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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               VOL. XXXV.      AUGUST, 1849.      No. 2.


                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          The Curtain Lifted
          Indian Legend of the Star and Lily
          Jasper St. Aubyn
          Sketches of Life in Our Village
          Mary Wilson
          Olden Times
          Two Hours of Doom
          The Captive of York
          A Memory
          Wild-Birds of America
          Editor’s Table
          Review of New Books

                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion

          Watouska: A Legend of the Oneidas
          The Improvisatrice
          The Eighteenth Sonnet of Petrarca
          Elim
          Faith’s Warning
          Lament of the Gold-Digger
          To Mary
          Little Willie
          Words of Waywardness
          Translation of a Recently Discovered Fragment of a
            Poem by Sappho
          Ermengarde’s Awakening
          Kubleh
          This World of Ours
          My Spirit
          Le Follet
          Yes, Let Me Like a Soldier Fall

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: LA SIESTA.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

         VOL. XXXV.     PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST, 1849.     NO. 2.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE CURTAIN LIFTED.


               OR PROFESSIONS—PRACTICAL AND THEORETICAL.


                      BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.


                               CHAPTER I.

                             _The Deacon._

Everybody called Mr. Humphreys a good man. To have found any fault with
the deacon would have been to impugn the church itself, whose most firm
pillar he stood. No one stopped to analyze his goodness—it was enough
that in all outward semblance, in the whole putting together of the
outward man, there was a conformity of sanctity; that is, he read his
Bible—held family prayers night and morning—preached long homilies to
the young—gave in the cause of the heathen—and was, moreover, of a
grave and solemn aspect, seldom given to the folly of laughter.

All this, and more did good Deacon Humphreys; and yet one thing he
lacked, viz., the sweet spirit of charity.

I mean not that he oppressed the widow, or robbed the orphan of bread;
no, not this, it was the cold unforgiving spirit with which he looked
upon the errors of his fellow man—the iron hand with which he thrust
far from him the offender, which betrayed the want of that charity
“_which rejoiceth not in iniquity, suffereth long, and is kind_.”

He was also pertinaciously sectarian. No other path than the one in
which he walked could lead to eternal life. No matter the sect, so that
they differed from him, it was enough—they were outlawed from the gates
of Heaven. Ah! had the deacon shared more the spirit of our blessed
Saviour, in whose name he offered up his prayers, then, indeed, might he
have been entitled to the Christian character he professed.

Mrs. Humphreys partook largely of her husband’s views. She, too, was
irreproachable in her daily walks, and her household presented a rare
combination of order and neatness. The six days work was done, and done
faithfully, and the seventh cared for, ere the going down of the
Saturday’s sun, which always left her house in order—her rooms newly
swept and garnished—the stockings mended—the clean clothes laid out
for the Sabbath wear—while in the kitchen pantry, a joint of cold meat,
or a relay of pies, was provided, that no hand might labor for the
creature comforts on the morrow. As the last rays of the sun disappeared
from hill and valley, the doors of the house were closed—the blinds
pulled down—the well-polished mahogany stand drawn from its upright
position in the corner of the sitting-room, which it occupied from
Monday morning until the coming of the Saturday night—the great family
Bible placed thereon, while with countenances of corresponding gravity,
and well-balanced spectacles, the deacon and his wife read from its holy
pages.

Thus in all those outward observances of piety, whereon the great eyes
of the great world are staring, I have shown that the deacon and his
good wife might challenge the closest scrutiny. Nor would I be
understood to detract aught from these observances, or throw down one
stone from the altars of our Puritan fathers. We need all the legacy
they left their children. The force of good example is as boundless as
the tares of sin—let us relax nothing which may tend to check the evil
growth—and who shall say that the upright walk of Deacon Humphreys was
without a salutary influence.

But it is with the _inner_ man we have to do. The fairest apples are
sometimes defective at the core.


                              CHAPTER II.

                    _Grassmere and its Inhabitants._

Grassmere was a quiet out-of-the-way village, hugged in close by grand
mountains, and watered by sparkling rivulets and cascades, which came
leaping down the hillsides like frolicksome Naiads, and then with a
murmur as sweet as the songs of childhood, ran off to play bo-peep with
the blue heavens amid the deep clover-fields, or through banks sprinkled
with nodding wild-flowers.

A tempting retreat was Grassmere to the weary man of business, whose
days had been passed within the brick and mortar walks of life, and whom
the fresh air, and the green grass, and the waving woods, were but as a
page of delicious poetry snatched at idle hours. Free from the turmoil
and vexations of the city, how pleasant to tread the down-hill of life,
surrounded by such peaceful influences as smiled upon the inhabitants of
Grassmere, and several beautiful cottages nestling in the valley, or
dotting the hill-side, attested that some fortunate man of wealth had
here cast loose the burthen of the day, to repose in the quiet of
nature.

Although our story bears but slightly save upon three or four of the
three thousand inhabitants of Grassmere, I will state that a variety of
religious opinions had for several years been gradually creeping into
this primitive town, and that where once a single church received the
inhabitants within one faith, there were now four houses of worship, all
embracing different tenets. But the deacon walked heavenward his own
path, shaking his skirts free from all contamination with other sects,
whom, indeed, he looked upon as little better than heathen.

The pastor of the church claiming so zealous a member, was a man eminent
for his Christian benevolence. His was not the piety which exhausted
itself in words—heart and soul did he labor to do his Master’s will,
and far from embracing the rigid views of the worthy Deacon Humphreys,
he wore the garb of charity for all, and in his great, good heart loved
all.

He had one son, who, at the period from which my story dates, was
pursuing his collegiate course at one of our most popular institutions,
and in his own mind the deacon had determined that Hubert Fairlie should
become the husband of his only daughter, Naomi. In another month Hubert
was to return to pass his vacation at Grassmere, and Naomi looked
forward to the meeting with unaffected pleasure. They had been playmates
in childhood, companions in riper years; but love had nothing to do with
their regard for each other, yet the deacon could not conceive how
friendship alone should thus unite them. At any rate Naomi must be the
wife of Hubert—that was as set as his Sunday face.

The deacon was a man well off in worldly matters. He owned the large,
highly cultivated farm on which he lived, as also several snug houses
within the village, which rented at good rates.

But the little cottage at Silver-Fall was untenanted. Through the
inability of its former occupant to pay the rent, it had returned upon
the hands of the deacon, and although one of the most delightful
residences for miles around, had now been for several months without a
tenant.

A charming spot was Silver-Fall, with its little dwelling half hidden by
climbing roses and shadowy maples. Smooth as velvet was the lawn, with
here and there a cluster of blue violets clinging timidly together, and
hemmed by a silvery thread of bright laughing water, which, within a few
rods of the cottage-door, suddenly leaped over a bed of rocks some
twenty feet high, into the valley below. This gave it the name of
Silver-Fall Cottage—all too enticing a spot it would seem to remain
long unoccupied. Yet the snows of winter yielded to the gentle breath of
spring, and the bright fruits of summer already decked the hedge-rows
and the thicket, ere a tenant could be found, and then there came a
letter to Mr. Humphreys from a widow lady living in a distant city,
requiring the terms on which he would lease his pretty cottage.

They were favorable, it would seem, to her views, and in due time Mrs.
Norton, her daughter Grace, and two female domestics, arrived at
Silver-Fall.


                              CHAPTER III.

                 _One Fold of the Curtain drawn back._

A new comer in a country village is always sure to elicit more or less
curiosity, and Mrs. Norton did not escape without her due share from the
inhabitants of Grassmere. With telegraph speed it was found out that she
was a lady between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in bombazine,
and wore close mourning caps. Miss Norton was talked of as a slender,
fair girl, with blue eyes, and long, flowing curls, and might be
seventeen, perhaps twenty—of course, they could not be strictly
accurate in this matter.

Bales of India matting were unrolled in the door-yard—crates of
beautiful china unpacked in the piazza—sofas and chairs crept out from
their rough traveling cases, displaying all the beauty of rosewood and
damask, until finally by aid of all these means and appliances to boot,
Mrs. Norton and her daughter were pronounced very _genteel_—but—

“But, I wonder what they are!” said Mrs. Humphreys to the deacon, as
talking over these secular matters she handed him his second cup of
coffee.

Not that the good lady had any doubt of their being _bona fide_ flesh
and blood; neither did she believe they were witches or fairies who had
taken up their abode at Silver-Fall. “_I wonder what they are!_” must
therefore be interpreted as “_I wonder what church they attend_,” or
“_what creed they profess_.”

The deacon shook his head and looked solemn.

“It is to be hoped,” continued Mrs. Humphreys, complacently stirring the
coffee, “that at her period of life Mrs. Norton may be a professor of
some kind.”

The deacon dropped his knife and fork—he was shocked—astounded.

“I am surprised to hear you speak thus lightly, Mrs. Humphreys—_a
professor of some kind_! Is it not better that she should yet rest in
her sins, than to be walking in the footsteps of error—a _professor of
some kind_! Wife—wife—you forget yourself!” exclaimed the deacon.

“I spoke thoughtlessly, I acknowledge,” answered Mrs. Humphreys, much
confused by the stern rebuke of her husband. “I meant to say, I hoped
she had found a pardon for her sins.”

“Have you forgotten that you are a parent?” continued the deacon,
solemnly. “Can you suffer the ears of your daughter to drink in such
poison! _A professor of some kind!_ Naomi, my child,” placing his hand
on the sunny head before him, “beware how you listen to such doctrine;
there is but one true faith—there is but one way by which you can be
saved. Go to your chamber, and pray you may not be led into error
through your mother’s words of folly!”

But there were others at Grassmere most anxiously wondering, like good
Mrs. Humphreys, “_what they were_,” ere they so far committed themselves
as to call upon the strangers. Sunday, however, was close at hand; Mrs.
Norton’s choice of a church was to determine them the choice of her
acquaintance.

Does the reader think the inhabitants of Grassmere peculiar? I think
not. There are very many just such people not a hundred rods from our
own doors.

Unfortunately, on Sunday the rain poured down in torrents. Nothing less
impervious than strong cowhide boots—India-rubber overcoats, and thick
cotton umbrellas, could go to meeting, consequently, Mrs. Norton staid
at home, and on Monday afternoon, after the washing was done, and the
deacon had turned his well saturated hay, Mrs. Humphreys put on her best
black silk gown and mantilla, her plain straw bonnet, with white
trimmings, and walked over with her husband to Silver-Fall cottage. As
the widow rented her house of them, they could not in decency, they
reasoned, longer defer calling upon her.

A glance within the cottage would convince any one that Mrs. Norton and
Grace were at least persons of refinement—for there is as much
character displayed in the arrangement of a room as in the choice of a
book.

Cream  mattings, and window-curtains of transparent lace,
relieved by hangings of pale sea-green silk, imparted a look of
delicious coolness to the apartments. There was no display of gaudy
furniture, as if a cabinet warehouse had been taken on speculation—yet
there was enough for comfort and even elegance; nor was there an over
exhibition of paintings—one of Cole’s beautiful landscapes, and a few
other gems of native talent were all; nor were the tables freighted as
the counter of a toy-shop; the only ornament of each was a beautiful
vase of Bohemian glass, filled with fresh garden flowers, whose tasteful
arrangement even fairy hands could not have rivaled.

The few moments they were awaiting the entrance of Mrs. Norton were
employed by Mrs. Humphreys in taking a rapid survey of all these
surroundings, the result of which was to impress her with a sort of awe
for the mistress of this little realm.

“My stars!” said she, casting her eyes to the right and left, half
rising from the luxurious couch to peep into one corner, and almost
breaking her neck to dive into another, “my stars, deacon, if this don’t
beat all I ever did see!”

But the deacon, with an air worthy of a funeral, shook his head, closed
his eyes, and muttered,

“Vanity—vanity!”

The door opened, and Grace gliding in, sweetly apologized for her
mother, whom a violent headache detained in her apartment.

“Well, I do wish I knew what they were!” again exclaimed Mrs. Humphreys,
as she took the deacon’s arm and plodded thoughtfully homeward.

Then going to a dark cupboard under the stairs, she rummaged for some
time among the jars and gallipots, and finally producing one marked
“Raspberry Jam,” she told Naomi to put on her Sunday bonnet, and carry
it to the cottage, and—

“Naomi, you may just as well ask Grace Norton what meeting she goes to.”

Delighted to make the acquaintance of Grace, Naomi threw on her bonnet
and tripped lightly to the cottage, thinking little, we fear, of her
mother’s last charge. At any rate it was omitted, and so the night-cap
of Mrs. Humphreys again threw its broad frilling over an unsatisfied
brow.

In the morning the deacon received a very neat note from Mrs. Norton,
requesting to see him up on business.

“And now, my dear sir,” said she, after the common courtesies of the day
were passed, “I have taken the liberty to send for you to transact a
little business for me. If not too great a tax upon your time, will you
purchase a pew for me?”

The deacon grimly smiled, and rubbing his knee, replied,

“Why, yes, Mrs. Norton, I shall be glad to attend to the matter. True,
it is a busy season with us farmers, but the Lord forbid I should
therefore neglect _his_ business.”

“Do you think you can procure me one?” asked Mrs. Norton.

“O, I reckon so, for I am certain there are several pews now to be let
or sold either.”

“And what price, Mr. Humphreys?”

“Well, I guess about sixty dollars; and now I recollect, Squire Bryce
wants to sell his—it is right alongside of mine, and I reckon my pew is
as good for hearing the word as any in the meeting-house. I am glad,
really I do rejoice to find you a true believer.”

“You mistake my church, I see,” said Mrs. Norton, smiling, “I belong to
a different denomination from the one of which as I am aware you are a
professor.”

“Then,” cried the deacon, rising hastily and making for the door,
“excuse me—I—I know nothing of any other church or its pews. I cannot
be the instrument of seating you where false doctrines are preached!
I—good morning, ma’am.”

The widow sighed as the gate slammed after her visiter, but Grace burst
into a merry fit of laughter.

“How ridiculous!” she exclaimed; “was there ever such absurdity!”

“Hush, hush my dear child,” said Mrs. Norton, “Mr. Humphreys is without
doubt perfectly conscientious in this matter—we may pity, but not
condemn such zeal in the cause of religion.”

“Do you call bigotry religion, mamma?” asked Grace.

“A person may be a very good Christian, Grace, and yet be very much of a
bigot,” answered her mother. “That such a spirit as Mr. Humphreys has
just now shown may often be productive of more evil than good, I allow.
His aim is to do good, but he adopts the wrong measures.”

“Why, mamma, one would have judged from his manner that we were
infidels!” said Grace.

“O no, my child, he did not really think that,” replied Mrs. Norton,
smiling at her earnestness. “He only felt shocked at what he deems our
error—for he sacredly believes there can be no safety in any other
creed than his own. Without the charity therefore to think there may be
good in all sects, and lacking the desire to study the subject, or
rather so much wedded to his belief that he would deem it almost a sin
to do so, like an unjust judge, he condemns without a hearing. There are
too many such mistaken zealots in every creed of worship. O, my dear
child,” continued Mrs. Norton, her fine eyes bathed in tears, “would
that members of every sect might unite in love and charity to one
another! They are all aiming alike to love and serve Christ, and yet
take no heed to his commandment, ‘_Love ye one another!_’”

“Well, mamma, for the sake of his sweet daughter, Naomi, I can forgive
the good deacon. I have never seen a more interesting face than hers,
and her manners are as graceful and lady-like as if she had never seen
the country,” said Grace.

“And most probably a great deal more so, my love,” replied Mrs. Norton,
“for nature can add a grace which courts cannot give. But I agree with
you in thinking Miss Humphreys interesting; she is, indeed, so, and if
her countenance prove an index of her mind, I think you may promise
yourself a pleasing companion.”

But the deacon, it seems, was of a different way of thinking, and no
sooner did he enter under his own roof, place his oak stick in the
corner, and hang up his hat on the peg behind the door, than going into
the kitchen where the good wife was busily employed preparing the
noonday meal, assisted by Naomi, he made known with serious countenance,
that he had discovered _what they were_ at Silver-Fall cottage!

Of course, Miss Norton was not such a companion as they would choose for
Naomi. True, she was a pretty girl, and Mrs. Norton a lady of faultless
manners; but then so much the more danger, and therefore Naomi, though
not forbidden, was admonished to beware of their new acquaintances.


                              CHAPTER IV.

                            _Love Passages._

The summer passed, and in the bright month of September, came Hubert
Fairlie, to pass a few weeks beneath the glad roof of his parents, whose
only and beloved child he was.

Their warm welcome given, the first visit of Hubert was to Naomi. They
met as such young and ardent friends meet after an absence of months,
and Naomi soon confided to him her regret that her parents would not
allow her to cultivate the friendship of Grace Norton, whom she extolled
in such warm and earnest language, that Hubert found his curiosity
greatly excited to behold one calling forth such high eulogium from the
gentle Naomi.

An evening walk was accordingly planned which would lead them near the
cottage, hoping by that means to obtain a glimpse of its fair inmate.
Fortune favored them. As they came within view of the cottage, a sweet
voice was heard chanting the Evening Hymn to the Virgin, and Hubert and
Naomi paused to listen to as heavenly sounds as ever floated on the calm
twilight air. Then as the song concluded, Grace herself still sweeping
her fairy fingers over the strings to a lively waltz, sprang out from
the little arbor, and with her hair floating around her like stray
sunbeams, her beautiful blue eyes lifted upward, her white arms
embracing the guitar, and her graceful figure swaying to the gay measure
like a bird upon the tree-top, tripped over the greensward.

Among other amusements which the deacon held in great abhorrence was
dancing, and Naomi had been taught to look upon all such exhibitions as
vain and sinful. Yet never, I may venture to say, did any pair of little
feet so long to be set at liberty as did Naomi’s—_pat—pat—pat-ing_
the gravel-walk where they stood, urging their young mistress to bound
through the gate and trip it with those other little feet twinkling so
fleetly to the merry music.

The cheeks of Grace rivaled the hue of June roses, as she suddenly
encountered the gaze of a stranger; but seeing Naomi, she hastened to
greet her, and thereby hide her embarrassment. Naomi introduced her
companion, and then Grace invited them to walk in the garden, and look
at her fine show of autumn flowers. Minutes flew imperceptibly, and ere
they were aware, Hubert and Naomi found themselves seated in the
tasteful parlor of the cottage listening to another sweet song from the
lips of Grace.

As this is not precisely a love tale, I may as well admit at once, that
Hubert became deeply enamored of the bewitching Grace, and from that
evening was a frequent and not unwelcome visiter—a fact which was soon
discovered by the deacon, for noting that Hubert came not so often as
was his wont to the farm, he set about to find out what could have so
suddenly turned the footsteps of the young man from his door.

Alas, for his hopes of a son-in-law in Hubert! He found those footsteps
very closely on the track of as dainty a pair of slippers as ever graced
the foot of a Cinderella.

Nothing could exceed his disappointment, save the pity he felt for his
minister, whose son he considered rushing blindly into the snares of the
Evil One. Nay, so far did he carry his pity as to warn Mr. Fairlie of
the dereliction of Hubert. But when that worthy man reproved his
uncharitableness, and acknowledged that he could hope for no greater
earthly happiness for his son, than to see him the husband of so
charming and amiable a girl as Grace Norton, the deacon was perfectly
thunderstruck! It was dreadful—what would the world come to! In short
almost believing in the apostacy of the minister himself, the deacon
went home groaning in spirit, as much perhaps for the frustration of his
own schemes, as for the “falling off,” as he termed it of the reverend
clergyman!

The swift term of vacation expired, and Hubert returned to college. His
collegiate course would end with the next term, and then it was his wish
to commence the study of the law. Mr. Fairlie was, perhaps, somewhat
disappointed that his son did not adopt his own sacred profession; but
he was a man of too much sense to force the decision of Hubert or thwart
his wishes. He hoped to see him a good man whatever might be his
calling; and if ever youth gave promise to make glad the heart of a
parent, that youth was Hubert Fairlie.

The intercourse between Grace and Naomi from this time almost wholly
ceased, much to the regret of both. Yet such were the orders of Deacon
Humphreys, whose good-will toward the widow and her daughter was by no
means strengthened by the events of the last four weeks.


                               CHAPTER V.

               _The Practical and Theoretical Christian._

“Why what have you done with Nelly to-day?” asked Mrs. Humphreys, of her
washerwoman, who came every Monday morning, regularly attended by a
little ragged, half-starved girl of four years old, whose province it
was to pick up the clothes-pins, drive the hens off the bleach, and keep
the kittens from scalding their frisky tails—receiving for her reward a
thin slice of bread and butter, or maybe, if all things went right, and
no thunder-squalls brewed, or sudden hurricanes swept over the
clothes-fold, a piece of gingerbread or a cookey. “What, I say, have you
done with Nelly?”

“O, ma’am, she has gone to school—only think of it, my poor little
Nelly has gone to _school_! It does seem,” continued Mrs. White, resting
her arms on the tub, and holding suspended by her two hands a
well-patched shirt of the deacon’s, “it does seem as if the Lord had
sent that Mrs. Norton here to be a blessing to the poor!”

“Humph!” ejaculated Mrs. Humphreys, spitefully rattling the dishes.

“Only think,” continued Mrs. White, “she has given up one whole room in
her house to Miss Grace, who has been round and got all the children
that can’t go to school because their parents are too poor to send them,
and just teaches them herself for nothing! God bless her, I say!”
exclaimed the washerwoman, strenuously, her tears mingling with the
soap-suds into which she now plunged her two arms so vigorously as to
dash the creaming foam to the ceiling.

Mrs. Humphreys was at once surprised and angry. She could not conceive
why a lady like Mrs. Norton should do such a thing as to keep a ragged
school, and that, too, without pay or profit. She had forgotten the
words of our blessed Lord, “_Whoso shall receive one such little child
in my name, receiveth me_,” or, “_Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one
of the least of these, ye have done it unto me._” Charity alone, she
argued in her selfish nature, could not have influenced Mrs. Norton to
put herself to so much trouble for a troop of noisy, dirty, half-clothed
children! No, there must be some deeper motive—some sectarian object,
perhaps, to be gained; and, impressed with this idea, she said tartly,

“I think it is a pretty piece of presumption in Mrs. Norton to come here
and set herself up in this way, telling us as it were of our duty. She
is a stranger, and what business is it of hers, I should like to know,
whether the children go to school or not!”

“O, Mrs. Humphreys, indeed, I think the spirit of the Lord guides her!”
said Mrs. White. “Miss Grace came and asked me so humbly like, if I
would let her teach my Nelly, and then kissed the little fatherless
child so, so—that—that—O, I could have worshiped her!” and fresh
tears streamed down the cheeks of the washerwoman.

“Worship a fiddle-stick!” exclaimed Mrs. Humphreys, out of all patience,
“I know what she wants—an artful creature; yes, she wants to make Nelly
go to her meeting!”

Poor Mrs. White could not help smiling at the idea of attempting to form
the religious creed of a child scarce four years old.

“Well, if she will only make her as good as she is, I don’t care!” she
answered, “for the Bible says, ‘_By their fruits ye shall know them!_’”

Mrs. Humphreys was more and more shocked at this. She whispered it to
Mrs. Smith, who whispered it to Mrs. Jones, who told Mrs. Brown, who
told all the society, that the Nortons were wicked, designing people,
come into the village to stir up schism in the church! Yet all sensible
persons applauded the good deed of the widow, and cheerfully aided her
efforts. The little school prospered even more than she had dared to
hope; the children were cheerful and happy, and those whose parents
could not afford them decent clothing, were generously supplied by Mrs.
Norton—and many a heart blessed the hour which brought her among them.

As the thunder which suddenly rends the heavens, when not a cloud on the
blue expanse has heralded the coming storm, was the calamity which now
as suddenly burst over the head of Mrs. Norton.

She retired at night to her peaceful slumbers, supposing herself the
mistress of thousands. With the early dawn there came letters to the
cottage, telling her that all her worldly possessions were swept from
her. The man to whose care her fortune was entrusted, had basely
defrauded her of every cent, and now a bankrupt, had fled to a foreign
land.

The stroke was a severe one. She must have been divine to have resisted
the first shock which the tidings caused her. But that over, like a
brave and noble spirit she rose to meet it. Her treasures were not all
of earth—in heaven her hopes were garnered; and, although henceforth
her path in life might be in rougher spots, and through darker scenes
than it had yet traversed, to that heaven she trusted to arrive at last.

It happened, unfortunately, that the half-yearly rent of the cottage
became due that very week; and Mrs. Norton, thus suddenly deprived of
her expected funds, had no means to meet it. Where should she raise two
hundred dollars! Her courage, however, rose with her trials. A little
time to look into her affairs—a little time to form her plans for the
future, and she doubted not she should be able to liquidate the debt.
Unused to asking favors, she yet courageously went to Mr. Humphreys, and
stating candidly her inability to meet the rent, requested a few weeks
indulgence.

The deacon was not caught napping. Evil news always travels with
seven-league boots—and long ere Mrs. Norton knocked at the door of the
farm-house, it was known throughout the village that her fortune was
gone.

Now the deacon, good man that he was, was “_given to idols_,” and Mammon
was one. Moreover, he owed the widow a grudge, as we already know, and
the old leaven of sin was at work _beneath_ the crust of piety.

He was accordingly well prepared to receive her. And sorry, very sorry
was the worthy deacon, but he had just then a most pressing necessity
for the rent—he really must have it, if not in cash, perhaps Mrs.
Norton might have some plate to dispose of; he would be happy to oblige
her in that way, for the Lord forbid he should deal hard with any
one—_but_, the amount _must_ be paid when due. Wait he could not—and
if the rent was not forthcoming on the day stipulated in the
contract—why—why—he was very sorry—but he should be obliged to take
other measures, that was all!

Mrs. Norton soiled not her lips by making any reply to this Christian
Shylock—no expostulation or entreaty—but coldly bowing, she took her
leave.

As soon as she reached home she sent for a silver-smith, brought out her
valuable tea-set—doubly so from having been the marriage gift of her
father, requested its appraisal, and then duly attested as to its weight
and purity, it was forwarded to the clutches of the deacon.

Mrs. Norton met with a great deal of sympathy in her misfortunes. During
the few months she had resided among them, the villagers had all learned
to love and respect her. Even the poor came from their humble homes, and
with looks of sympathy and out-stretched hands tendered their
offerings—their hard-earned wages to the kind lady who had taught their
little ones; they would work for her—they would do any thing to serve
her. With a sweet smile Mrs. Norton put back their grateful gifts, and
thanked them in gentle tones for their love—to her a far more
acceptable boon than gold could buy.

Again Silver-Fall cottage fell back on the hands of its owner.

Dismissing her attendants, Mrs. Norton took a smaller and cheaper house.
Her choice and beautiful furniture she sold, only retaining sufficient
to render her now humble residence comfortable. The avails of the sale
amounted to several hundred dollars—enough at any rate, she deemed, for
present necessities, while she trusted in the meantime to find some
means of subsistence by which she and Grace might support themselves.

What more noble spectacle, than an elegant, refined woman thus meeting,
uncomplaining and cheerfully, the storm of adversity.

And Grace, too—sweet Grace—sang like a skylark, and made her little
white hands wonderfully busy in household matters. Hubert Fairlie was
yet absent, though his long and frequent letters brought joy to the
heart of his beloved.

And had Naomi forgotten her friend in this season of trial! Not so; yet
forbidden as we have seen from the society of Grace, all she could do
was to sympathize deeply in spirit, happy when a chance opportunity
brought them together; and those meetings although rare, only served to
strengthen the friendship which united these two lovely girls.


                              CHAPTER VI.

              _The Pestilence. The Curtain wholly lifted._

It was now the middle of October.

        “Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light, and the
          landscape
        Lay as if new created, in all the freshness of childhood:
                        All sounds were in harmony blended.
        Voices of children at play—the crowing of cocks in the farm-yard,
        Whirr of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
        All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love.”

When suddenly the Angel of Death folded his dark wings, and sat brooding
over the peaceful, pleasant village of Grassmere.

A terrible and malignant fever swept through the town, spreading from
house to house, like the fire which consumes alike the dry grass and the
bright, fresh flowers of the prairies. Old and young, husband, wife and
child, were alike brought low. There were not left in all the village
those able to attend upon the sick. From the churches solemnly tolled
the funeral bells, as one by one, youth and age, blooming childhood and
lovely infancy, were borne to the grave-yard—no longer solitary—for
the foot of the mourner pressed heavily over its grass-grown paths.

Still the contagion raged, until the selfishness of poor human nature
triumphed over the promptings of kindness and charity. People grew
jealous of each other; neighbor shunned neighbor;

        “Silence reigned in the streets—
        Rose no smoke from the roofs—gleamed no lights from the windows.”

save the dim midnight lamp which from almost every house betokened the
plague within.

None had shut themselves up closer from fear of infection than Deacon
Humphreys. His gates grew rusty, and the grass sprang up in the paths
about his dwelling. And yet the Destroyer found him out, and like a
hound long scenting its prey, sprang upon the household with terrible
violence.

First the pure and gentle Naomi sank beneath the stroke, and ere the
setting of the same day’s sun, Mrs. Humphreys herself was brought nigh
the grave.

Like one demented, pale with agony and terror, the deacon rushed forth
into the deserted streets to seek for aid. His dear ones—his wife and
child were perhaps dying; where, where should he look for relief—where
find some kind hand to administer to their necessities.

At every house he learned a tale of wo equal to his own. Some wept while
they told of dear ones now languishing upon the bed of pain, or bade him
look upon the marble brow of their dead. Others grown callous, and
worn-out with sorrow and fatigue, refused all aid, while some, through
excess of fear, hurriedly closed their doors against him.

Thus he reached the end of the village, and then the small, neat cottage
of Mrs. Norton met his view, nestling down amid the overshadowing
branches of two venerable elm. From the day he had almost thrust her
from his gate, with cold looks and unflinching extortion, Mrs. Norton
and the deacon had not met, and now the time had come when he was about
to ask from her a favor upon which perhaps his whole earthly happiness
might rest—a favor from her, whom in _his_ strength and _her_
dependence he had scorned. Would she grant it? He hesitated; would she
not rather, rejoicing in her power now, revenge the slights he felt he
had so often and so undeservedly cast upon her. But he remembered the
sweet, calm look which beamed from her eyes, and his courage grew with
the thought.

Putting away the luxuriant creeper which wound itself from the still
green turf to the roof of the cottage, hanging in graceful festoons, and
tinged with the brilliant dyes of autumn, seemed like wreaths of
magnificent flowers thus suspended, the deacon knocked hesitatingly at
the door.

It opened, and Mrs. Norton stood before him, pale with watching—for,
like an angel of mercy had she passed from house to house, since the
first breaking out of the scourge. In faltering accents he told his
errand; and, O, how like a dagger did it pierce his heart, when, with a
countenance beaming with pity and kindness, and speaking words of
comfort, the widow put on her bonnet and followed him with fleet
footsteps to his stricken home.

All night, like a ministering angel, did she pass from one sick couch to
the other, tenderly soothing the ravings of fever, moistening their
parched lips with cool, refreshing drinks, fanning their fevered brows,
and smoothing the couch made uneasy by their restless motions.

Unable to bear the scene, the deacon betook him in his hour of sorrow to
his closet, where all through the dreary watches of the night he prayed
this cup of affliction might pass from him. His heart was subdued. He
saw that like the proud Pharisee he had exalted himself, thanking God
_he was not as other men_.

At early dawn came Grace also to inquire after her suffering Naomi, and
finding her so very ill, earnestly besought her mother that she might be
allowed to share the task of nursing her. Mrs. Norton had no fears for
herself, yet when she looked at her only and beautiful child, she
trembled; but her eyes fell upon the bed where poor Naomi lay moaning in
all the delirium of high fever, and her heart reproached her for her
momentary selfishness. Removing the bonnet of Grace, she tenderly kissed
her pure brow, and then kneeling down, with folded hands she prayed,
“Thy will, O Lord, not mine be done! Take her in thy holy keeping, and
do with her as thou seest best!”

From that day Grace left not the bedside of her friend.

On the third day Mrs. Humphreys died. Her last sigh was breathed out on
the bosom of the woman whom she had taught her daughter to shun. For
many days it seemed as if Death would claim another victim; yet God
mercifully spared Naomi to her bereaved father; very slowly she
recovered, but neither Mrs. Norton nor Grace left her until she was able
to quit her bed.

With the death of Mrs. Humphreys, the pestilence staid its ravages,
while, as a winding-sheet, the snows of winter now enshrouded the
fresh-turned clods in the late busy grave-yard.

The eyes of Deacon Humphreys were opened. He became an altered man. He
saw how mistaken had been his views, and that it is not the _profession_
of any sect or creed which makes the true Christian, and that if all are
alike _sincere in love to God_, all may be alike received.

I have said this was no love tale, therefore, by merely stating that in
the course of a twelvemonth Hubert Fairlie and Grace were united, I
close my simple story.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               WATOUSKA.


                        A LEGEND OF THE ONEIDAS.


                           BY KATE ST. CLAIR.


    Away, in a forest’s gloom,
      Where the shadowy branches wave
    O’er a rude and moss-grown tomb,
      Is an Indian maiden’s grave:
    None knoweth that music-haunted spot—
    Save a far-off one, who forgets it not.

    He dreams of that silent shore—
      ’Tis a holy spot to him,
    A solemn stillness broodeth o’er
      Those forest-aisles so dim;
    Bird-music, and wave-melody,
    Blend with the murmurings of the bee.

    He knows when the wild-rose showers
      Its blossoms o’er her breast;
    When the summer-winds, ’mid flowers,
      Whisper above her rest:
    And he deems he hears, on his far-off shore,
    The music of the cataract’s roar
      From that Island of the Blest!

    She passed from earth away—
      The young, the beautiful,
    In the long dreamy day
      When golden shadows fell
    O’er wave and vine, and moons had sped,
    Yet _there_, while that brief season fled,
      He’d kept Love’s vigil well.

    He comes, that warrior-chief,
      Once more, in the pale moon’s wane,
    When the dews weep o’er each leaf,
      To that haunted spot again—
    But morn with its glorious beauty woke
    Him not—the warrior’s heart had broke.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                  INDIAN LEGEND OF THE STAR AND LILY.


                         BY KAH-GE-GA-GAH-BOWH.


In the wigwam of the Indian during the evenings of spring, that season
when nature, loosed from the bondage of winter, awakes to new life, and
begins to deck itself with beauties, the old sage gathers around him the
young men of the tribe, and relates the stories of days long since
departed.

I have seen these youths sit in breathless silence, listening to the old
man’s narrative. Now and then the tear-drops would course down their
cheeks, and fall to the ground, witnesses of the interest they felt in
the words of their teacher.

To induce the sire to narrate a tradition, the Indian boys would
contrive some ingenious plan by which to get some tobacco, which, when
offered with a request for a story, would be sure of a favorable answer.
Frequently it happens that from sunset to its rise these clubs are
entertained, and they do not separate till daylight calls them to the
chase.

One of the most interesting traditionary stories I ever heard related,
was told by an elderly Indian, one evening in spring. The winter was
just leaving, the snow and ice were fast disappearing, and the streams
were swollen with the unusual quantity of water from the mountains.

“There was once a time,” said he, “when this world was filled with happy
people, when all nations were as one, and the crimson tide of war had
not begun to roll. Plenty of game were in the forests and on the plains.
None were in want, for a full supply was at hand. Sickness was unknown.
The beasts of the field were tame, and came and went at the bidding of
man. One unending spring gave no place for winter, for its cold blasts
or its chills. Every tree and bush yielded fruit. Flowers carpeted the
earth; the air was filled with their fragrance, and redolent with the
songs of myriad warblers that flew from branch to branch, fearing none,
for there were none to harm them. There were birds then of more
beautiful plumage than now.

“It was then, when earth was a paradise, and man worthy to be its
possessor, that Indians were the lone inhabitants of the American
wilderness. They numbered millions, and living as nature designed them
to live, enjoyed its many blessings. Instead of amusement in close rooms
the sports of the fields were theirs.

“At night they met on the wide, green fields. They watched the stars;
they loved to gaze at them, for they believed them to be the residences
of the good who had been taken home by the Great Spirit. One night they
saw one star that shone brighter than all others. Its location was far
away in the south, near a mountain peak. For many nights it was seen,
till at length it was doubted by many that this star was as far off in
the southern skies as it seemed to be. This doubt led to an examination,
which proved the star to be only a short distance, and near the tops of
some trees. A number of warriors were deputed to go and see what it was.
They went and returned, saying that it appeared strange and somewhat
like a bird. A council of the wise men was called to inquire into and,
if possible, ascertain the meaning of the phenomenon.

