Scene VI.—_Preciosa’s bed-chamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in

an arm-chair, in an undress; Dolores watching her._

_Dol._ Poor girl, she sleeps at last; yet hardly sleeps;

She lives her sorrows o’er again in dreams,

Doubling her grief.

_Pre._ I must go hence, I say!

Give me my cloak.

_Dol._ She murmurs in her sleep.

_Pre._ Go tell them that I cannot dance to-night—

I am too ill. Look at me! See the fever

That burns upon my cheek. I must go hence.

I am too weak to dance. If you’re a man

You will not ask it of me.

_Dol._ She dreams still

Of what has passed to-night.

_Pre._ Did you say must?

Then by the heavens I will not. Tell them so!

Have they no feeling? I am not their slave.

I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me!

Shame—shame! to treat a feeble woman thus!

Be you but kind, I will do all things for you.

I’m ready now—give me my castañets.

Where is Victorian? Oh, those hateful lamps!

They glare upon me, like an evil eye.

I cannot stay! Hark! how they mock at me!

They hiss at me, like serpents! Save me! save me!

(_She wakes._)

_Dol._ Alas! poor girl!

_Pre._ How late is it, Dolores?

_Dol._ It is past midnight.

_Pre._ And he has not come?

He will not come to-night; and yet I thought

He stood here by my side, and held my hand.

We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me.

Thank thee.

(_She sleeps again._)

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

* * * * *

THE SMILE.

I looked on Beauty when the sudden light

Of Intellect and generous Feeling high

Blazed on the Cheek and lightened in the Eye

And Genius flashed from every feature bright!

I looked on Beauty when a wild delight

Laughed from beneath her silken lashes fair;

And Mirth, awaking from her rosy lair,

Led forth his dimples like the waves of Night

When the full heaven of stars is shining there!

But not the flash of Genius may compare,

Nor the gay summer of the radiant cheek

With the soft _Smile_ of twilight sweetness rare,

On Beauty’s brow, which _thoughts of kindness_ wear

When the Eye _looks_, more than the tongue may speak.

* * * * *

SILENT LOVE.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

Oh! call it by some better name,

For Friendship is too cold;

And love is now a worldly flame,

Whose shrine must be of gold;

And passion, like the sun at noon,

That burns o’er all it sees,

Awhile as warm, will set as soon—

Oh! call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,

More free from stain of clay,

Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,

Yet human still as they.

Moore.

“Many are poets who have never penned their inspiration;” and still more

truly might it be said, “Many are lovers who have never breathed their

adoration.”

If there be much “unwritten poetry” in the world, there is also much

_unuttered love_, much that should have been spoken to hearts where it

would have found a response, much that would have contributed to honor

and happiness, much that has existed in secrecy and silence, glimmering,

like the lamp in an ancient sepulchre, only over the ashes of departed

hopes.

Mr. Allison was one of those persons who are usually considered “lucky

men,” though his luck lay in his industry, perseverance and economy,

while the talisman which secured his success was most probably inscribed

with the word, “_Patience_.” He had grown rich slowly, not from the

sudden influx of speculative wealth, but by the gradual accumulations of

toilsome years, and his progress from poverty to riches had been marked

by no startling transitions. Upright in all his dealings, and justly

conscious of his own native respectability, he sought no devious ways to

fortune, and, when her favors were gained, he aimed at no ostentatious

display of them. He lived in plain but handsome style, spared no expense

in the education of his family, gratified them with every luxury that

was consistent with his ideas of propriety, and, contrary to the

practice of most American merchants, indulged _himself_ with sufficient

leisure even amid the cares of business, to enjoy the society of his

wife, his children and his friends. Remembering his own early struggles,

he was always ready to extend a helping hand to the young and

unfriended, so that many a poor boy, who now enjoys the blessings of

competence, has looked back with joy to the day which brought him within

the notice of the benevolent merchant.

Among those whom Mr. Allison had most efficiently aided was a youth,

named Ernest Melvyn, who, when scarcely fourteen years of age, had been

so fortunate as to secure a situation in his warehouse. In little more

than two years after he entered Mr. Allison’s employ the boy had the

misfortune to lose his father, and thus the maintenance of a sick mother

and an almost infant sister devolved upon him. Mr. Allison, with that

promptness which always doubles the value of a generous act, immediately

promoted Ernest to a more responsible station, and increased his salary,

while he appropriated to the use of the widowed mother comfortable

apartments in one of his own houses. But his kindness did not stop here.

Finding that the family of his young clerk were highly respectable

though now reduced to great indigence, and that the boy’s early

education had been suited rather to his father’s former station than to

his present fortunes, Mr. Allison determined to give him every advantage

in the prosecution of his studies. He invited Ernest to his house, gave

him the use of his library, directed him to the most instructive books,

and, in short, left nothing undone which could contribute to his future

welfare.

Deeply grateful to his benefactor for all his kindness, and fully

sensible of the importance of such advantages, Ernest showed his

thankfulness both by his close attention to his duties, and his ready

acceptance of Mr. Allison’s offers. He became a regular resident in the

family; a timid, quiet, unobtrusive haunter of that pleasant fireside,

where he always found a kind welcome, cheerful companions and excellent

books. Every body liked him, from the merchant, who was pleased with his

fidelity to business, and Mrs. Allison, who found him very useful in the

execution of those thousand little commissions of which husbands are so

provokingly forgetful, down to the smiling servant maid who opened the

door at the knock of the pale and pleasant-faced clerk. His quiet

cheerfulness and unruffled good-temper made him a great favorite with

Mr. Allison’s daughters, but his most especial friend in the family was

the “youngling of the flock,” the petted and lovely little Mary. Though

scarcely four years old when Ernest became so associated with them, Mary

attached herself to him, with all the warmth of childish affection.

Ernest loved her for her resemblance to his own little sister, who had

been the idol of his boyhood, and who had early followed his father to

the grave. He seemed to have transferred to Mary Allison the love which

had once been lavished upon his lost darling, and fondly did the child

respond to his tenderness. She was in truth one of the loveliest of

creatures, with large, soft, blue eyes, a profusion of golden curls, and

lips like the berries of the cornel-tree, while her frank and joyous

temper, her sunny cheerfulness, and the overflowing affection which

seemed ever gushing up from the depths of her innocent heart, added new

charms to her infantine beauty. She was the idol of her parents, the

delight of her elder sisters, the plaything of the servants, and, above

all, the cherished pet of Ernest Melvyn. Hour after hour would he sit

with Mary nestled upon his knee, while he displayed to her wondering

gaze the beautiful engravings in her father’s costly volumes, or traced

on her little slate many a rough but spirited sketch of castle and

cottage, to be effaced and renewed with every childish whim. He carved

fairy baskets of cherry-pits, fashioned clay models of Indian figures,

and practiced, for the gratification of his favorite, those thousand

little devices which can be accomplished by a skilful hand, good taste

and patience. When infancy gave place to childhood, with its increasing

cares, it was Ernest Melvyn who became the confidant of all little

Mary’s anxieties and pleasures. It was he who wrought out the tedious

sum, and explained the wonderfully abstruse rules of that hated grammar,

and aided her in remembering those troublesome chronological tables,

and, in short, removed every stumbling-block, while he lightened every

burden of her school life.

In the mean time Mr. Allison’s elder daughters were growing up to

womanhood, as beautiful as they were gentle and good. Their personal

attractions, their gracefully feminine characters, and the known wealth

of their father, all contributed to draw around them a crowd of

admirers, whose motives were as various as their minds. Amid such

persons Ernest never mingled. Retiring in his manners, and humble in his

feelings, he never obtruded himself into the gay circle which gradually

formed itself around the young ladies. His visits were as frequent as

ever, but his evenings were usually passed in the library, aiding Mary

in her lessons, giving her such primary instructions in drawing, as his

fine but uncultivated taste would permit, or reading some useful book,

which, if rather above the child’s comprehension, was yet listened to

with pleasure because Ernest was the reader. Mr. Allison beheld with

pleasure the innocent attachment which existed between them. He believed

it to be an advantage to both, since it gave Mary a new impulse and aid

to mental cultivation, while it preserved Ernest from many of the

temptations which assail the youth of a large city; and even the

prudence of age could see nothing to fear from the affection which had

thus been awakened in the days of infancy. But the love which had thus

sprung up between the child of four summers, and the boy of sixteen, had

lost none of its tenderness when Mary could count her twelfth birthday.

“How I love,” says the Ettrick Shepherd, “how I love a little girl of

twelve;” and those who have made children a study will heartily agree

with him. It is the sweetest of all ages, the loveliest of all periods

in woman’s life: because it is perhaps the only season when the

developing mind and expanding heart display their beautiful feminine

traits without one shadow from the coming cloud of passion, when the

flowers of affection give out their richest perfume, unmingled with the

envenomed sweets with which future years will imbue them.

Ernest Melvyn had grown up tall and handsome, but with the pale cheek

and thoughtful brow of the habitual thinker. His eyes were usually

veiled beneath their full and drooping lids, but they were full of

intelligence and sweetness, while his form was as graceful and his step

as free as if he had never trod other soil than that of the green hills

where his sunny hours of childhood had been passed. His application to

business had given him a degree of gravity beyond his years, and his

love of reading had made him a quiet observer of society rather than an

actor in its busy scenes. His time was divided between his duties in the

warehouse, his attention to his infirm mother, and his visits to Mr.

Allison’s family; the first tended to create stability of character, the

second to cultivate the domestic affections, and quicken his delicate

sense of duty, while the last gave him the inestimable advantage of

polished and virtuous female society. Could he have overcome his

reserve, and learned to think less humbly of himself, Ernest Melvyn

might have shone in the gayest circles, for, even in a place where

wealth too often determines a man’s social position, the protégé of the

rich Mr. Allison would have found little difficulty in winning his way.

Had Ernest understood the “_art of pushing_,” an art, by the way, which

deserves to be made the subject of a course of lectures, he could easily

have become a general favorite in society, and might, in all

probability, by some fortunate marriage, have compassed what the world

pleasantly calls “_Independence_,” in other words, a lifelong

subsistence upon the alimony of a wife. But Ernest was too modest, too

single-minded to think of such things. The liberal stipend which he

received from Mr. Allison more than sufficed for all his mother’s

necessities, and his own wants were very few. A small sum was annually

left in his benefactor’s hands, to form a fund for his mother’s future

support in case of his death, and with this provision he was perfectly

content. As his tastes developed, his gradually increasing means enabled

him to gratify them without encroaching upon this consecrated hoard.

