CHAPTER VI.

“And now, mother, tell me all about the Evanses. Is my flame as foxy as

ever? She must be quite a young lady. Heaven forgive me for not being

thankful enough for all mercies in general, and for the particular one

that I am not obliged to marry red hair.” Thus spoke the fortunate

Wilson, the morning after his arrival from New Orleans, bringing the

welcome news that his relative was dead, and that he was his heir.

“Don’t be too hasty, Sylvester,” said his mother. “Miss Evans has

changed more than any one you ever saw. She is a perfect beauty, bating

her freckles. Her hair is no more red than a chestnut. She is plump and

round as an apple; she is white as snow, and her eyes are as pretty as

possible.”

“Amen, mother! One would think you were her lover instead of your

hopeful son. But I will see for myself. I shall not take your word or

your bond for that girl’s beauty.”

And so Mr. Wilson, armed for conquest, presented himself before Miss

Evans. She had never cared enough for him to be very glad to see him,

but she received him politely and kindly, as was her nature. He was a

very good-looking, stylish young man, and he talked well on common

topics, and soon succeeded in interesting Fanny. He was quite

unprepared, notwithstanding all his mother had said, for the beauty that

had grown upon Fanny. He loved beauty just as he loved roast pig and

canvas-backs—and he was smashed at once—Fanny had made an impression.

He asked her to play and sing for her _cidevant_ teacher, and the

impression was fixed.

Wilson was sure at the end of an hour that he should marry Fanny Evans;

and Fanny thought him a very good-looking, interesting young man, and

she rejoiced in his good fortune; their musical tastes formed a bond

between them, and it soon seemed very natural and proper to Fanny that

she saw young Wilson daily. She was sad, and singing diverted her. His

voice was good, and they sung duets. He played finely, and this was very

pleasant. She had become estranged from her cousin, and she wanted some

company. Fanny had never been so unhappy since she first came to live

with her cousin. Finally, Wilson offered himself to her. This was an

event to Fanny entirely unexpected.

“Don’t speak of such a thing,” said she, earnestly. “Pray excuse me, Mr.

Wilson,” and she went straight out of the room. When she reached her

chamber, she felt very sorrowful, and, truth to tell, very sick. She had

been worn down by labor and watching during Mr. Evans’s illness, and her

sadness in being estranged from him. She had got nervous, and began, for

the first time in her life, to have the _blues_. She almost persuaded

herself that she was become a burden to her cousin, and that she ought

to marry Wilson. She wept till she had a dreadful headache, and when the

servant came to call her to make Mr. Evans’s tea, she was really too ill

to go down—and with swollen eyes, red face, and dabbled and disarranged

curls, she looked into the glass, and dared not present herself before

her cousin.

“Tell Mr. Evans that I have a bad headache, and if he will excuse me, I

will go early to bed. Make every thing very nice for him, Norah. Were

his slippers warm when he came in?”

“I don’t know, Miss, but I will get his supper good”—and she went to

carry Fanny’s excuse to Mr. Evans.

“Go back, Norah, quickly, and ask Miss Evans if I may come up.”

Fanny had wheeled her sofa to the fire, and had just buried her face in

a velvet cushion to weep as long and as much as she wished. Mr. Evans,

in his concern for her, had followed Norah, and stood outside the door.

“Tell him not to trouble himself to come up. I shall do very well as

soon as I have slept.”

“If you had asked me to take the trouble to stay down stairs, I might

have thought of it; but seeing I am here, it is no trouble to come; and

you are so bright and cosy, suppose you let the girl bring the waiter up

here and make my tea for me.”

Mr. Evans was quite sure that something beside sickness had happened to

Fanny, and he intended to be confessor or doctor, as the case might be.

“Norah, bring Mr. Evans’s supper to my room,” said Fanny, more

cheerfully than she would have thought possible a few minutes before.

And she passed into her bed-room and bathed her face and her eyes, and

arranged her hair, and came back to make tea for Mr. Evans very much

improved. But she could not talk—she had fairly lost her tongue.

Mr. Evans seemed more unconstrained and more fully himself than since

his unfortunate offer of himself to Fanny.

“Fanny,” said he, after the tea things were taken away, “I would like to

ask you what is the matter, if I thought you would like to tell me. It

is no common headache that is tormenting you; I would sooner guess it is

a heartache.”

“And what if it is a heartache?” said Fanny.

“You mean to ask what I should have to do with the diseases of your

heart. I tell you, Fanny, I am not as bad as you may think, or so big a

fool either. For instance, though I love you a great deal better than

Heaven, and would sooner have you for my wife than an angel, yet knowing

that you can’t love an old codger like me, I want to see you happy with

the man of your choice, and I tell you now, for the cure of your

headache, or heartache, that you have my consent to marry Mr. Wilson.”

Fanny burst into so violent and uncontrolled a fit of weeping, that Mr.

Evans was alarmed and puzzled.

“Speak to me, Fanny, tell me what is all this. I thought to give you

great joy, and I only set you weeping. Tell me, what does all this

mean?”

“Dear Cousin Charles,” said Fanny, “you have given me the greatest joy

of my life.”

“Then you love Wilson, as I thought,” said Mr. Evans.

“No, no—not Wilson, but you, Cousin Charles; and you said you would

rather have me for your wife than an angel.” And Fanny threw her arms

around Charles Evans’s neck; and there is not a shadow of doubt that he

would cheerfully have exchanged all the pleasures of his long

bachelorate in a lump, for the kisses of the next five minutes.

They were a happy couple that evening; but Wilson’s prospects were worse

damaged than his heart.

* * * * *

THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD.

BY HENRY S. HAGERT.

Sweet is the tomb—the all-forgetting tomb—

The dreamless couch round which no phantoms glide,

To harrow up the soul, or read a doom,

Of yore on their dread Sabbath prophesied.

Calm are its slumbers—never more shall pride,

Hatred or malice, wound the sleeping clay;

Wrong not the dead—they should be deified—

They lived and suffered, and have passed away;

Here be all feuds forgot—ye, too, shall have your day.

Your day of trouble, when the cup of Grief,

Full of its Marsh-waters must be drained

E’en to the dregs—when ye will need relief

From those upon whose head your lips have rained,

Curses; when they who were by you disdained,

Shall offer in their mockery, to dry

The hot dew of your brows by anguish strained

Through the parched skin. Ah! then, in grief to fly

For refuge to the grave, and find but calumny.

Let the dead rest—if ye must “snarl and bite,”

Turn to the living—there your venom spill;

Put on Deception’s mask, then vent your spite,

Sharpen your fangs, and gnaw, and rend, and kill—

’Tis a sweet banquet—eat and drink your fill;

Ye can thrive well on malice—but forbear

To stir the ashes of the dead, your skill

Can never fan a glowing ember there,

At which the hated torch of vengeance to repair.

Look on the dead, and if ye cower and quail

To think that ye shall be like them one day—

That the cold coffin-worm, with slimy trail,

Shall crawl across your forehead, or from play

Within your eyeless sockets forth shall stray,

To feast upon your rottenness, your hair

Shall drip the sick’ning grave-damps, and the gray,

Dry dust of the rank sepulchre, for air,

Fill up your nostrils—then by the cold grave _forbear_!

Think on your last dark hour, when a gaunt form,

Spectral and shadowy, shall stoop and set

A mystic seal upon you; when the storm

Of conscience rages, till its spray has wet

Your brow; when, like the doom in Venice met,

The walls of your lone chamber seem to close

Upon you, crushed and bleeding, dying, yet

Never to die—from torments such as those,

Would you be free? Withhold—break not the dead’s repose.

* * * * *

FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGIA.

PARAPHRASE.

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

A stalwart blind man trudging through the mud,

O’ertook a cripple; side by side they stood.

“Cripple, you’re stall’d,” cried Blinky, “in this clay.”

Cripple replied, “Can Blinky see his way?”

“Not a d—d inch,” the poor blind man replies,

“But mount my shoulders, boy, lend me your eyes;

Keep them wide open, let their light be mine,

Cling to my shoulders, and my legs are thine.

And with clear eyes, strong shanks and shoulders good

We need no more to travel through this mud.”

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

BY LEN.

A sigh steals down the smiling valley—a gentle sigh of breezes, wafting

happiness over the face of nature, and at the sound from out their beds

of earth, myriads of things of beauty wake into existence;—meadow and

plain and hill-side glisten in fairest verdure—flowers fling their

fragrance on the gale—stately trees wave their foliage to the passing

wind—while streams beneath dance onward to the ocean—and the

dream-like hum that fills the air and swells in chorus to the arch of

heaven, tells of the blooming Spring—of the transcendent pleasures of

Life.

What a glorious earth has man for a habitation! what scenes surround him

to ennoble the soul—what examples to elevate and incite the mind to

strive for the goal of Happiness. That goal, alas! how distant and hard

to reach; thorns hedge the road the aspiring one would tread, and weeds

spring rank and choking in the pathway, or often, when the seeming

height is won, the eminence fades to a common level, and Happiness is as

distant as ever! But the soul must toil, though success is but a

vision—the mind must work, although its labors be fruitless; for there

is a Higher power controlling the actions of man—guiding his impulses

and passions, and girding him for the conflict around him and within

him—the struggle that is ceaselessly waging—the Battle of Life!

