Yet there is beauty even there when green

And sunbright--there the ground-pine twines its fringe,

And the low whortleberries give the scene

(So thick their downy gems) a purple tinge,

And mossy paths are branching all about,

But if you meet a rattlesnake, look out!

Hour after hour, the stranger passing through

This member of the "southern tier" will see

Naught but the stretching forests, grand, 't is true,

But then life's naught without variety,

Though if he seeks with care to find that charm,

He 'chance may stumble on some stumpy farm,

And then the road called "Turnpike," "verbum sap!"

Now climbing o'er some mountain's rugged brow,

Now plunging headlong in some hollow's lap,

Still, "vice versa," laboring on you go,

How high soe'er the hill, it has its brother,

You're scarce down one before you go up t'other.

The people, too, who live--I mean, who stay

In their green Alpine homes, (I like a touch

Of the sublime,) presents a queer array

Of three most interesting species--Dutch,

Yankee and mongrel--and this triple mixture

Form when they meet a very curious picture.

They call one "smart" who's keen at overreaching,

"Tonguey" the babbler of the loudest din,

They'll travel miles on Sunday to a "preaching,"

And seek next day to "take their neighbor in,"

And the word "deacon," in this charming region,

Covers, like charity, of sins a legion.

And there's another race, "half flesh, half fish,"

That live where rolls the Delaware its flood,

Ready to fight or drink as others wish,

Not as they care; whose speech is loud and rude,

Half oath half boast, and think that all things slumber

When "Philadelfy" markets fall in "lumber."

Their toil is pastime when the river leaps

On, like a war-horse foaming in his wrath,

With thundering hoof and flashing mane, and sweeps

The forest fragments on its roaring path,

What time the Spring-rains its mild current thresh,

And make what vulgarly is called a "fresh."

Then from deep eddy and from winding creek

His mammoth platform the bold raftsman steers,

And, as his giant oar he pushes quick,

With song and jest his wearying labor cheers,

Whilst confident in skill he fearless drifts

By swamping islands and o'er staving rifts.

From rafts we glance to saw-mills--oft you meet

Their pine-slab roofs and board-piles by some brook,

And, with the splashing wheel and watery sheet

Flinging its curtain o'er the dam, they look,

(When tired of gazing at the endless woods,)

Though saw-mills, pleasant in their solitudes.

[Footnote 1: The Indian (Delaware) name for the Delaware River.]

THE EXHAUSTED TOPIC.

BY CAROLINE C----.

What shall I write about? A sensible question enough for me to address

to you, good reader, were I a worn-out school-girl, with a mind quite

like an "exhausted receiver" on the one subject, frightful, dismal,

and hated at all times to _her_. But, thanks be to Time, I am _no_

school-girl--and it is rather a foolish question, this same one I have

proposed, considering that for sixty long seconds my mind has been

fully determined as to _what_ I will write about this morning.

I have been looking over a file of old magazines, which are now

scattered about me in most beautiful confusion, for the sole purpose

of discovering in the steps of _how many_ "illustrious predecessors" I

am to follow, when I expatiate on that, which, by the last tale in the

last new magazine, seems to be still a marvelous object in creation,

namely, "_The Coquette_."

And oh the poems, and tales, and essays, by the Mrs.'s and Misses--the

Mr.'s and Esqr.'s, let alone the Dr.'s and Rev.'s, who have not

disdained to pour forth their thoughts like water on this exhausted

(?) topic! I will spare you, through mere Christian charity, dear

reader, from listening to their enumeration.

By this time, if you are any thing of a magazine or newspaper reader,

you must _necessarily_ have arrived at some conclusion as to this

tribe of humans. Well, what do you think of coquettes _in general_, my

friend--what do you think of those with whom you have had to do with

_in particular_? According to Johnson, a coquette is "a gay, airy

girl, who by various _arts_ endeavors to gain admirers." Natural

enough, all that, _I_ should say.

When women are blessed (?) by a kind Providence with beauty, does it

not follow rapidly on the heels of the truth, that they are meant and

made to be admired, and loved, and wooed by the gender masculine? And

when the admiration and homage of men's hearts are offered at the

shrine of beauty--and the favored fair one tastes the cup of adulation

man _forces_ to her lips, say, ye wise ones! is there any thing so

very _unnatural_ in the fact that her human heart cries "more?" Why,

even that poor, miserable daughter of the horse-leech was not content

with saying "give!" once, it must needs be "give--_give_!"

Now, in all fairness, I put the question to you--what warrior, after a

brilliant achievement in _one_ battle--after one glorious conquest

over his foes, was content ever after to dwell in a quiet obscurity,

and suffer his name to be at last almost forgotten by men, because of

his very inaction? Tell me, was that shining light so often lit and

re-lit on the Mountain of Warning for the benefit of the sojourners

in the vallies of the world--I mean Napoleon Bonaparte? Was Cortes?

Was Alexander?

What _author_, after writing _one_ book that took the reading world by

storm, ever after that blessed day laid down his pen and said, "I have

done." Did any of those glorious beings who, with their

death-stiffened fingers _can_ write for us no more? Are the writers of

_our_ day satisfied with _one_ brilliant and successful effort in the

field of literary labor? Bear witness, oh, Bulwer, and Dickens, and

Cooper, and James, to the absurdity of _such_ an idea! Wait--I would

be truthful--even as I write there comes before me a bright

remembrance of _one_ glorious bard, living, voiceless _now_--our own

well-beloved Halleck; but even _he_ may awake, and speak yet--and so

make way with _the_ exception to my rule.

And what does the warrior battle for? Tell it not in this wise,

wide-awake century it is all _for country and the good of man_! We are

a wise people, WE! Such humbugging is too ancient. Say out plainly it

is for glory, for distinction, for place in the higher room, and we

will honor you for your honest words! And what does the author labor

and strive for, through dreary days and sleepless nights? Is it for

the enlightenment of mankind--the improvement of his fellows? Who will

say that _this_ is not oftenest, when indeed it is thought of at all,

the _secondary_ consideration? Ay, yes! there are such things as poor

misguided scribblers dipping their pens in their life-blood, wherewith

to leave a mark on the pages of time, "to be seen of men!" There _is_

such a thing as a "lord of creation," _pining_ for distinction, and

braving every distress, and even death, for--Fame! Yes, we have

records of sons of Genius who have _died_ because men recognized not

the light _they_ set before them. I mind me, and I "weep for Adonais!

he is dead."

I tell you, among men it is rare to find one who, after he has tasted

the honey of applause and world-admiration, but will taste, and

continue to taste, until he has cloyed himself, and almost (I do not

_say_ quite) sickened the patient bystanders.

Is there, then, any thing wonderful in the fact that woman loves

admiration? With such noble examples before her, why should she not? I

know it has been hinted broadly that it is heartless, and selfish, and

sinful, in a woman, merely for her personal gratification, to make

wrecks of the hearts of men(!!) and that coquetting is set down among

masculines in the catalogue of sins as one of the blackest dye. But,

if man, in his wonderful wisdom, can suffer himself to be so fooled,

pray whose fault or sin is it? If he rests his happiness on the smiles

of _one_ woman, which is a rarer thing than ye think, oh, maidens!

whom shall he blame, if the smile does not always await him? Whose

fault is it if he does not _continue_ to please, when the eyes of the

fair one are awakened to his numberless "short comings?" And some day

when a more favored one of nature draws near with his homage, why

should the old lover listen in amaze to cold words and colder

sentiments? Trust me, if men would only apply to this subject of our

consideration one iota of the coolness and calmness of unprejudiced

thought which distinguishes many of their other musings, they might

some day come to a just conclusion.

But enough of this; I have given a _preface_--and I know a case in

point--more satisfactory than all _my_ arguments I think it will

prove; and I imagine it will clear me from all suspicion, or charge,

if you should prefer it against me, of entertaining wrong opinions on

this important subject.

From a far longer time since than I can well remember, till within two

years past, the Cleveland family were our next door neighbors.

Florence, the eldest daughter, was a very dear friend of mine, and I

would not make her the heroine of this story to-day, were it not for

the following fact. Two years ago the whole family emigrated to

Wisconsin; and now that they are gone so very far "out of the world,"

I think no blame should be attached to me for giving her "experience"

to the good public. Sure am I, that buried as she is in the backwoods,

she will never know that _I_ have seized upon her as a "subject"

whereabout to expatiate. But if you should chance to meet Florence in

your wanderings, reader, do not, I pray you, wound her feelings, by

touching on this topic.

Every body said Flory was a coquette--and adopting as a settled point

the sentiment that "what every body says _must_ be true," I suppose

she was; that is, she was "a gay, airy girl, who was fond of

admiration;" and I will not deny that she may have exerted herself the

least bit in the world to obtain it. But I do repel most indignantly

the idea that _she_ was artful and designing, or that she ever

regularly _set a trap_ to ensnare any human heart.

Florence, when she parted from us, was of middle height, very fair,

and her cheeks wore the bloom of early roses; her hair was of a light,

glossy brown--and, oh, those beautiful ringlets! I can vouch for the

truth of it, _they_ never emerged from curl-papers--(and by the way,

how refreshing and pleasant now-a-days it is to see any thing

_natural_, even a paltry curl!) Then her eyes, "deeply, divinely

blue," sometimes filled with a sober, tranquil, _holy_ light, and

again dancing, beaming, and running over with joy and happiness.

Though Flory was the admiration of all eyes, and "the beaux" seemed

really to have no appreciation of the presence of we poor

insignificants when she was by, yet to not many of _us_ did the

"green-eyed monster" ever whisper one bad, ungracious thought of her.

We all loved her--and a sadder set never waited in our depot the

arrival of the eastern train, than gathered there the day Mr.

Cleveland and family were to leave for a home in the "far West."

There were some, indeed, who invariably honored Florence with the

title of "coquette!" and pursed up their lips very sanctimoniously

whenever they heard of her new conquests; particularly may this remark

apply to old Widow Forbes, who rejoiced in the possession of four

grown-up daughters--"fixtures" most decidedly they were in her

household--for these four above-mentioned, were not in any way

remarkable for their personal attractions; and two of them had

well-nigh passed the third stage of woman's unmarried life! But by far

the greater part of the villagers rejoiced in the presence of Florence

Cleveland as they would in a sunbeam on a dull day; she was always so

cheerful, so generous and obliging.

None of those sunny curls of hers were visible the day Florence set

out on her journey; perhaps you think that was because ladies do not

usually travel with such appendages in view, and that they were snugly

packed away in the back part of her traveling hat. But had Flory's

head been uncovered then, I fear me it would have borne terrible

witness of the desecrating hands which had been busy about it; for the

fairy-like ringlets which had so long adorned the beautiful head, full

beautiful enough without _them_, were slumbering on the hearts of us,

her miserable, weeping cronies; and I know not how many gentlemen's

purses were freighted with like treasure.

What a silent, stupid company we were gathered there that day. It was

a bright morning--there was not a cloud to be seen in all the sky; and

Susy, the old fortune-teller, said it was a day that augured well for

their future prosperity; but that did not help _us_ any. Every body

seemed to think we were to lose one of the choicest lights of our

village--and so, indeed, we were.

