ACT V.

In the first scene of this act the _apparent_ and the _real_ are

inexplicably mingled together. Lady Macbeth “receives, at once, the

benefit of sleep, and does the effects of watching,” which the doctor

pronounces “a great perturbation in nature.” Her eyes are open, but

their _sense_ is shut; and she _seems_ to wash her hands. Though she is

now under the dominion of an awakened conscience, the _formality_ of her

nature still displays itself. “Fie, my lord, fie!” she exclaims, “a

soldier, and afeard? _What need we fear who knows it, when none can call

our power to account?_” The Doctor, however, is cautious about drawing

conclusions even from _such_ appearances, and remarks that he has known

those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their

beds. The reader will readily perceive other illustrations of the theme

in this scene, in which for the first time Lady Macbeth appears stripped

of the mask of ceremony. We are permitted to see the workings of her

mind, and the beating of her heart, when her conscience is emancipated

from the control of her formal habits and her stern will.

The next scene, which is a very short one, contains several allusions to

the _unsubstantial_ nature of Macbeth’s power.

Those he commands move only in command,

Nothing in love, etc.

In the 3d Scene Macbeth still relies on the promises of the weird

sisters. He interprets the _look_ of the “cream-faced loon” as

indicative of alarming news; and then falls into that memorable train of

reflection on his “way of life,” and the _emptiness_ of all his

honors—which everybody knows by heart and can at once apply to the

theme. In his answer to the Doctor, who tells him of Lady Macbeth’s

“thick-coming fancies,” the remedies he proposes, are, it will be

observed, adapted to the _unsubstantial_ character of the disease; the

troubles of the brain are to be “razed out,” and the stuffed bosom

cleansed with “some sweet oblivious antidote.” On the other hand, when

he asks the Doctor to “scour the English hence,” he suggests the use of

rhubarb, or senna, which, indeed, at first sight, strikes one as very

_appropriate_ remedies.

In the 4th Scene, the soldiers are made to hew down boughs in Birnam

wood, in order to conceal their numbers; thus giving a _literal_

construction to the language of the weird sisters.

Scene 5th. Macbeth now trusts to the strength of his castle, and

_proclaims_ his confidence by ordering his banners to be hung on the

outward walls. When he hears the cry of women, he comments on the

_effect of custom_.

I have almost forgot the taste of fears.

. . . . . . .

Direness, _familiar_ to my slaughterous thoughts,

Can not once start.

When told of the queen’s death, he says it is _unseasonable_: “she

should have died hereafter;” and his reflections on life have the same

relation to the theme as those on his “way of life” in Scene 3d.

It is a tale

Told by an idiot, _full of sound and fury_,

_Signifying nothing_.

He is now told that Birnam wood is coming to Dunsinane; and the rock on

which he has heretofore stood so firmly begins to crumble beneath his

feet. He begins to pall in resolution, and to “doubt the equivocation of

the fiend, that _lies like truth_.”

Scene 6th contains less than a dozen lines. The soldiers throw away

their leafy screens, and show their true strength.

In the next and last scene the remaining promise of the weird sisters is

literally kept to the ear, but “broken to the hope”—for it turns out

that Macduff was _not_ of woman born. The force of professional habit

appears in old Siward’s conduct on hearing of the death of his son. “Had

he his hurts before?” he asks; and, being satisfied on that point,

ceases to mourn for him. Finally, _ceremony_ is employed by Malcolm in

rewarding _substantial merit_; his thanes and kinsmen are created earls;

and all other proper forms observed “in measure, time, and place.”

The reader will readily perceive that different aspects of the theme

predominate in the several stages of the play; and if these stages seem

somewhat irregular, it must be borne in mind that the present division

into acts and scenes was not the work of Shakspeare, but of his editors.

In Macbeth we see a perpetual conflict between the _real_ nature of man,

and the _assumed_ character of the usurper. He is “full o’ the milk of

human kindness;” loves truth and sincerity; and sets a high value on the

good opinions and the sincere friendship of others. But he is also

ambitious; he is urged forward by the demoniac spirit of his wife, and

entangled in the snare of the weird sisters. Under these influences he

endeavors to play the part of a remorseless tyrant; but his kindlier

nature is constantly breaking out; and though he strives so hard to

maintain his _assumed_ character, that he at length refuses to “scan”

his deeds until they have been “acted,” yet we find him in the height of

his power mournfully regretting his own blood-guiltiness, and the

_hollow-heartedness_ of all around him.

But there is nothing of this _spirituality_ in the character of Lady

Macbeth. Her ambition is satisfied with the _name_ of queen, and she

cares not whether the obedience of her followers is constrained or

voluntary, whether their love is feigned or real. Remorse has no power

over her except when she is asleep; and even old Shylock—whose whole

character, as has been well said, is a _dead letter_—might, perhaps,

betray similar emotions, if one could see him thus off his guard.

If the reader of this play should ever be tempted to the commission of

crime for the sake of ambition, let him remember the air-drawn dagger,

and the ghost of Banquo; if in danger of being seduced by the specious

appearance of vice, let him remember the equivocation of the fiends; if

lured by the hope that success will gild o’er the offense and “trammel

up the consequence,” let him think of Macbeth’s withered heart after he

had won the crown and sceptre; and finally, if he imagine that he can so

school his passions and harden his nature that remorse will have no

power over him, let him contemplate Lady Macbeth walking in her sleep.

Whereever he turns, he will find, in all the incidents of this play, the

same great lesson, that “the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth

life.”

* * * * *

ODE.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

The days are growing chill, the Summer stands

Drooping, like Niobe with clasped hands,

Mute o’er the faded flowers, her children lost,

Slain by the arrows of the early frost!

The clouded Heaven above is pale and gray,

The misty Earth below is wan and drear,

And baying Winds chase all the leaves away,

As cruel hounds pursue the trembling deer,

And in the nipping morns, the ice around,

Lieth like Autumn’s gage defiant on the ground!

My heart is sick within me, I have toiled

In iron poverty and hopeless tears,

Tugging in fetters at the oar for years;

And wrestling in the ring of Life have soiled

My robes with dust, and strained my sinews sore;

I have no strength to struggle any more!

And what if I should perish?—none would miss

So strange a dreamer in a world like this—

Whate’er our beauty, worth, or loving powers,

We live, we strive, we die, and are forgot;

We are no more regarded than the flowers;

And death and darkness is our destined lot!

One bud from off the tree of Earth is naught,

One crude fruit from the ripening bough of Thought,

The hinds will ne’er lament, in harvest-time,

The bud, the fruit that fell and wasted in its prime!

Away with Action! ’tis the ban of Time,

The curse that clung to us from Eden’s gate;

We toil, and strain and tug from youth’s fair prime,

And drag a chain for years, a weary weight!

Away with Action and Laborious Life;

They were not made for man,

In Nature’s plan,

For man is made for quiet, not for strife.

The pearl is shaped serenely in its shell

In the still waters of the ocean deep;

The buried seed begins to pulp and swell

In Earth’s warm bosom in profoundest sleep;

And, sweeter far than all, the bridal rose

Flushes to fullness in a soft repose.

Let others gather honey in the world,

And hoard it in their cells until they die;

I am content in dreaminess to lie,

Sipping, in summer hours,

My wants from fading flowers,

An Epicurean till my wings are furled!

What happy hours! what happy, happy days

I spent when I was young, a careless boy;

Oblivious of the world—its wo or joy—

I lived for song, and dreamed of budding bays!

I thought when I was dead, if not before—

(I hoped before!)—to have a noble name

To leave my eager foot-prints on the shore

And rear my statue in the halls of Fame!—

I pondered o’er the Poets dead of old,

Their memories living in the minds of men;—

I knew they were but men of mortal mould,

They won their crowns, and I might win again.

I drank delicious vintage from their pages,

Flasks of Parnassian nectar, stored for ages;

My soul was flushed within me, maddened, fired,

I leaped impassioned, like a seer inspired;

I lived, and would have died for Poesy,

In youth’s divine emotion—

A stream that sought its ocean;

A Time that longed to be

Engulfed, and swallowed in a calm Eternity!

Had I a realm in some enchanted zone,

Some fadeless summer-land, I’d dwell alone,

Far from the little world, luxurious, free,

And woo the dainty damsel Poesy!

I’d loll on downy couches all the day,

And dream the heavy-wingéd hours away:

Reading my antique books, or framing songs,

Whose choiceness to an earlier age belongs,

Or else a loving maid, in gentle fear,

Would steal to me, from her pavilion near,

And kneel before me with a cup of wine,

Three centuries old, and I would sip and taste,

With long-delaying lips a draught divine;

And, peering o’er the brim in her blue eyes

Slow-misting, and voluptuous, she would rise,

And stoop to me, and I would clasp her waist,

And kiss her mouth, and shake her hanging curls—

And in her coy despite undo her zone of pearls!

Oh, Poesy! my spirits crownéd queen,

I would that thou couldst in the flesh be seen

The shape of perfect loveliness thou art

Enshrined within the chambers of my heart!

I would build thee a palace, richer far

Than princely Aladeen’s renowned of old;

Its walls and columns of the massiest gold,

And every gem encrusting it a star!

Thy throne should be an Alp, o’ercanopied

With rainbows, and a shielded Moon o’erhead;

Thy coffers should o’erflow, and mock the Ind,

Whose boasted wealth would dwindle into naught

The rich-ored driftings of the streams of Thought

Washed lucidly from cloven peaks of Mind!—

And I would bring to thee the daintiest things

That grow beneath the summer of thy wings;—

Wine from the Grecian vineyards, pressed with care,

Brimming in cups antique, and goblets rare,

And sweeter honey than the singing bees

Of Helios ever gathered on the leas

Olympian, distilled from asphodels,

Whose lucent nectar truckles from their cells!

And luscious fruitage of enchanted trees,

The peerless apples of the Hesperides,

Stolen by Fancy from the guardant Fates,

Served, by a Nubian slave, on golden plates!

And I would hang around thee day and night,

Nor ever heed, or know the night from day;

If Time had wings, I should not see his flight,

Or feel his shadow in my sunny way!

Forgetful of the world, I’d stand apart,

And gaze on thee unseen, and touch my lute,

Sweet-voiced, a type and image of my heart,

Whose trembling chords will never more be mute;

And Joy and Grief would mingle in my theme,

A swan and shadow floating down a stream!

And when thou didst in soft disdain, or mirth,

Descend thy throne and walk the common earth,

I would, in brave array, precede thee round,

With pomp and pageantry and music sweet,

And spread my shining mantle on the ground,

For fear the dust should soil thy golden-sandaled feet!

Away! away! the days are dim and cold,

The withered flowers are crumbling in the mould,

The Heaven is gray and blank, the Earth is drear,

And fallen leaves are heaped on Summer’s bier!

Sweet songs are out of place, however sweet,

When all things else are wrapt in funeral gloom,

True Poets never pipe to dancing feet,

But only elegies around a tomb!

Away with fancy now, the Year demands

A sterner chaplet, and a deeper lay,

A wreath of cypress woven with pious hands,

A dirge for its decay!

* * * * *

LINES IN MEMORY OF MY LOST CHILD.

BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

My child! my dear, lost child! a father’s heart,

Touched by the holy wand of memory,

Would in this hour of loneliness and gloom,

When not a sound is borne upon the air,

And not a star is visible in heaven,

Hold sweet communion with thy soul.

My boy!

Thou wast most beautiful. I never looked

On thee but with a heart of pride. Thy curls

Fell o’er a brow of angel-loveliness,

And thy dark eyes, dark as the midnight cloud,

And soft as twilight waters, flashed and glowed

In strange, wild beauty, yet thy tears were far

More frequent than thy smiles—thy wail of pain

Came oftener on our hearts than thy dear cry

Of infant joyousness. Thy few brief months

Were months of suffering; ay, thy cup of life

Was bitter, bitter, but thou wast not doomed

To drain it, for a God of mercy soon

Let it pass from thee.

Oh! how well, my child,

Do I remember that all mournful day,

When thy young mother bore thy wasting form,

With breaking heart and streaming eyes, afar,

In the vain hope to save the dear young life

To which the tendrils of her own were bound.

With one wild pressure of thy little form

To my sad bosom, with a frantic kiss

Upon thy pallid lips, and a hot tear

Wrung from a burning brain, I said farewell—

Alas! my child, I never saw thee more.

In a strange land, far from thy own dear home,

But with the holy ministries of love

Around thy couch, thy little being passed,

Like the sweet perfume of a bright young rose,

To mingle with the skies from whence it came.

Oh! in that hour, my child, thy lost of earth,

Did not a thought of thy poor father’s love

Soften the anguish of thy parting soul,

And were not thy dear little arms outstretched

To meet his fond caress!

Thou sleepest, child,

Where the Missouri rolls its wild, dark waves,

And I have never gazed upon thy grave.

No tears of deep affection ever blend

With the soft dews and gentle rains that fall

Upon the turf that lies above thy breast;

But, oh! the spot is hallowed. There the Spring,

The bright Spring, yearly throws her loveliest wreaths

Of buds and blossoms—there, at morn and eve,

The viewless spirit of the zephyr breathes

Its holiest whispers in the springing grass

As if communing with thee—there the birds

Glance through the air like winged souls, and pour

Their sweet, unearthly melodies—and there

At the soft twilight hour young angels come

To hover o’er the spot on silver wings,

And mark it with their shining foot-prints.

