CHAPTER VII.

To one familiar with the dense swamps that skirt the rivers through the

alluvial bottom lands of the South, there will be no difficulty in

comprehending the fact that a fugitive may find temporary security

within half a mile of his enemy, even where his pursuers hunt for him in

numbers. Thus it happened that, in taking to the river, our little

corporal’s guard of patriots, under the direction of Elijah Fields, the

worthy preacher, swimming their horses round a point of land on the

opposite shore, sought shelter but a little distance below “Bear

Island,” in a similar tract of swamp and forest, and almost within

rifle-shot of their late retreat. They had no fear that their enemy

would attempt, at that late hour, and after the long fatigue of their

recent march and search, to cross the river in pursuit of them; and had

they been wild enough to do so, it was equally easy to hide from search,

or to fly from pursuit. Dunbar felt all this as sensibly as the

fugitives; and with the conviction of his entire failure at “Bear

Castle,” he gave up the game for the present. Meanwhile, the little

barque of Frederica Sabb made its way down the river. She made her

calculations on a just estimate of the probabilities in the situation of

Coulter’s party, and was not deceived. As the boat swept over to the

opposite shore, after rounding the point of land that lay between it and

“Bear Castle,” it was hailed by Fields, for whom Brough had a ready

answer. Some delay, the fruit of a proper caution, took place before our

fugitives were properly sensible of the character of the stranger; but

the result was, that with returning consciousness, Richard Coulter found

himself once more in safety with his friends, and, a still more precious

satisfaction, attended by the woman of his heart. It was not long before

all the adventures of Frederica were in his possession, and his spirit

became newly strengthened for conflict and endurance by such proofs of a

more than feminine attachment which the brave young girl had shown. Let

us leave the little party for a season, while we return with the captain

of loyalists to the farmstead of old Frederick Sabb.

Here Mat Dunbar had again taken up his quarters as before, but with a

difference. Thoroughly enraged at his disappointment, and at the

discovery that Frederica had disappeared—a fact which produced as much

disquiet in the minds of her parents, as vexation to her tory lover; and

easily guessing at all of the steps which she had taken, and of her

object, he no longer imposed any restraints upon his native brutality of

temper, which, while he had any hope of winning her affections, he had

been at some pains to do. His present policy seemed to be to influence

her fears. To reach her heart, or force her inclinations, through the

dangers of her parents, was now his object. Unfortunately, the lax

discipline of the British authority, in Carolina particularly, in behalf

of their own followers, enabled him to do much toward this object, and

without peril to himself. He had anticipated the position in which he

now found himself, and had provided against it. He had obtained from

Col. Nesbett Balfour, the military commandant of Charleston, a grant of

the entire farmstead of old Sabb—the non-committalism of the old

Dutchman never having enabled him to satisfy the British authorities

that he was a person deserving their protection. Of the services and

loyalty of Dunbar, on the contrary, they were in possession of daily

evidence. It was with indescribable consternation that old Sabb looked

upon the massive parchment, sealed, signed, and made authoritative by

stately phrases and mysterious words, of the purport of which he could

only conjecture, with which the fierce Dunbar denounced him as a traitor

to the king, and expelled him from his own threshold.

“Oh! mein Gott!” was his exclamation. “And did the goot King Tshorge

make dat baber? And has de goot King Tshorge take away my grants?”

The only answer to this pitiful appeal vouchsafed him by the captain of

loyalists was a brutal oath, as he smote the document fiercely with his

hand, and forbade all further inquiry. It may have been with some regard

to the probability of his future marriage—in spite of all—with the old

Dutchman’s daughter, that he permitted him, with his wife, to occupy an

old log-house which stood upon the estate. He established himself within

the dwelling-house, which he occupied as a garrisoned post with all his

soldiers. Here he ruled as a sovereign. The proceeds of the farm were

yielded to him, the miserable pittance excepted which he suffered to go

to the support of the old couple. Sabb had a few slaves, who were now

taught to recognise Dunbar as their master. They did not serve him long.

Three of them escaped to the woods the night succeeding the tory’s

usurpation, and but two remained in his keeping, rather, perhaps,

through the vigilance of his sentinels, and their own fears, than

because of any love which they entertained for their new custodian. Both

of these were women, and one of them no less a person than the consort

of Brough, the African. Mrs. Brough—or, as we had better call her, she

will understand us better—_Mimy_, (the diminutive of Jemima,) was

particularly watched, as through her it was hoped to get some clue to

her husband, whose treachery it was the bitter resolution of our tory

captain to punish, as soon as he had the power, with exemplary tortures.

Brough had some suspicions of this design, which it was no part of his

policy to assist; but this did not discourage him from an adventure

which brought him again very nearly into contact with his enemy. He

determined to visit his wife by stealth, relying upon his knowledge of

the woods, his own caution, and the thousand little arts with which his

race usually takes advantage of the carelessness, the indifference, or

the ignorance of its superior. His wife, he well knew, conscious of his

straits, would afford him assistance in various ways. He succeeded in

seeing her just before the dawn of day one morning, and from her

discovered the whole situation of affairs at the farmstead. This came to

him with many exaggerations, particularly when Mimy described the

treatment to which old Sabb and his wife had been subjected. It did not

lose any of its facts or dimensions, when carried by Brough to the

fugitives in the swamp forests of Edisto. The news was of a character to

overwhelm the affectionate and dutiful heart of Frederica Sabb. She

instantly felt the necessity before her, and prepared herself to

encounter it. Nine days and nights had she spent in the forest retreats

of her lover. Every tenderness and forbearance had been shown her.

Nothing had taken place to outrage the delicacy of the female heart, and

pure thoughts in her mind had kept her free from any annoying doubts

about the propriety of her situation. A leafy screen from the sun, a

sylvan bower of broad branches and thickly thatched leaves, had been

prepared for her couch at night; and, in one contiguous, lay her wounded

lover. His situation had amply reconciled her to her own. His wound was

neither deep nor dangerous. He had bled copiously, and swooned rather in

consequence of loss of blood than from the severity of his pains. But

the hands of Elijah Field—a rough but not wholly inexperienced surgeon,

had bound up his hurts, which were thus permitted to heal from the first

intention. The patient was not slow to improve, though so precious sweet

had been his attendance—Frederica herself, like the damsels of the

feudal ages, assisting to dress his wound, and tender him with sweetest

nursing, that he felt almost sorry at the improvement which, while

lessening his cares, lessened her anxieties. Our space will not suffer

us to dwell upon the delicious scenes of peace and love which the two

enjoyed together in these few brief days of mutual dependence. They

comprised an age of immeasurable felicity, and brought the two together

in bonds of sympathy, which, however large had been their love before,

now rendered the passion more than ever at home and triumphant in their

mutual hearts. But with the tidings of the situation in which her

parents suffered, and the evident improvement of her lover, the maiden

found it necessary to depart from their place of hiding—that sweet

security of shade, such as the fancy of youth always dreams of, but

which it is the lot of very few to realise. She took her resolution

promptly.

“I must leave you, Richard. I must go home to my poor mother, now that

she is homeless.”

He would, if he could, have dissuaded her from venturing herself within

the reach of one so reckless and brutal as Mat Dunbar. But his sense of

right seconded her resolution, and though he expressed doubts and

misgivings, and betrayed his uneasiness and anxiety, he had no arguments

to offer against her purpose. She heard him with a sweet smile, and when

he had finished, she said,

“But I will give you one security, dear Richard, before we part, if you

will suffer me. You would have married me more than a year ago; but as I

knew my father’s situation, his preferences, and his dangers, I refused

to do so until the war was over. It has not helped him that I refused

you then. I don’t see that it will hurt him if I marry you now; and

there is something in the life we have spent together the last few days,

that tells me we ought to be married, Richard.”

This was spoken with the sweetest possible blush upon her cheeks.

“Do you consent, then, dear Frederica?” demanded the enraptured lover.

She put her hand into his own; he carried it to his lips, then drew her

down to him where he lay upon his leafy couch, and repeated the same

liberty with hers. His shout, in another moment, summoned Elijah Field

to his side. The business in prospect was soon explained. Our good

parson readily concurred in the propriety of the proceeding. The

inhabitants of the little camp of refuge were soon brought together,

Brough placing himself directly behind his young mistress. The white

teeth of the old African grinned his approbation; the favoring skies

looked down upon it, soft in the dreamy twilight of the evening sunset;

and there, in the natural temple of the forest—none surely ever prouder

or more appropriate—with columns of gigantic pine and cypress, and a

gothic luxuriance of vine, and leaf, and flower, wrapping shaft, and

cornice, capital and shrine, our two lovers were united before God—our

excellent preacher never having a more solemn or grateful sense of the

ceremony, and never having been more sweetly impressive in his manner of

performing it. It did not impair the validity of the marriage that

Brough honored it, as he would probably have done his own, by dancing

_Juba_, for a full hour after it was over, to his own satisfaction at

least, and in the absence of all other witnesses. Perhaps, of all his

little world, there were none whom the old negro loved quite so much,

white or black, as his young mistress and her youthful husband. With the

midnight, Frederica left the camp of refuge under the conduct of Elijah

Fields. They departed in the boat, the preacher pulling up stream—no

easy work against a current of four knots—with a vigorous arm, which,

after a tedious space, brought him to the landing opposite old Sabb’s

farm. Here Frederica landed, and the dawn of day found her standing in

front of the old log-house which had been assigned her parents, and a

captive in the strict custody of the tory sentries.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

RED JACKET.

Written on being presented by a lady with a wild flower that grew on his

grave, near Buffalo.

BY W. H. C. HOSMER.

Thanks to the Genii of the flowers

Who planted on his humble tomb,

And nursed, with sun and pleasant showers,

This herb of faded bloom!

