CHAPTER I.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXIV. June, 1849. No. 6.

Table of Contents

The Picture of Judgment; or The Grotta Del Tifoné

Thoughts

Stanzas

Deaf, Dumb and Blind

Raffaelle d’Urbino

Turn Not Away

Cousin Fanny

The Sleep of the Dead

From the Greek Anthologia

The Battle of Life

Fifty Suggestions

May Lillie

The New Search After Happiness

Night

Passages of Life in Europe

Stanzas for Music

For and Against

My Study

The Birth-Place of Benjamin West

Dreams of Heaven

The Young Dragoon

Wild-Birds of America

Vincente Filicaja’s Sonnet to Italy

Review of New Books

Editor’s Table

I Can’t Make Up My Mind

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

* * * * *

[Illustration: LE FOLLET

PARIS, Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61

_Robes & mantelet de M.^{me}_ Forgue, _boul. Bonne Nouvelle, 17_;—_Etoffes

de la_ Chausée-l’Autin, _N.^{o} 9_;

_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. de Choiseul, 2 bis_;—_Chapeaux de M.^{me}_

Beaudry, _r. Richelieu, 87_;

_Fleurs de_ Chagot;—_Ombrelles de_ Cazal, _boulev.^{t} des Italiens, 23_;

_Mouchoir de_ Chapron, _r. de la Paix, 7_—_Essences & flacons de_

Guerlain, _r. de la Paix, 11_]

* * * * *

[Illustration: W. Drummond Addison

THE STAR OF THE NIGHT.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

* * * * *

VOL. XXXIV. PHILADELPHIA, June, 1849. NO. 6.

* * * * *

THE PICTURE OF JUDGMENT;

OR THE GROTTA DEL TIFONÉ.

A TALE OF THE ETRURIAN.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR of “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD

HURDIS,” &c.

Ma se conoscer la prima radice

Del nostri, amor, tu hai cotanto affetto,

Faro come colui che piange e dice.

DANTE.

CHAPTER I.

_Introductory. The Sepulchres of Etruria._

The “Grotta del Tifoné”—an Etruscan tomb opened by the Chevalier Manzi,

in 1833—discovered some peculiarities at the time of its opening, which

greatly mystified the cognoscenti of Italy. It was found, by certain

Roman inscriptions upon two of the sarcophagi, that the inmates belonged

to another people, and that the vaults of the noble Tarquinian family of

Pomponius, had, for some unaccountable reasons, been opened for the

admission of the stranger. No place was so sacred among the Etruscans as

that of burial; and the tombs of the Lucumones of Tarquinia, were held

particularly sacred to the immediate connections of the chief. Here he

lay in state, and the scions and shoots of his blood and bosom were

grouped around him, being literally, as the old Hebrew phraseology hath

it, “gathered to their fathers.” It was not often, and then only under

peculiar circumstances, which rendered the exception to the rule proper,

that the leaves of stone which closed the mausoleum were rolled aside

for the admission of foreigners. The “Grotta del Tifoné,” so called from

the Etruscan Typhon, or Angel of Death, which appears conspicuously

painted upon the square central pillar, was the last resting-place of

the distinguished family of Pomponius. It is a chamber eighteen paces

long, and sixteen broad, and is hewn out in the solid rock. The

sarcophagi were numerous when first discovered. The ledges were

full—every place was occupied, and a further excavation had been made

for the reception of other tenants. These tombs were all carefully

examined by the explorers with that intense feeling of curiosity which

such a discovery was calculated to inspire. The apartment was in good

preservation; the paintings bright and distinct, though fully twenty-two

centuries must have elapsed since the colors were first spread by the

hands of the artist. And there were the inscriptions, just declaring

enough to heighten and to deepen curiosity. A name, a fragment—and that

in Latin. That a Roman should sleep in a tomb of the Etruscan, was

itself a matter of some surprise; but that this strangeness should be

still further distinguished by an inscription, an epitaph, in the

language of the detested nation—as if the affront were to be rendered

more offensive and more imposing—was calculated still further to

provoke astonishment! Why should the hateful and always hostile Roman

find repose among the patriarchs of Tarquinia?—the rude, obscure

barbarian, in the mausoleum of a refined and ancient family? Why, upon

an Etruscan tomb, should there be other than an Etruscan inscription?

One of the strangers was a woman! Who was she, and for what was she thus

distinguished? By what fatality came she to find repose among the awful

manes of a people, between whom and her own, the hatred was so deep and

inextinguishable—ending not even with the entire overthrow of the

superior race? The sarcophagus of the other stranger was without an

inscription. But he, too, was a Roman! His effigy, betraying all the

characteristics of his people, lay at length above his tomb; a noble

youth, with features of exquisite delicacy and beauty, yet distinguished

by that falcon visage, which so well marked the imposing features of the

great masters of the ancient world.

The wonder and delight of our visiters were hardly lessened, while their

curiosity was stimulated to a still higher degree of intensity, as their

researches led them to another discovery which followed the further

examination of the “Grotta.” On the right of the entrance they happened

upon one of these exquisite paintings, in which the genius of the

Etruscan proves itself to have anticipated, though it may never have

rivaled the ultimate excellence of the Greek. The piece describes a

frequent subject of art—a procession of souls to judgment, under the

charge of good and evil genii. The group is numerous. The grace,

freedom, and expression of the several figures is beyond description

fine; and, with two exceptions, the effect is exquisitely grateful to

the spectator, as the progress seems to be one to eternal delights. Two

of the souls, however, are not freed, but convict; not escaping, but

doomed; not looking hope and bliss, but despair and utter misery. One of

these is clearly the noble youth whose effigy, without inscription,

appears upon the tomb. He is one of the Roman intruders. Behind him,

following close, is the evil genius of the Etruscan—represented as a

colossal negro—brutal in all his features, exulting fiendishly, in his

expression of countenance, and with his claws firmly grasped in the

shoulders of his victim. His brow is twined with serpents in the manner

of a fillet, and his left hand carries the huge mallet with which the

demon was expected to crush, or bruise and mangle, the prey which was

assigned him. The other unhappy soul, in similar keeping, is that of a

young woman, whose features declare her to be one of the loveliest of

her sex. She is tall and majestic; her carriage haughty even in her wo,

and her face equally distinguished by the highest physical beauty,

elevated by a majesty and air of sway, which denoted a person accustomed

to the habitual exercise of her own will. But, through all her beauty

and majesty, there are the proofs of that agony of soul which passeth

show and understanding. Two big drops of sorrow have fallen, and rest

upon her cheeks, the only tokens which her large Juno-like eyes seem to

have given of the suffering which she endures. They still preserve their

fires undimmed and undaunted, and leave it rather to the brow, the lips,

and the general features of the face to declare the keen, unutterable wo

that swells within her soul, triumphant equally over pride and beauty.

Nothing can exceed in force the touching expression of her agony

unutterable, unless in the sympathizing imagination of him who seeks for

the sources of the painter’s pencil into the very bosom of the artist.

Immediately behind this beautiful and suffering creature is seen, close

following, as in the case of the Roman youth already described, the

gloomy and brutal demon—the devil of Etruscan superstition—a negro

somewhat less dark and deformed than the other, and seemingly of the

other sex, with looks less terrible and offensive, but whose office is

not less certain, and whose features are not less full of exultation and

triumph. She does not actually grasp the shoulders of the victim, but

she has her nevertheless beneath her clutches, and the serpent of her

fillet, with extended head, seems momently ready to dart its venomous

fangs into the white bosom that shrinks yet swells beneath its eye.

Long, indeed, did this terrible picture fix and fascinate the eyes of

the spectators; and when at length they turned away, it was only to look

back and to meditate upon the mysterious and significant scene which it

described. In proceeding further, however, in their search through the

“Grotta,” they happened upon another discovery. They were already aware

that the features of this beautiful woman were Roman in their type.

Indeed, there was no mistaking the inexpressible majesty of that

countenance, which could belong to no other people. It was not to be

confounded with the Etruscan, which, it must be remembered, was rather

Grecian or Phœnician in its character, and indicated grace and beauty

rather than strength, subtlety and skill, rather than majesty and

command. But, that there might be no doubt of the origin of this lovely

woman, examining more closely the effigy upon the sarcophagus first

discovered—having removed the soil from the features, and brought a

strong light to bear upon them—they were found to be those exactly of

the victim thus terribly distinguished in the painting.

Here, then, was a coincidence involving a very curious mystery. About

the facts there could be no mistake. Two strangers, of remarkable

feature, find their burial, against all usage, in the tumulus of an

ancient Etruscan family. Both are young, of different sexes, and both

are Roman. Their features are carved above their dust, in immortal

marble—we may almost call it so, which, after two thousand years, still

preserves its trust—and, in an awful procession of souls to judgment,

delineated by a hand of rare excellence, and with rare precision, we

find the same persons, drawn to the life, and in the custody, as doomed

victims, of the terrible fiend of Etruscan mythology. To this condition

some terrible tale was evidently attached. Both of these pictures were

portraits. For that matter, all were portraits in the numerous

collection. With those two exceptions, the rest were of the same family,

and their several fates, according to the resolve of the painter, were

all felicitous. They walked erect, triumphant in hope and consciousness,

elastic in their tread, and joyous in their features. Not so these two:

the outcasts of the group—_with_ but not _of_ them—painfully

contrasted by the artist—terribly so by the doom of the awful

providence whose decree he had ventured thus freely to declare. The

features of the man had the expression of one whom a just self-esteem

moves to submit in dignity, and without complaint. The face of the

woman, on the contrary, is full of anguish, though still distinguished

by a degree of loftiness and character to which his offers no

pretension. There were the portraits, and there the effigies, and

beneath them, in their stone coffins, lay the fragments of their

mouldering bones—the relic of two thousand years. What a scene had the

artist chosen to transmit to posterity—from real life—and with what

motive? By what terrible sense of justice, or by what strange obliquity

of judgment and feeling, did the great Lucumo of the Pomponii, suffer

the members of his family to be thus offensively perpetuated to all

time, in the place of family sepulture? Could it have been the

inspiration of revenge and hatred, by which this vivid and terrible

representation was wrought; and what was the melancholy history of these

two strangers—so young, so beautiful—thus doomed to the inexpiable

torments of the endless future, by the bold anticipatory awards of a

successor, or a contemporary? To these questions our explorers of the

“Grotta del Tifoné” did not immediately find an answer. That they have

done so since, the reader will ascribe to the keen anxiety with which

they have groped through ancient chronicles in search of an event which,

thus wondrously preserved by art for a period of more than twenty

centuries, could not, as they well conjectured, be wholly obliterated

from all other mortal records.

CHAPTER II.

