J. Addison

ANGILA MERVALE

or

SIX MONTHS BEFORE MARRIAGE.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXIII.     
    PHILADELPHIA,  SEPTEMBER,  1848. 
       No. 3.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ANGILA MERVALE;

OR SIX MONTHS BEFORE MARRIAGE.

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF “AARON’S ROD,” “TELLING SECRETS,” ETC.

“They say Miss Morton is engaged to Robert
Hazlewood,” said Augusta Lenox.

“So I hear,” replied Angila Mervale, to whom
this piece of news had been communicated. “How
can she?”

“How can she, indeed?” replied Augusta. “He’s
an ugly fellow.”

“Ugly! yes,” continued Angila, “and a disagreeable
ugliness, too. I don’t care about a man’s
being handsome—a plain black ugliness I don’t
object to—but red ugliness, ah!”

“They say he’s clever,” said Augusta.

“They always say that, my dear, of any one
that’s so ugly,” replied Angila. “I don’t believe it.
He’s conceited, and I think disagreeable; and I
don’t believe he’s clever.”

“I remarked last night that he was very attentive
to Mary Morton,” continued Augusta. “They
waltzed together several times.”

“Yes, and how badly he waltzes,” said Angila.
“Mary Morton is too pretty a girl for such an awkward,
ugly man. How lovely she looked last night.
I hope it’s not an engagement, for I quite like her.”

“Well, perhaps it is not. It’s only one of the
on dits, and probably a mere report.”

“Who are you discussing, girls?” asked Mrs.
Mervale, from the other side of the room.

“Robert Hazlewood and Miss Morton,” replied
Augusta, “they are said to be engaged.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Mervale. “Is it a good match
for her?”

“Oh, no! chimed in both the girls at once. “He’s
neither handsome, nor rich, nor any thing.”

“Nor any thing!” repeated Mrs. Mervale, laughing.
“Well, that’s comprehensive. A young man
may be a very respectable young man, and be a very
fair match for a girl without being either handsome or
rich; but if he is positively ‘nothing,’ why, then, I
grant you, it is bad indeed.”

“Oh, I believe he is respectable enough,” replied
Augusta, carelessly, for, like most young girls, the
word “respectable” did not rank very high in her
vocabulary.

“And if he is not rich, what are they to live on,”
asked Mrs. Mervale.

“Love and the law, I suppose,” replied her
daughter, laughing. “He’s a lawyer, is he not
Augusta?”

“Oh!” resumed Mrs. Mervale, “he’s a son, then,
I suppose, of old John Hazlewood.”

“Yes,” replied Augusta.

“Then he may do very well in his profession,”
continued Mrs. Mervale, “for his father has a large
practice I know, and is a very respectable man. If
this is a clever young man, he may tread in his
father’s footsteps.”

This did not convey any very high eulogium to the
young ladies’ ears. That young Robert Hazlewood
might be an old John Hazlewood in his turn and
time, did not strike them as a very brilliant future.
In fact they did not think more of the old man than
they did of the young one.

Old gentlemen, however, were not at quite such a
discount with Mrs. Mervale as with her daughter
and her friend; and she continued to descant upon
the high standing of Mr. Hazlewood the elder, not
one word in ten of which the girls heard, for she,
like most old ladies, once started upon former times,
was thinking of the pleasant young John Hazlewood
of early days, who brought back with him a host
of reminiscences, with which she indulged herself
and the girls, while they, their heads full of last
night’s party and Mary Morton and Robert Hazlewood,
listened as civilly as they could, quite unable
to keep the thread of her discourse, confounding in
her history Robert Hazlewood’s mother with his
grandmother, and wondering all the while when she
would stop, that they might resume their gossip.[122]

“You visit his sister, Mrs. Constant, don’t you?”
asked Augusta.

“Yes, we have always visited the Hazlewoods,”
replied Angila, “but I am not intimate with any of
them. They always seemed to me those kind of
pattern people I dislike.”

“Is Mr. Constant well off?” inquired Mrs.
Mervale.

“No, I should think not,” replied Angila, “from
the way in which they live. They have a little
bit of a two-story house, and keep only a waiter
girl. How I do hate to see a woman open the door,”
she continued, addressing Augusta.

“So do I,” replied her friend. “I would have a
man servant—a woman looks so shabby.”

“Yes,” returned Angila. “There’s nothing I
dislike so much. No woman shall ever go to my
door.”

“If you have a man servant,” suggested Mrs.
Mervale.

“Of course,” said Angila; “and that I will.”

“But suppose you cannot afford it,” said her
mother.

“I don’t choose to suppose any thing so disagreeable
or improbable,” replied her daughter,
gayly.

“It may be disagreeable,” continued Mrs. Mervale,
“but I don’t see the improbability of the thing,
Angila, nor, indeed, the disagreeability even. The
Constants are young people with a small family, and
I think a woman is quite sufficient for them. Their
house is small, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes, a little bit of a place.”

“Large enough for them,” replied Mrs. Mervale,
whose ideas were not as enlarged as her daughter’s.

“Perhaps so,” said Angila, “but I do hate low
ceilings so. I don’t care about a large house, but I
do like large rooms.”

“You can hardly have large rooms in a small
house,” remarked Mrs. Mervale, smiling.

“Why, Mrs. Astley’s is only a two-story house,
mamma, and her rooms are larger than these.”

“Yes, my dear, Mrs. Astley’s is an expensive
house; the lot must be thirty feet by—”

But Angila had no time to go into the dimensions
of people’s “lots.” She and Augusta were back to
the party again; and they discussed dresses, and
looks, and manners, with great goût.

Their criticisms were, like most young people’s,
always in extremes. The girls had either looked
“lovely” or “frightful,” and the young men were
either “charming” or “odious;” and they themselves,
from their own account, had been in a constant state
of either delight or terror.

“I was so afraid Robert Hazlewood was going to
ask me to waltz,” said Angila; “and he waltzes so
abominably that I did not know what I should do.
But, to my delight, he asked me only for a cotillion,
and I fortunately was engaged. I was so glad it
was so.”

“Then you did not dance with him at all?”

“No—to my great joy, he walked off, angry, I
believe.”

“Oh, my dear!” remonstrated her mother.

“Why not, mother,” replied Angila. “He’s my
‘favorite aversion.’ Well, Augusta,” she continued,
turning to her friend, “and when do you sail for
New Orleans?”

“On Monday,” replied Augusta.

“On Monday!—so soon! Oh, what shall I do
without you, Augusta!” said Angila, quite pathetically.
“And you will be gone six months, you
think?”

“Yes, so papa says,” replied the young lady.
“He does not expect to be able to return before
May.”

“Not before May! And its only November now!”
said Angila, in prolonged accents of grief. “How
much may happen in that time!”

“Yes,” returned her friend, gaily, “you may be
engaged before that.”

“Not much danger,” replied Angila, laughing.

“But remember, I am to be bridemaid,” continued
Augusta.

“Certainly,” said Angila, in the same tone, “I
shall expect you from New Orleans on purpose.”

“And who will it be to, Angila,” said Augusta.

“That’s more than I can tell,” replied Angila;
“but somebody that’s very charming, I promise
you.”

“By the way, what is your beau ideal, Angila, I
never heard you say,” continued Augusta.

“My beau ideal is as shadowy and indistinct as
one of Ossian’s heroes,” replied Angila, laughing;
“something very distinguished in air and manners,
with black eyes and hair, are the only points decided
on. For the rest, Augusta, I refer you to Futurity,”
she added, gayly.

“I wonder who you will marry!” said Augusta,
with the sudden fervor of a young lady on so interesting
a topic.

“I don’t know, only nobody that I have ever seen
yet,” replied Angila, with animation.

“He must be handsome, I suppose,” said Augusta.

“No,” replied Angila, “I don’t care for beauty.
A man should have a decided air of the gentleman,
with an expression of talent, height, and all that—but
I don’t care about what you call beauty.”

“You are very moderate, indeed, in your requirements,
my dear,” said her mother, laughing. “And
pray, my love, what have you to offer this rara avis
in return for such extraordinary charms.”

“Love, mamma,” replied the gay girl, smiling.

“And suppose, my dear,” pursued her mother,
“that your hero should set as high an estimate upon
himself as you do upon yourself. Your tall, elegant,
talented man, may expect a wife who has fortune,
beauty and talents, too.”

Angila laughed. She was not vain, but she knew
she was pretty, and she was sufficiently of a belle to
be satisfied with her own powers if she could only
meet with the man, so she said, playfully.

“Well, then, mamma, he won’t be my hero, that’s
all.”

And no doubt she answered truly. The possession
of such gifts are very apt to vary in young ladies’[123]
eyes according to the gentleman’s perception of their
charms. And heroes differ from one another, according
as the pronouns “mine and thine,” may be pre-fixed
to his title.

“And such a bijou of a house as I mean to have,”
continued Angila, with animation. “The back
parlor and dining-room shall open into a conservatory,
where I shall have any quantity of canary-birds—”

“My dear,” interrupted her mother, “what nonsense
you do talk.”

“Why, mamma,” said Angila, opening her eyes
very wide, “don’t you like canaries?”

“Yes, my dear,” replied her mother, “I don’t
object to aviaries or conservatories, only to your
talking of them in this way, as matters of course and
necessity. They are all very well for rich people.”

“Well, then, I mean to be rich,” continued Angila,
playfully.

“That’s the very nonsense I complain of,” said
her mother. “It’s barely possible, but certainly
very improbable, Angila, that you ever should be
rich; and considering you have been used to nothing
of the kind, it really amuses me to hear you talk so.
Your father and I have lived all our lives very comfortably
and happily, Angila, without either aviary
or conservatory, and I rather think you will do the
same, my love.”

“Your father and I!” What a falling off was
there! for although Angila loved her father and
mother dearly, she could not imagine herself intent
upon household occupations, an excellent motherly
woman some thirty years hence, any more than that
her beau ideal should wear pepper and salt like her
father.

“It was all very well for papa and mamma,” but
to persuade a girl of eighteen that she wants no more
than her mother, whose heart happens to be like Mrs.
Mervale, just then full of a new carpet that Mr.
Mervale is hesitating about affording, is out of the
question.

And, unreasonable as it may be, whoever would
make a young girl more rational, destroys at once
the chief charm of her youth—the exuberance of her
fresh imagination, that gilds not only the future, but
throws a rosy light upon all surrounding objects.
Her visions, I grant you, are absurd, but the girl
without visions is a clod of the valley, for she is
without imagination—and without imagination, what
is life? what is love?”

Never fear that her visions will not be fulfilled,
and therefore bring disappointment—for the power
carries the pleasure with it. The same gift that
traces the outline, fills up the sketch. The girls
who dream of heroes are those most ready to fall in
love with any body—and no woman is so hard to
interest as she who never had a vision, and consequently
sees men just as they are; and so if Angila
talked nonsense, Mrs. Mervale’s sense was not much
wiser.

Angila was a pretty, playful, romantic girl, rather
intolerant of the people she did not like, and enthusiastic
about those she did; full of life and animation,
she was a decided belle in the gay circle in which
she moved.

Miss Lenox was her dearest friend for the time
being, and the proposed separation for the next six
months was looked upon as a cruel affliction, only to
be softened by the most frequent and confidential
correspondence.

For the first few weeks of Augusta’s absence, the
promises exchanged on both sides were vehemently
fulfilled. Letters were written two or three limes a
week, detailing every minute circumstance that
happened to either. But at the end of that time
Angila was at a party where she met Robert Hazlewood,
who talked to her for some time. It was not
a dancing party, and consequently they conversed
together more than they had ever done before. He
seemed extremely amused with her liveliness, and
looked at her with unmistakable admiration. Had
Augusta Lenox been there to see, perhaps Angila
would not have received his attentions so graciously;
but there being nothing to remind her of his being
her “favorite aversion,” she talked with animation,
pleased with the admiration she excited, without
being annoyed by any inconvenient reminiscences.
And not only was Miss Lenox absent, but Miss
Morton was present, and Angila thought she looked
over at them a little anxiously; so that a little spirit
of rivalry heightened, if not her pleasure, certainly
Hazlewood’s consequence in her eyes. Girls are
often much influenced by each other in these
matters—and the absence of Miss Lenox, who “did not
think much of Robert Hazlewood,” with the presence
of Miss Morton who did, had no small influence in
Angila’s future fate.

“Did you have a pleasant party?” asked Mrs.
Mervale, who had not been with her daughter the
evening before.

“Yes, very pleasant,” replied Angila; “one of
the pleasantest ‘conversation parties’ I have ever
been at.”

And “who was there—and who did you talk to?”
were the next questions, which launched Angila in
a full length description of every thing and every
body—and among them figured quite conspicuously
Robert Hazlewood.

“And you found him really clever?” said her
mother.

“Oh, decidedly,” replied her daughter.

“Who,” said her brother, looking up from his
breakfast, “Hazlewood? Certainly he is. He’s
considered one of the cleverest among the young
lawyers. Decidedly a man of talent.”

Angila looked pleased.

“His father is a man of talent before him,” observed
Mrs. Mervale. “As a family, the Hazlewoods
have always been distinguished for ability.
This young man is ugly, you say, Angila?”

“Yes—” replied Angila, though with some hesitation.
“Yes, he is ugly, certainly—but he has a good
countenance; and when he converses he is better
looking than I thought him.”

“It’s a pity he’s conceited,” said Mrs. Mervale,
innocently; her impression of the young man being[124]
taken from her daughter’s previous description of
him. “Since he is really clever, it’s a pity, for it’s
such a drawback always.”

“Conceited! I don’t think he’s conceited,” said
Angila, quite forgetting her yesterday’s opinion.

“Don’t you? I thought it was you who said so,
my dear,” replied her mother, quietly.

“Yes, I did once think so,” said Angila, slightly
blushing at her own inconsistency. “I don’t know
why I took the idea in my head—but in fact I talked
more to him, and became better acquainted with him
last evening than I ever have before. When there
is dancing, there is so little time for conversation;
and he really talks very well.”

“He is engaged to Miss Morton, you say?” continued
Mrs. Mervale.

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Angila, adding, as
she remembered the animated looks of admiration
he had bestowed upon herself, “I doubt it—that is
the report, however.”

“Hazlewood’s no more engaged to Mary Morton
than I am,” said young Mervale, carelessly. “Where
did you get that idea?”

“Why every body says so, George,” said Angila.

“Pshaw! every body’s saying so don’t make it so.”

“But he’s very attentive to her,” replied Angila.

“Well, and if he is,” retorted Mervale, “it does
not follow that he must be in love with her. You
women do jump to conclusions, and make up matches
in such a way,” he continued, almost angrily.

“I think she likes him,” pursued Angila. “I
think she would have him.”

“Have him! to be sure she would,” replied
George, in the same tone; not that he considered the
young lady particularly in love with his friend, but
as if any girl might be glad to have him—for brothers
are very apt to view such cases differently from
sisters, who refuse young gentlemen for their friends
without mercy.

“But he’s ugly, you say,” continued Mrs. Mervale,
sorrowfully, who, old lady as she was, liked a handsome
young man, and always lamented when she
found mental gifts unaccompanied by personal
charms.

“Yes, he’s no beauty, that’s certain,” said Angila,
gayly.

“Has he a good air and figure?” pursued Mrs.
Mervale, still hoping so clever a man might be
better looking after all.

“Yes, tolerable—middle height—nothing remarkable
one way or the other.” And then the young
lady went off to tell some piece of news, that quite
put Mr. Hazlewood out of her mother’s head for the
present.

When Angila next wrote to Augusta, although she
spoke of Mrs. Carpenter’s party, a little consciousness
prevented her saying much about Robert Hazlewood,
and consequently her friend was quite unsuspicious
of the large share he had in making the party
she described so pleasant.

Hazlewood had really been pleased by Angila.
She was pretty—and he found her lively and intelligent.
He had always been inclined to admire her,
but she had turned from him once or twice in what
he had thought a haughty manner, and consequently
he had scarcely known her until they met at this
little conversazione of Mrs. Carpenter’s, where
accident placed them near each other. The party
was so small that where people happened to find
themselves, there they staid—it requiring some
courage for a young man to break the charmed ring,
and deliberately plant himself before any lady, or
attempt to talk to any one except her beside whom
fate had placed him.

Now Angila had the corner seat on a sofa near the
fire-place, and Hazlewood was standing, leaning
against the chimney-piece, so that a nicer, more
cosy position for a pleasant talk could hardly be conceived
in so small a circle. Miss Morton was on
the other side of the fire-place, occupying the corresponding
situation to Angila, and Angila could see
her peeping forward from time to time to see if
Hazlewood still maintained his place. His back was
turned toward her, so if she did throw any anxious
glances that way, he did not see them.

Angila met him a few evenings after this at the
Opera, and found that he was a passionate lover of
music. They talked again, and he very well, for he
really was a sensible, well-educated young man.
Music is a favorite source of inspiration, and Hazlewood
was a connoisseur as well as amateur. She
found that he seldom missed a night at the Opera,
and “she was surprised she had not seen him there
before, as she went herself very often.”

“He had seen her, however;” and he looked as if
it were not easy not to see her when she was there.

She blushed and was pleased, for it evidently was
not an unmeaning compliment.

“Mr. Hazlewood’s very clever,” she said the next
day; “and his tastes are so cultivated and refined.
He is very different from the usual run of young
men.” (When a girl begins to think a man different
from the “usual run,” you may be sure she herself
is off the common track.) “There’s something very
manly in all his sentiments, independent and high-toned.
He cannot be engaged to Mary Morton, for
I alluded to the report, and he seemed quite amused
at the idea. I can see he thinks her very silly, which
she is, though pretty—though he was two gentlemanly
to say so.”

“How, then, did you find out that he thought so,”
asked George, smiling.

“Oh, from one or two little things. We were
speaking of a German poem that I was trying to get
the other day, and he said he had it, but had lent it
to Miss Morton. ‘However,’ he added, with a
peculiar smile, ‘he did not believe she wanted to read
it, and at any rate, he would bring it to me as soon
as she returned it. He doubted whether she was
much of a German reader.’ But it was more the
smile and the manner in which he said it, than the
words, that made me think he had no very high
opinion of her literary tastes.”

“He may not like her any the less for that,” said
George, carelessly. “I think your clever literary
men rarely do value a woman less for her ignorance.”[125]

But there was an expression in Angila’s pretty
face that seemed to contradict this assertion; for, like
most pretty women, the was vainer of her talents than
her beauty—and she thought Hazlewood had been
quite struck by some of her criticisms the night before.

However this might be, the intimacy seemed to
progress at a wonderful rate. He called and brought
her books; and they had a world to say every time
they met, which, whether by accident or design, was
now beginning to be very often.

“You knew old Mr. Hazlewood, mamma, did not
you?” said Angila. “And who did you say Mrs.
Hazlewood was?” And now she listened very
differently from the last time that her mother had
launched forth on the topic of old times and friends.
Angila was wonderfully interested in all the history
of the whole race, for Mrs. Mervale began with the
great grandfathers, maternal and paternal; and she
kept the thread of the story with surprising distinctness,
and made out the family pedigree with amazing
correctness.

“Then they are an excellent family, mamma,”
she said.

“To be sure they are,” replied Mrs. Mervale,
“one of the oldest and best in the city.”

It was wonderful what a quantity of books Angila
read just about this time; but Hazlewood was always
sending her something, which she seemed to take
peculiar pleasure in surprising him by having finished
before they met again. And her bright eyes grew
brighter, and occasionally, and that not unfrequently,
they had an abstracted, dreamy look, as if her thoughts
were far away, occupied in very pleasant visions—whether
they were now of Ossian-heroes, dark-eyed
and dim, we doubt.

She was rather unpleasantly roused to a waking
state, however, by a passage in one of Augusta
Lenox’s last letters, which was,

“What has become of your ‘favorite aversion,’
Robert Hazlewood? When are he and Mary Morton
to be married? I give her joy of him—as you say,
how can she?”

Angila colored scarlet with indignation as she read
this, almost wondering at first what Augusta meant.

She did not answer the letter; some consciousness,
mixed with a good deal of vexation, prevented her.

Hazlewood’s attentions to Angila began to be
talked of a good deal. Her mother was congratulated,
and she was complimented, for every body spoke
well of him. “A remarkably clever young man
with excellent prospects,” the old people said. The
young girls talked of him probably pretty much as
Angila and Augusta had done—but she did not hear
that, and the young men said,

“Hazlewood was a devilish clever fellow, and
that Angila Mervale would do very well if she could
get him.”

That the gentleman was desperately in love there
was no doubt; and as for the young lady—that she
was flattered and pleased and interested, was hardly
less clear. Her bright eyes grew softer and more
dreamy every day.

Of what was she dreaming? What could her
visions be now? Can she by any possibility make
a hero of Robert Hazlewood? Sober common sense
would say “No!” but bright-eyed, youthful imagination
may boldly answer, “Why not?” Time, however,
can only decide that point.

Two more letters came from Augusta Lenox about
this time, and remained unanswered. “Wait till I
am engaged,” Angila had unconsciously said to herself,
and then blushed the deepest blush, as she
caught the words that had risen to her lips.

She did not wait long, however. Bright, beaming,
blushing and tearful, she soon announced the intelligence
to her mother, asking her consent, and permission
to refer Mr. Hazlewood to her father.

The Mervales were very well pleased with the
match, which, in fact, was an excellent one, young
Hazlewood being in every respect Angila’s superior,
except in appearance, where she, as is the woman’s
right, bore the palm of beauty. Not but that she was
quick, intelligent, and well cultivated; but there are
more such girls by hundreds in our community, than
there are men of talent, reading, industry and worth
to merit them; and Angila was amazingly happy to
have been one of the fortunate few to whose lot such
a man falls.

And now, indeed, she wrote a long, long letter to
Augusta—so full of happiness, describing Hazlewood,
as she thought, so distinctly, that Augusta must recognize
him at once—so she concluded by saying,

“And now I need not name him, as you must know
who I mean.”

“I must know who she means!” said Augusta,
much perplexed. “Why I am sure I cannot imagine
who she means! Talented, agreeable, with cultivated
tastes! Who can it be? ‘Not handsome, but very
gentlemanlike-looking.’ Well, I have no idea who it
is—I certainly cannot know the man. But as we
sail next week, I shall be at home in time for the
wedding. How odd that I should be really her
bridemaid in May after all!”

Miss Lenox arrived about two months after Angila’s
engagement had been announced, and found
her friend brilliant with happiness. After the first
exclamations and greetings, Augusta said with impatient
curiosity,

“But who is it, Angila—you never told me?”

“But surely you guessed at once,” said Angila,
incredulously.

“No, indeed,” replied her friend, earnestly, “I
have not the most distant idea.”

“Why, Robert Hazlewood, to be sure!”

“Robert Hazlewood! Oh, Angila! You are jesting,”
exclaimed her friend, thrown quite off her
guard by astonishment.

“Yes, indeed!” replied Angila, with eager delight,
attributing Augusta’s surprise and incredulous
tones to quite another source. “You may well be
surprised, Augusta. Is it not strange that such a
man—one of his superior talents—should have fallen
in love with such a mad-cap as me.”

Augusta could hardly believe her ears. But the
truth was, that Angila had so long since forgotten her
prejudice, founded on nothing, against Hazlewood,[126]
that she was not conscious now that she had ever
entertained any such feelings. She was not obliged,
in common phrase, to “eat her own words,” for
she quite forgot that she had ever uttered them. And
now, with the utmost enthusiasm, she entered into
all her plans and prospects—told Augusta, with the
greatest interest, as if she thought the theme must be
equally delightful to her friend—all her mother’s
long story about the old Hazlewoods, and what a
“charming nice family they were,” (“those pattern
people that she hated so,” as Augusta remembered,
but all of which was buried in the happiest oblivion
with Angila,) and the dear little house that was being
furnished like a bijou next to Mrs. Constant’s, (next
to Mrs. Constant’s!—one of those small houses with
low ceilings! Augusta gasped;) and how many servants
she was going to keep; and what a nice young
girl she had engaged already as waiter.

“You mean, then, to have a woman waiter?”
Augusta could not help saying.

“Oh, to be sure!” said Angila. “What should I
do with a man in such a pretty little establishment
as I mean to have. And then you know we must
be economical—Mr. Hazlewood is a young lawyer,
and I don’t mean to let him slave himself to make
the two ends meet. You’ll see what a nice economical
little housekeeper I’ll be.”

And, in short, Augusta found that the same bright,
warm imagination that had made Angila once dream
of Ossian-heroes, now endowed Robert Hazlewood
with every charm she wanted, and even threw a
romantic glow over a small house, low ceilings,
small economies, and all but turned the woman-servant
into a man. Cinderella’s godmother could
hardly have done more. Such is the power of
love!

“Well,” said Augusta, in talking it all over with
her brother, “I cannot comprehend it yet; Angila,
who used to be so fastidious, so critical, who expected
so much in the man she was to marry!”

“She is not the first young lady who has come
down from her pedestal,” replied her brother,
laughing.

“No, but she has not,” returned Augusta, “that’s
the oddest part of the whole—she has only contrived
somehow to raise Hazlewood on a pedestal, too.
You’d think they were the only couple in the world
going to be married. She’s actually in love with
him, desperately in love with him; and it was only
just before I went to New Orleans that she said—”

“My dear,” interrupted her mother, “there’s no
subject on which women change their minds oftener
than on this. Love works wonders—indeed, the
only miracles left in the world are of his creation.”

“But she used to wonder at Mary Morton’s liking
him, mamma.”

“Ah, my dear,” replied her mother, “that was
when he was attentive to Mary Morton and not her.
It makes a wonderful difference when the thing
becomes personal. And if you really love Angila,
my dear, you will forget, or at least not repeat, what
she said six months before marriage.”

A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND

BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.

[The subject of the following ballad may be found in the “Christus
Super Aquas” of Mather’s Magnalia.]

SONG OF SLEEP.

BY G. G. FOSTER.

THE CRUISE OF THE RAKER.

A TALE OF THE WAR OF 1812-15.

BY HENRY A. CLARK.

(Continued from page 74.)

CHAPTER III.

The Chase and the Capture.

On the deck of the pirate craft stood a young man
of powerful frame, and singularly savage features,
rendered more repulsive by the disposition of the hair
which was allowed to grow almost over the entire
mouth, and hung from the chin in heavy masses
nearly to the waist. With his elbow resting against
the fore-mast of the vessel, he was gazing through a
spy-glass upon the brig he had been so long pursuing.
A burly negro stood at the helm, holding the tiller,
and steering the brig with an ease which denoted his
vast strength, scarcely moving his body, but meeting
the long waves, which washed over the side of the
vessel, and rushed in torrents through the hawse-holes,
merely by the power of his arm.

