CHAPTER IX.

Lord! how they did blaspheme!

And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack’d,

Drinking salt water like a mountain stream,

Tearing and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing,

And with hyena laughter, died despairing.

Byron.

In the last chapter but one, we left Willis on his way once more to the

coast of Africa. We will now join him, as he is about starting back for

Cuba, with a cargo of negroes, purchased with the money Don Manuel had

sent him.

His crew being too small to do any thing more than navigate the

schooner; and having been unable, on the coast, to increase their

number, he had, prior to taking in his cargo, dismounted his guns, and

stowed them, with their carriages, in the hold, under the ballast.

This change of weight he now found altered much and greatly retarded the

schooner’s speed; but it was now too late to make any alterations; and

it was with greater anxiety than he had ever felt on any former voyage

that he looked out for men-of-war. He could neither fight, nor

confidently trust to his vessel’s speed; and he was particularly anxious

to get in safely with this, if he could land them, his last cargo of

Africans.

The schooner was within ten days of making land, and had not seen a

vessel. All hands were congratulating themselves on their good fortune,

when, far astern, and to windward, a sail was discovered just on the

verge of the horizon. It did not appear larger than a speck, and to any

but most practiced eyes, would have been invisible. Had the Maraposa

been in her usual trim, they never would have had a clearer view of the

stranger; but now, to Willis’s mortification, the distant vessel

gradually became visible; first the royals were seen, then her

topgallant-sails, and in three hours they could even make out the head

of her courses; enough to confirm the feet of her being a man-of-war,

and she gaining rapidly on the schooner.

Though in consequence of the Maraposa’s being so much smaller, it was

not probable that the stranger had yet observed her, but was only

steering in the same direction. But Willis knew that if he had not yet

been seen, if the distance was still lessened, he could not escape, and

it behooved him to increase his speed by all means, and avoid being

chased. Captured he had sworn never again to be, let the consequences be

what they might.

How to accelerate the Maraposa’s way was a question of some difficulty.

Already was every stitch of canvas that would draw, and some that did

not, set; and there was nothing on deck he could throw over to lighten

his vessel, except his anchor and cable; as the other had been left in

the harbor at Havana, she had but one; the guns he could not get at,

covered as they were by the ballast and provisions in the hold; and

feeling uncertain how to act, he called his mate to him to get his

opinion.

“Well, Mateo, this is the squalliest prospect we have ever had, and the

first time we could neither fight or run. What do you think we had

better do? That fellow astern will be down on us before night, unless we

can get along faster.”

“Why, sir, the only way we can make the Butterfly fly faster, is by

taking some of the load off of her; and there is only two ways we can do

that—and it will have to be done quickly to be of any avail—for that

chap astern is coming along as if he carried a tornado with him.”

“What can we start over to lighten her?” asked Willis.

“Why nothing but the niggers, or the water—either of them would do it.

Those ten pipes of water, if they were overboard, would let the schooner

along as she used to go; but without the water the niggers would die. So

that I think, sir, we had better heave over half the niggers, and half

of the water.”

This the mate said with as much nonchalance as if he had been

recommending the drowning of a score of hogs; for he had been engaged in

the slave-trade for many years, and had learned to regard negroes, not

as human beings, but as he would any other species of merchandize with

which the vessel might be loaded. And as to his thinking it murder, or a

sin to kill a “woolly-head,” as he called them, it never entered his

mind, and he would have jerked the whole lot overboard, had it been

necessary for his own safety, with as little compunction as he would so

much old junk.

But Willis’s mind had been too much under the influence of better

feelings, for the last few weeks, to think of drowning in cold blood,

one hundred and fifty mortals, if they were black, to save his own life;

he therefore resumed the conversation with Mateo by saying,—

“I know it will be a chance if we don’t lose all the negroes if we start

over the water, but I cannot think of drowning the poor devils; so they

will have to take their chance of dying with thirst, and you must start

over all the water but one pipe.”

The water was in large pipes, some lashed amid-ships, abaft the

fore-mast, some on the quarter-deck, and a couple on the forecastle. The

casks being unlashed, and the bungs turned down, soon emptied themselves

of their contents, and the schooner sprung forward as if she felt the

relief, and was soon speeding along at her old rate of sailing, which by

the next morning had left the strange sail so far astern that she was

out of sight.

Though he had succeeded in eluding pursuit, Willis’s troubles still came

thick upon him. The cask of water that had been left was the one from

which they had already used, and it was found to have not more than

sixty gallons of water in it to last over three hundred men ten days, in

the heat of the tropics.

Willis called up his crew and proposed dividing it out equally amongst

all hands, negroes and all, and then there would have been hardly a gill

a day for each man, but enough to sustain life. The men would not

hearken to him, swore they were not going to be put on such short

allowance for the sake of the d—d niggers; and said if there was not

enough to go round, to throw the blackbirds into the sea.

Willis, by persuasion, at last succeeded in getting his men to agree to

be allowanced to half a pint of water per diem, and let him portion the

rest out to the negroes as he chose. This he did impartially, as far as

it went; but the quantity was so small that the slaves, confined as they

were constantly in the hold, on account of the smallness of the crew,

could not exist upon it—and the hold of the slaver became a perfect

pandemonium. Daily the poor Africans were attacked with brain fever,

and, perfectly crazy, would shout, yell, cry, sing, and shuffle about as

well as their fetters would permit, until they were relieved by death;

and so many died each day, that the whole crew were kept busy getting

them out of the hold, and heaving them into the ocean. Ere land was

made, the last of the three hundred were dead; and Willis, putting into

the first bay he came to on the coast to re-water, was worse off than

when he started for Africa, having made nothing, and spent all the money

given him by Don Manuel, and which he wished to repay.

His hopes of being able to quit the traffic, which was now becoming

odious to him, were thus deferred; for the money he had used, and which

he was most anxious to refund, was an additional argument in his mind

for taking another voyage to the coast; and hoping it would prove more

profitable, and enable him to quit the trade then forever, he made sail

again, and running into the same river in which we first found the

Maraposa, he left her there, in the charge of Mateo, and disguising

himself, for fear of being recognized by De Vere, Don Manuel, or

Francisca, he proceeded by land to Havana, for the purpose of increasing

his crew, and obtaining funds from some of his friends to enable him to

get another cargo.

In a few days he had been able, by constant exertion, to enlist from

amongst the numerous desperadoes that are ever to be found in Havana,

forty new men, nearly all good sailors. The bravery and skill of Willis

being well known amongst the merchants who were engaged in the

slave-trade, he found no difficulty in borrowing from them the amount of

money he wanted, on the security of the cargo he was going to bring.

The day he was to leave Havana, Willis was strolling along the streets,

and accidentally came in sight of the Cathedral. Before the entrance

were numerous carriages drawn up, the splendor of the equipages, and the

bridal favors with which the servants and horses were decked, were

evidence that the nuptial knot was being tied in the church between some

of the magnates of the city; and having nothing else to engage his

attention, Willis walked in to witness the ceremony.

Entering the spacious temple, he saw in front of the high altar, a large

and brilliant group of elegantly attired gentlemen, and magnificently

dressed ladies, in attendance on the couple whom the priest was just in

the act of joining together.

From the door, the air and figures of the principal persons seemed

familiar to him. Keeping in the shade of the pillars that ran along the

side aisle, he approached nearer, and discovered in the bride and

bridegroom, Clara and De Vere. He gave them but a glance, for just

behind them, and leaning on the arm of her father, he saw Francisca.

Lovely she looked—more lovely than he had ever seen her; but the

brilliancy of her glorious black eye contrasted strangely with the

deathly pallor of her cheek, and her thoughts seemed far away from the

scene before her; and Willis, during the ceremony, intently watching

her, hoped the next time they met before the altar, it might be to claim

her as his bride, and wondered if that distracted air with which

Francisca regarded the passing event was at all occasioned by thoughts

of him.

Clara was beautiful—proudly, haughtily beautiful; and a smile of

gratified pride lighted her face as she surveyed the surrounding throng,

and felt herself the most brilliant and beautiful of the group. De Vere

seemed proud of his haughty beauty, and Don Manuel appeared perfectly

contented, and felt assured that he was consulting his daughter’s

happiness by consenting to her marriage with the Englishman.

Willis had not, however, wasted a glance on them; concealed by the

column near which he was standing, he had feasted his eyes on Francisca;

and when, after the benediction, the party moved away, he still

continued to gaze on the spot where she had been. The noise made by

their carriages, as they rolled away, aroused him, and he left the

church.