_The Etrurian Captive at Rome._

The time had passed when Etruria gave laws to the rest of Italy. Lars

Porsenna was already in his grave, and his memory, rather than his

genius and spirit, satisfied the Etruscan. The progeny of the She

Wolf[1] had risen into wondrous strength and power, and so far from

shrinking within their walls at the approach of the vulture of Volterræ,

they had succeeded in clipping her wings, and shortening, if not wholly

arresting her flight. The city of the Seven Hills, looking with triumph

from her eminences, began to claim all within her scope of vision as her

own, and paralyzed at their audacity, their success, and their wonderful

genius for all the arts of war, the neighboring cities began to tremble

at the assertion of her claims. But the braver and less prudent spirits

of young Etruria revolted at this assumption, and new wars followed,

which were too fierce and bloody to continue long. It needs not that we

should describe the varying fortunes of the parties. Enough for our

purposes that, after one well-fought field, in which the Romans

triumphed, they bore away, as a prisoner, with many others, Cœlius, the

youthful Lucumo of the Pomponian family. This young man, not yet

nineteen, was destined by nature rather for an artist, than a soldier.

He possessed, in remarkable degree, that talent for painting and

statuary, which was largely the possession of the Etrurians; and, though

belonging to one of the noblest families in his native city, he did not

think it dishonorable to exercise his talent with industry and devotion.

In the invasion of his country by the fierce barbarians of Rome, he had

thrown aside the pencil for the sword, in the use of which latter weapon

he had shown himself not a whit less skillful and excellent, because of

his preference for a less dangerous implement. His captivity was

irksome, rather than painful and oppressive. He was treated with

indulgence by his captors, and quartered for a season in the family of

the fierce chief by whose superior prowess he had been overthrown. Here,

if denied his freedom, and the use of the sword, he was not denied a

resumption of those more agreeable exercises of art to which he had

devoted himself before his captivity. He consoled himself in this

condition by his favorite studies. He framed the vase into grace and

beauty, adorned its sides with groups from poetry and history, and by

his labors delighted the uninitiated eyes of all around him. The fierce

warrior in whose custody he was looked on with a grim sort of

satisfaction at the development of arts, for which his appreciative

faculties were small; and it somewhat lessened our young Etruscan in his

esteem, that he should take pleasure in such employments. At all events,

the effects, however disparaging, were so far favorable that they tended

to the increase of his indulgencies. His restraints were fewer, the old

Roman not apprehending much danger of escape, or much of enterprise,

from one whose tastes were so feminine; and the more gentle regards of

the family, in which he was a guest perforce, contributed still more to

sweeten and soften the asperities of captivity. As a Lucumo of the first

rank in Etruria, he also claimed peculiar indulgences from a people,

who, conscious of their own inferior origin, were not by any means

insensible to the merits of aristocracy. Our captive was accordingly

treated with a deference which was as grateful to his condition as it

was the proper tribute to his rank. The wife of the chief whose captive

he was, herself a noble matron of Rome, was as little insensible to the

rank of the Etrurian, as she was to the equal modesty and manliness of

his deportment. Nor was she alone thus made aware of his claims and

virtues. She had a son and daughter, the latter named Aurelia, a

creature of the most imposing beauty, of a lofty spirit and carriage,

and of a high and generous ambition. The brother, Lucius, was younger

than herself; a lad of fifteen, but he, like his sister, became rapidly

and warmly impressed with the grace of manner and goodness of heart

which distinguished the young Etrurian. They both learned to love him;

the youth, probably, with quite as unreckoning a warmth as his sister.

Nor was the heart of Cœlius long untouched. He soon perceived the

exquisite beauties of the Roman damsel, and, by the usual unfailing

symptoms, revealed the truth as well to the family of the maiden as to

herself. The mother discovered the secret with delight, was soon aware

of the condition of her daughter’s heart; and the relations of the

several parties being thus understood, it was not long before they came

to an explanation, which ended to their mutual satisfaction. Cœlius was

soon released from his captivity, and, to the astonishment of all his

family, returned home, bearing with him the beautiful creature by whom

his affections had been so suddenly enslaved.

-----

[1] Rome.

CHAPTER III.

_The Brother and the Wife._

His return to Tarquinia was hailed with delight by every member of his

family but one. This was a younger brother, whose position had been

greatly improved by the absence and supposed death of Cœlius. He cursed

in the bitterness of his heart the fate which had thus restored, as from

the grave, the shadow which had darkened his own prospects; and though

he concealed his mortification under the guise of a joy as lively as

that of any other member of the household, he was torn with secret hate

and the most fiendish jealousy. At first, however, as these feelings

were quite aimless, he strove naturally to subdue them. There was no

profitable object in their indulgence, and he was one of those, cunning

beyond his years, who entertain no moods, and commit no crime, unless

with the distinct hope of acquisition. It required but a little time,

however, to ripen other feelings in his soul, by which the former were

rather strengthened than diminished, and by which all his first, and,

perhaps, feeble efforts to subdue them were rendered fruitless. In the

first bitter mood in which he beheld the return of his brother, the deep

disappointment which he felt, with the necessity of concealing his

chagrin from every eye, prevented him from bestowing that attention upon

the wife of Cœlius which her beauty, had his thoughts been free, must

inevitably have commanded. With his return to composure, however, he

soon made the discovery of her charms, and learned to love them with a

passion scarcely less warm than that which was felt by her husband.

Hence followed a double motive for hating the latter, and denouncing his

better fortune. Aruns—the name of the younger brother—was, like

Cœlius, a man of great talent and ingenuity; but his talent, informed

rather by his passions than by his tastes, was addressed to much humbler

objects. While the one was creative and gentle in his character, the

other was violent and destructive; while the one worshiped beauty for

its own sake, the other regarded it only as subserving selfish purposes.

Cœlius was frank and generous in his temper, Aruns reserved, suspicious

and contracted. The one had no disguises, the other dwelt within them,

even as a spider girdled by his web, and lying secret in the crevice at

its bottom. Hitherto, his cunning had been chiefly exercised in

concealing itself, in assuming the part of frankness, in appearing, so

far as he might, the thing that he was not. It was now to be exercised

for his more certain profit, in schemes hostile to the peace of others.

To cloak these designs, he betrayed more than usual joy at the

restoration of his brother. His, indeed, seemed the most elated spirit

of the household, and the confiding and unsuspecting Cœlius at once took

him to his heart, with all the warmth and sincerity of boyhood. It gave

him pleasure to perceive that Aurelia, his wife, received him as a

brother, and regarded with delight the appearance of affection that

subsisted between them. The three soon became more and more united in

their sympathies and objects, and the devotion of Aruns to the Roman

wife of Cœlius was productive of a gratification to the latter, which he

did not endeavor to conceal. It was grateful to him that his brother did

not leave his wife to that solitude in her foreign home, which might

sometimes have followed his own too intense devotion to the arts which

he so passionately loved; and, without a fear that his faith might be

misplaced, he left to Aruns the duty which no husband might prudently

devolve upon any man, of ministering to those tastes and affections, the

most delicate and sacred, which make of every family circle a temple in

which the father, and the husband, and the master, should alone be the

officiating priest.

Some time had passed in this manner, and at length it struck our Lucumo

that there was less cordiality between his brother and his wife than had

pleased him so much at first. Aurelia now no longer spoke of Aruns—his

name never escaped her lips, unless when she was unavoidably forced to

speak it in reply. His approaches to her were marked by a timidity not

usual with him, and by a _hauteur_ in her countenance which was shown to

no other person. It was a proof of the superior love of Cœlius to his

wife that he reproached her for this seeming dislike. She baffled his

inquiry, met his reproaches with renewed shows of tenderness, and the

fond, confiding husband resumed his labors on the beautiful, with

perhaps too little regard to what was going on around him. Meanwhile,

the expression in the face of Aurelia had been gradually deepening into

gravity. Care was clouding her brow, and an air of anxiety manifested

itself upon her cheek—a look of apprehension—as if some danger were

impending—some great fear threatening in her heart. This continued for

some time, when she became conscious that the eye of her husband began

to be fixed inquiringly upon her, and with the look of one dissatisfied,

if not doubtful—disturbed if not suspicious—and with certain

sensibilities rendered acute and watchful, which had been equally

confiding and affectionate before. These signs increased her disquiet,

and deepened her anxiety. But she was silent. The glances of her husband

were full of appeal, but she gave them no response. She could but retire

from his presence, and sigh to herself in solitude. There was evidently

a mystery in this conduct, and the daily increasing anxieties of the

husband betrayed his doubts that it might prove a humiliating one at the

solution. But he, too, was silent. His pride forbade that he should

declare himself, when he could only speak of vague surmises, and perhaps

degrading suspicions. He was silent, but not at ease. His pleasant

labors of the studio were abandoned. Was it for relief from his own

thoughts that he was now so frequently in company with Aruns, or did he

hope to obtain from the latter, any clue to the mystery which disturbed

his household? It was not in the art of Aurelia so to mould the

expression of her countenance, as to hide from others the anxiety which

she felt in the increasing and secret communion of the brothers. She

watched their departure with dread, and witnessed their return together

with agitation. She saw, or fancied she saw, in the looks of the younger

a malignant exultation, which even his habitual cunning did not suffer

him entirely to conceal.

CHAPTER IV.

_The Secret Picture._

At length the cloud seemed to clear away from the brow of her husband.

He once more resumed his labors, and with an eagerness and an avidity

which he had not betrayed before. His passion now amounted to intensity.

He gave himself no respite from his labors. Late and early he was at his

task—morning and night—without intermission, and with the enthusiasm

of one who rejoices in the completion of a favorite and long-cherished

study. Aurelia was not unhappy at this second change; to go back to his

old engagements and tastes seemed to her to indicate a return to his

former equanimity and waveless happiness. It was with some surprise,

however, and not a little concern, that she was not now permitted to

watch his progress. He wrought in secret—his studio was closed against

her, as, indeed, it was against all persons. Hitherto it had not been so

in her instance. She pleasantly reproached him for this seclusion, but

he answered her—“fear not, you shall see all when it is done.” There

was something in this reply to disquiet her, but she was in a state of

mind easily to be disquieted. She was conscious also of a secret

withheld from her husband—and her reproaches sunk back upon her heart,

unuttered, from her lips. She could not, because of what she felt,

declare to him what she thought; and she beheld his progress, from day

to day, with an apprehension that increased momently, and made her

appearance, in one respect, not unlike his own. She was now aware that

he was the victim of a strange excitement, in which his present artist

labors had a considerable share. He seemed to hurry to their prosecution

with an eager impatience that looked like frenzy—and to return from his

daily task with a frame exhausted, but with an eye that seemed to burn

with the subtlest fires. His words were few, but there was a strange

intelligence in his looks. His cheeks had grown very pale, his frame was

thinned, his voice hollow, in the prosecution of these secret labors;

and yet there was a something of exultation in his glance, which fully

declared that, however exhausting to his frame might be the task he was

pursuing, its results were yet looked to with a wild and eager

satisfaction. At length the work was done. One day he stood before her

in an attitude of utter exhaustion. “It is finished!” he exclaimed. “You

shall see it to-morrow.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nay, to-morrow! to-morrow!”