At last the odious depot-bell rung--soon after the "fire-demon" heaved

in sight, followed by its long train of crowded cars. In ten minutes

the leave-taking was all over, our friends were seated--their "worldly

goods" were stowed away--another ring of the bell, that never sounded

half so remorselessly before, and away they went, over the

road--across the bridge--past the burial-ground--and on--on--on!

To my bosom I pressed a package Florence had given to me that morning

of her departure, which she bade me not open till she was fairly gone.

I need not tell you how I hastened home when I had seen her

depart--how, with just one look at their old garden, which ran back of

my father's house, through whose paths we had wandered so often

together--how with one thought of how lonely I was and always should

be, now that _she_ was gone, I hied away to my room, that I might be

alone with my sorrow. But every thing seemed determined to speak out

to me of _her_; there, by the window, was _her_ "old arm-chair;" she

had given it to me as a keepsake; and many, many a time had the broad,

leather-covered seat supported us both--so, of course, the very sight

of that gave me such a blue-fit that I threw myself into its open

"arms," and indulged in the most luxurious fit of weeping, the length

whereof might be counted by hours, not by minutes. But when I had

fairly "cried it out," (you know all things must have an end,) I went

to bed with the most dreadful headache conceivable, and opened with

more of regret than curiosity, the last "testament" of dear Flory.

It was in the shape of a long, long letter, filling many pages of

paper; but I shall not indulge you, reader, with a glance even, at all

the contents--satisfy yourself with these few extracts, and oblige

yours, &c.

"Writing is not my _forte_, Carry, you know that very well," the

epistle began, "but I had for a long time determined to explain myself

to you; and when father finally succeeded in convincing mother that

the West is _such_ a wonderful country, and that it is the best and

only place for them to safely settle _our_ troop of boys, then I made

up my mind to _write_ you what I had intended to speak. Don't think me

vain, but I'm going to be my own heroine in these pages; I'm going to

give you the key wherewith to unfold parts of my life, which you, with

others, may now think quite unexplainable.

"When I am gone, and the partial regret some will feel at first, is

worn away, and they begin with all earnestness to give me what _they_

think _my_ 'due,' and honor me once more with the flattering titles

they have given me before this, then do you, my friend, take up the

gauntlet in my defence. If I should happen to die of those horrible

'fevers,' into whose hands we are about to commit ourselves, 'Aunt

Sally,' _may_ say it is a just 'dispensation of Providence' that has

removed me; and that old Juliet Baker _might_ take it into her head to

write my veritable history, under the title of 'The Coquette,' and so

be published in one of the magazines as a warning for all who shall

come after me--an immortality to which I assure you I do not aspire.

Or Tom Harding might be tempted to discourse more eloquently than ever

on my respective demerits--drawing some of his sage conclusions

therefrom. So, dear, if such things _should_ happen, remember to stand

up valiantly for 'woman's rights,' and _me_! As I have mentioned Tom

Harding's name, I may as well, in these 'confessions,' have done with

him as speedily as possible. I know very well what all the gossips

said when it was rumored that I had 'cut him dead,' after encouraging

the poor fellow, who was really 'too good for me!' But, as it happened

in _this_ case, they were all wrong--as doth unfortunately sometimes

happen even with gossipers. Tom, since time immemorial, (you will bear

me out in the truth of this statement,) has been one of the most

_active beaux_ in our village; attaching himself, with all his

_canine_ characteristics, to every lady who was favored with the least

pretensions to beauty, and making himself vastly useful in the way of

getting up all sorts of 'parties of pleasure' in summer, and in the

winter also. It was very needful, was it not, that we should be always

on good terms with _him_, which, as a body, we managed very well to

do. As he had been _in love with_, and offered himself to at least a

dozen girls of our acquaintance, I don't yet know why he should have

thought that _I_ would take up with him at last. Now was it not

presumption, Carry? To be sure, he came to our house night after

night, and sat often with us in church on Sundays--and it _was_

rumored we were engaged; but that, I fancy, did not make the case a

clear one."

_Ladies_ may be attentive and agreeable, even over the verge of

intimacy with one another, and yet not be suspected of _designs

matrimonial_; but boys and girls, who have from early childhood grown

up with the most fraternal feelings, as soon as childhood has passed,

must be expected to give up what was a very delightful kind of

friendship, indeed; is that wise?

"The fact is, I never for a moment thought of marrying Tom Harding;

but I _did_ think him a great deal better youth than he proved to be.

When he foolishly proposed _the_ subject to me, I dismissed it again

quietly as might be, convincing him, as I hope, that the thing was

forever impossible. And I kept his secret well. No one till to-day can

say that I was ever guilty of parading this offer, and its refusal,

before my friends; and I scarcely think _you_ will consider me as

parading it _now_; or, indeed, of entering on this recital merely to

gratify a foolish personal vanity. Tom, himself, by his ungentlemanly

conduct, exposed all that ever was exposed; and his impudent, silly

behavior toward me has had the final result of making me heartily

despise him; and I sincerely hope no damsel that _I_ love will ever

accept offers, which some dozens may yet have the honor, or--which is

it? be _doomed_ to hear!

"Harry Kirkland was, indeed, a fine fellow--at least I thought so

once, for I was engaged to him within a time I well remember.

Talented, too--was he not? But, oh, what an unreasonable mortal he

was.

"When I engaged myself to Harry, I did love him truly, or what I

_thought_ was him, but you will not wonder that my love cooled before

such evidences of tyranny, _incipient_ it could hardly be called, as

he exhibited, truly in a petty manner, but giving me good,

overpowering evidence of what I might expect when the _chains_ of

Hymen should be flung around us.

"_He_ went to his Club, and the Lyceum, and became a member of the Odd

Fellows Society, so soon as there was one organized in the

village--indeed, on all points acted his own pleasure, even as to the

number of cigars he would smoke per day. And I, like a reasonable

woman, thinking all this part and parcel of his own business, never

for a moment _thought_ of interfering. But no sooner had I, in a kind

of dumb way, (foolishly enough, I confess _now_,) answered his

pathetic appeals, by acknowledging that I loved him, than he at once,

without questioning his right and title, proceeded to take the reins

of government into his own hands. And then it was incessantly,

'Florence, why do you allow that cox-comb to visit you?' or, 'why did

you go to the party last night when I was away?' or, 'how _can_ you

endure that conceited fool?' or, 'do, dear, arrange your hair in some

other style--curls are so common!' or, at another time, when I had

adorned myself with special thoughts of him, and his particular taste,

the ungracious salutation would be, 'It is _so_ strange you will wear

flounces--_I_ cannot endure them, and they are so unbecoming for you!'

"Well, I _did_ give James Thompson, 'the cox-comb,' as Harry called

him, leave to understand I was not 'at home' to him; and I stayed away

from all places of amusement to which Harry _would not_, or could not

go, (which former I came at last to know was most frequently the

case.) And I did treat Charles Wood more coolly than my conscience

approved, for nature gave to him a good, kind heart, if she did not

make him a genius. And I left off flounces, which my tasty little

'dress-maker' thought '_such_ a pity;' and I braided my hair, which

all the time cried out against the stiff bands I put on the curly

locks; in short, for six months I made a fool of myself, by giving way

to all my exacting lover's whims. It makes me shudder when I think of

what had been my fate had I married him--I should have died a very

martyr long before this day.

"I knew that on most subjects Harry's opinion was worth having--his

judgment sound; so I resolved to try what might be done on _this_

point, which certainly concerned our happiness so much. By degrees I

went back to my old habits, saying never a word to him of the test I

was intending to put to him. Perhaps _you_ would have proceeded

differently--you might have reasoned with him, and urged him not to

distress himself about affairs far too trifling for him to interfere

with--about which no woman likes the interference, even of a favored

lover.

"But such a course was not the one for me--and in the end, a person

pursuing a far different method of reasoning might, probably would,

have arrived at the same climax that I did. Wherever among my old

friends I chose to go, I went without consulting the pleasure of his

highness, who had led me about as a child in leading-strings quite

long enough. What books I liked, I read; concerning my judgment on

this point, perhaps, (not altogether unwarrantably either,) quite as

good as his own. I dressed in what fashion I pleased--and wore my hair

in the style nature intended. At one determined stroke I broke the

thread-like chains which, from their very fineness, had been more

galling to me than links of iron. I could read by Harry's look of

astonishment what his thoughts were, as he saw these changes in

me--and it was with some anxiety, I do confess, that I awaited the

result; for all this time I loved him well, though my attachment was

_not_ so selfish in its nature as was his love toward me.

"One day I sent Harry a note, with a purse which I had knitted for

him, and requested that he would accompany me in the evening, when

there was to be a horseback-party on the lake-shore. In about half an

hour much was I astonished by the return of the messenger, with an

answer to my note, and my _rejected gift_. He declined the ride also,

saying that he had a severe headache--(well might his head ache when

it contained a brain capable of suggesting _such_ a note.) After some

few preliminaries, Harry proceeded to tell me that my gifts were

altogether unacceptable so long as my heart continued not right

toward him; that I had grieved him beyond all power of expression by

the heartlessness I had exhibited _in my disregard of all his wishes

and opinions_; this strange note ended by begging that I would not

join the riding-party that night; that he would visit me in the

evening, and receive from me then any explanations I might be ready to

make.

"In ten minutes more the messenger was on his way back to Harry

Kirkland's office, with a neat package, which contained the young

man's notes, miniature, gifts, &c., with an assurance, which I wrote

with a most steady hand, that my evening ride would, doubtless, prove

more agreeable than a _tete-tete_ with him, and that, as I had no

explanations or apologies to offer, he need not be under the

inconvenience of seeking me again at home, or elsewhere. I will not

speak of the manner in which I passed that afternoon, after I had

returned Harry's _second_ note, _un_answered, and _un_opened; nor what

thoughts were busy in my mind, nor what feelings were busy in my

heart. But I will tell you this, at tea-time, when father came home,

_he_ did not reject his daughter's kiss, or the purse either; and now

it is snugly resting in the bottom of his pocket, well-filled, as I

hope it ever will be.

"That moonlight ride--you remember it; perhaps you remember, also,

that there was no gayer mortal among you than a certain Florence

Cleveland. She might not have slept _quite_ soundly that night, when

she was alone in her little chamber, but it was not _very_ long that

Harry Kirkland's image disturbed her dreams. Harry was proud as I;

doubtless he thought himself the abused one, (and _that_, you know, is

wonderfully efficacious in curing heart-wounds,) and I can readily

believe that many times since he has blessed the day that saved him

from _coquetting_ Florence Cleveland. But--you know already how

suddenly Harry moved to New York that autumn, and also how you

wondered we did not correspond.

"And what of George Stephenson? Ha! ha! I always laugh when I think of

him--_do you_, dear? What did _we_ think of him, _mon ami_, till we

discovered one day, much to our amaze, that he was engaged to us both.

