CHAPTER V.

The following morning, as Mrs. Tower and Jessie were sitting in the

library, with Emilie Jones and her brother, a servant brought in an

awkwardly folded and hastily written note, and presenting it to Jessie,

informed her that the bearer waited in the hall for a reply. Jessie

opened the unsealed paper and read:

“Miss Lincoln,—The buttons on my traveling dress, which you

made, do not give me any satisfaction. This is for you to come

to Mrs. Varley’s this afternoon, directly after dinner, and

alter them, and I shall expect you to make no extra charge for

it.

“ELIZABETH TYLER.

“P. S. Mrs. Varley’s family would be willing to employ you on my

recommendation.”

The color went and came in Jessie’s cheek, as she read the deliberate

insult the writer evidently intended.

“What is it, Jessie?” said Emilie, whose electrical sympathy was

instantly roused, “any thing more from those abominable Tylers? Pray let

me see?” Mrs. Tower looked over Emilie’s shoulder as she read. “What

insolence! Jessie Lincoln, if I were only a _man_, I am sure I should

avenge your insult in single combat! Why, brother, are _you_ a man, and

will you see a lady treated like that?” she continued with thrilling

emphasis, throwing the note disdainfully out of her hands.

“Yes, sister, I hope I am a man,” replied the young naval officer, “but

not quite so hot-headed and reckless a man as _you_ would have made. If

you were on board our vessel, I fear we might have our hands full to

keep you out of ‘affairs of honor!’ Miss Lincoln, I presume,” he

continued, laying down the note, while a flush slowly crept to his

forehead, “has wisdom enough to manage with the contempt it deserves, so

very contemptible an assault!”

“I will reply to it, Jessie,” said Mrs. Tower, as she sat down before

her writing-table and wrote:—

“Mrs. Tower takes the liberty to decline for Miss Lincoln, the

proposition Miss Tyler has seen fit to make, as the change in

Miss Lincoln’s circumstances and prospects renders any further

intercourse with Miss Tyler unbefitting entirely. That

intercourse is therefore at an end.”

Jessie begged that any thing so like retaliation, might not be sent, as

Miss Tyler was unquestionably instigated by the Varleys, who were too

cowardly to assail her only through a tool.

“It becomes me, Jessie, to vindicate the honor of my family, and I feel

justified in checking such effrontery, and foiling it with its own

weapons,” insisted Mrs. Tower.

“Yes, yes indeed!” said Emilie. “I’m glad of it, Mrs. Tower, and I only

wish _I_ had the inditing of the reply. It would scorch like a flame,

I’m sure it would, every word of it. Do, please charge me with the

delivery of the missive, Mrs. Tower! my fingers ache for the commission,

and I’ll add an oral appendix on my _own_ hook!”

“O, no, Emilie,” replied Mrs. Tower, smiling; “I appreciate your

generous intention, but I fear your enthusiasm and indignation might

spoil your embassy.”

Meantime the whole Varley family were indulging in boisterous exultation

over Elizabeth’s “capital trick, to show a mantuamaker girl that she was

out of her reckoning when she sailed into _their_ latitude—she did not

belong with _them_, no how you could fix it;” for it must be

humiliating, indeed, to be ordered to such paltry service after

deceiving such wealthy and important people into showing her some

distinguished civilities. Charlotte said she “guessed it would convince

Mr. Style that there was something to choose between an heiress and a

servant!” Mrs. Tyler simpered from behind her porcelain, that “it would

learn people to know their places—and one _might_ lose some _custom_ by

such a fraud on society—the matter would not stop in a corner!” Annette

declared it was “too good.” Mrs. Varley echoed, as usual, the respective

opinions, as they came from the mint, and Adelaide gleefully suggested

that it “might taste a little bitter to Mrs. Tower’s palate, as she made

such a prodigious favorite of the girl. For _her_ part, she expected

Mrs. Tower would import a colony of chimney-sweeps, to give brilliancy

to society there, she was so much the patron of the ‘lower classes!’”

But the reply came far sooner than it was looked for, and exultation

speedily changed hands with consternation. What could it mean? “Change

in her circumstances and prospects!” What possible interpretation could

be applied to that? Charlotte fell into hysterics, and screamed she

“knew it could mean nothing less than that Jessie Lincoln was engaged to

Mr. Style!” and to complete the excitement, she actually fainted away.

“Good gracious me!” stormed Miss Tyler, almost choking with passion, “I

should like to know what ‘change of circumstances and prospects,’ can

license an impertinent, presuming, poverty-pinched hussy of a

dress-maker to withdraw her acquaintance from a lady of _my_ position in

the fashionable world! Mother, did we tear ourselves from the

importunities of our city friends, and patronize these Varleys, for such

insulting treatment as this? Mrs. Varley, we did not know you lived

among Hottentots, or we should have refused to come here, in the face of

all your urgency, every soul of you!”

Mrs. Varley and her four conscious daughters, vituperated, apologized,

and appeased, as well as their own choler would permit, the excited and

wrathful visiters, who declared “they would leave the house and the town

immediately, and spread the story as far as the newspapers would carry

it, and that was everywhere!” But it was finally suggested by the daring

Adelaide, that her mother should go to Mrs. Tower, clothed with all the

terror of their united resentment, and demand a satisfactory

explanation. Especially was she commissioned to discover if possible

what sudden “change in circumstances and prospects,” had set Jessie

Lincoln upon such a pinnacle over the heads of everybody.

“I declare, girls,” said Mrs. Varley to her daughters, in secret

session, before she started on her errand, “I do feel like pizon about

this affair! I am half skart out of my wits at such a breeze between us

and Mrs. Tower! I wish to the mercy we had never seen these

mischief-making Tylers! As if them that touches porcupines mustn’t

expect the quills! Or them that insults, to be insulted back again. I

don’t believe they are half so _rich_ and _uppercrust_ as they

pretend—and then they make such a sight of trouble! Besides, you know

what I told you I surmised about Mrs. Tower. If it _is_ so, she will be

sure to let me and other people know it, if she hasn’t already!”

The girls all looked doubtfully at each other.

“I wish in my heart these Tylers would go,” said Annette, “for of all

the conceited trumpery old sights that ever I saw, Mrs. Tyler is the

foremost.”

“I cannot express my detestation of Liz,” interrupted Adelaide. “She is

as false and cunning as the very old snake himself, and bad as _I_ am, I

do think _she_ is worse!”

Charlotte had come to life enough by this time to mention Miss Tyler’s

flirtation with Mr. Style, when she was checked by Adelaide with,

“Hush! she is coming—it’s said _somebody_ is always at hand when you

are talking about him!”

“O, do go quick, Mrs. Varley! Havn’t you got ready _yet_? I’m terribly

impatient for that woman’s apology;” said Miss Tyler, as she

unceremoniously opened the door and thrust in her face. “But what are

you talking about with closed doors? _Us_, I presume! You look caught,

every one of you,” and Miss Tyler turned up her disdainful nose, as if

there would be no further amity till she heard a disclaimer of that

offence.

“O, no, no, Lizzie, my dear!” supplicated Mrs. Varley, in her blandest

and most conciliatory tone. “Pray come right in, love, and cheer up

these poor disconsolate creatures while I am gone. Bring my hat and

parasol, Adelaide. Shameful, isn’t it, to drag a body out in this

briling sunshine, on such business?”

“We were saying,” remarked Adelaide, as she handed the bonnet and

parasol to her mother, “how much we do despise these deceitful kind of

upstarts, who pretend to be so much more than they really are!”

“It is the tendency of our American institootions,” replied Elizabeth,

in a tone more pacific, but very affectedly sage, as she settled herself

indolently into a rocking-chair. “They encourage upstarts! You don’t see

nothing of this kind in England. For my part, I think it devolves on the

higher classes to—to—hem—” she found herself unexpectedly wading

beyond her depth, and unfortunately afloat in the high flown piece of

wisdom she had started to express. Charlotte hastened to the rescue, in

a very luminous climax to Miss Tyler’s halting proposition.

“To let them know,” she interposed.

“Yes, to let them know!” replied Elizabeth, with clinching emphasis.

Meanwhile Mrs. Varley was sailing majestically along the street toward

Mrs. Tower’s residence. Her face was very brazen, but there was a

trembling and apprehension in her heart, which communicated itself to

her body, and her hand shook nervously as she twitched the door-bell.

“Is Mrs. Tower in?” she said to the servant who opened the door, in a

very sharp and insolent voice—and before he had time to reply, she

added, “go and tell her that Mrs. Varley wishes to speak with her

alone.”

In a few minutes Mrs. Tower entered the drawing-room, her countenance

and carriage as placid as if never a breath had disturbed her. A cold

and haughty bow was the response she received to her polite and polished

greeting. Mrs. Varley seemed entirely at a loss for her next

measure—she was confused—exceedingly confused, but the sternness of

her coarse features softened not a shadow. Mrs. Tower inquired for the

health of her family.

“Yes, ma’am! it becomes you to ask, I should think,” retorted Mrs.

Varley, very bitterly. “Did you write this note, ma’am?” and she

advanced toward Mrs. Tower with the offending document.

“I did, indeed, Mrs. Varley,” replied Mrs. Tower, as she just glanced at

the note, and gave it back to Mrs. Varley.

“Ah, you did! and you seem very cool and indifferent about it, too, as

if it was a small matter to insult a genteel family like mine, just

because we wont have any thing to do with the lower clashes, nor uphold

_you_ in it,” said Mrs. Varley, losing all control of herself, and

swelling her tones as she grew angrier and angrier, to the keen and wiry

pitch peculiar to the voice of an excited woman. “I’ll thank you to tell

me what it means?”

“Precisely what it says,” replied Mrs. Tower, in a low, calm voice; “but

what do _you_ mean by the ‘lower classes?’”

“I mean all _mantymakers_, and servants, and tradespeople, and everybody

that _works_ for a livin’,” quickly responded Mrs. Varley—she was

fortified on that point. “I’d have you to know that my family is too

rich and high up in the world to have any thing at all to do with them

sort of folks, whatever _yours_ may be, Mrs. Tower! But I know one’s

bringing up has a great deal to do with one’s genteelety—it don’t set

easy on everybody!”

“A very pertinent remark, Mrs. Varley,” replied Mrs. Tower, with an

effort to repress a smile. “I conclude you do not embrace your visiters

in your catalogue of the ‘lower classes?’”

“No, indeed! that’s what I don’t! they are very wealthy, and

fashionable, and high-bred people, and know all the richest and

fashionablest people in the city of New York; and what’s more, they know

how to resent an affront as well as some other folks—I guess you will

find out.”

“I must take the liberty to correct one of your statements, madam,”

replied Mrs. Tower. “Mr. Tyler, the husband and father of your visiters,

rents his hardware store in New York of the business agent of my adopted

daughter and heiress, Miss Jessie Lincoln, to whom I have given my

estates in that city. And, moreover, he is so deeply indebted for

borrowed capital, to support the extravagance of his wife and daughter,

that every farthing he possesses would not liquidate his debt. So much

for the wealth and independence of the _tradesman’s_ family. As to the

fashionable part of the story, without any arrogance I may assert that

my acquaintance for years has included the first and wealthiest families

in New York, and I venture to affirm that in those circles Mrs. Tyler

and her designing daughter were never so much as heard of!”

Mrs. Varley began to look crestfallen.

“Well,” she rejoined, “I don’t know but it _may_ be so, but I have no

reason to think it is. At any rate, they don’t hug up mantymakers, and

take ’em out visiting with them!”

“Mrs. Varley,” replied Mrs. Tower, rising from her chair and assuming a

moral majesty before which her narrow-souled assailant quailed, “I

acknowledge it is exasperation which prompts to the disclosure of

another truth, which may sound rather painfully to your pride. I deplore

the occasion, but you have really driven me to it, in order to vindicate

the dignity of my family, which you have willfully wounded. Mrs. Varley,

_you_ were a servant in my father’s house—you contracted a vicious and

disgraceful marriage with a servant in a large gambling establishment in

the city of Baltimore, where we then resided, and when you ran away with

your husband—my _casket_ of _jewels_ went with you! I _saw_ you take

it, but I forebore to expose you to my father, because I pitied your sin

and folly, and I knew the severity of his sense of justice and injury

would pursue you without mercy, so he died in ignorance of your crime.

You lived in degradation and poverty for years and years, and I have

seen those fastidious daughters of yours, now so sensitive lest they

should be contaminated by contact with what you are pleased to call the

“lower classes,” ragged and hungry in the streets of C., while I lived

in that city with my departed husband. And more than once have I carried

food and clothing to the miserable abode you called your home. Do you

remember your own almost mortal illness when the cholera scourged that

city? Some fortunate stakes at the gaming-table subsequently put Mr.

