THE UNMARRIED BELLE

Sir W. C. Rofs, R.A.       A.B. Ross
Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXIII.     
    PHILADELPHIA,   OCTOBER,  1848. 
       No. 4.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE UNMARRIED BELLE.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Longfellow’s Evangeline.

I was loitering beside my mother’s chair, in her
drawing-room, one day on my return from school,
listening to the conversation between her and some
morning visiters; they were discussing most earnestly
the merits of a reigning belle.

“She is, indeed, perfectly beautiful,” exclaimed
my mother. “I looked at her the other evening,
when I saw her at the last concert, and thought a
more lovely creature could not exist. The music
excited her, and her cheek was delicately flushed,
which heightened the brilliancy of her eyes; her
lovely lips were just half apart and trembling with
feeling. Then she understands so well the art and
mystery of dressing. While other young ladies
around her were in the full pride of brilliant costume,
the eye felt freshened and relieved when looking at
her—there was such a repose in her demi-toilette.
The simple white dress was so pure and chaste in
its effect, displaying only her lovely throat, and her
beautiful chestnut-brown hair was gathered up carelessly
but neatly, while over one tiny ear fell a rich
cluster of ringlets; then, with all her beauty and exquisite
taste, she is so unconscious, so unstudied.
That the world should call Mary Lee a beauty, I do
not wonder; but that society should pronounce her a
belle, is, indeed, a surprise to me—she is so unassuming,
so free from art and affectation.”

“So unlike her mother,” exclaimed a lady, eagerly.
“I think Mary’s success in society is as gratifying
as unexpected to Mrs. Lee. She delayed her entrée
into society as long as she could, and used to lament
most piteously to me the trouble she expected to
have with her, from her total want of animation and
spirit. But now she seems to have entirely forgotten
her former misgivings, for she takes many airs on
herself about Mary’s popularity, talking all the while
as though scarcely any one was good enough for
the husband of the daughter she pronounced one
year ago a stupid, inanimate creature.”

“Ah!” said a gentleman, laughing, “the tie now
is between young Morton and Langley, I believe.
As Langley is the more distingué of the two, I suppose
the mother will favor him; but if one can
judge from appearances, the daughter prefers Harry
Morton.”

“I can assure you,” interrupted Mr. Foster, an intimate
friend of our family, “the daughter has quite
as much admiration for the rich Mr. Langley as the
mother. There is a little incident connected with
that same concert Mrs. Duval speaks of, that convinces
me of the daughter’s powers of management.”

“Shame on you, Philip Foster!” said my mother,
“you should not talk thus of any lady, much less of
Mary Lee.”

“What was the incident, Mr. Foster?” eagerly
inquired the other ladies.

“Yes, do tell us, Phil,” urged his gentleman
friend.

My mother looked reproachfully at Mr. Foster,
but he shook his head laughingly at her, as he said,

“Hear me first, dear Mrs. Duval, before you
judge. I was at Mrs. Lee’s two or three mornings
since. Several visitors were in the drawing-rooms,
among them Harry Morton, as usual. I was looking
at a new and costly collection of engravings on the
commode table, when I overheard Harry Morton
ask Miss Lee if he should join their party at the concert
the next evening. She replied that she regretted[182]
they were not going, for she had already promised
her mother to dine and spend the evening quietly
with an old friend. The next evening at the concert
the whole Lee party were there, and our belle, Miss
Mary, was brought in by young Langley, just newly
arrived from Europe. The unconscious demi-toilette
Mrs. Duval speaks so admiringly of, had the
desired effect. Langley’s taste has been chastened
by a voyage over the Atlantic; the noisy over-dressing
of his countrywomen would, of course,
annoy his delicate sense—therefore was the simple
home costume adopted in preference, and the “available”
Mr. Langley secured as an admirer.”

“I do not believe any such thing, Philip!” exclaimed
my mother, indignantly. “I will answer
for it, there was some mistake. Mary Lee would
scorn a falsehood, and is entirely above all artifice
or design. Mrs. Lee is said to be maneuvering and
worldly; if she is, her daughter is entirely free from
such influences.”

“How did Morton take it, Phil?” asked the other
friend, laughingly.

“He was with me,” replied Mr. Foster, evidently
enjoying with some little malice my kind mother’s
annoyance, “we had dropped into the concert by
chance together. He looked thunderstruck, but said
nothing, and did not approach her during the whole
evening. She knew he was there, however, for I
saw her return his cold bow in a painfully embarrassed
manner.”

The entrance of some other visiters, connected with
the Lees, put an end to the conversation. That
night, when my nurse was undressing me for bed,
I said,

“What’s a belle, Katy?”

“A very rich and beautiful young lady,” replied
my nurse, “who has plenty of lovers, and gets
married very soon.”

“Will I ever be a belle?” I innocently inquired,
as she gathered up my rebellious hair under my cap.

“No,” she replied, in impatient tones, “your
hair is too straight, and your skin too yellow; but
you must do as you’re told to, or else nobody will even
love you; so go to sleep right away.”

I was silenced, and thus obedience was obtained
by appealing to my love of approbation. Many
years passed, bringing me to womanhood, when I
discovered the truth of Nurse Katy’s reason why I
should not be a belle. Other people decided that
my “hair was too straight, and my skin too yellow,”
to use Katy’s homely, rough words; but her brusque
admonition, that made me go to sleep so quickly
when a child, acted upon me as a woman. My approbativeness
once roused, I managed, despite my
want of personal attractions, to secure a host of
friends; and the lesson I then learned, to please
others rather than myself for the sake of gaining
their love, has caused my life thus far to be very
sunny and happy, even more so than if I had been
the belle my childish fancy desired.

One of Nurse Katy’s principal attributes of a belle,
however, Mary Lee was deficient in. She did not
get married at all—and Mary Lee she remained all
her life. But she was one of the loveliest old maids
in the world, and quite as popular in our circle as
she had been in her own. She had been confined
many years with an invalid mother and paralytic
father, but after their death some time, she re-entered
society; and her house was the favorite resort of the
new set of young people, as it had been in her young
days. She gave the most delightful parties, planned
the most pleasant enjoyments for us, and although
acknowledging herself to be an old maid, she still
retained her youthful feelings unimpaired.

Her mind remained in a fresh, healthy state, and
her disposition was still sweet and joyous. How we
all loved her; she was our confidante, adviser and
friend. She was still pretty, and might have proved
a very formidable rival had she chosen to enter
society as a young lady; but she preferred being regarded
by us as an elder friend. The young ladies
grouped around her as younger sisters; and one half
the young gentlemen would have married her instanter,
notwithstanding she was ten or fifteen years
their senior. Old maid as she was, strange to tell,
she was a promoter of marriages. The ill-natured
called Mary Lee a match-maker. She certainly did
interest herself very much with lovers, fathoming all
the little mysteries of their love-quarrels, and setting
every thing quite straight, even when they seemed
in inextricable confusion.

Miss Lee had been very fond of my mother, and
extended to me the same regard, therefore I was,
notwithstanding the difference in our ages, on a more
intimate footing with her than her other young
friends. One day, as we were discussing the merits
of an approaching wedding, the conversation assumed
a confidential tone.

“Indeed, Enna,” she exclaimed, laughingly,
“there is nothing more interesting to me than a
couple of lovers full of romance, poetry, and perfectly
blind and uncaring as to the future. I love to
watch them in courtship, lend them a helping hand
in the quicksands of that dangerous but delicious
season; and then it makes me so happy to congratulate
them after their troubles are all over, and
they are happily married.”

“Ah! if they only could be sure of happiness,” I
replied.

“Shame on you for that old maid’s croak!” she
said, with a bright look; “those who are not happy
in married life, would never be happy in any situation.
There should be no old maids or old bachelors,
Enna; we would all be happier married; we fail in
fulfilling our missions when we remain single. Hunt
up a lover, Enna; let me watch your courtship, and
rejoice over your wedding. As a clever friend of
mine once said, we think poetry as lovers, but in
married life we act true poetry.”

I opened my eyes with astonishment, and innocently
asked, “Why is it, then, you have never
married?”

A shadow crossed over her face, and I felt a desire
to recall the question, for I feared I had called up disagreeable
reminiscences, but the next instant her
countenance was as beaming and calm as before.[183]

“I will tell you, Enna,” she said, as she caressingly
rested her head on my shoulder, “why I have never
married; but to do that I must relate the history of
my rather uneventful life. My story has but little
interest, but it will gratify the curiosity of one who
loves me. My childhood was spent with an old
aunt. She took me when I was a delicate wee
thing, and I remained with her until her death,
which took place when I was nearly grown. She
was a dear, good old lady, and with her my life
passed most happily; my short visits home gave me
little pleasure, for my mother was a very worldly,
ambitious woman, and displayed but little tenderness
for me, which, when contrasted with my aunt’s
fondness and indulgence, made me feel quite as a
stranger in my family; and when Aunt Mary died,
I wept as bitterly, and felt as lonely and bereft of
friends, as though I did not possess a mother, father,
and sisters. The two years after my aunt’s death
were spent in close attention to those accomplishments
which had been neglected in my education as
unnecessary, and which my mother deemed so
essential; and not a day passed without my poor
mother’s exclamations of despair over me.

“‘One comfort there is, however,’ she would say,
‘your aunt’s little fortune of a few thousands will
be exaggerated in society, and people will forget
your mauvaise honte in giving you credit for being an
heiress.’

“But the report of my being an heiress was not
needed, for when I entered society, to my mother’s
amazement, I created quite a sensation. I had been
looked upon as a pretty girl always; but my mother
had so often declared that I was so inanimate and
innocent, she never would be able to do any thing
with me, and my pretty face would be of no service
to me, that I looked upon myself as quite an ordinary
person, and was as much surprised at my belle-hood
as my family. I wonder my little head was not
turned with the attentions I received, so unused as I
had been to admiration; it might have been, however,
had not a disappointment—a bitter, heart-aching
disappointment, wearied me of all this adulation
and attention.

“Soon after my entrance into society, I became
acquainted with a Mr. Morton—agreeable, good-looking,
and attentive he was, of course—quite an
acquisition to me in my circle of admirers. His
worldly qualifications were not of so brilliant a nature
as to attract my prudent mother’s fancy, for he
was only a young lawyer of slender means and
moderate practice. I do not think she ever dreamed
of the interest he excited in me, but looked upon him
as one of the crowd of attendants necessarily surrounding
a belle. But how differently I regarded
him. The piles of costly bouquets I received daily,
gained but little attention from me, unless I discerned
among them the tiny bunch of sweet-violets,
tea-roses, and mignonette, which he once in a great
while sent me. In my ball-tablets my eyes sought
the dances marked down for him; and when he was
my partner, the dance, generally so wearisome, was
only too short, too delightful; the reminiscence of
that happy time makes a silly girl of me again. My
mother never imagined he aspired to my hand—she
would have looked aghast at the bare mention of
such a probability; but she regarded him as a friend,
and he was a great favorite with her. She used to
say young men like Harry Morton, that knew their
places, were invaluable acquaintances for a belle;
thus were we thrown a great deal together. She
was so blind to his real position with me, quick-sighted
as she generally was in other things, I was
permitted to have him for my partner in dancing,
even for several quadrilles during an evening; he
was my constant attendant in my daily rides on horseback,
and my mother never hesitated to call upon
him if we were at any time in need of an escort to a
ball or opera. He was upon the footing of a brother
or cousin in the family; but, ah! how dear was he
to me. Without any actual explanation, I felt sure
of Harry Morton’s love. I never had any doubts or
jealousies—we seemed to perfectly understand each
other. I never looked forward to our future—I was
too quietly happy in the present. I only dated from
one meeting to another—from the dinner to the party,
when he would be ready to hand us from our carriage,
to take me off my father’s arm in compliance with
my mother’s constant inquiry and request of,
‘Where’s Harry Morton? Here, Harry, do take
charge of Mary,’ a request which he always seemed
delighted to obey. Then, after the happy good-night,
I would lie my head on the pillow to dream of him
and the morning ride we would take together. Why
he never spoke to me of his love I cannot tell. It
might have been that feelings of delicacy restrained
him; my father was rich, while he was but a poor
young lawyer; then report had made me an heiress
in my own right, as well as a belle, to my worldly
mother’s great content. That he loved me I am sure,
though he never told me with his lips.

“One morning my mother said to me, ‘Do not
make any engagement for to-morrow, Mary; we must
dine en famille with dear old Mrs. Langley; we
have not been there for a month.’

“Now this Mrs. Langley was a person of great
consideration in my mother’s eyes. She was very
wealthy, and, moreover, had been at the head of the
fashionable world for many years. Since my entrance
into society, she had been quite an invalid,
and rarely appeared in public, but it gratified her exceedingly
to have her friends around her, for she
dreaded yielding up her command in the world. My
mother was an especial favorite of hers; and after I
had taken such a prominent situation in society, she
expressed great regard for me. Once in a month or
so we spent a day with her. She lived in great style—a
stately dinner, and a stupid, grand, heavy evening
was the amount of the visit. How I used to
dread the coming of the day; it was the only time I
was separated from Harry, for Mrs. Langley being
very exclusive, and making no new acquaintances,
he had no entrée there. I used to sing for her, arrange
her worsteds, tell her of the parties and different
entertainments, and read to her her son’s last letter.
She had only one son, and he had been in Europe for[184]
two or three years. He was her idol, and she never
tired talking of him. Dear old lady, my conscience
smote me many times for the feelings of impatient
weariness and ennui I would give way to during
one of her tedious dinner parties.

“The following morning after my mother had
announced the visit of penance, Harry Morton made
his appearance in our drawing-rooms, as usual, with
the other morning visiters. Every one was talking
of a new singer who was to make her debût on that
evening.

“‘May I join your party at the concert this
evening?’ Harry asked me, in a low voice.

“‘I regret exceedingly,’ I replied, ‘that we are
not going to the concert. I have already promised
mamma to spend a quiet day and evening with an
old friend of hers. You must listen attentively to
this new donna, and tell me all about her voice if
you go.’

“‘I do not think I shall go,’ he replied, in low,
earnest tones, ‘for I could not enjoy the concert if
not with you.’ A turn in the general conversation
drew us more into notice, and some ladies and
gentlemen entering, put an end to all further intercourse
between us; how long I remembered and
cherished those last words of his. When I made
my appearance in my mother’s room at 5 o’clock,
shawl and hood in hand, she regarded me from head
to foot smilingly.

“‘What new caprice to-day?’ she said, ‘and yet
I must confess it is very becoming to you.’

“I had felt too languid to dress much, and as the
weather was warm, spring being quite far advanced,
I had chosen a simple white mull robe for the visit
to our old friend, knowing that we should meet with
but few visiters there. This I explained apologetically
to my mother, who tapped me with her fan good-naturedly,
saying that beauties were cunning creatures,
they liked to show once in a while they could
defy the aid of ornament. The first few months of
my entrance into society my mother superintended,
with great attention, all my toilettes; but near the
close of the season she fell into the general opinion,
that what ever I did was exactly right; and poor
little me, that one short half-year before had no right
to express an opinion upon so grave a subject as
dress, was now constantly appealed to; and whatever
style I adopted was perfect in her eyes. Society had
placed its stamp upon me, I could pass current as a
coin of high value to her.

“When I reached Mrs. Langley’s, I found the old
lady attended by but one gentleman, who, beside
ourselves, was her only visiter. What was my surprise
to hear her introduce him as her son, Templeton
Langley. The dinner passed more pleasantly than
usual, for Mr. Langley made himself very agreeable.
After dinner he proposed we should go to the concert,
as he felt an interest in the new primadonna, having
heard her at her debût in Europe. I made an objection,
which was overruled by Mrs. Langley’s expressing
a desire—strange for her—to go likewise;
and we went. I had not been ten minutes in the
room when, on lifting my eyes, the first person I saw
was Harry Morton looking sternly at me. Foolishly,
I grew embarrassed, my face burned, and my whole
frame trembled with nervous agitation. He did not
approach me, but gave me only a cold bow. ‘He
thinks me guilty of falsehood,’ I said to myself.
How wretchedly passed the evening, and yet I have
no doubt I was an object of envy to many of my
young lady friends. The rich distingué, Templeton
Langley showed himself my devoted admirer, while
his mother, the acknowledged leader of ton, sat beside
us smiling approvingly. My indifferent, cold
manner, my simple costume, and my beautiful face,
completed that evening the conquest of the fastidious,
fashionable young man. You cannot imagine the
delight of my mother, when day after day found
Templeton Langley constantly beside me, she could
scarcely restrain her exultation; while I, poor child,
listened with aching, throbbing senses for the approach
of one who never came near me. Two or
three weeks passed in a whirl of gayety. It was the
close of the season, and one or two brides in our
circle made the parties very constant. Mrs. Langley
proposed that our family should join her son and
herself in their summer visit to the Lakes; accordingly
we did so, and we spent more than three
months traveling. Ere the close of those three
months, Templeton Langley offered himself to me.
I could not describe to you the scene that ensued
between my mother and myself when I rejected
him. She was a worldly woman, and my conduct
seemed perfectly wild to her. She remonstrated,
persuaded, then reproached me in impatient, angry
tones. My father was a quiet, amiable man, and
rarely interfered with my mother in her management,
but he fortunately shook off enough of his lethargy to
come to my rescue at this time.

“‘If Mary does not love Mr. Langley,’ he said,
‘why urge her to marry him? Do not scold the poor
child,’ and he drew me toward him tenderly.

“Templeton Langley was rather an indifferent
person in every way. His wealth, combined with
his situation in the fashionable world, placed him in
a fictitious light; but he had little intelligence, no
originality, and only a passable personal appearance.
I was constantly drawing the comparison between
him and Harry Morton. Harry was so handsome, so
brilliant in conversation—and this thought rendered
poor Mr. Langley, with all his fastidious, elegant
manners, quite unbearable to me. To think of being
tied to such a man for life was perfect martyrdom
for me; and although hitherto so yielding, I showed
myself on this occasion obstinate. Floods of tears I
shed, and my mother fancied at first she could overcome
my ‘ridiculous sentimentality,’ as she called
it, but in vain; and finding a friend in my father, I
remained firm. I felt more sorry for old Mrs.
Langley, who was, indeed, terribly distressed, but
she treated me very kindly, and exonerated me from
all blame. She was, however, really very fond of
me, and had set her heart upon having me for a
daughter. Mr. Langley returned to Europe, and for
many months our circle of friends were quite at a
loss to know whether he had offered, been accepted,[185]
or refused, or whether he had only flirted with me.
My mother felt too disappointed to boast of the rejection;
and, moreover, she was so occupied in
bringing out my sister, Emma, as to have little time
to think of me or my affairs. My sister was but
seventeen, three years younger than I, but much
nearer my age in appearance. I found myself now
of but secondary consideration in my mother’s eyes.
I fear she really disliked me then. She was an ambitious
woman, and had set her heart upon my making
a brilliant match; this favorite hope of hers I had
blighted, and feeling little interest in society, I
became of less consequence, for my sad, absent
manner made me, of course, uninteresting; therefore,
as my reign as a belle was over, my poor
mother now sought to dismiss me from her mind and
occupy herself with other objects.

“Harry Morton had gone to the Southwest ere we
returned from our summer’s journey, and we never
met again. A year or so afterward I heard of his
marriage with a dashing southern belle, and he is
now a distinguished man at the South. After these
perplexing, unfortunate misunderstandings, my health
failed, and for a long while I was an invalid, rarely
appearing in society. My two sisters, Emma and
Alice, were more lucky than I, for they married
happily, and with my mother’s gratified approbation—for
they each made the ‘best match of their season.’
Neither one was so pretty as I had been, and as my
mother used to ejaculate,

“‘Thank Heaven! neither Emma nor Alice are
belles; they at least will not trouble me with their
exaggerated notions about love and all that nonsense.’

“I passed a miserable, wretched existence for a
year or more after Harry and I were separated.
How earnestly I prayed for death, so completely
prostrated was my spirit by my disappointment. I
felt as lonely as I had at the time of dear Aunt
Mary’s death. In time, however, I aroused myself
from my morbid feelings, and in reading and study
found at first occupation, then strength and content.

“The week after my youngest sister was married
my father was stricken down with paralysis. I was
the only one at home with my parents, for my bride
sister had sailed for Europe the day after her wedding,
and Emma was far distant in her Southern home,
having married a wealthy South Carolinian two
years before. Faithfully I devoted myself to my
father, and when my mother, a year afterward, was
seized with a painful, lingering disease, I made myself
so necessary to her comfort, that she at last
acknowledged, that what had appeared to be her
greatest trouble had proved her greatest blessing.
She altered very much before her death, and lost
entirely all those worldly feelings which had actuated
her during her early life. She suffered for many
years at times agonizing pain, and during this time I
was sole companion and nurse to my parents. Often
I thanked Providence for having denied to me my
early love, granting to me in lieu an opportunity
of fulfilling the most holy of duties. See, Enna, to
what an unromantic and yet enviable state of mind
I at last attained. Believe me, dearest, we never
should grieve over unavoidable troubles, for many
times they are but the rough husk of that sweet
kernel—a hidden blessing.”

ZENOBIA.

BY MYRON L. MASON.

TEMPER LIFE’S EXTREMES.

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.

THE CRUISE OF THE RAKER.

A TALE OF THE WAR OF 1812-15.

BY HENRY A. CLARK.

(Continued from page 136.)

CHAPTER V.

The Revenge.

The report of the pistol fired by Julia had also been
heard upon the pirate brig. To Florette it gave assurance
of the safety of the fair fugitive. The pirate
sprang to his feet, forgetful of his wound, but fell
back helpless upon the companion-way, and soon relapsed
into his former thoughtful state, supposing the
sound had come from the deck of the Raker, though
it had seemed much too near and distinct to appear
possible that such was the case.

The escape of Julia was not discovered until the
following morning. The wrath of the pirate was
fearfully vindictive. Even Florette became alarmed
when he fiercely accused her of some share in the
disappearance of the captive girl. This she tremblingly
denied, suggesting the opinion that Julia must
have jumped overboard, in her despair, induced by
the threats of the pirate. The loss of the boat was
also noticed, but not connected with the escape of
Julia, it being supposed that it had been carelessly
fastened. As a very natural consequence of his anger,
the pirate sought some person on whom he could
vent its fury.

“Call aft the other woman,” shouted he, “unless
she, too, has jumped overboard.”

A grim smile was interchanged between the men
who heard this order. John’s true sex had not been
long kept concealed after he had reached the pirate
brig, and he had nearly fallen a victim to the rage the
unpleasant discovery excited in the men, but his
ludicrous and abject expressions of terror, though
they awoke no emotions of pity, yet excited the merriment
of his captors, and turned their anger into
laughter. A man’s garments were thrown to him,
in which he speedily equipped himself, being indeed
in no slight degree relieved by the change. Since
that time he had kept himself as much aloof as possible
from the crew, anxiously and fearfully expectant
of some sudden catastrophe, either that his brains
would be blown out without affording him an opportunity
to expostulate, or that he would be called
upon to walk the plank.

He was roused by a heavy hand laid upon his
shoulder.

“O dear, don’t,” cried John.

“The captain has sent word for’ard arter you, and
faith ye had betther be in a hurry, for he’s a savage
when he’s mad.”

“O! now I’ve got to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Why walk the plank to be sure.”

“Arrah, jewel! don’t be onaisy now.”

“Wont I’s, don’t you think?”

“Not a bit of it, darling. I think he will be afther
running you up to the yard-arm.”

“But I can’t run up it.”

“Ha! ha! but come along, honey.”

Half dragging John after him, the sailor led him to
the quarter-deck.

“Here’s the lady, captain, an’ faith she’s a swate
one.”

The truth of the case had already been explained
to the pirate.

“You cowardly fool,” said he, “did you expect to
escape by such a subterfuge? Pat, run him up to
the yard-arm.”

“Yes, captain, and that will be a relaif to him, for
he was mighty afraid he’d have to walk the plank.”

“He was? well then he shall.”

The vindictiveness of the pirate commander, who
had only changed the mode of John’s death because
he thought that by so doing he should render it more
fearful and bitter to the victim, was the means of
saving the poor cockney’s life. So do revenge and
malice often overreach themselves.

A long plank was laid out over the side of the brig
and John commanded to walk out on it. He showed
a strong disinclination to obeying, but a huge pistol
placed against his forehead quickly influenced his decision,
and with a cry of anguish he stepped out upon
it. As the board tipped he turned to spring back to
the brig, but slipping up, fell upon the board, which
he pulled after him into the water.

“Fool,” cried the captain to one of his men,
“what did you let the board loose for, he will float
now till the chase picks him up—fire into him.”

A dozen balls were fired at John, and it seems he
was hit, for he let go the board and sunk.

“There, captain, he’s done for.”

The brig by this time had reached a considerable
distance from the place where John had been committed
to the deep, and when he rose to the surface,
as he soon did, he was out of danger from their shot.

“O dear!” cried he, “I shan’t ever get ashore;
I never could swim much.”

The waves threw him against the plank.

“O! a shark! a shark!” shouted John, “now
don’t;” and he grasped hold of the plank in a frenzy[189]
of fear. He soon discovered the friendly aid it would
afford him, and held on to it with the tenacity of
despair.

