CHAPTER I.

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[Illustration: THE VALENTINE.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker.]

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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXVI. February, 1850. No. 2.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

February

Patrick O’Brien

The Young Artist

Love’s Influence

The Two Portraits

Myrrah Of Tangiers

The Wilkinsons

Fanny Day’s Presentiment

Gems From Moore’s Irish Melodies. No. II.—The Last

Rose of Summer

The Revealings of a Heart

Life of General Joseph Warren

Editor’s Table

Review of New Books

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

Wit And Beauty

A Household Dirge

The Pirate

Sonnets.—at Twilight

Song

Night Thoughts

Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico

A Spanish Romance

To A. R.

The Pale Thinker

The Evil Eye

Fancies About a Portrait

The Dream of Youth

Le Follet

Wissahikon Waltz

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

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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, February, 1850. NO. 2.

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FEBRUARY.

The flowers which cold in prison kept

Now laugh the frost to scorn.

RICHARD EDWARDS. 1523.

AMONG the ancient manuscripts in the British Museum there is one of

Saxon origin, written by Ethelgar, a writer of some note in the tenth

century. Commenting on the months, he speaks of February, which he calls

_Sprout kele_, because colewort, a kind of cabbage, which was the chief

sustenance of the husbandmen in those days, began to yield wholesome

young sprouts during this month. Some centuries after, this name was

modernized by the Romans, who offered their expiatory sacrifices at this

season of the year, and called _Februalia_. Frequently during this month

the cold is abated for a short time, and fine days and hasty thaws take

the place of rigid frost. From this peculiarity, this month has often

been called by ancient writers by the expressive name of “_February fill

dike_.”

Clare’s verses are sweetly descriptive of this changing season—

The snow has left the cottage top;

The thatch moss grows in brighter green;

And eaves in quick succession drop,

Where pinning icicles have been;

Pitpatting with a pleasant noise,

In tubs set by the cottage door;

While ducks and geese, with happy joys,

Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o’er.

The sun peeps through the window pane;

Which children mark with laughing eye:

And in the wet street steal again,

To tell each other Spring is nigh:

Then, as young Hope the past recalls,

In playing groups they often draw,

To build beside the sunny walls

Their spring-time huts of sticks and straw.

And oft in pleasure’s dreams they hie

Round homesteads by the village side,

Scratching the hedgerow mosses by,

Where painted pooty shells abide;

Mistaking oft the ivy spray

For leaves that come with budding Spring,

And wondering in their search for play

Why birds delay to build and sing.

The mavis-thrush with wild delight

Upon the orchard’s dripping tree,

Mutters, to see the day so bright,

Fragments of young Hope’s poesy:

And dame oft stops her buzzing wheel

To hear the robin’s note once more,

Who tootles while he pecks his meal

From sweet-briar hips beside the door.

The frost often returns after a few days, and binds Nature with his iron

hand. In Great Britain, where the Spring is much earlier than with us,

February is remarkable for what is termed the “_runs_” of moles.

Le Count, a French naturalist, records some interesting notices of the

nature of moles, (an animal not very common in this cold climate,) as

well as the speed at which they travel through their underground

galleries. He observes, “They are very voracious, and die of hunger if

kept without food for twelve hours. They commence throwing up their

hillocks in the month of February, and making preparations for their

summer campaign, constructing for themselves _runs_ in various

directions, to enable them to escape in case of danger; and also as a

means of procuring their food. These runs communicate with one another,

and unite at one point; at this centre the female establishes her

head-quarters, and forms a separate habitation for her young, taking

care that both shall be on a higher level than the runs, and as nearly

as possible even with the ground, and any moisture that may penetrate is

carried off by the runs. This dormitory, if it may be so styled, is

generally placed at the foot of a wall, or near a hedge or a tree, where

it has less chance of being broken in. When so placed, no external

embankment gives token of its presence; but when the soil is light a

large heap of earth is generally thrown over it. Being susceptible of

the slightest noise or vibration of the earth, the mole, in case of

surprise, at once betakes itself to its safety runs.”

We sometimes, though rarely, find the snow-drops, “fair maids of

February,” as they are called, peeping through their mantle of snow, and

the gentle aconite, with its

“Green leaf furling round its cup of gold,”

giving life and animation to the otherwise dank and desolate border.

Leigh Hunt in describing this month says, “If February were not the

precursor of Spring, it would be the least pleasant month in the whole

year, November not excepted. The thaws coming so suddenly produce

freshets, and a clammy moisture, which is the most disagreeable of

winter sensations.

Various signs of returning Spring—

——songful Spring—

Whose looks are melody,

occur at different times during this month. The month of February in

England may well be compared to the month of April in America.”

The author of “The Sabbath” thus vividly paints the sterility of this

month, and its effects upon the “rural populace.”

All outdoor work

Now stands; the wagoner, with wish-bound feet,

And wheel-spokes almost filled, his destined stage

Scarcely can gain. O’er hill, and vale, and wood,

Sweeps the snow-pinioned blast, and all things veils

In white array, disguising to the view;

Objects well known, now faintly recognized;

One color clothes the mountain and the plain,

Save where the feathery flakes melt as they fall

Upon the deep blue stream, or scowling lake,

Or where some beetling rock o’er jutting hangs

Above the vaulty precipice’s cove.

Formless, the pointed cairn now scarce o’ertops

The level dreary waste; and coppice woods,

Diminished of their height, like bushes seem.

With stooping heads, turned from the storm, the flocks

Onward still urged by man and dog, escape

The smothering drift; while, skulking at aside,

Is seen the fox, with close down-folded tail,

Watching his time to seize a straggling prey;

Or, from some lofty crag, he ominous howls,

And makes approaching night more dismal fall.

During this month, the increasing influence of the sun is scarcely felt,

till we approach the end, then hoping, watch from day to day the

lengthened minutes as they pass, to usher in Spring’s holy charms.

* * * * *

WIT AND BEAUTY.

BY AGNES L. GORDON.

IT chanced upon a pleasant day,

In charming summer weather,

That Wit and Beauty sallied forth

To take a stroll together.

And as they idly roamed along,

On various themes conversing,

Young Beauty, somewhat vain, began

Her wondrous powers rehearsing.

And much she dwelt upon the charms

Her outward form adorning,

And seemed to feel herself supreme,

All other merit scorning.

This roused the ire of sparkling Wit,

Who keenly thus retorted:

“Your claim, though easily advanced,

Requires to be supported.

“Mark yon bright bird that wings his flight

Athwart the sunny skies,

Let each on him display our skill,

To catch him as he flies.

“Your chance is first, for well I know,

And own the pleasant duty,

That Wit in every age must yield

Due precedence to Beauty!”

Young Beauty smiled, and charmed the bird

With softened strains alluring,

And bound him with a silken chain,

More brilliant than enduring.

She placed the captive in a net,

Entwined of many flowers,

And with a merry, mocking smile,

Bade Wit now try his powers.

Then from his feathered quiver Wit

A silver arrow drew,

With perfect and unerring aim

He pierced the net-work through.

The bird released, on eager wing

Soared upward to the skies;

A second arrow reached his breast—

He fell—no more to rise!

Beauty looked sore dismayed, to see

Her snare thus incomplete.

When gallant Wit the trophy raised,

And laid it at her feet.

“Could we but journey hand in hand,”

He said to Beauty, smiling,

“No prey could e’er escape my shaft,

Who saw your charms beguiling.

“But since the stern decrees of fate

Our union thus opposes,

And you so oft my arrows blunt,

Beneath a weight of roses;

“Remember, Beauty’s charms will fade,

Despite each fond endeavor,

And strong, _well tempered_ shafts of wit

Her chains will often sever.”

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PATRICK O’BRIEN.

A TALE OF HUMBLE LIFE.

BY H. HASTINGS WELD.

THE father of Ellen O’Brien was a small farmer, whose situation when the

child began to think at all, seemed to her the realization of all that

is happy, and all that is cheerful in this world. Children do think very

early; much earlier than their elders suspect. But happily for them they

are easily contented. They look at the bright side, and unconscious of

the superior advantages, and the greater comforts of others, have no

temptation to discontented comparisons, and no motive for uneasy envy.

Ellen’s earliest memory of marked and positive happiness—that is to

say, of an incident which conferred particular pleasure, was connected

with a child—a _very_ small child. She remembered how her father told

her to “make a lap, now,” and placed the wee thing upon the knees which

she prepared with much ado to receive it. She was told that this was her

little brother, her own little brother; and she hugged it in troubled

happiness, almost afraid to touch, lest she should hurt it. She gazed

upon it with that undefined feeling of mingled awe and pleasure with

which little children regard less children. She looked at its fragile

hands and wondered, if she took them in hers, whether they would fade or

drop to pieces, like the delicate blossoms which she had often killed

with kindness. And when it cried—oh, but she was astonished! That such

a little thing should be so ungrateful while she coddled and cared for

it, and nursed it ever so tenderly, was more than she could well endure.

She thought it well deserved, and ought to have a whipping, only that a

whipping might _hurt_ it—and that she would not consent to.

It was, however, not a great while before a safe acquaintance grew up

between the new comer and Ellen. He was called Patrick, after his

father, and his father’s father before him. Ellen was three years his

senior. That difference in their ages would have been a wonder; only

that it was explainable. Another little Patrick, his predecessor, was

“called home,” as his father said, “before he had scarce a taste of the

world at all.” And Ellen, from hearing so often of the other little

Patrick, and from her indistinct memory of a baby that she saw one day,

as if in a dream, and did not see any more, learned to think of infants

as of little things that would die if they were not carefully watched.

And this Patrick she was resolved should not slip away for want of

attention from his sister; therefore she nursed him as carefully as if

that had been her sole vocation.

The wonder about babies grew less as Ellen grew older. At first, in her

childish little heart, she thought every little baby must be a little

Patrick, and that no new one could come while there was another about.

But familiarity destroys marvels. She found there could be little

Phelims and Terrences as well as Patricks, Bridgets and Kathleens as

well as Ellens. Child after child lifted its clamorous voice for food

and nursing in Patrick O’Brien’s cottage, until at last when he was

asked respecting his children, he was fain to count them upon his

fingers. And he always began with Ellen and his thumb—Paddy came next,

and the formula was—“There’s Ellen, then little Paddy that was called

early, then Paddy that is now—sure Ellen and Paddy are the thumb and

forefinger to us. What would the mother do without them, at all?”

Ellen grew to a fine, stout girl, with a cheerful open face when you

spoke to her—but there was a shade of care and thought over it when in

repose, which you may often see in the oldest daughter of a poor man.

She moved and acted as if while the tribe who had exhausted the family

names of the O’Briens were born children to her mother, she was born

before them for a deputy mother to them all. Legs and arms were all over

the cottage, in all sorts of places where they shouldn’t be, and she

jerked them out of harm’s way, with a half-petulant dexterity which was

pleasant to observe. Tow-heads and shock-heads popped up continually,

and she pushed them aside with a “there now, wont you be aisy!” which

was musical, with a _very_ little discord. And there was an easy and

natural carelessness of authority and half rebellion in obedience, which

was truly puzzling to strangers, but which gave no discomposure to Ellen

or to her mother. Indeed, Mrs. O’Brien sat, the centre of her offspring,

with the most contented air in the world, plying her knitting needles

with easy assiduity, and dismissing child after child from her arms, as

they severally grew out of her immediate province and into Ellen’s. Or

she bustled, if there was bustling to do, with perfect indifference, it

might seem, to one who did not know her, as to whether there were

children in the house or not.

But sometimes her interference became necessary as a measure of last

appeal, and she came down on them with hearty whacks which were

invariably poulticed with a word or two, half scolding and half

good-natured wit. The children were thus reconciled to the propriety and

necessity of certain summary inflictions, which at the same time they

took care to avoid, when it could be done without _too_ much trouble.

Often there were voices heard in a higher key than is considered proper

in a drawing-room, and sometimes there was a debouchment of children out

at the door, and a consequent squealing of little pigs, and fluttering

of chickens before it; which showed the mother’s activity at ejection.

But no drawing-room ever sheltered more gentle hearts, and no mother of

high degree ever followed a scolding with more patience than Mrs.

O’Brien did. There was no malice in her, and a half-laugh stood ever in

her eye, as she looked out at the door on the living miscellanies she

had put in motion, and said—“Sure you can’t turn a hand, or step any

place at all, for pigs, chickens and childer!”

There is often more room in the heart than in the house. The O’Briens

began to feel themselves crowded—or rather to feel the inconvenience of

too many sitters for their stools, without knowing precisely—or rather

without permitting themselves to acknowledge what caused their

discomfort. There were too many mouths for the potatoes, as Patrick

senior and his wife were at last compelled to admit in their matrimonial

committee of ways and means, and the question now became, how could they

diminish the one, or increase the other. The lesser fry were out of the

question. Nothing could be done in the way of removing them; nor did the

thought occur to father or mother, who loved the children with true

Irish hearts; that the smaller children were in the way, or that any of

the little ones could possibly be spared, if the lord-lieutenant himself

wanted a baby. So they began canvassing at the other end of the long

list.

“There was Ellen,” said the father, doubtfully.

“Ellen! Sure you’ll not be putting her away, and nobody to mind the

childer? What is the wages, I’d like to know, would make her place good

to us?”

And Ellen, it was decided, was a fixture.

“There is Paddy,” said the mother with some hesitation. “Sure he’s a

broth of a boy, and it is time he should do for himself—it is. It’s

little in life he’s good for here, anyway.”

The father did not think so. Many were the little “turns” that Paddy

cheerfully undertook, but all of them could not in conscience be made to

appear to amount to an indispensable service, or any thing like it.

“Look at him now?” said the mother. And they looked at Pat, whose all

good-natured face, unconscious that it was the subject of observation,

bloomed like a tall flower amid the lesser O’Briens who clustered about

him.

“Sure there’s a tribe of them!” said O’Brien.

“But look at Paddy! He’s the moral of yourself at his age, Patrick; with

the same niver-a-thought, lazy look!”

It was questionable whether the wife’s affectionate reminiscence was a

compliment or not; and an expression of sad humor, between a smile and a

scowl, passed over O’Brien’s face, as he regarded his elder son, the

heir to his personal beauties and accomplishments—and to his cast off

clothes. It was of little use the latter were, for the father usually

exacted so much of them, that when they descended to the son, sad make

shifts were necessary to keep up in them any show of integrity, however

superficial. And the stitches which were hurriedly taken between whiles,

by his mother, had a comprehensive character which brought distant parts

of the garments into a proximity very far from their original intention.

The difference in size between father and son permitted a latitude in

this respect, and the gathering together of the fabric produced an

appearance more picturesque than elegant. As to the extra length of the

garments that soon corrected itself, and Paddy junior’s ankles presented

a ring of ragged fringe; or a couple of well-developed calves protruded

in easy indifference. Indeed he was a broth of a boy, good natured and

“bidable,” as he was ragged and careless. It was time that his good

properties should be made available—and that some of the other young

ones should have a chance at their father’s wardrobe.

CHAPTER II.

It was a sad thing to part with Paddy. But necessity knows no law, and

he was apprenticed to a farmer with more land and fewer children than

Patrick O’Brien. And it was no less sore to Paddy to leave the

homestead, than for his brothers and sisters and father and mother to

give up the “moral of his father.” Those whose hearts are not united by

a community in privation, and whose easy lives present no exigencies in

which they are compelled to feel with and for each other, can separate

without tears, and be re-united without emotion. But the few miles of

distance which were now to be placed between little Paddy and the cot

where he was born, seemed to him almost an unbounded desert; and the

going away from home, though for so small a journey, was equivalent to

banishment. He took a sorrowful review of all the familiar objects which

had been his companions from his birth. There was not a scratch on the

cabin walls that did not seem to him as a brother; not a mud-hole around

the premises that was not as an old familiar friend. But he manfully

tore himself from all; and it was with no little sensation of

independence that he felt that henceforth he was really to earn his own

living, and to eat bread which should not diminish the breakfasts of the

rest. There were other circumstances too, as yet undeveloped, which

aided him in becoming reconciled. The inmates of the new home were not

strange to little Paddy, and one of them, in especial, he had a childish

weakness and fondness for. It is not our intention to say that Paddy and

little Norah knew any thing about what boarding-school misses call

undying affection; for such nonsense was beyond their years, and schools

were above their opportunities. But leave we Paddy to establish himself

in his new home, while we return to the O’Briens.

Sorrow a bit of difference they soon found, did Paddy’s absence make in

the consumption of food. The potatoes were as extensively devoured as

ever, and little Paddy’s hand-turns were much missed. His bright face

gone left a blank which nothing seemed to fill; though Mrs. O’Brien,

blessings on her, as far as enumeration went, soon made up the same tale

that there was before Paddy’s extradition. There was a half thought in

the father’s mind of christening the new comer Paddy also, since the

removal of his favorite boy was like death to him; and he really began

to feel as if names would run short if the wearers were not duplicated.

This notion, however, was over-ruled by the bright face of Pat himself,

who came at the first opportunity to bid the new brother good-morning.

“Which of the childer is that wid you, Paddy?” said his mother, who had

removed with her knitting to the bed in the dark corner.

“Sure it’s none of our childer at all,” said Paddy, while Norah blushed

for the first time in her life, and both had the first glimpse of a new

revelation. “It’s only the master’s Norah. I thought may be, the walk

would be lonely.”

