CHAPTER I.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXV. November, 1849. NO. 5.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Other Articles

Jasper St. Aubyn

Men at Home: or The Pretty Man-Hater

A Year and A Day: or The Will

Major Anspach

Homewood

The Battle of Trenton

Mr. Merritt and His Family

The Life Insurance

The Balize

Wild-Birds of America

Editor’s Table

Review of New Books

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

The Broken Household

Fragments of an Unfinished Story

Parting

The Fear of Death

Lines

The Seminoles’ Last Look

To My Sister E . . . . A.

Bunker-Hill at Midnight

Lines

Spiritual Presence

Flower Fancies

Le Follet

Wake, Lady, Wake

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

* * * * *

[Illustration: HAPPY AS A KING.

Engraved and Printed expressly for Graham’s Magazine by J. M. Butler.]

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXV. PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER, 1849. NO. 5.

* * * * *

JASPER ST. AUBYN;

OR THE COURSE OF PASSION.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.

(_Continued from page 213._)

Reader, the heart of man is a strange compound, a deceitful thing.

Jasper St. Aubyn _did_ love Theresa Allan, as I have said before, with

all the love which he could bestow on any thing divine or human. His

passion for the possession of her charms, both personal and mental, was,

as his passions ever were, inordinate. His belief in her excellence, her

purity, in the stability of her principles, the impregnable strength of

her virtue, could not be proved more surely than by the fact, that he

had never dared an attempt to shake them. His faith in her adoration for

himself was as firm-fixed as the sun in heaven. And, lastly, his

conviction of the constancy of his own love toward her, of the

impossibility of that love’s altering or perishing, was strong as his

conviction of his own being.

But he was one of those singularly constituted beings, who will never

take an easy path when he has the option of one more difficult; never

follow the straight road when he can see a tortuous byway leading to the

same end.

Had his father, as he pretended, desired to thwart his will, or prevent

his marriage with Theresa, for that very cause he would have toiled

indefatigably, till he had made her his own in the face of day. Partly

swayed by a romantic and half chivalrous feeling, which loved to build

up difficulties for the mere pleasure of surmounting them, partly urged

on by pure willfulness and recklessness of temper, he chose evil for his

good, he rushed into deceit where truth would in fact have served his

purpose better. A boyish love of mystery and mischief might probably

have had its share likewise in his strange conduct, and a sort of

self-pride in the skill with which he managed his plot, and worked the

minds of older men into submission to his own will. Lastly, to compel

Theresa to this sacrifice of her sense of duty and propriety, to this

abandonment of principle to passion, appeared to his perverted intellect

a mighty victory, an overwhelming proof of her devotedness to his

selfish will.

If there were any darker and deeper motive in his mind, it was

unconfessed to himself; and, in truth, I believe, that none such then

existed. If such did in after times grow up within him, it arose

probably from a perception of the fatal facility which that first fraud,

with its elaborate deceits had given him for working further evil.

Verily, it is wise to pray that we be not tempted. The perilous gift of

present opportunity has made many an one, who had else lived innocent,

die, steeped to the very lips in guilt.

Such were the actuating motives of _his_ conduct; of hers pure love, and

the woman’s dread of losing what she loved, by over-vehement resistance.

At the dead of a dark, gusty night in autumn, when the young moon was

seen but at rare intervals between the masses of dense driving wrack

which swept continuously across the leaden-colored firmament before the

wailing west winds, when the sere leaves came drifting down from the

great trees, like the ghosts of departed hopes, when the long mournful

howl of some distant bandog baying the half seen moon, and the dismal

hootings of the answered owls, were the only sounds abroad, the poor

girl stole, like a guilty creature, from her virgin chamber, and,

faltering at every ray of misty light, every dusky shadow that wavered

across her way, as she threaded the long corridors, crept stealthily

down the great oaken staircase, and joined her young lover in the stone

hall below.

Her palfrey and his hunter stood saddled at the foot of the terrace

steps, and, almost without a word exchanged between them, she found

herself mounted and riding, with her right hand clasped in his burning

fingers, through the green chase toward the village.

The clock was striking midnight—ill-omened hour for such a rite as

that—in the tower of the parish church, as Jasper St. Aubyn sprung to

the ground before the old Saxon porch, and lifting his sweet bride from

the saddle, fastened the bridles of their horses to the hooks in the

churchyard-wall, and entered the low-browed door which gave access to

the nave.

A single dim light burned on the altar, by which the old vicar, robed in

his full canonicals, awaited them, with his knavish assistant, and the

two witnesses beside him.

Dully and unimpressively, at that unhallowed hour, and by that dim

light, the sacred rite was performed, and the dread adjuration answered,

and the awful bond undertaken, which, through all changes, and despite

all chances of this mortal life makes two into one flesh, until death

shall them sever.

The gloom, the melancholy, the nocturnal horror of the scene sunk deeply

on Theresa’s spirit; and it was in the midst of tears and shuddering

that she gave her hand and her heart to one, who, alas! was too little

capable of appreciating the invaluable treasure he had that night been

blessed withal. And even when the ceremony was performed, and she was

his immutably and forever, as they rode home as they had come, alone,

through the dim avenues and noble chase, which were now in some sort her

own, there was none of that buoyancy, that high, exulting hope, that

rapture of permitted love which is wont to thrill the bosoms of young

and happy brides.

Nor, on the following day, was the melancholy gloom, which, despite all

her young husband’s earnest and fond endeavors to cheer and compose her,

still overhung her mind, in anywise removed by the tidings which reached

the manor late in the afternoon.

The aged vicar, so the tale went, had been called by some unusual

official duty to the parish church, long after it was dark, and in

returning home had fallen among the rocks, having strayed from the path,

and injured himself so severely that his life was despaired of.

So eagerly did Jasper proffer his services, and with an alacrity so

contrary to his usual sluggishness, when his own interests were not at

stake, did he order his horse and gallop down to the village to visit

his old friend, that his father smiled, well pleased and half laughingly

thanked Theresa, when the boy had gone, saying that he really believed

her gentle influence was charming some of Jasper’s willfulness away, and

that he trusted ere long to see him, through her precept and example,

converted into a milder and more humanized mood and temper.

Something swelled in the girl’s bosom, and rose to her throat, half

choking her—the _hysterica passio_ of poor Lear—as the good old man

spoke, and the big tears gushed from her eyes.

It was by the mightiest effort only that she kept down the almost

overmastering impulse which prompted her to cast herself down at the old

man’s feet, and confess to him what she had done, and so implore his

pardon and his blessing.

Had she done so, most happy it had been for her unhappy self; more happy

yet for one more miserable yet, that should be!

Had she done so, she had crowned the old man’s last days with a halo of

happiness that had lighted him down the steps to the dusky grave

rejoicing—she had secured to herself, and to him whom she had taken for

better or for worse, innocence and security and self-respect and virtue,

which _are_ happiness!

She did it not; and she repented not _then_—for when she told Jasper

how nearly she had confessed all, his brow grew as dark as night, and he

put her from him, exclaiming with an oath, that had she done so, he had

never loved her more; but did she not repent thereafter?

It was late when Jasper returned, and he was, to all outward observers,

sad and thoughtful; but Theresa could read something in his countenance,

which told _her_ that he had derived some secret satisfaction from his

visit.

In a word, the danger, apprehension of which had so prompted Jasper’s

charity, and quickened his zeal in well-doing—the danger, that the old

clergyman should divulge _in extremis_ the duty which had led him to the

church at an hour so untimely, was at an end forever. He was dead, and

had never spoken since the accident, which had proved fatal to his

decrepit frame and broken constitution.

Moreover, to make all secure, he had seen the rascal sexton, and secured

him forever, by promising him an annuity so long as the secret should be

kept; while craftier and older in iniquity than he, and

suspecting—might it not be foreseeing—deeper iniquity to follow, the

villain, who now alone, with the suborned witnesses, knew what had

passed, stole into the chancel, and cut out from the parish register the

leaf which contained the record of that unhappy marriage.

It is marvellous how at times all things appear to work prosperously for

the success of guilt, the destruction of innocence; but, of a truth, the

end of these things is not here.

It so fell out that the record of Theresa Allan’s union with Jasper St.

Aubyn was the first entry on a fresh leaf of the register. One skillful

cut of a sharp knife removed that leaf, so as to defy the closest

scrutiny; had one other name been inscribed thereon, before hers, she

had been saved.

Alas! for Theresa!

But to do Jasper justice, he knew not of this villainy; nor, had he

known, would he _then_ have sanctioned it. He only wished to secure

himself against momentary discovery.

The ill consequences of this folly, this mysterious and unmeaning craft,

had now in some degree recoiled upon himself. And delighting, as he

really did, in the closest intercourse with his sweet young bride, he

chafed and fumed at finding that the necessity of keeping up the

concealment, which he had so needlessly insisted on, precluded him from

the possibility of enjoying his new possession, as he would, entirely

and at all hours.

He would have given almost his right hand now to be able to declare

openly that she was his own. But, for once in his life, he dared not! He

could not bring himself to confess to his kind father the cruel breach

of confidence, the foul and causeless deceit of which he had been

guilty; and he began almost to look forward to the death of that

excellent and idolizing parent, as the only event that could allow him

to call his wife his own.

It was not long before his wish—if that can be called a wish, which he

dared not confess to his own guilty heart, was accomplished.

The first snows had not fallen yet, when the old cavalier fell ill, and

declined so rapidly that before the old year was dead he was gathered to

his fathers. As he had lived, so he died, a just, upright, kindly,

honorable man. At peace with all men, and in faith with his God.

His last words were entreaty to his son to take Theresa Allen to his

wife, and to live with her unambitiously, unostentatiously, as he had

lived himself, and was about to die, at Widecomb. And even then, though

he promised to obey his father’s bidding, the boy’s heart was not

softened, nor was his conscience touched by any sense of the wrong he

had done. He promised, and as the good man’s dying eye kindled with

pleasure, he smiled on him with an honest seeming smile, received his

parting kiss, and closed his eyes, and stood beside the dead,

unrelenting, unrepentant.

He was the Lord of Widecomb; and so soon as the corpse by which he stood

should be composed in the quiet grave, the world should know him, too,

as the Lord of Theresa Allan.

And so he swore to her, when he stole that night, as he had done nightly

since their marriage, to her chamber, after every light was

extinguished, and, as he believed, every eye closed in sleep; and she,

fond soul! believed him, and clasped him to her heart, and sunk into

sleep, with her head pillowed on his breast, happier than she had been

since she had once—for the first, last time—deviated from the paths of

truth.

But he who has once taken up deceit as his guide, knows not when he can

quit it. He may, indeed, say to himself “thus far will I go, and no

further,” but when he shall have once attained the proposed limit, and

shall set himself to work to recover that straight path from which he

has once deviated, fortunate will he be, indeed, if he find not a

thousand obstacles, which it shall tax his utmost energy, his utmost

ingenuity to surmount, if he have not to cry out in despair—

Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practice to deceive.

Jasper St. Aubyn did honestly intend to do, the next day, what he that

night promised; nor did he doubt that he _could_ do it, and so do it, as

to save her scatheless, of whom he had not yet grown weary.

But, alas! of so delicate a texture is a woman’s reputation, that the

slightest doubt, the smallest shade once cast upon it, though false as

hell itself, it shall require more than an angel’s tears to wash away

the slain. All cautiously as Jasper had contrived his visits to the

chamber of his wife, all guarded as had been his intercourse with her,

although he had never dreamed that a suspicion had been awakened in a

single mind of the existence of such an intercourse, he had not stolen

thither once, nor returned once to his own solitary couch, but keen,

curious, prying eyes had followed him.

There was not a maid-servant in the house but knew Miss Theresa’s shame,

as all believed it to be; but tittered and triumphed over it in her

sleeves, as an excuse, or at least a palliation of her own peccadilloes;

but told it, in confidence, to her own lover, Tom, the groom, or Dick,

the falconer, until it was the common gossip of the kitchen and the

butlery, how the fair and innocent Theresa was Master Jasper’s

_mistress_.

But they nothing dreamed of this; and both fell asleep that night, full

of innocent hopes on the one hand, and good determinations—alas! never

to be realized, on the other.

The morrow came, and Sir Miles St. Aubyn was consigned to the vault

where slept his fathers of so many generations. Among the loud and

sincere lamentations of his grateful tenantry and dependents, the

silent, heartfelt tears of Theresa, and the pale but constrained sorrow

of his son, he was committed earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to

dust, to his long last home, by the son of the aged vicar, who had

already been inducted to the living, which his father had held so many

years before him.

The mournful ceremonial ended, Jasper was musing alone in the old

library, considering with himself how he might best arrange the

revelation, which he proposed to make that very evening to his household

of his hitherto concealed marriage with Theresa, when suddenly a servant

entered, and informed him that Peter Verity, the sexton, would be glad

to speak six words with his honor, if it would not be too much trouble.

“By no means,” replied Jasper, eagerly, for he foresaw, as he thought,

through this man a ready mode of extricating himself from the

embarrassment of the disclosure, “admit him instantly.”

The fellow entered; a low, miserable, sneaking scoundrel, even from his

appearance; and Jasper felt as if he almost loathed himself that he had

ever had to do with so degraded a specimen of mortality. He had need of

him, however, and was compelled, therefore, much against his will, to

greet him, and speak to him fairly.

“Ha, Verity,” he said, “I am glad you have come, I should have sent for

you in the morning, if you had not come up to-night. You have managed

that affair for me right well; and I shall not forget it, I assure you.

Here are ten guineas for you, as an earnest now, and I shall continue

your annuity, though there will be no need for concealment any longer.

Still I shall want your assistance, and will pay you for it liberally.”

“I thank your honor, kindly,” answered the fellow, pocketing the gold.

“But with regard to the annuity, seeing as how what I’ve done for your

honor is a pretty dangerous job, and one as I fancy might touch my

life.”

“Touch your life! why what the devil does the fellow mean!” Jasper

interrupted him, starting to his feet, “I never asked you—never asked

any man—to do aught that should affect his life.”

“You never did ask me, right out in words, that is a fact, your honor.

You was too deep for that, I’m a thinking! But, lord bless ye, I

understood ye, for all, as well as if you _had_ asked me. And so, be

sure, I went and did it straight. I’d ha’ done any thing to serve your

honor—that I would—and I will again, that’s more.”

“In God’s name, what have you done, then?” exclaimed Jasper, utterly

bewildered.

“Why, seeing as your honor didn’t wish to have your marriage with Miss

Theresa known, and as there wasn’t no way else of hiding it, when the

old parson was dead and gone, and a new one coming, I went and cut the

record of it out of the church-register, and I’ve got it here, safe

enough. So if your honor fancies any time to get tired like of Miss, why

you can e’en take another wife, and no one the wiser. There’s not a soul

knows aught about it but me, and black Jem Alderly; and we’ll never say

a word about it, not we. Nor it wouldn’t matter if we did, for that,

when once you’ve got this here paper. And so I was thinking, if your

honor would just give me five hundred guineas down, I’d hand it over,

and you could just put it in the fire, if you choosed, and no one the

wiser.”

Jasper cast his eyes up to heaven in despair, and wrung his hands

bitterly.

“Great God!” he said, “I would give five thousand if you could undo this

that you have done. I _will_ give you five thousand if you will replace

the leaf where it was, undiscovered.”

“It ain’t possible,” replied the man. “The new vicar he has looked over

all the register, and made a copy of it; and he keeps it locked up, too,

under his own key, so that, for my life, I could not get it, if I would.

And I’d be found out, sure as God—and it’s hanging by the law! nothing

less. But what does it signify, if I may be so bold, your honor?”

“When my poor father died, all cause of concealment was at an end; and I

wished this very day to acknowledge my marriage with Mrs. St. Aubyn.”

The man uttered a low expressive whistle, as who should say, “Here is a

change, with a vengeance!” But he dared not express what he thought, and

answered humbly,

“Well, your honor, I don’t see how this alters it. You have nothing to

do but to acknowledge madam as your wife, and there’s no one will think

of asking when you were married, nor hasn’t no right to do so neither.

And if they should, you can say the Doctor married you in his own

parlor, and I can swear to that, your honor; if you want me, any time;

and so’ll Jem Alderly; and this writing, that I’ll give you, will prove

it any time, for it’s in the Doctor’s own hand-writing, and signed by

the witnesses. So just you give me the five hundred, and I’ll give you

the register; and you can do as you will with it, your honor. But if I

was your honor, and you was Peter Verity, I’d just tell the servants, as

Madam was my wife, and interduce her as Mistress St. Aubyn like; but I’d

not say when nor where, nor nothing about it; and I’d just keep this

here paper snug; as I could perduce it, if I wanted, or make away with

it, if I wanted; it’s good to have two strings to your bow always.”

Jasper had listened to him in silence, with his eyes buried in his

hands, while he was speaking, and as he ceased he made no reply; but

remained motionless for several minutes.

Then he raised his head, and answered in an altered and broken voice.

“It cannot be helped now, but I would give very much it had been

otherwise.” He opened a drawer, as he spoke, in the escritoir which

stood before him, and took out of it a small box bound with brass and

secured by a massive lock, the key of which was attached to a chain

about his neck. It was filled with rouleux of gold, from which he

counted out the sum specified, and pushed the gold across the table to

the man, saying, “Count it, and see that it is right, and give me the

paper.”

Then satisfying himself that it was the very register in question, he

folded it carefully, and put it away in the box whence he had withdrawn

the gold; while the villain, who had tempted him stowed away the price

of his rascality in a leathern bag which he had brought with him for the

purpose, well assured that his claim would not be denied.

That done, he stood erect and unblushing, and awaited the further orders

of the young Lord of Widecomb.

“Now, Peter,” said he, collecting himself, “mark me. _You_ are now in my

power! and, if I ever hear that you have spoken a word without my

permission, or if you fail to speak when I command you—I will hang

you.”

And he spoke with a devilish energy, that showed how seriously he was in

earnest. “Do you understand that, Master Peter Verity?”

“I do, your honor,” answered the man, with a doubtful and somewhat

gloomy smile; “but there is no need of such threats with me; it is alike

my interest and my wish to serve you, as I have done already.”

“And it is my interest and my wish that you should serve me, as

differently as possible from the way in which you have served me; or

served yourself, rather, I should say, sirrah.”

“I beg your honor’s pardon, if I have done wrong. I meant to do good

service.”

“Tush, sirrah! tush! If I be young, I am neither quite a child, nor

absolutely a fool. You meant to get me into your power, and you have got

yourself into mine. Now listen to me, I know you for a very shrewd

rascal, Peter Verity, and for one who knows right well what to say, and

what not to say. Now, as I told you, I am about this very evening to

make known my marriage with the lady whom you saw me wed. You will be

asked, doubtless, a thousand questions on the subject by all sorts of

persons. Now, mark me, you will answer so as to let all who ask

understand that I _am_ married, and that _you_ have known all about it

from the first; but you will do this in such a manner that no one shall

be able to assert that _you_ have asserted any thing; and further, that,

if need should be hereafter, you may be able to deny point blank your

having said aught, or known aught on the subject. I hope you will

remember what I am desiring you to do correctly, Peter Verity; for, of a

truth, if you make the slightest blunder, I shall carry this document,

which you have stolen from the church-register, to the nearest justice

of the peace, and make my deposition against you.”

“I understand perfectly, your honor, and will do your bidding

correctly,” said the fellow, not a little embarrassed at finding how

much his position had altered, since he entered the library, as he

thought, well nigh the young heir’s master.

“So you shall do well,” replied Jasper. “Now get you gone. Let them give

you some ale in the buttery, but when I send word to have the people

collected in the great hall, make yourself scarce. It is not desirable

that you should be there when I address them;” and lighting a hand-lamp

as he ceased speaking, for it had grown dark already during the

conversation, he turned his back on the discomfited sexton, and went up

by a private staircase to what was called the ladies’ withdrawing room,

an apartment which, having been shut up since the death of his own

mother, had been reopened on Theresa’s joining the family.

“The sexton of the church has been with you, Jasper,” she said, eagerly,

as her husband entered the room; “what should have brought him hither?”

“He was here, you know, dearest, at the sad ceremonial; and I had

desired him to bring up a copy of the record of our marriage. He wished

to deliver it to me in person.”

“How good of you, dear Jasper, and how thoughtful,” she replied, casting

her fair white arms about his neck, and kissing his forehead tenderly,

“that you may show it to the people, and prove to them that I am indeed

your wife.”

“_Show_ it to the people! _Prove_ that you are my wife!” he answered

impetuously, and with indignation in his every tone. “I should like to

see the person ask me to show it, or doubt that you are my wife. No,

indeed, dear Theresa, your very thought shows how young you are, and

ignorant of the world. To do what you suggest, would but create the

doubt, not destroy it. No, when they have done supper, I shall cause the

whole household to be collected in the great stone hall; and when they

are there, I shall merely lead you in upon my arm, tell them we have

been married in private these three months past, and desire them to

respect you as my dear wife, and their honored mistress. That, and your

being introduced to all friends and visiters as Mistress St. Aubyn, is

all that can be needed; and, in cases such as ours, believe me, the less

eclat given to the circumstances, the better it will be for all parties.

And do not you, I pray you, dearest, suffer the servant girls to ask you

any questions on the subject, or answer them if they do. But inform me

of it forthwith.”

“They would not dream of doing so, Jasper,” she replied, gently. “And

you are quite right, I am certain, and I will do all that you wish. Oh!

I am so happy! so immeasurably happy, Jasper, even when I should be

mournful at your good father’s death, who was so kind to me; but I

cannot—I cannot—this joy completely overwhelms me. I am too, too

happy.”

“Wherefore, so wondrous happy all on a sudden, sweet one?” asked the

boy, with a playful smile, laying his hand, as he spoke, affectionately

on her soft, rounded shoulder.

“That I need fear no longer to let the whole world know how dearly, how

devotedly I love my husband.”

And she raised her beautiful blue eyes to his, running over with tears

of tenderness and joy; and her sweet lips half apart, so perfumed and so

rosy, and radiant with so bright a smile, as might have tempted the

sternest anchorite to bend over her as Jasper did, and press them with a

long kiss of pure affection.

“Now I will leave you, dearest,” he said, kindly, “for a little space,

while I see that things are arranged for this great ceremonial. I will

warn old Geoffry first of what I am about to say to them, that they may

not overwhelm us by their wonder at the telling; and do you, when you

hear the great bell ring to assemble them, put on your prettiest smile,

and your most courageous look, for then I shall be on my way to fetch

you.”

It was with a beating heart, and an almost sickening sense of anxiety,

that poor Theresa awaited the moment which was to install her in the

house of her husband as its lawful lady. She felt the awkwardness, the

difficulty of her situation, although she was far indeed from suspecting

all the causes which in reality existed to justify her embarrassment and

timidity.

She had not long, however, to indulge in such fancies, and perhaps it

was well that she had not; for her timidity seemed to grow on her apace,

and she began to think that courage would fail her to undergo the ordeal

of eyes to which she should be exposed.

But at this moment, when she was giving way to her bashfulness, when her

terrors were gaining complete empire over her, the great bell began to

ring. Slow and measured the first six or seven clanging strokes fell

upon her, resembling more the minute-tolling of a death-bell, than the

gay peal that gives note of festive tidings and rejoicing. But almost as

soon as this thought occurred to her, it seemed that the ringer, whoever

he was, had conceived the same idea, for the cadence of the bell-ringing

was changed suddenly, and a quick, merry chime succeeded to the first

solemn clangor.

At the same instant the door of the withdrawing-room was thrown open,

and her young husband entered hastily, and catching her in his arms,

kissed her lips affectionately. “Come, dearest girl,” he said, as he

drew her arm through his own, “come, it will be all over in five

minutes, and then every thing will go on as usual.”

And without waiting a reply, he led her down the great staircase into

the stone hall, wherein all the servants of the household, and many of

the tenantry and neighboring yeomen, who had not yet dispersed after the

funeral, were assembled in a surprised and admiring although silent

crowd.

The old steward, to whom Jasper had communicated his purpose, had

already informed them of the object of their convocation, and great was

their wonder, though as yet they had little time to comment on it, or

communicate their thoughts and suspicions of the news.

And now they were all collected, quiet, indeed, and respectful—for such

was the habit of the times—but all eagerness to hear what the young

master had to say, and, to speak truly, little impressed by the

informality of the affair, and little pleased that one whom they

regarded as little higher than themselves, should be elevated to a rank

and position so commanding.

