following retainer, they swept like a whirlwind down the hill, shouting
their war-cry, “Garonne—a St. Denis and Garonne!” the panic-struck
crowd opening to the right and to the left before them. In vain the
soldiery who guarded the victim attempted to resist the rush of the
assailants. They might as well have withstood the ocean surges in their
might. The shock of the horsemen was irresistible. Foremost among them,
cleaving his way like a giant, rode the Count himself, his tall figure
and powerful charger rendering him conspicuous over all. Nothing could
resist him. He seemed like an avenging spirit come to the aid of the
suffering victim, nor were those wanting who saw in the sudden
appearance of the rescuers, and their indomitable courage, proofs of
supernatural agency. A universal panic seized on the crowd. Soldiers as
well as populace broke and fled. In a few minutes the Count had gained
the stake, when, springing from his steed, he rushed forward, and, with
one blow of his huge sword, had severed the chain which bound the victim
to the stake.
“Oh! Henri!” hysterically said the rescued girl, as she sprang forward
and fell fainting into her lover’s arms.
“Zillah! God be praised that you are safe. Curses on the villains. She
faints. Ho, there! water, you knaves, or I cleave you to the chine.”
But the maiden had only fainted from excess of joy, and when
restoratives were applied, she speedily recovered.
Our story is done. The terror of the populace; the humble apologies of
the magistracy; the merited punishment of the perjured publican; and the
speedy union of the Count and the converted princess—are they not all
written in the chronicles of the noble house of Garonne?
* * * * *
WOMAN’S DOWER.
BY L. J. PIERSON.
She sat, oppress’d with cruel care,
And bow’d with agonizing pain,
And the cold sceptre of despair
Lay where her dearest hopes had lain;
And bitter drops, from Marah’s spring,
Bedew’d the pale rose on her cheek,
And fierce disease was torturing
Her vitals with a vulture’s beak:
And taunting words were in her ears—
“Thou first in sin! Frail cause of all
The cares and toils that waste our years,
The pangs that change our joys to gall;
Thou gav’st the sceptre unto Death!
Thy hand unbarr’d the insatiate tomb,
And wak’d and arm’d the fiery wrath
That deals the sinner’s final doom!”
She rais’d her meek wet eyes to Heaven,
And all her pray’r was one long sigh;
It told how deep her heart was riven,
And won an angel from on high.
“Daughter! thy lot is hard to bear,”
The spirit said, with healing tone,
“Submission, agony, and care,
Endur’d in silence and alone:
These are thy lot, and Mercy’s power
May not reverse the just decree;
Yet have I brought a priceless dower,
A gem from God’s own crown, to thee.
Hide the rich jewel in thy breast,
Deep in thy bosom’s holiest bow’r:
Its warmth and light shall make thee blest,
E’en in thy darkest, loneliest hour.
Its light shall throw around thy form
An atmosphere of joy and peace,
And fill thy home with radiance warm—
A glowing flood of magic bliss.
When thy young heart to man is given,
And the white bride-rose wreathes thy brow,
This live coal from the fires of Heaven
Shall with ecstatic rapture glow;
And when thy new-born infant lies
In helpless beauty on thy breast,
Thy heart shall thrill with ecstacies
Sweet as the transports of the blest.
This living beam of perfect love—
Pure love, that lives without return:
This sparkle from the bliss above—
Forever in thy soul shall burn.
Not all the fiends of earth shall wrench
This treasure from thy heart away,
Nor all the waves of sorrow quench,
Within thy soul, the deathless ray.
Life’s dearest tie may prove a chain,
And gall thy heart through weary years;
Thy hopes maternal may prove vain,
And sink beneath a flood of tears;
And haggard cares may round thee crowd—
Yet this rich gift shall light thy gloom,
And throw a rainbow on the cloud
That darkens o’er thy dear one’s tomb.”
Yes, _perfect_ love is woman’s dower,
Her brightest charm, her richest gem,
Her shield from every cruel power,
Her sceptre, and her diadem.
Let her beware, lest earth-born fires
Touch the pure altar where it glows:
Dim the pure light with low desires,
And sink her soul in torturing woes.
* * * * *
LOVERS’ QUARRELS.
BY PERCIE H. SELTON.
“Mary!” said the low voice of Henry Ashton. The maiden looked up.
“Mary! I have much to tell you—will you listen to me awhile, only for a
moment!” and he spoke fast and eagerly.