Varley in possession of considerable sums of money, and the diligent

pursuit of the same vicious business for many successful years, has put

you and your family in possession of an independent fortune. For these

facts I can refer you to authorities if you will. Now, have I read this

chapter of your private history correctly?”

Mrs. Varley turned every imaginable color as the relation

proceeded—pale, red, speckled and spotted. She was utterly confounded

for a moment, and then she exclaimed, as she seized Mrs. Tower’s passive

hand in both her own.

“Josepha Gordon! I have sometimes thought it must be the same!”

“Josepha Gordon was my maiden name,” replied Mrs. Tower, calmly yet

sorrowfully watching the whirlwind in poor Mrs. Varley’s soul. “Twenty

years, and bitter sorrows, have wrought more changes in me than fortune

has in _you_, Cynthia Varley. But have I spoken truly?”

Mrs. Varley could scarcely reply; she sunk down upon the sofa completely

overcome. Mortification and deep humiliation seemed to paralyze her

faculties. Tears, and sobs, and groans, right pitiful to witness

followed. One moment a storm of furious passion rose in her bosom, and

the next a torrent of tears poured over her cheeks.

“It is all true,” she stammered at length; “but O don’t, for mercy’s

sake, don’t expose us! It would be our ruin, our utter ruin, and I am

sure I have suffered enough already. I will restore your jewels

fourfold,” and she began nervously working at a magnificent diamond that

sparkled on her bosom.

“Keep the jewels, Mrs. Varley. I do not need them, neither will I accept

what you have so long called your own,” said Mrs. Tower mildly. “I know

not what remorseful visitings have struggled in your heart, but if they

had wrought a moral renovation there, I would have left this painful

story in oblivion, and spared you so much humiliation. Believe me, Mrs.

Varley, _money_ is not the true criterion in estimating respectability

or character, as you seem to judge. That man is poor indeed who only

possesses heaps of shining gold, though so great he cannot count their

value—but the wealth garnered in the heart, the gems of virtue set

around the immortal soul, are the only imperishable riches, which are

the legitimate and justifiable ambition of an imperishable nature. I

will keep your secret sacredly, as I have kept it these many years that

we have been neighbors and acquaintances. I will only exhort you to

remember, madam, that there is nothing dishonorable in honest,

laborious, physical industry—the working with one’s hands. The fact

that my beloved Jessie toiled to provide for the comfort of her sick and

indigent parents, and discharged with her own noble efforts all their

pecuniary obligations, only renders her more admirable in my estimation,

and worthier to receive the inheritance I feel honored to bestow upon

her. Hereafter she will be recognized as my own daughter.”

Mrs. Varley was perfectly subdued. The character of the lady she had

come armed to annihilate, stood out sublimely before her, in contrast

with her own conscious duplicity and assumption—humbled and silenced

she rose to go, with very much the feeling of an arrogant general

vanquished and routed, and forced into a disgraceful and disordered

retreat.

My pen is unequal to the description of the scene at Mrs. Varley’s own

house, when she at length reached home, and detailed to her daughters

the whole story, and relieved the suspense of her guests, by so much of

it as related to themselves. Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth decided to leave

in the first train the next morning, bearing with them any thing but the

cordiality and good wishes of their hostess and her five daughters, who

gave the “metropolitan friends” definitely to understand that they

regarded themselves most scandalously imposed upon, by the shabbiest of

pretenders, and that any further acquaintance would be unthought of,

which complimentary farewells the guests fiercely retorted.

Mrs. Varley very shortly concluded that the health of her family, which,

in truth, had suffered somewhat by their unexpected defeats, required

journeying; and in a few days the house was closed, the servants

discharged, and the household had departed, rumor said to spend the

winter in Cuba. And not long after the citizens of N. were very much

astonished by an advertisement in the papers, stating that “the entire

establishment lately occupied by Mrs. Cynthia Varley, deceased, would be

sold at public auction on such a day—house, grounds, furniture, plate,

horses and carriages, etc., and that the sale must be positive, for

cash.” Subsequently the melancholy report was confirmed, that Mrs.

Varley and her fair and beautiful Charlotte were taken with violent

fever on their journey southward, and had both died. The fate of the

survivors remained in mystery, as the administrator of the estate had no

liberty to communicate their place of residence, or their future

intentions. No doubt they chose some fashionable resort, and I fear

became the prey of fortune-hunters.

Mrs. Tyler, on her return to New York, found not only that her husband

was bankrupt, and his affairs in a state of irretrievable ruin, but his

mind also was a perfect wreck, fluctuating between idiocy and insanity,

but its coloring always that of the most hopeless depression. Jessie

Lincoln’s bounty long supported him at a lunatic asylum, while his wife

and Elizabeth managed to support themselves by the proceeds of a small

millinery shop.

The revolution of a few years brought some interesting changes over the

society of N. Jessie Lincoln, the faithful and dutiful daughter, became

the beloved and lovely wife of—“The Rev. Mr. Style of course!” cries my

hasty reader. “Who ever read a story where the hero and heroine were not

finally married? it is an event to be fully anticipated.” Then, indeed,

is my tale a novel one. Be not too confident in coming to conclusions,

because precedents happen to be in their favor.

Jessie Lincoln became the beloved and lovely wife of Lieutenant George

Jones! I do not know but she would have married Mr. Style, if, like too

many others, he had not lingered in the vestibule of the temple of Hymen

till another hand lighted the torch, and proudly stood beside her at the

altar. The heart of Jessie Lincoln was irrevocably given, with all its

wealth of love to the young naval officer, and the minister was left to

regret his too confident and presumptuous delay when regrets were

unavailing. But Jessie was a “mourning bride”—for only a few weeks

after her marriage, her noble and beloved patroness sickened and died,

leaving Jessie and her husband the proprietors of her tasteful and

elegant mansion, and the principal heirs to her estate.

“But did Mr. Style—such a fine young man, and so royally gifted,

consign himself to a gloomy celibacy, and live and die a

bachelor—‘which being interpreted,’ is _half a man_?”

Nay, reader, I’ll hasten to tell you that Emilie Jones, that wild,

hair-brained, passionate, but truly generous and high-minded Emilie,

learned lessons of gentleness and piety, and married—because they

mutually and earnestly loved—the young clergyman of the church of N.;

and by bequest of Mrs. Tower, the beautiful residence of the Varleys

became the village manse, and their lovely home!

* * * * *

TO INEZ.—AT FLORENCE.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

I wonder how thou look’st,

In thy home far, far away,

Where thy voice, like Summer’s streamlet,

Is singing all the day.

Is thine eye as bright as ever?

Have thy footsteps lost their bound,

That they had when last we listened

To the moonlit ocean’s sound?

Has thy young heart quit its dreaming,

’Neath thy own pure sunny skies,

In those nights when stars are vieing

With the lustre of thine eyes?

When the dreams of youth were flinging

Their roses round thy way,

’Mid the perfumed airs of spring-time—

That herald in life’s May.

Say, does the Arno run as clear,

Beside thy palace walls,

As when upon its waves we looked

From out thy father’s halls?

Music was there when last I pressed

My lips upon thy brow.

And left thee—eye, and voice, and form,

Are all but _memory_ now.

But memory, such as o’er the heart

Its rainbow arch still throws,

As bright as when on ocean’s breast

Its sunlit beauty glows—

Is with me now; the forest shade,

The brook, the flower, the tree,

The tones of music ’mid the night,

Are peopled all with thee.

Then, Inez, in that distant clime,

If still thou think’st of me,

At evening when thou goest out

Upon the tranquil sea,

Our souls shall meet—for kindred ones,

That bow at memory’s shrine,

Oft meet in dreams, and thus my heart

Shall often join with thine.

* * * * *

COMMUNION OF THE SEA AND SKY.

BY ELVIRA JONES.

It was a night whose starry ray

E’en matched the brilliant hue of day,

A night replete with gifts of June—

A flowery earth and silver moon.

Sleep softly waved her opiate rod,

And stilled all things on earth’s green sod.

The ocean slept, so gently breathing,

Scarce I marked its bosom’s heaving.

In em’rald couch the flow’rs reposed,

The violet’s azure eye was closed;

The balmy, odor-laden air

Scarce stirred beneath its burden rare,

Though oft a slumbering breeze would wake,

And on its harp sweet music make;

The list’ning waves would catch the lay,

With silver lutes so sweet they’d play

That e’en the peerless nightingale,

Warbling within some quiet vale,

Would cease his matchless melody,

To list, and dare no rivalry.

At last a swifter breeze did come

Down from its far off heavenly home;

Bright dew-drops on its wings it bore,

The fairest gems of midnight’s store;

O’er all the earth like stars they lie,

As if to imitate the sky;

Brighter than monarch’s sparkling gem

Was the lowly flow’ret’s diadem.

Methought indeed ’twas _love’s_ own hour—

He could not choose a fairer bower—

A scene so still, so void of strife,

So stirless, yet replete with life.

A lily by a rose-bud stood,

Partaking of its honey food,

With tender and confiding grace

They waved to each a fond embrace.

A star in the far azure sky

Heard a murm’ring streamlet’s sigh,

His image in her bosom still

He saw, and blessed the gentle rill.

A zephyr sought the rose’s bower,

To serenade the lovely flower,

Yet all unlike the constant star,

He sees the streamlet from afar.

For her forsakes his tender rose,

To her his love would fain disclose;

She trembled at his light caress,

_Yet kept the image in her breast_.

Sudden a voice that came along,

As softly as a fairy’s song,

Or like the wind-harp’s faintest sigh,

That scarcely lives ere it doth die,

Folded the pinions of my thought,

And deep and mute attention brought—

’Twas the voice of the far off sky

Whisp’ring its scarce heard melody

To its kindred sea, whose list’ning waves

Scarce stirred within their azure caves.

“Ocean, sleepest thou thy nightly rest?

Or with thy weight of stars so prest,

Thou canst not hear my lay of love,

My wooing whispers from above?

Thy brilliant burden I will lift,

Awhile withdraw my nightly gift;

My graceful clouds shall intervene,

No more thy brilliant load is seen.

Now listen to my nightly song,

My voice unheard to mortal throng.

“How strange none mark our sympathy,

And yet how like I am to thee.

My voice to thee a passage finds

In music of the tuneful winds,

While soft thy murm’ring waves reply

With a sound more faint than joy’s sigh.

“I gaze at thee with eyes of light,

With loving look, from orbs as bright,

Thou answer’st me. My beams I send,

As messengers to thee. They lend

A golden chariot to thy waves,

In which they leave their dark blue caves

And joyously to me they come;

Though grieved to leave their native home,

In purple mansions here they dwell,

But mark thy bosom’s sorrowing swell,

And weary of their absence long,

Again they seek their home of song.

“Within thy bosom hidden lie,

Fair pearls unseen to mortal eye—

I, too, have jewels e’n more bright—

My dew-drop gems, which deck the night.

“In their blue home thy gold-fish rove—

I, too, have children whom to love,

My fairy birds who sport along,

Here in their happy world of song.”

The voice was still. The ocean sighed,

In harp-like tones its waves replied—

“Our converse, unperceived by men,

Still lasts, though sound is hushed, e’en then,

Though winds are still, nor waves rejoice,

I speak to thee in silence’s voice.

What gives to us our hue of love,

This azure tint, below, above?

It is our _depth_, unseen, profound,

_In shallow-hearted man ne’er found_.”

The voice of the sea was hushed.

A fairy cloud the heavens brushed,

And tears of joy the sky was weeping,

Aroused the wavelets lightly sleeping,

They sprang to meet so playfully,

A union ’twas of sea and sky.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE BULLFINCH.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphrys from an original

drawing]

* * * * *

COLORED BIRDS.—THE BULLFINCH.

FROM BECHSTEIN.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

This is one of the indigenous tame birds which is a favorite with the

rich and noble. Its body is thick and short. Its whole length is six

inches and three-quarters, of which the tail measures two and

three-quarters; the beak is only six lines in length, short, thick, and

black; the iris is chestnut-colored; the shanks eight lines high, and

black; the top of the head, the circle of the beak, the chin, and

beginning of the throat, are of a beautiful velvet black; the upper part

of the neck, the back and shoulders, deep gray; the rump white; the

under part of the neck, the wide breast, and to the centre of the belly,

are of a fine vermilion, less bright, however, in the young than old;

the blackish pen-feathers become darker toward the body; the secondaries

have the outer edge of an iron blue, which in the hinder ones is

reddish. The tail is rather forked, and of a brilliant black, tinged

with iron-blue.

The female is easily distinguished from the male, for what is red on him

is reddish-gray on her, while her back is of a brownish-gray, and her

feet are not so black; she is also smaller.