Mrs. O’Brien looked on the consequences of her own fear of

loneliness—consequences which had multiplied around her, till an hour’s

solitude, asleep or awake, had become one of the never-to-return joys

which the song sings of. She had a prophetic dream of a similar destiny

for Paddy and Norah, but said nothing to put precocious notions into

children’s heads. Ellen did not half like her brother’s bringing a

stranger home with him—and she would have let Norah perceive her

displeasure, but her heart was too kind to do any body a willing

disservice. Norah was soon put at ease—almost. But the double visit was

not repeated till long afterward. Meanwhile Norah and Paddy were “set to

thinking.” That visit, made in the innocence of their hearts robbed

those hearts of a portion of that innocence. Before, they had been as a

new brother and sister—now as they grew in years constraint increased

between them. At last, resolved upon what he called a better

understanding, Paddy forced Norah to confess in words what he might

easily have taken for granted. And they pledged themselves, young as

they were, to a life of privation, and the same chance of more mouths

than food, which had been Paddy’s own idea of a household ever since he

could remember—his experience in the new home excepted.

Paddy went home one evening without Norah, fully resolved to divulge

what he had determined on, in set words—a labor he might have saved

himself, for it was all guessed long before. His time was out now in a

few months, and he had resolved, as soon as one bondage was concluded to

enter into another. In the years that he had been away, he had visited

home too often to be surprised at the changes which had taken place.

Ellen looked old—she seemed the mother of her brothers and sisters, for

care fast brings the marks of years. And the mother, tall, gaunt and

thin, looked as if she might have been the grand-parent of the children

around her. Patrick senior was better saved, but time showed its marks

on him too; and those not light ones. He was more peevish than formerly;

he retained the same black pipe longer in service, and kept it, too, in

use more constantly, for there was scarce an hour of the day when its

fragrance was not issuing. And as strong tobacco is too apt to require

strong accompaniments, we are compelled to acknowledge that Patrick

O’Brien was contracting a taste for less harmless potations than

buttermilk.

Poor and content is rich. Poor and discontented is poor indeed. Ellen

felt the infection of unhappiness, and the very children seemed to have

grown miserable. Squalor and negligence had marked the whole household,

and Paddy had learned to make his visits unpleasant performances of

duty, instead of the hilarious occasions that they once were. It was no

wonder that he preferred a quiet evening in his second home, where he

could sit and watch Norah’s busy fingers, rather than a visit to his own

father’s house; for there cracked and dissonant voices jarred harshly,

children cried, and the welcome which he once met had changed to the

utterance of mutual complaints, and perhaps to unsuspended jarrings

among those whom he loved.

There seemed a spell on the place. Ellen said—“Sure there’s no luck

here any more.” And a neighbor, who had a son over sea, put a new

thought in her head. Ellen was often desired to act as amanuensis to

answer his letters. If her epistles were not clerkly they were written

as dictated, and it may be shrewdly suspected that the person to whom

they were written liked them none the less, that he detected the

handwriting, though they were signed, “your affectionate mother.” Such a

paradise as American letters revealed to her, could not fail to make her

own discomforts worse by contrast. But the paradise was to her for a

long time a thing unhoped for, unthought of. At last a new resolution

occurred to her.

“Sure, mother,” she said one day, “we’d better be in Ameriky.”

The mother smiled at the impossibility. But Ellen had set her heart on

it. She was the prop of the house—the only one in it, indeed, who had

any strength or determination left. Need we say she carried her point?

She reasoned father and mother into the desirableness of the change, and

they could but acknowledge that any thing would be preferable to their

present situation. The correspondence to which she had access furnished

her with arguments, and the will once found for the enterprise, the way

presented no longer insuperable obstacles. All had been discussed, and

the journey was fully determined upon, when Paddy reached the cottage

with his plans in his head—selfish plans, Ellen afterward said they

were.

“Sure,” cried she as he entered, “here’s Patrick, too, will go with us.”

“To be sure I will—where?” answered Paddy, delighted once more to find

his home cheerful.

“To Ameriky, Patrick,” said his father, taking the pipe from his mouth

to watch his son’s face. The son looked sad, astonished, and bewildered.

It was all new to him, and he could make no reply, save to repeat—

“A-mer-iky!”

“To be sure,” said Ellen. “What’ll we wait here for, doing no good at

all? There’s Phelim may be president, and Mike a djuke, and Terrence a

parliament man, and Bridget may marry a lord, and—”

“And Ellen?” inquired Patrick, with a quizzical look, which contrasted

curiously with his wo-begone expression.

“Sure the best of the land will be hers,” said her mother. “Hasn’t she

been the born slave of the whole of ye’s? She didn’t go away from her

mother’s side, not she, for betther board and keeping!”

“Mother!” expostulated Paddy.

“More she didn’t,” continued the mother, vexed at her son’s cool

reception of their good news as she deemed it. “She didn’t find new

young mates, and forget the mother that bore her!”

“Mother!” said Patrick, “ye _sent_ me away, ye know ye did. Sure I’d not

gone to the Queen’s palace asself, but ye _sent_ me away, so you did.”

“Thrue for you, Patrick!” said Ellen, breaking in to keep the peace.

“Thrue for you; and more be token of that we’ll welcome you back again.

Your service is up, come Easter, and then we’ll all cross the wide sea

together!”

Poor Patrick! All the various modes in which he had conned over his

intended communication were put to flight in a moment. This was no time

to speak of any such proposals—for with half an eye to such a

contingency, Patrick knew his mother had spoken. Never had the way back

seemed so long to Patrick as it did that night. He had committed himself

by no engagement to go with his family to the new land over sea; but he

saw that they all chose to take his going for granted. The children

supposed it of course, thinking of nothing else; and the elders deemed

it the best way to admit no question. Norah listened in vain that night

for Paddy’s cheerful whistle as he neared the house. She wondered, and

fell asleep. But there was no sleep for Patrick.

Norah was too diffident to ask Patrick how he sped the next day—but

didn’t she burn to know! At length, and with a very sad face, he told

her all except his mother’s covert and undeserved reproaches. Norah

listened with a tear in her eye, for she could not dissemble. She did

not interrupt him, and when he ceased, she said:

“Sure you’ll go with them, Patrick, dear!”

“Sure I’ll do no such thing, Norah, darling!” And he hugged her to his

heart with a suddenness which she could not foresee, and an energy she

could not resist, had she wished it.

CHAPTER III.

Norah was satisfied. There is no denying that. But how was Paddy to

satisfy his father and mother and Ellen? How was he to explain to the

little O’Briens that they were going to America and brother Patrick was

to remain behind? Never was a worse day’s work done for Norah’s father

than Patrick’s that day, we are very sure. Never was a poor fellow so

dissatisfied with himself. A few days before, all seemed to promise to

falsify the adage that the course of true love never did run smooth. And

now never was stream so ruffled.

“’Tis but a word and all’s over,” he said to himself, as he turned his

head homeward the next evening, prepared to face the worst. But his

fears whispered that there would be more than one word or two, and those

high ones; and by the time he had reached his father’s door, all his

courage was gone again. When he entered he found the good wife there who

had the son over sea. She was fully installed as one of the council,

since she also had resolved upon crossing the water. All the various

items and charges of the voyage were calculated, and Paddy was counted

as one of the party—not without lamentations, which he arrived in

season to hear, that he had grown too tall to be counted as one of the

“childher.”

It was a desperate case, and there was nothing for it but desperate

courage. “Mother,” said Patrick, “and father, and Ellen, and you

childher, you’ve pushed the thing so far that you drive me to tell you

all, once and forever, that I cannot go!”

Patrick senior let his pipe fall with astonishment. The mother turned

pale with sorrow and displeasure. Ellen arose, and going to Patrick’s

side—he had not taken a seat—drew him out of doors. They walked a few

steps from the house in silence, and reaching a tree paused there.

Patrick folded his arms, and leaning against it, bowed his head and

stood in troubled silence. Ellen placed her hands upon his, and never a

word was spoken till, when she felt her brother’s hot tears fall upon

her hand, she cried:

“Sure, Paddy, you are not going to leave us now!” And she fell upon his

neck and clung to him with the evidences of earnest and frantic

affection.

“Indeed, indeed, Ellen darling, it is you that leave me. It is you that

go away from the land where God has been good to us, to seek a new home

and new friends over sea. I cannot go there with you, Ellen; indeed I

can’t.”

“And what will this land be to you, Paddy dear, but a land of

strangers—no mother, no father, no sister nor brother in it? Where’ll

be the hearth side that you’ll find a home at? Come, brother, with the

rest of us, where father will lift up his head again and mother be

happy!”

“Amen to their happiness, Ellen, and yours too. Go your ways without me.

Sure I’ve given my word on it, and must tarry to take care of my _own

home_, sister dear.”

“Is it _that_ you mean!” cried Ellen, starting back indignant. “And

shall we plough the seas while you cling to _her_ apron-string! Will you

be as easy in your undutiful bed, while the mother that bore you is

tossed on the ocean, and the sister that toiled for you is down, down in

the deep sea, maybe? Oh, Patrick! by the days of your wee, wee

childhood, come along with us now. Is it thus, selfish as you are, that

you lose all natural affection? Didn’t the clargy tell us, only Sunday

was a week, to honor father and mother?”

“Thrue for you, Ellen. But who would be our father and mother, if our

father had not left his father and mother to clave to his wife? Oh, go

along with you, Ellen, to break my heart so, and my word of words given

to Norah that I will stay with her and cherish her—for better for

worse!”

Ellen said no more. Patrick did not re-enter the house, but proceeded

homeward—to the place which was now doubly home to him, since the home

of his childhood was about to be broken up. But the efforts of his

mother to change his determination did not cease, and many a

half-altercation he had with his family in his now frequent visits.

Still, though strongly tempted to yield, he never would give full

consent, and the sight of Norah reassured him in his resistance. The few

weeks that remained between the fixing upon the purpose of emigration

and the day of departure, were a long, long time to Patrick, and a

season of sad trouble; and he could not speak with freedom to any of his

distress. Norah was high-spirited, and the bare suspicion of the manner

in which her name was bandied, and her love for Patrick all but cursed

at the house of his father, would have led her to forbid Patrick ever to

speak on the subject to her again. With slow reluctance the family gave

way to Patrick’s resolute determination, and ceasing unkind reproaches,

loaded him with tenderness, that much more affected his determined

spirit. The day of parting came at last, and Norah herself proposed that

she should accompany her betrothed to take leave of his kindred. It was

a dangerous thing for him to suffer, Patrick knew; but how could he

avoid it? And what would he have thought of her, too, had she not

proposed it?

Unmixed and bitter was the grief with which Patrick’s kindred took leave

of him to commence their long journey. They sorrowed as persons who

should see his face no more; and without extravagance or hyperbole, the

passion of grief which they felt and exhibited may be termed

heart-rending. Scarce a word did they give to Norah. The mother looked

on her almost with aversion, and the father scarce heeded her presence

at all. Ellen only said:

“Cherish him, Norah—love _him_, for you see what he foregoes for you.

God forgive him if he is wrong, and me if he is _right_.”

CHAPTER IV.

They were gone. Norah thought it was but natural, at first, that Patrick

should be sad, for the interview which she had witnessed made her

unhappy too. But she was not well pleased that his gloom continued.

Weeks and months passed, and still Patrick had not resumed his former

light-heartedness. Nor did there appear any indication of its return to

him. The wedding day, to which he once looked forward with continual

expectation, and of which, at one time, he daily spoke, he now seemed to

dread and scarcely mentioned. And when he did speak of it, it was with a

forced appearance of interest. Norah was offended at his coldness, and

as he did not press, as formerly, a positive and early date, you may be

sure that she did not increase in impatience for the nuptials to which

Patrick appeared to be growing daily more indifferent. He thought her

ungrateful that she did not duly estimate the sacrifice he had made for

her; and she considered him weak-minded that he had over-estimated his

affection for her, and undervalued his own kin, and was now repenting.

Patrick was indeed more miserable than he had ever been in his life

before. Not a word had he heard from his connections in many long

months; and what Ellen said to him under the tree before his father’s

door, now haunted him—“Shall we plough the seas while you cling to

_her_ apron-strings? Will you be easy in your bed, when the mother that

loves you is tossed on the sea, and the sister that toiled for you is

drowned?” By day these words haunted him, and by night his mother and

sister rose out of the sea to come to his bedside. And truly, when he

waked in a cold perspiration of terror from these visions, it was hard

to persuade him that they were not true; and that the sea had not verily

given up its dead to reproach him.

“Norah, dear,” he said at length one evening, as they sat alone, “my

heart is broke, so it is.”

She answered with a look in which deep sorrow mingled with all her old

affection. Nor did she resist, when he drew her to his side, and placed

her head against his bosom. He felt that he could not say what he must

when her eyes met his. So she nestled lovingly to him while he sat long

in silence. She guessed, but would not ask, what he wished to say, and

at length he continued:

“Every morning when I wake it is to hear what _they_ said to me, when I

wouldn’t go with them. And every night when I lie down, sure the clatter

of that leave-taking drives sleep away. And when the eyes shut for very

weariness, and I have cried myself into a troubled slumber, it is no

rest. Sometimes my mother comes to me, Norah, and sometimes my sister. I

know that they come from the deep, deep sea, for they are all dripping

wet. Never a word do they say with their mouths, but their eyes, Norah.

God save us, what was that?”

Norah had caught his contagious horror, and clung closer to him, as they

both shivered with terror. It was many minutes before Patrick could

resume his narrative, but after a trembling pause he proceeded:

“They come to me, Norah, and I _know_ it’s them. When I wake, don’t I

feel the cold water of the sea chilling my temples? The saints save us,

Norah, from such visiters to our bridal bed! You think me changed and

that my heart is turned, and my manner is unkind—but, Norah dear, what

will I do, what _can_ I do?”

“It’s all your sick fancy, Patrick—and maybe your conscience is not

easy,” said Norah, shaking off the spectral influence of Paddy’s dreams.

“It’s all your own notion, Paddy dear. Your mother and all of them are

well and happy—barring that they feel the loss of you as much as you do

their absence. And I know their consciences are not easy, Patrick, for

the hard words they said to you must leave a deep wound in their own

hearts. You must go to them, Patrick.”

“What, Norah, and leave you!”

“And why not? Sure, Paddy dear, you’re not worth a body’s having now,

and that’s the truth. You are not the same lad that you were at all, and

what will I do with such a man? It’s a long lane that has no turn, and

all will come right by and by.”

“Norah!”

“Well!”

“Wouldn’t _you_ go with me too?”

“Sure I thought you’d be asking that, Patrick. Ellen said you were

selfish—and wasn’t it the truth she said! Will you change the load from

your heart to mine? Haven’t I a father and mother, and sisters too? Will

I give them up and go away, because you can’t give yours up? It isn’t

reason, Patrick.”

In vain did our hero strive to alter Norah’s determination. Her

arguments were unanswerable, and he was fain to submit. After many days’

irresolution he resolved, but still not without doubts and misgivings,

to follow his parents to America. The resolution was taken, the spectral

appearances which had annoyed him ceased. He was half-tempted to retreat

from his purpose, but Norah gave him no encouragement, and his nocturnal

visiters threatened to renew their visits; so that he was fain to adhere

to his resolve, and take a steerage passage to the great entre-pot of

the New World—New York.

Great was his amazement upon arriving there to find that it was a place

so large, and one of many large places; and that to inquire for his

family there was of as little utility as it would be to ask for his

master’s dog in Dublin. It was a sad trial to Patrick that he had come

to a strange land, he verily believed, to no purpose. But it was

necessary for him to do, or starve, and finding employment he worked,

with a heavy heart it is true, but not without hope. Chance—or we

should better say Providence—directed him to a priest, to whom he

related his difficult position and almost extinguished hopes. The kind

father was struck with his tale, and, after a moment’s pondering

referred to his record of priestly acts, and sure enough, there he found

the name of Ellen O’Brien—O’Brien no longer!

“Mighty easy it was then, for her to come over,” shouted Pat, forgetting

his Reverence. Fine talk hers to me about selfishness, and drowning, and

all that. Very pleasant it was, no doubt of it, to write and read them

long letters. But it has given me the first trace of them anyhow, and

that’s something.

With this clue the persevering young Irishman was not long in tracing

the party to their late stopping-place—_late_, for they were there no

longer. He followed to Albany, and there again lost the scent; for a

party of poor emigrants are not so easily followed. Again he heard of

them in Buffalo; away, it seemed to him, at the verge of the world; and

again he pursued.

“Sure he would find them now,” he said, “if it was only to have a fly at

that traitor, Ellen—God bless her!”

In Buffalo he was once more disappointed, for from Buffalo they had

flitted also. “It’s the Wandering Jew Ellen has married, no doubt,” he

said, “to lead me this dance, and she to rate _me_ so. Wait till I find

them once more.”

Time would be unprofitably spent in tracing all poor Patrick’s

journeyings, including many an excursion from the main routes. Wherever

the sinews of his countrymen were busy upon public works and other

enterprises, in which the labor of the sturdy Hibernian is found so

valuable, there Patrick wandered—and patient perseverance at last was

rewarded. He had traced out an impromptu village on a rail-road truck,

where the delvers had put up cabins which they would sorrow to leave. As

he looked curiously through the little settlement, he was startled to

hear his own name shouted, and in a moment more one of his many brothers

had him by the neck, with a hug as stifling as if he had taken lessons

in the new country of one of those undisputed natives—the black bear.

