancipated from the control of her pa-
rents, she seemed resolved to run her course as she
chose. In a very short time, I found a great falling
off in every thing connected with household com-
forts, and a corresponding increase in the finery of
my wife's attire. I saw her in silks, and laces, and
feathers, and flowers ; all being such as were worn by
ladies whose husbands had five times my income. —
But our servant-woman (we could keep but one) was
dismissed for a half-grown girl, at half wages. These
girls (we had a succcession of them) were changed
at least every month, as most of them were found to
be worthless, idle, dirty, or dishonest ; and all were
incapable of doing work. If by chance we obtained
a good one, she would not stay above a week in a
house where she had to work hard and fare badly,
for low wages. Often, when at our late dining hour
I came home tired and hungry, I found no dinner —
and when, after waiting an hour or two, the repast
was at last produced, it was scanty, poor, and un-
palatable. My wife had been out nearly all day,
visiting, shopping, and going after mantua-makers. —
When our dinners were unusually late, she said it
would save the trouble and expense of tea, so she went
early to bed, and obliged her girl to do the same by
way of [saving fire and light in the kitchen; and I
passed the evening alone in our cheerless parlour,
laboriously engaged in extra book-keeping, or some
other such job, which I was glad to undertake for
the purpose of obtaining a little addition to our in-
come, and which frequently occupied me till midnight.
I had hoped by this means to gain some improve-
ment in our way of living. But I found it only en-
couraged my wife to run up bills for finery, which she
knew I would be obliged eventually to pay for. Vain,
selfish woman, at what sacrifices was her trumpery
obtained ? For the price of one or two of her expen-
sive dresses we could have kept a grown servant a
whole year. One French bonnet less, and we could
have had good fires all winter, and the cost of one of
her embroidered muslin collars would have furnished
me every evening with a better light to toil by.

" After awhile I obtained another situation, at a
higher salary. I then proposed allowing a certain
sum weekly for the household expenses alone — and I
made this allowance as ample as I could. It was in
vain — she pinched off so much of this money for ad-
ditional finery, that we lived as badly as ever. At
length, the death of my uncle James put me in pos-
session of sufficient property to enable me to email-

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

171

cipate myself from the drudgery of clerkship, and to
commence business on my own account. I did so,
and was soon considered a prosperous man.

" From the time I went into business there were
no bounds to my wife's extravagance — that is, in ar-
ticles of show. But in al! that regarded comfort and
convenience, her pernurious habits remained un-
changed— and so they always will. In a few years
we had a handsome house, and she furnished the
parlours elegantly — but she made us take all our
meals in a little, low, cheerless room in the basement
story ; and, in fact, it became our chief abiding
place. How I despised it, and how long I held out
against it !"

" I wonder you submitted at all" — said Wood-
bridge.

" I submitted to that, and to all the other pro-
ceedings of my wife, because I found resistance was
in vain — as it always must be with a heartless, selfish,
obstinate woman. Often, after the fatigues of the day,
I was too tired to undertake the trouble of altercation.
Nothing then seemed so desirable as peace and quiet,
and, for the sake of present peace, I let the evil grow
till it darkened my whole life with its baleful shadow.
Naturally my disposition is cheerful, and as I could
not be quarrelling for ever, I sometimes tried to
laugh at the inconvenience and mortifications to
which my wife continually subjected me. But it
would not do — the iron, notwithstanding, had enter-
ed my soul and was fast corroding it. My affection
for my wife was at last worn out. How could I
love her, when I had daily proof that she had no re-
gard for me ? It was still worse when I was left
alone with her — after Charlotte was married and
gone, and my son Frank went to live in New Or-
leans. To James and myself our home was more
than ever uncomfortable, for she allowed us no so-
ciety ; indeed, things were so managed that we be-
came ashamed to invite any one to the house. Jem
could endure it no longer — so he took lodgings at a
hotel, where he is drinking wine every day, and go-
ing to destruction. For myself, I became reckless —
desperate. I had long ceased to remonstrate with
my wife on the sums she expended in dress — but I
had grown very tired of the petty squabbling about
fires, and lights, and food, and servants, and all other
necessary expenses, which for five-and- twenty years
had embittered my married life. I hated my home —
and I was driven to seek elsewhere for peace and
comfort ; such, at least, as I could get in houses of
public resort. I took my meals at restaurants and
hotels — I frequented oyster-cellars — I joined a club.
Gradually the vice of intemperance came upon me —
wine was not enough, I took brandy also. I drank
to raise my spirits, and to drown the sense of degra-
dation that always oppressed me when I was sober.
My wife did not care — she dressed more than ever,
and went almost every night to a party — making me
come for her when I was not fit to be seen — and
thus exposing me to her ' dear five hundred friends,'
when it was she, herself, that made me what I am. —
I shall grow worse — I shall be seen reeling through
the streets, with the boys hooting after me — I shall
be taken up out of the gutter, and laid dead drunk
on my own door-step. I know I shall — I see it all
before me — yet, when it comes to that, and my chil-
dren hear of it, let them remember that it is the fault
of their mother. Look what she has made of me —
and what my wife's daughter is going to make of her

husband — She knows how wretchedly we lived — she
knows how all domestic happiness was worried away
from her father's house — and still she has been walk-
ing fast in her mother's footsteps. Charlotte — Char-
lotte— do you not tremble?"

Charlotte did tremble — and pale and terrified she
threw herself into the arms of her husband, hid her
face on his shoulder, and burst into a flood of tears.
Woodbridge also was deeply affected. But he saw
at that moment a dawn of hope — and he hailed this
first indication of feeling on the part of his wayward
wife as an omen of reform and happiness.

" I am glad to see you cry" — said the old man,
after a pause. — " I have never seen my wife shed a
tear, except when a splendid dress has been spoiled
by the mantua-maker. I begin to hope that the
daughter may be better than the mother."

" Dear sir" — said Woodbridge — " do not persist in
speaking so harshly of your wife,"

« I will — I will" — exclaimed the old man — swal-
lowing the remainder of the brandy and water. " Has
she not embittered my life, and turned to gall the love
I once felt for her. What has Mary Stapleford ever
done to make me happy ? Has she ever cared for
me — why then should I care for her ? Has she ever
regarded my tastes, my wishes? Why then should
I have any respect for hers? And now I am a
drunkard — disreputable, despised — looked at askance
by respectable men, (I was once a respectable man
myself,) obliged to associate now with those that
have degraded themselves as I have done. And my
wife has caused it all. She has made me wretched,
and she has brought up her daughter to make you so
too."

Mrs. Woodbridge now threw herself on the sofa,
buried her face in one of the cushions, and sobbed
aloud : and, on her husband approaching, she motion-
ed him to leave her to herself. Woodbridge, after
removing the brandy, prevailed on his father-in-law,
(who had sunk back in his chair, and thrown his
handkerchief over his face) to go to the spare cham-
ber, and lie down and repose himself: and Charlotte
in a faint voice said, she would also retire to her
room. As she passed her husband she caught his
hand and pressed it fervently : but her eyes again
overflowed, and she was unable to speak.

Woodbridge having ascertained that the spare-
chamber was in order, and conducted Mr. Stapleford
to its door, now thought it best to leave his wife for
awhile to the retirement of her own apartment. He
then repaired to his store, where he recollected his
presence at this time was particularly essential ; and
he endeavoured, but in vain, to occupy his mind with
business during the short remainder of the day.

When he came home in the evening, he found that
Mr. Stapleford, having requested that some tea might
be brought to him, had gone to bed for the night,
and was now asleep. Charlotte remained also in her
room, and at her desire the tea-table had been set for
her husband alone. After he had somewhat refreshed
himself with a cup of tea, he went up to see her. He
found her lying on the bed, and looking very pale and
dejected. " Harvey" — said she — " don't talk to me
to-night — I shall feel better in the morning — I know
all you would say. I have indeed made you a very bad
wife — I acknowledge and regret it : my eyes are open-
ed at last, and I will try to do better in future. But I
am so shocked at my father, to see him as he is now,
and to hear all that he thinks and feels, and all that he

172

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRLDGE.

fears. Oh ! no — no — you shall never be brought to
his condition by me. Indeed, indeed you never shall.
It is too dreadful. But leave me now, dear Harvey;
and when I deserve it, I will beg you to forgive me
all."

In compassion to the distress of her feelings Wood-
bridge quitted the room in silence. He passed the
evening alone, in perturbed meditation ; hope for the
future and regret for the past, alternately casting their
lights and shadows on his mind. But, the sunbeam
of hope rested there at last.

Our heroine passed a restless night of bitter retro-
spection, and silent tears. Towards morning, she
had wept herself into an uneasy slumber. Wood-
bridge rose with the dawn, resolved to try and com-
pose himself by an early walk< his usual remedy after
any extraordinary excitement. On descending the
stairs, he overtook his father-in-law who had risen
for the same purpose. They walked together as far
a 3 the Schuylkill, and had much conversation on the
subject that was uppermost in both their minds.

When the two gentlemen returned, they were met
in the entry by Caesar, who, while his face shone with
smiles, stopped them as they were proceeding to the
staircase, and with a flourish of his hand as he threw
open the door, said to Mr. Woodbridge — " We break-
fast in the back parlour, sir."

They found the table nicely set out with a better
breakfast than either of the gentlemen had ever seen
in his own house : and Caesar said, with increasing
smiles — " Mrs. Woodbridge was up early, sir. She
came down soon after you went out. And we have
been to market already. And after we came home,
I got the breakfast myself, and would not let Irish
Mary put her paws to any thing. Mrs. Woodbridge
has given Mary a short warning, and I am to get
Phillis to come back, for our everlasting cook. —
Please to excuse my saying paws : but that Paddy
woman is enough to make the genteelest coloured
gentleman forget himself. People of the best polish-
ment can't be decorumous when they have to deal
with Irish."

At these excellent signs of the times, our hero's
smile became almost as bright as Caesar's. And Mr.
Stapleford said, in a low voice to Woodbridge — " I
was just going to ask for my early dram — but I be-
lieve I will not take any this morning."

" I have made the coffee very good and strong" —
said Caesar — " Mrs. Woodbridge told me to do so.
And we bought the best butter that was to be had in
market ; and we took cream this morning instead of
milk."

At this moment the lady of the house appeared.
Her father and her husband kissed her as they bade
her good morning. Her heart and eyes filled and
she held her handkerchief to her face, while each of
the gentlemen turned to a window and seemed to
look out. There were a few minutes of silence :
after which our heroine took her seat at the table,
and Woodbridge and Mr. Stapleford did the same.
Caesar entered with a damask napkin and a silver
salver, and waited on table con amore. Woodbridge
introduced a cheerful conversation, and though he
had to sustain it chiefly himself, he was repaid by an
occasional smile from Charlotte, and a laugh from
her father.

When breakfast was over, and Mrs. Woodbridge
had left the room, Mr. Stapleford said to his son-in-
law — " She is touched at last. She is going to set

about a reform — I only hope she will stay reformed.
Ah ! there is no touching her mother. I have tried
often to work on her feelings : but she has none.
Vanity, sordidness, and selfishness have hardened her
heart till it is like ' the nether millstone.' But Char-
lotte is not so bad; and I trust she will do well yet.
I must have a bottle more than usual to-day at dinner,
in celebration of this joyful change."

" Rather celebrate it" — said Woodbridge — " by a
day of entire temperance."

"Ah!" — replied Stapleford — "that is easier said
than done. I am ashamed to confess that a day of
temperance will be a day of suffering to me. The
habit of drinking once formed, the craving once ac-
quired, it is hard indeed to abstain. A drunkard is
not easily cured."

" Let me beg of you, dear sir," said Woodbridge —
" not to give yourself that detestable appellation."

" Do I not deserve it ?" — replied Stapleford. "Am
I not really what I call myself? But she made me
so. I know that many men who are blest with ex-
cellent and affectionate wives have become sots not-
withstanding— to their eternal shame be it spoken. —
But that was not my disposition. No man was more
capable of enjoying domestic happiness if it had been
allowed me. However, I cannot trust myself on this
theme. So let it drop for the present."

Mr. Stapleford and his son-in-law went out toge-
ther, but parted at the corner : each going his own
way to his respective business. That morning Mrs.
Woodbridge did no shopping or visiting, but busied
herself at home in improving her menage. Irish
Mary, being dismissed, was loud in her vociferations
at parting, asserting that she had never seen a raal
lady or gentleman since she came to Philadelphia,
and that she would never more darken the doors of a
Philadelphia house : for she knew scores of places in
New York where they would jump out of their skins
for joy to get her back again, and where the silver
would come pouring into her lap. A week's wages
extra, however, somewhat quieted her wrath : but on
leaving the presence of Mrs. Woodbridge, she slam-
med the door, and exclaimed as soon as she got into
the entry — " Bad luck to ye any how, and I wish to
holy Patrick ye may never have nobody but black
nagurs to cook your bit of victuals for you."

" That's a good wish instead of a bad one" — said
Caesar, who had just come in at the front-door, tri-
umphantly conducting Phillis.

That day an excellent dinner was served up in the
back parlour : and as all were now in good spirits
it would have gone off pleasantly, only that Mr.
Stapleford filled his wine-glass too often. But he
said, as he poured out the last — " I cannot help it —
indeed I cannot. It is a dreadful vice — easily con-
tracted and hard to cure. Shame on the woman that
brought me to it. Well — well — enough of that — I
wish I could forget her always. Come — I'll not
drink any thing more to-day. Only I must have my
glass of hot whiskey punch at bed-time."

As soon as the two gentlemen were alone, Wood-
bridge told his father-in-law that having now the
most sanguine hopes of Charlotte's improvement, he
thought it best to make no further reference to what
had already passed ; and that, unless he saw unequi-
vocal symptoms of relapse, he would gladly consign
to oblivion every thing that had hitherto embittered
their married life.

" I fear" — said Mr. Stapleford — " her goodness

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

173

will not last. However, even a little of it is better
than none at all. Her mother never had a single fit
of goodness — not even for one day. Well — well —
I will not trust myself to talk of her."

Next day the old gentleman set out at an early
hour for Baltimore; and Woodbridge, (judging from
appearances) found that in future the table was to be
set always in the back parlour, and supplied in a
liberal manner.

That morning Mesdames Squanderfield and Pinch-
ington made together a visit to Mrs. Woodbridge.
Her intention had been to send them each a concise
note indicative of her desire that their acquaintance
should cease ; and she had purposed consulting her
husband that very afternoon on the best manner of
wording these notes. But they had seen her as they
came past the window, and the moment Csesar open-
ed the front door they pushed by him, and with their
usual familiarity made their entrance into the room.
At the first sight of her two perfidious friends, our
heroine determined to meet them with calm and dig-
nified resentment ; but this wise determination soon
gave way to the passion which she felt burning in
her cheeks and sparkling in her eyes.

Mrs. Squanderfield began — " Dear Mrs. Wood-
bridge, it seems an age since I have seen you. But
I was busy the whole day yesterday, shopping all
through Chestnut street, with two ladies from the far
west (who with their husbands are staying at our
house) and taking them to milliners and mantua-
makers. They have travelled more than a thousand
miles, each bringing a young baby along ; and their
sole business is to get fitted out with the Philadelphia
fashions. They take this journey twice every year,
and carry wagon loads home with them."

" For my part" — said Mrs. Pinchington — " I was
all day yesterday going about in search of a cheap
washerwoman. Mine has raised her price to six
dollars a quarter, and rather than give more than five
I will wash and iron my own things in my own room.
But as Mrs. Squanderfield says, it seems an age
since I have seen you. I really believe we have not
met since the day of your delightful dinner-party."

" Delightful was it" — said Charlotte, unable longer
to restrain herself — " you did not think so in the boat
coming down the river, when you were telling Mrs.
Squanderfield about it : and I am very sure that you
made it out worse even than it really was."

Mrs. Pinchington changed colour, and looked
much embarrassed ; but rallied in a few moments and
said — " My dear Mrs. Woodbridge you must be mis-
informed. Some vile mischief-maker — some wicked
slanderer has been trying to disturb our friendship."

" My informant" — replied Charlotte — " is neither
a mischief-maker nor a slanderer. It was my own
father, Mr. Stapleford. He happened to be seated
near you : and he heard every word. First, you led
me on by your own advice to do all sorts of mean
paltry things" —

" I found you willing enough to be led" — inter-
rupted Mrs. Pinchington.

" And now" — continued Charlotte — " you have
abused me for following your instructions. I should
not have been half so bad, had you left me to myself.
But my eyes are now opened, and as I intend to act
very differently for the future, I shall have the better
chance of keeping that resolution by declining all
further intercourse with Mrs. Pinchington."

" With all my heart" — said Mrs. Pinchington, rising
15*

angrily — " I have no occasion to force my acquaint-
ance on any one. And from what I have heard of
her, I am very sure your notions of economy came
from your own mother far more than from me. I
wish you all possible success in your new scheme of
reform; which you will find a very tough job, take
my word for it."

So saying, Mrs. Pinchington flounced out of the
room, and scuttled out of the house.

" What a strange woman that is" — remarked Mrs.
Squanderfield. " I have thought several times of tell-
ing you how little she is, in reality, your friend, and
how shamefully she talks about you wherever she
goes. It is a great pity you asked her to that un-
lucky dinner-party; the account she gives of it is
awful. I own I was a little hurt at your not inviting
me. I should then have had it in my power to con-
tradict her ill-natured reports."

" Perhaps not" — said our heroine — " for with
shame I acknowledge that there was too much foun-
dation for her statements, however unfavourable they
might be. But the next time I prepare for company,
things will be found very different. I have had a
mortifying lesson."

" I must say" — pursued Mrs. Squanderfield — " that
I greatly approve of liberality. People in genteel
life should not mind expense. By the bye, have you
heard of the splendid new style shawls that Levy has
just opened. I saw them yesterday, and they are the
most divine things I ever behekL Get ready, and
come with me, and secure one before all the best are
gone."

" To be plain with you Mrs. Squanderfield" — said
Charlotte — " my intention is, in future, to expend less
money on dress, and more on things of greater im-
portance. And I know that both my husband and
myself will be happier for the change."

" Really" — observed Mrs. Squanderfield — « I
thought all men were happy to see their wives hand-
somely drest."

" I begin to think" — said Charlotte — " that a wo-
man may be drest handsomely without spending
enormous sums, and getting five times as many new
things as she can possibly want. My husband has
not yet made his fortune : and in the mean time, that
our housekeeping may be on a more liberal scale, I
shall lessen my own personal expenses. But as I am
going to reform both ways, I think it best to relin-
quish my intimacy with Mrs. Squanderfield as well
as with Mrs. Pinchington, for I wish not to be led
farther into temptation."

" I declare you are very polite" — exclaimed Mrs.
Squanderfield, starting up — " I cannot think what
has got into you to-day. You don't seem at all like
yourself."

" So much the better, perhaps" — replied Charlotte ;
" but as my father could not have overheard Mrs.
Pinchington, without also overhearing Mrs. Squan-
derfield, his report has convinced me that neither
of these ladies has any right to call herself my friend."
" Upon my word" — said Mrs. Squanderfield, forc-
ing a laugh — " it is really amusing to see how new
you are. I thought you were old enough to know
that in all circles, even in the highest, every body
talks of every body without the least scruple. It is
the way of the world : and I do not pretend to be
better than my neighbours. However, as Mrs. Pinch-
ington says, I have no occasion to force my society
on any one. I have more friends already than I can

174

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

possibly visit, even if I were to do nothing else from
noon till midnight. I see we don't suit : but you will
lose more than I shall. However, let us part decent-
ly, and be civil whenever we chance to meet. So I
wish you good morning, and success to your plan of
reforming both ways."

" Good morning" — said Charlotte, softening her
voice : for in truth, she felt rather better disposed
towards Mrs. Squanderfield than to Mrs. Pinchington,
whose report of the dinner-party seemed unforgivable.
She accompanied her visiter to the door, and ere they
parted, our heroine found herself asking — " Who did
you say has just opened these elegant shawls — Levy
or Vanharlingen ?"

"Aha" — replied Mrs. Squanderfield, with a sneer;
" still hankering after new shawls — I saw them at
Levy's : and I fear the naughty child is not going to
get quite good all at once."

" I wish it were more easy to do so" — said Char-
lotte, colouring highly, and hastily returning to the
parlour, where she sat down awhile and pondered.
She then went up to her chamber, and looked out
some sewing. But her thread knotted and her needle
broke, and she found she was not in the humour to
sew. So she dressed herself, and went out, and habit
directed her steps to Chestnut street. " At least" —
thought she — " I may as well stop in at Levy's and
see the shawls. 'Tis certainly pleasant to look at
things that are new and elegant. But I am deter-
mined that nothing shall tempt me to buy one."

She went into Levy's — saw the shawls — and was
tempted to buy one. But she thought she would not
mention it to her husband for some days at least ;
and, as a salvo, she resolved on paying extra atten-
tion to his comforts and wishes.

" My dear Harvey" — said she, after helping him
at dinner to a second piece of pie — " would you not
like to have a carpenter or a cabinet-maker or some
such person, to fit up the dining-room with book-
shelves or book-cases. You can have it for a library
if you wish, as in future we shall use the parlours
entirely."

The delighted husband started from his seat, and
replied by a kiss : and the same afternoon he bespoke
both shelves and cases ; and went to a bookseller's to
begin his selection of books.

Next morning, shortly after breakfast, Harvey
Woodbridge came home from his store with a look
of consternation which much alarmed his wife ; and
as gently as he could, he broke to her the appalling
intelligence of her mother's sudden death. A letter
had just arrived from New York, written by her bro-
ther James, who stated that on the preceding day
while a mantua-maker was fitting her for a new dress,
Mrs. Stapleford had fallen down and instantly expired.
Great was the horror of our heroine at this unexpect-
ed termination of her mother's mortal existence. And
she and her husband set out by the first conveyance
for New York, leaving a letter for Mr. Stapleford,
who arrived that afternoon from Baltimore, and fol-
lowed them in the mail.

The old gentleman was excessively shocked at his
wife being so suddenly hurried to her last account,
unprepared as she was for the awful change into
eternity. He grieved exceedingly, and never made
any farther allusion to her faults. The day after the
funeral he took the temperance pledge.

The fate of her vain, selfish, and heartless mother
made a deep impression on our heroine, and soon

completed the work of reformation which her father's
representations had begun. The old gentleman was
prevailed on to return with his daughter and his son-
in-law, and to pass a few weeks with them in Phila-
delphia. Though her father was completely sobered,
Charlotte soon perceived that, after the first shock
had subsided, the husband of such a woman as Mrs.
Stapleford, could not be inconsolable for her loss :
and that (though he said nothing) he soon began to
feel it a relief. "Ah !" — thought she — " I must make
Harvey happy while I live — or he too will regard my
death as a deliverance from misery."

On Mr. Stapleford's return to New York, it was
arranged that his sister, an excellent woman who had
been left a widow with a small income, should take
charge of his house : and that his son James should
again reside beneath the roof of his father. This
change had a most salutary effect on the habits of the
young man, and he found it easy to abandon the in-
cipient vice which as yet had not fixed itself upon
him.

Mr. Stapleford found an affectionate and intelligent
companion in his amiable and considerate sister,
(though she had always been his wife's aversion) and
now that he had a well-ordered and happy home, he
had no inclination to seek for pleasure elsewhere.
The entire abandonment of liquor soon restored his
good looks and his self-respect : and his visits to Phi-
ladelphia were always anticipated with delight by his
son-in-law and daughter.

We will not say that our heroine had not for a while
occasional lapses from her good resolutions : but these
aberrations gradually became slighter and less frequent.
Love for her husband once awakened, she no longer
took pleasure in wilfully annoying him, either by
word or deed: and when she showed any indication
of her former waywardness, a gentle remonstrance
from Harvey always brought her to reason. Also,
having so unceremoniously dismissed her two evil
counsellors, she felt the advantage of being released
from their blighting influence.

She now formed an intimacy with some of the
most valuable of her husband's female friends. These
ladies set her in every respect an excellent example,
particularly in improving her mind, and cultivating a
taste for books. Her heart and hand also expanded
to the relief of the unfortunate and the indigent. Her
reform at length became complete, both with regard
to extravagance in dress and parsimony in house-
keeping ; and there is not, at this day, in Philadelphia,
a more happy or a more popular couple than Mr. and
Mrs. Woodbridge.

OF THE FORMATION OF OPINIONS.

Our opinions are formed, First, by impressions made
on our senses. Secondly, by confidence in the com-
munication of others. Thirdly, by our reasonings
upon these impressions and communications. Al-
though our opinions are traceable to impressions,
communications, and reasonings, the opinion of the
generality of men must unavoidably be formed by
confidence in communication. The opinions, for in-
stance, entertained by the generality of the Turks,
of the truth of the Alcoran, is formed by the constant
communication made by their parents, their precep-
tors, and by the whole community.

THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE,

175

Written for the Lady's Book.
THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE.

[Composed, and written with a pencil, while standing near the sea-shore, on the last day of Summer, 1840.]
BY CHARLES LANMAN.

A sunny haired boy had wandered far away from
home one pleasant summer day, until, at last, he
reached the shore of the great ocean. The " ocean's
blue" was in his eye, and its freedom in his soul. He
leapt and shouted with delight — now dipping his feet
in the subsiding wave, then, running from beyond its
reach as it came with greater force, booming upon
the sand. Many and beautiful were the shells he
gathered, and who can tell how many, and Deautirui,
and lofty were the thoughts of that Poet Boy ? On
either side of him, the smooth circular beach faded
away until it was lost in the horizon. On the bound-
less waste, nothing was seen save the white crests of
the billows, and a single ship in the distance bound to
some unknown clime. At length, wearied with sport,
he retreated to a little green knoll overlooking the
sea, to rest himself. The breeze parted his flowing
hair, and pressed his brow with its cooling kiss. The

1 low murmur of the waves lulled him into a sweet

j slumber, and he had a dream.

The sound of an unusual splashing came indis-

i tinctly to his ear, and, looking downward, he beheld,

1 on the very margin of the sea, a sight which made
him wonder and admire. It was a pearly car, thick
set with agate and coral, and drawn by four dolphins.

| The voice of an invisible spirit told him that those
fishes were the subjects of his will, and that, if he de-

: sired it, he might enter the car and roam wherever his
fancy pleased, " o'er the deep waters of the dark blue

j sea."

Timidly he descended to comply with this strange
^invitation, and no sooner had he seated himself, than
the fishes with a billowy motion darted away on their
mysterious pilgrimage.

!' Ere the coming on of evening he had been borne
an hundred leagues from home, and on looking
around he found himself

" Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea !"

And in a little time,

" The western wave was all a flame,
The day was well nigh done,
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad, bright sun."

There was a perfect calm, and the world of waters
iSeemed like liquid gold ; and O, how beautiful did the
iolphins appear as the sun tinged them with his rays.
Slowly and silently the car moved onward. The
■Poet bent forward and dipped his little hands in the
pool wave, and then clapping them above his head,
would give vent to his gladness by a shout of laughter.
A. bubble rose to the surface ; and looking down into
the deep " blue halls of ocean," fancy pictured to his
nind many a wond'rous scene. Far beyond the

reach of the plummet, and half covered with sand,
lay the hull of a magnificent ship, that had been
struck by lightning, and gone down with many hun-
dred souls. In the inner cabin, and reclining on an
ottoman, was the form of a young mother, with an
infant on her breast — cold, white, silent as marble.
Near them, and prostrate upon the floor, lay the body
of one who seemed a nobleman — struck dead, per-
iiaF=, vrHifc i« ii«, act of shielding his beloved wife
and child. In various parts, cm pi«, fl^-,r> an(j some
apparently asleep in their berths, were the bodies ot
the aged, the beautiful, and young. In the dark hold
of the vessel, and leaning against a coil of rope, sat the
withered form of an old miser, who had been sum-
moned to the bar of God while counting his gold. —
Here and there, too, might be seen the lifeless forms
of noble sailors, who had fallen like the oaks of the
forest.

The Poet sighed deeply, and the tears that dimmed
his eye aroused him from his revery. But there was
an indescribable charm in these pictures of the "deep,
deep sea," and, in a moment more, he was again look-
ing thoughtfully through the translucent wave. And
now he beheld a crystal cave, of vast and Gothic di-
mensions. It was brilliantly illuminated, and from
the greatness of the assemblage collected there, he
thought it must be a festal hour. In the centre, and
on a jasper throne was seated an old king, with a
trident in his hand, upon whose head glittered a dia-
mond crown. Sea nymphs, tritons, and mermaids
were his attending ministers, all of whom with their
wreathed horns and shells, conspired to make the
sweetest melody. On the walls of this uncouth dwell-
ing place, were hung a countless number of curiosi-
ties. There were strange looking books, pieces of
sculpture and painting, silks, laces, and jewelry j cut-
lery, bows and arrows, and medals, and cannon —
every thing in fact that had been lost in the various
shipwrecks of the past, and which was curious, costly,
beautiful.

The vision was gone — and the boy shouted louder
than ever, and played with the water as he had done
before — a very child sporting with the elements.

Listen ! What strain of heavenly music is that
coming so sweetly from the upper air ? O ! how
beautiful! a thousand spirits are descending from the
skies, clothed with the colours of the rainbow, and
singing to their golden harps, with their lute-toned
voices. They come from those purple islands in the
far west, where perpetual peace and purity reside.
Look ! a small, dark mass is rising in the south.
The low rumbling of distant thunder is heard in the
firmament. It has died into a whisper, and the cloud
has passed away.
*********

The sun was in the sea once more. A breeze sprang
up, and the ripples chased each other along like

176

THE POETS PILGRIMAGE.

creatures brought into a joyful existence by the breath
of the universe. And then,

" The moving moon went up the sky,
And no where did abide !
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside."

A line of foam in the distance ! It is the freshening
breeze ! A speck on the horizon ! A sail ! a sail ! a
ship ! — Nearer and nearer she comes, her canvas
swelling before the wind, and with upright keel !

" She lifteth up her stately head
And saileth joyfully,

A lovely path before her lies
A lovely path behind ;

She sails amid the loveliness

Like a thing with heart and mind.

Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair
Slowly she beareth on ;

A glorious phantom of the deep
Risen up to meet the moon."
She may well sail on in nr^. *or a thousand beings
behold Vic ^ tneir sleep. Perchance some poor wi-
dow in her lonely home, has calmed her troubled
thoughts, and is now praying for the safe return of
her only son, her bright-eyed sailor boy. The child
is dreaming of the smiles and caresses of its returned
father ; and the wife falls upon the neck of her hus-
band and welcomes him with a thrill of joy; but
morning comes, and naught but his shadowy form is
within her dwelling. But the ship ! how proudly
does she buffet the blue waves ! The pilot and watch
are the only persons on deck, but their duty is per-
formed in silence, for it is the hour of midnight, so-
lemn and grand. The passengers, and most of the
crew are in the land of dreams, while hope and joy,
disappointment and sorrow mingle with their various
visions. Is not Home the sun of that mysterious
world of dreams ?

Onward did the dolphins glide. At day break the
car was floating on the tranquil waters of the Medi-
terranean sea. The poet looked, and silently enjoyed
the views which were continually passing before his
eye. On one side he beheld a range of dark moun-
tains looming to the skies. When the sun was fairly
risen, he was in full view of an ancient city in ruins,
and his mind was busy with " the great the glorious
past." He looked towards the east, and thought
of the thousand idolaters who were at that moment
bowing before the sun, and this reminded him of that
beauteous city where the Saviour was born. Now,
he heard the song of fishermen as they plied their
oars. And then the talking voices of sailors, who
were strolling about their ship, impatient for a breeze.
And now, he reached a city whose foundations are
in the sea. Here, every thing was new, and as he
gazed upon the hundred ships and domes, and the
moving multitude, he remembered the words of the
poet, and thought how beautiful and true they were,

" The sea is broad in the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing ; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea
Invisible ; and from the land we went,
As to a floating city — steering in
And gliding up her streets as in a dream
So smoothly — silently — by many a dome
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico.
The statues ranged along an azure sky;

By many a pile in more than eastern splendour,

Of old, the residence of merchant kings.

The fronts of some, though time had shattered them,

Still glowing with the richest hues of art,

As if the wealth within them had run o'er."

Many of the far famed cities of the old world were
visited, and though in these he beheld many a ruin, he
also saw a thousand scenes of surpassing loveliness.
Again he was at the threshold of the sea, and as he
glided through swift as the breeze, the old fortress
seemed to frown upon him as a trespasser. But
what matter ? he was a pilgrim from dream-land and
must hasten on. And now he was overtaken by the
spirits of the storm, but to harm him they had no
power. The lightning gleamed fearfully. Peal on
peal of thunder rang through the heavens, mingled
with the shrill whistle of the wind, the roar of the
billows, and the dismal cry of the sea gull. One
moment, the little car was almost hid in the watery
valley, and then again it would tremble on the tip-top
ur a. siaut wave. At intervals the boy would catch
a glimpse of some mastless ship or fishing boat driven
furiously before the wind, and hear the cry of despair
from its ill-fated crew. .

Onward, onward. That night an hundred shores
were visited. Morning again dawned and he was in
the northern ocean, near the very brink of an im-
mense whirlpool. A noble ship had just entered
within the charmed circle, and noiselessly, but surely,
she was hastening to her end. How many prayers
of agony were offered in that dreadful hour ? but in
vain, for it was " too late." Nearer and nearer —
now her bow is in the air — down, down, shrieking
and mad, six hundred souls have gone, whose bones
will whiten on the sandy floor of ocean. Away —
away.

" And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold;
And ice, mast high, came floating by
As green as emerald.

" And through the drifts, the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen;
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken
The ice was all between.

" The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around ;
It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd
Like noises in a swound."

In a little while he was in the Pacific ocean. On
the shore of a quiet bay, and at the foot of a moun-
tain, fifty canoes were moored, while from an upland
point the poet saw the blue smoke curl upward from
a peaceful village.

Night was come again, and he was in the South-
ern ocean. And lo ! a light many leagues away !

" Not bigger than a star it seems —

And, now 'tis like the bloody moon ;
And now it shoots in hairy streams

Its light ! 'twill reach us soon.
A ship ! and all on fire ! hull, yards and mast,
Her sheets are sheets of flame ! she's nearing fast!

" And now she rides upright and still,

Shedding a wild and lurid light,

* * * * # * *

Waking the gloom of night.
All breathes of terror, men in dumb amaze
Gaze on each other 'neath the horrid blaze."

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. EVENINGS AT A FRIEND S.

177

On a plank which floated near, the poet beheld the
lifeless body of a child whose long dark hair fell
streaming over his bosom. " My Brother !" exclaim-
ed he, and springing forward to clasp him to his
heart — Ids pilgrimage was ended .'

The glorious sun was in the west. His beams
like a flood of glory covered the ocean and the land.

Two children, a boy and girl, who had missed their
brother, searched for him through many a field and
wood, until at last they found him asleep on his mossy
couch beside the sea. For a long hour had they
been watching his slumbers, and when he did awake
hand in hand, happy and innocent, the three returned
to their father's cottage in the vale,

Written for the Lady's Book.

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.

BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE.

Ring forth the bridal peal 1
Sweet as breath of the flowery spring,
The gay, glad thoughts its echoes bring,
Thoughts of joy round the household hearth,
And tones of love and smiles of mirth;
— Yet still the heart will feel,
'Mid scene so bright, a throb of fear,
A low sad voiee seems whispering near,
"The light may fade while the shadows stay.
Like clouds when the rainbow hath pass'd away."

Breathe soft the cradle hymn!
Like charge round the good which angels keep.
The mother's watch o'er her infant's sleep,
In Hope's blest ray the future glows,
And life's long sunny pathway shows;

— Yet still a tear will dim

Her tender gaze with the dew of fear,

A low sad voice seems whispering near,

" The light may fade while the shadows stay,

Like clouds when the rainbow hath pass'd away.

Sound deep the funeral knell!
Weep, mourner, weep for the righteous dead,
For beauty, worth and honour fled,
The heart's wild grief must have it's hour,
As night's cold storm will bow the flower ;
—And yet the passing bell
Bears for the good a tone of peace,
It sounds from earth the soul's release,
And its welcome chants to a world so bright,
That cloud and rainbow are lost in the light.

Written for the Lady's Book.

EVENINGS AT A FRIEND'S

BY MRS. SARAH E. FARLEY.

NUMBER I.

" James, shall we pass the evening at our friend
Darley's ? Of all the pleasant people I have met in
in this cold region of yours, I think none more cor-
dial and warm-hearted than Darley and his wife."

" Cold there applies to climate I hope, and not to
character."

" Yes, truly. If all New Englanders are like the
friends I have found in this village, no country should
be more famous for open-hearted, generous hospitality,
and noble and refined feelings."

" You will allow then —

' Man is the growth our colder realms supply,
And souls are ripened in our northern sky.'

" Oh you should not quote the quoter, leave that
to ' meaner minds.' But here we are, and Darley at
the door."

" Ah, Mrs. Bride, how do you do ? for this early
call I feel so much obliged that I shall seat you in
my chair of state, reserved for special favourites.
Your hand, Mr. Bride."

" But why Mr. Bride and Mrs. Bride ?"

" After the example of our good old minister, who
always so designated a couple newly married, or
about to be. As Miss Bride remove your glove. Mr.
Bride take Miss Bride's hand, &c."

" And this antique carved chair. You keep this
!in the parlour from oddity, I suppose."

" No, my dear lady, from affection. If you knew
the associations connected with that chair you would
venerate it as I do. Oh ! if it could speak, what
tales it would tell."

" I should admire to hear it. Do speak a little
for the voiceless one, and tell us something of its
history. It looks venerable, and on the whole hand-
some, but a little out of place among this modern
furniture. What solid wood ! I cannot raise it with
my whole strength."

" It is English oak, and the date it bears is 1600.
The profile upon this side is said to be that of Lord
Bacon, on the other that of Burleigh, and they were
probably copied from their busts. Look at this scroll
pattern, delicate enough for a lady's collar; and here
is another equally graceful. This carving was all
done with a knife, and so close and firm are these
joints as to have borne the wear and tear of centuries,
without the aid of screw or glue, and it would require
more strength than I can boast to separate them
now. Many a bride, as blooming as yourself fair
lady, has in this chair listened to a tale of love, and
many a silvered head and furrowed brow found there
a resting place. Do you see how the good wood is
scorched and burned ? My grandmother had a sister
the pride of the family, who was very fond of anti-
quities, and this chair was ever her favourite seat.
Before our revolutionary troubles, she was wooed
and won by an English officer of distinction. He

178

EVENINGS AT A FRIEND S.

obtained a reluctant consent from her stern father to
marry the fair Rebecca. The wedding day had
arrived. Arrayed in bridal attire and seated in her
favourite chair, Rebecca awaited the coming of her
lover, so soon to be called by a still more tender and
endearing name, when her father entered in great
wrath. ' Doff thy gear, my girl, no daughter of mine
shall marry an enemy of my country. Blood, Ame-
rican blood has been spilt, and by some of that very
regiment which thy lover commands. It is an ever-
lasting barrier between ye. You must forget, if you
cannot hate him, Rebecca !' "

" But I have promised, father," said the maiden,
struggling with mingled feelings, « would you have
me break my word ?"

" Dost thou love Dennis better than thy country,
thy home ?"

" He is my country, and with him is my home."

" Then thou art not fit to be my daughter — there
is the tyrant-server, but my doors he shall never enter
again."

" I will go forth and meet him," said Rebecca.

" Verily, thou shalt not, maiden ! Be seated." So
saying, he reseated his daughter, passed some cords
quickly and tightly around her arms, body, and the
chair, until he had secured her much as he would
have done a British soldier, only that wherever the
harsh bindings pressed the delicate flesh, he would
thrust a bunch of flax to protect it; so strangely
mingling tenderness with cruelty.

" You will be sorry for this, father ; a day will
come, when the heat is gone, that you will bitterly
repent this deed," was all Rebecca said as she sub-
mitted to the indignity.

As her father fastened the last knot, he saw through
the open window, three wagons loaded with hay and
grain on their way to Boston. " Ha ! more food for
the British horses, and their more brutal masters.
If I can find the boys, we will have a bonfire ere
long," he muttered as he left the house.

" Oh ! Rachel, my sister," said Rebecca, " if you
ever loved me, go quickly and see Dennis, he cannot
be far away, I saw him but now at the next turn in
the woods ; tell him it was not his poor Rebecca who
ordered him hence."

" If he is sure of that, my dear sister, he will insist
upon coming here, immediately. You would not
have him meet our father ?"

" No ; he can speak with me a moment and return
before my father is back."

The loaded wagons drew near; but just ere they
reached the house, the contents were on fire — no
one could tell how. As the affrighted beasts ran on,
the wind carried the burning straw in Rebecca's open
window. Her light dress, the wads of flax, her
hands bound — 'tis too horrible to dwell upon. Dennis,
who was approaching, heard her shrieks, and was
instantly by her side, tearing away the burning clothes
and pressing his cloak tightly around her. He did
what man could do, but too late. The flames had
touched a vital part, and though pain was gone, she
felt death was nigh.

" It is better thus," she murmured, as if in reply
to her own thoughts. Her father was kneeling by
her side.

" You told me I should bitterly repent this deed,
and soon, full soon, has the bitterness come, my
daughter."

Rebecca looked upon him, and saw the old man's

heart was broken. With a strong effort she spoke
again,

" God has permitted this, for some wise purpose
of his own ; my dear father, you could not have done
it without His permission. Be all forgotten as all is
forgiven."

She leaned forward to kiss him, gave another to
her sister, raised her lips to her lover's, then say-
ing,

" I pray that you all may meet me at the right
hand of Christ," breathed her last in the Oak Chair.

NUMBER II.

" I saw six beautiful canes in your hall, Mr. Darley,
and think you must keep some of them as you do
your chair — from association."

" They were all gifts, lady, and I value them
chiefly for the sake of the donors."

"This is a very curious stick, knotted with such
regular irregularity. Is it of American growth ?"

" Yes. It was cut in the forests of Arkansas, by
a Col. Hunter, late of the U. S. army ; my cousin and
my friend. An amiable and accomplished girl of
French descent, had won the brave fellow's heart ;
yet he hesitated to ask her to become his, knowing
she must be exposed to the perils of the wilderness,
or that he could only enjoy her society during the
intervals of a long and weary separation. If the
tears were not in his eyes, the weakness was at his
heart, as, when he had told Miss Henrie of his true
and passionate affection, she replied in the beautiful
language of Charlotte Dexter

' Where'er thou goest I will go,
O'er Egypt's sands or Zembla's snow;
Where'er thy weary footsteps 10am,
There shall thy Charlotte find a home.'

" They were married, and after spending two or
three months at New Orleans, my friend was obliged
to resume his duties at Fort Gibson. The journey
to that station is not at this day very pleasant for a
female of tender and delicate health, but the difficul-
ties were at that time serious and formidable. " I
cannot, sweet one, I cannot hazard your precious
life," said my friend, as his wife was pleading to fulfil
her promise of dwelling in the woods with him;
" there would be no happy meetings, love, if there
was never a sorrowful parting ; we will live on the
hope of a reunion."

At her father's seat on the banks of the Mississippi,
Charlotte was surrounded by every luxury that wealth
could purchase, and cheered by every endearment of
parental and sisterly affection. That spot had been
ever her loved and happy home ; and although very
much distressed and dispirited at the departure of her
husband, she yet thought to return to her former
quiet but elegant pursuits, and endure the year of se-
paration patiently, if not cheerfully. But " a change
had come o'er the spirit" of her existence ; in vain
did Charlotte repeat to herself, " this is my home ; I
have been happy here ; too happy to desire a change."
She felt it was her home no longer, at least not " the
home in which the heart could live." The love which
had brightened her pathway but a few short months,
had become to her the light of life. That feeling,
which if once awakened in the heart of woman will
never again slumber, prompted her continually to seek
and share his lot, " come weal, come woe," and with

EVENINGS AT A FRIENDS. TO A FRIEND, ETC.

179

a detachment which was ordered to Fort Gibson,
Charlotte embarked, under the protection of an offi-
cer, a friend of her husband.

The affectionate care of her father loaded the boats
with her books, piano, harp, and every transportable
comfort, for her new habitation. So obstructed was
the navigation of the Missouri, as to weary the most
patient with their slow and toilsome passage. When
within two hundred miles of the encampment, it was
determined that Charlotte, with a small body of offi-
cers and soldiers, might on horseback pursue a less
tedious route to the Fort; and they mounted in high
glee at the prospect of a speedy termination of their
journey. The second night found them surprised
and captured by a large body of Indians. One man,
their guide, alone escaped to tell the tale ; and the
first intelligence received by my friend of his wife's
approach, was in the account of her captivity. With
his best horses and a band of picked men, the Colonel
set forth ; nor was it long before he struck their trail.
Burning for vengeance (or justice as he termed it,)
he yet dared not to attack the savages while his
friends were in their power, so he bore the white flag
when he longed to rush among them with his naked
sword. The Indians appeared to think the presents
so liberally tendered, were of far greater value than
their prisoners, and Colonel Hunter was soon at the
Fort with his ransomed ones.

His joyous feelings were however greatly checked
and moderated by the feeble appearance of his wife.
The fatigue and fright had overpowered her, and
though she revived in the genial atmosphere of affec-

tion, she never bloomed freshly again. She was
quite resigned to the termination of her earthly pros-
pects, looking with hope to a better and more endur-
ing inheritance. Charlotte selected her own last
resting-place, under a beautiful tree, at a short dis-
tance from the Fort. There was she laid ; but not
long alone. One of the warriors who captured the
young wife, had looked upon her with admiring eyes,
and sought revenge on the husband for his disap-
pointment in losing her for ever. Long had he
watched him, but the Colonel was too powerful for
an open attack, and too wary to be snared.

At length, in a friendly talk, which the Indians
sought to enliven by exhibiting their dexterous use of
warlike weapons and feats of agility, the treacherous
savage grazed, as if by accident, the hand of Hunter.
The weapon had been rubbed with a subtle poison,
and my friend was soon laid by the side of his wife.
His kindred sleep in a tomb on the beautiful banks
of the Kennebec, and hers rest under splendid monu-
ments in the sunny land of France — their only cover-
ing is the bright green earth, and the broad spreading
tree. What difference will it make at that great day,

" In that awful hour, of what avail

Unto the spiritual body, will be found .
The costliest canopy, or proudest tale

Recorded on it? — what avail the bound

Of holy, or unconsecrated ground !
As freely will the unincumbered sod,

Be reft asunder at that trumpet's sound,
As royalty's magnificent abode,
As pure its inmate rise, and stand before his God."

•*****AA+*^-<fS<f***~*'

Written for the Lady's Book.

TO A FRIEND, ON HEARING OF HIS MARRIAGE ENGAGEMENT.

BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.

' That one whose smile shines out alone,
Amidst a world, the only one!
Whose light, among so many lights,
Is like that slar on starry nights,
The seaman singles from the sky,
To steer his bark for ever by."— Lalla Rookh— Moore.

Will you tell me of her whom you love —

That maiden I hear of, afar?
Is she timid and coy, like the dove,

Or in fashion's gay circle, a star?
Is her brow like the fair summer morn,

All beaming with radiant light ?
Her cheek, doth the rose-bud adorn,

Unwithered by sorrow's cold blight ?

Is her eye like the raven's dark wing,

And shaded by lashes as black —
Yet parting like clouds of the spring,

Where sunbeams have opened a track?
Or, is it ethereal blue,

As tinged by the pencil of heaven?
Or, of that ever-varying hue,

To which Beauty's palm must be given ?

Do her lip3 most provokingly pout,
Like the cleft of an apricot rich?

And are smiles ever playing about,
Through dimples, the heart to bewitch?

Or hath she that languor of air,
So nameless, yet lovingly sweet!

A cheek like the lily, so fair,

And orbs that with angels compete ?

Are her teeth like the orient pearls,

That whiten the deep ocean-floor?
And do clusters of dark shining curls,

Her fair neck and forehead hang o'er?
Is her form, like a peri's, so slight,

And her step like the bounding gazelle's?
Or, is she commanding of height,

With a gait which of majesty tells?

Yet, since these are visions, that flit

Away on the swift wing of time,
And but beauty of mind, will befit

The fairest for heaven's pure clime;
Oh ! say, hath thy chosen a soul,

That, when beauty's charms are o'erpast,
Will fasten afFections's control,

And sweeten life's path till the last?

180

SOPHONISBA.

Written for the Lady's Book.

SOTHONISBA.

A LEGEND OF NUMIDIA.
BY H. W. HERBERT, AUTHOR OF THE BROTHERS CROMWELL THE CHARIB BRIDE, &C.

It was the close of a long and sultry summer's day,
during the whole of which the gorgeous sun of Africa
had blazed in the unclouded sky with heat well nigh
intolerable, when a superb array might have been
seen advancing at a rapid rate through the magnifi-
cent defiles and mountain passes, in the midst of
which the royal town and fortress, known in those
days as Cirta, but more renowned in latter times as
Constantina, towered on its rocky heights — a fastness
seemingly impregnable and inaccessible. About ten
thousand cavalry were there, natives of that hot re-
gion, as it needed not a second glance to see; for
their swart visages were overshadowed by turbans of
the brightest scarlet, and all their dresses of gay and
brilliant hues were loose and fluttering to every breath
of the light evening breeze. Five hundred in the
van were more superb in their equipment than the
rest, mounted on coal black barbs without a hair or
speck of white in their resplendent hides, all housed
with leopard skins, and poitrels scaled with gold ; the
riders wore, each man, a shirt of light scale armor
over his crimson caftan, and a bright casque of po-
lished steel almost concealed beneath the many folded
turban. Sashes of silk and gold sustained their
scymetars and long sharp Moorish knives, and their
bare arms and legs were glittering with bracelets,
rings, and anklets of pure gold; flung from the back
of each was the short bow and well-stored quiver, so
fatal in the hands of that unerring archery ; and in
his hand were brandished at least three slender assa-
gays. No banner waved above their ranks, nor any
warlike ensign ; yet were those ranks arrayed in pre-
cise serrical order — their horses, admirably trained,
moved, at whatever pace, in perfect unison as if be-
neath the guidance of a single rider ; and the men
gave no sign in their demeanor of that impetuous and
restless volatility for which their countrymen were at
that day so famous. They were arranged too it ap-
peared, as they approached more nearly, after the ap-
proved method in the Roman armies, in troops of
thirty privates, each subdivided into decads ; and the
same school of discipline was indicated by the only
instrument of music which was visible among them,
the long curved lituus, or clarion ; the clear shrill
blast of which, prolonged by the wild mountain echoes
in many a vaiying cadence, directed every change and
evolution of their well ordered inarch. Immediately
behind this royally appointed van, which was itself
preceded by three advanced patrolling parties, rode a
young man not certainly far past his twenty-second
year, whose person and apparel were equally re-
markable and striking. He, like the soldiers who
preceded him, was evidently of Numidian blood, so
much his coal-black silky hair, his soft dark liquid
eye, and clear though brown complexion, most cer-
tainly avouched for him — but, not like them was ar-
rayed cap a pie in Roman armor, a casque o f polished
brass gorgeously carved and triple-crested covered
his well shaped head ; his cuirass of bright plate was
partly covered by a saguse, or loose cassoc of bright

scarlet cloth richly embroidered, and tasselled and
fringed with gold; greaves of a workmanship that
matched his glittering corslets guarded his legs, san-
dals embossed and clasped with gems covered his
feet, which were supported by no stirrups, although
the eager and quick motions of his superb Arabian
courser would have made such support a thing quite
indispensable to any less accomplished cavalier — the
two-edged Spanish sword hung from his girdle ac-
cording to the Roman mode, but his hand grasped the
Moorish assagays, which from his boyhood upward
had ever been his favourite weapon. Following this
noble looking youth, there rode a single troop of
Rome's invincible legionaries, armed like their leader
with corslet, casque, and greaves of highly-polished
brass — plain, to an absolute extreme, in the texture
of their garments, the soldierly and modest finish of
their arms, adorned by nothing but the brightness of
the native metal, they far surpassed, in all that makes
the pomp of real war so gorgeous in its sternness, the
more superb Numidians who preceded them. Full in
the middle of this band, however, was one — an object
widely differing from the rest — a proud and dauntless
captive — wounded, yet uncomplaining ; weary and
worn, yet upright on his courser's back, as though
prepared again to battle for his crown, hopeless of
meed or mercy, yet cold and haughty in his cool de-
fiance. His garb and arms were kingly, though the
tiaraed turban had been torn from his brows, and his
enamelled mail broken and dimmed and bloody, and
his green caftan stained with sweat and dust, and his
whole war array defiled with tokens of defeat and
ruin. His legs were chained beneath his horse's
belly by heavy iron fetters, and his hands manacled
behind his back ; the charger which he rode, a well-
trained Roman trooper, being conducted by two le-
gionaries who rode one an each side the discrowned !
king with their swords drawn and ready. Over this :
little band a small horse banner was displayed of
crimson silk, surmounted by a displayed hand of gild-
ed metal, and bearing on its waving folds S. P. Q. R.,
the proud initials of the title of earth's proudest em-
pire, the senate and the people of great Rome.

Behind the legionaries in loose order trooped along
thousands of the desert-born, the sons of Ishmael,
whose hands in every age have been against every
man, and every man's hand against them — the wild
and tameless Arab, the same men now and then and
in all ages — patient and brave and fearless — unrival-
led for their skill with horse and spear and bow, yet
impotent both then and now to strive against the dis-
ciplined and steady skill of European armies.

On they rode toward the royal Cirta, the victor
and the vanquished — the reinstated monarch, and the
enslaved usurper — great Massinissa and fallen Sy-
phax. Ridge after ridge of the wild stony hills they
passed unhindered — glen after glen they threaded
unopposed, and just before the sun sank in the wes-
tern deserts, the city lay before them. Built on an
isolated mass of tabular rocks, scarped naturally on

SOPHONISBA.

181

every side with precipices of the living granite five
hundred feet in depth, a black and furious torrent
sweeping around three sides; it seems even now in
days of shot and shell, well nigh impregnable — then
it was so indeed — and the fallen monarch's eye flash-
ed with accustomed fire as it gazed on his hill fortress,
and as the high thought glowed across his soul, that
here his foe would fight only to be subdued, and that
a hope of freedom, of glory and revenge was yet in
waiting. To this strong hold of monarchs there led
but one hill-road; the nearest mountain ridge thrust
forth a spur or shoulder, as if to join the insulated
castle rock, but when it had approached within a hun-
dred paces, it was abruptly severed by the black
yawning chasm of the river, which raved unseen be-
neath its caverned base. Across this fearful gulf a
narrow bridge was thrown ; a single arch of granite,
wide enough only to admit three mounted steeds
abreast. A tall gate house, pierced with a deep
horse-shoe-formed arch, frowned at the farther end,
placed at the bottom as it were of a long funnel, made
by two flanking walls between which it was counter-
sunk, so that no enemy could enter without enduring
a discharge of missiles at the same time on both
flanks and in front. Within the city rose, well built,
and populous and wealthy. And now close on the
chasm's verge the allied forces halted, and a wild
clarion rang the summons. Upon the instant all the
walls, turret and battlement, were crowded with the
dark-visaged warriors, and a fierce yell of barbarous
defiance circled the crowded ramparts, as they beheld
the hated ensign of the Roman. Then holding his
unarmed hand aloft in token of good faith, from the
dense ranks of his Moorish horse, forth rode the
stately Massinissa. He told them all — captains and
serfs and princes — he told them of the victories of
Scipio, of the defeats, the hopelessness, the capture of
their beloved brave Syphax ! but they believed him
not at all, nor gave heed to his words, but laughed
him openly to scorn and jeered and flouted him. He
called them to surrender, and again that fierce defy-
ing yell which greeted their arrival, replied to his first
overtures with insolent derision. The monarch turned
and waved his hand toward the troop of Romans, and
they rode forth a little and opened their close column —
then every eye of his bold subjects fell in an instant
on the form of the defeated, captive, fettered king ! —
Again as if by magic, the serried files closed up ; and
Syphax saw not — happy ! most happy that he did
not ! — the shameful scene which followed. He heard
indeed the long and mournful howl which pealed up
from the lips of myriads, laden with anguish and des-
pair and terror; but he saw not the rampired walls
deserted, walls that could well have baffled an hun-
dred times the force displayed against them — nor the
stout gates flung open, nor the despairing crowds
that rushed forth, cowardly and abject, to bow before
the conquering invader. He saw not, but he knew
very shortly what had passed, for the whole band
rolled onward, and within a few minutes the captive
prince was riding over the narrow bridge, the brazen
backs of three stout legionaries close before his face,
and to the right hand and the left a powerful veteran,
into the strongest and the richest — the last city of
his realm — his crown — his treasury — his kingdom —
the palace of his fathers — and bitterest thought of all,
the wife of his affections, the young and peerless
Sophonisba ; she for whose prayers he had lost all on
earth, the prizes of his vanquisher's success. They
VOL. XXII. — 16

entered the deep arch-way — they passed into the
street beyond'; and once again the Roman troop
closed up, a solid mass five deep on every side around,
and bore him at a rapid trot away and cast him fet-
tered still into the lowest dungeon of his own strong-
est citadel, and mounted guard themselves, beneath
their own proud banner, and at the bidding of their
own tried officers ; for they were there that Roman
troop, not as the guards of honour to a barbarian
king — what Roman but had scorned so base a func-
tion ! — but as the keepers of a prisoner of the Ro-
man people.

Meanwhile the conqueror rode on, with his bright
body-guard around him, receiving as he swept through
market place and street and forum, the forced con-
gratulations of the abashed and trembling populace,
and now he reached the palace. Before its lofty por-
tals he dismounted, but ere he could pass in, a form,
a female form of exquisite and wondrous beauty, inter-
posed ; prostrate she fell before him on the ground,
clasping his knees with her white lovely arms, and
watering his jewelled sandals with her tears, which
like a veil the loose redundant tresses of her dishe-
velled hair swept in rich waves about the outline of
her voluptuous and rounded form. The prince stooped
gently over, and raised her from the ground ; for there
was something in the grace of every movement even
in that abandonment and agony of grief, that told of
noble birth and high demeanor ; and, though he had
not seen her face, there was that quick and thrilling
movement in his veins that told him he was in the
presence of something rarely beautiful.

He raised her, and she stood before him resplendent
in the simple loveliness of unadorned and natural
womanhood — young, tall, and slender, with eyes
dark, large and liquid, and now swimming with soft
luxurious moisture ; pale as the sculptured marble,
yet not with that dead ashy paleness, which gives so
ghastly and corpse-like a hue to the absence of color
in the tribes of northern Europe, but with a rich
warm tint caught from the skies of a more genial
clime — her form clad simply in a loose white robe,
leaving her neck, and a part even of her glowing bo-
som, and all her rounded arms up to the shoulder,
bare, was of a beauty far transcending all eloquence
of words to picture or convey.

" The gods," she said at length in those low tune-
ful tones which are so sweet to hear, trembling a little
as she spoke — "the gods, great Massinissa, have
given thee to possess all power o'er me and mine —
the gods and thine own valor ! — But if a captive may
send forth a voice of supplication before her lord and
arbiter of life and death, if she may clasp his knees,
and worship his victorious hand — I do beseech thee —
beseech thee by the majesty of kings, which but a lit-
tle while ago was ours! — by the Numidiau blood,
which is in common to thee, great king, and to thy
fallen rival ! — by the gods of this palace hearth, and
may they receive thee with better omens than they
did send forth Syphax ! — grant me this one — this only
mercy ! — that thou wilt in thyself decree thy will on
thine handmaiden, nor suffer me to fall into the proud
and cruel power of the Roman. If for no other cause,
than that I was the bride of Syphax, I would far
rather yield me to the faith of a Numidian, born in
this native Africa of mine, than to a foreigner and
stranger. But there is more — thou seest, nor need I
tell thee, what is to be abhorred and dreaded at a Ro-
man's hand, by a free Carthaginian — what by the

182

SOPHON1SBA.

daughter of great Kardrubal ! If by no other means
at least by a free death release me from the Roman's
bondage !"

She said and flung herself upon his bosom, and
wound her arms about him, and her heart panted fast
against his own, and her tears watered his dark visage,
and something of caress was mingled with entreaty —
till his Numidian blood was all inflamed by her strange
beauty and wild grief — and he swore rashly — madly
but positively swore what he had not the power — such
was Rome's haughty force — to promise and perform.
Throughout that day he was distraught and ill at
ease — his color went and came, and his limbs trem-
bled ; his mind and body restless alike and fevered.
He could not rest in any one position, but now would
start up and walk with long echoing strides along the
corridors and galleries of his new palace, now dash
himself down on some cushioned couch, and grind his
teeth and bite his lips till the blood started.

The banquet was served for Massinissa in the halls
of Syphax — for Massinissa and his princes — with
royal gorgeousness and pomp, and every luxury earth,
air, or water had furnished forth in those days for a
monarch's table was it served — but he eat not at all —
his throat swelled up at every mouthful as though it
would have choked him — but he drank deep and
often — and his blood fired already, now flowed like
lava through his veins, and he grew fierce and reck-
less. He sought the Harem, and found there, robed
and attired as though she had expected such a visiter,
no longer mournful and abashed, but glorious in re-
dundant beauty, the captive bride of Syphax. No
more was needed — his proud soul was all subdued
and tame, and the strong conqueror knelt before his
captive. He showed her the strong might, the proud
assumptions, the supremacy of Rome ! — he showed
her that his promise had been sworn rashly and per-
haps in vain ! He called her terrors to his aid, and
watched her shuddering frame with wild delight! — he
flattered her rare beauty, and was half maddened as
he marked the crimson flush steal over face and neck
and bosom ! He told her there was one way, and
but one, to scape the Roman's fetters — to scape young
Scipio's chariot wheel — the triumph — the capitoline —
the headsman and the axe ! — and that one way was
fraught with liberty and love ! a kingdom for a dowe-
ry — a conqueror for a spouse — a king for an adorer
and a slave !

And she — oh woman, woman ! — she listened, and
she fell ! — Kardrubal's daughter, Syphax' wife vowed
love, and constancy, and faith — to Kardrubal's most
deadly foe — Syphax' victorious rival — upon the very
day that saw her husband's ruin — that saw her coun-
try's fall. Three little hours beheld her queen ! — cap-
tive!— queen again! — oh fate! oh infamy! oh fortune !
And Syphax' marriage chamber witnessed that
night new nuptials as the Numidian conqueror clasped
to his heart the wife of the Numidian captive.

Days passed — three little days — days of intoxica-
ting rapture — of pleasure so intense as almost to par-
take of pain — of that mad, anxious, fiery passion,
that subsides even into the drear lapse of satiety, or
is cut short by sudden and retributive despair.

The third day came — and Loelius! with the third
morning Roman hosts — cohorts and legions with
their lordly leaders, and golden eagles glittering to
the sun above the sparkling spears — and Scipio's stern
lieutenant entered the walls of Cirta — on that day
Massinissa woke ! — woke from a burning dream of

love and rapture to conscience and despair. For well
he knew the cold and haughty stoic — the self-con-
straining— constant — moderate chief, whose every
passion was his slave — himself the slave of Rome's
aggrandizement.

And scarcely had he roused him to reflection, be-
fore the grave remonstrances, and stern though friend-
ly voice of Loelius pointed the truth of those sad, sad
reflections !

" For what had'st thou to do — thou with Rome's
captives ?" The Roman cared not — not a jot he — for
the false woman's crime — or the proud conqueror's
insolence — or the sad captive's anguish, wronged in
the tenderest point, stabbed to the heart of hearts by
her to whom he looked for truth, if truth there be on
earth, in heaven ! " But she was Rome's ! — Rome's
captive !" — She was to figure in his captain's triumph
— her beauty, and her agony, and tears — her noble
birth, her haughty bearing, were to be shown in
chains at Scipio's chariot wheel — to glut the ven-
geance, to swell the pride, or wake precarious sym-
pathy in the plebeian bosoms of Rome's world-con-
quering rabble ! She was to climb the sacred road —
to toil up the superb ascent of the Capitoline — to die,
where many a sovereign king and lion-hearted chief
had died in his despairing pride before her, in presence
of Rome's Jupiter, by the slave's death-blow. —
" What then had'st thou to do — thou, with Rome's
captive !"

Still until Scipio should decree — still there was
hope ; and Loelius moved by policy — what Roman
ever pitied ? — suffered what he could not prevent —
and till the armies marched the queen of Syphax filled
the arms — the heart of Massinissa ! — They marched,
and Massinissa's body guard thronged round the lit-
ter of the queen — they halted, and the royal tent was
her abode. She was still, in her own belief, secure — '
safe in her infamy — free, and a queen in her dis-
honour.

They reached the camp of Scipio. The conqueror
'of Hannibal received them in his simple glory — a Ro-
man imperator in his plain brazen armour, in his un-
derrated tent received his captive ! With an assump-
tion of all moderation, of all kindness, of all honour,
he grasped the hand of Syphax, and, though he pro-
mised nothing, nor meant anything, by that vain
courtesy, received him rather as a prince and friend,
than as a captive foeman.

Then, then, burst forth the fierce and torrent elo-
quence of the Numidian captive.

" I was mad — mad !" — he cried — " mad then,
when I embraced the Carthagenian cause against the
arms of Rome — when I took to my heart a Car-
thagenian matron — a matron, did I say? — a harlot
rather, and a curse ! — a harlot whom Massinissa has
wrenched from my arms — whom in defiance of the
Majesty of Kings, which he was bound to honour and
respect — in breach of hospitality — in high defiance of
the Roman people, whose captive, and not his, was
Sophonisba i — he has presumed to call his wife, and
still queen of Numidia! — Blest be the gods, that if all
else go well with him, in this at least he is cursed,
and for ever !"

He was removed — a few days more and he was
floating on the waters, a captive on his way to the
great City of the World — on his way to the prison,
where he was doomed 10 perish — happier! — happier,
perhaps, even in that very doom, than those who
sent him.

SOPHONISBA.

183

For Scipio, be it remembered, died afar from that
Great Rome, which he had lived to honour and in-
crease— an alien and an exile, and his tomb bore
those memorable words — " Ungrateful country, not
my bones even will I leave to thee !" — Fool ! he had
spilt his blood for her alive, and dead he left to her —
unwillingly, indeed, but he still left to her— vast leg-
acy! — his Fame — then what did his bones matter?

And Massinissa? — Better, oh better far, was Sy-
phax' lone atonement in his eternal cell at Alba,
better his years in chains — his death in the dim dun-
geon, than that one hour.

Alone ! — alone in a small tent, he sate, hard by
the Queen's pavilion — wringing his hands till the
blood started from beneath his nails — biting his lips
till his white teeth were red with his own gore. —
And now, he half unsheathed his battle sword, and
shook his arm aloft, and thought of gathering gallant
hearts around him, and pealing the wild war-cry of
Numidia, even in the Roman's ear, and cutting his
way hand on hilt, through the close camp, and dying
as became a warrior and a king, or living the free
monarch of Numidia — free with his lovely bride! —

A messenger from Scipio. The monarch was
called to his ally — to be praised, honoured, gifted with
crowns, and curule chairs, and ivory sceptre — the
togapicta — the pdlmata tunica, the choice adornment
of Rome's triumph were thrust on him. He was told
"that earth had no mightier glory than the Roman
triumph! — the Roman triumph nought greater to be-
stow, than that which Scipio had bestosved on Mas-
sinissa !" — He was styled conqueror, and friend, and
King, among the shouts of the applauding soldiery,
who saw in the Numidian's elevation only another
evidence of their own might and majesty.

The public ceremonial ended — a private interview
succeeded — then for approval, honours, and rewards —
remonstrance — exhortation — reprimand ! He was
commanded to put from him Sophonisba — " For what
had he to do with her — a Roman captive !" — He was
commanded to restore her to the tent of Scipio within
three hours, that with her husband she might sail for
Italy ! — Words availed nothing — supplications, tears!
For to tears even did the proud king descend — and
to be pitied by the cold stoic who commanded him —
commanded him with a cool, cutting calmness, which
maddened him the more — in that he felt it irresist-
ible!

He left the General's tent — he sought the Queen's
pavilion — but his proud step was slow and faulter-
ing — his haughty head hung all dejected and abashed
upon his bosom — his brow was pale and furrowed
with full many a line, which had not furrowed its
smooth, broad expanse, before that hour of torture,
but which, engraved there once by the deep chisel
of fiery passion and fierce woe, were never erased
thence any more for ever ! Large drops of cold and
clammy sweat stood like the " beaded bubbles on
some late disturbed pool," over all his swarthy linea-
ments— never did mortal lineaments display such
signs of more than mortal agony. And she rose up
to meet him in all the pomp of beauty — in all the
pride of queendom — in all the flush of youth and
health and passion — surrounded as she was by a
bright train of gorgeously attired maidens. He
clasped her to his heart, regardless of the wondering
throng of menials, who would have left the chamber;
but that he stood between them and the entrance —
he clasped her there in a long, yearning, last em-

brace— pressed one cold kiss upon her flushed and
fragrant lips — then threw her wildly from his grasp,
and rushed with frenzy-stricken speed out of her pre-
sence— never to look upon her any more — for whom
he had sold fame, and happiness, and honour, and his
own self-respect for ever !

He left her wondering — but ere one hour had
passed, an eunuch entered with a bowl — oh mockery
of mockeries ! — it was the golden bowl, the sacrificial
bowl of triumph, which had so lately been presented
by the Roman leader ! — He bowed himself thrice to
the earth, and said, in a slow, solemn tone :

" King Massinissa willingly performs the first and
plighted faith he owes thee — a husband to wife.
Since they, who can, have taken from him the power
that thou gavest him — to be thy lord and arbiter ! —
thus he performs his promise, that thou shalt not fall
living into the Roman's hand. He bids thee to die
mindful of the high chief who was thy father — mind-
ful of thy proud country — mindful of the two kings
to whom thou hast been wedded !"

And she as calmly and as proudly answered, taking
the poisoned chalice in her hand — " And I as wil-
lingly receive my nuptial present! — nor is it thank-
lessly received if such a husband has no more fitting
gift for her who gave him all. Tell him, however,
Sophonisba had died better, had she not wedded ere
her funeral !" — She drained the goblet to the dregs,
laid herself calmly down upon her royal couch, closed
her eyes quietly, folded her arms upon her breast,
and moved not any more in life — two or three shud-
ders shook her frame, after an hour had passed, and
one long fluttering sigh passed her pale lips.

Within three hours from Massinissa's interview
she was restored to Scipio — but she graced not his
triumph, nor followed his proud chariot wheel, nor
bowed her noble head to the base death-stroke.

Her death was nobler than her life — her memory
is deathless as her victor's. — And he, her last lord —
he lived a petty, tributary king — he died, leaving his
throne dependent on the Roman's will — to princes
who deluged it with kindred gore, stained it with
cowardice, and weakness, treason, and infamy, and
murder — and lost it in the end to Rome !

Jugurtha died in the base Tullianum — a strangled
captive ! Juba by his own hand, a proscribed fugi-
tive. Such was the fate of Massinissa and his race —
in what did it surpass the doom of conquered Syphax ?
The friend and foe alike — all victims, in the end to
Rome's aggrandizement.

THE PERUVIANS.

Garcillasso de la Vega relates, that a Spanish
priest, perceiving that the Peruvians chose rather to
hang themselves than to labour in the mines, addressed
them in the following words : — " You wish to hang
yourselves, my friends, that you may not be obliged
to labour ; since that is the case, I shall hang myself
too ; but I must warn you of one thing, which is, that
there are mines in the next world, as well as in this ;
and I give you my word, that I'll make you work
throughout all eternity." Upon hearing this the poor
Indians threw themselves at his feet, and beseeched
him not to commit such a rash action. Had two
thirds of these unhappy wretches destroyed them-
selves, the orator would have been much embarrassed
to keep his word with the rest.

"THE FAIRY OF THE FOAM."

MUSIC COMPOSED EXPRESSLY FOR THE LADY'S BOOK BY

W. D. BRINCKLE, M. D.

WORDS BY A. CLEVELAND COX, ESQ..

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For brightly beams their sparkle pure,

And charms away the gale.

Oh, swiftly then! we'll back again,

When gaily o'er the stream,
The soft starlight is dancing bright,

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And what though round us twilight dark

Be gath'ring as we roam —
When Mary smiles to bless our bark —

" The Fairy of the Foam !"

16*

186

THE DEATH OF ACHILLES.

Written for the Lady's Book.
THE DEATH OF ACHILLE S

IN TWO CANTOS.

BY MISS ELEANOR ALLEN.

CANTO I.

The annexed extracts from Tooke's Pantheon, may serve as a slight explanation of the following poem:
"Achilles, at Troy, killed Hector the son of Priamus, and was himself killed by Paris, by a trick of Polyxena.
* * * *,* * * * * * * * * *

" This Polyxena was the daughter of Priamus, king of Troy, a virgin of extraordinary beauty. Achilles by chance saw her
upon the walls of the city, and fell in love with her, and desired to marry her. Priamus consented. They met in the temple
of Apollo to solemnize the marriage; when Paris, the brother of Hector, coming in privately and lurking behind Apollo's
imago, shot Achilles suddenly with an arrow in that part of the foot in which only he was vulnerable."

I sins Achilles, through Achaia fam'd
The son of Peleus, who o'er Phthia reign'd,
The woes of Argive, and the Trojan state,
Celestial treachery, and Pelides' fate.
The last sad obsequies to Hector's shade,
With funeral pomp, by weeping Troy were paid.
Within the walls the Phrygian king retired,
By turns bewailed, by turns his sons inspir'd.
The chiefs, inactive, round their monarch wait,
Array'd in arms, within the rooms of state.
Hence ! Hence ye Trojans I to yon distant wall,
Be each a Hector, or like Hector fall.
Your willing monarch, worn with toil and age,
No more can lead you, or the conflict wage.
But he, impatient, from these tow'rs shall see
Each Trojan conquer, and each Grecian flee.
But first rich presents to your altars bear,
Each god a gift, but chief the god of war.
Thus Priam spoke, with haste the eager throng
Like foaming billows, through the streets roll on.
They bring rich presents to the powers divine,
Some well-fed oxen, and the choicest wine.
Some cloth of gold (for so by Priam taught)
And silver vests, by beauteous maidens wrought.
Meanwhile the Greeks in shining ranks appear'd,
Achilles, too, by every Trojan feared.
High, o'er the rest, arose his martial form,
The bravest Grecians round his chariot swarm ;
But great Pelides with sad thoughts oppress'd,
The dire forebodings of his heart confess'd.

0 list ye Greeks 1 who for Achilles feel,
What Jove and adverse fates decree, I tell.
As late, (for sleep refus'd my limbs to ease)
My anxious mind would not its labours cease ;

1 sought the shore that bounds the rolling main,
When to my sight my weeping mother came,
Like a thin mist, she left her wat'ry bed,
With mournful voice, to me the goddess said :
Ere thrice the moon her starry course has trae'd,
Or thrice descended in the golden west,

An empty shade, where Stygian waters flow,

Achilles wanders in the realms below.

