CHAPTER VIII.

The hour of vespers had passed, and Camilla Donati sat alone with

Buondlemonte. She was attired for the altar, and in her bridal robes

outrivaled e’en her own loveliness. Yet she was sad with all her beauty,

and amidst all the aids to happiness that surrounded her. A cloud shaded

her fair brow, and the rosy lips sought in vain to wreath themselves in

smiles.

“Thou art grave, dear Camilla!” Buondlemonte said, speaking in a subdued

tone; “dost thou repent thy promise to be mine?”

She turned her beautiful eyes, liquid with tenderness and trusting

affection, to his, and placed her snowy hand lightly upon his shoulder,

“Dost thou think it?” she asked.

“Forgive me!” he replied; “I only meant to banish thy sad thoughts, and

make thee gay.”

“I should be happy,” she said, as his arm stole round her waist, “but

yet I cannot feel so. Thy form is ever in my thought, and bliss smiles

at thy side, yet when I seek to clasp it in my embrace, a dark phantom

interposes, and with a hollow laugh, mocks my baffled purpose. In the

air there is a murmuring dirge, and thy voice swells with sepulchral

sound. I cannot feel happy,” she said; “an icy coldness settles round my

heart.”

“Let love,” he replied, “banish it from thence. Thou shall not yield thy

soul up to sickly fancies. ’Tis part of mine, dear Camilla, and must

take its hue from the cheerful coloring of its other half. Thy fears for

my safety have faded the rose-tint from thy cheeks, but within an

hour—when the holy father has performed the sacred rite, and thou art

mine own—thou wilt smile at the fantastic thoughts that now make thee

look so grave.”

“Would that the rite were over, and safely so!” Camilla fervently

whispered, as she turned aside her blushing face.

The wish seemed uttered only to be answered, for at that moment her

mother entered the apartment to summon the couple to the chapel.

“The priest is at the altar,” she said, “and the guests await the

presence of the bridegroom and his bride.”

Buondlemonte rose, and supporting Camilla on his arm, passed into an

adjoining room, where Guiseppo Leoni and the maidens who were to

officiate as bridemaids, were assembled.

The wedding-party passed from the palace to the chapel. The lamps were

all lighted, and beneath the arched roof a gay crowd was collected.

Jewels glittered, rich silks rustled, lofty plumes waved, and happy

smiles circulated on every side.

When Camilla and Buondlemonte appeared, the crowd fell back, and opened

a passage for them to the altar, where for a moment they stood—the

admiration of every beholder—till the ceremony should commence.

The holy man commenced the marriage-service, and propounded to the

parties concerned, the questions which the church directs shall be put

on such occasions. Those addressed to Camilla were answered in a low,

musical voice, while Buondlemonte made his responses boldly and with

pride.

The ceremony was over—they were man and wife. A happy smile already

diffused itself over the countenance of the bride, and the priest raised

his hand to pronounce the benediction; but he spoke not. His attention

was arrested by voices elevated in anger, and sounds of rude strife at

the entrance of the chapel.

All turned to inquire the cause of this interruption, and as they did

so, the huge doors were forced back upon their hinges, and a band of

armed men, with weapons bared, rushed up the tesselated aisle toward the

altar. At their head was the youthful stranger who had appeared that

morning at the Amedi palace. In his hand gleamed a naked poignard; his

plumed cap had fallen from his head, and upon his shoulders there fell a

luxuriant mass of long, dark hair. His eyes were bloodshot, and his

voice sounded hoarse and unnatural as he called upon those who came

after, to follow him. Casting with desperate strength all impediments

aside, he paused not in his course until he stood fronting Buondlemonte.

The latter had drawn his sword, but Camilla Donati threw herself

impulsively before him to shelter his person with her own; the stranger

took advantage of the act of devotion, and burying his poignard up to

the hilt in Buondlemonte’s body, he exclaimed,

“Die, traitor! even in thy act of treachery!”

The unfortunate young nobleman fell to the ground weltering in his own

blood; and Camilla, with a shriek of heart-piercing agony, sank fainting

and prostrate upon his body.

The stranger gazed for an instant at the harrowing sight before him,

then bent his knee beside Buondlemonte, and said, in a voice which

already was touched with remorse,

“Buondlemonte, thou hast grievously wronged Francesca Amedi, and she has

been her own avenger!”

The dying noble turned an inquiring glance upon the speaker, and with

difficulty recognized the person of Francesca in the habiliments of the

stranger.

“Thou art indeed avenged,” he murmured, in a weak voice, as he

endeavored to embrace his fainting bride.

“Thou hadst canceled my hopes of happiness,” she said, as she rose to

her feet, “and I have put the seal to the act by destroying thine!”

With a solemn step she stalked from the chapel, protected by those who

had supported her; while Buondlemonte, after breathing a prayer to

Heaven for Camilla’s peace, resigned his soul into the hands of its

author.

It would be too melancholy a task to detail the particulars that

followed this unhappy bridal. A few words will be sufficient to explain

all that is necessary.

Camilla Donati, after many months, recovered from the fearful shock she

had received in seeing her lover slain; but this world had ceased to

delight her. She entered a convent, and in the course of time became its

abbess. Francesca Amedi had accomplished her vengeance, but with its

accomplishment she had ensured her own misery. With the vulture,

remorse, ever preying upon her heart, she knew but one wish, and that

was for death, while she lacked the power to terminate her own existence

and solve the problem of eternity. After a vain effort to secure

forgetfulness by mingling in society, she, too, retired from the world,

and within the walls of the same convent over which Camilla Donati

presided, she became a nun.

The death of Buondlemonte added virulence to the wars of the Guelphs and

Ghibellines; and many generations passed away before the families of

Amedi and Donati became reconciled.

* * * * *

A SUNBEAM.

BY ALBERT M. NOYES.

A SUNBEAM flashed from its azure throne,

O’er the bright and the beautiful earth to roam;

And it left a plume from its glist’ning wings

Where’er it traced its wanderings.

It tipped the bough of an old oak tree

With its joyous ray, and in their glee

A myriad host that were slumb’ring there

Came glancing forth in the morning air.

Then off like a flash it sped away,

And next it touched with a diamond ray

A lofty spire, as it rose upon high,

Till it looked like a star in an azure sky.

Again it flew, and this joyous beam

Flashed o’er the breast of a rippling stream;

And a bridge of trembling light it gave

To the sparkling crests of the dimpled wave.

I mused awhile—and lo! I heard

The joyous song of a bright-winged bird;

It had caught the flash of that morning ray

As it sped to its bower of love away.

And bathed in a flood of golden light

It looked like a rainbow spirit bright,

By an angel hand sent down to unfurl

The banner of peace to a sinful world.

And a thousand voices rose on high,

As its gliding form flew swiftly by;

Each bright and beautiful thing of earth

Awoke to hail its heavenly birth.

Sweet beam, said I, oh! how I’d love,

Like thee, the bright green earth to rove;

To shine o’er the hearts of pale despair

And kindle a glow of rapture there.

Just then, a darkling cloud flew by,

And shadowed the face of the azure sky;

I looked for this beautiful child of the dawn

But its glory had faded, its brightness had gone!

And I thought how much like Life did seem

The fate of this bright yet transient beam;

In glory it rose with the morn’s first breath,

At eve it was shadowed in darkness and death.

* * * * *

LONG AGO.

LONG ago a blue-eyed cherub

In my arms

Softly lay and sweetly smiled—

Spotless, holy, undefiled—

And my troubled heart beguiled

With its charms.

Long ago, on angel’s pinion,

To my breast

Came a gentle, timid dove—

Stole the treasure of my love—

Upward soared, no more to rove

From its nest.

Long ago my seraph maiden

Took her flight

From a dreary, darkling world—

She her radiant wings unfurled,

And the heavenly gates of pearl

Shut my sight.

Long ago the angel reaper

Cruel sore

Gave my heart its keenest blow,

Made my tears of anguish flow,

Bid me onward weeping go—

Evermore.

Long ago the fair world faded

In mine eyes,

And I burn to clasp that child.

With a love more fondly wild

Than when first she sweetly smiled

From the skies.

Long ago one lock I severed

From her brow,

And that sunny little tress

In its shining loveliness—

To my heart I fondly press

Ever now.

In my dreams I meet the maiden—

Passing fair

Far beyond the frost and snow

Doth my lovely flow’ret blow—

And my tears no longer flow

For her there.

E. H.

* * * * *

THE TWO WORLDS.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

Like the contented peasant of the vale,

Dreams it the world and never looks beyond.

LOWELL.

THERE was an humble village lad

Who thought the round, revolving world,

Mountains and plains and streams and skies,

Lay in the compass of his eyes.

The symphonies of the leafy woods,

The melodies of the murmuring brooks,

Mingling—like light, or songs of spheres—

Contented his untutored ears.

Confined between gigantic hills,

The little hamlet, where he dwell,

Never imagined land more blest

Than that where it had made its nest.

And so our simple village boy,

With thoughtless urchins like himself,

Chatting with brooks and birds and flowers,

Ran swiftly through his childish hours.

