CHAPTER I.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXVII. December, 1850. NO. 6.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Other Articles

Of and Concerning the Moon

Minnie de la Croix

Blanche of Bourbon

Chateaubriand and His Career

Thistle-Down

The Comus of Milton

Pedro de Padilh

Ruffed Grouse Shooting

Review of New Books

Editor’s Table

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

To Miss Martha Griffith

Picture of Childhood

To a Celebrated Singer

Lines to a Bird

To J. F. H.

To a Summer Haunt

The Death of Wordsworth

The Grave’s Pale Roses

On San Francisco’s Splendid Bay

The Quiet Arbor

I Think of Thee

Le Follet

Come Touch the Harp, My Gentle One

Le Moniteur de la Mode

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

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[Illustration: THE MARINER’S BEACON.

Painted by W. Brown and Engraved expressly for Graham's Magazine by H.

Smith]

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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXVII. PHILADELPHIA, December, 1850. NO. 6.

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OF AND CONCERNING THE MOON.

BY CALVIN W. PHILLEO.

The devil’s in the moon for mischief.

_Don Juan._

Gentle Reader, we are lunatic!

Nay, do not be startled! Because we use the pronoun _we_, we do not mean

to pronounce _you_ insane. _We_ is of the first person, and we would be

the last person to venture a doubt of your perfect sanity. It would be

libellous to do so, and we abhor lawsuits—in which we have other than a

professional interest. We use a plural pronoun, but only because it is

more fashionable and dignified so to do. We intend thereby to make a

singular announcement merely. Therefore, don’t think it strange. Be not

surprised, or yet offended. Nobody but _ourself_ is included in the

declaration.

Let us explain further. We fear lest we be misunderstood. We pray,

therefore, do not imagine these presents to be a round-robin, signed by

the denizens of Bedlam. Neither, being disabused of this notion, will

you, if we are to be believed, count us as crazy, because we avow

ourself to be lunatic. We are (saving the grammar, and the hastily

expressed opinion of an irritable maiden aunt,) _compos mentis_. We wish

not further to break down the old rule of the Common Law, that no man

shall be permitted by his own plea to stultify himself. Of course, if we

should be indicted for murder to-morrow, however innocent we might be of

the charge, we should acknowledge the homicide, and plead insanity,

monomania, or at any rate somnambulism, but only for the reasons that we

should wish to be certain of an acquittal, and that we dread to do any

thing which might subject us to the charge of eccentricity, and a

departure from well established usages. But under ordinary circumstances

we should resent the issuing of a commission _de lunatico inquiriendo_,

as tetchily as the summoning of a coroner’s jury in our particular

behalf. We sign our contracts without the intervention or advice of an

overseer, and we should be vehemently opposed to a rule of the Court of

Probate appointing a conservator over us. Neither Dr. Bell, nor yet Dr.

Woodward, has ever had us under his especial charge—our head was never

shaven but once, and then we were out of it, to be sure, hard sick with

the yellow fever at Havana. Our waistcoats are crooked and curved as

becometh our shape and the fashion, are conveniently provided with

arm-holes, and the material, generally, is buff cashmere or white

Marseilles. We possess a four-bladed pen-knife, given to us by a member

of Congress, just before election, as a token of esteem, and this we

usually carry in our trowsers pocket and use unrestrictedly and without

offense, albeit the same has a whittling blade and we are Yankee bred.

We have on our dressing-table two pairs of excellent Sheffield razors,

and shave therewith daily, as a gentleman should; and it is upon these

occasions only that we make mouths and grimaces at ourself in the glass,

or rave and stump. We sleep in the third story, but the windows of our

dormitory are not grated or barred, and are often left open o’nights. We

need not tell our landlady when we intend a sudden and brief absence,

lest, perchance, before our return, the ponds be dredged for our body,

our drawers searched for lost dying letters and commissions,

incoherently written, or that the newspapers record a mysterious

disappearance, and insert, on our behalf, a premature obituary notice,

illustrated by misquotations from Shakspeare and the Scriptures. We have

never supposed ourself to be the inventor of perpetual motion, or of a

practically useful rotary steam-engine. We lay no claim to the British

crown; do not confound our identity with that of King David, or Lord

Wellington, or Napoleon Bonaparte, uncle or nephew; have no particular

_penchant_ for red chalk, beads, belts, bits of looking-glass,

scrap-tin, or feathers; never adorn ourselves with wreaths of straw, and

are caught _sans culotte_, only when having been out late over night,

our privacy, to our unspeakable confusion, is suddenly invaded by the

unconscious chamber-maid, as we are leisurely dressing for a late

breakfast, and sadly ruminating on the folly of protracted festivities

and the mutability of the temper of landladies—our friends don’t expect

us to whoop at the table, and if, perchance, we handle the

carving-knife, they exhibit no more of nervous agitation and alarm, than

is the natural result, under the circumstances, of a well-grounded

opinion that gravy shows better on platters than on plaits. Indeed, we

have never had any provocation to go crazy—we never inherited any

thing, not even an eccentric tendency. We have never lost a fortune for

the best of all reasons. We have never been concerned in land or city

lot speculations. We have never drawn a prize in a lottery; have never

had an attack of the _delirium tremens_, nor have we been crossed in

hopeless love. We have neither much learning or great care; have never

had a _coup de soleil_, or a blow on the head, or a brain fever. Our

caput is sound as a nut, thank God; and thick withal, as becomes a

respectable citizen and burgess.

In fine, we are not mad, most gentle reader, in any sense of the term;

on the contrary, with all modesty, we fully believe ourself to be a very

sane, very good-natured, very staid, very commonplace, most inveterate

old bachelor, sleeping nightly on the third floor, and dining daily at

the public table of a very quiet inn, as we before hinted.

But, that the moon exercises an influence over our imagination, we

cannot deny; and this, saith that learned lexicographer, Dr. John

Walker, it is to be lunatic.

There are some people in and of the world, so stolid, so matter-of-fact,

so very commonplace, so unimaginative, so void of all sense of the

beautiful, so much of the earth, earthy, as to look upon the moon—nay,

though—as never to look upon the moon, except by accident, or to judge

of the prospect of the weather—as to consider the moon then, to amend

our phrase, only as the earth’s satellite, a lesser light, a mere useful

appendage to our mundane sphere, made only to regulate the time of high

water at Greenwich, to save the corporation too great expense for gas,

and to obviate a larger consumption of oil in lanterns and

carriage-lamps; in fine, a thing of mere Paine-ful necessity. Such

people value the heavenly bodies as children do pennies, according to

their relative brightness; and so, in comparison with the sun, estimate

the moon lightly, and the stars as of small account. They are more

unsusceptible to gentle influences than the brutes.

We’d rather be a dog, and bay the moon,

Than such a _rum’un_.

Gentle reader, it may be that you are lunatic yourself! Most fervently

hoping that this be so—in fine, taking it for granted—our presumption,

for an obvious reason, grows apace—we shall seek to hold communion with

you of the moon. Not, however, touching on those tedious topics which

engage the attention of mere astronomers and philosophers. We leave the

pursuit of such shadows to the shade of Sir William Herschel, now

probably resident on its private estate in Uranus, to Professor Nichols,

and to Tom Dick, and—that is to say, to that man of big figures and

small means, the Rev. Thomas Dick.

And wherefore not? Who but these musty ones cares to know that the moon

revolves around the earth once in every twenty-eight days, and so many

odd hours and minutes. Satisfied are we to expect her coming each fourth

week, and to count the hours and minutes of secondary importance.

If, gentle reader, on some delicious summer night, when the full moon is

shining down upon the smiling earth, flooding it with glorious light,

gilding the crests of the lake waves, silvering the leaves of the

forest, casting a varying, many-colored mantle, sown with pearls, over

the fields of waving grain, nodding, rustling, whispering to the

coquettish zephyr like a group of silk-clad dames, if, “on such a night

as this,” you care to remember that the fleecy clouds the moon seems to

kiss, are nearer to you by some 239,999 miles, why, then, you are no

lunatic, and not the man or woman we took you to be. Pray read no

further; you are too wise to waste time on such nonsense. Light your

greasy solar lamp. Shut your blinds. Draw your curtains. Take down some

useful book, and compose yourself for a nap. Light reading, especially

of moonlight, is not your vocation.

These stupid _savans_ have broached some queer theories about our

favorite, though, dear reader. _Our_ favorite, we say, for we know that

by this time we have shaken ourselves rid of all people who remain

sensible of a moonlight night. They—the philosophers, or some of

them—malign her terribly—they abuse her. Like old-fashioned doctors,

in a case of fever, they sturdily refuse to allow her a drop of water;

and cruel as Surajah Dowlah, to the English prisoners at Calcutta,

assign her a place void of an atmosphere. Truly an arid conceit.

Can it be that, like a leaky cistern, the moon holds no water? Let us

consider a moment.

If this be true, then certainly there can be no sea-views or sea-bathing

in the moon. No cataracts, no cascades, no mineral springs. Of course,

no watering-places and summer hotels. Flirtations are, of necessity,

scarce, we must suppose; especially when we consider that the moon

itself has no moon; that midshipmen are found only in maritime states,

and that a fascinating foreigner must always come from beyond a sea.

Runaway matches are things of rare occurrence, and there must be fewer

provocations to matrimony generally than in this world. Old maids must,

of course, be plentiful, though they can have no tears to shed over

disappointed hopes. There may come a time when there will be only _the_

Man in the Moon.

Turtles and soft-shelled crabs, oysters and canvas-back ducks cannot

thrive in such a place. The race of aldermen must be extinct; and yet

these same wiseacres of astronomers claim to have discovered cities in

the moon! Cities without aldermen or oyster-saloons! What absurdity!

But, then, if this theory be correct, the country cannot be cursed with

cotton manufactories, steam-engines, or foundries. The agitation of the

tariff question must be dry business. The climate cannot be adapted to

slave labor. The Lunars must be democrats to a man.

They drive, we presume, in open carriages. Umbrellas, over-shoes,

bathing-tubs, wash-hand-basins, teapots, mops, lather-brushes,

squirt-guns, and a variety of such matters, too numerous to mention,

familiar and useful to us of the earth, are never enumerated in the

catalogue of a Lunarian auctioneer. The ladies never clean house there.

New coats and dazzling beavers are safe from the pelting of the pitiless

shower, rained down from third-story windows by awkward Irish girls. How

do they mix their grog? They take their spirits neat, we presume, the

only neat thing they can take—fourth proof, every drop; and this is

probably the origin of the term, _taking a lunar_, to which seamen are

so much addicted. Fever-and-ague must be unknown in the moon. Dropsy an

unheard of disease. Drowning a casualty never recorded in the bills of

mortality. Damp sheets are things not to be dreaded; and so with a

thousand ills with which water floods us of the earth. Skating cannot be

a fashionable amusement, and natatory exercises, such as are practiced

at Cape May, would, we presume, be unutterably shocking to the withered

old maids of the chaste planet. Moreover, Priesnitz must regard the moon

as a place singularly unwholesome, and yet quite unfit for the

establishment of a hydropathic hospital, and it must present a most

unpromising field of labor to the American Baptist Board of Foreign

Missions.

Howbeit, we don’t believe all that we hear of the want of water in the

moon. Tender-hearted reader, dry your eyes; we are confident that we

used to hear our grandfather talk of a wet moon. To his opinion we

seriously incline.

But whether the moon be a desert or an ocean, what care we? When she

shines the dew falls on us. Let that suffice.

And what if there be no air around the moon? The Lunars breathe pure

ether, then—and so do we, “of a shiny night!”

Inasmuch as our affection is for, and our subject is the moon itself, we

shall have little to say of the inhabitants thereof. For all that we

know they are a dirty set, as the philosophers would fain make us

believe. Perhaps there may be none to speak of. In the ancient legends

of Mother Goose, it is recorded, that the Man in the Moon (as if there

were but one) made a descent upon the earth, about meridian one day. The

hour would seem to indicate that his residence in the planet is for

somewhat the same purpose as that which induces the presence of a

light-house keeper at his lonely post. He comes down at noon,

undoubtedly, as being the most convenient season, for at night he could

not well be spared. Having spent the morning in preparing for his

nightly illumination, and entertaining a laudable desire for earthly

geographical information, he seizes this opportunity to visit this

world, and forthwith inquires his most direct route to Norwich. We

wonder which route was recommended to him—whether by the way of

Hartford and the Willimantic Railroad, by steamboat direct, or by Jersey

Island Railroad and Greenport Ferry.