“Keep her more in the wind,” shouted the commander,
with an oath, to the helmsman.

“Ay, ay sir,” responded the negro gruffly.

“Don’t let me hear a sail flap again or I’ll score
your back for you, you son of a sea-cook.”

With this pleasant admonition the young man resumed
his night-glass.

The captain of the pirate brig was an Englishman
by birth; his history was little known even to his
own crew, but it was remarkable that though always
savage and blood-thirsty, he was peculiarly so to his
own countrymen, evincing a hatred and malignancy
toward every thing connected with his native land,
that seemed more than fiendish—never smiling but
when his sword was red with the blood of his countrymen,
and his foot planted upon her conquered
banner. It was evident that some deep wrong had
driven him forth to become an outcast and a fiend.
A close inspection of his features developed the outlines
of a noble countenance yet remaining, though
marred and deformed by years of passion and of
crime. His crew, which numbered nearly fifty, were
gathered from almost every nation of the civilized
world, yet were all completely under his command.
They were now scattered over the vessel in various
lounging attitudes, apparently careless of every thing
beyond the ease of the passing moment, leaving the
management of the brig to the two or three hands
necessary to control the graceful and obedient craft.

For long hours the captain of the pirate brig stood
following the motions of the flying merchantman; he
thought not of sleep or of refreshment, it was enough
for him that he was in pursuit of an English vessel,
that his revenge was again to be gratified with English
blood.

He was roused by a light touch of the arm—he
turned impatiently.

“Why, Florette.”

A beautiful girl stood beside him, gazing into his
face half with fear and half with love. Her dress
was partly that of a girl and partly of a boy; over a
pair of white loose sailor’s trowsers a short gown
was thrown, fastened with a blue zone, and her long
hair fell in thick, luxuriant masses from beneath a
gracefully shaped little straw hat—altogether she
was as lovely in feature and form as Venus herself,
with an eye blue as the ocean, and a voice soft and
sweet as the southern breeze.

“Dear William, will you not go below and take
some rest?”

“I want none, girl; I shall not sleep till every
man on yonder vessel has gone to rest in the caves
of ocean.”

“But you will eat?”

“Pshaw! Florette, leave me; your place is below.”

The girl said no more, but slowly glided to the
companion-way and disappeared into the little cabin.

The long night at length wore away, and as the
clear light of morning shone upon the waters the
merchant vessel was no longer visible from the deck
of the pirate.

“A thousand devils! has he escaped me. Ho!
the one of you with the sharpest eyes up to the mast-head.
Stay, I will go myself.”

Thus speaking, the captain mounted the main-mast
and gazed long and anxiously; he could see nothing
of the vessel. He mounted still higher, climbing the
slender top-mast till with his hand resting upon the
main-truck he once more looked over the horizon.
Thus far his gaze had been directed to windward, in
the course where the vanished brig had last been
seen. At length he turned to leeward, and far in the
distant horizon his eagle eye caught faint sight of a
sail, like the white and glancing wing of a bird.
With wonderful rapidity he slid to the deck, and
gave orders to set the brig before the wind. The
beautiful little bark fell off gracefully, and in a moment
was swiftly retracing the waters it had beaten
over during the night.

“The revenge will be no less sweet that it is deferred,”
exclaimed the pirate captain, as he threw
himself upon the companion-way. “Thirty English[130]
vessels have I sunk in the deep, and I am not yet
satisfied—no, no, curses on her name, curses on her
laws, they have driven me forth from a lordly heritage
and an ancient name to die an outcast and a
pirate.”

Pulling his hat over his dark brow, he sat long in
deep thought, and not one in all his savage crew but
would have preferred to board a vessel of twice
their size than to rouse his commander from his
thoughtful mood.

Captain Horton for some hours after it had become
dark the preceding night, had kept his vessel on the
same course, perplexing his mind with some scheme
by which he might deceive the pirate. At length he
gave orders to lower away the yawl boat, and fit a
mast to it, which was speedily done. When all was
ready, he hung a lantern to the mast, with a light that
would burn but a short time, and then putting out his
own ship-light, he fastened the tiller of the yawl and
set it adrift, knowing that it would keep its course
until some sudden gust of wind should overcome its
steerage way. As soon as he had accomplished this,
he fell off before the wind, and setting his brig on
the opposite tack, as soon as he had got to a good
distance from the light of the yawl, took in all sail
till not a rag was left standing. He kept his brig in
this position until he had the satisfaction of seeing
the pirate brig pass to windward in pursuit of his
boat, whose light he knew would go out before the
pirate could overtake it. When the light of the
chase had become faint in the distance, he immediately
crowded on all sail, and stood off boldly on
his original course.

None of his crew had gone below to turn in, for
all were too anxious to sleep, and his passengers still
stood beside him upon the quarter-deck; John with
a large bundle under his arm, which, in answer to
an inquiry from the merchant, he said was merely a
change of dress.

“I think we have given them the slip this time,
Mr. Williams,” said Captain Horton.

“I hope so, captain.”

“You can sleep now without danger of being disturbed
by unwelcome visiters, Miss Julia.”

“Well, captain, I am as glad as my father you
have escaped. I wish we had got near enough to
see how they looked though.”

“We ought rather, my dear girl, to thank God that
they came no nearer than they did,” said her father
half reproachfully.

“True, father, true,” and bidding Captain Horton
good-night, they retired to the cabin.

“You did fool them nice, didn’t you, captin?”
said John.

“Yes, John, it was tolerably well done, I think
myself,” replied the captain, who, like all of mankind,
was more or less vain, and prided himself peculiarly
upon his skill in his own avocation.

“I shouldn’t ha’ been much afraid on ’em myself
if they had caught us,” said John.

“You wouldn’t, ah!”

“No! I should ha’ hated to see all the crew walk
on the plank as they call it, specially Dick Halyard,
but I thinks I should ha’ come it over ’em
myself.”

“Well, John, I hope you’ll never have such occasion
to try your powers of deceit, for I fear you
would find yourself wofully mistaken.”

“Perhaps not, captin, but I’m confounded sleepy,
now we’ve got away from the bloody pirates, so
I’ll just lie down here, captin; I haint learned to
sleep in a hammock yet. I wish you’d let me have
a berth, captin, I hate lying in a circle, it cramps a
fellow plaguily.”

John talked himself to sleep upon the companion-way,
where the good-natured master of the brig
allowed him to remain unmolested, and soon after
yielding the helm to one of the mates, himself
“turned in.”

As the morning broke over the sea clear and cloudless,
while not a sail was visible in any quarter of the
horizon, the revulsion of feeling occasioned by the
transition from despair to confidence, and indeed entire
assurance of safety, was plainly depicted in the
joyous countenances of all on the Betsy Allen. The
worthy captain made no endeavor to check the boisterous
merriment of his crew, but lighting his pipe,
seated himself upon the companion-way, with a
complacent smile expanding his sun-browned features,
which developed itself into a self-satisfied and
happy laugh as Mr. Williams appeared at the cabin-door,
leading up his daughter to enjoy the pure morning
air, fresh from the clear sky and the bounding
waters.

“Ha! ha! Mr. Williams, told you so, not a sail in
sight, and a fine breeze.”

“Our thanks are due to you, Captain Horton, for
the skillful manner in which you eluded the pirate
ship.”

“Oh! I was as glad to get out of sight of the rascal
as you could have been, my dear sir, I assure you;
now that we are clear of him, I ain’t afraid to tell
Miss Julia that if he had overhauled us we should
have all gone to Davy Jones’ locker, and the Betsy
Allen would by this time have been burnt to the
water’s edge.”

“I was not ignorant of the danger at any time,
Captain Horton.”

“Well, you are a brave girl, and deserve to be a
sailor’s wife, but I’m married myself.”

“That is unfortunate, captain,” said Julia, with a
merry laugh, so musical in its intonations that the
rough sailors who heard its sweet cadence could not
resist the contagion, and a bright smile lit up each
weather-beaten countenance within the sound of the
merry music.

“Well, I think so myself, though I wouldn’t like
Mrs. Horton to hear me say it, or I should have a
rougher breeze to encounter than I ever met round
Cape Horn—ha! ha! ha! You must excuse me, Miss
Julia, but I feel in fine spirits this morning, not a sail
in sight.”

“Sail ho!” shouted the look-out from the main
cross-trees.

“Ah!—where away?”

“Right astern.”[131]

“Can it be that they have got in our wake again.
I’ll mount to the mast-head and see myself.”

Seizing the glass the captain ascended to the cross-trees,
where he remained for a long time, watching
the distant sail. At length he returned to the deck.

“They’ve got our bearings again somehow, confound
the cunning rascals; and, by the way they
are overhauling us, I judge they can beat us as well
afore the wind as on a tack.”

“Well, Captain Horton, we must be resigned to
our fate then. It matters not so much for me, but
it is hard, my daughter, that you should be torn from
your peaceful home in England to fall a prey to these
fiends.”

“They are a long way from us yet, father; let us
hope something may happen for our relief, and not
give up till we are taken.”

“That’s the right feeling, Miss Julia,” said the
captain. “I will do all I can to prolong the chase,
and we will trust in God for the result.”

Every device which skillful seamanship could
practice was put in immediate operation to increase
the speed of the brig. There was but a solitary hope
remaining, that they might fall in with some national
vessel able to protect them from the pirate. The
sails were frequently wet, the halyards drawn taut,
and the captain himself took the helm. When all this
was done, each sailor stood gazing upon the pirate
as if to calculate the speed of his approach by the
lifting of his sails above the water. The greater
part of his top-sails were already in sight, and soon
the heads of her courses appeared above the wave,
seeming to sweep up like the long, white wings of a
lazy bird, whose flight clung to the breast of the sea,
as if seeking a resting-place.

By the middle of the day the pirate was within
three miles of the merchantman, and had already
opened upon her with his long gun. Captain Horton
pressed onward without noticing the balls, which as
yet had not injured hull or sail. But as the chase
approached nearer and nearer, the shots began to
take effect—a heavy ball made a huge rent in the
mizzen-topsail—another dashed in the galley, and
a third tore up the companion-way, and still another
cut down the fore-topmast, and materially decreased
the speed of the vessel.

Noticing this the pirate ceased his fire, and soon
drew up within hail of the merchantman.

“Ship ahoy—what ship?”

“The Betsy Allen, London.”

“Lay-by till I send a boat aboard.”

Captain Horton gave orders to his crew to wait the
word of command before they altered the vessel’s
course, and then seizing the trumpet, hailed the
pirate.

“What ship’s that?”

“The brig Death—don’t you see the flag?”

“I know the character of your ship, doubtless.”

“Well, lay-by, or we’ll bring you to with a
broadside.”

Perceiving the inutility of further effort, Captain
Horton brought-to, and hauled down his flag.

In a short time the jolly-boat of the pirate was
lowered from the stern, and the commander jumped
in, followed by a dozen of his crew.

The vigorous arms of the oarsmen soon brought
the boat to the merchantman, and the pirate stood
upon the deck of the captured vessel.

“Well, sir, you have given us some trouble to
overhaul you,” said he, in a manner rather gentlemanly
than savage.

“We should have been fools if we had not tried
our best to escape.”

“True, true—will you inform me how you eluded
our pursuit last night. I ask merely from motives of
curiosity?”

Captain Horton briefly related the deception of the
boat.

“Ah! ha! very well done. Here Diego,” said he
to one of the sailors who had followed him, “go
below and bring up the passengers.”

The swarthy rascal disappeared with a malignant
grin through the cabin-door, and speedily escorted
Mr. Williams to the deck, followed by Julia, and, to
the surprise of Captain Horton and his crew, another
female.

“Now, captain,” said the pirate, with a fiendish
smile, “I shall proceed to convey your merchandize
to my brig, including these two ladies, though, by
my faith, we shall have little use for one of them.
After which I will leave you in quiet.”

“I could expect no better terms,” said Captain
Horton, resignedly.

“O, you will soon be relieved from my presence.”

Julia clung to her father, but was torn from his
grasp, and the good old man was pushed back by the
laughing fiends, as he attempted to follow her to the
boat. The father and daughter parted with a look of
strong anguish, relieved in the countenance of Julia
by a deep expression of firmness and resolution.

John was also seized by the pirates, but he had
overheard the words of their captain that they would
soon be left in quiet, and had already commenced
throwing off his woman’s dress.

“Hillo! is the old girl going to strip? Bear a hand
here, Mike,” shouted Diego, to one of his comrades,
“just make fast those tow-lines, and haul up her
rigging.”

Mr. Williams, who immediately conceived the
possible advantage it might be to Julia to have even
so inefficient a protector with her as John, addressed
him in a stern tone.

“What, will you desert your mistress?”

John stood in doubt, but he was a kind-hearted
fellow, and loved Julia better than he did any thing
else in the world except himself; and without further
resistance or explanation, allowed himself to be
conveyed to the boat, though the big tears rolled
down his cheeks, and nothing even then would have
prevented his avowing his original sex, but a strong
feeling of shame at the thought of leaving Julia.

For hours the pirate’s jolly-boat passed backward and
forward between the two brigs; the sea had become
too rough to allow the vessels to be fastened together
without injury to the light frame of the pirate bark;
and night had already set in before all the cargo[132]
which the pirates desired had been removed from the
merchantman; but it was at length accomplished,
and once more the pirates stood upon the deck of
their own brig.

In a few words their captain explained his plan of
destruction to his crew, which was willingly assented
to, as it was sufficiently cruel and vindictive. Three
loud cheers burst from their lips, startling the crew
of the Betsey Allen with its wild cadence, and in another
moment the pirate-captain leaped into his boat,
and followed by a number of his crew, returned to
the merchantman.

Still preserving his suavity of manner, he addressed
Captain Horton as he stepped upon the deck, after
first ordering the crew to the bows, and drawing up
his own men with pointed muskets before the companion-way.

“Captain Horton, as you are, perhaps, aware it is
our policy to act upon the old saying that ‘dead
men tell no tales,’ and after consultation among ourselves,
we have concluded to set your vessel on fire,
and then depart in peace, leaving you to the quiet I
promised you.”

“Blood-thirsty villain!” shouted the captain of the
merchantman, and suddenly drawing a pistol, he
discharged it full at the pirate’s breast. The latter
was badly wounded, but falling back against the
main-mast, was able to order his men to pursue their
original design before he fell fainting in the arms of
one of his men, who immediately conveyed him
to the boat.

The savages proceeded then to fire the vessel in
several different places, meeting with no resistance
from the crew, as a dozen muskets pointed at their
heads admonished them that immediate death would
be the consequence.

As soon as the subtle element had so far progressed
in its work of destruction that the hand of man could
not stay it, the pirates jumped into their boat, and
with a fiendish yell, pulled off for their own vessel.

For a very short time the crew of the merchantman
stood watching the flame and smoke which was
fast encircling them, then rousing their native energies,
and perceiving the utter impossibility of conquering
the fire, they turned their attention to the
only resource left—the construction of some sort of
a raft that would sustain their united weight.

The progress of the flames, however, was so rapid,
that though a score of busy hands were employed
with axes and hatchets, the most that could be done
was to hurl overboard a few spars and boards, cut
away the bowsprit and part of the bulwarks, before
the exceeding heat compelled them to leave the brig.

Mr. Williams, who had remained in a state of
stupor since the loss of his daughter, was borne to the
ship’s side, and hurriedly fastened to a spar; and then
all the crew boldly sprung into the water, and
pushing the fragments of boards and spars from the
burning brig, as soon as they attained a safe distance,
commenced the construction of their raft in the
water. This was an exceedingly difficult undertaking;
but they were working with the energies of
despair, and board after board was made fast by means
of the rope they had thrown over with themselves;
and in the light of their burning vessel they managed
at length to build a raft sufficiently strong to bear
their weight.

Then seating themselves upon it, they almost gave
way to despair; they had lost the excitement of
occupation, and now, in moody silence, watched
the mounting flames. They were without food, and
the sea ran high; their condition did, indeed, seem
hopeless—and their only refuge, death.

CHAPTER IV.

The Escape.

The fire had made swift work during the time the
unfortunate crew were occupied in building the
raft, and the little brig was now almost enveloped in
smoke and flame. A burst of fire from her main
hatchway threw a red glare over the turbulent waters,
and showed the vessel’s masts and rigging brightly displayed
against the dark sky above and beyond them.
The main-sail by this time caught fire, and was
blazing away along the yard fiercely; and the flame
soon reached the loftier sails and running rigging;
the fire below was raging between decks, and rising
in successive bursts of flame from the hatchways.
The vessel had been filled with combustible material,
and the doomed brig, in a short space of time, was
one mass of flame.

To a spectator beholding the sight in safety,
it would have been a magnificent spectacle—the
grandest, the most terrific, perhaps, it is possible to
conceive—a ship on fire at night in the mid-ocean.
The hull of the vessel lay flaming like an immense
furnace on the surface of the deep; her masts, and
the lower and topsail-yards, with fragments of the
rigging hanging round them, sparkling, and scattering
the fire-flakes, rose high above it, while huge volumes
of smoke ever and anon obscured the whole, then
borne away by the strong breeze, left the burning
brig doubly distinct, placed in strong relief against
the dark vault of heaven behind. The lofty spars, as
their fastenings were burnt through, fell, one by one,
into the hissing water, and at length the tall masts,
no longer supported by the rigging, and nearly burnt
into below the deck, fell over, one after the other,
into the deep.

Suddenly Captain Horton started to his feet,

“It is, it is a sail—look, do you now see it coming
up in the light of the brig?”

“It is so, captain,” responded his men one after
the other.

“Thank God we shall yet be saved! If the pirate
had scuttled the ship we should have had no chance;
but his cruel course has saved us, for the flame has
attracted some vessel to our succor.”

“Perhaps the pirate returning,” remarked Mr.
Williams.

“No, that kept on before the wind, and this is
coming up. God grant it be an English vessel, and
a swift one, and we may yet save your daughter!”

This remark struck a chord of hope in the heart
of Mr. Williams, and roused him to his native manliness.[133]

“But,” said he, “our own vessel has drifted far
from us, and we shall not be seen by this one.”

“I think they will come within hail; they will at
least sail round the burning vessel, in the hopes of
picking up somebody. Come, my men, let’s make
some kind of sail of our jackets, a half a mile nearer
the ship may save us all our lives.”

With a cheer as merry as ever broke from their
lips when on board ship, the reanimated sailors went
to work, and soon reared a small sail made of their
clothing, which caught enough wind to move them
slowly onward.

“Steer in the wake of our own vessel, my men,
and the strange sail will come right on to us—get
between them.”

“Ay, ay, sir!”

As the approaching vessel drew nearer, the crew
of the Betsy Allen sent up a cheer from their united
voices which, to their great joy, was answered from
the strange sail.

“Ahoy, where away?”

“Three points on your weather bow—starboard
your helm, and you’ll be on us.”

“Ay, ay.”

In a very short time the shipwrecked crew stood
on the deck of the privateer Raker, which, attracted
by the light of their burning brig, had varied somewhat
from its course, to render assistance if any were
needed. Captain Greene and his men soon became
acquainted with the history of the crew of the lost
brig, and every attention was shown to them.

Captain Horton gave them a brief account of the
pirate’s assault, and the abduction of Julia.

“O Captain Greene, save my child, if possible.
She is my only one,” exclaimed Mr. Williams.

“Which way did she steer, Captain Horton?”

“She went off right before the wind, sir, and is
not three hours ahead of us.”

“Mr. Williams I will immediately give chase, and
God grant that I may overtake the scoundrels.”

“A father’s thanks shall be yours, sir.”

“Never mind that—you had all better turn in; I
will steer the same course with the pirate till morning,
sir; and if he is then in sight, I think he is ours—for
there are few things afloat that can outsail
the Raker.”

The crew of the Betsy Allen, whose anxiety and
exertions during the last few hours had been excessive,
gladly accepted the captain’s offer, and were
soon snoring in their hammocks. Captain Horton
and Mr. Williams remained on the deck of the
Raker, the one too anxious for revenge upon the
pirate who had destroyed his brig, to sleep, and the
other too much afflicted by the loss of his daughter,
and the painful thoughts which it engendered, to
think of any thing but her speedy recovery.

The long night at length wore away, and with the
first beams of the morning sun the mists rolled
heavily upward from the ocean. To the great joy
of all on board the Raker, the pirate-brig was in
sight, though beyond the reach of shot from the
privateer.

Although the captain of the Raker had sufficient
confidence in the superior speed of his own vessel,
yet to avoid the possibility of being deceived, he
decided to pretend flight, well assured that the pirate
would give chase. He accordingly bore off, as if
anxious to avoid speaking him, and displaying every
sign of fear, had the satisfaction of perceiving the
pirate change his course, and set all sail in pursuit.

In order to test the relative speed of the two
vessels he did not at first slacken his own sail, but
put his brig to its swiftest pace. He had reason to
congratulate himself upon the wisdom of his manœuvre
when he perceived that in spite of every
exertion the chase gained upon him, and it was evident
that unless he was crippled by a shot, he might
yet escape.

As the pirate bore down upon his brig, Captain
Greene perceived, by aid of his glass, that the number
of the crew on board was considerably superior
to his own, even with the addition of the crew of the
Betsy Allen. In consideration of this fact, he determined
to fight her at a distance with his long gun.
This he still kept concealed amidships, under the
canvas, desiring to impress fully upon his opponent
the idea of his inferiority.

Leaving the vessels thus situated, let us visit the
pirate again.

Julia, and John in his disguise, were conveyed to
his deck, where they were speedily separated. Julia
was conducted below, where, to her surprise and
joy, she found a companion of her own sex, in the
person of Florette.

The wounded commander of the pirate was also
conveyed to his berth, where Florette, with much
grief, attended to nurse him. It was in her first
passionate burst of sorrow that Julia discovered her
love for the pirate, from which circumstance she
also derived consolation and relief; and having
already, with the natural firmness of her mind,
shaken off the deep despondency which had settled
upon it when first torn from her father, she began to
resolve upon the course of action she would pursue,
in every probable event which might befall her.

During the long night the pirate lay groaning and
helpless; but such was the strength of his will, and
the all absorbing nature of his hatred, that when informed
on the succeeding morning that a vessel was
in sight, he aroused his physical powers sufficiently
to reach the deck, where, seating himself on the
companion-way, he watched the strange sail with
an interest so intense, that he almost forgot his painful
wounds.

He had hardly taken his position before the captain
of the Raker uncovered and ran out his long gun,
and to the surprise of all on board the pirate, a huge
shot, evidently sent from a gun much larger than
they had supposed their antagonist to possess, came
crashing through their main-sail.

Too late the pirates perceived the error into which
they had fallen; and were aware of the immense
advantage which the long gun gave their opponent,
enabling him, in fact, to maintain his own position
beyond the reach of their fire, and at the same time
cut every mast and spar on board the pirate-brig to[134]
pieces, unless, indeed, the latter might be fortunate
enough, by superior sailing, to get beyond the reach
of shot without suffering material injury.

Perceiving this to be his only resource, orders
were given on board the pirate again to ’bout ship,
and instead of pursuing to be themselves in turn
fugitives. But they were not destined to escape
without injury. Another shot from the Raker bore
away their foretop-sail, and sensibly checked their
speed. To remedy this misfortune, studding-sails
were set below and aloft, and for a long time the
chase was continued without the shot from the Raker
taking serious effect on the pirate; and, indeed, the
latter in a considerable degree increased the distance
between the two vessels. But while the captain
and crew of the Raker were confident of eventually
overtaking their antagonist, the men in the pirate-brig
had already become convinced that in such a
harassing and one-sided mode of warfare, they stood
no chance whatever, and demanded of their captain
that he should make the attempt to close with the
Raker and board. This he sternly refused, and
pointed out to his men the folly of such a course, as
upon a nearer approach to the privateer, his rigging
and masts must necessarily suffer in such a manner
as to place his brig entirely at the command of the
Raker. His men admitted the truth of his reasoning,
but at the same time evinced so much dissatisfaction
at their present vexatious situation, that their
captain plainly perceived it was necessary to pursue
some course of action to appease their turbulent
spirits.

With a clouded brow he returned to his cabin
with the assistance of Florette, who had watched
with a woman’s love to take advantage of every
opportunity to aid him.

Reaching the cabin, his eyes fell upon the form of
Julia, eagerly bending from the little window as she
watched the pursuing brig, fervently praying that its
chase might be successful.

As she turned her eyes in-doors at the noise made
by the entrance of the pirate, his keen glance noticed
the light of hope which shone in her beautiful eyes,
which she strove not and cared not to conceal.

“My fair captive,” said he, with a sneering smile,
“do you see hope of escape in yonder approaching
vessel?”

“My hope is in God,” was the calm reply of the
lovely girl.

“That trust will fail you now, sweet lady.”

“I believe it not; when has He deserted those
whose trust was in him?”

“So have you been taught, doubtless, so you may
yet believe; but you have still to learn that if there
is such a being, he meddles not with the common
purposes of man. It is his government to punish,
not prevent; and man here on earth pursues his own
course, be it dark or bright—and God’s hand is not
interposed to stay the natural and inevitable workings
of cause and effect. No, no! here, on this, my own
good ship, I rule; and there is no hand, human or
divine, that will interpose between my determination
and the execution of my purpose.”

“Impious man! you may yet learn to fear the
power you now despise.”

“Ha! ha! ha!—do I look like a man to be frightened
by the words of a weak girl, or by the name of
a mysterious being, whose agency I have never seen
in the workings of earthly affairs.”

“I have no mercy to expect from one who has
consigned a whole ship’s crew, without remorse, to
a cruel death.”

“Well, were they not Englishmen? I have not
for years, lady, spared an Englishman in my deep
hatred, or an Englishwoman in my lust!”

“Yet are they not your own countrymen?”

“Yes.”

“Unnatural monster!”

The pirate smiled. “I could relate a history of
wrong that would justify me even in your eyes. If
I have proved a viper to my native land, it is because
her heel has crushed me—but the tale cannot be told
now. If yonder vessel overtake us, and escape become
impossible, my own hand will apply the
match that shall blow up my brig, and all it contains.
Before that time you will be a dishonored woman, to
whom death were a relief. Nothing but this wound
has preserved you thus long. With this assurance I
leave you.”

The pirate returned to the deck, where, notwithstanding
the pain of his injuries, he continued to take
command of the brig.

He had hardly vanished from the cabin before
Florette stood by the side of Julia.

“Lady,” said she, “I overheard your conversation
with the captain of this brig, and I pity you most
truly.”

“Pity will little avail,” replied Julia.

“That is true, yet I would aid you if possible.”

“And you—do not you, too, desire to escape from
this savage?”

“Alas! lady, I have learned to love him.”

“Love him!”