How sweet is Fame! Even now, upon men’s tongues there dwells some name

whose every syllable is a charm, thrilling to adoration. Here, a patriot

spirit, whose fires have smouldered long beneath wrong and malice, rises

superior to ills, and grasps—almost the consummation of his wishes;

there, a warrior from the laureled field, receives the homage of a

grateful people; or some philosopher, with potent wand, discloses to a

wondering world a new discovery in Science. They stand aloft upon the

pinnacle of Fortune, and eager crowds beneath echo their praises or envy

their success; and upward still they gaze, blind to the rugged crags

that lie between—blind to the slippery height they covet—blind to the

thousands round them on the same great plain, breathless and bleeding

from their vain attempts to climb the dazzling steep—or happy in an

humbler sphere.

Ah! had they seen that lofty mind on the chill yesterday of Adversity,

with naught but obstacles before him; who knew that Country was upon

men’s lips only as a substitute for self, and yet heard his own efforts

slandered as false and recreant, and whose high purposes had bent before

the storm only to rise unbroken—they would not undergo the patriot’s

trials, even for his rewards. The soldier’s hardships in the camp, with

night’s cold shadows closing round him, and no pillow for his head save

the still colder earth; or ’mid the battle’s carnage, or on the

ensanguined field, strewn alike with friends and foes, would look not

half so pleasant to their eyes as that exulting warrior; or had they

watched the student through long years of vain research, poring o’er

musty tomes till the stars paled before the light of day, with fevered

brow and aching heart, filled with strong hopes that time still dashed

to earth—though Time at last was destined to fulfill; the marvels

wrought thus dearly, thus hardly given to the world, the car with wings

of fire, the thought, borne as on the lightning’s shaft, the shadow that

no longer vanishes, when won at such a cost, would lose their value, and

the philosopher stand unenvied though pre-eminent.

Men judge too oft by outward show, the glitter hides the dross which

lies beneath, the peasant would seek happiness in palaces, the rich,

perchance, see pleasures ’mid the poor; all err, all causelessly

despond, for place nor circumstance alone can make life happy; there is

no lake with breast by winds unruffled, no sea by billows always

unconvulsed—even so is it with man. How many noble minds are crushed

beneath adversity, and pulses that ere-while warmed with a kindred glow

to kindred energies, throb now to sorrow and bereavement? How many

hearts that loved—loved, oh, how fondly—are doomed, alas! to live, and

live alone? How many breathing beings toil and travail on to gain

wherewith they may drag out existence—how many lots that look the

brightest, are fraught with bitterest wo!

And still the strife goes on, still the throng heaves and swells

tumultuously, as waves that surge against the rocks which bind them, and

one unceasing current flows turbulently onward, bearing with it the joys

and sorrows, the hopes and passions of a world—onward ever, to the

trackless ocean of Eternity.

But fields are green and flowers are fair—then is no warfare on the

hills, nor in the groves, nor on the plains; the elements break in

fearful grandeur above; the seasons come and go—yet sunshine follows

storms as day the night, and Winter yields to Spring. No murmur is

heard, save that which trembles through the air, of rippling streams and

stirring leaves, and songs of sweetest music; and the works of Nature

stand forth in majestic harmony, unmoved by the strivings around them,

regardless alike of the fears and longings, the griefs and tumults

raging in the breasts of men—serene and placid, despite the contest,

and at Peace, though amid the throes of The Battle of Life.

* * * * *

FIFTY SUGGESTIONS.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

(_Concluded from page 319._)

26.

The taste manifested by our Transcendental poets, _is_ to be treated

“reverentially,” beyond doubt, as one of Mr. Emerson’s friends

suggests—for the fact is, it is Taste on her death-bed—Taste kicking

in _articulo mortis_.

27.

I should not say, of Taglioni, exactly that she dances, but that she

laughs with her arms and legs, and that if she takes vengeance on her

present oppressors, she will be amply justified by the _lex Talionis_.

28.

The world is infested, just now, by a new sect of philosophers, who have

not yet suspected themselves of forming a sect, and who, consequently,

have adopted no name. They are the _Believers in every thing Odd_. Their

High Priest in the East, is Charles Fourier—in the West, Horace Greely;

and high priests they are to some purpose. The only common bond among

the sect, is Credulity:—let us call it Insanity at once, and be done

with it. Ask any one of them _why_ he believes this or that, and, if he

be conscientious, (ignorant people usually are,) he will make you very

much such a reply as Talleyrand made when asked why he believed in the

Bible. “I believe in it first,” said he, “because I am Bishop of Autun;

and, secondly, _because I know nothing about it at all_.” What these

philosophers call “argument,” is a way they have “_de nier ce qui est et

d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas_.”[2]

29.

The goddess Laverna, who is a head without a body, could not do better,

perhaps, than make advances to “La Jeune France,” which, for some years

to come at least, must otherwise remain a body without a head.

30.

Mr. A—— is frequently spoken of as “one of our most industrious

writers;” and, in fact, when we consider how much he has written, we

perceive, at once, that he _must_ have been industrious, or he could

never (like an honest woman as he is) have so thoroughly succeeded in

keeping himself from being “talked about.”

31.

H—— calls his verse a “poem,” very much as Francis the First bestowed

the title, _mes déserts_, upon his snug little deer-park at

Fontainebleau.

32.

K——, the publisher, trying to be critical, talks about books pretty

much as a washerwoman would about Niagara falls or a poulterer about a

phœnix.

33.

The ingenuity of critical malice would often be laughable but for the

disgust, which, even in the most perverted spirits, injustice never

fails to excite. A common _trick_ is that of decrying, impliedly, the

higher, by insisting upon the lower, merits of an author. Macaulay, for

example, deeply feeling how much critical acumen is enforced by cautious

attention to the mere “rhetoric” which is its vehicle, has at length

become the best of modern rhetoricians. His _brother_

reviewers—anonymous, of course, and likely to remain so forever—extol

“the acumen of Carlyle, the analysis of Schlegel, _and_ the style of

Macaulay.” Bancroft is a philosophical historian; but no amount of

philosophy has yet taught him to despise a minute accuracy in point of

fact. His _brother_ historians talk of “the grace of Prescott, the

erudition of Gibbon, _and_ the pains-taking precision of Bancroft.”

Tennyson, perceiving how vividly an imaginative effect is aided, now and

then, by a certain quaintness judiciously introduced, brings this

latter, at times, in support of his most glorious and most delicate

imagination:—whereupon his _brother_ poets hasten to laud the

imagination of Mr. Somebody, whom nobody imagined to have any, “_and_

the somewhat affected quaintness of Tennyson.”—Let the noblest poet add

to his other excellences—if he dares—that of faultless versification

and scrupulous attention to grammar. He is damned at once. His rivals

have it in their power to discourse of “A. the true poet, _and_ B. the

versifier and disciple of Lindley Murray.”

34.

That a cause leads to an effect, is scarcely more certain than that, so

far as Morals are concerned, a repetition of effect tends to the

generation of cause. Herein lies the principle of what we so vaguely

term “Habit.”

35.

With the exception of Tennyson’s “Locksley Hall,” I have never read a

poem combining so much of the fiercest passion with so much of the most

delicate imagination, as the “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship” of Miss

Barrett. I am forced to admit, however, that the latter work _is_ a

palpable imitation of the former, which it surpasses in thesis as much

as it falls below it in a certain calm energy, lustrous and

indomitable—such as we might imagine in a broad river of molten gold.

36.

What has become of the inferior planet which Decuppis, about nine years

ago, declared he saw traversing the disc of the sun?

37.

“Ignorance _is_ bliss”—but, that the bliss be real, the ignorance must

be so profound as not to suspect itself ignorant. With this

understanding, Boileau’s line may be read thus:

“Le plus fou _toujours_ est le plus satisfait,”

—“_toujours_” in place of “_souvent_.”

38.

Bryant and Street are both, essentially, descriptive poets; and

descriptive poetry, even in its happiest manifestation, is _not_ of the

highest order. But the distinction between Bryant and Street is very

broad. While the former, in reproducing the sensible images of Nature,

reproduces the sentiments with which he regards them, the latter gives

us the images and nothing beyond. He never forces us to feel what we

feel he must have felt.

39.

In lauding Beauty, Genius merely evinces a filial affection. To Genius

Beauty gives life—reaping often a reward in Immortality.

40.

And this is the “American Drama” of ——! Well!—that “Conscience which

makes cowards of us all” will permit me to say, in praise of the

performance, only that it is not quite so bad as I expected it to be.

But then I always expect too much.

41.

What we feel to be _Fancy_ will be found fanciful still, whatever be the

theme which engages it. No _subject_ exalts it into Imagination. When

Moore is termed “a fanciful poet,” the epithet is applied with

precision. He _is_. He is fanciful in “Lalla Rookh,” and had he written

the “Inferno,” in the “Inferno” he would have contrived to be still

fanciful and nothing beyond.

42.

When we speak of “a suspicious man,” we may mean either one who

suspects, or one to be suspected. Our language needs either the

adjective “suspectful,” or the adjective “suspectable.”

43.

“To love,” says Spencer, “is

“To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run,

To speed, to give, to want, to be undone.”

The philosophy, here, might be rendered more profound, by the mere

omission of a comma. We all know the _willing_ blindness—the

_voluntary_ madness of Love. We express this in thus punctuating the

last line:

To speed, to give—_to want to be undone_.

It is a case, in short, where we gain point by omitting it.

44.

Miss Edgeworth seems to have had only an approximate comprehension of

“Fashion,” for she says:

“If it was the fashion to burn me, and I at the stake, I hardly know ten

persons of my acquaintance who would refuse to throw on a faggot.”

There are _many_ who, in such a case, would “refuse to throw on a

faggot”—for fear of smothering out the fire.