Thou

Art gone, my child—a sweet and holy bud

Is shaken from the rose-tree of our hopes;

But yet we should not mourn. ’Tis joy to know

That thou hast gone in thy young innocence

And purity and beauty from a dark,

Ungentle world, where many snares beset

The path of manhood. Ay, ’tis joy to know

That the Eolian lyre of thy young soul

Gives out its music in the Eden clime,

Unvisited by earth’s cold, bitter winds,

Its poison-dews, its fogs, its winter rains,

Its tempests and its lightnings.

My sweet child,

Thou art no more a blossom of the earth,

But, oh! the thought of thee is yet a spell

On our sad spirits. ’Tis a lovely flower

On memory’s lonely stream, a holy star

In retrospection’s sky, a rainbow-gleam

Upon the tempest-clouds of life. Our hearts,

Our stricken hearts, lean to thee, love, and thus

They lean to heaven, for thou art there. Yes, thou

And thy young sister are in heaven, while we

Are lingering on the earth’s cold desert. Come,

Ye two sweet cherubs of God’s Paradise,

Who wander side by side, and hand in hand,

Among the Amaranthine flowers that bloom

Beside the living waters—come, oh come,

Sometimes upon your bright and snowy wings,

In the deep watches of the silent night,

And breathe into our souls the holy words

That ye have heard the angels speak in heaven.

* * * * *

PEDRO DE PADILH.

BY J. M. LEGARE.

(_Continued from page 97._)

Spain, and Tercera. }

AD. 1583. }

If the weekly mails brought me the Spirit of the Times instead of the

Literary World, or in other words, I inclined to a sporting habit of

speech, I would “lay an even wager” that not one of Graham’s readers has

formed a correct idea of the personal appearance of Hilo de Ladron, from

the foregoing account of that unscrupulous young gentleman’s

proceedings. I say nothing of his morals, but refer merely to the

harmony between features and character which Nature tries hard, and

generally with success, to maintain, and which constitutes the main prop

of the science of physiognomy. But no lawgiver allows more frequent

exceptions to established rules than Nature; and thus, instead of being

slouchy and red-haired, or big-whiskered and ferocious, Señor de Ladron,

seated on the bows of one of De Chaste’s caravels, full sail for

Tercera, belied his ill-name by the delicate beauty of his face and

person. I use the word beauty, because his straight features, smooth

skin and well-shaped hands, were feminine properties not usually looked

for in male attire, and in company such as the owner was keeping. The

French men-at-arms were well enough, but I would not fancy sleeping a

night in the room with the thick-set Walloon standing next; people with

such faces, coarse, crafty about the eyes and treacherous at the

mouth—by the way, his laugh, always of an evil sort, was twofold, from

a seam in the upper lip reaching half-way up the cheek, and exposing the

teeth and gums at every contraction of the muscles thereabouts—should

be called by names to correspond, and this man’s, Wolfang, showed

remarkable foresight in his parents or sponsors. This face, which had

not its duplicate any where in ill-looks, would be recognizable as that

of an old acquaintance, if muffling, and false-hair and whiskers,

frequently changed while begging an alms of Doña Hermosa, had not

destroyed all identity with his natural features as now seen, for

Wolfang was one with the free-captain who lived at the expense of that

estimable if injudicious lady, until Don Peter turned him loose upon the

world again. It was reasonable, under the circumstances, he should bear

no great love for the truth-loving knight, and it was probably this

feeling in common, accidentally communicated, which had first drawn Hilo

and himself together. Don Hilo having inherited most of his father’s

hate to the latter’s half-brother; not that he could lay claim to much

personal cause for antipathy, having seen Sir Pedro but twice in his

life, and one of those when little more than an infant, but it came

quite easy to this chip-of-the-block to bear malice. With some grains of

redeeming quality, it must be allowed, for he was not wanting in that

sort of curious courtesy, common to all Spaniards I believe, which makes

taking off his hat with a _buènos nòches_ imperative on the very man who

carries his hand from his sombrero to his dagger, to plunge the last

under your shoulder blade the moment your back is turned. Friendship, in

its usual acceptation, had little to do with the league existing between

these worthies, and no small amount of self-interest must have been

requisite to keep two such sweet dispositions from open rupture;

however, they contrived to get along well enough, by each playing a part

designed to dupe the other, although, with less success perhaps than the

self esteem of each caused him to imagine. Capt. Carlo, ready, cunning

in counsel, and cringing like a tiger ready to seize his keeper’s hand

in his jaws, but fearing the short Roman sword in its clutch, followed

the guidance of his junior, half through a brute instinct of

inferiority, of which he himself was ignorant, and half for the

furtherance of certain plans of his own, which will appear at intervals

upon the surface of this narrative; but on the whole the pair were not

ill-matched, their main characteristics uniting harmoniously enough, by

a rule which more resembles dove-tailing in carpentry, than welding in

iron-work, the joint being tight and fast so long as force is applied in

one way, but easily dislocated by a lateral blow. Thus Wolfang scoffed

at every thing holy or otherwise, seldom neglected a chance of shedding

blood, when not withheld by manifest interest or personal risk; for the

fellow was a coward in the depth of his heart, just as any other savage

beast is, frightened by a parasol flirted in a child’s hand, but leaping

unhesitatingly upon an unwary man, and in his thirst for gain, played

any part however vile by which a _maravedi_ might be dishonestly got.

Don Hilo, to give the scapegrace his due, was murderous only in the heat

of passion, and somewhat overawed his profane comrade by the resolute

devotion he chose to entertain for certain saints in succession, it

being a freak of his to hold in disgrace or honor, as the case might be,

the celestial patron invoked prior to his last piece of rascality.

Moreover the lad had the indefinable sense of pride, much as he lacked

cause, which, I verily believe, constitutes the third element of Spanish

blood and gives a dignified fold even to the dirty serape of the Mexican

half-breed; and this pride kept his fingers from small pilferings if not

from wholesale swindling; a turn of virtue which must have afforded high

satisfaction to a certain alert fosterer of little errors, who has never

been slow to avail himself of the like since the time of Adam and Eden.

Even in general quickness of temper there was difference in kind, that

of Capt. Carlo settling commonly into a smouldering fire incapable of

being extinguished by any kindness whatever, and blown by the breath of

opportunity into an instant flame; while Hilo’s, on the contrary, more

dangerous and violent at its outbreak, was often succeeded by a reckless

sort of recompense for injury done, which showed the boy had something

of a soul left in his handsome carcase; but I am constrained to say as a

set-off to this tolerable trait, it was only when the hurt or insult was

avenged to his mind, a better spirit possessed him, for, if baffled at

first, the aggriever had need to do as Bruce did, lose his trail in a

running water.

I like to gossip confidentially now and then about matters which

indirectly affect my characters, and so don’t mind mentioning a

circumstance or two occurring in the early acquaintance of Capt. Carlo

and Señor De Ladron, not noticed by historians of the time. The captain,

it seems, after relinquishing in a highly praiseworthy manner, his

annuity drawn from the unconscious countess, when no longer able to

retain it, betook himself to the capital, where, falling in with the

señor, the two soon came to understand each other’s projects, so far as

it was good for either to do. Hilo made no secret of his hate for Doña

Viola, whom he regarded as an incumbrance and interloper, but for whom

he would long since have received an estate of more doubloons’ worth

than he had ever possessed cobrès. The joint sagacity of the fathers and

their notaries having been exhausted in drawing up a contract so

stringent that nothing short of total forfeiture of the twin estates to

the benefit of one of the infant parties, could release the other. No

one knew what bond of union existed between the worse than dissolute

half-brother of Sir Pedro, and so honorable a knight as Inique, but the

contract stood fast on parchment, and the admirable wisdom of its

conditions was shown in due season, when Viola, living at ease in her

father’s house, grew up with a love amounting to mania for the handsome

cavalier she regarded as her rightful husband, and whose vices she knew

little of, until any thing like a just estimate of their enormity had

become impossible to her biased mind. On the other side, Hilo, cursing

in his heart Inique and his worthy father as founders of the scheme

which his magnificent pride prevented his profiting by, even with the

temptation of a twofold fortune attached, because it took the form of

compulsory action in an affair it suited his humor to decide for

himself, ransacked his brain to drive into outraged vindication of her

woman’s dignity the innocent girl who stood between him and his claim.

The poor little thing, without proper guidance or information in her own

concerns, surmised nothing of the true state of the case, but

affectionate and trustful to a fault, continued to love the young roué,

long after his dislike found stronger expression than in words, with a

docile patience and hopefulness for his reform, capable of touching any

heart less villainous at the core. For the girl was no fool, I would

have it clearly understood, weak as her affection for this Hilo might

argue her; error in judgment, to which we are all subject, not

necessarily indicating habitual silliness, least of all in one

circumstanced as Doña Viola. This helpless child our worthy pair found

it to their mutual interest to persecute, or fancied it so, and played

very readily into each other’s hands; for Capt. Carlo had got it into

his ugly head that such a prize (he was thinking of her money) was

fitter for a manly-looking fellow like himself, with a beard to rub a

soft cheek against, than for a stick of a lad whose weakly mustache

broke the back-bone of the oaths he swore through it.

This was the wording of the meditation which occupied Don Wolfang’s

brain while on his way to make himself known to his intended wife; not

that Hilo would have refused his friend an introduction, he would have

been only too gratified to present a Hottentot, if by so doing he could

have caused her a pang of shame; but the captain, acting with unusual

caution, chose to be independent of his hot-headed associate, perhaps

fearing the latter might insist upon more than his legal share of the

spoils, or from a natural aversion to working, except in the dark.

Whatever his reasons, its cool impudence tempts me from my resolution of

only hinting at these villainies, to give some account of the

proceeding.

One night the house of Doña Viola was attacked by a gang of robbers,

who, having no fear of police before their eyes in Philip the Second’s

time, seemed every moment on the point of breaking in. Within was

neither garrison nor protector worth the name, for the virtuous duenna,

who was the young lady’s present guardian and companion, only rocked

herself to and fro in a garment more snowy than becoming, and lamented

her hard (approaching) fate with such heartfelt _ay-de-mì’s_, that it

was evident nothing but the hope of ultimate rescue prevented her false

hair (in which, for better self-deception, she slept) being plucked out

by the roots. Moreover, the butler was busied in secreting the family

plate, and a few little properties of his own, and the men-servants,

with Spanish devotion, found occupation enough in quieting the maids and

supplicating the saints; no doubt they would have fought, too, the race

being noted for pluck—but there was no one to lead them on. At this

opportune moment, who should appear before the terror-stricken ladies

but Capt. Wolfang Carlo, all ruffles, ribbon-knots and rings, like a gay

cavalier returning from some late merry-making, flying sword-in-hand to

the rescue of besieged innocence. How he got in was a mystery; I suppose

by dint of valor, for, as the number of the assailants was diminished by

one on his entrance, it is more than likely one at least of the robbers

was run through the body by this paladin, and the breach the former made

turned to account by the latter.

When the party outside had been routed, which was accomplished

immediately on the captain’s sallying forth at the head of the revived

household,

“Sir,” said Doña Viola, to the disinterested hero who stood regarding

her with a smile, as one should say, “look at me! Danger cannot shake my

nerves: I am quite in my clement in it; it is just such a protector you

need,” but which reminded for all that of the supple waving of a cat’s

tail just before the animal springs. “Sir, if my father, Don Augustino,

were present, he would know better how to thank you than I.”

“Oh,” interrupted her deliverer, with more truth than was common in his

speech, and bowing low, partly because he designed to be exceedingly

polite, and partly to hide his rectangular grin, “I am delighted to find

he is not, Doña Viola.”

“I understand your noble motives, señor, and by your calling me by name,

you probably know Señor Inique also.”

“Intimately,” said the unblushing vagabond; “we were comrades in arms

against the Moors in the last war; and but that my mother’s being a

Portuguese induces a reasonable distaste to waging war on one’s own

kindred, we would have been lying side by side in Portugal, at this very

hour. We disagree, perhaps, in this little matter, but there is no

ill-feeling between us; and you may imagine, señora, the haste I made to

snatch my distinguished friend’s daughter from such pressing danger.”

“Señor,” cried the lady at this, simply, “the house and all it contains

is yours. (Capt. Carlo wished it was.) Command me; you have only to make

known your wishes.”

Saying this, she left the room to order refreshments for her guest. Don

Wolfang, in high feather at his success, and looking upon a part of the

Doña’s property as his own in right of salvage, which saved any scruples

arising in his tender conscience, pocketed a few valuables lying about,

and assumed the bearing of a Rico, occupying four chairs with his burly

person, for the better, that is, more truthful enactment of the

character in hand. In which easy attitude he lolled until the tray, with

its choice eatables, arrived; and it was while on the point of putting

into his mouth a pâté-de-fois-gras (I use the word generally, as

designating something good; but did you ever hear Dr. C. talk of _real_

pâtés) that—

But what happened I must begin in a different manner to relate, or the

moral of this episode will be lost.

