THE WILLING CAPTIVE.
Engraved by W. E. Tucker

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XLI.. July, 1852. No. 1.

Table of Contents

[I’d Offer Thee This Heart]

[Summer]

[New York Printing Machine, Press, and Saw Works]

[Osceola’s Address to His Warriors]

[The Miseries of Music]

[Not Dead]

[The Game of the Month]

[Sonnet]

[The Pedant]

[To Adhemar]

[My First Sunday in Mexico]

[Endymion]

[The Vintage]

[Light of Nature]

[The Mother’s Prophecy]

[“Settling to a Jemima.”]

[Snow Flakes]

[A Life of Vicissitudes]

[My Forefathers]

[Cleopatra]

[Reminiscence]

[To the Picture of My Child]

[Paqueta]

[Recollections]

[The Boy Afar Unto His Sister]

[Blind Rosa]

[I Dream of All Things Beautiful]

[Anecdotes of Ostriches]

[Impressions of England]

[The Exile]

[Review of New Books]

[Literary Gossip]

[Graham’s Small-Talk]

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

GRAHAM’S

AMERICAN MONTHLY

MAGAZINE

Of Literature and Art.

EMBELLISHED WITH

MEZZOTINT AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, MUSIC, ETC.

WILLIAM C. BRYANT, RICHARD H. DANA, JAMES K. PAULDING,

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, N. P. WILLIS, J. R. LOWELL, HENRY W. HERBERT,

GEO. D. PRENTICE.

MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, MISS C. M. SEDGWICK, MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY,

MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY, MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN, ETC.

PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS.

GEORGE R. GRAHAM, EDITOR.

VOLUME XLI.

PHILADELPHIA:

GEORGE R. GRAHAM, 134 CHESTNUT STREET.

1852.

CONTENTS

OF THE

FORTY-FIRST VOLUME.

JUNE, 1852, TO JANUARY, 1853.

POETRY.

REVIEWS.

MUSIC.

STORM ON THE SEABOARD.

I’D OFFER THEE THIS HEART.

I’D OFFER THEE THIS HEART.

COMPOSED BY VALENTINE DISTER.

Presented by LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.

I’d offer thee this heart of mine,

If I could love thee less,

But hearts as warm and pure as thine,

Should never know dis-

tress.

My fortune is too hard for thee,

’Twould chill thy dearest joy .......

I’d rather weep to see thee free,

Than win thee to destroy ..............

Than win thee to destroy.

I leave thee to thy happiness,

As one too near to love—

As one I’ll think of but to bless,

While wretchedly I rove;

And oh! when sorrow’s cup I drink,

All bitter though it be;

How sweet to me ’twill be to think

It holds no drop for thee.

Then fare thee well! an exile now,

Without a friend or home;

With anguish written on my brow

About the world I roam;

For all my dreams of bliss are o’er—

Fate bade them all depart—

And I must leave my native shore

In brokenness of heart.

THE VINTAGE. (See page 29.)

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XLI. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1852. No. 1.

SUMMER.

Summer is here, and her whole world of wealth is spread out before us in prodigal array. “The woods and groves have darkened and thickened into one impervious mass of sober, uniform green; and having, for a while, ceased to exercise the more active functions of the Spring, are resting from their labors in that state of ‘wise passiveness’ which we, in virtue of our infinitely greater wisdom, know so little how to enjoy. In Winter the trees may be supposed to sleep in a state of insensible inactivity, and in Spring to be laboring with the flood of new life that is pressing through their veins, and forcing them to perform the offices attached to their existence. But in Summer, having reached the middle term of their annual life, they pause in their appointed course, and then, if ever, taste the nourishment they take in, and ‘enjoy the air they breathe.’ And he who, sitting in Summer time beneath the shade of a spreading tree, can see its branches fan the soft breeze as it passes, and hear its polished leaves whisper and twitter to each other like birds at love-making, and yet can feel any thing like an assurance that it does not enjoy its existence, knows little of the tenure by which he holds his own.”

The animal creation seem oppressed with languor during this hot season, and either seek the recesses of woods, or resort to pools and streams, to cool their bodies and quench their thirst.

On the grassy bank

Some ruminating lie; while others stand

Half in the flood, and, often bending, sip

The circling surface. In the middle droops

The strong, laborious ox, of honest front,

Which incomposed he shakes; and from his sides

The troublous insects lashes with his tail,

Returning still. Amid his subjects safe

Slumbers the monarch swain; his careless arm

Thrown round his head on downy moss sustained,

Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands filled,

There, listening every noise, his watchful dog.

Thomson.

Notwithstanding the heat has parched the songsters of the grove into silence, there is still an audible music in nature—

The gnats

Their murmuring small trumpets sounden wide.

Spenser.

And John Keats points to another source of melody—

The poetry of earth is never dead;

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

That is the grasshopper’s.

The insect tribe, however, are peculiarly active and vigorous in the hottest weather. These minute creatures are, for the most part, annual, being hatched in the Spring, and dying at the approach of Winter: they have therefore no time to lose in indolence, but must make the most of their short existence; especially as their most perfect state continues only during a part of their lives. How appropriately may Anacreon’s celebrated address to the Cicada be applied to many of the happy creatures which sport in the sunshine—

Blissful insect! what can be

In happiness compared to thee?

Fed with nourishment divine,

The dewy morning’s sweetest wine;

Nature waits upon thee still,

And thy fragrant cup does fill,

All the fields that thou dost see,

All the plants belong to thee;

All that Summer hours produce,

Fertile made with ripening juice;

Man for thee does sow and plough,

Farmer he, and landlord thou!

Thee the hinds with gladness hear,

Prophet of the ripened year!

To thee alone of all the earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth:

Happy creature! happy thou,

Dost neither age nor winter know,

But when thou’st drank, and danced, and sung

Thy fill, the flow’ry leaves among,

Sated with the glorious feast,

Thou retir’st to endless rest.

Now is to be enjoyed in all its luxury the delightful amusement of bathing; and happy is the swimmer, who alone is able to enjoy the full pleasure of this healthful exercise. The power of habit to improve the natural faculties is in nothing more apparent than in the art of swimming. Man, without practice, is utterly unable to support himself in the water. Thomson finely describes this delightful recreation—

The sprightly youth

Speeds to the well-known pool, whose crystal depth

A sandy bottom shows. Awhile he stands

Gazing the inverted landscape, half afraid

To meditate the blue profound below;

Then plunges headlong down the circling flood.

His ebon tresses, and his rosy cheek

Instant emerge; and through the obedient wave,

At each short breathing by his lip repelled,

With arms and legs according well, he makes,

As humor leads, an easy-winding path;

While, from his polished sides, a dewy light

Effuses on the pleased spectators round.

NEW YORK PRINTING MACHINE, PRESS, AND SAW WORKS.

R. HOE & CO.

(Concluded from page 576.)

HAND-PRESS MAKING.

We come now to the hand-press room, to which the several portions of the various forms of hand presses are brought, as finished in their separate details, from the various other rooms, and put together perfectly, so that hence they are fitted to be sent to their places of destination, and are ready to go into instant operation.

Here we find the new improved job printing machine, which is known as the little jobber. This press combines the advantages of speed and durability with convenience, simplicity and cheapness. It is capable of throwing off 2500 impressions per hour with ease, or more, if the feed-boy can supply the sheets, and may even be driven by the foot with a treadle, and works so still, that a person standing a few feet from it, cannot hear it. The manner of running the bed is entirely original and is done by means of a crank and lever, which gives it a slow and uniform motion while the impression is being taken, but a quick retrograde movement, thus combining a slow impression with speed. Another new feature of the press is, that the sheet-flyer is so arranged, that no tapes pass around the impression cylinder, so that whatever sized form is worked, there are neither tapes nor fingers to shift, thus obviating the only objection to that apparatus for a jobbing press. It has an iron feed and fly-board, and all our recent improvements, such as an adjustable knife to the fountain, bearers for the bed, patent feed-guides, etc. etc. The bed is 16×13 inches inside of bearers, and 18×13 inches without bearers. The press occupies 5 feet by 3 feet. Price $600.

We have also the Washington and Smith hand-presses, which are generally used for country newspaper printing, and which have obtained so much celebrity, and are in such exclusive and constant use in almost every printing office in the United States and other countries, during the last twenty years, as to render any remarks upon their superiority unnecessary. They are elegant in appearance, simple, quick and powerful in operation, and combine every facility for the production of superior printing. Each press is tried in the manufactory and warranted for one year.

Here again we have the type-revolving book press, in which, as in the great fast printing type-revolving machine, the forms of type are fastened on a portion of the circumference of a large, horizontal cylinder, the remainder of which, slightly depressed below the types, is used as a distributor to supply the ink which it brings up from the fountain to the inking rollers which revolve against the types, against which again revolve the other cylinders, more or less in number, in an opposite direction to the rotatory action of the type-revolving cylinder, to which the sheets are fed, and from which they are taken up and thrown off in regular piles by self-acting flyers.

Inking machines, card-printing presses, hand-lever printing presses, proof presses, copperplate and lithographic presses, are all turned out from this department in that perfection which has obtained for the Messrs. Hoe a celebrity really world-wide, and caused their names to be known and their improvements adopted in almost every country of the world, and that, too, through no blind accident of fortune, but by dint of real superiority and merit. In proof of this, it will be necessary only to state that hand-presses of this establishment are at this moment in successful operation in Canada, the British Provinces, Cuba, Calcutta, Mexico, Bengal, nay, even in unimproving, stationary China, where they were introduced during the visit to that strange country of Mr. Cutting, as United States Commissioner.

Attached to the hand-press room is a small chamber appropriated to the safe-keeping, sharpening and ordering all the drills and edge tools of the department, under the care of one person, who is answerable for the safeguard and efficiency of the whole.

LARGE FAST PRESS BUILDING.

From thence we proceed to the shops on two stories, which have been thrown together, for the perfecting of the vast and wonderful fast-printing machine, by the removal of the ceiling, in order to make room for the great and complicated mass of moving cylinders, and to give space for the operations of the numerous artisans employed upon it.

The machine now in building, is one of six cylinders, for the use of the New York Herald, which now drives one of four cylinders, and is the same in almost every respect as that of the Tribune, being made with wide cylinders for the printing of double sheets; while that of the Sun, with eight cylinders, is suitable only for the smaller folios of that journal. With regard to this machine, as we shall notice it more fully when we come to speak of it as in operation, we shall say no more in this place except that it is the head and front of all the wonderful inventions and improvements which now enable journals to be furnished to the world at prices merely nominal, their vast and unheard of circulation compensating their moderate prices, and producing in the gross, a highly remunerative profit.

The six cylinder press is calculated to throw off twenty-five hundred copies to each cylinder, fed by one man, or an aggregate of fifteen thousand in the single hour. The four cylinder press now in operation in the light and beautiful vault of the Herald, has done even more than at this ratio, having, when pressed, actually thrown off twelve thousand copies in one hour. These presses were first introduced by the Messrs. Hoe only some five or six years ago; and their utmost calculation, as to the probable number which they should ever be called upon to manufacture, was five and twenty, but so marvelously has the demand exceeded their wildest imaginations that they have already built sixteen, one of which is, as we observed heretofore, in operation for La Patrie, the French government organ; and three more are ordered, and in progress of formation.

About four months is required for the erection of one of these splendid machines, or if extraordinary exertions be used, even a shorter time.

It is a pregnant fact, and one singularly corroborative of the soundness of the writer’s view, as expressed in the early portion of this article relative to the effect of machinery in increasing rather than diminishing the number of hands employed, or likely to be employed, in the business of printing, in consequence of the daily augmenting demand for printed matter arising from its cheapness and perfection—that, since the introduction of the fast-printing machines the call for hand presses has greatly increased. During the past year, the sale of this article alone, by the Messrs. Hoe, rose to so many as five a week during the whole twelve months; in all amounting to two hundred and sixty, besides all the other instruments and appliances of the printers’ and bookbinders’ professions.

After this, completing the press making department, we come to the cylinder press rooms, occupying one entire flat of the building, in which we find the patent improved double cylinder, the single small cylinder, and the single large cylinder printing machines, in every state of progress from their very inception to absolute perfection.

These machines are so excellently and clearly described in the Messrs. Hoe’s illustrated catalogue, beautifully got up for the use of their customers, that we cannot do better than extract their words as more plain and comprehensible than any we could readily substitute for them, we therefore give them as below, without doubt or hesitation:

“The Double Cylinder Printing Machine. In its arrangement this press is similar to the Single Small Cylinder Machine; except that it has two impression cylinders each alternately giving an impression from the same form. The sheets are supplied by two attendants, and, if required to print short editions of various sizes, it will be necessary to have a boy at each end of the press to receive the printed sheets, but where large editions or forms of uniform size are worked, not requiring frequent changes of the tape-wheels, the self-sheet-flying apparatus is very efficient and economical, placing the printed sheets in heaps with precision, and dispensing entirely with the two boys otherwise required for that purpose.

“The large amount of printing ordinarily done on these presses, and the consequent speed required, have rendered necessary greatly increased strength and weight of material in all the parts, together with simplicity in the mechanical arrangements, and the utmost perfection of workmanship. The noise and annoyance occasioned by the concussion of the bed against the springs, which are placed at each end of the machine to overcome the momentum of the bed, has been removed by means of adjustable India rubber buffers placed at the points of contact, which in no way interfere with the lively and certain action of the spiral springs.

“Each Machine is furnished with Roller Moulds, two sets of Roller Stocks, Blankets and Band; also, Fly Wheel and Stand, if to be driven by hand power; or Counter Shaft, two hangers and Pulley, if by steam power.

“The Patent Single Small Cylinder Printing Machine. In this press the form of types is placed upon a flat bed, and the impression taken upon the paper by means of a cylinder, while the form is passing under it. The small size of the cylinder allows the machine to be constructed in a very compact manner, so as to shorten the distance which the bed travels, thereby considerably increasing the number of impressions in a given time, beyond the single large cylinder press.

“The machine is of convenient height for use. One person only is required to feed down the paper, whose position is but a step from the floor. It will give from 2,000 to 3,000 impressions per hour, with perfect safety to the machinery. The printed sheets are thrown out by a fly frame in a uniform pile. Register sufficiently accurate for newspaper and job work is obtained by the patent feed guides, which are attached to each press. When required, a registering or pointing apparatus is furnished, and the press may then be used advantageously for book work.

CARPENTER’S SHOP.

“This press is made in the same substantial manner as the double cylinder press described above, with buffers similarly arranged to prevent noise.

“When driven by steam power, No. 8 occupies 8 feet by 12 feet. If by man power, requiring fly wheel and stand, it occupies 8 feet by 16 feet.

“Each Machine is furnished with Roller Moulds, two sets of Roller Stocks, Blankets and Band; also, Fly Wheel and Stand, if to be driven by hand power; or Counter Shaft, two Hangers and Pulley if by steam power.

“The patent single large cylinder printing machine. This machine is particularly adapted to book and fine newspaper work. It has a perfect registering apparatus and sheet-flyer; also adjustable iron bearers, so that stereotype may be worked with the same facility and beauty as type forms. One boy is required to lay on the sheets, and the press may be driven by man or steam-power. With the same attendance, it will print twice as fast as any bed and platen machine, and equally as well in every respect; say from 1,000 to 2,000 impressions in an hour, according to the size of the press, and the quality of the work desired. Vulcanized India rubber impression-cloth for these presses is now furnished; and as it is not readily indented by the type, forms of different sizes may be worked without any change of blankets. Overlays are conveniently made on the rubber, and may be removed by a wet sponge. To prevent noise, buffers are applied as in the double cylinder machine.”

An artist’s drawing-room completes this department. And, in a separate building—to which no form of fire is ever admitted, unless it be in the chance visit of the watchman’s lantern to the premises, which, like all the other parts of the establishment, are equally and agreeably tempered by warm air, and which, unlike all the other rooms, are bright, clean, lively-looking apartments, and exhale a delicious fragrance of fresh-cut wood and cedar-shavings, are the carpenter’s-shops, in which every species of wooden work requisite to the printers’, binders’, and booksellers’ trades is prepared, among which are included neatly finished pairs of type-cases, turned out at the rate of fifty pair every week, printer’s desks, and all the other requisites of the printing office.

PATTERN ROOM.

Here is also the pattern-room, where, by dint of self-acting drills, saws, planes, and the like, wooden patterns are manufactured from the neat and accurate designs of the drafting-rooms, of every portion of the machinery used, in accordance to and close imitation of which the castings, forgings, and finishing of all the work is accomplished to perfection.

With this department, the survey of the Broome street manufactories and saw-works is terminated. The Gold street establishment is principally applied to the storing and exhibition of all the various articles coming under the head of letter-press, compositors’, warehouse, welting, and bookbinders’-tools departments—and here is kept ready, at a moment’s notice, a large assortment of hand-presses, copying-presses, ruling, cutting, and piercing machines, in great variety and equal excellence, of all prices. In this building, moreover, are manufactured the beautiful and excellent vertical steam-engines from five horse-power, 6 inch cylinders, and 10 inch stroke, up to fifteen horse-power, 11 inch cylinders, and 22 inch stroke, the largest of which are in use in the Herald, Tribune, and Sun offices, for putting in motion the large fast printing machines, by which those largely circulated journals are thrown off daily in huge editions with unparalleled rapidity. Here also are built the portable steam-engines from 3 to 4 horse-power, with vertical tubular boilers; and the hydrostatic presses, for the finishing of printed sheets, which have come into so general and wide a field of operation within the last few years.

The following is a correct and beautifully finished representation of the great fast printing eight-cylinder machine in the vault of the Sun office in full operation; without which the end and object of this paper would be incomplete.

This immense printing machine is 33 feet long, 14 feet 8 inches high, and 6 feet wide. It has one large central cylinder, on which the type is secured, and eight smaller cylinders arranged around it, at convenient distances. Eight persons supply the eight small cylinders with the sheets, and at each revolution of the large cylinder eight impressions are given off, the sheets being delivered in neat order by the machine itself. The limit to the speed is in the ability of the eight persons to supply the sheets. At the rate of 2,500 sheets to each, the press would give off the unparalleled number of 20,000 printed impressions per hour. The press is used exclusively for newspapers, or similar printing.

LARGE FAST PRINTING PRESS.

The principles and operation of this wonderful invention are thus conclusively and laconically described in Messrs. Hoes catalogue mentioned above, which we annex, without alteration, for reasons heretofore assigned, and to which we can add nothing beyond the expression of our sincere and earnest admiration.

“A horizontal cylinder of about four and a half feet in diameter, is mounted on a shaft, with appropriate bearings; about one-fourth of the circumference of this cylinder constitutes the bed of the press, which is adapted to receive the form of types—the remainder is used as a cylindrical distributing table. The diameter of the cylinder is less than that of the form of types, in order that the distributing portion of it may pass the impression cylinders without touching. The ink is contained in a fountain placed beneath the large cylinder, from which it is taken by a ducter roller, and transferred by a vibrating, distributing roller to the cylindrical distributing table; the fountain roller receives a slow and continuous rotary motion, to carry up the ink from the fountain.

“The large cylinder being put in motion, the form of types thereon, is—in succession—carried to four or more corresponding, horizontal, impression cylinders, arranged at proper distances around it, to give the impression to four or more sheets, introduced one by each impression cylinder. The fly and feed-boards of two of the impression cylinders are similar to those on the well-known double cylinder press; on the other two, the sheet is fed in below and thrown out above. The sheets are taken directly from the feed-board, by iron fingers attached to each impression cylinder. Between each two of the impression cylinders there are two inking rollers, which vibrate on the distributing surface while taking a supply of ink, and—at the proper time—are caused to rise by a cam, so as to pass over the form, when they again fall to the distributing surface. Each page is locked up upon a detached segment of the large cylinder, called by the compositors a “turtle,” and this constitutes the bed and chase. The column rules run parallel with the shafts of the cylinder, and are consequently straight, while the head, advertising, and dash rules, are in the form of segments of a circle. A cross section of the column rules would present the form of a wedge, with the small end pointing to the centre of the cylinder, so as to bind the types near the top; for the types being parallel, instead of radiating from the centre, it is obvious that if the column rules were also parallel, they must stand apart at the top, no matter how tight they were pressed together at the base; but with these wedge-shaped column rules, which are held down to the bed or “turtle,” by tongues, projecting at intervals along their length, and sliding in rebated grooves cut cross-wise in the face of the bed, the space in the grooves between the column rules, being filled with sliding blocks of metal, accurately fitted, the outer surface level with the surface of the bed, the ends next the column rules being cut away underneath to receive a projection on the sides of the tongues, and screws at the end and side of each page to lock them together, the types are as secure on this cylinder as they can be on the old flat bed.

“The cut represents a press with eight impression cylinders, capable of printing from 16,000 to 20,000 impressions per hour. Eight persons are required to feed in the sheets, which are thrown out and laid in heaps by self-acting flyers, as in our ordinary cylinder presses.”

Two of these presses, of completest power and finish, have, we understand, been ordered for the printing of the Public Ledger of Philadelphia, a penny paper of the widest circulation, and of as efficient usefulness as any journal in the United States.

For the past three years the Messrs. Hoe & Co. have maintained, at their own expense, an evening school for the instruction of their apprentices and employees, in Mathematics, the Exact Sciences, Mechanical Drawing, the French and English Languages, etc. Every one of their many apprentices is required to give a punctual attendance at the school, which is also open to such adult members of the establishment as choose to attend. Two teachers, Messrs. O’Gorman and Dick, are regularly employed, and Prof. Hyatt has just closed the winter term with a course of lectures on Experimental Philosophy. They were attended by nearly all the workmen as well as the apprentices. We mention these facts because we consider them worthy of being imitated by other large employers of laboring men.

We have scarcely words in which to convey our respect and admiration for the genius, skill, enterprise, energy and perseverance by which those intelligent and able young men have attained to their present high and enviable position; and by which they have placed the American press—so far as the perfection of time-gaining, and labor-saving machinery, and the attainment of facility, precision, certainty and punctuality are concerned, far ahead of that of any other country in the world.

We regret that the conductors of some of the leading journals do not exert as beneficial a course in the employment of the highest grades of intellectual capacity in the preparation of their leaders, and as earnest a resolution to perfect the tone of their presses, by the suppression of all scandals, libels, falsehoods, and sophistries; by the dissemination of truths, whole truths, and nothing but truths; in the discouragement of all license and licentiousness; in the promotion and propagation of all humane charities, justice, benevolence, morality, and virtue, of art and science, literature and learning, as the Messrs. Hoe have displayed in the perfectionating the material portion of the department.

Then we should have a public press equal to the requirements, moral, intellectual and physical, and worthy of the name of a people, which is ever proud to array itself in the first rank of the human race, as regards general education, intellectual capacity, and the diffusion of knowledge among all classes; and which, beyond a doubt, does actually number more readers, in proportion to the amount of its population, than any other country in the universe.

To conclude: it has been said, that the greatest benefactor of the human race is he who causes two blades of grass to grow where but one grew before: but to our eyes, he seems a greater benefactor—inasmuch as the intellectual are loftier and nobler than the physical wants of man—who causes ten—we might better say ten thousand, good and wise books—ten thousand copies of the Holy Gospel to be circulated among the people, where but one was circulated before.

And, of a truth, we know none to whom the above high praise is more justly applicable than to the inventors and owners of the Fast Printing Power-Press. Fortune and Fame attend them.

OSCEOLA’S ADDRESS TO HIS WARRIORS.

———

BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.

———

Our women leave in fear

Their lodges in the shade,

And the dread notes of fray go up

From swamp and everglade.

From ancient coverts scared,

Fly doe and bleating fawn,

While the pale robber beats his drum—

On, to the conflict on!

Shall tomahawk and spear

Be dark with peaceful rust,

While blood is on the funeral mound

That holds ancestral dust?

No! fiercely from its sheath

Let the keen knife be drawn,

And the dread rifle charged with death—

On, to the conflict on!

The ground our fathers trod,

Free as the wind, is ours;

And the red cloud of war shall soak

The land with crimson showers.

Upon our tribe enslaved

Bright morn shall never dawn,

While arm can strike and weapon pierce—

On, to the conflict on!

THE MISERIES OF MUSIC.

———

BY CALEB CROTCHET.

———

I am the victim of a fine ear. Talk of the miseries of the halt, the lame and the blind! Their condition is that of celestial beatitude as compared with mine; and as for the deaf and dumb, they must be the happiest mortals alive. They can neither inflict nor suffer the miseries of sound. Blessing and blessed, how shall I contrive to gain admission to their happy brotherhood?

Music has been the bane of my existence. My ear—the asinine organ that has since so extravagantly developed itself—was early noticed by a maiden aunt, and my first recollection is of her look of bland satisfaction as, with a shrill, little, piping, three-year-old voice, I edified an audience of spinsters, around a quilting-frame, with the strains of “Bonnie Doon.” Heaven pardon my poor old aunt for the wickedness of thus early encouraging a passion that has led to so many sins of temper, and, perhaps, to so many unuttered, but deep felt outrages upon her memory!

I shall not go over the years of probation that elapsed from these first exhibitions of infantile vocalization, to the period of my perfect development as a young gentleman of acknowledged taste and talent, and my introduction, as a full-fledged connoisseur into the fashionable circles of ——.

My passion for music clung to me. I had become learned in the science. If I walked of a warm evening with a young lady, it was, as I expressed it in upstart pedantry, in an andante movement. Slow and fast both became decidedly low terms, and I could only condescend to say in place of them, adagio and allegretto. I had all the Italian musical terms, as contained in the elementary treatises, at my tongue’s end, and, in a practical, common sense community, would have been written down the ass that I really was, for the ridiculous and constant use I made of them.

But in —— there was a fine field for my learned talk, and the obscurity and nonsense of my conversation got me up a reputation for musical science which at first flattered me, and engendered a vanity for which I have since suffered severe retribution.

The nine days allowed for opening the eyes of young puppies having elapsed, mine were opened to a sense of my folly, and I by degrees broke myself of the habit I had adopted.

At the period of my entrée into the society of ——, music was the great and leading idea. A religious and moral cycle had succeeded to a dissipated and drinking cycle, and dancing, wine, etc., being excluded from the leading houses, music was the only resource. At once I became a lion.

“How beautifully Mr. Crotchet plays!” “Emma, my dear, come and look on; I want you to study Mr. Crotchet’s exquisite touch!” “Oh, how sweet!” These and kindred sounds issued from the lips of the witches in curls, lace and artificials, who gathered around me as I sat at Mrs. Flambeau’s piano, on the occasion of her first soirée. It was my debut, and is therefore memorable. I was playing a sonata of Beethoven’s, which I soon found none of them comprehended. I thought of “pearls before swine,” but went on, working out the mysteries and the meaning of the composition for my own gratification.

The witches, at the close, seemed rather weary, and could do little but simper and say “beautiful,” but the chief of them, one Madame Hecate, to whom tradition attached French parentage and critical taste, approached me and said—

“Pray, Monsieur Crotchet, (she always spoke with a French accent to strangers) do you play the Battle of Prague?”

I can recollect nothing but an emphatic “No, madam”—a feeling as of a pail of iced water pouring down my back—a confused breaking up of the circle around the piano—a fruitless search for a glass of wine—a prestissimo movement to the entry—a successful search for my hat—a rush to the street, and as I shut the door, the martial strains of the Battle of Prague, drummed out by a more complaisant amateur than myself, for the benefit of Madame Hecate.

Oh, that Battle of Prague! Who shall ever pretend to give its official bulletin? Who shall describe the cries of the wounded and the groans of the dying, elicited from its auditors as it has been “fought o’er again” on countless pianos? Its victims are legion. Its progress is remorseless. It goes on and will go on to the end of time, murdering the peace of mind of every luckless owner of an ear such as mine. Its composer—if the writer of such a disturbing work can be called a composer—must have been possessed of an evil spirit from the fatal battle-field, condemned to roam this earth for the torment of the race, and seeking retribution for his own victimization by victimizing all that come after him.

My next essay of the musical life of the city, was at a soirée of Professor Millefiori, the fashionable Italian vocal teacher—a sort of compromise, in appearance, between a Paris petit maître and an American Figaro. His pupils were all to sing, and by the courtesy usually extended to amateurs, I was invited.