45.

I am beginning to think with Horsely—that “the People have nothing to

do with the laws but to obey them.”

46.

“It is not fair to review my book without reading it,” says Mr. M——,

talking at the critics, and, as usual, expecting impossibilities. The

man who is clever enough to _write_ such a work, is clever enough to

read it, no doubt; but we should not look for so much talent in the

world at large. Mr. M—— will not imagine that I mean to blame _him_.

The book alone is in fault, after all. The fact is, that “_er lasst sich

nicht lesen_”—it will not _permit_ itself to be read. Being a hobby of

Mr. M——’s, and brimful of spirit, it will let nobody mount it but Mr.

M——.

47.

It is only to teach his children Geography, that G—— wears a boot the

picture of Italy upon the map.

48.

In his great Dictionary, Webster seems to have had an idea of being more

English than the English—“_plus Arabe qu’en Arabie_.”[3]

49.

That there were once “seven wise men” is by no means, strictly speaking,

an historical _fact_; and I am rather inclined to rank the idea among

the Kabbala.

50.

Painting their faces to look like Macaulay, some of our critics manage

to resemble him, at length, as a Massaccian does a Raffäellian Virgin;

and, except that the former is feebler and thinner than the

other—suggesting the idea of its being the ghost of the other—not one

connoisseur in ten can perceive any difference. But then, unhappily,

even the street lazzaroni can feel the distinction.

-----

[2] Nouvelle Héloise.

[3] Count Anthony Hamilton.

* * * * *

MAY LILLIE.

OR LOVE AND LEARNING.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

It was a most provoking thing that young Harry Warren should have fallen

in love with pretty May Lillie—he simply a village school-master whom

nobody knew—and she the only daughter of the richest and proudest man

in the whole county of Erie, whom every body knew! It was not only very

provoking, but it was also very unfortunate for the poor fellow, as he

might as well have aspired to wed yon bright evening star, as to lead to

the altar the daughter of Diogenes Lillie, Esq., Ex. M. C.

See the maliciousness of Fate! If May had been but the child of some

poor widow or parson—or had Harry claimed descent from some lordly

aristocrat, the course of true love might not have run so crooked.

Leander swam the Hellespont to reach his love, breasting bravely the

surging billows, which parting before him, bore him exultingly to the

feet of Hero—but how shall Harry force the adamantine chains with which

Mammon bars the way to happiness! Assist him ye gods of hapless lovers.

My hero was the son of a farmer, more rich in children than in acres,

and who could only afford them in schooling, value received for a few

bushels of wheat, rye, or potatoes.

Young Harry had no taste for agriculture. The plough furrowed his

handsome countenance, and the harrow harrowed his soul. Neither did he

fancy mechanics—he turned from the anvil, the carpenter’s bench, the

awl, and the scissors, with equal repugnance. Books, books alone were

his passion. For these all else were neglected, the cattle strayed loose

in the fields, the pigs crept through to the garden, the wheat remained

unshocked, and the grass uncut, while Harry under a tree lost himself

amid the tattered leaves of an old book, which every breath of wind

threatened to sweep far from him. This was a sore trial to his father,

but after fruitlessly exhausting all his arguments to dissuade his son

from the folly of “_larning_,” he finally gave it up, and left Harry

unmolested to follow his bent. The clergyman of the village admiring the

perseverance of the young farmer-boy, and wishing to encourage such

laudable zeal, kindly volunteered to assist him in his studies, and with

unwearied toil by night and by day, Harry Warren was finally prepared to

enter college.

At the age of twenty-one he graduated honorably, and left the college

walls, his head well-stored with knowledge—a light heart—a lighter

purse, and a strong will to persevere in the path he had marked out for

himself, a path which, after many crooked windings, was, as his sanguine

imagination assured him, to lead him eventually on the high road to

fame.

To put a little money in his pocket, and at the same time gain some

leisure for study, he offered himself as a candidate for the school in

the beautiful village of G——, some fifty miles distant from his native

town. He was accepted, and entered upon the duties of his new office

with hope and energy. And then—the very first thing he did was to fall

in love! foolish fellow—instead of teaching the young idea to shoot—he

suffered himself to be shot—through the sparkling roguish eyes of

little May Lillie did Cupid aim his dart—_twang_—he was gone!

* * * * *

Diogenes Lillie, Esq., professed to be a very learned man, an immensely

learned man, and his library accordingly occupied one whole wing of his

large and costly mansion. No one far or near could boast of so many

square feet of knowledge. He patronized the arts and sciences, and

hinted at many wonderful inventions at work in his brain, which were in

time to burst forth and astonish the world. He also courted the muses,

and was convinced that should he once plume his flight to Parnassus,

there would be an immense fluttering among all soaring poets, whom he

should distance at once by his bold and flashing imagery.

Could the eyes of poor old Dominie Sampson have rested upon the

countless volumes which like “Alps on Alps” arose to the lofty ceiling,

would not his meagre, bony jaws have ushered in—“pro-di-gious!” for

there was one compartment devoted to theology, another to geology, and

spaces for all the _’ologies_—then there were divisions for astronomy,

for botany, for history, for travels—there was the poet’s corner, and

the niche of romance. There were books in French, and German, and

Spanish, and Russian, and Italian, and a mausoleum for the dead

languages. I cannot vouch that “one poor head could carry” all this,

that the brain of the great Diogenes contained as many chambers as his

library divisions—but it was a very pleasant thing for him to gaze up

and down, and down and up, upon their costly gold-lettered backs! Then

there were also busts, and statues, and globes, and blow-pipes, and

barometers, and thermometers scattered around, and here in this hall of

inspiration, devoted to the “sisters three and such branches of

learning,” did Mr. Lillie spend the most of his invaluable time.

Now great wisdom is said to bestow upon its possessor a contempt for

wealth proportionate, which, by the way, may be the reason why so many

learned writers and men of genius have died in a garret. If so—there

was no fear that the last breath of Diogenes Lillie, Esq., would be

drawn in an attic, for he lost not sight of his gold in the depths of

his wisdom, but so skillfully managed his financial concerns, that

though apparently paying little heed to business, as he sat there

ensconced amid his books and papers, the ball was kept constantly

rolling and constantly accumulating.

Yet what militated most against the love of Harry Warren, he had

resolved from the time when pretty May slipped her leading-strings, that

she should be the wife of some great man wielding authority; and pray

what virtue was there in the petty birch-twig, or the twelve inch ruler,

which were the only symbols of authority the young school-master

wielded!

“However, there is no need of my troubling myself upon that head yet!”

would Mr. Lillie year after year say to himself—“May is but a child—it

will be time enough years hence to pick out a husband for her.”

_Pick out a husband!_ just as if the bright eyes of May were not capable

of selecting for themselves—or that the eyes of sixty could see for

those of sixteen.

But there is in reality no need of Mr. Lillie’s troubling himself, for

the deed is done, and the little gipsy May engaged in as pretty a

flirtation, as ever spread the rosy light of love around the hearts of

youth.

* * * * *

Let me exculpate my unfortunate hero from all attempts to win the

affections of his beautiful pupil. On the contrary, it seems a mystery

that his oddities and awkwardness should have awoke any other emotion

than pity in the heart of May—for he was so terribly ungraceful in her

presence—why if he merely spoke to her his voice was so low and

tremulous, that she had really to approach her little head quite near to

catch a word he said—and as for his scholarship, you would have thought

him a dunce, so many egregrious blunders did he commit in hearing her

recitations—and he could no more guide her little hand in making those

pretty and delicate strokes which marked her copy-book, than he could

fly to the moon. You would have been amazed that such a fine, handsome

young fellow, could have made such a booby of himself!

However, never were scholars blessed with so indulgent a master, and his

popularity rose in proportion, while as your lovers are for the most

part but little given to the “flesh-pots of Egypt,” he was pronounced by

all economical housewives upon whose hospitality he was semi-monthly

thrown, to possess the most accommodating taste, and could dine from

beef and cabbage, pork and parsnips, peas porridge, or mush and milk,

with equal relish.

I am sorry to say, that at first May joined in the laugh with her

mischievous school-mates at the oddities of the master, and contrived

many little tricks to vex him. Yet if she raised her eyes a moment from

her book, she was sure to encounter those of Harry fixed upon her, with

an expression so mournful, yet so tender, as bathed her cheek with

blushes, and her eyes with tears of contrition. Her frolicks therefore

soon yielded to a more pensive mood. She could not tell why, but the

thoughtless mirth of her companions vexed and annoyed her—she no longer

joined in those idle pranks, which had for their object the ridicule of

the master, but gave way to sudden fits of musing and abstraction. When

she heard his footstep approaching, her heart beat audibly, and in her

class she no longer raised her saucy eyes to _mis_construe her lesson,

but scarcely lifted their drooping lids as she answered in faint tones

the questions put to her.

In short, Love had conquered the merriest and most mischievous maiden

that ever laughed at his wiles!

One day in early spring, ere the snow-drop or the crocus, had dared to

lift their pretty heads above the snowy mantle in which old winter had

so long kept them snug and warm, May placed in her bosom a bright and

beautiful rose-bud. It was the first her little conservatory had

yielded, and as she that morning for the first time discovered it

peeping through the rich green leaves, she thought she had never seen

any thing so fresh and beautiful. Carefully plucking it from the

luxuriant branch, she bore off the fragrant trophy to exhibit to her

young companions.