Patrick had much ado to stop his brother’s clamor, that he might

surprise the others. And he was astonished moreover to find little

Phelim, for he it was, with a Sunday face on in the middle of the week.

This mystery was solved when they reached the cabin; for there was a

gathering in honor of the first Patrick of the new generation, who had

that day, during the priest’s visit in his round on the works, been

first empowered to answer to his name like a Christian.

“It’s this _you_ were up to, is it?” shouted Patrick, bursting upon

them. “I thought it wasn’t entirely to make Phelim a president, and

Michael a djuke, that you come over!”

Tears, shouts of laughter, frolic, pathos, poetry, and prose most

unadorned, made up the delightful melange at that unexpected meeting.

CHAPTER V.

Patrick found that his family had indeed made a happy change. There was

no gainsaying that. And he himself experienced no difficulty in

procuring employment; but he was far from being so well content as the

others. He wrote to Norah upon his arrival at New York, and again when

he had found his father and mother; and he wanted sadly to invite her to

join him in America. But for the same reason that he did not return to

Ireland, he dared not ask her to come over; for if he could not leave

his friends how could she hers? He would have gone “home,” as he

persisted in calling it, but, strange to say, Ellen was not in the least

humbled in her exactions by the fact of her own marriage. She loved Pat

better than any body in this world, her own husband and her own child

not excepted, and it was with a feeling of wrong that she heard or

thought of his loving any one else, or being beloved by any.

Sad news began now to come from the old country. The O’Brien’s had no

letters; but others had, and the newspapers were full of the dreadful

destitution and the deaths from starvation in Ireland. Now poor Patrick

was worse afflicted than he had been by separation from his parents.

Tidings came of starvation and death in houses the inhabitants of which

he knew were wealthier far than Norah’s father; and he feared and

dreaded that _she_ might even want for a bit of bread, while he rolled

in plenty. Had he pursued his own inclination he would have posted

back—but Ellen said—“Don’t think of such a thing! Is it mad you are?

When there’s people dying there of the hunger will you go snatch the

bread from their mouths? Or will you go ‘home,’ as you call it, and feed

the three kingdoms from your own pocket?” Patrick was hurt—and he

thought of the two Norah was far the better comforter.

* * * * *

Deep indeed was the distress that rested upon unhappy Ireland. And

Patrick’s fears for his friends at home were but too well founded.

Sickness and famine invaded the district in which Patrick was born; and

though his old master at first was bountiful to those around him, stern

necessity at last brought its admonition that he must hold his hand.

There is distress that opens the heart; but when it comes to dividing

your living with your neighbor, to become at last fellow in his need,

the instinct of self-preservation chills charity. Nevertheless, the good

farmer gave—and gave a day too long; for the time came when he could

count his own scanty provision in food and in purse. Impoverished, he

learned at last to suffer and to sicken. He buried his wife out of his

sight, and his children sunk one after another into the grave. He denied

himself bread to feed his famishing family—almost rejoicing, while the

dead lay unburied in his house, that with the release of child after

child, the need of food and the wail of hunger diminished. And now at

last Norah and himself only remained of all that happy household; and

they had but to prepare their last food and die. The immense demand

which had been made upon the charitable had proved too great for the

supply; and men had ceased at last to think it a strange thing that

people died of hunger.

Often did Norah think in her distress of him who was now far away. And

heartily she rejoiced for his sake, that he had not remained to add

another claimant on the public charity, to the thousands who pleaded

unavailingly for it. But it was sad to think that he must one day hear

that her he loved had sunk into the grave, the last of her house, for to

death she firmly looked as the only hope of release from suffering.

A footstep broke the silence; but it hardly disturbed her revery. It was

the kind ecclesiastic who had been present at the death of her mother

and her brothers—who had seen her sister’s eyes closed, and to whom she

herself looked, at no distant day for the last offices of the church.

His frequent visits had become part of her daily experience, but she saw

now that his face wore something more than the usual calm expression.

She looked up inquiringly, and he placed in her hands a letter,

addressed to his care for her.

She knew the handwriting, and could scarce command firmness to break the

many seals and wafers with which over caution had secured the letter. It

was from Patrick, and enclosed more money than she had before seen for

many weeks. “Now, God be praised,” she cried, “my father shall find

comfort again!”

“He has found it, daughter!” said the priest in a solemn voice from the

bedside. Norah hurried there, to receive, in the last faint smile, a

father’s inaudible blessing.

* * * * *

Need we say that the good priest gave Norah sound advice: to wit, that

the money which she had received were better expended in finding her way

to Patrick, than in protracting a weary existence in the place now so

sad to her. Ellen’s welcome was not the least hearty which Norah

received; and all agree that there was a Providence in the events which

guided Patrick before her to America. Norah is cherished as one of the

“childher,” and Mrs. O’Brien insists that her mistake at the bedside

years before, was only a bit of prophecy, for her heart always yearned

to Norah as one of her own. All are well pleased; and though a shade of

sorrow for her kindred is habitual to the countenance of Mrs. Norah

O’Brien, it adds to the sweetness of its expression, and is a better

look, in its resignation, than one of discontent or of vacuity.

As to the young cousins in the neighborhood, we leave their statistics

to the next census. They have proved jewels of comfort to Grandfather

Patrick, who, though quite infirm, is still useful to “mind the

childer;” while Mrs. O’Brien, the grandmother, labors like Sisyphus to

keep little feet in hose, with no hope that her work will ever cease

while her breath lasts, or her fingers can ply a needle.

* * * * *

A HOUSEHOLD DIRGE.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

I’VE lost my little May at last;

She perished in the Spring,

When earliest flowers began to bud,

And earliest birds to sing;

I laid her in a country grave,

A rural, soft retreat,

A marble tablet o’er her head

And violets at her feet!

I would that she were back again,

In all her childish bloom;

My joy and hope have followed her,

My heart is in her tomb;

I know that she is gone away,

I know that she is fled,

I miss her everywhere, and yet

I cannot make her dead!

I wake the children up at dawn,

And say a simple prayer,

And draw them round the morning meal,

But one is wanting there;

I see a little chair apart,

A little pin-a-fore,

And Memory fills the vacancy,

As Time will—nevermore!

I sit within my room, and write

The lone and weary hours,

And miss the little maid again

Among the window flowers;

And miss her with her toys beside

My desk in silent play,

And then I turn and look for her,

But she has flown away!

I drop my idle pen and hark,

And catch the faintest sound;

She must be playing hide-and-seek

In shady nooks around;

She’ll come and climb my chair again.

And peep my shoulder o’er,

I hear a stifled laugh—but no,

She cometh nevermore!

I waited only yester night,

The evening service read,

And lingered for my idol’s kiss,

Before she went to bed,

Forgetting she had gone before,

In slumbers soft and sweet,

A monument above her head,

And violets at her feet!

* * * * *

THE YOUNG ARTIST:

OR THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE.

BY T. S. ARTHUR

(_Continued from page 8._)

CHAPTER IV.

CLARA, as has been seen, fell into a thoughtful, sober state of mind,

after the interview with her husband, in which she mentioned the fact of

having five thousand dollars in stocks. Something in the manner of

Alfred troubled her slightly. When he came home in the evening she

experienced, in meeting him, the smallest degree of embarrassment; yet

sufficient for him to perceive. Like an inflamed eye to which even the

light is painful, his morbid feelings were susceptible of the most

delicate impressions. A mutual reserve, unpleasant to both, was the

consequence. Ellison imagined that his wife had, on reflection, become

satisfied of his baseness in seeking to obtain her hand in marriage

because of her possession of property, and the change in his manner

which this feeling produced, naturally effected a change in her. From

that time their intercourse became embarrassed, and both were unhappy.

A few days after Clara had informed her husband of the fact that she

possessed five thousand dollars in stocks, she brought him the

certificates which she held, and placing them in his hands, said,

“You must take care of these now.”

“What are they?” he asked, affecting an ignorance that did not exist,

for the instant his eyes rested on the papers he understood what they

were.

“Certificates of the stock about which I told you.”

Ellison handed them back quickly, and with a manner that could not but

wound the feelings of his wife, saying at the same time,

“Oh, no, no! I don’t want them. Draw the interest yourself as you have

been doing.”

“I have no further need of the money,” replied Clara, in a voice that

had acquired a sudden huskiness. “Our interests are one you know,

Alfred, and you take care of these matters now.”

But, the young man, acting under a perverse and blind impulse,

positively refused to keep the certificates.

“I’d rather you would draw the money as you have been doing,” said he,

his voice much softened and his manner changed. “It may be weakness in

me, but I feel sensitive on this subject.”

Ellison’s evil genius seemed to have him in possession.

“On what subject?” inquired Clara, in a tone of surprise.

“On the subject of your property,” replied Ellison, with a want of

delicacy the very opposite of his real character.

If a cold hand had been laid upon the bosom of Clara, she could not have

experienced a more sudden chill. She made no reply. Ellison perceived,

in an instant, the extent of his error. Like a man struggling in the

mire, every moment seemed but to plunge him deeper. A more painful

reserve followed this brief but unhappy interview. Deeply did the young

man regret not having taken the certificates when they were handed to

him. That was his only right course. But they were presented

unexpectedly, and the first suggestion which came was that the act was

more compulsory than voluntary on the part of his wife.

The subject was not alluded to again, but it was scarcely for a moment

out of the thoughts of either Clara or her husband. When the half-yearly

interest became due, which was in the course of a week, Clara drew the

money. It amounted to the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars.

“You will not refuse this, I hope?” said she smiling, as she handed him

what she had received. “It is the half-yearly interest on our stock.”

Alfred was a little wiser by experience.

“I have no particular use for it just now,” was his reply. “Suppose you

keep it and pay our board every week as long as it lasts. Twenty-four

dollars will be due to-morrow.”

“Very well, just as you like, Alfred. If you should want any of it, you

must help yourself. You will find it in my drawer.”

“I’ll call on you if I should get out of pocket,” was replied to this in

a playful tone of voice.

Both felt relieved. But it grew out of the fact that Ellison had been

able to disguise his real feelings, and this was but a false security.

There was a certainty, however, about the means of paying the weekly

charge for boarding, that was a great relief to the mind of Ellison, and

which enabled him the better to hide his real feelings from his wife.

Happily for him, the four pictures which had been talked about were

ordered. He completed them in about five weeks, and received two hundred

dollars, the price agreed upon. One hundred of this sum he paid to the

friend who had loaned him the money to lift the obligation that was felt

to be so oppressive. Fifty of what remained he placed in the hands of

Clara, playfully saying to her as he did so, that she must be his

banker. The remark was timely and well expressed, and it had its effect

both upon his own mind and that of his wife. But the source of trouble

lay too deep to be easily removed.

Seek to disguise it as he would, Ellison could not hide from himself the

fact, that he had suffered a great disappointment. Often and often,

would come back upon him his old dream of the sunny clime of art and

music, and he would feel the old, irrepressible longing to visit the

shores of Italy. At last, it was some months after his marriage, he said

to Clara, something favoring the remark—

“I don’t think I shall ever be happy until I have seen the galleries of

Rome and Florence.”

Clara looked surprised at this remark, it was so unexpected, for no

intimation of such a feeling had ever been breathed ere this by her

husband.

“Why do you wish to go there?” she naturally inquired.

“To took upon the glorious old masters,” replied Ellison. “I will never

be any thing in my art until I have studied them.”

“You think too meanly of your present attainments,” said Clara. “N——

has been to Italy, but with all his study of the old masters he has not

half the ability as an artist that you possess.”

“It isn’t in him, Clara,” replied Ellison with some warmth. “He might

study in the galleries of Florence forever, and not make a painter.”

“There are many specimens and copies of the old masters in our city,”

remarked Clara, “could you not find aid from studying them?”

“No, no—or at least but little,” said Ellison coldly. He had hoped that

his wife would feel favorable, at least, to a visit to Italy, even

though it might not at the time be practicable. But her evident

opposition to the thing chilled his over-sensitive feelings.

“Ah me!” sighed the young artist to himself, when alone, “I am free in

nothing!”

Other thoughts were coming into utterance, but he checked and drove them

back. As for Clara, she was utterly unconscious of what was in the mind

of her husband. Could she have understood his real feelings, she would

have sacrificed even her natural prudence and forethought, and

cheerfully proposed to sell the stock they possessed in order that they

might visit Italy and spend a year or two in that classic region. But a

reserve had already been created, and Ellison, in particular, kept

secret more than half of what was passing in his mind, while he imagined

his wife to have thoughts and feelings to which she was a total

stranger. He said no more about Italy, for it was plain to him that she

would oppose the measure if suggested; and, as she had brought him a few

thousands, she of course had a right to object.

Fortunately for the young artist, the four pictures which he had painted

gave excellent satisfaction. In fact, they were his best works. The

mind, when smarting under pain, often acts with a higher vigor, while

the perceptions acquire a new intensity; and this was the real secret of

his better success. The pictures pleased so well that they brought him

other sitters, and he was able, some time before Clara’s instalment of

interest was exhausted, to place more money in her hands. The fact of

doing this was always a relief to his mind. It was a kind of tacit

declaration of independence. From that time both his work and his

ability increased, and he was able to make enough to meet, with the aid

of his wife’s income, the various expenses to which he was subjected,

and to pay off the few obligations that were held against him. But he

was not happy. No man can be who forfeits, by any act that affects the

whole of his after life, his self-respect; and this Ellison had done. In

spite of his better judgment, he would permit himself to see in Clara’s

words, looks and conduct, a rebuke of the mercenary spirit that first

led him to seek her favor. Nothing of this was in her heart. But guilt

makes the mind suspicious.

CHAPTER V.

The young artist worked on with untiring assiduity—he was toiling for

independence. Never, since his marriage, had he breathed the air with

the freedom of former times. The reaction of his often strange

manner—his days of reserve—had been felt by his wife, and the effect

upon her was plainly to be seen. With a perverseness of judgment, hardly

surprising under the circumstances, he attributed the change in Clara to

her suspicions as to the purity of his motives in seeking an alliance.

In the meantime, he had become more intimately acquainted with her

relatives, none of whom he liked very well. Her oldest brother

interfered a good deal in the suit which he was engaged in defending on

behalf of his wife; and by much that he said, left the impression that

he did not think Ellison’s judgment sound enough in business matters to

advise a proper course of action.

This fretted the sensitive and rather irritable young man, and, in a

moment when less guarded than usual, he told him that he felt himself

fully competent to manage his own affairs, and hoped that he would not,

in future, have quite so much to say about things that did not concern

him. The brother was passionate, and stung Ellison to the quick by a

retort in which he plainly enough gave it as his opinion that before

five years had gone by, his sister’s property would all be blown to the

winds through his mismanagement. This was little less than breaking

Ellison on the wheel. He turned quickly from his cool, sneering

opponent, and never spoke to him afterward. Piqued, however, by the

taunt, he proposed to Clara that they should visit the West, and remain

there for as long a time as it was necessary to personally look after

their interests. He could paint there as well as at the East; and might

possibly do better for a time. To this Clara’s only objection was the

necessity that it would involve for disposing of some of their stock, in

order to meet the expense of removal, and the sustaining of themselves,

if Alfred should not readily obtain employment as an artist, thus

lessening the amount of their certain income.

“But see how much is at stake,” replied Alfred. “All may be lost for

lack of a small sacrifice.”

“True,” said Clara, in instant acquiescence. “You are right.”

But when the proposed movement of Ellison and his wife became known, her

relatives had a good deal to say about it. George Deville, the oldest

brother, whose feelings now led him to oppose any thing that he thought

originated with Alfred, pronounced it as preposterous.

“Why don’t Ellison go himself?” said he. “What does he expect to gain by

dragging Clara out there?”

“You surely are not going off to Ohio on such an expedition,” was his

language to his sister.

“Yes,” she replied to him, mildly, “I am going.”

“What folly!” he exclaimed.

“George,” said Clara, in a firm, dignified manner, “I must beg of you

not to interfere in any way between my husband and myself. In his

judgment I am now to confide, and I do it fully. We think it best to go

and see personally after our own interests.”

“But Clara—”

“Pardon me, George,” interrupted the sister, “but I must insist on your

changing the subject.”

Deville became angry at this, and as he turned to go away, said

something about her being beggared by her “husband’s fooleries,” in less

than five years.

It so happened that Ellison entered at this moment, and heard the

insulting remark. It was with an effort that he kept himself from

flinging the brother, in a burst of unrestrained passion, from the room.

But he controlled himself, and recognised him only by an angry and

defiant scowl. As Deville left the room, Clara burst into tears, and

placing her hands over her face, stood weeping and sobbing violently.

Alfred’s mind was almost mad with excitement. He did not speak to his

wife at first, but commenced walking hurriedly about the room, sometimes

throwing his arms over his head, and sometimes clasping his hands

tightly across his forehead. But, in a little while, his thoughts went

out of himself toward Clara, and he felt how deeply pained she must be

by what had just occurred. This softened him. Approaching where she

still stood weeping, he took her hand and said,

“We would have been happier, had you been penniless like myself.”

The tears of Clara ceased flowing almost instantly. In a few moments she

raised her head, and looking seriously at her husband, asked,

“Why do you say that, Alfred?”

“No such outrage as the present could, in that case, ever have

occurred.”

“If George thinks proper to interfere in a matter that does not in the

least concern him, we need be none the less happy in consequence. I feel

his words as an insult.”