In less than half an hour the Raker came up. John
was noticed from its deck, and a brawny tar seizing
a rope and taking two or three turns of it round his
left arm sprang overboard to rescue the half unconscious
cockney.

As the sailor seized him, John, supposing it to be
a shark, uttered a loud cry and lost all sensation. In
this condition he was hauled up to the deck of the
privateer, where, upon recovering his senses, he
found to his great surprise and joy, that instead of
being in the belly of some voracious fish, like Jonah
of old, he was in safety, and surrounded by the crew
of his former vessel, the Betty Allen, including his
master.

The poor fellow was severely wounded by a pistol
shot, in the arm, but regardless of this he was wild
in his demonstrations of joy, especially when told
that his young mistress had also escaped.

Captain Greene found that he had gained little, if
any, upon the pirate during the night, and became
convinced that he must again commence firing upon
her, trusting to some lucky ball to carry away a spar,
or failing, to allow the villains to escape the punishment
they so richly deserved, not only for their inhuman
treatment of the crew of the Betsy Allen, but
doubtless for numerous other crimes committed upon
the seas, as savage in their conception, and more
successful in their execution.

The long gun was again uncovered, and a shot
dispatched from its huge portals after the pirate brig.
The first ball fired fell short of the brig, striking the
water directly in its wake, and ricochetting again
threw up the water beyond it.

A succeeding ball, however, did some execution,
crashing through her top-gallant forecastle, but without
in any degree lessening her speed. As every fire
from the Raker lessened her speed, Capt. Greene became
exceedingly anxious that no balls should be
thrown away, and commanded Lieut. Morris to
point the gun, having more confidence in his skill
than in that of the gunner. The young officer aimed
the gun carefully, and as it was fired three cheers
arose from his crew, as they perceived the pirate’s
mizzen-mast fall away.

“She is ours,” cried the lieutenant.

“Stand by, men, to take in sail,” shouted the captain.
“We will draw near enough,” continued he
to Morris, “to fire into her at our leisure, a pirate is
not entitled to a more honorable warfare, and he
seems also to greatly outnumber us in men.”

As the privateer approached the pirate they could
not but admire the singular beauty of her build. She
rose and fell upon the waters as gracefully as a free
and wild ocean bird. The long red lines of her port-holes
swept with a gentle curve from stem to stern,
and her stem was so sharp that the bowsprit seemed
rather to terminate than to join it. Twelve carronades
occupied a double row of port-holes, and the
deck seemed crowded with men, all armed with
cutlases and pistols.

“A formidable looking set,” said Captain Greene,
as he laid aside his glass, “keep the gun lively.”

An ineffectual fire opened upon the privateer from
the pirate, but though they had a swivel of pretty
heavy calibre, turning on its axis amidship in such a
manner as to menace at will each point of the horizon,
it was evident that its force was far less than the long
gun of the privateer.

A well aimed shot brought down the pirate’s fore
topsail-yard, which hung in the slings, and succeeding
shots did much injury to her masts and rigging,
and at length the main-topmast fell over the side.

The scene on board the pirate, during this unequal
warfare, was one approaching perplexity and disorder.
Their commander stood by the helm, gazing at
the privateer, his brow clouded with angry thought,
and giving little heed to the movements of his crew.
He was aroused from his abstraction by the voice of
one of his officers.

“Captain, this is bad business, what is to be done?”

The captain gazed at him in silence.

“The crew are alarmed, and demand of you some
relief from this harassing state. Our guns will not
reach the chase, and we cannot leave her in this
crippled state.”

At this moment a heavy ball from the privateer
whizzed by them and buried itself in the main-mast
of the brig.

The captain seemed fully aroused. His eyes flashed
with their wonted fire. He turned toward his crew,
and saw at a glance the state of depression which
had fallen upon them all. He even overheard some
muttered words of complaint.

“Pat,” says one, “this seems to be playing a
rough game, where nothing is to be won on our
side.”

“Faith, an’ ye may say that, but we stand a chance
to gain one thing.”

“What may that be, Pat?”

“O, a two-inch rope, and a run up to the fore
yard-arm.”

“The devil! That’s not a pleasant thought, Pat.”

“No, but they say it’s an aisy death.”

“Silence, men,” was heard in the deep tones of
the captain’s voice.

In a moment all was still, and every eye turned toward
the companion-way, on which the captain stood,
resting one hand upon the main-boom, as he was exceedingly
weak from the wound inflicted by the ball
of Captain Horton.

“My brave fellows,” said their leader, “do not
be alarmed, we shall not be hanged this time. Is our
situation any worse than it has been in times heretofore?
Trust in me. Have I ever deceived you—have
I ever failed yet? You know I have not.
Where we cannot conquer by fair battle, we must
use stratagem. Be watchful and ready, and we will
yet not only escape yonder vessel, but stand upon
her deck as masters.”

The confidence with which he spoke inspired his
followers with like feeling, and with countenances
relighted by hope, they returned to their several stations.
Their reliance upon their commander was[190]
unbounded. He had so often triumphed when even
greater difficulties opposed, that they already felt
sure of ultimate delivery, now that he had been restored
to his former energy—they had mistaken the
lethargy into which pain and weakness had thrown
him for the torpor of despair. Again the joke and
laugh went round, and already they began to compute
their respective shares of booty in the vessel
so soon to be theirs, they knew not how.

“Haul down the ensign, in token that we surrender,”
cried the captain.

A murmur of indignation and surprise arose from
the crew.

“What, men, do you doubt me? ‘Tis but a feint.
Haul down the flag and take in sail.”

The men obeyed with alacrity, for they already
clearly comprehended the plan of their leader. It was
his intention to entice the privateer alongside, and,
well aware of his own superiority in numbers, to
make a sudden onset upon her deck, and thus, contrary
to all laws of honorable warfare, seize by foul
means what could not be obtained in any other way.

These pacific indications were viewed with some
surprise on board the privateer.

“By Heaven!” cried Lieut. Morris, “she’s tired
of this game soon.”

“Well, she had no other way to do; as it was we
should have sunk her without receiving a shot.”

“It was a losing game for her, true enough.”

“Lay the brig alongside of her,” shouted Captain
Greene to his men.

As his men with a cheer began to unfurl all sail,
Captain Horton approached the commander of the
privateer. He had up to this period ventured no interference,
both from matter of delicacy, and because
he saw nothing to disapprove of in the course pursued
by Captain Greene.

“My dear sir,” said he, as he laid his hand upon
the arm of the captain of the privateer, “allow me
to say a word.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the courteous commander.
“I ought sooner than this to have asked your advice.”

“I would not place too great confidence in the
pirate’s signal of surrender.”

“Do you apprehend foul play?”

“Recollect the savage brutality which the fiend
has already evinced, and judge for yourself whether
he is worthy of being trusted at all.”

“You are right, sir. Lieut. Morris,” continued he,
turning to his young officer.

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Load the long gun with grape and canister, and
wheel it abaft—load the larboard guns the same way.
Now, my men, don’t run too near her. She must
send a boat aboard.”

The privateer approached within half a cable’s
length of the pirate.

“Ship ahoy!” cried Captain Greene.

No answer came from the pirate, but her head was
rounded to, so as to bear directly down on the Raker.

“Answer me, or I’ll fire into you.”

“Fire and be d—d,” came from the deck of the
pirate, and at the same time a broadside was poured
into the Raker, which killed two or three men at the
guns, and severely wounded Captain Greene.

“Lieut. Morris,” cried he, “take the command of
the vessel,” and falling on the deck he was immediately
carried below.

The young officer was fully equal to the emergency
of the occasion. At a glance he perceived that the
pirate in the confusion which ensued from his unexpected
broadside, had fallen foul of the privateer’s
rigging, and the crowd of his crew in his bow and
fore-rigging, all with cutlases drawn, and ready to
spring aboard the privateer, plainly announced the
intention to board.

“All hands to repel boarders,” shouted Morris, and
drawing his cutlas he sprang forward, followed by
his men.

A well contested struggle ensued, the American
seamen, indignant at the foul deceit which had been
practiced upon them, fought like tigers, and for a
time kept the pirates at bay—they had indeed, notwithstanding
their superior numbers, nearly driven
them from the deck, when the form of their commander
appeared among them. In consequence of
his wound he had, contrary to his custom, entrusted
the command of the boarders to his first lieutenant,
and had remained upon his own vessel watching the
fight. He sprung among his crew, with a sword
drawn, and a tight sash bound around his waist,
from which the dark blood was slowly oozing, his
wound having burst away from its ligaments.

“Cowards!” he shouted, “do ye yield—ye are two
to their one.”

Leaping to their front, he struck down a sailor and
plunged into the thickest of the fight. Reanimated
by the presence of their leader, who had so often led
them to victory, a new spirit seemed to light up the
fainting courage of the pirates, and with a fierce yell
they rushed forward. The American crew were
compelled to fall back before the fierce assault. At
the head of his men Lieut. Morris several times
crossed swords with the pirate captain, but the swaying
of the fight separated them. Perceiving that his
men were slowly yielding, though in good order,
Lieutenant Morris, cool and collected, cheered their
courage, and at this moment thought of the long gun
which had been drawn up, loaded to the muzzle with
grape and canister, against the companion-way, and
a man with a lighted match stationed by it.

“Fall back to the quarter-deck,” cried the young
officer.

They retreated in close array, and uncovered the
mouth of the huge gun. At the sight of this a cry
of dismay broke from the foremost of the pirates, who
broke the front rank, and many of them escaped for
the time by leaping into the sea.

“Fire,” cried Lieut. Morris. In a moment he was
obeyed. Wild cries of agony arose amid the gathering
smoke, which, as it rolled away, revealed a horrible
sight. Not a living pirate stood upon the deck
of the privateer. A dense mass of bodies, writhing in
pain, lay upon the fore-deck, and many of the pirates
who had jumped into the sea were seen scrambling[191]
up the sides of their own vessel; the pirate chief lay
dead at the head of his followers, foremost in death,
as he had been in life. It was a terrible and revolting
scene—the scuppers literally ran with blood, the
bulwarks were bespattered with brains and pieces
of scalps; several limbs were strewn about, and the
entire deck covered with the dead or dying.

While the crew of the Raker stood for a time awe-struck
at the desolation they had themselves made,
the pirates, ferocious to the last, had regained their
own ship and cut her adrift, and as they paid off fired
a broadside into the Raker, which injured several of
her men. Roused by this, the privateersmen rushed
to their guns. The larboard guns, in obedience to
the order of Captain Greene, were already loaded
with grape; while with the starboard Morris commanded
his men to keep up a steady fire at the masts
and rigging.

A fortunate shot from the Raker struck the helms-man
on board the pirate, shattering at the same time
the tiller. In a moment the brig was up in the wind,
and taken aback, throwing the pirates into confusion.

“Ready about,” cried Morris, leaping from the
carronade-slide on which he had raised himself, and
taking in at a glance the exposed position of the enemy—”head
her round, and stand ready to give the
rascals a taste from our larboard quarter.”

The Raker ranged across the bows of the pirate,
and before he could regain his headway, raked him
with a tremendous broadside of the same deadly missiles
which had already destroyed so many of their
comrades. The wild cries of anguish which arose
from the clouds of smoke told with what destructive
effect the death-bolts had been hurled.

The pirate now paid off and returned an ineffectual
broadside, but rendered ungovernable by the loss of
her head-sails and tiller, he immediately broached-to
again, and the privateer poured in another terrible
discharge of grape and canister, raking him fore and
aft, then heaving-to and taking up a position on his
bow, she fired broadside after broadside into him in
rapid and deadly succession. The main-mast now
fell over the side, and the pirate at the same time fell
off before the wind, and drew out of the deep mantle
of smoke which had for some time covered both
vessels. As the smoke slowly curled up from the
deep it was seen that not a living man was visible
upon the deck of the pirate. Several of her guns
were dismounted, and her masts so cut away that
she lay upon the waters a helpless and disabled
wreck. Yet the red ensign of death, though rent
into ribbons, still fluttered from the peak, and the
young lieutenant hesitated to board, having learned
caution from the treachery of the pirate.

While the crew of the Raker were thus occupied
in watching their enemy, a light female form was
seen to issue from the hatchway and gaze around the
deck of the pirate. She passed from body to body,
but seemed not to find what she sought. At length
she turned her eyes, streaming with tears, toward the
Raker, and pointing to the flag above her, as if to
indicate that there was no one to lower it, she knelt
upon the deck, bowing her head upon her hands.
Her long hair fell over her forehead and trailed upon
the blood-stained deck, as she knelt in mute despair
among the dying and the dead. It was a mournful
and singular picture of wo, and there were eyes long
unused to tears that filled to overflowing as they
gazed upon her.

A boat was immediately lowered, and Lieutenant
Morris with a dozen of his crew were soon in possession
of the pirate’s deck. Upon examining the
brig it was found that she was fast filling with water,
and after conveying to the Raker all that they could
lay hands on of value, including a large amount of
precious metal, she was left to her fate. Not one of
her crew was found living, so destructive had been
the continual discharge of grape from the Raker.
Florette accompanied them on board, and wept bitterly
as she saw the dead body of the pirate commander
lying in front of his slaughtered followers,
but suffered herself to be led below by Julia, who received
her with kindness and gratitude.

All sail was now set upon the privateer, and she
bore away from the sinking craft of the pirate upon
her former course. The latter vessel, traversed in
every direction by the Raker’s terrible fire, was
rapidly settling into the ocean. Suddenly, with a
sound like the gushing of an immense water-spout,
a huge chasm opened in the waves—the doomed brig
seemed struggling as if with conscious life, and then
lashing the waters with her shattered spars and broken
masts, went down forever beneath the deep waters,
over whose bosom she had so long rode as a
scourge and a terror, with blood and desolation following
in her wake.

Among the effects of the pirate captain which had
been conveyed on board the Raker, a manuscript
was found, which seemed to be an autobiography of
his life. For what purpose he had written it can
never be known—most probably from an impulsive
desire to give vent on paper to thoughts and feelings
which he could not breathe to any living person, and
which he doubtless supposed would never be perused
by human eye—they show that, savage, and lawless,
and blood-thirsty as he had become, strong and terrible
motives had driven him into his unnatural pursuit,
and perchance a tear of pity may fall for him,
as the gentle reader peruses the private records of
the scourge of the ocean.

CHAPTER VI.

The Pirate’s Story.

I am the youngest son of a gentleman of the northern
part of England. My father’s family is as good
as any in the county, for without laying claim to any
title of nobility, our blood is as pure and our lineage
as ancient as the most boasted in England. I had
but one brother, who succeeded at our father’s death
to the broad lands and rich heritage of our name.
The accursed law of primogeniture, to which I owe
all the evil that has befallen me, of course debarred
me from all share in the family estate. I had refused
to enter the army, the church or the navy, though my
inclinations were in favor of the latter profession;[192]
yet a stronger claim than ambition or a roving life
kept me on the paternal estate. It was not that I
envied my brother the possession of the wide bounds
over which he ruled, or that I found less happiness
in witnessing his, for I loved my brother, as God is
my witness, here, in my lonely cabin, with this
great sea around me, and this broad sky above me;
here, though no eye may ever see these lines, I
write, do I repeat it, I loved my brother dearly and
proudly. It was love that kept me idle at home
while other young men of England, belonging to the
same position in society as myself, and in the same
unfortunate category of younger sons, were carving
out for themselves fame and wealth in the service
of their country.

Helen Burnett was the loveliest girl I have ever
seen, and I loved her with all the passionate devotedness
of a young and ardent heart; she was to
me the light of life, for all was dark when I was not
with her. She was the only daughter of our village
curate, and resided near our family mansion. We
had sported together beneath the venerable trees of
the park from the earliest days of childhood. Until
I left home for college she had seemed to me as a
sister, and I had loved her as such until, on returning
home from a long absence at college, I found a
blushing and beautiful young woman where I had
expected, forgetting the rapid work of time, to meet
with the same playful and lovely child I had kissed
at parting. She was, indeed, beautiful; tall, graceful,
and even commanding in figure, while the mildness
of an angel reposed in the glance of her deep-blue
eyes, and the sweet smile that so often visited her
lips, while her pleasantly modulated voice was
music itself.

Her hair was of the darkest shade of brown, resting
in soft wave-like smoothness above her high, pale
forehead. Alas! that she was so lovely! had she
been less so, either I might not have loved her, or I
might have been permitted by fortune to have been
happy with her.

After leaving college, my time was all devoted to
Helen. She loved me no less than I loved her; and
I looked forward to a quiet and happy life, picturing
the future with colorings of the brightest hope and
joyfulness.

It was at this time that my brother returned from
a long tour of the Continent. He was one of the
handsomest men of the day, and had been distinguished
by the appellation which had accompanied
him from court to court, of “the handsome Englishman.”
He was of a medium stature, and faultlessly
proportioned; his expansive and intellectual forehead
seemed the seat of lofty thought, and his dark flashing
eye, intensely expressive, seemed to penetrate to
the heart of all who met its glance. I see him now—not
in his glorious beauty, but pale—pale, touched
by the cold fingers of death.

I had too much of the pride of my race to live as a
dependent on my brother’s bounty, yet I could not
bear the thought of leaving Helen. I was in no
situation to marry, and in an undecided state of
mind I suffered the days to glide away.

My brother had just come back from a day’s angling
in the trout-stream that flowed through his lands.
He met me at the park-gate.

“Well, John,” said I, “what luck to-day?”

“O, William,” said he, without heeding my
question, “I have seen the most charming girl—the
loveliest one that breathes. She outvies all I have
seen in my travels; do you know her. She is the
curate’s daughter.”

I felt a sickness at heart, like the bitterness of
death—was it a presentiment, a warning of evil to
come.

“Say, William?”

“Yes—yes, she is lovely.”

“She is an angel.”

Sir John passed into the park, and I proceeded,
with a strange melancholy I could not dispel, to meet
Helen. She was at her father’s door, and greeted
me with her accustomed kindness of voice and
manner.

“Why are you so sad this lovely evening William?”

“Sad!—am I sad?”

“You look so.”

“Well, I will be so no longer, then;” and I endeavored
to shake off my depression, but not succeeding,
I bade her farewell at an earlier hour than
was my custom.

From that day my brother’s angling excursions
became more frequent—but he seldom returned with
a full basket. He often spoke to me of Helen, but
I always replied carelessly, and changed the topic of
conversation to something else, yet when alone, I
was in continual torment from my thoughts. I endeavored
to console myself with the reflection that
Helen’s love was plighted to me, and that she would
not change, yet my thoughts were continually recurring
to my brother’s great advantages over me in
every respect, not only in fortune but in personal
appearance; and I had already, in my suspicions,
placed him in the light of a rival for the hand of
Helen. I knew his high-minded and honorable disposition
too well to fancy for a moment that he would
attempt her ruin; and I also knew that there was
nothing in the inferior station of Helen’s family that
would prevent him from seeking her hand in marriage,
if she had compelled his love.

All that followed might perhaps have been prevented
had I at first told my brother frankly of my
love for Helen; but a foolish desire to prove her love
for me, and a certain feeling of self-respect kept me
silent.

It was not a long time before I either saw, or
fancied I saw, a change in the manner of Helen
toward me—the thought was torture. I was for days
undecided how to act, but at length determined to
learn the true state of things. I knew my brother was
often at the parsonage, and I trembled for the
result.[193]

“Helen,” I asked her, “is not my brother a
frequent visitor here?”

It was twilight, but I thought I observed a heightened
color in her cheek.

“Yes, he has been here several times since his
return.”

“Dear Helen, answer me frankly, has he ever
spoken to you of love?”

She hesitated, but at length replied,

“He has.”

“And did you not tell him your vows were plighted
to another?”

“My father entered the room before I made any
reply at all.”

“Helen, do you love me now the same as ever
you have done?”

“You have my plighted word, William.” Yet
there was something bordering on coldness even in
the sweet accents with which she spoke; the nice
instinct of love detects each gradation of feeling
with an unerring certainty. I was not satisfied, and
when I left her, I was more unhappy than ever. I
longed to speak to my brother on the subject, yet
some indescribable feeling prevented me; and I
allowed the days to glide away, growing more and
more troubled in mind as they passed by.

I was now convinced that Helen’s affection for me
was not what it had been; and after a short interview
with her, in which she had again repeated her love
for me, but in such chilling tones that I felt it was
not from the heart she spoke, I sought the chamber
of my brother in a state almost bordering on madness.
All of our race have been of ungovernable passions,
but none more so than myself. I paused at his door
to regain in some degree my self-command, then
lifting the latch, I entered.

“Ah, brother!” said Sir John, in a cheerful tone.

“Yes, your younger brother,” replied I, bitterly.

Sir John started with wonder.

“Why, William, what mean you?”

I paid no heed to the interruption, but continued
growing, if possible, still more enraged as I proceeded.

“Are not all the broad lands of our family estate
yours—its parks, its meadows, its streams; this
venerable mansion, where the elder son has rioted
for so many generations, leaving the younger to
make his way in the world as best he may.”

“Brother, are you mad? My purse is yours—I
have nothing that is not yours.”

“You have every thing, and not content with that,
you have sought to win away the love of my
affianced bride.”

“Who mean you, William?”

“Helen Burnett.”

My brother turned pale, and gazing upon me for a
moment with astonishment, he heaved a deep sigh,
and covered his face with his hands.

I folded my arms, and stood looking upon him
scornfully, for my passion had made me consider
him in the light of one who had knowingly stolen
away my bride.

Sir John at length uncovered his face and spoke.

“I would to God, William, you had told me this
sooner.”

“Is it then too late?” I inquired, bitterly.

“Too late—too late for my happiness, but not
too late for justice and honor. She is yours, William,
I resign all pretensions to her hand, and will cease
to visit the parsonage.”

I was touched by the generous spirit of my brother,
and by the mournful shadow which clouded his
noble brow. I have ever acted from impulse, and
seizing him by the hand, I said,

“Not so, John—not so! She is, as I have told
you, my affianced bride; her solemn and oft-repeated
vows are mine, and I have thought that her love
was forever mine; but this very night I plainly perceived
that a change has been wrought in her feelings.
She treated me with coldness instead of
warmth, and maddened by my interview with her, I
rushed into your presence, and have blamed you
unjustly.”

“My dear brother—”

“No, no, John, I was wrong to accuse you. I
should have better known your nobleness. Henceforth
let us stand on equal ground; I do not want an
unwilling bride, and if you can win her love from
me, take her, though it drive me mad.”

A gleam of pleasure passed over Sir John’s countenance
as he replied,

“Be it so, my brother, it is but honorable; yet
will I at once resign all hope, and leave the country
if you but will it so.”

“Sir John, have you reason to think that Helen
loves you?”

“She has never said so, but I did not think she
looked coldly upon me.”

“She is ‘false, false as hell!'”

“My dear William, however this suite terminate,
any thing in my power shall be done for you. If
the estates were not entailed, I would at once give
you a deed for half of them, and then I should have
no advantage over you in wealth or position. Here
is an order for a hundred thousand pounds.”

“Sir John I will accept nothing; if I lose Helen, I
shall have no more to live for, and I warn you, if I
become mad from disappointment, do not cross my
path, or I know not the consequence.”

“You do not threaten me.”

I felt the turbulent passions of my nature rising
within me, and fearing that I should lose all self-command,
I rushed from the room, and entering the
silent park, I wandered from grove to grove till the
cool air of the night had calmed my raging spirit,
when I sought my own chamber.

I had never told the worthy curate of my love for
his daughter, and Helen had never been accustomed
to depend on him for advice or consolation. It was
to her mother that she had always turned for both,
and that mother had died but a year before the return
of my brother. Mr. Burnett was a quiet student,
passionately fond of his books, as innocent of the
world as a child, only fretful and peevish when any
thing occurred to disturb the quiet monotony of his
existence, and apparently unconscious that his little[194]
Helen had grown from a child to a woman. His
mind was wholly wrapped up in his studies, even at
his meals it was abstracted, and he retired hastily to
his closet. Helen had no inclination to disturb the
serenity of his life, until it became absolutely necessary
that he should be made acquainted with her
engagement to me; and I had been too thoughtless of
all but my own happiness to intrude upon his
privacy, confident that his sanction to our marriage
would not be refused whenever demanded.

I had yet to learn the lesson, bitter and agonizing,
that no woman is proof against the captivating temptations
of ambition, and the glare of wealth. I know
but little of the sex; they are called angels, and I
had thought Helen was an angel—alas! I found my
mistake. I read my doom in the averted coldness
of her glance; I felt it in the unwilling pressure of
her hand whenever we met, and I knew it when
I gazed upon the countenance of my brother, on
which was a quiet glow of happiness his expressive
features could not conceal, even when he knew my
searching glance was upon him. O! the agony of
feeling which oppressed me in those bitter days; I
felt all the savage passions of my nature rising within
me; there were moments when I felt as if I could
gladly see my brother and Helen stretched dead at
my feet. Day by day these vindictive thoughts increased
within me. It wanted but the finishing
stroke to make me completely mad—it came.
Though I had long dreaded to make the trial, on
which all my happiness for this world rested, I at
length determined to put it off no longer.

