CHAPTER XVIII.

WHEN Richard Clifton awoke from that slumber, an expression of calmness

rested upon his countenance. It was plain that deep despondency was no

longer pressing upon his heart. His strength slightly increased, so

that, on a very mild day for the season, the brothers once more sat

beneath the walnut which had shaded their sports in childhood. The

direction which was given to their conversation by Richard was most

gratifying to his brother. They spoke of the blessed example and pious

teachings of their sainted father. Henry was astonished to find how

deeply those teachings had been engraven on his brother's memory. The

toils and cares of a life spent in neglect of them had not obliterated

them. The interest with which he dwelt upon them led to the hope that

they had now something more than a place in his memory.

"Is it not too much to believe," said Richard, in the course of their

conversation, "that one whose manner of life has been so different from

his"--alluding to their father--"should leave the world in peace and

meet him in a better one?"

"We are to believe the declarations of Holy Writ--its promises as well

as its denunciations."

"True, that is the only thing that can enable one to look into the

narrow house without a shudder. How mistaken are those who suppose life

is not lost, provided there is peace at its close! I have hope for the

future; but I still feel that I have lost my life."

Henry's heart was too full to allow him to make any reply to his

brother's declaration.

"We have passed many happy days in our youth under the shade of this

tree. We shall never sit together here again."

"We may."

"I am nearer the close of my journey than you are aware. I am warned by

a feeling here," laying his hand on his heart, "to regard every day as

my last."

"It gives me inexpressible joy to hear you speak thus composedly

respecting the trying hour."

"Brother, I should like to see Margaret Gray before I die." A smile was

upon his countenance as he spoke thus, but deep earnestness in his

tones.

"I will go and see her, and make known your request. She will not fail

to grant it, I am sure."

"Tell her I wish to see her as Margaret Gray. Help me now to my room,

when I have taken one more view of this scene, from which I do so

earnestly wish I had never departed."

He gazed for some moments on the landscape which had delighted his

youthful vision, and entered the dwelling with a tear in his eye and a

smile upon his lips. Henry repaired at once to the lone dwelling of the

widow, and made known to her his brother's request.

"I never expected to meet him again in this world. I cannot disoblige

him; nor would I fail to comply with his wishes; and yet I had rather

not meet him."

"He has but a few days to live. You have forgiven him; and I trust He,

to whom we must all look for forgiveness, has done the same."

"If that be the case, I shall be glad to meet him. I supposed he had

chosen his portion, and that it would be said of him, as of the rich man

of old, 'Son, thou hast had thy good things;' and yet I could never

fully believe that the child of so many prayers, the child of so

faithful a father, could perish at last; though I know that to his own

Master must each one stand or fall--that each one must give account of

himself to God. I will go with you at once."

When Mrs. Larned entered the room in which Richard Clifton was lying

upon a sofa, being too feeble to rise, he lifted up his voice and wept.

He extended his hand, which was taken in silence by Mrs. Larned, who sat

down by his side and wept with him.

"Margaret," said he--the word caused her to start as though a sword had

pierced her--"you have come to forgive me?"

"I have nothing to forgive. It is long since I had anything laid up

against any human being. I pitied you, and prayed for you; but I never

had anything laid up against you."

"I have always done you the justice to think so. I knew you were

incapable of cherishing unkindness towards any one, however unkindly you

may have been treated. You have been happy, and I have not. Do you

remember the time we last walked together by the streamlet that flows

from the rock spring?"

"I do."

"I enjoyed more happiness in that walk than I have enjoyed in the

possession of all my wealth."

"I should be ungrateful if I were to say that I have not been happy;

though I have had many trials. I learned long ago not to look for

happiness here, but to prepare for it hereafter."

"You have been what men call poor; but you have been far richer than I

have been. You have had treasures of the heart. You did not marry till

you had a heart which you loved as Margaret Gray was capable of loving;

and you have a noble boy."

"Richard Clifton is still, in part at least, what he once was!"

"You believed me changed into stone, or a bale of goods?"

"I certainly believed you changed. I supposed that you had taught your

heart to love that alone which you had made the chief object of your

pursuit."

"I tried to do so. I tried to persuade myself that I had done so. I

habitually used language which implied I had succeeded. I deceived

others; I could not deceive myself. I felt that I was not happy, despite

all my efforts to persuade myself that I was. I then tried to persuade

myself that I was not less happy than others. I have been acting a part

ever since I left this place. I have been unhappy, and I deserved to be

unhappy."

"God makes abundant provision for the happiness of his creatures."

"For time and for eternity. I have failed to avail myself of that made

for the former; I hope I shall not fail in respect to the latter. And

yet what right have I, who have caused much unhappiness and so little

happiness to others, to expect it hereafter?"

"None of us can enter heaven of right, but through mercy and the merits

of another."

"I wish your son had come with you. I wish to see him and Susan

together, and to charge them to hold the treasures of the heart in

higher estimation than all other treasures. I am sure they will do so.

It is a great comfort to me to know that my beloved Susan is to marry

the son of Margaret Gray."

"Horace will come and see you to-morrow," said she, rising and extending

her trembling hand. "I must not stay longer."

"Do not go yet."

"You are becoming exhausted."

"Read to me," pointing to the book.

She took the book and turned to a suitable portion.

"Sit where I can see your countenance, if you please."

She could not refuse his request. He gazed upon her as she read, in

tones which called vividly to remembrance those of other days, a

consoling portion of the Words of Him who brought life and immortality

to light. She then rose, wiped away a tear, silently pressed his hand,

and withdrew.

Horace called the next morning, but did not receive the expected charge.

During the silence of the night, Richard Clifton had ceased to be an

inhabitant of earth.

(To be continued.)

[Illustration]

INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AUDUBON.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "TOM OWEN, THE BEE HUNTER."

NO department of natural history presents a more pleasing view than

ornithology. All the associations connected with it are beautiful and

inspiring. It takes its votary into the green fields and dark forests,

leads him to the mountain tops, and furnishes excitement among the quiet

retreats of the sequestered valley. Upon the feathered race have been

expended the richest adornments of nature. There are no precious metals,

no choice gems, no rare flowers, no rainbow tints that cannot find a

rival counterpart in the plumage of birds; and to this transcendent

beauty are added a varied, but always attractive form, a physiognomy

expressive of love, of power, of unshrinking bravery. They have also

voices almost human in their tones; voices that are associated with

every pleasing recollection of innocence and youth because of their

sweetness--and voices that startle because of their ferocity.

The habits of birds present examples of well-regulated, of almost

Christianized society. They are married, and are given _to_ marriage;

they set up a comfortable establishment, which is the result of their

own industry. They provide plentifully for their offspring, and educate

them in the way they should go, and when they are old they never depart

from it. The birds rise early to procure food, and retire with the

setting sun; as husbands they are gallant, as wives loving. All that

they do, or say, or look may be said to interest and form universal

theme for admiration. Birds rejoice in creation. In the solitary

fastnesses and eternal solitudes where the eye of man never penetrates

or his mind worships, the voice of the bird is heard caroling forth

praise. And what in the wide world is so hearty in its nature, or so

guileless, as the singing bird? How often has its innocent voice

awakened conscience in the mind of the depraved or reproved the

complaining spirit! Who can hear the caroling even of the tiny wren

without catching its exultant spirit? We have seen it on a Sabbath sunny

morning mounted upon a bud-crowded limb of the Cherokee rose, giving out

its song as if its heart and body would separate in its enthusiasm; and

when you thought it had soared to its highest note, it would begin

again, and pour forth a torrent of love, gratitude, praise, and prayer,

commingled in such varied and soul-thrilling ecstasy that the little

creature trembled and vibrated as if it were the chosen and valiant

exponent of some rapturous and mighty soul. Such are birds, the

intelligent and ornamental companions of man, the most prominent image

among the associations and pleasing recollections of childhood, and one

of the most admirable and wonderful beauties presented to his maturest

mind.

Scientifically speaking, it would seem that the birds, by their

familiarity, were prophets in their own country, and therefore very much

without honor. The poet mentioned them in his sonnets, and everybody

loved them; the gallant cock and the fierce eagle were honored as the

insignia of mighty nations; but the few who examined their history and

wrote of their habits were more readily satisfied with imperfect

illustrations and meagre descriptions than were those who devoted their

energies to exhibit the habits of animals, vipers, or fishes. It may be

stated as a remarkable fact that, until recently, the ornithologist was

incomparably behind his compeers in science in illustrating his

department, choicest of all though it be in the varied phase of animated

nature.

To Audubon is the world indebted, not only for the most magnificent work

on ornithology ever produced, but also for one of the most magnificent

monuments ever raised by industry and genius. Take his book, examine his

drawings, read his descriptions, ponder upon his reminiscences, and then

turn to the most eminent of those who have preceded him, and all

instantly become tame and commonplace. It is like going from the

primitive forests into the stove-heated library; it is like exchanging

the moving, living, teeming bird, fluttering and flying in its native

haunts, for the imperfectly preserved specimens of the museum; all is

motionless, eyeless--dead.

Of the mind that has accomplished so much it is difficult to speak in

exaggerated praise. It may be safely asserted that Audubon had one of

the most enduring that has left any impress upon the present century. He

is always clear and complete in everything he undertakes. He is profuse

in his originality, and yet boldly, at times, absorbs the labor of

others; yet he so entirely renovates, inspires, and makes their industry

his own, that his indebtedness is unthought of by the world.