And, lady fair, my thanks to thee

For bringing this frail gift to me,

Although it cannot match in dye

The velvet drapery of the rose,

Or the bright tulip-cup that glows

Like Summer’s evening sky.

It hath a power to wake the dead—

A spell is in its dying leaf

To summon, from his funeral bed,

The mighty forest chief.

Realms that his fathers ruled of yore—

Earth that their children own no more,

His melancholy glance beholds;

And tearless though his falcon eye,

His bosom heaves with agony

Beneath its blanket folds.

Within the council-lodge again

I hear his voice the silence breaking,

Soft as the music of the main,

When not a wind is waking;

With touching pathos in his tone

He mourns for days of glory flown,

When lay in shade both hill and glen,

Ere, panoplied and armed for slaughter,

The big canoes brought pale-browed men

Over the blue salt water;

When deer and buffalo in droves

Ranged through interminable groves,

And the Great Spirit on his race

Smiled ever with unclouded face.

_Now_, with a burning tale of wrong,

He wakes to rage the painted throng,

And points to violated graves,

While eloquence dilates his form,

And his lip mutters like the storm

When winds unchain the waves;

An hundred scalping-knives are bare—

An hundred hatchets swing in air,

And while the forest Cicero,

Lost power portrays, and present shame,

Old age forgets his palsied frame,

And grasps again the bow.

Thus, sweet, wild-flower of faint perfume!

Thy magic can unlock the tomb,

And forth the gifted sagamore

Call from the shroud with vocal art

To sway the pulses of the heart,

And awe the soul once more;

For on his couch of lowly earth

Thy modest loveliness had birth,

And lightly shook thy blooming head,

When midnight summoned round the place

The kingly spectres of his race

To sorrow for the dead;

And sadly waved thy stem and leaf

When Erie tuned to strains of grief

The hollow voices of the surge,

And for that monarch of the shade,

By whom his shore is classic made,

Raised a low, mournful dirge.

The pilgrim from Ausonian clime,

Rich in remains of olden time,

Brings marble relics o’er the deep—

Memorials of deathless mind,

Of hallowed ground where, grandly shrined,

Sage, bard and warrior sleep;

And precious though such wrecks of yore,

I prize thy gift, fair lady, more,

Plucked with a reverential hand;

For the old chief, above whose tomb

Its bud gave out a faint perfume,

Was son of my own forest land,

And with bright records of her fame

Is linked, immortally, his name.

* * * * *

PEDRO DE PADILH.

BY J. M. LEGARE.

Spain, and Tercera. }

AD. 1583. }

It is part of the popular belief, I know, that our ancestors, of three

centuries back, lived and talked in quite a different fashion from

mankind at the present day; but as I entertain no political designs on

that Great Caioled, the people, I may venture to assert an opinion of my

own. I cannot persuade myself what is called human nature has undergone

much alteration in the exchange of an iron for a broadcloth suit, and it

is very certain people ate, drank, and slept in those remote times much

as we now do, although your stilted romancers seldom recognise the fact,

and make their heroines as unlike tangible women, “not too good for

daily food,” as their heroes are exemplars of the mendacious gifts of

their biographers. In the matter of speech, through which we mainly

receive impressions of fictitious personages, it is extraordinary what

fustian is palmed on a credulous posterity, as the veritable domestic

talk of nobles, knights and folks of lesser condition. There is no

comedy, high or low, in the conceptions of many of these authors; Man

having apparently assumed the distinguishing trait of a laughing animal,

or at best of an humorous one, at some more recent epoch of modern

history. Every body struts about in buskins and speaks tragedy, nothing

less; and as to the fooleries enacted by pages, grooms, and servitors of

all kinds, there is no end to them, nor any like nowadays, except we

find it on the boards of a country theatre.

What I say admits of easy illustration. Thus, when the page woke Don

Pedro out of his morning nap—which, by the bye, he was taking not as

the usual impression is, in greaves and a casque—he, the page, did not

“lout low as it behooves trusty varlets” to do, but in a manner as

straight-forward as a modern Thomas would employ, gave the drowsy knight

to understand that some one had been sounding his horn at the gate for

the last half hour.

“Very well,” returned the master, turning over to resume his doze where

he was interrupted—the gate being the concern of the warder, of course.

“But, Sir Peter,” put in the page, by way of remonstrance, “it is mi

señora who has sent.”

“Ah ha!” cried the knight, suddenly becoming wide awake, and leaning on

both elbows in bed to regard the speaker. “Well, what message does she

send?”

“That she wishes you to come up to the castle as soon as your comfort

allows, as she has something special to say.”

“That I will, presently,” exclaimed Don Pedro, getting up so promptly

his gaunt figure showed to no advantage in its scant costume. “And so

tell Gil, or whoever came, to carry back word. How the dear lady talks

of comfort to a man accustomed to the ease of camps! Fetch me those

things, Iorge, and look behind the arras for my slashed doublet. Stop,

before you go, reach down my sword and spurs from the hook behind the

door.”

Now all this is very rational, much like what one would say at the

present date, and unless the Spanish version of my story was never

written, (which the Muse of veracity—whatever her name—it was not

Clio, I know—forbid!) was the identical language employed on the

occasion by my hero, as true a knight as Spain has produced since her

Cid Rodrigo. This reminds me a hero of romance cannot be passed over as

commoner folks, with a surmise as to his inches and the color of his

hair, and moreover is expected to be an Apollo in shape, and sort of

supernatural in virtues, provided his character is not cast in quite a

different mould, and dependent for admiration on the enormity of its

crimes. But Don Pedro, unfortunately for the interest his fortunes are

destined to excite, fell into neither extreme, was neither a saint nor a

monster of iniquity, and as far from being handsome as from being

deformed. To have designated him in a crowd, you would have called

attention to his overtopping the rest by a full head, or to a certain

sinewy spareness of limb, or else the simplicity of his toilet, at a

time when country gentlemen wore ribbons and gewgaws alternately with

steel harness. But closer, the irregularity of his features, browned by

the sun where the rim of the casque had not interposed, was compensated

for by the singularly calm beauty of his eyes, which, in their serene

intelligence, would have become the brows of any woman, and even in

battle shone with a high sort of exultation, such as one would attribute

to a victorious angel in the celestial wars. There was nothing about Don

Pedro which harmonized with these eyes, except, perhaps, an undertone of

gentleness pervading his voice; it was an undertone only, for nothing

womanish characterized his speech, no mincing of words or petit-maître

modulations in addressing the other sex: there was not a particle of

affectation in the man, because there was not a particle of untruth.

I think it was these same fine eyes and gentleness which first won the

heart of the lady Hermosa, and his sincerity that safely kept it. Of

where and how they first met, in what words our Don laid his little keep

of a castle and patrimony at her feet, (his whole estate would not have

paid her upholsterer’s bill,) history discloses nothing. It is only

known she married him, and thereby raised a tempest of wrath and despair

in the breasts of numberless admirers, who, however, all consented to

eat of her cake on the happy occasion. Sir Peter was in nothing changed

by the event, but lived as before in his tower, spent not a _maravedi_

of his wife’s income on himself, and contented her by the frequency and

tenderness of his interviews. It was his whim to lead this style of

life, and she loved him enough to soon make it a whim of her own, the

separations not being very remote it must be conceded, as the keep and

castle stood perched on opposing hills, in full sight of one another.

Such concession in a young wife was certainly praiseworthy, although

some were found to be scandalized at its want of precedent. Of the

husband’s crotchet I say only, it was a quaint piece of instinctive

honor, which a few of his neighbors extolled, and the greater part

laughed at as an act of arrant simplicity: although, to my mind, the

less said about simplicity the better, by people who lived when dragons

and giants were not yet supposed to have retired upon ultimate Thule,

and Ponce de Leon’s search after the fountain of youth, (he was looking

for it then in Florida!) counted no great waste of time.

The Don and his countess concerned themselves very little about such

gossip, finding abundant occupation in a course of life which, without

the bias one unavoidably entertains for his heroes, is a source of

satisfaction to the writer hereof. It was in the lady’s nature to be

charitable, being one of those unaffected well wishers of humanity with

“abundant means,” whose part in this life seems to be to render

everybody in reach as satisfied as themselves, and before Sir Pedro’s

discretion and mature knowledge of the world came to her assistance,

committed as many philanthropic blunders as would have made her eligible

to an abolition chair, or seat in Exeter Hall. Of course I must not be

understood to undervalue the good she continued to do in the dark. I

have too great a reverence for money to suppose it capable of injury to

any recipient under any circumstances, differing in this respect from

all medicines whatever, which become poisons in quantity, and are

defective in the important item of universal application. The truth is,

I am led to this admission by an instance I have now in mind. There was

one Don Carlo, (so he called himself: the fellow had a dog’s name, but

any dog, short of a sheep-worrier, would have been compromised by his

acquaintance.) A free-captain, who earned his crust by such little

excesses as made the payment of black-mail an acceptable compromise on

the part of his favorites, and even in Philip the Second’s time, brought

an amount of civil odium upon his head which would have relieved him of

that incumbrance, had he not disbanded his company and retired to the

provinces to enjoy his honest gains. Here Captain Carlo—who was of a

playful temper and delighted in masking—made the acquaintance of our

heroine in the likeness of a veteran of the Moorish wars, and found

waylaying her steps and asking an alms as many times a day as she walked

out unattended (in as many different characters, of course,) so much

more profitable, to say nothing of the safety of the proceeding, than

poniarding a foot-passenger, or roasting a villager to discover hidden

treasure, that he became a pattern of morality to the country round, and

is currently said to have refrained more than once, when sorely tempted

by the purse she carried, from cutting his benefactress’ slender throat;

in this respect showing himself wiser than the avaricious owner of the

goose Æsop tells us of.