“And so they are. But they do not smart on my feelings the less

severely. Lose your property! He shall know better than that, ere five

years have passed.”

“Don’t let it excite you so much, Alfred. His opinion need not disturb

us.”

“It has disturbed you, even to tears.”

“It would not have done so, had not you happened to hear what he said.

This was what hurt me. But as we have provoked no such interference as

that which my brother has been pleased to make; and, as we are free to

do what we think right, and competent to manage our own affairs, I do

not see that we need feel very unhappy at what has occurred.”

“If you have any doubts touching the propriety of doing what I

suggested, let us remain where we are,” said Ellison.

“I have no doubts on the subject,” was Clara’s quick reply. “I think

that where so much property is in danger, that we ought to take all

proper steps to protect our interests; and it is impossible for us to do

this so well at a distance as we could if on the spot where the contest

is going on. When you first proposed it, I did not see the matter so

clearly as I do now.”

Preparations for a temporary removal to the West were immediately

commenced; and in the course of a few weeks they were ready for their

departure. There was not a single one of Clara’s relatives who did not

disapprove the act, nor who did not exhibit his or her disapproval in

the plainest manner. This, to Alfred, was exceedingly annoying, in fact,

coming as it did on his already morbid and sensitive feelings, actually

painful.

“They shall see,” he said to himself, bitterly, “whether I squander her

property! If I don’t double it in five years, I’m sadly mistaken.”

This was uttered without there being any clearly defined purpose in the

young man’s mind; but it was in itself almost the creation of a purpose.

From that moment he became possessed with the idea of so using his

wife’s property as to make it largely reproductive. He studied over it

every day, and remained awake, with no other thought in his mind, long

after he had laid his head upon his pillow at night.

With five hundred dollars in cash, obtained through the sale of five

shares of stock, Ellison and his wife started for the West on the errand

that we have mentioned. Clara looked for an early return, but Alfred

left his native city with the belief that he would never go back there

to reside; or if so, not for many years. Plans and purposes were dimly

shadowing themselves forth in his mind, as yet too indistinct to assume

definite forms, yet absorbing most of his thoughts. For the time all

dreams of Italy faded, and in vague schemes of money-making, he forgot

the glories of his art.

The place of their destination was a growing town, numbering about six

thousand inhabitants. Near this lay the five hundred acres of land in

dispute. On arriving, they took lodgings at a hotel, and, in due time,

sent for the agent who had charge of the property. He informed them as

to the state of affairs, and assured them that all was going on as

safely as possible. The case had been called at the last term of court,

but was put off for some reason, and would not be tried for three months

to come, when they hoped to get a decision. If favorable or adverse, an

appeal would be made, and a year might probably elapse before a final

settlement of the questioned rights could be obtained.

Ellison hinted at their purpose in visiting the West. The agent said, in

reply, that their presence would not in the least affect the case. It

would be as safely managed if they were in Europe.

“That is all easily enough said,” remarked Alfred, after he was alone

with his wife; “but I am disposed to think differently. Every man ought

to understand his own business, and watch its progress.”

In this view Clara fully acquiesced; and they made their arrangements to

reside in the West for at least some months to come. In the course of a

week or two Ellison announced himself as an artist from the East, whose

intention it was to pass a short time in D——. He arranged a studio,

and made all needful preparation for sitters; but, during the first two

months of his residence there, not an individual came forward to be

painted. Expenses were going on at the rate of about fifteen dollars a

week, with a good prospect of their being increased ere long. This was

rather discouraging, and it may be supposed that the young artist was in

no way comfortable under the circumstances. By this time he had become

so well acquainted with the state of the case pending, as to be pretty

well satisfied that his presence would be of no great utility in

securing a favorable termination of the affair. If he had come to the

West alone, a week’s personal examination of the position of things

would have enabled him to see their entire bearing, and to understand

that his presence was in no way necessary.

This conviction, to which the mind of Ellison came reluctantly, did not

by any means help him to a better state of feeling. He had closed his

studio at the East, just as he was beginning to get sitters enough to

secure a pretty fair income, and was in a strange place, where people

were yet too busy in subduing nature’s ruder features to think much of

the arts. He was the only painter in town; yet he did not receive an

order. Occasionally one and another called at his rooms, looked at his

pictures, asked his prices, and talked about having some portraits

taken. But it never went beyond this.

[Illustration]

Steadily the sum of money they had brought with them diminished, and

nothing came in to supply the waste. To go back again was, to one of

Ellison’s temperament, next to impossible; and even if he returned, he

felt now no certainty of being able to do so well as when he left. His

unhappiness, which he could not conceal, troubled Clara, who understood

its ground. He was talking, one day, in a desponding mood, of his

doubtful prospects, when Clara said to him,

“There is no need, Alfred, of your feeling so troubled. We have enough

to live on, certain, for the next four or five years, even if you do not

paint a portrait; to say nothing of the property in dispute, which will,

without doubt, come, with a clear title, into our possession before a

very long time.”

“All very true,” replied Alfred. “But that consideration doesn’t help me

any. I cannot see your property wasting away without feeling unhappy. It

is for me to increase it; whereas, now, I am the cause of its

diminution.”

“Alfred, why will you talk thus?” said Clara, in a distressed tone of

voice. “Why will you always talk of my property? When I gave you myself,

did not all I possessed become as much yours as mine?”

Alfred sat silent.

“We need not remain here,” resumed Clara, “any longer than it will be

useful.”

“I cannot go back to Philadelphia,” said Alfred, quickly. “At least not

until the business upon which we came has reached a favorable

termination.”

Clara did not ask why he said this; for she comprehended clearly his

feelings.

“We needn’t return there,” she replied. She said this, notwithstanding

her own desire to go back was very strong. “In Cincinnati, artists are

encouraged. We can go there.”

“Yes, or to one of the cities lower down the river. Any thing rather

than return to the East with your property lessened a single dollar.”

“It is wrong for you to feel so, Alfred—very wrong,” said Clara. “We

ought always to let a conviction of having acted from right motives

sustain us in every position in life. Here, and only here, is the true

mental balance.”

Alas for Ellison! the lack of this very conviction was at the groundwork

of his inquietude. The property that now caused him so much trouble was

the first thing that drew him toward his wife; and all the alloy that

had mixed itself with his happiness came from this source. Had she not

been the possessor of a dollar, and had he been drawn toward her for her

virtues alone, their minds would have flowed together as one, and, in

the most perfect union, they would have met and overcome whatever

difficulties presented themselves. But all was embarrassment now,

rendered more oppressive through the morbid pride of the young man, who

felt every moment as if a window were about to open in his breast, so

that his wife could see the baseness of which he had been guilty. This

very effort at concealment but awakened a suspicion of what was there.

The conversation continued, Alfred getting in no better state of mind,

until Clara became so hurt, or rather distressed, by many things said by

her husband, that she could not control her feelings and gave vent to

them in tears. Thus, as week after week went by, the causes of

unhappiness rather increased than diminished.

CHAPTER VI.

Ellison had been in D—— three months, and was about leaving for

Cincinnati, when his lawyer called on him, and stated that he was

authorized by the opposing counsel to say, that the plaintiffs in the

case were willing to withdraw their suit if one hundred acres of the

land in question were relinquished.

“At the same time,” remarked the lawyer, in giving this information, “it

is but right for me to state my belief that the offer comes as the

result of a conviction that the claim urged for the ownership of the

property has no chance of a favorable termination.”

“Yet the suit may be continued for two or three years,” said Ellison.

“Yes, and they can put you to a great deal of trouble and expense.”

“And there is at least a doubt resting on the issue.”

“There is upon all legal issues.”

“Then I think we had better accept the compromise.”

“You must decide that for yourself,” said the lawyer.

“How long will the question be open?”

“For some days, I presume.”

“Very well. I will see you about it to-morrow, or at latest on the day

after.”

Clara, on being informed of the new aspect the case had assumed, fully

agreed with her husband that the offer of a settlement had better be met

affirmatively; and this being done, the suit was withdrawn, and they

were left in the peaceable possession of some four hundred acres of

excellent land. The costs were nearly two hundred dollars. This made it

necessary to part with more of their stock, which was effected through

their agent at the East. Five more shares were sold.

The termination of this suit wrought an entire change in the views and

purposes of Ellison. A residence in the West of three months had brought

him in contact with people of various characters and pursuits, all

eagerly bent on money-making. Towns were springing up as if by magic,

and men not worth a dollar to-day were counting their thousands

to-morrow. The spirit of enterprise was all around him; and it was

hardly possible for him to remain unaffected by what was in the very

atmosphere that he was breathing.

“Let me congratulate you on the happy termination of your suit,” said an

individual with whom Ellison had some acquaintance, a day or two after

all was settled. “You have now as handsome a tract of land as there is

in the state; and if you manage it aright, will make out of it an

independent fortune.”

This language sounded very pleasant in the ears of Ellison.

“You know the tract?” said he.

“Oh yes! Like a book. I’ve traveled over every foot of it. There is a

hundred thousand dollars worth of timber on it.”

“Not so much as that.”

“There is, every dollar of it. Not as fire-wood, of course.”

“In lumber, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

The man’s name was Claxton. He had come to D——, about a year

previously, with some six thousand dollars in cash, and as full of

enterprize and money-loving ambition as a man could well be. The town

was growing fast, and the supply of lumber, which a saw-mill of very

limited capacity was turning out, so poorly met the demand, that prices

ranged exceedingly high. A large landholder, whose interests were

seriously affected by this high rate of lumber, made Claxton believe

that he had only to erect a steam saw-mill, capable of turning out, per

day, a certain number of feet of boards and scantling, and his fortune

was made. Without stopping to investigate the matter beyond a certain

point, and taking nearly all the statements made by the individual we

have named for granted, Claxton ordered a steam-engine from Pittsburg,

rented a lot of ground on the bank of the river, and forthwith commenced

the erection of his mill. As soon as the citizens of D—— understood

what he was about, there were enough of them to pronounce his scheme a

foolish one, in which he would inevitably lose his money. But he had

made all the calculations—had anticipated, like a wise man, all the

difficulties; and knew, or thought he knew, exactly what he was about.

It was nearly a year before he had his mill ready. By this time he was

not only out of funds, but out of confidence in his scheme for making a

fortune. In attempting to put his mill in operation, some of the

machinery gave way, and the same result happened at the next trial. Thus

expense was added to expense, and delay to delay. In the mean time, the

owner of the other mill had been spurred on by the approaching

competition, to increase its capacity, and was turning out lumber so

fast as to cause a reduction in the price.

So soon as Claxton became aware of the fact that Ellison’s suit had come

to a favorable termination, he conceived the idea of getting off upon

the young artist his bad bargain with as little loss to himself as

possible, and he had this purpose in his mind when he congratulated him

so warmly on his release from the perplexity and uncertainty of the law.

“Trees standing in the forest, and lumber piled up ready for use in

building,” said Ellison, in reply to Claxton’s suggestion, “are very

different things.”

“Any man knows that. But, in the conversion of the trees into lumber,

lies the means of wealth. There is not an acre of your land that will

not yield sufficient lumber to bring three hundred dollars in the

market.”

“Are you certain of that?” inquired Ellison.

“I know it. The tract is very heavily timbered.”

“Three hundred dollars to the acre,” said Ellison, musing; “four hundred

acres—three times four are twelve. That would make the lumber on the

whole four hundred acres worth over a hundred thousand dollars!”

“I know it would. And you may rest assured that the estimate is not

high. I only wish I had your chances for a splendid fortune.”

“How is this lumber to be made available?” asked Ellison.

“Cut and manufacture it yourself. You’ll find that a vast deal more

profitable than painting pictures. You can see that this is one of the

best situated towns in the West. The supply of lumber has always been

inadequate for building purposes, and, in consequence, its prosperity

has been retarded. Reduce the price by a full supply, and houses will go

up as by magic, and the value of property rise in all directions. At

present, you could not get over fifteen dollars an acre for your land if

you were to throw it into market. But go to work and clear it gradually,

sawing up the timber into building materials, and, in ten years, such

will be the prosperity of the place, growing out of the very fact of a

full supply of cheap lumber, that every acre will command fifty

dollars.”

The mind of the young man caught eagerly at this suggestion. He held

long interviews with Claxton, who made estimates of various kinds for

him, and gave him mathematics for every thing. They rode out to the land

together, and there it was demonstrated, to a certainty, that at least

seven hundred dollars worth of timber, instead of three hundred, could

be obtained from every acre. Ellison saw himself worth his hundred

thousand dollars, and as happy as such a realization of his hopes could

make him. He went with Claxton to his mill, where the operation of every

thing was fully explained to his most perfect satisfaction. Even in this

enterprise a fortune was to be made, notwithstanding Claxton had no land

of his own heavily timbered, and would have to pay at least two dollars

for every log brought to his mill, which stood on the river bank. This

site had been chosen because of the facilities it afforded for getting

the raw material which could be floated down from above.

Of all this the young man talked constantly to his wife, and with a

degree of confidence and enthusiasm that half won her cooler and less

sanguine mind over to his views. She did not, however, like Claxton. Her

woman’s true instinct perceived the quality of his mind; and she

therefore had little confidence in him. In suggesting this, her

husband’s reply was,

“I don’t take any thing on his recommendation. I look at facts and

figures, and they cannot lie.”

There was something unanswerable in this; yet it did not satisfy the

mind of Clara.

When Ellison talked to others of what was in his mind, some listened to

what he said in silence; some shrugged their shoulders, and some said it

wouldn’t do. He had been forewarned of this skepticism by Claxton, and

was therefore prepared for it. He well understood that the people lacked

true, far-seeing enterprise; were, in fact, half asleep! All objections,

therefore, that were urged, rebounded from his mind without producing

any rational impression.

He had already picked out a spot for the location of his mill, and was

obtaining estimates for its construction, when Claxton called on him one

day, with a letter in his hand, which he said he had just received from

Cincinnati. It was from a brother who was engaged in the river trading

business, and who owned three large steamboats. He had already made a

fortune. But ill health had come upon him, and he found it necessary to

retire in part from the active duties which had absorbed his attention

for years. To his brother he offered most tempting inducements to give

up his saw-mill scheme, unite with him, and take the active control of

every thing. “If,” said the letter, “you have any difficulty in finding

a person in your stupid place with enterprise enough to take your mill

off of your hands, I know a man here who will relieve you; but he will

want time on nearly the whole amount of the purchase. He is perfectly

safe, however, possessing a large amount of property.”

Of course, Mr. Claxton, having taken a particular fancy to Ellison, and

being anxious to put him fairly in the road to fortune, offered him the

mill at cost; and Ellison, without asking the advice of any one—being

fully impressed with the belief that he knew his own business, and had

sense enough to understand a plain proposition when presented,

immediately closed with the offer. The price asked was exactly cost, and

to determine what this was, the bills for every thing were exhibited and

taken as the basis of valuation. According to these the mill had cost

six thousand dollars. And for this sum, Claxton generously consented to

sell the entire concern, with all prospective benefits, to his young

friend. The amount of cash to be paid down was three thousand dollars,

and for the balance, notes of six, nine, and twelve months were to be

given, secured by mortgage on the four hundred acres of land.

When matters assumed this aspect, Clara, who, strangely enough to the

mind of Alfred, appeared to like Claxton less and less every day,

suggested many doubts, and proposed that the matter should be submitted

to three old residents of the place, and their advice taken as

conclusive. But Alfred objected to this. They were plodders, he said, in

an old beaten track, where, like horses in a mill, they had gone round

and round until they were blind. They would, of course, suggest a

thousand doubts and difficulties, all of which he had already solved.

There was no aspect of the case in which he had not viewed it, and he

understood all the bearings better than any one else.

“He is a poor sort of a man who cannot lay his course in life, and steer

safely by force of his own intelligence,” said the young man, proudly.

Clara, however, was not satisfied; but having had some experience in

regard to her husband’s sensitiveness when any question touching their

property came up, she was afraid to say a great deal in opposition to a

purpose that was so fully formed as to admit of no check without painful

disturbance. So she permitted him to take his own way, neither approving

nor objecting.

Alfred understood, however, from his wife’s manner, that she had little

confidence in the new business upon which he was about entering.

“Happily, I will disappoint her fears,” was his consoling and

strengthening reflection. “When her little property has swelled in value

to fifty or sixty thousand dollars, how different will be her feelings!

She will then understand the character of her husband better—will know

that he is no common man.”

With a presentiment of coming trouble, Clara saw their stock sold, and

three thousand dollars paid over to Claxton; but she appeared to

acquiesce in the transaction so entirely, that Alfred was deceived as to

her real feelings.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE PRIZE SECURED.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

* * * * *

THE PIRATE.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

TWELVE hours along the glowing strand

The sunlight, like a flame, hath lain;

The surf is swelling on the sand,

And day is on the wane;

And, like a shadow on the shore,

The pallid plover winnows by,

And, like a ghost’s, the heron’s cry

Rises above the breakers’ roar.

And eddies down the sky.

Who saw her gliding from the stocks

Would know my gallant brigantine?

The granite teeth of rugged rocks

Have torn my ocean queen:

A royal ransom under deck,

The slave of every wave, she lies

Never, ah, nevermore to rise,

A helpless hulk—a crumbling wreck—

Before my dying eyes.

Alone! alone! alas! alone!