Gathering even more than his wonted share of dignity from the solemnity

of the moment, and bearing himself even more haughtily than his wont,

from a sort of an inward consciousness that he was in some sort

descending from his proper sphere, and lowering his wife by doing that

which was yet necessary to establish her fair fame, the young man came

down the broad oaken steps, with a slow, proud, firm step, his athletic

though slender frame seeming to expand with the elevation of his excited

feelings. He carried his fine head, with the brows a little bent, and

his eyes, glancing like stars of fire, as they ran over every

countenance that met his gaze, seeking, as it seemed, to find an

expression which should challenge his will or underrate his choice.

She clung to his arm, not timidly, although it was evident that she felt

the need of his protection, and, although there was an air of

bashfulness and a slight tremor visible in her bearing, they were mixed

with a sort of gentle pride, the pride of conscious rectitude and

purity, and she did not cast down her beautiful blue eyes, nor avoid the

glances which were cast on her from all sides, by some desiring to read

her secret, by some wishing to prejudge her character, but looked around

her tranquilly with a sweet lady-like self-possession, that won many

hearts to her cause, which, before her coming, had been prepared to

think of her unkindly.

Finding no eye in the circle that met his own with an inquisitive, much

less an insolent glance, Jasper St. Aubyn paused, and addressed his

people with a subdued and almost melancholy smile, although his voice

was clear and sonorous.

“This is a sad occasion,” he said, “on which it first falls to my lot,

my people, to address you here, as the master of a few, the landlord of

many, and, as I hope to prove myself, the friend of all. To fill the

place of him, who has gone from us, and whom you all knew so well, and

had so much cause to love, I never can aspire; but it is my earnest hope

and desire to live and die among you as he did; and if I fail to gain

and hold fast your affections, as he did, it shall not be for want of

endeavoring to deserve them. But my object in calling you together, my

friends, this evening, was not merely to say this to you, or to promise

you my friendship and protection, but rather to do a duty, which must

not be deferred any longer, for my own sake, and for that of one far

dearer than myself.” Here he paused, and pressing the little white hand

which reposed on his arm so gently, smiled in the face of his young

wife, as he moved her a little forward into the centre of the circle. “I

mean, to present to you all, Mistress St. Aubyn, my beloved _wife_, and

your honored mistress! Some of you have been aware of this for some time

already; but to most of you it is doubtless a surprise. Be it so. Family

reasons required that our marriage should be kept secret for a while,

those reasons are now at an end, and I am as proud to acknowledge this

dear lady as my wife, and to claim all your homage and affection for

her, both on my account, and on account of her own virtues, as I doubt

not you will be proud and happy to have so excellent and beautiful a

lady to whom to look up as your mistress.”

He ceased, and three full rounds of cheering responded to his manly

speech. The circle broke up, and crowded around the young pair, and many

of the elder tenants, white-headed men and women, came up and craved

permission to shake hands with the beautiful young lady, and blessed her

with tears in their eyes, and wished her long life and happiness here

and hereafter.

But among the servants of the household, there was not by any means the

same feeling manifested. The old steward, indeed, who had grown up a

contemporary of Jasper’s father, and the scarcely less aged housekeeper,

did, indeed, show some feeling, and were probably sincere as they

offered their greetings, and promised their humble services. But among

the maid servants there passed many a meaning wink, and half light, half

sneering titter; and two or three of the younger men nudged one another

with their elbows, and interchanged thoughts with what they considered a

vastly knowing grin. No remarks were made, however, nor did any

intimation of doubt or distrust reach the eyes or ears of the young

couple—all appeared to be truthful mirth and honest congratulation.

Then having ordered supper to be prepared for all present, and liquor to

be served out, both ale and wine, of a better quality than usual, that

the company might drink the health of their young mistress, well pleased

that the embarrassing scene was at an end, Jasper led Theresa up to her

own room, palpitating with the excitement of the scene, and agitated

even by the excess of her own happiness.

But as the crowd was passing out of the hall into the dark passages

which led to the buttery and kitchen, one of the girls of the house, a

finely-shaped, buxom, red-lipped, hazel-eyed lass, with a very roguish

if not sensual expression, hung back behind the other maids, till she

was joined by the under falconer, a strapping fellow in a green jerkin

with buckskin belt and leggins.

“Ha! Bess, is that you?” he said, passing his arm round her waist,

“thou’rt a good lass, to tarry for me.”

And drawing her, nothing reluctant, aside from the crowd into a dark

corner, he kissed her a dozen times in succession, a proceeding which

she did not appear by any means to resent, the “ha’ done nows!” to the

contrary notwithstanding, which she seemed to consider it necessary to

deliver, and which her lover, probably correctly, understood as meaning,

“pray go on, if you please.”

This pleasant interlude completed, “Well, Bess,” said the swain, “and

what thinkst thou of the new mistress—of the young master’s wife? She’s

a rare bit now, hant she?”

“Lor, Jem!” returned the girl, laughing, “she hant no more his wife than

I be yourn, I tell you.”

“Why, what be she then, Bess?” said the fellow, gaping in stupid

wonderment, “thou didst hear what Master Jasper said.”

“Why she be his sweetheart. Just what we be, Jem,” said the unblushing

girl—“what the quality folks calls his ‘miss.’ Why, Jem, he’s slept in

her room every night since she came here. He’s only said this here,

about her being his wife, to save her character.”

“No blame to him for that, Bess, if it be so. But if you’re wise, lass,

you’ll keep this to yourself. She’s a beauty, anyways; and I don’t fault

him, if she be his wife, or his ‘miss,’ either, for that matter.”

“Lor!” replied the girl. “I shan’t go to say nothing, I’m sure. I’ve got

a good place, and I mean to keep it too. It’s naught to me how they

amuse themselves, so they don’t meddle with my sweet-hearting. But do

you think her so pretty, Jem? She’s a poor slight little slip of a

thing, seems to me.”

“She beant such an armful as thou, Bess, that’s a fact,” answered the

fellow, making a dash at her, which she avoided, and took to her heels,

looking back, however, over her shoulders, and beckoning him to follow.

Such were not the only comments of the kind which passed that evening;

and although, fortunately for Jasper’s and Theresa’s peace of mind, they

never dreamed of what was going on below, it was in fact generally

understood among the younger men and women, both of those within and

without the house, that Jasper’s declaration was a mere stratagem,

resorted to in order to procure more respect and consideration for his

concubine; and, although she was every where treated and addressed as

St. Aubyn’s wife, every succeeding day and hour she was more generally

regarded as his victim, and his mistress.

Such is the consequence of a single lapse from rectitude and truth.

Alas for Theresa! her doom, though she knew it not, was but too surely

sealed forever.

Had it not been for the exceeding gentleness and humility of the unhappy

girl, it is probable that she would have been very shortly made

acquainted, one way or other, with the opinion which was entertained

concerning her, in her own house, and in the neighborhood. But the

winning affability of her manners, the total absence of all arrogance or

self elevation in her demeanor toward her inferiors in station, her

respect every where manifested to old age and virtue, her kindness to

the poor and the sick, her considerate good-nature to her servants, and

above all her liberal and unostentatious charities, rendered it

impossible that any could be so cruel as to offer her rudeness or

indignity, on what was at most mere suspicion. Added to this, the fierce

impetuosity of Jasper, when crossed by any thing, or opposed in his

will, and the certainty that he would stop at nothing to avenge any

affront aimed at Theresa, so long as he chose to style her his wife,

deterred not only the household and village gossips, but even that more

odious class, the hypocritical, puritanic, self-constituted judges of

society, and punishers of what they choose to deem immorality, from

following out the bent of their mischievous or malicious tempers.

In the meantime, month after month had passed away. Winter had melted

into the promises of spring; and the gay flowers of summer had ripened

into the fruits of luxuriant autumn. A full year had run its magic round

since Theresa gave herself up to Jasper, for better for worse, till

death should them part.

The slender, joyous maiden had expanded into the full-blown, thoughtful,

lovely woman, who was now watching at the oriel window, alone, at sunset

for the return of her young husband.

Alone, ay, alone! For no child had been born to bless their union, and

to draw yet closer the indissoluble bonds which man may not put asunder.

Alone, ay, alone! as all her days were now spent, and some, alas! of her

nights also. For the first months of her wedded life, when the pain of

concealment had been once removed, Theresa was the happiest of the

happy. The love, the passion, the affection of her boy bridegroom seemed

to increase daily. To sit by her side, during the snowy days of winter,

to listen to her lute struck by the master hand of the untaught

improvisatrice, to sing with her the grand old ballads which she loved,

to muse with her over the tomes of romance, the natural vein of which

was not then extinguished in the English heart, to cull the gems of the

rare dramatists and mighty bards of the era, which was then but

expiring; and, when the early days of spring-time gave token of their

coming, in the swelling flower-bud and bursting leaf, to wander with her

through the park, through the chase, to ride with her over the heathery

moorland hills, and explore the wild recesses of the forest, to have her

near him in his field-sports, to show her how he struck the silvery

salmon, or roused the otter from his sedgy lair—these seemed to be the

only joys the boy coveted—her company his chiefest pleasure, the

undisturbed possession of her charms his crowning bliss.

But passion is proverbially short-lived; and the most so with those who,

like Jasper, have no solidity of character, no stability of feeling, no

fixed principles, whereon to fall back for support. One of the great

defects of Jasper’s nature was a total lack of reverence for any thing

divine or human—he had loved many things, he never had respected one.

Accustomed from his earliest boyhood to see every thing yield to his

will, to measure the value of every thing by the present pleasure it

afforded him; he expected to receive all things, yet to give nothing. He

was in fact a very pattern of pure selfishness, though no one would have

been so much amazed as he had he heard himself so named.

Time passed, and he grew weary, even of the very excess of his

happiness—even of the amiability, the sweetness, the ever-yielding

gentleness of his Theresa. That she should so long have charmed one so

rash and reckless was the real wonder, not that she should now have lost

the power of charming him.

Nevertheless so it was; the mind of Jasper was not so constituted as to

rest very long content with any thing, least of all with tranquillity—

For quiet to hot bosoms is a hell!

and his, surely, was of the hottest. He began as of old to long for

excitement; and even the pleasures of the chase, to which he was still

devoted, began to prove insufficient to gratify his wild and eager

spirit. Day after day, Theresa saw less of him, and ere long knew not

how or where many of his days were spent. Confidence, in the true sense

of the word, there never had been between them; respect or esteem,

founded upon her real virtues and rare excellences, he had never

felt—therefore, when the heat and fierceness of passion died out, as it

were, by the consumption of its own fuel, when her personal charms

palled on him by possession, when her intellectual endowments wearied

him, because they were in truth far beyond the range of his

comprehension, and therefore out of the pale of his sympathies, he had

nothing left whereon to build affection—thus passion once dead in his

heart, all was gone at once which had bound him to Theresa.

He neglected her, he left her alone—alone, without a companion, a

friend, in the wide world. Still she complained not, wept not, above

all, upbraided not. She sought to occupy herself, to amuse her solitude

with her books, her music, her wild flights into the world of fancy. And

when he did come home from his fierce, frantic gallops across the

country with the worst and wildest of the young yeomanry, from his

disgraceful orgies with the half gentry of the nearest market-town, she

received him ever with kindness, gentleness and love.

She never let him know that she wept in silence; never allowed him to

see that she noticed his altered manner; but smiled on him, and sang to

him, and fondled him, as if he had been to her—and was he not so?—all

that she had on earth. And he, such is the spirit of the selfish and the

reckless of our sex, almost began to hate her, for the very meekness and

affection with which she submitted to his unkindness.

He felt that her unchanged, unreproaching love was the keenest reproach

to his altered manner, to his neglectful coldness. He felt that he could

better have endured the bitterest blame, the most agonized remonstrance,

the tears of the veriest Niobe, than meet the ever welcoming smile of

those rosy lips, the ever loving glance of those soft blue eyes.

Perhaps had she possessed more of what such men as he call spirit, had

the vein of her genius led to outbursts of vehement, unfeminine, Italian

passion, the flashing eye, the curling lip, the face pallid with rage,

the tongue fluent with the torrent eloquence of indignation, he might

have found in them something to rouse his dormant passions from the

lethargy which had overcome them, something to stimulate and excite him

into renewed desire.

But as well might you expect from the lily of the valley the blushes and

the thorns of the rose, from the turtle-dove the fury and the flight of

the jer-falcon, as aught from Theresa St. Aubyn, but the patience, the

purity, the quiet, and the love of a white-minded, virtuous woman.

But she was wretched—most wretched—because hopeless. She had prayed

for a child, with all the yearning eagerness of disappointed craving

womanhood—a child that should smile in her face, and love her for

herself, being of herself, and her own—a child that should perhaps win

back to her the lost affections of her lord. But in vain.

And still she loved him, nay, adored him, as of old. Never did she see

his stately form, sitting his horse with habitual grace, approaching

listlessly and slowly the home which no longer had a single attraction

to his jaded and exhausted heart, but her whole frame was shaken by a

sharp nervous tremor, but a mist overspread her swimming eyes, but dull

ringing filled her ears, her heart throbbed and palpitated, until she

thought it would burst forth from her bosom.

She ever hoped that the cold spell might pass from him, ever believed,

ever trusted, that the time would come when he would again love her as

of old, again seek her society, and take pleasure in her conversation;

again let her nestle in his bosom, and look up into his answering eyes,

by the quiet fireside in winter evenings. Alas! she still dreamed of

these things—even although her reason told her that they were

hopeless—even after he had again changed his mood from sullen coldness

to harsh, irritable anger, to vehement, impetuous, fiery wrath,

causeless as the wolf’s against the lamb, and _therefore_ the more

deadly and unsparing.

Politics had run high in the land of late, and every where parties were

forming. Since the battle of Sedgemoor, and the merciless cruelty with

which the royal judges had crushed out the life of that abortive

insurrection, and drowned its ashes in floods of innocent gore, the rage

of factions had waxed wilder in the country than they had done since the

reign of the first Charles, the second English king of that unhappy

race, the last of whom now filled the painful seat of royalty.

Yet all was hushed as yet and quiet, as the calm which precedes the

bursting of a thunder-cloud. Secluded as Widecomb Manor was, and far

divided from the seats of the other gentry of Devonshire by tracts of

moor and forest, and little intercourse as Jasper had held hitherto with

his equals in rank and birth—limited as that intercourse had been to a

few visits of form, and a few annual banquets—the stir of the political

world reached even the remote House in the Woods.

The mad whirl of politics was precisely the thing to captivate a mind

such as Jasper’s; and the instant the subject was broached to him, by

some of the more leading youths of the county, he plunged headlong into

its deepest vortices, and was soon steeped to the lips in conspiracy.

Events rendered it necessary that he should visit the metropolis, and

twice during the autumn he had already visited it—alone. And twice he

had returned to his beautiful young wife, who hailed his coming as a

heathen priestess would have greeted the advent of her god, more

alienated, colder, and more causeless than before.

Since he had last returned, the coldness was converted into cruelty,

active, malicious, fiendish cruelty. Hard words, incessant taunts,

curses—nay, blows! Yet still, faithful to the end and fond, she still

loved him. Still would have laid down the dregs of the life which had

been so happy till she knew him, and which he had made so wretched, to

win one of his old fond smiles, one of his once caressing tones, one of

his heartfelt kisses.

Alas! alas! Theresa! Too late, it was all too late!

He had learned, for the first time, in London, the value of his rank,

his wealth, his position. He had been flattered by men of lordly birth,

_fêted_ and fondled by the fairest and noblest ladies of the land. He

had learned to be ambitious—he had begun to thirst for social eminence,

for political ascendency, for place, power, dominion. His talents had

created a favorable impression in high quarters—his enthusiasm and

daring rashness had made an effect—he was already a marked man among

the conspirators, who were aiming to pull down the sovereignty of the

Stuarts. Hints had been even thrown out to him, of the possibility of

allying himself to interests the most important, through the beautiful

and gorgeous daughter of one of the oldest of the peers of England. The

hint had been thrown out, moreover, by a young gentleman of his own

county—by one who had seen Theresa. And when he started and expressed

his wonder, and alluded tremulously to his _wife_, he had been answered

by a smile of intelligence, coupled with an assurance that every one

understood all about Theresa Allan; and that surely he would not be such

a fool as to sacrifice such prospects for a little village paramour.

“The story of the concealed wedding took in nobody, my lad,” the speaker

added, “except those, like myself, who chose to believe any thing you

chose to assert. Think of it, _mon cher_; and, believe me, that

_liaison_ will be no hindrance.”

And Jasper had thought of it. The thought had never been, for one

moment, absent from his mind, sleeping or waking, since it first found

admission to the busy chambers of his brain. From that unfortunate day,

his life had been but one series of plots and schemes, all base,

atrocious, horrible—some even murderous.

Since that day his cruelty had not been casual; it had a meaning, and a

method, both worthy of the arch fiend’s devising.

He sought first deliberately to break her heart, to kill her without

violence, by the action of her own outraged affections—and then, when

that failed, or rather when he saw that the process must needs be too

slow to meet his accursed views, he aimed at driving her to commit

suicide—thus slaying, should he succeed in his hellish scheme, body and

soul together of the woman whom he had sworn before God’s holy altar,

with the most solemn adjuration, to love, comfort, honor, and keep in

sickness and in health—the woman whose whole heart and soul were his

absolute possession; who had never formed a wish, or entertained a

thought, but to love him and to make him happy. And this—this was her

reward. Could she, indeed, have fully conceived the extent of the

feelings which he now entertained toward her, could she have believed

that he really was desirous of her death, was actually plotting how he

might bring it about, without dipping his hand in her blood, or calling

down the guilt of downright murder on his soul, I believe he would have

been spared all further wickedness.

To have known that he felt toward her not merely casual irritation, that

his conduct was not the effect of a bad disposition, or of an evil

temper only, but that determined hatred had supplanted the last spark of

love in his soul, and that he was possessed by a resolution to rid

himself of the restraint which his marriage had brought upon him, by one

means or another—to have known this, I say, would have so frozen her

young blood, would have so stricken her to the heart, that, if it had

not slain her outright, it would have left her surely—perhaps happier

even to be such—a maniac for the poor remnant of her life.

That morning, at an early hour, he had ridden forth, with two or three

dogs at his heel, and the game-keeper, James Alderly, better known in

that neighborhood as Black Jem, who had of late been his constant

companion, following him.

Dinner-time had passed—supper-time—yet he came not; and the deserted

creature was yet watching wistfully, hopefully for his return.

Suddenly, far off among the stems of the distant trees, she caught a

glimpse of a moving object; it approached; it grew more distinct—it was

he, returning at a gallop, as he seldom now returned to his distasteful

home, with his dogs careering merrily along by his side, and the

grim-visaged keeper spurring in vain to keep up with the furious speed

at which he rode, far in the rear of his master.

She pressed her hand upon her heart, and drew a long, deep breath. “Once

more,” she murmured to herself, “he hath come back to me once more!”

And then the hope flashed upon her mind that the changed pace at which

he rode, and something which even at that distance she could descry in

his air and mien, might indicate an alteration in his feelings. “Yes,

yes! Great God! can it be? He sees me, he waves his hand to me. He

loves—he loves me once again!”

And with a mighty effort she choked down the paroxysm of joy, which had

almost burst out in a flood of tears, and hurried from the room, and out

upon the terrace, to meet him, to receive once more a smile of greeting.

His dogs came bounding up to her, as she stood at the top of the stone

steps, and fawned upon her, for they loved her—every thing loved her,

save he only who had most cause to do so.

Yet now, it was true, he did smile upon her, as he dismounted from his

horse, and called her once more “Dear Theresa.” And he passed his arm

about her slender waist, and led her back into the house, chiding her

good-humoredly for exposing herself to the chilly night-wind.

“I feel it not,” she said, joyously, with her own sunny smile lighting

up her face, “I feel it not—nor should feel it, were it charged with

all the snow storms of the north; my heart is so warm, so full. Oh!

Jasper, that dear name, in your own voice, has made me but too happy.”

“Silly child!” he replied, “silly child,” patting her affectionately on

the shoulder, as he had used to do in times long past—at least it

seemed long, very long to her, though they were in truth but a few

months distant. “And do you love me, Theresa?”

“Love you?” she said, gazing up into his eyes with more of wonder that

he should ask such a question, than of any other feeling. “Love you, oh,

God! can you doubt it, Jasper?”

“No,” he said, hesitating slightly, “no, dearest. And yet I have given

you but little cause of late to love me.”

“Do you know _that_—do you feel _that_, Jasper?” she cried, eagerly,

joyously, “then I am, indeed, happy; then you really do love me?”

“And can you forgive me, Theresa?”

“Forgive you—for what?”

“For the pain I have caused you of late.”

“It is all gone—it is all forgotten! You have been vexed, grieved about

something that has wrung you in secret. But you should have told me of

it, dearest Jasper, and I would have consoled you. But it is all, all

over now; nay, but I am now glad of it, since this great joy is all the

sweeter for the past sorrow.”

“And do you love me well enough, Theresa, to make a sacrifice, a great

sacrifice for me?”

“To sacrifice my heart’s blood—ay, my life, if to do so would make you

happy.”

“Your life, silly wench! how should your little life profit me? But that

is the way ever with you women. If one ask you the smallest trifle, you

ever proffer your lives, as if they could be of any use, or as if one

would not be hanged for taking them. I have known girls refuse one kiss,

and then make a tender of their lives.”

He spoke with something of his late habitual bitterness, it is true; but

there was a smile on his face, as he uttered the words, and she laughed

merrily, as she answered,

“Oh! I will not refuse you fifty of those; I will be only too glad if

you think them worth the taking. But I did speak foolishly, dearest; and

you must not blame me for it, for my heart is so overflowing with joy,

that, of a truths I scarcely know what I say. I only wished to express

that there is nothing in the wide world which you can ask of me, that I

will not do, willingly, gladly. Will that satisfy you, Jasper?”

“Why, ay! if you hold to it, Theresa,” he answered, eagerly; “but, mind

you, it is really a sacrifice which I ask—a great sacrifice.”

“No sacrifice is great,” she replied, pressing his arm, on which she was

hanging with both her white hands linked together over it, “no sacrifice

which I can make, so long as _you_ love me.”

“I _do_ love you, dearly, girl,” he answered; “and if you do this that I

would have you do, I will love you ten times better than I do, ten times

better than I ever did.”

“That were a bribe indeed,” she replied, laughing with her own silvery,

girlish laugh. “But I don’t believe you could love me ten times better

than you once did, Jasper. But if you will promise me to love me ever as

you did then, you may ask me any thing under heaven.”

“Well, I will promise—I will promise, wench. See that you be as ready

to perform.”

And, as he spoke, he stooped down, for the keeper had now retired with

the horses, and they were entirely alone, and embraced her closely, and

kissed her as he had not done for many a month before.

“I will—I will, indeed, dear, dearest Jasper. Tell me, what is it I

must do?”

“Go to your room, dearest, and I will join you there and tell you. I

must get me a crust of bread and a goblet of wine, and give some

directions to the men, and then I will join you.”

“Do not be very long, dearest. I am dying to know what I can do to

please you.” And she stood upon tiptoes, and kissed his brow playfully,

and then ran up stairs with a lighter step than had borne her for many a

day.

Her husband gazed after her with a grim smile, and nodded his head in

self-approbation. “This is the better way, after all. But will she, will

she stand to it? I should not be surprised. ’S death! one can never

learn these women! What d—d fools they are, when all is told! Flattery,

flattery and falsehood, lay it on thick enough, will win the best of

them from heaven to—Hades!”

Oh, man, man! and all that was but acting.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

THE BROKEN HOUSEHOLD.

BY MISS ALICE CAREY.

Vainly, vainly, memory seeks

Round our father’s knee,

Laughing eyes and rosy cheeks

Where they used to be:

Of the circle once so wide,

Three are wanderers, three have died.

Golden-haired and dewy-eyed,

Prattling all the day,

Was the baby, first that died;

O ’twas hard to lay

Dimpled hand and cheek of snow

In the grave so dark and low!

Smiling back on all who smiled,

Ne’er by sorrow thralled,

Half a woman, half a child,

Was the next God called:

Then a grave more deep and wide

Made they by the baby’s side.

When or where the other died

Only heaven can tell;

Treading manhood’s path of pride

Was he when he fell:

Haply thistles, blue and red,

Bloom about his lonesome bed.

I am for the living three

Only left to pray;

Two are on the stormy sea.

Farther still than they,

Wanders one, his young heart dim,

Oftenest, most, I pray for him.

Whatsoe’er they do or dare,

Wheresoe’er they roam,

Have them, Father, in thy care,

Guide them safely home;

Home, O Father, in the sky,

Where none wander and none die.