Gathering up his new men at nightfall, he returned to his vessel, to

which he had already sent provisions. Hard all that night did they work,

getting up and remounting the guns; and the next morning, as the

Maraposa went to sea, she was again the same looking craft that she was

when we first saw her leaving the cove, both beautiful and dangerous,

with her guns all ready for use, and a large crew to handle them; and

leaving her to make her last voyage to the coast, in the capacity of a

slaver, let us rejoin De Vere and his new bride.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

LINOLEE.

BY JOHN WILFORD OVERALL.

She always seemed, I know not why,

Too beautiful and bright,

For aught but yon pure golden sky,

And heaven’s fairest light.

Oh! one would think, to see her smile,

She was a sinless thing,

And slept the night, nay, all the while,

Beneath an angel’s wing.

The sky bent down to kiss the hill,

That girt her cottage home,

And laughingly the silver rill

Stole through the leafy loam;

And Tempe, with its dreamy vale,

Its sunny stream and grot,

And balmy flower-scented gale,

Was ne’er a sweeter spot.

Here first she taught me how to love,

And dream of woman’s eyes;

Here first I turned from things above,

To passion’s paradise.

There came an hour when we should part—

How dark that hour to me—

She dwells a picture in my heart,

My lost, loved Linolee.

We laid her in a summer tomb,

And wept that spirit fled,

Where honeysuckle blossoms bloom,

The lily hangs its head;

And at the midnight’s dreary hour,

They watch by that sweet earth,

And weep for her, a sister flower,

Who loved them from their birth.

* * * * *

CORA NEILL,

OR LOVE’S OBSTACLES.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

“Bravo! bravo!” exclaimed the delighted Mons. Lunoyer.

“Beautiful! exquisitely graceful!” repeated the young ladies that filled

the dancing room, as Therese Wilson, a fine looking girl of fourteen or

fifteen, went through a fashionable dance with Harry Belton, a handsome

youth near the same age. It was the “practicing afternoon” of the young

ladies belonging to Madame Chalon’s fashionable boarding-school—and a

pretty sight was Mons. Lunoyer’s rooms on those afternoons.

Stylish-looking girls of all ages, from the dainty little miss, just

lisping her French phrases, up to the dashing school-belle, just on the

eve of making her entrée into “_society_,” panting for the

heart-conquests her imagination pictured forth in her future. And right

lucky were those youths, who, having sisters, or sweet pets of cousins

at the school, were permitted by Madame Chalon to take part in these

practicings—a privilege which caused many an envious thought to their

less favored school-fellows.

At the close of the dance the beautiful Therese approached her young

companions, with cheeks glowing, and young heart beating high with

gratified pride. What more could her girlish ambition desire? Harry

Belton, the favorite beau of the school, stood by her, fanning her, and

saying a thousand pretty things, while the young ladies, her

class-mates, looked on. The dance had been performed with grace and

beauty; and every one in the room expressed aloud their admiration.

“See, Therese,” said a little girl, anxious to attract the attention of

the envied school-belle, “see what wonders your lovely dancing has

performed; the little cry-baby creole, Cora Neill, has quite forgotten

her tears; and her nurse, Rita, will tell you she has done nothing but

weep since she left her father’s plantation up to this moment.”

Therese shook back her curls carelessly, without deigning to notice the

compliment intended to be conveyed; but Harry Belton instantly turned

his eyes toward the poor little Cora. The child was, indeed, lost in

admiration. She leaned her tiny form against her black nurse, while her

large, dark eyes, swollen with incessant weeping, flashed brightly, as

they met the boy’s inquiring gaze. She seized his hand with childish

earnestness, and exclaimed in Spanish, “_Ah venga danza vmd. conmigo?_”

“Ah, come, dance with me,” and raising herself, her little feet went

quickly over the first movements of the dance. The young girls

surrounding Therese, seeing her smile contemptuously, laughed aloud at

what they called the child’s presumption. Poor Cora stopped suddenly as

she heard their laughter, then, with a burst of passionate tears, she

hid her little head on her nurse’s shoulder. The indignant nurse poured

out in a breath, soothings to her darling, and invectives upon the young

ladies.

“Poor child!” said Harry. “You must not be so angry. Pray, stop

weeping—do you not know you are to be my little dancing partner? Come,

Cora, show these doubting young ladies how well you can dance.”

Although the child could hardly understand his imperfect Spanish, still

she gathered sufficient from his tone of voice to know that he intended

kindness. Gradually he succeeded in persuading her to leave nurse Rita’s

shoulder, and obtaining permission from the dancing-master, he gave

orders to the musicians to repeat the dance. At the introduction of the

air, little Cora’s eyes flashed, and _she_ seemed to forget all cause of

discontent and sorrow. The dance proceeded, and those who had looked on

at first from mere curiosity, found themselves applauding quite as much

as they had a little while before the graceful execution of Therese. The

floating, airy figure of the child, gave her a sylph-like appearance;

and as she entered into the spirit of the dance, her dark cheeks glowed,

and full lips seemed still redder; and then her bright eyes beamed forth

such a childish lovingness in the concluding waltz movement, that quite

bewitched them all. Mons. Lunoyer complimented her, and the young ladies

pronounced her a “little love.”

“And who taught you to dance so prettily, Cora?” asked Harry.

The large eyes of the child again filled with tears, for the question

carried her childish memory back to her island home, and the happy days

when her mother, now no longer living, had taken delight in teaching her

graceful child the dances she herself excelled in. Her sobbings

commenced anew, and with agonizing exclamations she begged her dear Rita

to take her to her own _guerida madre_. Harry assisted the nurse in

soothing the unhappy little creature, while the rest of the school

joined in the concluding dance. After it was finished, the attendant

governess gave the signal for departure. The little weeping Cora clung

to her nurse as her only friend.

“_Adios mi queridita Cora_,” said Harry, as he stooped down his tall,

graceful, though boyish form, and looked affectionately into her dark

eyes. She brightened as she saw his kind, brotherly look, and with

bewitching _naïveté_ held up her pretty, cherry lips to kiss him. The

boy blushingly caressed her, and drove away his confusion by teaching

her to call him in English her “dear brother Harry,” telling her she

should be his own _querida hermana_. His kind words comforted her, and

with the happy forgetfulness of childhood, she laughed aloud merrily, as

she repeated after him, “dear brother Harry;” then, after caressing

adieus to her adopted brother, she accompanied Rita and the governess to

her new home, happier than she had been since her mother’s death.

Cora Neill was the daughter of an Irish gentleman who had resided at

Havana for many years. There he had married a young and lovely girl

belonging to one of the resident Spanish families. Many beautiful

children had his gentle wife borne him, but one after another had bowed

their little heads like drooping blossoms, and had been laid in the

grave. At last the little Cora alone remained to them—the idol of both

mother and father. Scarcely had she passed the age of infancy, when her

beautiful mother’s cheeks glowed with a hectic flush, and her eyes

burned with unnatural lustre. Poor Cora was but eight years of age when

her mother was laid down to rest beside her other children. A year or

two passed, and the bereaved father endeavored to soothe his grief in

the caresses of his daughter. At last, when he reflected how unable he

was to give her those advantages of education she needed, he resolved,

though with a severe struggle, to part with her for a few years, and

accordingly sent her to Madame Chalon’s establishment in one of the

large Atlantic cities of the United States. She had only arrived a few

days previous to the dancing lesson, and her poor little aching heart

had throbbed with intense agony when she found herself surrounded by

strangers. True, she had her black nurse, Rita, with her, and in the old

woman’s nursery soothings she sometimes forgot her troubles; but there

were moments when even the good old nurse failed to quiet her, and the

poor little Cora refused to be comforted. But from the day when Harry

plighted to her his brotherly faith, the school-home seemed more

bearable. All in the establishment became interested in the little West

Indian, and she seemed in a fair way to be spoiled; even the vain

Therese was seen to caress her. The dancing _reunions_, as they came

around weekly, were bright suns in her existence; for then she met again

with Harry, and again renewed their brother and sister troth. Two or

three years floated sunnily by, when her first unhappiness was caused by

Harry’s receiving a summons from his Southern home. They parted at Mons.

Dunoyer’s rooms on one of the practicing _reunions_, where they had

first met. All the girls, and even the assistant governesses sympathized

with little Cora; and she was permitted to converse apart with him at

this sad time.

“Do not forget me, Cora,” said the boy, as he affectionately wound his

arm around the tearful girl. “When I grow to be a man, I will visit your

beautiful island, and you shall introduce your brother Harry to his

sister Cora’s father.”

With renewed protestations of constancy the children parted.