“They feared that it was an omen of some disaster. Some thought it a
precursor of good, others of evil. Some supposed it to be the star
spoken of by their forefathers, as a forerunner of a dreadful war.

“One moon had nearly gone by, and yet the mystery remained unsolved.

“One night a young warrior had a dream, in which a beautiful maiden came
and stood at his side, and thus addressed him:

“‘Young brave! charmed with the land of thy forefathers, its flowers,
its birds, its rivers, its beautiful lakes and its mountains clothed
with green, I have left my sister in yonder world to dwell among you.

“‘Young brave! ask your wise and your great men where I can live and see
the happy race continually; ask them what form I shall assume, in order
to be loved and cherished among the people.’

“Thus discoursed the bright stranger. The young man awoke. On stepping
out of his lodge, he saw the star yet blazing in its accustomed place.

“At early dawn the chief’s crier was sent round the camp to call every
warrior to the Council Lodge. When they had met, the young warrior
related his dream. They concluded that the star they had seen in the
south had fallen in love with mankind and that it was desirous to dwell
with them.

“The next night five tall, noble-looking adventurous braves were sent to
welcome the stranger to earth.

“They went and presenting to it a pipe of peace, filled with
sweet-scented herbs, were rejoiced to find that it took it from them. As
they returned to the village, the star, with expanded wings followed,
and hovered over their homes till the dawn of day.

“Again it came to the young man in a dream and desired to know where it
should live, and what form it should take. Places were named. On the
tops of giant trees or in flowers. At length it was told to choose a
place itself—and it did so. At first it dwelt in the wild rose of the
mountains, but there it was so buried it could not be seen. It went to
the prairie, but it feared the hoof of the buffaloe. It next went to the
rocky cliff, but it was there so high that the children, whom it loved
most, could not see it.

“‘I know where I shall live,’ said the bright fugitive, ‘where I can see
the gliding canoe of the race I most admire. Children, yes, they shall
be my playmates, and I will kiss their brows when they slumber at the
side of the cool lakes. The nations shall love me wherever I am.’

“These words having been uttered, she alighted on the waters where she
saw herself reflected.

“The next morning thousands of white flowers were seen on the surface of
all the lakes and the Indians gave them this name;
_Wah-be-gwon-nee_—(White Lily.)

“Now,” continued the old man, “this star lived in the southern skies.
Its brethren can be seen far off in the cold north, hunting the great
bear, while its sisters watch her in the east and west.

“Children, when you see the lily on the waters, take it in your hands
and hold it to the skies, that it may be happy on earth, as its two
sisters (the morning and evening stars) are happy in heaven.”

While tears fell fast from the eyes of all, the old man lay him down and
was soon silent in sleep.

Since then I have often plucked the white lily and garlanded around my
head; have dipped it in its watery bed, but never have I seen it without
remembering the _Legend of the Descending Star_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE GOLDEN AGE.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE IMPROVISATRICE.


                       BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.


    Go bear the voiceless harp away!
      Its latest note is spoken,
    And like the heart that beats within,
      Its last frail chord is broken.

    This soul of mine was never made
      For glad or peaceful life,
    But cast in rude, imperfect mould,
      For bitterness and strife.

    I never was a careless child,
      For in my early years
    The founts within were gathering,
      Of anguish and of tears:

    And when I looked upon the stars
      In all their golden sheen,
    The presage of a broken heart—
      It always came between.

    And then the Voice of Song awoke
      Within my wayward soul,
    And bade the wearing tide of thought
      Forever o’er it roll.

    And dreams of words that should go forth
      To bless and elevate,
    Ambition’s charmed and serpent lure,
      The passion to create;

    Were mingled in my spirit’s depths,
      Till with displacing power
    Came Love with gorgeous diadem,
      The phantom of an hour!

    And soon the mockeries of Hope
      Fled smiling from my breast,
    And left a dark and fearful curse,
      The cravings of unrest.

    And Life became a weary load,
      And Nature’s face a pall,
    And each red drop that passed my heart
      Was turned to seething gall.

    From day to day the lyre within
      Waxed passionate and frail;
    It trembled at the zephyr’s breath,
      How could it brook the gale?

    Now Death has o’er my pillow bent,
      I’ve seen his glancing eye,
    And watched the silvery gleaming of
      His pinion passing by.

    Go bring me back my harp again!
      I feel a strength for prayer,
    And o’er the shattered chords within
      Creeps an unearthly air.

    Go bring me back my harp again,
      I may not now restore
    The sounding strings I loved so well,
      Or tune it as before;

    But I would lay my hand upon
      The trembling chords and riven;
    I feel mine own are healing fast
      Beneath the eye of Heaven.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                   THE EIGHTEENTH SONNET OF PETRARCA.


                          BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.


    Had I but waited patient in the cell
      Where great Apollo erst became divine,
      One bard might call himself a Florentine,
    Like those who once in other lands did dwell.
    But here the holy ichor doth not swell,
      And fate hath willed another lot be mine.
      ’Tis meet that I relinquish high design
    And drink the waters of life’s turbid well.
      Sear are the olive branches now, the stream
        Near which they grew and looked toward the sky
          Hath sunken deep beneath the rock again.
      Fate or my fault hath aye dispelled the dream
        That made me fix my early hopes so high,
          Unless God will their height I should attain.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           JASPER ST. AUBYN;


                       OR THE COURSE OF PASSION.


                       BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.


                      (_Continued from page 15._)


                              CHAPTER II.

                            _The Wakening._

                     He saw her, at a nearer view,
                     A spirit, yet a woman too.
                                       WORDSWORTH.

When Jasper St. Aubyn opened his eyes, dim with the struggle of
returning consciousness and life, they met a pair of eyes fixed with an
expression of the most earnest anxiety on his own—a pair of eyes, the
loveliest into which he ever had yet gazed, large, dark, unfathomably
deep, and soft withal and tender, as the day-dream of a love-sick poet.
He could not mark their color; he scarce knew whether they were mortal
eyes, whether they were realities at all, so sickly did his brain reel,
and so confused and wandering were his fancies.

Then a sweet low voice fell upon his ear, in tones the gentlest, yet the
gladdest, that ever he had heard, exclaiming—

“Oh! father, father, he lives—he is saved!”

But he heard, saw, no more; for again he relapsed into unconsciousness,
and felt nothing further, until he became sensible of a balmy coolness
on his brow, a pleasant flavor on his parched lips, and a kindly glow
creeping as it were through all his limbs, and gradually expanding into
life.

Again his eyes were unclosed, and again they met the earnest, hopeful
gaze of those other eyes, which he now might perceive belonging to a
face so exquisite, and a form so lovely, as to be worthy of those great
glorious wells of lustrous tenderness.

It was a young girl who bent over him, perhaps a few months older than
himself, so beautiful that had she appeared suddenly, even in her simple
garb, which seemed to announce her but one degree above the peasants of
the neighborhood, in the midst of the noblest and most aristocratical
assembly, she would have become on the instant the cynosure of all eyes,
and the magnet of all hearts.

Of that age when the heart, yet unsunned by passion, and unused to
strong emotion, thrills sensibly to every feeling awakened for the first
time within it, and bounds at every appeal to its sympathies; when the
ingenuous countenance, unhardened by the sad knowledge of the world, and
untaught to conceal one emotion, reflects like a perfect mirror every
gleam of sunshine that illuminates, every passing cloud that
over-shadows its pure and spotless surface, the maiden sought not to
hide her delight, as she witnessed the hue of life return to his pale
cheeks, and the spark of intelligence relume his handsome features.

A bright mirthful glance, which told how radiant they might be in
moments of unmingled bliss, laughed for an instant in those deep blue
eyes, and a soft, sunny smile played over her warm lips; but the next
minute, she dropped the young man’s hand, which she had been chafing
between both her own, buried her face in her palms, and wept those sweet
and happy tears which flow only from innocent hearts, at the call of
gratitude and sympathy.

“Bless God, young sir,” said a deep, solemn voice at the other side of
the bed on which he was lying, “that your life is spared. May it be unto
good ends! Yours was a daring venture, and for a trivial object against
which to stake an immortal soul. But, thanks to Him! you are preserved,
snatched as it were from the gates of death; and, though you feel faint
now, I doubt not, and your soul trembles as if on the verge of another
world, you will be well anon, and in a little while as strong as ever in
that youthful strength on which you have so prided you. Drink this, and
sleep awhile, and you shall wake refreshed, and as a new man, from the
dreamless slumber which the draught shall give you. And you, silly
child,” he continued, turning toward the lovely girl, who had sunk
forward on the bed, so that her fair tresses rested on the same pillow
which supported Jasper’s head, with the big tears trickling silently
between her slender fingers, “dry up your tears; for the youth shall
live, and not die.”

The boy’s eyes had turned immediately to the sound of the speaker’s
accents, and in his weak state remained fixed on his face so long as the
sound continued, although his senses followed the meaning but
imperfectly.

It was a tall, venerable looking old man who spoke, with long locks, as
white as snow, falling down over the straight cut collar of his plain
black doublet, and an expression of the highest intellect, combined with
something which was not melancholy, much less sadness, but which told
volumes of hardships borne, and sorrows endured, the fruits of which
were piety, and gentleness, and that wisdom which cometh not of this
world.

He smiled thoughtfully, as he saw that his words were hardly
comprehended, and his mild glance wandered from the pale face of the
handsome boy to the fair head of the young girl bending over him, like a
white lily overcharged with rain.

“Poor things,” he whispered softly, as if speaking to himself, “to both
it is the first experience of the mixed pain and pleasure of this
world’s daily trials. God save them scathless to the end!”

Then, recovering himself, as if by a little effort, from his brief fit
of musing, he held forth a large glass goblet, which was in his right
hand, full of some bright ruby- liquid, to the lips of Jasper,
saying—

“Drink, youth, it will give thee strength. Drink, and fear nothing.”

The young man grasped the bright bowl with both hands, but even then he
had lacked strength to guide it to his lips, had not his host still
supported it.

The flavor was agreeable, and the coolness of the draught was so
delicious to the feverish palate and parched tongue of Jasper, that he
drained it to the very bottom, and then, as if exhausted by the effort,
relaxed his hold, and sunk back on his pillow in a state of conscious
languor, exquisitely soft and entrancing.

More and more that voluptuous dream-like trance overcame him, and though
his eyes were still open he saw not the things that were around him, but
a multitude of radiant and lovely visions, which came and went, and
returned again, in mystic evolutions.

With a last effort of his failing senses, half conscious of the interest
which she took in him, yet wholly ignorant who or what was that gentle
_she_, he stretched out his hand and mastered one of hers with gentle
violence, and holding it imprisoned in his burning fingers, closed his
swimming eyes, and sunk into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The old man, who had watched every symptom that appeared in succession
on his expressive face, saw that the potion had taken the desired
effect, and drawing a short sigh, which seemed to indicate a sense of
relief from apprehension, looked toward the maiden, and addressed her in
a low voice, not so much from fear of wakening the sleeper, as that the
voice of affection is ever low and gentle.

“He sleeps, Theresa, and will sleep until the sun has sunk far toward
the west, and then he will waken restored to all his youthful power and
spirits. Come, my child, we may leave him to his slumbers, he shall no
longer need a watcher. I will go to my study, and would have you turn to
your household duties. Scenes such as this which you have passed will
call up soft and pitiful fancies in the mind, but it behooves us not
overmuch to yield to them. This life has too much of stern and dark
reality, that we should give the reins to truant imagination. Come,
Theresa.”

The young girl raised her head from the pillows, and shook away the long
fair curls from her smooth forehead. Her tears had ceased to flow, and
there was a smile on her lip, as she replied, pointing to her hand which
he held fast grasped, in his unconscious slumber.

“See, father, I am a prisoner. I fear me I cannot withdraw my hand
without arousing him.”

“Do not so, then, Theresa; to arouse him now, ere the effects of the
potion have passed away, would be dangerous, might be fatal. Perchance,
however, he will release you when he sleeps quite soundly. If he do so,
I pray you, come to me. Meantime, I leave you to your own good thoughts,
my own little girl.”

And with the words, he leaned across the narrow bed, over the form of
the sleeping youth, and kissed her fair white brow.

“Bless thee, my gentle child. May God in his goodness bless and be about
thee.”

“Amen! dear father,” said the little girl, as he ended; and in her turn
she pressed her soft and balmy lips to his withered cheek.

A tear, rare visitant, rose all unbidden to the parent’s eye as he
turned to leave her, but ere he reached the door her low tones arrested
him, and he came back to her.

“Will you not put my books within reach of me, dear father?” she said.
“I cannot work, since the poor youth has made my left hand his sure
captive, but I would not be altogether idle, and I can read while I
watch him. Pardon my troubling you, who should wait on you, not be
waited on.”

“And do you not wait on me ever, and most neat-handedly, dear child?”
returned her father, moving toward a small round table, on which were
scattered a few books, and many implements of feminine industry. “Which
of these will you have, Theresa?”

“All of them, if you please, dear father. The table is not heavy, for I
can carry it about where I will myself, and if you will lift it to me, I
can help myself, and cull the gems of each in turn. I am a poor student,
I fear, and love better, like a little bee, to flit from flower to
flower, drinking from every chalice its particular honey, than to sit
down, like the sloth, and surfeit me on one tree, how green soever.”

“There is but little industry, I am afraid, Theresa, if there be little
sloth in your mode of reading. Such desultory studies are wont to leave
small traces on the memory. I doubt me much if you long keep these gems
you speak of, which you cull so lightly.”

“Oh! but you are mistaken, father dear, for all you are so wise,” she
replied, laughing softly. “Every thing grand or noble, of which I read,
every thing high or holy, finds a sort of echo in my little heart, and
lies there forever. Your grave, heavy, moral teachings speak to my
reason, it is true, but when I read of brave deeds done, of noble
self-sacrifices made, of great sufferings endured, in high causes, those
things teach my heart, those things speak to my soul, father. Then I
reason no longer, but feel—feel how much virtue there is, after all,
and generosity, and nobleness, and charity, and love, in poor frail
human nature. Then I learn, not to judge mildly of myself, nor harshly
of my brothers. Then I feel happy, father, yet in my happiness I wish to
weep. For I think noble sentiments and generous emotions sooner bring
tears to the eye than mere pity, or mere sorrow.”

And, even as she spoke, her own bright orbs were suffused with drops,
like dew in the violet’s cups, and she shook her head with its profusion
of long fair ringlets archly, as if she would have made light of her own
sentiment, and gazed up into his face with a tearful smile.

“You are a good child, Theresa, and good children are very dear to the
Lord,” said the old man. “But of a truth I would I could see you more
practically minded; less given to these singular romantic dreamings. I
say not that they are hurtful, or unwise, or untrue, but in a mere
child, as you are, Theresa, they are strange and out of place, if not
unnatural. I would I could see you more merry, my little girl, and more
given to the company of your equals in age, even if I were to be loser
thereby of something of your gentle company. But you love not, I think,
the young girls of the village.”

“Oh! yes, I love them—I love them dearly, father. I would do any thing
for any one of them; I would give up any thing I have got to make them
happy. Oh yes, I love Anna Harlande, and Rose Merrivale, and Mary
Mitford, dearly, but—but—”

“But you love not their company, you would say, would you not, my
child?”

“That is not what I was about to say; but I know not how it is, their
merriment is so loud, and their glee so very joyous, that it seems to me
that I cannot sympathize with them in their joy, as I can in their
sorrow; and they view things with eyes so different from mine, and laugh
at thoughts that go nigh to make me weep, and see or feel so little of
the loveliness of Nature, and care so little for what I care most of
all, soft, sad poetry, or heart-stirring romance, or inspired music,
that when I am among them, I _do_ almost long to be away from them all,
in the calm of this pleasant chamber, or in the fragrance of my bower
beside the stream. And I do feel my spirit jangled and perplexed by
their light-hearted, thoughtless mirth, as one feels at hearing a false
note struck in the midst of a sweet symphony. What is this? what means
this, my father?”

“It is a gift, Theresa,” replied the old man, half mournfully. “It means
that you are endowed rarely, by God himself, with powers the most
unusual, the most wondrous, the most beautiful, most high and godlike of
any which are allowed to mortals. I have seen this long, long ago—I
have mused over it; hoped, prayed, that it might not be so; nay, striven
to repress the germs of it in your young spirit, yet never have I spoken
of it until now; for I knew not that you were conscious, and would not
be he that should awaken you to the consciousness of the grand but
perilous possession which you hold, delegated to you direct from
Omnipotence.”

He paused, and she gazed at him with lips apart, and eyes wide in
wonder. The color died away in a sort of mysterious awe from her warm
cheek. The blood rushed tumultuously to her heart. She listened
breathless and amazed. Never had she heard him speak thus, never
imagined that he felt thus, before—yet now that she did hear, she felt
as though she were but listening again to that which she had heard many
times before; and though she understood not his words altogether, they
had struck a kindred chord in her inmost soul, and while its vibration
was almost too much for her powers of endurance, it yet told her that
his words were true.

She could not for her life have bid him go on, but for worlds she would
not have failed to hear him out.

He watched the changed expression of her features, and half struck with
a feeling of self-reproach that he should have created doubts, perhaps
fears, in that ingenuous soul, smiled on her kindly, and asked in a
confident tone—

“You have felt this already, have you not, my child?”

“Not as you put it to me, father; no, I have never dreamed or hoped that
I had any such particular gift of God, such glorious and preëminent
possession as this of which you speak. I may, indeed, have fancied at
times that there was something within me, in which I differed from
others around me—something which made me feel more joy, deeper, and
fuller, and more soul-fraught joy, than they feel; and sorrow, softer,
and moved more easily, if not more piercing or more permanent—which
made me love the world, and its inhabitants, and above all its Maker,
with a far different love from theirs—something which evermore seems
struggling within me, as if it would forth and find tongue, but cannot.
But now, that you have spoken, I know that it indeed must be as you say,
and that this unknown something is a gift, is a possession from on high.
What is this thing, my father?”

“My child, this thing is genius,” replied the old man solemnly.

The bright blood rushed back to her cheeks in a flood of crimson glory;
a strange, clear light, which never had enkindled them before, sprang
from her soft dark eyes; she leaned forward eagerly—

“Genius!” she cried. “Genius, and I! Father, you dream, dear father.”

“Would that I did; but I do not, Theresa.”

“And wherefore, if it be so, indeed, that I am so gifted, wherefore
would you alter it, my father?”

“I would not alter it,” he replied, “my little girl. Far be it from my
thoughts, weak worm that I am, to alter, even if I could alter, the
least of the gifts of the great Giver. And this, whether it be for good,
or unto evil, is one of the greatest and most glorious. I would not
alter it, Theresa. But I would guide, would direct, would moderate it. I
would accustom you to know and comprehend the vast power of which you,
all unconsciously, are the possessor. For, as I said, it is a fearful
and a perilous power. God forbid that I should pronounce the most
marvelous and godlike of the gifts which he vouchsafes to man, a curse
and not a blessing; God forbid that, even while I see how oft it is
turned into bitterness and blight by the coldness of the world, and the
check of its heaven-soaring aspirations, I should doubt that it has
within itself a sovereign balm against its own diseases, a rapture
mightier than any of its woes, an inborn and eternal consciousness which
bears it up, as on immortal pinions, above the cares of the world and
the poor consciousness of self. Nevertheless it is a perilous gift, and
too often, to your sex, a fatal one. Yet I would not alarm you, my own
child, for you have gentleness of soul, which may well temper the
coruscations of a spirit which waxes oftentimes too strong to be
womanly, and piety which shall, I trust, preserve you, should any
aspiration of your heart wax over vigorous and daring to be contented
with the limitations of humanity. In the meantime, my child, fear
nothing, follow the dictates of your own pure heart, and pray for His
aid, who neither giveth aught, nor taketh away, without reason. Hark!”
he interrupted himself, starting slightly, “there is a sound of horses’
hoofs without; your brother has returned, and it may be Sir Miles is
with him. We will speak more of this hereafter.”

And with the word he turned and left the room.

When he was gone she raised her eyes to heaven, and with a strange rapt
expression on her fair features rose to her feet, exclaiming—

“Genius! Genius! Great God, Great God, I thank thee.”

Then, in the fervor of the moment, which led her naturally to clasp her
hands together, she made a movement to withdraw her fingers from
Jasper’s deathlike grasp, unconscious, for the time, of every thing
around her.

But, as she did so, a tightened pressure of his hand, and some
inarticulate sounds which proceeded from his lips, recalled her with a
start to herself.

She dropped into her seat, as if conscience-stricken, gazed fixedly in
his face, then stooped and pressed her lips on his inanimate brow;
started again, looked about the room with a half guilty glance, bowed
her head on his pillow, and wept bitterly.


                              CHAPTER III.

                           _The Recognition._

                    They had been friends in youth.
                                             BYRON.

The evening had advanced far into night before the effects of the potion
he had swallowed passed away, and left the mind of Jasper clear, and his
pulse regular and steady. When he awoke from his long stupor, and turned
his eyes around him, it seemed as if he had dreamed of what he saw
before him; for the inanimate objects of the room, nay, the very faces
which met his eye, had something in them that was not altogether
unfamiliar, yet for his life he could not have recalled when, or if ever
he had seen them before.

The old dark-wainscoted walls of the irregular, many-recessed apartment,
adorned with a few watercolor drawings, and specimens of needle-work,
the huge black and gold Indian cabinet in one corner, the tall
clock-stand of some foreign wood in another, the slab above the yawning
hearth covered with tropical shells and rare foreign curiosities, the
quaint and grotesque chairs and tables, with strangely contorted legs
and arms, and wild satyr-like faces grinning from their bosses, the very
bed on which he lay, with its carved head-board, and groined canopy of
oak, and dark green damask curtains, were all things which he felt he
must have seen, though where and how he knew not.

So was the face of the slight fair-haired girl who sat a little way
removed from his bed’s head, by a small round work-table, on which stood
a waxen taper, bending over some one of those light tasks of embroidery
or knitting which women love, and are wont to dignify by the name of
work.

On her he fixed his eyes long and wistfully, gazing at her, as he would
have done at a fair picture, without any desire to address her, or to do
aught that should induce her to move from the graceful attitude in which
she sat, giving no sign of life save in the twinkling of her long,
downcast eyelashes, in the calm rise and fall of her gentle bosom, and
the quick motion of her busy fingers.

Jasper St. Aubyn was still weak, but he was unconscious of any pain or
ailment, though he now began gradually to remember all that had passed
before he lost his consciousness in the deep pool above the fords of
Widecomb.

So weak was he, indeed, that it was almost too great an effort for him
to consider where he was, or how he had been saved, much more to move
his body, or ask any question of that fair watcher. He felt indeed that
he should be perfectly contented to lie there all his life, in that
painless tranquil mood, gazing upon that fair picture.

But while he lay there, with his large eyes wide open and fixed upon
her, as if by their influence he would have charmed her soul out of its
graceful habitation, a word or two spoken in a louder voice than had yet
struck his ear, for persons had been speaking in the room all the time,
although he had not observed them, attracted his notice to the other
side of his bed.

It was not so much the words, for he scarce heard, and did not heed
their import, as the tone of voice which struck him; for though
well-known and most familiar, he could in no wise connect it with the
other things around him.

With the desire to ascertain what this might mean, there came into his
mind, he knew not wherefore, a wish to do so unobserved; and he
proceeded forthwith to turn himself over on his pillow so noiselessly as
to excite no attention in the watchers, whoever they might be.

He had not made two efforts, however, to do this, before he became aware
of what, while he lay still, he did not suspect, that several of his
limbs had received severe contusions, and could not as yet be moved with
impunity.

He was a singular youth, however, and an almost Spartan endurance of
physical pain, with a strange persistence in whatever he undertook, had
been from very early boyhood two of his strongest characteristics.

In spite, therefore, of his weakness, in spite of the pain every motion
gave him, he persevered, and turning himself inch by inch, at length
gained a position which enabled him clearly to discern the speakers.

They were two in number, the one facing him, the other having his back
turned so completely that all he could see was a head covered with
long-curled locks of snow-white hair, a dark velvet cloak, and the
velvet scabbard of a long rapier protruding far beyond the legs of the
oak chair on which he sat. The lower limbs of this person were almost
lost in darkness as they lay carelessly crossed under the table, so that
he divined rather than saw that they were cased in heavy riding-boots,
on the heels of which a faint golden glimmer gave token of the wearer’s
rank, by the knightly spurs he wore.

The lamp which stood upon the table by which they were conversing was
set between the two, so that it was quite invisible to Jasper, and its
light, which to his eyes barely touched the edges of the figure he had
first observed, fell full upon the pale high brow and serene lineaments
of the other person, who was in fact no other than the old man who had
spoken to the youth in the intervals of his trance, and administered the
potion from the effects of which he was but now recovering.

Of this, however, Jasper had no recollection, although he wondered, as
he had done concerning the girl, where he had before seen that fine
countenance and benevolent expression, and how once seen he ever should
have forgotten it.

There was yet a third person in the group, though he took no part in the
conversation, and appeared to be, like Jasper, rather an interested and
observant witness of what was going on, than an actor in the scene.

He was a tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed man, in the first years of
manhood, not perhaps above five or six years Jasper’s senior; but his
bronzed and sunburnt cheeks curiously contrasted with the fairness of
his forehead, where it had not been exposed to the sun, and an
indescribable blending of boldness, it might have almost been called
audacity, with calm self-confidence and cold composure, which made up
the expression of his face, seemed to indicate that he had seen much of
the world, and learned many of its secrets, perhaps by the stern
lessoning of the great teachers, suffering and sorrow.

The figure of this young man was but imperfectly visible, as he stood
behind the high-backed chair, on which the old man, whom from the
similarity in their features, if not in their expression, Jasper took to
be his father, was seated. But his face, his muscular neck, his
well-developed chest and broad shoulders, displayed by a close-fitting
jerkin of some dark stuff, were all in strong light; and as the features
and expression of the countenance gave token of a powerful character and
energetic will, so did the frame give promise of ability to carry out
the workings of the mind.

The dialogue, which had been interrupted by a silence of some seconds
following on the words that had attracted Jasper’s notice, was now
continued by the old man who sat facing him.

“That question,” he said, in a firm yet somewhat mournful tone, “is not
an easy one to answer. The difficulty of subduing prejudices on my own
part, the fear of wounding pride on yours—these might have had their
share in influencing my conduct. Beside, you must remember that years
have elapsed—the very years which most form the character of men—since
we parted; that they have elapsed under circumstances the most widely
different for you and for me; that we are not, in short, in any thing
the same men we then were—that the gnarled, weather-beaten, earth-fast
oak of centuries differs not so much from the green pliant sapling of
half a dozen summers, as the old man, with his heart chilled and
hardened into living steel by contact with the world, from the youth
full of generous impulses and lofty aspirations, loving all men, and
doubting naught either in heaven above, or in the earth beneath. You
must remember, moreover, that although, as you have truly said, we were
friends in youth, our swords, our purses, and our hearts in common, we
had even then many points of serious difference; and lastly, and most of
all, you must remember that if we had been friends, we were not friends
when we last parted—”

“What! what!” exclaimed a voice, which Jasper instantly recognized for
his father’s, though for years he had not heard him speak in tones of
the like animation. “What, William Allan, do you mean to say that you
imagined that any enmity could have dwelt in my mind, for so slight a
cause—”

“Slight a cause!” interrupted the other. “Do you call that _slight_
which made my heart drop blood, and my brain boil with agony for
years—which changed my course of life, altered my fortunes, character,
heart, soul, forever; which made me, in a word, what I now am? Do you
call that a _slight_ cause, Miles St. Aubyn? Show me, then, what you
call a grave one.”

“I had forgotten, William, I had forgotten,” replied Sir Miles, gently,
and perhaps self-reproachfully. “I mean, I had forgotten that the
rivaling in a strife which to the winner seems a little thing, may to
the loser be death, or worse than death! Forgive me, William Allan, I
had forgotten in my selfish thoughtlessness, and galled you unawares.
But let us say no more of this—let the past be forgotten—let wrongs
done, if wrongs were done, be buried in her grave, who was the most
innocent cause of them; and let us now remember only that we were
friends in youth, and that after long years of separation, we are thus
wonderfully brought together in old age; let me hope to be friends
henceforth unto the grave.”

“Amen, I say to that. Miles St. Aubyn, amen!”

And the two old men clasped their withered hands across the table, and
Jasper might see the big drops trickling slowly down the face of him who
was called William Allan, while from the agitation of his father’s frame
he judged that he was not free from the like agitation.

There was a little pause, during which, as he fancied the young man
looked somewhat frowningly on the scene of reconciliation; but the
frown, if frown it were, passed speedily away, and left the bold, dark
face as calm and impassive as the surface of a deep unruffled water.

A moment or two afterward, Sir Miles raised his head, which he had bowed
a little, perhaps to conceal the feelings which might have agitated it,
and again clasping the hand of the other, said eagerly,

“It is you, William, who have saved my boy, my Jasper; and this is not
the first time that a scion of your house has preserved one of mine from
death, or yet worse, ruin!”

William Allan started, as if a sharp weapon had pierced him,

“And how,” he cried, “Miles St. Aubyn, how was the debt repaid? I tell
you it is written in the books that cannot err, that our houses were
ordained for mutual destruction!”

“What, man,” exclaimed Sir Miles, half jestingly, “do you still cling to
the black art? Do you still read the dark book of fate? Methought that
fancy would have taken wing with other youthful follies.”

The old man shook his head sadly, but made no reply.

“And what has it taught _thee_, William, unless it be that this life is
short, and this world’s treasures worthless; and _that_ I have learned
from a better book, a book of wider margin. What, I say, has it taught
thee, William Allan?”

“All things,” replied the old man, sorrowfully. “Even unto this
meeting—every action, every event of my own life, past or to come,
happy or miserable, virtuous or evil, it has taught me.”

“But has it taught thee, William, whereby to win the good and eschew the
evil; whereby to hold fast to the virtuous, and say unto the evil, ‘get
behind me?’ Has it taught thee, I say not to be wiser, but to be happier
or better?”

“What is, is! What shall be, shall be! What is written, shall be done!
We may flap, or flutter, or even fight, like fish or birds, or, if you
will, like lions in the toil; but we are netted, and may not escape,
from the beginning! The man may learn the workings of the God, but how
shall he control them?”

“And this is thy philosophy—this all that thine art teaches?”

“It is. No more.”

“A sad philosophy—a vain art,” replied the other. “I’ll none of them.”

“I tell thee, Miles St. Aubyn, that years ago, years ere I had heard of
Widecomb or its water, I saw yon deep, red-whirling pool; I saw that
drowning youth; I saw the ready rescue, and the gentle nursing; and
now,” he cried, stretching his hands out widely, and gazing into
vacancy, “I see a wilder and a sadder sight—a deeper pool, a stronger
cataract, a fierce storm thundering on the hills, and torrents
thundering down every gorge and gully to swell the flooded rivers. A
young man and a maiden—yet no! no! not a maiden! mounted on gallant
horses, are struggling in the whelming eddies. Great God! avert—hold!
hold! He lifts his arm, he smites her with his loaded whip—smites her
between the eyes that smile upon him; she falls, she is down, down in
the whirling waters—rider and horse swept over the mad cataract; but
who—who?—ha!” and with a wild shriek he started to his feet, and fell
back into the arms of the young man, who from the beginning of the
paroxysm evidently had expected its catastrophe, and who, with the
assistance of the girl, supported him, now quite inanimate and
powerless, from the room, merely saying to Sir Miles, “Be not alarmed, I
will return forthwith.”

“My father!” exclaimed Jasper, in a faint voice, as the door closed upon
them.

The old man turned hastily to the well-known accents, and hurried to the
bed-side. “My boy, my own boy, Jasper. Now, may God’s name be praised
forever!”

And falling into a chair by his pillow, the same chair on which that
sweet girl had sat a few hours before, he bent over him, and asked him a
thousand questions, waiting for no reply, but bathing his face with his
tears, and covering his brow with kisses.

When he had at length satisfied the old man that he was well and free
from pain, except a few slight bruises, he asked his father eagerly
where he was, and who was that strange old man.

“You are in the cottage, my dear boy,” replied the old knight, “above
Widecomb pool, tended by those who, by the grace of God and his
exceeding mercy, saved you from the consequences of the frantic act
which so nearly left me childless. Oh! Jasper, Jasper, ’twas a fearful
risk, and had well-nigh been fatal.”

“It was but one misstep, father,” replied the youth, who, as he rapidly
recovered his strength, recovered also his bold speech and daring
courage. “Had there been but foot-hold at the tunnel’s end, I had landed
my fish bravely; and, on my honor, I believe had I such another on my
line’s end, I should risk it again. Why, father, he was at least a
thirty pounder.”

“Never do so—never do so again, Jasper. Remember that to risk life
heedlessly, and for no purpose save an empty gratification, a mere
momentary pleasure, is a great crime toward God, and a gross act of
selfishness toward men, as much so as to peril or to lose it in a high
cause, or for a noble object, is great and good, and self-devoted.
Think! had you perished here, all for a paltry fish, which you might
purchase for a silver crown, you had left to me years—nay, a life of
misery.”

“Nay, father, I never thought of that,” answered the young man, not
unmoved by the remonstrance of his father, “but it was not the value of
the fish. I should have given him away ten to one, had I taken him. It
was that I do not like to be beaten.”

“A good feeling, Jasper; and one that leads to many good things, and
without which nothing great can be attained; but to do good, like all
other feelings, it must be moderated and controled by reason. But you
must learn to think ever before acting, Jasper.”

“I will—I will, indeed, sir; but you have not told me who is this
strange old man?”

“An old friend of mine, Jasper—an old friend whom I have not seen for
years, and who is now doubly a friend, since he has saved your life.”

At this moment the door opened, and the young man entered bearing a
candle.

“He is at ease now,” he said. “It is a painful and a searching malady to
which at seasons he is subject. We know well how to treat him; when he
awakes tomorrow, he will remember nothing of what passed to-day, though
at the next attack he will remember every circumstance of this. I pray
you, therefore, Sir Miles, take no note in the morning, nor appear to
observe it, if he be somewhat silent and reserved. Ha! young sir,” he
continued, seeing that Jasper was awake, and taking him kindly by the
hand, “I am glad to see that you have recovered.”

“And I am glad to have an opportunity to thank you, that you have saved
my life, which I know you must have done right gallantly, seeing the
peril of the deed.”

“About as gallantly as you did, when you came so near losing it,” he
answered. “But come, Sir Miles, night wears apace, and if you will allow
me to show you to your humble chamber, the best our lowly house can
offer, I will wish you good repose, and return to watch over my young
friend here.”

“My age must excuse me, that I accept your offer, whose place it should
be to watch over him myself.”

“I need no watcher, sir,” replied Jasper, boldly. “I am quite well now,
and shall sleep, I warrant you, unto cock-crow without awakening.”

“Good-night, then, boy!” cried Sir Miles, stooping over him and again
kissing his brow, “and God send thee better in health and wiser in
condition.”

“Good-night, sir; and God send me stronger and braver, and more like my
father,” said the youth, with a light laugh.

“I will return anon, young friend—for friends, I hope, we shall be,”
said the other, as he left the room lighting Sir Miles respectfully
across the threshold.

“I hope we shall—and I thank you. But I shall be fast asleep ere then.”

And so he was; but not the less for that did the stalwart young man
watch over him, sitting erect in one of the high-backed chairs, until
the first pale light of dawn came stealing in through the latticed
casement, and the shrill cry of the early cock announced the morning of
another day.


                              CHAPTER IV.

                            _The Lovesuit._

                   He either fears too much,
                     Or his deserts are small,
                   Who would not put it to the touch,
                     To win or lose it all.
                                            MONTROSE.

The earliest cock had barely crowed his first salutation to the
awakening day, and the first warblers had not yet begun to make their
morning music in the thick shrubberies around the cottage, when aroused
betimes by his anxiety for Jasper, Sir Miles made his appearance,
already full dressed, at the door of the room in which his son was
sleeping.