But manhood, like a shadow, rose

And stood before his growing eyes—

With aspirations, such as start

To being in the ambitious heart.

Somehow—he knew not whence it came—

The fancy of a nobler world

Than that in which his soul now pined,

Trembled, like moonlight, on his mind.

Habit, however, made his home

So very dear; he sadly threw

The thought aside, and, turning back,

Pursued his old accustomed track.

Nevertheless, the glowing dream

Followed his steps with pleading eyes,

Filling his heart, wherever he went,

With unaccustomed discontent.

But one day hunting in the hills

He saw a chamois mount a peak,

Which seemed—its summit was so high—

To melt and mingle with the sky.

Urged by the instinct of the chase,

He slowly crept from crag to crag

Until he reached the dizzy height

Where last the chamois met his sight.

Before him, in the morning sun,

Stretching away from sky to sky,

Brighter than even his soul had dreamed.

His other world before him gleamed.

Behind him lay the little vale

Where he had spent his youthful hours;

There was the cottage where he dwelt—

The shrine at which he always knelt.

And over-shadowing the brook,

He saw the weeping-willow stand,

Where, but the night before, he met

His loving, lovely young FLORETTE.

But fairer than his maiden love,

And lovelier than his native glen,

Inviting him with novel charms,

His fairy world held out its arms.

The Old yields always to the New,

And so the youth with just such steps

As one would run to meet a bride,

Ran lightly down the mountain side.

Day after day, year after year,

He wandered in his golden world:

A shadow-hunter he became:—

The Shadow which he sought was Fame.

But Age, who walks on velvet feet,

Followed his footsteps like a wolf,

And when the fame he sought was won,

He only saw the setting sun.

Cold as his native granite rocks,

And hard, had grown the wanderer’s heart:

For many weary, desolate years

His eyes had lost the power of tears.

The name his genius had acquired,

The wealth which Fortune had bestowed,

Instead of pleasure gave him pain:

Sadness was in his heart and brain.

The great are friendless: he was great:

His very fortune hedged him round

And shut him from the love of all;

He could not leap the lofty wall.

But somehow, like an angel’s tear,

The memory of his early home

Fell on his heart: he saw the glen

He loved so in his youth again.

A wan and worn and wrinkled man

He stood upon his native hills:

There was each old familiar spot;

There stood his silent shepherd cot.

Downward with trembling, painful steps

The wanderer took his lonely way:

Like one who wakens from a dream

He stood beside the mournful stream.

Above him, in a green old age,

He saw a weeping-willow trail

Its murmuring leaves; and at its foot

A single rose had taken root.

It grew upon a grassy mound,

At head of which a rustic cross

Pointed to heaven;—there last he met—

There last he clasped the fair Florette.

The old man’s eyes were full of tears,

As, like a penitent child, he knelt

And sobbed and prayed in pale despair:

Next day a maiden found him there.

The hillock where reposed his form

Was circled by his feeble arms:

Pale, pitying Death his seal had set

On love, and laid him with Florette.

* * * * *

A RECEPTION MORNING:

OR PEOPLE IN GLASS HOUSES, ETC.

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF “A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE,” ETC.

_Je m’oublie,_

_Tu t’oublies,_

_Il ou elle s’oublis,_ _etc._

_Verb S’oublier._

“WHY were you not at Elliot’s last night, Mrs. Fortesque?” asked Mrs.

Lyman.

“We do not visit,” replied Mrs. Fortesque, with a slight shade of

mortification.

“Not visit!” repeated her friend in an accent of surprise, and fixing

her eyes as she spoke with a prolonged look of astonishment that caused

Mrs. Fortesque to color. “Is it possible! It was an elegant party—very

select—the handsomest I have been at this winter. Indeed, _the_ party

of the season.”

“It could scarcely surpass Rawley’s,” said Mrs. Fortesque with smothered

indignation. “I am sure there was nothing spared there, and their house

is larger than Elliot’s.”

“Yes. But it was such a jam at Rawley’s,” replied Mrs. Lyman, in the

tone of one oppressed even by the recollection of the crowd—“and such a

_mêlée_—all sorts of people! This paying off debts in this way is, in

my opinion, very vulgar. Now at Elliot’s it was so different. Just every

body you would wish to meet and no more. Room to see and be seen—and

the ladies so beautifully dressed—no crowd—every thing elegant and

_recherché_.”

“The dressing at Rawley’s was as elegant as possible,” remarked Mrs.

Fortesque, evidently piqued that the party she had just been describing

to Miss Appleton with no small degree of complacency as so fashionable,

should now be spoken of as a _mêlée_.

“Did you think so?” said Mrs. Lyman, with affected surprise. “It was

very inferior to that of last night. Indeed in such a crowd there’s no

inducement to wear any thing handsome; but last night the ladies really

came out. I never saw such dressing—and the supper was exquisite.”

“It seems to me that all suppers are alike,” said one of the Miss

Appletons, with true girlish ignorance.

“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed both ladies in a breath.

“The difference between such a supper as we had at Elliot’s and such a

one as at Rawley’s,” continued Mrs. Lyman, “is immense. The exquisite

china, the plate, and then the natural flowers! Such a supper as you can

only have at a select party.”

Mrs. Fortesque looked very angry. The Rawleys were rather her grand

people, and as she had not been at Elliot’s she did not like this being

set down in the crowd of “any bodies” invited.

“I am fairly tired out,” pursued Mrs. Lyman languidly, “with this

succession of parties. I do wish people would be quiet for a little

while and let one rest. The girls too are quite jaded and fagged with

this dancing night after night.”

“Oh, it’s too much,” said Emma Appleton. “I never go more than two or

three times a week. I wonder you do,” turning to Miss Lyman.

“How can you help it, my dear?” said Mrs. Lyman, in the tone of one

bewailing a great hardship. “You give such offence if you decline.”

“I decline whenever it suits me,” replied Miss Appleton, “and people

bear the disappointment very philosophically,” she added, smiling.

“You may well say that, Emma,” said Mrs. Fortesque, with an emphasis

meant at Mrs. Lyman. “Society is so large now that _I_ at least never

find offence is taken when I decline.”

“But you cannot refuse a first invitation,” pursued Mrs. Lyman. “Now the

Elliots for instance. They have just called upon us, we could not

decline. Are you going to Hammersley’s to-morrow, Emma?”

“No,” said Emma, “we are not invited. Are you?”

“Yes; it’s a small party. We shall go there first and afterwards to

Lascelles’.”

“I saw you all at the opera on Monday,” remarked Emma.

“Yes, we were there the first two acts—we went from there to Shaw’s. By

the way, did you call upon the bride yesterday?”

“No,” replied Emma. “I have never visited the Halseys.”

“But as Hamilton’s friends,” pursued Mrs. Lyman, “I called on his

account.”

“No,” said Emma carelessly, “I hate bridal receptions and avoid them

whenever I possibly can.” Mrs. Lyman had risen while she was speaking,

and she said, “Oh don’t go! Why are you in such a hurry?”

“I must, my dear,” replied Mrs. Lyman. “The Armstrongs and Ringolds

receive to-day, and then I must call at Meredith’s. We have not been

there since the party. And Cadwaladers too, Mary,” she said, turning to

her daughter, “don’t forget them. We have been owing that visit so

long—and the Harrisons, and I don’t know how many,” she continued, as

if quite oppressed with the weight of fashionable cares. “I don’t

suppose we shall get through with the half of them. Come Mary,” and so

bidding Emma and her friends good morning, she withdrew.

The door had hardly closed upon her, when Mrs. Fortesque, still wrathy

at the manner in which Mrs. Lyman had spoken of Rawleys, and angrier

still at finding she was going to Hammersley’s, vented some of her

indignation exclaiming—

“How that woman does work for society!”

“One would think she had been at court to hear her talk of Elliots,”

said Emma laughing.

“Just so, Emma,” said Mrs. Fortesque, in a tone of bitter satisfaction

at the young lady’s laughing satire. “It’s too absurd! And as to saying

the Elliots called first, I don’t believe it. They, strangers here, and

people of their fortune, are not likely to go about making first calls.”

“What’s that?” said Charlotte Appleton, who had been engrossed in

conversation with a gentleman on the opposite side of the room. “What’s

that about the Elliots making first calls.”

“I was saying it was rather remarkable that they should have called

first on Mrs. Lyman,” replied Mrs. Fortesque.

“They did not,” exclaimed Charlotte. “Of course, as strangers, you know,

Mrs. Fortesque, they would not, and I know the Lymans called upon them

some time ago.”

“Are you sure of that, Charlotte?” asked Mrs. Fortesque, with the

triumphant manner of one securing an important fact.

“Certainly,” replied Charlotte, “for she asked mamma and myself to call

and introduce her, but we were engaged that morning, and she said it was

no matter, she would leave her card and be introduced the first time

they met.”

“I thought so!” said Mrs. Fortesque exultingly, “It’s just like her!”

“There’s no reason why she should not have called, Mrs. Fortesque,” said

Emma.