“I have now been on this brig more than three
years. I was taken from a French merchant vessel
in which I was proceeding to French Guinea, to live
with a relative there, having lost all my immediate
kindred in France. While crossing the Bay of
Biscay, a heavy storm drove us out to sea, and while
endeavoring to return in shore, we fell in with this
vessel—all on board were murdered but myself, so I
have been told. I was borne to this cabin, which
has since been my home. I was treated with much
respect by the captain, and being all alone, I don’t
know why it was, I forgot all his crimes, and at
length became his willing mistress. You turn from
me in disgust, and in pity—yet so it is. And now,
lady, if you are bold enough to risk your life, you
may escape.”

“I would gladly give my life to save my honor.”

Florette gazed with a melancholy smile upon her
companion; perhaps thoughts of her own former
purity came over her mind.

“It is a bold plan,” said she, “but it is on that
account that I am more confident of success, as all
chance of escape will be deemed hopeless.”[135]

“What is your plan?”

“Night is now approaching, and it is probable the
pursuing brig will not gain on us before dark. I
have noticed that the ship’s boat hangs at the stern,
only fastened by the painter. If you have courage
enough to descend to the boat by the painter, I will
cut it, and you will then be directly in the course of
the pursuing brig, and will be easily picked up.”

“But how can I get to the vessel’s deck without
being seen?”

“I have thought of that; we will wait till dark,
when you shall put on a similar dress with mine,
and then you can go to any part of the vessel you
choose without being suspected. You must watch
your time to steal unobserved behind the man at the
helm, and drop yourself into the boat; I will soon
after appear on deck, and if you are successful in
escaping observation, I shall be able then to cut the
painter without difficulty, as the darkness will conceal
my movements. Do you understand the plan?”

“I do.”

“And you are not afraid to put it into execution?”

“Oh, no, no! and I thank you for your kind aid.”

“I am not wholly disinterested, lady; you are
beautiful, and may steal away the captain’s heart
from me.”

Julia shuddered.

“Be ready,” continued Florette, “and as soon as
possible after it becomes dark we will make the
attempt.”

It was as Florette had called it, a bold plan, but not
impracticable, as any one acquainted with the position
of things will at once acknowledge. Only one
man would be at the tiller, and he might or might not
notice the passing of any other person behind him.
This passage once accomplished, it would be an easy
undertaking to slide down the strong painter, or rope
which made fast the boat to the stern of the brig. It
was a plan in which the chances were decidedly in
favor of the success of the attempt.

The Raker had for some time ceased firing, and
set studding-sails in hopes of gaining on the pirate;
but the most the privateer was able to do, was to still
preserve the relative positions of the two vessels.

The sun sunk beneath the waters, leaving a cloudless
sky shedding such a light from its starry orbs,
that if the pirate had hoped to escape under cover
of the night, he speedily saw the impossibility of
such an attempt eluding the watch from the privateer.

The captain of the pirate still kept his position
upon the companion-way, with his head bent upon
his breast, either buried in thought, or yielding to the
weakness of his physical powers, occasioned by the
loss of blood from his wound.

Florette, who was continually passing up and
down through the cabin-door, carefully noted the
state of things upon the quarter-deck, and perceiving
every thing to be as favorable as could be expected,
soon had Julia in readiness for her share in the
undertaking.

“But first,” said she, “let me put out the light in
the binnacle.”

The girl stood for a moment in deep thought, when
her ready wit suggested a way to accomplish this
feat, sufficiently simple to avoid suspicion. Seizing
the broad palmetto hat of the pirate, and bidding
Julia to be in readiness to profit by the moment of
darkness which would ensue, she returned to the
deck, and approaching the pirate, exclaimed,

“William, I have brought you your hat.”

At the moment of presenting it to him, as it passed
the binnacle-light, she gave it a swift motion, which
at once extinguished the flame.

“Curses on the girl!” muttered the man at the
helm.

“O, I was careless, Diego; I will bring the lantern
in a moment;” and laying down the hat on the companion-way
beside the pirate, who paid no attention
to the movements around him, she glided back to the
cabin.

“Here, lady,” said she, “be quick—hand this
lantern to the man at the helm, and then drop silently
behind him while he is lighting it. I will immediately
follow and take your place beside him. You
understand me?”

“Yes, clearly.”

“Well, as soon as I begin to speak with him, let
yourself down into the boat by the painter, which I
will soon cut apart, and then you will at least be out
of the hands of your enemies.”

Julia took the hand of Florette in her own, and
warmly thanked her, but the girl impatiently checked
her.

“Take this pistol with you also.”

“But why?” inquired Julia, with a woman’s instinctive
dread of such weapons.

“O, I don’t mean you should shoot any body, but
if the boat drifts a little out of the brig’s course, you
might not be able to make yourself heard on her
deck.”

“True, true.”

“The night is so still that a pistol-shot would be
heard at a good distance.”

“O, yes, I see it all now; I was so anxious to
escape from this terrible ship that I thought of nothing
else; and there is poor John.”

“You must not think of him—it will be no worse
for him if you go, no better if you remain. Here,
take the lantern—say nothing as you hand it to the
man at the tiller, but do as I told you.”

Pressing the hand of Florette, Julia mounted to
the deck with a painfully beating heart, but with a
firm step. She handed the lantern to the steersman,
who received it surlily, growling some rough oath,
half to himself, at her delay, and leaning upon the
tiller, proceeded to relight the binnacle-lamp. Julia
fell back cautiously, and in another moment the light
form of Florette filled her place.

“I was very careless, Diego,” said she.

“Yes,” replied he, gruffly.

“Well, I will be more careful next time.”

“You’d better.”

Julia, during the short time of this conversation,
had disappeared over the stern, and as the vessel
was sailing before a steady wind, found little difficulty
in sliding down the painter into the yawl.[136]
She could hardly suppress an exclamation when a
moment afterward she found the ship rapidly gliding
away from her, and leaving her alone upon the
waters in so frail a support. Her situation was,
indeed, one that might well appall any of her sex.
To a sailor it would already have been one of entire
safety, but to her it seemed as if every succeding
wave would sink the little boat as it gracefully rose and
fell upon their swell; but seating herself by the tiller,
she managed to guide its motions, and with a calm
reliance upon that God whose supporting arm she
knew to be as much around her, when alone in the
wide waste of waters, as when beside her own
hearth-stone, in quiet and happy England, she
patiently awaited the issue of her bold adventure.

She had but a short time to wait when she perceived
the dark outlines of the Raker bearing directly
down upon her. As it approached it seemed as if it
would run directly over her boat, and excited by the
fear of the moment, and the anxiety to be heard, she
gave a louder shriek than she supposed herself capable
of uttering, and at the same time fired off her
pistol.

Both were heard on board the Raker.

“Man overboard!” shouted the look-out.

“Woman overboard, you lubber,” said a brother
tar; “didn’t you hear that screech?”

“Hard a port!”

“Hard a port ’tis.”

“Right under the lee bow.”

“Well, pitch over a rope whoever it is. What does
this mean?” said Lieutenant Morris, as he approached
the bows.

“Can’t say, sir—some deviltry of the pirates, I
reckon, to make us lose way.”

“By heavens! it is a woman,” cried the lieutenant,
“let me throw that rope, we shall be on the
boat in a minute. Hard a port!”

The rope, skillfully thrown by the young lieutenant,
struck directly at the feet of Julia. With
much presence of mind she gave it several turns
around one of the oar-locks, and her boat was immediately
hauled up to the side of the brig, without
compelling the latter to slacken sail.

In another moment she was lifted to the deck of
the Raker.

“Julia! thank Heaven!” exclaimed her father.

With a cry of joy she fainted in his arms, and was
borne below, where she speedily recovered, and
related the manner of her escape from the pirate.

All admired the courage of the attempt, and Lieutenant
Morris, as he gazed upon the lovely countenance,
which returning sensation was restoring to
all its wonted bloom and beauty, one day of intense
sorrow having left but slight traces upon it, he felt
emotions to which he had hitherto been an entire
stranger, and sought the deck with a flushed brow
and animated eye, wondering at the vision of beauty
which had risen, like Cytherea, from the sea.

[To be continued.

THE PRAYER OF THE DYING GIRL.

BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON.

A WRITTEN LEAF OF MEMORY.

BY FANNY LEE.

Poor Fanny Layton! Oh! how well I remember
the last time I ever saw her! ‘Twas in the dear old
church whither from early childhood my footsteps
were bent. What feelings of holy awe and reverence
crept into my heart as I gazed, with eyes in
which saddened tears were welling, upon the sacred
spot! How my thoughts reverted to other days—the
days of my early youth—that sweet “spring-time”
of life, when I trod the blooming pathway before me
so fetterless and free, with no overshadowing of
coming ill—no anxious, fearful gazing into the dim
future, as in after years, but with the bounding step
that bespeaks the careless joyousness which Time,
oh all too soon! brushes from the heart with “rude,
relentless wing.” How eagerly I would strive to
subdue my impatient footsteps then to the calmer
pace of more thoughtful years, as I gradually drew
nearer to the holy sanctuary, although mine eyes
would oft, despite my utmost endeavors, wander to
the eaves of that time-worn, low-browed church, to
watch the flight of the twittering host who came
forth, I fancied, at my approach to bid me welcome!
How I would cast one “longing, lingering look” at
the warm, bright sunshine that irradiated even those
gray walls, ere I entered the low porch whence it
was all excluded by the ivy which seemed to delight
in entwining its slender leaves around the crumbling
pillars, as if it would fain impart strength and beauty
to the consecrated building in its declining years.

But a long—long time had passed since then, and
I had come to revisit my village-home, and the
memory-endeared haunts of my girlhood, for the last
time, ere journeying to a distant land. The place
was little changed, and every thing around that well-remembered
spot came laden with so many sweet
and early associations, that the memory of by-gone
hours swept thrillingly across my heart-strings, and
it was not until after I had taken my accustomed
seat in the old-fashioned high-backed pew, that I was
roused from my busy wanderings in the “shadowy
past,” by the voice of our pastor—

his voice grown weak and tremulous with increasing
years, although there was a something in its tone so
full of simple-hearted earnestness, that had never
failed to find its way to the most gay and thoughtless
spirits of his little flock. And now how reverently
I gazed upon the silvered locks of him who had been
mine own faithful guide and counselor along the devious
pathway of youth—feeling that his pilgrimage
was almost ended—his loving labors well nigh over—and
soon he would go down to the grave

I looked around—and it was sad to see how few
there were of all the familiar faces I had left—and
those few—oh, how changed! But there was one to
whom my glance reverted constantly, nor could I
account for the strange fascination which seemed to
fix mine eyes upon her. And yet, as I looked, the
spring of memory seemed touched, and suddenly
there appeared before me two faces, which I found
it impossible to separate in my bewildered rememberings—although
so very unlike as they were! The
one so bright and joyous, with blue laughter-loving
eyes, in which an unshadowed heart was mirrored—and
the other—the one on which my gaze was now
fixed so dreamily—wan and faded, although it must
once have been singularly beautiful, so delicate and
fair were the features, and so pure and spiritual was
the white brow resting beneath those waving masses
of golden hair—a temple meet, methought, for all
high and earnest feeling—then, too, there was a
sweet—yet oh! how sorrow-shaded and subdued—expression
flitting around the small mouth, as though
a world-torn and troubled spirit, yet meek and long-suffering,
had left its impress there! Her eyes—those
large, deep, earnest eyes—how they haunted
me with their eager restlessness, wandering to and
fro with a perturbed, anxious, asking look, and then
upturned with a fixed and pleading gaze, which
moved one’s very heart to see. Her dress was very
simple, and yet I could not help thinking it strangely
contrasted with the sorrow-stricken expression of
that fair though faded face.

A wreath of orange-blossoms encircled the small
cottage-bonnet, and a long white veil half concealed
in its ample folds the fragile form, which, if it had
lost the roundness of early youth, still retained the
most delicate symmetry of outline; upon her breast
lay, half hidden, a withered rose, fit emblem, methought,
for her who wore it. Oft-times her pale
thin hands were clasped, and once, when our pastor
repeated in his own low, fervent tone—”Come unto
me, all ye heavy-laden, and I will give you rest”—her
lip quivered, and she looked quickly up, with

My sympathies were all out-gushing for her, and
when the full tones of the organ peeled forth their
parting strain and we went forth from the sanctuary,
my busy dreamings of the present and the past all
were merged in one honest desire to know the poor
girl’s history. I learned it afterward from the lips of
Aunt Nora Meriwether.

Dear Aunt Nora! If thou wert yclept “spinster,”
never did a heart more filled with good and pure and
kindly impulses beat than thine! Indeed, I have ever
ascribed my deep reverence for the sisterhood in[138]
general to my affectionate remembrances of this
childhood’s friend. The oracle of our village was
Aunt Nora Meriwether—and how could “old maid”
be a stigma upon her name, when it was by virtue
of this very title that she was enabled to perform all
those little kindly offices which her heart was ever
prompting, and which made up the sum of her simple
daily existence! It was said that Aunt Nora was
“disappointed” in early life—but however this may
have been, certain it was that the tales (and they did
intimate—did the good people of our village—that if
Aunt Nora had a weakness, it consisted in over-fondness
for story-telling) she treasured longest, and
oftenest repeated, were those in which the fair heroine
was crossed in love.

Many a time have we, a group of gay and happy-hearted
children, gathered round her feet, as she sat
in the low doorway of her cottage-home, and listened
with intense interest to a tale of her youthful days,
gazing the while with eyes in which the bright drops
of sympathy oft would glisten, upon the kind face
bent upon our own in such loveful earnestness. And
we would hope, in child-like innocence of heart, that
we might never “fall in love,” but grow up and be
“old maids,” just like our own dear Aunt Nora!
Whether we still continued to hope so, after we had
grown in years and wisdom, it behoveth me not to
say! I am quite sure you would rather listen to the
tale now before thee, dear reader, from the good old
lady’s own lips—for it is but a simple sketch at best,
and needeth the charm thrown around it by a heart
which the frost of many winters had not sealed to
the tenderest sympathies of our nature—and the low-toned
voice, too, that often during her narrative
would grow tremulous with the emotion it excited.
But, alas! this may not be! that low voice is hushed—the
little wicket-gate now closed—the path which
led to her cottage-door untrodden now for many a
day—and that kind and gentle heart is laid at rest
beneath bright flowers, planted there by loving hands,
in the humble church-yard. But this day is so lovely—is
it not? With that soft and shadowy mist hanging
like a gossamer veil over Nature’s face, through
which the glorious god of day looks with a quiet
smile, as though he loved to dwell upon a scene so
replete with home-breathing beauty! And that smile!
how lovingly it rests upon the lawn and the meadow
and the brook! How it lingers upon the sweet
flowerets which have not yet brushed the tears from
their eyes, until those dewy tear-drops seem—as if
touched by a fairy wand—to change to radiant gems!
How it peeps into every nook and dell, until the
silent places of the earth rejoice in the light of that
glory-beaming smile! The busy hum of countless
insects—the soft chime of the distant water-fall—the
thrilling notes of the woodland choristers—the happy
voice of the streamlet, which hurries on ever murmuring
the same glad strain—the gentle zephyr, now
whispering through the leafy trees with low, mysterious
tone, and then stealing so gently, noiselessly
through the shadowy grass, till each tiny blade quivers
as if trembling to the touch of fairy feet. These
are Nature’s voices, and do they not seem on a day
like this in the sweet summer-time to unite and swell
forth in one full anthem of harmony and praise to the
great Creator of all? And does it not seem, too, as
we gaze (for thou art sitting now with me, art thou
not, gentle reader? on the mossy bank beneath the
noble elm which has for many years stretched out
its arms protectingly over mine own old homestead,
while I recount to thee this simple tale of “long ago”)
upon the scene before us, so replete with quiet loveliness
it is—that in every heart within the precincts
of our smiling village there must be a chord attuned
to echo back in voiceless melody the brightness and
the beauty around? Yet oh! how many there may
be, even here, whose sun of happiness hath set on
earth forever! How many whose tear-dimmed
glance can descry naught in the far future but a
weary waste—whose life-springs all are dried—whose
up-springing hopes all withered by the blighting
touch of Sorrow!

Dost thou see that little cot nestled so closely beneath
the hill-side? and covered with the woodland
vine which hath enfolded its tendrils clingingly
around it—peeping in and out at the deserted windows,
or climbing at will over the latticed porch, or
trailing on the ground and looking up forlornly, as
though it wondered where were the careful hands
which erst nourished it so tenderly. The place seems
very mournful—with the long grass growing rankly
over the once carefully-kept pathway, and a few
bright flowers, on either side, striving to uprear
their beauteous heads above the tangled weeds which
have well nigh supplanted them. Neglect—desolation
is engraven on all around, and even the little
wicket, as it swings slowly to and fro, seems to say,
“All gone! go-ne!” The wind, how meaningly
it steals through the deserted rooms, as though breathing
a funereal dirge over the departed! How “eloquent
of wo” is that sound! Now swelling forth, as
it were, in wild and uncontrollable grief, and now
sinking exhaustedly into a low and touching mournfulness
which seems almost human! But to our tale.

One bright morning, now many years ago, a lady
clothed in garb of mourning, accompanied by a little
bright-eyed girl of perhaps some nine summers, and
her old nurse, alighted at the village inn. Now this
seemingly trivial circumstance was in reality quite
an event in our quiet community, and considerably
disturbed the good people thereof from the “even
tenor of their way.” Indeed, there were many more
curious eyes bent upon the new-comers than they
seemed to be at all aware of, if one might judge
from the cold and calm features of the lady, or the
assiduous care which her companion was bestowing
upon one particular bandbox, which the gruff driver
of the stage-coach was, to be sure, handling rather
irreverently, actually seeming to enjoy the ill-concealed
anxiety of the poor old woman for the safety
of her goods and chattels, while the child followed
close beside her mamma, her sparkling eyes glancing
hither and thither with that eager love of novelty so
natural to the young. At length, however, the trunks,
boxes, packages, &c., &c., all were duly deposited,[139]
and duly inspected also, by the several pairs of eyes
which were peering through the narrowest imaginable
strips of glass at neighboring window-curtains or
half-closed shutters. The driver once more mounted
his box, cracked his whip, and the lumbering coach
rattled rapidly away, while the travelers, obeyed the
call of the smiling and curtseying landlady, and disappeared
within the open door of the inn.

Oh, what whisperings and surmisings were afloat
throughout our village during the succeeding week!
“Who can this stranger-lady be? From whence has
she come, and how long intend remaining here?”
seemed to be the all-important queries of the day;
and so gravely were they discussed, each varying
supposition advanced or withdrawn as best suited
the charity or credulity of the respective interrogators,
that one would certainly have thought them questions
of vital importance to their own immediate interests.
Strange to say, however, with all this unwonted
zeal and perseverance, at the end of the nine days,
(the legitimate time for wonderment,) all that the
very wisest of the group of gossips could bring forward
as the fruits of her patient and untiring investigation,
was the simple fact that the lady’s name
was Layton—the nurse’s Jeffries—and that the child,
who soon became the pet of the whole household,
was always addressed by the servants at the inn as
“Miss Fanny,” and, moreover, that Mrs. L. was
certainly in mourning for her husband, as she had
been seen one morning by the chambermaid weeping
over the miniature of a “very fine-looking man,
dressed in uniform,” and had, in all probability,
come to take up her residence in our quiet Aberdeen,
as she had been heard inquiring about the
small cottage beneath the hill, (the self-same, dear
reader, the neglect and desertion of which were but
now lamented.)

Truth to tell, it was shrewdly surmised that the
landlady at the “Golden Eagle” had gleaned more particular
information than this, although whenever she
was questioned concerning the matter, she did only
reply by a very grave shake of the head, each vibration
of which (particularly when accompanied by a
pursing of the mouth, and a mysterious looking
round) more and more convinced her simple-minded
auditors (i.e. some of them, for it is not to be denied
that there were a few incredulous ones who, either
from former experiences, or natural sagacity, or some
cause unknown, hesitated not to declare it to be
their fixed and unalterable opinion that these seeming
indications of superior knowledge on the part of
good Mrs. Gordon, were but “a deceitful show,”
“for their ‘delusion‘ given,”) that she, Mrs. G., had
been entrusted either by Mistress Jeffries, the nurse,
or perhaps by the lady herself, with a weighty and
important secret, which it would be very dreadful,
indeed, to disclose. And yet, when such a possibility
was vaguely hinted to her, she did not, (as one
would be disposed to do who was really striving to
deceive the eager questioners around her, by giving
them an erroneous impression as to the amount of
her knowledge on the subject,) seize the idea with
avidity, and seem manifestly anxious to encourage
such a supposition. On the contrary, it was evidently
deeply distressing to her that any one should
cherish such a thought for a moment; and she begged
them so earnestly, almost with tears in her eyes, not
to mention it again, and said so much about it, reverting
to the theme invariably when the conversation
chanced to turn upon some other topic, as
though it quite weighed upon her mind, that at
length her companions inwardly wondered what had
given rise to the belief in their minds, and yet, as
one old lady said, looking sagaciously over her
spectacles, “that belief waxed stronger and
stronger.”

Time passed on—days merged themselves into
weeks, and weeks to months, and the harmony and
quietude of Aberdeen was fully restored. The
“Widow Layton,” (for thus, from that time, was
she invariably styled,) after all due preliminaries,
had taken quiet possession of the little vine-clad cot;
and although she was not as “neighborly” as she
might have been, and never communicative as to her
previous history, still might the feeling of pique
with which they at first received such a rebuff
to their curiosity, have been a very evanescent
one in the minds of the villagers, had it not chanced
that Aberdeen was blessed (?) with two prim sister-spinsters,
(was it they or Aunt Nora, who formed
the exception to the general rule? I leave it for thee,
dear reader, to decide, since with that early-instilled
reverence before mentioned, I cannot consider my
humble opinion infallible,) whose hearts, according
to their own impression on the subject, quite overflowed
with charity and benevolence, which manifested
itself in the somewhat singular method of
making every one around them uncomfortable, and
in the happy faculty which they possessed in an
eminent degree, of imparting injurious doubts and
covert insinuations as to the manners and habits of
their neighbors, who else might have journeyed
peacefully adown the vale of life in perfect good
faith with all the world; moreover, they hated a
mystery, did these two sister-spinsters, from their
own innate frankness and openness of disposition,
they said, and considered themselves so much in
duty bound to ferret out the solution of any thing
which bore the semblance to an enigma, that they
gave themselves no rest, poor, self-sacrificing creatures,
until they had obtained their object. And well
were they rewarded for this indefatigable zeal, for
they had the satisfaction of knowing that they had
found out more family secrets, destroyed more once-thought
happy marriages, and embittered more hearts
than any two persons in all the country round.

They lived in the heart of our village, (and never
did that heart quicken with one pulsation of excitement
or surprise, or joy or sorrow, but they were
the first to search into the why and wherefore,)
in a large two story house, isolated from the rest,
which seemed to emulate its occupants in stiffness
and rigidity, and whose glassy eyes looked out as
coldly upon the beauteous face of nature, as they
from their own stern “windows of the soul,” upon
the human face divine. There was no comfort, no[140]
home-look about the place; even the flowers seemed
not to grow by their own sweet will, but came up
as they were bidden, tall and straight, and stiff. And
the glorious rays of the sun glanced off from the
dazzling whiteness of the forbidding mansion, as
though they had met with a sudden rebuff, and had
failed to penetrate an atmosphere where every thing
seemed to possess an antipathy to the bright and
the joyous. It was strange to see what a chilliness
pervaded the spot. The interior of the house (which
I once saw when a child; and, oh! I never can
forget the long, long-drawn sigh that escaped my
lips as I once more found myself without the precincts
of a place where my buoyant spirits seemed
suddenly frozen beneath the glance of those two
spinsters, where even the large, lean cat paced the
floor with such a prim, stately step, now and then
pausing to fix her cold, gray eyes upon my face, as
though to question the cause of my intrusion, and
also to intimate that she had no sort of sympathy
with either my feelings, or those of children in
general.) Every thing bore the same immovable
look—the narrow, high-backed chairs seemed as if
they had grown out of the floor, and were destined
to remain as stationary as the oaks of the forest;
the “primeval carpet,” over which the Misses Nancy
and Jerusha Simpkins walked as though mentally
enumerating the lines that crossed each other in such
exact squares, never was littered by a single shred;
and the high, old-fashioned clock still maintained its
position in the corner from year to year, seeming to
take a sort of malicious satisfaction in calmly ticking
the hours away which bore the Misses Simpkins
nearer and nearer to that certain age (which they, if
truth must be told, were in nowise desirous to reach)
when all further endeavors to conceal the foot-marks
of stern old Father Time would be of no avail.

It was at the close of a chilly evening late in
autumn—old Boreas was abroad, and had succeeded,
it would seem, in working himself into an ungovernable
fit of rage, for he went about screaming most
boisterously, now hurrying the poor bewildered
leaves along, maliciously causing them to perform
very undignified antics for their time of life, while
they, poor old withered things, thus suddenly torn
from the protecting arms of their parental tree, flew
by, like frightened children, vainly striving to gain
some place of shelter. Alas! alas! no rest was there
for them. What infinite delight their inveterate
persecutor seemed to take in whirling them round
and round, dodging about, and seeking them in the
most unheard-of places, where they lay panting from
very fright and fatigue. And then off he would start
again, shaking the window-sashes as he passed, with
wild, though impatient fury, remorselessly tearing
down the large gilt signs which had from time immemorial
rejoiced in the respective and respectable
names of several worthies of our village, and then
speeding away to the homes of said worthies, to proclaim
the audacious deed through the key-hole, in
the most impudent and incomprehensible manner
possible. It was on such an evening as this, a few
months after the arrival of the Laytons at Aberdeen,
that the Misses Simpkins sat in their cheerless
back-room, hovering over a small fire, busily plying
their noisy knitting-needles, and meantime indulging
in their usual dish of scandal, which, however, it
is but justice to say, was not quite so highly seasoned
with the spice of envy and malice as was its wont.
Whether it was that the memory of a bright and
beaming little face that had intruded upon their
solitude during the afternoon, had half succeeded in
awakening the slumbering better nature which had
slept so long, it was somewhat doubted if any effort
could resuscitate it again; whether it was that the
lingering echo of a certain sweet, childish voice that
had beguiled the weary hours of their dullness and
monotony, and with its innocent prattle, had, in some
degree, forced an opening through the firm frost-work
which had been gradually gathering for years round
their hearts, I cannot tell; but true it is that as the
sister spinsters sat there, with the faint and feeble flame
struggling up from the small fire, and the light from
the one tall candle flickering and growing unsteady
as it flashed upon the two thin, sharp faces close
beside it, while the antique furniture looked more
grotesque and grim than ever in the deep shadow,
and the never-wearying clock still ticked calmly on,
regardless alike of the contending elements without
and the wordy warfare within; true it is that the conversation
between the sisters was divested of one
half its wonted acrimony.