* * * * *

Madame Chalon’s fine house was brilliantly lighted; carriages were

rolling to and from the door; the sound of gay music could be heard by

the passers-by; and from the large balconied windows of the

drawing-rooms might be seen, group after group of gayly dressed women,

and _distingué_ looking men in the promenade. The elegant and courteous

lady of the mansion was receiving her dear five hundred friends at one

of her annual balls, given to introduce the young ladies who had

finished the course of studies at her school into general society.

Delighted and satisfied, she moved quietly and smilingly through her

rooms, receiving her friends, and superintending her young _élèves_.

Every thing was as it should be—the most fastidious could not fail to

be satisfied, either as they looked at the tasteful decorations of the

rooms, the entertainment, the music, or the guests; therefore, knowing

all this, Madame Chalon’s heart was at rest. Of her young ladies who

were at this season making their _entrée_ into the fashionable world

under her auspices, Cora Neill created the greatest sensation; and even

in such an assemblage of beauty as was here on this night, she was

universally admitted to be the belle of the room. Years had rolled by

since she had first entered the school—years, which had changed her

into a beautiful, accomplished woman. Her docility of disposition, her

winning manners, and quickness of intellect, had endeared her to the

governesses and pupils; and her approaching departure from the school,

which was to take place in a few months, at the close of the season, was

looked forward to by them with great regret.

Cora had just finished a dance, when Madame Chalon came up to her,

leaning on the arm of a gentleman.

“Allow me, my dear,” she said, “to recall to your memory a friend of

your little girlhood. He was too timid to trust to your recollection. I

need not call him Mr. Belton—you already remember him, I am sure,

although the years that have passed since you met, have changed you

both.”

The rich color mounted to Cora’s cheeks, and her dark eyes flashed with

pleasure as, with a frank expression of joyful greeting, she extended

her hand to her old playmate. They had not met since Harry had been

summoned home, years before, to attend the death-bed of his mother.

Shortly after that sad event he had entered the navy, and had passed

from boyhood to manhood. He often thought of the little West Indian,

Cora Neill. Her sweet winning ways would come before him in his lonely

night-watches, and her graceful, floating form would be recalled to his

memory, when in southern climes he would bear through the voluptuous

waltz some brilliant maiden. But only as _little_ Cora had he thought of

her; and when he saw her at Madame Chalon’s ball, so dazzlingly

beautiful, instead of renewing instantly, as was his intention, their

old friendship, he hesitated, and at last called on the Madame to

present him; but Cora’s frank manner threw aside all reserve, and they

were in a little while waltzing and talking, as they had years before at

Mons. Dunoyer’s _reunions_. The following day found him a visiter at the

Madame’s; and as his sisters had been favorite pupils of hers, he was

greeted with a pleasant welcome.

It was Cora’s first winter in society, and under Madame Chalon’s

_chaperonage_ she frequented all the gay resorts of the fashionable

world. Beautiful, and a reputed heiress, of course, she was a belle; but

prominent amongst her admirers was the young lieutenant. It was not long

before they made the mutual discovery of their love for each other—and

they both yielded themselves without reflection to this first love. They

dreamed only of happiness, and fondly imagined no clouds could hang over

their future. Madame Chalon was finally consulted by both, and she

enclosed in a letter of her own, Harry Belton’s application for Cora’s

hand to Mr. Neill. The hours floated joyously by, and Cora thought life

increased in beauty daily, when all her rosy dreams were dispelled, and

she rendered miserable by the receipt of three letters from her father.

One contained a brief, polite dismissal to Mr. Belton. The second was a

civil acknowledgment to Madame Chalon for her kind care of his daughter

for so many years, and a request that she should prepare Cora to

accompany some West India friends, then traveling in the United States,

who, in the following month, were to return to Cuba, and would take

charge of her. The third was a letter to Cora—not a severe, upbraiding

one, but one filled with sorrowful lovingness and fatherly entreaties.

He pictured his solitary life since her mother’s death; how earnestly he

had devoted himself to business, that he might accumulate enough to

lavish freely on her, his only one, every luxury, when she should be old

enough to take her mother’s place. He described the day-dreams he had

indulged of an old age that was to be cheered by his only child.

“I know, my own idolized girl,” he wrote, at the conclusion of his

letter, “that I am submitting myself to the imputation of selfishness;

but when you reflect upon my past desolate life, and my future, you will

pardon, I am sure, this selfishness. I am an old man, Cora; I need

kindness, nursing, and love—I pine for a daughter’s care. Many years,

have elapsed since your blessed mother’s death; and I might have, with

propriety, married again, in order to guard against a lonely old age.

Regard for her memory, and for your future prospects, Cora, have

deterred me from taking this step. I have submitted willingly to the

penance of a solitary life, when I reflected it was for the mental

benefit of my daughter, comforting my weary hours by looking forward to

the period when we should be again united. Your letters, heretofore,

have been filled with affection for me, and a similar desire for this

reunion. Come to me, my Cora—come to your old solitary father, who

needs your society. Let not a stranger usurp my place in the heart of my

only, my idolized child.”

Cora shed bitter tears on reading this letter, but her heart was filled

with sad reproaches. Her memory reverted to the days of her childhood,

when her mother and father watched over her with fondness. She recalled

the agonizing moments that followed her mother’s death, when no one was

permitted to approach her father but herself. She remembered the intense

look of devotion with which he used always to regard her; and then she

thought of the solitary, unhappy years that he must have passed while

she, with the unthinking spirit of youth, had been seeking happiness for

herself, independent of the kind, old, forsaken father, who had no one

on earth to love but her. In vain were Harry’s entreaties, or Madame

Chalon’s proffers of assistance and interference. She resolved, though

with a sad, aching heart, to renounce all expectation of ever marrying

Harry, and made preparations for her departure.

“Give me some period to look forward to, Cora,” was her lover’s last

entreaty.

“I cannot, Harry,” she replied, “henceforth I belong only to my father;

I never shall marry so long as he lives.”

“And will you forget me?” exclaimed her lover, passionately.

Tears of reproach started to Cora’s eyes as he asked this angry

question, but she refrained from assurances to the contrary. “Forget me,

dear Harry,” she said, so soon as she had mastered her emotion. “It will

be better for us both; my duty lies in a different path from yours; my

heart should go hand in hand with duty.”

Prudent and cold were her words, and the lover would have felt wounded,

had he not seen her swollen eyes, cheeks flushed with weeping, and whole

frame agitated with emotion. They parted, and in a few weeks she had

bidden adieu to her kind teacher and friends, and was on the broad

ocean, each day lessening the distance between her and her island home.

As the hour of meeting with her father approached, her heart sunk within

her, and she could scarcely restrain her emotion; but the sight of his

sad face beaming with fatherly gratification, and the broken words of

welcome with which he greeted her, completely over-powered her, and she

threw herself upon his bosom with a burst of self-reproaching tears. He

soothed her, and with loving words expressed his gratitude to her for

having thought of his happiness in preference to her own.

“If you value my peace of mind, dearest father,” she exclaimed, “you

must never allude to the past—in the future you will find me, I trust,

all you can wish. I have no other desire than that of making you happy.”

Cora’s home was a luxurious though a solitary one. Her father had

purchased a fine plantation, where, surrounded by slaves, she scarcely

ever met with any society. With the families of some neighboring

planters she occasionally mingled, but from preference both her father

and herself preferred seclusion. The most rare and costly specimens of

art surrounded her. Her father had spared no expense in preparing the

house for her reception. He had employed a trusty friend in Europe to

purchase every luxury, and she found her drawing-rooms, music-room,

conservatory, boudoir, and bed-room fitted up in the most exquisite and

elegant style.

“You are a person of perfect taste, dear papa,” she said. “Every thing I

see around me gives evidence of the most refined and cultivated mind.”

Her father looked his pleasure as she expressed her admiration of the

house and its appointments, and said,

“You must not, Cora, give me the credit entirely. I was assisted in

every thing by my friend Martinez. He helped me plan my house. Insisted

that it should be placed on this delightful slope, that the windows of

your suite of rooms might command the fine view you so much admire, and

then, as he was about leaving for Europe, I commissioned him to procure

there every thing that could possibly add a charm to the residence of my

only, long expected daughter. Five years, dear Cora, have we been

planning and perfecting this home for you. Martinez spent three years

abroad in collecting all these paintings, statuary, and other

elegancies. According to his directions are these beautiful books

constantly forwarded; those instruments were chosen by him while in

Paris; a fine musician himself, he selected your musical library, and

has given orders to have the best of the new compositions constantly

sent to you.”

“What! M. Martinez your partner?” inquired Cora. “Dear old man, how well

I remember him—but I thought I heard of his death many years ago?”

“This M. Martinez is his nephew,” replied her father; “he succeeded his

uncle in business, and has been my partner for some ten or fifteen

years. He is a very superior man—”

“Where is he now?” asked Cora.