But Mrs. Fortesque did not look assenting at this; she only said,

however—

“Perhaps so. But I don’t like calling on these people for their

parties—for it amounts to that, when you can’t return them.”

“But, my dear Mrs. Fortesque,” said Emma, “then only the rich would know

the rich. And there are a great many charming people in society who

cannot afford to entertain, and who the Elliots and others are delighted

to have.”

“Oh, my dear,” returned the lady with much excitement of manner, “that’s

all very well when you have happened to know them; but I would not go

out of my way to make their acquaintance. There’s nobody of any

consequence in society, or who entertains, that Mrs. Lyman does not make

it a point of knowing. Now, her calling on the bride yesterday as one of

Hamilton’s friends. Why, she knows Hamilton just as you and I and half

the town do—a slight bowing acquaintance—but now he is marrying a rich

fashionable girl, she finds out that it is incumbent on her as ‘one of

his friends’ to call on his bride! So absurd! And she wont effect her

object by this sort of thing either,” she added spitefully. “The young

men are tired of seeing those two ugly girls of hers at every place they

go.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fortesque!” said Emma expostulatingly, yet half laughing.

“Of course, my dear,” returned Mrs. Fortesque warmly. “Every body sees

that, and she’ll fail.”

“Well, _if_ that is the object—” said Emma.

“And it is,” persisted Mrs. Fortesque decidedly.

“I don’t agree with you in thinking she’ll fail,” continued Emma,

without noticing the interruption. “I think the Lymans are nice girls

and generally liked.”

“No beauties, you’ll admit,” said Mrs. Fortesque, scornfully.

“No, not beauties,” replied Emma, “but they get on quite as well as if

they were. Besides, really Mrs. Fortesque, to do Mrs. Lyman justice, I

never saw any thing about her like a match-making mother.”

“Oh, my dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Fortesque. “She is very anxious to marry

them off. And well she may be. The other two are growing up as fast as

they can. I only think she is taking the wrong course. And then such a

labor as she makes of it! She’s somewhere every night.”

“Oh yes. Sometimes at two parties beside the opera,” said Charlotte.

“There’s no pleasure in society at such a rate. They have an idea that

it is _ton_ish I believe.”

“Too absurd!” repeated Mrs. Fortesque, who had evidently not yet

discharged all her wrath. But being obliged to make other calls she

rose, and as Lady Teazle says, “left her character behind her,” for she

was not fairly out of the room before Emma laughed and said—

“Poor Mrs. Fortesque! She cannot get over the Lymans getting on so well

in society. To be sure they do push for it, but they get it. And their

being at Elliot’s where she was not invited and does not visit, seems to

have capped the climax of her vexation.”

“And to speak slightingly of Rawleys’ party,” said Charlotte. “That

really was unkind in Mrs. Lyman, for she knows how much Mrs. Fortesque

thinks of the Rawleys.”

“That was the reason of course,” replied Emma laughing. “She knows the

Rawleys are Mrs. Fortesque’s grandees. For there’s no one that thinks so

much of fine people as Mrs. Fortesque.”

“No. How droll it is,” said Charlotte. “Every invitation is taken as

such a compliment, and every omission as a particular slight.”

“That struck me very much,” remarked Mrs. Henry Willing who happened to

be present, but who had not joined much in the conversation hitherto,

“for I have always looked upon Mrs. Fortesque as a person who rather

pinned her faith upon fashionable people, and who rated her acquaintance

very much according to their consequence in society.”

“Oh she does, decidedly,” said both the girls in a breath.

“It’s that,” continued Emma, “that makes her so angry with Mrs. Lyman.

They are intimate, and Mrs. Lyman is always ahead of her in making fine

acquaintances, and in getting invited to parties that are rather

exclusive. Now you will see that Mrs. Fortesque does not rest until she

visits and is invited at Elliot’s too.”

“But I think she is really unjust, Emma,” said Charlotte, “in saying her

object is to get the girls married.”

“To be sure she is,” replied Emma. “But the fact is, her own head is so

full of anxiety on the subject of marrying Cornelia, that she thinks

every other mother’s head must be the same.”

“The Lymans are no beauties,” said Charlotte, “but they are quite as

handsome as Cornelia Fortesque.”

“And a great deal pleasanter,” replied Emma. “They have something at

least, but poor Cornelia has nothing.”

As the Appletons were “at home” that morning, the conversation was here

interrupted by other visiters.

Elliot’s party was again the theme under discussion, the display of

wealth and beauty on the occasion giving rise to much animated remark.

“One of the most striking persons there was your friend Mrs. Norton,

Miss Appleton,” said Mrs. Henry Willing.

“I never saw her look more beautiful,” remarked another.

“Nor more beautifully dressed,” said Mrs. Willing quietly, but with

meaning.

Emma colored at this, for she felt the innuendo. Mr. Norton had failed

not very long since, and the extravagance of his pretty wife had not

escaped its due portion at least of animadversion.

“What was it?” asked Emma.

“A very rich blue silk, with flounces of superb lace almost to the

hips,” replied Mrs. Willing in a tone that conveyed as much reprehension

as tones could convey.

“Oh, that’s the same lace she has worn these three years,” said Emma,

vexed that her pretty friend could not even wear her old things without

exciting unkind remarks.

“It does not look well, Emma,” remarked Mrs. Grayson. “Though it is not

new, it is expensive, and not in keeping with their present

circumstances, it’s in bad taste.”

Emma looked disconcerted, and said she thought that a matter of very

little importance when every body knew the lace almost as well as they

did Mrs. Norton herself.

Mrs. Willing however did not think so. “Every body knew the expense

attendant on society, and she thought it altogether indiscreet in Mrs.

Norton to be out as constantly as she was. It excited much remark.”

Whereupon an animated discussion ensued in which poor Mrs. Norton was

well pulled to pieces. Emma however defended her bravely, though driven

from point to point. That she was very expensive, if not extravagant,

seemed however to be settled beyond dispute, and Mrs. Willing was not

inclined to make any allowance for her youth and inexperience, nor

permit her grace and beauty any weight at all in extenuating her

imprudence. Emma was for overlooking every thing, Mrs. Willing nothing,

and the discussion was certainly as warm as is ever deemed allowable

among ladies, when Mrs. Willing rose to leave. No one remaining,

fortunately for Emma, but Mrs. Grayson, with whom the Appletons were

very intimate, and so she gave unrestrained vent to her indignation

almost before Mrs. Willing was out of hearing.

“She is a pretty one!” she exclaimed, “to find fault with Mrs. Norton!

She is just as expensive as her means will allow, without Mrs. Norton’s

excuse of youth and beauty.”

“But, my dear,” interposed Mrs. Grayson, “her husband has not failed.”

“No,” said Emma, “for he is not a merchant. But every body knows their

circumstances. He’s over head and ears in debt, and yet they entertain

and give dinners, and she’s forever at the opera. But because she’s not

a beauty and does not care particularly for dress, she is very virtuous

about poor Mrs. Norton.”

“Very true,” said Mrs. Grayson laughing. “I could not but be amused

while she was talking to think how much that she was saying would apply

equally well to herself. But people never think of that when they are

laying down the law for others. But have you heard this story, girls,

about Mrs. Crawford?”

“No. What?” they both asked.

And then followed a piece of scandal that had just burst upon the town,

too naughty to repeat.

“Shocking!” and “Can it be true?” they exclaimed.

“No doubt of it,” returned Mrs. Grayson. “No one will visit her,” and

with much interest she continued to add circumstance and suspicion one

on top of the other without mercy or stint.

All minor gossip was forgotten in the engrossing interest of the new

subject. Mrs. Grayson talked on till the French clock on the

mantel-piece struck the dinner hour, when starting up, she exclaimed—

“So late! Is it possible? You’ve been so agreeable girls I had quite

forgotten the hour, and my husband is waiting for me, I suppose,” and

off she hurried.

“She has had all the talk,” said Emma, “and that’s what she calls

finding _us_ agreeable. But this story is very bad, if it is true.”

“Yes, but I don’t believe half of it,” said Charlotte. “Mrs. Grayson you

know always puts the worst construction upon every thing. She is so very

harsh in her judgments.”

“And she of all others should have mercy upon those in trouble,”

observed Mrs. Appleton, who had just then came into the room. “But what

were you talking of girls?”

And with great animation they related Mrs. Grayson’s bit of gossip to

their mother.

“Strange!” said Mrs. Appleton, “that Mrs. Grayson should be the first to

tell it.”

“Why, mamma?” asked both daughters at once.

“Because just such an affair occurred in her own family.”

“In hers! When?” exclaimed they in astonishment. “I never heard that

before!”

“Oh, years ago—you can hardly remember it. Indeed it was just after I

was married.”

“Then,” said Charlotte laughing, “it’s not surprising we do not remember

the circumstance.”

“I had forgotten it was so long ago,” said their mother. “It made a

great talk at the time.” And then scandal that had been buried for years

and years was revived and listened to with no small interest.

“Strange!” said Emma, “that Mrs. Grayson should talk of Mrs. Crawford.”