Captain Carlo, however, lost his golden eggs, as did many others of

scarcely less merit, when Sir Pedro de Padilh brought, as has been

hinted, his longer head and more comprehensive benevolence to the aid of

his young wife’s virtuous designs.

The latter quickly saw her mistake when once its results were laid bare,

and fell to correcting it with a feminine energy which constituted a

strong element of her character; Sir Peter meanwhile contenting himself

with a vigilant guardianship of her interests and benevolent projects,

and a hearty participation in her active measures—suggestions of his

own, not unfrequently too—which it was his fancy to conceal under an

assumption of caution; although I can’t say his wife was ever deceived

by the cloak worn on such occasions, for her tender affection would have

lent intelligence to faculties much duller than my heroine’s.

Sir Pedro very well knew it was some such work ahead which brought a

summons to his gate so early, and was in his saddle, breathing in the

fresh, moist air, and galloping through the fields and olive plantations

between, before Gil reached his lady’s castle.

I see the good knight now in my mind’s eye: Andalusian steed and

housings both spotless white, the first as much over the average height

of his race as was his master above that of common men: sitting

straight, with doublet buttoned easily across the breast, and a cap with

a trailing plume, which a branch caught off and forced him to wheel his

horse, with a _gracias señor_, to recover: so, picking a way up the

hill, and stooping under the portcullis, ready open, diminishing the

stature of the men around by contrast with his figure dismounted. Up the

wide steps, and into a room where his countess met him with her usual

happy face whenever this giant of a husband was nigh her. Perhaps I call

attention too often to Sir Peter’s seven feet of altitude, but in this

case the mention was involuntary; for I was thinking how, when she put

her arms about him, there being no one near, she was constrained to kiss

him where she laid her cheek, on his breast, being able to reach no

higher; and he, as a pine might an ash in windy weather, stooped and

kissed her on the forehead.

“Lady mine,” he said with a grave smile, holding her off to look down in

her face, “what is the matter? You were scarcely more troubled when I

rode against the Moors.”

“Señor—husband”—she replied, “what I have to tell may induce you to

leave me again. It is that troubles me.”

“Humph!” returned the knight, “a crusade against something or somebody?”

“Yes,” answered the countess, “one full of danger.”

Don Pedro smiled as a soldier of his inches, of course, should at the

idea of the thing.

“A week ago, my cousin Vida Inique came to me in much distress. You

remember her?”

“Certainly! She is the betrothed, Heaven help her, of that vagabond

nephew of mine.”

“She stopped here, for she came from Madrid with that purpose; partly

because she needs sympathy now, and I am her nearest relative, and

partly for the sake of society during the absence of her father with the

Marquis of Santa Cruz.”

“Santa Cruz!” repeated the Don, with the animation of his Andalusian

snuffing a whiff of cannon smoke.

“Yes. The king has ordered an armament under the marquis against

Tercera.”

“Not a word of this reached me in the mountains. A handful of good

knights would drive every Portuguese into the sea; I wonder the marquis

sails against such enemies, when he complained only the other day of

their ill breeding in Portugal; there was scarce a skirmish in which

their backs were not turned upon their Spanish guests.”

“You will think differently, my señor, when I tell you all; but let me

tell it as I heard it. Doña Viola wept so incessantly at first, whenever

she attempted to allude to Hilo—for, of course, he is the cause of her

grief—that I could understand nothing. The silly girl loves him with

her soul and heart, and pretty and wealthy as she is, this half nephew

of yours feels the yoke of his connection intolerable, and has adopted

the most outrageous means of extorting her consent to canceling the

agreement.”

“Ha! what mischief has he been doing lately?”

“First, when his representations and contemptuous reception of her fond

prayers failed to gain his purpose, he insulted her eyes by parading

before them on all occasions his companions, the most notorious thieves

and desperadoes of the capital, and women of the vilest character,

flaunting, not unfrequently, in chains and baubles he had stooped to

accept but never to wear, for the boy is as proud and wicked as Lucifer;

all this done with a scornful, overbearing air, which plainly said,

‘these, madam, are my intimate friends; they will sit at your table and

fill your house when I am master. Beware how you make me so!’ She is so

subdued and heart-broken already, she only wept and endeavored to hide

his insults from her father.”

“Santiago! what infatuation!”

“Then his vile nature broke forth still more insolently. His birth, as

you know, gives him access to the company of numerous dissolute

cavaliers, although the society he usually affects is of a much baser

sort. Through their means, without other harm to himself than what is in

store for his lying tongue, señor, he poisoned her life by spreading

through all ranks tales in which her maiden name was coupled with that

of infamy, and when this gossip was in the mouth of everybody, flung her

off publicly with a show of horror and mental anguish, which probably

had its weight on those who knew nothing of the man’s character.”

Sir Pedro’s brows contracted above his fine eyes, but he remained

silent.

“The scandal reached at last the ears of Don Augustino Inique himself,

in Portugal, and hastening from the frontier to the court, he laid the

matter before the king, demanding redress. Unluckily, this was not until

he had exhausted every source of information in tracing the flight of

the young man, who had stabbed the Count of Villenos in a quarrel in the

meanwhile, and disappeared from the city. Don Philip loves to be called

the Prudent, and has no fancy for being second in any intrigue, and

accordingly the enraged and baffled father was dismissed with polite

promises that meant nothing. Since then he has received secret

intelligence that Hilo has gone over to France, and either through

unnatural hatred of his countrymen, or characteristic recklessness of

every honorable purpose—for he is capable of any degradation—enlisted

under the commander, De Chaste, who sails soon at the bidding of the

queen mother to reinforce the Tercerans.”

“Why he is more depraved than his father, and he scrupled at little when

his passions were roused!” exclaimed Sir Pedro, baiting suddenly in a

walk which crossed the chamber at six strides. “This man is only my half

relative, as his father was, and does not even bear my name; but I must

save him from final ruin if that be possible. What steps have been taken

by Inique?”

“He readily obtained the appointment of camp-master under the marquis,

as no one at court knew his motive, and supposed he went abroad to find

forgetfulness in active service. A singular feature in the affair, is

his ignorance of Hilo’s relation to yourself; and although Viola is

acquainted with its existence, the chief defect in her character, a

timid reluctance to confiding any personal matter to her father, has

prevented his learning the truth during his brief visits to his home.

Yet a more gentle nature I have never found than hers.”

“I scarcely wonder at her shrinking from opening her heart to Don

Augustino,” answered our knight, “and were you to see him frequently,

you would entertain a like opinion. He is a soldier, and nothing better

if nothing worse—stern, scrupulous of his word, and jealous of his

honor; although what he calls by that name is of no wide compass; a man

whose outbreak of rage against his daughter I would have awaited with

strong apprehension, had I known any thing of this affair before.

Perhaps, however, the purpose of swift vengeance so occupies his brain

that feebler emotions is pushed aside.”

“I think you are right, Sir Pedro,” returned his lady, thoughtfully.

“For during the short space he remained with us, he seemed pre-occupied,

as if tracing a single idea through a maze of thought, and spoke little

of his own accord. His bearing was frigid enough, but if any unjust

anger toward his child remained, it was well concealed under the

elaborate courtesy he shared between us.”

“Yes,” said the knight, with a half laugh. “His old way, I recollect it

well; never more labored than when a volcano is smouldering under his

doublet. Only once have I seen him forgetful of this courtesy, when his

son, a mere stripling, and a coward by instinct, as others are brave

without will of their own, in a skirmish with the French sheltered

himself behind his father in sight of the opposing lines. He was his

only son, but he had better have been thrust through by a Gallic lance,

than taken refuge where he did.”

“Poor fellow! Did Sir Augustino strike him?”

“Worse. His boy was on foot, himself on horseback; when his threats and

imprecations failed to drive him back into the melee, in a paroxysm of

fury he struck him repeatedly on the head with the pommel of his sword,

unsoftened by the fair, bleeding face the child turned up while

clutching his leg, and begging for life. Not a gentleman in the two

armies sympathised with the father except Capt. De Chaste, who,

incapable of a like barbarity, is noted for pushing to an extreme all

questions of honor.”

“He was scarcely less cruel than Beaumanoir, who cried, ‘Bois ton sang,’

to his fainting son,” exclaimed Doña Hermosa, with a cheek paled by the

recital. “Did the poor lad die?”

“No. He lived by an accident, or Providence, which you will, a miserable

idiot, his brain having been injured by the concussion, perhaps, also by

the anguish endured. Sir Augustino takes him with him, no matter where

he goes, studiously bent on concealing his existence, much more his

presence from his companions in arms. In spite of every precaution,

however, the fact is well known; and twice this wreck of a man has

eluded his keeper, and appeared suddenly in the midst of the knight’s

guests.”

“Was his father much moved?”

“No, very little in appearance, his usual proud composure concealing

whatever pang he felt; and it is impossible to ascertain from his manner

whether he adheres to this strange companionship from remorse, and a

resolute purpose of atonement, or a less worthy desire to smother the

reproach by a jealous guardianship of its living witness.”

“Or else, dear señor, from a return of natural tenderness which a false

shame prevents him acknowledging for so mean an object.”

“Why some share of good belongs to every man; even it may be, to my next

of kin, although warped by the supremacy of his passions.”

“That is the only sane argument Viola advances for her love.”

“Humph!” After an interval; “I would like to see the Doña, if only to

remove the impression that she is no higher than this chair, as she was

when I saw her some years since.”

“You will find her,” rejoined the countess, smiling, “less a child in

height and style than her youth would lead you to suppose; for a

comparatively self-dependent life in close vicinity to the court, has

already converted girlish bashfulness into a becoming modesty enough.