This species has some singular varieties; the principal are:—

1. The _White Bullfinch_, which is of an ashy-white, or wholly white,

with dark spots on the back.

2. The _Black Bullfinch_. These are most generally females, which become

black, either with age, when they are only fed on hemp seed, or with

having been kept when young in a totally dark place. Some resume at

their moulting their natural colors, others remain black; but this black

is not the same in all; some are of a brilliant raven black, others

dull, and not so dark on the belly; in some the head only is of a raven

black, the rest of the body being duller; in others the black is mixed

with red spots on the belly, or the latter is entirely red. I have seen

one in which the head and breast, as well as the upper and under parts

of the body, were of a raven black, every other part of a dull black,

with the wings and tail white; it was a very handsome bird, rather

larger than a redbreast.

3. The _Speckled Bullfinch_. It is thus called, for, besides its natural

colors, it is spotted with black and white, or white and ash color.

4. The _Mongrel Bullfinch_. It is the offspring of a female reared in

the house from the nest, and of a male canary. Its shape and color

partake of those of the parent birds; its note is very agreeable, and

softer than that of the canary; but it is very scarce. This union rarely

succeeds; but when tried, a very ardent and spirited canary should be

chosen.[5]

5. The other varieties are: the _Large Bullfinch_, about the size of a

thrush, and the _Middling_, or _Common_. As to dwarf birds, which are

not as large as a chaffinch, it is a bird-catcher’s story, for this

difference in size is observed in all kinds of birds. I can affirm it

with the more certainty, having had opportunities every year of seeing

hundreds of these birds, both wild and tame. I have even in the same

nest found some as small as redbreasts, and others as large as a

crossbill.

HABITATION.—When wild, bullfinches are found over Europe and Russia.

They are particularly common in the mountainous forests of Germany. The

male and female never separate during the whole year. In winter they

wander about everywhere in search of buds.

FOOD.—When wild the bullfinch does not often suffer from the failure of

its food; for it eats pine and fir seeds, the fruit of the ash and

maple, corn, all kinds of berries, the buds of the oak, beech, and pear

trees, and even linseed, millet, rape, and nettle seed.

In the house those which run about may be fed on the universal paste,

and, for a change, rape seed may be added; those which are taught must

be fed only on poppy seed, with a little hemp seed, and now and then a

little biscuit without spice. It has been remarked that those which are

fed entirely on rape seed soaked in water live much longer, and are more

healthy. The hemp seed is too heating, sooner or later blinds them, and

always brings on a decline. A little green food, such as lettuce,

endive, chickweed, water-cresses, a little apple, particularly the

kernels, the berries of the service tree, and the like, is agreeable and

salutary to them.

BREEDING.—These tenderly affectionate birds can hardly live when

separated from one another. They incessantly repeat their call with a

languishing note, and continually caress. They can sometimes be made to

breed in the house, like the canary, but their eggs are rarely fruitful.

In the wild state they breed twice every year, each time laying from

three to six eggs, of a bluish white, spotted with violet and brown at

the large end. Their nest, which they build in the most retired part of

a wood, or in a solitary quickset hedge, is constructed with little

skill, of twigs which are covered with moss. The young ones are hatched

in fifteen days. Those which are to be taught must be taken from the

nest when the feathers of the tail begin to grow; and must be fed only

on rape seed soaked in water and mixed with white bread; eggs would kill

them or make them blind. Their plumage is then of a dark ash-color, with

the wings and tail blackish-brown; the males may be known at first by

their reddish breast; so that when these only are wished to be reared

they may be chosen in the nest, for the females are not so beautiful,

nor so easily taught.

Although they do not warble before they can feed themselves, one need

not wait for this to begin their instruction,[6] for it will succeed

better, if one may say so, when infused with their food; since

experience proves that they learn those airs more quickly, and remember

them better, which they have been taught just after eating. It has been

observed several times, that these birds, like the parrots, are never

more attentive than during digestion. Nine months of regular and

continued instruction are necessary before the bird acquires what

amateurs call firmness, for if one ceases before this time, they spoil

the air, by suppressing or displacing the different parts, and they

often forget it entirely at their first moulting. In general it is a

good thing to separate them from the other birds, even after they are

perfect; because, owing to their great quickness in learning, they would

spoil the air entirely by introducing wrong passages; they must be

helped to continue the song when they stop, and the lesson must always

be repeated whilst they are moulting, otherwise they will become mere

chatterers, which would be doubly vexatious after having had much

trouble in teaching them.

DISEASES.—Those bullfinches which are caught in a snare or net are

rarely ill, and may be preserved for eight years or more; but those

reared from the nest are subject to many diseases, caused by their not

having their natural food, or by those injurious delicacies which are

always lavished on favorite birds; they rarely live more than six years.

The surest means of preserving them healthy for a long time, is to give

them neither sweets nor tit-bits of any kind, scrupulously to confine

their food to rape seed, adding now and then a very little hemp seed to

please them, and a good deal of the green food before mentioned. The

bottom of their cages should be covered with river sand, as the bird

there finds some stones which aid the functions of the stomach. Their

most frequent diseases are moulting, costiveness, diarrhœa, epilepsy,

grief, and melancholy, in which case they are quite silent, and remain

immovable, unless the cause can be discovered. They must not be given

any delicacy, and must be fed entirely on soaked rape seed. A clove in

their water, proper food, and particularly a good deal of refreshing

green food, enables them to pass the moulting time in good health.

-----

[5] However difficult this pairing may be, it sometimes succeeds very

well. A bullfinch and female canary once produced five young ones, which

died on a journey which they could not bear. Their large beak, and the

blackish down with which they were covered, showed that they were more

like their father than mother.—_Translator._

[6] I do not recommend the employment of bird organs for instructing

birds, because they are rarely accurate, and their notes are harsh and

discordant; for bullfinches repeat the sounds exactly as they hear them,

whether harsh or false, according to the instrument used. The good and

pure whistling of a man of taste is far preferable; the bird repeats it

in a soft, flute-like tone. When one cannot whistle well it is better to

use a flageolet.—_Translator._

* * * * *

TIME AND CHANGE.

BY ISAAC GRAY BLANCHARD.

Time’s flood sweeps on with ceaseless flow,

And o’er all things that are below

Change hath his empire: every day

Some object testifies his sway,

The falling leaf, the fading flower

Show Change and Death are Nature’s dower;

And every day that passes o’er us

Takes something time shall not restore us;

Some dear delight, some hope in blossom,

Some cherished memory from our bosom,

Some holy impulse which Heaven lent us

When first on life’s fair voyage it sent us,

Some sunny hue of childhood bright,

That blest us with its lingering light,

Some pleasant friend, some earthly stay,

We fondly hoped to keep for aye,

These hearts of ours, though once so bright,

Have less and less of love’s young light;

The world has lost the charm it had,

Even Nature seems less green and glad,

And from our bosoms, shut and lone,

Faith, like a beauteous bird, has flown.

O, Time and Change! how strong ye be!

How unlike what we were are we!

* * * * *

WOMAN’S HEART:—A SONNET.

FOR JULIA.

BY REV. RUFUS HENRY BACON.

Like to a calm and placid inland bay,

Hemmed in by leafy solitudes and hills

That ward the ruder winds, and kindly stay

The tempest—where the forest song-bird fills

Its peaceful shores with music through the day,

And moonlit silence claims the evening hours—

On whose sweet borders bloom the choicest flowers—

A woman’s heart should be. In which alway

The cloudless heavens may smile, and gentlest ray

Of stars glide down, to emblem forth the sway

Of purity and truth, and happiness

Made up of innocence and loveliness

Of soul—so rarely found in this sad world of ours,

Where evil mars the good, and wastes divinest powers.

* * * * *

A TRAVELER’S STORY.

BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.

We had been out since early morning, rambling amid the rough romance of

the Scottish Highlands, in the vicinity of the far-famed Loch Katrine.

With Sir Walter’s picture of that “burnished sheet of living gold,” with

its surrounding hills broken by trossach, dell and valley, in my mind’s

eye, I own that I felt disappointed, as I stood upon an isolated rock at

the foot of “huge Ben-Venue,” and looked up to the feathered crests of

the eternal _mountains_, (by courtesy,) and then gazed where Katrine

“In all her length far winding lay,

With promontory, creek and bay,

And islands that empurpled bright

Flouted amid the livelier light.”

The scene _was_ grand, and very beautiful, and no soul can be more

susceptible than mine to the beauties of Nature in her solitudes of

mountain, lake and woodland; but I had expected too much. It needed the

love light of Sir Walter’s Scottish heart to give the scenery, in my

eyes, the loveliness it wore for him. To me the rough hill, with its

shingly bosom, its tufts of heather, and ravines fringed with yellow

broom, and feathery fern—the precipitous rocks and wooded slopes—the

pebbly beach and abrupt headland—the cloud-checkered heaven above—and

the deep, clear lake that mirrored all these in its trembling bosom,

were but as the multitudes of hills and lakes, which every where

diversify the surface of our earth. I was disappointed, and of course

inclined to underrate the real beauty and sublimity of the grand theatre

by which we were surrounded. The enthusiastic admiration which burst in

ejaculatory phrases from my companions became distasteful to me; and

partly to relieve my own peevishness, and partly to escape from the

distasteful demonstrations of the company, I struck into a narrow path

that wound spirally along up the precipitous rocky tower at the base of

which I had been standing. Higher and higher I ascended, botanizing

amongst the plants and lichens, until a stone on which I placed my foot

gave way beneath the effort I made to spring higher, and alas for my

_excelsior_—after a rapid but very rough descent, I found myself

prostrate on the pebbly beach—half buried in rubbish, and the faithless

stone that betrayed my unwary foot lying very uncomfortably upon what

should have been my lower limbs, though at that time they were elevated

considerably above my head, fixed, as in a vice, between a hillock of

pebbles and the fallen mass of rock. Great was my fright, greater my

pain, and greatest the consternation and alarm of my companions, who

soon extricated the fallen greatness from its perilous position, and

discovered that one of my legs was badly fractured, and both severely

crushed, while several serious bruises, in other parts of my person,

rendered me quite helpless, and apparently in great danger. What now was

to be done? There was a real tempest of sighs, groans, and lamentations,

and no small shower of tears; a goodly number of which fell from the

dark eyes of dear little Charlotte M’Lane, a perfect highland fairy, who

had been the joy beam of the party, through the day; ever moving, and

never weary, glad herself, and gladdening all around her. Now she sat

amid the cloaks which were spread for my accommodation, on a heap of

gathered fern, and supported my head in her lap, soothing, condoling,

and weeping by turns—or all together. And I, notwithstanding my sorry

plight, felt a queer kind of pleasure in being the object of such care

and solicitude, to one so young, so lovely, and so joyous-hearted. But

what was to be done? Night was gathering her shadows in the dells—and

though the day had been fine, we began to feel that

“Not the summer solstice there

Tempers the midnight mountain air.”

There seemed no means of conveying my poor mangled carcass along the

rugged paths of that broken district, and despair seemed gathering with

the gloom of the evening.

Just at this juncture, a young man who stood above me on a crag burst

out with a tremendous hallo-o!! and continued to shout boisterously, and

wave his square yard of perfumed linen, with a grotesque earnestness. It

was soon apparent that he was signaling a boat, which appeared to be

crossing the lake, half a mile above us, and which was rendered visible

by

“The western wave of ebbing day.”

She returns my signal, cried Harry, jumping from his eminence, and

immediately roaring out that he had sprained his ankle most

unmercifully. Our comrades drew off his boot, and using it in place of a

pitcher, commenced pouring water on the injured limb. Meantime the boat

approached us, a commodious yacht built craft, carrying two oarsmen and

a young highlander, who realized my idea of Sir William Wallace, for he

was at once the most beautiful, noble and unconscious creature that my

eyes ever rested on. Addressing us with a lofty and yet gentle courtesy,

he inquired in what way he could be of service to us. Our forlorn

condition was soon explained to him, and it was speedily settled that he

should convey Harry, myself, and fairy Charlotte, to his mountain home,

while one of his boatmen should pilot the residue of the party to the

main road, where we had left our carriages. The young Scotsman, whose

name was Malcomb Douglas, assured us that we should receive both medical

and surgical attendance at his father’s house, where we should be

welcome until we were recovered of our injuries, or until we were

pleased to leave. My couch was speedily transferred to the bow of the

boat, and dear, lovely Charlotte was soon again burdened with my languid

head, for by this time I was both dispirited and faint. I took no note

of the voyage, except that our benefactor took the place at the oar of

him whom he had sent as guide to our party; and long before we landed

the night was dark, for the young moon, which shed a trembling radiance

on the opposite mountain shore, left our side of the deep, dark water in

a blacker shadow.