I have said Doña Viola was no fool, and here I intend bringing forward

proof of my position. No one would have supposed any thing like nerve

existed in so delicate a creature, unless they had seen her descending

the stairs with a light in one hand, and a great sword, too stiff for

her to draw, in the other, to rally the servants, while that timid old

soul, her duenna, was creeping under the bed above as fast as a sudden

weakness in her ancient knees would allow. The girl was brimfull of

character, and made a worse impression on her first appearance, because

fevered and crushed in spirit by the final wickedness of her betrothed

husband, and its likely consequences; possibly the fever which afterward

brought her to death’s door, had begun to show itself already in

unnatural excitement of the brain, for it is not easy otherwise to

reconcile the crazy eagerness she showed with her usual modesty.

But this is straying from the truffle-eating captain. Poor, simple,

lamb-like captain! what could have induced him to pull off his leathern

doublet and mask under the eyes of a girl not out of her teens, to be

sure, but whose Gallician blood was all afire while watching from a dark

window what was passing beneath. I am filled with pity and admiration

for Doña Viola, when I think how, with one protector leagues away in

Portugal, and the other up stairs, making her toilette to appear

becoming in the eyes of this prince who had come to their rescue, she

traversed the whole house, accompanied by a desperado whose only

restraint lay in the greatness of his hopes dependent in part on present

good conduct. She was a little fluttered, and ready to faint with fear,

as any other woman short of a novel heroine would have been, but for all

that she spoke so connectedly, and showed such faith in the captain’s

will and ability to protect her, that it never entered his slow,

Netherlandish brain, the figure before him was possessed of no more

vitality in itself than an electro-magnetized body, or that she had

noticed without start or scream his left, jetty whisker slip down far

enough to expose the scrubby red growth underneath. Still less did it

occur to him as a remote possibility, the idea of taking him, Captain

Wolfang Carlo, fairly in the trap, could be occupying her head at the

very moment he talked of “his dear friend, Don Augustino, her father;”

and when one servant went up with the tray, a second went out with a

summons to the Hermandad.

So Capt. Carlo was on the point (as I have said) of putting a pâté into

his capacious mouth, when there came a rapping at the street-door, such

as only the Hermandad made, it being the custom of the holy brotherhood

to give due notice of their arrival on such occasions, lest one of

themselves should prove to be the culprit. The captain knew to a stroke

what mercy _he_ would be likely to receive if arrested, and alert enough

when danger pressed, clapped a couple of goblets in his pockets, and in

the same instant seized by the throat the tray-bearer, (who had his hand

already on the latch,) so that the poor simpleton had not breath enough

in his body to whisper, when his assailant threw him into the corner

limp as a bundle of rags.

The former had not perambulated the house without using his eyes, and

knew the shortest way to the leads, where he dodged the Hermandad until

an opportunity presented itself for making good his descent, the citizen

police probably being not wide awake at two o’clock in the morning.

That estimable youth, Hilo, was highly amused when the adventure reached

his ears, and in his customary reckless speech gave his Flemish

associate to understand he was not wise beyond his years, and had quite

overshot his aim by too much caution; nothing could have caused himself

more pleasure than to be rid of that (what I don’t choose to write in

Spanish or English,) who had cheated him out of his estate by her artful

behavior. And he would not mind settling a round sum out of the to be

recovered fortune on Wolfang, provided he could contrive to enter the

house a second time, without so much useless stir; but our prudent

friend had the Hermandad in too vivid remembrance, and excused himself,

suggesting, however, a scheme no less rascally, which all readers of

this true history know already to have been carried out to its full

extent.

To return to the caravel; some one was talking of Neptune.

“What a clatter about your Neptune,” cried a soldier, peevishly, “I wish

I’d never heard the name, and had stayed where I was. Here we are

pitched from one storm into another, and land just in sight. I’m sick of

it.”

“La casa quemada, acudir con el agua!” put in Hilo, who was swinging his

legs over the bowsprit, and did not trouble himself to take his eyes

from the blue land ahead.

“What does he say?” demanded the Frenchman, eagerly, looking

suspiciously about.

“He says your house is burnt, and you run for the water,” exclaimed

Wolfang, with a short chuckle.

“Ha!” retorted the other, setting down a steel cap he was polishing, to

gesticulate and call attention to Hilo with his forefinger. “Look here,

comrades, here’s a man to talk to another as if he had never made any

blunders he would like to take back. But this kind of talking behind

you, is the way with all these cowardly Spaniards.”

Hilo turned his head just sufficiently to send a glance at the irascible

speaker from his wicked black eyes. “Take care!” it said.

“Take care!” repeated the Netherlander, warningly, this time translating

the look. “You’re a born fool, Jean, to tempt the devil in him.”

“Fool!” cried Jean. “Who meddled with him first? He kicked my casque out

of his way yesterday, and set me to work cleaning and straightening it

out this morning. As to running for water when it’s too late, he’ll

think so too some day when Señor Inique catches him, and he gets down on

his knees to beg for life, or the Marquis of Villenos’s friends corner

him. He needn’t think he’s thought less a villain by us Frenchmen than

by his own countryfolks.”

Here the man-at-arms stopped to take breath and glower at Señor De

Ladron, who lifting in his feet, walked coolly over, opposite the first,

saying, with a smile on his face, “Come, come, there is no use in

comrades quarreling. Do you suppose I knew it was your casque? Give me

your hand, and let’s make it up.”

The soldier looked down distrustfully at his slight enemy, but not being

able to make up his mind what to do at this unexpected proposal,

hesitatingly laid his broad palm in Hilo’s.

“That’s as it should be,” said a shrunken little cannonier, perched on

his gun. “Hey! I remember how we shook hands all round at St.

German-en-Laye. You see, we had been fighting like mad at Montcontour,

and when one cools it isn’t pleasant to think you’ve knocked on the head

your old chum at bird-nesting, and the like, only because he differs

from you a little when grown up.”

“So you fetch water!” interrupted Hilo, mockingly, half to the speaker

and half to Jean, whose fingers suddenly wrenched back forced him to

stamp and foam with rage and pain while struggling to loosen the iron

hold of the speaker.

“Sacrè! Devil!” he stammered, “let go; my wrist is out of joint.”

“It will be worse for you if you don’t recant,” muttered our Don,

speaking faster than before, and holding a dagger to the side of his

throat.

“Stop!” cried two or three men-at-arms, springing up, “that is not fair

play. We are Frenchmen, not cut-throats, here.” Capt. Carlo merely

grinned in his usual agreeable fashion.

“Don’t bite!” cried Hilo fiercely to his prisoner, drawing back his hand

to strike. And, perhaps, as that amiable young gentleman was in no wise

particular in such matters, and took no heed of the interruption, Hilo’s

hand might have been the last bit of flesh held between the Frenchman’s

teeth for evermore, (as the raven would say.) But the officer on duty

came down the deck at this crisis, demanding the cause of the

disturbance.

“Ha! _you_, sir?” he cried, directly he caught sight of the chief actor,

as if he might have guessed as much. “I order you under arrest. Give up

your dagger.”

Señor de Ladron faced his superior with an audacious smile, saying, “You

jest?”

“Noose that rope,” ordered the lieutenant, purple with fury. “Close

around, men; we will hang up this mutineer without trial.”

“’Pshaw!” answered our scapegrace, throwing his weapon overboard. “What

a stir about a trifle, Señor mine. Better do this than hang.”

So Don Hilo de Ladron, when the island of Tercera lay close under the

bows of the fleet, sat in the hold with irons around his ankles, and

there probably would have remained, in obscurity, until the vessel

returned to France, had not his fast friend, the captain, contrived to

say a word or two to Commander De Chaste in person, while that brave

knight was reviewing his forces on shipboard preparatory to landing.

“Who are you?” asked the commander, looking from a bit of paper he now

twisted between his fingers to the bearer. “I have seen your face

before.”

“Your excellency must be mistaken,” returned the unblushing Wolfang, who

nevertheless remembered perfectly the gold piece the knight once put in

the mouth of a holy war soldier without arms or feet, if appearances

were true.

“Well,” interrupted De Chaste, “this scrawl tells me your friend was not

materially to blame in the affair, his honor being concerned in

repelling the charges.”

“True to a letter,” replied Wolfang, bowing low, as usual, to hide his

unprepossessing grin. “Besides, the officer on duty owed the poor young

gentleman a grudge.”

“That has nothing to do with it, sir. A man’s honor is his best

possession, and needs unsleeping guardianship; but this taking its

vindication into his own hands, must not be allowed in the service.

However, the error is one on the side of right, and let him behave well

in the field and we will pass over his indiscretion. We want every brave

man we can get,” he added, turning to one of his officers.

“But, M. de Commandant,” objected the gentleman addressed, “is it likely

a renegade like this fellow should prove a good soldier, or even be

really possessed of ordinary honor!”

“How!” cried De Chaste, quickly. “I did not think the ranks of our

little army contained any such. Is he a Spaniard, M. de Haye?”

“Yes, and guilty of every manner of crime.”

“Ha! Well, he must remain as he is until we find time to look into his

case. How is it, Mr. What’s-your-name, Carlo, you suppressed his place

of birth?”

“His mother was a French lady, Monseigneur, and fighting for one’s

mother country is as good, any day, as fighting for a father’s.”

“True, in a measure, sir,” returned the knight. “What’s the prisoner’s

name?”

“Hilo de Ladron.” This was said in no unusual tone, yet it seemed

singularly to catch the commander’s attention, for he eyed the speaker

keenly and then fell into a fit of musing, which lasted while he paced

the deck between the officers of his suite. “M. de Haye,” he said at

last, pausing before that officer and looking up, “you may be mistaken

in your charges. They are grave ones and should be advanced when they

can be examined at leisure, not at a hurried moment like this. I have

need of every man in our too feeble squadron, and will take it upon

myself to entrust the restoration of his character to M. de Ladron

himself for the present.”

The gentleman addressed bowed, shrugged his shoulders, as well as a

Frenchman could in a steel cuirass, and there the matter dropped.

Hilo laughed when the captain told him the favorable result of his

application, and professed equal curiosity as to the commander’s

motives—professions which honest Wolfang received as attempts to impose

on his credulity—(he was probably touchy on the subject since his

introduction to Doña Viola)—with less justice than usual, however, as

Hilo, for a wonder, was telling the truth.

About this time the Sieur Cusson returned in his sloop from

reconnoitering the island, and his report being that the Spanish

squadron had not yet arrived, the little armament of De Chaste ran

gallantly into the harbor, and came to anchor amidst a great firing of

cannon and arquebuses from the Portuguese, who liked expending powder in

this way much better than in front of an enemy, and besides, had lived

in such daily dread of the descent of the Spanish fleet, that they could

not sufficiently viva their delight at finding out who the new comers

really were. The Viceroy, de Torrevedros, himself, came down to the

water side to receive the commander, and made such a brave appearance in

his embroidered surcoat and gilded harness, surrounded by other

cavaliers equally well dressed, that the Frenchmen, walking with

unsteady legs after their twenty-four days of stormy weather on

shipboard, and in shabby doublets, presented nothing very imposing in

their march through the streets.

But if the Portuguese gentlemen, riding on either hand, could scarce

suppress their mirth at the ill looks of their allies, the ladies were

anxious to propitiate men who would prove their main defence, and threw

down showers of all sorts of gay flowers from the windows and balconies;

some of the young señoritas even meeting the procession at unexpected

corners, and flinging orange water into the knight’s face, who would

have been more gratified by the ablution (it being a hot June day) had

not the thought of his best ruff growing limper at each sprinkling

interfered with the enjoyment.

“Better smell of gunpowder.” he said shortly, to a French gentleman from

the court, whose nose was audibly expressing its delight at the fine

perfume.

But the satisfaction of the Portuguese was as nothing compared with the

joy of a few hundred Frenchmen, a remnant of the Strossy expedition of

the year before, who had lost all hope of ever leaving the Azores again,

and, having little money at the first, had been treated with any thing

but hospitality by their unwilling hosts. These poor fellows mixed with

the crowd in the streets, kept the commandant’s company in sight, and

running into the quarters assigned the latter, met them with such antics

and embraces as caused the Gallic army to suppose at first that they had

fallen into an ambuscade of madmen. Their two captains gave De Chaste a

full narration of their sufferings, which was impartial in the main, and

tended very little to elevate the Portuguese residents in the eyes of

their audience, whose fancy for that people was not great from the

beginning.

“Sirs,” replied the commandant at the end, with his customary high-toned

suavity, looking around him, “we must only remember this is done at the

will of our queen, and act as loyal gentlemen should. For my part, I

will be content with brown bread and water and living in the open air,

as we are all accustomed to, to have the satisfaction of defeating the

landing of so good a soldier as the Marquis of Santa-Cruz, and to-morrow

I will examine in person the accessible points of the island, which are

only three in number.”

“Three!” cried Capt. Baptista, an Italian, one of the Strossy fugitives,

“there are thirty! He must have been a rank liar, who told you so, M. le

Commandant.”

“That can hardly be,” returned De Chaste, gravely, “for it was the king

of Portugal himself who gave the information.”

“Oh, if it comes to that one had best bite his tongue,” grumbled the

Italian to De Haye, who stood next him. “But a parrot’s word is no

better than a magpie’s, and so our general will find out.”

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

A VISIT TO STATEN ISLAND.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

I have always had an especial fondness for islands. When, in earlier

days, Fancy fashioned some favorite abode, it was often in the

aspiration of Moore, “Oh! had we some green little Isle of our own!” I

am inclined to think there is something in Nature to sanction this

preference. Perhaps the safety of an insular situation from border

inroad, and the wild foray, might have given it pre-eminence in feudal

or barbarous times. A strange illusion seemed to linger around it, in

days of yore: “We, islanders,” said Camden, “are lunares—or the moon’s

men.”