“I should think she would avoid all such stories as carefully as

possible,” said Charlotte.

“I suppose she thought we knew nothing about it,” pursued Emma.

“But if we did not, _she_ must,” replied Charlotte. “People cannot

forget such things themselves.”

“Mrs. Grayson has gone through severe trials and mortifications in

life,” observed their mother.

“Then it ought to give her some charity for others,” said Charlotte.

“But she is the _hardest_ woman I know.”

“It appears to me that’s always the case,” said Emma. “One would think

that suffering would soften and purify—but it does not.”

“Not that kind of suffering,” remarked their mother. “That which comes

of mortification, and which we experience at the hands of our fellow

men, there are few natures fine enough not to grow hard under it.”

Emma heard her mother afterward in a low voice telling their father the

story she had just heard from her daughters, and giving Mrs. Grayson as

authority.

“The less _she_ says about it the better,” drily remarked Mr. Appleton.

“You remember, my dear,” continued his wife, “that affair of her

sister.”

“To be sure,” he replied. “A bad business. I always wondered how they

got over it.”

And then Mr. and Mrs. Appleton had a long, comfortable, cosy talk, in

which things long past and forgotten were brought to life, as the old

couple warmed up in their reminiscences of “old times.” Emma soon tired,

and gave up trying to keep the thread of grandmothers and great-aunts,

particularly as her father and mother frequently confounded the present

with the past generation, and she found that the “young Tom Somebody,”

that they were talking of, was now the “old Tom,” of present times; the

“young Tom” being a middle-aged man, with a Tom junior treading fast on

his heels.

Charlotte and Emma were now talking over their morning visiters, and

Emma again spoke with some warmth of Mrs. Willing’s remarks on Mrs.

Norton, who happened to be Emma’s particular admiration, her

extravagance being, in her opinion, “very natural.”

“I can conceive,” she added, “of people’s

‘Compounding sins they are inclined for,

By damning those they have no mind for,’

but to abuse people for doing what you are doing yourself, is rather too

much.”

“It’s the old principle, I suppose,” said Charlotte, “of ‘Lord, I thank

thee that I am not as other men.’”

“Yes, but,” persisted Charlotte, “when you _are_ like as other men.”

“Well, then—not so bad, then,” said Charlotte, laughing—“Mrs. Willing

takes comfort in thinking she is only expensive, while Mrs. Norton is

extravagant. Every body has their besetting sin it seems.”

“I wonder what ours is,” said Emma.

“If we have one,” said Charlotte, laughing. “For my part, I think we

approach perfection as near as possible—‘_Sans peur et sans

reproche._’”

“_Sans peur_, certainly,” said Emma, in the same tone of playful

mockery, “if not _sans reproche_. Well, but what do we abuse others most

for?” she added. “For, depend upon it, that’s the particular weakness we

are given to ourselves.”

“What do we most criticise others for?” said Charlotte. “Why, for

abusing others, I think. And we are called satirical, you know. ‘People

in glass houses should not throw stones.’”

“No,” said Emma carelessly. “That is, if they care about having their

windows broken.”

“Nobody likes to have their windows broken,” said Mrs. Appleton gravely,

who, just entering, caught the last part of the sentence, which she took

literally, with a true housekeeper’s feeling.

“That’s true, mother,” said the girls, laughing at the odd application

of her remark. “It’s very true, though you did not mean it.”

But whether they remembered these sage reflections and kept them the

next “reception morning,” we think very doubtful.

* * * * *

THE SKY.

BY MRS. J. W. MERCUR.

THE sky, the ever-changing sky,

How broadly spans that arch on high!

How calmly in the morning’s light

Blends its rich hues so purely bright,

And lit by golden sunbeams now

In glory bends its azure brow.

The sky, the sky, serenely bright,

No cloud sits on thy bosom’s light,

No fleecy folds beneath the eye

Of the sun’s light are glancing by,

Nor gath’ring clouds of misty spray

Play round the sun’s imperial way.

And with a look of light and love

That azure sea bends far above,

Its glories to the day unfurled

Are resting o’er our circling world,

And lit by many a brilliant star

At night that archway beams afar.

And on its breast so pure and high

The burning paths of planets lie,

Planets which ’neath its folds had birth

When worlds on worlds first smiled o’er earth,

And northern-lights and comets play,

And meteors gleam, then die away.

And oft that bending sky doth wear

A look of deep and troubled care.

When sunbeams by deep clouds are hid,

The gath’ring tempests frowning lid,

And thunders burst, and lightnings play,

And storms sweep o’er the trav’lers way.

And on the broad and rolling deep

Each mariner doth turn and keep

An anxious vigil of the sky,

When threat’ning clouds and storms are nigh,

And tempests round them fierce are driven,

Or rainbows span the arch of heaven.

The sky, the sky, now clear, now bright,

Now wreathed with folds of snowy white,

Now tinged with amber hues, whose glow

Is borrowed from the sunbeams flow,

Then on its ever-changing breast

Beam roseate streakings in the west.

And oft upon the sky I gaze

As in my childhood’s early days,

And watch at every morn and night

Its fading or increasing light,

And trace with love each cloud and star,

Which floats above, or beams afar.

The sky, the sky, it bendeth o’er

The weary exile, who no more

Can greet his home, or feel the breeze

Play through his native forest trees,

Or watch upon his home’s clear stream

The moon’s pale rays reflected beam.

And the bright sky o’er all that’s here

Unto the exile’s heart is dear;

In it he sees each beaming star

Which shone above his home afar,

And knows a power of deathless love

Spread out that azure sea above.

And over all things here below

It bendeth with a radiant glow;

On peasant’s cot—on lordly hall—

Alike its sun and shadows fall,

And gems which gild its brow at even

Shine forth for all beneath the heaven.

And from its firm unwav’ring height,

Its never-failing day and night,

The fadeless glory of its sun—

Its tireless stars, when day is done,

May all, as tow’rd that sky they turn,

A lesson of deep import learn.

* * * * *

TAURUS.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

The Scorpion’s stars crawl down behind the sun,

And when he drops below the verge of day,

The glittering fangs, their fervid courses run,

Cling to his skirts and follow him away.

Then, ere the heels of flying Capricorn

Have touched the western mountain’s fading rim,

I mark, stern Taurus, through the twilight gray

The glinting of thy horn,

And sullen front uprising large and dim,

Bent to the starry hunter’s sword, at bay.

Thy hoofs, unwilling, climb the sphery vault;

Thy red eye trembles with an angry glare,

When the hounds follow, and in fierce assault

Bay through the fringes of the lion’s hair.

The stars that once were mortal in their love,

And by their love are made immortal now,

Cluster like golden bees upon thy mane,

When thou, possessed with Jove,

Bore sweet Europe’s garlands on thy brow

And stole her from the green Sicilian plain.

Type of the stubborn force that will not bend

To loftier art;—soul of defiant breath

That blindly stands and battles to the end,

Nerving resistance with the throes of death—

Majestic Taurus! when thy wrathful eye

Flamed brightest, and thy hoofs a moment stayed

Their march at Night’s meridian, I was born:

But in the western sky,

Like sweet Europa, Love’s fair star delayed,

To hang her garland on thy silver horn.

Thou giv’st that temper of enduring mould,

That slights the wayward bent of Destiny—

Such as sent forth the shaggy Jarls of old

To launch their dragons on the unknown sea:

Such as kept strong the sinews of the sword,

The proud, hot blood of battle—welcome made

The headsman’s axe, the rack, the martyr-fire,

The ignominious cord,

When but to yield, had pomps and honors laid

On heads that moulder in ignoble mire.

Night is the summer when the soul grows ripe

With Life’s full harvest: of her myriad suns,

Thou dost not gild the quiet herdsman’s pipe,

Nor royal state, that royal action shuns,

But in the noontide of thy ruddy stars

Thrive strength, and daring, and the blood whence springs

The Heraclidean seed of heroes: then

Were sundered Gaza’s bars;

Then, ’mid the smitten Hydra’s loosened rings,

His slayer rested, in the Lernean fen.

Thou sway’st the heart’s red tides, until they bear

The kindled spirit on their mounting wave,

Up to the notch of Glory; in thy glare

Age thaws his ice, and thrills beside the grave.

Not Bacchus, by his span of panthers borne,

And flushed with triumph of the purple vine,

Can give his sons so fierce a joy as thou,

When, filled with pride and scorn,

Thou mak’st relentless anger seem divine,

And all Jove’s terror clothes a mortal brow.

Thine is the subtle element that turns

To fearless act the impulse of the hour—

The secret fire, whose flash electric burns

To every source of passion and of power.

Therefore I hail thee, on thy glittering track:

Therefore I watch thee, when the night grows dark,

Slow rising, front Orion’s sword along

The starry zodiac,

And from thy mystic beam demand a spark

To warm my soul with more heroic song.

* * * * *

THE YOUNG ARTIST:

OR THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

(_Concluded from page 112._)

CHAPTER VII.