He then retired to sleep, and rested several hours. She looked on him

while he slept. He had never rested so profoundly since he had begun the

labor from which he was now freed. The slumber of an infant had never

been less disturbed, never been softer, sweeter, or purer. The beauty of

Cœlius was that of the most peaceful purity. She bent over him as he

slept, and kissed his forehead with looks of the truest devotion, while

two big tears gathered in her large eyes, and slowly felt their way

along her cheeks. She turned away lest the warm drops falling upon his

face might awake him. She turned away, and in her own apartment gave

free vent to the feelings which his pure and placid slumbers seemed

rather to subdue than encourage. Why, with such a husband—her first

love—and with so many motives to happiness, was she not happy? Alas!

who shall declare for the secret yearnings of the heart, and say, as

idly as Canute to the sea, “thus far shalt thou go, and no farther—here

shall thy proud waves be stayed.” Aurelia was a creature of fears and

anxieties, and many a secret and sad presentiment. She was very far from

happy—ill at ease—and—but why anticipate? We shall soon enough arrive

at the issue of our melancholy narrative!

That night, while she slept—for grief and apprehension have their

periods of exhaustion, which we misname repose—her husband rose from

his couch, and with cautious footsteps departed from his dwelling. He

was absent all the night, and returned only with the dawn. He re-entered

his home with the same stealthy caution with which he had quitted it,

and it might have been remarked that he dismissed his brother, with two

other persons, at the threshold. They were all masked, and otherwise

disguised with cloaks. Why this mystery? Where had they been—on what

mission of mischief or of shame? To Cœlius such a necessity was new, and

scarcely had he entered his dwelling than he cast aside his disguises

with the air of one who loathes their uses. He was very pale and

haggard, with a fixed but glistening expression of the eye, a brow of

settled gloom, from which hope and faith, and every interest in life

seemed utterly to be banished. A single groan escaped him when he stood

alone, and then he raised himself erect, as if hitherto he had leaned

upon the arms of others. He carried himself firmly and loftily, his lips

compressed, his eye eagerly looking forward, and thus, after the

interval of a few seconds, he passed to the chamber of his wife. And

still she slept. He bent over her, earnestly and intently gazing upon

those beauties which grief seemed only to sadden into superior

sweetness. He looked upon her with those earnest eyes of love, the

expression of which can never be misunderstood. Still he loved her,

though between her heart and his a high, impassable barrier had been

raised up by the machinations of a guilty spirit. Tenderness was the

prevailing character of his glance until she spoke. Her sleep, though

deep, was not wholly undisturbed. Fearful images crossed her fancy. She

started and sobbed, and cried, “Save, O save and spare him—Flavius, my

dear Flavius!”—and her breathing again became free, and her lips sunk

once more into repose. But fearful was the change, from a saddened

tenderness to agony and despair, which passed over the features of

Cœlius as he listened to her cry. Suddenly, striking his clenched hands

against his forehead, he shook them terribly at the sleeping woman, and

rushed wildly out of the apartment.

CHAPTER V.

_Progress to the Sepulchre._

It was noon of the same day—a warm and sunny noon, in which the birds

and the breeze equally counseled pleasure and repose. The viands stood

before our Cœlius and his wife, the choicest fruits of Italy, and cates

which might not, in later days, have misbeseemed the favorite chambers

of Lucullus. The goblet was lifted in the hands of both, and the heart

of Aurelia felt almost as cheerful as the expression on her face. It was

the reflection in the face of her husband. His brow was gloomy no

longer. The tones of his voice were neither cold, nor angry, nor

desponding. A change—she knew not why—had come over his spirit, and he

smiled, nay, laughed out, in the very exultation of a new life. Aurelia

conjectured nothing of this so sudden change. Enough that it was

grateful to her soul. She was too happy in its influence to inquire into

its cause. What heart that is happy does inquire? She quaffed the goblet

at his bidding—quaffed it to the dregs—and her eye gleamed delighted

and delightfully upon his, even as in the first hours of their union.

She had no apprehensions—dreaded nothing sinister—and did not perceive

that ever, at the close of his laughter, there was a convulsive

quiver—a sort of hysterical sobbing, that he seemed to try to subdue in

vain. She noticed not this, nor the glittering, almost spectral

brightness of his glance, as, laughing tumultuously, he still kept his

gaze intently fixed upon her. She was blind to all things but the

grateful signs of his returning happiness and attachment. Once more the

goblet was lifted. “To Turmes (Mercury) the conductor,” cried the

husband. The wife drank unwittingly—for still her companion smiled upon

her, and spoke joyfully, and she was as little able as willing to

perceive that any thing occult occured in his expression.

“Have you drank?” he asked.

She smiled, and laid the empty goblet before him.

“Come, then, you shall now behold the picture. You will now be prepared

to understand it.”

They rose together, but another change had overspread his features. The

gayety had disappeared from his face. It was covered with a calm that

was frightful. The eye still maintained all its eager intensity, but the

lips were fixed in the icy mould of resolution. They declared a deep,

inflexible purpose. There was a corresponding change in his manner and

deportment. But a moment before he was all life, grace, gayety and great

flexibility; he was now erect, majestic, and commanding in aspect, with

a lordly dignity in his movement, that declared a sense of a high duty

to be done. Aurelia was suddenly impressed with misgivings. The change

was too sudden not to startle. Her doubts and apprehensions were not

lessened when, instead of conducting her to the studio, where she

expected to see the picture, he led the way through the vestibule and

into the open court of the palace. They lingered but for a moment at the

entrance, and she then beheld his brother Aruns approaching. To him she

gave not a look.

“All is right,” said the latter.

“Enter!” was the reply of Cœlius; and as the brother disappeared within

the vestibule, the two moved forward through the outer gate. They passed

through a lovely wood, shady and hidden, through which, subdued by

intervening leaves, gleamed only faintly the bright, clear sun of Italy.

From under the huge chestnuts, on either hand, the majestic gods of

Etruria extended their guiding and endowing hands. Tina, or Jupiter,

Aplu, or Apollo, Erkle, Turmes, and the rest, all conducting them along

the _via sacre_, which led from the palaces to the tombs of every proud

Etruscan family. They entered the solemn grove which was dedicated to

night and silence, and were about to ascend the gradual slopes by which

the tumulus was approached. Then it was that the misgivings of Aurelia

took a more serious form. She felt a vague but oppressive fear. She

hesitated.

“My Cœlius,” she exclaimed, “whither do we go. Is not this the passage

to the house of silence?”

“Do you not know it?” he demanded quickly, and fixing upon her a keen

inquiring glance. “Come!” he continued, “it is there that I have fixed

the picture!”

“Alas! my Cœlius, wherefore! It is upon this picture that you have been

so deeply engaged. It has made you sad—it has left us both unhappy. Let

us not go—let me not see it!” Her agitation was greatly increased. He

saw it, and his face put on a look of desperate exultation.

“Ay, but thou must see it—thou shalt look upon it and behold my

triumph, my greatest triumph in art, and perhaps my last. I shall never

touch pencil more, and wilt thou refuse to look upon my last and noblest

work. Fie! this were a wrong to me, and a great shame in thee, Aurelia.

Come! the toil of which thou think’st but coldly, has brought me peace

rather than sadness. It has made of death a thing rather familiar than

offensive. If it has deprived me of hopes, it has left me without

terrors!”

“Deprived you of hopes, my Cœlius,” said the wife, still lingering, and

in mortal terror.

“Even so!”

“And, wherefore, O, my husband, wherefore?”

“Speak not, woman! See you not that we are within the shadow of the

tomb?”

“Let us not approach—let us go hence!” she exclaimed entreatingly, with

increasing agitation.

“Ay, shrink’st thou!” he answered; “well thou may’st. The fathers of the

Pomponii, for two thousand years, are now floating around us on their

sightless wings. They wonder that a Roman woman should draw nigh to the

dwellings of our ancient Lucumones.”

“A Roman woman!” she exclaimed reproachfully. “My Cœlius, wherefore

this?”

“Art thou not?”

“I am thy wife.”

“Art sure of that?”

“As the gods live and look upon us, I am thine, this hour and forever!”

“May the gods judge thee, woman,” he responded slowly, as he paused at

the gate of the mausoleum, and fixed his eyes intently upon her. Hers

were raised to heaven, with her uplifted hands. She did not weep, and

her grief was still mixed with a fearful agitation.

“Let us now return, my Cœlius!”

“What, wilt thou not behold the picture?”

“Not now—at another season. I could not look upon it now!”

“Alas! woman, but this cannot be. Thou must behold it now or never. Hope

not to escape. Enter! I have a tale to tell thee, and a sight to show

thee within, which thou canst not hear or see hereafter. Enter!” As he

spoke, he applied the key to the stone leaf, and the door slowly

revolved upon the massy pivots. She turned and would have fled, but he

grasped her by the wrist, and moved toward the entrance. She carried her

freed hand to her forehead—parted the hair from her eyes, and raised

them pleadingly to heaven. Resistance she saw was vain. Her secret was

discovered. She prepared to enter, but slowly. “Enter! Dost thou fear

now,” cried her husband, “when commanded? Hast thou not, thou, a Roman,

ventured already to penetrate these awful walls, given to silence and

the dead—and on what mission? Enter, as I bid thee!”

CHAPTER VI.

_The Chamber of Death—The Catastrophe._

She obeyed him, shuddering and silent. He followed her, closed the

entrance, and fastened it within. They were alone among the dead of a

thousand years—alone, but not in darkness. The hand of preparation had

been there, and cressets were burning upon the walls; their lights,

reflected from the numerous shields of bronze within the apartment,

shedding a strange and fantastic splendor upon the scene. The eyes of

Aurelia rapidly explored the chamber as if in search of some expected

object. Those of Cœlius watched them with an expression of scornful

triumph, which did not escape her glance. She firmly met his gaze,

almost inquiringly, while her hands were involuntarily and convulsively

clasped together.

“Whom dost thou seek, Aurelia?”

“Thou know’st! thou know’st!—where is he? Tell me, my Cœlius, that he

is safe, that thou hast sped him hence—that I may bless thee.”

He smiled significantly as he replied, “He is safe—I have sped him

hence!”

“Tinai, (Adonai,) my husband, keep thee in the hollow of his hand.”

“How shameless! dost thou dare so much!”

“What mean’st thou, my Cœlius?”

“Sit thou there,” he answered, “till I show thee my picture.” He pointed

her, as he spoke, to a new sarcophagus, upon which she placed herself

submissively. Then, with a wand in his hand, he, himself seated upon

another coffin of stone, pointed her to a curtain which covered one of

the sides of the chamber. “Behind that curtain, Aurelia, is the last

work of my hands; but before I unveil it to thine eyes, let me tell thee

its melancholy history. It will not need many words for this. Much of it

is known to thee already. How I found thee in Rome, when I was there a

captive—how I loved thee, and how I believed in thy assurances of love;

all these things thou know’st. We wedded, and I brought thee, a Roman

woman, held a barbarian by my people, into the palace of one of the

proudest families of all Etruria. Shall I tell thee that I loved thee

still, that I love thee even now, when I have most reason to hate thee,

when I know thy perjury, thy cold heart, thy hot lust, thy base,

degrading passions!”

“Hold, my lord—say not these things to my grief and thy dishonor. They

wrong me, not less than thy own name. These things, poured into thine

ear by some secret enemy, are false!”