Think not, ye chiefs ! Pelides shuns to pay

The presag'd forfeit of that signal day,

When Priam's son, distain'd with dust and gore,

I sent, victorious, to grim Pluto's shore.

I grieve to leave a sire by years oppress'd,

Who hopes to clasp me to his aged breast ;

Who, worn with care, bemoans on Phthia's shore,

Achilles' absence, who returns no more.

Of Greece I ask, if thus I meet my doom,

A warrior's honours, and a worthy tomb.

Thus Peleus' sun, the wise Ulysses said:

By heaven I swear, and lov'd Patroclus dead,

If from this war Pelides ne'er return,

A funeral pyre to him proud Troy shall burn.

Whilst thus he spoke, the hostile throngs were seen

With shining armour, and with warlike mien;

Like foaming billows through the gates they roll'd,

And shook their spears, and to the Grecians call'd.

Then came the chariots, thund'ring to the plain,

Their course preceded by a shouting train,

Then next to these, a vulgar mass appears,

Of men and steeds, and youths in tender years.

But first of these who brav'd the coming war,

Rode youthful Paris, in his glittering car,

Of burnish'd brass the shining front was made,

And well-wrought gold the polish'd brass o'erlaid.

On its broad sides, in cunning work was seen,

Saturnian Juno, and the Spartan queen;

And next to him, in mail refulgent, rose

Great Deiphobus, dreadful to his foes.

Another Hector, he reseeks the war,

The weaker Trojans run beside his car.

With foaming steeds, and pond'rous lance uprear'd,

Like Mars himself, great iEueas appear'd,

His martial form in polish'd armour dress'd,

To Argive's sons celestial birth confess'd.

Two Trojan youths bear high his brazen shield,

He guides the steeds and hurries to the field.

And next to these, who fearless leave the town

Old Priam's son, Polites, thunders down,

As some tall pine, high tovv'ring o'er the wood,

The Dardan hero in his chariot stood.

Dius and Pammon follow'd in his train,

Next came old Dymas, hast'ning to the plain.

Now Agathon with Helenus appears,

Midst flaming shields, and pikes, and brist'ling spears.

Cars urg'd on cars, squadrons on squadrons came,

Hosts pour'd on hosts, impetuous to the plain.

But now Atrides, who the ^Egions led,

To Peleus' son, with mien impatient, said,

Why waste ye thus, in idle words the day,

When Troy lies vaunting in a fierce array,

Before thine eyes? Hast thou no thirst to gain

Thy presag'd glory, and increase of fame ;

Or was Pelides frighten'd by a dream,

When sunk the sun in purple Xanthus' stream,

And o'er him rose a visionary form?

Of mist it was, and rising vapours born.

And must thou still, (the son of Peleus cried.)

Reproach Achilles, and his words deride?

If best it please, delay to fear assign,

I scorn the insults of a soul like thine,

When honour calls, I foremost seek the plain,

When prudence dictates, I aloof remain.

The Phthian said, and with resentful mien,

Thus spoke Atrides to the list'ning train:

Shall fam'd Achilles here inactive wait,

'Till Troy's avenging arm has seal'd our fate ?

Oh, forward move! let him bring up the rear,

With meaner Greeks, whose hearts are slaves to fear.

THE DEATH OF ACHILLES.

187

These bitter taunts, Pelides cried, suppress,

Lest Peleus' son should seek a mee,t redress;

Dost thou forget, whenby the swelling flood,

My forces stray'd, and cover'd chariots stood ;

Thy blooming captives, and thy treasures told,

And mean entreaties as thy servile gold.

Alike I scorn'd? Still thou to Ilion's plain

May call Achilles, and still call in vain.

Thy wrath suppress ! the sage Ulysses cried,

Thine arm, alone, must Phrygia's fate decide.

Delay no more, but seek the hostile train,

And add new honours to undying fame.

As when some torrent, foaming, leaves the plain,

Rolls o'er the cliff, and bellowing, meets the main,

Thus great Achilles left his martial post,

Thus thunder'd down, and met the Dardan host.

Vulcanian arms encas'd his giant frame,

His crest, rose nodding, o'er his helm of flame,

Aloft in air ; his spacious shield he bore,

On mov'd his chariot with a sullen roar.

Next youthful Pyrrhus with Ulysses shone,

And then came towering Ajax Telamon,

Close in their rear, the dread Tydides rode,

He seem'd the genius of that heaving flood,

His sable plumes a casque refulgent crown'd,

Far flash'd his targe, with massive circles bound.

By Pallas urg'd, then furious rushing on,

Alcimas came, and great Automedon.

The mighty chiefs a single car contains,

The fruit of conquest on the Trojan plains.

Two foaming steeds the young Oethes bore,

Foredoom'd to perish on the Phrygian shore;

In vain his sire, t' insure his safe return,

Sheds rich libations, and his victims burn.

Then Meron speeds ; a youth of noble race,

His mantle flowing with an easy grace,

A captive maid his azure baldric wrought,

A lance he held, with gems resplendent fraught,

Two coursers sleek, from Scythia's wide domain,

Bore swift the Pylian to th' embattled plain.

With serried spears, the brave Atrides led,

A martial ho3t, in steely mail array'd.

From Ornia's shores, and Corinth's walls they came,

And ^Egion's realms, beyond the swelling main.

Next Sparta's king a band, impatient, leads

With sounding chariots, and Thessalian steeds.

The archers follow, in a hurrying throng,

Chiefs urge on chiefs, squadrons urge squadrons on.

Now Greece meets Troy, terrific is the sound

Of clashing arms, and cries and shouts around.

With shields aloft, the furious ranks engage,

Thick fly the lances, fierce the jav'lins rage,

Now fiery darts, and missiles huge, are toss'd

By charging squadrons, and opposing hosts.

The sounding bows their deadly vollies pour

On either host, and answering targets roar.

The stern Achilles, dreadful in his might,

Deals forth destruction in the thickest fight ;

Before his rage the Trojan ranks give way,

And heaps of dead his chariot wheels delay.

With Hemon, now he joins in deadly strife,

One wars for glory, one for Troy and life.

The Dardan youth, his sire implor'd in vain,

To shun the dangers of th' ensanguined plain.

Eager for fame, and scorning just alarms,

He falls a victim to Achilies' arms.

By Peleus' son the stern Megaron dies,

And dark with gore the brave Clitarchus lies.

But now, rides fearless through the raging field,

Oeilean Ajax, with his seven-fold shield.

His beamy lance he hurls with deadly force,

And slays whole squadrons in his rapid course.

Meantime, triumphant o'er a host of foes,

Old Priam's son, the stern Polites rose.

By Greeks encompass'd, he maintains the field,

Repels fierce legions, and disdains to yield.

Oethes view'd him from the hostile bands,

Quick in his front with dauntless mien he stands;

With thee he cried, a fearless youth will wage,

An equal combat, and restrain this rage,

Though strength to thee, and long experience giv'n,

Thy cause ignoble, and abhorr'd by heav'n.

I justly war, and gods as just, decree

Thy fall, imperious ! and that fall by me.

The Grecian thus; and sent his shining spear,

It graz'd the hero, and sped far in air.

No power, rash boy! Polites cries, protects

Thy feeble days, nor erring steel directs.

Go ! learn too late, that Jove his life reveres,

Who fights for country, and a parent's years,

The Trojan said ; and plung'd with skilful art,

His reeking falchion in the warrior's heart.

With vengeful rage, the grim Tydides spied

The lifeless Pylian, and the conqueror's pride;

With lance aloft, he furious towards him came,

And hurl'd the weapon, but with erring aim ;

Beyond the chief, with fatal course it sped,

And number'd Pelion with the Trojan dead.

Then Priam's son, of bleeding Troy the stay,

Rose in his car, and forward urg'd his way.

Quick in the Argive's tow'ring front he came,

Whose burnish'd armour seem'd one sheet of flame,

In deadly strife, with more than mortal ire

Then closed the chiefs, the fav'ring gods inspire.

With equal force their whizzing shafts they send,

With equal strength their massive shields defend —

Polites now, and now Tydides gains,

Retreats, advances, and to fly disdains.

Blow follows blow, and thrust to thrust succeeds,

'Till brave Polites by the Argive bleeds.

The wounded hero from the field is borne,

The Greeks encourag'd, and the Trojans mourn.

Next Loerian Cyphax by Tydides falls,

And aged Oron from Cleones walls,

Prius and Actus by his steel expire,

And young Cleanthes with his aged sire.

Meanwhile Achilles in the bloody fray,

Leads on his warriors in a fierce array,

Troy's black battalions, nor its chiefs delay,

No arm impedes him in his purple way.

Far from his rage, the Idean Paris spies,

His direful course, and to iEneas cries,

Shall yon proud Greek, unheeded, strew the plain

With Phrygian warriors, and auxiliars slain,

Is there no Trojan to restrain his force,

No arm to curb him in his furious course?

Though train'd to combat, and renown'd in war,

I scorn his vengeance, and disdain to fear.

More noble they, who by a hero bleed

In glorious combat, in their country's need,

Than they, who living, from the fight remain,

The boasting victors of a vulgar train.

Thus Paris spoke ; and quick his chariot turn'd,

Urg'd on his coursers, and for glory burn'd.

Where Peleus' son, with nodding crest was seen,

There rush'd the Trojan with undaunted mien ;

Quick in his front, the youth impetuous came,

Through fighting squadrons and through heaps of slain,

Rein'd in his steeds, and sent with well-aim'd force,

His sounding jav'liu with unerring course ;

Full on his mail the whizzing shaft descends,

His baldric pierces, and his corselet rends,

There fixed remains. The raging Greek descries

The royal Trojan, and infuriate cries !

What fate propels thee to a certain doom

To daring Paris, and a bloody tomb ?

If adverse gods stay not th' avenging blow,

This lance shall send thee to the realms below,

A shade, unwept, to Pluto's drear domain,

The scorn of Argive, and the Phrygian's bane.

Achilles thus ; and swift his weapon drew,

By fate propell'd, with whizzing noise it flew,

It reach'd the Trojan with a ringing sound,

And speedy entrance through his cuirass found.

The crimson tide came rushing down his mail,

And o'er his seat the hope of Ilion fell.

188

HARRIETT NEWELL.

Meanwhile old Priam, on the Trojan wall,

Saw Greek and Dardan in mix'd battle fall,

The aged monarch, anxious, sat alone,

On a low couch, with old Ucalegon.

Filled with alarm, amidst the hosts did scan

The daring Paris in the battle's van.

Around the youth the darts and missiles flew,

And archers fierce their sounding arrows drew.

The weeping king to Jove address'd his prayers,

To spare the hero to his feeble years,

To save his offspring from Pelides' ire,

The hope of Phrygia, and a hapless sire.

When, as he gaz'd, beneath the Argive's steel,

The wounded Trojan in his chariot fell.

His noble coursers, foaming in the war,

By instinct turn'd, and homeward urg'd the car,

Before their course the raging'hosts give way,

They strive impetuous in the fierce array.

The stern Achilles lash'd his panting steeds,

Rush'd through the ranks, nor Troy nor Lycia heeds.

With living flame his arms refulgent glow'd,

With lance aloft, in full pursuit he rode.

The dread Tydides thunder'd in the rear,

With nodding plumes and deep empurpled spear.

Next Atlas' sons and Hellas' warriors sped,

And Threchin's cohorts, by the Phthian led.

The Greeks press on, the throngs oppose around,

And cries and groans, with clashing arms, resound.

Pale with affright, old Priam spies afar,

The foe pursuing, and the flying car,

Springs from his couch, and wildly shouts aloud,

To those around, a mean, ignoble crowd.

Who fear'd the contest, but preferr'd their plea,

That to report, which he himself could see.

With arms extended, on the wall he runs,

Unbar the gates ! the wounded Paris comes,

See! see his coursers flying from the war,

Unbar the gates! ye shameless throngs unbar!

He comes! He comes! The warriors shout around,

Back fly the portals with a thund'ring sound,

By Mars inspir'd, the panting steeds, with care,

Within the walls their royal burden bear.

Now from the Senate of the realms above

Cypria descends, the beauteous queen of love.

The goddess hastens to the Trojan walls,
Through lofty columns, and through regal halls,
Arrives at last within a spacious dome,
Where lost in thought, with silent grief o'ercome,
Sate Polyxena at her purple loom.
Oh lovely nymph ! of all thy house most fair,
Strange is the message that to thee I bear,
The son of Peleus, victor of the field,
Makes the sad Trojans to his prowess yield.
Thine is the power his dreadful arm to stay,
And turn its force from Priam's race away.
Haste, Polyxena ! Haste, the walls to gain I
Thy charms must conquer where the steel is vain.
This, gods have promis'd — this, the fates decree
Go! leave the rest, to Jove and destiny.
The goddess spoke ; then turn'd from mortal view,
To Ida's top, the maid divine withdrew.
The Phrygian dame with warlike ardour fir'd,
Beheld the goddess, and her words admir'd,
With joyful haste she sought the pillar'd dome,
Where Priam sate, with woes and age o'ercome.
O sire rever'd! she said, to me 'tis given
Sad Troy to save, 'tis so decreed by heaven ;
As late with care I form'd the golden thread
In heroes living, or in warriors dead,
With flowing hair, and with celestial mien,
To these sad eyes appear'd the Paphian queen.
Stay not, she cried, but haste the walls to gain,
Thy charms must conquer where the steel is vain.
The son of Peleus, victor of the field,
Makes the sad Trojans to his prowess yield;
Thine is the power his dreadful arm to stay,
And turn its force from Priam's race away.
Thus she ; with joy the aged monarch cries,
O ne'er so beauteous in thy father's eyes !
From these high walls, thy charms divine must show,
Another Helen to the Greeks below.
Thus spake the king; two gentle virgins brought
A suit of mail, with fair devices wrought, —
Of this, a part the Phrygian maid assumes,
A hrazen helmet, with dark waving plumes:
Four Trojan maids around in silence wait.
And then conduct her through the rooms of state-
[To be concluded.]

HARRIET NEWELL,

A distinguished missionary, was the daughter of Mo-
ses Atwood, a merchant of Haverhill, Massachusetts.
She was born October 10th, 1793. She was educated
at Bradford academy, with Miss Hazeltine, after-
wards Mrs. Judson. She was four years younger
than that celebrated woman. She became pious
about the same time, and there can be no doubt that
the determination of Miss Hazeltine to unite herself
with Mr. Judson, and to become a missionary to the
East Indies, had a great effect on her destiny. She
was married at the same time with her friend, and
embarked on board the same vessel for India, on the
nineteenth day of February, 1812; but after reaching
Calcutta, she, with her husband, was obliged to em-
bark for the Isle of France, not being permitted to
stay at Calcutta. On the 8th of October she became
the mother of a daughter, who lived but five days,
and was buried in the ocean. On reaching the Isle
of France she lingered until the twentieth of Novem-
ber 1812, just nine months and a day after leaving
the shores of her native land. She was indeed the
first martyr to the missionary cause, but she never
had the slightest opportunity to exert her activity and
benevolence in a cause which she, no doubt, had
near at heart. She was a young woman of fair

talents and respectable acquirements, and of unques-
tionable piety. She had naturally a feeble constitu-
tion, which could not support the ill she was called
to suffer. She died a most hopeful Christian. She
wished not to survive her confinement and the loss
of her babe, but was desirous of sinking into the
sweet slumbers of the grave, and her wish was
granted.

Before her departure she had written many let-
ters to her female friends, which are proofs of good
talents, and a warm heart, devoted to the great causes
of charity and religion. She left a circle of friends
dear to her, to engage in the missionary cause at an
early period of life, for she was only nineteen years
of age at her death. In every good and great cause
there must be martyrs, and she was the first among
American missionaries in India. Mr. Newell sur-
vived his wife for several years, and died at Bombay
of the spasmodic cholera, having probably taken the
disease in attending the sick and dying. He was a
man of some learning, great zeal, and well suited to
his calling. The account of the death of his wife is
indeed touching ; it bears the marks of 'genuine affec-
tion, which is better than a world of poetry in speak-
ing of the sorrows of the heart.

editors' table.

189

EDITORS' TABLE

"I am not without hope of persuading mothers to take
charge of the entire education of their children during the
earlier years of their life," says a distinguished female
writer.

If the mother have time and health for the duty, this do-
mestic education will be the richest boon she can bestow on
her daughters. Nothing but sickness, or that necessity of
providing the means to support her young children, which
sometimes is the mother's hard lot, should induce her to re-
sign the trust which God has given her over her infants.

We approve of " Infant Schools" for those children whose
mothers must leave them, either to their own devices, or the
care of ignorant hirelings; still we think there is no place like
a well-regulated home, for these little beings to learn their
first lessons in the book of human life, and no teacher so ca-
pable of inclining their young hearts to love goodness and form
habits which will make its practice easy and pleasant, as the
mother. ,

Still the aid of schools is usually necessary in continuing,
systematically, through the whole period of childhood and
youth, the requisite course of education. In cities and towns
where good private teachers and day schools are found, we
would advise the mother never to send her daughters to a
boarding school. Let them, from the age of six or seven, at-
tend school through the day, but let their home be under the
same roof with their mother. And she must take a deep inter-
est in all the studies of her daughters, must watch carefully
over their habits of thought as well as conduct, and never per-
mit the idea that her superintendence in their mental develope-
ment is unnecessary, because they have a teacher at school,
to be entertained by them. This course will require exertion
on the part of the mother, but she is in duty bound to use the
exertion. She will be happier in thus doing, than though she
devoted herself to shining in the world. We can have nothing
really excellent and permanently beneficial to ourselves with-
out exertions, and ladies should not dream of being exonerated
from labours, and responsibilities, because they can afford to
pay for every thing. We must not make the whole education
of our children the work of hirelings. There must be heart
and soul put forth in this training of immortal beings, and no-
thing but love, deep and disinterested, devoted and self-deny-
ing as that which the maternal bosom only is capable of feel-
ing, can incite, or sustain, or adequately reward the effort.

From the age of fourteen, we think it would be an excellent
plan, were all young ladies, whose mothers are competent for
the task, (and all ladies ought to be) instructed entirely at
home. Let the mother become the preceptress and companion
of her daughters : she— (the mother)— may have the assist-
ance of masters and lecturers when necessary; but she should
superintend, and she would be thus improving herself while
educaling her child. Goethe, the great literary dictator of
Germany, declares, that no man has his education completed,
till he has educated his son. If such may be affirmed of man,
how true it is of woman— that she requires to teach others,
before she is herself accomplished and educated !

If the domestic establishment be well regulated, the mo-
ther will have sufficient leisure for the instruction of her
daughters. The absurd custom of morning calls and visits,
must, to be sure, be dispensed with. And why should it be
retained? It fritters away that portion of our time best adapt-
ed for duties and improvements at home. In the afternoon or
evening, ladies could receive their friends with much more
convenience as well as pleasure to all parties.

The advantages secured by this mode of home education
would be many and important. The young lady would find
that her intellectual pursuits, her accomplishments and
household duties were compatible with each other; because
she would see her mother interested in all. This idea must,
by some means, be made familiar, or the young lady, as soon
as she is married, either throws by her books, shuts her piano,
and settles down into a dull, listless manager of her domestic
concerns, without the energy of a good housewife, who has
never been "finished" at a boarding school, and thus the ex-

pense of her education is thrown away — or, worse still, made
vain by her polite accomplishments, aiid unaccustomed to
household pursuits, she disdains the petty cares of her family
as beneath the notice of her refined and sentimental feelings, is
wretched herself, and makes all around her miserable, unless
all her extravagant desires of shining in the fashionable world
can be gratified.

The system of continuing education at home for young la-
dies, would have a salutary influence on their mothers. It
would give them an aim for exertion, a strong motive to im-
prove in their literary taste, and to retain those accomplish-
ments in which they wish their daughters to excel. How
much better than the love of display would be this maternal
solicitude ! There is a pure influence in the society of chil-
dren and ingenuous youth, which operates most beneficially
on the mature mind. The more we feel that our example is
to afl'ect the character and happiness of those we love, and
from whose fate we cannot separate our own, the more we
shall strive to act rightly, and thus we shall become better and
happier.

A mother who educates her children must improve. The
example of Mrs. Ramsay, wife of Dr. Ramsay, the celebrated
historian, is a case in point. She studied the Greek and Latin
languages, in order to render herself competent to instruct
her sons, whom she fitted for college. Her daughters' educa-
tion she entirely conducted.

If our rich and fashionable ladies, those who have wealth
and leisure, would follow the example of that noble matron of
South Carolina, they would, besides promoting the intellect-
ual resources and pleasures of domestic life, secure to them-
selves a pre-eminence in the respect of the world, which the
eclat of being able to educate their daughters at the most ex-
pensive schools will never give them.

Missionaries of the Sandwich Islands.
The following extract from the letter of a gentleman, con-
nected with the Exploring Expedition, will be gratifying to
our religious readers. It is dated

" Honolulu, Oct 10th, 1840.
************

" As regards the natives, I am agreeably disappointed ;
they are further advanced in civilization, dress better, and
live better than I had been taught to expect. The Missiona-
ries, so far as I can judge, are a very worthy set of people, who
have the good of the natives very much at heart — and if their
labours are really the cause of the great superiority of these
islanders over the other Polynesians, they deserve infinite cre-
dit for the means they have adopted, and the benefits they
have conferred."

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The following is the result of our monthly researches
among the MSS. that crowd our editorial drawer.

Accepted —

" The Mother and Child."

"The Bereaved."

" Shadows of the Past."

" On the Preservation of Wild Flowers."

We must decline the following —

"The Departed."

"Guardian Angels," — both by the same author. He will
see we have accepted one of his three poems. Although we
think he displays considerable of the true poetic genius, yet
we cannot encourage him to persevere. It is about as vision-
ary to attempt, in this practical age, to gain gold by the aid
of the muse, as was the dream, in the olden times, of finding
the philosopher's stone by alchemy. But to go on with our
list.

190

EDTIORS' BOOK TABLE.

We also decline —
" Music, Painting and Poetry."
"The Future."
"Sunset."

" Album Verses — To Virginia, on her leaving home."
" Friendship."
" Spring."

"A Country Wedding."
" The Recalled Witness."

Zara— a Drama. Shall we return it to the author, by mail?
" Apostrophe to Virtue'" We give the last stanza —

" Thou rose-leaf of beauty,

Bright coral of truth,
Thou rainbow, that archest

The heaven of youth,
Without thee the light

Of existence would fade,
And Hope's morning star

Be enveloped in shade."

" The Singing Child," is pretty, but not perfect.
" The Coquette's Toilet Soliloquy" has considerable merit.
" Song — Inscribed to Miss J. M. P."— is worth sending to
the lady, but not worth publishing for ladies in general.

We pronounce no judgment unless we peruse the whole of
an article. The authors of the " Diamond" and " Revenge,"
will understand us.

A. M. P. informs us that " Mrs. Sigourney is one who is an
ornament to the literature of our land, and is appreciated by
her fair countrywomen." To the truth of this every subscri-
ber to the Lady's Book will readily assent. But when A. M.
P. presents his verses in proof of the same, it is matter of
congratulation that the fact does not rest on such proof.

The request, contained in a letter from Keeseville, N. Y.,
to insert the whole of " The Past," an extract of which was
given in our Editor's Table of last month, cannot be complied
with. It would not repay a reading. We may be, and doubt-
less are, at times mistaken in our judgment; but we cannot
insert a contribution unless we consider it good. The numbers
ordered will be sent as desired.

Jessie, the Flower of Dumblaine. By Thos. H. Chivers, M. D.

Vastly pompous and affected. Mr. Thos. H. Chivers lays
down canons of composition; one of them is as follows: —
" Every line of any composition ought to contain some thought
so originally expressed, that it will bear the scrutiny of the
mind in many perusals." It is awkward to make laws in
theory, and break them in practice. Mr. C. is a punster. —
He says that " most tales are too long, and are of little moment
to the animals who wear them. Most of them are to litera-
ture, what horses are to the Yankees— they must be bobbed
before they will bear inspection."

Mr. C.'s tale would require to be bobbed, and cropped into
the bargain.

As another specimen of the modesty of Mr. Thomas H.
Chivers, M. D., we annex the following note and two verses
from a poem received from him.

"Dear Sir— I send you this poem for the Lady's Book, and
if you like it7 you can pay me what you think it is worth, and
I will engage to furnish your valuable journal with better
poetry than any you have received for the last three years, or
you shall have it for nothing. This is a sample.

" Yours very truly, T. H. C.

" Take back the rusty chain !

Bind not the hands that God has left so free 1
As well attempt to bind the maine* —

For they are fetterless as is the sea 1

Thou think'st it much to stay the torrent's course,
Then why that which defies the universe!

* State or ocean.

"For now my heart is strong,
And now my soul is willing to be free !

And rather than submit to wrong,
Which God has said shall never come to me ;

I now devote my spirit to the sky,

And with one prayer to heaven, look up — and die."

Now, will any of our readers say, that Mr. Chivers has not
a good opinion of his own abilities. We have had poetry from
Mrs. Sigourney, Mrs. Hale, Mellen, Benjamin, Tappan, Mc-
Lellan, Miss Mitford, Montgomery, &c , &c, <fcc, within
three years; but if Mr. Chivers' is not better than theirs —
we shall have it for nothing— precisely its worth, if he would
pay for setting the types.

EDITORS BOOK TABLE.

The Chess Player. Nathaniel Dearborn, Boston. Carey &
Hart, Philadelphia.

It is much to be regretted that so little attention has been
paid to " the noble game of chess," in this country. Not that
there are not as many perhaps here, as elsewhere who under-
stand it well enough to play passably in society; but there
are scarcely any amateurs of distinction, or any who can for
a moment compete with the players of the Cafe de la Regence,
or the Westminster Chess Club. This should be remedied,
and there seems to be a growing interest in the subject which
promises well.

The little work at the head of this notice, makes no pre-
tensions to be a complete treatise, but is only a book for be-
ginners, and as such has very many merits. The style is
simple, the explanations clear, and exceedingly full, and there
are many valuable games annexed for practice. The principal
author, Mr. Walker, is well known as an enthusiastic lover
of the art, and is one of the first English players. Hoyle has
hitherto been almost the only authority in general use in this
country, but his brief observations on the game are confused
and often calculated to mislead, and many of the laws he
gives have been superseded or much modified by modern
usage. To beginners in the science of Chess, we can confi-
dently recommend this little volume, as besides its other
merits, it is printed in a clear type, and has several engravings
to illustrate the text.

Physiology for Schools. By Reynal Coates, M. D. pp. 333.
Marshall, Williams & Butler, Philadelphia.

We have looked over this volume with considerable atten-
tion, and feel happy to give it a favourable recommendation.
It seems to have been prepared with great care, and as an
elementary treatise for schools, fitted to develope and strength-
en the reasoning powers of pupils, as well as to impart such a
knowledge of the science of physiology as shall, in the words
of the author, " enable the pupil to read understanding^
those profounder works on natural history, hygiene, the fine
arts, and even morals, which without some such knowledge,
are either unintelligible or vaguely understood." It. is well
adapted for Female Seminaries, and we hope will receive that
attention which the importance of the subject demands from
our own sex. It will be a good work for the mother who
conducts her children's education at home. The arrangement
of the work, in paragraphs, regularly numbered, is very con-
venient, and the catalogue of contents renders the reference
to any desired fact or illustration very easy. This is no small
merit in a work designed for popular instruction.

The Southern Harp: consisting of original Sacred and Moral
Songs, adapted to the most popular melodies, for the piano
forte and guitar. By Mrs. Mary S. B. Dana. Parker &.
Ditson, Boston, pp. 100. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

The copiousness of the title page leaves little to say respect-
ing the design of this work. The most popular melodies such
as " Roy's Wife;' — •' Araby's Daughter" — " Kathleen O'More"
" Come Rest in this Bosom," &c, &c, which have been so
long associated with the " immortal verse" of Burns, Moore,
and other distinguished poets, are here given ; but the songs
are no longer expositions of mere earthly feelings and passions.
The writer, a young, sensitive and delicate woman, who has,

EDITORS BOOK TABLE.

191

in her short life, endured deep afflictions, which only a strong
religious faith and trust could enable her to bear with compo-
sure, found such consolation in pouring. forth her feelings in
these holy songs, that she was induced to give them to the
world, hoping that to the hearts of true Christians they would
prove an acceptab'e offering. For the family altar, the Sab-
bath evening party, and the social gatherings of Christians,
they are prepared. The Southern Harp will, no doubt, be
highly acceptable to a large portion of our community; and
the elegant style in which it is printed, will give it favour as
the parlour companion of our young ladies.

" Who shall be greatest ?" By Mary Howitt. D. Appleton &.
Co., New York.

The name of the author is a sufficient passport for this nice
little iook. We think it hardly equal in interest, however,
to some of her previous works— but it will well repaya perusal
by mothers as well as children.

Night and Morning. 2 vols. Harper & Brothers, New York.
Carey & Hart, Philadelphia, 1841.

We are not, in general, admirers of Mr. Bulwer's novels.
Besides that his style is too often inflated, and his descriptions
are exaggerated, his morality is of that loose order which no
one can approve. From these objections, his latest work, Night
and Morning, is not entirely free ; but despite of them it is a
most interesting and attractive production. Philip Beaufort,
the hero, is a noble fellow, and in our judgment, though he is
almost too good for every day life, his character is not more
forcible than it is natural. Fanny is also a charming creature,
and no more like the Mignon of Goethe, or the Fenella of Sir
Walter, from which it has been said she is a copy, than she
is like Ophelia or Desdemona.

Sketches of Conspicuous Living Characters of France. Lea &
Blanchard, 1841.

These very lively and graphic sketches were originally pub-
lished in Paris, in weekly livraisons, and we are indebted for
their translation, which is remarkably spirited and correct, to
Mr. R. M. Walsh, of this city. They embrace biographies of
Thiers, Lafitte, Chateaubriand, Soult, Berryer, George Sand,
and numerous other French celebrities, and nothing could be
eprightlier or more agreeable than the manner in which the
principal incidents in the lives of the various subjects, and
thsir political opinions and relations, are introduced and dis-
cussed.

this time, may be found of service to those who are engaged
in discussing that question.

The Kinsman, and the Black Riders of the Congaree. 2 vols.
Lea & Blanchard, 1841.

Mr. Simms has been as fortunate in this as in most of his
productions. The story is novel, and the characters have
many remarkable traits to distinguish them. The work is very
interesting, and furnishes some stirring descriptions of the
partisan warfare of the revolution.

Heads of the People. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

Twenty-nine finished engravings of heads, illustrative of
the various characters to whom they belong. The literary
matter is by Mrs Gore, Douglas Jerrold,C. Whitehead, Mrs.
S. C. Hall, Leigh Hunt, William Howitt, William Thackeray,
Paul Pendergrast, and the celebrated Nimrod. Here is va-
riety enough, and of the right sort. We have compared this
book with an English copy, and find it as good in every re-
spect. It abounds with variety and incident, and the names
of the authors are security for the style. Matter can be found
in it to suit the taste of all ; and there is truth in the sketches.
Now Master Humphrey is concluded, we consider this a wor-
thy successor. This firm has been very successful in their
selections this season — Lorrecquer, Macauley, James Smith's
Memoirs, Howitt's agreeable works, O'Malley, and now, the
present capital work under notice.

The Engravings are by Yeager.

The Flying Dutchman, by the author of Gentleman Jack and
Cavendish. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.
A good novel, with a sufficient sprinkling of the " old salt"
to make it agreeable — stirring incidents and marvellous es-
capes. Indeed we should be disappointed in not finding a
novel by the author of Gentleman Jack, good.

Ten Thousand a Year. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.
Volume IV. of this amusing and entertaining work has been
published. The election scene is worthy the author, and
extremely Pickwickian in its style. In answer to numerous
inquiries, we cannot tell when it will end, nor do we care if it
never does, so long as the interest is as well sustained.

Popular Airs of Germany. Worch & Thomas, 134 North
Fourth street.
The nnture of this work is indicated by its title.

The Life of Oliver Goldsmith, with Selections from his Wri-
tings, by W. Irving. 2 vols. Harper & Brothers, New York.
Carey & Hart, Philadelphia, 1841.

This is one of the best biographies of Goldsmith which we
have seen. Without the tediousness of that by Mr. Pryor, it
embodies all that is material to be known of the poet and his
ways, and furnishes some just criticisms on his productions.
The selections from his works are of course made with excel-
lent taste.

Distinguished Men of modern Times. 2 vols. Harper &; Bro-
thers, New York. Carey &. Hart, Philadelphia, 1841.

This is a very valuable collection, chiefly taken from the
series originally published in the British Portrait Gallery,
under the superintendence of the Society for the diffusion of
Knowledge. The biographies— nearly fifty in number — are
written with great skill, and present a mass of interesting and
agreeable information which is not often found within the
same compass.

Patchwork : by Captain Basil Hall. 2 vols. Lea & Blanchard,
1841.

Under this quaint title, Captain Hall has gathered together
fragmentary descriptions of his visits to various parts of the
world; and has made a very pleasant and readable book.
There is one chapter on capital punishment, which, just at

The Southron and Lilly of the Valley. D. C. Gaskell & J.
Barnard, Nashville, Tenn.
Another magazine devoted to the dissemination of lite-
rature.

The Amulet. J. H. Spinning, Jersey City.
Little did we think it would ever be our lot to notice a mag-
azine published in " Paul us Hook." (Our acquaintance with
the place commenced when Capt. Lyons' Hotel was the only
large house to be seen.) But here is a very neat affair with
a well finished engraving. These are the days of cheap lite-
rature.

Mr. Bogue, of 147 Chesnut street, has sent us a copy of his
Treatise on the Hair, with engravings. It is well arranged,
and the subject seems to have been inquired into by a mind
that has apparently devoted itself to the subject. It abounds
with apt quotations, and contains some very good original
poetry.

Master Humphrey's Clock is completed, and poor Nell and
the old man are dead. Q.uilp do. Brass detected. Swiveller
enriched. Barbara happy. The Marchioness amazed, and
the pony kicking. The last chapters are very affecting.

O'Malley is as humorous as ever.

192

PLEASING EXPERIMENTS. FASHIONS.

Merry's Museum, No. I. has been received, and is an ad-
mirable work for children. It is edited by S. G. Goodrich,
Esq. late Peter Parley- It contains engravings and short sto-
ries, adapted to the juvenile mind. The agent in this city is
Mr. Hill, at the N. W. corner of Fifth and Chesnut streets.

We neglected in our March number to credit " The Course
of Love" to W. Landor.

PLEASING EXPERIMENTS.

THE VISIBLY GROWING ACORN.

Cut a circular piece of card to fit the top of a hyacinth
glass, so as to rest upon the ledge and exclude the air. Pierce
a hole through the centre of the card, and pass through it a
strong thread, having a small piece of wood tied to one end,
which, resting transversely on the card, prevents its being
drawn through. To the other end of the thread attach an
acorn ; and, having half filled the glass with water, suspend
the acorn at a short distance from the surface.

The glass must be kept in a warm room; and, in a few days,
the steam which has generated in the glass will hang from
the acorn in a large drop. Shortly afterwards, the acorn will
burst, the root will protrude and thrust itself into the water;
and, in a few days more, a stem will shoot out at the other
end, and, rising upwards, will press against the card, in which
an orifice must bo made to allow it to pass through. From
this stem, small leaves will soon be observed to sprout; and,
in the course of a few weeks, you will have a handsome oak
plant, several inches in height.

BRILLIANT WATER MIRROR.

Af

Nearly fill a glass tumbler with water, and hold it, with
your back to the window, above the level of the eye, as in the
engraving. Then look obliquely as in the direction E, a, c,
and you will see the whole surface shining like burnished
silver, with a strong metallic reflection; and any object, as a
spoon, A C B, immersed in the water, will have its immersed
part C B, reflected on the surface, as in a mirror, but with a
brilliancy far surpassing that which can be obtained from
quicksilver, or from the most highly-polished metals.

DESCRIPTION OF FASHION PLATE.

Fig. 1. — Dress of poux de soie: blue shot with pink. The
corsage is plain at back and half high; the fronts also tight
to the shape, but only meeting at the very waist, being eloped
away in the form of a V, and trimmed with two rows of fall-
ing lace. The skirt is without garniture, save a hem of itself,
about a quarter of a yard in depth; the sleeves are plain and
loose, cut out on the straight way of the material ; they are
not confined any where, and reach only midway of the lower
arm, the buttons of the sleeves being turned up like cuffs, (see
plate), in order to display a pair of under sleeves, made of fine
India muslin; these sleeves belong to a corsage, the front
of which is to be seen ; it has drawings across like the sleeves,
and is finished at top by a row of narrow lace edging; deep
ruffles of lace fall over the hands. The hat is of white crape
lisse and has three flowers at the side ; the strings are of crape
lisse, with a very fine satin piping all round, and edged with
narrow blonde. It will be perceived, that the crown of the
bonnet sits so flat that it is not at all perceptible in front.
Flowers underneath the bonnet.

Fig. 2. — Dress of white book muslin. The corsage is precise-
ly the same as the one just described, except, that instead of
being trimmed with two falls of lace, it has two frills of mus-
lin small plaited, and put on with a bouillon., through which a
ribbon may be inserted at pleasure. This trimming is con-
tinued down the front of the skirt of the dress, the bouillon
and two plaited frills at each side of a piece being entirely
small plaited, and inserted down the centre of the front; a
glance at our plate will suffice to make this intelligible. The
chemisette, appearing in front, is richly embroidered. The
sleeves of this dress are plain at the shoulder, and the remain-
der nearly tight. Gauze cap trimmed with satin ribbon ; the
cap is without strings to tie. Hair in bands, brought low at
the sides of the face, where it is turned up again.

Fig. 3. — The corsage almost similar to that of figure 1, dif-
fering in having a ribbon run through it, (see plate). Bishop
sleeves, pointed cuffs, with a cap at the top of the sleeve trim-
med to correspond with the collar. Rosette and ends at the
waist, coloured silk skirt, a wide flounce and heading pi»ked
out. Bonnet of fancy lace, trimmed with lace and flowers.

Fig. 4. — Dress of silk or muslin, with tight sleeves, lace
waist, made of puffs and with caps on the sleeves to put on
over the dress; the waist finished with cord and tassel ; one
extra wide flounce. Drawn bonnet, cottage form, trimmed
with wheat and ribbon. Light fancy sash.

As the advice seems good and will apply to The Book, we
copy the following from the ever excellent New York Mirror.

" Concerning papers sent out of this city. — I had one plate
number returned a few days since from the extremity of the
United States. When sent away it was folded as usual; when
returned it was folded differently, so as to take up as small a
space as possible. Being one of the numbers printed on paper
so hard and stiff that I was obliged to give up the use of it, I
was pleased with the opportunity of trying an experiment on
this worst of all unpliable paper; for when returned it was so
rumpled, mashed, squeezed, jammed, &c. as to surpass any
thing I had ever seen in the paper line. Xnowknow there is but
little difficulty in all having their Mirrors perfectly smooth, the
rumpling of the mails notwithstanding. Let two towels be wet:
wring them nearly dry, and lay the paper between them till
it is perfectly damp, then lay it on a piece of cloth or blanket,
lay a sheet of paper on it, and iron it with a hot iron, as you
would iron clothes, and you will make it as smooth as if it was
(as is really the case) hot-pressed. The paper returned, after
going through this process, was as smooth as if it had never
been folded. This is particularly important to the plate num-
bers, but no time will be lost by this process on any number ;
for the few minutes spent in smoothing the papers are more
than saved in the facility with which you can read a smooth
sheet, saying nothing about the advantage to the eyes. We
proof-readers speak with perfect confidence on this point. —
There is no mistake here. Follow this direction and your
Mirror will not look like the same thing you receive from the
post-office."

i & mt as t y\ i \ m p si dnv i s at & o c e

Cfnata&ed't fe ■ //>,■? /r

G 0 D E Y'S

LADY'S BOOK.

MAY, 1841.

Written for the Lady's Book.

MARY, THE IMPROVISATRICE,

BY PROF. W. J. WALTER.

It was not song that taught me love,

But it was love that taught me song — JMiss Landon.

The deep-voiced woods have melodies that flow
In fitful cadence when the wild winds blow,
And from the Harp iEolian comes a tone,
A gush of song, a witchery all its own;
Minds too there are, so exquisitely wrought,
So throhbing with the pulse of active thought,
They need no aid from cool reflection's sway ;
But as the fancy dictates, they obey
Her living mandate, and for thought can frame
An instant " habitation and a name."

Such gift has Mary: — gift but rarely known
To bleaker climes, but in the sunny zone
Bursts into life, and from the genial ray
Of nearer suns that pour a fiercer day,
Drinks deep an ardour, that scarce finds a birth
In the cold pulses of the frozen North.

See, where slie sits in musing mood entranced,
Her hand upon her favourite lute advanced;
While she preludes fit measure on the strings,
Say, what her bosom's fond imaginings ?
Broods her keen spirit o'er some tragic lay,
Where the fierce passions in their stormy sway,
Shake the whole heart, and bid us sympathize
With suffering worth 'mid deepest miseries?
Or does she meditate some graphic rhyme,
That wakes the memories of the olden time,
Some tale of chivalry, some deed of might
Achieved by knights in radiant armour dight?
No, 'tis not this that fills the minstrel's thought,
With other feelings is her bosom fraught —
Feelings that, 'midst of mirth, will draw the sigh,
Uncalled, and will suffuse the brimming eye
With those unbidden, melancholy tears,
Which will have way when all most bright appears.
Few arethat maiden's years, yet even now
The hue of coming cares is on her brow;
It seems to speak of absence and regret,
Of fears that fond ones may, perchance, forget.
When in the prophet-heart the secret lies,

VOL. XXII. 17

How well the ready tongue will improvise 1

The heart too has its second sight, and will

'Mid present joy behold the future ill;

Thus her too faithful lute no theme will waken

Save of hopes blighted, and of hearts forsaken.

See, how her gaze is fixed on vacancy,

While o'er her brow the fitful feelings fly,

Like clouds o'erwaving prairies, or the glow

Of northern streamers, that still come and go.

New 'vcAA the chords her graceful fingers play,

And thus, methinks, she pours th' unmeditated lay:

" Long months have rolled on since fate doomed us to part,
And the last vow he breathed is deep shrined in my heart;
When I think of the absent, warm gushes the tear,
And the thought of him comes, mixed with many a fear ;
For the vows of the lip may be fervid, and yet
In absence the truest may learn to forget.

"Yet, alas, can it be! that he ever should spurn

The vow that so warmly I pledged in return?

To the winds can such truth and such fondness be thrown;

Can he breathe to another the love all my own ?

No, it never can be ; away, perish the thought,

'Tis with grief and despair, nay, with madness 'tis fraught.

" Can he think, though his falsehood should doom me to mourn,

That this heart could prove truant to him in return?

Oh no ! when morn blushes, my first waking sigh

Shall to him upon wings of fresh tenderness fly,

And when day's latest glimpses have died in the West,

The fond prayer breathed for him smooth my pillow of rest.

" Should my ear learn the worst, should his falsehood be known
And this heart in the world be left desert and lone ;
Then, farewell to my lute, all its chords should be broken ;
For what could their music hereafter betoken, .
But a tale of the dead, dreary echoes that part
From the tomb of a sad and a desolate heart?"

196

THE MILLINER S APPRENTICE

not define it, but it will be plain to the female reader
that it was the first tender germ of love. When he
departed from the shop, which he did with a bow of
the most respectful admiration, it was with a height-
ened cheek, a throbbing heart, and emotions of min-
gled pain and pleasure that Caroline returned to the
little sewing room.

"How much did he buy?" asked Mrs. Carvil, as
Caroline resumed her needle, and bent her head low
over her work to conceal, beneath a cloud of curls,
the confusion that she felt was telling tales upon her.

The maiden's reply was low and inaudible, as her
face was still concealed, while her needle seemed to
have forgot its wonted skill, and made awkward work
upon the edges of the elegant riding habit.

" Miss Archer — if you please ."' said Mrs. Carvil,
in the emphatic tone and accent of offended dignity,
bridling up her little person, and looking angrily at
her apprentice.

" Six pairs, ma'am," said Caroline more distinctly,
without raising her head.

"I am glad you have found your tongue, Miss.
What are you doing, trollop? Look at them stitches.
As I'm a living woman, if the girl is not working a
button-hole stitch on the hem. If you don't know
what you're about, Caroline Archer, you had best put
on your bonnet and shawl. A hint's enough to some
folks."

Caroline's cheek now became as pale as it was
hitherto roseate; and really alarmed at the angry
language of her mistress, she instantly picked out the
unfortunate button-hole stitch, and nimbly plying her
needle for the next half hour, when the riding-dress
was completed, amply atoned for her fault.

A little before one o'clock, on the same day in which
the scenes at the milliner's took place, a gallant cav-
alcade, consisting of half a dozen ladies and gentle-
men, started from the door of one of the princely man-
sions in Girard Place, and, full of gaiety and spirits,
turned towards Broad street. Here they gave rein to
their spirited horses, and at a rapid pace rode along this
magnificent avenue, which, but for the rail-road that
disfigures it, would be without a parallel in the cities
of the Union. A few minutes swift riding brought
them into the suburbs, and after winding through
many shady lanes, and traversing pleasant roads, adorn-
ed with citizens' villas, they issued upon a spacious
thoroughfare, crowded with carriages, pedestrians,
and horsemen, and, soon after, descending a hill, from
which was a most delightful rural prospect of wood-
land, lawn, and river, they drew rein at the gate of
the Laurel Hill Cemetery. By the courtesy of the
very gentlemanly originator and director of this lovely
spot, Mr. Smith, the ladies were permitted, without
the trouble of dismounting, to ride through the gra-
velled avenues of this exquisite place.

" Pray, Mr. Smith," asked one of the ladies, dis-
tinguished less by a superb green riding-habit that
swept the ground with its flowing folds than by the
elegance of her figure, the dazzling beauty of her face,
the perfection of her seat in the saddle, and the ad-
mirable manege of her steed, " pray, Mr. Smith, do
tell me if that is one of Thorn's statues of Souter
Jonny you have in that niche?"

" Ride nearer, Mrs. Wharton, where you can look
over the iron fence, and you will recognise in it a

graver friend of yours than Souter Jonny," said the
director, smiling.

" It is Old Mortality in very truth, Percy — Frank,
did you ever see any thing so perfect. I wish Wal-
ter Scott were of our party and could see it. How it
would delight the good old gentleman."

Which of them, Scott or Mortality, sis?" asked the
young man whom she had called Frank, the very
same young gentleman that had made Caroline Archer
work a button-hole stitch on " a hem." A pair of
the fawn-coloured gloves he had purchased were upon
his hands.

" Are you not ashamed, Frank, to destroy Emmy's
sentiment?" asked Percy Wharton,

" Frank has no more sentiment than Sultan here !"
she said, patting her horse upon the arched mane — ■
" See how intelligently he looks, as if he was alive to
the beauties of the sculpture and had read Waverly.
Out upon you, brother Frank."

" Believe me, sis, he is trying to spell out that tin
sign hung on the statue, like a porter's label."

"Silence, brother! this is no place for light con- I
versation. Indeed, I think it will be wrong to ride
through the cemetery."

"Trains of funeral carriages traverse it daily, Mrs. ^
Wharton," said the proprietor, " and I always drive A
in in my own barouche."

" You had best ride in, Emily," said Percy, " as we ,\
have planned a long ride before we return to the city,
and there will be detention in re-mounting."

Slowly moving along the ascending and winding (
avenues, the whole party, accompanied by the attentive |
director, went through the whole cemeteiy, lingering J
here and there before a monument, and selecting love- >i
\y spots where they thought they would love to lie !
when life's cares were over.

" Elizabeth !" repeated Mrs. Wharton, pausing
before a simple block of white marble erected above a I
green grave. " How touching ! Not another word
on the tomb! How. affectingly touching! Here is I
another — 4 My Daughter, aged seventeen years !' : |
What a tale these few eloquent words tell !"

Thus they wandered through the rural grounds of !
the cemetery, yet pausing a moment on the highest :|
part, where all the ways met, to contemplate a pros- A
Pect that has no equal. The Schuylkill, stretched A
away to the right and left, presenting on either hand
the most perfect scenery, so that it was difficult to de- !
cide which were the lovelier, the northern or southern 1
view. Its banks were adorned by groves of oak i
and elm, that from sloping green hills, descended i
till they hung over the water, which was black with i
their shadows. Numerous villas, with lawns of bright
green spread before them, studded here and there
with a copse or a group of venerable trees, were half
hid, half seen through the forests on either shore;
while the quiet and repose of the whole was relieved I
and enlivened by gaily painted canal barges, gliding
beneath the banks and filling the air with the wild I
melody of their bugles.

" How lovely !" was the exclamation of all, after
they had surveyed the beauty of the prospect.

" Do you remember Mount Auburn ?" asked Percy
of Emily.

" Yes, but it is less lovely than thi3. Here, me- i
thinks, I would willingly repose after death. I never J
thought so of Mount Auburn. There is a gloom and
awful solemnity about its deep glens and dark dells,
fringed with pine and cypress, that made me shudder \i

OR, THE FALSE TEETH.

197

as I entered them. What lovelier place of repose
could one desire, dear Percy, than beneath yonder
giaceful willow — where the sun-beam is broken into
diamonds ere it falls on the sward, and where the
singing birds light and pour forth their happy song."

" A literary friend of mine who was here yester-
day," said Mr. Smith, " spoke of the same spot, and
was so struck with its retired beauty, that he was
half inclined to remove two lovely children buried
at the South and place them here."

" It is, indeed, a lovely spot. If it were mine, I
would have a monument erected there with simply
' Percy' and ' Emily' upon it," said Mrs. Wharton,
with tenderness.

" Nay, dear Emma — this is idle!" said Percy, with
a look of distress. " We will return to the gate,
Frank, and mount our horses. Good morning, Mr.
Smith, and receive our thanks for your kindness and
courtesy. Laurel Hill is a lovely place — but all its
loveliness will not disguise the fearful use to which it
is devoted. Allons, Emma .'"

As he spoke, he unintentionally waved his riding
whip with a quick movement near the head of her
fiery horse, which started back and reared with her
so high, that, fearing she would lose her seat and
fall backward, she struck him a smart blow with
her whip. The animal, enraged at this, bounded for-
ward along the avenue on a run, and with the bit in
his teeth, rapidly followed the windings of the walk,
perilling her life at every turn in the path, and swiftly
descended the excavated road leading to the gate.
Mrs. Wharton did not lose her presence of mind, and
maintained her seat like a good horsewoman; but all
her strength and management were not sufficient to
give her command of the curb. The gentlemen had
followed, like the wind, to intercept the horse ere he
reached the gate, and were turning the angle on the
mound that brought them in sight of it, when they
saw the horse, who found the gate closed against him,
turn short round to retrace his steps, and throw her
with the saddle, the girth of which broke, with violence
against a column of the arch. In a moment Percy
and her brother were at her side, and supporting her
in their arms. She was bleeding profusely from the
mouth, but to the earnest inquiries of both she replied
she was not hurt, as the saddle had broken the force
of her fall.

" I have only cut my lip, I believe," she said with
a smile, trying to re-assure her alarmed husband.

She put her hand to her mouth as she spoke, and
with a shriek, such as only a beautiful woman with a
fine set of teeth could give at such a moment, almost
fainted in Percy's arms.

" My dear Emma — you are dying !" he exclaimed
in alarm. " Alas, my beautiful wife !"

" Alas, my beautiful teeth !"

« Teeth !"

" I have lost my teeth," she said with despair.

" Nothing more. Thank heaven ! I thought you
were seriously hurt."

" My teeth, Percy ! my beautiful teeth !"

" Here is one — here is another — By the rood !
here are four of them, sister Emma !" cried Frank,
gathering up from the gravel, as he spoke, four of
those brilliant teeth which had made Mrs. Wharton's
smile so fascinating, and of which, next to Percy, she
was so, innocently, vain. " Have you lost any
more?"

" Any more !" repeated Mrs. Wharton, in despair.
17*

" Indeed, Emily dearest, have you suffered no other
injury than the loss of your teeth?"

" No other, Percy."

" I am thankful for the preservation of your life."

" You will love me no longer, Percy. I shall be
a fright! I would rather have been"

" Killed outright, you were going to add, I dare
say, sis," said Frank, kissing her tenderly ; " for a
pretty woman to lose her life is, I believe, a less sa-
crifice than to lose her beauty. But never despair.
You have got beauty enough left to make a hundred
foolish fellows, like Percy here, fall in love with you."

" What shall I do ? Mercy ! my voice sounds like
grandma'sj"

" You have the advantage, then," said Frank, " of
knowing how you will speak when you get to be a
grandma •"

" Frank, you have no pity ! What shall I do,
Percy ?"

" Go to Dr. 's, the dentist."

The same afternoon, Dr. was in his hand-
somely furnished reception room, leaning back in
his arm chair, with a Regalia cigar in his lips,
which he was idly indulging, for he had just dined.
With the last Lady's Book in his fingers, he was, at
the same time, listlessly looking at the print of fashions,
and wondering (for he was a bachelor) how many
enamelled teeth he must set in a year to keep a wife
in fashionable dresses, if he should run the risk of
taking one, when a carriage suddenly drew up at his
door, steps were let down, and the next instant his
bell was rung with an emphasis that made him start.
He looked through his blinds.

" Ladies ! and at this hour ! The room is filled with
tobacco smoke. 'Tis Percy Wharton and his beau-
tiful wife, (I would give an eagle a piece for her teeth)
and her brother, Mr. Francis Astley, who I know
makes a practice of smoking in her drawing-room.
She is therefore used to it. I will make no apolo-
gies."

- The party entered the dentist's room, and were re-
ceived by him with professional courtesy. Mrs.
Wharton was pale, and a cambric kerchief cov-
ered her beautiful — alas ! no longer beautiful — mouth !

" You smoke good cigars, Doctor," said young
Astley. " I will trouble you."

" With the greatest pleasure in the world, sir," an-
swered the Doctor, giving him his cigar case ; " but
I should apologize to Mrs. Wharton for smoking in
my receiving-room — but not expecting ladies at this
late hour"

" I have come Dr. to ask you if you can re-
store my teeth," said Mrs. Wharton, interrupting him,
and removing her kerchief from her mouth.

" Your teeth, madam !"

" I have lost four by a fall from my horse."

" Those beautiful teeth ! permit me to look, ma-
dam."

The Doctor held up both hands in unfeigned astonish-
ment and commiseration, for, like a professional archi-
tect gazing with pain upon a scene of architectural
ruins, the restoration of which would be his gain, he
contemplated the devastation of the even rows of
snowy teeth he had before admired, with sorrow, not-
withstanding his imagination filled up the gap with
guineas.

198

THE MILLINER S APPRENTICE J

" Indeed, madam, it is the world's pity !" he said,
shaking his head.

" Can you do nothing for me ?" she asked, watch-
ing his countenance with^a sinking heart.

" Nature, madam, is the best dentist. I can never
match the pearly transparency of the remaining teeth.
Two upper and two lower, and directly in front ! Oh,
what a misfortune. Two incisors — two cuspids!
What a sad misfortune !"

" You must remedy it, Doctor."

" Never saw so fine a set of teeth in my life !
Would have given a sovereign a piece for them !" so-
liloquized the dentist. " Have you the teeth, ma-
dam ?"

" Here they are, Doctor," said Astley, taking them
from his silk purse.

" Beautiful ! Incomparable !" exclaimed the dentist,
looking at them with the eye of a connoissieur.

"Can you replace them, Doctor?" she asked,
faintly.

"Worth a guinea each. What translucent en-
amel! a manufacture of such would make my for-
tune !"

"Doctor!" exclaimed Mrs. Wharton, with petu-
lant impatience, seeing he paid no attention to her.

" I beg pardon, madam."

" Can you replace my teeth ?"

" No, madam."

" Can you match them ?"

" I will give you five guineas a-piece to do it,"
said Percy Wharton.

" There is but one way," said the dentist, with
hesitation.

" Name it — ^lt shall be done at any sacrifice."

" By extracting teeth from another's jaw and placing
them with the nerve still warm in the cavities of your
own."

" Oh, horrid !" exclaimed Emily Wharton, with a
shudder.

" Will any human being submit to such a sacri-
fice ?" asked Francis Astley, with surprise.

" If paid for it. I have thrice performed this ope-
ration since I have been in practice."

" Who were the victims ?" asked Astley, with sur-
prise.

" Those who have the most beautiful teeth in the
world?" answered the dentist, with a smile.

" You don't mean"

" I do mean young negresses."

" Hear this, Emma?" said Frank, with a mischiev-
ous smile.

" The idea is absolutely disgusting !" answered
Percy, with a corresponding contortion of the lips.

" I had rather go without teeth," said Mrs. Whar-
ton.

" You will have to put up with the ordering false
teeth, Emma," observed her husband.

" Can you match my own?"

" With difficulty, they are so brilliant."

" Try, Doctor," said Percy, " and if you succeed
you shall be well paid."

" If Mrs. Wharton will do me the honour to call
to-morrow, at twelve, I will then have a set that I
think will suit her so far as false teeth will compen-
sate for natural ones — especially such as she has lost."

" Doctor, don't speak of them, I beg of you. I will
call to-morrow," said Mrs. Wharton, preparing to go.

" You will not think, then, of the other proposition
I suggested"

" No, sir," replied Percy Wharton, with indig-
nation.

The door closed — the carriage rolled away— and
the dentist was left alone.

" How prejudiced are some people!" he ejaculated,
as the sounds of the wheels died away. — " There
is many a mulatress with the finest teeth imagin-
able— scarcely as beautiful as these, indeed — that
would lose them them for a guinea each. 'Tis rather
shocking to a young husband's taste, to have his
wife's mouth filled with an African girl's teeth, to be
sure ! But there is no help for it if he would have her
mouth restored !"

Thus soliloquized Dr. ; and falling asleep in

his arm-chair, with the four teeth he had been ad-
miring held in the open palm of his hand, he dream-
ed that a sudden cloud came up, and that amid thun-
der and lightning a storm of hail descended, breaking
in every pane of his glass, and covering his floors
with glittering hail-stones, which, as they fell, he saw
to his surprise, instead of being ice, were the most
beautiful teeth — incisors, cuspids, bicuspids, and mo-
lars— which for whiteness, symmetry, transparency,
and polish, far surpassed any thing of the kind he had
ever seen.

"Now will I supply Mrs. Wharton's loss and rival
nature !" he exclaimed, as a clap of thunder shook his
apartments and awakened him to the consciousness
that a smart shower was pattering against his win- ;!
dows.

" My teeth are all rain-water ! Poor Mrs. Wharton
will have to wait for these big drops of rain to crystalize.
There is my bell. I thought I heard it when I was l
asleep. Where is that confounded boy Pete, that is
ever out of the way when he is wanted !"

Thus speaking, the Doctor rose from his arm-chair
and opened his door to a servant in livery, with a
dripping umbrella in his hand, who leaving a note with
him, hastily departed. It read thus :

" If Doctor knows of a young, healthy white

person, with a fine set of teeth that will match hers, .
and who for a sufficient remuneration is willing to sa- ; *
crifice them and substitute a set of false ones for
them, Mrs. Wharton will consent to the arrangement,
though greatly against her proper feelings. Mrs. W.
will pay the person not only five guineas each, but
provide, at her own expense, a set of your best false
teeth for her. Your own remuneration for effecting
this will be whatever you fix it at. Mrs. W. will call
at 12, as requested.

« No. — Girard Place. 5 o'clock, P. M."

"This Mrs. Wharton is a sensible woman. If
her note is not written without her husband's know-
ledge, I have no skill in detecting mystery in female
handwriting. A young healthy person, with a fine
set of teeth. Hum ! — It were a difficult matter to
find a counterpart to these four teeth in the incisors
or cuspids of any 'young healthy person' of my ac-
quaintance. I know every good set of teeth in the
city. Not one like hers, though, and of that peculiar
transparent enamel ! It's a bad job. I will advertise !"

Thus determining, the dentist sat down to his es-
crutoire and wrote this advertisement for the morning
paper :

" A young woman, from sixteen to eighteen years
of age, who has a fine set of teeth, and who is will-

OR, THE FALSE TEETH.

199

ing for a valuable consideration to part with four of
the front ones, will please call at' the office of Dr.

, dentist, No. Row, to-day, between 12

and 1 o'clock."

" I think that will do. 'Tis an odd advertisement,
but it's nobody's business ! It shall go in. There's
doubtless many a one of the pretty shop girls I have seen
smiling and displaying teeth that would make a den-
tist's fortune, would be glad, for a hundred silver dollars,
to lose every tooth they have in their heads. Here,
Pete, you scoundrel, you ! You come in now that the
rain drives you in doors ! Take this advertisement to
the Daily Chronicle office, and tell the editor it must
be inserted in to-morrow morning's paper. Do you
hear, Pete?"

" Yeth, thir," lisped the little negro in reply.

" Then scamper, and if you are not back in twenty
minutes I'll draw every tooth out of your head."

" Yeth, thir," answered the urchin, disappearing
through the door ; while the easy-tempered dentist,
looking after him with a smile, gave himself up to
conjectures upon the probable issue of his advertise-
ment.

The same evening, a few mimutes before nine o'clock,
in a small apartment in one of the humblest dwellings
of the city alleys, was assembled the small family that
occupied it. It consisted of a pale middle-aged wo-
man, with the traces of beauty and refinement upon
her sickly features, lying upon a neat but plain bed that
stood on one side of the room, — and a lovely girl in
youthful bloom, save that the lily of confinement and
care had supplanted the joyous rose that should have
tinted her cheek, who sat by the bed-side and read to
her from the Bible, while the sewing she had tempo-
rarily put down lay upon her lap. In a trundle-bed
that was partly rolled beneath the larger, slept two
handsome little boys that were the very images of
their sister ; while seated by the candle which gave
light to her, was their elder brother, a little lame lad,
but very intellectual-looking, as almost all lame boys
are. He had Captain Riley's travels in his hand, and
was reading his adventures with absorbing interest.
Caroline continued to read aloud :

" Behold the eye of the Lord is upon them that fear
him, upon them that hope in his mercy.

" To deliver their soul from death, and to keep them
alive in famine.

" Our soul waiteth for the Lord, he is our health and
our shield.

" Our hearts shall rejoice in him : because we have
trusted in his holy name."

" How beautiful this language, dear mother."

"It is precious, indeed, my child. Every word
touches my heart, and in every sentence I see the
faithful promise of the widow's God."

At this moment an abrupt knock was heard at the
door, and the city clocks began to toll nine.

"It is the landlady," exclaimed Caroline, as her
heart flew into her mouth.

"Fear not, my daughter, she is in God's hands as
well as we."

Caroline opened the door, and a large, masculine
looking woman, with a red fleshy face, and a hard
expression to her little gray eyes, appeared at it.

" Well, Miss, I have come for my rent. I have
given your mother since yesterday twelve o'clock, to

raise it. I suppose it's ready for me." And with
these words she entered the room and seated herself
in a chair by the door with the insolent and over-
bearing air of a mistress in her own house.

" Indeed, Mrs. Cringle, I have not yet heard from
my brother in Louisville, to whom I wrote, and he
is my only dependence," said Mrs. Archer from the
bed. " I shall soon hear — have the kindness to in-
dulge me a few days."

" You'll get no letters I tell ye, now, Mrs. Archer;
if you do there'll be no more money in't than '11 hide
my thumb-nail. These brothers are as fond o' keep-
ing their money as other folk. No — I can't wait.
My rent I must have, and my rent I will have. So
pay it over, or tramp !"

» Indeed, Mrs. Cringle"

" Don't Mrs. Cringle me with your indeeds. If you
han't no money, what are you Join' with that gilt
portrait up there ? The pawnbroker '11 advance you a
five on't."

" It's my husband's."

" So much the better to belong to a dead person.
I sold all my man's duds — watch, black profile,
and all. When one husband's gone make a clean
sweep for a new one — that's my maxim. Here's young
Miss here with a new bright gown on !"

" It's only clean and smoothly ironed, Mrs. Crin-
gle. It is a cheap calico, and I have worn it several
months," said Caroline, with gentleness.

"Why don't you help your mother? you work at
the milliner's, and must earn something."

" I do earn a little, ma'am — from two to three
'levies a day, but there are five mouths to feed — five
to clothe — besides medicine for mother."

" Yes, and not a dollar for your rent. This won't
do for me — I must have tenants that '11 pay. So down
with the twenty-five dollars or march as you are. —
Not a thing do you carry off with you. Every arti-
cle here wouldn't two-thirds pay me. So down with it."

" I implore you be merciful," cried Mrs. Archer,
raising herself in the bed — " do not visit your ven-
geance upon my children."

" What right have you to take a house when you
were not able to pay the rent. It's downright swin-
dling o' honest folks."

" We must have a shelter somewhere — and we
hoped to be able to pay it — but I have been sick, and
misfortune has come upon us in various ways."

" This is the old song. It won't come over me. I
must have my rent."

" We cannot pay it to-night, Mrs. Cringle," said Ca-
roline, imploringly — " if you have any human feeling
let my mother remain in your house until to-morrow
afternoon, and in the meanwhile I will see what I can
do to raise the amount due you. Surely charity and
generosity have not fled the human breast. There
must be some way of relief."

" There is a way you can get the money very
easily, my pretty Miss," said the vile hag, with a look
and glance, that the purity of Caroline's nature could
not understand,

" Oh how — tell me how ?" she asked, eagerly.

" Do you ask me how, with that pretty face of
yours, and nice young figure ! I could show you many
a fine young gentleman would make your fortune for
ye, and in one hour from now place ten times my
debt in your hands."

" Fiend — I understand you now ! Oh, God ! Oh,
God ! that I should come to this !"

200

THE MILLINER S APPRENTICE

For a moment Caroline struggled to suppress her
hot tears, but in vain. Her pure, insulted spirit was
crushed, and she burst into a shower of bitter tears.
She wept as if her heart would break. Even the de-
vilish landlady was at length moved.

" Well, child — I've seen greater matters than that
I hinted at make a less to do ! If you wont, why then
you wont. I've known many a young girl sitivated
like you would be glad of the offer I made you. Well,
if you can pay me a part to-night, five dollars or so —
I'll wait till to-morrow sun-down for the balance —
an' if you can't pay then, vy you must tramp, and no
more said !"

" I have four dollars and three quarters — if that
will satisfy you, take it," said Caroline, going to her
reticule. " It is the last I have saved from my wages
for my sick mother. Take it up," she said, laying it
upon the table, and shrinking back from her instinc-
tively— for her delicacy had received too severe a
shock for her to bear the sight or touch of the ini-
quitous creature who had been the cause of it.

" Well, this '11 do for to-night. I'll call to-morrow
sun-down, and hopes you '11 have the balance. If as
how you do, vy I'll be willin' to try ye here another
quarter, if ye choose to stay."

Thus speaking, this iniquitous wretch, who is the
counterpart of too many landladies and landlords of a
certain class, left the house. She had scarcely closed
the door when with an agonizing shriek of poignant
suffering, Caroline threw herself upon her mother's
bed, and wept till gentle sleep sealed her senses in
oblivion.

The next morning Caroline put on her hat and shawl
and went mechanically to her daily tasks at Mrs.
Carvil's. On the way she was sadly thinking what
she should do to relieve her mother, and was busily
devising some way to obtain the money for her. The
idea occurred to her of throwing herself upon the
generosity of the lady of some wealthy citizen ; but
even her little knowledge of human nature had taught
her that some ladies are apt to look with suspicion
upon unfortunate girls, and are apt to have less cha-
rity for them than they should have ; while she shrunk
from applying to a gentleman, lest her motives might
be misinterpreted, and her delicacy hurt by dreaded
offers of conditional assistance, that might wound her
maidenly sensibility far more than the landlady's
words had done. What to do she knew not, and
with a thousand schemes in her mind she had come
to no determination when she found herself in Wal-
nut street, and within a few doors of Mrs. Carvil's.

« Oh, what, what shall I do ! If I go in she will
not let me go for the rest of the day, and something
must be effected before I return home. Oh, that I
could find a purse with twenty-one dollars in it — for
there seems no other way of relief!"

She had hardly spoken when she beheld lying upon
the side-walk, a few steps before her, a small green
pocket-book. She bounded forward and caught it up
with a cry between hope and doubt. A glance show-
ed her it was full of bank notes. The next moment
she was in Mrs. Carvil's little parlour, and as she was
the earliest there of the apprentices, she was alone.
With a trembling hand she took the pocket-book from
her bosom and furtively unclasped it. Within was a
miniature, and she recognised it as the same the pur-
chaser of the gloves had taken out to pay her for

them. She trembled still more, and partly unfolding
the notes, she saw the figures 50, XX, X, 5, upon
them. She offered up a short ejaculation of grati-
tude, while visions of the happiness she should bring
to her mother that evening filled her heart with joy.
But what means this sudden paleness of the cheek —
this sinking of the spirits — this drooping of the whole
form but now so animate with hope and joy ? What
means this desponding air and aspect of despair mingled
with resignation ! Why has she slowly re-clasped the
book, and why dejectedly return it to her bosom !
The reflection has suddenly flashed upon her mind
that the treasure is not hers — that it belongs to an-
other— that she has no right to make use of it with-
out the owner's permission — that it is a sacred thing.
" No — no — " she said, with virtuous resolution
that gave brightness to her eye and a heightened flush
to her cheek, " it is not, mine ! I will let the storm
burst upon our devoted roof ere I seek to avert it by
guilt. No — I will discover and restore it to the
owner — and in the meanwhile forget that I have
found it!"

Having made this noble resolution, she opened the
pocket book and calmly counted the amount it con-
tained, which was three hundred and seventy-five dol-
lars in United States Bank notes, and restored them
to their place in it. On the edge of the pocket-book
she then saw written, Francis Aslley, No. — Guard
Place.

" No, it is not mine ! Heaven has kept me from
using it. If I had taken any portion of it, and after-
wards been unable to make it up, my fair name and
honour would have been in his power. Protector of
the innocent I thank thee for delivering me from this
great temptation !"

With the determination of sending her eldest bro-
ther with it to Girard Place, when she should return
home at noon, she sat herself down to her work with
a heart relieved (she knew not why) from a great
load, and with that consciousness of rectitude which
ever carries with it its own reward. She felt, too,
less anxiety than she had hitherto done about the re-
sult of the day's events, and seemed buoyed up with
the assurance that all would yet be well with herself
and all dear to her.

About ten o'clock in the forenoon the news-boy
threw into the door the morning paper, which one of
the young girls caught up and began to read aloud
to Mrs. Carvil, while she was basting a dress for the
apprentice to begin upon. After the items of morn-
ing news had been run through and characteristically
commented upon by Mrs. Carvil, who took especial
interest in the police reports, she said,

"Now look, Jane, for the new advertisements. I
wonder if Madam Gaubert comes out with any thing
new. These French women are taking the bread
out of us honest folks mouths."

" Here's an advertisement, Mrs. Carvil," cried
Jane, who had, meanwhile, been running her eye
over the morning advertising column, " here's an
advertisement that is a curious one ! I wonder if it
is serious !"

" Read it, girl," said Mrs. Carvil, sharply, " and
we then can best tell!"

Here the apprentice read aloud Dr. 's adver-
tisement.

" It's all a hoax !" said a pretty black-eyed, cherry -
lip'd girl, at work on the same seam with Caroline.

" How do you know, pert, that it's a hoax !" tartly

OR, THE FALSE TEETH.

201

questioned her mistress. " I once had a dentist — a
proper handsome man he was too — offer me a five
dollar bill a piece for two- of my front teeth — he said
they were so white and shapely, he wanted 'em as
models ! See, girls, they are sound and white yet !"

Here Mrs. Carvil grinned a ghastly smile around
upon her apprentices, for the purpose of displaying
two ill-shapen rows of yellow teeth, with an intermix-
ture of glaring, ghastly white ones, for whieh, plainly,
she was indebted to the skill of some proper hand-
some dentist.

" Do you think it in earnest then, marm ?" asked
the reader of the paper.

" To be sure I do !"

" Then why don't you go, Mrs. Carvil," said the
black-eyed apprentice, gravely — " I dare say the den-
tist would be glad to get such beautiful teeth as
yours !"

Mrs. Carvil eyed her sharply, to see if she was
quizzing her, for, truth be told, she had little faith in
her own assertions of the beauty of her old teeth; but
seeing her seriously continue her sewing, she said,
complacently,

" I would, but can't bear the pain of the destrac-
tion of so many teeth."

" Caroline, suppose you go," said the black-eyed
maiden, with a laugh ; " you certainly have the pret-
tiest teeth I ever saw ! If my teeth were even," she
said, smiling and displaying as she did so exceedingly
white but somewhat irregular teeth, " I would lose
four of them for — for"

" For how much, now ?" asked Mrs. Carvil.

"For fifty dollars," she answered, after a moment's
thought.

" I think I would for half that," said Jane.

" What would you lose four of your teeth for, Caro-
line ?" asked she with the cherry lips.

Caroline did not reply. She had taken with an
unsteady grasp the paper from the hand of her fellow-
apprentice, and, with an effort of calmness, through
which those who knew her history could clearly see
the anxious, eager earnestness beneath it, read the
advertisement. All at once her face assumed its natu-
ral expression, and, laying down the paper, after taking
a single look more at the advertisement as if to fix
the address upon her mind, she replied, with a bright
smile to the question of her fellow,

" I would take for my teeth only what would pur-
chase my mother's, my three brothers, and my own
happiness, give us all a roof to sleep beneath for this
night, and feel no anxiety for the morrow."

" You value your teeth very highly, Miss Archer,"
observed Mrs. Carvil, with a toss of her head — "It
would take five hundred dollars to do all that !"

" Five thousand dollars for the mere money's sake,
madam, would not induce me to part with my teeth.
The happiness and comforts of which I have spoken
I value far above wealth. The peace and comfort of
a family are not measured by any scale of gold and
silver. If one dollar would save my mother from sor-
row, and I could get it only by sacrificing my teeth,
I would as cheerfully part with them as I would for
one hundred thousand — for the end would be the
same whether attained for one dollar or a mil-
lion."

" I think you are getting on dictionary stilts, Miss
Archer," said Mrs. Carvil, who could not with her
narrow mind quite comprehend the drift of her ap-
prentice's argument. " I 'spose you mean to say, if

your mother wanted money, you'd sell your teeth to
get it for her."

" Yes, indeed, I would," answered Caroline, firmly.

" Then you might go and get work where you
could — I'd have no toothless girls about me to fright-
en people away!"

Caroline sighed, returned the sympathizing pressure
of the dark-eyed apprentice's hand, under the table,
and bending over her work plied her needle in silence.

The State-house clock tolled twelve, and Dr.

rose from his dentists' bench where he had been at
work several hours.