ELLISON was no longer, either in sentiment or purpose, an artist. His

whole character had undergone a sudden, though temporary change. He

reveled no more in Italian dreams. Beautiful creations arose not, in

imagination, under his pencil. The ideal of his life had taken a new

form. His end was no longer perfection in the Art at whose shrine genius

had made him a worshiper. He had turned to another god; and bowed his

knee on the threshold of the house of Mammon. What splendid castles

arose in the air all around him! He saw his land cleared of its trees a

century old; and fields of grain brightening in the sunshine and waving

in the breeze, where now the light could scarcely penetrate the gloomy

forest. In the centre of his estate a site was selected for a splendid

dwelling, and he saw it rising up before him as if by the touch of

enchantment.

But for no very long time was this vain dream to be indulged. An

overseer, to give practical attention to the cutting of logs in the

woods, two miles away from his mill; to look after their transportation

to the place where they were to be manufactured into boards, and to have

a general supervision of every thing connected with the business, could

not be had for less than five hundred dollars a year. Besides this

individual, an engineer to run the mill, hands to attend it, and

wood-cutters and teamsters, were all to be employed. Six yoke of oxen

had also to be purchased; and the expense of feeding them was something

of an item in itself. The whole weekly cost of this force, independent

entirely of his personal expenses, was about fifty dollars. A month

passed, and, though a dozen trials had been made to start the mill, the

gearing and machinery were found so defective that they would not work.

All hands but the overseer and engineer were then discharged, and

millwrights employed to half build the mill over again. They kept at

work nearly three months, by which time Ellison’s cash being nearly all

expended, he was beginning to be in no very enviable state of mind. A

good many things had occurred, in the meantime, to cause more than a

doubt as to the success of his scheme to cross his mind. His overseer

was a practical man, and able to apply tests to the whole business

unknown to Ellison.

One day, it was nearly five months from the time the mill came into the

young man’s possession, and after some part of the new gearing had given

way in an attempt to get it started, the overseer said to him—

“I’m afraid you will find this a losing business, manage it as you

please. It’s my opinion that it will cost you more to cut the timber,

haul it to the mill and saw it up, than the lumber will bring after it

is produced.”

And then he exhibited to Ellison a series of estimates and calculations

based upon things actually done, which fully proved all he said.

“Had the mill been erected on your land, you might have saved yourself.

But, to cut the timber, and then haul it two miles, makes the cost of

each log so great as to throw profit entirely out of the question. I

think, sir, that you had better sell your mill, if you can find a

purchaser.”

Ellison was confounded. The demonstration made by his overseer was so

accurate that there was no possibility of gainsaying it. To go on, even

if he had the money with which to proceed, would, he saw, be only an act

of folly. He, therefore, after debating the matter for some days, saw

that there was no way left for him but to discharge all in his

employment, and sell the mill if a purchaser could be found. The sale he

did not find a matter of easy accomplishment. He advertised it far and

near, but only a few came to look at it, and they were not long in

making up their minds that the road to fortune did not lie in that

direction. In the meantime, the first note of one thousand dollars given

to Claxton fell due, and was permitted to lie over. Ellison had not

fifty dollars in cash left of the five thousand obtained from the sale

of stocks, and how could he lift a note of a thousand. He wrote to

Claxton, upbraiding him as the willful instrument of his loss—as having

made him the scape-goat to bear the burden of his own folly and

miscalculation. To this he received a brief answer from Claxton’s

brother, who said that the notes were now his property, and that he

would wait until the three were matured, when, in case they were not all

paid, he would foreclose the mortgage in his possession and sell his

land.

Unhappy young man! He was almost beside himself with anguish of mind.

His castles in the air had all dissolved in storm-clouds. His confident

pride in his own energy and ability to wrest a fortune from the elements

around him was all gone. In the effort to make peace with his own

mind—to secure his independence—by suddenly duplicating the value of

the property obtained by his wife, he had lost nearly the whole of it in

less than a year. His folly was the town talk. Not a man in D——, with

whom he had conversed during the progress of his money-losing scheme,

gave him a word of encouragement. Every one said that his expectations

would prove fallacious; and now that all had occurred as predicted, the

only sympathy he received was the pride-crushing remark that it had

turned out as every one knew it would.

The letter from Claxton’s brother awoke Ellison to a keener sense of the

difficulty by which he was surrounded than he had yet experienced. There

was no hope of selling his mill. It had already cost him about four

thousand dollars, and three thousand were yet due. There was no escape

from the payment of this last sum, as it was fully secured by a mortgage

upon his land.

While in this sad dilemma, so distressed in mind that he often walked

the floor for half the night, the owner of the other mill, which had

been kept steadily at work, offered him two thousand dollars for the

whole concern, which had cost him seven thousand. This offer he accepted

without a moment’s hesitation. It was the severing of one fold of the

horrible serpent that had entwined itself around him, and whose

contractions were almost crushing out his life. The next step was to

offer the four hundred acres of land for sale. It so happened that there

were three large property-holders in D——, each of whom had particular

reasons for wanting the tract of land. From this cause a better sale

than even Ellison anticipated, was made. Twenty dollars per acre was

realized, or eight thousand dollars for the whole tract.

Three thousand dollars canceled the debt to Claxton. About five hundred

more went to pay various bills and accounts that were brought in as soon

as it was known that Ellison was closing up his business. Of some of

these the young man had no kind of recollection; but he paid them. After

all was settled, only about six thousand five hundred dollars of the

entire property which Ellison had received by his wife remained. In

other words, in a little over a year, he had lost one half of it. During

the progress of these disasters, Clara, who had never approved of what

her husband was doing, avoided saying a word that he could construe into

disapproval or disappointment. Still she felt troubled, and could not

always keep her brow free from shadows. Whenever they were seen by

Ellison, he felt them as smarting rebukes; and his quick fancy gave them

a language which they did not really convey.

About two months prior to the closing up of Ellison’s disastrous

business in D——, Clara presented her husband with a daughter. The

birth of this child was not so glad an event to the father as it would

have been a flew months earlier, when, waking or sleeping, his mind was

full of golden dreams. From the effects of her illness Clara recovered

but slowly. A change in her bodily feelings produced a change in her

thoughts, which turned toward her old home and her old friends. From a

small beginning the wish to go back grew into an intense desire. She had

never been really happy since coming to the West; and now every thing

she saw around her but increased her dissatisfied feelings. But as far

as it was in her power to do so, all this was concealed from her

husband.

One day, it was when Ellison was about making his closing transactions

in D——, he spoke of their removal from that city, and mentioned

Cincinnati.

“Why not go back to Philadelphia?” said Clara, with an eagerness that

showed how much her heart was in her words. She spoke from an impulse,

and therefore with a fuller exhibition of her real feelings than would

otherwise have been the case.

“I’d rather hang myself!” was the equally impulsive and much less

guarded answer of Ellison.

The effect of this rude, in fact, unfeeling reply, was a gush of tears,

that flowed long and silently. The heart of Ellison smote him for the

unkindly spoken words. But they had found an utterance, and he felt that

an attempt to recall them would be of no use.

For the space of full half an hour the unhappy young man, and his

equally unhappy wife, sat silent and almost motionless, yet their

thoughts were busy all the while. What passed in the mind of Ellison

will hereafter appear.

“We will go back, Clara,” he at length said, breaking the oppressive

stillness of the apartment in which they sat, and speaking in a voice of

affectionate sympathy. “Forgive me that I thought too much of myself. I

know it must be a hard trial for you—this separation from all your

early associations and most cherished friends. I hoped to make this

visit to the West one of prosperity to us both. But I have erred, and a

heart-crushing disaster has been the result. I will atone for this error

in the future as best I can.”

“Alfred! Alfred! do not speak so,” said Clara, lifting her eyes from the

floor. Tears were again upon her cheeks. “All has been done for the

best. Do not think of the past. Do not reproach yourself. We have still

something left, and it is enough, and more than enough, to sustain us

until your own professional efforts meet with their deserved reward. Let

us go to Cincinnati, or any where else that you may think best.”

“No, Clara, we will return to Philadelphia, and that immediately. You

cannot be happy among strangers who feel for you no sympathy.”

“I can be happy any where with you, Alfred,” replied the young wife,

leaning toward her husband and looking tenderly in his face.

“But happier in the old place. We will go back, Clara.”

“Forgive my weakness, wont you, dear?” said Clara, half imploringly. “It

was only a weakness, and it is past now. No, no! we will not return.

That would be painful to you; and I would not be the cause of your

feeling a moment’s pain for the world. I can be happy any where with you

and our precious babe.”

But Ellison’s resolution had been taken. Back to Philadelphia he would

go, and no where else. Perceiving how firm he was in this, Clara soon

ceased to oppose her husband. In about two weeks they left D——, and in

a few days afterward were in Philadelphia.

CHAPTER VIII.

There was a change in Ellison. Clara perceived it from the moment he

avowed his intention to return to the East. Its meaning she could not

tell. For some time before, a certain coldness, or more properly

speaking, a reserve, had appeared in his manner toward her. Slight

causes, too, had been productive of disturbance. But now he was more

tender in his intercourse with her than he had ever been, and seemed to

have scarcely a thought that did not involve her comfort and happiness.