Why it should have been a coincidence so remarkable as to be worthy of

record on the pages of history, that a gentleman in Australia, on this

day, scalded his mouth with a “hasty plate” of brose of moderate

temperature, we have never been able to divine.

But the sun has thrown more light upon the moon, and the theory of its

being inhabited, than any other luminary. The sun, we say—but not the

real sun, nor the True Sun, but the sun which “shines for all”—The New

York Sun—the Sun of Moses Y. Beach—and Son. In certain numbers of that

useful newspaper, of the volume of 1834, if we recollect aright, we

shall find that Mr. Locke has given us the key to many things which

before were mysteries. The good people of that time, when they read the

narrative of the extraordinary discoveries of Sir John Herschel and his

learned companions, at the Cape of Good Hope, became firmly convinced

that the Man in the Moon was no fabulous personage; but that he really

existed, and a good many more of the same sort with him, to say nothing

of women, children, and quadrupeds—all intelligent creatures, knowing

more than the Man in the Moon was generally and proverbially supposed to

know; students, probably—for each creature had a shade over his or her

eyes, but one of Nature’s providing, showing that the moon is not,

probably, a good market for green silk and pasteboard.

And speaking of green silk, in this connection, reminds us of green

cheese. But, psha! _that_ idea is exploded. If we proceed in this

strain, noticing and commenting upon every wild vagary of those

romancing fellows, the astronomers, somebody may accuse us of wishing to

make light of the moon, the which is the furthest thing on earth from

our intention.

Didst ever read Locke’s Moon Hoax? We were a school-boy at Albany when

it was first published, and we recollect well how gravely the old master

of a certain school in North Pearl street—the boys used to call him the

Centre of Gravity—announced his full belief in its authenticity, and

advised the class in Algebra to look over the calculations. And how an

old lady of our acquaintance wrote an article on the wonders of modern

science, and the probabilities of a railroad to the moon in the course

of a generation or two, which the editor of the Evening Journal wouldn’t

publish; whereat the old lady denounced him to us savagely. We have

never been able ever since to think of Mr. Weed, except as a man

radically opposed to internal improvements—externally projected. What a

demand there was for telescopes and Extra Suns! What crowds of people

there were for two or three nights on Capitol Hill, gaping at the full

moon, as if they expected to discover one of Mr. Locke’s hooded sheep

grazing on the rays which shot from her broad, round disc.

There is one theory of these wise ones that seems to concern us mundane

fellows a little more nearly. It is said that the moon, owing to her

less size and small distance from the earth, has but little comparative

attractive power, and that a body projected but a short distance from

the surface of the moon would stand as fair a chance for a sublunary

fall, as for a return to its original sphere. And now we recollect, in

this place, that although we have a well authenticated account of the

Man in the Moon’s coming down to the earth, there is no record of his

return. Perhaps the Lunars have a motto—_Facilis descensis Terrae,

etc._ The adventurer aforesaid may be carrying on the chandlery business

in Norwich this day, or perhaps traveling in company with the Wandering

Jew, seeking for “the jumping-off place.” Who knows but that all the

moon-faced people we encounter are descendants of this great descender.

Or, dear brother lunatic, it may be that _we_ may claim a celestial

ancestry in his person, and that the idiosyncrasy which distinguishes us

from common mortals, is the result of an instinctive longing for the

bright former home of our common progenitor. But to return; despite the

facility with which, as this theory seems to indicate, our foreign

relations may come to us on a lasting visit, this notion of the

looseness and levity of matters and things on the moon’s surface is

unpleasantly suggestive. We remember ugly stories of big, odd-looking

stones, found newly half-buried in the ground, the origin of which folks

formerly ascribed to meteors, and such like flash gentry, and latterly

to our favorite. While lying on one’s back in a cool arbor,

apostrophizing the Queen of Night, one does not like to feel the least

uneasiness, lest she, by way of reply, pitch half a ton of granite

through the frail, vine-covered roof. We always had a notion that the

blessed St. Stephen died a very horrid death. The fable of the Boys and

the Frogs has always excited our warmest sympathies for the unoffending

and persecuted reptiles. We have pitied even the merited fate of the

Giant of Gath. Besides, a general belief in this theory would not be apt

to cause an increase in the number of green-houses and sky-lights; and a

cousin of ours, a very worthy young woman, has just married a glazier.

A true lunatic, as we have hinted, is not content with thinking of the

moon as a mere planet, convenient for the light it sheds, and the

facilities it affords to sailors in finding their longitude. He wishes

to personify, to deify; to speak to her, to think of her as a sentient

being, celestial, divine, to be sure, but with a human heart; rejoicing,

sorrowing with the mortals she looks down upon. Will any blockhead prate

of the unreasonableness of such unphilosophical wishes? Has not the moon

a face, eyes, nose, mouth, clothed with unearthly beauty, like and yet

unlike that of the Sphinx? How many generations of men like us have

gazed upon those calm, changeless features! That cold, chaste, pitying

face returned the wondering stare of Adam and Eve their first night in

Eden. It shone upon the lifeless corpse of Abel. It looked sorrowfully

down upon the last night of the antediluvian world, and in its next

revolution saw itself everywhere reflected in the waters that covered

the whole earth. Its rays have gilded the pinnacles which for ages have

rested beneath the stagnant, bitter waters of the Dead Sea, and have

trembled amidst the leaves and flowers of the hanging gardens of Nineveh

and Babylon. The Chaldean shepherds used to gaze upon it as we do now,

and held therewith an intercourse, intimate, mysterious, above our

comprehension. It paled with fear and dread when Troy burned. The white

temples of Athens, in the time of Pericles, glowed in the light of that

very moon, upon which we of this later day may look at will. The streets

of Rome were made brilliant by the same moon which to-night shines upon

gas-lighted Broadway. It has seen the Temple of Solomon and its

magnificent successor in all their glory. It saw England a savage waste,

Germany and Gaul ere Cæsar’s legions were born. It knew and visited the

wide extent of the New World before the foundations of Genoa were laid,

but kept the secret safe. The moon saw London a humble village on the

banks of the unstoried Thames; Paris, while yet the island in the Seine,

contained all the metropolis of France; New York, no upstart in this

connection, in the time of the puissant Peter Stuyvesant. Her face has

not changed since the dear friend, over whose grave the grass has grown

these twenty years, looked last upon it.

The sun’s face is not familiar. Few are the times we look steadily at

it, and then it is disguised; the memory of it is associated with smoked

glass, eclipses and strange phenomena. The stars, as individuals, are

too small, too much alike, for us to feel acquainted with. But the

moon—why, her face, each feature of it, is as familiar as the face of

our dearest friend and next door neighbor; and as it looks to us

to-night, so have all mankind seen it since the foundations of the earth

were laid. It is the same broad, pure, serene, changeless face; always

smiling the same thoughtful, pitying smile. The world has changed

beneath, but as she looked to Adam, so looks the moon to us, this

glorious August night; and were the innumerable dead to rise to-night,

that face would be the sole familiar object to greet the eyes of the

astonished host.

And while we speak—this moment—how strange, how diverse the scenes she

looks down upon and illuminates. As she slowly ascends our heavens, the

early rising Moslem in Hindostan sees her pale face in the western sky,

as in his morning devotions he bows his head toward Mecca and the tomb

of his prophet. The western sides of the eternal pyramids glow in her

brilliant light, as they have been wont to do for thousands of years.

She is riding above the heads of wild Arabs, traversing in the cooler

night, the sparkling, heated sands of the Great Desert. The fountain

springs of the Niger and the Nile she spies out, and in them sees her

image. The jungles of unknown Ethiopia are illuminated by her presence.

The waves of the Mediterranean sparkle in her light, as they dash

against the shores of Holy Palestine, of classic Greece, of storied

Italy, and of hoary, ancient Egypt. She looks steadily down into the

crater of Vesuvius. The ice-clad summit of Mont Blanc stands ghost-like,

and catches first the silvery radiance of her beams. All Europe lies in

deep sleep and varied beauty beneath her. All over the broad Atlantic

the white sails of a thousand ships are glittering in her rays. On she

comes, over Columbus’ track, and the New World, from where Sir John

Franklin lies imbedded in northern ice to the stormy Horn, hails her

coming—not as but a few hundred years since. Now the steeples of New

York, Havana, and Rio catch the silvery light. On, on she rides. In an

hour the Father of Waters will be glowing beneath her vertical rays. A

few hours more she will shine upon the snow-tops of the Rocky Mountains,

and the western shores of our vast territory, and the eyes of our

distant, gold-seeking friends, and our bold seamen on the wide Pacific,

will be brightened by her presence. And then she will bid us good-night,

and speed her way above the countless islands, coral-reefs, and tranquil

waters of that far spreading sea, to spy out the secrets of jealous

Japan and curious China.

Having proved that the moon is a person, it becomes important to

ascertain its sex. Our minds are made up on this point. The poets have

always spoken of her as a lady. But it is no more than fair to notice

some of the objections which have been urged against the probability of

this hypothesis.

It is well known that the fair sex, to a woman, are admirers of the

moon; and, as ladies generally are not prone to speak in praise of

beauties of their own sex, it has been supposed, therefore, that she

cannot be of the feminine gender.

This instance is, however, the exception to the general rule, we

suppose.

Some ill-natured person has endeavored to explain this fondness of

ladies for the moon, by reminding us of the popular notion that the moon

has a man in it. A most scandalous, malicious, and impertinent

suggestion.

As an offset to the arguments adduced by those who take the masculine

side of the question, other cynical, crusty old bachelors have cited the

lines of Addison—

Soon as the Evening’s shades prevail

The Moon takes up the wondrous tale,

And nightly to the listening Earth

Repeats the story of her birth—

and ask triumphantly, who but a feminine could talk all night, and every

night, and never tire withal. But as the context shows that all the

stars and planets, some of whom are indubitably of the sterner sex, are

alike infected with this _cacoethes loquendi_, this seems not to settle

the question, unless it be satisfactorily shown, that only the males of

the planetary system are obliged to wait “their turn,” to “confirm the

tidings” spoken of.

Meanwhile we shall believe the poets.

The moon, then, is a lady, and a beauty. But loveliness, to be

appreciated, should bear the stamp of rank. Many beautiful women grow up

unadmired and unsought, because their parentage is obscure, and their

station humble; while pert, vulgar faces pass for handsome, only because

their possessors have also wealth and rank. A gilded frame makes a good

picture in the eyes of nearly all the world.

Now the moon is not only a beauty, but she is somebody—one of the

higher classes. She moves in an elevated sphere; is of aristocratic,

nay, of royal blood. We have said enough. Each fair republican reader is

propitiated, and for the ears of their fat papas we will whisper, “She

is enormously rich, ’tis said”—by the poets. These gentlemen, whose

imaginations, after all, are not one half so lively as those of

Wall-street brokers, will tell you that the moon is all silver; that her

rays are silver, and that they silver every thing they rest upon.

However, this last assertion must not be construed literally by people

who cannot bear disappointment very well. If some such sanguine person

should leave a bogus dollar in the moonlight over night, expecting by

these means to make it good coin and legal tender, he would be chagrined

in the morning, unless somebody had been cheated into stealing the base

metal, to find it a bogus dollar still. A dead gold-fish, exposed of a

warm summer night to the same influence, will be sadly “changed,” as the

housewifes express it, to be sure; but the transmutation will not be

from gold to silver.

The ancestry and origin of the moon, though admitted to be highly

respectable, are not so well known as some fastidious people might

desire; and, as is usual where there is some mystery and uncertainty,

there have been various and contradictory stories told by the divers

persons who have undertaken to give us information on these points.

Moses tells us very briefly and positively, that she is twin sister of

the sun, and that her birth-day was the 3d of January, in the year 0001.

Since that time, with the sun for a partner, she has been constantly

dancing attendance on the earth, ruling the night, while her brother,

like the Grand Vizier of Algiers, has regulated the affairs of the Day.

Once only have the twain rested from their labors. At the request of

Joshua, who got somewhat belated in a skirmish with the Five Kings, some

years ago, the sun stood still over Gibeon, while his sister reclined in

the valley of Ajalon and fanned herself. We cannot tell certainly

whether the moon has ever been able to recover from this delay, and

catch up to the place in which she would have been if the detention had

not happened. But an ingenious and learned Hibernian philosopher has

very plausibly suggested, that she is still behind her time, and that

this is the reason why she does not rise earlier of dark nights, for the

illumination of which she was so evidently intended.

But the Mosaic account of the moon’s origin and early life is esteemed

to be the more prosaic; and the poets, who have taken great pains to

look into these matters, give greater credence to the Pagan historians.

