CHAPTER XI.

We must briefly retrace our steps. We left Richard Coulter, in ambush,

having so placed his little detachments as to cover most of the groups

of dragoons—at least such as might be immediately troublesome. It was

with the greatest difficulty that he could restrain himself during the

interval which followed the entry of Elijah Fields into the house.

Nothing but his great confidence in the courage and fidelity of the

preacher could have reconciled him to forbearance, particularly as, at

the point which he occupied, he could know nothing of what was going on

within. Meanwhile, his eyes could not fail to see all the indignities to

which the poor old Dutchman was subjected. He heard his groans and

entreaties.

“I am a goot friend to King Tshorge! I was never wid de rebels. Why

would you do me so? Where is de captaine? I have said dat my darter

shall be his wife. Go bring him to me, and let him make me loose from de

rope. I’m a goot friend of King Tshorge!”

“Good friend or not,” said the brutal lieutenant, “you have to hang for

it, I reckon. We are better friends to King George than you. We fight

for him, and we want grants of land as well as other people.”

“Oh, mine Gott!”

Just then, faint sounds of the scuffle within the house, reached the

ears of those without. Clymes betrayed some uneasiness; and when the

sound of the pistol-shot was heard, he rushed forward to the dwelling.

But that signal of the strife was the signal for Coulter. He naturally

feared that his comrade had been shot down, and, in the some instant his

rifle gave the signal to his followers, wherever they had been placed in

ambush. Almost simultaneously the sharp cracks of the fatal weapon were

heard from four or five several quarters, followed by two or three

scattered pistol-shots. Coulter’s rifle dropt Clymes, just as he was

about to ascend the steps of the piazza. A second shot from one of his

companions tumbled the provost, having in charge old Sabb. His remaining

keeper let fall the rope and fled in terror, while the old Dutchman,

sinking to his knees, crawled rapidly to the opposite side of the tree

which had been chosen for his gallows, where he crouched closely,

covering his ears with his hands, as if, by shutting out the sounds, he

could shut out all danger from the shot. Here he was soon joined by

Brough, the African. The faithful slave bounded toward his master the

moment he was released, and hugging him first with a most rugged

embrace, he proceeded to undo the degrading halter from about his neck.

This done, he got the old man on his feet, placed him still further

amongst the shelter of the trees, and then hurried away to partake in

the struggle, for which he had provided himself with a grubbing hoe and

pistol. It is no part of our object to follow and watch his exploits;

nor do we need to report the several results of each ambush which had

been set. In that where we left the four gamblers busy at _Old Sledge_,

the proceeding had been most murderous. One of Coulter’s men had been an

old scout. Job Fisher was notorious for his stern deliberation and

method. He had not been content to pick his man, but continued to

revolve around the gamblers until he could range a couple of them, both

of whom fell under his first fire. Of the two others, one was shot down

by the companion of Fisher. The fourth took to his heels, but was

overtaken, and brained with the butt of the rifle. The scouts then

hurried to other parts of the farmstead, agreeable to previous

arrangement, where they gave assistance to their fellows. The history,

in short, was one of complete surprise and route—the dragoons were not

allowed to rally; nine of them were slain outright—not including the

captain; and the rest dispersed, to be picked up at a time of greater

leisure. At the moment when Coulter’s party were assembling at the

dwelling, Brough had succeeded in bringing the old couple together. Very

pitiful and touching was the spectacle of these two embracing with

groans, tears, and ejaculations—scarcely yet assured of their escape

from the hands of their hateful tyrant.

But our attention is required within the dwelling. Rapidly extricating

himself from the body of the loyalist captain, Coulter naturally turned

to look for Frederica. She was just recovering from her swoon. She had

fortunately been spared the sight of the conflict, although she

continued long afterward to assert that she had been conscious of it

all, though she had not been able to move a limb, or give utterance to a

single cry. Her eyes opened with a wild stare upon her husband, who

stooped fondly to her embrace. She knew him instantly—called his name

but once, but that with joyful accents, and again fainted. Her faculties

had received a terrible shock. Coulter himself felt like fainting. The

pain of his wounded arm was great, and he had lost a good deal of blood.