The first piece announced for the evening’s entertainment was Casta Diva. Of course it was. Was there ever an amateur soirée that it was not the first piece?

At the appointed time, a young lady of sixteen summers, with very bare neck and arms, hair done up in curls and furbelows by a French coiffeur, hands in white kid gloves, a variety of her mother’s jewels on head, hands and breast, a little pug of a nose beneath two very innocent-looking eyes, and, as was said, a splendid soprano voice, stood up by the professor’s piano to personate the Druid priestess.

“Ca-ha-ha-hasta Dee-e-evar,” she began, emphasizing each division of the words, and screaming them out as if she really thought she could make the Casta Diva—the moon—hear her vociferous appeal, and paying no regard to the fact that the chaste goddess was, at that particular time, enlightening the other side of the globe.

The whole of the andante was in this scream, which threw the audience into ecstasies. Then she began, “Ah bello, a me ritorna.” How she dashed through it—leaping over bars with a racer’s agility, plunging through barriers and ditches of sound—up hill and down hill—over ledger lines and under them—helter skelter—chromatics and ecstatics—flats and sharps—screech and scream—over and over—with face hideously distorted, the veins and muscles of her neck swelled to bursting, while Millefiori’s hands kept thundering at the piano and urging her on to louder labors.

Shade of Bellini! was there not one of your chords to stop the throat uttering these musical blasphemies?

At last she ended, amid a tumult of applause, for which she gave one of Monsieur Petitpas’ most graceful courtesies, bowing so as to show Monsieur Chevelure’s handiwork upon her head-works in the most effective manner.

She was followed by a dozen or more of soprani, mezzo-soprani, contralti, baritoni and bassi, of whose performances I have but a dim, obscure recollection as of so many contests for the palm of superior noise; all of them being exhibited in the tremendous screaming and shouting pieces of the modern Italians.

This was my last amateur soirée—and let me whisper a warning word to the world that remains behind me—“Beware of amateur soirées!”

But my musical sufferings did not end here. The noises of the streets are agony to me. The oyster and the apple-men; the strawberry and the shad-women—what are they to me but so many liberated fiends, placed on earth to persecute the owners of ears! And as for the news-boys—but I will not recapitulate my sufferings from them.

I have for some time been engaged in projects for the correction of these street evils. I leave in my executor’s hands the manuscript of the “Shad-woman’s Complete Musical Instructor,” “The Oysterman’s Apollo,” and “The News-Boys’ Guide to Parnassus.” In these I have arranged to the most beautiful melodies, the common cries of “Buy any Shad!” “Ho, fresh Oysters!” “Herald, Tribune, Ledgee, Ledgee,” “Evening Bulletin,” and the other favorite appeals of these as yet unappeased street demons. A variety of melodies is given to each phrase, and beautiful variations are arranged in the “Guide to Parnassus,” for extras, double-sheets, etc., with a special and elaborate composition arranged expressly for the familiar words, “Another Revolution in France!”

I shall not live to enjoy the fruits of my labors. But I shall die happy, since I have just learned that the Legislature is disposed to treat favorably my projected “Institution for the Musical Education of News Boys.”

As yet I endure more than the torments of the rack, whenever I venture out of doors; and even within doors, it is scarcely better. When I come in, with ears aching from the hideous cries of the street, to pore over the score of a new opera just received from Italy, how am I to provide a remedy for my home miseries?

The “quiet street” which I selected for its retirement, is infested with organ-grinders, who reap a daily harvest among the infantile population for which quiet streets are remarkable. My landlady—worthy Mrs. Squall—has six little Squallets, who delight in hand-organs, and who interrupt my musical waking-dreams of the twilight hour, every day, with appeals for sixpence to give “the new organ-grinder, with his sweet little monkey.”

Since I came into these quarters, a youth, with a pale face and a letter of introduction to recommend him to me, has established himself in the room above me. He has taken to flute-playing! His design is either suicide or murder; and unless the first soon takes place, and his brains are blown out through his instrument, I feel that murder will be the result, and myself the victim.

Across the way dwells a practitioner on the trombone, and twice a week a brass band meets in his room to practice, while again twice a week the choir of —— church assembles next door to me to rehearse for their Sunday performances. Was any one ever plunged into such a combination of horrors?

I have heretofore refrained from giving up this lodging among the fiends, by the presence of Mrs. Squall’s young niece, Rosalie ——. She is young and fresh, fair as a strain from La Dame Blanche, graceful as an air of Mozart, eloquent in speech as one of Mendelssohn’s Lieder Ohne Worte, and symmetrical in figure as a scena from Rossini. She has brown hair, blue eyes, a knowledge of French and Italian, a smattering of the German language, and a thorough knowledge of German wools, $5000 a year, an amiable disposition, and, as I fancy, a decided penchant for me.

I was already nearly on my knees to her this morning, when she suggested that we should sing together, and herself selected the duet “La ci darem la mano,” from Don Giovanni. Such a selection was divine, and I eagerly sought out the opera and began my part, feeling convinced that I should ratify the vows of the song in plain prose and good English as soon as it was over.

I held my breath as I waited for the first tones of what I felt must be an angel’s voice, but what mortal agony could equal mine, when I found her pretensions to divinity all a sham? She sung a full semi-tone above the piano, and with a hard, rasping, metallic voice that grated like a file, and fairly set my teeth on edge.

“Oh! false, false, false Rosalie!”

It is possible that I did not finish the duet as I began it. I had lost all consciousness, except of the horror of my situation, and a sense of a heart crushed in its first and purest affections by a false voice—far worse to me than a false heart.

We parted; she to her worsted work and her $5000 a year, I to seek another refuge, or to pursue my hopeless pilgrimage over the world, in search of harmony—to mourn over my blighted hopes, and the perfidious voice of my Rosalie, and to sink at last into an untimely grave. Let my epitaph be, not “Died of a Broken Heart,” as the world might construe the fact, but simply

“Died of a Discord!”

NOT DEAD.

And thou art gone, the meek flowers wave

In sadness o’er thine early grave;

The wild-bird comes with mellow song,

And balmy airs sweep lightly on;

O’er all the rank and nodding grass

The summer’s shadows gently pass,

While children glad go softly by

With timid step and tearful eye.

Too well I know that thou art gone,

Thy brow is cold, thy cheek is wan;

Pale buds are in thy sunny hair,

Thy chill hands clasp a lily fair,

A shroud, with white and moveless fold,

Lies on thy heart so still and cold;

And yet not thus I think of thee—

Thou art not dead, beloved, to me.

’Twas yesternight, when white-browed girls,

With star-like eyes and golden curls,

Came sadly in the twilight deep

And bent above thy grave to weep;

That I, too, came, with wild unrest,

With yearnings for the grave’s sweet rest;

But peace and hope, and trust in Heaven,

Were to my sorrowing spirit given.

Not dead! in what a blessed trance

My spirit heard, through Heaven’s expanse,

Those sweet words float; those words of life

That calmed the bootless, bitter strife.

Thine angel wings swept far away

The mists that veiled a brighter day;

And now Life’s path in hope I tread,

Although its joyous light is fled.

L. L. M.

THE GAME OF THE MONTH.

———

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “FRANK FORESTER’S FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH AND FISHING,” ETC.

———

THE SUMMER DUCK, OR WOOD DUCK. (Anas Sponsa.)

This lovely species, the most beautiful of the whole Duck tribe, is peculiar to the continent and isles of America, being familiarly known through almost every portion of the United States, and according to Wilson common in Mexico and the West India islands. In Florida it is very abundant, as it is, more or less, on all the fresh waters so far north as the interior of the State of New York; in the colder regions, to the north-eastward, though not unknown, it is of less frequent occurrence than in more genial climates.

Its more correct title, “Summer Duck,” is referable to the fact, that it is not, like most of the Anatides and Fuligulæ, fresh water and sea ducks, more or less a bird of passage, retiring to the fastnesses of the extreme north, for the purposes of nidification and rearing its young; but, wherever it abounds, is a permanent citizen of the land, raising its family in the very place where itself was born, and not generally, if undisturbed, moving very far from its native haunts. I think, however, that in the United States it is perhaps better known under its other appellation of Wood Duck; and I am not prepared to say, although the former is the specific name adopted by all naturalists, that the latter is not the better, as the more distinctive title, and applying to a more remarkable peculiarity of the bird. For it, alone, so far as I know, of the Duck family, is in the habit of perching and roosting on the upper branches of tall trees, near water-courses, and of making its nest in the holes and hollows of old trunks overhanging sequestered streams or woodland pools, often at a great height above the surface of the water.

The Summer Duck is the most gayly attired of the whole family; it has, moreover, a form of very unusual elegance, as compared with other ducks; and a facility of flight, and command of itself on the wing, most unlike to the ponderous, angular flapping of the rest of its tribe, wheeling with a rapidity and power of pinion, approaching in some degree to that of the swallow, in and out among the branches of the gnarled and tortuous pin-oaks, whose shelter it especially affects.

From two very fine specimens, male and female, now before me, I take the following description.

Drake, in full summer plumage. Length from tip of bill to tip of tail, 21 inches. Length of wing, 9 inches. Bill, 1-1/5 inch. Tarsus, 1½. Middle toe, 2 inches. Body long, delicately shaped, rounded. Head small, finely crested; neck rather long and slender. Eye large, with golden-yellow irides. Legs and feet orange-yellow, webs dusky, claws black. Plumage soft, compressed, blended. Bill orange-red at the base, yellow on the sides, with a black spot above the nostrils, extending nearly to the tip; nail recurved, black.

The colors are most vivid. The crown of the head, cheeks, side of the upper neck and crest changeable, varying in different lights, from bottle-green, through all hues of dark blue, bright azure, purple, with ruby and amethyst reflections, to jet black. From the upper corner of the upper mandible a narrow snow-white streak above the eye runs back, expanding somewhat, into the upper crest. A broader streak of the same extends backward below the eye, and forms several bright streaks in the lower part of the crest. Chin and fore throat snow-white, with a sort of double gorget, the upper extending upward a little posterior to the eye, and nearly reaching it, the lower almost encircling the neck at its narrowest part. The lower neck and upper breast are of the richest vinous red, interspersed in front with small arrow-headed spots of pure white. Lower breast white, spotted with paler vinous red; belly pure white. Scapulars, and lower hind neck, reddish brown, with green reflections. Back, tail-coverts and tail black, splendidly glossed with metallic lustre of rich blue-green and purple. Wing-coverts and primaries brown, glossed with blue and green, outer webs of the primaries silvery white; secondaries glossy blue-black. A broad crescent-shaped band of pure white in front of the wings, at the edge of the red breast-feathers, and behind this a broader margin of jet black. The sides of the body rich greenish yellow, most delicately penciled with narrow close waved lines of gray. On the flanks six distinct semi-lunated bands of white, anteriorly bordered with broad black origins, and tipped with black. The vent tawny white, the rump and under tail-coverts dark reddish purple.

The duck is smaller and duller in her general coloring, but still bears sufficient resemblance to the splendid drake to cause her at once to be recognized, by any moderately observant eye, as his mate.

Her bill is blackish brown, the irides of her eyes hazel brown, her feet dull dusky green. Crown of her head and hind neck dusky, faintly glossed with green, and with the rudiments of a crest; cheeks dusky brown. A white circle round the eye and longitudinal spot behind it. Chin and throat dingy white. Shoulders, back, scapulars, wing-coverts, rump and tail brown, more or less glossed with green, purple and dark crimson. Primaries black, with reflections of deep cerulean blue and violet; outer webs silvery white. Secondaries violet-blue and deep green, with black edges and a broad white margin, forming the speculum or beauty spot. Upper fore neck, breast, sides and flanks deep chestnut-brown, spotted in irregular lines with oval marks of faint tawny yellow; belly, vent and under tail-coverts white, flanks and thighs dull brown.

The young males of the first season are scarcely distinguishable from the ducks.

The Summer Duck breeds, in New York and New Jersey, according to the season, from early in April until late in May; in July the young birds are not much inferior in size to the parents, though not yet very strong on the wing. I well remember on one occasion, during the second week of that month, in the year 1836, while out woodcock shooting near Warwick, in Orange county, New York, with a steady brace of setters, how some mowers who were at work on the banks of the beautiful Wawayanda, hailed me, and, pointing to a patch of perhaps two acres of coarse, rushy grass, told me that six ducks had just gone down there. I called my dogs to heel, and walked very gingerly through the meadow, with my finger on the trigger, expecting the birds to rise very wild; but to my great surprise reached the end of the grass, on the rivulet’s margin, without moving any thing.

The men still persisted that the birds were there; and so they were, sure enough; for on bidding my setters hold up I soon got six dead points in the grass, and not without some trouble kicked up the birds, so hard did they lay. It was a calm, bright summer’s day, not a duck rose above ten feet from me, and I bagged them all. They proved to be the old duck and five young birds of that season, but in size the latter were quite equal to the mother bird.

I consider the Summer Duck at all times rather a less shy bird than its congeners, though it may be that this is owing to the woody covert which, unlike others of its tribe, it delights to frequent; and which perhaps acts in some degree as a screen to its pursuer; but except on one other occasion I never saw any thing like the tameness of that brood.

The other instance occurred nearly in the same place, and in the same month, I think, of the ensuing year. I was again out summer cock shooting, and was crossing a small, sluggish brook, of some twelve or fourteen feet over, with my gun under my arm, on a pile of old rails, which had been thrown into the channel by the haymakers, to make an extemporaneous bridge for the hay teams; when on a sudden, to my very great wonderment, and I must admit to my very considerable flusteration likewise, almost to the point of tumbling me into the mud, out got a couple of Wood Ducks from the rails, literally under my feet, with a prodigious bustle of wings and quacking. If I had not so nearly tumbled into the stream, ten to one I should have shot too quickly and missed them both; but the little effort to recover my footing gave me time to get cool again, and I bagged them both. One was again the old duck, the other a young drake of that season.

In the spring, the old duck selects her place in some snug, unsuspicious looking hole in some old tree near the water edge, where, if unmolested, she will breed many years in succession, carrying down her young when ready to fly, in her bill, and placing them in the water. The drake is very attentive to the female while she is laying, and yet more so while she is engaged in the duties of incubation; constantly wheeling about on the wing among the branches, near the nest on which she is sitting, and greeting her with a little undertoned murmur of affection, or perching on a bough of the same tree, as if to keep watch over her.

The following account of their habits is so true, and the anecdote illustrating them so pretty and pleasing, that I cannot refrain from quoting it, for the benefit of those of my readers who may not be so fortunate as to have cultivated a familiar friendship with the pages of that eloquent pioneer of the natural history of the woods and wilds and waters of America, the Scottish Wilson, who has done more for that science than any dead or living man, with the sole exception of his immortal successor, the great and good Audubon; and whose works will stand side by side with his, so long as truthfulness of details, correctness of classification, eloquence of style, and a pure taste and love for rural sounds and sights shall command a willing audience. Speaking of this bird he says—

“It is familiarly known in every quarter of the United States, from Florida to Lake Ontario, in the neighborhood of which latter place I have myself met with it in October. It rarely visits the seashore, or salt marshes, its favorite haunts being the solitary, deep, and muddy creeks, ponds and mill-dams of the interior, making its nest frequently in old hollow trees that overhang the water.

“The Summer Duck is equally well known in Mexico and many of the West India islands. During the whole of our winters they are occasionally seen in the states south of the Potomac. On the 10th of January I met with two on a creek near Petersburgh, in Virginia. In the more northern districts, however, they are migratory. In Pennsylvania the female usually begins to lay late in April, or early in May. Instances have been known where the nest was constructed of a few sticks laid in a fork of the branches; usually, however, the inside of a hollow tree is selected for this purpose. On the 18th of May I visited a tree containing the nest of a Summer Duck, on the banks of the Tuckahoe River, New Jersey. It was an old, grotesque white-oak, whose top had been torn off by a storm. It stood on the declivity of the bank, about twenty yards from the water. In this hollow and broken top, and about six feet down, on the soft, decayed wood, lay thirteen eggs, snugly covered with down, doubtless taken from the breast of the bird. These eggs were of an exact oval shape, less than those of a hen, the surface exceedingly fine grained, and of the highest polish, and slightly yellowish, greatly resembling old, polished ivory. The egg measured two inches and an eighth by one inch and a half. On breaking one of them, the young bird was found to be nearly hatched, but dead, as neither of the parents had been observed about the tree during the three or four days preceding, and were conjectured to have been shot.

“This tree had been occupied, probably by the same pair, for four successive years, in breeding time; the person who gave me the information, and whose house was within twenty or thirty yards of the tree, said that he had seen the female, the spring preceding, carry down thirteen young, one by one, in less than ten minutes. She caught them in her bill by the wing or back of the neck, and landed them safely at the foot of the tree, whence she afterward led them to the water. Under this same tree, at the time I visited it, a large sloop lay on the stocks, nearly finished; the deck was not more than twelve feet distant from the nest, yet notwithstanding the presence and noise of the workmen, the ducks would not abandon their old breeding place, but continued to pass out and in, as if no person had been near. The male usually perched on an adjoining limb, and kept watch while the female was laying, and also often while she was sitting. A tame goose had chosen a hollow space at the root of the same tree, to lay and hatch her young in.

“The Summer Duck seldom flies in flocks of more than three or four individuals together, and most commonly in pairs, or singly. The common note of the drake is peet, peet; but when, standing sentinel, he sees danger, he makes a noise not unlike the crowing of a young cock, oe eek! oe eek! Their food consists principally of acorns, seeds of the wild-oats, and insects.”

Mr. Wilson states, as his opinion, that the flesh of this lovely little duck is inferior in excellence to that of the blue-winged teal. But therein I can by no means coincide with him, as I consider it, in the Atlantic states, inferior to no duck except the canvas-back, which is admitted facile princeps of all the duck tribe. The Summer Duck is in these districts probably the most graminivorous and granivorous of the family, not affecting fish, tadpoles, frogs or field-mice, all of which are swallowed with great alacrity and rejoicing by the mallards, pin-tails, and other haunters of fresh water streams and lakes.

On the great lakes of the west and north, where all the duck tribe feed to fattening on the wild-rice and wild-celery, zizania aquatica and balisneria Americana, no one species is better than another, all being admirable; but in the course of an autumn spent on the northern shores of Lake Huron and the rivers debouching into it, and thence north-westward to Lake Superior, I do not remember seeing any specimens of this beautiful bird, though I feel sure that it cannot but exist in those waters, which are in all respects so congenial to its habits.

Another peculiarity of this species, which I have repeatedly noticed, when it has not been disturbed by any sudden noise or the pursuit of dogs, is thus neatly touched upon by Mr. J. P. Giraud, Jr., the enthusiastic and accomplished ornithologist of Long Island, whose unpretending little volume should be the text book of every sportsman in the land who has a taste for any thing beyond mere wanton slaughter.

“Often when following those beautiful and rapid streams that greatly embellish our country, in pursuit of the angler’s beau ideal of sport, have I met with this gayly-attired duck. As if proud of its unrivaled beauty, it would slowly rise and perform a circuit in the air, seemingly to give the admiring beholder an opportunity of witnessing the gem of its tribe.”

The Summer Duck is very easily domesticated, if the eggs be taken from the nest and hatched under a hen, and the young birds become perfectly tame, coming up to the house or the barn-yard to be fed, with even more regularity than the common domestic duck; nay, even the old birds, if taken by the net and wing-tipped, will soon become gentle and lose their natural shyness.

In the summer of 1843 I had the pleasure of seeing a large flock of these lovely wild fowl perfectly gentle, answering the call of their owner by their peculiar murmur of pleasure, and coming, as fast as they could swim or run, to be fed by his hand.

This was at the beautiful place of the Hon. Mahlon Dickinson, formerly a member of General Jackson’s cabinet, not far from Morristown, in New Jersey, which is singularly adapted for the rearing and domesticating these feræ naturâ; since it has, immediately adjoining the trim and regular gardens, a long and large tract of beautiful wild shrubbery, full of rare evergreens, and interspersed with bright, cool springs and streamlets feeding many ponds and reservoirs, where they can feed and sport and breed, as undisturbed as in the actual wilderness; while, the adjacent country being all tame and highly cultivated, they have no inducement to stray from their abode.

Beside Summer Ducks, Mr. Dickinson had, at the period of my visit, Dusky Ducks, better known as Black Ducks, Green-winged Teal, Golden-eyes, and I think Widgeon; but the Summer Ducks were by far the tamest, as the Dusky Ducks were the wildest of the company. I should long ago have attempted to naturalize them on my own place, but that a large river, the Passaic, washing the lower end of my lawn and garden, from which it would not be possible to exclude them, I have felt that it is useless to attempt it, the rather that there is a large patch of wild-rice immediately adjoining me, which would tempt them to the water, whence they would drift away with the current or the tide, and be lost or shot in no time.

The best time for shooting and for eating these fowl is late in October, when the acorns and beechmast, of both of which they are inordinately fond, lie thick and ripe on the woodland banks of the streams and pools they love to frequent. And this reminds me of a little sketch, illustrative of their habits, taken down almost verbatim, from the lips of a right good fellow, and at that time a right good sportsman also; though now, alas! the untimely loss of the inestimable blessing of eyesight has robbed him, among other sources of enjoyment, of that favorite and innocent pastime—the forest chase:

“Are there many Wood Ducks about this season, Tom?” asked Forester, affecting to be perfectly careless and indifferent to all that had passed. “Did you kill these yourself?”

“There was a sight on them a piece back, but they’re gittin’ scase—pretty scase now, I tell you. Yes, I shot these down by Aunt Sally’s big spring-hole a Friday. I’d been a lookin’ round, you see, to find where the quail kept afore you came up here—for I’d a been expectin’ you a week and better—and I’d got in quite late, toward sundown, with an outsidin’ bevy, down by the cedar swamp, and druv them off into the big bog meadows, below Sugarloaf, and I’d killed quite a bunch on them—sixteen, I reckon, Archer; and there wasn’t but eighteen when I lit on ’em—and it was gittin’ pretty well dark when I came to the big spring, and little Dash was worn dead out, and I was tired, and hot, and thunderin’ thirsty, so I sets down aside the outlet where the spring water comes in good and cool, and I was mixin’ up a nice, long drink in the big glass we hid last summer down in the mud-hole, with some great cider sperrits—when what should I hear all at once but whistle, whistlin’ over head, the wings of a whole drove on ’em, so up I buckled the old gun; but they’d plumped down into the crick fifteen rod off or better, down by the big pin oak, and there they sot, seven ducks and two big purple-headed drakes—beauties, I tell you. Well, boys, I upped gun and tuck sight stret away, but just as I was drawin’, I kind o’ thought I’d got two little charges of number eight, and that to shoot at ducks at fifteen rod wasn’t nauthen. Well, then, I fell a thinkin’, and then I sairched my pockets, and arter a piece found two green cartridges of number three, as Archer gave me in the spring, so I drawed out the small shot, and inned with these, and put fresh caps on to be sarten. But jest when I’d got ready, the ducks had floated down with the stream, and dropped behind the pint—so I downed on my knees, and crawled, and Dash alongside on me, for all the world as if the darned dog knowed; well, I crawled quite a piece, till I’d got under a bit of alder bush, and then I seen them—all in a lump like, except two—six ducks and a big drake—feedin’, and stickin’ down their heads into the weeds, and flutterin’ up their hinder eends, and chatterin’ and jokin’—I could have covered them all with a handkercher, exceptin’ two, as I said afore, one duck and the little drake, and they was off a rod or better from the rest, at the two different sides of the stream—the big bunch warn’t over ten rods off me, nor so far; so I tuck sight right at the big drake’s neck. The water was quite clear and still, and seemed to have caught all the little light as was left by the sun, for the skies had got pretty dark, I tell you; and I could see his head quite clear agin the water—well, I draw’d trigger, and the hull charge ripped into ’em—and there was a scrabblin’ and a squatterin’ in the water now, I tell you—but not one on ’em riz—not the fust one of the hull bunch; but up jumped both the others, and I drawed on the drake—more by the whistlin’ of his wings, than that I seen him—but I drawed stret, Archer, any ways; and arter I’d pulled half a moment I hard him plump down into the crick with a splash, and the water sparkled up like a fountain where he fell. So then I didn’t wait to load, but ran along the bank as hard as I could strick it, and when I’d got down to the spot, I tell you, little Dash had got two on ’em out afore I came, and was in with a third. Well, sich a cuttin’ and a splashin’ as there was you niver did see, none on you—I guess, for sartin—leastwise I niver did. I’d killed, you see, the drake and two ducks, dead at the first fire, but three was only wounded, wing-tipped, and leg-broken, and I can’t tell you what all. It was all of nine o’clock at night, and dark as all out doors, afore I gathered them three ducks, but I did gather ’em; Lord, boys, why I’d stayed till mornin’, but I’d a got them, sarten. Well, the drake I killed flyin’ I couldn’t find him that night, no how, for the stream swept him down, and I hadn’t got no guide to go by, so I let him go then, but I was up next mornin’ bright and airly, and started up the stream clean from the bridge here, up through Garry’s back-side, and my bog-hole, and so on along the meadows to Aunt Sally’s run—and looked in every willow bush that dammed the waters back, like, and every bunch of weeds and brier-brake, all the way, and sure enough I found him, he’d been killed dead, and floated down the crick, and then the stream had washed him up into a heap of broken sticks and briers, and when the waters fell, for there had been a little freshet, they left him there breast uppermost—and I was glad to find him—for I think, Archer, as that shot was the nicest, prettiest, etarnal, darndest, long, good shot, I iver did make, anyhow; and it was so dark I couldn’t see him.”

Many of his friends and mine will recognize the character, to whom I allude, as he figures largely in the pages of “The Warwick Woodlands,” from which the above extract is taken, of “My Shooting-box,” and the other sporting scenes of Frank Forester, wherein nothing good or generous or kind is related of Tom Draw, that does not fall far short of the reality.

Before closing this article, I will correct an error into which I perceive I have inadvertently fallen in the first page of it, wherein I said that this duck, alone of the family, has the habit of perching, roosting, and nesting on trees.

I should have said alone of the American family; for I find a note by Mr. Brewer, the last editor of Wilson, annexed to his article on our bird, which I prefer to subjoin instead of merely making a verbal alteration, since I doubt not many others are in the same error, who will be glad to be corrected in detail. It appears, as will be seen below, that, although there are no European tree-ducks, nor any other American, there is a family of Asiatic and African congeners of our Summer Duck, for which an especial name has been proposed, though not as yet generally adopted. I might add that the present Latin name of our bird, anas sponsa, signifies, being interpreted, the bride duck, from the rare elegance of its form and beauty of its plumage—a pretty name for a pretty creature.

“These lovely ducks may be said to represent an incessorial form among the anatidæ; they build and perch on trees, and spend as much time on land as upon the waters; Dr. Richardson has given this group, containing few members, the title of dendronessa from their arboreal habits. Our present species is the only one belonging to America, where it ranges rather to the south than north; the others, I believe, are all confined to India. They are remarkable for the beauty and splendor of their plumage, its glossy, silky texture, and for the singular form of the scapulars, which, instead of an extreme development in length, receive it in the contrary proportion of breadth; and instead of lying flat, in some stand perpendicular to the back. They are all adorned with an ample crest, pendulous, and running down the back of the neck. They are easily domesticated, but I do not know that they have been yet of much utility in this state, being more kept on account of their beauty, and few have been introduced except to our menageries; with a little trouble at first, they might form a much more common ornament about our artificial pieces of water. It is the only form of a Tree Duck common to this continent; in other countries there are, however, two or three others of very great importance in the natural system, whose structure and habits have yet been almost entirely overlooked or lost sight of. These seem to range principally over India, and more sparingly in Africa; and the Summer Duck is the solitary instance, the United States the nearly extreme limit, of its own peculiarities in this division of the world.”

With this note I close this paper, expressing only the hope that the bird will become more largely domesticated; as no more beautiful adornment can be conceived to the parks and shrubberies of gentlemen, such more especially as possess the advantages of small inland rivulets, or pieces of ornamental water, whether natural or artificial.

SONNET.

Oh! she was young, and beautiful, and good,

But called away, while Age toils faintly on:—

Gone to the voiceless land of shadows—gone

In the bright morning of her womanhood.