" They are perfect. I have made so beautiful a
piece of work of it that the owner herself might not
disdain to have them re-placed, if no one answers my
advertisement." As he spoke he held up to his own
admiration the teeth Mrs. Wharton had lost, accu-
rately fitted to gold plates, and ready for replacing if
necessary, or to supply the place of those that should
be sacrificed by some hapless victim. " They are
chef cfceuvres '. Perfect ! and they must fit any mouth
that has teeth to fit Mrs. Wharton's. Incomparable !"

Thus eulogizing them, the enthusiastic dentist care-
fully placed them upon his instrument case.

" I wonder if any body will answer my advertise-
ment. 'Tis after twelve, and any one anxious to do
it would have been here with the last stroke of the
clock. But I hope no decent person in this benevo-
lent city is so sunk in want as to fly to this alterna-
tive for relief. I have fitted the natural teeth so well
to the elastic plate that Mrs. Wharton will scarcely
object to them. She should be here soon. Ha !
There is my bell. Pete, you vagabond, where are
you? In the street playing marbles with the penny
paper boys, I'll wager my eye teeth ! I heard no car-
riage stop !"

The dentist opened his door and saw before it a
graceful young woman, who from the plain but neat
straw cottage, green veil, and small cheap shawl, as
well as from a certain air of gentility about her, he
knew to be a milliner's apprentice. Her veil was
closely drawn over her face, and her figure was hid
beneath the folds of the shawl, but he could not fail
to discover through all that her face was youthful and
lovely, and that her figure was light and symmetrical.
Her foot and hand — for the Doctor had an eye for
female beauty, and his eyes sought unconsciously
these never erring signs of birth and well-breeding —
were small — the foot exquisitely so.

" Walk in, Miss," said the dentist, with native gal-
lantry, for Dr. was a great admirer of beauty.

" Thank you, sir ! but but"

" Pray be seated, Miss — tooth-ache, I suppose. I
will extract it in a minute !" said the dentist, taking
his " key" and scientifically winding his red silk hand-
kerchief about its polished shaft.

" No, sir — but" and the soft, musical voice

trembled.

" No tooth-ache !" repeated the Doctor, impressed
by the richness of her low tones ; " that I will asse-
verate ; you have not the tooth-ache ! Your voice would
not be so even and musical if you had. An aching
tooth in that fine toned instrument, the human voice,
is like a key out of tune on a piano — it makes dis-
cord of the whole."

" You advertised, sir, I believe," said Caroline, with
a firmer tone.

202

THE MILLINER S APPRENTICE

" Ah i I perceive. Is it possible you have come pretty piece of work of it — that I should regret to

hither from reading my advertisement ?
" Yes, sir."

" Are you willing to lose four of your teeth?"
" Yes, sir — if — if" — ^—
" Paid well for them, you would say."

" No, sir," cried Caroline, earnestly ; " I care not

for that so much as" here she hesitated, and then

added, abruptly — " I am in great need of a certain
sum of money, sir, and will do it for that.

" Name the sum !"

" Twenty dollars."

" Let me see your teeth, if you please," said the
Doctor, with feelings painfully touched by the emo-
tion she in vain tried to suppress.

She removed her veil and showed a face so very
lovely, that he started back with an exclamation of
surprise. He then asked in the most delicate and re-
spectful manner to examine her mouth. Parting with
an ivory slip the lips of the half-fainting yet resolute
girl, as she sat in his " patients' chair," he beheld the
whitest and most symmetrically arranged teeth, each
one perfect in itself, he had ever met with — not even
excepting Mrs. Wharton's.

" Are you in earnest in wishing to part with these
fine teeth?" he demanded with astonishment, after
admiring them for a few moments with delighted
surprise.

" Yes, sir."

" I beg of you do not part with them — it were sa-
crilege to mar so fair an instrument — to destroy the
ivory columns of so beautiful a temple ! Are you sin-
cere ?"

" Indeed, sir, I am."

" I fear me either great virtue or great avarice
hath driven you to this, child !"

" I beg of you, sir, tell me if my teeth are such as
you require !"

" They are perfect," he said, taking those which
he had set upon the gold plate, and comparing
them.

"And will you give me twenty dollars for the four
front ones, sir?" she asked with trembling doubt.

" I will. Will you consent to have them drawn?"

" At once."

The sound of a carriage driving to the door was
new heard, and the Doctor desiring Caroline to retire
to his ante-room from observation, the next moment
received Mrs. Wharton. She was pale but no less
lovely.

" You received my note, Doctor ?" she asked after
being seated.

" I did, madam. But I have, as you here see,
fitted your teeth on plates so accurately, that they
can be replaced without difficulty, and will look nearly
as well as before. Besides, you need not wait for
the gums to heal, as I have a composition for filling
the cavities so that I can place them on at once.
Look at them ! Are they not beautiful ?"

" My poor teeth !" she said, sighing as she glanced
at them. " Could you find no person, Doctor?"

" I should prefer replacing these, madam."

" No. The idea of false teeth, gold plates in my
mouth — I could not endure the thought. I should
feel as if I were made of wires and plated ! Is there
no alternative ?"

" There is a young woman who is willing to lose
her teeth," said the Doctor dropping his voice ; " but
really they are so perfect — nature has made such a

mar it."

" Are they so beautiful "
" As beautiful as your own were."
" Were ! it is indeed were. Doctor I must have
these teeth of hers. But is she young ?"

" Young and lovely. She is now in the next
room."

" Let me see her — no, I had rather not, on second
thought — I should feel so awkward in meeting her
afterwards. Does she know who wants her to make
the sacrifice?"
" No."

" Do not let her. Yet, I would like to see her.
She may be a — but you would not deceive me."

" She is fair as the snow. Come hither. Do you
see the well-turned point of that shoe and instep, just
visible within the room ?"

" I do. She is a young lady!"
"Such a foot can belong to none other."
The Dentist having placed his patient and her vic-
tim in arm-chairs in their respective rooms, now pre-
pared to go through his painful duty. Having care-
fully measured the depth of each of the cavities in
Mrs. Wharton's mouth, he irritated the inner surface
and made a slight incision on the sides so as to draw
blood. Then, going into the room, where Caroline
was patiently and resolutely seated, he drew one of
her teeth with such skill and ease as scarcely to give
her pain, and returned with it into the room he had
left. Here he measured it by the previously ascer-
tained measure of the depth of the corresponding bed,
when finding it a little too long, he clipped off the
end and quickly and most skilfully placed it in the
cavity he had prepared for it. In this manner he
extracted four teeth from Caroline's head, and insert-
ed them in Mrs. Wharton's, who under the operation
suffered far more pain than she who had made the
greater sacrifice. The whole operation occupied
about twenty minutes. The teeth were beautifully
reset, and when Mrs. Wharton looked in a small
mirror he placed before her, she uttered, notwithstand-
ing the inflammation and pain she still suffered, an
involuntary scream of delight.

" Doctor, bless you ! The poor girl ! She did
not even cry out ! Take this and reward her, and
also give her from me, this diamond ring," she added,
removing a brilliant from her finger, and placing it,
with a roll of bank notes in his hand.

" You will take no food, Mrs. Wharton, that will
require you to use your teeth, for three days, and
speak as little as you can in the mean time. It will
be necessary with a preparation I shall give you, to
bathe the gums repeatedly and keep your mouth as
much closed for a day or two as possible. Be care-
ful also of the cool air. I will call and see you to-
morrow."

Having received the wash he had prepared, Mrs.
Wharton took leave of the dentist with smiles, and
he was left alone with the young and noble victim
of female vanity. Mrs. Wharton was a sensible and
pleasing woman ! a kind and generous hearted wo-
man ! But what will not a beautiful woman consent
to, be it never so cruel, to preserve or restore a
charm ! Let those ladies who would condemn Mrs.
Wharton, withhold their judgment till they have
been placed precisely in her situation. We neither
condemn nor defend her — for gentlemen are not fair
judges in a case which can never fall preisely within

OR, THE FALSE TEETH.

203

their personal experiences. As to the conduct of
Caroline Archer my readers can have but one
opinion.

This noble girl felt no pain — no grief at the mar-
ring of her beauty — as one by one she gave her
beautiful teeth to the fangs of the despoiling iron.
She only thought of the relief she was to afford her
beloved mother— that for three months longer she
was securing to her a roof and a home !

" You are a noble girl ! I am sorry I have done
this," said the Doctor, as he returned to her. « Dis-
tress I fear has driven you to it. I would rather
have forfeited the Lady's custom and the favour of her
whole caste than have done this wicked thing ! Why
did you not ask me for money? I would rather have
given one hundred dollars than had this done ! But
it is too late now to lament. But then you are such
a noble girl ! Some lofty and honest purpose had
strengthened your spirit or you could never have
borne pain as you have done. I must now repair,
to the best of my power, the devastation I have
made."

The blood soon ceased flowing and in a few mi-
nutes the inflammation became so far reduced that he
took up the pairs of teeth he had fitted to the plate
and asked her if he should put them in their place.

" Will you give me a mirror, sir ?"

" Not now, child. I will first fix these teeth in."

" Now if you please, sir."

He gave her the glass. She glanced into it, wit-
nessed her disfigurement, and, like a true hearted
woman as she was, burst into tears. They were
soon dried up ; and when a few minutes afterwards
the dentist again handed her the mirror, she sprung
to her feet with delight, no less great than Mrs.
Wharton had shown. " They are like my own !"

" They are indeed," said the dentist, viewing this

" Follow, and see where she goes in, and bring
me the name and number of the house. If you play
by the way, I'll thrash you."

" Yeth thir."

" I will find her, and if she be respectable, be she
poor as a parish priest's cow, I'll marry her if she'll
have me."

Thus meditated Dr. ; and, lighting his cigar,

he gave himself up to a train of delightful hymeneal
visions, which, like " the baseless fabric" of most
bachelors' dreams, were destined, alas ! to leave "no
wreck behind."

Mrs. Wharton drove home, and with pleasure ex-
hibited her restored teeth to her delighted husband
and brother Frank ; but without telling them they
had been an hour before in the head of a young girl.
Percy she knew would be displeased, while she feared
Frank's satire. So she kept her own secret, and left

upon their minds the best impression of Dr. 's

skill.

Frank soon after took his hat, stick, and gloves,
to go to the Gazette office to see if he could hear
any thing of his pocket-book which he had dropped
in returning from the six o'clock New York boat,
to which he had been to see a party of friends off.

" You will scarcely recover it, Frank," said Percy
as he was going out, " and you deserve to lose it for
carrying so large a sum about you daily. No gentle-
man, when he is at home, should make a practice
of keeping^more than twenty dollars in his pocket-
book at a time."

" I care more about the miniature on it for which
alone I bought it in Paris, fancying it resembled a
school girl I used to know. But what makes it
more valuable is that I have within a day or two

effect of his skill with gratification ; " I hope they seen a charming creature in a milliner's store in

will supply their place. They will feel uncomfortably
a day or two, but you will soon become accustomed
to them. Now, miss, you desired twenty dollars.
Here are one hundred dollars, the sum which the
lady gave me for you as she had promised to do.
Here also is a ring worth as much more, which she

Walnut street, that is the perfect resemblance of it.
I wouldn't have lost it for the value of the notes in
it."

" Have a care, Frank. These Philadelphia gri-
zettts are the most dangerous in the world."

" She is perfectly lovely, Percy. A small white

took from her finger, and desired me to give you in hand, like a high bred girl, and an eye and lip so

token of her gratitude." eloquent with expression and purity of soul, that — "

Caroline took the ring and the money, scarcely " You fell in love with her."
believing the reality of what she heard. Then clasp- " I have, I positively believe. Her wonderful

ing together her hands, she sent up a silent offering likeness to my miniature first struck me."
of thanksgiving to Him who had given her the virtue " Your earnest manner, brother Frank, is ominous

and courage to make the sacrifice of that natural of danger to both herself and you. Do not pursue

female vanity common to all the young and lovely the acquaintance — it can only end in her ruin and

of her sex. your own dishonour."

"She is young, she is beautiful, and she is pious," " By heaven, Percy! you wrong my motives. I

soliloquized Dr. , as he listened to her light tell you she is divinely beautiful, and so pure that an

footstep on the last stair as she retired. " I wish
she had told me her history ! She is a noble girl. I
must find her out ! What a lovely wife she would
make ! I must know who she is. She is in humble
life, and she is very poor — doubtless in pressing mis-
ery, or she would hardly have made the sacrifice she
has to-day. Pete !"

"Thir!" cried a woolly-pated African lad, about
fourteen years old, popping his head into the door
and grinning from ear to ear, with a half-smothered
laugh he had brought in from the street.

" You are here, are you, you scamp-grace ? Did
you see that young woman go out ?"

" Yeth thir."

impure thought cannot live in her presence."

" You are in love, Frank, and very romantic withal,
I hope nothing worse than romance will come of it.
Emma will have to pick out some fair girl as a wife
for you. It's time you were married, Frank."

" I mean to be one of these days — I wonder who
this lovely milliner can be !"

" Daughter of some honest tradesman, like enough,
perhaps, your boot-maker's niece !" answered Percy,
with playful but severe irony.

Frank coloured, bit his lip, and hastily descended
from the drawing-room to the hall. As he reached
the door, the street bell was rung, and on opening it,
he saw a handsome little lame boy, with a pale face,

204

THE MILLINERS APPRENTICE;

but dark eyes, full of intellect and intelligence. He
was at once interested in his appearance.

" Who do you wish to see, my little lad ?" he in-
quired, in a gentle tone.

" Mr. Francis Astley."

" I am he."

" Did you lose a pocket-book, sir ?"

» I did."

" A green one ?"

" A green one with a miniature in it."

" Here it is, sir. My sister found it in Walnut
street, this morning."

With these words, the boy took from his pocket a
snowy cambric handkerchief, and unfolding it, deli-
vered to him his pocket-book. The name of " Caro-
line Archer" prettily written' on one comer of the
handkerchief caught his eye before it was returned
to his pocket.

"Will you see if the contents are safe, sir?"

" It's of no consequence, my good boy. I hardly
remember what sum was in it," said Frank, opening
it, and just glancing at the notes.

" There were three hundred and seventy five dollars
in it when it was found, sir."

" I now remember that was the amount. Come
into the hall, and I will count it to gratify you."

He found it correct, and taking the seventy-five
dollars, presented it to the boy.

" No, I thank you, sir."

" It is yours. Take it my lad."

" I have only returned your pocket-book, sir. I
have merited no reward."

" If you will not take it, you have no right to
refuse it for your sister. Take this one hundred
dollar bill, and tell her the owner of the pocket-book
presents it to her for her integrity. It will purchase
her wedding ornaments one of these days. She must
be a nice little girl. How much younger than you
is she ?"

" She is older, sir. I am fifteen and she is seven-
teen," he replied, receiving the note.

" Ah ! What is your name ?"

" Henry Archer."

" Where do you live ?'-'

" In alley."

" Hum ! Well, I must do something for you, my
fine lad. Come and see me this time on Monday.
Why do you linger ? Would you ask me any ques-
tion ?"

" I would rather have my sister's miniature, sir,
than money."

" Your sister's miniature !"

" Yes, sir — in the pocket-book. I will gladly
return you the hundred dollars for it, if you please
sir."

" Is this a likeness of your sister who found it."
" Yes, sir. And ma wonders how you came to
have it. She hopes, and so do I, sir, that there's
nothing wrong about it."

" Nothing wrong, my lad. Is your sister a milli-
ner's apprentice ?"

" Yes, sir, in Walnut street."
" The very same !" exclaimed Frank, half-audibly.
" Sir."

" Nothing, my lad. I will let you have the picture
one of these days, perhaps. Her name is Caroline
Archer, is it ?"
" Yes, sir."

" That will do. Don't forget to come to me on
Monday."

With these words, Francis Astley accompanied
the lad to the door, and let him out.

" Well, this is extraordinary. Fortune is entang-
ling the thread of my life with this pretty milliner, it
is plain. Well, there is no resisting fate." And with
this conclusive reasoning, he sallied forth to lounge
down Chestnut street.

One forenoon, a few weeks after the events just re-
lated, a young girl was seated in the elegant working-
room of Mrs. Wharton, at No. — Girard Place. Mrs.
Wharton had some gala dress to be cut and fitted,
and being a little indisposed, sent to Mrs. Carvil for
her " best hand." Caroline Archer was sent. When
she reached the door, and recognised the number,
she remembered that it was the same that was in the
pocket-book. She hesitated to enter, lest she should
encounter young Astley, whom she had not seen
since the day before she had found it. But she was
not mistress of her own will, and ringing the bell,
was admitted. In the interval between the time of
the foregoing chapter and the present, Caroline's
domestic happiness had much increased, by means
of the costly price she had paid to secure it. Her
mother's health was improving, and she had nume-
rous little comforts of which she was before destitute.
A private school teacher of great celebrity had also
written her a note, saying that arrangements for three
years tuition of her eldest son had been made with
him by a young gentleman, and that his seat and
place in his classes were waiting for him. This was
gladly and gratefully accepted by the mother. Caro-
line still continued, however, at Mrs. Carvil's, but
returning prosperity and hope had restored to her
cheek its bloom, and to her eye its brilliancy, and to

her lip its smile. So well had Dr. done his

part, that no one, save himself and her mother, was
possessed of her secret.

She had cut and fitted the waist of the ball dress,
upon which she was at work, and it being of a new
and showy fashion, Mrs. Wharton wished to have
Percy's opinion of it, aware that in female dress gen-
tlemen have unerring taste. She sent to the library
for him.

" What do you think of it, Percy ?" she inquired,
after showing him how finely it fitted her magnificent
bust. " Is it not a rich pattern, and of a superb
fashion ?"

" I know not which most to admire, the perfection
of the fit or the skill of the artiste" he said, looking
with admiration at the beautiful milliner. " This
must be Frank's inamorata, for she is just such a
divine creature as he described," he added to himself.
" I will soon learn."

" You may go now, Percy, I don't want you any
longer," said the bride, with a meaning smile, observ-
ing his admiration of the maiden.

" I want Frank to see your dress — he has perfect
taste in such matters," replied Percy, catching her
eye and laughing, as he showed that he understood
her ruse. " He is in the library, poring over Ovid's
Art of Love. I will have him here in a moment."

" Don't bring Frank here !" she said, glancing at
Caroline.

" He must come."

When Frank entered the room, Caroline, with a
throbbing bosom, instinctively shrunk within the
window recess, her services not being immediately in
requisition.

OR, THE FALSE TEETH.

205

" A superb fit, sis," said Frank, " but let me tell
you it is the least in the wotld a little too low in the —
neck — I mean bosom." ■

" Not a bit, as the fashion is."

" If it were the fashion to — but I'm mum. How
are your new teeth ? Do you believe me, I think they
are more beautiful than those you lost!"

"Sh! brother!" and Mrs. -Wharton directed her
glance wamingly towards the recess.

But Caroline heard every word the young gentle-
man had uttered. With an involuntary exclamation
she turned from the window, and was gazing, when
he looked, with surprise and curiosity upon Mrs.
Wharton.

" Caroline Archer !."

Caroline was overwhelmed with confusion at the
recognition and his ardent exclamation.

" I knew it," exclaimed Percy, half-aloud.

" Do you know her, Frank ?" asked Mrs. Whar-
ton, suspiciously.

" Look there !" he answered. And opening his
pocket-book he displayed the miniature within. " Do
you remember when I bought this in Paris ?"

" I do. It is perfect."

" It is only through this likeness I know her then,
sister."

At this instant the door bell rung, and the next
moment Dr. , the dentist, entered the room.

" I called as I was passing, Madam, to see how —
what — my noble little heroine here I"

" Do you know her too, Doctor ?" asked Mrs.
Wharton, with surprise.

"'Pray let me look at your teeth, Miss," cried the
Doctor, without replying to her question, and walking
directly up to Caroline — " I have wished a hundred
times to see how they answered the purpose."

Caroline retreated in embarrassment, and felt as if
she should sink upon the ground.

"Do not be alarmed! — you were courageous
enough a few weeks ago. — Well, Mrs. Wharton, so
you have found her out and taken her as a protege ."

" Found who out ! Pray explain, Doctor ?"

" Why my brave, beautiful heroine !"

" V» hom do you mean ?"

" Why the pretty ' advertisement girl,' as I call
her."

Mrs. Wharton turned pale.

" You do not mean to say that — that" — and the
lady finished her sentence by a look directed towards
Caroline.

" That she is the young person who — "

" No more, Doctor — I beg of you to be silent," she
cried imploringly, sinking upon an ottoman near her.

"Pray, what is this mystery, Doctor?" demanded
the astonished Percy.

" I see I have been led into a sad blunder by taking
things for granted. But it is better to explain than
leave things in mystery. This is the young woman
who sacrificed her front teeth to supply the loss of
your lady's."

" Emily, is this so ?" demanded Percy, with indig-
nant reproof. " Were not those manufactured teeth
you obtained from Dr. ?"

" No, Percy," she answered, hiding her face in her
hand.

"Good God! have you had the cruelty to bribe a
young creature like this to rrtokfe such a sacrifice to
your vanity ! Alas, my dear Emma ! you have fallen,
fallen far in my estimation !"
VOL. XXII. IS

" Forgive me, Percy !" she cried, throwing herself
upon his shoulder — " I confess my error — I have not
been happy since !"

" First make all the reparation in your power to
this young creature, whom nothing but dire necessity
could have driven to make such a sacrifice; and of
this necessity the bride of Percy Wharton has taken
advantage."

Mrs. Wharton burst into tears.

" Nay, sir — pardon her !" cried Caroline, with
generous feeling for the contrition of the unhappy
lady. — " The sacrifice I made was voluntary on my
part, and with Heaven's blessing was the means of
saving a beloved mother from misery, and making a
destitute family happy."

" And did you make such a sacrifice, noble girl, for
a mother?"

" Indeed, sir, we were very, very much distressed —
and if Providence had not opened this way of relief to
us, we should have been houseless wanderers of the
streets."

" Emma, I forgive you, inasmuch as good has been
permitted to grow out of this evil. Yet it does not
exculpate you."

With great delicacy and tact Percy Wharton then
drew from the blushing girl her whole story, save that
part that transpired in the dentist's room, which
Doctor related with touching eloquence. Fran-
cis Astley also on his part related the loss and re-
covery of his pocket-book, and increased the admira-
tion of Percy and his wife to the highest pitch. When
the tale was ended, he asked if her father's name was
not Henry Archer, formerly an importer in Front
street ?

" It was, sir," answered Caroline.

" Then he did my father when he was a young
man a great and important service. It shall be my
pleasing duty to repay it to his child. Give me your
mother's address, and I will call on her early to-
morrow."

" And permit me to say, Miss Archer," added Mrs,
Wharton, approaching her and taking her hand,
" that I ohall insist on taking you henceforth under
my protection, and from this moment request you
will make my house your home, and look upon me
as a sister."

" You are a noble creature, Emily, when you let
your heart take the lead of your head," said her hus-
band, kissing her. " You have my consent to what-
ever you will."

" And if my good brother will give me his con-
sent— and my generous sister will transfer also her
proffered protection of this gentle girl," said Francis
Astley, advancing and taking Caroline's remaining
hand, " I will with her sweet consent, cheerfully give
my hand where weeks since I gave my heart."

He bent gracefully over the fair hand as he spoke,
and imprinted upon it an ardent kiss. Caroline, over-
whelmed with the sudden and unexpected crowding
in of events, and with her full heart gushing joy at
this reward of her long and silently cherished love foi
the handsome stranger of the gloves, stood with
drooping eyelids, blushing like a peony, while her
young bosom tumultuously heaved as if it would burst
its confinement.

******

It is two months since Caroline Archer left the

boarding school of Mrs. , Chesnut street, where

she had been fifteen months ; her betrothed husband,

206

QUEEN MARIA CHRISTINE S FAREWELL.

Mr. Frank Astley, being too impatient to be married
and sport his lovely wife at the Springs this season, to
wait the three years he had promised Percy. There-
fore, yesterday there appeared in the Gazette the fol-
lowing notice under the Hymeneal head :

"Married this morning at eight o'clock, en costume

des voyage, Francis Astley, Esq., of this city, to Miss
Caroline Archer, daughter of the late Henry Archer,
Esq. The happy pair started immediately for Sara-
toga via New York. There is an on dit that some
more than ordinary romance d'amour was the foun-
dation of this union of the parties."

^■^^**/w~■

Written for the Lady's Book.

QUEEN MARIA CHRISTINE'S FAREWELL,

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

Spaniards, when first with stranger-step

I trod your verdant shore,
The memory of your noble sires,

Their glorious deeds of yore —
The spears that on a thousand fields

Maintain'd their sovereign's claim,
Swept in strong vision o'er my soul,

And fill'd it with your fame.

I bound your welfare to my heart,

I made your cause my own,
The subject of my lonely thought,

The study of my throne, —
And when in dark or evil days,

You to your monarch drew,
My voice, as with a mother's love,

Was ever rais'd for you.

But when my husband, and your king,

From our embraces reft,
With dying hand, the reins of power

To me, confiding left;
Upon that heaven transmitted trust,

I threw no despot stain,
My prayer to God for you was pour'd

Amid my deepest pain.

Yet, of the countless frowns of hate

That darken'd every scene,
The insults and the wrongs that vex'd

A widow, and a queen, — j

I will not speak. — You ne'er shall hear
From me, the murmurer's moan,

A high forbearance best befits
My glory, and your own.

Still, in my right, have proudly burn'd

The spirits of the free,
And the sharp falchion sought to flash

In valour's hand, for me, —
I bade those mighty hearts be still,

I bade that sword be sheath'd,
I could not waste the homes of those,

For whom my prayer had brealh'd.

No. — Rather from your realm I turn,

My sceptre I resign,
And yet a sterner sacrifice,

A keener pang is mine, —
My children ! — they whose gentle smile

Each tear of sorrow dried,
How shall I speed my exil'd course,

Nor find them by my side.

Yet, on the altar of my fate,

This last, best gift t lay.
And frum the idols of my heart

Turn desolate away.
Oh Spaniards! — to this sacred trust,

Be tender, and be true,
And sooth the moiher, and the queen.

Who yields so much for you.

NJOYMENT,

When I walk the streets, I use the following natural
maxim (viz. that he is the true possessor of a thing
who enjoys it, and not he that owns it without the
enjoyment of it,) to convince myself that I have a
property in the gay part of all the gilt chariots that
I meet, which I regard as amusements designed to
delight my eyes, and the imagination of those kind
people who sit in them gaily attired only to please
me. I have a real, and they only an imaginary plea-
sure from their exterior embellishments. Upon the
same principle, I have discovered that I am the natu-
ral proprietor of all the diamond necklaces, the crosses,

stars, brocades, and embroidered clothes, which I see
at a play or birth-night, as giving more natural delight
to the spectator than to those that wear them. And
I look on the beaux and ladies as so many paroquets
in an aviary, or tulips in a garden, designed purely
for my diversion. A gallery of pictures a cabinet,
or library, that I have free access to, I think my
own. In a word, all that I desire is the use of things,
let who will have the keeping of them. By which
maxim I am grown one of the richest men in Great
Britain; with this difference, that I am not a prey to
my own cares, or the envy of others.

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

207

Written for the Lady's Book.

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

BY MRS. MARY H. PARSONS.

" Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,

And what they do or suffer men record:
But the long sacrifice of woman's days

Passes without a thought — without a word ;
And many a holy struggle for the sake

Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfilled —
For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,

And the strong feelings of the heart be stilled —
Goes by, unheeded as the summer wind,
And leaves no memory and no trace behind"!— Mrs. Norton.

Three score and ten were the years of Morton
Hastings ; age had not changed the benevolent and
placid expression of his countenance, nor chilled the
warm and kindly feelings of his generous heart. In
his character there was much to win affection, al-
though wanting in many of the high and sterling
qualities that command respect. He lacked the firm-
ness to support adversity, and clung too eagerly to
the luxuries that had surrounded him from his earliest
years, shrinking from poverty as the darkest and
heaviest woe, that could fall to the lot of mortal.
He was reputed a man of strict truth, and honoured
the truth-telling ; he was never known to do a dis-
honest action, and scorned a mean one. Hitherto
his life had been one of unclouded prosperity ; from
his father he had inherited much wealth, to which he
had made large additions ; the world smiled on him
and he glided through its changing scenes with few
cares, and fewer sorrows. But reverses were in store
for Morton Hastings, and they came when he was
least able to bear them, when the hue of his hair had
changed from grey, to " silver white," and his frame
was bowed with something of the feebleness that
gives token of approaching dissolution. He had
placed his trust in a villain who betrayed and wronged
him to a great amount ; oiher losses followed fast on
impaired credit, until utter ruin seemed inevitable.
He bore up manfully while there was yet a hope of
retrieving his fortunes, but in vain he struggled with
the serpent folds, that have borne down many a de-
voted merchant to the dust : the ball had turned, and
every effort he made only seemed to accelerate its
speed. A competency he saved for himself and child.
Ah ! for her sake, far more than his own he mourned
his bereavement of fortune. Long since his wife had
died, and Alicia was left his only solace, his chief
earthly comfort : that she well fulfilled the trust, might
be gathered from the exceeding tenderness with which
her father regarded her. She knew that there had
been more than ordinary care, and perhaps sorrow,
on Mr. Hastings' mind, but as he evaded her ques-
tions, and seemed almost displeased at the solicitude
she evinced, she carefully avoided giving it further
notice. " It will be time enough for her to suffer,
when hope is over" — was ever that father's thought,
and to the last he refrained from communicating his
true situation.

Twilight was gathering over the earth as Morton
Hastings turned his steps homeward — if home that

might be called which was already sold to his heaviest
creditor, and which he occupied only until arrange-
ments for the future could be made; during that
eventful day, his business had been brought to a final
close, and he had paid the last dollar he owed. For
a time, the proud consciousness that he had wronged
no human being, bore him forward with light heart
and active step, but anon there came other thoughts:
his child ! Oh ! he had nurtured her tenderly — he had
guarded her, as does the sea-bird her young, lest they
fall from their lofty eyrie, and be crashed to pieces —
and she had well and truly repaid him, and now, she
must come down from her high place, that she adorn-
ed so gloriously, and take her stand among the
lowly, and the humble of the earth ! — His steps
faultered, and his head bowed down upon his breast, as
a feeling of despair, wrong to indulge in, and always
sad in its consequences, took possession of his heart.
As he came near the proud mansion, his own in
better days, he saw standing on the door step, a
young man, apparently some two or three and twenty
years of age. He seemed to be awaiting Mr. Has-
tings' -approach, bowing low as he advanced to meet
him, with a marked and respectful deference of man-
ner, not lost upon the fallen merchant.

" Ah ! Ashley Cleveland !" said the old man, in a
tremulous tone, " is it indeed you ?"

" My friend — my dear friend !" exclaimed Cleve-
land, as he warmly clasped the hand extended to him,
" what dreadful news is this I hear ? And why, was
not I called upon in your distress ?"

" Your assistance would not have availed — why
trouble you needlessly?" replied Mr. Hastings, as
slowly they entered the house together. The draw-
ing-room was vacant, but the fire burnt cheerfully in
the grate, and the arm-chair was wheeled in front.
Something like a groan escaped from Hastings as he
took his accustomed seat; he held out his hands
before the fire, and Cleveland noticed how they
trembled. " Is there no hope your fortunes may be
retrieved ?" he asked. " I will advance you any sum
you require."

" No, Ashley, no," said the old man, in a tone
inexpressibly mournful, " the strength has gone out
from this feeble body — look at this poor shaking
hand, is it fit, think ye, to guide the bark of my for-
tunes through the stormy sea of existence? To steer
it clear of the shoals and quicksands, that wreck
their thousands in the green season of youth? There

208

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

\

is no hope for the future — I am ruined — a beg-
gar !"

" You cannot mean," said Cleveland, hastily, "that
you are reduced to absolute poverty?"

" Oh no J" was the answer, in tones of bitter irony,
" there is enough to prevent starvation !"

" And your daughter — what of Miss Hastings?"
exclaimed Cleveland, with the look and tone of one
to whom the subject was of absorbing interest.

" Ah, there it is 1" cried the old man, his self con-
trol entirely gone at the mention of her name. "My
child ! my child ! what a change for you ? Would
to God our heads were low in the green grave that
shelters your mother !" and he covered his face with
his hands, and the tears trickled through his trembling
fingers.

" Give your daughter to me — let her be my wife —
and may I suffer in the hour of my sorest need, if I
do not make her a true and faithful husband," said
Cleveland, as he bent down his head over the hand
of Mr. Hastings, which he had taken in his own.
The sorrowing father lifted up his face, the whole
expression of which had changed to amazement and
pleasure. " Is this possible ?" he exclaimed, "Ashley
do you love my child?"

" With my whole heart — I have loved her truly,
since the first hour I saw her," was Cleveland's en-
thusiastic reply.

" And she — does she return it ?" inquired the fa-
ther. The colour that had risen upon the handsome
face of Cleveland till it touched his broad forehead,
foded suddenly away, as he answered, " I cannot say,
I have feared otherwise."

" What cause have you had for such fear ; I pray
you tell me ?" said Mr. Hastings, somewhat impa-
tiently, as one who feared disappointment, and shrunk
from it in alarm.

" I am the son of your oldest and best friend,"
was Cleveland's reply, " and the kindness with which
you have treated me has almost amounted to affection.
At first, Miss Hastings manifested the same feeling,
but she changed, and the coldness she then assumed
has known no abatement. I have thought she might
have discovered my real feelings, and wished by her
manner to check them. I have also thought the
motive for such conduct was love for another."

" Nonsense ! Impossible !" exclaimed Mr. Has-
tings. " I tell you, she never yet loved a human
being but her old father !" :

A feeling of sudden and inexpressible relief was
instantly visible in the countenance of Cleveland, as
he replied, " Then I have been mistaken, as we often
are, when judging in a state of strongly excited feel-
ing," and he moved his hand slowly over his brow,
and drew a long respiration, as one who had passed
safely a trial he much feared.

"Assuredly you were mistaken, if you believed
Alicia loved another ; no, no, my child is free. God
grant her heart may make selection where our wishes
point so strongly," was Mr. Hastings' earnest reply.

" Wishes that must never be enforced," said Cleve-
land eagerly, " she must be left to her own unbiassed
choice. If she cannot fully reciprocate my feelings,
she must at least have no reluctance to marry me;
do not urge her then, for wealth will bring happiness
to neither of us without mutual affection ; and all
that I have I will share freely with you and your
child, as your friend only." There was a pause for
some moments : Mr. Hastings seemed much moved,

and Cleveland went hurriedly on : " Yet once more,
my dear sir, hear me on one point. Loving Alicia
as I do — and you or none other may judge of the
intensity of that love — I dare not marry her if she
loves another — dare not! prosperity has taught me
no self control, and principles will loosen, like the
rein from the fiery courser's neck, beneath the sway
of unmastered passions — I dare not trust myself. She
is too good, too gentle to suffer — yet oh ! it haunts
me ever, like some frightful night dream, that her
heart knoweth sorrow, and hath struggled long, and
silently to conceal it !" and Cleveland paused exhaust-
ed, aiid pale with contending emotions.

"Are you mad?" said Mr. Hastings, almost stern-
ly, "that you rave thus? I know what I have said
to be true ; you can rely upon it. Alicia is timid and
retiring; she has grieved for my sorrow, although I
have hidden it from her, so far as it was in my power,
but sad thoughts stamp their seal upon the face. Out
of this your imagination has conjured a demon for
your especial torment; cheer up! and call in good
sturdy common sense to exorcise it, and set your
heart at rest." Cleveland smiled, and Mr. Hastings
went on with various comments and facts to prove
the truth of his belief. The young man listened, and
hoped, and his eye brightened, and his fine face grew
radiant with pleasure, and into his heart there stole
a feeling of mingled hope and happiness, that he
would not have exchanged for a realization of the
brightest day dream he had ever cherished.

A much indulged child he had been from his youth
upwards, and amid many shining qualities of mind,
and character, there lurked the germ of an impetuous
and fiery nature. About his finely formed mouth
there was an expression of scorn — slight indeed, but
it was there — and when corresponding feelings filled
the mind, that expression deepened into haughtiness
and contempt. Yet it was rare indeed the shadow
lay upon his noble countenance — gentle, generous,
and forbearing in all his domestic relations — affec-
tionate as a brother — devoted as a son, he was loved
with a degree of tenderness that had become neces-
sary to his existence. Many very happy days had
fallen to the lot of Ashley Cleveland, and as if in
gratitude, his mind put forth its noblest qualities, and
his character developed virtues, a source of pride and
pleasure to his friends, and blessings to himself;. j:Yet
was he fully aware of the under current of passion
early indulgence had suffered to grow strong. <K had
swept over all the better feelings of his nature, leav-
ing like the Sirocco a frightful waste behind, but

"He stood erect — returning pride
Grew terrible within —
And conscience sat in judgment on
His most familiar sin."

An hour passed and still the two held converse;
well the father loved to talk of his child, and little
prospect there was his listener would tire. At length
Cleveland rose to go, and the parting words of Mr.
Hastings were — " To-morrow at twelve, come to me
and you shall know her decision."

Mingled thoughts of pain and pleasure, passe
through the mind of Mr. Hastings as he sat silently
revolving the incidents of this eventful day; he did
not hear the door open and close; he heard no step,
for the carpet that stretched beneath his feet returned
no footfall; but he felt the pressure of the white arr
passed over his neck — the cheek, soft as an infant's

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

209

that touched his own, and he heard the sweet voice " Ashley Cleveland !" burst from the quivering lips

that had never spoken to him but in accents of affec- of the astounded girl. " Marry Ashley Cleveland ! I

tion, murmuring, "Dear father, you are welcome dare not, father — it were mockery!" and trembling

home." from head to foot, every trace of colour gone from

"Alicia !" — Morton Hastings drew his child to his her face, she sank down upon a chair bewildered, and

heart, and felt he owned a treasure yet, the world stunned by what she had heard.

could never take away. Little wonder that he loved
her, in her bright, early beauty ! The eyes that met
his glance of affection, were black, singularly soft,
and winning in expression — a mouth that gave cha-
racter to the whole face, with a smile playing on the
lips — a loomari's smile — radiant, open, trusting ! Long
braids of shining hair were gathered in a knot behind,
and, as here and there a soft curl touched her neck
it gleamed like jet upon a snow wreath. Oh ! how he
loved her — that father ! It is no common tie that
binds together father and daughter, the one far read in
the world's miserable hypocrisy, the other unconscious
of deceit, dependent on him for protection — his own!
" Sit down, Alicia, sit down by my side ; I have
much to tell you, love, and I would that you should
hear me now," and Alicia did as she was bidden, and
without foreboding or fear, she lifted up her bright
eyes, and looked steadfastly in her father's face. He
went on — " I have much to say of myself that will
give you pain — nothing that will make you ashamed
of the gray hairs of your father — thank God! I have
paid to the last dollar !"

" What mean you, father ? What can distress you
so ? tell me, I entreat you." — He took her hand, he
drew her closer to him, and he said, " listen !" — Whiter
her face grew, and whiter, as that account proceeded,
until the whole of his late struggles and their present
poverty, was made clear to her mind, a sort of gasp-

" I do not urge it," said her father, with a look
of such bitter disappointment, that his child shrank
from meeting it. " You have never yet, Alicia,
known his equal — surely if you could love any one
it must be him. You risk nothing in marrying with
feelings of indifference, they must ripen into affection,
and your lot be one of happiness "

" My feelings are not those of indifference," was
the reply, in a tone broken with emotion. " Did I
understand you clearly, father, as to our present situ-
ation. Is there nothing left ? No pittance for our
support? If it was ever so trifling so that you would
not suffer, I am sure with my exertions we might
live in comfort. Oh ! do not believe me incapable
of self exertion until you try me — give me one trial,
father, it is all I ask."

Her father was silent ; he knew there was quite
sufficient for their maintenance in a humble manner,
and he felt assured if Alicia had the same knowledge
she would never be wife to Ashley Cleveland. Had
she not intimated that her affections were otherwise
engaged? and had he a right to go further, after the
distinct assertion of Cleveland? — If that were the case
there must be no marriage. — These were questions
that passed rapidly through his mind.- But "grim pover-
ty" stared him in the face, and she pointed to the
pains, the penalties, and the privations that follow in her
train ; and smooth hypocrisy whispered in his ear —

ing sob escaped her as he ceased to speak, then the they were a foolish young couple, and he was their
tears gushed forth, and she exclaimed fervently — best friend, in trying to bring them together ; faintly,

" And all are paid — all father ?'

" Yes, my daughter, all — there is none can say I
have wronged him of a farthing."

"Oh father! father! hard though the trial be,
there is much consolation in that thought !" The tre-

and afar off, he heard the " still small voice," warn-
ing him of a long life of strict integrity to be sullied
now, when his days were well nigh over, of the dis-
grace that would darken his good name, and shadow
his memory when life was gone for ever. Evil thoughts

mulous hand of the old man was laid upon her young were in the heart of Morton Hastings, and he yielded

innocent head, and his voice broken by age and in- to their influence; love of splendour and of station,

firmities, blessed her — fervently and solemnly blessed was inwoven in his character, and circumstances were

her. fast developing how far it would lead him.

" Why did you keep this trouble so long secret ? "I have already told you, love, we have nothing —

was it well, my father ? might I not have comforted literally I am a beggar, and if you will not save me,

you through many a weary day and hour, when I was I may hunger for my daily bread."
absent or otherwise engrossed ?" " Most horrible !" exclaimed Alicia shuddering,

" I could not bear to see you suffer;" replied Mr. "but is there no other way? — none my dear father?

Hastings, " as long as it was practicable, I spared Oh ! think of something beside this marriage — I dare

you this heavy sorrow, but the time has come when not be his wife — his wife ! Oh it were most treach-

concealment is no longer in my power." erous !"

" You were ever careful of me," she answered, as " I urge nothing upon you," said her father calmly,

the tears gushed from her eyes. " Oh ! would that I
could repay you!"

" It is in your power, my daughter," said her fa-
ther. Alicia sprang from her seat, her whole face
radiant with sudden pleasure — " Tell me what I can
do, father. Oh! believe me, this hand is not so feeble
nor this frame so weak ; I can work — labour for our
daily bread — try me, dear father, try me."

" I am sure you would, love !" he said, smiling

but sorrowfully; " it is for you to decide. Cleveland
would make your home mine, the same roof would
shelter us both— the daughter who has ministered so
long to my happiness, would tenderly care for the
aged parent who is going down to his long home.
Ay! she could lay him in the grave with the con-
sciousness of having cheered the lew remaining years
of his life, of sparing his worn out frame the toil and
privation it was unfit to struggle with; and for this

fondly on her — " but it is not that I ask. There is I could only bless you, my child!"
one who loves you well, Alicia; who asks my con- " And I prize that blessing beyond all other earthly
sent to marry you now, who is high in rank, talent, things," exclaimed the distressed girl, " and I will
and public estimation — who is worthy of you ! Marry strive to deserve it. Give me till to-morrow to re-
Ashley Cleveland, and my gray hairs will go down fleet — I must think — I must see clearly what is be-
to the grave in peace." fore me — I will decide by to-morrow."
IS*

210

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

"As you please," replied Mr. Hastings; "but to
what purpose is reflection? Among the high and
shining places of the earth, we have ever held the
highest. Your marriage secures it for ever — abject
poverty is the alternative. If pover;y is terrible to
me, Alicia, what must it be to you, who, through a
life of sunshine, have never known a want? You
cannot realize the truth — God grant you may never
experience it!"

" I could bear all for myself," murmured Alicia in
broken tones, "but for you— oh, father!" she buried
her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud.

" For my sake, then, Alicia — for my sake be
Ashley Cleveland's wife;" he laid his trembling hand
upon her forehead, as yet once more he uttered, " for
ray sake!"

" I will! — I will! — cost me what it may, I will
marry him, father!"

One week from that night Cleveland called her
wife, and as the words were said that made Alicia
his for ever, he deemed the wide glorious earth could
have added nothing to his perfect happiness. The
space allowed us will not admit of our lingering over
this part of our story ; it is with the consequences of
this union, brought about by a sacrifice of truth, we
have chiefly to do. But we must advert, for a mo-
ment, to the first and early love of Alicia Hastings.
It was during the period of her father's difficulties,
but before they were generally known, that she first
met Walter Singleton, a man whose fascinating ex-
terior, polished manners, and striking figure, had cre-
ated no slight sensation in the circle of Alicia's ac-
quaintance. His taste was literary, he read much,
and talked well ; on occasion, affecting enthusiasm,
he was very far from feeling, but his voice was one
of singular sweetness, and perfect art enabled him to
modulate its tones, till they sounded like the very
out-pourings of a deeply-feeling, warm, and fervent
heart. He was unprincipled, though the world
termed him "honourable," perchance because he
held himself in readiness to shoot his best friend on
emergency ; with honour in its loftiest sense, he had
no communion. Every thing he attempted to do,
he did well; if he blasted the character of an ab-
sent companion, he did it " cleverly" — so cleverly,
that the slander was forgiven for the sake of the wit
wherewith he had clothed it. His conversational
powers had been pronounced unequalled by many of
his fair admirers — tact, readiness and skill, united to
a most retentive memory, made him at all times
delightful. His self-love was inordinate; his vanity,
craving, insatiable in its demands, rarely playing on
the surface, but an under current so strong and deep,
that its foul waters poisoned every generous feeling
of his heart. His income was limited; a wealthy
wife was of consequence ; his wife must be beautiful,
and Alicia Hastings was surely the one, and reputed
the other. He bowed at the shrine where many, very
many, had knelt before, and he conquered. Alicia
loved, and had every reason to think herself beloved;
she had been an object of so much solicitude and
affection through life, that she never fancied, for a
moment, Singleton could be otherwise than sincere.
She therefore yielded, without a struggle, to the warm
affection springing up in her heart, rejoicing in his
society, and thinking of nothing beyond the present
moment.

Before Singleton had "committed" himself— and
two months before Mr. Hastings closed his affairs — .

he received a letter from a gentleman who resided in
a neighbouring city. Between Henry Moreton and
Singleton there existed the strongest mutual dislike;
there had been bitter rivalry, and they never spared
each other now, although they had drawn the veil
of a much professing friendship over their angry feel-
ings. The letter ran thus : —

" Have a care, friend Singleton, what thou doest,
for be it known unto thee, that among the glittering
gems of character Alicia Hastings undoubtedly pos-
sesses, there is no gold! Her father is ruined beyond
redemption — is making arrangements to pay his cred-
itors, and it is supposed he will have nothing left but
a scanty pittance for his future support. This I have
learned through business transactions with him, for it
is yet in a great measure secret. And I warn thee
in time to beware, but I fear me 'tis too late ; if you
have a heart, the boy-god has found the way to it now,
and it is vexatious the lady should be wanting in the
one thing needful. I write in the belief that her love
is yours, of which I have had my doubts; my invin-
cible Paris, she is not to be lightly won by any suitor.
Adieu. Moreton."

" Pshaw !" muttered Singleton, as he crushed the
letter in his hand ; " not win her ! The man writes
like a fool. No heart indeed ! wonder where his
own is. No gold ! then the game is up ; 'tis pity, for
there is something, after all, in being loved as Alicia
is capable of loving, heart or no heart."

Walter Singleton left town that day, and went
South; he returned not again until his correspondent,
Moreton, with the same kind feelings that dictated
the first, wrote him the following letter : —

" Foiled at last, my patronising friend ! never after
this boast your laurels to me. Why, man, the bonnie
Hastings has jilted you ! No sooner were you fairly
off the field, than another sought her; instead of wear-
ing the willow, she wisely concluded to become a wife.
Her marriage took place this morning, and a most
brilliant one it is for Miss Hastings; she, at least, has
reason to congratulate herself that you so signally
failed in making a serious impression on her heart,
for Ashley Cleveland, as a catch, must be decidedly
preferred to your magnificent self. As it is your first
failure, I suppose you bear it with considerable forti-
tude. Yours ever, Moreton."

It is almost impossible for the sober-minded to
realize fully the excessive indignation this letter in-
spired in the mind of Singleton : his morbid self-love
literally writhed under every insinuation, made too
by one he had never spared on similar occasions.
But turn we from him to the young bride, and her
husband. Two months have gone since the bridal,
and the flowers, and the sunshine of early summer
were around their path ; Cleveland had taken his wife,
and her father to his country seat, finely situated near
one of the noblest rivers of our noble country. A
vast extent of forest stretched far beyond it; Alicia
loved to wander " in those grand old woods," and
listen to the roar of the wind as it stirred the mighty
branches of the majestic oak, and ever she was alone.
A torpor seemed to have stolen over her faculties of
body and mind ; she was passive and indifferent —
coldly so. It is true, she awakened to the many
merits of her husband's character — but slowly, as

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

211

one who has received a benumbing shock, that for a
season paralyses the mind, and chills the heart, till it
becomes dead to every feeling and. affection. Assured
that while she did not love him, she loved no other,
Cleveland hoped daily to see some return of the affec-
tion he lavished upon her so freely — but in vain. It
pained him ; he began to fear he had acted foolishly
and rashly, in marrying before he was certain of her
love ; but he had been led on by an irresistible im-
pulse— pity for her father, sympathy, and affection
for herself — perhaps, unconsciously, he trusted to his
own great advantages of mind and person, to awaken
the love of his wife; be that as it may, the disappoint-
ment was severe and unexpected. A vague feeling
of uneasiness and anxiety took possession of his mind ;
he ceased to exert himself to attract her attention ; he
suffered her to go forth alone, to remain her own
time, and return unquestioned ; he manifested no in-
terest in any of her pursuits, and with dismay he
found the same indifference and disregard she had
ever manifested.

" She does not love me — she never will," he thought
almost despairingly, and a shade of settled sorrow
gathered over his handsome face, that contrasted

bled lest Cleveland should make the discovery of Ali-
cia's affections being engaged before their marriage,
and acquaint her with the truth. Oh! to be disgraced
before his child — to lose her respect — to feel though
she loved, she could not honour him — it was bitter,
indeed, and bitterly the old man felt it. Oh if he had
only told her truly, that there was enough left for a
humble support, if she had chosen that lot, lowly
though it might be, yet they had been happy together,
and her voice would have been to him, as in days
of old, like glad music to the ear, when the heart is
weary. Such thoughts were not without a salutary
influence upon Morton Hastings; they humbled a
spirit that long prosperity had rendered self confident
and haughty. Not long after this Cleveland and his
wife were together, the former was running over the
names of a number of visiters expected the next week,
Alicia listening and assenting to his remarks.

" It is for your sake, my dear Alicia, I wish them
all to come, I remember how much you seemed to
enjoy society, and I hope it will be the same now as
ever — do you know I have a hope that some portion
of your former animation will come back again, when
you are thrown among your old friends ?" Alicia

sadly and strangely with the buoyant, and happy ex- looked up with an uneasy expression of countenance,

pression it had worn a short time before. One day
he entered the room where she and her father were
sitting — " Alicia, love, put on your hat, and come
walk with me, the air is balmy and delightful, the
very birds are singing from their leafy homes, the
notes of welcome to my lady bird," and he moved
the book she was reading gently from her hand, and
smiled upon her with a look full of warm interest
and affection.

" I am very dull to-day," said Alicia, languidly, " I
fear you will find me a stupid companion ; but if you
desire it, I will accompany you certainly."

" Do not put any force upon your inclinations,"
said Cleveland, in a tone of slight pique, " as I have
been too long accustomed to solitary walks to object
to them."

" Then, if it is really of no consequence, I will
remain at home," said Alicia, quietly resuming her
book. Cleveland left the room without reply. Mr.
Hastings had been a silent but not unobservant spec-
tator of what had passed.

but when she met the open, and tender glance bent
on her, she felt reassured and answered timidly : —

" I trust it will be as you wish, Mr. Cleveland." —
He laid his hand for a moment on her own, and said,

"Call me Ashley once, Alicia, to see if you can
master the name."

She smiled, and it changed her countenance as if by
magic, lighting it up with an expression full of sweet-
ness and innocence.

" If you knew the beauty of that smile, it would
rarely leave your lips, my own Alicia," said her hus-
band, in a tone of affection and tenderness. The
words were scarcely said, before a look of distress
was visible in her face — a similar remark had been
made to her by Singleton, and the recollection was
full of pain ; she strove against it, but events were too
recent, time had not come to her " with healing on
his wings." Cleveland was troubled — vexed — too
surely there was something on the mind of his wife
of which he possessed no knowledge. He took up
an unopened letter on the table, and broke the seal,

" My dear child, you should have gone," he said that if possible his thoughts might be diverted into

in a low tone.

" Should I ?" she answered, starting and colouring
deeply. " I — I really did not think it was of conse-
quence."

" You know, Alicia, how well he loves you ?" —
Alicia burst into tears. Her father was startled. —
" Is it not so, love?" he said, inquiringly.

« It is — it is ! I see — I feel it all — but oh ! father

another channel ; after reading for a few moments he
exclaimed — " I am really glad he is coming — few
men are so delightful in conversation as Walter Sin-
gleton !"

<■.<: As who ?" exclaimed Alicia, half starting from
her chair, and as instantly reseating herself, her face
perfectly colourless, and her lips quivering.

■ Walter Singleton," said her husband, in a very

I must have time, I cannot uproot with a single effort low tone, for a fearful suspicion had entered his heart

my first early feelings. I try hard, father ! In the and almost took away the power of utterance.

silent night, when none but God can hear, I pray for " I am not well, sir, let me go to my own room,"

a strength I feel I have not. Pity me, and pray for said Alicia, trembling violently, and utterly unable to

me, father !" She rose up pale and trembling, and control her agitation ; she made an effort to rise — he

left the room. Morton Hastings bowed his head, and assisted her — she looked up, and when she met his

the large tears rolled silently down his withered cheeks, glance, and saw all the sorrow and the pain that was

the fruits of his guilt were before him, in the misery, there, she clasped her hands together, and exclaimed,

the broken-hearted wretchedness of his only child ; " Bear with me, my husband ! bear with me a little

better they had lived upon bread and water — far longer, and I will yet deserve the love that has been

better! — for his good name had then been without a wasted on your miserable wife!"

stain, and his character above reproach. Did the " I do not ask you the meaning of this, Alicia —

splendour he so coveted bring happiness? Far from it is stamped upon my heart in characters that can

it ; he was haunted by the fear of detection, he trem- never be effaced. And it was for gauds such as these,"

212

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

he said, pointing to the jewels that adorned her per-
son, "you dared to perjure yourself! See! they
clasp your arm and glitter in your hair, and God help
you ! for the heart that beats beneath them is break-
ing!"

" Not for these ! Oh no — no — not for these. To
save my old father from beggary — from poverty —
worse than death to him," and she wept bitterly.

" Peace !" said Cleveland, with such sternness of
manner, that, startled and confounded, Alicia shrank
before him — " why will ye add falsehood to the rest ?
Go to your own room, and calm yourself if it be in
your power; ' the outward seeming' you have kept
up so long, had better be sustained to the last."
She left the room without a word. Fierce and un-
governable was the wrath that shook the frame of
Cleveland. Not knowing the concealment of the
real state of his affairs, Hastings had practised to-
wards his child, Cleveland could not but think Alicia
had deliberately resolved to marry him when her
affections were given to another — to marry him for
the sake of his wealth and station, and now found
herself unequal to meet with fortitude the sacrifice
of feeling. He believed she had spoken falsely, and
she was lowered in his esteem ; scorn — the bitterest
regret for his own rashness — indignation at the deceit
of Mr. Hastings, swept by turns over his proud impe-
rious spirit. Oh ! that he could break the bonds that
bound them so fearfully together, and free them both
from their horrible situation, were thoughts that
passed continually through his troubled mind. He
walked the floor in anguish that was scarcely endur-
able, there was no way of extrication, he saw the
hopelessness of his situation ; hope that his wife
would ever love him, had gone out from his heart,
and oh ! what a frightful blank was there ! The door
opened, and Mr. Hastings entered — Cleveland turned
suddenly, his face pale, and terrible from the strength
of contending passions :

" Ha !" he said, " you have come to see your work !
Did I not warn you, old man, that Alicia must not
be my wife, if she loved another? Your gray hairs
should have been pledge for your honour — you have
basely deceived me, and brought upon your good
name shame and disgrace."

Hastings could not reply; it was as if a thunderbolt
had been hurled to crush him ; he supported his hands
upon his cane, and bowed down his head upon them,
he was indeed utterly humbled. And this was Mor-
ton Hastings ! — so high in the world's esteem — of
character so unimpeachable ! However slight our
deviations from the path of rectitude, sooner or later
they bring their certain penalty. Some such thoughts
as these restored Cleveland in some degree to himself,
and he said in a more subdued tone,

« I can well believe, Mr. Hastings, there are exte-
nuating circumstances in your conduct- — perhaps you
thought you were doing what was best for your
daughter and myself, but look at the result — she loves
another, even she, my wedded wife ! And that other
will be here — will see her daily — hourly — and I —
what can I do? It is madness to think of it!"

" Trust to my daughter's principles," said the old
man, firmly though feebly, " I know her well, and
the trust will not be in vain."

" Ay," said Cleveland, in bitter irony, " but if they
are not different from her father's, I had best shoot
myself,"

" They are different," replied Mr. Hastings, look-

ing up, "thanks be to a merciful God for that!" —
and the tears streamed from his dim eyes, as the
fervent thanksgiving passed his lips.

" I have spoken harshly, sir," said Cleveland, much
moved, " we are at all times liable to error, let us
forget the past." He held out his hand, and as Mr
Hastings grasped it, he said : " If I alone was the
sufferer, I might forget." They parted with heavy
hearts, but without anger. Turn we now to Alicia.
Her father had said she was timid and sensitive —
she was both , she was open and candid in disposition ;
gentle, generous, and warm-hearted ; her principles
were firm and steady; her mind good, and highly cul-
tivated; her imagination strong and vivid, but under
the control of a quiet and reflective judgment, far
beyond her years. She was still very young, and her
character had not fully developed. Singleton had
strongly captivated her fancy, for there was much sym-
pathy between them in point of intellect ; she admired
him, and the transition was easy to love. Alicia was
unskilled in the ways of the world; not disposed to
doubt, and Singleton found it an easy task to deceive
her effectually as to his real character. Her acquaint-
ance with him had been short — he had left her before
a single fault had been discovered — before a single
blemish had appeared to mar what was almost perfect
in her eyes. His sudden disappearance had filled her
with wonder and alarm ; yet, confiding fully and
entirely on him, she never censured him — but, buried
in her own bosom the unquiet and anxious thoughts
that filled her mind. At the period when her father
urged her to marry Cleveland, she had given up all
hope of Singleton's return, or perchance, she would
not then have consented. Alicia's last interview with
Cleveland had affected her deeply; for the first time,
her heart was moved with sympathy and tenderness
for his sufferings — for the first time, she seemed to
feel the bitterness of Cleveland's lot. She felt how
weakly she had betrayed herself — how sinful such
feelings were for her, the wife of another ; but oh !
she felt how faithfully she had struggled to suppress
them — how long, and earnestly she had striven to
blot out from her mind " the memory of the past" —
and she was comforted. The path of duty is a
straight one, and through all untoward circumstances
to walk therein is safest and best; there may be
thorns that torture and perplex, but there are roses
by the way side, whose pleasant fragrance cheer the
traveller to the latest hour of his existence. Sus-
tained and supported by conscious rectitude, Alicia
hoped to meet Singleton with composure, so that
even her husband should be satisfied. She was not
angry that Cleveland had spoken harshly to her ; she
attached no meaning to his words, believing him
almost bewildered with grief at the time. The change
in Cleveland's manner found her unprepared to meet
it — he was cold, quiet, often stern — and it distressed
her much. Such little efforts as she made to attract
his attention were apparently unnoticed, and she
feared to do more lest he should repulse her. The
morning came when their visiters were expected;
they were a large party, including Singleton, and his
quondam friend Henry Moreton. When they arrived,
much noisy delight at meeting with Alicia was mani-
fested by her younger friends, and Cleveland hoped
it might cover any confusion she exhibited on receiv-
ing Singleton. But such was not the purpose of the
latter; he delayed for several moments to come for-
ward, pretending to be engaged at the door ; he was

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

213

anxious about his reception; certainly, nothing could
have gratified him more than marks of agitation or
interest. Alicia saw him approach, and as she felt
without seeing, her husband was observing her, she
took a step out of the circle that surrounded her, and
said quite calmly:

" It is an age since we have met, Mr. Singleton —
I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you quite well?"
Singleton bowed low, and answered by some passing
compliment, but on the whole felt uncomfortable, for
as he looked forward, he encountered the keen little
eyes of Moreton regarding him with an expression
of malicious pleasure that made him feel strongly
desirous of throttling him. He felt certain Moreton
had detected his disappointment, and the thought
pierced like a barbed arrow through the many wind-
ings of his inordinate self love. Through all that
busy day Alicia's heart was very full of her husband;
she felt he was satisfied wiih her conduct, and her
own conscience was at rest. Once, for a moment,
the two had been together, and involuntarily Alicia
contrasted them; in figure and face they were nearly
equal, but immeasurably superior to that of Single-
ton's, was the expression of Cleveland's noble coun-
tenance : the evil thoughts of the one, even in the
green season of his youth, had stamped their seal
upon his brow, while the face of the other was an
index to a mind as pure as it was lofty. Four and
twenty hours served to enlighten Singleton tolerably
well as to the state of parties ; he was puzzled, how-
ever, at Cleveland's conduct; his quiet but careful
avoidance of his wife, whenever without rudeness he
could accomplish it, and he began to think that it
was not a love match after all, on his part. Cleve-
land had simply laid down a rule of conduct to which
he perseveringly adhered — to annoy Alicia no longer
with his attention.

. Some two weeks after their arrival, Moreton and
Singleton had sauntered to a distance from the house ;
the day was pleasant, they walked far, and their
conversation was of Alicia.

" I tell you what, Singleton," said the former, ab-
ruptly, " you are playing a losing game. She is of
higher principle than you believe it possible for a
woman to be — of firmer mind, though her heart be
meek, than it has been your lot to encounter."

" Spare your wit till you can flavour it with truth,"
was the sneering answer; "there was a time when
her eyes and her actions told me plainly that she
loved me; it will go hard but that I wring the same
acknowledgment from her tongue."

" Yet I dare be sworn, you do in no degree return
that love," said Moreton.

" I am not fond of defeat," said Singleton, drily,
" and in this case, of all others, am not disposed to
submit to it."

" Singleton, you are a fiend."

" Quite likely, my immaculate friend — and what
may you see likely to style yourself?"

"Neither so hardened or so desperate a: — "

" Villain !" said Singleton, coolly filling up the
pause, " out with it, Harry, what does a word signify ?
Come, you have taken to one of your repentant
moods, because the woman you sympathize with is
of excelling beauty — tush ! man stick to your prin-
ciples .'"

Moreton was silent: and Singleton went on —
41 From some cause, I cannot clearly make out, Cleve-
land is careless and neglectful of his wife — indifferent

I am sure he is not, for I have observed him closely.
Now, if to this could be rendered the smallest spark
of jealousy, so that he become stern and harsh, she
is no woman, or she will turn to those who have
long had hold on her affections. Turn to the ' old
love' — ha ! is it not so ?"

" You reason as you ever do, from the belief that
love is stronger than principle in a woman's heart,"
replied Moreton.

" And you are not such an arrant simpleton, as to
believe otherwise?" said Singleton contemptuously.

" I admit it is no easy task to believe in what is
right, if I put faith in you — but I may live to see you
foiled. Notwithstanding bad associations, I have yet
some reverence for that sex, of which my mother is
one. As to Alicia, I have observed her conduct
carefully; as quietly and unobtrusively as it is in her
power, she avoids your attentions. She has to guard
against her husband's suspicions, and singularity in
her own behaviour ; perhaps she has also to guard
against the feelings of her own heart; I do believe
the past and the present hold doubtful conflict in her
mind, and tenderness on the part of Cleveland, would
establish his hold over it for ever."

"We shall see," said Singleton, with a sneer that
destroyed all the beauty of his countenance, " we
shall see ! I will stake my reputation on success."

" So be it — the future will decide," said Moreton,
abruptly turning into a side path that led directly to
the house. When they entered the drawing room,
they found a number of ladies around Alicia, eagerly
discussing a projected party. " Where are they
going ?" said Singleton, in a low tone, to a lady near
him. " A ride of a few miles — won't you join us ?"
was the reply. Singleton stepped up to the circle
and said,

" Shall I have the pleasure of driving you, Mrs.
Cleveland ?"

Alicia was embarrassed ; she feared by any marked
act of her own to attract the attention of others to
Singleton and herself; she wished to place him pre-
cisely on the same footing as the other gentlemen;
she hesitated, and Singleton said, in a tone of in-
quiring surprise,

" I really thought the party determined on — am I
mistaken ?"

" No, no, Mrs. Cleveland," cried several voices,
" we are all going."

" Then you will allow me to drive you, I hope,"
said Singleton, bowing to Alicia. She bent her head
in token of assent. And turning coldly aside, re-
sumed her conversation with a lady near her.

Mr. Cleveland was not present, but he rode up to
the house on horseback, at the moment of their start-
ing, and Alicia noted the grave and displeased ex-
pression of his countenance as he regarded them ; he
did not approach them, but immediately entered the
house.

Of conversational powers almost unequalled and
most fascinating, and possessing in addition, a voice
of wonderful sweetness, Singleton exerted all, in the
full conviction that his efforts would be attended with
complete success. Of consummate art, he wound
round and round the past scenes of their life, without
absolutely touching them, yet so as to stir up in her
heart every tender memory with which his name was
connected. And she listened — ay! until her brain
reeled with the danger — until the very extent and
power of the fascination warned her of the utter and

214

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

irremediable ruin that would follow such indulgence.
Mightily the past swept over her spirit, but the ' still
small voice' she had never disregarded, was unceas-
ing, in its low and earnest cry. In agony Alicia
struggled, and her prayer ascended to One who never
yet refused to aid the right — the strife passed by, and
she grew calm. She listened, but the words were as
though she heard them not ; she never replied, save
when directly questioned, and except that her face was
very pale, there was no other outward token of her
mental anguish. Singleton was vexed — provoked —
the folds of her veil were heavy, and he could not
gather from her countenance what impression he had
made, her silence was therefore doubly annoying to
to him. When they reached home, as he handed
her from the carriage, he said, " I trust your ride has
been pleasant enough to tempt you soon again ?"

" No," she said coldly, " I at all times prefer walk-
ing." The manner was decisive. And someihing
more than the shadow of a doubt fell upon his pre-
sumptuous hopes. As Alicia entered the hall door,
she saw her husband coming out of one of the par-
lours, she had thrown her veil back, and he instantly
noticed her extreme paleness — and noticed it with
the strongest feelings of indignation. Oh ! how
Alicia longed for his sympathy at that moment — that
he would take her to his heart, and bless her for her
faith to him — and she felt as though, after much
suffering and trial, she could be happy there for ever !
She went up to him, and laid her trembling hand upon
his arm —

" Do come with me to my own room," she said,
tremulously, " we have scarcely seen each other since
our guests arrived." He shook off her hand, almost
rudely — "Excuse me," he said, bitterly — "I have
other matters on hand." Cleveland was far too fiery
and impatient to judge with any thing like fairness of
the conduct of his wife; besides he doubted her sin-
cerity, and that of course grew out of the fact, that she
had married him loving another; her excuse that she
had done so to save her father from beggary, had no
weight with him, knowing as he did that poverty was
not the alternative. The bitterest tears she had ever
shed, streamed down Alicia's face as she turned from
her husband to seek the solitude of her own room.
The first thought of her heart (so prone to rebel)
was — " Is this my reward, when I have struggled so
faithfully ! — surely, surely, it is very hard !" and she
3obbed aloud, for her strength was nearly gone.
" Oh !" she murmured, " if there had been the barest
pittance for my poor old father, this misery might
have been spared — oh father! father! it costs me
very dear !"

" Alicia, my daughter, this is dreadful !" — Alicia
sprang to her feet, and turning beheld her father
standing before her, looking more like one of the
dead than a human being — « You here, my own dear
father ! I did not see you !"

" I know it — I came in before you, and I have
heard all — now, even now is the hour of retribution ! —
my poor child !" He took her in his arms, and his
tears fell upon her beautiful forehead ; he smoothed
back the shining hair and tenderly he kissed her.

" My poor child ! — and is it even so ? young in
years, and yet so full of sorrow — sorrow that I have
brought you — I that dishonoured my grey hairs to
make you what, you are ! Listen, Alicia." And he
told her all. How many thoughts conflicting and
rapid chased each other through the mind of his

daughter as the tale went on. Then her husband, who
had been willing to run the risk of her indifference if
her heart was free, had forbid their union should it
be otherwise ; and knowing the support left her fa-
ther from the wreck of his fortune, he must have sup-
posed it was his wealth she coveted — a groan of an-
guish escaped her as she exclaimed :

" He was bitterly wronged, my father !"

" He was — he was indeed ! but oh ! my child, if
you could love him yet, it would repay him for all the
sorrow of the past — will it not be so, Alicia ?"

" I honour him from mine inmost heart," she an-
swered, fervently — " I do more, I esteem — I glory in
him ; oh he is all that is noble and excellent ! but
his heart is turned from me, father — there is no look,
nor tone, as in our early married days — he loves me
no longer !"

" Do not fear, Alicia — faithfully do your duty at
all hazards — seek a full explanation with your hus-
band, and the sure result will be — happiness. I have
greatly erred, but I have greatly repented — can you
forgive the past, Alicia?" She raised his hand to her
lips with a look of reverence and affection as she
said — " I have nothing to forgive, dear father."
Mr. Hastings was silent for many moments ere he
said — " My days were many, Alicia, and had been
full of honour, when I turned from the straight
path — and forgot the truth. Since then there has
been a weight upon my mind, heavy and hard to
bear — the weight of guilt ! It is as if the rest of my
existence were blotted out, and the last few months
were marked in vivid characters of pain and distress.
See what it is to depart from duty, my whole frame is
feeble and bowed to the earth — this poor old body is
going down to its long home — I feel that my days are
shortened by the constant and wearing anxiety I have
endured for the sake of your happiness — there is no
joy, nor hope, nor trust beyond the pale of duty."

The solemn tones of her father's voice rung in her
ear long after he ceased to speak. She looked up
tremblingly, fearing to see a confirmation of her
fears; but it was not so, he looked as usual, save
paler; the change he spoke of had been gradual, un-
noticed by others, not complained of, though severely
felt by himself. He smiled fondly, as he met the gaze
of the bright, tender eyes uplifted in anxious affec-
tion " Do not fear," he said — " the tree will fall

when its sap has departed ; and blessed to the old,
the weary, and the worn, is the exchange !"

The evening of that day was warm, and the guests
had scattered far and wide to enjoy the cool night
breeze; some few lingered in the drawing room,
Alicia among the number; Singleton also was pre-
sent. The windows were thrown wide open, reach-
ing to the floor, and looking out on a balcony that
ran the length of the house ; a portion of it had been
partitioned off with latice work, and there it was the
custom of Cleveland to read, when the day was un-
pleasantly warm. As soon as tea was over, book in
hand, he had taken his accustomed place; his mind
was disturbed by gloomy and desponding thoughts;
he lingered long until the last ray of daylight had
passed, and night began slowly to gather around him.
But not a night of darkness, the moon rode high and
glorious in the heavens, clothed in her robe of silver,
and casting the light of her wonderful beauty upon the
dim and far-away earth. Cleveland heard a step, he
knew it well — Alicia's; she seated herself near him,
nothing but the thin latice work between them ; he

ANDMAR : A STORY OF PERU.

215

even heard the low tremulous sigh that passed her
lips. Yet not for worlds would he have met her
then — at the very moment when he believed her
failing in her duty to him. He remained silent, and
a moment after she was joined by Singleton. Cleve-
land could not leave without passing before them — he
chose to remain; and suspicion black as despair
gathered her " murky folds" around his heart.

" You are selfish, Mrs. Cleveland, in coming out to
enjoy such a scene alone," said Singleton.

"Perhaps my sense of enjoyment consists in being
alone," replied Alicia, with some emphasis on the lat-
ter word, and in a voice of extreme coldness.

" And yet I think," said Singleton — " your taste
was not always thus — I remember me of a time not
long since, when you thought sympathy essential to
the enjoyment of such a scene."

" Our views alter, sir," said Alicia, rising to go in —
" mine have unquestionably."

" Mine have not !" said Singleton, with sudden
eagerness — " the love I once felt for you, strong and
all-powerful, is the same as ever."

" Hold, sir !" — cried Alicia, her eyes flashing, and
her form erect — " such language is not for my ears !• —
disgraceful in you to utter, dishonouring to the hus-
band that is so immeasurably your superior !"

" Scoundrel !" said a deep voice that made the
heart of Singleton leap wildly in his bosom, while a
hand of giant strength grasped him by the collar, and
shook him till the breath had nearly left his body —
" Base ! treacherous villain ! how dare you, like a thief
in the night, steal into another man's fold !" — And
with all the power that overwhelming passion gives,
he hurled him against the slender railing that encir-
cled the balcony — it shivered into a hundred pieces,

but Singleton caught by a pillar, and springing to his
feet drew from his bosom a weapon that glittered in
the moonlight, he raised it, and a frightful imprecation
passed his lips — with a frantic cry of terror Alicia
rushed forward — " My husband ! save him !"

" Do not fear," said Cleveland — " the scoundrel
dreads the gallows !"

At the moment of Alicia's shriek, Singleton saw
lights moving, and forms flitting by the windows of the
drawing room; fear of detection mastered every other
feeling, and with a bound he was out of sight. To
the astonished looks of the crowd that gathered around
them, Cleveland only answered by saying Mrs. Cleve-
land had been taken suddenly ill ; of that there was
all sufficient evidence, for she lay quite senseless in
his arms. They assisted in removing her to her
chamber ; but it was long before their efforts to re-
cover her were attended with success ; when at last
she came slowly to herself, and recollection returned,
she looked round with a wild, bewildered look, and
a strong shudder passed visibly over her frame, as she
spoke very feebly : —

" I would gladly be alone, Mr. Cleveland." Every
one left the room but her husband, compelled to bear
as they best might the troubled feelings of curiosity,
not very likely from present appearances to be grati-
fied.

" Alicia, an hour since you called me your hus-
band," said Cleveland, lifting her aching head upon
his arm — " cannot you do so always?"

" Always ! to the latest hour of my life — if you
will allow it !" she exclaimed, with a passionate burst
of tears.

" Allow it ! — my wife ! mine — and mine only,
blessed be God, for ever."

W«//fg0|/»W«»

Written for the Lady's Book.

ANDMAR:— A STORY OF PERU

BY MISS LOIS BRYAN.

Three hundred times its annual course

Around thesunoui earth hath sped,
Since that bright morn, when songs of joy

Through Cuzco's palaces were spread.
'Twas not, that through her golden gates

A victor came, in triumph led,
While War's loud trump proclaim'd around

That thousands on the field lay dead.
'Twas not, that some proud chieftain king

Now owned the power he once defied,
Content his richest gifts to bring

To royal Andmar, Cuzco's pride.
Nor was it, that upon his brow

Was placed the golden coronet
His chieftain sires so long had worn,

With purest gems and diamonds set.