She then, the heathens say, was the daughter of Hyperion and Thea, and

the sister of the sun and of Aurora—not Aurora Borealis; she came of a

northern family, and is but distantly related. The moon, like some other

children we have heard of, was born of one of her aunts; so that if she

had been sent to call her father to Thea, she could very properly have

addressed him as Uncle Hy. Her sister, Aurora, it seems, was also her

cousin-german, and with equal propriety she might have called her

brother, “my dear sun,” or “Cousin Sol,” as the humor seized her.

The moon has ever been a favorite with lovers; albeit she herself is a

maiden averse to matrimony. Like some dear, good old maids we wot of,

she is no hindrance to flirtations, never stands in the way of love

declarations, and has assisted at some runaway matches. She smiles

pleasantly on the extravagances of enamored young people, winks at their

follies, and knows, but never tells their secrets. We firmly believe

that she has heard more than half the solemn vows which lovers have

uttered since the world began, and has witnessed a large majority of

first kisses. Had it not been for the delicious attractive power with

which her rays are pregnant, many are, and have been, the married pairs

that never would have been drawn together. Bashful youths gather courage

from moonlight. Cold natures are fired by its subtle, latent heat. Proud

hearts are fused by it into one. Ascetic resolves melt in the focus of

the moon’s rays as easily as lead in a poacher’s ladle.

The moon has a peculiar fascination for dogs, too. Her influence upon

the canine race is no less potent than that which she exercises over the

feelings of human lovers. All the world over

“The waking dogs bark at the silent moon.”

But for this we should have been a married gentleman of large fortune.

The moon and a Newfoundland puppy did us an ill-turn once upon a time.

In our early youth, while a sophomore at college, we attended the

obsequies of Euclid, for which devout act, taken in connection with

divers previous doings, not pleasant to the Faculty, we received

sentence of suspension, and forthwith retired, like Sir William Temple,

into the country. Our retreat was the residence of an extremely worthy

and learned, but somewhat prosy clergyman; who, having been ousted from

his pastoral charge of the discontented souls in his parish, occupied

his time and gained a living by the culture of corn, potatoes, tame oats

and wild young gentlemen. Near by lived a retired ship-chandler, happy

in the possession of a solid fortune, an ethereal daughter, a white

villa and a black Newfoundland dog. How well we remember the lovely

Matilda. She was very fair, with bright brown hair that hung, every

afternoon, in ringlets over her neck and shoulders; her blue eyes were

of the color of the sky; her form was sylph-like; her teeth were pearls;

her lips were rubies; and—so forth. Moreover, her age tallied with ours

almost exactly—that is to say, she was eighteen, and we a quarter past;

and her fortune, in expectation, was three times as many thousands. We

will not stop now to relate how romantically we became acquainted with

this very lovely young person—how extremely wet and grateful she was,

and how exceedingly muddy and gratified we were—how profuse were her

father’s thanks and perspiration, as he met us at the garden-gate, after

a severe run down the gravel-walk; how urgent were his invitations to

make ourself at home in future at his house—how we aided the lovely and

very damp Matilda to gain the door—how belligerent were the

manifestations of the Newfoundland dog, as we met him on our return to

the street; how charming the gentle Matilda appeared the next morning;

how slowly, after that, we progressed in Greek, and how rapidly in

romantic experiences; how gracious was the old gentleman; how

excessively sly was his wit—for that was before our father died

insolvent, to the great astonishment and chagrin of all his creditors,

and just as everybody else said they always knew he would. All this has

nothing to do with the moon’s influence on the dog. The latter never

took kindly to us. Our appearance at our first interview with him seemed

to impress him unfavorably. He always behaved as if he thought we had

usurped his prerogative, in rescuing his young mistress from a

muddy-watery grave. He eyed us askance; he appeared to believe our

gentlemanly clothing a disguise over the damp and discolored raiment

which had invested our limbs at the time we first encountered him, and

manifested an evident and almost irrepressible longing to strip us of

our assumed garb. In consequence of which he was doomed to close

confinement, every night, in a kennel beneath the back piazza.

The fair Matilda was coquettish. Her father’s evident preference for us

was annoying. It was not the rule as laid down in novels. She seemed

willing enough to love us, at times, but she did not like to have the

current of her true love run smooth. Her father’s will was in the way,

because it did not cross the path between her and us. Still, the aquatic

exploit was _comme il faut_. Our reputation for wildness and deviltry at

college was agreeable. Our dark locks, swarthy complexion, Byronic shirt

collar and scholastic disgrace were all but irresistible. She could see

we were desperately in love, and that was the mischief. Her sweet

consent could not be gained. An acknowledgment of love, or a kiss, could

not be ravished from her pretty lips.

In this conjuncture we invoked the Moon.

It was a most glorious August night. We sat in the back piazza, a

perfect heaven of a place, embowered in a clump of locusts, and shaded

by a wilderness of vines and flowering shrubs. As far as the eye could

see, from between the whispering boughs, extended the magnificent valley

of the Connecticut, stretching far away to the south; the course of the

beautiful river in its midst plainly marked, here by a broad ribbon of

glittering silver, and yonder by the long, slender line of mist, through

which the distant landscape shone more heavenly and in softer light than

the smiling country all around, where fields and villages, groves and

steeples, straight highways and meandering brooks showed us plainly in

the rich moonlight as if the noonday sun were shining. The air was soft,

and not too warm, heavily laden with the perfume of flowers. From the

village green, ever an anon, rose and swelled faint, sweet strains of

music. The band was practicing for September training. We always thought

the bugle had something to do with the catastrophe.

Matilda reclined upon a sofa which had been wheeled out from the parlor,

and with her hand, half buried in curls, supporting her head, her face

turned toward the light, and her white, graceful figure disposed with

careless ease—_and_ strict propriety, dear reader—upon the luxurious

couch, she seemed like a creature from another and a heavenly world. The

moon’s spell was upon her. We seized the opportunity and her hand. With

all the eloquence of an ardent, eighteen-year-old sophomore we told her

that we loved her. We swore by the bright moon above us—we vowed that

cruel parents and tremendous obstacles, existing only in imagination,

should never part us. We begged for one sweet avowal of love, one word

of hope. We raved of suicide, and swore that her refusal should be a

sentence of death to us. Matilda was touched, her hand trembled in ours,

it sought but faintly to be withdrawn. Her eyelids drooped, then raised,

then drooped again; her bosom heaved, her mouth quivered, her lips began

to frame one short, sweet, low-whispered word—when Bruin—yes, that was

the accursed animal’s name—from his kennel just beneath the place where

we sat—but we can’t describe the unearthly yell. All the damned spirits

in Hades, in full chorus, could never send from their hoarse throats

such an infernal sound as did that big, black dog vomit forth upon the

still night air, complaining to the moon. The spell was broken. Matilda

withdrew her hand—laughed in our face, sprang to the balustrade,

laughed again and called “Bruin”—threw the vile beast some cake—bade

us good-night and vanished; and the next morning she was more distant,

cold and provoking than ever.

The dog died a few days afterward in strong convulsions—upon which

event Matilda conceived a strong aversion to us, which continued until

we went back to college. The last we knew of her she was married to an

eminent hardware merchant, and was the mother of two fine children.

The moon exercises a strong and mysterious influence upon other matters

than lovers’ hearts and dogs’ voices. ’Tis said she is more benevolently

inclined in her youthful weeks than when, having grown round and full,

she has passed the “turn of life” and begins to wane. So, we have heard,

it is with other belles.

Many a gallant ship has foundered at sea, with hosts of brave hearts on

board, not because she was

“Built i’ the eclipse and rigged with curses dark,”

but for the sound reason that her rotten timbers and unsound planks were

cut in the moon’s waning weeks. By the by, who ever saw a ship that was

not rigged with curses, and navigated, too, for that matter? What is

there about salt water that predisposes one to swear so? No wonder that

the sea is “deep blue!” If all the oaths that sailors ever swore fell

overboard, the ocean must be fourth proof “liquid d—nation” by this

time! Rum is dove’s milk in comparison.

No farmer of the old school plants his corn, cuts his hay, or,

especially, kills his pork in the moon’s wane. Therefore swine in his

pen are safe for a fortnight after “the full o’ the moon,” lest,

perchance, when the summer heats shall have come again, and six stout,

hungry “men folks” assemble round his board, waiting with moist brows

and watering lips, impatient for the wonted unctuous noon-day meal, the

mighty slab of “strange flesh” which, erewhile, was with difficulty

forced into the capacious pot, be found, upon the raising of the lid,

shrunken, withered, boiled away, curtailed of its fair proportions; all

that remains a little “nub,” scarce half enough for one of the

voracious, disappointed crew.

At such a time, sore is the mortification of the farmer’s buxom wife.

Thrifty she means to be, but never stingy. She blusheth as she deposits

on the table a huge pewter platter, covered, apparently, with naught but

turnips, potatoes and other “garden sauce.” She answereth deprecatingly

to her husband’s wondering inquiry, if she has “forgotten the pork.”

Forgotten it! no! nor ever will! The ghost of the vanished meat now

stareth her in the face! Fork in hand, she wipeth her flushed brow with

her plump, bare arm, and pointeth to the pile of smoking potatoes,

beneath which is buried the shrivelled abortion of a meal. She telleth,

while her husband makes a Barmecidical show of carving the bit, how that

“pork killed in the old o’ the moon is sure to shrink in the pot.” She

glanceth furtively around the board, to see whether any churlish or

waggish hind smiles skeptically or disdainfully, or winketh at his

neighbor. She calleth hastily to Jane to bring the cider-pitcher,

forgotten in the trouble, and hurrieth away to the kitchen to pack up an

unusually munificent and toothsome afternoon’s luncheon. There we leave

her, and invoke in her behalf the sympathy of Mr. Gliddon. Who so well

as he knoweth the embarrassments and disappointments which sometimes

follow the taking off the cover?

An inexperienced housewife, sometimes, will, for once, adventure upon

soap-making “in the old of the moon.” Albeit such an attempt is but an

unavailing expenditure of grease and patience. The incredulous tyro is

forced to remember sadly the precepts, _receipts_, and warnings of her

wiser and less philosophical mother. She repenteth her folly in apron of

tow-cloth and ashes. Satan seemeth, indeed, to be the father of all

lyes. Death is in the potash. The carefully preserved contents of the

soap-grease barrel disdain an alliance with such bedevilled trash. The

potash, in its turn, has lost its Russian-like appetite for grease, and

turns up its nose at the odorous drippings and unctuous pot-scum. The

vexed young matron mingles her sweat and tears with the boiling,

steaming, ill savored, ill assorted mass, which does, indeed, seem to

“bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,” in a bewitched caldron. All is in

vain. Crying wont help it. Coaxing wont do. Stirring is unavailable. For

once agitation is ineffectual. Invocation is useless. The soft soap wont

come. Human nature gives way. The compost heap receives the ingredients

which were intended for the soap barrel.

Gentle reader, didst ever go on a sleigh-ride in the full of the January

moon? We speak not now of one of your city rides, half the way over

almost naked pavements, to some suburban hotel—but a regular-built,

old-fashioned country sleigh-ride, with a supper and ball at the end of

it. No? Can we depict such a scene to you? With many doubts and fears we

undertake the work—a pleasant task if it can be well accomplished.

Imagine then, a small, New England, country village; one of those that

are formed by a cluster of white houses about a shaded square, and rows

of similar dwellings on each side of a long, wide street, lined with

elms and buttonwoods. The time is seven o’clock; the round full moon has

risen above the distant eastern hills—all over the square, and adown

the broad street stretches an expanse of dazzling snow. The sleigh paths

are yet almost as purely white as the untrodden snow on either side.

Save where the steel-shod runners have left gleaming stripes, and the

shadows of the snow banks fall, these tracks are hardly distinguishable.

The deep snow fell only last night, and the roofs of the houses, the

fences, and the dark fir trees in the front-door yards are yet covered

with heavy, glittering, sparkling burdens. The houses on the east side

cast long shadows across the street. Those on the other side glow in the

moonbeams only less white than the snow itself. Columns of pale, gray

smoke ascend from every chimney, straight and steadily, until they

mingle with the dark blue sky. One chimney alone emits a rushing crowd

of fiery sparks; and all around the low, wide portal of the rude shed it

overtops, a ruddy gleam shines out upon troops of men and startled

horses, and casts a fierce glare upon the trampled snow around. Then the

cheerful ring of hammer and anvil is heard. The sturdy smiths work half

the night at such a time, for smooth-shod horses are not the nags for a

sleigh ride.