Cheered by the blue-bird’s warble of delight,

Springtime, the tender childhood of the year,

With bursting bud and sprouting grass is here,

And Nature breathes of resurrection bright:

It seems unmeet that one so fair should die,

When sounds are heard so charming to the ear,

And sights beheld so pleasant to the eye:

Hush vain regrets! a land of fadeless bloom

Is now her home—its passage-way the tomb.

Wm. H. C. Hosmer.

THE PEDANT:

OR CHAPTERS FROM A LIFE SPENT PARTLY IN CAROLINA.

———

BY HENRY HOLM, ESQ.

———

PROEM.

I never had the least thought of writing any anecdotes of my youth till last summer, when I was in Holland, and met with your correspondent Mr. B——, at the Oùde Doelen, in Amsterdam. As we were chatting over a bottle of Bordeaux wine, in a very dark, long, wainscotted dining-room—the weather being rainy—Professor Broeck, of Utrecht, came in, and being a monstrously inquisitive old man, extracted from me quite an account of my travels in America and my youthful studies.

“Why, Holm,” said my American friend, “you ought to put this into a book.”

At this, I was much taken aback; for bookish as I have been, I never in all my life put any thing into print, except—when a schoolmaster—a small edition of Greek epigrams from the Anthology, which I compiled from the Paris edition—and this was a failure. On recollection, I must add a Latin elegy, which my head boy made with my help on the death of Washington. It was printed at Richmond, and abounded in errors of the press, so that I was fain to suppress the edition, all but a few copies to patrons, which I corrected with a pen. But Mr. B. insisted I should jot down some of the events of my life, saying that, now in my old age, it would be a comfort to me; and that Lord Kaimes used to give this recipe to any of his friends who happened to be low-spirited—“Write a book.” He added, that it was so uncommon for an American of the old school, and a Carolinian to boot, to have been several times in Europe, and then to nestle in his quondam home on the Roanoke; that, notwithstanding a certain long-windedness, no longer modish, he was sure my scraps would find readers, if among none else, yet among my old pupils, some of whom are in Congress, besides one in a foreign legation. I therefore rigged my little craft, put up a bit of sail, and with a smart whiff of a breeze got out of sounding ere I was aware. Here goes—therefore, and I commit myself to the good will of the friends aforesaid, praying that this may be gently received in quality both of preface and dedication.

H. H.

——

CHAPTER I.

“Weigh anchor; spread thy sails; call every wind,

Eye thy great Pole-Star; make the land of life.”

Young.

The date of my birth is a secret. Time was when I used to laugh at people for being slow to tell their age; but sounder philosophy has shown me a certain wisdom in this reserve. Why should men so pry into the infirmities of their fellows? One may be gray and wrinkled without being octogenarian. Let it suffice to know that I was born a subject of George the Third, and in one of the greatest places on the noble river Roanoke, of which the name is derived from the small shell which the Indians employed as a currency. My father and mother were English, and came in middle life from the valley of the Trent, leaving their elder offspring settled in Warwickshire, where I have met their descendants.

My father was an Oxford man, bred to medicine, which, however, he never practiced in America. His plantation was great, if you count the number of acres, but meager enough in arable land.

I remember the spring seasons in that delicious climate, with a sort of fragrancy in the reminiscence. April was a month which resembled a Northern May; for the calycanthus was blooming in the swamps, the coral honeysuckle blushed in every thicket, and the sweet-briar perfumed the open places and old fields, without cultivation.

Southern boys grow up equestrians. How freshly do I recall the extempore races along the wide bottoms of the creeks—as we call such brooks in America—mounted on switch-tailed colts, rough and shaggy from want of grooming, and without shoes, hat or saddle, my competitors being the black Catos, Hectors, and Antonies of the plantation.

There was what was called an old-field school about a mile from the court-house, taught by a Scotchman—a Jacobite—who accompanied the famous and beautiful Flora McDonald to Carolina. His name was McLeod, and he used the Highland mull to such an extent, that we learned to call him Sneeshin Sawney. But, when he was sober—which occurred frequently before dinner—he was one of the best classical teachers I ever had. Greek was not his forte; but commend me to him for rattling off screeds of Virgil, Horace and Ovid, as well as whole pages of the historians and orators. He had a chest full of sundry modern Latin books, some of which he would chuckle over when mellow. One of his favorites was Buchanan’s History. How he would roll in laughter over the description of the bagpipe in Buchanan’s Latinity; and how he gloried in the oft-quoted phrase, the ingenium perfervidum Scotovum. He had a pocket copy of Vida, which—from bad company—was almost as sternutatory as his impalpable snuff. The most I learned of him was, a rude acquaintance with Latin, a little French—horribly mispronounced, and a few rules of Traill’s Algebra. But, meanwhile I had enjoyed free pasture in a garret of books, belonging to my father. These were chiefly medical; and I sought out, with boyish zeal and cunning, all the most piquant cuts of surgical operations, and came at length to fancy myself possessed of half the diseases in the old nosology. When I afterward visited Leyden, I recognized some of the ancient quartos of Van Swieten and Swammerdam, in the vast but musty library. By-the-bye, when you go thither, note well that the said library contains one of the best portraits of Grotius, and one of the most striking of Erasmus. The garret had also the Elegant Extracts, in three thick volumes, and odd ends of good English literature. Among apples, flax, and invalid saddles, I used to lie on the floor of this loft, and read till the sun went down. But sometimes I had to bestride my horse, and take letters to the post, at the court-house; and here I frequented the abode of a Mrs. Grieve, the widow of a Highland captain, who came over in the troubles of ’45, and fell a victim to his insane fondness for the prince, having been shot in a duel with a young surgeon of Hanoverian sentiment.

Bless me! Do not think I was born at that time? Mrs. Grieve had been many years a widow. She liked me, and I liked Marion; and this was the reason of my being summarily shipped off to England, lest I should incur the burdens of matrimony. They say, I was what—in that part of the earth—is called a “likely” fellow; round-faced, hardy, broad-shouldered, and agile, but very shy, and full of gaucherie.

——

CHAPTER II.

“Male herbe croît plutost que bonne.”

Old French Proverb.

Montaigne dwells with a chirping, senile complacency on the pains which his father took to make his childhood happy. Though, Arthur Holm, my honored parent took no pains at all about the matter, he so managed matters that his hopeful son—myself, Henry Holm, meaning—passed as delightful a boyhood and youth as ever the best son of the best gentleman of Perigord.

I will hang a veil over the infirmities of this loving old gentleman. His days and sometimes his nights were spent at the court-house—a term by which, in Carolina, the hamlet which contains the county tribunal is called—and those were days of high play and deep bowls, with a fiery dash of French brimstone, and sans-culotte theology.

The best and gentlest mother that man ever had was gone to her rest. “Mas’ Harry”—my aforesaid self, meaning—was left to wander at his own sweet will, and wander he did, with a witness, in all the byways of such reading as half-a-dozen gentlemen’s houses, and the parson’s study, afforded.

What ensued? I was five and forty before I ever knew that I was a pedant. German was not yet a language in which Americans sought literary gratification; but my neighbor, Marion Grieve, and I turned over many a volume of French—half comprehended, and I boggled through an odd volume of Don Quixote in Spanish, and several plays of Calderon. Verses of course—as an unavoidable excretion of the youthful brain—proceeded from me in large amount; not such as now emulate the measures of Beppo or Oriana, but imitations of Darwin and Miss Seward.

For delightful boyhood, I maintain the world has no clime comparable to the old States of the South. Wide stretches of country, open forests for hounds, interminable meads in some parts, blooded horses at command, ambrosial mornings, evenings made vocal by the mocking-bird, young comrades in great array, open doors on every estate—we say nothing of the “domestic institution,” and the conveniences of an ample retinue—develop any capacities for unstinted satisfaction, which a gay young master may possess. Something there may be of Horace’s sudavit et alsit, but chiefly in hard riding after a fox, or keeping up with a coach, full of damsels, going far to an assembly at the next town.

Very different is this from the similar stage in the case of the English boy, which I have considered, and which also has its manly discipline; but is marked by long separations from home, direful fagging at public schools, and the restraints of a conventionalism, which is only not Chinese. In looking back, I am very sure it was good for me to be taken away early from scenes of so much indulgence; and I would, if I knew how, subject my boys to a collar somewhat stiffer than that in which I spent my adolescence. Say what you will, young blood needs the pressure of a stern discipline, to induce self-denial, the germ of all self-command; so I can rejoice in hardships now they are over. Yet, in those days, it was but hypocritically that I hummed over the Olim meminisse juvabit.

I am writing among the same spring zephyrs, and gorgeous vegetation of the South, spectacles on nose, and my feet in list slippers; but I can leap over a long intercalation, and live over again the hours of the eighteenth century. My departure had, however, the bitterness of an exile.

——

CHAPTER III.

The tear forgot as soon as shed.

Gray.

The vessel in which I sailed was a round-sterned bark, very black, and English built, with hogsheads of tobacco for Bristol. I was under the care of Mr. Moir, a clergyman from the south of Virginia, who was returning to get orders for his son from the Bishop of London. The son and his brother were twins, and were gay companions. We were out seven weeks, and were several times in great peril. But I forgot all when I saw England in mid May. The transition is peculiarly strong in contrasts for one who goes from a region not abounding in greensward and roadside flowers, and equally destitute of the castle and the cottage. In June I heard a nightingale near Warwick castle, and took my first lesson in cricket on the green near Hampton Court; I dined at the Mitre, and shortly after looked at the Eton boys shooting their “four-oars” on the Thames. London was all mapped off in my head; and the impression had not been forestalled by a previous sight of Philadelphia, then our only great city. I was acquainted with Sir Roger de Coverley’s haunts; I knew where to go for the Boar’s Head, which had not yet been thrust aside for a king’s statue. The very names of the streets were redolent of memories; St. Swithin’s Lane, Aldermanbury, the Minories. Billingsgate was in its full Aristophanic glory; not yet invaded by a lordly structure of brick market-houses. “O rare Ben Jonson!” how I gloated over thy memorial in the Poet’s Corner! Though roses no longer bloom in the Temple Garden, yet I walked there as proud as if my veins carried the red and white of York and Lancaster. Methinks I was an antiquary before my time; but certain it is that I whiled away whole weeks in the odd, out-of-the-way corners of old London, and almost venerated Pie-corner, where the structures remain as of old, before the Great Fire stopped short at that bounding locality.

My quarters were at the Axe Inn, Aldermanbury. This is not very far from Christ-Church hospital; and the Blue-coat boys—whom I daily met, in their yellow nether-stocks, dark frocks, and clerical bands—carried me back to the times of old, and made me a frequent visitor of those antique and hospitably open cloisters.

My studies toward the Law, were to be under the guidance of a gentleman of Gray’s Inn, long since dead; John Thweat, Esq.—His son is now a solicitor in chancery—He was a typical Englishman. In his wig—when he drove in a chaise, without hat, to Westminster Hall—his face was not unlike a boiled lobster, in a garnish of cauliflower. I soon found that my study was to be pen-work, and that my apprenticeship—if entered into—would be a slavish drawing of forms. My father was easier in his ways every year; so he assented to my spending a few months in travel. Do not imagine that I am going to record my journeys? These were the glorious old days of coaching. From the George Inn, opposite Addle street, Aldermanbury, I used to see forty coaches set out.

It was near my lodgings. The Hogarthian coachman was then not extinct. In my last visit, I detected one or two of the old sort, degenerated into omnibus-men. Hyde Park was not what it has since become, but it was a marvel, nevertheless; and I studied, with daily application, the heraldry of all the turn-outs, and the horsemanship of gentlemen in boots and small-clothes, who, to my American eyes, seemed sad riders, from the English trick of “rising to the trot.”

But when summer was over, and the short days came on, and the shops had candles at noon, and the Strand and Holburn were dank and miry, and London smoke became a wetting nimbus, I gathered up my odds and ends, and make a dash over to Ireland. But this should be reserved for another chapter.

——

CHAPTER IV.

“That Latin was no more difficile,

Than to a black-bird ’tis to whistle.”

Butler.

The sloop which conveyed me from Holy Island to Kingstown, on my way to Dublin, had on board a merry Irishman, to whom I found myself attracted, because he had been in America. He was further acquainted with the family into which my mother’s brother had intermarried—the O’Mearas of Dundalk, of whom one, who was an officer in the garrison, was the object of my present visit.

Dennis was full of odd stories about Irish schoolmasters, fit successors of Swift’s Tom Sheridan; and he informed me that Captain O’Meara had once been a classical tutor, and was still rather conceited in regard to his attainments. He was a companion of Doctor Barrett, of Trinity College, and, as Dennis affirmed, carried more book-learning under a red-coat than many a bishop under a black one. But the half had not been told me.

After seeing the sights of a very beautiful city, driving round Phoenix Park, surveying the Four Courts, and Cathedral, and the palaces, and lawns of Trinity College, I sat down to make myself at home at Captain O’Meara’s. This was the less difficult, as the captain had four daughters, near enough in kindred and age to relieve me from my mauvaise honte, and Irish enough in complexion, mirth, and wit, to set my inexperienced brain in a very pleasurable whirl.

But the captain absorbed every thing to himself. When he discovered that I could comprehend a Latin saying, he gave up all other pursuits for that of riddling me with a fusilade of citations. I am sure such a character is unknown out of Ireland. Miss Mitford has given, in happy detail, the picture of one species in this genus, in her late work. We often meet with this sanguineous, overflowing, half-subtle, half-blundering, off-hand, good fellow, among unlettered Irishmen; but, in good truth, my Cousin O’Meara was a bit of a scholar, had taken prizes at college, was a correspondent of divers learned guilds, and had talked Latin, by the fortnight, with Sulpicians, who came over from France on church errands.

Imagine my gallant captain at his mahogany field of manœuvre, with forces of claret moving over the polished plane. Imagine him well-spread, rubicund, moist with the gentle drops of Bacchic dew, breathing heavily, gesturing vehemently, with fat, dimpled hand, and smiling as none but Hibernian lips and teeth can smile. Behold me in the costume of 1796, slender and brown, as becomes an American, unused to long potations, trembling lest I miss a meaning or violate a quantity, and anxiously waiting for the summons to follow the ladies to coffee.

“Cousin Henry,” said my host, with all the rotundity of a dean, “you say you have not read Aulus Gellius. Ah! we shall turn him over to-morrow. Not to have read the Attic Nights is, mon cher, the next thing to being a child of darkness. Aulus, my dear fellow—let the bottle tend hitherward—was an Athenian by domiciliation; in this, like Pomponius, who, you know, was denominated Atticus. Aulus came to Athens, my very respected and regarded kinsman—fill your glass—for the purpose of hearing those great expounders, Taurus and Phavorinus; much as you, mon cher, have come to classic Dublin, to hear—to hear—a-hem—to confabulate with your poor old kinsman.” And here he looked down on the amplitude of his well-stretched waistcoat, and the unwrinkled surface of a plump, feminine hand. “Barrett and I have often kept it up—pray let me see the claret—hour after hour, as to the question whether Phavorinus was a Roman or a Greek. You remember what Aulus says—ah! no, you have yet to peruse him—you shall hear my excursus on the later schools of Athens. Their dissertatiuncles—allow the phrase—were conversational; noctes coenaeque deorum.”

Here my fidgets became marked, especially as the clear ringing of a girlish trio was heard above stairs.

“Don’t move—you know I am off duty—you don’t weary me—the claret is good. Did I ever tell you what happened on a Twelfth night at Lord Mountstewart’s? My lord threw the key out of the window, and swore the party should not rise till a certain hogshead of claret was exhausted.” Fidgets more alarming. “On that night I delivered the speech which is so like Ammianus.”

In hopes of angering him, and so getting off, I ventured here on a citation of Gibbon, charging Ammian with bombast. But the smile only bespread his full-blown visage more benignly, as he continued—

“Nay, mon cher, Gibbon was incapable of measuring such dimensions of style as those of Ammianus Marcellinus. O, that we had his opening books! They are lost—unless Mai should turn them up in some Ambrosian palimpsest. Out of Dublin—the claret—there are not ten men who can taste the richness of Ammian. I will pronounce to you his description of one of Julian’s battles.”

Here a fit of irrepressible coughing took me to the window, and my diaphragm was so agitated, that the rehearsal was interrupted. Making my recovery as protracted as might be, I found my captain—still holding his glass, and still smiling—sunk into a sweet slumber, under cover of which, I slipped into the ladies’ apartment.

“Ha!” cried Grace O’Meara, “papa has let you off well. You have scarcely heard him pronounce the second Philippic.”

“No, no—that must still await me. But when did Irish officers become so enamoured of the ancients?”

“You must know, Cousin Harry,” said Miss Barbara, “papa dreams of little else. He has tried to teach us all Latin; but we made game of the accidence so effectually, that he is willing now to compound for French and Italian.”

Captain O’Meara, when claret was out of the question, was placid, sensible, and even dull. With a strong antipathy to the Saxon, he united an overweening regard for America, and drank Jefferson’s health with religious veneration. On his horse, in the Park, he looked every inch the hero, like those handsome, pursy, red-coats one sees in gilt frames around the hall in Free-Mason’s Tavern. His color was of the red, red rose, his teeth were ivory, and his voice was full and dulcet. Notwithstanding his pedantry, he communicated to me some most valuable hints concerning my Greek and Latin reading, and explained to me many a hard place in Plautus and Lucretius; reading from tall octavos of the Bipont edition, in crimson uniform. But he suffered no man to dispute the preëminence of Trinity College, or the authenticity of the Celtic annals. Remembering my father as a doctor, he would not hear me explain that I was not intending to walk in his steps.

“You will,” said he, “complete a course at Trinity—then, ho! for Leyden. There is the spot for the healing art. I know two Americans there; one of them fought O’Shaughnessy, our adjutant. Leyden, mon cher, is the modern Salerno. Never name Edinburgh—where the prelections—horresco referens—are in English. Leyden is your place. Don’t touch their gin—we call it Geneva, a corruption of the Dutch gedever, or juniper—stick to claret. You will find a compotator, that is, a bottle-companion, in Professor Van Valkenburg, in the street by the old Roman castle. Their anatomical preparations are alone worth a visit. And then the library”—

But I weary my readers with gossip of fifty odd years ago. My eyes grow dim. I must bid adieu to Dublin and the O’Meara’s.

TO ADHEMAR.

———

BY E. ANNA LEWIS.

———

I think of thee till all is dim confusion,

And reason reels upon her fragile throne—

The past and present blend in strange illusion;

Thoughts, feelings, all commingle into one,

As streams and rills into the ocean run;

And my pale cheeks are drenched with a suffusion

Of drops upheaved from lava-founts of wo;

And while these burning tides my lids o’erflow,

Impassioned Fancy to thy presence hies,

And suns her in the radiance of thine eyes—

At the pure well-spring of thy bosom sips,

And feeds upon the nectar of thy lips;

Then back, with gathered sweets, returns to me,

As homeward comes at eve the honey-freighted bee.

MY FIRST SUNDAY IN MEXICO.

FROM THE JOURNAL OF A VOLUNTEER OFFICER.

———

BY W. W. H. DAVIS.

———

I had reached the goal of my hopes and my ambition, and was comfortably quartered in the city of the Montezumas. There, in that proud and ancient capital, and surrounded with so many of the comforts and luxuries of life, I almost forgot the toils and sufferings of the march and the bivouac, and here, for awhile in comparative ease, “the pomp, pride and circumstance of glorious war,” which is so fascinating to the untried soldier, seemed almost realized. The American army had occupied the city long enough to establish order, by a well-regulated and efficient military police, and the enemy having retired some distance, the officers and men began to extend their sphere of observation beyond the limits of the capital, when off duty, to the beautiful suburban towns and villages near by.

I spent my first Sunday in sight-seeing, in a visit to the somewhat celebrated city of Guadalupédee Hidalgo, about four miles to the north of Mexico. It is situated at the foot of a rocky mount, called Tapeyac, in the midst of a romantic but not very fertile country, and is approached by one of the six causeways which lead out from the city. They are broad, straight, finely McAdamized, and planted on each side with shade-trees, and have been constructed through the waters of the lake at great expense. In point of size this place is not of much importance, and does not contain more than a thousand inhabitants all told. Besides the church erected there, dedicated to the patron saint of the country, and a few religious establishments, the buildings are of mud and reeds, inhabited by a miserable and filthy population. Here it was the “Virgin of Guadalupé” is said to have made her miraculous appearance, and here, once every year, a great festival and celebration is held in honor of her, which is looked upon as one of the most important days in the church. The manner in which the “Virgin” made her first appearance is very remarkable, and the story, as related by one of the early bishops, seems quite as incomprehensible to us, who are without the pale of the church, as the myths which come down to us from pagan antiquity. But since the priesthood appear to put full faith in the modus operandi of her advent, the people of the country, as a matter of course, believe it.

The legend runs as follows: In the year 1531, an Indian, named Juan Diego, was passing by this mountain of Tapeyac, on his return home from the city, when the Most Holy Virgin appeared to him, and directed him to go back to the city and tell the bishop to come out there and worship her. The bishop refused to admit him into his presence, having no faith in the miracle. In passing by the same spot a few days afterward she appeared to him a second time, and told him to return to the bishop and say that, “I, Mary, the Mother of God, have sent you.” Again the bishop refused to admit the Indian to his presence, being still incredulous, but required some token of the annunciation. The Virgin appeared to the Indian the third and last time, two days afterward, and ordered him to ascend the mountain and pluck roses therefrom and present them to the bishop as his credentials. Now, this mountain is a barren rock, without a particle of vegetation upon it. The Indian, however, went as he was directed, and there found flowers, which he threw into his tilma, a sort of apron worn by the inhabitants of the country. He returned to the city and was admitted into the presence of the bishop, but when he opened his tilma, instead of the roses which he had gathered and put into it, there appeared an image of the Holy Virgin, which is said to be preserved to this day in the church which bears her name. From the name of the town she was called the Virgin of Guadalupé, and has been made the patron saint of the country. This is the history they give of her appearance, and it is as bad as rank heresy for Catholics to disbelieve it. With them she is all important, and appears to have a powerful influence over all the affairs of life. With the great mass of the population she is the only identity in religious reverence, the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end of all their faith and worship. She is appealed to on every occasion, and her name is given to nearly half the females in the country; her image is hung up in every house, and even in the butcher-stalls and drinking-shops she occupies a conspicuous place, where her presence is supposed to preserve the meat sweet in the one, and to bring customers to the other.

On Sunday, the 12th of December, 1847, I rode out to Guadalupé, to witness the ceremonies in honor of this saint. I mounted my horse at an early hour, and set out alone, but by the time I had reached the Garita and turned upon the causeway, I found myself in the midst of a crowd tending the same way. It was as pleasant and beautiful a morning as ever broke over that lovely valley, and every thing reminded me of spring time or early summer. The air had that balmy softness peculiar to the season of opening flowers, and the gentle zephyrs which came from the shining bosom of lake Tescoco, were loaded with a delightful odor. The trees and bushes and grass were dressed in their garb of living green, and the merry-hearted songsters were singing their sweetest melodies in honor of the opening day. Such a delightful season in winter seemed like reversing the order of nature. The crowd which came pouring out of the city was immense, and as checkered in appearance as ever made pilgrimage to the shrine of a saint. From their appearance there were all sorts and conditions of persons, and every class of the proud capital was fully represented, ranging from the caballero to the lepero. Here might be seen an elegant carriage, drawn by sleek-looking mules, whose smiling inmates looked the very personification of luxury and ease—there came a rude, country cart, lined with raw hide and filled with the family of some poor ranchero, drawn by a raw-boned ox made fast by thongs around his horns—here ambled by a crowd of donkey cavalry, whose riders, with feet trailing on the ground, urged the animals forward in hot haste toward the scene of festivities—then thousands came on foot, some carrying children strapped to their backs, some bending under loads of nick-knacks for sale. Men, women and children, mules, donkeys and dogs, were all mingled together in one throng, and the noise of confused sounds reminded me somewhat of a modern Babel on a small scale. Among this mottled group were many American officers, in their neat uniforms and mounted on prancing steeds. On each side of the road, up to the very gates of Guadalupé, booths were erected for the sale of cakes, drinks and sweetmeats, and where all kinds of buffoonery were being performed; gambling tables were numerous, loaded with shining coin, and here and there I noticed pits for cock-fighting, with anxious crowds assembled round to witness the cruel sport, and bets seemed running high on the favorite chickens. The whole assemblage seemed enjoying and amusing themselves to the utmost of their capacity in eating and drinking, gambling and dancing. The dancers were assembled under the shade of the wide-spreading trees, where, to the music of the harp and guitar, they performed their national dances with much spirit, dressed in the romantic costume of the country. Inside the inclosure where the sacred edifice stands, was a perfect jam of men, women and children, old and young, white, yellow and black, greasy and well-clad, who had come up here to do honor to the saint who rules over their destinies.

When I arrived at the gate leading into the inclosure where the performance was to take place, the procession of the Host was passing, and if it had not been a religious ceremony, I could not have prevented myself from laughing loud, the scene was so ludicrous and ridiculous. The image of the Virgin was borne aloft on a pole, followed by a number of priests in their stove-pipe hats and sacred vestments—then came a platoon of filthy-looking soldiers, with a band of music playing some national air, the whole brought up in the rear by a crowd of “red spirits and white, blue spirits and gray,” shooting squibs and hallooing at the top of their voices. It reminded me much more of a Fourth of July celebration, or a militia training in a frontier settlement of the United States, than a religious festival. Dismounting, I gave my horse to a soldier standing near, to hold, while I went in and witnessed the performance. On entering, I found much difficulty in getting through the crowd, but by dint of a good deal of pushing and elbowing, and also rapping a few stubborn, greasy-looking fellows over the shins with my sabre, who were slow to make room, I at last reached the door of the sacred edifice. The crowd was as dense within as without, and it seemed wholly impossible to be able to enter; beside, an odor, not as pleasant as the ottar of roses, arose from the assemblage. These considerations were sufficient to induce me to turn back and retrace my steps. This was no easy matter, as the crowd had closed up again immediately, and I found myself in as dense a throng as ever. However, return I must, and putting full faith in the old adage, “That where there is a will there is a way,” I set about the matter in good earnest, and in a short time I found myself at the point from which I had started. I again mounted my horse, but was uncertain which way to turn. Just then, I was joined by two officers of my regiment, who proposed to ride round the base of the hill toward the left, and if possible, ascend it on horseback. We spurred our horses through the crowd, which opened to let us pass, and turning to the right, rode along the base until we had reached a point nearly opposite to the place from which we started. The hill of Tapeyac is some six or eight hundred feet in height, and is a mass of rocks of igneous origin, the surface being quite smooth and bare of vegetation. It rises up from the plain abruptly, and is steep in its most sloping part. We found the ascent much more difficult than we had anticipated, and it required a great deal of hard labor to get up it. We kept in the saddle for some distance, but at last were obliged to dismount and lead our horses up the steep slope. It was really painful to see the poor animals struggle up the smooth surface of the rock, and now and then it seemed almost impossible for them to keep their footing. Thus we labored upward, and at last stood upon the summit, when man and beast rested from their toil. And while we sat down, holding in our hands the reins of the faithful animals, we looked abroad upon the varied scene below us and enjoyed the beautiful prospect. It was really magnificent, and fully repaid us for the toil we had in ascending. The elevation of our position brought under our view the famous valley of Mexico for many miles in every direction. To the south lay the city, with the bright sun shining in gilded rays upon the steeples and cupolas of the cathedral and churches, giving them almost the appearance of burnished gold and silver. More distant, in the same direction, the two snow-capped mountains of Popocatapetl and Ixtaccihuatl loomed up in stern grandeur into the clear, blue sky, and stood out from all their fellows in beautiful relief. To the left, the eye swept over the sparkling surface of lake Pezcoca, which washes the eastern barrier that shuts in this fair Eden of the New World. Nearer, to the front and to the right, the eye rests upon a wide expanse of plain, variegated with cultivated fields, with their irrigating ditches, like threads of silver, meandering through them. Here and there flocks and herds were grazing on the verdant pasture, or seeking the shade of the trees to shield them from the sun. Such, in a few words, is the nature of the beautiful landscape which opened to our view from the rocky summit where we were seated, and for the reader fully to appreciate it, he must be aware of the freshness and enchantment the balmy air and crystal skies of that clime lend to every scene. We enjoyed it to the utmost stretch of human capacity to enjoy the beauties of nature, and as we descended the rocky mount, so loth were we to have it shut from our sight, that we cast “many a longing, lingering look behind,” ere we reached the level of the plain.