For he was still asleep, with that hardy young man still watching over
him, apparently unmoved by the loss of his own rest, and wholly
indifferent to what are usually deemed the indispensable requirements of
nature.

“You are afoot betimes, sir,” said the youth, rising from his seat as
the old cavalier entered the room; “pity that you should have arisen so
early, for I could have watched him twice as long, had it been needful,
but in truth it was not so. Your son has scarce moved, Sir Miles, since
you left the chamber last night. You see how pleasantly and soundly he
is sleeping.”

“It was not _that_, young sir,” replied the old man, cordially. “It was
not that I doubted your good will, or your good watching either; but he
is my son, my only son, and how should I but be anxious. But as you say,
he sleeps pleasantly and well. God be thanked therefore. He will be none
the worse for this.”

“Better, perhaps, Sir Miles,” replied the other, with a slight smile.
“Wiser, at least, I doubt not he will be; for in good truth, it was a
very boyish, and a very foolish risk to run.”

The old man, for the first time, looked at the speaker steadfastly, and
was struck by the singular expression of his countenance—that strange
mixture of impassive self-confident composure, and half-scornful
audacity, which I have mentioned as being his most striking
characteristics. On the preceding evening, Sir Miles had been so much
engrossed by the anxiety he felt about his son, and subsequently by the
feelings called forth in his inmost heart by the discovery of an old
comrade in the person of William Allan, that in fact he had paid little
attention to either of the other personages present.

He had observed, indeed, that there were a fair young girl and a
powerfully framed youth present; he had even addressed a few words
casually to both of them, but they had left no impression on his mind,
and he had not even considered who or what they were likely to be.

Now, however, when he was composed and relieved of fear for his son’s
life, he was struck, as I have said, by the expression and features of
the young man, and began to consider who he could be; for there was no
such similarity, whether of feature, expression, voice, air or gesture,
between him and William Allan, as is wont to exist between son and sire.

After a moment’s pause, however, the old cavalier replied, not
altogether pleased apparently by the tone of the last remark.

“It was a very bold and _manly_ risk, it appears to me,” he said, “and
if rash, can hardly be called boyish; and you, I should think,” he
added, “would be the last to blame bold actions. You look like any thing
but one who should recommend cold counsels, or be slack either to dare
or do. I fancy you have seen stirring times somewhere, and been among
daring deeds yourself.”

“So many times, Sir Miles,” replied the young man, modestly, “that I
have learned how absurd it is to _seek_ such occasions without cause.
There be necessary risks enough in life, and man has calls enough, and
those unavoidable, on his courage, without going out of his way to seek
them, or throwing any energy or boldness unprofitably to the winds. At
least so I have found it in the little I have seen of human life and
action.”

“Ha! you speak well,” said Sir Miles, looking even more thoughtfully
than before at the marked and somewhat weatherbeaten features of the
young man. “And where have you met with perils so rife, and learned so
truly the need of disciplining natural energies and valor.”

“On the high seas, Sir Miles, of which I have been a follower from a
boy.”

“Indeed! are you such a voyager! and where, I pray you, have you
served?”

“I cannot say that I have exactly _served_. But I have visited both the
Indias, East and West; and have seen some smart fighting—where they say
peace never comes—beyond the Line, I mean, with the Dons, both in
Darien and Peru.”

“Ha! but you have indeed seen the world, for one so young as you; and
yet I think you have not sailed in the king’s ships, nor held rank in
the service.”

“No, Sir Miles, I am but a poor free-trader; and yet sometimes I think
that we have carried the English flag farther, and made the English name
both better known, and more widely feared, than the cruisers of any king
who has sat on our throne, since the good old days of Queen Bess.”

“His present majesty did good service against the Dutch, young man. And
what say you to Blake? Who ever did more gloriously at sea, than rough
old Blake?”

“Ay, sir, but that was in Noll’s days, and we may not call him a _king_
of England, though of a certainty he was her wise and valiant ruler. And
for his present majesty, God bless him! that Opdam business was when he
was the Duke of York; and he has forgotten all his glory, I think, now
that he has become king, and lets the Frenchman and the Don do as they
please with our colonists and traders, and the Dutchman, too, for that
matter.”

The old man paused, and shook his head gravely for a moment, but then
resumed with a smile,

“So, so, my young friend, you are one of those bold spirits who claim to
judge for yourselves, and make peace or war, as you think well, without
waiting the slow action of senates or kings, who hold that hemispheres,
not treaties, are the measure of hostility or amity.”

“Not so, exactly, noble sir. But where we find peace or war, there we
take them; and if the Dons wont be quiet on the other side the Line, and
our good king wont keep them quiet, why we must either take them as we
find them, or give up the great field to them altogether.”

“Which you hold to be unEnglish and unmanly?”

“Even so, sir.”

“Well, I, for one, will not gainsay you. But do not you fear, sometimes
that while you are thus stretching a commission—that is the term, I
believe, among you liberal gentlemen—you may chance to get your own
neck stretched some sultry morning in the Floridas or in Darien.”

“One of the very risks I spoke of but now, Sir Miles,” replied the young
man, laughing. “My life were not worth five minutes’ purchase if the
Governor of St. Augustine, or of Panama either, for that matter, could
once lay hold on me.”

“I marvel,” said the old cavalier, again shaking his head solemnly, “I
marvel much—” and then interrupting himself suddenly in the middle of
his sentence, he lapsed into a fit of meditative silence.

“At what, if I may be so bold—at what do you so much marvel?”

“That William Allan should consent,” replied the cavalier, “that son of
his should embark in so wild and stormy a career, in a career which, I
should have judged, with his strict principles and somewhat puritanical
feeling, he would deem the reverse of gracious or godfearing.”

“He knows not what career I follow,” answered the young man, bluntly.
“But you are in error altogether, sir. I am no son of William Allan.”

“No son of William Allan! Ha! now that I think of it, your features are
not his, nor your voice either.”

“Nor my body, nor my soul!” replied the other, hastily and hotly, “no
more than the free falcon’s are those of the caged linnet! Sometimes I
even marvel how it can be that any drop of mutual or common blood should
run in our veins; and yet it is so—and I—I—yet no—I do _not_ repent
it!”

“And wherefore should you? there is no worthier or better man, I do
believe, than William Allan living; and, in his younger days at least, I
know there was no braver.”

“No braver?—indeed! indeed!” exclaimed the young man, eagerly—“was he,
indeed, brave?”

“Ay, was he, youth! brave both to do and to suffer. Brave, both with the
quick and dauntless courage to act, and with the rarer and more elevated
courage to resolve and hold fast to resolution. But who are you, who,
living with him, know both so little and so much of William Allan? If
you be not his son, who are you?”

“His sister’s son, Sir Miles—his only sister’s son, to whom, since that
sister’s death, he has been—God forgive me for that I said but
now—more than a father; for surely I have tried him more than ever son
tried a father, and he has borne with me still with a most absolute
indulgence and unwearied love.”

“What—what!” exclaimed Sir Miles, much moved and even agitated by what
he heard, “are you the child of that innocent and beautiful Alicia
Allan, whom—whom—” The old man faltered and stopped short, for he was
in fact on the point of bursting into tears.

But the youth finished the sentence which he had left unconcluded, in a
stern, slow voice, and with a lowering brow.

“Whom your friend, Durzil Olifaunt, betrayed by a mock marriage, and
afterward deserted with her infants. Yes, Sir Miles, I am one of those
infants, the son of Alicia Allan’s shame! And my uncle did not slay
him—therefore it is I asked you, was he brave.”

“And yet he _was_ slain—and for that very deed!” replied the old man,
gloomily, with his eyes fixed upon the ground.

“He _was_ slain,” repeated the young sailor, whose curiosity and
interest were now greatly excited. “But how can you tell wherefore? No
one has ever known who slew him—how, then, can you name the cause of
his slaying?”

“There is ONE who knows all things!”

“But HE imparts not his knowledge,” answered the other, not
irreverently. “And unless _you_ slew him, I see not how you can know
this. Yet, hold, hold!” he continued impetuously, as he saw that Sir
Miles was about to speak, “if you did slay him, tell it not; for if he
did betray my mother, if he did abandon me to disgrace and ruin—still,
still he was my father.”

“I slew him not, young man,” replied the cavalier, gravely, “but he was
slain for the cause that I have named, and I saw him die—repentant.”

“Repentant!” exclaimed the youth, grasping the withered hand of the old
knight, in the intensity of his emotions, “did he repent the wrong he
had done my mother?”

“As surely as he died.”

“May God forgive him, then,” said the seaman, clasping his hands
together and bursting into tears, “as I forgive him.”

“Amen! amen!” cried the knight, “for he was mine ancient friend, the
comrade of my boyhood, before he did that thing; and I, too, have
something to forgive to him.”

“You, Sir Miles, you!—what can you have to forgive?”

“Tell me first, tell me—how are you named?”

“Durzil,” answered the youth, “Durzil, _Nothing_!” he added, very
bitterly, “my country, and my country’s law give me no other name, but
only Durzil—its enemies have named me _Bras-de-fer_!”

“Then mark me, Durzil; as he of whom you are sprung, of whom you are
named, was my first friend, so was your mother my first love; and she
returned my love, till he, my sometime confidant, did steal her from me,
and made his paramour, whom I had made my wife.”

“Great God!” exclaimed the young man, struck with consternation; “then
it must, it must have been so—it was you who slew my—my father!”

“Young man, I never lied.”

“Pardon me, Sir Miles. Pardon me, I am half distraught. And you loved my
mother, and—and—he repented. Why was not I told of this before? And
yet,” he added, again pausing, as if some fresh suspicion struck him,
“and yet how is this? I heard you speak yester even to my uncle, of
wrongs done—done by yourself to _him_, and of a woman’s death—that
woman, therefore, was not, could not have been _my_ mother. Who, then,
was _she_?”

“_His_ mother,” replied Sir Miles St. Aubyn, calmly, but sadly, pointing
to the bed on which Jasper lay sleeping tranquilly and all unconsciously
of the strange revelations which were going on around him. “If my friend
robbed me of William Allan’s sister, so I won from William Allan, in
after days, her who owned his affection; but with this difference, that
she I won never returned your uncle’s love from the beginning, and that
I never betrayed his confidence. If I were the winner, it was in fair
and loyal strife, and though it has been, as I learned for the first
time last night, a sore burthen on your uncle’s heart, it has been none
on my conscience; my withers are unwrung.”

“I believe it, sir; from my soul, I believe it,” cried the young man,
enthusiastically, “for, on my life, I think you are all honor and
nobility. But tell me, tell me now, if you love, if you pity me—as you
should do for my mother’s sake—who slew my father?”

“I have sworn,” answered the cavalier, “I have sworn never to reveal
that to mortal man; and if I had not sworn, to _you_ I could not reveal
it; for, if I judge aright, you would hold yourself bound to—”

“Avenge it!” exclaimed the youth, fiercely, interrupting him; “ay, were
it at my soul’s purchase—since he repented.”

“He _did_ repent, Durzil; nay, more, he died, desiring only that he
could repair the wrong he had done you, regretting only that he could
not give you his name and his inheritance, as he did give _you_ his
dying blessing, and your mother his last thought, his last word in this
world.”

“Did _she_ know this?”

“Durzil, I cannot answer you; for within a few days after your father’s
death, I left England for the Low Countries, and returned not until many
a year had passed into the bygone eternity. When I did return, the
sorrows of Alicia Allan were at an end forever; and though I then made
all inquiries in all quarters, I could learn nothing of your uncle or
yourself, nor ever have heard of you any more until last night, when we
were all so singularly brought together.”

“I _ought_ to have known this; I would, I would to God that I _had_
known it. My life had been less wild, then, less turbulent, less stormy.
My spirit had not then burned with so rash a recklessness. It was the
sense of wrong, of bitter and unmerited wrong done in past times, of
cold and undeserved scorn heaped on me in the present, as the
bastard—the child of infamy and shame! that goaded me into so hot
action. But it is done now, it is done, and cannot be amended. The world
it is which has made me what I am—let the world look to it—let the
world enjoy the work of its hands.”

“There is nothing, Durzil,” said the old man, solemnly, “nothing but
death that cannot be amended. _Undone_ things may not be, but all may be
amended, by God’s good grace to aid us.”

“Hast thou not seen a sapling in the forest, which, overcrowded by trees
of stronger growth, or warped from its true direction by some unnoted
accident, hath grown up vigorous indeed and strong, but deformed and
distorted in its yearly progress, until arrived at its full maturity,
not all the art or all the strength of man or man’s machinery can force
it from its bias, or make it straight and comely? So is it with the mind
of man, Sir Miles. While it is young and plastic, you shall direct it as
you will—once ripened, hardened in its growth, whether that growth be
tortuous or true, as soon shall you remodel the stature of the
earth-fast oak, as change its intellectual bias. But I am wearying you,
I fancy, and wasting words in unavailing disquisition. I hear my uncle’s
step without, moreover; permit me, I will join him.”

“Hold yet a moment,” replied the old man, kindly, “and let me say this
to you now, while we are alone, which I may perchance lack opportunity
to say hereafter. Your mother’s son, Durzil Olifaunt—for so I shall
ever call you, and so by _his_ last words you are entitled to be
called—can never weary me. Your welfare will concern me ever—what
interests you will interest me always, and next to my own son I shall
hold you nearest and dearest to this old heart at all times. Now leave
me if you will—yet hold! tell me before you go, what I am fain to learn
concerning your good uncle—the knowledge shall perchance save painful
explanation, perchance grave misunderstanding.”

“All that I know is at your service,” answered the young man, in a
calmer and milder tone than he had used heretofore—for he was, in
truth, much moved and softened by the evident feeling of the old
cavalier; “but let me thank you first for your kindly offers, which,
should occasion offer, believe me, I will test as frankly as you have
made them nobly.”

To his latter words Miles St. Aubyn made no answer, except a grave
inclination of his head, for his mind was preoccupied now by thoughts of
very different import—was fixed, indeed, on days long passed, and on
old painful memories.

“This girl,” he said at length, “this fair young girl whom I saw here
last night, is she—is she your sister? I think you had a sister—yet
this fair child hath not Alicia’s hair, nor her eyes—who is she?”

“God was most good in that,” answered the seaman, with much feeling, “he
took my sister to himself, even before my mother pined away. A man’s lot
is hard enough who is the son of shame—a woman’s is intolerable
anguish. Theresa is my uncle’s child—his only child. His love for her
is almost idolatry, and were it altogether so, she deserves it all. Lo!
there she passes by the casement—was ever fairer face or lovelier
figure? and yet her soul, her innocent and artless soul, has beauties
that as far surpass those personal charms, as _they_ exceed all other
earthly loveliness.”

“You love her,” said the cavalier, looking quickly upward, for he had
been musing with downcast eyes, while Durzil spoke, and had not even
raised his lids to gaze upon Theresa as she passed through the garden.
“You love this innocent and gentle child.”

The young man’s cheek burned crimson, ashamed that he should have
revealed himself so completely to one who was almost a stranger. But he
was not one to deny or disguise a single feeling of his heart, whether
for good or for evil, and he replied, after a moment’s pause, with an
unfaltering and steady voice, “I _do_ love her, more than my own soul!”

“And she,” asked the old knight, “does she know, does she return your
affection?”

Again the sailor hesitated, “Women, they say,” he replied, at length,
“know always by a natural instinct when they are beloved, and therefore
I believe she _knows_ it. For the rest, she is always most affectionate,
most gentle, nay, even tender. Further than this, I may not judge.”

“Father,” exclaimed a faint voice from the bed, at this moment. “Is that
you, father?” and Jasper St. Aubyn opened his eyes, languid yet from the
heavy slumber into which the opiate had cast him, and raised himself up
a little on his pillow, though with a slow and painful motion.

“My son,” cried the old man, hurrying to the side of the bed, “my own
boy, Jasper, how fare you now? You have slept well.”

“So well,” answered the bold boy, “that I feel strong enough, and clear
enough in the head, to be up and about; but that whenever I would move a
limb, there comes an accursed twinge to put me in mind that limestone
rock is harder than bone and muscle.”

Meanwhile, as soon as the old cavalier’s attention was diverted by the
awakening of his own son from his trance-like slumber, Durzil
Bras-de-fer, as he called himself, and as I shall therefore call him,
left the room quietly, and a few minutes afterward might have been seen,
had not the eyes of those within the chamber been otherwise directed, to
pass the casement, following the same path which had been taken by
Theresa Allan a little while before.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 ELIM.


                              BY VIRGINIA.


    And they came to Elim, where were twelve wells of water, and
    threescore and ten palm-trees, and they encamped there by the
    waters.

                                                      EXODUS XV. 27.

    Noon on the burning desert!
      Unutterable noon!
    On the wandering band, from Goshen’s land,
      Shod in the wondrous shoon!

    Blasting the man of might,
      Blighting the infant flower,
    And quenching the light to the mother’s sight
      As it droops in the fearful hour!

    Look out o’er the blinding heaven!
      Look out o’er the searèd ground!
    Is naught in view save the torturing blue
      And the maddening sand around?

    Behold a speck afar!
      It seemeth a cloud like a hand,
    And it beck’neth us on through the raging sun
      Away to the Promised Land!

    Is it the Angel of Death,
      Sent forth as a mocking guide?
    Is it the trace of the warrior race
      As they scour the trackless wide?

    No! by the Cloudy Pillar!
      No! by our Fiery Friend!
    From the bush of flame the great I AM
      Hath bidden us onward wend!

    On to the Seventy Palm Trees!
      On to the water’s brink!
    Where the wayfaring rest on the green earth’s breast,
      And the fainting pilgrims drink!

    Drink! and forget their misery,
      And remember their toil no more;
    Rest! while the breeze sways the stately trees
      Those dark, cool waters o’er!

    Drink! parched and panting Israel!
      In those draughts of mercy deep
    There mingles no tide of the Marah wide
      Where thy innermost soul shall steep!

    Rest! worn and weary Israel!
      In the dream of thy sleeping eyes
    There dwelleth no thought of the ruin wrought
      By coming centuries!

    Oh, Elim! loveliest Elim!
      Gem of the desert old!
    Green be thy mighty shadows,
      Pure be thy waters cold!

    How often, ’mid life’s vast desert,
      My heart within me swells,
    As I sigh for thy Seventy Palm Trees,
      And for thy Twelve Deep Wells!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            FAITH’S WARNING.


                         BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.


    The vital elements of all things gifted
      With promise or with truth,
    By God’s own hand benignantly are lifted
      Into perennial youth.

    O then, with gentle reverence, surrender
      The wish to interfere,
    Behold the miracle, devout and tender,
      But enter not its sphere!

    Childhood, with meek intelligence, appealing,
      When guardians annoy,
    As gush the sympathies its life revealing,
      Asks freedom to enjoy.

    Genius, by graceful waywardness, achieving
      Its claim the boon to share,
    A narrow doom in Fancy’s world retrieving,
      Expands untrammeled there.

    The throes of nations plead that right be tested—
      The Present grapple fairly with the Past,
    For Liberty’s pure zeal if unmolested,
      Will triumph at the last!

    Profane not Love in its divine seclusion,
      If true, its hope is sure,
    Born in weak hearts it is a chance illusion,
      That vainly would endure.

    For all things destined to survive, engender
      Their own progressive life,
    And Truth, forsaken by her last defender,
      Yet conquers in the strife.

    In its dim crypt of mould the seed implanted
      Will germinate and spring,
    Poised in her azure realm the lark undaunted
      Exultingly will sing!

    The prayer of wisdom in these later ages
      Is for unchartered right
    To turn, at will, her own elected pages,
      With unimpeded sight.

    To their own law abandon all things real,
      Nor, with incessant care,
    Strive to conform to thy perverse ideal
      What God created fair.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       LAMENT OF THE GOLD-DIGGER.


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


         ’Tis the grief for their fate gives me mystical lore,
          And coming events cast their shadows before.
                                                     CAMPBELL.

    ’Tis evening, and I stand alone
      On San Francisco’s desert shore,
    The wandering night-winds sadly moan,
      And shrieking sea-birds round me soar.
    The weary sun hath sunk to sleep
      Beyond the great Pacific’s wave,
    While here I stand and idly weep
      That I have been to gold a slave!

    O, curses on the maddening cry
      That echoed through my own green land,
    And sent me forth, unwept to die,
      Upon this lonely desert strand!
    With spirits fresh the hills I trod,
      And in the eager strife for gain
    Forgot my country and my GOD,
      And fevered fancies flushed my brain!

    It came at last, the bitter thought,
      That I was linked with toiling slaves,
    Whose very life-blood had been bought
      By selfish and designing knaves.
    But all too late conviction came,
      And with a down-cast, tearful eye.
    I thought with anguish and with shame
      I’d chased an echo here—to die!

    O, vain was all our strife for wealth,
      We ploughed the bed of many a stream,
    All idly, and with ruined health,
      Heaped curses on our fevered dream,
    That drove us from our homes away,
      Athwart the ocean’s furrowed breast,
    To find with terror and dismay
      That we were houseless Famine’s guests!

    My heart grows sick—my eye grows dim,
      As o’er the watery waste I gaze,
    And powerless droops each nerveless limb,
      And manhood’s pride and strength decays.
    Adieu, my childhood’s home, for fate
      Hath dimmed the brightness of my sky,
    I’ve “dug” my grave, and found too late
      I’ve chased an echo here—to die!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    SKETCHES OF LIFE IN OUR VILLAGE.


           NO. I.—WHAT THERE WAS TO LIKE IN HATTIE ATHERTON.


                               BY GIFTIE.


“You seem to have a great deal to say lately about this Miss Hattie
Atherton,” said my brother, looking up from his book as I entered the
parlor, after escorting to the door a friend who had been making me a
morning call.

“Well,” said I, “I hope you have no objection.”

“Objection—no indeed. But what is there in Miss Hattie, that you all
like so much? Your friends have been perfectly absorbed in admiration of
her for the last three days.”

“If you knew her you would not wonder that we are all glad to have her
at home again. She has been absent four years at a boarding-school, and
as she is reported to be wonderfully accomplished her return makes quite
a sensation in our quiet circle. That is the reason you have heard her
name so frequently mentioned.”

“A regular paragon of boarding-school accomplishments, I suppose,” said
Fred, with his most scornful sneer. “She doesn’t know a cow from a
sheep—works worsted dogs—paints in colors _excessively
watery_—considers her father and mother quite countrified and
vulgar—and knows enough of the languages to Frenchify her name into
Harri_ette_, or into the more unmeaning diminutive of H-a-t-t-i-e.”

“You are really savage,” replied I, laughing, “but, my good sir, you are
quite mistaken in your enumeration, for though she had adopted the
diminutive of her somewhat stately name, she is innocent of working
worsted dogs, and she rejoices in the knowledge that of the two animals,
the cow is the largest. Really, Fred, she is a very lovely girl,
perfectly unaffected, and exulting like a freed bird to visit again her
old haunts,

        “‘In the grove and by the river.’”

“Ah, she is one of that sort, is she? Raves of nature and falls on her
knees to a pigweed. For my part, I could never imagine why a boy wasn’t
just as natural as an alder bush.”

“You are really impertinent, Fred, to talk so about my friends,” said I,
a little vexed.

“Beg your pardon, sis; but you may depend upon it, all boarding-school
girls belong to one of two classes—the smart and affected, or the soft
and sentimental. You, my dear Mary, are the only one I ever knew to pass
the ordeal without being spoiled.”

“Which escape, I presume, you impute entirely to liberal share of advice
bestowed by my wise brother. I am quite provoked with you, for your
unsparing sarcasms on women.”

“Ah, if they were only all like you,” replied Fred, rising to come to
me, and then falling back on the sofa with a growl at the pain the
attempt had caused his sprained ankle. Gentle reader, that sprain, which
had confined him four days to the sofa, was the sole reason why my
good-natured, sensible brother was so “uncommon” cross.

There was a pause, during which Fred cut his nails and I sewed most
industriously. “I think,” said he at length—but what he thought was
lost forever to the world, for at that moment the door opened and Hattie
entered.

“Speak of angels and one sees their wings,” said I, as I rose to welcome
her. “You have come just in time to verify the proverb, for we have been
speaking of you.” Fred gave me a beseeching glance. He did not know of a
plan I had formed, which was quite inconsistent with any attempt to
prejudice Miss Atherton against him.

“I hope angels don’t tear their wings as badly as I have torn my shawl.
I have come to you for aid, and you see I carry a flag of distress,”
replied Hattie, holding out her shawl that had one corner nearly torn
off.

“How did you get such a rent in it?” exclaimed I.

“I have been paying a visit to your friend, Murray, and caught it on a
nail in his door,” said she laughing.

“What in the world were you doing at Murray’s?”

“I went down to see his child. When I looked out of my window this
morning, I was horrified to see that hop pole, whose graceful clusters
we were admiring yesterday, lying on the ground, and shorn of its
glories. On inquiring the cause of this outrage, I found that Murray
went to our house last evening for some hops to make a tea for a sick
child, and mother told him to get some from this pole. In doing so, he
managed, with Irish dexterity, to throw it down directly across the bed
of Dahlias.”

“Your beautiful Dahlias—what a pity!”

“I was very sorry, but fortunately they are not all destroyed. I thought
the poor man must have been in desperate haste to do such a thing, and
so I went to see if the child were dangerously sick.”

“Those Murrays are protegés of mine, but I didn’t know that any of them
were sick.”

“The child seems to be threatened with a fever, but I made them give it
a warm bath, and put baths of hops on its head and feet, and before I
left, it was quite relieved. I staid to superintend the operations, lest
they should not do it properly, for I fancy they are not accustomed to
the use of water. To be sure, dirt is the native element of that
class—but aren’t they uncommonly dirty?”

“I think they are,” replied I. “Last winter I asked Mrs. Murray why she
didn’t wash the children before she put on some new clothes I had
provided for them, and she opened her eyes in astonishment. ‘Sure
ma’am,’ said she, ‘sure and the dirt keeps ’em warm when they’ve nothin’
else to kiver ’em.’

“I suppose she thinks the same reason applies in summer by the rule of
contraries, for they were none of them very clean, and I thought they
were rather alarmed at the sight of a tubfull of water. Murray asked if
I “wasn’t afeard the child ’ud cotch cold,” but he says he thinks “hops
is werry good things,” and she imitated the deep guttural tones of our
gardener with a perfection that was perfectly startling.

“You are quite a doctress,” said Fred, when he had done laughing—“can’t
you prescribe for me?”

“I should think patience and resignation—an ounce each, thoroughly
compounded—would be the most necessary remedy for a sprain,” replied
Harriet—and the conversation turned on other subjects.

We examined the shawl, and pronounced it unmendable and I offered to
lend her my mantilla. “I will accept it,” said she, “if you will
yourself accompany it and assist me in making some purchases this
morning. Sally Murphy, who has lived with us so long, is about being
married, and father intends furnishing her house for her. It is a small
tenement with only four rooms, but it will be all her own, and she would
not be more delighted with a palace.”

I was soon ready, and we walked to the cabinet-makers, who was delighted
to furnish what we wanted, and then to that “omnium gatherum,” yclept,
“the dry goods store,” where we found every thing necessary for our
purpose, from the lace for the bride’s dress to the carpet that was to
adorn her “keeping-room.” “These are my part of the wedding presents,”
said Hattie. “I earned the money—you know how?”

I have said that I had a plan in view, in which my brother and Hattie
were to be the principal actors, and you will readily perceive that
though not much given to meddling with the affairs of other people, I
was sufficiently feminine in my tastes to be something of a matchmaker.
Notwithstanding his fine intellectual powers and considerable knowledge
derived from men and books, Fred had always been exceedingly deficient
in the ability to say and do those graceful nothings that are the usual
stepping-stones to an acquaintance between ladies and gentlemen, and
this, added to a certain bashfulness that frequently attends a proud,
sensitive nature, had kept him from finding any intimate friends among
the ladies he had met in his college life, and in his subsequent
wanderings over the world. Unfortunately, too, for my matrimonial
schemes in his behalf, he was provokingly contented with the prospect of
being an old bachelor; and since his establishment in our village, had
confined his visits to a few married ladies who were vastly superior in
cultivation of mind to any of the unmarried ones of our acquaintance.
Thus with a handsome person, and more than ordinary powers of pleasing,
had he chosen to exert them, my brother had passed to the shady side of
thirty, without having his large, warm heart stirred by a deeper emotion
than the quiet love excited by the home circle. I was determined this
state of things should not endure much longer, and to Harriet I looked
for aid in breaking the spell of indifference that was consigning him to
the lonely and selfish existence of a confirmed old bachelor.

Some weeks after the morning on which my story opens, Fred invited me to
walk with him to one of his favorite places of resort—a grove that was
situated about a mile from the village. The purple light of sunset was
thrown like a glory over the surrounding hills, and fell upon the bosom
of the river which, foaming in successive rapids through most of its
course, here spread out in a broad, deep current, as it swept with
graceful curve between its steep wooded banks. Following the path that
led down the bank, we came out from the shadow of the trees into a point
of land that, jutting out into the river, was covered with a soft
greensward. A willow grew on its extremest verge, and on a flat rock
under its overhanging branches Hattie Atherton was seated, with her
sketch-book on her knee. Her hat lay beside her on the grass, and the
wind sweeping back the long, shining curls that usually hung over her
face, revealed her broad, intellectual brow, and the perfect contour of
her features, while her slight, delicate figure was relieved against the
dark trunk of the tree. So absorbed was she in her occupation that she
did not know of our approach till we were beside her, and I had taken
her book to show Fred her accurate drawing of the view before us. She
started up with a slight blush, and turning to my brother said, with a
low silvery laugh,

“You ridicule romantic school girls, Mr. Stanley; and as I presume you
think I look very much like one at this moment, I must tell you how I
happened to be here. Father told me to-day that the course of the M——
railroad has been altered, and it will pass directly along this bank, so
that our beautiful grove will be spoiled.”

Great was our indignation at the idea of this invasion, and when we had
exhausted almost every expression in the language, Fred declared he
would get up a remonstrance and defeat their sacrilegious purposes.

“It will be of no use,” said Hattie. “It is the march of improvement,
and we must submit.”

“Worse than the march of the Goths and Vandals,” exclaimed Fred,
wrathfully; “the idea of sacrificing these grand old trees to the whims
of a few railroad contractors—it is too bad, for the other route will
be more convenient for everybody else.”

“I felt sorry enough, as you may imagine,” replied Hattie. “I have spent
so many happy hours here that I determined to sketch the view from this
point before the measuring-rod or the steam-engine should disturb its
quiet beauty.”

“And your pencil has immortalized it; how perfectly you have copied the
flickering light that falls on the smooth, dark waters, through those
overhanging trees. Really, Miss Atherton, I shall be exceedingly obliged
to you for a copy of this picture.”

“You shall have one,” said Hattie, frankly. “I intended making a picture
from this, and giving the drawing to Mary, for I know she loves this
scene as much as I do. I have so many pleasant associations connected
with it, that I feel as if I were to part with an old friend.”

“I can realize your feelings,” replied Fred, “for I, too, have loved to
listen on this spot to the many voices of nature. How often have I sat
beneath these trees to watch the daylight fade from the hills, and the
twilight throw its shadows over the landscape, seeming to descend lower
and lower till they rested on the bosom of the river, and I could see
nothing but the white foam gleaming through the dark, where it falls
over the rocks away yonder. Then the low, thrilling, whispering of the
wind among the pines, and the melancholy scream of the night-hawk—I
declare they have made me quite poetical, as you see,” he added,
smiling, and slightly embarrassed at having been thus betrayed out of
his usual composure, which embarrassment was not at all relieved by
meeting Hattie’s large dark eyes fixed on him with an expression of
wonder and gratification. Perhaps it was this _mauvais honte_—perhaps
it was the argumentative spirit which had occasioned us to give him in
the family the soubriquet of “the opposing member”—that gave so
singular a turn to this sentimental conversation, when at this moment,
in turning over the leaves of her book, Fred found a slip of paper
covered with verses of Harriet’s composition.

“So you write poetry, too!” said he, looking up at her with a smile.

“Oh, give it to me—I wouldn’t have you read it for the world,”
exclaimed she, springing forward with such evident distress that he
reluctantly relinquished the manuscript.

“You needn’t be afraid of his criticism, for he writes poetry
sometimes,” said I.

“_Do_ you?” said Hattie, incredulously.

“Certainly,” answered my brother; “everybody does now-a-days. In the
class from which I graduated at college, there were forty-five, of which
forty wrote poetry.”

“Wrote _verses_, you mean,” said Hattie, demurringly.

“There is very little difference. The Horatian maxim, ‘_Poeta nascitur
non fit_,’ which has so long been thought to countenance a distinction,
simply means that men and women who write poetry, like other men and
women, are ‘born.’”

“I suppose, then,” replied Hattie, humoring the idea, “that the doctrine
that poets were obliged to gallop up the sides of a steep mountain in
Greece, on a vicious nondescript called Pegasus, is to be considered
wholly metaphorical.”

“Just so,” said Fred. “Pegasus is now a mere omnibus horse, and timid
people need no longer be afraid of entering the coach lest they should
get a kick from the rampant animal, or be thrown into the depths of
Helicon.”

“The doctrine of inspiration is also exploded,” said I, laughing. “Burns
used to compose some of his nice little sonnets while engaged in the
groveling occupation of ploughing, and if any thing more elaborate than
usual was wanting, he took a glass of Scotch whisky.”

“Byron, too,” continued Fred, “wrote under the influence of gin; and it
is said of Wordsworth, considered by the Lake school the greatest of
modern poets, that he had an assistant feeding him with bread and butter
while he was writing the ‘Excursion.’ Whoever, then, can drink whisky
and gin, or as coming within the circle of the ‘pledge,’ can eat bread
and butter, need fear no lack of inspiration.”

“How ridiculous!” exclaimed Hattie. “What would these great immortals
think, could they hear your nonsense.”

“Immortals! there is another false idea that should be given up by all
sensible men. Every thing else that is made is made for some object, and
its excellence is determined by its fitness for that object—why
shouldn’t it be so with poetry. Cheese, for instance, in Connecticut, is
made with especial reference to the time of its consumption, and one
kind is labeled ‘to be eaten immediately,’ another, ‘in one year,’ ‘two
years,’ and so on. So with poetry. Some of it is better to be kept some
years and go down to posterity like ‘Paradise Lost’ and Shakspeare, that
were not much esteemed at first, you know; other kinds, more fit for
present consumption, may be read by moonlight, cried over, and applied
to other purposes of poetry.”

“You remind me,” said I, “of a definition I heard the other day, which
said, ‘poetry is only pleasant, metrical, musical, writing which amuses
and astonishes one’s friends, makes one’s enemies bite their lips for
envy, and may be counted on the fingers.’”

“That’s very good,” replied my brother, “but the easiest way to make
poetry is to take prose and turn it. I was quite surprised, at an
instance of this, I found yesterday, in reading Napier’s History of the
Peninsula War. He had been describing the battle of Corunna, and in
speaking of the death of Sir John More, he says, very nearly in these
words: ‘it was thought best to retreat without waiting for the break of
day. The body of Sir John was hurriedly deposited in the earth, near the
rampart, without music or even a farewell shot being fired over his
grave.’ Mr. Wolfe has immortalized himself, as it is called, by turning
this account into verse; and just notice how closely he has followed the
prose original:

        “‘Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
          As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
        Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
          O’er the grave where our hero was buried.’”

“_It is_ strikingly like,” said Hattie, “not even the usual descriptive
adjectives, and very little amplification. That shows how easily pieces
of poetry of great celebrity may have been written. Perhaps you and I
may one day be famous. I have often thought how a pensive man, looking
at the water in this river during a mild fall of snow, might say very
naturally, in thinking of the transitoriness of the pleasures of this
world,

        ‘Like snow falls in a river,
        A moment white, then melts forever,’

and yet be unconscious that he had uttered a beautiful comparison.”

“So, too,” said Fred, “any one who has ever cooked a certain kind of
shell-fish before sunrise, could not help saying, as the light broke
upon him,

        “‘Like lobsters boiled—the moon
        From black to red begins to turn.’”

“Come,” said Hattie, when our laugh had subsided, “it is getting dark,
and as I promised to be at home in time to see Sally dressed for her
bridal, I fear if we don’t go now, she will remind me of the pouting
dame who sits at home,

        “‘Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
        Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.’”