He felt that he could not long be certain of himself, and putting the

bugle to his lips, he sounded three times with all his vigor. As he did

so, he became conscious of a movement in the corner of the room. Turning

in this direction, he beheld, crouching into the smallest possible

compass, the preacher, Veitch. The miserable wretch was in a state of

complete stupor from his fright.

“Bring water!” said Coulter. But the fellow neither stirred nor spoke.

He clearly did not comprehend. In the next moment, however, the faithful

Brough made his appearance. His cries were those of joy and exultation,

dampened, however, as he beheld the condition of his young mistress.

“Fear nothing, Brough, she is not hurt—she has only fainted. But run

for your old mistress. Run, old boy, and bring water while you’re about

it. Run!”

“But you’ arm, Mass Dick—he da bleed! You hu’t?”

“Yes, a little—away!”

Brough was gone; and with a strange sickness of fear, Coulter turned to

the spot where Elijah Fields lay, to all appearance, dead. But he still

lived. Coulter tore away his clothes, which were saturated and already

stiff with blood, and discovered the bullet-wound in his left side,

well-directed, and ranging clear through the body. It needed no second

glance to see that the shot was mortal; and while Coulter was examining

it, the good preacher opened his eyes. They were full of intelligence,

and a pleasant smile was upon his lips.

“You have seen, Richard, the wound is fatal. I had a presentiment, when

we parted this morning, that such was to be the case. But I complain

not. Some victim perhaps was necessary, and I am not unwilling. But

Frederica?”

“She lives! She is here; unhurt but suffering.”

“Ah! that monster!”

By this time the old couple made their appearance, and Frederica was at

once removed to her own chamber. A few moments tendance sufficed to

revive her, and then, as if fearing that she had not heard the truth in

regard to Coulter, she insisted on going where he was. Meantime, Elijah

Fields had been removed to an adjoining apartment. He did not seem to

suffer. In the mortal nature of his hurt, his sensibilities seemed to be

greatly lessened. But his mind was calm and firm. He knew all around

him. His gaze was fondly shared between the young couple whom he had so

lately united.

“Love each other,” he said to them; “love each other—and forget not me.

I am leaving you—leaving you fast. It is presumption, perhaps, to say

that one does not fear to die—but I am resigned. I have taken

life—always in self-defense—still I have taken life! I would that I

had never done so. That makes me doubt. I feel the blood upon my head.

My hope is in the Lord Jesus. May his blood atone for that which I have

shed!”

His eyes closed. His lips moved, as it were, in silent prayer. Again he

looked out upon the two, who hung with streaming eyes above him. “Kiss

me, Richard—and you, Frederica—dear children—I have loved you always.

God be with you—and—me!” He was silent.

Our story here is ended. We need not follow Richard Coulter through the

remaining vicissitudes of the war. Enough that he continued to

distinguish himself, rising to the rank of major in the service of the

state. With the return of peace, he removed to the farm-house of his

wife’s parents. But for him, in all probability, the estate might have

been forfeited; and the great love which the good old Dutchman professed

for King George might have led to the transfer of his grant to some one

less devoted to the house of Hanover. It happened, only a few months

after the evacuation of Charleston by the British, that Felix Long, one

of the commissioners, was again on a visit to Orangeburg. It was at the

village, and a considerable number of persons had collected. Among them

was old Frederick Sabb and Major Coulter. Long approached the old man,

and, after the first salutation, said to him—“Well, Frederick, have we

any late news from goot King Tshorge?” The old Dutchman started as if he

had trodden upon an adder—gave a hasty glance of indignation to the

interrogator, and turned away ex-claiming—“D—n King Tshorge! I don’t

care dough I nebber more hears de name agen!”

* * * * *

AUDUBON’S BLINDNESS.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

John James Audubon, the great American naturalist, has

entirely lost his sight. _Newspaper Paragraph._

Blind—blind! yes, blind—those eyes that loved to look

On the bright pictures in great Nature’s book.