“Thou wilt not swear it.”

“By all the gods of Rome—”

“And of what avail, and how binding the oath taken in the names of the

barbarian deities of Rome.”

“By the Etrurian—”

“Perjure not thyself, woman, but hear me.”

“Go on, my lord, I will hear thee, though I suffer death with every word

thou speak’st.”

“It is well, Aurelia, that thou art prepared for this.”

“Thy dagger, my Cœlius, were less painful than thy words and looks

unkind.”

“Never was I unkind until I found thee false.”

“Never was I false, my lord, even when thou wast unkind.”

“Woman! lie not; thou wert discovered with thy paramour, here, in this

tomb; thou wert followed, day by day, and all thy secret practices

betrayed. This thou ow’st to the better vigilance of my dear brother

Aruns—he, more watchful of my honor than myself—”

“Ah! well I know from what hand came the cruel shaft; Cœlius, my Cœlius,

thy brother is a wretch, doomed to infamy and black with crime. I have

had no paramour. I might have had, and thou might’st have been

dishonored, had I hearkened to thy brother’s pleadings. I spurned him

from my feet with loathing, and he requites me with hate. Oh! my

husband, believe me, and place this man, whom thou too fondly callest

thy brother, before thine eyes and mine!”

“Alas! Aurelia, this boldness becomes thee not. I myself traced thee to

this tomb—these eyes but too frequently beheld thee with thy paramour.”

“Cœlius, as I live, he was no paramour—but where is he, what hast thou

done with him?”

“Sent him before thee to prepare thy coach in Hades!”

“Oh, brother!—but thou hast not! tell me, my lord, that thy hand is

free from this bloody crime!”

“He sleeps beneath thee. It is upon his sarcophagus thou sittest.”

She started with a piercing shriek from the coffin where she sat, knelt

beside it, and strove to remove the heavy stone lid, which had been

already securely fastened. While thus engaged the Lucumo drew aside with

his hand the curtain which concealed the picture.

“Look,” said he, “woman, behold the fate which thou and thy paramour

have received—behold the task which I had set me when first I had been

shown thy perjuries. Look!”

She arose in silence from her knees, and turned her eyes upon the

picture. As the curtain was slowly unrolled from before it, and she

conceived the awful subject, and distinguished, under the care of the

good and guardian genii, the shades of well-known members of the

Pomponian family, her interest was greatly excited; but when following

in the train and under the grasp of the Etrurian demon, she beheld the

features of the young Roman who was doomed, she bounded forward with a

cry of agony.

“My brother, my Flavius, my own, my only brother!” and sunk down with

outstretched arms before the melancholy shade.

“Her brother!” exclaimed the husband. She heard the words and rose

rapidly to her feet.

“Ay, Flavius, my brother, banished from Rome, and concealed here in thy

house of silence, concealed even from thee, my husband, as I would not

vex thee with the anxieties of an Etrurian noble, lest Rome should hear

and punish the people, by whom her outlaw was protected. Thou know’st my

crime. This paramour was the brother of my heart—child of the same sire

and dame—a noble heart, a pure spirit, whose very virtues have been the

cause of his disgrace at Rome. Slay me, if thou wilt, but tell me not,

O, Cœlius, that thou hast put the hands of hate upon my brother!”

“Thy tale is false, woman—well-planned, but false. Know I not thy

brother? Did I not know thy brother well in Rome? Went we not together

oft? I tell thee, I should know him among a line of ten thousand

Romans!”

“Alas! alas! my husband, if ever I had brother, then is this he. I tell

thee nothing but the truth. Of a surety, when thou wert in Rome, my

brother was known to thee, but the boy has now become a man. Seven years

have wrought a change upon him of which thou hast not thought. Believe

me, what I tell thee—the youth whom I sheltered in this vault, and to

whom I brought food nightly, was, indeed, my brother—my Flavius, the

only son of my mother, who sent him to me, with fond words of entreaty,

when the consuls of the city bade him depart in banishment.”

“I cannot believe thee, woman. It were a mortal agony, far beyond what I

feel in the conviction of thy guilt, were I to yield faith to thy story.

It is thy paramour whom I have slain, and who sleeps in that tomb. His

portrait and his judgment are before thee, and now—look on thine own!”

The picture, fully displayed, showed to the wretched woman her own

person, in similar custody with him who was her supposed paramour. The

terrible felicity of the execution struck her to the soul. It was a

picture to live as a work of art, and to this she was not insensible.

She clasped her hands before it, and exclaimed,

“Oh! my Cœlius, what a life hast thou given to a lie. Yet may I bear the

terrors of such a doom, if he whom thou hast painted there in a fate

full of dreadful fellowship with mine, was other than my brother

Flavius—he with whom thou did’st love to play, and to whom thou did’st

impart the first lessons in the art which he learned to love from thee.

Dost hear me, my Cœlius, as my soul lives, this man was none other than

my brother.”

“False! false! I will not, dare not believe thee!” he answered in husky

accents. His frame was trembling, yet he busied himself in putting on a

rich armor, clothing himself in military garb, from head to foot, as if

going into action.

“What dost thou, my lord?” demanded Aurelia, curious as she beheld him

in this occupation.

“This,” said he, “is the armor in which I fought with Rome when I was

made the captive of thy people, and thine. It is fit that I should wear

it now, when I am once more going into captivity.”

“My husband, what mean’st thou—of what captivity dost thou speak?”

“The captivity of death! Hear me, Aurelia, dost thou feel nothing at thy

heart which tells thee of the coming struggle when the soul shakes off

the reluctant flesh, and strives, as it were, for freedom. Is there no

chill in thy veins, no sudden pang, as of fire in thy breast. These

speak in me. They warn me of death. We are both summoned. But a little

while is left us of life.”

“Have mercy, Jove! I feel these pains, this chill, this fire that thou

speak’st of.”

“It is death! the goblet which I gave thee, and of which I drank the

first and largest draught was drugged with death.”

“Then—it is all true! Thou hast in truth slain my brother. Thou

hast—thou hast!”

“Nay, he was not thy brother, Aurelia. Why wilt thou forswear thyself at

this terrible moment? It is vain. Would’st thou lie to death—would’st

thou carry an impure face of perjury before the seat of the Triune God!

Beware! Confess thy crime, and justify the vengeance of thy lord!”

“As I believe thee, my Cœlius—as I believe that thou hast most rashly

and unjustly murdered my brother, and put death in the cup which,

delivered by thy hands, was sweet and precious to my lips, so must I now

declare, in sight of Heaven, in the presence of the awful dead, that

what I have said and sworn to thee, is truth. He whom I sheltered within

the tombs of thy fathers, was the son of mine—the only, the last, best

brother of my heart; I bore him in mine arms when I was a child myself.

I loved him ever! Oh, how I loved him! next to thee, my Cœlius—next to

thee! Could’st thou but have spared me this love—this brother!”

“How knew I—how know I now—that he was thy brother?” was the choking

inquiry.

“To save thee the cruel agony that thou must feel, knowing this, I could

even be moved to tell thee falsely, and say that he was not my

brother—but, indeed, some paramour, such as the base and evil thought

of thy brother has grafted upon thine; but I may not, thy love is too

precious to me at this last moment, even if death were not too terrible

to the false speaker. He was, indeed, my Flavius, dear son of a dear

mother, best beloved brother, he whom thou did’st play with as a boy, to

whom thou gav’st lessons in thy own lovely art; who loved thee, my

Cœlius, but too fondly, and only forbore telling thee of his evil plight

for fear that thou should’st incur danger from the sharp and angry

hostility of Rome. Seek my chamber, and in my cabinet thou wilt find his

letters, and the letters of my mother, borne with him in his flight.

Nay,—oh! mother, what is this agony?”

“Too late! too late! If it be truth thou speakest, Aurelia, it is a

truth that cannot save. Death is upon us—I see it in thy face—I feel

it in my heart. Oh! would that I could doubt thy story!”

“Doubt not—doubt not—believe and take me to thy heart. I fear not

death, if thou wilt believe me. My Cœlius, let me come to thee and die

upon thy bosom.”

“Ah! should’st thou betray me—should’st thou still practice upon me

with thy woman art!”

“And wherefore? It is death, thou say’st, that is upon us now. What

shall I gain, in this hour, by speaking to thee falsely. Thou hast done

thy worst. Thou hast doomed me to death, and to the eyes of the

confiding future!”

She threw her arms around him as she spoke, and sunk, sunk sobbing upon

his breast.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “that dreadful picture! I feel, my Aurelia, that

thou hast spoken truly—that I have been rash and cruel in my judgments.

Thy brother lies before thee, and yonder tomb is prepared for thee. I

did not yield without a struggle; and I prepared me for a terrible

sacrifice. Upon this bier, habited as I am, I yield myself to death.

There is no help—no succor. Yet that picture! Shall the falsehood

overcome the truth? Shall that lie survive thy virtues, thy beauty, and

thy life! No! my Aurelia, this crime shall be spared at least.”

He unwound her arms from about his neck, and strove to rise. She sunk in

the same moment at his feet. “Oh, death!” she cried, “thou art, indeed,

a god! I feel thee, terrible in thy strength, with an agony never felt

before. Leave me not, my Cœlius—forgive—and leave me not!”

“I lose thee, Aurelia! Where—”

“Here! before the couch—I faint—ah!”

“I would destroy,” he cried, “but cannot! This blindness. Ho! without

there! Aruns! It is thy step I hear! Undo, undo—I forgive thee all, if

thou wilt but help. Here—hither!”

The acute senses of the dying man had, indeed, heard footsteps without.

They were those of the perfidious brother. But, at the call from within,

he retreated hastily. There was no answer—there was no help. But there

was still some consciousness. Death was not yet triumphant. There was a

pang yet to be felt—and a pleasure. It was still in the power of the

dying man to lift to his embrace his innocent victim. A moment’s return

of consciousness enabled her to feel his embrace, his warm tears upon

her cheek, and to hear his words of entreaty and tenderness imploring

forgiveness. And speech was vouchsafed her to accord it.

“I forgive thee, my Cœlius—I forgive thee, and bless thee, and love

thee to the last. I know that thou would’st never do me hurt of thy own

will; I know that thou wert deceived to this—yet how, oh, how, when my

head lay upon thy breast at night, and I slept in peace, could’st thou

think that I should do thee wrong!”

“Why,” murmured the miserable man, “why, oh, why?”

“Had I but told thee, and trusted in thee, my Cœlius?”

“Why did’st thou not?”

“It was because of my brother’s persuasion that I did not—he wished not

that thou should’st come to evil.”

“And thou forgiv’st me, Aurelia—from thy very heart thou forgiv’st me?”

“All, all—from my heart and soul, my husband.”

“It will not, then, be very hard to die!”

An hour after and the chamber was silent. The wife had yielded first.