Within yon temple, roofed with gold,

Whose proud dome rivalled India's tower,

And sent in dazzling splendour back
The rays that gild the morning hour,

A bridal train at early dawn

Appeared — in princely pomp arrayed,

A noble youth, with earnest eye,

Gazed with a lover's raptures high

Upon a beauteous maid,
Who at that shrine her faith had given,

And pledged her to be his alone,
Whose only joy beneath the heaven

Was but his will, his wish to own;
Yes, wealth and fame had both conspired

To make the noble Andmar blest,
But Love's all conquering arms at length,

Assail'd the youthful hero's breast;
And he who could undaunted stand

The foremost in the battle field,
He whose victorious sword and hand

Had made full many a chieftain yield';
He by whose arm a thousand foes

Upon the crimson plains had bled,
Or joined them to his vassal train,

He now, in turn, was captive led.

Yet think not Andmar's soul was weak —
He who Elmanar's charms had seen

Nor felt the power of Beauty's self,
Had sure a heartless recreant been.

Upon her cheek the crimson dye

216

ANDMAR '. A STORY OF PERU.

Was like the rose on virgin snow,
Her lofty soul beamed from her eye.

Her mind was written on her brow,
And both were pure as moonlight blending

With the silvery clouds of air,
As if some angel I'orm descending

Were resting in its beauty there.
And well might undissembled joy

Through Cuzco's palaces be spread,
When such high worth, by royalty,

Was to the nuptial altar led.

Before that altar, bending low,
The holy priest his blessing spoke,

And prayed that youth and beauty's vow,

So full of hope, so joyous now,

Might ne'er by mortal hands be broke.

But, hark! not that a sound of joy

That through the lofty temple rings; —

Why starts young Andmar suddenly?

And why upon his cheek should be
The flush that tells of fearful things?

Of deep revenge for power defied,

And hate and scorn for injured pride ;

And flashes from his dark eye tell

Of courage, fear could never quell.

Ah ! well he knew the ruthless band
Of murderers, from a foreign land,

His own fair clime had sought,
That, like the fearful Simoom's breath,
Destruction, pestilence, and death,

They in their train had brought.

And should he shrink to meet them now?

He gazed upon his gentle bride —
He thought upon his bridal vow,

Yet could not quell the secret pride
That swells a true-born warrior's heart,

And prompts him, in a dangerous hour,
To take his cherish'd country s part,

And free her from a tyrant's power.
" One last embrace," the hero cried,
" And now, farewell, my angel bride,

God will protect thee now ;
I go to meet the approaching foe,
On fields of death to lay me low,

Or come with laurels on my brow."

They came ! Pizarro's battle cry

Burst louder on the startled ear,
Tears flowed from many a matron's eye,

And timid maidens shrieked for fear;
Save one whose true and noble heart

Not one reluctant throb had given,
When called from Andmar's side to part,

But yielded, to the care of heaven,
The chosen partner of her heart, ai

A youthful band of warriors hrave
Have gathered round the chieftain now,

Each breathes a vow his land to save,
"Be free, or seek a warrior's grave,"

Is written on each noble brow.
Ah 1 vainly now your vows are spoken,

And vain each oft repeated prayer,
Your slender ranks will soon be broken;

Pizarro's dauntless warriors there
Right onward press your ranks to sever,

To bind you with a tyrant's chain,
And stamp upon your land for ever

The seal that marks a despot's reign.

But see, where strong the battle rages

Young Andmar's banner high in air;
The bold and dauntless chief engages

The bravest Spanish warriors there ;
And on devoted Cuzco's plain

Full many a warlike form lies low,
Who, when they left their native Spain,

Dreamed but of meeting timid foe,
And conquering, with a look of scorn,

The youthful prince of rich Peru,
Who thus upon his bridal morn

Was to his country's freedom true.
Aye, true — to valour's latest breath —

He fought, till o'er th' ensanguined plain
Were piled the monuments of death,

The faint, the wounded, and the slain :
And then, while streamed the purple tide,

One ardent prayer breathed for Peru,
One blessing for his lovely bride —

And died— like warrior brave and true !

Elmanar saw her chieftain fall —

Enough, their bridal day was o'er ;
Amid the strife she sought his side,

And fell with him, to rise no more.
One fearful shriek of wild dismay

Throughout the vaulted temple rang.
The golden gales were rent away,

And warrior cry, and harness clang,
And dying groan alone are heard

Where late were met the bridal throng,
Where listening crowds with rapture heard

The music of the bridal song.
Alas ! no more those songs may rise,

For Cuzco's maids are captive now,
And happier far is she that lies

With death damps gathering on her brow,
Than they, amid their ancient halls

Compelled their conqueror's will to bide,
Compelled to wear the menial chain

Where once they reigned in beauty's pride.

That morn of joy was turned to gloom,

Their sun of life in gore was set —
The captive's cell, the warrior's tomb,

Held those who at the bridal met.
And Andmar slept amid the slain —

But one fair form was at his side,
She who had sought the battle plain —

The true, the faithful Warrior's Bride 1
Constantine. {Mich.) Aug. 10, 1840.

THE END OF PRUDENCE.

The great end of prudence is to give cheerfulness to
those hours which splendour cannot gild, and accla-
mation cannot exhilarate. Those soft intervals of
unbended amusement, in which a man shrinks to his
natural dimensions, and throws aside the ornaments
or diguises which he feels, in privacy, to be useless
incumbrances, and to lose all effect when they become
familiar. To be happy at home is the ultimate result

of all ambition, the end to which every enterprise and
labour tends, and of which every desire prompts the
prosecution. It is, indeed, at home that every man
must be known by those who would make a just
estimate of his virtue or felicity; for smiles and em-
broidery are alike occasional, and the mind is often
dressed for show in painted honour and fictitious
benevolence.

ELIZA FARNHAM.

217

Written for the Lady's Book.

ELIZA FARNHAM; or, THE LOVE LETTERS.

BY MISS LESLIE.

. PART THE FIRST.

Eliza Farnham was sister to a physician who resided
in the western part of the state of New York, at a
large and flourishing town which bore the Grecian
name of Peloponnesus. She had been placed, when
a little girl, at a fashionable boarding-school, located
somewhere on the banks of the Hudson, and having
lost both her parents before she attained her fourteenth
year, her brother had succeeded to the charge of her-
self and her fortune of twenty thousand dollars. On
quitting school at the age of sixteen, our heroine had
spent a winter in the city of New York by an invi-
tation from the family of her fellow-pupil and most
intimate friend, Maria Copley. There she became
acquainted with Horace Montacute, a Bostonian, of
fine appearance, high connections, and independent
fortune, who devoting much of his attention to public
affairs, was what is called a " rising young man."
Fascinated by the beauty of Eliza Farnham, he fell
immediately and desperately in love. Perceiving that
he had made a favourable impression, he became
eager to secure his conquest, and before his return
to Boston, he addressed her and was accepted.

When Dr. Farnham came to convey his sister
home (his house at Peloponnesus was to be her resi-
dence while unmarried) he found her engaged to
Horace Montacute. Having learnt, on inquiry, that
the young gentleman was, in every sense of the term,
an excellent match, Dr. Farnham willingly gave his
consent, upon condition that the marriage should not
take place till Eliza had reached the age of eighteen ;
justly considering that, as yet, their acquaintance was
too short, and the lady too young. Montacute ac-
companied them to their home, passed a week at
Peloponnesus, and then returned to Boston, with the
intention of beguiling the term of probation by fre-
quent visits to the mistress of his heart.

Dr. Farnham was a widower without children.
His establishment was superintended by his mother,
a plain simple-minded dame of the old school, and an
active and excellent house-wife. After bringing home
his sister, Dr. Farnham was not long in discovering,
to his great disappointment, that though her style of
dress was elegant, that of her conversation was very
much the reverse : that in the cultivation of a few
showy accomplishments the improvement of her mind
had been entirely neglected ; that she knew nothing
of any books except those from which she had been
obliged to learn the words of sundry lessons repeated
with the comprehension of a parrot and forgotten
; the next day. Her winter in the city had been passed
in a very gay circle, where all her time was devoted
to a perpetual round of frivolous company, (including
balls and crowded parties) and to the adornment of her
person. Her numerous deficiencies as they dawned
i upon the observation of her brother (who had a
quick perception of the ridiculous) sometimes diverted
as well as grieved him : but he had a great aversion
;to lecturing, as he called it ; and he comforted him-
self with the reflection that Eliza was going to be

VOL. XXII. 19

married to a very accomplished and intelligent young
man, and that it would then be her husband's business
to improve her. In the mean time, Dr. Farnham
concluded that now that his sister had left school,
and had passed the ordeal of her " coming out," and
of a season in New York, she would insensibly and
gradually improve without any particular exertion :
and that at eighteen she might probably arrive at a
tolerable mediocrity.

A few days after the departure of her lover, Eliza
Farnham, holding an open letter in her hand, and
with a very unhappy countenance, entered the apart-
ment in which her brother was reading, and her
grandmother seated at her knitting.

" What is the matter, Eliza" — said the good old
lady — " why do you look so uncomfortable. I sup-
pose that letter is from your sweetheart ; so it ought
to make you glad instead of sorry."

" I hope the course of true love continues to run
smoothly" — said Dr. Farnham — ■" whatever Will
Shakspeare may tell us to the contrary, with his
universal knowledge of every thing in the world."

" Mr. Shakspeare had better keep his information
to himself," — said Eliza, pettishly^ — " I know not
who he is, or what right he has to be meddling with
every body's business and talking to you about Horace
and me. I have often heard people repeat things
they had got from him. I don't wish his acquaint-
ance, and I hope I shall never see him."

" I rather think you never will" — said Dr. Farn-
ham, laughing. " But is it really possible you have
never heard of Shakspeare's plays ?"

" If I have, I neither listened nor remembered" —
replied Eliza. " We never went to the theatre from
Mrs. Copley's, except when operas were to be per-
formed, and none of us had any time for reading.
As to Mrs. Holloway, you cannot suppose she would
permit a play-book of any sort to come within the
walls of her school, for she said plays were still worse
than novels. All our reading books were what she
called good books ; but we were not good enough
to take any interest in them. Besides, when our
studies were over, we were too tired to read any
thing at all. To be sure, several of the young ladies
used to bribe the servants to get them fashionable
novels from the circulating library, which they said
let them into all the secrets of English high life, but
I thought it too troublesome a business to read by
stealth, and to take snatches of books at odd minutes,
always in fear of being found out ; so I never tried
it at all."

" Well, well" — said Dr. Farnham — " we ' need
no ghost to tell us that.' There is no need of your
taking so much pains to prove that you have read
nothing. Let us now return to the main question.
Why has that letter discomposed you ? Horace
Montacute is well, I hope ?"

" He says nothing to the contrary."

"And faithful, of course?"

" Oh ! very faithful indeed !"

"None of his relatives in Boston offered any

218

ELIZA farnham; or,

objection when they heard of his engagement to Miss
Farnham ?"

" Oh ! no indeed — why should they — and even if
they had, he is his own master, and is not obliged to
ask any body's leave for any thing. He has plenty of
money, and is well able to do as he pleases, and
marry as he chooses."

" To be sure he is. — But what then is the cause of
your present annoyance ?"

" Why the truth is — Horace Montacute expects
me to answer this letter."

" Well — of course he does. — And will it not be a
very delightful task ?"

" Not so very."

" Why ! — I always thought separated lovers found
their only happiness in pouring out to each other the
effusions of their hearts, by means of long and fre-
quent epistles — ' Heaven first taught letters for some
wretch's aid' — as my friend Pope says."

" I am not a wretch at all" — replied the young
lady" — and as to your friend Pope, I don't care what
he says, and I hope he don't visit here."

" He does not I assure you" — said the doctor.
" But a truce with all this nonsense, and explain why
you have any reluctance to answer your lover's epis-
tle."

" If I answer this letter" — replied Eliza — " he will
send another as soon as possible, and then I shall
have to answer that. I don't want to encourage this
continual letter-writing."

" But what is your objection to a correspondence
with the man to whom you have engaged your hand,
and I hope your heart ; and with whom, after a cer-
tain period, you are destined in all probability to pass
the whole of your life ?"

" The truth is, dear Arthur" — resumed Miss Farn-
ham— " I am no great scratch at my pen — in short
I am a poor scribe."

" Two very bad expressions — a great scratch and
a poor scribe. But as boarding-school girls seldom
presume to talk in presence of their governesses, I
suppose they have no one to correct their language,
and among themselves they probably indulge in a sort
of conventional slang. Yet the four letters we re-
ceived during your visit to New York, were not bad:
only there seemed to be a great deal in them that re-
ferred rather to Baltimore, and was somewhat puzzling
to your grandmother and myself."

"To tell you the truth" — said Eliza, colouring —
" Maria Copley's eldest sister Louisa, was spending
the winter with some friends in Baltimore, and she is
rather clever at writing — so whenever a letter came
from her, I borrowed it to read in my .own room, and
then I took the opportunity of copying it, and sending
it in my own name to you or grandma' — and per-
haps sometimes I may have overlooked Baltimore,
and forgotten to change it into New York."

" Well ! — if ever I heard the like !" exclaimed the
old lady, dropping her knitting needles — " Then those
letters were all a cheat."

" I am very sorry to hear it," said Dr. Farnham,
seriously — " very sorry indeed. But still while you
were at boarding-school, we received an epistle from
you every two weeks."

" Well, all Mrs. Holloway's scholars wrote home
once a fortnight — but school letters and real letters
are very different things. Mis. Holloway's eldest
daughter, Miss Catherine — (whom we all hated) —
attended to the letter-business, and told us what to

say; and after we had done, she took them all away
to correct at her leisure ; and then we never saw them
again, for she sealed them and sent them to the post-
office."

" So then" — said the doctor — "this accounts for
your epistles generally giving tolerable satisfaction
when they were received at home. — To be sure there
was no great variety in them — they always contained
the same things — excellent health, perfect happiness,
praise of Mrs. Holloway, love for her daughters, and
want of pocket-money."

" Well" — continued Eliza — " the girls all knew in
their own minds that when Miss Catherine got our
letters to correct, she made some one of the teachers
re-write them in a proper manner, with good spelling,
and the stops all minded, and the capitals placed right;
and then as I told you, they were sent off without our
seeing any more of them."

" And so you never knew where the faults were,
and what corrections were made ?"

" We neither knew nor cared."

" But had you really no other practice in the art of
committing your ideas to paper?"

" Do you mean composition?"

"Yes — composition, then."

" Oh ! yes, indeed — every other Saturday we wrote
composition pieces. — But the subjects were always
Friendship, and Benevolence, and Gratitude, and Mo-
desty, and other such things that we knew nothing
about. We took some of our composition from Miss
Hannah More's Essays. But we had an old book
among us called the Rambler, that helped us greatly,
though we had carefully to avoid all the parts that
were the least amusing, or that seemed any thing
like stories. And the girls that wrote for premiums
generally copied out of Zimmerman on Solitude."

" Is it possible that these tricks were never dis-
covered ?"

" If they were, Mrs. Holloway and her people
never let on ; they pretended not to see, and so saved
themselves a great deal of trouble. Besides, on Sa-
turday every thing was hurried through as soon as
possible: it being the chief day that Mrs. Holloway
and her daughters had for going to the city, and
leaving cards at the doors of their friends, as they
called all the rich people they knew."

" I am seriously grieved to hear all this" — said Dr.
Farnham — " after supposing for so many years that
Mrs. Holloway's pupils were receiving a first-rate
education."

" Well — so we were" — replied Eliza — " and that
is the reason we had no time for reading and writing.
We had our harps and pianos and guitars to practice,
and our dancing and our theorem painting and our
poonah painting, and our bead- work and our worsted-
work; and worse than all, our French, and Italian,
and Spanish, and German."

" If you were so unskilful at your pens, how did you
manage to write your exercises in those languages?"

" Oh ! we only pretended to write our exercises —
The truth is, we got them done by one of the teach-
ers, Mademoiselle Annette de Jaquesonne, whom the
girls called Nancy Jackson. They said she was an
Englishwoman that had travelled all over Europe as a
countess's lady's maid, and so picked up all sorts of
languages. She wrote our exercises for us ; and we
paid her by now and then the gift of a worked collar,
or a cambric handkerchief, or a pair of white kid
gloves, or a silk scarf, or some such thing."

THE LOVE LETTERS.

219

"But did not the sameness of the hand-writing ex-
cite suspicion ?"

" Oh no — school girls write pretty nearly alike ;
and if our language-master did suspect the truth, he
never wasted his time by 'making a fuss about it."

" Your language- master — did one man teach all
those languages?"

" Yes — Mr. Von Smatter (he was a German baron
in his own country) — he knew all languages in the
world, one just as well as another ; only that his
American, as he called it, was not very good."

" Is it really possible that your exercises were
written by this Mademoiselle Annette, alias Nancy
Jackson ?"

" To be sure they were. But she did not help us
with our composition, for she could write nothing
out of her own head : though she was quite a smart
woman at foreign languages. Another way we had
of obtaining her services was to plague her about Mr.
Von Smatter, and that always put her into such a good
humour that she would do any thing we asked her."

"And is it absolutely true, Eliza, that you appre-
hend any difficulty in composing an answer to Horace
Montacute's letter."

" It is true enough. When I am to write about
any thing real, (be it ever so trifling) I am always at
a dead stand how to word it, so as to make sense on
paper. And if I have to do it all myself, I am puz-
zled about the spelling, and the stops, and the capitals,
and how to finish one sentence and begin another.
It is in vain to tell me to try and write just the same
as I talk. When it comes to the pinch I can do no
such thing. Talking is very different from writing :
at least it is to me. When I was in New York, if
any of my dresses did not fit and required alteration,
I was obliged, after I had sent back the dress to the
mantua-maker, who lived at the world's end (as they
all do) to go all the way there myself: because when
I tried to give her directions by writing a note, some-
how I could not make out upon paper the least idea
of what I wanted. And worse than all, when Miss
Humdrum used to send me stiff hard invitation notes
to her select parties of the same twelve stupid people
always, (every one of whom I hated) I had to go,
because for my life I could not manage to write a
billet of excuse that would not have made her throw
back her hands and turn up the whites of her eyes,
and thank heaven that she had been taught the proper
use of her pen."

" Yours is indeed a hard case" — said Dr. Farn-
ham — " I grieve to find that the essentials of your
education have been so totally neglected, and I take
shame to myself for not having more particularly
inquired into your progress as you went along. I
can only excuse myself by saying that nearly my
whole time and attention has for many years been
devoted to my professional duties; and that as I found
you always looking well when you came home at the
the vacations, I concluded that if your health did not
suffer, your studies could not be very hard ; and that
in short, as Mrs. Holloway's boarding-school was
considered quite as good as the majority of such
establishments, I supposed that you would turn out
quite as well as the generality of young ladies."

" But dear Arthur" — resumed Eliza Farnham —
"all this talk amounts to nothing. Let us go back
to the main point. I am in a scrape about answer-
ing this letter (which he begs me to do by return of
post) and I want you to help me out of it."

" I hope" — said the doctor — " you do not wish
me to send an answer in your name."

" No, no — not precisely that. But I wish you to
write a letter for me, and I will copy it exactly,
spelling and all; and my copy shall go, not yours."

" It is beneath the dignity of a man, to assist a
woman in any such deception" — said the Doctor,
essaying to look sternly.

" Well then — what is to become of me ; and what
will Horace Montacute think on receiving no an-
swer. If you will not do it, I must get somebody else
to write and say that I have cut my right thumb, or
that I have a dreadful inflammation in both eyes."

The old lady looked up from her knitting in silent
horror.

" Shocking !" — exclaimed the Doctor — " has your
moral sense been as little cultivated as your mental
powers. Have you no idea of the sacred obligations
of truth ?"

" Let me see — I once wrote a composition upon
Truth, copied out of the Rambler."

" Really, Eliza" — said the Doctor — ■" you mortify
me more and more every moment."

" You had better help me out of my difficulty" —
exclaimed Eliza, bursting into tears.

" Poor dear" — said the old lady, in a softened
voice — " I declare if she is not crying about it."

The doctor was going to reply, when a message
was brought, requesting him to repair immediately to
a house at the other end of the town, for the purpose
of relieving a child that had swallowed a button — of
course he departed instantly.

" How I pity that poor child's mother" — said Mrs.
Farnham. " It is well that such accidents have hap-
pened before ; and Arthur is very clever at poking
things down people's throats."

Eliza continued to sob and hold her handkerchief
to her eyes : and her kind grandmother viewed her
with deep commiseration, and said — " Dear — dear —
what can I do for you, poor thing?"

" Grandma" — cried Eliza, suddenly brightening
up — " you that have lived so long in the world, and
have had so much experience of the troubles and
difficulties of life, and take such pleasure in making
young people happy — cannot you write a letter to
Horace Montacute, that will be fit for me to copy,
and send him as my own. You know it will be my
own after all, as the very letter that he receives will
actually be written by my own hand. Do write one
for me, dear, dear grandmamma."

" Who, I !" — said the old lady. " Bless your heart,
my writing days are over long ago. To be sure, I
was considered a pretty good writer when a girl like
you: but writing is like making puff-paste: if you
don't practise at it almost every day, your hand gets
out. I never write any thing now but receipts, and
you know I have three long books nearly full of them.
If a receipt was what you wanted, I could easily supply
you."

" I wish with all my heart there were receipts for
writing love-letters" — said Eliza. " How such a book
would sell ! But dear grandma' — did you never write
a letter to grandpa'?"

" I had no occasion — after we were married we
were always together."

" But before marriage. It is a letter from a young
lady to a young gentleman, before marriage, that I
particularly want just now."

" Why those are love-letters, mostly."

220

ELIZA FARNHAM.

" To be sure they are. In plain terms, Horace
Montacute has sent me, of course, a love-letter, and
expects an answer: and as I cannot make such things
out of my own head, I want a good one to copy."

The old lady simpered. " Well — since you are
in such a bad way, I do not care if I do accommo-
date you with one. My dear deceased Savegood
Farnham, your beloved grandfather, was careful to
keep all the letters I ever wrote to him, which were
three : and after his death they came to me with the
rest of the property. I had them for many years put
away in my great queen-stitch pocket-book. But I
lent one to a chambermaid of ours, who was going
to be married, (just like you,) and wanted it, just to
see how love-letters ought to be written. She had
it about the kitchen, and the cook, not knowing its
value, singed a turkey with it. Another of these
letters was begged of me by "Mr. Seizall, a newspaper
man that was on a visit here two or three years ago,
and was so kind as to say it was too good to be lost :
so he carried it away with him, and I heard afterwards
that he had it printed in his newspaper, only he did
not put the right names."

" But the third letter, grandma' — the third" —
asked Eliza, impatiently.

" That's the only one that is left — I will go and get
it for you — I wrote it to the dear deceased soon after
we were engaged, when he went down to the city on
business, and stayed there a whole week. I remem-
ber very well that he offered himself no less than
eleven times before I consented to accept him, though
I intended it from the very first. But, in those days,
young ladies were not so easily won as they are now,
when they jump at a man the moment he asks them,
and sometimes even before."

Mrs. Farnham then left the room, and soon re-
turned with the great queen-stitch pocket-book in her
hand, from which she produced a letter carefully en-
veloped in a sheet of tissue-paper. " Now, Eliza" —
said the old lady — " you are to remember that this
letter is not to be copied out and out, as you did those
Baltimore letters, for that would be deception, and
deception is next a-kin to lying, so you are to change
some of the words, and preserve only the meaning."

Neither Mrs. Farnham nor Eliza had perceived
that just at this time one of the servants, a black girl,
named Belinda, had entered the room. She had
brought a message from the cook, but observing how
the ladies were engaged, she slipped silently into a
corner, and lingered and listened. Mrs. Farnham
unfolded the long- cherished letter, and read aloud as
follows :

" Poughkeepsie, July 18th, .

" My dear Savegood — I embrace this opportunity
of taking up my pen to acquaint you that we are all
in good health at this present writing, and I hope
this will find you the same. I have nothing particu-

lar to inform you of, except that absence is generally
an affliction to all constant lovers, as I hope we shall
be till death do us part. The time seems very long
till it shall fall to our happy lot to meet again in this
vale of tears, which I hope will be next Tuesday,
July the 23d, according to the promise you made in
our parting moments ; but we must all look for disap-
pointments in this life.

"Permit me, my dear Savegood, to advise you to
keep always in the path of rectitude, to set your face
against evil counsellors, and to fly from the amuse-
ments and stage-plays of New York as you would
from a roaring lion seeking to devour you. Allow
me to mention that 1 think it will be best for you to
stay chiefly in solitude, for in my humble opinion,
there is nothing so good for erring man as the exa-
mination of his own sinful thoughts. Alas ! poor
human nature ! — What wretched worms we mortals
are! ,

" Having nothing more of importance to commu-
nicate, I now hasten to conclude this tedious epistle,
hoping you will excuse all faults, and pardon my en-
croaching so long on your valuable time and patience,
and favour me with a lengthy answer by return of
post. Father and mother join me in love to you and
all enquiring friends, and also sister Mary and sister
Margaret, and Jane, and John, and likewise little Peter.
Aunt Charity and uncle Daniel, also desire to be re-
membered to you, and our dear cousins Samuel and
Angelina send their best respects, as well as

"Believe me, yours sincerely, (in haste)

" Frances Dorothea Powers."

" There" — said the old lady — " to be sure it
a sin to praise ourselves — but that is a real true love-
letter, written just as love-letters ought to be between
respectable young people that are engaged. Of course
you will leave out father and mother, and the children,
and aunt and uncle and cousins, and put in Arthur
and me instead. And you will date from Pelopon-
nesus instead of Poughkeepsie. You see there is a
great deal of good advice in the letter, for which no
doubt Horace will thank you. In the roaring-lion
part you can change New York to Boston, which I
dare say is not without its amusements and stage-
plays as well as other cities. The solitude part means
you know, that while he is away from home he had
better stay chiefly in his own room. However, ma-
nage it as you think proper. When Horace gets the
letter, I am sure he will never guess that it was taken
from one of your grandmother's."

The girl, Belinda, now presented herself, and de-
livered her message from Chloe the cook, in conse-
quence of which the old lady repaired immediately to
the store-room, leaving Belinda to follow her with
the white sugar-box !

[To be concluded.]

GOOD SENSE.

It will preserve us from censoriousness ; will lead us
to distinguish circ.umstances ; keep us from looking
after visionary per ection, and make us see things in
their proper light. It will lead us to study dispositions,
peculiarities, accommodations; to weigh consequences;
to determine what to observe and what to pass by; when

to be immoveable, and when to yield. It will produce
good manners, keep us from taking freedoms, and hand-
ling things roughly, will never agitate claims of supe-
riority, but teach us to submit ourselves one to an-
other. Good sense will lead persons to regard their
own duties, rather than to recommend those of others.

MILDRED.

221

Written for the Lady's Book.

MILDRED.

BY MISS MEETA M. DUNCAN.

" Marriage is a matter of more worth,
Than to be dealt in by attorneyship." — Shakspeare.

It was a beautiful morning, late in October, when a
clergyman, in his robes, was seen to descend from a
carriage at the door of a plain, though spacious house,
in Philadelphia. The hall door opened as the car-
riage stopped, and ere the servant could perform his
duties, the clergyman was eagerly met by an old gen-
tleman, whose feeble form and whitened locks con-
trasted strongly with the joyous manner of his greet-
ing— a greeting which put to route the self-possession
of the reverend gentleman, as he found himself thrust
into the drawing-room amid a crowd of assembled
marriage guests, without a moment's breathing space
to smooth the ruffled folds of his gown, or disencum-
ber himself of his hat. A few moments, however,
sufficed to restore his usual equanimity. In a little
while the ripple which his abrupt entrance had pro-
duced, passed away, and the subdued air of expecta-
tion which had before reigned, again fell upon all.

Fortunately for the impatient portion of the guests
this did not continue long. Old Mr. Fairly's voice was
heard on the stairs, the door was hastily thrown open,
and he entered with the bride on his arm, and the
bridegroom at her side : all arose — the book was open-
ed, and the ceremony commenced.

The bride was covered nearly to her feet with a veil
so rich in its pattern that her features could not be
distinguished ; but one bare hand and arm, and a peep-
ing foot, gave promise of exceeding loveliness.

The bridegroom was a tall, grave looking man, past
his first youth — for he must have seen more than
thirty winters — but possessing, in a high degree, man-
ly beauty and elegance. As the ceremony proceeded,
his cheek showed more than its usual paleness, but he
spoke the fitting words in an audible voice; while the
bride gave no sign of life — a slight undulation of the
veil, alone, signifying to the gazers that the fitting vows
were made.

The ceremony was soon over, the blessing spoken,
and whilst all pressed forward to offer their congratu-
lations, the envious veil was cast aside. The fea-
tures which it revealed fully redeemed the promise of
the hand and foot. The clear cheek, which now
seemed paler than its wont, the chiselled features, and
the large brilliant dark eyes, with their sweeping and
heavy lashes, the lids raised but for an instant, and
then falling, as if bent with the weight of their silken
"fringe- — the luxuriant and glossy hair, parted on a fore-
head which seemed too pure for one of earth's faulty,
frail children, all spoke her one of nature's rarest gifts.
A close observer would have said that the expression
of that face was not then its natural one. There was
in it a cold harshness amounting almost to sternness;
and those lips, which looked as if they might have
quivered with expression, were closely compressed,
and never broke once into a smile. She answered
briefly and coldly the lively remarks of her friends ;
but when the bridegroom addressed to her some sim-
19*

pie question, a shadow, almost a shudder, seemed to
creep over her, and she answered quickly, without
raising her eyes.

Old Mr. Fairly was too busily engaged in the ad-
joining room, dispensing bride-cake with the younger
guests, to interrupt the group around the bride, and
until the carriage which was to take the married pair
to their new home drove to the door, he appeared to
forget that they were to leave him.

The bride, on hearing the carriage announced, rose,
and hastily leaving the room, passed up stairs to her
chamber, to change her dress for one more fitting the
road. She entered, and throwing herself into a chair,
with her hands clasped, sate like a statue. Five min-
utes elapsed — the door opened, and an old and res-
pectable woman, who had been Mildred's nurse, en-
tered the apartment.

" My dear child," she exclaimed, " I did not know
you had left the drawing-room till this minute, or I
should have been with you sooner. My dear Miss
Milly, I wish you joy !"

" Wish me joy, Lucy ! of what ?"

" Why, of your marriage, dear Miss Milly. Of
having got such such a clever husband."

" Oh ! Lucy, Lucy," exclaimed Mildred, bursting
into tears, " do not you torture me too." And she
wrung her hands in agony.

" Torture you !" replied the old woman, rather puz-
zled to understand what was the matter, and feeling
deeply for one whom she loved as her own child ; " I
did not mean to distress you, my dear Miss Milly — I
only hoped you might be as happy as my poor old
heart wishes you, with your new husband."

" Happy !" repeated Mildred, rising and clasping
her hands, almost with a scream — " I tell you, Lucy,
I hate him — I loathe him — I shudder in his presence.
And if he approaches me — if but the hem of my gar-
ment touches him as he passes by me, I feel a greater
disgust than if it were the most loathsome reptile !"
And as she spoke, every tone, look, and gesture, told
that it came from the heart.

The old woman burst into tears, and folding her
nursling in her arms, exclaimed,

" But why leave this till now ? Why not speak
before ?"

Mildred disengaged herself from Lucy's arms, and
while the same stern look took possession of her
countenance, she replied —

" What would it have availed ? Would you have
had me break my kind old grandfather's heart ? He
has lived since my infancy, upon the anticipation of
this hateful marriage, and would you have me, who
owe all to him, do what I know would kill him ?
Would he not require some reason which he would
consider conclusive, for thus thwarting his dearest
hopes ?"

"And what reason have you for disliking Mr.

222

MILDRED.

Grayson so heartily, my dear ?" timidly asked the
nurse, somewhat awed by the energy and superiority
of Mildred's manner.

" Reason '." exclaimed Mildred — " are you a wo-
man, Lucy, and ask me that question ? Did I not tell
you I detest and loathe his very presence."

" But, Miss Milly," said the distressed old woman,
" every body says he is a- most excellent, honourable
gentleman, and I am sure he is a very handsome one,
too."

» Very honourable," said Mildred, curling her lip
in scorn ; " very honourable ! He must have seen ere
this, little as he has known of me, that I was no party
to this engagement. Why did he not come forward
like a man, and give me up, and save me the respon-
sibility of such a step." .

" Perhaps he did not perceive your dislike to him,
Miss Milly. You know he -has lived among the hea-
thens so long, he may have forgotten how ladies in
civilized lands behave. And, perhaps," added Lucy,
glancing at her young lady through the corners of her
eyes — " perhaps, poor gentleman, he was so much in
love he could not see plainly."

" In love !" cried Mildred, scornfully. — " Do not
talk thus, Lucy, or I shall hate you too. If there is
any thing," she added, with energy, " that alleviates
my misery, it is the belief that he is too insensible —
too selfish — to love any but himself."

At that moment Mr. Fairly's step was heard upon
the stairs, and Mildred hastened her toilet.

y Mildred, my darling, you must make more haste.
Reginald has changed his mind — you will go to
1 Thorn Hill' in the steam-boat, instead of the car-
riage, and he fears your being too late."

Mildred flung her arms round the neck of her nurse,
and sobbed aloud upon her bosom. Her grandfather
then drew her away, and gathering the folds of her
veil closely over her face, she descended to the draw-
ing-room.

Before we proceed any further we will endeavour
to explain how Mildred should have been called upon
to unite herself with one towards whom she had ex-
pressed such sentiments of abhorrence.

George Fairly, the grandfather of Mildred, was the
son of a wealthy southern planter. His estate adjoined
that of Mr. Grayson, whose nephew, Albert Grayson,
became, though some years younger, the bosom friend
of young Fairly. When the latter had arrived at
manhood, his mother died, and Mr. Fairly, who was
a northerner by birth, and had received his property
in the south through his wife, having no longer a tie
to bind him there, sold his property, and with his large
fortune removed to Pennsylvania, his native state.
There, in a little time, George married, and with the
increasing cares of life, lost sight of his friend Al-
bert.

Nearly thirty years elapsed and found Mr. Fairly
crossing the Atlantic in search of health, widowed,
and with none who claimed his name or blood, but
an 'orphan grandaughter.

While in London, he accidentally heard that an
American gentleman had been thrown into prison for
debt, and upon seeking him out, to extend relief, he
found in the nearly broken-hearted prisoner, his old and
early friend, Albert Grayson. We need not add, that
he did not long remain a prisoner. All that the most
thoughtful and affectionate feelings could dictate, was
done by Fairly for his friend and for his son, a boy
of fifteen, who shared his father's confinement, and

ministered to his wants with the devotion and tender-
ness of a female.

Mr. Fairly learned from his friend, that he had, two
years before, come to Europe, for the benefit of his
wife's health, bringing with them their only child,
Reginald. Mrs. Grayson did not long survive the
voyage ; since which time he had wandered from
place to place, seeking to divert his sorrows. About
six months before Mr. Fairly discovered him, he had
received a letter from home, saying that his uncle
was dead, and had left all his property to another
nephew, who had come to reside with him when Al-
bert departed for Europe. This was a death blow to
Grayson, who had been brought up as .iiis uncle's
heir. He was now thrown penniless upon the world,
and being unable to satisfy the demands of his credi-
tors, was, in a little while, cast into prison for debt.

After learning the particulars of Grayson's situa-
tion, the impression remained upon Mr. Fairly's mind
that there had been foul play relative to the uncle's
will. He strove to cheer his sinking friend with this
idea, and at length prevailed upon him to suffer his
boy to be placed once more at school, and accom-
pany him to the south of France, after which, they
would return, and sail for their own country.

But Grayson was destined never again to see his
native land. A few months restless search after
health, ended his career — and Mr. Fairly once more
stood beside the dying bed of one he loved.

During the hours passed by Fairly with his friend,
they had spoken much of the future ; and when the
sick man — relieved a moment from pain — allowed
hope to enter, they would talk of their plans for the
future, and the little Mildred, then an infant, formed
a prominent object in their arrangements — for the
fond parents had betrothed their children to each
other — and Reginald, who had been sent for when
his father's life was despaired of, was conjured in his
dying hour, to fulfil his parent's pledge. Grayson's
last sigh was breathed upon Mr. Fairly's bosom,
soothed by the hope that his son would regain the
fortune to which he had been born, and repay to the
child of his friend the debt of gratitude they owed
him.

" Reginald, my son," gasped the dying man, " re-
turn to the child tenfold the tenderness which he has
bestowed upon me. And remember, that he has
soothed your father's last moments, and saved him
from dying in a foreign jail."

Mr. Fairly deemed it best that Reginald should
remain in England, at school, until he could ascer-
tain if any thing could be effected in his favour rela-
tive to his lost inheritance ; and in a little time he re-
turned to America. He made every exertion to learn
the truth relative to the disposition of old Mr. Gray-
son's property, but without success, and Reginald was
penniless ! dependent upon Mr. Fairly's bounty.

Five years elapsed, and Reginald, unbiassed by the
hopes which his sanguine old friend still held out to
him, begged permission to come home and apply him-
self to some profession. The old gentleman, how-
ever, still urged delay, but before another year had
expired, he was forced to yield a reluctant consent.
The person who had been entrusted with the man-
agement of Mr. Fairly's affairs became bankrupt, in-
volved him in his ruin, and, with the exception of what
he had considered a mere pittance, elsewhere se-
cured, bereft him of all his large fortune. Overpow-
ered by this misfortune, he wrote to his ward, inform-

MILDRED.

223

ing him of the event, begging him to return home, as
he could no longer support him abroad. But Regi-
nald, in answer, informed his guardian that he had
Teceived an advantageous offer to accompany a school
fellow and friend to India, and that he thought it best
to accept it ; adding, that he hoped to return to his
home long before the time fixed upon for his mar-
riage with Mildred — which period was that of her
attaining her eighteenth year — with the power to re-
store to him in his old age some of the comforts of
which he had been deprived.

The old gentleman was forced to submit, and re-
ducing his style of living to his now scanty means,
he devoted himself to the education of his darling
child.

Years flew quickly by. The cousin of Albert
Grayson died, and on his death bed, stung by remorse,
confessed that he had forged his own name to the
will of their uncle, and erased that of Albert. The
estate was yielded up, with all the miserly accumula-
tions of the late holder, and Reginald became the
possessor of immense wealth. He was immediately
made acquainted with these facts, and the next re-
turning ship, brought full powers from him, making
a large sum over for the use of Mr. Fairly. His let-
ters added, that he was under a promise to his friend
Harley, who was in ill health, to accompany him back
to Europe, and when he should see him restored to
his family and home, he would return to his native
country, he trusted, never again to leave it.

After many wearisome delays, and, finally, the
death of Mr. Harley, Reginald returned to America,
how changed from the gladsome boy who more than
fifteen years before had left its shores. Time, which had
withered the vigour and silvered the locks of his and
his father's benefactor, had also cast a shade of gra-
vity over his own features, and subdued that expres-
sion of deep passionate feeling, which had formerly
shone from his dark eyes.

Mr. Fairly, who had sunk all he possessed in an
annuity on his own life, as soon as he heard of Regi-
nald's accession to fortune, removed from the coun-
try, where he had lived since the loss of his property,
and now lived upon his yearly income in comfortable
affluence. He had not accepted Grayson's generous
gift, nor did he think he was doing an imprudent act
in sinking all he possessed, to the future exclusion of
his grandchild. It did not for a moment occur to
him that the union between the two beings in whom
all his affections centered, might never take place. He
had lived upon the hope for years, and that any thing
could possibly happen to prevent it never entered into
his philosophy.

Mildred had been bred up with the knowledge of
her engagement, and when it passed across her mind,
which was but seldom, it was shaken off with that
vague sort of feeling, with which we banish from our
minds the impression of any far distant and inevita-
ble evil. But that feeling was not long suffered to
remain passive. Mildred had formed an acquaint-
ance with the daughter of their nearest neighbour,
when they resided in the country, who obtained an
influence over her of which she was herself uncon-
scious, and which coloured much of her after life.

Harriet Loring was several years older than Mil-
dred, her father was poor, and a man of coarse and
vulgar habits. He had two children — Harriet, and
a son, a year or two younger. His wife — a silly,
sickly woman — better born and educated than him-

self, had died when Harriet was about sixteen, leav-
ing her child no better legacy than to despise her fa-
ther's connexions, and repine at her own lot. With
a scheming mind and ill-directed ambition, Harriet
exerted all her energies to further her own selfish
views, and when Mr. Fairly rented the place next to
their farm, she left no effort untried to ingratiate her-
self with Mildred. Her aim was to emerge from the
obscurity in which her life had heretofore been pass-
ed, and to command, through others, the station in
society, which her weak parents had taught her to
believe was her due. With regard to Mildred, her
efforts were crowned with success. She soon became
her intimate friend, and a favourite, also, with Mr.
Fairly. As time passed on, Harriet's schemes took
a more decided form. She determined to do all in
her power to promote an attachment between her bro-
ther and Mildred. Mr. Fairly had the reputation of
being an eccentric old gentleman, and it was believed
in the neighbourhood, that he was possessed of great
wealth, which belief was confirmed, when, on hearing
of Reginald's accession to fortune, he had removed to
town, to an establishment so superior to his country
residence.

Already had one portion of Harriet's aspirings been
gratified. When the Fairlys removed to town, she
became their frequent guest ; and as her brother pur-
sued (nominally) his profession as a lawyer, in Phila-
delphia, it was a sufficient excuse for her spending so
much of her time in town.

It was not until some time after their removal that
Harriet learned the engagement which bound her
friend. It was a severe shock to her cherished plan,
but every day induced her more and more to deter-
mine to bend circumstances to her will. She took
every opportunity of touching upon the subject. Hints,
anecdotes, and well-feigned expressions of sympathy
and commiseration, were not wanting for the task,
and, in a little while, her arts were rewarded, for
Mildred looked forward with dread and horror to an
union with a man whom she had never seen, and,
when he came, upon him, with loathing and disgust.
It must be remembered, that Mildred was young,
had always led a secluded life, and had fostered those
morbidly fastidious feelings, so common in young and
sensitive girls, till they amounted to exaggeration, and
Harriet's most unbounded wishes could not have ask-
ed a stronger dislike, than she evinced for her des-
tined husband.

Thus far, and thus far only, did Harriet's influence
extend. Never for one moment did it enter Mildred's
mind, that any possible circumstance could alter her
fate. She felt, without reasoning upon it, that her
grandfather's life depended upon the fulfilment of his
long cherished hopes, and, with the enthusiasm of her
character, she would have sacrificed herself a thou-
sand times, sooner than cause him so deep a disap-
pointment. Still less did she imagine that Harriet
could have any private views, relative to herself, to
answer. She loved her partly from

"early habits, those false links, which bind,

At times, the loftiest to the meanest mind,"

and partly because she had few to love ; and warm
hearted and generous to excess, she suspected no guile
in others, feeling none herself. With regard to Hen-
ry Loring, her sentiments were those of utter indiffer-
ence; feeling for the sister, alone, preventing her

224

MILDRED.

laughing at his manners, and ridiculing his extrava-
gances; and when she listened indulgently to Har-
riet's oft-repeated praises of her brother, she honoured
her for the blindness which could see no fault in one
whom she loved.

It was rather singular that one so clear sighted as
Harriet should not have seen, that it was impossible
a high minded, proud girl, like Mildred, could love
such a person as her brother. Nothing but the most
obstinate self delusion could have blinded her, and
even after Grayson's return, her efforts were still un-
tiring to break off the match.

At this critical moment, Harriet was unwillingly
summoned away to her father, who was seized with a
dangerous illness. She wrote, however, frequently to
her friend, artfully confirming the sentiments which
she had instilled. But no answers were returned,
when, at the expiration of three weeks, she received
a few agitated lines from Mildred, saying she was to
be married in two days, and regretting that her friend
could not be with her at the trying moment.

This was a stunning blow to Harriet. She had
persuaded herself that it was impossible the marriage
could take place — her faith in her own success
amounted to certainty, and her disappointment and
rage were equally without bounds. She could not
leave her father, and, even had she been able to do so,
she felt that it was now too late.

We draw a veil over the impotent rage of the
schemer and proceed with our narrative.

Mildred entered the drawing-room, leaning on the
arm of her grandfather, and made her adieus in a hur-
ried manner — another moment and he had placed her
in the carriage — the bridegroom entered, the door was
closed, and Mildred, throwing herself into the corner
of the carriage, covered her face and wept aloud.
Grayson sat opposite to her, and had Mildred glanced
at him for a moment, she would have seen that he
was deadly pale, and that there was an expression of
intense suffering in his countenance.

A few moments brought them to the steam-boat,
and Mildred immediately descended to the ladies'
cabin, where, throwing herself into a berth, she drew
the curtains around her, that she might be alone.

Thorn Hill was a beautiful villa on the banks of
the Delaware, between twenty and thirty miles from
Philadelphia, which Grayson had purchased and fitted
up for his bride, on learning from Mr. Fairly that it
was her wish to reside in the country.

A few hours brought them to the spot where they
were to land, and when Mildred came upon deck, she
found Grayson conversing with a gentleman whom
she slightly knew, and who lived in the neighbour-
hood of Thorn Hill. Mr. Waring shook hands with
her, gaily offering his congratulations, and, draw-
ing her arm within his own, hurried her off the boat,
from which the carriage and horses had been already
removed. Grayson followed slowly, and finding Mr.
Waring still standing at the carriage door, talking to
Mildred, he begged him to let them have the pleasure
of setting him down at his own house, which they
should pass on their way to Thorn Hill.

Waring assented, and perceiving that the bride was
sad and the bridegroom grave, he good naturedly
took upon himself all the laughing and talking, and
they soon reached their residence.

It was the first time Mildred had seen her husband's
house, and disposed as she was to see every thing
connected with him in an unfavourable point of view,

she could not but admit its beauties. She was ushered
into a large and handsome apartment richly furnished,
several windows of which looked out towards the
river. Notwithstanding, however, the comfort of
every thing around her, she felt her heart sink within
her, and murmured some indistinct reply, to a hurried
question from Grayson, if she felt fatigued?

After a few moments of awkward silence, she
arose, saying she would retire and change her travel-
ling dress ; adding, that it was heavy, and oppressed
her.

" One moment, Mildred," said Grayson, detaining
her, " I have something to say to you, and will not
detain you long."

She sank into a chair, and Grayson for a few mo-
ments paced hurriedly across the floor, then, with an
effort, he approached her, and leaning against the
mantel-piece, began, with a voice of ill-subdued agi-
tation.

" I need hardly tell you, Mildred," he said, " of my
early history — that my parent was rescued from a
foreign jail by your grandfather — that this parent ex-
acted of me a pledge, with his dying breath, that I
would fulfil the agreement into which he had entered
with your grandfather — which agreement was, that
their children should be united when you had attained
your eighteenth year. I was a destitute orphan, and
Mr. Fairly educated and cherished me as his own
son. In time, your grandfather became a ruined man,
and I departed to a distant land, with the determina-
tion of achieving a fortune at the risk of all else be-
side, that I might be enabled to repay him, in his old
age, a small portion of the heavy debt of gratitude I
owe him. You are aware, that the death of my fa-
ther's cousin restored to me the birth-right of which
I had been unjustly deprived, and that I found my-
self possessed of a large fortune, which your grand-
father refused to share with me. Circumstances de-
tained me longer in Europe than I expected, and I
hastened to America to fulfil my part of the engage-
ment which bound us. It is unnecessary now to
add," he continued, " what were my thoughts, feel-
ings, or wishes ; and I should not have troubled you
thus far, did I not wish to convince you that the mo-
tives by which I have been actuated are not so selfish
as you believe,"

He paused for a moment, as if to subdue his emo-
tion, and then proceeded —

" After the unfortunate ceremony of this morning,
I was introduced by Mr. Fairly to his chamber, ad-
joining yours, for the purpose of making some altera-
tion in my dress, suitable to our approaching journey :
the door which communicates with your room was
ajar, and before I was completely aware of my situa-
tion, I became an unwilling auditor of your conver-
sation with your woman. Listen to me Mildred,"
he said, seeing her half rise from her chair — "It is
the last time I shall ever speak to you on this sub-
ject, and I now wish to say all. On my arrival in
Philadelphia, you were in the country, but when we
met, though I found you cold and distant, I believed
it the timidity of youth, added to your knowledge of
our peculiar position. Whenever the subject of our
union was discussed, you appeared to look upon it as
a settled thing, and I was led by Mr. Fairly to be-
lieve that it was not disagreeable to you. Had I
sought you as a wife, Mildred, from choice, and un-
der ordinary circumstances, I should certainly have
waited for some demonstrations of feeling from you.

MILDRED.

225

As it was, I foolishly trusted that time would accus-
tom you to look upon me at least as a friend, and I
was guided entirely by my benefactor.

" If you had expressed a single syllable of your
dislike to the marriage, I would willingly have taken
all the odium upon myself, and it should never have
been, though in doing so, I should have incurred the
charge of base ingratitude to my kind old friend, and,
perhaps, of dishonour ; for I was aware that he had
sunk all he possessed, most imprudently, in an an-
nuity, in his generous anticipations of this event, and
that at his death his child would be destitute. This
knowledge would ever have deterred me had the re-
pugnance been on my side, from such a step. But
all this would I have hazarded had you confided in
me, sooner than have brought so miserable a fate
upon you and upon myself. I will now only add,"
he continued, drawing himself proudly up, " that I
should for ever despise myself if I could ask of a wo-
man who has expressed so decided an abhorrence of
me, the duty and affection of a wife. What I have
hitherto done has been from a conscientious sense of
duty — I must now consider what is due to myself.

" It is not your wish, I presume, that your grand-
father should be undeceived, while he lives. At his
death, I shall be ready to acquiesce in any plan which
you may desire, and to make those settlements to
which, as my wife, you will be entitled. For the
present, my fortune — all I possess — is at your com-
mand ; and I shall, in relieving you of my presence
whenever I can possibly do so, afford you the only
means of happiness it remains with me to provide."

He turned — the door closed, and Mildred was left
alone. Shame — anger — mortification — a thousand
contending feelings arose in her breast. Her strong
sense of justice whispered her that she had acted a
cowardly part, and that she had cast upon one who
had exhibited the most high-minded generosity, the
blame which should have attached to her own weak-
ness only. With warm and generous, though im-
petuous feelings, Mildred should have judged more
leniently of one who, like herself, was impelled by
circumstances over which he had no control ; but,
with the delusion of self-love and mortified pride, she
gave way to the vehemence of her prejudice, and
blamed him for the firm and haughty manner of his
address, and for thinking there was something due to
himself. She was mortified at his entire relinquish-
ment of all interest in her, and angry that she had no
reasonable grounds for the strong dislike she had ex-
pressed for him.

Overwhelmed by the violence of her emotions, Mil-
dred gave herself up entirely to grief, which, added to
the extreme mental excitement she had lately endured,
proved too much for her frame. The fever, which
for several days had been lurking in her veins, in-
creased so rapidly, and with so much violence, that
she was soon in a delirium, and for the three succeed-
ing weeks she was alarmingly ill.

Mr. Fairly was written to by Grayson, very cau-
tiously, as he was suffering from a severe attack of
the gout, to which he was subject, and the old gentle-
man was not made aware of the extent of her ill-
ness.

At the expiration of the fourth week, Mildred was
convalescent, and leaning on the arm of the nurse
was able to cross the floor. One of the first questions
she asked, on being restored to reason, was an in-
quiry for her grandfather, and being assured that he

was suffering from one of his attacks of gout, she
appeared reconciled to his absence. For her husband
she did not ask, and he never once requested to see
her, though every attention was afforded her by his
directions, that the most thoughtful kindness could
have dictated.

What that husband's feelings were, it would be
impossible to describe. We have heard him in his
history to Mildred, explain the motives by which he
had been guided, but we did not hear all. He told
not of the dangers incurred, the privations endured,
while in a distant land, for the sake of returning in
affluence to the kind friend who had nurtured his
youth. He spoke not of the self-sacrificing spirit
with which he had withstood the temptations of youth,
nor did he tell that he had rejected wealth, rank, and
beauty, in the person of his friend Harley's sister, for
the sake of one whom his guardian described to him
as lovely, gentle, and affectionate : and who consid-
ered herself as his wife. He returned to America
with all the warm affections of his youth, garnered
up in his heart, to fulfil, as he had said, his share of
the engagement. When he first beheld Mildred, he
was startled by her exceeding loveliness, and though
he thought her timid and shy, towards him, he attri-
buted it to an awkward sense of their mutual position.
When he saw her affectionate devotion to her aged
grandfather, her attachment to her friends, and love
and kindness for even the old servants of the family,
he could not misjudge her, in believing her possessed
of a warm heart. As he gazed upon her gay and
playful manners when surrounded by her young
friends, and listened to her musical laugh, from a
distant corner of the room, he inwardly felicitated
himself upon his happy fate, and shall we confess it ?
felt his heart yearn towards the young and beautiful
being who was to become his wife.

What then must have been his dismay when be
unconsciously became an ear witness of the feelings
of abhorrence which his bride expressed for him. For
a few moments he remained as one struck dumb,
doubting his senses. And then, rushing from the
room, he descended the stairs.

Extreme pride and sensitiveness were Reginald's
greatest weaknesses, to which was added a share of
obstinacy. In a little while after the first shock had
subsided, with characteristic decision, he had deter-
mined upon his course. " She shall see," he mentally
exclaimed, " that I have honour and self respect enough
to reject the reluctant duties of a wife who despises
me. She must lean upon those on whom she so
lavishly showers her love. Between herself and me,
she has cast an everlasting barrier, and I will not
thrust myself between her and her happiness. And
yet," — he added, as the thought of all his former feel-
ings came gushing up in his heart, — " to think how
I could have loved her !"

Grayson's self love — and if we must own it — his
vanity, were deeply wounded. In other climes his
society had been widely courted, nor had he been led
to believe that women could look upon his person
with disgust and loathing. He accordingly changed
the arrangements for their journey, believing that
under their altered circumstances, a crowded boat
would be less embarrassing, than a long tete-a-tete
drive.

Every day increased Mildred's strength, and she
was now able to leave her room. She felt surprise
though she did not express it, that she neither saw

226

MILDRED.

nor heard from her husband ; that husband whom she
had never beheid since he left her, almost in disdain
on the fatal day of their marriage.

Urged by her physician to leave her chamber, and
impelled by the strong desire which she felt to rid
herself of the surveillance of her nurse, who, with the
characteristic inquisitiveness of her class, exhibited
a curiosity by no means agreeable to her, Mildred
finally decided to go down stairs. "It must be sooner
or later," she said, " and I might as well go down to-
day, and get rid of this disagreeable old woman."

Accordingly, when the dinner hour approached,
she descended to the drawing-room, rejecting nurse's
officious offers to fix her chair comfortably for her,
and hurrying her out of the room, as she saw from
the window, her husband approaching the house.

He entered the room with a slow pace, advanced
a step or two, and raising his eyes, beheld Mildred.
For a moment, he was off his guard — he started and
the blood mounted to his face, then hastily approach-
ing, he held out his hand, and inquired for her health.

Mildred placed her hand within his, murmured
some indistinct reply she scarce knew what, and sunk
back in her chair.

After a few moments of embarrassing silence,
Grayson handed to Mildred a letter which had just
come to her from her grandfather, the perusal of which,
happily relieved some of the awkwardness of her
feelings.

It was not until Grayson was seated opposite to
Mildred at the dinner table, that he observed the
alteration in her appearance, for after the first glance
in the drawing-room, he had not again looked at her.

Her cheek was pale, almost transparent ; and her
eyes, usually so brilliant and full of meaning, were
sunken and languid. A mingled sensation of pity
and of pain passed through his heart as he looked
on her, but in a little while came the recollection that
hatred of him, had caused all this, and as he thought
on his own injuries, he steeled his heart against her.
He was, however, too much a man of the world —
had too much good feeling, to conduct himself with
carelessness or inattention, to a young and beautiful
woman, of whom he had nothing to complain but
her unfounded prejudice and dislike of himself. His
manner, though cold and self-possessed, was courte-
ous and attentive, and when Mildred retired to her
room, fatigued with so much unusual exertion, she
felt that this day, so dreaded by her, had passed off
with much less embarrassment than she had antici-

The next day, Mr. and Mrs. Waring, and several
of their neighbours called to see Mildred. Mr. Wa-
ring she had seen frequently at her grandfather's, but
his wife she had never before met. She found her a
pretty, sensible looking, agreeable woman, and hoped
to find in her a friend. Mr. Waring was a lively,
laughing, kind-hearted man, with the happiest dispo-
sition in the world, and a great deal of good sense.
They were wealthy, had several children, and resided
all the year in the country, from choice. Their
place was next to Thorn Hill, and it was Waring
who had first put Grayson in the way of purchasing
the property.

" Remember, Mrs. Grayson," said Waring as they
took leave, " we are to be very good neighbours.
The first visit you make, must be to my wife, and the
second to my green house ; and we must take walks,
and rides, and drives, and see if we cannot call back

some of that truant bloom, and don't forget to tell
that runaway husband of yours, that I say he spends
entirely too much time on horseback, and too little
of it with his friends."

Mrs. Waring kindly pressed Mildred's hand as she
bade her adieu, and reiterated her husband's wish that
they might meet often. All of which Mildred pro-
mised.

Mildred's illness had not passed away without
leaving some salutary effects. In the solitude of her
chamber and on her sick bed, she had reflected upon
the past, and on her present unhappy situation. She
was sensible she had been unjust to one whom she,
of all others, should have judged more leniently: and
she now believed that though he was the instrument
of rendering her miserable for life, he was as guiltless
as herself of having induced it. " I shall always en-
deavour to treat him with respect," resolved she, " and
I shall at least do no discredit to his name. He
shall see that he is not the only one capable of sub-
mitting to a sacrifice, and if it is my wretched fate
to pass my life with one whom I can neither love
nor esteem, others shall not see that I am miserable."

Their mode of living at Thorn Hill was now com-
pletely established. Mildred rarely saw her husband
before the dinner hour. If he did not go out, he
usually remained shut up in the library — a room into
which Mildred never ventured to intrude. In the
afternoon he walked out. When tea was over, Mil-
dred occupied herself with sewing or reading, and
when Grayson spent any part of an evening in the
drawing-room, it was always with a book in his hand.

With regard to domestic affairs, Mildred could
hardly be said to have any concern at all. Grayson
had brought with him, his own servant, a respectable
elderly man, who was accompanied by his wife. John
took charge of the whole establishment, and Sydney
acted in the capacity of housekeeper. From the
period of Mildred's convalescence, Sydney had always
gone through the form of asking for orders — but it
was a mere form, for Mildred never interfered. A
large sum of money was placed in bank at her order,
and every wish was gratified as soon as spoken.

As Mildred gained strength, her spirits returned.
She was naturally gay and full of companionable
qualities, and this unbroken restraint became every
day more and more intolerable to her. She deter-
mined to break through it by visiting her neighbours,
and putting an end to these painful tete-a-tetes. She
accordingly one fine morning, ordered the carriage
to fulfil her intentions.

Her first visit was to Mrs. Waring, as she had
promised, with whom she was even more pleased
than at her first interview. The children she was
delighted with ; particularly a charming little boy
about four years old, who took a violent fancy to
her, and would not be persuaded to leave her lap,
and ere she left them, the little Percy had promised
to spend the following day with her. The rest of her
visits were soon made, and she returned home invi-
gorated by the exercise and with improved spirits.
At dinner she was not at a loss for topics, and she
dwelt with animation upon Mrs. Waring and her
lovely children. Mildred like all enthusiasts was apt
to take violent fancies for persons, but to her credit
it must be said, they were not often for unworthy
objects, or quickly forgotten.

On her recovery from her late illness, she had
looked in vain among the various letters and notes

MILDRED.

227

which had accumulated during her sickness, for some
communication from Harriet Loring, from whom she
had not heard since her marriage ; finding none, she
wrote affectionately to her inviting her to visit her as
soon as she could do so. Mr. Loring lived about half
a mile from the river on the Jersey side of the Dela-
ware, nearly opposite to Thorn Hill. Within a short
distance, there was a ferry with opportunities for cross-
ing hourly; so that, for country people, they might be
considered near neighbours.

To her note to Miss Loring she now received an
answer, saying that her father's illness and continued
feebleness must plead her excuse for her apparent
inattention, and adding, that as soon as she could
leave home, she would make Mildred a visit.

Harriet, after the first anger at her disappointment
had subsided, though her principal scheme had been
foiled, knew too well the value of Mildred's acquaint-
ance, willingly to forfeit it, and if she had failed in
obtaining a home such as her ambition sighed for,
she hoped through Mildred's friendship, and the faci-
lities afforded by her establishment, to be enabled to
form an eligible connexion for herself.

Mildred now spent a great deal of her time with
the Warings. Mrs. Waring's gentle engaging man-
ners, and her strong good sense, increased every day,
her friendship for her and little Percy, who still fol-
lowing up his first violent fancy for Mildred, spent a
great portion of his time with her. He was so win-
ning and affectionate, that he became a general fa-
vourite in the house, and Grayson himself, after re-
peated attempts to withstand the coaxing overtures
of his wife's pet, finally yielded, and when not en-
grossed by Mildred, he ever found a ready station
upon his knee. Mr. Waring rarely passed a day
without calling at Thorn Hill. There was always
some message to bring or some amusement to pro-
pose, and as the season advanced, Mildred found that
even in the society of one in whose presence she had
thought she could never be happy, when gathered of
an evening round a winter fire, with Mrs. Waring
and her lively husband as their guests, she spent
hours of gayety, pleasure, and instruction. Fre-
quently when seated at the table engaged in some
trifling piece of work, did she find herself gradually
relaxing her busy efforts, and listening attentively to
the fund of lively anecdote and descriptions of persons
and things with which it had been Grayson's good
fortune to become acquainted, both in Europe aTid
India. It was, however, only when Waring was
present, that this occurred. When they were alone,
his manner always resumed its cold and distant po-
liteness; and to have listened to the few restrained
and uninteresting remarks that escaped him, one would
have supposed that he had never been twenty miles
from his own hearth. Mildred could not but admit
his mental superiority, and at times there were faint
glimmerings of better reason, which whispered her,
that though her own lot was an unhappy one,
through her, a cloud had been cast over one, whose
qualities deserved a better fate.

She had found at Thorn Hill, among the many
things evidently intended for her use, a fine harp, and
many of their evening3 were spent in music. Mr.
Waring had a good voice, and though with but little
musical cultivation, he sang the ballads of the day,
and Moore's exquisite melodies, with touching pathos,
and Mrs. Waring performed very well on the piano.
Now and then, as the Christmas holidays approached

they got up a little dance, and as Mildred every day
improved in health and spirits, she was always the first
to propose something new for their amusement.

It is not to be supposed that Mr. and Mrs. Waring
could pass so much of their time with their new
friends, without perceiving that there was something
of mystery connected with them. They were never
seen to ride or walk together — their visits, except by
invitation, were always made separately; and fre-
quently, when Grayson had but just left the Warings,
at their own house, Mildred had come in, expressing
no surprise and making no remark upon this evident
want of concert between them. The nurse who had
been with Mildred during her illness, had let fall
many hints relative to the disunion of the husband
and wife, which had reached Mrs. Waring's ears;
but as Mildred and Grayson never spoke of their
domestic concerns, or of each other, they could not
intrude upon their reserve. They felt deeply interested
and conversed frequently together about it, and at
times, Waring felt tempted to blame Grayson, for he
thought no one could live in the society of one so
lovely and amiable as Mildred, without being fasci-
nated by her sweet and playful manners, though when
he reflected upon it, he could not but admit that
Grayson, as the one who was evidently suffering from
some concealed unhappiness, was the person who
should excite his sympathy.

As the holidays were now approaching, and Mil-
dred expected to have her friend Harriet with her
shortly, she availed herself of Mrs. Waring's going
to town, to accompany her, that she might supply
herself with toys and presents for the ensuing season.
They spent a long day, and after dining with Mr.
Fairly, returned late to their homes, loaded with the
treasures that were to gladden so many little hearts.
A few days more brought Harriet Loring to Thorn
Hill. Mildred joyfully welcomed her friend, and Har-
riet was surprised to find her looking so well, and in
such excellent spirits. She endeavoured as soon as
she was alone with her, to discover the terms upon
which she lived with her husband, but in vain. Mil-
dred parried every question, and finding she had no
desire to be communicative, Harriet ceased her en-
deavours. " I shall see for myself," she said.

Mildred's trials had caused her to think more than
she had ever before done, and had more fully deve-
loped her character. Her innate sense of propriety,
taught her that now she had become the wife of
Grayson, she owed it to herself to make no com-
plaints, and under any circumstances, Mildred had too
much dignity of character to make the private un-
happiness of herself and husband, a topic of discus-
sion. She blamed herself severely for her past reve-
lations to Harriet, and her pride now assisted her
in concealing her unhappiness. She accordingly
assumed a greater cordiality towards her husband, in
Harriet's presence, and never suffered her to detect,
in her manner, any thing that would lead to the
truth. But she did not succeed in deceiving her.
Harriet saw that all was not right, but until Mildred
by speaking to her on the subject, should place herself
in her power, she had no hold upon her. " When she
once begins to lean upon me," mused this wily friend,
" I shall be able to lead her as I please."

Miss Loring was, in a few days, followed by Mr
Fairly, who came to Thorn Hill, in high spirits ; de-
lighted with every thing he saw, and pouring out his
happiness in an incessant flow of congratulatory

228

MILDRED.

speeches, partly addressed to Mildred and Grayson,
and partly in felicitation of himself, as the architect
of so much happiness, as, deluded old man, he thought
he was witnessing. This was a severe trial to Mil-
dred, and at times she almost shrank from what she
had to endure. She was assisted, however, in her
efforts, by her husband, who parried Mr. Fairly's
remarks with ingenuity, and whose apparent equani-
mity, aided her in preserving her own composure.
The estrangement of this unhappy pair, had taught
them both the art of concealment.

It was Christmas day. After visiting her friend in
her own room, and presenting her with the gift which
she had designed for her, Mildred, accompanied by
Harriet, descended to the breakfast room. Mr.
Fairly had not yet come down. In a few minutes
he entered with his face beaming with smiles. He
kissed Mildred and Miss Loring, and presented each
of them with a handsome and appropriate gift.

"And now, Reginald," said the happy old man,
when he thought that the ladies had sufficiently ad-
mired their presents, and chuckling as if with some
very bright idea, " what will you have. You ought
to have a present, too, for notwithstanding you and
Mildred are one, her present wont answer for you
both."

" We gentlemen, my dear sir," replied Grayson,
now pretty well accustomed to this sort of attack,
" must, on these occasions, yield our claims to the
ladies."

" No, no, I wont allow that," replied the old gen-
tleman, " I have brought you a present, too — one
which I am sure you would not willingly yield to
any one," and taking a morocco case from his pocket,
he handed it to him.

Reginald took it, smiling at the old gentleman's
warmth, and opened it. The blood rushed in a tor-
rent to his face, and unable to control his emotion
he walked to a window. It was a miniature of
Mildred, which Mr. Fairly had placed in his hands.
The likeness was startling — there were the soft
cheek, the quivering lip, and those brilliant eyes with
their silken fringes, that looked even on him, from
out the ivory, smilingly. Ere he had recovered him-
self sufficiently to speak, Mr. Fairly approached rub-
bing his hands in great glee.

"Aye, aye, didn't I tell you I would give you a
valuable present," he said. " Is it not like — come
here, girls — come here, Harriet, and see if you ever
saw a more striking likeness than this picture of
Milly."

" A picture of me !" said Mildred, starting up in
dismay, and casting a rapid glance at the picture
which Harriet now held. " How did you obtain it,
grandpapa ?"

" Why child, you know you sat to Mr. Danton
for it."

" But, you told me, grandpapa," said Mildred,
speaking slowly, and with difficulty, that the picture
was never finished."

" To be sure I did," replied he, again rubbing his
hands, " do you think I let you into all my little
secrets ?"

Mildred made no further remark, and as breakfast
was brought in, busied herself in making the tea.

This embarrassing scene seemed to have unhinged
all the party but Mr. Fairly, who, simple as a child,
talked, and ate, and laughed, as if he had caused all
the delight he had intended.

Harriet had not been an unobservant witness of
this scene, and she was determined not to let it pass
unprofitably. Soon after breakfast, the little Warings
came by appointment to see Mildred, and she had all
the toys and little presents which she had prepared
for them, brought out, and the floor was soon over-
spread with camps, and houses, and whole legions
of men and beasts. As Mildred, seated on a cushion,
was building forts and manoeuvring hostile armies,
on the carpet, her husband, who had left the room
soon after breakfast, entered with Mr. Waring.

" Hey day ! what is all this ?" exclaimed Waring,
as he beheld the happy faces of his little children and
the confused array before him. " This must be Christ-
kinkle Hall. Good morning, Mrs. Grayson — you
perceive I have come for my Christmas gift also."

Mildred laughing, rose and handed him from her
work basket, a purse which she had knit for him.

" How many years must I wish you to live and
reign for this beautiful gift ?" asked he ; " and all done
too by your own fair fingers. Really, I am a very
happy man." The purse was greatly admired — he
vowed himself her knight, and after an hour's coax-
ing, the children were prevailed upon to have their
presents packed up, and go home.

At the appointed hour the dinner guests assembled,
and among them Henry Loring. He paid his com-
pliments to Mildred, and as languishing as formerly,
hovered constantly round her chair. Dinner passed
off without any unpleasant occurrence, and in the
evening, with an accession of company, they had a
dance. Mildred did not enjoy it as she had antici-
pated ; the affair of the picture in the morning, had
unhinged her. But every one was delighted, and
Mrs. Grayson was universally pronounced charming.
No one played, sang, danced, talked, laughed, or
moved, like her ; and her manners were perfect ! If
the admiration and envy of half a score of people
could have brought her peace, she would have laid
her head on her pillow that night a very happy
woman.

The following day, as she and Harriet were sitting
together over their work, Harriet observed,

" Mr. Grayson seemed quite astonished, Mildred,
by your grandfather's present yesterday. It is a pity
he did not inform you of it, that you might have
prevented it. It was such an odd thing!"

" I should not have prevented it," replied Mildred,
steadily; " and I do not see any thing so odd in Mr.
Grayson's having my picture."

" Why, considering every thing, it was not the
most appropriate present for Mr. Fairly to have
stumbled upon," said Harriet, perseveringly, deter-
mined to follow up her attack, " and I really pitied
you both."

" You might have spared your pity, Harriet as far
as I was concerned," replied Mildred, stiffly. " I am
not conscious of having deserved it."

" Really Mildred, you amuse me," said Harriet,
with a short sort of half contemptuous laugh ! " This
might answer very well with any one else, but with
me! — pardon me, my dear, it is rather absurd. If I
had not been behind the scenes before you were
married, these dignified matrimonial airs would be
another thing."

Mildred was roused by this insolent speech, and
while her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks flushed, she
replied, " If you were behind the scenes as you call
it, before my marriage, it should have taught you to

MILDRED.

229

respect my feelings better ; and be assured, if I have
assumed matrimonial airs, that I will not permit
either intrusion or remark,. on my private concerns."

" Really, Mildred, this is too ridiculous !" said
Harriet, now in a downright rage, and forgetting all
prudence, " I suppose" — with a sneer — " your new
friend Mrs. Waring, has been putting these heroic
notions into your head."

" My new friend," said Mildred, bursting into tears,
" has at least proved herself capable of more delicacy
and kindness for me, than my old one," and rising,
she left the room.

Harriet saw that she had gone too far, that her
reign was over, and stung to the quick, she vowed to
be revenged upon Mildred, for thus placing her upon
a footing which would thwart every plan she had
proposed; jealousy too, of Mrs. Waring, whom she
thought had supplanted her in Mildred's confidence,
added fresh fuel to her anger. Aware, however, that
some step must be taken to heal the breach which
she had just caused, she, after a short interval,
wrote a few honied lines to Mildred, entreating her
forgiveness, and adjuring her by their long friendship
to forget it, attributing her conduct to jealous love,
which could not bear even an appearance of reserve.

Mildred, wholly unsuspicious, was melted by this
appeal, and repairing to her friend, she threw her
arms round her, and begged her not to think of it
again.

Henry Loring, who still remained at his father's,
and made frequent visits to Thorn Hill, called one
morning when Mildred was out, and was shown to
a room where his sister was sitting alone.

" What a disagreeable fellow Grayson is, Harriet,"
said he. " Faith, I think he must be jealous of me,"
running his fingers through his hair and admiring his
handsome person in the glass ; " I met him just now
as I was coming in, and called to him to ask how
Mildred was. He looked at me like a thunder gust,
and replied as stiffly as a lord, « that if it was Mrs.
Grayson I was inquiring for, she was quite well.' "

" You may well say disagreeable," replied the wily
sister. " If I were you, I would flirt upon every
occasion with Mildred, on purpose to annoy him."

"Why, I always flattered myself Mildred liked
me," rejoined the conceited puppy, still admiring him-
self in the glass. " Indeed, if I had been certain
about the old gentleman's money, I think I should
have had her myself. And I should be glad to make
that disagreeable fellow angry."

At the end of a fortnight Mr. Fairly returned home.
Harriet, however, still lingered on. Although the
words of forgiveness had passed between them it was
impossible that the former friends could feel as here-
tofore, and though Mildred scarcely confessed it to
herself, she would have felt Harriet's absence a relief.
She persuaded herself that she dreaded the constant
observation of so quick sighted a person, upon her
domestic unhappiness. But Mildred's feelings of im-
patience and irritation had a deeper source than she
was herself aware. She felt the baleful influence of
Harriet's presence, though she could not define it.
Harriet, with a maliciousness that can be accounted
for in no other manner, than as the promptings of a
bad heart, and revengeful disposition, followed up her
threats. All the artillery of hints and looks — often-
times stronger than words — was put in motion. If
Mildred sighed, Harriet looked anxiously round, as
if she dreaded her being observed. If Mildred was
VOL. XXII. — 20

gloomy she would take occasion to account for her
mood, offering apologies, the emptiness of which a
child could detect ! If she was gay, she watched
her uneasily — if quiet, she cast furtive and mysterious
glances at her, and every trifling act was made
through her manoeuvres, an engine to excite sus-
picion.

Henry Loring's visits were frequent, and the sister
and brother, the one from malice, the other from un-
meaning vanity, aided in giving a semblance of mys-
tery to an intercourse which was, in fact, irksome to
Mildred, who only submitted to the infliction of Lo-
ring's society, from consideration for Harriet's feel-
ings.

The weather had now become intensely cold ; the
Delaware was frozen over, and a heavy snow had
fallen, which lay for many weeks upon the ground.
Scarcely a day passed without bringing some new
amusement. Mildred's friends chose this opportunity
to corne in gay parties from town, to see her, and the
sleighing was so fine that she was in constant requi-
sition among her neighbours ; Harriet remained at
Thorn Hill during all this period, and did not return
home till the latter part of February.