But stay here till I find her,” added Doña Hermosa, going out.

“A wretched state of things,” mused our knight, resuming his suspended

strides, with hands clasped behind. “It is evident I have but one course

left; to track that young knave down, and by dint of soft or hard words,

turn him from a career which has already entitled him to a bench in the

galleys, if nothing worse. It is a good way, at all events, to pay back

the bitter hatred of his father, God forgive him!” and the soldier’s

moody brows relaxed at the thought, while his eye ran down the steep

road at the foot of which the father of the man he designed saving, had

one evening shattered his carbine on the rocks, because its hanging-fire

saved Sir Pedro’s life in passing. A quiet smile, called up, perhaps, by

a recollection of the solicitude shown by the countess the day

succeeding, still lingered about the knight’s mouth when he turned from

the window and saw the lady herself approaching, accompanied by her

guest, a fair girl, with the light, soft hair and eyes of an

Englishwoman, which her mother was. Her beauty appeared less imposing

than that of the thoroughly Spanish Hermosa, but much more delicate, and

so Sir Pedro seemed to think, for advancing and taking her by both

hands, he said, in a tone much more modulated than was common with him,

“Doña Viola—I called you Viola when we last met, and you were no taller

than my sword.”

“Call me so now, señor,” put in Viola, gently. “I cannot afford to lose

even the wording of friendship.”

The knight looked attentively at the speaker, whose eyes meeting his,

swam in tears. He paused thoughtfully, and then with his usual

straight-forward kindness, said,

“My child, I have learned your grievances through your cousin here. You

are nearly alone in the world, let us both assist you in all we can. You

see I am old enough to be your father, think of me as such for the

present. Besides, the cavalier whose fiancée you are, is, you know, my

half nephew; and the attempt I am about making to draw him from his

wicked courses, will be materially assisted by any good traits I may

become acquainted with; for while I confess my ignorance of the better

side of his character, Doña Viola, I am sure one exists, or you would

not have proved so faithful as you are.”

A faint red spot in the girl’s cheek had deepened and spread as Sir

Pedro spoke, until at his last words, her whole face was flushed, and

stooping quickly, she pressed her lips on his hand before he could

withdraw it.

“You are right,” she said, eagerly to Padilh, who stood with something

like a blush on his soldierly features at the impulsive action. “Save

him from himself, from his temptations, for he has a virtue mated with

every vice he practices, and ready to assume its place when the bad is

uprooted. I know,” she added, with an impetuous accent which betrayed

her Spanish blood, and was singularly impressive in her timid manner of

speaking, “he is a professed gambler, yet I have seen him clothe and

feed a company of beggars with the lavish generosity of a prince; I know

he has repeatedly endeavored to rescind our contract of marriage, but

how should this bind his love, since we were infants when it was drawn

in our joint name; and I have no reason, surely, to complain that he has

employed harsh means to accomplish his end, when I shut my eyes to the

growth of his aversion. No, Sir Pedro, the fault has been mine in

tempting him on; no one can say how different his life might have been,

but for the incumbrance I would not consent to his putting away—and so

let me suffer, not him. Save him, I earnestly beseech you, from himself,

and if need be,” she added, dropping her voice, and becoming as suddenly

pallid as before flushed, “save him from an encounter with my father.”

“That I will,” returned the Don, soothingly, “if interposition of my

words or body can. And one of these days, Doña Viola, we will talk these

matters over calmly, and discuss what is best to be done.”

“The poor thing is crazed,” he said an hour after to his countess, “to

love this Hilo! It was not easy to bring my mouth to call the scamp

‘cavalier;’ but her innocent distress overcame the reluctance. When this

feverish excitement, which forbids all close questioning, subsides, it

will be well to learn more, if she knows more of her betrothed. And if I

set out before that can be done—”

“What, do you really go to this war!” exclaimed our heroine, with the

admirable versatility of the sex, “when you have resigned yourself to

the gratification of a particular request not at all to your liking at

first.

“_Dear_, Sir Pedro, don’t you think some better way may be found of

accomplishing our purpose? For instance, let some trusty person find out

this young man and carry him a letter from you, as from an uncle

solicitous of doing him a benefit. Or, perhaps, Señor Inique might be

moved from his design by your calm representations. Only don’t go!” she

urged, with a tremulous lip.

To this outbreak Don Pedro de Padilh, with the tranquillity of one who

remembers a story he is anxious to tell and overlooks the last question,

rejoined,

“Did you ever hear, Hermosa, the history of the wonderful cat that lived

in Biscay when I was of no great size myself? There is one of the tribe

on the battlement yonder, marked as that intelligent animal must have

been, and put the story in my head.”

“Pshaw!” said the countess, half inclined to laugh, with tears in her

eyes.

“This cat was remarkable for ugliness and cunning, qualities which

increased the umbrage the priest naturally took to a cat who was said to

use better Latin than himself, to that degree he could not rest at ease

until the object of his jealousy was condemned to be burned, on the

rational plea of possessing more learning than was orthodox. But so

sagacious a creature was not to be caught asleep, and at the first rumor

of the affair took occasion to pay his respects to the most notorious

gossip of the province.

“‘Ah!’ said the cat, in the course of conversation, “‘talking of merit,

I am so delighted to find it rewarded occasionally, that I have been in

a state of ecstasy since the news came from the capital.’

“‘Santomio!’ cried the old woman _arrectis auribus_; ‘what are they

doing there, my dear cat?’

“‘Have you not heard about it! Our curà is to be rewarded with a

bishopric instanter; and for my part I don’t think a better selection

possible, when his scholarship is taken into consideration, and I have

some cause to count myself a judge of such matters.’

“‘Yes, yes, Señor Miz,’ put in the other. ‘But this is important news to

be sure; I hope you have it from good authority.’

“‘None better. My sister’s grandkitten is attached to the household of

the cardinal resident, and has just come down to pay me a visit. Trust

to my honor, señora most respected, you may talk of it without fear for

your veracity.’

“Of course, this was all sheer invention on the part of the cat, but

served his purpose for a time.”

“But why did not the foolish cat slip quietly away beforehand?” asked

the countess, who began to feel an interest in his fortunes.

“Oh, because the _familiars_ on watch were too alert, I suppose. But

hear what followed. When the curà, who had been on a little expedition

to bargain for the faggots, returned to his house, he was charmed to

learn his approaching exaltation from a score of friends; and at this

juncture, being seized with remorse at his precipitation, resolved to

hear from the cat’s own mouth the state of his faith. ‘For,’ said he to

himself, as he tucked up his cassock and waded through the mud to the

latter’s door, ‘one should not burn a Christian beast by mistake; and

who knows what influence the grandkitten of his very discreet sister may

have in his eminence’s house.’

“‘Why,’ said the shrewd grimalkin, who saw in a twinkling how much this

last reason had to do with the curà’s visit, ‘your reverend worship’s

excellency must perceive at a glance how this seam in my upper lip forms

a cross with the nostril above—a sign which I need not inform your

worship, is found only on catholic quadrupeds.’

“‘Ha!’ cried the priest, struck with the idea, ‘so it is. I beg your

pardon, Señor Miz, for overlooking it hitherto.’

“‘Not at all, the wisest sometimes err, as my relative, the cardinal’s

favorite, remarked to me yesterday. I am glad your reverence was not

within hearing, for she was good enough to repeat much of the praise his

eminence bestows on your worship, knowing she could not better please

me.’

“In such amicable conversation time passed, until the priest, bethinking

himself that the preparations for Autodafeïng his host, had gone too far

to be hushed up without some plausible excuse, and seeing no way out of

his dilemma, reluctantly confided his difficulty to the party

interested, for whom he began to feel a very disinterested friendship.

“‘Make yourself easy,’ rejoined the other, scarcely able to hide his

satisfaction, ‘if that is the whole difficulty, all your worship has to

do is to fling my _san-berito_ (faugh! the name makes me hot and cold

all over!) into the fire, and give me a chance to clutch your reverend

legs, under your worship’s gown.’

“‘_To_ be sure!’ said the curà, in a tone of benignant admiration, which

one should get Judge Belton, or the Mayor of Aiken, (who got it from the

Spanish original,) to mimic.

“Even the joint sagacity of a cat and a priest may fall short of

perfection. It was natural, certainly, for the curà to dream all night

of his expected mitre, and allow the same agreeable subject to occupy

his brain all day to the exclusion of every other. But I hold to it,

that he should have remembered at the right moment, (as he might easily

have done, of course, by tying a knot in his handkerchief or thread

round his finger,) to slip off the _san-berito_, and _not_ throw his

unhappy friend into the fire. Why, but for his confounded (I beg pardon,

but one has their feelings!) absence of mind, he might have seen his

victim’s tail—his head being smothered in the conical _caroza_—as big

as his arm, with rage and indignation.

“‘Wo is me!’ cried the wretched man, when he saw what was done, tearing

his beard in anguish of mind, ‘I have burned a Christian cat, and lost

my mitre!’”

While saying the last words, Don Pedro, who had been standing during the

recital, took his cap and moved to the door. But his countess

intercepted him with a wistful, half-perplexed face.

“Well?” said the knight, stopping, and looking at her with a scarce

visible smile.

“I think,” returned Hermosa, doubtingly, “you mean I am no wiser than

the curà, who, forgetting what he was about, threw his friend into the

fire, and then fell to lamenting his loss. But who is the cat?”

“Ah!” rejoined Sir Pedro, laughing, “the pith of the story lies in six

words,

‘La casa quemada,

Acudir con el agua.’”

A couplet I design putting into the mouth of that scape-gallows, Hilo de

Ladron, in the next number of Graham, to serve as a thread, by closely

following which, the somewhat tangled woof of the young gentleman’s

character may in good time be unraveled.