After we had left Hattie at her own door, and were proceeding homeward,
Fred broke out in his most earnest tone. “That Miss Atherton is a very
nice girl; what an intellectual face she has—have you seen any of her
poetry—does she write much?”

“Oh, yes—you have read some of it, which she has published anonymously,
(but this is a great secret, remember,) and her motive in doing so is as
honorable to her heart as the verses are to her poetical powers. You
know Mr. Atherton lavishes his wealth upon his children without bounds,
and Hattie says it does not seem very benevolent for her to give away
her father’s money, so she devotes the proceeds of her literary labors
to purposes of charity. She is very kind to the poor; I wish you could
see how their faces brighten at her approach.”

“Well done! that is what I like in a woman. She is really a very
sensible girl,” replied my brother.

“Even if she does write her name H-a-t-t-i-e,” said I, with a sly
glance. Fred pinched my arm, but said nothing.

Time passed on, and I was satisfied that my brother had found out “what
there was to like in Hattie Atherton;” but a proud man deeply in love is
the most timid of mortals, and he sped but slowly in his wooing. His
favorite books were offered for her perusal; and long evenings were
spent in arguments upon questions of metaphysics and philosophy, and
though Hattie had sufficient strength of intellect to sustain her share
of the conversation creditably, she was too much impressed with awe of
Fred’s menial abilities to feel perfectly at ease while he was thus
drawing forth the powers of her mind; and, mistaking her dignity and
slight reserve of manner for indifference or aversion, he dared not
betray the strong affection with which she inspired him.

One evening, late in the summer, as I was sitting alone in the twilight,
Fred entered hastily, and throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed, “I
have just heard very bad news—do you know—have you seen Harriet
to-day?”

“No—what has happened? Tell me, for mercy’s sake,” said I, half
frightened out of my wits at the sight of his pale face.

“Mr. Atherton has failed.”

“Oh, is that all,” replied I, with a feeling of relief on knowing that
nothing dreadful had befallen my friend.

“All!” retorted Fred. “I should think that was enough. It will nearly
kill the old man, he has such an overwhelming horror of debt.”

“How did it happen?” said I, rising and putting on my bonnet as I spoke.

“Are you going over there? I will go with you, and tell you about it on
the way,” replied Fred, throwing my shawl around me, and giving me his
arm. The story was soon told. The loss of a ship which was wrecked
without insurance some months before, had somewhat embarrassed him, and
the sudden failure of two large mercantile firms in Boston, with whom he
was connected had completed the ruin.

As we approached the house through the garden, I proposed that we should
go in through one of the parlor windows, which opened upon a grass-plot,
and formed a convenient entrance in that direction, of which we had
frequently availed ourselves. Never shall I forget the sight which
presented itself as we stood before the window. Mrs. Atherton was
reclining on the sofa, sobbing bitterly. Mr. Atherton was seated in an
arm-chair, his face buried in his hands, and his whole frame shrunk and
collapsed, as if beneath a weight of shame and agony. Harriet stood
beside him, bathing his head and raising with her smooth, white fingers,
the gray locks he had pulled over his brow. The light which fell full on
her face, showed that she had been weeping violently; but now there was
a faint smile on her trembling lips, and she was talking earnestly. We
could not hear what she said, but the tones were full of encouragement,
and her attitude and expression betokened firmness and hope. As we
gazed, the old man suddenly uncovered his face, and throwing his arms
around her neck, drew her mouth down to his, and kissed her fervently.

“We will not intrude here,” said my brother. There was a strange
huskiness in his voice, and I felt his whole frame tremble as it did
when he was strongly moved.

We walked slowly home again and talked sadly of the misfortune that had
befallen our friends—of their plans of quiet happiness that must be
given up—of their munificent charities that must be now contracted, and
of the anxieties and embarrassments which would harass that honorable
old man, but when I said that Lizzy must come home from school, and
George must discontinue his studies, Fred replied resolutely that “It
must not be;” and when we entered the house, he seated himself before
the writing-desk and commenced a letter. Having occasion to cross the
room as he was closing it, I took a sister’s liberty to peep over his
shoulder, and saw—“So, my dear fellow, do not think of leaving, but
draw on me for whatever funds you may require.”

A fortnight elapsed, during which I saw little of Harriet. In his
professional capacity, as a lawyer, Fred was busy most of the time with
Mr. Atherton, canvassing the business—settling accounts and making
assignments; and it was a season of mental torture to the ruined father
which could hardly have been borne had it not been for the gentle
ministrations of his daughter. She it was who nerved her invalid mother
to meet calmly their change of circumstances, and to aid her in
consoling the care-worn, haggard man, whose sorrow they so deeply
shared. The sight of her lovely face beaming with cheerfulness and
affection, the sound of her low musical voice, as she sung the songs he
loved, or repeated to him words of religious faith and consolation,
seemed to operate like a charm in driving away the cares that haunted
him, and gradually her firmness and courage were imparted to him, and he
was enabled to lift up his head once more and hope for better days.

Early one morning Hattie entered the room where we were sitting at
breakfast, with a face so much more joyful than she had for some time
worn, that I knew she must have some good news to communicate.

“It is, indeed, so,” said she, in reply to my inquiry. “I came to tell
some news, and also to beg your assistance for to-day.”

“I am at your service,” I answered; “but first tell me what has happened
to please you so much?”

“I must premise,” replied she, “what you already know, that on settling
up his affairs, father has found that he can pay every cent he owes, and
we shall have our dear old house and garden left; and as father has a
thousand dollars a year from his land agency, we shall be able to get
along quite comfortably. But in order to do so, Lizzy must leave school
and George must help support himself for the next eighteen months which
elapse before his studies are finished. Now you know he inherits
mother’s delicate constitution, and his health is too feeble to allow
him to apply himself as closely as will be necessary if he is to earn
his own support. Father has a sort of nervous horror of his getting into
debt, (and George is as particular as father is on that point,) so, to
make my story short,” she added, hesitating a little, while a bright
blush suddenly suffused her face, “_I_ am going to support them, and
father can keep the old homestead—”

“You support them—how?” we both exclaimed.

“Through the kindness of my old teacher, Miss W——. Lizzy mentioned in
her last letter that Miss Foster, who has so long taught drawing and
music at the Seminary, had left to be married, and their present teacher
was not considered competent. So I wrote the day after our misfortune
came, without saying any thing to father, and applied for the situation,
and this morning I received an answer, filled with the most flattering
expressions of kindness, and offering very liberal terms.”

“You do not seriously mean that you intend teaching?” said my brother,
in a tone that deepened the flush on Hattie’s cheek.

“Certainly I do. Why should I not make my acquirements available. I
intend to ‘_improve my talents_,’ and as that old-fashioned Jewish coin
is not current in this country, I must exchange it for something that
will pass more readily. I am quite delighted, too, with the terms Miss
W—— offers me, though I fear I shall not be worth so much money. She
says, if I will let part of the salary go to pay Lizzy’s school-bills,
she will give me five hundred dollars a year, on condition that I engage
to remain two years.”

“That will be about four hundred dollars in money,” said I, musingly;
“yes, that is quite good pay, to be sure; but, then, what will your
father and mother do without you for two years—have they consented to
your plans?”

“They have, after some opposition. They will be very much alone, but I
shall depend upon your kindness to cheer their lonely hours, and your
brother will perhaps spend an evening with father occasionally,” added
she, glancing timidly at Fred, who was drumming on the table with a very
dissatisfied air.

“When do you leave?” asked my mother.

“To-morrow,” she answered, rising; “and that reminds me that I have not
yet told you, Mary, that I came to request your assistance to-day in
making my final preparations. I did not expect to go so soon, and have
many little things to arrange before I leave.”

“Why do you go to-morrow?”

“In order to be there at the commencement of the next term—you will
come, wont you?”

I promised to be with her in a short time, and she departed; and Fred,
after putting salt into his coffee, and mustard on his bread, in a vain
attempt to finish his breakfast, took his hat in desperation, and went
out after her.

“Miss Atherton,” said he earnestly, as he overtook her, “let me persuade
you to give up this scheme—we can’t spare you for two years.”

“I am quite astonished at opposition from you, Mr. Stanley,” said
Hattie, in some confusion at his earnest manner. “It is but a few weeks
since we had that long talk about woman’s duties and powers of
usefulness. You remember what you said then?”

“Yes; but with you,” replied Fred, in a low tone, “with you it is ‘to
gild refined gold, to paint the lily.’”

A long silence followed, for both were too much agitated to speak, when
Fred repeated, “Do give up this plan—there is no need of it. I have
written your brother to draw on me for any amount he may need to
complete his education.”

“You are very kind,” said Hattie, tremulously, and her soft eyes were
filled with a dewy light, as for a moment they met his impassioned gaze.
Just then they reached the garden-gate, and in attempting to unlatch it
at the same time, their hands met. The touch thrilled through each frame
like an electric shock. Fred took her hand and drew it within his arm as
they proceeded up the walk.

“If I could only persuade you,” said he, “how gratified I am to be of
service to you. If you could have the faintest adequate idea how
necessary is your presence to my happiness—how I have lived for weeks,
months, only in the hope that I might one day tell you how fervently my
whole soul loves you. Oh, dear Miss Atherton, is it all in vain?”

There was no reply, but the small, trembling hand that rested on his
arm, placed itself in the hand that lay near it, and nestled there, as
if it would cling forever. A glad, hopeful smile sprung to his lips.
“Harriet—dear Harriet, you will let me love you?”

Again those expressive eyes were raised to his, and her heart spoke
through them, as her low dear tones answered, “I will love you.”

“And you will not leave me—you will be my wife—you will give me the
right to assist your brother?”

“Some time hence, but not now. You must not strive to break my
resolution. I trust in you fully, and the words you have just spoken,
are to me like sunshine breaking through the clouds that have enveloped
my life; but for Lizzy’s sake, and for George’s, it is best that I
should not relinquish my purpose.”

They entered the house and sat down together. All the barriers of doubt
and distrust that had separated them were removed, and these two full,
strong hearts, were revealed to each other. With all the eloquence of
affection, Fred endeavored to convince her that it was not her duty to
leave the home that was now more than ever dear to her; but the gentle
girl was firm in her noble resolve, and at length her pleadings won from
him a reluctant consent to its fulfillment.

The two years, which had seemed so long in the prospective, passed
rapidly away, as time always does when one is in the steady performance
of duty. Hattie’s visits at home were short and unfrequent, but she won
the admiration of her pupils. Lizzy was at school with her, and Fred
found so much business to compel him to visit the city, that he was
considered quite a public benefactor by certain postage-saving
acquaintances, who besieged our door with inquiries when Mr. Stanley
would go to B——, and would he take a package?

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was the evening before the wedding-day. The sisters had returned
three months before, and George had been some time at home, and was soon
to be ordained as pastor over the church where for generations his
fathers had worshiped. Having assisted Lizzy in arranging the bridal
paraphernalia for to-morrow morning’s ceremony, I went down stairs to
bid Hattie good-night before I went home. She was standing by the
window, with her head leaning on Fred’s shoulder. One of his arms was
around her, and with the other he was holding back the curtain that the
brilliant moonlight might fall full on the beautiful face that was
raised to his with an expression of confiding affection. A sudden
recollection flashed upon my mind, and crossing the room, I threw my
arms around them as they stood together, and said to my brother, “Fred,
_have you_ found out what there is to like in Hattie Atherton?”

“I have found,” replied Fred, drawing her fondly to his heart, “that
there is every thing in her to like except her name; she will change
that to-morrow, and then she will be perfect.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                TO MARY.


                            BY LUCY CABELL.


    ’Twere vain, dear Mary, to attempt
      To sound your praise in rhyme;
    Though oft I’ve gazed upon your face,
      You’re fairer every time.

    The stars are bright—but your sweet eyes,
      Are lovelier far than they,
    And diamonds, were they half as sweet,
      Have scarce a brighter ray.

    And, oh, such winning fondness lies,
      In your gay, gladsome smile,
    I scarce can look on you, and think
      I do not dream the while.

    And then your form—light as the air,
      And perfect as a fairy;
    Though many strive for beauty’s prize,
      None can compare with Mary.

    Oh, Mary, may thy future life,
      Be bright, as thou art now,
    And not a shade of sorrow rest,
      Upon thy snow-white brow.

    And when thy gentle spirit soars,
      From its abode of love,
    Oh, may it leave this world of cares,
      To dwell with God above.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             LITTLE WILLIE.


                      BY MRS. H. MARION STEPHENS.


    My beautiful—my beautiful,
      Upon thy baby brow,
    The stern, relentless hand of death
      Has placed his signet now!
    The golden threads that span thy life,
      Are breaking, one by one;
    Let me not hold his spirit back—
      Oh, God! thy will be done!

    My beautiful—my beautiful!
      Thy life has been a dream;
    A moment more, and it has passed,
      Like sunshine on a stream;
    Or like a bud, whose perfumed leaves
      Unfolded for an hour,
    To gaze with rapture on its God—
      Then droop beneath his power.

    My beautiful—my beautiful!
      I would not call thee back;
    I joy that thou hast fled the storms
      That beat upon life’s track;
    I love to know thy sinless soul
      Has burst its bonds of clay,
    And watch thy spirit as it glides
      So pleasantly away.

    And when I gather up the folds
      Around thy pale, cold face,
    And when I weep to see thee laid
      In thy last resting-place,
    I’ll mind me that the fearful storm
      By which my soul is riven,
    Has borne my dove an olive branch,
      And wafted him to Heaven.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              MARY WILSON.


                           BY D. W. BELISLE.


                               CHAPTER I.

                 “She never told her love, but deep
                   Within her heart concealed there lay
                 The worm that prey’d upon her cheek,
                   And stole her bloom away.”


Mary Wilson was an only child. Her parents were exceedingly wealthy;
and, though possessing extended landed estates, they were as
parsimonious in hoarding up riches as though they were only in moderate
circumstances. Mr. Wilson was rather aristocratic in his manners, yet,
in many respects, he was quite liberal to those of his neighbors who
were not as fortunate as himself in accumulating property. He was a
gentleman of great influence, around whom gathered the elite of
Cincinnati—whose favor was courted and sought by the wealthy and great.
In his earlier days Mr. Wilson had laid out the rules which were to
govern him through the world, and, in whatever circumstance in life, he
fully resolved to abide by the course he had adopted for his guidance.
He had retired from the active capacity of a business man; and yet,
whenever he found an opportunity for speculating, he was just the man to
engage in it.

About the time our story commences, the fever of speculation in the
Western States raged to a marvelous extent. The excitement was great,
and many had invested their whole patrimony in the speculation, with the
ardent assurance that they would become immensely wealthy. But, alas!
their expectations were but “castles in the air;” for the excitement
soon subsided, and those who had invested their all in purchasing land,
now found, to their great astonishment, that they had lost all they
possessed. Many who were independent one day, and had the brightest
anticipations of the future, the next were penniless and destitute, not
knowing where or how to procure a sustenance for their families.

Among the most unfortunate in this respect was Mr. Wilson. He had
invested all—even to the last dollar—of his immense possessions; he
had bought lands at an exorbitant price; but he was perfectly satisfied
that in the speculation he would make his thousands. His wife and
daughter remonstrated against his entering so largely into the meshes of
the excitement, and of involving himself to so great an extent; but he
was too deeply resolved upon making money to pay the least regard to
their remonstrances. He endorsed largely for others, and appeared lost
in the agitation which existed. Speculation was the all-absorbing
topic—with him it was a sort of magic, which usurped his entire
thoughts, and, to a great degree, restrained his manly virtues. But soon
his dreams and anticipations received a relapse, the effect of which had
a serious impression upon his feelings. The day of speculation had
passed, and the entire capital which Mr. Wilson had invested, was gone!
He had lost all! he was reduced to poverty! Many others shared the same
fate. Wealthy citizens were stripped of all their property; many of
whom, who had not lost all in speculating, were sufferers from the evil
consequences of endorsing for others. In short, a depression of business
ensued seldom witnessed in a commercial city.

Reduced to want, Mr. Wilson’s ambition was gone! his pride preventing
him from engaging in any ordinary business; and his constitution too
feeble for manual labor, he felt keenly sensible of the unpleasantness
of his situation. He knew not what to do! His splendid mansion—the home
of his childhood, whose hallowed associations filled his heart with
happiness—had been given up, to satisfy the demands of the law; his
furniture was sold; and still unliquidated claims pressed daily and
heavily upon him for payment. Friends who, in the days of his
prosperity, flocked to his hospitable board, now shunned him, as one
whom they regarded as their inferior, both in point of wealth and
respectability. Mr. Wilson observed the change with the keenest sense of
injustice, and now felt how painful it was to be _thought_ inferior to
his fellow-man.

Mary was a girl of uncommon pretensions, whose amiable disposition and
beauty attracted to her side a host of admirers, who, in their
prosperous days, sought to rival each other for her hand—among whom was
Charles Tomlinson, the son of a wealthy merchant of Cincinnati. Charles
was a young man of rare talents, prepossessing deportment, and affable
disposition. He possessed all the qualities of a noble, generous-hearted
man; but, notwithstanding the purity of his daily “walk and
conversation,” he had imbibed many vague sentiments in regard to the
Bible and the precepts taught in that holy book. Mary observed this, and
felt pained to see so much talent wasted in useless attempts to prove
the Bible false; but yet she loved him. Their attachment daily grew
stronger, until they were betrothed, and the day appointed for the
consummation of their vows. Before, however, the time for their marriage
arrived, Mr. Wilson’s misfortune came, the tendency of which was an
entire revolution in the feelings of Mr. Tomlinson. He now resolved that
he would _not_ marry her, because her father had failed, and, in all
probability, would never be worth a dollar again. With this resolution
on his mind, he was at a loss in what way to acquaint her of his
determination, or how he could honorably release himself from his
engagement. He had too little fortitude to unmask his change of
sentiment to her, personally; and to do so by letter would betray a want
of manliness, which he had the reputation of possessing. In the midst of
this trying situation, he called to his assistance a friend, in whom he
had placed the utmost confidence, and to whom he had entrusted the
transaction of much important business. To this friend Mr. Tomlinson
gave instructions how to proceed, directing him at the same time to use
the utmost caution in the information he wished to convey. His name was
Samuel Gordon.


                              CHAPTER II.

               “She seldom smiled—and when she did,
                 It was so sad, subdued, and brief,
               As though her mourning heart she’d chide,
                 And strove to smile away its grief.”


The attachment between Tomlinson and Miss Wilson, thus far, had been
secretly kept from her parents, they preferring to make it known but a
few weeks previously to their marriage-day. But Mrs. Wilson, with the
watchfulness of a mother, perceived their intimacy, and, in a gentle
manner, addressed her thus:

“Mary, for some time past I have noticed rather more than a friendly
intimacy between you and Mr. Tomlinson, and, as a mother, I feel it my
duty to give you advice on the subject. I would not do aught to give you
pain; but I am not favorable to the addresses of Mr. Tomlinson.”

Miss Wilson, deeming it no longer prudent to keep the truth of the
matter concealed from her mother, replied:

“Dear mother, I hope you will forgive my rashness, for we have long
since been engaged. I hope you will overlook my disobedience.”

Their conversation was broken off by a quick ring of the bell, and Mary
hastened to the door to respond to the call.

“I have a message from Mr. Tomlinson, and wish to see Miss Wilson alone
for a few moments,” said the stranger.

“I am Miss Wilson. What is your business with me, sir?” she asked.

“I have,” he continued, “unfortunately to announce to you that Mr.
Tomlinson, since he has lost so much in the misfortunes which have
fallen on so many of the citizens of this city, deems it, at present, a
rash undertaking to marry, while circumstances of such an aggravating
character continue. I think it would be better for you to be as calm as
possible, and wait with due patience until a more favorable turn of
fortune, which I anticipate will not be very long.”

Had an ice-bolt entered the heart of that young girl, it could not have
had a much greater effect. His words fell upon her ears like the solemn
knell of all her hopes; for, since their misfortunes, she had fondly
supposed that her marriage with Mr. Tomlinson would, in a great measure,
retrieve the reputation of her father. She could not believe that Mr.
Tomlinson would be guilty of such duplicity, and thought a stranger had
imposed upon her. But how he, stranger as he was, knew any thing in
regard to their engagement, was something more than she could solve—an
enigma which cost her much anxiety and thought; for even her parents,
until that moment, had not known it. Her mother saw the hectic flush
mantle the cheek of her child, and felt conscious that something serious
would be the consequence. That Mary loved Tomlinson was unmistakable.
She read it in the deep blue of her eyes; she saw it in every lineament
of her features; she discovered it in all her actions; and, with the
sympathy of a mother’s own feelings, she endeavored to console her in
that, her “hour of need.” But the effect was too much for her delicate
constitution to bear. She “loved not wisely, but too well;” and, day
after day, she sat pensively surveying the beautiful scenery before her,
and silently reflecting on her own unhappy condition.

        “Her silvery voice was heard no more—
          She sang not, and her breathing late,
        Which never knew neglect before,
          Now lies alone—forgotten, mute!
        Or, if a passing strain she rang,
          So mournfully its numbers rose,
        That those who heard might deem she sang
          A lorn soul’s requiem to repose!”

On a lovely autumn evening, just as the sun was shedding its last rosy
beams on the tops of the surrounding hills, Mary looked from her chamber
window, and drank in, at a glance, the golden glories of expiring day,
and thought how calm it would be for her to die as sweetly as the sun
was sinking to rest behind the hills, so that her memory might live,
like the beauteous twilight, long after her frail body had mouldered
again to dust. She called her mother to her side, and told her that she
was dying! At such a beautiful hour, when the day began to close, and
shadows were no longer broad-cast from the clouds, but were stretched
along the surface of the earth by the interception of a tree, or
hill-side, Mary breathed her last!

As these precious but fleeting scenes pass like sober thoughts across
the face of earth, or intermingle side by side with gay and brilliant
passages of light of equal evanescence, making all tender and beautiful,
which otherwise had been lustrous and sparkling, they call up within the
heart the memory of the past; and by an association we can scarcely
trace, characters reappear of friends who have passed away before us.

Thus ended the life of Mary Wilson. Struck down in the vigor and bloom
of youth, this young maiden has left many friends to mourn her loss. She
was much esteemed; so much so, that every personal defect was forgotten
in the charms of her spirit, with which she imparted to her friends a
look of kindness and a blessing.

                 “Yon willow shades a marble stone,
                   On which the curious eye can tell
                 That underneath there lieth one
                   Who loved not wisely—but too well.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         WORDS OF WAYWARDNESS.


                         BY PROFESSOR CAMPBELL.


    Hah! for the tide of the blood’s hot gush—
    Hah! for the throng or proud thoughts that rush,
    Reckless and riotous—why should they be
    Iced by thy frown, Reality?

    Give, give me back the early joy
      Of youth’s warm hopes, of vows believed—
    Again, again a dreaming boy
      Let me be happy—though deceived.

    Friendship, they say, is but a name,
    And woman’s love a meteor flame,
    That feedeth upon fancy’s breath
    A little while, then perisheth.
    Out, out upon thee—out on thee!
    Thou hideous hag, Reality.

    Hah! tears again! dost ask me why
      The tear upon this burning cheek,
    The half repressed, yet bursting sigh?
      The tear, the sigh, themselves must speak;
    Must tell a tale of by-gone hours,
      A vision of all fair and bright—
    When my young path was strewn with flowers,
      And every throb was of delight.
    When joys were of each moment’s birth,
      Nor care, nor doubt, an instant stole
    From days of ever-changeful mirth,
      That changeless shone upon the soul.
    When hopes, that in mist-distance gleaming,
      In promise e’en outvied the past,
    Came ever, halcyon heralds seeming,
      Of peace and bliss for aye to last.

    But where is now the sportive wile
      Of youth—so guileless and so gay—
    The soul of love, of fire—the smile,
      That spoke that soul—oh! where are they?
    Of days that could such joys impart
      What now remains? Their memory—
    A cheerless, blasted youth—a heart
      That breaketh fast, though silently.
    And those proud hopes so fondly cherished,
      Have they too proved, like Friendship, breath?
    Ay, one by one, they all have perished—
      Yet no—not all—there yet is death!
    There yet remains to choose some spot,
      Where, far from man and scorn, to lie—
    And there, unheeded and forgot,
      Alone—oh! God—alone to die.

    Who talks of dying, while around
      The earth’s so fair, the sky so bright?
    With Folly’s wreath let day be crowned,
      And Mirth and Music rule the night.
    Another chord—the purple hills
      Are bowing to the yellow vales—
    The vales are smiling to the rills—
      The rills make music for the gales,
    That with the sunbeams twining hands,
      Through groves and meads and streams are glancing
    Adown the lanes, and on the sands
      Of brave old Ocean madly dancing.
    And brave old Ocean roareth so
      His honest laugh, to see those Misses,
    The pretty flow’rets bending low,
      As though to shun the wired-god’s kisses.

    Kisses—hah! hah!—around this string
      Of other days what memories twine—
    Bring, merry comrades, quickly bring
      Youth-giving and song-making wine.
    Fill, fill—on the faithful brim
      Pile up the sparkling flood—
    Drink, drink, till the living stream
      Run conqueror through the blood.
    Drink to the hill, the vale,
      The stream and its jeweled brink,
    To the warming ray and the cooling gale,
      To earth and to ocean drink.
    Drink to each thing that seems
      Or loving or glad to be—
    Nor wait to ask if those joyous beams
      Be nature’s hypocrisy.

    I’ve quaffed the brimming bowl
      In mirth’s and madness’ hours—
    And drenched my thirsty soul
      In goblets crowned with flowers.
    Of draughts so pure as this
      ’Tis luxury to sip,
    But draught of purer bliss
      Doth dwell on woman’s lip.

    I’ve felt the glowing sun
      Steal warmly to my heart’s
    Faint throbs, when gazing on
      The skies of southern parts.
    But oh! a sun more bright,
      A purer, warmer sky,
    Of joy-embathing light,
      Is found in woman’s eye.

    ’Neath holy Music’s spell
      Hath lain each dream-rapt sense,
    While on my spirit fell
      Its gushing eloquence.
    But oh! a spell there is
      More potent to rejoice—
    The soothing lowliness
      Of woman’s whispered voice.

    Then wonder not, if now
      To her I pledge this cup,
    To whom my earliest vow
      First sent its incense up—
    To her—the soul of verse,
      Our hope, when hope-bereft—
    Our blessing ’neath the curse—
      Our all of Eden left.

    Give, give me back the early joy
      Of youth’s strong hopes, of vows believed—
    Again, again a dreaming boy
      Let me be happy, though deceived.
    For who hath caught the answering sigh
      Heaving sweet woman’s timid breast,
    His longing soul fed on her eye,
      And learned the rapture to be blest—
    In lingering dalliance now to sip,
      In boldness now of ardor roving,
    To drink from eye, cheek, forehead, lip,
      Of one beloved, and seeming loving.
    Upon the tell-tale cheek to breathe,
    Closer the clasping hands to wreathe,
    As if no earthly power could sever
    The bosoms met, as met forever—
    While each responsive fluttering heart,
      Beating as though ’twould gladly break
      To tell the joy that tongue ne’er spake,
    Longs from its heaving breast to part,
    Nearer and nearer still to press
    The soul of its soul’s happiness.
    Oh! who has felt around his soul
      The spells of this idolatry—
    And wished not that his days should roll
      Thus spell-bound to eternity.

    Away with wisdom—’tis a cheat—
      Away with truth—’tis all a lie—
    Madness alone hath no deceit—
      Falsehood alone no mockery.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: OLDEN TIMES.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              OLDEN TIMES.


                         BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

The town or borough of Harrisburg, the political capital of
Pennsylvania, lies on the _bank_ of the Susquehanna, about 107 miles
west of Philadelphia. I say on the _bank_, not the shore; for here a
bold bluff rises a few yards from the northern margin of the river, and
the town is, therefore, from ten to fifteen feet above the stream—a
fact of consequence to the inhabitants; as the Susquehanna, which, in
summer, may be easily forded by children, will frequently, during the
spring freshets, rise from six to eight feet, threatening all upon its
borders. The houses are built only on the north side of this front
street, so as to face the river and leave, besides the beautiful avenue,
a handsome esplanade in front of the town, overlooking the river.

Few places can present a more delightful promenade than this _front_ of
Harrisburg; and the writer hereof has more than once sought to express
his appreciation of the walk and the gorgeousness of the views to be
enjoyed therefrom. The scene is ever fresh—ever delightsome, to one who
has an eye for the beautiful of nature, and a heart to be warmed into
the enjoyment of that beautiful. No frequency of indulgence palls the
appetite here—no change of season diminishes the attraction. Whether
the stream murmurs round the projecting rock and over masses of pebbles
that mark its bed and are visible in summer, or whether the current
dashes deep and bold, fed by the melting snows of the upper mountains,
it is beautiful; beautiful in its simple exhibition—beautiful in its
terrible grandeur. Whether the setting sun steeps the current in liquid,
tremulous light, or the wild, tempestuous blasts of January heap up the
waters in dark and chaffing masses, all is beautiful; and men go forth
to gaze in quiet enjoyment on the peaceful flow of July, or to enrich
and stimulate their feelings with the all-conquering power of the
down-rushing torrent of March.

Indulging in dreamy pleasure one morning late in June, while
contemplating the loveliness of the scene, I cast my eyes away to the
mountains through which the river forces its course a few miles above
the town, and was delighted to see the first evidences of the rising sun
in the yellow light that tinged the topmost peaks of those mighty
promontories, while heavy wreaths of mist, engendered on the ground
below, were rolling upward, like giants anxious to bathe early in the
sunlight—an enjoyment that must have cost them existence, or, perhaps,
only present _visibility_.

I can now recall some of the reflections to which the magnificent scene
gave rise. Those children of the mist, that tended upward, were they
only imaginary beings? only the workmanship of my fancy, upon the crude
materials that sprung up from the fens? or were those misty shapes
indeed the essential forms of spirits, whose tendencies were
upward—who, though dragged downward by the grossness of their outward
covering, which affected its home and would abide in its cold, dark
birth-place, struggled upward to the light and heat, and were released
from the clogging properties of the visible and the impure, while they
put on the invisible and the purified?

I knew the law of physics, by which the ascensive power of matter is
augmented by heat, and consequently felt that some of those who were
sleeping in the vicinity, would have referred all those misty images of
the mountains to well known and always occurring circumstances. I admit
that natural causes produce just such effects as the ascension of these
wreaths of mist. But may not He who enacts the laws by which all these
events occur, connect also the state, habits and tendencies of some
class of beings with the operation of those laws? Because the sun gives
light and heat to the system of which it is the centre, because we know
that it riseth and goeth down, and because we can calculate the
influence of its light and heat upon our planet, does it follow that the
same body may not be the home of millions of rational beings, who would
laugh if told that we, mundane men, thought _that_ luminous body made
for the convenience of the earth?

I was calculating the effect upon one who should, while standing on that
mountain, venture to address these wreathy forms, and find himself
understood and answered, when the presence of a person whom I had once
or twice seen, at the peep of dawn,

        “Brushing, with hasty steps, the dew away,”

renewed a resolution of putting to him a question as to the origin of a
certain enclosure in the vicinity. There was, between the upper bank and
the edge of the river, directly in front of the town, a small enclosure,
perhaps fifteen feet square, surrounded by a decaying board fence, and
having in it two miserably looking Lombardy poplars, touched with all
the squalidness of decay which characterizes the _age_ of that
short-lived tree. Brambles, too, had sprung up in the enclosure, and
they covered a small rising of the ground, with some invisible emblems.
My object was to know why such a place was allowed in front of the town;
why it was made, and why thus continued.

“That,” said my friend, “is the grave of old Mr. HARRIS, for whom the
town was named, long before they thought of building the capitol yonder.
But there is a long story connected with the matter, and you can learn
the whole of it if you will call, with proper motives and in a proper
manner, upon a descendant of the old patriarch who resides in the
neighborhood.”

Now, I saw in this man some signals of fancy, and I felt determined to
get the story out of him. But he professed to be in too much haste; he
had his day’s work to perform, and he had almost forgotten the story.
But I persevered with him and obtained some account, which, after eleven
years, I put on paper, not venturing to quote my friend for authority,
telling the story not exactly as ’twas told to me, but as I recollect
and reconstruct the narrative.

Mr. Harris was one of the pioneers of Pennsylvania. He saw the country
rich and beautiful before him, and “went forth and stood and measured
the earth” in and around the place where now stands the borough which
bears his name. The beauty of scenery, the delicate softness of the
valley contrasting with the towering summits of the mountains around,
made the place exceedingly desirable. He, like the men of his times, had
an eye for the beautiful, and a far-reaching ken that took in the future
with the present; and so he sat down on the shores of the Susquehanna,
on what was then perhaps an island, though now a part of the main land.

Mr. Harris was a man of the world—I mean what I say—he was
emphatically a man of the world. Calmly and coolly had he, in his youth,
sat down to reflect upon the policy which would best subserve the
purposes which he had in view; and, after mature deliberation, he came
to the conclusion that the precepts of his mother were well founded, and
that however much the gay might ridicule, or the short-sighted neglect,
the rules which she had prescribed, and which she had made him, in
boyhood, follow—on the whole, “to do justice, to love mercy, and to
walk humbly,” would serve the affairs of a long life as well as they
would produce effects after death. So, Mr. Harris sat down on the banks
of the Susquehanna, an honest man from habit—an honest man from
principle; a Christian by birth—a Christian by all his actions. He had
nothing Utopian in his views, nothing impracticable in his plans. If he
bought or sold, it was with a view to his own advantage in the
transaction, and neither white man nor red man could outbargain him; but
either white man or red man would be welcome to all that his wants
required at his hands; and those who failed to get one quart of meal
more than he would allow in trade, found no difficulty in procuring a
peck whenever their necessities appealed to his feelings of charity
rather than to his rule of business.

The means of the founder of the settlement had been somewhat diminished
by an act of goodness, which few could appreciate at the time. A stout
black man was about to be torn from his wife to be sent into slavery at
the South. The ability of the slave enhanced his price, while his
goodness of heart made the separation more intolerable to him. The wife
was free—should she go into voluntary slavery in order to follow her
husband? and if she did, who could tell her that the first inducement to
the owner to sell her husband might not result in a separation, which no
sacrifice on her part could prevent, nor could it mitigate the evils
thereof. In this state Pompey appealed to Mr. Harris; he promised
fidelity, industry and gratitude; Mr. Harris saw that he could prevent
misery, and he paid the price of the man, and thus became his _owner_.

“Massa Harris,” said the delighted black, as he saw the accomplishment
of his heart’s desire, “I’ll do something for this by and by.”

“What will you do, Pompey?”

“Don’t know, massa; but guess ’twill come sometime or other.”

Pompey formed a part of Mr. Harris’s establishment in his small
settlement upon the Susquehanna, and by his light heartedness and his
labor, seemed to repay all obligations which his purchase devolved upon
him. He had a song for the youngsters who visited the place, and he
could dance with the Indians that resided a short distance above; and
whether in the field or at the mill, he was trustworthy, active,
industrious, and never for a moment did his worthy master find cause to
regret his purchase.

“Done enough for to-day?” would Pompey inquire.

“You have done more, Pompey, than I directed, and you have done it well;
and excepting your habit of singing foolish songs, and dancing like a
madman among the Indians and squaws that come down from the Juniata, I
have been well compensated for your cost.”

“But I have not done _that_,” said Pompey.

“I tell you, Pompey, that I require only the discharge of ordinary
duties; I do not expect you will meet with any occasion for any
extraordinary effort in my behalf.”

“Well, well, massa—it will come, bym’by, I _tell_ you.”

The peaceful, gentle manners of Mr. Harris had their effect upon
Pompey’s movements, but not to the extent which the master desired. The
servant was honest, industrious, and did all the work that was required
at his hands, but he could not pretermit his sport. The day of gloom
closed with Pompey when Mr. Harris saved him from the sale to the South
and the separation from his wife, and Pompey felt a sort of devotion in
his wild, irregular dances and his loud, shrill singing. His spirits
rose with every recollection of the kindness, and, as he broke into a
verse of some favorite song or shuffled out upon the hard earth with
bare heels the time of a quickly moving tune, he felt that he was only
giving expression to gratitude for his kind master; and who shall say
that the offering of the joyous black was not made acceptable above, by
the sincerity of the feelings in which it was presented?