“He is in Italy,” replied her father. “He has never been a very active

business man. Inheriting his uncle’s fortune, he concluded to leave the

capital in our concern, and his name in the firm, though not by any

means performing his uncle’s duties. His pursuits are wholly

different—he is a fine scholar, and resides almost entirely in Europe.

He returned last summer to see the completion of my house, and the

arrangement of the furniture, but I could not persuade him to remain

longer than a few months with me.”

“And his family, where are they?” inquired Cora.

“He lost his wife,” replied Mr. Neill, “many years since. A few months

after their marriage she died. He was devotedly attached to her, and I

think he never has recovered entirely from the shock; and on that

account a residence in Cuba is disagreeable to him—it recalls his

suddenly wrecked hopes.”

Cora had not been many months with her father when she discovered that

the close attention he had paid to his business, since the elder

Martinez’ death, had impaired his health. She had, on her first arrival

at home, contented herself with performing what few duties fell to her,

and the hours her father spent with her, she exerted herself, though

sometimes with labor, to amuse him; but those hours of the day that were

left unoccupied, she was too prone to give herself up to the luxury of

sad reminiscences, and as she looked around her luxurious home she would

weepingly sigh for that one being, who, next to her father, held the

first place in her heart. Her health would have been undoubtedly

affected by this romantic indulgence, had she not had her fears aroused

for her father’s safety, and terrified at the shadow of real sorrow she

reproached herself for her weakness.

She entreated him to yield up some of his duties; part of the business

might be given up. “You are not well,” she urged, “leave business

entirely; what you have already made will suffice for us—though, owing

to your kindness, I have indulged myself in imaginary wants, I will most

willingly content myself with fewer luxuries.”

Her father opposed her entreaties. Martinez, the only partner, was

abroad—no agent could attend to his affairs—business had never been so

prosperous as now—he was well enough. In a few years he would wind up,

and then they would go to Europe for a year or two to restore his

strength. A few months afterward however found him stretched on a bed of

sickness, and so alarming was it, that M. Martinez had to be summoned to

what the weeping Cora feared would be her father’s death-bed. But

careful, devoted attention on her part, and skillful physicians, warded

off the immediate danger, and when M. Martinez arrived, Mr. Neill was

convalescent, though his health remained in a very delicate state.

He then consented to yield to Cora’s entreaties, and in a little while

all his affairs were arranged by M. Martinez, and he had retired from

business. There was no need for any sacrifice, even of a single luxury.

Mr. Neill found himself possessed of ample means—placed in good

investments it yielded more than sufficient for their expenditures.

Cora was surprised at M. Martinez’ appearance. She had pictured to

herself a middle-aged Spaniard, recalling the recollections she had of

his uncle, which were any thing but complimentary to the nephew; for

though the elder Martinez was a good old man, he was a very homely one;

being short, thick-set, and his complexion was cloudy and dark. The

younger Martinez, on the contrary, was a tall, handsome man, and

although forty or forty-five years of age, looked full ten years

younger, and was exceedingly polished and agreeable in his manners. He

was their constant guest, and she found the hours passing much more

agreeably since his arrival than before. His conversation was

interesting—he had seen much of the world, and had improved by

intercourse with society. He possessed many accomplishments and soon

interested himself in Cora’s pursuits.

She was charmed with his superior attainments, and found herself at last

relying on him, and looking up to him as to a much-loved elder brother.

She never for an instant thought of loving him. Though hopelessly

separated from Harry Belton, she cherished the memory of their

attachment with almost sacred earnestness. She frequently heard from

Madame Chalon, but the good Madame never mentioned his name, and she was

quite ignorant of any thing relating to him. She had ceased repining for

their separation since her father’s dangerous illness, but her thoughts

dwelt upon him as a loved one buried.

Three or four years passed quietly but happily away. M. Martinez almost

resided with them. He talked with Mr. Neill, and read, sketched, rode or

practiced music with Cora. Her intercourse with M. Martinez gave a new

impulse to her mind, and instead of giving herself up to the “luxury of

grief,” and indulging in idle reveries of the past, as she had formerly,

she studied and strengthened her intellectual nature. Her father’s

health still remained delicate, which was the only drawback on her

placid happiness. It was necessary to observe great precaution with him,

for the slightest exposure or excitement brought on symptoms of his

first attack. The constant watchful care which M. Martinez and Cora

observed over him, might have prolonged his life many years, had not

pecuniary misfortunes overtaken him. The principal part of his fortune

had been invested in stocks that proved to be worthless, and left him

penniless. The news of their insolvency reached Mr. Neill by letters,

before M. Martinez had heard of it, and the anguish he felt at finding

himself in his old age deprived of the fruits of long laborious years,

produced a fresh hemorrhage from the lungs, more alarming than the

first, and nearly caused his immediate death. He rallied, however, and

appeared better; still the physicians could give no hope for his

recovery; he might linger, they said, but only for a little while. After

the immediate danger was over, M. Martinez departed for Havana, to make

inquiries into Mr. Neill’s affairs. A few days after his departure, Cora

received from him a letter, which filled her with amazement. It

contained an offer of marriage from M. Martinez.

“Of your first attachment, Cora, I am aware,” he wrote. “I knew of it at

the time, and felt for you deeply and honored you for your heroic

self-sacrifice. I have always considered myself as wedded to the memory

of my wife, but I have felt for you since I have known you, a regard

that approaches very near to the love I felt for my lost Inez. I am

alone in life. I have no one to care for but you and your father. Be my

wife—one half, yes, I may say all your father’s sorrow will be

alleviated by this step on your part. He knows not of this application,

nor shall he if you reply in the negative. If I am repulsive to you, or

if you look forward to a marriage with Lieut. Belton, I will not urge

you—but if, as I hope, you are disengaged, and have long since given up

all expectation of marriage with your first choice, and I am not

personally disagreeable to you, I entreat of you to give me a favorable

hearing. Be my wife, Cora—beloved Cora—I may say, for however you

decide, you are very dear to me; and if constant, devoted attention on

my part can secure your happiness, or can even make life placidly

agreeable to you, I shall feel content. I do not hesitate to say, Cora,

though cherishing the memory of my Inez with tenderness, if you reject

my suit my life will become as wearisome and devoid of sunshine as it

was before I knew you—lonely and dreary will be my future.

“I only waited, before your father’s troubles brought me to this crisis,

for the least evidence of interest on your part toward me, to make the

offer which I do now. In a few days I shall return—from your first

glance, dearest Cora, I shall know your decision. I pray you, let it be

favorable.”

She was aroused from the perplexing reverie this letter had plunged her

into, by an evident change in her father. He was weaker, and apparently

sinking rapidly—and when M. Martinez returned, he met Cora over her

father’s death-bed. Mr. Neill expressed his anguish in heart rending

lamentations at leaving his daughter, and besought M. Martinez to watch

over her as a brother.

Martinez took the hand of the sobbing girl and murmured—

“Beloved Cora, cheer your father’s last moments by yielding to my

wishes; let me tell him that as a husband I will guard you.”

She permitted him to raise her head and rest it on his shoulder, and the

good father’s last moments were soothed by witnessing the marriage of

his daughter with the man he most highly valued as a friend. It was a

sad bridal, but Cora felt that two at least were happy; self-sacrifice

she had brought her mind years before to endure; and she prayed that

Heaven might make the present sacrifice work out her own content. Mr.

Neill died, and Cora found herself a fatherless bride. Untiring was her

husband’s devotion, and most soothing and consoling were his attentions.

Soon after her father’s death he persuaded her to leave their beautiful

home for a while, and they accordingly traveled for some time in Europe.

The change of scene enlivened her, and she was becoming satisfied with

the step she had taken, when, at Naples, one season she met with Harry,

now Captain Belton. He was still unmarried, for, like her, he had

retained a feeling of romance for his first love. They met with a few

flutterings on both sides, which, however, soon disappeared. Each found

the other different from the ideal image cherished in their memories.

Harry was a noble-hearted, frank fellow, but sadly wanting in the

intellectual elevation that characterized M. Martinez, and Cora, though

still beautiful, he thought her not half so conversible or interesting

as his little black-eyed cousin, Sophie Wilson, with whom he had flirted

at Washington on her _entrée_ into society, the previous winter, and

with whom he corresponded most platonically and brother-like. Had Cora

and Harry married early in life, she would have adapted herself partly

to his tastes, and he to hers—they would have met half way. She would

have elevated him intellectually, and they would probably have been

happy; but their pursuits had been different. His had been a careless,

indolent life, independent of the mere performance of the duties of his

profession—hers an intellectual one. She had become entirely elevated

above him; her mental powers had developed while his laid dormant, and

she felt as she turned and looked upon the intellectual beauty of M.