She breathed her last sigh upon his bosom, and with the last effort of

his strength he lifted her gently and laid her in the sarcophagus,

composing with affectionate care the drapery around her. Then,

remembering the picture, he looked around him for his sword with which

to obliterate the portraits which his genius had assigned to so

lamentable an eternity; but his efforts were feeble, and the paralysis

of death seized him while he was yet making them. He sunk back with

palsied limbs upon the bier, and the lights, and the picture, faded from

before his eyes, with the last pulses of his life. The calumny which had

destroyed his hopes, survived its own detection. The recorded falsehood

was triumphant over the truth; yet may you see to this day, where the

random strokes of the weapon were aimed for its obliteration. Of himself

there is no monument in the tomb, though one touching memorial has

reached us. The vaulted chamber buried in the earth was discovered by

accident. A fracture was made in its top by an Italian gentleman in

company with a Scottish nobleman. As they gazed eagerly through the

aperture, they beheld an ancient warrior in full armor, and bearing a

coronet of gold. The vision lasted but a moment. The decomposing effects

of the air were soon perceptible. Even while they gazed, the body seemed

agitated with a trembling, heaving motion, which lasted a few minutes,

and then it subsided into dust. When they penetrated the sepulchre, they

found the decaying armor in fragments, the sword and the helmet, or

crown of gold. The dust was but a handful, and this was all that

remained of the wretched Lucumo. The terrible picture is all that

survives—the false witness, still repeating its cruel lie at the

expense of all that is noble in youth and manhood, and all that is pure

and lovely in the soul of woman.

* * * * *

THOUGHTS.

BY MARIE ROSEAU.

I have thoughts that like the eagle soar to a daring height,

That boldly revel in the glare of strong and dazzling light,

That glory in such brightness, and wish ’twas ever day,

That in unclouded brilliancy life’s hours might pass away.

I have thoughts that bow me to the dust in stupor-like despair,

That bind my soul with fetters to keep it always there;

That whisper I can never rise, that my spirit has no wings,

But must ever be content to lie amid earth’s blighted things.

I have gentle, holy thoughts that come with sweet and soothing power

Instilling vigor in my heart, as dew upon the flower;

And then I feel that I would give the world if I could be

From all of human frailty and earthly passion free.

I have thoughts that breathe unholy air, that bring a chilling blight

Upon each better feeling, each principle of right:

Vain, foolish, envious, wicked thoughts that fill my heart with pain;

That pour wild tumult in my breast, and fever on my brain.

I have thoughts that come like zephyrs in the spring-time of the year,

That bear sweet memories of my friends—those who are ever dear;

And some who at another time might seem but friends in name,

Are made by those same gentle thoughts a friendship true to claim.

I think me of the kindly deeds, the pleasant word or smile,

Which sometimes served in sadder hours a sorrow to beguile;

Oh, then I raise my heart in prayer for every one I know,

And ask our common God to bless and shield them from each wo;

And there is naught of sacrifice too great for me to bear,

If so I might but glad their hearts, or free their souls from care.

I have thoughts that spread deep shadows of unholy, dark distrust,

That like a fearful whirlwind lay high hopes within the dust;

That recall forgotten mem’ries to a gloomy, clouded mind,

Of broken friendships, trusts betrayed, and words and looks unkind.

Ah, then suspicion dark and drear spreads forth her chilling blight,

And sick at heart I turn away, as withers in my sight

Bright hopes of future happiness—sweet friendships held most dear.

And I seem to live ’mid shattered wrecks, in strange, unearthly fear;

And I start to hear a kindly word, and my spirit dreads a smile,

Lest the word should be deceitful, or the smile be meant in guile:

And I deem that the wide world contains no friend who loves me well,

And I long to go away from earth to where the faithful dwell.

I would not have them ever glad, those many thoughts of mine—

I would not with unclouded beams life’s sun should ever shine:

For He who sends the clouds and rain knows when they are needed best,

And I would upon his guiding care with firm reliance rest:

But I would my thoughts were ever right—were ever firm and strong,

Such thoughts as nerve the heart in might to conquer what is wrong,

I would not that my spirit breathe the taint of impure air,

But that only holy, heaven-sent thoughts should have an influence there.

* * * * *

STANZAS.

BY MRS. O. M. P. LORD.

There’s music in thy voice, love;

Such notes have never been

Since years and years ago, love,

God’s angels talked with men;

It never chides nor blames, love,

But always seeks to praise.

In truth such gentle speech, love.

Thy native land betrays.

Like summer cloud thy brow, love.

And hue of summer sky,

As ocean gives it back, love,

Dwells in that tender eye;

The heaven without looks in, love,

And sees its image there;

The heaven within looks out, love,

So wondrous clear and fair.

Soon, soon, we all must sleep, love,

Through long and dreamless night;

And, waking, find these robes, love,

So changed, so clear and white;

But thou, so pure and free, love,

Thy garb from earthly stain,

E’en as thou laid’st it down, love,

Will take it up again.

* * * * *

DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND.

OR THE NABOB UNCLE.

BY AGNES L. GORDON.

“Well, girls, prepare your sweetest smiles, and best behavior, for your

uncle has arrived at last, and I have just received this note, dated at

the Astor, announcing his coming, and accepting my invitation to make

our house his home; so, to use his own expression, we may expect him,

‘bag and baggage,’ this evening.”

These words were addressed by Mrs. Medway to her daughters, as they sat

at breakfast, in an elegant apartment in a fashionable street up town.

“That means, I suppose, that he comes with an ebony serving-man, in an

immense turban, half a dozen hookahs, innumerable packages, and

self-indulging contrivances, and all the et cæteras of an eastern

nabob,” replied Matilda. “I wonder where we are to stow away all the

trash that he will undoubtedly pour in upon us? I wish, mamma, you had

not invited him here; but if his coming prove but a golden one to us, I,

for one, am perfectly willing to play the agreeable, with so bright a

prospect in store.”

“Not so with me,” exclaimed her younger sister Sophy, “I am determined

to do as I please, and not be like an automaton, at the will of a cross

old invalid, as I have no doubt he is. I suppose we must have great

fires built up all summer, and be content to be baked, and browned to

crisps, in ovens of rooms, while old yellow-face shivers with cold, and

swears at the climate. And then we must live on curries, and spices, and

pilaus, and all sorts of horrid nauseous messes, until we are as yellow

and bilious as himself. I boldly protest against all such proceedings,

and thus, once for all, good people, declare myself free and

independent.”

“But recollect, girls,” said their mother, while she laughed at Sophy’s

declaration, “he is your father’s brother, and as such entitled to at

least an appearance of respect. I wish he was less afflicted to be sure,

for it will be a sad drawback, I fear, upon your amusements; but keep up

your courage, and remember that to be co-heiresses of an Indian nabob is

a distinction very much to be coveted, and worthy some sacrifices to

attain.”

“I am sure his deafness will be a great relief to us all,” chimed in

Matilda, “so as we play propriety and have plenty of delicate

attentions, and wreathed smiles, in readiness, we can indulge once in a

while in a theatrical aside of impatience, which will be quite a safety

valve to the temper.”

“But if he is an invalid he must necessarily be cross,” answered Sophy,

“and as his sight is impaired, he will probably want some one to read to

him; _that_ task I absolutely refuse to perform; for as to reading any

thing more than the last magazine, it is an effort I never was equal to.

We will appoint Grace reader to his Indian majesty. What say you, Grace,

are you not overwhelmed with the honor?”

This question was addressed to a quiet girl, who had hitherto taken no

part in the conversation, but who replied with a smile, “If your uncle

is in reality the disagreeable person you describe, I shall not be

emulous of the honor you design me; but if he is in truth an invalid, I

will wait on him with cheerfulness, for you know I am accustomed to a

sick chamber.”

“That’s just like you, Grace, always ready and willing to do for every

one,” answered Sophy. “Of course he is an invalid—all nabobs are. He

has the gout, and we must all creep on tip-toe about the room, lest an

unlucky jar might give him a twinge, and bring down a volley, not of

blessings, upon our devoted heads. Then the liver complaint is a

necessary appendage, and blue pills and calomel will abound. Bah! what a

house it will be to be sure, I should not wonder if he has a pet monkey

and half a dozen macaws, and we shall have a menagerie and hospital

combined. If such _is_ the case, I shall run off and get married; so

don’t wonder if some morning I am missing.”

“And thus forfeit your claim to the fortune in store,” said her sister;

“for my part I am willing to take a pill every other day, in the hope

that it will prove at last a gilded one, and will feed the macaws to a

surfeit—”

“In fact, kill them with kindness,” interrupted Sophy, laughing. “Well,

you are welcome to all you can get, the pill will be bitter if it _is_

gilded; I love my ease too well to be shackled even with golden fetters;

so Grace and you may divide the labor and the reward.”

“Grace will of course do whatever is required of her,” said Mrs. Medway

gravely, “but as she has no claim of kindred upon your uncle, she will

not expect any other return than my approval. And now girls we have

spent a long time chatting; I must go and prepare for our newly arrived

relative’s coming, and remember, Sophy, that you treat him with all

deference and respect; you might have a little natural feeling—”

“All fudge, mamma,” laughed Sophy, rising from her seat; “talk of

natural feeling, indeed, for a cross old fidgety fellow one never saw,

and scarcely ever heard of, except when he sent you that superb India

shawl. I tell you, mamma, it is a natural feeling for his presents and

his rupees that inspires you and Matilda; I will none of them except

they come in a _natural_ way, without any force put on my inclination.

You know I am a little Pickle, and I intend to be as sour as vinegar.”

“And I as sweet as honey-water,” cried Matilda, as she left the room.

“Yes, and as insipid, too,” replied her sister, following. “As for you,

Grace,” she added, looking back, “as you fortunately have no selfish

considerations, you can afford to be, as you always are, ‘Simple Grace,

gracious and graceful,’” so saying, the noisy girl slammed the door

after her, leaving Grace to her daily duty of washing the breakfast

things, and arranging the room.

Mrs. Medway was the widow of a merchant who had left his family

possessed of a moderate income, which they contrived should, like a thin

plate of gold, cover a large surface. They lived up to their means in

every sense. Mrs. Medway gave parties, kept several servants, lived in a

large house, showily furnished, and dressed herself and daughters

splendidly. All this could not be done without strict economy somewhere;

and while the soirées of Mrs. Medway were pronounced delightful, the

servants made many complaints of their daily fare. Mrs. Medway was only

one of a class; there are hundreds who, to use a vulgar phrase, “rob

Peter to pay Paul,” and fast at home, that they may appear to feast

abroad.

The coming of Jacob Medway, an elder brother of her husband, who had

spent his life in India, and now returned to his native land, to enjoy

his fortune and find an heir, was an important event to Mrs. Medway. She

would rather, to be sure, have him unacquainted with certain parts of

her household arrangement, but she hoped to reap a golden harvest, and

wished to give her daughters an opportunity of ingratiating themselves

in his favor. These daughters were handsome, showy girls. Matilda, the

elder, had been a decided belle for several seasons. She was tall and

slender, with very fine dark eyes, rather long face, and that

distinguished air and manner that stamps the woman of fashion. She was

very anxious to secure her uncle’s favor, for she argued that a fine

fortune might secure her the alliance that her fine person had hitherto

failed to win.