Quenched is that visual glory which arrayed

All the winged habitants of grove and glade,

And hill and prairie, in a garb as fair

As their own plumage stirred by golden air.

Alas! no more can he behold the beam

Of morning touch the meadow or the stream;

No more the noontide’s rays pervade the scene,

Nor evening’s shadows softly intervene,

But on his sense funereal Night lets fall

The moveless folds of her impervious pall.

But he shall wake! and in a grander clime,

With vales more lovely, mountains more sublime,

There shall he view, without a film to hide,

Delicious pastures, streams that softly glide,

Groves clothed in living greenness, filled with plumes

Bright as the dawn, and various as the blooms

With which the early Summer decks his bowers—

Gems all in motion, life-invested flowers.

Fairer than those, albeit surpassing fair,

His pencil painted with a skill so rare

That they, whose feet have never trod the far

And wondrous places where such creatures are,

Know all their beauty with familiar love—

From the stained oriole to the snow-white dove.

Blind—blind! Alas! he is bereft of light

Who gave such pleasure to the sense of sight.

His eyes, that, like the sun, had power to vest

All forms with color, are with darkness prest:

Sealed with a gloom chaotic like the deep;

Shut in by shadows like the realm of sleep.

Yet ’tis not meet to mourn a loss so brief—

A pain, to which time cannot yield relief—

But which Eternity must banish soon,

With beams more lustrous than the blaze of noon;

Yet softer than the evening is or morn,

When he to light immortal shall be born;

And with a vision purified behold

More than the prophets, priests and bards have told.

* * * * *

SONNETS.

BY MARY SPENSER PEASE.

LOVE’S SUNSET.

As shadows lengthen with the day’s declining,

Like troops of dusky spectres onward creeping,

Weaving swart stripes amid the golden shining

Where meadow, brook and moss-grown hill lie sleeping;

With murky fingers Nature’s sweet book closing—

Each bell and blossom and each three-leaved clover,

With stealthy march the sun’s glad sway deposing,

Till, widening, deepening, darkness shrouds earth over:

So, thy declining love casts o’er my spirit

Chill shadows, freezing all my soul’s warm giving,

Chill shadows, deadening all my soul’s best merit,

And making blackest night my brightest living:

A long, long, fearful night—that knows no morning,

Save in wild, glowing dreams, that speak thy love’s returning.

LOVE’S SUNRISE.

As shadows vanish with the dawn’s advancing,

Like things of evil fleeing from Truth’s whiteness,

The mem’ry of their dark spell but enhancing

The warmth and light of morning’s dewy brightness;

Their chill power over—with a glad awaking

Starts to new life each sleeping leaf and flower,

Each bird and insect into wild song breaking—

All Nature’s heart-pulse thrilleth to the hour:

Thus, my life’s sun—its glory all pervading—

Fuses my soul with daylight warm and tender;

Thus, all strange fears, my spirit darkly shading—

All doubtings flee from its excess of splendor:

Thus, through my inmost heart—like joy-bells ringing—

The birds and honey-bees of thy dear love come singing.

* * * * *

DOCTRINE OF FORM.

There is a connection natural and necessary between the forms and

essences of things; some law which compels figure and faculty into

correspondence; some tie which binds nature, function, and end to shape,

volume, and intrinsic arrangement.

That a wheel must be circular, a lever inflexible, and a screw, wedge

and inclined plane shall have a determinate form, is clearly a condition

of adaptation to use; and because in machinery the arrangement of inert

matter is thus essential to the action and aim of all contrivance and

mutual adjustment of parts, we are apt to think configuration entirely a

question of mechanical fitness, and indifferent to and independent of

structures having no such office. But it is not so. Facts beyond number

show that it has definite and fixed relation to substance universally,

without limitation to a particular kind or sphere of use, or manner or

purpose of being.