Not one of those who swayed the wave

Survives, to hear my dying moan,

Or give his chief a grave.

No, no, not one; alone I tread

These desolate, desert sands—alone,

Where, in the moon, as they were thrown,

My merry men lie, cold and dead

And motionless as stone.

Night after night, along the sea,

In maiden modesty of mien,

Glides, gazing mournfully on me,

My gentle Geraldine.

Her glances pierce my penitent heart,

As like a statued saint she stands—

A seraph from those unknown lands

To which my soul must soon depart,

Freed from its fleshy bands.

Sweet Geraldine! her beauty fell

On sense and soul, like light from heaven;

My heart looked up, like Dives from hell,

And prayed to be forgiven;

Love swam within her lustrous eyes,

Played in her shadowy hair.

Moved in her more than queenly air,

And floated on her silver sighs—

To drown me with despair.

O, woful day! O, woful hour!

That told me that my hopes were vain;

I felt, that second, centuries

Of agonizing pain!

Hope, tremulous with feverous fears,

Unclasped her wings, and fled;

I stood, like one whose dearest dead

Lies on the trestles—steeped in tears—

Heaven’s judgment on my head.

Why did she hate me! Wherefore blight

My penitent heart with piercing scorn?

My better angel took her flight

Despairing and forlorn:

The Fiend, who stood exulting by,

Reclaimed his trembling slave;

God saw, but would not stoop to save

The struggling wretch who dared defy

His laws, on land and wave.

O, Geraldine, I see thee fly,

Despairing, from my accursed hands:

“Better my bones should bleach,” thy cry,

“On savagest of strands

Than that my fatal charms should cause

My never—never-dying shame;

Better, O, villain, virtuous fame

With death, than life, when human laws,

And God’s, accuse my name!”

I see again thy mute, white face,

Thy pallid cheeks and bloodless lips,

Thine eyes, that shone like stars in space,

Rayless with shame’s eclipse—

As flying, ghost-like, through the night,

Fearing death less than me,

Thy heart went out beneath the sea:

An angel soul that night took flight,

A martyr ceased to be!

I walked in blood, I swam in wine,

Until my desperate, daring crew

Trembled at guilt so great as mine:

The unbelieving Jew

Who smote his God was white as snow

To that which I became;

So black was I, so steeped in shame,

The very fiends, who writhed below,

Howled when they heard my name.

Nature gave way: when I awoke

The sky was black, the sea was white;

Day, that long since had dimly broke,

Was little more than night;

And madly struggling with the waves

Careered my gallant craft;

My crew were pale, I only laughed,

And coarsely cursed the drunken knaves

Who, full of wine, still quaffed.

Night came; my men lay sunk in sleep;

I only trod the silent deck:

God’s anger walked the boisterous deep,

But little did I reck;

When in the storm, before my eyes,

My memory’s virgin queen,

The dead, the sainted Geraldine,

Stood calmly pointing to the skies,

Madonna-like in mien.

I waved her from me, and she waned;

I saw not, know not, how, or where;

A single pitying look she deigned,

Then, vanished into air.

Then came a sudden shock and crash:

In frantic haste I clasped

A fragment of a shattered mast;

I saw the boiling breakers flash,

And sense and memory passed.

When I revived, the noon-day sun

Lay swooning on the sultry sand:

I was the only human one

That ever touched the strand.

The very birds that sported round

Screamed when they neared the shore;

The trackless sands were gray and hoar;

Nor shrub, nor grass relieved the ground,

Which nothing living bore.

We were alone—I and my soul—

A timid, trembling, guilty pair,

Already near our earthly goal,

And livid with despair:

Six weary days, six sleepless nights,

We walked the painful Past:

Our crimes, like ghosts, arose and cast

Their glances on us: ah, what sights

And scenes were in that Past!

But when the moon lies on the sea,

The seraph soul of Geraldine

Night after night comes down to me,

Walking its waves of green.

Hunger and thirst like phantoms seem

Before her pitying eyes,

As pointing always to the skies,

She wanes and vanishes like a dream—

She and her pitying eyes.

I feel that I shall die to-night;

Death seems already at my heart;

My soul has plumed its wings for flight,

And struggles to depart.

I only wait for Geraldine

To take me by the hand

And lead me to that blesséd band,

Whose forms in visions I have seen,

Walking the Better Land.

* * * * *

SONNETS.—AT TWILIGHT.

BY CHARLES R. CLARKE.

I.

THE day-god lingers in the waking west,

And as I gaze upon his burning brow

My truant, willful thoughts abide no rest,

But wander forth in search of those who now,

Like me, engage perchance an idle hour

In still more idle speculation, whence,

(E’en as the case may be,) yon orb of power

Steals, begs, or borrows his magnificence:—

And as he slowly wades beyond our sight,

Methinks I hear him likened to a king,

On rosy couch retiring for the night,

Till morning stars, mild chanticleers, shall sing:

O cruel thought! to bid him sleep in state

While half the world still for their coffee wait.

II.

Yet these are pointless thoughts, the hour, the place,

Command my muse to plume her wayward wing

For some bold flight—o’er realms that bear no trace

Of other footsteps—be it mine to sing

Of that more blissful twilight of _the soul_—

Which poets say, steals over it in dreams,

When Want and Care resign their base control,

And tired Sense reclines ’neath Fancy’s beams.

O! years agone I loved a maiden fair,

My hopes were high and my joys Elysian:

Oft as I gazed upon her beauty rare,

Low my Fancy whispered _’tis a vision_!

And now I turn and wish that o’er my soul

Such fair and pleasant twilights oftener stole.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Painted by Bonington Engraved by F. Humphrys

THE LAY OF LOVE.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

* * * * *

LOVE’S INFLUENCE.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

Thus not all love, nor every mode of love is beautiful or worthy

of commendation, but that alone which excites us to love

worthily. If any one seeks the friendship of another, believing

him to be virtuous, for the sake of becoming better through such

intercourse and affection, and is deceived, his friend turning

out to be worthless, and far from the possession of virtue; yet

it is honorable to have been so deceived. For such an one seems

to have submitted to a kind of servitude because he would endure

any thing for the sake of becoming more virtuous and wise: a

disposition of mind eminently beautiful. So much, although

unpremeditated, is what I have to deliver on the subject of

Love, O Phædrus. _Shelley’s Translation of the Symposium of

Plato._

IN looking back upon my school-girl friendships, I always select Meta

Hallowell as the most interesting, and the most satisfactory to dwell

upon. The influences of friendship, love, society and time, have made

the most beautiful developments in her character. She was a merry,

light-hearted creature; but was more remarkable at school for an

affectionate disposition, and a refined and delicate taste, than for any

quick perception of intellect, or even proper application. She was a

butterfly, flying from one thing to another in her studies, just as the

interest of the moment led her; acting as if all the duties of life were

merely for amusement. I used to look at her and wonder silently how she

would ever be able to endure any trouble that might come upon her in the

future; she seemed so volatile, so delicate, so totally unfitted to come

in contact with the thousand and one struggles and trials that spring up

in every one’s life-path. “Surely,” I would say to myself, “trouble

would overwhelm such a frail spirit, or harden it, and deprive it of its

refined beauty.” But I have always been the very worst person in the

world to judge of character; and I never could prophesy in that knowing

manner, that so many wise ones do, on the effects that certain

influences or circumstances would produce on different natures. Nor has

experience done me any good. I am no better judge now, and although

events have taken place in my own life and in my own circle that would

have enlightened most persons, I am no brighter, no quicker; and I make

just as many blunders as I did when I played with dreamy philosophy and

the study of character at seventeen.

But I commenced with Meta Hallowell not with myself. Meta was beautiful

in person as well as in spirit. She had a graceful, willowy figure,

delicately developed; a sparkling, yes, a brilliant face, with eyes that

were flashing or melting, just as she felt gay or sentimental; and a

finely-shaped mouth, whose lips trembled with every shade of feeling,

and around it hung the expression of intuitive refinement and delicacy

that always hovers around the mouth if there be any refinement in a

person’s nature. Then her laugh was the most musical thing in the world,

and her voice the sweetest of all voices. This sounds enthusiastic, but

Meta Hallowell was and is a subject worthy of enthusiasm. She has never

worn out; she is better, lovelier and purer than when I first loved her

in my school-days.

We left school at the same time, but our positions were very different

in the world. She belonged to a gay family, and was immediately plunged

into the whirl of fashionable life, while I led a very quiet, sober

existence, which was well suited to my shy nature, but formed a strong

contrast to pretty Meta’s sphere of action. One might have supposed our

intercourse would have been broken off; on the contrary, we remained as

intimate, as when we studied the same lessons, and sat at the same desk.

True, a great deal of the visiting had to depend upon Meta, as home

duties necessarily kept me from her; and she seldom passed a day without

peeping in upon my “little nest,” as she called our cozy library; and

once in a while she would enliven an evening by drinking tea with us;

thus she kept me “booked up” in all the gossip and doings of the

fashionable world.

She had no parents; her sister, two years her senior, and a widowed

aunt, were her only near relatives. Meta and her sister were in

comfortable circumstances—they had a nice little fortune apiece, which,

of course, the world magnified. Their aunt had, however, quite a large

life income, which, united with their own, made a very handsome

appearance. Mrs. Hunsdon, the aunt, was a silly _one-ideaed_ woman. To

be fashionable, was the sole aim of her existence. She had no children,

and turned all her attention to the establishment in life of her nieces.

She had not cleverness, nor independence enough to be a leader in the

gay world, but was always found fastened on to some _distingué_ person,

whose shadow she made herself—going and coming, living and breathing as

near like her model as possible; poor soul! how much labor she endured

for her position in society. Her eldest niece was her exact counterpart;

and at the time of Meta’s _entrée_, Miss Hallowell had secured an

excellent offer from a most unexceptionable person, according to their

ideas of such things; and the preparations for the approaching wedding

were carried on in a grand manner. The whole town rang with Miss

Hallowell’s magnificent wardrobe; the beautiful gifts presented by her

husband elect; and I heard no less than a dozen different accounts of

what was to be her wedding-dress; each account professing to come from

Miss W., the fashionable dress-maker and _modiste_ of the day.

One morning Meta came dancing into the library where I had snugly seated

myself for a quiet hour’s study, after having settled for the day, the

affairs of my little domestic kingdom.

“Ah; this is a treat,” she exclaimed, “here is true comfort;” and taking

possession of her favorite lounge, she gave me a half-laughing,

half-serious account of the bustle and preparatory arrangements for the

approaching wedding. “How stupid is all this ceremony, Enna, dear,” she

continued, “aunt fusses about, and Therese looks as grand as a queen.

Then Mr. Folwell is so wearying; how Tettie can fancy him is a wonder to

me. I have never heard him call her ‘dear Therese’ yet; it is always

‘Miss Hallowell’—such dignity chills me. When I marry, there shall be

no grandeur about the affair. I want quiet, home love. My husband shall

call me ‘Meta, darling,’ varying it once in a while with ‘angel bird,’

and all sorts of sweet expletives; he shall love me dearly, put me in a

nice little home like this—just such a library; here he shall study and

write, and I’ll sit beside him, sew and sing, and look at him, and bless

heaven for making me so happy.”

“Why, Meta, your aunt and sister would lift their hands in horror,” I

said, laughingly. “But where are you going to find such a nice

lover—will Mr. Lawson be all this?”

A look of vexation overspread Meta’s pretty face as she replied, “Oh no,

not Mr. Lawson. I know aunt would be delighted with him, but he is

almost as stupid as the rest of them.”

“Mr. Lawson stupid!” I exclaimed. “Meta, where is your taste? He is

quiet and calm, I admit, but not stupid. You naughty girl, not to love

him; he is just the husband for you, madcap. To be sure he might not

indulge in so many affectionate expletives, as you say your husband

must, but he would watch over your happiness tenderly.”

“Better marry him yourself, Enna, since you think him so agreeable,”

said Meta, a little quickly; then springing toward me, she threw her

arms around me exclaiming, “I have just such a lover as I have pictured,

pet one; and I depend on your assistance in my love affair.”

Now, young as I was, I was a perfect model of propriety—the idea of

being an assistant in a “love affair,” frightened me out of my wits; for

I was in truth, a “born old maid,” as my old nurse, Katy, used to call

me.

“Me assist you?” I asked. “How can that be possible; I—who never go out

any where, never see any one?”

“For that very reason,” replied Meta, laughing heartily at my fright and

astonishment, “you are just the very one; and that is why I have

selected you. This paragon lover of mine dislikes ceremony as much as I

do. He is perfectly unexceptionable; when I tell you his name, you will

admit that he is. If he had addressed Tettie, I know she would have had

him—that is, if the rich Mr. Folwell had not come in the way; but,

thank Heaven, he did not want Tettie!”

“Then why do you need any assistance, Meta?” I asked, in a perplexed

tone.

“Because we wish to have our courtship perfectly unsuspected,” she

answered. “Charles Morris—there, you see I have made no bad

selection—Charles is a little embarrassed just now; some unfortunate

speculations and business matters entangle him. Our engagement may last

a year, and I never could endure hearing Aunt Margaret announce with

such self-complacency, that her niece, Miss Meta Hallowell, was engaged,

actually engaged, here, at the commencement of her first season. If we

were to be married now, within a month or so, I would endeavor to bear

it, but to bear it at every dinner-party, every morning visit, and every

_soirée_, would surely kill me, and put an end to all Charles’s

prospects of future happiness. Our plan is this, to keep perfectly quiet

until his affairs are _en traine_, then announce our intention of

marriage to Tettie and Aunt Margaret, just immediately before the

ceremony, and thus avoid all talk and interference. But poor Charles

says he cannot exist without seeing me once in a while as a lover, so

with your permission we will chance to meet here now and then. I know he

has a calling acquaintance with you—there lies his card uppermost on

your card-basket.”

“Yes,” I replied. “He called yesterday. I did not know his call was

intended to prepare the way for such a momentous affair as this.”

“But you will help me, Enna, pet, will you not?” said Meta, coaxingly.

“There is no impropriety in it, prude”—and I consented. It was wrong, I

know; mysteries and concealments rarely turn out well, and are always

injudicious; but I was very young, entirely my own mistress, for my dear

old father and Aunt Mary fancied I had the judgment of a woman of forty;

and, moreover, I could not refuse any thing to dear Meta. I had not

liked Mr. Morris heretofore; true, he was, as Meta had said, “perfectly

unexceptionable,” being a young merchant of good standing in society,

and having the reputation of some wealth. I knew very well that there

was no fear of Mrs. Hunsdon objecting to him; but to me he had always

seemed too bland, too artificial; he never, by any chance forgot

himself; then I had heard a gossiping story about him, although I did

not respect the source from whence it had proceeded, still it had

prejudiced me against him. I had been told by a scandal-loving

connection of ours, that Mr. Morris, a year before, had addressed a Miss

Wilson, and would have eloped with her had not her friends interposed.

This Miss Wilson was an ugly, red-haired heiress, with little brains,

excessive vulgarity, but an immense estate. She was entirely out of the

set of his associates, and if he had addressed her, it had been from

mercenary motives. But now that I heard Meta’s account of her engagement

with him, I dismissed Kate Holton’s story from my mind as a contemptible

gossiping falsehood, which I should have been ashamed of listening to,

and endeavored to find him as agreeable and good as dear Meta said he

was.

During the ensuing winter, Meta and Mr. Morris met repeatedly at our

house. We rarely received company in the evenings, therefore, they were

always sure of being undisturbed. It was my father’s custom to retire

early, and my good Aunt Mary is by nature unsuspicious and innocent as a

child. She and I would sit in the library, sewing and knitting,

listening to Meta’s merry talk; then, after Mr. Morris would join the

circle, I generally proposed music, which made an excuse for Meta and

her lover to go into the drawing-room, which opened on my library. Meta

was a good musician, she played very finely, and had a beautiful voice.

I used to declare the music sounded better from the library; so by this

little piece of management on my part, the lovers were left together.

After a few pieces, the music ceased, and for an hour or more their low,

murmuring conversation would come soothingly on my ear like the sound of

sweet melody. I used to smile as I would look around me. We would have

made a pretty picture if that sweet music of loving voices could have

been made visible on the canvas. I was the only observing, conscious one

of the circle, for dear Aunt Mary was as unconscious as Zoe and Flirt,

the little hound and pet kitten that napped comfortably on either side

of the library fire. My aunt in her large easy-chair and reading-stand

before her, while her knitting-needles fairly flew, would be completely

absorbed in some work of fiction, her greatest delight, never dreaming

that a real love-story was progressing under her eyes. She has always

been an inveterate novel reader, this same Aunt Mary; but I must say for

her, that this taste, so pernicious to many, preventing them from

performing their daily duties with interest, making real life tame for

them, has had no bad effect upon her—a more industrious, excellent

woman never breathed; and it has often amused me that, although she

dotes upon love-stories on paper, and can follow patiently and

unwearyingly the written account of the most intricate romance, love in

real life possesses but little interest for her. She breathes a

different atmosphere while reading—seems in another state of existence,

which completely vanishes so soon as the book is laid aside; and she

takes up life and life’s duties in the most matter-of-fact,

conscientious manner imaginable. I often wonder what she does with all

the love stories she reads, for she never makes use of them in every day

affairs; and even when a real little bit of romance which has taken

place in actual life is pointed out to her, she is entirely wanting in

sympathetic appreciation, regarding it as quite absurd.