The tuneful king of Israel considered the praise of the Creator

incomplete, until “the multitude of the Isles,” should swell that

chorus. The islands are required to “keep silence,” when an eloquent

prophet was about to declare a message from Jehovah. The apostle, to

whom the dread future unveiled itself, “was in the island that is called

Patmos,” when he saw in a vision the “the heavens wrapped together like

a scroll, and the dead, small and great, stand before God.”

Heathen mythology sang to her disciples of the “isles of the blessed.”

Classic Greece fixed the birth-place of her deity of the seven-stringed

lyre in wave-girdled Delphos, and bade her most beautiful goddess from

the foam of the sea.

Modern Poetry has not forgotten to invoke the island-spirits. Shakspeare

lifts the magic wand of Prospero in a strange, wild isle, full of

“Sweet sounds and airs that give delight, and hurt not.”

He makes another less lofty character propose “to sow the kernels of a

broken islet in the sea, that they may bring forth more islands.” The

patriotism of Milton beheld in his own native clime, the chief favorite

of Neptune:

“this isle,

The greatest and the best of all the main,

He quarters to his blue-haired deities.”

The Bard of the Seasons still further glorified it, as the

“Island of bliss amid the subject seas.”

It is as easy as it would be tautological to multiply suffrages in

praise of insular regions. Still less necessary is it to bespeak popular

favor for the island that gives this sketch a subject and a name.

The Dutch settlers of Staten Island seem to have regarded it with an

enthusiasm quite in contrast with their usual phlegmatic temperament.

Scarcely a century after its occupation by them, the patient and

true-hearted Huguenots came to solace the woes of their exile amid its

sheltering shades. The armies of Great Britain held it in possession

during the whole of our revolutionary contest; and even the indurating

influences of war did not render them insensible to its surpassing

loveliness.

In later times, the States of New York and New Jersey have contended for

its jurisdiction with the warmth of lovers, and the jealousy of rivals.

The latter approaches with extended arms, as if to enfold it in an

earnest embrace, its bright shores curving closely around the coveted

treasure; but the Empire State, upon whose waters it reposes “as a star

on the breast of the billow,” has bound the gem to her bosom forever.

Yet neither the taciturn Hollander, nor the mournful alien from France,

nor the warring Saxon, nor the native-born American, yearned over it

with such intense affection as the poor red man, its earliest lord. He

longed to rear his cone-roofed cabin upon its sunny slopes, and to sweep

with light canoe into its quiet coves, as his fathers had done of old.

Forced by his pale-faced and powerful brother to yield this dearest

birthright, he sold for as poor a compensation as the hunter-patriarch,

then repented, retracted, reclaimed, re-sold, contended, and vanished

like the smoke-wreath among the hills that he loved. Still, he cast the

Parthian arrow, and the forests where he lingered and lay in ambush were

crimsoned with blood.

Still, his parting sigh, wreathed itself into a name of blessing.

“_Monocnong_,” or the Enchanted Woods, was the epithet he bestowed upon

his beloved and forsaken heritage. In the bitterness of parting, he said

that no noxious reptile had ever been found there, till the white man,

like a wily serpent, coiled himself amid its shades.

MONOCNONG.

Gem of the Bay! enchased in waves of light,

That ’neath the sunbeam rear a diamond crest,

But to the wrathful spirit of the night

Turn unsubdued, with thunder in their breast—

Fair Isle! where beauty lingereth as a dower

O’er rock and roof, and densely-wooded dell,

And in the bosom of the autumnal flower

Foiling the frost-king in its quiet cell,

The Indian hunter of the olden time

Saw thee with love, and on his wandering way

Staid the keen bow, at morning’s earliest prime,

A name of blessing on thy head to lay—

Baptism of tears! it liveth on thy shore,

Though he, the exiled one, returneth never more.

The sail from the city of New York to Staten Island is delightful. The

bay sparkled in the broad sunbeam; six miles of diamonds set in

turquoise and amethyst. We land, and are borne rapidly along, amid

tasteful abodes imbosomed in trees and shrubbery, and adorned with

flowers. We pass also the Hospital, a spacious building, where many beds

and pillows spread in the open air for purification, denote that disease

and death have given a ghastly welcome to some mournful emigrants. Often

are we reminded, amid the most luxuriant scenery, that even “in the

garden there is a sepulchre.”

New Brighton, as seen from the water, is like a cluster of palaces.

Large and well arranged boarding-houses furnish accommodations to

numerous strangers, who seek in summer the invigorating atmosphere of

this island. Among these, the Pavilion and Belmont are conspicuous.

In descriptive writing, I had formerly a fastidious delicacy about using

the names of individuals. When in Europe, I was so fearful of drawing

the curtain from the sanctuary of the hearth-stone, as to fail in a free

tribute for the most liberal and changeless hospitality. Time, which is

wont to destroy undue sensibility on many subjects, has led me to deem

this an error. So I will here avoid it, and say with equal frankness and

gratitude that those who, like myself, are admitted as guests at the

elegant island-residence of George Griffin, Esq., and to share the

intellectual society of his warm-hearted and right-minded home-circle,

will never lose the pleasant memory of such a privilege.

Among the fine views in this vicinity, that from the Telegraph Station

is especially magnificent. I shall not attempt to describe it, not being

willing to sustain or inflict the disappointment that must inevitably be

the result. Let all who have opportunity see it as often as possible.

They can never tire of it. Among the many interesting objects that there

rivet the gaze, there will often be descried passing through the

Narrows, that highway of nations, some white-winged wanderer of the

deep, voyaging to foreign shores. Within her how many hearts are faint

with the pangs of separation! How many buoyed up with the vain

fluttering of curiosity to visit stranger lands. Adventurous ones! ye

know not yet the extent of the penalty ye must pay for this shadowy

good. Tempests without, misgivings within, yearnings after your distant

dear ones, sickness—that shall make this “round world, and all it doth

inherit,” a blank, and a mockery—longings to set foot once more on

solid earth, which have no parallel, save the wail of the weaned child

for its mother.

Many, and of almost endless variety, are the pleasant drives that will

solicit you. The Clove Road, the Quarantine, the lovely, secluded grove,

with the townships of Richmond, Stapleton, Castleton, Tompkinsville,

Clifton, etc. are among them. Seldom, in a circumference of a few miles,

are such contrasts of scenery displayed. At one point you fancy yourself

in the Isle of Wight, then you are reminded of the Vale of Tempo, and

the fabled gardens of the Hesperides. Fair, sunny lawns—deep, solemn

forests, the resounding wheels of mechanical industry, alternate like a

dream, with clusters of humble cottages, the heavy ricks of the

agriculturist, and rude, gray rocks, from whose solitary heights, you

talk only with Ocean, while he answers in thunder.

In our exploring excursions, we often admired, amid its fringed margin

of trees, a circular expanse of water, from whence ice is obtained for

the use of the residents, and which bears the appellation of

SYLVAN LAKE.

Imbosomed deep in cedars, lonely lake!

Thy solemn neighbors that in silence dwell,

Save when to searching winds they answer make,

Then closer scan thee, in thy guarded cell,

No rippling keel hath vexed thee from thy birth,

No fisher’s net thy cloistered musing broke,

Nor aught that holds communion with the earth

Thy sky-wrapt spirit to emotion woke,

For thou from man wert fain to hide away,

Nursing a vestal purity of thought,

And only when stern Winter’s tyrant sway

A seal of terror on thy heart had wrought,

Gave him one icy gift, then turned away,

Unto the pure-eyed heavens, in penitence to pray.

There are several pleasantly situated churches on Staten Island. The

small one at Clifton, with its dark grained arches of oak, strongly

resembles those of the mother land. An ancient, low-browed one, at

Richmond, was built and endowed by Queen Anne, in 1714. Around it sleep

the dead, with their simple memorials. The sacred music that varied the

worship, was sweet and touching, and conducted almost entirely by the

seven daughters of its worthy and venerable clergyman, Dr. David Moore,

a son of the former bishop of Virginia. He has also charge of another

church, at Port Richmond. There we attended divine worship, one

cloudless autumnal Sunday, not deeming the distance of thirteen miles,

going and returning, as any obstacle. It was a simple edifice, on a

green slope, that stretched downward to meet the sea. In his discourse,

the white-haired pastor reminded his flock that for twice twenty years

he had urged them to accept the invitations of the gospel, on that very

spot, where the voice of his sainted father had been also uplifted,

beseeching them to be reconciled to God. Earnest zeal gave eloquence to

his words; and when they ceased, the solemn organ did its best to uplift

the listening soul in praise.

At the close of the service many lingered in the church-yard, to

exchange kind greetings with their revered guide. Old and young pressed

near to take his hand, while with affectionate cordiality he asked of

their welfare, as a father among his children. It was patriarchal and

beautiful. Religion in its pageantry and pomp hath nothing like it.

A boat, with its flashing oars, bore a portion of the worshipers to

their homes on the opposite shore. But on the rocks beneath us sat some

listless fishermen, idling away the hours of the consecrated day. Ah!

have ye not missed salvation’s priceless pearl? The wondrous glory of

the setting sun, as we pursued our homeward way, and the tranquil

meditations arising from the simplicity of devotion, made this a Sabbath

to be much remembered.

We were interested more than once in attending divine service in the

chapel of the Sailor’s Snug Harbor—a noble building, the gift of

private munificence, where the bronzed features and neat, tranquil

appearance of these favored sons of the sea, spoke at once of past

hardships upon the briny wave and of the unbroken comfort of their

present state of repose.

The cliffs and vales of this enchanted island are crowned with the

elegant mansions of the merchant princes. Among them are those of the

brothers Nesmyth, Mr. Anthon, Mr. Aspinwall, Mr. Morgan, and others,

that I greatly admired, without knowing the names of their occupants.

That of Mr. Comstock exhibits a model of perfect taste. All the

appointments within—the pictures, vases, and furniture of white and

gold, bespeak Parisian elegance, while the grounds and conservatory are

attractive; and in the centre of a rich area of turf, a dial points out

the hours to which beauty and fragrance give wings.

The residence of Mr. Jones, at “The Cedars,” has a very extensive

prospect, and is embellished by highly cultivated gardens of several

acres, loaded with fruits and flowers; and also, by an interesting

apiary, aviary, and poultry establishment, where hundreds of domestic

fowls, of the finest varieties, revel in prosperity.

The habitation of George Griswold, Esq. is princely, and of a truly

magnificent location. While in an unfinished state, the prospect from

the windows excited the following effusion:

GRISWOLD HILL.

Earth, sea and sky, in richest robes arrayed,

Wide spreads the glorious panorama round,

Charming the gazer’s eye. O’er wind-swept height,

Villa, and spire, and ocean’s glorious blue

Floats the mild, westering sun. Fast by our side

Frowns Fort Knyphausen, whence, in olden time,

The whiskered Hessian, bought with British gold,

Aimed at my country’s heart. Wild cedars wrap

Its ruined base, stretching their arras dark

O’er mound and mouldering bastion.

With what grace

New Jersey’s shores expand. Hillock and grove,

Hamlet and town, and lithe promontory,

Engird this islet, as a mother clasps

Some beauteous daughter. Still, opposing straits,

With their strong line of indentations, mar

The entire embrace.

Broad spreads the billowy bay,

Forever peopled by the gliding sail,

From the slight speck where the rude fisher toils,

To forms that, like a mountain, tread the wave,

Or those that, moved by latent fires, compel

The awe-struck flood.

Lo! from his northern home,

The bold, unswerving Hudson. He hath burst

The barrier of his palisades, to look

On this strange scene of beauty, and to swell

With lordly tribute what he scans with pride.

Behold the peerless city, lifting high

Its hallowed spires, and fringed with bristling masts,

In whose strong breast beat half a million hearts,

Instinct with hurrying life. The gray-haired sires

Remember well, how the dank waters crept

Where now, in queenly pomp, her court she holds.

Next gleams that Isle, whose long-drawn line of coast

Is loved by Ceres. On its western heights

Towereth a busy mart, and ’neath its wing,

One, whose pure domes are wrapped in sacred shade,

Silent, yet populous. Through its still gates

Pass on the unreturning denizens.

Oh, Greenwood! loveliest spot for last repose,

When the stern pilgrimage of life is o’er,

Even thy dim outline through the haze is dear.

Onward, by Coney Island’s silvery reef,

To where, between its lowly valves of sand,

Opes the Highway of Nations. Through it flows

The commerce of the world. The Mother Realm

Sends on its tides her countless embassies;

Bright France invokes the potency of steam

To wing her message; from his ice-clad pines

The Scandinavian, the grave, turbaned Turk,

The Greek mercurial, even the hermit-sons

Of sage Confucius, like the sea-bird, spread

Fleet pinions toward this city of the west,

That like a money-changer for the earth

Sits ’neath her temple-dome.

Yon ocean-gate,

With telegraphic touch, doth chronicle

The rushing tide of sea-worn emigrants,

Who reach the land that gives the stranger bread,

Perchance a grave. And he who ventureth forth,

The willing prisoner of some white-winged ship,

To seek Hygeia o’er the wave, or test

What spells do linger round those classic climes

That woke his boyhood’s dream, fails not his heart

As the blest hills of Neversink withdraw

Their misty guardianship?