Books, purchased chiefly at auction, and remarkable rather for their

solid worth, than their exterior decorations, had accumulated around

him, a few choice paintings which he had found among the rubbish of a

deceased picture dealer, now adorned the walls of his neat apartment, a

collection of minerals, made with no other expense than that of

healthful fatigue, a small but very complete cabinet of shells,

miniature casts from the antique, moulded by himself in moments of

leisure, and a portfolio of exquisite pencil-drawings by his own hand,

all attested the elegance of his tastes and the innocence of his

pursuits.

To Mr. Allison’s daughters Ernest Melvyn appeared in the light of a

valued relative, a sort of “Cousin Tom,” useful on all occasions and

obtrusive on none, universally liked, and allowed to come and go with

all the freedom of a family friend, less noticed when present than

missed when absent. But to the little golden-haired Mary he was an

object of far more importance, and even when the flush of womanhood

began to brighten the cheek of the little maiden, and her innocent bosom

thrilled with those “impulses of soul and sense,” which mark the first

step beyond the limit of girlish gayety, Ernest was still the friend,

the confidant of all her joys and sorrows. Exceedingly sensitive in

character, with feelings keenly alive to every emotion, full of

affection and gentleness, and quick to receive impressions, Mary Allison

was a creature of impulse rather than judgment. The circle which had

long surrounded her sisters now opened to admit her also. Two of Mr.

Allison’s daughters were on the verge of matrimony, while two still

remained free to win new lovers to their feet, when Mary made her

entrance into society. Conscious that she possessed no small share of

the beauty which had made her sisters so attractive, vague dreams of

future triumphs and successes began to mingle with her gentler feelings.

The spirit which often leads a beautiful woman into the mazes of

coquetry, was striving in the heart of the fair girl, and but for the

quiet counsels of Ernest, who was now her mentor in the perilous days of

womanhood, even as he had been her playfellow in the sunny hours of

childhood, she might have become a vain and frivolous votary of fashion.

But there was something in the calm reproach of Ernest’s thoughtful eye,

which restrained the wayward follies of the flattered belle, and Mary

felt, long ere she acknowledged even to herself the truth, that,

whatever might be the charms of adulation, the approval of one noble

heart was worth them all. When lovers came around her, Ernest gently

withdrew from all apparent competition, content to watch from afar, lest

danger or deception should touch the object of his hallowed interest.

Keeping always aloof from the throng of admirers who now found their way

habitually to a house where such varied attractions were ever to be met,

Ernest seemed abstracted and indifferent. The incense offered by the

professed danglers, the attentions of beaux, the heavy _bon-mots_ of

would-be witlings, fell on his ear unheeded; but when one of lofty mind

and noble character, a man worthy of respect and affection, when such an

one offered his homage at the shrine of youthful beauty, Ernest was all

eye, all ear, aye, and all heart.

Was Ernest in love with Mary Allison? Who can tell? surely he was too

unpresuming, too calm, too free from jealousy to be in love. Yet what

meant his eager watchfulness over her every look and word, his keen

perception of her every impulse, his deep devotion to her every wish? It

was most strange, and yet might not a warm fraternal affection for one

who had taken the place of his dead sister in his heart, account for all

his feelings? Such was Ernest’s belief, and if he deceived himself, his

was the punishment as well as the error.

One after another, the beautiful daughters of Mr. Allison were wedded,

until only Mary, the lovely Mary, whose very changefulness of temper

formed one of her brightest charms, alone was left. From her sixteenth

year Mary had received the homage of flattery and affection. Some had

wooed her for her fortune, some for her gayety, some for her

warm-heartedness, but all had alike been unsuccessful. When questioned

as to her motives for this indiscriminate coldness, she would only

laugh, and toss back her golden locks with a look of mischievous mirth

that seemed the index of a light and unfettered heart. Utterly free from

the coquetry which can deliberately win hearts but to wound them, she

yet loved admiration, and could seldom resist the temptation of making

herself agreeable. Indeed she could scarcely avoid making conquests, for

her usual sweetness of manner was sufficient of itself to attract all

who came within its influence. As Miss Edgeworth has beautifully

expressed it, “even from the benevolence of her own disposition she

derived the means of giving pain, as the bee is said to draw the venom

of its sting from its own honey.” Too sensitive for frivolous coquetry,

Mary was in far more danger from those sentimental flirtations which are

so fascinating to the romantic and the imaginative, and often so fatal

to the peace of those who indulge in them. Few women—I mean

warm-hearted, high-souled women—have escaped the influence of these

“opium dreams of too much youth and reading,” as they are contemptuously

called by the worldly and the cold. Few but have, at the early dawn of

womanhood, cherished a pure and passionless affection, which the world

may have sneered at as “Platonic,” and the prudent may have censured as

indiscreet, but which was a source of infinite happiness while it

endured, and which, perhaps, by the very anguish of its dissolution,

afforded the best of all discipline for the future trials of the heart.

Yet, like all other exquisite pleasures in this changing world, such joy

is only to be bought at the price of future pain. Rarely does such an

attachment terminate without suffering—rarely does that passionless

dream fade into the splendors of a brighter reality—rarely does the

heart awake from its trance of sublimated feeling to find loftier and

sweeter impulses in actual life and perfect love.

From such perils, to which her romantic temper would probably have

exposed her, Mary Allison was preserved by the watchfulness of Ernest.

Indeed their mutual regard seemed to possess much of the character of

such an affection as has just been described, but without its dangers.

He was her friend, her counsellor, the guide of her wayward feelings;

but there was none of that high-wrought sensibility, that fervent

language which would be impassioned were it not so pure, that ardor of

feeling which gives to such a friendship the semblance of love—but of

love _wingless_, and with bow unbent. Ernest never ventured to be other

than the friend, the honored, trusted and humble friend. Not that he was

a servile, mean-spirited contemner of himself because of his

property—for he was in truth as high-souled, lofty-minded, and

proud-hearted a being as ever wrestled with fortune—but gratitude had

quickened his perception of duty, and, in the echoes of his own heart,

he learned the nature of his own humility.

Mary had attained her twenty-second year when she received another offer

of marriage from a gentleman whose character and standing in society

made him a most eligible match. He was refused, but so kindly and

gently, that he resolved not to be repulsed. He persevered in a course

of delicate attentions which even Mary’s fastidiousness could not

reject, and he demanded the consideration due to friendship till he

could make good his claims to a warmer interest. He was certainly not

distasteful to Mary, and had she been called to choose one from among

her professed lovers, Charles Walton would probably have been the object

of her choice. But she was conscious that she was capable of a much

stronger emotion than he had inspired, and a very slight examination

into her heart showed her one sealed recess which she dared not venture

to unlock. Within that holy of holies, which every mortal shrouds within

his bosom, she knew that an image was enshrined on which maiden pride

forbade her to look, and the fair girl turned away dismayed from her

self-imposed task. But her lover was patient and persevering, and, after

months of assiduous wooing, he sought her father’s aid. Mr. Allison had

never interfered to control the inclinations of his children. If the

suitor was only a man of integrity and honor, mere pecuniary disparity

was never allowed to influence his opinions, but, in this case, he

certainly was disposed to wish that Mary might decide in Mr. Walton’s

favor. He wished to retire from business, and Walton was very competent

to supply his place in a concern which might still be conducted for the

benefit of the family, if Mary would become the wife of the new partner.

Actuated by these motives he promised his influence to the ardent lover;

but the more he reflected upon his task the more reluctant he felt to

perform it. He could not bear to influence the affections of his

favorite child, and yet he earnestly wished her to think as he did. Like

most men in a similar predicament, he adopted a middle course, and

quieted his scruples by committing the trust to another.

One evening, just at twilight, Mary was in a small apartment

communicating with the drawing-room, when her father approached in close

conversation with Ernest Melvyn. They took a seat in the parlor, and, as

the door was ajar, Mary could not avoid hearing her own name several

times repeated. She was about entering the room when she heard her

father say, “I wish, Ernest, you would use your influence with Mary. I

am sure she prefers Mr. Walton, and it is only a woman’s whim which

prevents her acceptance of him.”

“Are you sure she is attached to Walton?” asked Ernest, in a low and

hurried tone.

“Oh, I cannot be mistaken about it; she likes him better than any lover

she has ever had, for she confessed as much to me yesterday. It is full

time she came to some decision, and I wish she would accept him. He is

exactly the kind of person whom I should have selected for her, and I am

sure he will make her happy. She is greatly influenced by your opinions,

Ernest, and I really wish you would advise her to marry Walton.”

Mary listened breathlessly for Ernest’s answer. After a long pause she

heard him say, “Certainly, sir, if you wish it, I will do so.” Mary

staid for no more. Hurrying to her room, she flung herself on the floor

in an agony of excited feeling. The secret of her heart was now revealed

to her, and the anguish which overwhelmed her proved how fondly she had

cherished the delusion. She now knew what before she more than

suspected; she no longer doubted that her heart and happiness had long

been in the keeping of the modest and gentle Ernest. But with this

knowledge came the startling fact that Ernest loved her not.

“He could coldly promise his influence to give me to another—me, whom

he has cherished from childhood—me, who have loved him from my very

infancy! Yes, his is but a brother’s love, and never shall my nature be

disgraced by the disclosure of an unrequited passion. It shall be

plucked away even if entwined with the very fibres of my heart.” Such

were the reflections of the unhappy girl, as the violence of her

emotions subsided. Could she have seen the bitter struggle in the breast

of Ernest—could she have divined the hidden agony of his spirit when he

controlled his voice to utter those cold words—could she have known the

sudden wretchedness of that moment which first revealed to him the depth

and breadth of his own absorbing passion, she would have decided

differently. One word then would have secured the happiness of both; but

the word was _unspoken_, and the destiny of both was sealed.

That very night Charles Walton renewed his suit to Mary and _was

accepted_—the next morning Mr. Allison informed Ernest that his

influence was no longer necessary in the matter. The next week

preparations for the marriage were commenced.

For several days Ernest absented himself from Mr. Allison’s house, but

just as every body was beginning to wonder what could ail him, he came,

and took his accustomed seat, as quiet and perhaps rather more silent

than was his wont. He looked pale and care-worn, but his mother’s

renewed paroxysm of illness was sufficient to account for his

appearance, and though his lip quivered and his hand trembled as he

offered his congratulations to Mary, yet no one could have dreamed that

beneath his calm seeming he concealed an immolated heart. Mary’s pride

rose to her aid when she beheld Ernest’s undisturbed demeanor. She

almost despised herself for the weakness which made her shudder as with

an ague, when he offered his wishes for her future happiness; and,

resolutely closing her bosom against all such emotions, she determined

to perform the duties she had undertaken with a firm and unyielding

spirit.