"Never shall I forget that tableau we presented--being our own

spectators--when, with your head resting on my knee in the old

summer-house, you, with trembling lips, told me of that delightful

youth! and of your future prospects; and how, when you approached the

interesting climax, I joined in with you and told _my_ story, too; and

how, instead of our becoming sworn foes from that hour, two more

loving and light-hearted beings seldom took pen in hand, than we, when

we wrote that joint letter, and saved George from the fate of

bigamists! Well, there was _never_ a more captivating youth than

he--at least we must _say_ so, to save ourselves from the obloquy of

falling in love with such a _scamp_! Who'd have thought it? those very

stories of his early life, and sorrows which drew such earnest tears

from _my_ eyes. I suppose you, too, have wept upon his shoulder as he

told them. Ah, me!

"Then there was the poet, Earnest Ward. I tolerated _him_ because his

father was a college friend of my paternal, who wished us always to

show him kindness, and make the orphan feel himself not quite so

friendless. But you cannot believe that _I_ loved _him_. Poor fellow!

he is dead now. He never seemed destined to a long life to me; the

fact is, he did not possess _energy_ enough to keep him alive. And he

was eternally railing against Fate and his poverty, which no man who

wishes to gain favor in _my_ eyes must indulge in. His talents _were

not_ of that order which commands the ear of the public--and yet he

seemed to think so, and in that thought centered all his hope. There

was nothing practical about Ernest. He belonged to that miserable

class of beings, (how many of them we see about us,) who are aptly

described as having lost _their way_ in the great roads of life,

having early groped blindly past the stations they were designed to

fill. Ernest had a good deal of fancy and ingenuity--more than should

have been lavished on newspaper enigmas, and verses descriptive of the

color of my hair and eyes; he might have made a capital manufacturer,

or designer of toys. He was made, I am convinced, for some such

purpose, and might have excelled in some such _art_; but least of all,

you will acknowledge, was Ernest Ward fitted to be _my_ husband. And

well for us was it, that if he did not know it, _I did_.

"And, last of all of whom I will speak, there was Edward Graham; and

thus I fancy I hear him described by some (whom I _will_ say I am not

sorry to have left behind me,) 'a fine fellow! but driven to

desperation and to sea by that worthless flirt, Florence Cleveland!'

Now I will give you an opportunity, _ma chere_, to laugh in your

sleeve, if you will, for beyond the shadow of a doubt, I am engaged to

this same Edward Graham, who departed in such desperation; and what's

more, I mean to marry him, too.

"And how shall I explain conduct that will appear so strange as this

to you? You know Ned Graham _almost_ as well as I do; and as we both

have known him from childhood, it would be idle in me to speak of his

fine, noble, generous character, and of his _sensibleness_, by far a

rarer component of the human character than many people seem to

imagine. Our engagement was, I confess, an altogether unanticipated

thing to me, though there was always a lingering thought in my mind

that Ned approached a _little_ nearer my standard of manly perfection

than any suitor I ever had. You and I have often together admired the

outward man, so I will not now speak of those great black eyes of his,

which seem to pierce you through and through, as though they _would_

know your secret thoughts, (which, as far as they regarded him,

_could_ be only thoughts of admiration and respect.) And that manly

form, so sweet and noble, that was never yet bent by the weight of a

mean or sordid thought--that _could not_ stoop to any thing low or

ignoble. Now, when I tell you that Ned has hired himself to a

sea-captain, whom his father has known from boyhood, for three years,

that his wages (excepting only a moiety) have been paid at Ned's

request into his father's hands to aid the old man, who is now in

difficulties, when I tell you this, you will concur with me in

thinking _my_ Edward Graham the most noble and generous youth in the

world.

"Only a week before his departure _we_ made our arrangements; for

before that time Ned had never spoken to me of love--and I never heard

of his broaching the subject to any one else, did you? In three years

he is coming back again. By that time _we_ shall have become settled,

and have learned to love our new home. What farmers we shall be! Then

Ned will join us in Wisconsin--and who says we shall not be a happy

family there? And that Flory Cleveland will not prove herself quite

tractable and human, although people have dared and presumed to call

her a 'desperate flirt?'

"So, my dearest, I have given you a true history of my _coquetting_

(?) life, with the exception of those tragedies you are acquainted

with already. Frank Blake died, it is true, but never for a moment

have I reproached myself with _his_ death. He was 'found drowned,' so

the verdict of the coroner's jury ran; but have none others been ever

'found drowned,' than men who were in love? I am not jesting, or

speaking lightly now. Heaven knows the subject is far too fearful to

jest about! Could they who have seemed to delight in calling me little

better than a murderess, but know what bitter, bitter hours I have

passed writhing under their 'scorpion tongues,' they would, I think,

be satisfied. I tell you again, my friend, Frank never treated me more

kindly, or considerately, or _justly_ than he did that day when I told

him I _could not_ love him as he deserved to be loved, though I must

ever bear toward him the utmost respect and the kindliest feelings.

And when Tom Harding made that incident a theme for newspaper gossip,

I wonder Heaven had not blasted the right hand that dared to write

such things!

"You know how afterward I went to Frank's home--to his widowed mother.

She, too, turned in horror from me when I told her who I was, and why

I had come so far from my home in search of her. Go to her _now_, my

friend, and she will tell you that she attaches to me _no_ blame. Even

the agonized, heart-broken mother believed me, when I told her all

that had transpired between her son and me. She _knows_, as _you_

know, and as _I_ know, that I never won the affections of her son

intentionally, for the purpose of adding one more name to my list of

conquests.

"And of that other, whose name I will not write--he who died in the

convict's cell--my friend, _had I_ aught to do with that man's crimes?

The brutish madness with which he heard my refusal of his suit--his

dreadful downward course afterward; oh, can unreturned _love_ be the

instigator of such crimes? Had he not been a reckless youth ever;

disliked of all the village boys, whose friendship, even his wealth

and good family could not buy for him? If I would not wed a villain

such as he, where rests the blame? Oh, surely _not with me_! _I_ did

not make that festering, sinful heart of his, nor did I lure him on to

hope that I would _ever_ wed him. If love is _heaven_, what were life

with him!

"I cannot write more--_non sum qualis eram_! yet the sun shines

brightly on me still as in my childhood, and the future is _full_ of

hope. If I have cleared myself of the imputation of the folly and

heartlessness some have laid to my charge, it is well; _I_ cannot

think that my proceedings have been _very_ dreadful, or sinful; they

did not frighten honest-hearted, noble Ned Graham.

"And after this, when you see a woman whose conduct to you is quite

unexplainable, and full of mystery, listen, dear friend, and bid those

around you listen a little more earnestly, to the voice of _human love

and Christian charity_; and trust _me_, the number of women _who have

the power_ to act _long_ in direct opposition to all the better

impulses of woman's nature, is _surprisingly small_.

"If your trust continues in me still unshaken, as in the days gone by,

come ere long to Wisconsin, and I will insure you a husband of the

'free soil,' who shall bear as little resemblance to _our_ faithless

George, as my Ned does--and a home in the wilderness, this glorious

wilderness.

"God bless you, love--good bye!----."

"I have not yet obeyed the call of my friend to the far west," _now_

her happy home. Do you think it advisable that I should place myself

in the hands of such a--; but first let me ask you,

_Do_ you think Florence Cleveland was a coquette?

And--_is_ this _once_ prolific topic _yet_ exhausted?

I cannot conclude this discourse, "my hearers," without repeating to

you a song, which appeared some years ago in "Graham." It is by Miss

Barrett. Has it ever yet been "set to music?" if not, I would advise

some composer to neglect no longer so beautiful an effusion. And when

the _deed is done_, let every lady learn the song, and every gentleman

stand by and listen to it humbly. Here it is.

THE LADY'S YES.

"Yes!" I answered you last night--

"No'!" this morning, sir, I say;

Colors seen by candlelight,

Cannot look the same by day.

When the tabors played their best,

And the dancers were not slow,

"Love me" sounded like a jest,

Fit for "yes" or fit for "no."

Thus the sin is on us both;

Was the dance a time to woo?

Wooer light makes fickle troth--

Scorn of _me_ recoils on _you_.

_Learn to win a lady's faith

Nobly, as the thing is high--

Bravely, as in fronting death,

With a virtuous gravity._

Lead her from the painted boards--

Point her to the starry skies--

_Guard her by your truthful words,

Pure from courtship's flatteries_.

By your truth she shall be true--

Ever true, as wives of yore,

And her "yes" once said to you,

Shall be yes for evermore.

THE RECORD OF DECEMBER.

BY HENRY MORFORD.

Write--with the finger of the angel-born,

Upon the tablet of the human soul,

That old December, wearied and outworn,

Drags on his failing footsteps to the goal.

Write--that the Christmas bells ring on till morn

Peace and eternal pardon to the whole,

And I, before I drop my farewell tear,

Must lay December's closing record here.

Write--for I weary; Age with failing thought

Forgets the triumph of his younger days--

Forgets the changes that himself has wrought--

Forgets the lip that tuned to woman's praise--

Forgets in summer how his fingers brought

Fresh flowers in olden time for manhood's ways,

Forgets all pleasure save an old man's word,

To think of bygone sorrows and record.

Write--ere he passes--even now they come

With wailing harps and wreaths of withered flowers,

To bind his brows and bear him to his home

Amid the multitude of buried hours--

A moment's respite ere his senses numb

And the death throe seals up his mental powers;

He shall not die, e'en in his age and dearth,

Without a legacy of good to earth.

His course has been with manhood, and his name

Has changed with human years--we yet recall

How bounding onward at the first he came,

And trembled wearily unto his fall--

How in his noon of life his strength was flame,

Spurning the very hand that gave him all,

How day by day and month by month he changed,

Till Time on old December is avenged.

The air he breathes is but ingratitude

From each unto the other--from the air

Unto the Giver of Eternal Good,

And from man to the years unceasing care.

Spirit to spirit on the moving flood,

And demon unto demon in his lair,

Jarring with discord, scarcely yet set free

From the kind measure of God's harmony.

And so he gave unto the sons of men

Last winter, snow, and ice, and driving sleet,

And the cold winds, each from his northern den,

Strewed wrecks of forest branches at our feet.

Old trees all naked shivered in the glen,

And houseless wretches shivered in the street--

It was the time when poor and cold mankind

Should know the welcome of a generous mind.

Few read the lesson--there was passing by

Of squalid poverty by gilded pride,

Wealth from the needy turned away his eye,

Rich doors to richer guests were opened wide--

Pity sought out a fancy scene to sigh

And gave not burial to the poor who died--

Beside the gourmand with his food opprest,

Mothers hugged starving infants to the breast.

Oh, not for this came winter, not for this

Rolled out the storm clouds from the northern zone,

There was a hope that gay luxurious bliss

Would not be happy in itself alone:

There was a hope that wealth might stoop to kiss

Lips paler with cold sorrow than its own--

There was a hope that severed things might blend,

And man, the selfish, soften to the friend.

The old man was but young, but thankless hearts

They say are "sharper than the adder's tooth,"

And ere the Spring came, by inhuman arts

The marble forehead was no longer smooth;

Cold blasts of scorn repaid him his deserts,

Bitter forebodings grew too often sooth,

At twenty years, they say, who knew him then,

He had grown sadder than old withered men.

