adobes. In front of this cottage was a little garden filled with bright
flowers, and fenced in by a close wall of the octagonal columns of
nopal. Outside of the little garden grew the giant maguey planted
closely in rows, and running alongside pathways which led to other
cottages similar to the one above mentioned. Such pathways form the
lanes and streets of a Mexican-Indian village.
Over the cottage door is a little awning or shade formed by two or three
poles and the broad leaves of the royal palm, and under this awning are
seated the sisters Remedios and Dolores.
They have been silent for some time, each busily engaged with her work,
which consists in weaving the beautiful palm-baskets, that meet with
such ready sale in the piazza. Dolores is no doubt thinking upon the
profits which her work will yield, and how she will rejoice the heart of
her old and helpless father, who has no other support. Dolores is the
old man’s favorite, and returns his parental fondness with a heart full
of filial love.
The thoughts of Remedios are dwelling upon a far different object, and
two or three times she has become so absent as to make strange mistakes
in her work. Presently the fibre of palm which she has been weaving
becomes entangled, and suddenly breaks.
“What are you doing, Remedios?” asks her sister. Then adds with a
somewhat malicious laugh, “Thinking of Don Santiago! But come, sister,
see better to your work, or we will not have our baskets ready for
to-morrow’s market, and then how you would be disappointed!”
Remedios blushed, but made no other reply to the pleasantry of her
sister.
Dolores looked in her face, and noticing the blush, said in a more
serious tone,
“Ah, Remedios! if Pepe only knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Of Don Santiago.”
“And if he did?” exclaimed the elder sister, while her dark eyes flashed
with indignation, “what is Pepe to me. I never loved him, and I never
told him I did—he has no right to me more than another!”
At this moment a footstep reached the ears of the sisters, causing them
to start and look up.
A young man of rather a forbidding appearance was coming up between the
rows of magueys. He was dressed in the costume of an ordinary peasant,
but the short carbine which he carried over his shoulder, and the belt
and pouch slung across his breast, betokened that he was one of the
enrolled guerillus, whose head-quarters were for the time in the village
of Cholula.
The young man entered through the opening of the nopal fence, and
striking the butt of his piece to the ground, stopped in front of the
cottage, saluting the sisters with the usual exclamation for that hour
“_buenos tardes!_” (good evening.)
The salutation was returned by both the sisters; but in such a manner by
the elder, as showed that she felt a coldness, or rather a repugnance
toward the object of it.
Pepe (the name of the intruder,) noticed this, and glared upon her with
a scowl which bespoke a strange blending of fierce love with jealous
anger. It was evident that he was now before them with some sinister
design, and the sisters sat without speaking, but both trembling under
the influence of his evil eye.
“So, Remedios, I have found out the reason why you rejected me so
scornfully, but I will be revenged.”
“What mean you, Pepe?” asked the girl in a conciliatory tone.
“You know what I mean. I have heard and know well, too, of your partings
on the road by the garita. I have been told all—but trust me you will
take no more of these affectionate farewells, for this night I will have
my revenge. We have laid our plans, and this night your Yankee lover
will die—and if by to-morrow at noon you have not promised to be mine,
you may dread the vengeance of my comrades, for they shall know all.
“Remember, to-morrow I return.”
So saying, the guerilla flung his carbine over his shoulder, and with an
angry look strode from the cottage.
The young girls watched for a moment in silence his retreating form.
When he had passed from their sight Remedios bent toward her sister, and
in a half whisper asked,
“What does he mean when he says that he must die to night? Do you think
he has some plot laid to assassinate Don Santiago?”
“No, to-night they are to attack the picket at the garita. You know that
this is the day of Don Santiago’s guard. I overheard one of the
guerillus talk of their plan as I came from the church.”
All that night Remedios was unhappy. She slept but little, thinking of
the threat which had been uttered by the jealous Pepe, and with painful
suspense she awaited the approach of day.
At an early hour the sisters, with their basket filled with the work of
yesterday, and a profusion of beautiful flowers, started for Puebla.