* * * * *

FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED STORY.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

“A friend!” Are you a friend? No, by my soul!

Since you dare breathe the shadow of a doubt

That I am true as Truth: since you give not

Unto my briefest look—my gayest word—

My faintest change of cheek—my softest touch—

Most sportive, careless smile, or low-breathed sigh—

Nay, to my voice’s lightest modulation,

Though imperceptible to all but you,—

If you give not to these, unquestioning,

A limitless faith—the faith you give to Heaven—

I will not call you “friend.” I would disdain

A seraph’s heart, as yours I now renounce,

If such the terms on which ’twere proffered me.

Deny me Faith—that poor, yet priceless boon—

And you deny the very soul of love.

As well withhold the lamp, whose light reveals

The sculptured beauty latent in its urn,

As proffer Friendship’s diamond _in the dark_.

What though a thousand seeming proofs condemn me?

If my calm image smile not clear through all,

Serene, and without shadow on your heart—

Nay, if the very vapors that would veil it,

Part not, illumined by its presence pure,

As round Night’s tranquil queen the clouds divide,

Then rend it from that heart! I ask no place,

Though ’twere a throne, without the state becomes me—

Without the homage due to royal Truth.

And should a world betide pronounce me false,

You are to choose between the world and me.

If _I_ be not more than _all_ worlds to you,

I will not stoop to _less_! I will have _all_—

Your proudest, purest, noblest, loftiest love—

Your perfect trust—your soul of soul—or nothing!

Shall I _not_ have them? Speak! on poorer spirits—

Who are content with less, because, forsooth,

The whole would blind or blight them, or because

They have but less to give—will you _divide_

The glory of your own? or concentrate

On mine its radiant life?—on mine! that holds

As yet, in calm reserve, the boundless wealth

Of tenderness its Maker taught to it.

Speak! shall we part, and go our separate ways,

Each with a half life in a burning soul,

Like two wild clouds, whose meeting would evoke

The electric flame pent up within their bosoms,

That, parted, weep their fiery hearts away,

Or waste afar—and darken into death?

Speak! do we part? or are we _one_ forever?

——

Since I must love thee—since a weird wild fate

Impels me to thy heart against my will—

Do thou this justice to the heart I yield:

_Be its ideal_. Let it not blush to love.

Bid it not trail its light and glorious wings

Through the dull dust of earth, with downcast eyes

And drooping brow, where Shame and Grief usurp

Calm Honor’s throne!—be noble, truthful, brave;

Love Honor more than Love, and more than me;

Be all thou wert ere the world came between

Thee and thy God.

Hear’st thou my spirit pleading

With suppliant, claspéd hands to thine, dear love?

Degrade her not, but let thy stronger soul

Soar with her to the seraph’s realm of light.

She yields to thee; do with her as thou wilt.

She shuts her wings in utter weariness,

For she has wandered all night long astray,

And found no rest—no fountain of sweet love,

Save such as mocked her with a maddening thirst.

She asks of thine repose, protection, peace;

Implores thee with wild tears and passionate prayers

To give her shelter through the night of Time,

And lead her home at morn; for long ago

She lost her way.

Ah! thou may’st give, instead

Of that sweet boon she asks, if so thou wilt,

Wild suffering, madness, shame, self-scorn, despair!

But thou wilt not! thine eyes—thy glorious eyes—

Are eloquent with generous love and faith,

And through thy voice a mighty heart intones

Its rich vibrations, while thou murmurest low

All lovely promises, and precious dreams

For the sweet Future. So, I trust thee, love,

And place my hand in thine, for good or ill.

——

Do not my soul that wrong! translate not thus

The spirit-words my eyes are saying to thee:

I would not fetter that rich heart of thine,

Save by the perfect liberty I give it,

For all God’s worlds of glory. Go thou forth—

Be free as air! Love all the good and pure;

Cherish all love that can ennoble thee;

Unfold thy soul to all sweet ministries,

That it may grow toward heaven, as a flower

Drinks dew and light, and pays them back in beauty.

And if—ah heaven! these tears are love’s, not grief’s—

And if some higher ministry than mine,

Or some more genial nature, bless thee more,

Wrong not thyself, or me, or love, or truth,

By shrinking weakly from thy destiny.

I would not owe to pitying tenderness

The joy with which thy presence lights my life.

Thou shalt still love all that is thine, dear friend,

In my true soul—all that is right and great;

And that I still love thee, so proudly, purely—

That shall be joy enough! Go calmly forth.

——

Would I were any thing that thou dost love—

A flower, a shell, a wavelet, or a cloud—

Aught that might win a moment’s soul-look from thee.

To be “a joy forever” in thy heart,

That were in truth divinest joy to mine:

A low, sweet, haunting Tune, that will not let

Thy memory go, but fondly twines around it,

Pleading and beautiful—for unto thee

Music is life—such life as I would be;

A Statue, wrought in marble, without stain,

Where one immortal truth embodied lives

Instinct with grace and loveliness; a Fane,

A fair Ionic temple, growing up,

Light as a lily into the blue air,

To the glad melody of a tuneful thought

In its creator’s spirit, where thy gaze

Might never weary—dedicate to thee,

Thy image shrined within it, lone and loved;

_Make_ me the Flower thou lovest; let me drink

Thy rays, and give them back in bloom and beauty;

Mould me to grace, to glory, like the Statue;

Wake for my mind the Music of thine own,

And it shall grow, to that majestic tune,

A temple meet to shrine mine idol in;

Hold the frail shell, tinted by love’s pure blush,

Unto thy _soul_, and thou shalt hear within

Tones from its spirit-home; smile on the wave,

And it shall flow, free, limpid, glad, forever;

Shed on the cloud the splendor of thy being,

And it shall float—a radiant wonder—by thee!

To love—_thy_ love—so docile I would be,

So pliant, yet inspired, that it should make

A marvel of me, for thy sake, and show

Its proud _chef d’œuvre_ in my harmonious life.

——

I would be judged by that great heart of thine,

Wherein a voice more genuine, more divine

Than world-taught Reason, fondly speaks for me,

And bids thee love and trust, through cloud and shine,

The frail and fragile creature who would be

Naught here—hereafter—if not _all_ to thee!

Thou call’st me changeful as the summer cloud,

And wayward as a wave, and light as air.

And I am all thou sayest—all, and worse;

But the wild cloud can weep, as well as lighten,

And the wave mirrors heaven, as my soul thee;

And the light air, that frolicks without thought

O’er yonder harp, makes music as it goes.

Let _me_ play on the soul-harp I love best,

And teach it all its dreaming melody;

That is my mission; I have nothing else,

In all the world, to do. And I shall go

Musicless, aimless, idle, through all life,

Unless I play my part there—only there.

In the full anthem which the universe

Intones to heaven, my heart will have no share,

Unless I have that soul-harp to myself,

And wake it to what melody I please.

——

So wrote the Lady Imogen—the child

Of Poetry and Passion—all her frame

So lightly, exquisitely shaped, we dreamed

’Twas fashioned to the echo of some song—

The fairest, airiest creature ever made—

Flower-like in her fragility and grace,

Childlike in sweet impetuous tenderness,

Yet with a nature proud, profound, and pure,

As a rapt sybil’s. O’er her soul had passed

The wild simoom of wo, but to awake

From that Eolian lyre the loveliest tones

Of mournful music, passionately sad.

Not thus her love the haughty Ida breathed:

In her ideal beauty calm and high,

O’er the patrician paleness of her cheek,

Came, seldom, and how softly! the faint blush

Of irrepressible tenderness.

——

Your course has been a conqueror’s through life;

You have been followed, flattered and caressed;

Soul after soul has laid upon your shrine

Its first, fresh, dewy bloom of love for incense:

The minstrel-girl has tuned for you her lute,

And set her life to music for your sake;

The opera-belle, with blush unwonted, starts

At your name’s casual mention, and forgets,

For one strange moment, fashion’s cold repose;

The village maiden’s conscious heart beats time

To your entrancing melody of verse,

And, from that hour, of your belovéd image

Makes a life-idol. And you know it all,

And smile, half-pleased, and half in scorn, to know.

But you have never known, nor shall you now,

Who, ’mid the throng you sometimes meet, receives

Your careless recognition with a thrill,

At her adoring heart, worth all that homage!

You see not, ’neath her half-disdainful smile,

The passionate tears it is put on to hide;

You dream not what a wild sigh dies away

In her laugh’s joyous trill; you cannot guess—

You, who see only with your outer sense,—

A warped, chilled sense, that wrongs you every hour—

You cannot guess, when her cold hand you take,

That _a soul_ trembles in that light, calm clasp!

You speak to her, with your world tone; ah, not

With the home cadence of confiding love!

And she replies: a few, low, formal words

Are all she dares, nay deigns, return; and so

You part, for months, again. Yet in that brief,

Oasis hour of her desert life,

She has quaffed eagerly the enchanted spring,

The sun-lit wave of thought in your rich mind;

And passes on her weary pilgrimage

Refreshed, and with a renovated strength.

And this has been for years. She was a child—

A school-girl—when the echo of your lyre

First came to her, with music on its wings,

And her soul drank from it the life of life.

Then, in a festive scene, you claimed her hand

For the gay dance, and, in its intervals,

Spoke soothingly and gently, for you saw

Her timid blush, but did not dream its cause.

Even then her young heart worshiped you, and shrunk,

With a vague sense of fear and shame, away.

She who, with others, was, and is, even now,

Light, fearless, joyous, buoyant as a bird,

That lets the air-swung spray beneath it bend,

Nor cares, so it may carol, what shall chance,

With _you_, forgets her song, foregoes her mirth,

And hushes all her music in her heart.

It is because your soul, that should know hers

With an intuitive tenderness, is blind!

But once again you met; then, years went by,

And in a thronged, luxurious saloon,

You drew her fluttering hand within your arm;

A few blest moments next your heart it lay;

And still the lady mutely veiled, from yours,

Eyes where her glorious secret wildly shone;

And you, a-weary of her seeming dullness,

Grew colder day by day. But _once_ you paused

Beside her seat, and murmured words of praise.

Praise from _your_ lips! My God! the ecstasy

Of that dear moment! Each bright word, embalmed

In Memory’s tears of amber, gleams there yet—

The costliest beads in her rich rosary.

But you were blind! And after that a cloud,

Colder and darker, hung between her heart

And yours. There were malicious, lovely lips,

That knew too well the poison of a hint,

And it worked deep and sure. And years, again,

Stole by, and now once more we meet. _We meet?_ ah, no;

We ne’er have met! Hand may touch hand, perchance,

And eye glance back to eye its idle smile;

But our _souls_ meet not: for, from boyhood, you

Have been a mad idolater of beauty.

And _I_! ah, Heaven! had you returned my love,

_I_ had been beautiful in your dear eyes;

For love and joy and hope within the spirit

Make luminous the face. But let that pass:

I murmur not. In _my_ soul Pride is crowned

And throned—a queen; and at her feet lies Love,

Her _slave_—in chains—_that you shall ne’er unclasp_.

Yet, oh! if aspirations, ever rising,

With an intense idolatry of love,

Toward all of grace and parity and truth

That we may dream, can shape the soul to beauty,

(As I believe,) then, in that better world,

You will not ask if I were fair on earth.

You have loved often—passionately, perchance—

_Never_ with that wild, rapturous, poet-love

Which _I_ might win—and _will_. Not here on earth:

I would not have the ignoble, trivial cares

Of common life come o’er our glorious union,

To mar its spirit-beauty. In His home

We shall meet calmly, gracefully, without

Alloy of petty ills. . . . . .

Meantime, I read you, as no other reads;

I read your soul—its burning, baffled hopes;

Its proud, pure aims, whose wings are melted off

In the warm sunshine of the world’s applause;

Its yearning for an _angel’s_ tenderness:

I read it all, and grieve, and sometimes blush,

That you can desecrate so grand a shrine

By the false gods you place there! _you_, who know

The lore of love so perfectly, who trace

The delicate labyrinth of a woman’s heart,

With a sure clew, so true, so fine, so rare,

Some angel Ariadne gave it you!

If I knew how to stoop, I’d tell you more:

I’d win your love, even now, by a slight word;

But that I’ll say in heaven. Till we meet there,

Unto God’s love I leave you. . . . .

You will glance round among the crowd hereafter,

And dream my woman’s heart must sure betray me.

Not so: I have not schooled, for weary years,

Eye, lip, and cheek, and voice, to be shamed now

By your bold gaze. Ah! were I _not_ secure

In my pride’s sanctuary, this revelation

Were an act, Heaven, nor you, could ever pardon;

And still less _I_. Nor would I now forego,

Even for your love, the deep, divine delight

Of this most pure and unsuspected passion,

That none have guessed, or will, while I have life.

You smile, perchance. Beware! I shall shame _you_,

If with suspicion’s plummet you dare sound

The unfathomed deeps of feeling in this heart.

It shall bring up, ’stead of that love it seeks,

A scorn you look not for. Ay, I would die

A martyr’s death, sir, rather than betray

To you by faintest flatter of a pulse—

By lightest change of cheek or eyelid’s fall—

That _I_ am she who loves, adores, and flies you!

. . . . . . . . .

Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush

Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats

From yonder lily like an angel’s breath,

Is lavished on such men! God gives them all

For some high end; and thus, the seeming waste

Of her rich soul—its starlight purity,

Its every feeling delicate as a flower,

Its tender trust, its generous confidence,

Its wondering disdain of littleness—

These, by the coarser sense of those around her

Uncomprehended, may not all be vain,

But win them—they unwitting of the spell—

By ties unfelt, to nobler, loftier life.

And they dare blame her! they whose every thought,

Look, utterance, act, has more of evil in ’t,

Than e’er she dreamed of, or could understand!

And she must blush before them, with a heart

Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life!—

They boast their charity: oh, idle boast!

They give the poor, forsooth, food, fuel, shelter!

Faint, chilled and worn, her soul implored a pittance—

Her _soul asked alms_ of theirs—and was denied!

It was not much it came a-begging for:

A simple boon, only a gentle thought,

A kindly judgment of such deeds of hers

As passed their understanding, but to her

Seemed natural as the blooming of a flower:

For God taught her—but they had learned of men

The meagre doling of their measured love,

A selfish, sensual love, most unlike hers.

God taught the tendril where to cling, and she

Learned the same lovely lesson, with the same

Unquestioning and pliant trust in Him.

And yet that He should let a lyre of heaven

Be played on by such hands, with touch so rude,

Might wake a doubt in less than perfect faith,

Perfect as mine, in his beneficence.

* * * * *

PARTING.

BY MISS PHŒBE CAREY.

Till the last mortal pang is o’er,

Aid me, my human friend,

Let thy sweet ministries of love

Support me to the end!

In such a fearful hour my soul

Unaided cannot stand,

Leave me not till my Saviour comes

To take my trembling hand.

My heart is weak, is earthly still,

And though such love be crime,

I cannot yield thee till my feet

Have passed the shores of time.

Gently, O, gently lead me on,

Soothe me with love’s fond tone—

Thou hast been near through all the past

How shall I go alone?

The last my lips shall ever drink

Is life’s most bitter cup—

Nearer the wave of death hath rolled,

How can I give thee up?

Closer, O, closer! let me feel

Thy heart still fondly beat,

While the cold billows of the grave

Are closing round my feet!

* * * * *

MEN AT HOME:

OR THE PRETTY MAN-HATER.

BY MRS. C. B. MARSTON.

CHAPTER I.

What droll scenes hobgoblins and sprites catch a peep at, in their

perambulations through this ludicrous world of ours!

Now we, poor mortals, rarely stumble upon any thing funny, because,

forsooth, we must ring the bell, or knock at the door, and then people

throw themselves into proper positions and put on their company faces,

and the farce is at an end. No human being, for instance, could have

walked, unannounced, into Miss Ariana Huntingdon’s boudoir, on that

morning when Mr. Atherton Burney was kneeling at her feet, but the merry

sprites gathered around, and it is a wonder that he did not hear them

shout:

“Ha! ha! the wooing o’t.”

Mr. Burney’s courtship was by no means a premeditated affair. Who ever

thinks exactly _how_ he shall tell pleasant news? Such, that gentleman

thought, would be the intelligence of his most honorable preference. And

now that Miss Ariana looked coldly on his suit, he was lost in wonder at

the blindness to her own interest which she exhibited. Like most men, he

never dreamed that a refusal could arise from personal dislike, and

while wounded pride turned his attempt at a pathetic face into a wry

one, he desired to know the motives which had induced so uncomplimentary

a decision.

Miss Ariana’s face wore the expression of Sir Joshua Reynold’s

“Mucipula,” excepting that it said, “I have caught a man!” instead of “a

mouse;” but she remembered that a respectable offer must be respectfully

treated, and covering the smile lurking around her mouth with one of her

plump little hands, she looked as gravely as she could from out her

mischievous hazel eyes. It might have been nervousness which kept her

tiny foot in motion, but it seemed very like a desire to make a football

of her kneeling suitor.

“I have two reasons, sir,” she said, “for declining the honor you

intended me. The first is, I have determined not to marry at all, and

the second, that you are by no means the person likely to make me change

this resolution.”

Had Mr. Burney been practicing that exercise in gymnastics, by which one

rises at a single jerk from a horizontal to an upright position, he

could not more suddenly have changed his suppliant attitude to the most

rigid of perpendiculars.

“Madam,” he replied, in that husky voice which men in a passion assume

when trying to appear cool. “Madam, the first reason is so singular for

a person in your situation, that the second excites no surprise.”

Ariana was an orphan and dependent upon her brothers-in-law. Her

_piquante_ face exhibited no irritation at this insulting remark;

although the motion of her pugnacious little foot was somewhat

quickened, a merry laugh was the only rejoinder.

Mr. Atherton Burney was prepared for a burst of indignant scorn, but he

found no words to express his surprise and indignation at this ill-timed

mirth; he wheeled round as if on drill, “right about face,” and made a

“forward march,” which did not terminate till he found himself, hat in

hand, upon the pavement of Washington Square. His head and his temper

being by this time a little cooled, his few scattering brains were again

packed in their narrow-brimmed receptacle, and none who met Mr. Atherton

Burney that day on the pavé, suspected that behind his elegant moustache

a refusal was sticking in his throat.

CHAPTER II.

No two persons are more dissimilar than a gentleman dining-out, and the

same individual quietly taking a family dinner at home. The smiling

guest has a keen relish for every article placed before him, and should

the rules of etiquette not allow him to express his gratification in

words, he manifests in every possible way his entire approbation of the

cuisine of his host.

Mr. Andrew Dormer was a favorite guest at the tables of his wealthy

fellow-citizens. His perfect suavity of manner, his keen appreciation of

gastronomic art, and his skillful carving, won greater favor than would

the possession of the richest treasures of learning or the highest

intellectual endowments. “A clever fellow,” was Andrew Dormer when

dining out. But, whereas the rules of society require that a guest

should be pleased with every thing, the modern social economy demands

that the master of a family should, at home, be pleased with nothing.

The forementioned sprites of the air who attended at the family dinners

of the Dormers, were beginning to look a little glum; the only bright

things to be seen on these occasions were the polished knives and Miss

Ariana’s eyes.

The door had scarcely closed after the exit of Mr. Atherton Burney, when

the shuffling and stamping were heard by which the lord of the mansion

was wont to announce his arrival. Before the meek Mrs. Dormer obtained a

view of that redoubtable personage, a scolding soliloquy fell upon her

trembling ear.

“Nothing ever in order in this house! A mat I bought only a month ago,

all torn to rags! Smell of dinner coming all the way to the front door!

Over-done! Knew it by the first snuff! Bad servants! All this comes of a

careless mistress. Harriet! Harriet, I say!”

“What is it, Andrew?” inquired the soft voice of Mrs. Dormer, as she put

her head timidly out of the dining-room door.

“Nothing in this house but rack and ruin,” exclaimed Mr. Dormer, dashing

more vinegar into his tone and manner than either the occasion or his

own feelings required. “What’s the use of buying any thing, I say, if

this is the way it is to be treated?” And he pointed at the mat, which

his own outrageous stamping had torn to tatters.

Ariana had the same instinctive knowledge of a family feud as the

war-horse has of a battle, and rushed to the charge in her sister’s

defense.

“What!” she exclaimed, “all that hemp left of the mat you have tried so

faithfully to annihilate! When I heard your last furious attack, I did

not think there would be a single shred remaining in the shape of a

mat.”

Such a beseeching look as Mrs. Dormer gave Ariana as she herself stood

trembling in her shoes!

What was the reason, that instead of becoming indignant at the

impertinence of his sister-in-law, Mr. Dormer tried to look amiable? It

might have been that he read that mischievous glance, which said,

“Ignoble ambition to be a triton among ‘minnows.’”

If Ariana had not been dependent she would have been less saucy, but so

fearful was she of becoming cringing from interested motives, that she

went to the other extreme, and dared

“To beard the lion in his den.”

The brother-in-law could no more dispense with her racy society, than

with pungent sauces for his piscatory favorites. Instead of becoming

angry when Ariana declared that she had seen too much of men at home

ever to marry, he was heartily glad of a determination which insured the

continuance under his roof of his merry antagonist.

Never was married woman so wretched herself that she discouraged

matrimony among her young relatives and friends. Scarcely were the

Dormers seated at dinner, and the first outbreak of invectives against

cook, waiter and market-woman at an end, than the meek Harriet remarked,

with an attempt at the playfulness for which she was distinguished

before broken to the hymenial yoke: “Ariana, you had better have the ham

placed before you, that you may learn to carve, as I suspect from the

visit which you received this morning that you will soon be at the head

of your own table.”

Mr. Dormer checked the grimace by which he was expressing disgust at the

over-done mutton before him, and stared, but ventured not a question.

“Never more mistaken in your life, sister. Mr. Dormer cannot spare me,”

was Ariana’s laughing reply; “he would burst a blood-vessel in one of

his fury-fits, if I were not here to soothe him.”

“Am I such a tyrant then?” asked Mr. Dormer, in nearly as humble a tone

as his wife would have used.

“A very despot; but not worse at heart than most men. There is scarcely

one who does not revenge himself for the rude world’s buffetings, by

inflicting all sorts of petty annoyances upon those at home,” was the

calm reply.

“You will certainly be an old maid, Ariana,” remarked Mrs. Dormer, as

she cast a furtive glance at the engrossing object of all her thoughts.

“A consummation devoutly to be wished,” said Ariana, smiling at the

fearful tone in which the remark was made. “I had rather be caged in a

menagerie, than obliged from morning to night to listen to the growling

of a human tiger.”

“Mr. Atherton Burney is very mild, and only needs a gentle shepherdess

to make him perfectly lamb-like,” said Mr. Dormer, with an attempt at

sportiveness which reminded his sister of the fabled donkey emulating

the lap-dog’s playfulness.

“I never liked pastorals,” she began, but the time for joking was at an

end.

The servant, in handing Mr. Dormer a glass of water, spilled part of the

contents upon his plate, and stood trembling at the angry rebuke which

his carelessness had called forth.

“Misnamed lords of creation,” thought Ariana for the hundredth time, as

she saw what a trifle had disturbed her brother’s equanimity.

There was a dead silence for a few moments, only broken by the clatter

of knives and forks, and then Mr. Dormer, casting very much such a

glance at his sister-in-law as a naughty boy would at his offended

mamma, muttered—“the steamer is in to-day and the banks are breaking

faster than ever.”

Mrs. Dormer looked sympathetic at this intelligence, and Ariana remarked

kindly—“Business troubles you then! It must be very tormenting,” and a

suspicion flashed across her mind that men, after all, might sometimes

have an excuse for their ill-humor.

“Well, if we are to lose our money, let us keep our temper,” she added,

as she rose to leave the table. Then turning to her sister she

said—“Don’t sit up for me, Harriet. If I am not at home before nine, I

shall stay all night at sister Jane’s—she sent for me to spend the

evening with her, and—and you know it is always quite uncertain whether

Mr. Daley will be in a humor to escort me home.”

CHAPTER III.

“If I were only sure that fishes did not feel, I should not mind hooking

them,” said a lad of tender heart.

Miss Ariana Huntingdon was convinced that men did not feel, and

therefore had not the slightest scruple in taking captive as many as

came within range of her fascinations.

Had the misanthropical little coquette been old, or ugly, the stronger

sex would have risen in a body to expel her from the city, but being

very young and very pretty, they seemed to love her all the better for

her alledged heresy as to man’s supremacy.