The winter passed quickly on. The only event of moment that occurred was

Meta’s rejection of Mr. Lawson. How Mrs. Hunsdon stormed, and the

haughty Mrs. Folwell lectured, and I could not help regretting it

myself—Mr. Lawson was so gentlemanly, so good. I knew it would have

been far better for Meta to have loved him; his influence over her

impressible nature would have been so beneficial; and when by chance

once or twice I met him in company with Meta, and noticed his serious,

grieved countenance, my conscience felt smitten, and in sadness I would

compare him with Charles Morris, the comparison being any thing but

flattering to the latter.

The spring opened upon my pair of lovers, who were still as adoring as

ever. One thing I do remember as strange, and at the time it annoyed me,

although I felt at the time as we do in dreams, not able to express or

even realize the actual annoyance. Although Mr. Morris knew, could not

help knowing, that I was fully aware of his engagement with Meta, he

never once spoke openly about it to me, never hinted at it; and two or

three times, when other unavoidable engagements prevented Meta from

joining him at the appointed time, and on his coming in the evening, I

would hand him Meta’s note of excuse, containing a love _poulet_ for

him, he would read it without remark, and, to my surprise, stay the

accustomed time, entertaining Aunt Mary and myself as if he had come for

that purpose. That clever authoress, Mrs. Grey, makes one of her

heroines express an opinion, that certainly does apply to such men us

Charles Morris. She says, “I have the highest opinion of men’s honor

amongst themselves, but you may depend upon it, there is very little in

the case where we women, with our interests and affections are

concerned.”

The traveling season came on; and Mr. Morris promised to meet Meta at

the fashionable watering-place she was going to with her aunt and Mrs.

Folwell; but the season passed without his doing so—business, he said,

had prevented him; and when Meta returned in the fall, she looked pale,

dispirited and unhappy.

“I could not hear from Charles,” she said, “without exciting suspicion.

Had you been in town, Enna, he would have written through you; but as it

was, I had to pass the weary season without any intelligence from him.

Nine unhappy weeks have they been, and truly, I think, even the horror I

used to have of Aunt Margaret’s fuss and bustle over my engagement, has

almost vanished. I think I could bear with it better than this misery of

silence and separation.”

They met again—but after the interview Meta seemed still tearful and

nervous. It was evident she wearied of the concealment, but her lover

did not.

“I have acted very foolishly,” she said to me one evening, when, instead

of meeting Mr. Morris at our house, he had sent her a note of apology

filled with excuses for his unavoidable business engagements, “I entered

into this secret engagement so thoughtlessly—and Heaven only knows when

or where it is to end.”

We were alone. Aunt Mary, not being very well, had retired immediately

after tea. Meta threw herself on the lounge, and drawing me to her,

rested her head on my shoulder, and sobbed like a child. I caressed her

silently, and my tears mingled with hers. Frank and open, Meta could not

have a thought or shade of feeling without disclosing it to me. Her

concealment of her engagement from her family, had arisen from delicacy,

shyness, and the strong dash of romance in her character; then the

artificial natures of her aunt and sister prevented all confidence with

them, but with those she loved and depended on, she was as confiding and

candid as an innocent child.

“Charles says I have grown suspicious and fretful,” she at last said, as

her sobs became more quieted. “I know I am altered; our separation in

the summer was so very painful to me as to make me restless in temper. I

confess I am tired of concealment, and when I told him so, the other

evening, I was mortified by the cold manner with which he received it.

He said it had been my own proposition, that some time would necessarily

elapse before we could be married, and that the same objections existed

as at first to an open announcement of our engagement. I felt wounded to

the quick, and when I passionately accused him of no longer loving me,

he very coolly left me to become more reasonable, as he said, and came

here into the library and talked to you and your aunt. I have not seen

him since; no engagement should have kept him from me; he knows how

wretchedly I must feel, even though I may be unreasonable, and cherish

groundless suspicions; and yet his note this evening is so calm and

unmoved.”

I soothed and encouraged her in the best way I could, but I thought

within myself it was a cloudy affair. Again and again they met, but

their meetings failed to produce happiness for Meta. He was cold—she

suspicious.

“He never alludes to a past misunderstanding,” she said, one evening to

me after he had left, for he no longer staid the whole evening as

formerly, nor did he come so often. “When he knows we have parted

miserably, and we meet again, instead of soothing and assuring me, he

commences talking on some indifferent subject, as if nothing had

occurred. If he has changed, why not candidly avow it? So I told him

this evening, and he told me my absurd jealousy made me both selfish and

unkind. Oh, Enna! I am miserable, this state of affairs cannot last much

longer, it will kill me. Do tell me, Enna, am I unjust in my

accusations—is not Charles altered?”

I scarcely knew what to say, and by soothings and caressings evaded a

direct answer. Altered he surely was; he no longer showed any particular

desire to meet her; sometimes a week and more would pass without his

coming; while poor Meta rarely omitted an evening. Every night her pale,

sad face rested on my shoulder, starting nervously at every noise, and

then, when the carriage would come for her at ten o’clock, she would

kiss me good-night with trembling lips, and disappointment in her heart;

and for an hour after, I would rest my head on my pillow, her glazed and

heavy eyes and wretched countenance would come up before me like a

spectre.

A few mornings after this last conversation I received a visit from the

Mrs. Holton who had first told me of the gossip about Mr. Morris and

Miss Wilson. She had been absent from town several months, and came in

upon us unexpectedly, just as we were arising from a late breakfast. I

had not even read the morning paper, which I had in my hand as she

entered.

“Ah! I suppose, then, you have heard the news,” she said.

“Why we rarely hear news, Kate, excepting from you,” replied Aunt Mary.

Mrs. Holton laughed, but was evidently too much interested in her new

piece of gossip to notice Aunt Mary’s sarcasm. She turned to me with a

malicious expression of countenance, and said, “Notwithstanding it

interests you so particularly, Enna, you bear it very properly, I must

confess.”

I stared, as I well might, for I could not understand a word of what she

was saying.

“What is it you mean, Catharine?” said my aunt, a little decidedly. Mrs.

Holton stood a little in awe of Aunt Mary, and said quickly, “Oh, I mean

nothing, to be sure; I did not believe the report about Enna when I

heard of it this morning, notwithstanding even Mrs. Wilson herself told

me Betty had been outrageously jealous of her.”

“Mrs. Wilson!—Betty!—jealous of Enna!—what are you talking about,

Catharine Holton?” exclaimed Aunt Mary, really angry, “truly that unruly

member of yours does make you take strange liberties.”

“I only say what every one else says,” said Mrs. Holton, in a piqued

tone, “that Mr. Morris’s attentions to Enna, have been the means of his

obtaining a rich wife. That newspaper will tell you, if you choose to

look at it, that yesterday he eloped with Betty Wilson. The whole affair

has been managed admirably; her mother never dreamed of such a thing

until the bird had flown. I went to see Mrs. Wilson this morning, as

soon as I read it in the paper, and she was raving away at a terrible

rate. She says she knew Betty was terribly jealous of you, Enna, all

last winter; but she thought it had all blown over, as Betty had not

mentioned his name for a long while.”

I have no doubt Kate Holton felt more gratification in giving this

account of Mr. Morris’s and Miss Wilson’s marriage, than she had ever

experienced before, for my terror and wretchedness were expressed on my

face, although I listened with a forced calmness to all her gossiping

details of the affair. Up to this day I am sure she thinks I was jilted

by Mr. Morris, but at the time I could say nothing, so anxious was I for

poor Meta. I knew that the elopement would be a town talk, for during

the last few months Miss Wilson had made herself very prominent.

Although not belonging to that charmed circle yclept _par excellence_,

“society,” she had made herself a subject of conversation with them, by

her splendid equipage, her rich and noisy costume, and lavish

expenditure of the immense income left to her, untrammeled, by her

father, two years before. Young, aristocratic beaux, with little money,

had saucily pitied the “poor thing’s isolated position,” and more than

one had declared his generous, self-sacrificing intention of “taking the

girl, and showing her how to spend her money,” but here Charles Morris

had quietly stepped in and carried her off! I may as well mention here,

the part of Mrs. Holton’s recital, which I subsequently learned, was

true.

Mr. Morris had, before meeting with Meta, addressed Miss Wilson. This

occurred soon after the death of her father. The mother, a sensible,

shrewd old woman, had influenced Miss Betty to refuse the aristocratic

lover. Then he met with Meta, with whose family he had always been on

intimate terms. At first I believe he was sincere, or at least as

sincere as his selfish nature would permit him to be; but during the

previous summer he had discovered that the silly heiress was dying of

disappointed vanity and jealousy, fancying from his frequent visits to

our house, that he had transferred his affections to me. By some chance

they met; he found her ready to throw herself and her half million into

his arms, almost without the asking, which temptation he could not, of

course, withstand. This was the cause of his coldness and indifference

to poor Meta, for I suppose he did not wish to give her up entirely

until certain of the heiress.

Although I listened to Mrs. Holton’s conversation in dignified silence,

the agony I endured was almost unbearable. I could almost have put her

out of the house, so anxious was I to go to Meta—and heartily did I

rejoice when this gossiping woman rose to go. As the door closed on her,

Aunt Mary exclaimed, “Why, Enna, one might believe Kate Holton’s story

about Mr. Morris’s jilting you was true, you look so wretchedly.”

“Do I?” asked I, with an hysteric laugh and sob mingled, and for a few

moments my weeping was so violent that my poor aunt really believed it,

and turning it over in her mind, innocent soul! she wondered she had not

divined it before. At last, under promise of secrecy, I told her the

whole affair, for I knew she would fret unceasingly.

“Poor Meta! foolish girl!” said Aunt Mary, as I concluded. “She ought to

consider herself well off for being rid of him; he’s a good for nothing

fellow, and she never would have been happy if she had married him.”

Just as she was taking this matter-of-fact view of the subject, the

library-door opened, and in rushed Meta, looking wild and startled. Aunt

Mary left us.

“Tell me, Enna,” she said, clinging to me, “have you heard any thing? I

know you have, darling, for you will not look at me. Tell me all you

have heard, for indeed it will be better for me. I cannot suffer more

than I have these six months past;” and she sunk on the floor before me,

overwhelmed with her anguish. She had heard the news from some morning

visiters, and had escaped from home quietly, to come to me for comfort.

The only consolation I could give, was sympathy. The whole day passed

sadly enough, and I felt almost hopeless for her future, when suddenly a

ray of light beamed upon me, as I heard her exclaim, “Well, thank

Heaven! no one knows my miserable folly but you, Enna. I shall not be

mortified and wounded by the insolent pity of society.” I saw that her

pride was roused, and there is every hope for both man and woman so long

as that remains. I took advantage of this, and lost no time in rousing

her self-esteem. What an altered creature she seemed, pacing up and down

my library a half hour afterward. I thought all the time of Queen

Elizabeth’s reception of Leicester, in Kenilworth, after she had learned

his perfidy to her and his poor wife, “Sweet Amy Robsart.” Meta queened

it nobly over herself; and after the first struggle had passed, and the

excitement of wounded pride even had passed, purer and better influences

came to her aid and strengthened her. I had trembled, as I have said,

for the effect of any great trouble or disappointment on Meta’s

character, fearing the meet injurious consequences; this proved how I

little I knew. The influence of trouble was beneficial to her, it served

to quicken and strengthen her intellect; shook off the dreamy

sentimentality that had hung like a mist over her fine mind, and she

took a better, clearer view of life’s pursuits and duties.

A few years after this affair Meta married well and happily. Her husband

is a distinguished man, and my friend leads the gay life of a woman of

real society not in a little provincial circle, like that in which she

had been brought up, and which had disgusted and wearied her by its

silly, trifling vanities and nothings, but in stirring scenes of life,

interesting herself in the grand and noble pursuits of her husband, who

is a statesman and a scholar; receiving and entertaining the crowds of

people who are attracted around her by her husband’s talents and her own

brilliant, bewitching manners.

Our intimacy still continues; and whenever I read one of her sparkling

letters, or pay her a visit, and see how healthily and heartily she

enjoys life, I can scarcely conceive that she was ever the love-sick,

romantic Meta Hallowell of former days; and I see with delight that she

is now under the influence of the most beautiful, the most holy of all

feelings—true, spiritual love; and that she retains only a smiling,

pitying recollection of that season of her past life, when she had for

awhile lingered in the depths of mortality, held down by the enervating

influence of that hollow mockery—love for an unworthy object.

* * * * *

SONG.

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE WALTER HERRIES, ESQ.

WOULD thou wert mine own wife,

I’d fold thee in these arms,

And shield thee on this faithful breast

Secure from all alarms.

Thou shouldst be with me ever,

And in gladness or in gloom,

Thy presence like a sunbeam

Should life’s every hour illume.

The heaviest toil of life, love,

The weary weight of care,

Cheered by thy smile serene and true,

Most gladly I would bear,

And though forced by sterner duties

From thy gentle side to roam,

I would know an angel blessed me

From the fireside of my home.

Would thou wert mine own wife

Then cherished in this breast,

Thou’dst dwell in tender joyousness

A dove within her nest.

Thus, hand in hand together,

We would tread the path of life,

While flowers of joy should greet thy steps—

Oh! would thou wert my wife.

* * * * *

THE TWO PORTRAITS.

BY HELEN IRVING.

CHAPTER I.

“—his spirit wholly turned

To stern ambition’s dream, to that fierce strife

Which leads to life’s high places, and recked not

What lovely flowers might perish in his path.”

L. E. L.

“Life, with all its hues and changes,

To thy heart doth lie,

Like those dreamy Alpine ranges

In the southern sky;

Where in haze the clefts are hidden,

Which the heart should fear,

And the crags that fall unbidden

Startle not the ear!”

BAYARD TAYLOR.

LEANING against the wall in the atelier of a young artist, stood a

picture to which the finishing touches had that day been given. It was a

face of singular loveliness, and seemed to be that of a young girl in

the bloom of early womanhood, if the word bloom could be used in

connection with a face so spiritual in its character. From the pale and

rounded forehead, in whose transparent temples the delicate tracery of

veins was distinctly seen, the hair flowed back in dark waves, closely

confined at the back, with the exception of one or two long ringlets,

which had escaped and lay upon the white neck. The eyes were of softest

hazel, and into their far depths of sadness, calm, and heavenly thought,

it seemed impossible to look. The delicate Grecian nose corresponded

with the spiritual brow and eye, and it was only in the full, warm

mouth, that the secret of an impassioned nature was revealed.

Gazing upon the picture with drooping eyelids and folded hands, sat a

woman far past her early prime, wearing an ordinary dress of deepest

mourning. There was something in the outline of her face, and in the

beauty of her dark-hazel eye, which would have suggested to an observer

the truth that she stood in the relation of mother to the fair original

of the portrait before her, and the mourning garb might have aroused a

suspicion of what was also true, that Death had claimed this treasure of

her heart.

“And you will not sell me this picture?” she said in a broken voice,

apparently resuming a conversation with the artist, who sat before his

easel, at the farthest end of the room.

“No, madam, it is quite impossible,” was the coldly civil reply, as he

touched and re-touched the work before him.

“But I have said that I would pay you all, and more than you usually

demand for such a work, and—and—she was my child.”

“Let us once for all, madam, understand each other,” said the artist,

laying down his brush and looking her full in the face—“it is true that

I have taken and still do take likenesses for the paltry sum of fifty

dollars, for I am young, with my fame yet to earn, and fame alone in our

profession wins money. But this is no common picture—I had conceived

the thought to execute a work on which I would lay out all my power, on

which I would set the full seal of my genius, when I met your daughter.

Her face attracted me; it was beautiful, it was singular in its

character, it was what I wanted—at my request she sat to me, and for

those sittings I paid her, as you well know, a liberal price. I have

spent weeks over this picture, I have expended upon it all my energies,

and for a purpose. You may not be aware that the artists’ exhibition

takes place soon—my picture will be there—it must command attention; I

shall be known and my fame will be established! Part with it now! No,

not for ten times its value would I sacrifice all the hopes that hang

upon that work.”

The woman had held her breath to listen to his words, and as his voice

ceased, the long-suppressed emotion burst forth, and she passionately

cried—

“Do not, do not refuse me—think of your own heart, should all that it

worshiped on earth be torn from it: think of your own mother, and for

the love of her and heaven, hear me! What is the fame you tell of? Will

it not come for other things than this—will it be sweet if you trample

over one bruised heart to reach it—will praise be precious, bought at

the price of a mother’s agonized tears? Oh, pity my wretchedness, and

heaven will smile upon you—all the fame you covet will one day be

yours!”

As she finished, the artist quietly resumed his brush, saying in his

calm voice—

“My time is greatly occupied this morning, Mrs. Revere, and you will

excuse me, if I decline all further conversation on a subject,

concerning which I have already given you my intentions. I am momently

expecting a sitter, and must beg your pardon for requesting you to allow

me to attend to my preparations for her reception, undisturbed.”

A convulsive cry escaped from the woman’s lips as he turned away, and

gathering her coarse veil about the face which was now deathly pale, she

turned to leave the room. The cold heartlessness of those words had

frozen the last channel of Hope, and daring not a glance at the face of

her child, she feebly passed over the broad staircase, and into the

noise and bustle of the crowded street.

She had been gone but a few moments, and the artist had had just time to

brush with careless elegance the magnificent hair from his white

forehead, and to fling a drapery over the portrait of Elise Revere, when

steps were heard approaching, and with eye all light and lip all smiles,

he hastened to the door to welcome his young sitter.