In the village houses lights are rapidly flitting from chamber to

chamber, and if we pass along the side paths we shall hear gay laughs,

and merry screams, and the sounds of hurried preparation. At each door

stands a gayly adorned sleigh, a perfect nest of bear-skins and

buffalo-robes. The impatient horses stamp and chafe, and the merry sound

of sleigh-bells chimes in with the ring of the blacksmith’s anvil.

Around the piazzas of the hotel a crowd of the villagers is assembled.

The boys and loafers are in a state of extreme excitement. Hark! A

whoop—a hurrah from the stable-yard in the rear!—a sharp, clear crack

of a whip! Hi! hi! Then a plunging and trampling. Another hurrah, and a

fierce jangling of a hundred varied toned bells! Around the corner it

comes! The boys and loafers shout again—six horses, rearing, pitching,

plunging, rush with a wide sweep from out the lane, dragging after them

a huge, open, omnibus sleigh. As the great ark ranges in front of the

hotel, and its mad team subsides into comparative quiet, forth issue

from the thronged piazzas crowds of village belles and beaux. Can it be

that so many may find room aboard the sleigh, capacious as it is? Leave

that to the Genius who presides over expeditions of this sort. In a

sleigh, large or small, there is always room for one more. In the

meantime the doors of the private dwellings have been opened, and from

each emerges a beshawled, bemuffed, behooded, and overshod damsel—or

two or three perhaps. Their happy beaux, clad in overcoats of

pilot-cloth, in seal-skin caps, red worsted leggings, and buckskin

gloves, escort them to the sleighs. The procession is formed in front of

the hotel. Twenty sleighs, besides the teeming omnibus. The last in the

line is a crockery crate, mounted upon a rude pair of runners and

hitched behind a tandem team. The leader is a three-year old colt, wild

and but half broken, and now, crazy with the noise, he is kicking and

plunging like mad. In the crate stands the dare-devil of the village; a

rich, handsome, graceless, good-natured scamp—the darling of the girls,

the marvel of the boys, the terror of the piously disposed, and the

favorite of all. He prefers to ride alone. Now all is ready—the band

strikes up—the driver of the omnibus stands erect and tightens his

reins—crack, goes the long whiplash—the horses plunge and start, the

snow creaks, the bells jingle, the boys and loafers hurrah, the beaux

laugh as the girls scream, and away flies the long caravan, like an

express train, down the broad street, thundering, cracking, screaming,

laughing. They turn the corner, all but the daredevil and his crockery

crate, _they_ are upset in a snow-drift, but before the army of boys and

loafers can reach the scene of the mishap, all is right side up again,

and the last seen of dare-devil he is driving by the whole train, his

frantic leader touching the snow only once in a rod.

Two hours afterward six reeking horses drag the omnibus up to the hotel

piazzas again—a string of sleighs come in behind—one by one the

stragglers arrive. Dare-devil and his team are among the missing, and on

inquiry are reported as seen last, the one kissing the landlady at a

tavern ten miles away, and the other engrossing the attention, and

calling into active exercise all the strength and agility of the

landlord and his negro hostler.

In the meantime twenty miles of snow path have been scoured over by the

merry, frost-covered throng disembarking on the steps. Thousands of

merry speeches have been said—a whole jest-book full of funny stories

have been told. Every pretty hand in the company has been squeezed.

Every pretty cheek has been kissed, and, we doubt not, almost every

pretty lip. At least nine flirtations have been commenced. The moon has

drawn together three pairs of twin hearts, and set them throbbing in

unison—and one little question has been put and answered, very

satisfactorily to the absorbed couple in yonder sleigh, which is

arriving late, closely pursued by the shouting dare-devil and his

prancing team.

All night the glaring windows of the ball-room shake and rattle. The

inspiring music, to which they keep time, the sound of the dancers’

feet, the merry ringing of lamps, and the buzz of conversation are heard

by the sleepy watchers in the bar-room below, who while away the hours,

except when disturbed by eruptions of the beaux from above, in quest of

confectionary and lemonade, or perhaps stronger beverages, by playing

checkers, drinking flip, smoking cigars, and endlessly discussing the

points and merits of divers horses of the neighborhood.

The pale moon lights home the revelers, just in time to save her sister

Aurora the trouble.

The young May moon has been justly celebrated by the poets, and many

have supposed, that at this season the hearts of lovers are more

susceptible than at any other time. Truly the moonlight of May is very

beautiful and love inspiring—but the August and September moon is the

time of times—when the air is clear and warm, without cloud or chill,

and rich and faint with the odors of the ripe fruits—when the corn and

grain and all that grows from the earth’s bosom are at full height and

verging toward maturity—when other leaves than those of tall trees

rustle in the night wind—when the katy-did and cricket hold cheerful

conversation, and fill the air with noisy clamor, near akin to

silence—when the nights have grown longer and cooler than in the fierce

mid-summer—when the moon seems larger and fuller than its wont, and its

light has a deeper tone—then is the time to enjoy, in perfection,

moonlight nights and lunatic fancies. Nights we say—not evenings. In

the evenings one sees company and receives calls, takes wearying walks,

hears commonplace remarks about the beauty of the weather and the

prospects of the crops, eats ice-creams, drinks sherry-cobblers, or, it

may be, smokes cigars and reads the evening newspaper. It is a border

ground, upon which the people of the work-day world make forays. But

“the small hours,” far in “the stilly night,” from twelve to three,

contain the true romance of moonlight. The dull world is asleep, there

is a new heaven and a new earth, peopled only by fairies, lunatics,

ghosts and poets. Bright heavenly hours! Methinks in praise of them we

could “mark out a measure of verse.”

They may tell of the sunlight’s brilliant dyes

When the day in the Orient breaks;

Of the splendid glare which dazzles the eyes

As his noontide course he takes;

They may talk of the gorgeous hues that glow

In the western sky at eve,

When, in gaudy pomp and with gilded show,

Of the world he takes his leave.

They may praise the Aurora’s wayward gleam,

As far up the northern sky

The ruddy flashes fitfully stream,

Then suddenly fade and die;

And flash anew, and again sink low,

Like the love of a fickle swain;

While the shadows flicker over the snow

That covers the wintry plain.

The poets sing of the twilight hour,

The twilight hour of eve;

And teach that it hath a magic power

To soothe the hearts that grieve;

That lovers prefer this gentle time—

To courting it gives such a zest—

And, as for themselves, for the stringing of rhyme

That the twilight hour’s the best.

There are some who delight in a starlight night,

And some like a chandelier;

And others a grate-full of anthracite,

Or of hickory burning clear,

And some the religious light that is shed

Adown in a church’s aisle—

And some will turn out from a nice, warm bed

To gaze on a burning pile.

But the light that we love far better than all

Is the light of the golden moon

At the sweet, short hour “ayont the twal,”

Just past the summer night’s noon.

Oh! then ’tis sweet to roam alone,

Or to sit in the shaded bower!

No enchantment, we ween, on earth is known

Like the magic of such an hour.

’Tis sweet when the night by the moon is graced

To wander with her we love;

Or to sit with our arm around her waist,

While we coax from her hand the glove;

And to teaze in a whisper for one sweet kiss

Till we gain the darling boon!

Oh! for making love ne’er a time like this—

By the light of the August moon.

“And so on,” as Elia says, “one might proceed in this strain forever.”

Give to us, then, the moonlit nights of fragrant August and mature

September. There is a body to them, a delicate aroma withal—the

intoxication is heavenly, such as nectar might produce. Then it is that

heaven seems descended to the earth, and fairy land restored. Then it

is, that, if we find ourselves alone with one of the other sex, by the

soft light, we are prone to imagine her to be our better self, our other

moiety, the twin soul for which we have longed in our dreams, and—hence

the propriety of a proper selection of moonlight company, judiciously

made, before sunset. Then it is that we like to talk but little, and

only in whispers and low tones. Then it is that our souls grow large,

and we cannot believe ourselves mortal. Deep ardent longings seize us

for something we know not what. Tears, neither of sadness or joy, spring

to our eyes. Delicious, incomprehensible emotions agitate our hearts.

Strange things seem easy of credence, and to see a troop of fairies

dancing on the green lawn, or the placid ghost of a dear friend, half

hidden in the shade of yonder vine, would startle us but little, and

would seem all in keeping. Then we grow poetical—romantic—at peace

with all the world—then chilly—then—ah! poor human nature!—then

sleepy! and when, six hours after, we rise, at the third call, to a late

cold breakfast, eggs, rolls and coffee seem to us of great importance,

and occupy the whole attention of a soul, which, but lately, held the

whole world in its embrace and felt a void the while.

Gentle reader—while we write the pale, exhausted moon is setting behind

the distant ridge of Talcott mountain. The tall tower of Montevideo

stands like a lonely, belated giant, in full relief against the

silver-gray western sky. Our hair is damp with dew—our numb and weary

fingers can hardly retain the blunt pencil with which we have indited

the preceding extravagances. There is a faint, ruddy glow in the

east—we hear the neigh of Aurora’s steeds. Good night then, dear,

lunatic reader. May the morn find you sane—the night mad again—and

long may it be ere the soft light of the full moon shall rest upon the

green sod of your grave, and glow, reflected from the marble of your

monument.

* * * * *

TO MISS MARTHA GRIFFITH.

BY G. D. P.

Beautiful girl, I have wandered far,

Toward the rising sun and the evening star,

I have roamed ’mid the Northern wastes of snow,

And strayed where the soft magnolias blow,

But I never gazed on a face as bright

As thine, sweet spirit of young delight.

Beautiful girl, thou art bright and fair

As an angel-shape in the moonlight air,

No shadow rests on thy brow of snow

Save that of thy tresses drooping low,

Love’s own dear light is wandering oft

O’er thy gentle lip of carmine soft,

Thy lovely cheek, where the rich, red glow

Of the warm blood melts through the virgin snow,

Is sweetly blending in one rich dye

The woven beauties of earth and sky;

Truth, holy truth in its freshness dwells

Deep, deep in thy dark eyes’ shaded wells,

And fancies wild from their clear depths gleam,

Like shadows of stars from a trembling stream,

And thy thoughts are a dream of Eden’s bowers,

And thy words are garlands of flowers, bright flowers.

Beautiful girl, I have seen thee move

A floating creature of joy and love,

As light as a mist on the sunrise gale,

Or the buoyant sway of a bridal veil,

Till I almost looked to see thee rise

Like a soaring thought to the free blue skies,

Or melt away in the thin blue air,

Like a vision of fancy painted there.

Thy low sweet voice, as it thrills around,

Seems less a sound than a dream of sound;

Softly and wildly its clear notes swell

Like the spirit-tones of a silver bell,

And the lips whence the fairy music flows

Is to fancy’s eye like a speaking rose.

Beautiful, beautiful girl, thou art

A vision of joy to the throbbing heart,

A star sent down from a world of bliss

And all undimmed by the shades of this;

A rainbow pictured by love’s own sun

On the clouds of being, beautiful one.

Beautiful girl, ’tis a weary year

Since thy sweet voice fell on my ravished ear.

’Tis a long, long year of light and gloom

Since I gazed on thy young cheek’s lovely bloom—

Yet thy gentle tones of music still

Through the holiest depths of memory thrill

Like tones of a fount, or breeze, or bird,

In the long gone years of childhood heard.

And oft in my dark and lonely moods,

When a demon-wing o’er my spirit broods,

Thine image seems on my soul to break

Like the sweet young moon o’er a gloomy lake,

Filling its depths as the shadows flee,

With beauty and love and melody.

Beautiful girl, thou art far away,

And I know not where thy steps now stray;

But oh! ’tis sweet, it is very sweet,

In the fairy realms of dreams to greet

Thy cheek of roses, thy brow of pearl,

And thy voice of music, beautiful girl.

* * * * *

PICTURE OF CHILDHOOD.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

Forth issuing from a craggy mountain’s side,

A stream is seen. Anon, with gilded prow

And silvery oars, a bark appears to glide,

Bearing a happy infant, on whose brow,

Pictured are Joy and Wonder. Onward still

Over the widening stream’s wild waves, eke, skims

It merrily. The tiny steersman hymns

His roundelay of Joy, or at his will,

Plucks the gay flowers of early morn,

Which diamond dew-drops, silver-like, adorn—

Unmindful that such pleasures fade away,

That youth, and love, and beauty soon decay—

Life is a launch—we voyage to the grave,

We venture on, unthoughtful of the whelming wave.

* * * * *

MINNIE DE LA CROIX:

OR THE CROWN OF JEWELS.

BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.

(_Concluded from page 304._)

“Lord bless us, my children! what a noise,” cried Mr. de la Croix on the

morrow as he entered the store-room. “I am deaf! give me some claret and

water some of you! I am thirsty enough to swallow bottle and all. I have

had lamps fastened to every other tree in the avenue and every column

around the piazza.”

Minnie brought him the iced wine and ran off to work again. She was

beating eggs for a mayonnaise, and directing the servant behind her in

chopping celery and chicken for salad.

Lisa was standing on a table pouring from an immense bowl a stream of

icing over a pyramid of cake that stood in a salver on the floor. Rose

was frothing eggs for something else, Kate was churning syllabub, and

Blanche was pounding almonds.

Mr. de la Croix stopped his ears and called out as loudly as he could,

“Halt! order! I want to talk. Where are those great china bowls to be

placed, and the pride of Rose’s existence, the diamond-cut wonder—the

crystal one? No one can carry them among you here, and I must tell

Sampson to do it.”

“The two first on the piazza, the glass one in the middle of the table,”

answered Lisa, looking up from her task. “I only hope Sampson will not

serve them like Philistines, with the exertion.”

“Do you think there is too much strength under those woolly locks of

his, Lisa, or do you fear a superfluity of grace in his ‘fantastic

toe?’” said Kate.

“I know that his ‘fantastic toe,’ as you are pleased to dignify it,

kicked over a pan of milk an hour ago, when I sent him to the dairy, and

these tricks have not certainly power to make angels smile.”

“Samp want to white hisself for to-night,” said his wife, showing her

ivory as she looked at him. “Miss Lisa never scold him for it, but you

may know I did, Miss Kate. What he do such ladicalous things for?”

“He could not help it, Aunt Winny,” said Minnie as she turned her dish

of well frothed eggs to prove her skill. “Now here is a magnificent

float for your ‘island.’ You know I always said that you should make

your favorite dish for my wedding-supper, and this is an occasion quite

as important. Here is the sugar, sand and every thing you want.”

“Thank’ee, Miss Minnie. I’ll make it splendid, you may know that. But

dis an’t no wedding-supper, my child, and it musn’t be so grand a

floatin’ island as the bride’s. Ah! didn’t I make two for Miss Kate and

Miss Blanche if dey wos married in de mornin’. I nussed you all—fine

gals you is! Dey an’t such young ladies for miles round, and please God!

I may live to see you all happy and lovin’ your pardners as _them_ do.

My old mistress herself would love to see ’em so.”

And Winny left the room majestically—a pan on her head and one in each

hand, six little nigs at her heels, each dismissed with a lump of sugar

as they went along in a straight line to the kitchen.

“Winny grows eloquent, as she gets older,” said Lisa. “If every body

believed her, we would all be like Miranda with every creature’s best. I

wonder what she will say when she sees us all dressed to-night.”

Winny was not the only one delighted with her young mistresses as they

made their appearance in the hall, one after another, and surveyed the

beautifully decorated walls of the several apartments opened for the

occasion. Festoons of cedar were hung around and above, and beneath each

were large bouquets of fresh flowers, arranged in perfect taste. The

orchestra hung in scarlet cloth, was wreathed in roses and evergreens,

and surrounded by lamps placed so as to illuminate these fairy bowers

independent of the glittering row of lights for the musicians. Stands of

exotics occupied one side of the hall, the fair and tender buds throwing

out a thousand perfumes on the air, yet even these were not more

fragrant than the flowers of the season that hung around, the delicate

maiden’s-blush and the pale tea-rose. Long after the chilly autumn winds

have made us close our casements and doors, these sweet sisters are

blooming in the gardens without, and from Mr. de la Croix’s thick and

extended hedges he had found a harvest for his daughter’s ball.

Nothing could be more brilliant than the _tout ensemble_ of garden,

house and avenue. Every nook and corner had its light, every room its

comfort, and before the guests began to assemble Lisa had satisfied

herself that the arrangements for their enjoyment were indeed complete.

Her queenly form well became the blue tarlatan with its moss-roses in

bunches of half opened buds. Her hair was simply twisted, and in

satin-like bands over her ears.

Blanche and Kate floated about in their pure white, their elegance

conspicuous from their simplicity, while Rose and Minnie, like twin

roses, were radiant with beauty. The excitement had deepened the color

on their cheeks and brightened their eyes into stars. Who wonders then

at the father’s pride as he looked at his crown of jewels this night?

Who wonders that the guests loved their pleasant smiles, and treasured

their gentle welcomes? No one was neglected by them, not one in the

whole crowd felt forgotten or slighted, and the hours flew by as though

Time had laid his hour-glass in the green bowers and slept at its side.

“Minnie, Minnie!” whispered Blanche, “you talk too heedlessly. Be more

quiet, my dear girl.”

“Ah, do not scold me to-night,” cried she, as she leant half panting for

breath upon her partner’s arm. “Is it not a shame to scold me now?” And

she raised her bright eyes to his with a look that dazzled him.

“It is a shame ever to do so,” replied he earnestly. “Surely Mrs. Stuart

you are not so cruel?”

“Only prudent, Mr. Milton, that is all; remember this is my little

sister’s ‘first appearance.’”

“You mean that she is one of the unsophisticated,” said he laughing.

“And by far more bewitching in consequence,” was added in a whisper.

Blanche smiled and shook her head at him, but they whirled off in a

waltz before she could reply, so she returned to her station by Kate,

who was talking in a very old-fashioned kind of way to—her husband.

“Paul and I were thinking the same,” said Kate, as she placed her arm

within hers. “Minnie is _tant soit peu_ inclined to flirtation, and we

must warn her before it becomes a passion.”

“A passion, Kate!” said her husband smiling.

“Yes; a passion for admiration—for change, and a sickly love of

flattery that is beneath a girl like our Minnie. How I do hope she will

preserve that perfect freedom from all affectation that is one of her

greatest charms.”

Paul made no answer, but as the quadrille broke up, went forward to the

object of this enconium as she accepted her partner’s offer of a quiet

promenade after her dance.

“Minnie,” said he, “you have not danced with me this evening.”

“Because you have not asked me,” replied she, putting her arm through

his with an affectionate smile. “I have felt myself quite neglected by

you and Kenneth, I assure you.”

“I was just coming to claim you, Minnie,” said Mr. Stuart, who had heard

her last remark. “But since I am supplanted this time, we are engaged

for the next.”

She nodded to him and passed on to a group of young girls who were

talking gayly, and joined them. One, a fair-haired blonde with a pair of

melting blue orbs, accosted her with a congratulatory remark upon the

entire success of her fête.

“We are all delighted with every thing—with you and with ourselves, par

parentheses. But why does not your father dance, Minnie?”

“Go and ask him,” said she laughing. “I have not seen him dance since I

was a little girl.”

“Well, he shall dance with me then,” exclaimed the pretty questioner,

“and I am going to invite him for the very next quadrille.” And off she

tripped to find Mr. de la Croix.

“Dance with you, my sweet young lady,” cried he. “And what will all

these gay and handsome fellows say to my usurping their place?”

“That I show very good taste in my selection of a cavalier,” was the

reply. “You _must_ dance with me Mr. de la Croix because—I have said

that you must.”

“The little maid would have her will,” quoted he, much amused. “So come,

my little conqueror, I could not refuse, even if an old man’s bygone

steps are shocking to polka lovers and sliding graces.”

“I have gained a victory,” said Miss Ashton, as he led her to a place

among the dancers. “See, Minnie! I have chosen my own partner, in spite

of ceremony and etiquette.”

“Age has its privileges,” observed Mr. de la Croix, with a courtly bow,

“and this is one of its most pleasant advantages. I had never been so

honored but for my silver-streaked head.”

“Ah, Mr. de la Croix!” said his young companion archly, “your youth has

only to return to put us to the test. I’m sure you could tell us of

bright eyes that followed you wistfully in days of yore.”

“Little flatterer!” exclaimed he, as the music struck up. “My age again

has helped me to this.”

But the gay girl bounded forward, and he watched her graceful movements

with so much pleasure that he almost forgot his own part.

Minnie was opposite too, and seemed so delighted at seeing her father

dance, that he quite enjoyed an amusement that had been for so many

years discarded, as one too frivolous for a _père de famille_.

Mr. Selby had to follow his example, as Minnie declared it his duty to

do so, and thus her “first party” was a perfect triumph, as not only the

younger but the older heads were giddy with their exertions to amuse and

be amused. It was nearly daylight before Sampson had finished his task

of putting out the lights, and the hall, like all other banquet halls,

deserted. There were no heavy hearts carried away, though many perhaps

were lost to merciful finders, and Minnie laid her young head on her

pillow with a feeling of consciousness that her debut had been one of

unusual and brilliant success.

And so it proved, for during the season that followed, no party of

pleasure—no crowded ball was complete without her presence. She was a

perpetual sunbeam, shedding light by her winning smile and sweet temper.

Her sisters accompanied her by turns, and watched her flying steps with

affectionate pride; but Kate’s fears were partly verified, and her young

sister too fond of admiration to escape that love of sway over the

hearts of the many that seemed to live but in her glances. In vain they

warned—in vain they lectured, Minnie had been too long careless of

advice to heed it now in this whirlpool of constant gayety. Still

artless, still unaffected, she dispensed her smiles too lavishly, and

fanned the flame her varied charms had kindled, where she might have

spared her victims many a pang, had she heeded the voice of reason.

“Would you have me cross to people?” said she to Kate.

“No, Minnie; but seemingly less pleased with their attentions. Did not

Mr. Douglas have reason to complain that you had encouraged him, when

you refused his offer last week?”

“Who told you that?” asked Minnie, crimsoning to the temples. “Who told

you that, Kate?”

“Himself, and I could not but feel for his disappointment,” said Kate

earnestly. “I have seen you look pleased at his assiduities—so pleased,

that I could not wonder at the reproach he made you.”

“I granted him no more than I did to others,” said the girl tearfully.

“But you have a way, Minnie, of accepting homage that is flattering to

those who offer it.”

“_I_ am flattered, and return only what I receive.”

“But you do not, my dear sister. What they offer is too often sincere;

they, then, according to your mode of reasoning, have a right to expect

the same. Harry Lamfear left here in consequence of your refusal, for,

as he said, he could not bear to meet you wherever he went, and I own

that I thought you were partial to him from a promise I heard you make,

to wear no bouquets but his for one month.”

“You are making mountains of mole-hills,” said Minnie, blushing again.

“I never dreamed that such a promise was equivalent to ‘Certainly, sir!

go and order the furniture.’ I did like Harry Lamfear exceedingly, but

love was no part of the liking. I told him more than once—more than

twice, since I must defend myself, that it was useless for him to expect

any thing more than friendship from me. I could not refuse to speak to

him—it will not do to insult a man because he wants to marry you, will

it?”

“Decidedly no; but then you should have refused to dance with him more

than once in the evening—you should have denied yourself on more

occasions than one, when he called. I saw you one morning get up from

the sofa, where you were suffering actually with a headache, and dress

your hair as becomingly as you knew how, with a morning-cap that was

really a charming set-off to your piquante style, and go in the parlor

to receive him. You told him of your indisposition of course, and his

inference was, that there must have been something _more_ than

friendship to rouse you in the midst of pain, to the exertion of

entertaining him. Did it look like indifference?”

“I was wrong there, sister,” said Minnie, rising and seating herself

beside her. “Tell me what I must do.”

“Be kind and courteous to all, my little pink-cheek, and do not listen

with such a ready ear to the honied words that make you giddy. Do not

every week or month select one on whom to bestow your favors, but treat

all alike indifferently until you really find your own feelings

enlisted. Then I need not advise, your own delicacy, your own natural

modesty will make you every thing you ought to be. But for heaven’s sake

do not give people the idea, that you are caught like a candle-fly by

every glare, and wear a battered down heart after your first winter is

over.”

“Oh, Kate, how matter-of-fact you are! Why didn’t you say ‘pretty moth,’

and ‘withered heart?’ You shock me with your every day-isms.”

“You have very fastidious ears, Minnie, and I am not jesting. There is

one thing more to be said and I have done. Beware of trifling with young

Freeman. He will not suffer himself to be led like his predecessors if

he is serious. And if he is, as I think, merely playing your game of

_flirting_, he will make you regret ever having seen him. I do not like

him—I cannot look at him without a feeling of uneasiness.”

“How foolish!” cried Minnie, laughing, “and how ungrateful! he is always

praising my charming sister Mrs. Linden.”