One morning, about two or three weeks after Har-
riet's return home, Mr. and Mrs. Waring called to
beg Mildred to cross the river with them to make
Harriet a visit. The weather had moderated consid-
erably within the last few days, the morning was
remarkably fine, and they wer& going to walk over.
As they descended the river bank, they encountered
Grayson, who inquired if they were going to venture
on the river, adding that he did not think it quite
safe.

" Nonsense, my dear fellow," replied Waring, " I
saw a sleigh and two horses cross yesterday, at this
very spot — besides, you see the ladies have gone on,
and I must follow. So you had better join us."

Grayson stood a few moments irresolute, watching
their progress, at length, seizing a boat hook, he
rapidly followed. The air was so mild and delicious
after the late severe weather, that Mildred delighted
with the exercise, amused herself by sliding gaily
along on the smooth ice, laughing and looking back
at her friends. When they had got some distance
from the shore, she unconsciously approached a spot
where some labourers had the day before been cutting
ice for an ice house. The weather was so mild that
the severed masses had not reunited, and pressing
forward, she placed her foot upon one of the loosened
cakes, and in a moment disappeared beneath the ice :
a cry of horror broke from all, and Mrs. Waring fell
senseless at hex husband's feet. A moment of agony
elapsed, and Grayson had plunged into the water,
amid the broken ice and was lost to view. An age
of common-place every day suffering could not have
made up the sum of horror which Waring endured
in that moment of awful suspense, as he stood power-
less with his wife lying insensible at his feet.

Unable to move or act, another despairing moment
passed away, and Grayson rose to the surface with
the body of his wife in his arms. Frantic with joy,
Waring rushed forward with the boat hook, and as-
sisting his exhausted friend to rise, he relieved him
of his precious burden. As soon as Grayson had
obtained a footing, he lifted Mildred's lifeless form in
his arms, and folding round her, the cloak in which
Waring had enveloped her, he, without stopping to
utter a word, bore her rapidly to the shore.

230

MILDRED.

The nearest physician was sent for — every means
for her restoration was immediately resorted to, and
after half an hour's dreadful suspense, she was again
restored to animation, though apparently not to a full
consciousness of her situation.

Towards evening she awoke from a long and re-
freshing sleep. Mrs. Waring, who sat beside her,
was not at first aware of her being awake, until
reaching out her hand she spoke.

" Is it you, dearest?" she said; "tell me how I
came here, for" (shuddering and covering her eyes,)
" I can only remember that dreadful moment."

Mrs. Waring leaned over, and kissed the pale cheek
of her friend ; then clasping her hand, she related to
her as Waring had described it, the whole horrid
scene. Mildred made no comment as the tale pro-
ceeded, but lay with her eyes shut, while the big
tears forced themselves from beneath her closed lids,
in rapid succession.

The arrival of the physician put an end to Mrs.
Waring's narrative; he found his patient's pulse ex-
cited, and ordering her an anodyne, and perfect quiet
for the night, left her, with every assurance of doing
well.

Mildred was left to quietness, but sleep refused her
its aid. She lay apparently composed, though a thou-
sand tumultuous thoughts and feelings were awaken-
ed that banished sleep. About midnight, Sydney,
who sat in her chamber during the night, softly left
the room on some trifling errand, and Mildred dis-
tinctly heard the voice of her husband in the passage,
inquiring if she slept. " I have not deserved this,"
was her inward reproach, as the door closed ; " and
good has been returned me for evil."

The next morning at a late hour, she arose, and
feeling no ill effects from her accident, descended as
usual to the breakfast room, where from the win-
dow which looked out upon the river, she found suf-
ficient food for her thoughts. She was aroused from
her reverie by the entrance of her husband, Mr.
Waring, and little Percy. She advanced hastily to
meet them, and they both appeared astonished to see
her down stairs.

" My dear Mrs. Grayson," exclaimed Waring,
pushing past Grayson, and seizing both her hands,
" you have made me the happiest fellow in the world.
Had you fallen a sacrifice to my rashness, I should
never have known peace again. Indeed I shudder
to think what might now have been our situation,
had not Grayson shown such admirable presence of
mind."

"You say truly," replied Mildred, with emotion,
looking timidly in her husband's face, and holding
out her hand to him while the tears gushed from her
eyes — " Under God I owe my life to you."

The hand was taken — slightly pressed — and re-
signed! A few disclaiming words of reply were
hastily uttered, a hurried apology on the plea of busi-
ness to Waring for leaving him, and Grayson left
the room.

About three weeks after Mildred's providential
escape, she was, with her husband, summoned to
town to attend Mr. Fairly, who had been seized with
an alarming attack of his old disease. When they
reached him, the old gentleman was insensible, and
after lingering for several days in that condition, he
expired. Mildred's grief was overwhelming; and at
the request of Grayson, she suffered herself to be
placed in the carriage, with her old nurse, and return

home, leaving him to attend to all the last sad
offices.

Mildred found in the society of her nurse, a source
of great comfort. She would talk with her of her
grandfather, and pour out to her all her grief! But
though it was to Lucy the unfortunate revelation had
been made, which had exercised so important an in-
fluence upon her married life, she never spoke of her
husband, nor confirmed by word or look any suspi-
cions which Lucy might have formed.

Time passed on, and it was now the early part of
May. The trees were all in leaf, and the weather
soft and mild. One evening towards sunset, Mil-
dred, Grayson, and Mr. Waring, were seated together
in the drawing room at Thorn Hill. Waring had
dined with them, and was now buried in an arm
chair, reading — Mildred lounged on a sofa with a
book in her hand, and Grayson sat opposite her
across the room at a window, with his gaze bent on
the bright clouds tinged by the setting sun. The
book which Mildred held in her hand, gradually sunk
by her side, as the hushed and holy stillness of the
hour crept over her senses, and her eye fell upon her
husband. She was startled at the change which she
observed, for the first time, in his appearance, for
though daily in his presence, she never lifted her eyes
to his face, and saw not what evejjp one was com-
menting upon. The wind had blown aside the
drooping curls of his dark hair, and left his hollow
temples exposed; his features were sharpened, and
about the mouth was an expression of pain and suf-
fering. Mildred gazed until every faculty seemed ab-
sorbed in that one long melancholy look, and she
was utterly unconscious of the presence of a third
person, till the book, falling from her hand on the
floor, aroused her, and as her eyes fell, she met the
fixed look of Waring bent upon her. The blood
rushed violently to her face, and rising hastily, she
left the room.

"How long have you been married, Grayson?"
abruptly asked Waring.

"Why do you inquire?" he asked, looking round
at his suddenly awakened friend.

" Oh ! nothing. I was only thinking what a happy
fellow you are, to have your wife so much in love
with you so long after the honey moon."

"What do you mean, Waring?" said Grayson, in I
a low voice.

" Nothing, nothing. I have only been sitting here
amusing myself, in contemplating you and your wife."

" You could not have found much amusement as
far as I am concerned. I was only watching the
setting sun."

" Yes, I know, and Mrs. Grayson was only watch-
ing you. I repeat, you are a happy fellow. I wish
you would impart your secret for inspiring a little
romantic devotion to me."

" You are mistaken, Waring," said Grayson, vehe-
mently, rising from his seat, " and why talk such
nonsense."

" Nonsense, my dear fellow ! I think it is you
who are talking nonsense. Why any one would
suppose I had been telling you of some dreadful mis-
fortune ! What do you mean ?"

" I mean," said Grayson, reseating himself, and
speaking in a more measured tone, " that Mrs. Gray-
son is no sentimentalist ; and you talk as if you were
reciting a page from that novel you hold in your
hand."

MILDRED.

231

"Do I? Well novels sometimes tell truths; and
they instruct us particularly in the interpretation of
the language of the eye!"

"Novels are like false mirrors;" was the reply,
"and speak distorted truths."

Waring made no rejoinder, and the conversation
dropped.

One afternoon, a few days after this, Harriet
Loring, who was spending the day at Thorn Hill,
entered Mildred's chamber, who had retired soon
after dinner, while Miss Loring remained talking
with Grayson and Mr. Waring, After touching
slightly upon several topics, she remarked carelessly,
» How do you like this project of going to Europe,
Mildred?"

" What project ?" asked Mildred. -

"Why Mr. Grayson's. I heard him talking to
Mr. Waring just now, about going there this spring
for his health. He looks wretchedly; and I have
no doubt it will do him good; but I should not like
being left behind, if I were you."

Mildred was standing with her back to Harriet,
and made no reply. At this moment a servant
knocked, and informed Miss Loring that her brother
was below.

"Will you excuse my going down, Harriet?" said
Mildred, speaking low and painfully. " I have a head-
ache, and must lie down."

As the door closed, Mildred turned. Her coun-
tenance was ghastly, and had any one seen her, they
would have said despair was at her heart. " And is it
indeed so ?" she exclaimed, wildly clasping her hands,
and burying her face in the cushions of the sofa !
"Am I truly the architect of my own misery? Have
I, oh! have I deserved this ? I was wrong. I was
foolish, — but I was a thoughtless child, and knew
not myself! And has not my folly been sorely visit-
ed upon me ? Oh ! no, no," she cried, with a pas-
sionate burst of sorrow, " I cannot part with him ! I
will go to him," she said, starting up ; " tell him I love
him, and on my knees conjure him not to leave me."
Then with a revulsion of feeling, as the thought of
all the past came over her, she slowly returned to
to her seat. Yes, he would scorn me, she said, and
cast me from him, as I did him.

An hour elapsed, and Harriet again returned to
the room.

" I have come, dear Milly," she said, " to say good
bye. Papa is not well, and wishes me to return
early. Don't disturb your head for me, I shall soon
get ready." Mildred embraced her in silence, and
thus they parted.

A day or two after this, Mildred was sitting in the
drawing room, with little Percy on her lap, when
Grayson entered.

" I came home purposely to see you this morning,

Mildred ;" he said, in a hurried voice, " I wished to

inform you of my intention to go next month to

Europe. My health suffers," he continued, " more

1 rapidly, and I think a voyage will be of service to

- me."

" How long do you think you will remain absent?"
asked Mildred firmly, but in a low voice, concealing
her face in the curly head of the child.

" I cannot say," he replied, — but ere he could pro-
ceed, Mr. Waring entered the room, and Mildred was
relieved from a conversation which she felt it was
impossible she could have continued much longer.

Poor Mildred, a prey to a thousand conflicting

feelings, gave herself up to her sorrows, and remained
nearly altogether in her own room ; at times she felt
as if she could humble herself at her husband's feet,
and implore him not to leave her. Then when the
undeviating coldness of his manner — and latterly, his
almost sternness occurred to her — when she remem-
bered the proud words he had spoken on their wed-
ding day, and now his manifest intention of leaving
her for ever ! — her woman's pride was roused, and
she determined to school herself that none might
guess the conflict within. She took her place at the
table and performed her accustomed duties, mechan-
ically, and if her hand shook or her eye grew more
dim, there was none to mark it, for Grayson was
alike absorbed.

In a few days Grayson went to town, but without
mentioning his object. The morning of his return,
Mildred was in the room, when he entered with Mr.
Waring.

" And so you have really taken your passage, Gray-
son ?"

" I have, but not without difficulty. I could scarcely
get a berth."

" Ah indeed, when do you sail ?"

" On the 20th of June," was the reply.

Mildred heard it all, but neither lip nor eye quail-
ed, though there was a tightness in her throat and a
stillness at her heart that seemed to her like death's
last agonies.

It was a cool, gloomy evening, and Mildred wrap-
ping herself in her shawl walked as far as the Wa-
rings with little Percy, who had been spending the
day with her. She refused Mrs. Waring's invitation
to remain the evening, and returned home. It was
getting quite dusky, and she hastened her steps, for
the stable at Thorn Hill had been entered the night
before by some prowling ruffians, who had stolen a
pair of valuable horses, and she felt somewhat timid.
As she was about to enter the gate, she encountered
her husband with his overcoat on, and a whip in his
hand. When he observed her, he approached and
said:

" I am going to T., Mildred, and shall not return
to-night. Mr. Grant has sent his son over to tell
me that a pair of horses, supposed to be mine, have
been stopped in T., and I must appear to identify
them."

Mildred lingered at the gate as Grayson walked
towards the stable yard, the entrance to which was
not very distant from where she stood. Grayson had
disappeared from her sight only a few moments,
when she heard a violent kicking and several voices
crying out loudly, " hold him in, hold him in." In
another moment the gate burst open — the horse
dashed into the road, and rearing himself high in the
ait threw his rider, whose feet catching in the stir-
rup was dragged madly along by the frightened ani-
mal.

The last sensation that Mildred experienced, was
that her husband's doom was sealed, and with one
loud frenzied shriek, she fell lifeless in the road.

When she awoke from her long and death-like
swoon, she found herself lying on a sofa in the draw-
ing-room, with Lucy bending over her. For a mo-
ment her recollection did not appear to have returned,
then starting hastily to her feet and wildly clasping
her hands, she shrieked in a tone of thrilling agony —

" Where is he? Oh ! tell me where he is !"

" Who is it you ask for, Mildred ?" said Grayson,

132

THE WATCHER.

advancing from behind the sofa where he had been
standing unpereeived by her.

For an instant Mildred gazed as one petrified —
then a shadow, almost a convulsion passed across
her face, and rushing wildly forward she fell into his
arms, in violent hysterics.

Grayson motioned Lucy to leave the room, and
placed Mildred on the sofa. For some moments it
was terrifying to hear her deep convulsive sobs. Her
paroxysms were so violent that Grayson feared for
the consequences. Gradually, however, they became
weaker and weaker, and finally died away; then
raising herself and looking wistfully into her husband's
face, she said — "Is it indeed you. I thought," she
continued, covering her eyes, while her voice grew
plaintively affecting — " that I saw you entangled and
dragged away by the horse, and I could fancy you
mangled and dead before me."

" No, Mildred, it was not me. You were deceived
by Mr. Grant's height and dress. It was he who was
on the horse, and not I, and he is quite uninjured."

" Thank God," she murmured, fervently, while the
tears rolled down her colourless cheeks.

" I did not think, Mildred," said Grayson, in an
agitated voice, " that my fate could have excited so
deep an interest in you, and this moment must deter-
mine the future. Tell me, then, why I see you thus
agitated. Speak to me, Mildred — you owe it to me,
and I will not again look for affection, to be disap-
pointed."

Mildred could not speak, but she raised her glis-
tening eyes timidly to his, her lips quivered, a bright
shade passed over her face, and her head dropped on
his shoulder.

" My wife," murmured Grayson, as he pressed her
to his heart, while a tear trembled upon his cheek.

Days, weeks, and months of coldness and estrange-
ment were obliterated by that one eloquent moment,
and it needed not the explanations which followed
to convince her husband that Mildred's heart was all
his own.

The next evening about sunset, as Mr. and Mrs.
Waring were sitting together, Waring at a window,

and his wife on a distant sofa, she was aroused by
her husband's voice calling to her:

" Come here, Fanny," he said, quickly, " and feast
your eyes upon a miracle."

Mrs. Waring arose and approached the window,
from whence she beheld Grayson and Mildred walk-
ing up the avenue to the house; Mildred was leaning
on her husband's arm. There was a music in her
step, a bright flush upon her cheek, as she raised her
eyes to the face of her husband as he bent towards
her, that caused an exclamation of surprise from
Waring. " What can be the matter, Fanny ?" he
said, with an amusingly perplexed countenance —
" I wish I could read riddles."

Grayson and Mildred now entered the room, Mil-
dred kissed her friend, without remembering that it
was not her usual custom, and Grayson shook War-
ing's hand as if they had been parted for a -year.

" Is this your farewell, Grayson ?" said Waring,
smiling mischievously. " Do you sail to-morrow ?"

" Sail ! I shall not sail at all ! I have given up
all idea of going abroad."

" Why, how is this? I thought you were in such
a hurry to get off a day or two since?"

" I believe it is my fault, Mr. Waring," said Mil-
dred, smiling and colouring — " I did not want to go,
and — and — I did not want Mr. Grayson to go with-
out me, so," she added laughing, " I have conquered,
as we women always do."

" There is a something of romance and mystery,
Fanny," said Waring to his wife, after the departure
of Mildred and her husband, " connected with the
lives of our friends, which I should be glad to find
out; but as we rarely see the under current that
silently works in life's hurrying waves, and as they
appear now to be perfectly united, I suppose we must
be content to remain satisfied with results."

May we hope dear reader, that you will do the
same ; and should you doubt or question the proba-
bility of our tale, cast your eyes around on the
world's bubbling cauldron, and ask yourself if there
is aught of romance in it, like the romance of real
life?

■W^^^^^#^V*»r-

Written for the Lady's Book.
THE WATCHER

BY MRS. HALE.

The night was dark and fearful,

The blast swept wailing by,
When a watcher, pale and tearful,

Looked forth with anxious eye;
How wistfully she gazeth —

No gleam of morn is there;
And the look to heaven she raiseth,

'Tis the agony of prayer.

Within that dwelling lonely,

Where want and darkness reign.
Her precious child, her only,

Lay moaning in his pain ;
And death alone can free him — ■

She feels that this must be ;
" But oh ! for morn to see him

Smile once again on me !"

A hundred lights are glancing

In yonder mansion fair,
And merry feet are dancing —

They heed not morning there;
Oh, young and joyous creatures,

One lamp from out your store.
Would give that poor boy's features

To his mother's gaze once more.

The morning sun is shining —

She heedeth not its ray;
Beside her dead, reclining,

That pale, dead mother lay;
A smile her lips was wreathing,

A smile of hope and love,
As though she still were breathing —

"There is light for us above !"

THE HUMAN MIND.

233

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE HUMAN MIND

BY MRS. S. E. FARLEY.

" The sea is His and He made it ;" and He made
too the mind of man to traverse its wide waters, to
measure its broad circumference, to improve it as a
thoroughfare of nations — the sole portion of this
globe on which no division of mankind can erect a
barrier to mark their limits, and say to another,
Thou shalt not pass beyond. Mind loves to con-
template the ocean — traces its laws, names, and
classes its inhabitants, finds innumerable marvels in its
waters, brings up countless treasures from its depths.

It treads the surface of the earth, combines its
properties, examines its productions, delights in its
beauty and loveliness; — descends into its bowels and
discovers the apparently dark mass to be full of wonder
and interest : the depository, the magazine of cen-
turies.

It wanders through the air, analyzes the atmos-
phere, studies the clouds, controls the lightning,
tracks the course of each luminous globe, almost
makes the moon its own, investing it with intelli-
gence and sympathy, and loving it as a friend. After
scanning all outward creation, rejoicing in its beauty
and admiring its magnificence, mind turns to gaze
upon itself, to find there a structure more sublime
and wonderful than all.

Wonderful indeed is that spirit and understanding
which the inspiration of the Almighty hath bestowed.
Its energies will not be restrained, its power cannot
be destroyed. It is alike invincible in the prison
and the palace — in the hut of the slave and the home
of the free. The body may be loaded with chains,
the rack and the dungeon may waste its flesh and
subdue its strength, but mind still retains its vigour
and its freedom, still unconquered and unconquerable.

That spirit which will exist for ever, independently
of physical organization, must surely be far beyond
the reach of physical restraint. Its energies are
manifest in the thousand potent movements of science,
knowledge, and virtue; in the "strength to suffer"
and the " will to serve," no less than when changing
the destinies of nations, by planting its foot upon the
the neck of kings, and trampling upon the thrones of
the mighty.

If so wide its agency, so irresistible its power when
clogged with the fetters of flesh, what will be its ac-
tion and its progress, when, freed from material
bondage, it reaches that boundless field, where the
expansion of its energies will be commensurate with
its own infinity.

"Now while this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in ,"

can we attempt to follow it to such an elevated con-
dition— contemplate its powers, enlarged, ennobled,
purified, without measure and without end ?
20*

But where will this disembodied intelligence abide ?
Will it inhabit any one of those shining worlds, so
often the subject of its meditations while a tenant of
the body? Or will it hover over the sunny places,
and linger around the green spots of its former
abode ?

It has dropped the sins and frailties, does it still
retain the affections of its mortal existence, or will it
henceforth wing a flight too lofty for remembrance
of its embryo condition. Can all be forgotten ? Is
that pure and holy love, so far above all selfish con-
siderations, second only in intensity to the worship
of Divinity, is that to be no more remembered for
ever? Can all sweet and pious words of counsel,
all precious and holy examples, employed perhaps as
means of its present beatitude, can all these pass for
ever from the mind, leaving no record of gratitude or
love ?

Is that beautiful chain of memory and association,
by which the mind could trace its own progress in
knowledge from the time it became conscious of a
being, an immortality independent and superior to
sense, is that bond dissevered by the great separation ?
or are its links united in that exalted and glorified
existence. Will its progress hereafter be propor-
tioned to its discipline and improvement while on
earth? How, and to whom, can the mind become
useful, where all are perfect, all happy ? And how
supremely blest, without a consciousness of utility.

Bat I forbear, for I fear to trespass upon sacred
ground. Speculation must yield to duty, imagina-
tion to revelation, the human mind to the will of its
Creator. A mystery it is unto itself, and a mystery
it must remain until " mortality is swallowed up of
life." "What we know not now, we shall know
hereafter."

Let it suffice now to know the mind will be happy
hereafter, happy for ever — if it has delighted to con-
template the universe and investigate its phenomena,
not only because it found therein an inexhaustible
source of wonder and enjoyment, or solely from an
intellectual thirst, but if remembering — " The tree of
knowledge is'nt that of life," — it has sought to look
into the mysteries of creation, and admire each dis-
covery as a new developement of Almighty Power,
and has been led to bow with increasing reverence
and awe before the glory and majesty of its Crea-
tor— if it has learned to recognise the hand of Jeho-
vah in all events, delighted in His government, adored
His attributes, desired to be like Him, it will go on
unto perfection until it be " filled with all the fulness
of God." For eye hath not seen, nor ear heard,
neither hath it entered into the mind of man to con-
ceive, the things which God hath laid up for them
that love him.

WE SHALL MEET NO MORE.

MUSIC AND rOETRY BY

WILLIAM LARDNER

Copyright secured, according to law, by the Publisher, A. Fiot, 196 Chesnut street.

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Thy name as in some sacred shrine,

Within my breast shall dwell,
With life alone I can resign

My love for thee — farewell! —
I left her, and the briny waves

For years I travell'd o'er —
I came to sorrow o'er her grave —

For, oh! we met no more! — ■

Oh ! we met no more !

236

EDITORS TABLE.

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE GRAVE.

B Y

PEERING

Mark this lowly mound

Where the rank weeds wave,

Mortal thou art bound
Hither — 'tis the gravel

Though no sculptur'd stone
Now the tale reveals ;

Yet, a spirit tone
From beneath it steals.

Where the broken heart
Checks its bitter moan ;

Where affliction's smart
Ceases — and is gone.

Where the slave is free !

Where the galling chain
And the lash will be

Heeded not again.

Listen ! it declares

" Here the weary rest ;"
That its tenant fares

As a bidden guest.

Where vice fails to wrong,
And its reign is o'er.

Where friends, parted long
Meet, to part no more.

As a guest assur'd
Of a welcome there;

Free from toils endur'd,
Sorrow, want and care.

Where the wand'rer knows
That his goal is won ;

Where he can repose
Now his task is done.

Welcome, peaceful bed !

When our lamps expire,
Though no tear be shed,

Though no tuneful choir

Chant in mournful strains
While round our bier ;

Yet, a rest remains
Long denied us here.

EDITORS' TABLE.

" There's beauty all around our paths,
If but our watchful eyes
Can trace it 'mid familiar things,
And through their lowly guise !"

This faculty of finding pleasure in common things and every
day pursuits, is one which should be carefully cultivated in
the young. At this season, when the fresh flowers look up, like
angels' eyes, from amid the lowliest recesses, and wherever
the sunbeams can find their way, some sweet bud is opening
its fair leaves to the light, there needs little argument to
prove the variety, and we may say, omnipresence of the
beauties of nature. But after all, if the heart be not culti-
vated to love and enjoy these scenes, they will be passed idly
by, and the young lady, even while wreathing her bouquet
of May flowers, will be thinking of what she considers far
more beautiful, the artificial flowers on her new bonnet.

The temporary importance which the advantages of ap-
pearing richly arrayed gives to the vain, and even to the
vicious, is one of the most unfortunate consequences which
attend the increase of wealth and the cultivation of taste in
our republic. It is unfortunate, because it prevents many of
both sexes, who have respectable talents and amiable dispo-
sitions, and who, were there no easier way to rise in the esti-
mation of the world, would endeavour to improve in know-
ledge and goodness, from using mental or moral exertion.
When a few "outward adornments" may be substituted for
intelligence and virtue, or, at least, give a passport to
" fashionable society," those who lack strength or decision

of mind are usually found following the path to fame which
seems least laborious.

■' It is the mind that makes the body rich," says the poet.
The frailty of mere personal charms has been the sentiment
of so many songs and the moral of so many sermons that, pro-
bably, few would attempt to dispute the axiom. It requires
more reasoning to convince those who have not made the
human heart and its changes the subject of much reflection,
that the most perfect external beauty of the " human form
divine" will soon lose its power to please, unless its em-
pire be maintained by intellectual gifts and moral graces.
What excellent service the writer would render to society
who would impress this truth as with the point of a diamond,
on the mind of every young female !

"When I first attended balls," said a young gentleman," I
selected my partners by the eye only; but I soon found that
a very beautiful girl might be very dull and insipid as a
companion. Now, I choose those whom I know or fancy can
charm by their conversation as well as their appearance."

Probably few of our readers would fully subscribe to the
opinion of Solomon that " beauty is vain," yet every intelli-
gent and cultivated mind feels that neither symmetry of form,
harmony of features nor " tincture of the skin" constitutes the
beautiful. In the moral as in the natural world, the loveliest
charms, those which longest hold their sway over the feelings,
are found in the familiar things that constantly surround
our path of life. The kind smile, the welcome greeting, the
thoughtful care that has provided for the comfort of the be-
loved one, these are beauties of domestic cultivation, which

EDTIORS' BOOK TABLE.

237

make home the family paradise. The woman who devotes
herself to cultivating these perennial flowers, need never fear
the want of ornaments to make her beloved. And are not the
loved— those who really deserve to be loved— the lovely?—
Spencer thus answers —

"Every spirit as it is more pure

And hath in it the more of heavenly light,

So it the fairer body doth procure
To habit in, and it more fairly dight
With cheerful grace and amiable sight.

For of the soul the body form doth take ;

For soul is form and doth the body make."

That is, when we feel the worth of an individual, there is
always to us a beauty, a pleasantness in his or her personal
appoarance. Is it not go?

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We have been again unrolling MSS.— Some are about as
difficult to decipher as those of Herculaneum — and after many
hours of patient research, the following are all we have found
presentable to the readers of the Lady's Book.

" Life at Olympus."

" The suggestive Powers of Nature."

" The Forsaken Plants."

" Solitude."

" Woman."

" Melancholy Musings."

The list of rejected articles is, as usual, much longer, but
our correspondents may be sure we have done all in kindness
to them. It would be no advantage to the writer to have
an inferior article accepted— publishing would not improve
it. Perfection will only be attempted when it is thought re-
quisite to success. For this reason it is, that

" Zealous for the right,

A strict observer of each noble flight,
From the fine gold we separate th' allay,
And show how hasty writers often stray."

Among this "allay" we must place the following articles —

"My Wife's Grave."

" A Legend." — A. B.

" My Cousin" — wants force and fervour. Rhymes are not
poetry.

" Pensez a, moi" — the writer must " try again" — he can do
better.

"Midnight" — dull and soporific as a dose of " poppies or
mandragara."

"To M S * * *— false rhymes.

"Lines written in a Lady's Album"— pretty good of the
kind ; but, like a love letter, only interesting to the individual
addressed- Another poem by the same writer —

" Lament over the Grave of a Wife"— is rather better, but
not worth publishing.

" A happy New Year" — came too late for publication.

" The Poet's Doom" — has some beautiful thoughts, and the
rhythm and versification are correct, but as a whole the poem
is mediocre.

" Hassan and Nerinda" — the romance of some youthful
mind, and shows more fancy than judgment ; but the article
has one merit which we gladly note — it is written in a clear
fair hand. The writer need not be discouraged.

" My Mother's Grave" — the author, should he live ten
years longer, will thank us for declining to publish this
article.

editors' book table.

Letters of Mrs. Adams— The Wife of John Adams. With
an Introductory Memoir by her Grandson, Charles Francis
Adams. 2 vols. Second edition. Boston: Little &c Brown.

Among the multitude of works of fiction, that are pouring
like a torrent over our land, it is refreshing to meet with a
book that owes its charm to the truthfulness of its records,

and the simplicity with which it presents to the mind the
dignity of our nature, when the impulses of right feeling are
kindled to enthusiasm in the cause of liberty and virtue. We
need say nothing to commend the work to those who have
read it ; but we wish to interest our friends at the south and
west, who have not yet had that privilege, to endeavour to
obtain it. For our sex it is a work to be proud of, to gain
wisdom from — to be cherished as a monitor and pleasant
companion.

The Letters embrace a period of fifty three years ; from the
dreams of girlhood to the nobler reflections of the grandmother
we may trace the feelings and aspirations of one of the purest
and noblest hearts that ever gave impulse to the actions of a
woman. There is a consistency in the whole character of Mrs.
Adams, which proves the strength of her mind. That she was
actuated by just and lofty principles of conduct, may be owing
to her education, and the circumstances in which she was
placed ; but this steadfastness of purpose it is which gives
the impress of her superior talents.

No doubt thousands of her countrywomen, cotemporaries
with her, endured more physical hardships, and practised
self-denials, in the cause of the country, as great as she did;
but it is not probable that many maintained a like degree
of resolute composure. Hence her understanding was deve-
loped by those very privations and sufferings, which would
have broken the heart or spirit of a weak-minded woman.
In short, she seemed to be qualified by nature for the glorious
station Providence assigned her, and all the deficiencies, as
we should now consider them, in her education were supplied
by the intuitive sagacity of her strong, active mind, and her
delicate susceptibility of duty. These letters are full of les-
sons of practical utility to her own sex. We honour her
for her patriotism, and her just appreciation of the prin-
ciples which should govern statesmen ; but we love her most
for the perfect example of conjugal and maternal devotedness
which she has left for her young country-women. As the wife
of the first American ambassador to the haughty court of
Great Brilain, we cannot but admire the beautiful propriety
of her conduct; but there is to us infinitely more interest in
the home pictures she gives of her own housekeeping, and the
beauty of that domestic order, which no public display had
ever made her undervalue or neglect.

We shall not attempt to describe the subjects or spirit
of the " Letters" — the work ought to be in the hands of every
American woman ; and we will not satisfy the curiosity by a
table of contents. But one or two extracts may quicken the
wish to obtain the whole. The first is from a letter dated
Autiel, (near Paris) 1784.

" As to speaking French, I make but little progress in that;
but I have acquired much more facility in reading it. My
acquaintance with French ladies is very small. The Marquise
de la Fayette was in the country when I first came, and con-
tinued out until November. Immediately upon her coming
into Paris, I called and paid my compliments to her. She is a
very agreeable lady, and speaks English with tolerable ease.
We sent our servant, as is the custom, with our names, into
the house, to inquire if she was at home. We were informed
that she was not. The carriage was just turning from the
door, when a servant came running out to inform us that
Madame would be glad to see us; upon which Mr. Adams
carried me in and introduced me. The Marquise met me at
the door, and with the freedom of an old acquaintance, and
the rapture peculiar to the ladies of this nation, caught me
by the hand and gave me a salute upon each cheek, most
heartily rejoiced to see me. You would have supposed I had
been some long absent friend, whom she dearly loved. She
presented me to her mother and sister, who were present with
her, all sitting together in her bedroom, quite en famille.
One of the ladies was knitting. The Marquise herself was in
a chintz gown. She is a middle-sized lady, sprightly and
agreeable ; and professes herself strongly attached to Ameri-
cans. She supports an amiable character, is fond of her
children, and very attentive to them, which is not the general
character of ladies of high rank in Europe. In a few days,
she returned my visit, upon which we sent her a card of in-
vitation to dine. She came ; we had a large company. There
is not a lady in our country, who would have gone abroad to
dine so little dressed; and one of our fine American ladies,
who sat by me, whispered to me, ' Good Heavens ! how aw-
fully she is dressed.' I could not forbear returning the whis-
per, which I most sincerely despised, by replying, that the
lady's rank sets her above the little formalities of dress. She
had on a brown Florence gown and petticoat— which is the
only silk, excepting satins, which is worn here in the winter,

238

EDITORS BOOK TABLE.

a plain double gauze handkerchief, a pretty cap, with a white
riband in it; and looked very neat. The rouge 'tis true,
was not so artfully laid on, as upon the faces of the American
ladies who were present. Whilst they were glittering with
diamonds, watch chains, girdle-buckles, &c. the Marquise
was nowise rurlled by her own different appearance. A really
well-bred French lady has the most ease in her manners that
you can possibly conceive of. It is studied by them as an art,
and they render it nature. It requires some time, you know,
before any fashion quite new, becomes familiar to us. The
dress of the French ladies has the most taste and variety in
it, of any I have yet seen ; but these are topics I must reserve
to amuse my young acquaintance with. I have seen none,
however, who carry the extravagance of dress lo such a
height as the Americans who are here, some of whom, I have
reason to think, live at an expense double what is allowed to
the American minister. They must, however, abide the con-
sequences."

The next is dated London, 17S5. In this, as in many other
letters, Mrs Adams displays her true American feeling. But
she is not so blinded by it as to bo insensible to the follies of
her countrywomen; one of which' is, their inordinate love of
dress, and often wicked extravagance; wicked, because it in-
volves others in debts or losses. We wish we could say that
all this folly was done away by our improved methods of fe-
male education !

"Notwithstanding the English boast so much of their
beauties, I do not think they have really so much of it as you
will find amongst the same proportion of people in America.
It is true that their complexions are undoubtedly fairer than
the French, and in general their figures are good. Of this
they make the best; but I have not seen a lady in England
who can bear a comparison with Mrs. Bingham, Mrs. Piatt,
and a Miss Hamilton, who is a Philadelphia young lady. —
Amongst the most celebrated of their beauties stands the
Duchess of Devonshire, who is masculine in her appearance.
Lady Salisbury is small and genteel, but her complexion is
bad; and Lady Talbot is not a Mrs. Bingham, who, taken
altogether, is the finest woman I ever saw. The intelligence
of her countenance, or rather, I ought to say animation, the
elegance of her form and the affability of her manners, con-
vert you into admiration; and one lias only to lament too
much dissipation and frivolity of amusement, which have
weaned her from her native country, and given her a passion
and thirst after all the luxuries of Europe.

" The finest English woman I have seen, is the eldest daugh-
ter of Mr. Dana, brother to our Mr. Dana; he resides in the
country, but was in London with two of his daughters, when
I first came here. I saw her first at Ranelagh. I was struck
with her appearance, and endeavoured to find out who she
was; for she appeared like Calypso among her nymphs, deli-
cate and modest. She was easily known from the crowd, as
a stranger. I had not long admired her, before she was
brought by her father and introduced to me, after which she
made a visit, with her sister, who was much out of health.
At the same time that she has the best title of any English
woman I have seen, to the rank of a divinity, I would not
have it forgotten that her father is an American, and, as he
was remarkably handsome, no doubt she owes a large share
of her beauty to him."

The History of the Anglo Saxons, from the earliest period to
the Norman Conquest. By Sharon Turner. 2 vols. 8vo.
Philadelphia, Carey &. Hart, 1841.

It is gratifying to perceive the high degree of superiority
which this book possesses, in its mechanical execution over
most of the American reprints. The type is large and clear,
the paper firm and white, and the binding neat and elegant.
This shows a proper spirit in the publishers, and gives us
reason to hope for the early approach of that happy time when
the books issued from our home press will rival the best pro-
ductions of foreign establishments.

Of the merits of Mr. Turner's work nothing need be said.
It has been so long before the public that its merits are abun-
dantly known, and generally appreciated. No similar history
has been more largely or more justly applauded than this.
The extent and accuracy of the research— the skill and elabo-
ration— the acuteness, and well imbued spirit of the author,
are matters of common and familiar knowledge. To this
history he addressed himself with a zeal and affection that
overcame all difficulties, and he has produced a most instruc-
tive and entertaining work.

The edition of this valuable work, now published by Carey
& Hart, is from the latest English edition, and contains the
original Saxon characters, which, in the French edition, are

omitted. To students of the language this is highly impor-
tant.

Notes on the United States of America. By George Combe.
2 vols. 1841. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

Mr. Combe came to this country on subjects connected with
the advancement of phrenological instruction. During the
intervals not bestowed upon his favourite topic, he found
leisure to note his observations of the men and things which
arrested his attention; anil the result of his impressions is
now given to the public. So far as we can judge, Mr. Combe's
observations are characterized by great candour, and his
opinions are intelligent and well formed.

The Life and Adventures of Bruce, the African Traveller.
By Sir Francis B. Head. 1 vol. Harper &l Brothers, New
York, 1841.

A very valuable and entertaining work, containing both
useful and agreeable information. Now that the prejudice
against Bruce has died away, the notices which are here made
of his surprising adventures and great services will be read
with unmixed interest.

Lives of John Jay and Alexander Hamilton. 1 vol. 1841.
Harper & Brothers, New York.

The name of this volume will ensure it an ample sale. No
American would willingly be without the biographies of his
eminent countrymen, when they can be had in such a cheap
and convenient form.

Characteristics of Goethe. By Mrs. Sarah Austin. 2 vols.
Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia, 1841.

Mrs. Austin has translated from the German, various no-
tices of the great poet, by his friends and contemporaries,
and combined them in these volumes with such remarks of her
own as are necessary for elucidation ; and in this way has
made a book full of interest to the general reader, and espe-
cially valuable to the student of German literature.

Carleton: a Tale of the Revolution. 2 vols. Lea & Blanch-
ard, Philadelphia, 1841.

An original American novel which we have not found time
to read, but which we hear well spoken of by those who have.

The Trial of Jesus before Caiaphas and Pilate. By M. Du-
pih. Translated from the French by a member of the Ame-
rican Bar. Boston: Little & Brown, pp. 88. Carey & Hart,
Philadelphia.

This is a very curious and interesting work, and originating
as it does from a source whence we should not have looked
for any display of zeal in sustaining the truths of Bible his-
tory, adds to its value. It is an argument to show that ac-
cording to the laws and customs of the Jews, Jesus Christ
was unjustly condemned. It was called forth by the work
of a learned Jewish physician, Mr. Salvador, who a few years
since, published a work in which he maintained the contrary.
We hope the book will be extensively read.

The Journal of the Ministry at large. Boston: William
Crosby & Co.

Here we have a new monthly periodical, which has a field
to itself, and promises to do much good. The Editor, Bev.
Charles F. Barnard, has been for some years sedulously en-
gaged in ministering to the poor. He is now the pastor of the
Warren street Chapel, designed as a place of worship for
children, particularly; and the influence he has obtained over
this class has been, we think, most judiciously exerted. — The
periodical he has undertaken is intended toco-operate with the
efforts of the ministry-at-large— or, in other words, will " aim

EDITORS BOOK TABLE.

239

to promote the general interests of civilization and Christianity,
especially in large towns." — There are several excellent papers
in this number — one on " The Rights of the Poor," by Rev. J.
II. Clark, Rector of Grace Church ; and another entitled "The
Law of Christ," a sermon addressed to children, by the Rev.
Mr. Fox. It is well, even beautifully written ; and we learn
that more than four thousand copies have been sold, which
proves that it is popular. The short articles in this magazine
are well prepared, and we doubt not the work will be encou-
raged.

The Christian World. — The sixth number of this periodical
is a very interesting one; and from the success, thus far, of
the plan, we think the Editor, Rev. T. H. Stockton, has good
prospect of carrying it through the first year, (usually a hard
trial) most triumphantly. It is of a liberal and truly Christian
character, and we hope will be extensively circulated.

Past Days.— A. Story for Children. By Esther Whitlack.

A very interesting book, full of pure thoughts, and delinea-
ting, with much pathos, the happiness which right conduct
always confers, even under the pressure of sorrows and mis-
fortunes. We commend it to the young.

Ten JVwusand a Yeai — New Edition.
Carey &. Hart have published, in a very large 8vo. volume,
a new edition of this admirable tale. The present edition
comprises the four volumes of the former one, and is sold at
the low price of $1 25 per copy, thus placing this admirable
work within the reach of every person.

unanimity and concord among its members, any thing should
be done to make wider than ever the unhappy breaches which
have too long existed.

The Patapsco, and other Poems, by Charles Soran. Baltimore
N. Hickman, 1841. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

Mr. Soran is not a professional poet. He is a mechanic of
industrious habits; but having a lively imagination and a
graceful taste, he occasionally indulges himself in votive
offerings to the muse. The elegant little volume he has now
given to the public, contains the outpourings of some of his
leisure hours, and while it makes no pretensions to the highest
order of mind, it well deserves liberal commendation. There
is an air of tenderness and sweetness pervading all his pro-
ductions, which cannot fail to recommend them to general
favour.

Poems of the Pleasures. J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadel-
phia, 1841.

This neat and well-printed volume contains The Pleasures
of Imagination, by Akensfde; The Pleasures of Memory, by
Rogers;, The Pleasures of Hope, by Campbell: and The Plea-
sures of Friendship, by McHenry, with biographical notices
of the authors, and critical dissertations on the merits of each
of the poems.

The Sovereignty of Mind: a Poem, by J. N. McJilton. Bal-
timore : J. N. .Lewis, 1841. Carey &. Hart, Philadelphia.

This poem was delivered before the Philomathean Society
of Pennsylvania College, on the 16th February ult., and is
published by them. The subject is one of high interest, and
it is treated with much skill and force bv the author.

Life of De Wilt Clinton, by James Renwick, LL.D. Harper
& Brothers, New York, 1840. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

Few names, connected with the political history of this
country, are more familiar than that of the distinguished
subject of this memoir. A prominent actor in many of the
scenes which have been most strongly marked by the conflicts
of party, and uniformly pursuing a course which exposed him
to the bitterest assaults of those who were opposed to his
measures, while it elevated him in an equal degree in the
estimation of those who approved them, no public man has
received a greater share of censure, or been an object of more
lavish praise. Even now, though many years have elapsed
since he was called away from the stage of action, opinion is
yet divided as to the merits of his career as a statesman,
though all are willing to admit that he possessed talents of a
superior order, unflinching integrity, and an ardent desire to
promote the general good.

Professor Renwick, in his memoir, seems, so far as we can
judge from a hasty perusal, to have endeavoured, at least, to
be strictly impartial. While properly impressed with the
merits of Mr. Clinton, he has not sought to conceal those
things which were made matter of objection to him during
his life ; and in the discussion of his political views and acts
has not suffered himself to be misled by personal attachment
or devoted partizanship.

The Life of Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry. By Alexan-
der Slidell Mackenzie 2 vols. Harper & Brothers, New
York, 1841. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

Lieut. Slidell is so generally known as an accomplished and
agreeable writer, that it is scarcely necessary for us to say
that this work possesses all the advantages which graceful
style and cultivated taste can bestow on it. Nor is it neces-
sary to say that the incidents of a life so remarkable as was
Perry's for gallantry, heroism, patriotism, and ability, could
fail to prove highly attractive to his grateful and admiring
countrymen. Still, we must be allowed to doubt whether the
revival of ancient animosities, and the fresh exposure of
wounds which ought to have been healed long since, can be
productive of any service ; and we cannot but express a regret
that at this time, when our navy stands in so much need of

The Works of Lord Bacon, with a Memoir and Translation
of his Latin writings. By Basil Montague, Esq. 3 vols. 8vo.

Tlie Works of Lord Bolingbroke, complete, with a Life.
4 vols., 8vo.

Memoirs of Sir Samuel Romilly, edited by his sons. With
a Sketch of his Life by Lord Brougham.

The History of the Anglo-Saxons, by Sharon Turner. 2
vols. 8vo.

The Miscellaneous Works of T. Babington Macauley. 3 vols.
8vo. Carey &. Hart, Philadelphia.

A great reproach of American publications has heretofore
been the miserable manner in which they have been printed.
Indifferent type, coarse whity-brown paper, and loose and
insufficient binding have lessened the comforts of reading,
and just in the same proportion weakened the desire for it,
while those who wished to obtain good editions of standard
works for their libraries have been compelled to order them
from abroad.

We are glad to see that a decided improvement is taking
place in this respect. Some of the publishing houses, in
Boston, New York, and this city, have already shown it is
not from want of material or skill that we have suffered thig
censure to rest upon us ; and in the works, the titles of which
stand prefixed to this article, Carey & Hart are about to give
another proof that if we have hitherto been excelled by fo-
reigners in this respect, the time has come when they can no
longer justly claim the superiority. The enterprising firm
just named, with a spirit which is not less to be commended
for its liberality than its sound discretion, have got up, and
will shortly publish, these and other classics belonging to our
literature, in a style of rare excellence, so that gentlemen and
institutions wishing to procure splendid editions of their
favourite authors, can now do so without the expense of send-
ing to London for them.

It is a matter of gratulation that in the present times when
weak and trashy novels abound to an extent which is almost
incredible, and almost to the exclusion of every thing else,
that an attempt should be made to present the standard and
most valued English authors in a form corresponding to their
merits, and we hope the encouragement afforded to this un-

240

PLEASING EXPERIMENTS.

dertaking will be such, that it will be pursued through much
of our literature which now remains almost as a sealed vo-
lume to those who cannot afford to buy imported books.

A Vindication of Classical Studies: by Charles H. Lyon, A.
M. II. & S. Ravner, 76 Bowery, New York, 1841. Carey &
Hart, Philadelphia.

The question discussed in these pages has occupied many
of the ablest minds of the age, and it would therefore be un-
reasonable to expect any thing very striking from those who
now join in the controversy. Nevertheless Mr. Lyon has
contrived to make his essay both pleasing and novel ; and we
have no doubt will do good service to the cause in which he
is embarked.

Ladies' Repository, Cincinnati, Ohio. J. F. Wright, & L.
Swomstedt.

The Baltimore Phoenix and Budget. Jones, Sherwood, & Co.,
Baltimore, Md.

Are the titles of two Magazines, just received— both of
which put forth good claims to the patronage of the commu-
nity.

XJ. S. Military Magazine. Huddy & Duval, Philadelphia.

An excellent number, containing a coloured plate of an
officer and private of the U. S. Dragoon Corps— a well co-
loured and spirited picture of a military execution, illustrated
by an agreeable story.

Heads of the People.

Carey & Hart, Philadelphia. — Second
Notice.

This popular work has, as we supposed, met with a recep-
tion from the public almost unprecedented. The following
notice we copy from the Richmond Star.

" We have before us a book with a handsome exterior and
contents of the rarest excellence. It is decidedly the best
thing we have seen for a twelvemonth, and is entitled ' Heads
of the People' — and the heads i f the people it is to a hair. It
contains some twenty-five or more engraved sketches of pecu-
liar and quaint characters, drawn to the life, and of them-
selves worth all the price of the work. The tales which ac-
company the heads are full of instruction and humour, and
the work, on the whole, is a rare gem even in these ' book
days.' It opens with a most graphic sketching of the ' Debtor
and the Creditor,' and no man can look at them without feel-
ing a sympathetic stir running along the chords of his gizzard.
It makes one feel to look at them. The ' President' also, is
glorious — it is emphatically Pickwickian in its richest sense.
The roystering ' Collegian' — the plump ' Landlady' — the plod-
ding ' Stock Broker'— the poor ' Printer's Devil,' and lots of
other ' werry pecooliar' people,' are dressed off to a nicety."

Tlie Old Curiosity Shop. Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia.

Complete at last. Admirable as are all Bnz's works, this
is not a whit behind the best of them. We do object a little
to the catastrophe, but we suppose Dickens knew best what
would suit the public taste. — Poor Nell!

Barnaby Budge. Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia. Nos. 1
&2

A worthy successor to the " Old Clock." The two Nos.
now before us, give indication of much good reading. We
perceive at once that the Locksmith will be. a favourite —
much fun may be expected from Tappertit and Miggs.

The " Analecf and not " Amulet" is the title of the Ma-
gazine noticed in our last, and which is published by Mr. J,
H. Spinning, of Jersey City, N. J.

The Second Canto of the " Death of Achilles," will appear
in our next number.

When an article is submitted to us for perusal, we wish
distinctly to understand whether, if it is accepted, remunera-
tion is expected.

We will feel much obliged to those who copy articles from
the " Book" to give us credit. It is not asking much ; but we
should like to have it.

We perceive it stated in several of our papers that one of
our editors, Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney, is attracting much
attention in Paris, and is deservedly very popular. Tn a letter
to ourselves, dated at Paris, she mentions her intention of
publishing Pocahontas and other poems, in London.

THE COLOURED PLATE

In this number is not offered entirely as a fashion-plate, for
indeed we have no change to chronicle from April to May —
but the dress is simply beautiful and very appropriate to the
season. The lady appears to have been favoured with a very
early copy of the May uumber. The border, it will be per-
ceived, represents a cavalier serenading his Lady Love.

The Quadroons, bv Professor Ingraham. Harper & Brothers,
New York. Carey & Hart Philadelphia.

We have not yet read this last work of the Professor's, but
we perceive it very generally praised by the Press, and hear
it well spoken of in private.

Merry's Museum— Nos. 2 & 3, by Peter Parley's successor.
These numbers are equal to the first in interest for the
rising generation.

Powhattan—a. Metrical Romance— by Seba Smith, the
real Jack Downing, is to be published soon, from the press of
the Harpers, New York.

The works of the late Dr. Follen, edited by his wife; who
will also furnish a Memoir, is now in the press of Messrs.
Hllliard, Gray & Co., Boston.

Miss Sedgwick's Tour in Europe is also soon to be pub-
lished.

Waldie is now publishing in his "Circulating Library,"
Bulwer's " Night and Morning," an admirable novel, and one
well calculated to increase the prosperity of his very excellent
work.

PLEASING EXPERIMENTS.

TO CHANGE THE COLOUR OF A ROSE.

Hold a red rose over the blue flame of a common match, and
the colour will be discharged wherever the fume touches the
leaves of the flower, so as to render it beautifully variegated,
or entirely white. If it be then dipped into water, the redness
after a time, will be restored.

LIGHT CHANGING WHITE INTO BLACK.

Write upon linen with permanent ink, (which is a strong
solution of nitrate of silver,) and the characters will be scarce-
ly visible; remove the linen into a dark room, and they will
not change; but expose them to a strong light, and they will
be indelibly black.

TO REVIVE APPARENTLY DEAD PLANTS.
Make a strong solution of camphor in spirit of wine, which
add to soft water, in the proportion of a diacbm to a pint.
If withered, or apparently dead plants be put into this liquid,
and allowed to remain therein from two to three hours, they
will revive.

SINGULAR EFFECT OF TEARS.

If tears are dropped on a dry piece of paper, stained with
the juice of the petals of mallows or violets, they will change
the paper to a permanently green colour.

GO DEY'S

LADY'S BOOK.

JUNE, 1841.

Written for the Lady's Book.

CONTADINA FAMILY, PRISONERS WITH BANDITTI.

BY PROFESSOR W.J. WALTER.

In fair Italia's sunny clime
Each village has its festal time,
Of patron Saint when annual rite
A thousand votaries will unite ;
When friends and kindred, severed long,
Meet round the hearth, a joyous throng,
And keep alive the love that might
By absence be extinguished quite.

Fair broke the morn ; in blythe array
A happy group had ta'en their way
To visit distant friends, and share
This season of alternate prayer,
And love, and revelry, and mirth,
Happiest of happy sons of earth.
But, ah ! what mortal foresight knows
The events a moment may disclose?
The happy group, at break of day
That sped so joyous on their way,
Behold them, in an ill-starred hour,
Beset, and in a Bandit's power.
See them in that secluded glen
Surrounded by those ruffian men,
And realize by fancy's power
The desolation of that hour.
Yet, ah! what fancy, or what art
Of words, can paint that mother's heart?
Placed in this trying scene of fear,
With all she holds on earth most dear,
The workings of her soul are seen
In her clasped hands and downcast mien.
In presence of the lawless power
Of brutal force, that rules the hour,
Meekly she bends, for worse than vain
Were every effort to complain ;
A silent bending to her fate
Is her sole way to supplicate.

Yet there is one who sweetly pleads
Against the wrong of these misdeeds,
Though happily unconscious still
Of any sense of threatened ill :
It is the infant, sunk to rest
In slumber on that mother's breast,
Whose rosy cherub cheek the while
Is dimpled o'er by many a smile,
That, midst this scene of fear and gloom,
Would seem to tell a tale of home.

Another gentle form is by,
But blanched her cheek, and in her eye
Is fear wrought up to agony;
Their girl, their budding joy and pride,
More prized than all the world beside.
See how the little trembling maid
Shrinks, at the Bandit's glance dismayed,
VOL. XXII. — 21

As still his bold and lawless gaze
O'er all her form insatiate strays.
Seeking asylum in her fear
How close she creeps her mother near,
And to her side does fondly cling,
Like chicken 'neath the parent's wing,
When poised above in airy height
On wing of terror floats the kite.
Unheeded on the grass hard by
Her little rustic treasures lie,
That locket with the braided hair,
Which for the giver's sake she ware,
That rosary, with its beads of gold,
Duly at morn and evening told ;
Little she weened that ever they
Should be a reckless Bandit's prey.
There idly hangs the tambourine,
Whose tones amid the festive scene,
To sprightly dance hath kept the time,
Or with some blythe air mixed its chime.

See the poor father — there he sits;
Droops the sad head, and sighs by fits;
Look at his lorn, dejected air,
Yet not one thought of self is there:
No other pang his bosom feels
Than what a father's heart reveals.
All that he treasures here below,
The sum of all his weal or woe,
His hopes, his fears — all, all is there:
The partner of his tender care,
His child, who wakes a double fear,
A pang his bosom cannot bear,
Then his babe, hushed in sleep profound,
Strange contrast to the scene around!

Yet, in the very depth of ill
Oft is there store of comfort still,
And kindly destinies hefriend
Those who hope strongly to the end.
Look up, poor sufferers, look with eye
Of confidence, relief is nigh!
Amid the opening woods, behold
Where yonder towering heights unfold,
And yield a passage to the plain;
See you not there an armed train,
Winding through rocks their cautious way;
See where they come in close array;
By more than human foresight sent,
They come to save the innocent,
To their expecting hearths once more
These children of distress restore,
While eyes that weep with joy amain
Shall hail them to their homes again.

MARK MERIDEN.

Written for the Lady's Book.
MARK MERIDEN.

BY MRS,

H. E ,

» Come, Mark Meriden ! don't settle down into an
old grandfather before your time — a pretty wife's a
pretty thing, Mark, and a pretty house is a pretty
thing — but hang it! — one must have a little of
life."

Mark Meriden stood at his desk, giving a last look
at his books, while Ben Sanford — the roguish — the
merry — the song singing — the Ben of all Bens, was
thus urging on him the claims of a projected frolic
that evening. Now Ben was precisely the messenger
for such an embassy — there was fun in the twinkle
of his blue eye, and a world of waggery in the turn
of his head, and in a pair of broad roguish dimples
that went merrily dodging in and out of his cheeks
every time he spoke, and he had laid hold of Mark's
arm to drag him away. But Mark shook off his
hand, and finished summing up a column of figures —
put the blotting paper into the book, and the book
into the place, wiped his pen — all with an air of great
thoughtfulness — and, at last, turning to Ben, said —
" I think I won't go this time."

" Now why not ?" said Ben, eagerly.

" Because — because," said Mark, smiling ; " be-
cause I have an odd fancy that I should like Mrs.
Meriden's company better this evening."

" Hang Mrs. Meriden — beg pardon, Mark — hang
myself for saying so — but one don't like to see a fine
fellow buried alive! — come, take a real wake up with
us."

" Thank you, Ben, but I hav'n't been asleep and
don't need it. So I'll go home and see my wife" —
and thereat Mark turned a resolute footstep home-
ward as a well-trained husband ought.

" Now," says one of our readers, " who was Mark
Meriden ?" — You would not have asked, good reader,

if you had lived in the town of , when his name

first appeared on the outside of one of its most fashion-
able shops " Mark Meriden," surrounded by those
waving insignia of grace and fashion that young
belles need to have their eyes turned off from behold-
ing. Every thing in the tasteful establishment told
of well arranged business, and Mark himself, the
mirror of fashion, faultless in every article of costume,
quick, attentive, polite, was every day to be seen
there winning " golden opinions from all sorts of peo-
ple." Mark's shop became the resort of high ton —
the fashionable exchange, the promenade of beauty
and wealth, who came there to be enlightened as to
the ways and means of disposing of their surplus
revenue — to see and to be seen. So attentive, polite,
and considerate was Mark, so profound his bows, so
bright his eyes, so unexceptionable his whiskers, that
it might have proved a dangerous resort for the
ladies, had not a neat, tasteful house, going up in the
neighbourhood, been currently reported as the future
residence of an already elected Mrs. Meriden ; and in
a few months, the house neatly finished, and tastefully
furnished, received a very pretty lady who called her-
self to that effect. She was as truly refined and
lovely a woman as ever formed the centre flower in

a domestic bouquet, and Mark might justly be par-
doned fur having as good again an opinion of him-
self for having been fortunate enough to secure her.

Mark had an extensive circle of business and plea-
sure acquaintances, for he had been one of the social,
companionable sort, whose money generally found
its way out of his pocket in very fair proportion to
the rate it came in. In short, he was given to clubs,
oyster suppers, and now and then a wine party, and
various other social privileges for elevating one's
spirits and depressing one's cash, that abound among
enlightened communities.

But nevertheless, at the bottom of Mark's head,
there was a very substantial stratum of a certain
quality called common sense, a trait, which though
it was never set down in any chart of phrenology,
may very justly be called a faculty, and one too which
makes a very striking difference among people as the
world goes. In consequence of being thus consti-
tuted, Mark, when he found himself in love with, and
engaged to a very pretty girl, began to reflect with
more than ordinary seriousness on his habits, ways,
and manners of life. He also took an accurate sur-
vey of his business, formed an average estimate of his
future income on the soberest probabilities, and de-
termined to live a little even within that. He also
provided himself with a small account book, with
which he intended to live in habits of very close ac-
quaintance, and in this book he designed to note
down all the savings consequent upon the retrench-
ing of certain little extras, before alluded to, in which
he had been in the habit of pretty freely indulging
himself.

Upon the present occasion, it had cost him some-
thing of an effort to say " no," for Mark was one
of your easy " clever fellows" to whom the enuncia-
tion of this little syllable causes as much trouble as
all the gutturals of the German. However, when he
came in sight of his parlour windows through which
a bright fire was shining — when he entered and found
the clean glowing hearth, the easy chair drawn up in
front, and a pair of embroidered slippers waiting for
him quite at their leisure, and above all, when he read
the quick glance of welcome in a pair of very bright
eyes, Mark forgot all about Ben Sandford, and all
bachelor friends and allurements whatsoever, and
thought himself the happiest fellow on earth.

The evening past off rapidly by the help of music,
reading, and the little small talk of which newly
married people generally find a supply, and the next
morning saw Mark at early business hours with as
steady a hand and as cool a head as if there had
been no such thing as bachelor frolicks in existence.
Late in the forenoon, Ben Sanford lounged in to
ogle a few of the ladies, and above all, to rally Mark
on losing the glorious fun of the evening before.

" Upon my word, Mark," he began, " we must
have you put up for Selectman, you are becoming so
extremely ancient and venerable in your ways — how-
ever, you are to be excused," he added, " circum-

MARK MERIDEN.

243

stances considered — female influence! — ah! — well!
it's a fine affair this marriage !"

" Better try it, Mr. Sanford," said a bright saucy
girl, who, with her laughing companions, was stand-
ing by while Ben was speaking.

" Ah, madam ! the wherewithal !" said Ben, rolling
up his eyes with a tragic expression. " If some
clever old fellow would be so obliging as to die now,
and leave me a few thousands — then, ladies! you
should see !"

" But speaking of money" said Mark, when he
saw the ladies busy over some laces he had just
thrown on to the counter — " what did your ' glorious
fun' cost you ?"

"Pooh! — nothing! — only a ten dollar bill — no-
thing in my purse, you know ?"

" Nothing in your purse ? — not an uncommon in-
cident after these occasions," said Mark, laughing.

"Oh, hang it all!" said Ben — "too true! — I can
get no remedy for this consumption of the purse, as
old Falstaff says; however, the world owes me a
living, and so good morning !"

Ben Sanford was just one of that class of young
men of whom common report goes, that they can do
any thing they please, and who consider this point as
so well established, that they do not think it necesary
to illustrate it by doing any thing at all. He was a
lawyer of talents, and would have had an extensive run
of business, had he not been one of the class of people
never to be found when wanted. His law books and
law office saw far less of him than certain fashionable
places of resort, where his handsome person and va-
rious social accomplishments, always secured to him
a welcome reception. Ben had some little property
left him by his father, just enough as he used laugh-
ingly to quote, " to keep him in gloves and cologne
water," and for the rest, he seemed vastly contented
with his old maxim, " the world owes me a living,"
forgetting that the world can sometimes prove as poor
a paymaster as the most fashionable young gentleman
going.

But to return to Mark. When he had settled his
accounts at night, he took from a pigeon-hole in his
desk, the little book aforenamed, and entered as fol-
lows : "To one real wake up, $10," which being
done, he locked his desk, and returned once more to
Mrs. Meriden.

Days flew on, and the shop of Mark became in-
creasingly popular, and still from time to time he was
assailed by the kind of temptation we have described.
Now it was, " Mark, my dear fellow, do join us in a
trip to G — 's;" — and now, "Come, my old boy, let
us have a spree at F — 's;" — now it was the club, now
the oyster supper — but still Mark was invincible and
still as one or another gaily recounted the history of
the scene, he silently committed the account of the
expense to his little book. Yet was not Mark cyni-
cal or unsocial. His refusals, though so firm, were
invariably good natured, and though he could not be
drawn abroad, yet he was unquestionably open hand-
ed and free in his own home. No house had so
warm a welcome — no dinner table could be more
bountiful or more freely open for the behoof of all
gentlemen of the dining-out order — no tea-table pre-
sented more unexceptionable toast, and no evening
lounge was more easy, home-like, and cheerful, than
on the warm sofas in the snug parlours of Mark
Meriden. They also gave evening parties, where all
was brilliant, tasteful, and well ordered ; and, in fine,

notwithstanding his short comings, Mark was set
down as a fine open-handed fellow after all.

At the end of the year, Mark cast up the account
in his little book, and was mightily astonished at it,
for with all his ideas of the power of numbers, he had
no idea that the twos, and fives, and tens, and ones,
which on greater or smaller occasions, had found
their way into his columns, would mount up to a
sum so considerable. Mark looked about him — the
world was going well — his business machinery mov-
ing in exact touch and time — his house — where was
there a prettier one? — where a place more reple e
with every home-drawing comfort? Had he lost any
thing in pleasure the year past? Mark thought not,
and therefore as he walked homeward, he stepped
into a bookseller's and ordered some books of superb
engravings for Mrs. Meriden, and and spoke to a
gardener to send some elegant flowering exotics for
which he had heard her express an admiration some
evenings before.

That same evening came in Ben Sanford, as he
expressed it, " in the very depths of indigo" for young
gentlemen whose worldly matters invariably go on
wrong end foremost, will sometimes be found in this
condition, however exuberant may be their stock of
animal spirits.

" Pray Ben, what is the matter ?" said Mark kindly,
as the latter stretched himself at length, in an arm-
chair, groaning audibly.

" Oh, a bilious attack — Mark ! — shoemakers' bills !
tailors' bills ! — boarding house bills ! — all sent in for
new year's presents ! — hang 'em all !"

Mark was silent for a few moments, and Ben con-
tinued " Confound it, Mark ! what's the sense of liv-
ing, if a fellow is to be so cursedly poor ! Here you,
Mark, born in the same town with me, and younger
than I by some two years — you have a house, as
snug, as cosy, and comfortable as man need ask — a
wife like an angel — peace and plenty by the bushel,
and all comes of having a good run of luck in the
money line" — and Ben kicked his slippers against
the andiron most energetically.

" What has become of Emily P ?" asked

Mark, after a pause.

" Poor soul !" said Ben, " there she is yet, with
all sweetness and patience, waiting till such a luck-
less scapegrace as I can give her a home and a hus-
band. I wish to my soul, for her sake, I could afford
to be married, and have a home of my own; besides,
to tell the truth, I am tired of this rambling, scram-
bling, out-at-elbow, slip-shod life."

" Why don't you get married ?" said Mark.

" Why don't I ? to be sure — use my tailors' bills
for fuel, and my board bill for house rent, and my
shoe bill for bread and butter — hey? Would you
recommend a poor girl to try me, Mark — all things
considered ?" said Ben, bitterly.

Mark reflected awhile in silence, and then drew out
his book — his little book, to which we have before
alluded.

"Just look at this account, Ben," said he; "I
know you hate figures, but just for once."

Ben glanced at it impatiently — laughed when he
read over the two or three first items, but his face
lengthened as he proceeded, and Mark detected a
sort of whistle of astonishment as he read the sum
total.

" Well, Mark !" he exclaimed, " what a very old
gentlemanly, considerate trick is this of yours — to sit

244

SHEEP ON THE CHEVIOT HILLS.

behind your curtain so coolly noting down the ' cost
and come to' of all our little frolics — really it is most
edifying! How much you must have enjoyed your
superior discretion and forethought," and Ben laughed,
but not with his usual glee.

" Nay, you mistake," said Mark. " I kept this
account merely to see what / had been in the habit
of spending myself, and as you and I have been
always hand and glove in every thing, it answers
equally for you. It was only yesterday that I sum-
med up the account, and I assure you the result sur-
prised myself; and now Ben, the sum here set down,
and as much more as you please, is freely at your
disposal, to clear off old scores for the year, provided
you will accept with it this little book as a new year's
gift, and use it one twelve-month as I have done;
and if at the end of that time, you are not ready to
introduce me to Mrs. Sanford, I am much mis-
taken."

Ben grasped his friend's hand — but just then the
entrance of Mrs. Meriden prevented his reply — Mark

however, saw with satisfaction that he put the book
carefully in his vest pocket, and buttoned up his coat
with the air of a man who is buttoning up a new
resolution.

When they parted for the night, Mark said with a
smile, " In case of bilious attacks, you know where
to send for medicine." Ben answered only by a
fervent grasp of the hand, for his throat felt too full
for him to answer.

Mark Meriden's book answered the purpose admi-
rably. In less than two years Ben Sanford was the
most popular lawyer in , and as steady a house-
holder as you might wish to see, and, in conclusion,
as this is a Lady's Book, we will just ask our lady
readers their opinion on one point, and it is this:

If Mrs. Meriden had been a woman who under-
stood what is called " catching a beau," better than
securing a husband — if she had never curled her hair
except for company, and thought it a degradation to
know how to keep a house comfortable, would all
these things have happened ?

Written for the Lady's Book.
SHEEP ON THE CHEVIOT HILLS.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

Graze on — graze on — there comes no sound

Of border warfare near,
No slogan cry of gathering clan,

No battle axe or spear ;
No belted knight, in armour bright,

With glance of kindling ire,
Doth change the sport of Chevy-chase,

To conflict stern and dire.

Ye know not, that ye press the spot

Where Percy held his way,
Across the marches in his pride,

The " chiefest harts" to slay;
And where the stout Earl Douglas rode>

Upon his milk-white steed,
With fifteen hundred Scottish spears

To stay the invader's deed.

Graze on— graze on — there's many a rill,

Wild wandering through the glade,
Where you may freely slake your thirst,

With none to make afraid;
There's many a murmuring stream that flows

From Cheviot's terrac'd side,
Yet not one drop of warrior's gore

Distains its crystal tide.

For Scotland from her hills hath come,

And England o'er the Tweed,
To give the mountain winds the feuds

That made their noblest bleed ;
And like two friends, around whose hearts

Some brief estrangement run,
Love all the closer for the past,

And sit them down as one.

THE EXTREMELY NATURAL YOUNG LADY.

Far be it from us to deny that the fair sex are
exhibited to the most advantage, when they throw
off artificials and appear in their natural character.
But there is a class who like so much to have it said
of them " how very natural!" that they become affect-
ed on purpose.

The extremely natural young lady is always doing
some out of the way thing, that she may appear
simple and girlish. She is most particularly fond
of romping ; and, when you are out walking with her
is sure to run after a small donkey, or jump a ditch,
or have her fortune told, or thrust herself bolt through
a hedge; all which little exhibitions she esteems to
be beautiful and touching pieces of rustic elegance.
Then suppose she is able to sing, and comes to a
green lane, forthwith she begins chirruping like a
young sparrow; and if a cart pass by at that particular
time, ten to one she jumps in and tells the boy to
make the horses gallop. She enjoys nothing so much
as getting her gown torn, and is particularly fond of
arranging her hair out of doors. We have known
her stop on a common, give us her bonnet and cap

to hold, and proceed to her toilet in the most simple,
and unaffected manner possible; all so delightfully
natural; it was quite pleasant to see her setting her
curls in their places, and wagging about her head
right and left. When the natural young lady is in
doors, she is always running out of doors, especially
if it rains — that is perfection. She is delighted above
all things with making snow-balls. If there be a
cow within a mile, she is sure to go some morning
before breakfast and drink the warm milk, a feat of
which she never ceases to talk for three months after.
She will box a gentleman's ears and think nothing
of it. She was never known to walk, but always
hops and skips. Her utmost ambition is to be called
a wild thing. This makes her talk frequently in a
very odd manner, especially to gentlemen. She will
tell Mr. Cripps that he looks particularly well, where-
upon Mr. Cripps smiles, and is straightway informed
that he looks particularly well for Mr. Cripps.

If we are ever to fall in love, in this late season
of our existence, preserve us from falling in love with
the extremely natural young lady.

ELIZA FARNHAM.

245

Written for the Lady's Book.

EL IZ A FARNHAM; or, THE LOVE LETTERS.

BY MISS LESLIE,

[Concluded from p. 220.]
PART THE SECOND.

Eliza Farnham saw plainly that her grandmother's
letter was not available in the present dilemma, so
she folded it up and sat turning it about in her hand,
and looking sadly perplexed. The girl Belinda was
originally from Philadelphia, but she had lived awhile
at Mrs. Holloway's boarding-school, where she was
on very familiar terms with the young ladies, in con-
sequence of executing for them numerous confidential
commissions in relation to confectionary matters,
library books, &c. She knew our heroine perfectly
well, having been in many of her little secrets, all of
which she had kept as people of her class usually
keep them. Instead of obeying Mrs. Farnham's or-
der with regard to the sugar box, Belinda loitered in
the parlour, fully aware of the circumstances that were
causing so much annoyance to the young lady. She
now came forward and said — " Miss Eliza, if I was
you I wouldn't have nothing to do with that old
foolish letter of your grandma's— I'm sure it's not at
all fit to send to no young gentleman now-a-days;
and the better they're advised the worse they are. If
you want to take the pattern of a true lover's letter,
(such as young ladies writes now) I'll lend you one
of mine, that I writ last night, setting up 'till twelve
o'clock to get through. You know I'm engaged to
Mr. Sodus, that handsome coloured gentleman that
pays attention to the people what stops at the Inde-
pendence Hotel. He has gone to New York to ac-
cept of a place as one of the seven head-waiters in the
Amboy boat, where the passengers begins and finish-
es. And when we are married he is to be put on at
the other end of the line, and we are to go to house-
keeping in Philadelphia — I needn't send off this letter
for a few days, for it makes no difference whether he
gets it now or any other time ; so you're quite wel-
come to borrow it, if it will do you any good. I'll
just run and get it, before I attend your grandma'
with the sugar-box. I guess she is tired of waiting
already, up there in the store-room ; but she may
get through the time a putting the shelves to rights.
As for old Chloe's wants, I dont care a cent for
them."

Belinda then hastened out of the room, and shortly
returned with a huge letter which she put into the
hands of our heroine, who was still sitting in moody
silence, and who took in despair the black girl's epis-
tle ; thinking it just possible that she might collect a
few ideas from it. Having carried it to the privacy
of her own chamber, she threw herself on the bed, and
commenced the perusal of this delectable missive.

Pelicaneasus — may the 1st.
Deer and belovid Mr. Sodass.

The thyme seems particularly long since we
parted, as all thyme does when loviers are a way.
Since I can no longer Grace my eyes with your Han-
som bewty every day seems most a Year, for the hour
is Long a coming that will store us to one a nother —
I hasten to Tell you that I met with a Fatal Axident
21*

yesterday, which will Make your hare Stand on end
when you here it. Every Boddy had gone out, and
I had just run to the frunt parlor to sea the long
Stage go by that runs to Cunningjoeharry, and I
saw my Deer frend Mirandy Woolwitch a setting on
the frunt Seat, going Off with a lady as child's Maid.
So I was quite Afected, and kept waving my Towel
at her long after the Stage was out of site. But I
happened to lean out too far, so I lost my Ballence,
and the sloping Sellar door was just under that win-
dow, and Down went my head and Up went my
Heels, and out I fell head fcemast, and I went
Slanting down the Sellar door till my forrad came to
the pavement and broke one of the Brix. It is a
Mersey I was not hurt — The boys Next door and
Opposit came all round me as I was a Picking my-
self Up, and had the impedence to Sing — " Poor Be-
linda fell out of the window" — This meloncolly Axi-
dent put me in mind of the Day when Me and you
was a wawking Together and a krossing the Logg
over the branch, and your foot Slipped and you tum-
beld in to the watter and started the phrogs ; and as
you Splashed in, they Hopped out. I saw one grate
big green and yaller phellow Jump- right over your
Back — I am Still true and konstant to my favourite
Sodass. I waste my thyme mostly in Smelling the
flour you put into my hand at Parting and adorning
my Head with it, and as it was a bluming Rose it
still keeps its good Smell. I mostly Sing love songs
now. Yesterdy Mrs. Farnum was rather Hard upon
me when she found me Stirring buttor and shugar for
a Kake, and Singing — "Ah don't mingul" — exactly
like Mrs. Wood. The old lady says I do not Mind
my dooties no Longer and sweeps dirty. Young
persons in Love should not have no dooties to Mind,
and should not be expected to wurk, for love ellevates
the human sole, and wurk is only Fit for low-minded
peeple, them as likes to Grovel with brumes and
breshes in their Hands. For my part I Hold myself
above it, but I Guess I shall have to keep on till after
we gets Married, and then I shall Kick away the
kitchen in short order. You prommist I should Live
like a lady and give Balls, and go to Filladelfy to
live. Word has just come from Filladelfy that rents
is riz in Squinch street, and that wictuals is very
High and so is wedgetables. I was quite Afected
when I heard such Bad news, but I suppose it will
Make no difference to loviers Enamelled as we are.
But let what will Happen — " Our days and Knights
and months and years Fly round the cedar Pole."*
This to conclude, as my paper has come to an End,
though I Bought a Grate big Sheet on purpose, and
write small. I send you inclosed Heaps of love and
a lock of my hare for you to Kiss in Absence as you
desired, put up in White paper.
I remane

my deerly Belovid Sodass

your ever Afected sweatheart,
And Sincerest admirer
Belinda Broadhead.