Spring lay upon the garden--from his hand

Showered the blossoms and the springing buds,

The songsters sang tales of a summer land,

And a new music lived upon the floods:

And o'er the scene there waved a magic wand,

And watched the spirit of the fields and woods,

Laying in golden promise on the earth

Beauties that mocked him in their very birth.

The buds of spring grew withered in his grasp,

The thorns lay hid beneath the rose's leaf,

Leaving a poison deeper than the asp,

Long as the memory of corroding grief.

Rude hands tore off the petals, to unclasp

Too soon the fullness of a lot so brief--

There was ingratitude in bud and flower,

And rude unkindness in man's thankless power.

And all the summer long the rays he gave,

To cheer the weary sons of sweat and toil,

Flashed back with blistering brightness from the wave,

And burned like molten lava from the soil.

And vainly oft the giver came to crave

A shelter from the burning heat the while,

Beneath the bending vines the welcome fled,

And yellow harvest seldom crowned his head.

They knew not, as he pressed the table seat,

That he alone had spread the groaning board,

They cared not that the master came to eat

Where one small blessing glittered from his hoard;

They knew not, cared not, how the angel's feet

Have trodden in the steps of good restored--

The furrows deepened on the old man's brow,

And sadly humankind had sped the plough.

Autumn grew brown upon the teeming zone,

Lo! here at last he should forget his pain

Amid the mellow fruits around them thrown,

With garners brimful of the golden grain,

Men should look smiling to the giver's throne,

And gentle peace sit on the loaded wain--

There was a discord when the year began,

That jarred the wider as the circle ran.

The wheat-sheaf grew into the curse of life,

And from the stalk the burning pain distilled--

The orchard mast with the dark bane was rife,

Pouring out poison as the master willed.

The purple wine-grape reddened into strife,

And in its shadow man by man was killed--

Poison, dark poison, rankled in the cup,

Pressed to his lips foredoomed to drink it up.

So should the blessing of the fields and woods

Be moulded into curses? think it not!

Cold and unfeeling man's ingratitude,

Who to the season gave back such a lot,

To drink the cup gemmed with a poison flood,

And bitter with the felon's loathsome blot;

Oh deeply on our bosoms rests the stain

That never years shall wash away again.

The wail of autumn winds was on the air,

That played with forest trunks as little things;

The demons of the storm, each from his lair,

Shot forth and hissed upon the tempest wings;

Rent from the old man's head the scanty hair,

Sung on the north wind as the cordage sings:

Little they spared him in their giant course,

The whirling winds that owed him all their force.

Again 't is winter, to the sons of men

Come forth the snow and wind and driving sleet--

Again the storm-cloud lowers o'er the glen.

Again the branches shiver at our feet.

Faint and uncovered, over moor and fen,

The weary man has come his doom to meet,

The storms of winter beat upon his head,

The record of his failing time is read.

Chill to his heart strikes in the northern blast,

Ending the season as the year began;

December hastens to his final rest,

Friendless by the dark cruelty of man.

E'en now, while to his death-couch he is prest,

A wail rings round his head so pale and wan,

And withered flowers are ready for his bier,

That mock the dying with his past career.

His course has been with manhood, and his end

Is fitting for a type of humankind,

Around whose heavy head the laggard friend

The veil of useless pity comes to bind.

The dirge of his departure shall ascend

From those who scarce recalled his life to mind,

The tide of life above his grave rolls on,

And few remember he is dead and gone.

December passes, in the opening sky

Of the new year's first morning breaks a star,

The record he has left us here shall lie

Beside us when his form is borne afar.

Bending above his last farewell, I sigh

That he has left us, ingrate as we are,

And turning to the New Year, I behold

A new-born spirit throned upon the old.

[Illustration: Overvboard in the Gulf]

OVERBOARD IN THE GULF.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF "CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR," ETC., ETC.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

"A man overboard!"

I heard the cry distinctly as the dark waters whirled me astern.

"Who?--where?"

"Heave over a coop!"

"Can you see him?"

"Clear away the quarter-boat!"

These were the cries that followed each other in rapid succession,

accompanied with the hurried tread of feet, which rose even over the

sounds of the whistling hurricane and of the roaring water in which I

was immersed.

We had been out from Marseilles about three days, and were now well up

with the Straits. A gale which had begun just after dawn had increased

with such violence that before the afternoon set in we were lying-to

under a storm stay-sail. Noticing that the heel of the boom was

chafing loose, I had gone aloft to repair it, when a sudden lurch tore

the spar from its fastenings, and flung me into the air like a ball

shot from a twenty-four.

At first I sunk plumb, as if tied to a shot; but in a few seconds

began to ascend. When I reached the surface, however, it was to find

myself whirling from the vessel's side, with a confused noise of the

howling tempest and the bubbling waters in my ears: yet over all rose

the shouts of my messmates.

I was so blinded by the water that I could not immediately see. I spun

around and around as in a whirlpool, for I had been caught in the

eddies under the stern. I looked to windward, too, for the ship;

forgetting that a heavy vessel would make more leeway than my light

person. Just as I sunk in the trough of the sea, however, I caught

sight of the tall spars pitching a short distance to leeward; and when

I rose on the next wave I took care to have my eyes fixed in that

direction. I could now behold the men in the rigging on the look-out,

and hear again distinctly their eager and excited cries. They were all

gazing to leeward, and consequently could not see me.

"Whereaway is he?"

"I can't see him--can you?"

"There--he has just sunk in the trough--no! it was not he."

"Hillo!"

"Hil-hil-loa!"

While these cries were following each other, the skipper himself came

on deck, and springing on the tafferel cast a rapid glance around the

horizon. I thought his eye had lighted on me, for, unlike the rest, he

turned to windward; but, after a hasty glance in the right direction,

he, too, looked off to leeward. How my heart sunk within me! Was I to

perish, and within hearing too, in consequence of this mistake of my

messmates? I raised my voice and shouted. I could still hear the

answers.

"Ahoy!--aho-o-y!"

"There--that was his voice certainly--can't you see him yet?"

"Ahoy!--ahoy!--aho-o-y!" I repeated, straining my lungs to the utmost.

"Hillo!" replied the stentorian voice of the skipper, the words

struggling faintly against the wind.

The ship was rapidly drifting down to leeward, and I knew that if not

soon discovered I was lost, so I shouted again.

"Aho-o-y!--A-hoy!--A-hoy!--Aho-o-y!"

The last word was frantically prolonged, and I watched its effect for

a full minute with intense anxiety. It was evident from the manner in

which my comrades on board glanced anew around the horizon, as also

from the shouts which they uttered in reply, that my cry had reached

them. I could not indeed hear their hail, but saw their hands to their

mouths as when persons shout loudly. Alas! the same fatal error of

still looking in the wrong direction prevailed among them: not an eye

was turned to windward. My heart died within me.

"Oh, God!" I cried, "they do not hear me, and I am lost. My mother--my

poor, poor mother."

I forgot to mention that, on my falling overboard, the cook, who had

been cleaning knives in the galley, had mechanically flung the board

he was using into the sea. Luckily it floated near me, and catching

it, I placed it, end up, under my chin, and thus supported my head

above the water without difficulty. But for this, perhaps, I should

have been wearied out already by the surges which would have broke

over me continually, but which I now generally rode. I also had on my

oilskin cap and coat: an equally fortunate circumstance.

After giving way, therefore, for a few minutes to despondency, as I

saw the ship drifting off, I rallied myself, and, reflecting that hope

never dies while there is life, began to consider my situation more

calmly. The comparative buoyancy of my dress, added to the board I had

so fortunately obtained, would enable me to keep afloat for an hour,

or perhaps for even a longer period, and in that time what chances

might not turn up! I knew the Gulf was crowded with vessels. I had

observed a French frigate, lying-to, to windward, just before I fell

overboard. The direction in which I was drifting would carry me near

her, when I might be more fortunate in attracting attention. I cheered

my heart with this reflection, and began to look out for the

man-of-war.

My first object, in this new frame of mind, was to get rid of my

boots, which were by this time full of water, and began sensibly to

drag me down. With great difficulty I succeeded in pulling them off;

for I had to retain hold of my board with one hand while I worked at

the boot with the other. At last I was rid of those dangerous

encumbrances, and, floating more lightly, had a better opportunity to

look around. Of course my vision of distant objects was cut off every

moment by my being carried down into the trough of the sea. No one,

who has not been in a similar situation, can appreciate the awfulness

with which I gazed on the dark, glistening sides of the immense

billows, as I saw myself sinking away from them, as if to the very

bottom of the ocean. With what horrid mockery the glassy waters seemed

to rise mountain high all around me. Suddenly, when I was at the

lowest, I would begin to ascend, as if by magic, from that gloomy

gulf, my velocity increasing every instant, until at last I would

shoot upward above the crest of the wave, like an arrow propelled from

the abyss. A toss of the head, to shake off the water, a long drawn

breath, to recover myself, a hasty glance around, and then I was

whirled downward again, half smothered in the wild abyss.

I had been overboard half an hour before I caught sight of the French

frigate. When at last I beheld her, I could scarcely restrain a cry of

joy. She was drifting rapidly toward me, and would pass within hail.

How beautiful she looked! Her symmetrical hull, that floated buoyantly

as some wild-fowl: her tall spars, unrelieved by a single bit of

canvas, except the close-reefed maintop-sail under which she was

lying-to: these, penciled against the horizon, formed together a

picture of grace and beauty unsurpassed. Now she would pitch

head-foremost into the sea; now slowly rise dripping from the deluge.

Here and there a look-out was visible dotting her rigging. As she

swung, pendulum-like, the wild and whirling clouds that rapidly

traversed the distant sky seemed one moment to stand still, and then

to speed past her with accelerated velocity. In the midst of peril as

I was I still felt all the charm of this picture.

Suddenly I reflected--what if I should miss the frigate? There were

other vessels in sight, but none in my track, for by this time I could

calculate, with some approach to accuracy, the direction of my drift.

Again the thought of my mother came up to me. I was her only son--her

almost sole hope--the comfort and darling of her old age. Perhaps even

now she was thinking of me. I seemed to see her silver hair, and hear

her mild voice once more. Then the vision of that gray head bowed in

grief arose. I beheld her in the weeds of deep mourning, bent in body

and prostrated in mind. They had told her that her child had been lost

overboard months ago, and was now a thousand fathom in the sea. I

groaned audibly. God knows, even in that awful hour, it was less of

myself than of my mother I thought!

I was now rapidly approaching the frigate.

"Hillo!--hil-lo!" I cried, waving my arm above my head, as I rose on

the crest of a wave.

I had but an instant to watch the effect of my cry, before I was

submerged again. But there was time enough to assure me that I had not

been heard.

I noticed, with terrible misgivings, that my voice was much weaker

than it had been half an hour before. Was I so soon becoming

exhausted? At this rate, an hour more would probably extinguish life.

This idea filled me with alarm, and as I gained the crest of the next

billow, I made a desperate exertion to shout both louder and quicker.

"Hillo!--hillo!--hillo-o-o!" I frantically cried.