The secret of Audubon's success will be found in his close pursuit of

nature; of her mysteries he has been of the truest, and therefore one of

her most favored priests. No labor by him was ever withheld, no toil

evaded. Turning over the pages of his works, you can trace him to the

tropics, where he worships and wonders; anon, he gives the witnessed

history of the solitary feathered life that inhabits those inhospitable

regions where the marble blue of the eternal snow scarcely ever reflects

a ray of sunshine. While you read with delight of the canvass-back duck

that fell beneath his rifle in the placid waters of the Chesapeake, he

is suddenly, upon another page, struggling with the gigantic albatros in

the surge-lashed waters of the Californias. You read on, and become lost

in the green field and gentle sloping hill; you wander beside the gently

running rivulet and inland lake, and rest in the shade of honeysuckle

bowers. Changing still, you are ushered into the miasmatic swamps and

dark fens in which only live the blear-eyed heron and repulsive bittern;

and then, lifted on the wings of imagination, you climb the embattled

rocks and precipices of the Cordilleras, dividing admiration of the

rising sun with the eccentric flights of the mighty vulture as he wheels

downward in his greetings of the god of day. Such is Audubon, who will

ever be remembered as long as mind answers in admiration and sympathy

with mind. He has stamped his memory in a work, and associated his name

with a family that will endure in freshness when the mightiest monuments

now existing will, like the pyramids, become unmeaning heaps; for his

name and immortality will ever be recalled by the fanning pinions of

every feathered inhabitant of the air.

The minute history of Audubon's remarkable work, from its conception to

its completion, would involve the recital of some of the most exalted

and interesting traits of character ever recorded. Audubon has slightly

touched upon one or two incidents of discouragement that would, of

themselves, have been sufficient to dishearten a less energetic being;

but the years of toil and sacrifice he endured, and the ten thousand

obstacles he overcame besides those he alluded to, will never be known.

The fair ladies who have, in the luxurious library, admired the

feathered songsters of our continent, that so gracefully sped their way

over the nature-illuminated page--who have seen so cunningly illustrated

the domestic life of the house wren and the wild home of the eagle--will

not be less interested if they know that to the enlightened assistance

of one of their own sex is the world greatly indebted for Audubon's

ornithology.

The early history of Audubon seems to be this: He grew up unconscious of

his powers, save as they were displayed in a genuine love of nature;

arriving at manhood's estate, he married a lady of rare accomplishments

and liberal fortune. With a growing family, he desired, through active

business, to increase his estate, and in a few years found himself the

victim of profitless mercantile speculations, and, pecuniarily, a ruined

man. At an age when others think of retiring from the active scenes of

life, Audubon started, not only anew, but upon an enterprise of doubtful

success, and one that demanded wealth and years of industry to

accomplish. Misfortune seemed to awaken the latent fire within him, and

his mind suddenly overflowed with spirit-images of the feathered race,

and his then comparatively unskilled fingers grasped the pencil to give

form and shape to the struggling thought--but alas! the possibility.

Where was the patron to cheer the seer upon this dreary pilgrimage? Who

would care for his beloved family through the long years of his

unfinished venture? Let the answer be found in our imperfect story.

Many years since, we were standing at the door of a country post office,

listening, with others, to the reader of the only "latest paper" that

had come to hand. He delivered the news, social and political, with a

loud voice, and finally, under the head of "items," struck upon

something as follows: "The Emperor of Russia, on his recent trip from

England homewards, took extreme pleasure in looking over Audubon's great

work upon the birds of America, and, as a token of his admiration, sent

the author a gold snuff-box studded with diamonds."

"What's that?" inquired an old but plain citizen. "The Emperior Roosia

give Audubon a diamond snuff-box studded with gold! Well, that is a good

one, and comes up to my understanding of these aristocrats. Why, I knew

Audubon for years, and a lazier, good-for-nothing, little bird,

double-bar'l shot-gun shooting fellow I never knew;" and, with another

broadside at the want of appreciation of character displayed by the

Emperor of Russia, and by royal personages generally, our well-meaning

friend walked away.

This familiar allusion to Audubon, for the first time, informed me of

the fact that, in the vicinity of my own home in Louisiana, had Audubon

and his family resided for years; and, as I became better acquainted

with his works, I could readily perceive that the rich and undulating

lands of the Felicianas, their primitive forests, their magnolia groves,

and ever-blooming gardens, suited well the taste and pursuits of the

naturalist; for the merry descendants of many of those immortalized

beauties that grace his book still, in congregated thousands, fill the

air with song and flight.

From few did Audubon attract attention; there was nothing in his seeming

wastefulness of time to command respect. The sportsmen with whom he was

surrounded seldom "sighted" their weapons on anything less than a lordly

buck, and as they saw nothing in Audubon but what appeared before their

eyes, they measured their own ambition with no little sarcasm against

one who "found game in the chickadee and humming-bird." But Audubon

lived in a world of his own; for weeks he slept in the forest, that he

might make himself acquainted with the habits of some, but for him

unknown, bird. For days, he hung like a spectre upon the margin of the

Dismal Swamp, until the flamingo, swan, and wild duck heeded not his

familiar presence. Placing a powerful telescope under the broad,

spreading tree, he drew the laborious and tiny birds, as they built

their nests, within his visual grasp, and counted each stick, and twig,

and moss, and hair, until the little fabric was complete. In time, he

returned to his charge, and, by the same artificial means, watched and

admired the growing family, saw the food that reared the young, admired

the tender endearments of the married birds, and recorded the whole with

the faithfulness of a Pepys, and with the pastoral sweetness of a

Collins or Shenstone.

"I remember, as if it were but yesterday, Audubon's first appearance in

New Orleans," said a now widely-distinguished gentleman to me; "and I

shall never forget," he continued, "his industry and enthusiasm, his

utter devotion to his favorite pursuit. In those days, many Indians

brought game to the city to sell, and Audubon soon had these wild sons

of the forest in his employ. Every farthing that the most

self-sacrificing economy could save went to purchase birds; and it was a

picturesque sight to see the then unknown naturalist surrounded by his

wild confederates, who, by the gratification of their natural habits,

brought him many of the rich-plumaged aquatic birds that first formed

subjects of his pencil. At this time, the courtly language of the

Tuileries was his familiar tongue; and although, with the heartfelt

approbation of the literary world, Audubon has placed himself among the

most pleasing and original of the 'prose writers of America,' yet his

first written descriptions were in a language foreign to that identical

with his fame, and many of these earliest and most happy essays were so

complete, that the finished student easily rendered them into our common

language, and, without effort, retained that freshness and beauty that

have since distinguished the English compositions of Audubon himself."

"In everything," said another of Audubon's most observing friends, "did

Audubon follow nature. If he shot a duck, the grasses and the weeds

among which it was found formed the accessories of his drawing. If he

brought an eagle down from his eyrie, the very deadened limb that last

bore the impress of his talons was secured at any sacrifice, and the

bird reappeared just as he first attracted the eye of the naturalist.

This care extended to the humblest of the feathered tribe; the

apple-tree blossom, the thorn, the ripe fruit, the gigantic caterpillar,

the variegated spider, the interlaced horse-hair, the soft down, the

fragrant woodbine, myrtle, and jasmine, the honeysuckle and sweet pea,

and a thousand other hints of rural life crowd in profusion the drawings

of his birds, until they appear complete pictures, stories perfectly

told."

Audubon, in jotting down his thoughts, has sometimes gone beyond the

office of ornithologist, and given us glimpses of life in the backwoods

that many have deemed exaggerations. Respectable authorities in other

matters have cautioned too ready credence to these strange tales, and

denied the truth of them, because not in the circle of his favorite

pursuit. Let these skeptics come to Louisiana and visit, as we have

done, among those who now remember his habits, and they will admit that

Audubon, by his solitary journeys, his long residence in the forests,

his keen eyes, and his intense industry, would unfold phases of the

great book of creation unrevealed to the less studious mass of mankind.

In the hospitable mansion of W. G. J., in the parish of West Feliciana,

if one will look into the parlor, they will see over the piano a

cabinet-sized portrait, remarkable for a bright eye and intellectual

look. The style of it is free, and there is an individuality about the

whole that gives security of a strong likeness. Opposite hangs "a proof

impression" of "the bird of Washington," a tribute of a grateful heart

to an old friend. The first is a portrait of Audubon, painted by

himself; the other is one of the first engravings that ever reached the

United States of that immortal series that now make up the great work of

the unsurpassed naturalist.

In the family holding these pleasing mementos, the "Audubons" lived for

many years. There were evidences of this constantly occurring from day

to day. It was with no ordinary interest that I examined a number of

rude and unfinished drawings, rough sketches, that formed the practice

that finally produced such perfection. Among the many was a charcoal

likeness of a great horned owl, whose light ashy plumage and socketless

eyes gave it a most ghastly appearance. Masterly as these sketches

were, yet there was an evident want of that strange symmetry and

correctness that mark Audubon's finished works. This I mentioned to J.

"Ah," said he, "I watched his improvement almost day by day; and how

could it be otherwise with one who was so entirely devoted to his

pursuits?" And then were poured forth a hundred reminiscences, alike

characteristic, and in the highest degree honorable to the heads and

hearts of the "family of Audubon."