On nearly the highest point, on the spot where the Indian is said to have plucked the roses, a small church has been erected, which tradition says, sprung up out of the rock in a single night. It is a dark-looking stone building, built in the heavy Spanish style of two centuries ago. It is reached from below by a winding stairway, cut in the solid rock, considerably crumbled by time, and worn by the footsteps of the thousands who pass up to worship at the shrine of their favorite saint. We entered the sacred edifice, and found it thronged with devotees, mostly half-naked Indians, who had come from the mountains and valleys beyond, on this their annual pilgrimage to the Mecca of their spiritual hopes, and who, like the devout Moslem who yearly kneels at the tomb of his Prophet, having finished his mission, is ready to lie down and die. They jostled and pushed each other in their anxiety to approach the altar and touch the garments of the image of the Virgin, and deposit their offering of money in the dish ready to receive it. Parents, anxious that their little ones should behold the great saint, lifted them up over the head of the multitude, and at a given signal the whole assemblage prostrated themselves on the hard paved floor to receive the blessing of the good father who ministered there. The poor Indians gazed in mute astonishment at all they saw, but to them the riddle was not to be solved, they were taught to believe, not to inquire. When they had deposited their offerings, and received a blessing, they turned away to make room for others who were continually pressing on.

Turning away from this scene, we led our horses down the stone stairway into the inclosure below. The crowd was not so dense as before, and we now found no difficulty in making our way through. Giving our horses to a Mexican to hold, we entered the sacred edifice dedicated to the Virgin of Guadalupé. The building was yet crowded with people, and the high dignitaries of the church were performing some solemn ceremony, commemorative of the occasion. In appearance this church is by far the most magnificent one I was in, in Mexico. It seemed almost one blaze of gold and silver in the bright sunlight which streamed through the windows, and played upon the rich decorations. The whole ceiling, and especially the dome, is painted in the most beautiful fresco, and so life-like are the images, that they appear almost to speak from the panels. Above the altar, at the east end of the church, in a frame-work of solid gold, is an image of the Virgin as large as life. Her dress is spangled with precious stones, and inside the frame are strips of gold running the whole length, thickly studded with diamonds, pearls, and emeralds—golden rays issue from each side, and suspended above it is a silver dove as large as an eagle. The altar is of finely polished marble, and highly ornamented, and in front runs a railing of silver. On both sides of the middle aisle, extending from the altar to the choir, some sixty feet, is a railing covered with pure silver half an inch in thickness. In addition to these, there are many silver lamps suspended from the ceilings, silver candlesticks before and around the altar, and some of the sacred desks are beautifully wrought in the precious metals. The choir is made of a beautiful dark wood, richly carved and ornamented, and the ceiling is supported by several marble pillars, highly polished, and of great beauty. As we crossed the threshold, the rich, deep tone of the organ, accompanied by the sound of many voices chanting a song of praise, swelled beneath the lofty dome, and impressed the listeners with feelings of reverence and thanksgiving. The building was odorous with the perfume of the scattered incense which had a few minutes before been cast abroad over the worshipers, and numerous priests, in their rich robes, were ministering around the altar. The anxious gazing multitude, within the temple, seemed fully impressed with the solemnity of the occasion, and conducted themselves with much propriety. We remained there a short time, and then returned to the yard to look at one or two objects of interest before we rode back to the city. Not far from the church is a “holy well,” over which a small chapel has been erected. The water is supposed to be sacred, and to have the power of healing wounds and preserving all who are touched by it. Crowds were gathered there, some dipping the tips of their fingers in, and crossing themselves, others applying a handful to the face, while some of the anxious mothers plunged their dirty children in, in order that the influence of the holy water might be sure to spread throughout the whole system, that is, if the dirt of the little urchins did not prevent it from penetrating. Being now tired of Guadalupé, and the dirty crowd we met there, we rode out of the inclosure, and galloped down the causeway toward Mexico, where we arrived in time to dine.

Having indulged in a short siesta, I again mounted my horse toward evening, and in company with General C., rode to the Alemeda and Passeo Nuevo. The Alemeda is a public square, in the western part of the city, planted with trees and shrubbery, adorned with shady avenues, fountains and statuary, and beautifully laid out in walks and drives. It contains about ten acres, and is the most pleasant place of resort in or near the city. The shrubbery is kept neatly trimmed and attended with great care, and is odorous the live-long year with the perfume of opening flowers. The trees clothed in their perpetual green foliage are fairly alive with birds of bright plumage and sweet song, which carol their morning and evening hymns free from harm. In the centre of the square is a large fountain, surmounted by the Goddess of Liberty, which spouts pure water high up in the air, and at its base crouch four lions, from whose mouths spout up smaller jets. A semicircular row of seats surrounds the fountain, and the surface of the space within is paved with large flat stones, laid in tasteful figures. From this point the paths and gravel-walks radiate in every direction, which are again met by others running from other centres, the point where they cross being adorned by smaller fountains. In pleasant weather hundreds of children assemble in this charming place in the afternoon, and amuse themselves with their innocent gambols in the shade of the wide-spreading trees. Hither the beauty and fashion of the capital, who seek pleasure on foot, resort toward evening, to promenade through the shady avenues. There the student carries his book, and, in some quiet secluded corner, apart from the fashionable world which rejoices around him, he sits alone and pursues his favorite study; and there also the lovers repair at the enchanting hour of eventide, and whisper anew their vows of faith and constancy. A numerous throng were gathered there, enjoying themselves in many ways, apparently unmindful that “grim visaged war” had erected his shrine in their beautiful city, and that foreign soldiery were overlooking them on the corner of every street. We rode through these shady avenues and then passed out at the south-west angle into Passeo Nuevo, with the crowd which moved that way. This is one of the fashionable and most frequented public drives of the city; it is a beautifully McAdamized road, half a mile in length, planted on each side with fine shade-trees, and adorned in the centre by a fountain, which spouts four jets of water. Seats are placed at intervals along each side of the drive, and opposite to the fountain, for the accommodation of foot people. Here all the world of Mexico may be seen toward evening, on a bright afternoon, in carriages and on horseback, and a lively, animated scene it presents. Rich equipages glitter in the declining sun, noble steeds, superbly caparisoned, and ridden by gay caballeros, proudly prance along, and beauty smiles upon every beholder. Everybody who can command any kind of a vehicle drives to the Passeo, and sometimes it is so much crowded, as to be quite difficult to drive or ride along it. The equipages which throng this path of fashion are various, and some of them are quite unique; and it is not uncommon to see the elegant turn-out of the English minister, side by side with a common country cart, lined with oxhide, and drawn by a poor old apology for a horse that would hardly dare to look a vulture in the face. Yet both parties are enjoying themselves in the fashionable world. The custom of this drive is somewhat peculiar, which all follow to the very letter of the law; it is to drive the full length twice, stop in the centre opposite the fountain to salute your friends, as they pass by, and then return home. To show our knowledge of the fashionable world, we conformed as nearly as possible to the ways of those who were initiated into the mysteries of the Passeo, and thereby, no doubt, passed for current coin. We spent one hour thus, in seeing and being seen, pleased with the animated scene we had witnessed, and then returned to our quarters. Thus I passed my first Sunday in the city of the Montezumas, and although not as religiously kept as would have been done at home, it had no evil effect upon the spiritual or moral man.

ENDYMION.

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BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

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What time the stars first flocked into the blue

Behind young Hesper, shepherd of the eve,

Sleep bathed the fair boy’s lids with charméd dew

Mid flowers that all day blossomed to receive

Endymion.

Lo, where he lay encircled in his dream!

The moss was glad to pillow his soft hair;

And toward him leaned the lily from the stream;

The hanging vine waved wooing in the air

Endymion.

The brook that erewhile won its easy way

O’errun with meadow grasses long and cool,

Now reeled into a fuller tide and lay

Caressing in its clear enamored pool

Endymion.

And all the sweet, delicious airs that fan

Enchanted gardens in their hour of bloom,

Blown through the soft invisible pipes of Pan,

Breathed mid their mingled music and perfume,

Endymion.

The silvery leaves that rustled in the light

Sent their winged shadows o’er his cheek entranced;

The constellations wandered down the night,

And whispered to the dew-drops where they danced

Endymion.

Lo! there he slept; and all his flock at will

Went, star-like, down the meadow’s azure mist:—

What wonder that pale Dian, with a thrill,

Breathed on his lips her sudden love and kist

Endymion!

THE VINTAGE.

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BY A. B. REACH.

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[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

Let us to the joyous ingathering of the fruits of the earth—the great yearly festival and jubilee of the property and the labor of Medoc. October is the joyous “wine month.” For weeks, every cloud in the sky has been watched—every cold night-breeze felt with nervous apprehension. Upon the last bright weeks in summer, the savor and the bouquet of the wine depend. Warmed by the blaze of an unclouded sun, fanned by the mild breezes of the west, and moistened by morning and evening dews, the grapes by slow degrees attain their perfect ripeness and their culminating point of flavor. Then the vintage implements begin to be sought out, cleaned, repaired, and scoured and sweetened with hot brandy. Coopers work as if their lives depended upon their industry; and all the anomalous tribe of lookers-out for chance jobs in town and country pack up their bag and baggage, and from scores of miles around pour in ragged regiments into Medoc.

There have long existed pleasing, and in some sort poetical, associations connected with the task of securing for human use the fruits of the earth; and to no species of crop do these picturesque associations apply with greater force than to the ingathering of the ancient harvest of the vine. From time immemorial, the season has typified epochs of plenty and mirthful-heartedness—of good fare and of good-will. The ancient types and figures descriptive of the vintage are still literally true. The march of agricultural improvement seems never to have set foot amid the vines. As it was with the patriarchs in the East, so it is with the modern children of men. The goaded ox still bears home the high-pressed grape-tub, and the feet of the trader are still red in the purple juice which maketh glad the heart of man. The scene is at once full of beauty, and of tender and even sacred associations. The songs of the vintagers frequently chorussed from one part of the field to the other, ring blithely into the bright summer air, pealing out above the rough jokes and hearty peals of laughter shouted hither and thither. All the green jungle is alive with the moving figures of men and women, stooping among the vines or bearing pails and basket-fulls of grapes out to the grass-grown cross-roads, along which the laboring oxen drag the rough vintage carts, groaning and cracking as they stagger along beneath their weight of purple tubs heaped high with the tumbling masses of luscious fruit. The congregation of every age and both sexes, and the careless variety of costume, add additional features of picturesqueness to the scene. The white-haired old man labors with shaking hands to fill the basket which his black-eyed imp of a grandchild carries rejoicingly away. Quaint broad-brimmed straw and felt hats—handkerchiefs twisted like turbans over straggling elf-locks—swarthy skins tanned to an olive-brown—black, flashing eyes—and hands and feet stained in the abounding juices of the precious fruit—all these southern peculiarities of costume and appearance supply the vintage with its pleasant characteristics. The clatter of tongues is incessant. A fire of jokes and jeers, of saucy questions, and more saucy retorts—of what, in fact, in the humble and unpoetic but expressive vernacular, is called “chaff”—is kept up with a vigor which seldom flags, except now and then, when the butt-end of a song, or the twanging close of a chorus strikes the general fancy, and procures for the morceau a lusty encore. Meantime, the master wine-grower moves observingly from rank to rank. No neglected bunch of fruit escapes his watchful eye. No careless vintager shakes the precious berries rudely upon the soil, but he is promptly reminded of his slovenly work. Sometimes the tubs attract the careful superintendent. He turns up the clusters to ascertain that no leaves nor useless length of tendril are entombed in the juicy masses, and anon directs his steps to the pressing-trough, anxious to find that the lusty treaders are persevering manfully in their long-continued dance.

Thither we will follow. The wine-press, or cuvier de pressoir, consists, in the majority of cases, of a massive shallow tub, varying in size from four square feet to as many square yards. It is placed either upon wooden tressels or on a regularly built platform of mason-work under the huge rafters of a substantial out-house. Close to it stands a range of great butts, their number more or less, according to the size of the vineyard. The grapes are flung by tub and caskfulls into the cuvier. The treaders stamp diligently amid the masses, and the expressed juice pours plentifully out of a hole level with the bottom of the trough into a sieve of iron or wicker-work, which stops the passage of the skins, and from thence drains into tubs below. Suppose, at the moment of our arrival, the cuvier for a brief space empty. The treaders—big, perspiring men, in shirts and tucked-up trowsers—spattered to the eyes with splatches of purple juice, lean upon their wooden spades, and wipe their foreheads. But their respite is short. The creak of another cart-load of tubs is heard, and immediately the wagon is backed up to the broad, open window, or rather hole in the wall, above the trough. A minute suffices to wrench out tub after tub, and to tilt their already half-mashed clusters splash into the reeking pressoir. Then to work again. Jumping with a sort of spiteful eagerness into the mountain of yielding, quivering fruit, the treaders sink almost to the knees, stamping and jumping and rioting in the masses of grapes, as fountains of juice spurt about their feet, and rush bubbling and gurgling away. Presently, having, as it were, drawn the first sweet blood of the new cargo, the eager tramping subsides into a sort of quiet, measured dance, which the treaders continue, while, with their wooden spades, they turn the pulpy remnants of the fruit hither and thither, so as to expose the half-squeezed berries in every possible way to the muscular action of the incessantly moving feet. All this time the juice is flowing in a continuous stream into the tubs beneath. When the jet begins to slacken, the heap is well tumbled with the wooden spades, and, as though a new force had been applied, the juice-jet immediately breaks out afresh. It takes, perhaps, half or three-quarters of an hour thoroughly to squeeze the contents of a good-sized cuvier, sufficiently manned. When at length, however, no further exertion appears to be attended with corresponding results, the tubfulls of expressed juice are carried by means of ladders to the edges of the vats, and their contents tilted in; while the men in the trough, setting-to with their spades, fling the masses of dripping grape-skins in along with the juice. The vats sufficiently full, the fermentation is allowed to commence. In the great cellars in which the juice is stored, the listener at the door—he cannot brave the carbonic acid gas to enter further—may hear, solemnly echoing in the cool shade of the great darkened hall, the bubblings and seethings of the working liquid—the inarticulate accents and indistinct rumblings which proclaim that a great metempsychosis is taking place—that a natural substance is rising higher in the eternal scale of things, and that the contents of these great giants of vats are becoming changed from floods of mere mawkish, sweetish fluid to noble wine—to a liquid honored and esteemed in all ages—to a medicine exercising a strange and potent effect upon body and soul—great for good and evil. Is there not something fanciful and poetic in the notion of this change taking place mysteriously in the darkness, when all the doors are locked and barred—for the atmosphere about the vats is death—as if Nature would suffer no idle prying into her mystic operations, and as if the grand transmutation and projection from juice to wine had in it something of a secret and solemn and awful nature—fenced round, as it were, and protected from vulgar curiosity by the invisible halo of stifling gas? I saw the vats in the Château Margaux cellars the day after the grape-juice had been flung in. Fermentation had not as yet properly commenced, so access to the place was possible; still, however, there was a strong vinous smell loading the atmosphere, sharp and subtle in its influence on the nostrils; while, putting my ear, on the recommendation of my conductor, to the vats, I heard, deep down, perhaps eight feet down in the juice, a seething, gushing sound, as if currents and eddies were beginning to flow, in obedience to the influence of the working Spirit, and now and then a hiss and a low bubbling throb, as though of a pot about to boil. Within twenty-four hours, the cellar would be unapproachable.

Of course, it is quite foreign to my plan to enter upon any thing like a detailed account of wine-making. I may only add, that the refuse skins, stalks, and so forth, which settle into the bottom of the fermentation vats, are taken out again after the wine has been drawn off, and subjected to a new squeezing—in a press, however, and not by the foot—the products being a small quantity of fiery, ill-flavored wine, full of the bitter taste of the seeds and stalks of the grape, and possessing no aroma or bouquet. The Bordeaux press for this purpose is rather ingeniously constructed. It consists of a sort of a skeleton of a cask, strips of daylight shining through from top to bottom between the staves. In the centre works a strong perpendicular iron screw. The rape, as the refuse of the treading is called, is piled beneath it; the screw is manned capstan fashion, and the unhappy seeds, skins and stalks, undergo a most dismal squeezing. Nor do their trials end there. The wine-makers are terrible hands for getting at the very last get-at-able drop. To this end, somewhat on the principle of rinsing an exhausted spirit-bottle, so as, as it were, to catch the very flavor still clinging to the glass, they plunge the doubly-squeezed rape into water, let it lie there for a short time, and then attack it with the press again. The result is a horrible stuff called piquette, which, in a wine country, bears the same resemblance to wine as the very dirtiest, most wishy-washy, and most contemptible of swipes bears to honest porter or ale. Piquette, in fact, may be defined as the ghost of wine!—wine minus its bones, its flesh, and its soul! a liquid shadow!—a fluid nothing!—an utter negation of all comfortable things and associations! Nevertheless, however, the peasants swill it down in astounding quantities, and apparently with sufficient satisfaction.

And now a word as to wine-treading. The process is universal in France, with the exception of the cases of the sparkling wines of the Rhone and Champagne, the grapes for which are squeezed by mechanical means, not by the human foot. Now, very venerable and decidedly picturesque as is the process of wine-treading, it is unquestionably rather a filthy one; and the spectacle of great, brown, horny feet, not a whit too clean, splashing and sprawling in the bubbling juice, conveys, at first sight, a qualmy species of feeling, which, however, seems only to be entertained by those to whom the sight is new. I looked dreadfully askance at the operation when I first came across it; and when I was invited—by a lady, too—to taste the juice, of which she caught up a glassfull, a certain uncomfortable feeling of the inward man warred terribly against politeness. But nobody around seemed to be in the least squeamish. Often and often did I see one of the heroes of the tub walk quietly over a dunghill, and then jump—barefooted, of course, as he was—into the juice; and even a vigilant proprietor, who was particularly careful that no bad grapes went into the tub, made no objection. When I asked why a press was not used, as more handy, cleaner, and more convenient, I was everywhere assured that all efforts had failed to construct a wine-press capable of performing the work with the perfection attained by the action of the human foot. No mechanical squeezing, I was informed, would so nicely express that peculiar proportion of the whole moisture of the grape which forms the highest flavored wine. The manner in which the fruit was tossed about was pointed out to me, and I was asked to observe that the grapes were, as it were, squeezed in every possible fashion and from every possible side, worked and churned and mashed hither and thither by the ever-moving toes and muscles of the foot. As far as any impurity went, the argument was, that the fermentation flung, as scum, to the surface, every atom of foreign matter held in suspension in the wine, and that the liquid ultimately obtained was as exquisitely pure as if human flesh had never touched it.

In the collection of these and such like particulars, I sauntered for days among the vineyards around; and utterly unknown and unfriended as I was, I met everywhere the most cordial and pleasant receptions. I would lounge, for example, to the door of a wine-treading shed, to watch the movements of the people. Presently the proprietor, most likely attired in a broad-brimmed straw hat, a strange faded outer garment, half shooting-coat half dressing-gown, would come up courteously to the stranger, and learning that I was an English visitor to the vintage, would busy himself with the most graceful kindness, to make intelligible the rationale of all the operations. Often I was invited into the château or farm-house, as the case might be; a bottle of an old vintage produced and comfortably discussed in the coolness of the darkened, thinly-furnished room, with its old-fashioned walnut-tree escrutoires, and beauffets, its quaintly-panneled walls, and its polished floors, gleaming like mirrors, and slippery as ice. On these occasions, the conversation would often turn on the rejection, by England, of French wines—a sore point with the growers of all save the first-class vintages, and in which I had, as may be conceived, very little to say in defense either of our taste or our policy. In the evenings, which were getting chill and cold, I occasionally abandoned my room with illustrations from the Tour de Nesle for the general kitchen and parlor of Madame Cadillac, and, ensconcing myself in the chimney corner—a fine old-fashioned ingle, crackling and blazing with hard wood logs—listened to the chat of the people of the village; they were nearly all coopers and vine-dressers, who resorted there after the day’s work was over to enjoy an exceedingly modest modicum of very thin wine. I never benefited very much, however, by these listenings. It was my bad luck to hear recounted neither tale nor legend—to pick up, at the hands of my compotatores, neither local trait nor anecdote. The conversation was as small as the wine. The gossip of the place—the prospects of the vintage—elaborate comparisons of it with other vintages—births, marriages, and deaths—a minute list of scandal, more or less intelligible when conveyed in hints and allusions—were the staple topics, mixed up, however, once or twice with general denunciations of the niggardly conduct of certain neighboring proprietors to their vintagers—giving them for breakfast nothing but coarse bread, lard, and not even piquette to wash it down with, and for dinner not much more tempting dishes.

In Medoc, there are two classes of vintagers—the fixed and the floating population; and the latter, which makes an annual inroad into the district, just as the Irish harvesters do into England and Scotland, comprising a goodly proportion of very dubious and suspicious-looking characters. The gen-d’armerie have a busy time of it when these gentry are collected in numbers in the district. Poultry disappear with the most miraculous promptitude; small linen articles hung out to dry have no more chance than if Falstaff’s regiment were marching by; and garden-fruit and vegetables, of course, share the results produced by a rigid application of the maxim that la proprieté c’est le vol. Where these people come from is a puzzle. There will be vagrants and strollers among them from all parts of France—from the Pyrenees and the Alps—from the pine-woods of the Landes and the moors of Brittany. They unite in bands of a dozen or a score men and women, appointing a chief, who bargains with the vine-proprietor for the services of the company, and keeps up some degree of order and subordination, principally by means of the unconstitutional application of a good thick stick. I frequently encountered these bands, making their way from one district to another, and better samples of the “dangerous classes” were never collected. They looked vicious and abandoned, as well as miserably poor. The women, in particular, were as brazen-faced a set of slatterns as could be conceived; and the majority of the men—tattered, strapping-looking fellows, with torn slouched-hats, and tremendous cudgels—were exactly the sort of persons a nervous gentleman would have scruples about meeting at dusk in a long lane. It is when thus on the tramp that the petty pilfering and picking and stealing, to which I have alluded, goes on. When actually at work, they have no time for picking up unconsidered trifles. Sometimes these people pass the night—all together, of course—in out-houses or barns, when the chef can strike a good bargain; at other times they bivouac on the lee-side of a wood or wall, in genuine gipsy fashion. You may often see their watch-fires glimmering in the night; and be sure, that where you do, there are twisted necks and vacant nests in many a neighboring hen-roost. One evening, I was sauntering along the beach at Paulliac—a little town on the river’s bank, about a dozen of miles from the mouth of the Gironde, and holding precisely the same relation to Bordeaux as Gravesend does to London—when a band of vintagers, men, women, and children, came up. They were bound to some village on the opposite side of the Gironde, and wanted to get ferried across. A long parley accordingly ensued between the chief and a group of boatmen. The commander of the vintage forces offered four sous per head as the passage-money. The bargemen would hear of nothing under five; and, after a tremendous verbal battle, the vintagers announced that they were not going to be cheated, and that if they could not cross the water, they would stay where they were. Accordingly, a bivouac was soon formed. Creeping under the lee of a row of casks, on the shingle of the bare beach, the women were placed leaning against the somewhat hard and large pillows in question; the children were nestled at their feet, and in their laps; and the men formed the outermost ranks. A supply of loaves was sent for and obtained. The chief tore the bread up into huge hunks, which he distributed to his dependents; and upon this supper the whole party went coolly to sleep—more coolly, indeed, than agreeably; for a keen north wind was whistling along the sedgy banks of the river, and the red blaze of high-piled fagots was streaming from the houses across the black, cold, turbid waters. At length, however, some arrangement was come to; for, on visiting the spot a couple of hours afterward, I found the party rather more comfortably ensconced under the ample sails of the barge which was to bear them the next morning to their destination.

The dinner-party formed every day, when the process of stripping the vines is going on, is, particularly in the cases in which the people are treated well by the proprietor, frequently a very pretty and very picturesque spectacle. It always takes place in the open air, amongst the bushes, or under some neighboring walnut-tree. Sometimes long tables are spread upon tressles; but in general no such formality is deemed requisite. The guests fling themselves in groups upon the ground—men and women picturesquely huddled together—the former bloused and bearded personages—the latter showy, in their bright short petticoats of home-spun and dyed cloth, with glaring handkerchiefs twisted like turbans round their heads—each man and woman with a deep plate in his or her lap. Then the people of the house bustle about, distributing huge brown loaves, which are torn asunder, and the fragments chucked from hand to hand. Next a vast cauldron of soup, smoking like a volcano, is painfully lifted out from the kitchen, and dealt about in mighty ladlefulls; while the founder of the feast takes care that the tough, thready bouilli—like lumps of boiled-down hemp—shall be fairly apportioned among his guests. Piquette is the general beverage. A barrel is set abroach, and every species of mug, glass, cup, and jug about the establishment is called to aid in its consumption. A short rest devoted to chatting, or very often sleeping in the shade, over, the signal is given, and the work recommences.

“You have seen our salle à manger,” said one of my courteous entertainers—he of the broad-brimmed straw-hat, “and now you shall see our chambre à coucher.” Accordingly, he led me to a barn close to his wine-cellars. The place was littered deep with clean, fresh straw. Here and there rolled-up blankets were laid against the wall; while all round, from nails stuck in between the bare bricks, hung by straps and strings the little bundles, knapsacks, and other baggage of the laborers. On one side, two or three swarthy young women were playfully pushing each other aside, so as to get a morsel of cracked mirror stuck against the wall—their long hair hanging down in black elf-locks, in the preliminary stage of its arrangement.

“That is the ladies’ side,” said my cicerone, pointing to the girls; “and that”—extending his other hand—“is the gentlemen’s side.”

“And so they all sleep here together?”

“Every night. I find shelter and straw; any other accommodation they must procure for themselves.”

“Rather unruly, I should suppose?”

“Not a bit. They are too tired to do any thing but sleep. They go off, sir, like dormice.”

“Oh, sil plait à Mossieu!” put in one of the damsels. “The chief of the band does the police.” (Fait la gen-d’armerie)

“Certainly—certainly,” said the proprietor, “the gentlemen lie here, with their heads to the walls; the ladies there; and the chef de la bande stretches himself all along between them.”

“A sort of living frontier.”

“Truly; and he allows no nonsense.”

“Il est meme éxcessivement severe,” interpolated the same young lady.

“He needs be,” replied her employer. “He allows no loud speaking—no joking; and as there are no candles, no light, why they can do nothing better than go quietly to sleep, if it were only in self-defense.”

One word more about the vintage. The reader will easily conceive that it is on the smaller properties, where the wine is intended, not so much for commerce as for household use, that the vintage partakes most of the festival nature. In the large and first-class vineyards the process goes on under rigid superintendence, and is, as much as possible, made a cold matter of business. He who wishes to see the vintages of books and poems—the laughing, joking, singing festivals amid the vines, which we are accustomed to consider the harvests of the grape—must betake him to the multitudinous patches of peasant property, in which neighbor helps neighbor to gather in the crop, and upon which whole families labor merrily together, as much for the amusement of the thing, and from good neighborly feeling, as in consideration of francs and sous. Here, of course, there is no tight discipline observed, nor is there any absolute necessity for that continuous, close scrutiny into the state of the grapes—all of them, hard or rotten, going slap-dash into the cuvier—which, in the case of the more precious vintages, forms no small check upon a general state of careless jollity. Every one eats as much fruit as he pleases, and rests when he is tired. On such occasions it is that you hear to the best advantage the joyous songs and choruses of the vintage—many of these last being very pretty bits of melody, generally sung by the women and girls, in shrill treble unison, and caught up and continued from one part of the field to another.

Yet, discipline and control it as you will, the vintage will ever be beautiful, picturesque, and full of association. The rude wains, creaking beneath the reeking tubs—the patient faces of the yoked oxen— the half-naked, stalwort men, who toil to help the cart along the ruts and furrows of the way—the handkerchief-turbaned women, their gay red-and-blue dresses peeping from out the greenery of the leaves—the children dashing about as if the whole thing were a frolick, and the gray-headed old men tottering cheerfully a-down the lines of vines, with baskets and pails of gathered grapes to fill the yawning tubs—the whole picture is at once classic, venerable, and picturesque, not more by association than actuality.