“Yes, so as to tell you immediately afterward how much you resemble

her,” said Kate gravely. “I am not old, Minnie, but I am sorrowed, and

feel no longer young. Let what I have said this morning be of some

benefit to you, for your own sake, if not for mine. I must watch and

warn you, heedless as you are to all counsel, and in so doing I make a

sacrifice that costs me something, for I might be conversing pleasantly

on other subjects, and feel secure that my sister Minnie does not think

me harsh and disagreeable,” and her eyes filled with tears.

“How unjust!” cried Minnie, throwing her arms around Kate’s neck, and

kissing her affectionately. “How very unjust! Do I not know how to value

your advice, Kate—am I so heartless in your eyes? Heedless I am indeed,

but not heartless, and I will try and remember what you have said, that

I may act upon it.”

And so she did until it was forgotten, and young Freeman’s devotion

became once more a triumph to the unreflecting Minnie. Her sisters

rejoiced as the end of the season drew nigh, as the entire summer would

be undisturbed by these constant amusements. They would once more live

in quiet after the gay and to them tiresome winter, passed in following

their young charge from place to place, and in the meantime a change

might come over the “spirit of her dream.”

It was at the opera that Minnie sat once more, while Mme. —— enchanted

and fascinated her audience. Her bright eyes were fixed upon the sweet

singer, and she did not perceive the door of her box opened to admit a

gentleman, who took his seat and gazed in silence at the lovely form

before him. Ever and anon he turned to Mr. Stuart, who stood behind with

a smile of pleasurable surprise upon his fine open countenance, and

watched with some impatience the close of the second act of “Jerusalem,”

in spite of his love of music and the beauty of this particular opera.

But the curtain fell, and Minnie turned to speak her delight to her

brother. She started as she recognized Harry Selby!

He could not but be flattered at the expression of pleasure upon that

speaking countenance, and the fluttering of the little hand, which, for

a moment, rested in his; while Minnie read in those dark eloquent eyes a

story that sent the tell-tale blush to her cheek, and forced her into a

silence that provoked and embarrassed her.

But Rose came to her aid, and poured inquiries into his _not_ over

attentive ear. When did he arrive—when did he sail? Where was his

uncle?

“I arrived this morning—I sailed three weeks ago from Liverpool to New

York, and lost not a minute in coming south, and left my uncle at home.”

“You are a perfect telegraph,” said Minnie, recovering her speech. “Your

friends must feel highly flattered at your haste to reach them.”

“Ah!” exclaimed he, fixing his eyes upon her, “I felt that I could not

trust myself to remain absent any longer! I had so much to learn! so

much to lose!”

Minnie turned to the stage and lifted her opera-glass, while Rose smiled

in spite of herself. Here was a lover _comme il y’en a peu_. And as she

contemplated his handsome countenance expressive of high and noble

qualities, his attractive manner and pleasant flow of words, she felt

that Minnie was a conqueror indeed.

“Come and dine with us to-morrow, Harry,” whispered she, as he handed

her in the carriage. “And bring your uncle with you. Tell him I have a

japonica in full bloom and he must see it.”

“Ah, Rose!” was the reply, “you are an angel! You do not mock the ear

with promises—you mean to keep them.”

And they drove off at a rapid pace, leaving him to rejoice over the

beauty and fascination of his youthful love, while she leaned back and

wondered at the beating of that hitherto quiet heart—the strange but

pleasurable emotion that seemed gushing from its depths.

“How remarkably he has improved!” exclaimed she, turning to her sister.

“How proud his uncle must be.”

“Proud indeed!” replied Rose. “And Harry’s worth does not consist in his

good looks, he has a well-regulated, intelligent mind, a noble heart,

and that rare pride that scorns an unworthy thought. I saw him

constantly when I was in Paris, and I am certain that he will fully

justify the opinion I formed of him.”

The carriage stopped at Mrs. Bliss’s door for Kenneth and Blanche, and

Mr. Selby came out to meet his favorite. Minnie parried his questions as

well as she could, but Rose’s congratulations upon his nephew’s arrival

and appearance satisfied him, and he accepted her invitation to dinner

with unmistakeable pleasure. He had intended to take them by storm, but

now Lisa would have warning, and be able to fuss over them as they

deserved, and he bade them “good night” with a hearty shake of the hand.

Down the pleasant avenue wandered two graceful forms a few weeks after

this, the gentle tones of a young girl’s voice mingling with the deeper,

more tender ones of a youth, who was gazing earnestly on her deepening

cheek.

“I need not have told you, Minnie, for you knew it that night at the

opera,” said he pleadingly. “You could not but see that I loved you as

few love—that in spite of time and space your image had remained within

my heart, its fondest remembrance. Tell me, Minnie,” and he paused as

they reached a vine-covered bower, and led her to a seat beneath its

shade, “tell me honestly, did you not read all this ere now?”

She trembled—her lot now was to be cast, her fate determined, and there

seemed a spell upon her, for she could not speak; but there was no shade

upon that fair smooth brow, no anger in those softened looks, and Harry,

like many a one before him, dared to interpret for himself what her own

lips at length were able to affirm.

And now to them the world seemed a paradise indeed, and life one long

summer day, o’er which no cloud could ever come, to shadow their sunny

hopes. The blue sky seemed clearer above their heads—the flowers were

brighter, and the fair earth fairer still. Happiness was theirs, for

they were all to one another, and as the hours passed unheeded, and the

gleaming stars burst forth into the quiet heavens, they raised their

eyes and likened their love to the quenchless beauty of its countless

lamps.

Alas, poor dreamers! ye are granted this one momentary perfection of

bliss! Ye can linger for once over this dawn of promised light—for once

ye are convinced of its duration. But the sky must darken, the lamps

must go out—the flowers must perish—the hopes must wither! There is

but one hope—one home of happiness—the home that is not to be won

without its pains, its fierce and mighty struggles, its chastenings,

that purify and fit the soul for the presence of Him who promised it to

the pure of heart.

Poor Minnie had to wake from her dream of love, but not yet—not until

she was once more in the giddy round of engagements for the spring. It

was at Mrs. Bliss’s last soirée that she was seen flying about like a

vision of light, while Harry Selby watched her every glance. He had a

right to be proud of her, for she was his own—his promised one, and

proud he was. But a shade passed over his face as he beheld her

extending to another the same smiles she gave to him; exerting for

another the same fascinations that bound him captive from the hour he

first beheld her. He did not intend, dear reader, that Minnie should

give up all for him; he did not expect her to be less gay or less fond

of dancing, but he could see no difference now between her conduct to

those around her, and to him alone. He had a right to more than they,

but although Minnie’s engagement was generally known, she allowed her

lover to be pitied or jested with upon the danger of marrying a flirt,

who cared more for admiration than for the love he bore her.

I am no advocate for the exactions or fastidiousness of the stronger

sex, exactions that in all cases become that conjugal tyranny that

drives us with broken hearts to an early and welcome tomb. I cannot

uphold that constant recurrence to the difference of duties and

deportment that marked the single and the married woman. The ceremony

that binds in a few moments, cannot change the disposition of eighteen

or twenty years—cannot blanch the dark braids of the bride into a

matron’s sober locks; and yet there are few husband’s in the world who

do not frown and wonder, if before the honey-moon is half over, he sees

in his young wife the same ways and manners of the unfettered creature

he had sworn so perfect, that her faults, _if_ faults she could have,

were virtues. He had vowed that his life was a curse without her, that

he asked only her love in return for his passionate devotion. But no

sooner is she won, no sooner is she the wife who has bound herself to

him “for better, for worse,” than he expects, God help her! the

sacrifice of every thought she has to his prejudices, and never dreams

how often she has been shocked at faults and habits that tore from her

eyes the veil her own youth and inexperience had helped to weave.

But Harry Selby was not as a lover more exacting than was natural and

proper, and he had imbibed some of Kate’s opinions concerning young

Freeman, knowing too, more than she did, to justify his aversion. His

devotion to Minnie de la Croix was not at first sincere, for his object

was merely to triumph over others, and win a wager he had already made

to do so. But her indifference to all his protestations enraged him, and

her subsequent betrothal had made him jealous, and proved how madly he

had learned to love her. He swore that he would force her to dismiss his

rival, and Minnie’s acceptance of his attentions allowed him to dream of

success in spite of her coldness to his suit, and laughing answers to

his serious questions. He was well aware of his powers; he was one of

the most attractive of his sex, witty, entertaining, and having that

peculiar expression of high respect in his manner, that is particularly

pleasing to women. Many would have given up, with more success than he

could boast of, but he had vowed to revenge himself on Harry Selby, and

his friends had heard him; so around poor Minnie a web was forming which

her own thoughtlessness but helped to strengthen. She was convinced that

Mr. Freeman fully comprehended her sentiments, and thus excused herself

for carrying him in her train, unwilling to give up one who added so

much to her amusement, and the splendor of her triumphs. In the midst of

a merry argument upon the rights of two waltzers that stood before her,

Harry approached.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked, and offering his arm to her. “I have

waited patiently until now, you were so surrounded!”

“Why, do you not see these two importunate creatures teasing my life

out? They want me to waltz, when I am tired to death and want to rest,”

replied she, with a toss of the head that became her amazingly.

“But I ask you to dance,” said Harry, earnestly. “It is not so

fatiguing, and I am but too happy to remain here until the quadrilles

recommence.”

At this moment the band began a waltz, a sweet, bird-like clarionet

pouring out its enchanting sounds, and the young girl bounded from her

seat.

“Come, Mr. Freeman, I cannot resist that!” cried she laughing. “I must

surely have been bitten by a tarantula.”

Harry drew back, and an expression of pain and anger crossed his face as

he watched Minnie and her partner, who glanced at him with a look of

haughty triumph.

A hand was laid upon his arm, and Kate Linden stood beside him. “As much

as I dislike _him_, Harry, I must put Minnie in the wrong. For God’s

sake, let there be no quarrels between men—I will speak to Minnie. She

loves you dearly, but—”

“She loves adulation more,” said he bitterly. “Would to God I were not

so madly fond!”

But the dance ended and Minnie returned to her place, with brightened

eyes and flushed cheeks. Sending her companion for an ice, she turned to

Harry.

“Now I will dance with you, patient creature, if you will wait a little

longer.”

“You are very kind,” said he, more bitterly than before.

She started and looked at him, but laughed lightly as she said—

“You are very particular in commending my goodness, but you do not seem

pleased.”

“No, Minnie; for I am too unhappy to conceal it,” was his reply. “I had

thought you loved me better.”

“And since I did confess that love,” said she haughtily, and coloring

deeply, “by what right do you doubt it?”

“Ask others beside myself, Minnie; ask all the world here, if this very

hour you have not given me cause to think myself weighed in the balance

with another?”

“You are jealous then. I had not deemed your breast capable of harboring

so base a passion,” said she scornfully. “My actions are yet

uncontrolled, and I must beg leave to decline any dictation of terms

from your lips.”

He turned pale with suffering, but remembered her youth, and calmly met

her eye.

“You do me injustice, Minnie; I had no such intention I assure you.”

At this moment Mr. Freeman handed her a plate of frozen strawberries,

and a smile flitted over his features as he remarked their own. It was

evident to him—there had been a dispute and he chose the opportunity.

Quietly approaching the musicians, he gave them an order, and they began

a mazourka then much in vogue. Harry’s head was turned away, and Minnie

gave him a hurried glance as a most melodious voice was entreating her

to dance.

“Ah!” said Mr. Freeman, smiling and gazing at her, “is it forbidden

already?”

“I do not understand,” replied she in some confusion; but when Harry

looked up she was gliding over the floor again, after reminding him of

his own invitation. He rushed from the room, and making his adieus to

Mrs. Bliss, drove rapidly home. It was not easy to imagine his state of

mind, but Kate followed her sister until the mazourka ended, to warn her

of a coming storm. Taking her arm, she bowed coldly to Mr. Freeman, who

bit his lip and fell back among a group of gentlemen, some of whom had

heard his wager and now laughed at his defeat.

“Defeat,” echoed he. “I have driven _il caro_ off in despair, and a few

words more will settle all between the charming Minnie and myself. Not

that I care particularly for her, but rejoice in the downfall of Mr.

Harry Selby.”

“_Nous verrons_,” said a young man, who surveyed him with a look of

disgust. “Miss de la Croix may like to flirt, but she loves Mr. Selby

more. And I for one doubt your success.”

“Had I but one quarter of an hour alone with her, she would no longer

dream of him. She loves me now, and I will prove it yet.”

Some one touched him as he walked away, and Paul Linden beckoned him to

another room.