And now was developed to me, until then unknown, an incident in the

unwritten part of Audubon's history. Here, in the bosom of a refined

family, lived for many years his accomplished wife, devoting her time to

the education of her own sex. Those thus under her charge are now in the

perfection of womanhood, and their superior manners and mental

cultivation speak of the care and devotedness of their instructor and

friend. Here it was that the wife of the great naturalist bid him go

forward with his work, and not only cheered him on, but threw the

acquirements of her own industry into the glory of the future. It was

her example, and her voice of encouragement, and her power to help that

enabled Audubon to triumph; and thus did she identify herself and her

sex "with the most splendid work which art has erected to the honor of

ornithology."

THE YOUNG ENTHUSIASTS.

BY FRANK I. WILSON.

CHAPTER I.

THE western portion of the State of North Carolina is by no means

densely populated even at this day, though much more so than it was half

a century ago, the time at which the principal incidents I am about to

relate occurred.

This part of the State is remarkable for the beauty and grandeur of its

mountain scenery, its fertile soil, and the salubrity of its climate.

The bracing mountain air has brought back the bloom of health to the wan

cheek of many an invalid; and rock, and stream, and waterfall have

filled many a heart with rapturous delight. The wild deer bounds through

the forest, and the hoarse bay of hounds, the encouraging shout of the

huntsman, and the shrill report of the deadly rifle are sounds that

frequently meet the traveler's ear. As in all mountainous regions, the

inhabitants are hospitable and generous almost to a fault. Their doors

are ever open to the stranger, and, in many cases, they take the offer

of payment for their accommodations as an insult. Most of the nobler

virtues are shrined in their honest bosoms; but such is the fertility of

their valleys, that very little labor is sufficient to procure them the

necessaries of life, and, as the quantity of labor is everywhere

proportioned to the necessity for it, we find them, in general, indolent

and careless--rich in that best of Heaven's gifts, contentment. The

facilities of this region for manufactories are, perhaps, unsurpassed by

any portion of the globe, and, with an energetic and industrious

population, it would soon become one of the most flourishing sections of

our Union.

But enough of this. I did not intend to enter into a minute description

of the country, and almost unconsciously penned the above. I proceed

with my story.

Among the mountains, not far from the line which separates North from

South Carolina, but on the side of the former State, stood, at the

period of which I write, a house built after a fashion still prevalent

in that region, and which is called a "double cabin." Two cabins, built

of logs, are erected ten or twelve feet apart, and generally two stories

high, and then connected under one roof, forming pleasant rooms, and

also a cool passage between the cabins, where the members of the family

usually spend their evenings during the summer months. In the house

above mentioned lived Amos Kelford, a hardy mountaineer, with a wife

and several children, of which Daniel, the hero of my tale, was the

eldest.

This Daniel was a strange youth, and, although now only twenty years

old, possessed a maturity of mind and a ripeness of intellect rarely to

be met with in one of his age. Having been reared among mountains, those

master efforts of Nature's handiwork, his ideas, even from childhood,

had ever blended with the beautiful and sublime. A glance at his

countenance, his broad pale forehead, his large and full blue eyes, and

light sandy hair, was sufficient to show to a physiognomist that his

intellectual predominated over his physical powers. His form was slight,

but perfectly symmetrical, and his features, but for a bold and full

developed line here and there, would have been considered feminine.

He had ever been considered an anomaly. From his earliest years, he had

loved to sit upon some gray old rock and gaze upon the towering peaks

around him, and see their summits glittering in the sun or wrapped in

mist that enfolded them like mountain robes. This latter he liked best;

for even then, in the sunny days of childhood, at an age when most

children care for nothing but romp and play, he leaned to the darker

side of Nature, and the blue mist, curling in a thousand fantastic

forms, or settling like a pall around the lofty summits of giant peaks,

had a charm for him which the sunshine failed to impart. He gazed upon

the falling leaves of autumn rather than the bursting buds of spring,

upon the gathering shades of night rather than the blushing beams of the

morning sun.

As he grew up and learned to read, nothing accorded so well with his

disposition as to take a volume and wander off beside some waterfall, or

ascend some peak, or, when the sun was hot, to retire into some cave or

crouch beneath some overhanging rock, and there read and ponder whole

days together. There was a mystery thrown around him, a kind of

indifference and a lack of interest in almost everything in which those

of his age usually feel interested. His own parents looked upon him and

sighed and wondered, but could not fathom the depths of his mind, nor

learn the bent of his eccentric genius. He was ever mild, ever ready to

render any assistance in his power to those in need, and ever obedient

to the commands of his parents and teachers; but he obeyed, as he always

acted, with a calm indifference, and without any show of interest.

Rarely was he seen to smile; but sometimes, when wrapped in his own

reflections and heedless of everything around him, his eyes would

kindle, and a placid, but peculiar smile would play about his thin lips,

indicating that pleasant thoughts were in his mind; but whether of past

scenes or only of future imaginary joys none could tell. And oftentimes

this smile would suddenly vanish as you gazed upon him, and a dark cloud

would settle over his countenance. His brow would become contracted, his

lips compressed, and the expression of his eyes sad and gloomy. Then, as

if to seek solace, or a diversion of his thoughts, he would take up a

book and wander off into some secluded spot and read and meditate,

occasionally noting down with his pencil certain sentences from what he

read, or recording certain ideas suggested thereby.

But there was one being on whom Daniel Kelford looked without his usual

indifference, and for whom he felt a pure and lasting affection. This

was Elinor Manvers, the daughter of one of the wealthier class of

farmers, who resided about four miles from Mr. Kelford's. Elinor was

sixteen years old, and as beautiful as the hour is that visit the

Mussulman's dreams. Her sylph-like form, the classic regularity of her

well-defined features, her large and languishing dark eyes, all bespoke

a mind deeply imbued with the _spirituel_; but still she was a

true-hearted woman, a sprightly and merry mountain lass. She loved to

pour forth her wild gay songs, and hear the echoes of her

finely-modulated voice among the tall cliffs of the mountains. Her step

was as free and agile as that of the untamed deer; and to all except

Daniel Kelford she was a lively companion, and could ring forth her

clear laugh with all the free exuberance of feeling to which her nature

seemed inclined; but when with him she was conscious of a mysterious and

undefined awe settling upon her mind, and depriving her of the power of

appearing gay and frolicsome. Her true nature was as yet undeveloped and

unknown even to herself, and the influence which Daniel exerted over

her, and was destined to exert, was the mould by which her soul was to

be formed. There was something repulsive and yet attractive about him,

and though she shrank from him, she could not deny to herself that she

loved him, and the consciousness of her love was mingled with both pain

and pleasure. Her feelings towards him were of two kinds, directly

opposite to each other, and yet so mingling together that she could not

entertain the one without admitting the other. She shuddered when she

reflected upon the depth of her love, and yet she would not have torn it

from her heart for worlds; for there was a satisfaction and a sense of

bliss always blending, confusedly and unintelligibly, it is true, with

the horror that darkened through her soul. In his presence, she felt ill

at ease, and yet there was a vacuum created by his absence which nothing

but his presence could fill. He had spoken to her of love, of its beauty

and holiness, of its depth and power, but no vows had yet been

interchanged; and although she would have preferred death to the

certainty that he never would declare his love to her, yet she dreaded

the declaration, and could not think with calmness on the moment when it

was to be made. There was something in the earnest flashing of his eyes

when he gazed upon her that startled and almost terrified her; and yet

there was a charm in those looks that thrilled her inmost soul with

pleasure, and she could have wished he might gaze thus for ever. His

words, too, fell with a strange emphasis and a peculiar force upon her

ears; but there was a music in them that sank into her heart and

awakened a sense of joy that nothing else could stir.

The hand of destiny seemed to be guiding her to some awful fate, of

which presentiment made her fully conscious; but the path to which was

strewn with so many charms she willingly, ay anxiously, trod it, and

would not have turned back if she could.

CHAPTER II.

DANIEL KELFORD had fitted him up a little study room, in which he spent

most of his time. Books were his idols, and he worshiped them with more

than a pagan zeal. His table was strewn with antique and curious

volumes, many of them abounding in the wild and marvelous, and in these

his whole soul seemed absorbed. The love-sick and sentimental had no

charm for him; but he sought rather the abstruse and mysterious, bending

all his energies to the comprehension of the one and the unraveling of

the other. Vague dreams, as it were, flitted through his mind, highly

colored by his diseased fancy, and all wearing a supernatural hue.

Metaphysics was his darling study. He maintained that, as every particle

of matter is dependent on those surrounding it, and as all are bound and

held together by attraction, making one whole, and as it is impossible

to conceive of one single particle existing independently and

unconnected with any other, so every idea is linked with others forming

one mind, and a single isolated idea is as impossible as a single and

independent particle of matter; and that as various as are the shapes of

objects constituted by the combination of particles, so various are the

minds formed by the combination of ideas. And as idea linked with idea

rose in his mind, he followed on, weaving a chain as incomprehensible to

most minds as the inextricable windings of the Cretan labyrinth, until,

at length lost in the mazy whirl of his own thoughts, the eye of fancy

grew dim and reason tottered on her throne.

Reader, let me conduct you to that little study-room. We will look in at

the window near which Daniel sits. It is night, a calm moonlit night of

May, and the mingled notes of various night birds and innumerable

insects, together with the chastened scenery of the surrounding

mountains, as rock, and stream, and cliff, and waterfall appear in the

softened beams, are enough to draw the most devoted of ordinary students

from their books to contemplate the mighty book of nature, printed in

the type of God, its sublime capitals rendering it legible to every

observer. But for Daniel Kelford these things now possess no interest.