“That is one of the most beautiful apparitions that I ever met,” said a

young gentleman who caught a glimpse of our heroine upon a fashionable

promenade, crowded with insipid faces, whose fair unmeaningness was made

more conspicuous from being contrasted with the gayest of colors.

“Ashes of roses” would have been the only appropriate hue for some of

these _passé_ damsels, of whose bloom certainly but the cinders were

remaining, on which the marks of their former beauty were faintly traced

in flittering characters.

There was a peculiar freshness and individuality in Ariana’s appearance,

arising from her clear, original intellect, which made her always

noticed, even by those who did not admire the piquant style of her

beauty. Then her dress, without trespassing upon the mode of the season,

bore some tasteful addition, so unique, that it was at once surmised

that she must be very _distingué_ to be allowed such independence.

“Madame Bonheurie has not a hat trimmed in that manner,” said a

characterless parvenu, who could not have afforded even a ribbon without

a pedigree.

The article of dress, thus criticised, was a hat of delicate rose-color,

but, alas! instead of wearing the stiff top-knots of ribbon which were

then in vogue, Ariana had arranged the trimming so as to drop upon one

side, without hiding the swan-like throat of its _petite_ wearer. Her

mantle, too, though unexceptionable in the richness and color of the

velvet, was but slightly trimmed, and its graceful sleeves were quite

unlike the stiff armlets through which some fair ladies’ hands were

peeping in unnatural constraint.

Ariana, while smiling sweetly on her acquaintances, so moderated her

tokens of favor upon this particular day, that no one stepped to her

side to offer their escort, for she was deep in meditation,

“Am I really anxious to be an old maid?” was the question she was

revolving in her own mind, and every antiquated maiden whom she met

seemed to weigh against the affirmative that an hour since she would

have been ready to pronounce.

“Yes,” however, sprung to her lips as she entered the parlor of

Professor Daley, or rather study, as it might more appropriately be

named. All signs of feminine refinement were neutralised in this

uncomfortable apartment by huge piles of books, placed where most

convenient for that gentleman.

If Mrs. Daley flew into a passion on the subject, and declared that she

had seldom a place where a guest could be seated, he took up another

volume, and perhaps, laid the one he had been reading upon the only

vacant chair.

“You are the rudest man in the world, Madison,” was Ariana’s involuntary

exclamation, as her learned connection gave her a kind of _chin bow_

when she entered the apartment, without appearing to favor her with a

single glance.

“That is what I always tell him,” rejoined Jane, who seemed, as is the

case with some one in most families, to have absorbed all the spirit

intended amply to endow the whole; “read, read, from morning till night.

I might as well have no husband.”

Like the boy under stoical tuition, if Mr. Daley had learned nothing

else from philosophy, it had enabled him to meet reproach with perfect

calmness. It is questionable, however, if that mode of meeting reproach

is a virtue, which instead of turning away wrath, infuriates it beyond

all bounds. Mr. Daley’s perfect indifference to the happiness of every

living thing, was the alkali to the acid of Mrs. Daley’s character, and

produced violent fermentation. How cold those blue eyes of his looked

through the green spectacles worn to repair the effect of constant study

by lamp-light! It would have been well if the carpet could have been

defended from the effects of these nocturnal vigils, as many a spot was

visible in spite of the constant wear which had reduced the once elastic

Brussels to a floor-cloth consistency.

Home, to the man of science, was only a place where the torch of mind

was to be re-lighted; his wife, a being who fed it with oil, and her

house the mere laboratory used for those supplies of a physical nature

which made the ethereal flame burn purer and brighter.

What a pity it is that all who are destined to play the part of cyphers

have not a taste for nonentity! Mrs. Daley, as she often told her

husband, who, however, had not once seemed to hear the remark, “never

dreamed before her marriage that it would come to this.” To be sure he

had been a different man as a lover, but it is one of the standing

wonders of the world how the wise and great ever condescended to the

foolishness of courting; yet philosophers in love are always lamentably

absent, and being quite out of their element, flounder away more

boisterously than any other kind of fish, but marriage puts them again

at ease, and then their cold blood creeps on uninterrupted in its

sluggish course.

“Old maid or not old maid,” again passed through Ariana’s mind as her

eyes rested on Mr. Daley’s boots, which, in their turn, rested upon the

marble mantelpiece.

“Literary men are I presume all just such bears, and men of business

like Andrew.” Single-blessedness would have carried the day had not the

most finical of her maiden acquaintance arisen to efface the images of

the brothers-in-law.

“Do these old books make you happy, Madison Daley?” she asked, when her

sister was quite exhausted with the relation of her grievances. The

Professor had been caught looking up at the cessation of the sound of

his wife’s tongue, which he seemed to have imagined was to be perpetual.

One cannot pretend to deafness as easily when they meet the eye of a

questioner, and a cold “Yes,” fell from the thin lips of the

philosopher. He instantly resumed reading a “Treatise upon the promotion

of individual happiness, as the only certain way of enhancing national

prosperity.”

It was a lucky thing for Ariana, that with her quick perception of

character she had so strong a love for the ludicrous, for what otherwise

might have aroused her indignation now only excited her mirth. The

incongruity between Professor Daley’s philanthropic studies and his

habitual selfishness, struck her as so droll that she burst into a merry

peal of laughter. The astonished glance of the Professor at this sudden

merriment said quite plainly, “Is the girl demented?” and Jane’s

querulous voice, still more audibly,

“It is easy enough to laugh at other people’s misfortunes! I only wish

that I may live to see you married, and yet as much alone and as

dependent on your own exertions, as if you had no natural protector.”

Ariana knew by long experience that her sister considered Mr. Daley’s

faults as her exclusive property, and wished others to speak of him

always as if he were a model of a man. When she spoke in society herself

of her learned husband, no one would have dreamed that she had

discovered the feet of her idol to be of clay, but in _tête-à-têtes_ she

even insinuated to him that they were slightly cloven.

Ariana had a good share of mother wit, and knew very well the wisdom of

exciting a counteracting passion when she had subjected herself to

reproof by her open disrespect toward her learned brother-in-law.

“You told me, sister,” she said soothingly, “that you expected company,

and my aid would be needed in preparing for their reception.”

All Mrs. Daley’s motions were sudden, and at this remark she started up,

exclaiming, “There! I have not given half my orders in the kitchen, and

I dare say that the children have put the dining-room all out of order

while I have been talking here. Do go and see to them, while I tell

Betty what linen to put on the bed in the spare room.”

One would have thought that the dining-room might have been sacred to

eating and drinking, but the Professor had insisted on piling the

surplus of his library in one corner of this cold, parlor-looking

apartment. People have various ideas of comfort, but to Ariana’s eyes

the disorder which her pretty little niece and nephew had caused was

rather an improvement.

Archie had built a very respectable house out of the Encyclopedias, and

a large stone inkstand, which luckily was corked, served very well, when

turned upside down, for a parlor centre-table. A smaller one and an

accompanying sand-box, from his mother’s escritoir, answered for

ottomans, and upon them two table-napkins, with strings round their

waists, to improve their figures, were sitting up, quite like ladies and

gentlemen.

The bright faces of Archie and Etta wore a troubled expression, at the

opening of the door, but it turned to one of unfeigned delight as they

both scampered toward Ariana, exclaiming—“Oh, aunty, come and see our

pretty baby-house. We have found out such a nice way of using pa’s

tiresome old books.”

Like the cat transformed to a lady, who always showed her feline origin

at the sight of a mouse, Ariana seemed always to return to childhood

when in company with Archie and Etta. Mrs. Daley might as well have set

a monkey to keep them out of mischief, for down dropped the moderator on

the floor beside the baby-house, and commenced twisting the napkins into

most ludicrous imitations of humanity. Etta finding that while her aunty

was thus employed, she could get a nice chance at playing with her hair,

slily drew out the comb and fell to “turling it” over her little

fingers, while Archie clapped his hands and danced about in wild delight

at the beauty of the napkin ladies and gentlemen—Hark! there was a

footstep in the hall—no! two. The door opened and the Professor, with

scarcely a glance at the occupants of the room, thrust into it a tall,

fine-looking stranger, and merely saying, “My sister-in-law, Cousin

Arthur,” retreated.

Ariana was so much amused at this strange introduction of the visiter,

that she scarcely thought of her own disordered appearance.

“So, brother Madison has ejected you, sir, from his study at once,” she

said smiling. “His way of making people completely at home is by turning

them out of his own door. Do take a seat with us children, and my sister

will be here presently.”

Arthur Grayson had a great respect for his cousin, the Professor, having

never seen him in domestic life, and only knowing his high reputation

among the scientific men of the day. He was ignorant of the reason why

Ariana spoke in so disrespectful a tone of so near a connection, and it

seemed a want of politeness.

“No beauty can atone for such rudeness,” he thought to himself, but

replied courteously, “My cousin probably knew what society I should find

most entertaining, and I am glad that he did not allow me to trespass

upon his time.”

Before Ariana could answer this remark, Jane emerged from a staircase

leading to the kitchen, with a bowl in her hand, exclaiming, “Do,

Ariana, stir up this cake.”

In her surprise at the sight of the stranger, the bowl slipped from her

hand and fell on the floor, scattering its yet fluid contents in every

direction. Our pretty man-hater turned mischievously toward Arthur

Grayson, to observe how he bore the bespattering of the very elegant

suit of broadcloth in which his unexceptionable form was enveloped, but

instead of betraying any marks of irritation, he said with perfect

self-command and good-humor, “I presume that the dispenser of such good

things can only be that Lady Bountiful, my Cousin Jane, of whose

open-handed hospitality I have often heard.”

It could never have been said of Mrs. Daly that she was

“Mistress of herself though china fall.”

And to have lost china and cake both together was quite too severe a

trial of her patience.

Ariana immediately came to her relief, by saying to the guest very

politely, “Will you walk into the study with me, sir? I assure you that

Madison does not care how many people are there, so he is saved from the

task of entertaining them.”

“It is all the fault of that selfish animal,” she added mentally. “What

is the use of all the learning in the world if unmixed with a particle

of common sense?”

CHAPTER IV.

A week after Arthur Grayson’s arrival in the city, the following letter

was received at his father’s delightful residence on the banks of the

Susquehanna:

“MY DEAREST MOTHER,—Were it not for the domestic happiness I

have witnessed at home, I should begin to believe that no

literary man ought ever to marry. When I remember your anecdotes

of the mischievous pranks of little Madison Daley, and then look

at his immovable face, I can scarcely believe that he is the

same individual. His soul, during the last seven years, must

have as completely changed as the elements of that stiff-knit

frame, which day and night is bent over some ponderous volume,

for not an atom of playfulness or bonhommie now enters into his

composition. Perhaps a ‘silent loving woman’ might have retarded

this metamorphosis, but Cousin Jane is of quite a different

class. Out of respect to you, dear mother, I try always to think

that women are free from blame, and sincerely commiserate the

philosopher’s wife, who makes me thoroughly uncomfortable, by

trying to make me comfortable, and her children wretched, in

endeavoring to bring them up properly. Her promised visit to

Castleton, will, I am sure, be a green spot in her existence,

and the mummy husband makes no opposition to the excursion. Will

you have the kindness to include in your invitation, Miss Ariana

Huntingdon, a sister of Madison’s wife, whom I should like you

to know as a peculiar specimen of womanhood? She has wit and

beauty enough to fascinate any man, were it not for her having

conceived so thorough and unfeminine a contempt for mankind,

that she is often guilty of such rudeness that my heart resists

all her attractions. Andrew Dormer and Madison Daley are not, it

is true, such men as would give any person of discernment a high

respect for our sex, yet it is a mark of a little mind to

condemn whole classes for the faults of individuals. Then Miss

Ariana is an arrant little coquette, insisting that it is of

service to a man to break his heart, as it will have a little

softness ever afterward, whereas it otherwise would continue all

stone. We have many pleasant tilts on these subjects, and when

pushed for a reason, she always maintains her cause by such

cunning sarcasms, that I am obliged to own myself defeated. ‘Men

at home!’ is her frequent exclamation, in a tone of perfect

contempt, at any new proof of the selfishness of her

brothers-in-law. I wonder if she would dare to utter this sneer

at the lords of creation, after seeing my honored father under

his own hospitable roof. Please say to him that I have almost

completed the business entrusted to my care, and shall return

home in two weeks from to-morrow. Till then, I remain as ever,

“Your devoted son,

“ARTHUR GRAYSON.”

“This old study is not such a disagreeable room after all,” said Ariana,

as she was ensconced in the low window-seat, with Arthur Grayson beside

her. They were hidden from the view of her brother-in-law by his long

overcoat, which no remonstrances could induce him to have hung

elsewhere. “Madison has probably discovered that the parlors of

Herculaneum were thus ornamented,” she continued, pointing to a pair of

boots which were standing in the midst of the apartment.

“It is a very pleasant room to me,” he replied, “and I shall long

remember the hours spent here.”

A glance of joy shot from Ariana’s eyes, but it passed away as she

thought, “I dare say both of my brothers-in-law used to say just such

agreeable things before they were married.”

“If I ever meet with a man who tries to be disagreeable, I shall believe

that he is sincere,” she replied, somewhat pettishly.

“Why do you suspect me of hypocrisy?” said Arthur, coldly. “I remarked

that our pleasant chats had cheated me of many weary hours; you cannot

doubt that this is the case. I neither said nor intended more.”

Ariana had always applauded sincerity, but this frank avowal did not

meet her approbation. The _tête-à-tête_ was becoming awkward, and was

luckily interrupted at this juncture by the ring of the postman. A

letter was handed to Mr. Grayson; it contained a note which he gave to

Miss Huntingdon. She blushed at seeing that it bore the signature of

Isabella Grayson, and was penned in a feminine hand, of remarkable

delicacy and beauty. The flush on her cheek grew absolutely crimson, as

she read the polite invitation to accompany her sister on a visit to

Castleton the ensuing month. At that moment Arthur Grayson was wishing

that he had not induced his mother to extend her hospitality, as Ariana

had of late openly announced her predilections for single blessedness,

and had at the same time been so bewitchingly agreeable, that he began

to feel that her society was dangerous to his peace.

“I fear I must decline this invitation,” said she, after a pause of some

minutes.

“For what reason?” he asked, while his dark eyes were fixed in close

scrutiny upon her varying countenance.

Ariana blushed still deeper, and then attempted to smile, but a tear

stole to her eye as she replied with great frankness, “We have spent so

many delightful hours together that your memory will be very pleasant,

but I am afraid that the charm would be broken if I were to see you at

home.”

This confession almost drew from Arthur one of still deeper import, but

a remembrance flashed upon him of all he had heard of Ariana’s coquetry,

and he merely replied, “If that is all, I will remain away from

Castleton, rather than deprive my mother and Mrs. Daley of the pleasure

of your society.”

This proposition, however, was by no means agreeable.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, “I have no idea of exiling you on my account,

only promise to try and not be very disagreeable.”

This pledge was easily given. Soon after a messenger arrived to say that

Mr. Dormer was quite unwell, and begged that Mrs. Daley would spare

Ariana.

If there be any where in the world a striking instance of the fallen

pride of humanity, a sick man affords the example.

When Ariana returned, Mr. Dormer was lying on the sofa, in the parlor,

in his gay dressing-gown, having absolutely refused to go to his chamber

and be regularly treated as a patient. Harriet stood by him with a

wine-glass of medicine in one hand, and a saucer of sweetmeats in the

other, trying to coax the invalid to swallow the dose she had so

carefully prepared for him. The naughtiest of boys never made up such

rueful faces, or protested more willfully against the disagreeable

injunction.

“There’s no use,” he said at last, angrily; “I’d rather die than swallow

such stuff.”

“But, dear Andrew, what could I do without you?” said the affectionate

Mrs. Dormer, now almost in tears.

A sudden and violent pain made her husband inclined to change his

resolution, and snatching the glass, he said, “There, give me the

sweetmeats, quick.” With much writhing and choking, he swallowed a dose

which one of his children would have taken without a murmur.

“What is the matter, Andrew?” asked Ariana, kindly, as she stepped to

his side.

“Matter enough,” he replied, “my stomach is entirely ruined by the

horrid messes on which I have been fed for the last month. A horse could

not have stood the cooking to which I have been forced to submit.”

Mr. Dormer, after smoking his digestive organs out of order, in spite of

the remonstrances of his friends, now actually believed that he was an

injured man, victimised by a bad cook and a careless wife.

Such a miserable week as followed this scene had rarely fallen to

Ariana’s lot, but she was really grateful to Mr. Dormer for his

disinterested kindness to her, and relieved her sister of much trouble

and care. Every day that detained the peevish patient from his business

made him still more unreasonable and exacting. He would have been well

much sooner if any one could have induced him to obey the orders of the

physician. After a dose of calomel, he would insist on a hearty dinner

of beef-steak, and when purposely kept in a low state to prevent the

danger of fever, called loudly for wine or brandy, declaring that his

wife would like nothing better than to see his strength so reduced that

there could be no hope of his recovery.

The servants were so exhausted with his caprices that the chambermaid

took French leave, and then Mrs. Dormer, who had double duty to perform,

was taxed with inattention to his wants.

“I wonder if Arthur Grayson has a strong constitution?” was the question

which passed through Ariana’s mind, as she witnessed the daily martyrdom

of her meek sister. Now the dressing was all torn from the blisters of

the impatient invalid, then the covering thrown off, and a moment after

a complaint made that some outer door had been left open on purpose to

freeze him to death. Every dose of medicine was taken with a struggle,

every word of advice regarded as an infringement on his rights.

Where was that clever fellow, Andrew Dormer? What would the merchants on

’change have said to the transformation? Nothing, we presume, for like

himself, they were few of them clever fellows to their own wives and

servants.

CHAPTER V.

It is quite an objection to rail-roads and steamboats that they present

so few inconveniences as to give one but little opportunity of

discovering the temper and good-breeding of their fellow passengers.

Nobody is crowded within, nobody has to sit without, no one is sick on

the back seat, or lacks support on the middle one, as used to be the

case in those dear old stage-coaches, where persons were shaken out of

all ceremony, and jostled into a pleasant acquaintance.

A private carriage, however, if well filled, has still its points of

trial; and the Grayson equipage, when packed with the Daley family,

promises to exercise the patience of its inmates.

Of course, the ladies were too modern to be troubled with bandboxes; but

Mrs. Daley’s beautiful traveling-bag, which had been worked by her

sister, needed as much tending as a baby; and the bouquet of flowers,

which Ariana was carrying from a city green-house to Mrs. Grayson, in a

tin case, wanted great care, being sprinkled every time that the horses

were watered.

Arthur Grayson had been early schooled to consider annoyance at petty

evils as totally unworthy of a man of sense, and there was no

affectation in his indifference to his own ease while making the ladies

as comfortable as lay within his power. He even succeeded in beguiling

Etty from Ariana’s arm to his own, and Jane’s brow grew smoother at

every mile, from finding the children so easily amused. Archie Daley had

a quick inquiring mind, and drank in eagerly all the information which

his friend gave with regard to the objects that they passed on the road.

At length, wearied with pleasure, he fell asleep, leaning his whole

weight on Arthur’s, while Etta slumbered on his breast, as much at home

as if in her nurse’s arms.

Ariana had been unusually silent during the journey. The peculiar

gentleness of her companion, his delicate attentions to Jane and

herself, with his sweet consideration for the children, and carelessness

of his own comfort, made her wish that the journey might be long, and

suggested the thought how happy any one would be, who should enjoy such

protection through life.

These reflections gave an unusual softness to her generally vivacious

manners, which was peculiarly attractive; and Arthur, as he glanced at

the little sleeper on his bosom, and then at the sweet smile on Ariana’s

face, had his own dreams also of domestic bliss.

These gentle thoughts had not faded from the hearts of our travelers,

nor the light of the setting sun from the evening sky, when they entered

the open gates of Castleton. An elderly gentleman, of noble appearance,

stood on the porch of his fine mansion, to welcome the strangers. His

dignified yet kindly manners impressed Ariana with instant respect, but

she felt a still deeper emotion in receiving the cordial greetings of

Mrs. Grayson. Arthur’s mother was still a beautiful woman, though her

hair was slightly silvered with age, for her dark eye was intellectually

bright, while a smile of uncommon sweetness played around her pleasant

mouth. The heart of the orphan was touched by the motherly kindness of

tone with which she was welcomed; and as she heard the joyful greeting

which Arthur received from both his parents, and the tender respect with

which it was returned, she felt that there was a happiness in domestic

life of which she had scarcely dreamed.

“We must not forget your health, Mary, in our pleasure at seeing our

friends,” said Judge Grayson, to his wife, as he gently placed her arm

in his, and led the way to the cheerful parlor.

How much expression there is in the interior of any dwelling! That

tastefully ornamented room, provided with every comfort for the elder

members of the family, and filled with materials of amusements for all

persons of cultivated minds, breathed nothing but peace and joy.

Arthur placed a footstool at his mother’s feet, and then rang for a

servant, to show the ladies to their apartment, while Judge Grayson was

helping them to disencumber themselves from some of their numerous

wrappings. Archie had loitered to take a ride on the porch, where he had

spied a rocking-horse, which had been brought down from the garret with

a view to his amusement, while Etty had caught up a kitten which seemed

used to nothing but kindness.

“What an excellent housekeeper Mrs. Grayson appears to be!” was Jane’s

exclamation, the moment that they reached their apartment. “They say

that the judge is a learned man, but I do not see any thing that looks

like it.”

A disorderly dwelling, and a cold, disagreeable man at its head, were to

Mrs. Daley, alas! the usual indications of the abode of literature. She

had not noticed that one little cabinet of books in the parlor,

contained some very profound works, and that the large room opposite,

was a well furnished library.

The beautiful art of making others happy had been so completely studied

by Mrs. Grayson, that before the evening passed away, Mrs. Daley and her

sister scarcely remembered that they were guests. As Ariana began to

feel perfectly at home, her natural vivacity arose, and the judge smiled

pleasantly at her lively rejoinders to the playful remarks of his son.

Now and then Mrs. Grayson looked up a little seriously, from her

conversation on family affairs with Jane, as if afraid that Arthur might

be tempted to some slight rudeness, in replying to the gay sallies of

his companion.

CHAPTER VI.

When Ariana awoke the next morning, she feared that her last night’s

enjoyment had been all a dream; but a glance around her chamber

convinced her that at least she was not in the habitation of either of

her sisters.

The sound of a loud, manly voice below, fully restored her to

consciousness, and with it came the tormenting thought that it must be

Judge Grayson. I am afraid that after all he is like other men at Home,

was her mental ejaculation.

The voice came nearer, but its tones were not harsh, and Ariana now

distinctly heard the words, “Up, up, Arthur! Your mother wishes a letter

sent to the village, and we ride there on horseback before breakfast.

Hurry, my boy!”

“Here I am, sir, booted and spurred,” was distinctly audible, in a gay,

yet respectful tone. And then the cheerful voices of father and son, as

they mounted their horses and rode away.

“Take another muffin, Miss Ariana,” said the judge, as they sat at

breakfast. “It may be vanity, but I think my wife always manages to have

nicer muffins than are found any where else in the whole country. I know

Arthur is of the same opinion, for he gives us the best possible proof

of it.”

The son gave a smiling assent, and Ariana thought of Andrew Dormer and

his habit of finding fault with every thing that was placed before him.

It is not much the fashion at the present day for young men to consult

their parents with regard to their love affairs, but Arthur Grayson

walked closely in the footsteps of his father, and he was a gentleman of

the old school. Were this mode more prevalent, there would not be so

many unhappy mothers-in-law and such miserable wives.

The visiters from the city had spent two days at Castleton before Arthur

could ask his mother’s advice about the subject which lay nearest his

heart. The moment, however, that he found an opportunity of speaking to

her alone, he said, eagerly, “What do you think of Ariana?”

“A question that I am not yet qualified to answer, my son,” was her

reply, while she looked earnestly into his troubled face, as if seeking

to discover how deeply he was interested in the inquiry, which he had

just made.

“You do not like her, I see plainly,” he hastily remarked, in a tone of

bitter disappointment.

“You are much mistaken in that supposition, my dear Arthur. On the

contrary, her frankness and talents interest me exceedingly, and even

her faults make me anxious for a more intimate acquaintance, for I think

that I might be of service in aiding her to overcome them. I am not

sure, however, that she would be a suitable companion for life for my

darling son, if that is what you wish to know.”

“Then I must not stay here any longer,” he exclaimed, impetuously. “I

have too much confidence in your judgment to believe that I could ever

be happy with any one, of whose character you disapproved. I feared that

it would be so.”