“A moment only, you say—well, I suppose I must,—but what a beautiful
butterfly is that. Oh! the dear, sweet, tiny thing; do, pray, try and
catch it for me.”
Ashton was stung to the heart. He had been on the point of declaring his
long-cherished passion for Mary Derwentwater, and he felt that she knew,
not only the depth of his affection, but that the words trembling on his
lips were an avowal of his love. Her light-heartedness at once changed
the whole current of his feelings. Often had he heard others say that
his beautiful cousin was a coquette, and more than once had she trifled
with his own feelings. He had hoped that her conduct was the result only
of a momentary whim, but this last act displayed a confirmed
heartlessness of which an hour before he would not have deemed her
capable. He sighed, and was silent.
“Oh! dear, how ungallant you are,” continued his cousin, “the beautiful
creature will really escape, and I do so love butterflies.”
“It is gone.”
“So it is. I shall never forgive you. Don’t ask me to,” said Mary
affectedly.
“Then we must part without it,” said Henry carelessly. “I leave here
to-morrow, and shall visit Europe before I return. It may be years—it
may be forever that I shall be absent.”
“Why—Harry—you jest,” said his companion, struggling to appear
composed, although she felt how cold and pale her cheek had grown. “I
never heard of this before. You are not in earnest,” and she laid her
soft white hand—that hand, whose touch made every nerve of Ashton
thrill—on her lover’s arm, looking up into his face with her dark, and
now melting eye. But the chord had been stretched until it had snapped,
and her influence over Ashton was gone. He half averted his head, as he
answered coldly,—
“I do not jest, especially with a friend.”
The tone, the emphasis, the manner, all stung the pride of Mary. She
felt that his censure was just, and yet she spurned it. Her hand fell
from his arm, and emulating his own coldness, she said,—
“Then I will not ask you to stay. But as it is late, and you will have
your preparations to make, I will not intrude on your time,” and
curtesying, she withdrew.
“And this is the being in whom I had garnered up all my heart’s best
affections,” exclaimed Ashton, when he found himself alone. “This the
divinity I have adored with a fervor no mortal bosom ever yet felt, and
she could talk, heartlessly talk of the merest trifle, when she saw that
my whole heart was bound up in her. Oh! would we had never met. But my
delusion is over. I will fly. Mary! Mary! little did I dream that my
love would meet with such a return.”
Mary hurried to her chamber, and locking the door, she flung herself
upon the bed, and burst into a flood of tears. How bitterly she
reproached herself that her momentary coquetry had lost her the love of
the only being for whom she cared. She did not disguise from herself her
affection; she could scarcely tell why she had yielded to the impulse of
that fatal moment; but she felt that she had lost irretrievably the
esteem and the affections of her cousin. She would have given worlds to
have recalled the last hour. Even now she might, by seeking him, and
throwing herself at his feet, perhaps, regain his love. She rose to do
so. But when her hand was on the lock she thought that he might spurn
her. She hesitated. In another moment her pride had regained the
mastery.
“No—I cannot—I dare not. He will turn away from me. He will despise
me. Oh! that I had never, never said those idle words,” and flinging
herself again on the bed, she wept long and bitterly.
Mary appeared that evening at the supper table, but in the cold and
averted looks of Ashton, she saw only new causes for pride. The evening
passed off heavily. As the time came for retiring, Henry approached her
to bid her farewell. She thought her heart would burst her boddice, but
commanding her emotion by a violent effort, she returned his adieu as
calmly as it was given.
And they parted, both in seeming carelessness, but one at least in
agony.
Henry Ashton had known his lovely cousin scarcely two years, but during
that time, she had been to him a divinity. Never, in his wildest dreams,
had he imagined a countenance more surpassingly beautiful than hers, and
to her, accordingly, he had given his heart, with a devotion which had
become a part of his nature. But much as he adored his cousin, he was
not wholly blind to her faults. He saw that she loved admiration, and he
feared she was too much of a flirt. Yet his love had gone on increasing,
and, he fancied, not without a return. Led on by his hopes, he had,
during a temporary visit at her father’s house, seized an opportunity to
declare his passion, but how the half breathed avowal was checked, we
will not recapitulate. Need we wonder at his sudden resolution to fly
from her presence, and, by placing the ocean between them, to eradicate
a passion for one whom he now felt to be unworthy of him? Few men could
be more energetic than Ashton. In less than a week, he had sailed for
Europe.