Speech may not tell—

For well I know its poverty to paint

The rapture, when the homeward glance descries,

That native land, whose countless novelties,

And forms of unimagined life, eclipse

The worn-out wonders of an Older World,

That, with its ghostly finger, only points

To things that were.

Oh! great and solemn Deep,

Profound magician of the musing thought,

Release my strain, that to the beauteous Isle

Which hath so long enchained me, thanks may flow,

Warm, though inadequate.

The changeful hand

Of Autumn sheds o’er forest, copse, and grove,

In gorgeous hues, the symbol of decay;

But here and there some fondly lingering flower,

Sweet resonance of Summer, cheers the rocks

Where warm suns latest smile.

Oh, fairest Isle!

I grieve to say farewell. Still for the sake

Of those I love, and for the memories dear,

And sacred hospitalities that cling

Around the mansion, whence my steps depart,

Peace be within the palace-domes that crest

Thy sea-girt hills, and ’neath the cottage roofs

That nestle ’mid thy dells. For when I dream

Of some blest Eden that survived the fall,

That dream shall be of thee.

* * * * *

EVENING.

Shades of Evening! ye remind me

Of my own declining sun,

And of scenes I’ll leave behind me

When my sands of life are run!

Should that change come ere to-morrow,

Grant that I may sink to rest,

And from Virtue’s glory borrow

Hues to make my Evening blest.

J. HUNT, JR.

* * * * *

WOODLAWN:

OR THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MEDAL.

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF A “MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE,” ETC.

’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.

Campbell.

“What are you thinking of so intently, Annie?” asked Kate Leslie, of her

cousin. “You have not spoken for the last half hour.”

Annie roused herself and answered with a smile, “Only of last night’s

Opera. Nothing very important, you see.”

“And what of the Opera?” pursued Kate. “Come, I should like to hear a

genuine, unsophisticated opinion of our most fashionable city

amusement.”

“I was thinking less of the music, Kate!” returned Annie, “than of the

audience.”

“And of the audience?” persisted Kate.

“Well, Kate, if you will have it, I was only thinking how happy and gay

they all looked. What a different world it was from any I had ever seen

before; and thinking what a difference of fate there was between those

elegant-looking girls who sat opposite, and myself.”

“Ah! the Hautons, they are fortune’s favorites indeed. They have every

thing, fortune, family, fashion—and elegant, high-bred looking things

they are. They called yesterday and left a card for you; but Mrs. Hauton

told mamma last night that they were moving out to Woodlawn, and hoped

we would return the visit there. I should like it of all things, for the

place is magnificent, and I am told they entertain delightfully. We have

always visited in the city, but have never before been invited out of

town. As soon as Mrs. Hauton is settled there, I presume we shall hear

from her. Fanny Elliot spent a week with them last summer, and she said

it was a continued round of dinner and evening-parties all the time.

Beside invited guests, they have always preparations made for unexpected

company. The table is laid every day as for a dinner-party, with silver,

and I don’t know how many men in attendance. And then they have a

billiard-room and library, and green-house and horses—and all in the

handsomest style.”

“And an opera-box in town,” said Annie, with something that approached a

sigh.

“Oh, yes, an opera-box, and every thing else you can think of. They live

in the city in the winter, and their parties are always the most elegant

of the season. The girls dress exquisitely, too. They import most of

their things; and, in short, I don’t know any one I’d rather be than one

of those Hautons.”

Annie, who lived in the quiet little village of C——, where her father,

the principal lawyer in the place, could just manage to maintain his

family in a plain, comfortable, but rather homespun way, was rather

dazzled by this picture of the Hautons; and her heart quite died within

her at the idea of paying a visit among such grand people. She looked

upon Kate’s fearlessness on the subject with some surprise. But then

Kate, she remembered, was “used to such people.” But how should she, a

little village-girl, appear among these fashionables. Then her dress,

(that first thought among women,) she almost hoped Mrs. Hauton would

forget to follow up her invitation.

A few days after, however, Kate entered the room, saying, “Here is a

note from Mrs. Hauton, Annie, as I expected. She wishes us to pass a few

days at Woodlawn. Mamma desired me to show it to you before she answered

it. So what do you say?”

“Just what you do, of course,” replied Annie. “They are almost strangers

to me, you know; so you must decide for us both. I am ready to accept or

refuse—”

“Oh, my dear,” interrupted Kate, quickly, “I would not have you refuse

on any account. I am particularly glad, for your sake, that the

invitation should have come while you are with us. Indeed, Annie, I

consider you quite in luck that we are asked just at this time.”

“How long are we to stay?” inquired Annie.

“We are invited from Monday to Wednesday, in English style,” replied

Kate, “which I like. Of all things I hate that indefinite period of ‘as

long as you find it agreeable,’ when half your time is spent in trying

to find out how long you are expected to remain, and your hostess is

equally occupied in endeavoring to ascertain when you mean to go.”

Annie’s eyes dilated with surprise at this definition of city

hospitality, which sounded to her fresh country ears and primitive ideas

as somewhat remarkable, but concluding that her cousin was in jest, she

smiled as she said,

“Is it usual to fix a time for your friends’ departure as it is for

their coming, Kate?”

“No,” answered Kate. “I wish it were. It would not, then, be such a

formidable matter to ask them.”

“Are you in earnest?” asked Annie, looking up surprised.

“To be sure I am,” replied Kate. “You don’t know what a bore it is to

have a place near the city, Annie, and to have people coming forever,

without an idea when they are going.”

“Then why do you ask them at all, if you don’t want them?” inquired

Annie.

“Oh, because you _must_,” said Kate. “Some expect it, to others you owe

civilities; and its all very well if the time of their going was only

fixed. Two or three days for people you don’t care for, and who don’t

care for you, is long enough.”

“Plenty, I should think,” answered Annie, emphatically. “And I should

not think, Kate, there was any danger of guests under such circumstances

remaining longer.”

“Much you know of it, my dear!” said Kate, in a droll tone of despair.

“The less you care for them, and the greater the bores, the longer they

stay. But papa and mamma have such old-fashioned notions of hospitality,

that they wont adopt this new style of naming the days of the

invitation. The Hautons understand the matter better.”

“Come, Annie,” said Kate, the next day, “as we are to breakfast at

Woodlawn, we shall have no time to do any thing in the morning, so we

may as well pack our trunk now. I suppose you’ll ride out in your gray

barège,” she continued, as she opened the wardrobe to take down some of

her own and her cousin’s dresses.

Now as this gray barège was one of Annie’s two best dresses, and which

she was accustomed to think quite full dress, she hesitated, and said,

with some surprise,

“My gray barège for the morning?”

“Yes, it will do very well,” continued Kate, supposing her hesitation

proceeded from diffidence as to its being too plain. “The simpler a

breakfast-dress the better; and gray is always a good _unnoticeable_

color.”

Annie almost gasped. If she was to begin with her barège for breakfast,

what should she do for dinner. But Kate proceeded with,

“Take the sleeves out of your book-muslin, Annie, and that will do for

dinner. You are always safe in white, and I suppose they will supply us

with Camelias from the green-house for our heads.”

“Book-muslins, short sleeves, and Camelia’s for dinner.” Annie’s heart

beat high between expectation and fear. She almost wished the visit

over, and yet would not have given it up for the world.

Monday morning arrived, and an hour’s drive brought them to Woodlawn.

And as they drove up through the beautiful avenues of elms, and stopped

before a very large, handsome house, which commanded a beautiful lawn,

Annie felt that the place quite equalled her expectations.

Mrs. Hauton received them with great politeness, made a slight apology

for her “lazy girls,” who were not yet down, and showed them into the

breakfast-room before the young ladies made their appearance.

They came gliding in presently, looking very elegant and high-bred,

dressed in the finest white lawn negligées, with the prettiest little

thread-lace caps on their heads; their whole toilet exquisitely fine,

simple, and _recherché_, so that poor Annie felt at once the value and

consolation of the expression, “_unnoticeable_,” that Kate had applied

to her barège, and which had rather astonished her at the time.

They did not seem to feel called upon to apologize for their not being

ready to receive their guests, but only found it “very warm,” asked at

what time they left the city, and were quite shocked at the early hour

they mentioned, and thought it “must have been very disagreeable,” and

it was evident from their manner that they would not have risen so early

to come and see them.

The conversation became general, if that can be called conversation

which consisted of some remarks upon the long-continued drought from

Mrs. Hauton, with rejoinders as to the heat and dust of the city, from

Mrs. Leslie. Mr. Leslie inquired something about the state of the crops

of Mr. Hauton, and Mr. Hauton asked a question or two about the new

rail-road. The young ladies kept up a little scattering small-talk,

consisting chiefly of questions as to who had left town, and who

remained yet in the city, and where the Leslies were going, etc., all of

which Annie would have thought very dull, if she had not been too much

oppressed by the novelty and elegance of every thing around her to dare

to think at all.

After breakfast a walk was proposed through the garden, and Mrs. Hauton,

with Mrs. Leslie, walking on before, the young ladies followed. Mrs.

Hauton commenced a long story about her head gardener, who had behaved,

she said, “very ungratefully in leaving her for a place where he could

get higher wages, when she had dismissed the man she had, to take him,

because he had offered to come on lower terms, and after she had kept

him for a year, he had now left her, for the very wages she had given

her first man; but they are all so mercenary,” she concluded with

saying.

Annie could not help thinking that if a rich woman like Mrs. Hauton

thought so much of additional wages, it was not surprising that her

gardener, who probably had a family depending on him, did not value them

less; nor did she see the call upon his gratitude for having been

engaged at less than his worth.

Then Mrs. Hauton proceeded to tell Mrs. Leslie how many men they kept at

work on the place, and how much they gave them a day, and at what an

enormous cost they kept up the green-house, which “was, after all, of no

use to them, as they spent their winters in the city, and the girls had

more bouquets sent to them than they wanted.” And then followed her

complaints of the grapery, which were equally pathetic, and all was

excessively pompous and prosy.

Annie was in admiration of her aunt’s good breeding, which supplied her

with patience and attention, and suitable rejoinders to all Mrs.

Hauton’s enumeration of the calls on her purse, and the plagues of her

wealth. Indeed, Annie began rather to doubt whether her aunt could be as

tired as she at first thought she must be, she kept up the conversation

with so little appearance of effort. She did not herself listen to the

half of it, but whenever she did, she always found it was some long

story about the dairy-woman, who would do what she should not, or the

price of the luxuries by which they were surrounded, which Mrs. Hauton

seemed to think a great imposition that they could not have for nothing.

Meantime the Miss Hautons kept up a languid complaint of the heat, and

asked Kate if she did not find it “horrid.” And when Annie stopped to

look at some beautiful and rare flowers, and asked their name, they

replied they did not know, “the gardener could tell her,” and seemed

rather annoyed at her stopping in the sun to look at them, and wondered

at her curiosity about any thing so uninteresting. Annie was something

of a botanist, and would gladly have lingered over other plants that

were new to her, for the garden was under the highest cultivation; but

she saw that it was an interruption to the rest of the party, and they

sauntered on.

She could not help, however, pausing again with an exclamation of

delight before a moss rose-tree in full bearing, when Miss Hauton said,

somewhat sarcastically,

“You are quite an enthusiast in flowers, Miss Cameron.”

“I am very fond of them,” replied Annie, coloring at the tone in which

the remark was made; “Are not you?”

“No,” replied the young lady, carelessly, “I don’t care for them at all.

I like a bouquet well enough in the winter. It finishes one’s dress, but

I don’t see the use of them at all in summer.”

“Oh, I hate them,” added her sister, almost pettishly. “They are such a

plague. People who come out are always wanting some; and then the

gardener is to be sent for, and he always grumbles at cutting them, and

half the time he has not cord to tie them up, and papa sends me to the

house for some. If I had a place, I would not have a flower on it; but

mamma says the gardener has not any thing to do but to attend to the

garden, so she will have flowers.”

“Why, certainly, my dear,” said Mrs. Hauton, who caught this last

remark, “what should we pay Ralston such wages to do nothing. He gets

his money easy enough now. If he had merely the green-house to take care

of, I think it would be too bad.”

So flowers were cultivated, it seemed, chiefly that the gardener might

not gain his living without “the sweat of his brow.”

As they came within sight of the river, to which the lawn sloped, Annie

proposed that they should walk down to it; but the young ladies assured

her at once that she would find it “very disagreeable;” and asking if

they were not tired, turned their footsteps toward the house.

They returned to the drawing-room, and after a little dawdling

conversation, Miss Hauton took down her embroidery frame, and began to

sort worsteds, while Miss Fanny produced a purse and gold beads, of

which she offered to show Kate the stitch.

Kate congratulated herself in the depths of her heart, that she had had

foresight to arm herself with some needles and silk, and felt equal to

all the emergencies of the morning; but poor Annie, one of whose

accomplishments had not been to spend money and waste time in fancy

work, could only offer to assist Miss Hauton in winding worsteds, by way

of doing something.

Fortunately for Mrs. Leslie, Mrs. Hauton’s stream of talk was unceasing.