Martinez, and contrasted it with the tolerably good-looking, though

broad and rather inexpressive face of her early love, that the prayer

she had made so fervently over her father’s death-bed, had been granted.

Her marriage had brought to her true happiness.

Harry Belton returned home with his romantic dreams dispelled, and the

next season the American papers gave notice of the marriage of “Captain

Belton, U. S. N., to Sophie, only daughter of Gen. Wilson.”

Cora pointed out the notice to her husband with a smile on her now full

red lip, and with a deeper flush on her cheek than it usually wore, she

said—

“How fortunate it was, dearest, that Harry and I met at Naples last

summer—otherwise we might both have gone through life, fancying

ourselves miserably unhappy about the romance of a first love.”

* * * * *

THE DREAMER.

BY ALICE G. LEE.

I dream the only happiness I know. Mrs. Butler.

One year ago my heart, like thine, sweet friend,

Thrilled to the music of the rustling leaves,

And loved all gentle harmonies that blend

In one low chorus, when the bosom heaves

With long drawn sighs of tremulous delight,

As slowly fades the day to deeper night.

And I have sat as now in this lone wood,

At twilight hour to commune with my heart,

All wilder thoughts at rest, a dreamy mood

Stole o’er my spirit; sorrow had no part

In those still musings, but to breathe, to live,

Did such exceeding pleasure to me give.

One little year! Oh, heart, thy throbbing cease!

How much of life was crowded in its span!

My daily paths were pleasantness, and peace,

When with swift round this circling year began,

But now a shadow rests on earth and sky,

Day after day still passes wearily.

I meant not to complain; for I have learned

In life each hath a sorrow to conceal.

I would but tell thee that from earth I turned;

I may not even to my friend reveal

Why one who is a very child in years

Hath drank so deeply at the fount of tears.

Thank God for gentle sleep! I close mine eyes,

And though all fevered fancies round me throng—

Though doubts that almost madden will arise—

She hath a power more subtil, and more strong.

Her blessed hand is on my forehead pressed,

Then comes forgetfulness, and I am blessed.

Forgetfulness of care—for oh, I move

In happier worlds, and live a purer life;

Scorn may not enter there, nor envy prove

Discord to melody—unholy strife

Afar is banished—joy’s unclouded beams

Ever illumine that fair land of dreams.

Then wonder not I seek this forest dell,

Although mine ears are closed to nature’s voice,

A hush, a twilight ’neath the branches dwell;

So I have made the summer woods my choice,

And sleeping with the shadows through the day,

Forget the world, and dream my life away.

* * * * *

THE DEMON OF THE MIRROR.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

It was sunset on the mountain,

It was twilight on the plain;

And the Night was slowly creeping,

Like a captive from his keeping,

Up the Fading East again,

Where on rosy shores of sunlight broke the surges of his main.

Where the orange branches mingled

On the sunny garden-side,

In a rare and rich pavilion

Sat the beautiful Sicilian—

Sat the Count Alberto’s bride,

Musing sadly on his absence, in the balmy eveningtide.

Like a star, in ocean mirrored,

Beamed her liquid, tender eye;

But within her bearing queenly,

Deepest passion slept serenely

As the flame in summer’s sky,

Which to fiercest being wakens, when we dream it least is nigh!

She had grown, in soul and beauty,

Like her own delicious clime—

With the warmth and radiance showered

On its gardens, citron-bowered,

And its winds that woo in rhyme:

With its fiery tropic fervors, and its Etna-throes sublime!

Near her stood the fair Bianca,

Once a shepherd’s humble child,

Who with tender hand was twining

Through her tresses, raven-shining,

Pearls of lustre pure and mild;

And the lady in the mirror saw their braided gleam, and smiled.

Falling over brow and bosom,

Swept her dark and glossy hair;

And the flash on Etna faded,

As Bianca slowly braided

With her fingers small and fair,

While a deeper shadow gathered o’er the chamber’s scented air.

On the jeweled mirror gazing,

Spoke the lady not a word,

When, within its picture certain,

Slowly moved the silken curtain,

Though the breezes had not stirred,

And its faintly falling rustle on the marble was unheard.

Breathless, o’er her tender musing

Came a strange and sudden fear.

With a nameless, chill foreboding,

All her fiery spirit goading,

Listened she with straining ear;

Through the dusky laurel foliage, all was silent, far and near!

Not a stealthy footfall sounded

On the tesselated floor;

Yet she saw, with secret terror,

Count Alberto, in the mirror,

Stealing through the curtained door,

Like a fearful, shadowy spirit, whom a curse is hanging o’er.

What! so soon from far Palermo?

Has he left the feast of pride—

Has he left the knightly tourney

For the happy homeward journey

And the greeting of his bride?

Coldly, darkly, in her bosom, the upspringing rapture died!

With a glance of tender meaning

On the maid he softly smiled,

And the answering smile, and token

In her glowing blushes spoken,

Well betrayed the shepherd’s child!

To her gaze, within the mirror, stood that picture dim and wild!

Moved again the silken curtain,

As he passed without a sound;

Then the sunset’s fading ember

Died within the lonely chamber,

And the darkness gathered round,

While in passion’s fierce delirium was the lady’s bosom bound.

Threat’ning shadows seemed to gather

In the twilight of the room,

And the thoughts, vibrating changeful

Through her spirit, grew revengeful

With their whisperings of doom:

Starting suddenly, she vanished far amid the deep’ning gloom.

In the stillness of the forest

Falls a timid, trembling gleam,

With a ruby radiance sparkling

On the rill that ripples darkling

Through the thicket, like a dream:

’Tis from out the secret chamber, where are met the Holy Vehm![3]

Wizard rocks around the entrance

Dark and grim, like sentries, stand;

And within the ghostly grotto

Sits the gloomy Baron Otto,

Chieftain of the dreaded band,

Who in darkness and in secret ruled Sicilia’s Sunny land.

As in sable vestments shrouded

Sat the ministers of doom,

Came a step by terror fleetened,

And the dank, foul air was sweetened

With the orange-buds’ perfume,

And the starry eyes of jewels shone amid the sullen gloom!

Then uprose the gloomy Otto—

Sternly wrinkled was his brow;

“Why this sudden, strange intrusion

On the Holy Vehm’s seclusion?

Why thus wildly comest thou,

Noble lady, claiming vengeance from the Brothers of the Vow?”

“There is one among your order

Whom I dare to sue for aid:

Will a brother’s dagger falter,

When the bridegroom from the altar

Hath his bosom’s vow betrayed,

And the princely bride is slighted for a low-born peasant maid?”

Straight the summoned one departed

Out into the starry air;

Cold the silence seemed, and dreary,

And the moments grew more weary,

While the lady waited there

With a deep, uncertain anguish, which her spirit scarce could bear.

Mingled thoughts of love and vengeance

Madly battled in her brain;

All her bosom’s passionate feeling

Struggled with the dread revealing,

Till her eyes o’ergushed in rain—

Then anon they flashed and kindled, and her soul grew stern again!

Once a sweet and happy vision

Nigh her fiery will had won—

When the silver lamp of Hesper

Twinkled through the silent vesper,

And their bosoms beat as one,

Thrilling o’er with too much fervor, like a blossom in the sun.

Olden words in music echoed

Through her heart’s forsaken bowers;

But its buds of love were rifled,

And the spirit voice was stifled,

Which would tell of tender hours;

Nevermore may second sunshine bid re-bloom its perished flowers!

Still that dark foreboding lingered

Over all her pride and hate,

Like a stifling mist, that ever

Hangs above a burning river

With its dull and stagnant weight:

Slowly o’er the spectral Future crept the shadows of her fate!

Now the eastern stars had mounted,

And the midnight watch was o’er,

When the long suspense was broken

By a hasty watchword spoken,

And a dark form passed the door.

Blood was on his golden scabbard, and the sable robe he wore.

“By this blade, most noble lady,

Have I done thy will aright!”

Then, upstarting from her languor,

Cried she, in returning anger:

“Where reposed the trait’rous knight?

Didst thou tear him from _her_ clasping—strike him down before her

sight?”

“Nay, not so: in bright Palermo,

Where the tourney’s torches shine—

In the gardens of the palace,

Did the green earth, from its chalice,

Drink his bosom’s brightest wine,

And the latest name that faltered on his dying lips, was _thine_!”

With a scream, as agonizing

In its horror and despair,

As if life’s last hold were started,

Ere the soul in torture parted,

Stood she, pale and shuddering, there,

With her face of marble lifted in the cavern’s noisome air.