The younger daughter, Sophy, with less beauty than her sister, was still

much admired. She had a rattling, dashing way of saying pert, and

sometimes shrewd things, that passed for wit, among the idlers who

surrounded her, though they often winced under the keenness of her

remarks. She was not amiable, but possessed a sturdy independence that

was a redeeming trait, and though often displaying it in a most

disagreeable manner, was in reality much less selfish than her

soft-lipped sister.

The other inmate of the family whom we have mentioned, was Grace

Addison—“little Grace,” as she was wont to be affectionately termed in

her own happy home, but now, “Simple Grace,” as Sophy loved to call her.

The mother of Grace was a cousin of Mrs. Medway; she had been left a

widow in very straitened circumstances, her husband dying when Grace was

just fifteen. Grief and anxiety threw her in a consumption, and she died

two years after, leaving her orphan child to the care of her cousin,

Mrs. Medway, who had herself been tenderly reared under the roof of Mrs.

Addison’s father, and upon whom the grand-daughter of her benefactor

certainly had a claim.

Mrs. Medway was a selfish woman, and the charge was irksome, but the

circumstances of her own early life and adoption were so extensively

known, that she dared not brave the censure of her friends by refusing

it; and thus whilst Grace was ostensibly cared and provided for, she was

made to feel her dependence, and had resolved in her own heart to seize

the first opportunity of releasing her self from this thraldom,

preferring to earn her daily bread, than to receive it as a favor while

she toiled for it as a menial. But her gentle and pliant nature dreaded

to offend or grieve Mrs. Medway, for she knew that she was really

essential to her, whilst for Sophy, rude as she at times appeared, she

felt a warm attachment, for she alone acted toward her as an equal and a

friend.

Grace Addison was not beautiful, but she had charms enough to have made

her a dangerous rival, had she appeared on equal terms with the sisters.

She shrunk, however, from society, and seldom appeared at Mrs. Medway’s

_soirées_, very much, it must be confessed, to that lady’s satisfaction.

We have said Grace was not beautiful—lovely is the epithet properly

belonging to her. Scarcely above the middle height, her slender form was

inexpressibly graceful in all its attitudes; there were no angles about

her, Sophy said. Every accidental position was a study for a

sculptor—and never was the gentle name of Grace more fitly applied. Her

deep, thoughtful blue eyes were shaded by long black lashes, that rested

on a cheek whose deepest tint never exceeded the glow on the lip of a

sea-shell, and the delicate features, and rich mass of dark hair, gave

that air of refinement so rare and so indescribable. Such was the family

of which the nabob, Jacob Medway, was expected to become an inmate.

In Mrs. Medway’s drawing-room the family was assembled to receive the

expected guest. Sophy was ridiculing her sister, and imitating the

welcome which she said Matilda had learned by rote, when the noise of

carriage-wheels were heard, and presently a loud ring of the bell

announced the arrival. Mrs. Medway arose, and went into the hall, and

then came the sound of trunks unstrapped, and packages thrown in, and

next, enveloped in cloaks, the rich uncle stepped from the carriage, and

being welcomed by Mrs. Medway, was shown at once to his room, where

every accommodation for his comfort had been made. He had a colored

servant, and as many packages as even Matilda expected, but no pet

monkey or macaws as yet appeared.

“Well, mamma, what is he like?” exclaimed both daughters in a breath, as

she re-entered the room.

“You shall judge for yourselves presently,” she answered. “He does not

appear to be gouty, however, for he stepped quite firmly into the hall,

and his voice is pleasant and not at all cross.”

“So, perhaps, Matilda will not have the gratification of being a martyr

after all,” cried Sophy, laughing; “her honey-water will sour by

keeping, and my vinegar become flat; well, after all, I am a little

disappointed. I don’t believe he is at all rich, Matilda, unless he is

gouty, cross, and every thing bad; it would be too much of a good thing

if he were.”

Matilda did not much relish her sister’s raillery, and a sharp reply

rose to her lips as the door opened and her uncle entered. Mrs. Medway

immediately rose, and introduced him to her daughters, and Grace offered

him the arm-chair which he politely accepted, and then expressed, in a

very few words, his thanks for her courtesy.

He was, of course, an object of great interest to the little group, and

did not altogether answer their expectations.

Uncle Medway was tall, and rather stout, with a fine open countenance,

yellow and brown, to be sure, in its hue, but the expression of his

mouth contradicted at once all idea of ill-nature. His eyes were small,

with a keen, shrewd, searching expression; and one could scarcely credit

that their vision was impaired, so that without glasses he could not

distinguish minute objects. He carried an ear-cornet in his hand, and

apologised for his infirmities, speaking in a nervous and abrupt manner.

“You will find me a troublesome inmate, I fear, madam,” he said to Mrs.

Medway; “my infirmities make me a poor companion. I am a man of few

words, and my loss of hearing renders it almost impossible to enjoy the

conversation of others, while even the pleasure of reading is in part

denied me.”

“My daughters will be delighted to serve you in every way,” said Mrs.

Medway, graciously.

“Now is your chance,” loudly whispered Sophy, to her sister, “lay your

eyes, ears, and tongue, at the feet of your golden idol.”

“Sophy!” exclaimed her mother, in an agony, but the sight of the

ear-cornet calmed her fears.

The evening passed slowly away; Uncle Medway retired early, and the

young ladies, after exchanging opinions of him, went to rest, to dream

golden dreams, as Sophy maliciously said.

Uncle Medway did not appear at breakfast on the following morning, but

during the forenoon, while the young ladies were occupied at their

several employments, he unexpectedly entered, and with an apologetic

smile and bow, took the seat which Matilda hastened to offer, tendering

at the same time very affectionate inquiries regarding his health. The

old gentleman quietly put on his glasses and lowered his ear-cornet,

requesting her to repeat her words, while Sophy maliciously offered to

prompt her, in case she forgot her lesson. Matilda looked thunder at her

sister, and sunshine at her uncle as she repeated her questions.

“I rested well, thank you,” said her uncle, “and as I hope to become

better acquainted in time, you will not, I trust, be offended at my

scrutiny.” He took Matilda’s hand as he spoke, and looked earnestly in

her countenance.

“Do you consider me like papa?” she inquired with her most engaging

smile, and speaking in the cornet, without which it was evident he could

hear nothing.

“Humph, not much; your sister there is more like him,” he answered,

pointing with his ear-trumpet to Sophy.

“There, Matilda, is ten thousand lost to you,” laughed the giddy girl.

“What does she say?” asked the old gentleman, casting a shrewd look at

her; “come here, merry one, and tell me yourself.”

Sophy rose and courtesied before him, as she said to Grace, “Your turn

next—so prepare. I wonder if the old Indian thinks he can turn us about

as he would some China ornaments, while we stand bobbing like so many

mandarins before him?” then turning to her uncle, she added, “I am

delighted that you think I resemble my father, sir, although Matilda is

counted the beauty, and I the fright.”

“Oh, Sophy, how can you rattle so,” exclaimed Grace.

“Now hush, Grace, until your time comes. You know I always speak out

what I think.”

“Especially when you know one party at least cannot hear,” said her

sister, sarcastically.

“You all seem to be chattering away among yourselves like so many

magpies,” said the old gentleman. “But who is this young lady in the

corner?”

“Our cousin, Grace Addison,” screamed Sophy, at the top of her voice,

“and the dearest, best, kindest cousin in the world. She makes all our

dresses, copies Matilda’s music, waters her flowers, sketches in her

album, and does a thousand things for which others get the credit; and

more than all, she bears all my impertinences, and never gets out of

patience. Now, Grace,” turning toward her, “you are properly introduced,

come and speak for yourself. I think I have made _one party at least_

hear this time,” she added, to her sister; “and if old yellow-face has

half as much generosity as he should have, there is a nice little plum

in store for Simple Grace.” So saying, she ran out of the room.

When the party met at dinner, there were several dishes cooked to suit

Uncle Medway’s taste, among the rest a curry. Mrs. Medway and Matilda

accepted some of the proffered viand, but when the old gentleman

politely turned to Sophy, she exclaimed,

“No, I thank you, none of your nauseous messes for me—the very smell of

them takes away my appetite. Mamma, after this, I think I shall dine in

my own room.”

“What does the young lady say?” asked Uncle Medway, elevating his

cornet, “that she has no appetite?”

“I say I can’t bear curry,” screamed Sophy.

“Oh, Sophy, how can you be so rude?” said her mother, in despair.

“Because I hate hypocrisy,” answered the other, angrily. “There sits

Matilda, striving to appear to eat what I know she abhors, afraid to say

what her likes or dislikes are; it would not be worth the effort she

makes to swallow it, if the hateful curry-powder was gold-dust. See, she

is pale now—and sick, too, I dare say; for shame, Matilda. Uncle

Medway, must, indeed, be deaf, dumb, and blind, not to discover in a

short time all your false pretences.” Sophy spoke rapidly, despite of

both mother and sister’s attempts to stop her, and Grace’s appealing

looks. Secure in their guest’s entire deafness, she railed severely at

the deceit she despised. Uncle Medway cast a searching look toward

Matilda, and then turning to Grace, who sat next him, invited her to

partake of his favorite dish. Grace thanked him, but declined.

“What,” said he, with a smile, “can’t you bear curry either? Perhaps you

have never tasted it.”

“I am not fond of it, I confess,” answered Grace. “I have often seen it

on my grandfather’s table, and he tried in vain to induce me to like

it.”

Again those shrewd eyes of Uncle Medway rested on Grace’s countenance,

and no further discussion arising, the dinner passed pleasantly off.

After dinner Grace was left alone with the old gentleman, while the

sisters took their usual promenade, when suddenly turning toward her, he

said, in his peculiarly abrupt manner, “Who _was_ your grandfather?”

Grace looked up in surprise, but immediately answered, “My grandfather’s

name was Maurice Addison.”

“And your father’s?”

“Jacob Addison; he was born in India—” and then, with a sudden impulse,

she exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Medway, did you know my grandfather? Are you not

the old friend I have so often heard him mention, who went out to India

with him, and who was so true and kind to him in illness and trouble?

You _are_, I am sure, and my father was named after you, Jacob Addison.”

It was unusual for the quiet Grace to be roused to such enthusiasm, but

she rose from her seat, and laying her hand on the old gentleman’s

chair, looked into his face with such an affectionate and expectant

gaze, that his heart must have been adamant, indeed, to resist it. And

as his was, in reality, a loving and unselfish heart, he drew Grace

gently toward him, and a pleasant smile lighted up his face, as he said,

“And _are_ you Maurice Addison’s own little merry pet, Grace, he so

often mentioned in his letters to me? _You are_, I am sure; and you are

the daughter of my little god-son, Jacob, who was only knee-high when I

saw him last. And now, my dear child, for surely I have a right to call

you so, why are you living here? Where are your parents?”

Tears started in Grace’s eyes as she related the circumstances of her

parents’ death, and her admission into Mrs. Medway’s family, adding,

that though they were all very kind to her, she would remain no longer

than until she could procure an independent situation, as she feared, in

Mrs. Medway’s circumstances, she was a burden.