* * * * *

THE MARINER’S TALE.

BY R. PENN SMITH.

Scene. _A Flower Garden of a Mariner’s Asylum._

_Characters. An aged Sailor and a Visiter._

_Sailor._ All things must move in circles as earth doth.

The orbs that make space gorgeous move in circles;

E’en space itself is one eternal circle;

For were it not, its end would sure be reached.

All drag a chain still moving round and round

Until we join the two ends of the chain:

Thus man completes his circle. No escape then.

_Stranger._ You spoke, sir, of a voyage.

_Sailor._ Oh! pardon me:

I had forgot—those circles set me wild.

Where left I off? ’Tis strange, the thread is broken.

_Stranger._ In the South Sea.

_Sailor._ O, true!—’mong fruitful isles

The jocund waters leaped when morn arose,

And fringed each billow’s snow-white pinnacle

With golden tissue. Waves that wildly roared

Through night, like fiends contending for their prey,

Now smiled serenely as a lawn in spring

Spangled with herbage ’mid the wasting snow;

And as our gallant vessel glided on

The joyful waters, like some amorous dame,

Kissed the bright prow in very wantonness,

Regardless of the wound so rudely made

In the too pliant bosom.

_Stranger._ You liken well

The waters to a woman; beautiful

In the bright sunshine of prosperity!

But when the tempest rages, sea-tossed man

Oft finds a shoal there, where his barque may strand,

Expecting a safe haven.

_Sailor._ You are bitter:

But truth is not always sweet. All on board

Assembled on the deck to hail the sun

Weaving with gold God’s heaving world of green;

While lowly murmuring the gladsome waves

Sang matins to their master. Voices full

As deep-toned organ’s swell, and others shrill

As notes of linnets, mingled with the songs

The glad sea made in praising Him who made it.

_Stranger._ Let the great sea and all that therein is;

The earth—its fruit—and all that live thereby—

And all that live hereafter, praise his name.

_Sailor._ Amid our happy concourse there was seen

A father and his little family,

And the fair partner of his joys and griefs,

The mother of his children. While they gazed

Upon the wide expanse, their bosoms heaved

With admiration for His mighty works

Who rules the fearful sea. They thanked and trusted.

_Stranger._ All thank and trust, who know the God they trust in.

_Sailor._ Among them was a fair-haired rosy boy

Who hugged his father’s knee; his little hands

Clasped in devotion to the unseen God,

In ignorance adoring; for his spirit,

Unstained of earth, was redolent of heaven,

And instinct with the praises he had learnt

From angel-lips in his celestial birth-place.

_Stranger._ Childhood’s inheritance, which manhood squanders,

God gives us all, while we return but little.

_Sailor._ As the sun rose he sung a little hymn.

The words were these. I think his father made it.

In the morning of existence,

Earth smiles, as Eden smiled on Adam;

With God and angels for companions,

Man—little lower than the angels—

Receives the truth as it was given

_Once_—face to face, and fresh from heaven.

In the noontide of existence,

With bathed brow and stalwort limb,

Man, singing, struggles for subsistence

For those in sin begot by him,

Rejoices in those human frailties

Which make him imitate his God.

In the sunset of existence,

Alone, in thy Gethsemane,

Quaff the cup bravely and repine not—

For man, thy God is there with thee.

Meekly obey the mandate given,

It purifies thy soul for heaven.

_Stranger._ A strange thought that—childhood is Adam’s Eden,

Where man beholds his Maker face to face;

The close of life is his Gethsemane,

Where he must quaff the chalice to the dregs,

Without a prayer to take it from his lips.

I’ve heard that hymn before.

_Sailor._ Why call it strange?

The cup is sweetened though it smack of bitter,

And the most bitter drops become the sweetest.

Gethsemane was nearer heaven with him

Who bathed with tears and blood the sacred soil,

Than fresh blown Paradise appears to have been

With angel visitants. Perchance they are

The self-same garden, typed by Spring and Autumn,

Seed-time and harvest! If that thought be true,

With bathed forelock and with steadfast soul

Gather the harvest of Gethsemane,

More precious than the flowers that smiled in Eden.

The task is thine—first husbandman, then reaper.

_Stranger._ Talk further of the boy who sung the hymn.

_Sailor._ That spotless child, the rudest of the crew

Loved, for his presence made us better men.

_Stranger._ True, all men who love children still grow better;

And the best men are children to the last,

At least in thought and feeling.

_Sailor._ There’s the circle—

Extremes must meet, and we are hedged within them.

But to pursue our voyage—and the boy.

Day passed away, and as the night came on

The full-orbed moon roiled in a cloudless sky,

And the wide waters now lay hushed in sleep.

As gentle as the slumber of a child

Wearied with gambols through the live-long day.

The night-breeze from the orange-groves passed by,

Laden with odor. Heaven was chrisolite;

The sea a living mirror, in whose depths

The richly studded concave was reflected,

Making a perfect globe; and as the ship

Pursued her trackless flight, she seemed to be

Some spirit on errand supernatural,

So dark and silently she glided on

The babbling waves were scarcely audible.

_Stranger._ A pleasant sail which landsmen only dream of—

But never enjoy.

_Sailor._ All joy hath bitterness.

Stretched on the deck the sailor-boy reposed,

And lived in dreams his infant years again.

The seamen, ’mid the shrouds aloft reclining,

Told o’er their tales of wreck and lingering death,

And in the drowsy interval was heard

The rugged cadence of the helmsman’s song.

“A pleasant sail!” But pleasure has strange wings,

She comes a zephyr and departs a whirlwind.

_Stranger._ Kisses the flower to blooming, then destroys.

_Sailor._ Sudden the helmsman’s drowsy song was hushed.

A fearful cry arose—“The ship’s on fire!”

The seamen from aloft sent back the cry;

The sailor boy shook off his happy dream,

And woke to horror. All was wild dismay!

Half sleeping—half awake, the crew came forth;

Grim death, enveloped in his robes of flame,

Marched on and laughed. There was no human power

To put aside his footstep. On he moved

In awful majesty; whate’er he touched,

True to its origin, returned to dust,

And Nature’s master-work, man’s godlike frame,

Became as worthless as the spars and sails,

Each made its pile of ashes—nothing more.

_Stranger._ Ashes to ashes all, and dust to dust,

The self-same mandate both on earth and sea.

_Sailor._ The flames attained dominion. Tyrant-like,

They ruled and raged. Upon the shrouds they seized,

Kissing destruction—laughing as they kissed;

While the broad glare they spread upon the deep

Changed the sea’s nature. Water soon became

A lake of living fire. “A pleasant sail!”

_Stranger._ You weep. Go on.

_Sailor._ O that I then had perished!

I seized the boy and leaped into the waves.

Upon a fallen spar we safely rode

Until the ship went down. “A pleasant sail!”

Her knell one shriek of mortal agony.

We had no heart to weep for their sad fate—

No heart to pray for one less terrible.

I gathered fragments from the floating wreck,

And made a raft, where two immortal souls

Struggled with time to check eternity

With frail appliance. For three days we suffered;

And then a passing ship preserved our lives

For greater suffering.

_Stranger._ The boy—his fate?

_Sailor._ His parents dead—the lad became my charge.

I then was married to a worthy woman—

God’s kindest gift. We had an only child—

My wife brought up the children as if twins,

And at a proper age he sailed with me.

He grew to manhood—noble—cheerful—kind

As those who love the artless lips of children;

A very babe was he in his affections—

A very demon in his bitter passions.

The eagle and the dove oft make their nest—

The tiger and the ermin find a lair

In the same bosom.

_Stranger._ What became of him?

_Sailor._ My wife grew sick. He loved her as his mother;

He loved my daughter too. I sailed, and left him

To till my little ground and smooth their pathway.

After three years I came to port again.

Crossing my fields, which now poured forth their increase,

I saw a man resting upon his plough,

Singing right lustily.

_Stranger._ What did he sing?

_Sailor._ In the noontide of existence,

With swarthy brow and rugged limb,

Man bravely struggles for subsistence

For those in sin begot by him;

Rejoices in all frailties—sorrows,

They draw him nearer to his God.

_Stranger._ The hymn of early childhood still remembered.

_Sailor._ A bending in the chain to form the circle.

He led me to my home—and such a home!

It seemed as if the fairies had been there

Making their May-day—wife and daughter happy.

Then, from an arbor overgrown with flowers,

He placed a prattling child upon my knee,

And called him by my name. He laughed outright—

My daughter blushed. They now were man and wife.

I danced—then blubbered like a very child.

Tears are at times a truer sign of joy

Than smiles and laughter.

_Stranger._ ’Twas a boy, you said?

_Sailor._ A boy—his bud of Paradise, he called him.

Such flowers, too, often yield most bitter fruit

In man’s Gethsemane.

_Stranger._ Thank God! not always.

_Sailor._ We dwelt together for a few brief months.

He then proposed to try the sea again,

To place the beings whom we fondly loved

Beyond the cold calamities of earth.

Three years we sailed—we prospered, and returned

With means to make those happy whom we loved.

On wearied pinions, like the dove of peace

When land was found, he flew to seek the ark

Where our best feelings day and night reposed,

While struggling with the ocean. God! O God!

No ark was there—no resting-place for him!

Even Ararat was covered with the deluge.

_Stranger._ I understand you not.

_Sailor._ His wife was false.

_Stranger._ Impossible!

_Sailor._ But true. You tremble sir.

Her father curst the memory of his child;

Her mother withered, and soon died heart-broken.

You seem disturbed.

_Stranger._ ’Tis past. What did your son?