His affection for their babe appeared every moment to increase. Clara

would often find him looking at it with a tenderness of expression that

was almost tearful.

On arriving in Philadelphia, Ellison avoided all the relatives of his

wife. He neither received nor returned the visit of any one of them.

Contrary to the expectation of Clara, he did not take a room for

professional use, nor did he say any thing about resuming his work as an

artist. Immediately on his return, he purchased stocks to the value of

five thousand five hundred dollars, the certificates for which, with

four hundred dollars in money, he placed in her hands, saying, as he did

so,

“I have kept five hundred dollars for a particular purpose.”

For about a week he remained nearly the whole time in the house, yet

exhibiting many evidences of a disturbed and active mind.

One morning, after kissing his wife and the babe that lay in her arms,

with visible emotion, he went away. Contrary to what had been his custom

since their return, he did not come back during the forenoon, and was

absent at dinner-time. A feeling of uneasiness—a vague dread of some

impending evil—had weighed upon the mind of Clara ever since he had

gone out, and this now changed into anxiety not unmingled with alarm.

Slowly the afternoon wore away and night came sadly down. As long as she

could see the forms of passengers in the street, Clara stood at the

window, waiting and watching for her husband. Then she sat listening for

the sound of his entrance below, starting and hearkening more intently,

as one after another opened and shut the door. But supper-time came, and

he was still away. All night he remained absent. Oh, what a night that

was for Clara! Sleep visited her not until day-dawn, and then it came

with frightful visions that broke the rest so much needed almost as soon

as sweet oblivion had come upon her senses. Early in the day a letter

was placed in her hands. She knew the writing to be that of her husband.

Breaking the seal, she read,

“My Dear Clara,—I leave you for a time. How long the time will be,

Heaven only knows! What it has cost me to break away from you and our

sweet babe, no one but myself will ever know. I meant all for the best;

it was to increase your property—not with a reckless indifference as to

consequences—that I made that ruinous adventure in the West. The

failure almost broke my heart. But I will retrieve the loss. I vowed to

do so when the disaster came; and I mean to fulfill that vow, if it cost

me the labor of a whole life. Happily, enough is left to keep you and

our babe from want. Bear my absence, if you can, without repining. Do

not think my affection for you has grown cold; it has but increased in

fervor since our marriage, and absence will make it the more intense.

Ah, me! How do our errors, like seed cast into the ground, reproduce

themselves a hundred fold! I erred at first, and error has since

followed me like a shadow. May Heaven keep you, my dear wife, until my

return. It is best for me to go away. To be happy under present

circumstances, is impossible. I am crushed to the earth, and if I remain

here, will lie powerless. It may be a weakness in me to feel as I do;

but I did not make myself, and cannot help it. Oh! how often have I

wished that you had been without a dollar and without a friend. How

tenderly would I have cherished you! How light would the hardest labor

have been, if it but produced flowers in your pathway! Let me make a

confession. It is wrung from me almost in tears. But we may never meet

again, and I would not have you misunderstand me, nor feel a doubt, when

you think of me, overshadowing your mind. I loved my art with a passion

that few can understand. But I was poor, and had to work in my

profession for bread, when I longed to go only in pursuit of the

beautiful, and to labor for the attainment of what was excellent in the

profession I had chosen. How blessed would I have been with a

competence! A few hundred a year would have filled the measure of my

desires. Bread and water would have sufficed for my natural wants, could

I have breathed under an Italian sky, and lived among the wonderful

creations of those master-spirits who have made our art immortal. It was

thus with me, when, in an evil hour, a friend suggested a marriage in

which money should be the first consideration. I threw the suggestion

aside with a feeling of indignation. He re-presented it, drawing at the

same time a picture upon which I could not look without a quickening

pulse. I in Italy, and a loving wife by my side, sketching and painting

amid the perfect works of art that fill the galleries of every city in

that beautiful land. I looked at the picture, and my heart stirred

within me. Then you were mentioned; but I rejected the thought of any

end in marriage lower than affection for the person, abstract from all

other considerations. But every time I looked upon you after this came

the dream of Italy; I saw myself there, and you by my side. It was in

this soil that the seeds of affection were sown; here they took root,

and here they grew. I could not help loving you; but I loved you not, at

first, all for yourself. There was something beyond. You had the means

by which I could attain to a desired end—but I never thought of

attaining it as a consummation to be enjoyed alone; it was to be shared

with you. In this blindness I sought your hand; in this blindness we

were married, at a time when my income was scarcely sufficient to meet

my own light expenses. I had, with a feeling that was little less than

an insanity, depended for the future on the property you were said to

possess. But, after marriage, how like the leaf of a sensitive plant

from the approach of an intruder, did my whole nature shrink at the

thought of touching your money, particularly as I had no means of my

own. I saw my error when it was too late to retrace my steps. I felt

that I had been mercenary, and that you would perceive it and despise

me. Anxiously did I struggle in my profession for the means of

independence; but I struggled in vain. Ah, Clara! words can give you no

idea of the humiliation I experienced when necessity drove me to a

confession of my poverty. If I could only erase that impression from my

memory! When your brother so cruelly taunted me, I felt mad with a wild

desire to show him, and every one else, that I had power to make your

property the stepping-stone to great wealth. How sadly I failed in my

purposes I will not repeat. You know all too well.

“Clara! Since our marriage, love for you has been a daily increasing

passion. The more deeply I looked into your heart, the more I saw to

inspire that respect upon which affection lays its broadest foundations.

And now the parting with you seems as if it would rend me asunder. But

it is necessary for our future happiness. You have enough left for the

support of yourself and our sweet child. I will return when I am, as I

should have been before our marriage, fully entitled to the blessing of

a loving wife, because able to support her. Farewell, my dear, dear

Clara! Do not grieve over my absence. Think of me hopefully—pray for

me. I will return. Hide from other eyes the pain this step must occasion

you. Conceal the apparent desertion for your own sake. Say that I have

gone abroad to perfect myself in my art. I will come back, for without

the light of your presence, I feel that all around me will lie in

shadow. How soon, Heaven only knows! Farewell! farewell! I write the

words tearfully. Farewell!

YOUR HUSBAND.”

Mrs. Ellison was a woman of great self-control and decision of

character. She loved her husband truly, notwithstanding his conduct

since marriage had often been incomprehensible, and never so open and

freely affectionate as she could have wished. All was now fully

explained. She understood much that had been covered by doubt. Though

the sudden disappearance of Alfred was a painful shock, yet, in the

explanations he had given, her heart found relief, and she caught, as

she looked along the future, glimpses of a happier prospect. Though the

letter was wet with tears, as she finished reading it for the third

time, and then hid it in her bosom, yet she was far from being hopeless

and entirely wretched. She could comprehend, to some extent, the

feelings of her husband, and was thus able to find an excuse for conduct

at first sight so extraordinary. Thus, though smitten almost to the

earth by the desertion and mystery of his absence, she could yet find

many avenues to consolation. If he had only said where he was going, it

would have been a great relief. But this he had chosen to conceal.

“Let me be patient and hopeful,” said she, pressing her hand upon her

bosom, as if she would thus still the flutterings of her stricken heart.

And then she lifted her eyes tearfully upward and prayed for guidance

and strength—prayed also for the absent one who had made himself a

wanderer on the earth.

The next great trial of Clara was to meet her friends and answer for the

absence of her husband in such a way as to conceal the fact of his

having gone away without confiding to her his destination. The utmost

self-control on her part was necessary; and her answers had all to be in

a certain sense evasive. All this was painful; for it was too evident

that none felt satisfied, and that suspicions against her husband were

created. Thus was the weight she had to bear increased. But she strung

her heart to endurance; and said, in the silence of her grieving spirit,

“I will be patient and hopeful.”

Months went by after the departure of Ellison, but no word from him came

to his anxious, long-suffering, hopeful wife. The sweet bud he had left

upon her bosom gradually opened in the warm sunshine; but its beauty and

fragrance were but half enjoyed because he was not there to divide the

pleasure. In spite of her efforts to hold fast by her confidence in his

return, the heart of Clara grew weaker every day. Nightly were her

dreams full of her husband; but in visions she only saw him sick or in

danger, and she often awoke in terror. The color left her cheeks; her

face grew thin and overcast with anxiety. Still the months went by, but

no intelligence from the absent one came; no ray of light pierced the

thick clouds of uncertainty that veiled her sky.

CHAPTER IX.

It was a year since the young artist had deserted his home and the dear

ones who nestled there. Twelve weary months had passed. He had been in

Paris, Dresden, Rome, Florence, and now he was in Venice; wasted almost

to a shadow; but still he sat with pencil or pallet in hand, striving to

catch the wonderful grace, or to attain the masterly effect of color

that he almost worshiped in those whose names were synonymous with all

that was grand and beautiful in art. But all that he had yet achieved

was so far below what was around him, that he was in despair.