They are unseen and unthought of; for every power of his soul is

centered upon the contents of a small roll of manuscript which lies

before him. He bends over it, takes up sheet after sheet, his interest

increasing as he reads, until he has but one thought, one desire; and

that is to understand and to reduce to practice the strange things

there taught. Beside him dimly burns his untrimmed lamp, for he does not

think to bestow any attention upon it. He has found embodied in words

thoughts and ideas that have long floated like shapeless visions through

his soul, but which he never could grasp, confine, and reduce to

language.

The night wears on; it is late; he has read every page of that strange

manuscript; but he reads it again and again, unmindful of the flight of

time--a wild light sometimes flashing from his large eyes, and a

mysterious expression gathering over his countenance. Were the aged man

whose hand penned these words now alive, he could fall at his feet and

worship him as a god.

But let us turn for a moment, and see from whence he obtained this

wonderful manuscript.

Just on the line dividing the States of North and South Carolina, is an

eminence called "Caesar's Head." When, how, or why it obtained this name

I have never been able to learn. Over its top now passes a turnpike

road; but, at the period of which I write, all over and around it was

almost an uninterrupted wilderness. The southern, or rather the

southwestern side is nearly perpendicular, and fronts towards the

celebrated Table Rock in Greenville District, S. C. From its summit,

this rock, as well as many other curious and interesting objects, is in

full view. The whole scenery in that direction is, perhaps, unsurpassed

by any in the whole mountain range; and, consequently, "Caesar's Head"

was one of Daniel Kelford's favorite places of resort.

One day he went to visit this spot, and, as he approached it, he

perceived an old man lying at the root of a tree, or rather leaning on

his elbow with his back resting against the tree, and his eyes, over

which the film of death was fast gathering, bent intently on the view

before him. Daniel went up to him with his usual indifferent appearance,

but ready to impart any assistance that might be in his power. As he

drew near, the old man turned to him and said--

"You have come at last: I was expecting you."

"And why were you expecting me?" asked Daniel.

"Because I knew that you were coming here at this hour," was the reply.

"And how knew you that?" asked Daniel.

"The means by which I obtained my information," replied the old man,

"may one day be familiar to you; but I have not time now to explain them

to you. Be content for the present to know that I have, or rather have

had, the power to gain information of future events. My time to leave

this world is now come, and I cannot look beyond the grave except, as

other mortals, by the eye of faith. I have inquired concerning you, and

know you better, perhaps, than you know yourself, though you never met

my eyes until now. I knew that I was to die at this hour, and that you

were to meet me here to see me draw my last breath, and to receive from

me this manuscript, which I have prepared expressly for you; for I know

your nature, your insatiate thirst for knowledge, your perseverance and

enthusiasm, and that you would improve the information herein contained.

I have written it in your own language. Take it, it is yours; but do not

break the seal that binds it until I am buried."

Daniel took the roll which the old man extended to him, and begged that

he might go for assistance.

"No," said the old man; "I want no company but yours. Death is not hard,

and I have but a few moments more to live. You see that I am calm; I,

who have experienced almost every vicissitude of life incident to both

the palace and the mountain cave, can here lay me down and place my hand

upon my heart and call my God to witness that I die in peace with all

men, and without a single fear or dread. I only ask that you will see me

decently interred."

The tears gushed into Daniel's eyes as he gave the promise. The old man

perceived it and said--

"Do not weep for me, my young friend, but rather weep for yourself. My

troubles are over, but yours have scarcely begun. Ignorance loves to

persecute knowledge; but there is one blessing attendant on true wisdom;

for it renders its possessor impervious to the darts that are hurled at

him, and he rises above the petty animosities of earth and feels an

inward satisfaction, a proud consciousness of superiority that the

ignorant can never know."

The eyes of the old man, sunken and dim, were turned upon the young man

as he spoke, and his wrinkled features assumed an expression of joy

rarely seen upon the human countenance, even when in health and

prosperity. He was above the ordinary size of men, and his large frame

stretched along the earth looked like some mountain god taking his rest.

His long white eyebrows arched boldly above his eyes, and his silvery

hair was brushed back, leaving his massive brow bared to the gentle

sunbeams as they streamed through the dense foliage of the overhanging

trees. There was a serenity and an expression of benignity about his

countenance that irresistibly attracted the heart of Daniel Kelford, and

made him reverence him. He seated himself by the old man, and raising

his head leaned it against his bosom.

"Thank you, my young friend," said the aged man; "I shall now die

without a struggle. I am in no pain; and as I yet have a little time

left me, I will talk with you about Elinor Manvers."

"Elinor Manvers!" exclaimed Daniel, with surprise. "Do you know her?"

"I have seen her once," said the old man; "and he who has done that can

never forget the vision of beauty that has blest his eyes. But I know

her well. I know her soul is as pure as her own mountain streams; but it

is unformed, and to you is committed its nurture. You can assimilate it

to your own, or absorb it within your own, and make it soul of your

soul, one and inseparable, imbuing it with the same thirst for

knowledge, the same exalted aspirations. She loves you with an intensity

never excelled; and already the shadow, or rather the light, of your

spirit is upon her; but she can shake off the influence when you are

away from her. Marry her, and be with her all the time, infusing your

soul into hers, making her a fit companion to share your joys on earth

and your perfect bliss in Heaven. Open to her the treasures of

knowledge, and she will twine her affections so firmly about you that

even death cannot sever them."

The old man's voice grew weak and husky, and turning his eyes calmly

upon the face of his young friend, he said--

"I can tell you no more. Read the manuscript, and you will know enough

to enable you to learn all. My time has come, and ALL IS PEACE."

As he spake, he folded his arms upon his breast, closed his eyes, and

yielded his spirit, without a groan or murmur, to his God.

Daniel returned home and told his father of the old man's death, but

said nothing about the manuscript he had received. It he carried to his

own room and locked within his trunk. Mr. Kelford and Daniel, with two

or three of the neighbors, went and brought the old man's body to Mr.

Kelford's house, where it remained until the next day, when they buried

it, wondering who the stranger was and whence he came.

It was night when Daniel returned home, and, after hastily eating a few

mouthfuls, he hurried to his room, brought forth the manuscript, broke

the seal, and read it.

CHAPTER III.

THE manuscript was as follows:--

DON RICARDUS CARLOS TO HIS YOUNG FRIEND DANIEL KELFORD.

It may seem strange to you, my young friend, to be thus familiarly

addressed by one who is a stranger to you, and one whom you have never

even seen as yet; but, although I am unknown to you, you are not unknown

to me, neither shall I die without your seeing me. You will see me but

once, and that will be just as my soul flutters on the verge of

eternity. Yes, you will see me in that blissful moment when I shall

launch my bark from the strand of Time upon the ocean of Eternity, and

be admitted into Heaven, the great temple of perfect knowledge, where I

shall be able to ascend step by step, and endowed with capacity to

understand those things which the mind, while confined within its

corporeal prison house, can never comprehend. Peruse these pages, and

you will know how I know you. Peruse, and be wise as I am, and as few

before me have been, and perhaps fewer after me will be.

My name is Don Ricardus Carlos, and I am one of the once royal family of

Spain. I say the _once_ royal family, for, as you know, the reign of the

Carloses has ceased; and I am glad of it. A new era is dawning upon the

world, when knowledge shall be diffused among the people, and they

shall see and feel that their hereditary rulers are tyrants who oppress

them; and they will rise and hurl them from their thrones. A century

from this hour, and the names of king and emperor, of lord and

sovereign, will only be remembered as titles _once_ applied to certain

men whom the fortune of birth gave an imaginary superiority over their

fellow men in general, and endowed with a privilege of ruling the

temporal destinies of the toiling millions. That era has already dawned

in splendor. This very nation is an example of it, and this nation is

destined to revolutionize the world; not by the sword, though it be

mighty in arms and rich in heroes, but by its example, its peaceful and

prosperous course. Man never was made to be forced into measures. The

Almighty placed in his heart an aversion to coercion as applied to

himself. This is what we call pride; and the same pride which leads him

to hate coercion as applied to himself, leads him to desire to coerce

others. This is one of the curses of God upon mankind for their

disobedience, intended to keep them at strife. Hence arise wars and

bloodshed, and the direst scourges that visit the earth. Man must be led

by persuasion, must be induced by example to embrace even that which is

for his own good; and, as I said, this nation will by its example

revolutionize the world. It has deluged France in blood, for its time

has not yet come; but it will come, and the land of the vine will yet be

free. The throne of England--proud mistress of the sea as she loves to

be styled, but as she cannot much longer be styled--will fall. Ireland,

long crushed beneath the iron tread of despotism, will arise and hurl

her chains from her and take her stand among the republics of the earth.

Even my own beloved, but degraded Spain, and sunny Italy, the land of

the olive, ruled for a thousand years by the usurper of Heaven's

prerogative, will yet be free. The crowns that now, heavy with jewels,

adorn the heads of sovereigns, will yet be trampled into the dust by the

rough feet of those whose necks their wearers now bow down and trample

down. THE PEOPLE is the only sovereign, and when knowledge shall have

opened the eyes of the people to the excesses committed by their rulers,

and to their own rights, they will turn and exercise their power--the

power delegated to them, and to none other, by Heaven. But they must

learn; and they will learn by example sooner than by any other means.