At length we landed, and I had become so stiff and sore, from my undrest

injuries, that I lost my consciousness as they lifted me from the boat,

and on the ninth day after, awoke to find myself in a magnificently

furnished room, lying in a bed which might have beseemed a monarch,

while near my pillow, in an antique velvet-cushioned easy-chair,

reclined my fairy Charlotte, in a deep but apparently troubled sleep. I

soon recollected all that had befallen me, except the lapse of time

since the memorable night, and thinking that we had recently arrived,

did not wonder that Charlotte had sunk under her fatigue. So I composed

myself to sleep and kept her company in the land of dreams.

I awoke again. It was still night, at least it seemed so in that

darkened apartment, but I could distinguish the rich and heavy ornaments

of the walls and ceiling, and the sumptuous embroidery of the heavy

tapestries, which swept from the lofty cornice to the floor; the antique

chair also stood by the bedside, but its late occupant was not there. I

moved, and raised my head somewhat from the pillow, when from the

concealment of my bed-curtain came forward a stately lady, apparently

fifty years of age, wearing a rich dress of black satin, and holding a

small golden night-lamp in her hand. She looked earnestly into my eyes a

moment, and then with a gentle grace, which betrayed no surprise or

other emotion, she inquired how I had rested, and if I found myself

better of my wounds. I replied that I felt quite well, when she shook

her head, bade me be quiet, and took her seat in the vacant chair.

Presently Charlotte stole softly into the room from a curtained recess,

and meeting my smile of recognition, uttered a cry of joy, laughed,

danced, wrung her hands, and finally wept like an infant, despite all

the efforts of the dark-robed lady to quiet her transports. I now

discovered that I had been a week delirious, and considered in a very

precarious condition; that Harry was nearly well, and that he and

Charlotte had been my constant attendants, aided by the lady present,

and other members of her household. Soon after a silvery haired old man,

came to my bedside, and being introduced as my physician, congratulated

me with courteous politeness on the favorable change in my condition,

adding that with proper care my recovery would be certain and speedy.

Did you ever enjoy the luxury of an easy convalescence, surrounded by

every comfort, and attended by a smiling beauty, and jovial young

companion? What Elysium-like dreams employ the languid fancy—and what a

world of impossibilities gather around us, like tangible and familiar

things. I dreamed of a life of love and joy with fairy Charlotte. I

would win her, and bear her like a rich trophy to my transatlantic home.

Oh! we would be so happy. How would her buoyancy of spirit enhance all

my joys; and her ready sympathy, how it would soothe my sorrows; and

then what a nurse she would be, whenever I was ill. She liked me, that

was certain; of course I could win her love, and then my happiness was

secure. And I indulged in all the passionate vagaries of love dreaming,

until I felt that unconnected with Charlotte there was for me no

futurity. Thus passed one week more, and then I was permitted to occupy

the cushioned chair, and sit by the open window. It was singular that I

had felt so little curiosity respecting my host, and the singularity of

surrounding objects, but my love fancies had fully occupied my mind.

Now, as I sat at the casement, which extended from floor to ceiling, and

had no other protection for the crystal crown-glass than the clinging

vines without, and the embroidered tapestries within, and looked out

upon the wild scenery, apparently uninvaded by the hand of cultivation,

which substitutes the useful for the beautiful, the production of Art

for the sublimity of Nature, I felt the awakening of a thousand wonders,

as to where I was, and with whom, and how the wealth of that chamber

found its way to that singularly hidden spot; and who was the stately

lady who occasionally came to my bedside; and how such a man as Malcomb

Douglas came to be an inhabitant of those mountain wilds? I had seen him

but seldom, since I regained my consciousness, but his manners were

perfect, and his conversation displayed unconsciously the treasures of a

rare and richly cultivated intellect. He seemed a being altogether above

the level of mankind. It would have seemed absurd to fancy him talking

nonsense, discussing fashions, or inquiring what he would get for

dinner. Yet he was not ignorant or unmindful of the courtesies, and

little conventionalities of life—but he seemed to hold them of no

moment, and give no thought to such trifles—which came to him

intuitively, and as belonging to daily intercourse.

As I thus mused, gazing down upon the lake, and away to the opposite

hills, I observed, shooting out from behind an abrupt headland, a

beautiful little sail-boat, in which stood Malcomb Douglas, and which,

coming round the point, ran into a white pebbled bay, just in front of

and beneath my window; and then from a clump of hazels emerged my idol,

Charlotte, supported by no other than Harry Heath, who, it then occurred

to me, had mentioned in the morning that he should take my gentle nurse

out for a little exercise, as she was suffering from her close

attendance upon me. She was beautiful in the distance, but as she clung

to Harry’s arm, and looked up familiarly into his face, I felt a pang of

jealousy, the first that had ever wrung my bosom. They stepped into the

boat, and sat down together, and the little craft, as if proud of her

freight, put off gallantly along the shining water. And Charlotte would

be by Harry’s side—how long?

“I fear you are in great pain,” came in anxious, inquiring tone upon my

ear.

I started—my jealous feelings were living on my face. “Just a little

twinge,” I said, “occasioned by shifting my position indiscreetly.”

“You should be very careful,” returned the good man who had been my

surgeon and doctor from the first, and who now advanced, examined the

position of my fractured limb, and took a seat beside me at the window.

“How gallantly yon little boat holds her way, with her living freight of

beauty, love and happiness,” he murmured, as if communing with himself;

“and yet a single blast of the mountain storm may whelm her, with all

her warm young hopeful heart, deep down in the cold weltering waves.” He

finished with a deep sigh, and a cold shudder ran through my frame, in

response to his fearful words. “Do not let me make you melancholy,” he

said, after a pause; “but I am an old man, and have endured many

sorrows, and have grown distrustful of the promises of happiness.

Reverses come so unexpectedly.”

“I think,” said I, timidly, “that the owners of this mansion must have

known some strange reverse of fortune. It seems so singular to find the

manners of a court, and the luxury of a palace, in a rough stone

mountain dwelling.”

The old gentleman looked earnestly in my face a moment. “I have never

spoken of these things to any one,” he said, “but if you feel

interested, I will tell you a tale, to beguile the time until the return

of your companions. Fifty years ago—for I am now seventy-eight—the

lady whom you have seen in this chamber was the loveliest creature that

ever existed out of heaven.”

“Fifty years!” I exclaimed, “why she is not more than fifty years old.”

“So any stranger would suppose,” was the quiet reply; “but she is near

seventy. But fifty years ago she was young, and lovely, and joyous;

more, she was the only and idolized daughter of a princess of the realm,

whose foreign lord fell in battle, having never seen his infant child.

The widowed princess lived in seclusion, though in the neighborhood of a

court; and though her daughter, the Lady Anna, received every advantage

in the way of education, she was never presented at court, or allowed to

mingle with courtly society. And, indeed, she seemed to feel no desire

for ostentatious display or admiration, but rather delighted in the

quiet of domestic life, and the unceremonious intercourse of confiding

friendship. I will not tell you whose son I am, but I was not deemed an

unsuitable companion for the royally-descended Lady Anna. My sister was

the friend and confident of the princess, and I was a privileged visiter

at her palace-home, and much in the society of her daughter from her

childhood. I am an old man now, but then I was a boy, and had a young,

ardent heart. I cannot tell when I first loved the Lady Anna. It seems

that I loved her from eternity. She was always perfect in my estimation.

Her actions were precisely what I would have dictated, and her words,

the expression of my heartfelt sentiments. And then she was so

beautiful—so truly beautiful. Not pretty; any young girl may be so

dressed and ornamented as to appear pretty—and we frequently hear of

styles of beauty; but true beauty is independent of dress or adornment;

you adore it, not because it is tastefully arrayed, but because it is of

itself adorable. I have seen ladies receiving homage as belles and

beauties, who, in homely attire, and engaged in household toils, would

have been really repulsive; but Lady Anna would have been entrancingly

beautiful in any dress, or at any occupation; and notwithstanding her

royal descent and superior attainment, she was gentle, unassuming, and

of a loving and confiding nature. To me she was always frank and like a

loving sister; and, oh, I was happy, perfectly happy in the possession

of her pure regards. I had not thought of a change in our relations, of

an interruption of our intercourse, of a separation—_never_! I felt as

if we should live on, for and with each other forever. Every place where

she had been was hallowed; every thing that she had touched, sacred in

my estimation; and whatsoever she had looked upon was dear to my eye,

and I felt that the light of her glance rested upon it. All my thoughts,

and words, and deeds, had reference to her, and her approval was the

whole aim of my life; and yet the selfish thought of appropriating her

to myself, of making her _mine_, was no part of my soul’s worship. To be

near her, to see her, and to hear her voice, was enough for my young

heart.

“She was fifteen, and I three-and-twenty, when my guardians resolved to

send me as confidential secretary to the minister to Sweden. I ought to

have felt myself honored by this appointment, but I felt only an agony

of grief. To go away from Lady Anna, and all the places where we had

been together, was a trial which almost made me frantic. But I could not

decline the appointment—I must depart. The affair was so sudden, and I

had so little time for preparation, that I found no opportunity for a

private interview with Lady Anna. She expressed deep regret at our

approaching separation, but I felt, and keenly, that her sorrow was not

like mine, not the desolation of soul that made the day dark and the

night sleepless to me. Then I longed to tell her all my love—then I

felt that I would have her all my own; and then I doubted for the first

time the existence in her bosom of a love answering to my own. And in

this state of mind the day of departure found me.

“‘You will write by every opportunity,’ she said, as I held her hand in

my tremulous grasp. Her voice was low and sad, and as she looked into my

face, tears gushed over her long eyelashes and fell large and bright

upon her bosom. My soul was a whirlwind. I prest her hand to my lips,

and hastened with unsteady steps from her presence.

“Three years—only three years—and yet they seemed three ages, was I a

wanderer in stranger lands. I did write whenever I found

opportunity—but opportunities were not so frequent fifty years ago as

they are at present. So my missives were few, and only twice in those

three years was my heart delighted by the receipt of a letter from Lady

Anna.

“Sweet and gentle were her words, like those of a loving sister, and yet

they did not satisfy my spirit. I longed for one passionate regret, one

ardent expression of hope for our reunion, one sentence that evidently

gushed involuntarily from a devoted heart. These were not in her

letters.

“When it was announced to me that we were speedily to turn us homeward,

my heart leaped up with a great bound, and then seemed to sink,

pulseless, in my bosom. It was an agony like death; and from that hour

until we landed on our native shore, my mind was a perfect chaos, or

rather a tumult of opposite and contending emotions. Joy was fettered by

apprehension; hope was throttled by deadly fear, and doubt, like a

strong giant armed, beat back every ray of gladness, every beam of

joyous anticipation, every spirit that dared to whisper of happiness to

come. I thought of every event that might have occurred during the three

years of my absence—of death—change—misfortune—and I almost wished

for death, rather than the knowledge that awaited me; and yet I knew not

what was in store.

“I arrived. The white cliffs—the silver beach—the green shore of my

native land, were all unchanged. The majestic Thames was all the same as

when last I passed adown its tide; the mighty city, with its towers and

palaces, gleamed in the sunlight, as it had done since my boyhood.

_There was no change._ My soul became calm, and as I traced the old

familiar streets, and looked up to the well known buildings and paused

in the shadow of the well-remembered trees, my heart became joyous, and

I sped on to the abode of my dear and only sister. I should hear of Lady

Anna there.

“I did hear. The princess had fallen into a decline. A sojourn in Italy

had been named as her only chance of recovery, and to Italy she had

gone, accompanied, certainly, by her only child, the Lady Anna. They had

been gone nearly a year, and I need not tell you, that as soon as I

could make arrangements, I followed them to that far-famed lovely land.

“They were at Pisa. I found them there. Our meeting was full of

gladness—but _they were changed_. The princess was wholly subdued by

pain and weakness. She was attenuated in person, and the lofty

expression of her face was softened by a look of meek endurance. Her

voice was low, and her smile—it came seldom—was sad, exceedingly.

“And Lady Anna, anxiety and watching had taken away the buoyancy of her

person, and the sunlight of her spirit. She received me joyfully; but

ere the first interview was over, I detected a restlessness, a sort of

watching and insecurity in her eye and manner which had no reference to

me, and for which I accounted by referring to the precarious state of

her only parent’s health. Several times that day I observed her eyes

fixed on her mother’s face, and dimmed with gathering tears.