She told innumerable and interminable stories (at least so they seemed

to Annie) of the impositions of poor people; was very indignant at the

sums they were called upon to give, and highly excited at the prices

which were demanded of them, and which she thought people in more

moderate circumstance were not asked. But more indignant yet was she

when, on some occasions, they had not been treated with more prompt

attention, and had superior comforts to others who were not as rich as

themselves. She only, it seemed, expected to be put on a level with

poorer people when the paying was in question. She evidently had an idea

that the knowledge of her wealth was to procure her civilities which she

was very angry at being called upon to pay for.

Annie thought it the longest morning she had ever passed; and when the

servants announced the luncheon, she awoke as from a nightmare.

Gathering round the table, everybody ate, not from appetite, but ennui.

Mrs. Hauton continued her stream of talk, (for, apparently, she had no

sense of fatigue,) which now turned upon the hot-house and the price of

her forced fruits.

Another hour passed in the drawing-room, in the same way, and Annie

happening to be near a table, on which lay some books, took up a new

review in which she was soon absorbed. After reading a few pages she

(being the first person who had looked into it) was obliged to cut the

leaves, when she heard Miss Hauton say, in the same scornful tone in

which she had pronounced her an enthusiast in flowers,

“Miss Cameron is literary, I see;” and Annie, coloring, again dropped

the book, and returned to her wearisome place on the sofa.

Kate found to her great delight that company was expected to dinner, and

when the preparation-bell rang, the girls, almost in a state of

exhaustion, retired to dress.

“Kate,” exclaimed Annie, “I am almost dead. I don’t know what has tired

me so, but I feel as if I had been in an exhausted receiver.”

Kate laughed.

“You should have brought some work with you, Annie. If you had only been

counting stitches, as I have been, you don’t know what a support it

would have been to you under Mrs. Hauton’s talk. She is intolerable if

you listen to her—but that I did not do. However, take courage. The

Langtrees and Constants, and Merediths, are coming to dinner. Here, let

me put this wreath of honeysuckle in your hair. There, it’s very

becoming; only, Annie, you must not look so tired,” she continued,

laughing, “or I am afraid you’ll make no conquests. And Constant and

Meredith are coming with their sisters.”

After half an hour’s free and unconstrained chat, and conscious of a

pretty and becoming toilet, refreshed and invigorated for a new attempt

in society, Annie accompanied her aunt and cousin again to the

drawing-room.

The new comers had arrived; a stylish-looking set—the girls in full

dress, the young men so whiskered and mustachioed that Annie was

surprised to hear them speak English. They were received with great

animation by the Hautons, who seemed to belong to that class of young

ladies who never thoroughly wake but at the approach of a gentleman.

The young men glanced slightly at Annie, and Mr. Meredith even gave her

a second look. He thought her decidedly pretty, and a “new face,” which

was something; but after a remark or two, finding she “knew nobody,” and

did not belong to the clique, the trouble of finding topics of mutual

interest seemed greater than he thought her worth, and so he turned to

Miss Hauton; and Annie soon found herself dropped from a conversation

that consisted entirely of personal gossip.

“So, the wedding has come off at last,” said Susan Hauton to Mr.

Constant. “I hope the Gores are satisfied now. Were you there? How did

Mr. Langley look?”

“Resigned,” replied the young man, slightly shrugging his shoulders.

Susan laughed, though at what Annie could not very well perceive, and

continued with,

“And the bride—how did she look?”

“As brides always do—charmingly, of course,” he replied, languidly.

“You ladies, with your veils, and flowers, and flounces, may set nature

herself at defiance, and dare her to recognize you such as she made

you.”

“If Fanny Gore looked charming,” said Ellen Hauton, sarcastically, “I

think it might have puzzled more than dame Nature to recognize her. I

doubt whether Mr. Langley would have known her under such a new aspect.”

“I think we may give him credit for differing from others on that

point,” said Kate. “A woman has a right to be thought pretty once in her

life, and Cupid’s blind, fortunately.”

“Cupid may be, but Mr. Langley is not,” replied Miss Hauton, in the same

careless, sneering tone. “It’s a shameful take in.”

“A take in!” repeated Kate, with surprise.

“Yes, certainly,” replied Miss Hauton. “He did not want to marry her.”

“Then why did he?” asked Kate. “He was surely a free agent.”

“No, he was not,” persisted Miss Susan. “The Gores would have him; they

followed him up, and never let him alone until they got him.”

“Do you believe,” returned Kate, with some spirit, “that any man is to

be made to marry against his will? There’s no force can do it.”

“But the force of flattery,” said young Meredith; “is a very powerful

agent, Miss Leslie.”

“Then,” said Kate, laughing, “every match is a ‘take in,’ on that

ground. Is not every bride flattered till she feels as if she had

entered a new state of being? Is not every girl turned, for the time

being, into a beauty? Do you suppose any body ever yet fell in love on

the truth?”

“No, indeed,” replied the gentleman. “Truth’s kept where she should be,

at the ‘bottom of a well.’ A most ill-bred personage, not fit for ‘good

society,’ certainly.”

Then the conversation branched off to other matches, and to Annie’s

surprise she heard these high-bred, delicate looking girls, talk of

their friends making “dead sets” and “catches,” and of young men being

“taken in,” in a style that struck her as decidedly vulgar. Kate, to

turn the subject, asked Mr. Constant if he had been to the opera the

night before.

“I looked in,” he replied. “Vita was screaming away as usual.”

“Oh, is not she horrid?” exclaimed Miss Hauton.

“The opera’s a bore,” pursued her sister. “Caradori’s detestable and

Vita a horror. I hope they’ll get a new troupe next winter. I am sick of

this set.”

“I thought you were fond of the opera,” remarked Kate. “You are there

always.”

“Yes; we have a box, and one must go somewhere; but I was tired to death

before the season was half over. Here, Mr. Meredith, hold this silk for

me,” she continued, calling to the young gentleman, who was looking out

of the window, meditating the possibility of making his escape to the

refreshment of a cigar.

“That’s right, make him useful, Miss Hauton,” said Mr. Constant, as the

reluctant Meredith declared himself most happy and honored in being so

employed; but he set his back teeth firmly, and with difficulty

suppressed a yawn, which was evident in spite of his efforts to conquer

it. Miss Hauton’s animation, however, was more than a match for his

indifference. He was not to be let off. Young ladies, and high-bred ones

too, will sometimes pin young gentlemen, whether or no. It’s bad policy;

for Annie heard him say, as he afterward escaped and walked off the

piazza with his friend, and a cigar in his mouth,

“What bores these girls are, with their confounded worsteds and

nonsense.”

The evening passed in pretty much the same way. Much gossip, varied with

some very bad music, for Miss Hauton sang, and, like most amateurs,

would undertake more than she could execute. Annie thought of the

“screamer Vita” and that “horrid Caradori,” and wondered that ears that

were so delicate, so alive to the smallest fault in the music of others,

should have so little perception of their own sins of commission.

“Oh,” said Kate, as they retired to their room at night, “did not the

Hauton’s ‘Casta Diva’ set your teeth on edge? Such an absurdity, for a

girl like her to attempt what few professional persons can sing. You

look tired to death, Annie, and no wonder, for, between you and I, these

Hautons are very common girls. Strange! I’ve known them for years, and

yet never knew them before. Dress and distance make such a difference.”

“They seem to have so little enjoyment in anything,” remarked Annie.

“Every thing seems, in their phrase, ‘a bore.’ Now, to us in the

country, every thing is a pleasure. I suppose it is because we have so

little,” she continued, smiling, “that we must make the most of it.”

“Well,” said Kate, doubtfully, as if the idea was quite new to her, “is

not that better than to be weary with much?”

“And yet you would laugh at one of our little meetings,” replied Annie,

“where we talk of books, sing ballads, and sometimes dance after the

piano.”

“That is primitive, to be sure,” said Kate, with something of contempt

in her heart for such gothic amusements.

“It’s pleasant, at any rate,” thought Annie, as she laid her head on her

pillow and remembered, with infinite satisfaction, that she had only one

day more to stay among these very fine, very common people.

“And is it possible,” she thought, “that I should be such a fool as to

envy them because they looked gay and graceful across the opera house?

And half of the rest of them are, doubtless, no better. Oh for one

pleasant, spirited talk with Allan Fitzhugh.” And then her mind traveled

off to home and a certain clever young lawyer, and she fell asleep

dreaming she was in C——, and was once again a _belle_, (as one always

is in one’s dreams,) and awoke to another dull day of neglect and

commonplaces, to return home more disenchanted of the gay world and its

glitter, more thoroughly contented than she ever would have been with

her own intelligent and animated home, had she not passed three days at

Woodlawn, amid the dullness of wealth, unembellished by true refinement

or enlightened by a ray of wit.

But it was all right. To Annie had been given that which she most

appreciated; to the Hautons all that they were capable of enjoying.

Would either party have changed? No. The pity was mutual, the contempt

was mutual, and the satisfaction of both sides as complete as ever falls

to the lot of mortals. Annie had seen the other side of the medal, and

the Hautons did not know there was another side to be seen.

* * * * *

THE WASTED HEART.

BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

“The trees of the forest shall blossom again,

The song-bird shall warble its soul-thrilling strain,

But the heart Fate hath wasted no spring can restore,

And its song shall be joyful—no more, never more.”

A blush was deepening through the folded leaves

Of that young, guileless heart, and far within

Upon the altar of her soul a flame

Like to an inspiration came; she _felt_

That she had learned to love as e’en the heart

Of woman seldom loves.

She was an orphan child, and sorrow’s storm

With bitter breath had swept her gentle soul;

But that was past—and fresh in purity

It reveled in a blissful consciousness—

It _loved_, and _was beloved_.

She _knew_ she loved—and when the twilight dim

Stole on with balmy silence, she would list

A coming step, whose music fall kept time

To all the hurried throbbings of her heart,

And when it stayed, a softened glance would seek

Her drooping eye, whose deepest faith had poured

Its dreamy worship forth so fearlessly;

Eyes that to him alone were _never_ silent,

Whose glances sometimes sought for his, and threw

Their light far through his spirit, till it thrilled

To music every tightened nerve that strung

The living lyre of being.

At such an hour his burning passion slept

Before the portals of their azure heaven,

Like to some wandering angel who has sunk

To rest beside the glory-shadowed gate

Of a lost Paradise; and when he bowed

To press his lip upon the brow that lay

Soft pillowed on his bosom, she would start

Up from his half embrace, and then, to hide

Her sweet confusion, turn aside to part

With white and jeweled fingers, tremblingly,

The rich, dark masses of his waving hair.

Then joyous hopes came crowding brightly through

Their dreaming souls, as did the evening stars

Through the calm heaven above them, and the world

Of happiness that lay upon their hearts

Was silent all, for language had no words

To shadow forth the fond imaginings,

That made its very atmosphere a heaven

Of dreamy, rich, voluptuous purity.

An angel bowed before the mercy-seat

Trusts not more purely in the changeless One

To whom his prayer ascendeth, than did she

The proud, bright being whom her deathless love

Had made its idol-god—she could have laid

Her soft white hand in his without one thought

Except of love and trust, and bade him lead

Her to the end of life’s bewildered maze,

Blindfolded, while her heart on his would rest

Without one care for Time, one lonely fear

For that Eternity which mortals dread.

Such, then, is _woman’s love_—and wo to him

By whom her trusting nature is betrayed!

——

A change—a fearful, sad and blighting change—

Came o’er them—how or why it matters not—

Enough to know it came—enough to _feel_

That they shall meet as they have met, no more.

Of him we speak not—we but know he lives;

And she whose heart, whose very life was his,

Could tell you nothing more.

Lost—lost forever—and her life stood still,

And gazed upon the future’s cold gray heaven,

As if to catch one gleam of hope’s fair star—

No hope was there for her—the hand of God

Lay darkly in the cloud that shadowed it.

A _never-ending, living death_ was hers,

And one by one she saw her hopes expire,

But shed no tear, because the fount was dry;

Hers was a grief too strangely sad for tears.

You heard no shriek of anguish as the tide

Of cold and leaden loneliness swept in

Upon her gentle bosom, though the fall

Of earth upon the coffin of the loved

And lost was not more fearful.

She prayed for power to “_suffer and be still_.”

And God was merciful—it came at last,

As dreamless slumber to a heart that mourns.

She smoothed her brow above a burning brain,

Her eye was bright, and strangers never knew

That all its brilliancy and light was drawn

From out the funeral pyre of every hope

That in an earlier, happier hour had glowed

On passion’s hidden altar. Months rolled on,

And when the softened color came again

To cheek and lip, it was as palely bright

As though from out a sleeping rose’s heart

Its sweetest life had faded tranquilly.

She mingled with the world—its gay saloons

Gave back the echo of her joyous laugh;

Her ruby lip, wreathed with its winning smile,

Gently replied to gentler flatteries,

And when her soul flowed forth upon the waves

Of feeling in the charméd voice of song,

You would have deemed that gushing melody

The music of a purest, happiest heart,

So bird-like was its very joyousness.

And many envied that lone orphan girl

Her light and happy spirit—oh! it was

A bitter, burning mockery! when her life

Was one continued struggle with itself

To _seem_ what it could never _be_—to hide

Its gnawing vulture ’neath a sunny smile—

To crush the soul that panted to be free—

And force her gasping heart to drink again

The love that _fed upon itself_ and wore

Her inner life away!