Shortly after leaving the village they met an Indian woman coming from
the direction of the city, driving an ass. This woman informed the
sisters that there had been a severe skirmish near the garita between
the guerillus and the guard, in which the former had been defeated and
scattered. The guard had got information by some means of the intended
attack, and had sent to Puebla for a reinforcement of mounted men, which
had arrived just in time and by a circuitous route, and had attacked the
guerillus in the rear, so that only a few of them escaped from either
death or capture.
The sisters had scarcely bid adieu to the Indian woman, when on reaching
a turn in the road they came upon one of the guerillus, seated upon a
stone.
A handkerchief was bound around his head—his face, pale and haggard,
was spotted with blood, and there was a look of wild revenge in his eye
as he recognized the approach of the two girls.
They were at first alarmed on perceiving whom they had encountered, for
it was Pepe who was before them, but when they saw that the guerilla was
wounded, and apparently suffering, in the true spirit of womanly
compassion both the young girls ran up to him and inquired what they
could do to assist him.
This appeared for a moment to soften the bitter spirit of the wounded
man, and in a manner of more tenderness than he usually exhibited, he
requested one of them to bring him a draught of water, while the other
rebound the handkerchief upon his wound.
The elder sister immediately ran to fulfill his request, while Dolores
remained alone with the guerilla.
She unbound the handkerchief with tender care, and had commenced
readjusting it, when the sudden trampling of horses’ hoofs was heard,
and before the wounded man had time to escape, half a dozen rangers came
galloping up the road.
The guerilla had seized his carbine, and was making for the chapparal,
when one of his pursuers called at him to halt and they would spare him.
Seeing the impossibility of escape, the man turned suddenly round and
doggedly approached the party of rangers, who had halted upon the road.
At this moment Remedios returned, and recognizing one of the rangers,
with an exclamation of delight called out—
“Don Santiago!”
“Ha!” cried the guerilla, “it is he!” And throwing up his carbine he
fired at the young ranger, who had leaped from his horse, and was
approaching the girl.
The ball took effect, passing through the fleshy part of the ranger’s
arm. The shock, brought him to the ground, and the wild laugh of the
guerilla told that he believed his vengeance had been complete.
The quick successive reports of half a dozen rifles for a moment drowned
this laugh, and when they ceased it was heard no more. He that had
uttered it lay by the road a bleeding corpse.
* * * * *
LINES
TO MRS. G. R. GRAHAM.
BY R. T. CONRAD.
May not, in this sweet season, my meek prayer
Rise near thine own? It is a prayer for thee,
Gentle and pure, affectionate and fair,
God guard thee ever! and around thee be
Blessings like rays! Thine is a heart to throw
A noble reflex from a manly mate,
To give his loftiest pulse a loftier glow,
And shed o’er all his path a purer fate.
Gentle as thou art may thy summers be!
Sweet as thy voice and gentle as thy smile!
And hopes that know no winter give to thee
All that is sweetest, surest! all that, while
The clouded earth obscures, has power to light
The soul upon that path that never knows a night.
* * * * *
SPEAK KINDLY.
BY KATE SUTHERLAND.
“Gracious, girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Lindley, thrown suddenly off of her
guard, and turning, with a frown, upon a young lady who had accidentally
trodden upon her dress as she was almost forced down the stairs of the
Musical Fund Hall, at the breaking up of a crowded concert.
“I am sorry, ma’am,” said the young lady, gently; “it was entirely an
accident.”
“People ought to look where they put their feet!” muttered Mrs. Lindley,
frowning another reproof upon the blushing girl; and then, with a
dignified toss of the head, resuming her march down the stairs, letting
the crowd, that had been momentarily checked in its downward tendency,
move on again more freely.
“I should call that a poor specimen of a refined lady,” remarked the
gentleman upon whose arm the girl so rudely addressed was leaning, as
they gained the street. “I hope we shall not find her a representative
of Philadelphia good breeding.”
“Oh, no! I presume not,” was the answer. “New York has plenty just like
her; and I would be very sorry if strangers were to estimate all by the
standard they afford.”
“Very true! How weak and foolish it is,” remarked the young man, “for
people to lose temper at every trifle. If the person who gave us so fine
a specimen of amiability to-night, has any right feelings about her, she
was not ten steps from the door of the concert-room before a feeling of
shame took the place of anger. But, whether this be so or not, I would
much rather have your feelings than hers on the occasion.”