He had thrown his brushes and pallet upon the floor, and was sitting in

an attitude of despondency before his easel, upon which was a

half-finished head after Raphael, when a young English artist, with whom

he had made an acquaintance, entered his studio.

“You are ill, Marston,” (it was by this name that Ellison passed in

Italy,) said the visiter, in a voice of concern.

“I am in despair,” replied Ellison.

“At what?”

“I cannot paint.”

“If I could produce flesh like that on the canvas before you, I would go

home to-morrow.”

“It looks like any thing but flesh to me.”

“Come, Marston,” said the other, taking the hand of the young man, “an

hour upon the water will give your eyes a better vision. But how your

hand burns! And there is a flush in your cheeks. You have fever!”

As the young man spoke, Ellison gathered up his brushes, and taking his

pallet, said, while his eyes brightened,

“There, Liston! stand just in that light.”

“No, I’ll do no such thing,” replied Liston, moving from his position.

“You must paint no more to-day. If you will not go out and breathe the

pure air, you must go to bed and let me send you a physician.”

“I’m not sick—I’m only in despair.”

The friend took him by the arm and tried to force him away from his

easel; as he did so, a deathly paleness overspread the face of the young

artist, and he fell back insensible. As soon as the first few moments of

surprise and confusion had passed, Liston laid the inanimate body which

he had caught in his arms on the floor, and went for assistance. After

various efforts at restoration had been used by the physician who was

summoned, but without effect, the body of Ellison was removed to his

lodgings, and placed in bed, where it remained for some hours before a

reaction of the exhausted vital system took place. Liston, who had

become much attached to the young artist for his many excellent

qualities, never left his side until his pulses again commenced their

feeble play, and then only for a few moments at a time. He was deeply

pained to perceive that the fine intellect of Ellison did not reanimate

as life again flowed along his veins. That had been overtasked, and was,

for the time being, paralyzed.

Day after day went by, and the bodily health of Ellison slowly improved;

but his mind continued to wander. Much to the surprise of Liston, in

these wanderings he often spoke of one to whom he applied the tenderest

name by which man can call a woman, and said that he would soon return

to her.

“Is our dear little Ella living yet?” he asked one day, looking

earnestly at Liston, his large, bright eyes beaming with affection.

“Who is Ella?” asked Liston.

The question appeared to react upon his state of mind. He became grave

and silent for some moments.

“I thought Clara was here,” said he, after awhile, in a more serious

voice.

“Who is Clara?”

This question threw him back again into silence, and he lay for more

than a minute with his eyes closed. Then he opened them quickly, and

glanced around with eager expectation, half rising as he did so from his

pillow. A sigh quivered through his white lips as he sunk back, and

said, in a sad voice,

“I thought she was here.”

For some time he lay with closed eyes, and his hands clasped across his

bosom. Then looking up again, he asked,

“Hasn’t she come yet? It is time she was here.”

Bending toward the door, he listened attentively.

“She must be here soon.”

“Something has delayed her,” said Liston, falling in with the humor of

the sick man. “Lie down again and try to sleep. Perhaps she will be here

when you awake.”

“Hark!” said Ellison.

Liston bent his ear for a moment or two. Then the sound of feet moving

along one of the distant passages was faintly heard.

“She is coming!” exclaimed Ellison, in a voice of exultation.

The footsteps approached rapidly. They were at hand; and then the door

flew open and a woman entered.

“My husband!” fell from her lips as she sprang forward and caught

Ellison in her arms, who, sobbing like a child, nestled helplessly, but

with the gladness of a half unconscious babe, upon her bosom.

Liston gazed on this scene in profound amazement. He expected every

moment to see the life-blood again thrown back upon the heart of his

sick friend, and his eyes closed once more in dark insensibility. But it

was not so. The meeting produced no disastrous shock.

“I have been looking for you to come,” said Ellison, lifting his head

from the bosom of his wife, after he was a little composed, and gazing

into her face.

A shadow fell upon the countenance of Clara, and she turned her eyes

upon Liston with a look of troubled inquiry.

“It is true, as he says,” remarked Liston, perceiving what was in her

mind. “He spoke of you, and said you were coming ere I could hear the

sound of your approaching footsteps.”

“But I heard them,” said Ellison, with a smile that lit up his whole

countenance. “And I knew that you were here.”

It was now plain to Clara that her husband’s mind had lost its balance.

“Has he been sick long?” she asked of Liston.

“His health has not been good for some time,” was the young man’s reply.

“He has tied himself down in his studio too long, and worked with too

intent a purpose, until he has wasted his body as you see. A few days

ago, nature sank exhausted under burdens too heavy for her to bear. But

your presence and your care will restore him.”

And Liston was right in his prediction. Ellison soon after sank away

into a deep slumber, which lasted for hours. When he awoke, though weak

almost as an infant, he was in his right mind.

CHAPTER X.

A week subsequent to Clara’s arrival in Venice, whither she had come

after a month’s search in Paris, Naples, Florence and Rome, for her

husband, she sat by the bed-side of Alfred, now rapidly recovering,

while Ella, their beautiful child, over a year old, was sleeping in her

arms.

“I know it would have been better, Clara, far better,” said the invalid,

replying to a remark which his wife had made. “But the disasters of that

western business put me half beside myself. Ah me! how much happier we

would have been if your fortune had been like my own—nothing.”

A cloud flitted over the brow of Clara as he made this last remark. She

sighed faintly, and was silent.

“I am weak and foolish on this subject,” said he, after a few moments.

“But you understand why it is so. The weight of a feather will hurt an

inflamed wound.”

Clara looked at her husband half reproachfully, and then changed the

subject.

A year longer Ellison remained in Italy, devoting his time to study and

practice in the higher schools of art, and then turned his face

homeward, taking with him about twenty pictures, half of which were his

own compositions, and all of a high order of merit.

There is now, in the city of New York, an artist whose pictures are

scarcely dry from the easel ere they meet with purchasers at a liberal

price. His portraits are among the finest that are produced, and he is,

consequently, never without a sitter. Money flows in to him by

thousands, and from the proceeds of his own work, he has surrounded

himself with all the elegances of life that a man of taste could desire.

That artist is Ellison. Fifteen years have elapsed since the painful

events we have described transpired. But success has not entirely

obliterated the marks they left behind. To let his mind go back and

linger thoughtfully on the past, is but to throw a shadow over his

spirit. Often, as he looks into the face of his wife, comes upon him the

remembrance that he sought her, at first, less for herself than for the

external advantages she would bring him, and that she knows of the

mercenary feelings which drew him to her side.

[Illustration]

“If she had been poor, like myself,” he often sighs, as he turns away

from some memory of the past, “there would have been nothing to dim the

sunshine of our happiness; nor, if I had won my way to success by the

force of my own talents, ere I asked to lead her to the altar. Alas!

that the fine gold of affection should have been dimmed by the base

alloy of selfishness!”

That the inflamed spot, fretted into painfulness by the touch of even a

feather, still remains, is evident from the fact, that he has settled

ten thousand dollars upon his wife, and will not touch a farthing of the

income it yields. By this act he keeps alive in his own mind, as well as

in that of Clara, the memory of things that should be buried with the

mistakes and errors of the past, and thus robs both her and himself of a

portion of the happiness that is rightfully their due. On this subject,

suffering has made him little less than a monomaniac; and such he will

probably remain while he lives. How true is it that our motives give

quality to our acts, and mar all the effects that flow from them if they

be stained with selfishness. Most true is this of marriage. If a base or

mercenary end influence us in entering into this relation, unhappiness

must inevitably follow. A reaction, such as that which occurred in the

case of Ellison, may not take place; but there will come a reaction of

some kind, and that a painful one, as surely as an effect follows its

producing cause. Thousands around us fail to secure a true union in

marriage, that consummation above all things desired by the heart, and

for no other reason than the one here assigned. Of all motives from

which we act, let those leading to marriage be freest from alloy. We may

err in other things, and escape without a severe penalty; but never in

marriage. We cannot do violence to the heart’s best affections without

after years of pain and unavailing repentance.

* * * * *

THE SECRET.

I TOLD my wife a secret—

“And did she keep it?” say you.

Ah! therein lies the moral, man,

To which give heed, I pray you!

She kept it but an hour or two—

She then put on her bonnet,

And called upon her Cousin Sue,

That both might comment on it!

Alas! ere half the day was o’er,

Most dearly did I rue it!

Sue told it to a dozen more,

And they to others talked it o’er;

I found on coming from my store

That all the village knew it.

* * * * *

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF GENERAL GREENE.]

* * * * *

LIFE OF GENERAL NATHANIEL GREENE.

BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR Of “HISTORY Of THE KINGS Of FRANCE,” ETC.

ETC. ETC.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

IN the early part of the seventeenth century a number of families

emigrated to New England and took up their residence in the colony of

Plymouth.