* Centre Pole.

246

ELIZA farnham; or,

N. B. P. S. I forgot to Tell you that most all
the grate Peeple belonging to this town are Now in
love — So look Out for weddings — You know Judge
Bardley that tawks so Much about a man named
Scot, and not general Scot neither — The other Even-
ing at our house I heard him saying in the Middle of
a long Rigmeroll — " Love rules the Court" — If that
is the Case I do not Wonder so many poor peeple
don't get Justis done them when they comes to their
Trials.

" Pshaw" — thought Eliza — " what nonsense ! —
And yet, after all, there are really more ideas in this
foolish black girl's letter than in my good grand-
mama's. — Well, I will put off the evil moment, and

not write till to-morrow It- is really too much for

men, because they are engaged, to expect answers by
return of post; and I shall not encourage Horace
Montacute in any such absurdity. I wonder why it
is the custom for lovers to write to each other at all.
I wish it were considered improper."

When she met them at tea, Eliza Farnham in-
formed her brother and grandmother that she had
concluded to defer writing till the next day, in con-
sequence of a violent head-ache; and that she had
no doubt she could manage the business very well by
herself, if she took sufficient time.

Our heroine lay awake half the night, pondering
on the task of the morrow, and trying to plan a be-
ginning, a middle, and an end for this dreaded epistle.
She was afraid to copy a letter out of a book, for she
knew Horace to be a great reader, and there was
danger of his detecting the deception. At breakfast,
Eliza heard with joy that Dr. Farnham would be out
the whole morning, and that her grandmother was
going to preserve rhubarb, and would be busily en-
gaged till dinner-time. Eliza, therefore, took posses-
sion of the library, and resolved with vigorous deter-
mination to set desperately to work, and accomplish
this formidable letter. She justly doubted her cor-
rectness in orthography from having, when at school,
been generally near the tail of her class; end as she
had read little or nothing, the appearance of words
was but faintly impressed on her mind ; so she armed
herself with Johnson and Walker on one side of the
desk, and Webster's and Entick's Dictionaries on the
other. She then set about a rough sketch of her
letter.

After writing the date and beginning " Dear Ho-
race," she found herself already at a loss, and was
unable to devise a single idea for a commencement;
and she sat biting the feather of her pen (she could
not write with a steel one) and looking up at the
ceiling for near ten minutes. She then contrived to
proceed through one line, during which, being doubt-
ful of two words, she stopped to consult all the dic-
tionaries, in case these authorities might differ. Her
next difficulty was to finish the sentence, which she
finally accomplished after looking out two more
words in all the dictionaries. This business appeared
so laborious that our poor heroine thought she could
get along faster by making the rough sketch without
regard to the spelling, &c, and correcting the whole
in a fair copy. — " Ah !" — thought she — « if people
could only be allowed to spell just as they choose."

The dinner bell rung before she had completed her
sketch (rough as it certainly was) and she carried it
to her room and locked it up carefully. In the after-
noon, she was too tired to resume her pen ; therefore

she took a long nap: and in the evening there came
some visiters. After the company had gone, Mrs.
Farnham inquired of Eliza if she had finished her
letter ; but she replied — " Dear grandma' be so kind
as to ask me nothing more about it. I shall hate the
very name of a letter."

" Well, well" — said the good old lady — " I will
not teaze you" — adding in a low voice — " and you
may keep mine to look at as long as you please, and
don't be afraid to copy out of it whatever you choose."

" Horace Montacute will wonder that the answer
to his epistle is so long in arriving" — observed Dr.
Farnham.

" Well, it will not be the first thing he has won-
dered at, and I dare say it will not be the last" —
was the sensible reply of our heroine.

Next morning, Eliza Farnham was glad to find
that the doctor had been sent for to attend a con-
sultation of physicians at a place thirty miles distant
from Peloponnesus, and would not return home till
next day. " Now" — thought she — " I can have the
free use of the library — desk — dictionaries — gram-
mars and all. I can write much better there than
in my own room."

At length the rough sketch was finished, and on
reading it over she found it much rougher than she
had supposed ; and so full of errors, and containing
so many things that must be changed entirely, that
she determined on making another sketch that should
not be quite so long. But as she drew near its com-
pletion, she perceived that the second sketch would
be still longer than the first ; and on revising it she
discovered that the faults were still more numerous.
She almost cried with vexation ; but at last, consoled
herself with the hope of being able in the fair copy
to correct all errors.

" Now came the tug of war." — With a tremulous
hand she took a sheet of fine letter paper, and as she
could not write straightly without the assistance of
lines, she ruled them with a pencil and ruled them
crooked, which she did not perceive till with much
care and pains she had written several sentences.
She then called Belinda, and sent her to the station-
er's to buy a sheet of printed black lines to slip under
her paper. But Belinda brought some lines that
were quite too far apart. She was sent back for
some that were closer together, but none such were
to be had. The girl, however, informed Miss Farn-
ham that she had seen at the store some paper that
was ready-ruled. This was delightful news, and a
quire of it was immediately procured. It was, how-
ever, of the size called foolscap, and Eliza had to
razee a sheet of it down to the dimensions of letter
paper.

She now set to work again, beginning with an-
other new pen, but inadvertently commenced too
near, as she thought, to the top of the page. Un-
practised writers always think it comme il faut to
begin very far down, even when they know that they
have a great deal to say, and at the risk of being
obliged at the last to write on the margin for want
of space, and to fill up every inch of the spare paper
on the direction side. She now prepared another
sheet, and began with — " Dear Horace" — half way
down the page.

As this was to be the fair copy, it was now that
the orthography was to be corrected; but she forgot
this important business till she had written three or
four sentences and reached the bottom of the page.

THE LOVE LETTERS.

247

Then, on consulting the dictionaries, she found that
half her words had been spelt wrong. Of her faults
of style she was unconscious; notwithstanding that
at school she had been made to study Blair's Lec-
tures, that is to learn the words by rote and repeat
them parrot-fashion. She now determined on writing
a third sketch, which was to include correct spelling,
&c, and was to serve as an exact model. This
performance, with much trouble and difficulty, she at
last achieved. Again she set to work at the formi-
dable fair copy, and made a mistake in the date and
left out a word in the first line ; and not willing to
disfigure her letter by erasures or interlineations, she
took another fresh sheet and commenced anew.

It would be painful to follow her through the re-
remainder of that weary day, the whole of which was
devoted to accomplishing a copy fair enough to dis-
patch to her lover. She laboured at it both morning
and afternoon.

And when they rang the evening bell
The letter scarce was done.

Finally, she determined not to fold it, direct it, or
seal it till next morning, that she might go quite
fresh to that arduous part of her task. At first, Eliza
thought of reading her letter aloud to her grandmo-
ther, but was deterred by the apprehension that it
would not at all suit the taste of the old lady. She
could not, however, resist her inclination to commu-
nicate its contents to Belinda, when the girl came to
her room at night with a pitcher of fresh water.

" Well, Belinda" — said the young lady, after finish-
ing this lecture — " what do you think of my letter ?
You see I have managed it at last, all entirely by
myself."

" I think it's a most beautiful letter" — replied Be-
linda— " only I don't know what it is about. Some-
how, I can't tell what it means."

" That is the fault of your understanding, Belin-
da"— said Miss Farnham.

" May be so" — replied Belinda. " But I have
often heard things read that I could not understand
at all, and somehow they sounded prettier than that.
Somehow the words don't seem to go right, and the
same words seem to come in too often. And then
you don't tell your lovier the least bit of news, and
there is not a single happening in it from one end
to t'other. However, they say gentlemen are always
blind when they're in love, and may be Mr. Monta-
ciite will not find out that there's no sense in the
letter, and people can't help being weak-minded."

"Come, come, Belinda" — said Miss Farnham —
" you are going quite too far. Let me hear no more
such talk. There is your own letter — of course I
made no use of it, and I shall give grandmama's
back to her in the morning. And now, you must
not, for your life, dare to breathe a syllable to any
living creature about these letters. Say not a word
to a human being about my having read yours, or
about my reading mine to you. Be secret as the
grave upon the whole business."

" Lor, Miss Eliza" — said the maid — " if ever I
breathes a breath about the letters, if ever I tells any
human quadruped what a dreadful nonplush you've
been at because you did not know to write a letter

" I have no desire to perform such a job as that" —
said Eliza — " but I assure you it will be the worse
for you if I find you have betrayed this secret."

" And the better for me if I don't" — inquired the
girl.

" Yes" — replied Eliza, going to her bureau — " here
is a pink silk handkerchief for you, that I have worn
but once."

Belinda received the handkerchief with many
thanks and curtsies ; and then hastened to the kitchen
to display it to the other servants, saying — " See
what I've got — Miss Eliza, with all her schooling,
don't know how to write a letter, and was at her
wit's end about answering one she got from her
sweetheart away at Bosting. So she had to borrow
mine that I writ to Mr. Sodass, for a pattern. And
she took and copied it out and out, word for word,
only leaving out the news and the happenings — I
told you what a great scribe I am always counted —
so she could find no letter to suit her but mine. She
got one from her grandmother first, but it was all
stuff and she despised it. But now don't for your
lives, any of you, go to say one word about all this
to any living soul, neither coloured folks nor white
trash : for if you do, we shall have our tongues cut
out all round; and as her brother's a doctor she can
easily get him to do the job."

The servants all put their fingers to their tongues.

Next morning the letter was to go to the post-
office, and our heroine set about folding, directing,
and sealing it. Her school-letters, had always been
folded, directed and sealed by Miss Catherine Hollo-
way. Poor Eliza, after many unsuccessful attempts,
found it impossible to fold it straight and evenly, but
consoled herself with the hope that Horace would
not notice so trifling a circumstance. She then
wrote the direction in a very straggling and awkward
manner, somewhat as follows : the name being so
small as to be scarcely legible, except to the practised
eyes of post-men.

Horace Montacute, J?§gUir^

tremont Street,

Bos.

This done, she sealed it roughly and raggedly, letting
two drops of wax fall on the paper.

This letter was dispatched without being shown to
either the doctor or Mrs. Farnham, and now that the
long and irksome task was over, Eliza felt as if re-
lieved from the pressure of a mountain.

" Really" — thought she — " if I had foreseen this
correspondence, I do not believe I would have en-
gaged myself to Horace. A lover that lived always
in one's own town, would have been every way more
convenient."

Her grandmother, as they sat at dinner, alarmed
her by sayings" I should not wonder if there is an-
other letter from Horace now on the road, inquiring
why you have not answered his first one."

" If there is" — said Eliza—" I will not answer
that, I am determined."

We will now transfer the scene to Horace Mon-
tacute's residence in Boston, and advance the time
to the important hour on which he received the first

to your sweetheart, and had to borrow patterns of letter of his lady-love, after having been for several

every body both white and coloured, if ever I tells a days in anxious expectation of it. Our heroine's

word of this to either cat or dog I'll give you leave hope that his impatience to see the contents would

to cut my tongue out." cause him to disregard the outside was not exactly

248

ELIZA farnham; or,

realized, for he glanced at it with some surprise.
Then hastily tearing it open, he read as follows:

" Dear Horace — The time seems very long since
we parted, and I have thought of nobody else hardly
but you since our parting. Your Eliza always thinks
a great deal about you, and hopes that your thoughts
are chiefly turned on me as mine are chiefly upon
my dear Horace, and ever will be until the happy
moment when you and I shall have the happiness to
meet again. It is a pleasing task to communicate
and exchange all our thoughts, feelings, &c, with
one another, writing often to one another frequent
sincere letters, for letters, as a friend of my brother's
told him very properly the other day, are supposed to
be sent from heaven to saveus from being wretches,
and we should be poor wretches certainly if we could
not write letters, and very unhappy also. I am so
fond of letter-writing I should like to keep it up all
the year round, and it is such a great pleasure for
Eliza to write letters to Horace, that I almost wish
you to be absent that we may correspond. It is really
a pleasure to me to let all my thoughts, feelings, &c.
flow out in the epistolary style all smooth easy and
without the least trouble, for your Eliza was always
considered ready at my pen and composition. Your
ever welcome letter was not received until this very
morning, and I hastened to reply to it instantly, so
you will excuse haste if you please. Brother says
the post-office should be called to account for keeping
it back, and none of us can by any means imagine
their motive for keeping it back unless they have a
spite at me, or you Horace perhaps. If your next
letter, which I hope sincerely is now on the road, is
not answered soon, it will certainly be because I did
not get it in time to write soon, and we may all
blame the post-office again because of it. I make
haste to answer your last letter by return of post, as
I have done, for fear you might think me false if your
Eliza did not reply quick. I am so used to my pen
that I can run off a letter of length in a few minutes
and it is really quite play to me to use my pen. I
hope it is the same to dear Horace, but if you have
any difficulty in writing love-letters, or no time, you
need not trouble yourself to write very soon an an-
swer to this. Two or three weeks hence will be
quite time enough to answer this letter, as I of course
shall suppose you remain in good health, and have
nothing particular to say. Indeed, as I know you
are a healthy gentleman, I shall not be uneasy if dear
Horace does not write again till you come on your
next visit to Peloponnesus, and then as your Eliza
will certainly see you, you need not write to me at
all. She is not one of those impatient young beings
who are always expecting letters : it is a bad habit.
I now bid you adieu, Horace, and waft you a long
farewell. I assure you your absence is felt by me :
and of course it is the same by you. When we meet
again, all griefs will be forgot by you and me. Be-
lieve me

" Your bride that is to be,

" Sincerely,

" Eliza Farnham."

To make this letter more intelligible to our readers,
we have found it necessary to improve the punctua-
tion. Also the orthography of the minor words,
which Eliza thought she could spell correctly, because
they were small ; her researches in the dictionaries

being confined to such as had not less than two syl-
lables. To make her lover believe that she took
pleasure in writing, she had (notwithstanding her
commencement half way down the page) filled up
every inch of the paper, that was not visible on the
outside.

Horace Montacute was startled at the first sentence
of this delectable epistle, and his amazement increased
as he proceeded. When he had finished, he found
himself grinding his teeth and grasping a handful of
his hair. For a moment he hoped it might be a
forgery; but it was post-marked Peloponnesus, and
the impression on the wax was that of a seal-ring he
had caused to be made for her in New York, with a
device and a motto of his own invention. " It is too
true" — thought he, crushing the letter between his
clasped hands, and stamping about the room. " It is
Eliza Farnham's, and she is a fool. — Yes — a silly,
illiterate, shallow-headed simpleton, and her clumsy
excuse about the post-office is a wilful falsehood. — I
cannot — I will not marry her — I will not have a
wife that I am ashamed of. And yet she is so beau-
tiful— and she dresses well, and plays well, and dances
well. What of that — I cannot be always gazing at
her dress, and her beauty, and she cannot always be
singing and playing; but always, always should I be
annoyed with her ignorance and folly. No — no — I
never could introduce her to the Cressinghams, and
the Erlingfords, and the Heathfields, and the Lanes-
boroughs — I should dread to see her open her lips
before them, and should sink with mortification ere
she had done speaking. This absurd letter is a true
picture of her mind. It has opened my eyes, and
saved me from the abyss into which I was blindly
about to throw myself. How could I possibly be so
fascinated with her beauty ? — I shall detest the sight
of a beauty for the rest of my life."

" Let me see" — he continued — throwing himself
into a rocking chair, and rocking violently — " Did I
ever hear her say any thing that denoted mind or
information? Did I ever hear her talk sensibly on
any subject? — No — never — I can recollect nothing
that was the least worthy of remembrance. It is too
true that instead of listening to Eliza Farnham, I was
always occupied in looking at her. Still, if she had
ever said any thing worthy of remark, I must have i
observed it at the time, and thought of it afterwards.
What did she talk about ? — Nothing, unless she could
get aside with one of her cronies — then they seemed
to gossip. When I addressed her (fool that I was) she
only simpered — I took it for smiling innocence or
youthful modesty. I recollect now at all our inter-
views i" talked, but she said nothing and only looked
silly — sweetly, as I then thought. No, no — she does
not love me — she never did. Ail that she cares for
is my station and my fortune. She has not sense
enough, or refinement enough, or heart enough to
love any one. No — I cannot marry Eliza Farnham.
I should be miserable myself with such a companion,
and therefore I could not make her happy. She is
too silly to have any feeling, and she only engaged
herself to me for the sake of what women call
establishment. I wish I had never seen her. But
what excuse can I make for breaking off the marriage.
I can think of none."

Such was the perturbed soliloquy of Horace Mon-
tacute, in his first moments of grief and disappoint-
ment at finding that he had placed his affection on a
woman whose intellect and acquirements seemed to

THE LOVE LETTERS.

249

him so far below the average standard of her sex, and
whom he now felt it impossible ever again to regard
as the companion of his life. Gradually he grew
calmer, and after long and painful deliberation, he
came to the conclusion that the straightest course
was the best, and that he would write to Dr. Farn-
ham, candidly stating the truth, but in as delicate a
manner as possible. This he did by return of post;
requesting Dr. Farnham to acquaint Eliza that finding
on perusal of her letter no indications of that conge-
niality of mind and affinity of taste, without which
there cannot be happiness in married life, he had
thought it best for both parties that their engagement
should be cancelled. He therefore returned her letter,
and requested that his should be sent back to him.

We need not describe the regret and vexation of
Dr. Farnham on reading Horace Montacute's letter
and the epistle which it inclosed. And he blamed
himself for not having taken more account of the
education of his sister. It was a severe task to break
to Eliza the mortifying subject of her lover's rejection.
He consulted the old lady, whose chagrin was still
greater than his own, except that it was unmixed
with self-reproach.

" Poor thing — poor thing" — exclaimed Mrs. Farn-
ham— " how I do pity her — how she will feel. What
can be done ! — How shall we tell her! — Why did not
she take a copy of my letter? — All would have been
right then. However, I will go to her room and let
her know all about it ; for the sooner it is over the
better. It will break her heart, that's certain. She
is dressing for Mrs. Gaylove's party. But I am very
sure after such news as this, she will not be in a state
to go there or any where else. I am certain it will
cost her a long fit of sickness. I must see first if
there is plenty of arrow- root, and tapioca, and sago
in the house. Perhaps I had best tell Cato to go to
the coop and catch a fowl to-night, for I dare say
chicken-broth may be wanted fdr her to-morrow.
Poor dear girl ! — I expect she will faint dead away
the moment she reads Horace's letter. I will take
the camphor bottle with me, and also a few bed
feathers to burn under her poor nose."

At this moment, Dr. Farnham was sent for to go
immediately to a patient, and the good old lady, pro-
vided with a plentiful supply of remedies for fainting
fits, repaired to Eliza's apartment, and found her
grand-daughter before the glass, while Belinda was
fastening the back of her dress.

" Dear, dear Eliza" — said Mrs. Farnham — " I
have bad news for you. There, sit down in the easy
chair. Belinda, go out." — Belinda obeyed, but re-
mained on the other side of the door, and applied her
ear to the key hole.

Mrs. Farnham then put Horace's letter, inclosing
Eliza's own, into the hand of her grand-daughter,
who started, changed colour, and having read it over,
paused a few minutes. She then returned to the
mirror, whirled round a few steps, singing a waltz, and
proceeded to put an additional flower into her hair,
saying — " Well, grandmother, if Horace Montacute
won't have me, somebody else will — I am not the
least afraid but I shall get quite as good a match, and
perhaps a better still. I should not have had much
peace with so very particular a husband — I don't
believe we are at all suited to each other. So you
and Arthur may announce, as soon as you please,
that the engagement is broken off, and I am again
| free. It is just as common now to proclaim a break-

ing-offas an engagement. His love was very great,
to be sure, when it went entirely by letters. Yes — I
think we are best apart."

" Eliza" — said the old lady — " don't you feel
faint ?"

" Not at all, grandma'."

" No choking in your throat ?"

» Not the least."

" No sickness about your heart?"

" None whatever, grandma'."

« Perhaps you had better take a few drops of cam-
phor and water."

" What for, dear grandma'."

" Why — for fear."

" No — I hate camphor."

" Don't say that, dear — it's wicked to hate medi-
cine."

" Well, grandma' — don't be uneasy about me — I
am going to the party; and I shall have beaux enough
there to put that impertinent fellow Horace Montacute
quite out of my head. If he is to choose a wife by
her letter-writing, he had better take Katy Holloway
with her pug nose and horse-shoe mouth. I am sure
I can wish him nothing worse."

Belinda would have listened longer at the key-hole,
only that she was so impatient to communicate what
she had already heard : and hastening to the kitchen
she made her report to the other servants. Her
version of the story was, that Miss Eliza's sweet-
heart had given her up because she wrote him a bad
letter, and that the young lady did not mind it at all,
but pranced about the room, and said, " there's as
good fish in the sea as ever was caught" — and that
she had seven other beaux waiting for her at the ball-
door, and that her old sweet-heart was going right
off to marry somebody named Katy, with a horse-
shoe nose and a pug mouth."

" I guess" — added Belinda — " Miss Eliza is sorry
enough now that she did not copy more out of my
letter. But I'll just step over to Mrs. Gaylove's
kitchen, and let Venus and Diana know how things
has turned out."

Eliza Farnham came home from the ball in far
worse spirits than when she went. She had seen
many beaux, but she had made no conquest. She
went to bed, but found it impossible to sleep. Her
first emotions of resentment and bravado were now
succeeded by a deep sense of mortification ; she felt
that the loss of her lover was not such a trifle as she
had been willing to suppose, and the dawn of morn-
ing found her still awake, and in tears.

At breakfast, she looked very pale and was un-
usually silent ; and though her good grandmother,
finding that she did not eat, went to a closet and
brought her a saucer of gooseberry jelly, still nothing
could tempt her appetite, or restore her smiles.

When the old lady had left the room to give
orders for dinner, Dr. Farnham entered into a serious
conversation with his sister on the deficiency which
had led to the recent rejection of her hand by her
fastidious lover. She seemed much touched ; and her
brother obtained from her a promise that she would
set about the improvement of her mind with earnest
assiduity. He advised that she should unfailingly
devote her forenoons to reading and writing, and
relinquish the idle practice of receiving and paying
morning visits : and he proposed that she should every
day address to him a letter about something that she
had seen, heard, or read. This, he assured his sister,

250

WOMAN.

would greatly improve her in composition, and in
every thing appertaining to epistolary correspondence.
Eliza at first shrunk from the task, but her brother
urged her to persevere. It soon grew comparatively
easy, and eventually it became one of her greatest
pleasures. In a short time she began to delight in
books ; and the more she read, the more she improved
in conversation as well as in writing.

Horace Montacute received from Dr. Farnham,
by mail, his own letter to Eliza : that first and only
letter, the reply to which had produced such impor-
tant consequences. It was inclosed in a blank en-
velope, to signify that no further communication
could take place between them; the doctor feeling,
(though he did not tell her so) that his young and
inexperienced sister had been treated with too much
severity by her double-refined lover. In a few days
after the return of his first and last love-letter, Horace
Montacute embarked in one of the Havre packets,
with the resolution of spending several years in Eu-
rope. During the voyage, he found it more difficult
to banish Eliza Farnham from his mind than he had
at first supposed ; but he consoled himself for the turn
his love-affair had taken by reflecting on her absurd
and ridiculous epistle, every word of which seemed
indelibly engraven on his memory. " No" — thought
he — " all is for the best — I never could have been
happy with such an illiterate simpleton, beautiful as
she certainly is : and a man that is ashamed of his
wife had better be without one."

After passing two years on the European continent,
Horace Montacute made a second visit to London,
and there he found in the person of Mrs. Amwell (an
American lady, who, with her husband, had been
living there a twelvemonth) the ci-devant Miss Copley
at whose house in New York he had first met Eliza
Farnham. Mrs. Amwell, though formerly a very
giddy girl, devoted to dress and parties, had married
a sensible man, and now bid fair to become a sensi-
ble woman. She had seen much of Eliza shortly
before leaving America ; and our heroine had, with
many tears, confided to her friend the mortifying
cause of her estrangement from Horace Montacute.
It had been settled that the two ladies should corre-
spond regularly while separated by the Atlantic.

Montacute took an early opportunity, though with
flushed cheek and downcast eyes of inquiring after
Miss Farnham. " She was well when I last heard
from her" — answered Mrs. Amwell. " She sends

me a letter once a month, and I expect one from her
by the next arrival."

"What curious letters they must be!" — thought
Horace.

Just then Mr. Amwell came in with a smiling face,
and threw on the table half a dozen American letters.
Mrs. Amwell, having first gone through one from her
own mother, took up an epistle folded, sealed, and
directed with remarkable neatness. " Ah !" — said
she — " this is from Eliza Farnham." Montacute
felt as if he would have given worlds to look at the
inside ; and was unable to understand any thing that
Mr. Amwell was telling him about the Bank of the
United States. He was not, however, kept very long
in suspense as to Eliza Farnham's letter, for Mrs.
Amwell having hastily perused it, put it into his hand,
saying — " Mr. Montacute, there is nothing in this that
may not be seen by you."

Our hero read the missive with much emotion and
equal surprise. The hard, awkward, straggling chi-
rography had now become free, graceful, and regular:
the spelling and punctuation were perfect, the style
was easy, euphonous, and critically correct ; and the
matter sensible and entertaining. She told of her
occupations at home, and of the books she had last
read, spoke of her brother with affectionate respect,
and of her grandmother with overflowing kindness,
and descanted amusingly upon the on-dits of the
day.

Horace Montacute was charmed, enchanted, and
read the letter so often over, that Mrs. Amwell kindly
offered to make a present of it, and also showed him
from the same young lady, several others equally in-
teresting. He felt all his love for Eliza Farnham
return with redoubled warmth; or rather it was a
new and superior sort of love, based on a more secure
foundation than mere personal beauty.

In another week our hero found himself on board
one of the steam-packets; and in a fortnight he had
landed on the wharf at New York. He proceeded
immediately to Peloponnesus, made his peace with
Eliza Farnham (a task by no means difficult), and in
less than a month, the old lady was preserving a
water-melon whole to grace the centre of the supper-
table at her grand-daughter's wedding. And a few
days after that joyful event, Horace Montacute had
the happiness of introducing to his relatives a bride
whose intellectual acquirements would pass muster
even in Boston.

Written for the Lady's Book.
WOMAN.

BY O ,

MCLEAN,

The heart of woman, like the diamond, has
Light treasur'd in it. There a ray serene
Of Heaven's own sunshine evermore hath been.
And tho' each star of hope and joy may pass
Away in darkness from life's stormy sky,
If man but rightly keep that heart, he'll find
Sweet gleams of consolation there enshrined,
That will again illume his spirit's eye,
And thro' all time, and trial, and distress,

Beam on him with a constant blessedness.
Oh ! did he always love her as he should.

She never would forget him. Did he strew

Nothing but thornless flowers of kindness through
His " household ways," her happy spirit would

Gather from them love's honey like the bee,

And hive it in the cells of memory,
In after years to be his manna food,
When worn and faint in sorrow's solitude.

THE TUILERIES.

251

Written for the Lady's Book.
THE TUILERIES

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

Among the palaces that decorate the capital of France,
that of the Tuileries naturally attracts the attention
of the traveller. Stretching along the banks of the
Seine, it is connected with the Louvre, by a gallery
commenced during the reign of Henry IV., aiid com-
pleted under the auspices of Louis XIV. Three
sides of an immense parallelogram are thus formed,
and it was the intention of Bonaparte to have added
the fourth, and thus to have completed the most
magnificent edifice of the kind that modern Europe
can boast.

As the eye fixes, involuntarily, upon the central
pavilion, past scenes, and events of other days, sweep
by, like living pictures. Francis I. seems to pass by,
proudly, in his royal robes, and leaning upon his arm,
his intriguing mother, Louise of Savoy, for whom he
purchased the hotel, which originally occupied the
site of this palace, somewhat more than three centu-
ries since.

Ninety years after, we see Henry III. hurrying
from its walls, to escape a tumult of the people —
Assisted by his groom, he hastily mounts his horse,
his dress disarranged, and the spurs but half fastened
to his boots. Forty arquebusiers take aim at him, as
he passes out by the Ponte Neuve, and when he finds
himself free from the perilous neighbourhood of the
city, he turns towards it, and extends his hand, with
wrathful gestures, and imprecations of vengeance.
This reminds one of the knight of Sir Walter Scott,
the haughty Marmion, who on quitting the constrain-
ed hospitality of the Douglas Castle,

"Turned and rais'd his clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers."

We shrink, as we imagine, gliding among these
scenes, the form of the ambitious Catharine de Medi-
cis, who built, for her son's residence, this very cen-
tral pavilion, with its wings. — There, there, is the
window, from whence the infamous Charles IX. whom
his mother " Jezebel stirred up," fired upon his own
people, on the terrible August 24th, 1572, and while
the groans of the murdered Protestants were resound-
ing in his ears, continued to excite his ruffian soldiers
with the hoarse and horrible cry, of " Kill I Kill !"

At the summer solstice, two hundred and twenty
years after the massacre of St. Bartholomew, the
Tuileries again re-echoed with the howling of an
infuriated mob, and the shrieks of the dying. Throngs
of labourers, and the terrible women from the faubourg
St. Antoine, with the brewer Santerre at their head,
swelling as they passed along to twenty thousand, beat
down the gates of the palace, hewed their way through
"the doors with hatchets, trampled through the royal
apartments, brandishing their cutlasses, poles, and
knives — rifled the bureaus in the bed chambers, and
alarmed the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, with the
most disgusting and brutal threats. The king, Louis
XVI. adventured his person among the mob, and was

miraculously preserved, after enduring great rudeness
and indignity.

On the 10th of August, of this same memorable
1791, the dreadful immolation of the Swiss guards,
deluged the grand staircase, the council-chamber, the
chapel, and the throne-room with blood.

Emerging from these gates, on the 19th of March,
1815, Louis XVIII. appeared at midnight, attended
only by a few persons, and moving feebly, with sad-
ness depicted on his countenance, abdicated his palace
and his throne. Behind him was the sound of the
banners of the Corsican, rushing from Elba, and the
scarce-suppressed hosannas of a fickle crowd. In a
few hours, Bonaparte entered the Tuileries in triumph,
and seated himself on the throne of the Bourbons,
losing the memory of his exile in the long, loud ac-
clamations of " Vive PEmpereur," and in the reign
of the hundred days.

But from the exciting pageants, and awful vestiges
of the past, it is pleasant to turn, and view the palace
of the Tuileries, as it now is, the favourite residence
of a peaceful dynasty. Its spacious and splendid
apartments, when lighted up for a presentation night,
have a splendid and imposing effect. Louis Philippe,
is undoubtedly one of the most interesting of the
crowned heads of Europe, whether we consider his
native endowments, the adversity, which in early life
ripened his energies, or the firmness with which he
has surmounted the dangers that have beset his
throne. It is difficult to realize, in looking at his
florid complexion, and animation of manner, that
sixty-seven years have passed over him.

He has a peculiar tact, in addressing pleasant re-
marks to those with whom he converses, and putting
them entirely at ease. This is particularly felt, by
inhabitants of the United States, when presented to
him; for his recollections of the time spent in travel-
ling there, of the geographical localities, and of the
individuals with whom he there associated, are ex-
ceedingly correct and vivid, and he seems to recur to
them with greater pleasure, from seeing that they give
pleasure to others.

The queen is graceful, and truly polite, and her
virtues and piety are appreciated by the nation, even
by that part of it, who retain strong prejudices against
the king. Madame Adelaide, the sister of Louis
Philippe, has a countenance beaming with good feel-
ings, and her sisterly affection, which is warmly reci-
procated by her royal brother, forms a distinguishing
and prominent trait in her character. The Princess
Clementine, and the Duke of Orleans, with the younger
princes, have fine manners, and make their passing
compliments to strangers, in a dignified and agreeable
way, in which they are assisted by a perfect know-
ledge of the English language, which appertains to the
whole family. Their domestic education has been
conducted judiciously, under the careful supervision
of both parents, and has produced happy results.
Louise, the Queen of the Belgians, is exceedingly

252

AGAMEMNON AND THE PROPHETESS.

respected, and the late Princess Marie, who married
Alexander, Duke of Wirtemburg, was eminent for
native talent and taste in the fine arts, especially in
sculpture, and died deeply lamented.

The beauty of the young bride of the Duke of Ne-
mours, who was Victoria of Saxe Coburg, and has
appeared at the French court, for the first time, this
winter, is acknowledged by all. — The royal family
of France, give an amiable example of those domestic
attachments, and that true home-happiness, which
exercise so happy an influence on the character in
the period of its formation, and throughout the inter-
course of life. These have not always been indige-
nous on the soil of courts, and it is therefore the
more delightful to see them flourishing there vigor-
ously, and in alliance with the virtues.

There are few traits in -the French character,

which strike a traveller more agreeably, than the
sweet and strong affection of children for their parents.
It is obvious and delightful, among all ranks. It
reveals itself in every form of aid, assistance, or relief
from care, which a younger hand can extend to the
older and more wearied ; and in those marked and
affectionate courtesies, which are sometimes omitted,
or held in too slight regard by those whose filial
virtues are correctly rooted, and would be found active
in any great emergency. But this is an affection
which should give beauty to the intercourse of every
day, continually humbling itself, for its inadequacy to
repay in any measure that great love of a parent,
which is the best earthly emblem of that Love Divine
of which " day unto day uttereth speech, and night
unto night, showeth forth knowledge."
Paris.

Written for the Lady's Book.

AGAMEMNON AND THE PROPHETESS.

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

Cassandra.
I tell thee, pride of Argos, it shall be —
I read it on the pages of the clouds:
I hear it in the music of the winds,
That are to me like prophecy. I see
This written on the wild futurity,
That rises on me like the weary west
When storm is heralding the red-banner'd sun
Down to his setting. I see letters there,
Trac'd as by bloody types, all telling me
There is sad welcome waiting in thy halls.
It shall not be triumphal. Silence there,
With murder shall stalk forth to welcome thee.
And for the trumpet there shall come a cry
Like Death's sharp shriek at midnight. It shall be
From thine own lips — thus blowing their lone blast
To signal thy return and glory. Nay —
I tell thee 'tis thy destiny. Shako not
Thy unbelieving head — 'twill wag again
To a new impulse, ere the thin-edg'd moon
Shall gather to its roundness.

Agamemnon.

-Sorceress!

I've heard of thee. Thy madness has not rent

Always the curtain of the coming time,

So palpably, that thou could'st peep beyond,

Or credence would make service like a slave,

To much that thou would'st harbinger. To me

These notes of thy foretelling come like tones

Of a discordant music. I hear not

As if the awful harmony of truth

Master'd thy inspiration — but I hear

Only chromatic ravings, that betray

The falsehood of the fountain thou hast drank,

To waken to this fury. I can see

My welcome that now waits from palaces

And people, like a sea, to bear me on

To my queen's bosom. I can see my halls

Fling wide to listen to this tale of Troy.

Great battle, sieges, and the trumpet voice

Of strong-lung'd victory, with her countless tongues.

I heed thee not, Cassandra. Thou shalt see

A home whose arms shall open with rejoice,

And tender proud reception. Yes — thine eye

That gleams so wildly towards the Occident,

As though it could read signs there, shall melt yet

To very tears to mark the welcoming

Shall sound upon my path — the tribute song
That beauty gives to valour ! I'm not vain
To say this counter to thy prophecy —
For / claim not the valour that all Greece
Shows in these pil'd up spoils, that sink our bark
Until her gunwale kisses the green waves.

Cassandra.
I've said it — and as that moon in the west
Shall find her setting from this cloudy pomp,
Now marsh'ling her through ether, so shall thine
Come, from this glory that is round about
Thy riding from thy triumph. It shall come
In clouds and tears — in terror — and in storm.
Shall there be pity for thee ? ask the seas
To pity the lone mariner, who calls
Fur mercy on their billows. Ask the sun
To halt upon his journey, that thy doom
May not come quickly. Will it hear thy prayer?
I tell thee that thy destiny is writ
In light upon my vision. I can see
The story of thy progress, and thy end,
In plainer characters than have e'er fix'd
My gaze upon the shadow of to-come,
Since first my restless and foretelling lips
Were wetted by Apollo's. I can see
Thy Clytemnestra with a dagger come,
Hid in her robes, yet reeking from the bed
Where she fell faithless to thee. I can see
Her white hand beckon thee, while her black heart
Pants for thy leaping blood !

Cassandra ceas'd.
She spake but to a statue — for that chief
Of Argos heard not — and his spirit read
Something which through that moonlight seemed to start
With beauty, yet with terror !

It had pass'd.
The ship swung in her haven — and was heard
The sullen anchor plunging to the deep,
From which she sprang impatient erst for Troy.
Then for his palace hall with her who read
His future on the sky, the chief went up —
And Clytemnestra on that threshold stood
To welcome him — and ere his footfall rang
Upon its marble, to his bounding heart
Sprung the quick dagger — and the foaming blood
Dash'd on the pallid hand that should have wrung
His in its gladness !

THE VICTIM OF TASTE.

253

Written for the Lady's Book.
THE VICTIM OF TASTE

STORY OF REAL LIFE.

BY W. H. CRUMP.

These are the days of novelty — the days when old-
fashioned things are heralded to the world in new
names — when every shopman is magnified into an
assistant, every little store into a warehouse, every
petty dealer and chapman into a merchant — and,
more than all, acts which our forefathers used to call
high crimes and misdemeanours, are now softened
into the polite and generic term of monomania. In-
deed, to such an extent has this rage for novelty, es-
pecially in the way of terms, been carried, that men
clearly convicted of aggravated murders have been
known to get off, and even to obtain sympathy, when
their crimes were presented to the world as the me-
lancholy effects of homicidal monomania! It is not,
however, the intention of the humble writer of the
following pages to preach a homily on monomania,
but only to show that there are true and false im-
pulses ranged under that very convenient title ; and
that it should be the business of men of discrimina-
tion to distinguish between the two. The above de-
scription, so far as the murders are concerned, may
be fairly termed a description of the false monomania,
or the criminal cloak of hypocrites and villains. But
there is a true, a real monomania — the effects of
which, on whatever subject it may be directed, are
frequently as disastrous and dire to the individual
patient, as are the results of the feeling falsely so
called, to his friends and the public. I do not now
allude to the wild fancies of hypochondriasis, as
shown in such characters as " Uhomrne de verre"
of Cervantes — but to those morbid aberrations of taste,
those eccentric flights of genius, which fill the soul
to the exclusion of all besides — that are to be found
in the every day walks of life. The unhappy beings
afflicted with one or other of these forms of mono-
mania, are generally the dupes of the designing, the
butts of the malicious, the causes of wit in the satiri-
cal, the objects of pity to the philosophical, and the
torment of their friends — while they frequently termi-
nate their career, by being the successful architects
of their own ruin.

Now, of all the Protean shapes of this mental ma-
lady in modern times, there are none more common
or more ruinous, than a passion for pictures and cu-
riosities. It is a raging passion that grows with what
it feeds upon — an appetite that increases with posses-
sion— until at length it is as irresistible, furious and
craving, as the hydrophobia caused by the bite of the
rabid dog. Alas ! as noble a fellow as ever lived, the
rich and gifted George Garrow, late a merchant of
London, became a victim of this most seductive and
patrician of all passions — the desire of being consi-
dered a lover of taste,. and an admirer of vertu.

While yet in the mellow years of middle age,
George Garrow retired from the scenes of busy life,
with a fortune of £150,000. How many of his old
friends — of those who enjoyed the outpourings of his
well-stored mind in the social hour — remember him
with his amiable lady ; and no less strange than true —
VOL. XXII. — 22

his twelve comely daughters, at his beautiful villa at
Hammersmith — his rooms gorgeously furnished, his
cellars well stored with the choicest wines, and his
gardens and conservatories redolent with the fragrance
of floral glories, and the rarest exotics from all quar-
ters of the globe. Indeed, the very atmosphere of the
little paradise around his dwelling, seemed the breath
of " Araby and spicy Ind " Surely if happiness
could be said to exist beneath the skies, it was both
possessed and enjoyed by George Garrow, Esquire,
the retired London merchant, and his interesting
family. And it did exist. Kind, amiable, virtuous,
rich and benevolent — earth could offer them no en-
joyments of a higher or purer character than those
within their grasp — and for several years, Old Time
sped on his way, without clouding the bright sunshine
of their existence with the slightest gloom. Their
felicity, however, was too great to last long in this
world of sorrow, and that which seemed to open a
new source of pleasure, proved to be ultimately, the
bane of poor Garrow.

The otium cum dignitate, as Horace has it, is
certainly a very delightful thing ; and as an Italian
author (himself an idler) aptly says — there is nothing
more truly pleasurable and happy, than the dolce far
niente. Very true — all very true, so far as these
sayings go. But then, the man of the world, and the
moralist will agree, that the mind requires occupa-
tion— it must be filled with something. Now this
was precisely the case with Garrow. He had been
employed for many years in the active pursuits of
commerce, and when he retired, he frequently found
that vacuum, that yearning after something to do,
that wanting of an object in view, which often proves
a torment to even the soberest of the sons of earth
and vanity. It is the endeavour to escape from this
mental vacuity — this consciousness of self-insignifi-
cance— of being a cipher — that urges us to break
through the trammels of torpidity too rashly. Thus,
rakes are maddened into intrigue, gambling, and ruin
(a short life and a merry) — ambitious men are led
into war and crime, and scientific votaries to attempts
at discovering the longitude, which generally end in
finding the latitude of Bedlam — romantic youth to
strutting and fretting their little hour upon the stage —
politicians into parliament or a prison — authors into
hacks for booksellers — and in fine all varieties into
extravagance, eccentricity, folly, publicity and vice.

One morning, as Garrow, surrounded by his happy
family, was cracking an egg at his breakfast table,
and chatting over the news of the day, which he had
just gleaned from the morning papers, a knock was
heard at the door, and in a few minutes a servant
entered the room, and announced the name of M.
Vanini.

Garrow sent down word that he would join M.
Vanini in a few minutes in the drawing-room; or
if he had not breakfasted, he hoped M. V. would walk
up sans ceremonie, and partake of the family meal.

254

THE VICTIM OF TASTE.

Alas ! he little thought that he was inviting the evil
genius of his family and fortunes.

Vanini was soon seated at the breakfast-table,
where he developed the manners and information of
an Italian gentleman, who had been several years in
England. He apologized for having called on Gar-
row somewhat earlier than his promise of the previous
day would seem to justify, but pleaded as an excuse,
that he had promised a morning visit to the city, for
the purpose of examining a few paintings and some
statuary that had just been landed in the docks. In-
deed, he had pledged his word to Lord S , that

he would examine them with a view to add a few
specimens, if found worthy, to his lordship's unrivalled
collection. " Besides, my dear Garrow, I propose to
myself the pleasure of taking you with me."

" Willingly," replied his host. " My carriage will
be at the door at ten. We will then go into the city
together."

I know not how it is, but the very sound of title
tinkling in a lady's ears, carries with it an inexpressible
charm. And accordingly, Mrs. Garrow and the eldest
daughters thought favourably of Vanini, especially

of his acquaintance with Lord S , with whom,

judging by his conversation, he was familiarly inti-
mate. It may be, also, that they felt a secret longing
and hope, that through his means, they might be
admitted into some portion, at least, of the "charmed
circle of nobility." Their wealth entitled them to
rank with the best classes of the commoners — but
then, to be friendly with ancient, with noble families —
it was almost beyond the hitherto utmost limits of
their ambition. Such were the considerations that
doubtless passed rapidly through the minds of Mrs.
G. and her marriageable daughters, giving birth at the
same time to day dreams and golden visions, quite
fairy-landish and couleur de rose in their character.

At any rate, from that moment, Vanini was a
favoured and a welcome guest at Hammersmith.

Meanwhile Garrow and Vanini visited the docks
and merchant's warehouse in the city, where the
Italian ordered a few cases to be forwarded to the
nobleman's collection he had named. In fact, Va-
nini was an Italian gentleman of family, but like
many of his countrymen similarly situated, he was
poor. In London he was received in the highest
circles, while his acknowledged taste as a virtuoso,
rendered him an acceptable friend to noblemen who
were collecting galleries of the Fine Arts, and to

none more so than Lord S , whose collection is

justly esteemed one of the finest in the kingdom.

To this gallery, Garrow was introduced by the
wily Italian, who in the course of the morning, pre-
sented him also to the noble proprietor.

Garrow was gratified, and on his return home, his
wife and marriageable daughters were absolutely
charmed, especially when he informed them, that

Lord S would be most happy if they would visit

his gallery. They did so, and fortunately, as they
believed, the nobleman was present, and treated them
with that easy and urbane courtesy for which he is
remarkable.

The die was cast. Garrow, without any previous
knowledge of the Arts, beyond the attributes of a
good taste and tolerable sense, had become already
afflicted with the prevailing monomania. He was
now a regular picture-fancier. His very soul was
filled with the charms of his new pursuit, and the
great names of Raphael, Guido, Michael Angelo,

Rubens, and the immortal and grand Salvator Rosa,
were familiar in his mouth as household words. But
his friend Vanini would not allow him to indulge his
passion; for he adroitly found fault with almost every
picture Garrow wished to purchase, it was either
defective, doubtful, or a copy. Of course, the acknow-
ledged virtuoso Vanini, the friend of Lord S , and

the purchaser and collector for so many nobles, ex-
erted his power with effect. His word was law!
Whatever he recommended or condemned, the picture
was purchased or rejected accordingly. And it is but
justice to the Italian to record the fact, that he ob-
tained for Garrow, a few paintings of undoubted
originality and value, and as far as some £5,000 or
£6,000 would go, the walls of the beautiful villa were
decorated with gems, of the Italian, Flemish, and
English schools. Every body who knows any thing
of the " picture-phobia," must be aware that the pos-
session of a few choice paintings, like the imperial
taste of an Apician dish, only produces a desire for
more — more! The pleasing and valuable little gal-
lery at the villa, too, had attracted some attention
amongst the higher classes of les patrons des beaux
arts, and the carriage of more than one nobleman,
sometimes with his family, had been seen at the
villa. These honours delighted Mrs. G. and her
daughters, who observing that the paintings were
magnets that attracted now and then the glittering
presence of a coronet, they also became imaginary
lovers of the arts, and although actuated by different
motives from Garrow, they still joined in the cry and
the wish of more — more !

Thus every thing went well for a season. Gar-
row's fortune was not materially impaired by the in-
dulgence of his taste, and his new pursuit introduced
both himself and family into a delightful and refined
circle of society.

The wily Italian, however, who had watched the
course of this victim of taste, now thought that the
moment had arrived that would prove propitious for
a master-stroke of policy — a grand coup — which he
wisely reasoned must be struck " now or never" —
while Garrow had the power of the fatal fascination
full upon him. He therefore informed Garrow, that
he knew of one or two little collections of immense
value upon the continent, which could, he thought,
he purchased — purchased too, at prices far below
their real value; and that the happy owner of these
" gems," would be in the possession of a gallery that
would be the envy of all London. He said that he
did not recommend these paintings merely as the
ornaments of a private gallery, but as a matter of
speculation, and that when the collection was com-
plete, there would be several hundred paintings, all
by the greatest masters both ancient and modern —
all originals of the highest character. These, he
advised, were to be placed in some spacious public
saloon at the West End, and opened for exhibition.
He nothing doubted, that such a petit Louvre would
be thronged from morning to evening, with all the
dilletanti of London and the country — thus yielding
a large return for the outlay — while now and then,
single pictures might be sold at enormous prices.
He instanced the Dulwich and National Galleries, as
proofs of the powerful attraction of the Fine Arts in
England, and he concluded by declaring that the
collection he contemplated, would equal either, and
in some particulars, eclipse both.

Garrow's imagination was fairly dazzled and in-

THE VICTIM OF TASTE.

255

flamed. Morning, noon, and night, he thought of
little else than the projected gallery — the admiration
of London — the wonder of England — the envy of all
the wealthy and the noble, who delighted in les beaux
arts '. Besides — in the scheme contemplated, enjoy,
ment was mingled with gain, pleasure with business,
and the most exalted delight of the fancy would con-
tribute to worldly fortune, and therefore be sanction-
ed by common sense. The Italian, too, wary in his
approach, artful and insidious in his flattery, contrived
in the most agreeable and seductive manner to add
fuel to the flame.

It was in vaia that those false and hypocritical
knaves — those thrice-perjured miracles of fraud, the
picture-dealers of London, came to the villa with
their usual cant about a " genuine Rubens, obtained
under very singular circumstances" — a veritable " Ge-
rard Dow, sent over by a nobleman who wanted
money, from the continent for sale" — an " inimitable
Murillo, obtained by an officer from a convent, in the
Spanish war," &c. &c. &C. A deaf ear was turned
to all these glowing temptations, and the very busi-
ness of life ; nay, almost life itself, with wife, children,
and friends, were absorbed or forgotten in the raging
mania with which Garrow was now afflicted for the
new gallery. He could scarcely eat, drink, or sleep,
for thinking of the tasteful glories of the collection
recommended by the Italian. And then, not only
the pleasure, the fame, and the reputation for a refined
taste — but the profit !

There are many readers who have doubtless felt
in themselves, or contemplated in others, this rage
for the possession of paintings and statuary. To such
the writer of this sketch need not say, that the picture
of poor Garrow's monomania is by no means over-
drawn. The colouring is faithful, for the disease is
so common in England, that the eccentricity is a
mere every day affair. The fascination, however, is
fatal to fortune and to peace of mind, while it is at
once the most elegant and seductive in the world.

This being the frame of mind which had become
a portion of Garrow's very existence, Vanini having
performed the part of a skilful sapper and miner, now
waxed bolder in his approaches, and found no diffi-
culty in prevailing upon his friend, as he termed him,
to commission him, (Vanini,) to repair to the conti-
nent and make the much desired purchases. And
sad to relate, he furnished him with a carte blanche,
to draw on him for the necessary amounts.

Imagine Vanini on his travels — the pictures pur-
chased— sums amounting in all to nearly ninety
thousand pounds drawn for — the vessels arrived with
their precious freight — a saloon engaged in Bond
street — the paintings, the unrivalled paintings arrang-
ed, and the gallery complete !

The usual routine of newspaper notices, and " puffs
preliminary" had set the world of taste and vertu on
the qui vive. The new collection was bruited abroad
by Fame with her hundred tongues, as wonderful —
every specimen a rarity — and as a whole, matchless
for its extent ! According to immemorial usage in
these matters, a private view was to be given to a
few of the chief patrons of the arts in the kingdom,
whose good opinions would prove not only a letter
of introduction, but a positive law to the public. The
auspicious day for this private exhibition at length
arrived. Garrow had passed more than one sleepless
night, in day-dreams and expectations of that ecstatic
enjoyment, which none but virtuosi and dilletanti

know or can appreciate, when the fruits of their labours
and study in selection are admired and favourably
spoken of by men of acknowledged taste and judg-
ment. Lord S , with the Marquess G ,

those well-known patrons, with a few friends entered.
Garrow, with his dear friend Vanini, after ushering
them into the saloon, retired to a distant recess,
partly for the purpose of permitting an unbiassed ex-
ercise of the judgment, and partly (so far, at least,
as Garrow was concerned,) of enjoying the delight
and surprise which he nothing doubted, would soon
be displayed by the two noblemen and their friends.
Every look, every motion, every expression, either
by countenance or gesture, was narrowly watched by
the expectant Garrow. But, alas ! not one smile
lighted up the faces of the noblemen — and after saun-
tering about the gallery for an hour or so, they evi-
dently watched an opportunity to leave, while Garrow
was in a part of the saloon, where he would not be
likely to recognise their departure, in time to follow
and engage them in conversation. The movement,
however, did not escape his Argus eyes. — A damp
fell upon his heart — a chill oppressed his very soul,

when he noticed that Lord S and the Marquess

left in a manner which, from motives of delicacy, was
evidently intended to avoid inflicting unnecessary pain
upon his feelings. Vanini only looked and expressed
astonishment at what he called an unaccountable
want of taste, but poor Garrow looked the very pic-
ture of despondency. His £90,000 were gone, and
his gallery of paintings was evidently considered by
the two Lords who ruled the taste of the town in
such matters, to be trashy and worthless. Still,
however, he was resolved to be satisfied, and on the
following day he called with a palpitating heart, yet
not without hope, upon his two noble friends. On
asking their frank opinion, they both informed him,
and with feelings of regret and sympathy, that he had
been imposed upon, and that all or nearly all the
pictures were old, well disguised, and well-executed
copies '.

Thus, in a moment, all his fond hopes and visions
were dashed to the ground. Could it be possible that
Vamni bad deceived him ? Had he bought the pic-
tures really at lower prices than he had charged his
employer ? Or, was he, in fact, not the judge he had
been represented, and purchased copies for originals?
But here, self-love came to his aid, and like most
men who have been the dupes of their own morbid
fancies, he was unwilling to believe, either that others
had imposed upon him, or that he had imposed upon
himself. No — no ! It was impossible. The two
lords were mistaken. He would speak to them no
more on the subject — which by the bye, was about
the only wise resolution he adopted — for it was clear
that they would not risk their reputation for taste and
judgment in the arts, by pronouncing a collection valu-
able and rare, which was, in point of fact, inferior.

Still, every thing went wrong. It was in vain
that this, that, and the other picture in the gallery
was represented as unrivalled — in vain that the Ita.
lian attended personally, and pointed out what he
called the master-touches, the beauties that were only
to be found in the highest walks of art. The col-
lection wanted the one thing needful — namely, the
seal of approval by the best judges in the kingdom —
without which, that pliant animal, the public — who
in all such matters form a sort of " tail," like O'Con-
nell's, after the fashionable and the great— would not

256

THE VICTIM OF TASTE.

condescend to patronize the exhibition. In a word,
it \va3 slighted by every artist and connoisseur in
town, and soon sunk into such complete insignifi-
cance, that the receipts did not amount to sufficient
to pay the rent, doorkeepers, and printing — while the
pictures themselves, on the principle of " give a dog
an ill name and he will be hung" — were unsaleable
at any price worthy of acceptance. Thus had poor
Garrow knocked down about £100,000. Instead of
his once cheerful face — he looked gloomy and discon-
tented ; and his wife and daughters restless and un-
happy. The wily Italian had stolen, like the serpent
of old, into the Garden of Eden, and destroyed the
peace of the family at the villa — for ever !

Philosophers say that the eye is never satisfied ;
thus proving that the great master of the Roman
lyre, was not altogether right in his famous couplet.
Just so was it with Garrow. Though more than
half ruined and entirely unhappy — though either the
error, ignorance, or knavery of the Italian was made
bare to the daylight — still, still his fatal monomania
increased. His eye was not satisfied — and had he
possessed half the pictures in the world, he would
have longed for more. Now too, a new or rather a
superadded passion seized him — namely, a craving
for curiosities, relics, antiquities, and specimens of
vertu — from the Nile, from Palestine, from Mexico,
from Pompeii and Herculaneum, from Rome, and
from the ancient monastic edifices and museums of
Europe. True, he argued — " I have about £50,000
left — enough to live on handsomely. But I will re-
cover by a Museum what I have lost by pictures.
The curiosities I can purchase. United with my
paintings, they will be irresistible." His evil genius
was ready to prompt this new-born scheme. The
devil is at most men's left elbows when mischief is
to be done, and Vanini — gloating, perhaps, on the
remainder of his friend's noble fortune, was at his left
elbow — ready at a word, a nod — to ransack the con-
tinent for curiosities. Will it be believed that poor
Garrow could have been so blind as to have yielded
to his own eccentricity, united to his very good friend,
the Italian's advice ? Yet such was his infatuation,
that like the losing gambler he became desperate and
reckless. His downward career sped onward with
an accelerated force — thousands were lavished upon
baubles and trifles, covered with the rust and dust,
genuine or fictitious, of bygone ages — and all were
ready for packing and embarkation to London, from
the port of Hamburg.

That which begins in folly, often ends in crime.
Thus was it with Garrow. As he found his ample
means diminish, he condescended to the practice of a
fraud — at the suggestion, of course, that comes from
the ever ready friend at the left elbows of all mankind.
He was prevailed upon to attempt smuggling his col-
lection of rarities into England, and the device sug-
gested was of so very ingenious a character, that he
thought it could not fail of success. A cargo of ma-
hogany was consigned from Hamburgh to his old
firm, in which his brothers were at the time partners;
and the large logs were hollowed out, and filled with
the curiosities he had bought. The ends were then
closed up, and with such accuracy, that it was im-
possible for any person not knowing the deception,
to have detected it. And thus the articles for the
Museum were put on board, and soon under way for
London.

Whenever a man engages or entangles himself

with smugglers or any other breakers of the law — he
should remember that he is surrounded by traitors,
any one of whom will betray him to advance their
own interests. Who it was that gave the information
to the officers of the English Custom House, never
transpired, but certain it is, that the plan was be-
trayed, and the whole of the mahogany was seized
in the king's name, as it was deposited in front of his
brothers' warehouses. The firm in which his bro-
thers were concerned, soon convinced the authorities
that they were both ignorant and innocent of the
fraud ; which was plainly traced home to poor Gar-
row. The blow was too heavy for him to bear. Not
only were the goods forfeited, but he was prosecuted
in the Exchequer, and fined to double or treble the
money he was worth. His friends left him — his
wife and children passed their days in grief and un-
availing tears — his home was soon a desolation ; for
his villa, furniture, and all his paintings were seized
by order of the Crown — his reason staggered beneath
the mighty, sweeping and sudden ruin, and he sunk
into hopeless poverty, despondency, wretchedness and
despair.

One little glimmering of light and hope, and one
alone, beamed upon his heart, and his now humble
dwelling. His uncle Peter, a clergyman of the
North of England, died and left £10,000 to his
widow and children; but entirely out of Garrow's
power, from a fear that it would be squandered in the
follies of elegance and taste. Still this cheering re-
lief brought no consolation to his wounded spirit.
The only comfort he derived in his affliction, was
from the affectionate care and tenderness of his wife
and children, and that refuge for the smitten — Re-
ligion— the bright promises of which glowed the
more beautifully, the nearer he approached to a ter-
mination of his earthly career. To the latest hour
of his life, he retained his love of the arts ; and he
amused his leisure and relieved his sorrows, by gazing
on the glories of Italy and Flanders. A " bit of
Berghem" — " a charming specimen of Vandyck" —
" what a magnificent Murillo !" — " see that stormy,
grand and wild Salvator Rosa, with its broad, deep
lights and shadows!" — "how tender is that Rapha-
el!"— "how sublime, yet, soft is yonder Guido !" —
were expressions that ever and anon escaped from
him, both at public exhibitions and in his own house.
They proved the ruling passion strong in death. His
wasted form fleeted about his old haunts for many
months, as a shadow of departed worth — withered
by a ruined fortune and a blighted name.

He died of a broken heart about a year after the
seizure of his property ; and the latest intelligence of
his family, stated that they were living in retirement
but in comfort.

And what became of the wily Italian friend — Va-
nini? Reader, if thou shouldst visit Brompton, and
inquire — " to whom do yonder beautiful villa and
gardens belong?" — thou wilt be told — Vanini. The
Italian friend of George Garrow, lives there, in
wealth and splendour !

A youth, introduced suddenly into life, feels as
awkwardly as one immersed for the first time in
water; and the chances are that he sinks as soon.

No entertainment is so cheap as reading, nor any
pleasure so lasting.

THE FIRST BLOOD OF THE REVOLUTION.

257

Written for the Lady's Book.
TO ONE BELOVED

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

Dost thou not turn,
Fairest and sweetest, from the flowery way,
On which thy feet are treading every day,

And seek to learn
Tidings, sometimes, of him who loved thee well —
More than. his pen can write or tongue can tell?

Gaze not thine eyes
(Oh, wild and lustrous eyes, ye were my fate !)
Upon the lines he fashioned, not of late,

But when the skies
Of joyvvere over him, and he was blessed
That he could sing of treasures he possessed?

Treasures more dear
Than gold in ingots or barbaric piles
Of pearls and diamonds— thy most precious smiles!

Bring, bring me here,
Oh ruthless Time, some of those treasures now,
And print a hundred wrinkles on my brow.

Make me grow old
Before my years are many — take away
Health, youth, ambition — let my strength decay,

My mind be sold
To be the slave of some strange, barren lore —
Only those treasures to my heart restore I

Ah, I implore
A boon that cannot be, a blessing flown
Unto a realm so distant from my own

That, could I soar
On eagle's wings, it still would be afar
As if I strove by flight to reach a star!

The future vast
Before me lifts majestic steeps on high,
Which I must stand upon before I die!

For, in the past
Love buried lies; and nothing lives but Fame
To speak unto the coming age, my race and name.

Written for the Lady's Book.
THE FIRST BLOOD OF THE REVOLUTION.

BY SEE A SMITH,

Two-thirds of a century have passed away since our
fathers stood up in their might to throw off the yoke
of British oppression. And now that they have gone
down to the grave, how few among us understand or
realize the stern difficulties they encountered, and the
severe hardships they endured, in those days that tried
men's souls. We look into the pages of history in-
deed, and feel a glow of patriotism as we read their
heroic achievements, shed a tear of gratitude that our
country was blessed with the wisdom, the labors, and
the goodness of Washington, and perhaps bestow an
indignant smile upon the folly and madness of Lord
North. But we do not look upon those days and
those scenes as our fathers looked upon them. We
see them as through a glass darkly ; they beheld them
face to face.

Let us for a few moments go back to those memora-
ble times, and stand side by side with our fathers, and
our mothers too, and see with what determined and un-
subdued spirits they beheld the dark clouds of oppres-
sion settling upon them. Let us walk with them in
their fields, and sit with them by their firesides, and
see how those iron men bared their bosoms to every
shaft of oppression, and how those patriotic women
cheered them on by their zealous co-operation and
patient endurance.

On the eleventh of May, 1774, toward the close of
the day, Mr. Jonathan Buker, of Lexington, in the
Province of Massachusetts Bay, came riding up to his
house with a speed somewhat more rapid than was
his usual habit, dismounted, drew the saddle and bridle
22*

from his horse, and instead of hanging them up, as
he was generally careful to do, he threw them into the
shed and entered the house. His two sons, Joshua
and Levi, with their round jackets hanging upon the
rail fence, and their shirt sleeves rolled up to the el-
bows, were occupied in ploughing a potatoe patch a
few rods from the door, and seeing the arrival of their
father, they left the plough in the furrow and went in.
Mrs. Buker was sitting with an apron full of fox-
berry leaves, which her little daughter had just brought
from the woods, and which she was picking over for
tea.

" That's right," said Mr. Buker, " make much of
the foxberry leaves, for it'll be a long time, I guess,
before we shall have any thing to do with India tea
again."

" Why, has any thing more happened in Boston ?"
said Mrs. Buker; "is there any more news from
home ?"

" Yes, the Parliament has been at its dark dirty
work again," said Mr. Buker ; " they mean to make
us all hewers of wood and drawers of water here in
the colonies to support them in their idleness at home.
But let 'em go on ; let 'em try their worst ; they'll
find before they get through, that the people of these
colonies wern't made to be slaves."

"Well, what is it?" said Mrs. Buker; "do let us
hear ; telling out wont make it no worse."

« They have passed an act," said Mr. Buker, " to
shut up the harbor of Boston, and stop all vessels
from going in or out there to trade. Not a single

258

THE FIRST BLOOD OF THE REVOLUTION.

dollar's worth of goods can be brought in or carried it wouldn't be best for the Boston folk3 to make any

out of Boston by water after the first day of next resistance to the act, but let it go into operation, and

month. The Boston folks are in a sad pickle about it would do more to unite the colonies in one firm

it, and don't know what to do, nor which way to turn, band to maintain their rights, than any thing that's

It'll be all the same as shutting of 'em up to starve ever happened. You could'nt do Nathan any good,

to death, for they can't live there if their trade is all if you was to go down to Boston. He'll be out

st opt; they must all suffer and die in a heap, or leave here to see us soon after the port bill, as they call it,

the place. Some of 'em are for giving right up, and goes into effect ; for all business '11 be stopt, and he

letting Parliament have their own way, if they'll only wont have any thing else to do. But he's got two

let their trade go on. But most of 'em say, no, vessels ready to load, and he wants to get 'em loaded

they'll die first." and off before the first of June. I'm afraid he'll

" Well, I hope they'll stick to that," said Joshua, have a tough match to do it, for eveiy body was

colouring deeply ; " I hope they'll resist that act of round yesterday, after the news come, to engage all

Parliament to the but's end; I'm ready for one to go the help they could find. I promised to send Joshua

and help 'em fight it out." and Levi down to-morrow, with the cart and oxen,

" Oh dear, I hope it'll never come to that," said to help him till he gets his vessels loaded."
Mrs. Buker, with a heavy sigh, " but if it should, I'd In the midst of this conversation, Miss Triphenia

rather see my children die, standing up for their rights, Buker, or Trify, as the family usually called her, who

than to see 'em live to become the slaves of the king had been on an errand to one of the neighbours half

and Parliament." a mile distant, came in, full of the news from Boston,

" What is it ?" said the trembling voice of old Mr. and with almost breathless earnestness said,

Ichabod Buker, the grandfather, who was seated by
the open window with a pipe in his mouth, his white
locks gently waving in the wind. He had become

" Mr. Niles has jest got home, and says Boston is
all in an uproar, because the harbour is going to be
shet up in two or three weeks, and he's got to go right

too deaf to hear much of ordinary conversation, but back to-morrow with his team, to work for his bro-

his sharp black eye was still undimmed, and he had ther a fortnight; and Miss Niles says she shall be

watched the countenances of the family till he was dreadful lonesome, and wants mother to come over

sure something of unusual interest was the topic of the first, day she can, and spend the afternoon with

conversation. " What is it ?" said the old man, bend- her."

ing his head forward, and placing his hand behind his
ear.

Levi approached his grandfather to answer his
eager inquiry, and putting his mouth close to his ear,
told him in a loud voice, that " Parliament had passed
an act to shut up the harbor of Boston."

" What ?" said the old man, drawing his head back
and turning his eyes upon Levi — " shet up the har-
bor of Boston ? How are they going to work to do
that ?"

" Why, they've passed an act," said Levi, " that
there sha'n't be any more vessels go in or out of Bos-
ton harbor to trade after the first day of next month ;
and they are going to send over their ships of war
and soldiers to put the act in force."

" Well, well, if it comes to that," said the old man,

" Well, I guess I sha'n't go," said Mrs. Buker,
rather decidedly.

" Why not ?" said Mr. Buker, looking a little sur-
prised; "you always used to be rather fond of going
to see Miss Niles. What's turned up now ?"

" Well, nothin in particular," said Mrs. Buker ;
" only I don't feel as if I cared much about seeing of
her."

At this moment, Mr. Buker glanced at his daugh-
ter Trify, and a smile was playing over her face, that
seemed to look as though she knew something more
about her mother's reasoning in the matter, than had
been conveyed in the reply just given. He turned
again to his wife, and renewed his expostulations.

" Now, mother," said he, " I know something has
happened, jest as well as can be, and I insist upon

" I shall have to try once more in my old age to see knowing what's broke out between Miss Niles and
if I can handle a musket. I don't spose I could walk you.'"

to Boston, but I could ride down in the wagon, and
if Boston is invaded I will go."

As he finished this sentence, he rose from his
chair, struck his staff upon the floor with considerable
energy, and directed his tottering steps to the other

1 Well, it's nothin at all in the world," said Mrs.
Buker, " only I strongly expect Miss Niles drinks
boughten tea, and if I knew she did, I'd never set
my foot in her house again."

" If that's the case," said Mr. Buker, " it's so

corner of the room, where the family group were seated, much the stronger reason why you ought to go and

" Jonathan," said he, " aint all the country going see her, and find out the truth about it. If it's a

down to help Boston, if the Parliament sends over fact that she does drink India tea, it's our duty to

troops to shet up the harbor ? I'm eighty-one year report her to the committee, and let 'em make an

old, but as old as I be, if it comes to that I'll go my- example of her. But what makes you think she

self. My eyesight's good yet, and I can take aim as drinks tea ?"

well as ever I could, and though I couldn't march " Why, the two last times I was over to their

about after an enemy much, I could set in your bro- house, I smelt boughten tea, if ever I smelt it in my

ther Nathan's store, and fire out of his back window, life. They were jest done supper ; and says I, Miss

which you know looks right out upon the harbor. Niles, what do you drink for tea, now? She colour-

What does Nathan say about it 1 Dont he want me ed a little, and says she, some of us drink sage, and

to come right down ?" some of us drink foxberry. But I could smell the

" O, no, father; you are too old and feeble to take boughten tea then, and it gave me such a hankering

any part in these things. You ought to try to keep after it, I didn't get over it for two days. And last

quiet, and not let yourself get excited about them, week, when the parson was coming to take tea with

Besides, there wont be any fighting to be done at us, I sent over and borrowed Miss Niles' block tip

present. Nathan says, Mr. Samuel Adams told him teapot, because mine had the nose melted off; and

THE FIRST BLOOD OF THE REVOLUTION.

259

when I raised it out, as true as you're alive, Mr.
Buker, there was a fair leaf of boughten tea come
out of the nose. I showed it to Trify, and she knew
it in a minute. I thought. then I wouldn't say nothin
about it, for I was in hopes our troubles with Parlia-
ment was going to be settled pretty soon. But since
they've broke out anew, and things is growing worse
and worse, I won't try to screen her no longer. If
she will drink tea in such times as these, the com-
mittee ought to know it."

" That's right," said her husband, " now you talk
. like a Buker. I hope you'll follow up Miss Niles
till she's fairly brought to justice. The boys will
have to be off to-morrow morning, and I shall go
again myself the next day, after I've seen to putting
things to rights a little here at home ; and then you'll
have a good chance for a week or two, to watch
Miss Niles. I'd go over and spend the afternoon
with her, and see if you can find out the truth of the
matter."

The next morning, by sunrise, Joshua and Levi
were on the road to Boston, with the cart and oxen,
and the day after they were followed by their father
on horseback. The very same afternoon, Mrs. Buker,
whose patriotism would not let her rest, called on
her two neighbours, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hill, to
go over with her and spend the afternoon with Mrs.
Niles. On the way, Mrs. Buker revealed confiden-
tially to Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hill her suspicions
with regard to Mrs. Niles, at which both of those
ladies uttered an exclamation of patriotic horror, and
declared if that were the case, she ought to be ex-
posed at once. On their arrival, Mrs. Niles said she
was dreadful glad to see them, for she was awful
lonesome, and she took them right into the " fore-
room" where they had a couple of hours of very
comfortable chat. Their conversation naturally
turned upon the gloomy state of public affairs and
the important crisis that seemed inevitably approach-
ing. Mrs. Buker said she verily believed a war would
4>ome of it yet, for she didn't think the colonies would
• ever give up to Parliament, and for her part she
hoped they never would. She had rather wear home-
made gowns and drink foxberry tea as long as she
lived, than to leave her children under a yoke of
bondage to Parliament. Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hill
said that wa3 their opinion exactly, and appealed to
Mrs. Niles for her sentiments. Mrs. Niles said, " as
for home-made gowns she had jest as lieve wear 'em
as not, or any thing else the committee might tell her
to wear : but she must confess it was a dreadful trial
for her to do without tea. There was such a comfort
in a good strong dish of shushon, she did wish the
committee would take off the restriction on it." The
other ladies here glanced at each other with such sig-
nificant looks, that Mrs. Niles coloured. She left the
room for a short time, and presently returned and
invited the ladies into the other room to supper. In
a few moments they were seated round a snug table
bountifully supplied with substantial farmer comforts.
On the centre stood a large plate of wheat biscuit,
made from flour as white as snow, and baked to a
delicate brown, that rendered them at once crispy and
delicious. This plate was flanked on one side by
another of smaller dimensions holding a generous
slice of fresh sweet butter, and on the other by a
corresponding plate of rich new-milk cheese ; while
farther advanced toward the outskirts of the table,
smoked a couple of custard pies, warm from the oven,

and glowing with all the richness that milk and eggs
could give.

" Well, there," said Mrs. Brown, as she divided a
biscuit, and placed a piece of butter upon the warm
surface, " how is it you make your biscuit so nice ?
— Seems to me they are the nicest that I ever see."

"They are beautiful," said Mrs. Hill, "perfectly
beautiful."

Mrs. Buker gave her testimony to the same point
adding an extra compliment to the cheese. In the
mean time Mrs. Niles had filled her tea-cups and
placed them before her guests. Mrs. Brown and Mrs.
Hill almost simultaneously took a sip ; but Mrs. Bu-
ker raised her cup only half way to her mouth, when
she suddenly stopt, looked at it for a moment, and
then returned it to the table. Mrs. Brown and Mrs.
Hill each took another sip, a little deeper and more
scrutinizing than the first.

" Why, this isn't foxberry," said Mrs. Brown, " nor
sage neither."

" So it seems to me," said Mrs. Hill ; and both of
those ladies took another very deliberate sip.

" Now, Mrs. Niles," said Mrs. Brown, " you haint
been a giving us boughten tea, have you ?"

" I shouldn't think you would need to ask, after
drinking half a cup full," said Mrs. Buker. " For my
part I could tell it clear across the room by the
smell."

" Well, to tell the truth," said Mrs. Niles, " it is as
good a dish of shushon as I could make."

This direct avowal of her guilt by Mrs. Niles,
drew from the other three ladies an exclamation of
extreme horror.

" Why, Mrs. Niles," said Mrs. Buker, '< how do
you dare to break over the rules of the committee in
this way ? Why, you'll jest as true be published in
the papers as a traitor to the cause of the country as
you're alive."

" I don't think so," said Mrs. Niles, very calmly.
" Oh, you certainly will," said all the ladies at
once ; " folks will find it out if you go on in this way,
and you'll certainly be exposed and published in the
papers."

" Well, I'm not afraid of it," said Mrs. Niles.
" Why not ?" said Mrs. Buker ; " I think it's high
time you was."

" Because I haven't broke over any of the rules of
the committee," said Mrs. Niles, firmly. " We had
ten pounds of this tea in the house when the rules
against buying and using India tea was first publish-
ed. And you know families were allowed to use up
what they had in the house. I would do as much, and
undergo as much for the cause of the country as any
body; I would not only live without tea, where it
would do any good, but without bread too. Yes, I
would live on one potatoe a-day, and work day and
night, as long as my strength would hold out, before
I'd have the colonies give up to Parliament, and let
'em tax us and take away jest what they'd a mind to
from us. I've no notion of buying any more tea till
these troubles are settled; but as we have this in the
house we may as well drink it once in a while and
take the comfort of it, and give a cup to our friends
when they come to see us, as to let it lay and lose its
strength and be wasted. So now, ladies, jest drink
up your tea, and not worry any more about it."