Oh! how Mary wept his departure! A thousand times she was on the point
of writing to recall him, but her pride as often prevented the act. She
hoped he might yet return. Surely—she said—he who had once loved her
so deeply, and who must have known that his affection was returned,
would not leave her forever. Hour after hour she would sit watching the
gate for his return, and hour after hour she experienced all the
bitterness of disappointment. When, at length, she read in the newspaper
that he had really sailed, she gave one long, loud shriek, and fell
senseless to the floor. A fever, that ensued, brought her to the very
brink of the grave.
Ashton went forth upon the world an altered, almost a misanthropic man.
His hopes were withered: his first dream of love had vanished: he felt
as if there was nothing for him to live for in this world. His mind
became almost diseased. He loathed society, then he veered to the other
extreme, and craved after excitement. He sought relief in travel. He
crossed the steppes of Tartary—he traversed the deserts of Arabia—he
lived among the weird and ruined monuments of Egypt,—and for years he
wandered, a stranger to civilization, seeking only one thing—_to
forget_. He never inquired after America. His family were all dead, and
he wished never to think of Mary. Like the fabled victim, in the olden
legend, he spent years in the vain search after that Lethe whose waters
are reserved for death alone. He found it not.
And Mary, too, was changed. She rose from that bed of sickness an
altered being. Never had she known the full depth of her affection until
the moment when she found herself deserted. The shock almost destroyed
her; and though she recovered after a long and weary sickness, it was to
discard all her old habits, and to assume a quieter—yet, oh! how far
more beautiful demeanor than in her days of unmitigated joy. She felt
that Henry was lost to her forever, yet she derived a melancholy
pleasure in living as if the eye of her absent lover was upon her. She
directed her whole conduct so as to meet his approbation. Alas! he was
far away: she had not heard from him for years; perhaps, too, he might
be no more; then why this constant reference of all she did to his
standard of excellence? It was her deep abiding love which did it all.
Four years had passed when Ashton found himself again in America, and
sitting, after dinner, with one of his most intimate friends, at the
table of the —— hotel. For some time the bottle passed in silence. At
length his companion spoke.
“You have not seen Mary Derwentwater yet—have you, Harry?”
Ashton answered calmly, with a forced effort, in the negative.
“You must not positively delay it. Do you know how beautiful she has
grown?—far more beautiful than when you went away, although then you
thought her surpassingly lovely.” He paused.
“I have not heard from the family for years,” said Ashton at length,
feeling that his companion expected some reply.
“Then you know nothing of her?—push us some of the almonds—why, my
dear fellow, she is irresistible. But she is different from what she
used to be; her beauty is softer, though not so showy, and whereas she
once would flirt a little—mind, only a little, for she is a great
favorite of mine—she now goes by the name of the cold beauty. A married
man, like myself, can speak thus warmly, you know, without fear of
having his heart called in as the bribe of his head. And do you know
that my wife suspects you of having worked the reformation?”—Ashton
started, and was almost thrown off his guard—“for it began immediately
after a long illness, that happened a few weeks after you sailed.”
Ashton was completely bewildered. He had now for the first time heard of
Mary’s sickness. His eye wandered from that of his companion, and he
felt his cheek flushing in despite of himself. He covered his
embarrassment, however, by rising. His companion continued,
“And now, Harry, let us stroll down Broadway, for, to tell the truth, I
promised my wife to bring you home with me. Besides, Mary is there, and
I’ve no doubt,” he continued, jocularly, “you are dying to meet her.”
Ashton could not answer; but he followed his friend into the street,
conscious that Mary and he must meet, and feeling that the sooner it was
done the better. His companion, during their walk, ran on in his usual
gay style, but Harry scarcely heard a word that was said. His thoughts
were full of his cousin. Had she indeed become cold to all other men
from love to himself? Strange and yet delicious thoughts whirled through
his mind, and he woke only from his abstraction on finding himself in
Seacourt’s drawing-room, and in the presence of his cousin.
Mary was on a visit to Mrs. Seacourt, and did not know of Ashton’s
intended coming until a few minutes before he made his appearance.
Devotedly as she loved her cousin, she would have given worlds to escape
the interview; but retreat was impossible, without exposing the long
treasured secret of her heart. She nerved herself, accordingly, for the
meeting, and succeeded in assuming a sufficiently composed demeanor to
greet her cousin without betraying her agitation. He exchanged the
common compliments of the occasion with her, and then took a seat by
Mrs. Seacourt, who had been one of his old friends. Mary felt the
neglect; she saw he did not love her. That night she wept bitter tears
of anguish.