“So would I. And yet an incident like this cannot but disturb the
feelings. To be spoken to insultingly, in the midst of strangers, is far
from being pleasant.”
“It is. But no one suffers in the estimation of those who happen to be
present when such things occur, but the individual who so far outrages
all good breeding as to resent a trifling accident with ill nature.”
“True. And yet I feel hurt about the incident which has just transpired.
It leaves a weight upon my feelings, that such thoughts as you suggest
will not throw off. My self-love is perhaps wounded. In other words, I
feel insulted.”
“And you have reason to feel so, for you were insulted.”
“Still, I must not permit myself to think unkindly of the person who so
far lost her self-control as to wound my feelings. She may be a woman of
many good qualities, yet hasty in her temper. This may have only been
the exhibition of a prominent weakness, and she may now be suffering
severe mortification in consequence.”
“More probably she is, at this present moment, animadverting upon the
rudeness of people in public assemblies—herself of course not
included.”
“Don’t think so unkindly of any one. Rather look at the brighter side.”
“I’m not as charitable as you are. People show us, in unguarded moments,
the true features of their character. Judging from the glance we had
to-night, I should pronounce the individual who got into such a pet for
a trifle, to be no lady, notwithstanding she was well dressed and seemed
to be in good company. A true lady is one who thinks of others more than
of herself, when she is in society; and—one who does this is never
thrown off of her guard—never speaks unkindly to others—never insults
those who happen, by accident, to step upon a corner of her dress.”
The subject of this conversation was a Mrs. Lindley. The remarks her
conduct elicited from the companion of the young lady who had, by
stepping upon her dress, caused her to lose her temper, were rather
severe. But few of her intimate friends, had they heard them, could
possibly have believed that she was meant, for they only knew her as a
lady of polished and amiable manners. But Mrs. Lindley had her
weaknesses. She was naturally of a hasty temper, though her regard for
the good opinion of others caused her to keep it under control while in
society, and her reason prompted her to put a check upon it, under all
circumstances. Still, occasions would come when she would forget
herself.
On the occasion of her attending the concert at the Musical Fund Hall,
she wore a new and elegant dress. The fabric was very delicate, as was
also the color. In descending the stairs, at the close of the concert,
she felt herself suddenly drawn back, and on turning around quickly, saw
that a young woman, a stranger, had stepped upon this dress. Her first
thought was, that it was both torn and soiled, and the exclamation,
“Gracious, girl!” dropped from her lips as an expression of surprise at
the carelessness of the strangers. The annoyance she felt prevented her
from accepting the apology that was instantly offered, and caused her to
reject it in the ungracious manner we have seen. But a few minutes only
elapsed before a better state of mind came, and then she was deeply
mortified at her unlady-like conduct, and would have given almost
anything could she have recalled the hasty words that had fallen from
her lips.
“It will be a lesson to me,” she said to herself, as she sat brooding
over the incident, after her return home that evening. “I am too apt to
speak from the impulse of the moment, and too prone to speak unkindly on
slight provocation.”
On the next day, Mrs. Lindley received a letter from a very particular
friend in New York, in which was mentioned the fact that a highly
accomplished young lady, belonging to one of the best families in the
city, was then on a visit to Philadelphia.
“Miss Herbert,” said the letter, “is a sweet girl, and I number her
among my choicest friends. I have frequently spoken to her of you, and
she has expressed a wish to make your acquaintance. She will remain at
Jones’s Hotel for a week. Will you not call upon her, and show her some
attentions, for my sake? I know you will like her very much; she is the
favorite of every one. Among all my friends here, I know of no one to
whom I am more attached. She is so kind, so gentle, so unselfish, so
wise for one of her age. Make her acquaintance, by all means.”
“For your sake, if for no other, I will do so,” said Mrs. Lindley, as
she closed the letter. “And as Miss Herbert is only going to spend a few
days in Philadelphia, I will call upon her at once.”
And so Mrs. Lindley dressed herself that very morning, and called at
Jones’s, to see her friend’s particular friend. She found her quite a
young lady, simple in her style of dressing, slightly reserved at first,
yet easy in her manners. Five minutes had passed before Mrs. Lindley was
entirely at home with her.