“To be sure,” said Miss Simpkins the younger, at
length, after a pause, in which the half-awakened
better nature seemed strongly disposed to resume its
slumbers again, “little civility has the Widow
Layton to expect from any body with her distant
bows and uppish airs, when one ventures to express
an interest in her; and if I hadn’t a very forgiving
disposition, oh! Jerusha! Jerusha! I don’t think
I’d trouble myself to call upon her again. But I
feel it to be my duty to advise her to put little Fanny
to school, for she’s a good child and winsome-like,
and running at large so will just be the spoiling
of her.”

“Well, Jerusha,” responded Miss Nancy, who
had, perhaps, a little leaven more than her sister, of
tartness in her disposition, and on whose face an
habitual expression of acidity was rapidly increasing,
“you know very well that the widow considers
herself a little above every body else in Aberdeen,
and you might as well talk to a stone wall as to her
about sending the child to school. Why haven’t I
done my best at talking to her? Haven’t I told her
of Miss Birch’s school, where the children don’t so
much as turn round without their teacher’s leave,
and where you might hear a pin drop at any time.
Haven’t I told her that she might easily save a good
deal in the year, by renting one half of that snug little
cottage—and what thanks did I get? A reply as
haughty as if she were the greatest lady in the land,
instead of being, as she is, a nameless, homeless
stranger, who cannot be ‘any better than she should
be,’ or she would never make such a mighty mystery
about her past life, that she ‘trusted Miss Simpkins
would allow her to be the best judge as to the[141]
proper method of educating her child, and also as to
the means of retrenching her own expenses if she
found it needful.'”

Unkind, unjust, unfeeling Nancy Simpkins! and
has not that settled, ever-present sorrow upon those
pale features; have not those grief-traced lines around
the compressed mouth, and across the once smooth
and polished brow; has not the sad garb of the
mourner, which speaks of the lone vigil, the weary
watching, the hope deferred, or it may be the sudden
stroke of the dread tyrant Death, no appeal to thy
frozen sympathies? Canst thou suffer thy better
nature to resume its deep and trance-like sleep again,
and rob that poor widowed mother of her only hope
on earth, that bright, glad creature, who carries sunshine
to her otherwise desolate home, but to pinion
her free and fetterless spirit beneath the iron rule
and despotic sway of the village task-mistress?

We will leave the Misses Simpkins, and thou
pleasest, reader mine, to the enjoyment of their
envy-tinctured converse, and turn the page of Mrs.
Layton’s life.

An only child of wealthy parents, petted, caressed
and idolized, she had sprung into womanhood, with
every wish anticipated, every desire gratified ere
half expressed, if within the reach of human possibility,
what wonder, then, that she grew wayward
and willful, and at length rashly dashed the cup of
happiness of which she had drank so freely in her
sunny youth from her lip, by disobeying her too fond
and doating parents, in committing her life’s destiny
to the keeping of one who they, with the anxious
foresight of love, too well knew would not hold the
precious trust as sacred. Brave and handsome and
gifted he might be, but the seeds of selfishness had
been too surely sown within his heart; and he had
won the idol of a worshiping crowd, more, perchance,
from a feeling of exultation and pride in
being able to bear away the prize from so many
eager aspirants, than any deep-rooted affection he
felt for the fair object of his solicitude. The novelty
and the charm soon wore away, and then his beautiful
bride was neglected for his former dissolute
associates. He afterward entered the navy, and
somewhat more than ten years after they were
wedded, fell in a duel provoked by his own rash,
temper. From the moment that Mrs. Layton recovered
from the trance-like swoon which followed
the first sight of her husband’s bleeding corpse, she
seemed utterly, entirely changed. She had truly
loved him, he who lay before her now, a victim of his
own rash and selfish folly, and with all a woman’s
earnest devotion would have followed him to the
remotest extremes of earth; but her feelings had been
too long trampled upon, her heart too bruised and
crushed ever to be upraised again. She had leaned
upon a broken reed, and had awakened to find herself
widowed, broken-hearted. And she arose, that desolate
and bereaved one, and folding her child closer
to her breast, went forth into the cold world friendless—alone!
Once would her grief have been loud
and passionate and wild, but she had passed through
a weary probation, and had learned “to suffer and
be still.” How, in that dark hour, did her lost
mother’s prayer-breathed words, her father’s earnest
entreaties come back to smite heavily upon her
sorrow-stricken spirit—but remorse and repentance
were now all too late. And yet not too late, she
murmured inly, for had she not a duty to perform
toward the little being, her only, and, oh! how
heaven-hallowed, tie to earth, consigned to her
guardianship and care. Did she not firmly resolve
never by ill-judged and injudicious fondness to mark
out a pathway filled with thorns for her darling. It
may be that that widowed mother erred even in
excess of zeal, for she would resist the natural
promptings of her heart, and check the gushing
affection which welled from the deepest, purest
fountain in the human heart, lest its expression
might prove injurious to the loved one in after years.
And thus there grew a restraint and a seeming coldness
on the part of the mother, a constant craving
for love, which was never satisfied, and a feeling of
fear on the child’s, which shut them out from that
pure trust and confidence, which are such bright
links in the chain that binds a mother to her child.

This, then, was the Widow Layton who with her
little one and nurse had sought our village, immediately
after the decease of her husband, as a peaceful
asylum from the noise and tumult of a world
where, in happier days, she had played so conspicuous
a part. It was not so much that she sedulously
avoided all mention of her past history to the
eager questioners around her, from a disinclination
that it should be known, as that she little understood
the character of the villagers themselves—ofttimes
mistaking a really well-meant interest in her welfare
for an idle and impertinent curiosity. Mrs. Layton
had been highly born and nurtured, and there seemed
to her delicate mind a something rude and unfeeling
in the manner with which her too officious friends
and neighbors would touch upon the sources of grief
which were to her so sacred. And therefore, perhaps
unwisely, she held herself aloof from them, replying
to their different queries with that calm and
easy dignity which effectually precluded all approach
to familiarity, and engendered a dislike in the minds
of those who were little accustomed to meet one who
could not enter into all their feelings, plans and projects—which
dislike was constantly kept alive and
fostered by the united exertions of the two sister
spinsters. Good Mrs. Jeffries, too, the fond old nurse
who had never left her beloved mistress through all
her varying fortunes, was all too faithful and true to
reveal aught that that kind mistress might wish untold;
and thus it was that the curiosity of the good
people of Aberdeen was kept continually in check,
and about the unsuspecting inmates of Woodbine
Cottage was thrown a mystery that was becoming
constantly augmented by their incomprehensible
silence on the subject.

Weeks—months—years sped swiftly away, and the
widow, by her free and unostentatious charities and
her angel-ministering to the poor, the afflicted and
the bereaved, had almost eradicated the first unpleas[142]ing
impression made upon the simple-hearted people
of Aberdeen; so that, although the Misses Simpkins
still held their nightly confabulations, they did not
venture as at first, so openly to propagate their animadversions
concerning the “mysterious stranger,”
but on the contrary, always made it a point to preface
any sudden and amiable suggestion that presented
itself to their minds with “not that I would
say any thing against her, but it does seem a little
singular,” &c. But of Miss Fanny—sweet, witching
Fanny Layton! who had grown in beauty and
grace day by day, not one word did they dare to
speak in her dispraise! For was there one in all
Aberdeen who would not have resented the slightest
intimation of disrespect to our lily of the valley—whose
joy-inspiring and sorrow-banishing presence
was welcomed delightedly by young and old, both
far and near? And oh! was there ever music like
her sweet, ringing laugh, or melody like the low-toned
voice which was always eloquent of joyousness.
Whether she sat in the humble cottage, lending
kind and ready assistance to the care-worn matron,
by playfully imprisoning the little hands of the
children within her own petite palms, while she recounted
to them some wonderful tale, her brilliant
fancy, meantime, never soaring above their childish
comprehension, although she was regarded by her
little auditors as nothing less than a bright fairy herself,
who was thus familiar with all that witching
tribe, and who could with her own magic wand thus
open to them stores of such strange and delightful
things as was never before dreamed of in their
youthful philosophy—while their patient, painstaking
mother would now and then glance up from
her never-ending task, with a smile of such beaming
pleasure and gratitude as amply repaid the gentle being,
who seemed in her loveful employ to be the presiding
angel of that humble dwelling-place. Whether
she would “happen-in” of a long, warm summer
afternoon to take a cup of tea with a neighboring
farmer’s wife—an honor that never failed to
throw that worthy woman into a perfect fever of
anxiety and delight—who would proffer a thousand
and one apologies for the deficiencies that only existed
in her own perverse imagination, if, indeed,
they existed even there, for her bright eyes were
contradicting a pair of rosy lips all the while, as they
glanced with a lurking—yet I am sure laudable—pride,
from the “new chany sett” (which was wont
on great occasions to be brought forward) to the rich
treasures of her well-kept dairy, that her busy feet
had been going pat-a-pat from cupboard to cellar, and
cellar to cupboard, for a whole hour previous collecting,
to place in all their tempting freshness before
her beloved guest. Or whether she came with
her simple offering of fresh flowers—her word of
sympathy and comfort—or some choice dainty, that
seemed “so nice” to the sick and suffering, who had
turned away with loathing from every thing before,
but who could not fail to find this delicious, for was
it not made and brought by the hands of dear Miss
Fanny’s self? Still did her presence seem to make
sunlight wherever she went!

Fanny was a young lady now—although you would
scarce believe it, for she was a very child at heart,
with all a child’s unworldliness, unsuspecting confidence,
and winning innocence. And yet there was
deep, deep down in that loveful, earnest heart, that
Joy and all Joy’s sister spirits seemed to have taken
captive, a fount whose seal had never been found.

Oh, Fanny, dear, darling Fanny Layton! wo, wo
for thee the day when first that hidden seal was broken!
When Hope and Doubt and Fear by turns
played sentinel to the hidden treasure, the door to
which, when once flung back, never can be reclosed
again! When joy and gladness but tarried a little
while to dispute their prior right to revel undisturbed
in that buoyant heart of thine, and then went tearfully
forth, leaving for aye a dreary void, and a deep,
dark shadow, where all had been but brightness and
beauty before! Oh, why must the night-time of sorrow
come to thee, thou gentle and pure-hearted one?
Thou for whom such fervent and fond prayers have
ascended, as should, methinks, have warded off from,
thee each poisoned shaft, and proved an amulet to
guard thee from all life’s ills! Thy sixteenth summer,
was it not a very, very happy one to thee,
sweet Fanny Layton? But happiness, alas! in this
cold world of ours, is never an unfading flower; and
although so coveted and so sought, still will droop in
the eager hands which grasped it, and die while yet
the longing eyes are watching its frail brightness
with dim and shadowful foreboding!

Just on the outskirts of our village there slept a
silent, secluded little nook, which the thickly-growing
trees quite enclosed, only permitting the bright
sun to glance glimmeringly through their interwoven
leaves and look upon the blue-eyed violets that held
their mute confabulations—each and all perking up
their pretty heads to receive the diurnal kiss of their
god-father Sol—in little lowly knots at their feet.
Kind reader, I am sure I cannot make you know
how very lovely it was, unless you yourself have
peeped into this sheltered spot—seen the cool, dark
shadows stretching across the velvet turf, and making
the bright patches of sunlight look brighter still—have
stood by the murmuring brook on which the
sun-bright leaves overhead are mirrored tremulously,
and upon whose brink there grows so many a lovely
“denizen of the wild”—gazed admiringly upon the
beautiful white rose Dame Nature hath set in the
heart of this hidden sanctuary, as a seal of purity and
innocence—and more than this, have turned from all
these to watch the fairy form flitting from flower to
flower, with so light a step that one might mistake it
for some bright fay sent on a love-mission to this
actual world of ours—if one did not know that this
was Fanny Layton’s dream-dell—that in this lovely
spot she would spend hours during the long, warm
summer days, poring over the pages of some favorite
author, or twining the sweet wild flowers in fragrant
wreaths to bedeck her invalid mother’s room—or,
perchance, staying for awhile those busy fingers, to
indulge in those dreamy, delicious reveries with
which the scene and hour so harmonized.

One day—and that day was an era in poor Fanny’s[143]
life which was never afterward to be forgotten—our
lovely heroine might have been seen tripping lightly
over the smooth sward, the green trees rustling musically
in the summer breeze, and Nature’s myriad
tones “concerting harmonies” on hill and dale. And
one needed but to see the smiling lip, and those clear,
laughter-loving eyes peeping from beneath just the
richest and brightest golden curls in the world, to
know what a joyous heart was beating to that fairy-light
and bounding step. Wonder none could be,
that many an eye brightened as she passed, and many
a kindly wish—that was never the less trustful and
sincere for that it was couched in homely phrase—sped
her on her way. Dream-dell was reached at
length—the flowering shrubs which formed the rural
gate-way parted, and Fanny threw herself on the
waving grass, with a careless grace which not all
the fashionable female attitudinizers in the world
could have imitated, so full of unstudied ease and
naturalness it was—with her small cottage bonnet
thrown off that wealth of clustering curls which were
lifted by the soft summer wind, and fell shadowingly
over the brightest and most beaming little face upon
which ever fond lover gazed admiringly—with eyes
which seemed to have caught their deep and dewy
blue from the violets she clasped in one small hand,
and on which they were bent with a silent glance of
admiration—for Fanny was a dear lover of wild-wood
flowers, as who is not who bears a heart untouched
by the sullying stains of earth? One tiny
foot had escaped from the folds of her simple muslin
dress, and lay half-buried in the green turf—a wee,
wee foot it was, so small, indeed, that it seemed just
the easiest thing possible to encase it within the lost
slipper of Cinderella, if said slipper could but have
been produced; at least so said a pair of eyes, as
plainly as pair of eyes could say it, which peering
from behind a leafy screen, were now upon it fixed
in most eager intensity, and now wandered to the
face of the fair owner thereof, who was still bent
over the flowers in the small hand, as if seeking some
hidden spell in their many-colored leaves.

That pair of eyes were the appurtenances belonging
to a face that might have proved no uninteresting
study to the physiognomist, albeit it would have
puzzled one not a little, methinks, to have formed a
satisfactory conclusion therefrom, so full of contradictions
did it seem. A mass of waving hair fell
around a brow high and well-developed, though
somewhat darkly tinged by the warmth, mayhap, of
a southern sun, and the eyes were large and lustrous,
yet there was a something unfathomable in their
depths, which made one doubt if they were truly the
index of the soul, and might not be made to assume
whatever expression the mind within willed. At
present, however, they were filled only with deep
admiration mingled with surprise, while around the
mouth, which, in repose, wore a slightly scornful
curve, there played a frank and winning smile, as,
advancing with a quiet courtesy that at once bespoke
him a man of the world, despite slouched hat and
hunting-frock, the intruder upon our heroine’s solitude
exclaimed, with half-earnest, half-jesting gallantry,
“Prithee, fair woodland nymph, suffer a lone
knight, who has wandered to the confines of a Paradise
unawares, to bow the knee in thy service, and as atonement
meet for venturing unbidden into thy hidden
sanctum, to proffer thee the homage of his loyal heart!”

Fanny was but a simple country maiden, all unskilled
in the light and graceful nothings which form
the substance of worldly converse, and so the warm,
rich crimson crept into her cheek,

and the wee foot forthwith commenced beating a
tatoo upon the heads of the unoffending flowers
around, who breathed forth their perfumed sighs in
mute reproachfulness; but she was still a woman,
and so with all a woman’s ready tact she replied,
though with the flush deepening on her cheek, and a
scarce-perceptible tremor in her voice,

“Indeed, sir stranger, since thou hast given me
such unwonted power, I must first use my sceptre
of command in banishing all intruders into my august
presence, and invaders of this ‘hidden sanctum,’
which is held sacred to mine own idle feet alone!”

And there was a merry look of mischievous meaning
stealing in and out of those bright eyes as they
were for a moment uplifted to the face of the stranger,
and then again were shadowed by the drooping lid.
Whether it was that said “intruder” detected a something
in the tone or the demure glance of the fair girl
which contradicted the words she spoke, or whether
that very glance transfixed him to the spot, history
telleth not, but stay he did; and if his tarrying was very
heartily objected to by his companion, if the words
which fell from his lip in utterance how musical, for the
space of two fastly-fleeting hours, were not pleasing
to the ear of the maiden, then, indeed, did that soft,
bright glow which mantled her fair cheek, and the
rosy lip, half-parted and eloquent of interest, sadly
belie the beating heart within, as the twain walked
lingeringly homeward, the dark shadows lengthening
on the green grass, and the setting sun flinging a
flood of golden-tinted light upon the myriad leaves
which were trembling to the love-voice of the soft
summer breeze.

Softly was the latch of the wicket lifted, and light
was the maiden’s step upon the stair, as she sought
her own little chamber. Was she gazing forth from
the open window to admire the brilliancy of that
gorgeous sunset? Was it to drink in the beauty and
brightness of that sweet summer eve, or to feel the
soft breeze freshly fanning her flushed cheek? Nay,
none of these. See how earnestly her gaze is bent
upon the retreating form of the stranger; and now
that he is lost to view, behold her sitting with head
resting on one little hand, quite lost in a reverie that
is not like those of Dream-dell memory, for now
there comes a tangible shape in place of those ideal
ones, and the echo of a manly voice, breathing devotion
and deference in every tone, still is lingering in
her enchained ear. For the first time she forgets to
carry her offering of fresh flowers to her mother’s
room. Ah! her busy fingers have been strewing[144]
the bright leaves around unconsciously, and she
blushingly gathers the few remaining ones, and, with
a pang of self-reproach, hastens to her mother’s side.

It is with a sigh of relief that Fanny beholds her
invalid parent sleeping sweetly—a relief that was
augmented by the question which burst suddenly
upon her mind, “Can I tell her that I have had a
stranger-companion in my wanderings?” Wonder
not at the query, gentle reader, for remember that
the life of our sweet Fanny had not been blessed with
that loving confidence which is the tenderest tie in
the relation of mother and child. Her love was ever
intermingled with too much fear and restraint from
earliest youth, for that interchange of counsel and
trust which might have been a sure safeguard against
many of earth’s ills. And it was perhaps that very
yearning to fill the only void left in her happy heart
which prompted her to give the helm of her barque
of life, so soon and so confidingly into the hands of
a stranger.

Day succeeded day, and still the lovers, for they
were lovers now, were found at their sweet trysting
spot, seeking every pretext for frequent meetings, as
lovers will, until many were the heads in Aberdeen
which were shaken in wise prognostication; and the
Misses Simpkins, to their unspeakable relief, had
found a new theme whereon to exercise their powers
conversational, while the children of the village
mourned the absence of their kind “Fairy,” and
wished with all their little hearts that Miss Fanny
would send away that “naughty man” who kept
her from their homes.

Poor Fanny! the hidden seal had been touched at
length, and on the deep waters beneath was shining
Love’s own meteor-light—a light that was reflected
on every thing around.

How swiftly the days flew by, “like winged birds,
as lightly and as free.” And, oh! how priceless,
peerless was the gift she was yielding to the stranger
in such child-like confidence and trust. There was
so much up-looking in her love for him; it seemed
so sweet to recognize the thoughts which had lain
dormant in her own soul, for want of fitting expression,
flowing from his lip clothed in such a beauty-breathing
garmenture. And now Fanny Layton
was a child no longer. She had crossed the threshold,
and the “spirit of unrest” had descended upon her,
albeit as yet she knew it not. Her heart seemed so
full of sunshine, that when she ventured to peep into
its depths, she was dazzled by that flood of radiance—and
how could she descry the still shadow. Alas!
that on this earth of ours with the sunlight ever
comes the shadows, too, which was sleeping there,
but to widen and grow deeper and darker when
love’s waters should cease to gush and sparkle as at
the first opening of that sweet fount.

But the day of parting came at length—how it had
been dwelt upon with intermingling vows, promises,
caresses on his part, with trust, and tenderness, and
tears on hers! A sad, sad day it was for Fanny Layton,
the first she had ever known that was ever heralded by
sorrow’s messenger. How she strove to dwell upon
Edward Morton’s words, “It will not be for long;” and
banish from her heart those nameless, undefinable
fears which would not away at her bidding. The sky
looked no longer blue—the green earth no longer
glad; and traces of tears, the bitterest she had ever
shed, were on that poor girl’s cheek, as she went
forth to meet her beloved, for the last time.

It matters not to say how each familiar haunt was
visited that day; how each love-hallowed spot bore
witness to those low murmured words which are
earth’s dearest music; how time wore on, as time
will, whether it bears on its resistless tide a freightage
of joys or sorrows, pleasures, or pains, until at length
the last word had been said, the last silent embrace
taken; and now poor Fanny Layton stood alone,
gazing through blinding tears upon the solitary horseman
who rode swiftly away, as if another glance at
the fair creature who stood with straining gaze and
pallid cheek and drooping form, would all unman
him. Was it this, or was it that in that hour he felt his
own unworthiness of the sacred trust reposed in him?

We will believe, dear reader, that whatever after
influences may have exercised dominion over his
heart; however he may have been swerved from his
plighted faith by dreams of worldly ambition, or
wealth, or power; however cold policy may have
up-rooted all finer feeling from his soul, we will believe
that no thoughts of treachery, no meditated
falsehood mingled with that parting embrace and
blessing; that although he had bowed at many a
shrine before, and therefore could not feel all the
depth and purity of the unworldly affection which he
had won, still he did not, could not believe it possible
that that priceless love would be bartered for pomp
and station, he did mean, when he placed the white
rose, plucked from the heart of Dream-dell, in the
little trembling hand which rested on his shoulder,
and murmured “Fanny, darling, ere this bud hath
scarce withered, I shall be with you again,” that it
should be even as he said. Alas! alas! for the frailty
of human nature!

That night poor Fanny pressed the precious rose
to her quivering lip, and sobbed herself, like a child,
to sleep.

The next day wore away—the next—the next—still
no tidings from the absent one; and he had promised
to write as soon as he arrived “in town!”
What could it mean?

Oh, that weary watching! The hours moved, oh,
so leaden-paced and slow! Every day the poor girl
waited for the coming of the post-man; and every
day, with a pang at her heart, and tear-dimmed eyes,
she saw him pass the door. “Edward has been detained;
he will come yet, I’m sure,” a fond inner
voice whispered; “perhaps he has sent no letter, because
he’ll be here himself so soon!” Poor Fanny!
another week, and still no letter, no tidings. “Oh! he
must be ill!” she whispered, anxiously, but never
thought him false. Oh, no! she was too single-hearted,
too relying in her trust fora doubt so dreadful;
but her step grew heavier day by day—her cheek so[145]
very, very pale, except at the post-man’s hour, when
it would burn with a feverish brightness, and then
fade to its former pallid hue again; her sweet voice
was heard no longer trilling forth those thrilling
melodies which had gladdened the heart of young
and old to hear. The visits to Dream-dell were less
and less frequent, for now how each remembrance
so fondly connected with that spot, came fraught
with pain; the works of her favorite author’s lay
opened, but unread, upon her knee; and the fastly-falling
tears half-blotted out the impassioned words
she had once read with him with so happy a heart-thrill.

The widow saw with anxiety and alarm this
sudden change; but she was an invalid—and the poor
suffering one strove to hide her sickness of the heart,
and mother though she was, Mrs. Layton discovered
not the canker-worm which was nipping her bud of
promise, but would whisper, “You confine yourself
too much to my room, my child, and must go out
into the bright sunshine, so that the smile may come
back to your lip, the roses to your cheek.”

One day, now three months after Edward Morton’s
departure, Miss Jerusha Simpkins was seen threading
her way to Woodbine Cottage. She held a newspaper
carefully folded in her hand, and on her
pinched and withered face a mingled expression of
caution and importance was struggling.

Lifting the latch of the embowered door, the
spinster walked into the small parlor, where Fanny
Layton was engaged in feeding her pet canaries;
poor things! they were looking strangely at the wan
face beside the cage, as if they wondered if it could
be the same which used to come with wild warblings
as sweet and untutored as their own. Fanny turned
to welcome the intruder, but recognized Miss Simpkins
with a half-drawn sigh, and a shrinking of the
heart, for she was ever so minute in her inquiries
for that “runaway Mr. Morton.”

“A beautiful day, Miss Fanny,” commenced the
spinster, looking sharply around, (she always made
a point of doing two things i.e. entering the houses
of her neighbors without knocking, and then taking
in at a glance not only every thing the room contained,
but the occupation, dress, &c. of the inmates
for after comment,) and then throwing back her
bonnet, and commencing to fan herself vigorously
with the folded paper, “I thought I must run round
to-day and see how your mother did, and bring her
to-day’s paper. I happened to be standing by the
window when the penny-post came by, and Nancy
says to me, ‘Jerusha,’ says she, ‘do run to the door
and get the Times—I haven’t seen it for an age,’ for
we aint no great readers at our house; so I steps to
the door and gets one from neighbor Wilkins—he is
a very pleasant-spoken man, and often drops in of a
morning to have a chat with me and Nancy. Well,
what should I see the first thing (for I always turn to
the marriages and deaths) but Mr. Edward Morton’s
marriage to the elegant and rich Miss—Miss—dear
me! I’ve forgot the name now—do you see if you
can make it out,” handing her the paper; “but,
bless me! what is the matter, Miss Fanny? I don’t
wonder you’re surprised; Nancy and me was—for we
did think at one time that he had an attachment to
Aberdeen; but, la! one can’t put any dependence on
these wild-flys!”

The last part of the cruel sentence was wholly
lost upon poor Fanny, who sat with fixed and stony
gaze upon the dreadful announcement, while it
seemed as if her heart-strings were breaking one by
one. In vain Miss Simpkins, thoroughly alarmed
at length, strove to rouse her from this stupor of
grief. In vain did her dear old nurse, who ran in
affrighted at the loud ejaculations of the terrified but
unfeeling creature who had dealt the blow, use every
epithet of endearment, and strive to win one look
from the poor sufferer, into whose inmost soul the
iron had entered, upon whose heart a weight had
fallen, that could never, never be uplifted again on
earth. Every effort alike was useless; and for days
she sat in one spot low murmuring a plaintive strain,
rocking to and fro, with the white rose, his parting
gift, tightly clasped in her pale fingers, or gazing
fixedly and vacantly upon the birds who sang still, unconsciously
above her head. After a time she became
more docile, and would retire to rest at night,
at the earnest entreaties of her poor old nurse—but
reason’s light, from that fearful moment, was darkened
evermore. She would suffer herself to be led
out into the open air, and soon grew fond again of
being with her old playmates, the children; but her
words were unintelligible now to them, and she
would often throw down the wreath she was twining,
and starting up, would exclaim, in a tone that thrilled
to one’s very heart, “Oh, has he come? Are you sure
he has not come yet—my rose is almost withered?”