Well to be sure it was only a rose-bud—but as Harry descried it sitting

so proudly upon its pure and lovely throne, something whispered that

with that tiny rose his fate was linked—was it thornless, or should he

wounded and complaining henceforth bid adieu to happiness!

May caught the glance of the master, and blushed and trembled just as if

she perfectly comprehended what was passing through his mind, and as

suddenly the little rose-bud was invested with new and tenfold value.

She would fain have hid it next her heart from the careless gaze of her

young associates, for she felt that it had now become a sacred thing

which their touch would profane.

Suddenly, May bent her head over her desk, and shook her long raven

curls over her blushing cheek, as she heard a well-known step behind

her, and felt that the large eloquent eyes of the master were fixed upon

her. But for the throbbing of her own little heart, she could have heard

the rapid pulsation of his, while his breath almost stirred the

beautiful ringlet which rested upon her bosom. Rapidly her little hand

now moved over the slate, glancing to the right and left, tracing figure

upon figure, as though its mistress had not a thought, but was occupied

in deciphering the rules of Coleman. It was a most puzzling sum—never

had she attempted one so difficult—in vain she erased—in vain began

again. Of course it was all wrong, and so Harry, as in duty bound, took

the pencil and sat down by her side to extricate her from her

difficulties—as a school-master you know, there was no other way!

But, dear me—instead of looking upon the slate, his eyes never fell a

bit lower than that little rose-bud—a pretty teacher, to be sure!

“_Ahem_—that is a beautiful rose, Miss May!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You—you are fond of flowers, I see.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They are a favorite study of mine—are you much versed in the language

of flowers, my—_ahem_—Miss May?”

“They always speak to me of God’s love and goodness,” replied May, as

demurely as if she had been answering her minister.

“True, dear Miss May,” said Harry. “They are indeed, as the poet

says—‘the smiles of angels’ blessing and cheering us on our earthly

pilgrimage—but aside from this heavenly mission, the poet has also

bestowed upon them another language:

“‘In eastern lands they talk in flowers,

And they tell in a garland their loves and cares,

Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers,

On its leaves a mystic language bears.’

“Is it so—do you believe this, May?”

May made no answer, but bent her head still lower over the book before

her, and the little rose-bud trembled as though moved by some breath of

summer.

“The—the rose, May,” continued Harry, “seems to have been ever a

favorite and expressive flower of this mystic garland:

“‘The rose is the sign of joy and love,

Young blushing love in its earliest dawn.’”

There was a pause.

“May—May, will you give me the rose?”

May timidly raised her eyes to his—they were filled with tears.

“Will you, May—will you give me the rose?”

The next moment the little bud was in the hand of the transported Harry,

accompanied with a look of such innocent, confiding love, as made his

heart dance with rapture.

Was there ever in after life a moment of such pure and exquisite

happiness as then filled the hearts of the lovers!

But the rose-bud, the poor rose-bud, bitterly did it rue the change from

its lovely resting-place to the great hand of the school-master—besides

coming very near being crushed to pieces between that and the dainty

little fingers of May as she placed it therein!

Well, it must have been a puzzling sum indeed to keep the master so long

at May Lillie’s desk! and taking advantage of his inattention, the

mischievous scholars carried on a pretty little by-play of their

own—there was tittering in corners, and whispering behind torn

covers—and soft, soft tiptoeing from one seat to another, and little

paper pellets flying like hail-stones from side to side. Ah, dear, happy

children—there is no danger—you might knock the master’s head off, and

he would never know it!

“Young ladies—children—I give you a holyday,” quoth Harry, rapping his

desk with the dread ferule, insignia of his power.

“A holyday—_huzza—huzza_—a holyday!” shouted the girls and boys,

rushing from the school-room.

But the older girls looked slyly at each other, and then at the blushing

May.

“Look—look!” exclaimed half-a-dozen in a breath. “The master is walking

home with May Lillie!”

* * * * *

Diogenes Lillie, Esq., sat in his study. Around him were gathered all

those powerful incentives necessary to call forth that great masterly

genius which lay hid somewhere in his brain—somewhere—from whence,

though many times coaxed and flattered, it had as yet resolutely refused

to stir.

Upon the table before him, bearing at each corner respectively a bust of

Plato, of Shakspeare, Homer, and Milton, were pamphlets, reviews,

folios, quartos and duodecimos, thickly strewn—but what was more to the

purpose, there was drawn up close to the elbow of Mr. Lillie, a quire of

hot-pressed letter-paper, with edges of gold—a silver standish, bearing

the golden pen ingrafted in a feather of pearl, and the cerulean ink

with which genius should indite the virgin page, whenever said genius

should deign to issue from its dark hiding-place.

The lips of Diogenes were closely pressed together—his eyes upturned

with a frenzied glare to the ceiling, and deep indentations, like the

rind of a musk-melon, corrugated his brow.

Reader—he was conceiving.

Bringing down his clinched hand with a force which made old Homer nod,

he exclaimed:

“I will write. Yes, I will write a poem—I will astonish the world—my

talents shall no longer remain under a bushel, but shall go forth like

the sword of Gideon to hew down all minor poets! Upon what theme shall I

first spend my genius—let me consider,” (drawing the paper still nearer

and dipping the golden pen into the flowing liquid,) “gold—the Age of

Gold—the Golden Age—yes, ‘The Golden Age’ it shall be. My sublimity

shall throw Milton into the shade,” (with a look at the blind bard)—“my

glowing pictures of rural life shall startle the lovers of Homer,” (a

bow to the god)—“my wit shall cut with the keen sarcasm of Shakspeare,”

(looking glorious Will full in the face)—“while the _tout-ensemble_

shall form such a completeness of wisdom, as might honor even the head

of a Plato!” (a triumphant glance at the old philosopher.)

And thus encouraged, the gold pen capered, and flashed, and flourished

from side to side like a mad thing—pointing notes of admiration here,

dotting and scratching there, and then diving deep into the sea of ink,

plumed its pearly pinion for new and higher flights.

For three weeks did the poet bury himself in his library with dead and

living authors.

And every morning he kissed his pretty May-flower as she tied on her

little bonnet:

“There, there—go along child; be a good girl and obey the master.”

And then as she came to bid him good-night:

“There, there; go to bed, child, and don’t forget your lessons.”

Not she, bless her! Why she never forgot a single lesson the

school-master taught her—she had every word by heart!

At length the Golden Age was ready to burst like a blazing star upon

this dull coppery world, and was the most sublime thing, in the opinion

of its author, that was ever written—and who, pray, could be a better

judge!

Now Mr. Lillie having some conception of the ignorance of the critics,

having once (although it is a great secret,) sent a huge MSS. to the

Harpers, which was pronounced “_stuff_”—it might have been very good

stuff notwithstanding—resolved that ere he essayed the publishers, he

would give his unique poem in all its unfledged beauty to his native

village. It was a capital idea. It should be delivered before the Lyceum

to an astonished audience. He could then have some faint idea perhaps of

the applause which awaited its appearance in 12mo., calf and gilt.

One evening he dispatched a hasty note to our young school-master, and

requested to see him immediately upon business of a private nature.

Heavens how poor Harry trembled as he perused this terrible summons! All

was discovered then—Mr. Lillie knew of his presumptuous love, and had

sent to banish him forever from the presence of May. And then our little

heroine—into what an agony of doubt and apprehension was she thrown, as

she read the billet which Harry contrived to slip into her hand.

At the hour appointed, with an unsteady hand, Harry knocked at the door

of Mr. Lillie’s library. The great Diogenes himself appeared at the

threshhold—and imagine the surprise of our hero to be greeted with:

“Come in, come in, my dear sir—I am most happy to see you,” (shaking

him warmly by the hand.) “Sit down, Mr. Warren,” (motioning to a seat at

the table of the gods.) “It has long been my wish to know you better

than my very limited time would allow—my pursuits” (glancing

complacently around him,) “are a great bar to social intercourse. The

muses, Mr. Warren, the muses I find are very jealous ladies—do you

cultivate their acquaintance? No? Ah, I am surprised, for I assure you I

have formed a very high opinion of your talents.”

Harry bowed, and said something about honor, &c., &c.

“My daughter, Mr. Warren,” (ah! now it is coming! thought poor Harry,)

“my daughter, I am inclined to believe, has made great proficiency under

your instruction—you have my thanks for initiating her into some of the

more abstruse sciences which she never before attended to.”

Did Harry dream, or was the wrath of Mr. Lillie veiled under the most

cutting irony! He could only bow, and smile “a ghastly smile.”

“And speaking of the Muses, my dear young sir,” continued Mr. Lillie, “I

have just been amusing myself with a trifle—a mere flight of fancy—if

you have a few moments leisure now, I will read you a few passages.”

Of course our hero considered himself favored—and accordingly with true

bombastic style Mr. Lillie read several stanzas from the closely written

pages of his poem. Never had Harry listened to such trash—he could

hardly credit his senses that any man should be so inflated with vanity

as to deem it even passable!

“Ah, it strikes you I see,” said Mr. Lillie. “I knew it would. Yes, I

see it hits your vein exactly—this convinces me that our tastes are

congenial.”

Again Harry bowed—not daring to trust his voice, he was forced to nod

his head continually like a Chinese mandarin in a toy-shop.

“Mr. Warren,” proceeded the author, wheeling his chair round and

regarding our hero with great benignity, “I have imbibed a great regard

for you, and mean to make your fortune—to smooth your path to eminence.

Yes, I like you, and am convinced there is no one more worthy than

yourself to receive——”

Harry started—his face radiant with hope, he bent eagerly forward to

catch the rest of the sentence.