“My sister’s name is not to be sullied by such lips as yours, Mr.

Freeman. I hold you accountable for what I have heard to-night, and

trust you to prepare yourself to be made so.”

They passed into the street, and angry words rose between them, but when

once more Minnie’s name was pronounced, Paul passed his hand across the

face of the speaker and left him.

Poor Kate! little knew she the “business” that detained him the next

day, and when at length Blanche came to her with a white face and

trembling lips to prepare her for the dreadful news, she seemed unable

to understand until it had been repeated—that her own husband was

dangerously, though not mortally wounded, in a duel with Mr. Freeman.

With a loud shriek she became insensible, and thus they lifted her into

the carriage, while the rest followed. Paul had been conveyed to her

aunt’s, and there lay weak and fainting from pain and loss of blood. The

ball had been extracted, and his poor Kate was told to be calm! lest her

agony prove fatal to the one she loved beyond all earthly things. Calm!

when her heart was torn and bleeding, when there was perhaps no chance

of his recovery! But woman-like, she strove against her misery and bent

down to kiss him, half fainting as she gazed at his pale face. He turned

to her with such a look of love!

“Do not blame me, Kate, I would have died to spare you a moment’s

unhappiness, as careless as this may seem of your feelings,” murmured

he.

“Hush, Paul! for God’s sake hush!” cried she clasping his hand. “Do I

not know your love for me? Do not speak my own husband—be assured that

I would never blame you. But for my own happiness be careful and follow

the doctor’s advice—be quiet.”

He fell asleep with his hand in hers, and she sat beside him motionless

as a statue, the big tears falling over her face the while. She knew how

much she had at stake, she knew by what a mere thread that precious life

was hung, but she nerved herself to restrain her wretchedness, to keep

silent her torturing fears, and tried to hope. Poor Minnie! throwing

herself upon her knees she entreated her forgiveness for the pain she

had caused—the tempest of grief her fault had raised. Kate gently put

her head against her breast.

“My poor Minnie! my darling! who could refuse your forgiveness? God

knows you are suffering sufficiently now—but oh! if _he_ should die!”

Her composure gave way out of her husband’s presence, and her convulsive

sobs seemed too much for her strength. They gathered around her

frightened and weeping, beseeching her to cease, lest her cries reached

Paul himself. A composing draught at length relieved her, and this was

her last indulgence of her sorrow while a prey to such anguish as in

vain assailed her. From that day her fortitude never forsook her, and

neither loss of sleep or appetite were able to affect her. Minnie shared

her vigils—both were mere shadows of their former selves, both watching

with pale faces and sunken eyes the patient sufferer. Minnie left the

room only when Harry Selby’s watch came round. She had not seen him

since the fatal evening, nor mentioned his name after writing him when

the meeting took place. It was a touching letter, and Harry bowed his

head over it with a burst of manly grief. It ran thus:

“I write to say that you are free—you cannot but wish it, after

what has passed. You cannot but hate one so apparently void of

all feeling—so wickedly frivolous. Forgive me for the pain I

cause you, God knows I am in need of pity! Should the worst

happen, I will be guilty of my brother’s blood, a thought that

maddens me. Farewell, I will always pray for your happiness.

“MINNIE DE LA CROIX.”

And she drooped day by day, with a weight of iron on her soul. Her

sister’s sorrow—Paul’s suffering, and the separation from her young

heart’s treasure were cankers, to eat away its hopes, and wither its

freshness. Her father, too—how much he had changed, how gray he had

become! How sad her sisters were, how gravely Kenneth spoke! The thought

of their now deserted home, of its once happy aspect. She thought of its

cheerful, merry-hearted inmates, and the light voices that were now so

low and sad. She remembered her mother and the last blessing, the prayer

that they might be forever united—she remembered the dead infant and

Kate’s return—poor Kate! that she should be the only sufferer! Gladly

would she have laid down her now darkened life for her sister—gladly

would she have sunk into the tomb, to hide her bursting, breaking heart!

One night she sat at the head of Paul Linden’s bed after entreating Kate

to go once around her aunt’s garden and breathe the sweet spring air.

Her face was buried in her hands, and by the deep sighs that shook her

frame a portion of that young creature’s misery might be conceived. On

the opposite side of the bed sat another, watching her, by the darkened

light of the sick room, with a look of deep compassion. He had entered

unperceived, and there was a start of surprise as his eyes fell upon the

drooped figure. He could never mistake it—he knew the outline of that

once loved form—he knew the little hands that were clasped across her

knees, and he held his breath least even that should rouse her.

Involuntarily he held out his arms, but at a movement from the invalid

she sprung to his side, and her companion bent down to raise him as he

asked for some water. Minnie held the glass to his lips, and replaced it

on the table without raising her eyes to his face, for she thought it

was Kenneth; when she turned to seat herself her eyes fell upon the

figure of him she loved! The blood forsook her cheeks, and with a low

smothered cry she covered her face once more. When she looked again he

was still there, and his hand was held out beseechingly toward her.

Slowly she gave him hers, it was no bond of renewed faith, she thought

merely that he offered her forgiveness, and he seemed now further from

her than ever, as she remembered this and looked at the wounded man upon

the bed. Sick at heart she sunk back upon her chair and buried her head

in the clothes. The silence around them was painful now in the extreme,

and Paul’s heavy breathing fell like a reproach upon her tortured heart.

Years seemed to pass, and when Blanche came in to take her place, she

breathed a prayer of thankfulness for the relief a change afforded.

She hurried from the room out into the garden to give vent to her

wretchedness. She had then seen him again—seen him, she resolved for

the last time. She had suffered too much for the last half hour to dare

it again, and she dwelt upon the remembrance of his loved features as if

to impress them more deeply yet upon her heart. Alas! how wildly she

clung to him, now that she had bid him a last farewell! how intense grew

the love she had lavished upon him with a woman’s bounty! She returned

no more that night to her brother’s chamber, for she knew who watched

beside him, but the lowly vigil she kept within her own was an eternity

of grief.

Toward daylight Lisa entered with a face of joy. Clasping Minnie in her

arms, she burst into tears as she spoke.

“Minnie, my poor child! he is saved! saved at last!”

She sunk upon the floor in a swoon, and during Paul’s convalescence,

another of the household lay at death’s door. Day after day her fearful

ravings smote their heavy hearts, and a gloom seemed hanging like a vast

pall over them. Father, brothers and sisters, grew pale and thin; but

there sat one beside that bed who seemed to grow old as he looked upon

the distorted countenance of his Minnie. His poor blighted flower!

The physicians did not despair, but they did not bid them hope, and so a

week passed—a week that dragged by like a lengthened chain that

overpowered them. Then there came a gleam of light—

And Minnie opened her eyes once more to life. Who can tell their

joy—their prayers of thankfulness as at length she knew them all? At

the door now, sat her lover, not daring to enter lest his presence prove

fatal, but as the tones of her sweet feeble voice reached him, he leaned

against the wall for support. Rose wept silently at his side, and

pressed his hand as he called on Minnie’s name——they might yet be

happy!

Minnie’s first coherent inquiry was for Paul Linden, and the news of his

recovery was the first and surest step to her own. He came to see her as

soon as he heard it, and tenderly kissing that pale thin cheek, remained

sitting by her with his hand in hers.

“Will you forgive me, Paul?” she asked, her eyes filling with tears.

“Dear child,” replied he tenderly, “did you imagine all this time that I

could ever do aught but love you? So do not speak of forgiveness again,

we are all too happy at your recovery to think of any thing but joy.”

How gratefully Minnie listened to all this, and how much she prized the

affection each in their turn was striving to prove! She had awakened

from a dream of horror to a new existence. She had grown wiser—the

trial had purified her, and if at times her thoughts would turn to the

_happy hours_ of the past—to the blessing _his_ love had seemed, she

struggled against the regret that stung so sharply, and bowed her head

to the justice of her punishment. It never occurred to her, poor

penitent! that Harry could love her still, she thought her own conduct

fully justified his accepting the freedom she had offered him, and heavy

as the stroke came—deeply as it was felt, Minnie looked upon it as her

due, and bound herself to suffer in silence—to battle with her

troubles.

One morning her father carried her out into the garden, and seated her

under a climbing jessamine that covered a bower at the side of the

house. Few would have recognized the once gay and blooming girl in the

delicate creature that leaned back exhausted in the chair—few could

have realized the active little sprite, the idol of the ball-room, in

this languid, helpless figure; but to her father and sisters there was

something sweeter than ever in their suffering Minnie. A placid smile

overspread her features at the sight of the sweet flowers that bloomed

around her, and she held out her hand toward a cluster of fragrant Lady

Banks that grew near.

“I can tell you a secret of the loveliest bouquet you ever saw, Minnie,”

said Rose, gathering the bunch of tiny roses for her sister. “A bouquet

that was sent an hour ago by a friend of yours and mine. It is the

eighth received to-day, and I reserved this one as a _bonne bouche_,

after all the rest. Now I am going to get it while you sit here, and

papa will watch you until I get back.”

Her father looked tenderly at his poor bird, and stooped to kiss her.

She smiled so gratefully in return, that the tears sprung to his eyes.

“We will go home soon, father,” said she, holding his hand; “we will go

back to the old homestead. I pine for my native air like a caged bird,

and long to be there again.”

He assented with a look of joy, for it was the first time she had

mentioned her home, and he fancied she was stronger as she spoke.

Rose came running back with the bouquet, and the sick girl bent forward

to receive it. Rare exotics and simple flowers lay lovingly together,

and round the edge were rows of double violets—sweet flowers of spring

that gladdened her heart. How many times she had sought them in the

thickly bordered beds at home! How often she had kissed them with

childish delight, when the fresh perfume had come like a message to tell

her the spring had breathed upon them. And now they whispered of the old

place and its past joys—of the time that had elapsed since she had been

there, and the warm tears fell upon the leaves like shining drops of

dew.

“And who sent this bouquet, Rose?” asked she, as her father walked

toward the house. “Who sent it?”

“One who loves you dearly, Minnie, and who longs to see you,” replied

she. “Will you let me bring him here, dear sister?”

“Him!” murmured the girl, as the color stole slowly over her cheek.

“_Him_, Rose!”

A rustling among the leaves was heard—Rose fled, and once more Harry

Selby and Minnie were alone! She gazed at him for a moment, and burst

into tears.

“Harry! why are you here, for God’s sake!” she cried, as he knelt beside

her and wound his arm around the fragile form he had so longed to see.

“Why am I here, Minnie?” said he reproachfully. “Can you ask me? Is it

not to tell you once more how dear you are to me—how wretched I have

been?”

“You love me still, then?” she said feebly, and fixing her eyes upon

him. “I am not worthy of your love, Harry; I have deserved to lose it.”

“Minnie! Minnie! say not so! Whom could I ever love as I love you? Whose

memory has followed me through long years but yours—what torture have I

not endured since last we met?”

A look of gladness beamed from those beautiful eyes, and she clasped her

hands together. “My God!” she whispered, “he loves me then in spite of

all!” and she bowed her head upon her knees. “Loves me! after all that I

have caused him and others to suffer.”

“And have you not suffered likewise, my own Minnie? How little you knew

me, if you supposed for an instant that I could ever be happy without

you!”

She learned to know him, reader; she learned to feel how deeply he loved

her, how noble and just he could be, and the next day he bore her into

the carriage that was to take them to Oakwood, and took his seat

opposite to her, that he too might watch her through the drive.

It was a gala day that—father and sisters, husbands and the lover, his

happy uncle and Mr. and Mrs. Bliss followed Minnie to instal her with

new honors in her old home. Winny and Sampson headed the procession that

came to meet them, and mingled their tears with the rest. Paul had

become a hero to them, Minnie a greater pet than ever, and they both

accepted the ovation as kindly as it was meant. After dinner, as Minnie

sat playing with her beautiful fan, Harry took it gently from her hand.

“There is a secret in this fan, Minnie, unknown to any but myself. Shall

I unfold it for you?”

She assented, and touching a spring in the little mirror at the side of

the fan, he held it up to her. It disclosed a small, but perfect

miniature of himself!

She gave an exclamation of surprise. “Why, Harry! your own dear self!

Now I know who gave me this fan—now I guess the sender of this

exquisite gift. To think how often I have used it, too, without knowing

its real value.”

He smiled and pressed the soft hand he held. “And do you not think me a

vain fellow, Minnie, mine, for having my own self, set into a frame like

this? See on the other side, dearest, what I dared to do?”