The increasing illness of the invalid, Mrs. Melvyn, soon confined Ernest

so closely to his home, during his leisure hours, that he thus escaped

the torture of witnessing the arrangements for Mary’s marriage. It was

perhaps fortunate for both, since the tie between them was now to be

severed, that it should be done thus gradually, and from a sense of duty

to others, rather than from selfish feelings. At times Mary half

suspected that Ernest loved her, but the stern, self-sacrificing

devotion of him who believed that she had chosen wisely and well,

destroyed the fancy ere it became a hope. “She has fulfilled the wishes

of her father—she has found love and happiness,” said Ernest to

himself, “and not one shadow from the cloud which impends over my fate

shall ever darken her path.” And with a courage far more exalted than

that which binds the martyr to the faggot and the stake, did this

noble-hearted being crush his own heart within him, lest he should mar

the hopes of her whom he loved better than life.

Ernest did not see Mary wedded. On the very night of her bridal his

mother died, and, in the awful stillness of the death-chamber, the voice

of passion was hushed into silence. It was not until his only companion

was laid in her humble grave, and the quiet of exhaustion had gradually

stolen over the tortured feelings of the bereaved and heart-sick Ernest,

that he ventured to approach the dwelling of Mr. Allison. Amid their

festivities the family had not been regardless of his sorrow, and many

an act of unobtrusive kindness had shown him that he was affectionately

remembered among them. But he had learned some sad and solemn truths as

he watched beside his dying mother. The nothingness of human cares, the

vanity of human hopes, the fruitlessness of human affections had been

deeply impressed upon his heart. His mother’s last lesson, imparted in

the peacefulness of her dying hour, came with thrilling power to his

bosom, and in the loneliness of his deep grief he learned life’s hardest

lesson—“_to suffer and be still_.”

One more trial yet awaited him. Not long after his mother’s death, Mr.

Allison took him aside and offered him a partnership in his lucrative

business.

“I am old,” said the merchant, “and want to be released from toil;

Charles Walton is to be the principal in our firm, and we wish to secure

your future services, as well as to reward a fidelity which has never

once failed in twenty years of duty. Indeed, Mary insisted that her

husband should accept no proposition which did not include you. I

require no capital from you; the profits arising from your yearly

deposit in my hands have swelled your little fund to some ten thousand

dollars, which I am ready to pay over to you before commencing our new

arrangement.”

“You are kind—very kind, my dear sir,” was Ernest’s reply, while tears

filled his eyes, and his emotions choked his utterance; “believe me, I

am not ungrateful, and while life and health remain I shall ever be

devoted to your service. But I cannot accept your noble offer—let me

still be your clerk—your servant, if you will—I am no longer fitted

for the responsibilities of a partner.”

“My dear fellow, you are as healthy, active, and industrious as ever you

were; you are in the very prime of life, and must not talk of want of

fitness.”

“The spring of life is gone,” said Ernest, mournfully, “I have no motive

now for exertion.”

“You are dispirited, Ernest—the loss of your mother has saddened and

depressed you. Think over my proposition in a calm and dispassionate

manner, and I am convinced you will not refuse it.”

Ernest did think long and deeply on the subject, but his decision was

unalterable.

“It comes too late; my life is now an aimless one, and riches might only

tend to make it a useless one also; there are none to share my fortunes,

and why should a solitary and isolated man heap up riches when he knows

not who shall gather them? it comes too late!”

Alas! how often has that thought paralized the energies and stricken the

heart of the patient sufferer. Even he, who in the flush of manhood can

proudly exclaim, “_I bide my time_,” as if in defiance of fortune’s

frowns, is often heard, when all was gained, to sigh mournfully in after

life over the chilling reflection, “_it comes too late!_"—too late for

the fulfilment of hope—too late for the attainment of happiness.

Ernest Melvyn never rose above the station of confidential clerk, but

the respect and esteem of his employers testified his integrity and

usefulness. Mr. Walton learned to regard him with as much friendship as

Mr. Allison, and it was not long before he was as welcome a guest in

Mary’s new home as he had ever been in the scenes of her joyous

childhood. Whatever might have been her feelings towards Ernest, his

perfect self-possession and calm demeanor, by convincing her that he had

never loved her, aided her in the subjugation of her own rebellious

heart. Her husband was kind, affectionate, and good. She had always

respected his talents and esteemed his virtues, and now, as time wove

the new and strong ties of parental affection between them, the quiet

happiness of domestic life gradually effaced the brightest tints of her

youth’s romance. It may be that a shadow rested long on her path—it may

be that the spectre of blighted love sometimes stood beside the shrine

of her household gods—but Time, the true exorciser of all such ghosts,

wrought his work of kindness, slowly but surely, and Mary became a

cheerful, useful and happy woman.

Ernest experienced the usual changes which come upon a solitary man. He

lived alone among his books, and pictures, and shells, until they became

actually objects of tender interest to him. Regularly, every afternoon,

he visited Mr. Allison, and read the newspapers for his benefactor,

whose failing sight rendered the perusal of his favorite journals a task

of some difficulty. This done, Ernest returned to his home and passed

the remainder of the evening in study—aimless it is true, but still

pleasing; or in a dreamy and vague reverie so enticing to a reserved and

imaginative man. But on one certain evening in each week, he always took

his seat at Mrs. Walton’s tea-table, and as regularly ensconced himself

in the chimney-corner as soon as tea was over. To the isolated man this

weekly visit, and those claspings of the hand with which he was always

greeted, were as dear as the “memorable kiss” with which the “apostle of

passion” fed his wild idolatry; aye, full as precious and far more pure

was the joy thus imparted than any refinement of infidel philosophy and

illicit love. Mary’s children climbed his knee, even as Mary had done in

her own glad infancy, and loved him with all the fervent affection which

had once characterized her feelings. Like all old bachelors, he became

somewhat of a humorist, and, at last, was voted by the dandies of the

rising generation, to be decidedly eccentric. But his kindliness of

heart, his firm integrity, and his purity and delicacy of feeling never

forsook him.

To the day of his death he never disclosed the secret of his early love.

When the frosts of three-score winters had whitened his locks, the

solitary old man withdrew to his lonely room, and there, amid those

inanimate objects which had been his solace through so many weary years,

he yielded up his gentle spirit to the God who gave it. He was found one

morning lying in the quiet sleep of death—his arms crossed upon his

breast, his bible on the table at his bedside, and his features settled

in such sweet repose that none looked upon them without feeling that

Death had indeed dealt mercifully with the righteous.

His will was found in his cabinet, and Mary Walton was made the sole

heiress of his little fortune; although no reason was assigned for this

exclusive preference. Perhaps the little casket which was discovered in

a secret recess of the same cabinet disclosed somewhat of the truth to

her conscious heart. It contained a lock of golden hair, marked: “_given

me by Mary on her twelfth birthday_,” together with a withered bouquet,

which, from the silken band around it, Mary remembered to have given him

the night preceding her betrothal, and a penciled sketch in which she

had no difficulty to recognize her own girlish beauty.

Reader, does my tale seem tame and trite? it is the history of a

blighted heart; and if the secrets of that strange world of mystery were

more frequently revealed, many such a tale of simple pathos would enlist

the sympathies of the glad and gay. The picture of that self-forgetting

being, subduing his love, at first, from the very humility of true

affection, and, afterwards, crushing it within his heart lest its living

presence should mar the happiness of his beloved, is to me one of

ineffable tenderness. That he was mistaken in his views of her happiness

does not destroy the beauty of his self-devotion; and what shall we say

of the moral courage which could relinquish all claims to _posthumous_

sympathy, by bearing his secret to the grave, lest a shadow from the

past should fall upon her present peacefulness?

* * * * *

THE RETURN OF YOUTH.

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,

For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight;

Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,

Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,

And prompt thy tongue the generous thought to speak,

And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong

Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.

Thou lookest forward on the coming days,

Shuddering to feel their shadow o’er thee creep;

A path, thick-set with changes and decays,

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;

And they who walked with thee in life’s first stage,

Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near,

Thou seest the sad companions of thy age—

Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,

Nor deem that glorious season e’er could die.

Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,

Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky;

Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,

Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;

Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides

Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand

On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet

Than when at first he took thee by the hand,

Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.

He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,

Life’s early glory to thine eyes again,

Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill

Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?

Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear

A gentle murmur of the morning gales,

That sweep the ambrosial groves of that bright shore,

And thence the fragrance of its blossoms bear,

And voices of the loved ones gone before,

More musical in that celestial air?

* * * * *

SKETCH OF A CASE,

OR A PHYSICIAN EXTRAORDINARY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “A NEW HOME,” ETC.

Doctor R—— sat alone in his study when a lady was announced.

“Mrs. Waldorf, sir,” and the doctor laid down his pen and received his

visiter very cordially. She was the wife of a rich German merchant, and

a distant cousin of his own; a handsome woman of about five and thirty,

with sufficient repose of manner, but too spirited an eye to pass for a

mere fashionable machine.

“I have come to you, doctor, instead of sending for you,” began the

lady, “because I do not wish Mr. Waldorf to know I have thought it

necessary to consult you. He is so easily alarmed, that if he knew you

had prescribed for me he would watch me so closely and insist so much

upon my observance of your directions to the very letter, that I should

have no peace.”

The doctor smiled, as if he thought Mr. Waldorf would not be so far

wrong as his lady might suppose.

“But what is it, my dear madam?” he said, taking Mrs. Waldorf’s hand and

giving a look of professional scrutiny to her face. “You look well,

though there is a slight flaccidity about the eyes, and not quite so

ruddy a nether lip as one might wish to see. What is it?”

“Oh! a thousand things, doctor; my health is miserable—at least I

sometimes think so; I have pains in the right side—and such flutterings

at my heart—and such lassitude—and such headaches—and sleep so

miserably—”

“Are your pains very severe? are they of a heavy, dull kind, or sharp

and darting? and how often do you experience them?”

“They are not very constant—no, not constant, certainly, nor very

severe—but, doctor, they fill me with apprehensions of future evil. It

is not present suffering of which I complain, so much as a fear of worse

to come. I dread lest disease should make such progress, unnoticed, that

it will be vain to attempt a cure.” And Mrs. Waldorf’s eyes filled with

tears at the very thought of her troubles.

“You are wise to take it in time,” said Doctor R——. “But tell me more

of these symptoms. At what time of the day do you generally feel most

indisposed?”

“Oh! I can scarcely say. When I wake in the morning, I am always very

miserable. My head is full of dull pain, especially about the eyes. My

lips are parched; I find it a great exertion to dress myself, and never

have the slightest appetite for breakfast.”

“Ah! indeed!” mused the doctor, “you breakfast as soon as you arise, I

presume. At what hour do you retire?”

“We make it a rule to be in bed by twelve, unless we happen to be

engaged out, which is but seldom. Waldorf detests parties and late

hours. We spend our evenings with music or books, very quietly.”