“But, by the way, my young friend, this conversation must be strictly

confidential.”

“Certainly, my dear sir!” exclaimed Harry, almost breathless.

“Yes, Mr. Warren, there is something about you which pleases me, and

therefore I am about to confer upon you a most precious gift—to bestow

upon you my—ah, can’t you guess what it is?” smiling archly.

“O, my dear sir,” said Harry, seizing his hand, “if I might dare to

hope!”

“Yes, Mr. Warren, I am about to give you my—poem!”

“Your poem!”

“My poem.”

“Your poem!”

“Yes, my poem—that is, the reputation of the thing.”

Harry started up and paced the room as if pursued by all the furies.

“Ah, I thought I should surprise you,” cried Mr. Lillie. “Come, sit down

again. I said I would make your fortune, and I will. Now this poem, Mr.

Warren, you shall have the honor of delivering before the Lyceum as your

own—think of that—as your own production.”

Poor Harry was struck aghast. “But, my dear sir,” he exclaimed, “I can

never consent to such a gross imposition!”

“I honor you the more for your delicacy young man,” replied the poet;

“but banish it—there is no need of it between friends, we perfectly

understand each other you know—you shall deliver this poem.” (“The Lord

deliver me!” mentally prayed Harry.) “Listeners will applaud—copies

will be solicited—your fame will reach the city—Morris and Willis will

rank you among their favorite young poets—the——”

“But, Mr. Lillie, why not deliver this poem yourself—why not wear your

own laurels?” interrupted Harry.

“_Ahem_—Mr. Warren, I am averse to popularity—notoriety of any kind I

detest—I prefer to quaff stealthily at the fount of Helicon, and tread

with felted footsteps the Parnassian hill—stop, that’s a new idea, I’ll

note it. So long as I have the mental satisfaction of knowing the _poem

is mine_, what matters it whether you or I have the reputation! Say no

more—you accept my proposition of course.”

“Mr. Lillie—”

“Not a word, my dear sir—I will take care that you are invited to

deliver the next Lyceum lecture—two weeks hence remember. That gives

you ample time to study the poem and conceive my meaning. Come here

every evening—you shall have my assistance. I will not detain you

longer—good-night. You will find May somewhere—in the drawing-room

most probably; she will be glad to see you, for I dare say she is

puzzling her little head about something which you can explain.

Good-night.”

This latter clause sufficed to check all further opposition from Harry,

for the moment at least, and with rapid steps he now sought the

drawing-room.

“Dear Harry!” cried May, springing toward him as he entered, and looking

up in his face as if to read there the stern mandate which was to

separate them forever.

“Dearest May, do not tremble thus,” replied Harry, leading her to a

seat; “believe me you have no cause.”

“Ah—does he then approve of our love!” exclaimed May, her sweet young

face illumined with hope.

“Your father has been kind, my dear girl, and that he does not even

suspect our love I am convinced, or he would have been less so. His

kindness, however, if it may be called so,” (and the lip of Harry curled

doubtingly,) “has placed me in a most awkward predicament. Listen, dear

May, and help me if you can.”

He then as briefly as possible related the conversation he had just held

with her father, and the strange proposition made him. No wonder he felt

provoked at the merry laugh with which the little maiden closed his

rueful communication.

“Confess now, Harry, you deem papa’s poem most execrable stuff!” she

said, looking him archly in the face.

“Dear May, you know I—”

“Confess, confess Harry—no equivocation!” cried May, shaking her little

finger.

“Well, May, I will be honest then—you know, dear one, I would not for

worlds wound your feelings, but really I must confess I never listened

to more senseless jargon!”

“That’s excellent—the more absurd the better,” said May, laughing; “and

you will deliver it, Harry.”

“May!” exclaimed her lover reproachfully, “_you_ surely cannot ask me to

make myself ridiculous!”

“_Hem_—do you love me, Harry?”

“Can you doubt, it dearest May?”

“Then if you love me, as Hamlet says, ‘speak the speech I pray you.’ No

doubt it will be hissed—so much the better—you will be laughed

at—better still—”

“May, May!” cried her lover, turning away from her, “if you loved me you

would not say this!”

“Ah—not if it gains papa’s consent to our union!”

“That indeed—but, dearest May, to become a laughing-stock—to have the

finger of derision pointed at one—to feel the lash of the critic,

and—”

“To call little May your own!” added the coaxing gipsy.

Who could resist such an appeal from such a pair of rosy lips? or

unrelenting behold the mute eloquence of those beautiful eyes! Not

Harry; no, nor any other young lover I am sure.

From that evening, dear reader, only imagine my unlucky hero imprisoned

hour after hour with the learned author, declaiming that—“infernal

poem,” (I quote Harry’s own words.) Do you not pity him?

But then—the stolen half hour below, assisting little May in her

lessons—do you not envy him!

In the meantime Mr. Lillie had not been idle. He had forwarded letters

to some of the most influential men of the neighboring towns, inviting

them to attend the next Lyceum, where as he informed them, a young

author, a poet, was to make his _début_ before their intelligent

community. In confidence he assured them they would be astonished at the

depth and power of his genius. He had himself looked over the poem, and

although he would not wish to forestall their admiration, thus much he

would say, that he had never read such a production!

* * * * *

The eventful evening arrived, and from every turnpike and cross-road

people came flocking in to listen to the young author—some because of

the favor of Mr. Lillie, others to compliment their favorite—the

school-master.

Escorted by the great and learned Diogenes Lillie, Esq., and a few of

the leading members, Harry was conducted to the hall, and seated within

the inclosure of the platform.

To depict his feelings would be impossible—he knew he was about to make

himself ridiculous, and was tempted more than once to turn his back and

quit the scene of his approaching disgrace. Notwithstanding the tempting

reward he had in view, the alternative was a hard one—but his eye

turned to a distant corner of the hall where the sweet face of May

smiled upon him, and her fair hand waved encouragement. He wavered no

longer.

Resolving to meet his fate like a hero, Harry now arose, and after a few

preliminaries introduced—“The Golden Age.”

The two first stanza elicited a general smile from the audience, the

third and fourth exerted a different influence—influenza became

universal, to judge from the coughing and _hem-ming_! Between the fifth

and sixth, many persons left the house, and as Harry with the energy of

despair drew near the close of the first canto, the hissing and hooting

of boys outside and in the building was almost deafening, while one of

the committee arose and advised the orator to sit down!

With the self-satisfaction of a martyr he was preparing to do so, when

his eye suddenly fell upon the _author_, whom he detected at a glance to

be the most active in the war of ridicule which was waging against him.

Rage for the moment overcame his discretion. Hurling the manuscript upon

the floor, he sprang from the desk, made one leap down the steps, and

rushed upon his deceitful patron!

“Do you dare to laugh at me!” he exclaimed, pale with anger, “do you

dare to utter a word, you—you who are yourself the—”

A little hand was on his arm, and a soft voice whispered:

“Harry, dear Harry, come away.” And obeying the gentle mandate our hero

suffered himself to be led from the scene of his mortification.

“Poor fellow!” cried Mr. Lillie, recovering from the alarm of Harry’s

onset, “poor fellow, he is almost beside himself I see—well, it is

pitiful trash after all, and I fear I gave him too much encouragement,

my friendship got the better of my judgment—yet his delivery is the

worst—why I am not sure gentlemen but his ranting and mouthing would

render even Shakspeare ridiculous. The poem _reads_ well—depend upon it

gentlemen there is genius after all where that poem came from.”

When Mr. Lillie reached home he found Harry awaiting him, storming and

raving to and fro in the library like a madman. Rushing upon the great

Diogenes he seized him by the collar:

“Your conduct is unbearable!” he exclaimed. “You shall do me justice,

sir—by heaven you shall! I am not to be treated in this way! After

palming off your wretched stuff upon me, do you think I am going to

submit to your ridicule! No, sir—either go forward and acknowledge

yourself openly as the author, or I will post you at every corner!”

“Be calm, pray be calm—we’ll settle it all in a moment,” said Mr.

Lillie, pale and trembling—“I am really sorry your first essay should

have been so unsuccessful.”

“My first essay!” interrupted Harry indignantly. “I am not to be trifled

with—no, sir—I will expose you at once—it is you who shall bear the

ridicule, not me!” and Harry rushed to the door.

“Stop—stop—my dear young friend,” cried Mr. Lillie, catching his

arm—“listen a moment; for heaven’s sake don’t expose me, it will be my

ruin. I will give you any thing you ask if you will only spare me—you

shall have money—”

“_Money!_ Can money repair the disgrace you have heaped upon me—talk of

money to a man who feels his future hopes blasted!” exclaimed Harry

scornfully. “Sir, there is but one way to save your reputation.”

“And what is that dear sir?” eagerly demanded the author.

“Give me the hand of your daughter,” he replied firmly.

“My daughter, Mr. Warren—why you astonish me—my daughter!” and Mr.

Lillie paused and pondered, bit his lips and rubbed his eyebrows. “Why

bless my soul, Mr. Warren, May is but a child!”

“No matter,” was the answer, “will you or will you not accept my

proposition?”

“Will not five hundred dollars, Mr. Warren—”

“No—nor five hundred thousand dollars.”

“Well, Mr. Warren, only don’t expose me; only pledge me your word of

honor that my secret shall be inviolate and May is yours!”

Harry calmed down wonderfully quick, considering he had been in such a

passion, and very obligingly made all the pledges his father-in-law that

was to be required.