“Humph!” was the only reply; and then the old gentleman added, “Say

nothing about this conversation, if you please, until I give you

permission.”

Grace willingly acceded; she knew that Mrs. Medway would not like to

believe she possessed any claim, however slight, on Uncle Medway’s

regard; and although feeling an attachment to him for her grandfather’s

sake, had not the slightest idea of endeavoring to rival her cousins.

One morning Uncle Medway expressed a desire to drive through the city,

and wished one of the ladies to accompany him as a _cicérone_. Matilda’s

services were instantly offered, and politely accepted. On their return,

Matilda threw herself on a sofa, exclaiming to her mother,

“Well, I never was so wearied in all my life; and I consider this

splendid dress, which uncle purchased for me at Stewart’s, as very

hardly earned. Never will I consent to be driven about, shut up in a

carriage with such a perverse, questioning old codger again for a dozen

dresses. Why the old man seemed to think I must know the whole history

of the city, from its first settlement—we will have to lend him

Diedrich Knickerbocker’s book. And then such stopping to admire the

churches and other buildings, while groups of fashionables passed and

stared; it is an ordeal I never will pass through again.”

“The honey-water is exhausted, is it?” asked Sophy. “You gave it in too

great quantities at first; well, for my part, I might be induced to take

one drive with such a reward in view.”

“What is that,” asked the uncle, turning sharply around, “don’t Matilda

like her dress?”

“Shall I answer for you?” said Sophy.

“Oh, yes,” interrupted Mrs. Medway, “she was expressing her admiration

and gratitude; but she says she will fear to go with you again, lest you

should think her motives interested.”

“Humph! the motives are apparent enough!” muttered the old gentleman;

then turning to Grace, he said, “Will _you_ accompany me to-morrow,

Grace. I promise faithfully that you shall have no reward, save the

consciousness of obliging a troublesome old man?”

Grace gladly assented, and Mrs. Medway’s consent being given, Grace

became the almost daily companion of the old gentleman, who seemed,

however, to bestow but little notice on her, lavishing all his

preference on Matilda, who was elated with her success.

A few days after, Uncle Medway brought down a closely-written letter of

several pages, which he asked Matilda to copy for him, as she had so

often expressed the pleasure it gave her to do any thing for her dear

uncle. Matilda received the document with a gracious smile, and promised

it should be done by the following morning. That evening the sisters

went out with their mother, and Mr. Medway retired early to his own

room, but having occasion to come down again for his glasses, he saw

Grace bending over a table, on which were spread writing materials. She

leaned her head on her clasped hands and sighed heavily. As he entered

the room she looked up, and hastily drew a blank sheet over the page she

had written.

“You look pale, child,” said the old gentleman, as he put on his

spectacles. “What are you doing there?”

“Only writing a little—but I have a severe headache,” answered Grace.

“Go to bed, then—what are you poking your eyes out there for? I dare

say some long letter to a sentimental friend, eh?” He approached the

table as he spoke.

“You shall not see it, if it is,” said Grace, playfully putting her hand

on the paper, “and I must finish it to-night, because I have promised—”

she paused.

“Well, well,” said the old man, kindly, “promises must be kept, of

course. I hope Matilda has kept her promise of copying my letter—do

_you_ think it will be finished by to-morrow morning, Grace?” And

without waiting a reply, he left the room.

The following morning, the letter and copy were laid by Uncle Medway’s

plate, and the old gentleman, examining it with an approving glance,

took a fifty dollar note from his pocket-book, and said, “I do not wish

to offend, by offering a remuneration for this correct and beautiful

copy; but I know you ladies have always some charitable object of

interest, and the fair writer of this must have devoted many hours to

its accomplishment. It will gratify her to have the power of doing good

in every way—a power which will, perhaps, ere long be unlimited. Will

you accept it, Matilda, as to you it justly belongs, and be my almoner?”

Matilda’s eyes sparkled; this speech inferred much, and as she

gracefully took the note, she thanked her uncle, and promised to dispose

of it in charitable donations.

After breakfast, Uncle Medway was deeply engrossed in a paper, which he

was endeavoring to decipher, and the sisters were sitting together, when

Sophy said,

“Well, Matilda, what charitable institution do you intend to benefit by

uncle’s donation; as you earned the money so honorably, you will, of

course, disburse it with equal honesty and justice.”

Matilda colored slightly, but laughed, saying, “I shall do myself the

charity to purchase that superb head-dress, and several costly et

cæteras that I want for Mrs. Dayton’s ball; and if you are a good girl,

and hold your tongue, you shall be an object of charity, too.”

“Now, Matilda, that is too mean, even for you,” exclaimed the other,

indignantly. “Shame on you, as Grace really copied the letter, she

should at least have the privilege of distributing the money; here she

comes now. Grace, in what way ought uncle’s donation to be applied—you

are the proper person to decide, and prevent Matilda from the

selfishness she contemplates, in bestowing it all upon herself and me.”

Her sister crimsoned with anger, but Grace spoke.

“I am sure you do Matilda injustice, Sophy; she would never act so

deliberate a falsehood; as she told her uncle it should be applied to

charity, she will certainly keep her word. And there is poor Mrs. Brown,

the laundress, it would, indeed, be a charity to assist her—”

“And begin by paying her bills,” interrupted Sophy.

But her sister, rising angrily, exclaimed, “I will not be dictated to by

either of you,” and hastily left the apartment.

Uncle Medway had now been domesticated in the family for several weeks,

and must, indeed, have been deaf, dumb and blind, to remain ignorant of

the by-play going on around him. Secure in his entire deafness, Matilda

frequently made use of her safety-valve aside; and once, when requested

by her uncle to play, and she said to her sister, “I hope to have the

pleasure of playing the Dead March for him ere long,” she caught his eye

fixed upon her with such a severe glance, that a momentary doubt of his

inability to hear made her tremble; but again assured by his bland

manner toward her, she plied her fulsome flatteries more assiduously

than ever. Grace often wondered how one so clear-headed in all other

things, should be so easily imposed upon, while Sophy regarded her

sister with undisguised contempt; and by way of offset, became more rude

and impertinent than ever.

The rich uncle had been a great assistance to the household; his

generous heart was continually prompting him to make those presents

which he saw were required—and this was done in the most delicate

manner. It was with mingled feelings, therefore, that Mrs. Medway met

the information he one day gave, that he had purchased a house in one of

the most fashionable squares, and desired the taste of the ladies to

assist him in furnishing it. He intended to celebrate his installation

in his own home, by a splendid ball and supper, to which, as he had few

acquaintances, he begged the ladies to invite those friends whose

society was desirable. He also told Mrs. Medway, in confidence, that if

she would part with one of her fair charges, he wished on the appointed

evening, publicly to announce his choice of one of them as his heiress

and adopted daughter, on condition that she resided with him to cheer

his lonely old age. Mrs. Medway gave a delighted assent. She had no

doubt on whom the choice would fall, and immediately congratulated

Matilda, and caused it to be whispered among her confidential friends

that her eldest daughter would be the heiress of the Indian nabob.

Matilda declared the infliction of residing with such a horrid bore a

severe penalty, but promised herself the satisfaction of spending his

money at pleasure, while Sophy maliciously advised her to practice the

“Groves of Blarney” preparatory to the “Dead March.”

The important evening arrived, and the three young ladies, elegantly

attired in dresses of embroidered crape over India satin, presented by

Uncle Medway, took their places in his splendid saloon to receive their

guests. Matilda evidently took the precedence; and very handsome she

looked in her stately beauty, doing the honors with all the grace which

the future mistress of so superb an establishment should possess. While

Grace, looking perfectly lovely in her pure and tasteful dress, shrunk

abashed from the admiring gaze bestowed upon her, and was confused by

the attention she excited. Uncle Medway went cheerfully among his

guests, ear-cornet in hand, and spectacles on nose, quizzed by some,

respected by many, and flattered by all.

Just as supper was announced, and the musicians had left the ball for

the supper-room, Uncle Medway, supporting Mrs. Medway on his arm, and

followed by the young ladies, stepped into the midst of the brilliant

circle, and said,

“My guests are aware, I suppose, of my intention to adopt one of these

fair young ladies as my sole heiress, my sister-in-law having kindly

consented to spare one from her bright circle. I am a lonely old man,

with many peculiar notions, and I require, therefore, a cheerful, yet

gentle and patient spirit, to support my whims. Such an one I have found

in the person of Grace Addison, the grandchild of my oldest friend, and

the daughter of my namesake and godson. I therefore declare her my

adopted child and heiress.”

A murmur of surprise ran through the assembly, Mrs. Medway and Matilda

seemed ready to sink with confusion, Sophy clapped her hands, and Grace,

pale and trembling with surprise and emotion, suffered herself to be led

forward by the old gentleman, who continued,

“I have met with much kindness and attention beneath the roof of my

sister-in-law, in token of which I shall bequeath to my niece, Matilda,

the sum of thirty thousand dollars, when she has the pleasure of playing

the Dead March for me. And to her sister, whose opinions were at least

frankly avowed, I shall leave a similar amount. My ear-cornet and

glasses have served me a trusty part, and I now lay them aside, I hope

forever, trusting that the ladies have profited by the lesson they have

themselves taught me, that appearances are often deceitful, and one need

not be deaf, dumb and blind, though he is a Nabob Uncle.”

Whether Mrs. Medway and her daughters stayed to the splendid supper

prepared, and swallowed their mortification and the delicacies together,

this record sayeth not; but that the beautiful heiress, Grace Addison,

became at once a star of the first magnitude in the fashionable world,

is to be expected; but the bright star ever found her happiness in

enlivening the home of the eccentric but kind old man, who found in his

adopted daughter the delight and solace of his old age.

* * * * *

RAFFAELLE D’URBINO.

BY W. H. WELSH.

’Twas night in Florence!

Pale the eve had come,

And flung o’er Nature’s form a sable shroud.

With step as light as joy the day had gone,

And sunk into his jeweled couch, o’erhung

With crimson canopy and crystal sheen.

The rosy-colored clouds, with emerald fringed,

That veiled the blushing sky, had faded far—

And as the night crept on with noiseless tread,

Bright starry eyes looked on the sleeping Earth,

And smiled that then it was so like their home.

Through latticed bower and tesselated hall,

The zephyr danced with wild and airy wing;

And spirit-songs sighed on the startled air

That blew as fragrant as in Araby!

The night was holy!

On the arching sky

The Painter turned and saw its thousand fires.

Around his peaceful form the breezes stole

With viewless pinions from Æolus sent,

While ever and anon a passing breath,

More eager than its fellow, rippled up

The curls that gathered on his glorious brow.

Like one whose spirit-form was not of Earth

He seemed that hour, for o’er him halos hung,

Such only as the vales of Paradise

Enclose around the beings of their birth.

And as he gazed upon the star-lit hall,

And then with straining sight looked on the sky,

As if to catch from it some angel glance,

He sat him down and buried up his face.

With agony oppressed, his very heart

Was shrunk and withered, e’en as when a bird

Whose little life has been a holyday,

Is overwhelmed as summer clouds have wept.