This continent was reserved for such a glorious purpose--the renovation

of society, the upbuilding of the temple of true liberty.

* * * * *

I was instructed in all the lore of my country, both ancient and modern.

My eagerness to obtain knowledge, and the facility with which I acquired

it, were noted, and the most skillful teachers were procured for me. I

was surrounded by all the pomp and pageantry of royalty; but these had

no charms for me. Every luxury which wealth could procure was at my

command, but I cared for nothing but knowledge. It was the one

all-absorbing thought of my mind, and in it I lived, moved, and had my

being. I outstripped all my teachers, and they declared themselves

unable to teach me any more. I was pronounced by all the ripest scholar

of my age; but still I was not satisfied. What I had learned only

increased my desire for more, and in vain I sought a teacher more

learned than myself. The extent of my knowledge amazed the wisest and

most profound scholars among my countrymen; but still there was a vacuum

in my soul, a yearning to know more, and I felt miserable because I had

nothing more to learn.

But "fickle fortune," as it is generally, but erroneously termed, turned

her scale. It was not mere fortune or chance, but destiny; and destiny

is the will of God. My family was deposed and forced to flee. Of course,

we fled to America--to these United States; for where else do the weary

find repose and the oppressed an asylum and a home?

With no inconsiderable fortune, I made my way to the mountains, and in a

pleasant valley in the western part of Virginia I built me a cottage,

and there determined to reside, and prosecute my studies and researches.

My desire for knowledge had not abated by my change of fortune, and I

began to cast about me for some new study. Those who had known me in

Spain thought I stood upon the pinnacle of the temple of knowledge; but

I knew there must be something beyond the height to which I had yet

risen, or else my mind would not be so disquiet and so anxious to learn

more. I reasoned thus with myself: The temple of knowledge is founded on

Earth and Time; but the structure reaches into Heaven and Eternity. I

have ascended to the topmost step of the earthly part, and now I must

pierce the dividing line and ascend yet higher. I reflected that Heaven

was purity, and he that would enter into it must be pure, must lay aside

all mere earthly and sensual affections, and become in all his thoughts

and actions uninfluenced by selfish motives--in a word, that he must

separate his soul from his body, and enter with the former, leaving the

latter on earth. This I knew was generally effected by death, and then

came the desire to die; but again I reflected that that was a sinful

desire, and would retard my progress. If I should take my own life, the

very act would debar me from the prize for which I did it.

I commenced schooling my mind and subduing my bodily propensities. I

abstained from all food, except just enough to keep me alive and in

health. I supplied the wants of nature, but nothing more. I practiced

self-denial in almost everything, forcing myself to act directly

opposite to the promptings of my carnal mind. I retired now to the

wildest parts of the mountains, to fill my soul with awe at beholding

the stupendous grandeur of nature; and now to the sunny valleys, the

babbling rills, and murmuring waterfalls, to drink in gladness and joy.

I visited the poor, bestowing gifts upon them, wandering far and near in

search of objects of charity, until my fortune was exhausted, and I was

left with but a scanty pittance for my support. But I gloried in my

poverty, remembering that the Scriptures teach that money is a

hindrance, the love of it an insuperable barrier, to the perfection of

human virtue. Knowledge was all I cared for; wealth sank into less than

nothingness when compared with it.

My great aim was to arrive to an exalted state of purity, in order to

attain to higher knowledge. I would not suffer myself to think of

anything unconnected with the Great Author of its existence. At length I

found myself undergoing a gradual change. The thoughts of earth and

earthly things became irksome to me, and I could banish them from my

mind at pleasure. My thoughts were as much at my command as my actions.

I could think upon a particular subject, or leave off thinking on it at

will, just as I could put my limbs in motion, or leave them at rest, as

I pleased.

One day I seated myself by the side of a little rill, the magnificent

white blossoms of the laurel waving over me, and the wild vines creeping

with serpentine folds around the boughs of the neighboring trees,

forming an arbor above the quiet stream. It was a lovely spot, and might

well have been fancied the favorite resort of the mountain genii, when

they wished to retire to solitude and indulge in reverie.

Here I determined to try the experiment of _willing_ myself a spirit,

separate from my body and independent of it. It required some effort for

me to do this; but gradually I seemed to lose my bodily form, and to

become independent of the laws of gravitation. In a few moments the

change was complete; and no sooner was it so than I heard a voice, mild

and sweet beyond anything which it is in the power of the imagination to

conceive--

"Mortal," said the voice, "behold what the eyes of sinful mortal never

saw!"

I turned, and beheld a form bright as the sun; but it did not dazzle my

eyes. On the contrary, I loved to look upon it; and as I gazed I felt a

joy diffusing itself through my soul never dreamed of before, and so

perfect that I was wholly abandoned to it.

"I am thy good angel," again spake the voice; "and thy mind, subdued to

thy own control, and exerted in a pure and holy direction, has so far

removed the scales with which earthly passions blind the human eyes,

that thou art permitted, though still mortal, to see me, an immortal,

and hear my voice. Thy desire for knowledge shall be gratified, for thou

seekest it not for any evil end. Listen, and I will give thee thy first

lesson in a course of study new to and unheard of by thee."

I listened and heard strange yet sweet words, and drank in with

eagerness the instruction imparted to me. But, as I only learned a

portion at that time, and have continued at different periods since to

learn more, I will not here attempt to set down the words then uttered

to me, or to recount the particular points on which I was enlightened at

the different times; but will throw together a portion of the

information I have acquired during the whole time, selecting such as I

shall think most likely to interest you, and to fire you with a desire

to obtain more from the same source from which I have obtained mine; for

man, even while living on this earth, and consequently mortal, may,

through the attributes of immortality, learn much that is

incomprehensible to the mere mortal mind.

Every human being on this wide world is attended, from his birth to his

death, by two angels, the one good, the other evil. Neither has any

power to prompt its charge to action either bodily or mentally, for the

will is free to choose for itself; but when once a course of acts or

thoughts is commenced, then both have power, and each acts in direct

opposition to the other, causing the mind to waver and alternate between

good and evil, embracing sometimes the one and sometimes the other, as

the respective angels obtain the mastery. If a man's thoughts and

actions be good, his good angel endeavors to encourage him to persevere

in them, while his evil one wars against them; and if his thoughts and

actions be evil, his evil spirit urges him on, while his good one tries

to restrain him. Hence the life of man is one continued warfare, the two

spirits for ever battling against each other, and each in its turn

exulting in victory and mourning over defeat. But, let which may be

vanquished, it does not easily abandon the contest. The human will can

always decide the strife with regard to any particular thing, and cast

the victory on either side it pleases, and, with traitorous fickleness,

it fights sometimes on the one side and sometimes on the other.

Man, in general, is not sunk to that depth of depravity in which he is

frequently represented--a depth so low, so dark, and so wretched as to

be wholly incapable, with his own human nature, unaided and left to

himself, to think a holy thought or perform a righteous act. If this

were the case, the evil angel would ever prove victorious, and the good

one would retire in despair, and leave the poor human being the prey of

the powers of darkness. Men have much to say about the foreknowledge of

God, the predestination and election of the human race, or of a portion

of it, and such like. These are fruitful themes of controversy, as

unavailing as they are absurd. God does not reckon time, for it is

finite and he is infinite. He knows only eternity, in which there is

neither past nor future, but an ever-abiding present, without beginning

or end. Without freedom of will it would be impossible for man to be an

accountable being. If the angels which attend him through life had the

power to prompt him to action, then they would have the entire rule over

him, and they alone would be held accountable for his course. True, it

is possible that either spirit may be subdued, and the mind reduced

entirely under the control of the other; this can only take place where

the mind concurs with the victorious spirit, and continues to concur

with it, and willingly yields to its control, and therefore the mortal

is still the accountable one, and the one with whom God will finally

reckon.

When the good spirit, from a long series of defeats, yields all hope of

ever again obtaining the ascendancy over its dark rival, and flees in

despair from the soul over which it has watched, then the mind and body

of the person become devoted with all their powers to the devil, the

prince of the spirit that presides over him. He then receives a kind of

supernatural power; but it is not of that kind by which good may be

wrought, but seeks to set friends at variance and to array man against

his fellow-man. It even endues him, who is subject to its undisputed

sway, with the power of working a species of miracles; but the effects

of these miracles are always noxious. This is what has usually been

termed witchcraft. The spirit of evil becomes visible and audible to him

who is invested with this fearful power, and he is no longer regarded by

the eye of Heaven as one who may even possibly free himself from the

master he serves, and repent and find forgiveness. His good angel is

gone from him to return no more; for God hath said, "My spirit shall not

always strive with man." Beyond this world his doom is irrevocably

sealed, and his lot cast among the forever damned.

On the other hand, by deeds of charity and love, and by a life of

extraordinary purity, the evil spirit may be expelled, and the soul left

to the undisputed sway of the good one. He who is thus freed from the

power of his evil angel has the power of seeing and hearing his good

one, and of learning things incomprehensible to the generality of his

race. To him the fountains of knowledge are unsealed, and he learns,

while yet on earth, much that is reserved to be learned in Heaven after

we have become a new order of beings, endowed with new intelligence. It

is sin only that blinds our sight and darkens our minds, and,

consequently, the more effectually we can free ourselves from sin the

better are we prepared for the reception of knowledge. Perfect knowledge

can only be attained by perfect purity, and hence perfect knowledge is

perfect bliss; and the highest bliss of heaven is to perfectly

understand all things. On earth, corrupted and polluted as it is by sin,

there can be no perfect knowledge, and, consequently, no perfect bliss.