A strange feature in the wine country is the wonderously capricious and fitful nature of the soil. A forenoon’s walk will show you the earth altering in its surface qualities almost like the shifting hues of shot silk—gravel of a light color fading into gravel of a dark—sand blending with the mould, and bringing it now to a dusky yellow, now to an ashen gray—strata of chalky clay every now and then struggling into light only to melt away into beds of mere shingle—or bright, semi-transparent pebbles, indebted to the action of water for shape and hue. At two principal points these blending and shifting qualities of soil put forth their utmost powers—in the favored grounds of Margaux, and again, at a distance of about fifteen miles farther to the north, in the vineyards of Lafitte, Latour, and between these latter, in the sunny slopes of St. Jullien. And the strangest thing of all is, that the quality—the magic—of the ground changes, without, in all cases, a corresponding change in the surface strata. If a fanciful and willful fairy had flown over Medoc, flinging down here a blessing and there a curse upon the shifting shingle, the effect could not have been more oddly various. You can almost jump from a spot unknown to fame, to another clustered with the most precious vintage of Europe. Half-a-dozen furrows often make all the difference between vines producing a beverage which will be drunk in the halls and palaces of England and Russia, and vines yielding a harvest which will be consumed in the cabarets and estaminets of the neighborhood. It is to be observed, however, that the first-class wines belong almost entirely to the large proprietors. Amid a labyrinth of little patches, the property of the laboring peasants around, will be a spot appertaining to, and bearing the name of, some of the famous growths; while, conversely, inserted, as if by an accident, in the centre of a district of great name, and producing wine of great price, will be a perverse patch, yielding the most commonplace tipple, and worth not so many sous per yard as the surrounding earth is worth crowns.

How comes this? The peasants will tell you that it doesn’t come at all. That it is all cant and blague and puff on the part of the big proprietors, and that their wine is only more thought of because they have more capital to get it bragged about. Near Château Lafitte, on a burning afternoon, I took refuge beneath the emblematic bush; for the emblem which good wine is said not to require, is still, in the mid and southern districts of France, in universal use; in other words, I entered a village public-house.

Two old men, very much of the general type of the people of the country—that is, tall and spare, with intelligent and mildly-expressive faces and fine black eyes, were discussing together a sober bottle. One of them had lost an arm, and the other a leg. As I glanced at this peculiarity, the one-legged man caught my eye.

“Ah!” he said, “looking at our misfortunes; I left my leg on Waterloo.”

“And I,” chimed in his companion, “left my arm at Trafalgar.”

“Sacré!” said the veteran of the land. “One of the cursed English bullets took me in the knee, and spoiled as tight a lancer as they had in the gallant 10th.”

“And I,” rejoined the other, “was at the fourth main-deck gun of the Pluton, when I was struck with the splinter while we were engaging the Mars. But we had our revenge. The Pluton shot the Mars’ captain’s head off!”—a fact which I afterward verified. Captain Duff, the officer alluded to, was thus killed upon his quarter-deck, and the same ball shattered two seamen almost to pieces.

“Sacré!” said the ci-devant lancer, “I’d like to have a rap at the English again—I would—the English—nom de tonnerre—tell me—didn’t they murder the emperor!”

A rising smile, which I could not help, stopped him. I had spoken so few words, that the fact that a son of perfide Albion was before them was only manifested by the expression of my face.

“Tiens!” continued the Waterloo man, “You are an Englishman.”

The old sailor, who was evidently by no means so keen a hand as his comrade, nudged him; a hint, I suppose, in common phrase, to draw it mild; but the ex-lancer of the 10th was not to be put down.

“Well, and if you are, what then, eh? I say I would like to have another brush with you.”

“No, no! We have had enough of brushes!” said the far more pacific man of the sea. “I think, mon voisin—that you and I have had quite enough of fighting.”

“But they killed the emperor. Sacré nom de tous les diables—they killed the emperor.”

My modest exculpation on behalf of Great Britain and Ireland was listened to with great impatience by the maimed lancer, and great attention by the maimed sailor, who kept up a running commentary:

“Eh! eh! entendez cela. Now, that’s quite different (to his friend) from what you tell us. Come—that’s another story altogether; and what I say is, that that’s reasonable.”

But the lancer was not to be convinced—“Sacré bleu!—they killed the emperor.”

All this, it is to be observed, passed without the slightest feeling of personal animosity. The lancer, who, I suspect, had passed the forenoon in the cabaret, every now and then shook hands with me magnanimously, as to show that his wrath was national—not individual; and when I proposed a bottle of rather better wine than they had been drinking neither soldier nor sailor had a word to say in objection. The wine was brought, and very good it was, though not, of course, first-class claret.

“What do you think of that?” said the sailor.

“I wish I had as good every day in England,” I replied.

“And why haven’t you?” said the fierce lancer. “You might, if you chose. But you drink none of our wines.”

I demurred to this proposition, but the Waterloo man was down on me in no time. “Yes, yes; the wines of the great houses—the great proprietors. Sacré—the farceurs—the blageurs—who puff their wines, and get them puffed, and great prices for them, when they’re not better than ours—the peasant’s wines—when they’re grown in the same ground—ripened by the same sun! Mille diables! Look at that bottle!—taste it! My son-in-law grew it! My son-in-law sells it; I know all about it. You shall have that bottle for ten sous, and the Lafitte people and the Larose people would charge you ten francs for it; and it is as good for ten sous as theirs for ten francs. I tell you it grew side by side with their vines; but they have capital—they have power. They crack off their wines, and we—the poor people!—we, who trim and dig and work our little patches—no one knows any thing about us. Our wine—bah!—what is it? It has no name—no fame! Who will give us francs? No, no; sous for the poor man—francs for the rich. Copper for the little landlord; silver—silver and gold for the big landlord! As our curé said last Sunday: ‘Unto him who has much, more shall be given.’ Sacré Dieu de dieux!—Even the Bible goes against the poor!”

All this time, the old sailor was tugging his comrade’s jacket, and uttering sundry deprecatory ejaculations against such unnecessary vehemence. The Trafalgar man was clearly a take-it-easy personage; not troubled by too much thinking, and by no means a professional grievance-monger. So he interposed to bring back the topic to a more soothing subject, and said that what he would like, would be to see lots of English ships coming up the Gironde with the good cottons and woollens and hardware we made in England, and taking back in exchange their cheap and wholesome wines—not only the great vintages (crus) for the great folk, but the common vintages for the common folk. “Indeed, I think,” he concluded, “that sitting here drinking this good ten sous’ wine with this English gentleman—who’s going to pay for it—is far better than fighting him and hacking him up, or his hacking us up, with swords and balls and so forth.”

To this most sensible opinion we had all the pains in the world to get the doughty lancer to incline. He couldn’t see it at all. He would like to have another brush. He wasn’t half done for yet. It was all very well; but war was grand, and glory was grand. “Vive la guerre!” and “Vive la gloire!”

“But,” said the sailor, “there is death in glory!”

“Eh bien!” shouted the warrior, with as perfect French sentiment as ever I heard, “Vive la mort!”

In the end, however, he was pleased to admit that, if we took the peasant wines, something might be made of us. The case was not utterly hopeless; and when I rose to go, he proposed a stirrup-cup—a coup de l’itrier—to the washing down of all unkindness; but, in the very act of swallowing it, he didn’t exactly stop, but made a motion as if he would, and then slowly letting the last drop run over his lips, he put down the glass, and said, bitterly and coldly, “Mais pourtant, vous avez tué l’Empereur!”

I have introduced this episode principally for the purpose of showing the notions entertained by the small proprietary as to the boasted superiority of the large vineyards; but the plain truth is, that the great growers are perfectly in the right. I have stated that the quality of the soil throughout the grape country varies almost magically. Well, the good spots have been more or less known since Medoc was Medoc; and the larger and richer residents have got them, by inheritance, by marriage, and by purchase, almost entirely into their own hands. Next they greatly improved both the soil and the breed of plants. They studied and experimentalized until they found the most proper manures and the most promising cultures. They grafted and crossed the vine plants till they got the most admirably bearing bushes, and then, generation after generation, devoting all their attention to the quality of the wine, without regard to the quantity—scrupulously taking care that not a grape which is unripe or over-ripe finds its way into the tub.

LIGHT OF NATURE.

———

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

———

How insufficient Nature’s light to guide

Our world’s poor blinded, woful wanderers home!

The wide spread universe—the azure dome—

The stars which in their golden chariots ride,

Divinity’s design and work proclaim—

But can no further go. It may emit

A sad, a sickening note of wo; yet it,

When questioned of the “Great Restorer’s” name,

Nor voice, nor answer e’er returns. ’Tis here

Thy helplessness, O Nature! lies—

Speakest thou but of Him who built the skies;

“Things seen made not of things which do appear;”

No Sun of Righteousness is ever known from thee;

No vision and the people perish utterly.

THE MOTHER’S PROPHECY.

———

BY MRS. JULIA C. E. DORR.

———

CHAPTER I.

It was a cold, windy night in the winter of 179-. The tall pines that had climbed to the highest summits of the Green Mountains, bent beneath the rushing of the blast; and as the wind careered among their branches, gave out moans and shrieks that seemed in the darkness like the wailing of weird spirits. Ever and anon the air would be filled with tiny particles of ice and snow, and the cold, fitful gleaming of the moon, as it occasionally emerged from behind a cloud, only served to make the scene more desolate, as the tall, gaunt shadows were rendered distinctly visible.

But in the quiet little valley that lay nestling at the very foot of one of the tallest peaks, there were no traces of storm. The strife of the elements disturbed not its repose, for the encircling mountains bent over it lovingly, and with their giant arms seemed to ward off all dangers, and keep back all foes that might harass this—the pet lamb that rested in their embrace.

A single farm-house, rudely constructed of logs, stood beneath the shadow of forest-trees; and, indeed, but few of those ancient dwellers in the valley had as yet bowed their haughty heads at the stroke of the woodman’s axe. Every thing around the little dwelling betokened that it was the abode of one of the hardy pioneers who had left the sunny banks of the Connecticut for a home amid the wilds of Vermont. But there was a ruddy light gleaming from the small window, that spoke invitingly of peace and comfort within; and occasionally the sound of woman’s voice singing a low, soft lullaby fell dreamily upon the ear; or rather, might have done so, had there been an ear to listen.

In the principal apartment of the house—the one that served alike for kitchen and parlor, sat Andrew Gordon and his fair and gentle wife—Amy. A bright-eyed boy, apparently about four years old, played upon the nicely-sanded floor, and in the mother’s arms lay a babe, very lovely, but very fragile, upon whose face the eyes of Amy Gordon dwelt with a long, yearning gaze. Few words were spoken by the little group. The husband and father sat gazing thoughtfully upon the glowing embers; the wife rocked the child that was cradled upon her breast; and little Frederick silently builded his “cob-house,” stopping now and then to scan with a pleased eye the progress of his work, or uttering an exclamation of disappointment as the tottering fabric fell to the floor.

There was an air of refinement about the master and mistress of that little domicil, that contrasted somewhat strangely with their rude home and its appurtenances. The dress of the wife, although coarse and plain, was arranged so tastefully, so genteely, as the young ladies of the present day would say, that you would scarcely have noted its texture, or the absence of ornament. Her slight figure, and the faint color upon her cheek, spoke of a delicacy of constitution hardly suited for the hardships and trials of an emigrant’s life; but the meek light within her eye, her calm, broad forehead, and the slight smile that lingered upon her lip, told that she possessed that truest of all strength—strength of mind and heart.

There was something in the face of Andrew Gordon that, to a close observer, was not exactly pleasing; and yet you could not have denied that it was a very handsome face—quite sufficiently so to warrant the unmistakable look of admiration that his wife occasionally cast upon it. Intellect was there—courage was there—firmness of purpose, and a resolute will; and there was a depth of affection in his eye whenever it dwelt upon the group around him that proved him the possessor of a kindly heart. Perhaps it was some early disappointment—some real or fancied wrong—some never-to-be-forgotten act of harshness or injustice on the part of another that, once in a while, cast such a shadow over his fine face, and gave such a bitter expression to his well formed mouth.

For half an hour they remained as we have pictured them above; and then the mother tenderly placed her little one upon the bed that stood in one corner of the room—cradles were a luxury unknown in those days—and glancing at the clock that pointed to the hour of eight, said,

“Come, Frederick, put away your cobs, dear. It is bed-time for little boys.”

“Oh, I wish it wouldn’t be eight o’clock so soon when I am making cob-houses,” replied the child; “just wait one minute, mamma, until I make a chimney—then my house will be done. There, now—isn’t it a nice one?” So saying, Freddy gave the finishing touch to his edifice—looked at it admiringly for a moment, then giving it a light pressure with his hand, his evening’s work was demolished in an instant. Laughing heartily at the havoc he had made, he hastily gathered the cobs in a basket near him, and sprang to his mother’s side.

Ah, Freddy, Freddy! how like you are to many a “child of larger growth,” who toils, month after month, year after year, building a temple, it may be to love, or wealth, or fame; and then, when it is nearly or quite completed, by a single false step, or a single ill-regulated action, destroys the shrine he has been rearing with so much care and labor! But here the similitude ceases. You laugh and clap your hands in childish glee at the downfall of your house, he sits down desolate and alone by the ruin he has made, and mourns over hopes and prospects buried beneath it.

Thoughts somewhat like these may have passed through the mind of Andrew Gordon, for there was a cloud upon his brow, as he watched his wife while she undressed the playful child, and smoothed his dark curls preparatory to the night’s repose. Then kneeling by her side, and folding his little hands together, Frederick repeated after her a simple prayer—a child’s prayer of love and faith, asking God’s blessing upon those dearest to him—his father, mother, and little sister, and His care and protection through the night.

“Now I must kiss papa good-night,” said the little boy; “and then, mamma, wont you please to sit by me, and tell me a pretty little story? I will shut my eyes up, and go right to sleep so quick if you will.”

The good-night kisses were exchanged; Frederick soon nestled closely in his soft, warm pillow, and true to his promise, closed his eyes, while his mother, in a low, soothing voice, told him a story of the birds and lambs and flowers. Presently he was fast asleep, and pressing the tenderest of kisses upon his rosy cheek, Amy returned to her seat by the fireside.

“Dear little fellow! how sweetly he sleeps,” said she, moving her chair as she spoke nearer to her husband. “I wonder what the future hath laid up in store for him,” she continued, musingly, with her eyes fixed upon the bright blaze that went roaring and crackling up the broad chimney. “And yet if the book of fate were laid open before me, I should fear to turn to the page on which his destiny is inscribed.”

“I hope, at any rate, that the word wealth is written there,” said Andrew Gordon, speaking for the first time since he had taken his wonted seat by the fire that evening. “I am not a very great believer in books of fate or in irrevocable destiny. Man makes his own destiny, with some little help from others—and Frederick shall be a rich man before he dies, if my exertions are of any avail.”

“He may be taken from us, even in childhood, Andrew;” and the mother’s eye turned anxiously toward the little bed, as if the bare thought of death was enough to awaken her solicitude. “I would rather he would be great than rich—and good than either.”

“He will be great if he is rich—that is, he will have influence, and be looked up to; and as for goodness—pshaw! who ever heard of a rich man’s doing wrong?” he continued, with that bitter smile, of which we have before spoken, curling his thin lip. “If a man possesses wealth, he may oppress the poor, strip the widow and the fatherless of their last penny, cheat his neighbors, and rob his own brother—but it is all right!”

“Then may God grant that our boy may never be a rich man, Andrew,” said his wife, solemnly. “But you speak too bitterly, dearest. Your own misfortunes have made you unreasonable upon this point.” And Amy lifted, caressingly, the dark locks that fell over her husband’s high forehead.

“Unreasonable, Amy! Have I not cause to speak bitterly? Have I not been defrauded of my just rights? Have I not been robbed—ay, literally robbed of the fortune my father left me when I was too young to know its value? Can I forget that one, one of my own kith and kin, too, lives in the dwelling of my forefathers, and calls their broad lands his, when he knows, and I know, and the world knows, that I am the rightful heir? Can I forget all this, and that I am here?” he added, glancing contemptuously round upon the rough walls of his cottage. “And you, too, Amy—you, who were born and reared in a home of luxury—you, whose presence would grace the proudest drawing-room in the land; you, whom I wooed and won before I dreamed that I was to tread a path like this; and yet, angel that you are, you who have never breathed a word of reproach, or a syllable of complaint, your home, too, is here in this rude cabin”—and the proud man bowed his head, and something that looked strangely like a tear, glittered a moment in the firelight.

“But you are here with me in this rude cabin as you call it, dearest, you and our little ones; and how many times must I tell you that I would rather be here, provided I am by your side, than to sit upon the throne of the Indies without you? I believe you say these things,” she continued, playfully, kissing his flushed brow as she spoke, for she would fain have won him back to more cheerful thoughts, “I believe you say these things just for the sake of hearing me tell you over and over again how dearly I love you, and how happy I am with you. Is it not so, darling?”

But Andrew Gordon was not to be cheered even by the tender caresses of his wife. His mind would dwell upon themes, the contemplation of which was destroying his peace of mind, and fast changing his very nature.

“I tell you, Amy,” he said, rising and pacing the apartment with a hurried step, “I tell you, Amy, I will be rich! and Frederick shall be as rich, ay, richer, than if his father had not been cheated out of his inheritance. They think,” he added, with a flashing eye, “that they have trampled me in the very dust, but they cannot keep me there. I will be rich and influential; and as soon as Fred is old enough to learn the lesson, I will teach him how to make money, and how to keep it, too.”

“No, no, Andrew—spare me that last blow, I implore you,” said Amy, and tears were rapidly chasing each other down her pale cheeks. “If you will give up your whole mind and soul to the pursuit of wealth, as you have done for the last two years—if you will coin your very heart’s blood for gold, and allow this feverish thirst for gain to become, as it were, the very essence of your being, spare me this last blow. Teach not this lesson to our child. Teach him to be prudent, industrious, economical as you will, and my example and teachings shall be added to your own; but impress not upon his young mind the doctrine that the acquisition of wealth is the chief end of his existence, and its possession the chief source of man’s enjoyment. Just as surely as you do is misery in store for him. A mother’s heart is a prophetic heart, and I repeat it—just as surely as you do is misery in store for him and you; just so surely will his sun and yours set in darkness and in gloom. Oh, Andrew, Andrew! for your own sake—for my sake—for the sake of these precious ones,” she added, drawing him to the couch where their children lay, “cease this struggle that is wearing your life away, and changing you so greatly, that at times I can scarcely recognize the Andrew Gordon of my early love.”

The fire upon the hearth had burned low; but, at that moment, a broad, ruddy glow filled the room, and Andrew Gordon stood with his eyes fixed steadfastly upon his wife’s face. Who can tell the emotions that swept over his soul during those few, brief moments? Good and evil spirits were striving for the mastery upon the arena of his heart, and his countenance worked strangely as one or the other prevailed. At last, he turned hastily away, and muttering—as if to himself—“But Frederick must be a rich man,” he sought his pillow.

He had chosen his part!

——

CHAPTER II.

Years, many years had passed since the conversation narrated in the previous chapter, and Andrew Gordon was no longer the sole tenant of the sweetest valley that slept beneath the shadow of the Green Mountains. A small, but pleasant village had sprung up around the site of his old log-house; and, upon the very spot where that had once stood, arose an imposing brick mansion, that seemed to look haughtily down upon the humbler dwellings around it. A small church—of simple, yet tasteful architecture—lifted its spire a few paces farther on; two merchants—rivals, of course—display their gilded signs on either side of the street just below, and numerous little heads might have been seen peeping from the windows of the schoolhouse over the river.

Andrew Gordon was a rich man. He had added acre to acre, and farm to farm. The factory—whose machinery moved so steadily from morning till night; and the grist-mill—whose wheels whirled round so incessantly, belonged to him; and it was more than hinted, that one of the stores—although managed in the name of another—was, in reality, his property.

Yes, Andrew Gordon was a rich man; but was he satisfied? Was that craving thirst for the “gold that perisheth” quenched at last? Ah! no; it raged more fiercely than ever. Amy—his pure and gentle Amy, slept in the little church-yard, where the white tombstones contrasted so beautifully with the deep-green turf, and where the willow-trees made a cool, refreshing shade even at noon-day.

She had pleaded and reasoned with him in vain. Day by day he became more and more deeply engrossed in the pursuit of wealth. With a mind capable of the highest things—with an intellect that might have soared above the stars—with eloquence at his command, by which he might have swayed the hearts of men, and led them captive at his will, he yet preferred to hover near the earth, and offer up genius, talent, even love itself, upon the altar of mammon.

Had any one told him that he had almost ceased to love his wife, he would have spurned the idea, and have laid the “flattering unction to his soul,” that he was indeed a pattern husband. Were not all his wife’s wants most liberally supplied? Was not money ever at her command? In short, did he ever deny her any thing?

Yes, Andrew Gordon! You denied her what was of more worth to her than the gold and silver of Peru. You denied her a little of your precious time. So absorbed were you in your own pursuits, so fearful were you that every hour would not add something to your store, that you had no time to devote to her whose happiness was in your hands. You had no time for that sweet interchange of thought and feeling that she so valued; you had no time for those little attentions that woman so dearly prizes; you had no time for an occasional caress or word of endearment that would have cheered her in many a long, lonely hour, and the mere memory of which would have sustained her through suffering and through weariness. No, you had no time for trifles like these; and you could not remember—proud man that you were—that her nature was not like your nature, and that those things were as necessary to her existence as dew is to the drooping flower—as the warm sunlight to the ripening grain—as the draught of cool water to the pilgrim, fainting in the wilderness. You could not remember all this, and Amy pined day by day: her cheek grew pale and her step more languid. Do you say she should have had more strength of mind than to have been affected by such slight causes? I tell you she could not help it. Talk of strength of mind to a neglected wife! Woman’s true strength lies in her affections; and if wounded there she will droop and wither, just as surely as does the vine, when rudely torn from the tree to which it clung. She may struggle against it long and, for a while, successfully; the eye of man may mark no change upon lip or brow; but—it will come at last!

Amy slept in the church-yard; and the daughter who was cradled on her breast that winter evening when we saw her last, slept beside her. Frederick alone was left to Andrew Gordon, and he loved him with all the love he had to spare from his coffers. Had the son learned the lesson that the father was to teach him? We shall see.

One evening, at the close of a long, bright summer day, about sixteen years from the date when our story commences, a young man—who appeared as if he might be just entering the fifth lustrum of his life—might have been seen loitering along by the banks of a stream that came laughing and leaping down the mountain side, at some distance from the dwelling of Andrew Gordon. He had a gun upon his shoulder, but his game-bag was empty; and the pretty gray-squirrels hopped from tree to tree, rabbits stared curiously at him with their bright, saucy eyes, and even the wild partridge fluttered around him—unharmed, while he wandered on, wrapped in a somewhat moody reverie.

His thoughts seemed to be very variable—partly sad and partly glad; for, at one moment there would be a cloud upon his brow, a look of doubt and irresolution—and the next, a smile would break over his face, making it remarkably pleasing in its transient expression. His figure was tall and graceful; and his hair—that was black as night—fell over a forehead that would have been almost too white, had not the sun kissed it rather warmly.

It would have been difficult to have recognized in him our old friend Frederick Gordon, the hero of the cob-house—yet when that transient smile, of which we have before spoken, played over his features, the light in his dark eyes was the same as that which beamed there, when—pleading for a story—he sprung joyfully to his mother’s side.

He sauntered along for an hour or two, deeply buried in thought. At length—

“She is very lovely,” he murmured to himself, as if unconsciously. “She is, indeed, very lovely! What a pity it is that Dame Fortune has not added a few money bags to the list of her charms; for portionless as she is, she sorely tempts one to play the fool. I came very near committing myself last night at that boating party. What with the slow, dreamy motion of the boat, the moonlight sparkling on the waters, the heavy shadows on the opposite shore, in short, the exquisite beauty of the whole scene, combined with Lily’s almost ethereal loveliness, all the romance of my nature—and I really believe I possess a tolerable share—was aroused, and I nearly lost sight of my fixed purpose to marry a rich wife, if any. Yet, after all, does she not possess the truest wealth?” he added, “and I am almost sure she loves me. Pshaw! I wonder what my good father would say to nonsense like this?” and again he became lost in thought.

For nearly an hour he remained sitting upon the stump of a large oak, that had—together with many others—fallen a victim to the progress of civilization, with his head resting upon his hand, and his eyes fixed on a vacancy.

Suddenly, he was startled by the report of a gun—a moment, and a faint scream fell upon his ear; there was the quick tread of bounding feet, the crashing of branches, and a large deer rushed franticly through the thicket, and paused a moment, panting and breathless, almost at his side. He had only time to perceive that it was terribly wounded, when the antlered head was raised for an instant, the quick ear caught the distant baying of the hounds, and the poor creature again dashed onward, with all the energy of despair.

Frederick Gordon immediately sprung toward the thicket from which the deer had emerged; and with much difficulty succeeded in making his way through the tangled underbrush and reaching the cleared space beyond. But what a sight there greeted his vision! A sight that blanched his cheek, and made him cling involuntarily for support to a wild vine, that drooped over him, and nearly impeded his progress. Lily Grey—the subject of his recent reverie, the being who had awakened the first thrill of love that he had ever known, for he did love her, in spite of himself—lay before him, with not the faintest shade of color upon cheek or lip, and the blood slowly oozing from a wound upon her temple.

For a moment, Frederick gazed upon her as if spell-bound; then stealing softly forward, as if she were sleeping, and he feared that he might waken her, he knelt upon the green sward by her side. At first, he had no thought but the dread one of death. She lay there so still, so pale, so like death, that the idea of attempting to revive her did not even occur to him; and, in truth, it would have been hard to have told whose cheek was the palest—his, or that of sweet Lily Grey.

But, presently he fancied that her lips quivered a little, a very little: and that there was the slightest perceptible tremor of the deeply-fringed eyelids. Perhaps it was nothing but the dancing shadow of the leaves that were frolicking in the sunlight above him; but it gave him hope, and with that came the effort to restore her. He bound up the wound upon her temple; he chafed her cold, moist hands, and raised her in his arms, and bore her out from the shadow of the trees, that the cool breeze might play upon her cheek.

A world of pure, warm emotions crept over his soul, as she lay there so quietly in his embrace; he forgot the lessons of worldly wisdom that had been impressed upon him from his very childhood; he forgot, for the moment, all save his love—love, whose very existence he had hardly admitted before; and when he saw by the slight flush that mounted to her brow, that consciousness was returning, he murmured—

“Lily dear—dearest Lily—thank God that you are safe!”

The young girl started wildly, and he gently laid her upon the grass again, speaking low, soothing words, such as a brother might breathe in the ear of a younger and beloved sister, until she opened her eyes, and raising her hands to her brow, said—

“Frederick—Mr. Gordon—where am I? How came I here?”

“That you can best tell yourself, Lily,” replied Frederick gaily, for he wished to dispel all her fears. “I found you here in the woods, like the ‘faire ladyes’ we read of in the old romances, pale and breathless, with the blood flowing from your temple; and, of course, as a good and loyal knight should do, I did my best to restore you—that is all.”

“O, I remember now,” was the answer. “I had been to see old Mrs. Forster, in the cottage yonder: she is very lame this week. It was very warm, and I sat down under the shade of that maple to rest myself. I suppose I must have fallen asleep, for I was suddenly aroused by the report of a gun. In an instant, I felt a sharp blow upon my temple—a large deer went bounding past me; and I must have fainted, for I remember nothing more, until, until—”

Lily paused, and a burning blush overspread her neck and face, as she recalled the words that had greeted her ear as consciousness returned.

Frederick drew her more closely to him, as he said—

“Go on, Lily—or shall I finish the sentence for you? Until you heard words that must have convinced you—of what, indeed, you could not have been ignorant before—that Frederick Gordon loves you. Was not that what you would have said, Lily?”

There was no reply: but, although Lily’s lip trembled, and her eyes were heavy with unshed tears, she did not shrink from his embrace, and Frederick Gordon felt that he was beloved.