Poor, poor Fanny Layton! She would go to
church regularly—it was there, dear reader, that
her faded face had brought to me such bewildered
rememberings of the Fanny Layton of other years—and
always dressed in the same mock-bridal attire.
And there was not an eye in that village-church but
glistened as it rested upon the poor, weary, stricken
one, in her mournful spirit-darkness, and no lip but
murmured brokenly, “Heaven bless her!”

This was the last drop in the cup of the bereaved
desolate widow. She soon found that rest and peace
“which the world cannot give or take away.” She
sleeps her last, long, dreamless sleep.

It was not long ere another mound was raised in
the humble church-yard, on which was ever blooming
the sweetest and freshest flowers of summer, watered
by the tears of many who yet weep and lament the
early perishing of that fairest flower of all. And a
marble slab, on which is simply graven a dove, with
an arrow driven to its very heart, marks the last
earthly resting-place of our Lily of the Valley.

THE SPANISH PRINCESS TO THE MOORISH KNIGHT.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

THE LIGHT OF OUR HOME.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

AN INDIAN-SUMMER RAMBLE.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

It was now the middle of October. White frosts
had for some time been spreading their sheets of
pearl over the gardens and fields, but the autumn
rainbows in the forests were wanting. At last, however,
the stern black frost came and wrought its
customary magic. For about a week there was a
gorgeous pageantry exhibited, “beautiful, exceedingly.”
But one morning I awoke, and found that
the mist had made a common domain both of earth
and sky. Every thing was merged into a gray dimness.
I could just discern the tops of trees a few
feet off, and here and there a chimney. There was
a small bit of fence visible, bordering “our lane,”
and I could with difficulty see a glimmering portion
of the village street. Some gigantic cloud appeared
to have run against something in the heavens and
dropped down amongst us. There were various
outlines a few rods off, belonging to objects we
scarce knew what. Horses pushed out of the
fog with the most sudden effect, followed by their
wagons, and disappeared again in the opposite fleecy
barrier; pedestrians were first seen like spectres, then
their whole shapes were exhibited, and finally they
melted slowly away again, whilst old Shadbolt’s
cow, grazing along the grassy margin of the street,
loomed up through the vapor almost as large as an
elephant.

About noon the scene became clearer, so that the
outline of the village houses, and even the checkered
splendors of the neighboring woods could be seen;
so much of Nate’s sign, “Hammond’s sto—” became
visible, and even Hamble’s great red stage-coach was
exhibited, thrusting its tongue out as if in scorn of
the weather.

In the afternoon, however, the mist thickened
again, and the whole village shrunk again within it,
like a turtle within its shell. The next morning
dawned without its misty mask, but with it rose a
gusty wind that commenced howling like a famished
wolf. Alas! for the glories of the woods! As the
rude gusts rushed from the slaty clouds, the rich
leaves came fluttering upon them, blotting the air
and falling on the earth thick as snow-flakes. Now
a maple-leaf, like a scalloped ruby, would fly whirling
over and over; next a birch one would flash
across the sight, as if a topaz had acquired wings;
and then a shred of the oak’s imperial mantle, flushed
like a sardonyx, would cut a few convulsive capers
in the air, like a clown in a circus, and dash itself
headlong upon the earth. Altogether it was an
exciting time, this fall of the leaf. Ah! a voice also
was constantly whispering in my ear, “we all do
fade as the leaf!”

I took a walk in the woods. What a commotion
was there! The leaves were absolutely frantic.
Now they would sweep up far into the air as if they
never intended to descend again, and then taking
curvatures, would skim away like birds; others
would cluster together, and then roll along like a
great quivering billow; others again would circle
around in eddies like whirlpools, soaring up now
and then in the likeness of a water-spout, whilst
frequently tall columns would march down the broad
aisles of the forest in the most majestic manner, and
finally fall to pieces in a violent spasm of whirling
atoms. Even after the leaves had found their way
to the earth they were by no means quiet. Some
skipped uneasily over the surface; some stood on one
leg, as it were, and pirouetted; some crept further
and further under banks; some ran merry races over
the mounds, and some danced up and down in the
hollows. As for the trees themselves, they were
cowering and shivering at a tremendous rate, apparently
from want of the cloaks of which every blast
was thus stripping them.

A day or two after came the veritable soft-looking,
sweet-breathing Indian-Summer—”our thunder.”
No other clime has it. Autumn expires in a rain-storm
of three months in Italy; and it is choked to
death with a wet fog in England; but in this new
world of ours, “our own green forest land,” as
Halleck beautifully says, it swoons away often in a
delicious trance, during which the sky is filled with
sleep, and the earth hushes itself into the most peaceful
and placid repose. There it lies basking away
until with one growl old Winter springs upon Nature,
locks her in icy fetters, and covers her bosom with
a white mantle that generally stays there until Spring
comes with her soft eye and blue-bird voice to make
us all glad again.

Well, this beautiful season arrived as aforesaid,
and a day “turned up” that seemed to be extracted
from the very core of the season’s sweetness. The
landscape was plunged into a thick mist at sunrise,
but that gradually dwindled away until naught remained
but a delicate dreamy film of tremulous
purple, that seemed every instant as if it would melt
from the near prospect. Further off, however, the
film deepened into rich smoke, and at the base of the
horizon it was decided mist, bearing a tinge, however,
borrowed from the wood-violet. The mountains
could be discerned, and that was all, and they
only by reason of a faint jagged line struggling
through the veil proclaiming their summits. The
dome above was a tender mixture of blue and silver;
and as for the sunshine, it was tempered and shaded
down into a tint like the blush in the tinted hollow
of the sea-shell.

It was the very day for a ramble in the woods; so
Benning, Watson, and I, called at the dwelling of three[148]
charming sisters, to ask their mamma’s consent (and
their own) to accompany us. These three Graces all
differed from each other in their styles of beauty.
The eyes of one were of sparkling ebony, those of
the other looked as if the “summer heaven’s delicious
blue” had stained them, whilst the third’s
seemed as though they had caught their hue from
the glittering gray that is sometimes seen just above
the gold of a cloudless sunset.

We turned down the green lane that led from the
village street, and were soon in the forests. The
half-muffled sunlight stole down sweetly and tenderly
through the chaos of naked branches overhead; and
there was a light crisp, crackling sound running
through the dry fallen leaves, as though they had become
tired of their position, and were striving to
turn over. So quiet was the air that even this faint
sound was distinctly audible. Hark! whang!
whang! there rings the woodman’s axe—crack!
crash! b-o-o-m!—Hurrah! what thunder that little
keen instrument has waked up there, and what
power it has! Say, ye wild, deep forests, that have
shrunk into rocky ravines, and retreated to steep
mountains, what caused ye to flee away from the
valleys and uplands of your dominion? Answer, fierce
eagle! what drove thee from thy pine of centuries
to the desolate and wind-swept peak, where alone
thou couldst rear thy brood in safety? Tell, thou
savage panther, what made the daylight flash into
thy den so suddenly, that thou didst think thy eye-balls
were extinguished?

And thou, too, busy city, that dost point up thy
spires where two score years ago the forest stood a
frown upon the face of Nature—what mowed the way
for thee? And, lastly, thou radiant grain-field, what
prepared the room for thy bright and golden presence?
Whew! if that isn’t a tremendous flight, I
don’t know what is! But the axe, as Uncle Jack
Lummis says of his brown mare, is “a tarnal great
critter, any how!”

How Settler Jake’s cabin will gleam those approaching
winter nights from the “sticks” that axe
of his will give him out of the tree he has just prostrated.
It is really pleasant to think of it. There
will be the great fire-place, with a huge block for a
back-log; then a pile will be built against it large
enough for a bonfire—and then such a crackling and
streaming! why the dark night just around there will
be all in a blush with it. And the little window will
glow like a red star to the people of the village; and
then within, there will be the immense antlers over
the door, belonging to a moose Jake shot the first
year he came into the country, all tremulous with
the light, and the long rifle thrust through it will
glitter quick and keen; and the scraped powder-horn
hung by it will be transparent in redness; even the
row of bullets on the rude shelf near the window
will give a dull gleam, whilst our old acquaintance,
the axe, will wink as if a dozen eyes were strewn
along its sharp, bright edge. And then the brown
and tortoise-shell cat belonging to the “old woman”
will partake of the lustre; and the old woman herself—a
little, active, bustling body, will be seated
in one corner of the fire-place, after having swept
clean the hearth; and “Sport” will have coiled his
long body on a bear-skin near her. Lastly, the
settler himself will be sitting upon a stool opposite
“Betsey,” with his elbows on his knees,
smoking a pipe as black as his face at the “spring
logging.” But stop—where was I? Oh, in the
woods!”

“Look! look!” cries Susan, the owner of the
gray orbs, with an accent of delight, “see that beautiful
black squirrel eating!”

We all looked, and sure enough, there is the little
object in a nook of warm bronze light, with his
paws to his whiskered face, cracking nuts, one
after another, as fast as possible. But he stops, with
his paws still uplifted, looks askance for a moment,
and away he shoots then through the “brush-fence”
at our side like a dart.

We soon find the tree whence he gathered his fruit.
It is a noble hickory, with here and there a brown
leaf clinging to its boughs. A stone or two brings
the globes that hold the nuts to the earth. They have
commenced cracking, and with a little exertion we
uncover the snow-white balls. We are now all determined
to rob the tree. It has no business to be
displaying its round wealth so temptingly. And, beside,
it will, if let alone, most probably entice boys
from the little black school-house out yonder to
“play truant.” So it is unanimously voted that
Benning, who is light and active, should climb the
tree. Up he goes, like one of those little striped
woodpeckers that are so often seen in the woods
tapping up the trees, and immediately his hands and
feet make the branches dance, whilst the green globes
drop like great hail-stones on the earth. We then
commence stripping the nuts from their covers, and
soon the base of the tree is covered with them. We
then stow the ivories away in our bags, and start for
new havoc.

We come now to the brush-fence. It is a perfect
chevau-de-frize. It looks at us with a sort of defying,
bristling air, as if it said as Wilson, the horse-jockey,
says when some one endeavors to hoodwink him in
a bargain, “You can’t come it!”

We wont try here, but a little lower down there is
a gap made by John Huff’s cow, that uses her horns
so adroitly in the attack of a fence, no matter how
difficult, that I verily believe she could pick a lock.
We pass through the kindly breach and skirt the
fence for some little distance to regain the path. The
fence on this side is densely plumed with blackberry
vines. What a revel I held there two months ago.
The fruit hung around in rich masses of ebony, each
little atom composing the cone having a glittering
spot upon it like a tiny eye. How the black beauties
melted on my tongue in their dead-ripe richness.
One bush in particular was heavy with the clusters.
After despoiling the edges I opened the heart, and
there, hidden snugly away, as if for the wood-fairies,
were quantities of the sable clusters, larger and more
splendid than any I had seen. I immediately made
my way into the defences of that fortress. There
was a merciless sacking there, reader, allow me to[149]
tell you. But that is neither “here nor there” on the
present occasion.

How beautifully the soft, tender dark light slumbers
on objects where the great roof of the forest will
allow it. There is an edge of deep golden lace
gleaming upon that mound of moss, and here, the
light, breaking through the overhanging beech, has
so mottled the tawny surface of the leaves beneath
as to make it appear as if a leopard-skin had been
dropped there.

B-o-o-m, b-o-o-m, boom-boom—whi-r-r-r-r-r—there
sounds the drum of the partridge. We’ll
rouse his speckled lordship probably below, causing
him to give his low, quick thunder-clap so as to send
the heart on a leaping visit to the throat.

We now descend the ridge upon which we have
been for some time, to a glade at the foot. The sweet
haze belonging to the season is shimmering over it.
It is a broad space surrounded on all sides by the
forest. The first settler in this part of the country
had “located” himself here, and this was his little
clearing. His hut stood on an eminence in one
corner. He lived there a number of years. He was
a reserved, unsocial man, making the forest his only
haunt, and his rifle his only companion. He was at
last found dead in his cabin. Alone and unattended
he had died, keeping to the last aloof from human
society. The hut was next occupied by a singular
couple—an old man and his idiot son. The father
was of a fierce, savage temper, but seemed very fond,
although capriciously so, of his child. Sometimes
he would treat him with the greatest tenderness,
then again, at some wayward action of the idiot, he
would burst upon him with an awful explosion of
passion. The old man had evidently been a reckless
desperado in other days, and many in the village
suspected strongly that he had once been a pirate.
He was addicted to drinking, and now and then,
when bitten by the adder, would talk strangely. He
would commence narrating some wonderful hurricane
he had experienced on the Spanish Main, and
would launch out upon the number of times he had
headed boarding parties, and once, in a state of great
intoxication at the village tavern, he rambled off into
a story about his having made an old man walk the
plank. He would, however, check himself on all
these occasions before he went far. He became involved
in a fight one time with a great lounging
fellow about the village, whose propensity to bully
was the only salient point in his character. They
clinched—the old man was thrown, and the bystanders
had just time to pull the bully away, to prevent a
long keen knife in the grasp of Murdock (for such
was the old man’s name) from being plunged into
his side.

Suddenly the idiot-boy disappeared. The passers-by
had frequently seen him (for he was an industrious
lad) working in the little patch belonging to the
cabin, but from a certain time he was seen no more,
and the old man lived alone in his cabin. A change,
too, gradually grew over him. He became silent and
deeply melancholy, and his countenance settled into
an expression of stern, rigid sorrow. His eye was
awful. Wild and red, it seemed as if you could look
through it into a brain on fire.

At last he commenced rubbing his right hand with
his left. There he would fasten his gaze, and chafe
with the most determined energy. He would frequently
stop and hold the hand to his eye for a
moment, and then recommence his strange work.
To the inquiries of the village people concerning his
son, he would give no answer. He would roll upon
the inquirer for an instant his fierce, mad eye, and
then prosecute his mysterious chafing more rigorously
than ever.

Things continued so for about a fortnight after the
disappearance of the idiot, when one dark night the
village was alarmed by the appearance of flames
from the clearing. Hurrying to the spot, they were
just in time to see the blazing roof of the hut fall in.
The next morning disclosed, amidst the smouldering
ashes, a few charred bones. Murdock was not again
seen or heard of from that night.

The glade is now quiet and lonely as if human
passions had never been unloosed there in the terrific
crime of parricide—the consequent remorse merging
into madness, and a fiery retributory death. Upon
the grassy mound, which the frost has not yet blighted,
a beautiful white rabbit has just glided. The lovely
creature darts onward, then crouches—now lays his
long ears flat upon his shoulders, and now points
them forward in the most knowing and cunning
manner. He plays there in his white, pure beauty,
as if in purposed contrast to the blood-stained and
guilty wretch who expired on the same spot in his
flaming torture. But the little shape now points his
long, rose-tinted ears in our direction, and then he
does not disappear as much as melt from our sight
like the vanishing of breath from polished steel.
We then enter fully into the glade. One of the trees
at the border is a magnificent chestnut. I remember
it in June, with its rich green leaves hung over with
short, braided cords of pale gold. These braided
blossoms have yielded fruit most plenteously. How
thickly the chestnuts, with their autumn-colored coats
and gray caps, are scattered around the tree, whilst
the large yellow burrs on the branches, gaping wide
open, are displaying their soft velvet inner lining in
which the embedded nuts have ripened, and which
in their maturity they have deserted.

After changing the position of the little glossy
things from the earth to our satchels, we cross the
glade, and strike a narrow road that enters the forests
in that direction. We pass along, our feet sinking
deep in the dead leaves, until we come to an opening
where a bridge spans a stream. It is a slight, rude
structure, such as the emigrating settler would (and
probably did) make in a brief hour to facilitate his
passage across. Let us sketch the picture to our
imagination for a moment. We will suppose it
about an hour to sunset of a summer’s day. There
is a soft richness amidst the western trees, and the
little grassy opening here is dappled with light and
shade. The emigrant’s wagon is standing near the
brink, with its curved canvas top, white as silver,
in a slanting beam, and the broad tires of its huge[150]
wheels stained green with the wood-plants and vines
they have crushed in their passage during the day.
The patient oxen, which have drawn the wagon so
far, are chewing their cud, with their honest countenances
fixed straight forward. Around the wagon
is hung a multitude of household articles—pans, pails,
kettles, brooms, and what not; and on a heap of
beds, bedding, quilts, striped blankets, &c., is the
old woman, the daughter, about eighteen, and a perfect
swarm of white-headed little ones. The father,
and his two stalwort sons, are busy in the forest
close at hand. How merrily the echoes ring out at
each blow of their axes, and how the earth groans
with the shock of the falling trees. The two largest
of the woodland giants are cut into logs—the others
are also divided into the proper lengths. The logs
are placed athwart the stream several feet distant
from each other—the rest are laid in close rows
athwart, and lo! the bridge. Over the whole scene
the warm glow of the setting sun is spread, and a
black bear, some little distance in the forest, is
thrusting his great flat head out of a hollow tree,
overseeing the proceedings with the air of a connoisseur.

The bridge is now old and black, and has decayed
and been broken into quite a picturesque object.
One of the platform pieces has been fractured in the
middle, and the two ends slant upwards, as if to take
observations of the sky; and there is a great hole in
the very centre of the bridge. Add to this the moss,
which has crept over the whole structure, making
what remains of the platform a perfect cushion, and
hanging in long flakes of emerald, which fairly dip
in the water, and the whole object is before you.
The stream has a slow, still motion, with eddies,
here coiling up into wrinkles like an old man’s face,
and there dimpling around some stone like the smiling
cheek of a young maiden, but in no case suffering its
demureness to break into a broad laugh of ripples.
In one spot tall bullrushes show their slender shapes
and brown wigs; in another there is a collection of
waterflags; in another there are tresses of long grass
streaming in the light flow of the current, whilst in a
nook, formed by the roots of an immense elm on
one side, and a projection of the bank on the other,
is a thick coat of stagnant green—a perfect meadow
for the frogs to hold their mass meetings in, differing
from ours, however, from the fact of theirs being
composed of all talkers and no listeners.

Let us look at the stream a little, which has here
expanded into a broad surface, and view its “goings
on.” There is a water-spider taking most alarming
leaps, as if afraid of wetting his feet; a dragon-fly
is darting hither and yon, his long, slender body
flashing with green, golden and purple hues; a large
dace has just apparently flattened his nose against
the dark glass inward, dotting a great and increasing
period outward. A bright birch-leaf, “the last of its
clan,” has just fallen down, and been snapped at
most probably by a little spooney of a trout, thinking
it a yellow butterfly; and on the bottom, which,
directly under our eyes is shallow, are several
water-insects crawling along like locomotive spots
of shadow and reflected through the tremulous medium
into distorted shapes. However, we have
lingered here long enough—let us onward.

What on earth is that uproar which is now striking
our ear. Such hoarse notes, such rapid flutterings,
whizzings, deep rumbling sounds, and such a rustle
of dead leaves surely betoken something. We turn
an elbow of the road, and a flashing of blue wings,
and darting of blue shapes in the air, now circling
round, now shooting up, and now down, with a
large beech tree for the centre, meet our eyes. The
tumult is explained. A colony of wild pigeons is
busy amongst the beech-nuts, which the frost has
showered upon the earth. The ground for some distance
around the tree is perfectly blue with the birds
picking, and fighting, and scrambling. It is ludicrous
to see them. Here a score or two are busy eating,
looking like a collection of big-paunched, blue-coated
aldermen at a city feast; there, all are hurrying and
jostling, and tumbling over one another like the
passengers of a steamboat when the bell rings for
dinner. By the side of yonder bush there is a perfect
duel transpiring between two pugnacious pigeons
dashing out their wings fiercely at each other with
angry tones, their beautiful purple necks all swollen,
and their red eyes casting devouring looks, whilst
two others are very quietly, yet swiftly, as if making
the most of their time, causing all the nuts in sight,
and which probably induced the quarrel, disappear
down their own throats. See! here is a pigeon who
has over-estimated his capacity of swallowing, or
has encountered a larger nut than usual, for he is
exhibiting the most alarming symptoms of choking.
He stretches his neck and opens his bill like a cock
in the act of crowing, at the same time dancing up
and down on his pink legs as if his toes had caught
fire. However, he has mastered the nut at last with
a vigorous shake of his neck, and bobs industriously
again at his feast.

Determining to have some of the brown luscious
mast, we make a foray amongst the gorging host,
and succeeded in causing a cloud of them to take wing,
and in securing a quantity of the spoil.

We then start again on our way, but do not advance
far before—b-r-r-r-r-r-h—off bursts a partridge,
and shoots down the vista of the road, with the dark
sunshine glancing from his mottled back. If little
“Spitfire” was here, how he would yelp and dance,
and dart backward and forward, and shake his tail,
so as to render it doubtful whether it wouldn’t fly
off in a tangent.

Rattat, tattat, tat—tat—t-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r—there is the
great red-headed woodpecker, or woodcock, as he
is called by the country people, looking like a miniature
man with a crimson turban and sable spear,
attacking the bark of yon old oak. He is making a
sounding-board of the seamed mail of the venerable
monarch, to detect by the startled writhing within
the grub snugly ensconced, as it thinks, there, in
order to transfix it with his sharp tongue through the
hole made by his bill. He ceases his work though as
we approach—and now he flies away.

A mile farther, we come to the strawberry-field[151]
belonging to Deacon Gravespeech, the outlines of
whose dark, low farm-house are etched on the mist
which is again slowly spreading over the landscape,
for it is now near sunset. Having left the
forest, we see the mild red orb, like an immense
ruby, just in the act of sinking in the bank of pale
blue which now thickens the Western horizon. But
what have we here? A splendid butternut tree,
with quantities of the oval fruit scattered about
amidst the brown leaves, in their coats of golden
green. What a rich lustre is upon them, made
brighter by the varnish, and how delightful their
pungent perfume. Let us crack a few of the strong,
deeply-fluted shells. In their tawny nooks nestle
the dark, golden-veined meats, which with the most
delicious sweetness crumble in the mouth.

Of all the fruits of the Northern forests give me
the butternut; and, speaking of fruits puts me in
mind of the strawberry field. I was here with a
small party one day last June. The field was then
scattered thickly over with the bright crimson spotting
fruit, and the fingers of all of us were soon dyed
deeply with the sweet blood. There is great skill in
picking strawberries, let me tell you, reader, although
it is a trifle. Go to work systematically, and don’t
get excited. Gather all as you go, indiscriminately.
Don’t turn to the right for two splendid berries, and
leave the one in front, for it is just as likely, before
you gather the two, a cluster, with five ripe tempting
fellows, will cause you to forget the others, and
in whirling yourself around, and stretching over to
seize the latest prize, your feet and limbs not only
destroy the first and second, but a whole collection
of the blushing beauties hid away in a little hollow
of buttercups and dandelions.

Well, “as I was saying,” I was here with a small
party, and had fine sport picking, but the next day
a precept, at the suit of Peter Gravespeech, was
served upon Hull and myself, (the two gentlemen of
the party,) issued from “Pettifogger’s Delight,” as
the office of Squire Tappit, the justice, was called
throughout the village: action, trespass. “For the
fun of the thing” we stood trial. The day came,
and all the vagabonds of the village,—those whose
continual cry is that they “can never get any thing
to do,” and therefore drive a brisk business at doing
nothing,—were in attendance. The justice was a
hot-tempered old fellow, somewhat deaf, and,—if his
nose was any evidence,—fond of the brandy bottle.

The witness of the trespass, who was a “hired
hand” of Deacon Gravespeech, was present, and
after the cause had been called in due order, was
summoned by the deacon (who appeared in proper
person) to the stand. He was generally very irascible,
a good deal of a bully, rather stupid, and, on the
present occasion, particularly drunk.

“Now, Mr. Hicks,” said the deacon, respectfully,
(knowing his man,) after he had ‘kissed the book,’
“now, Mr. Hicks (his name was Joe Hicks, but
universally called ‘Saucy Joe,’) please tell the justice
what you know of this transaction.”

“Well, squire, I seed ’em!” replied Joe, to this
appeal, facing the justice.

“Who?” ejaculated the justice, quickly.

“Who!” answered Joe, “why, who do you
spose, but that’ere sour-faced feller, (pointing at Hull,)
what looks like a cow swelled on clover, and that ‘ere
little nimshi, who isn’t bigger than my Poll’s knitten
needle. They was with four female critters.”

“Well, what were they about?” asked the deacon.

“What was they about!” (a little angrily,) “you
know as well as I do, deacon, for I telled ye all
about it at the time.”

“Yes, but you must tell the justice.”

“Answer, witness!” exclaimed the justice, somewhat
sternly.

“Oh! you needn’t be flusterfied, Squire Tappit;
I knowed ye long afore ye was squire, and drinked
with ye, too. For that matter, I stood treat last!”

“That’s of no consequence now, Mr. Hicks,” interposed
the deacon, throwing at the same time a
deprecatory glance at the old justice, whose nose
was growing redder, and whose eye began to twinkle
in incipient wrath.

“Let the gentleman proceed with his interesting
developments,” said Hull, rising with the most ludicrous
gravity, and waving his hand in a solemn
and dignified manner.

“Well,” said Joe, a little mollified at the word
‘gentleman,’ “ef I must tell it agin, I must, that’s
all. They was a picken strawberries like Old
Sanko.”

“How long do you think they were there, trampling
down the grass?” asked the deacon.

“Why, I spose from the time I seed ’em”—here
he stopped abruptly, glanced out of the window
toward the tavern, spit thirstily, and then looked at
the deacon.

“Let the gentleman proceed,” again cried Hull,
half rising, in mock respect.

“Proceed!” said the justice, angrily.

“Well, as I was a sayen, from the time I seed
’em—— But I say, deacon, I’m monstrous dry.
You’re temp’rance I know; but sposen as how you
treat me and old Squire Tappit there to some red
eye. He won’t refuse, no how you can fix it, and
as for me, I am so dry I really can’t talk.”

“Go on with your story, you scoundrel!” shouted
the justice, exasperated beyond all bounds, “or I’ll
commit you to prison.”

“Commit me to prison, you old brandy-jug!”
yelled Joe, swinging off his ragged coat at a jerk,
and throwing it on the floor, “commit me, you mahogany-nosed
old sarpent!” advancing close to the
justice, with both of his great fists ready.

“Let the gentleman proceed,” here broke in Hull
again, in an agony of laughter.