They could not know her—could not understand

How one could live, and smile, and _still be cursed_,

Cursed with a “living judgment,” once to be

Beloved—and then to be beloved no more,

And _never to forget_. Her life was like

Some pictured lily which the artist’s hand

Gives its proportion—shades its virgin leaves

With nature’s beauty—but the bee can find

No banquet there—the breeze waft no perfume.

The shadows of the tomb have lengthened o’er

Her sky that blushes with the morn of life;

Far on the inner shrine of Memory’s fane,

Lie the cold ashes of her “wasted heart,”

By burning sighs that sweep the darkened soul,

By lava-drops wrung from a fevered brain,

Or e’en the breath of God to be rekindled

Never—no “_never more!_”

——

And thus it is that _woman’s_ sacrifice

Upon the altar of existence is

(That pulse of life) her _warm_ and _loving heart_!

Far other tongues beside the poet’s lyre

There are to teach us that we often _do_

But “let our young affections run to waste

And water but the desert”—that we make

An idol to ourselves—we bow before

Its worshiped altar-stone, and even while

Our incense-wreaths of adoration rise

It crumbles down before that breath, a mass

Of shining dust; we garner in our hearts

A stream of love undying, but to pour

Its freshness out at last upon a shrine

Of gilded clay!

Our barque floats proudly on—

The waves of Time may bear us calmly o’er

This life’s deep under-current—but the tones

Of love that woke the echoes of the Past

Are stilled, or only murmur mournfully,

“_No more—oh! never more!_”

And other hearts who bow before the shrine

Of young though shadowed beauty—can they know

What is the idol that they seek to win?

A _mind the monument_—a _form_ the _grave_—

Where sleep the ashes of a “_wasted heart_!”

* * * * *

A HEALTH TO MY BROTHER.

BY R. PENN SMITH.

Fill the bowl to the brim, there’s no use in complaining;

We’ll drown the dark dream, while a care is remaining;

And though the sad tear may embitter the wine,

Drink half, never fear, the remainder is mine.

True, others may drink in the lightness of soul,

But the pleasure I think is the tear in the bowl;

Then fill up the bowl with the roseate wine,

And the tears of my soul shall there mingle with thine.

And that being done, we will quaff it, my brother;

Who drinks of the one should partake of the other.

Thy head is now gray, and I follow with pain.—

Pshaw! think of our day, and we’re children again.

’Tis folly to grieve that our life’s early vision

Shone but to deceive, and then flit in derision.

A fairy-like show, far too fragile to last;

As bright as the rain-bow, and fading as fast.

’Tis folly to mourn that our hearts’ foolish kindness

Received in return but deceit for their blindness;

And vain to regret that false friends have all flown;

Since fortune hath set, we can buffet alone.

Then fill up the glass, there’s no use in repining

That friends quickly leave us, when fortune’s declining—

Let each drop a tear in the roseate bowl;

A tear that’s sincere, and then pledge to the soul.

* * * * *

“WHAT CAN WOMAN DO?”

OR THE INFLUENCE OF AN EXAMPLE.

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

Good, therefore, is the counsel of the Son of Sirach. “Show not

thy valiantness in wine; for wine hath destroyed many.”

Jeremy Taylor.

“I am glad you admire my pretty cousin,” said Isabel Gray to a gentleman

seated near her. “She deserves all her good fortune, which is the

highest possible compliment when you see how devoted her husband is and

what a palace-like home he has given her.”

“It does, indeed, seem the very abode of taste and elegance,” and the

speaker looked around the luxurious apartment with undisguised

admiration.

The room, with its occupants, seemed, in the mellow light which came

from lotus shaped vases, like a fine old picture set in a gorgeous

frame. The curtains, falling in fluted folds, shut out the dreariness of

a chill November night—a glowing carpet, on whose velvet surface seemed

thrown the richest flowers and the most luscious fruits, in wild but

graceful confusion, muffled the tread of the well-trained servants. A

few rare pictures hung upon the walls, and a group of beautiful women

were conspicuous among the guests who this evening shared the

hospitality of the master of the mansion. The dessert had just been

placed upon the table—rare fruits were heaped in baskets of delicate

_Sèvres_, that looked _woven_ rather than moulded into their graceful

shapes; cones and pyramids of delicately tinted ices, and sparkling

bon-bons—in fine, all that could tempt the most fastidious appetite,

had been gathered together for this bridal feast.

Very happy was William Rushton that night, and how fondly he glanced, in

the pauses of conversation, toward his lovely wife, who, for the first

time, had assumed her place as mistress of all this elegance. But hers

was a subdued and quiet loveliness,

“Not radiant to a _stranger’s_ eye,”

and many wondered that his choice should have fallen upon her, when

Isabel Gray seemed so much better suited to his well known

fastidiousness. Isabel had passed the season of early girlhood, yet her

clear brow was as smooth, and her complexion as glowing, as when she had

first entered society the belle of the season. Four winters had passed,

and, to the astonishment of many an acquaintance, she was still

unmarried; and now, as the bridemaid of the wealthy Mrs. Rushton, she

was once more the centre of fashion—the observed of all.

Glittering glasses, of fanciful shape and transparent as if they had

been the crystal goblets of Shiraz, were sparkling among the fruits and

flowers. Already they were foaming to the brim with wines, that might

have warmed the heart of the convivial Clarence himself, whose age was

the topic of discourse among the gentlemen and of comment to their

pretty listeners, who were well aware that added years would be no great

advantage to _them_ in the eyes of these boasting connoisseurs.

“No one can refuse that,” came to the ears of Isabel Gray, in the midst

of an animated conversation.

“The health of our fair hostess,” said her companion, by way of

explanation. “We are all friends, you know. Your glass, Miss Gray,” and

he motioned the attendant to fill it.

“Excuse me,” said she, in a quick, earnest voice, which drew the

attention of all. “I will drink to Lucy with all my heart, but in water,

if you please,” and she playfully filled the tall glass from a water

goblet near her.

“May I be permitted to follow Miss Gray’s example? She must not claim

all the honor of this new fashion,” and the speaker, a young man with a

fine though somewhat sad face, suited the action to the word.

Courtesy subdued the astonishment and remonstrances of the host and his

fashionable friends, and this strange freak of Miss Gray’s formed the

topic of conversation after the ladies withdrew.

“I do not think it a fancy—Isabel Gray always acts from principle,”

said one of the party, with whom she had been conversing; and Robert

Lewis, for so they called her supporter in this unparalleled refusal,

gayly declared himself bound, for that night at least, to drink nothing

but water, for her sake.

“Oh, Isabel, how could you do so?” said her cousin, as they re-entered

the drawingroom, and the ladies had dispersed in various groups to

examine and admire its decorations.

“Do what, dear Lucy?”

“Why, act in such a strange way. I never knew you to refuse wine before.

You might, at least, have touched the glass to your lips, as you always

have done. Mr. Rushton was too polite to remonstrate, but I saw he

looked terribly annoyed. He is so proud of his wines, too, and I wanted

him to like you so much. I would not have had it happen—oh, for any

thing,” and the little lady clasped her hands with a most tragical look

of distress.

“How very terrible! Is it such a mighty offense? But, seriously, it was

not a freak. I shall never take wine again.”

“And all my parties to attend? You will be talked about all winter. Why,

nothing is expected of a lady now-a-days but to sip the least possible

quantity; and, besides, champagne, you know, Isabel—champagne never

hurt any one.”

“I have seen too much of its ill effects to agree with you there, Lucy.

It has led to intemperance again and again. My heart has long condemned

the practice of convivial drinking, and I cannot countenance it even by

_seeming_ to join. Think of poor Talfourd—what made him a beggar and a

maniac! He was your husband’s college friend.”

“Oh, that is but one in a thousand; and, besides, what influence can you

possibly have. Who, think you, will be the better man for seeing you so

rude—I must say it—as to refuse to take wine with him?

“We none of us know the influence we exert—perhaps never will know it

in this world. But, still, the principle remains the same. To-night,

however, I had a definite object in my pointed refusal. Young Lewis has

recently made a resolution to avoid every thing that can lead him into

his one fault. Noble, generous to “the half of his kingdom”—highly

cultivated, and wealthy, he nearly shipwrecked his fortune when abroad,

brother tells me, by dissipation—the effect of this same warm-hearted,

generous nature. It is but very lately that he has seen what a moral and

mental ruin threatened him, and has resolved to gain a mastery over the

temptation. I knew of it by accident, and I should not tell it, even to

you, only that it may prevent his being rallied by Mr. Rushton or

yourself. To-night was his first trial. I saw the struggle between

custom, pride, and good resolutions. If he had yielded then, he would

have become disheartened on reflection, and, perhaps, abandoned his new

life altogether. I cannot tell—our fate in this world is decided by

such trivial events. At any rate, I have spared him one stroke—he will

be stronger next time to refuse for himself.”

“I should not have dreamed of all this! Why I thought it was only his

Parisian gallantry that made him join with you; but, then, if he has

once been dissipated, the case is hopeless.”

“Oh, no Lucy, not hopeless; when a strong judgment is once convinced, it

is the absence of reflection, or a little moral courage, at first, that

ruins so many.”

“Excellent, excellent,” cried the lively Mrs. Moore, who came up just in

time to hear Isabel’s closing sentence—“If Miss Gray is not turned

temperance lecturer! Come, ladies, let her have a numerous audience

while she is about it. Ah, I know you think to get into Father Mathew’s

good graces. Shall you call upon him when he arrives, and offer your

services as assistant?”

“We were discussing the possibility of entire reformation,” said Isabel,

calmly, quite unmoved by Mrs. Moore’s covert sarcasms, to the ladies who

now gathered round the lounge on which she sat. “The reformation of a

man who has been once intemperate, I mean.”

“Oh, intemperance is so shockingly vulgar, my dear,” quavered forth Mrs.

Bradford, the stately aunt of the hostess. “How can you talk about such

things. No, to be sure, when a man is once dissipated, you might as well

give him up. He’s lost to society, _that’s certain_; besides, we women

have nothing to do with it.”

“I beg your pardon, my dear madam, but I think we have a great deal to

do, though not in the way of assisting Father Matthew to address

Temperance Conventions, as Mrs. Moore kindly suggests. Moreover, I have

known a confirmed inebriate, so supposed, to give up all his old

associations, and become a useful and honorable member of society.”

“Tell us about it, please, Miss Gray,” urged Emily Bradford, deeply

interested. “There will be plenty of time before the gentlemen come in.”

And as the request was seconded by many voices, Isabel told her simple

tale.

[1]“There is no romance about it, Miss Emily; but you remember those

pretty habit shirts you admired so much last fall—and _you_ have seen

me wear them, Mrs. Moore. They were made by a woman—a _lady_ whom I

first saw years ago, when I passed my vacations at Milton, a little town

not far from Harrisburg. My Aunt Gray was very domestic, and thought it

no disgrace to the wife of a judge, and one of the most prominent men in

the state, to see after her own household.

“There was a piece of linen to be made up one vacation; and I remember

going into my aunt’s room and finding her surrounded by ‘sleeves and

gussets and bands’—cutting out and arranging them with the most

exemplary patience. ‘Pray, aunt, why do you bother yourself with such

things,’ I said, for I was full of boarding-school notions on the

dignity of _idleness_. ‘Why don’t you leave it for a seamstress.’

“‘If you will go with me this afternoon to see my seamstress, you will

find out. I should like you to see her.’ And that afternoon our walk

ended at a plain brown frame house, with nothing to relieve its

unsightliness but a luxuriant morning-glory vine, which covered one of

the lower windows.

“‘How is Mrs. Hall to-day?’ aunt said to a dirty little fellow who was

making sand pies on the front step.

“‘She’s in there,’ was all the answer we received, as he pointed toward

a door on the right of the little hall.

“‘Come in,’ said a faint and very gentle voice; and, at first, I could

hardly see who had spoken, the room was so shaded by the leafy curtain

which had interlaced its fragile stems over the front window. There was

a neat rag carpet on the floor; a few plain chairs, a table, and a

bureau, ranged round the room; but drawn near the window, so that the

light fell directly upon it, was a bed, covered by a well-worn

counterpane, though, like everything else, it was very neat and

clean—and here, supported in a sitting posture by pillows, was my

aunt’s seamstress. I do not think she had been naturally beautiful—but

her features, wasted by long illness, were very delicate, and her eyes

were large, and with the brilliancy you sometimes see in consumptives,

yet a look of inexpressible sadness. She was very pale in that soft

emerald light made by the foliage, and this was relieved by a faint

hectic that, if possible, increased the pallor. She smiled as she saw my

aunt, and welcomed us both very gratefully. As she held out her long

thin hand, you could see every blue vein distinctly. I noticed that she

wore a thimble, and around her, on the bed, were scattered bits of linen

and sewing implements. You cannot tell how strange it seemed to see her

take up a wristband and bend over it, setting stitch after stitch with

the regularity of an automaton, while she talked with us. She seemed

already dying, and this industry was almost painful to witness.

“I gathered from her conversation with my aunt,—while I looked on and

wondered,—that Mrs. Hall had long been a confirmed invalid. They even

spoke of a ruptured blood-vessel, from the effects of which she was now

suffering. She did not complain—there was not a single murmur at her

illness, or the hard fate that compelled her to work for her daily

bread. I never saw such perfect cheerfulness, and yet I knew, from the

contracted features and teasing cough, that she was suffering intensely.

The little savage we had seen on our arrival, proved to be the son of

her landlady, who was also her nurse and waiting-maid.