_Sailor._ He slew the slimy reptile that crawled over him;

Put his hard heel upon her glossy front,

Trampled her out in cold blood.

_Stranger._ God of heaven!

_Sailor._ And he did right.

_Stranger._ Your daughter!

_Sailor._ He did right.

She who betrays the honor of her husband,

Regardless of her parents, self, and children,

Should cease to live, though all unfit to die.

Better to rot in earth, than crawl through life,

Offending all things with her foul pollution.

I love my God; knowledge increases love.

I ask forgiveness of him, as Christ prayed.

I am his child, and yet I curse my child.

Her sin hath made the best of prayers from my lips

An invocation of a lasting curse

On her old father’s head a mockery!

Forgive as I forgive—a lie to God!

Her sin hath robbed me of my prayer of childhood—

The prayer I gathered from my mother’s lips—

The prayer that opens the celestial portals—

The prayer _He_ taught when _He_ appeared as mortal.

_Stranger._ His destiny.

_Sailor._ He fled and took his child;

But not as Cain fled with the brand upon him.

’Twas sacrifice to virtue, and no murder.

When I arrived my Eden was Golgotha;

I found a corpse—my wife bereft of reason.

I buried one, attended to the other

For years until she died. The fruits of lust!

I went to sea again in search of strife—

The quiet of the land near drove me mad.

The ship I sailed in scoured the southern sea,

To quell the pirates. We o’ertook a rover.

A deadly strife ensued—’twas life or death;

Their chief and I by chance met sword to sword;

I knew him not, and, strange, he knew not me.

O! grief outstrips the rapid wing of time

In marring youthful beauty! See this scar!

His cutlas gave it—but I mastered him.

Their chief subdued, the rover soon surrendered.

_Stranger._ His destiny?

_Sailor._ The yard-arm, and a halter.

I saw him pass away.

_Stranger._ And said he nothing?

_Sailor._ Naught to the crowd—but I remember this:

In the sunset of existence,

Alone in my Gethsemane,

I quaff the cup without repining,

For God, I feel thou’rt still with me.

Meekly obey the mandate given

That purifies the soul for heaven.

_Stranger._ His cradle-hymn still chanted to the grave.

_Sailor._ The circle, sir—the end and the beginning—

The two ends of the chain are linked together.

_Stranger._ You said he had a boy.

_Sailor._ I said not so.

There was a boy, whom I have searched for since;

But, like the shadows of all earthly hope,

He hath eluded me.

_Stranger._ I am that boy.

_Sailor._ Thou!—thou that boy! The wheel is still in motion!

_Stranger._ I stood beside the gallows when he died.

_Sailor._ His bird of Paradise! A cherub then!

I’ve seen you often sleeping among roses,

And he, a guardian angel, smiling o’er you.

You have not slept on roses often since,

But wept beneath your father’s gallows-tree.

And my blind deeds have shaped your destiny.

I brought your father to a shameful death,

Which your young eyes beheld. And I’ve made known

A thing, perhaps unknown to you before—

Your mother’s infamy. Alas! poor boy!

What an inheritance have we bequeathed you!

_Stranger._ You did your duty, sir.

_Sailor._ Ay, there’s the question.

Can duty lead man’s footsteps to God’s throne,

Making life death, the glad earth Tartarus?

I snatched a fellow-being, winged for heaven,

With God’s own impress on him still unblurred,

Who, but for me, would have flown chanting there

Anthems to angels. But with ruffian hands

I checked his flight, and stayed him for perdition.

Would that the ocean had received the child!

Would I had let him perish in the flames!

Would that this wound had marked me for the grave,

Ere I had saved him for an after life

Of sin and sorrow, though impelled by—duty.

_Stranger._ Why do you pluck those gorgeous poppy-flowers,

And cast them in the walk?

_Sailor._ They now are harmless;

Suffered to ripen, they are poisonous.

Let them die blooming, while they are innoxious.

Would he had perished as these simple flowers,

Ere his bloom faded, yielding deadly seed.

_Stranger._ I’ve sought you, sir, to solace your old age.

_Sailor._ God bless my child! We’re in the circle still.

Good begets evil often—evil good.

The grandsire and the grandson close the chain—

Alone—forlorn! Yet both have done their duty.

The world goes round and round, ’till hidden things

Stalk forth as spectres from the rotten grave.

All, all is plain! These circles drive me mad!

* * * * *

A ROMANCE OF TRUE LOVE:

WITH FIDDLE ACCOMPANIMENT.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

Perched, like a large gray owl with folded wings, upon the summit of the

very highest hill within a day’s journey from “our village,” but within

half a mile of the old meeting-house, stands a narrow stone dwelling,

with a narrow, pointed roof, narrow windows, or loop-holes, as they

might be more properly termed, and one narrow door; the whole inclosed

within a narrow yard, from which two slender poplars point their “tall

columns to the skies.”

One would scarcely imagine from so unpromising an aspect that a

heart-history could be gleaned from “lifting” that narrow roof. I must

confess, too, that there is certainly very little romance in the

appearance of the inmate whom it shelters—so gaunt and

cadaverous—nearly as tall as the poplars, and with arms like the

evolving sails of a windmill. Yet, as by searching there is gold to be

found even amid the most rocky and unpromising defiles of California, so

is there sterling mettle hid beneath the rough exterior of Apollos

Dalrymple, and this having found I will disclose.

When I say that Apollos is the sole tenant of this owl-like habitation,

I need not add that he belongs to the bachelor fraternity—but in

justice to him I will say that he was not made a bachelor from any

contempt or irreverence of the fair sex, but from “sweet love’s teen”

having “loved not wisely, but too well.”

It is now many years since Apollos thus retired from the world. His hair

is nearly silver white, and old age sits upon his shoulders, yet still

he washes and mends his clothes, with his long, bony fingers knits his

stockings, and cooks his own food from the little plat of vegetables

behind the house—for Apollos is a Grahamite, as well as a Gray-eremite.

I must retrace some twenty years in the life of Apollos, for the first

record of the heart-history I have promised—I will even go still

further back, and introduce him a “puling infant in the nurse’s arms.”

It was the misfortune of Apollos to be born with an ear—I mean an ear

for music! Whether the euphonious name by which he was christened had

any thing to do with the quaverings of his innocent cradle-_dom_ I

cannot say, but certain it is, his infantine warblings were loud and

incessant—“_prestissimo_” and “_fortissimo_,” seldom allowing a “rest”

either to himself or his poor worn-out mother. The period of infancy

passed, Apollos was sent to school, where he was distinguished for the

long drawn nasal tones in which he might be said to chant his lessons,

and being moreover somewhat given to whistling and tuning up of

jews-harps, the terrible ire of Schoolmaster Ferule vented itself in

drawing long scales upon his tender flesh, to which Apollos composed the

notes upon a high key.

As soon as he could read the tenth chapter of Nehemiah without drawing a

long breath, his father made him ruler over countless heads of cattle,

and set him to ploughing and planting, sowing and reaping the fertile

acres which were one day to become his own. Even into the drudgery of

the farm Apollos bore with him his musical mania, and while he sowed the

seed and planted the corn it was all done to music, so that when the

green grain burst through the ground there was no stiff regularity about

it, but falling off into minims, crotchets, quavers and

demi-semi-quavers, it swept through the broad fields like a living sheet

of music, from which no doubt the little ground-sparrow and the

glassy-winged grasshopper, learned many new variations.

Not “blest as the gods,” Apollos could strike no harp but the jews-harp,

for his father had no music in his soul, though a very clever man,

Shakspeare to the contrary, and would never allow his son to spend his

earnings in cultivating so useless an art. The singing-school he

tolerated, and there, in the long winter evenings, by the flickering

light of tallow candles did Apollos luxuriate—also at all trainings,

when “the spirit-stirring drum and ear-piercing fife” echoed through the

streets, there was the tall, ungainly figure of Apollos to be seen,

almost envying even the little fat drummer the powers of his

_rub-a-dub_.

One day our musical hero purchased a cracked flute! How trilled his

heart in joyful cadence as he held in his hand the precious

bargain—with what ecstasy did he turn it over and over, and then, as

soon as the cattle were foddered, and the shades of evening resting over

the farm, he would nightly retire into the recesses of the forest, and

there blow and puff, like Sam Weller’s “aggrawated glass-blower,” until

his eyes almost started from their sockets—the rocks and trees to be

sure kept their places in the firm earth, but the whip-po-wils and the

owls peeped forth to listen, and more than once did he hear his notes

re-echoed by some young, aspiring screech-owl.

The next musical adventure of Apollos was effected by exchanging a young

and tender calf for a fiddle! Every muscle of his long arm, became as a

separate fiddle-bow, giving forth such endless _see-sawing_ and

_tweedle-dee-ing_ that every good wife in the neighborhood was tempted

to complain of him as a nuisance, for waking up all the babies and

disturbing them in their first sleep, for the strains of Apollos, like

those of “sweet Philomela,” were only heard at night. But

notwithstanding all this Apollos was a general favorite, for the spirit

of harmony pervaded his bosom for all animate and inanimate

objects—there was to him music in all created things. His heart was

gentle—his hand ever ready to do a kindness, and therefore he was

suffered to fiddle to his bent, little dreaming the anathemas which the

deed, not the doer, nightly originated.

* * * * *

Side by side stood the cottages of Leonard Davis and Luther Howell, and

side by side grew up the two lovely children Paul and Linda.

Neither Davis nor Howell were in good circumstances, although both owned

the farms on which they lived; yet there was a great difference in the

character of the two men, which in the end led to very different

results. Leonard Davis was a thriftless, indolent man, who loved better

to smoke his pipe under the tavern porch, and give forth his opinions

upon the politics of the day, than to cultivate his land or keep his

fences in order. Luther Howell, on the contrary, was a hard-working,

industrious man. He loved money although he had but little of it—yet he

resolved to have more; and upon the strength of that determination dug

and delved away his days, almost begrudging even the Sabbath rest.