“When did you arrive in our city?” inquired Mrs. Lindley, soon after
they met.
“I came on day before yesterday,” was replied.
“Will your stay be short?”
“I shall leave in a few days, for the South, where I intend spending the
winter.”
“My friend, Mrs. D—— is, I suppose, very well?”
“Oh, yes! I never saw her look better in my life She speaks of you very
often, and promises herself great pleasure from your contemplated visit
to New York.”
“Not more than I do myself. She is a lovely-minded woman.”
“She is, truly, and the favorite of every circle wherein she moves.”
“There is something familiar in your face, Miss Herbert,” said Mrs.
Lindley, during a slight pause in the conversation, looking earnestly at
the young lady as she spoke. “It seems as if we must have met before.”
“And your face made the same impression upon me,” returned Miss Herbert,
smiling.
“This is a little singular, is it not?” remarked Mrs. Lindley. “We never
met before, and yet both recognize something familiar.”
“At first thought it seems so. But it is a fact, that we rarely, if
ever, see a new face which has not in it something familiar.”
“True. But the likeness belongs to a class, and generally has in itself
a peculiarity essentially its own, that marks its individuality. Not
such a likeness do I see in your face. It seems to me as if we must have
met before.”
“And I cannot get away from the same impression, in regard to you,” said
Miss Herbert.
“It is a little singular,” returned Mrs. Lindley, sinking for a few
moments into a musing state.
“Have you been out much since you arrived in the city?” she inquired, as
she came out of this slight abstraction of mind.
“I have been around a good deal, for the short time I have been here.
Last night I attended the concert at your fine Musical Fund Hall. For
musical purposes, it is one of the best rooms I have ever been in.”
“Were you pleased with the concert?” inquired Mrs. Lindley—her thoughts
reverting, as she spoke, to the unpleasant incident we have mentioned,
and a vague, yet deeply mortifying suspicion, stealing through her mind.
Her eyes, which were upon the face of Miss Herbert, drooped, and a
slight flush warmed her cheeks.
“Very much pleased with the concert,” replied the young lady, “but not
quite so well pleased with some of the people who were there.”
“Ah! What displeased you in the people?”
“I should have spoken rather in the singular number,” said Miss Herbert,
smiling. “At the close of the concert, and while descending the steps, I
was so unfortunate as to tread upon the dress of a lady, who became
offended thereat, and spoke to me, I thought, with extreme rudeness. I
felt hurt at the moment, but soon got over it.”
Mrs. Lindley tried to look calmly at the young lady, while she spoke,
and to assume an expression of countenance different from her real
feelings. But the effort was not entirely successful. Miss Herbert saw
that there was a change, and, for a few moments, wondered at its
meaning. Then the truth flashed upon her mind, and she understood why
the face of Mrs. Lindley was so familiar. She had met her before, and
she remembered where!
To both, this was a painful and an embarrassing discovery. But each felt
that self-possession, and a seeming unconsciousness of the mortifying
fact was of all things necessary. As quickly as Mrs. Lindley was sure
that she could command her voice, she said—
“I am sorry that any one should have so far forgotten what was due from
a lady as to utter an unkind word to a stranger, in a public assembly,
and on so slight a provocation. But you must try and forgive the
indignity.”
“That I have already done,” said Miss Herbert, making every effort in
her power to seem unconcerned. “I know that the very best people may
sometimes, in a moment of weakness, be thrown off of their guard, and
say or do things entirely at variance with their real character, and for
which, afterward, they feel the sincerest regret.”
“It is best always,” replied Mrs. Lindley, whose feelings no one need
envy, “to judge thus kindly of others, even under marked provocation.
But I cannot so readily excuse the person who, from so slight a cause,
could be led into a gross violation of one of the commonest proprieties
of life. Ah, me! How watchful we should all be, for we cannot tell at
what moment we may be thrown off of our guard, and say or do something
that will cost us unavailing regret.”
This was as much as Mrs. Lindley felt that she dared say upon the
subject; and, as Miss Herbert’s reply did not lead to its continuance,
the theme of conversation took another direction.
During the young lady’s stay in Philadelphia, Mrs. Lindley paid her
every attention; but never in her presence did she feel at ease, for she
had an instinctive assurance that she was known to Miss Herbert, as the
person who had offered her, on slight provocation, a most gross
indignity.