The shadows of twilight were settling over the
earth as I slowly and sadly approached the parsonage.
My head was bowed upon my breast as I
walked with a noiseless step upon the little path
that led to the unpretending dwelling. I was not
aware how near I had come, till a ray of light from
the window fell across the path, and recalled me to
myself. As I stopped, I heard the tones of my
brother’s voice in low and earnest conversation. I
drew nearer, and beheld a sight which rooted me to
the spot, even though I was not wholly unprepared
for such a scene.

My brother and Helen were seated in the little
arbor before the parsonage, as she and myself had
often before sat when I fancied our love was lasting
as life. In the dim light I could see that my brother’s
arm was round her waist, and that her head rested
upon his shoulder. I could hear their conversation.

“And you do love me, then, Helen?”

I heard no answer, but the long curls moved
slightly upon my brother’s shoulder, and as he bent
his head and kissed her, I felt that he was answered—I
was answered—that he was loved.

My brain burned as if on fire—and I sunk to the
earth with a low groan. How long I remained unconscious
I do not know; when I recovered, Helen
and Sir John stood beside me. I sprung to my feet,
and gazed upon them with the glare of a maniac. It
was so—my brain was crazed.

“William,” said Helen.

Her soft voice fell upon my ears with a singular
cadence. With a fierce laugh I struck my brother
to the earth, and rushed forth into the forest. All
that night I must have wandered through its depths.
I found myself at the break of day miles from our
mansion, lying beneath an aged oak. I did not seem
to know myself. I cannot now describe the feelings
and thoughts which raged within me. The wild storm
which is now lashing the ocean without my cabin is
not more wild and fierce—the black sky above me is
not more dark and gloomy. They seemed at length
to settle into one stern, unchanging emotion, and
that was hatred toward my brother, and a stern determination
to revenge upon him the cruel wrong
which had driven me mad.

My path led along the course of a mountain torrent,
whose sudden descent as it hurried toward the river,
formed successive water-falls not unmusical in their
cadence. A few purple beech and drooping willows
with here and there a mountain ash, skirted the
ravine that formed its bed; their leaves had fallen
before the blasts of autumn, they seemed emblematic
of myself; like me their glory had departed—they
were shorn of their loveliness by the rough storm,
left bare and verdureless in the chilling breath of
autumn; the seasons in their round would restore to
them their beauty and their bloom, clothing their
branches again in all the freshness of youth; but
what should give back to me the freshness and
youth of the heart? what restore the desolation of
of the soul?

Weak and exhausted, I flung myself down in a
rude grotto, which commanded a view of the foaming
stream as it washed the rocks below; it was a scene
fitted to my mood, for I turned in disgust from the
beautiful landscape an opening in the forest revealed—the
beauty of earth had forever passed away from
me. That same opening, however, unfolded to the
sight the gray towers of my family mansion, and at
once I started to my feet and bent my course toward
them.

At length I reached my home—how hateful every
thing about the venerable building seemed. I stole
to my chamber, and falling upon my couch, slept
from pure exhaustion.

It was night when I awoke. I arose, but did not
leave my room; seated by the window with the
cold wind of November blowing upon my burning
brow, I nursed my thoughts of vengeance. I forgot
that he against whom I harbored such thoughts was
my only brother; I forgot my self-offered trial of our
powers with Helen; I forgot every thing—every
thing but the fiery feeling of revenge. Yes, I
was mad.

Day after day I wandered around the old castle,
shunning every one. My brother strove to converse
with me, but glaring upon him like a maniac as I
was, I rushed past him. I felt the poison of hatred
working within me, and I knew the time was coming
when my revengeful spirit would find its vent.

I often wandered toward the parsonage, but never
sought an interview with Helen. At times I caught
a glimpse of her light form as it passed by a window
or before the open door that led into the hall. One[195]
evening I saw my brother enter, and drawing near
the window, I saw through the slightly-parted curtain,
such evidence of their mutual affection, that, if
possible, I became more than ever crazy in my
anguish and despair. I waited for him to come out
long hours, hours to me of bitterest sorrow, to him
of most intense delight. It was an exceedingly cold
night. A slight snow had fallen during the day, and
the landscape around me glistening in the moonlight,
seemed wrapped in a robe of the purest white. Yet
as I gazed all seemed to turn into the deep hue of
blood—wherever I gazed, every thing presented the
same fearful coloring. It was but the shadowy reflection
of a coming deed that should forever stain
my soul with a deeper red, that the years of eternity
could never efface.

At length my brother opened the door of the parsonage
and came forth. Leaning against the trunk
of an old tree but a little distance from them, I saw
and heard the parting acts of endearment. At that
terrible moment the determination of my soul was
made, and I heard the dark devil within me whisper
one of you must die. I shuddered at the thought,
but when scarcely out of sight of the parsonage,
almost as soon as the door had closed upon the form
of Helen, I confronted my brother. Sir John started
back, surprised.

“What, William, is it you?”

I laughed scornfully.

“My poor brother!”

“Do you dare to pity me—ha! ha! ha! Sir John!
one of us must die this night—here, upon this spot;
here are two pistols, take one of them, and it will be
soon seen which is the fated one.”

Sir John mechanically took the pistol; cocking my
own, I retired a few paces, and turning, exclaimed,

“Are you ready?”

My words recalled him to himself; flinging his
pistol far into the wood, he exclaimed,

“I will not fire at my brother.”

“Coward!”

“The name belongs not to our race; fire at me if
you will, I will not at you.”

Enraged beyond expression, yet even in my madness
ashamed to fire at an unarmed man, I hesitated.

My brother spoke.

“Come, William, let us go home.”

“Home!—ha! ha! ha! my home is the wood and
the cave! Here, take my good-night.”

Thus speaking I flung my pistol full at his face
with all my strength; it struck him lengthwise, and
being cocked, went off in consequence of the concussion.

Sir John fell upon the cold snow. I rushed up to
him, and beheld the blood flowing in torrents from a
ghastly wound; the ball had taken a downward direction,
and penetrated the abdomen.

“William,” he said, faintly, “you have murdered
me. God forgive you!”

It seemed as if my reason came back to me at that
terrible moment as suddenly as it had left me. At
the report of my pistol, I had heard a loud scream
in the parsonage, and almost at the same time
with myself Helen rushed up to the side of my
brother.

“Oh!” she cried, in accents of agony, “who has
done this?”

“Who!” said I, bitterly, “do you ask? You
have done it; but no, Helen, I do not mean it—let
us carry him into the parsonage.”

With difficulty we lifted the body of my brother,
and bearing him into the house, laid him upon a
bed. Helen, who had up to this time been sustained
by the necessity of exertion, fainted beside the body.
I stood gazing upon them in stupid despair. The
worthy pastor opened the door of the room; he had
heard an unusual noise, and left his books to learn
the cause.

I stopped not to converse with him, I could not
trust myself to speak, but stooping to the lifeless
form of Helen, I imprinted a last kiss upon her pale
lips, and burst from the chamber. I do not know
the result of that fatal night. It may be that my
brother and Helen were both restored to life and
happiness. God grant that it was so. It may be
that the spirits of both had already passed to another
world when I broke from the room, leaving the pale
and astonished pastor gazing upon the lifeless bodies
of his only daughter and the young lord of the manor.
Years have passed since then, and not a happy hour
have their long ages borne to me; yet methinks if I
could but know that my brother and Helen are
living in happiness in the mansion of my fathers,
much that is dark and despairing in the remnant of
life would be taken from the future.

That night I bade farewell to the haunts of boyhood,
and the next day I was out upon the broad ocean.
I had jumped aboard of a little vessel which was
just weighing anchor, without asking its destination
or caring where it bore me. I made brief reply to
all interrogatories, merely showing a purse of gold,
which was sufficient answer, inasmuch as it showed
I was not to be an unprofitable part of the cargo.

Seated upon the companion-way, that evening I
watched the receding shores of my native isle, and
as the sunlight went out on its white cliffs, leaving
them in sombre shade, I felt that so had the light of
my life gone out, leaving the darkness of despair
forever. Reckless as I was of the future, and dark
as was the past, I was not yet dead to all emotion,
and I could not witness my native land fading from
my view without experiencing those melancholy
feelings which the endearing recollections of former
years excite, embittered as they were with me by
the thought that even if I ever should return to the
home of my fathers, I should find no kindred to
welcome me back. No wonder, then, that I felt a
chilling sickness of the heart as I caught a last
glimpse of the Wicklow Mountains gleaming in the
warm colorings of the evening sun, as they mingled
their hoary summits with the “dewy skies” of my
native isle.

The vessel on which I had chanced to take passage
was bound for the West Indies. It was a
small merchantman, and fell an easy prey to the
first pirate that gave chase. We were boarded and[196]
all consigned to death. When the command was
given to the pirates to shoot us all through the head,
I stepped forward with a smile, and a heart partaking
more of gladness than it had felt for long months, a
pistol was at my temple, when the stern voice of
the pirate captain commanded his man to stay his
hand. He stepped forward and gazed into my face.

“My fine fellow, are you not afraid to die?”

“I have nothing to live for—blow away, and I
will thank you.”

“By heaven, you are just the man for us! Now
take your choice, I have no objection to shoot you,
indeed it would be rather pleasant than otherwise,
but one of my lieutenants was killed yesterday, and
you can fill his place if you will. I give you five
minutes to decide while we are dispatching these
dogs.” I gazed upon the cruel work—it did not shock
me; I even smiled at their agony, and had determined
to share their fate, when a momentary thought
of the unknown, mysterious hereafter restrained my
advancing step. Am I ready, thought I, to plunge
into its mysteries. I shuddered at the thought. It
was not the beautiful blue sky unrolled above me,
nor the broad, playful sea around that wooed me to
life. No, it was that fear of the “something after
death.”

“Are you ready to answer?”

“I am thine.”

“It is well, throw these carcasses into the sea, and
set all sail for the Bermudas. Well, lieutenant,”
continued he, as the ship fell off before the wind,
“give us your name, or it will be awkward work
hailing you.”

“William—” I stopped, the pride of my race arose
within me.

“Well?”

“I will not give my name—call me William, I’ll
answer to that.”

“Very well—lieutenant William, my lads, your
second lieutenant.”

The men seemed to like me from the first, and as
I gazed upon them with a proud, fearless eye, a
hearty cheer arose that endorsed my command.

Since then my home has been the pirate’s deck;
my heart has grown harder and harder with the
lapse of time. I love the sight of blood better than
I love the flowing wine—the agonizing shriek of
death better than the sweetest music—like an emissary
of evil I gloat over the tortures of man. I have
learned to hate the land of my birth, and all who first
drew breath upon her detested soil. I have been
foremost in every conflict, yet have I not met death—the
only foe whom I cannot conquer by my fierce
will and dark heart.

I could not long remain a subordinate in command.
I had become the idol of our lawless crew, and a
single blow from my sword laid our captain low in
death upon his own deck; and I filled his place,
smiling with a fiendish pleasure, as I saw his body
thrown into the waves, and the hungry sharks
severing the limbs yet throbbing with life. I have
no feeling for my kind—yet I was not meant for this.
Under happier auspices, I might have been a leader
in the ranks of God as I am now in those of Satan;
my sword might have been drawn for my native
land with the purest and loftiest feelings of patriotism,
instead of being turned against her and her children.
Even now, in the midst of my crimes and desolation,
my heart throbs when I think of the great and good
of earth, and I feel that, like them, I might have left a
name of boast and pride to mankind; now, I shall
perish, unknown and unwept; the annals of my house
shall never record that one of its scions led a pirate
crew to deeds of bloody cruelty and death. Long
since I have buried my name in oblivion—I am dead
to my kindred, dead to the world; the caves of ocean
are yawning for the body of the pirate-chief, and
there will he sleep with the howling ocean and the
shrieking storm to sing his requiem and his dirge.

[To be continued.

DREAMS.

A LEAF IN THE LIFE OF LEDYARD LINCOLN.

A SKETCH.

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.

It was in the joyous leaf-giving, life-giving month
of June, of 18—, after an absence of six years, that
I found myself once more among my own dearly
loved native hills.

An intense worshiper of Nature, I had gratified to
the utmost my passion and curiosity by exploring all
the accessible regions of the old world. I had studied
every scene that was in any way famous, or infamous
I might say with regard to some, if the necessity
of clambering down or up unclimbable precipices,
or wading through interminable swamps, could
render them so.

With all the fatigue and hardships I had undergone
my reward was great, and had more than repaid me
for the perilous dangers I had courted and conquered.
I had gazed, and dreamed, and raved by turns. I
had been melted into tears of tenderness by the perfect
harmony and loveliness of some scenes, and
had been frozen into awe by the magnificent grandeur
and terrible sublimity of others. And, after
those six years of travel in foreign lands, I had returned,
my brain one endless panorama of hills, valleys
and cloud-capped mountains, earth, skies, wood
and water. Not one of those gorgeous scenes, however,
had moved me as I was moved when once
again I beheld my boyhood’s home—the stately mansion
of my fathers. Half hidden, it rose majestically
amid the noble elms that surrounded it; there lay
the velvet-green sloping lawn in front—down which,
as a boy, I had rolled in the summer and sledded in
the winter—there the wild, night-dark ravine in the
rear—fit haunt for elves and gnomes—that terminated
amid jagged rocks and tangled trees, in a rushing,
roaring brook of no mean dimensions, almost as
large as many of the so-called rivers of the mother
country. Just at this point, at the turn of the old
time-worn stage-road, where the venerable, picturesque
old homestead of my sires burst thus suddenly
into view, an opening in the trees, whether by
accident or design, revealed one of the very merriest,
maddest of musical water-falls, that went foaming
and tumbling its snow-white, sparkling waters
over a bed of huge rocks, and then, by a sudden
wilful bend, that same loud-uttering brook was lost
to view.

As the rattling stage neared my home, my heart
leaped within me, and every fibre of it trembled with
emotion. I could have hugged and kissed each
familiar sturdy old tree, looking so grand and natural.
My soul warmed and yearned toward the well
remembered scene; and as I thought upon my fond,
doting mother and my loving, lovely sisters, and my
ever-indulgent father, I could have wept in the intensity
of my joy at finding myself so near them,
and breathing the same free, pure, health-giving air
that had nurtured my childhood. But was there not
sitting directly opposite to me one of the most exquisitely
beautiful of God’s lovely women; and did not
her saucy, demure eyes seem to read my very soul?
I therefore restrained a display of my feelings, for it
would not have appeared in the least dignified or
proper in a fine-looking young man (such as I imagined
myself to be) of four-and-twenty, to be seen
with eyes streaming like a young girl.

More than once, during our short stage-coach ride
had our eyes met; and hers had revealed to me a living
well of spiritual beauty; and although they were
withdrawn as soon as they encountered mine—not
coquettishly, but with true feminine modesty—still
they were not turned away until our mutual eyes
had flashed one electrical spark of mutual understanding
and mutual sympathy, that whole volumes
of dull words could never express either as vividly
or as truly. What a heaven-born mystery is contained
in the glance of an eye: it can kill and can
make alive; it can fill the heart with a sudden and
delicious ecstasy, and it can plunge it into the deepest,
darkest despair.

I gave her one last look as the stage stopped before
my father’s door, and if it expressed one tithe
of what I felt, it told her of my warm admiration of
her glorious beauty, and of my sorrow at leaving her,
perhaps forever, without knowing more of her.

For the time the matchless image of my stage-coach
companion was lost in the loving embraces
and tender greetings of my family. I felt it truly
refreshing, after six years of exile from my own
kith and kin, to be caressed and made much of; to
be told by three deliciously beautiful, exquisitely
graceful sisters, hanging around one, and kissing one
every other word, to be told how much the few last
years had improved one, how handsome, &c. one
was grown; was it not enough to somewhat turn
one’s brain, and make one a little vain and considerably
happy.

In the still hush of the night, after finding myself
once more in my own room—my room, with its
cabinets of shells and mosses, that I had collected
when a boy in my various trips to the seashore, all
religiously left arranged as I had left them, its guns,
fishing-rods, stuffed rabbits and birds, its preserved
rattle-snakes and cases of insects, all of which had
stood for so long a time in their respective places
that they had become a part of the room—in the still[198]
hush of the night the divine image of my most beautiful
stage-coach companion arose before me. The
evening was warm and soft, and gleaming in the
gorgeous moonlight lay that wild, weird ravine, and
the ever downward, foaming water-fall. Its musical
utterings, the delicious moonlight, and my own
newly awakened and hitherto invulnerable heart,
all conspired to make me poetical and inspired, or at
least to imagine myself to be so; and pardon me if I
gave utterance in verse to some of my feelings.
But do not in the least imagine that you are going
by any means to be presented with a fatiguing copy
of my passionate numbers; in the first place I am
very diffident, and in the next—but never mind the
next, I will tell you in plain prose that I felt convinced
in my heart, I felt a rapturous presentiment
that the unutterably lovely being I had that day beheld
would ere long be my own dear little wife, forever
and forever. An indistinct dream of having
somewhere, at some time before, known her haunted
me and tormented me, but I racked my brains in vain
to recollect the spot or time, and finally came to the
conclusion that it had been in another state of existence
we had met.

I had been home but a few days when business
letters came, demanding the presence of my father
or myself in Philadelphia. My father expressed a
desire that I should go, and a certain internal prompting
urged me to comply with his request. The next
morning bright and early found me seated in the
same stage-coach in which I had met her. The due
progress of steamboat and cars deposited me safely
the day after in the goodly city of Squareruledom.

The first leisure moment at my command, I paid
my respects to the family of my father’s brother. I
found my good uncle and aunt at home; but my
little pet Emily—their only child—whom I had last
seen a rosy romping little imp of twelve—was unfortunately
out. My uncle urged me very hard to
make his house my home during my stay in Philadelphia;
but I had taken up my abode in the family
of an old college chum of mine, who had lately commenced
the practice of the art of healing, and who I
knew would be none the worse from a little of my
help in a pecuniary way. I therefore declined my
kind uncle’s request, with a promise to come and
see them often.

Judge of my inexpressible joy when, turning a
corner of a street, after leaving my uncle’s, who
should I chance upon but the very being of whom
my brain and heart were full! Yes, there was the
identical she, and bless her dear little heart! she gave
me a bright half smile of recognition, which I returned
with as profound a bow as ever courtier
bowed to queen, or devotee to Pope’s sublime imperial
toe.

An omnibus came rolling by, which she, with a
motion of her neat little gloved hand, bid stop. She
stepped lightly into it, while I, with my usual impetuosity,
without knowing exactly what I was doing,
sprang after her. I consoled myself for my apparent
rudeness by throwing the entire blame upon the
elective affinities.

On we went, and from time to time as I stole a
glance at her sweet face, I thought I detected a sly,
mischievous little devil playing around the corners
of her small dimpled mouth, and about the pure lids
of her downcast long-fringed eyes. She never
vouchsafed me a look, however; and as we went
on, and as I still watched her lovely face, a dread
vision arose up before me of a six-foot and well proportioned
youth, with fierce whiskers and a moustache
of undisputable cut and style, that I remembered
to have seen with the young lady during our
stage-coach ride together—that I remembered, with a
terrible heart-sinking, was impressively attentive to
her. I inwardly resolved to let nature have her
way, and let all the hair grow on my face that would;
what if it did grow a little reddish or so—why I
should resemble the rising sun, with my glory like a
halo around me. Seriously, I have long been of the
opinion that a shaved face is as much of a disgrace,
and ought to be so considered, as a shaved head fresh
from prison. Why do we not finish the half completed
work and actually shave off the hair of our
heads, our eye-brows and lashes, as well as our
beards, and thus go cool and comfortable through the
world? There would be this advantage in it, the
disciples of Spurzheim would have no trouble of
making a map of our bumps at sight; and then think
what an immense saving it would be in combs and
brushes, to say nothing of pomatum, which some so
freely use. I rejoice sincerely to see the sudden rise
in crops of hair, and most truly hope they will not
have as rapid a fall. Shaving is artificial and injurious,
exposing parts to cold that Nature never
meant should be exposed. Black, white or red—hair
is a protection and ornament that no manly face
or head should be without. Rejoice ye, therefore,
over every repentant sinner who tarrieth in Jericho
and letteth his beard to grow.

But to return to my little omnibus companion,
who by this time was gracefully moving over the
smooth gravel-walks of Fairmount—for there we
had stopped—and exceedingly refreshing were its
cool shades and splashing fountains on that sultry
June day. I kept as near her as I could without
appearing rude, especially as I had received one or
two half glances from her bright eyes, that nearly
annihilated me, such an unearthly fluttering and
bumping in the region of my heart did they create.
Mercy upon me! what would a whole glance do?
And for a whole glance I courageously resolved to
strive, let the consequences be what they might.

Now do you not expect an earthquake, or a roaring
bull, or at least a rabid dog? It was nothing
more however than a refreshing shower of rain—truly
refreshing to my thirsty soul, for it gave me
that coveted whole glance. Heavens! I actually
staggered, and would undoubtedly have fallen had it
not been for a friendly sappling—you will sneer at
witless I—that grew near me. But just try the effect
upon yourself—a shock of electricity is nothing in
comparison to a shock from a pair of bright eyes—such
eyes as hers. The truth of the case was here,
of a sudden, apparently from out the clear sky, came[199]
down, with not a moment’s warning, a perfect avalanche
of rain-drops—all expressly got up, or down,
for my benefit, else why did I happen to have an
umbrella in my hand? “A Wise man—” you remember
the rest. My beautiful incognito was away
up those long stairs, and walking leisurely around
the immense basin, when the rain came down. I
was not very far from her, and in less than an instant
my umbrella was over her pretty little blue bonnet,
with—

“Be kind enough to accept my umbrella, Miss”—in
the most insinuating manner of which I was
master.

“Thank you! but I will not deprive you of its
shelter,” with that whole glance of which I spoke.
So on we went together, and somehow after we
found ourselves under shelter, it was the easiest and
most natural thing in the world to fall into a pleasant
conversation. After talking about the scenery, weather,
&c., we had mutually enjoyed during our short
stage ride, I spoke of the beauty around us, and
asked her if she often visited this lovely spot.

“Not very often,” replied she. “It is very beautiful
though, in spite of all they have done to spoil it.”

“To spoil it!”

“Yes, by making it as much like a chess-board as
possible, all straight lines and stiffness. That is Philadelphia
however.”

“Then you are not a Philadelphian, or it is not a
favorite city with you?”

“There you are mistaken. It is my native place,
and a city I love dearly—with all its formalities and
inhospitalities toward strangers. Philadelphia is a
prim matron, with a warm heart but a most frigid,
repulsive exterior, until you become acquainted with
her—one of her particular children.”

“I have been told that there is a finer collection of
works of art here than in any other city in the
Union.”

“I believe you have been told correctly. We have
more time in our quiet way to look after and admire
the productions of the great masters. Our taste has
wonderfully improved within a few years.”

“I have not been in town long enough to visit any
of your show places yet.”

“How I should like to see that lovely water-fall
and the whole of that beautiful scene on canvas. Do
you know I almost envied you a home in that beautiful
house with all its picturesque surroundings.”

“I am truly thankful you had the kind grace to
think of me at all.”

“How could I help it? I had a feeling the first
moment I saw you that you and I were destined to
be friends. Is there not a certain mysterious something—call
it magnetism or instinct—that either
draws us toward or repels us from every person we
meet in either a greater or less degree? With me
this instinct is very strong, and I obey it implicitly,
never in one instance having found it to fail. I know
at once who to trust and who to love. And would
know, by the same unerring law of my nature, who
to hate if ever I felt the least inclination to hate.
The only feeling of hate I ever experienced is a
strong desire to avoid all persons or things that are
disagreeable to me. I love harmony the most perfect,
and discord is a thing for me to flee from. I felt
toward you a most decided drawing, and I felt a conviction
then, as I do now, that we are to be very
near and dear friends.”

The little angel! I could have hugged and kissed
her on the spot; but I hugged her in my soul, and
inwardly vowed to consecrate my life to her, if the
“drawing” she felt for me could be rendered sufficiently
strong to admit of such a thing. On a sudden
I bethought me of the whiskered incognito, her stage
attendant. I mustered courage to ask her in a half
laughing way, if that fine-looking fellow she had
called Charles were her brother.

Instantly her manner changed from that of sweet
and almost tender seriousness to an arch, quizzical
one that puzzled me.

“Oh no, not my brother,” said she.

“Not her brother—a sharp pang of pain shot
through me—I was getting dreadfully jealous—I
looked all manner of curiosity and all manner of questions;
she took pity on me and said—a smile still
lurking in the corner of her eye—

“He is no more nor less than the intended future
husband of the one you see before you.”

“The future devil! I sincerely beg your pardon,
but—you take me by surprise—I regret—but really I
do not feel that it can be so.”

“And why not?”

“Truly, why not!”

“He is very handsome.”

“That is as one thinks.”

“And very accomplished.”

“In flattery, most like.”

“And a most profound scholar.”

“In the art of making love, it would seem.”

“But I do not love him.”

“Not love him!”

“No, nor never can.”

“Then why, my dearest young lady, do you marry
him?”

“You may well ask; why indeed?”

“You seemed very friendly with him the day I
saw you together, and happier than I could have
wished you.”

“That was before I knew I was to be his wife.
It has only been decided upon a few days.”

“And now?”

“It is a long story, that I may tell you if we should
meet again. I never can love him, though I greatly
esteem him, and—”

“Esteem!“

“A sad substitute for love; but what is love without
esteem?”