Among them was a family of the name of Greene, from which the subject of

this memoir was a lineal descendant. Not many years after their

settlement there, religious controversies began to wear a serious

aspect, and John Greene becoming involved in them, determined to remove

with his family to the settlement formed a year before, by Roger

Williams, on the banks of the Providence river. We find the name of John

Greene recorded among the twenty-four original colonists, who obtained a

permanent organization by the charter of Charles the Second. From that

period, members of this family are frequently mentioned as holding

offices of dignity and trust; one of them was Governor of Rhode Island

during several years of the revolutionary war.

Nathaniel Greene, a brother of Governor Greene, and direct in descent

from the original emigrant, had established himself as an anchor-smith

near the head waters of a small stream, which still retains its Indian

name of Potowhommett.

On the settlement of this town it was named Warwick, where the subject

of this sketch, and son of the above Nathaniel Greene, was born, on the

27th of May, 1742.

The first years of his life were almost exclusively passed in the labors

of the farm, for which he was well adapted by a strong and vigorous

constitution. Losing his mother when he was only ten years of age, his

domestic education more immediately devolved upon his father, who was a

rigid disciplinarian, confining his son very closely to agricultural

pursuits, and a stand at the anvil. This was continued through the

spring and summer, but at the approach of winter a teacher was sought to

reside in the family to teach the elements of an English education.

The Bible was the only book allowed to be used in the family of the

Quaker preacher, for such was the rank his father held. But to Nathaniel

such an education was too limited, and therefore unsatisfactory; he

accordingly, as fast as his small savings would permit, purchased

himself a small, but well selected library, and often spent the whole

night, after the family supposed he had retired to bed, in regular

study. An acquaintance casually formed, at the age of fourteen, with a

young man who happened to be spending his college vacation at Warwick,

first directed his attention to higher and more absorbing pursuits. It

is not for us to conjecture what passed between Greene and his newly

found friend. But whatever it was, the spark in his coarse clad bosom

soon became ignited, and kindled into a flame that was never to be

quenched.

The next winter another teacher was engaged, better qualified to direct

the first efforts of a mind awakening to a consciousness of its powers,

and with him he studied mathematics and the classics.

He had now reached his twentieth year, and by patient industry and

unwavering perseverance he had acquired a certain amount of knowledge,

which was a matter of surprise to his neighbors, having so little

leisure between the mill and the forge. Every penny of his hard-earned

savings was devoted to his library, and he now possessed many valuable

and standard works which he considered gems of invaluable worth. His

life was regular but methodical, one cup of coffee in the morning, and

one substantial meal in the afternoon sufficed for each day. His father,

as has been before observed, was a strict disciplinarian, and every

morning strictly laid out the duty which Nathaniel had to perform before

night; this task he was never known to neglect, but always carried in

his pocket some favorite volume, as a relaxation during the few

intervals of leisure through the day.

It might easily be supposed, that with such strict habits he would have

lost all his original buoyancy of spirits and love of frolic, but it was

the reverse; it appeared to give a stronger zest to his sports, and no

sooner was his mind relaxed from study or toil, than he entered at once

into some feat of agility or mimic, in which art he so frequently

displayed his skill. In notes written by his grandson, while consul at

Rome, we find the following amusing anecdote: he says—“His chief

passion was dancing, and that pleasure was often purchased at the risk

of a fall from the window through which, when the watchful eyes of his

father were closed in sleep, he would steal away to the scenes that he

loved. It happened once, however, that something had excited his

father’s suspicion, and set him upon the watch. There was a ball in the

neighborhood to which young Greene was invited. The dance continued

until late in the night, and he was cautiously making his way homeward,

when whom should he see but his father, with horse-whip in hand,

patiently pacing to and fro beneath the window. Retreat would have been

useless, for the door was locked, and there was no other way of getting

into the house. He knew the inflexible severity of his father too well

to dream of escape, for dancing, of all misdemeanors, was most heinous

in the eyes of a Quaker, and there was nothing to be done but to submit

to his punishment with the best grace he could.

“But, while he made up his mind to take his flogging patiently, he was

resolved to suffer as little from it as possible; and accordingly,

before he presented himself to the lash, he cautiously thrust under his

clothes three or four shingles, from a pile that chanced to be lying

near him, and then coolly advanced to meet his father. The reception was

just such as he was prepared for, and the blows fell quick and heavy

upon his corselet of shingles.”

Some of his biographers have said that this love of frolic yielded at

last to the rigorous discipline of his parent, but this is a mistake.

Many years after this, when on a visit to Block Island, to the family of

the lady who subsequently became his wife, dancing and riding were his

chief amusements, and many persons remember to have seen him in his

house at Newport, after the close of the war, amusing himself by playing

with his wife the old game of poor puss wants a corner. About this time

there was a considerable change in domestic affairs, his father

purchased a new mill at Coventry, a few miles distant from his home, and

made him the director. For the first time in his life he felt that he

was his own master, and possessing a small share in the concern, his

resources were enlarged, together with the means of employing them. His

library, which had been but scantily supplied, now felt the benefit of

this change, for it soon reached to between two and three hundred

volumes, which at that period was considered an extensive affair. He now

began to feel of some importance in the neighborhood in which he had

made his new home. He began also to take an active part in public

affairs, and was soon the means of establishing the first public school

at Coventry, the result of the interest he took in all that related to

the cultivation of mind. In 1770 he was elected to the General Assembly

of the Colony, and from his zeal in the general cause, he continued to

be returned for the town of Coventry until sometime after his

appointment to the command of the Southern army. As a member of the

Assembly he was distinguished for his dispassionate and patient

investigation.

A portion of a correspondence of this period is still preserved, which

shows how steadily he kept in view the cultivation and expansion of his

mind. In 1769 a circumstance took place which caused much excitement, in

which Greene took a conspicuous position.

It was the burning of the _Gaspee_ in Providence river. On this occasion

Greene’s bold and unequivocal expression of his sentiments drew upon him

the suspicions of the royal agents, and it was expected he would have

been summoned before the special tribunal convened at Newport to trace

out and condemn the destroyers of the Gaspee.

From the exciting events continually occurring around him, Greene became

convinced that the hour was not far distant when both parties must bring

their differences to the test of the sword, and that nothing less than

the sword could settle them. Being satisfied on this point, and

determined to share in the contest, he at once commenced qualifying

himself for the part he considered it his duty to take. With his usual

energy he studied the art of war, and as military history had long been

one of his favorite branches, his progress in this new science was both

rapid and sure. He soon found himself absorbed in the study of Sharp’s

Military Guide, Memoirs of Turenne, Cæsar’s Commentaries and Plutarch,

for these were his text books. Every day brought fresh news, and the

sound of preparation summoned the farmer from his plough and the

mechanic from his workshop. Companies were organising in all parts of

the country, and a review of a great number of men already under arms

took place at Plainfield, which was witnessed by Greene with much

enthusiasm and pleasure. This conduct, so entirely opposed to the rigid

doctrines of the broad-brims, gave great displeasure, and he was

summoned before some of their leading men appointed for the purpose of

remonstrating with him for this open violation of their rules, and to

endeavor to bring him back to that peaceful doctrine of his ancestors.

He received their remonstrances with respectful silence, but informed

them that it was his intention to persevere in the part he had embraced.

This of course caused an immediate expulsion from their society, to

which he was never again united.

About this time, another change took place in his domestic situation.

During his frequent visits at the house of Governor Greene, a lineal

descendant of the founder of the family, he became acquainted with a

young lady of the name of Littlefield, a niece of the wife of the

Governor; and a few visits consummated the impressions so mutually made

at their first interview. It was during his visits to the young lady at

her house on Block Island where he indulged so freely his taste for

dancing, the more so, perhaps, for having recently thrown off his

Quaker’s garb. On the 20th of July, 1774, he was married at the

residence of the lady’s father on Block Island, and returned to his home

in Coventry to commence the enjoyment of a married life. But he was not

suffered long to enjoy the repose of domestic life, the political

horizon seemed to grow darker every day, and men were looking around

them for the first burst of the tempest which they were assured must

soon come. In almost every county or town independent companies were

being raised.

One of these was formed at East Greenwich, under the name of the Kentish

Guards, and Greene was solicited to become their lieutenant; this

however failed, he not being able to obtain a sufficient number of

votes, and he enrolled himself as a private in the same company. One of

the most serious difficulties which they had to surmount was a proper

supply of arms; but Greene (whose decision was prompt and decisive) made

a visit to Boston under the pretext of collecting an old debt for his

father, in order to look up and procure the necessary accoutrements for

the company.

There he beheld for the first time an array of armed men sent from

beyond the sea for the subjugation of his native land.

During his visit he was very punctual in his attendance on their morning

and evening parades, and carefully noted down every remarkable

evolution; at the same time referring to the lessons given in his text

book. Little did the British officers, while glittering under their

scarlet and gold, dream who was looking on them, or how fatally their

lessons would be applied. It so happened that he fell in company with a

deserter, whom he at once engaged to return with him to Rhode Island and

become drill-master to the guards. This he considered a signal triumph,

and having procured all he wished in the way of equipments, and bribed a

wagoner to hide both the accoutrements and the new drill-master under

the straw of his wagon, made the best of their way to Coventry unharmed.