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DR. EBENEZER LEARNED, 1835

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DR. TIMOTHY WELLINGTON, 1853

NATHAN PRATT, 1875

HENRY MOTT, 1889

ELBRIDGE FARMER, 1892

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MARIA C. ROBBINS f

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ELI ROBBINS, 1892

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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."

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'.; 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 ;

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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-

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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

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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