“You are too hasty, Arthur. Why does the opinion I have expressed make

it necessary for you to leave home?”

“Because I have discovered that I love her too well to trust myself

longer in her society,” he answered, with agitation.

“Then you are right in your resolution. Why do you not make your long

promised visit to Carysford Lee? If I find on further acquaintance that

Ariana is worthy of your affection, you shall not long remain in

ignorance of the conclusion.”

“Thank you,” Arthur replied, and then sorrow of heart prevented him from

adding more, but kissing affectionately his mother’s pale cheek, he

hastily left the apartment.

Ariana’s face was radiant with smiles when she descended to the

dining-room. Her gayety, however, quickly disappeared when Arthur, who

sat next to her at the table, asked abruptly, “Have you any commands for

my friend, Lee? I am going this afternoon to Allendale, to remain with

him for a few weeks.”

Luckily for Ariana, Jane immediately exclaimed, “What, going to run away

from us so soon. How will the children get along without you?”

“Please don’t go, sir!” said Archie, mournfully. “I cannot finish my new

bow without your help.”

“I will show you about it,” said the judge, kindly, “and take you to

ride on horseback behind me, just as Arthur has done.”

By this time Ariana had recovered her composure, and said, with an

attempt at gayety, “What a delightful time we ladies shall have with

none to molest or make us afraid. The only fear will be, that I shall

quite forget my saucy ways if I have no one to practice them upon.”

“Suppose you should make me a target for your wit,” said the judge,

playfully.

“My weapons would only rebound upon myself, with so invulnerable a

mark,” she replied, in a respectful tone.

A conversation, in which evident constraint was visible, followed, and

every one glad when the meal was at last over. An hour afterward

Arthur’s horse was brought round to the door, and with an air of extreme

embarrassment, he bade Mrs. Daley and Ariana a hasty farewell. The

assumed indifference of the latter was so well counterfeited, that her

lover rode away with the full conviction that his absence was considered

as a relief.

CHAPTER VII.

The next morning, Judge Grayson was obliged to leave Castleton to attend

a court at a neighboring village, and the ladies were left in sole

possession of the mansion.

“How dull it is here to-day,” said Ariana, to her sister, as they were

_tête-à-tête_, while Mrs. Grayson was occupied with domestic affairs. “I

just saw a pair of boots at the door of the opposite chamber, and it was

actually a delightful sight. I really think that everlasting overcoat of

Madison’s would be a pleasant addition to our prospect in this dearth of

mankind.”

Jane was delighted at a chance to revenge herself for all Ariana’s

attacks upon the odd ways of the professor. “What ails you,” she said,

“to make such strange remarks? They come very unexpectedly from such a

professed man-hater. Why I have heard you say, that Eden could not be a

Paradise to you, if men were allowed to enter it.”

“Let by-gones be by-gones, Jenny. We grow wiser every day,” said Ariana,

playfully. “Do you need me here this morning?”

“No, I shall be busy in copying these receipts for cake, but if you will

have an eye to the children who are down stairs, I shall be obliged to

you.”

Ariana took up her basket containing a pair of slippers, which she was

working for Andrew Dormer, and went into the parlor, where she hoped to

find Mrs. Grayson.

That lady was, however, not there, but soon came in, and setting down

her work, commenced one of those easy, confidential chats, which make

two people better acquainted than years of intercourse in general

society.

“I am going to ask a question, which you will think very strange,” said

Ariana, at length, “but it would make me so much happier if I was

certain about it.”

“What is it, dear?” asked the kind lady, with a benevolent smile, which

encouraged curiosity.

“Will you then tell me,” said Ariana, hesitatingly, “if Judge Grayson is

always as kind and agreeable at home as he appears to us?”

The tears rose to Mrs. Grayson’s eyes as she answered, “He has never

been otherwise. I could not with propriety have replied to your question

if I had not testimony to bear to his never failing love and kindness.”

“Oh! how glad I am!” exclaimed Ariana, with a fervency that startled her

companion. “All the men I know are so disagreeable in their own homes,

and so neglectful of the comfort of their wives, that I thought the rest

of the world were like them.”

“It is too true, my child,” said Mrs. Grayson, kindly, “that there are

those who sacrifice their private peace to their public duties, or

exhibit at home the vexation consequent upon lives of constant toil and

anxiety. Even where this is the case, however, it is a woman’s duty to

give her home all the cheerfulness in her power; and if her husband is

not in private life what she could wish, the secret should be confined

to her own bosom.”

Mrs. Grayson was one of the few persons who can give advice so

discreetly as not to wound the feelings of the person whom they are

trying to benefit. Her last remark made Ariana feel the impropriety of

having allowed the faults of her brothers-in-law, who were generous,

indeed, though their manners were often so disagreeable. Her confession

in this respect was so frankly made, that it won upon Mrs. Grayson’s

affection, and their conversation continued in a still more confidential

tone.

Day after day Ariana would glide down into the parlor, to enjoy a

_tête-à-tête_ with her new friend, while Jane was occupied with her

receipts, and the children busy at play. Her laughing philosophy was

only the armor of pride, and her warm, generous feelings gushed forth

unrestrained, in conversing with Mrs. Grayson. The sportive bursts of

humor, which were so perfectly natural to her lively disposition, awoke

in the elder lady some of the vivacity of her early years, and Jane

would be startled from her monotonous employment, by the sound of their

merry laughter. Insensibly the bright, impulsive girl was winding around

the heart of her friend, in trying to win whose approbation her own

character was rapidly improving.

There was only one subject on which there was not perfect confidence

between Mrs. Grayson and Ariana. Arthur’s name was never mentioned by

either of them. Ariana could not with delicacy, tell his mother how

bitterly she was grieved at his departure, but her languid eyes, and

frequently wandering thoughts, revealed the truth.

Sometimes, when at evening Judge Grayson returned from court, she saw

the affectionate meeting with his dear wife, she would sigh deeply, as

if looking on happiness that could never be her own.

The six weeks which Mrs. Daley intended to spend at Castleton, had

passed rapidly away. On the morrow the family were to return to the

city, and all regretted the necessity for their separation.

As Ariana sat listening to the regrets of Mrs. Grayson and her sister

that their intercourse was so soon to be terminated, she was unable to

command her spirits, and under pretence of breathing the fresh air,

walked out upon the piazza. She stood looking toward the stars in

melancholy abstraction, when a gentleman came suddenly around the corner

of the house, and stood at her side. “Mr. Grayson!” she exclaimed, with

such unaffected joy, that a smile of delight beamed on his face as he

eagerly seized her proffered hand.

“Did you not then know that I was to return this evening?” he asked.

“Could you think that I would allow you to depart without saying

farewell?”

“You left us so abruptly, that I did not know what to expect,” she

replied, blushing deeply.

“Did you not object to coming here lest my presence should mar your

enjoyment?” he inquired, mischievously.

“But you know,” she replied, with warmth, “what was the reason for that

silly remark.”

“Why silly? If seeing me at home might destroy your respect, it was

quite wise to send me into banishment,” he remarked, playfully.

“But I could not have done so, I am sure, now,” she replied, earnestly.

“Have you really sufficient faith in any man to believe him free from

the faults which I have so often heard you impute to the whole sex?”

The question was put in a jesting tone, but Arthur listened eagerly for

her reply.

“Your father’s constant politeness has overcome all those foolish

prejudices. I do believe that his son may resemble him.”

“Would you dare to trust your happiness to the keeping of that son?” he

asked, with tender earnestness.

“I should,” she replied with characteristic promptness, while a tear

glistened in her eye.

“Then why may not this place henceforth be your home. My mother already

loves you dearly, and my father’s approbation sanctions my suit.”

Ariana’s consent was easily won to this proposition, and then Arthur

went to announce his own arrival to the family circle, while she stole

to her apartment to compose her agitated heart.

Mrs. Daley insisted that Ariana should remain with her a month previous

to her marriage, and then Mrs. Dormer pleaded for a visit of equal

length. Andrew would have been quite out of humor at her loss, were it

not for the pleasure of hearing that she had given up her rebellious

thoughts as to man’s supremacy. The professor was so much ameliorated by

Jane’s more prudent conduct, that he presented the bride elect with a

set of very dry books, in token of regard for her choice. Mr. Dormer

made her many valuable gifts, though his manner of bestowing favors

almost neutralized the pleasure which he otherwise would have conferred.

Ariana Huntingdon has been for many years a happy wife. Arthur Grayson

has found that well regulated wit and cheerful independence, heighten

domestic life; and Ariana asserts that men deserve the title of Lords of

Creation, and that her Arthur, to be fully appreciated, must be seen “at

Home.”

* * * * *

THE FEAR OF DEATH.

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

It is not that I shrink to yield

My soul to God, whose claim is just;

I know my spirit is his own,

And that this human frame is dust;

To Him my higher powers I owe,

The light of mind, the faith of love;

Too mean the service of a life

My ceaseless gratitude to prove;

But still I pause in mortal fear,

For life is sweet—and death is drear.

The ties that bound me close to earth

With deep affection’s tender chain,

Were severed by his sovereign will,

And tears and agony were vain;

And blighted hope and withering care

Their shadows o’er my soul have cast;

And sunny dreams, that fancy wove

Of rainbow hues, too soon have past;

But still I pause in mortal fear,

And life is sweet—and death is drear.

For memory brings to me again

The dear ones that are laid to rest,

And scenes ’mid which they bore a part

In lovely visions haunt my breast;

Their looks, their words, their beaming smiles,

Soft tears from out my eyelids press;

They’re with me through the waking day,

My nightly slumbers gently bless;

And still I pause in mortal fear,

For life is sweet—and death is drear.

My faithful friends whose gentle deeds

Of kindness words were poor to tell;

My daily walks, my favorite flowers,

The page where genius throws its spell,

And Nature with its varied hues,

Where spring and summer brightly glows,

By many a fine and subtle link

Of custom round my being grows;

And still I pause in mortal fear,

For life is sweet—and death is drear.

Kind Lord! subdue this trembling dread,

My spirit nerve with firmer zeal,

Death is the portal of our life,

Its promised good Thou wilt reveal;

And in thy word I read with joy

The blessings that believers share,

And peace within my bosom steals,

The heavenly peace that springs from prayer;

No more I pause in mortal fear,

The grave is sweet when Thou art near.

* * * * *

A YEAR AND A DAY:

OR THE WILL.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

(_Concluded from page 199._)

CHAPTER IV.

We will take a brief retrospect of the last two years in the life of

Crayford.

Upon a pleasant summer evening, two gentlemen, mounted on fine, spirited

steeds, came gayly cantering down the gentle slope of a hill, and across

the rustic bridge which formed the entrance to a small village in the

interior of Pennsylvania, just as a party of merry milk-maids were

returning the same way from the green pastures beyond. The road, or

rather lane, was here quite narrow, and observing the rapid approach of

the equestrians, the girls hastily stepping aside into the deep grass,

stood still for them to pass by. Instead of doing so, however, they

slackened their pace, and one of them reining in his steed, gazed

impertinently into the blushing faces of the village girls.

“By heavens!” he exclaimed, in a low voice to his companion, “what a

pair of eyes that little witch has in the blue petticoat—and what a

shape! look at her, Hastings.”

The damsel thus pointed out could not have been more than sixteen. In

face and form a perfect Hebe, with a most superb pair of laughing black

eyes, shaded by long curling lashes. Her little sun-bonnet was thrown

off, but rested loosely upon her shoulders; her hair, which was as black

and brilliant as her eyes, was cut short to her beautiful neck, and

clustered in tight ringlets over her finely formed head, upon the top of

which sat her pail of foaming milk. With one hand she held it lightly

poised, while the other rested upon her hip, in an attitude most

graceful and picturesque. Her petticoat was of dark-blue bombazet, set

off by a white muslin short-gown reaching half way to the knees, where

it was finished with a narrow frilling—a dress still in vogue among the

farmers’ daughters both in Pennsylvania and New England—and a very

pretty dress it is, too. Her little feet were bare, hiding themselves

modestly in the tall grass.

“The girl is an angel—a perfect divinity!” replied Hastings, after a

rude stare at the young maid, “What a sensation she would make—eh,

Crayford!”

“I say, Hastings,” added the other, with a devilish leer, “it will be

worth our while to stay here a day or two—what say you?”

To this Hastings returned a significant wink, which was responded to by

the other in the same way.

During these remarks they had rode slowly on, but now suddenly wheeling

his horse, Crayford once more approached the little group, and lifting

his hat, bowed most gracefully as he said,

“Can you tell me, fair maidens, where my friend and myself may be so

fortunate as to find a night’s lodging? We are somewhat fatigued with a

long day’s ride, and would fain rest our weary limbs, as also our jaded

steeds. Can you direct us, then, to some public house in your village?”

A sprightly blue-eyed girl, delighted to be of service to the polite

stranger, stepped quickly forward, and said, while her cheeks grew

redder and redder, and her eyes rounded with every word:

“O, yes, sir, there is a good tavern at the other end of the village,

and here is Effie Day, she lives there, you know, for it is her

grandfather who keeps the house; here, Effie, you will show the

gentleman the way, wont you Effie?”

“By all the saints, how lucky!” whispered Crayford, to his friend—Effie

proving to be no other than the identical maiden who had so charmed him.

Springing from his horse, and throwing the reins to Hastings with a

meaning glance, Crayford lifted the pail from the head of the blushing

girl, and begged the privilege of assisting her with her burden, while

she acted as his guide to the inn. The girls all laughed merrily at

this, but Effie, blushing still deeper, drew her sun-bonnet closely over

her face, and tripped lightly on before him, so fleetly, too, whether

from bashfulness or mischief, that her gallant could scarcely keep pace

with her twinkling feet. On reaching the inn, his fair guide suddenly

disappeared, leaving Crayford to dispose of the milk-pail as he could,

to the no small delight of Hastings, who highly enjoyed the evident

discomfiture of his friend.

The old landlord welcomed the strangers heartily, and gave them the best

rooms his house could boast, and soon placed before them an excellent

supper. But what gave it its true zest was the attendance of the pretty

milk-maid—and a more lovely cup-bearer never served the gods.

Poor Effie Day was but an infant when both her parents were taken from

her by death, and no other home had she ever known than the roof of her

kind old grandfather. With a tenderness far exceeding that which they

had felt for their own children did her grandparents regard her, and in

pity for her orphan state, indulged her in every wish which it was in

their power to grant. As she grew up her beauty and vivacity was their

pride, and no theme could sooner reach their hearts than the praises of

their darling Effie. She was brought up in all the simplicity of country

life; a circuit of ten miles the boundary of her little world, and from

books her knowledge was scarcely more. Yet the birds which sang at her

window, or the lambs with whom she skipped in the meadows, were not more

gay or happy than was the old inn-keeper’s bright darling child, when

like the serpent in Paradise, Crayford came. He found the honest old

couple and the artless Effie of the very sort whom his cunning could

most easily dupe, and with skill which would not have disgraced a demon,

set about his fiendish work—for most cogent reasons of his own

disguising his name under that of Belmont, while his worthy coadjutor

assumed that of Jervis.

Feigning to be charmed with the locality of this little town, they made

known their intention of passing several weeks in its vicinity. But why

enter into the details of a plot such as should call down the avenging

bolt of heaven. Suffice it, alas! to say, that sin and villainy

triumphed, and as pure a child as ever the finger of God rested upon,

was enticed from her home, from her poor old doting grandparents.

Under a solemn promise of marriage the unfortunate Effie eloped with her

base betrayer.

Upon reaching Philadelphia, the form of marriage was gone through with

by a convenient priest, and the sacrifice of innocence completed. For

some months, but for the memory of the aged couple, in the silent shades

of her native valley, she was as happy as a young confiding wife could

be in the love, nay, adoration of her husband. The lodgings Crayford

rented were in an obscure part of the city, and furnished most meagerly

for the taste of one accustomed to fashionable display, yet Effie, who

had never seen any thing more grand than the parson’s parlor at home,

thought even a queen could not be more sumptuously lodged, and she was

very sure could not be more happy.

Poor, poor Effie!

This devotion on the part of Crayford continued while his humor

lasted—no longer; nor did one gleam of pity for the unfortunate girl

lead him to wear the mask only as long as suited his own pleasure. The

heart sickens to dwell upon the anguish of poor Effie, thus abandoned by

one for whom she had sacrificed all—one so friendless, so forlorn, so

young and so beautiful.

The woman with whom she lodged allowed her to remain under her roof

until she had stripped her of the little she possessed—of her clothing,

and the few ornaments Crayford had given her; then, when no more was to

be gained, she thrust her forth into the streets to die, or live by a

fate worse than death!

Alas! that in a world so fair as this, such things really are, needing

no aid from fancy to portray their atrociousness.

All day did the poor girl wander through the busy crowd, gazing

piteously into the faces of the multitude, and if by chance one more

kindly than others bent an eye upon her, she would ask them for Belmont.

But no one could tell her aught. And then night came—dark, desolate

night. On, from street to street passed the unfortunate, shrinking from

the rude stare, and still ruder speech of brutes calling themselves men;

no one offering a shelter to the houseless wanderer, and even her own

sex meeting her appeals with coarse, unfeeling laughter.

Blame her not, that suddenly yielding to the despair of her young heart,

she sought in death relief.

It was near the hour of midnight when she found herself upon one of the

wharves. Dark and cold stretched the river before her; dark and cold was

to her the world she was leaving. For a moment she paused, and gazed

despairingly around her; tears trickled down her pallid cheeks, for she

felt she was young to die; and she wept still more when she thought upon

her aged grandparents, who would never know her sad fate. Then arose

before her, floating as it were upon the heaving mass of waters, on

which her eyes were fixed, that peaceful valley, with the green hills

sweeping around it, and the rustic dwellings of her playmates and

friends looking out upon her beseechingly from their pleasant shades as

she stood there in her loneliness; and as a far-off symphony of sweet

sounds came floating by, the glad voices which Nature had sang to her in

childhood. Poor Effie Day! what pleasant memories were crowded into

those few brief moments.

“Belmont!” she shrieked, suddenly starting from that far-off dream,

“Belmont, may God forgive you the deed I am about to do!”

Then falling on her knees, she clasped her trembling hands, murmuring a

prayer for pardon and mercy. Now casting one long, shuddering look upon

the cold, dark river, she was about to plunge therein, when a strong arm

was thrown around her, and she was forcibly drawn back several feet from

the verge on which she had stood poised.

“Wretched girl, what would you do!” said a voice in her ear.

She heard no more, for a faintness came over her, and but for the arm

still around her, she would have fallen insensible to the ground. When

she recovered, she found herself upon a bed in a small, neat apartment.

A woman of mild countenance was leaning over her, chafing her hands and

temples, and at the foot of the bed stood a gentleman dressed in deep

mourning, with his full, dark eyes fixed upon her with pity and

kindness.

“Poor child!” she heard the woman say, just as she opened her eyes;

“I’ll warrant some of those gay gallants have broken her heart! Bless

her, she is coming to—there, there darling, how does thee feel now?”

But ere poor Effie could reply, the gentleman placed his finger on his

lips, as if to caution her from speaking, then preparing some soothing

anodyne, he bade the woman administer it as quickly as possible, and

promising to be back at an early hour in the morning, took leave.

When the morning came, however, the unfortunate girl was raving in all

the delirium of fever, which for weeks baffled medical skill. Youth at

length triumphed over disease, and she was once more able to leave her

bed. During this time she had made known at intervals, her sad history

to the good woman of the house, and the benevolent stranger who had

snatched her from a watery grave.

Every where the latter sought to discover the perfidious Belmont, and on

pursuing his inquiries for the grandparents of the wretched girl, he

learned that grief at the desertion of their child, had broken the old

people’s hearts; first the father, then the mother, had been borne to

their long homes. A distant relative had seized upon the little

homestead, and already a flaunting sign usurped the head of good old

Penn, which for more than half a century had smiled benignly down upon

travelers.

Effie begged to remain with Mrs. Wing, who kept a small thread and

needle store in —— Lane, near the river; and the kind woman felt so

much pity for her lonely, unprotected situation, that she readily

granted her request. She was soon able to assist in the labors of the

shop, and to make herself in many ways useful. Of the kind stranger she

saw but little, but from Mrs. Wing she learned that he had generously

defrayed all the expenses of her illness. He came but seldom, but when

he did, he spoke to her so kindly, encouraged her with so much

gentleness, soothing her sorrows, and leading her mind to that Higher

source where alone she might look for comfort, that Effie regarded him

in the light of a superior being.

Thus months rolled on, and no tidings of Belmont reached Effie. One

morning, as she stood arranging a few fancy articles upon the broad

window-seat in a manner which might display their beauty to the best

advantage, she threw up the sash for a moment to inhale the fine breeze

which came sweeping up from the river. The day was lovely. The gentle

undulating surface of the Delaware, cleft by a hundred flashing oars,

with the keels of many noble vessels buried in her sparkling tide, their

white sails swelling to the breeze, stretched before her in beauty,

while above, cloudless and serene was the blue vault of heaven.

A pleasure yacht had just neared the wharf, and from it a party of

gentlemen sprung to land, and with rather boisterous mirth, crossed the

street directly opposite where Effie still stood at the window. Suddenly

her eyes rested upon one of that gay group, and for a moment it seemed

as if breath and motion were suspended in the intensity of her gaze. She

could not be mistaken—she knew she was not—it was Belmont, her

husband; and scarcely knowing what she did, she rushed to the door, and

with a wild scream of joy, threw herself upon the breast of Crayford.

“Ho, ho, Crayford, you are in luck, my boy!” shouted one of the party;

“by Jove she’s an angel!”

Overwhelmed with confusion, and taken by surprise at the sudden

appearance of one whom he had hoped never to see more, Crayford for half

a minute stood irresolute, then struggling to disengage himself from her

embrace, he exclaimed angrily,

“Off, woman—none of your tricks with me; off, I say!”

Casting roughly aside those tender arms which clung to him so

despairingly, poor Effie would have fallen to the ground but for another

of the party, who, seizing her just as she was sinking, cried with mock

pathos,

“Here, pretty one, the fellow is a monster; here, I will take care of

you—come, kiss me!”

But Effie sprung from his arms, and clasping the knees of Crayford as

she saw the heartless wretch moving on,

“Belmont, my husband!” she cried, in tones of piercing anguish, “do not,

O, do not leave me again; no, you will not be so cruel—take me with

you!”

“That’s cool, by heavens!—ha! ha! ha!” shouted Crayford, with infernal

daring, “you are crazy, child! I am not your Belmont; perhaps this is

he—or this,” pointing from one to the other of his companions.

The look of wo with which the poor girl received this cruel speech, did

not escape their notice, and, hardened as they were, they were moved to

pity, and the rude jests died on their lips.

Effie rose from her knees, and tottering a step forward, placed her

trembling hand upon the outstretched arm of Crayford. With an oath he

spurned her from him, when in his path there suddenly arose one whose

cold, searching glance, struck terror to his guilty soul.

“Crayford, I know you!” exclaimed the stranger. “This, then, is your

infernal work; ay, tremble, thou base destroyer of innocence. Away, I

say, ere I am tempted to do a deed shall shame my manhood!”

Livid with rage, Crayford drew a dirk from his bosom, and rushed

suddenly upon the stranger; but in an instant it was wrenched from his

hand, then seizing the wretch by the collar, as he would a dog, he

hurled him off the curb-stone, and with such force, as sent him half

across the street, and then lifting tenderly the form of the fainting

girl in his arms, bore her into the house.

The reader will, of course, infer that Crayford and the stranger had met

before. They had; nor was this the first dark deed to which the latter

knew Crayford might lay claim.

To draw our long digression to a close, suffice it to say, that it was

the unfortunate Effie Day whom Florence had met while walking with

Crayford, and that the gentleman whom she had pointed out to him in the

picture gallery, was no other than the stranger of whom we have just

spoken, and whose appearance had so perceptibly agitated her companion.

CHAPTER V.

We will now return to Florence, whom we left in a state of such cruel

suspense, and it would be difficult to say, perhaps, which of the two at

the moment she hoped to find the most sincere—Crayford or the unknown.

She felt she had gone too far to recede, and that it had now become her

duty to probe this enigma thoroughly. Her confidence in Crayford was too

much impaired for her to receive him again into her presence so long as

such doubts hung around his character. “I will obey the instructions of

this unknown Mentor,” said she, “it cannot be that he is false; no, to

this Mrs. Belmont, then, will I go, and go alone.”