This lucid and frank exposition of the matter
greatly relieved the consciences of Mrs. Niles' visit-
ers, and they all began to sip their tea and praise its

260

THE FIRST BLOOD OF THE REVOLUTION.

delicious flavor. Even Mrs. Buker said she didn't
think she ever drank a better cup of tea in her life.
After taking five cups apiece, all round, the warmth of
their patriotism greatly increased, and they spent an
hour in discussing the affairs of the colonies with great
earnestness and volubility, and promising to come
again in a very few days- and get another cup of Mrs.
Niles' good shushon, the visiters bade her good night
and departed.

What occurred for the next fortnight, or how often
these good ladies visited Mrs. Niles to help her keep
her good shushon from spoiling, our history does not
very fully record. Mr. Buker did not return home till
the second day of June, having remained in Boston with
his two sons to assist his brother Nathan in making
such arrangements in his business as the time would
allow before the Port Bill went into operation. His
neighbour Brown saw him ride up to the door, and
immediately came over to inquire the news.

" Well," said Mr. Brown, " how does things look
down to Boston ? Did they let the Port Bill go into
operation yesterday ?"

" Yes," said Mr. Buker, " there wasn't any oppo-
sition made to it, nor no disturbance ; but it's a sad
time there, I can tell ye. Every body seems to feel
as though there was dreadful times ahead. It seemed
more like Sunday there yesterday, than any thing else.
The bells tolled, and the day was kept as a fast ; and
the papers said nearly all the colonies had appointed
the same day to be kept as a public fast, on account of
the Port Bill."

" And so we've got a new Governor, too, hav'n't
we ?" said Mr. Brown. " Well, I hope he's a better
one than Hutchinson was. What do folks think of
Governor Gage ?"

" Oh, he's only making things worse and worse,"
said Mr. Buker. " When the General Court met in
Boston, a week ago, yesterday, they nominated twenty-
eight Counsellors, and sent the names in to the Go-
vernor, and he cut off thirteen of 'em, right off slap,
and the best ones among 'em too ; all them that had
been most arnest in standing up for the rights of the
colonies. He cut off Mr. Bowdoin, and Mr. Win-
throp, and Mr. James Otis, and Mr. John Adams,
and sich as them."

" Well, how did the General Court stan that ?"
said Mr. Brown ; " I think it was using of 'em rather
shabby."

" They wouldn't stan it no how," said Mr. Buker.
" They said if the new Governor was going to try to
go that gate, he might go it alone for all them, and
they wouldn't touch to nominate another single coun-
sellor ; and they didn't. And then the Governor got
mad, and adjourned the General Court to meet at
Salem the seventh day of this month."

According to the intimation here given, the Ge-
neral Court of the Province of Massachusetts Bay
did meet at Salem on the 7th of June, 1774, and
their first act was the appointment of a committee
to take into consideration the state of the Province.
The leading spirits of this ancient Province had made
up their minds that a crisis had arrived in public
affairs, which required the adoption of something
more than half-way measures. They determined to
make a bold effort to unite the colonies in firm and
uncompromising opposition to the unjustifiable and
oppressive encroachments of Parliament. In short,
they resolved that the General Court should, in its
legislative capacity, recommend a Congress of Dele-

gates from all the colonies to be holden at Philadel-
phia, to consult on measures for the public good.
But how should this be accomplished ? The propo-
sition would be new and startling to most of the
members. It would not do to go into a public dis-
cussion of the subject, for Governor Gage would at
once exercise his authority and dissolve the House.
The thing must be kept entirely from his ears and
the ears of his partisans. Samuel Adams and James
Warren were on the committee appointed to consider
the state of the Province. Their report was prepared,
recommending a Continental Congress to be holden
at Philadelphia on the first of September. These two
indefatigable and sturdy rebels held secret conversa-
tions with the individual members, whom it would do
to trust, explained to them the whole matter, and
canvassed the subject till they were sure a majority
of the members were prepared to accept their report
at once, without discussion. In order to avoid any
possibility of delay in the House, they had made all
the arrangements for appointing the Delegates to the
Congress, had calculated the amount of the expenses,
and pointed out the means for defraying the charges.

At length, every thing being in readiness, the com-
mittee on the state of the Province announced that
they had a report to make to the House. It was
immediately voted that the report should be read
with closed doors, and that no person should be per-
mitted to enter or leave the House during the read-
ing. When so much of the report had been read as
to render its tenor obvious, a tool of the Governor
feigned to be seized with sudden illness, and under
that plea was permitted to leave the house. He
hastened immediately to the Governor and informed
him what was going on. Whereupon that distin-
guished functionary ordered his Secretary to fly with
all possible speed to the house and proclaim it at
once dissolved. In breathless haste the Secretary
reached the door, and found it locked. He knocked,
and called aloud for entrance in the name of the
Governor, but nobody regarded his call. Unable to
obtain admission, he at last read his proclamation
of dissolution to the doorkeeper, and retired. He then
went into the council chamber and read it to the mem-
bers of the Council, and proclaimed the General Court
dissolved. But it was too late; the deed had been
done ; the report of the committee had been accepted,
and rebellion had successfully raised its head in the
legislative assembly.

From this time the breach between Gen. Gage and
his rebellious subjects grew wider and wider. He
fortified Boston neck, at that time the only avenue to
the town by land, and kept a guard upon it, who
constantly annoyed the inhabitants by vexatious in-
terruptions and questions whenever going out or re-
turning to town. The great sufferings of the people
of Boston, in consequence of the suspension of all
their business, sufferings not confined to them alone,
but felt through the whole colony, and in all parts
of the country that had any dealings with Boston,
aroused the whole country to the height of indigna-
tion, and hastened to prepare it for the great crisis
that was approaching.

All the colonies, except Georgia, being twelve out
of thirteen, followed the recommendation of the Mas-
sachusetts General Court, and appointed Delegates
to a general Congress, which met at Philadelphia on
the 5th of September, 1774. The proceedings of this
distinguished and memorable body were worthy to

THE FIRST BLOOD OF THE REVOLUTION.

261

receive, and have received, the admiration of the
world. They asserted the rights of the colonies
boldly, clearly, and temperately, pointed out their
grievances, and resolved that they should be redressed.
Their proceedings infused new life and new energies
into the people. Their recommendations were strict-
ly and enthusiastically obeyed, even in those colonies
where all other authorities seemed to be disregarded.
The local authorities in many places were entirely
broken up, and the several colonies began to form
Provincial Congresses for the regulation of their in-
ternal affairs. In Massachusetts the people deter-
mined to hold a Provincial Congress on the 15th of
October. In the hope of preventing the meeting of
this Congress, General Gage issued a proclamation
calling on the members of the General Court to meet
at Salem on the 5th. But becoming alarmed at the
aspect of affairs, and fearing the General Court would
be too much for him to manage, he issued another
proclamation on the 4th, declaring the Court dissolv-
ed. The members, however, met on the 5th and
decided that the last proclamation of the Governor
was illegal. They resolved themselves into a Provin-
cial Congress, chose John Hancock for President,
and adjourned to meet at Cambridge on the 17th of
the same month. At the adjourned meeting they
voted that one fourth part of the militia should be
drafted and held as minute men. They appointed
a committee of safety, and another of supplies, and
directed them to procure military stores sufficient for
an army of twelve thousand men.

On the 1st of Feb. 1775, the Massachusett's Con-
gress met again at Cambridge, but adjourned soon
after to Concord as a place of greater security. Here
they directed their committee to increase their military
stores and prepare for an army of fifteen thousand.
Dark clouds were gathering thick and fast over the
country, and all were expecting the storm would soon
burst upon them. A slight hope, however, was enter-
tained by many that Parliament, during its winter
session, would relax its oppressive measures towards
the colonies, and that a compromise of the difficulties
might yet be effected. But while there were some who
indulged this hope, all seemed determined to be prepared
for the worst. It is highly probable, too, that General
Gage was expecting some conciliatory measures from
Parliament, for he seemed disposed to lie upon his
oars all winter in Boston, without making any decided
demonstration of his intentions.

About the 5th or 6th of April, as Mr. Jonathan
Buker's family were at dinner, Miss Trify, who sat
facing the window that looked out upon the road,
suddenly exclaimed,

" There comes a carriage right up to the door,"
and stepping hastily to the window, she continued,
" it's uncle Nathan, as true as I live, and aunt and
the children."

The whole family hastened to the door to meet
them. Even old Mr. Ichabod Buker rose from the
table, and hobbled with his staff as far as the door,
in his eagerness to grasp the hands of his children,
and to inquire the news at Boston. As soon as the
first shaking of hands had passed round, Mr. Jona-
than Buker earnestly inquired if any thing had hap-
pened in Boston, or if there was any more news from
home.

"News from home?" said Mr. Nathan Buker,

" yes, there's news from home as black as a thunder

loud. There hasn't nothing happened in Boston

yet, but I shouldn't be willing to trust my family
there a week longer, and I've brought 'em out here
to leave 'em, I don't know how long. I must go
back myself to-night, for I come away in such a
hurry that every thing is left at loose ends."

" Well, what is the news ?" said Mr. Jonathan
Buker impatiently. " Is there any thing more from
Parliament?"

" Yes," said Nathan, " there was an arrival yes-
terday, that brought us private accounts that Parlia-
liament is going all lengths to bring our noses to the
grindstone. They have passed the most odious and
oppressive acts to restrain the trade of nearly all the
colonies, and to cut us off from the fisheries on New-
foundland, and I don't know what all. The Gover-
nor hasn't got the news yet, and perhaps he won't
for a week or two, for the people mean to keep it
from him as long as possible, so as to give 'em a
chance to arrange their business as well as they can,
for they know as soon as he gets the news he'll make
a dab somewhere, but where he'll strike nobody
knows. A great many of 'em are preparing to move
out of Boston, for they're afraid as soon as the Go-
vernor gets his budget from home, he'll begin to hang
them up by the neck."

After partaking of refreshments, Mr. Nathan Buker
started again for Boston. A couple of weeks of anx-
ious expectation passed away, and people were every
where making preparation to meet the blow, which
they were sure would soon fall upon them. Every
musket in the colony was put in the best condition,
and every man capable of bearing. arms was trained
to the use of them.

On the morning of the 19th of April, just as the
cock crowed for day, Mr. Jonathan Buker was
aroused by a loud knocking at the door. He rose
and looked from the window, and called out " who's
there ?"

The well-known voice of his brother Nathan re-
plied, " It is I ; turn out all hands ; the enemy are on
the road, and will be here in an hour."

In five minutes, the whole household were assem-
bled in one room ; and Mr. Nathan Buker informed
them, hastily, that a detachment of near a thousand
of the British troops had left Boston early in the
night, crossed the river, and landed at Phipps' farm,
and were now on the road into the country. The
committee of safety, in Boston, had watched their
movements, and from the best information they could
get, they had no doubt their aim was to reach Con-
cord, and get possession of the military stores. He
and some twenty others, had been riding all night to
alarm the country. In five minutes more, four mus-
kets were loaded in that room, and ready to do battle.
Mr. Jonathan Buker had loaded one, his two sons
had each loaded one, and the fourth was loaded by
old Mr. Ichabod Buker, who, ever since the shutting
up of the harbour of Boston, had insisted on having
a musket at his command, and had frequently been
out and practised firing at a mark.

As the house stood near the road, Mr. Nathan
Buker advised that the women and children should
depart immediately across the fields, to some neigh-
bours, who lived back nearly a mile from the road,
or else retreat to the woods on the back of the hill,
where they could remain secure till the danger was
past. The women chose the latter position, as it
would give them a view of Lexington village, where
it was thought probable some disturbance might occur.

262

THE FIRST BLOOD OF THE REVOLUTION.

Joshua, who belonged to the minute men, shouldered
his gun and hastened to the village, to be ready to
obey the orders of any officers that might be there
collected. Mr. Nathan Buker mounted his horse,
and rode off rapidly towards Concord, to continue
to spread the alarm, and Mr. Jonathan Buker,
with his father and son, remained on the pre-
mises. In a short time, they heard the drums and
the fifes of the approaching army ; and soon after, the
whole body of troops came in sight, marching in
regular platoons, and stretching for half a mile along
the road. The sun was just rising, and their brightly
burnished arms, glancing in the sunbeams, shone
with great brilliance. As the officer, who appeared
to be in command, came against the house, Levi
exclaimed, " I know that man ; that's Lieut. Colonel
Smith, I see him a number of times when I was in
Boston."

" Well, now let us aim right at him," said old Mr.
Ichabod Buker, " if we can only jest knock him off of
his horse, it'll put 'em in such confusion they'll hardly
get to Concord," and as he said this, he began to
point his gun from the window. But Mr. Jonathan
Buker hastily caught the gun from his hands and
prevented the discharge.

" What !" said the old man, with a mingled look
of surprise and anger, " a'n't ye going to fire, Jona-
than?— are ye going to let 'em go by without
firing ?"

Jonathan told him it would never do to fire upon
the king's troops, unless they fired first; and besides,
should a gun be fired in their present condition, it
would insure their own instant death. They remained
quiet till the troops had all passed by, and in a few
minutes, when there had been about time enough for
them to reach the village, they heard a sharp volley
of musketry, followed by several scattering fires.

" There," said Mr. Jonathan Buker, " I believe
the first great blow has been struck. I think them
shots drawed blood, and if they did, blood will run
till it makes rivers large enough to swim in."

Presently, the women came running from the hill,
greatly agitated.

" Oh, they've killed some of 'em," said Mrs. Buker,
wringing her hands, « I'm sure they've killed some
of 'em, for after the king's troops fired and turned
off into the road to Concord, I see our folks take up
as many as five or six bodies and carry 'em into the
houses. And oh, where is Joshua ? I'm afraid he's
one of the killed. Let us run right down to the
village, and see if we can find out what's become of
him. Oh, my poor Joshua! he ought not to a
gone."

" If Joshua has fallen," said Mr. Buker, solemnly,
" he never could die in a better cause."

While they were speaking, they were suddenly re-

lieved by the appearance of Joshua, who came run-
ning toward the house. Mrs. Buker flew to meet
him, and flinging her arms round his neck wept like
a child, exclaiming, " A'n't ye hurt, Joshua, a'n't ye
hurt ?"

" Hurt? No mother," said the sturdy rebel boy;
" but this is no time to stop to talk about it. Capt.
Jones says they'll find more military stores at Con-
cord than they'll know what to do with, and it won't
be long before they'll be coming back along in a
greater hurry than they went. And he says we must
rally every body far and near, minute men or no
minute men, and get all the guns and ammunition
ready that we can, and stan behind the stone walls
and the fences and trees, and give 'em such a pepper-
ing as they come back along, that they never'll want
to fire at an American again. I've come home to see
about getting somebody to go up the back road by
old Mr. Wilson's to give the alarm, for nobody's
been up that way yet, and there's a good many on
that road that would be down with their guns about
the quickest, if they knew what was going on."

" I'll go," said Miss Trify Buker, earnestly ; " it's
no use for me to stay here, for I don't know how to
fire guns, but I can ride as well as most any body."

In five minutes Mr. Buker's horse was at the door,
saddled and bridled, and Miss Trify was mounted and
off upon a quick gallop. And now from every direc-
tion the Provincials came pouring along " in hot
haste," toward -ihe scene of action. They came
down from the hills, and up from the vallies, with
strong hands and strong hearts ready for the conflict.
From every cross road and by-way came forth old
farmers on horseback and young farmers on foot
with fire in their eyes and muskets in their hands.
And when the British, an hour or two after their
gallant achievement at Lexington, were on their back
track from Concord, they soon found they had a
fearful gauntlet to run, that they had little dreamed
of. Even the strong reinforcement that met them at
Lexington was not sufficient to revive their courage,
and the whole body made a rapid and somewhat irre-
gular retreat, aided in no small degree by " the great
activity of Lord Percy,

" Whose brave example led them on,
And spirited the troops to run."

While they were passing the house of the Bukers,
old Mr. Ichabod Buker, stationed behind a heavy
stone wall, with an aperture before him just sufficient
to poke his gun through, fully satisfied his patriotic
indignation by keeping up a constant firing till the
last of the train was beyond the reach of his musket.
And when the killed of the enemy were gathered up
for burial, more than one body was found in front
of Mr. Buker's premises.

FRIENDSHIP.

Friendship is a tacit contract between two sensible
and virtuous souls. I say sensible ; for a monk, a
hermit, may not be wicked, yet live a stranger to
friendship. I add virtuous; for the wicked have
only accomplices, the voluptuous have companions,
the designing have associates, the men of business
have partners, the politicians form a factious band,
the bulk of idle men have connexions, princes have

courtiers — but virtuous men alone have friends. —
Cethegus was Cataline's accomplice, and Maecenas
was Octavius's courtier; but Cicero was Atticus's
friend. What is implied in this contract between
two tender and ingenuous souls? Its obligations
are stronger or weaker, according to their degree
of sensibility, and the number of good offices per-
formed.

THE HISTORY OF THE LITTLE MAN.

263

Translated for the Lady's Book.

THE HISTORY OF THE LITTLE MAN;

A TRUE STORY.

FROM THE GERMAN OF G. DORING.

I am not ashamed of my birth-place, and therefore
confess that I first saw the light of the world in a lit-
tle town of Suabia. The fortunes of men are differ-
ent. Perhaps during the same instant in which a
mighty heir to an empire was born, my lot laid me
upon the breast of a poor barber's wife. Had it de-
pended on me, I would have reversed it ; but it is use-
less to wage war with fate. I grew up like a flower
of the field, and if I early profited by the learning of
my father, it was not precisely my fault. The rod is
a good teacher, and hunger strengthens the memory.
My father turned them both to good account. In my
fourteenth year I knew how to flourish the razor and
the barber's shears — in my fifteenth, I could cup and
bleed. With so much science, I thought I could seek
a fortune in the world on my own account ; and one
night in silence I tied up my travelling bundle, and as
the sun first shone over the Alps in the morning, I
was off heyday ! — in the wide world ; — off for Batavia,
where I had heard and read that cupping and phle-
botomy would make a man rich. But the way from
Suabia to Batavia is long. This much was known
to me, that I should first be obliged to go to Holland ;
there I thought fortune would help the rogue further.
My surgical knowledge, (to which I added the ex-
tracting of teeth, and banishing of warts) carried me
thither scot free. " He who hazard swins" — soon I
was bold enough to offer for sale pills of my own
manufacture, as an antidote to every evil, and plasters
for every wound. The business was profitable. At
every place where I stopped half a day, I was a re-
nowned man — I arrived at Amsterdam with a re-
spectable sum of money — I thought seriously of
writing to my parents, but then it occurred to me that
my mother could not read, and my father had said that
I was a good-for-nothing, and the greatest pleasure I
could do him would be to go where he could not
hear of me. Taste is various. Every one rides his
own hobby horse. I was not anxious to break the
spell of my father's joy. — I engaged myself on board
of the first ship which sailed to Batavia in the capa-
city of surgeon. To be sure, the captain paid no
salary, but that was of no consequence so long as I
had a free passage to the land where one cupping
brings a ducat, and blood-letting two ; whosoever
1 sows well, shall reap a good harvest; and he who
saves the pence shall see them increase to pounds.
I was soon a celebrated man on board the ship.

As we arrived in Batavia the captain made me a
handsome present, and each sailor wished to be cup-
ped by me at parting. I stepped upon the shore as a
man who had his pockets full of hopes, and who in-
tended to return with bags full of ducats. But ah !
in Batavia to my terror, I found so many celebrated
men of my profession, that there must have been an
entire revolution in the sphere of phlebotomy and cup-
ping since the date of the travels which I had read. I
saw the science on its wane ; it could scarcely com-
mand bread. The meynheers keep servants, or rather
blacks, who are even acquainted with such Christian-

like work as blood-letting and cupping — so paganism
increased at that time in Batavia. ' He who cannot
dance must hop.' I resorted again to my pills and salves.
Fortunately disease broke out, and my pills performed
wonderful cures, and I was at once a renowned man
in Batavia. I could not roll pills so fast as my assist-
ants could sell them in the shop for heavy gold. But
while I was snatching my fellow beings from the
grave, I was undermining my own source of fortune;
all recovered by means of my pills, and nobody wanted
more. It is true, I had my reputation, but I could
not live on that, and what I had saved soon went, as
a celebrated man, like me, cannot live like a loafer
among the populace. — Light come, light goes — I had
rolled pills like a respectable man ; now I was com-
pelled to run through the streets of Batavia with
soap, shears, and razor.

Such was my fate for a number of years. My
fame grew dimmer and dimmer, and nothing would
happen by which it could be resuscitated. But I had
become so much accustomed to being a celebrated
man, that I could not remain in obscurity, and I
formed a hasty resolution to bid farewell to ungrate-
ful Batavia, and take passage on board an English
merchantman for Calcutta. Now again I was the
only one of my profession which the swimming world
bore over the sea. The very next day, the helmsman
dislocated his wrist, and I gained fame by setting it —
my light shone over the whole deck, the middle deck,
forecastle, the cabin and hold. Every one came to
me with complaints, and all found relief at my hands.
The captain said that he had never found a surgeon
who could patch up pieces of humanity like me. He
gave himself into my care to be patched up, for I had
to administer to him a hundred drops of bitters in
his madeira every day. But when I hoped he would
slip a guinea in my hand, he made no reply, and
of course I was obliged to be contented — it is said,
honour to whom honour is due — I carved at the
captain's table, and every one called me Sir, which is
equivalent to the Gerdedizer Herr of the German.

At Calcutta, want looked me in the face, and nothing
remained but to take the situation of a surgeon to a
regiment in the service of the East India Company. I
always loved good company, and the East India Com-
pany seemed respectable enough for me to form a
connexion with. The company was then at war
with the Rajah of Dschabberlabber, or whatever the
fellow is called — my regiment marched against the
rebellious Rajah, and a wider circle was made, which
I could fill with my fame. Wonderful things were
told of this Rajah of Dschabberlabber. According to
report, Crcesus was a beggar in comparison to him,
and one carbuncle on his dagger was worth more
than the whole East India Company. Our march was
constantly onwards over mountains, some of which
were so high that the world lay like a mist beneath
them ; or through woods where we started up whole
droves of tigers, elephants, lions, and apes.

At length we passed the boundaries of Dschabber-

264

THE HISTORY OF THE LITTLE MAN.

labber. Hunger had done its worst. No juicy roast
beef as in Calcutta; no seasonable vegetable sauces —
nothing but rice, rice, and rice again, till our courage,
(from the eternal rice soup) became thin, weak, and
childish. Then broke loose " the dogs of war."
The soldiers of the rajah fell upon us in the night,
and as the night is no human friend it was not ours.
We maintained our post ; but half our soldiers lay
dead or wounded on the field of battle. Now again
had my time come, and again was I a celebrated
man. Wherever an arm or a leg was injured, though
slightly scratched, I took it off on the spot. For we
were in a hot country, and heat easily produces in-
flammation ; ergo the slightest wound might in a few
moments produce inflammation, and then it would be
all over with knife and saw. The inhabitants of
Dschabberlabber carried on war like rascals and
knaves, and not like Christians. Moreover, as I had
afterwards an opportunity of learning, they are very
far back in religion, and esteem even snakes and
lizards as holy which even children with us at home
in Suabia, look upon with horror and disgust ! Laiid-
lich, settlich ! When with wolves one must howl.
As the twig is bent, the tree is inclined. But in
relation to their mode of warfare, this in particular
displeased me ; that while we in all confidence pitched
our tents and encamped in the open country, they
lurked behind the trees and bushes, and if a single
man accidentally fell in their way, they snapped him
up and slipped him off into slavery. Then it was
that our watchword was " Look out." " Let him
be alert at every corner who would keep himself."
But what was the use of all my great care ? As I
went out botanizing one morning, seeking bananas
and pisang for breakfast, a noose fell from a cocoa
tree around my neck. Like lightning the Indian
devil jumped down after it, and holding on to the
rope flew with such haste into the woods that I was
obliged to strangle, or follow. Before I could recover
myself enough to snatch my pistols from my belt, I
found myself surrounded by twenty Indians, who
robbed me of my weapons and clothes. They closely
examined every thing which they took from me.
When they came to the singularly formed instruments
of my case, which I always carried, I saw that a
reverential fear came over them. Perhaps they
took me for a magician. They held a council,
but still that hempen noose was around my neck —
Ex pede Herculem. The lion is known by his claws.
They might have come to the conclusion that they
had to deal with no ordinary man ; one who could
not be dispatched like a common grenadier or infan-
try soldier. They gave me back my clothes, but
retained the case of instruments. Instinct taught
these rude savages respect for science. They wrap-
ped up my instruments in costly cloths and those
clothed with the command carried them. They then
gave me a hint to follow, by jerking the lasso so
perceptibly, that I nearly fell to the ground. Now
our march was rapid over rock and hill ; we almost
flew like the wild beasts of which they used to tell in
Suabia.

It must be admitted that the inhabitants of Dschab-
berlabber are excellent fast runners ; they also possess
the tact of teaching others to become swift runners in
the shortest possible space of time, as I found by
their experiment on me. I had never been so active
before. Oh, how the time flies, and we fly with it.
And so it continued with a few short pauses the whole

day. But what is that which dazzles and glitters in
twilight yonder, with such brilliancy and splendour?
A thousand lights sparkled, and coloured flames rose
every where.

I opened my eyes like a child at a Christmas- tree;
I should have sung " Rejoice in Life," had it not
been for that terrible hemp cord that destroyed all the
musical tones of my throat. Still more and more
brilliant, still brighter and lovelier appeared the charm-
ing picture. It was , the capital of the rajah

of Dschabberlabber, which lay upon a mountain, and
the ordinary illumination of the streets would have
been taken for the most brilliant celebration elsewhere.
I could easily perceive that they intended to present
so celebrated a man as I was before the Rajah .

We approached the gates, cymbals, trumpets, drums,
and song fell upon our ears from within the city. It
seemed a yearly market, or a church dedication;
nothing but play and dance. The lasso was taken
from my neck, and a guard accompanied us ; in a
genteel step we marched towards the palace of the
Rajah. Every body, dancers, rich and poor, gathered
around us to admire a celebrated man in a red uni-
form.

At length, we arrived at the palace, which reflected
a thousand variegated lights. I was led through
numerous courts into the interior. The leader of our
band marched, carrying the costly cloth containing my
case of instruments before us into an apartment with
golden doors, while we waited without. I had leisure
to examine the hall in which we waited. Every
thing has its two sides. They appeared savage but
beautiful. Painted serpents coiled round the walls ;
dragons and other fabulous beasts in the natural his-
tory of Dschabberlabber, clambered up them. The
eyes of the serpents and monsters streamed with gold
and silver. Their tails were covered with dazzling
scales of fish.

The leader came back and motioned me to follow
him before the Rajah. I did not tremble, but still
my heart set up a kind of independent beating of its
own. The Rajah bestowed on me a terrific look.
He sat upon a golden throne ; close to him lay upon
one side a tame tiger, on the other a tamed lion. It
was evident it only required a motion of his hand to
make them instantly savage again, and lick their
jaws for human flesh. The way which I had to take
to the throne was between two rows of slaves, who
lay with their foreheads upon the floor. I stood erect
like a distinguished man, who felt his dignity, and I
dared not disgrace the British uniform. As I stood
before the Rajah, I thought I would give him a spe-
cimen or two of polished life, and show him I was
well bred. I made him three stately reverences, such
as a dancing master, who gave instruction in his art
from place to place, had taught me in Suabia. It
produced uncommon applause, and made the palace
echo with laughter. I saw my case of instruments
in the hands of the Rajah ! he asked me in broken
English the meaning and use of the instruments. Then
I explained to him the mysteries of Phlebotomy and
Cupping, and did not disguise from him what a skilful
and celebrated man stood before him ; I modestly
added I could save the human body from every malady,
if death was not already nibbling at the heart. He
looked upon me with great astonishment, and laid his
hand upon my shoulder as a token of his greatest
confidence.

" Stranger," said he, " if you are able to perform

THE HISTORY OF THE LITTLE MAN.

265

what you say, I will not only give you your freedom,
but richly reward you. Come with me ; you shall
learn the grief which fills my heart. An evil spirit,
with poisoned arrow, has hit my daughter. If thou
canst make the poison of that arrow innocuous —
if thou canst infuse vigour in her limbs, and cheer-
fulness in her heart, thou shalt see that the Rajah of
Dschabberlabber is not ungrateful."

Thus was I raised at once, from a miserable pri-
soner, from a swift runner upon compulsion, to the
family physician of a royal princess, and her high
mighty father led me with his own hand, in the pre-
sence of his assembled court, to the apartment of the
women. Then it was that the maxim applied, " Ho-
nour to whom honour is due !" The guard lowered
their lances before me : the musketeers presented
arms, and the playing on cymbals and trumpets,, made
wondrous music as we left the apartment. We went
through passages tapestried with gold and silk em-
broidery. The further we went, the stiller it became.
At length, we found women on our way, who as soon
as they were aware of the Rajah and his family phy-
sician, bowed their countenances to the earth. They
were veiled and for that reason all equally beautiful.
In a little chamber, the walls of which were covered
by materials stiff with precious stones, pearls, gold
and silver, we found the Royal Princess. She lay
upon a couch, veiled like the others. To judge from
her stature, she was a maiden of from fifteen to six-
teen years. As she saw a stranger at the side of her
high-mighty father, she gave a weak scream. Poor
child, she was terrified by my medical dignity, the
majesty of science, which was palpable in my person.
Her father, the Rajah, spoke to her in the language
of Dschabberlabber. He no doubt explained to her
who I was, and what wonderful sanatary knowledge
I possessed. She threw back her veil, and gave me
a long look with her languishing dark eyes. Then
smiling, she spoke to her father and probably said,
that she had confidence in me and would obey my
prescriptions. The Rajah called me nearer, I exa-
mined the pulse, I inquired into the circumstances
of the case, and soon saw that the royal princess
required nothing more than a good bleeding, and that
then she would be well enough in a few days to
dance and play to her heart's content. I have
never feared blood myself. But the high-mighty
Rajah and his princess daughter did. The matter
was discussed. At length, the Rajah of Dschabber-
labber declared that my will should prevail ; but if the
illness of the royal princess should through the loss
of blood become worse, if the high-mighty child
should by chance die, that I might hold myself ready
to be trampled to pieces by the elephants. — Nonsense,
thought I. An Indian princess is of the same flesh
and blood as a Suabian maid, and a few ounces of
blood will not injure her any how. I opened the
vein, and let the precious purple blood flow into a
golden pitcher, which two kneeling slaves held. I
bound up the wound as I would have bound up the
wound of a peasant girl, and commanded jepose.

They did me great honour. They acknowledged
me as a celebrated man. They admired the science
I displayed in handling the lancet. So it goes in the
world ; a celebrated man will always succeed.

That night I supped with the Rajah. Every
thing was gold and silver. Wherever the eye fell, it
was dazzled by the glitter. The Rajah himself placed
before me the choicest bits : on the whole he was

VOL. XXII. 23

right friendly, though sometimes he threw upon me
a threatening look, which went through bone and
marrow, and perhaps reminded me of the trampling
of elephants.

On the next morning, the royal princess awoke,
fresh, blooming, and happy, and immediately asked for
betel and areca nuts to chew, against which, during
her sickness, she had discovered evident disgust ; for
there, both men and women display a great passion for
such things to chew. At noon she dined at her father's
high-mighty table. In the evening she attended the
festivities of the court, where more than three hundred
nautch girls danced a ballet in her honour. It was
a charming court, that court of Dschabberlabber, but
I desired to be away ! for how easy might it be for
the royal princess to be visited with a relapse. Then
the blame would be thrown on me, and I already
saw in my spirit the trampling elephants. One could
not look any where, without seeing one of those
shapeless animals — they were painted on the walls —
they were harnessed up in the court — they were driven
with heavy burdens through the streets. I did not
feel at all well in my mind among them, so that as
the Rajah on the third day after the blood letting,
threw his arms round my neck, and called me the
saviour of his daughter's life, I took the occasion to
remind him of his promise to give me my freedom.

" Your high-mightiness," said I, " although I am
seized with too strong an attachment to your person
ever again to take the field with lancet and scalpel
in the service of the East India Company against so
sublime a prince, yet I am obliged to recollect that I
am a celebrated man, and cannot long be spared
from Europe. There is a suffering humanity there,
and suffering humanity cries after me. May it please
your highness to dismiss me. I shall always think
with rapture of this delightful court."

The Rajah was unwilling to lose me, but he was
a man of his word. When once he had given his
parole d'lionneur, it was firm as the rocks. He took
me by the hand and led me to his cabinet. Here lay
heaps of diamonds before me, the least of which was
as large as a sparrow's egg. Heavens, how they
spaikled, how they enticed, they spoke to the heart,
my very fingers felt it. But I did not venture to
seize, until I received an invitation from his high-
mighty mouth.

" Doctor," said that Prince, so worthy of all imi-
tation, " you have between two things to choose,
which I have determined for your reward. Either a
hundred of the most beautiful of my female slaves, or
these precious stones."

I seized the precious stones with both hands.
That was a treasure that in Europe was worth
millions. Joy sparkled in the eyes of the generous
Rajah, as he saw me, so hasty and delighted, pocket
his present. He also reached me a purse filled
with gold, and offered me an elephant for my con-
venience upon the journey. I accepted the purse
but protested against the elephant; what could I do
with such an uncultivated and awkward animal of
which I had a natural and instinctive dread. I
could think of the elephants in no other manner
than as trampling and mashing poor human beings
to pieces with their monstrous feet. I had no longer
any desire for a soldier's life. In the camp of the
English I was without doubt thought to be dead; and
I did not feel myself called to announce to them my
resurrection. I had attained the object which had

266

THE HISTORY OF THE LITTLE MAN.

enticed me to leave Suabia. Away with lancet, sca-
rifier, and cupping glass. The play is ended, the
bank won, and it is time to return home. At home
on the banks of the delightful Neckar, where the red
grape ripens I will buy me an estate, and live in ful-
ness and joy. Such thoughts elevate and recreate
the mind.

The journey from Dschabberlabber to the port of
Madras was delightful. The Rajah gave me a nume-
rous retinue of slaves and danseuses who are there
called defedadschi. On account of the great heat of the
sun, we travelled only at night ; then the defedadschi
danced around the palanquin in which I was carried,
and the variegated lanterns which they gracefully
swung around their heads, shone lovely in the dark-
ness. But I prefer travelling through beloved Ger-
many in the diligence though it does jolt a little. At
least one does not hear in the neighbourhood, lions,
tigers, and hyenas howl, which lust after the delicacy
of human flesh ; it is not agreeable to have one of
these monsters spring suddenly from a neighbouring
thicket and catch from the dancing row a defedad-
schi, and carry her off for supper.

I prudently left my English uniform behind me in
the land of Dschabberlabber ; for the feathers betray
the birds. I arrived at Madras in Indian costume,
but imm diately changed it for a staid European citi-
zen's dress. Now, for the first time in my life time,
I learned the truth of the adage, " Riches bring care."
I was driven as with kicks and cuffs out of the East
Indies. For how easily might it be for me to meet
an Englishman who would know me and inform of
me as a deserter ? But there was but one ship in
the harbour ready to sail for the Cape of Good Hope,
and that belonged to a Malay and was manned by
Malays. If there are any rogues or knaves in the
world the Malays are the worst. No pocket can be
sufficiently guarded against them ; no lock will with-
stand their arts ; no bolt or band of iron protect from
their robberies. Yet with such a pack, I was obliged
to trust myself and my diamonds, if I did not mean
to risk being brought before a court martial and
perhaps be regaled with blue pills from muskets.
" Eat bird or die," was the adage.

I took passage with the Malays. I passed among
them as a travelling surgeon, I carried boxes and jars
of salves. In them stuck the diamonds; there lay
the treasure buried which I expected again to raise
in Europe, or perhaps at the Cape. I soon had oc-
casion to thank fortune for this lucky thought; my
watch was stolen from my pocket, and my money
belt from my person. As I made my complaints to
the Captain he shrugged his shoulders and said,

" He had indeed very expert people on board, to-
wards whom one ought to be on the look out, but

he could do nothing further in the affair than give
me his counsel, which was to redress myself by pur-
suing the same plan."

What! — I — a surgeon, a dedicated priest in the
temple of suffering humanity, a celebrated man, de-
grade myself by theft ! I gave the Malay a look of
sovereign contempt, and went to my cabin and satia-
ted my eyes upon my jars of salve, which looked
much too innocent to attract the attention of the
thieves.

We set sail with favourable wind, and at length
saw the Cape of Good Hope, which proved to me
the Cape of Misfortune, the Cape of Annihilation to
all my hopes. The Table Mountain was covered
with dark clouds, and out of its cleft blew the hea-
then god Eolus. It blew so hard that the waves
rolled mountains high, so that we were glad to find
shelter in a little cove in the rocks, outside of Cape
Town and its harbour. There are times when a
man is possessed ; when he is delivered into the power
of evil spirits, which will his destruction. So it was
with me, in the vicinity of the Cape. I had no rest ;
I was irresistibly impelled to leave the company of the
Malays. I accepted the offers of some coasters,
honest descendants of Holland, who wished to take
me and my baggage around to the city. Every thing
was safely put aboard, and I sat in the boat between
two jars of salve as proud as the Rajah of Dschabber-
labber, on his throne, between the supporters of his
dignity, the lion, and the tiger. At first, our trip was
delightful. But when we had left the cove and saw
a clear sea on one side and the Cape Town close by
us on the other, the wind came down from the gaps
of the Table Mountain, and struck us so suddenly,
and rolled us on with such a whirl towards the port,
that breath and hearing were lost. Sometimes we
were on the tops of enormous foam-crested waves,
again we plunged into the dark abyss, which opened
before us. As we approached the shore (so near
that we could distinguish people running hither and
thither,) a monstrous wave, false as a corsair, cruel
and capricious as a tiger, and as intent on robbery as
a Malay, broke over us. I closed my eyes and re-
signed myself to my fate ; and suddenly, as I felt
myself whirled like a spindle, I lost my recollection,
which did not return to me until I found myself
stretched on the shore, surrounded by a crowd of men
who were regretting my fate, but much more, the
fate of the two sailors who had perished in the waves.
Then my jars and boxes occurred to me. I sprang
up, pushed back those officious persons, and ran over
the shore, and the sea with my eyes. — Spent as
obtained ! All was swallowed up by the waves ; the
boat was shattered to fragments, and I alone escaped
through an incomprehensible decree of fate.

LEARNING.

Although our learning raiseth up against us many
enemies among the low, and more among the pow-
erful, yet doth it invest us with grand and glorious
privileges, and grant to us a largess of beatitude. We
enter our studies, and enjoy a society which we alone
can bring together. We raise no jealousy by convers-
ing with one in preference to another; we give no
offence to the most illustrious, by questioning him as

long as we will, and leaving him abruptly. Diversity
of opinion raises no tumult in our presence; each
interlocutor stands before us, speaks or is silent, and
we adjourn or decide the business at our leisure.
Nothing is past which we desire to be present ; and
we enjoy by anticipation somewhat like the power
which I imagine we shall possess hereafter, of sailing
on a wish from world to world.

GENTILITY.

267

Written for the Lady's Book."'

GENTILITY.

ARTHUR,

" Didn't I see you walking up the street with a young
lady yesterday, William ?" said Anna Enfield to her
brother, who had but a few days before returned from
New York, after an absence of some months.

" Perhaps you did ; I was in company with a
young lady in the afternoon," replied the brother.

"Well, who was she? I did not see you until
after you had passed the store I was in, and then I
could not see her face."

" It was Caroline Murry; you know her, I sup-
pose."

" Caroline Murry ! Why, brother! what were you
doing in her company 1 " and Anna's face expressed
unfeigned astonishment.

" Why, really, you surprise me, sister ! I hope
there is no blemish on her character. But what is
the matter ? I feel concerned to know."

" There's nothing much the matter, brother ; but,
then, Caroline Murry is not genteel. We don't think
of keeping her company."

" Indeed ! and you don't associate with her be-
cause she is not genteel. Well, if I am any judge
of gentility, Anna, Caroline Murry is about as genteel
and lady-like as any girl I know — always except-
ing, of course, my own dear sister."

" Why, brother, how you talk ! You don't cer-
tainly pretend to compare her with Ernestine Eberly
and Zepherine Fitzwilliams, whom you have seen here
several times?"

" No, I do not," replied the brother, emphatically.

" Well, they're what I call genteel ; and Caroline
Murry wouldn't be tolerated in the society where they
visit."

"And why not, sister?"

" Havn't I told you ? Because she is not consid-
ered genteel ; that is the reason."

" But I don't understand what you consider gen-
teel, Anna. If I know what gentility means, Caro-
line, as far as that is concerned, is in every way
superior to Ernestine Eberly and Zepherine Fitzwil-
liams."

"Now, William, that is too bad! If any other
man had said so to me, I would never have spoken
to him again as long as I lived."

" But seriously, Anna, what do you mean by gen-
tility ?" asked the brother.

" That's a question more easily asked than an-
swered ; but you know, as well as I do, what is
meant by gentility. Every body knows."

" I know what I mean by it, Anna. But it seems
that we don't agree on the subject ; for I call Caro-
line Murry genteel, and you don't : so you see that
different things may be called by the same name.
Now, what I wish to know is, what precise meaning
you attach to the word ? or, why you do not think
Caroline genteel ?"

'.' Why, in the first place, she don't go into genteel
company. People of the first rank won't associate
with her."

Here ensued a pause, and the brother said —

" Well, why won't they associate with her, Anna ?

I hope she has not been guilty of improper or im-
moral conduct."

" O, no ! noth'ng of that. I never heard the
slightest reflection on her character," replied the sis-
ter. " But, then, genteel young ladies don't work in
the kitchen, like hired servants; and she does. And,
besides this, call on her when you will, and she is
always doing something. Why, I am told that she
has even been seen at the chamber windows, fronting
on the public street, with herhead tied up, sweeping
and making the beds! And Clarissa Spiggler says
that she saw her once, with the parlour windows
open, sweeping and dusting like a servant ! Nobody
is going to associate, or be seen in the street with any
one who hasn't the spirit to be above the condition of
a hireling. And, besides this, whenever she was in-
vited to balls or parties, she never would stay later
than ten or eleven o'clock, which every one knows to
be vulgar. Somebody had to go home with her, of
course ; and the choicest beau in the company was
almost sure to have his good nature and his polite-
ness taxed for this purpose. Once I heard her say,
that she considered the theatre an unfit place for any
young lady; she offended the whole company, and
has never been invited to a party among genteel
people since."

" And is that all ?" said William Enfield, taking a
long breath.

" Yes, and I should think that was enough, in all
conscience," replied the sister.

" So should I, Anna — to make me respect her."

" Why, William !"

" Why, Anna !"

" But seriously, William, you cannot be in earn-
est ?"

H And seriously, Anna, are you in earnest ?"

" Of course I am."

" Well, sister, I'm afraid my old fashioned notions,
for such I suppose you will call them, and your new
fangled notions, for such I must call them, will not
chime well together. All that I have heard you
allege against Caroline Murry, raises, instead of
lowering her in my estimation. So far as a gentle,
and truly lady-like deportment is concerned, I think
her greatly superior to the two friends you have
named as pinks of gentility."

Anna looked into the face of ner brother for some
moments, her countenance exhibiting a mingled ex-
pression of surprise and disappointment.

" But you are not going to walk "with her in the
street«any more, I hope," she at length said.

" And why not, Anna ?"

" Because, as I have said before, she is not gen — "

" Genteel, you were going to say. But that alle-
gation, you perceive, Anna, has no weight with me;
I do not consider it a true one."

" Well, we won't talk any more about it just now,
for it would be no use," said the sister, changing her
voice and manner ; " and so I will change the sub-
ject. I want you to make a call or two with me this
morning."

268

GENTILITY.

" On whom ?"

" On Miss Eberly and Miss Fitzwilliams."

" It wouldn't be right for me to do so, would it ?
You know I don't consider them genteel," said the
brother, with affected gravity.

" O nonsense, brother! why will you trifle so?"

" But, seriously, Anna, I do not consider that
those young ladies have any very strong claims to
gentility ; and, like you, I have no wish to associate
with those who are not genteel."

" If you talk in that way, William, I shall get an-
gry with you. I cannot hear my most intimate
friends spoken of so lightly; and, at the same time,
accused of a want of gentility. You must remember
that you are reflecting upon your sister's associates."

" You must not, and I know you will not, get an-
gry with me, sister, for speaking plainly ; and you
must do me the justice to believe that in speaking as
I do I am in earnest. And, you must also remem-
ber, that, in saying what you did of Caroline Murry,
you spoke of one with whom your brother has asso-
ciated, and with whom he is still willing to associate."

Anna looked very serious at this, nor could she
frame in her own mind a reply that was satisfactoiy
to her. At last she said —

" But, seriously, Brother William, won't you call
on those young ladies with me?"

" Yes, on one condition."

" Well, what is that ?"

" Why, on condition that you will, afterwards, call
with me, and see Caroline Murry."

" I cannot do that, William," she replied, in a pos-
ifive tone.

" And why not, Anna ?"

" I have already told you."

" I cannot perceive the force of that reason, Anna.
But, if you will not go with me, I must decline going
with you. The society of Miss Murry cannot be
more repulsive to you, than is that of the Misses
Eberly and Fitzwilliams to me."

"You don't know what you are talking about,
William."

" That is my own impression about you. But
come, now, sister, let us both be rational to each
other. I am willing to go with you, if you will go
with me."

" Yes, but, William, you don't reflect, that, in do-
ing as you desire me, I will be in danger of losing
my present position in society. Caroline Murry is
not esteemed genteel in the circle in which I move,
and if it should be known that I visit her, I will be
considered on a level with her. I would do any
thing to oblige you, but, indeed, I would be risking
too much here."

" You would only be breaking loose," replied the
brother, " from the slavery you are now in to false
notions of what is truly genteel. If any one esteems
you less for being kind, attentive, and courteous, to
one against whom suspicion has never dared to breathe
a word, and whose whole life is a bright example of
the pure and high-toned principles that govern her,
that one is unworthy of your regard. True gentility
does not exist, my sister, merely in a studied and arti-
ficial elegance of behaviour, but in inward purity and
taste, and a true sense of what is right, all exhibiting
themselves in their natural external expression. The
real lady judges of others from what they are, and
neglects none but the wilfully depraved. True, there
are distinctions in society, and there are lines of so-

cial demarcation — and all this is right. But we
should be careful into what social sphere wo are
drawn, and how we suffer ourselves to be influenced
by the false notions of real worth which prevail in
some circles that profess a high degree of gentility.
I hold that every one, no matter what may be his or
her condition in life, fails to act a true part if not en-
gaged in doing something that is useful. Let me
put it to your natural good sense, which do you
think the most deserving of praise, Caroline Murry,
who spends her time in ' doing something' useful
to her whole family ; or your friends, the Misses
Eberly and Fitzwilliams, and those constituting their
particular circle, who expect service from others,
but never think of rendering any, and who carry
their prejudices so far as to despise those who work?"

Anna did not reply, and her brother said —

" I am in earnest, sister, when I say, that you
cannot confer a greater favour upon your brother,
than to go with him to see Caroline Murry. Can-
not I induce you to comply with my wishes?"

" I will go," she replied to this appeal, and then
hurried away, evidently no little disturbed in her feel-
ings.

In half an hour she was ready, and, taking her
brother's arm, was soon on the way to Miss Ernestine
Eberly's residence. That young lady received them
with all the graces and fashionable airs she could as-
sume, and entertained them with the idle gossip of the
day, interspersed with an occasional spice of envious
and ill-natured remark. Knowing that her brother
was a close discriminator, and that he was by no means
prepossessed in her friend's favour, Anna herself ob-
served her more narrowly, and, as it were, with his
eyes. It seemed to her that Miss Eberly never was
was so uninteresting, or so mal-apropos in what she
said. The call on Zepherine Fitzwilliams came next
in turn. Scanning her also with other eyes than her
own, Anna was disappointed in her very dear friend.
She looked through her, and was pained to see that
there was a hollowness and want of any thing like
true strength or excellence of character about her.
Particularly was she displeased at a gratuitous sneer
thrown out at the expense of Caroline Murry.

And now, with a reluctance which she could not
overcome, Anna turned with her brother, towards the
residence of the young lady who had lost caste, be-
cause she had good sense and was industrious.

" I know my sister's lady-like character will prompt
her to right action, in our next call," said the brother,
looking into Anna's face with an encouraging smile.

She did not reply, yet she felt somehow or other
pleased with the remark. A few minutes' walk
brought them to the door, and they were presently
ushered into a neat parlour in which was the young
lady they were seeking. She sat near a window, and
was sewing. She was plainly dressed in comparison
with the young ladies just called upon; but in neat-
ness, and in all that constitutes the lady in air and
appearance, in every way their superior.

" I believe you know my sister," said Enfield, on
presenting Anna.

" We have met a few times," she replied, with a
pleasant, unembarrassed smile, extending at the same
time her hand.

Miss Enfield took the offered hand with less reluc-
tance than she had imagined she could, but a lew
hours before. Somehow or other, Caroline seemed
to her to be very much changed for the better in

THE WITCH.

269

manner and appearance. And she could not help,
during all the visit, drawing contrasts between her
and the two very dear friends she had just called upon ;
and the contrast was in' no way favourable to the
latter. The conversation was on topics of ordinary
interest, but did not once degenerate into frivolity or
censoriousness. Good sense manifested itself in
almost every sentence that Caroline uttered, and this
was so apparent to Anna, that she could not help
frequently noticing and involuntarily approving it.
" What a pity," Anna once or twice remarked to
herself, " that she will be so singular."

The call was but a brief one. Anna parted with
Caroline under a different impression of her character
than she had ever before entertained. After her return
with her brother, he asked her this abrupt question.

" Which of the young ladies, Anna, of the three
we called upon this morning, would you prefer to call
your sister ?"

Anna looked up, bewildered and surprised, into the
face of her brother, for a few moments, and then
said:

" I don't understand you, brother William.

"Why, I thought I asked a very plain question.
But I will make it plainer. Which one of the three
young ladies we called upon this morning, would you
advise me to marry?"

" Neither," replied Anna, promptly.

" That is only jumping the question," he said,
smiling. " But, to corner you so that there can be no

escape, I will confess that I have made up my mind
to marry one of the three. Now tell me which you
would rather it would be."

" Caroline Murry," said Anna, emphatically, while
her cheeks burned, and her eyes became slightly
suffused.

William Enfield did not reply to the hoped for,
though rather unexpected admission, but stooping
down, he kissed her glowing cheek, and whispered in
her ear,

" Then she shall be your sister, and I know you
will love one another."

He said truly. In a few months he claimed Caro-
line Murry as his bride, and her good sense, and
winning gentleness of character, influenced Anna,
and effectually counteracted the folse notions which
were beginning to corrupt a good heart and to
overshadow a sound judgment. It was not long
before she was fully sensible of the real difference
which there was between the characters of her two
friends, and that of her brother's wife ; and also be-
tween true and false gentility. Although Caroline
Murry had been proscribed by a certain circle in
which false pride, instead of principle, was the gov-
erning motive, she had still been esteemed among
those who knew how to look beyond the surface.
As the wife of Enfield, she at once took a position
in circles where those who had passed her by as un-
worthy would have sought in vain for admission, and
in those circles she shone as a bright particular star.

>**VSAA^-^*'^*AA'*~~

Written for the Lady's Book.

THE WITCH.

A TALE OF THE DARK AGES. BY MISS ELIZABETH F. HALL.

CHAPTER I.

Upon an eminence that overlooks a bright and rapid
stream, tributary to the Rhine, are the ruins of a castle.
The ivy mantles its walls ; the moss has tinged with
other hues the pillars that supported the gateway, and
in the once-frequented court, and in hall that erst
rang to merry cheer, the breeze sighs through broken
arches and over a weed-encumbered pavement. The
beauty, the glory, the magnificence that brightened this
desert spot, where are they ? Like the blossoms of
by-gone springs, the beautiful have perished and are
forgotten; and the fame of its noble and mighty, like
the cities which the deluge overswept in its wrath,
has vanished from earth. But at the time when the
events on which this tale is founded took place, no
shadow of decay had passed over Linhort Castle, and
none could vie with its owner in the number and
equipment of his military retainers, or in the splen-
dour of his hospitality.

The summer sun was shining in his cloudless ze-
nith, when a group of ladies sought refuge from his
fervid ray in a romantic retreat of Linhort forest.
Though almost in the immediate vicinity of the cas-
tle, it was wildly beautiful, as if man's foot had never
trodden its flower-gemmed verdure. The stately oak
and graceful elm entwined their branches in a leafy
23*

canopy above, and a little brook, with murmur glad-
some as the voice of childhood, sported with the moss
and fern that shadowed its brink, and fell in a thousand
tiny cascades, freshening the grass and cooling the
atmosphere. It was the young baroness and her
cousin, with their maiden train, who were sitting in
the greenwood, gay as its birds, and beautiful as its
flowers. Seats of turf had been arranged for them,
and several implements of embroidery showed that
their hour of cool retirement was not to be one of
idleness.

The lady Bertha was surpassingly fair. Some
classic statue, when the rosiness of morn flushes into
life its cold and faultless symmetry, might have the
perfection but not the charm of her beauty, the sweet
calm of her brow, the love that dwelt in her blue eyes,
or the soft playfulness that dimpled around her mouth.
Her companion too was beautiful. Her eyes mirrored
the dark sky and glowing stars of midnight, and a
world of feeling and intellect shone from their clear
depths. But pride sat on her matchless brow, and
curled her exquisite lip with a scornful smile. She was
queen-like in her stateliness, and a stranger would
have guessed that she and not the gentle maiden by
her side, was heiress of the noble domain.

"Take thy lute, Ginevra," said Bertha to a fair.

270

THE WITCH.

haired girl that sat apart from the rest, " and sing us
some wild lay of the olden time, some tale of hapless
love that may bid us weep, and then smile at our
tears."

With a pensive smile the maiden obeyed, and sang
in a sweet voice the following ballad :

CHILDE ERNEST.

To a fair and noble lady
Childe Ernest bids farewell ;
"Now all good angels shield thee,
And the saints preserve thee well.

And if I fall in battle field,

As fall perchance I may,
Give a tear unto my memory,

And for my spirit pray.

Oh ! take this rosary of pearls,

They were charmed at my birth,
And will wear the ruby crimson dye

When my life-blood stains the earth.

But while they gleam in sunny white

Pure as thy brow of snow,
This heart still beats with love for thee,

And feels thy absence woe.

Farewell ! my watchword still shall be,

Thy own beloved name,
And the winds and waves shall bear to thee

The tidings of my fame."

Childe Ernest rides with the Christian host,

O'er the hills of Holy-land,
And in warlike skill and bravery

Stands foremost of the band.

His hand' is first in mortal fray,

His foot the first to scale
The leaguered wall — his battle cry

The loudest on the gale.

Where the war is raging wildest, there

Childe Ernest's crest is seen ;
Like a white rock faintly gleaming

The foaming waves between.

The lady sits in her bower alone,

The sunset's golden red,
With the glory of a diadem,

Falls brightly round her head.

She is telling o'er her rosary,

Each pearl to memory brings
Some tender thought of by-gone days,

And long-remembered things.

Was that the breeze of evening? —

A hollow murmur came,
The whisper of a well-known voice,

The echo of her name.

Was that the flush of evening,

Deep dyed as if in gore? —
The fatal beads dropped from her hand,

And her love's hope was o'er.

" Is the tale true ?" inquired Bertha, as the last
notes died mournfully away.

" It was told me as such," replied Ginevra ; " and
the legend adds, that the magic pearls were strung by
Anne of Coburg, Childe Ernest's mother. She was a

mighty enchantress, could summon spirits to do her
behest, and call forth the winds and clouds to battle
in the sky."

"Cousin Adela," said the baroness, "hast thou
ever seen the old woman who inhabits the mountain
cavern? The peasantry call her a witch, for they
have often beheld her culling plants in the moonlight
meadows, and muttering to herself as her unholy sha-
dow sweeps over the long grass."

"I have never seen her," was the lady's reply;
" does she not withdraw her hated presence from hu-
man society, and dwell apart among the mountains,
where wild beasts and birds of prey alone come, and
spirits of evil make their sojourn?"

As she spoke, a woman of most extraordinary as-
pect stood before them. She was dressed in the com-
mon garb of the lowest class, but the uncouth man-
ner in which it was thrown about her gave a wildness
to her air, aided by the long grey locks that floated
uncovered around her head. Her tall figure was bent
by age, but her bold expressive features, and the ma-
niac brightness of her unearthly eye, seemed to defy
the power of time. A grassy mound had concealed
the stranger's approach, and a simultaneous exclama-
tion, or rather scream, broke forth on her unexpected
intrusion. Ginevra's lute dropped unheeded to the
ground ; some rose in act to fly, yet dared not quit
their party; others clung to their companions, or
crossed themselves as if to avert some fatal omen.
The lady Adela alone stood unmoved.

" Woman," said she, with the fearless haughtiness
which characterized her, " whom do you seek ?"

The stranger replied as proudly, and with a tone
almost of command — " I seek yourself, lady Adela.
I bear you a secret message, which deeply imports
you. If you would unveil the mystery of the future,
and read the record of the past ; if you would wish
power and happiness to be yours, follow me and listen
to my words."

" I follow not at the bidding of an unknown. If
you have any message for me, deliver it here."

" It is a secret ; I can reveal it to yourself alone."

" What token have I that you mean me no harm ?"

" Ask your own heart. Look upon my features.
Do they not recall dim memories of the past, and are
not the tones of my voice linked with your earliest
recollections ?"

" It must be so," said the lady, musingly. " I will !
go with you. Nay, kind cousin," she added, " look
not at me so entreatingly. I will be absent but for a
few moments ; what is there to fear ?"

Bertha, recovering from her trance of terror, de-
tained her with an affectionate embrace, exclaiming
earnestly ; " Oh ! Adela, dearest Adela ! go not with
that fearful woman. She has sought you for evil
and not for good."

At these words the witch turned, and her withering
glance fell scowlingly on Bertha. That look para-
lysed the timid maiden, and she remained speechless
and motionless till her cousin and the singular guide
were out of sight. The woman paused where the
boughs of a willow screened them from observation,
and drawing from her bosom a chain of exquisite
workmanship and a jewel-hilted dagger, presented
them to Adela. " Adela Koningsburg," said she,
solemnly, " this chain adorned thy mother, this dagger
was worn by thy father. Be worthy of thy illustrious
birth. Hark ! steps approach, and I may stay no
longer. Meet me here at midnight, as you would not

THE WITCH.

271

have the imprecation of the dead rest upon you, meet
me here. Farewell."

CHAPTER II.

The moon rode in silent beauty through the sky, and
on earth all save the restless waters and murmuring
winds were hushed in the solemn calm of midnight.
The cool breeze came fraught with music from the
nightingale, and the rich incense of dewy flowers.
The warder's distinct and measured tread echoed from
the battlements, but the lights were extinguished, and
voices were silent, throughout the castle, when a por-
tal half concealed among the buttresses, opened noise-
lessly, and a female figure glided forth. She paused
till the sentinel's retreating step assured her he had
turned ; then hastily crossing the moonlit sward, was
lost among the sweeping boughs of the forest. The
trees threw their giant shadows across her path, and
the mysterious under-tones of the forest were around
her, but with unfaltering step the lady went on till she
reached the scene of the morning's adventure. Night
had thrown her spell of awe upon the spot. A few
straggling moonbeams checkered the gloom ; while a
strange feeling of awe mingled with the ceaseless
chime of the stream, and deepened the aerial whisper-
ings of the foliage. In a spot upon which the rays
fell clearest, sat a tall woman, her face raised silently
to the sky. The maiden trembled and stood still in
breathless suspense, as she recognised, by that dim
light, the stern features of the mountain witch. Her
quick ear caught the sound of Adela's approach, and
she arose. "Welcome, lady," said she, "you are
true to the hour. Seat yourself with me, for there is
much I would fain have you hear. This is a fitting
spot to hold converse with the past, to recall hoarded
wrongs and appeal to the spirit of revenge. Hither
man's tyranny has not come. He cannot lay his cruel
grasp on the free sky, or his fetters on the viewless
air ; and this green turf, and those sparkling waters
are yet unstained by blood. Maiden, know you who
I am ?"

" Your voice is familiar to my ear, and I have surely
looked upon your face before ; my memory is not dis-
tinct, but blends with the dim images of other days."
" Though below you in birth, lady, I am a distant
kinswoman of your's. When you slumbered uncon-
scious in the cradle, your parents confided you to my
arms, that the pure air and wholesome nurture of my
home, might restore to your cheek the health that
had faded from it in the princely halls of the Konings-
burgs."

" What say you ? — and is it then from that noble
line I am descended ? The name is familiar to my
ear; I have heard it in songs of minstrels, when
chivalry, and the many warlike exploits of the baron,
were their theme. They speak of a feud between that
house and the Linhort ; and tell how the sword swept
them from the earth as the north wind drives the
clouds from heaven."

" Yes ! ashes and the blackening trace of fire mark
the spot which was the fortress of valour and the
dwelling place of the beautiful and brave. It was
taken by treachery. It was the seductive touch of
gold, and not the mailed arm that flung open its gates
to the enemy. Thy noble father, thy valiant brethren,
strove in vain. They fought, while the red beams
of their burning home fell hot around them — they
fought amid a thousand hostile swords and a hurtling
shower of arrows — one by one they perished, and

of that glorious lineage thou art the sole descen-
dant."

" Did all perish — my mother and my sisters ?"

" All — all. I am your nearest relative, and you
are mine. My kindred were slain in that battle, or
in the fatal persecution that has blotted our name
from the roll of the princes of the land. My brave
husband — my gallant brethren — my fair children —
the beautiful ones who made sunshine and music
beneath my roof — they are gone. I am a lone and
weary wanderer upon earth, and but for one hope I
should die. Let me see the house desolate which has
exulted in our fall, and the Lady of Koningsburg
with the glory of her ancestors around her, and I
shall be content."

"And how came I under the protection of my direst
enemy ?"

" When under my distant roof I heard of the de-
struction of your house, when I knew that the hand
of rapine would be soon in my ionely dwelling, and
that I was henceforth desolate upon earth, I made
a solemn vow that these wrongs should be avenged.
I brought you to the Baron's gentle lady, a feigned
tale won her compassion, and she promised that you
and the infant Bertha should be sisters. I left you
to be nursed on the bosom of those whom I had
sworn to pursue to destruction. Can you not tell the
reason?"

" Strange and fearful woman ! what would'st thou
have me do ?"

" For the present nothing — the time has not yet
come. But I have read it in the stars — I have heard
a voice when the storm comes down from the moun-
tain and the pines are full of mighty sounds. I have
talked with the dead on the lonely hill top, and, in
the depths of my cavern home — and they have all
breathed one word — revenge. Revenge! it is my
only thought, it haunts my waking dream and my
slumbers by night, it is the very light and air wherein
I have my being. Lady, lay up these things in thy
heart; cherish them fondly there, that the destined
hour may not find thee slumbering."

CHAPTER III.

From that hour there was a marked change in the
Lady Adela. A deep shadow of melancholy, such
as seldom darkens the brow of youth, fell upon her.
Those who had heard of the woman who appeared
and summoned the lady in the forest, when they
missed her graceful step in the dance and heard no
more her laugh where the young and happy met,
believed her under the influence of some baneful spell.
She turned from her friend Bertha, who anxiously
and kindly sought the cause of her grief. How could
she join in festal mirth with that tale of wrong and
sorrow weighing and wearing upon her heart, and the
witch's wild prophecy yet ringing in her ear. How
could she return the caresses of the daughter of him
who had brought desolation upon the hearth of her
fathers. She saw none but those whom she was bound
to hate by the then sacred laws of retaliation, and
the joyousness and splendour by which she was sur-
rounded made sickness in her soul when she remem-
bered that she, the sole surviving scion of a renown-
ed ancestry, was a dependant in the house of her
enemy.

Thus sadly passed away the bright summer months,
each bringing some change of beauty to the romantic
Rhine. But when the rich harvest was golden in

272

THE WITCH.

valley and plain, news came that the gallant host
who had united with the sainted Louis in a third
crusade were returning homeward. The tidings were
spread joyfully through hamlet and castle, for there
were few who had not a friend or a kinsman em-
barked in this wild and glorious enterprise. Yes !
let the wise of the nineteenth century, the philosophers
and historians of what has been justly termed the age
of incredulity, sneer if they will at the fanaticism of
the crusaders; let those whose dull and unimpassioned
hearts are fettered by laws as mechanical as those
that govern the clod beneath their feet, smile at the
dreams of chivalry, and gaze in stupid wonder at
the mighty effects which arose from the hermit's elo-
quence; the pen of romance and poetry will love to
trace the history of that adventurous period. Ariosto's
magic strains and the golden verse of Tasso will

faith he had secretly plighted to Adela. The maiden
started, and the rich colour died away from her face,
till her very lip was ashy white ; and her eye turned
dim as the closed orbs of the dead. For she knew
as if she had read it on the scrolls of destiny, that
the knight was faithless, and that she had loved and
hoped in vain.

CHAPTER IV.

The last hour of daylight was fading away, but the
halls of Linhort castle still rang to the mirth which
the goblet inspired. The Baroness had long since
retired from the feast, and young Hermanst followed
her steps. Had his conscience no voice to whisper
how false and fickle had been his conduct ? It was
lulled to rest by the thought that Adela cared little
for his desertion. She met him with a cold courtesy

render them immortal, and in every land and every in which a slight degree of scorn, perceptible to him-

age their names will be hallowed to the hero and the self alone, had place, and no faultering word or un-

poet. More fame and warlike honour than ever guarded glance betrayed that the past was not buried

followed the train of a victorious monarch, were in oblivion.

Pleasantly did the bright hours dance along with
the betrothed; and the shadows of eve had fallen ere
they dreamed that an hour could have fled, so much
had the crusader to tell of battles won and perils risked

reaped in the disastrous crusades.

Among the most distinguished survivors of Fre-
deric's ill-fated band was Count Albert Hermanst.
He was returning with a warrior's reputation to add
new lustre to his youth and wealth, his knightly in Palestine; so eagerly did the maiden listen to the
courtesy and noble birth. From infancy, Count Al- wonders of that far country, so dear to her was each
bert had been betrothed to Bertha, but love may not adventure in which Albert had borne a part. He
be signed and sealed away by parent or guardian, painted in vivid colours, their army's glittering array,
and before he followed the star of fame to the arid bright with banners round which generations of the
plains of Syria, his heart was lost, his vows were brave had striven and died, and her countenance
pledged to another. He was a captive to the beauty brightened with answering enthusiasm ; she grew pale
of the dark-eyed Adela, and was beloved with all the with pleasing terror, while he described the strife of
earnestness of a lofty and passionate heart that has death, the clang of trumpets, the clashing of sabres,
found but"SAe object on earth for its affection. It is and the terrible detail of wounds and death, and as
a fearful thin* for some to love — for those to whom he spoke of the solemn rites and martial sorrow with
that emotion is the element of existence ; theirs is a which they buried the departed hero, she wept, for
disturbed and jealous love, asking nothing less in her only brother had found a grave in Palestine. But,
return than the whole heart. To them disappoint- tears are only bitter when we shed them in solitude,
ment is despair, hopeless and unresigned. Oh ! let The drops called forth by affection are sweet even in
such lay up their heart's treasure in heaven, for earth their melancholy; the sunny smile of a friend will
will cast back its precious gifts in mockery, to rest tint with rainbow hues the passing shower; and as
like a blighting spell on the bosom of the giver. the soft haze of sorrow melts from the soul, earth

At length, the long anticipated time had come that and sky will be gladdened with a summer brightness,
was to give back the wanderer to many a household, Alas ! poor Adela ! such balmy tears were not for
and to wake anew the tears of those who had wept thee. There was heaviness on her breast ; she sought
him as buried on a foreign shore. When each day to relieve it in the open air, and descended into the
brought tidings of some welcome return ; when the ladies' garden. Rich autumn flowers bloomed in the
warder watched with unwearied eyes, and many a trimly arranged beds, and ripe grapes hung clustering
bosom thrilled at the blast of the horn, though it on trellis and arbour, or were festooned amid the
were but a huntsman's signal, none watched or lis- vine leaves from tree to tree. Bees were buzzing
tened with more eagerness than the ladies of Linhort about in the yellow sunshine, lazily, as if they thought
castle. When a messenger arrived, saying that Count their summer task might well be drawing to a close,
Albert stood again in his paternal heritage, and cour- and the music of birds which no chill wind had
teously advised the Baron of an intended visit, the warned to seek another clime, came ever and anon
rosy hues that flitted over Bertha's cheek revealed from the neighbouring groves. There is a sweet,
the thoughts which that announcement had awakened, composing influence in a scene like this. We bear
and Adela's downcast eyes concealed the eloquent back a precious gift from each hour of meditation
truth that flashed at once into their beams. And among trees and flowers, which blesses us long after
when martial music echoed through the wood, and a in our daily path. But the book of nature had no
well-known pennon glanced among the trees, and the consolation for Adela. Her lofty mind would not
portals were thrown open to a stately warrior train, bow to learn the lesson of content and resignation,
the maidens looked breathlessly from the battlements and the memories which lingered about this spot to
upon a tall and graceful knight who rode foremost her were fraught with anguish. There, on a knoll
of the band. As he drew near they could plainly shut out from the castle by a group of fruit trees, but
discern the rich scarf that floated on his shoulder, opening on a wide prospect to the west, had she ■
and an embroidered glove waving in his helmet, often stood with Hermanst at evening twilight, each
They were tokens from his betrothed, and he had expressing thoughts, hopes, and wishes, vaguely beau-
vowed never to wear them till he renounced the tifiil as the darkening scenes around. In one bower

THE WITCH.

273

they were wont to meet by moonlight, in another
had their love been first breathed into words; and
down this shadowy path had she often stolen from
him in silence, lest some jealous eye should learn
their secret. "Oh! Hermahst," she murmered, "hast
thou forgotten all this; or was thy love indeed but a
feigned tale. No ! Thy words were not then deceitful ;
I could read their truth in the earnest eye, which is
now bent on Bertha alone, and in that sweet smile,
that shall never, never greet me as it has done. And
what has wrought this change ? Has the beauty you
were fond of praising fled my cheek? Is my heart less
true, my mind less aspiring than when their charms
won him? The change is in himself alone — he has
learned to be wiser, yes ! wiser," — and she laughed
bitterly — " than to brave the Baron's anger for an
unknown and dowerless orphan. Oh ! blind that I
was to believe that the rash vows of youth would be
fulfilled, or that my love and constancy would weigh
as a grain of sand in the balance against the broad
lands and heavy coffers of the Lady of Linhort. And
why is not Adela Koningsburg first among the noble
and wealthy of the land? I too was born to power
and riches, and the glory of an honoured parentage.
But for thee, Baron of Linhort, but for thee, how
different had been my lot. A curse fall upon thee
and thy household!"

While these thoughts were passing in her mind,
the lady left the garden, and half unconsciously pur-
sued one of the paths leading through the wood. She
paused where an opening among the trees gave her
a view of the castle, rising with banners unfurled
proudly against the crimson sky, and repeated aloud,
" Curses, and blighting, and desolation be upon thee,
my enemy, and on thy hated house !" A voice re-
plied with a solemn amen ! She turned, and started
to see the Witch of the Mountain. It seemed as if
an evil spirit had started from the yawning earth, to
answer her request, so wild was the being who stood
before her and with such vehemence did she pour
forth her fierce maledictions upon the mansion of her
enemy. At any other time even the fearless Adela
would have shrunk from communion with this terrible
woman; but now a wild hope shot through her de-
spair, for she was imbued with all the superstition
of her age, though she scorned its terrors. The
thought flashed over her mind that perchance this
dweller in the wilderness knew some spell which
could restore the heart she had lost, and give her in
Hermanst a powerful auxiliary in her hatred to the
Baron. Swift as the lightning this thought passed
through her brain, and she addressed the Witch : —
"Art thou learned in the science of magic, my nurse?"
she demanded, calling her by a name which she ima-
gined would soothe her anger.

The Witch turned abruptly, and drawing the maid-
en's arm within her own, walked rapidly on for a
few minutes, then forsaking the track entered a grove
of chestnut trees. Through the thick branches there
fell not even at noontide, light sufficient to enliven
one blade of grass, and at this hour it was fearfully
dim. " What was the question thou didst but just
now ask me?" said Adela's guide, releasing her hold
on her shuddering companion. " I asked if thou
wast conversant with the secrets of magic," was the
reply of one too well versed in concealing her feelings
to betray her momentary terror.

" I can call the dead from their graves, and they
will obey my voice — I have seen the spirits that ride

in the stars, and the demon of the tempest holds con-
verse with me. Shall thy ancestry arise from their
tombs to bless thee?"

" It is not this I wish," said the maiden, hesitat-
ingly.

" Would'st thou be revenged on thy enemies? It
was my voice winged the arrow that laid William
Linhort low; it was my word made the fever deathly
that snatched Isabella from her sovereign lord."

" Not thus ! not thus ! Listen. He, who should
be mine by a vow plighted long ago, in a few weeks
weds Bertha. Give me a charm by which his heart
may be regained, and his sword shall revenge my
father's death. Speak," she continued, as the witch
stood silent, " is such power thine ?"

" I know a spell," she replied at length, in a calm
tone, totally different from her usual insane enthusi-
asm, " I know a spell which will take from thy rival
the power and desire of winning his love. Let her
but taste of that cup, and she shall no more listen or
reply to his accents of love; their eyes shall meet no
more in love and confidence, and he shall seek an-
other bride."

" Say on," whispered Adela, for a dreadful idea
flashed on her mind.

" I have done," returned the witch.

" Is there danger to life in the potion of which
thou speakest ?"

" Would'st thou care if there were ?"

"What dost thou mean?"

TiiwG v;as a terrible pause, but the malignant
light that danced in her nurse's eye, answered the
question. Adela covered her face with her hands,
and a mental struggle took place; her passionate love
and hatred fiercely combating the lofty and generous
principles of her nature. " Is there no other way ?"
she inquired eagerly.

" None. And dost thou hesitate, weak child of an
illustrious parentage. It was the just boast of the
Koningsburgs, that none who bore the name ever
knew fear, or remorse for the destruction of an
enemy."

At these words, the pride, that strong emotion had
for once banished, rushed back, with a flush of anger
to the lady's brow. " Enough," she said, " it is not
for thee, woman, to approach Adela Koningsburg
with words of reproof. It is a feeling far different
from fear which has caused me to hesitate, and I
shall consider what best beseems my dignity and my
interest. Send me the potion thou speakest of, and
remember that those whom I may choose to forgive
can no longer be an object of resentment to my
vassal." She uttered this in a tone of irresistible
command, and scarcely pausing to receive the obei-
sance of her companion, left the grove.