“Good morning Emil—Miss Hastings; I have been impatiently looking for

you,” and with deferential tenderness he ushered her into the studio,

and offered the luxurious chair which seemed to be her accustomed seat.

His voice was deep and musical, and his eyes eloquent of admiration, as

he stood conversing while she laid aside her hat and shawl, and drew off

her delicate gloves.

Well might Edgar Loring gaze admiringly upon her, for she was “beautiful

exceedingly,” and yet a greater contrast could not perhaps have been

found, than she presented to the picture we have just noticed.

She was scarcely seventeen, of a petite figure, and her face, in the

softness and delicacy of its outline, seemed almost childish. Golden

curls clustered around her pure, sweet brow, lay against the sunny bloom

of her cheek, and fell in a bright shower over her dimpled and snowy

shoulders. Her eyes had that summer’s day radiance given only to eyes of

blue—her soft lips were of the richest red, and seemed moulded to

thoughts of lovingness, and gentleness, and happiness. It was a face

into which you could not look without the conviction that it had never

known aught but sunshine and love—that the dark truths of the world

were to its owner, but unreal visions of a far-off future. No deep tide

of feeling, no storm of strong passions had left its impress there; yet

the face so exquisite in its infantile loveliness, was not without its

signs of latent power. There was often a deepening of the light within

those soft eyes, an earnest compressing of the full lips, that were a

prophecy of a higher type of beauty for her maturer womanhood.

And Edgar Loring loved sweet Emily Hastings, although he had not yet

told her of it save by looks and tones perhaps as unmistakable as words.

He loved her fondly, almost passionately, _next to himself and fame_.

Intensely selfish and insatiably ambitious, he was ignorant of his

incapacity for a great and generous love. Possessed of a good education,

and a fine share of talent if not genius, he had come to the city, with

no friends but these and his remarkably handsome person, filled with the

determination of making to himself a name. Accident had brought him into

contact with a few influential persons, and he soon became known among a

certain clique as a young man whom it were well worth while to

patronize.

He had been in the city a little more than two years, and had painted

several portraits in good families, when he met with Emily Hastings, the

daughter of one of his patrons. Her beauty delighted his artistic eye,

her winning gentleness captivated his heart, her position in society was

a mark for his ambition. Well assured of his growing love for her, he

was also far from insensible to the advantages which a union with her

would confer. Mr. Hastings, although a man of wealth and high-standing,

was free from the weak prejudices of many of his class, and Edgar knew

that were his daughter’s heart bestowed upon a man of education and

character, he would not be looked upon as unworthy, even though

penniless. Could he win Emily’s love, he felt that her father’s approval

was sure, and in all his thoughts of the future, he pictured himself a

distinguished artist, and the husband of Emily Hastings.

But fame seemed to him yet afar off; to hear himself spoken of as “a

young artist who was remarkably successful in likenesses”—“a young man

of considerable promise,” was galling to his vanity, and he resolved to

execute some work that should claim attention. While he was thinking of

this, unable to fix upon any subject, he met, as we already know, Elise

Revere. That face of such strange beauty, line by line his skillful

pencil could copy; he could catch as he gazed upon them living before

him, the spiritual brow, and the eye’s deep poetic thought—all that

only a master-hand could _create_ upon canvas. The sittings were long

and many, but the artist was enchanted with his success—his ambitious

dreams grew brighter, and he almost felt the laurel on his brow. Days

and nights were occupied with thoughts of this new work, and the cold

selfishness of his ambition cannot be better shown than by the fact,

that when the illness and death of poor Elise reached his ears, the

involuntary first thought was, “My picture was in time!”

And this was the being—his selfish nature unrevealed in his

good-natured face and cordial manner, who sought to win the young,

child-like heart of Emily. Few could have resisted the fascination of

his presence—the mien deferential, tender—so eloquent of admiration,

and finally of love. Emily did not at least; she thought him good, noble

and gifted, and then he was so handsome, and beauty is a powerful

pleader to the heart of seventeen. She soon learned to love the books

and music he had praised, to look for his smile amid the crowd, and be

sad if she met it not—to treasure the flowers he had given and the

words he had whispered over them, and at last to be pensive or gay,

happy or sorrowful, in harmony with the music of those sweet chimes that

usher in the morning of a first love.

The sittings for Emily’s portrait had been a happy period to both the

artist and his beautiful subject—hours of pleasant interchange of

thought and feeling, memorable steps in the rosy pathway they were now

treading—and this day in especial had been so delightful, with its

thousand nothings of conversation, to which time and circumstance give

such a value, that an unconcealed shadow of regret fell upon each face,

as Miss Hastings’ servant announced that the carriage waited.

“I believe,” said Emily, as she tied the little white chip hat under her

dainty chin, “that you told papa yesterday there would be but one more

sitting before the picture was finished.”

“Only one more,” replied Edgar, in a tone which sent a richer bloom into

Emily’s cheek, and as fearful of betrayal she turned away her head, her

wandering eyes fell upon the portrait of Elise Revere, from which the

carelessly fastened covering had fallen.

“Oh, how beautiful, how adorably beautiful!” she exclaimed, pressing

eagerly forward, “and is it yours, Edgar?”

He looked into her glowing face, and his heart swelled proudly as he

answered:

“Yes, I have just finished it for the coming exhibition; it has occupied

me for some time, and no one has yet seen it, but I intended showing it

to _you_; do you like it?”

“Like it? I could look forever into those wonderful eyes, and upon that

calm, noble forehead. Is it a portrait?”

“_No!_” came from the artist’s false lips, “it is an ideal work.”

How unworthy was he of the look of proud delight, of reverent worship

written on the pure, girlish face upturned to his! How unworthy was he

of the tears that quivered on the long, golden lashes—the tremulous

tones of that low voice! Yet with a quickened pulse, he received the

incense of her enthusiasm, for it was a delicious foretaste of the

homage yet to be paid his name—a drop from the full beaker of fame for

which he thirsted.

“I could almost envy you,” said Emily, “the visions of loveliness that

must have come to you ere you could have called into being so glorious a

creation.”

“It was from the recollection of much, very much of beauty that I

wrought the work,” answered Edgar. “I called into it the choicest

elements of grace I had ever known. Do you not recognize the mouth?” he

added, turning to Emily with a peculiar smile.

Unconscious as she was of her own charms, it was impossible not to

recognize in the form and expression of those full, sweet lips, a

likeness to her own. False Edgar! it seemed to Emily a most delicate

tribute of admiring love, and it filled her heart with a strange

delight, to know that she was remembered amid his visions of beauty,

that she realized even in part his dreams of the ideal. She did not

answer, it was not a time for words. The consciousness of Edgar’s

interest in her, now more fully revealed than ever, came fraught with

still thought to her spirit.

And Edgar was silent, feeling for the first time sure that the

affections of the young being beside him were his own; for it was but a

part of the selfishness of his nature to refrain from declaring his

passion in direct terms, until he could read in the face of the

guileless Emily that it were a welcome avowal. For a few moments they

stood gazing on the portrait, then Emily lifted her happy eyes for one

moment to his face, and with a slight inclination of her head, passed

from the room.

Gladsome morning and tempestuous night are not in greater contrast than

were the light foot-fall and joyous spirit of Emily, to the lingering

step and heavy heart of her who had so short a time preceded her. Both

had come from the contemplation of the same picture—and to one its

memory was as a talisman of love and happiness, and to the other of

anguish and despair.

CHAPTER II.

“Dead—dead thou wert!—cold lay that form

In rarest beauty moulded,

And meekly o’er thy still, white breast

The snowy hands were folded.

Pale wert thou as the lily buds

Twined ’mid thy raven tresses,

And cold thy lip, and still thy heart

To all my wild caresses!”

—GRACE GREENWOOD.

“Another hand is beckoning on

Another call is given,

And glows once more with angel steps

The path which reaches Heaven.”

—WHITTIER.

The beautiful residence of Mr. Hastings was situated in the suburbs of

the city, so that Emily, although familiar with all the gayeties and

fashionable delights of life in town, was constantly surrounded with all

the sweet influences of Nature. The rippling of streams and the rustling

of forest leaves were the music of home voices, and winding paths

through green fields and woods, up sunny hill-sides and over mossy

rocks, were dearer than the gay promenade in the city, or even the

aristocratic drive with her father’s noble grays.

The day following that of her interview with Edgar, was bright with a

warm May sunshine, and beautiful in all the just unfolded loveliness of

spring. The breeze came whispering at her open window with an eloquence

not to be resisted, and with a brain full of busy fancies, and a heart

laden with sweet thoughts, she sauntered out into the delicious air.

With a light quick step she walked along the graveled street, past

cultivated grounds and noble dwellings, until she reached the green turf

and wooded slopes beyond. And here where the fresh, glad life of Nature

seemed kindred with her own, she loitered leisurely along grass-bordered

lanes, and beneath grand old trees, dreaming of Edgar, of his genius and

of his goodness, and of his love for her.

On her route, where a river curved around the foot of a gently sloping

hill, in the shadow of old forest trees was made a rural cemetery—so

beautiful with its quiet paths, and its cool shades, that the living

loved to wander there; they who came not to watch beside the dead, as

well as they who tended the flowers upon the graves of those they had

lost.

Through a low ivy-covered gateway of stone, Emily entered the quiet

place. There were no massive railings and lofty monuments, no superb

carvings and costly devices, but love had made very beautiful this last

resting-place of the dead—sweet flowers were blooming every where, and

murmuring streams were guided along by the well-trodden paths. Here and

there arose a simple shaft or a light column, and the graves of a

household enclosed by a green hedge, or surrounded by shadowing trees.

As Emily passed through the familiar walks, she came suddenly upon a

grave in a remote corner of the cemetery, beside which sat a solitary

mourner. The spot was unenclosed, save by a few dark pines, and the

outline of the grave upon the grassy turf distinctly visible. A small

while slab lay upon the centre of the green mound, and at its head grew

a rose-tree of wonderful beauty, bending till its weight of pure, white

buds and blossoms, touched the long bright grass upon the grave.

Its simple loveliness touched the heart of Emily, and drawing near, she

stooped down and read upon the pure marble—“_Dear Elise_.” Her young

eyes filled with tears, and with an irresistible impulse she turned her

face, full of tenderest sympathy toward her who sat beside the grave,

and murmured,

“Was it your Elise?”

The woman, who had been unheeding until now, looked up at the sound of

that earnest voice, and meeting a glance of such sorrowing gentleness,

answered softly—

“Yes, my only, only child!”

There was something in the eye now first raised to hers, that eye sunken

but still wonderfully beautiful—a half-remembered expression, that

riveted Emily’s gaze, and invested with a deep interest the stranger

before her. Laying her hand gently upon that of the woman, she said

softly—

“Is it long since you laid her here?”

“Only a few weeks,” was the reply; “there were buds on the rose-tree

when I brought it here.”

“And was it hers?” asked Emily, stooping down to inhale the rich

fragrance of the beautiful flower.

“Yes, and it was the dearest treasure she possessed. Oh! how often have

I watched her as she sat beside it at the window, with her proud head

bending over her work, its blossoms not more delicate and pure than the

brow against which they bloomed. Oh, my Elise, how beautiful she was! I

used to think that in all the wide world, there was not, there could

never be a face so surpassingly lovely. I only cared to live that I

might look upon her beauty: I worshiped, I adored my child, and God has

taken her from me!”

She paused, but encouraged by the earnest, attentive face of Emily,

continued:

“I am of Italy, and my Elise inherited the dark eyes and impassioned

nature of the land of her birth. When my child was but two years old, I

left my native shores, and with my only relative, my father, followed my

young American husband to his own land. And here, before many years, he

died and left me, with a charge to watch over unceasingly, our

marvelously beautiful child, who, with her father’s fair, transparent

complexion and regular features, had also inherited his delicate

constitution.

“We were poor, and I labored hard, but I cared not, so that Elise were

happy—so that I could but find her the books she loved, and save her

slight hands from menial labor. No day was so dark, or so full of care,

that I did not find time to braid her magnificent hair around her noble

head, and it was joy enough to look once into her soft eyes, and see her

faint smile at my fond pride.

“Elise was not like me—she had a soul filled with thoughts of beauty

and of poetry, and she talked of things in which I could not sympathize;

the world seemed to her full of voices, and heaven held more for her

than for me. I felt that I could not understand my child—hers was a

purer and a greater nature than mine, and I looked upon her with a

reverent worship. I felt that God and the angels were near to her, and

that her wonderful beauty was, I knew not how, connected with the spirit

within.”

“And was there never a portrait of your gifted, beautiful child?”

interrupted Emily, in a quivering tone.

The question seemed to stir a deep fount of feeling—the stranger’s face

flushed, and passionate tears gushed from her eyes.

“Ah, yes! but I may not have it—I may not see it long,” she cried. “Oh,

my child, I must leave you forever!”

Emily was startled by this emotion, but in a few moments the mother

became calm and continued:

“Not many weeks before Elise’s illness, as we were walking in the city,

an artist observed my child, and followed her to our humble home. He

praised her loveliness to me, in words which I cannot now remember,

though I well recollect their import. He said her beauty was

remarkable—was rare. In all his life he had never seen a face to

compare with it, never an eye so glorious, so full of soul; he said such

beauty should not be lost to the world, and he begged that I would let

her sit to him, offering at the same time a liberal compensation.

“My heart was filled with a proud joy, but I let Elise decide for

herself, and alter many urgent entreaties, she at length consented. Ah,

I was very, very happy! I felt that her beauty was not to wither in

unappreciation—the world would know of her loveliness—through the

artist they might hear of her, and who could tell the happy days in

store for my child. And I joyed also to know that now in the bright

mornings she would be walking through the gay streets of the city, in

the glad, fresh air, instead of bending wearily over her needle-work in

our small dark room.

“For several mornings I accompanied Elise to the studio of the artist,

though I could ill afford the time, but at length I found it utterly

impossible, for our daily bread was to be earned, and Elise went alone.

I sometimes fancied that when she returned at noon, she looked weary

from her long walk, but she never complained, and I only thought her

more beautiful than ever. One day she returned, and flinging into my lap

her little green purse, heavy with silver, she said languidly—

“‘The picture does not need me any more, and I am very glad, for my head

aches sadly—they say the portrait is very like me, mother.’

“I resolved to go with her to see it on the following day, but—oh,

Father in Heaven! when the time came that I looked upon it first, my

child lay here. I cannot tell you how she faded in my arms day by

day—but, when I had seen her own rose-tree planted over the place of

her rest, and had wept upon the green sod till the fountain of tears

seemed dry, slowly and wearily I sought the studio of the painter,

longing, yet almost fearing, to look upon her image there. Oh, what a

vision met my gaze! I had thought to see her semblance—to trace a

likeness to my loved Elise in the artist’s work; but there, full of life

and beauty as though she had never left me, she stood before me. I wept

over that picture tears more passionate than I had shed beside her

grave, and I begged and received permission to visit it every day.

“A few nights after, on returning to my home, I found that my aged

father, who had long been yearning to return to the land of his youth,

had been making some arrangements with friends who were in a few months

to sail for Italy, feeling that I would not refuse to go with him, now

that my only tie to America, to _life_, save him, was severed. A week

before I would have said yes—would have left the dear grave of my

buried Elise, and gone with my father to die in the land of our birth;

but now I seemed held by a living tie—I felt as if my child were with

me here, and I must take her, or my heart would break. I told my father

and his friends this; we were all poor, but they loved me, and by the

sale of many little articles—some _how dear_, God only knows, we raised

money enough to buy the picture, at the price which I had often heard

from Elise the artist demanded for a portrait.

“I could not have believed my stricken heart capable of the joy that

throbbed through all its pulses, as I entered the painter’s room with my

treasure-laden purse in my hand. I know my voice faltered—but oh,

Heaven! how it died within me when I heard a firm denial of my request!

Tears and pleadings—all a mother’s agony availed not; for some purpose

of his own, some artists’ exhibition—what, I could not wholly

comprehend—he would have the picture for his own—he would not yield it

up, but coldly and calmly persisted in his refusal. Day after day I have

been to him, but in vain. The time of our departure is drawing near, and

I know that duty to my father demands that I leave him not to go down

the way of life alone. I must go—I must leave my child, that blessed,

pictured face forever!”

The woman’s frame trembled violently, and passionately exclaiming—“Oh,

Loring, Edgar Loring!” she laid her face upon the grave and wept

convulsively.

Emily had been listening, her upturned eyes wet with tears, and when the

last, wild exclamation of the stranger reached her ear, she started

quickly, a deadly faintness came over her heart, a paleness to her

cheek, and she too drooped her young head, bowed with a sudden

wretchedness, upon the grave before her. Swiftly thought after thought,

memory after memory crowded upon her brain, all forcing with an anguish

unalterable, the fearful dread that Edgar was cold and selfish—Edgar

was untrue. That picture of Elise, with the deep eyes so like the

mother’s beside her—yes, she had seen it, and Edgar had told her it was

an ideal work—and oh, mockery! that _her_ loveliness was remembered in

the vision. And she felt that a fearful moment in her life was now come:

it was only necessary to prove the identity of the picture she had seen

with that of the stranger’s child, to convict Edgar of the basest

falsehood; and he who could deceive a heart young and trusting as hers,

of what was he not capable!