Linda was the youngest of his five children, all of which, to Mr.

Howell’s great chagrin were daughters. Mr. Davis had but one child,

little Paul, whose mother had died while he was but an infant, and Mrs.

Howell feeling compassion for the motherless boy encouraged him to play

with her children, so that by degrees the little fellow became nearly

domesticated under the same roof with the five rosy-cheeked, happy

little Howells. Paul was three years older than Linda, and was very

proud of the confidence which Mrs. Howell reposed in his superior age

and strength, by trusting to him the care of the little toddling girl,

and repaid her confidence by deserving it. Linda soon became more fond

of Paul than any one else, and Paul would at any time leave his play

with the older girls, or throw down his bat and ball if he but heard the

sweet voice of the little Linda calling his name. He would lead her into

the woods, and with a natural love of the beautiful select a spot where

the moss was the greenest and freshest, and where the golden sunlight

quivering through the dense foliage danced in playful gambols around

them—here he would carefully seat the little girl, and gather for her

the pretty wild flowers which he found hid in the thick woods, or the

bright scarlet berries peeping out from the dark, glossy leaves of the

winter-green; and when the little Linda was old enough to go to school,

Paul still enacted himself her champion and assistant.

Linda was ten years old when Mr. Howell received a letter from his

brother, living in New York, offering to relieve him of a share of his

burdens by adopting one of the five girls into his family. Imbued with

the same money-getting spirit as his brother, Ansel Howell had left the

village many years previous, to seek the fortune he was resolved upon

amassing. He had been successful, and at the date of the letter which

caused so much excitement in the humble residence of Luther, Ansel might

be considered a rich man.

The offer was gladly accepted, and the question next arose which of the

girls should go forth from the family hive. Prudence governed their

decision. Bessie could spin her day’s work with any farmer’s daughter

for miles around—Sophie was already capable of taking charge of the

dairy, while Polly and Margaret not only could sew nearly as well as

their mother, but could also make themselves useful in various ways

about the house. Linda was of the least service in the domestic keep,

and therefore the choice fell upon Linda, who was thus taken from her

simple country pleasures, and from her dear friend Paul to a new home

and new friends amid the ceaseless din of a city.

Luther Howell reaped the benefits of his industry. His farm throve—his

stock increased—the old house was torn down, and a handsome, convenient

two story dwelling erected on its site; and in the course of a few years

Mr. Howell went as representative to the state legislature, and was

reckoned one of the most substantial men in the village. But just in

proportion as things had prospered with Howell had they gone adverse

with his neighbor Davis, and about the time when the new tenement of the

former was being raised amid the loud cheers of the workmen, the sheriff

seized upon both house and land of the latter, and that being

insufficient to meet his debts, for “the want thereof they took the

body”—at that time imprisonment for debt was no uncommon thing. If

Davis had not been so perfectly thriftless, in all humanity his townsmen

would have bailed him out, but the fact is, it was pretty generally

conceded that he might just as well smoke in jail as elsewhere—pipes

and tobacco therefore were freely contributed, and in the course of a

few months poor Leonard Davis evaporated—his soul taking flight in a

whiff of tobacco smoke!

Before the affairs of his father became so desperate, Paul had worked

his way to New York, and apprenticed himself in a large printing-office,

trusting with all the confidence of youth that he should return ere many

years to his native village, free his father from the shackles of debt,

and perhaps set up an establishment of his own. Another and a brighter

vision might have mingled with these day dreams, of which we may learn

more hereafter.

Paul knew that his little friend Linda lived in the same city with him,

and after a long search he was at length enabled to discover the

dwelling which sheltered the pet flower of his boyhood. But there was

such an atmosphere of grandeur around her now, that poor Paul had not

courage to penetrate further, so for several weeks he contented himself

with hovering around the house in the evening and on Sundays, hoping at

least to obtain a glimpse of the little girl.

At length one day he met Linda with her governess. It was his own

Linda—yet how changed! What a lovely young face! what grace—what

innocence! and then how tall! Paul forgot that years mark their

flight—he looked for the child, and he found a beautifully formed

maiden of fifteen!

Ah, he dared not address her! he cast his eyes upon the ground and stood

still for Linda to pass! and then as her little foot twinkled upon the

pavement close to him, and her robe brushed his coarse garments, he

involuntarily looked up. Linda turned her large hazel eye upon him. She

started—a rosy blush mantled her sweet face! It seemed to the maiden

that she was strangely transported back to the green grassy meadow and

the play-grounds of her infancy! Again she looked at Paul:

“Linda!” he softly whispered.

“Paul!” responded the heart and the lips of Linda; and with all the

innocence and gladness of a child she threw her arms around his neck,

and pressed a kiss upon his sun-burned cheek!

Ah that kiss—happy, happy Paul!

But here Miss Lofty interposed. It was scandalous—kissing a young man

in the street—good gracious, who ever heard of such a thing—a fellow,

too, in a green jacket—monstrous!

“Why, dear Miss Lofty, it is Paul—only Paul!” cried Linda, earnestly;

“how many times I have told you about my dear, dear Paul!” and then

turning her back upon the horrified spinster, with her little hand

clasped tightly in his, she begged of him again and again, to come and

see her.

“Yes, you can call on Miss Howell, young man, if you please, but you

must not stand here any longer, Miss Linda; I am really shocked at your

want of delicacy. I can hardly answer to your aunt for such strange

doings!” and so saying, Miss Lofty led off her young charge.

As Linda disappeared sunshine and daylight faded from the heart of poor

Paul.

He felt there was now an immeasurable gulf between him and her; and,

after all, why was it that he came to so sorrowful a conclusion? Was it

because, as Miss Lofty had said, he wore a green jacket, and worked with

his hands, while Linda sat in her delicate robes of muslin or silk, and

with slender fingers wrought at her embroidery-frame, or airily swept

the piano. Ah, Paul, be brave! Let not your heart fail you at mere

external or worldly distinctions.

He called to see Linda. It was shortly after this first interview; she

had become restrained, and her aunt sat stately in the room, and without

being rude, yet was her manner so little removed from it, that Paul

never went again. For two or three years Linda heard no more of the

playmate and friend of her early childhood. But Paul saw her when she

little dreamed what fond eyes were watching her! He saw her graceful,

beautiful, and accomplished; and although he dared not whisper a hope

that she might one day be his, he resolved to improve his mind by study

and application, that he might at least raise himself above her

contempt; and so, by the midnight lamp, the poor fellow went to work,

and for two years every leisure moment was spent in study, and every

penny he could save, employed in procuring books for his thirsting mind.

His perseverance did not go unrewarded; his employer soon took note of

his talents, and Paul became assistant editor of a popular weekly

journal.

* * * * *

By some unforeseen calamity, Ansel Howell became a poor man, and Linda

returned to her father’s roof.

Eight years previous her parents had gladly parted with her, and they

now as gladly welcomed her back; her sisters were all married, and the

old people quite alone, so that her presence was as the light of morning

to their lonely fireside. Her city life had by no means spoiled Linda

for the pleasures of the country; she felt like a bird who, after being

caged a weary time, is suddenly permitted to flit at freedom amid its

native bowers.

Linda retained a vivid impression of the early scenes of her childhood,

and as she again revisited each nook and dell, the remembrance of her

kind friend, Paul, also came back to her, and the present seemed

incomplete without him whose tender care and ever ready invention to

amuse her waywardness, had cast such brightness over the days of

infancy. Where was he now? Had he forgotten her? She thought of him as

she had seen him when he so suddenly appeared before her—those deep,

tender eyes, regarding her with so much respect and affection; and then,

when admitted into the stately dwelling of her uncle, he had come

forward so modestly, yet with so much self-respect to greet her, and her

heart reproached her, that, through fear of her aunt’s displeasure, she

had, perhaps, treated him coldly.

“But, dear Paul, I am sure I did not mean to be unkind!” she mentally

exclaimed.

Ah, if Paul, as he sat in his office in that narrow, confined street,

bending so diligently over his desk, in the sultry breath of the city,

could have known the thoughts of the fair girl, as she strolled through

the summer woods, what rapture would have thrilled his bosom, and how

would the dull atmosphere in which he toiled have become irradiate in

the light of love and happiness.

Has the reader forgotten Apollos—the Apollo—the Paganini, whose

witched fiddle-bow made both echoes and babies shriek in concert?

It chanced one evening that Apollos, out of resin, set forth for the

village to supply that dire necessity. Whistling he went, when suddenly

there were borne to his ear strains of most ravishing sweetness, now

softly swelling on the evening breeze—now fainter and fainter dying

away until even silence seemed musical, and then again bursting forth so

free and joyous, that the very air around him vibrated with melody.

Spell bound stood Apollos. The doors of his great ears swung back to

welcome in the harmony, and his mouth, too, opened as if to swallow it.

Then, led on as it were by invisible spirits, his feet followed the

bewitching sounds, and planted themselves under the large button-ball

tree which stood near the window where Linda was thus unconsciously

drawing both soul and body of Apollos magnetically unto her.

Conceive his perfect rapture as thus, so near the centre of attraction,

the sweet strains encompassed him about. They ceased, and then to the

window, still warbling, the young girl came, and leaning from the

casement, stretched forth her little white hand, and began plucking the

leaves from the very tree whose shadowing branches waved around the head

of Apollos.