For all the kindness and attention of Mrs. Lindley to Miss Herbert,
during her brief stay in Philadelphia, the latter could not forget the
night of the concert. Reason the matter as she would, she could not
force from her mind the natural conclusion that, when off their guard,
people spoke as they felt. The anger of Mrs. Lindley’s voice, her
impatient and insulting language, and particularly the expression of her
face, were constantly presenting themselves to her mind.
“She may be a woman of many excellent qualities,” she said to herself,
as she mused upon the unpleasant incident connected with their first
meeting; “but I would not choose her as an intimate friend.”
On her return from the South, Miss Herbert passed through Philadelphia
without calling upon Mrs. Lindley. She thought of doing so, and even
debated the matter seriously, but the repugnance she felt prevented a
renewal of the acquaintance. Reason with herself as she would,
afterward, she found it impossible to think well of Mrs. Lindley, and
though she has been in Philadelphia frequently since, has not visited
her. Yet, for all this, Mrs. Lindley is a woman of excellent qualities,
and much beloved among all her friends. In a moment of weakness she was
thrown off of her guard, and betrayed into the utterance of unkind
words; and that single phase of her character, presented to the eyes of
a stranger, made an unfavorable impression that could not afterward be
effaced.
* * * * *
MARIE.
BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.
When we bore thee to thy grave, Marie,
The flowers were springing fair,
And violets, like azure gems,
Were scattered every where.
The blossoms of the trees, Marie,
In perfumed showers fell fast,
The incense of their dying breath
Each light breeze floated past.
For the sweet spring-tide had come, Marie,
When we laid thee to thy rest,
With the lily and forget-me-not,
And the rose-bud on thy breast.
These were thy favorite flowers, beloved,
And our tears fell on them, then,
For we thought that nevermore with thee
Should we gather them again.
Soft clouds were in the sky, Marie,
Soft summer-clouds were they,
They wept a few bright drops for thee,
So early passed away.
They floated swiftly by, beloved,
Half sunshine, and half tears,
Like the checkered light and shade of life,
In thine own vanished years.
The ever-wandering winds, Marie,
That went and came at will,
Brought whispered tones of love from thee,
As thou wert with us still.
And I almost saw thy seraph form
Hovering above us there,
And felt thy spirit-wing, beloved,
Fanning the viewless air.
We stood around thy grave, Marie,
Where thy gentle form was laid;
It is a pleasant place of rest
Beneath the greenwood shade;
The wind-flower blooms there earliest,
When the earth wakes from her sleep,
But the spring will come and go, beloved,
Nor break thy slumber deep.
Our tears fall fast for thee, Marie,
Young mother and young wife,
But not thine infant’s pleading tones
Could call thee back to life;
The soft smile lingered on thy lip,
Lending its quiet grace,
And the dark fringe of thy snowy lids
Shadowed thy pale, calm face.
We knew ’twas but thy form, Marie,
We placed beneath the mould,
We knew thy spirit laid it off
As a garment’s cumbrous fold.
But beautiful to us, beloved,
Had thy spirit’s dwelling been,
And ’twas hard to see the cold, cold grave
So darkly close it in.
Thou art nearer to us now, Marie,
Thy vision is more clear,
Thou speakest with a seraph’s voice
In that celestial sphere.
Oh, pray the Lord of Life, beloved,
That unto us be given,
To cheer the darkness of our path,
Some glimpses of thy heaven.
* * * * *
LOVE, DUTY AND HOPE.
BY ENNA DUVAL.
“Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend—
Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
For this the passion to excess was driven—
That self might be annulled: her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.”
“What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering.
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.”
—WORDSWORTH.
There is a romance and interest in the simple unadorned recital of any
woman’s life, no matter how confined may have been her sphere of action.
When I look around a circle of elderly ladies, whose countenances, so
quiet and calm, tell the victory they have gained over “the weary strife
of frail humanity.” I think, ye were once young and full of hope, love
and enthusiasm, and ye have passed through scenes of romance
unconsciously. Each wrinkle, each line on their aged faces seem
glorified to me, for they are records of woman’s trials—evidences of
the earnest struggle of each fond, enduring woman’s heart.