“I discovered that here, as at home, she lived in seclusion, never

mingling with the gay world, and I sought to draw her into society, with

a view to divert her mind from its sadness. ‘I cannot join the dance, or

listen to sweet music,’ she replied, ‘while my dear mother is suffering

at home.’ I however persuaded her to go with me to some of the public

exhibitions of the beautiful in art. We had visited several galleries,

cabinets and churches; we had stood side by side, wrapt in awe or

admiration; we had walked together amongst the sweet breathed flowers,

and beneath the shadowy trees; we had stood upon the sea-coast, when the

stars looked down upon their trembling images in the deep mirroring

waters; we had looked together on many entrancing beauties of Nature as

well as of Art; and I had felt my soul struggling to pour out before her

the treasures of the inner temple of its love, but a something in her

manner restrained me—I could not tell her of a passionate love. Now she

was unto me as a loving sister—a declaration would change the relation

between us, I knew not if for joy or sorrow.

“A mournful day arrived. The princess, who was forgotten by her country,

fell unexpectedly asleep to awaken no more till the heavens pass away.

“Lady Anna arose from the heavy blow, and assumed a calm melancholy of

demeanor. Yet, to my surprise, she spoke not of returning home. Months

passed, and we were still at Pisa. Lady Anna suffering from an

uneasiness which she could not conceal, and which at times broke forth

in fits of passionate weeping, and again showed itself in almost sullen

silence, or something akin to peevishness. The balance of her fine mind

was evidently disturbed. She had a sorrow which she had not confided to

my love.

“We were walking pensively along one of those glorious avenues, shadowed

by tall, dark leaved trees, one fine June morning, when we saw a gay

party, in open carriages, advancing from the country. Lady Anna, as

usual, drew her veil over her lovely face, and walked on without

evincing any curiosity, but I recognised some of the party, whom I had

seen abroad, and directing her attention to a particular vehicle, the

most magnificent in the _cortège_, I whispered, ‘there is a lady whom I

have heard you wish to see—the Princess L——. Is she not lovely? And

her husband is a noble looking man. Did you ever see his equal?’ I

turned to Lady Anna, expecting her reply. She stood still, and as I

touched her hand I started—it was cold and rigid as the hand of a

corpse. I lifted her veil, and my heart grew cold with fear and wonder.

Her face was white as death, and the features were fixed in an

expression of the most intense agony. The carriages had all passed by,

and there she stood, apparently changed to marble. I spoke to her, I

entreated her to speak or move, and at length the tension of her nerves

gave way, and she sunk powerless in my arms. A vehicle chanced that way,

and I lifted her in, and bore her to her hotel. Sixteen hours she lay

with no sign of life, except an almost imperceptible breathing, and then

she rallied, lifted her head from the pillow, and looked wildly round

the room, then clenching her hands together, she burst into a passion of

lamentation and bitter weeping. I never witnessed distress equal to

hers. She cried aloud, and her tears came not in drops, but flowed in

continuous streams, and every sob seemed as if it had torn her heart

asunder. I dreaded that she would suffocate in that tempest of agony.

But she turned from my attempts to soothe, and wept on until her

strength was utterly exhausted. She did not rise from her bed until

several weeks were past, and then she was more like a corpse than a

living woman. The bloom never came back to her cheek, the smile to her

lip, or the lustre to her eye. She spoke not of the day, or the cause to

the commencement of her illness—and I did not presume to ask any

explanation. On the commencement of her illness I had taken rooms

adjoining hers, and now I frequently heard her walking to and fro in her

chamber a great portion of the night. It was a clear, starry midnight,

one of those holy seasons when the earth is dark, and the atmosphere too

transparent to be luminous, when we look away into the clear ether, and

almost comprehend the immense distances to the bright distant disc of

the innumerable stars. I was sleepless, and stood at my casement looking

out upon earth and heaven. There was a knock at my door. I turned and

admitted the Lady Anna. Pale she was, as usual, but she seemed unusually

agitated. I besought her to be seated, and to honor me with her

commands.

“‘Godolphin,’ she said, solemnly, ‘tell me the name and title of the man

whom we saw seated beside the Princess L——?’

“‘Surely his name is no secret,’ I said; ‘all Europe knows him—he is

king of ——.’

“‘Swear this to me,’ she said.

“‘Poor lady,’ I ejaculated mentally, ‘she is deranged’—but I swore the

oath prescribed.

“‘Now listen,’ she continued; ‘this king, under an assumed name, sought

me in my seclusion, won my love—my _love_, I say,—and we were

privately married, more than two years ago. I need not repeat the

sophistries by which he persuaded me that he had imperious reasons for a

temporary concealment, reasons which I should one day know, and which I

must approve. My mother’s illness rendered it easy to elude her

suspicion, and when you came, we still kept our secret. He was generally

absent from Pisa, on pretence of business—but I saw him frequently. I

was expecting a visit from him daily when we met him on that fatal walk.

I have not seen him since, though he has implored an interview, if but

for five minutes. I will never see him more.’ And a wail of anguish,

which no words could utter, struggled up from her broken heart. I

essayed to speak. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I have not finished. I am dead to

the world. Let it be understood that I lie with my mother. Would to God

it were so, indeed. You will serve me. I know you will. Provide for me,

then, a retreat, where none who ever knew me may hear of me again. I

have contemplated death—suicide; but I will live to weep, and pray, and

suffer.’

“Oh, what words for my ear were these. I felt to thank heaven that the

darkness enabled me to hide my emotions from her, for my suffering was

terrible. I felt light and hope, earth and heaven, at once annihilated.

When she declared that she had loved another, my heart died within my

bosom. It has never since throbbed as it was wont to throb at every

thought of her. I no longer loved, but existence had become a void. The

fair temple of my youth, with its idol, and all its beautiful treasures,

was at once swept away, and the dark flood rolled sluggishly where my

joys had been. I felt, not agony, but desolation; not regret, but cold

despair. But I would live for her sake—she was miserable, and I could

assist her.

“Then I bethought me of this ancient castle, which had been a stronghold

of my ancestors, and had fallen greatly to decay. I offered to repair

it, and bring her hither. She thanked me warmly, and I came and

commenced my repairs. I had always loved this glorious Highland scenery,

where the mountains lie forever watching the reflection of their

magnificent features in the mirroring lake below, as if watching the

lights and shadows on their rugged brows, and the graceful floating of

the tresses of yellow broom, bound and crowned with the dark wreathing

heather, shining with sunlight, or gemmed with drops of dew, or the

diamonds of the summer shower. And when the summer is old, and like a

forsaken woman, casts her ornaments from her with showers of tears and

heavy sighing; the mountains seem to watch the fall of the verdure on

the bosom of the waters, until they see the splendor of the wintry stars

forming a diadem around their snow-crested heads. These scenes of

sublime beauty, I judged, were well calculated to soothe the tumult in

both our spirits; and here, where the breezes whisper to each other

across the deep, narrow dell, I formed a little paradise of fruit trees

and glowing shrubs, and furnished these rough halls with the

sumptuousness of a palace; and then I brought Lady Anna and her infant

daughter home. To my household I presented her as my sister, and a

widow; and their Scottish hearts received her with a ready sympathy, and

respected a sorrow which seemed to them so natural and commendable. To

those who had known her, I said the Lady Anna is no more. The loss of

her mother broke her gentle heart. My heart was dead, yet I regarded her

as a dear sister; and to this day she knows not that I ever felt more

for her than a brother’s love. And now that we were all the world to

each other, I enjoyed a calm that seemed very like happiness. Her child,

the little Lady Adela, soon engrossed our warmest affections; she was a

sweet and lovely child, but no way like her mother. She had clear blue

eyes, fair curling hair in rich abundance, a complexion of transparent

pink and white, and though delicately formed, she was plump and

exquisitely moulded. Her intellect was wonderful, yet she was a

simple-minded, loving and confiding child. She grew to be a part of my

being. Her mother hardly loved her more than I. Her education was our

delight—she was so docile, so quick to receive instruction. Earth hath

been graced with very few like her. The beautiful bud became a flower,

yet she seemed more pure and spiritual than in her childhood.

“‘If I might ask one boon for my child,’ said Lady Anna, one evening, as

we were speaking of Lady Adela’s future prospects. ‘If I might obtain

one boon for her, I would pray that she might never feel the pulse of

human love.’

“Poor Lady Anna, her experience had been bitter—and mine, I could have

answered, Amen, to her prayer. But a lone traveler craved hospitality at

our postern. He was handsome, noble, and virtuous. Adela learned to

reply to the love which grew up in his heart for her. It was a dreadful

trial to our doating hearts, but we gave her, with our blessing, to her

beloved, and put bonds upon our feelings, when she bade a sobbing

farewell, and left her own dear home for a splendid station in the

queenly city of Edinburgh.

“The knowledge that she was happy in her new home, was a sweet solace to

our loneliness; and when, in less than two years, she came with her fine

young boy to spend the time of the summer heat with us, we were

supremely happy. Womanhood had not dimmed the gladness of her heart, or

withered the flowers of her childish glee and affection. Wisdom had come

to her, unaccompanied by sadness.

“Toward autumn her young husband arrived, to spend a few days and take

her with him home. There was a gay party assembled in these old halls,

and for days there was feasting, and mirth, and music, excursions on the

hills, and parties on the water. It was a lovely afternoon in the fitful

September. The two boats were manned, and the barge provided with

implements and tackle for fishing, took the gentlemen on board, while

the ladies accompanied them in the lighter and more elegant sail-boat.

They shoved out from the shore, with music and shouts and laughter. We

wished them a joyful sail, and turned to our avocations of preparation

for the evening meal and entertainment of the party. We sighed as we

thought how soon we should be left to the old silence and loneliness.

Our preparations were completed—the day was drawing to a close. I found

Lady Anna at this very casement, looking out upon the lake, watching for

the return of our beloved. I took the station I now occupy, but my eyes

rested on my silent companion’s face. She did not look at me, and I

gazed unchecked until the past, with all its shadows rose up around me.

I trembled in every nerve, and felt the waters of the swollen heart rise

tingling to my eye-lids. I knew not what possessed me, but I felt as if

I must kneel before her, and confess all the passion, the presumption of

my youth.

“‘Look! look!’ she cried, ‘they come!’ and far up at the point of yonder

noble bluff, I beheld the boats heading toward home. Just at that moment

came a low growl upon a fitful gust, and instinctively we turned our

eyes toward the west. Black, billowy clouds were surging and heaving

above the mountain crest like a stormy ocean, and down that rugged gorge

the dusky masses of mist came turmoiling like giants wrestling in the

death-struggle, and the winds groaned and shrieked adown the defile.

“Lady Anna grew white—I had seen her so once before; my own heart grew

heavy with a pain like death.

“‘Oh, God! Oh, merciful God!’ came from Lady Anna’s still lips, in

accents of heart-piercing agony. If they could but outstrip the storm;

if they could but near the coast before it leapt upon the lake. It was

evident that they knew the danger, and exerted all their powers; the

boats glided swiftly over the smooth, black surface of the water, which

lay as if concentrating itself to meet the onset of the aerial force.

Our eyes turned from the boats to the upheaving storm; our souls were

aghast in the horrible suspense—fear—dread—extreme terror—held hope

in a throttling grasp; more than our lives were at stake, and we were

powerless—utterly powerless to retard the danger or aid the souls in

peril. We could only stand here, and gaze with wide-open, glazed eyes

upon the scene. Oh, I think I see it now re-enacting before me. The

light sail-boat led in the race, and with our telescope we could

distinguish our child standing upright in the bow, her face raised, as

if watching the portentous clouds, and her white hands clasped over the

black mantle that covered her bosom. At the tiller of the barge stood

her husband, while the sturdy rowers strove to keep pace with the flight

of the sail-boat; and so they sped on to escape, if possible, the

tornado which lay growling like a couchant lion, ready to leap in its

irresistible fury upon them. The dark billows of the cloud lay high

above yon mountain wall, but for a time they seemed to make no progress,

or rather to sink back upon themselves. How our hearts panted and

stretched toward our treasures, as if we would draw them from the peril.

As they were coming from that point, and the storm rising over that

eminence, you will perceive that the wind would take them broadside, and

thus greatly increase their danger. You see that all along the opposite

shore there is no safe landing place, and they were far out on the lake

when they first perceived the clouds rising above the heights. Then

there was no time for thought or reflection, and they seemed to imagine

that their only chance was to reach the shelter of these heights before

the wind should intercept them.

“During the temporary lull of the storm, a trembling angel, almost hope,

hovered over us. Our souls went out toward the mariners, every dip of

their oars fell upon our distended hearts, striking thence a quick gasp,

and a pulse of pain—and thus we stood, the gathering darkness falling

like a mountain veil between us and the objects of our anguished

solicitude.