And although there are different degrees of knowledge in Heaven, yet

every degree is perfect, and affords perfect bliss so far; and, as we

ascend step by step up the heavenly temple of knowledge, perfect bliss

will be added to perfect bliss, and thus will we go on until we reach

the summit and possess ourselves of all the blissful attributes of God

himself. The more knowledge we attain on earth, provided it be applied

to good, the higher will be the grade to which we will be admitted in

Heaven, and consequently the more perfect our bliss there; but if it be

directed towards the attainment of an end transgressing the laws of God

and furthering evil, the more intense will be the sufferings in the

world of punishment.

It is an incontrovertible law of natural philosophy, that not an atom of

matter can be annihilated; and it is a law as applicable to the

immaterial as to the material world. Every act we have ever committed,

every word we have ever spoken, and every thought that has ever flitted

through our minds, remains as indestructible as the throne of

Omnipotence itself. Here on earth we act, speak, and think, and then

forget the deeds we have done, the words we have spoken, and the

thoughts we have harbored; but on the day of the final reckoning, when

our spirits shall re-enter our arisen bodies, every thought, word, and

deed shall recur to us as vividly as though they had taken place at that

very instant. Thus every one has his whole life spread before him, takes

in all at a glance, and becomes his own judge; and as his conscience

approves or condemns him, so is he approved or condemned by God. And

although men are accountable, yet this does not exempt their good angels

from being judged also. Their course is judged, and if they have been

remiss in performing the duties assigned them, and have not watched

diligently over the souls committed to their charge, then they receive

the reward due to their negligence; and as those souls over which they

kept watch are the gainers or losers by their conduct, therefore it is

permitted them to judge them, as St. Paul saith, "Know ye not that the

angels are to be judged by us?"

By our WILL, as I said, we can always cast the victory on the side of

either our good or evil angel, as we choose; and when, by a long series

of victories achieved over our evil angel by the combined powers of our

will and our good angel, we are entirely freed from our evil one, then

the veil of sin and imperfection which obscures our spiritual sight is

so far removed as to enable us to behold and converse with our good

angel, and to learn much, not only of spiritual matters, but also of the

future destinies of nations and individuals. It is thus that I have

learned of thee, and of the influence which this nation is to exert over

the world, dethroning tyrants, extirpating royalty, and making all men

"free and equal." It is thus that I have learned the hour at which I am

to undergo that change which men call death.

Remember that purity is what is required--purity, at no matter what

sacrifice of inclination. As you read this, your good angel stands at

your right side, and your evil one at your left, _nearest your heart_;

but both are invisible to you because you are neither wholly pure nor

wholly polluted. In the former case your good spirit would be visible,

in the latter your evil one. They are striving for you, the one

endeavoring to urge you to purity, the other to drag you down to

degradation. I am convinced, though even my angel does not know, that

you will cast your WILL on the side of virtue, and go on in your high

career of knowledge.

And here I will close. If you avail yourself of the information I have

imparted, I have said enough; if not, all that I have said is in vain,

and but labor lost. You are very dear to me, and, as I write, you grow

still dearer. But I am yet to see you, and to hold converse with you for

a little while: and the reason that I now write nothing concerning

Elinor Manvers is that I shall speak face to face with you about her.

Farewell.

DON RICARDUS CARLOS.

_Mountain Cave, Va._, Nov. 20th, 1779.

(Conclusion next month.)

MORAL COURAGE.

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

PART I.

"Ah, lonely, very lonely, is the room

Where love, domestic love, no longer nestles,

But, smitten by the common stroke of doom,

The corpse lies on the tressels!"--HOOD.

YES, there was death in the house. The closed windows told it to the

passers-by; and the crape which hung heavily from the door, tied with a

black ribbon, denoted that one in the prime of life was laid low.

Strangers looked at it with a glance of curiosity and hurried past,

forgetting the next moment, in the bright sunshine and busy avocations

of life, that they had received a solemn warning to prepare for a like

mysterious change. Acquaintances walked with a slower step, as it caught

the eye, and thought of the sad scenes that must be passing within that

house of mourning.

Friends said it was "a great blow," and wondered vaguely what would

become of the wife and children; and some knelt at night surrounded by

unclouded happiness in their own homes, but nevertheless praying with a

full heart for those who had so suddenly been left desolate.

The day of the funeral came, and the husband and father was carried from

the home that had been almost an earthly paradise to be laid beneath

"the cold clod of the valley," and the weeping family clung to each

other, and sobbed and prayed as that first dreary night came on, and

they recognized all the vacancy of hearth and heart. Such scenes are

daily passing; yet the world goes on as ever, and some dance to the

music of gay revelry, while others put on the "garments of heaviness"

with breaking hearts.

And then the return to actual life! How harassing it is when our

thoughts are with the dead and the living claim our care! Mrs. Burton

found the sad truth of this as, with well meant, but harsh kindness, she

found her brother waiting one morning, scarce a week from the day that

had made her a widow, to talk over her future prospects. He had an

ungracious task before him; for he was forced to communicate what was

galling to his pride, as well as distressing to those more nearly

interested in the intelligence. Mr. Burton's affairs were left in almost

inextricable confusion; a pittance, a mere pittance, of some two hundred

a year was all that would remain to his family; and what was this when

their annual expenditure had been thousands? He was luxurious in taste,

and had not hesitated to gratify every whim. He was an indulgent father,

and had lavished uncounted sums upon his children. He had not intended

to be unjust to them or his lovely wife; but he was one of those who

seem to think a long life secured to them by present health, and, being

in excellent business, thought it time to "lay by" when the children

were educated and his boys began to "look out for themselves." Besides,

he belonged to one of the oldest, proudest families in the city, and he

was not to be outshone by any of them.

But how did matters stand now that, by an unalterable decree, he had

been suddenly removed from them? Let us see if he had been "a just man,"

as was pompously stated in his epitaph. Lucy, the eldest daughter, was

but nineteen, beautiful, accomplished, and betrothed to the son of an

old friend. She was provided for, said the world, and, of course, their

relatives could take charge of the younger children--Grace, ten, Willie

and George, the one just entered at a classical school, and the other

almost ready for college, although only fifteen. Mrs. Burton would have

enough to maintain her, no doubt, and so the matter was charitably

settled and quietly laid aside for a discussion of the last opera night

by the ladies, or a sudden rise in stocks by the gentlemen, upon whose

feeling, sensitive minds it had obtruded itself.

Such a conversation was passing that very morning, as Mrs. Burton sat

listening to a hurried account of the pressing liabilities that would

sweep away even her own marriage portion when, for the first time in a

shielded, prosperous life, care and business anxiety came upon her. It

is not strange that she was completely bewildered by the new aspect of

affairs. She had thought her domestic loss too great a sorrow to bear up

under, and now all this crushing weight added to it! What was to be

done? Her brother-in-law had but one thing to propose. Lucy would

probably marry soon, and Mrs. Burton would no doubt find a comfortable

home with her, and be of great assistance to the young wife in managing

her domestic concerns The children would be distributed among Mr.

Burton's relatives. He himself would take George into his

counting-house. He was old enough to be of some service.

Mrs. Burton was a devoted mother. With all her thoughtlessness, she was

both fond and proud of her children, and to have them taken from her was

to bereave her of every earthly happiness. And George, with his quick

mind and high ambition, to be tied down in a counting-room, when he had

talent for anything in the profession he already looked forward to, the

law! Willie, proud, spirited, affectionate Willie, and her beautiful

Grace, dependents upon the bounty of relatives! She could not bear the

thought.

But she was not alone in this. Lucy had been summoned to join the

deliberation, and astonished her uncle not a little by the firmness with

which she said--

"That never will do, sir!"

"Well, my dear, perhaps you can propose a more feasible plan. Does Mr.

Allan intend to 'marry the whole family?'"

The ill-concealed irony and coarseness of this remark brought a flush to

the young girl's face, and a fire to her eyes that made her more like

her haughty relative than ever, as she answered--

"I have not consulted with Mr. Allan; for I did not know there was any

need of consultation. No doubt he still thinks as I did an hour ago,

that--my father--that we were still secured a home at least." And her

voice faltered; for she could not yet speak that name without tears, and

the harshness of their situation was forced upon her painfully.

"Well, leave him out of the question. Something must be done. Creditors

are at your very door; harpies that will not be satisfied so long as you

are living on Wilton carpets and dining with silver that has never yet

been paid for."

Mrs. Burton instinctively turned towards her daughter, as if she could

in reality suggest some plan by which everything could readily be

arranged. She felt revived by the quick decision of Lucy's tone and

manner.

"I have no plans. I can scarcely think as yet," she said, passing her

hand hurriedly across her brow; "but to-morrow: at least we can be in

peace until then. Only one thing I am certain of, that, so long as I

have health and strength, my mother and brothers shall not be dependent

on any one."

"Those hands work, indeed!" returned Mr. William Burton, glancing almost

contemptuously on the white fingers locked so resolutely together, on

which sparkled a ring of great value, the betrothed gift of her lover.