Why thus did shadows press upon his soul,

And with their awful wings fright hopes away?

Why thus disturbed? Fame in his way had strewn

With reckless hand, her fairest, proudest gifts—

Had taught his name to echo far amid

The ages yet unborn, as though a God

From high Olympus he’d been missioned forth!

And yet his heart was sad—for in his dreams

There broke upon his fancy such a form

As dwelleth only in the Elfin-land.

For her he pined—for her he breathed a sigh—

And prayed to God that she might come to him,

And in his waking moments bid him live.

And as, with gloom and darkness thick’ning round,

He sat and wept for joys that might not be,

From out the dim and mystic land of dreams,

There came to him entranced such visioned sights

As never mortal eye had seen before.

Back on the crumbling path of Time he went,

And stood amid the light of ancient days—

Amidst the treasures of the mighty dead!

The seal that held the past was shriveled up,

And from the breathing ruins wondrous forms

Swept by, and walked again the sea of Life.

The young and beautiful of olden time—

The giant habitants whose genius swayed

The visible creation at its dawn,

All gathered there in that fantastic realm,

To swell that ghostly throng!

And as they came,

One form arose so matchless in its grace,

That all, amazed, shrank tremblingly away.

With queenly step she trod the ravished turf,

And with her winsome foot the lovely buds

In very ecstasy of rapture played,

That one so gentle sought their perfumed home.

A veil of silver-tissue, mottled o’er

With sparkling stars, hung round her sylphid form,

And tresses, rich like Autumn’s golden grain,

Fell down, and nestled on her snowy breast.

Too exquisite for earth—of mould too fine—

She seemed a herald from the beaming sky,

Sent down to whisper of the spirit-land.

Such sight, I ween, had painter never seen;

And e’en the charméd breath of poesy,

Whose blissful cadences the enwrapt ear

Of wondering mortals caught with silent joy,

Had conjured up in wild and weird-like spell,

No face that ever was so fair and bright.

One look she gave the painter as he gazed,

That made to him a desert of the world—

A look so full of passion and of love,

It turned the memory of the past a blank,

And in the future left him naught but her.

His soul was all afire, and his brain

Swam round, as when the throbbing heart of man

Is burst for happiness it cannot hold;

And as he strove to break the mortal chain

That bound him where he lay, a mist arose

And envious bore that being from the spot.

Far from his sight she fled! and passed away

With floating witcheries of wildest song,

Into the twilight land where spirit forms

Like phantoms mingled with the swelling gale.

Far from his sight she fled! and like a barque

Whose guiding star has left its native sky,

The painter drifted on with heedless sail!

. . . . . .

The morning breeze crept in the painter’s hall!

And near the window ledge, with pallid brow,

He lay like one whose very pulse had gone.

With tips of gold the princely spires and domes

Of Florence gleamed, and on her throne she sat

A queen in pride—queen of the Tuscan land!

The morning grew apace, and fleecy clouds,

The children of the dawn, trailed o’er the sky.

Still Raffaelle slept.

Near by his side

Were rudely strewn the handmaids of his toil;

And on his easel hung a picture full

Of beauty as the glow on Dian’s front.

No human eye had ever turned its gaze

Upon that fair and sacred thing, save one,

And little recked he now of bliss in store.

The morning breeze crept in the painter’s hall,

And catching its fresh scent he woke and stared

Upon the sky that blazed with living light;

And then again around the hall he cast

A look that spoke of sorrow and of pain.

And while he tried to chase away the clouds

That brooded o’er him like a fearful spell,

The radiant image of that lovely one

That was his nightly dream, flashed on his sight;

With wonderment he stood and scarcely breathed,

For fear a lightsome sound might fright her far.

Ay! there she beamed—a rainbow in the storm—

For in his sleep his mighty genius woke,

And gave embodiment to face and form;

And joy clung round his overburdened heart,

Like sunlight on the drooping bud, when storms

Have rocked its tender petals in the breeze!

* * * * *

[Illustration: Painted by Gainsborough

Engraved by F. Humphreys

THE COTTAGE DOOR.

_Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]

* * * * *

TURN NOT AWAY.

BY HENRY MORFORD.

If a voice from the far and happy land

Ever echoed over thy cradle bed;

If a mother’s voice and a mother’s hand

Ever laid a blessing upon thy head;

If a golden truth from the sacred page,

Ever was thine in an earlier day,

And still lives on in thy riper age—

Turn not away.

If hope beat high when thy youth began—

Bright hope and love for thy human kind—

And cares have pressed on the heart of man

Till love is weary and hope is blind;

If still one star of all the host,

Burns with an old remembered ray,

Believe not all of thy life is lost—

Turn not away.

If sickness calls thee with feeble cry,

Or suffering moans from its bed of pain;

If a pleading comes from the sunken eye,

Or madness shrieks from the fevered brain;

Oh! watch, as the angels watch above,

Oh! pray for them as the angels pray;

Bring heart and hand to the labor of love—

Turn not away.

If poverty stands at thy cottage door—

Squalid poverty, faint and weak—

Begging a crust from thy little store.

Or the poor, cheap rest that the weary seek;

Remember thou, that the mighty wheel

Of fortune changes, day by day;

Never be deaf to the poors’ appeal—

Turn not away.

If thy brother fall in the slippery path,

And his hands are stained with human sin,

If the sword of the world is raised in wrath,

And no city of refuge invites him in;

If his pitiful cry come up to thee,

Remember that all men go astray,

Still let thy heart his refuge be—

Turn not away.

If life grows dark as thy years roll by,

And Heaven is veiled in cloud and storm,

Oh! still look up with a trusting eye,

For a beckoning smile from an angel form;

So shall thy heart keep its holy laws,

Fulfilling its mission day by day,

And God, when thou pleadest thy final cause—

Turn not away.

* * * * *

COUSIN FANNY.

BY M. S. G. NICHOLS, AUTHOR OF “UNCLE JOHN,” “THE WORLD AS IT IS,” ETC.

CHAPTER I.

A pale, wan woman, with a young girl by her side, walked quickly along

Chatham street, just as the twilight was deepening into darkness. She

was very thinly clad, her light shawl was only a covering—it was no

protection from the keen autumn air. It had once been an elegant and

fashionable silk, but its fashion had long since passed away. It had

been colored and colored again, until its substance had well-nigh

disappeared. Her straw bonnet had been renovated many times, but not for

a long time, and its faded ribbon was passed plainly over the crown, for

it would have been mockery to make such ribbon into bows. Every thing

that covered this young creature was passing away, and as she entered a

pawn-broker’s shop, you might have seen by the light of the lamp that

fell on her face, that she, too, was passing from a world that had given

her small welcome, at least for many years. It would have been a comfort

to any benevolent person, who had looked into that pale face, to have

seen the red spot on one of her cheeks, and to have heard her cough.

What had she to do in a world so cold, with that miserable shawl to wrap

around her ulcerated lungs, that smarted like fire with every breath of

cold air they inhaled. She might as well have wrapped herself in

cobwebs, as in clothes such as hers.

She went into the shop, her poor, little, shadowy child clung close to

her mother. She had little knowledge of the place or the people, though

she had many times been there, but she knew that after many tears, her

mother went there, and then that for a brief space they had food.

The poor lady took from her pocket two miniature pictures—the golden

setting had been removed sometime before. They were by a master’s hand,

worth at least one hundred dollars each, and infinitely precious to her,

being the likenesses of her father and mother.

“What will you give me for these?” said she, trembling in every nerve as

she spoke.

The hard money-getting son of Israel, whose trade was pawn-broking, and

whose business made him look on misery three hundred and thirteen days

in the year, answered, “They are worth nothing to me, madam.”

The lady shrunk into herself as if she had been shriveled. Her face and

lips became deadly pale. She supported herself against the side of the

box in which she stood, to conceal herself from view; and her little

girl held her hand and clung to her garments in great fear. Very soon

she began to cough, and in a moment her thin, tattered, white

handkerchief was saturated with the blood she raised.

The Jew looked at her with a mingling of kindness and fear. She must not

bleed to death there. The pictures he knew were of much value, though

there was a good deal of risk in taking them. He pitied the bleeding

woman. Yet, pawn-broker and Jew as he was, he pitied her.

“I will give you four dollars on them,” said he, and he hastily ticketed

them, and handed her the money, to her infinite relief. She felt that

she and her child had now a reprieve from death. The Jew selected some

bills that bore a discount of ten per cent., and yet he pitied the

woman, and she was so grateful to him that she could have pressed his

hand, and wept hot tears upon it. She hurried away to her attic in

Frankfort street. It was dark, and she feared insult. New York was worse

lighted and worse cared for then than now. We had no gas and no star

police then, but we had plenty of Jews and pawn-broker’s shops.

As she passed along she raised the blood that pressed into her throat as

fast as possible, but still it almost strangled her. Well-dressed

people, men of business, returning home, and men and women hurrying to

the theatre, the concert-room, or the prayer-meeting, or to the varied

business or amusement of life, passed her without notice. She was their

sister, but how were they to know that she was dying—that her scanty

life-current was staining the pavement on which they stepped.

She reached the last landing-place, and thought that she could go no

further, but it was not seemly to die there, and she made a last effort

and entered her room. She was startled by a bright light in the

room—light at night she had not had since she made the last dozen of

shirts at ten cents a piece. Stranger still, there was a good, bright

fire in the grate. Her husband stood before it, with his face toward the

door, and his hands behind him, showily dressed as usual. She had not

seen him for many days.

“O, Edward!” said she, “I am so glad you are come”—and she fainted, and

would have fallen to the floor if he had not caught her in his arms. He

laid her upon the meagre bed that had long since been robbed of every

valuable article for the pawn-broker.

“Fanny,” said he, with a choking voice, “my poor Fanny!” He sprinkled

water on her face, and she opened her eyes.

“I am going, Edward,” said she.

“No, no!—you will not die now. O, don’t die till you have forgiven me

for being your mur—”

“Don’t say that—I forgive as I would be forgiven. Our child—”

A hard fit of coughing and copious bleeding hindered her from speaking

for some time.

“Our poor Marie—give her to your Cousin Charles; he has wealth and none

to care for. Promise me that you will do this.”

The husband, trembling with fear, gave her the required promise, when

she strangled from an excessive rush of blood into the trachea, and died

with her daughter clinging madly around her neck.

Edward Evans, the gambler and man about town, was alone with his dead

wife, who, fourteen years before, he had persuaded to elope from her

parents, and to marry him. She had gone through every gradation of

suffering and poverty, and but for a strange run of luck that he had had

for two or three evenings, she would have died in that dark, cold room,

alone with her child, and have been buried in Potter’s Field. As it was,

Evans had a basket of coal, a pound of candles, some food, and money to

buy his wife a grave. And wretched as he was, we must do him the justice

to say that he was glad to be able to bury his wife decently. And he did

it.

And now he bethought him of her last request. He must make the effort to

give away the child, who had clung to the corpse of her mother to the

last moment, and who had not seemed to see or hear at all, since that

mother was buried out of her sight.