I was still prolonging the sound when the comb of a wave went over me,

and half blinded as well as smothered, I was tumbled headlong down

into the trough of the sea, which I reached more dead than alive. I

was still so exhausted when I rose on the next billow that I could not

speak.

With agony inexpressible I now saw myself nearly abreast of the

frigate. Another descent, another mad whirl upward, and I found her

shooting from me. I was now almost delirious with despair,

"Hillo!--ahoy!" I cried. "Oh! for the love of God, hear me!"

I fancied I saw a look-out turn toward me. I knew he must have heard

me. If I could have remained on the top of that surge an instant

longer his eye would have fallen on me; but the insatiate gulf

demanded me, and seized in the embraces of the pitiless waters, I was

hurried downward to darkness and death.

When I next rose to the light of day, the man-of-war was fast

receding. I was so utterly drenched, so breathless from being nearly

smothered, that I could not raise my voice above that of a child, and

hence failed to attract the attention of the look-out whom I still saw

gazing in search of me. May Heaven grant that none who read these

words may ever experience feelings similar to mine at that moment! In

another instant I had recovered my voice, but the frigate was now out

of hearing.

Suddenly, just as I was giving way to despair, I saw in the distance a

large ship driving before the gale, under a reefed maintop-sail and

storm stay-sail. She was heading directly toward me. This afforded a

new gleam of hope. If I could but arrest her attention, I thought I

should be rescued. I forgot that it would be first necessary to throw

her into the wind, and that the risk of her broaching-to in this

manoeuvre would probably prevent her paying any attention to my cries.

On she came, racing like some mad courser, yet riding the gigantic

billows buoyantly as a bird. Now half enveloped in the driving

foam--now rolling her vast yard-arms almost to the water--now showing

her keel as far back as the dripping fore-chains, she presented a

spectacle of the most terrible sublimity. The scene around, too, added

to the awful majesty of the picture. Just as she rose on a colossal

wave, in the trough of which I was buried an immense distance beneath

her, a flash of lightning blazed across her track, while, at the same

instant, the clouds rolled away behind her, as if lifted like a

curtain, and the sun burst forth in all his glory. Never shall I

forget the sight! The after part of the gallant ship was buried in the

crest of the wave, which, beating over her quarter, flew into the

maintop itself. Her fore part had outrun the billow, and hung for a

second suspended over the abyss. Then, like a falcon stooping from its

height, she swooped down into the gulf, the wild waters roaring after

her, like wolves in pursuit of their prey.

She was somewhat to leeward of me, but nevertheless I shouted with all

my might, again and again.

It was in vain. Her crew clinging to the rigging, were all engaged

each in his own preservation, and no more noticed the half-buried

figure calling to them, than they observed the sea-bird that, like an

_avant courier_, swept the billow before them. I shouted, I shrieked,

I waved my arm frantically over my head. But all to no purpose. I

heard the fierce bubbling of the waters as the mighty ship tore

through them close at hand; I caught a glimpse of the pale and

terrified faces of her crew, gleaming out in the angry light of the

setting sun: and then the vision passed, a Titanic wave upheaved

between us, and I was alone.

Alone on the illimitable ocean! Alone while night was drawing on!

Alone with no chance of escape remaining! Far, far to leeward, just

visible occasionally over the distant surges, I saw my own vessel;

but, except this, the horizon was now without a speck.

I burst into tears. The tension of my nerves had been unnatural; they

now gave way: and, as I saw nothing but death before me, I wept like a

child. Yet still it was the thought of my mother that affected me, not

any consideration of self. My whole past life rushed in review before

me. I saw myself at my mother's knee looking and wondering as she

taught me to pray. I was a boy going to school, now chasing a

butterfly, now watching the angler from the village bridge, but ever

loitering on my way. I saw my little sister die, and after her, one by

one, in that season of terrible epidemic, my four brothers. I followed

my father to the grave, the last victim of that pestilence: I wept

with my surviving parent: I promised always to stay by her: I was her

all in all. And then, with the flight of years, came other pictures. I

was older and more adventurous, but, I fear, not wiser nor better. A

strange longing for the sea had seized me. I had secretly joined a

ship sailing to the Mediterranean, and was now on my return. But,

alas! I was never to see that happy home again. The avenging bolt of

God had overtaken me. No mother would ever weep above my ashes, no

kind hand would deck the sod with flowers. My doom was to be tossed to

and fro, midway down the depths of ocean, until the trumpet of the

arch-angel should sound.

The night began to close in. Darker and darker the shades of evening

fell around the waste of waters, and the wind, as it went by, seemed

moaning my requiem. Occasionally the lightning threw a ghastly

radiance across the water. I was cold, weary, and half stupefied. My

senses began to desert me. No longer able to buffet against fate as I

had done, I took in each moment larger draughts of the briny element.

In fact I was drowning. Things actual and things visionary--the

present and the past--began to commingle in my brain in a wild

phantasmagoria. Faces of childhood, the sweet faces of my dead

brothers and sisters, looked at me from the sky above; while hideous

ones, the countenances seen in fever-dreams, grinned out from the

spray around. Confused noises, too, were in my ears. There was music

as if from celestial spheres; then notes as if demons laughed in the

gale. Gradually all things, seen or heard, became more and more

indistinct; a dead blank swum before me, leaving only the sensation of

blackness: and then followed utter forgetfulness, the stupor of the

dead--or rather that trance between life and death, when the body is

exhausted but the vital spark not yet fled--that one dread pause

between this world and the next.

I have no recollection of any thing further, until I was partially

roused from my insensibility by a hand being laid on me. The next

instant I was dragged violently through the water, and thrown on my

chest across some sharp substance, which I concluded was the gunwale

of a boat. I fell with such force as to eject from me, as from a

force-pump, the water I had swallowed. The excessive pain roused me to

more complete consciousness. I languidly opened my eyes. I thought I

recognized familiar faces: the doubt was settled immediately by a well

known voice.

"Easy there, Jack--poor fellow! he is almost gone--now, my hearties!"

The words were spoken in the kind tone of the mate. I knew now that I

had been picked up by our ship's boat. She was lying head-on to the

waves, to prevent her being swamped while she took me up. Obeying the

directions of the mate, the men with a second effort lifted me

completely out of the water, and laid me in the stern-sheets of the

boat.

"How do you feel?" asked the mate. "God help us, we were looking for

you in the wrong direction, till, all at once, I remembered you ought

to be to windward, and so at last made you out, a mere speck on the

horizon. We had a hard pull to reach you too! At first I thought we

should be swamped. But here you are safe. And now, lads, give way

lustily."

The crew, at these words, put double strength into their oars, and

away we sped toward the ship. What a sensation of comfort and security

came over me as I felt the planks under me, and heard the waters,

which, cheated of their prey, followed roaring in our wake.

I looked up toward the mate, who, steering with one hand, was covering

me with his jacket with the other. He was doing it, too, as tenderly

as a mother wraps her babe. Oh! how full my heart was. I tried to

raise myself on my elbow and speak.

"Nay! shipmate," he said, placing his hand on my shoulder gently, as

if to press me down, "not a word. You need rest: you were three hours

in the water."

In truth, this little exertion had made me dizzy. I heard his words as

in a dream, and sunk back, while all things seemed to whirl around

me. I closed my eyes, and presently, in a whisper, the mate said--

"He sleeps. I don't think he could have stood it five minutes longer.

Who would have told his mother?"

From this time until I woke in my berth, I lay in a state of profound

insensibility. They have since told me that on reaching the ship they

thought me gone; but that by chafing my limbs, and employing stringent

restoratives they recovered me. I soon after sunk into a refreshing

sleep, and when I woke in the morning was perfectly well, though weak.

It was quite dark, it appears, when we reached the ship, so that if my

discovery had come a few minutes later, it is exceedingly doubtful

whether or not I could have been saved.

Years have passed since then, and I have rehearsed my deliverance a

hundred times, yet I always shudder to recall those terrible hours

when OVERBOARD IN THE GULF.

MY NATIVE ISLE.

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.

My native isle! my native isle!

Forever round thy sunny steep

The low waves curl with sparkling foam

And solemn murmurs deep;

While o'er the surging waters blue

The ceaseless breezes throng,

And in the grand old woods awake

An everlasting song.

The sordid strife and petty cares

That crowd the city's street,

The rush, the race, the storm of Life

Upon thee never meet;

But quiet and contented hearts

Their daily tasks fulfill,

And meet with simple hope and trust

The coming good or ill.

The spireless church stands plain and brown

The winding road beside;

The green graves rise in silence near,

With moss-grown tablets wide;

And early on the Sabbath morn,

Along the flowery sod,

Unfettered souls, with humble prayer,

Go up to worship God.

And dearer far than sculptured fane

Is that gray church to me,

For in its shade my mother sleeps,

Beneath the willow-tree;

And often when my heart is raised,

By sermon and by song,

Her friendly smile appears to me

From the seraphic throng.

The sunset glow, the moon-lit stream

Part of my being are;

The fairy flowers that bloom and die,

The skies so clear and far.

The stars that circle Night's dark brow,

The winds and waters free,

Each with a lesson all its own

Are monitors to me.

The systems in their endless march

Eternal truth proclaim;

The flowers God's love from day to day

In gentlest accents name;

The skies for burdened hearts and faint

A code of Faith prepare;

What tempest ever left the heaven

Without a blue spot there?

My native isle! my native isle!

In sunnier climes I've strayed,

But better love thy pebbled beach

And lonely forest glade,

Where low winds stir with fragrant breath

The purple violet's head,

And the star-grass in the early spring

Peeps from the sear leaf's bed.

I would no more of tears and strife

Might on thee ever meet,

But when against the tide of years

This heart has ceased to beat,

Where the green weeping willows bend

I fain would go to rest,

Where waters lave, and winds may sweep

Above my peaceful breast.

SONNET.

SUGGESTED BY THE GREAT MOVEMENTS IN EUROPE.

BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

To marshal you, oh army of the Poor!

The spirits of the Past have back returned--

They who once toiled for you, though crushed and spurned;

Toiled, that while Truth and Freedom evermore

Might guard the olive of the lowliest door:

He, the Great human Type, for whom men yearned,

And longed in prophecy, for you, who mourned:

And they, the martyrs, red at every pore:

The blood-sown Truth of all these mighty dead

Ye have ingarnered, and the fruit appears

Nursed unto giant growth to the full days--

Now, Lebanon is shaken--Isles outspread

Amid the seas are stirred--they who sowed in tears

In gladness now the harvest paean raise.

ROCHESTER'S RETURN.

OR THE KING OUTWITTED.

BY JOSEPH A. NUNES.

CHAPTER I.

"We shall see," gentlemen, said King Charles, as he strode with a

hasty step across the apartment, "whether my lord of Rochester's

presence is as essential to the court and to the amusement of the

king, as his vanity induces him to suppose."

"The expression was a thoughtless one," observed the young Count de

Grammont, who was present, "and doubtless not intended for your

majesty's ears."

"Yet it was made, De Grammont," replied the king, "and, by the soul of

St. Paul! he shall be responsible for it. Rochester presumes too much

on our clemency, which he has so often experienced, but which he shall

have no reason to slight again."