"Go to Allan with your resolution, and see what he will say. Come, come

now, don't be obstinate and foolish, Lucy. You are poor George's child,

and as like him as you can be. I mustn't get vexed with you. I know it's

a great shock. I feel it so myself; but we must be brave and put up with

trouble we can't help."

It was with a swelling heart, and oftentimes gushes of bitter tears,

that Lucy trod the floor of her room all that long afternoon, while her

mother received, in the parlor below, visits of condolence from friends

and acquaintances, who came, some because custom required it, and others

because they had suffered and sorrowed, and knew how welcome a kindly

sympathy had been in their affliction. The children, Grace and Willie,

sat reading together with their arms about each other until the twilight

came, and they began to wonder what made sister stay away alone so long,

and finally deputed George to go "very softly" and see if she would not

come down to tea, "as Doctor Howard was still talking to mamma, and they

were very lonely."

"Come in," said Lucy, as she recognized her brother's voice; and then

she made him sit down beside her, and led him to talk of their future

life and what he had intended to accomplish. It had been in the boy's

mind all day, and he spoke very earnestly. He would be so industrious

after this, and study so hard, and be a great lawyer like Uncle Thomas,

and then mamma should come and live with him, when Lucy was married and

the children grown up. Ah, how could she damp such fond anticipations

and throw the shadow of care over that bright young face, from which she

had parted back the clustering locks that she might look steadfastly

into those clear, eloquent eyes! So she gave up her first resolve of

telling him _all_ the truth, but said--

"Dear brother, what if it should be necessary for us to move into a

smaller house, and for you to give up study and go into business for a

few years until we get rich again, and Willie is large enough to help

himself a little?"

The shadow came, after all, and the boy's face lost its eager, hopeful

look.

"I knew it would be hard, and that you do not like business; but we all

have to bear trials. Think of poor mamma; for her sake, George. And

because it would be right," she added, after a moment. "But we will talk

more about this some other day; only think of it, brother, and be brave.

Ask strength from Heaven to do rightly," and she pointed to her

dressing-table, where an open Bible lay, stained with tears.

Ah, how many schemes she revolved in her mind that night, when she could

not sleep, and envied the calm repose of Grace, who shared her room, and

was lying so quietly beside her. And then she rose and turned to her

Bible again, as she had never sought it before, although it had always

been dear to her; for she was of those who had "remembered their Creator

in the days of their youth." One sentence caught her attention; no doubt

she had read it a hundred times before, but she never had known its

meaning until now.

"_In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths._"

How full of hope and assurance it was! and something like a smile

quivered about her lips as she knelt and laid her heart open to the

Father of the Fatherless.

But several days passed before anything like a feasible plan suggested

itself. Mrs. Burton was ready to do anything Lucy thought best; but her

mind seemed to be paralyzed by the succession of misfortunes. Yet still

another trial remained for the devoted girl, and harder to bear, that it

came so unexpectedly.

"I cannot do as you wish," she said to her lover, when her resolution

was finally taken. "God only knows how hard the struggle has been, and

still is. But I should despise myself if I turned from one duty to take

up another. How could I expect a blessing upon it? We are both young; I

but nineteen, you twenty-three. Five years from now we shall still have

a long life before us, and then we shall be all the happier for this

self-denial. Is it asking too much of you?--too great a sacrifice,

James?"

"I cannot understand you, Lucy. Don't speak enigmas."

"Well, then, have I not explained it clearly?--that my labor is

necessary to my mother and all of them, until the younger children are

old enough to act for themselves; and, even to be your wife, great

happiness as it would be to me, I cannot desert them."

"You are a noble girl, Lucy," he said, as you would admire anything that

was beautiful in a picture or a statue. And yet she seemed to know that

he did not feel with her--"could not understand her," as he had said.

"And do you not think I am right?"

"I can't say that I do--that is, exactly. I can't see that you are bound

to waste five years, the best years of life, when the family can be

otherwise provided for. You say your uncles have offered to do all that

is necessary; your mother would always be welcome in my house." And

James Allan actually regarded himself, and had done so for some days, a

perfect model of virtuous self-denial in making the proposal, and "going

on" with a match that more worldly friends now advised him against.

There was a difference between the daughter of the prosperous merchant

and the ruined bankrupt.

"You never have had brothers and sisters, James."

"And so shall love you all the better, darling. You will have none to be

jealous of."

"Ah, now listen to me. Do not place obstacles in the path of my duty.

Tell me, am I selfish towards you?"

She did not think he could say "yes," or feel it. She knew that if the

probation had been proposed to her for his sake, she would have

consented joyfully, happy in the power to show how true her love was,

and she would have strengthened and encouraged him in every way.

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, slowly--

"And what do you propose to do? Teach, I suppose." It grated upon his

ear to think that any one who would be hereafter connected with him

should use time or talent in her own support. He would much rather have

given the necessary sum outright; but that Lucy would not listen to.

"No, I shall not teach."

"And what in creation will you do?" he ejaculated, surprised from his

accustomed politeness into an abrupt betrayal of native rudeness.

"I am going to learn a trade and work at it, and have a shop, when I can

manage one."

"Good heavens, Lucy, you are mad! What has put such an insane idea into

your head?"

"Thought, thought--constant, harassing, anxious thought. As a teacher or

governess I could do little more than support myself; and I know I have

taste and enterprise, and George will assist me, and I feel I shall

succeed."

"Never to be my wife afterwards!"

"James!" and she started to her feet, the hot blood mounting to her

face. She could not believe she had heard aright, and came back to him,

laying her hand upon his arm and looking beseechingly into his face. He

was angry now. Pride, and more than pride, vanity, were aroused. What!

his wife to have been behind a counter!--to hear it said, in after

years, "O yes! Mrs. Allan was a shop girl!" It was not that his treasure

would be exposed to rude and unfeeling association; it was not that he

would shield her from toil! He shook her from him--

"As true as I am speaking, if you persist in this, I will never marry

you!"

"_You never shall!_"

She turned quietly, but firmly, and went towards the door. There were no

tears, no expostulations. It was not her nature. Neither was that deep

emphatic tone the voice of passion. But a mask had dropped from the real

character of one she had almost reverenced, who had been invested by the

halo of her love with every high and noble quality.

"Lucy!"

No answer; and then the woman triumphed, and she turned her face so that

he could see how deadly pale she was, as she said, not raising her

eyes--

"God bless you, James, for the happiness of the past!"

He knew that he was forgiven; but he also felt that, outwardly, there

could be no reconciliation. In an instant, all her goodness and purity

came into his mind. He felt all that he had lost when too late to regain

it. But he stifled remorse and regret by pride and fancied injury, as he

left the house never to return again.

There followed a wretched, stormy interview with her uncle, whose anger

knew no bounds when Lucy told him that her engagement with James Allan

was broken, and for what reason. She was called "idiot" and

"ungrateful," her scheme was ridiculed and discouraged, until Mrs.

Burton even began to take her brother's view of the case, and think that

her daughter had acted inexcusably when, with a little forbearance, she

could have retained the care and love of one who had a father's sanction

to call her wife. And finally threats were tried to induce her to use

her influence to reconcile the family to the first plan proposed; for

Mr. William Burton solemnly declared that, if the daughter of his

brother disgraced the family by becoming "a milliner's girl," he would

disown her, and his children should never recognize her again.

This was a great trial, but a harder one had been borne, and Lucy found

a friend to uphold her in her course when she was sorely tempted to

abandon it. Dr. Howard had been for many years their family physician,

and had watched her from earliest childhood with no little interest. His

daughter Mary was Lucy's most intimate friend, and through her he heard

of all that was passing in the family of his deceased friend. His little

carriage was standing at the door as Mr. Burton left the house, the

morning of the last interview, and Lucy, still sitting in the parlor,

her head upon her hands, lost in deep and painful thought, was roused by

his kindly voice and fatherly manner, to be comforted by his sympathy

and strengthened by his approval.

"I know all, my little daughter," said the warm-hearted old gentleman.

"As for that James Allan, you've had a lucky escape, and I'd willingly

see him"--

"Doctor!" interrupted Lucy, for she could not hear that once loved name

spoken of so harshly.

"Well, well, I suppose you were fond of him, or you never could have

promised what you did. But we won't think of that part of the subject.

Now tell me exactly what you want to do, and then we will see if there's

a possibility of accomplishing it."

So Lucy unfolded her plans more fully than she had yet done to any one.

Their milliner was a widow lady who had under her direction one of those

large work-rooms employing twenty or thirty girls. Her customers were

among the wealthiest and most fashionable people in the city, and, as

she was very intelligent and a person of excellent taste, they

frequently consulted her about an entire wardrobe, and in this way Lucy

had often listened to her conversation. Only one month ago, her mother

and herself were taking Mrs. Hill's advice with regard to her own

_trousseau_, a part of which was already purchased; and while Lucy was

waiting for her mother to call for her, she had been much interested in

a history of Mrs. Hill's own business experience, resulting from a

report that she was thinking of retiring before long. Lucy found, to her

amazement, that, in twenty years, she had not only educated her family,

but saved enough to make her entirely comfortable. This conversation

might have been forgotten, had not a necessity for exertion been forced

so suddenly upon her; and knowing, from the salaries of her own

teachers, that she could not hope to do more than maintain herself in

that way, Mrs. Hill's success flashed upon her mind as an encouraging

precedent.