“And yet I cannot blame him. Oh, no!” she exclaimed, “it is all my own
fault. He once loved me, and I heartlessly flung that affection from me
which I would give worlds now to win. But I must dry these tears; I must
not betray myself. We shall meet daily, for he cannot help coming here,
and to shorten my visit would lead to suspicions. I must therefore
school myself to disguise the secret of my heart.”
And Ashton did come daily, and although his conversation was chiefly
devoted to Mrs. Seacourt, he neither seemed to seek nor to avoid his
cousin. Now and then he found himself deep in a conversation with her,
and he thought of old times. But the memory of their last interview came
across him at such moments like a blight.
“How wonderfully Ashton has improved since his travels,” said Mrs.
Seacourt one morning, as she and Mary sat _tête-à-tête_, sewing; “and do
you know,” continued she, looking archly at her companion, “that I deem
myself indebted to you for his charming visits.”
Mary felt the blood mounting to her brow, and she stooped to pick out a
stitch.
“Oh! you are always jesting, Anne; you know it is not so.”
“We shall see. I prophesy that this afternoon, when we go to the
exhibition, he will escort you, and leave Miss Thornbury to Seacourt’s
nephew.”
Mary’s heart beat so she could scarcely answer, but she managed to
reply,
“Don’t, my dear Mrs. Seacourt, don’t tease one this way. You know,
indeed you know, Ashton cares nothing for me,” and she felt how great a
relief would have been a flood of tears, could she have indulged in
them.
Mrs. Seacourt smiled archly, and said no more.
The afternoon came. The little company were assembled in the
drawing-room. Ashton entered just as the last moment had come, and when
the ladies were rising to go. Mary was almost hidden in one corner, so
fearful was she of attracting the raillery of Mrs. Seacourt, by placing
herself near the entrance, and in Ashton’s way. Her very sensitiveness
produced the effect she wished to avoid. The gentlemen naturally sought
partners nearest them, and for a moment she was left almost alone. She
thought she would have fainted when she saw her cousin cross the room
and offer to be her escort.
They proceeded to the exhibition. For the first time for years, Ashton’s
arm upheld that of Mary. At first both were embarrassed; but each made
an effort, and they soon glided into conversation on indifferent
subjects. What a relief it was to Mary that night, to think she had been
alone, as it were, with her cousin without being treated with neglect.
From that day the visits of Ashton to Mrs. Seacourt’s increased in
frequency, yet there was nothing marked in his attentions to Mary.
Indeed, he still continued to converse chiefly with his friend’s wife,
though he did not openly avoid her guest. Mary grew more and more
tremblingly alive to his presence, and at times, when she would detect
his eye bent on her, half sadly, half abstractedly, her heart would
flutter wildly, and a delicious hope would momently shoot across her
mind; but soon to fade as quickly.
One morning, Ashton entered the drawing-room, and found her alone. She
was untangling a skein of silk. She arose, and said, with some
embarrassment,
“Mrs. Seacourt is up stairs; I will ring for her.”
“Not for the world, if she is in any way engaged. I can await her
pleasure.”
There was a silence of some minutes. Mary could scarcely breathe: she
knew not what to say. Her fingers refused to perform their duty, and her
skein of silk became more and more entangled.
“Shall I help you?” said Ashton, approaching her. “My patience used to
be a proverb with you.”
Mary could not trust herself to answer, for her fingers were actually
trembling with agitation. She felt she could have sunk into the floor.
She proffered the silk without looking up. Ashton took hold of one end
while she retained the other. Neither spoke; but Mary’s bosom heaved
tumultuously, while Ashton felt his heart in his throat. At length, in
mutually untangling the skein, their hands met. The touch thrilled them
like lightning. Ashton almost unconsciously retained the hand of his
cousin in his own. She trembled violently.
“Mary!” he said.
She looked half doubtingly, half timidly up.
“Mary, we love each other—do we not?”
There was no answer, but as he pressed the fingers lying passively in
his grasp, the pressure was gently returned, and, bursting into tears,
his cousin fell upon his bosom.
And Ashton and Mary have been wedded for years, but their honey-moon
still continues, for they have not yet quarrelled.
* * * * *
THE PRECIPICE.