“What is esteem without love?”

“Very true. It was not my own doing, although
I reluctantly gave my consent. If I can with honor
release myself from this unfortunate engagement—I
have thought more and more every day since, that
love, true heart-love, is the only tie that should sanction
the union of two beings—but why should I talk
in this way to you, a stranger? I cannot feel, how[200]ever
that you are a stranger; we have surely met
before in some other state of being. I am a firm believer
in the beautiful faith of the transmigration of
souls—of pre-existence. What is it that brings two
congenial souls together, uniting them in one hour in
more perfect harmony than whole years could effect
among ordinary acquaintances?”

“Something unexplainable,” I answered, “as it
is mysterious. We can call it elective affinity, and
can talk very learnedly upon the singular attraction
of the magnet, as applied to the poles as well as
souls, and we can make vast and wise experiments,
and in the end be as far from the real cause as we
were before the Solomonic experiments were made.
The school-boy’s reasoning was more to the point—

I love you dearly, Dr. Fell, the reason why, &c.,
would be just as conclusive. We are so accustomed
to seeing drops of water drawing near to meet each
other, and mingling in a loving embrace of perfect
unity, that we cease to wonder at the occurrence, as
we do also at the fact that oil and water will not
mingle.”

“Just as my soul will not mingle with the souls
of some. There is an antagonism more or less decided
between my inner self and many persons I
know; people, too, that I am compelled to be friendly
with, and wish to be friendly with, many of them
my cousins and aunts. Then again toward some
am I as irresistibly attracted.”

Her beautiful eyes sought mine frequently during
our conversation, and her glorious soul looked
through them—earnest, simple and pure.

“Just so,” resumed she, after a pause, during
which her sweet, soft eyes had been gazing on the
dreamy waters. “Just so have I felt attracted toward
you. I could sit down beside you and tell my whole
soul to you as freely as though you were my own
brother.”

The word brother sent a disagreeable shiver through
me that all her sweet confidence could not banish.

“But,” exclaimed she, starting up, “what am I
doing? The rain has stopped, and the waning sun
warns me that it is time to be at home. And what
must you think of me? I hardly dare to ask the—”

“That you are the most lovely, most glorious of
all Heaven’s glorious creatures; that you—”

“There, there! if you talk in that way, I shall
truly repent having said all I have to you.”

“Forgive me; though I spoke sincerely, I
hope—”

“I will forgive on condition of good behavior in
future. But I must not stay for another word. Promise
me that you will not leave this spot until ten
minutes after the omnibus I shall be in is out of sight.”

“I promise,” said I, reluctantly.

She gave me her little, soft, ungloved hand at
parting; its gentle pressure sent a thrill of ecstasy
through me, and I looked all the unutterable things
that my full soul felt into her warm brown eyes.
And, by the way, I may as well say that my own
eyes are—they are a dark, deep blue, and strangely
expressive, if I believe my sisters and my friends,
and—my own glass.

For one week did I wander up and down the
streets, and watch every omnibus, and stare into
the windows and doors of every house I passed. I
peered under every pretty bonnet I met, and was, on
the eighth day, giving full chase to a coquettish little
blue one, in the earnest hope of finding the sweet
face of my beautiful incognita hidden under it, when
some one laid a strong grasp on my shoulder, and
looking around, I beheld the generous face of my
good uncle.

“Bless the boy! why, Led, what is your hurry?
Your business must have been very urgent this last
week. Why, in the name of all the saints, have you
kept away so studiously? There is poor little Emily
actually dying with anxiety to see you. Bless my
soul! is this the way to treat your friends? But now
that I have fairly captured you, I do not intend to
let you go.”

And he did not, and would not; so I had to go with
him. And what do you think? The first object that
met my bewildered gaze, as my uncle led me into
the drawing-room, was—herself! her very self! but
so altered, looking so cold and stately. My uncle
introduced me to her as “My daughter Emily,
nephew Ledyard.” “My daughter Emily” inclined
her beautiful head most graciously, and sweetly
smiled, but not one recognizing glance did she deign
to bestow on poor “nephew Ledyard.” Lovely she
was, and proud and majestic as a queen. What
could it mean? I made several well-planned alluions
to omnibuses and stages, &c., not one of which
did she seem to comprehend.

Her exceeding beauty still charmed me in spite
of her coldness; and I stayed to tea and then the
evening. My cousin sung for me; her voice was
highly cultivated and exceedingly sweet, and full of
feeling. Song after song she poured forth into the
listening air, and each song entranced me more than
the last.

We conversed gayly on several topics, and she
grew more and more familiar with me, alluded
playfully to our childish intimacy; still, to the very
close of the evening, did she refuse to remember by
look or word that we had met since children. She
evidently wished to forget, and wished me to forget
the whole of that pleasant interview that had afforded
me, at least, such soul-felt delight; yet she acted her
part so well, was so careless and unconscious, and
withal so cold and full of queenly dignity, that I went
home in a perfect bewilderment of amazement.

As I lay tossing on a sleepless bed, and in my
heart bitterly railing against the perversity and incomprehensibility
of women, I found myself incessantly
repeating to myself, “Am I Giles, or am I
not;” the truth flashed upon me that I was the unhappy
victim of an optical illusion, that the Cousin
Emily I had but a little before left was simply my
Cousin Emily, and not the beautiful being of whom
my heart and life were full—that incessant thinking
of her, and seeking her, had crazed my brain. I relighted
my lamp and made my way into the doctor’s[201]
study. I read all I could find on the subject of
optical delusion and maniacal hallucination until I
convinced myself that I was laboring under a very
alarming attack of one or both, and resolved on
seriously consulting my friend, the doctor, early the
next morning.

I went back to bed with the decided opinion that
I was exceedingly to be pitied—how would it appear
in the papers? for I must undoubtedly grow worse,
and it must undoubtedly end in suicide. “Sad occurrence,”
“nice young man,” “brilliant prospects,”
“only son of—,” and “promising talents,” “laboring
under incipient insanity,” “fatal cause unknown,”
&c., &c. I sympathized with myself until
near morning, then fell into a sleep, which lasted
until the bell rung for breakfast. I dressed in a
hurry, and got down before the muffins were quite
cold. I ate a hearty breakfast, read a newspaper or
two, and determining on seeing my cousin again before
I made up my mind to ask advice, I soon found
myself at her door. The fresh morning air and the
walk had so invigorated me, that I laughed at my
last night’s fears, especially as my lovely cousin
came into the drawing-room to receive me, radiant
with health and beauty. I found her just the same
as she was the night before, gay, witty and charming,
and as cold as marble. Still I could not be mistaken;
for, with all her feigned coldness—for some good
reason of her own undoubtedly—there was no
doubting her identity with that of my glorious Fairmount
vision.

The day was a lovely one, soft and mild as a June
morning could make it. After conversing on indifferent
subjects for a time, I asked her, remarking on
the deliciousness of the morning, if she would not
like to go out with me to Fairmount. She assented
with a quiet smile, as innocently as though she had
never in her life before heard of such a place as
Fairmount.

“The little-deceiver!” thought I. “Which way
shall we go?” said I, aloud, and very significantly,
“shall we take the omnibus?”

“I will order the carriage,” replied she, with a
slight shrug; “I never ride in those omnibusses, one
meets with such odd people.”

“Never?” asked I, emphatically.

“Certainly, never!” answered she, with much
apparent surprise.

My drive was a delightful one. How could it be
otherwise, with a glorious day surrounding me, and
a gloriously beautiful cousin sitting beside me, with
whom I could not exactly make up my mind whether
to fall desperately in love, or desperately out of
love. I, too, such an enthusiastic lover of beauty.
But she chose to be so different from what she was
at our first meeting—so reserved, that I could not
decide whether I most loved or was most indifferent
to her.

We rode all the morning, and I left her, promising
to call again in the evening. I walked the streets
until dark, the whole affair vexed me so much—I,
such a hater of all mysteries, the most impatient of
all breathing mortals. I determined to come at once
to an understanding with my perverse little cousin,
and to decide at once the puzzling question whether
to love or not to love.

In the evening I found myself alone with my little
tormentor.

“Now, sweet Cousin Emily,” said I, playfully,
“you have been teazing me long enough with your
pretty affectation of ignorance and innocence—not
but that you are as ignorant as the rest of your sweet
sex, and as innocent too—but, I beseech you, lay by
this masquerading, you have played possum long
enough. I humbly implore of you to be the same to
me that you were in our first visit to Fairmount—the
earnest, simple-hearted Cousin Emily you then
were.”

“Mr. Lincoln speaks in enigmas; I must confess
I do not understand his meaning, nor his elegant
allusion to ‘playing possum.'”

This she said with so much haughtiness, that I
was taken all aback. Rallying, however, in a moment
I determined not to give up the point.

“I beseech of you to pardon the inelegance of my
expression, and also my pertinacity in insisting upon
some explanation of your manner toward me. It
will all do very well for the stage,” continued I,
bitterly, “but in real life, among cousins, and two
that have met so frankly, and in such sincerity, I
feel that our acquaintanceship must at once end,
pleasant as it has been, as it might be to me, unless
you lay aside this assumed coldness. It harasses me
more than I can express. Emily, after seeing you in
the stage-coach, I thought I had never met with one
half so lovely, and I could think of nothing but you.
After remaining at home but one week, business
called me to Philadelphia. Judge of my delight
when almost the first object that met my view was
your beautiful, unforgotten little self. You were
just stepping into one of those very omnibusses you
have since seen fit to decry. What followed you
must remember as distinctly as I—no not as distinctly,
for the whole of that delicious interview is
engraven on my heart—one of the sun-bright scenes
of my life that I can never forget. And now, after
that beautiful interchange of thought and soul that
promised—every thing, do I find you cold, impassive.
If you repent the trust you so freely reposed
in me, in all frankness, say so; but for the sweet love
of heaven, do not pretend to such—”

“For the sweet love of heaven what is the man
raving about? Are you mad, dear cousin, insane?
Poor Cousin Ledyard! Or is it—?” her whole
manner changed, her brilliant eyes lighted up with
intense fire. How beautiful she looked! I could
have knelt and worshiped her, though, strange to
say, my restless, ardent love for her had entirely
abated. “Yes!” exclaimed she, “it must be so;”
and with that she clasped her small white hands, and
throwing back her fine head, laughed with all her
heart, and strength, and soul.

This was very pleasant for me; still I had to join
her laugh, it was so genuine and infectious.

“Forgive me, dear cousin, forgive me for my rude
laughter; forgive me also for my folly in attempting[202]
to deceive you. You will hereafter find me the
same you found me in our first pleasant interview.
Here is my hand—I will not explain one other word
to-night; I hear voices on the stairs. Come here to-morrow
evening at eight, and you shall know all—all
my reasons.”

“And why not to-morrow morning, cruel cousin?”

“I am engaged all of the day to-morrow. I go
with mamma and papa out of town, ten miles or so,
to dine; a stupid affair, but mamma wishes it.”

“But before you go—just after breakfast.”

“No, no—come in the evening.”

By this time the voices heard on the stairs had
entered the room in the shape of a merry half-dozen
of my cousin’s young friends. Feeling too agitated
for society, I withdrew.

And now another night and a whole day more
of suspense—that pale horror, that come in what
shape it will, even in the shape of a beautiful cousin,
always torments the very life from my heart.

All the clocks in town were striking eight as I
rung my uncle’s bell. I found the drawing-room full
of company, at which I felt vexed and disappointed.

My lovely cousin came up to me and placed her
arm within mine, and led me through the next room
into the conservatory, and there, seated amid the rare
eastern flowers, herself the queen of them, was,
gracious heaven! I dared scarcely breathe, so great
was my fear of dispelling the beautiful illusion. It
was she! none other; my stage-coach companion—my
Fairmount goddess. The musical, measured
voice of my statue-like Cousin Emily brought me to
myself.

“Allow me. Cousin Ledyard, to introduce you to
my Cousin Emily.”

There they both stood, one Cousin Emily, calm,
stately, serene; the other trembling and in blushes.

I looked from one to the other in the most ludicrous
bewilderment, yet each glance showed me more and
more what a wonderful fool I had been making of
myself for the last few days. Still they were strangely
alike; their own kindred could not at times distinguish
one from the other. My heart could feel the
difference. My Emily was a child of nature, the
other bred in a more conventional school. My Emily
was a shade less tall, less stately, less Grecian, and
exquisitely more lovely, and loving.

But that double wedding was a grand one. By
what means my Emily contrived to disentangle herself
from that handsome-whiskered “Charles,” and
to entangle him fast in the chains of the other Emily,
any one who wishes to know, and will take the
trouble, can have all due information on the subject,
and can also learn how I wooed my peerless Emily
and won her, by coming to our lovely picturesque
dwelling, situate in one of the most romantic spots
in the country. I write you all to come, one by
one, and spend a month with me, and you shall know
all the particulars. You will find my little Emily a
pattern housekeeper; you will also find a ready
welcome. Bless her sweet face! There she sits,
at the moment that I am writing this to you, with
her willow arms twined around the exquisite form of
her little lily-bud boy, and bending low her graceful
form over him, hushing to sleep the very bravest,
noblest, merriest little specimen of babyhood—the
exact image of his enraptured father.

THE DEFORMED ARTIST.

BY MRS. E. N. HORSFORD.

A FAREWELL TO A HAPPY DAY.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

SAM NEEDY.

A TALE OF THE PENITENTIARY.

BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.

Several years ago, a man of the name of Samuel
Needy, a poor artisan, was living in London. He
had with him a wife, and a child by this wife. This
artisan was skillful, quick, intelligent, very ill-treated
by education, very well-treated by nature—able to
think, but not to read. One winter his work failed
him—there was neither fire nor food in his garret;
the man, the woman, and the child were cold and
hungry; he committed a theft; it is unnecessary to
state what he stole, or whence he stole it. Suffice it
to know, that the consequences of this theft were
three days’ food and fire to the wife and child, and
five years of imprisonment to the man.

Sam Needy, lately an honest man, now and henceforth
a thief, was dignified and grave in appearance;
his high forehead was already wrinkled, though he
was still young; some gray lines lurked among the
black and bushy tufts of his hair; his eye was soft,
and buried deep beneath his lofty and well-turned
eye-brow; his nostrils were open, his chin advancing,
his lip scornful; it was a fine head—let us see what
society made of it.

He was a man of few words—more frequent gestures—somewhat
imperious in his whole manner,
and one to make himself obeyed; of a melancholy
air—rather serious than suffering; for all that he had
suffered enough.

In the place where he was confined there was a
director of the work-rooms—a kind of functionary
peculiar to prisons, who combined in himself the
offices of turnkey and tradesman, who would at the
same time issue an order to the workman and
threaten the prisoner—put tools in his hand and irons
on his feet. This man was a variety of his own
species—a man peremptory, tyrannical, governed by
his fancies, holding tight the reins of his authority,
and yet, on occasion, a boon companion, jovial and
condescending to a joke—rather hard than firm—reasoning
with no one—not even himself—a good
father, and doubtless a good husband—(a duty, by the
way, and not a virtue;) in short, evil but not bad.
The principal, the diagonal line of this man’s character
was obstinacy; he was proud of it, and therein
compared himself to Napoleon, when he had once
fixed what he called his will upon an absurdity, he
went to its furthest length, holding his head high, and
despising all obstacles. Such violence of purpose
without reason, is only folly tied to the tail of brute
force, and serving to lengthen it. For the most part,
whenever a catastrophe, whether public or private,
happens amongst men, if we look beneath the rubbish
with which it strews the earth, to find in what
manner the fallen fabric had been propped, we shall,
with rare exceptions, discover it to have been blindly
put together by a weak and obstinate man, trusting and
admiring himself implicitly. Many of the smaller
of these strange fatalities pass in the world for
providences. Such was he who was the director of
the work-rooms in the House of Correction where
poor Sam Needy was sent to undergo his sentence.
Such was the stone with which society daily struck
its prisoners to draw sparks from them. The sparks
which such stones draw from such flints often kindle
conflagrations.

In a short time Sam found the prison air natural to
him, and appeared to have forgotten every thing;
a certain severe serenity, which belonged to his
character, had resumed its mastery.

In about the same time he had acquired a singular
ascendency over all his companions, as if by a sort
of silent agreement, and without any one knowing
wherefore, not even himself. All these men consulted
him, listened to him, admired and imitated
him, (the last point to which admiration can mount.)
It was no slight glory to be obeyed by all these lawless
natures; the empire had come to him without
his own seeking—it was a consequence of the respect
with which they beheld him. The eye of a man is
a window, through which may be seen the thoughts
which enter into and issue from his heart.

Place an individual who possesses ideas among
those who do not, at the end of a given time, and by
a law of irresistible attraction, all their misty minds
shall draw together with humility and reverence
round his illuminated one. There are men who are
iron, and there are men who are loadstone. Sam
Needy was loadstone. In less than three months he
had become the soul, the law, the order of the work-room;
he was the dial, concentrating all rays; he
must even himself have sometimes doubted whether
he were king or prisoner—it was the captivity of a
pope among his cardinals.

By as natural a reaction, accomplished step by
step, as he was loved by the prisoners, so was he
detested by the jailers. It is always thus, popularity
cannot exist without disfavor—the love of the slaves
is always exceeded one degree by the hate of their
masters.

Sam Needy was, by his particular organization, a
great eater; his stomach was so formed, that food
enough for two common men would hardly have
sufficed for his nourishment. Lord Slickborough had
one of these large appetites, and laughed at it; but
that which is a cause of gayety for a British peer,[205]
with a rent-roll of fifty-thousand pounds a year, is a
heavy charge to an artisan, and a misfortune to a
prisoner.

Sam Needy, free in his own loft, worked all day,
earned his four pounds of bread, and ate it; Sam
Needy, in prison, worked all day, and, for his pains,
received invariably one pound and a half of bread,
and four ounces of meat; the ration admits of no
change. Sam was therefore constantly hungry
whilst in the House of Correction; he was hungry,
and no more—he did not speak of it because it was
not his nature so to do.

One day Sam, after devouring his scanty pittance,
had returned to his work, thinking to cheat his
hunger by it—the rest of the prisoners were eating
cheerily. A young man, pale, fair, and feeble-looking,
came and placed himself near him; he held
in his hand his ration, as yet untouched, and a knife;
he remained in that situation, with the air of one
who would speak, and dares not. The sight of the
man, and his bread and meat annoyed Sam.

“What do you want?” said he, rudely.

“That you would do me a service,” said the young
man, timidly.

“What?” replied Sam.

“That you would help me to eat this—it is too
much for me.”

A tear stood in the proud eye of Sam; he took the
knife, divided the young man’s ration into two
equal parts, took one of them, and began eating.

“Thank you,” said the young man; “if you like,
we will share together every day.”

“What is your name?” said Sam.

“Heartall.”

“Wherefore are you here?”

“I have committed a theft.”

“And I too,” said Sam.

Henceforth they did thus share together every
day. Sam Needy was little more than thirty years
old, but at times he appeared fifty, so stern were his
thoughts usually. Heartall was twenty—he might
have been taken for seventeen, so much innocence
was there in his appearance. A strict friendship was
knit up between the two, rather of father to son than
brother to brother, Heartall being still almost a child,
Sam already nearly an old man. They wrought in
the same work-room—they slept under the same
vault—they walked in the same airing-ground—they
ate of the same bread. Each of these two friends
was the universe to the other—it would seem that
they were happy.

Mention has already been made of the director of
the work-rooms. This man, who was abhorred by
the prisoners, was often obliged, in order to enforce
obedience, to have recourse to Sam Needy, who
was beloved by them. On more than one occasion,
when the question was, how to put down a rebellion
or a tumult, the authority without title of Sam Needy
had given powerful aid to the official authority of
the director; in short, to restrain the prisoners, ten
words from him were as good as ten turnkeys. Sam
had many times rendered this service to the director,
wherefore the latter detested him cordially. He was
jealous of him; there was at the bottom of his heart
a secret, envious, implacable hatred against Sam—the
hate of a titular for a real sovereign—of a temporal
against a spiritual power; these are the worst of all
hatreds.

Sam loved Heartall greatly, and did not trouble
himself about the director. One morning when the
turnkeys were leading the prisoners, two by two,
from their dormitory to the work-room, one of them
called Heartall, who was by the side of Sam, and
informed him that the director wished to see him.

“What does he want with you?” said Sam.

“I do not know,” replied the other.

The turnkey took Heartall away.

The morning past; Heartall did not return to the
work-room. When the dinner hour arrived, Sam
expected that he should rejoin Heartall in the airing-ground—but
no Heartall was there. He returned into
the work-room, still Heartall did not make his appearance.
So passed the day. At night, when the
prisoners were removed to their dormitory, Sam
looked out for Heartall, but could not see him. It
would seem that he must have suffered much at that
moment, for he addressed the turnkey—a thing which
he had never done before.

“Is Heartall sick?” was his question.

“No,” replied the turnkey.

“Why is it, then, that he has not again made his
appearance to-day?”

“Ah,” replied the turnkey, carelessly, “they have
put him in another ward.”

The witnesses who deposed to these facts at a
later period, remarked, that at this answer, Sam’s
hand, in which was a lighted candle, trembled a
little. He again asked, calmly,

“Whose order was this?”

The turnkey said “Mr. Flint’s.”

The name of the director of the work-rooms was
Flint.

The next day went by like the last, but no news
of Heartall.

That evening, when the day’s work ended, Mr.
Flint came to make his usual round of inspection.
As soon as Sam Needy saw him, he took off his cap
of coarse wool, buttoned his gray vest, sad livery of
the work-house, (it is a principle in prisons, that a
vest, respectfully buttoned, bespeaks the favor of
the superior officers,) and placed himself at the end
of his bench, waiting till the director came by. He
passed.

“Sir,” said Sam.

The director stopped and turned half round.

“Sir,” said Sam, “is it true that Heartall’s ward
has been changed?”

“Yes,” returned the director.

“Sir,” continued Sam, “I cannot live without
Heartall; you know that with the ration of the house
I have not enough to eat, and that Heartall shared
his bread with me.”

“That was his business,” replied the director.

“Sir, is there no means of getting Heartall replaced
in the same ward as myself?”

“Impossible! it is so decided.”[206]

“By whom?”

“By myself.”

“Mr. Flint,” persisted Sam, “the question is my
life or death, and it depends upon you.”

“I never revoke my decisions.”

“Sir, is it because I have given you offence?”

“None.”

“In that case,” said Sam, “why do you separate
me from Heartall?”

“It is my will” said the director.

With this explanation he went away.

Sam Needy stooped his head and made no answer.
Poor caged lion, from whom they had taken his dog!

The grief of this separation in no way changed the
prisoner’s almost disease of voracity. Nor was he,
in other respects, obviously altered. He did not
speak of Heartall to any of his comrades. He walked
alone in the airing-ground, in the hours of recreation,
and suffered hunger—nothing more.

Nevertheless, those who knew him well, remarked
something of a sinister and sombre expression which
daily overspread his countenance more and more.
In other respects he was gentler than ever. Many
wished to share their ration with him, but he refused
with a smile.

Every evening, after the explanation which the
director had given him, he committed a sort of folly,
which, in so grave a man, was astonishing. At the
moment when the director, in the progress of his
habitual duty, passed by Sam Needy’s working-frame,
he would raise his eyes, gaze steadily upon
him, and then address to him, in a tone full of distress
and anger, combining at once menace and supplication,
these two words only—”remember Heartall!”
the director would either appear not to hear, or pass
on, shrugging his shoulders.

He was wrong. It became evident to all the
lookers on of these strange scenes, that Sam Needy
was inwardly determined on some step. All the
prison awaited with anxiety the result of this strife
between obstinacy and resolution.

It has been proved, that once Sam said to the
director, “Listen, sir, give me back my comrade;
you will do well to do it, I assure you. Take notice
that I tell you this.”

Another time, one Sunday, when he had remained
in the airing-ground for many hours in the same attitude,
seated on a stone, his elbows on his knees, and
his forehead buried in his hands, one of his fellow-convicts
approached him, and cried out, laughing,

“What are you about here, Sam?”

Sam raised his stern head slowly, and said, “I
am sitting in judgment!“

At last, on the evening of the 1st of November,
1833, at the moment when the director was making
his round, Sam Needy crushed under his foot a
watch-glass, which he had that morning found in
the corridor. The director inquired whence that
noise proceeded.

“It is nothing,” said Sam. “It is I, Mr. Flint—give
me back my comrade.”

“Impossible!” said his master.

“It must be done though,” said Sam, in a low and
steady voice, and looking the director full in the
face, added, “reflect, this is the first of November, I
give you till the 10th.”

A turnkey made the remark to Mr. Flint that Sam
Needy threatened him, and that it was a case for
solitary confinement.

“No, nothing of the kind,” said the director, with
a disdainful smile, “we must be gentle with these
sort of people.”

On the morrow, another convict approached Sam
Needy, who walked by himself, melancholy, leaving
the other prisoners to bask in a patch of sunshine at
the further corner of the court.

“What now, Sam—what are you thinking of?
You seem sad.”

“I am afraid,” said Sam, “that some misfortune
will happen soon to this gentle Mr. Flint.”