It was a clear star-light evening of July, the moon had not risen, and
the planetary worlds above seemed to magnify themselves in the absence
of the great source of day; a gentle draft of air down the stream was
felt, and occasionally a rustling among the foliage was caused by the
wind, augmented into a temporary breeze. The whole bank of the river was
covered with tall forest trees, save where Mr. Harris’s little
settlement was placed. On a bold bluff, now washed away, but which then
jutted out into the stream, as if for the site of some defensive works,
stood a female. She had been long looking up into the firmament, and
then casting her eyes around, as if expecting some one to share with her
the “contemplation of the starry heavens.”

The young woman stepped forward and looked down upon the waters below
her for some time, and then murmured: “They are now, as in years past,
above and below—the glorious constellations shining on, and year after
year returning, with all their train rich in their lustre, and surveying
themselves in the waters beneath. But _we_ change. Year after year
passes, and my fathers’ race, if they appear at all, present themselves
in diminished numbers and in wasting forms. The foot of the white man is
on the soil, and he treats us as he does the forest trees. Where he
finds our race convenient, he leaves them to perish for want of
communion with their like; where he needs their lands, he strikes them
down as cumberers of the ground; and I, who love the race—_I_ dwell
among the pale faces, in peace; nay, I dwell among them of choice. I
love their people, and I reverence the precepts by which some of them
are governed—by which all profess to be guided. Oh, spirit of my
fathers! must all pass away like the wreaths of mountain mist, and, as
they fall, shall it be the disgrace of their name that vice, and not
vengeance, swept them from the earth?

“Oh, what is this new principle which the whites have infused into my
soul—the means and condition of future happiness? What is it that bids
me forbear the wish that I was a man—a chief among my fathers’ people,
that I might chase the intruder from our hunting-grounds, and restore to
our nation the land which was purchased by trinkets and baubles,
costless to the whites and useless to the red men? What is that
principle that _bids_ me, nay _makes_ me, pray for the good of the
whites around me, and look to the destruction of my father’s race as a
means of that good?

“I cannot tell. And the teachings of the whites concerning the
requirements of their own religion, become dark and confused when they
attempt to reconcile their practice with their precepts; at least, those
who teach most do most confound. But Father Harris, who has little to
say, how good are all his _deeds_! how like the shining of those stars
upon the water is his benevolence to my race! beautiful in itself, and
reflected in the hearts of the red men with constant lustre. Oh, if all
were like him! but then—”

“Then what, Dahona?”

The interruption was caused by a young man who had followed the speaker
to a place of frequent resort.

“Then what, Dahona?”

“Nay, William, nay, do not call me Dahona; at least, do not call me thus
in _this_ place—do not call me thus when you find me alone—when the
wildness of the scene begets wildness of thought, and the breeze which
comes down from the hunting-grounds of my fathers, seems to fan into a
flame the lingering sparks of native fire which civilization, as yet,
has not quenched. Do not, by such a name, call up my almost buried
thoughts of those who owned these lands when the white men were enjoying
that which they stole from their conquered enemies; do not tell me, in
the midst of these returning pangs of pride and regret—do not by that
name tell me, that I am the daughter of a chief killed upon his own
hills; and when I would calm down those feelings of vengeance, which
come with longer intervals, do not, with the name of Dahona, goad me on
to those wishes which must be sinful, for they are unjust to Father
Harris.”

“Well, then, my dear Rebecca, if all the whites were like Father Harris,
what then?”

“They are not all like him. Those who taught me to read and write, and
who tried to teach me to pray, are not like him. They talked of the
equality of man, and yet treated me as the child of a monster. Father
Harris knows that I am human, like himself, and he treats me as if I was
immortal, as he is.”

“Well, should not the virtues of such a man redeem from censure a
thousand offending whites?”

“Perhaps so, William—I think so now; but there are times—moments like
some which I pass alone on this point of land—in which the virtues of
that good man seem to me a motive for vengeance upon _him_. Were he like
others, the red man could strike; were he like others, _I_ could strike;
if, instead of kindness, which demands gratitude, and constant care and
parental watchfulness, which beget affection, he had treated me as other
whites treat my race, it might be long ere the hunting-fields of the
tribe submitted to the plough. But the virtues of the whites subdue the
feelings of the Indians, and the vices of the whites destroy the race.
And yet, William, Father Harris, with all this virtue, forbids our
union!”

“_Forbids_ it, Rebecca, but does not hinder it.”

“Not hinder it? Does he not hinder it by his refusal to sanction it?”

“May we not go down to the lower settlement and be married, as others
are?”

“Will that procure his consent, William?”

“No; but, of course, it will be followed by his pardon.”

“Alas, William, even the poor theology of my native tribe forbids the
hope of pardon for a sin committed in the hope of pardon.”

“But he has no right, Rebecca, to prevent our happiness by his refusal
to sanction the union.”

“He has over me the right of a father, and shall never complain of a
want of obedience. I may suffer by his refusal, but if he is wrong he
must bear the consequences. No, William, no. I have told you that I
would marry none other than you; but I will not marry you without the
consent of Father Harris while he lives, with power to give or to
withhold that consent.”

“His reasons are insufficient.”

“Nay, William, say not that; though he has not told me his reasons, I
think I comprehend them. In the first place, you are the son of his old
friend and relative; can the strong prejudices of your race be appeased,
if you should marry the daughter of an Indian? It is true that I was a
princess; and the whites whom I met at the school in the city, always
appeared to worship those of royal blood, and I do not know that the
crown of the parent country might not devolve upon the head of a man or
woman as black and as curly as our Pompey, if such an one should, by the
accidents of taste and the favor of the right _creed_, fall into the
channel of succession by an admitted marriage. That strong prejudice, I
am persuaded, influences Father Harris.”

“But it does not influence _me_, Rebecca; and why should it? Associated
with the best of our people in the city, you have acquired their habits;
you have, with all the delicacy of your sex, twice the learning that can
be boasted of by many of ours; and if—”

“Yes, yes, William; you mean by ‘_if_,’ that if I had ceased to feel,
and sometimes act, like an Indian, _then_—But I have not ceased to feel
and to act, _sometimes_, like my father’s child; and all the learning
which the whites have imparted, seems only to enable me to appreciate
more correctly the sufferings and wrongs of my people; and if it were
not for the gentle teaching of that Quaker woman—nay, the teaching
rather of the _spirit_ by which she is influenced—I should, perhaps,
make my knowledge a means of vengeance. But, William, there is another
cause, founded on sound policy, for the refusal of Father Harris.”

“And what is that?”

“I am the daughter of a chief of a tribe that scarcely thinks of peace;
and when my father was tortured by his conquering foes—tortured to
death, but not to a groan—and my mother was struck down by the hatchet
of a warrior of the tribe above us, I was redeemed from captivity by
Father Harris—saved from a miserable death—treated, educated and loved
by him as his child. While I am here, it may be that the warriors of my
tribe will respect his settlement; if I should marry you, the tribe
above, always friendly, might grow jealous of the connection.”

“There is more of worldly policy in that than Mr. Harris is wont to
exercise,” said William.

“Let us be content,” said Rebecca “with his decision for the present. He
who has always intended right, cannot long persist in wrong.”

The dialogue of the lovers became less and less argumentative, and was
soon changed from that of an educated, high-minded woman and a
deferential young man, to the gentle intercourse of two lovers—more
pleasing to themselves, though perhaps less interesting to my readers.
The moon had risen, and the light of its diminished form was dancing on
the ripples of the river, and lay broad and lovely upon the side of the
mountain above.

“What was that sound?” asked Rebecca, with evidence of fear. “Surely
some one is abroad.”

“It was only a deer, or some such animal, on the other side of the
river.”

“But, William, the deer does not move thus by night, unless alarmed by
the hunter or some animal. Let us return; we may be injured, even on
this side the river.”

The pair withdrew to the little settlement; and as they passed one of
the out-houses, they discovered, through the interstices of the logs of
which it was constructed, the white teeth and shining eyes of Pompey,
who, not having any love affair on hand, was very willing to have a
laugh at “Massa William,” or a little knowing wink at Rebecca, the next
day.

Rebecca was soothed to repose by the quiet of her conscience and the
healthful, gentle influence of the prayer with which she sanctified her
little chamber—prayer that included blessings upon the head of her
benefactor, her early friend and father—prayer that expressed
confidence and love for Him who was her “Father in Heaven.” The noise of
the river, hastening downward in its eternal course, was lulling, and in
the strong light which the moon poured through the little window of her
chamber, the enthusiastic girl seemed to find the forms of guardian
angels; and she sunk to sleep in the confidence that she was in the care
of Heaven.

And was she not? What but Heaven provided for her the ample affection of
Harris? What but Heaven made his teachings operative upon her conduct?
What threw across the dark mind of the Indian girl the light of
Christian truth?—a light whose reflection was certainly tinged with a
portion of the hues of the object which it reached, but which still was
Christian light, doing its perfect work and effecting, by constant
operation, the character, condition and habits of Rebecca.

It was but a short time before daylight that the young sleeper, who had
retired to rest in the consciousness of Heaven’s guardianship, was
alarmed by loud cries, and on looking abroad she saw that one building
of the little hamlet was wrapped in flames, while the wild yells of the
savages told the poor girl what was the cause of the danger, and left
little doubt as to its extent; and she knew, too, that the savage
intruders were the people of her own tribe. Scarcely had she thrown a
few clothes around her, and wrapped herself about with a blanket from
her bed, when the voice of Pompey, as he passed her window, was heard.
One sentence only did the poor fellow utter:

“Save all the time you can, Miss Rebecca!”

In two minutes more the little settlement was surrounded by the savages.
William, who had been aroused later than the black, sought to save Mr.
Harris, but failed, and seeing no chance of escaping through the line of
Indians, he rushed into the room of Rebecca, and opening a small door
took refuge in a cellar beneath.

Rebecca, it was known, incurred little personal risk. She was of the
tribe of the invaders; and vengeance upon the whites, and the spoliation
of their goods, were the objects of the attack.

Scarcely had William reached his hiding-place when the chief of the
small tribe of invaders presented himself at the door of Rebecca’s room,
and demanded William.

“He is not in my room. Do you think men are to be found in my
bed-chamber?”

“A white man may be found any where in time of danger,” said the savage.
“But I do not care for the fellow; I want to know where Harris has
hidden his goods—especially where he has concealed the rum.”

“I do not keep his goods nor hide his rum.”

“But you know where he hides them, and you shall tell me, or I—”

“Or you will kill me—kill a woman! Brave chief! Has the influence of
the white man reduced our tribe to that?”

“I did not threaten you, Dahona; but I will strike where you can feel as
keenly as on yourself. Tell me where these goods are secreted.”

“I will not; and you dare not take vengeance on me.”

“Look, Dahona, through yonder window!”

The girl turned her eye to the window, and by the broad blaze of the
burning building she saw a stake erected, near the river, and numerous
savages were heaping around it quantities of wood.

“Is that for me?”

“No—for Harris.”

The young woman checked the exclamation which was rising to her lip:

“And you will release him if I will point out to you the goods; you will
do no personal injury to any one, and spare the rest of the property?”

The Indian hesitated; but the lie which seemed to struggle for
utterance, against the habits of his race, was spoken:

“I will spare all—”

“And the people of the tribe—will they spare?”

Just then a band of savages was seen conveying Mr. Harris down to the
stake.

The spirit of Rebecca was shaken. She did not know, indeed, _where_ any
goods were concealed, and the small amount which had been put aside was
then brought forward by some of the Indians, who were more occupied with
the rum they had secured than with the other articles.

She looked through the window again, and Harris was at the stake, and,
with impatient yells, the savages were making ready for the sacrifice.

“Spare him—only spare the life of Harris, and take all!”

“We _have_ all, and now we will consummate the work. Hark ye, Dahona!
Harris must suffer the torments to which our captives are condemned. We
have been injured by the whites. Your father was our chief—they
destroyed him; and whose blood has flowed in revenge? You, the daughter
of that chief, have been made to despise the people of your tribe, and
to adopt the faith of the whites—a creed that makes one portion
cowards—afraid of the life or the death of a warrior—and leaves the
other portion to commit what crimes they choose upon the red men.

“Now, hear me, Dahona. It is the creed that makes the man, and not the
man the creed; and the influence of your profession of that creed—the
devotion which you pay to that book now lying at your feet—are
weakening the attachment of our people to their chiefs, and giving power
to the whites. Renounce the creed, spurn the book at your feet, and
follow your brethren to their hunting grounds, and we will spare
Harris.”

“I will follow you whither you wish—take me now; but first release that
man.”

“Do you renounce the white man’s creed—will you spurn the Bible in
presence of our men?”

A few hours before, the troubled spirit of Rebecca had been moved almost
to doubt the truth of the religion into which she had been initiated;
but when the question was its renunciation, she felt the hold which it
had upon her mind—she showed the hold which it had upon her heart.
Could she, with some mental reservation, make the renunciation, and thus
save her benefactor’s life? She was not well versed in casuistry, but
she knew that religion was of the heart.

“Speak,” said the chief; “the people are waiting my signal.”

“Give me a moment to think.”

“Take it. I will leave you until the messenger returns twice with new
combustibles for the old man’s fire.”

The chief closed the door, and Rebecca turned to seek guidance in her
troubles.

The savage crew had seized upon the person of Mr. Harris, and dragged
him from the house to the place appointed for his torments. A slow fire
was to be lighted around him, and his dying moments were to be
embittered by their blasphemies, and his pains augmented by the torments
which they would inflict before the flame should have done its work.

The good man looked around. William he had heard in the first of the
attack, and he now believed him dead. He knew that he had little to fear
for Rebecca; her captivity might be irksome, but beyond that they would
not injure her. But Pompey, with all his professions, where was he at
such a time? How useful he might have been—how consoling, even now, to
have seen him near, and to have sent by him messages to his friends. But
he was forsaken of all—of all but his enemies; and so he looked upward,
to ONE that had ever been his friend. Release was not to be expected.
Mercy, fortitude, resignation—and the good man breathed a fervent
prayer.

“The time is up,” said the stern chief, as he opened the door of
Rebecca’s chamber. “What say you—life or death to Harris?”

“Let me see my father, even as he is—let me commune with him for one
moment, and I will answer.”

The chief led forth the girl; and as he passed two of his men he said,
in his own language:

“Watch the house; and when the fire is lighted at the stake, set the
house on fire—both the white and black are in it some where. See that
none escape.”

Rebecca heard and understood the terrible order.

The young woman ascended the pile, and threw her arms around the neck of
Harris.

“My father! my father! must this be?”

“There is no preventive,” said he, “short of a miracle.”

Rebecca sobbed into the ear of her benefactor, the condition of his
release.

“They will never release me,” said he; “they may make you an apostate,
but they will also make me a martyr.”

“My father, they have sworn the oath that has never yet been violated,
when given from Indian to Indian, that they _will_ release you on those
conditions.”

“Has that oath never failed?”

“Never—never, my father.”

“Let me not fall into the hands of man,” said the prisoner; “in this
hour, God, be my guide and counsel.”

“What is the answer, my father? Remember, your life—your precious life,
may be saved, and that of William,” she whispered softly in his ears.
“Do not hesitate.”

“I do not hesitate for myself. How, my child, is thy faith?”

“Firm—fixed, my father.”

“Will you renounce it, if by that you could save the life of William and
become his wife with my consent?”

“I would not renounce that faith to add one moment to _my_ life. Now,
more than ever, do I see and feel its excellency. But you, my father, in
whom it shines, may, by a protracted life, disseminate that faith to
thousands.”

“Shall I insure the faith of others by my own apostacy? You have my
answer.”

Rebecca gave one wild, frantic shriek, and was forced, almost lifeless,
from the embraces of Harris.

“And what says Dahona now?”

“_I will not renounce my faith._”

The signal was given, and the men arranged themselves between the river
and the stake, and two or three sprung forward and applied their torches
to the dry wood; slowly the smoke ascended, and then the blaze crept
upward, while the loud shouts of the exulting savages drowned the prayer
and groans of Harris and the wild shrieks of Rebecca.

“Apply the tortures,” said the chief, and he sprung forward to give the
example; when, suddenly, he pitched forward upon the fire, and the crack
of numerous rifles told whence his death had come.

In one minute the ground was filled with Indians of another tribe, and
the survivors of the invading band ware escaping down the river.

Through the mingled throng of living, and over the bodies of the dead,
sprung one being upon the burning pile, and with a hatchet released the
sufferer from his perilous position, as the fire was doing the work
which the savages had left unaccomplished.

As the rescuer laid Mr. Harris on the ground, he exclaimed:

“_Hi!_ Massa Harris, didn’t I tell you, great while ago, ‘bym by come
sometime or odder?’”

Pompey had escaped before the Indians surrounded the house, and knowing
the attachment to Mr. Harris of a tribe a short distance above, and
their hostility to those who had invaded the settlement, he was sure of
aid if he could summons them in season.

The friendly Indians descended the river rapidly in their canoes, and
were only in season to save the life of the whites.

William was brought forth wounded, but not dangerously, and the family
assembled in prayer and thanksgiving, while their friendly deliverers
were discharging some of the minor offices of their calling and
celebrating their victory by some characteristic attentions to the
wounded whom the enemy had left on the shores of the Susquehanna.

“Did you not hesitate, my child,” said Mr. Harris to Rebecca, “when
death or apostacy was proposed?”

“When _your_ death was the alternative, I did.”

“Where, then, was your faith in Christianity—in its author?”

“Father, I am weak. I owe you obligations—I would sacrifice my life for
your comforts; I knew you good—I knew you would decide correctly. My
faith, then, was in _you_.”

“In me?”

“In _you_—in you, oh, my more than father. You are the embodiment of
that _spirit_ by which I am guided. My faith in you, then—is it not my
faith in the creed which you profess, and by which you live?”

No sooner had William recovered from his wounds, than Mr. Harris called
Rebecca to him and signified his consent to the union between her and
William, and his determination to make their circumstances as
comfortable as the state of the neighborhood would allow.

“It is late, now,” said Rebecca to William; “let us separate. The morrow
will require our early attention, and Father Harris will be astir early
in the morning.”

“And he not the only one,” said William; “for some of us must go down
and bring the magistrate up, to perform the ceremony. We will meet early
to-morrow morning.”

Before the dawn of the day fixed on for her marriage, Rebecca left her
chamber, and hastened along the banks of the river to the jutting
promontory that she so much loved. Leaning there upon the side of a
rock, she gave vent to all those feelings which spring up in the heart
of a girl who stands upon the verge of marriage. Welling up from that
heart were the waters of pure, holy affection for Harris, and of deep,
abiding love for William. There was no want of all true feelings—no
doubt of the high deservings of her lover. But Rebecca’s education was
imperfect; it had never eradicated the strong feelings for her own
people; it had led her to see how rapid must be their decay, but it had
not made her cling with undivided love to those whose superiority in
certain points was exhibiting itself in the destruction of the natives;
for she saw that the friendship of the whites was as fatal to the
Indians as was their enmity. The lands passed as fast by cession as by
conquest, and vices were sent with the wampum of peace as readily as
with the weapon of war. And while she felt that she could apply no
remedy, or _become_ a preventive, she yet felt for those whose blood was
in her veins—whose fathers’ fame had been her glory.

“Oh, children of the forest,” said she, as she bent her eyes upon
mountains and table lands above, “ye are passing away like the leaves of
autumn. The frosts and the sunshine are alike fatal to you, and ere long
you will be known only by your decay. Men will _tell_ of your
glories—but who shall _see_ them? Dim shadows yet linger on the forest
edge, and I catch the view of half fading forms as I look along the
valley of the stream. Are these the spirits of my fathers come to chide
me, their daughter, for my apostacy? Alas! what an apostacy is that of
their sons, who retain the customs of the tribes, and yet adopt the
vices of the whites.”

“The light of another day is springing up, and a thousand shapes are
visible; are these spirit-hunters of the red men—do they sanctify the
night by their chase? They are not like the red men of those days.
Mighty ones they are, and they pursue the mammoth for their sport. But
how they depart before the coming light, as their descendants waste in
the influence of the arts of the white men!”

“But ought I to wish it otherwise? Will not science make more happy, and
religion repay by its influences all the evil which has been brought on
its name? Has it done it? Alas! I am distressed. What is to be the
effect of all? Are the white men, with their religion, to drive the red
men from their possession only to have more ample scope for vice, only
to waste each other by the fraud with which they, in most places,
overcome the Indians? or is the establishment of both to produce the
happiness to all which is promised by their leaders? And are these
doubts, these apparent difficulties, the result of my inability to judge
of what is to follow, as the vision is now disturbed by the uncertainty
of the dawning light, whose perfection will restore all things to their
proper appearance?”

“Oh, let me yet, as I shall abide with these conquerors of our people,
let me at least acknowledge that it is not they but their religion that
detains me. No, deeply as I reverence my Father Harris, and much as I
love William, I would join the wasting, the decaying remnant of my
tribe; and if I could not revenge their wrongs, I would die with them
undisgraced by treachery. But that religion—ah, they hold me there;
they have driven from my heart most of the creed of my childhood. Only
here and there is found a belief, green, from its association with
infancy, but still beautiful, still cherished. While they have erected
in my heart the form of their own faith, unfinished yet, but still
promising, still sheltering. They have dealt with me as with our
forests, in which our tribes had their home, they cut them down, leaving
here and there a tree to tell of the things that were, and placing
incomplete edifices for their own shelter—edifices that they promise
shall be sufficient and beautiful in time.”

The sun was rising above the horizon, and not a cloud stood in his whole
pathway to the west. The tops of the mountain caught and reflected its
first rays. As the warmth increased, the mists, which had fallen thick
toward the base of the hills, began slowly to rise and roll in massive
columns upward, or to pass off by the _gap_ through which the river
rushes. Rebecca gazed at the scene until her fancy moulded these morning
mists into the forms of cherished beings. The whole energies of her
tribe seemed to revive within her, and all of the wild and the unearthly
that distinguished the dreams of her childhood rushed back upon her
mind.

“I see you all,” said she, “chiefs, warriors and women. I know ye now;
every one has his form, and ye are returning from the hunting-field of
spirits. Ye return mournful, though borne down with game; sad, for ye
cross the fields which the whites have torn from your descendants;
angry, for a child of a warrior is to be of those who are your
enemies—and yonder group of little ones, they are my brothers and
sisters, airy ones now, but happy in the mimic hunt, happy till they
turn their faces on me, the last of all the household. And, father—oh,
my father, the death-wound is yet upon thy breast, as thou movest onward
in the air. Mother! mother! look not thus on thy child! Oh, turn not to
me that breast whence I drew my life-nurture; that breast on which I
rested when the life-drops were oozing forth from the wound which the
enemy inflicted. But they are happy—happy in their union, happy in the
smiles of the Great Spirit whom they adored in their homes and their
hunting-grounds, whom they propitiated by terrible vengeance upon those
who desecrated those homes and destroyed those hunting-grounds. They are
happy, for the mist that gathers round my mother’s brow is resplendent
with rainbow beams, and as she passes upward to the mountain’s summit,
she waves her hand to me in peace. Thy pardon and thy blessing, oh, my
mother—prostrate, I invoke them both.”

William, who had witnessed the last agonizing scene, then stepped
forward and raised the girl from the deep earth. She scarcely noticed
his presence, the wildness of her eye denoted thoughts differently
placed; and it was several minutes before she recovered her usual
self-possession.

“It is passed, William, and we will now return to the house.”

“But, Rebecca, why should you thus have exposed yourself and your health
by such a yielding to the influence of your feelings and your
imagination?”

“William, I am, or I would be, a Christian; and when I have given myself
to _you_ and to God, I would have no reserve in my heart from either,
and therefore, before the sacrifice was made, as the daughter of the
Judge of Israel went forth upon the high-places of her land to mourn, so
I came hither to weep for what I was to leave, and to leave that for
which I wept. The last sacrifice upon the altar of my fathers and my
fathers’ deities has been made. I have torn from my heart the flowers
which grew upon the Indian’s belief, and have prayed that the tree of
life may over-shadow the wild plants, that they blossom not again. I
have taken down from the recesses of my soul, the gods which my mother
enshrined there, and have taken leave of the living and the dead of my
father’s race. And now, William, now my beloved one, I am thine—thine
in all seasons and all changes—thine, loving and loved; but, oh, do not
forget that my mind, though dedicated to Christianity now, has been the
_home_ of the red man’s creed, and may yet while it is sanctified by the
new altar, reflect something of itself, its other self upon the purer
worship, as the temples dedicated to the pagan god seem to cast some air
of their origin upon the new and sanctified rites which they now
enclose; and in moments of feeling, or when some additional wrong to my
fathers’ race is done in the name of our new creed, bear with me, if for
a moment, I forget the blessed teaching of the gospel, and yield to the
earlier influences of blood, of education and patriotism. It shall not
be often, not for the world. Henceforth, my beloved one, I am thine; all
of childhood’s home—all of a people’s wrongs—all of a nation’s faith
and a nation’s gods, are given up—and all of thine adopted. Thy breast
shall be my pillow in trouble, and thy smile my token of joy; thy
welfare shall be my happiness, thy dwelling shall be my home, ‘thy
people shall be my people, and thy God my God.’”

William pressed to his heart the confiding, beautiful girl; and they
turned to leave the eminence upon which they stood, and to join the
family below.

The exceeding beauty of the morning induced them to look once more and
admire the scene. The whole broad river below them seemed one floating
mass of light; and as the current passed on, its surface was disturbed
by the boughs of the overhanging trees that dipped into the water, and
created ripples that reflected all the hues of the moving light. The
mountains in the west seemed clothed in gorgeous sunbeams, and nature
appeared to have assumed her richest garb, to bless the nuptials that
were about to take place.

“I love this scene,” said Rebecca, “it tranquilizes me—it soothes my
spirit, it elevates without agitating my mind—such a morning is a
teacher of religion.”

“The Spirit of God is teaching every where,” said William.

“True, true,” said Rebecca, “but I seem to lack some visible object,
something upon which my eye may rest, something like the ladder of
Jacob, by which I may ascend; the visible is necessary to me, to fix my
thought upon and draw it up to the invisible. Is not your creed
deficient in that?”

“Can there be a better man than Father Harris, and have you ever heard
of one less influenced by the visible and tangible, and more guided by
faith in the unseen?”

“True—but it is his goodness, his attainment in that grace which enable
him to dispense with the visible. You white men cut and blaze the trees
of the forest so that you may recognize the course by which you are to
reach a desired point, but the Indian passes onward through the densest
wood, with no visible sign, no outward evidence of the path.”

“But, Rebecca, the white men find that their cuttings and blazings are
imitated, so that it is difficult to tell in time which is the right
mark, and resort must be had yet to the invisible to correct the
visible. The former deceives us often—the latter never.”

Hand in hand the pair returned to the mansion of Mr. Harris, and the day
thus begun in sacrifice and prayer, was closed in festivity. And William
received to his arms his Indian bride.

The little enclosure at Harrisburg is a frail but eloquent memorial of
the virtue and sufferings of Mr. Harris, and the fidelity of Pompey. The
former handed down his name and his virtues to a numerous posterity.

Pompey, undoubtedly, is represented by some of his own color even in the
present day. The great reward which he claimed for his successful
exertions to save his master’s life, was permission to introduce a
fiddle into the settlement; and for years afterward the banks of the
Susquehanna were made melodious by the joyful notes which Pompey drew
from his favorite instrument, while blithely and strong was heard the
footfall of the young at night, as they danced to the music of the
Orpheus of their time.

William’s descendents are in and around Harrisburg, holding office when
they can get it, and dividing themselves between the two, or
occasionally among the many parties, so that the advantage of ascendency
by either fraction may not be entirely lost by all. These are not the
children of Rebecca; she died young—her frame of mind was not favorable
to long life. She died a Christian, firm, consistent, active, growing
always in faith, and full of good works; and yet it was remarked by the
excellent clergyman whose teaching she followed, that her mind seemed
never to have dismissed entirely the creed of her childhood—and all her
pure faith, all her Christian zeal, all her holy life, appeared to have
some tinge of the creed of her fathers—not to alter the body of her
faith, but merely to give it, at times, a color. “And,” said a successor
of that clergyman, “have not the teachings she adopted, teachings of
Christianity, always been thus affected by the previous character of the
community or individuals by which they have been received?” No
requirement diminished, no duty changed, no obligation dispensed, but a
sort of reservation of a non-essential, which served to reflect a
separate ray upon the admitted and the requisite. Religious truth,
though enforced by divine grace, must in general be conveyed by a human
medium, which will impart a portion of itself or its accidents, as the
color of the atmosphere through which light is conveyed to earth gives
hue and tinge to the rays, without diminishing essentially their powers
to guide by their light, or invigorate by their heat. Nay, when we
concentrate these rays to convey them to particular objects, the light
not only takes the tinge of the medium, but it has also the divergency
and eccentricity consequent upon the inequalities of surface, or the
impurities of the glass through which it comes.

Rebecca lived to bless her husband by her domestic virtues and her
unfailing affection. Her death was mourned wherever her beautiful
example of womanly virtue and Christian integrity was known.

    [After the above narrative was prepared for the press, numerous
    letters that passed between Rebecca and her school-mates—one or
    two to Mr. Harris—and some to her lover, and two to her
    husband, near the close of her life, were supplied to the writer
    by the same person who furnished the materials for the story.
    They could not well be introduced with the narrative, but may be
    given hereafter, should it appear that they have interest enough
    for the pages of this Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              TRANSLATION


       OF A RECENTLY DISCOVERED FRAGMENT[1] OF A POEM BY SAPPHO.


                              BY G. HILL.


           Thou’rt like the apple—maiden young and fair—
             That sees its fellows gathered, one by one,
           While, on the topmost bough, though ripe and rare,
             It unmolested sits and blooms alone:
           Forgotten? No—a mark for every eye,
           But for the gazer’s longing hand too high.

-----

[1] Published in Walz, Rhetor. Græc. 8. 883.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           TWO HOURS OF DOOM.


                     BY MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL.


                         HOUR I.—_A Betrothal._

The princes of the night came, one by one, into the halls of Heaven, and
each, from his refulgent throne, sped far and wide through space his
beams of glory. The earth saw the regal train, and rejoiced, saying, “I
am their sister;” then the shadows passed away from her bosom, and she
stood in radiance amid her starry compeers, sending back ray for ray.

“My Lillian, let us look upon the night,” cried Kenneth—and he led her
forth beneath the stars. They smiled upon the maid, and crowned her
forehead with their beams, and her beauty grew as lofty and mysterious
as their own.

The pair walked in silence, for each bosom throbbed heavily, with its
burden of unspoken love; they walked in silence, for youth was in
flushing, and they heeded not the speeding hours.

First Kenneth spoke, for man must _act_ while woman muses, and the
spells of night oppressed him.

“Look, Lillian, on the shining orbs above us, circling their mysterious
round! Knowest thou, the starry firmament is a vast prophecy of things
to be? Yon burning record of the decrees of fate rolls its stupendous
riddles in mighty round, and mock our earnest inquiry. The learning of
the Magi, the ‘Persians starry wit,’ may catch but faint and far-off
glimpses of the truths they blazon yet conceal. The boasted lore of the
Chaldean, reads but imperfectly their dim revealings, while the Gheber,
wiser in his ignorance than either, bows in worship to the celestial
mysteries he presumeth not to compass or comprehend.”

There was a majesty and gloom in the boy’s conceptions that charmed and
oppressed fair Lillian; and, as woman is prone to do, she turned from
all the rolling worlds of which he spoke, to the deep, silent, and no
less enigmatical world of her own heart.

He looked again upon the heavens on which was written, as he believed,
the fate of nations, while her meek eyes followed his, striving to read
from the jeweled scroll, her own doom.

“Kenneth,” she cried, abruptly, and in awe, “I feel that I am
approaching a crisis in my fate!”

“Thy fate, sweet one, is also written in letters of light above us. I am
not deeply versed in heavenly lore, but from thy presentiment and mine,
I read a crisis is at hand. Seest thou yon pale orb,” he continued,
raising his hand aloft, “my father told me once it shone upon _thy_
birth, and from that hour it has been the object of my vigil and study;
so pale, so pure, it seemeth like thy fair face set in heaven. Of late
methought it shone with sadder beam, and wandered from its track. See!”
he cried with a shout, “it journeys the skies, side by side, with yon
red-eyed planet.”

Lillian raised her soft eyes, and met the lurid glare of the blood-red
star.

“What orb is that?” she inquired, with a shudder, clinging closer to
Kenneth’s side.

“_The star of my nativity!_”

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Lillian! _my_ Lillian! tremble not, beloved! hath not kind Heaven given
thee to me?” He wound his arms around her frail form, and laid her to
his heart.

“Dark youth, I fear thee!” she shrieked, and bursting from his embrace,
fled into the night. Suddenly she paused, and covering her face with her
hands, crushed the big tears that were gushing from their fountains,
“ay!” she murmured, “but I love thee also!”

“Thou dost, my fawn!” said Kenneth, as he regained her side, “swear,
then, to be mine.”

The maiden hesitated, for the angel whose ward she was, whispered a
warning.

“Swear not, for his brow is dark and his heart fierce—his path lieth
through blood, and endeth in blackness!”

Then love lifted up his voice, crying, “What grief so great as parting
from thy beloved! What wo so heavy as a disappointed heart!”

And the maiden said, “I swear! Whether for good or evil, for blessing or
for blight, my doom is sealed, and I am thine.”

“The crisis is past, beloved,” whispered the wooer—“where is now thy
fear?”

The maiden abode in the halls of her sires, while the youth rode forth
intent on valiant deeds, for ’twas in the days when a hero’s laurels
were his bridal gift. But his heart was not strong in hope—neither was
it girt with patience—neither was it seasoned with denial; and
temptation beset him by the way and endurance failed, and when he
returned, his knightly spurs were dimmed, and tarnished his knightly
honor.

“Oh, spurn me not, beloved!” he cried, in agonized abasement.

And the lady answered, “Through glory and shame I will be true to thee.”

Then was Kenneth comforted by her tenderness, and strengthened by her
counsels—and he went forth with hope to retrieve the errors of the
past.

But the glory of his youth had departed, and the fear of God dwelt no
more in his bosom; and his heart was curdled by the scorn of men, and
hardened against his kind; and his right hand became a hand of power,
but it was red with wrath—and injustice, and oppression, and cruelty,
and wrong, and rapine, and murder, stalked in his train. Then he
returned to his lady, and stood before her with a sullen brow, saying,

“By my valor have I won my bride!”

“Ah, Kenneth!” she faltered, “thou hast despised my counsels, thou hast
mocked at my love; thy path hath been a path of blood, and thy crimes
rise mountain-high between thee and thy affianced! Oh, why hast thou
done this?”

The scales fell from his eyes in that pure presence, and looking back
over the guilt of years, he felt appalled by his own sins.

“The stars, in their courses, fought against me,”[2] he answered
gloomily—“it was my destiny.”

“Oh, abandon that fearful error, and cease to burden Fate with thy
misdeeds. Thy destiny hath been of thine own choosing. Didst thou not
turn a deaf ear to the pleadings of all good angels? Didst thou not
yield an easy prey to the devices of thine own heart? For the sake of
the future, look back upon the past, and tell me if thou canst not
recall the hour when two paths were spread before thee, and thou didst
choose thy lot; tell me no more of destiny!”

“My lady hath forgotten her meekness as well as her love.”

“Kenneth, reproach me not! I have wasted my youth in vigils for thee; I
have watched, and wept, and waited, now in hope, and anon in
hopelessness, until sorrow shadowed my father’s halls, and mildew
settled down on my heart. Now in the depths of my despair I love thee
still, but I _dare not_ wed thee! Go in peace; if man may ever meddle
with his fate, mine shall be of my own moulding.”

“Fashion it as thou wilt,” he answered fiercely, “_I will come to claim
thee in the appointed hour!_”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Fair Lillian sitteth in her husband’s home, but a great shadow lieth
athwart the hearth; ’tis the memory of an earlier, wilder, fonder love;
and the fierce fame of her warrior, reacheth her ever, terrible as the
roar of distant battle.

-----

[2]

    The stars in their courses fought against Sisera.
                          JUDGES, chap. v., verse 20.