“At what hour do you sup?”

“We have nothing like a regular supper, but for mere sociality’s sake we

have a tray brought up about ten. I take nothing beyond a bit of chicken

or a few oysters, or a slice of cake, and sometimes only a cracker and a

glass of wine. You look as if you thought even this were better omitted;

but I should scarcely know how to cut off one of my husband’s few social

pleasures. He would touch nothing if I did not partake with him. He

thinks as ill of suppers as you do.”

“I beg your pardon—I interrupted your detail of symptoms to ask these

questions as to the evening. You say you have no appetite for

breakfast—how long do these feelings of languor and exhaustion continue

to trouble you?”

“Oh! I generally feel better after a cup of coffee; and after practicing

at the harp or the piano-forte for an hour or two, or sometimes three

when I have new music, I generally drive out, and perhaps shop a little,

or at any rate take a turn into the country for the air, and usually

return somewhat refreshed.”

“Do you take your airings alone?”

“Yes—perforce, almost. There are none of my intimate friends who can go

with me. They drive out regularly, and take children with them, or they

have other objects; and one cannot ask a mere acquaintance. So I go

alone, which is not very exhilarating.”

“Your own children are not at home?”

“No—if they were, I should need no other company for the carriage. The

society of young people is pleasant to me, but Adelaide is at Madame

——’s and Ernest is with a German clergyman, a friend of his father’s.

I fancy my rides would be of much greater service to me if I had a

pleasant companion or two.”

“Undoubtedly—and I know a lady and her daughter to whom a regular

morning airing with such society as that of Mrs. Waldorf would be the

very breath of life! What a pity that etiquette comes in the way of so

many good things! But go on, I beg.”

“Etiquette! say not another word, doctor—who and where are these

friends or patients of yours? I should be happy if I could offer any

service. I will call with you on them this very day if you like, and

invite them to ride with me daily.”

“Thank you a thousand times, my dear madam,” said Doctor R——, “it is

what I could not venture to ask. Yet I am not afraid you will not find

my friends at least tolerably agreeable—but will you proceed with the

account you were giving me of your daily habits—you dine at four, I

believe?”

“That is our hour, but Mr. Waldorf is often detained until five, and I

never dine without him. For my own part I should not care if dinner were

stricken from the day. I lunch about one, and with tolerable appetite,

and I never wish to eat again until supper time. We take tea, however,

at seven, and—”

“Green tea, I presume—do you take it strong?”

“Oh! not very, if I take it _too_ strong, I do not sleep at all.”

“You sleep but indifferently, you tell me?”

“Yes, generally; and wake many times in the night; sometimes in the

horrors, so that I am full of undefinable fears, and dare not open my

eyes lest the objects in the room should assume terrific shapes. The

very shades cast by the night-lamp have power at such times to appal

me.”

The doctor’s professional inquiries extended to a still greater length,

but he had guessed Mrs. Waldorf’s complaint before he arrived at this

point in the list. He had found solitude, inactivity, late hours,

suppers, coffee, green tea, music and books—with not one

counterbalancing item of that labor—effort—sacrifice—which has been

affixed as the unchanging price of health and spirits. Mrs. Waldorf was

one of the hundreds if not thousands of ladies in our land who walk

through the world without ever discovering the secret of life. She had

abundant wealth and a most indulgent husband, with all that this world

can offer in point of comfort, and she imagined that health alone was

wanting to complete her happiness. Passive happiness! what a dream!

Doctor R—— was at the head of his profession, and he had some

medicines at his command which are not known at the hospitals. He

thought he could cure Mrs. Waldorf, but he hinted that he feared he

should find her but a poor patient.

“You do not wish Mr. Waldorf to know you are under my care lest he

should object to your neglecting my remedies—”

“Oh, indeed doctor, I shall be very faithful! Try me! You cannot

prescribe anything too difficult. Shall I travel to the Pyramids

barefoot, and live on bread and water all the way? I am only afraid

Waldorf should insist upon my taking odious drugs, and—You know

cautions meeting one at every turn are so tiresome!”

“Then you are willing to undertake any remedy which is not at all

disagreeable, and which may be used or omitted _à discretion_—”

“No, no—indeed you mistake me. I only beg that it may not be _too_

unpleasant. I will do just as you say.”

Mrs. Waldorf now had a fine color, and her eyes sparkled as of old. She

had every confidence in the skill of Dr. R——, and the effort of

recalling and recounting her symptoms had given an impetus to her

thoughts and a quicker current to her blood.

The doctor apologized. He had an appointment and his hour had come.

“But before I leave you thus unceremoniously,” he said, “it strikes me

that there is a root in my garden which might be of essential service to

you, to begin with at least. You know I have a little spot in which I

cultivate a few rare botanical specimens. Might I venture to ask you to

search for the root I speak of? It is in that little square compartment

in the corner, which appears nearly vacant.”

“Oh, certainly—but had I not better call John, as your own man is going

away with you?”

“John! Bless my soul, my dear Madam, there is not a John in the world

that I would trust in my sanctum! No hand but mine, and that of a

gardener whom I employ occasionally under my own direction, ever

intrudes among my pets. Let me entreat you, since I have not another

moment to spare, to take this little trowel and search with your own

hands until you discover an oblong white root like this—” opening a

book of botanical plates and exhibiting something that looked very much

like a Jerusalem artichoke—“Take that and have it washed and grated

into a gill of Port, of which try ten drops in a little water three

times a day. I will see you again very soon—but now I must run away—”

and Doctor R—— departed, leaving Mrs. Waldorf in a musing mood.

She cast a look at the garden, which lay just beneath the window, full

of flowers; then at the trowel—a strange implement in her hand. She

thought Doctor R—— very odd, certainly, but she resolved to follow his

directions implicitly. She went down stairs and was soon digging very

zealously. Her glove was split by the first effort, of course; for a

fashionably fitted glove admits not the free exercise of the

muscles—but all was of no avail. Every corner of the little square was

disturbed, but no talisman appeared. Weary at length of her new

employment, Mrs. Waldorf gave up in despair, and sat down in a little

arbor which offered its shade invitingly near her. Here she sank into a

pleasant reverie, as one can scarcely help doing in a garden full of

sweet flowers, and so pleasant was the sense of repose after labor, that

she thought not of the lapse of time until she was startled by the voice

of Doctor R——, returned from his visit and exceedingly surprised to

find her still trowel in hand.

“Why, my dear Madam,” he exclaimed, “you are forgetting your wish that

Mr. Waldorf should not discover your visit to me! If he walks much in

town he has had ample opportunity to observe his carriage at my door

these two hours. You must learn to carry on clandestine affairs better

than this! Have you the medicine?”

Mrs. Waldorf laughed and related her ill success, which the doctor very

much regretted, although he did not offer to assist in the search.

“You are feeling tolerably well just now, I think,” he said; “your color

is better than when you came in the morning.”

“Oh yes! much better just now! But how charming your garden is! I do not

wonder that you make a pet of it. We too have a few square inches of

garden, but it gives me but little pleasure, because I have never done

any thing to it myself. I think I shall get a trowel of my own.”

“You delight me! You have only to cultivate and bring to perfection a

single bed of carnations, to become as great an enthusiast as myself.

But it must be done by your own hands—”

“Yes, certainly; but now I must be gone. To-morrow I will hold myself in

readiness to call on your friends at any hour you will appoint.”

“What say you to eleven? Would that be too barbarous? The air is worth a

good deal more at eleven than at one.”

“At seven, if you like! Do not imagine me so very a slave to absurd

fashions! I am determined you shall own me a reasonable woman yet.”

Mrs. Waldorf called from the carriage window—“You’ll not forget to send

the medicine, doctor?”

“Certainly not! you shall have it at seven this evening, and I trust you

will take it with exact regularity.”

“Do not fear me,” she said, and the doctor made his bow of adieu.

The medicine came at seven, with a sediment which looked not a little

like grated potato, and without the slightest disagreeable taste.

Accompanying directions required the disuse, for the present, of coffee

and green tea; and recommended to Mrs. Waldorf a daily walk and a very

early bed-hour.

The lady took her ten drops at nine, and felt so much better that she

could not help telling her husband all about her visit to Doctor R——.

The next morning proved cloudy, and Mrs. Waldorf felt rather languid,

but, after her dose, found an improved appetite for breakfast. She sat

down to her music, but looked frequently at the clouds and at her watch,

thinking of her appointment. When the hour arrived the envious skies

poured down such showers as will damp any body’s ardor. The drive must

be given up for that day, and it passed as usual, with only the

interlude of the magic drops.

The next day was as bad, and the day after not a great deal better. Mrs.

Waldorf’s pains and palpitations almost discouraged her. She was quite

sure she had a liver complaint. But on the fourth morning the sun rose

gloriously, and the face of nature, clean washed, shone with renewed

beauty. At eleven the carriage and the lady were at Doctor R——’s door.

“Have you courage to see an invalid—a sad sufferer?” said the doctor.

“Oh, certainly! I am an invalid myself, you know.”

“Ah! my dear lady, my invalid wears a different aspect! Yet I hope she

is going to recover, and I shall trust to your humanity if the scene

prove a sad one. Sickness of the mind was, I think, the origin of the

evil, but it has almost overpowered the frail body. This young lady and

her mother have been giving lessons in music and in Italian, and have

had but slender success in the whirl of competition. As nearly as I can

discover, they came to this country hoping to find reverse of fortune

easier to bear among strangers; and their course was determined

hitherward in consequence of earlier family troubles which drove a son

of Madame Vamiglia to America. He was a liberal, and both displeased his

father and put himself in danger from government, by some unsuccessful

attempt at home. The father is since dead, and the old lady and her

daughter, left in poverty and loneliness, determined on following the

young man to the new world. But here we are.”

And they stopped before a small house in a back street. Mrs. Waldorf was

shown into a very humble parlor, while the doctor went to prepare his

patient. He returned presently with Madame Vamiglia, a well-bred woman

past middle age. She expressed her grateful sense of Mrs. Waldorf’s

kindness, but their communication was rather pantomimical, for the lady

found her song-Italian of little service, and the signora had not much

conversational English. However, with some French, and occasional aid

from Doctor R——, their acquaintance was somewhat ripened before they

went to the bedside of the sufferer. Mrs. Waldorf turned pale, and felt

ready to faint, at the sight which presented itself.

There was a low, narrow couch in the centre of the room, scarce larger

than an infant’s crib, and on it lay what seemed a mere remnant of

mortality. Large dark eyes, full of a sort of preternatural light, alone

spoke of life and motion. The figure had been always extremely small,

and was now wasted till it scarce lifted the light covering of the

mattress. Madame Vamiglia went forward and spoke in a low tone to her

daughter, and Mrs. Waldorf was glad to sink into the chair set for her

by Doctor R——. The ghastly appearance of the poor girl had quite

_unwomaned_ her.