There are nine full days from the 1st to the 10th
of November. Sam Needy did not let one pass
without gravely warning the director of the state,
more and more miserable, in which the disappearance
of Heartall placed him. The director, worn out,
sentenced him to four-and-twenty hours of solitary
confinement, because his prayer was too like a demand.
This was all that Sam Needy obtained.

The 10th of November arrived. On this day Sam
arose with such a serene countenance as he had not
worn since the day when the decision of Mr. Flint
had separated him from his friend. When risen, he
searched in a white wooden box, which stood at the
foot of his bed, and contained his few possessions.
He drew thence a pair of sempstress’s scissors.
These, with an odd volume of Cowper’s poems,
were all that remained to him of the woman he had
loved—of the mother of his child—of his happy little
home of other days. Two articles, totally useless to
Sam; the scissors could only be of service to a
woman—the book to a lettered person. Sam could
neither sew nor read.

At the time when he was traversing the old hall,
which serves as the winter walk for the prisoners,
he approached a convict of the name of Dawson,
who was looking with attention at the enormous
bars of a window. Sam was holding the little pair
of scissors in his hands; he showed them to Dawson,
saying, “To-night I will divide those bars with these
scissors.”

Dawson began to laugh incredulously. Sam joined
him.

That morning he worked with more zeal than
usual—faster and better than ever before. A little
past noon he went down on some pretext or other to
the joiner’s workshop, on the ground-floor, under
the story in which was his own. Sam was beloved
there as every where else; but he entered it seldom.
Thus it was—”Stop, here’s Sam!” They got round
him; it was a perfect holyday. He cast a quick glance
around the room. Not one of the overlookers was there.

“Who has a hatchet to lend me?” said he.

“What to do?” was the inquiry.

“Kill the director of the work-rooms.”

They offered him many to choose from. He took
the smallest of those which were very sharp, hid it[207]
in his trowsers, and went out. There were twenty-seven
prisoners in that room. He had not desired
them to keep his secret; they all kept it. They did
not even talk of it among themselves. Every one
separately awaited the result. The thing was straight-forward—terribly
simple. Sam could neither be
counseled nor denounced.

An hour afterward he approached a convict sixteen
years old, who was lounging in the place of exercise,
and advised him to learn to read. The rest of the
day was as usual. At 7 o’clock at night the prisoners
were shut up, each division in the work-room to
which they belonged, and the overseers went out, as
it appears was the custom, not to return till after the
director’s visit. Sam was locked in with his companions
like the rest.

Then there passed in this work-room an extraordinary
scene, one not without majesty and awe,
the only one of the kind which is to be told in this
story. There were there (according to the judiciary
deposition afterward made) four-and-twenty
prisoners, including Sam Needy. As soon as the
overseers had left them alone, Sam stood up upon a
bench, and announced to all the room that he had
something to say. There was silence.

Then Sam raised his voice, and said, “You all
know that Heartall was my brother. Here they do not
give me enough to eat; even with the bread which I
can buy with the little I earn, it is not sufficient.
Heartall shared his ration with me. I loved him at
first because he fed me, then because he loved me.
The director, Mr. Flint, separated us; our being together
could be nothing to him—but he is a bad-hearted
man, who enjoys tormenting others. I have
asked him for Heartall back again. You have heard
me. He will not do it. I gave him till the 10th,
which is to-day, to restore Heartall to me. He
ordered me into solitary confinement for telling him
so. I, during this time, have sat in judgment upon
him, and condemned him to death. In two hours he
will come to make his round. I warn you that I
am about to kill him. Have you any thing to say on
the matter?” All continued silent.

He went on; he spoke (so it appears) with a peculiar
eloquence, which was natural to him. He declared
that he knew he was about to do a violent
deed, but could not think it wrong. He appealed to the
conscience of his four-and-twenty listeners. He was
placed in a cruel extremity; the necessity of doing
justice to himself was a strait into which every man
found himself driven at one time or other; he could
not, in truth, take the director’s life without giving his
own for it; but it was right to give his life for a just
end. He had thought deeply on the matter, and that
alone, for two months; he believed he was not carried
away by passion, but if it were so, he trusted they
would warn him. He honestly submitted his reasons
to the just men whom he addressed. He was about
to kill Mr. Flint; but if any one had any objection to
make, he was ready to hear it.

One voice alone was raised to say, that before killing
the director, Sam ought to make one last attempt to
soften him.

“It is fair,” said Sam. “I will do so.”

The great clock struck the hour—it was eight.
The director would make his appearance at nine.

No sooner had this extraordinary court of appeal
ratified the sentence he had submitted to it, than
Sam resumed his former serenity. He placed upon
the table all the linen and garments he possessed—the
scanty property of a prisoner—and calling to him,
one after the other, those of his companions whom
he loved best after Heartall, he divided all amongst
them. He only kept the little pair of scissors. Then
he embraced them all. Some of them wept—upon
these he smiled.

There were moments in this last hour, when he
chatted with so much tranquillity, and even gayety,
that many of his comrades inwardly hoped, as they
afterward declared, that he might perhaps abandon
his resolution.

He perceived a young convict who was pale, who
was gazing upon him with fixed eyes, and trembling
doubtless from expectation of what he was about to
witness. “Come, courage, young man,” said Sam
to him, softly, “it will be only the work of a
moment.”

When he had distributed all his goods, made all
his adieux, pressed all their hands, he interrupted the
restless whisperings which were heard here and there
in the dim corners of the work-room, and commanded
that they should return to their labor. All obeyed
him in silence.

The apartment in which this passed was an oblong
hall, a parallelogram, lighted with windows on its
two longer sides, and with two doors opposite each
other at the two ends of the room. The working-frames
were ranged on each side near the windows,
the benches touching the wall at right angles, and
the space left free between the two rows of frames
formed a sort of avenue, which went straight from
one door to the other, crossing the hall entirely. It
was this which the director traversed in making his
inspection; he was to enter at the south door, and go
out by the north, after having looked at the workmen
on the right and left. Commonly he passed through
quickly and without stopping.

Sam Needy had reseated himself on his bench, and
had betaken himself to his work. All were in expectation—the
moment approached; on a sudden
they heard the clock strike. Sam said, “It is the
last quarter.” Then he rose, crossed gravely a part
of the hall, and placed himself, leaning on his elbow,
on the first frame on the left hand side, close to the
door of entrance; his countenance was perfectly
calm and benign.

Nine o’clock struck—the door opened—the director
came in.

At that moment the silence of the work-room was
as of a chamber full of statues.

The director was alone as usual; he entered with
his jovial, self-satisfied, and stubborn air, without
noticing Sam, who was standing at the left side of
the door, his right hand hidden in his trowsers, and
passed rapidly by the first frames, tossing his head,
mumbling his words, and casting his glance, which[208]
was law, here and there, not perceiving that the eyes
of all who surrounded him were fixed upon him as
upon a fearful phantom. On a sudden he turned
sharply round, surprised to hear a step behind him.

It was Sam Needy, who for some instants followed
him in silence.

“What are you about there?” said the director.
“Why are you not in your place?”

Sam Needy answered respectfully, “Because I
have something to say to you, Mr. Flint.”

“What about?”

“Concerning Heartall.”

“Still Heartall!” exclaimed the director.

“Always,” replied Sam.

“Be quiet,” said the director, walking on again.
“You are not content, then, with your four-and-twenty
hours of solitary confinement?”

Sam followed him—”Mr. Flint, give me back my
comrade.”

“Impossible!”

“Sir,” said Sam, in a tone which might have
softened the heart of a fiend, “I entreat you, restore
Heartall to me. You shall see how well I will work.
To you who are free, it is no matter—you do not
know what the worth of a friend is; but I have only
the four walls of my prison. You can come and go, I
have nothing but Heartall—give him back to me.
Heartall fed me—you know it well. It will only
cost you the trouble of saying yes. What can it be
to you that there should be in the same room one
man called Sam Needy, another called Heartall?—for
the thing is simply that, Mr. Flint; good Mr.
Flint, I beseech you earnestly, for Heaven’s sake!”

Sam had probably never before said so much at one
time to a jailer; exhausted with the effort, he paused.
The director replied, with an impatient gesture,

“Impossible—I have said it; speak to me no more
about it, you wear me out.”

Then, as if in a hurry, he stepped on more quickly,
Sam following. Thus speaking, they had reached
the door of exit; the prisoners looked after them, and
listened breathlessly.

Sam gently touched the director’s arm. “At least
let me know why I am condemned to death—tell
me why you have separated him from me?”

“I have told you,” answered the director; “it is
my will.”

He turned his back upon Sam, and was about to
take hold of the latch of the door.

On this answer Sam had retreated a step; the
assembled statues who were there saw him bring out
his right hand, and the hatchet with it; it was raised,
and ere the victim could utter one cry, three blows,
one upon the other, had cleft his skull. At the moment,
when he fell back, a fourth blow laid his face
open; then, as if his frenzy, once let loose, could not
stop, Sam struck a fifth blow; it was useless—he
was dead.

“Now for the other!” cried the murderer, and
threw away the hatchet. That other was himself.
They saw him draw from his bosom the small pair
of scissors, and before any one could attempt to
hinder him, bury them in his breast. The blade was
too short to penetrate. He struck them in again and
again, so many as twenty times. “Accursed heart!
cannot I then reach you?” and finally fell in a dead
swoon, bathed in his blood.

Which of these men was the victim of the
other?

When Sam returned to consciousness, he was in
bed, well attended, his wounds carefully bandaged; a
humane nurse was about his pillow, and more than
one magistrate, who asked him, with the appearance
of great interest, “Are you better?”

He had lost a great quantity of blood, but the
scissors with which he had wounded himself, had
done their duty ill—none of the wounds were
dangerous.

The examinations commenced. They asked him
if it were he who had killed the director of the
work-rooms. He replied, “It was.” They asked
him why he had done it. He answered—it was
his will.

After this the wounds festered. He was seized
with a severe fever, of which he only did not die.
November, December, January, and February, went
over in recovering him and preparing for his trial;
physicians and judges alike made him the object of
their care—the former healed his wounds, the latter
made ready his scaffold. To be brief, on the 5th of
April, 1834, he appeared, being perfectly cured,
before the Court of Sessions.

Sam made a good appearance before the court; he
had been carefully shaved, his head was bare; he
was dressed in the sad prison livery of two shades
of gray.

When the trial was entered upon, a singular
difficulty presented itself. Not any of the witnesses
of the events of the 10th of November, would make
a deposition against Sam. The presiding judge
threatened them with his discretionary power in vain.
Sam then commanded them to give evidence. All
their tongues were loosed. They related what they
had seen.

Sam Needy listened with profound attention.
When one of them, out of forgetfulness, or affection
for him, omitted some of the circumstances chargeable
upon the accused, Sam supplied them. By this
means the chain of facts which has been related was
unfolded before the court.

There was one moment when some of the females
present wept. The clerk of the court summoned
the convict, Heartall. It was his turn to come forward.
He entered, staggering with emotion—he
wept. The police could not prevent his falling into
the arms of Sam. Sam raised him, and said with a
smile to the attorney-general, “Here is a villain who
shares his bread with those who are hungry.” Then
he kissed Heartall’s hand.

The list of witnesses having been gone through,
the attorney-general rose and spoke in these words:
“Gentlemen of the jury, society would be shaken to
its foundation if public vengeance did not overtake
such great criminals as this man, who, etc., etc.”

After this memorable discourse, Sam’s advocate
spoke. The pleader against, and the pleader for,[209]
made each in due order, the evolutions which they
are accustomed to make in the arena which is called
a criminal court.

Sam did not think that all was said that might be
said. He arose in his turn. He spoke in a manner
which must have amazed all the intelligent persons
present on the occasion. It appeared as if there
were more of the orator than the murderer in this
poor artisan. He spoke in an upright attitude, with
a penetrating and well-managed voice; with an open,
sincere, and steadfast gaze, with a gesture almost
always the same, but full of command. There were
moments in which his genuine, lofty eloquence
stirred the crowd to a murmur, during which Sam
took breath, casting a bold gaze upon the bystanders.
Then again, this man, who could not read, was as
gentle, polished, select in his language, as a well-informed
person—at other moments modest, measured,
attentive, going step by step over the irritating
parts of the argument, courteous to his judges.
Once only he gave way to a burst of passion. The
attorney-general had proved in his speech that Sam
Needy had assassinated the director without any violence
on his part, and consequently without provocation.

“What!” exclaimed Sam Needy, “I have not
been provoked! Ay—it is very true—I understand
you. A drunken man strikes me with his dagger—I
kill him, I have been provoked; you show mercy
to me, you send me to Botany Bay. But a man who
is not drunk, who has the perfect use of his
reason, wrings my heart for four years, humbles me
for four years, pierces me with a weapon every day,
every hour, every minute, in some unexpected point
for four years. I had a wife, for whose sake I became
a thief—he tortures me through that wife; a
child for whom I stole—he tortures me through that
child. I have not bread enough to eat—a friend gives
it me; he takes away my friend and my food. I ask
for my friend back—he condemns me to solitary confinement.
I speak to him—him, the spy—respectfully;
he answers me in dog’s language. I tell him
I am suffering—he tells me I wear him out. What
would you, then, that I should do? I kill him. It is
well—I am a monster; I have murdered this man; I
have not been provoked. You take my life for it—be
it so.”

The debates being closed, the presiding judge made
his impartial and luminous summing up. The results
were these: a wicked life—a wretch in purpose.
Sam Needy had begun by stealing—he then murdered.
All this was true.

When the jury were about being conducted
to their apartment, the judge asked the accused
if he had any thing to say upon the questions before
them.

“Little,” replied Sam, “only this; I am a thief and
an assassin. I have stolen, and have slain a man.
But why have I stolen? Why have I murdered?
Add these two questions to the rest, gentleman of
the jury.”

After a quarter of an hour’s deliberation on the
part of the twelve individuals whom he had addressed
as gentlemen of the jury, Sam Needy was
condemned to death.

Their decision was read to Sam, who contented
himself with saying, “It is well—but why has this
man stolen? Why has this man murdered? These
are questions to which they make no answer.”

He was carried back to prison—he supped almost
gayly.

He had no wish to make an appeal against his
sentence. The old woman who had nursed him
entreated him with tears to do so. He complied out
of kindness to her. It would appear as if he had
resisted till the very last moment, for when he signed
his petition in the register, the legal delay of three
days had expired some minutes before. The benevolent
old nurse gave him a crown. He accepted
the money and thanked her.

While his appeal was pending, offers of escape
were made him. There was thrown, one after the
other, in his dungeon, through its air-hole, a nail,
a bit of iron file, and the handle of a bucket. Any of
these three tools would have been sufficient to so
skillful a man as Sam Needy to cut through his irons.
He gave up the nail, the file, and the handle to the
turnkey.

On the 10th of June, 1834, seven months after the
deed, its expiation arrived. That day, at seven
o’clock in the morning, the recorder of the tribunal
entered Sam Needy’s dungeon, and announced to
him that he had not more than an hour to live. His
petition was rejected.

“Come,” said Sam, coldly, “I have this night
slept well, without troubling myself that I should
sleep still better the next.”

It would appear as if the words of strong men
always receive a certain dignity from approaching
death.

The chaplain arrived—then the executioner. He
was humble to the one, gentle to the other.

He maintained a perfect ease of spirit. He listened
to the chaplain with extreme attention, accusing himself
of many things, and regretting that he had not
been instructed in religion.

At his request they had given him back the scissors
with which he had wounded himself. One blade,
which had been broken in his breast, was wanting.
He entreated the jailor to have these scissors taken
to Heartall as from himself.

He besought those who bound his hands to place
in his right hand the crown-piece which the good
nurse had given him—the only thing which was now
remaining to him.

At a quarter to eight he was led out of his prison,
with the customary mournful procession which
attends the condemned. He was pale; his eyes were
fixed on the chaplain—but he walked with a firm
step.

He ascended the scaffold gravely. He shook hands
with the chaplain first, then the executioner, thanking
the one, forgiving the other. The executioner
pushed him back gently, says one account. At the moment
when the assistant put the hideous rope round
his neck, he made a sign to the chaplain to take[210]
the crown-piece which he had in his right hand, and
said to him, “For the poor.” At that moment the
clock was striking eight, the sound from the steeple
drowned his voice, and the chaplain answered that
he could not hear him. Sam waited for an interval
between two of the strokes, and repeated with
gentleness, “For the poor.”

The eighth stroke had scarcely sounded when
this noble and intelligent criminal was launched
into eternity.

THE ANGEL OF THE SOUL.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

Una stella, una notte, ed una croce. Antonio Bisazza.

SCOUTING NEAR VERA CRUZ.

A SKETCH OF THE LATE CAMPAIGN.

BY ECOLIER.

Hours before day, Lieutenant Rolfe and his party
were threading the mazes of the chapparal. The
moon glistened upon their bayonets and bright barrels.
Their path lay in a southwesterly direction,
near the old road to Orizava. Here it passed through
a glade or opening, where the moonbeams fell upon
a profusion of flowers, there it reëntered dark alleys
among the clustering trees, where the “trail arms”
was given in a half whisper. The boughs met and
locked overhead, and the thick foliage hid the moon
from sight. Now a bright beam escaping through
some chance opening in the leaves, quivered along
the path, and scared the wolf in his midnight wanderings.
Out again upon the open track through the
soft grass, and winding around the wild maguey, or
under the claw-shaped thorns of the musquit. A deer
sprung from his lair among the soft flowers—looked
back for a moment at the strange intruders, and
frightened at the gleaming steel, dashed off into the
thicket. The woods are not silent by night, as in
the colder regions of the north. The southern forest has
its voices, moonlit or dark. All through the livelong
night sings the mock-bird—screams the “loreto.”
From dark till dawn, you hear the hoarse baying
of the “coyote,” and the dismal howl of the
gaunt gray wolf. The cicada fills the air with its
monotonous and melancholy notes. In all these
sounds there is a breathing, a wild voluptuousness
that tells you you are wandering in the clime of the
sun—amidst scenes like those rendered classical by
the pen of St. Pierre. They who have read the
sweet French romance, will recognize his faithful
painting of tropical pictures. The sunny glades—and
shady arbors—the broad green and yellow leaves—the
tall palm-trees, with their long, lazy feathers
and clustering fruits waving to the slightest breeze,
and looking the same as in that sea island where they
flung their changing shadows over the loves of Paul
and Virginia. Scouting at night, and to strangers
(as were Rolfe and his men) in the land, was not
without its perils. Objects of alarm were near and
around. The nopal rose before you like the picket
of an enemy. Its dark column gleaming under the
false light of the moon is certainly some sentinel
on the outpost. A halt is the consequence, and
silent and cat-like one of the party, on his hands
and knees, steals nearer and nearer, through the
thorny brambles, until the true nature of the apparition
betrays itself, in the shape of a huge column of
prickly pear. He then returns to his comrades, and
the obstacle is passed, some one as he passes, with
a muttered curse, slashing his sabre through the soft
trunk of the harmless vegetable.

The wild maguey grasps you by the leg, as though
some hideous monster had sprung from the bushes.
You start and rush forward, only to be dragged back
among the elastic leaves. It is useless to struggle.
You must either return and unwind yourself by gentle
means, or leave the better part of your cloth inexpressibles
in the ruthless fangs of the plant. The
ranchero fences his limbs with leather, or with leggings
of tiger-skin. It is not fancy or choice to wear
leather breeches in Mexico. Necessity has something
to say in fixing the fashion of your small
clothes.

When day broke, Rolfe and his party were ten
miles from camp—ten miles from the nearest American
picket, and with only thirty men! They were
concealed in a thicket of aloes and musquit. This
thicket crowned the only eminence for miles in any
direction. It commanded a view of the whole country
southward to the Alvarado.

As the sun rose the forest echoed with sounds and
song. The leaves moved with life, as a thousand
bright-plumed birds flashed from tree to tree. The
green parrot screamed after his mate, uttering his
wild notes of endearment. They are seen in pairs
flying high up in the heavens. The troupiale flashed
through the dark foliage like a ray of yellow light.
Birds seemed to vie with each other in their songs of
love. Amidst these sounds of the forest, the ear of
Rolfe caught the frequent crowing of cocks, the
barking of dogs, and the other well-known sounds
of the settlement. These were heard upon all sides.
It was plain that the country was thickly settled,
though not a house was visible above the tree-tops.
The thin column of blue smoke as it rose above the
green foliage proved the existence of dwellings.

At some distance, westward, an open plain lay
like an emerald lake. The woods that bordered it
were of a darker hue than the meadow-grass upon
its bosom. In this plain were horses feeding, and
Rolfe saw at a glance that they were picketed. Some
of them had dragged their laryettes and were straying
from the group. There appeared to be in all about an
hundred horses. It was plain that their owners were
not far off. A thin blue smoke that hung over the
trees on one side of the meadow gave evidence of a
camp. The baying of dogs came from this direction,
mingled with the sounds of human voices. It
was evidently a camp of the “Jarochos,” (guerilleros.)

Suddenly a bugle sounded, wild and clear above
the voices of the singing-birds, a few notes somewhat
resembling the dragoon stable-call. The horses
flung up their heads and neighed fiercely, looking toward
the encampment. Presently a crowd of men
were seen running from the woods, each carrying a[212]
saddle. The few strays that had drawn their pickets
during the night, came running in at the well-known
voices of their masters. The saddles were flung on
and tightly girthed—the bits adjusted and the laryettes
coiled and hung to the saddle-horns, in less
time than an ordinary horseman would have put
on a bridle. Another flourish of the bugle, and the
troop were in their saddles and galloping away over
the greensward of the meadow in a southerly direction.
The whole transaction did not occupy five
minutes, and it seemed to Rolfe and his party, who
witnessed it, more like a dream than a reality. The
Jarochos were just out of musket range. A long
shot might have reached them, but even had Rolfe
ventured this, it would have been with doubtful propriety.
Rumor had fixed the existence of a large
force of the enemy in this neighborhood. It was
supposed that at least a thousand men were on the
Alvarado road, with the intention of penetrating our
lines, with beeves for the besieged Veracruzanos.

“They got off in good time, sergeant,” muttered
Rolfe, “had they but waited half an hour longer—Oh!
for a score of Harney’s horses!”

“Lieutenant, may I offer an opinion?” asked the
sergeant, who had raised himself and stood peering
through the leafy branches of a cacuchou-tree.

“Certainly, Heiss, any suggestion—”

“Wal, then—thar’s a town,” the sergeant lifted
one of the leafy boughs and pointed toward the south-east—a
spire and cross—a white wall and the roofs
of some cottages were seen over the trees. “Raoul
here, who’s French, and knows the place, says it’s
Madalin—he’s been to it—and there’s no good road
for horses direct from here—but the road from Vera
Cruz crosses that meadow far up—now, lieutenant,
it’s my opinion them thieving Mexicans is bound
for that ‘ere place—Raoul says it’s a good sweep
round—if we could git acrosst this yere strip we’d
head ’em sure.”

The backwoodsman swept his broad hand toward
the south, to indicate the strip of woods that he desired
to cross. The plan seemed feasible enough.
The town, although seemingly near, was over five
miles distant. The road by which the guerrilleros had
to reach it was much farther. Could Rolfe and his
party meet them on this road, by an ambuscade, they
would gain an easy victory, although with inferior
numbers, and Rolfe wished to carry back to camp a
Mexican prisoner. This was the object of the scout,
to gain information of the force supposed to be in the
rear of our lines. The men, too, were eager for the
wild excitement of a fight. For what came they
there?

“Raoul,” said Rolfe, “is there any path through
these woods?”

“Zar is, von road I have believe—oui—Monsieur
Lieutenant.”

Raoul was a dapper little Frenchman, who had
joined the army at Vera Cruz, where we found him.
He had been a sort of market-gardener for the plaza,
and knew the back country perfectly. He had fallen
into bad odor with the rancheros of the Tierra Caliente,
and owed them no good-will. The coming of
the American army had been a perfect godsend to
Raoul, who was now an American volunteer, and,
as circumstances afterward proved, worthy of the
title.

“Close teecket, monsieur,” continued the Frenchman,
“but there be von road, I make ver sure, by
that tree, vot you call him, big tree.”

Raoul pointed to some live-oaks that formed a dark
belt across the woods.

“Take the lead, Raoul.”

The little Frenchman sprung out in front and commenced
descending into the dark woods beneath.
The party was soon winding through the shadowy
aisles of a live-oak forest. The woods were at first
open and easy. After a short march they came to a
small stream, bright and silvery. But what was the
surprise of Rolfe to find that the path here gave out,
and on the opposite bank of the rivulet the trees grew
closer together, and the woods were almost woven
into a solid mass, by the lianas and other creeping
plants. These were covered with blossoms. In
some places a wall of snow-white flowers rose up
before you. Pyramidal forms of foliage, green and
yellow, over which hung myriads of vine-blossoms,
like a scarlet mantle. Still there was no path—at
least to be trodden by human foot. Birds flew around,
scared in their solitary haunts. The armadilla and
the wolf stood at a distance with glaring eyes. The
fearful-looking guana scampered off upon the decaying
limbs of the live-oak, or the still more fearful
cobra di capella glided almost noiselessly over the
dry leaves and brambles.

Raoul confessed that he had been deceived. He
had never traveled this belt of timber. The path
was lost.