“Forgive me, Lily, you are growing pale again—you are still weak. I should not have troubled you. Are you strong enough to walk home now, think you—dear one?”

“O, yes,” replied Lily, rallying herself. “I am quite strong now. I imagine my temple must have been cut by a sharp stone thrown up by the hoof of the deer, as it rushed past me.”

Few words were spoken by the young pair as they walked through the woods, in the dim twilight. Lily’s home—at least, her home for the time being—was but a short distance off, and with a mute pressure of the hand they parted at the gate.

——

CHAPTER III.

That same evening there was a clear light gleaming from the window in Andrew Gordon’s mansion, usually occupied by himself. He—its owner—sat there alone, with his folded hands lying upon the table, and his head resting upon them. At length, he arose, and an observer might have seen that there was a bright, red spot upon either cheek, while his brow was knit, and there was an unusual, almost an angry gleam in his eye. Stepping to the window, and shading his eyes with his hands, he looked out for a moment, and then raising the sash, he called to a man who stood in the yard:

“John, tell my son to come hither.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man, and Mr. Gordon returned to his seat by the table.

A few moments had elapsed when Frederick entered. His father did not appear to notice his entrance, and, after pausing awhile, the young man asked—

“Did you send for me, sir?”

“Yes,” was his father’s answer, as he pushed a chair toward him with his foot, and motioned him to be seated. “I have a few things to say to you, sir: I happened to be an eye-witness of the love-scene that took place in the woods, down yonder, this evening. No, I was no spy or eaves-dropper,” he continued, as the color flashed to Frederick’s face, and he half-rose from his chair: “You may as well keep cool, young man. I was passing near there, just as the girl was coming to her senses, and I could not well avoid seeing and hearing what passed. You were so taken up with her, that you had no ears for any one besides, else you must have heard me. Permit me to congratulate you,” he added, with a mocking smile, “upon enacting the lover most admirably. May I be allowed to inquire who was the fair damsel who played Juliet to your Romeo?”

“Lily Grey, sir,” was the laconic reply.

“Lily Grey! And who, pray, is she?”

“She is a young lady from Massachusetts, I believe, who has been spending the last three months with Mr. and Mrs. Mason. I presume she is a niece of theirs, as she calls them uncle and aunt.”

“Poor as a church mouse then, of course,” said Mr. Gordon, quickly. “Frederick, do you love this girl?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And have been foolish enough to tell her so, I conclude, as I had the pleasure of hearing the declaration a little while ago.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, sir, let me tell you, once for all, that this foolery must have an end. I can never receive Miss Lily Grey as my daughter-in-law.”

“I have inherited so much of my father’s meek and docile disposition,” said the young man proudly, with an ironical smile curling his lip, “that I shall doubtless be lead as a lamb in this matter. Allow me to say, that in matrimonial affairs I intend to do as I choose.”

Mr. Gordon must change his tactics. Frederick said rightly—he is too much like his father to be driven.

There was silence between the two for many minutes, but they sat looking in each other’s eyes as if reading the soul there. Then Andrew Gordon rose, drew his chair nearer to his son’s, and taking his hand kindly in his own, said—

“I wish you to do as you choose, Frederick—all I hope is that I may induce you to choose wisely. Listen to me for awhile, and see if I do not present this matter before you in a different aspect. I came here as you know, my son, when this valley was an unbroken wilderness, a poor man, poor through the fraud and injustice of others; and I at once resolved, more for your sake than my own, to be rich. I toiled early and late; I struggled, in the early part of my career, with hardships and difficulties. But at length I was successful. My resources are ample; yours I should have said, but I cannot consent that the wealth, to the accumulation of which I have devoted all the best years of my life, should go to enrich a beggar. With your talents, your fine person, your graceful and winning address, together with the fortune which I had intended to place in your hands upon your next birth-day, (to say nothing of your expectations at my decease,) with all these advantages, I say, you might select a wife from the highest and wealthiest family in the land. There is a young girl, the orphan daughter of one whom I knew in my boyhood, whom I selected years ago as my future daughter-in-law. Her fortune must be immense, and every advantage that wealth can give will be lavished upon her. She is—let me see—she is about fifteen now, and is said to be very beautiful. There is a clause in her father’s will, I am told, that will prevent her marrying before she is twenty-one. You have been long wishing to make the tour of Europe, and I was thinking, just previous to my unfortunate discovery this afternoon, that it would be well for you to start immediately, spend the next four years in traveling, and still have a year or two at your disposal, after your return, to secure you success with her. But of course it is useless to say any thing about it now, as you have made your own choice.”

Mr. Gordon ceased, and for a long time Frederick sat silently revolving his father’s words in his mind. He was not naturally the callous, cold-hearted being which the reader might judge him to be from the soliloquy we overheard in the woods. His noble and generous impulses had for many years given his father a deal of trouble, and even yet, as we have seen from his conduct this day, he occasionally acted without any regard to the “almighty dollar.” But these instances had, of late, been rare. Andrew Gordon was gradually moulding him to his will, and even before receiving the summons to his presence this evening, the effect of the lessons that he had been taking through his whole life was resuming its sway, and Ambition or Avarice—call it by which ever name best pleases you, was beginning to struggle with Love.

“What is the name of the young lady of whom you were speaking, sir?” he finally asked.

“Elizabeth Munro,” was the reply, and again there was a long pause.

“Let me retire now, if you please,” said Frederick, rising; “I would fain think over this matter in my own room.”

“Thank you—thank you, Frederick. That is spoken like my own son,” was Mr. Gordon’s answer, as he cordially shook his hand. “I have no fears that you will not gratify me, if you will but yield to the suggestions of your own good sense.”

Frederick Gordon slept not that night. We will not attempt to follow the workings of his mind. Suffice it to say, that the next morning, with a pale cheek, but with a voice that did not falter, he signified to his father his readiness to adopt the plan proposed by him the previous evening.

“Then you must go at once, this very day,” said Mr. Gordon; “there must be no time for foolish regrets and sentimental nonsense. The ‘Virginia’ sails for Europe upon the 20th of next month, and this—yes, this is the 17th. You have no time to lose—you must start for New York this evening, and you will then hardly have time to make the necessary preparations there.” And he hurried away to expedite his son’s departure.

——

CHAPTER IV.

We must now return to sweet Lily Grey, whom we left so unceremoniously at Mr. Mason’s gate, after her adventure in the woods with Frederick Gordon. When she entered the house, she did not, as usual, repair immediately to the common parlor or sitting-room as it was called, but ascending the stairs she sought her own chamber. Hastily throwing off her bonnet, she approached the small mirror, and slowly removing the handkerchief which was fastened around her temples, endeavored to ascertain the extent of the injury she had received. She found that it was nothing but a tolerably deep incision, made, apparently, by a very sharp stone. The bleeding had ceased, and she soon succeeded in closing the wound by the help of some narrow strips of plaster.

She then seated herself by the low window, and tried to recall the events of the day. Dear Lily Grey! what a fount of deep, pure, exquisite, yet strange happiness had welled up in her young heart since she went forth that summer afternoon upon her errand of mercy to old Mrs. Forster’s cottage! Yet bright tear-drops were continually sparkling in her beautiful eyes, and her hands trembled so that she could scarcely smooth the shining curls that fell without restraint upon her shoulders.

For a long time she sat there by the window; darkness came on, but she heeded it not; there was no darkness of the spirit there, and her heart was illumined in its innermost recesses by light from within, light that depended not upon outward objects—light clearer than that of the sun at noonday.

“Why, Lily dear!” exclaimed the cheerful voice of Mrs. Mason, “are you here? We thought you had not come in yet; and fearing you were lost or in some trouble or other, George started in pursuit of you some time ago. And now, while he is tramping through the woods in search of you, here you are, ensconced in your own little room safe as a saint in her niche. But bless me, child! why, what a wound upon your forehead,” and dropping the bantering tone she had before used, and approaching quickly to Lily’s side, the good lady asked seriously, “What is the matter, Lily? What has happened?”

“There is nothing of consequence the matter now,” replied Lily, and she rapidly sketched the occurrences of the afternoon. She did not think it necessary to tell the whole story, and was thankful that the blush she felt rising to her very forehead, as she mentioned the name of Frederick Gordon, was concealed by the increasing darkness.

“Really, quite a romantic adventure you have had,” said her aunt, as Lily concluded her little story. “I suppose that, as in duty bound, you intend falling in love with Mr. Gordon forthwith. I fancy your bright eyes had done some mischief in that quarter already; and now wouldn’t it be funny if we should have a wedding here, eh Lily?” And thus she rattled on while they were descending the stairs, and proceeding to the parlor where tea was waiting, never once dreaming that there was any thing like truth in her playful jest. Had she done so she would have been very serious, for she well knew it was no light thing for a maiden to place that priceless treasure, her young heart’s pure love, in another’s keeping.

Lily escaped from the family circle soon after tea that evening, under plea of fatigue; and, in truth, she felt the need of rest. She longed to be alone with her newly born happiness; to recall the looks and words that had so thrilled her heart. She was young, very young, almost a child in years; and she had not learned that the treasure she had found that day was one to be received with fear and trembling. She took the angel guest to her bosom, tearfully, it is true, but oh! most joyfully; and she lay down upon her couch that night to dream only of long, long days of bliss. She knew, indeed, that something of sorrow must fall to the lot of mortals; but would not even that be sweet if shared with him? With such thoughts as these she knelt to offer up her evening prayer, and to bless her Father in Heaven for the new well-spring of joy that had sprung up in her pathway.

How bright and beautiful was every thing in the outer world when Lily awoke next morning! There had been a shower during the night, and a thousand gems were sparkling upon every tree and shrub and flower. The mist was rolling up from the mountains, but it yet lay heavily above the bed of the river, marking its windings as far as the eye could reach. It seemed to Lily that earth was never so beautiful before; and there was melody in her young heart as she stood by the open window, listening to the trilling of the birds, the low murmur of the water-fall, and all the sweet sounds with which Nature welcomes the approach of the May god. When, her simple toilet completed, she descended to breakfast that morning, old Mr. and Mrs. Mason noted with surprise her unwonted loveliness. She was, indeed, as Frederick Gordon had said, very lovely at all times; but now her face was radiant with happiness—that most efficacious of all cosmetics—and her eyes beamed with added lustre. Perhaps, too, she might have arranged her dress with rather more care than usual; for in those primitive days it was not considered necessary to attend to the duties of the toilet half-a-dozen times a day, and Lily had whispered to herself, “Frederick will surely be here to-day.”

But the morning passed and no Frederick appeared. Hour after hour of the afternoon rolled away, and still he came not. She listened, with a beating heart to every approaching footstep, and wondered what could keep him from her side. At length she heard in the distance the sound of approaching wheels. She looked from the window and saw Mr. Gordon’s carriage slowly toiling up the hill, and, shrinking behind the curtain, she watched it as it drew nearer and nearer. There was a figure upon the back seat, closely muffled in a cloak, which did not seem to be particularly needed at that season of the year; and her heart told her that it was the figure of him for whom she had watched and waited through the day. But the noble steeds halted not; the carriage rolled slowly by, and the muffled figure drew the folds of the mantle still more closely about it, and shrank back still farther into its dark corner.

The young girl gazed upon the vehicle until it faded from her sight; then sinking back upon her seat she covered her face with her hands. When she removed them, although her cheek was pale as marble there was no other sign of suffering. She could not, even yet, doubt that the mystery would be explained—perhaps after all it was not Frederick, and with that thought her spirits returned.

Just at dusk Mr. Mason came in from the village, and turning to Lily, said—“Lily, why did you not tell us that Fred Gordon was to leave us to-day? Of course you knew, as you saw him yesterday?”

Lily was spared the necessity of replying, for her aunt immediately exclaimed—“Fred Gordon left us! where is he going, pray?”

“Why, he goes to-night,” was the reply, “in their own carriage as far as P——, and from that place takes the stage to-morrow for New York. His father tells me that he is to sail for Europe in the ‘Virginia’ next month, and will probably remain four or five years.”

Amid the hum of voices, the exclamations of surprise, the inquiries and surmises to which this intelligence gave rise—for be it remembered, a voyage to Europe was a much more formidable undertaking then than in these days of steamships—no one noticed Lily. It was as we have said just at dusk, and with a dread foreboding of she knew not what evil, she had glided to the farthest corner of the room, and remained there effectually concealed by the gathering shadows. When the words that to her seemed the death-knell of every hope were pronounced, she did not speak, she did not even sigh, but standing motionless for a moment, with her eyes fixed wildly upon the speaker, she threw up her white arms once, twice convulsively, and then sank slowly to the floor—breathless and inanimate. Poor, poor Lily Grey.

——

CHAPTER V.

It had been a gala day in New York—a day of feasting and rejoicing—a day of triumphal processions and martial pageantry—one of America’s most honored sons, one whose days had been spent in the service of his country, and whose blood had flown more than once upon the battle-field, was the guest of the city, and its inhabitants laying aside for awhile their accustomed avocations, had assembled en masse to welcome him. The old Park theatre had been converted, for that one night, into a splendid ball-room, and as darkness came on, in hundreds of dressing-rooms, the young and the lovely, ay, and many who were neither, were decking themselves for the festive scene. At a later hour innumerable carriages were rolling through the streets, bearing their precious freight to the appointed place; and hosts of tiny, satin-slippered feet tripped lightly up the broad stone steps and were lost in the crowd within. It was a splendid pageant. There were dancing plumes and sparkling gems—flashing eyes and flower-wreathed curls—the waving of banners—and over all and surrounding all, a dazzling radiance, shed from the massive chandeliers that were suspended, at no distant intervals, from the lofty ceiling. Two young men—one of them, from his foreign dress and ignorance of those around him, evidently a stranger—were leaning against one of the large pillars, engaged in earnest conversation. They used their opera-glasses quite freely, and were apparently commenting on the beauties around them. At length their attention was drawn toward the door by the hum of voices and murmurs of admiration that greeted the entrance of a young lady, who appeared leaning on the arm of a fine-looking man, old enough to be her father. She was, indeed, surpassingly beautiful, but it was the swan-like grace and elegance of her movements, the soul that breathed from her features, the depth of feeling in her violet eyes, that involuntarily fixed the attention of the observer, and awoke in his breast an interest for which he could scarcely account. She was magnificently attired in a tunic dress of light-blue satin, with a rich embroidery of silver—and costly pearls were clasped about her throat, her rounded arms, and gleamed amid the heavy masses of her braided hair.

The young men did not speak until she had crossed the room and was hidden from their sight by the intervening crowd; then drawing a long breath, the stranger asked of his companion—“Frank, in the name of all that’s beautiful, who is that lovely creature?”

“That,” said Frank Stanley, “that is Miss Munro, our belle and heiress.”

“Miss Munro!” exclaimed the other, while his color was considerably heightened, “is that Miss Munro?”

“Why yes. What is there so surprising about it? Do you know her?”

“No,” was the reply, “but I have often heard of her.” Then after a pause, he added, “Can you present me?”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” rejoined his friend, and they crossed the apartment.

“Miss Munro, permit me to present to you my friend, Mr. Gordon.” There was a low bow on the part of the gentleman, a courteous salutation on that of the lady, and after a few commonplace remarks, Elizabeth Munro was led to the dance by Frederick Gordon.

“The handsomest couple in the room by all odds,” said Frank Stanley. “I should not wonder if that should be a match yet. Gordon is half in love already, and if he undertakes to win her and does not succeed, I don’t know who can.” And with these words he turned away to join a group of friends who were chatting merrily at a little distance.

Arthur Talmadge, the young artist addressed, gazed upon the dancers sadly and earnestly for a few moments, and then murmuring—“Stanley is right—if he cannot win her who can?” he hurried from the ball-room. Nobly gifted, but poor and proud, he felt that he had nothing in common with that gay throng, and he bent his steps toward his own cheerless room.

And Frank Stanley and Arthur Talmadge were not the only ones who arrived at the same conclusion. One by one the admirers of Miss Munro—and their name was legion—dropped off until the field was left entirely to Frederick Gordon.

As may be supposed, he was not negligent in improving the advantage thus given him. Yet at the end of six months he felt no more secure of her favor than at the time of their first acquaintance. Her demeanor toward him was always courteous, and such as became a lady; she received his attentions frankly, but yet so calmly and quietly, that it was evident she felt none of the timidity of dawning love. Her cheek never brightened at his approach; her voice never faltered as she addressed him; her eye never wandered in search of him, neither did she repulse him, and so he hovered round her hoping that success would yet be his. She listened with a pleased ear to his glowing descriptions of other lands; her fine eyes were lit up with enthusiasm as he spoke of Italy, with her sunny skies, her gems of art, and her oppressed and degraded children; of Greece, with her temples, beautiful even in their decay; of Egypt, that land of fable and mystery, and of the East, thronging as it does with memories and associations that stir the heart to its innermost depths. He was a fine reader, his voice was deep and thrilling, and when he read or recited the finest passages from Shakspeare, Milton or Wordsworth,

“Lending the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of his voice,”

Her cheek would glow, and her heart beat quickly. But all this might be without one throb of love for him, and he felt it. He could but observe, too, that she carefully avoided every thing like intimacy, and there was no heart communion between them—she never spoke of themselves; there was interchange of thought, but none of feeling, and strive as he might, he could not lift the veil that seemed imperviously drawn between their souls.

And when Frederick Gordon became aware of this, a shadow deeper and darker than any that he had ever before known, rested upon his pathway. He had returned from Europe fully determined to woo and win her for the sake of her wealth. Love, or any congeniality of feeling that might exist between them was but a secondary consideration. When he saw her that night in the ball-room, more beautiful almost than his wildest dream of beauty, emphatically “the star of the goodly companie;” when he learned that the proudest in the land had sued humbly yet vainly for her favor, pride came to the aid of his mercenary motives, and he resolved to bear off triumphantly the prize for which so many were contending. But when he was thrown almost daily into her presence the atmosphere of purity and goodness which surrounded her, made him feel much as we may suppose a fallen spirit might feel in the presence of an angel of light. He could not meet the glance of her clear eyes, that glance so holy, so unworldly, without a pang of remorse for the unworthy incentives that had first led him to seek her. And he learned to love her deeply—devotedly. His heart thrilled at the sound of her voice, the lightest echo of her footsteps, the mere touch of her fair hand. He would have taken her to his bosom, and called her his own sweet wife, with no other dowry than the love of her pure, trusting heart. Yes, at last even Frederick Gordon loved disinterestedly.

Alas, poor Lily Grey! While thy false lover was thus bowing at the shrine of another, did thy image never haunt him? Did no thought of thee ever awaken a sigh or a regret? Did he never drop a tear over thy memory?

In the large and elegant drawing-room of one of the most splendid mansions in Waverley Place, a fair girl had just listened to an impassioned declaration of love from one who stood before her, waiting breathlessly the faintest motion of her lips. But the lady spoke not; her rapidly varying color was the only evidence that she had even heard the eloquent words that had just fallen upon her ear. The young man spoke again, and this time his voice was more low and tremulous than before, for his heart was heavy with doubt and apprehension.

“Elizabeth—Miss Munro—this suspense is very, very terrible—will you not speak to me?”

A strange expression, like a sudden spasm of pain, passed over the face of the lady for a moment, and then she replied, calmly—“Did I hear you aright, Mr. Gordon? Did I understand you to say that you had never breathed words of love in the ear of another?”

The eyes of Elizabeth Munro were bent upon those of Frederick Gordon with a steady, searching gaze, and his own drooped before them. At length he said, falteringly—“Yes—no—that is, I was young—it was nothing more than a passing fancy—a mere flirtation with a pretty girl I met in the country.”

The red blood mounted to the lady’s brow, and her eye flashed as she took a small shell-comb from her hair, and the long, brown curls that it had confined fell over her neck and shoulders. Then pushing back the ringlets from her forehead, and placing her finger upon a small scar upon her temple, she said slowly—“Frederick Gordon—do you know me now?”

The young man had not moved since he had last spoken, but remained with his eyes fixed upon the carpet. At the lady’s words, however, he looked up suddenly, and brow, cheek and lip grew white—white as those of the dead. Then covering his face with his hand, as if to shut out some hateful vision, he exclaimed—“Lily Grey—Lily Grey—have you come even here to torment me?”

“She is even here,” was the quiet reply, “and I presume it is unnecessary for me to say that the man whose pretended love for Lily Grey was a ‘passing fancy,’ a ‘mere flirtation’—the man who for the sake of paltry gold so cruelly deserted the young being he had won, without a farewell word or line, can never claim the hand of Elizabeth Munro. Nay, hear me, Mr. Gordon,” she added, as he would have interrupted her, “entreaties are useless, I can never be your wife, but I wish to explain some things which are probably mysteries to you. My name is Elizabeth Grey Munro. My father always called me his Lily, and by that pet name, too, I was called by Mr. and Mrs. Mason. When I went into the country to visit them it was a childish freak of mine to be called by my middle name, and be known as simple Lily Grey, rather than as the heiress Elizabeth Munro. Had you called to see me before your sudden departure, all would have been explained; but you chose to do otherwise, and of course I could put but one construction upon your conduct—that you were merely trifling with one whom you supposed your inferior in point of wealth, and that, finding you had gone rather farther than you intended, you wished to get rid of the affair as speedily as possible. I do not hesitate now to say that I once loved you, Frederick Gordon, as you did not deserve to be loved, but that passed—passed with the knowledge of your unworthiness. When we met in the ball-room I saw at once that you did not recognize me—five years had changed the young and timid girl who blushed at your approach into the woman, calm and self-possessed as yourself. You were blinded, too, by the fashion and glitter around me, and, in short, you looked not for Lily Grey in Elizabeth Munro.”

“Oh, Lily, forgive, forgive,” implored Frederick, throwing himself at her feet. “For sweet mercy’s sake forgive and love me again as in other days, I have erred deeply—deeply—but I have repented also.”

Tears rolled down the fair girl’s cheeks as she replied, at the same time kindly extending her hand, “I do, I do forgive, for the sake of the love I once bore you—but that love I can never give you again. The chord is broken and will never vibrate more.”

The young man rose and gazed wildly upon her face, but he read nothing there to give him hope, and clasping her hand for an instant, he rushed from her presence.

Reader, upon one of those beautiful islands that, not far from Mackinaw, lie on the breast of Lake Huron, like the purest of emeralds in a setting of silver, there is a little, picturesque village where the magnificent steamers, that plow the lakes from Buffalo to Chicago, stop to take in wood and water. But a short distance from the village, and yet half-concealed by overshadowing trees, there stands a plain but strongly built house. There is nothing peculiar in its general appearance, and you would pass it almost unheeded, unless you chanced to perceive that the windows of the chamber in the south-east corner of the building were guarded by strong iron bars. If you looked yet more closely, you would see the form of a man, still in the prime of life, with fetters upon his wrists, his hair closely shaven, and the wild gleam of the maniac in his eye, pacing the apartment, or gazing between the bars upon the broad expanse of waters. That face, once seen, will haunt you forever! In the yard, slowly walking back and forth, with his white hair streaming in the wind and his hands folded behind him, is often seen an old man, whose bowed form and trembling limbs speak of suffering even more plainly than of age. Anguish and remorse are stamped in legible characters upon his brow, and as he moves to and fro, the words come forth slowly and mournfully from his white lips—“Oh, Amy, Amy, thy prophecy is fulfilled!”

One more scene—a more cheerful one we trust—and our story is ended. In a small, pleasant room, furnished with exquisite taste, half-buried in the crimson cushions of a luxurious chair, sat a young mother, and upon her lap lay her first born, a fair and delicate babe, whose tiny face seemed the miniature of the one that bent over it, save that the little rings that lay upon its forehead were of a darker hue. Very lovely was that young mother—more lovely than in the brightest days of her girlish beauty, as she reclined there in the simple, yet tasteful robe of a convalescent, her pale cheek half-shaded by the rich, brown curls that escaped from beneath her cap. Her eyes wandered often from the face of her babe to the door, and at length a glad smile sprang to her parted lips as she heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. The door opened, and a fine-looking man, whose intellectual face bore the unmistakable seal of genius, entered, and exclaiming joyously—“What—you here, Elizabeth? I have no words to tell you how glad I am to see you in our little sanctum again, my own sweet wife.” He bent to kiss the lips that were raised lovingly to his. “And our precious little daughter, too—she is six weeks old to-day, is she not?”

“Yes, Arthur—and it is about time she had a name, I think. What shall we call her?”

The young husband paused for a moment, and tears gathered in his proud, dark eyes as he replied—“Let her name be Lily Grey, dearest. Had you never borne that name perhaps I could not call you mine now.” And Arthur Talmadge—no longer poor and unappreciated, toiling for his daily bread—but Arthur Talmadge, the courted and honored artist, whose fame was in all the land, pressed his wife fondly to his bosom!

“SETTLING TO A JEMIMA.”

SUGGESTED BY “MY NOVEL.”

———

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

———

Yet it was with a deep groan that I settled myself to a—Jemima. Letter from Riccobocca to Lord L’Estrange.

“And how do you like ‘My Novel,’ Frank?”

It was a very natural question under the circumstances. We had just finished two excellent cigars. St. Julian had an exquisite choice in the article, which I could fully appreciate. The fire was shining glowing red through the polished bars of the grate—the curtains were down, and the gas lighted. The library-table was strewn with papers, and new publications, and among the rest “Blackwood,” in its unpretending brown cover, laid half open, and the paper-cutter thrust between the leaves. That knife was a great favorite with my friend, who had brought it from Switzerland. The blade was of burnished silver, the handle the delicate foot of a chamois, preserved most perfectly. I might have hunted from Paris to Berne without lighting upon it; but these things always seemed to fall in the way of St. Julian, as if by the magnetic attraction of his refined taste.

The library could scarcely have been dignified by that title. It was a small room, suited to my friend’s not over ample means, and fitted up with more of the bachelor air than the lounging-rooms of most Benedicts contrive to retain. Book-cases and tables of black walnut, the books being more valuable as rare editions, than from the extent of the collection, a few excellent engravings, and one beautiful head in oil, completed the appointments. We had dined, and nuts and wine were on the table before us. Mrs. St. Julian had absented herself on the plea of nursery engagements, possibly she thought we might like to chat without even her gentle restraint, of our old bachelor days. Considerate woman! Would that more of my married friends had possessed themselves of such a household treasure!

“How do I like Bulwer’s last? Just the question you asked years ago, St. Julian, in the days of Pelham and Earnest Maltravers, when maiden aunts held up their hands in pious horror at the mere mention of his name, and young ladies doted on the “dear wicked books,” just because they were proscribed.”

“Exactly,” nodded St. Julian, knocking the silvery ashes from the tip of his Figaro.

“Bulwer is older now—and so are we, eh! and may be said to have sown the wild oats of authorship. I was bored to death by Harold.”

“And so was I. When I saw the announcement on the cover that Bulwer was about to take leave of fiction, I thought it was quite time.”

“Harold being ‘the last of the Saxons,’ a new era commenced. The Caxton’s took me by surprise—at first I did not like it. The opening chapter was a cross of Tristrim Shandy and ‘The Doctor’—the coarseness of the one, and metaphysics of the other being a little tempered—‘weakened,’ I called it, and threw the book aside. I heard everybody talking of it, and wondered how they could praise such trash.”

“Trash! the Caxton’s trash!”

“Hold—I read it afterward; it was the only thing I could find on the counter of a country bookseller to solace and support me through a long journey, otherwise, I candidly confess, I should not have chosen it. You know the route, the winter of my Floridian jaunt. Shut up in the cars passing through those North Carolina pine-lands, without interest or variety, with not a soul that I knew, or any physiognomy that I liked well enough to make acquaintance with—how I blessed the dogged obstinacy that had hitherto made it a sealed book to me. I read till the twilight deepened, and then I borrowed the conductor’s lantern, and read again.”

“And liked it as much as I do, no doubt.”

“More than I can tell you. You know I never was given to enthusiastic criticism. It was so new, so varied—the sentiment more than the incident, I mean. When ‘Alice’ was written, I should not have fancied the Caxton’s. I could not have understood the author’s reasonings—for you know it is, after all, more a philosophy than a romance.”

“Sound philosophy, too—nothing harsh or cynical in it, as one might naturally have expected from the domestic life of the author.”