Ordering a carriage, therefore, and directing the driver to No. 7 ——

Lane, she set forth upon an errand which, for a young, unprotected

female, was certainly rather hazardous. Of its locality she had no

knowledge; and when she found herself gradually approaching the opposite

side of the city from her own residence, passing through narrow streets,

and at every turning drawing nearer to the river, she would have felt

more apprehension but for the words of the unknown: “Fear not,” urged

the note, “one will be near you who will protect you with his life.”

These words reassured her, for she had so long accustomed herself to

regard him in the light of her protector and friend, that even now, when

her doubts almost distracted her, she still gave herself up to the

pleasing thought that he was near, and no danger could befall her.

“This is No. 7 —— Lane,” said the coachman, reining in his horses

before the thread and needle store of Mrs. Wing, “whom shall I ask for?”

“Never mind, I will go in myself,” answered Florence.

Mrs. Wing was sitting in a little back room, but seeing a lady enter the

shop, arose and came forward to the counter.

“Is there a Mrs. Belmont lodges here?” inquired Florence.

“There is a young woman of that name in my employ, friend—would thee

like to see her? If thee does, thee can go to her room—she has been

very ill.”

Florence bowing assent, the good woman led the way up a narrow

staircase, and opened the door of a neat little chamber, saying, as she

motioned Florence to go in,

“Here is a young woman to see thee, Effie,” then immediately withdrew.

Near the bed, in a large easy-chair, propped up by pillows, sat poor

Effie Day. Not a tinge of the rose, once blooming so freshly there,

could be traced on that pale cheek, and of the same marble hue were her

lips and brow. These, contrasted by her jet-black hair, and eyes so

large and brilliant, imparted a strange ghastliness to her appearance.

At the first glance Florence recognized her as the young woman whom

Crayford had pointed out to her as a fortune-teller.

This at once opened a new channel for thought, and supposing, therefore,

that she had been directed thither for the purpose of consulting her

art, she said, half timidly approaching her,

“Can you tell my fortune for me?”

Poor Effie, too, had recognized the lovely girl whom she had seen

walking with him she still believed to be her husband, and looking up

with a sad earnestness of expression, made answer,

“Your fortune! O, my beautiful young lady, may it never be so wretched

as mine!” Then noticing the evident perturbation of Florence’s manner,

she continued, “Can I serve you in any way?”

“I was sent to you for the purpose, as I suppose, of having my fortune

told,” answered Florence.

“There is some mistake,” replied Effie, a half smile flitting over her

pale face, “I am not a fortune-teller.”

“But I thought—I understood—that is—Mr. Crayford told me you were.

Did I not meet you one day in Chestnut street?” asked Florence.

A faint color tinged the cheek of Effie, and her beautiful eyes drooped

low as she answered,

“You did—too well do I remember it—you looking so happy, and I so sad!

Yes, I saw you point me out to Belmont.”

“_Belmont!_ I know no such person,” said Florence, “it was Mr. Crayford

who was with me—it was Mr. Crayford who told me you were a

fortune-teller.”

“Did he—did he tell you so?” said Effie, bursting into tears, “for,

alas! young lady, it was Belmont—it was my husband you were walking

with!”

“_Your husband!_” cried Florence, aghast.

“Yes, my husband. Dear young lady, think not I am mistaken—would that I

were! I saw those eyes, so full of love, fixed on your blushing

face—heard the soft tones of his voice as he bent low to address you.

Yes, I saw all—heard all; and then, ah then!” cried Effie, with a

shudder, and raising her tearful eyes to heaven, “what a look he cast

upon _me_! But did he—did Belmont send you to me?” she eagerly

demanded.

“No, he did not—it was another who directed me here. And now, my poor

girl,” said Florence, drawing her chair close to Effie, and kindly

taking her hand, “I see that you have been cruelly treated—will you

then tell me your history—will you tell me of Crayford, or Belmont, for

I now see they are one and the same.”

“Do you love him?” asked Effie, sadly.

“No, I do not love him, nor is it probable we shall ever meet again,”

replied Florence.

“But he has sought your love—and yet you love him not—how strange! _I

love him!_ O, would to God I did not!” and here the poor girl sobbed

aloud, while Florence, overcome by emotion, threw her arms around the

unfortunate, and resting her head on her bosom, mingled tears with hers.

When both were a little more calm, Florence again urged her to reveal

her sorrows, which Effie did in language so simple and earnest as

carried conviction to the mind of her listener, who shuddered as the

fearful abyss in which she had been so nearly lost, thus opened before

her.

“And do you know the name of the person who has been so kind to you?”

asked Florence, referring to the preserver of Effie.

“I know not,” answered Effie, “neither does Mrs. Wing, but to me, dear

young lady, he has been an angel of goodness!”

“Strange!” thought Florence, “this benevolent stranger can surely be no

other than my unknown friend. He is, then, all I first imagined

him—kind, noble, disinterested—and yet I have doubted him; how am I

reproved! but for him, my own fate might, perhaps, have resembled that

of the unfortunate girl before me!”

While lost in these reflections, she was suddenly startled by a slight

scream from Effie, who, grasping her arm tightly, said, while her pale

face crimsoned, and her bosom heaved tumultuously,

“Hark! _his_ voice—it _is_ his voice!”

“Whose voice—what is the matter?” demanded Florence.

“Do you not know,” continued Effie, as half rising she bent her little

head, and raised her finger in an attitude of deep attention, “Do you

not know Belmont’s voice? Ah, I see now very well you do not love him.”

“Belmont! good heavens, what shall I do!” exclaimed Florence, starting

up, “is there no way for me to escape—not for worlds would I have him

find me here!”

“Go in there,” said Effie, pointing to a small door; “but you will be

obliged to remain there—there is no other way.”

“Then I must, of course, hear all you say,” said Florence, shrinking

instinctively from thus intruding upon the young girl’s privacy. Effie

looked up confidently and answered,

“It is well; if this meeting is to restore me my happiness, you will

rejoice with me; if it plunge me in still greater wo, then, dear lady,

it is better for you to know it!”

Florence had no time to reply, for now a man’s step was heard quickly

ascending the stairs. Springing into the little room adjoining, she

closed the door, and panting with agitation, awaited the result. Again

the words of the unknown recurred to her, “Fear not! one will be near

you, who will protect you with his life.”

Scarcely had Florence withdrawn, when the other door was opened, and a

man wearing a cloak, with his hat drawn far down over his face, entered,

then closing it, and carefully turning the key, he advanced toward

Effie, who had risen, and stood clinging to the easy-chair to support

her trembling limbs.

“You are surprised to see me, I suppose, child,” said he, throwing off

his cloak and hat, and revealing the form and features of Crayford.

“My dear husband, do we then meet again!” cried Effie, feebly extending

her arms, as she sunk back into the chair.

Crayford folded his arms across his breast, and throwing himself

carelessly upon a seat, said,

“I have come to settle matters with you, that’s all. What the d——l are

you doing here!”

“Don’t speak so cruelly to me—don’t, Belmont!” cried poor Effie,

bursting into tears. “O, if you knew the anguish I have endured since

you left me; if you knew, that, driven to despair, I even sought to take

my own life, you would pity me! If you knew how I have watched for

you—sought for you—how I have waited for you, you would at least have

compassion on me!”

“You’re a fool!” exclaimed Crayford, brutally. “Why I thought you would

have learned better by this time; but since you have not, why you must

not be in my way, that’s all. Now listen to me; you must go out of the

city—and look you, on condition that you will never come back again, I

will give you a thousand dollars; come, that’s generous, now—most men

would let you go to the —— before they would do as much for you. The

fact is, child, I am going to be married, and to a beautiful, rich

lady.”

“_Married!_” shrieked Effie, starting to her feet, and catching his arm,

“married—am I not your wife?”

“Ha! ha! ha!—come, that’s a good one; not exactly, child, you are only

my wife, _pour passer le temps_, as the French say. No, that was all a

hoax—you are free, and with a thousand dollars to buy you a husband!

Now is not that better?” said Crayford, chucking her under the chin.

Effie did not reply. It needed not—those eyes, more eloquent than

words, fastened upon his guilty countenance, told plainly a villain’s

work of wo wrought in her young, trusting heart. Crayford, hardened as

he was, quailed under their reproach.

At length she spoke, but there was an unnatural calmness in her voice,

“Who is the lady you will marry?” she said.

“Well, I will tell you—and, by the way, you came near ruining my

prospects there. She saw you in Chestnut street one day, as we were

walking, and you looked so —— queer at me, that, faith, I were put to

my trumps, and mumbled over something about your being a crazy

fortune-teller—was not that well done?”

“It _was_ well done,” answered Effie, in the same tone; “but her

name—tell me her name.”

“Her name is May—a young, pretty widow; though, on my soul, Effie—why

I declare, now I look at you, you are almost as handsome as ever; if it

was not for her money, she might look further for a husband. But come, I

am in a hurry; I want you to sign this paper, pledging yourself to leave

the city never to return, upon which condition I also pledge myself to

give you a thousand dollars—will you sign it?”

“I will,” answered Effie; “but I require a witness.”

“A witness—nonsense! well, bring up the old woman, then.”

“It is not necessary—here is one,” said Effie, advancing with a firm

step to the inner door, and throwing it wide.

“Severe in youthful beauty,” Florence came forth.

Had a thunderbolt suddenly fallen from heaven, Crayford could not have

been more paralyzed. Florence paused upon the threshold.

“Go!” said she, waving her hand, “go, Mr. Crayford, this innocent girl

is under my protection. I have heard all—I know all—begone, sir!”

And, incapable of uttering one word, the guilty wretch, awed by the

majesty of virtue, stole away as a fiend from the presence of an angel.

The over-tasked firmness of poor Effie now gave way; and piteous it was

to witness the agony of her grief and shame.

“Poor, unhappy child!” cried Florence, taking her to her bosom, and

tenderly soothing her, “you have been basely, cruelly dealt with!

Heavens! I shudder when I think what my fate might have been but for

this discovery!”

She remained some hours with the wretched girl, nor left her until she

had become more tranquil, when, with the assurance that she would see

her again in a very few days, she took an affectionate leave of poor

Effie Day, and returned home.

I will state here that the mysterious friend of Florence May knew

nothing of Crayford’s visit to the victim of his wiles. He merely

intended that from the lips of Effie, she might learn his baseness. Her

meeting with Crayford, therefore, was one of those singular coincidences

which often startle even the most skeptical.

Florence returned home with feelings difficult to analyze. The interest

with which the unknown had from the first inspired her, now suddenly

acquired new strength. She had proved him to be the friend he professed,

while his kindness to the unfortunate Effie (for she doubted not his

individuality) was another proof of his excellence, showing that his

goodness of heart did not confine itself alone to her welfare, which

might be attributable, perhaps, to his avowed attachment, but could find

its way to succor where’er distress or wretchedness dwelt. She felt this

love and kindness merited return—and her heart timidly awarded it.

Selecting a beautiful emerald ring from her jewels, she enclosed it with

the following note:

“Generous, noble friend, I have proved your assertions true. O, pardon

my doubts! You have said you love me; will you then deem it bold in me

if I acknowledge the interest with which you have inspired me. Yet you

say we may never meet; why is this? Accept the enclosed, and with it the

gratitude of Florence.”

“You then acknowledge an interest in me,” wrote the unknown, in reply.

“Thanks, a thousand thanks. The time approaches when the barrier now

existing may be removed, and then I may hope to win your love! Where,

now, are those despairing thoughts which crushed me with their weight of

wo; one kind word from you, and as the soft moonbeams dispel the

blackness of night, they have fled, and around me is the light of

joy—hope—happiness.”

CHAPTER VI.

Ten months a widow—was there ever such folly!

To be sure, much might be done in two more, if one earnestly set about

it—for Florence had a pair of eyes, and a tongue might “call an angel

down.”

Yet to those about her, she seemed more reckless of her fate than

ever—going out but seldom, and scarcely allowing any gentleman to

approach her presence.

The old housekeeper, who was strongly attached to her young mistress,

had fretted and scolded to herself for weeks and months. The only time

when she managed to preserve her equanimity, was when Crayford visited

the house, for then she saw plainly an offer of marriage, and a

wedding-party in the bottom of her tea-cup, while love-letters and

kisses sparkled in the candle! But when, like all others, he was also

dismissed, the poor soul could contain herself no longer, but breaking

in abruptly upon Florence one morning, she thus began:

“Does thee know what month it is?”

“Yes, dear Mrs. Hicks,” answered Florence, raising her eyes from her

painting.

“And does thee know that in two more thee has been a widow one year?”

“Alas, yes! but why—why, Mrs. Hicks, do you remind me of it?”

“Truly, child—has thee forgotten thee must marry!”

“_Must_ marry! O no, my good friend, not unless I please—and it is not

my will to marry,” said Florence, smiling.

“Not thy will to marry!” exclaimed Mrs. Hicks, lifting up both hands;

“and so thy will is to be poor!”

“Yes,” answered Florence, “if you call it being poor to be possessed of

health and strength, added to three hundred dollars a year. _Poor!_ why

my dear Mrs. Hicks, I shall be rich—really rich!”

“Rich! Ah, thee talks like a simple child! What will thee do with thy

health and strength and three hundred dollars!”

“O, much,” replied Florence. “With two hundred I can hire a neat little

house—with the other I can furnish it comfortably, and with my health

and strength I can teach music and painting; and, if you please, dear

Mrs. Hicks, you shall live with me, and so shall poor Effie Day.”

“Child, thee knows nothing of life,” cried the good woman, wiping her

eyes. “Verily, it makes my heart sad to see thee blindly throwing from

thee the fortune that good old Abel May did give thee! Child, thee does

not act in accordance with the wishes of that good man; for, truly, he

did beseech thee to marry, that thee might retain the good gifts of the

world!”

Florence threw her arms around the neck of the old lady.

“I thank you, dear Mrs. Hicks, for I know you mean all you have said for

my good; but not to possess millions could I be tempted to barter my

affections; and even if I loved, I would not marry within the prescribed

year, when by remaining a widow, I can give to the relations of that

excellent man, the fortune to which I have no claim, save in his

kindness for one unfortunate. Could I have done so, I would long since

have yielded up my rights.”

“Thee is a noble, good girl; and so long as these hands can work, they

shall work for thee; but I am sorry, nevertheless, to see thee giving up

to the lovers of Mammon what they have so long coveted. Verily it

grieves me, too, that young Abel May does not return! Ah, child, child,

I hope thee may never be sorry!” and affectionately kissing her young

lady, Mrs. Hicks went back to her work, half pleased, half angry with

the determination of Florence.

In the meantime, slowly, slowly, slowly, to the kindred of old Abel May,

circled the twelve months, dating from the day of his death;

suspiciously, anxiously, uneasily watching every movement of the young

widow.

But joy, joy! The long looked-for morning at length dawned. To their

eager gaze the sun seemed like a huge golden guinea, as he smiled from

the eastern sky upon their hopes, and soft and silky as bank-note paper

appeared the thin, vapory clouds floating o’er his path.

Again from marble-columned squares and by-lanes, from suburban cottages

and distant villages they came, flocking in like vultures, all ready to

pounce down upon the innocent little lamb whom old Abel May had

sheltered in his bosom.

Nor were their torments ended here; even then a new fear seized upon

them. Who knows what desperation might effect; the widow that very day

might take it into her head to marry—they had no doubt she would.

Alas! each hour marking the twelve of that day of doom, was but a type

of the preceding twelve month, which had finally brought around the

_joyful_ anniversary.

Midnight sounded. Hurra! hurra! The widow unmarried; and bright,

sparkling dollars, like shooting stars, falling around them.

At twelve, M. precisely, the lawyers bowed themselves into the spacious

parlor of the deceased, for it could no longer be called the widow’s, in

order to read again the last will and testament.

Triumph sat again upon the countenances of those whom the occasion had

called together, although some made most woful faces in trying to

squeeze out a few tears, thinking it would be judicious to consider the

old man as just dead. But Florence was as provokingly cheerful and

handsome as ever—why one would have thought she was about to receive a

fortune instead of losing one; and it even seemed as if she could hardly

suppress her laughter as she glanced around at the expectant heirs.

The man of law at length drew forth the will with an emphatic “_Hem_,”

premonitory.

Then on all sides there was a general stir; the gentlemen pulled up

their shirt-collars and elongated their faces; the ladies smoothed down

their mourning robes and held their handkerchiefs ready to receive a

tear when occasion should call it forth.

The reading commenced, and all eyes turned exultingly upon Florence as

these words sounded audibly:

“To my beloved wife, Florence, I do bequeath all my property, both

personal and real, consisting of,” etc., etc., “provided that within one

year from the day of my death she marries. But if, at the expiration of

that time she still remain a widow, then I do annul my will in her

favor, and do bequeath the same to my nephew, Abel May, provided he

returns within the said year. If not, then unto those who can bring good

proofs of their consanguinity to me, do I direct my property to be

equally distributed. Always excepting an annuity of three hundred

dollars, to be paid to my beloved wife, so long as she lives, etc.”

“Nonsense!”

“Three hundred dollars!”

“An old fool!” echoed softly from lip to lip—the paltry sum already

dashing their cup of joy.

“You have heard the will, ladies and gentlemen,” said the lawyer,

addressing the company, “I believe Mrs. May acknowledges herself still a

widow—will you signify the same, madam?”

Florence bowed.

“You observe, ladies and gentlemen, the lady admits herself a widow;

then, of course, it only remains for me to announce young Abel May as

sole heir to all the property, both personal and real, of which the

testator died possessed.”

“But Abel May has not returned!” was the general exclamation.

“Abel May has returned—Abel May is here to claim his rights!” said the

lawyer, screech owl that he was to their ears.

The folding doors were thrown open, and a gentleman slowly advanced

within the circle.

Did Florence dream—was it no vision of her imagination! for as she

looked upon the stranger, the same eyes she had seen so mournfully

gazing upon her in the picture gallery, but which now, beaming with

happiness, met hers, while upon his finger—a star of hope—glittered

the emerald ring she had sent the unknown.

Slightly bowing to the astonished assembly, Abel May eagerly approached

her. The happy girl looked up with a sweet smile as he drew near; what

need of words, her beautiful eyes were far more eloquent, and with

thrilling joy the young heir caught her to his bosom.

At first the discomfited relatives disputed the identity of the tall,

elegant stranger, with the lad who so many years before went roving; but

his proofs were indisputable. So out of the room, and out of the house,

and back again to their homes, with unreplenished purses, they quickly

dispersed.

It appears that young May returned only a few weeks subsequent to the

death of his uncle from the East Indies, where he had accumulated a

handsome fortune. By accident he saw Florence, and was deeply interested

by her appearance. Aware that a lapse of so many years must have

materially altered his person, he resolved to remain incognito. Frequent

opportunities of seeing the young widow ripened the interest she had

first inspired into affection. Yet he would not present himself to her

notice amid the throng of fortune-hunters and idle flatterers who

surrounded her. Rumor had made known to him the nature of the will, and

he resolved to abide the year, taking upon himself, meanwhile, the

pleasing office of acting as the protector and guide of the young,

inexperienced widow. If, at the end of the year, she had so far evinced

a soul above all sordid views as to remain unmarried, then, and not till

then, would he seek to gain her love. With the fortune, however, which,

in the event of her remaining single, would fall to him, he nobly

resolved to have no share, and had therefore drawn up an instrument by

which he relinquished all claim in favor of Florence, whether successful

in obtaining her affection or not. This only awaited its proper time to

be duly attested.

A year and a day brought results with which the reader is already

acquainted, and a few weeks witnessed the happy union of Florence and

young Abel May.

Under the roof of her benefactor and his lovely wife, the unfortunate

Effie Day found a home and kind friends. Of Crayford nothing more was

ever heard. It was supposed he had left the country for a field less

obnoxious to the display of his peculiar attributes.

* * * * *

LINES.

BY FORLORN HOPE.

Fairest! Nature now is smiling, serene, lovely and beguiling,

Let us to the sea shore stray,

Where are billows ever filing—wiling there our hours away

Listening to the ocean’s thunder,

Gazing on the skies with wonder, wonder as each world we number

Poised in space above.

Lo! Diana in her glory rising o’er yon promontory,

Trace to earth the moon-beam’s flight,

Beauty to our planet lending, blending while they are descending

With the sombre shades of night.

Tune thy lute, love, touch it idly, that the tones may echo wildly

And sighs of softest passion move.

* * * * *

MAJOR ANSPACH.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MARC FOURNIER.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

Major Anspach was an old gentleman who was as thin as he was long, nay,

even thinner than he was long.

Forty years before the epoch when occurred, oh reader, the events we

shall take the liberty to recount to you, the worthy major was the

finest looking musqueteer in the regiment of Monsieur d’Artois. He

possessed some fortune, belonged to one of the best families in

Lorraine, could fence to admiration, and had a heart at the service of

the fair sex. The ladies of the court and city, to whom a son of Mars is

always irresistible, of course were not insensible to the attractions of

a musqueteer of five feet eleven, and the major, on his part, was so

gallant in his attentions to them, that his captain gave him the title

of the Turenne of boudoirs.

But forty years leave some traces of their flight; Major Anspach in 1827

was the mere shadow of his former self, and retained of his vanished

splendors only a scanty income of 800 livres, a pair of black plush

pantaloons, a long snuff-colored overcoat, and a garret for which he

paid forty crowns a year.

Notwithstanding this serious diminution of the means of happiness, the

major, who was a widower, contrived to enjoy himself perfectly for at

least six months in the year. How few persons do we see who can boast of

being satisfied with their destiny one day out of two?

It is true that the moderate pleasures of Major Anspach did not

materially encroach on his pocket, and for this we deem the cidevant

musqueteer worthy of eulogium. He limited his enjoyments to a promenade

in the Tuileries, each time that the sun deigned to shine on its

precincts, happy alike when the Dog Star raged or under the frozen beams

of a wintry sky. As this orb however rarely deigns to show us his face

in unclouded brilliance, our old friend had made it his profound study

to discover that part of the garden in which he could enjoy the rays of

Phœbus without exposure to their intensity.

After much research and divers trials, the major at last made his

choice. At the extremity of the terrace des Feuillants is a platform,

embowered in trees and shrubs, which commands a view of the Place de la

Concorde, and the architectural entrance to that part of the garden. A

balustrade terminates this platform, and by a graceful sweep conducts

you to a pleasant enclosure between the avenues and the western gate of

the Tuileries. This turn in the balustrade forms then, as you will

perceive, an acute angle with the line of the platform, and it is of the

summit of this angle, whose sides are composed of two walls about twelve

feet high, which form a fortified corner, that we are going to speak.

Exposed to the rising sun, this spot (as the reader may ascertain for

himself if he likes) seems expressly constructed in order to concentrate

the greatest possible heat in the smallest space, which heat would

indeed be insupportable were it not surrounded with flowering shrubs and

thickets to render it agreeable to the frequenters of the place.

Major Anspach, for reasons pertaining a little to his plush

inexpressibles, avoided all contact with the passing crowd; and although

gazing with pleasure on the sports of the children who visited the

garden, nothing would have annoyed him more than too close a proximity

to the young rogues, or to the fresh and frisky damsels with laughing

eyes who had charge of the juveniles. It was essential to his comfort,

therefore, to select a position where he could see without being seen,

and also that his seat should be of such narrow limits that when he once

occupied it, no one could expect to share it with him.

This bench M. Anspach had at last discovered at the intersection of the

balustrade and platform, between two hedges of woodbine and honeysuckle,

shaded by the foliage of a noble tree, and fragrant with roses and

jasmine. He could there bask in the morning sun, enjoy a refreshing

breeze at noon, and in the evening luxuriate in the perfume exhaled from

the flowers and shrubs. The place, however, was so narrow, and so

completely buried in the surrounding foliage that, although, as we have

before insinuated, our friend was the longest and thinnest of majors, he

could not, without some trouble, ensconce himself within its limits,

but, once seated, his angular figure so completely coincided with the

geometrical accidences of the bench, that it was impossible for even a

fly to find a resting-place beside him.

Established in his daily position, the view of the dazzling façade of

the royal palace through the grove of venerable chestnut trees, would

plunge the old man in retrospection of the gay scenes in which he had

once been an actor, and it was these melancholy though pleasing

reminiscences of the past, combined with the murmur of the lively crowd

and the mingled perfume and beauty of the flowers and foliage, that

rendered this spot a terrestrial paradise to the cidevant musqueteer.

And how does it happen, you ask, that this poor Major Anspach, who was

really a gentleman and courtier at Versailles forty years ago, should

now be reduced to seek a refuge from the sun, and from the inquisitive

gaze that might have too closely peered into the mystery of his plush

inexpressibles?