“But there is one thing, Mr. Warren, which I must leave to your

generosity,” said Mr. Lillie. “May is my only, and a motherless

child—if this arrangement should be repugnant to her feelings, I trust

you will not press your claim—we may perhaps find some other way to

adjust this little difficulty. I will call May down, we may as well know

at once what her feelings are.”

Harry coughed, and walked to the window to conceal a smile, feeling at

the same time more respect for Mr. Lillie for this last clause in favor

of his child, than he thought him capable of inspiring.

One glance at the happy countenance of her lover informed May the day

was theirs.

And so she immediately took a great many airs upon herself—pouted her

pretty lips, and protested she thought it really absurd the idea of

marrying a man who had made himself so ridiculous—she doted on poets,

that she was willing to allow—but not such a conceited fellow as wrote

that poem—she knew!

Harry meanwhile whistled “Rory O’More,” and walked the room with an air

as much as to say—“It is perfectly indifferent to me, Miss, which ever

way you decide.”

“But, foolish child!” whispered her father, “the poem is _mine_!”

“Yours, dear papa—oh that alters the case—then you wrote that stup—”

“Hush—hush May. The public are fools, and cannot appreciate true

genius—the poem is a good poem.”

“I think it has point, papa.”

“Yes, and if those stupid ignoramuses had not made such an outcry, they

would have seen that it terminates most felicitously.”

“True, papa—one certainly could not wish for a happier termination.”

“But you see, May, I have particular reasons for not wishing to be known

as the author—and this poor young man feeling much chafed by the

treatment he has received, and which is perfectly natural you know—”

“Certainly, papa—the school-master is very sensitive. Mercy, if you

only knew—”

“Well, no matter now—and feeling as I said, greatly incensed, he

threatens to expose me. You can save me May—your hand will make all

secure.”

“Very well, dear papa—Mr. Warren has always been kind to me in school,

and I like him very well—I do papa, and so to oblige you I will do as

you wish,” said the arch maiden.

Taking her hand, her father now led her up to Harry, and placed it

within that of the enraptured lover. And May, dropping a little

courtesy, very gravely assured him that she would endeavor to make as

obedient a wife as she had a pupil.

Madam Rumor is a prying gossip. How she found out the secret was never

known—but away she went gadding from house to house, whispering the

school-master had obtained his charming young wife by fathering the

literary bantling of the learned Mr. Lillie!

* * * * *

THE NEW SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS.

A BUCOLIC.

BY E. FOXTON.

When with glances far and free

My Spirit stood at Childhood’s knee,

And gazed and smiled with careless glee,

To see the fateful spinsters three

Draw deftly out from carded naught

Its first soft rainbow thread of thought,

My playmate true, delight and joy,

Was a tiny wingéd boy.

Nightly nestled in my breast,

His legends lulled me to my rest;

Thence his voice awakening gay

Trilled back the early linnet’s lay;

In the bird’s nest, in the tree,

By the purling rill sat he;

From wind-rocked blue-bells flashed his eye;

He floated round the butterfly;

His little golden head rose up

In the water-lily’s cup;

His saucy breath, with nectar fed,

Puffed at me from the violet’s bed.

Half in sport and half caress;

Oh, dear artless Happiness!

Womanhood one day me found,

And my brows with roses crowned.

In a naiad’s glass I saw,

Pleased, my graces touched with awe;

And “These royal flowers shall be

Forged to links, my boy, for thee,”

So I said. From morn till eve

Through my haunts the shepherds grieve;

But the urchin bursts amain

Shouting from my bloomy chain,

Bursts and leaves me all forlorn,

Pricked and bleeding with a thorn.

“Why thus wrong my gentleness,

Light, inconstant Happiness!”

All in tears to bring me ease,

Back he flew, and made his peace;

And my every art I tried

Aye to keep him at my side;

April floods of tears and smiles,

Soft confessions, simple wiles;

Then I seized my harp and sang;

Far and wide the chorus rang;

(Round me flocked the grave, the gay,

But the rover would not stay;)

“Peerless, wronged, thy votaress,

Cruel, fleeting, Happiness.”

Oft and oftener still his flight;

Longer still he shunned my sight;

Till I left my woodlands dim,

And set forth in quest of him

To the tourney, feast and ball,

(In their turn I peeped at all,)

Court, and hermitage, and camp,

Still halls where burns the midnight lamp,

And the sunk-eyed scholar delves

Slowly through the groaning shelves,

Where old souls, that erst were men,

Speak and teach the young again,

And, while creation’s bounds they track,

Cast their endless shadows back;

Vainly still I sought to find

Him I sought among mankind.

Still his semblance proved to be

Garish Mirth or Vanity;

And still of all I sought in vain

Good tidings of the lost to gain.

The scholar said, “In poet’s book;”

The poet, “In some leafy nook;”

“Oh, which?” “I know not yet,” he says,

“Go thou and seek—’mid clustering bays;”

The lawyer, “In the judge’s gown;”

The judge, “In ermine’s lordly down;”

The peer, “He’s in my liege’s crown;”

The king, “He rides the victor’s glaive;”

And he, “In peaceful Lethe’s wave,

Or, haply, in the hermit’s cell;”

The hermit said, “I know him well,

Seek him in the house of prayer;”

“Nay, I know he can’t be there!

Pride shall bravely fill thy place,

False and treacherous Happiness!”

Prim sat Pride, then dropped asleep,

Leaving me to watch and weep.

Round my dimpled shoulders clung

My dewy locks at random flung;

Wildered strayed my fleecy band;

Loosed the crook my listless hand,

Playing with the dreary rue

At my cavern’s mouth that grew,

And forgot its tuneful craft.

At my plight the shepherds laughed;

“She is sick at heart, you know;

She loved,—wise maidens do not so;

So fare all idle fools who chase

The subtle, coy sprite, Happiness!”

Dropped its silver balls from sight

The starry clepsydra of night;

And the morn brought jocund glee

To the world, and not to me,

“Would I ne’er had seen thy face,

Happiness, lost Happiness!”

Stung with swarms of wretchedness,

I plunged into the wilderness;

Toward the Eastern land of spells

Me some secret power impels;

“There some wily witch,” I thought,

“In her toils the boy has caught.”

Through the shadows, through the sun,

And surging sands I journeyed on,

Till the sun his gold lance set

In rest to prick from Olivet.

Glorious light the morrow showed.

Nor to him its lustre owed.

Up the steep of Zion’s hill

Rose a being brighter still.

Silvery white the garb she wore,

And a cross of flowers she bore;

From vulgar gaze her charms, amid

A dark, enshrining mask, she hid,

Lighted up like midnight skies

With the splendor of her eyes;

Her dainty feet, with sandals shod,

Scarce touched the ragged road she trod,

And a pearly scallop-shell

Gleamed her pilgrim state to tell.

Dully, long I strove to see

What that which bore her train could be;

Now on this side, now on that,

Now it met a chiding pat,

For resting on her skirts to impede,

Impishly, her upward speed,

From frowning cliff and wayside stone,

Flitting far, as bribes, it won

Blossoms fair and held before,

As her constancy to lure.

Graciously she marked its play;

Steadfastly she held her way.

Changed of mood, with tender gloom

It hung its garlands o’er a tomb.

Full in view thence reared its head,

Looked at me and beckoned,

Then, as if perforce, again

Fled and bore the lady’s train;

Thick my heart’s full throbs confess

“Surely that was Happiness!”

Panting, staring, faint, I stood,

Then with foot and tongue pursued;

“Sorceress, fiend—whate’er ye be—

Tear not thus my fere from me!

I defy the loathly charms

That keep him from his poor maid’s arms!

I will rend thy mask away!

I will give those charms to-day!”

My whirlwind race was won, and lo!

I tore it from her blushing brow,

My foster-sister’s, Holiness!

And her page was Happiness!

Oh, I owned her might too well!

Groveling in the dust I fell!

Then wondering heard a whisper low,

“Let’s be friends, my causeless foe.”

Doubtfully I raised my eyes;

Down she gazed with mild surprise.

Naught to fear I saw was there,

But purity and beauty rare.

As she raised me with a kiss,

Through her veil laughed Happiness.

When I slumber at her feet

Light pinions scatter odors sweet;

While her step keeps pace with mine

Round my neck soft fingers twine;

If I chase him, he is gone;

But the rogue returns anon,

Charged with heavenly fruit, to bless,

The handmaid meek of Holiness.

* * * * *

NIGHT.

BY MISS AUGUSTA. C. TWIGGS.

Brightly the moonshine

Gleams on the flower,

Sweetly the woodbine

Twines round the bower;

Lowly the lover

Whispers his love,

Angel forms hover

Around from above.

Purple-robed foxglove

Is deep in the dell,

Where the night-fays love

To wind their dark spell;

Beauty is hurled

O’er meadow and lea,

The sails are all furled,

The ship sleeps at sea.

The night-breeze now sighs

So sweet and so sad;

Bright gems deck the skies,

So blue and so glad;

The lapwing that brushed

The dew from the hill,

Now sleeps—all is hushed,

’Cept the laughing rill.

Moonlight’s soft glances

On every thing smile,

Pure water dances

Out laughing the while;

The cricket’s chirp shrill

Most merrily sounds,

The fisher’s barque still

O’er moonlit wave bounds.

Trees bathed in moonbeams

Wave gracefully low,

With beauty all teems

’Neath its silvery glow;

All nature’s at prayer.

The holy thoughts rise,

On wings of the air,

Up, up to the skies.

The cricket has hushed

Now his chirp so sweet.