"Be merciful, my liege, for the sake of his wit," said the Duke of

Buckingham, with an ill-concealed smile at the king's petulance.

"Better he had none, George," replied the king, "for he knows not how

to use it. Odds-fish! he as essential to Charles as Charles to him! We

have more wits at court, my lords, than Rochester. There's yourself,

Buckingham, and De Grammont, there, and Killegrew, Sedly, and a dozen

others who can make a pigmy of this Goliah!"

"But your majesty will limit the period of his disgrace?" asked De

Grammont, who was sincerely friendly toward the obnoxious earl.

"We will put this limit to it, and none other," replied Charles. "When

Rochester's wit is seductive enough to induce his king, personally, to

wait upon him three several times, or to command his presence at

court, then he may return, and not before; but come, gentleman, we

have other things to attend to this morning without wasting time upon

an ingrate."

CHAPTER II.

The wittiest man at the wittiest court in Europe--that of Charles the

Second of England--was undoubtedly John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester; and

innumerable are the anecdotes that have been related of him in

connection with his friend and sovereign, Charles. Rochester's wit,

however, sometimes resulted in inconvenience to himself, and was

occasionally the means of having him banished from the court. This

circumstance generally occurred at least once a year, and sometimes

oftener, as in seeking amusement for himself and friends, he held

nothing sacred. Persons and things alike shared his satire and his

wit, and even majesty was not always exempt from the shafts he

lavished so freely on all sides.

The dialogue detailed in the last chapter was the result of one of

those indiscretions. He had presented Charles to the court in so very

ridiculous a light, that the monarch became highly incensed, and

banished him from his presence. Rochester, at the time, happened to be

engaged in an intrigue with one of the maids of honor to the Duchess

of York, which made this interruption to his avocations the more

unpleasant than it otherwise would have been. He bore it, however,

with his usual humor, and left the court, declaring that his disgrace

could not be of long duration, as he was quite as indispensable to

Charles as Charles was necessary to him, and that within two months he

would be recalled.

This inconsiderate boast had, as we have seen, been as inconsiderately

repeated to the king, and resulted in the monarch's declaration that

Rochester should not return to court until his wit had induced him,

Charles, either to wait upon him three several times, or to command

his presence.

The Count de Grammont took an early opportunity of communicating this

resolution to his friend, and though he was himself sanguine in his

hopes, and fertile in his invention, he was not a little surprised at

the indifferent, not to say facetious, manner of its reception by

Rochester.

"I accept his majesty's challenge," exclaimed the wit, laughing; "and

by Miss Hobart's wrinkles, and the fair Temple's smiles, I swear, I am

now disposed to say that within a single moon our sacred, sapient king

shall command the presence of his most melancholy subject; ay, and

wait upon him, too."

"Be not too confident, _mon chere ami_" said De Grammont, "for this

time, for a wonder, our Charles is serious, and he must work deeply

and sharply who outwits him."

"But he shall be outwitted, O, most unbelieving of infidels!" cried

Rochester, "if thou wilt only prove true to me."

"Thou hast me as sure as thy blade," replied the count.

"Then within a month," said the earl, "the smiles of Rochester shall

once more illuminate the court; and those who sigh in sadness now

shall confess that the sun shone not during his absence. Do you but

second my projects, and obey my behests, and Charles shall admit that

he is no match for Rochester."

"But whither go you now to banishment?" asked De Grammont, as

Rochester rose to leave him.

"You shall hear from me anon," replied the earl; "I go to make an

actress of my lady's maid, and to study snares for the king."

CHAPTER III.

Rochester left London for a day or two to conceal the traces of his

whereabouts; but disguising himself completely, and assuming the

habit of a simple citizen, he soon returned, and selected an

ostensible residence, where he intended, for the time, to appear in

the character he had adopted.

Chance, in this vagary, had given to Rochester, as a host, a gentleman

and a soldier, who had once been an equal and a companion.

A cavalier officer, and one of the most devoted to his king, Colonel

Boynton, had fought in almost every battle against the troops of the

parliament, and distinguished himself sufficiently in several to

attract the royal notice, and to elicit the commendation of his king.

With the loss of the royal cause, Colonel Boynton retired, wounded

both in person and in fortune, to private life, where, in the society

of his wife and infant daughter, he strove to forget the downfall of

the unfortunate though guilty Charles, and the ruin of his family.

The triumph of the parliamentary cause still further affected

Boynton's fortunes; yet, when some years after he knew that the sons

of his royal master were fugitives in a foreign land, and in pecuniary

distress, he did not hesitate to impoverish himself in order to

minister to their necessities; trusting to Providence and his own

exertions for his immediate wants, and to the re-establishment of the

monarchy and the royal gratitude for his future fortune.

Colonel Boynton had lived to see the son of the First Charles ascend

the throne; but his just expectations, with regard to his own fortune,

had not been realized. Too proud to present himself to the royal

notice to claim the reward of his services, and the return of his

advances, when he thought that gratitude required he should be sought

out, he languished, with his daughter, who had now grown up to be a

beautiful maiden, neglected and unnoticed in a condition not many

degrees removed from absolute want; struggling for the means of

existence, and cherishing each hour increased feelings of bitterness

against the king and the court.

It was with Colonel Boynton that Rochester now took up his abode, nor

was it long before he recognized the heroic soldier of former times;

and wild, reckless and dissipated as Rochester was, he could not help

deeply sympathizing with the condition of Boynton, and determining to

assist in having justice done to him. But from the Colonel himself he

met with an impediment he had not expected; for when, in his assumed

character, (Rochester did not disclose himself,) he suggested the

king's ignorance of his existence and urged him to present himself to

the monarch's notice, the old soldier unhesitatingly and indignantly

refused, alleging proudly, that it was not for him personally to

quicken the king's memory, adding, that if his services could be so

easily forgotten, he was satisfied they should forever remain in

oblivion.

Notwithstanding this unexpected obstinacy the earl resolved to serve

the veteran and his motherless child, and he conceived a plot at the

same time, by which he purposed making the colonel's history

subservient to his design of outwitting the Merry Monarch.

CHAPTER IV.

A fortnight had hardly elapsed since the retirement of Rochester from

court, when the reputation of a German doctor--said to be a wonderful

astrologist--began to be generally noised about. He had located

himself, on his arrival, in an obscure corner of the city of London,

and his practice was at first confined to valets, waiting-maids, and

such like persons; but so astounding and veracious had been his

disclosures to these, that his fame rapidly reached the upper circles,

and aroused the curiosity of the lords and ladies of the court. No

sooner had he obtained this run of custom than he became a made man,

with every prospect of a speedy fortune before him; for the displays

of his art, with which he had petrified his more humble patrons,

carried no less astonishment amongst the more fashionable ones, who at

first affected to disbelieve in it, and who originally sought only to

while away the tedium of an idle hour by laughing at the grossness of

his impositions. But he had overwhelmed them with consternation by his

knowledge, and his information of the intrigues with which they were

all more or less connected; he covered them with confusion for

themselves, at the same time that they could not withhold their

admiration of his skill. He was quickly esteemed a wonderful man, to

whom all hidden things were open, and who could decipher the pages of

the past and future as readily as he could read the events which were

transpiring around him.

Now to pretend that any supernatural powers had been displayed by the

learned astrologer, Doctor Herman Von Lieber, (for that was the name

under which this tenth wonder suffered himself to be known,) would,

perhaps, be going too far; though it was certain that he possessed a

knowledge of persons, and of the history of individuals who sought

him, that was really startling; and if we consider that the

development of personal matters of scandal, which we thought confined

to our own breasts, is more apt to astound us than effects which are

positively inexplicable and beyond the reach of human ken, we will not

be surprised at the celebrity which our astrologer suddenly acquired.

All the court was in commotion at his disclosures, and the royal

curiosity had been excited.

Late one afternoon the Chevalier de Grammont proposed to the king the

idea of disguising themselves and paying a visit to the astrologer,

who had created so great a sensation; and the monarch, who was anxious

that the time until evening--when he, with the chevalier, had a new

adventure to inspire them--should pass rapidly away, consented readily

to the suggestion.

At the residence of the astrologer they found all the arrangements of

the most singular character. They were met at the door by a couple of

Ethiopeans, fantastically dressed, who conducted them, without

question, through a suit of dim-looking apartments to one which would

have been quite dark, had its gloom not been relieved by a few small

antique lamps, whose light barely sufficed to disclose the necromantic

arrangements of the room and the untranslatable hieroglyphics around.

After bidding them be seated, one of the blacks approached a

strange-looking table, and rang a small silver bell, then lighting

another lamp, which in burning dispersed an aroma through the room,

he, with his companion, left our adventurers to themselves.

"Odds-fish, De Grammont," exclaimed the king, as the door closed, "the

sorcerer knows enough of human nature to commence his tricks by

astonishing the outward senses, thereby rendering the conquest of the

intellectual man the more simple."

"This looks necromancy, certainly;" replied De Grammont, "but let us

see further before we confess ourselves bewitched, even by so great an

adept."

At this moment a door at the further end of the apartment opened, and

a tall, stately, venerable looking man entered. His dress was almost

grotesque, but there was a certain dignity about it which redeemed it

from being entirely so. It was surmounted by a magnificent robe

trimmed with sables and decorated with a variety of unknown orders.

Upon his head he wore a richly wrought velvet cap, from beneath which

his long silvery hair escaped and reached quite down to his shoulders.

"Men seek me," said the astrologer, (for it was him) "but for two

purposes: either to have the past rehearsed to them, or to lift the

veil of time and unravel the mysteries of the future. For which of

these do you come?"

"Most learned doctor," said Charles, smiling at his companion, "we

come for both purposes; but more especially are we here to test that

wisdom, the reputation of which has reached the four corners of the

earth and filled the most profound with wonder."

"You sneer, my son," observed the doctor, gravely, "but nevertheless

your wishes shall be gratified, for even a skeptic may be made a

believer. Shall I expound the past to you?"

"First enlighten my incredulous companion as to his fate," replied

Charles, "and then I will judge how far you can speak of mine."

"Give me the hour of your birth," said the doctor, turning to De

Grammont, "and I will consult the stars in reference to your fortune."

De Grammont did as he was desired, and the astrologer left the

apartment. In a few moments he returned.

"You are not what you seem!" he said, seating himself, and addressing

De Grammont.

"Pray heaven you prove me no worse," replied De Grammont, laughing; "I

am a thriving merchant, though I would fain be a lord or a duke."

"The merchandise you deal in," said the astrologer, "is to be found in

the mart of fashion, where frailty, unrebuked, boldly lifts its head

by the side of innocence, making the latter undistinguishable Thou

hast naught to do with those wares that make a nation's commerce."

De Grammont laughed as he asked him of his parentage and past

fortune.

"You are nobly derived," replied the astrologer: "you have been the

companion of kings."

"Tut, tut!" exclaimed Charles, "thy art discloses naught. Thou wilt

surely make me an emperor if my friend is already the companion of

kings."

After a few more questions, which were as shrewdly answered by the

adept, it became the disguised monarch's turn to learn his fate.