                      HOUR II.—_The Consummation._

The princes of the night mounted their flaming steeds and coursed
through heaven. Lillian sat in widow’s weeds, and watched them from her
great round tower. Suddenly the clang of a mailed heel rung on the
winding stair, and her cheek paled—for those halls no longer echoed
with martial sounds since Lord Ulric had been gathered home. Near and
more near, loud and more loud, and a warrior strode into the apartment,
and folded the lady in his embrace!

“_I have come!_”

Those old, familiar, long beloved tones, how they broke upon the
loneliness, thrilling to its centre her sorrow-stricken heart. What
marvel if she wept unresistingly on his broad breast, in her agony of
surprise.

“I have come to claim my bride!”

Then was the spell broken, and her soul awoke to a sense of its stern
resolves. She freed herself from that passionate embrace, saying,

“I may not wed thee, Kenneth.”

“But listen to my pleadings, my long lost one; canst thou not divinely
forgive the past, and be my guardian angel for the future? Hast thou
ceased to love, or hast thou learned to fear me?”

“Kenneth, thou art accursed of God, and abhorred of men, and yet I fear
thee not. Thou wert the lover of my youth, ever fond, ever tender; and
thy name, so dreaded in the land thou hast scourged, is to me but a
talisman of gentle memories. I fear thee not. But I have walked through
life with a strong hand on my heart, curbing its warm impulses, crushing
its fond love. It hath plead passionately for thee, but I hearkened not,
and by this bitter schooling have I learned to resist even _thee_.”

“And I, have I not, ’mid sin and sorrow, ’mid wreck of hopes and ruin of
soul, preserved undimmed my one bright dream of thee? Have I not sat by
a lonely hearth, while thy smile filled the home of my rival with joy?
Have I not forborne to tear thee thence, because I would not offer
violence to thee or thine? And now wilt thou reject the love which youth
hath sanctified, and manhood ripened?”

“Oh, why hast thou not wedded and forgotten me?” she cried, in anguish.

“Because the hope of thy pale waning beauty was dearer to my heart than
all the daughters of bloom. Because I would be ever ready for the hour
when fate should say, ‘arise, make ready thy bower for thy promised
bride;’ _that hour has come_! Mark the heavens where ’tis written, thou
art mine. Once, long ago, we looked upon the night with all its circling
stars; thou seest them now, as then, treading their solemn round,
unchanged, unchangeable. Not one of all the starry hosts may wander from
its appointed pathway; and canst thou, child of destiny, escape thy
fate? The hand that guides _them_, governs _thee_, and the decrees of
the Omnipotent have been, from all eternity, and are immutable.”

“Oh, tell me no more of thy stern, unpitying faith! thou hast imbued my
mind with thy belief, until, like the scorpion girt with fire, I have
almost turned on myself despairing. I would fain believe that the
struggles and strivings of humanity are not without their fruits; that
the fervent prayer, the earnest effort, are heard, and heeded; that man
may wrestle all night with his Maker, and when the morning breaks,
prevail.”[3]

Very touching was the fierce man’s tenderness, but the lady was strong
in her heart’s martyrdom. Then he turned away, saying,

“Thou hast destroyed the hope of a lifetime, and my father’s lore hath
failed me. How could I thus misread the stars!”

From the battlement he looked on heaven thus questioning, and the stars
grew dim beneath his gaze.

The orb that beamed upon his lady’s birth, sent down its calm, cold ray;
his own more fiery planet blazed in lurid light, while an ocean of space
rolled between.

“Lost to me!” he murmured.

As he spoke, the red planet shot madly from its sphere, careering
athwart the concave like a sword of fire, it rushed from being, and
deeper darkness brooded o’er the expanse.

Again his eye sought the milder light of the star he worshiped, when lo!
_it had been swept from the face of heaven_.

“Be it so, lost Pleiad!” cried the lover, and folding in his arms the
pallid lady, leaped from the turret, into the abyss below.

-----

[3] Exodus, chapter xxxii.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        ERMENGARDE’S AWAKENING.


                         BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.


                          Dear God and must we see
      All blissful things depart from _us_, or ere we go to THEE?
                                                   E. B. BARRETT.

    It was an altar worthy of a god!
      All of pure gold, in furnace fire refined;
    And never foot profane had near it trod,
      And never image had been there enshrined;
    But now a radiant idol claimed the place,
    And took it with a rare and royal grace.

    And the proud woman thrilled to its false glory,
      And when the murmur of her own true soul
    Told in low, lute-tones Love’s impassioned story,
      She dreamed the music from that statue stole,
    And knelt adoring at the silent shrine
    Her own divinity had mode divine.

    And with a halo from her heart she crowned it,
      That shed a spirit-light upon its face,
    And garlands hung of soul-flowers fondly round it,
      Wreathing its beauty with immortal grace,
    And so she felt not, as she gazed, how cold
    And calm that Eidolon of marble mould.

    Like Egypt’s queen in her imperial play,
      She, in abandonment more wildly sweet,
    Melted the pearl of her pure _Life_ away,
      And poured the rich libation at its feet,
    And in exulting rapture _dreamed_ the smile
    That should have answered in its eyes the while.

    And all rare gifts she lavished on that altar,
      Treasures the mines of India could not buy,
    Nor did her foot-fall for a moment falter,
      Though the world watched her with an evil eye,
    And sad friends whispered “Soon she’ll wake to weep,
    For lo! she walks in an enchanted sleep.”

    Oh! glorious dreamer! with dark eyes upturned
      In wondering worship to that godlike brow,
    How the rare beauty of thy spirit burned
      In the rapt gaze and in the glowing vow,
    How didst thou waste on one thy soul should scorn
    The glory of a blush that mocked the _Morn_!

    She turned from all—from friendship and the world—
      Only _Love_ knew the way to that dim glade,
    And calm her sweet, yet queenly lip had curled
      Had the world’s whisper reached her in that shade,
    But she was deaf and dumb and blind to all,
    Save to the charm that held her heart in thrall.

    And Love, who loved her, flew at her sweet will,
      Bringing all gems that hoard the rainbow’s splendor,
    And singing-birds with magic in their trill,
      And what wild-flowers fairy-land could lend her,
    And flower and bird and jewel all were laid
    To grace that golden altar in the Shade.

    Fair was that sylvan solitude I ween—
      The lady’s charmed and trancéd spirit lent
    The starlight of its beauty to the scene,
      And joy and music with the fountain went,
    While in a still enchantment on its throne
    The lucid statue cold and stately shone.

    Love lent her, too, th’ enchanted lute he played
      And she would let her light hand float at will
    Across its chords of silver, half afraid,
      Like a white lily on a murmuring rill,
    Till Music’s soul, waked by that touch, took wing,
    And mingling with it hers would soar and sing—

    “Dost thou see—dost thou feel—oh, mine idol divine,
    How I’ve yielded the soul of my soul for thy shrine?
    Dost thou thrill to the tones of my melody sweet?
    Does it glide to thy _heart_ on its musical feet?
    Dost thou love the light touch of my hand as I twine
    My passion-flower wreath for thy beauty benign?

    “Dost thou know how I’ve gathered all gifts that I own
    To bless and to brighten the place of thy throne,
    How my thoughts like young singing-birds flutter and fly
    With a song for thine ear and a gleam for thine eye,
    How Truth’s precious gems, that drink sunbeams for wine,
    Are wreathed into chaplets of light for thy shrine?

    “How Fancy has woven her fairy-land flowers
    To garland with odor and beauty thine hours,
    While Feeling’s pure fountains play softly and free,
    And chant in their falling ‘For thee! for thee!’
    Dost thou feel—dost thou see—oh! mine idol divine,
    How I’ve yielded the soul of my soul for thy shrine.”

    Thus sang the lady, but her waking hour
      Drew near; for when her passionate song was mute,
    And no fond answer thrilled through that hushed bower
      Into her listening heart, she laid the lute
    Within her loved one’s clasp and prayed him play
    Some idyl sweet to wile the hours away.

    From his cold hand the lute dropped idly down
      And broke in music at the false god’s feet;
    Love’s lute! ah Heaven! how paled the peerless crown
      Above that brow when with a quick wild beat
    Of fear and shame and sorrow at her heart,
    The lady from her dazzling dream did start.

    And the dream fell beside the broken lute,
      And the flowers faded in their fairy grace
    And the fount stopped its glorious play, and mute
      The birds their light wings shut in that sweet place,
    While the deep night that veiled the woman’s soul
    O’er shrine and idol cold and starless stole.

    And in her desolate agony she cast
      Her form beside Love’s shivered treasure there,
    And cried, “Oh, God! my life of life is past!
      And I am left alone with my despair.”
    Hark! from the lute one low, melodious sigh
    Thrilled to her heart a sad yet sweet reply.

    Then through the darkness rose a voice in prayer,
      “My Father! I have sinned ’gainst Thine and Thee.
    The idol, whom I deemed so grandly fair
      That its proud presence hid thy heaven from me,
    Shorn of his glory, shrunk to common clay,
    Behold for him and for my heart I pray.

    “Take _Thou_ the lute—the shattered lute of love—
      And teach my faltering hand to tune it right
    To some dear, holy hymn—which, like a dove,
      From silver fetters freed, may cleave the night,
    And fluttering upward to thy starlit throne
    Die at _Thy_ heart with blissful music moan.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE CAPTIVE OF YORK.


                           BY STELLA MARTIN.


The winter of 1692 was no mild specimen of the climate of the New
England wilds. The settlers on the inhospitable coast of Maine found its
severity to exceed all their apprehensions. The few comforts which they
had as yet been able to gather around them, were inadequate to the wants
of that long and dreary season. Many fell victims of hardships and
despondency; while not a few toiled on, cheerful and uncomplaining
examples of endurance and suffering. It was perhaps more fortunate for
the northern settlements than their pioneers, that they were commenced
in summer, for the cold and inclemency of their early winters were
enough to sadden the heart, and blast the hopes of the most visionary
dreamer. The stranger who built his rude open hut in pleasant June,
fanned by cool breezes during his summer toil, wot not that a few months
would bring a bleakness of which he had little conception. The
settlements on the Piscataqua are among the oldest in Maine; and to
those who first selected the romantic site of the now beautiful village
of York, it seemed enchanted land. Primeval forests covered the whole
country through which the Piscataqua and its Naiad Sisters wound their
way to the sea. The delicate foliage of the beech and poplar, the deep
sombre green of the hemlock and fir, the pale, graceful willow, and the
bright emerald maple, all blended to form a perfect forest robe, as yet
untouched by the devastating hand of man. Bald peaks lent wildness to
the scene, already diversified by the commanding banks of the rivers
which lay calmly mirrored in their deep, clear waters. No wonder the
early adventurers looked with rapturous delight upon the broad bays
studded with islands, the green promontories and quiet harbors into
which the streams widening their channels, gradually lost themselves in
the Atlantic. The sea-fowl bathed its drooping plumage unmolested on the
shores, the wild-cat ran at will, guided only by the impulses of its
savage nature, and the graceful deer proudly reared its antlered head,
and bounded away, the undisturbed inhabitant of the mighty wilderness.

To him who, tired with the bondage of the old world, sought refuge in
the new, these were glowing emblems of that liberty he so earnestly
longed for. He hailed the land spread out before him, in all the
magnificence of nature, as that which would realize his most chimerical
ideas of happiness. Imagination added to its charms, and converted what
was truly wild and beautiful into a paradise. The toils and dangers of
the frontier life vanished away; and with a buoyant heart the wanderer
adopted the unknown soil, alike ignorant and unmindful of the ills that
would cluster around his future path. When want shall have been
encountered in every form, sickness endured, famine driven from the
door, and “hope, the star that leads the weary on,” delusive hope, shall
whisper of bliss to come, he is destined to find in the savage tribes of
the country, enemies more formidable than the evils of his condition.
Hard fate! to survive the strife of the elements, to escape pestilence
and danger only to perish by a relentless _human_ foe.

The settlement of York had enjoyed several years of prosperity, the
effects of which were perceptible in a considerable degree of neatness
and comfort about its dwellings. This appearance of thrift made it a
surer mark for destruction. In January, 1692, a band of Abenakis and
French burst upon this defenseless village, “offering its inhabitants
captivity or death.” A terrible storm had just covered the earth with
snow, to a depth which would have proved a barrier to any but these
intrepid barbarians. They had walked on snow-shoes, the long distance
from the basin of the St. John’s, the difficulties of the way only
serving to increase their insatiable thirst for bloodshed. It was a
serene winter’s evening, when the Abenaki braves surrounded their
council-fire, a few miles from the doomed village, to determine upon
their mode of assault. The purity of nature in these snowy solitudes
strangely contrasted with the sanguinary deeds plotted there. She
witnesses in silence the offences of her children. She beholds the
members of the great brotherhood of man rise up and destroy each other,
yet thunders no warning to the victim, nor hurls the fire of heaven upon
the destroyer.

Stealthily advanced the murderers, while the peaceful inhabitants of
York were gathered around their happy firesides. Ah, never more will
those family groups meet around the altar of prayer, never again
together join the festive dance. That ringing war-whoop which strikes
the ear is the death-knell of the unsuspecting villagers. Mother, take a
last look at thy darling, ere its baby face is snatched forever from
you. Husband, clasp thy wife to thy bosom, for that fond embrace shall
be the last. Lover, thou art vainly striving to wrest thy cherished one
from the barbarian’s grasp—thy agonizing efforts to save her, make her
a prize in those savage eyes; and, unfortunate girl, instead of mingling
thy blood with thy kindred, a captivity awaits thee a thousand times
more horrible death.

This lot befell Amy Wakefield. She saw her mother fall lifeless from the
first blow of the tomahawk. Her father, with the fury of a madman,
sprung upon the assassin, and proved the avenger of his wife. Swift as
thought, however, he was overborne by the comrades of the dead Indian,
and he lay a mangled corse beside his beloved companion; one son and a
servant girl shared the same fate. Poor, gentle, timid Amy! there she
stood petrified by the awful sight before her, but she made no effort to
escape. Vain indeed would have been the attempt; her nonresistance saved
her life, and prolonged her sufferings. No scalping-knife was uplifted
over her head, but as if her sentence was written on her brow, they
proceeded without a moment’s hesitation to bind her hands behind her.
Richard Russel rushed into the street at the first alarm, and ye who
know a lover’s heart can tell why he flew with the speed of lightning,
to seek Amy Wakefield—his betrothed bride. He entered the dwelling
where he knew carnage and death were doing their dreadful work; but what
was danger to him, with such an object at stake!

“Oh, Richard,” said Amy, opening her lips for the first time since her
mother’s dying shriek had sealed them, in a tone which would have melted
a heart less sensitive than his. He darted forward, seized the Indian
who was binding her, and with a maniac’s gripe wrestled for the mastery.
Young Russel, tall and athletic, was considered the most vigorous young
man in the colony, but his strength was unequal to that of the sinewy
son of the forest. A blow from a war-club felled him senseless to the
earth. “Merciful God!” cried poor Amy in the anguish of her soul, as her
last earthly hope was quenched within her. She was dragged from the spot
where lay all she held dear. As she passed the door, a kindly stupor
seized her; neither the screams of the villagers, nor the kindling
flames of the cottages, roused her. She looked vacantly around, but
heeded not what she saw. She felt no grief—she had no consciousness.
The scenes of the past half hour had banished her senses, and bewildered
her mind. They seemed like a terrific vision in a dream—hideously
vivid, without the power of realizing or escaping from it. Why did not
oblivion forever steal over the past, or delirium cheat the soul in
future?

The work of death was done. The slain were sepulchred in the ashes of
their cottage homes; the captives were divided as spoils among the
warriors, and toward morning they started for the northeast. Amy
Wakefield and three other prisoners were the especial care of two
Abenakis and a Frenchman, Jean Mordaunt. The whole party moved rapidly,
lest the neighboring settlements should see the light of the burning
village, and pursue them; but this little company were the foremost. The
other captives with Amy were men, but she kept pace with them and the
Indians.

She hurried along as if she were fleeing from enemies. All that day she
traveled on, taking no food, uttering no complaint; and at last, when
night came, she sunk down unconcernedly to sleep. It was one of their
former stopping places, and the Indians rekindled the fires, which had
scarcely expired. The poor captives gathered around them and welcomed
the burning heat, though hardly more comfortable than the chilling
blasts to which they had been exposed. Oh, the sorrows of that weary
journey—cold, hunger and thirst were among the least of them. The
Indians returned by the trail in which they came; but the snow was
untrodden and deep, and the path lay through forests and across rivers.
Some drooped by the way and received beatings for their manifestations
of fatigue, whilst many found snowy graves. For many days they traveled
on together, but finally separated in little bands for the settlements
where they belonged, each carrying with them their captives. This last
sad comfort of friends and neighbors traveling together in their misery,
was now denied them, and they looked each other a last adieu.

I said Amy slept. It was a blessed sleep, for it carried her back to
childhood’s days; now she was gathering violets with her little brothers
on the river’s bank; now she saw her brother’s angel face, and heard her
father’s “dear little Amy.” Then time flew by, and she felt her lover’s
warm kisses; years seemed moments, and moments years—and still she
slept on. Would that she might have slept “that sleep from which none
ever wake to weep.”

The sun was high in the heavens ere they roused them from their
slumbers. The labors of the previous day were exhausting even to the
Indian’s strong frame. Some of the wretched captives had passed a
sleepless night from fear or excessive weariness; and to some their
aching limbs forbade rest. But Amy still lay with her head thrown back,
her hands clasped; her marble face and motionless lips rendered still
more striking by the profusion of black hair lying disheveled about her.
The Indian who advanced to awaken her, paused, as if he shrunk from such
a personification of purity. He took hold of her shoulder and shook her;
but it seemed as if her senses were bound by death’s icy chains. He
struck her a rough blow on the side of her head. She opened her eyes,
and tried to rise, but her limbs refused her support, and she fell back.
She looked up—her consciousness returned. The sight of the Indian’s
face brought back the scenes of that dreadful night, and she trembled
like an aspen leaf. But another blow for her tardiness, brought a full
conception of her situation, and a flood of tears. Her stiff, feeble
movements, the tears running in torrents down her cheeks, were a strange
counterpart to the day before. They started; she tried to proceed, but
her limbs seemed paralyzed, and her heart died within her. She forgot
all around, even her own wretchedness; she remembered only that cottage
scene, Richard, and her parents—and she prayed for death. Her sobs were
heart-rending, still the cruel savages urged her on. Oh, were there no
friendly angels abroad in the earth; was mercy fled, and vengeance dead!
At length the Indians, enraged at what they considered the girl’s
obstinacy, raised a club to strike her, but Mordaunt, who, perhaps, had
enough of humanity to be touched by the spectacle before him, leaped
forward, averted the blow, and talking with them a few moments in their
own rude, wild tongue, seemed to calm their anger. Soon after this there
was a division of the company; Amy and some others, who were incapable
of keeping up with the main party, were put together and allowed to
proceed more slowly; still she went weeping on—that painful way was
traced in tears, and the desert solitudes echoed with her sighs. After
about three weeks, the Indians discerned their “smokes” in the distance,
and saluted them with shoutings and expressions of great joy. Amy’s
peculiar grief had awakened some little pity, even in the bosoms of her
savage captors. To this, and the influence of Mordaunt, whose notice she
had attracted ever since the first morning, when she lay an unconscious
sleeper beside their fires, she owed her comparatively easy lot. She was
given to Wiloma, the wife of Great Turtle, the last king, who kept her
to do her menial drudgery, but treated her with some kindness.

Jean Mordaunt was a Jesuit missionary. He belonged to a class of whom
mankind has drawn widely varying pictures. Pious, devoted,
self-sacrificing, ambitious, crafty and revengeful, are, doubtless, all
true descriptions of this fraternity, who have left no country without
its representatives, and whose name is Legion. America, the “land of
mountains and eagles,” early drew them hither, and here we see their
character in all its phases. They penetrated nearly every recess on the
northern part of our continent, and visited almost all of the Indian
tribes, teaching them the name of Jesus and the Virgin Mother; some
affirming in their enthusiasm, that “the path to heaven was as open
through a roof of bark, as through arched ceilings of silver and gold.”
“Not a cape was turned, nor a river entered, but a Jesuit led the way,”
says the eloquent historian, Bancroft. “The cross and the lily, emblems
of France and Christianity,” were carved on the trees, and inscribed on
the rocks. Many, like Mesnard, or the gentle Marquette, found quiet
resting-places in the wilderness; and the western waters which wash
their graves, perpetually sing their dirge. But Gabriel Lallemand,
Father Jaques, Jean De Brebeuf, René Goupil, and many others, sealed
their labors with their blood. Their memory is precious to the mother
church; and what wonder that her sons and daughters revere them as
saints. But there were a vast multitude who claimed the same mission of
love and mercy with these martyrs of holy zeal, whose lives and
characters too plainly betrayed their hypocrisy. There were those whose
religion cloaked their ambition, and others in whom intrigue had
supplanted all the simplicity of the gospel. Instead of religious
teachers, they often became artful politicians. That the French Jesuits
participated in, and often instigated the attacks upon the English
border settlements, is so well attested, that it cannot be denied. The
enmity between the French and English nations was too deeply seated to
be forgotten by their colonists, and often led them to rouse the
merciless savage against their unguarded neighbors. It is difficult to
conceive how a minister of that blessed religion which proclaims “peace
and good-will to men,” should have so far forgot its precepts, as to be
present at the bloody massacre of York; but Jean Mordaunt was there.
Perhaps he did not stain his hands with blood, but he spotted his soul
with guilt.

Amy Wakefield gradually recovered her spent energies. Her elastic
constitution rebounded from the severe shocks it had received, but her
sufferings left an indelible impress on her spirits. Time could not
restore the loved ones sleeping in the dust, and smiles bade adieu to
her once happy face. Like Egeria of yore, she forever mourned her
heart’s lost treasures. Mordaunt dwelt upon that beautiful sorrowing
face until it seduced him from his priestly vows; but it was a problem
to the wary Frenchman how to approach Amy. Though a submissive slave,
she was unapproachable; she answered no signs, nor noticed the broken
English addressed to her. She shunned every one, and seemed to scorn
sympathy with her foes. Months passed, and still she toiled on in
Wiloma’s cabin, but her grief was not assuaged, nor the fountain of her
tears dried up. As spring came, she would steal away by herself without
the wigwam to admire the opening buds, which filled the air with their
perfume, and with delight would listen to the carol of birds, as they
hopped merrily from branch to branch, fit emblems of happiness. The
cheerfulness and beauty of all around her, contrasted strangely with her
own condition, but at times she would forget her sadness, and soothed by
the wild music of the waterfall, lose herself in some day-dream of
happiness.

Old Wiloma scarcely watched her captive. Indeed, the thought of escape
never entered the mind of Amy. Where should she fly, when all she loved
were in heaven. True, she did not _know_ that two of her brothers were
dead. The eldest, Winthrop, was at a distant settlement at school; and
little Johnny, the pet, was sweetly sleeping in the chamber when they
were attacked, so it seemed certain that he was slain. But the chance of
life vanished when Richard fell.

        “Alas! the love of woman; it is known
          To be a lovely and a fearful thing;
        For all of hers upon that die is thrown,
          And if ’tis lost, life has no more to bring
        To her, but mockeries of the past alone.”

Amy was one day sitting in the wigwam-door when she saw Mordaunt coming
toward her, and rose to retire. “In the name of Jesus, tarry,” said he,
in a manner so earnest and imperative, that she stopped involuntarily.
“I have prayed for thee to the Holy Virgin and the Saints,” continued
he, crossing himself. It was the first intelligible sentence in her own
language that Amy had heard since she parted with her companions in
misery. Some of the Indians spoke a broken English that she understood,
but she had never heard Mordaunt utter a word before.

“I need not thy prayers to thy saints,” said Amy, after recovering from
her astonishment, and recollecting the teachings of her infancy.

“Speak not lightly of prayers, child, thy soul hath need of them,” said
Mordaunt.

“I know it, but those now sleeping in death, taught me that there is but
One that heareth prayer,” said she, her eyes filling with tears, “and He
is our Father in Heaven.”

“They were heretics, and knew not the communion of the true church,”
said the Jesuit. “They taught thee wrongly, child; and I fear their
souls are now suffering the pains of purgatory, but for thy sake I would
gladly pray them out.”

Amy’s eyes flashed indignantly. “That may be thy portion, deceiver; but
those of whom you speak, killed by your murderous bands, are angels in
heaven. I know it,” said she, with an assurance that silenced Mordaunt.
“I saw them last night, they beckoned me upward. Oh, Father, have
mercy!” and she lifted her eyes and hands heavenward, with an
expression, as if her soul were quitting its earthly tabernacle.
Mordaunt was awed. He sat silently gazing at her, and she into the azure
above. Old Wiloma, who had been asleep in the wigwam, at this instant
awoke, and calling Amy, brought her wandering senses back to earth. She
rose and obeyed the bidding. Mordaunt departed, but the expression of
that upturned face haunted him. There was a touching serenity about Amy,
as she gazed into the land of spirits, that commanded his admiration.
Duplicity had indeed made him its disciple, but it had not entirely
blunted his perceptions of the beautiful; his coarse heart was not
impervious to a scene like that.

He sought another interview, but Amy avoided him more than ever after
that conversation. Mordaunt often visited old Wiloma’s cabin, for she
had learned the sign of the cross, but never could he gain an
opportunity of speaking with her who now had his every thought. Cupid’s
arrows were too deeply transfixed to be withdrawn, and the more he was
foiled, the more necessary seemed the object he would gain. One day Amy
was walking in the woods, when Mordaunt coming up hastily behind,
surprised her with, “My dear mademoiselle.” She could not retreat, and
had not time to reply, before his pent-up feelings found utterance in
the best English he could command. He talked not of saints, or the
“blessed Virgin.” He had been seeking this opportunity too long, another
was too uncertain, and above all, he felt too deeply to allow of any
delay.

In a broken and tremulous manner he told her of his love; how his
thoughts had dwelt upon her night and day, and swore to be faithful
forever, would she but bless him with her affection. Amy’s countenance
indicated no participation in the confusion manifested by Mordaunt. The
color came and went upon his cheek, as hope or fear predominated—a
fitful anxiety pervaded his whole frame. Nothing could have astonished
Amy more than the declarations of Mordaunt. She had felt a decided
aversion to him, without knowing why, or having the slightest suspicion
of his real state of feeling. Her features were rigid, and bespoke no
emotion, her voice calm, and her whole manner self-possessed.

“I have given my heart to my own dear Richard, and though he lives no
more, I will not, I wish not to recall it. Where he lies, there lie
buried my earthly hopes and affections.”

“But,” said he, “you are pining in this captivity—love me, and I will
rescue you. I will fly with you. We will make our home amid the
vine-clad hills of France; I will be thy deliverer and protector, and
happiness shall crown thy days.”

“I am pining,” said Amy, “but it is not captivity that makes me sigh; I
grieve for that which thou canst never restore; happiness has fled from
my sad heart. The world is desolate. This wilderness is lonely, but even
here nature has left witnesses of her loveliness,” said she, pointing to
the flowers at her feet.

“But be my bride,” continued the impassioned lover, “and forget thy
troubles.”

“Never! never! I _cannot_ forget, I _would not_ be thy bride.”

Mordaunt saw in her firm, determined manner, the death-blow to his
bliss; but in her refusal there was something so pensive, so mournfully
beautiful, that it set his soul on fire; he could not be refused—he
begged on, as wretches do for life, for one assurance of her affection,
but in vain. Flatteries, promises and entreaties were alike to her—she
spurned them all. Mordaunt really loved Amy as purely as he was capable
of doing, and could he have gained her by persuasion, the base passions
of his soul might not have been roused from their lethargy; but the
object was too precious to be abandoned until every expedient was
exhausted. Desire prompted him—there was one art untried; principle
deterred him not—he had no honor to forbid. He knew Amy’s shrinking
nature; he had observed her tremble when the Indians approached her, as
if she dreaded contamination.

“Proud girl,” said Mordaunt, “thou must marry me or an Indian.”

“Terrible alternative, but rather the savage than thou, and rather death
than either.”

“Well,” responded the Jesuit, seeming to be satisfied; “thy fair form
will pander to the appetite of Manuki. He will exultingly gloat over his
pale-faced bride. _Thine is a good taste._ Mordaunt or the savage.” The
last sentence fell from his lips livid with anger; but Amy noticed it
not. Had a thunderbolt flashed out from the clear sky above, she would
not have been more terrified than at this disclosure. She had been more
kindly treated than the other captives—but was it for this? Was it that
Manuki, he who had torn her from her home, and murdered her lover,
should press her to his bosom? Once, indeed, the appalling idea, that
she might be forced to become her captor’s wife had crossed her mind,
but it was only a momentary suspicion. Manuki had been gone for weeks on
a hunting excursion, and the thought had never returned until now—but
now all was clear; Mordaunt had confirmed her worst fears; it must be
so—he had all the Indian’s secrets. The announcement was awful. A
ghastly paleness overspread her face, and cold sweat stood upon her
brow. She was a picture of misery and despair. She uttered not a sigh,
but a crushing heart-sickness came over her, and she resigned herself to
her fate. The keen eye of the priest marked the change. He thought the
victim was within his grasp, and slowly advancing with an air of
fiendish triumph, he took her gently by the hand,

“Poor girl,” said he, “while Mordaunt lives thou art safe. Love me, I
will save you from that you so much dread.”

“No,” she returned, “the Indian’s embrace would be less terrible than
thine, thou hollow-hearted seducer.”

This was too much for Mordaunt. The two passions, love and anger, drove
him to desperation. Firmly grasping her arm, he said through his
clenched teeth, “Heretic! thou canst not escape me!”

At this Amy seemed transformed; her eyes rolled wildly in their orbits,
and she quivered with anger. In an instant Manuki and every thing
connected with her captivity was forgotten. One only thought took
possession of her soul, and that was of the priest before her. Hitherto
she had feared and hated, now she despised him. She shook him from her,
as if he had been a viper, saying, as she drew herself up to her full
height, “Back, vile wretch, back! call upon thy saints, count thy beads,
and pray poor souls out of purgatory, but touch me not—I know thee.”

This was said in a tone so imperious and commanding, that Mordaunt,
accustomed as he was implicitly to obey superiors, shrunk involuntarily
back, and Amy, turning slowly around, walked away. But there was so much
of the heroic in her despair, so much loftiness of spirit in her
defiance, that he dared not follow. He knew not why, but there was
something in that poor girl that awed him.

On that night, memorable to York, when so many closed their eyes in
death, Amy and the Indians left Richard Russell senseless, and, as they
supposed, lifeless. But He who holds the springs of life, had ordered
otherwise, and reserved him for future purposes. The blow which
prostrated, stunned him so completely, that it effectually deceived his
enemies. Mr. Wakefield’s house was one of the first attacked, and some
time elapsed before the pillagers had finished their work, and were
ready to fire the village. Richard lay in an oblivious insensibility for
a while; but when partially recovered, he opened his eyes, and discerned
by the flickering firelight the devastation around him. He comprehended
his situation, sprung to his feet, and running out the back way, and
creeping behind fences, he escaped unobserved just as the flames were
blazing out from the neighboring cottages. A large hollow tree stood
near the fence back in the clearing, and Richard bethought himself of
this asylum. He crawled until he reached it, and gave a long leap into
its capacious trunk, sinking into the snow, and heaping it over his
head. By this artifice he saved himself. He staid there long after the
sounds of savage warfare ceased, until he was nearly frozen. At length
exhuming himself, he looked toward the village, but he saw nothing save
the consuming habitations—he heard nothing but their crackling timbers.
He soon ventured out, and was going to warm himself, but when the
scorching heat struck his chilled body, it caused intense pain. This,
and the fear of some lurking foe, induced him to direct his steps toward
the nearest settlement. He ran most of the way, rubbing and striking his
almost torpid limbs, else he had never survived to tell the woful tale
of his sufferings. Half dead from fear and pain, he reached the
neighboring colony. The kind settlers bound up his wounds, and
ministered to his wants. He now, for the first time, began to feel his
loss, and exposure added to injuries and dejection, threw him into a
violent fever. For weeks he lay upon the borders of the grave, the prey
of racking pains and fierce delirium. Sometimes he seemed struggling
with an unseen foe; at others he would call wildly upon Amy, and anon
beckoning, seemed to fancy her by his side, and fall gently to sleep. At
last the disease left him, but he was helpless as an infant. Gradually
he recovered his strength, but months had passed, when he again stept
upon the earth. Health returned to Richard, and with it came thoughts of
Amy. From his best recollection of her it seemed certain she was made a
captive. _She must be redeemed._ But was she alive? Could she outlive
the dangers of the journey she must have taken, when he sunk under the
few trials he endured? Long months had elapsed. Had she been burnt at
the stake, or more probably, had she not been sacrificed to the passions
of the Indians? All these were painful suspicions, which constantly
forced themselves upon his mind. But Hope, the “lover’s staff,” as
Shakespeare truly says, stayed him up. As soon as he was able to ride on
horseback, he started to find Winthrop Wakefield, who was about fifty
miles distant, and the only one of all the inhabitants of York whom he
knew to be alive. By riding slowly he performed the journey in a few
days, and found Winthrop, who was quite overjoyed to see him, and learn
that there was any reason to believe that Amy was still alive. From what
he had gathered from the uncertain reports of the destruction of his
native village, he supposed himself both orphan and friendless. This
seemed confirmed by the fact that no tidings of any of his family later
than that fatal night had ever reached him. Winthrop needed no
persuasion to enter into a plan for rescuing his only sister from her
deplorable condition. It wanted more eloquence to enlist others. All
pitied the misfortunes, and were interested in the deliverance of the
unhappy girl, and the other captives, if yet living: But there were so
many difficulties attending the project, that to most it seemed entirely
impracticable. The general direction of the Abenakis they knew; but it
was a long and difficult expedition; the tribe was large, and scattered
over an extensive tract of country, and they would be a feeble,
unprotected band, without knowing to what particular point to direct
their efforts. It was late in the spring—just the season when it was
absolutely necessary for every man to be upon his little plantation to
provide for the coming year.

But Peter the Hermit was not more indefatigable or importunate than
Richard. To him the crusade was imperative, and the importance of the
end to be secured exceeded the perils of the enterprise. He at last
succeeded in inducing eight men from the different settlements to
accompany Winthrop and himself. Providing for, and arming themselves as
well as possible, they started on their hazardous excursion. It was the
beginning of summer, and nature had on her gayest mantle. Fragrant
blossoms strewed their path, and the groves were vocal with the melody
of birds. As they advanced new objects called forth their admiration.
The weather was fine, game was plenty, and they met with no
insurmountable obstacles. Their march was much less tedious than they
had anticipated. A different history theirs from that of the gloomy
passage made by the captives the winter previous. When they had arrived
at the Penobscot, they were surprised to find a man, whom they soon
ascertained to be one of the captives of York. Escaped from the Indians,
he had traveled many days, living on plants, twigs or roots, without a
gun or knife, with which to procure food or defend himself. The poor man
evinced the greatest joy on meeting them, and offered to return and
guide them near where he conjectured Amy might be, though he had not
seen her during his captivity, and had no positive knowledge concerning
her. With more confidence and renewed courage, they now pressed forward
rapidly, not a little stimulated and incited by the melancholy
narrations of their guide. He led them until they heard the sound of the
waterfall, when he prudently concealed himself, knowing that he would be
a sure mark for the missiles of the vindictive savages.