The mother introduced her guest to her daughter, who could only look an

acknowledgment; and then asked the doctor if he thought it possible that

Ippolita could bear the motion of a carriage.

“She seems weaker to-day,” he replied; “very weak indeed. Yet, if Mrs.

Waldorf will allow the mattress to be put in, I think we may venture.”

Madame Vamiglia seemed full of anxiety lest the experiment should prove

too much for the flickering remnant of life; but, after much

preparation, John was called, and the poor sufferer transferred,

mattress and all, to the back seat. Mrs. Waldorf and her mother took the

front, and in this way they drove slowly out towards the country.

At first the poor little signorina seemed exhausted almost unto death,

and her mother watched her with the most agonized solicitude; but after

awhile she became accustomed to the gentle motion, and seemed revived by

the fresh air. As the road wound through a green lane shaded with old

trees, Ippolita looked about her with animation, and made a sign of

pleasure with her wasted hand. Tears started to her mother’s eyes, and

she looked to Mrs. Waldorf for sympathy, and not in vain.

At length the invalid murmured, “Assia!” and they turned about. When

they reached the lodging-house, Ippolita was in a quiet sleep, and they

carried her back to her own room almost undisturbed.

“To-morrow at eleven!” whispered Mrs. Waldorf, at parting. Madame

Vamiglia pressed her hand, but could not speak.

We need not describe the morning rides which succeeded this auspicious

commencement. We need not trace, step by step, the slow amendment of the

young Italian, nor attempt to express, by words, the gratitude of both

mother and daughter. _They_ felt words to be totally inadequate. We may

mention, however, the rapid improvement of Mrs. Waldorf’s health and

spirits, which must of course be ascribed to that excellent medicine of

Doctor R——’s. This enabled that lady to study Italian most

strenuously, both at home and by familiar lessons from Madame Vamiglia

and her daughter, during their prolonged excursions. This pursuit was

never found to increase the palpitations, and seemed also a specific

against headache.

Before Ippolita had so far recovered as to be independent of the daily

airing, Mrs. Waldorf picked up a new object of interest. We say picked

up, for it was a road-side acquaintance, and, as Mrs. Waldorf has since

observed, one which she never would have made if she had been reading

during her ride, as was her custom formerly. She had, every morning for

some time, observed a poor woman drawing a basket-wagon of curious

construction, in which lay a child much larger than is usually found in

such vehicles. The child was pretty, and tastefully, though plainly,

drest; but the whole establishment bespoke any thing but abundant means,

so that Mrs. Waldorf was puzzled to make out the character of the group.

The woman had not the air of a servant, and yet the child did not look

as if it could be her child. In short, after seeing the same thing a

dozen times, Mrs. Waldorf’s curiosity was a good deal excited.

She did not, however, venture to make any inquiries until it so chanced

that, in the very green lane we have spoken of—the favorite resort of

the grateful Ippolita—they found the poor woman, with the child

fainting in her arms. Grief and anxiety were painted on her honest face,

and she was so absorbed in her efforts for the recovery of the child

that she scarcely answered Mrs. Waldorf’s sympathizing inquiries.

“Oh don’t trouble yourself, ma’am! It is nothing new! She’s this way

very often. It’s the hoopin’-cough, ma’am; and I’m afeard it’ll be the

death of her, poor lamb! in spite of all we can do!” And she tossed the

child in the air, and fanned its face till the breath returned.

“Is it your own?” asked Mrs. Waldorf.

“No indeed, ma’am! mine are other guess lookin’ children, thank God!

This dear babe’s mother is a delicate young lady that lives neighbor to

me, as has a sick husband that she can’t leave. I’m a washerwoman,

ma’am, if you please, and I have to go quite away down town every day

almost, and so I take this poor thing in my basket—it’s large enough,

you see—and so gives her a turn in the open air, ’cause the doctor says

it’s the open air, if any thing, that’ll do her good.”

“You are very good,” said Mrs. Waldorf, who had listened in a kind of

reverie, her thoughts reverting to her lonely rides.

“Oh no, ma’am! it’s far from good I am! The Lord knows that! But a

little bit of neighborly kindness like that, is what the poor often does

for one another, _and don’t think any thing of it, neither_! To be sure

this babe’s mother isn’t the likes of me, ma’am, but she’s far worse off

than she has been. Her husband is what they call an accountant—a kind

of clerk, like; and he can’t get no employ, and I think it’s breakin’

his heart pretty fast.”

Here Mrs. Waldorf fairly burst into tears. “Tell me where you live,” she

said, “and say nothing to this lady you speak of, but come to me

to-morrow, will you?” and she put a card into the poor woman’s hand.

“Surely I will, ma’am,” said the washerwoman, “and it’s a kind heart you

have!”

Mrs. Waldorf rode home with her heart and head full. “How could I ever

content myself with giving _money_,” she said to herself, “when there is

so much to be _done_!”

* * * * *

“How do you find yourself, this morning, my dear madam?” said Doctor

R——, shortly after this.

“Oh, quite well, thank you!”

“What! no more lassitude! no more headaches.”

“Nothing of the sort, I assure you! I never felt better.”

“When did your symptoms abate?”

“I can scarcely tell; I have been too much occupied of late, to think of

symptoms. I am so much interested in the study of Italian that I am

going to ask Madame Vamiglia and her daughter to come to us for awhile,

and we shall have Adelaide at home to take advantage of so good an

opportunity for learning to converse.”

“And your ardor in searching out the distressed has been the means of

restoring the son to the mother! How happy you must be!”

“That is a happiness which I owe to you! and Mr. Waldorf is going to

employ Mr. Vamiglia, who understands and writes half a dozen different

languages, and will be invaluable to him. But first the family are to go

to the sea-shore for a month, to recruit; and I imagine they will need a

good deal of preparation—so that I have really no time to be ill.”

“Then you have given up the going to the Pyramids?”

“Ah! my dear sir! I must thank you for showing me better sources of

interest and excitement. I believe it must have been a little _ruse_ on

your part—say! was not that famous medicine of yours only a trick—an

_inganno felice_?”

“A trick! Oh! excuse me! ‘Call it by some better name!’ I beseech you,”

said the doctor laughing, “it was a most valuable medicine! Indeed the

whole Materia Medica would be often powerless without the _placebo_! But

I confess I could not think of sending you to the Pyramids, when there

are not only pyramids but mountains of sorrow and suffering at home,

which shun the eye of common charity, but which must be surmounted by

just such heads, hearts and purses as those of Mrs. Waldorf!”

* * * * *

THE FIRST AND LAST PARTING.

SUGGESTED BY THE LUCKLESS AMOUR OF A FRIEND.

BY C. F. HOFFMANN.

We parted at the midnight hour,—

We parted _then_ as lovers part.

The stars which pierced that trellis’d bower,

They saw me press her to my heart!

I left her with no fear—no doubt!

I left with her my hopes—my all—

I left her then,—oh! God!—without

A dream of what would soon befall.

I went to toil—far from her sight,

Far from her blessed voice away—

But still she haunted me by night,

Still murmured in my ears by day.

The hours flew by in dreams of her,

Those hours which claimed far other care,

I wasted them—fond worshiper—

In dreams, whose waking was despair!

A month—no, not a month,—by Heaven!

Had fled since she was pledged to me—

Since _I_ love’s parting kiss had given

To seal _her_ vows of constancy!

The very moon was not yet old,

Whose crescent beam our loves had lighted—

Yet ere those few short weeks were told,

She had forgot the faith she plighted!

I heard her lips that faith forswear—

And, while those lips revealed the tale,

My very soul it blushed that e’er

It could have loved a thing so frail!

Yet scorn—it was not scorn that stung—

’Twas pity—horror—grief, that moved me—

I felt the wrong—the shameless wrong,

But spared the heart that once had loved me!

Yes, faithless, false, as now I found it,

That heart had beat against my own,

And I—I could not bear to wound it,

When all its shielding worth was flown.

What though I could believe no more

In _such_ as her own lips revealed her!

Yet still when all Love’s faith was o’er,

Love’s tenderness remained to shield her.

And when the moment came to break

The subtle chain around me cast,

Like me she seemed in soul to ache

At riving of its links at last.

Could they betray my mind once more,

Those pleading looks? yes! even then,

So sweet the guise of truth they wore,

I _wished_ to be deceived again.

Ay! strangely, as at first we met—

There did, by Heaven! around her hover

Such light of warmth and truth, that yet

I, at the last, was still her lover!

And when I saw her brow o’ercast—

Saw tears from those soft eyelids melt,

I recked not, cared not for the past,

But there, adoring, would have knelt!

That moment to her lip and eye

There came that calm and loveless air,

Light Beauty, when its triumph’s nigh,

Will tow’rd its easy victim wear.

No test—no time—no fate had wrought

O’er soul like mine so strong a spell,

As in that moment chilled to naught

Love that did seem unquenchable!

We parted—not as lovers part—

No kind farewell—no fond regret

Was uttered _then_ from either heart—

We parted only to forget!

We parted, not as lovers part,

As lovers we can meet no more.

Let Time decide in either heart

Which most such parting shall deplore.

* * * * *

TO A LADY SINGING.

BY GEORGE HILL, AUTHOR OF “TITANIA’S BANQUET,” “THE RUINS OF ATHENS,” ETC.

When to my closing eye this world

And all its bright illusions fade,

And at my heart the dull, cold hand

Of Death, to still its throb, is laid;

O! Lady, let some voice like thine

Breathe, as from Heaven’s own blissful air,

One cheering tone, and I shall deem

My spirit is already there.

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

NO. VIII.—MACBETH.

If man in all ranks is liable to be thus betrayed by appearances, the

king is peculiarly exposed to this danger. Nearly all the beautiful

forms around him are but the disguises of treachery and selfishness. He

is at once master, dupe and victim. All the wisdom and philosophy he can

learn from the experience of others, or from his own, are feeble

protection against the profound and subtle duplicity which pervades the

air he breathes and every moment of his contact with his fellow

creatures. A king is as much confined within a certain circle of

information and action as the salamander girt with fire. I have heard of

the most extraordinary events of public notoriety being concealed from

royal knowledge in a manner almost passing credit. In the following

passage see how kings are duped:

* * * * *

ACT I.—Scene IV.

_King._ Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not

Those in commission yet returned?

_Malcolm._ My liege,

They are not yet come back. But I have spoke

With one who saw him die: who did report,

That very frankly he confess’d his treasons;

Implored your highness’ pardon; and set forth

A deep repentance: nothing in his life

Became him, like the leaving it; he died

As one that had been studied in his death,

To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d

As ’twere a careless trifle.