“And that is the charm of ‘My Novel,’ it is the same subject continued; a homily against worldliness and selfishness, in the most charming guise, example as well as precept—and that so naturally drawn. Who does not pity Audley Egerton—giving life and soul to political ambition, or despise his sycophant Leslie, with his scheming, plotting brain.”

“Outwitted at last, of course. ‘Honesty the best policy,’ is the burden of the tale. Yet I pity Randall more than his dupe, your namesake, Frank; the one has mens conscia recti to support him in all his difficulties. I can fancy Leslie’s situation exactly. Ambitious by descent, as it were, and for the honor of his ancestors, as well as for personal ease and distinction, stung by the destitution and utter neglect of his home, refined in taste, one scarcely wonders that he becomes unscrupulous of means to the end.”

“And there is Frank, as you say, so honest and honorable, so generous—I have heard many objections to the possibility of his attractions to the brilliant Marchesa. But I can understand that, too. The world-wearied woman, longing for the honorable, generous love, for the repose of just such a heart, won most of all by the genuineness of the proffered love, accustomed as she had been so long to constant but unmeaning adulation.”

“Yes, I don’t think it at all unnatural; there is another thing some might think inconsistent, the union of the accomplished and elegant Riccobocca and his Jemima.”

“I confess, I cannot quite understand that. There is the same doctrine in the Caxtons—Mrs. Caxton, you know; and yet Pissistratus found sympathy in a mind attuned to his own; and L’Estrange must have his Violante, after all. In this, I think, our author contradicts himself a little.”

“I do not think so,” St. Julian said, more warmly. “Bulwer’s theory seems to me, that in the close friendship of domestic life, some natures need restraint, some repose, while others, on the contrary, would be ruined without stimulus. Harley’s was one of these—Riccobocca, on the contrary, needed his Jemima.”

“I see the theory, and I see it carried out in daily life. For my part, if ever I marry”—and here I involuntarily touched the rapidly thinning locks on my temples—“if ever I marry, it must be a brilliant, cultivated woman, one that would command general admiration—I hate your jealous, selfish men—one that would force me to keep up to her mark. I must confess, I wonder at half the marriages now-a-days—men of talent united to women who do not look as if they had ever opened a book in their lives, or would have the courage to criticise it if they had—good enough—amiable enough—but lacking spirit—originality.”

Here I paused in my energetic disclaimer—it was getting a little awkward; our acquaintances had often remarked the same of St. Julian, and he must know it; indeed, I had often wondered at his choice mentally; I found his eyes fixed on mine, as I faltered, with a peculiar, penetrating expression, and I fancied I saw his color heighten.

He was the first to relieve the embarrassing silence; with one of his own fine smiles he said,

“Yes, just such a wife would suit you—I know it, and you have not found her. I thought so once of myself. I am wiser now. Acknowledge”—and here the smile came and went again—“that you were thinking of my Minny that moment. Come, tell the truth, Frank—you wont offend me by doing so, I assure you.”

“Well, on oath then, I was; though I never should have said so if you had not asked me. Even intimate friendship has no right to touch on such points. Every one must decide for themselves, is my theory; and no one has a right to question the choice. I confess, I have often thought I should like to know all about it though—how, with all your fire and imagination, you could have been content with simple amiability.”

“Minny has more than that,” St. Julian said, warmly. “She has great depth of feeling, cultivation, and correct judgment. I grant she is not what the world calls brilliant—a brilliant woman never would have suited me for a wife.”

“Your opinion has changed since our college days,” I could not help saying.

“Many of my opinions,” said Frank. “But in this I was aided by one of the most brilliant women I have ever met.”

“She rejected you, I suppose, and taught you wisdom through wounded self-love.”

“No—yes—if it can be called rejection when I never offered any thing but admiration. But you shall hear all about it, if you would like it.”

“Of all things.”

“Well, then, you must not interrupt me, or ever mention it again. I believe it is a little pride in the support of my theory that urges me to the confession. Sometimes I like to bring her before me, however—but I always turn to the thought of Minny with such satisfaction.”

I believed him as he said it. His face was lighted by an honest heart; I did not believe Mrs. St. Julian herself would have been wounded—tenacious as all women are of predecessors—could she have heard the conclusion.

“Beatrice—that was her name,” said St. Julian, stretching his slippered feet more comfortably toward the fire; “and I always thought no other would have suited her. She came to pass the winter in St. Louis, the first year I commenced practice there. Such an arrival, of course, made some stir in our circle; society was not as good, or as large there then as it is now. She was a widow—don’t look alarmed, Frank, you never would have believed she had been married, but for a certain ease and assured manner, not the bold, pushing way, assigned to widows generally—and vulgarly, too, let me say. They told me she was about twenty-four, with a small but comfortable income, and had married a man she could not love. He proved to be dishonorable in business transactions, though a man of fascinating manner and cultivated mind. I know a dozen such men, and could see that while she had gained much intellectually by the association, her heart must have been starved.

“I remember distinctly the first time I saw her. Anthon, my partner, visited her, and from him I had taken a dislike to her. I fancied she was in the old style, a cautious, calculating coquette, expecting general homage. I was determined she should receive none from me.

“So I rather avoided her—and we met quite by accident at the house of a mutual acquaintance. The introduction startled me—she was so unlike what I imagined—a small, coquettish figure, and face marked by vivacity; on the contrary, she was tall and stately, a superb head, well set, curved red lips, a fine quivering nostril, excuse the expression, and eyes—that haunted me for years. Those are her eyes”—and he pointed to the picture I had before remarked over the mantle—“except that no painter could ever give their changeful, thrilling light. The picture is an Italian head—I saw it in Florence, and could not resist the purchase.

“She was quiet, and rather reserved in manner. Afterward her face changed when the conversation turned upon something that interested her. I controverted some opinion she had advanced. I was a little piqued at her total neglect of me, when I had expected a display of attractions for my benefit. I shall never forget the first brilliant flash of those eyes, as they turned full upon me.

“‘You have thought much upon this subject, then,’ she said, quietly, but I fancied with a covert sarcasm.

“My comment must have betrayed my utter ignorance of the matter—but I had not expected such quick detection. I spoke at random, as I often did in those days, more to draw her attention upon myself than for any interest I had in the conversation. But I rallied, and tried to sustain my ground with all the sophistry I could command; the rest listened, and I saw all my powers of argument and wit called forth by her close and simple reasoning. She was naturally sarcastic. I saw she controlled the spirit in a measure, still her repartee humbled me not a little; pride as well as vanity was roused at the encounter. Yet she held out her hand to me in parting, with a beautiful smile, intended to be conciliating, I saw, as she said,

“‘When we meet again, I hope we shall agree more readily.’

“Anthon had often asked me to call with him at her house, for she had decided to remain with us, and her late husband’s aunt superintended her household. After this encounter, I was more determined than ever not to go, but an indescribable fascination impelled me. Her face haunted me—in business, in leisure; her eyes rose up before me; I found myself trying to recall the tones of her voice. I wished so much to hear her sing—I had been told she was an accomplished musician—I was sure she must sing enchantingly. Even in conversation, her low, clear voice thrilled you.

“She welcomed me pleasantly; almost with marked warmth, at least Anthon thought so, and rallied me afterward upon my conquest. She proposed music herself in the pauses of conversation, and sung—not with any apparent desire to win admiration, but because it was a pleasure to herself, and to us. At least, I was obliged to confess this to myself, and I felt my prejudice giving way, with every bar of her delicious music. Perhaps she counted on the power the harp possessed of old to exorcise evil spirits.

“I could but think of Lady Geraldine—the poem had just appeared then, and had been the subject of our discussion.

‘Ah! to see or hear her singing, scarce I know which is divinest.

For her looks sing too—she modulates her gestures on the tune,

And her mouth stirs with the song-like song: And where the notes are finest—

’Tis the eyes that shoot out oreal light, and seem to swell them on.’

“I could go on with the next stanza,” St. Julian added, taking up the volume he had referred to again.

‘Then we talked—O, how we talked! Her voice so cadenced in the talking,

Made another singing of the soul—a music without bars.’

“And so for many and many an evening, for there never was moth more fascinated than I became, and yet she had never shown me any decided preference. She was a great favorite in society, and always surrounded by admirers. I wondered she could have endured half their fulsome flatteries. I used to turn from the circle in perfect disgust, mentally accusing her of coquetry and vanity. Yet, after all, it was perhaps but jealousy in me.

“So the winter passed—meeting her constantly, and we became what is called good friends.

“Sometimes she claimed my services as her escort in walks or rides. I was only too glad to be near her. I knew that those around her did not understand her as I did. That she often turned from them all to her books and music for companionship. The pride and ambition of my nature found a response in hers—the vague dissatisfaction with tame reality—the thirst for change and variety—the search for sympathy with these wild visions—all that made up my inner life.

“Every one passes through this mood in early life. With some, it is scarcely more than depression or dissatisfaction; with me, it had long been a wild unrest. This was often her mood—I was sure of it when the chords of her music deepened, or that tremulous quivering of the lip, betrayed the inward strife.

“Once we were riding—the active exercise suited her spirit, she needed the rapid excitement of a bounding steed. So we came dashing homeward, our horses covered with mud and foam, for she was more than usually self-absorbed, and seemed to forget how rapidly we rode. It was a dreary November afternoon, the sky closed in with chill, gray clouds, the fading sunlight sickly and uncertain. We were passing a recent clearing for a new bye-road to some little town. Many noble trees lay felled beside our path, and, at a little distance, we noticed a flickering flame. Some freak had prompted the woodman to fire a tall ash, that stood relieved in graceful outline. One half of the trunk was completely consumed, the fire burning upward steadily from the roots, had hollowed out a channel for itself, and, while the tree stood up bare and tall, was eating out its very heart and life. It startled me for a moment; but Beatrice reined in her horse suddenly, and pointing to it with her riding-whip, said—

“‘There—do you know what that is? Have you ever felt it?’

“Her tone—her glance conveyed all her meaning. I, too, had thought the emblem truthful. I was sure now that I understood her. But we neither of us spoke again until we reached home.

“Yet I would not tell her that I loved her—I had no right to think it was returned. Sometimes I thought so, when she turned to me with more than her usual confidence, or welcomed me with one of her loving smiles. I would have given worlds for the power to ask her, but something always repelled me. So I thought of her alone—I sought her society day after day, and from the very intensity of my feelings came a coldness and reserve that I did not feel.

“One night, she had been asked in a small circle of intimate friends to read ‘Lady Geraldine,’ aloud. Miss Barret then was almost an unknown name, even in literary circles, and Beatrice was her warm admirer. Already familiar with every line of the poem, it received new grace and power from her lips. It suited her spirit, and her presence. She lost herself in the heroine, and I hung near her, carried away by the poet’s expression of all I felt for the beautiful creature before me.

“I suppose ‘my heart was in my eyes.’ Once, she looked up; and, for an instant, her glance met my own.

“Here is the passage—

‘But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder,

Which my soul had used. The silence drew her face up like a caul.

Could you guess what word she uttered? She looked up, as if in wonder,

With tears beaded on her lashes, and said—‘Bertram!’ it was all.’

“Yes—that instant glance ‘was all;’ and yet it thrilled me with love and hope. Its yearning—almost agonized—tenderness, I cannot describe to you. I never saw such a glance from woman before or since.”

St. Julian rose, and began pacing the carpet before me, as he spoke, more rapidly.

“Yet, that very night, we spoke coldly and proudly to each other. She, perhaps—well I cannot tell for what reason; but it stung me, and I answered bitterly and hastily, and said to myself I would never see her again.

“We did not meet again for more than a year, strange as it seems, moving in the same small orbit. I passed her now and then with a beating heart, as I recognized her face or form upon the side-walk: she—with the same calm smile of recognition; I—with a cold and hasty bow. I grew almost to hate her—yet I could not: in the depth of my heart, I yearned to speak to her again; though I called her selfish and a coquette, most of all, in memory of that look.

“But, at last, we met; as unexpectedly as at first, and in the same house. There was every thing to remind me of the past. She was unchanged, save a softened manner, and that her dark dress was relieved by crimson ornaments, which suited her wonderfully well.

“She came toward me with extended hand, and as if we had just met from a journey.

“‘Will you come and see me?’ she said: ‘we shall find a great deal to talk about, and I have some new songs I am sure you will like:’ and I was surprised into acquiescence. All that evening I watched her—as she moved, the centre of admiration, when she smiled, or spoke; she was so very, very beautiful!—the eloquent color, the constant play of features. Once, I fancied her eyes turned toward me, with something of that remembered glance.

“I went home like one in a delirium; all my love rushed back—the stronger, that the current had been so long checked. I murmured her name—with the fondest intonations—the silence echoed ‘Beatrice! Beatrice! My arms seemed to clasp her to my heart! I seemed to shower kisses on those loving eyes! It was a mad, intoxicating dream!

“Every fibre of my frame thrilled to the welcoming pressure of her hand. She was alone, in the little winter parlor I remembered so well. A warm, crimson carpet muffled the tread, the glass doors of the conservatory stood slightly ajar, filling the atmosphere with the odorous breath of the heliotrope and sweet-scented daphne. Crimson curtains fell in heavy folds to the floor, her piano and harp stood in the accustomed places, the fire burned low, and wax lights, in massive silver candlesticks, stood at one end of the room. It was all so familiar, the gleaming of the single bust in the corner, upon its marble pedestal, the Magdalen, her favorite picture—which I wondered at at first—hung near it, and there was her own portrait, faithful to the life, with those eyes looking down upon me. Perhaps she thought me sad, for she proposed music, and I leaned on the mantle and listened. At first it was a gay song; but that was not suited to her mood, and gradually she glided into those mournful strains of Schubert and Mendelssohn, which she knew to be my favorites of old.

“When she ceased—the last chords of voice and instrument still vibrating in the silence—she rose, and came slowly toward me. It was in my heart to tell her all; but she said—

“‘You have often told me I was unlike other women. It is a dangerous compliment. No woman can be happy who is unlike her sex: I have come to that conclusion at last. But, to show you that you were not mistaken in the past, I am going to tell you something about myself.’

“Here she held out her hand to me—oh! how impressive that touch, yet how kind!—and raised her eyes to mine, with a calm, searching look as a sister might have done.

“‘I understood you when we first met. We were so much alike—skeptic perhaps in heart and creed. Restless, wandering, seeking rest and finding none. It was not strange that I turned toward you—that I thought I loved you—close sympathy was the element of love I longed for. I was unhappy away from you; your words, and tone, and glance had more power over me than you ever dreamed of. I longed sometimes—in my loneliness and solitude—to hear you tell me that my love was returned, to feel your arm about me, your kiss upon my forehead, your eyes fixed on mine—as once I saw them—above all, to hear your voice murmur Beatrice, dearest! all wild passionate words—that my heart yearned for. Had you sought me then, I, no doubt, should now have been your wife!’

“Beatrice, my wife! My head swam, she must have seen my frame tremble with the thought.

“‘But we were separated,’ she said, still calmly; I wondered at her calmness, when I was so shaken, ‘and since then I am changed. Life has assumed a different hue: I am calmer’—yes, I could see that and almost curse her calmness—‘I can be thankful that you did not ask me to be your wife; we shall both be happier; and, as friends, we may still be of much use to each other.’

“‘Last night was the test of all my resolutions—at first, when I met your hand, your glance, they wavered: the old time rose before me—the old yearning for sympathy with my mad moods; but I fortified them by new purposes, and I was thankful for the trial. Shall we be friends?’

“‘But why, O, why, Beatrice,’ I said for the first time—‘why not more?’

“‘Because our natures are too much alike. Both too impulsive—too sensitive—too imaginative. Life, and its trials, and associations are real. I need something to oppose the blast—we should both bend one way. The fire that raged so fiercely could but soon die out, or consume all that fed it. Do you not see this?’

“Yes, I knew, she was true, she was right; I have felt it a hundred times since, but then I only felt all I had lost—all I was so near possessing—that all hope was past. I knew it by her tone, her manner, the gentle pressure of her hand. I knew her self-control must be the effect of an irrevocable judgment—it was a mood foreign to her, and could not be long sustained.

“What more wild words I said, I can easily imagine, and her flushed cheek told me the struggle that they caused within; but I had no right thus to act upon her generous confession, and at length I listened to her gentle reasoning.

“‘If I ever marry,’ she said, ‘it must be one whose judgment is not controlled by his feelings, who can understand, yet not share, in these wild moods you would only encourage. It must be strength of will and tenderness combined that can control me. You need repose as much as I. We are friends you know—I read your heart better than you can yourself—your wife must also be firm and gentle. I should in the end only make you miserable.’”

“Well,” I said, as St. Julian paused in apparent forgetfulness of my presence.

“Well, as you say—I did not cease to hope from her impulsive moods until I knew that she was to be married. When she found it was so, she avoided me; it was base to presume on her generous frankness.”

“So she is married?”

“To a man others say the very reverse of herself—but I understand it, and believe her to be happy—and I took her advice, at length, and sought out a Jemima! no, my Minny is more like Mrs. Caxton of the two, and is far too good a wife for me. Beatrice would have made me miserable, I believe.”

I smiled as he settled himself complacently in the lounging chair from which he had risen, and returned to a quiet contemplation of the fire, the very picture of the contented husband, after all that utterance of enthusiastic feeling—but when Mrs. St. Julian came quietly into the room, a few moments after, with her pretty basket of needle-work, and her cheerful, household face, I could not but think that my friend was right after all in his choice, and that I, too, after a few more hesitating years, might be glad to find myself settled to such a Jemima.

SNOW FLAKES.

———

BY MRS. L. G. ABELL.

———

They fall, as one by one they come

A silent gift of starry light,

Concealing every spot and stain

With robe of purest white—

As Charity, with words of peace,

Her downy mantle covers o’er

The little faults of those we love—

So fall the snow flakes evermore.

A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.

———

BY G. P. R. JAMES.

———

[Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1852, by George Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the District of Massachusetts.]

(Concluded from page 618.)

THE DREAMS FULFILLED.

I slept not one wink that night. I can compare the state of my mind to nothing but a still, deep piece of water, suddenly stirred by a strong wind. Thought was a confused mass of waves, flowing one into the other, and hurrying away into some new form, ere they could be measured or defined. Toward morning, however, one of the memories the most prominent became that of the surprise which had been shown by the Count and Countess de Salins at my having seen and conversed with the Marquis de Carcassonne. I dwelt upon it. I pondered. I scrutinized it. “The murderer of my father!” I thought; “how did he murder him? Was it in a duel: by an act which good Father Bonneville, with his strong principles, might look upon as murder?” No—there must have been something more. What the count had said in regard to the other’s guilt showed that it was by no common occurrence my father fell. There must have been something more; and what that was I determined to ascertain. Not that I thought of taking vengeance on the pitiful dying worm I had seen—he was not worthy of it. The extinction of his few short hours of life would offer but poor satisfaction. “Better leave him in the hand of God,” I thought, “who knows all and sees all, and is just as well as merciful.” Nevertheless, I was determined to know how my father fell, and that without any long delay. I knew that where there is a strong will, means are rarely wanting to accomplish even the most improbable ends: but, after long meditation, I saw but one way of arriving at my object: “I will go to the old man,” I thought, “and drive him to tell me all. I will strengthen my mind, and harden my heart, and compel him to divulge the dark secret within his breast.”

Such was my first resolution, and it was that to which I recurred; but, in the mean time, another plan suggested itself, which I tried, but which failed. I thought that, very probably, the Count de Salins himself would give me information; and as the mind—especially of youth—is always fond of accomplishing more than one object at a time, I resolved to go down the very next day, and pass an hour or two with Mariette, at the same time I sought the information I required. There was one thing, however, which embarrassed me a good deal—not that it presented itself to my mind in any definite shape; but it had crossed my thoughts like a vague, unpleasant shadow more than once during the night. I do not know that I can very well explain myself distinctly—that I can make any one else, even those for whom these pages are written, and who understand me best, comprehend fully the state of my mind at that moment. I should perhaps have said, in common parlance, the state of my heart, but mind had something to do with it likewise. Let me try, however.

The Mariette of the past, the Mariette of the present, seemed to me, as it were, two beings in one. The long interval which had occurred between our parting and meeting again, rendered them, as it were, distinct—a child and a woman. But yet that interval had been bridged over by constant remembrance. I had never forgotten her. I had never ceased to think of her. She had taken such a hold of my young affections, that nothing had ever been able to remove them from her, and thin, filmy lines of thought had been carried backward and forward, between the past and the present, like the threads of a spider’s web. When we had been boy and girl, I had often looked forward to the period when we should be man and woman, and I had again and again fancied that Mariette would be my wife—my own for ever. Now we were man and woman, the process was reversed; and fancy ran back to childhood. I saw in her the sister of my early days, my dearly loved play-fellow and plaything. I began to think, indeed, that I loved her better now—not that the least particle of the former love was lost: it was the foundation of all, but another love was being built up upon it. I did not know, indeed, how far that edifice was completed. I would not examine, I would not inquire, I would not scan my own heart and its feelings, although I was conscious that all the thought and anxiety I had lately bestowed upon her could hardly arise without deeper feelings than those of boyhood, or exist without increasing them. I must not say that I resolved or that I intended any thing; for where Mariette was concerned, I did not pause to resolve or to intend. All I desired or looked for was, to make her happy by any means, to remove her for ever from poverty, and to share with her all I had to share. But there was one difficulty, and it was this: I knew not how to explain to her the source of my present affluence—to tell her, or her father, or her mother, that even for a short few days I had been wedded to another. In my present feelings toward her, it seemed as if I had been unfaithful to her—as if I had robbed her of a part of the affection which was her due, in giving any share of my love to poor Louise.

If I felt so, what—I asked myself, might she not feel? How might she bear the thought of being the second in my love? I knew well myself that she was not the second. That she was the first, the best beloved; but could I persuade her of that? And even if I did—would she not think my conduct the more base and wrong in having wedded another? If—by any chance—such early visions as I had indulged, had produced in her the same sort of indefinite impression—that we were bound to each other from very childhood—from which I could not divest my own mind, what would she think of my having forgot the bond, for even so short a period?

I did not know woman’s heart. I was not aware of how much less selfish, how much less exacting is woman’s love.

But let me go on with my story. These thoughts embarrassed me as I walked along toward her father’s cottage. That my previous marriage must be told, sooner or later, I well knew; but how to do it puzzled me, and the probable effect alarmed me.

As I was thus meditating, just at the turn of the lane from Lee, I came suddenly full upon Westover. He was on foot, and gazing very thoughtfully down upon the ground. I will not pause to dwell upon my feelings; for though they were bitter and bad, ungenerous and unkind, they were very transitory. So deep was his revery that he did not see me till we were close together, but then he held out his hand frankly, and I am afraid I gave mine very coldly, hardly pausing in my walk.

“Why, De Lacy!” he exclaimed, “you seem in great haste?”

“I have found out the friends I have been so long seeking, Captain Westover,” I answered, “and am now going to see them.”

“Captain Westover!” he replied. “Well: so you have found them out; and, therefore, I have had my trouble for nothing.”

His tone, more than his words, made me feel a little ashamed.

“What trouble do you allude to?” I asked.

“Two journeys to Lewisham,” he answered, laughing. “A long conversation with an old woman in a chandler’s shop, and the cross-examination of a tax-gatherer.”

“Indeed!” I said. “And why did you take all this trouble?”

“Merely to ascertain,” replied Westover, “if the lady of the rose cottage, with the beautiful eyes, was in reality your long-lost love, Marietta de Salins. My chandleress could only inform me on Saturday, that it was a French gentleman who inhabited the cottage, with his wife and daughter: that they called him the count; but count or no count, he taught French for two shillings a lesson. The tax-gatherer, she said, could tell me more about them: but the tax-gatherer happened to be absent, dunning some poor devils, I dare say, and so I came down again to-day, and discovered that it is, indeed, a Count de Salins who lives there with his wife and daughter, though how that can be, I cannot make out, for you told me that the count was dead. However, I was just now coming up to tell you what I have found out, and to force a piece of advice upon you.”

I was now heartily ashamed of the feelings with which I had met him, but I explained that I had been deceived with regard to the death of Monsieur de Salins, and then asked in our old friendly tone, what was the advice he intended to give me.

He put his arm through mine, and walked on with me.

“The fact is, De Lacy,” he said, in a meditative way, “you are furiously in love, my dear fellow—far enough gone to be as jealous as a spaniel-dog. Now do not suppose that I am angry with this—for it is very natural; nor even that I should be so, if I found out that, in your innermost thoughts, you fancied just now that I came down here upon some blackguard errand—for there are so many of us in London who care not, so long as they hold their honor fair toward men, how dishonorably they act toward women, that such a supposition might be very natural, too. I see the suspicions have vanished, however, and so now to business. Let me, however, premise one thing. It is perfectly unnatural, and out of the ordinary course of events, that one young man should take a strong and affectionate interest in another, and endeavor to serve him upon perfectly unselfish principles. This postulate is granted. As in what I am going to say, I wish to serve you, I must either be an unnatural monster of generosity, or I must have some selfish motive. That is a fair inference, I think? Well, then, I admit the selfish motives. I do wish to serve you upon principles purely personal. My motives I cannot tell you at present, but I will tell you before I return to my regiment—perhaps, at the very last minute. All this I have said, to convince you of my sincerity, in order that you may take my advice as that of a sincere friend. Now, this love of yours will hurry you on very rapidly, and, without a little prudence, we shall have nothing but marryings and givings in marriage. My advice is, be discreet and patient. Make love as much as ever you like, but do not marry in a great hurry. If you do, you may injure yourself irreparably. Things are, I trust, looking fair for you. You are young, and your fair lady must be a good deal younger. You can both afford to wait a little, and it will be much better for you to do so.”

“Very good advice, Westover,” I replied; “but could you follow it yourself in my case?”

“I have waited two years myself,” he answered, “and shall probably have to wait two years more, exactly upon the same principles—but without half the strong motives which should induce you to wait, if you knew all.”

I paused for an instant, looking down thoughtfully and somewhat bitterly.

“I do not know all, Westover,” I replied, “but I am determined that I soon will. You, indeed, seem to know more of me than I do myself; at least, if I may judge from your words at present, and I do not see why a stranger should have such information when it is denied to me.”

“No stranger,” replied Westover, shaking my hand, as we were now near the cottage door, “but however that may be, De Lacy, take my advice: be patient—be prudent; engage yourself by any ties you like; but do not hurry your marriage, at least, till I am able to speak further, and to tell you more—and now, good bye; come and see me in London; to-morrow, if you can, but come and see me often; for I do not feel very sure whether it is the living or the dead part of my regiment I am going to join in a few weeks.”

I paused for a few moments before I went up to the house; but, on knocking at the door, I was told by the little servant-girl that the count had got his class with him. I then asked for Madame de Salins. She was out, the girl said, but Miss de Salins was at home. O, how horrible that frightful epithet of Miss struck me, when applied to my Mariette. I asked to see her, however, and was shown into a little room just opposite that in which I had been the day before. Mariette was sitting reading, and bright and beautiful she looked in her homely attire. She was evidently very glad to see me; and I was glad to see she was a little agitated, too; for she had been so much calmer than I was at our first meeting, that I had teazed myself with the thought ever since of her loving me less than I loved her. She told me that her father would not be free for two or three hours, but that her mother would soon be back, and would be very glad to see me. I said I would wait to see Madame de Salins, though I feared I could not remain till her father was at liberty. O, how artful I had become! By this manœuvre I gained nearly an hour of sweet conversation with Mariette, a short interview with Madame de Salins, and a good excuse for coming again on the following day.

I do not remember distinctly one word of the conversation between Mariette and myself; but I do know that, to me, it was very delightful: that we dwell much upon former times, every thought of which was full of young affection; that Mariette had forgot nothing any more than myself, and that the memories of those days seemed as dear to her as they were to me. We carried our minds so completely back to the past: we plunged into childhood again so deeply, that I almost expected she would come and sit down upon my knee, and put her arms round my neck, and coax me to give her some trifle, or to gather her some flower beyond her reach.