After the last interview with Mordaunt, Amy was distracted with
tormenting fears. The more she thought the more painful became her
apprehensions of coming evil. She knew she had made a bitter enemy of
the Frenchman, and his lowering visage, and uneasy, troubled appearance,
boded no good. She was each day more strongly convinced of the truth of
the frightful intelligence he communicated. She knew the warriors were
to return during that moon, which was a festival time with the Abenakis,
and she felt assured Manuki would then carry his designs into execution.
Her misery was now complete. Distressing surmises by day, only gave
place to horrid dreams during her unquiet sleep at night. Amy resolved
to attempt an escape. She knew not where to go; she had a vague hope,
but no expectation of reaching the haunts of civilized men. But, thought
she, “I would welcome death in the wilderness, with no covering but the
leaves of the forest, and no memorial save the flowers that would spring
from my dust, rather than life and pollution with the Indians.” In this
state of mind she left old Wiloma’s cabin, as if for her customary walk,
intending never to return. She looked back toward the wigwam where she
had passed so many wretched hours, and breathed a prayer for its old
occupant, whom she had seen for the last time. She had none but feelings
of good will toward Wiloma. She had suffered her to go and come when she
pleased, and treated her kindly in her own way, and Amy felt something
akin to regret on leaving her. She bent her steps toward the waterfall,
for as she often walked there, it would excite no suspicion. It was a
beautiful afternoon in the latter part of June; every thing animate,
save herself, seemed rejoicing. Since the day Mordaunt overtook her in
the woods, she had ventured but a few steps away from their hut. For two
or three days she had missed him, and presumed he had gone to meet the
returning party; nevertheless, she wound her way along, cautiously, and
afraid, starting back from the springing partridge and flying hare,
timorous, as if each rustling leaf portended danger. The cascade which
Amy often visited, was, indeed, a charming sight. It was produced by a
little mountain-stream, which came tumbling impetuously down a ledge of
rocks, and lost itself in foam. By the distance and vehemence of its
fall, rather than the volume of water, it made the hills resound with
its mimic thunder. The predilection which the red men have ever
manifested for the roar of water, was probably the reason why the
principal rendezvous of the Abenakis had been selected within the echo
of this little cataract. Amy seated herself upon the rocks, where she
could look into the sea of bubbles and diamonds below. The roar of the
cataract contrasted strangely with the quiet of every thing around, but
it was in harmony with her own agitated heart, and its dashings drowned
the tumult of her spirit, and calmed its perturbations. She gathered the
rich hanging moss which grew in profusion about her, and felt
irresistibly enchained to the spot. Thus spell-bound by the simple
grandeur of the place, she forgot for a time her perplexities, and even
her original intentions. Ah, little did she think danger or deliverance
were so near.

After leaving their guide, Richard and his party proceeded in the
direction indicated by the sound of the waterfall. Their plan was to
secrete themselves in the cliffs about there, until they could discover
if the chief part of the Indians were away. If so, they would fall upon
the villages and secure the captives; but should the “braves” be there,
they must await some more favorable opportunity. Advancing noiselessly,
they came up within sight of the cascade, when a female figure attracted
their attention. She was loosely clad; a robe of hair, dripping with
spray, hung wildly down her shoulders, and, as she sat on a projecting
rock, seemed the genius of the place. The keen eyes of Richard and
Winthrop failed to recognize Amy. Her dress was devoid of every thing
characteristic of civilization, and they thought her an Abenaki maid;
still, something led them to doubt it. They halted, and Richard proposed
to go forward alone and ascertain who it was. He could not see her face,
but felt assured, as he advanced, that hers was no Indian form. Could it
be Amy, thought he, proceeding less cautiously. Hearing his footsteps
she turned her head. One wild scream of joy, and she was in Richard’s
arms. That meeting! who could describe its smiles and tears? “Absence,
with all its pains, was by that charming moment wiped away.” To Amy it
was a resurrection from the dead; to Richard a long lost jewel found
again. Winthrop’s affectionate heart was not long in comprehending the
scene before him, and following Richard, he embraced and kissed his
sister again and again. Tears of joy choked his utterance as he sobbed
forth his delight. Amy and Winthrop had passed the morn of life joyously
with each other; they “grew together, slept together, learned, played,
ate together,” sharing their childish happiness and wo; and when
Winthrop heard the tidings of his family’s misfortunes, it was the loss
of Amy that brought forth his bitterest tears. This meeting brought back
the associations of days gone by; but the past, as well as the present,
was clouded by the recollection that all those near and dear had passed
away, save only this, “his first love and his last.”

Amy was not mistaken. Mordaunt _had_ gone to meet the returning
Abenakis. They advanced with shoutings, as usual, but the noise of the
cataract overpowered every thing beside, and the unguarded trio were too
much absorbed by their unexpected happiness to think of safety. The
reserve party heard the yellings of the Indians, and foresaw the
threatening danger, but tried in vain to arrest the attention of Richard
and Winthrop. One of them bravely started forward to warn them; but he
had not advanced more than a hundred paces when he saw the Indians
emerging from a little ravine opposite the falls, and sunk down into the
thicket. A shower of arrows was the first premonition of their approach
to the unfortunate dreamers. One bruised Amy’s arm, one entered
Richard’s hat and grazed the top of his head, and one sunk deep into the
breast of Winthrop. “I am killed,” cried he, as the fatal shaft pierced
his vitals. Richard caught the gun that lay at his side, and, fleeing,
discharged it toward their enemies. Amy, following him, ran until the
sounds of the Indians grew faint and distant, and convinced them they
were not pursued.

Poor Winthrop had run but a few steps when he fell dead into the bushes,
unobserved by his forward associates. “Where is Winthrop?” asked Amy, as
soon as recollection returned. The last few moments had too much
happiness crowded into them—evil spirits looked down with malignity,
and a blight came over the scene. But who shall tell the frighted Amy
that Winthrop is no more? They listened—there seemed a howling joined
with the roar of the falls. A thrill of horror passed over Amy as she
thought that her poor brother might have fallen, wounded, into the hands
of their foes. Exasperated at her loss, he would find far less humanity
than she had experienced. Still that moaning sound continued and
increased. Richard climbed a tall tree, thinking he might hear more
distinctly, and perhaps discern what it was. What was his amazement when
he found that his position enabled him to see the Indians—for in their
hasty flight they had not noticed their ascent of a hill. He saw them
crossing the stream below the waterfall. There were a multitude of them
near together, winding their way upon the rocks. Richard had an acute,
far vision; he never exerted it more than now. The howling swelled upon
the breeze—what were they doing? “Oh, Heavens!” murmured he, “it is
Winthrop.” They seemed carrying a man, and occasionally he could
distinguish the face of a white person. He looked again and again—it
was not a red man. But then, thought he, would they be mourning over a
slain enemy? It must be for a captive lost. They were crossing from the
same side on which they had first seen them. There had not been
sufficient time, and there could be no motive for crossing and
recrossing with a dead enemy; more probably they would leave him to the
wolves. But one thing was certain—Amy and himself were in danger, and
would be pursued. He quickly descended, and taking her concealed
themselves in a clump of cedars growing thick and full from the ground.
So close was the covert that a pointer could scarcely have found them.
“Where is Winthrop?” said Amy, imploringly. Richard dared not—could not
tell her his fears, but spoke cheerly, and whispering of love she soon
forgot every thing but her lover and her joy in seeing him once more.
But the more Richard considered upon what he saw from the tree, the more
inexplicable it appeared, and he resolved to relate it to Amy.

“Ah,” said she, “it was Mordaunt, that dead body; and for him they were
mourning. That random shot of yours killed their priest, wicked,
miserable Mordaunt. You, Richard, have avenged my wrongs,” continued
she, bursting into tears at the remembrance of her insult.

“Yes, that accounts for all—their carrying the body, their howling, and
not pursuing us,” said Richard, still dwelling upon the sight and sounds
of the afternoon. “But dry up your tears, my sweet Amy; deliverance and
happiness have come at last,” and he strained her in ecstasy to his
bosom. But the transport of her lover’s embrace soon gave way to
grievous apprehensions for the welfare of her favorite and now only
brother. “We will go and seek him and our party,” said Richard. “The
Indians will scarcely follow us now; the burial of their priest will
occupy them too much to think of pursuit.” It was dim twilight when they
crept forth from their hiding place. They had gone but a little distance
when they heard a whistle, which started Mary, but which Richard
understood was from one of his comrades, and soon they saw a moving
figure near them. This proved to be the man who had vainly endeavored to
warn them of their peril before their attack.

“Have you seen Winthrop?” asked Amy.

“Alas! my poor young woman,” said the kind, honest man, “I hate to
grieve you, if you do not know it, but I saw the dear lad fall by the
way.”

“Tell me where he lies,” said the shocked, terrified girl.

“May be I can,” said the man. “I was looking for some one to come with
me, when I heard you and whistled.”

He led the way and they followed silently, except the exclamations of
grief that ever and anon broke from Amy. They had nearly reached the
falls, the sight of which recalled the few delightful moments spent with
Winthrop, when their leader, stooping down into a bunch of alder,
said—“Poor, brave boy, here he lies.” It was not yet dark; the pale
twilight just revealed his pale, dead face, his garments dyed with
blood, and the murderous arrow still deep in his breast. Amy kissed his
cold, pallid cheeks, and bathed them in tears. “My ransom was too dearly
paid,” said she bitterly. “Why was Winthrop, so happy, so noble and so
young, the one to fall by savage hands, when death would have been sweet
to me, their wretched slave?”

“Even so, Father, for so it seemeth good in thy sight,” ejaculated their
pious companion. “Clouds and darkness are about His throne, but He doeth
all things well. We must not linger here.”

He and Richard bore the dead body, and Amy followed, until they heard a
signal, which told them they were in the vicinity of their party. They
halted, and their friends gathered around them. The object before them
disclosed the tragical history of the afternoon, and they mingled their
tears for one whom they all loved. The full moon rose, and looked down
through the forest trees upon that weeping band. The head of the dead
Winthrop rested upon Amy’s lap. He was even yet beautiful—the lustre of
his eye was gone, but the clustering curls still lay life-like upon his
placid brow, and his features were tranquil as if he were sleeping.
There they sat, surrounding him, “dumb as solemn sorrow ought to be.” At
last a low voice fell upon the air, and prayer arose from that stricken
group—such prayer as only ascends from the dependent, helpless and
bereaved wanderer in the wilderness. Comforted and refreshed, they
removed the fatal dart, brought water from a spring and washed the body
of poor Winthrop, wrapped it in a blanket, and buried his bloody
garments. They resolved to relieve each other by turns, and carry the
body with them until morning.

“I know they cannot hurt his corpse,” said Richard, “but let us take it
out of the enemy’s country. He would have performed the like service for
any of us.”

An affecting sight was that funeral train. That solitary female, bent
like a drooping flower by the tempest of grief that had swept over her,
the chief mourner, followed close behind the dead, borne without coffin
or bier. All that night they walked in slow procession, the stillness
only broken by the occasional sobs of Amy, when her overwhelming grief
burst its barriers afresh. There was a “mournful eloquence” in that mute
sorrow. It bespoke deeper emotion than the clamorous wailings of the
Indians over their dead. The moon sunk behind the hills, and the quiet
stars shed their mild radiance upon them, until their twinklings were
lost in the light of the breaking morn. Weary and sad, they were cheered
by the signs of returning day, and by faith the pilgrims hailed it as
the blest harbinger of the resurrection morn, when, after the long night
of death has passed, the final trump will awake the righteous to “life
immortal in the skies.” Just as the silver clouds began to streak the
east, they reached a beautiful green <DW72>, with but few trees and a
gentle streamlet bounding two sides of it. They stopped—every one
seemed impressed with the fitness of the place for the burial. Amy first
broke the silence, exclaiming, “It is a lovely spot!” but as they
proceeded to lay down their unconscious burthen, she commenced weeping,
and said, “Will you leave Winthrop here?” She uncovered his head and
again pillowed it in her lap, kissing and caressing it, as if,
perchance, she might awaken a smile upon that ghastly face, then
mourning as if her heart would break when attracted toward the grave
they were preparing for him. It was under a spreading oak that they
chose his resting place. The earth around was carpeted with flowers, the
rivulet gliding below, and the place was in unison with the young and
beauteous form they were about to entomb there. They finished their
work—they brought shrubs and flowers and sprinkled in the grave, and
wrapped their cherished one in his rude pall and laid him in the narrow
bed. They knelt around, Richard supporting Amy, who seemed to forget
every thing but that form so soon to be buried forever from her sight.
The same good man who led their supplications the evening before, was
now their chaplain, and his prayer brought holy consolation to the
hearts of the afflicted. He spoke of the blessedness of the dead, who
had passed from the cares of earth and entered “the mansions of rest
above.” He prayed most fervently for the living, who would, if faithful,
soon partake of the same glory. When they arose death seemed disarmed of
his terrors, and Heaven appeared _very_ near. They covered their
companion with boughs and fresh earth, and Amy cheerfully brought
honey-suckles and strewed over his grave. The sun had begun to pour his
mellow beams over the wakening world when, with grateful and subdued
hearts, they bade a final farewell to the burial place of Winthrop.

What though they left him without guard or memorial, alone in the
wilderness! Kind hands had laid him there, prayer had hallowed the spot,
tears of affection bedewed his grave, and guardian spirits would watch
with jealous care his “sleeping dust.” “Rest, thee, my brother, last of
my kindred,” said Amy, sending a lingering look backward.

        “There softly lie, and sweetly sleep,
              Low in the ground,
        The storm that sweeps the wintry sky
          No more’ll disturb thy deep repose,
        Than summer evening’s latest sigh,
              That shuts the rose.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                KUBLEH.


                    A STORY OF THE ASSYRIAN DESERT.


                           BY BAYARD TAYLOR.


    Sofuk, the Sheik of the Shammar Arabs, was the owner of a mare
    of matchless beauty, called, as if the property of the tribe,
    the Shammeriyah. Her dam, who died about ten years ago, was the
    celebrated Kubleh, whose renown extended from the sources of the
    Khabour to the end of the Arabian promontory, and the day of
    whose death is the epoch from which the Arabs of Mesopotamia now
    date the events concerning their tribe. Mohammed Emir, Sheik of
    the Jebour, assured me that he had seen Sofuk ride down the wild
    ass of the Sinjar on her back, and the most marvelous stories
    are current in the desert as to her fleetness and powers of
    endurance. Sofuk esteemed her and her daughter above all the
    riches of the tribe; for her he would have forfeited all his
    wealth, and even Amsha herself.

                                                   LAYARD’S NINEVEH.

    The black-eyed children of the Desert drove
    Their flocks together at the set of sun.
    The tents were pitched; the weary camels bent
    Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon the sand;
    The hunters quartered by the kindled fires
    The wild boars of the Tigris they had slain,
    And all the stir and sound of evening ran
    Throughout the Shammar camp. The dewy air
    Bore its full burden of confused delight
    Across the flowery plain, and while, afar,
    The snows of Koordish Mountains in the ray
    Flashed roseate amber, Nimroud’s ancient mound
    Rose broad and black against the burning west.
    The shadows deepened and the stars came out,
    Sparkling in violet ether; one by one
    Glimmered the ruddy camp-fires on the plain,
    And shapes of steed and horseman moved among
    The dusky tents, with shout and jostling cry,
    And neigh and restless prancing. Children ran
    To hold the thongs, while every rider drove
    His quivering spear in the earth, and by his door
    Tethered the horse he loved. In midst of all
    Stood Shammeriyah, whom they dared not touch—
    The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the Sheik
    A dearer wealth than all his Georgian girls.

    But when their meal was o’er—when the red fires
    Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer bayed—
    When Shammar hunters with the boys sat down
    To cleanse their bloody knives, came Alimar,
    The poet of the tribe, whose songs of love
    Are sweeter than Balsora’s nightingales—
    Whose songs of war can fire the Arab blood
    Like war itself: who knows not Alimar?
    Then asked the men: “O Poet, sing of Kubleh!”
    And boys laid down the knives, half-burnished, saying:
    “Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw—
    Of wondrous Kubleh!” Closer flocked the group,
    With eager eyes about the flickering fire,
    While Alimar, beneath the Assyrian stars,
    Sang to the listening Arabs:

                              “God is great!
    O Arabs, never yet since Mahmoud rode
    The sands of Yemen, and by Mecca’s gate
    That wingéd steed bestrode, whose mane of fire
    Blazed up the zenith, when, by Allah called,
    He bore the Prophet to the walls of Heaven,
    Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk’s wondrous mare:
    Not all the milk-white barbs, whose hoofs dashed flame
    In Bagdad’s stables, from the marble floor—
    Who, swathed in purple housings, pranced in state
    The gay bazars, by great Al-Raschid backed:
    Not the wild charger of Mongolian breed
    That went o’er half the world with Tamerlane:
    Nor yet those flying coursers, long ago
    From Ormuz brought by swarthy Indian grooms
    To Persia’s kings—the foals of sacred mares,
    Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea!

    “Who ever told, in all the Desert Land,
    The many deeds of Kubleh? Who can tell
    Whence came she, whence her like shall come again?
    O Arabs, like a tale of Sherezade
    Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts are tried
    On the hot eve of battle, is her story.

    “Far in the Southern sands, the hunters say,
    Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely palm.
    The well had dried; her fierce, impatient eye
    Glared red and sunken, and her slight young limbs
    Were lean with thirst. He checked his camel’s pace,
    And while it knelt, untied the water-skin,
    And when the wild mare drank, she followed him.
    Thence none but Sofuk might the saddle gird
    Upon her back, or clasp the brazen gear
    About her shining head, that brooked no curb
    From even him; for she, alike, was royal.

    “Her form was lighter, in its shifting grace,
    Than some impassioned Almée’s, when the dance
    Unbinds her scarf, and golden anklets gleam
    Through floating drapery, on the buoyant air.
    Her light, free head was ever held aloft;
    Between her slender and transparent ears
    The silken forelock tossed; her nostril’s arch,
    Thin-drawn, in proud and pliant beauty spread,
    Snuffing the desert winds. Her glossy neck
    Curved to the shoulder like an eagle’s wing,
    And all her matchless lines of flank and limb
    Seemed fashioned from the flying shapes of air
    By hands of lightning. When the war-shouts rang
    From tent to tent, her keen and restless eye
    Shone like a blood-red ruby, and her neigh
    Rang wild and sharp above the clash of spears.

    “The tribes of Tigris and the Desert knew her:
    Sofuk before the Shammar bands she bore
    To meet the dread Jebours, who waited not
    To bid her welcome; and the savage Koord,
    Chased from his bold irruption on the plain,
    Has seen her hoof prints in his mountain snow.
    Lithe as the dark-eyed Syrian gazelle,
    O’er ledge and chasm and barren steep amid
    The Sinjar hills, she ran the wild ass down.
    Through many a battle’s thickest brunt she stormed,
    Reeking with sweat and dust, and fetlock deep
    In curdling gore. When hot and lurid haze
    Stifled the crimson sun, she swept before
    The whirling sand-spout, till her gusty mane
    Flared in its vortex, while the camels lay
    Groaning and helpless on the fiery waste.

    “The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian knew her:
    The Georgian chiefs have heard her trumpet neigh
    Before the walls of Teflis; pines that grow
    On ancient Caucasus have harbored her,
    Sleeping by Sofuk in their spicy gloom.
    The surf of Trebizond has bathed her flanks,
    When from the shore she saw the white-sailed bark
    That brought him home from Stamboul. Never yet,
    O Arabs, never yet was like to Kubleh!

    “And Sofuk loved her. She was more to him
    Than all his snowy-bosomed odalisques.
    For many years she stood beside his tent,
    The glory of the tribe.
                            At last she died.
    Died, while the fire was yet in all her limbs—
    Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she loved.
    The base Jebours—on whom be Allah’s curse!—
    Came on his path, when far from any camp,
    And would have slain him, but that Kubleh sprang
    Against the javelin points, and bore them down,
    And gained the open Desert. Wounded sore,
    She urged her light limbs into maddening speed
    And made the wind a laggard. On and on
    The red sand slid beneath her, and behind
    Whirled in a swift and cloudy turbulence,
    As when some star of Eblis, downward hurled
    By Allah’s bolt, sweeps with its burning hair
    The waste of darkness. On and on, the bleak,
    Bare ridges rose before her, came and passed,
    And every flying leap with fresher blood
    Her nostril stained, till Sofuk’s brow and breast
    Were flecked with crimson foam. He would have turned
    To save his treasure, though himself were lost,
    But Kubleh fiercely snapped the brazen rein.
    At last, when through her spent and quivering frame
    The sharp throes ran, our hundred tents arose,
    And with a neigh, whose shrill excess of joy
    O’ercame its agony, she stopped and fell.
    The Shammar men came round her as she lay,
    And Sofuk raised her head and held it close
    Against his breast. Her dull and glazing eye
    Met his, and with a shuddering gasp she died.
    Then like a child his bursting grief made way
    In passionate tears, and with him all the tribe
    Wept for the faithful mare.
                              They dug her grave
    Amid Al-Hather’s marbles, where she lies
    Buried with ancient kings; and since that time
    Was never seen, and will not be again,
    O Arabs, though the world be doomed to live
    As many moons as count the desert sands,
    The like of wondrous Kubleh. God is great!”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               A MEMORY.


                    BY MRS. JANE TAYLOR WORTHINGTON.


               The shadows are dark on thy soul,
                 And thoughts of the lost will throng,
               For a voice hath vanished from the earth,
                 Sweeter than the spring bird’s song.

               Thou lookest on the still blue sky,
                 And pinest ’mid its peace to be,
               For the grass springeth green on a grave,
                 And the world hath a grief for thee.

               The flowers may be bright as they were,
                 And a fragrance as soft may fling,
               But the verdure hath faded from thy life—
                 And the heart hath but one sweet spring!

I was a transient dweller in a strange land—one distant from my
childhood’s home, and far away from those who knew me first and loved me
best. Gradually, as the vivid excitements of life had surrounded me, as
new ties had sprung up and old hopes faded, I had lost the intimate
knowledge of the welfare or the afflictions of many who had formerly
been familiar friends, and a lengthened separation had produced that
ignorance of the details of their destiny frequently occurring, even
where affection still lingers unaltered. But there are periods when, as
it were, remembrance irresistibly presses upon us, and we all have
seasons when old times and buried associations crowd around us with
inexplicable distinctness—when the actual loses for a while its
absorbing interest, and the past, with all its radiant dreams, its
rainbow illusions, is enchanting reality once more.

I was sitting alone, at the close of a lovely autumn afternoon, before
an open window, my fancy busy with the throng of older associations, and
inattentive to the beautiful view stretching beneath me, strikingly fair
as were its features, now glowing through the crimsoning sunlight. But
something—I know not what, for such glimpses are among the spirit’s
mysteries—had recalled other times, and my soul communed with itself
and was still. The mind has its own restless and concealed creation—its
hidden world of active silentness; and to those who have battled with
the depression attendant on human experience, there is untold luxury in
reveling amid the crowding memories that “longest haunt the heart.” Even
as I sat thus idly reflecting, a paper reached me, sent by some friendly
hand from my early home, and earnestly as I would have read a loving
letter, I pored over the contents of that every-day record. It spoke to
me as a messenger from the absent; each well-known name mentioned in its
columns, held a thousand clustering reminiscences for me; the trivial
local news was like welcome household tidings; and I spoke aloud the old
familiar names I had not heard for years, as if a spell lay in their
sound. Last of all I turned to the page where, side by side, were
chronicled marriages and deaths. The first were those of strangers;
among the last was noticed the final departure of one whom I had once
loved, as we only love in the purity of youth. The announcement was
worded in the usual form with which we herald to the careless world that
a soul has gone to the mysterious future. Nothing was there to arrest
the contemplation of the reader—to speak of inevitable human destiny to
a throbbing human heart—to reveal the agony of mortality, the
bitterness of death, or the trials of the wearily burdened and loving
ones, perchance well-nigh borne down by that one event. “Died at sea,
during her homeward voyage, Mary Vere, aged 24, for three years a
resident missionary in Persia.” And this was all! The ending of the
saddest life I ever knew, the knell of as pure a spirit as was ever
bowed and fettered by earthly cares—this was the cold, brief recording
of the history of a warm nature, that had patiently toiled and
uncomplainingly suffered—that even in its youth had been old in
grief—that had wandered abroad and found no rest, and then, like a
wounded bird, had winged its way homeward to die! Ah, Mary! little
dreamed we, in our sunny days, that mine eyes should ever trace the
chronicle of such a destiny for thee!

We had first met, in childhood, at the country residence of a friend,
where we were both spending the summer months. She accompanied her
mother—her only surviving parent, then slowly declining in the last
stage of consumption. Mary and myself, thrown continually together,
without other companions, speedily became warm friends, though her
pensive, irresolute disposition, had little in common with my natural
impetuous animation. She had been the attendant on suffering from her
earliest recollection, for her father had died after a lingering
illness, during which he had desired the constant enlivenment of his
only child’s society, and her mother had for years been a resigned but
hopeless invalid. All who have closely observed children, are aware of
the influence such things half-unconsciously exert over minds
susceptible to every impression, and it was not strange that one so used
to look on sorrow, should have learned at last to doubt the very
existence of happiness.

Mary was a strikingly beautiful child, with dark, soul-revealing eyes,
bright with the mystical fire of the burning thoughts within. I well
remember their rapturous expression when she was excited by some tale of
heroism—for she was full of a strange, quiet enthusiasm, that wasted
itself in fruitless sympathy with the moral greatness of others, but
shrank with painful distrust from reliance on its own impulsive
guidance. She was quick of feeling, and easily touched by the most
trivial deed of kindness, and her being was too sensitive for her ever
to be thoughtlessly happy. Her look and manner were peculiarly winning
in their tranquil, subdued gentleness; and when this was, occasionally,
though rarely, laid aside for awhile, amid the irrepressible mirth of
childish amusement, her laugh had the ringing, silvery melody which
seems the musical essence of enjoyment. For two successive summers we
met and were inseparably intimate, and then four years elapsed before we
were again together. During this interval Mary’s mother died, and she
went far from my home, to reside with a distant relation. We had, from
our first parting, corresponded regularly, and her letters were, like
herself, poetical and visionary. I know not wherefore, for she wrote no
murmur, but they left the impression that she was not satisfied with her
new home, and my heart yearned to comfort her, to remove from her lot
its loneliness, from her soul its dimness. But she shrunk, with what
then appeared to me morbid delicacy, from all approach to confidence on
this subject, and gradually grew in all things less communicative
regarding herself, as if doubting the response of sympathy. There was
evidently a constraint placed on her spontaneous emotions—a quiet
concealment of her deeper interests, which to me spoke mournfully, and
recalled that silent, dejected consciousness of mental and spiritual
solitude, which is the saddest portion and the most touching consequence
of an orphan’s unshared and melancholy destiny. It was not until long
afterward that I learned the domestic trials and annoyances to which she
had been subjected, and the dreary, joyless routine in which she dragged
on the years that should have been her brightest ones.

It was with many a sweet anticipation of friendly, unreserved
intercourse and affectionate solace—such dreams as are borne by loving
angels to hearts strong in youth and rich in tenderness, that I looked
impatiently forward to my next meeting with my old playmate, for now we
had both glided from childhood to womanhood, and the firm bond was
between us that links those who remember together. I shall never forget
my astonishment when, after our first fond and impetuous greeting, I
turned, with tearful eyes, to mark the alteration time had wrought in
the appearance of my companion. She was calm and composed, almost to
coldness, and there was no visible exhibition of the agitation
struggling beneath, or of all the afflicting reminiscences which I knew
were recalled by looking on my face again. She had grown from the timid,
irresolute girl, to the proud, self-possessed woman, and her manner had
the tranquil air of one aware of her own moral strength, and of the
existence of impulses and feelings too pure and sacred to be lightly
displayed to a world which had nothing in common with them. She was more
beautiful than ever, and I have never seen a being whose polished,
intellectual tranquillity was so faultlessly graceful. She had acquired
the early maturity of mind given in kindness to those who are tried in
their youth; for she had evidently “thought too long and darkly;” her
feelings were still from their intensity, and hers was the reflective
repose which, wearied and desponding, folds its drooping pinions and
sleeps on the bosom of darkness.

Ah, me! it is a dreary thing to feel alone in the world—to have no eye
brighten at our coming, no voice ever ready with its eager welcoming,
nothing to tell us we are beloved, and that fond thoughts and wishes are
around our onward pathway. O, ye who have never felt this worst of
desolations—ye whose best affections bind ye still, who have no link
broken, no yearnings unfulfilled, fold to your hearts the precious
blessing that lives in domestic ties and speaks in household love, and
greet kindly and gently those whose life is lonely—who look around them
and find no answering gaze, who pine with many tears for one glimpse of
the tenderness whose living light is daily yours, who go forward sadly
and silently, with none to love them, save those who are angels in
Heaven.

But there is a romance in every one’s experience, evanescent though it
be; and at length its bright change rose upon Mary’s existence. I heard
she was soon to be married, to a young clergyman, of whom all spoke in
terms of approval and admiration. I sincerely rejoiced at an event so
calculated to relieve at once her perplexities and regrets, and to
summon sweet visions for one who had too long lived without affection in
the world. I wrote to her, expressing all I felt—all my fervent hopes
for her dawning welfare. I longed impatiently for her answer, anxious to
discover if she realized as I wished the brighter career opening before
her; but several weeks wended on, and brought me no reply. It was from
another source I learned the dangerous and protracted illness of her
lover, and a paper, tremulously directed by Mary’s hand, at length
informed me of his death.

Finally a letter came, with its black seal. It was the last farewell of
one who loved me—the last pouring forth of tenderness from a heart that
was broken; and yet, sorrowful as those lines were, they spoke of hopes
unshadowed and immortal—of a pilgrimage troubled and toilsome, but full
of reward, and of all an enthusiast’s delusive anticipations in the
sacred enterprise before her.

She wrote on the eve of her departure from her native land, and with her
singular, acquired shrinking from the avowal of her feelings, she made
no allusion to the connection recently broken; and not a word revealed
the grief that clouded over her fairest prospects and sent her forth an
exile. Frequently afterward I saw her name mentioned as one of
unwavering zeal in her adopted cause, and faithfully devoted to the
laborious responsibilities of her mission. But between herself and her
early friends a gulf seemed to be, perhaps because she did not wish to
revive the over-powering recollections of the past. The absence of all
communication with those once dear to her, must have been intentional,
for she was not one to forget. Three years of this unbroken existence of
care and labor had gone by, and then I had thus accidentally learned the
mournful doom of a being endowed with all earth’s purest impulses, yet
so soon recalled from its wanderings. Hers is no uncommon history—for
many such are on our daily annals. O! give them kind thoughts and words,
for these are the sad heart’s treasured gems!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THIS WORLD OF OURS.


                           BY S. D. ANDERSON.


    This world of ours is beautiful—right beautiful, I ween,
    Are all its mountains tipt with gold, its valleys tinged with green,
    Its thousand laughing streams that sport, half sunshine and half
      shade,
    Like love’s first herald seen upon the rosy cheeked maid.
    The springing flowers are beautiful that open to the day,
    And spread their perfume far and wide along the sunny way;
    The vine-clad rocks and shady dells that bask in beauty’s sheen;
    This world of ours is beautiful—wherever it is seen.

    This world of ours was beautiful in those good olden days
    When knights would battle valiantly for ladies’ smiles and praise;
    When in the list and on the turf, with lance and spear and sword,
    These iron-handed men would meet no bond but plighted word.
    Each castle was a fortress then; each man could bend the bow,
    Or lead the dance, or join the song with voice as soft and low,
    As maidens when at night they hear their lovers’ whispered praise;
    Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good olden days?

    This world of ours was beautiful, when troubadours first sang,
    And castle hall and cottage roof with love and glory rang;
    When high-born damsels clustered round—perhaps to hear of one
    Who joined the armies of the Cross, to fight ’neath Syria’s sun;
    How he had borne the banner high amid the thickest fight,
    And placed his name where it will shine like stars amid the night;
    And then bright eyes would brighter beam, despite the truant tear;
    Oh! was not the world beautiful when minstrelsy was here?

    This world of ours was beautiful when Rome was great and free,
    And proudly shone her mountain-bird, the type of Liberty;
    When Freedom found a resting-place within those trophied walls,
    And circled with her eagle wing its temples and its halls;
    When on the yellow Tiber’s wave the shouts of victory came,
    And pride and glory mingled with the conqueror’s lauded name;
    Then came the proud triumphal march, the heroes crowned with bays;
    Oh! was not the world beautiful in those her palmy days?

    This world of ours was beautiful when Venice ruled the tide,
    And thousand voices rose to greet the old man’s ocean bride;
    The waters gladly danced around the castles old and proud,
    And from the latticed balconies, upon the passing crowd,
    Gleamed forth the light of beauty’s eye—Venetia’s daughters fair,
    With hearts as pure as were the gems that glistened in their hair;
    As bold in danger, true in love, as brave men’s brides should be;
    Oh! was not the world beautiful when Venice ruled the sea?

    This world of ours was beautiful when ’neath Italia’s skies
    Her passion sons, like meteor stars, flashed on their wondering eyes.
    Born in that sunny clime of love, where beauty tints the air,
    And earth and ocean, sun and shade, are more divinely fair;
    No marvel that their minds upgrew full freighted with each tone,
    And Love and Beauty sheltered them within their magic zone,
    Till all they saw and all they felt found in each work a birth;
    Oh! was not the world beautiful when Genius walked the earth!

    This world of ours was beautiful when by fair Arno’s stream
    Sweet Florence lay bedecked with gifts, like beauty in her dream;
    So soft her skies, so mild her suns, such perfume in each breeze,
    Such songs of gladness from her plains, such flowers upon the trees;
    And then her dowered children stood like jewels in her crown,
    Or sun-clad monuments on which Time’s rays come proudly down,
    To gild with beauty e’en decay—but what decay hast thou?
    Oh! was not the world beautiful when Florence decked her brow?

    This world of ours was beautiful in England’s palmy times,
    When merrily from church and tower pealed out the sportive chimes,
    When deep within the greenwood haunts dwelt honest men and free,
    With hearts as gay and minds as light as birds upon the tree;
    Right honestly the day was passed; at night, upon the green,
    All joining in the merry dance the young and old were seen,
    And many a jocund song was sung, and many a tale was told;
    Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good days of old?

    This world of ours was beautiful when valiant men and true
    Spread their white sails, and sought a home beyond the waters blue—
    They found it ’neath the forest old, ’mid wild and savage men,
    Beside the ocean’s rocky shore, within the mountain glen;
    And there was heard the childish laugh, and there the mother’s tone,
    Brought joy and gladness in their sound to many an altar-stone;
    Men toiled and strove, and strove and toiled, through all the weary
      hours,
    Oh! was not the world beautiful, this western world of ours?

    This world of ours was beautiful, when Freedom first awoke,
    Its cradle song the trumpet call, its toy the sabre stroke,
    Full armed, like Pallas, then she stood amid the deadly fight,
    And man by man stood boldly up, and clenched their hands of might,
    The tempest came, no cheek turned pale, no heart unnerved with fear,
    They grasped their swords more tightly then—’twas victory or a bier;
    Long was the struggle, hard the fight, but liberty was won;
    Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath fair Freedom’s sun?

    This world of ours was beautiful in times long, long ago,
    When those good men of earnest souls dwelt with us here below;
    Large was their faith in human kind; their mission seemed to be
    To teach man all his duties here—Love, Faith and Energy,
    To link each man to brother man, with links of firmest steel;
    Then touch the spark of sympathy, and all the shock will feel;
    Stamp the nobility of truth upon each deathless soul;
    Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath such pure control?

    This world of ours _was_ beautiful, and still is so to me;
    Since boyish days I’ve clung to it, with wildness and with glee;
    Have laughed when others talked of wo beneath so fair a sky,
    When time, like flights of singing birds, with melody went by,
    Have roved amid its fairy bowers, and drank of every stream
    Of joy and gladness, till I lived within a blissful dream,
    And life, deep ladened with its fruits, slept like a weary child;
    This world of ours is beautiful as ’twas when Eden smiled?

    This world of ours is beautiful despite what cynics say;
    There must be storms in winter time as well as flowers in May;
    But what of that?—there’s joy in both the sunshine and the shade,
    The light upon the mountain-top, the shadow in the glade.
    Be free of Soul, and firm of Heart, read all life’s lessons right,
    Nor look for roses in the snow, nor sunbeams in the night.
    Up! up! to action, armed with Love, Faith and Energy;
    And then this world is beautiful, as beautiful can be.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               MY SPIRIT.


                           BY HENRY MORFORD.


    Spirit, my own proud spirit!
      We may not sleep in dust,
    There is a path marked out for us
      Of a high and a holy trust;
    Spirit, tried spirit, we were not born,
      To die as cravens die,
    With no proud niche for the wreathed urn,
      No record on the sky.

    We came up life together,
      We have lived but a few short years,
    We have tasted well at the fountain head
      Of human hopes and fears;
    Yet life is young, shall we not be so?
      Shall we not drink and sing
    Of the many glorious hopes that flow
      From many a hidden spring?

    Ay, and the streams shall gather
      In a broad and open sea,
    The laving of whose crystal tide
      Is immortality;
    There shall be a time when we shall rest,
      Some gentle summer even,
    With a calm content, upon its breast,
      And an opening view of heaven.