“Oh, God! what a blaze of lightning rent the gloom, and pierced, like a

shower of flashing poniards, soul and sense; while a clang, as of the

rending to atoms of an iron mountain, stunned our ears. Then the storm

spread its black wings, and sprang like a fierce vulture from the

heights, leaving a line of lurid red between it and the horizon. The

crisis was at hand. Were the boats within the shelter of the land? They

were nearing our side of the lake rapidly. We could not breathe. At that

moment our Adela, who had not moved since we first descried her, lifted

her hands to heaven with an expression of the most agonized despair—and

now the doom fell. With the rush and roar of a cataract the wind came

down upon the lake. It met the water _between us and the boats_. The

spray went up to heaven. Lady Anna sunk back with a shuddering groan.

The lake was a tumult of warring elements. Fierce winds, waters, thunder

and wrestling flames contending in a horrid turmoil. I turned away and

sunk upon my knees beside the mother, whose heart felt upon its

quivering chords the death-agony of the dear one who was perishing in

the boiling waves. My soul was benumbed with horror; I had no word of

hope for her, and there was no consolation. I lifted her form and held

her to my heart, with only one wish, that then and there we might die

together.”

The tremulous voice of the old man ceased, and for a while he wept like

a stricken woman. At length he resumed.

“They were lost—all lost. A few fragments of the boats was all we ever

found. That storm made many mourners beside ourselves. Widows and

orphans, young girls and aged parents, wept the buried in the water. We

all sought to sustain each other; and Lady Anna and myself were

sustained not merely by a submissive dependence upon Jehovah, but by the

sense of a responsibility toward our lost Adela’s infant son. He has

been our care, our hope, our pride. You can testify that there are few

equals for Malcomb Douglas—that is his baptismal name. His father’s

name and title may one day be borne by him, and receive more honor than,

noble as they are, they can confer.

“I know not why I have told you these things, except it be that our

identity may not perish. I will give you on this card our real names,

and, as in the revolutions of nations, the forgotten are remembered, and

the lost found, you may sometime hear of us honorably, or read our story

on the half fabulous page of national history. But I thought not of

these things. When I saw the gay young party put off an hour ago, it

brought the past so vividly to my mind, that I felt constrained to tell

you how the pure may be deceived—how the virtuous may suffer, how the

noble may shrink into obscurity, how the world’s idols may be forgotten;

and, most of all, that nobility, education, moral greatness and purity,

with all gentle virtues and all lofty aspirations, may exist in

retirement, unknown and unregarded by a world that should be proud to

wear them as jewels upon its bosom. But He that doeth all things well,

will reward every man according to his works. So let it be.”

I thanked the old gentleman amid the tears that I could not restrain;

and he expressed his gratitude for my sympathy.

I knew not what effect his story wrought upon me, but I forgot both my

love and my jealously; and heard the announcement of Charlotte M’Lane’s

engagement to Harry Heath with real pleasure. I left the hospitable

mansion of my illustrious host and hostess with deep regret, impressed

with the dignity of virtue, and the importance of a firm trust in the

goodness and wisdom of the Ruler of the Universe. I have since heard the

name of young Malcomb heralded by the voice of fame, and trust that his

career will be one of unparalleled usefulness and splendor.

* * * * *

THE TWO PATHS.

BY MRS. MARY B. HORTON.

The Lord of all things planted a garden at the foot of the hill of life.

It was like a flowered plain. The heavens wore a gentle smile, and the

earth was fresh and green, with no deadness of stalk or stem upon

flowers or trees. The shout of glad, young voices made its music as

birds made the music of the air, and merry troops danced with a

lightness peculiar to that garden of joy, over the soft yielding turf

from which no serpent’s sting ever came forth.

Sweet fountains gushed up in shady places, where the happy ones rested

from their play, and beautiful vistas opened on every side, formed of

bright garlands, which fell on the brows of the childish throng like

crowns. Through the clustering branches of ever-budding trees the bright

light glanced, excepting when a transient cloud passed over, leaving

dew-jewels sparkling in the sun.

This was the garden of infancy—those clouds the fleeting sorrows of

childish hearts which leaves the tear upon the smiling cheek. The

fountains in the shady places were those of sinless memory—the vistas

were Hope’s.

Angels on busy wings swept over the beautiful place, watching, as

messengers of the Great Throne, the doings of these young creatures, who

in the garden of love and peace knew not the roughness of the road which

lay beyond its mossy boundaries. From time to time these angels caught a

sweet one from the dancing crowd, and bore it tenderly to the bosom of

the “Well Beloved.” And such were blessed; for they had only known the

joy of their garden home—their feet had never toiled through the dust

of that hilly way rising beyond the plain. A line of glistening wings

was thus kept up between the garden and the Throne, by the passing up of

angels with their beautiful gifts; and the groups thus broken in upon

were taught to grieve not for sweet companions so well beloved of

Heaven, so that their sunny sports went on with but a momentary shadow.

The gentle lamb and heavenly dove nestled against the breast of fondling

little ones, or answered to their call as if their mate’s. With Hope’s

garlands on their brows, and their feet sandaled with flowers, the

dancers counted not time, as those on the outer hill counted it, by

hours, but let it make its annual rounds unnoticed, until the period

arrived for them to leave the pure retreat. Time was to them no

gray-haired tyrant with a warning hour-glass, but a kind friend laden

ever with roses and smiles. It beckoned them to play, it beckoned them

to rest, and they saw not the different face and burden it sometimes

bore until they had gone out beyond the gates.

Upon a mossy bank in this garden of infancy lay an infant boy. Its

chubby, dimpled hands played with the flowers of innocence and joy that

grew luxuriantly in that pure atmosphere. The light of that blessed

place danced in his eyes, and its sweet music was succeeded by his tiny

shout. While he thus lay, a little girl stole out from a playful group,

and gliding to his side threw her fond arms around him and kissed his

beaming face with the quick love of a warm heart. The baby pressed his

face against his sister’s with an answering lovingness, and passed his

fingers through her curling hair with a low laugh of happiness, echoed

with the maturity of two summer’s longer life, by the little one bending

over him. How holy a thing was the love they bore each other, and how

stainless were their souls as each answered to the other in purity and

joy. The angels rested on their clear wings to write upon their

foreheads “of such is the kingdom of heaven,” and rejoiced that they

were appointed guardians over them, to whisper good when evil tempted

them upon the outer hill.

Some of the older ones even in that peaceful place looked out upon the

hill with longing for the journey. They saw the continuous band of

youths and maidens going out from the garden gates, and longed to reach

the age which was to free them from the gentle laws of their garden

nursery. Oh, how sad was the reasoning which had led to this desire—how

sure the pleasures of that sweet place they dwelt in—how bitter might

be the anticipated delights of the Hill of Life. The gay crowds hurrying

up the hilly way seemed in the distance like a merry company with no

care or pain. Their shouts and songs came on the breeze like the

gushings of sunny hearts knowing no cloud. The listening ears of the

waiting ones inside the gates heard not the sighs which broke from

gifted spirits, they caught not the silent prayer of the weary and

broken-hearted.

The baby boy had grown to take his place in the line of youths who were

to leave forever the home of childhood and its innocent delights. His

sister was by his side, and on their dear young heads an invisible hand

was laid blessingly, as they stepped out upon the dusty way. They had

left their home of joy, they were to walk evermore upward, upward,

through unknown snares and by the borders of dreadful depths. Yet their

hearts beat hopefully and strong, and the first day’s travel was so easy

and so new, that they mourned not for the childish sports of the garden

left behind, and gayly looked forward to their life-long pilgrimage.

Flowers they found in their way somewhat resembling those their infant

hands had plucked, and sweet voices fell upon their ears which sounded

quite as holy as those in their first home. They talked together of the

teachings they had so often listened to, of the warnings they had been

impressed with, as the time drew near for them to leave the garden

gates. In their young wisdom they believed their guardian teachers had

looked with perverted eyes upon the travelers of the hill, and with over

earnest zeal had given them too dark a character. They had spoken of

serpents hidden beneath the grass—of snares like a mine laid out under

flowery beds. They had painted false smiles, and spoken of honeyed words

spoken to deceive. They had prayed that the guileless travelers would

allow themselves no chain which might seem to be of flowers, but would

prove to be of iron, eating deep wounds into the soul. What could they

have meant by all these pictures and all these prayers? The way had been

as yet but short, yet surely as they looked up, the same appearance of

ease and joy broke on them. They still walked hand in hand, still loved

such flowers as they loved in the plain beneath, still looked toward the

Throne at morning and at night as their eyes had ever been led to do.

Their ministering angels still followed them on wings of joy, because

they walked so pure and lovingly, and would have spread their brightness

round them to have kept off evil forever, if their Lord had not given to

these travelers of the hill a work for their own hearts, which, if “well

done,” would meet with a most bountiful reward. Prayer, in time of

danger from a false step or slippery way, would bring their willing aid,

but prayer must first be warmly breathed to show a holy faith.

On, on they went, guarding their days by morning adoration, and bringing

by their evening supplication sweet rest to their feet and beautiful

visions to their hearts. They had been told that at a certain point two

ways met, of which they must choose the right or left. And soon they

found themselves surrounded by a hesitating crowd at the entrance of the

paths. The narrow one had for its guide-post the holy book of their

Lord, with opened page, from which, in golden characters, spoke

forth—“The way to Heaven.” At the entrance of the other was a figure,

the body concealed with flowers, but the face exposed. The eyes were of

ravishing delight, and the mouth dropped musical and melting tones,

which to that company of inexperienced youth seemed like the sweet

promises of heavenly joy. She told of beautiful and social scenes,

prepared in lovely places all along the roomy and cheerful way she would

lead them through. She spoke with smiling lightness of the dull routine

of duties and unexciting pleasures of the path which so few choose, and

pointed gayly with tempting finger to the laughing crowds treading the

broad way of which she was the queen—and what a queen! So fair of face,

so full of joyousness, so innocent of speech. She spoke of the Great

Father who was the lord of all upon that hill, and with delicious

earnestness pleaded for the hearts of that young company, because their

lord would not condemn their feet for dancing on the flowers she would

strew along their path. He would not be so cruel-hearted as to frown

upon His children’s joy. Oh! how the company of angels, who hovered

round, watched for the decisive step of the young creatures they had

followed from the garden walls. Some had hid their faces in their bright

wings for grief, when they had seen the cherished beings of the innocent

home choose the left hand path which their heavenly natures knew would

lead to Death. Yet, with faces veiled, they followed the deluded ones,

in hopes to win them back before they strayed too far.

And what was our brother’s and sister’s choice? The boy looked wistfully

toward the glittering throng, which danced and laughed amid the wreaths

and brilliant artificial light of the broad way, but followed his

sister’s guidance toward the path whose light was from the Throne. The

angels, whose care they were, rejoiced, and followed with a low song of

triumph the holy travelers.

The boy, through love for his dear friend, murmured not for a time at

the calm and peaceful way they trod. But his imagination, naturally so

vivid and bright, had nothing to revel in as they walked upward side by

side with holy men and pure, who sung the praises of the Good King as

they rose toward the crown. This crown glittered upon the summit of the

hill as a promise of eternal rest and joy for the unmurmuring and

patient traveler.

But the heart of the young man became listless; and his eyes became dull

to see the lustre of the crown as it shone fast by the Lord’s high

throne. From discontent he went to murmuring. His sister and his angel

whispered loving words to the clouded heart, and sought earnestly to win

it back to feel the beauty of the journey they had commenced so

joyfully. But no! the distant sound of mirth, the distant glitter of

fine sights, and spectacles appearing so ingenious and rare, caught his

wandering senses at every turn. His quiet journey became a burden to

him. His sister’s face became a sad reproach. The crown looked dim upon

the summit. To his changed eye the holy men and women walked like monks

and nuns in solemn company. His excited fancy would make it seem

injustice that the Lord who made the way, should have had its pavement

so hard and rough, when the broader path was carpeted with flowers,

which could yield to the bounding foot so gently, and ever be so fresh.

More and more the prospect changed to his changed eyes. The ascent now

was steep and wearisome, and oh! how the sad, sweet face of his garden

friend, the sister of his childhood passed on the mossy banks, how it

looked upon him longingly, as if the pilgrimage even in the narrow way

would be half sorrowful if he went not up with her to the end. His angel

shone from her eyes its look of pleading, but all were lost upon the

evil-awakened youth, who saw no stars in that pure heaven, no guide in

that pleasant way worth following. More and more as his heart gave up

the treasures of its infancy, the revel of the other path broke on his

ear. His eyes gazed oftener on the distant groups than on his sister’s

face, or the high crown. That sister prayed, besought with tears that he

would let his guardian spirit guide him, that he would call upon the

messengers of the Throne to disarm the tempters who were changing his

heart. And yet he, the object of that fond one’s watching thus far upon

the road, he who in sweet babyhood had been her pride and hope even in

her own young years, he turned and left her! Turned and fled, not daring

to look back and catch another glimpse of her pale face! he fled, and

how short was now the way to Pleasure’s arms; the gain of long year’s

travels how quickly lost. He stood once more where the two paths met,

and looked a moment on the plain below, where yet was green the home of

his childhood’s innocence. For a moment came the memory of the spirits

he had carried from it as inmates of his soul. He gazed upon its quiet

loveliness, and sighed in his bewilderment and guilt, for the season of

his infancy, that he might be again a child and play amongst those

garden flowers.