This was strange. A path had conducted them
thus far, but on reaching the stream had suddenly
stopped. Soldiers went up and down the water-course,
and peeped through the trellis of vines, but
to no purpose. In all directions they were met by
an impenetrable chapparal.

Chafing with disappointment, the young officer was
about to retrace his way, when an exclamation from
Heiss recalled him. The backwoodsman had found
a clew to the labyrinth. An opening led into the
thicket. This had been concealed by a perfect curtain
of closely woven vines, covered with thick
foliage and flowers. It appeared at first to be a natural
door to the avenue which led from this spot, but
a slight examination showed that these vines had
been trained by human hands, and that the path itself
had been kept open by the same agency. Branches
were here and there lopped off and cast aside, and
the ground had the marks of human footsteps. The
track was clear and beaten, and Rolfe ordering his
men to follow noiselessly, in Indian file, took the
lead. For at least two miles they traced the windings
of this forest road, through dark woods, occasionally
opening out into green flowery glades. The
bright sky began to gleam through the trees. Farther
on and the breaks became larger and more frequent.
An extensive clearing was near at hand.
They reached it, but to their astonishment, instead[213]
of a cultivated farm, which they had been expecting
to see, the clearing had more the appearance of a
vast flower-garden. The roofs and turrets of a house
were visible near its centre. The house itself appeared
of a strange oriental style, and was buried
amidst groves of the brightest foliage. Several huge
old trees spread their branches over the roof, and
their leaves hung around the fantastic turrets.

What should have been fields were like a succession
of huge flower-beds—and large shrubs, covered
with sheets of pink and white blossoms that resembled
wild roses. This shrubbery was high enough
to conceal the approach of Rolfe and his party as
they followed the path—apparently the only one
which led to the house.

On nearing this, the officer halted his men in a little
glade, and taking with him Heiss and the boy Gerry,
(who might return for the men in case of a surprise,)
proceeded to reconnoitre the strange-looking habitation.

A wall of ivy, or some perennial vine, lay between
him and the house. A curtain of green leaves
covered the entrance through this wall. This appeared
to have grown up by neglect. As Rolfe lifted
this festoon, to pass through, the sound of female
voices greeted him. These voices reached his ear
in tones of the lightest mirth. At intervals came a
clear ringing laugh from some throat of silver, and
then a plunging, splashing sound of water. Rolfe
conjectured that some females were in the act of
bathing, and not wishing to intrude upon them sat
down for a moment outside the wall. The sounds
of merriment were still heard, and among the soft
tones the officer imagined that he could distinguish
the coarser voice of a man. Curiosity now prompted
him to enter. Moreover, he reflected that if there
were men there already there could not be much impropriety
in his taking a share in the amusement.

Drawing aside the curtain of leaves he looked in.
The interior was a garden, but evidently in a neglected
state. It appeared the ruin of a once noble
garden and shrubbery. Broken fountains and statues
crumbling among weeds, and untrained rose-trees,
met the eye. The voices were more distinct, but
those who uttered them were hidden by a hedge of
jessamines. Rolfe stepped silently up to this hedge
and peeped through an opening. The picture presented
was indeed an enchanting one.

A large fountain lay between him and the house
filled with crystal water. In this fountain two young
girls were plunging and diving about in the wildest
abandon of mirth. The water was not more than
waist deep, and the arms and bosoms of the young
girls appeared above its surface. They were strikingly
alike, in all except color. In this there was
a marked contrast. The neck, arms and bosom of
one seemed carved from snow-white marble, while
the other’s complexion was almost as dark as mahogany.
There was the same cast of features, the
same expression in both countenances, and their
forms, just emerging from the slender figure of
girlhood, were exactly alike. Their long hair trailed
after them, black and luxuriant, on the surface of
the water, as they plunged and swam from one side
of the basin to the other. A huge negress sat upon
the edge of the fountain, seemingly enjoying the
bath as much as those who partook of it. It was the
voice of this negress that Rolfe had mistaken for that
of a man.

The young officer did not hesitate a moment, but
stole gently back and regained his comrades.

Then striking through the flowery fields that
stretched away toward the wood in the rear, he
commenced searching for the path that led from the
woods in a direction opposite to that whence he had
come, without disturbing the inmates of this peaceful
mansion. Finding this path on the other side, the
party entered and hastily kept on, in order to intercept
the guerilleros, whom they still hoped to fall in
with. In these hopes they were not disappointed,
for emerging from the woods near Medellin they
came upon the guerilleros, with whom they had a
sharp skirmish. Rolfe and his party were successful,
killing two of the guerrilla and taking the same
number prisoners.

The young girls continued their pleasant pastime,
little dreaming how near to them had been these
strange and warlike visiters.

I WANT TO GO HOME

BY RICHARD COE, JR.

THE HUMBLING OF A FAIRY.

BY G. G. FOSTER.

The Princess Dewbell was confessed to be the
queen of the ball, notwithstanding that the beauty
and grace and wit of the whole realm were there,
for it was the birth-night festival of the fairy princess,
and her royal father, with all a parent’s fond pride,
had exhausted invention, and impoverished extravagance,
to give éclat to the occasion. The walls of
his ancestral palace were sparkled all over with
dew-drops, which a troop of early bees had spent all
the summer mornings in collecting and preserving
in the royal patent dew-preserver, invented by one
of the native geniuses of the realm. These brilliant
mirrors, flashing in the light of ten thousand fire-flies
of the royal household, whose whole lives had been
expended in learning how to carry their dainty lamps
about so as to produce the finest effects, reflected the
forms of the ladies and the dazzling military trappings
of the handsome cavaliers, (there was war at
that time between the glorious empire of Fairydom
and the weak and infatuated republic of Elfland on
its southern borders, and the epaulette and spurs
were the only pass to the hearts of the fair,) imbuing
them with an infinitude of prismatic hues, all softened
into a kind of timed starlight, exquisite as the
dying voice of music. In this gorgeous saloon, at
the head of which sat, well pleased, the benevolent
old King Paterflor and his modest and still lovely
queen Sweetbine, all were noble and accomplished
and beautiful and gay; but the charms of the Princess
Dewbell, just bursting into the richness of full-grown
fairyhood, were so surpassing that none had
ever been found to question, even in their own
hearts, her supremacy. This, perhaps, may appear
strange to many of my pretty readers, but they must
remember that mine is a faithful chronicle of fairies—not
of women. The princess was standing lightly
touching—it could not be said that she leaned against—the
slender stalk of a garden lily, that rose like an
emerald column of classic mould above her lovely
form, and expanded into a graceful dome of transparent
and crimson-veined cornelian above her head.
Her eyes were cast pensively (at the Musical Fund
Hall it would have been called coquettishly) upon
the ground, and ever and anon she tossed her proud
head with an imperious gesture, until the streaming
curls waved and parted around her cheek and neck,
like vine-leaves about a marble column as the south
wind creeps among them soliciting for kisses. The
lady Dewbell, amid all this scene of enchantment,
which spread out before and around her, as if her
own loveliness had breathed it into existence, still
was discontented; sad, perhaps, at the total absence
of care in her bosom, and sighing for a sorrow. Unhappy
lady Dewbell! She had so many hundred
times been told, what she herself believed full well,
that she was absolutely the most beautiful creature
in existence, that the tale had lost its interest. The
champagne of flattery, its creaming foam long ago
melted into the brain, stood untasted before her, dull
and flat as the subsided fountain poured by the last
rain-shower into the tulip’s cup. And so the fairy
princess stood listless and apart from the joyous
revel, her little form swaying lightly to and fro, with
the undulations of the lily-stem against which she
more perceptibly rested. It is well for Root and
Collins and Plumbe that the royal daguerreotyper
was laid up in a cowslip, with a broken skylight
which he had received in a rough-and-tumble with a
gnat, about the ownership of a particular ray of light,
at last sunsetting.

But if the lady Dewbell were queen of the ball, the
noble knight Sir Timothy Lawn was as undisputedly
worthy of the post of honor among her gallant train
of admirers. Indeed, it was universally known, of
course as a profound secret among the gossips of the
palace, that Sir Timothy was the declared lover of
the proud Dewbell, and it was even whispered that
she had actually been seen hanging around his neck
one bright June morning, in a sweet clover-nook by
the brook-side, while he bent tenderly over her, his
eyes filled with tears of rapture. But as this story
could only be traced to a rough beetleherd, who said
he saw the lovers thus as he was driving his herd of
black cattle to water, it was not generally believed.
At any rate, all the ladies were decidedly of opinion
that Sir Timothy was in every way a match for the
haughty beauty, and that if she did not accept him
while he was in the humor she would be very likely
to go farther and fare worse. In fact, several old
maids and bluestockings, over their dishes of scandal
and marsh-fog, (both of which they made uncommonly
strong,) openly avowed it as their opinion,
that he was a great deal too good for her, and that,
if the truth must be told, the princess was an impertinent,
saucy and irreverent creature, who hadn’t
the slightest respect for her superiors. “As to her
beauty,” said one of these crones, whose little face
was very much of the size and complexion of a dried
camomile-flower, and who was shrewdly suspected
of qualifying her marsh-fog with pale pink-brandy—”As
for her beauty, that is all in my eye. I have
seen plenty of your plump, smooth-skinned pieces of
paint and affectation fade in my time, little as I have
yet seen of life. Mark my words—before we have
reached our prime, my great lady princess will be
as ugly as—”

“As ugly as yourself, granny! Ha, ha, ha! ho,
ho, ho! haw, haw, haw!” shouted a mirthful voice,
while an indescribably comic face, half cat and half
baby, appeared for a single glimpse above the bur[215]dock
leaf behind which the spinsters were holding
their conversazione.

“There ‘s that imp Puck again, as sure as I am
a woman!” exclaimed the gentle Mrs. Mullenstalk,
rising hastily and spilling a dish of fog all over the
front of her new green and yellow striped grass
dress, as she ran toward the spot whence the voice
had proceeded. “I’ll to the palace this very night,
and lay my complaint against that wretch. We’ll
see whether virtuous ladies are to be insulted in this
manner, and their helplessness trampled under foot!”

The intruder had already disappeared; but as the
amiable Mrs. Mullenstock got her spectacles adjusted,
she just caught sight of him throwing a
somerset into a pumpkin-flower; while his laugh
still sounded faintly upon the air, mingled with
snatches of a wild refrain, of which she could only
distinguish these lines:

The spinster shook her fist and grinned horribly at
the broad-mouthed, innocent yellow flower, down
whose throat the varlet had leaped—but chancing at
that moment to catch a glimpse of her own face in a
little bit of mica, which served her for a toilet-mirror,
she uttered the least bit of a little shriek in the world
and fainted—her companions, who had by this time
gathered round her, exchanging sly winks and malicious
looks of gratification as she went off.

But we must return to the ball-room, where the
fire-flies have got sleepy, and many of them had
already put out their lamps and retired, and the brilliant
company of dancers and promenaders has
dwindled down to a few sets, composed of those
ladies who had not been asked to dance in the height
of the evening, and some sour-looking gentlemen in
very tight coats and pants, who had “got the mitten”
from their sweethearts at the door, and were desperately
trying to do the amiable out of sheer revenge.
At length even these disappeared; the saloons were
entirely deserted, save by the beautiful mother moonbeam,
who slept upon the fragrant turf, her babe, the
silver starlight, folded lovingly within her bosom.

Yet no, the scene is not quite solitary. Carefully
bending aside the tall, slender spears of diamond-tipped
grass that perpetually guarded the sacred domain
of the imperial palace, a cavalier in full armor
appears, making way for a lady, whose long veil of
the finest spider’s web completely conceals her head
and form, making her seem like an exhalation, taking,
as its highest gift of grace, the shape of woman.
The two advance slowly and cautiously to the centre
of the saloon, and then the cavalier, throwing himself
on his knees, (that’s the way fairies invariably
make love,) beseeches his companion to have pity
upon him. The lady throws back her veil with a
motion of indescribable grace, and looking down into
the upturned face of her lover, seriously a moment,
then lightly, utters a low laugh, and replies,

“Very well, Sir Timothy Lawn, upon my word!
Quite prettily done, indeed!. You must have been
taking lessons of Signor Sweetbriar, the royal parson.
Now do run and bring me a glass of geranium-dew—I
protest I have drank scarcely a drop all the
evening.”

“Not one word, then, for your poor lover and
true knight,” sighed Sir Timothy, in a tone of the
deepest despondence.

“I did not come here to listen to school-boy nonsense,”
said the lady Dewbell, with a haughty and
impatient motion of the head. “I came to get a
glass of geranium-water. But, as you decline
obliging me to that extent, I suppose I must e’en get
it for myself. Good-night to you, Sir Timothy!
Pleasant dreams!” and she disappeared.

The knight was for a moment confounded; then
rising slowly, he pointed to a bright star that shone
directly above him, winking and winking with all
its might, as much as to say, “what a green-horn
you are!” and swore an oath that no fairy should ever
henceforth have power over his heart, till she who
had so wantonly scorned and insulted him should
beg to be forgiven. As he was turning sadly away,
to seek his solitary chamber in the upper branch of
a bachelor’s button, on the other side of the brook,
the elf-clown Puck stood before him, looking as
demure as puss herself.

“Well, fool,” said the knight, somewhat impatiently,
“how long hast thou been listening here?”

“As long as my ears, your worship,” replied the
urchin, undauntedly, “and they were long enough
to hear that your worship’s valiancy is a very much
over-praised commodity—since a maiden’s dainty
veil of knitted night-air has proved too strong
for him.”

“Silence, imp! or I ‘ll make thine ears, of which
thou hast had such pestilent service, shorter by
a span.”

“No, I thank your valiancy! my ears do very
well as they are. And I came to do you a good turn
by offering you the use of them. But as your worship
is so high and dry in Dundrum Bay, as we say
at sea, I’ll e’en get back to my nap in the hazle copse
again.”

“Nay, good Puck, I meant thee no harm, as thou
knowest well enough. Since thou knowest my
innermost grief, let me hear thy fool’s advice in the
matter.”

“If I gave thee advice, I were in truth a fool.
But I’ll very willingly forgive thee this time, and
tell thee what I overheard to-night at the palace.”

“Ah, that’s a good Puck!”

“That depends on circumstances, your valiancy.
I am somewhat like a dish of toasted gallinippers—whether
it is palatable or not depending very much
in the way it is served. But this is what I heard his
majesty say to her majesty. ‘Sweetbine, my dear,’
said he, ‘don’t you think Dewbell has a fancy for
our brave and noble knight, Sir Timothy Lawn?’
‘Why, my love,’ replied her majesty, ‘I have long
been almost certain that she loved him. But she is
such a confirmed flirt I am afraid she can never be
brought to say so. I haven’t the least idea that she[216]
would not reject Sir Timothy, were he to propose.’
‘We must cure her of this fatal pride and folly,’
replied his majesty, ‘and I think that, with a little of
your assistance, I can manage it capitally.’ And
then the dear old people passed into the royal bed-chamber,
in the japonica wing, and I heard no more.”

“I’ll to the king.”

“And I’ll to a better friend than he; if you permit
me, your worship, I take my bough and leave.”

“Avaunt, vile punning Puck! Thou hast been to
Philadelphia, where all the streets rhyme, and every
corner is a pun upon the next. May the fiend unquip
thee! Away!’

“If thou I kest not jokes, thou hadst best stick to
thy bachelor’s-buttonhood. I tell thee, marriage is a
capital joke.”

“What knowest thou of marriage?”

“I am one of its fruits.”

“A bitter jest, indeed, and plucked ere half ripened.
St. Bulwer! but thou wilt be a mother’s blessing
when thou art fully grown!”

“Better save thy wits, sir knight! Thou wilt have
a plentiful lack of them ere the honeymoon be out of
the comb. A pleasant roost in thy bachelor’s hall,
and many of them!” and the vagabond sprung upon
the back of a green lizard creeping silently through
the grass, and sticking his heels into his astonished
charger, dragoon-fashion, disappeared down the bank
of the brook.

The old king and his good wife, Sweetbine, were
very much grieved at the foolish trifling of their
daughter, Dewbell—for they were well assured that
Dewbell loved the noble knight, Sir Timothy, and
that it was only a spirit of mere wantonness that led
her to vex and torment him. Long into the night
did the royal couple converse, striving to devise
some means of bringing their wayward daughter to
her senses. They at last hit upon a plan, which they
fondly hoped might be the means of securing the
happiness of their child, and settling her comfortably
in life.

The next morning his majesty sent for the dwarf,
Puck, to his private cabinet, and received him with
an unusually grave and troubled aspect.

“Venerable sire,” said Puck, making a mock
reverence, and scarcely able to suppress a chuckle
at the solemn looks of his master, “what facetious
dream hath been playing its mad pranks about thy
sacred pillow? Never saw I kingly face so mirthfully
beprankt.”

“Come hither, good Puck,” said the king, patiently,
“and when thou hast made thy breakfast of fun upon
thy poor master, listen to him seriously.”

“Dear prince”, said the dwarf, suddenly running
up to the king and casting himself weeping at his
feet, “art thou, then, really troubled? Forgive thy
poor slave!” and he began blubbering in the most
pitiable manner, while he looked up into the face of
the king with such a look of wo-begone and ludicrous
despair, that Paterflor himself could scarce refrain
from bursting into laughter.

“Thou hast done nothing wrong, good Puck—handsome
Puck,” said the king, chucking his favorite
under the chin. “I have need of thee. Here is my
signet-ring. Bring me straight hither a young and
handsome peasant, one who has never been seen by
the court, nor any inhabitant of the palace. He must
be intelligent, conscientious, and trustworthy. Dost
thou know of such a one?”

“Yes, your majesty, I think I do. My friend,
young Paudeen O’Rafferty, the son of the old forest-keeper,
has just returned from Ireland, where he was
carried by the fairies at his christening, and has been
kept ever since until now, trying to get through the
rent made by Mr. O’Connell in the pockets of his
relatives. He’s as tight an Irish lad as your majesty
ever saw; and as for his honesty, I’ll endorse it with
both hands. The O’Raffertys are constitutionally
honest.”

“Well, bring him hither at once. I shall be ready
to receive him.”

Puck, with his funny face entirely restored to
good humor, left the palace by a private gate, and
running across a beautiful meadow, disappeared in
the dark green forest. Idle lingerer as he was, he
felt a strong inclination, at every hazel-copse he
passed, to stop and have a chat with the rabbits he
knew were hid beneath it; and more than once he
was on the point of running up to a friendly deer and
kissing his cold, black nose, just for auld lang syne.
But, for a wonder, he was constant to his errand,
and ran straight on—not stopping even to throw
stones at a squirrel by the way—till he came to the
forester’s hut.

He found the old forester and his wife alone.
They received him kindly, for, notwithstanding his
mad pranks, Puck was a favorite every where, and
especially among the poor and humble, who were
always safe from his mischievous propensities. The
young Paudeen was out a little bit in the forest, but
would return directly.

“And what brings good Master Puck from among
the great lords and beautiful ladies of the coort to our
poor little shieling, not bigger nor betther than the
mud cabins of ould Ireland itself?” inquired the old
woman, who had grown, with age and toil, wrinkled
deaf and sour.

“I’ll explain all that as soon as Paudeen comes
home,” replied the grave and mysterious Puck;
“but, in the meantime, how do you get on Mr.
O’Rafferty, and what is the news in the forest?”

“We get on but poorly,” said the old forester,
“and the news is, that the people at the other side of
the forest, where the potatoes have all rotted, and
the land is wore down to its bare bones, for want of
rest like, are very bad. Some of the women and
childhers have already starved, and the men have
for the most part took to dhrinken and fighten, till
things is in a mighty bad way.”

“Yes,” chimed in the old woman, who seemed to
have caught by instinct the subject of conversation,
“and the poor stharven people say, too, that there is
plenty of money squandhered upon extravagance by
the king and his coort to give them all bread;
and that the forests that is kept for the deers and
craythurs to be killed for the spoort of the big folks,[217]
would give every man a bit of fresh land, and that
the potatoes would grow well enough then.”

“Auch, Peggy, will ye have us hung for parjery,
out and out!” exclaimed the terrified husband, casting
a deprecating look at Puck. “Poor craythur, she
doesn’t know what she is saying.”

At this juncture the young Paudeen made his appearance,
and put a stop to a conversation that was
becoming decidedly stupid. He made his respects
cordially to Puck; and when he heard his errand,
seemed amazed and delighted. After a good deal of
difficulty, the old lady was made to understand what
was the desire of the king.

“Hooh!” exclaimed the old crone, leaping from
her seat and dancing about the room, “the dhrame’s
come true at last! Och, hullybaloo! didn’t I know
that the pretty Paudeen wasn’t born for the pig-stye!
Bedad, but he’ll ruffle the gentles! Wont you, darlint?”
and the old woman fell upon her son’s neck,
smothering him with kisses, while the poor youth
could hardly keep his legs under the vigor of her
maternal caresses.

PART II.

In a few days after the interview of Puck and
Paudeen in the hut of the forester, there was great
excitement at the court of Fairyland. The fashionable
milliners and dress-makers never had seen such
a time—orders from the aristocracy poured in upon
them by scores, and their doors were beset by
fashionable carriages, and little fairy footmen caparisoned
in long coats with many capes, and broad,
red bands fastened with shining buckles round their
hats. The great artistes who were at the head of
these establishments saw themselves amassing fortunes
from the sudden influx of fashionable custom.
But the poor little fairy seamstresses, who sat up all
night, sometimes without time to eat or sleep, from
sunset to sunset, so that all these splendid dresses
might be finished in time—they did not fare so well.
They grew pale and sick, and sat swaying and
swinging about as they worked, until one might have
thought them the ghosts of fairy workers, come back
for a ghostly midnight frolic in their old haunts. It
was melancholy enough, truly; but then nobody
knew any thing about it. The rich ladies, when
their splendid robes came home, did not stop to think
that good, earnest, faithful fairy hearts had embroidered
the roses that adorned the skirts from their
own cheeks, and spangled them with the broken
fragments of their youth’s faded dreams. If they
had—

Well, and if they had?

That is not at all to the purport of my story; and
so I will proceed to let the reader into the secret of
all this flutter and fluster. A great prince had made
his appearance at the court of Paterflor, and had
created almost as great an excitement in Fairyland
as a new prima donna with bright eyes and a sfogato
voice among mere mortals. Nobody knew exactly
who he was, but he came from a great way off, and
had a name as long as a province, and, beside being
incalculably wealthy, it was universally voted (ladies
vote in Fairyland) that he was the very handsomest
love of a fairy knight that ever jingled spurs, or
sighed at the feet of beauty. He had come to court
evidently with the “highest recommendations” to
the king, such as would have procured him immediate
access into the first “circles,” even in Philadelphia,
where society lives behind barred doors,
and goes about armed cap-a-pie against encroachment
or intrusion. He had been at once received at
the royal table, and a splendid suite of apartments
had been assigned him in the palace itself. Such extraordinary
attentions from the imperial family, of
course, made the stranger a favorite and a welcome
guest wherever he appeared; and there was not a
lady at court who would not have given her eyes—if
it would not have spoiled her beauty—for a smile
from his magnificent mouth.

It was discovered, however, at a very early stage
of the proceedings, that the chief object of the prince’s
admiration was the lady Dewbell, who, proud as she
was, could not help feeling flattered by the evident
and special devotion of one for whom the whole of
her sex were dying. Sir Timothy Lawn, who, from
pique or melancholy, or from some unknown cause,
had left the court the very day after the arrival of
the new prince, was not entirely forgotten, but was
laid away carefully on a back shelf of her heart;
and the lady Dewbell never had been so beautiful, so
fascinating, so joyous and irresistible. Courts are as
fickle as coquettes; and before the month had passed,
in a series of brilliant fêtes and entertainments, at
all of which the prince and princess were the reigning
toast, it was regarded as a settled thing that there
would, ere the maple leaves grew red in the dying
gaze of the year, be a royal marriage in Fairyland.

But while to all around the beautiful Dewbell was
ever the same careless, saucy and happy creature
as ever, in her heart she nursed a bitter sorrow.
After many and severe struggles, she was forced at
last to make to herself the humiliating acknowledgment
that she deeply and truly loved Sir Timothy
Lawn, that noble and chivalric spirit, whom her unworthy
trifling had driven—so her frightened heart
interpreted it—in disgust from her. Compelled in
common courtesy to receive the devoted attentions
of the stranger prince, and to hear every day and
every hour repeated the earnest solicitations of her
father that she should school herself to regard the
stranger as her future husband, her little fairy heart
was quite broken with its ceaseless struggles. Her
pride and self-will were entirely vanquished, and she
felt herself truly the most miserable of fairy maidens.
Suicide is of course a thing strictly prohibited among
immortals; but had it been otherwise, I sadly fear
that one of the lady Dewbell’s spider-web silk hose
would some morning have been found without a
garter, and she herself hanging like a beauteous exhalation
among the elm-leaves in the morning sunshine.
Oh, had Sir Timothy been there then, he
would have found, instead of his imperious and tantalizing
coquette, the tenderest and truest of dis[218]consolate
maidens, ready to melt into his arms between
the delicious pause of a sigh and a kiss.
“Naughty, cruel Sir Timothy! Horrid creature!
to take all my nonsense for real earnest, and to go
away and leave me to be persecuted to death!” exclaimed
the lady Dewbell, with an uncontrollable
burst of tears, as she threw herself, her toilet half
finished, and her hair all strewn over her face and
shoulders, upon her little praying cushion. “What
will become of poor Bell!”