Then awoke the latent power, the unrevealed energy of her spirit, and

with an intense effort she calmed the tumultuous heavings of her heart,

and strove to bring back her own quiet smile to those quivering lips.

For some moments neither spoke, and when Emily lifted her head from the

sod where the mother still lay, her face was calm, save a bright, uneasy

flush upon her cheek. Lightly she touched the prostrate form before her,

and said gently—

“I know this artist, and it may be that I can do something for you;

describe to me this picture—I think that I have seen it.”

Then minutely, Mrs. Revere (for my readers must know it was she,)

described the face of her Elise—and the faint ray of hope died out in

the breast of Emily. Calmly she gathered from the mother all needful

information—her name and residence and time of sailing, then giving her

own address, and uttering words of hope and consolation, arose and left

the spot.

There was no joy in the sunshine, no music in the song of birds, as she

wended her way homeward over the very ground where a few hours before

she had passed lightly, restless for very happiness. Reaching her home

she slowly ascended to her own room, and closing the door, flung herself

upon a couch and buried her face in its crimson cushions. Not till then

did she know how great had been the strength exerted to keep down her

rising tears, to command her trembling voice, to hide from other eyes

her bitter sorrow. Long and passionately she wept now, but it was a

weeping over the awakening from a dream. Edgar was cold-hearted—Edgar

was false! That which she had thought to be the beautiful struggle of

genius toward perfection, was but a selfish ambition. And _she_ had been

trifled with—duped—and as the humiliating thought rushed upon her, she

lifted her sweet head, and the proud flush crimsoned cheek, neck and

brow.

Emily’s love for Edgar was but in its early bloom—scarcely known even

to herself; yet her pure, true soul would have risen above even a

stronger, deeper, more engrossing passion. She had not loved the being

now revealed to her, but “a creature of her dreams,” invested with all

the beauty and nobleness which he seemed to possess; and it was with her

young faith in human goodness still unshaken, that she mourned over the

vanishing of this first, and dearest vision of her womanhood.

Emily did not meet the family at tea that evening, she “had a headache,

and required rest”—but at night when her beloved mother came fondly to

inquire if she were ill, she flung herself into her arms and told her

all: all Edgar’s flattery and half-revealed love, all his falsehood, all

the sad story of the childless mother, and besought her advice and aid

in the course upon which she was now resolved.

Happy for that young heart that it could breathe out its first sorrow

against a mother’s fond cheek—that the pillow of that stricken head was

a mother’s loving bosom.

CHAPTER III.

“The lips that breathe the burning vow

By falsehood base unstained must be;

The heart to which mine own shall bow,

Must worship Honor more than me!”

—MRS. OSGOOD.

The next morning found Emily and her father in the atelier of Edgar

Loring. The artist was not in, but the boy in attendance, to whom they

were well known, brought forward at Emily’s request the portrait she had

so much admired a few days previous. It was fortunate that Edgar was not

present, for Emily, unpracticed at concealment, found it impossible not

to betray emotion when the picture first met her eye, bringing up at the

same moment the joy and the falsehood of the hour when she saw it first.

But speedily she regained her composure, and the artist soon entered the

room. He looked proud and pleased to see them there, and prouder yet,

when he saw how they were engaged.

“You will pardon the liberty we have taken in examining your very

beautiful picture in your absence,” said Mr. Hastings, “but my Emily has

a very earnest desire to possess it, and now that I have seen it, I

should be only too happy to gratify her; is it for sale?”

Edgar’s vanity was flattered, his hopes encouraged, his love

strengthened by this mark of preference, and; after a short silence,

during which countless thoughts; hurried through his brain, he replied—

“I painted this picture for the coming artists’ exhibition, and I had

formed no design as to its subsequent disposal, but I cannot decline the

honor which you and Miss Emily would do me in becoming its purchasers. I

would wish, however, previously to giving it up, that it might be

exhibited according to my intention—the rooms open on Monday next.”

Mr. Hastings hesitated; the Italian vessel was to sail in a little more

than two weeks—they must have the picture at that time if ever, and he

said:

“I am aware that this is a painting of a high order, and I am willing to

pay you whatever you demand, but I wish immediately to become its

possessor. It can be placed in the exhibition room for ten days, but at

the expiration of that time I must be allowed to take it, if at all.”

Edgar reflected a few moments, well aware that in the elegant saloons of

Mr. Hastings, his picture would be seen by quite as many critical and

appreciative eyes as in a crowded exhibition-room, and moreover, that

the fact of that gentleman being the owner, was a recommendation of the

greatest value.

The arrangement was at length completed, and Emily and her father

departed, leaving Edgar flushed and excited with what seemed his

wonderful success. He had fancied to be sure, that Emily appeared a

little cold and reserved, but he attributed it only to the timidity of

her conscious love in the presence of her father, and proud and joyous

in the near approach of the triumph-hour of his fame and love, he passed

the day in new visions of glory for the future.

That night, in his restless sleep, he dreamed that Elise Revere kneeled

before him, with her pale face upturned to his, pleading him to have

pity on her lone and sorrowing mother—her cold hands clasped his own

beseechingly, and trembling he awoke. The full moonlight flooded the

room, and lay brightest on a table by his couch, where bloomed in a vase

rare flowers—the gift of Emily Hastings on the last morning of her

sitting. He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressing the flowers to

his lips, crushed down the remorseful feeling which had almost struggled

into life, and rejoiced, as he had more than once done of late, that the

ocean would soon lie between him and the wearisome old woman who had so

long annoyed him.

The days passed away, and Edgar did not see Emily—she had gone into the

country with a sick friend. Meanwhile her own portrait was sent home, a

beautiful and truthful likeness, and that of Elise Revere in the

exhibition room, had attracted crowds of admirers, and the young

artist’s praises had been spoken by many lips. During this time also,

Emily had more than once seen Mrs. Revere, whose joy and gratitude could

hardly find expression. She had insisted that the sum raised by herself

and her few Italian friends, should still be devoted to the dear purpose

to which it was first appropriated, and Emily felt that it was best to

allow their hearts this consolation.

The morning of Monday had come, and with it came also the beautiful

portrait of Elise. A simple frame had been prepared for it, and for one

brief hour, Emily saw it side by side with her own sweet picture. Sad,

sad tears she wept over it, for that stranger face had grown very dear,

and it was with a mournful regret that she looked her last into those

deep, dark eyes, whose beauty had been to her thrice blessed. Many

emotions were weighing at her heart, for she felt how far better would

it have been that her young head had been laid beneath the green sod

that covered Elise Revere, than that her fond, trusting heart should

have been buried in the cold selfishness of Edgar Loring’s soul.

* * * * *

The good ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the

wharf—passengers were hurrying on board, captain and mate were

vociferating orders, flags were flying, waters glancing—all wore the

bright and joyous air that attends a vessel outward bound, on a glorious

summer’s day. A carriage drawn by a fine pair of grays came dashing down

to the pier—Mr. Hastings and Emily alighted, and were followed from the

box by a servant, who took the safely-cased portrait in his arms, and

accompanied them on board ship.

Ah! even Edgar’s heart would have been touched by the tears which gushed

from the happy eyes of that mother—by the voice choked with sobs, which

murmured thanks and prayers for blessing. They parted, Emily and Mrs.

Revere, like the friends of years, and not as acquaintances of a few

short weeks, and over the hand fondly clasping her own, Emily promised

to care for the white rose-buds, blossoming in the early summer over the

lone grave of Elise, and sometimes to see the sunset light falling rosy

and warm upon the pale marble that bore her name.

Mr. Hastings, who was well known, received from the gallant captain a

promise to take special charge of the Italian and her aged parent, and

to care for the much valued picture. Again thanks and farewells, and the

father and daughter entered their carriage and drove away.

When Emily reached home, she found an elegant note from Edgar Loring,

requesting permission to call upon her that evening. Ah! a few short

weeks ago, how her heart would have fluttered at those words! Now, going

up to her room she seated herself at her beautiful escritoir, and penned

the following words—

“MR. LORING—I have this moment come in, and found your note

awaiting me. A previous engagement will prevent my receiving the

honor of a call from you this evening. Enclosed you will find a

check for $200, which my father requests me to forward to you in

payment for _the portrait of Elise Revere_.

EMILY HASTINGS.”

* * * * *

In ten days from that time Edgar Loring had left the city—he had gone

to seek his fortunes in the far South.

* * * * *

[Illustration: VIEW OF BURLINGTON VERMONT.

FROM AN ORIGINAL DRAWING]

* * * * *

MYRRAH OF TANGIERS.[1]

A TRAGEDY.

BY CAROLINE C——.

A luxury of summer green

Is on the southern plain,

And water-flags, with dewy screen,

Protect the ripening grain.

Upon the sky is not a cloud

To mar the golden glow,

Only the palm-tree is allowed

To fling its shade below.

And silvery, ’mid its fertile banks,

The winding river glides,

And every ray in heaven makes

Its mirror of its tides.

And yet it is a place of scath—

A place of sacrifice;

Heavy with woman’s parting breath,

Weary with mourner’s cries.

Proud, beautiful, one boweth down

Beneath a deep despair;

Youth lingers on her lovely cheek—

It _only_ lingers there.

She will command herself, and brave

The doom by fate assigned;

In natures high as hers, the heart

Is mastered by the mind.

L. E. L.

CHAPTER I.

“IT is near sunrise, father,” said a gay young voice, and a fair hand

tapped lightly on the door of the apartment where the old man slept.

Her call was answered in a moment by the venerable Jew, who came forth,

prepared for the customary morning walk to the holy synagogue.

“Thou lookest not well, my father! thy face is pale. I fear these early

walks are too much for thee.”

“Nay, child, our duty should never fatigue or weary us in its

performance—it is time for us to depart when that happens. But, in

truth, I had a heavy night, dreaming of thy dead mother. It was sad to

waken and find, as, alas! so many other mornings I have, that she cannot

return again.”

“We shall meet her hereafter,” said Myrrah, striving to speak

cheerfully; “you should think of that this beautiful morning. The very

air seems full of hope. Even I, who have proved such a dull companion

these many days, feel as though there were new life in me to-day—as

though some joyful thing were about to happen.”

“Were thy dreams of Othniel, then, my child?”

A deep blush was the only answer returned to the gently uttered

question—for Myrrah turned all her attention just then to busily

assisting the old man down the steep stairway, and the moment after they

entered, arm in arm, the quiet street; then, as if fearing a recurrence

to the subject of her dream and presentiment, the daughter hurriedly

again expressed her fears lest the morning exercise should prove too

much for his feeble health. But again the old man replied slowly and

decisively,

“For many years I have stood, morning and evening, to worship in our

synagogue, to ask the blessing of God, and to pray His coming; this day,

and every day while life and strength are spared me, must I also go,

Myrrah; perchance this very morning may at last be vouchsafed as a

promise of His approach, for whose appearance we have waited so long.”

And the old man, Raguel, with his beautiful daughter, moved onward in

the path leading to the place of worship.

But more heavily than he was wont the father leaned upon the arm of his

child. At last they reached the synagogue, and stood, as was their

custom, under the pleasant shade-trees to rest, and to compose their

minds for a moment before entering the sacred place.

Their prayers were made. From the “chambers of the east” came forth only

the rising sun—the Messiah, the Counsellor, the Mighty King, the Prince

of Peace, for whose presence and aid they so longed, came not; neither

was there a sign given of his approach. Again were the hearts of

youthful worshipers drawn to adoration of things earthly, as the lovely

Myrrah stood once more with them to pray; again were the sighs of Jewish

girls breathed almost audibly, as they gazed upon her, and caught their

own lover’s eyes turned in watchful admiration to the place where she

knelt; for well did they know that none among them could compare with

the daughter and sole heiress of the wealthy and excellent Raguel.

With a leisure step the two set out on their return home through the

rapidly-filling street. It was a sweet morning. A light breeze swept

from the sea over the old town, wafting onward the fragrance of the

blossoming trees and plants, which _filled_ the air with their rich

perfume. The sun rose in splendor, and the brightness which, as the

smile of heaven spread over the earth, increased the light-heartedness

of the young Jewess, as she moved on so soberly, so cheerfully, and with

so much dignity of manner, with her father.

It was a pleasant home to which they were returning. A home of peace,

and joy, and love, and Myrrah was its bright and never-failing star.

Light-hearted as a bird—cheerful, unwavering in her affection and

reverence for the aged father, she was, indeed, a model daughter and

maiden for all Tangiers.

The morning repast, prepared by the old servant who had lived since

Myrrah’s birth in her father’s employ, being made, the two at once

repaired to the small but beautiful garden, which bore no little

resemblance, on a small scale, to the Paradise Eden one is wont to

conceive of. A stranger, passing through the small, mean street in which

Raguel lived, would never have imagined, as he cast his eye carelessly

on the unpromising, dismally high and dark-looking house, which stood

close upon the side-walk, of the taste and elegance which reigned within

those walls. Costly adornments filled the beautifully-finished rooms,

which were befitting a palace; and the caskets of the Jewess held many a

gem which a queen had not disdained to wear. But it was in the little

garden, in the pleasant shade of whose trees the devoted pair invariably

spent their mornings when the weather proved fine, that the most perfect

arrangement of taste in the laying out of the limited grounds, in the

disposal of the shrubs, and trees, and flowering plants, that the

guiding hand of a woman essentially refined, was to be seen.

Ensconced in the luxurious chair, which Myrrah wheeled into the silent

place, consecrated to the voices of singing-birds, and the fragrance of

beauteous flowers, and the sweet sounds of his dear child’s voice, the

hours passed swiftly on in blissful tranquillity to the old man. It was

in such hours that Myrrah sat at her father’s feet, and read aloud in

tones so musical and entrancing, the records their fathers of the old

time had left, of God’s dealings with his loved people; of the marvelous

creation—of the faithful and beloved Abraham, of Joseph, and of

Jacob—of Daniel, and David, and Absalom—of the long line of kings and

princes—of holy women, of prophets, and priests, and all their wondrous

deeds, wrought through the power which God gave to them—of the first

and momentous transgressions of the tempted, tempting Eve—of the too

easily beguiled Adam—of the blessed hope which from the day of their

fall from the height of excellence and purity, had been kindled, and had

lived within the hearts of all the faithful until that day when they

still looked with fond and hopeful and anxious eyes for His coming who

would bruise the serpent’s head.

And when the old man grew sad, as the blessed promises were reiterated

in his ears, whose fulfillment he had so long looked and sighed for, the

reader’s melodious voice would grow fainter and fainter, the holy book

be closed again, and with still softer tones, accompanied by her harp,

she would sing of the great coming salvation—of the rescue which was

surely drawing nigh, till the color would deepen on his aged, furrowed

cheek, his eye grow bright again, and the trembling hand would be laid

in blessing on his darling’s head.

On this morning, as Myrrah’s hand unclasped the precious books, they

opened at the pages on which were recorded the beautiful and touching

story of Ruth’s devotion to the mother of her dead husband. As with

tremulous voice she read of the sudden and awful bereavement of the

young, loving wife in the strange country, another listener approached,

and stood, until the story was concluded, in the shade of the great

trees. The new comer was also young, and his features bore witness that

he was a descendant of the ancient Jews. But there was a gallant

boldness, not often perceivable in that down-trodden people, in the

frank, manly expression of countenance, in his garb, and the manner in

which it was worn, in the very attitude he had chosen.

With a look of deepest love, his eyes fixed on the unconscious reader,

his ear drunk in the sweet sounds of her voice, eagerly as the parched

traveler in the desert bends to the cooling fountains; but he did not

listen to the words she uttered; it was as though an angel were singing

to him, and in the delight with which he heard her voice, he lost the

burden of the song she sung.

“Thus hast thou been to me always, my beloved, blessed child,” said

Raguel, fondly, as Myrrah read the brave, heroic choice of Ruth; “since

thy mother’s death thou hast been my chief blessing in this strange

land.”

“But thou, dear father, thou art mine own; thou hast been to me all the

joy, the _best_ joy I have ever known. It is no deed of charity to keep

always with thee, for I should die to leave thee—there is nothing I

should care to live for, wert thou gone.”

“Nay, child, say not that. I know that many a time thou hast refused to

join thy young friends in their merry-making, solely that thou mightest

be with me, thy stupid, dull old father. But this cannot be always,

Myrrah, for I am old, and my Master will call me hence while thou art

yet young.”

“Father! father!” Myrrah exclaimed, “do not speak so! God will not take

thee from me. He _will not_ leave me alone!”

“Not _alone_, Myrrah, darling, I trust Thou hast not surely forgotten

Othniel? I would that he were here to day with us. He wanders long.”

“He will come soon, I know. I would he were here now—he is so skillful,

and might easily restore thy health, dear father.”

“It is not in him, nor in any human physician to do that; but I long to

see him; then I should be at rest, for thou, my child, wouldst have a

comforter, and a steady friend if—”

“Say it not, oh Father! what is even he to me when compared with

_thee_!”

“Thy blessing, father—_my_ father!” exclaimed the youth, coming out

swiftly from the shade, his countenance and his voice betraying the

strong agitation of his spirit. “I have come home for thy blessing!” and

the young man knelt down at the old Jew’s feet.

“My Othniel!” cried Myrrah, in joyous astonishment, her tears suddenly

giving way to the brightest of smiles.

“My son! my son, thou hast come at last! ten thousand blessings be upon

thy head.”

-----

[1] Founded on fact.