Then again, we talked of our wanderings and all the vicissitudes we had seen; and, once or twice, we came very near the subject of my journey to Hamburgh. When we did so, I fancied that I could see a peculiarly grave and almost sorrowful expression come into her beautiful eyes, and I remarked that she seemed quite as willing to turn the conversation in another direction as myself. However, nothing painful of any kind occurred in that short interview—short, O, how short it seemed, and how very speedy the return of Madame de Salins.

When she did come, she was very, very happy to see me. Time had made no difference in her feelings toward me. I was still to her the boy she had known and loved in France and Germany; and I felt, between Mariette and her mother, at least, there would be no need of ceremony: that with or without excuse, I should always be to them a welcome guest—nay, not a guest, a friend, a son, a brother. With Monsieur de Salins, however, it might be different, and, therefore, to make sure of another day, I forced myself to depart before he appeared.

On the following day I was there half an hour earlier than that at which I knew he would be free from his class, and that half-hour was spent with Mariette and Madame de Salins as happily as it could be.

My interview with Monsieur de Salins was not quite so satisfactory. He was as kind indeed as I could expect, and spoke of, what he called, my services to his wife and daughter with more gratitude than any little thing I had done for them could deserve. But in regard to that which was nominally the principal object of my visit, he maintained a reserve which I could not vanquish. He made use of no evasions, used no subterfuges, but met my inquiries at once with a refusal to comply. I referred to what he had said regarding the Marquis de Carcassonne, and pointed out to him that his words were calculated to excite surprise and curiosity, even if I had not previously received intimations which had equally astonished me.

“I was incautious,” replied Monsieur de Salins; “but it will be better for you, my young friend, to wait for further explanations till the time when they can be given to you by persons much better qualified to enter into all the details than I am. In fact, I deeply regret that I came near so painful a subject at all, and beg you to pardon my having done so, when taken by surprise.”

I could gain no further information from him; but I lingered yet for an hour or two in conversation with himself, Mariette, and her mother, walked with them in the little garden behind the cottage, talked of shrubs and flowers, and every thing the furthest removed from the subjects which really occupied my mind, and at length returned home, resolving to visit London, and see the Marquis de Carcassonne the next day.

I made the attempt accordingly, but was disappointed. I saw the old French apothecary in his shop, and learned from him that his lodger was out. The man seemed to have no recollection of me, and was somewhat more civil than at our previous meeting. His answer to my question was prompt and unhesitating, and I judged that he was not deceiving me. I was therefore obliged, unwillingly, to wait for another opportunity, and turned my steps toward the lodging of Westover, in Brook street. It was one of those days, however, when every one is out, and merely leaving my card, I returned to Blackheath, having accomplished nothing.

My next task was to get the Count de Salins to bring Mariette and her mother to spend a day at our cottage; and I quietly prompted Father Bonneville to ask the whole party, in his own name, for the Monday following, when the count’s class did not meet.

Etiquette, and ceremonies, and conventionalities, were very much laid aside at this time amongst the poor French emigrants. We had so much need of all the comforts and sympathies of social life, such scanty means of keeping up the stately reserves which had previously existed in France—covering, it must be confessed, a multitude of glaring vices—that we were glad to seize upon any occasion of enjoying a little friendly intercourse in a land where we were generally poor, and strangers, and by the great mass of the vulgar utterly despised.

The invitation was accepted frankly, and I set to work to devise how the day might be made to pass pleasantly for all parties. I had a very beautiful garden, now rich in flowers, and a gate at the back opened into some pleasant fields. There was nothing very striking in the scenery around, but there was a soft rural beauty rarely to be met with, so near a great capital. I planned walks in directions which we were not destined to take. I decorated our two sitting-rooms with nosegays of the flowers which Mariette had loved in childhood. I laid her little book of reading-lessons on the table, and a withered violet beside it, which she had given to me in its beauty, and which I had kept ever after between the leaves of the book. I arranged every thing, in short, as far as possible, to carry her mind back to the past, and, in my own eagerness, I felt very much like a child again myself.

One thing, however, I avoided. Neither in the dinner I had ordered, nor in any of the arrangements did I suffer any thing like great expense, or an attempt at display, to appear. Every thing was simple, though every thing was comfortable and good. As I went about early in the morning, busying myself with a thousand trifles, I could see Father Bonneville’s eyes following me, while a quiet smile played about his lips. I saw that he comprehended, in some degree at least, what was going on in my heart, and that he did not even care to conceal his amusement at the eagerness which, if he had ever known, he knew no longer.

The morning was as bright and beautiful as could be. Nature seemed to smile upon me. There might be a few clouds, but they were only such as fancy sometimes brings over a happy heart. There had been a light shower, indeed, in the night, but it had only sufficed to lay the dust and soften the ground, and render the rich unequalled verdure of England the more brilliant.

Our friends were to come to breakfast, and they appeared punctually at the hour. O, how warmly did I welcome them, and how happy did Mariette’s presence make me there. The very memory of that day is so sweet that I could dwell—even now—upon all the details with childish fondness. Fancy one of your own dreams of early delight, and spread it through a bright, glorious summer-day, and you will comprehend the passing of the next twelve hours to me.

But I must pass over much of what we did. Monsieur de Salins was suffering a good deal—as I found was still frequently the case—from the effect of his old wounds; but he sat out in the garden with Father Bonneville, while I, and Madame de Salins and Mariette, wandered about amongst the shrubs and flowers. Dinner had been ordered early, that we might not lose the cool of the evening for any ramble we might choose to take, and I suggested two or three little expeditions, all of which were determined upon in turn, but ultimately abandoned. To my surprise, however, I found, at length, that Mariette—though residing so long in the neighborhood—had never visited a spot celebrated in history, and exquisitely beautiful in itself, but which has long since lost one of its best charms from the multitudes which throng thither on a summer’s day. I speak of Greenwich park. Madame de Salins said that she had often thought of going thither with her daughter, but it was too far from their house for them to walk, and they could not afford a carriage. I pressed them both to go that evening; they were a mile nearer: we had but to cross the heath—and then I proposed to send for the pony-phaeton, and drive them over. That Madame de Salins would not hear of, and she feared the fatigue of a walk. Mariette looked a little disappointed, perhaps; and her father—who watched every look of his child’s face with earnest affection—exclaimed:

“You two go, my children. Never mind us, we will enjoy ourselves here—there can be no objection, I suppose?” he added, turning to his wife.

“Oh! none,” replied Madame de Salins, at once. “She is as safe with Louis as with a brother.”

It is but fair that fortune—who so often amuses herself with putting out of joint our best devised schemes—should, at rare intervals, make us compensation thus, by bringing about, through little accidents, that which we desire, but dare not hope for.

With Mariette’s arm drawn through mine, we set out upon our walk across the heath. I fancied that I felt a tremor in her hand, and I was glad of it—although, after all, I am not sure that it did not increase my own. It seemed as if the crisis of my fate was approaching, and I knew—I felt now, for the first time, what it is to love passionately, earnestly. When I remembered my sensations in all the events which occurred at my marriage with poor Louise—deep, strong, earnest as they were—my anxiety to spare her any pain—my ardent longing to give her any happiness—the tender, heartfelt desire to save, to cherish and to comfort her—and compared them, by one of those brief, rapid, but comprehensive glances of the mind, with all I experienced at present, I comprehended, at once, that I had never really loved till now, and that, whatever she might think, I could give to Mariette the first true offering of my heart. I had never known what it was to feel the sort of trepidation that now seized upon me. It was like a gambler’s last throw. Every thing seemed staked—hope, happiness, life itself, upon the decision of that hour. Wait? That was impossible. In the fiery eagerness that possessed my heart—in the passionate desire to know my fate, I would sooner have plunged into the sea, than wait till the dawn of another day.

There are certainly means of communication between heart and heart—call them by what name you will—sympathies—instincts, any thing you please—which go far beyond words—run before them—indicate without audible sounds, or tangible signs, or even looks, that which is passing within one bosom to another in harmony with itself. I had said nothing that I know of to make Mariette believe I loved her. My conduct toward her had been unchanged since first we met. I had been afraid to display, in any way, the feelings that were busy at my heart. But, yet I am right certain that ere we passed the garden-gate, she was conscious that her fate and mine depended on the words to be spoken during that walk. Yes, yes, yes, dear girl! Her hand trembled as it rested on my arm, and she kept a little farther from me than our early affection might have justified, as if there were some awe within her bosom at the decision which was to bring us so close to one another.

For a quarter of a mile we did not say a word; and then I began any how—sure to bring the conversation round, before I had done, to the one sole subject of my thoughts. I believe I talked great nonsense. I felt it at the time. I almost feared she would think I had drank too much wine; for I could not keep my ideas fixed upon that of which I was speaking. I soon found that utterly indifferent subjects would not do. I knew the worst part of the task that was before me, and I determined to approach it at once. Yet I did not succeed in my first attempt. I thought if I spoke of her father’s situation, of my anxious, longing desire that he and his should share in all I possessed, and if I tried to enlist her on my side in persuading him to yield any pride and prejudice which opposed my schemes, that it would naturally lead her to some inquiry as to the source of the means I possessed. I was mistaken, however. This sort of abstract consideration seemed completely to restore her calmness. She raised her beautiful eyes to mine, and said, “I need not tell you, Louis, that if it depended upon me, there would need not another word. I could be content to be dependent on your kindness—ay, and feel a sister’s claim to it likewise—without doubt or hesitation or shame; and I believe my mother, too, would have few scruples. But I know my father; and I am certain he would rather dig as a common gardener than be indebted for assistance to any one.”

She asked no questions. It seemed enough for her that I had the means of aiding her father, and that her father would not accept my aid. I saw that I must try another course, and I changed the subject somewhat abruptly. I began to talk to her of my wanderings through Switzerland, of my sports in the mountains, of the battle of Zurich, of the danger of Father Bonneville, of my being trodden down by the Austrian soldiers, and lying for long weeks in the hospital. She grew deeply interested in the details. Her color came and went. Her eyes were now raised up and sparkling, and now cast down and swimming in tears. I told her of my journey to the north, of my seeking employment in vain, of my begging my way to the gates of Hamburgh. Her hand trembled again upon my arm, and her steps wavered.

We were now within the gates of the park, and entering a long, solitary chestnut walk, near the top of the steep hill, and I felt that with the agitation which pervaded my whole frame, and her shaking limbs, we could not go much further. There was a bench near, beneath the wide spreading branches of one of the old trees, and I said, “Come, let us sit down here, dear Mariette, and I will tell you the rest.”

“Will you, Louis—will you?” she asked, with an earnestness I shall never forget.

My spirit rose and strengthened itself with the deep sense of what I owed to her, to myself, and to the dead. “I will, Mariette,” I answered, “I will tell you every thing—every thought, every feeling, as if I were reading out of the book where they are all recorded.”

She bent down her head very low, and, seated beside her, I went on. My conscience tells me that I concealed nothing, that I laid my whole heart before her. But that which seemed to strike her most, was the gentle, tender love of poor Louise.

When I ended the tale with the dear girl’s death, she seemed to have forgotten herself altogether, and gazing up in my face, with the look of a pitying angel, she said, “Poor, poor Louise! How you must have loved her!”

The blood rushed up into my cheeks, and I bent down my face as if to avoid her gaze, murmuring what was perhaps too true, “Not as much as she deserved!”

Mariette started, and I added rapidly, “Do not mistake me, dear girl, I loved her well, very well—I never loved but one better. But I loved her not with that passionate earnestness—with that deep, intense, all absorbing affection which such devotion as hers well merited. I could have seen Louise wedded to another without despair, or agony, or death. I bore her father’s rejection of me with easy, patient fortitude; and I could have put my hand to any act that would have made her happy. Oh, Mariette, let poets, and fiction-writers say what they will, to render mortal love as intense as it may be, there must be a grain of mortal selfishness in it. Passion must be blended with affection; and I have learned—learned from another, that in true love there can be no happiness, no peace, no tranquillity, no life without the loved one.”

She shook like an aspen; but her lips murmured, “From whom?”

“You,” I answered.

“Oh, Louis, Louis,” she said, “are we not both wronging her who is gone?”

“Both!” that word was sufficient; but I would not hurt her feelings by catching at it as eagerly as my heart prompted. I took her hand gently, and quietly in mine, and said in a low lone, “No, Mariette—no, dearest girl. I can never wrong her by telling you the truth. I have concealed nothing from you, my Mariette—I have not concealed from you my deep affection for her, my tenderness—my care of her— my bitter sorrow for her death. Why should I conceal any thing else from you?—why should I not tell the truth in all as well as in a part? Why should I hide from you, that though for a few short days I have been the husband of another, that though she had my esteem, my strong regard, my tenderest pity, my warm affection in a certain sense, I have never truly, really loved but you, from boyhood up to manhood—from my earliest memories to this present hour? Why should I not say to you, that I have always thought of you, dreamed of you, looked for you, longed for you? Believe me, dear Mariette, believe me! If you do not, how can I prove it to you?”

She laid her hand gently upon mine, and looking up at me with a spring-day face, with bright tears and saddened smiles, she said, “The book and the violet—do not, do not, dear Louis, think me so selfish as to be jealous in the least degree of your love for poor Louise. We will often talk of her, and when we are very, very happy ourselves, as I am sure we shall be, we will think of her, and mourning for her sad and early fate, will feel our spirits chastened, and not drain the cup of happiness too eagerly.”

I would have given worlds to have been in some dim, secluded place, where I might have thrown my arms around her, and pressed her to my heart, and told her all I felt; but I dared do no more than clasp her hand in mine in mute confirmation of the pledge her words implied. She was mine: I was hers forever. But we were very silent for nearly a quarter of an hour, and then, with our senses somewhat more collected, and our hearts more still, we began to speak of all that was to follow. I told her that on the ensuing day I should tell her father what had passed between us, and I asked, somewhat anxiously, if she thought his consent would be easily obtained.

She entertained not a doubt, she said; but yet the very suggestion seemed to startle her, and more than once, as we walked homeward, she fell into a fit of musing.

——

THE CONSENT.

When I went on the following day, not without some trepidation, I must own, to the little cottage inhabited by the Count de Salins, the servant girl informed me that he was far from well. It was said in a tone of denial; but I begged her to tell him that I was there, and wished much to speak with him for a few minutes. I was immediately admitted, and found him seated in his robe de chambre by a fire, though it was summer time. There were strong traces of suffering in his face, but he welcomed me kindly, saying, that the denial he directed the servant to give was not intended for me. Not knowing what effect the communication I had to make might have upon him, I hesitated whether to say all I had intended; but he led the way to it in some degree himself, saying, “I have sent dear Mariette out with her mother; for she seemed dull and not quite well, and I am not very cheerful company to-day.”

“Perhaps I can account, Monsieur de Salins,” I replied, “for Mariette’s being a little thoughtful;” and without giving myself time to pause or hesitate, I went on and told him all at once, adding, as I saw he was a good deal agitated, “I would not have intruded this subject upon you to-day, but that I promised Mariette last night I would not lose a moment in making you acquainted with every thing that had been said between us.”

For three or four minutes he sat gazing steadfastly and sternly into the fire. Then starting up, he walked several times backward and forward in the room, gnawing his lip, and gazing, as it were, at vacancy.

I was sadly alarmed; for I evidently saw that Mariette had been mistaken in counting upon his ready consent, and I feared the result of the struggle which was evidently going on within him. His silence lasted so long as to be quite terrible to me, and I watched him with an expression of eager apprehension, which he saw at once as soon as he turned his eyes upon me. When he did so, he advanced directly to me, took my hand, and wrung it hard.

“I feel like a scoundrel,” he said, to my great surprise, “I feel like a scoundrel. But never mind, Monsieur de Lacy, never mind. She shall be yours, if you will answer me one or two questions sincerely, and as I could wish. I feel like a scoundrel, but those feelings shall not weigh with me.”

“I will answer any questions, Monsieur de Salins,” I replied, “without the slightest reserve.”

“‘Twas but a day or two ago,” said Monsieur de Salins, “that you wished and proposed to share your fortune with us. I readily understood your feelings, and comprehended how the generosity of youth should wish, at any worldly sacrifice, to save from poverty and distress the friends and companions of childhood. Now, you tell me you love my daughter, and propose to marry her. Tell me, Count de Lacy—before God and your conscience—are not the motives of your first proposal mingling with your second?—in a word,” he continued, vehemently, “is not charity—charity, I say, at the bottom of the desire you now express?” and his eye ran haggardly over the scanty furniture of his little room.

“Charity! Monsieur de Salins,” I exclaimed. “Charity, between me and Mariette! Is there any thing I have on earth that is not hers? Oh, no, no; for heaven’s sake, do not entertain for one moment such very painful thoughts. Believe me,” I added, “that I am moved by one feeling alone—the deepest, strongest affection; the warmest, the most passionate love toward that dear girl, who, as you say, was the friend and companion of my childhood; whom I loved then, and only love better, more warmly now. Surely, Monsieur de Salins, you forget what Mariette is, to suppose for an instant that I could seek her with any feeling but one.”

A faint smile came upon his lip. “She is, indeed, very beautiful, and very sweet,” he said, “but Father Bonneville tells me, Monsieur de Lacy, that you have been married before.”

“True,” I answered; “and yet I have never loved any one as I love Mariette.”

“Then she shall be yours,” he said, thoughtfully, “then she shall be yours.”

But I saw that there was still a reluctance, and I said, “Listen to me for five minutes, and clear away all doubts, regarding my former marriage, from your mind.”

He seated himself again in the chair before the fire, and I related to him succinctly, and simply, all that had occurred at the time of my marriage with poor Louise. He listened attentively, and drew a deep sigh when I had done, repeating the words, “She shall be yours,” but adding, “notwithstanding every foolish prejudice.”

“I do not understand you,” I said, “although I am quite sure that no prejudice will weigh with the Count de Salins. Nor do I comprehend how he could accuse himself at any moment of feeling like a scoundrel.”

“My young friend,” he said, slowly and impressively, “I look upon every man as a scoundrel, who does not act upon the principles he professes—upon the principles he knows to be just—I mean, of course, when he has time for deliberation; for every man, in human weakness, may commit in a moment of passion, acts which his heart disavows, and which his conscience afterward condemns. But the man who hesitates to do what he knows to be right, from any motives which he cannot justify, feels like a scoundrel, and such was my case just now. I believed you to be well fitted to make Mariette happy. I felt that I ought to give my consent; and yet, there was in my breast a struggle in which I could hardly conquer. Old prejudices, absurd habitual feelings rose up against my reason and my sense of justice, and they nearly overcame me.”

“But why?” I asked, in a sorrowful tone. “Is there any thing I have ever done—is there any act in my whole life, that should exclude me from your good opinion?”

“None, none,” he said, warmly. “Do not ask me for explanations; for all I can reply, is, that there is a history attached to your family, regarding which you have been brought up in ignorance, both for your own happiness, and the happiness of others. You will learn it some day; but not from me. However, Monsieur de Lacy, the struggle is at an end; Mariette shall be yours; but not just yet. She is very young, and it will be better to wait awhile. I feel my health failing me, it is true, and I have lately been very anxious for her mother and herself. She must be yours before I die, and then such anxiety will be at an end; but I hope to linger on yet some time longer.”

“Let me ask one question, Monsieur de Salins,” I said. “Has the history attached to my family, which you mention, any reference to that Marquis de Carcassonne, whom I saw in London?”

He bowed his head quietly, and setting my teeth hard, I said, in a resolute tone, “That shall be explained, if he and I live many days longer. The blood that flows in my veins, Monsieur de Salins—every feeling that animates my heart, tells me that I have nothing to fear from opening out all the acts of my father’s life to the eyes of the whole world. I will endure this mystery no longer. If my father has been wronged—murdered, as I am told, it is for his son to do him right. If he has been traduced, it is for his son to justify his memory.”

“I cannot deny it,” said Monsieur de Salins, “and I think they have acted wrong, and are acting wrong toward you. They think they are doing it for your good, I dare say—they think it is for your interests—for your future pecuniary advantage; but there is nothing should be so dear to any one, as the memory of a parent, except, indeed, it be his own unspotted name. You have enough. I do not covet more for Mariette than I am told you possess. Strange as it may seem, I have learned from poverty, to value wealth less than I used to do—but here comes my wife,” he added, laying his hand kindly on my arm, “and our Mariette. I know their steps upon the little path. Oh, what music it is, the step of the loved, to the ear of sorrow and sickness!”

It was music to my ear, too; and the moment after, Mariette and her mother were in the room.

The instant she saw me, the dear girl’s cheek flushed, and then turned pale, but she was not kept in suspense; for her father immediately threw his arm around her, and drawing her gently toward me, put her hand in mine.

“Bless them, my dear wife,” he said, turning to Madame de Salins, “bless them; for they are united.”

Madame de Salins embraced us both with eager joy, and then threw her arms round her husband’s neck, saying, “This is all I have most desired, my husband; for I am sure Louis will be to her, all you have been to me.”

——

THE DROP OF GALL.

Having told Father Bonneville that I should spend two or three days in London, and directed my portmanteau to be sent to a small but comfortable hotel at the end of Brooke street, I rode straight to a livery stable, near Charing Cross, where I was accustomed to put up my horse, and left him there. I then walked on along Pall Mall, meditating my future course, with more calmness and consideration than I had hitherto given to the subject. In regard to one point, my heart was now at rest. Mariette was found—was to be mine, and I had but one great object for thought and endeavor. I had not reached the end of St. James’s street, when I saw before me, a tall, fine, stately figure, which seemed somewhat familiar to me, walking slowly, and deliberately onward, and I turned my head to look at the face as I passed.

“Good morning, Monsieur de Lacy,” said the Earl of N——, in a frank and easy tone. “Whither away so fast, this morning?”

I paused, and took the two fingers he extended to me, saying, “I am going to Brooke street, my lord.”

“Ah, to see Charles,” he answered; “well, I will walk with you part of the way,” and he put his arm through mine, leaning on me somewhat heavily.

I did not wish my thoughts interrupted, and would have gladly got rid of him, had he been any other man; but there were various vague feelings in my bosom, which made that old nobleman’s society not unpleasant to me, even then; and at his slow pace we proceeded. He was silent for a moment, and then, looking round toward me, he said, “Why you are as tall as I am, Monsieur de Lacy.”

“As nearly the same height, I suppose, as possible,” I answered. “I had thought your lordship the taller man, from your carrying yourself so upright, I imagine.”

“And from my white hair, perhaps,” replied the old nobleman. “When we see mountains capped with snow, we are often inclined to think them higher than they are. But how is this, Monsieur de Lacy, Charles tells me you are a Protestant?”

“I am so, my lord,” I replied, “and have been so for some years.”

“Keep to that, keep to that,” rejoined the Earl, with an approving nod of the head. “You will find it better for your temporal and your eternal interests.”

“There is no chance, I believe, of my changing any more, my lord,” I answered, “as my conversion from the church of Rome, was the work of patient examination and sincere conviction, I am not likely to re-tread my steps.”

“I am glad to hear it, I am very glad to hear it,” he answered, and then seemed as if he were about to say something more, but stopped short, and turned the conversation to other subjects.

“Have you heard,” he asked, “that your king, Louis the Eighteenth, is now in England? Our wise governors have refused to recognize him under that title. They wish to leave themselves a loop-hole for recognizing the usurper, and so make him call himself the Count de Lille. They will soon find the folly of such feeble and wavering policy. It is my maxim, when I draw the sword, to throw away the scabbard; but, heaven help us, we are sadly ruled.”

I inquired where the king had taken up his residence, and then said, that I should certainly go down and pay my respects to him.

“Indeed!” exclaimed the earl, with some signs of surprise. “Are you sure of a good reception? Consult Charles—you had better consult Charles. He is a very good counsellor in all such circumstances. Withdrawing as much as I can from public life, I am not the best authority in matters of this kind—and now I must leave you—good bye. Tell Charles to let me know how he is.”

Thus saying, he turned into one of the club houses in St. James’s street, and I walked on.

When I had reached the end of Brook street, and was approaching the door of the hotel, I saw two persons coming toward me, who attracted my attention by the loudness and vivacity with which they were talking French. One was a tall, thin, elderly man, dressed in black, with black silk stockings, and knee breeches. He was very well dressed: but had more the air of a dancing-master than a gentleman.

The other was a little old woman, brisk and active in all her movements, and jabbering away to her companion in her native tongue, with vast volubility. The face was very peculiar, and had it been possible for me to conceive, that a silk gown would ever cover the back, or a velvet bonnet ornament the head of my old friend Jeanette, I should have claimed acquaintance with her at once. She recognized me better, notwithstanding all the changes that had come over my personal appearance, since we parted in Switzerland.

“Bon Dieu!” she cried, stopping in the midst of the pavement, somewhat to the surprise and admiration of the passengers. “Is it possible?—yes—it must be. My dear Louis, do you not recollect Jeanette?”

“Very well, indeed, Jeanette,” I replied, taking both her hands; but the good old woman was in a state of ecstasy that defied all restraint. She cried, she laughed, and I verily believe she would have danced, too, in the middle of Brooke street, had I not held her tight by both the hands, while her companion endeavored to soothe her, by repeating a dozen times, “Mais, Jeanette, mais Mademoiselle!” There was something so indescribably ludicrous in her expression of satisfaction, that I believe that I should soon have laughed too, as well as the passengers; and as my only resource, I took her and her companion into the hotel, to which I had written to have rooms prepared for me. When she was safely seated there, and somewhat quieted, she told me in a very mysterious manner, that she had just been talking about me to “somebody,” but somebody had never told her that I was in England. Her words, and more still, her mysterious manner, raised expectations which were not fulfilled. After a good deal of pressing, I obtained from her the fact that this somebody of whom she spoke was no other than Charles Westover; and I found that the man who accompanied her was an old valet de chambre of the Earl of N——. This was not altogether satisfactory to me; but yet it was another link in the evidence, showing—to my mind beyond a doubt—that there was some connection between my own fate and the earl’s family.

I soon sent away the valet de chambre, telling him that I would take care Jeanette should return in safety; and I felt half inclined to go with her, and demand explanations of the earl himself. A very brief reflection, however, determined me to forbear; but I questioned Jeanette closely concerning my own history and that of my family. She was very unwilling to speak, evaded my questions, gave me ambiguous replies, and when pressed very hard, sought woman’s usual refuge with tears, sobbing forth, “I must not break my vow, my dear boy. I must not break my vow.”

I could not bring myself to ask her more; but I turned to another point, saying, “Well, Jeanette, if you are bound by a vow not to speak on those subjects, tell me at least, do you know any thing of the Marquis de Carcassonne?”

The poor woman’s face assumed an expression of horror not easily to be forgotten. “Know him!” she exclaimed, “know that terrible man! Oh, yes, Louis, I know him too well. He ruined as happy a family as ever lived, and destroyed as noble a gentleman as was in all the world.”

Her words seemed to change my blood to fire; but I asked as coolly as I could, “Can you tell me how it was done, Jeanette?”

“Oh no,” she answered. “I was but a poor, ignorant servant, and did not hear any of his ways and arts, at least to understand them. All I know is, what it came to. I can’t tell you any more; but he is a dreadful man. It makes me tremble even to think of him.”

“Then I will go to him, and wring it from his heart,” I answered, fiercely; “for know the whole, and expose the whole, I will.”

“Oh don’t go near him, Louis; don’t go near him,” she cried, almost in a scream; joining her hands together as if she were praying to a saint. “He is the destruction of every one who approaches him, and he will find means to destroy you, too.”

“I have seen him once,” I answered, “since I have been in England, and I will most certainly go to him again, Jeanette, and force him to confess all he has done. I have no fear of him,” I added, almost with a scoff, remembering the miserable object I had seen in Swallow street. “He cannot harm me, Jeanette.”

“Stay, stay, Louis,” she said, eagerly. “Good Father Noailles tells me he is sick, and that he must die—perhaps we could find a way without your going near him. He will be terribly afraid of death when it comes close to him. All the frightful things he has done will rise up before his eyes, when he feels that he is going to answer for them. He has sent for Father Noailles twice already, and the good man says that his mind is in a perilous state—let me try, Louis; let me try. Perhaps I can manage it.”

“Whatever you do, you must do quickly, Jeanette,” I answered; “for I can and will bear this suspense no longer.”

“Well, well, I will go this moment,” she said; “but where can I find you, Louis, to tell you what I have done?”

“Here, for the next three days,” I replied, “and after that at Blackheath. I will give you the address.”