_King._ _There’s no art,_

_To find the mind’s construction in the face_:

He was a gentleman on _whom I built_

_An absolute trust. O worthiest cousin!!_

[_Enter Macbeth, etc._

I do not know whether we may safely at all times ascribe the remarkable

reflection of facts upon each other in the works of Shakspeare to the

deliberate intention of the poet, or whether we may suppose them in some

degree accidental. I am inclined to think, however, that it belongs to

the high order of genius with which he was invested to exercise a power

which, in its sphere, and with reverence be it spoken, is not without

something of _omnipresence_. Here the king has just rid himself of one

traitor of the blackest dye, whose guilt is placed beyond doubt, as it

is almost beyond parallel, by his open and nearly successful treason in

the late battle, and by his own confession. The betrayed sovereign then,

just barely escaped from the ruinous treachery of one villain—yet one

in whom he had built “an absolute trust”—after all the experience which

we may suppose him to have acquired, for he is an old man, turns to

another gentleman in whom also he builds “an absolute trust,” and, with

a wise and just reflection scarcely ceased sounding from his lips—(a

reflection to which every passing century will bear more and more ample

testimony,

There’s _no art_

To _find the mind’s construction_ in _the face_,)

he turns to the new arch villain whose dark mind is even at the moment

busily employed in calculating the risks and gains of killing him in his

sleep—he turns to his new “Cawdor” with

O worthiest cousin!

The sin of my ingratitude even now

Lies heavy on me: thou art so far before,

That swiftest wing of recompense is slow

To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserved;

That the proportion both of thanks and payment

Might have been mine! only I have left to say,

More is thy due, than more than all can pay.

Certainly were I a king I should either not read Macbeth, or the reading

of it would often disturb my peace and check the flow of my feelings and

opinions. Hence royalty _is_, and is obliged to be, closed in

itself—surrounded by cold forms and highly artificial ceremonies,

removed from the action of the common, simple and sweet impulses and

emotions of life—removed from friendship—love—ordinary social

society—from the pleasures of confidence and independence—from visits

and acquaintance-making, and many others which the private subject

enjoys and derives as much unconscious pleasure from as from the air and

sun. If I were a king I should never trust a human being. I should feel

ever as if I were led along blindfold to suit purposes, of the existence

of which I could not be aware—to injure people whom perhaps, if I knew

them, I should desire to protect—and to aid others, who, were their

real natures open to my inspection, I might perhaps be the first to

punish. I should shrink from offers of service lest, even in them who

had most served me, might lurk a Macbeth to defend, honor and ruin me.

The master of a household finds it impossible to follow with his eye or

his mind the daily course of his own domestics. Watch them as he may

they are sure of continually returning opportunities to deceive and

cheat him. Neglect and fraud and duplicity, although on a minute scale,

are in perpetual operation, the prevention of which, even when detected,

baffles his utmost address. There are few families in the world—at

least in the old European metropolises—where a certain description of

dishonesty is not almost openly practiced and even consciously

permitted. I have heard an anecdote of a master who made his servant an

offer to add twenty pounds a year to his annual wages on condition of

his swearing not to cheat him out of a cent. The valet, after

calculating half an hour, declined the proposition. In humanity, the

great central pervading principle is _selfishness_. It exists in _every

bosom_, as attraction exists in every object. In some it is modified,

mastered and even beautified by warmth of heart, sincerity of religion

and clearness of understanding. In others it is augmented beyond its

natural proportions, by the peculiar temperament and the want of moral

and intellectual cultivation. In the slender opportunities I have had of

observing the world I have been particularly and painfully struck with

the humiliating truth that _selfishness_—deepening, from the mere

instinct of preservation, into various shades of meanness, dishonesty

and crime, is the _great passion_ of the world. Men are often

intellectually and politically great notwithstanding it and perhaps in

consequence of it, but no one is morally great without escaping from its

earth-attracting and inglorious influence. This passion increases in the

bosom of the bad, in proportion to the greatness of the object. In the

precincts of a court, (although it is a vulgar error to suppose virtue

and disinterestedness may not exist there also,) it becomes more

condensed—more profound, more plausibly disguised, but more quietly and

universally pervading than elsewhere. In a royal circle nearly every

other feeling is extinct, and the pressure for favor and the sacrifice

of minor (and how much more graceful and noble) considerations at the

shrine of courtly or fashionable ambition are, to the observing eye,

very visible beneath the glittering surface of society. The king _knows_

no body. He has no opportunity of seeing, hearing or judging. The good

and the bad address him alike in the language of homage and adulation,

and he comes at last to lose his natural sympathies with the human

race—to regard them as inferiors—machines, cattle. To him they are so.

Before him they are contemptible. They too often lay aside in his

presence, and in proportion as they approach his throne, their claims to

respect and their habits of candor, dignity and goodness, and a crowd of

people are rarely presented to a king without their overvaluing some

things and undervaluing others most lamentably. At the same time the

sovereign himself, however good and great he may be, cannot well be

considered without a certain degree of regret and commiseration, when

one reflects that the hypocrisy always more or less existing in polite

society is redoubled in his presence, and that he has always lived and

is destined ever to continue to live in a mist. The unveiled face of

human nature he is doomed never to see. He is continually trusting

things which nearly concern him to men of whom he knows literally

nothing. Then Duncan with his kingly credulity hears his murderer

declare—

_Macbeth._ The service and the loyalty I owe

In doing it pays itself. Your highness’ part

Is to receive our duties; and our duties

Are to your throne and state, children and servants:

Which do but what they should by doing every thing

Safe toward your love and honor.

It is worthy of remark here, and is another instance of the exhaustless

room there is in these plays for the observation of ages, that while

Macbeth, who is ready crouched like a ferocious leopard to leap upon his

prey, is warm and ardent in his expressions of loyalty and submission,

Banquo, who is that somewhat rare character a really _honest man_, says

but very few words to his sovereign.

I have always been accustomed to think that the murder scene of Macbeth

involved one of those violations of probability so often found in works

of fiction. It seemed that the murder, which is committed as soon as the

guests in the castle are asleep, could not very well be interrupted by

the knocking of Macduff entering in the morning to awake the king. This

objection, like most of those advanced against the inspired bard,

disappears upon a closer examination and the supposed fault turns out to

be an exquisite beauty. Inverness is in a very northern latitude, and in

the summer (the season in which the crime is perpetrated) the day dawns

almost as soon as the night falls. I have never been more struck with

the beauty of nature than while watching the coming on and passing away

of one of these northern summer nights. The change is so brief and

lovely—the sun sets so lingeringly and leaves behind him such a heaven

of mild and scarcely fading glory, the stars come forth so sparklingly

and in such small numbers, and the pale silver opening of day rises in

the east so soon after the world has fallen under the shadowy silence of

the night, that, to one who has only seen the nights of lower latitudes

and who associates ten or twelve hours of darkness with every revolution

of the globe, it appears almost the luminous change of some heavenlier

planet.

That Macbeth’s deed is committed in this season, we learn from the scene

already noticed of the previous day when the king enters the castle and

remarks, for the last time, the soothing effect of the summer air upon

his senses.

I do not feel sure that all these corresponding beauties and proprieties

were intended by Shakspeare, and we have all often heard it questioned

whether he himself would not be surprised to see the exquisite things

discovered in his works. It is possible; but I do not think that alters

his merit, since the beauties really exist. In his advances into the

story he keeps everywhere nature and truth in view, and hence

consequences and effects of that wonderful proportion and perfection may

be visible to the reader not thought of in detail by the writer.

It is certain that, in the instance above alluded to, had the fatal

incident occurred in the _winter_, and had the murderers thus been

interrupted almost in the act by the incoming of Macduff and the

commencement of the routine of the subsequent day, there would have been

an inconsistency which does not now exist.

* * * * *

A NIGHT AT HADDON HALL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “LETTERS FROM ANCIENT CASTLES.”

The following extraordinary circumstance, which occurred to a young lady

whilst on a visit at the house of an English nobleman of the highest

rank, is, I believe, unparalleled for acute mental anguish and

excitement, during the hours of its continuance. It was related to us by

the descendant of a person who resided in the Hall during its

occurrence, and I have every reason to believe it to be substantially

true, in all its main features. In order to make it more intelligible,

and give it that effect to which it seems well entitled, a short

description of the place may perhaps be allowed.

Haddon Hall, in the county of Derby, is situated in the upper or

mountainous part of the county, called, from that circumstance, the High

Peak. The manor of Haddon, at the time of the Norman invasion, in the

year 1066, was given by the conqueror to William Peverel, his natural

son, whose descendants were named Avenel, and in them it remained till

towards the close of the twelfth century, when it changed possessors by

the union of Avicia Avenel with Sir Richard de Vernon, whose heirs held

it for three centuries, at which time it became the properly of the

noble family who now retain it, by the marriage of Dorothy, daughter of

Sir George Vernon, with Sir John Manners, second son of the Earl of

Rutland, in 1565, very nearly three hundred years ago. Sir George Vernon

had the proud title of King of the Peak conferred upon him by courtesy,

in consequence of his splendid hospitality, and immense number of

servants and retainers, during the reign of King Henry the Eighth.