Rare perfume has gushed

From the new-cut wheat;

The lily has bent

Down its head in sleep,

Its odor is lent

To the winds to keep.

Mortals are slumb’ring,

Long hours fly past,

Old Time is numb’ring

The seconds so fast,

Fears him no mortal,

For slumber has tight

Closed the portal

Of thought—it is Night.

* * * * *

PASSAGES OF LIFE IN EUROPE.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

NO. II.—A LONELY WEEK.

One of the loneliest hours I felt in two years of absence from my

country, was on an afternoon in April, after leaving the gate of Cassel,

in Northern Germany. There I had parted from Carl K——, a young

student, whom I had met for the first time two days before, on entering

the city. We met, strangers though we were, and ignorant of each other’s

name or condition, like old acquaintances who had been long separated;

an invisible link seemed at once to attach us in friendship and

confidence. He was a boy of seventeen, but already a poet, possessing a

nature full of enthusiasm and the sorrowful inspiration of song. His

heart beat with all true and tender impulses, and in its yet unfathomed

depths there was a capacity for boundless passion. In those two days we

were constantly together; we climbed the slopes of the Wilhelmshöhe,

fragrant with early cowslips; we wandered among the giant ruins of the

Katzenberg; we sat in the rich library, poring over the old illuminated

pages of the Song of Hildebrand. When the time of parting came, it was a

struggle for both of us, and as we gave the last warm pressure of hands

at the gate of Cassel, his dark, mournful eyes were full of tears, and I

turned away with a mist gathering over my own. I climbed the long hill

which was to shut out all sight of the valley, with a feeling amounting

to bitterness, heightened by the languid and feverish sensations of

approaching illness.

The hazy sunshine shone warmly on the bare, bleak fields beside the

road, and as the day wore away, my spirits sank down, down, into a

bottomless gulf of despondency. The coolness of the woods into which the

road finally led as it descended the hills of the Weser, made me shiver,

though my veins were parched with heat. I threw myself down on the

grass, and looked up into the gray sky, that I might lose the feeling of

loneliness in its vast and sympathizing presence. This is always an

encouraging contemplation, and I was aided by it in the present

instance. I made out to reach the city of Münden before dark, and slept

as I best could, a disturbed, unrefreshing sleep.

The next day, feeling unable to walk, I took the _eilwagen_ to

Göttingen, where I remained two days, and in spite of medicine and a

physician, grew no better. It rained continually, and shut up in my

chamber with no company but my own thoughts, which were by no means

entertaining companions, I looked back with regret to the home-like

comforts of Frankfort and Heidelberg. Sickness is synonymous with

impatience in my vocabulary, and after two days’ trial of repose, I

determined to continue my journey, trusting to the influences of scenery

and exercise. Accordingly I took the _eilwagen_ to Nordheim, twenty

miles nearer the Hartz, as it was raining heavily. In the capacious and

cushioned vehicle, traveling was tolerable enough and I reached Nordheim

at nightfall in better spirits.

In the damp, gloomy inn, after the stage rolled off, my fever returned.

I went to bed, and lay awake for hours, listening to the rain beating on

the windows and the monotonous wail of the wind down the valley. The

rest of the night must have been passed either in the wildest dreaming,

or in a waking fever bordering on delirium. My head throbbed painfully,

and imaginary voices seemed calling me from a distance. Strange figures

walked through the room and stood long, looking out the window. Some

were familiar faces—faces of friends far away—and some that I knew

not, spoke to me, or talked with each other till my brain was confused

with the noises, and toward morning I slept.

The next day the sky was dark, without rain. I was weak, though no

worse, and set out on foot, aided by a stout staff, toward the Hartz. In

spite of the labor of plodding along the muddy roads, I was refreshed by

the cool damp atmosphere and inspired by the scenery, which grew wilder

and lonelier as I advanced. Spring, although late for Germany, had

already covered the forests with their first light green foliage, and

the meadows were luxuriant with grass and flowers. Whenever I grew

weary, there was always a bank of moss somewhere under the pine-trees

which the rain had not reached, and like Uhland with his apple-tree, I

greeted the pine as my landlord, who, if he could spread me no board

from his juicy larder, at least kept for me his best arm-chair, and with

the thatch of his roof protected me from the frequent showers.

So passed the day, with no incident except the challenge of a gend’arme,

who could read no part of my passport but the name “America,” in honor

of which he made a stiff military salute and wished a pleasant journey.

In the old, decaying village of Osterode, sunk deep among gypsum

quarries in the valley of the Oder, I made a dinner of milk and black

bread, and as it was late in the afternoon, pushed on to reach Herzberg,

at the entrance of the Hartz. As the black and gusty sky deepened into

night, I was joined by a traveling handwerker, who made the way shorter

by his cheery conversation, half talk and half singing. We stopped at a

little one-story inn, called, even in that unknown corner of the world,

the “London House.” The peasants employed by the landlord, who was rich

in possessing several acres of barren meadow land, had just collected

for supper, and we sat down with them at the table. An immense wooden

bowl, filled with steaming potatoes, was placed in the middle, and a

choppin of beer set before each one. They used neither knife, fork nor

plate, but took the potatoes in their fingers, and salted them from

another dish with the same convenient appliances. I was civilized enough

to ask for a plate and to call for tea instead of beer, at which these

stout men and maidens were greatly amused. There was considerable doubt

at first whether the last article could be had, but the _frau_, after

some search, produced a package of the kind called Russian tea, which is

brought overland to Russia through Tartary, and retains the delicate

aroma of the shrub in a much greater degree than that which reaches us

by a long sea-voyage from Canton. At least, it seemed to me, in my

exhausted state, nothing short of nectar, and after some talk with the

good people of the inn, who, enjoying only the merest necessities of

life gave me a new lesson in the requisites of happiness, I went to bed

in the loft and slept till my companion, the handwerker, awoke me at

breakfast-time.

Our roads, unfortunately, were different. He was bound to Alexisbad on

the southern edge of the Hartz, while I was for a visit to His

Phantomship, the Spectre of the Brocken. So we parted, with mutual

wishes of good luck, and I plunged into the grand mountain defile in

front of Herzberg, my knapsack heavier by a loaf of bread. Thenceforward

my way was solitude itself. The steeps on either side were clothed to

the summit with woods of black pine, with here and there a single larch,

of a pale and misty green, like the ghost of a tree. The brawling river

ran over cold black rocks, and even where the hills left a little eddy

of meadow between them, the winter floods swept it bare and prevented

the peasant from planting his scanty harvest. The only houses were those

of the woodmen and mountain herdsmen—the only sounds of human life the

stroke of axes among the pines and the shout of men and boys driving

their cattle up to the cleared places, which were already covered with

thick grass. Snow-drifts still lay in the clefts of the rocks and under

the boughs of trees which had been felled. Over this stern and lonely

region was a dark and lowering sky and the only things that were truly

bright and joyous were the crimson pinks that grew by the wayside.

I overtook a herdsman with his two boys driving their cows and goats up

the valley, and we walked some time in company. With a frank curiosity

he asked me why I traveled alone in the Hartz. It was too early, he

said, to climb the Brocken, and then nobody went there without company.

People said there were still spirits and witches among the hills, and I

might easily lose the path and wander about till after night-fall, when

I would be in their power. The boys listened to his warnings with

perfect belief in their faces. I asked them if they had ever seen those

witches, “No,” they answered, but they had never been further than

Andreasberg; yet the miners had told them of kobolds who guard the veins

of ore and smothered them to death when they came too near their

dwellings. The old herdsman said he had climbed the Brocken many years

before, in the summer time, and added, “but we took good care to come

down again before night.” I promised him to be careful about the road

and not to be belated when the witches were abroad, but he still seemed

unwilling that I should go alone. “Here are the cattle to take care of,”

said he, “but Ernest and Gottlieb could do that; if it were not for the

wood I must cut, I would go with you myself the whole way.” If my purse

had been a little heavier, I would have paid him for the lost work, and

taken him along. This I could not do, and when he reached the path which

led to his pasturage, I shook hands with him and repeated my promises.

“I hope you may be lucky,” was the last he said, “but I wish I could go

along.”

Still climbing beside the stream, the road finally grew rough and

narrow, hemmed by mountains too high and bleak as yet for pasture. I

reached a pass where it was completely covered by an overhanging rock,

and sat down to compare the directions of my guide-book with the

appearances around me. I had come to the conclusion that I was in the

wrong path, when two or three miners came under the other end of the

rock. They confirmed my suspicions, but told me they were going to

Andreasburg by a path over the mountain on our right and if I followed

them I should gain what I had lost. This was a fortunate chance; I

shouldered my knapsack and took the path, which was so steep and narrow

that we climbed single file through the woods. It was half an hour

before we reached the summit and I felt like sinking to the earth from

fatigue, for my guides were strong-winded and athletic and went steadily

forward, without taking breath. I kept pace with them in the descent,

and learned from them something of their under-ground life and the

extent and productiveness of the mines. This part of the Hartz is very

rich in minerals, the mines producing gold, silver, lead, copper and

iron. Some of them have been worked seven or eight centuries, and the

deep shafts extend more than two thousand feet under the earth’s

surface. The great mine at Andreasberg, called the _Sampson_, is said to

be twenty three hundred feet deep, and the town is inhabited entirely by

the workmen. I have since regretted that I did not spend a day there in

visiting these remarkable subterranean works.

The town is built near the summit of the mountain and commands a

singularly wild and dreary view over that part of the Hartz district.