It could not be! And sealing his brow with the stamp of determined

hardihood, he turned from the retrospect of his boyhood’s purity, and

gave his hand to the fair-faced queen, who welcomed him more gladly that

he came from the rival path.

How wildly did he enter now into all the scenes of that gay place! He

sought to drown his angel’s whisperings in revels, and at first he

succeeded well, for the parties he joined were of those, who, like

himself, were neophytes to the reigning queen, and were not yet quite

slaves to the hideous form so shrouded in flowers. But the innocent

joyfulness grew more evil at every step, for in this gay kingdom there

was no restraining power, and the poor misguided youth who had left the

quiet walk where every onward step induced to purity, now saw the ruin

which came by unsuspected agencies upon the hearts and forms of these

thoughtless travelers. Guilt grew more familiar at every turn. He could

see that his companions grew old before their time, and almost

imperceptibly changed their careless mirth and slight indulgences to

wicked merriment and love for evil practices, which they would have once

despised.

Palaces rose up on every side, filled with sparkling drinks, which

drowned the voices of grieved angels, and gave exulting life to the

dread demon of Human Will. The laughter which had come faintly to his

ears when he was by his lost sister’s side, like the sound of a joyful

stream, now was like a raging river, wild and ruinous. Gay women

fluttered on with “Vanity” written in jewels upon their foreheads, and

the beauty of their girlhood lost under the weight of fashion’s charms.

How the heart of that lost wanderer turned to his sister’s memory, and

read there how chaste, how simple, how lovely she walked, unmindful of

the garments her body wore if her spirit shone in the garb of holiness.

He looked toward the path she was now treading alone, and could tell her

untiring step, and see the light of her high brow as it was at times

uplifted to the throne—praying for him! Those gay women looked like

painted sepulchres as he turned back; and though they shook their

jeweled fingers at him playfully, and tried to win his admiration by

outward charms, his heart compared them with the gentle presence of his

sister in the heavenly path, and it learned to lothe the beings whose

souls were unadorned and dark. They had been beautiful, but had lost the

roses of their cheeks, the jewels of their eyes, the sweet sign of

modesty upon their brow, and now owed Art a debt which grew with every

year.

As he went on he found corners of the road darkened by groups of human

forms with faces of spirits from the cave of darkness where the fire

burns. They watched with starting eyes the ivory balls they rolled, or

painted characters they handled, as if they were the chances of Heaven;

and when their gold was lost would start up furious, and commit some

dreadful deed upon themselves or their companions. Disgusting pictures

of indulgence and debauchery in every shape, now met the almost frenzied

eye of the regretful wanderer. Carelessly besotted feet trod the

uncertain borders of the frightful precipice, or with uneven step

stalked on toward the gulf of hopelessness. The light, which had been so

dazzling at the commencement of the way, had been put out, and darkness

would have been over all that crowd, if the mercy of the Throne had not

let its light fall upon the guilty ones, that, if they would, they might

see their passage back to the holy way.

Oh! had that wanderer tasted all the joy he fancied could be drunk of in

that broad path? Had the glittering scenes been real? Had the promises

of the syren been fulfilled? Had his heart been satisfied with the

friendship, his feet with the flowers of that fair-seeming place? Oh,

no! His brain was reeling with the discordant sounds, his senses were

confused, his heart was agonized by the cries of rage, and complaints

breathed bitterly against the Throne. Oh! could he dare brave the sneers

of his companions and turn back: Could he, distressed and weakened, run

the gauntlet of that deriding crowd! Oh no he had no courage left for

such a trial. He knew the purity of his brow was gone, the freshness of

his heart; and how, if he ever should escape from that dreadful way,

would his sister’s eye rest on him?

As he thought of this, he turned toward the path of her calm pilgrimage,

and saw a greater light as a halo round her pale brow, and her pleading

eye still turned upward toward the Throne! His angel gently whispered

“fly!” And as he stopped upon his course to listen, he felt the pressure

of the hand which had been laid upon his head as he went out from the

garden-gates, and his strong heart came back! His feet forgot their

weariness, his eye grew large with hope, his spirit threw off its

cowardice, and with a loud, clear voice, which his sister caught as a

joyful answer to her prayers, he declared himself a prodigal, and

entreated all that graceless company to follow him to peace and

happiness.

Oh! how many accents there were in the answering shouts that filled the

echoing way. Despair sent up its dreadful note—shame and defiance added

their discordant tones. From the deep caves of guilty sorrow came a

wail, and from lone places where the body diseased with crime lay

suffering, a cry arose which chilled even the polluted blood of those

who wandered in guilt so near.

None answered the returning one with like repentance, although from the

heavy eyes of some a faint desire for a moment gleamed, to flee with him

from misery. But the laugh which rung so loud, and with such a mocking

echo of contempt, put out the spark which might have kindled to such a

glorious blaze, and he turned alone upon his backward way. And now

fingers were pointed at him, laughter followed him—his garments were

laid hold of to arrest his steps. Many who sighed for his courage, and

envied him the way his face was turned, laid stumbling-blocks before his

feet, to turn them back—to gain a triumph over him would make their own

depravity seem less dark. But they could not conquer him. His angel

strengthened him, and he kept the name of the Great Lord upon his lips

and in his heart, and so he made his way free from the striving hands

and tempting wiles of his companions, and joyfully reached once more the

side of his sister in the upward path.

* * * * *

THE RAIN.

BY T. A. SWAN.

The birds sing gayly in their bowers,

And we can gather what they sing;

But what, falling ’mong leaves and flowers,

What is the soft rain whispering.

I cannot understand their word—

Some tale those bright drops tell, I know,

For the corn leaves move as if they heard,

And barley fields nod to and fro.

The lily turns its chalice up

To catch the legends as they fall,

And on the blue-bell’s tiny cup

Rings many a fairy festival.

The brooklet o’er the meadow spreads,

And then, like elves, they dance and sing;

And clovers hang their blushing heads,

Like little creatures listening.

It is some good thing they relate;

For when the cloud has passed the sun,

The green fields smile with joy elate,

As the world had put new glory on.

And so, to me, they chant a strain

Uncomprehended by the sense,

But when they dash the window-pane,

I feel their soothing influence.

They lead me back to some bright scene,

Some fair spot in the shadowy past,

Which glows like the broad moon’s silver sheen

Far off upon the waters cast.

They ope the pleasant gate of dreams,

And from the phantom-world beyond,

How visions bright, in golden streams,

Like gift from an enchanter’s wand.

Kind dreams of sweet imagining—

Of the maiden fair shall love me well;

But mystic are the strains they sing,

Who she may be they will not tell.

And through the Future’s golden aisles,

They bear me up on angel wing;

And many a truth I’ve learned the whiles

From the bright rain softly whispering.

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

[Illustration]

THE CAROLINA PARROT.

This bird is the only species of Parrot found native in the United

States. It not only abounds in the rich and flowery groves of our

Southern States, but is found in great numbers among the prairies of the

West, on the banks of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and even along the

shores of Lake Michigan. Most Parrots droop or die in cold weather; but

the Carolina Parrots are frequently seen during a snow-storm, flying

about in flocks, and by their loud cries seeming to enjoy the

consciousness of their own hardiness. But though a resident in our

Western States it is rarely seen east of the Alleghanies. Its favorite

food—the seeds of the cockle-bur—abounds in the wilds and forests of

the West. Amid the rich alluvial soils, shaded by dense forests of

sycamore and buttonwood, or covered with impenetrable swamps, the

Carolina finds a secure and delightful retreat. Here also are found the

seeds of the cypress and hackberry, and the beech-nut; while the soil

abounds with those formations known as licks, the salt of which is much

relished by the Parrot. The Carolina possesses a full share of that love

for destructive mischief which appears indigenous to his genus. In the

natural state it cares little for apples, if other food be at hand, but

it delights to mount an apple-tree, and twisting the fruit off one by

one to strew it over the ground.

The Carolina Parrot is about thirteen inches long, and twenty-one across

the spread wings. The head is red, the neck a rich yellow; and in other

parts of the body these colors are sprinkled with considerable

profusion. The remaining plumage is mostly a bright green, changing to

yellow, with light blue reflections. The feet and bill are either a

cream or flesh color, and the claws and shafts of the large feathers

black. The plumage of the female differs very little from that of the

male; but the young birds undergo several changes of color before

assuming the dress of their parents.

In captivity this bird appears to lose little of its sprightly habits,

although it never becomes entirely reconciled to the cage. Unless

closely watched it will gnaw and break through the wood of its cage, and

twist the wires, for the purpose of escaping. On the whole, it is a

pleasing companion, being in a great measure destitute of the love for

clamorous screaming which distinguishes most of the other Parrots. Its

usual food in the cage should be corn and beech-nuts, but if hungry it

will eat apples, various kinds of seeds and berries.

Wilson in his American Ornithology gives the following interesting

account of the Carolina Parrot, as seen by him in its native haunts in

the West:

“At Big Bone Lick, thirty miles above the mouth of Kentucky River, I saw

them in great numbers. They came screaming through the woods in the

morning, about an hour after sunrise, to drink the salt water, of which

they, as well as the pigeons, are remarkably fond. When they alighted on

the ground, it appeared at a distance as if covered with a carpet of the

richest green, orange and yellow; they afterward settled in one body on

a neighboring tree, which stood detached from any other, covering almost

every twig of it, and the sun shining strongly on their gay and glossy

plumage, produced a very beautiful and splendid appearance. Here I had

an opportunity of observing some very particular traits of their

character: Having shot down a number, some of which were only wounded,

the whole flock swept repeatedly around their prostrate companions, and

again settled on a low tree within twenty yards of the spot where I

stood. At each successive discharge, though showers of them fell, still

the affection of the survivors seemed rather to increase; for, after a

few circuits around the place, they again alighted near me, looking down

on their slaughtered companions with such manifest symptoms of sympathy

and concern, as completely disarmed me. I could not but take notice of

the remarkable contrast between their elegant manner of flight and their

lame and crawling gait among the branches. They fly very much like the

Wild Pigeon, in close compact bodies, and with great rapidity, making a

loud and outrageous screaming, not unlike that of the Red-headed

Woodpecker. Their flight is sometimes in a direct line, but most usually

circuitous, making a great variety of elegant and easy serpentine

meanders, as if for pleasure. They are particularly attached to the

large sycamore, in the hollow of the trunks and branches of which they

generally roost, thirty or forty, or more, entering at the same hole.

Here they cling closely to the sides of the trees, holding fast by the

claws, and also by the bills. They appear fond of sleep, and often

retire to their holes during the day, probably to take their regular

_siesta_. They are extremely sociable, and fond of each other, often

scratching each other’s heads and necks, and always at night nestling as

close as possible to each other, preferring at that time a perpendicular

position, supported by their bill and claws. In the fall, when their

favorite cockle-burs are ripe, they swarm along the coast or high ground

of the Mississippi, above New Orleans, for a great extent. At such times

they are killed and eaten by many of the inhabitants; though, I confess,

I think their flesh is very indifferent. I have several times dined on

it from necessity, in the woods, but found it merely passable, with all

the sauce of a keen appetite to recommend it.”

[Illustration]

THE WASHINGTON EAGLE. (_Haliætus Washingtonii._)

For a long time this bird was almost unknown; and though specimens of it

appear to have been examined even by scientific men, its identity as a

distinct species remained hidden until the year 1814. In February of

that year Mr. Audubon, while voyaging up the Mississippi, noticed here

and there a solitary bird, soaring above the rocky cliffs, entirely

different, as it appeared to him, from any species with which he was

acquainted. After much search he discovered an eyry on the high cliffs

of Green River, in Kentucky, and was enabled to make such observations

as convinced him that this was a new, and hitherto unknown, species of

Eagle. From its noble bearing and majestic size, he named it the Bird of

Washington, a title by which it is now generally recognized. Some,

however, confound it with the White-tailed Eagle, and others affirm that

it is but a full grown Sea Eagle. With better reason it is supposed to

be either identical with the great European Sea Eagle of Brisson, or but

a variety of that bird. Audubon considers the species as rare. His

principal residence is among the rocky shores of the Mississippi, the

Missouri, and the great northern lakes—in those gloomy solitudes rarely

disturbed by the step of man. Winter drives it from these favorite

haunts nearer to the abode of civilization; and in a severe season the

Washington Eagle has been seen in the vicinity of Concord and Boston.