And, sure enough, the “gentleman” did proceed.
Launching out his right fist in the most approved
fashion at the nose of the justice, Joe was in an
instant the center of a perfect Pandemonium. The
constable rushed in to protect the justice, who was
shouting continually, “I command the peace;” the
bystanders, ready for a fight at any time, followed his
example, and, for a few minutes, there was a perfect[152]
chaos of arms, legs, and heads, sticking out in every
direction.

The first thing Hull and I saw were the heels of
the justice flourishing in the air, and the last was
Joe going off to jail in the grasp of the constable one
way, and the deacon sneaking off another. We
never heard afterward of the suit, but “Let the
gentleman proceed,” was for a long time a by-word
amongst us in the village.

After crossing the strawberry field we came to a
“cross-road” leading to the turnpike. In a few
minutes we arrived at “Cold Spring,” where a little
streak of water ran through a hollowed log, green
with moss, from the fountain a short distance in the
forest, and fell into a pebbly basin at the road-side.
We here refreshed ourselves with repeated draughts
of the sweet, limpid element, and then, resuming
our walk, soon found ourselves upon the broad, gray
turnpike, with the village upon the summit of the
hill, about half a mile in front.

The sun had long since plunged into the slate-colored
haze of the West; the thickening landscape
looked dull and faded; the mist was glimmering before
the darkened forests; the cows were wending
homeward, lowing; the woodsmen passed us with
axes on their shoulders; and, mounting the hill, we
saw here and there, a light sparkling in the village,
following the example of the scattered stars that
were timidly glancing from the dome of the purpled
heavens.

THE LOST PET

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

THE LOST PET

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine

Figure from I. M. Wright. Drawn with original scenery & engraved by Ellis.

FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE’S DEVOTION.

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “THE ROMAN TRAITOR,” “MARMADUKE WYVIL,” “CROMWELL,” ETC.

(Concluded from page 91.)

PART III.

It would be wonderful, were it not of daily occurrence,
and to be observed by all who give attention
to the characteristics of the human mind, how quickly
confidence, even when shaken to its very foundations,
and almost obliterated, springs up again, and
recovers all its strength in the bosoms of the young
of either sex.

Let but a few more years pass over the heart, and
when once broken, if it be only by a slight suspicion,
or a half unreal cause, it will scarce revive again in
a life-time; nor then, unless proofs the strongest and
most unquestionable can be adduced to overpower
the doubts which have well-nigh annihilated it.

In early youth, however, before long contact with
the world has blunted the susceptibilities, and hardened
the sympathies of the soul, before the constant
experience of the treachery, the coldness, the ingratitude
of men has given birth to universal doubt and
general distrust, the shadow vanishes as soon as the
cloud which cast it is withdrawn, and the sufferer
again believes, alas! too often, only to be again
deceived.

Thus it was with St. Renan, who a few minutes
before had given up even the last hope, who had
ceased, as he thought, to believe even in the possibility
of faith or honor among men, of constancy, or
purity, or truth in women, no sooner saw his Melanie,
whom he knew to be the wife of another, solitary
and in tears, no sooner felt her inanimate form reclining
on his bosom, than he was prepared to believe
any thing, rather than believe her false.

Indeed, her consternation at his appearance, her
evident dismay, not unnatural in an age wherein
skepticism and infidelity were marvelously mingled
with credulity and superstition, her clear conviction
that it was not himself in mortal blood and being, did
go far to establish the fact, that she had been deceived
either casually or—which was far more probable—by
foul artifice, into the belief that her beloved and
plighted husband was no longer with the living.

The very exclamation which she uttered last, ere
she sunk senseless into his arms, uttered, as she
imagined, in the presence of the immortal spirit of
the injured dead, “I am true, Raoul—true to the last,
my beloved!” rang in his ears with a power and a
meaning which convinced him of her veracity.

“She could not lie!” he muttered to himself, “in
the presence of the living dead! God be praised!
she is true, and we shall yet be happy!”

How beautiful she looked, as she lay there, unconscious
and insensible even of her own existence.
If time and maturity had improved Raoul’s person,
and added the strength and majesty of manhood to
the grace and pliability of youth, infinitely more had
it bestowed on the beauty of his betrothed. He
had left her a beautiful girl just blooming out of girlhood,
he found her a mature, full-blown woman,
with all the flush and flower of complete feminine
perfection, before one charm has become too luxuriant,
or one drop of the youthful dew exhaled from
the new expanded blossom.

She had shot up, indeed, to a height above the
ordinary stature of women—straight, erect, and
graceful as a young poplar, slender, yet full withal,
exquisitely and voluptuously rounded, and with
every sinuous line and swelling curve of her soft
form full of the poetry and beauty both of repose and
motion.

Her complexion was pale as alabaster; even her
cheeks, except when some sudden tide of passion, or
some strong emotion sent the impetuous blood coursing
thither more wildly than its wont, were colorless,
but there was nothing sallow or sickly, nothing of
that which is ordinarily understood by the word
pallid, in their clear, warm, transparent purity;
nothing, in a word, of that lividness which the French,
with more accuracy than we, distinguish from the
healthful paleness which is so beautiful in southern
women.

Her hair, profuse almost to redundance, was perfectly
black, but of that warm and lustrous blackness
which is probably the hue expressed by the ancient
Greeks by the term hyacinthine, and which in certain
lights has a purplish metallic gloss playing over
it, like the varying reflections on the back of the
raven. Her strongly defined, and nearly straight
eyebrows, were dark as night, as were the long,
silky lashes which were displayed in clear relief
against the fair, smooth cheek, as the lids lay closed
languidly over the bright blue eyes.

It was a minute or two before Melanie moved or
gave any symptoms of recovering from her fainting
fit, and during those minutes the lips of Raoul had
been pressed so often and so warmly to those of the
fair insensible, that had any spark of perception remained
to her, the fond and lingering pressure could[154]
not have failed to call the “purple light of love,” to
her ingenuous face.

At length a long, slow shiver ran through the
form of the senseless girl, and thrilled, like the touch
of the electric wire, every nerve in St. Renan’s
body.

Then the soft rosy lips were unclosed, and forth
rushed the ambrosial breath in a long, gentle sigh,
and the beautiful bust heaved and undulated, like
the bosom of the calm sea, when the first breathings
of the coming storm steal over it, and wake, as if by
sympathy, its deep pulsations.

He clasped her closer to his heart, half fearful that
when life and perfect consciousness should be restored
to that exquisite frame, it would start from
his embrace, if not in anger or alarm, at least as if
from a forbidden and illicit pleasure.

Gradually a faint rosy hue, slight as the earliest
blushes of the morning sky, crept over her white
cheeks, and deepened into a rich passionate flush;
and at the same moment the azure-tinctured lids were
unclosed slowly, and the large, radiant, bright-blue
eyes beamed up into his own, half languid still, but
gleaming through their dewy languor, with an expression
which he must have been, indeed, blind to
mistake for aught but the strongest of unchanged,
unchangeable affection.

It was evident that she knew him now; that the
momentary terror, arising rather, perhaps, from fear
than from superstition, which had converted the
young ardent soldier into a visitant from beyond
those gloomy portals through which no visitant returns,
had passed from her mind, and that she had
already recognized, although she spoke not, her
living lover.

And though she recognized him, she sought not to
withdraw herself from the enclosure of his sheltering
arms, but lay there on his bosom, with her head
reclined on his shoulder, and her eyes drinking long
draughts of love from his fascinated gaze, as if she
were his own, and that her appropriate place of refuge
and protection.

“Oh! Raoul,” she exclaimed, at length, in a low,
soft whisper, “is it, indeed, you—you, whom I have
so long wept as dead—you, whom I was even now
weeping as one lost to me forever, when you are
thus restored to me!”

“It is I, Melanie,” he answered mournfully, “it is
I, alive, and in health; but better far had I been in
truth dead, as they have told you, rather than thus a
survivor of all happiness, of all hopes; spared only
from the grave to know you false, and myself forgotten.”

“Oh, no, Raoul, not false!” she cried wildly, as
she started from his arms, “oh, not forgotten! think
you,” she added, blushing crimson, “that had I loved
any but you, that had I not loved you with my whole
heart and being, I had lain thus on your bosom, thus
endured your caresses? Oh, no, no, never false! nor
for one moment forgotten?”

“But what avails it, if you do love no other—what
profits it, if you do love me? Are you not—are
you not, false girl,—alas! that these lips should
speak it,—the wife of another—the promised mistress
of the king?”

“I—I—Raoul!” she exclaimed, with such a
blending of wonder and loathing in her face, such an
expression of indignation on her tongue, that her
lover perceived at once, that, whatever might be the
infamy of her father, of her husband, of this climax
of falsehood and self-degradation, she, at least, was
guiltless.

“The mistress of the king! what king? what mean
you? are you distraught?”

“Ha! you are ignorant, you are innocent of that,
then. You are not yet indoctrinated into the noble
uses for which your honorable lord intends you. It
is the town’s talk, Melanie. How is it you, whom
it most concerns, alone have not heard it?”

“Raoul,” she said, earnestly, imploringly, “I
know not if there be any meaning in your words,
except to punish me, to torture me, for what you
deem my faithlessness, but if there be, I implore
you, I conjure you, by your father’s noble name; by
your mother’s honor, show me the worst; but listen
to me first, for by the God that made us both, and
now hears my words, I am not faithless.”

“Not faithless? Are you not the wife of another?”

“No!” she replied enthusiastically. “I am not.
For I am yours, and while you live I cannot wed
another. Whom God hath joined man cannot put
asunder.”

“I fear me that plea will avail us little,” Raoul
answered. “But say on, dearest Melanie, and believe
that there is nothing you can ask which I will
not give you gladly—even if it were my own life-blood.
Say on, so shall we best arrive at the truth
of this intricate and black affair.”

“Mark me, then, Raoul, for every word I shall
speak is as true as the sun in heaven. It is near two
years now since we heard that you had fallen in
battle, and that your body had been carried off by the
barbarians. Long! long I hoped and prayed, but
prayers and hopes were alike in vain. I wrote to
you often, as I promised, but no line from you has
reached me, since the day when you sailed for India,
and that made me fear that the dread news was true.
But at the last, to make assurance doubly sure, all
my own letters were returned to me six months since,
with their seals unbroken, and an endorsement from
the authorities in India that the person addressed was
not to be found. Then hope itself was over; and my
father, who never from the first had doubted that you
were no more—”

“Out on him! out on him! the heartless villain!”
the young man interrupted her indignantly. “He
knows, as well as I myself, that I am living; although
it is no fault of his or his coadjutors that I am so.
He knows not as yet, however, that I am here; but
he shall know it ere long to his cost, my Melanie.”

“At least,” she answered in a faltering voice, “at
least he swore to me that you were dead; and never
having ceased to persecute me, since the day that
fatal tidings reached, to become the wife of La
Rochederrien, now Marquis de Ploermel, he now
became doubly urgent—”[155]

“And you, Melanie! you yielded! I had thought
you would have died sooner.”

“I had no choice but to yield, Raoul. Or at least
but the choice of that old man’s hand, or an eternal
dungeon. The lettres de cachet were signed, and
you dead, and on the conditions I extorted from the
marquis, I became in name, Raoul, only in name, by
all my hopes of Heaven! the wife of the man whom
you pronounce, wherefore, I cannot dream, the basest
of mankind. Now tell me.”

“And did it never strike you as being wonderful
and most unnatural that this Ploermel, who is neither
absolutely a dotard nor an old woman, should accept
your hand upon this condition?”

“I was too happy to succeed in extorting it to
think much of that,” she answered.

“Extorted!” replied Raoul bitterly, “And how,
I pray you, is this condition which you extorted
ratified or made valid?”

“It is signed by himself, and witnessed by my own
father, that, being I regard myself the wife of the
dead, he shall ask no more of familiarity from me
than if I were the bride of heaven!”

“The double villains!”

“But wherefore villains, Raoul?” exclaimed Melanie.

“I tell you, girl, it is a compact—a base, hellish
compact—with the foul despot, the disgrace of kings,
the opprobrium of France, who sits upon the throne,
dishonoring it daily! A compact such as yet was
never entered into by a father and a husband, even
of the lowest of mankind! A compact to deliver
you a spotless virgin-victim to the vile-hearted and
luxurious tyrant. Curses! a thousand curses on his
soul! and on my own soul! who have fought and
bled for him, and all to meet with this, as my reward
of service!”

“Great God! can these things be,” she exclaimed,
almost fainting with horror and disgust. “Can these
things indeed be? But speak, Raoul, speak; how
can you know all this?”

“I tell you, Melanie, it is the talk, the very daily,
hourly gossip of the streets, the alleys, nay, even the
very kennels of Paris. Every one knows it—every
one believes it, from the monarch in the Louvre to
the lowest butcher of the Faubourg St. Antoine!

“And they believe it—of me, of me, they believe
this infamy!”

“With this addition, if any addition were needed,
that you are not a deceived victim, but a willing and
proud participator in the shame.”

“I will—that is—” she corrected herself, speaking
very rapidly and energetically—”I would die sooner.
But there is no need now to die. You have come
back to me, and all will yet go well with us!”

“It never can go well with us again,” St. Renan
answered gloomily. “The king never yields his
purpose, he is as tenacious in his hold as reckless
in his promptitude to seize. And they are paid beforehand.”

“Paid!” exclaimed the girl, shuddering at the
word. “What atrocity! How paid?”

“How, think you, did your good father earn his
title and the rich governorship of Morlaix? What
great deeds were rewarded to La Rochederrien by
his marquisate, and this captaincy of mousquetaires.
You know not yet, young lady, what virtue there is
nowadays in being the accommodating father, or
the convenient husband of a beauty!”

“You speak harshly, St. Renan, and bitterly.”

“And if I do, have I not cause enough for bitterness
and harshness?” he replied almost angrily.

“Not against me, Raoul.”

“I am not bitter against you, Melanie. And yet—and
yet—”

“And yet what, Raoul?”

“And yet had you resisted three days longer, we
might have been saved—you might have been
mine—”

“I am yours, Raoul de St. Renan. Yours, ever
and forever! No one’s but only yours.”

“You speak but madness—your vow—the sacrament!”

“To the winds with my vow—to the abyss with
the fraudful sacrament!” she cried, almost fiercely.
By sin it was obtained and sanctioned—in sin let it
perish. I say—I swear, Raoul, if you will take me,
I am yours.”

“Mine? Mine?” cried the young man, half bewildered.
“How mine, and when?”

“Thus,” she replied, casting herself upon his
breast, and winding her arms around his neck, and
kissing his lips passionately and often. “Thus,
Raoul, thus, and now!”

He returned her embrace fondly once, but the next
instant he removed her almost forcibly from his
breast, and held her at arm’s length.

“No, no!” he exclaimed, “not thus, not thus! If
at all, honestly, openly, holily, in the face of day!
May my soul perish, ere cause come through me
why you should ever blush to show your front aloft
among the purest and the proudest. No, no, not thus,
my own Melanie!”

The girl burst into a paroxysm of tears and sobbing,
through which she hardly could contrive to make her
interrupted and faultering words audible.

“If not now,” she said at length, “it will never
be. For, hear me, Raoul, and pity me, to-morrow
they are about to drag me to Paris.”

The lover mused for several moments very deeply,
and then replied, “Listen to me, Melanie. If you
are in earnest, if you are true, and can be firm, there
may yet be happiness in store for us, and that very
shortly.”

“Do you doubt me, Raoul?”

“I do not doubt you, Melanie. But ever as in
my own wildest rapture, even to gain my own extremest
bliss, I would not do aught that could possibly
cast one shadow on your pure renown, so, mark me,
would I not take you to my heart were there one
spot, though it were but as a speck in the all-glorious
sun, upon the brightness of your purity.”

“I believe you, Raoul. I feel, I know that my
honor, that my purity is all in all to you.

“I would die a thousand deaths,” he made answer,
“ere even a false report should fall on it, to mar its[156]
virgin whiteness. Marvel not then that I ask as
much of you.”

“Ask anything, St. Renan. It is granted.”

“In France we can hope for nothing. But there
are other lands than France. We must fly; and
thanks to these documents which you have wrung
from them, and the proofs which I can easily obtain,
this cursed marriage can be set aside, and then, in
honor and in truth you can be mine, mine own Melanie.”

“God grant it so, Raoul.”

“It shall be so, beloved. Be you but firm, and it
may be done right speedily. I will sell the estates
of St. Renan—by a good chance, supposing me dead,
the Lord of Yrvilliac was in treaty for it with my
uncle. That can be arranged forthwith. Conduct
yourself according to your wont, cool and as distant
as may be with this villain of Ploermel; avoid above
all things to let your father see that you are buoyed
by any hope, or moved by any passion. Treat the
king with deliberate scorn, if he approach you over
boldly. Beware how you eat or drink in his company,
for he is capable of all things, even of drugging
you into insensibility, and here,” he added, taking a
small poniard, of exquisite workmanship, with a
gold hilt and scabbard, from his girdle, and giving it
to her, “wear this at all times, and if he dare attempt
violence, were he thrice a king, use it!”

“I will—I will—trust me, Raoul! I will use it, and
that to his sorrow! My heart is strong, and my hand
brave now—now that I know you to be living. Now
that I have hope to nerve me, I will fear nothing, but
dare all things.”

“Do so, do so, my beloved, and you shall have
no cause to fear, for I will be ever near you. I will
tarry here but one day; and ere you reach Paris, I
will be there, be certain. Within ten days, I doubt
not I can convert my acres into gold, and ship that
gold across the narrow straits; and that done, the
speed of horses, and a swift sailing ship will soon
have us safe in England; and if that land be not so
fair, or so dear as our own France, at least there are
no tyrants there, like this Louis; and there are laws,
they say, which guard the meanest man as safely and
as surely as the proudest noble.”

“A happy land, Raoul. I would that we were
there even now.”

“We will be there ere long, fear nothing. But
tell me, whom have you near your person on whom
we may rely. There must be some one through
whom we may communicate in Paris. It may be
that I shall require to see you.”

“Oh! you remember Rose, Raoul—little Rose
Faverney, who has lived with me ever since she
was a child—a pretty little black-eyed damsel.”

“Surely I do remember her. Is she with you yet?
That will do admirably, then, if she be faithful, as I
think she is; and unless I forget, what will serve us
better yet, she loves my page Jules de Marliena.
He has not forgotten her, I promise you.”

“Ah! Jules—we grow selfish, I believe, as we
grow old, Raoul. I have not thought to ask after one
of your people. So Jules remembers little Rose,
and loves her yet; that will, indeed, secure her, even
had she been doubtful, which she is not. She is as
true as steel—truer, I fear, than even I; for she reproached
me bitterly four evenings since, and swore
she would be buried alive, much more willingly imprisoned,
than be married to the Marquis de Ploermel,
though she was only plighted to the Vicomte Raoul’s
page! Oh! we may trust in her with all certainty.”

“Send her, then, on the very same night that you
reach Paris, so soon as it is dark, to my uncle’s
house in the Place de St. Louis. I think she knows
it, and let her ask—not for me—but for Jules. Ere
then I will know something definite of our future;
and fear nothing, love, all shall go well with us.
Love such as ours, with faith, and right, and honesty
and honor to support it, cannot fail to win, blow what
wind may. And now, sweet Melanie, the night
is wearing onward, and I fear that they may miss
you. Kiss me, then, once more, sweet girl, and
farewell.”

“Not for the last, Raoul,” she cried, with a gay
smile, casting herself once again into her lover’s
arms, and meeting his lips with a long, rapturous kiss.

“Not by a thousand, and a thousand! But now,
angel, farewell for a little space. I hate to bid you
leave me, but I dare not ask you to stay; even now
I tremble lest you should be missed and they should
send to seek you. For were they but to suspect that
I am here and have seen you, it would, at the best,
double all our difficulties. Fare you well, sweetest
Melanie.”

“Fare you well,” she replied; “fare you well,
my own best beloved Raoul,” and she put up the
glittering dagger, as she spoke, into the bosom of
her dress; but as she did so, she paused and said, “I
wish this had not been your first gift to me, Raoul,
for they say that such gifts are fatal, to love at least,
if not to life.”

“Fear not! fear not!” answered the young man,
laughing gayly, “our love is immortal. It may defy
the best steel blade that was ever forged on Milan
stithy to cut it asunder. Fare you—but, hush! who
comes here; it is too late, yet fly—fly, Melanie!”

But she did not fly, for as he spoke, a tall, gayly
dressed cavalier burst through the coppice on the
side next the château d’Argenson, exclaiming, “So,
my fair cousin!—this is your faith to my good brother
of Ploermel is it?”

But, before he spoke, she had whispered to Raoul,
“It is the Chevalier de Pontrein, de Ploermel’s half
brother. Alas! all is lost.”

“Not so! not so!” answered her lover, also in a
whisper, “leave him to me, I will detain him. Fly,
by the upper pathway and through the orchard to the
château, and remember—you have not seen this dog.
So much deceit is pardonable. Fly, I say, Melanie.
Look not behind for your life, whatever you may
hear, nor tarry. All rests now on your steadiness
and courage.”

“Then all is safe,” she answered firmly and aloud,
and without casting a glance toward the cavalier,
who was now within ten paces of her side, or taking
the smallest notice of his words, she kissed her hand[157]
to St. Renan, and bounded up the steep path, in the
opposite direction, with so fleet a step as soon carried
her beyond the sound of all that followed, though
that was neither silent nor of small interest.

“Do you not hear me, madam. By Heaven! but
you carry it off easily!” cried the young cavalier, setting
off at speed, as if to follow her. “But you must
run swifter than a roe if you look to ‘scape me;”
and with the words, he attempted to rush past Raoul,
of whom he affected, although he knew him well, to
take no notice.

But in that intent he was quickly frustrated, for
the young count grasped him by the collar as he endeavored
to pass, with a grasp of iron, and said to
him in an ironical tone of excessive courtesy,

“Sweet sir, I fear you have forgotten me, that
you should give me the go-by thus, when it is so long
a time since we have met, and we such dear friends,
too,”

But the young man was in earnest, and very angry,
and struggled to release himself from St. Renan’s
grasp, until, having no strong reasons for forbearance,
but many for the reverse, Raoul, too, lost his temper.

“By heaven!” he exclaimed, “I believe that you
do not know me, or you would not dare to suppose
that I would suffer you to follow a lady who seeks
not your presence or society.”

“Let me go, St. Renan!” returned the other fiercely,
laying his hand on his dagger’s hilt. “Let me go,
villain, or you shall rue it!”

“Villain!” Raoul repeated, calmly, “villain! It
is so you call me, hey?” and he did instantly release
him, drawing his sword as he did so. “Draw, De
Pontrien—that word has cost you your life!”

“Yes, villain!” repeated the other, “villain to
you teeth! But you lie! it is your life that is forfeit—forfeit
to my brother’s honor!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Raoul, savagely. “Ha-ha-ha-ha!
your brother’s honor! who the devil ever
heard before of a pandar’s honor—even if he were
Sir Pandarus to a king? Sa! sa!—have at you!”

Their blades crossed instantly, and they fought
fiercely, and with something like equality for some
ten minutes. The Chevalier de Pontrien was far
more than an ordinary swordsman, and he was in
earnest, not angry, but savage and determined, and
full of bitter hatred, and a fixed resolution to punish
the familiarity of Raoul with his brother’s wife.
But that was a thing easier proposed than executed;
for St. Renan, who had left France as a boy already
a perfect master of fence, had learned the practice
of the blade against the swordsmen of the East, the
finest swordsmen of the world, and had added to skill,
science and experience, the iron nerves, the deep
breath, and the unwearied strength of a veteran.

If he fought slowly, it was that he fought carefully—that
he meant the first wound to be the last. He
was resolved that De Pontrien never should return
home again to divulge what he had seen, and he had
the coolness, the skill, and the power to carry out
his resolution.

At the end of ten minutes he attacked. Six times
within as many seconds he might have inflicted a
severe, perhaps a deadly wound on his antagonist;
and he, too, perceived it, but it would not have been
surely mortal.

“Come, come!” cried De Pontrien, at last, growing
impatient and angry at the idea of being played
with. “Come, sir, you are my master, it seems.
Make an end of this.”

“Do not be in a hurry,” replied St. Renan, with a
deadly smile, “it will come soon enough. There!
will that suit you?”

And with the word he made a treble feint and
lounged home. So true was the thrust that the
point pierced the very cavity of his heart. So strongly
was it sent home that the hilt smote heavily on
his breast-bone. He did not speak or groan, but
drew one short, broken sigh, and fell dead on the
instant.

“The fool!” muttered St. Renan. “Wherefore
did he meddle where he had no business? But what
the devil shall I do with him? He must not be found,
or all will out—and that were ruin.”

As he spoke, a distant clap of thunder was heard
to the eastward, and a few heavy drops of rain began
to fall, while a heavy mass of black thunder-clouds
began to rise rapidly against the wind.

“There will be a fierce storm in ten minutes,
which will soon wash out all this evidence,” he said,
looking down at the trampled and blood-stained
greensward. “One hour hence, and there will not
be a sign of this, if I can but dispose of him. Ha!”
he added, as a quick thought struck him, “The
Devil’s Drinking-Cup! Enough! it is done!”

Within a minute’s space he had swathed the corpse
tightly in the cloak, which had fallen from the
wretched man’s shoulders as the fray began, bound it
about the waist by the scarf, to which he attached
firmly an immense block of stone, which lay at the
brink of the fearful well, which was now—for the
tide was up—brimful of white boiling surf, and
holding his breath atween resolution and abhorrence,
hurled it into the abyss.

It sunk instantly, so well was the stone secured to
it; and the fate of the Chevalier de Pontrien never
was suspected, for that fatal pool never gave up its
dead, nor will until the judgment-day.

Meantime the flood-gates of heaven were opened,
and a mimic torrent, rushing down the dark glen,
soon obliterated every trace of that stern, short
affray.

Calmly Raoul strode homeward, and untouched
by any conscience, for those were hard and ruthless
times, and he had undergone so much wrong at the
hands of his victim’s nearest relatives, and dearest
friends, that it was no great marvel if his blood were
heated, and his heart pitiless.

“I will have masses said for his soul in Paris,”
he muttered to himself; and therewith, thinking that
he had more than discharged all a Christian’s duty,
he dismissed all further thoughts of the matter, and
actually hummed a gay opera tune as he strode
homeward through the pelting storm, thinking how
soon he should be blessed by the possession of his
own Melanie.[158]

No observation was made on his absence, either
by the steward or any of the servants, on his return,
though he was well-nigh drenched with rain, for they
remembered his old half-boyish, half-romantic habits,
and it seemed natural to them that on his first return,
after so many years of wandering, to scenes endeared
to him by innumerable fond recollections, he should
wander forth alone to muse with his own soul in
secret.