"Yours has been a checkered life," the doctor said, when he had, as

before, consulted the stars. "The planets show that you have been

beset by as many and as great vicissitudes even as the monarch now

seated upon England's throne, and that thou hast profited as little by

them."

Charles exchanged a smile with De Grammont, as he said--

"I thought you had a throne reserved for me, though I fear me 'tis in

the moon it must be fixed. Prove but your words, however, and thou

shalt be my chief favorite."

"That," replied the astrologer, "is too precarious a place for me.

They say that Rochester is banished from King Charles's court, and

what hope could I have of pleasing if he could be dispensed with?

Nevertheless, I'll prove my words."

"Tell me, then, of the present," said Charles.

"I'll tell you of a war, and a concluded treaty of peace, that the

world knows not yet of."

"With what nation, most sapient sir?" asked the monarch, laughing.

"With a woman!" replied the doctor. "There is one, who this morning

was styled a countess, and, as such, waged war against you; the

preliminaries of peace have been signed, and she is now the Duchess of

Cleveland, for which concession she has consented to abjure the

society of St. Albans' nephew, Jermyn, and to meddle no more with his

Majesty's passion for the pretty Stewart!"

"Thou dealest with the devil!" exclaimed the monarch, startled into an

awkward admission.

"_I deal with the stars_," replied the doctor, gravely, "_and they are

unerring guides_."

"Let them speak of the future, then, and perchance I may think so."

"There is a bird a monarch seeks to cage, though the trembler knows

him not. This night he hies to her bower in a strange habit, and hopes

to win her thence; but let him take heed that more eyes look not on

him than the young bird's; she may escape, and he be unmasked."

"Odds my life! my friend, I think thou knowest me," cried Charles,

laughing, as he drew a purse from his belt.

"The stars proclaim thee England's king," replied the astrologer, as

he bent his knee to the monarch.

Charles satisfied himself by asking a few more questions, then threw

the doctor his purse, and, bidding him come to the palace to receive

another, he departed.

The doctor reseated himself, and taking off his cap and venerable wig

he disclosed the now easily recognized features of the Earl of

Rochester.

Rochester indulged in a hearty fit of laughter, as he muttered to

himself,--"Already you have been outwitted once, friend Charles,

thanks to De Grammont's aid, and shall be thrice, or Rochester will

confess himself a fool, and unworthy to be recalled."

CHAPTER V.

When Rochester casually stopped, an hour after the king's visit, at

the humble residence of Colonel Boynton, he was surprised to find much

confusion there. Two rough-looking strangers seemed to have taken

possession of the apartment usually occupied by the veteran. The

unfortunate old man stood passive, cold, and immoveable, while his

pretty daughter Margaret hung round his neck, weeping bitterly, and

pleading alternately with him and with the strangers, who--the

instruments of a flinty-hearted creditor--seemed quite unmoved by her

touching sorrow.

"What is this, my good friend?" asked Rochester, taking the colonel by

the hand.

"'Tis nothing," he replied, with a quivering lip, as he turned his

gaze upon his daughter; "I have been deficient in punctuality to an

impatient creditor, and he thinks the discipline of a prison may

quicken my memory and resources."

"Out upon him, the hard-hearted knave!" exclaimed Rochester, "he

should have his ears slit to teach him better manners."

"Oh, sir, speak to them!" cried Margaret, pointing to the officers;

"they refuse to let me bear my poor father company."

Rochester took the commitment from one of the men, and glancing at the

amount of the debt, proceeded at once to liquidate it from the king's

purse.

"Hold, sir!" said Boynton, interposing. "I thank you from my soul for

your intentions, but I cannot consent to receive charity from mortal

man."

"I had no thought of charity, my excellent friend," said Rochester;

"'tis only to exchange places with your creditor that I intend, and

shall, at your earliest convenience, expect payment at your

hands.--Think," he added in a lower tone, "of this fair girl, and

leave not her youth and inexperience exposed to the temptations and

corruptions by which she would be surrounded in your absence."

This argument was too powerful to be resisted. The gallant old colonel

shook his friend's offered hand, as he suffered him to pay the debt,

and dismiss the myrmidons of the law.

"I say it is no obligation," Rochester observed, in reply to the

veteran's reiterated acknowledgments; "fortune has smiles in store for

you yet, nor will they be withheld much longer. I must leave you now,

though," he said, smiling at a passing idea, "for I have this night to

superintend the planetary influences, in order to prevent the

prognostications of the stars from failing."

The colonel looked after him as he departed, but without comprehending

a word of his astrological remarks.

CHAPTER VI.

In a house remote from the one in which King Charles experienced his

last adventure with the pretended astrologer, he sat again, disguised

in the undress uniform of a naval officer, with his arm encircling the

neat waist of a remarkably pretty girl.

She affected to allow this liberty reluctantly, yet there was that in

her large black eyes and mischief-loving countenance which

contradicted the attempted coyness she at first evinced.

"So, they call thee Margaret?" said the king, as he leaned his face

against her curls.

"Yes, Master Stuart."

"And thou art poor, Margaret?"

"Alas! yes," she replied, "my father was once a royalist officer, and

rich; but the civil wars and his sacrifices for his king left him

penniless and friendless."

"It has been the fate of many besides him," the monarch observed.

"Those same wars were, at one time, the ruin of my own family. But

thou, Margaret, shalt be poor no longer. Thou shalt leave this home of

penury with me, and I will make thee rich."

"Nay, sir," she said, as he attempted to kiss her, "be not so tender

with your kindness. I fear already thy sympathy and its motive."

"Fear nothing from me, pretty one," said Charles, clasping her closely

to him.

"Why are we here alone?" she asked, seeming to realize, and be

startled at the idea, for the first time; "where is the friend who

introduced you--where is Master Granby?"

"He will be here anon, pretty Margaret," replied the king, "his own

affairs have called him hence for a time. Heed him not, though, my

sweet trembler, my Peri of perfection, my Houri of Paradise! thou art

safe with me, and with me thou shalt hie away to regions where love

will smile upon thee, and gold will pour in perpetual showers in thy

lap."

The monarch became so inexpressibly tender that the maiden, in her own

defence, was compelled to scream. After a moment's lapse an

approaching step upon the stairs warned the precipitate lover to defer

the prosecution of his suit to a more auspicious occasion. He hastened

to the door, but, to his astonishment, found it fastened, and on

trying the window, that, too, had been externally cared for.

"De Grammont has betrayed me!" he exclaimed, as he drew a concealed

pistol from his belt and prepared to confront the coming danger.

His apprehensions, were, however, groundless, for the only person who

entered the room was a tall, athletic looking old woman, in her night

dress, wearing a remarkably heavy pair of shoes. She placed her candle

upon the table and walked deliberately up to where the young girl was

sitting. Seeing her she started back in astonishment.

"Are you here, Margaret?" she exclaimed; "beshrew me, I thought thee

asleep two good hours ago, instead of throwing thy company away upon a

young man, and a stranger. Away with you, mistress, to your bed! You

are unworthy to be called your father's daughter."

"Nay, good dame, be not so hard with pretty Margaret," said Charles,

as he saw the young girl leaving the room with her handkerchief to her

eyes.

"Out upon thee, sirrah, for a knave!" retorted the old woman; "I'll

see directly who thou art, sir jack-a-napes. To thy chamber, Miss, and

thank Heaven for thy father's misfortune, which prevented his being

here this night."

When the girl had gone, she took up the light, and approaching the

king, scrutinized him closely from head to foot.

"Well, mother," he said, as he suffered her to proceed with the

examination, "find you aught here to fear?"

She was gazing at the moment at his face, and she started back as she

spoke.

"Much, much to fear!" she replied, "for I see here the features of a

king! When we find the wolf in the sheepfold we may slay him, but who

dare approach the 'lion!'

The king was filled with amazement at being recognised; but without

suffering his surprise to be evident, he endeavored to ridicule the

assertion.

"True, dame," he remarked, "they call me the king of good fellows; but

as for a lion, the comparison is somewhat strained; it would be more

apt with a longer-eared animal, for suffering myself to be trapped

thus sillily."

The old woman seized his hand, and after pointing to the royal signet,

dropped it.

"Charles Stuart, King of England, thou canst not deceive me!"

"Faith," said the king, laughing, "methinks this is another astrologer

in petticoats!"

"And is it to his king," exclaimed the old woman, reproachfully, "that

the unfortunate Colonel Boynton is indebted for a base attempt upon

his daughter's honor, at the very moment when he himself is the tenant

of a prison for having, by his loyalty, impoverished himself! Is this

the reward for the blood he has shed, and the honorable wounds he has

received in fighting your battles, and for hastening to offer you his

last penny in a foreign land, even when his own family was persecuted

and destitute at home!"

"Colonel Boynton!" cried Charles, as the old woman concluded; "surely

not the brave Boynton who served so nobly at Edge Hill, Naseby, and

Worcester, and who came to relieve his royal master's wants when he

was a wanderer and an outcast among strangers? This cannot be his

child, nor can he be living. They told me years since, when I caused

inquiry to be made for him, that he was dead."

"He knew not that his king had ever sought for him," the old woman

said; "he thought his services and his sacrifices in the past had been

willfully forgotten, and his proud spirit scorned to thrust unpleasant

recollections upon you."

"Poor Boynton! poor Boynton!" exclaimed Charles, "this has, indeed,

been ingratitude to one of the most deserving and faithful of my

subjects. Said you, my good woman, that he is now in a prison, and

for debt?"

"Ay, my good lord."

"There, there!" said Charles, hastily handing her a weighty purse,

"see that he is relieved at once--this night, if it be possible--and

bid him in the morning wait upon his king, whose greatest regret is

that he has not met with him sooner."

"Will your majesty _write_ your request for him to come to the palace?

he may be somewhat skeptical of your royal solicitude."

"Assuredly," replied the king, as he took up a pen from the table and

drew a sheet of paper toward him; "and do you also bear him company."

"Add, then, if your majesty pleases, that you desire the _bearer_ also

to appear."

The king looked at her an instant, then did as she suggested.

"And now, dame," said he, "relieve me from my durance, and allow me to

depart."

She hastily unfastened the door, and the king passed out. "Be sure,"

said he, as he lingered a moment at the threshold, "that you bring my

pretty Margaret with you; her fortunes, too, must be advanced at

court."

The old woman, after carefully fastening the door, threw herself into

a chair, and gave vent to a hearty burst of laughter.

"There, Nancy, you can come down," exclaimed the familiar voice of

Rochester, as the figure of the quondam Margaret appeared again upon

the stairs. "Thou art a good girl, and I will make thee a capital

actress yet. Old Rowley has again been outwitted!"

CHAPTER VII.

The next morning three strangers--two old men and a young girl--were

admitted to the palace of Whitehall, on showing the king's order to

that effect, but only one of the men was immediately conducted to the

king's presence.

The Count de Grammont, (who had made his peace for his seeming

desertion of the previous evening,) Lord Arlington, and Sir Charles

Sedly, were with the king when Colonel Boynton was announced.

The old man knelt at the monarch's feet, and taking his hand, kissed

it fervently.