It was by one of those simple, unforeseen accidents, on which sometimes

hangs the destiny of a life-time, and which, in the major’s case,

occurred in this wise: One evening a celebrated belle, Mademoiselle

Guimard, was so awkward as to drop her handkerchief; the consequence of

which was that her friend fell from one trouble into another, until Fate

landed him in his long snuff-colored overcoat and plush pantaloons on

the bench which is the true subject of this remarkable history.

CHAPTER II.

Mademoiselle Guimard having dropped her handkerchief, of the finest

linen cambric, edged with Malines lace, and apparently embroidered by

the hands of fairies, the Chevalier de Palissandre, an arrant fop,

clothed in velvet, and an expert swordsman, conceived the impertinent

idea of stooping to pick it up; but he did it so clumsily that he trod

on the toe of Major Anspach, who was just then offering his arm to the

lady—how inexcusable! Briefly they exchanged glances—bowed most

politely—and the next morning went out to cut each other’s throats.

At day-break M. Anspach had his hair dressed, and attiring himself in

the most elegant manner, drove in his carriage to the Porte Maillot,

which was the place of rendezvous. He put 300,000 francs in gold in his

carriage, that he might immediately leave the country for foreign lands,

until the family of the chevalier had ceased to mourn his death, for you

must know that the major had a certain trick in fencing that he

considered sure, so that according to his belief the chevalier was as

good as dead.

The thing succeeded as he had foreseen; they made some passes, and as

soon as the major perceived that the chevalier was getting excited, he

made such a furious thrust en tierce that M. Palissandre saw the flash

and fell struck by the thunder.

It was hardly daylight, and M. Anspach was in such a hurry to get in his

carriage that he made a mistake, and entering that of the chevalier, was

many leagues distant ere he discovered his error, and it was then too

late to return.

Arrived at London, he remembered that his banker could tell him what had

become of his carriage, his 300,000 francs and the Chevalier de

Palissandre. He wrote to him then, and took advantage of the opportunity

to ask him to send funds, for after turning his pockets inside out he

had only found a few Louis. He had to wait some time for an answer, and

in promenading the Park to beguile the weary moments he fell in love

with a young Creole from the Spanish West Indies. The lady was on the

point of embarking for Havana, and as our heedless hero could not become

accustomed to the climate nor the plum-pudding, he raised a thousand

crowns on some diamonds he had with him, and borrowed a thousand Louis

from a friend attached to the French embassy, whom he had fortunately

encountered in the street; the next morning he embarked on the same

vessel as the young Creole, and was on his way to the West Indies.

After arriving at the Havana he wrote again to his banker, asking anew

for his carriage and the chevalier, and demanding money. But the vessel

that carried his dispatches was apparently lost, for six months

afterward, the major had spent his last doubloon, and was still

expecting an answer from his agent; he was also terribly tired of his

love affair. In this emergency he thought the best means to obtain

information was to seek it in person, even at the risk of being arrested

as a deserter from his regiment; he resolved, however, to be prudent,

and to enter Paris incognito. He sold his wardrobe to pay for his

passage, and landed without any misfortune, assuming the first name that

occurred to him.

His friends who recognized him gave him a warm welcome, and informed him

that his banker had left for America, carrying with him 500,000 francs,

the price of an estate the major had sold the year previous. This new

accident entirely disturbed his equanimity, as the above sum, with that

lost in the carriage, comprised nearly all his fortune.

He had no resource but in the chevalier, but the chevalier he was told,

after being an invalid for two weeks, had as soon as he was able to

leave his bed started for London. The major, who inferred that the

chevalier was anxious to return him his sword cut and his money, was

touched even to tears by this generosity, and the next morning embarked

for London in pursuit of his magnanimous foe.

Arrived at the great English metropolis, he ran to the embassy, visited

all the hotels, explored Covent Garden and the Opera, searched the

gambling-houses, the fencing-rooms, the coffee-houses—no chevalier!

Finally he discovered by application to the firm of Ashburton & Co.,

bankers in the city, that the chevalier had departed three months before

to the Havana. “Oh, the devil!” cried the disappointed major, “how cruel

is Fortune. I would not return within reach of the claws of my Creole

for all the treasures of the East. I will go to America and horsewhip

that rascally banker—that will amuse me.”

This was certainly his most obvious course of proceeding, for as he had

nothing left but a small income from a farm in the environs of

Phalsbourg, it was better to run after 500,000 francs than 100,000

crowns. He therefore embarked for New Orleans, where his banker had

sought refuge, and he succeeded in finding him, already penniless from

speculating in public lands. The major felt the less remorse for

cudgeling him soundly, and then not knowing what else to do, enrolled

himself in the corps of M. Lafayette, to fight the English.

He evinced great bravery, and his career would doubtless have been

brilliant had it not been for his unfortunate rencontre with M. de

Palissandre, which, by rendering him a deserter, made him amenable at

any time to the requisition of the Provost of Paris.

The American war terminated; the major found himself tolerably indebted

to some generous friends who had divined his uncomfortable position.

This circumstance recalled the missing carriage, money, and chevalier to

his memory, and he accordingly wrote to the Havana for precise

information. But the reply was that no one could be found answering the

description of M. de Palissandre, and it was therefore probable he had

died on the voyage out. The major almost resolved to hang himself.

On the other side, the payments from his farm had not reached him for

some months, and the new aspect of affairs in 1789 did not inspire him

with the desire of going in person to receive his arrears and to learn

the cause of their non arrival, he could indeed nearly guess it.

His situation could not be more embarrassing, all things conspired to

overwhelm him. “Is there not something incredible,” said he, one evening

when seated on the Battery at New York, and in his excitement

unconsciously speaking aloud, “is there not something incredible in my

being the sport of such a destiny: that I should have been gallanting

Mademoiselle Guimard, when the coquette dropped her handkerchief, and

cost me a hundred thousand pounds, without mentioning my scrape with the

government at Paris, and my debts that I cannot pay? Oh Fate! who can

avert thy blows!”

At this moment some one tapped him on the shoulder.

CHAPTER III.

“Friend,” said the new comer, “you appear overwhelmed with trouble. What

can I do for you?”

“I will tell you, sir, what you can do,” said the major, haughtily

drawing himself up; “you can take off your hat when you address me.”

“You are right,” replied the unknown, with a calm smile, removing his

hat, “an honest man respects misfortune.”

“It is not my misfortunes, sir, but myself I insist on your respecting,

when you do me the honor to speak to me.”

“You are French, sir.”

“A Frenchman and a nobleman.”

“You are mistaken.”

“What do you say, sir.”

“I say you cannot be a French nobleman, since there are no more noblemen

in France.”

“I know not if there be any in France, but there is one here who will

make you food for fishes.”

“You will not do it.”

“Do you mean that for a challenge?”

“Merely as advice. You are the cidevant Baron Anspach, of Phalsbourg,

and you descend by the female line from the last Dukes of Lorraine. I

know that, and I know also that your farm near Phalsbourg has been

confiscated, because you emigrated; that you have no funds in France,

and that you are there condemned to death.”

“I am obliged to you for the information, but I see nothing in it to

prevent my pitching you into the water.”

“You may be right, sir; but even should you drown me, I do not perceive

how it will improve your affairs. You will only have one friend less,

and very certainly one misfortune more.”

“It appears, sir, that you have pretensions to wit.”

“I do not know which of us two has the most, sir; I, who would enlighten

you on your situation, or you who would throw me into the river for

offering you my assistance.”

“I am your debtor, sir, but a gentleman descended from the last Dukes of

Lorraine cannot accept the offers of a stranger.”

“And from whom can you expect them here, if not from a stranger.”

“Permit me to inform you, sir, that no gentleman is reduced to

humiliation who retains his sword.”

“Why, how would you use it?”

“To chastise the scoundrel who would insult me with his importunate

pity, and then, rather than expose myself to repeated injury, thrust it

through my own body.”

“You speak proudly; but acknowledge that you can do better than thus to

insult God by disposing of the life of your fellow being and yourself.

Are you sure there is no resource left you but suicide?”

“Yes. I have six Louis left.”

“Better than that, Major Anspach; there is a treasure in your reach.”

“Perhaps you mean wisdom?”

“No, but something that leads to it.”

“What then do you mean?”

“Labor.”

“Ah, you are a moral reformer.”

“I am but an humble creature of God, major, whose consciousness of his

fallibility has led him to pursue the useful conjoined to the good. But

I have only discovered one resource that is alike beneficial to mind and

body, to the one in this world, to the other in eternity.”

“And this thing,” said M. Anspach thoughtfully, “is labor?”

“Yes, sir, labor—man’s destiny since his creation.”

“Man—well, _you_ are right, for being no longer a baron I am but a man.

But what is your motive in this conversation? You have catechised me for

an hour, as if I recognized your right to annoy me. Remember, sir, I do

not even know your name.”

“That is not true.”

“Oh, the devil! take care; you shall not give me the lie twice.”

“Well,” said the unknown, smiling, “I am going to commit the offence for

the third time, in repeating that you cannot be ignorant of my name.”

“Faith, sir, if you think your name of any importance, I do not prevent

your telling it to me.”

“It was my intention to have done so just now, when I offered you my

hand and my services. My name is Franklin.”

“Franklin! Ah, sir, what have I done! Can you ever pardon me? I throw

myself at your feet.”

Mr. Franklin raised the major, laughing till the tears came into his

eyes, and telling him that it was not the great man he imagined, as that

luminary had ceased to enlighten the world two years before, but for

want of a better he, George Steward Zachariah Franklin, of the firm of

Franklin & Son, of New York, was at his service, and ready to give

proofs of his identity to his worthy friend M. Anspach. He further

explained, that it was on the recommendation of Lafayette himself, that

he had sought him out; the latter on leaving America having related the

major’s situation and adventures to him, and commended him to his

attention. He added that if the major would do him the honor to dine

with him, he would have the pleasure of submitting some propositions to

him worthy of consideration.

Major Anspach, Baron of Phalsbourg, extended his hand to Mr. Franklin,

and pledged himself to profit for the future by the lesson of wisdom so

opportunely received. The banker pursued his advantage so well that

three days later the major left for Canada, and three months afterward

was superintending the labors of five hundred colonists, who, under his

orders, cleared a forest of some eight square leagues.

M. Anspach lived happily in these solitudes for twenty-five years,

laboring to introduce civilization into their savage recesses. It was a

rude apprenticeship for the cidevant courtier, but it is due to truth to

declare that as his fortune increased, the major had the good sense to

forget, for the moment at least, that he was descended on the female

side from the last Dukes of Lorraine, and having married the daughter of

a rich farmer, he thanked Providence, whose inscrutable ways had led him

to true happiness at more than 1500 leagues from the Opera.

Unfortunately the major’s wife died after a brief illness, leaving no

children, and the day after her death he received letters from France,

apprising him of the return of the Bourbons. The devil then put it into

his head to remember his barony of Phalsbourg and his regiment. He

immediately sold his American property, realized his whole fortune,

which was more than a million of dollars, and embarked on board the

Neptune for Havre. The voyage was prosperous until within sight of the

coast of Brittany, when a sudden tempest arose, drove the vessel on

shore and completely wrecked her. Some passengers were saved, among whom

was the major, who landed on the shores of France as poor as he had left

them thirty years before.

The only hope left to him after this disaster was, that he should be

favorably received at court; and although his views were, in many

respects, much changed, he resolved nevertheless to present himself to

the king, in whose guards he had formerly served. But, from his first

appearance, he saw there was no room for delusive expectations. In fact

the major was not what was then termed “a nobleman broken down by

exile,” he had dared to be happy while monarchy suffered, and to enrich

himself among republicans, while other men of quality were forced to ask

credit from the butchers of Coblentz. They did not even take into

account his recent misery, since it was owing to a fortuitous accident,

and he was therefore coldly dismissed.

The major was too proud of his maternal descent to abase himself by

servility. He sturdily turned his back on the Tuileries, and

concentrated all his efforts toward reëstablishing himself in his farm

at Phalsbourg. He partly succeeded in his object, but when he had paid

the advocates, the solicitors, the bailiffs, and the court fees; when he

had discharged the debts he owed to some old friends, he found himself

the possessor of 800 francs a year and an extremely philosophical

wardrobe. He did not complain, but resigned himself to the dictates of

necessity; he reduced his desires to the compass of his means, his

ambition vanished, his contentment increased, and the man of the

American forests, the colonist, reappeared more worthy of esteem in the

midst of poverty than when he was rich and powerful in those vast

solitudes.

And this brings us back, dear reader, to the little bench so prettily

hidden in the clustering jasmine and roses, last retreat, last enjoyment

of the cidevant musqueteer, who ruined himself twice and became a sage

because Mademoiselle Guimard dropped her handkerchief.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

HOMEWOOD.

BY P. C. SHANNON.

Among the many beautiful country-seats which have, of late years, sprung

up around us, there is no one perhaps that in architectural design, in

compactness and elegance of finish, surpasses “Homewood,” the residence

of the Hon. William Wilkins. Throughout all its parts, and in all its

arrangements, it presents a chaste and highly tasteful appearance.

The name adopted is quite appropriate. The building stands in the centre

of a nearly circular area, the circumference of which is bounded for

acres back by the tall oaks of the primeval forest. In the summer, when

the grass waves and the flowers unfold their fragrant treasures, this

circular area presents to the eye the aspect of an island of verdure

surrounded by the dim old trees. When evening approaches and the sun

pours his slanting beams through the luxuriant foliage, bathing the

boughs in liquid gold, no place can be more delightful than the

“columned porch” at Homewood. The warbling of the birds, the fragrance

of manifold flowers, the lowing of distant herds, the gentle rustling of

the branches moved by the passing breeze, the shouts of the distant

harvestmen preparing to leave, with the sun’s decline, their daily

toil—all combine to lull the heart and to enchant the senses.

The approach is through a spacious avenue, curving as it nears the

building, and crossing a little dingle, through which murmurs a gentle

streamlet. The scenery is lovely, the soil fertile, the location airy

and healthful.

The whole country around abounds in historic associations of the “olden

time,” when the red man struggled against the advancing column of

civilization. And what history has been unable rightfully to

appropriate, legend and fiction have gathered up, and woven into dark

and solemn drapery, wherewith they have clothed every prominent locality

and invested every heroic character of those shadowy ages. Over these

fields once roamed the Shawanese, who, driven from Florida, made their

way to the head of the Ohio—a powerful, warlike, and restless tribe,

who alone of all the Indians retained a tradition that their fathers had

crossed the ocean. Not far off dwelt, for a time, a branch of the Lenni

Lenape, who, in former days, had welcomed the Shawanese to their

hunting-grounds. Tradition has it, that afterward the last mentioned

tribe, forgetful of former kindness and hospitality, left their homes on

the Ohio, crossed the Allegheny Mountains and fell by night upon the

camps of the unsuspecting Lenape on the river Juniata, where they

massacred many of them, and marched off with prisoners and plunder. Over

these grounds, and up as far as the mouth of the Youghiogany, Queen

Aliquippa, spoken of by Washington in his Journal, and visited by him in

1753, governed with rude and simple sway. Shingiss, King of the

Delawares, the lover of Aliquippa, had the seat of his regal power near

McKee’s Rocks, a little below Pittsburgh. He was young, generous and

brave, and alliances with him were eagerly sought by both the French and

the English. At the rustic court of Aliquippa, and one of her chief

advisers, was Tonnaleuka, “prophet and medicine-man”—a solemn,

mysterious personage, who sought, in caverns, to hold communion with the

invisible world, and who laid claim to great knowledge in occult arts

and mysterious rites.

At a distance of two or three miles from Homewood lies Braddock’s Field,

on the bank of the Monongahela River—the theatre of one of the most

prominent occurrences in our colonial history. The total defeat of

General Braddock, on the 9th of July, 1755, caused an electric shock

throughout the colonies, and occasioned profound grief and astonishment

in the mother country. But on this field of death and defeat it was that

Washington first gained a renown for wisdom and bravery which will be

forever associated with his name. He was often heard to say that the

most beautiful spectacle he had ever beheld, “was the display of the

British troops on this eventful morning. Every man was dressed in full

uniform; the soldiers were arrayed in columns and marched in exact

order; the sun gleamed from their burnished arms, the river flowed

tranquilly on one side, and the deep forest overshadowed them with

solemn grandeur on the other. Officers and men were equally inspirited

with cheering hopes and confident expectations.”

And yet ere the gloom of twilight had encircled the forest, more than

half that brilliant army had fallen!

Among the many beautiful traditions relative to Washington, which have

been handed down to our times, is one which rests on the authority of

Dr. Craik, who, it appears, was the intimate friend of Washington from

his boyhood to his death, and who was with him at Braddock’s defeat.

“Fifteen years after that event, they traveled together on an expedition

to the western country, with a party of woodsmen, for the purpose of

exploring wild lands. While near the junction of the Great Kenhawa and

Ohio rivers, a company of Indians came to them with an interpreter, at

the head of whom was an aged and venerable chief. This personage made

known to them by the interpreter, that hearing Col. Washington was in

that region, he had come a long way to visit him, adding that during the

battle of the Monongahela he had singled him out as a conspicuous

object; fired his rifle at him many times, and directed his young

warriors to do the same, but to his utter astonishment none of their

balls took effect. He was then persuaded that the youthful hero was

under the special guardianship of the Great Spirit, (Manitou,) and

ceased to fire at him any longer. He was now come to pay homage to the

man who was the particular favorite of heaven, and _who could never die

in battle_.”

HOMEWOOD.

The sinking sun streams through the trees,

That form a circle there;

And fragrant is the gentle breeze

With sweets from flow’rets rare.

It nestles in the ancient wood

Where loved to couch the fawn,

Where oft the dark-browed hunter stood

At break of early dawn.

These time-worn oaks might tell a tale

Of struggles fierce and bold,

When on the hill and in the dale

The tide of battle rolled.

The Shawanese on foeman’s trail

No more bound free and light,

Nor cower to hear the moaning wail

Of tempest-howling night.

From southern vales where Suwanee

Rolls turbid to the tide,

They tracked the wand’ring Lenape

Where northern waters glide.

And when night’s misty mantle fell

On hill and dusky plain,

Dark Juniata’s shades could tell

The number of the slain.

That race of bronze hath passed away,

And all the forests broad,

That yielded to its warlike sway,

Are now by strangers trod.

The blue-eyed Saxon plants his maize

In peaceful furrows now,

And through the long, lone summer days

He speeds the glist’ning plough.

O’er pastures white with sleeping flocks

The night-winds gently sigh,

And fields arrayed in golden shocks

In length’ning shadows lie.

The moon is up—and silv’ry beams

Rest on the grassy mound,

Where Aliquippa’s spirit gleams

Along the haunted ground.

They say that in her mystic walks,

When night-dews wet the flowers,

The bright-robed Shingiss ever stalks

With her through vernal bowers.

And Tonnaleuka, child of storm,

Comes forth from cavern dark,

With magic zone bound round his form,

And pouch with healing bark.

And where is she, the laughing maid,

With tress of ebon hue,

Who tripped so blithely through the glade,

Or sped the light canoe?

No sound is heard—no human voice

Breaks through the stillness deep;

The twinkling stars, like saints, rejoice

The ways of God to keep.

O’er Braddock’s Field the mist hath spread,

The same as when of yore

It stretched its shroud above the dead

Along the winding shore.

On nodding plume and polished lance

The morn its glories threw,

But proudly waved the flag of France

When stars looked on the dew.

Then loudly burst the conquering yell

Upon the rippling stream,

While faintly rose, from distant dell,

The wild bird’s lonely scream.

And when the drum had ceased to roll,

And all the living fled,

The watching wolf from covert stole

To feast upon the dead.

To far off climes that wail was borne,

O’er waves by tempests tost,

And long did Albion’s daughters mourn

The lovers they had lost.

Yet erring was the red man’s aim,

Who oft, with leveled gun,

Had sought to rob the page of fame

Of Freedom’s noblest son.

When years had fled, that chieftain frail

Went far to see the man,

Who through the battle’s fiery hail,

Had fought when Britons ran.

Full long he gazed upon the brow,

And marked the placid eye,

Of him who, loved by Manitou,

Could ne’er in battle die!

The chieftain old has gone to rest

By Great Kenawa’s side,

Where th’ waving pine bends low its crest,

And the shadows dimly glide.

Close by Potomac’s gentle wave,

On Vernon’s slope of green,

The nation’s father found a grave.

And there his tomb is seen.

——

’Twas fit that here, in forest shade,

This tasteful _home_ should rise,

Where honored age in peace might fade,

Like sun in western skies.

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF TRENTON.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF THE “MILITARY HEROES OF THE WAR OF

INDEPENDENCE.”

[_Illustrated with a View of the Head-Quarters of Gen. Knox, where the

Council of War was held previous to the Battle._]

The battle of Trenton was the turning point of the War of Independence.

For months before, the prospects of the Colonies had been darkening, and

but for this bold stroke, would soon have set in gloom forever. A brief

review of the condition of affairs is necessary to a just comprehension

of the battle.

When, in March, 1776, the British found themselves compelled to evacuate

Boston, they resolved to carry their arms into the Middle States, and

there strike at the very heart of the nation. Accordingly, Sir William

Howe, after recruiting his forces at Halifax, sailed for New York. On

the 28th of August, at the head of an army twenty-four thousand strong,

he defeated the Americans on Long Island; and, a few days subsequently,

compelled them to abandon the city of New York. Washington now retreated

to White Plains, where an ineffectual engagement followed. Soon Fort

Washington, at the upper end of the island of Manhattan, was stormed and

carried by the royalist troops. Finding it impossible to maintain his

hold upon the Hudson, the American general determined to retreat across

New Jersey; and accordingly, abandoning all his positions, hurried over

the North River, the British following in quick pursuit.

Thus, within two months after the battle of Long Island, the cause of

the Colonies sunk into almost hopeless ruin. The enthusiasm which

accompanied the first outbreak at Lexington, had given way before the

privations of a protracted contest; and the soldiers, who in 1775 had

flocked unsolicited to the flag of their country, in 1776 turned a deaf

ear to the bounty offered by Congress. In the army, the spirits of both

officers and men were broken by a long series of disasters. Before the

end of November the force of Washington, by loss in battle, by the

expiration of enlistment, by desertion, and by other casualties, had

dwindled down to a little over three thousand men. With this remnant of

an army he retreated across New Jersey, hotly pursued by Cornwallis, at

the head of twenty thousand well appointed troops; nor could he save

himself from utter ruin except by throwing the Delaware between himself

and his foe. On the 8th of December, he crossed that river, and, having

destroyed the bridges behind him, gained a momentary respite.

To the eyes of nearly every man but the commander-in-chief, this

momentary relief seemed only an interval of additional agony between the

sentence and execution, for ultimate escape appeared impossible. The

most sanguine believed that Philadelphia would fall before the month was

out. Congress, which had been in session there, hurried off to

Baltimore. Meantime, the British, in secure possession of New Jersey,

issued a proclamation, requiring every inhabitant to lay down his arms

and take the oath of allegiance; and hundreds, who had been among the

most enthusiastic for resistance, but who now despaired of success,

hastened to purchase mercy by a timely submission. Even gentlemen high

in rank on the side of the Colonies wavered in their patriotism. The

panic was universal. The hurricane seemed about to prostrate every thing

before it.

In the gloom of this awful tempest, Washington, almost alone, stood

unappalled. Not for one moment did his constancy forsake him. He saw the

full peril of his situation; but he brought to it the resources of his

mighty genius, and the unshaken resolution of his giant soul. Never, in

any period of his life, was he greater than in this. No hint of

submission crossed his mind. “If Philadelphia falls,” he said in public,

“we must retreat to the Susquehanna, and thence, if necessary, beyond

the Alleghenies.” From the moment he had crossed the Delaware, he had

been revolving in his mind a plan to change, by one bold act, the whole

aspect of the war. The British, instead of being concentrated in some

central point, were scattered in detachments over New Jersey, a

proceeding they had adopted for the convenience of forage, believing

their enemy utterly powerless for aggressive measures. Washington

resolved to take advantage of this error, and to strike at several of

these detachments at once. He learned that fifteen hundred men,

principally Hessians, were cantoned at Trenton, and that smaller bodies

lay at Bordentown, Burlington, Mount Holly, and neighboring villages. To

cut off one or all of these from the main army was his design.