There was great joy, however, in the hearts of
the old servitors and tenants in consequence of his
return, and on the following morning, and still on
the third day, that feeling of joy and security continued
to increase, for it soon got abroad that the
young lord’s grief and gloominess of mood was
wearing hourly away, and that his lip, and his whole
countenance were often lighted up with an expression
which showed, as they fondly augured, that
days and years of happiness were yet in store for
him.

It was not long before the tidings reached him that
the house of D’Argenson was in great distress concerning
the sudden and unaccountable disappearance
of the Chevalier de Pontrien, who had walked out,
it was said, on the preceding afternoon, promising to
be back at supper-time, and who had not been heard
of since.

Raoul smiled grimly at the intimation, but said
nothing, and the narrator judging that St. Renan was
not likely to take offence at the imputations against
the family of Ploermel, proceeded to inform him,
that in the opinion of the neighborhood there was
nothing very mysterious, after all, in the disappearance
of the chevalier, since he was known to be
very heavily in debt, and was threatened with
deadly feud by the old Sieur de Plouzurde, whose
fair daughter he had deceived to her undoing.
Robinet, the smuggler’s boat, had been seen off the
Penmarcks when the moon was setting, and no one
doubted that the gay gallant was by this time off the
coast of Spain.

To all this, though he affected to pay little heed to
it, Raoul inclined an eager and attentive ear, and
as a reward for his patient listening, was soon informed,
furthermore, that the bridegroom marquis
and the beautiful bride, being satisfied, it was supposed,
of the chevalier’s safety, had departed for
Paris, their journey having been postponed only in
consequence of the research for the missing gentleman,
from the morning when it should have taken
place, to the afternoon of the same day.

For two days longer did Raoul tarry at St. Renan,
apparently as free from concern or care about the
fair Melanie de Ploermel, as if he had never heard
her name. And on this point alone, for all men
knew that he once loved her, did his conduct excite
any observation, or call forth comment. His silence,
however, and external nonchalance were attributed
at all hands to a proper sense of pride and self-respect;
and as the territorial vassals of those days
held themselves in some degree ennobled or disgraced
by the high bearing or recreancy of their
lords, it was very soon determined by the men of St.
Renan that it would have been very disgraceful and
humiliating had their lord, the Lord of Douarnez
and St. Renan, condescended to trouble his head
about the little demoiselle d’Argenson.

Meanwhile our lover, whose head was in truth occupied
about no other thing than that very same little
demoiselle, for whom he was believed to feel a contempt
so supreme, had thoroughly investigated all
his affairs, thereby acquiring from his old steward
the character of an admirable man of business, had
made himself perfectly master of the real value of
his estates, droits, dues and all connected with the
same, and had packed up all his papers, and such of
his valuables as were movable, so as to be transported
easily by means of pack-horses.

This done, leaving orders for a retinue of some
twenty of his best and most trusty servants to follow
him as soon as the train and relays of horses could
be prepared, he set off with two followers only to
return, riding post, as he had come, from Paris.

He was three days behind the lady of his love
at starting; but the journey from the western extremity
of Bretagne to the metropolis is at all times
a long and tedious undertaking; and as the roads
and means of conveyance were in those days, he
found it no difficult task to catch up with the carriages
of the marquis, and to pass them on the road long
enough before they reached Paris.

Indeed, though he had set out three days behind
them, he succeeded in anticipating their arrival by
as many, and had succeeded in transacting more than
half the business on which his heart was bent, before
he received the promised visit from the pretty Rose
Faverney, who, prompted by her desire to renew her
intimacy with the handsome page, came punctual
to her appointment. He had not, of course, admitted
the good old churchman, his uncle, into all his
secrets; he had not even told him that he had seen
the lady, much less what were his hopes and views
concerning her.

But he did tell him that he was so deeply mortified
and wounded by her desertion, that he had determined
to sell his estates, to leave France forever, and
to betake himself to the new American colonies on
the St. Lawrence.

There was not in the state of France in those days
much to admire, or much to induce wise men to
exert their influence over the young and noble, to
induce them to linger in the neighborhood of a court
which was in itself a very sink of corruption. It
was with no great difficulty, therefore, that Raoul
obtained the concurrence of his uncle, who was
naturally a friend to gallant and adventurous daring.
The estates of St. Renan, the old castle and the home
park, with a few hundred acres in its immediate
vicinity only excepted, were converted into gold
with almost unexampled rapidity.

A part of the gold was in its turn converted into
a gallant brigantine of some two hundred tons, which
was despatched at once along the coast of Douarnez
bay, there to take in a crew of the hardy fishermen
and smugglers of that stormy shore, all men well-known
to Raoul de St. Renan, and well content to[159]
follow their young lord to the world’s end, should
such be his will.

Here, indeed, I have anticipated something the
progress of events, for hurry it as much as he
could in those days, St. Renan could not, of course,
work miracles; and though the brigantine was purchased,
where she lay ready to sail, at Calais, the
instant the sale of St. Renan was determined, without
awaiting the completion of the transfer, or the payment
of the purchase-money, many days had elapsed
before the news could be sent from the capital to
the coast, and the vessel despatched to Britanny.

Every thing was, however, determined; nay,
every thing was in process of accomplishment before
the arrival of the fair lady and her nominal
husband, so that at his first interview with Rose,
Raoul was enabled to lay all his plans before her,
and to promise that within a month at the furthest,
every thing would be ready for their certain and
safe evasion.

He did not fail, however, on that account to impress
upon the pretty maiden, who, as Jules was to
accompany his lord, though not a hint of whither had
been breathed to any one, was doubly devoted to
the success of the scheme, that a method must be
arranged by which he could have daily interviews
with the lovely Melanie; and this she promised that
she would use all her powers to induce her mistress
to permit, saying, with a gay laugh, that her permission
gained, all the rest was easy.

The next day, the better to avoid suspicion, Raoul
was presented to the king, in full court, by his uncle,
on the double event of his return from India, and of
his approaching departure for the colony of Acadie,
for which it was his present purpose to sue for his
majesty’s consent and approbation.

The king was in great good humor, and nothing
could have been more flattering or more gracious
than Raoul de St. Renan’s reception. Louis had
heard that very morning of the fair Melanie’s arrival
in the city, and nothing could have fallen out more
apropos than the intention of her quondam lover to
depart at this very juncture, and that, too, for an
indefinite period from the land of his birth.

Rejoicing inwardly at his good fortune, and of
course, ascribing the conduct of the young man to
pique and disappointment, the king, while he loaded
him with honors and attentions, did not neglect to
encourage him in his intention of departing on a
very early day, and even offered to facilitate his departure
by making some remissions in his behalf
from the strict regulations of the Douane.

All this was perfectly comprehensible to Raoul;
but he was far too wise to suffer any one, even his
uncle, to perceive that he understood it; and while
he profited to the utmost by the readiness which he
found in high places to smooth away all the difficulties
from his path, he laughed in his sleeve as he
thought what would be the fury of the licentious
and despotic sovereign when he should discover that
the very steps which he had taken to remove a
dangerous rival, had actually cast the lady into that
rival’s arms.

Nor had this measure of Raoul’s been less effectual
in sparing Melanie much grief and vexation, than it
had proved in facilitating his own schemes of escape;
for on that very day, within an hour after his reception
of St. Renan, the king caused information to be
conveyed to the Marquis de Ploermel that the presentation
of Madame should be deferred until such
time as the Vicomte de St. Renan should have set
sail for Acadie, which it was expected would take
place within a month at the furthest.

That evening, when Rose Faverney was admitted
to the young lord’s presence, through the agency of
the enamored Jules, she brought him permission to
visit her lady at midnight in her own chamber; and
she brought with her a plan, sketched by Melanie’s
own hand, of the garden, through which, by the aid
of a master-key and a rope-ladder, he was to gain
access to her presence.

“My lady says, Monsieur Raoul,” added the
merry girl, with a light laugh, “that she admits you
only on the faith that you will keep the word which
you plighted to her, when last you met, and on the
condition that I shall be present at all your interviews
with her.”

“Her honor were safe in my hands,” replied the
young man, “without that precaution. But I appreciate
the motive, and accept the condition.”

“You will remember, then, my lord—at midnight.
There will be one light burning in the window, when
that is extinguished, all will be safe, and you may
enter fearless. Will you remember?”

“Nothing but death shall prevent me. Nor that,
if the spirits of the dead may visit what they love
best on earth. So tell her, Rose. Farewell!”

Four hours afterward St. Renan stood in the
shadow of a dense trellice in the garden, watching
the moment when that love-beacon should expire.
The clock of St. Germain l’Auxerre struck twelve,
and at the instant all was darkness. Another minute
and the lofty wall was scaled, and Melanie was in
the arms of Raoul.

It was a strange, grim, gloomy gothic chamber,
full of strange niches and recesses of old stone-work.
The walls were hung with gilded tapestries of
Spanish leather, but were interrupted in many places
by the antique stone groinings of alcoves and cup-boards,
one of which, close beside the mantlepiece,
was closed by a curiously carved door of heavy
oak-work, itself sunk above a foot within the embrasure
of the wall.

Lighted as it was only by the flickering of the
wood-fire on the hearth, for the thickness of the
walls, and the damp of the old vaulted room rendered
a fire acceptable even at midsummer, that antique
chamber appeared doubly grim and ghostly; but
little cared the young lovers for its dismal seeming;
and if they noticed it at all, it was but to jest at
the contrast of its appearance with the happy hours
which they passed within it.

Happy, indeed, they were—almost too happy—though
as pure and guiltless as if they had been hours
spent within a nunnery of the strictest rule, and in
the presence of a sainted abbess.[160]

Happy, indeed, they were; and although brief, oft
repeated. For, thenceforth, not a night passed but
Raoul visited his Melanie, and tarried there enjoying
her sweet converse, and bearing to her every day
glad tidings of the process of his schemes, and of the
certainty of their escape, until the approach of
morning warned him to make good his retreat ere
envious eyes should be abroad to make espials.

And ever the page, Jules, kept watch at the ladder-foot
in the garden; and the true maiden, Rose, who
ever sate within the chamber with the lovers during
their stolen interviews, guarded the door, with ears
as keen as those of Cerberus.

A month had passed, and the last night had come,
and all was successful—all was ready. The brigantine
lay manned and armed, and at all points prepared
for her brief voyage at an instant’s notice at
Calais. Relays of horses were at each post on the
road. Raoul had taken formal leave of the delighted
monarch. His passport was signed—his treasures
were on board his good ship—his pistols were loaded—his
horses were harnessed for the journey.

For the last time he scaled the ladder—for the last
time he stood within the chamber.

Too happy! ay, they were too happy on that night,
for all was done, all was won; and nothing but the
last step remained, and that step so easy. The next
morning Melanie was to go forth, as if to early mass,
with Rose and a single valet. The valet was to be
mastered and overthrown as if in a street broil, the
lady, with her damsel, was to step into a light caleshe,
which should await her, with her lover mounted at
its side, and high for Calais—England—without the
risk—the possibility of failure.

That night he would not tarry. He told his happy
tidings, clasped her to his heart, bid her farewell
till to-morrow, and in another moment would have
been safe—a step sounded close to the door. Rose
sprang to her feet, with her finger to her lip, pointing
with her left hand to the deep cupboard-door.

She was right—there was not time to reach the
window—at the same instant, as Melanie relighted
the lamp, not to be taken in mysterious and suspicious
darkness, the one door closed upon the lover just as
the other opened to the husband.

But rapid and light as were the motions of Raoul,
the treacherous door by which he had passed into his
concealment, trembled still as Ploermel entered.
And Rose’s quick eye saw that he marked it.

But if he saw it, he gave no token, made no allusion
to the least doubt or suspicion; on the contrary,
he spoke more gayly and kindly than his wont. He
apologized for his untimely intrusion, saying that
her father had come suddenly to speak with them,
concerning her presentation at court, which the king
had appointed for the next day, and wished, late as
it was, to see her in the saloon below.

Nothing doubting the truth of his statement, which
Raoul’s intended departure rendered probable, Melanie
started from her chair, and telling Rose to wait,
for she would back in an instant, hurried out of the
room, and took her way toward the great staircase.

The marquis ordered Rose to light her mistress, for
the corridor was dark; and as the girl went out to do
so, a suppressed shriek, and the faint sounds of a
momentary scuffle followed, and then all was still.

A hideous smile flitted across the face of de Ploermel,
as he cast himself heavily into an arm-chair,
opposite to the door of the cupboard in which St.
Renan was concealed, and taking up a silver bell
which stood on the table, rung it repeatedly and
loudly for a servant.

“Bring wine,” he said, as the man entered. “And,
hark you, the masons are at work in the great hall,
and have left their tools and materials for building.
Let half a dozen of the grooms come up hither, and
bring with them brick and mortar. I hate the sight
of that cupboard, and before I sleep this night, it
shall be built up solid with a good wall of mason-work;
and so here’s a health to the rats within it,
and a long life to them!” and he quaffed off the wine
in fiendish triumph.

He spoke so loud, and that intentionally, that Raoul
heard every word that he uttered.

But if he hoped thereby to terrify the lover into
discovering himself, and so convicting his fair and
innocent wife, the villain was deceived. Raoul heard
every word—knew his fate—knew that one word,
one motion would have saved him; but that one
word, one motion would have destroyed the fair
fame of his Melanie.

The memory of the death of that unhappy Lord
of Kerguelen came palpably upon his mind in that
dread moment, and the comments of his dead father.

“I, at least,” he muttered, between his hard set
teeth, “I at least, will not be evidence against her.
I will die silent—fiel a la muerte!”

And when the brick and mortar were piled by the
hands of the unconscious grooms, and when the
fatal trowels clanged and jarred around him, he spake
not—stirred not—gave no sign.

Even the savage wretch, de Ploermel, unable to
believe in the existence of such chivalry, such honor,
half doubted if he were not deceived, and the cupboard
were not untenanted by the true victim.

Higher and higher rose the wall before the oaken
door; and by the exclusion of the light of the many
torches by which the men were working, the victim
must have marked, inch by inch, the progress of his
living immersement. The page, Jules, had climbed
in silence to the window’s ledge, and was looking in,
an unseen spectator, for he had heard all that passed
from without, and suspected his lord’s presence in
the fatal precinct.

But as he saw the wall rise higher—higher—as he
saw the last brick fastened in its place solid, immovable
from within, and that without strife or
opposition, he doubted not but that there was some
concealed exit by which St. Renan had escaped, and
he descended hastily and hurried homeward.

Now came the lady’s trial—the trial that shall
prove to de Ploermel whether his vengeance was
complete. She was led in with Rose, a prisoner.
Lettres de cachet had been obtained, when the
treason of some wretched subordinate had revealed
the secret of her intended flight with Raoul; and the[161]
officers had seized the wife by the connivance of the
shameless husband.

“See!” he said, as she entered, “see, the fool
suffered himself to be walled up there in silence.
There let him die in agony. You, madam, may live
as long as you please in the Bastille, au secret.”

She saw that all was lost—her lover’s sacrifice was
made—she could not save him! Should she, by a
weak divulging of the truth, render his grand devotion
fruitless? Never!

Her pale cheek did not turn one shade the paler, but
her keen eye flashed living fire, and her beautiful
lip writhed with loathing and scorn irrepressible.

“It is thou who art the fool!” she said, “who hast
made all this coil, to wall up a poor cat in a cupboard,
as it is thou who art the base knave and
shameless pandar, who hast attempted to do murther,
and all to sell thine own wife to a corrupt and loathsome
tyrant!”

All stood aghast at her fierce words, uttered with
all the eloquence and vehemence of real passion, but
none so much as Rose, who had never beheld her
other than the gentlest of the gentle. Now she wore
the expression, and spoke with the tone of a young
Pythoness, full of the fury of the god.

She sprung forward as she uttered the last words,
extricating herself from the slight hold of the astonished
officers, and rushed toward her cowed and
craven husband.

“But in all things, mean wretch,” she continued,
in tones of fiery scorn, “in all things thou art frustrate—thy
vengeance is naught, thy vile ambition
naught, thyself and thy king, fools, knaves, and
frustrate equally. And now,” she added, snatching
the dagger which Raoul had given her from the
scabbard, “now die, infamous, accursed pandar!”
and with the word she buried the keen weapon at
one quick and steady stroke to the very hilt in his
base and brutal heart.

Then, ere the corpse had fallen to the earth, or
one hand of all those that were stretched out to seize
her had touched her person, she smote herself mortally
with the same reeking weapon, and only crying
out in a clear, high voice, “Bear witness, Rose,
bear witness to my honor! Bear witness all that I
die spotless!” fell down beside the body of her husband,
and expired without a struggle or a groan.

Awfully was she tried, and awfully she died. Rest
to her soul if it be possible.

The caitiff Marquis de Ploermel perished, as she
had said, in all things frustrated; for though his vengeance
was in very deed complete, he believed that
it had failed, and in his very agony that failure was
his latest and his worst regret.

On the morrow, when St. Renan returned not to
his home, the page gave the alarm, and the fatal
wall was torn down, but too late.

The gallant victim of love’s honor was no more.
Doomed to a lingering death he had died speedily,
though by no act of his own. A blood-vessel had
burst within, through the violence of his own emotions.
Ignorant of the fate of his sweet Melanie, he
had died, as he had lived, the very soul of honor; and
when they buried him, in the old chapel of his
Breton castle, beside his famous ancestors, none
nobler lay around him; and the brief epitaph they
carved upon his stone was true, at least, if it were
short and simple, for it ran only thus—

THE POET’S HEART.—TO MISS O. B.

BY CHARLES E. TRAIL.

THE RETURN TO SCENES OF CHILDHOOD.

BY GRETTA.

SUNSHINE AND RAIN.

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.

THE CHRISTMAS GARLAND.

BY MISS EMMA WOOD.

CHAPTER I.

THE BOARDING-SCHOOL.

Christmas is coming! The glad sound awakes a
thrill of joy in many a heart. The children clap their
tiny hands and laugh aloud in the exuberance of their
mirth as bright visions of varied toys and rich confectionary
flit before their minds. The sound of
merry sports—the gathering of the social band—the
banquet—all are scenes of joy. Shout on bright
children, for your innocent mirth will rise as incense
to Him who was even as one of you. The Son of
God once reposed his head upon a mortal breast and
wept the tears of infancy. Now risen to His throne
of glory, his smile is still upon you, bright Blossoms
of Blessedness.

Christmas is coming! is the cry of the young and
gay, and with light hearts they prepare for the approaching
festival. The holyday robes are chosen,
and the presents selected which shall bring joy to so
many hearts. The lover studies to determine what
gift will be acceptable to his mistress, and the maiden
dreams of love-tokens and honeyed words. Nor is
the church forgotten amid the gathering of holyday
array, for that, too, must be robed in beauty. The
young claim its adornment as their appropriate
sphere, and rich garlands of evergreen, mingled with
scarlet berries, are twined around its pillars, or festooned
along its walls. Swiftly speeds their welcome
task, and a calm delight fills their hearts, as
they remember Him who assumed mortality, and
passed the ordeal of earthly life, that he might be,
in all things, like unto mankind. Blessed be this
thought, ye joyous ones, and if after-years shall bring
sorrow or bitterness, ye may remember that the Holiest
has trod that path before, and that deeper sorrow
than mortality can suffer, once rested upon his guiltless
head.

Christmas is coming! is the thought of the aged,
and memory goes back to the joys of other years,
when the pulses of life beat full and free, and their
keen sensibilities were awake to the perception of
the beautiful. Now the dim eye can no longer enjoy
the full realization of beauty, and the ear is deaf to
the melodies of Nature, but they can drink from the
fountain of memory, and while looking upon the
mirth of the youthful, recollect that once they, too,
were light-hearted and joyous. Blessed to them is
the approaching festival, and as they celebrate the
birth of the Redeemer, they may remember that He
bore the trials of life without a murmur, and laid
down in the lone grave, to ensure the resurrection of
the believer, while faith points to the hour when they
shall inherit the glory prepared for them by His mission
of suffering.

Christmas is coming! shouted we, the school-girls
of Monteparaiso Seminary, as we rushed from the
school-room, in glad anticipation, of the holydays.
How gladly we laid down the books over which we
had been poring, vainly endeavoring to fix our
minds upon their pages, and gathered in various
groups to plan amusements for the coming festival.
One week only, and the day would come, the pleasures
of which we had been anticipating for months.
Our stockings must be hung up on Christmas Eve,
though the pleasure was sadly marred because each
of us must, in our turn, represent the good Santa-Claus,
and contribute to the stockings of our schoolmates,
instead of going quietly to bed, and finding
them filled on Christmas morning by the good saint,
or some of his representatives. How eagerly we
watched the Hudson each morning, to see if its
waves remained unfettered by ice, not only because
the daily arrival of the steamboat from New York
was an era in our un-eventful lives, but there were
many of our number whose parents or friends resided
in the city, from whom they expected visits or presents.
We were like a prisoned sisterhood, yet we
did not pine in our solitude, for there were always
wild, mirth-loving spirits in our midst, so full of fun
and frolic that the exuberance of their spirits was
continually breaking out, much to the discomfort of
tutors and governesses. When the holydays were
approaching, and the strict discipline usually maintained
among the pupils was somewhat relaxed, these
outbreaks became more numerous, insomuch that
lessons were carelessly omitted, or left unlearned.
When study hours were over misrule was triumphant.
Lizzie Lincoln could not find a seat at the
table where some of the older girls were manufacturing
fancy articles for Christmas presents, and
avenged herself by pinning together the dresses of
the girls who were seated around the table, and
afterward fastening each dress to the carpet. Fan
Selby saw the manœuvre, and ran to her room,
where she equipped herself in a frightful looking
mask, which she had manufactured of brown paper,
painted in horrid devices. Arrayed in this mask,
and a long white wrapper, she came stalking in at
the door of the sitting-room. In their fright the girls
screamed and tried to rush from the table, when a
scene of confusion ensued which beggars description.
The noise reached the ears of the teachers, who
came from different parts of the house to the scene
of the riot, but ere they reached it, Fan had deposited
the mask out of sight in her own room, and was
again in her place, looking as innocent as if nothing
had happened. She even aided the teachers in their
search for the missing “fright.” When this fruitless
search was ended, and a monitress placed in the sit[164]ting-room
to prevent further riots, a new alarm was
raised. Mary Lee blackened her face with burnt
cork, and entered the kitchen by the outside door,
begging for cold victuals, much to the terror of the
raw Hibernians who were very quietly sitting before
the fire, and telling tales of the Emerald Isle, for they
feared a negro as they would some wild beast.
They ran up stairs to give the alarm, but when they
returned the bird had flown, and while a fruitless
search was instituted throughout the basement, Mary
was in her own room, hastily removing the ebon tinge
from her face. Such were a few among the many wild
pranks of the mischief spirits, invented to while away
the time. Quite different from this was the employment
of the “sisterhood.” A number of the older
pupils of the school had seated themselves night after
night around the table which stood in the centre of the
sitting-room, in nearly the same places, with their
needle-work, until it was finally suggested, that, after
the manner of the older people, we should form a regularly
organized society. Each member should every
night take her accustomed place, and one should
read while the others were busy with their needle-work.
To add a tinge of romance to the whole, we
gave to each of our members the name of some
flower as a soubriquet by which we might be
known, and Lizzie Lincoln (our secretary) kept a
humorous diary of the “Sayings and Doings of
Flora’s Sisterhood.” Anna Lincoln was the presidentess
of our society, and we gave her the name of
Rose, because the queen of flowers seemed a fitting
type of her majestic beauty. But the favorite of all
was Clara Adams, to whom the name of Violet
seemed equally appropriate. Her modesty, gentleness,
and affectionate disposition had won the love
of all, from Annie Lincoln, the oldest pupil, down to
little Ella Selby, who lisped her praises of dear Clara
Adams, and seemed to love her far better than she
did her own mad-cap sister.

When we celebrated May-day Clara was chosen
queen of May, though Lizzie Lincoln was more
beautiful, and Anna seemed more queenly. It was
the instinctive homage that young hearts will pay to
goodness and purity, which made us feel as if she
deserved the brightest crown we could bestow. If
one of us were ill, Clara could arrange the pillows
or bathe the throbbing temples more tenderly than
any other, and bitter medicines seemed less disgusting
when administered by her. Was there a hard lesson
to learn, a difficult problem to solve, a rebellious
drawing that would take any form or shadowing but
the right one, Clara was the kind assistant, and either
task seemed equally easy to her. While we sat
around the table that evening, little Ella Selby was
leaning on the back of Clara’s chair, and telling, in her
own childish way, of the manifold perfections of one
Philip Sidney, a classmate of her brother in college,
who had spent a vacation with him at her home.
Ella was quite sure that no other gentleman was
half so handsome, so good, or kind as Mr. Sidney,
and she added,

“I know he loves Clara, for I have told him a great
deal about her, and he says that he does.”

The girls all laughed at her simple earnestness, and
bright blushes rose in Clara’s face. Many prophecies
for the future were based on this slight foundation,
and Clara was raised to the rank of a heroine. It
needs but slight fuel to feed the flame of romance in
a school-girl’s breast, and these dreamings might long
have been indulged but for an interruption. A servant
came, bringing a basket, with a note from the
ladies engaged in decorating the church, requesting
the young ladies of the school to prepare the letters
for a motto on the walls of the church. The letters
were cut from pasteboard, to be covered with small
sprigs of box. Pleased with the novelty of our task
we were soon busily engaged, under the direction
of Clara and Anna Lincoln. Even the “mischief
spirits” ceased their revels to watch our progress.
Thus passed that evening, and as the next day was
Saturday, and of course a holyday, we completed
our work. The garlands were not to be hung in the
church until the Wednesday following, as Friday
was Christmas day. We employed ourselves after
study hours the intervening days in finishing the
presents we had commenced for each other. On
Wednesday morning Lucy Gray, one of our day-scholars,
brought a note from her mother, requesting
that she might be excused from her afternoon lessons,
and inviting the teachers and young ladies of the
school to join them in dressing the church. Here
was a prospect for us of some rare enjoyment; and
how we plead for permission, and promised diligence
and good behaviour for the future, those who remember
their own school-days can easily imagine.
At length permission was granted that Anna and
Lizzie Lincoln, Fan Selby, Clara Adams, and I, accompanied
by one of the teachers, might assist them
for an hour or two in the afternoon. Never did
hours seem longer to us than those that passed after
the permission was given till we were on our way.
The village was about half a mile from our seminary,
but the walk was a very pleasant one, and when
we reached the church our faces glowed with exercise
in the keen December air. We found a very
agreeable company assembled there, laughing and
chatting gayly as they bound the branches of evergreen
together in rich wreaths. Our letters were
fastened to the walls, forming a beautiful inscription,
and little remained to be done, save arranging the
garlands. Clara and Fan Selby finished the wreaths
for the altar, and were fastening them in their places,
when a new arrival caused Fan to drop her wreath,
and hasten toward the new-comers, exclaiming,

“Brother Charles, I am so glad to see you!”