There is a rock whose craggy brow
Hangs beetling o’er the wave below,
Adown whose sheer descent the eye,
When twilight’s gloom is gath’ring nigh,
Will gaze, but vainly, to descry
The sullen waves that wash beneath,
As endless and as dark as death.
You see no tide—you scarcely hear—
You only feel a nameless fear;
The night-bird, sailing slowly by,
Dares not his melancholy cry:
Dares scarcely flap his lazy wing:
Dares not behold this fearful thing—
But far beneath, will upward soar,
To cross the dread abyss no more.
H. J. V.
* * * * *
THE MISTAKEN CHOICE;
OR, THREE YEARS OF MARRIED LIFE.
BY EMMA C. EMBURY.
“So you are really going to be married, Charles?”
“Yes, uncle; and I hope you will agree with me in thinking that I have
made a very prudent choice.”
“That remains to be seen yet,” said Mr. Waterton. “In the first place,
who is the lady?”
“Miss Laura Tarleton.”
“I know her _name_ well enough, for you have scarcely uttered any other
one these six weeks,” was the crusty reply; “but I want to know
something of her family.”
“Her father was a southern merchant, and died four or five years since,
leaving only two daughters to inherit his large estate; one of these
daughters married about two years since, and is now in Europe; the other
I hope to introduce to your affections as my wife.”
“Has she no mother?”
“Her mother died while she was yet very young.”
“Where was she educated?”
“At the fashionable boarding-school of Madame Finesse, and I can assure
you no expense has been spared in her education.”
“I dare say not: these new-fangled establishments for the manufacture of
man-traps, don’t usually spare expense. How old is your intended wife?”
“Just nineteen.”
“Where has she lived since she left school, for I suppose she was
‘_finished_,’ as they style it, some years since?”
“She has resided lately at the Astor House, under the protection of a
relative who boards there.”
“Then she cannot know much about housekeeping.”
“I dare say not,” replied Charles, with a slight feeling of vexation,
“but all that knowledge comes by practice, uncle.”
“If her time has been divided between a boarding school and a hotel,
where is she to learn any thing about it?”
“Oh, women seem to have an intuitive knowledge of such things.”
“You are mistaken, boy,” said the old man, “if a girl has been brought
up in a good home, and sees a regular system of housekeeping constantly
pursued, she will become unconsciously familiar with its details, even
though she may not then put such knowledge in practice; the consequence
will be that when she is the mistress of a house, her memory will assist
her judgment—a quality, by the way, not too common in girls of
nineteen. But how is a poor thing who has seen nothing but the
_skimble-skamble_ of a school-household or the clockwork regularity of a
great hotel, to know any of the machinery by which the comfort of a home
is obtained and secured?”
“Oh I am not afraid to trust to Laura,” replied Charles with animation,
“she is young, good-tempered, and, I believe, loves me; so I have every
security for the future. When there’s a will there’s always a way.”
“True, true, Charles, and I only hope your wife may have the will to
find the right way; what is her fortune?”
“Reports vary respecting the amount—some say eighty, others, one
hundred thousand dollars.”
“Don’t _you know_ any thing about it?”
“I know that her fortune is very considerable, especially for a poor
devil like me, who can barely clear two thousand a year by business,”
answered Charles, with some irritation.
“When your father married, Charles, he was master of only three hundred
dollars in the world.”
“That may be, and the consequence was that my father’s son has been
obliged to work like a dog all his life.”
“The very best thing that could have happened to you, my dear boy.”
“How do you make that out? For my part, I see nothing very desirable in
poverty.”
“Nor do I, Charles; poverty is certainly an evil, but it is an evil to
which you have never been exposed; competence was the reward of your
father’s industry and he was thus enabled to bestow a good education and
good habits upon his son. The limited range of your own experience will
convince you of the danger of great riches. Who are the persons in our
great city most notorious for vice and folly? Who are the horse-jockies,
the gamblers, the rowdies, and the fools of high life? Why, they are the
sons of our rich men, and how can we expect better things from those who
from their very childhood are pampered in idleness and luxury. I know
you will tell me there are exceptions to this sweeping censure, and this
I am willing to allow, for there are some minds which even the influence
of wealth cannot injure; but how few are they, compared with the number
of those who are ruined in their very infancy by the possession of
riches. Depend upon it, Charles, that learning, industry, and virtue
form the best inheritance which any man can derive from his ancestors.”
“It is a pity the world would not think so, uncle.”