"Rise, my gallant old friend, rise!" said Charles, assisting him as he

spoke; "it gives us joy to see one so faithful, and so long neglected,

once more near our person. Our greatest grief is that so tried a

servant, and so brave an officer as Colonel Boynton should have been

in adversity and we not know even of his existence; but you shall be

cared for, my old friend, and the future shall prove to you that

Charles knows how to be grateful to those who have served him when he

most needed services."

"Your majesty is over bountiful to one who wronged you by supposing

you capable of injustice. For this I crave your royal pardon, and also

for another and more heinous offence."

"Thou hast it," replied the king, "even if the offence be treason

against ourself."

"It is the offence of having imposed upon my sovereign," exclaimed a

voice that made the king start, while Rochester, ridding himself of

his disguise, knelt before him.

"By my life, it is Rochester!" cried the king, starting back from the

prostrate earl, while every one present, except De Grammont, was

filled with amazement at the sudden transformation of Colonel Boynton.

Charles was at first disposed to laugh, but recollecting his outraged

dignity, he restrained himself, and addressed his banished courtier in

terms of considerable severity.

"This presumption, my Lord Rochester," said he, "ill becomes you; nor

can the insult to your king be easily atoned for."

"Pardon me, my liege--" Rochester commenced.

"By what authority," said the king, interrupting him, "have you

ventured to intrude yourself upon our presence, contrary to our

express commands?"

"Simply by this, my gracious liege," replied the earl, handing the

paper he had received the previous evening, and pointing to the word

_bearer_.

"That, sir, was given to another, and a worthier person than the Earl

of Rochester."

"I might, your majesty," said Rochester, lowering his voice, and

approaching nearer to the king, "defend myself from the insinuation,

but I am prevented by a powerful reason, for, when we find the wolf in

the sheepfold, we may slay him, but who dare approach the lion."

Charles was astonished at hearing the old woman's words repeated, but

the fear of his own exposure somewhat mollified his anger.

"So, then, thou wert thyself in masquerade?" he said; "and with whom

hast thou dealt to put this cheat upon me."

"I deal with the stars," replied the earl, assuming as nearly as

possible the tone of the astrologer, "and they are unerring guides."

"Odd-fish, my lord," exclaimed Charles, now laughing heartily, "and

were you the necromancer, too?"

"And Colonel Boynton, too, my liege; and all for the purpose of

inducing your majesty to keep your royal word, which said, 'When

Rochester's wit is seductive enough to induce his king, personally, to

wait upon him three several times, or to command his presence at

court, then he may return.'"

"I think, my lords, I have been fairly caught," said the king,

smiling, and speaking to those around him, "and to keep my word

inviolate, must permit Rochester's return."

"To prove that I am not ungrateful for your majesty's goodness,"

observed the earl, "I am prepared to produce the objects of your

solicitude--Colonel Boynton and his fair daughter--they wait your

royal pleasure."

On the introduction of the venerable colonel and the pretty Margaret,

the king whispered to Rochester, "Surely, my lord, this is not the

girl I saw last night?"

"No, your majesty," replied the earl, "she was a pupil of my own."

Charles, in a few words, satisfied Colonel Boynton that the neglect of

his faithful services had been owing entirely to misapprehension. He

gave him at once a position which secured him against future reverses;

nor was it long before his interesting daughter found a husband worthy

of her choice.

Rochester's Protean exploits afforded amusement to the court for some

time. Charles bore the raillery he heard around him philosophically,

and good humoredly admitted that he had been completely outwitted.

LOVE THY MOTHER, LITTLE ONE.

BY RICHARD COE, JR.

Love thy mother, little one,

Love her tenderly;

Clasp thy little arms around her,

For a holy tie hath bound her--

Bound her close to thee!

Love thy mother, little one,

Love her tenderly!

Love thy mother, little one,

Love her earnestly;

Gaze into her eyes, and see there--

All that thou couldst hope to be there--

Warmest love for thee!

Love thy mother, little one,

Love her earnestly!

Love thy mother, little one,

Love her fervently;

By thy couch she kneeleth nightly,

And, with hands enclasped tightly,

Prayeth, love, for thee!

Love thy mother, little one,

Love her fervently!

Love thy mother, little one,

Love her tenderly;

Clasp thy little arms around her,

For a holy tie hath bound her--

Bound her close to thee!

Love thy mother, little one,

Love her tenderly!

THE EARLY CALLED.

A SKETCH.

BY MRS. FRANCES B. M. BROTHERSON.

And were not these high words to flow

From woman's breaking heart?

Through all that night of bitterest wo

She bore her lofty part;

But, oh! with such a glazing eye,

With such a curdling cheek--

Love, love! of mortal agony

Thou--only thou shouldst speak.

MRS. HEMANS.

As their hearts--their way was one,

And cannot be divided.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

A child of seven summers reclined upon a couch. Suffering and disease

had so enfeebled his naturally fragile frame, that his thin hand could

scarcely sustain a bunch of roses, which his young sister Lillias had

culled for him, from his own rose-tree; the tree that it had been his

joy and pride to attend to, when in health. He hard marked, delighted,

the first green leaf that in the spring-time burst from its wintry

repose, and very joyously he clapped his little hands when a streak of

crimson peered out from the first bud. He dreamed not, amid his

happiness, that the Angel of Death should steal around him before its

bright hue faded, nor that others should bud and blossom--to wither

upon his grave. Even thus it was.

Willie M---- was a child of unusual feeling and sensibility, his young

face often shadowing forth strange, sad feelings--feelings that seldom

exist, save in the heart of maturer years. I have seen him gaze upward

to the bright blue sky with delight, as though his childish ken could

pierce the clouds, and commune with the intelligences of Heaven; and a

flower--a murmuring rill--a boundless flow of water--silvery

stars--and gentle winds--failed not to arouse enthusiastic emotions in

his young heart, at which many marveled. "None knew him but to love

him," and in his walks with "dear papa, sweet mamma, and darling

Lillias," many an eye followed him with blessings. "Ah," said an aged

one, whom he had cheered with sunny smiles and artless conversation,

"few will be the years of Willie M----; he is one of God's angels lent

to earth!" and her tears fell at the prophetic thought that even she

would live to see his winsome wee face hid beneath the coffin's lid.

* * * * *

A group of young children stood around his bed, gazing with fearful

wonder on the change that had been wrought in their loved playmate. He

had begged of his mamma to send for them, that he might see them once

more; and his large, spiritual eye had looked its welcome on each of

that little band. Once he had hunted with them the early violet in the

glade and dingle; once the echoes of his voice rang merrily out as

they bounded over the greensward in chase of the bright, illusive

butterfly--and his heart grew sad as he felt that he should be with

them no more. A little hand was laid caressingly upon his head--it

was Gary Lincoln, and as he turned around to look upon her he saw that

her eyes were full of tears. "Why do you cry, Gary?" said he. "Because

mamma says that you are going away to Heaven," she replied, "and I

cannot bear to think of it--don't go, Willie, don't go!" and the tears

streamed down her young face like rain. It was her first sorrow.

Willie spoke not, but a grieved, yet tender expression rested on his

countenance, and his mamma, taking a hand of each within her own, told

her that if she were good, if they all were good children, they should

go to Willie--although he might not stay with them. She told them of

the glorious home to which he was hastening--how happy he would

be--never to suffer more--of the white robe--the starry crown and the

tiny golden harp that should be his--and how he would be their

guardian angel, through day and hush of night, and how joyfully he

would welcome each one to his happy home.

That mother's heart was bursting, and yet her absorbing love for her

child nerved her to this, and as she told of that clime where "the

soul wears its mantle of glory," the little sufferer's eye grew so

intensely bright that it seemed unearthly. Visions of Heaven seemed

opened to his view, and with a face radiant with delight he clasped

his hands, and said, "Dear mamma, let me go now." "We must wait, my

child, till God sends his angels for you." "Yes," he murmured, "till

the angels come," and sunk exhausted into a slumber. Slowly and

quietly the children departed--and when next they looked upon him he

was shrouded for the grave. In a few moments he awoke, and as he

missed the little faces that had been around him, a sad look rested

for a moment upon his face--but in an instant, as his eye rested on

his young sister, he smiled feebly, and exclaimed--"_They_ are all

gone--yet my sweet Lillias is with me still."

That night the angels kept vigil around his couch, and ere morn arose

upon the earth the unsullied spirit was wafted to its native Heaven.

Never--never can _that_ night of Death be effaced from the tablets of

memory--marked as it was by such holy, heavenly heroism on the part

of that fond and devoted mother. Burning tears were on the father's

cheek, and the young Lillias had sobbed herself into a feverish

slumber, but until life was over _the mother_ sat by the side of her

child, breathing sweet, low whispers of the Better Land, so soon to be

his home. She faltered not, and although her heart seemed consuming

itself, she would still trace, with an eye of faith, new rays of

comfort for the dying one. She could not bear to think that his

childish heart should shrink from the grave--nor think of it--invested

as it is so often--with dread and gloom. Thus she sustained him to the

very portals of Heaven, until he needed earthly consolation no more,

until the sheltering arms of Him received him, who hath said--"Suffer

little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is

the kingdom of Heaven." As peacefully as a child sinks to rest on a

mother's bosom, sunk he into Death's embrace.

The agony of the hour, when it is said of a beloved one, "he is dead,"

has never--nor can it be justly portrayed. Then it is that Hope plumes

her wing and soars afar--then it is the even, the clear eye of Faith

seems dimmed. When the truth burst upon the mother's heart that her

child was no more--when she felt that her grief had now no power to

afflict the childish heart that had idolized her--then did the pent up

torrents of agony rush forth, crushing every barrier, and threatening

to overwhelm her soul in their mighty depth. Yet was she

comforted--the glorious imaginings that she had so faithfully and

forcibly portrayed to the dying one had fastened upon her soul--and

when the first wild burst of grief was over, she turned from the

coffined face to the upper world, as though she would say, "not

here--but there."

* * * * *

Once more a childish group gathered around Willie M----. His eye

smiled no welcome, his hand returned no pressure, but as he lay

enshrouded in the garments of the grave, methought he was even more

lovely than when his face was glowing with life. A smile still

wreathed the parted lips, as though the happy spirit had returned to

the tenement of clay, breathing of the blessedness of its glorious

home. Each imprinted a kiss on the placid brow, and as the icy chill

of death met their lips, so full of life and warmth, the reality of

their loss was felt by all. Gary Lincoln lingered until she placed

within those little hands a cluster of white rose-buds--"Flowers, pale

flowers"--they were love's last gift.

Now came the hopeless anguish of the last look--the suspension of

almost life, as the dear remains are lowered to their

resting-place--and, worse than all, the hollow, maddening sound of the

falling earth upon the coffin, sealing the doom of the bereaved,

making complete their misery. They laid him to rest amid the bloom and

shade of Mount Auburn, and his grave is a shrine around which those

who loved him come, bringing ever with them the offering of gentle

thoughts and pleasant memories of him who sleeps below. Little hands

deck it with garlands, and sweet Cary Lincoln has placed a tuft of

early violets above the sacred spot--for, said she, "Willie loved

violets so well."