Then, after cordially greeting his companion, she
asked eagerly of her brother,

“Have you come to take us home?”

“No, mad-cap,” was the laughing reply, “we are
but too glad to be free for one Christmas from your
wild pranks. Sidney is spending the Christmas
holydays with me, and as the day was fine we
thought we would visit you. When we reached the
village we learned that several of the young ladies
of the school were at the church, and called, thinking
that you might be of the number.”[165]

Turning to Sidney, Fan said, playfully,

“Follow me, and I will introduce you to Ella’s
favorite, Clara Adams.”

Before Clara had time to recover from her confusion
caused by their entrance Fan had led Philip Sidney
to her, and introduced him as the friend of whom
little Ella had told her so much. The eloquent
blushes in Clara’s face revealed in part the dreams
that had been excited in her breast, while Philip,
with self-possessed gallantry, begged leave to assist
her in her task, and uttered some commonplace expressions,
till Clara was sufficiently composed to take
her part in conversation. The teacher who accompanied
us, alarmed at his attention, placed herself
near them, but his manner was so respectful that she
could find no excuse to interrupt their conversation.
Philip Sidney was eminently handsome, and as his
dark eye rested admiringly upon her, who will
wonder that Clara became more than usually animated!
nor is it strange that the low, musical tones
of his voice, breathing thoughts of poetry with the
earnestness of love, should awaken a new train of
thought in the simple school-girl. She answered in
few words, but the drooping of her fringed lids and
the bright color in her cheek replied more eloquently
than words. The moments flew swiftly, the garlands
were placed, and the teacher who had watched
them with an anxious eye, announced that it was
time to return to the seminary. Philip knew too
well the strictness of boarding-school rules to hope
for a longer interview, yet even for the sake of looking
longer on her graceful figure, and perchance
stealing another glance from her bright eyes, he insisted
upon seeing little Ella. Charles Selby objected,
as it was growing late, and he had an engagement
for the evening in the city. Reluctantly Philip
bade Clara farewell, and from the door of the church
watched her receding figure until she disappeared
around the turn of the road. From that moment
Clara was invested by her schoolmates with all the
dignity of a heroine of romance, and half the giddy
girls in school teazed her mercilessly, and then laid
their heads upon their pillows only to dream of
lovers.

Christmas eve came. The elder ladies of the
school accompanied our Principal to the church to
listen to the services of the evening. We were
scarcely seated when we perceived nearly opposite
to us, that same Philip Sidney, who was the hero of
our romance. Poor Clara! I sat by her side, and
fancied I could hear the throbbing of her heart as
those dark, expressive eyes were fixed again on hers,
speaking the language of admiration too plainly to
be mistaken. Then as the services proceeded, his
countenance wore a shadow of deeper thought, and
his eyes were fixed upon the speaker. Thus he remained
in earnest attention till the services closed.
When we left the church, a smile, and bow of recognition
passed between him and Clara, but no word
was spoken. Our sports that evening had no power
to move her to mirth, but she remained silent and
abstracted. The next Saturday Mrs. Selby came to
see her daughter, and soon after her arrival, Fan laid
a small package on the table mysteriously, saying to
Clara, “You must answer it immediately,” and left
the room. Clara broke the seal, and as she removed
the envelope, a ring, containing a small diamond,
beautifully set, fell to the floor. I picked it up, and
looking on the inside, saw the name of Philip Sidney.
As soon as she had read the note, she gave it
to me, and placed the ring upon her finger. Then
severing a small branch from a myrtle plant, which
we kept in our room as a relic of home, she placed
it, with a sprig of box, in an envelope, and, after directing
it to Philip Sidney, gave it to Fan, who enclosed
it in a letter to her brother. The note which
Clara gave me was as follows:

“Forgive my presumption, dear Clara, in addressing
you, so lately a stranger. Think not that I am an
idle flatterer, when I say that your beauty and worth
have awakened a deep love for you in my heart, and
this love must be my excuse. I would have sought
another interview with you, but I know the rules of
your school would have forbid, and the only alternative
remaining is to make this avowal, or be forgotten
by you. I do not ask you now to promise to be
mine, or even to love me, till I have proved myself
worthy of your affection. My past life has been one
of thoughtlessness and inaction, but it shall be my
endeavor in future to atone for those misspent years.
Your image will ever be with me as a bright spirit
from whose presence I cannot flee, and whisper
hope when my energies would fail. I only ask
your remembrance till I am worthy to claim your
love. If you do not see me or hear from me at the
end of five years, you may believe that I have failed
to secure the desired position in the world, or am no
longer living. Will you grant me this favor—to
wear the ring enclosed, and sometimes think of me?
If so, send me some token by Mrs. S., to tell me that
I may hope.”

The evergreens, with their language of love and
constancy were the token, and the ring sparkled
upon Clara’s finger, so that I knew well that Philip
Sidney would not soon be forgotten.

CHAPTER II.

A GLANCE AT HOME.

The little village of Willowdale is situated in one
of those romantic dells which are found here and
there among the hills of Massachusetts. A small
stream, tributary to the Connecticut, flows through
the village, so small that it is barely sufficient to furnish
the necessary mill-seats for the accommodation
of a community of farmers, but affording no encouragement
to manufacturers. It is to this reason, perhaps,
that we may attribute the fact that a place,
which was amongst the earliest settlements of Massachusetts,
should remain to this day so thinly inhabited.
The rage for manufactures, so prevalent in
New England, has led speculators to place factories
on every stream of sufficient power to keep them in
operation, and a spirit of enterprise and locomotion
has caused railroads to pass through sections of the
country hitherto unfrequented by others than tillers[166]
of the soil. Cities have sprung up where before
were only small villages, and brisk little villages are
found, where a few years ago were only solitary
farm-houses. But in spite of all such changes, Willowdale
has escaped the ravages of these merciless
innovators. The glassy river still glides on in its
natural bed, and even the willows on its banks, from
which the village takes its name, are suffered to
stand, unscathed by the woodman’s axe. The “iron
horse” has never disturbed the inhabitants by his
shrill voice, and the rattling of cars has not broken
upon the stillness of a summer-day. The village is
not on the direct route from any of the principal
cities to others, consequently the inhabitants suffer
little apprehension of having their fine farms cut up
by rail-road tracks. The village consists of one principal
street, with houses built on both sides, at sufficient
distances from the street and each other, to
admit of those neat yards, with shade-trees, flowers,
and white fences, which are the pride of New England,
and scattered among the surrounding fields are
tasteful farm-houses.

There are two houses of worship in the place: the
Episcopal church, which was erected by the first
settlers, before the revolution; and the Congregationalist
house, more recently built. There is but
little trade carried on in the place, and one store
is sufficient to supply the wants of the inhabitants.
The Episcopal church stands on a slight eminence,
at a little distance from the main street of the village,
and a lane extending beyond it leads to the parsonage.
A little farther down this lane is my father’s house,
and nearly opposite the house of Deacon Lee, the
home of Clara Adams. Clara was left an orphan at
an early age. Her father was the son of an early
friend of the old rector. The latter, having no children,
adopted Henry Adams, and educated him as his
own son, in the hope of preparing him for the ministry,
but with that perversity so common in human
nature, the youth determined to become an artist.
The rector, not wishing to force him unwillingly
into the sacred office, consented that he should pursue
his favorite art. He placed him under the tuition of
one of the first painters in a neighboring city, hoping
that his natural genius, aided by his ambition, might
enable him to excel. Henry Adams followed his
new pursuit with all the ardor of an impetuous nature,
till the bright eyes of Clara Lee won his heart,
and his thoughts were directed in a new channel,
until he had persuaded her to share his lot. It proved,
indeed, a darkened lot to the young bride. Her husband
was a reckless, unsatisfied being, and though
he ever loved her with all the affection of which
such natures are capable, the warm expressions of
his love, varied by fits of peevishness and ill-humor,
were so unlike the calm, unchanging devotedness of
her nature that she felt a bitter disappointment.
Soon after the birth of their daughter his health
failed, and he repaired to Italy for the benefit of a
more genial climate, and in the hope of perfecting
himself in his art. He lived but a few months after
his arrival there, and the sad intelligence came like
a death-blow to his bereaved wife. She lingered a
year at the parsonage, a saddened mourner, and then
her wearied spirit found its rest. The old rector
would gladly have nurtured the little orphan as his own
child, but he could not resist the entreaties of Deacon
Lee, her mother’s brother, and reluctantly consented
to have her removed to his house. Yet much of her
time was spent at the parsonage, and growing up as
it were in an atmosphere of love, it is not strange
that gentleness was the ruling trait of her character.
Deacon Lee was one of that much-scandalized class,
the Congregationalist deacons of New England, who
have so often been described with a pen dipped in
gall, if we may judge from the bitterness of the
sketches. Scribblers delight in portraying them as
rum-selling hypocrites, sly topers, lovers of gain,
and fomenters of dissension, and so far has this been
carried, that no tale of Yankee cunning or petty
fraud is complete unless the hero is a deacon. It is
true there are far too many such instances in real
life, where eminence in the church is their only high
standing, and the name of religion is but a cloak for
selfish vices, but it is equally true that among this
class of men are the good, the true, and kind, of the
earth, whose lives are ruled by the same pure principles
which they profess. Such was Deacon Lee,
and it were well if there were more like him, to remove
the stain which others of an opposite character
have brought upon the office. He was one of those
whom sorrow purifies, and had bowed in humble
resignation to heavy afflictions. Of a large family
only one son had lived to attain the years of manhood.
The mother of Clara had been very dear to
him, and he felt that her orphan child would supply,
in a measure, the place of his own lost ones. His
wife was his opposite, and theirs was one of those
unaccountable unions where there is apparently no
bond of sympathy. Stern and exact in the performance
of every duty, she wished to enforce the same
rigid observance upon others. The loss of her children
had roused in her a zeal for religion, which, in
one of a warmer temperament, would have been
fanaticism. While her husband was a worshiper
from a love of God and his holy laws, she was
prompted by fears of the wrath to come. He bowed
in thankfulness, even while he wept their loss, to the
Power that had borne his little ones to a brighter
world, while her life gained new austerity from the
thought that they had been taken from her as a judgment
on her worldliness and idolatry. She loved to
dwell upon the sufferings of the Pilgrim Fathers of
New England, and emulate their rigid lives, forgetting
that it was the dark persecution of the times in
which they lived that left this impress upon their
characters. Her husband loved to commend the
good deeds of their neighbors, while she was equally
fond of censuring transgressors. Perhaps the result
of their efforts was better than it would have been
had both possessed the disposition of either one of
them. Her firmness and energy atoned for the negligence
resulting from his easy temper, and his sunny
smile and kind words softened the asperity with
which she would have ruled her household. Their
son was engaged in mercantile business in a neigh[167]boring
city, and their home would have been desolate
but for the presence of little Clara. She was the
sunshine of the old man’s heart, and he forgot toil
and weariness when he sat down by his own fireside,
with the merry prattler upon his knee, and her
little arms were twined about his neck. She was the
image of his lost sister, and it seemed to him but a
little while since her mother had sat thus upon his
knee, and lavished her caresses upon him. In spite
of the predictions of the worthy dame that she would
be spoiled, he indulged her every wish, checking
only the inclination to do wrong. Nor was the good
lady herself without affection for the little orphan, but
she wished to engraft a portion of her own sternness
into her nature, and in her horror of prelacy she did
not like to have such a connecting link between her
family and that of the rector. She had never loved
Clara’s father, yet she could not find it in her heart
to be unkind to the little orphan, so she contented
herself with laying his faults and follies at the door
of the church to which he belonged. Clara had been
my playfellow from infancy, and at the village
school we had pursued our studies together. When
my parents decided to place me at a boarding-school
on the banks of the Hudson, I plead earnestly with
the deacon that Clara might go with me. Her aunt
objected strenuously to her acquiring the superficial
accomplishments of the world, but the old man for
once in his life was firm, and declared that Clara
should have as good an education as any one in the
vicinity. Accordingly we were placed at Monteparaiso
Seminary, where was laid the scene of the last
chapter.

CHAPTER III.

THE RETURN HOME.

Our school-days passed, as school-days ever will,
sometimes happily, and again lingering as if they
would never be gone. Clara was still the same
sweet, simple-minded innocent girl, but her mirth
was subdued by thoughtfulness, though the calm
tranquillity of her life was unruffled by the new feeling
that had found a place in her heart. She pursued
her studies with constant assiduity, and at the close
of our third year at school, was the first scholar in
the institution. She was advanced beyond others of
her age when she entered, and had improved every
opportunity to the best of her abilities after becoming
a member of the school. Three years was the period
assigned for our school-days, and we were to return
to Willowdale at the close of that time. Though we
loved our schoolmates dearly, we were happy to
think of meeting once more with the friends from
whom we had so long been separated. Anna Lincoln
had left the year before, and Lizzie had taken her
place as Presidentess of “the Sisterhood.” Fan
Selby had left off her wild pranks and become quite
sedate. Mary Lee was less boisterous in her mirth
than formerly, and the younger members of the
school seemed ready to take the places of those who
were about to leave. It was sad for us when we
bade farewell to the companions of years, though
we were pleased with the thought of seeing more of
the world than a school-girl’s life would allow. I
will not attempt to describe our joy when we were
once more at our homes, nor the warm reception
of those around our own firesides. Never was
there a happier man than old Deacon Lee, as he led
Clara to the window, that he might better see the
rich bloom on her cheek, and the light of her eye.
“Thank God!” was his fervent ejaculation, “that
you have come to us in health. I was afraid that
so much poring over books would make you look
pale and delicate, as your poor mother did before she
died. How much you are like what she was at your
age.” Then with a feeling of childish delight he
opened the door of their rustic parlor, and showed
her a small collection of new books, a present from the
rector, and a neat piano, which he had purchased
himself in Boston to surprise her on her return.

“You are still the same dear, kind uncle,” said
Clara, as she run her fingers over the keys, and found
its tone excellent; “you are always thinking of
something to make me happy. How shall I ever
repay your kindness?”

“By enjoying it,” was his reply. “The old man
has a right to indulge his darling, and nothing else in
this world can make him so happy as to see your
rosy cheeks and bright eyes, and hear your merry
voice; but let us hear you sing and play.”

Tears of delight glistened in the old man’s eyes as
she warbled several simple airs to a graceful accompaniment.
Mrs. Lee sighed deeply, and would have
given them a long lecture upon the vanities and
frivolities of the world, had not Clara changed the
strain, and sung some of her favorite hymns.

“Are you not tired?” asked her uncle, with his
usual considerate kindness. “Come, let us go to
the garden, and see the dahlias I planted, because I
knew the other flowers would be killed by the frost
before you came home.”

“With pleasure,” answered Clara; “but first let
me sing a song that I have learned on purpose to
please you.”

Then she sung the beautiful words, “He doeth
all things well.” The old man’s eyes beamed with
a holy light as he listened to the exquisite music
which expressed the sentiments that had pervaded
his life. As she rose from the piano, he laid his
hands upon her head caressingly, saying, “Blessed
be His name, who guards my treasures in Heaven,
and has still left me this rich possession on earth.”
The old lady, melted by the sight of his emotion, and
the sentiment expressed, clasped her to her heart,
and called her her own dear child.

Months glided on with swift wings, and even Mrs.
Lee was forced to give up her arguments against
a fashionable education. She had predicted that
Clara would be a fine lady, and feel above performing
the common duties of life; but every morning with
the early dawn she shared the tasks of her aunt, and
seemed as much at home in the dairy or kitchen as
when seated at her piano. Her step was as light and
graceful while tripping over the fields as it had been
in the dance, and her fingers as skillful in making[168]
her own and her aunt’s dresses, as they had been at
her embroidery. The good dame had learned to love
the piano, and more than once admitted that she
would feel quite lonely without it. So she was fain
to retreat from her position, by saying that her old
opinions held good as general rules, though Clara
was an exception, for no one else was ever like her.
At length her old feelings revived when a young
farmer in the neighborhood aspired to the hand of
Clara, and was kindly, though firmly, refused. She
was sure that it came of pride, and that the novels
she had read had filled her head with ideas of high
life. But her good uncle came to the rescue, and
declared that her inclinations should not be crossed,
and he had no wish that she should marry till she
could be happier with another than she was with
them. Clara longed to tell him of her acquaintance
with Philip Sidney, but she feared it would make
him anxious, and resolved to say nothing till time
had proved the truth of her lover. From this time
forth the subject of her marriage was not mentioned,
and Clara was left free to pursue her own inclinations.
Her presence was a continual source of happiness
to her uncle, and her life flowed on like a gentle
stream, diffusing blessings on all around her, while
a sense of happiness conferred threw a lustre around
every hour.

CHAPTER IV.

CONCLUSION.

Five years had passed since the commencement
of our tale, and Clara and I still remained at our
homes in Willowdale. Life had passed gently with
us, and the friendship formed in our school-days remained
unbroken. It was sweet to recall those days;
and we passed many a pleasant hour in the renewal
of old memories. Clara had heard nothing from
Philip Sidney, save once, about a year before, when
a letter from Fan Selby informed her that he had
called on them. He had inquired very particularly
after Clara, and said that he intended to visit Willowdale
the following year, but where the intervening
time was to be passed she did not know. It seemed
very strange to me that Clara should not doubt his
truth from his long silence, but her faith remained
unshaken.

It was the day before Christmas, and the young
people of Willowdale were assembled to finish the
decorations of the church. The garlands were hung
in deep festoons along the walls, and twined around
the pillars. The pulpit and altar were adorned with
wreaths tastefully woven of branches of box mingled
with the dark-green leaves and scarlet berries of the
holly, the latter gathered from trees which the old
rector had planted in his youth, and carefully preserved
for this purpose. On the walls over the
entrance was the inscription, “Glory to God in the
highest, on earth peace and good-will to men,” in
letters covered with box, after the model of those
we had seen in our school-days. We surveyed our
work with pleasure, mingled with anxiety to discover
any improvement that might be made, for we
knew that a stranger was that night to address us.
The growing infirmities of the old rector had for a
long time rendered the duties of a pastor very
fatiguing to him, and he had announced to us the
Sabbath before, that a young relative who had lately
taken orders, would be with him on Christmas Eve,
and assist him until his health should be improved.
The news was unwelcome to the older members of
the congregation, who had been so long accustomed
to hear instruction from their aged pastor that the
thought of seeing another stand in his place was
fraught with pain to them. He had been truly their
friend, sharing their joys and sorrows—and their
hearts were linked to him as childrens’ to a parent.
At the baptismal font, the marriage altar, and the
last sad rites of the departed, he had presided, and it
seemed as if the voice of a stranger must strike
harshly upon their ears. But to the young there was
pleasure in the thought of change; and though they
dearly loved the old man, the charm of novelty was
thrown around their dreams of his successor. No
one knew his name, though rumor whispered that
he had just returned from England, where he had
spent the last year. No wonder, then, that we looked
with critic eyes upon our work, eager to know how
it must appear to one who had traveled abroad, and
lingered among the rich cathedrals of our fatherland.
Clara alone seemed indifferent, and was often
rallied on her want of interest in the young stranger,
I alone read her secret, as she glanced at the gem
which sparkled upon her finger, for I knew that her
thoughts were with the past—and Philip Sidney.

Christmas Eve arrived, as bright and beautiful as
the winter nights of the North. A light snow covered
the ground, and the Frost King had encrusted it
with thousands of glittering diamonds. The broad
expanse of the valley was radiant in the moonbeams,
and the branches of the willows were glittering with
frosty gems. The church was brilliantly lighted,
and the blaze from its long windows left a bright
reflection upon the pure surface of the snow. The
merry ringing of sleigh-bells were heard in every
direction, and numerous sleighs deposited their fair
burden at the door. There was a general gathering
of the young people from ours and the neighboring
villages, to witness the services of the evening, and
brighter eyes than a city assembly could boast, flashed
in the lamp-light. The garlands were more beautiful
in this subdued light than they had been in the glare
of day, and their richness was like a magic spell of
beauty to enthrall the senses of the beholder. Clara
and I were seated in one of the pews directly in
front of the altar, occasionally looking back to see the
new arrivals, and return the greetings of friends from
other villages. Suddenly the organ swelled in a rich
peal of music, and the old pastor entered, followed
by the youthful stranger. There was no time to
scrutinize the features of the latter ere he knelt and
concealed his face, yet there was something in the
jetty curls that rested upon his snowy surplice, as his
head laid within his folded hands that looked familiar,
and Clara involuntarily grasped my hand. As he
arose and opened the prayer-book to turn to the[169]
services of the evening, he took a momentary survey
of the congregation. That glance was enough to
tell us that the stranger was Philip Sidney. As his
eye met Clara’s, a crimson flush spread over his
pale face, his dark eye glowed, and his hand trembled
slightly as he turned over the leaves. It was
but a moment ere he was calm and self-possessed
again, and when he commenced reading the services
his voice was clear and rich. The deepest silence
pervaded the assembly, save when the responses
rose from every part of the house. Then the organ
peals, and the sweet voices of the choir joined in the
anthems, and again all was still. The charm of
eloquence is universally acknowledged, and the
statesman, the warrior, and votary of science have
all wielded it as a weapon of might, but we can
never feel its irresistible power so fully as when
listening to its richness from the pulpit. The perfect
wisdom of holy writ, the majesty of thought, and
purity of sentiment it inspires, will elevate the
mind of the hearer above surrounding objects, and
when to this power is added beauty of language and
a musical voice, the spell is deeper. Such was the
charm that held all in silent attention while Philip
Sidney spoke. The scene was one which would
tend to fix the mind on the event it was designed to
commemorate, and the sweet music of his words
might remind one of the angel’s song proclaiming
“Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace and
good-will to men.” Richer seemed its melody, and
more beautiful his language, as he dwelt upon the
love and mercy of the Redeemer’s mission, and the
hope of everlasting life it brought to the perishing.
He led them back to the hour when moral darkness
enshrouded the world, and mankind were doomed to
perish under the frown of an offended God. There
was but one ray to cheer the gloom, the prophetic
promise of the Messiah who should come to redeem
the world. To this they looked, and vainly
dreamed that he should appear in regal splendor, to
gather his followers and form a temporal kingdom.
Far from this, the angel’s song was breathed to simple
shepherds, and the star in the East pointed out a
stable as the lowly birth-place of the Son of God.
He came, not to rule in splendor in the palaces of
kings, but to bring the gospel of peace to the lowliest
habitations, and fix his throne in the hearts of the
meek and humble-minded. He claimed no tribute
of this world’s wealth as an offering, but the love and
obedience of those whom he came to save. Earnestly
the speaker besought his hearers to yield to their
Saviour the adoration which was his due, and requite
His all-excelling love with the purest and
deepest affections of their hearts. Every eye was
fixed upon the speaker, every ear intently listened
to catch his words, and tears suffused the eyes so
lately beaming with gayety. At the close of his
eloquent appeal, there were few in that congregation
unmoved. The closing prayers were read, the
benediction pronounced, and the audience gradually
left the house. Clara and I were the last to leave
our seats, and as we followed the crowd that had
gathered in the aisles before us she did not speak, but
the hand that rested in mine trembled like a frightened
bird. Suddenly a voice behind us whispered the
name of Clara. She turned and met the gaze of
Philip Sidney. The trusting faith of years had its
reward, and those so long severed met again. Not
wishing to intrude upon the joy of that moment, I
left them, and followed on with the old rector. We
walked on in the little foot-path that led to our homes;
and while Clara’s hand rested upon his arm, the young
clergyman told the tale of his life since their parting.

“But how did it come,” asked Clara, “that you
chose the sacred profession of the ministry?”

“I cannot fully trace the source of the emotions
that led me to become a worshiper at the throne of
the Holiest, unless it is true that the love of the pure
and good of earth is the first pluming of the soul’s
pinions for heaven. I went to church that Christmas
eve, urged only by the wish to look upon your face
once more, yet, when there, the words of the speaker
won my attention. I had listened to others equally
eloquent many times before; but that night my heart
seemed more susceptible to religious impressions. I
felt a deep sense of the folly and ingratitude of my
past life, and firmly resolved for the future to live
more worthily of the immortal treasure that was
committed to my charge. Prayerfully and earnestly
I studied the Word of Life, and resolved to devote
myself to the ministry. I wrote to my worthy relative,
the rector of Willowdale, for his advice, and
found, to my great joy, that he was your devoted
friend. He condemned my rashness in the avowal I
had made to you, and insisted that there should be no
communication between us until I had finished my
studies. I consented, on condition that he should
write frequently and inform me of your welfare.
One year ago I had completed my studies, and would
have hastended to you, but my stern Mentor insisted
that I should travel abroad, as he said, to give me a
better knowledge of human nature, and test the truth
of my early affection. I have passed the ordeal, and
now, after an absence of five years, returned to you
unchanged in heart.”

The rest of the conversation was lost to me, as I
reached my home; but that it was satisfactory to
those engaged in it I know from the fact, that the next
day I had the pleasure of congratulating Clara upon
her engagement, with the full consent of her relatives.
The remainder of the tale is quickly told. The old
rector resigned his pastoral charge to Philip Sidney,
with the full approbation of his parishioners; and it
was arranged that the old rector and his wife should
remain at the parsonage with the young clergyman
and his bride. Deacon Lee became warmly attached
to Philip, and felt a father’s interest in the happiness
of Clara, though he sometimes chid her playfully for
keeping their early acquaintance a secret from him.
As for Mrs. Lee, she was so proud of the honor of
being aunt to a minister, that she almost forgot her
dislike to prelacy. It is true she was once heard to
say to one of her gossiping acquaintances, that she
would have been better pleased if Clara had married
a good Congregationalist minister, even if he had not
preached quite so flowery sermons as Philip Sidney.[170]

One bright day in the month of May following
was their wedding-day. The bride looked beautiful
in her pure white dress of muslin, with a wreath of
May-blossoms in her hair. Blessings were invoked
on the youthful pair by all, both high and low, and
sincere good wishes expressed for their future happiness.
Here I will leave them, with the wish that the
affection of early years may remain through life undimmed,
and that the Christmas Garland, so linked
with the history of their loves, may be their emblem.

HEADS OF THE POETS.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

I.—CHAUCER.

II.—SHAKSPEARE.

III.—THE SAME.

IV.—SPENSER.

V.—MILTON.

VI.—BURNS AND SCOTT.

VII.—BYRON.

VIII.-A GROUP.

Shelly and Wordsworth,—Tennyson, Barrett, Horne and
Browning;—Baily and Taylor;—Campbell and Moore.

HOPE ON—HOPE EVER.

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