His principal food is fish; but instead of obtaining it in the same

piratical manner as is common with the Bald Eagle, he descends, like the

Osprey, into the same element with his prey. The circles which he

describes in flying are wider than those of the White-headed Eagle, and

when about to dive for prey, he sweeps downward in spiral rings, as

though endeavoring to prevent the fish’s escape. When within the

distance of a few yards, he darts forcibly down, and rarely fails to

secure his object. He is also remarkable for flying near the surface of

the water, especially when retiring with his prize; and when near the

shore he may often be recognized by the same peculiarity.

The Washington Eagle is capable of being domesticated, and is then

gentle and docile. The quantity of food necessary to sustain him, either

in captivity or among his native wilds, is very great; and it would

appear that they are capable, more than most birds of prey, of

generating fat. Audubon’s specimen was three feet six inches in length,

and weighed fourteen and a half pounds. Others have been weighed, much

heavier. It should be mentioned as a curious fact, that repeated

attempts by Dr. Haywood, of Boston, to poison one of these birds with

corrosive sublimate were entirely unsuccessful, although doses of two

drams were given to it at a time.

The general color of the upper part of this bird is copper-brown, dark

and shining. The throat and breast are a cinnamon color, the wings

brown, with sprinklings of black, and the lesser wing-coverts rusty

iron-gray. This description should, however, be received with some

caution, in consequence of its being taken from but a few specimens,

which varied considerably among themselves. The head is more convex than

that of the Bald Eagle, the bill more hooked, and the iris of the eye is

hazel, inclining to chestnut. Underneath the foot is notched like a

rasp, to enable the bird to hold its prey. The majestic appearance of

this Eagle, his great strength and superior size, justly entitle him to

a rank among the noblest birds of our continent.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_The History of the United States of America, from the Discovery

of the Continent to the Organization of the Government under the

Federal Constitution. By Richard Hildreth. In three volumes. New

York: Harper & Brothers, vol. 1._

The object of Mr. Hildreth’s ambition in this work is to present an

impartial view of the persons and events of American history in their

natural order and relations, and in his preface he plumes himself on

having accomplished his purpose, at the same time not very modestly

indicating his belief that no other American historian has approached

it. As far as regards his claim to accuracy and impartiality we doubt

not it will be readily admitted, at least in the sense in which he

appears to understand the terms. The history is a useful compendium of

facts undertaken by a man who does not seem to have sufficient sympathy

with his subject to be capable even of partisanship. Everything

indicates that the work was manufactured in a spirit of dogged,

straight-forward, joyless labor. The author has in his other productions

given evidence of passions sufficiently quick and hot, and a talent for

hating almost unmatched for brilliancy and intensity, and our surprise

was correspondingly great to find him in the present work altogether

destitute of enthusiasm, and writing sentence after sentence with no

inspiration even from his blood.

To those who require in a history nothing but a series of facts

presented in a clear style, without any animation in the narrative, the

work of Mr. Hildreth will be very acceptable, and we have little doubt

that his labors of research and composition will be rewarded. It seems

to us, however, that there is a great difference between facts as they

are in themselves, and facts as they are treated by Mr. Hildreth.

Whatever view may be taken of our fathers, there can be no doubt that

they were alive, and we have a right to demand that the narrative of

their actions, however close it may adhere to the literal truth, shall

represent living men and living events. The representation of a fact,

therefore, implies a sympathy with it either personal or imaginative,

and a capacity to convey it to another mind not only in its form and

dimensions, but in its coloring and spirit. The difficulty with Mr.

Hildreth’s facts consists in their lifelessness. He is “down among the

dead men,” not up and striving with the living, and his style being

deliberately and elaborately destitute of glow and spirit, rejecting all

ornament, and varying not with the variations of his subject, is as

uninteresting as a newspaper account of a railroad accident. In his

narrative of our history, as far as we have read it, there are strictly

speaking no events. The landing of the Pilgrims he recounts in a style

which would hardly suit an account of a New Yorker’s visit to Hoboken,

for the purpose of enjoying a cooler air than he found in the city. The

most adventurous and heroic actions, the grandest displays of

disinterested piety and affection, sink into dull commonplace as treated

by Mr. Hildreth. If this be history, then history is hardly worth the

attention of a live man. We should rather call it historical geology,

having for its subject the fossil remains of men and institutions.

We know there is a large class of readers who consider this mode of

writing history as the best, and who are ready to stigmatize all

realization as romance. To such a class we can commend Mr. Hildreth’s

production. He certainly deserves praise for his diligence, and the

strength of understanding he has evinced in educing a connected

narrative from his multitude of scattered authorities. But he has not

succeeded even in this department of his labors to such a degree as to

justify his sneering allusion to other histories of the country as

“Continental Sermons and Fourth of July Orations in the guise of

history.” This hardly does justice to such a man as Bancroft, whose

History of the United States, whatever may be its faults, has merits of

investigation, narration and reflection, which Mr. Hildreth’s more

prosaic work does not approach.

* * * * *

_Dante’s Divine Comedy: The Inferno. A Literal Prose

Translation, with the Text of the Original Collated from the

Best Editions, and Explanatory Notes. By John A. Carlyle, M. D.,

New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a most valuable addition to the English translations of the

Italian Classics, and is well calculated to convey a vivid impression of

the intense beauty and sublimity of Dante’s immortal poem to readers

ignorant of the original. The translation is faithful even to literal

exactness without being clumsy and inelegant, and the Italian text has

been collated with commendable care and industry. Indeed the whole book

appears to have been a labor of love, and must have occupied the leisure

of many years. To those who are learning Italian the volume must be

invaluable, as it enables them to read the original side by side with a

translation at once correct and elegant.

Dr. Carlyle, the translator, is the brother of Thomas Carlyle. One would

suppose that being so nearly related to the latter, he would sedulously

avoid all imitation of his manner, yet the preface to the present volume

is filled with the most amusing _Carlylisms_. The tone and rhetorical

contortions of his brother, Dr. Carlyle mimics rather than imitates, and

makes the whole matter more ludicrous by his evident straining after

that which on all principles of propriety he should rather attempt

strenuously to avoid.

* * * * *

_Scraps, No. 1. Sketched, Etched, and Published by D. C.

Johnston. Boston._

This thin quarto contains some fifty “hits,” humorous and satirical,

done on steel. The sketcher is D. C. Johnston, one of the first

caricaturists in the country, and an original observer of life and

manners. Several of the illustrations are pictorial essays on popular

follies and vices, and contain matter enough to supply thought for a

volume. We like the idea of publishing occasionally a work like the

present, recording as it does, with almost historical accuracy, the

various forms assumed by the Protean genius of humbug to diddle our free

and enlightened citizens.

* * * * *

_The Philosophy of the Beautiful. From the French of Victor

Cousin. Translated with Notes and an Introduction, by Jesse Cato

Daniel. New York: D. Bixby. 1 vol. 18mo._

Mr. Bixby, the publisher of this elegant little volume, has done a great

deal in his selection of books for republication for the elevation of

public taste. To him we owe the only editions we have of Goethe’s Faust,

and Correspondence of Southey’s Translation of the Chronicle of the Cid,

and of a number of other valuable works. Having removed from Lowell to

New York, we trust that he will continue his speculations on public

taste; and as an earnest of what he intends to do, we hail with much

pleasure this handsome edition of Cousin’s celebrated dissertation on

Beauty, a work written with all that accomplished philosopher’s force

and brilliancy of style, evincing his usual keenness of analysis and

range of generalization, and as readable as it is valuable. We commend

it especially to those English readers who are followers of Alison and

Jeffrey. The subject discussed is one of the most important in the

metaphysics of criticism, and though we cannot say that Cousin has

exhausted it, he has presented his own views in a rhetoric so lucid that

he cannot fail to charm even the readers whom he may not convince.

* * * * *

_Southey’s Commonplace Book. Edited by his Son-in-Law, John Wood

Warter, B. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This volume is calculated to convey even a new idea of the variety of

Southey’s studies, and the exhaustlessness of his capacity of labor. The

number of his works is sufficiently surprising, convicting as it does

most literary men either of indolence or barrenness, but we find that in

addition to writing his original productions, he was in the custom of

transcribing largely from books as he read them, and the present volume,

representing but a portion of these labors, would appear to most readers

a work for a life. It consists of striking extracts from a large variety

of authors, most of them antiquated to the reader of the present day,

and illustrating the manners, custom, opinions, and sentiments of

Englishmen for the last three centuries. The editor, who reports himself

as Southey’s son-in-law, is an excellent specimen of a snob, who cannot

write a sentence without writing himself down an ass. The Harpers have

issued the volume in clear type, on white paper, at about one-fifth the

price of the English edition.

* * * * *

_A Compendium of Ecclesiastical History. By Dr. John C. L.

Gieseler. Translated from the German by Samuel Davidson, LL. D.

New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 8vo._

The publishers of these volumes have rarely issued a book more

intrinsically valuable than the present. It is a work of immense

research and labor, undertaken by a German Professor of Theology, and

indicating vast erudition. The translation by Dr. Davidson is a faithful

reflection of the original, even to the extent of preserving Gieseler’s

rather inelegant though condensed style of writing. The advantage of the

work to students consists in its stating results only in the text, and

reserving the notes for authorities and processes. It is a text book,

not an elaborate history like Neander’s, and as such it has obtained

great reputation for impartiality and ability. The American translator

has availed himself of the latest German edition, and his version is

accordingly the most valuable which has been made on either side of the

Atlantic.

* * * * *

_The Classic French Reader. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol.

12mo._

This is another of Appleton & Co.’s admirable series of educational

books. It consists of selections from the French classical writers for

the last two centuries, with a vocabulary of all the words and idioms

contained in the work. It is edited by Professor Jewett, the American

editor of Ollendorff, and cannot fail to render important assistance to

all engaged in the study of French.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

PARIS, Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61.

_Robes de Mme._ Domicile _r. de Seine S^{t.} Germain, 49—Chapeaux de_

Maurice Beauvais _r. Richelieu_

_Ombrelle_ Cazal _b^{t.} des Italiens, 23—Mouchoirs de_ Chapron et Dubois

_r. de la Paix, 7—Essences de Guerlain r. de la Paix, 11_

_Chaussures de_ H. Hoffmann _r. de la Paix, 8—Fermoir de Gants pass.

Delorme, 20_.

Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

OH, LET THY LOCKS UNBRAIDED FALL.

WRITTEN BY

JOHN W. WATSON. ESQ.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR “GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE,” BY

JOHN A. JANKE, JR.,

Professor of Music.

[Illustration]

Oh! let thy locks unbraided fall,

To-night no gems must check their flow,

And I will pledge thee for the ball.

What hearts will bend in homage low,

Yes,

[Illustration]

lower far than though they held

The fabled wealth of Indies’ main

Or were Golconda’s mines compelled

To yield their brilliant train——

Thus did they fall when first I saw

What since has made me dream by day,

And thus when I in triumph bore

That one loved, straggling tress away.

Then do not bind with gems or gold,

Its dark, voluptuous, rolling swell,

But let those folds lie uncontrolled

I’ve learned to love so well.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has

been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted

below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete

due to condition of the originals used for preparation of the eBook.

page 134, whist the broad ==> whilst the broad

page 135, loadstone of all eyes, ==> lodestone of all eyes,

page 135, of the rael grit ==> of the real grit

page 135, several pedlars had ==> several pedlers had

page 138, the inspecter, having ==> the inspector, having

page 139, with a blithsome ==> with a blithesome

page 142, the cheeerful hearth ==> the cheerful hearth

page 150, her trelliced window ==> her trellised window

page 151, bourne were we must ==> bourne where we must

page 153, chords that bound ==> cords that bound

page 154, all thoughless did begin ==> all thoughtless did begin

page 156, Carroling like free-born ==> Caroling like free-born

page 160, room where their is a ==> room where there is a

page 162, the unenlighted classes at ==> the unenlightened classes at

page 164, pardon my degression, ==> pardon my digression,

page 165, of N. aristrocracy who ==> of N. aristocracy who

page 167, and was the only ==> and it was the only

page 168, Do you hear my my boast ==> Do you hear my boast

page 169, ribbonds and roses; ==> ribbons and roses;

page 171, impertinent listner,” she ==> impertinent listener,” she

page 173, creaturs while I am ==> creatures while I am

page 179, trosach, dell and valley, ==> trossach, dell and valley,

page 180, a clump of hazles ==> a clump of hazels

page 182, in the _cortégé_, I ==> in the _cortège_, I

page 183, solace to our lonelienss; ==> solace to our loneliness;

page 184, of the swoln heart rise ==> of the swollen heart rise

page 185, be one of unparalelled ==> be one of unparalleled

page 189, corn and beach-nuts, ==> corn and beech-nuts,