A sweet face becomes almost as the face of an angel, when seen in the

calm moonlight; and as Linda stood there, her large, brown eyes, looking

out into the holy night, her high, pure forehead clasped in the glossy

braids of her dark hair, and her light, graceful figure folded in a

snowy robe, no wonder she seemed to Apollos too pure, too beautiful, for

a being of earth’s mould. But while he gazed and gazed, she turned away,

and with her took the heart of Apollos. Again seating herself at the

piano, Linda ran her fingers over the keys with the lightness of a bird

upon the wing, and one of Beethoven’s exquisite sonatas awoke to life

under her touch.

Poor Apollos! No volition had he of his own—he went whither the fates

impelled him. Step by step did he approach the open casement, and as

some poor bird is drawn, little by little, into the very mouth of its

fascinating destroyer, even so was Apollos drawn head and shoulders into

the window. The moon beams danced around him, as if enjoying the

mischief they were about to disclose, and gleamed coldly but steadily

upon him, his elbows resting on the sill, and his long legs, curved

outward, like those of a grasshopper. At last, rising from the

instrument, Linda closed it, and was about to approach the window, when

the strange apparition of Apollos glared upon her. With a loud shriek

she rushed from the room; as for Apollos, he bounded away like a

madman—

“Swift on the right—swift on the left,

Sweeps every scene asunder—

Heaths, meadows, fields—how swift their flight,

And now the bridges thunder!”

That night Apollos Dalrymple was convicted of having seen a ghost.

And now, from that eventful evening, Cupid ensconced himself within the

virgin heart of Apollos, and there the little rascal sat perched upon a

hill of ancient ballads, delighted with the mischief he was doing, and

every now and then beating up such a rub-a-dub as well-nigh drove poor

Apollos distracted. For here were garnered up stores of the dainty food

which the poets have appropriated exclusively to the little god—not, to

be sure, the fastidious fare of a modern amateur, supping only on the

tongues of Italian or Swedish nightingales, but the good, substantial

fare our forefathers loved.

By the death of his father all those goodly acres had descended to

Apollos; but this year the farm proved a losing concern, for the sheep

died from starvation—the cattle from over-feeding—the hoe cut down

both corn and weed—the grass luxuriated in freedom from the scythe, and

the grain from the sickle, until both were over-ripe. The people all

thought Apollos bewitched, and bewitched he certainly was. Even the

fiddle was suffered to be mute, unless when seizing it with sudden furor

he would strive to repeat some note which the voice of Linda had

fastened upon his memory, but as sure as he did so, her image appeared

at his working elbow, and Cupid, with a jog, jumped astride the

fiddle-bow.

There was a beautiful simplicity in the heart of Apollos—an almost

maidenly delicacy. He shrunk from intruding upon the fair object of his

thoughts, never once did he speak with her, or seek to claim her

acquaintance. She was to him something too divine to approach, and he

worshiped her at a distance—a star whose beams blended with the music

of his soul. There was no vanity hid away in his brain; he saw himself

as others saw him—a rough, ungainly figure, without comeliness or

proportion, and the more did he strive to cultivate those inward graces

by which even his ugliness was made to be forgotten.

How little did Linda dream, as she sometimes passed him in her walks,

what a great heart throbbed for her, and would have poured out its

life-blood in her service.

The summer following Paul Davis revisited his birth-place, and for the

first time for many years he and Linda met again. In form and feature

both were changed—but in both the heart remained the same, and the same

affinity which had in childhood bound them, now by a closer and dearer

tie united them.

But Mr. Howell’s other four daughters had all married rich men; and as

Linda was the fairest and most accomplished, he had planned for her a

match which might be considered brilliant. When, therefore, Paul asked

for her hand, it was refused with the contempt of one who feels that

riches, not affection and kindness make up the _summum bonum_ of life’s

happiness, and with whom the weight of the purse out-balances the weight

of both head and heart. And then Pride, too, put in her voice—_what_,

his daughter marry the son of Leonard Davis, who died in a jail! To be

sure, he understood that Paul was doing a very good business in the

editorial line; but then a mere editor—a drudge for the public—_bah_!

And so Paul was scornfully dismissed, and returned to the city, yet

bearing with him the sworn faith of her he loved.

Smiles faded from the cheek of Linda, and her voice now seldom sent its

glad notes to cheer the heart of Apollos. He saw she was pale, and that

her step was listless. He felt she was unhappy, and now, in addition to

his own grief, he bore about with him the pain of knowing that she, too,

had sorrows which he could not heal. He would have had her so happy.

Around her path only thornless roses should have clustered, and how

gladly would he have shielded her from all the storms of life.

Ah, poor Apollos! if it could have been; if, like the great branches of

the oak which shelter the timid daisy from sun and rain, those great

arms of thine would have enfolded this little flower—then, indeed,

would thy big soul have leaped with gladness.

* * * * *

Months passed on.

Paul worked at his desk patiently, and hoping that by some favor of

fortune he might yet claim the hand of Linda.

About this time the proprietor of the establishment in which he was

employed, desirous of making a change in his business, offered to sell

out at a price very advantageous for the purchaser. Paul would gladly

have availed himself of this opportunity, but his means were

insufficient, and he knew of no person of whom he could solicit the

required sum. While the sale was pending Paul again visited the village,

not with any idea of a second time subjecting himself to the rudeness of

Mr. Howell by a further request for the hand of his daughter. He went,

therefore, as on ardent lover may be supposed to go, impelled by a

desire of seeing again the object of his affection, and of hearing from

her dear lips a renewed assurance of her truth.

Now it chanced that the very afternoon of his arrival, Apollos strolled

forth in somewhat melancholy mood, and took a path leading through a

thick grove bordering upon his farm. It was one of those cold, gloomy

days in March, when not a bud or a leaf has as yet betokened the

grateful advent of spring. Little patches of ice and snow still clung

around the decaying leaves, frozen into black heaps where the autumn

winds had gathered in their many dead; the wind rattled the naked

branches of the trees in the dull, chill atmosphere; flights of crows

flew low with their dismal croak, and the squirrel now and then looked

out timidly from the old brown trunks, as if to note the aspect of the

weather, and feeling the biting wind upon his nose, turned nimbly back

to his hole again. It was through these gloomy woods, therefore, that

Apollos bent his way, and had nearly cleared the grove, when his

reveries were suddenly interrupted by hearing the sound of voices from a

thick cluster of young pines, whose green, spiral branches gave relief

to the brown aspect of the surrounding trees. He recognized at once the

accents of Linda; there was sadness in them, and he involuntarily

paused, not with any intention of becoming a listener from curiosity,

but only to drink in her beloved tones. His next impulse was to retreat

softly; but the words which her companion spoke arrested his attention

anew, and so he stood irresolute, anxious to learn more, and yet

unwilling to steal thus into the secrets of the young pair.

“Well, dearest Linda, we must be patient and hopeful,” said Paul. “The

assurance of your love will inspire me with fresh ardor in this struggle

with fortune, and in the end, Linda, I am sure to come off conqueror. I

wish not to reproach your father, but I flattered myself that wealth

would not have been so great a consideration with him, and that as he

has known me from my childhood, he would have preferred an honest,

truthful heart, and the happiness of his child to the glitter of gold.”

“I hoped so, too, dear Paul; perhaps he will yet alter his

determination; let us hope for the best,” answered Linda.

“A few thousand dollars would at this moment place me in a situation to

demand your hand a second time, dear Linda,” continued Paul. “Mr.

Neeland wishes to dispose of his establishment, and offers it at so

reasonable an estimate that I would gladly become a purchaser if I had

but the means—this, Linda, would remove the scruples of your father,

and crown our happiness!”

“True, dear Paul. Ah! would that some kind friend might assist you. You

have friends, I am sure—are there none of whom you can ask this favor?”

said Linda.

“No—it is a kindness I do not feel authorised to ask from any one—it

would involve me at once in obligations which I might not be able to

fulfill—no, dearest Linda, I must toil on a few more years, and if my

labors are followed with the same success which has heretofore crowned

them, I shall have earned, even in your father’s estimation, the rich

reward I would fain this moment call my own,” replied Paul.

Loving Linda as he did so faithfully, it was impossible that Apollos

could listen to this conversation without a struggle between envy and

the natural kindness of his heart. It is true, he knew before that his

love was hopeless—that the young and fair object of his adoration could

be no more to him than the distant planet shining so gloriously in the

glittering dome of the heavens—but here stood one possessing that

priceless gift, her heart, one on whom her first pure affections were

bestowed—ah, poor Apollos—it was not in human nature to resist the

workings of jealousy and envy—great drops of anguish stood on his pale

brow, and he almost groaned aloud! Then better and nobler feelings

stirred his bosom—he gave way to their healthful promptings, and a load

seemed lifted from his breast.

Paul parted with Linda at her father’s gate and went home to his

lodgings, where he had not been long seated, when an ill-written, almost

illegible note was handed him. It was from Apollos Dalrymple, requesting

earnestly to see him before he should leave the village.

“Some old debt, doubtless, of my poor father’s, which I am required to

pay,” thought Paul. “Well, I will go and see him, and if in my power it

shall be canceled.”

As he drew near the dwelling of Apollos, the strains of the fiddle

seemed to welcome him on, and knocking at the door it was opened by the

owner himself—his great chin holding firm to his breast the neck of the

instrument, and his hand wielding the bow. Walking before him into a

small back room, he made signs for him to be seated, and then taking up

the air where the summons of Paul had interrupted it, he played it

deliberately through!

Paul thought this proceeding very rude, to say the least of it—but if

he could have read the heart of Apollos, he would have seen that he was

only striving to lull into peace by the soothing powers of melody those

rebellious and evil passions which the sight of his happier rival called

forth.

At length, carefully hanging up the fiddle on a peg at his right hand,

Apollos opened a small drawer, and taking out a pocket-book, put it into

the hand of his astonished visiter.