“God of Heaven! that fearful image,

On the mirror’s surface thrown!

Not Alberto, but a demon,

Looked on her as on a leman,

And the guilt is mine alone!

Now that demon-shadow haunts me, and its curse is made my own!

“See! its dead, cold eyes are glaring

Through the darkness, steadily;

And it holds a cloudy mirror,

Imaging that scene of terror,

Which was bloody death to _thee_!

Mocking now thy noble features, turns its fearful gaze on me!

“And I see, beneath their seeming,

How the demon features glow!

Ghastly shadows rise before me,

And the darkness gathers o’er me,

With its never-ending wo—

Now I feel, avenging spirits! how your spells of madness grow!”

With a shriek, prolonged and painful,

Through the wood she fled afar,

Where the air was awed and fearful,

And between the boughs the tearful

Shining of a dewy star

Pierced alone the solid darkness which enclosed her as a bar.

Night by night, in gloom and terror,

From the crag and from the glen

Came those cries, the quiet breaking,

Till the shepherd-dogs, awaking,

Bayed in loud and mournful pain,

And the vintager, benighted, trembled on the distant plain.

Years went by, and stranger footsteps

Rang in castle, bower and hall;

Yet the shrieks, at midnight ringing,

Spoke the curse upon it clinging,

And they left it to its fall,

And an utter desolation slowly settled over all.

Still, when o’er the brow of Etna

Livid shades begin to roll,

Tell the simple herdsmen, daunted

By the twilight, terror-haunted,

How she felt the fiend’s control,

And they sign the cross in saying—“God in mercy keep her soul!”

-----

[3] The author is aware that the name of the Holy Vehm—that dreaded

order of the middle ages—belongs properly to Germany; but as its

influence extended over Italy and Sicily, he has retained the title, and

given a German name to the chieftain.

* * * * *

A NEW WAY TO COLLECT AN OLD DEBT.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

Early in life Mr. Jenkins had been what is called unfortunate in

business. Either from the want of right management, or from causes that

he could not well control, he became involved, and was broken all to

pieces. It was not enough that he gave up every dollar he possessed in

the world. In the hope that friends would interfere to prevent his being

sent to jail, some of his creditors pressed eagerly for the balance of

their claims, and the unhappy debtor had no alternative but to avail

himself of the statute made and provided for the benefit of individuals

in his extremity. It was a sore trial for him; but any thing rather than

to be thrown into prison.

After this tempest of trouble and excitement, there fell upon the

spirits of Mr. Jenkins a great calm. He withdrew himself from public

observation for a time, but his active mind would not let him remain

long in obscurity. In a few months he was again in business, though in a

small way. His efforts were more cautiously directed than before, and

proved successful. He made something above his expenses during the first

year, and after that accumulated money rapidly. In five or six years Mr.

Jenkins was worth some nine or ten thousand dollars.

But with this prosperity came no disposition on the part of Mr. Jenkins

to pay off his old obligations. “They used the law against me,” he would

say, when the subject pressed itself upon his mind, as it would

sometimes do, “and now let them get what the law will give them.”

There was a curious provision in the law by which Jenkins had been freed

from all the claims of his creditors against him; and this provision is

usually incorporated in all similar laws, though for what reason it is

hard to tell. It is only necessary to promise to pay a claim thus

annulled, to bring it in full force against the debtor. If a man owes

another a hundred dollars, and by economy and self-denial succeeds in

saving twenty dollars and paying it to him, he becomes at once liable

for the remaining eighty dollars, unless the manner of doing it be very

guarded, and is in danger of a prosecution, although unable to pay

another cent. A prudent man, who has once been forced into the unhappy

alternative of taking the benefit of the insolvent law, is always

careful, lest, in an unguarded moment, he acknowledge his liability to

some old creditor, before he is fully able to meet it. Anxious as he is

to assure this one and that one of his desire and intention to pay them

if ever in his power, and to say to them that he is struggling early and

late for their sakes as well as his own, his lips must remain sealed. A

word of his intentions and all his fond hopes of getting fairly on his

feet again are in danger of shipwreck.

Understanding the binding force of a promise of this kind, made in

writing, or in the presence of witnesses, certain of the more selfish or

less manly and honorable class of creditors, are ever seeking to extort

by fair or foul means, from an unfortunate debtor who has honestly given

up every thing, an acknowledgment of his indebtedness to them, in order

that they may reap the benefit of his first efforts to get upon his feet

again. Many and many an honest but indiscreet debtor, has been thrown

upon his back once more, from this cause, and all his hopes in life

blasted forever. The means of approach to a debtor in this situation are

many and various. “Do you think you will ever be able to do any thing on

that old account?” blandly asked, in the presence of a third party, is

answered by, “I hope so. But, at present, it takes every dollar I can

earn for the support of my family.” This is sufficient—the whole claim

is in full force. In the course of a month or two, perhaps in a less

period, a sheriff’s writ is served, and the poor fellow’s furniture, or

small stock in trade, is seized, and he broken all up again. To have

replied—“You have no claim against me,” to the insidious question,

seemed in the mind of the poor, but honest man, so much like a public

confession that he was a rogue, that he could not do it. And yet this

was his only right course, and he should have taken it firmly. Letters

are often written, calling attention to the old matter, in which are

well timed allusions to the debtor’s known integrity of character, and

willingness to pay every dollar he owes in the world, if ever able. Such

letters should never be answered, for the answer will be almost sure to

contain something, that, in a court of justice, will be construed into

an acknowledgment of the entire claim. In paying off old accounts that

the law has canceled, which we think every man should do if in his

power, the acknowledgment of indebtedness never need go further than the

amount paid at any time. Beyond this, no creditor who does not wish to

oppress, will ask a man to go. If any seek a further revival of the old

claim, let the debtor beware of them; and also, let him be on his guard

against him who, in any way, alludes either in writing or personally, to

the previous indebtedness.

But we have digressed far enough. Mr. Jenkins, we are sorry to say, was

not of that class of debtors who never consider an obligation morally

canceled. The law once on his side, he fully made up his mind to keep it

forever between him and all former transactions. Sundry were the

attempts made to get old claims against him revived, after it was

clearly understood that he was getting to be worth money, but Jenkins

was a rogue at least, and rogues are always more wary than honest men.

Among the creditors of Jenkins was a man named Gooding, who had loaned

him five hundred dollars, and lost three hundred of it—two-fifths being

all that was realized from the debtor’s effects. Gooding pitied

sincerely the misfortunes of Jenkins, and pocketed his loss without

saying a hard word, or laying the weight of a finger upon his already

too heavily burdened shoulders. But it so happened that as Jenkins

commenced going up in the world, Gooding began to go down. At the time

when the former was clearly worth ten thousand dollars, he was hardly

able to get money enough to pay his quarterly rent bills. Several times

he thought of calling the attention of his old debtor to the balance

still against him, which, as it was for borrowed money, ought certainly

to be paid. But it was an unpleasant thing to remind a friend of an old

obligation, and Gooding, for a time, chose to bear his troubles, as the

least disagreeable of the two alternatives. At last, however,

difficulties pressed so hard upon him, that he forced himself to the

task.

Both he and Jenkins lived about three quarters of a mile distant from

their places of business, in a little village beyond the suburbs of the

city. Gooding was lame, and used to ride to and from his store in a

small wagon, which was used for sending home goods during the day.

Jenkins usually walked into town in the morning, and home in the

evening. It not unfrequently happened that Gooding overtook the latter,

while riding home after business hours, when he always invited him to

take a seat by his side, which invitation was never declined.

They were riding home in this way one evening, when Gooding, after

clearing his throat two or three times, said, with a slight faltering in

his voice,

“I am sorry, neighbor Jenkins, to make any allusion to old matters, but

as you are getting along very comfortably, and I am rather hard pressed,

don’t you think you could do something for me on account of the three

hundred dollars due for borrowed money? If it had been a regular

business debt, I would never have said a word about it, but—”

“Neighbor Gooding,” said Jenkins, interrupting him, “don’t give yourself

a moment’s uneasiness about that matter. It shall be paid, every dollar

of it; but I am not able, just yet, to make it up for you. But you shall

have it.”

This was said in the blandest way imaginable, yet in a tone of

earnestness.

“How soon do you think you can do something for me?” asked Gooding.

“I don’t know. If not disappointed, however, I think I can spare you a

little in a couple of months.”

“My rent is due on the first of October. If you can let me have, say

fifty dollars, then, it will be a great accommodation.”

“I will see. If in my power, you shall certainly have at least that

amount.”