“I was very much interested, and, by the time we bade her good-bye, I

had sketched out quite a romance, in which I was sure she had been the

principal actor.

“‘Poor lady,’ said I, the instant we were out of the gate. ‘Why do you

let her work, aunt? Why don’t you take her home, you have so many vacant

rooms—or, at least, I should think, there were rich people enough in

Milton to support her entirely. She does not look fit to hold a needle.

Has she no children? and when did her husband die?—was she very

wealthy?’

“I poured out my questions so fast that aunt had no time to answer any

one of them, and I had been so much engaged, that I had not noticed a

man reeling along the side-walk toward us, until just in time to escape

the rude contact of his touch, from which I shrunk, almost shrieking.

“‘Who told you that Mrs. Hall was a widow, Isabel?’ said aunt, to divert

me from my mishap.

“‘Nobody; but I knew it at once, as soon as I looked at her; how lonely

she must be—and how terrible to see one’s best friend die, and know you

cannot call them back again.’

“‘Not half so dreadful, dear,’ answered she, very seriously, ‘as to live

on from day to day and see the gradual death of the soul, while the body

is unwasted. It would be a happy day for Mrs. Hall that made her a

widow, though she, poor thing, might not think so. That wretched

inebriate’—and she pointed to the man we had just met—‘is her husband;

and this is why she plies her needle when we would willingly save her

from all labor. She cannot bear that _he_ should be indebted to the

charity of strangers.’

“It was even so, for the poor fellow had reached the garden-gate, and

was staggering in.

“‘So he goes home to her day after day,’ continued aunt; ‘and so it has

been since a few years after their marriage. When I first came here, he

had a neat shop in the village, and was considered one of the most

promising young men in the neighborhood. Such an excellent workman—such

a clever fellow—so fond and proud of his wife; and everybody said that

Charlotte Adams had married ‘out of all trouble,’ in the country phrase.

Poor girl! she had only entered a sea of misfortunes—for, from the

death of her only child, a fine little fellow, they have been going

down. It is a common story. First, the shop was given up, and he worked

by the day; not long after, they moved to a smaller house, and sold most

of their furniture. It was then she first commenced sewing, and, with

all her industry she could scarcely get along. She could never deny him

money when she had it—and this, with his own earnings, were spent at

the tavern. She remonstrated in vain. He would promise to do better—in

his sober moments he was all contrition, and called himself a wretch to

grieve such a good wife. I do not believe she has ever reproached him,

save by a glance of sorrowful entreaty, such as I have often seen her

give when he entered as now he is going to her.

“‘She was never very well, and under repeated trials, and sorrow and

mortification, her health gave way. Many a time have I parted with her,

never expecting to see her alive again; but there is some concealed

principle of vitality which supports her. Perhaps it is the hope that

she will yet see her husband what he has been. I fear she hopes in vain,

for if there was ever a man given over to the demon of intemperance it

is James Hall. But it is for this reason that she refuses the assistance

of her acquaintances, and works on from day to day, sometimes as now

unable to leave her bed. Of course she is well paid, and has plenty of

work, for everybody pities her, and all admire the wonderful patience,

cheerfulness and industry which she exhibits. She never speaks to any

one, even to me, of her husband’s faults. If she ever mentions him it is

to say, ‘James has been such a good nurse this week—he has the kindest

heart in the world.’ ‘She is a heroine,’ exclaimed my aunt warmly. ‘The

best wife I ever knew—and if there is mercy in heaven, she will be

repaid for all she has suffered in this world.’

“‘Poor lady,’ I thought and said a hundred times that week. I suppose I

must have tired everybody with talking about Mrs. Hall.”

“And did you ever see her again—_did_ she die, Miss Gray?” asked Emily

Bradford, as Isabel paused in her narration.

“I told you she made those pretty habit shirts for me. They were not in

fashion in those days if you will recollect. The first summer after my

debut in society I passed at Milton. I never shall forget the second

evening of my visit. If you recollect, there was a great temperance

movement through all our towns and villages just about that time.

Reformed inebriates had become the apostles of temperance, and went from

village to village, rousing the inhabitants by their unlearned but

wonderful eloquence. Mass meetings were held in the town-ball at Milton

nightly, and by uncle’s invitation, for he went heart and hand with the

newly awakened spirit of reform, aunt and myself accompanied him to one

of these strange gatherings. It was with the greatest difficulty we

could get a seat. Rough laborers, with their wives and children, crowded

side by side with the _élite_ of the little place; boys of every age and

size filled up the interstices, with a strange variety of faces and

expressions. The speaker of the evening was introduced just as we

entered. He was tall, with a wan, haggard-looking face, and the most

brilliant, flashing eyes I ever saw. A few months ago he had been on

outcast from society, and now, with a frame weakened by past excesses,

but with a spirit as strong as that which animated the old reformers, he

stood forth, going as it were ‘from house to house, saying peace be unto

you.’ Peace which had fled from his own hearth when he gave way to

temptation, but which now returning urged him to bear glad tidings to

other homes.

“I never listened to such strange and thrilling eloquence. I have seen

Fanny Kemble as Portia plead with Shylock with all the energy of

justice, and the force of her passionate nature, but though that was

beyond my powers of conception, I was not moved as now. With what

touching pathos he recounted the sorrows, the wasting, mournful want

endured by the drunkard’s wife! The sickness of hope deferred and

crushed—the destruction of all happiness here, or hope of it hereafter!

It was what his own eyes had seen, his own acts had caused—and it was

the eloquence of simple truth. More than one thought of poor Mrs. Hall,

I am sure. As for myself, I know not when I have been so excited, and

after the exhausted speaker had concluded his thrilling appeal, and the

whole rude assembly joined in a song arranged to the plaintive air of

Auld Lang Syne—more like a triumphal chant it seemed, as it surged

through the room—I forgot all rules of form, and though I had sung

nothing but tame Italian _cavatinas_ for years, my voice rose with the

rest, forgetful of all but the scene around me.

“Scarce had the last strains died away, when through the crowded aisles,

passing the very seat we occupied, some one pressed forward with

trembling eagerness. At first I did not recognize him—but uncle started

and made way for him to the table in front of the speaker’s seat. A

confused murmur of voices ran through the room, as one and another saw

him grasp the printed pledge which was lying there, with the eagerness

of a dying man. The first name subscribed to the solemn promise of total

abstinence that night was James Hall. When it was announced by my uncle

himself, whose voice was fairly tremulous with pleasure, the effect was

electrical. The whole assembly rose, and the room rang with three cheers

from stentorian voices. All order was at an end. Men of all classes and

conditions pressed forward to take him by the hand, and more names were

affixed to the pledge that night than any one could have counted on.

“It was a proud tribute paid to woman’s influence, when James Hall

grasping the hand of the speaker ejaculated—‘Oh! it was the picture you

drew of what my poor wife has suffered. Heaven bless her! she has been

an angel to me—poor wretch that I am.’

“My aunt’s first impulse was to fly to Mrs. Hall with the good news, but

‘let him be the bearer of the glad tidings himself,’ she said afterward.

‘We will offer our congratulations to-morrow.’ And never were

congratulations more sincerely received than by that pale invalid,

trembling even yet with the fear that her great happiness was not real.”

“Oh! very well,” broke in Mrs. Bradford. “Quite a scene, my dear; you

should have been a novelist. But did he keep it?—_that’s_ the thing.”

“You would not ask, my dear madam,” answered Isabel, “if you could have

witnessed another ‘scene,’ as you term it, in which Mrs. Hall was an

actor.

“There is a pretty little cottage standing at the very foot of the lane

which leads to my uncle’s house. This has been built since that

memorable evening by Mr. Hall, now considered the best workman, and one

of the most respected men in Milton; and it was furnished by his wife’s

industry. Her health was restored as if by a miracle; it was indeed

such, but wrought by the returned industry, self-respect, and devotion

of her husband. My aunt and myself were her guests only a few months

ago, the evening of her removal to her new home.

“We entered before her little preparations were quite finished, and

found Mrs. Hall arranging some light window curtains for the prettily

furnished parlor, while a fine curly-haired, blue-eyed little fellow was

rolling on the carpet at her feet. She was still pale, and will never be

strong again, but a happier wife and mother this world cannot contain.

Her reward has been equal to her great self-sacrifice, and not only

this, but the example of her husband has reformed many of his old

associates, who at first jeered at him when he refused to join them.

There is not a bar now in all Milton, for one cannot be supported.”

More than one thoughtless girl in the little group clustered around

Isabel began, for the first time, to feel their responsibility as women,

when her little narrative was concluded. But the current of thought and

education is not so easily turned, and by the time the gentlemen entered

the room, most of them had forgotten every thing but a desire to

outshine each other in their good graces.

Emily Bradford alone remained in the shadow of a curtain, quiet and

apart; and as she stood there musing, her heart beat faster, it may be,

with an unacknowledged pang of jealousy as she saw Robert Lewis speaking

earnestly with Isabel.

“Heaven bless you, Miss Gray, I confess I wavered—you have made me

ashamed of my weakness; I will not mind their taunting now,” was all

that the grateful, warm-hearted man could say; and he knew by the

friendly clasp of Isabel’s hand that nothing more was needed. Who among

that group of noble and beautiful women had more reason for happiness

than Isabel Gray? Ah, my sisters, if you could but realise that all

beauty and grace are but talents entrusted to your keeping, and that the

happiness of many may rest upon the most trivial act, you would not use

that loveliness for an ignoble triumph, or so thoughtlessly tread the

path of daily life!

* * * * *

“Oh, Isabel,” said Lucy Rushton, bursting into her cousin’s room, some

two years from the scenes we have recorded, “what am I to do? Pray

advise me, for you always know every thing.”

“Not quite as wise as that, dear, but what am I to do for you?”

“Oh, Emily Bradford has been proposed for by young Lewis, and aunt, who

sees only his wealth and connections, is crazy for the match. Emily

really loves him devotedly; and what am I to do, knowing how near he

once came to downright intemperance? Is it my duty, or is it not, to

tell aunt? It has no effect on Emily, and, besides, he confessed it all

to her when he proposed.”

“And what does she say?”

“Why, it’s your fault, after all, for she quotes a story you told that

same night I heard about his folly. You told me that, too. Well, he

declares he has not drank a glass of wine since then, and never will

again. Particularly if he has Emily for his guiding angel, I suppose,

and all that sort of thing. And she believes him, of course.”

“Well, ‘of course’—don’t say it so despairingly; why not? I do, most

assuredly. I might perhaps have distrusted the reformation if it had

been solely on Emily’s account, a pledge made to gain her, but if I am

not very much mistaken, I think I can trace their attachment to that

same eventful night, but I am very certain he did not declare himself

until quite recently.”

“So I am to let Emily run the risk?”

“Yes, if she chooses it; though I do not think there is much. I should

have no hesitation to marry Lewis if I loved him. Emily is a thoughtful,

sensible girl. She does not act without judgment, and she is just the

woman to be the wife of an impulsive, generous man like Lewis.

Sufficient time has elapsed to try his principles, and her companionship

will strengthen them.”

And so it proved, for there are now few happier homes than the cheerful,

hospitable household over which Emily Lewis presides. Isabel Gray is

always a favorite guest, and Robert predicts that she will never marry.

It may prove so, for she is not of those who would sacrifice herself for

fortune, or give her hand to any man she did not thoroughly respect and

sympathise with, to escape that really very tolerable fate—becoming an

old maid.

-----

[1] The circumstances here related are substantially true.

* * * * *

ON A PORTRAIT OF CROMWELL.

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

“Paint me as I am,” said Cromwell,

Rough with age, and gashed with wars—

“Show my visage as you find it—

Less than truth my soul abhors!”

This was he whose mustering phalanx

Swept the foe at Marston Moor;

This was he whose arm uplifted

From the dust the fainting poor.

God had made his face uncomely—

“Paint me as I am,” he said,

So he _lives_ upon the canvas

Whom they chronicled as _dead_!

Simple justice he requested

At the artist’s glowing hands,

“Simple justice!” from his ashes

Cries a voice that still commands.

And, behold! the page of History,

Centuries dark with Cromwell’s name,

Shines to-day with thrilling lustre

From the light of Cromwell’s fame!

* * * * *

A SEA-SIDE REVERIE.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

These white-capped waves roll on with pride, as if

The myth that ancient poësy did tell

Were true, and they did bear upon their breasts

King Néreus with state most royal. How

They leap and toss aloft their snowy crests;

And now a tumbling billow springing up

In air, does dash and bound—another comes—

Then playfully they meet, with bursting swell

Dashing their spray-wreaths on the shelving shore,

And quick the ripples hasten back, as if

To join the Ocëanides wild glee.

But when the beaming sunlight fades away

And storm-clouds gather—then the rolling waves,

Without a light, sweep on, and soon is heard

The under-current’s deep and solemn tones,

As on the shore it breaks.

How like to life

These ocean waves! When beaming with the rays

Of sunny Joy, Youths cresting billows bound,

Its frolick waves leap up with gleeful laugh,

Glitt’ring with pleasure’s light; but lo! a cloud

Obscures Life’s sky, and sorrow’s storm awakes,

The heavy swell of grief comes rolling on,

And all the sparkles of Life’s waves are gone!

* * * * *

THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE.

A SOUTHERN NOVELET.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

(_Concluded from page 91._)