    Storms will be wild around us
      Before that time shall come,
    And the thunder of blame will fill the air,
      And the voice of praise be dumb;
    Yet as we draw from the glorious stars
      Beauty and light and love,
    Hope’s wing shall gild the closing bars
      That shut us from above.

    Spirit, my own proud spirit,
      Thou wilt not fail me now,
    Thy hands shall wreathe the chaplet well
      And place it on my brow;
    Spirit, tried spirit, we were not born
      To die as cravens die,
    With no proud niche for the wreathed urn,
      No record on the sky.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.


                          BY PROFESSOR FROST.


[Illustration: Sarcoramphus Gryphus, male.]


                 THE CONDOR. (_Sarcoramphus Gryphus._)

This bird is one of the largest of the vultures. The early Spanish
writers on America gave the most exaggerated accounts of its size and
strength; and its true history and dimensions have been only recently
ascertained. The bird was compared with the Roc of the Arabian romance
writers. Acosta says that the bird called Condor is able singly to
eviscerate and devour a whole sheep or a calf. Garcilaso de la Vega
makes them measure 16 feet from tip to tip of the extended wings; he
says their beaks are sufficiently strong to perforate and tear off a
bull’s hide, and to rip out its entrails; and that a single Condor “will
set upon and slay boys of ten or twelve years;” which last exaggeration,
though now exploded, has found its way into our common school
geographies.

Investigation has shown that the Condor is merely a large, perhaps not
the largest of the vultures. “The Condor,” writes Mr. Bennett, “forms
the type of a genus, a second species of which is the _Vultur papa_ of
Linnæus, the king of the vultures of British writers. They are both
peculiar to the New World, but approach in their most essential
characters very closely to the vultures of the Old Continent, differing
from the latter principally in the large, fleshy, or rather
cartilaginous, caruncle which surmounts their beaks, in the large size
of their oval and longitudinal nostrils, placed almost at the very
extremity of the cere; and in the comparative length of their quill
feathers, the third being the longest of the series. The most important
of these differences, the size and position of their nostrils, appears
to be well calculated to add to the already highly powerful sense of
smell possessed by the typical vulture, and for which the birds have
been almost proverbially celebrated from the earliest ages. There is
also a third species, the Californian vulture, two noble specimens of
which, the only pair in Europe, are preserved in the London Zoological
Society’s Museum, rivaling the Condor in bulk, and agreeing in every
respect with the generic characters of the group, except in the
existence of the caruncle, of which they are entirely destitute.

“In size the Condor is little, if at all, superior to the Bearded
Griffin, the Lämmergeyer of the Alps, with which Buffon was disposed
conjecturally to confound it, but to which it bears at most but a
distant relation. The greatest authentic measurement scarcely carries
the extent of its wings beyond fourteen feet, and it appears rarely to
attain so gigantic a size. M. Humboldt met with none that exceeded nine
feet, and was assured by many credible inhabitants of the province of
Quito that they had never shot any that measured more than eleven. The
length of a male specimen somewhat less than nine feet in expanse was
three feet three inches from the tip of the beak to the extremity of the
tail; and its height, when perching with the neck partly withdrawn, two
feet eight inches. Its beak was two inches and three quarters in length,
and an inch and a quarter in depth when closed.

“The beak of the Condor is straight at the base, but the upper mandible
becomes arched toward the point, and terminates in a strong and well
curved hook. The basal half is of an ash brown, and the remaining
portion, toward the point, is nearly white. The head and neck are bare
of feathers, and covered with hard, wrinkled, dusky reddish skin, on
which are scattered some short brown or blackish hairs. On the top of
the head, which is much flattened above, and extending some distance
along the beak, is attached an oblong firm caruncle or comb, covered by
a continuation of the skin which invests the head. This organ is
peculiar to the male. It is connected to the beak only in its anterior
part, and is separated from it at the base in such a manner as to allow
a free passage of the air to the large oval nostrils, which are situated
beneath it at that part. Beyond the eyes, which are somewhat elongated,
and not sunk beneath the general surface of the head, the skin of the
neck is, as it were, gathered into a series of descending folds,
extending obliquely from the back of the head over the temples, to the
under side of the neck, and there connected anteriorly with a lax
membrane or wattle, capable of being dilated at pleasure, like that of
the common turkey. The neck is marked by numerous deep parallel folds,
produced by the habit of retracting the head, in which the bird indulges
when at rest. In this position scarcely any part of the neck is visible.

“Round the lower part of the neck both sexes, the female as well as the
male, are furnished with a broad white ruff of downy feathers, which
forms the line of separation between the naked skin above and the true
feathers covering the body below it. All the other feathers, with the
exception of the wing coverts, and the secondary quill feathers, are of
a bright black, generally mingled with a grayish tinge of greater or
less intensity. In the female the wing coverts are blackish gray; but
the males have their points, and frequently as much as half their
length, white. The wings of the latter are consequently distinguished
from those of the female by their large white patches. The secondary
quill feathers of both sexes are white on the outer side. The tail is
short and wedge shaped. The legs are excessively thick and powerful, and
are  of a blueish gray, intermingled with whitish streaks. Their
elongated toes are united at the base by a loose but very apparent
membrane, and are terminated by long black talons of considerable
thickness, but very little curved. The hinder toe is shorter than the
rest, and its talon, although more distinctly curved, is equally wanting
in strength, a deficiency which renders the foot much less powerful as
an organ of prehension than that of any other of the large birds of the
raptorial order.”

The Condor is found in various parts of the vast mountain chain on the
western border of the American continent, but it is most common in Peru
and Chile. Its habitation is most frequently at an elevation of 10,000
or 15,000 feet above the level of the sea, and there these birds are
seen in groups of three or four, but never in large companies like the
true vultures. Some of the mountain peaks bear names which in the Indian
tongue mean Condor’s Look-out, Condor’s Roost and Condor’s Nest. Two of
them will attack a vicuna, a heifer or even a puma, and overcome it by
repeated strokes of their beaks and talons. When gorged, says Humboldt,
they sit sullen and sombre on the rocks; and when thus overloaded with
food they will suffer themselves to be driven before the hunter rather
than take wing. They do not attack men or even children, although it is
admitted that two of them would be a match for a powerful man without
weapons. Sir Francis Head gives an amusing account of a contest between
one of his Cornish miners and a gorged Condor, which lasted an hour, and
terminated in the escape of the bird.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            EDITOR’S TABLE.


                          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.

MY DEAR JEREMY.—I presume you are shaking the spray from your locks,
and are over head and ears in love with salt water, while I am among the
weeping willows in these days of hydrophobia, when water—that we cannot
get at—provokes a feeling of madness. You glory in a proprietorship
over which your plough passes, turning up soil that is all your own,
while the nodding grain, golden and pulpy, ripens in your absence for
your abundant granaries, while I cultivate this, my small patch, “a
tenant at will,” whose harvest of gleaning would be blown to the winds
without a painstaking care and watchfulness. You are the lord of acres,
while I wander around forbidden enclosures, and look upon many a Castle
of Indolence longing but for a yard of ground all my own, upon which to
plant a firm foot, to sound the challenge and cry—war! The very
utterness of poverty is grandeur and riches, compared to the feeling of
having the pent-up energies which have found a full outlet in
enterprise, growing fiery in inaction, and panting for room, continually
battling at the heart, and knocking in vain for freedom and exercise.
But if you have ever felt the utter insignificance of wealth and high
advantage combined with indolence and inactivity, and forever
do-nothingness, before the godlike attributes of persevering energy and
indomitable will, you have felt the pride of manhood in its full force
and power. You have reaped in anticipation the rewards of high courage,
of manly resolve, of personal industry and victory. You have enjoyed in
your day-dreams the full fruition of assured success—and awoke to hope
on, to resolve and to conquer. Consider me, my dear Jeremy, as winding
myself up for the next seven years, after having run down—as having
stopped, if you please, to blow; and while you are luxuriating in the
surf, and shaking the briny water from your shoulders, as throwing off
surfdom, with a defiant air, and a determined purpose of taking a few
strides forward, to meet that “good time a coming.”

Who does not love the sound of the breakers at Cape May, who has once
listened to their wild melody? What a chance for love-making is the
evening stroll upon the beach. On the one side the rugged bank, on which
the white houses sit like a flock of wild-birds suddenly alighted, and
the faint twinkle of rush-like lights dancing like fire-flies in the
night air; on the other, the wild waters—sad emblem of the wild unrest
of the human heart—their huge waves reflecting from their sides the
quiet light of the moon, while the white-caps come trooping in, like a
squadron of dragoons, with their plumes dancing, and a roar, as if the
tread of an army were near, and a thousand park of artillery were
booming in the distance. The music of rich voices hushed amid the
uproar—the light of kind eyes sparkling with a subdued eloquence—the
loved face impressively thoughtful, indicating that God has laid his
hand upon the heart, and whispered amid the tumult of its worldly
thoughts, “be thou still!”

It was my good fortune to see both Cape May and the Falls of Niagara,
for the first time, by moonlight, and whether the hush of evening
naturally associated in the mind with twilight, deepened the impressions
of awe and wonder with which I gazed upon them, or to the greatness of
the novelty was added through the misty twilight, a dim religious
sanctity to the impression, I know not, but they have never since
charmed me so much in the broad glare of day, as in the evening, with a
quiet moon looking placidly down upon the flashing foam, seemingly
rebuking the uproar.

The bathers, too, at mid-day, screaming like sea-birds amid the surf,
with their many- garments dancing amid the foam—beauty floating
upon the breakers as calmly as if reposing upon the virgin snow of her
own pillows. Manhood breasting the billow, and riding securely far out
where the huge porpoise rolls lazily along, while tiny feet go patting,
and tiny hands go clapping along the shore, the very idleness and luxury
of the sport impressing upon the beholder a sense of enjoyment, a
feeling of relief from the work-day world, a consciousness of manhood
and freedom above the value of dollars—a heart eased of the
oppressiveness of brick and mortar, and open to a sense most acute of
the very luxury of being idle.

If Philadelphians had made half as much of Cape May as the New Yorkers
have of Saratoga, or the Yankees have of Newport, its visiters from all
parts of the country would number tens of thousands; but I question
whether its present character of being Philadelphia in holyday dress,
let loose for a romp, does not add much to its charms. The relief from
absurd ceremony, where every face is familiar. The easy, unrestrained
life, the freedom of remark and retort, and the exuberant gayety of the
whole company, add to the enjoyment of the place, and make it a home in
a family circle greatly enlarged and full of good humor.

But, my dear Jeremy, you must have observed that at Cape May we got
along comfortably, without the towering and overshadowing influence of
the “upper ten thousand,” which stands up to be worshiped by the people
without money or _brains_. It might be a serious question, how long a
man may exist, with great self-complacency, without _heart_, or
intellect, yet with a purse well lined with gold—regarding the world of
men and of matter as especially made for him—the lord paramount of the
soil, and of the sinews, which of right belong to his betters. Cannot
some one curious in nature and philosophy, analyze one of this genus,
and tell the world how the appearance of humanity can be preserved
without a single attribute of it, existing life-like and active in his
breast. The whole effort of this air-drawn animal appears to be to rise,
to get up in society, to overlook the pigmies who toil and sweat for
bread—to loose his identity in the upper circle, that he may forget his
grandfather, the soap-boiler, upon whose bubbles he has been shot
upward—as we expel a pea from an air-gun. Prick the bubble, and the
thing vanishes into air, without leaving behind him a trace of existence
of the value of a pepper-corn, and _so_,

              ——“Grows dim and dies
        All that this world is proud of.”

The gifts of GOD are equal. He sheds upon us all the same glorious
sunlight, and gives us the same heritage of dew and showers. The air has
no monopolist, but its balmy odors as kindly kiss as well the beggar as
the king. The mountain stream and the mountain flower acknowledge no
master but the hand that formed them. The very beast that roams over the
boundless prairies, and tosses his wild mane to the breeze, snuffs in an
atmosphere sanctified by its freeness. God, over all his own works sheds
the benignant light of universal benevolence and goodwill. The hues of a
heaven-tinted charity blend kindly together the world over—the laws of
a love undistinguishing are impressed upon all nature.

It is _man_—but a handful of his mother earth—that wrongs her kind
bosom, and says to his brother, stand aside, the heritage is mine—we
are not equals in birth-right. I claim by pre-emption a supremacy which
makes me thy master. The very purple I wear, when contrasted with the
faded russet of thy poor garb, makes me thy lord. The jeweled rings of
these fingers clasp thy neck, and make thee bondsman. Thou shalt go at
my bidding and come at my call. Thou shalt toil until thy weary bones
crack, to pamper to my luxurious desires! Thou shalt not even _think_
but at thy peril! By the high authority of what is called LAW, thou art
enslaved!

By this right of _law_, how many wrongs are done, which the cold eye of
day gazes on in silence, whilst hearts wrung with anguish weep on
unpitied. This strong arm, when its fist clutches dollars, how terrible
is it in its willingness to crush and overwhelm the unsheltered, the
unbefriended, the poor, unpitied victim. But if a breast sparkling with
diamonds interposes, how palsied and feeble becomes the blow—_the
justice, the equity of the law_, how considerate and kind!

Yet law, according to the lawgiver, “is the perfection of reason,” which
must account, I suppose, for the difficulty which the learned counsel
experiences in expounding it to an “intelligent jury.” The poor thief
therefore remains in profound ignorance of the equity of the decision,
by which he is consigned to three years of penitence is solitary
confinement, while his gayer brother in crime dashes through the streets
with his carriage and scarlet housings, basking in the worship of
wondering and approving eyes, _his_ penalty for having started a bank,
_and stopped it_, by which thousands of poor men lost the dollars which
paid for the equipage, and furnished the viands for his pampered
appetite, the meanest of which would have driven starvation from their
doors. He is beyond the law. Let an hundred operatives agree in thinking
that the wretched pittance for their daily labor will not suffice to
feed the mouths of a half dozen famishing children, the law has its kind
and protecting eye upon them at once—and if they _dare_ express so
infamous a sentiment, it immediately takes care of them as conspirators.
But the masters of an hundred mills may openly avow their determination
to close their doors and send starvation into a whole village, the law
instantly closes its watchful eye, and dozes over the scene, deeming it
right and proper that capital should be indulged in its absurdities.

Should John, upon the box of a gentleman’s carriage, come in contact
with the hub of the humble cab of Jehu, and thereby disfigure the
carriage and irritate the temper of the great owner, his honor, who may
have had _dealings_ with him, deals with Jehu, who is glad to get off
for his five dollars, and thinks it a kindness that he is not imprisoned
for the intolerable crime of John not giving an inch of the road to a
vulgar cabman. When diamonds are trumps, take care of knaves.

It is a fiction of law—for even “perfect reason” has her fictions, it
seems—that people who are standing at a distance in a riot, are as
culpable as those who are throwing the brickbats—and it is certain they
are the more likely to be killed, probably from a humane feeling of not
wishing to irritate those who are too near—and it is for this reason,
we presume, that after the riot is over, a number of citizens, against
whom nothing can be proved, are arrested, to assert the majesty of the
law, while the real rioters and murderers are perfectly unknown to the
police. The law being discriminative thus administered, as well as
stringent when necessary.

Great names, which provoke a riot, or lack the nerve and manliness to
suppress it, have an overshadowing influence, which awes even the
majesty of the law—it would be indecorous in the law to meddle with
greatness, even when it is impertinent.

“La-w me!” exclaims an old lady, who has upset the contents of her
frying-pan into the fire. But the poor soul little knows the calamity
she invokes. It is doubtful whether fire and frying-pan would not
follow, if her request were complied with. The law being at times both
expensive and speedy.

        “_So wags the world along._”

But, my dear Jeremy, I have rambled somewhat in this letter, so without
more ado, I’ll CUT this.

                                                             G. R. G.

[Illustration: “THE UPPER TEN” AND “THE LOWER FIGURE.”]


                        LENDER’S BOOKS.—NO. II.

By my right hand, Graham! by my right hand, which for —— odd years
hath traveled and travailed over much foolscap, (and under much
fool’s-cap quoth the fiend,) I am more and more convinced of the truth
of the words of the preacher, “Vanity of vanities! all is vanity!” I
have just laid aside “Mardi,” (the gift of my warm-hearted friend, L. G.
C., of the Knickerbocker,) it lies atop of old Du Bartas and some
withered budlets of forget-me-not, and in like manner _I_ sit with a few
fragmentaries of old literature at bottom for my _primiter_, some tender
remembrances for my _secondary_, and for the _alluvial_ stratum of my
pericranicks (as gentle Charles hath it) these fripperies by the Author
of Typee. Confound the book! there are such beautiful Aurora-flashes of
light in it that you can almost forgive the puerilities—it is a great
net-work of affectation, with some genuine _gold_ shining through the
interstices.

Let us turn over the leaves a little—hear ye now—

    “And what to me thus pining for some one to page me a quotation
    from Burton on Blue-Devils.” V. I. p. 15.

What is _paging_ a quotation?

    “Anoint the ropes and they will travel deftly through the subtle
    windings of the blocks.” p. 33.

Why not say—“apply some oleaginous substance to the ambulatory cords,
and prevent the inarticulate dissonance caused by the inharmonious
attrition of the flaxen fibres against the ligneous particles?”

But this passage I especially commend:

    “Good old Arcturion! Maternal craft, that rocked me so often in
    thy heart of oak, I grieve to tell how I deserted thee on the
    broad deep. (‘Maternal craft—maternal old oaken-hearted
    craft—maternal old oaken-cradle hearted craft’ is good!) So far
    from home, with such a motley crew, so many islands, whose
    heathen babble _echoing through thy Christian hull must have
    grated harshly on every carline_.” p. 38.

“Many there are who can fall,” says Martinus Scriblerius, “but few can
arrive at the felicity of falling gracefully.”

How beautifully he embellishes the most commonplace ideas:

    “Among savages, severe personal injuries are, for the most part,
    accounted but trifles. When a European would be taking to his
    couch in despair _the savage would disdain to recline_.” p. 96.

    “At Ravavai I had stepped ashore some few months previous; and
    now was embarked on a cruise for the whale, _whose brain
    enlightens the world_!” p. 1.

Jarl steals a keg of tobacco—

    “From the Arcturion he had brought along with him a small
    half-keg, at bottom impacted with a solitary layer of sable
    Negrohead, fossil-marked, like the primary stratum of the
    geologists.” (Ahem! primary stratum _fossil_-marked!) p. 68.

He surmiseth that Samoa likes to get swipesy—

    “Nor did I doubt but that the Upoluan, like all Polynesians,
    much loved getting high of head; and in that state would be more
    intractable than a Black Forest boar.”

Sometimes he breaks into hexameter:

        “In the verdant glen of Ardair, far in the silent interior of
          Amma,
         Shut in by hoar old cliffs, Yillah the maiden abode.”

This reminds one of Evangeline—

        “In the Acadian land, on the shores of the basin of Minos,
         Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand Pré
         Lay in the fruitful valley.”

Let us hexametrize another passage, and we will have done with these
fopperies:

        “’Tis no great valor to perish sword in hand, and bravado
         On lip; cased all in panoply complete. For even the alli-
         Gator dies in his mail, and the sword-fish never surrenders.
         To expire, mild-eyed, in one’s bed, transcends the death of
           Epam-Inondas.” p. 46.

I have done with Mardi—one is reminded in reading it (after Typee) that
“there is as much skill in making dikes as in raising mounts—there is
an art of _diving_ as well as flying,” and who knows but what the
author, after attaining a comfortable elevation by his former works, may
not have made this plunge _on purpose_, as men do who climb to the top
of a high mast that they may dive the deeper.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Now do those crushed, withered budlets of forget-me-not, peeping from
under the book covers, remind me of those beautiful hope-flowers that
opened their pale blue eyes in the morning of my life, and bloomed and
drooped—and passed away—

          “How fair was then the flower—the tree!
           How silver-sweet the fountain’s fall!
         The soulless had a soul to me!
           My life its own life lent to all!

        “The universe of things seemed swelling
           The panting heart to burst its bound,
         And wandering fancy found a dwelling
           In every shape, thought, deed and sound.
         Germed in the mystic buds, reposing,
           A whole creation slumbered mute;
         Alas! when from the buds unclosing,
           How scant and blighted sprung the fruit!”

Alas! alas! young life, and young hopes are not perennials; even in the
lofty conservatories and crystal hot-houses of wealth and station they
flush into a sickly existence, and then perish like the meanest flower
by the wayside. Did it ever strike you how much we are alike in this
particular? Every one looking back upon his past life as the shipwrecked
merchant looks upon the broad sea that hath swallowed up irretrievable
treasures. Do you believe that if one had the power of investing his new
created babes with a course of life, that he would say, “Do as I have
done—pass through my joys and my afflictions, and in the experience of
my experience you will be happy!” Do you believe that any one—even the
wisest, the purest, the best could say this? By my faith, I do not! And
the great focal-glass of a common destiny brings down prismatic,
many-hued humanity to a point hue, as a convex lens gathers and
concentrates prism-bundles of light and heat from the broad disk of the
sun. Human suffering is the chord universal that swells from the
vibration of numberless strings.

        “Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy;
        This vast and universal theatre
        Contains more woful pageants than the scene
        Whereon we play—”

But, “Mardi” and forget-me-nots have spoiled three good sheets of
foolscap, and I fear that I am too much i’ the sentimental vein; let me
therefore conclude with quoting a sweet little piece of philosophy, and
lay aside these _lender’s books_ for a period.

            “A swallow in the spring
        Came to our granary, and ’neath the eaves
        Essayed to make a nest, and then did bring
            Wet earth, and straw, and leaves.

            “Day after day she toiled,
        With patient heart; but ere her work was crowned
        Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,
            And dashed it to the ground.

            “She found the ruin wrought,
        But, not cast down, forth from the place she flew,
        And, with her mate, fresh earth and grasses brought,
            And built her nest anew.

            “But scarcely had she placed
        The last soft feather on its ample floor,
        When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste,
            And wrought the ruin o’er.

            “But still her heart she kept,
        And toiled again; and last night, hearing calls,
        I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept
            Within the earth-made walls.

            “What truth is here, O man!
        Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn!
        Have clouds o’ercast thy purpose, trust or plan?
            _Have_ FAITH _and struggle on_!”

    Here endeth the second fifth.—RICHARD HAYWARDE.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Characteristics of Literature. Illustrated by the Genius of
    Distinguished Men. By Henry T. Tuckerman. Phila.: Lindsay &
    Blakiston. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Tuckerman has written many interesting books, but we think the
present volume is his most attractive if not his best production. It is
characterized by his usual refinement of analysis, wealth of
illustration, felicity of allusion, and mellow richness of style, while
in the range it evinces over widely varied provinces of thought and
character, it indicates more versatility than any of his other
compositions. The volume includes a discussion and representation of
eleven departments of literature, through a searching examination of as
many authors, each of whom is taken as the exponent of a class. Thus
Channing stands for the Moralist, Sir Thomas Browne for the Philosopher,
Swift for the Wit, Shenstone for the Dillettante, Charles Lamb for the
Humorist, and Macaulay for the Historian. The selection of men to
illustrate the subjects is, of course, not free from cavil. We should
say that Burke was not exactly the man to stand as an expression of the
Rhetorician, for his rhetoric, though matchless of its kind, is
secondary to his philosophy. He appears to us, even as analyzed by Mr.
Tuckerman, in the character of a profound, vigorous and vital thinker,
and is no more a rhetorician, in any exclusive sense of the term, than
Bacon, Hooker, Taylor, or even Milton. Where style is the _incarnation_
of thought, the visible image of the mind that employs it—and this is
its nature in all the greatest authors—the word rhetoric is hardly
applicable to it. Macaulay is more emphatically the rhetorician than
Burke.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Select Comedies; Translated from the Italian of Goldoni, Giraud
    and Nota. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

A volume like the present, giving the English reader a good idea of the
spirit and form of Italian comedy, has long been wanted, and we have
little doubt that it will be successful. To the lover of the English
drama the plays may seem to lack solid character and unctuous humor; but
they are still distinguished by a fertility in the invention of
ludicrous incidents and positions, and a mischievous quick-footed spirit
of intrigue, that no person with a sense of the comic can read them
without exhilaration. The translations are, we believe, from an American
pen, and appear to be well executed. Six complete comedies are given,
and the translator has been fortunate in his selections both in respect
to merit and variety. The two comedies of Goldoni are alone richly worth
the price of the book.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Kaloolah, or Journeyings to the Djebel Kumri. An Autobiography
    of Jonathan Romer. Edited by W. S. Mayo, M. D. 1 vol. 12mo._

It is something strange for a writer to present himself for the first
time as a candidate for public favor with a volume indicating so much
power and originality of mind, and such practiced talents of composition
as the present. The book is a regular tale of adventures, as interesting
as exciting incidents racily told can make it, and inweaved with the
story are many graphic descriptions of scenery and keen delineations of
character. Considered in respect to the originality of its conception,
the new vein of romance it opens, and the admirable method of the
narration, we think the volume cannot fail to attract the attention
which it will certainly reward.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Earth and Man: Lectures on Comparative Physical Geography,
    in its Relation to the History of Mankind. By Arnold Guyot.
    Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this valuable Manual is Professor of Physical Geography
and History in the same institution to which Agassiz is attached, and
originally delivered the present lectures in French to an audience in
Boston. They have been elegantly translated by Professor Felton, of
Harvard University, and are very warmly recommended by the New England
Savans for their union of profundity and simplicity. The subject is one
of the most important in the whole range of science, and is one in which
all can take an interest, and all obtain information, as popularized by
Professor Guyot. Agassiz says of the book and its author: “Having been
his friend from childhood, as a fellow student in college, and as
colleague in the same university, I may be permitted to express my high
sense of the value of his attainments. Mr. Guyot has not only been in
the best school, that of Ritter and Humboldt, and become familiar with
the present state of the science of our earth, but he has himself in
many instances drawn new conclusions from the facts now ascertained, and
presented most of them in a new point of view. Several of the most
brilliant generalizations developed in his lectures, are his; and if
more extensively circulated, will not only render the study of geography
more attractive, but actually show it in its true light, namely, as the
science of the relations which exist between nature and man, throughout
history.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Life of Maximilien Robespierre. With Extracts from his
    Unpublished Correspondence. By G. H. Lewes. Phila.: Casey &
    Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this biography is but little known in this country, and
has hardly received his deserts from the critics on either side of the
water. He is a clear, close, vigorous thinker, an accomplished scholar,
and a nervous, condensed and brilliant, though slightly aphoristic
writer. Though his ideas and style occasionally betray the influence of
Carlyle, and though his English nature has been a little modified by an
infusion of French metaphysics, he generally appears as an independent
as well as a forcible thinker. In the present volume, though he appears
largely indebted to the works of Lamartine, Michelet, and Louis Blanc,
he has still produced a book original in the main, and has been
especially happy in steering a middle course between those writers who
have represented Robespierre as a monstrosity of malignity and cruelty,
and those who have tried hard to make him appear a persecuted and
virtuous patriot, whose most questionable acts sprung from exalted
motives. The reader closes the book with the feeling that he has gained
a better insight into the character of the immortally infamous
revolutionary leader than he had before. The letters of Robespierre,
which the author obtained in MS. from Louis Blanc, and the extracts from
his speeches in the Convention, add much to the interest and value of
the volume.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _History of Maria Antoinette. By John S. C. Abbott. With
    Engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

This is another of Mr. Abbott’s beautiful series of pocket histories,
having for its subject a story so exciting and so mournful that the
novelist or dramatist could hardly treat its incidents with more
pathetic effect than the chronicler who confines himself to the literal
facts. The characteristic merit of Mr. Abbott’s books is the knowledge
they display not merely of their subjects but of the exact nature of the
ignorance of the general class of readers, and this merit is well
illustrated in the present volume. The French Revolution is to most
minds a confused mass of terrible events without any connecting
principles; but few can read its history, as far as it is presented in
Mr. Abbott’s simple and orderly narrative, without obtaining clearer
ideas of the whole matter.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A History of American Baptist Missions in Asia, Africa, Europe
    and North America. By William Gammell, A. M., Professor in Brown
    University. Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo._

We like the present volume for the indication it gives of the rich
materials for history and biography which lie almost unused in the
various records of Christian missions. All the heroic qualities
developed in man and woman by religious principles and religious
passions, are visible in those records to the initiated eye, but they
are commonly so submerged in the affected phraseology and sectarian
jargon of mediocre compilers, that they are commonly set aside as vulgar
and fanatical by the general reader. Professor Gammell has written a
volume in which all the worn and wasted terms of the pedants of cant are
discarded, and the subject, as far as the Baptist missions are
concerned, is treated in a style intelligible to all who have any
perception of beauty, holiness or heroism. The work, apart from its
theological character, is one of great interest and excellence.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Sacred Rhetoric; or Composition and Delivery of Sermons. By
    Henry J. Ripley. Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo._

This treatise should be carefully pondered by all clergymen who have a
contempt for the graces and proprieties of composition, arising from
their apprehension of being interesting to their congregations.
Professor Ripley has produced a searching treatise, in which, with a
true critical remorselessness, he lays bare the defects of arrangement
and composition most likely to beset the productions of his profession,
and gives a clear statement of those principles which should guide the
brain and pen of the preacher. The volume also includes Dr. Ware’s
admirable “Hints on Extemporaneous Preaching.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _History of Wonderful Inventions. Illustrated with numerous
    Engravings on Wood. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The publishers of this elegantly printed volume have included it in a
series called the Boy’s Own Library, but its interest and value are
hardly confined to youth. It is a book containing carefully written
accounts of the invention of the Mariner’s Compass, Gunpowder, Clocks,
Printing, the Telescope and Microscope, the Steam-Engine, the Electric
Telegraph, and many other wonderful events in the history of the
intellect. We never read a volume of this sort without giving a new and
vivid impression of the grandeur of human nature, considered as
possessing the powers of creation and combination.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Manual of Ancient Geography and History. By Wilhelm Putz.
    Translated from the German. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol.
    12mo._

Professor Green, of Brown University, is the American editor of this
valuable manual, and his name is a guarantee that it has been revised
and corrected with scrupulous care. To the general student of history
the volume will be of great service, as it maps out the whole ground of
historical study, gives the names of the authorities for the history of
each nation, and in the smallest possible space consistent with
dearness, presents a view of the history, geography, religion,
literature and art of all the ancient nations, European and Asiatic. The
work indicates an erudition as minute as it is vast.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Spy, a Tale of the Neutral Ground. By the Author of The
    Pilot. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

Longevity is no characteristic of novels, and Old Parr is the last name
which could be applied to a hero of fiction. The romances which flare in
the parlors of one year are pretty sure to repose in the cemeteries of
the next. To this empirical law, Cooper’s Spy is one of the honorable
exceptions. It at once attained popularity, and it has kept it,
surviving all those mutations of the public taste which, since its first
appearance, have consigned so many brilliant fictions to oblivion. As an
old friend in a new dress, we welcome this volume. Its value is enhanced
by the revision of the author, and the addition of an introduction and
notes.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A Visit to Monasteries in the Levant. By the Hon. Robert
    Curzon. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this volume is careful to write himself down an
“honorable” on his title page, and the whole tone of the composition
evidences that self-satisfaction which is so apt to accompany social
position. Though the reader is inclined to be prejudiced against an
amateur author who assumes so confident a tone, the feeling wears away
as he reads the volume. It contains a great deal of information
pleasantly told, has some capital sketches of curious character, and
ranks among the sprightliest of recent books of travels. The American
edition is illustrated by numerous wood-cuts.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Adventures of Captain Bonneville, U. S. A., in the Rocky
    Mountains and the Far West. Digested from his Journal and
    Illustrated from various other sources. By Washington Irving.
    New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This delightful work forms the tenth volume of the revised edition of
Irving’s works, and has for its subject a theme especially interesting
at the present time, when more than ever, “westward the course of empire
takes its way.” We hardly know of a more felicitous partnership than
that of Bonneville and Irving—one to perform the deeds of adventure
which the other records.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Life in the Far West. By George Frederic Ruxton. New York:
    Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this volume died at an early age, but not before he had
partly fulfilled the destiny to which his talents and adventurous spirit
pointed. “His adventures in Mexico and the Rocky Mountains,” and the
present work, indicate not merely the courage and enthusiasm of a
traveler, but much felicity in transferring to other minds the objects
and incidents which filled his own.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Pottleton Legacy._

This is the title of a novel, by Albert Smith, published in the cheap
form of the present day, by Carey & Hart. It is a pleasant, readable,
and interesting work, and will be found caustic as well as funny. The
characters are well sustained and the plot well developed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
Anaïs Toudouze
LE FOLLET
_Boulevart_ S^{t}. Martin, 61
_Toilettes de Longchamps_,
_Chapeaux de M^{me}._ Baudry, _r. Richelieu, 87—Plumes et fleurs_ Chagot
  _ainé, r. Richelieu, 81,_
_Robes de_ Camille—_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. Choiseul 2^{bis.}_
Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    YES, LET ME LIKE A SOLDIER FALL


                  AS SUNG, IN THE OPERA OF “MARITANA,”

                             BY MR. FRAZER.

                      MY FATHER HE WAS NOT A KING.

               WRITTEN AND ADAPTED TO THE FOLLOWING AIR,

                           BY E. R. JOHNSTON.

[Illustration]

    My father, he was not a king,
    A soldier brave was he.
    He fell responding to the call
    That made his Country free.
    Yes! let me like a Soldier fall,
    Upon some open plain.
    This breast expanding for the ball,
    To blot out ev’ry stain.

[Illustration]

    No prouder title I would claim,
    No prouder boast! ’tis well,
    The blood that courses thro’ my veins
    No brighter birth may tell,
    The blood that courses thro’ my veins
    No brighter birth may tell.
    No brighter birth may tell.

    Brave manly hearts confer my doom
    That gentler ones may tell,
    Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb,
    I like a Soldier fell.
    Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb,
    I like a Sol-dier fell,
    I like a Sol-dier fell!


                 1

    My mother she was not a queen!
      Nor titles graced her brow;
    But hers a free and noble heart,
      In heaven rests ere now.
    And I in Freedom’s mould am cast,
      No prouder boast! ’tis well,
    The blood that courses thro’ my veins
      No brighter birth may tell.


                 2

    I only ask of that proud race
      Which ends its blaze in me,
    To die the last and not disgrace
      Its ancient chivalry.
    Tho’ o’er my clay no banner wave,
      Nor trumpet requiem swell,
    Enough, they murmur o’er my grave,
      He like a Soldier fell.


                 3

    There is a land where Freedom dwells
      A land where all are blest,
    A land that holds the glorious tombs
      Of heroes now at rest;
    That land I love, it is my home,
      Of it I boast, ’tis well!
    The blood that courses thro’ my veins
      No brighter birth may tell.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some
spellings peculiar to Graham’s. Punctuation has been corrected without
note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For
illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals used for preparation of the eBook.

page 75, In the mornining ==> In the morning
page 76, derelection of Hubert ==> dereliction of Hubert
page 77, up the close-pins, ==> up the clothes-pins,
page 77, over the close-fold, ==> over the clothes-fold,
page 78, its apprisal, and then ==> its appraisal, and then
page 85, persistance in whatever ==> persistence in whatever
page 87, ere I had had heard ==> ere I had heard
page 91, with an unfaultering and ==> with an unfaltering and
page 93, sprained ancle. Gentle ==> sprained ankle. Gentle
page 93, world was you doing ==> world were you doing
page 93, the bed of Dalhias ==> the bed of Dahlias
page 93, Your beautiful Dalhias ==> Your beautiful Dahlias
page 95, the battle of Corrunna ==> the battle of Corunna,
page 96, harrass that honorable ==> harass that honorable
page 107, was brought fourth wounded, ==> was brought forth wounded,
page 107, some characteristic attententions ==> some characteristic
  attentions
page 109, the day thus began in ==> the day thus begun in
page 118, played, eat together, ==> played, ate together,
page 122, I poured over ==> I pored over
page 122, a strange, quiet enthuasm, ==> a strange, quiet enthusiasm,
page 126, beak was too inches ==> beak was two inches
page 127, common in Peru and Chili ==> common in Peru and Chile
page 131, betray the ininfluence ==> betray the influence
page 132, By William Gammel ==> By William Gammell
music page 2, But her’s a free ==> But hers a free





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 2,
August 1849, by Various

*** 