It flew open there and a ring fell out, a tiny bouquet of the brightest

diamonds upon it, and an opal in the centre that changed its hue at

every motion of the hand. Harry placed the circle upon that taper

finger, and held captive the hand that owned it.

“Now, Minnie! I loved you so dearly that I vowed to strive and win the

very privilege I have taken, of placing this ring upon your hand myself.

I will not let you go until you now tell me when I may put another where

this now is, that will bind us closer yet. Tell me, Minnie, and make my

happiness complete.”

And I suppose that Minnie told him, reader, for the last time I was at

Oakwood there was the happiest bond assembled that earth can show. Kate,

my poor Kate! was the delighted mother of another girl called Minnie,

while a little Paul that ran about had a decided resemblance to Harry

Selby, the proudest man alive. Blanche was beginning to look matronly

with her three treasures, and Rose was wandering down the avenue with

another nephew of Mr. Selby’s. Lisa, my queen-bee, was herself still—I

could not say more for her, and Mr. de la Croix sat at the hall door

watching his children and grand-children with a happy look. “They have

suffered enough,” said he to me; “but my crown of jewels, my friend, is

brighter than ever, after the breath of adversity for a while dimmed its

lustre. Kate and Minnie, poor girls! have been in the storm, and felt

its violence, but the rest shared their sorrow until it became their

own. It was for the best, as all things are, and God in his mercy

chastened them without sending Death among us again. They often recur to

it, and while Minnie deplores her fault, Kate weeps at the remembrance

of her dead child with a gentle sorrow, that allows her to contemplate

its happy fate with a Christian’s view of the two worlds. It is not

perhaps my part to praise them, but take them all in all, I do not think

you will find a more cheerful, willing, and dutiful band than mine. They

have been and are still, my crown of jewels.”

* * * * *

TO A CELEBRATED SINGER.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

Oft have I dreamed of music rare and fine,

The wedded melody of lute and voice,

Divinest strains that made my soul rejoice,

And woke its inner harmonies divine.

And where Sicilia smooths the ruffled seas,

And Tempe hollows all its purple vales,

Thrice have I heard the noble nightingales,

All night entranced beneath the bloomy trees;

But music, nightingales, and all that Thought

Conceives of song is naught

To thy rich voice, which echoes in my brain,

And fills my longing heart with a melodious pain!

A thousand lamps were lit—I saw them not—

Nor all the thousands round me like a sea,

Life, Death and Time, and all things were forgot;

I only thought of thee!

Meanwhile the music rose sublime and strong,

But sunk beneath thy voice which rose alone,

Above its crumbled fragments to thy throne,

Above the clouds of Song.

Henceforth let Music seal her lips, and be

The silent Ministrant of Poesy;

For not the delicate reed that Pan did play

To partial Midas at the match of old,

Nor yet Apollo’s lyre, with chords of gold,

That more than won the crown he lost that day;

Nor even the Orphean lute, that half set free—

Oh why not all?—the lost Eurydice—

Were fit to join with thee;

Much less our instruments of meaner sound,

That track thee slowly o’er enchanted ground,

Unfit to lift the train thy music leaves,

Or glean around its sheaves!

I strive to disentangle in my mind

Thy many-knotted threads of softest song,

Whose memory haunts me like a voiceless wind,

Whose silence does it wrong.

No single tone thereof, no perfect sound

Lingers, but dim remembrance of the whole;

A sound which was a Soul,

The Soul of sound diffused an atmosphere around!

So soft, so sweet, so mellow, rich and deep,

So like a heavenly soul’s ambrosial breath,

It would not wake, but only deepen Sleep

Into diviner Death!

Softer and sweeter than the jealous flute,

Whose soft, sweet voice grew harsh before its own,

It stole in mockery its every tone,

And left it lone and mute;

It flowed like liquid pearl through golden cells,

It jangled like a string of golden bells,

It trembled like a wind in golden strings,

It dropped and rolled away in golden rings;

Then it divided and became a shout,

That Echo chased about,

However wild and fleet,

Until it trod upon its heels with flying feet!

At last it sunk and sunk from deep to deep,

Below the thinnest word,

And sunk till naught was heard,

But charméd Silence sighing in its sleep!

Powerless and mute beneath thy mighty spell,

My heart was lost within itself and thee,

As when a pearl is melted in its shell,

And sunken in the sea!

I sunk, and sunk beneath thy song, but still

I thirsted after more, the more I sank;

A flower that drooped with all the dew it drank,

But still upheld its cup for Heaven to fill;

My inmost soul was drunk with melody,

Which thou didst pour around,

To crown the feast of sound,

And lift to every lip, but chief to me,

Whose spirit uncontrolled,

Drained all the fiery wine and clutched its cup of gold!

Would I could only hear thee once again,

But once again, and pine into the air,

And fade away with all this hopeless pain,

This hope divine, and this divine despair!

If we were only Voices, if our minds

Were only voices, what a life were ours!

My soul would woo thee in the vernal winds,

And thine would answer me in summer showers,

At morn and even, when the east and west

Were bathed in floods of purple poured from Heaven,

We would delay the Morn upon its nest,

And fold the wings of Even!

All day we’d fly with azure wings unfurled,

And gird a belt of Song about the world;

All night we’d teach the winds of night a tune,

While charméd oceans slept beneath a yellow moon!

And when a-weary grown of earthly sport,

We’d wind our devious flight from star to star,

Till we beheld the palaces afar,

Where Music holds her court.

Entered, and beckoned up the aisles of sound,

Where starry Melodies are marshaled round,

We’d kneel before her throne with eager dread,

And when she kissed us, melt in trances deep,

While angels bore us to her bridal bed,

And sung our souls asleep!

Oh, Queen of Song! as peerless as thou art,

As worthy as thou art to wear thy crown,

Thou hast a deeper claim to thy renown,

And a diviner music in thy heart;

Simplicity and Goodness walk with thee,

Beneath the wings of watchful Seraphim;

And Love is wed to whitest Chastity,

And Pity sings its hymn.

Nor is thy goodness passive in its end,

But ever-active as the sun and rain—

Unselfish, lavish of its golden gain—

Not Want alone, but a whole nation’s—Friend!

This is thy glory, this thy noblest fame;

And when thy glory fades, and fame departs,

This will perpetuate a deathless name,

Where names are deathless—deep in loving hearts!

* * * * *

BLANCHE OF BOURBON.

A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

BY WALTER BROOKE.

CHAPTER I.

In the year 1351, the highest nobles of Castile had left their cities,

castles, and commands, and met together in the ancient city of

Valladolid, the residence of the dowager of King Alphonso; for in this

city were to be celebrated the nuptials of Don Pedro, King of Spain, and

the beautiful Lady Blanche of Bourbon.

The plaza of the queen dowager’s Alcazar was filled with an immense

crowd of knights, citizens, and attendants, through whom the heralds

with difficulty forced a passage for the procession which now approached

from the cathedral. Waves of joyous music floated wing-like in the air,

as a crowd of gallant knights, headed by Don Fadrique de Castilla,

entered the square. Not in the stern panoply of war were they clad, for

the plumes and gorgeous robes of festival fluttered gayly as the

spirited horses bounded and curvetted under the unusual restraint of

their slow procession-pace. After these came the trumpeters and other

musicians, and these in turn were followed by a band of older knights,

the glory of Castile, the pride of chivalry. They were conducted by the

dignified and noble Alburquerque, high chancellor of Castile, celebrated

not more for his valor than for the purity of his heart, and the power

of his intellect.

The cheering of the multitude announced the king. Mounted on a proud and

milk-white steed; robed in cloth of gold, which, as it waved in the air,

displayed the ermine lining; athletic and graceful in form, and fair in

countenance, Don Pedro slowly moved amid the throng. The courteous smile

which should have answered the warm greeting of his people bent not his

lip; surrounded by devoted subjects, wedded to a beautiful and lovely

queen, he yet wore a gloomy frown. But as he passed, his moody demeanor

was forgotten, and the cheering hushed to a gentle murmur as peace

lulled the storm on Galilee, for who could rudely greet such a

surpassing beauty: “The queen! the queen!” Not the dark and gorgeous

beauty of the Spaniard, but the peaceful and angelic sweetness of the

north dwelt in Blanche’s lovely face; not the glowing life of passion,

but the gentler spirit of love inspired her smile. Graciously to the

murmuring crowd she bowed the head just circled with the regal diadem.

No pride, no elation crossed her features; joy and hope were the queen

and the bride of her spirit, and not a thought of doubt or sorrow

contested their empire. Her palfrey was led by Pedro’s brothers, Don

Enrique and Don Tella, and her two noble knights and champions, Juan de

la Creda, and Nunez de Prado closely followed her.

The Queen Dowager of Castile, attended by the Infante of Arragon,

seemed, as she gazed around, to be transported to the days of her own

youth and triumph, and watched her new daughter with a joyous

solicitude, which, however, sometimes gave way to the mournful thoughts

which her own sad experience induced.

At last the crowd were passed, and the cavalcade entered the court-yard

of the Alcazar. As the young queen passed beneath the gloomy

entrance-arch, some unbidden foreboding of evil made her shudder. Was

that gloomy court the image of the coming life for which she had

sacrificed the joyous light of day? Tears sprung to her eyes as she saw

the king dismount, and leave her knights to assist her from the saddle;

but she mastered her emotion, and was conducted by the queen dowager and

her own ladies to her apartments.

In the evening the banqueting and reception-halls of the Alcazar were

gorgeously ornamented and illuminated in preparation for the festival

which was to follow the queen’s reception of the court and the nobility

of Castile, who had assembled to do her honor. Groups were collected by

the windows and recesses, and about the floor, discussing in low and

guarded words, Pedro’s singular inattention to his royal bride. Many a

lady’s bright eyes flashed the indignation which she dared not utter,

when she thought or spoke of Pedro’s coolness.

“Know you not, Señor Inigo,” said an old noble, in confidential

conversation with the knight of Estuniga, “that he hath left his love at

Toledo?”

“Can it be?”

“’Tis true; and were it not for Alburquerque, he would not have been

here this day. Heaven avert all future sorrow from our gracious queen.”

“Hist!” said the knight, “the young Padilla nears us.”

This tall and powerful knight, Garcia de Padilla, cast inquisitive

glances at them and other groups as he paced alone about the hall. More

than once his dark countenance wore a deeper shade as some chance word

reached his ear.

At this juncture the doors of the reception chamber were thrown open,

and the king and queen were seen standing beneath the canopy of a double

throne, which stood on a low dais at the upper end of the room. Beside

the queen stood the Bishop of Burgos in his robes of state, Don Fadrique

de Castilla, the Viscount Narbonne, and several noble French and Spanish

ladies. Don Pedro was attended by the Archbishop of Toledo, Don Juan, of

Arragon, his mother, and the Queen Dowager of Arragon.

Pedro’s mood was more gay than it had been during the day, and Blanche

again looked beautiful and happy by his side. “Noble lord,” she said to

Alburquerque, who, as chancellor, was the first one presented, “we have

known thee well through the mirror of other men’s praises, and hope to

know thee better as worthy of our own. Brave knight,” she playfully

observed to Esjuniga, “we may yet claim the courage of him who bears thy

motto, ‘Faithful to death.’ Could I own thy dignity, Lady Inez, I might

more fitly grace a throne. Thy dancing eyes, sweet maiden of Sandoval,

recall the valley of home.” Thus, with gracious and courteous words she

received the homage of her new subjects, and won the love and admiration

of the throng.

The ceremony of the presentation over, Pedro and Blanche led the stately

dance of the day; but Pedro’s brow was again clouded, and after the

dance he did not approach the queen. Blanche, accompanied by the queen

dowager and the beautiful lady of Estuniga, promenaded the rooms,

noticing and sympathizing with the conversation and amusements of the

various groups of ladies and cavaliers. In the meantime Pedro retired to

a recess, and beckoned Garcia de Padilla to him. After a short

interview, the king hastily crossed the reception chamber, and taking

advantage of a favorable moment, withdrew by a private door. Garcia

mingled with his friends and gayly bore his part in jest and dance; but

at last he also quietly left the hall. Their absence was at first

unobserved by all but Blanche, whose self-possession almost fled at the

discovery, but she bore the desertion without an outward change of

manner.

“A word with your highness, without delay,” whispered Alburquerque to

the dowager, as he passed through a door which led to her boudoir.

“If my sweet queen, Blanche, will accept the escort of my sister of

Arragon in my place, I may crave the liberty of an hour’s retirement.

The light and gayety distract my older brain,” said the dowager; and

accepting Blanche’s kindly spoken accord, she followed the chancellor.