The gray towers of ancient Haddon are beautifully situated, on a rocky

eminence, in the valley of the Derbyshire Wye, one of the many lovely

streams in that picturesque county. It is surrounded by a park,

abounding with ancient oaks of gigantic size, and a terrace garden of

the greatest beauty. This noble old place, although long since abandoned

by the family of the Duke of Rutland, for the more modern and

magnificent Palace of Belvoir, in Lincolnshire, is still kept in perfect

order and repair, and is probably the most perfect specimen of a

baronial residence extant in England. The tapestries, teeming with

subjects from holy writ and heathen mythology, still adorn the walls,

covering the wainscotings and doors; and any one wishing to exemplify

the scenery of Shakspeare, where Hamlet slays Polonius behind the arras,

has only to visit Haddon and find a true original of that from which the

immortal poet painted his terrific scene. The antique heir-looms of the

Vernons and Rutlands are all in place as they stood centuries ago. The

lofty state-bed, with its gorgeous but faded hangings, worked by the

fair hands of lady Katherine De Roos, wife of Sir George Manners, is a

splendid specimen of the period. The suits of ancient armor, in which

many a gallant knight did battle during the wars of the rival roses, are

hanging on their original pegs in the armory under the long gallery. The

chapel, in the crypt of the castle, the most ancient part of it,

exhibits huge pillars coeval with the times of the Saxons, whilst the

walnut tree pulpit and pews are richly carved with the symbols of the

catholic faith. The silver dogs, or and_irons_, are yet on the ample

hearths of the long gallery, and, at the upper end of the banqueting

hall, on the _dais_, or elevated part of the floor, still stands, firm

as a rock, the huge long oak table on which, heretofore, the lord of the

mansion feasted his friends and tenants. Over one side of this hall is

the music gallery, where the minstrels of yore played and sang, its

antique and curious front highly adorned with gothic carving. Against

the door post of the banqueting hall is the _hand bolt_—used in the old

times as a mode of punishing the domestics who had been guilty of

irregularities. It consists of an iron ring, by which the wrist of the

offender can be locked in, and secured, as high as he can reach, above

his head; and the unlucky culprit who refused to take off his horn of

liquor in turn, or committed any petty offence against the laws of

conviviality, had the alternative presented to him of quaffing a beaker

of salt and water, or having his arm bolted in, whilst a quantity of

cold spring water was poured down the upraised sleeve of his doublet,

until it ran over the tops of his boots. The iron cresset is yet fixed

on the loftiest pinnacle of the watch-tower, wherein the beacon fires

blazed during alarms in the civil wars. All, all are there; and it is

impossible to walk through the mazes of such a perfect, such a glorious

specimen of the olden time, without an innate, reverential, awful

feeling, as if you had been born and had lived during those antique

days, and were removed backward in the world many hundreds of years. You

_feel_ as if you were become part and parcel of the ancient things which

at every turn meet your wondering eye. Any stranger, used to a town

life, might well be excused, on entering Haddon, for entertaining

thoughts and feelings of a grave and sombre cast, when every article

recalls the memory of those who, for so many ages, have departed for

“that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns.”

It is now very many years ago, during the life of one of the dukes of

Rutland, who was facetiously named “John of the Hill,” from his

perpetual residence on the moors and ardor in the chase, that a large

party had assembled at Haddon to enjoy the recreation of autumnal

sports. Among the guests was a young lady named Chamberlain, of good

birth but impoverished fortune, owing to lamentable reverses in her

family. She was the companion of a lady of high rank, and as such, of

course, possessed of superior accomplishments.

Miss Chamberlain was mistress of extraordinary acquirements, added to an

energy of mind and force of character seldom to be found in a beautiful

girl of eighteen. She, with the Countess of Carlisle, whose protégé she

was, arrived at the Hall on the evening previous to the night of the

terrifying scenes about to be related.

The house being full of company, the room which the groom of the

chambers appropriated to Miss Chamberlain was that particular one still

shown at the eastern angle of the inner, or rather upper quadrangle,

overlooking the terrace garden. That particular room had not been

occupied for many months, and, as it was then October, Miss Chamberlain

found when she retired a good wood fire blazing on the hearth. She had

found in the library the earliest known edition of the immortal Dante,

and, being well versed in its language, she carried the volume to her

room. Having carefully bolted the door, before letting fall the arras

which covered it, she sat long reading the divine work. In such a place,

at such an hour, there is no doubt that the terrific pictures presented

to the imagination by the power of such an author as Dante, had much

effect in imbuing her mind with a greater feeling of awe for what was to

follow. Having closed the volume, made her toilet, and imprisoned the

last ringlet, the innocent girl turned to the antique mirror to take a

last smiling glance at those charms which had that evening called forth

many a delicate compliment from the young and gallant Marquis of Granby,

the Duke’s son. She then, with profound piety, recommended herself to

the Divine protection, extinguished her lamp, and, by the light of the

still clear fire, retired to the farther side of the great o’ercanopied

bed. She lay long awake, recalling the incidents of the day, and

ruminating on the fearful drama she had been perusing. Sleep at length

assumed his dominion over her, and the last sounds of the numerous

domestics about the hall had long died away, ere she awoke from her

first slumber, during which she had dreamed a fearful dream. The moon,

which was then in its last quarter, had just risen, and shed a faint

pale light through the mullions of the gothic window, the glass whereof,

being set in lead in small lozenge shaped squares, made that light less,

and the fire, being now all but extinguished, was not visible on the

hearth. On awaking, Miss Chamberlain fancied she heard a slight—_very

slight_ movement, or breathing in the room, but it was so like the usual

sighing amongst the old trees on the terrace, she imagined it proceeded

from them. Yet she felt some apprehension, accompanied by a slight

palpitation of the heart. Her eyes naturally turned toward the

fire-place, but she could at first scarcely trace the outline of the

mantel distinctly. After long gazing toward it, however, a horrible

impression began by degrees to take possession of her mind, that she saw

something like a human being reclining before the fire, but the idea

stole over her senses so imperceptibly, that it was long before she

could bring herself to believe it was any thing real. The antiquity of

the place, the profound solitude of the room, its distance from the more

inhabited parts of the castle, and, above all, the singularly grotesque

figures worked on the faded arras, began by degrees to force ideas of

spectral apparitions on her mind. A slight motion of the figure,

whatever it was, at last put all doubt at rest, and convinced her it

lived and moved; but whether it was human or brutal she could not

decide. Miss Chamberlain was naturally courageous, but the unusual

combination of circumstances kept her spell-bound. She tried to scream,

but the will refused to obey the impulse, her eyes were riveted on the

figure, and a cold shivering rushed through her nerves, and paralized

every effort to master fear. With eyes strained to their utmost power,

she at length fancied she could distinguish a pair of thin, bony hands,

or paws, extended over the embers as if to gather warmth from them. Then

she imagined she could see a long grizzly gray beard hanging down stiff

from its breast or chin, but the head appeared to be so low there was no

appearance of neck. There, however, the being or spectre certainly sat,

in the posture of an Egyptian mummy. A cloud having passed from before

the moon, a greater degree of light was now thrown into the chamber,

and, as the spectral visitant turned toward the place whence the ray

proceeded, the lady perceived, beyond the possibility of a doubt, that

it was a man, whose head was entirely bald, having an immensely long

white beard! The certainty appalled her—she had neither power to move

nor speak, but lay as in a trance. Although reason did not desert her,

horror overpowered every faculty, particularly when, at last, she saw

him slowly rise from the hearth—a man of gigantic stature—with nothing

upon him but the remains of a thin ragged garment. His rising upward was

so exceedingly slow, as if to avoid noise or alarm, that before he

attained a fully erect position his head seemed to touch the ceiling of

the lofty room; his long spider-like limbs were of enormously

disproportionate length, and the idea entered the appalled gazer’s mind,

that the shriveled fingers she had observed were those of a goule coming

to strangle her. The moon now showed her his giant figure distinctly,

and the dismayed lady became petrified with horror on seeing him slowly

and softly approach the bed where she lay. Silent and stealthily he

moved until he was quite near, when, gently raising the bed clothes on

the opposite side to where Miss Chamberlain reposed, he slid under them,

apparently perfectly unconscious that there was any person there except

himself. Who can describe the overpowering terror and dismay which now

seized our appalled heroine? In the same bed with a loathsome and

monstrous being whose purpose was unknown, and whose power, if exerted,

was evidently irresistible. Although utterly deprived of volition, the

lady yet retained presence of mind sufficient to know that her only

safety depended on remaining as if perfectly unconscious and immovable.

She did not dare to draw a breath—and surgeons know how astonishingly,

how completely, respiration may be checked and mastered in moments of

anxiety. There she lay, more dead than alive, almost as much paralized

as a corpse in a coffin, and there too lay the demon visiter by her

side, inanimate, and, apparently, as unconscious as a stone.

Long did both retain their respective positions, although once, in

turning his head, Miss Chamberlain felt his grizzly beard brush her

beautiful cheek. After a considerable interval, every second of which

seemed to her an age, he began to breathe regularly and heavily, the

sure prelude of sleep, and she began to entertain a hope that escape was

not impossible—provided she could so far restrain her feelings as still

to hold her breath, and remain immovable. This, by extraordinary

exertion, and a noble firmness of purpose, she was enabled to do, and in

half an hour she had the unutterable delight to feel assured, by the

uniform regularity of his breathing, that her detested and loathsome

companion was indeed asleep. But how to escape from the bed and the

room, now became her sole consideration. It did occur that, if she could

reach the door, raise the arras, and withdraw the bolt from the staple,

without disturbing the sleeper, she could soon gain the long gallery

through which she well remembered to have passed, and that, although the

upper quadrangle of the castle was now still as the grave, there were

watchmen in the lodge within the entrance tower both night and day.

These, and the noble mastiffs which she had noticed and caressed, she

fully expected to alarm in case of need.

Cautiously and gradually she withdrew one of her arms from under the

silk coverlet, and began with extreme care to draw aside the clothes,

pausing every second to listen whether there was the least irregularity

in his respiration; but finding it still uniform, she became reassured,

and at length succeeded in so far disengaging herself as to be enabled

to place one foot on the matted floor. By degrees she withdrew the other

also, and leaning on her left arm began to glide softly from the bed; in

retiring from which the slightest rustle of her drapery seemed to her

strained ear like a crash of thunder. Well nigh did she expire with

terror, when on finally withdrawing herself, the heavy breathing of her

detested companion suddenly stopped! Already were his long bony fingers

around her throat, she felt herself struggling, quivering, tugging in

the agonies of death, and her eyeballs starting from their sockets. She

felt all this, at least in imagination, as the heavy breathing ceased.

Providentially for her, although the moon now shone in full upon the

arras which covered the door, the heavy velvet curtains which fell in

large folds from the frieze of the canopy overhead threw a deep shadow

where the trembling fair one stood, and she was also partially hidden by

one of those large and high old fashioned screens, which were then so

much in use, and indeed indispensable, for intercepting drafts of air

from the huge chimneys and ill closed windows. There in breathless

anxiety she stood, as immovable and as cold as a marble statue. Although

the dreaded giant appeared to rise up, she soon had the inexpressible

delight to hear that he only turned on the bed, and that it was toward

the opposite side to that she wished to gain. Long did she stand riveted

to the spot, petrified with fear and shivering with apprehension, but

she was every moment gathering fresh courage and resolution (now that

she was relieved from such near contact with the mysterious visiter,)

and determined, with an almost preternatural impulse, that, if

assaulted, she would defend herself to the last extremity.

At length she heard the breathing become again regular, and unable

longer to struggle against fear and hope, she stepped silently but

determinedly toward the door. Cautiously and slowly was the arras raised

and put aside with the left hand, while in her right she firmly grasped

the bolt. Who can feel or describe the rapture which fluttered her

heart, as she now bravely, fearlessly and rapidly drew the fastening

from its staple! But, as it loudly started back, she heard the bedstead

crash, and the tall figure of that monstrous being leaped from it toward

her! The blood rushed to her heart as the door gave way to her

concentrated strength, she rushed from the room, and flew with wild

speed and dreadful screams, along the corridor and into the long

gallery.