Two months rolled round, and Gooding’s quarter day came. Nothing more

had been said by Jenkins on the subject of the fifty dollars, and

Gooding felt very reluctant about reminding him of his promise; but he

was short in making up his rent, just the promised sum. He waited until

late in the day, but Jenkins neither sent nor called. As the matter was

pressing, he determined to drop in upon his neighbor, and remind him of

what he had said. He accordingly went round to the store of Jenkins, and

found him alone with his clerk.

“How are you to-day?” said Jenkins, smiling.

“Very well. How are you?”

“So—so.”

Then came a pause.

“Business rather dull,” remarked Jenkins.

“Very,” replied Gooding, with a serious face, and more serious tone of

voice. “Nothing at all doing. I never saw business so flat in my life.”

“Flat enough.”

Another pause.

“Ahem! Mr. Jenkins,” began Gooding, after a few moments, “do you think

you can do any thing for me to-day?”

“If there is any thing I can do for you, it shall be done with

pleasure,” said Jenkins, in a cheerful way. “In what can I oblige you?”

“You remember, you said that in all probability you would be able to

spare me as much as fifty dollars to-day?”

“_I_ said so?” Jenkins asked this question with an appearance of real

surprise.

“Yes. Don’t you remember that we were riding home one evening, about two

months ago, and I called your attention to the old account standing

between us, and you promised to pay it soon, and said you thought you

could spare me fifty dollars about the time my quarter’s rent became

due?”

“Upon my word, friend Gooding, I have no recollection of the

circumstance whatever,” replied Jenkins, with a smile. “It must have

been some one else with whom you were riding. I never said I owed you

any thing, or promised to pay you fifty dollars about this time.”

“Oh yes! but I am sure you did.”

“And I am just as sure that I did not,” returned Jenkins, still

perfectly undisturbed, while Gooding, as might be supposed, felt his

indignation just ready to boil over. But the latter controlled himself

as best he could; and as soon as he could get away from the store of

Jenkins, without doing so in a manner that would tend to close all

intercourse between them, he left and returned to his own place of

business, chagrined and angry.

On the same evening, as Gooding was riding home, he saw Jenkins ahead of

him on the road. He soon overtook him. Jenkins turned his usual smiling

face upon his old creditor, and said “Good evening,” in his usual

friendly way. The invitation to get up and ride, that always was given

on like occasions, was extended again, and in a few moments the two men

were riding along side by side, as friendly, to all appearance, as if

nothing had happened.

“Jenkins, how could you serve me such a scaly trick as you did?” Gooding

said, soon after his neighbor had taken a seat by his side. “You know

very well that you promised to pay my claim; and also promised to give

me fifty dollars of it to-day, if possible.”

“I know I did. But it was out of my power to let you have any thing

to-day,” replied Jenkins.

“But what was the use of your denying it, and making me out a liar or a

fool in the presence of your clerk?”

“I had a very good reason for doing so. My clerk would have been a

witness to my acknowledgment of your whole claim against me, and thus

make me liable before I was ready to pay it. As my head is fairly clear

of the halter, you cannot blame me for wishing to keep it so. A burnt

child, you know, dreads the fire.”

“But you know me well enough to know that I never would have pressed the

claim against you.”

“Friend Gooding, I have seen enough of the world to satisfy me that we

don’t know any one. I am very ready to say to you, that your claim shall

be satisfied to the full extent, whenever it is in my power to do so;

but a _legal_ acknowledgment of the claim I am not willing to make. You

mustn’t think hard of me for what I did to-day. I could not, in justice

to myself, have done any thing else.”

Gooding professed to be fully satisfied with this explanation, although

he was not. He was very well assured that Jenkins was perfectly able to

pay him the three hundred dollars if he chose to do so, and that his

refusal to let him have the fifty dollars, conditionally promised, was a

dishonest act.

More than a year passed, during which time Gooding made many fruitless

attempts to get something out of Jenkins, who was always on the best

terms with him, but put him off with fair promises, that were never

kept. These promises were never made in the presence of a third person,

and might, therefore, have just as well been made to the wind, so far as

their binding force was concerned. Things grew worse and worse with

Gooding, and he became poorer every day, while the condition of Jenkins

as steadily improved.

One rainy afternoon, Gooding drove up to the store of his old friend,

about half an hour earlier than he usually left for home. Jenkins was

standing in the door.

“As it is raining, I thought I would call round for you,” he said, as he

drew up his horse.

“Very much obliged to you, indeed,” returned Jenkins, quite well

pleased. “Stop a moment until I lock up my desk, and then I will be with

you.”

In a minute or two Jenkins came out, and stepped lightly into the wagon.

“It is kind in you, really, to call for me,” he said, as the wagon moved

briskly away. “I was just thinking that I should have to get a

carriage.”

“It is no trouble to me at all,” returned Gooding, “and if it were, the

pleasure of doing a friend a kindness would fully repay it.”

“You smell strong of whisky here,” said Jenkins, after they had ridden a

little way, turning his eyes toward the back part of the wagon as he

spoke. “What have you here?”

“An empty whisky hogshead. This rain put me in mind of doing what my

wife has been teasing me to do for the last six months—get her a rain

barrel. I tried to get an old oil cask, but couldn’t find one. They make

the best rain barrels. Just burn them out with a flash of good dry

shavings, and they are clear from all oily impurities, and tight as a

drum.”

“Indeed! I never thought that. I must look out for one, for our old rain

hogshead is about tumbling to pieces.”

From rain barrels the conversation turned upon business, and at length

Gooding brought up the old story, and urged the settlement of his claim

as a matter of charity.

“You don’t know how much I need it,” he said. “Necessity alone compels

me to press the claim upon your attention.”

“It is hard, I know, and I am very sorry for you,” Jenkins replied.

“Next week I will certainly pay you fifty dollars.”

“I shall be very thankful. How soon after do you think you will be able

to let me have the balance of the three hundred due me? Say as early as

possible.”

“Within three months, at least, I hope,” replied Jenkins.

“Harry! Do you hear that?” said Gooding, turning his head toward the

back part of the wagon, and speaking in a quick elated manner.

“Oh, aye!” came ringing from the bung-hole of the whisky hogshead.

“Who the dickens is that?” exclaimed Jenkins, turning quickly round.

“No one,” replied Gooding, with a quiet smile, “but my clerk, Harry

Williams.”

“Where?”

“Here,” replied the individual named, pushing himself up through the

loose head of the upright hogshead, and looking into the face of the

discomfited Jenkins, with a broad smile of satisfaction upon his always

humorous phiz.

“Whoa, Charley,” said Gooding, at this moment reigning up his horse

before the house of Jenkins.

The latter stepped out, with his eyes upon the ground, and stood with

his hand upon the wagon in thought for some moments; then looking up, he

said, while the humor of the whole thing pressed itself so fully upon

him, that he could not help smiling.

“See here, Gooding, if both you and Harry will promise me never to say a

word about this confounded trick, I will give you a check for three

hundred dollars on the spot.”

“No, I must have four hundred and twenty-six dollars, the principal and

interest. Nothing less,” returned Gooding firmly. “You have acknowledged

the debt in the presence of Mr. Williams, and if it is not paid by

to-morrow twelve o’clock, I shall commence suit against you. If I

receive the money before that time we will keep this little matter

quiet; if suit is brought, all will come out on the trial.”

“As you please,” said Jenkins angrily, turning away and entering his

house.

Before twelve o’clock on the next day, however, Jenkins’ clerk called in

at the store of Gooding, and paid him four hundred and twenty-six

dollars, for which he took his receipt in full for all demands to date.

The two men were never afterward on terms of sufficient intimacy to ride

in the same wagon together. Whether Gooding and his clerk kept the

matter a secret, as they promised, we don’t know. It is very certain,

that it was known all over town in less than a week, and soon after was

told in the newspapers as a most capital joke.

* * * * *

THE LIFTED VEIL.

BY MISS H. E. GRANNIS.

A voice of music, borne by fragrant gales,

And echoing softly to the dimpled waves,

Stole from the bosom of Hesperia’s vales,

Whose jeweled sands the flashing water laves,

’Mid shadowy banks, and bright enchanted isles,

And fairy bowers, where joys own summer smiles.

Sweet as a spirit’s song it rose and fell

On the rich air, o’erburdened with perfume;

Each varying cadence, or voluptuous swell,

Far-breathing o’er one wilderness of bloom,

Through princely gardens ne’er by mortal drest,

Amid the broad savannas of the west.

A bark was gliding down the silvery stream

That claims its birth from far Itasca’s fount,

And bids its waves o’er many a valley gleam,

And join the well-springs of full many a mount,

Till, proud, at length, Columbia’s wealth to drain,

It sweeps, deep-freighted, to the Mexican main.