At first, she scarcely counted the cost, it is true. She forgot that it

would make an entire change in her social position, strange as it may

seem in a so-called republican country, and, above all, in a city where

"all men" were first declared to be "equal." She could not judge, from

her own true, affectionate nature, the result such a decision would have

upon her future prospects in domestic life. That was the thought which

cheered her at first, the beacon star that was to guide her through all

toil and self-denial; but it had been quenched, with all else that had

made life bright to her. And as yet she knew nothing of actual physical

fatigue or deprivation; this was yet to break upon her.

Dr. Howard, like a true friend, pointed out all this, kindly, it is

true, but in the strongest colors; and when he found that even then she

did not give up her scheme, he patted her glossy curls as he would have

done Mary's, and said she was "a little heroine," and he did not doubt

that she could succeed.

"Whoever show themselves weak enough to desert you, my child," he said,

"you have always a friend in me, remember that; and you must use me

whenever you want advice or assistance. Don't hesitate to come to me in

all your little trials and troubles, and my house shall be a second home

to you."

Then, to have her mind relieved of all anxiety on this score at once,

for he saw the sad changes the past few weeks had made in her worn face,

he proposed to go at once and consult Mrs. Hill, and see how they could

manage time and terms. It seemed a long hour to Lucy before the sound of

his carriage-wheels was heard again; but he came at last, his face

beaming with pleasure, and told her how heartily Mrs. Hill had entered

into her plans, that she would herself direct the short apprenticeship,

and engage her services when it was completed. There was a little note

from the lady herself, so full of good will and kindliness, that the

young girl's faith in human nature was revived, and her path seemed

indeed "directed" by the God in whom she trusted.

How thankfully she reviewed the events of the day to her mother that

night, with a look more like happiness than she had worn since her

father's death. And Mrs. Burton seemed, for the first time, interested

in it, and was thankful for everything that would keep them all

together.

George was enthusiastic, as he always was in everything he entered into,

and, throwing his arms about her neck, declared she was "the best sister

in the world, and he had no doubt she would make a fortune." The younger

children could not, of course, fully understand the case, but knew that

something pleasant had happened and they were indebted to Lucy for it.

It was the happiest night the Burtons had known since their father's

death.

[Illustration]

TAKING CARE OF NUMBER ONE.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

"EVERY one for himself." This was one of Lawrence Tilghman's favorite

modes of expression. And it will do him no injustice to say that he

usually acted up to the sentiment in his business transactions and

social intercourse; though guardedly, whenever a too manifest exhibition

of selfishness was likely to affect him in the estimation of certain

parties with whom he wished to stand particularly fair. In all his

dealings, this maxim was alone regarded; and he was never satisfied

unless, in bargaining, he secured the greater advantage, a thing that

pretty generally occurred.

There resided in the same town with Tilghman--a western town--a certain

young lady, whose father owned a large amount of property. She was his

only child, and would fall heir, at his death, to all his wealth. Of

course, this young lady had attractions that were felt to be of a most

weighty character by certain young men in the town, who made themselves

as agreeable to her as possible. Among these was Lawrence Tilghman.

"Larry," said a friend to him one day--they had been talking about the

young lady--"it's no use for you to play the agreeable to Helen Walcot."

"And why not, pray?" returned Tilghman.

"They say she's engaged."

"To whom?"

"To a young man in Columbus."

"Who says so?"

"I can't mention my authority; but it's good."

"Engaged, ha! Well, I'll break that engagement, if there's any virtue in

trying."

"You will?"

"Certainly. Helen will be worth a plum when the old man, her father,

dies; and I've made up my mind to handle some of his thousands."

"But certainly, Larry, you would not attempt to interfere with a

marriage contract?"

"I don't believe any contract exists," replied the young man. "Anyhow,

while a lady is single I regard her as in the market, and to be won by

the boldest."

"Still, we should have some respect for the rights of others."

"Every one for himself in this world," replied Tilghman. "That is my

motto. If you don't take care of yourself, you'll be shoved to the wall

in double quick time. Long ago, I resolved to put some forty or fifty

thousand dollars between myself and the world by marriage, and you may

be sure that I will not let this opportunity slip for any consideration.

Helen must be mine."

Additional evidence of the fact that the young lady was under engagement

of marriage soon came to the ears of Tilghman. The effect was to produce

a closer attention on his part to Helen, who, greatly to his

uneasiness, did not seem to give him much encouragement, although she

always treated him with politeness and attention whenever he called to

see her. But it was not true, as Tilghman had heard, that Helen was

engaged to a young man in Columbus; though it was true that she was in

correspondence with a gentleman there named Walker, and that their

acquaintance was intimate, and fast approaching a love-like character.

Still, she was not indifferent to the former, and, as he showed so

strong a preference for her, began, gradually, to feel an awakening

interest. Tilghman was quick to perceive this, and it greatly elated

him. In the exultation of his feelings, he said to himself--

"I'll show this Columbus man that I'm worth a dozen of him. The boldest

wins the fair. I wouldn't give much for his engagement."

Tilghman was a merchant, and visited the east twice every year for the

purpose of buying goods. Last August, he crossed the mountains as usual.

Some men, when they leave home and go among strangers, leave all the

little good breeding they may happen to have had behind them. Such a man

was Tilghman. The moment he stepped into a steamboat, stage, or railroad

car, the every-one-for-himself principle by which he was governed

manifested itself in all its naked deformity, and it was at once

concluded by all with whom he came in contact that, let him be who he

would, he was no gentleman.

On going up the river, on the occasion referred to, our gentleman went

on the free and easy principle, as was usual with him when in public

conveyances; consulting his own inclinations and tastes alone, and

running his elbows into any and everybody's ribs that happened to come

in his way. He was generally first at the table when the bell rang; and,

as he had a good appetite, managed, while there, to secure a full share

of the delicacies provided for the company.

"Every one for himself," was the thought in his mind on these occasions;

and his actions fully agreed with his thoughts.

On crossing the mountains in stages as far as Cumberland, his greedy,

selfish, and sometimes downright boorish propensities annoyed his

fellow-passengers, and particularly a young man of quiet, refined, and

gentlemanly deportment, who could not, at times, help showing the

disgust he felt. Because he paid his half dollar for meals at the

taverns on the way, Tilghman seemed to feel himself licensed to

gormandize at a beastly rate. The moment he sat down to the table, he

would seize eagerly upon the most desirable dish near him, and

appropriate at least a half, if not two-thirds, of what it contained,

regardless utterly of his fellow-passengers. Then he would call for the

next most desirable dish, if he could not reach it, and help himself

after a like liberal fashion. In eating, he seemed more like a hungry

dog, in his eagerness, than a man possessing a grain of decency. When

the time came to part company with him, his fellow-travelers rejoiced

at being rid of one whose utter selfishness filled them with disgust.

In Philadelphia and New York, where Tilghman felt that he was altogether

unknown, he indulged his uncivilized propensities to their full extent.

At one of the hotels, just before leaving New York to return to

Baltimore, and there take the cars for the West again, he met the young

man referred to as a traveling companion, and remarked the fact that he

recognized and frequently observed him. Under this observation, as it

seemed to have something sinister in it, Tilghman felt, at times, a

little uneasy, and, at the hotel table, rather curbed his greediness

when this individual was present.

Finally, he left New York in the twelve o'clock boat, intending to pass

on to Baltimore in the night train from Philadelphia, and experienced a

sense of relief in getting rid of the presence of one who appeared to

know him and to have taken a prejudice against him. As the boat swept

down the bay, Tilghman amused himself first with a cigar on the forward

deck, and then with a promenade on the upper deck. He had already

secured his dinner ticket. When the fumes of roast turkey came to his

eager sense, he felt "sharp set" enough to have devoured a whole

gobbler! This indication of the approaching meal caused him to dive down

below, where the servants were busy in preparing the table. Here he

walked backwards and forwards for about half an hour in company with a

dozen others, who, like himself, meant to take care of number one. Then,

as the dishes of meat began to come in, he thought it time to secure a

good place. So, after taking careful observation, he assumed a position,

with folded arms, opposite a desirable dish, and awaited the completion

of arrangements. At length all was ready, and a waiter struck the bell.

Instantly, Tilghman drew forth a chair, and had the glory of being first

at the table. He had lifted his plate and just cried, as he turned

partly around--"Here, waiter! Bring me some of that roast turkey. A side

bone and piece of the breast"--when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and

the clerk of the boat said, in a voice of authority--

"Further down, sir! Further down! We want these seats for ladies."

Tilghman hesitated.

"Quick! quick!" urged the clerk.

There was a rustling behind him of ladies' dresses, and our gentleman

felt that he must move. In his eagerness to secure another place, he

stumbled over a chair and came near falling prostrate. At length he

brought up at the lower end of the table.

"Waiter!" he cried, as soon as he had found a new position--"waiter, I

want some of that roast turkey!"

The waiter did not hear, or was too busy with some one else to hear.

"Waiter, I say! Here! This way!"

So loudly and earnestly was this uttered, that the observation of every

one at that end of the table was attracted towards the young man. But

he thought of nothing but securing his provender. At length he received

his turkey, when he ordered certain vegetables, and then began eating

greedily, while his eyes were every moment glancing along the table to

see what else there was to tempt his palate.

"Waiter!" he called, ere the first mouthful was fairly swallowed.