If any one has ever heard the quick, sharp, _piercing_ shriek of a woman

in the last extremity of peril, he can easily conceive the terrible

energy of Miss Chamberlain’s screams to escape from her pursuer, and

awaken the Duke of Rutland and his gallant son. The deep shrillness of

her anguished cries pierced every ear throughout the towers of Haddon.

At that still moment, in the dead hour of midnight, there was not one

living creature within the walls, but started up appalled. The dogs set

up a most dismal howl, and the castle bell quickly rung out its

deafening tones on the night air. Upward of one hundred and thirty

persons, who had been reposing in confident security, were flying in

every direction. The watchmen in the entrance tower seized their iron

lamps, flew across the lower quadrangle and rushed up the stone

staircase leading to the state apartments, which they reached almost in

a second, and to their inexpressible relief found the duke hurrying

toward the long gallery, accompanied by his intrepid heir, who grasped a

gleaming sabre in his hand. The awful screams, they knew, proceeded from

that quarter of the building, but alas, if those terrific sounds had

arisen suddenly, they had as suddenly ceased, for all was now hushed and

still.

Lord Granby, preceding his father, flew toward the gallery, joined at

every step by his numerous friends, and servants bearing lights, and

arriving at the foot of the well known circular steps, which lead up to

the gallery, he found, to his horror and dismay, the body of Miss

Chamberlain lying on her face, in a pool of blood which was streaming

from her mouth, whilst her long beautiful hair and dress were in the

wildest disorder. Groans of mingled pity and indignation burst from all

present, but it was no time to stand still. The marquis threw aside his

sword, and kneeling down, raised the bleeding victim in his arms; but

all animation was extinct, and life itself had apparently left her.

By desire of the duke’s physician, the body was immediately borne to the

apartments of the Countess of Carlisle, whilst the groom of the chambers

led on the now large assembly to the apartment which had been assigned

to the maiden. On reaching it a single glance revealed that it had been

occupied by two persons, but who it was that had dared to violate the

lady’s privacy, remained a mystery, for the apartment was now as still

and desolate as when its doors were first opened to the reader.

A thorough search throughout the entire castle was instantly commenced.

As the fastening of Miss Chamberlain’s apartment was on the inside, and

could not be opened from without, it was plain that the intruder,

whoever he was, must have concealed himself there before she retired. On

this subject the groom of the chambers underwent a long and close

examination, but nothing was elicited from him which tended in the

remotest degree toward a discovery of the mystery.

It was remarked, and well remembered, that the whole of the gentlemen

had remained in the great hall long after the ladies had retired to

their respective apartments, and the eagerness with which every guest or

retainer now joined in the search, indicated their general earnestness

for the instant investigation of the subject, and the detection and

punishment of the bold adventurer who had been guilty of the wanton and

unparalleled crime. Every effort, however, was unavailing.

Meantime, by a prompt application of the lancet, and other usual

restoratives, the ladies had the unspeakable pleasure of seeing Miss

Chamberlain begin to show signs of returning animation. The physician,

however, gave strict injunctions that on the return of her reason no

allusion whatever should be made to the terrible circumstances under

which she was found, and that should she herself show an inclination to

speak of them she should as gently as possibly be restrained. The

Countess of Carlisle sat by her side, and with tender solicitude

endeavored by every means which affection and good sense could suggest,

to soothe and quiet her mind. In this she was so successful that

although her lovely protégé had a long succession of fainting fits, she

was finally near the break of day lulled into a gentle sleep, from which

after a few hours she awoke perfectly rational. When she was apparently

about to speak of her adventure the countess informed her of the

physician’s desire that she should refrain from mentioning the

occurrences of the night until she had gained more strength, as it had

been found that the injuries occasioned by her fall were so severe that

her immediate restoration could be accomplished only by more than usual

carefulness and quiet.

On the following day, however, the restriction was removed, and during

the afternoon, as the Duchess of Rutland and Lady Carlisle were sitting

beside the couch on which she reclined, she related to them nearly all

the particulars with which the reader is now acquainted, but added that

after her escape through the door of her apartment, she could recollect

nothing whatever, except a frightful concussion, as if she had been

suddenly struck down and killed by the dreaded spectre whom she supposed

to be in pursuit of her. This was doubtless occasioned by the severity

of her fall down the steps, the effect of which was increased tenfold by

the velocity of her flight along the gallery, unconscious that there was

any stair before her.

A more thorough search having been instituted in the room which Miss

Chamberlain had occupied, it was discovered that under the arras, behind

the bed, and _close to the floor_, there was a small square sliding

panel, of sufficient size to admit a man’s body. Such contrivances, in

ancient buildings, not unfrequently lead into secret passages, but here,

contrary to the usual custom, instead of descending it gradually rose

within the massive pile of stone. The walls of old castellated buildings

are sometimes of extraordinary thickness, varying from six to eighteen

feet. This dark passage at Haddon, evidently erected for purposes of

secrecy and safety during the feudal times, appeared to be coeval with

the most ancient towers of the edifice, and it was quite unknown to any

servant, or even to a member of the Rutland family. After ascending to a

considerable height it again descended and led into a subterranean

passage which was followed with much difficulty, from the decay and

falling in of the stones which once had formed the steps of stairs.

There were also two or three abrupt, acute angles, which, at their

turning, branched off and divided into others, but one of these was

always found (after following it for some distance) to end in what is

called a _blind alley_; apparently intended to mislead or waylay any one

in pursuit who was unacquainted with the intricacies and windings of the

labyrinth. The true path was, therefore, followed with extreme

difficulty, particularly as the air within it was so impure that lights

could not easily be made to burn. It was ultimately found that the

passage terminated behind a handsome gothic stone pavilion which was

erected on the upper terrace of the garden, and within a foot of the

high wall that serves as an embankment to retain the steep rising ground

of the hill park. The pavilion was overgrown with old tangled ivy, and

encircled with aged lilac bushes, pleached and intertwisted so closely,

in every fantastic form, as to preclude the possibility of ingress or

egress through them, toward the back of the building, and there was no

other way of getting at the secret entrance behind the pavilion, except

by climbing over the pinnacle stone roof, a feat impossible without a

ladder, or by going round into the hill park, and there descending by

the very narrow space _between_ the back wall of the pavilion and the

stone rampart.

The miserable and monstrous creature who had occasioned the catastrophe

which had so nearly proved fatal to Miss Chamberlain, was soon

discovered, by the sagacity of a favorite beagle belonging to the duke,

hid in the hollow of an old oak, which grew in the bottom of a secluded

dell in a distant part of the park. When found, he was lying asleep,

coiled up more in the manner of an adder than of a human being. His

appearance when he emerged from the tree was indeed frightful, as, in

addition to a stature far above the common standard, he was emaciated to

the last degree of attenuation—a perfect living skeleton. His head was,

as Miss Chamberlain had stated, entirely bald, and his long grizzly

white beard hung down nearly to his waist. But beyond all these

revolting circumstances, there was a terrific wildness in his manner and

look which might well occasion doubts whether he was not some “goblin

damned.” It turned out, however, that he was a harmless lunatic, who had

escaped from an asylum in the vicinity. How he had discovered the secret

passage leading into the castle, he could not or would not divulge. When

the keeper of the asylum arrived to reclaim him, by the power which such

people invariably acquire over maniacs he soon ascertained that for

nearly a month previously he had frequented the room which had so

unfortunately been assigned to the heroine of our history, and during

the nights reposed on the bed; and that he had sustained life in the

mean time by the exertion of that inexplicable cunning with which

maniacs are so frequently endowed, enabling him, without detection, to

plunder the butler’s pantry during the silence and darkness of the

nights.

He was a native of Darly Dale, in the immediate neighborhood, and as

Haddon, like most houses of the English nobility, was then, as it still

is, freely shown to strangers, he had probably before he was deprived of

reason become acquainted with the intricacies of the ancient Hall. The

reason why he selected it as his place of retreat on escaping from the

asylum arose, it was believed, from his having been a rejected suitor of

pretty Maude, the house-keeper’s daughter. The painful circumstance of

his rejection had bereft the unfortunate being of reason. Sooth to say,

the charms of Maude, if the traditions may be credited, had captivated

one much less likely to be rejected than her gigantic admirer—no less a

person than the then humble retainer of the Duke of Rutland but in after

years commander-in-chief of the English cavalry, who at the bloody

battle of Minden, by one irresistible charge performed at the exact

moment when victory or defeat hung vibrating in the scales, gained for

himself and his country immortal honor, by the total overthrow and rout

of the French army.

* * * * *

[Illustration: T. Webster, E. G. Dunnel.

_The Blessing._,

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

THE POWER OF RELIGION.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE ENTITLED “THE BLESSING.”

BY MISS A. C. PRATT.

How potent is its spell! With mystic chain,

Of adamantine strength, it binds to things

Beyond, invisible; reveals a world

Of such transcendance, that this lower sphere

Loses its brightness, and recedes to naught

But a dim shadow; while life’s thousand charms

Are made to vanish like the beauteous stars

In morning’s fervid rays!

Yet, radiant light

It sheds upon the dreariness of earth,

And softens down its woes; ’mid fiercest storms,

Dispenses sunshine; on the darkest cloud,

Paints a refulgent bow; aye, takes the dregs

From sorrow’s bitter fount, and brings to view,

O’er sin’s sad ruins, rising walls and towers!

With lightning’s speed, temptation’s fiery darts

Fall powerless beneath its mighty shield!

Thus, more than victor, girt anew with strength,

The soul may triumph o’er its deadliest foe!

It penetrates the dungeon’s massive walls,

And pours in floods of such celestial rays,

That they in chains sing joyous notes of praise;

Makes dismal dens and caverns to resound

With strains melodious; writes most precious words

On all around, to stay the sinking soul

When danger threatens; shuts the lion’s mouth,

Subdues the raging fire, and lends a charm

E’en to the martyr’s fagot and his stake.

A soothing cordial to disease it brings—

And ’mid the strife of earth’s rude elements,

Peace, like a gentle rill. Yea, more than all,

Irradiates the tomb, and scatters flowers

Upon its pathway; bears from death its sting;

Throws open wide the “everlasting doors,”

As earth recedes, and such an antepast

Of endless glory gives, the pinioned one

Scarce lingers for the severing of the chain,

But panting, flutt’ring, seems to strive to flee!

Smiles on the dying lip, light in the eye,

And gentleness of that last sigh which frees

Th’ exulting spirit, speak the matchless worth

And lasting solace of this gift divine—

Sure antidote for sinful, ruined man,

Star only that can light his devious way,

Blest, golden wing! on which with eagle flight,

From deepest vales of sin, and death, and wo,

He soars to heights of purity, and peace!

* * * * *