About that vessel’s prow the foam-wreaths hung,

And pearls were glancing in her wake behind;

Fair silken curtains from her casements swung,

And banners wooed aloft the balmy wind;

And where rich lamps ’mid graceful arches gleamed

O’er gilded walls, the gorgeous sunlight streamed.

The turtle dove had hushed her plain on shore,—

The whirring locusts of the woods were still—

The listening willows leaned the waters o’er—

While drooped the blue-eyed hare-bell with a thrill

Through all its filmy foliage, at the sound

That earth and wave in fond enchantment bound.

Within that bark, where flowed the golden light

O’er velvet cushions, ’mid th’ enameled flowers,

Flowed, mingling with those beams, the tresses bright

From a fair brow of girlhood, where the hours

Of earthly life had not o’erhung the bliss

Of heaven’s existence with the clouds of this.

Her hand, scarce resting from the strings it swept,

Lay on a harp whose chords yet felt its thrill,

And fain had breathed the strains that in them slept;

And her half-parted lips were tremulous still,

As on them lingered, fluttering to depart,

Th’ unuttered burden of a gushing heart,

The voiceful murmur of the waves below—

The airs of balm that whispered through the leaves—

The trill of fountains in their dazzling flow—

The soul-born song the bright-winged wild bird weaves,

The various tones of teeming nature, rife

With the warm bliss of heaven-imparted life.

Glimpses of cities through far vistas seen—

Flashes of light from garden, bower and shrine—

All forms and sounds of loveliness had been

To eye and ear as messengers divine;

And, to each glorious sight, and joyous tone,

Answered a breathing melody of her own.

But now her voice was hushed, and all unheard

The many tones that roused it; for a strain

Of richer song her spirit’s depths had stirred;

As if some angel harp that there had lain,

Untouched as yet, were thrilled in every chord,

And o’er her soul its wealth of music poured.

We all have felt such wakenings; in our hearts’

Deep treasure cells is many a gift from Heaven,

To the commissioned spirit, ere it starts

Upon earth’s pilgrimage, by seraph’s given,

To cheer life’s shadows, and illume its shrine.

With fadeless tokens of our birth divine.

Sealed and forgot they lie, till some blest gleam,

Or sacred note steal down those seals to break—

As roses, kissed to life by day’s fond beam,

Thrilled with the sense of their own beauty wake;

Or hidden streams burst forth from earth’s dark caves,

Wild at the brightness of their own sweet waves—

So gush they o’er the soul; at gems so rare

We startle, wondering at their loveliness,

But, of our heritage still unaware,

We wist not whence those sights and sounds of bliss;

And lightly recking of their priceless worth,

Let the seals close, and bind our thoughts to earth.

O, we might watch, for aye, the fountains bright

Of Paradise; or list the moving strains

Of Eden’s harps; or revel in the light

Of gems that glisten on celestial plains,

Did we but bend more anxious ear and eye,

And learn to ope the heart-cells where they lie.

Yet Eva listened; for her steps had trod,

Fearless of clouds that rose her pathway o’er,

Closer than some do to the walks of God;

And, in her own warm heart, she ever bore

A flowing urn, from whence a balm was shed

O’er sorrows wounds, where’er her footsteps led.

There had arisen from all created things

An anthem and an incense, and they came,

Rousing in her own breast those hidden springs,

With a mysterious power, that she might name

Fragrance, or motion, beauty, light, or tone—

So seemed each exquisite sense to blend in one.

“O, life is bliss!” she murmured. “Let each breath

Rise with a warm thank-offering from my heart

To Him who gave it; the blue heavens beneath,

All things a brightness and a joy impart;

And earth’s harmonious melodies have been

Rivaled but by the voice they wake within.

“The skies bend fondly o’er me; the pure air

Steals to my temples with a holy kiss;

The bright stars watch me with a kindly care;

And flowers, and streams, and birds, and winds express

Their mingled joy, around, beneath, above,

In tones whose chorus and whose freight is Love.

“Love! Life’s gemmed key-stone! being’s single source!

Creative power, that makes all creatures one—

That speeds the rivers in their onward course,

To bless the valleys that they gleam upon—

That bids the fond birds woo the answering flowers,

And dallying breezes kiss the leafy bowers.

“They tell us of the shadow and the thorn,

And care and grief—and, though the pearly dews

Of life’s young matin still my feet adorn,

_I_ have found thorns—the guardians of the rose

I plucked unharmed—and at their terrors laughed,

So light a touch could blunt the barbéd shaft.

“Free potions have I drank of being’s cup,

And found no bitterness; the sparkling tide

Hath grown but brighter as I quaffed it up,

And if rank weeds have sprung its rim beside,

Or serpents risen, its drops contain a spell

To blast the weed, or crush the monster fell.

“Yet one thing lack I. I have sought the flow

Of kindly sympathies, and vainly sought—

Though human hearts are with me here below

To which my own hath called, they answer not:

Kind tones I’ve met, fond eyes have round me shone,

But my soul’s holiest founts have gushed alone.

“Fair, dove-eyed children at my feet have lain

Their young affections, as an offering pure;

And when I wipe the clammy brow of pain

Pale lips will bless me: gentle smiles may lure

The gay or sad around me; and I’ve yearned

To breathe to them the speech my heart had learned—

“The mystic speech of nature; but it seemed

As a strange language to them: Marble sealed

Their lips were, to the founts that ’neath them gleamed,

And their cold, icy eyes have half congealed

The glowing tide that, in my heart, I felt

Still struggling forth to bid those ice bonds melt.

“Yet know I that man’s soul, born of the light

Of heavenly mansions, still must be divine;

Perhaps I have not learned its language right,

Or found the key that opes its holiest shrine,

And they may deem my soul hath lost the gem

Whose kindling rays I vainly sought from them.

“But there’s a hollow seeming in their mirth

That chimes not with the joy my bosom feels;

And the glad music of the teeming earth,

From breasts that men call soulless, o’er me steals

With more of sympathy than hath been given

By those who claim the heritage of heaven.

“Still hath my life led down a vale of Eden;

Where mystic foot-prints marked the dewy sod;

As if some angel’s steps had near me trodden,

Bearing blest gifts from ’neath the throne of God;

And low, sweet tones oft sooth me while I sleep,

From the kind spirits that my vigils keep,

“Like to the strain that now around me lingers,

Roused, in my breast, from some long hidden string;

While choirs of air-harps, swept by seraphs’ fingers,

Upon my listening ear responsive ring—

Lo! my eyes catch the flash of glancing wings,

And half seen visions of all glorious things.”

Half seen no longer—from the sky were rolled

Its azure curtains, and a fragrant light

Stole down, o’er glittering walks of gems and gold—

The veil was lifted from her mortal sight,

And one beside her stood, of air and mien

Familiar, like the forms our dreams have seen.

“Mine own I claim thee; thou at length hast heard

And known the voice with which I wooed thee first,

In life’s young morn. Though oft thy soul hath stirred,

Echoing the strains that from my lyre have burst,

Still too forgetful of the world of bliss,

Thou didst but hear them as the tones of this.

“Though thy young heart had found no answering tone

To its o’erflowing gladness, knewest thou not

That Heaven ne’er sends commissioned souls alone,

To bear the darkness of their earthly lot,

But each frail pilgrim of the thorny land,

Moves earthward with its kindred hand in hand?

“Through Eden’s vales we had together trod,

And quaffed its streams, before the mandate came

To rear us temples of this earthly clod,

And win from dull mortality the claim

To richer coronals; and with the flow

Of mingled hearts we sought our homes below.

“But we were severed, from terrestrial bowers

The angels called me early; yet was mine

The sweetest task, to watch thy path of flowers,

And yield thee visions of a land divine;

And even the veil that hid my form from thee

Oped the sealed fountains of thy heart to me.

“I have been with thee still—at eventide

Fanning thy temples till thy soul was free,

While the clay slept, to wander at my side;

And to its bonds at dawn restoring thee,

A child of earth, till, for a holier shrine,

Thy wings at length are fledged, and thou art mine.”

Thus spake the spirit, and the veil of light,

That round him hung, o’er Eva’s form was cast:

The bark that bore her, ne’er to mortal sight

Came up the stream from whence its keel had passed.

They watched her from the shore-girt river glide,

And float far westward o’er the boundless tide:

And where the wave is mingled with the sky,

In the bright pathway of the dying day,

’Mid clouds too luminous for human eye,

She seemed to vanish on her airy way;

While earth’s fair flowers, and ocean’s pearly shell,

Breathed a low answer to some fond farewell.

* * * * *

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool

I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but

Travelers must be content. As You Like It.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”

“MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by

J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court

of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(_Continued from page 48._)