Bleak hills, on which the snow still lay in patches, rose on every side,

and the valleys they enclosed looked dim and gloomy in the distance. The

Brocken was before me, but its top, fifteen miles off, was covered with

clouds. I pushed on, hoping to reach it before night, but while I was

tracing the course of the canal which carries water from the dammed

mountain springs to the mines, the air grew dense and damp, and a wreath

of cloud, trailing like a scarf along the cliffs far below me, portended

that night and storm were coming together. When I reached the dam, on

the side of the Brocken, it began to rain dismally. The wind whistled

through the long dead grass and soughed in the wet pines with a

monotonous sound. No sign of house or human being was visible, but I

kept on till twilight, when I reached a large solitary building standing

by the road. It was inhabited by some forest superintendent or other

functionary, and is the second highest dwelling in the Hartz. As the

office of landlord was also included in the occupant’s duties, I

determined at once to spend the night there. The only residents were the

landlord and his wife, two servants and a young man of polished manners,

yet of quiet and reserved appearance, who seemed to be living there as

much for the solitude of the place as any other cause. After supper he

was more communicative, and by drawings and descriptions gave me a very

good idea of the remaining eight miles to the summit of the Brocken,

which I was to try alone on the morrow. All night the winds howled

around the house as if all the witches were abroad. It was the second of

May, the night after their yearly conclave.

I have related elsewhere my ascent through snow-drifts and

snow-clouds—up rocky ravines and over mountain marshes—till I reached

the Brocken House drowned with rain, a most woful-looking traveler.

After drying beside a stove like a furnace, and a dinner which sent the

blood warm and tingling through my limbs, I put the Brocken-nosegay of

moss and lichens in my knapsack and passing the witches’ cauldron, took

the path for Schierke. It led down the southern side of the mountain,

and the Brocken host (Herr Nese, who for fifty years past has introduced

his Spectre to poets, peasants, philosophers and princes) showed me a

pile of rocks just under the summit, where a few weeks before, his dogs

had found a handwerker buried in a snow-drift and on the point of

perishing. A half-hour’s walk brought me below the region of snow, but

not that of rain, for the clouds were gathered over the mountains to the

right. As I reached the first forests they rolled up black and swift and

the drops began to fall hard and heavily. Observing a little thicket of

scrubby pines, I lay down on the ground and crawled under it, where I

coiled myself up in the close and fragrant covert, just as the

floodgates were opened. A perfect deluge succeeded; the trees roared and

battled in the wind; the gullies on either side were full of foaming

water and the air was nearly as dark as night. But scarcely a drop found

its way through my shelter. I lay there warm and snug in the midst of a

wild and dreary storm, and never shall I forget my exquisite sense of

happiness while it lasted.

Just before sunset I came out upon a slope of rich green pasture where

several boys were tending a flock of cattle. The sky was then partially

clear but cold, and as I was anxious to reach a village before dark, I

left the road to ask them my nearest way. One question succeeded

another, and having told them to what country I belonged, I must needs

stay with them awhile and tell them about it. We sat on a rock and

talked until the shadow of the opposite mountain fell over us, when I

left them. They had friends in America, and one of them thought he might

visit them when he grew older.

They delayed me so long that the foot-path I had taken, through a deep

and rocky hollow, was very gloomy, and in the dim light, almost fearful.

Vast masses of rock clung to the side of the mountain,

“Even as a wretched soul, hour after hour,

Clings to the mass of life, yet clinging, leans;

And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss

In which it fears to fall;”

over and through the crevices were twisted the bony roots of the pines,

and down in the chasms I heard the foaming of the swollen streams. This

is the path by which Faust and Mephistopheles ascended the Brocken, and

the storm which heralded my descent into it reminded me of Goethe’s

description:

“The night with mist is thick and black;

Hark, how the forests roar and crack!

The hooting owls affrighted fly.

Shivered full the columns tall

Of the palaces of pine.

See the uniting boughs entwine—

The mighty trunks that bend and groan—

The hard roots grating on the stone!

Mingling confusedly and madly, all

Over each other are heaped in the fall,

And around the crags, so wet and foul,

The winds in fury hiss and howl!”

I thought of this ghostly passage and remembered the caution given me by

the old herdsman. But no wrinkled hag, coursing on her he-goat the

haunted paths of the Brocken interrupted my progress, and the cheerful

lights of Elbingerode soon glimmered through the wood.

The next day I set out for the Rosstrappe, but again went astray and

came to a village on the river Bode, deep down under steep mountains and

the abode of miners. The people told me of two noted caves within half

an hour’s walk, but the rain had again set in, and I hastened forward

toward the Rosstrappe, the greatest wonder of the Hartz. The scenery was

no longer so lonely and exciting in its character. Open, upland plains,

with occasional forests, skirted the road, and the men and women at work

in their scanty fields and gardens saluted me with many a shout of

laughter as I trudged along through the wood. Roads branched off in all

directions from the main one, and left to my own judgment as to the

proper course, I continued on till I reached the river, and saw a little

hamlet on its banks. At the only inn—a hut with two rooms—an old

grandam told me I had missed the way. The Rosstrappe was two hours

distant, and I could not find it without a guide. The men were all away

in the woods, but a neighbor of hers would go with me if I would give

her a few groschen. To this I willingly consented, and the kind old

woman dried my blouse carefully by the fire and brought me a dinner of

bread and milk.

After dinner the neighbor made her appearance, with a large empty basket

and announced herself ready to start. My landlady rolled up in a paper a

large slice of bread and thrust it into my pocket, charging me two

groschen (6 cents) for my dinner. I was about to shoulder my knapsack,

when my guide asked for it, saying she had brought her basket on purpose

for it. I hesitated at first; the thought of walking unencumbered, with

a woman carrying my baggage seemed unchivalric, to say the least. I made

a rapid comparison between my weakness and fatigue and the distance

still to be traversed, and decided by placing the knapsack in her basket

and assisting her to lift it upon her head. Off we went, under a clear

sky, for the first time since I entered the Hartz. Through fine open

forests and along precipices overhanging the Bode—past the

hunting-grounds of the Dukes of Brunswick and across dells fragrant with

spring flowers—so we walked, for nearly two hours, till the cottage-inn

of the Rosstrappe was visible through a vista of trees. Here I took the

knapsack and dismissed my guide with a ten-groschen-piece, which I had

been told was the usual fee. It was evidently much more than she

expected.

After I had seen the Rosstrappe, and hung over the fearful chasm where

the Bode thunders and foams seven hundred feet below, not forgetting to

note the marvelous giant hoof-mark in the rock, I went back to the inn.

The landlady gave me the whole story of the Rosstrappe while she brought

and uncorked a bottle of _birkensaft_ or birch sap, for which the Hartz

is celebrated. This beverage, which is made in no other part of the

world, consists of the sap of the birch tree, sweetened and suffered to

ferment slightly. It is of a bright pink color and delicious taste. I

had the table brought to the door, where I could see the savage defile

below, while the landlady seated herself opposite with her knitting and

gave her tongue full play. Such a tongue! the words came in an

everlasting stream, and the faster she talked the harder she knit; so

that one yarn kept pace with the other, and my visit increased the

growth of her stocking considerably.

“There was once a pack of wild students here,” said she, among the other

marvelous stories she related; “though all students are wild enough, as

is quite natural; but these fellows (I remember every one of them) made

a terrible noise all afternoon, with their songs and their wine-bottles,

and what not. They climbed down the rocks to the Bode and up again, and

I must needs tell them the story of the Rosstrappe twice over. When

night came they were still here under the trees, drinking, and as it

began to rain and they were not able to find their way, the dear Lord

knows, what was to be done but keep them? We have no rooms for so many

here, you see; so I told them to take this chamber where we are sitting

and sleep as they best might. But no sleep had I nor my good man; there

was nothing but singing and yelling the whole night. About midnight

there was a terrible rap on my door. ‘Himmel!’ I cried, ‘what is the

matter?’ and I started up in great fright. ‘O mein Gott!’ said one of

the students, ‘there are wolves at the door.’ Now there never was a wolf

near the house, but I feared it might be a spirit, or something as

frightful, so I put on my gown as quick as I could and lit my lamp, for

they had overturned theirs in their fright. When I came into the room I

found them all in one corner, looking very wild and pale. ‘There are no

wolves here,’ said I. Just then a night-owl among the trees began to

hoot. ‘There it is, there it is again!’ they cried, but I laughed,

although I was very angry, to be called up for an owl. ‘Go to sleep, you

fools!’ I said to them, ‘do you not know better than to be frightened by

a _hoo-hoo_!’ The next morning they were very much ashamed, as they

truly might be, for I tell about their fright to every body who comes

here.”

At the Rosstrappe, I had reached the eastern extremity of the Hartz, and

after I descended the mountain my way was enlivened by bloomy orchards

and springing grain. At sunset I was so far out in the plain of the Elbe

that I could see the snowy top of the Brocken, free from clouds. This

was my last view of the bleak and spectral mountain. After a night of

terror at Halberstadt, (an account of which the reader will find in my

narrative of travel,) I took the cars for Leipsic, which I reached the

next night, and where I found a companion waiting for me. So ended my

Lonely Week of Travel in Northern Germany.

* * * * *

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

BY MRS. HARRIET S. HANDY.

Oh! the bright and sunny days that long, long since were ours,

Will they ne’er return again, with their wealth of summer flowers;

The sweet approving smile—the low, soft gentle tone,

With its murmured words of love, are they forever flown?

And from thy heart are banished all memories of me.

As a cloud upon the summer sky, a shadow o’er the sea?