It has been said, by more than one interested writer, that this masterly

idea did not originate with Washington, but was suggested by others; and

various officers have been named as the real authors of the plan. But

the very number of the aspirants destroys the exclusive claims of each,

and strengthens the notion that the manœuvre sprung from the

commander-in-chief alone. The letters of Washington, for a fortnight

before the battle, point to the great thought he was maturing in his

mind. He was encouraged in his plan by the alacrity with which the

Pennsylvania militia, under the command of General Cadwalader, began to

turn out; and by the reflection that, unless some bold stroke was

promptly hazarded, the spirits of the people would sink into hopeless

despondency. Accordingly, he called a council of war, before which he

laid his daring scheme. As absolute secrecy was necessary to the success

of the enterprise, only the very highest officers were admitted to this

assembly, which met at the head-quarters of Gen. Knox, in Upper

Makefield, Bucks County, Pa. The house is, we believe, still standing,

an antiquated dwelling of two stories, faithfully depicted in our

engraving.

[Illustration: HEAD QUARTERS OF GEN. KNOX.

The House in which the Council of War was held previous to the Battle of

Trenton.]

Little did those who met at that council of war, though aware that

mighty results hung upon their decision, imagine a tithe of the truth.

They knew that the success or defeat of the Colonies might possibly be

involved, but they could not penetrate the future, and foresee that the

existence of the greatest and most enlightened republic that ever lived,

depended on their conclusion. To their eyes it was chiefly a question of

preserving their little army, or at most of protracting the contest into

another campaign, that they might have the benefit of whatever chances

should turn up. But in reality they were determining whether the great

problem of man’s capacity for self-government should be tested or

not—whether twenty millions of people, as we now are, or one hundred

millions, as we will be by the close of the century, should rise into

freemen, or sink into slaves. Under God, all the progress that liberty

has made since that hour, here or abroad, may be traced to the

resolution adopted in that council of war! That we are a free people;

that our wide-spread territories are filled with prosperity and

happiness; that the United States is looked to by the whole world as the

Mecca of the oppressed; and that every breeze that blows from Europe

brings sounds of falling thrones, and nations breaking the chains which

have galled them for centuries—we owe to the determination of that

little assembly to sustain their commander-in-chief. We can imagine when

the council rose, that the angel who watched over the youth of our

republic, and who had trembled for the result, clapped his hands for

joy, and that the exultant sound, taken up by messenger after messenger,

passed from hierarch to hierarch, until all heaven rang with the

acclaim.

The plan, as finally determined on, was that Washington, with the

continental troops, should cross the Delaware above Trenton, and move

down to the attack of that town; while Ewing, crossing the river below,

should make an assault simultaneously from the lower side. Meantime,

Cadwalader, with a strong detachment of militia, crossing at Bristol,

was, if possible, to carry the posts at Burlington and Mount Holly. The

night of the 25th of December was chosen for the surprise, as it was

supposed that the enemy, on that festive occasion, would be more or less

off his guard. The weather had been unusually warm for the season, and

there was no ice as yet in the river to impede the crossing. Every thing

looked promising until within forty-eighty hours of the appointed time.

Suddenly, at this crisis, the weather set in cold, so that the Delaware

became full of floating ice, which rendered navigation almost

impossible. Nevertheless, Washington determined to persist in his

enterprise. Boats had been collected for the transportation of his own

detachment, at McConkey’s Ferry, on the west side of the river, about

eight miles above Trenton. An express was sent to Cadwalader to inform

him the attempt would be made, and to command him to cross, if possible,

at Bristol.

As soon as evening came, the continentals, twenty-four hundred in

number, with a battery of twenty light field pieces, were put in motion,

and marched to the ferry. It was a wild and threatening night. The wind

howled ominously over the landscape; a few stars only were seen in the

dark and troubled sky; and the ice in the river, grinding and splitting

as the tide moved its huge masses one against another, filled the air

with foreboding sounds. In vain, for awhile, the boats struggled in the

current. Now locked in the arms of apparently immovable fields of ice,

and now in peril from floating blocks that threatened to crush them,

they were borne hither and thither, and with difficulty reached the

shore, where new dangers awaited them in cakes of the frozen material,

which pushed end-wise toward the bank, frequently overlapped and almost

engulfed them. At one time it was feared that the artillery would have

to be left behind. At last, however, after almost incredible exertions,

the little army was ferried over, but the task, instead of being

achieved at midnight, as had been intended, was not completed until

three hours afterward. During the suspense of this awful night,

Washington, who had crossed early, sat, it is said, on a bee-hive by the

shore, wrapped in his cloak, and watching the struggling boats by the

light of the few stars which broke here and there through the stormy

rack of heaven.

Two principal roads led from the landing-place to Trenton. One,

following the course of the river, entered the town at its lower

extremity; the other, called the Pennington road, made a circuit into

the interior, and struck Trenton at its upper end. Dividing his force,

Washington took the latter route with one detachment, while Sullivan,

with the other, pursued the river road. The instructions of the

commander-in-chief to the latter general were to push on until he had

reached Trenton, which he would probably be the first to do, as his

route was the shortest, and there wait until he heard firing at the

upper end of the town, when he was to attack at once. By thus assaulting

the British simultaneously on both sides, Washington hoped, in

conjunction with the surprise, to render them an easy prey.

The march had scarcely been renewed when the storm, which had been

threatening all night, burst upon the army. The snow, at first coming in

squalls, finally fell unintermittingly, accompanied occasionally with

gusts of sleet and hail. The two divisions moved in company for nearly

three miles before separating, and Sullivan, remarking that the wet

might spoil the powder, asked his chief what was to be done in that

emergency. “We must fight with the bayonet,” was Washington’s stern

reply. The tempest now rapidly deepened. The thick-falling flakes nearly

obscured the way; the cold became intense, and the wind, moaning across

the landscape, seemed to wail over the approaching ruin of America. Many

of the soldiers being scantily clothed, were soon wet through and almost

frozen. Others had no shoes, and their feet, cut by the icy road, left

at every step a mark of blood. History presents no parallel to that

eventful march. When still some distance from Trenton, two of the

Americans, exhausted and chilled, dropped from their ranks and died. Yet

still the remainder toiled on. No martial fife was there, no banner

flaunting on high, no squadrons of cavalry to guard their flanks with

triple rows of steel; but in silence, like the Spartans bound to

Thermopylæ, the little band pursued its way. The inhabitants of the

farm-houses on the route, half waking from sleep, fancied for a moment

there were strange sounds upon the breeze; but imagining that what they

heard was but the intonation of the tempest, they turned and slept

again, little thinking that the destinies of America quivered that hour

in the balance.

The anxiety of Washington, during this protracted march, rose to the

highest pitch. He was aware that if the attack failed, escape would be

impossible, with the wintry Delaware behind him. In deciding on this

bold move, he had staked not only his own life, but the existence of his

army, and with it the question of submission and independence for his

country, then and forever after. He had put every thing “at the hazard

of a die.” Yet the flight of a single deserter, the accidental discharge

of a musket, or the occurrence of any one of a dozen possible

contingencies might destroy success entirely. As the gray dawn

approached, and the vicinity of Trenton became apparent, his heart,

usually so calm, beat with terrible suspense. He rode forward to the

head of his troops. Just at this instant the outpost of the enemy loomed

up in front; a challenge was heard—a hostile answer was given, and a

musket flashed across the breaking day. Fired by the scene, and by the

mighty responsibilities of the hour, Washington rose in his stirrups,

and pointing ahead with his sword, exclaimed, in a voice husky with

emotion, but in words that will ever be immortal, “Soldiers, now or

never—this is our last chance.”

On the instant the men broke into a cheer, carried away by the

enthusiasm of the moment, and returning the volley of the retreating

guard, dashed forward in pursuit. The British kept up a desultory fire

as they fled, dodging from house to house. At their head was a young

officer, who courageously exhorted them to stand their ground, until a

ball mortally wounding him, he fell in the road, when they precipitately

retired. The Americans now saw, a little in advance, the houses of the

town; heard the alarm which was calling the British soldiery together,

and immediately after beheld the enemy endeavoring to form a battery

across King street, directly in front. Not a moment was to be lost. Six

of Knox’s pieces immediately galloped into position, and unlimbering,

opened a destructive fire down the street. When this discharge was over,

the advanced guard rushed forward, charged up to the muzzles of the

enemy’s guns, sabered some of the artillerists who were about firing,

and drove the rest away, and capturing the pieces, turned two of them on

the flying foe. This occurred near where the feeder crosses the street.

Having thus destroyed the outworks of the enemy, the successful

assailants advanced down Queen street, extending toward the left, across

the fields, so as to cut off the Hessians from retreating toward

Princeton.

Meantime, all was terror and confusion among the enemy. The night had

been one of festivity in Trenton, the soldiers being in the beer-shops

carousing, and the officers indulging in mirth. Col. Rahl had been

occupied all night in playing cards at head-quarters, a house belonging

to Mr. Stacy Potts, and still standing near the head of Greene street.

When the firing at the picket occurred, he stopped and listened. The

sleet driving against the window-pane, for a moment deceived him. But

when the rattle of the first volley came to his ears, flinging down his

cards, he rushed to the door. Here, through the misty dawn, he beheld

some Hessians running down the street toward him, with the cry that

Washington, with his entire army, was upon them. At this Rahl shouted to

arms. The drums beat. In an instant all Trenton was in a tumult. The

privates rushed from their quarters, some with, some without arms; the

officers were heard calling to the men, or seen endeavoring to form the

ranks; and the inhabitants, roused from sleep, hurried to their windows,

and looking out for an instant on the uproar, hastened to conceal

themselves in the recesses of their dwellings.

The main division of the array had scarcely unlimbered its battery in

King street, when the sound of firing from the lower extremity of the

town, announced that Sullivan had reached his position. Not three

minutes had elapsed between the time when the two divisions came into

action. The knowledge that the enemy had been surprised in front and

rear at once inspired the Americans with fresh ardor, and they charged

down the two principal streets, King and Queen, with an impetuosity that

broke through every attempt at resistance. In vain Rahl galloped to and

fro rallying his men; in vain the subordinate officers exerted

themselves; in vain the privates, ashamed to be conquered without a

blow, endeavored to make a stand;—the enthusiasm of the assailants was

irresistible, the Hessians everywhere gave way, and when Rahl soon after

fell mortally wounded, his troops broke into ignominious flight. A few

threw themselves into a stone mansion, where they were speedily forced

to surrender. The remainder fled precipitately toward the Assinpink

river, which flows along the lower end of the town. Here, some

endeavoring to swim across were drowned or frozen to death; but the

greater portion, hemmed in on one side by Washington, and on the other

by Sullivan, and finding escape hopeless, laid down their arms.

The victory was complete. The whole force of the British at Trenton fell

into the hands of Washington, except a body of 500 horse, which fled in

the direction of Bordentown early in the action. Even these, however,

would not have made good their escape, if Gen. Ewing, who was to have

crossed below, had been able to effect his purpose. The number of

prisoners actually captured was 909, of whom 23 were officers. About a

thousand stand of arms fell into the hands of the victors. This glorious

success was purchased without the loss of a man, except the two who died

on the march; and but two officers, and a few privates were wounded. The

Hessians lost 7 officers and nearly 30 men killed. As Washington rode

over the field after the conflict, he found Rahl, lying in the snow,

weltering in blood. The dying commander, supported by a file of

sergeants, tendered his sword to the victor, and in broken accents

seemed to implore clemency. The American chief, touched by the

spectacle, ordered his own physician to attend the sufferer. But medical

assistance was in vain. Rahl, on being carried back to his

head-quarters, died soon after.

The entire British army, west of Princeton, would have fallen a prey to

Washington, if Cadwalader and Ewing had been able to cross at their

respective places; but neither effecting this, the posts at Bordentown,

Burlington, and Mount Holly, escaped. Meantime, aware that the royal

generals might concentrate their forces and cut off his retreat,

Washington decided to re-cross the Delaware that very day with his

prisoners. Accordingly, before night, the captured Hessians were

transferred to Pennsylvania. The news of this great victory spread with

inconceivable swiftness; but such was the opinion of British

invincibility, that, at first, few persons could be found to believe the

tale. Aware of the general incredulity, Washington hastened to dispatch

his prisoners to Philadelphia, where, on the day succeeding the battle,

they were paraded through the streets, to the amazement, not less than

to the delight of the inhabitants. The effect of the victory on the

country was electric. The charm of British invincibility was broken

forever. Men no longer regarded the cause of the Colonies as hopeless,

but, encouraged by this decisive success, looked forward confidently to

a glorious issue. In a word, the battle of Trenton changed the wavering

into friends; made those who had been hostile, neutral; and convinced

the patriot that God was on his side, and that his country would yet be

free.

The victory struck terror to the heart of the British army. Cornwallis,

who was about to embark for Europe, abandoned his voyage in alarm, and

hurried back from New York to assume command of the troops on the

Delaware. His first step was to withdraw his forces from the exposed

points, and concentrate them at Princeton and toward New Brunswick. Nor

was this precaution idle. Washington, having recruited his troops, and

being reinforced, crossed the Delaware again on the 30th of December,

and took post at Trenton. To drive him from thence Cornwallis advanced

from Princeton, and, on the 2nd of January, 1777, assaulted the American

lines, established on the south side of the Assinpink. Three times he

endeavored to carry the bridge which separated him from his foe, and

three times he was repulsed. At last night put an end to the contest. In

the darkness, Washington abandoning his position, marched on Princeton,

intending to cut off the royal general from his communications. A battle

ensued at this place, which was scarcely decided in favor of the

Americans, when Cornwallis, hurrying up from Trenton, compelled the

victors to draw off to the high grounds in the direction of Morristown.

The British general, completely baffled, fell back to the Raritan,

abandoning all his posts on the Delaware. The result of this splendid

series of operations on the part of Washington was to deliver New Jersey

from the enemy, in the short space of ten days. Thus, when supposed to

be annihilated, the American general, like some fabled genius, had

suddenly risen up, saved Philadelphia, recovered all he had lost in the

preceding two months, and given an impetus to victory which never ceased

until the red cross of Great Britain sunk into dust on the plains of

Yorktown.

When hereafter the military genius of Washington is called in question,

let the story of Trenton be remembered. Napoleon always spoke of this

ten days’ campaign as one of the most able on record. Botta, the Italian

historian, said of it, “Achievements so astonishing gained for the

American commander a very great reputation, and were regarded with

wonder by all nations, as well as by the Americans; every one applauded

the prudence, the firmness, and the daring of Washington; all declared

him the saviour of his country; all proclaimed him _equal to the most

renowned commanders of antiquity_.”

* * * * *

THE SEMINOLES’ LAST LOOK.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

They left their country with great regret, and I do not think

they will ever be satisfied elsewhere. The men seemed moody, but

occasionally uttered sentences in their own tongue with great

feeling. The lamentations of the women Were pitiful to hear.

(_Extract from a Letter to the Secretary at War, in Relation to

the Removal of the Seminoles._)

Moonlight plays on the waters and all silently they glide,

Though swiftly by a mighty ship that swingeth in their tide,

And the gentle winds of summer are bearing from the land

In whispering tones a sad farewell to an exiled band.

The perfume of the jasmine and the magnolia flowers

Mingles with the odors borne from distant orange bowers,

The music of the mock-bird’s song they hear across the deep,

Whose glassy ripples murmuring a cadence with it keep.

They know that at the morning sun the ship will spread its wing

And like a spirit hurry them from every cherished thing,

And therefore gaze they earnestly upon their native shore,

To write upon their memory scenes they will see no more.

They gaze upon the royal palm, around whose coronet,

Mingling with the moon-beams, the sunlight lingers yet,[1]

On the live-oak, with gnarled limbs all hidden by the moss,

Whose tresses in the summer wind like pennons twine and toss.

They gaze upon the silver strand of Holy Spirit’s Bay,[2]

They see the dolphins flinging up showers of starry spray,

They hear the Halcyon’s[3] wailing voice far out upon the sea,

Mournful as if it knew their grief and wailed for sympathy.

Oh! who can tell the agony that filled the bosoms then

Of mothers with their callow babes, the breasts of stalwort men,

As in the deep and mellow tones of the Muscogee tongue

A warrior o’er his nation’s fate a lament thus begun:

Spirits of the red man’s heaven,[4]

All my fathers e’er adored,

Your might is gone, and other powers

Are monarchs of our hills and lakes,

Long ago, when yon old oaks

Were but acorns on the ground,

The Muscogee were mighty men,

And by the distant Southern Sea

Beat the island Carib back.

Far away amid the hills

Where wandered once the Cherokee

They sung their song of victory.

Streamlets born amid the hills

Roll like old San Juan,[5] at last

To lose them in the mighty sea.

And thus it is with nations, too,

Which hurry through their race and die.

The Seminoles[6] met their fate,

Fought as gallant men should fight

Whom God has made the lords of lands

As fair as were our own. ’Twas vain.

Suwannee is desert now,

’Mid the murmur of its waves

Naught but the scaly Albati[7]

Is heard, and o’er Alachawa[8]

Free and fearless bounds the deer;

No fisher’s boat skims o’er the sea

Around the island’s silver shore.

We have lost our fathers’ home,

Silently around their hearths,

More lonely now than are their graves,

Dim shadows stalk, and ask the gods

Whither have their children fled.

Hither will the white man come

To herd his cattle in the glades

Where happy villages once stood,

And strew the ground he rests upon

With mighty trees, which all who breathe

Remember ever to have been

The giant stocks which now they are.

Warriors should brave and bear

Grief a woman trembles at,

But when they leave their native shore

In fetters thus, the sternest hearts

Will melt, and e’en a soldier’s eye

Weep tears of bitter agony.

He ceased, and scarcely had the winds his accents borne away,

Than spoke out a young mother, on whose breast an infant lay;

Her very voice was melody, and she sung her boy to sleep

In tones whose earnest accent moved the listener to weep.

My boy! my boy! thy father

Is gone to the spirit-land,

Where the pale-face cannot come,

To dwell with the kindred band

Of all the stout old chieftains

Who ruled our race of yore,

And hunted ’neath the dark pines

We shall gaze upon no more.

He sat within his wigwam,

And thou wert on his knee,

When first the rattle of the drum

Rolled through our forests free;

But he lies in the hammock

With his face toward the stars,

And wounds all red and gory

In his breast, ’mid older scars.

He did not die a coward,

For oft his rifle rang,

And twice amid the foemen

The loud scalp-song he sang.

And when the death-shot struck him,

’Twas from no ignoble hand,

But came from e’en the bravest

Of all the hostile band.

I knew thou wert a chieftain,

And amid my grief and pain

I strove to train thee up to win

Me vengeance for the slain.

But now our might is broken,

And we must leave his grave

For a land lying far away

Beyond the western wave.

There thou may’st be happy—

A wife as firm and true

As I was to thy father

Thy hunter’s bed may strew;

But I will not see thee

In thy father’s place, my son,

Proudly wearing at thy knee

Trophies thou hast won.

There thou may’st be happy

As here our people were,

For it is a pleasant land,

They call this scarce as fair.

More blesséd than thy father,

Thou may’st see thy children men,

March with them to battle-fields

And lead them home again.

But I feel my heart is breaking,

And in a little time

I shall return where he is

Beneath the shadowy pine;

Yet if you wear the eagle plume

I will see it, though unseen,

And bless the new land in the west

With its plains of living green.

Her woman wail was over, and silently they stood,

Until the deepening shadows hid the forest and the flood,

Then sunk they sadly on the deck, their breasts bereft of hope,

And the vessel bore them onward like an eagle in its scope.

NOTES.

[1] This is not an unusual sight in Florida, where there is no twilight,

and the eastern portion of the horizon becomes dark immediately after

sunset. I remember once at Boca-Sornsota seeing the sun and moon’s light

both distinctly marked on the crest of the huge palm which all who

served at that post will recall.

[2] Tampa Bay was called by the Spanish discoverers _La Bahia del

Espiritu Santo_.

[3] Halcyons—loons (?)

[4] I may for aught I know violate in this Indian song all the

regulations of metre and rhythm. I have however adopted the octosyllabic

line with consonance, because it seemed to me not unlike the wild

_motive_ of the Indian chaunt.

[5] San Juan, the great outlet of Lake George, is pronounced _San Wan_.

[6] The Seminole were of the Muscogee race, and sometimes called

themselves by the latter name.

[7] _Albati_ is the Muscogee name of the alligator.

[8] Alachica, a great prairie north of the Suwannee, and pronounced

_Alachawa_.

* * * * *

MR. MERRITT AND HIS FAMILY;

OR LENDING A NAME.

BY FRANK SUMMERS.

CHAPTER I.

AN EVENING AT HOME.

Mr. Merritt was seated by the centre-table in the back-parlor, as was

his custom of an evening after the tea things had been cleared away, and

around it were clustered his little family. His wife and daughter Emma,

a blooming maiden of sixteen, were busy with their needles, and George,

his only son, was diligently conning a lesson for the morrow, while a

little cherub slept quietly in a willow cradle at the feet of the

mother. Mr. Merritt was a home man, and he loved the quiet happiness

which always dwelt there far better than the noisy revels of the club or

the bar-room. Ah! were there more home husbands, how many firesides that

have never known a smile would be lit up in brightness and sunshine! How

many hearts now lone and desolate, would be made glad!

It was a winter evening, and the fire burned cheerily in the back parlor

of the snug dwelling where lived Mr. Merritt. It was a New England home,

and when we have said this, as much of comfort hath been conveyed as if

a page had been devoted to the description.

Mr. Merritt was reading from the last Gazette one of those glowing

paragraphs, in which the West was painted as a land flowing with milk

and honey; _the_ El Dorado where struggling poverty might riot in

exhaustless riches; where broad acres of wealth could be purchased for a

song; and, in short, where all the romantic visions of the most ardent

adventurer would be eclipsed by the surpassing reality. Mr. Merritt had

read articles of a similar tenor before; first, with indifference, but

latterly with strong interest. He was becoming a little infected with

the epidemic, which had already carried off several of his

acquaintances, and being now suddenly involved in pecuniary

difficulties, was almost persuaded to follow. As he laid down the

newspaper he turned to his wife.

“Well, wife, what say you to going West in the spring? You know that my

payments for Warden will oblige me to sell a part of my little property

to meet them; would it not be better to dispose of the whole, and

purchase a farm in Illinois, where, if the half that is told be true, we

would be able to live comfortably and provide something handsome for our

children.”

Mrs. Merritt glanced around the little group, and a tear trembled in her

eye as it rested on the cradle. She was thinking of the tales she had

heard, how sickness and death had smitten the hopes of fond parents who

had emigrated to new countries, and how, before they had accumulated

with much toil and privation, wherewithal to satisfy their desires, the

climate had left for their children no wants, save a coffin and a grave.

But she brushed the tear secretly away.

“Are you really serious,” said Mrs. Merritt, at length, “in wishing to

give up New England forever?”

“Not exactly in wishing it, my dear,” returned Mr. Merritt, “but what is

now a matter of choice may, ere long, be necessity. True, it would cost

a severe trial to separate from the friends whom we have so long known

and loved, and to exchange the delights of their society for a

wilderness, but _we_ would be together still.”

“And we are all the world to each other,” exclaimed his wife, forgetting

her sadness for a moment, in the devotion which, twenty years after

marriage, was rather strengthened than subdued.

“You leave Emma and me out of the question altogether, mother,” said

little George, who, though apparently absorbed in his book, had been

listening all the while.

“No, my love, you are both very dear to your parents;” and she bent over

him and kissed his brow, the very image of his father’s.

“Forgive me, mother, I was only jesting,” returned George, quite

grieved, yet wondering why his mother should have taken it so seriously.

“Are we surely going to live in Illinois, mother?” continued George,

after a pause, “among the prairies and all? O how glad I shall be; I do

want to see a prairie.”

“Why, George, don’t you care about leaving your schoolmates and

playfellows?” asked his sister reproachfully.

“Oh, yes! I forgot, I shall be very sorry. I shall be sorrier though for

poor William Warden. He will be so grieved when he hears that Emma is

going away, and he will never see her any more.”

“Hush! young chatterbox,” retorted his sister, at the same time

administering him a gentle admonition with her thimbled finger, and

blushing scarlet.

The infant sleeper happened to wake up at this juncture, and made sundry

noisy intimations from the cradle; otherwise Mrs. Merritt might have

noticed the sudden expression of pain that passed over her husband’s

features, at what George had said concerning William Warden.

As for Miss Emma, she hurried to the cradle on the first demonstration,

and became completely wrapt in a lullaby, which she sung as earnestly as

though George had made no revelation, and William Warden was all a

fable.

Mr. Merritt resumed his newspaper, and George his lesson.