“What ails my daughter?” said the sweet, soft
voice of the queen mother, as she knelt tenderly
over her child, and pressed her head to her bosom.
“Tell your sorrows to your mother.”

“Oh, mother, I am the most wretched fairy that
ever existed. I don’t want to marry that odious,
red-haired stranger; and my father has made me
promise that the wedding shall take place on Halloween—and
I—I have consented. But I love Sir
Timothy; and I wont marry any body but him,”
sobbed the poor creature, convulsively, as she cast
herself upon the floor, and looked up to her mother,
terrified and half frantic.

“But, dearest, you know you laughed at poor Sir
Timothy’s vows—and he is so sensitive.”

“Oh, yes, I know I did, but I’ll never do so any
more. If Sir Timothy will only come back and forgive
me, and marry me, just this once, I will never,
never offend him again as long as I live—never,
never, never! Do, mamma, do make him come
back!”

“Poor child! I will certainly do all I can. But
you have promised to be married on Halloween.”

“Oh, yes, but that is a good fortnight off, and you
can bring Sir Timothy back before then, you know,
and he can kill this horrid stranger, and then every
body will be so happy!” and the face of the
volatile creature began already to re-clothe itself
in smiles.

“I fear you are mistaken, love,” said her mother,
solemnly, and shaking her head in an impressive
manner, she added, “do not deceive yourself with
such fallacies, my daughter; your princely word is
passed, your father’s royal honor is pledged, and you
must be married on Halloween.”

The lady Dewbell, sobbing hysterically, again
looked up. She was alone; at the same moment
the cat-and-baby face of Puck glanced by the window,
and a wild, mischievous laugh melted away into
a song, of which the lady only caught the two
last lines:

“Oh, bless thee, dear Puck!” sighed the haply
wondering lady, rising and leaning from the window.
“May thy sweet prophecy come true!”

PART III.

‘T is Halloween midnight. Through the tall windows
of the venerable church streamed in the broad
moonlight, in bright silver floods, that lost themselves
in the profound recesses of the distant aisles, or fell
like many-colored snow-flakes upon the marble floor.
Entering without sound, came up the middle aisle
the royal wedding-procession. First walked the
father, the royal Paterflor, looking stern and determined,
yet, it must be confessed, a little roguish
about the crowsfeet. Upon his arm leaned his pale
and stricken daughter, the once proud, joyous and
imperious Princess Dewbell. She was pale as a
lily’s cup, and drooping as its stem. She never
raised her head from her bosom, and her eyes, once
sparkling like fountains of light, were hidden beneath
their willowy lids. Next comes the “red-haired
prince,” as the lady Dewbell had scornfully denominated
him, (his head was a little inclined to flame,
dear reader, between you and me,) respectfully conducting
the ever sweet and placid Queen Woodbine;
and after them a troop of merry and gayly-dressed
fairies, both ladies and gentlemen, but very demure
and solemn; while Puck, in the united capacity of
Hymen and Grand Usher, was dodging about with
his flaming torch, now in front, now in rear, now
here, now there, and every where imparting an air
of grotesqueness to the whole affair.

At the altar the party stopped, and ranging themselves
in the approved order for such occasions, the
priest—a grave and reverend bullfrog, whose surplice
was scrupulously neat and tidy—proceeded
with the ceremony. When he came to the question,
“dost thou, my daughter, freely and voluntarily bestow
thy hand and thy affections upon this man,
Paudeen O’Rafferty, commonly called Pat?”

The pale and shrinking lady raised her head and
opened her great ox-like eyes; the bridegroom looked
sheepish and hung his head; King Paterflor seemed
suddenly troubled with a severe fit of coughing, and
the priest could scarcely forbear a chuckle.

“Father, dear father, what is the meaning of this
cruel joke?” exclaimed the poor lady Dewbell,
running to her father and catching hold of his arm.
But the old king’s cough was still very troublesome.
She then appealed to the priest, but he seemed deaf,
and only made a grum kind of noise in his throat,
that sounded a good deal like “Pat O’Rafferty.”

“Who, then, are you, sir?” demanded she, at
last, of the groom, turning suddenly and imperiously
upon him her piercing gaze.

“So plaze yer ladyship, I am Paudeen O’Rafferty,
the son of the forester—at yer ladyship’s sarvice.”

The fairy princess was about to faint, in the most
approved manner, and had already selected a convenient
cushion upon which to fall, when a tall and
noble form crossed the moon-ray, and Sir Timothy
Lawn stood before her.

“Beloved princess,” said he, kneeling, and respectfully
taking her hand, “I hope my presence is not
disagreeable to the queen of my heart, for whose love
I have so long pined. Speak to me frankly, sweet
lady Dewbell, tell me, can you love me? Will you
permit me to call you mine forever?”

The lady Dewbell changed her intention respecting
the cushion upon which she had intended to faint,
and, somehow, found herself before she was half[219]
conscious of it, in her lover’s arms. An explanation
ensued; the prince Paudeen gave up his post of
honor to Sir Timothy; the ceremony was concluded
on the spot; and as the gay and joyous party left
the church, Puck was seen sitting at the organ
accompanying himself in a sort of wild yet sweet
chant, of which the lady Dewbell easily distinguished—

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

THE BARD.

BY S. ANNA LEWIS.

THE WILL.

BY MISS E. A. DUPUY

PART I.

Amid all the brightness and bloom which the imagination
conjures up, when we think of the sunny
islands lying within the tropics, many mournful associations
arise and cast a sadness over the picture.
Very few have not had within the circle of their
relatives, or friends, some cherished one, who has
vainly sought the balmy breezes of those favored
spots, with the feverish hope that amid their loveliness
Death would forget to launch his arrows for
them.

Alas! to die among strangers is usually the fate of
those who are thus lured from their homes by a deceitful
hope. There, where Nature wears a perpetual
verdure—where the fervid sun brings forth a
luxuriance of vegetation unknown in more northern
regions, the wearied spirit sinks to repose, soothed,
or saddened, by the glow of existence around.

A spacious apartment on the southern side of a
highly ornamented villa, opened into a magnificent
garden, filled with orange-trees, oleanders, and many
other gorgeous flowers peculiar to the climate of
Cuba; while in the distance the sunlight gleamed
upon a row of towering palms, whose stately
columns, crowned by their verdant coronal, resembled
the pillars of some mighty temple, which found
a fitting canopy in the blue arch of heaven, glowing
with the gorgeous hues of a tropical sunset.

The floor of this room was inlaid with marble of
different colors, and the couch and windows were
draped with snowy lace, lightly embroidered at the
edges, and looped with cords of blue and silver—tables
with marble tops, supporting porcelain vases
filled with flowers, were placed between the windows,
for these ephemeral children of sunshine were
dear to the heart of the dying one. Beside one of
these stood a large cushioned chair, in which reclined
a young man of delicate features and wasted
form. He appeared in the last stages of his fell disease,
and the friends who had received him beneath
their roof to die, wondered that he should have been
deluded with the hope that health could ever again
reanimate his bowed and shrunken form. There
was an expression of care upon his sharpened features—a
feverish restlessness in his manner, which
betrayed the spirit’s unrest.

At his feet sat a young girl, whose brilliant complexion
and pale-brown hair betrayed her Saxon origin;
the finely rounded figure, the delicately formed
feet and hands, and the gracefully turned head and
bust, were all evidences of the grade of life to which
she belonged. She held the burning hand of the invalid
between her own soft, cool palms, and sung in
a sweet low voice an old ballad which told of the
ancient greatness of the Saxon race. At a short distance
from them sat an elderly lady, clad in deep
mourning, and her saddened countenance corresponded
well with her weeds.

The young man made an impatient movement,
and said—”Sing not to me England’s former prowess,
dear Edith. What to the dying can such themes be
but a bitter mockery? Take your guitar, my sister,
and throw your soul into its vibrating strings, while
you sing me such a lay as I can fancy the angels of
Heaven to be pouring forth around the throne of
God.”

“Shall I sing the chants of our church, dearest
Edgar?” said Edith in a subdued voice.

“Yes—yes—they breathe peace and resignation
into my restless soul. When I am dying, my sister,
stifle your own feelings as you love me, and pour
into my failing senses those magnificent strains. If
God sees fit to tear me from you before I can legally
provide for you and my beloved mother, I shall be
enabled to forget the bitter truth in listening to your
sweet voice. You promise me this, Edith?”

“I do—Heaven will sustain me even then, my
darling brother, and give me power to forget my
own anguish in soothing your last moments.”

Edith Euston pressed his hand to her lips, and
raising from the floor a guitar which lay beside her,
she poured forth a strain of melody which seemed
to soothe the senses of the invalid to rest. His eyes
closed, and an expression of repose rested on his
worn features.

Twilight deepened over the earth—a single ray
of light, from the reddened sky, fell through the open
window upon the figure of the young girl, and the
mother, who sat silent and abstracted, thought as she
glanced upon her that even in a higher world her
beloved Edith could wear no lovelier outward semblance
than was now hers. There was an expression
of elevated feeling, of pure tenderness in her
upturned face which revealed the high and noble
soul within. One fitted to suffer and conquer in the
dark struggle which she felt awaited her.

Hers were not the only eyes which contemplated
that lovely picture of sisterly devotion upon that
twilight eve. Another stood without, beneath the
shadow of a high hedge, and gazed upon the unconscious
musician with even deeper admiration; and
his dark, expressive features lighted up with an
emotion almost of reverence. The stars came forth
in the translucent depths of ether; the young moon
cast her tremulous light over the garden, yet still the
intruder lingered in his place of concealment.
Twice he put the boughs aside, as if to approach the
room and announce his presence, but again receded,[221]
as if irresolute and uncertain as to the effect his presence
might produce.

At length all became silent. The tones of the instrument
died slowly away, and the voice of the
singer ceased to pour forth its song. The windows
were still unclosed, for the invalid had reached that
distressing stage in his malady, when his oppressed
breathing required a constant circulation of free air.
A lamp burning beneath an alabaster shade was
swung from the centre of the ceiling, and its mellow
lustre diffused a faint moonlight radiance throughout
the apartment.

With suppressed breathing the two ladies watched
the sleep of the sick youth, and he who had so earnestly
observed every movement of Edith, ventured
to approach so near the open window that the heavy
and interrupted respiration of young Euston was distinctly
audible to him; while his eagle eye sought to
penetrate the shadow in which his features reposed,
that he might read upon them the ravages made by
approaching dissolution.

As he stood thus, the moonlight revealed a tall,
well proportioned figure, clad in a suit of black,
well fitted to his form. His prominent features and
flashing black eyes were half concealed by a large
straw hat, which was carelessly placed upon his
head. As he gazed upon the sleeping form, his lips
curled, and a strange expression of exultation came
to his face; his eye wandered triumphantly to the
fair brow of Edith.

“Twice rejected,” he muttered half audibly—”twice
rejected, and with scorn, by yon dainty girl;
now methinks my vengeance is almost within my
grasp. I hold her future destiny in my power; for
this boy cannot drag out his existence another week.
Yes, Edith—to labor you have not been bred—to beg
you will be ashamed, and he who vainly hopes that
time will be granted him to deprive me of my inheritance,
will perish from my path, just as he believes
himself on the verge of consummating his
hatred to me.”

Edith softly arose, and making a sign to her mother,
glided noiselessly from the room by a distant
window, which opened to the floor. The intruder
hesitated a moment, and then followed her with light
and rapid steps. The flutter of her white dress
guided him to the retreat she had chosen, and she had
scarcely thrown herself upon a rustic seat beneath
the shelter of some orange-boughs, and given vent to
her painfully repressed emotion, by a burst of tears,
when the dark stranger stood before her. She started
up and would have fled, but he spoke, and the sound
of his voice seemed to bind her to the spot as by a
spell.

“Why would you fly from me, Edith?” he asked.
“I come in the spirit of good-will to you and yours.”

A struggle seemed to be passing in the mind of the
young girl. She wiped her tears away, and after a
pause answered in a tone which faltered at first, but
grew firm, and even haughty as she proceeded,

“What has brought you hither, Mr. Barclay?
Yet why do I ask? To exult in the fate of your unfortunate
victim; to watch each painful breath which
brings him nearer to his grave, with the certainty
that the very eagerness with which he desires a few
more days of existence, that he may fulfill a sacred
duty, is fast wearing away the faint thread that yet
binds him to life. Oh false, unfeeling man! depart,
I pray you, if one human instinct yet remains within
your callous heart, and leave my unhappy brother to
die in peace.”

She turned to depart, but Barclay stepped forward
and placed his hand on her arm, as if to detain her.
She shrunk from his touch with an expression of
loathing, which called the crimson to his cheek, but
he suppressed his emotion, and said calmly—

“I knew that you would soon need a protector,
Miss Euston, and I came hither with the faint hope
that I might be able to overcome your cruel prejudices
against me—that I might become to you a
friend at least, if no dearer title were allowed me.”

“You a friend to me!” exclaimed Edith impetuously.
“You, who lured my brother from his home,
to wreck his existence in the life of dissipation to
which you tempted him. Ever feeble from his boyhood,
you knew that little was needed to destroy his
frail constitution—yet, because he stood between you
and the possession of wealth, his life was offered as
the sacrifice to your criminal cupidity. And now
you come hither to watch the last fluttering throes of
existence, fearful that Death may delay his arrows
until he shall have passed that hour which entitles
him to dispose of his property—and disappoint your
hopes, by bequeathing his wealth to those who are
dearest to him.”

“You are excited, Edith. You judge me too severely.
Edgar’s own headlong passions destroyed
him. I merely urged him to do as others of his years
and station, without foreseeing such fatal results.
My love for you would have prompted me to save
your brother.”

“Speak not to me of love—dare not approach the
sister of your victim with proffers of affection. The
death of Edgar may leave me penniless—nearly
friendless—I have been tenderly nurtured, but I
would sooner embrace a life of sternest self-denial,
of utter poverty, than link myself with infamy in
your person. Leave me—and dare not approach the
room of my brother, to imbitter his last hours by
your presence.”

“And your mother, my fair heroine?” said Barclay,
in a tone of sarcasm bordering on contempt.
“What will become of her if you persist in the rejection
of the only person in the wide world on whom
you have any claim? She is old, feeble, broken in
health and spirit. Ah! will not your proud heart
faint when you behold her sharing this life of poverty
and self-denial, which seems to you so much more
attractive than the home and protection I offer you?”

Edith stifled the tears that sprung anew to her eyes,
and after a brief struggle said with composure—

“My mother is too honorable—she has too bitter a
disdain of meanness ever to wish her child to sacrifice
the truth and integrity of her soul, by accepting
the hand of one for whom she has no respect.”

“By Heaven!” said Barclay passionately, “you[222]
force me to throw away the scabbard and declare
war to the knife. Be it so, then. Yonder weak boy
cannot survive five of the ten days yet required to
complete his majority. Then comes to me—yes to
me—all his wealth; and only as my wife shall one
ray of my prosperity shine upon you. The gray
hairs of your only parent may be brought to the
grave by want and sorrow, and unless you relent
toward me my heart shall be steeled to her sufferings.”

At this picture, which was only too likely to be
realized, the courage of the unhappy Edith forsook
her, and she exclaimed in faltering tones—

“My dear, dear mother! for her sake any other
sacrifice might be borne—but not this—not this. My
brother yet lives, and Heaven may in pity prolong
his existence beyond the hour he so anxiously prays
to see. Then we escape your power.”

Barclay laughed mockingly.

“This is the fifteenth, and he is not of age until
the twenty-fifth, exactly at the second hour of the
morning. One moment only before that time should
Death claim his victim the estate is mine, and you
dependent on my bounty. Think you that the frail
and wasted ghost of a man who struggles for breath
in yonder room can live through another week?
Hope—yes, hope for the best, for despair will come
soon enough. I feel as secure of my inheritance as
though it were already mine.”

Edith proudly motioned him from her path, and
fled toward the house, with his mocking words still
ringing in her ears. Her brother yet slept, and as she
gazed upon his sunken features it seemed to her as
if death were already stamped upon them, and she
bent her head above his still face, to convince herself
that he yet breathed.

Barclay and Euston were distantly related, and had
both been educated by an eccentric kinsman, with
the belief among their connections that he designed
dividing his ample fortune between them. To the
surprise and chagrin of Barclay, he found on the
death of Colonel Euston that the whole of his estate
was bequeathed to his young cousin, encumbered
with an annuity to himself, which appeared to one
of his expensive tastes, and lavish prodigality, as
absolute poverty.

Edgar Euston was then but seventeen years of
age, and of a delicate bodily organization, which did
not promise length of days. A clause in Colonel
Euston’s will offered a temptation to Barclay, which
he had not sufficient principle to resist. If Euston
died before attaining his majority the estate was to
pass into the hands of his kinsman, and no mention
was made of the mother or sister of the young heir.
Barclay reflected that if he could remove Euston
from his path, before he attained his twenty-first
year, the coveted wealth would yet be his.

From that hour he made every effort to win the
confidence and affection of young Euston. He was
his senior by nearly ten years, and possessed a
knowledge of the world, and a fascination of manner
which was extremely attractive to a youth who had
passed the greater portion of his life, at a country
residence, in the society of his mother and sister.
Euston entered one of our Northern colleges, and
under the auspices of his kinsman he soon achieved
a reputation which was far more applauded by the
wild students than agreeable to the professors. He
blindly followed wherever Barclay led, and before
he entered his twenty-first year he returned to his
early home, with a constitution completely broken
by the reckless life he had led, and the symptoms of
early decay in his flushed cheek and hollow cough.
Vain had been the entreaties and remonstrances of
his mother and sister; under the influence of his
tempter, they were utterly disregarded—until the
hand of disease was laid upon him, and he felt that
the only atonement he could offer for all the suffering
he had inflicted upon them would probably be denied
to him.

He earnestly desired to live, that he might reach
that age which would entitle him to make a legal
transfer of his property to those who were deservedly
dear to him, for in the event of his death without
a will, his mother and sister would be left entirely
dependent on the tender mercies of his successor.
An unfortunate lawsuit had deprived his
mother of the property which had become hers on
the death of his father, and his own reckless extravagance
had dissipated more than the annual
revenue of his own property since it came into his
possession.

Too late he discovered the baseness of Barclay’s
motives, and renounced all intercourse with him—but
he would not thus be cast off. He had seen and
loved the noble-hearted Edith, and he forced his
hypocritical offers of service upon the afflicted
family, until Edith distinctly assured him that he
need never hope for a return to his passion.

Euston had long since abandoned all hope of recovery,
but he sought the mild climate of Cuba,
trusting that the fatal day might be deferred until he
had secured independence to his family, but his physician
feared that the very eagerness of his wishes
would eventually defeat them. It was mournful,
and deeply touching, to witness that clinging to
existence in one so young, not from love of life itself,
but from a desire to perform an act of justice.
That completed, his mission on earth was ended, and
Death might claim him without a murmur.

The hours dragged heavily on toward the desired
day, and each one as it passed appeared to hurry
the poor invalid with rapid strides toward the grave,
that seemed eager to claim its prey. Barclay had
not again ventured to intrude on Edith, but he nightly
hovered around the room of the dying youth, and
gloated on the wasted and death-like form which
held his earthly fortunes in his hands.

A skillful physician had accompanied Euston from
his native land, and his unremitting attention, aided
by the tender nursing of his affectionate sister,
seemed as if they would eventually reap their reward
in the preservation of life beyond the hour of
his majority.

In pain and weariness time slowly waned, but it
still left him life and an unclouded mind; and the[223]
bold, bad heart, that nightly watched him, feared that
the wealth he so ardently coveted, might yet elude
his grasp.

The evening of the twenty-fifth at last arrived.
Euston reclined in his chair as we first beheld him,
wrapped in a brocade dressing-gown, whose brilliant
colors made his extreme pallor the more remarkable;
a table was drawn close beside him, and on it, at his
own desire, was placed his repeater, from which
his eyes scarcely wandered. His breath came slowly
and gaspingly, and at brief intervals his physician
moistened his parched lips with a restorative cordial,
and murmured words of encouragement in
his ear.

As before, Edith sat at his feet, with her guitar,
ready to stifle her deep emotion, and fulfill her promise
to sing to him while his parting soul was struggling
for release from its earthly tenement. His
mother leaned over his chair, and bathed his cold
brow with her burning tears; in the back-ground sat
a clergyman, gazing on the scene with absorbing
interest.

Each one in that hushed room felt the approach of
the stern tyrant, and all prayed fervently that his
dart might be stayed yet a few hours.

“My sister, sing to me. Soothe me into quietness
by the loved tones of your voice. It is my only hope
for life beyond the desired hour,” murmured the
dying youth.

With tremulous fingers Edith touched the chords,
and poured forth the solemn strains to which he loved
to listen, and he sunk back and closed his eyes. At
first her voice faltered, but she gradually regained
her self-command, and never had those clear, rich
tones uttered a sweeter strain, than that which floated
around the fluttering spirit, which struggled to release
itself from the attenuated form of the early
doomed.

Barclay stood without, watching the scene with
breathless interest, and a terrible struggle was passing
in his dark and stormy soul. Euston might live beyond
the hour of two, and he would then be a beggar.
His eye wandered toward Edith, so nobly devoted,
so purely beautiful; and the tempter whispered,

“She might save you—ennoble you; the love, the
sweet influence of such a woman are all powerful.
Once yours, you could surround her with such an
atmosphere of care and tenderness, that her heart
must be won to love you—to forget the past. Without
her, you are doomed—doomed. What matters a
few more moments of existence to one like him,
when the eternal welfare of a human being hangs
trembling in the balance? Deprived of the means
of living, Edith will have no choice—she must marry
you, or debase her pride of soul before the iron
sway of poverty. Her mother is old—infirm; and
for her sake, the daughter will listen to your proffers
of love. Take your destiny into your own hands.
Cowardly soul! why falter now? It is but completing
your own work. He is your victim—you know
it, and feel it in every pulse of your throbbing heart.
Years of usefulness might have been his, but for you;
then complete the sacrifice without hesitation. What
avails it to have accomplished so much, if the reward
escapes you at the last moment?”

Such were the wild thoughts that oppressed his
soul during those terrible hours. He saw that the
parchment which disinherited him was placed beside
Euston, and the pen stood in the inkstand, ready
to do its service, so soon as the hand of the watch
pointed to the hour of two; and he ground his teeth
in impotent rage, as the moments flitted by, and
Euston yet continued to breathe.

Terrible is the watch of love beside the flitting soul
which parts in peace; but how much more awful
was that vigil, in which the anguish of bereavement
was doubly embittered by the fear of future want to
those who had been reared amid all the refinements
of luxury. The mother looked upon her remaining
child, and felt that she was not formed to struggle
with poverty and neglect, and the daughter bent her
earful eyes on that venerable form, and in the depths
of her soul, prayed that her old age might be spared
;he grinding cares of want.

The watch struck the half hour—then the quarter—and
a feeble motion of Euston stopped the hand of
Edith as she swept it over the strings of her instrument.
She arose and stood beside him; a breathless
silence reigned throughout the apartment, only
broken by the monotonous ticking of the watch,
which struck upon the excited nerves of those around
with a sound as distinct as the reverberations of
thunder.

Not a word was uttered until the hand pointed to
the hour, then, as if endued with sudden energy, the
dying man stretched forth his hand, and grasping the
pen, said in a firm, distinct voice,

“Now let me sign my name, and yield up my
spirit to the angel that has been beckoning me away
for hours. My mother—my sister, God has vouchsafed
to me a mercy I did not deserve. Thank
Heaven! your interests are safe. You are free from
his power.”

At that instant a strange cry was heard; a bird
flew into the room, and, dazzled by the light, flapped
his wings against the shade of the lamp, overturned
it, and left the apartment in utter darkness. In the
confusion of the moment, a figure glided through the
open window, and stood beside the chair of Euston.
He noiselessly placed his firm grasp upon his laboring
breast, and held it there a single instant. A faint
rattling sound was heard, and Edith wildly called
for lights.

Noiselessly as he had entered glided that dark form
from the side of his victim, and buried itself in the
shadows of the trees without. Many lights flashed
into the room—they glared coldly on the face of the
dead, and the mother sunk senseless in the arms
of her daughter.

PART II.

Several months have passed away, and Mrs.
Euston and her daughter have returned to their native
land. A single room in an obscure boarding-house
in the heart of a southern city was occupied by both.
The expenses of their voyage to New Orleans, and[224]
a few months sojourn in their present abode, humble
as it was, had nearly exhausted their slender resources.
Edith had made many efforts to procure a few
scholars to instruct in music and drawing, but the
departure of the greater portion of the wealthy,
during the unhealthy season, had deprived her of
those she had been able to obtain. She thought of
going out as a daily governess, but the feeble health
and deep dejection of her mother, offered an insuperable
objection to such an arrangement. When she
left her alone even for an hour, she usually found
her in such a state of nervous excitement on her
return, as was painful to behold.