As the lady retraced her steps, the voice of gaiety
came from the castle, mingled with the busy hum of the
menials ; the sounds smote on her ear, and she shrunk
from carrying her lonely heart into the thoughtless
throng. But with the sight of that proud castle and
its happy inmates, came the recollection of the wrongs
that she had brooded over, till vengeance became the
chief aim of her existence. But till then she had
thought only of fair conflict in the open field, and
this secret design against the life of an innocent girl,
who had once been her friend, was abhorrent to her
spirit.

Adela was walking slowly through the garden, when
at a sudden turning, she met Hermanst and Bertha.

274

GO AND A BLESSING GO WITH YOU.

His words were low and he seemed to look for an
answer from her downcast eyes. Adela passed them
with a silent smile, but from that moment she was
resolved.

CHAPTER IT.

A month passed, and1 a fair and noble company
were bidden to Bertha's wedding. The banquet was
spread in the castle hall, bright even to the topmost
arch with countless torches. All that the rude mag-
nificence of the middle age could provide for a festive
occasion was there; the board glistened with a profu-
sion of gold and silver plate, heaped with all the luxu-
ries the world then knew ; and the most gifted min-
strels had assembled, to vie in song before the love-
liest and bravest in Germany.

As the music paused, Hermanst turned to his bride.
" Methinks," said he, " as queen of the feast you set
your guests but a sad example in leaving your wine
untouched."

" You may perform my part if you will," she gaily
replied, passing the goblet to her lips and handing it
to him.

The Knight responded to the call, bowed grace-
fully to his bride, and drained the cup. But ere he
had placed it from his hand a shriek rang through the
hall. Every eye was turned to the quarter whence it
came, where stood Adela pale and aghast, with her
strained eyes fixed upon Albert. Following the di-
rection of her gaze, all present looked towards the
bridegroom. Heavens ! what a spectacle met their
sight ; the flush on his cheek had disappeared, and was
succeeded by an ashy paleness. He sunk upon his
seat ; they rushed to support him. His eye grew dim,
and his lips became of a livid hue. The affrighted
Bertha clasped him to her bosom in agony. The
truth was too apparent ; the cup he had drained was

drugged with death. Long did the Knight strive to
conceal the pangs that were preying upon his very
vitals, and with faint smile he sought to cheer his
bride. But the effort was vain; his features became
ghastly und distorted ; Bertha observed the dreadful
change and swooned in his arms, and ere she could
again be recalled to life and consciousness, Hermanst
lay upon the floor a corpse.

So sudden was that catastrophe, so great was the
shock caused by this scene of death in the midst of
festivity, that all remained in bewilderment and horror,
with scarce the power of thought or utterance. The
Baron was the first to break the silence. " Ho !" he
shouted, as if on the field of battle, " bear the Lady
Bertha to her apartment and send for the leech with-
out delay. Where is the Lady Adela ?" She had
passed from the hall, none knew how or when, so
wholly had they been absorbed in this fearful tragedy.

The physician came, but a single glance assured
him that his skill would be of no avail, and he could
only proclaim what all had more than suspected, that
Hermanst had died by poison. But where was Adela 1
On her suspicion rested ; but they sought her in vain
throughout the castle. For long years after her faith-
less lover died her fate was unknown. Nearly a cen-
tury afterwards, a hunter among the mountains found
a cave where lay two human skeletons. Around the
fleshless skull of one shone fair jewels girt by a ring
of gold ; there was a rusted dagger richly gemmed,
and amid dust and crumbled bones lay a gold chain
enchased with armorial bearings.

The Baron of Linhort died in a lonely home, and
his heritage passed to children that were not his own,
for Bertha had entered a convent where she passed
the remainder of her days in solitude, and it is hoped
atoned, in part, by her piety and good works, for the
injustice of which her family had been guilty.

Written for the Lady's Book.

» G O—A ND A BLESSING GO WITH YOU."

The ahove was inscribed on the back of a twenty dollar note, forming part of a sum sent by some unknown hand, to a family

in great affliction.

CUTTER.

Go — go — and a blessing go with thee !

A blessing which gold cannot buy —
An influence gentle and holy,

Descending like light from the sky ;
A power the spirit pervading

To comfort, to strengthen, and cheer,
Sweet hope in her promises aiding.

And hushing the murmurs of fear.

Yes, go — and a blessing go with thee !

For what of thyself art thou worth ?
Though eagerly sought for and cherished,

Thou chief of the idols of earth 1
I know that I cannot expect thee

To fill the desires of the soul ;
Thou art worthless, unless I connect thee

With something above thy control.

Then go — but a blessing go with thee !

And, silent and dead as thou art,
A voice and a sympathy give thee

To commune with the care-stricken heart-
To bid it, 'mid darkness and sorrow,

Courageously hold on its way,
Assured that, ere long, some to-morrow

Shall chase the dark shades of to-day.

Go — go— and a blessing go with thee 1

'Tis thus with a heavenly thrift,
Good devising, and freely dispensing,

True charity doubles her gift.
Not content when her utmost is given,

She borrows, with bountiful care,
Faith's letter of credit on heaven,

And endorses it over with prayer.

Yes, go— and a blessing go with thee I

That prayer was accepted on high,
And I felt that the boon it imparted

Was a token of love from the sky.
It was kind, it was noble as given

To relieve a sad moment of need; —
But oh ! as it whispered of heaven,

It soothed and refreshed me indeed.

Go — go — and a blessing go with thee !

Oh! yes, and a blessing return,
A thousand fold richer and sweeter

Than all earthly treasures could earn-
Like dews, in sweet incense exhaling

From garden, field, fountain, and rill,
Sent back, with a bounty unfailing,

Field, garden, and fountain to fill.

CHIDIOC TICHBOURNE.

275

Written for the Lady's Book.

CHIDIOC TICHBOURNE.

AN HISTORICAL TALE. BY GRIZZEL EASTWICK

It was a festal night in merry England, in the period
when she best deserved that name, the splendid reign
of Elizabeth. Christmas, with its luxurious feasts, its
lavish gifts, and its grotesque gambols, had passed
by, and Twelfth-night had come to close the festivi-
ties, and, like the last night of the Carnival, to outdo
its predecessors in extravagance and mirth.

In one of the noblest mansions of London this
night was observed with unusual magnificence. Every
window was illuminated till the whole building seem-
ed one blaze of light ; busy menials, in gala dresses,
were hurrying to and fro ; gay knights and courtly
dames were thronging in the lofty apartments ; and
to complete the splendour of the scene, the Queen
graced the fete with her presence. It was the bridal
of the heiress of that noble house, the lovely and
loved Agnes Courtenay.

On one side of the central room a temporary
throne had been prepared, whose crimson hangings
lent a becoming flush to the Queen's somewhat faded
features, and Elizabeth, as she seated herself beneath
them, had deigned to compliment her noble host upon
the exquisite taste displayed in the garniture of his
apartments. Seeing her in this gracious mood of
gratified vanity, the obsequious courtiers hastened to
proffer their customary adulation ; but, as the bridal
train entered and swept round before the throne, their
gaze of habitual admiration was irresistibly withdrawn
from the Queen to rest on the surpassing beauty of
the young bride ; a beauty which is thus described by
one of the minute chroniclers of that time. " The
Ladye, Agnes Courtenay, was of an exquisite loveli-
ness, being so light of form and of so rare a grace,
that she seemed to be a silphe, rather than of mor-
talle flesh : a rope of orient perles would have bound
her dark locks, but that they mocked at such res-
i traynt, and fell abundantlye over her neck and
shoulderes, whose whitenesse made the envyous
perles grow dimme. Was she stille, the light of her
hazell eye was milder than the moon's beams on a
lake in the summer time, but it flashed as a ray from
the sunne, when she smiled. When she moved, you
looked to see her float up above the grosser ayre by
her own etheryallnesse ; and when she spake, all har-
monies in earth and ayre were hushed, to hear the
musicke of her words. That sould had need be a
jewell of pryse, that did not shaime so cunninglye
fraimed a caskett."

And truly, the Lady Agnes was all in purity and
intellect, that her peerless beauty declared her ; nor
could there be easily found a higher proof of a lofty
soul, than that she gave in her marriage. Young,
beautiful, the heiress of a name so noble that royal
blood flowed in her veins,* the daughter of the Earl
of Devonshire — rising above the aristocratic preju-
i dice so general even now, but universal then — be-
j stowed her hand on one who bore no other title than
that of " a true and noble-hearted gentleman." Chi-

* " Hugh Courtenay, Earl of Devonshire, married Marga-
ret, the grand-daughter of Edward I."

dioc Tichboume was descended from a family, res- .
pected indeed through many generations for worth of
heart and mind, but which counted not among its
members, one so distinguished by military prowess,
or civil policy, as to have achieved even the simple
honours of knighthood. But his was a character
that needed no inherited distinction to give it lustre;
the foil that imparts brilliancy to the meaner gem,
adds no ray to the diamond.

To shield his child from the blandishments of the
court, the Earl of Devonshire had caused her to pass
her early years with his widowed sister, in a seques-
tered mansion at Southampton ; and there she had
known and loved Chidioc Tichbourne, and had learn-
ed, for his sake, to prize a noble and cultivated intel-
lect, lofty principle, and refined feeling, above the
distinctions of rank and power. " I do not stoop,
my father," said Agnes, when the Earl opposed her
union with one so far her inferior in rank ; " had I
yielded my heart to one wanting in any noble qua-
lity, you might say your child had forgotten the dig-
nity of her descent; but when I love one who is, in
all but birth, the peer of earth's noblest sons, I feel
that I elevate myself. Oh, my father, if you would
wed me to a title, you should have kept me amid the
false glare of the court, instead of sending me to
learn truth in the simple bosom of nature."

"Nature teaches the same lesson that I read you,"
replied the Earl ; " no noble creature herds with a
meaner : the eagle mates not with the hawk."

" You say well, my Lord," said Agnes ; " but it is
their nature which distinguishes them, not their ex-
ternal trappings. Many a hawk wears gay hood and
tinkling jesses, while the eagle flies unnoticed."

The lady won her suit, though not till the power-
ful interposition of the Queen was added to her own
eloquence. It was the theme of much wondering
conversation among the courtiers present at the bri-
dal, that the haughty Elizabeth should regard with
favour, a union between one allied to herself and a
simple commoner; but those who best understood
her policy, shrewdly surmised that her motive lay in
the very circumstance which excited the wonder of
others. Derived from the same royal stock that gave
to Henry VII. his right to the crown which Eliza-
beth had inherited from him, the high descent of
Agnes of Devonshire might excite some dangerous
aspirings in any ambitious noble who should become
her husband; but her marriage with a commoner
effectually relieved the Queen from all such anxiety :
departing, therefore, from her usual policy of keeping
unmarried all who might take any part in the vexed
question of the succession, she promoted the unam-
bitious wishes of Agnes, by her own irresistible in-
fluence. The result we have already seen. Who
could guess what darkness lay behind that splendid
bridal?

Four happy years had passed away, and the Lady
Agnes and her husband were still lovers. Her face

276

CHIDIOC TICHBOURNE.

still wore its brightest smile for him alone, and his
eye still beamed on her as fondly as on their nuptial
eve. But though unaltered in his love for her, a
change had come over the spirit of Chidioc TicrT-
bourne. For the first time since their marriage, he
had spent some time in London without his wife, and
after his return to Southampton, he was grave and
thoughtful, and sometimes abstracted in anxious
musings.

"Come hither, Agnes," he exclaimed, starting from
one of these moods of thought, as he met her sad-
dened gaze; "come, sit beside me, and look on this
picture," drawing, as he spoke, a small miniature in
a golden setting, from his bosom. " Saw you ever
any thing so fair, except — " and he parted the hair
from her forehead, and pressed his lips upon it — " in
your own mirror, love ?"

" Oh, beautiful ! surely some cunning limner has
here traced his own bright fancies of what woman
ought to be, not what any woman is."

" Nay, dearest, it is a portrait, and scarce so fair
as its original. What think you of her from this
portraiture?"

The lady gazed long, in deep admiration, on that
exquisite picture. " There might well be a diadem
on this lofty brow where the dark hair parts so sim-
ply," she said at length, " and these large hazel eyes
seem used to command* Indeed it is a queenly face.
Yet there is a heaviness in the eyelids, and a beseech-
ing softness about the mouth, as if she had known
sorrow — and known it long too, for it is a calm and
gentle sadness that rests on her face, not a sudden
burst of grief. Sweet Lady ! whoever thou art, thou
canst win hearts, for thou hast won mine, even
now !"

" And if I should tell yon, Agnes, that the sadness
you discover has been caused by cruel wrong — that
this fair and hapless lady suffers unmerited oppres-
sion, and that too from her kindred, and that there
is one way of escape for her, though a perilous one —
my Agnes, would you venture aught for her sake?"

" Say on ! say on !"

" You have divined well, sweet one," continued
Tichbourne, " that fair brow has borne a crown, and
those bright eyes are familiar with tears, for a Queen
is a prisoner."

" Mary Stuart !" exclaimed Agnes.

" Yes, Mary Stuart," repeated her husband sadly ;
" Mary, of Scotland, pines in an English prison.
Betrayed by those to whom she trusted, deserted by
her nearest kindred, persecuted by her to whom she
fled for protection, her wrongs are an outrage upon
the laws of nations and of nature. But though op-
pressed by England, not all in England are her ene-
mies ; a band of true and gallant hearts have sworn
to set her free. Hear me, Agnes ; you say she has
won your heart, will you hazard aught to rescue a
woman from her enemies, a Queen from a dungeon ?
To place Mary Stuart in safety and freedom on the
soil of France ?"

Lady Agnes looked earnestly on her husband, and
as varying emotions chased each other across her
beautiful features, she seemed irresolute. It was but
for a moment, and then, while her face grew pale as
if the blood were curdling at her heart, she answered
in a firm, deep tone —

" Heaven forbid that I should seek to hold you
back, Chidioc, where your own noble heart bids you
on. I will peril my life in yours."

" Ever true to yourself, ever generous and unself-
ish !" cried her husband, " Heaven grant it may not
be my lot to bring care and sorrow into this noble
heart !"

The circumstances which Tichbourne now detailed
to Lady Agnes, of the conspiracy formed by Babing-
ton to liberate the Queen of Scots, are so fully nar-
rated by the historians of that period, that we may
pass over them very rapidly. Wrought upon by the
Jesuit emissaries of the Duke of Guise, the young and
ambitious Babington became devoted to the cause of
Mary, and he contrived to convey to her, even under
the strict surveillance of Sir Amyas Paulet, commu-
nications from her adherents in France, and informa-
tion of his own plans for her escape. A correspond-
ence ensued, from which it is evident that he became
deeply in love with the imprisoned Queen, and re-
ceived from her some encouragement. Mary, fully
sensible of the power of her beauty, sent him her por-
trait, which had undoubted influence in bringing into
his conspiracy some persons of a far less chivalrous
spirit than Chidioc Tichbourne. He, indeed, seems
to have been conspicuous among the conspirators for
the disinterestedness of his aims, and the integrity of
his principles: for, drawn to join them at first by his
friendship for Babington, with whom he had been
intimate from their childhood, his devotion to Mary
seems to have sprung from the same generous feeling
that impelled the knights of old always to aid a bro-
ther in arms, and to succour woman in distress. He
had nothing to gain from Mary's liberation ; but for
it he hazarded all — all, save his honour and allegi-
ance ; on those he brought no stain ; for when Bab-
ington yielded to the representations of the Jesuits,
that Mary could not be saved while Elizabeth lived,
and when Savage eagerly claimed for himself the
honour of executing this nefarious design, Tichbourne
resolutely opposed any attempt against the life of his
own sovereign. For a time he almost prevailed with
his friend to seek only to effect Mary's escape to
France, and he offered to undertake himself the most
dangerous offices in such a scheme; but the danger
of being intercepted before they could reach the coast
appearing too great to Babington, he resolved on the
assassination of Elizabeth ; when Tichbourne, after ar-
guing with him long in vain, withdrew from the plot;
not however without a severe struggle between his prin-
ciple on the one hand, and, on the other, his interest
in Mary, and his affection for the friend whom, in all
lawful efforts, he would have aided with his life.

" I will be silent for your sake, for I cannot betray
my friend," he said, as he parted from Babington,
"but I will not seek to accomplish good by such un-
righteous means. Beware that you bring not de-
struction on the hapless lady you would succour, by
such an unholy deed."

He returned sadly to his loved retreat at South-
ampton, but his anxiety would not suffer him long to
remain there, and he ended the conversation, whose
commencement has been given above, by expressing
to Agnes his design of returning to London in pur-
suit of his friend, with the hope that he might yet aid
in releasing the royal prisoner in some mode not re-
pugnant to his conscience.

On arriving in London, Tichbourne found his friend
inflexibly determined upon placing Mary on the throne
of England. All his expostulations were answered,
partly by the arguments of the Jesuits, that Mary was
the rightful heir to the crown, yet, if the succession

CHIDIOC TICHBOURNE.

277

were left to Elizabeth's decision, she would undoubt-
edly appoint a Protestant, and thus all hope of re-es-
tablishing the Papal supremacy over England, would
be for ever at an end ; and partly by descriptions of
the glory to be enjoyed by those who had secured
her accession, under Mary's gentler reign, which was
to fill the court with gaiety, and all England with joy.
Doubtless visions of the highest honours, attained
through love, floated before the excited fancy of the
ambitious and enamoured Babington, and made the
less daring scheme of securing only Mary's personal
safety seem little alluring.

Babington deferred the execution of his purpose
only till a favourable occasion might offer, for accom-
plishing at once the murder of Elizabeth and the re-
lease of Mary ; and the Queen at length seemed to
furnish the desired opportunity, by appointing a day
in the following week for a hunting excursion into the
country. It was agreed that Savage, with several
other of the conspirators, should mingle in the throng
that always escorted the royal cavalcade, and thus
assassinate Elizabeth in an unguarded moment ; while
Babington was to hasten, with a party of horsemen,
to take advantage of the confusion that would follow
the news of her death, to rescue Mary by force. The
better to cover his designs, Babington visited Lord
Walsingham, and expressed a desire to be employed in
the foreign service ; and the wily secretary, who had
already received some intelligence of the plot through
the treachery of one of their number, professed much
interest in his plans, and invited him to spend some
days in his house. Babington fell easily into the
snare, and was flushed with the hope of speedy sue
cess, when he received a secret intimation that the
Lord Secretary had intelligence of the conspiracy, and
that on the day appointed for its consummation, they
were to be arrested. Nothing now remained but to
seek safety in immediate flight. The conspirators
scattered in various quarters, Tichbourne accompa-
nying his friend;. but the warning came too late.
Scouts were out in every direction, and after a few
days of weary wandering in the forest to which they
had fled for concealment, they were seized and con-
veyed to the Tower, where the vigilant Secretary had
already secured all their associates.

Scarcely giving a moment's consideration to his
own implication in the plot, Tichbourne, in the first
hours of discovery and flight, was necessarily absorb-
ed in his friend's danger, and in the excitement of
escaping; while lurking in St. John's Wood, the frus-
tration of their hopes filled him with a sense of the
bitter disappointment that awaited the hapless Queen
of Scots, doomed to see her prison bars drawn closer,
by every attempt to rescue her; and the few words
that the fugitives had dared to exchange, were chiefly
expressions of sorrow for her sake. It was not till
he had entered the Tower, and heard the fatal doors
close behind him, that the image of Agnes, desolate
and deserted, rushed upon his soul. Then, with the
greater vividness for having been awhile repressed,
came the sense of all the misery these tidings were
bringing to her. She must have heard at once of their
discovery and consequent flight : what days of tor-
turing suspense had she already endured ! How had
she sustained what had passed ? How could she sus-
tain that which might be to come ? Terrible fancies
crowded upon him ; too terrible to be endured. Crush-
ed beneath his thronging emotions, he sat down on
the side of his pallet, and buried his face in his hands.
VOL. XXII. 24

For himself he could meet death fearlessly, but for
Agnes' sake he must, he would be free. Suddenly he
roused himself, and putting resolutely away every
thought that might shake his self-control, he began
to plan the means of communicating to his wife the
hope which he could not feel; and to consider all ar-
rangements of his affairs which might be necessary
in case of the worst issue. Resolved not to throw
away the life which the memory of his wife's love
made so precious, he reviewed his circumstances,
seizing with the intense mental energy which suffering
gives, on every point which might aid his defence.
Absorbed in these reflections, hours passed over him
unheeded, when he was roused by the sound of the
opening door, and Agnes stood before him. For a
few brief moments she could not control her agitation,
but when she heard her husband's passionate self-re-
proaches, that he had won her from her father's halls
to share in sorrow and a prison, she dashed away her
tears, and threw a smile like a sunbeam around the
desolate walls, as she said,

" Not so, dearest, this is no prison to me ; my pri-
son was the wide world where you were not; to be
here with you is a freedom which I have prayed
earnestly to obtain ; and which I gained at last only
through the intercession of my father and other noble
friends."

" Bless you for those words ! But why was the
Queen so merciless? she could hardly fear that you
should steal away her prisoner through these ponder-
ous doors."

" Something she said of disguises and escapes, but
I ventured to reply, that her majesty little knew
Chidioc Tichbourne, if she supposed that he would
steal forth as a felon unjustified, and that I looked
rather to see those who have closed these doors set
them open, and call him to go forth in the fair light
of day."

" That might they truly do, so far as there is any
sin on my conscience in this matter," said Tich-
bourne; " but not all that are innocent go free, and
appearances are against me. Heard you aught of
what has been discovered ?"

" There are many uncertain rumours — absurd, and
far beyond the truth, as rumours always are," replied
the lady. " Some say that the Lady Stuart was to
have been rescued, not to flee to France, as you told
me, but to become Queen of England; that there
were those among her friends whose hands were lift-
ed against their sovereign's life. Some men have
said that Chidioc Tichbourne was one of these."

As Agnes uttered these last words, with a slight
smile of scorn for the falsehood, she laid her hand in
his, and looked upon him with an unclouded brow.
That his eye could meet lovingly and unshrinkingly
that look of perfect confidence, might have been to
his bitterest accuser, sufficient proof of his integrity.

" If," he said, after a pause, " the treachery of him
who betrayed this cause, has been as complete as I
fear it has, Lord Walsingham will not believe this
part of the story."

" He cannot, I am sure he does not," cried Agnes,
eagerly. " It was Lord Walsingham who moved her
majesty to grant my coming to you. He said to her,
though he knew not that I heard it, that clemency
would add to the lustre of her name, without dimin-
ishing her security. And more, he said to me at part-
ing, ' Be of good cheer, for it may be that not all im-
plicated are guilty.' "

278

CHIDIOC TICHBOURNE.

" Be not too confident, my beloved," said Tich-
bourne, gazing fondly yet sadly on her animated face,
" Lord Walsingham is ever crafty, and it will doubt-
less be his policy to win some by the promise of go-
ing unscathed, to testify against those who are more
deeply involved. You cannot hope— nay I wrong
you — you would not endure that I should go free on
such terms."

" Oh, no ! no ! but surely you who opposed that
criminal project when it was suggested — you cannot
be endangered by any evidence that may be given
against those who proposed it ? If, ' not all are guilty,'
you are among the innocent in the Lord Secretary's
estimation."

Tichbourne sighed. As his own release began to
seem possible, his heart grew heavy for his friend.
To know that the full extentof Babington's plot was
the subject of common rumour, left little room for
hope concerning him. He strove, however, to con-
ceal his anxiety, and to participate in the hopes of
Agnes; but, as day after day passed on, his spirit
wasted beneath it in the inaction of his prison;
while the energy of Lady Agnes was sustained by her
unceasing efforts to obtain his liberation. At length
the Queen, wearied by her eloquent pleadings, re-
fused to admit her to her presence, but still her reso-
lution did not fail. Though her cheek grew pale and
her smile unfrequent, during the wearisome days that
preceded his trial, she cheered her husband by her
counsel, and sustained him by her fortitude.

The trial of Tichbourne was among the last ; and
as, during the examination of the other prisoners, no
evidence appeared against him, and as Babington
earnestly avowed that his friend had refused to parti-
cipate in his design against the Queen's life, strong
hopes were entertained that his fate might differ from
that of all who had been tried before him. The
judges had been moved with deep compassion as they
pronounced the terrible sentence upon one after an-
other of the noble youths convicted before them, and
they seemed anxious, if possible, to acquit any one
against whom the evidence might be less strong.

" I see not, my Lords," said one of the Commis-
sioners, after the little testimony against Tichbourne
had been examined, " I see not that the prisoner is
guilty of treason. That he is the friend of the leader
of this conspiracy, and has been seen in the company
of some of his associates, furnishes, at most, only a
presumption, not a proof, against him. Nor does the
fact that he accompanied Babington's flight, though
it might well excite unfavourable suspicions, prove, in
the absence of other corroborative evidence, that he
shared his purposes- Many a man has sought to
serve a guilty friend. As to the circumstance on
which such emphasis has been laid, the list of names
in Babington's letter to the Lady Stuart, I confess
it weighs little with me. The question was forced,
why not the answer also ?"

Lord Walsingham instantly rose. "That ques-
tion," he said, " is one that nearly touches my honour.
In my public capacity, I freely own, that concern for
my sovereign's safety hath made me very diligent in
searching out, by every expedient, all designs against
her person or authority. For attaining this end, I
would not only use the assistance of any conspirator,
but I would reward him for betraying his companions.
Nor should I hesitate to avail myself of any fortu-
nate accident or lawful device, that might bring to
my hands the means of discovering the truth in such

a matter. But if I have ever tampered with any one,
in any manner unbefitting my character and office,
why have none of the late criminals — why have none
at any time accused me of such practices ? I trust
that my character renders needless any further ex-
culpation of myself from the suspicion of so base a
crime as the forging of evidence."*

" I should owe an apology to my Lord Secretary,"
answered the first speaker, » had I intended any such
insinuation against his honour as he has supposed.
Never did I imagine that a forgery had been perpe-
trated under his authority ; but it does seem to me
very probable, that those who have been employed in
deciphering intercepted letters, and in interpolating
ensnaring questions, might be tempted to contrive an
answer to them, such as they imagined likely to prove
satisfactory to their employer; and therefore I said that
this letter had little weight with me. If then, its evi-
dence be set aside, a knowledge of the plot and its
concealment seem the utmost proved against the pri-
soner. Concealment in such a case is doubtless a
sin, yet not a crime worthy of death."

" My Lords," replied Lord Walsingham, " loath
should I be to bringing any one to an unmerited
death, but equally unwilling to acquit one actually
guilty of so heinous an offence as the sharing in this
plot. A picture designed, as the letter accompanying
imports, to give the Lady Stuart a personal knowledge
of her friends, hath fallen into my hands.t I under-
stand that Babington himself hath here caused to be
portrayed the chief of the conspirators. Will it please
you look on it ?"

He uncovered the picture as he spoke, and pointed
to the noble form of a young man standing beside
Babington, in the centre of the group. All eyes turn-
ed at once on Tichbourne ; the resemblance was too
striking to be mistaken, and all felt the unfavourable
inference. The judge who had before spoken in his
favour, however, said,

"That Babington should have represented his
friend in this conspicuous station, may be a proof of
their intimacy, rather than of his rank among the
conspirators. They might naturally be represented
side by side, since it is thus that they have been
oftenest seen. Who so inseparable as Babington
and Tichbourne ?"

" Who then so certainly a leader in this vile plot
as the friend of him who contrived it ?" responded
Walsingham. " They were inseparable in their flight,
also. My Lord, your own words condemn him ; be-
sides," with a gesture towards the picture, " he can-
not clear himself from this testimony."

" My Lords," interposed Tichbourne, with calm
dignity, " it were useless to enter into a discourse
of the matter that hath been revealed to you. I
had a friend, a dear friend, of whom I made no
small account, and friendship hath brought me to this
issue. That he told me the whole matter I cannot
deny, but I denied to be a dealer in it ; yet I was
silent, and so consented ; and having so consented, I
know that by the law I am guilty, and by my own
conscience also, which hath laid on me a punishment
far heavier than I can receive at your hands. I have
looked for some favour, that the remainder of my life
might compensate for my former guilt, but having
failed in this, I ask nothing more on earth."

* See Hume's Sketch of Lord Walsingham's answer to a si-
milar charge at thg trial of Mary,
t Fact.

THE SONG OF MOSES.

279

Though deeply moved by the simple dignity of this
address, the judges proceeded, after briefly conferring
together, to pronounce on Tichbourne the same sen-
tence that had been already passed upon Babington
and his other associates. He was remanded to the
Tower for an interval of three days, and then he, with
Babington and Savage, was to undergo the fearful
penalty, which adding disgrace to the suffering of a
violent death, commanded them " to be hung, and af-
terwards embowelled, and their severed limbs to be set
on the city walls, a warning to traitors."

What will not love endure? Agnes controlled the
anguish of her despair, that she might not unnerve
her husband's fortitude, and during those three days,
into which were crowded years of agony, she was his
ministering angel. Even on the scaffold she stood
beside him in a love stronger than death. Touched
with unwonted compassion by her presence, as he
approached Tichbourne the hangman's hand trem-
bled, and he so ill performed his office, that when the
allotted period had expired, and he was taken down
to suffer the .second part of the dreadful sentence,
Tichbourne yet lived. During those terrible mo-
ments, Agnes had knelt on the scaffold, her face

shrouded in her hands, in the bewildered uncon-
sciousness of an agony too strong for the human
heart. But when the hush of the breathless multi-
tude was broken, and the cry " he lives !" was re-
peated by a thousand voices, a wild gleam of hope
broke through her despair, and flinging herself be-
side him, she received his head on her bosom. She
heard only that strange cry, " he lives !" she saw only
his faint eyes slowly rekindling with life, and looking
up to hers with a loving gaze ; and a vision of future
years of happiness flashed upon her soul. She heeded
not the preparations going on around her, till the at-
tendants attempted to lift her away. Then as she look-
ed up and saw the sword gleam in the hand of the ad-
vancing executioner, the fearful truth was at once re-
vealed— her husband lived only to pass a second time
through the agony of dying. The fierce tide of
misery that had rolled away so tumultuously, swept
back over her heart, and she dropped upon the scaf-
fold, like a bird shot on the wing. At that moment
the sword pierced her husband's breast, and while
malice impotently defaced the unconscious clay,, far
away from ignominy and sorrow, two loving spirits
sprang forth together upon their unknown flight.

Written for the Lady's Book.
THE SONG OF MOSES
Exodus xv. 1—19.

BY DR. B. SHELTON MACKENZIE, ENGLAND.

Ye children of Israel, rejoice! for your Lord

Hath unsheathed 'gainst our foes his invincible sword;

This hour is the hour of his triumph, for He

The horse and the rider hath drown'd in the sea.

The Lord is our strength, and salvation, and song —
Pull sore were we bowed in our bondage so long;
But the breath of His mouth, and the wave of His hand
Have been better to us than spear, buckler, and brand.

Pharaoh's chariots and hosts in the deep he hath cast,
His captains and thousands came hurrying on fast —
Like the leaves of the forest rent off from the trees
By the wing of the wind and the rush of the breeze.

They came on — like the torrent in swiftness and power,
Like the might of the sea in its terrible hour. —
Of the thousands who left Baalzephon that day
There lives not one warrior their downfall to say.

With the breath of His nostrils the waters were heaped,
And the floods stood upright, and the dark billows leaped-

The depths were congealed in the heart of the sea
Where the strong current stayed its swift onrush foj Thee.

Thou didst blow with thy breath, and in might they uprose
A moment — the Red Sea is hushed in repose,
And the enemy sank to the bottom, like lead,
As the whirl of the billows rolled over his head.

Thy mercy hath led forth thy people, among
The pursuit of the foe and his multitude's throng.
Thy pillar, oh Lord, was our guide through the Day,
And in Night's starless gloom it illumined our way.

In the mount of thy heritage, Lord, wilt thou place
The people who serve thee, — thine own chosen race.
In the Sanctuary, Gdd, shall thy habitage be,
'Till their might be established in rich Galilee!

Then let praise from the timbrels and tabrets be heard,
For the God of our fathers his people preferred;
This hour is the hour of our triumph, for He
The charger and chariot hath whelmed in the sea.

During the middle ages the beds, not excluded
from the day apartments, often gave gorgeous testi-
mony of the skill of the needlewoman, and were
among the richest ornaments of the sitting-room, so
much fancy and expense were lavished on them.
The curtains were often made of very rich material,
and usually adorned with embroidery. They were
often also trimmed with expensive furs. Philippa
of Hainault, had a bed on which syrens were em-
broidered.

Horace, speaking of Lucullus, (who had pillaged
Asia, and first introduced Asiatic refinements among
the Romans,) says that some persons waiting on him
to request the loan of a hundred suits of his ward-
robe, for the Roman stage, he exclaimed, " A hun-
dred suits ! how is it possible for me to furnish such a
number ! However, I will look over them, and send
you what I have." After some time he writes a note
and tells them he had Jive thousand, to the whole or
part of which they were welcome.

MRS. HARRISON,

Seldom has such a shock of astonishment, dismay, and sorrow been felt throughout
our land, as was occasioned by the death of the late President of the United
States. The loss was so unexpected, and so much deplored as a public calamity,
that there was, at the time, little thought of sympathy with his bereaved family.
The pomp and circumstance, also, necessary for the public expression of the national
mourning, were hardly compatible with the deep and tender feelings of the soul
that holds pitying communion with individual distress. The solemn processions,
the shrouded banners, the churches hung in sackcloth, the funeral dirge, and the
pathetic appeals of the sacred orators, who strove to awaken the hearts of the mul-
titude to penitence for their own sins, while they were bowed down under such a
heavy dispensation of Providence ; — all these were required as a testimony of respect
from a great and free people to the memory of their Chief Magistrate.

The tribute has been sincerely, unanimously, nobly paid. Our own sex, too, have
participated deeply in these solemnities. But another, a more sacred duty, still
remains for them to perform. The widowed Consort of the late General Har-
rison should receive from the Women of America, the expression of their heart-
felt sympathy, their affectionate regard and esteem. We would, in this simple
manner, offer such testimony of respect, and we doubt not our countrywomen will,
with one accord, unite with us in these sentiments.

Mrs. Harrison — is there a woman's heart but sympathizes with her! Yet, who
can express the magnitude of her loss? who find terms to paint the grief she has
endured, and must still suffer, while she feels day by day, the loneliness of her lot,
the certainty of his death pressing more and more heavily upon her?

There is little similitude between public mourning and private grief. The va-
cancy occasioned by the death of the most honoured and trusted patriot or states-
man is soon filled. The business of the world goes on, it must go on, and agents
will be found. The thoughts of men, disturbed for a moment by the departure
of one on whom their hopes were fixed, soon revert to their accustomed channels
of business or amusement, and the past becomes but history.

" As from the wing no scar the sky retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death."

Not so in domestic life — when the dearest, holiest ties that bind the family circle
have been broken, and the head, the guide, the husband and father is taken away
to return no more for ever! Then there must be that bitterness of grief in the
mourner's tears which only those who have felt can understand. The last year —
what an eventful one it has been to Mrs. Harrison ! In the midst of the hopes and
fears which the nomination of her husband for the Presidency, must have occa-
sioned, the shadow of death suddenly fell on her house — her son died! And now,
when General Harrison had attained the most exalted station of worldly glory, he
is taken away as with a stroke; and she, the wife of his hosom, who would have laid
down her own life to preserve his, was not near to comfort, to pray with him, and
to receive his last farewell. What has fame been to her, but a shadow — and high
station but a mockery of hopes of happiness? while she is constrained to say —

" The spring again with joy let others greet,
Me, memory of my loss will only meet."

It 13 sad, most sad — and truly does she deserve our deepest, tenderest sympathy
with her sorrows. — But though her earthly prospects are all changed by this dis-
pensation of Divine Providence, and her bright anticipations for her husband
shrouded in the gloom of the grave, yet the path of life before her is not all darkness ;
the bow of promise is on the cloud, and some pale flowers will yet spring up to cheer
her lonely way- She has the consolation of knowing that a whole people are mourn-
ing with her over her husband's death — that her home will be, henceforth, hallowed
ground, and her name cherished in the hearts of her countrywomen.

And better than these wordly consolations is the thought that the separation
from her beloved partner will he but for a little season — that where the hopes of her
dying husband centered in salvation by the atoning blood of the Saviour, her faith
has long been anchored. And now, will not her heart and soul be more and more
fervently drawn to that holy world where no partings can mar the perfect blessedness
of the redeemed?

" Oh, many are the mansions there,
But not in one hath grief a share !
No haunting shades from things gone by,
May there o'ersweep th' unchanging sky."

EDITORS TABLE.

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EDITORS' TABLE

"How often," says Miss Priscilla Wakefield, "has an
anxiety for delicacy of complexion, or the apprehension of be-
ing called a romp, restrained a young girl from the indul-
gence of enjoying exercise in a sufficient degree to secure her
from that feeble, sickly, languid state, which frequently ren-
ders her not only capricious, but helpless throughout the
whole of her life." And she very sensibly adds — " let it ne-
ver be forgotten, that true delicacy consists in purity of senti-
ment, and is as much superior to its substitute, external man-
ners, as a real gem is to an artificial one."

Certain it is that physical constitution, health, even the
continuance of life to old age, depend very much on the man-
ner in which we are trained, while young. If children, of
either sex, are restrained from daily exercise in the open air,
their health must suffer. But this unnatural confinement is
imposed, usually, only on females. Boys will force their way
abroad in despight of the fear of cold and storms, and wet
clothes, which, to the over careful mother, seem so terrible.
And is not their health, in general, far better than that of
girls in the same family? The almost total exemption of boys
from that insidious and appalling disease — the spine com-
plaint— which is destroying so many of the fairest daughters
of our land, is a sad but sufficient answer.

We by no means recommend the same manner or degree of
physical exercises for girls which is properly practised by the
stronger sex; but we do enjoin on mothers, as they value the
health, the happiness, the very lives of their young daugh-
ters, to see that they do not pass their time in hot, ill-venti-
lated rooms, either during their sleeping or waking hours.
They should be trained to the habit of walking abroad every
day, in the open air, unless confined by serious indisposition.
No storm, unless of the most violent kind, should prevent a
short walk, at least — but one precaution should never be
omitted— that of wearing thick shoes. Thus prepared, with a
close warm hood and cloak in winter, and a good umbrella on
a rainy day in summer, the most delicate lady may venture
to breathe the fresh air beneath the free canopy of heaven.
If this course were constantly pursued, our young ladies
would soon improve in their appearance, for they would gain
that brightness and bloom of cheek now almost unknown
among us, which is so necessary to the perfection of loveli-
ness, because it is the index of health, without which even
beauty is vain.

We are pained to notice, in the reports of foreign travellers
who visit our country, so many allusions to the " sickly, sod-
; den complexions" of our women ; and though we may endea-
| vour to controvert some of these statements, and console our-
selves with the idea that this " delicate appearance," as we
term it, is very interesting, yet we cannot escape the conclu-
sion, which the observation of facts forces upon us, namely,
1 that the physical constitution of the female sex in America is
I feeble and sickly compared with that of European women.
1 That much of this languor and suffering is caused by our se-
dentary habits of life, and confinement in close, hot rooms, so
j large a portion of the. year, will scarcely be denied.
! Now, we urge the subject on the attention of our readers at
i this time, because it is such a delightful season to commence
i a reform. Who can be willing to sit moping in a close room,
! when the " bright and leafy June" is empress of the world ?
1 Who can be insensible to the pleasures of the " free, un-
i bounded scene," when Nature is pouring forth her riches in
such profusion, that fancy is almost overwhelmed in the flood
j of beauty and happiness, on every side, which claims our sym-
pathy and admiration?
Go forth into the fields and woods, if you live in the coun-
j try, — take long walks in the cool morning and evening hour,
i if you are " in populous cities pent"— let the minimum of
! these daily excursions average at least two miles, (English
I ladies will walk ten miles without complaining of fatigue) for
( this month, and then you will thank us for this homily, and,
! we trust, will continue to take daily exercise while you take
1 the Lady's Book.
'. "Those who hope to make the world better and wiser for

24*

their labours must not soon tire," is the sentiment of a great
philosopher. In the cause of female education and those im-
provements in manners which will promote the best interests
of our own sex, in unison with pure morals and true piety, we
have hitherto been unwearied. And now, at the close of this
twenty-second volume of our periodical, these subjects still
press on our mind with unabated interest and importance.

A late traveller* has observed, in reference to the education
of females, " In the United States, even more than in Britain,
it is of great importance not only to families, but to the state,
that mothers should be well instructed, because in America
the fathers are too busy to devote proper attention to the
education of their children, and the formation of early habits
and opinions depends to a very great extent on the mother."

In the ensuing volume, as heretofore, it will be our great
aim to promote this advancement in right views of female
influence, the responsibilities it involves, and the discretion
it requires, as well as the great benefits it promises to society.
It is not always wise to lecture, even though we are discuss-
ing grave subjects. Truth may, to many minds, be more
easily conveyed by exhibitions of character in a story, than
in the deductions of a logical essay on morals ; and hearts,
that would be callous to the reproofs of a sermon, may be
melted to penitence by the appeal of a song. Nor do we think
that scientific researches or literary criticism, though of such
elevated standard as to give the highest reputation for learn-
ing to our periodical, are so much to be desired as pictures
of domestic life, which will convey to the young of our own
sex, a vivid impression of their home duties and their moral
obligation to perform them; also impressing on their minds
the power which intellectual attainments, when united with
moral excellence and just views of the female character, give
to woman to promote the refinement, the purity and happiness
of society, and even decide, as it were, the destiny of our
country.

In short, as the lovely ideal woman of the poet was

" A creature not too fair and good,
For human nature's daily food,"

so we would wish our readers should learn from the pages of
the " Lady's Book" rather how to improve the present, than to
talk learnedly of the past; for we believe the best wisdom of
woman is shown in doing good, and that it is never beneath
the dignity of her mind to study, in what are called the tri-
fling events of every day life, to promote the personal com-
fort, as well as progress in knowledge and virtue, of those
around her.

* See Combe's Tour, vol. i. p. 134.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Here have we been attentively examining a mass of MS.
articles, sufficient to fill an entire number of the Lady's Book,
and quite weary the patience of Griselda herself, if to be an
Editor had been her vocation. We have found only four arti-
cles which are admissible, namely:

" Visions of Astronomy."

" Palenque."

" The Old Man," and

" Song of the Sea Rover."

It is not a pleasant task to notice, though ever so briefly,
the particular faults of the several rejected articles, and yet
almost every writer seems to expect we will do this in respect
of his or her individual piece. To be sure one has very sen-
sibly appended to his effusion this pithy distich, which we
hope will become the motto of all our scribbling friends,

" If accepted, gratified —
If rejected, satisfied."

As a testimony of our approbation of this sentiment, we will
here give the article of the writer, though we would not en-
courage him to devote himself to the Muses. They are very

282

EDITORS7 BOOK TABLE.

capricious damsels, and will not always smile on sensible
men.

THE SUMMER RAIN.
When parched and dewless is the ground,

And wither'd herb and flower.
New life is spread the earth around,
As falls the summer shower.

Each drooping flower new strength receives,

And brightly blooms again,
As gently falls upon its leaves

The cool refreshing rain.

Then, when the cloud ha3 pass'd away,

How radiant all appears,
The rain drops glitter on each spray

Like childhood's laughing tears I

For the other articles, as they are too numerous to particu-
larize, we have concluded to class them under three heads —
1st, the Promising, or those giving evidence of literary talent,
which may, by persevering study, make the writers distin-
guished. In this class we place " Angling" — " The Indian
Girl" — " Fare thee well" — " Musing Hours," Nos. I. and II. —
"Childhood Sleeping" — " Forget me not" — "There are but
few Springs in this Valley of Tears" — " Virtue versus Vice" —
" Adventures of a Diamond," and " To Julia, in a Consump-
tion."— In the 2d class- -the mediocre — indicating that lite-
rary success is not likely, though we do not say impossible,
we place "To L. A. on attaining her Sixteenth Birthday" —
" My Mother died"—" The Wreaths of Sheba" — " Wilt thou
come with me, &c?" — " The Funeral and the Wedding" —
"Hope" — "The Mourner's Song" — "Be dry my Eyes, be
still my Heart," and " Sonnet to Mary." — In the 3d, class,
which we will term the Hopeless — signifying that we cannot
encourage them to hope for literary eminence by publishing
their effusions, though the effort to write something worthy
of being read has, we trust, benefitted themselves, and there-
fore their labour is not wholly lost— in this class we must
place — " My Mother's Grave" — " Lines to my Sister Helen" —
"The Invalid Stranger's Request" — " The Voice of Spring
Time" — The Confession" — " The Miser's Lament" — " The
Dream of a Mother," &c. — " On the Death of a Bride" —
" Farewell, oh 1 World," &c. — "From the MS. of one un-
known in Authorship," and " I want a Wife." — But as the
last article, though not evincing " scholarship," has the merit
of appearing very sincere, and is in its manner somewhat
original, we will give the closing paragraph, and the writer
can then judge for himself, how the " helmet of Minerva fits
him." He is commenting severely on the " extravagant spirit
of the age," which has so enhanced the expense of supporting
a family, and ends thus:

" There is such a love of display, such a desire to excel, such
a reluctance to be outdone, that it would require no small
salary to meet the demands. Therefore, it would be unjust
to compare the tardiness of the present generation with re-
spect to marriage, with the alacrity of our forefathers ; for
then,

A chair and a table,

A bed and a cradle,

A pot and a ladle,
And the voyage matrimonial was flatteringly begun."
" Lines" by R. N. are declined.
An uncounted number of MS. articles are still on hand.

editors' book table.

Introduction to the Literature of Europe, in the 15th, lGth,

and 17th Centuries. By Henry Hallam. 2 vols. 8vo. Harper

&, Brothers, 1841. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

This great production of Mr. Hallam, which he modestly

calls an introduction, is universally allowed to be the best

history extant of European literature during the period which

succeeded the revival of letters. It was the result of many

years study and research, and it will remain to all coming

ages a monument of industry and learning. Mr. Hallam was

just the man for such an undertaking. No labour, however

arduous, appalled him: no temptations, however attractive,

seduced bjm from his path. Then his impartiality was un-

questioned. His opinions are tinctured by no prejudices : but
bear the impress of clear and unbiassed judgment. In a word,
bis work may be regarded as the highest authority.

A Classical Dictionary : containing an account of the princi-
pal proper names mentioned by ancient authors, &c. &c.
By Charles Anthon, L.L. D. New York, Harper & Bro-
thers. Carey &. Hart, Philadelphia, 1841.

This is by far the most learned work which our country has
yet produced ; and it is at the same time, one of the most
useful and instructive. Presenting, as it does, in a popular
and condensed form, all that was remarkable in the Geogra-
phy, History, Biography, Mythology, and the Fine Arts of the
Greeks and Romans, it is invaluable to the general reader as
a book of reference, while to the student, the extent and accu-
racy of its details, the soundness of its arguments, and the
numerous authorities to which it leads, are of the highest
importance.

The labour bestowed on this great work must have been
immense. It contains more than 1500 closely printed octavo
pages, filled with articles written expressly for it. Here is
nothing at second-hand — no cobbling from other writers — no
scraps picked up from others' tables — but every thing is fresh
and marked with the stamp of the author. Professor Anthon
is not a mere compiler, he is not content to adopt the opinions
and appropriate the labours of those who have preceded him
in his task — but he goes directly to the fountain head, he
examines, collates, and investigates the originals, and apply-
ing to whatever differences exist between them his own clear
sighted and sagacious observation, deduces consequences,
which if not always correct, are at least more likely to be so,
than any which have hitherto been given to the public.

This dictionary will undoubtedly take the place of Lem-
priere's once celebrated and popular work. It is fuller than
its predecessor, extending over a greater variety of subjects,
and it is far more accurate in its details. In erudition, in
the power of analysis and comparison, in discrimination, it far
surpasses that work, while in its general views it is infinitely
sounder and more original. The theories of Professor Anthon
on various portions of the ancient mythus, are especially
acute and striking. They show a mind not only deeply im-
bued with learning, but capable of the subtlest inquiries.
The department of Ancient Geography is, also, distinguished
by diligent research and keen observation. But why praise
part when the whole is entitled to liberal commendation?

The Harpers deserve much praise for their liberality in
producing such a work, and we hope it will be amply re-
warded.

Insubordination. A Tale. Baltimore, 1841. O. Rogers, and
Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

This very clever story is from the pen of our esteemed con-
tributor, Mr. T. S. Arthur. Like all the productions of that
gentleman, in a popular and pleasing form, it conveys a moral
lesson of great value, and wherever it is read it must be pro-
ductive of benefit. Mr. Arthur has a rare felicity in depicting
domestic scenes and manners. His quick eye detects those
phases of social intercourse which are best adapted for effect,
and his ready pen gives to them a vigour and life-likeness which
as mere sketches make them invaluable. But he does more
than this. He infuses into all his writings a spirit of instruc-
tion— a quiet and unobtrusive appeal to the reason and intel-
ligence of his readers, which cannot fail to leave salutary
impressions. He does not preach homilies, or crowd his pages
with dull didactics, but he makes his characters act out their
feelings, in such a way, that the moral he desires to inculcate
is infused with far more effectiveness. We predict that though
but little known at present, Mr. Arthur is destined at no
distant day to take a high rank among the practical writers
of his country.

Miscellaneous Writings of T. Babington Macauley. 3 vols.
Carey & Hart, Philadelphia, 1841.

Mr. Macauley is one of the very best essayists of the day.
His style is remarkably clear, though it is copious and adorn-
ed. Sometimes he rises to a height of eloquence which it
would not be easy for any competitor to reach. He has this

EDITORS BOOK TABLE.

283

great advantage, also, that he is never dull. No matter what
may be the subject under discussion, he imparts to it a fresh-
ness and an interest which will not permit the reader to flag.
Then, too, he has wit at will. And more than all else, there
is a heartiness of manner which, even where your opinions do
not square with his, inspires you with respect for his sincerity.

These three volumes contain his contributions to the Edin-
burgh Review, and several specimens of his poetry. The
latter might have been omitted without any injury to his
reputation. The reviews are admirable. They are not mere
criticisms on the books whose titles stand at the head of them,
but profound and philosophic inquiries into the subjects to
which those books relate. If any reader wishes to make
himself familiar with the springs and motives of the great
English revolution of 1688, let him study these pages. They
will teach him more than Clarendon or Burnet, or any other
contemporary historian. He may not gather from them
names or dates, but he will gather what is of far more im-
portance, the spirit which was active in that mighty work of
political regeneration.

Nor are these reviews confined to political subjects. Ma-
chiavelli, Bacon, Milton, Dryden, Johnson and Byron are
discussed with admirable skill and ability. We do not agree
in all Mr. Macauley's opinions as to either of these writers,
but no one can deny that he has brought to the examination
of all of them a thorough familiarity with their works, an
exquisite taste, clear perceptions, and with one or two ex-
ceptions, fairness and moderation.

Book of Common Prayer. H. & S. Rayner, New York.
A beautiful edition, handsome steel engravings, costly bind-
ing, fine paper, and clear type, and what we much admire,
single columns. We cheerfully recommend this edition to the
public as a correct one. The publishers say that they " have
spared no pains and expense to render the Book worthy of the
i patronage of the clergy, and laity of the church," and we
| believe them.

i Corse de Leon ; or, the Brigand : by G. P. R. James. Harper
&. Brothers, New York. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.
We have read this work with that pleasure that always
: attends the perusal of a well written book, but why does not
! Mr. James give us a little more variety in his characters? —
i There is romance, enough in Corse de Leon, to appease the
I most craving appetite : the work will be read, and will please
the many.

Barnaby Rudge. By Boz. Lea &. Blanchard, Philadelphia.
This story increases in interest, with each succeeding num-
ber. It is most powerfully sustained, thus far — but we get
tired of praising Dickens. We know no man who needs it
less. We hope Neal — our own Joseph C. — will meet with
Dickens while abroad. We would give much to be present at
the first interview between the Charcoal Sketcher and the
author of the Pickwick papers.

Juvenile Mirror and Youths' Literary Companion. N. Hick-
man, Baltimore.

A work designed for youth. The first number gives great
promise. It is well filled with wholesome matter for the juve-
nile mind. Our friend Hickman has talent enough in his own
family to fill a monthly, even larger than the Mirror.

Le Lis Blanc is the name of a very useful magazine, pub-
lished by the Astoria Institute, at Astoria, N. Y., at $1 50 per
annum. It is. subservient to the cause of Education.

Notes on the United States of North America, during a Phre"
nological Visit, in 1838-9 40. By George Combe. 2 vols.
Philadelphia : Carey & Hart, 1841. (Second notice.)

These volumes have been eagerly looked for by the friends
of popular education and free institutions, both in Britain and
America. We are glad to find that the work will not disap-
point public expectation ; it is such as the philosopher, the
philanthropist, the christian may welcome and commend.

Mr. Combe had a definite object in his visit to our country.
He came with the intention of delivering lectures on Phreno-
logy, and carrying out the plan of disseminating the principles
of that science which the late lamented Dr. Spurzheim had
intended to teach through the length and breadth of our land.

Mr. Combe, like his master, Dr. Spurzheim, is devoted to
the cause of human improvement, of social progress; he be-
lieves that the people are capable of being trained and fitted
for self-government — for civil freedom. In short, he is essen-
tially democratic in his principles, and one great aim was to
learn the effect of our institutions on the character of the
people, that he might be able to point out the way to reforms
in his own country, or communicate to us wherein he saw
that evil and danger threatened our high privileges. From
these premises the character of the work may be inferred.
It is intended to be useful, practical, philosophical, to teach
the true and the good. Whoever takes it up with the idea
of finding amusing incidents of travel, glowing descriptions
of scenery, and fanciful or satirical pictures of social life
among us, will be disappointed. It is a record of every-day
experiences, a journal of facts and their application to the
solution of those great questions of education and improve-
ment which seem constantly in the mind and heart of the
writer ; and all is told in the calm language of reason, with
scarcely an attempt at a fine sentiment or florid sentence in
the book. And yet it is no where tedious or monotonous. The
great variety of events recorded, and constant change of topics,
and, occasionally, the quaint, dry humour of the remarks,
keep up a constant interest for those who can appreciate the
aim of the writer. It is written, not to amuse, but to convey
what he considers important information to the people of Bri-
tain and America. We think it will do this, and that the
author of the " Constitution of Man," will lose none of his
deserved popularity by this record of hi3 visit in our country.
We give a short extract, which shows his peculiar manner
of treating a subject of much importance to our sex.

" Housekeeping. — We continue to hear many ladies com-
plain of the labours of housekeeping in this country. When
one makes a call in the forenoon, the lady of the house is
rarely found sitting in her drawing-room, as is the custom in
England, but appears to be engaged in some other part of the
house. I have already remarked, that one cause of this is, the
aversion that generally exists to paying for domestic service
at the same rate at which other labour is remunerated. An-
other cause may be found in the prosperous condition of the
labouring classes in general, which renders them independent,
and produces a dislike to the restraints of service. The in-
convenience which the rich suffer from this state of things,
appears to me to be far more than counterbalanced by the
general happiness, which is among its causes." — Vol. i. p. 127.

A New Home— TVlio'll Follow? or, Glimpses of Western Life.
By Mrs. Mary Clavers, an actual Settler. Third Edition.
New York, C. S. Francis. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart.

We are glad to find this very clever book so well appreci-
ated. Here is the third edition. How few of our popular
novelists can claim such an honour for their works.1 We
hope to see other books from the author of this New Home.

Georgia Illustrated — No. 2, has been received. It is pret-
tier than No. 1. The work is well worthy the patronage of
the admirers of beautiful engravings.

Valentine Vox: or, the Adventures of a Ventriloquist, is
the title of a work about to be published, with plates, by
Carey & Hart. It belongs to the Lorrequer and O'Malley
school, which is high praise. For ludicrousness of situation
and broad fun, it in some instances surpasses either of Lever's
works.

Marathon, and other Poems. By Pliny Earle, M. D. Phila-
delphia, Henry Perkins, pp. 120.

This is a neatly printed volume, exhibiting that good taste
in its arrangement which will attract the eye. Nor will the
contents disappoint the lovers of good poetry. It is of the
kind which awakens the best feelings and affections of the
human heart. The writer inculcates, even in his spirited
description of one of the most noble and just conflicts which
ancient history records— that of the Greeks at Marathon, in
defence of their homes and country, the lesson of peace, of

284

EDITORS BOOK TABLE.

christian love, by showing the sin and misery of wars. It is
a cheering thing to find young men of talents and high stand-
ing thus lending their influence to promote " whatsoever
things are pure." We hope the ladies, to whose patronage
miscellaneous literature is almost wholly consigned in our
country, will not neglect this book of Dr. Earle. It is well
deserving a place in their list of favourites. Dedicated to his
mother, it has an interest for every maternal heart, and the
following poem will show how well it deserves this claim.

TO MY MOTHER.

By Thrasymene's lake,
I sit me down, to watch its waters blue ;
I hear its waters on the pebbles break,

Its fair isles meet my view.

But what are these to me,
Though bathed in beauty by Italia's sky?
Over the hills and waters wide, to thee,

My thoughts in gladness fly.

By old Byzantium's walls;
'Mid Psestum's relics of departed time
In sad Athena's long- deserted halls,

Where flourished mind sublime;

Beneath the " wondrous dome"
That scales the heavens on Tiber's classic shore ;
Amidst thy mouldering piles, eternal Borne —

Eternal, though no more ;

Where treads the mountaineer,
On Snowdeu's summit, or Ben-Lodi's side ;
Where falls the glacier, thundering on the ear,

The Switzer's home of pride,

My wandering feet have strayed;
Yet there, where Art and Nature's majesty,
In all their pomp before me were arrayed,

My heart returned to thee.

O ! in my younger years
When life was sunlight and its hours were bliss,
When childhood's sorrows, all its pains and fears

Were soothed by. thy fond kiss ;

Then did I love thee well,
And, though the lines of manhood on my brow
Are written, yet my bosom's heaving swell

Tells that I love thee now.

What though in toil and care,
Those sure attendants of a world like ours,
What though its conflicts and its woes I share,

Life still is strewn with flowers.

And it is joy to feel
I still can claim one blessing from above-
That gem undimmed, unchanged through woe or weal,

A mother's endless love !

Outlines of Anatomy and Physiology, translated from the
French, by H. Milne Edwards, &c. Boston, Little & Brown,
pp. 312, 8vo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart.

This volume is intended to supply a deficiency that has long
been felt and regretted. An acquaintance with anatomy and
physiology has now become, as it ought long ago to have been,
indispensable to every person of any pretensions to a com-
plete—nay, to an ordinary education. There have, indeed,
been several treatises published on these subjects, but far
from satisfying the want, they have only increased it, by
stimulating curiosity. They have been either books intended
for schools and children, and of course childish and uninterest-
ing to others, or elaborate works entering into all the details
of the science, and descending to particulars only necessary
to the medical student, for whom, in fact, they were written.
But no one, which has satisfactorily united the advantages
of both, clearness with depth, pertinent illustrations with
dignity of style, and to press that much-wearied phrase into

service once more — " last not least," a moderate price with
beauty of execution, besides this one of Edwards. It has been
translated by Dr. Lane, and were not his name to vouch for
the accuracy with which it has been done, the elegance of the
language would be sufficient.

Nothing, so far as we have examined the work, has been
omitted, which would serve the purpose of giving an accurate
general knowledge of the science, an acquaintance, in short,
with the philosophy of anatomy. It is not pleasant, nor
politic, to give unqualified approbation to any work, for
it often causes a suspicion of either undue partiality to the
author or of want of courage to censure. But it is so difficult
to find fault with this book, and so ungracious a task, too, that
we are e'en compelled to incur the imputation of partiality
rather than affectedly blame that which is at least good
enough for common people.

With regard to the typography, it is sufficient to say, that
it comes from the press of Little and Brown.

" The Productive Industry of the Individual." — A Lecture,
delivered at the Barren street Chapel, Boston, Dec. 30th,
1840. By Dr. Walter Channing.

The author of this address, brother of Bev. Dr. Channing,
is well known for the zeal with which he devotes his powerful
talents to the cause of reforms and improvements in our
social systems. We notice this particular Lecture on account
of the sympathy he manifests with a form of suffering which
has been too long neglected. We allude to the peculiar hard-
ships and oppressions endured by that large class of the help-
less poor in cities — Females who are obliged to support them-
selves, and often their children. Dr. Channing thus introduces
the subject :

" Let me, before I close, bring under separate and distinct
Consideration, industry less perfectly rewarded than is this
virtue in any other of its manifestations. I mean the indus-
try of women. I leave entirely out of the account the toils
of domestic in-door life, which devolve with such appropriate
particularity on women, and which it is ever to their honour
most faithfully to perform. I now speak of other forms of in-
dustry, such, namely, as women assume when circumstances
make it necessary for them to contribute at once, and directly
to their own support, and to that of their families."

He then goes on to discriminate the various causes which
make the exertions of women necessary to the support of their
families. — The death of the husband is the most common
cause — how many destitute widows there are even in our
prosperous land, who are obliged to toil as well as pray for
their daily bread ! Then the husband may be ill or intem-
perate, or by repeated failures rendered disheartened; and in
all these cases, the poor wife and mother must either work
or beg, if she would not starve. But will her utmost exertions
save her and her children from hunger, and cold, and that
dread of utter destitution which is the most harrowing torture
of the virtuous poor, as it must force them either to beggary
or crime? Dr. Channing thus describes their hard lot:

" How heavy, painful, may I not say dreadful, is the anx-
iety which that woman feels, who rises every morning with
the constantly recurring uncertainty as to the means of pro-
curing subsistence for her children ? This is a feature in
such industrious, and what should be honoured poverty,
which makes much of its deepest wretchedness. This anxiety
gives its sad, heavy colouring, to the whole of such a woman's
life. What else can she think of but this soul depressing,
heart-wearing fear for the future ? She knows how small is
to be the return for the work which she gets to do from her
employer ; but she cannot ask for a greater ; she cannot com-
plain, for this might be to deprive her of that pittance which
just provides for her children bread enough to keep them
alive. Endurance, then, yes, patient and sometimes even
cheerful endurance of their lot, forms a part of the active
virtue and power shown by these women.

"Listen to an instance. A woman past seventy, but still
supporting herself by her day's work, was seen a few days ago
by a friend, unusually cheerful. He asked the cause. ' Why,'
said she, ' I have just finished the fifth and last shirt of a lot
sent to me to be made. It has taken me exactly seven work-
ing days to make them, and I am to receive fifty cents for the
job.' Yes, this old woman had worked as hard as infirmity
allowed her for seven long days, for fifty cents ! Had you
seen her smiling and cheerful in the midst of such pressure
of want, and of such wretchedly requited toil, could you have
laughed with her? Would you not have rather wept — yes,
wept at this strange, but let me say, sublime union of a bright
heart with such apparent and entire destitution? And before

EDITORS BOOK TABLE. FASHIONS.

285

you had left her, would you not in her presence, and in the
presence of her and of your God, have said, that to yoar abi-
lity you would labour that those white hairs should go down
to the grave in peace I This is hut a single instance. What
think you of others in which mothers are obliged for very
want to deny themselves food one or two.days in every week,
because their ill-paid toil yields too little for them to support
their children on any other terms? Why multiply instances?
Why ask you to go with me this cold and stormy night to
that poor dwelling, and to visit with me that widow with
children sleeping round her, at work at this late hour, nay,
will be so till after midnight, to finish some work, on which
she has laboured the whole day, and for which she will get
thirty seven and a half cents ? Was it not cruel to add the
fraction to such a compensation for such a whole day's work ?"

The Lecturer does not suggest any mode of remedying this
social evil of inadequate "wages for females," which he has
so feelingly described ; but he leaves the subject to the con-
sideration of the benevolent and the just. Since the exertions
of the late Mathew Carey, whose name and memory should
be for ever hallowed in the hearts of our sex, the subject of
these oppressions of the helpless poor has received considera-
ble attention ; and the time must come for justice. In the
words of the Lecture which we are considering — " Men can-
not always resist the appeals which an honest enumeration of
facts makes. Human sympathy will come forth in its beau-
tiful garments, administering to human woe from its own
mighty depths."

Mrs. Sigourney. — Our readers will, we are sure, be happy
to learn that this lady has lately returned from her visit to
Europe, and with her widely extended circle of correspondence
and other facilities will be able to promote greatly, what she
has much at heart, the continued interest and improvement
of the Lady's Book. She has brought with her an admirable
story by Mrs. S. C. Hall — the celebrated illustrator of Ireland —
which Mr. Hall, her husband, pronounces the most spirited
thing she has written in some time. Miss Mary Russell Mit-
ford, author of " Our Village," has also promised a sketch,
which we presume will be in time for the July number. Other
transatlantic arrangements have been made which will be duly
announced.

We think it no more than an act of courtesy that those
with whom we exchange, should defer copying from our co-
lumns until after the 1st day of the month on which the Book
purports to be published, thereby allowing us two or three
days use of articles for which we pay a high price. Think
of it, "Gentlemen of the Press."

Mrs. S. C. Hall and Miss M. R. Mitford will, in future,
he regular contributors to the Book. An arrangement is also
making with the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and other celebrated Eng-
lish writers, to give variety to the Book.

Our next Number. — We frequently have articles sent us,
with the request that these, if accepted, may appear in the
" next number" — or a notice of rejection, &c. — Now we can

never comply with such request, because, in consequence of
the large number of copies required, and the great distance —
over our whole country — which our " Book" circulates, we
are obliged to print a month in advance. Whatever is in-
tended, therefore, for any particular month, must be forwarded
at least sixty days in advance of the time specified.

For want of room, owing to this No. containing the Title
Page and Table of Contents, we are obliged to omit the Music
and Canto II. of the " Death of Achilles."

PLEASING EXPERIMENTS.

LIGHT, A PAINTER.

Strain a piece of paper or linen upon a wooden frame, and
sponge it over with a solution of nitrate of silver in water;
place it behind a painting upon glass, or a stained window-
pane, and the light, traversing the painting or figures, will
produce a copy of it upon the prepared paper or linen; those
parts in which the rays were least intercepted, being the
shadows of the picture.

CANE WICK LAMP.

Cut a piece of cane about one inch long: set it upright in

spirit of wine, with a small portion just above the surface :

the spirit will then rise through the tube of the cane, which

being lighted, will burn as a wick.

FLOATING LIGHT.
Cut a chip of camphor; light it, and set it on a basin of wa-
ter, when it will continue to burn and float, until it is con-
sumed.

DESCRIPTION OF FASHION PLATE.

Fig. 1. — Dress of fine white cashmere, with a few gathers
at the bottom of the waist, round the bottom of the skirt are
two rows of embroidery, done in coloured floss silk— between
these two rows and below the lowest one, two sets of three
tucks each. Hat is of white poux de soie, very small, and
very low at the side — a bunch of drooping flowers on the left
side.

Fig. 2. — Coloured skirt, with three tucks, each with a lace
edging. The corsage full and low in the neck. The sleeves
have four puffs in the centre. This dress is very beautiful,
and is the prevailing fashion. Caising bonnet.

Fig. 3.— Coloured skirt — white waist, made full — sleeve
gaged at the top — the neck of the corsage finished with a puff.
Straw bonnet trimmed to suit the fancy — some are lined with
straw coloured crape.

Fig. 4. — Plain coloured silk — deep flounce, with a heading —
full sleeves — the trimming at the top of the sleeve is the same
as the flounce — the dress is made high in the neck — collar of
quilled lace. Caising bonnet, trimmed with lace.

TABLE OF CONTENTS TO VOLUME XXII.

Anacreontic Ballad, by Mrs. C. B Wilson, 6

An Incident during a Siege, by Mrs. M. H. Parsons, 1 3

Antonio Salvini, by Mrs. E. F. Ellet, 15

A Life of Fashion, by Mrs. E. C. Embury, 22

A Singular Fact, by Mrs. M. M. Webster, 40

A Pair of Broken Hearts, by H. F. Harrington, 84

All is Vanity, by Miss J. H. Lewis, 92

A Village Romance, by Miss M. A. Browne, 102

A L'rophecy. To , by Miss J. H Lewis, 127

An Evening's Conversation about Autographs, by

Mrs. S. J Hale, 146

Abuse of Words, 167

Andmar — A Story of Peru, by Miss Lois Bryan, 215
A Contadina Family, Prisoners with Banditti, by

Professor W. J. Walter, 241

Agamemnon and the Prophetess, by Grenville
Mellen,

252

Childhood's Laugh, by Mrs. Seba Smith, 21

Christmas Hymn, by Mrs. S. J. Hale— set to Music, SO
ChidiocTichbourne, a Historical Tale, by Grizzel
Eastwick, 875

Deaf and Dumb, a Tale, by T. J. Beach,

Diversity of Opinion,

Discretion,

Elpis, 11

Ernestine, by Esther Wetherald, 34

Editor's Table, 46, 95, 142, 189, 236, 281

Ellen Campbell, a Tale of Domestic Life, 16]

59

89
127

286

CONTENTS. EMBELLISHMENTS.

Evening's at a Friend's, by Mrs. S. E. Farley, 177

Enjoyment, 206

Eliza Farnham: or the Love Letters, by Miss
Leslie, 217, 245

False Pride, by Miss M. W. Hale,
Freedom of Inquiry,
Formation of Character,
Friendship,

Gems and Reptiles, by Mrs. Seba Smith,

Good Sense,

Gentility, by T. S. Arthur,

Go — and a Blesssing go with you, by W. Cutter,

7

89

160

262

79
220
267

274

11

He Came Not, by Miss E. S. Norton,
Hawthornden — Recollections of the Poet Drum-

mond, by Mrs. Sigourney, 167

Harriet Newell, 188

Jessie Armstrong, by Mrs. M. St. Leon Loud, 50

Justice, by H. F. Harrington, 136

Infatuation, a Tale of the Times, by a Lady. 150

Kadur, an Eastern Sketch, 56

Let me Sing Love, Let me Sing Love, 140

Lights and Shadows, by Mrs. S. J. Hale, 177
Love after Marriage, a Tale, by Mrs. M. H. Parsons,. 207

Learning, 266

Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge, by Miss Leslie, 2, 74, 109, 168

Man's First Offering, by Mrs. S. J. Hale, 25

Mathematical Abstraction, by Prof. VV. J. Walter, 97

Mary, the Improvisatrice, by Prof. W.J. Walter, 193

Mildred, by Miss Meeta M. Duncan, 221

Mark Menden, by Mrs. H. E. B. Stowe, 242

New Year's Eve, by Mrs. S, J. Hale, 44

Niagara, by Prof. W. J. Walter, 49

Nature, 127

Oh, Let Me Weep, by Miss J. H. Lewis, 14

Our Life is as a Shadow, by Miss Lois Bryan, 37
On seeing at Holyrood Palace the Candelabras
which Mary, Queen of Scots, brought from

France, by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, 68

O Sing that Strain again, by A. McMakin, 94

Of the Formation of Opinions, 174

Prayers at Sea, by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, 7

Poem written in an Album, by Eliza Earle, 50
Pleasing Experiments, 192, 240, 285

Queen Maria Christine's Farewell, by Mrs. L. H.

Sigourney, 206

69
93

Repentance, by Miss M. A. Fairman,
Retrospection, by a Lady,
Romantic Incidentsin British History, by Prof. W.
J. Walter, 157

Sensible Presence, by T. Odiorne, 139
Songs of the New World, by Mrs. C. B. Wilson, 149
Sophonisba, a Legend of Numidia, by H. W. Her-
bert, 180
Sheep on the Cheviot Hills, by Mrs. L. H. Si-
gourney, 244

The Festa di Pie di Grotta, by Prof. W. J. Walter, 1

The Fairy's Proffer, by Mrs. Annan, 12

The Parlour Serpent, by Mrs. C. Lee Hentz, 26

To Wordsworth, by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, 34
The Stranger's Heart, by Mrs. Hemans — set to

Music, 38
The Two Trees, by Caroline T. Orne, 43
The Past, by the Rev. Edward McClure, 55
The Maniac Maid, by P. Kenyon Kilbourne, 58
The River ! The River! by Dr. J. K. Mitchell, 83
The Soft Answer, by T. S. Arthur, 88
To a Lock of Hair, by Geo. Hill, 95
The New Minister, by T. S. Arthur, 98
The Dove's Errand, by Park Benjamin, 107
The Man of Business, 107
Thoughts at Grassmere, by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, 108
The Lazy Young Lady, 108
The Philosophy of Spring, by Prof. W. J. Walter, 114
The Sea-Bird's Flight, by R. S. Mackenzie, L.L.D. 114
The Passage of a Night, by W. Gilmore Simms, 115
The Course of Love ; or, the Quarrel and the Re-
conciliation, 128
The Metropolis by Moonlight, by George D. Strong, 134
Trim's Exposition of the Fifth Commandment, 135
The Stray Kitten, by Prof. W. J. Walter, 145
To H. H, by a Lady. 156
The Storm at Sea, by Mrs. E. D. Harrington, 160
The Poet's Pilgrimage, by Charles Lanman, 175
To a Friend, on hearing of his Marriage Engage-
ment, by Mrs. E. C. Stedman, 179
The Peruvians, 183
The Fairy of the Foam, by A. C. Cox — set to Music, 184
The Death of Achilles, Canto I. by Miss Eleanor

Allen, 186
The Milliner's Apprentice; or, the False Teeth,

by Prof. J. H. Ingraham, 194

The End of Prudence, 216

The Watcher, by Mis. S. J. Hale, 232

The Human Mind, by Mrs. S. E. Farley, 233

The Grave, by N. Deering, 236

The Extremely Natural Young Lady, 244

The Tuileries, by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, 251
The Victim of Taste, a Story of Real Life, by

W. Crump, 253

To One Beloved, by Park Benjamin, 257

The First Blood of the Revolution, by Seba Smith, 257
The History of the Little Man, a True Story, from

the German of G. Doring, 263
The Witch, a Tale of the Dark Ages, by Miss

Elizabeth P. Hall, 269

The Song of Moses, by Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie, 279

Woman's Rights Illustrated, by Miss M. A. Coffin, 78

Woman, by O. O. M'Clean, 250

EMBELLISHMENTS.

JANUARY.

Neapolitan Peasants going to the Festa di Pie di Grotta

— a Steel Engraving.
Fashions — Coloured.
Two Pages of Music.

FEBRUARY.

Niagara Falls — a Steel Engraving.
Fashions — Coloured.
Two Pages of Music.

MARCH.

Mathematical Abstraction — a Steel Engraving.
Fashions — Coloured.

Do. Uncoloured.
Two Pages of Music,

APRIL.

The Stray Kitten — a Steel Engraving.

Fashions — Coloured.

Autographs.

Pleasing Experiments — Two Engravings.

Two Pages of Music.

MAY.

Mary, as the Improvisatrice.
Fashions — Coloured.
Two Pages of Music.

JUNE.

A Contadina Family, Prisoners with Banditti.
Fashions — Coloured .