Edith is seated near the only window of their
sordid apartment in the afternoon of a sultry summer
day; the sun is shining without with overpowering
splendor; a heated vapor rises from the paved streets
and seems to shimmer in the breathless atmosphere.
Edith had lost all the freshness and roundness of
youth; her cheek was deadly white, and her emaciated
form seemed to indicate the approach of the
terrible disease of which her brother had died. She
was sewing industriously, and her air of weariness
and lassitude betrayed the strong mastery of the
spirit over the body, in the continuance of her employment.

Mrs. Euston was lying on the bed; and twenty years
seemed to have passed over her since the night of
her son’s death. The oppressive heat had induced
her to remove her cap, and her long hair, white as
the snows of winter, lay around her wasted and furrowed
features. From infancy the respect and observance
due to one of high station had been bestowed
upon her, and the reverse in their fortunes
was more than she could bear. At first, her high-toned
feelings had shrunk from obligations to the new
heir, and she approved of Edith’s rejection; but as
time passed, amid privations to which she had never
been accustomed, her very soul revolted against
their miserable mode of living.

To a woman of refined feelings and vivid imagination,
the coarse and sordid realities around her were
sufficiently heart-sickening, without having the terrible
fear forced upon her that her only child was
hurrying to the grave through her exertions to keep
them literally from starvation. Her daughter now
thought she slept, but her mind was far too busily
occupied to permit the sweet influences of slumber
to soothe her into a momentary forgetfulness of her
bitter grief. Suddenly she unclosed her eyes, and
spoke.

“Edith, my child, lay aside that work—such constant
employment is destroying you. Is it not time
that we heard from Robert Barclay? Surely he will
not be relentless, when he hears that your health is
failing. After all, Edith, you need not be so averse
to receiving assistance from him; the property he
holds is rightfully ours.”

“Mother,” replied Edith, a faint flush mounting to
her cheek, “for your sake I have submitted to humiliate
myself before our ruthless kinsman, but I fear it
will be in vain. Only as his wife will my claims
on his humanity and justice be acknowledged. Would
you not shrink, dearest mother, from condemning
your child to such a doom? Could you not better
bear to stand above my grave, and know me at peace
within it, than to behold me wedded to this unprincipled
man, to whose pernicious example my
brother owed his early doom?”

“Speak not of dying, my daughter,” said the poor
mother, hysterically, “I cannot bear it; I am haunted
by the fear that I shall at last be left on earth alone.
I daily behold you fading before my eyes without
the power to avert the fate I see written upon your
pale cheek and wasted form. As Robert’s wife you
would have a luxurious home, the means of gratifying
refined tastes, and of contributing to the happiness
of others. He may atone to me, by the preservation
of one child, for the destruction of the other.”

“Mother, your fears for me blind you to the truth.
Are not mental griefs far more difficult to bear than the
privations of poverty, galling as they are? As Mr.
Barclay’s wife, I should loathe myself for the hypocrisy
I should be compelled to practice toward him;
and the wealth for which I had sold myself, would
allow me leisure to brood over my own unworthiness,
until madness might be the result. No, no, mother
-come what may, I never can be so untrue to myself
as to become the wife of Robert Barclay.”

“God help us, then!” said Mrs. Euston, despondingly.

A carriage drove to the door, and a gentleman
alighted from it. Edith heard the bustle, but she did
not look out to see what occasioned it, and she was
startled from her painful reverie by a knock on the
door. She opened it, and started back with a faint
cry as she recognized Barclay.

“The landlady told me to come up,” he said, as
he glanced around the wretched apartment, and a
slight twinge of remorse touched his heart as he remarked
the changed appearance of Edith. She motioned
him to enter, while Mrs. Euston arose from
the bed, and offered him a seat.

“I concluded it would be best to reply to your
communication in person,” said he to Mrs. Euston,
as he took the offered chair. “I come with the most
liberal intentions, provided Miss Euston will listen
to reason. I am grieved to see you in a place so
unsuited to your former station as this wretched
apartment.”

“And yet,” said Edith, “I have passed some pleasant
hours in this room, comfortless as it looks. So
long as I had the hope of being able to provide for
our wants by my own exertions, I found contentment
in its humble shelter.”

“Your happiness must then be truly independent
of outward circumstances,” replied Barclay, with a
touch of his old sarcasm. “I supposed, from the
tenor of your mother’s petition, that you had begun
to repent of your high-toned language to me in our
last interview, and would now accede to terms you
once spurned, as the price of my assistance to you
and yours.”

Edith curbed her high spirit, and calmly replied,
“You misunderstood my mother’s words. As the
mother of the late heir, she justly considers herself[225]
entitled to a pittance from your estate, and she claimed
from your humanity, what she was hopeless of obtaining
from your sense of justice. For myself, I hoped
for nothing from either, but I acquiesced in her application.
I am sorry that you have founded on it
expectations which must prove fallacious.”

“Then, madam, I need remain no longer,” said
Barclay, addressing Mrs. Euston. “Your daughter
remembers our interview previous to, and after, the
death of her brother; the only terms on which I
would assist you were then explicitly expressed.”

Mrs. Euston caught his hand, and bowed her venerable
head upon it.

“Have mercy, Robert, upon my gray hairs—my
daughter; look at her—she is dying by inches—she
is stifling in this wretched spot. The money that was
my son’s should surely buy a shelter for us. Leave us
not helpless, hopeless. My God! my God! give me eloquence
to plead for my child!” and she threw herself
upon the floor, and raised her clasped hands to heaven.

“Madam,” said Barclay, “it only rests with your
daughter to have mercy upon you and herself.
Where, I ask you, is her filial piety, when she beholds
you suffer thus, and relents not toward one who
offers her a love that has survived coldness, contempt,
contumely.”

Edith approached her mother, and assisted her
to rise.

“My dearest mother, calm yourself. Humble not
yourself thus before our oppressor. God is just—is
merciful. He will not forget the widow and the orphan
in their extremity. Leave us, Mr. Barclay; had my
wishes alone been consulted, you never would have
been called on thus to witness our misfortunes.”

Barclay bowed, and haughtily strode from the room.

“Another month of privation,” he muttered, “and
she will surely be mine or Death’s. It does not much
matter to which she belongs. Ah, if she only knew
all!” and he sprung into his cabriolet, and dashed off
toward the more aristocratic portion of the city.

In the hope that Edith would be forced to relent,
Barclay had remained in New Orleans thus late in
the season, and he resolved to linger yet a little
longer, until want and suffering should leave her no
choice. His passion for her was one of those insanities
to which men of his violent character are
often liable. He desired her as the one great gift,
which was to purify, to exalt him in the scale of
humanity. The delicate beauty of her person, the
sensibility of her soul, the grace of her manner, rendered
her irresistibly attractive to him; but so selfish
was his love, that he would sooner have seen her
perish at his feet, than have rendered her assistance,
except at the price proposed.

Another month passed by, and still there was no
news of Edith or her mother. He grasped the daily
paper, almost with a sensation of fear, and glanced
at the column of deaths, which at that season usually
contains a goodly array. Their names were not yet
among them, or perchance in their poverty and obscurity
they would not find admittance even among
the daily list of mortality.

The yellow fever had commenced its annual
ravages, and Barclay retreated to a country-house
in the vicinity, owned by a friend, and dispatched a
confidential servant to inquire concerning Mrs.
Euston and her daughter. They were still in the
same place, but the mother had been ill, and was still
confined to her bed.

One morning, about two weeks afterward, Barclay
was seated in a delightful little saloon, over a late
breakfast. The room was furnished with every appliance
of modern luxury, and the morning air stirred
the branches of noble trees without, whose verdant
shade completely shut out the glare of the sun. A
servant entered, and presented to him a letter which
had just been left. The irregular hand with which
it was directed, prevented him from recognizing the
writing of Edith, and when he opened the missive,
which had evidently been blotted with her bitter
tears, a flush of triumph mounted to his cheek, and he
exclaimed with an oath,

“Mine at last!—I knew it must end thus!”

The letter contained the following words:

“Edith.“

There was much in this letter that was wounding
to his vanity, and bitter to his feelings; but he had
triumphed! The stately pride of this girl was humbled
before him—her spirit bowed in the dust before
the gaunt spectre she had thought herself capable of
braving. She would be his—the fair, the pure in
heart, would link herself to vice, infamy and crime,
for money. Money! the world’s god! See the
countless millions groveling upon the earth before
the great idol—the golden calf, which so often brings
with it as bitter a curse as was denounced against[226]
the people of old, when they forsook the living and
true God for its worship.

Can it not buy every thing—even woman’s love,
or the semblance of it, which would serve him just
as well? He, the murderer of the brother, would
purchase the compliance of the sister with this
magical agent; but—and his heart quailed at the
thought—could it buy self-respect? Could it enable
him to look into the clear eye of that woman he
would call his wife, and say, “My soul is worthy
to be linked with thine in the realms of eternity.”

No—he felt that the sacrilegious union must be
unblessed on earth, and severed in heaven, yet he
shrunk not from his purpose.

He lost no time in seeking Edith; Mrs. Euston was
yet buried in the leaden slumber produced by a
powerful narcotic. The unhappy girl received him
alone, and he remarked that his words of impassioned
love brought no color to her marble cheek—no emotion
to her soul; she seemed to have steeled herself
for the interview, and it was not until he pressed
the kiss of betrothal upon her pallid lips, that she betrayed
any sensibility—then a thrill, a shudder pervaded
her whole frame, and he supported her nearly
insensible form several moments before she regained
power to sustain herself. Could he have looked into
that breaking heart, and have read there all the
bitter loathing, the agonized struggles for self-control,
would he have persisted in his suit? Yes—for this
was a part of his vengeance for the slights she had
put upon him; and in the future, if she did not play
the part he thus forced upon her, with all the devotion
he should exact, had he not bitter words at his
command to taunt her with the scene of that morning?

A physician was called in, who advised the removal
of Mrs. Euston while she slept; and arrangements
were soon made to accomplish it. The family
to whom Barclay’s present retreat belonged, were
spending the summer at the north, and their house
had been left at his disposal. He determined to remove
Mrs. Euston and her daughter thither, while
he took up his own abode, until the day of his marriage,
with a bachelor friend in the neighborhood.

Edith demanded an interval of a week before their
union took place, which he reluctantly granted.
Naturally prodigal, he employed the time in ordering
the most elegant trousseau for his bride. She who so
lately was struggling with bitter want, was now surrounded
by servants eager to anticipate every wish,
while Barclay played the devoted lover. Edith
prayed earnestly for power to regard him with such
feelings as alone could hallow the union they were
about to form. Vain were her lonely struggles—her
tearful supplications; a spectral form seemed to rise
ever between them, and reproach her that she had
been so untrue to herself, even for the preservation
of a mother.

The only thing that consoled her for her great
sacrifice, was that her beloved mother seemed to
revive to some sense of enjoyment, when she
again found herself surrounded by that comfort to
which she had been accustomed. Weakened in
mind as in body, Mrs. Euston fondly flattered herself
that her daughter might yet be happy amid the
splendors of wealth; and the poor mother welcomed
the arbiter of their future fate with smiles and courteous
words, to which he listened with politeness,
and scorned as the hollow offspring of necessity.

The dreaded day at length arrived, and with the
calmness of exhausted emotion, Edith prepared herself
for the ceremony which was to consign her to
the protection of Barclay. She believed her earthly
fate sealed, and resignation was all she could command.

Amid all her suffering, there was one thought which
arose perpetually before her; there was one human
being on earth who would have risked his life to
serve or save her, and she knew that a heart worthy
of her love would hear the history of her enforced
marriage with bitter disappointment and anguish.

Near the home of her infancy dwelt a family of
sons and daughters with whom she had been reared
in habits of intimacy. Between herself and the
eldest son a strong attachment had grown up; it had
never been expressed in words, yet each felt as well
assured of the affection of the other, as if a thousand
protestations had been uttered. About the
time that Mrs. Euston and her daughter left their
own home to travel with their beloved invalid,
Walter Atwood bade adieu to his paternal home, on
a tour to Europe, where he was to complete his professional
education as a medical man.

Mrs. Euston’s place passed into the hands of
strangers, and after a few months all intercourse by
letter ceased between their former friends and themselves.
After the death of her son, the bereaved
mother would not consent to return to their former
neighborhood, and thus all trace of them was lost to
the Atwoods; but Edith knew in her deep heart that
Walter would return—would seek her; and it was
this conviction which gave her firmness to resist so
long the overtures of Barclay.

Now all was at an end; another hour and the right
even to think of him would no longer be hers. Her
mother entered her room, folded her to her breast,
and whispered,

“The hour has arrived, my child. Robert is here
with the clergyman. Do not keep them waiting.”

“I am quite ready, mother,” said Edith, calmly,
and she advanced without hesitation toward the door,
for she heard an impatient step without, which she
well knew. Barclay awaited her in the hall—he impetuously
seized her hand and drew it beneath his arm.

At that moment the door-bell was violently pulled,
and both turned impulsively to see who made so imperious
a demand for admittance.

At the open door stood two figures, one of a young
man, who appeared deeply agitated, for his features,
beneath the light of the lamps, seemed white and
rigid, as if cut from marble. Over his shoulder appeared
a swarthy face, with a pair of bright, keen
eyes, gleaming from beneath overhanging brows.

Edith and Barclay both uttered an exclamation—but
they were very different in their character. In
the impulse of the moment, the former drew her hand
forcibly from him who sought to retain it, and with[227]
one bound, was in the arms of the foremost stranger,
as she exclaimed,

“Walter—my saviour—my preserver! you have
come at last!”

The face of Atwood lost its unnatural rigidity as
he pressed her to his heart, and said,

“Thank Heaven! I am not then too late!”

Barclay advanced threateningly,

“What does this mean, sir? Are you aware that
such conduct in my house is not to be tolerated—that
you shall answer for it to me with your life?”

“It means, Mr. Barclay, that I come with authority
to prevent the unholy alliance you were about to
force upon this helpless and unprotected girl, to
place the seal upon your crimes, by clasping in
wedlock the hand of the sister with that which is
red with the brother’s blood.”

“‘T is false—the boy killed himself, as Edith herself
knows full well. Am I to be held accountable
for the dissipation of a young fool, who, when once
the curb was removed, went headlong to destruction
without the necessity of any prompting from me.”

“We will waive that part of the question, if you
please, Mr. Barclay. I have brought with me one
who can prove much more than that. Come forward,
Antoine.”

The Frenchman advanced, and Barclay grew pale
as he recognized him.

“Let us retire to a private room,” continued Atwood,
in a lower tone—”I would not have Mrs.
Euston and her daughter hear too suddenly the developments
I am prepared to make.”

Then turning to Edith he said—

“You are saved, my dear Edith. Retire with
your mother, while I settle with Mr. Barclay.”

Mechanically Barclay led the way into an adjoining
room. When there, he turned haughtily and said—

“Now, sir, explain yourself—tell me why my
privacy is thus invaded, and—”

Atwood interrupted him.

“It is useless to attempt bravado with me, sir.
Your whole career is too intimately known to me to
render it of any avail. You know that from my
boyhood I have loved Miss Euston, for you may remember
a conversation which took place between
us several years since, when you were received as
a visiter at her mother’s house. Jealousy enabled
you to penetrate what had been carefully veiled from
others, and you taxed me with what I would not
deny. Do you remember the words you used to the
boy you then spoke to? That you would move
heaven and earth to win Edith Euston.”

“To what does all this tend?” asked Barclay, in
an irritated tone.

“Patience, and you will see. I returned from
Europe and found that Mrs. Euston’s family had left
for Havanna. Her lawsuit had gone against her,
and she had lost her home. Nothing more was
known of her. I lost no time in following her. I
reached Cuba, and after many inquiries, traced her
to the house of the family which had received her
beneath their roof. There I heard the history of her
son’s unhappy death, at the moment he was about to
confer independence upon his mother and sister.
You were mentioned as a visiter after his death;
your generous offer to share with Miss Euston as
your wife the wealth which should have been hers
was dwelt on. All this aroused a vague suspicion
in my mind. I made minute inquiries, and traced
you through all the orgies of your dissipation. One
night I was following up the inquiry, and I entered a
tavern much frequented by foreigners. A man sat
apart in gloomy silence. One of his comrades said—

“‘Antoine grieves over the loss of his bird. All
the money the American paid him does not make
him forget that he sold his best friend!’

“By an electric chain of thought, the incident
which attended poor Euston’s last moments, occurred
to me. I approached the man, and addressed
him in French, for I saw that he was a native of
that country. I spoke of his bird. He shook his
head and said—

“‘It is not the loss of the bird, monsieur, but the
use that was made of him, that troubles my conscience.’

“In short, to condense a long story, I learned from
Antoine, that he remained in your lodgings several
days, until the mackaw he sold to you became sufficiently
accustomed to you to be caressed without
biting. During that time you had a room darkened,
and required him to train the bird to fly at a light and
overturn it. When he was dismissed, his curiosity
was excited, and he watched your movements. He
nightly dogged your steps, and traced you to the
garden of the villa. He stood within a few feet of
you on the night of Euston’s death, and beheld the
use to which you put his bird. His eyes, accustomed
to the gloom without, beheld your dark form glide to
the side of your victim. He saw your murderous
hand pressed upon the breast of the dying youth.”

“‘T is false—false. I defy him to prove it.”

“It is true, sir—the evidence is such as would
condemn you in any court; and now listen to me. I
offer you lenient terms, in consideration of the ties
of relationship which bind you to those you have so
cruelly oppressed. One third of the fortune for
which you have paid so fearful a price shall be yours,
if you will sign a paper I have with me, which will
restore the remainder to Mrs. Euston. If you refuse,
I have in my pocket a writ of arrest, and the officers
are in the shrubbery awaiting my orders to execute it.
Comply with my terms and I suffer you to escape.”

Thus confronted by imminent danger, Barclay
seemed to lose his courage and presence of mind.
He measured the floor with rapid steps a few moments,
and then turning to Atwood motioned for the
paper, to which he affixed his signature without
uttering a word.

“There is yet another condition,” said Atwood.

“Leave this country within forty-eight hours. If,
after that time, I am made aware of your presence
within the jurisdiction of the United States, I will
have you arrested as a murderer. The peace of
mind of those I have rescued from your power shall
not be periled by your presence within the same
land they inhabit.”[228]
Barclay ground his teeth with rage.

“I shall leave it, be assured, but not to escape
from this absurd charge.”

“Go then. I care not from what motive.”

Another instant, and Barclay had passed from the
room. Edith and her mother traveled to their former
home in the beautiful land of Florida, under the protection
of Atwood, and there, amid rejoicing friends,
surrounded by all the happy associations of her bright
youth, she gave her hand to her faithful lover.

Barclay perished in a street brawl, in a foreign
land, and the whole of her brother’s estate finally devolved
upon her.

A VOICE FOR POLAND.

BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.

TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND IT.

BY MAYNE REID.

Engraved by W. E. Tu

A PIC NIC IN OLDEN TIME.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine

A PIC-NIC IN OLDEN TIME.

BY QUEVEDO.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Joy is as old as the universe, yet as young as a
June rose: and a pic-nic has of all places been its
delight, since the little quiet family fêtes champêtres
of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. So it is of
no especial consequence in what reign of what kingdom
our clever artist has laid his scene—and sooth
to say, from the diversified and pleasantly incongruous
costume and accessories of the picture, it
might puzzle an uninitiated to tell. But we, who are
in the secrets of Maga, and to whom the very brain-workings
of her poets and painters are as palpable
as the crystal curdling of the lake beneath the filmy
breath of the Frost King, of course know all about
it, and will whisper in your ear the key to the pretty
harmonies of wood and sky and happy faces which
he has spread out in a sort of visible cavatina, or
dear little love-song, beneath your eye.

It was a gay time at Sweetbriar Lodge—for the
fair Alice Hawthorn had just been married to the
Squire of Deerdale, and the happy pair (new-married
people were even in those times happy, although
they were not so set down in the newspapers,) had
determined to spend the honeymoon quietly at
home, like sensible people, instead of posting off to
Bath or Brighton; or mewing themselves up in some
outlandish corner of the country, where they could
see and hear nothing but themselves, until they were
ready to commence the married life by being cloyed
with each other’s society. The season was mid-summer,
and the weather so balmy and beautiful
that after wandering about in the woods and fields all
day, and watching the moon creep stealthily up the
sky to view herself in the fountain, one felt a longing
to make his bed on the fresh turf under the katydid’s
bower, and sleep there. Of course I don’t
mean the young and happy bridegroom. He never
dreamed of being absent from his Alice; and he
even felt quite jealous of her little sister Emma, who
used sometimes to come and put her laughing, roguish
face and curly head between the lovers, as they were
sitting on the sofa or reclining on the green turf by
the little fountain.

But Alice had another sister, older than herself,
and who had already refused several excellent offers
of marriage—declaring that she intended to live and
die single, unless she should fall in love with some
wandering minstrel or prince in disguise, like Lalla
Rookh. Her name was Hortensia; but on account
of her proud indifference to the attentions and compliments
which were every where offered to her
wonderful beauty, she was usually called Haughty
Hawthorn—a name which seemed to please her better
than all the flatteries of which she was the object.
She was already twenty-two, and ripening into the
full magnificence of glorious womanhood—her heart
yet untouched by the electric dart of love, and her
fancy free as the birds of air.

Now it was quite natural that the gentle Alice,
whom love had made so happy, should willingly
enter into a conspiracy with her husband and a parcel
of the young people of the neighborhood against
the peace and comfort of her haughty sister—deeming
of course—as I myself am also of opinion—that
a young lady out of love ought to be supremely
miserable, whatever she herself may think about it.

Keeping in view the peculiar requisites required
by Haughty in a lover, the plan was to get up an old-fashioned
pic-nic, at which a young friend of Squire
Deerdale, who was studying for an artist, and had
just returned from Italy, where he had picked up a
little music as well as painting, should be introduced
after a mysterious fashion, which would be sure to
inflame the imagination of the loveless lady. The
artist, according to the squire, was handsome as a
prince and eloquent as a minstrel, and his extensive
practice in Rome had made him perfect master of
the fine arts, the art of making love included. So
the pic-nic was proposed that very evening, to take
place the next day. Hortensia, who was fond of frolick
and fun as the best of them, albeit not yet in
love, fell at once into the snare; and the squire carelessly
led the conversation to turn upon the sudden
and unexpected arrival of the young Duke of St.
James upon his magnificent estate adjoining Sweetbriar
Lodge, which he said had taken place that very
day.

“The duke,” said the squire, “is, as you all have
heard, one of the most romantic and sentimental
youths in the world, and quite out of the way of our
ordinary extravagant, matter-of-fact young nobility.
I had the pleasure of meeting him when I was in
Rome, and could not help being charmed with him.
He read and wrote poetry divinely, played the mandolin
like St. Cecilia, and sung like an improvisatore.
I met him to-day, as he was approaching
home in his carriage, and found him, as well as I
could judge from a five minutes’ conversation, the
same as ever. I say nothing—but should a fresh-looking,
golden-haired, dreamy-eyed youth be seen
at our pic-nic to-morrow, I hope he will be greeted
with the courtesy and welcome due not only to a
neighbor but a man of genius.”

This adroitly concocted speech was drank in like
wine by the unsuspicious Hortensia. A duke! a
poet! a romantic man of genius! What was it
made her heart beat so rapidly?—her heart, that had
never beat out of time save over the page of the poet
or the novelist—or may be in the trance of some beautiful
midnight dream, such as love to hover around
the pillows of fair maidens, and who can blame them?[230]

The next morning, as Willis says of one of his
fine days, was astray from Paradise; and bright and
early our pic-nickers, comprising a goodly company
of young people, married and single, with several
beautiful children, including of course the roguish
Emma, were on the field selected for the day’s campaign.
It was a lovely spot. Under a noble oak
whose limbs, rounded into a leafy dome, shed a palpitating
shadow around a sweet little fountain,
guarded by a marble naiad, gathered the merry company
upon the green velvet ottoman, daisy-spangled,
that ran around this splendid natural saloon, bower
and drawing-room combined. The day had fulfilled
the golden promise of the early morning; the air, impregnated
with a sparkling, effervescing sunshine,
was as bewitching as the breath of champagne foam,
and our adventurers were in the liveliest and gayest
spirits.

Noon was culminating, and the less excitable and
more worldly portion of the company began to be
thinking seriously of the bountiful refection which
had been provided for the grand occasion. Hortensia,
it was observed by Squire Deerdale and his
wife, and the others who were in the secret, had
seemed absent and thoughtful, all the morning, and
little Emma had teased her sufficiently for not playing
with her as usual. At this moment a young man
was seen coming down the broad sloping glade at
the foot of which the party were seated. The squire
immediately rose and welcomed the stranger, introducing
him to his bride and sister-in-law, and expressing
his pleasure that he had come. “We
almost began to fear,” he added, “that you had forgotten
our humble festival.”

“A fête thus embellished,” replied the stranger,
bowing with peculiar grace to the ladies, and glancing
admiringly at Hortensia, “is not an affair to be so
easily forgotten by a wanderer who comes, after
years of exile, to revive beneath the blue skies and
bluer eyes of his native land.”

“But your mandolin, Signor Foreigner; I hope
you have not forgotten that?”

“Oh no indeed,” returned the stranger with a
musical laugh, “I never forget my little friend,
whose harmonies have often been my only company.
Here it comes,” pointing to a lad who just then came
up, bearing a handsome though outlandish-looking
guitar gingerly across his arm.