I. There are examples enough to prove that the fundamental law,

connecting shape and arrangement with function, is stronger in the vital

and spiritual than in the mechanical sphere, and even supercedes its

settled order and method. An instance of this overruling force:—The

elephant in general organization is a quadruped, eminently; but his

sagacity rises so high above the ordinary level of brutes as to require

the service of a proboscis, which is nearly equal in capabilities of use

to the human hand. Furnished with a sort of finger at the extremity of

this excellent instrument of prehension, he can draw a cork, lift a

shilling piece from the ground, or separate one blade of grass from a

number with dexterity and despatch. In this his eminence of intellect is

indicated, for external instruments are in accurate relation to internal

faculties, and considerable handicraft bespeaks a proportionately high

range of mental power. Now observe how his organization differs from

that of other quadrupeds, and approaches, against all the analogies of

classification, toward the arrangements of the human form. He has the

rudiments of five toes on each foot, shown externally by five toe-nails.

This is one toe more than belongs to any beast below the monkey tribe.

He has a kneepan on the hind leg, and the flexure of the limb is

backward, like the human, and unlike other quadrupeds. The breast of the

female is removed from its usual position upon the pelvis, to the chest

or breast bone, as in the more elevated races; and all the organs of

reproductive life correspond to those of the higher orders. All this is

unexplained by any mechanical necessity or advantage, and is so far, in

violation of the analogies of that lower constitution by which he is

linked to the order of four footed animals. Of his internal organization

I have no means of information within reach, but I am satisfied _a

priori_ that the human configuration and position of ports are

approximated wherever the quadruped form and attitude leaves it

possible. Comparative anatomists make great account of all instances of

mechanical accommodations which they meet with, but they are in nothing

so remarkable or so conspicuous as those which we are now noticing. They

have the advantage of being understood, and are therefore much insisted

upon; but the facts which we have given and hinted at are at once so

striking and so conclusive, as to leave no doubt and no necessity for

further proof of the preeminence of the law which they indicate.

II. In looking over the world of animal and vegetable forms there is

nothing more remarkable than the continual sacrifice of strength to

beauty, and of quantity or bulk to symmetry and shapeliness. Use seems

postponed to appearance, and order, attitude and elegance take rank of

quantity in the forms of things. I suppose that the law under

consideration determines these conditions of structure; and that the

beauty to which the sacrifice is credited, as an end and object, is only

an incident; and, that the pleasure derived arises upon the felt

correspondence of such forms with our faculties, innately adjusted to

the harmonies of this universal law—in other words—that there is an

intrinsic force of essence which compels organization, limits its

dimensions, and determines its figure, and so, all substances take shape

and volume from a law higher and more general than individual use and

efficiency. Beauty, being but the name for harmony between faculty and

object, may well serve as a rule of criticism, but the efficient cause

which determines form lies deeper; it lies, doubtless, in the necessary

relation of organization and essence—structure and use—appearance and

office—making one the correspondent and exponent of the other in the

innermost philosophy of signs.

The abrogation of a rule, and departure from an established method of

conformation, belonging to a whole class of natural beings, in order to

attain the forms and order of arrangement of another class into whose

higher style of constitution the lower has been somewhat advanced, as in

the case of the elephant; and, the clear evidence that mechanical

perfection is everywhere in the human mechanism subordinated to a law of

configuration, which has respect to another standard and a higher

necessity—each, in its own way, demonstrates that form is not only a

necessity of mechanics, but is still more eminently an essential

condition of all substance. Facts from these sources hold a sort of

raking position in the array of our argument, but the multitude and

variety of examples which muster regularly under the rule are, of

themselves, every way adequate to maintain it.

III. Our proposition (to vary the statement of it) is, that form, or

figure, and, doubtless, dimension also, have a fixed relation to the

special qualities and characters of beings and things, and that it is

not indifferent in the grand economy of creation whether they be put

into their present shapes or into some other; but, on the contrary, the

whole matter of configuration and dimension is determined by laws which

arise out of the nature of things.

In generals the evidence is clear, and it must, therefore, be true in

the minutest particulars; for the law of aggregates is the law of

individuals—the mass and the atom have like essential conditions. It

is, indeed, difficult to trace facts into the inmost nature of things,

and quite impossible to penetrate by observation as deep as principles

lead by the process of mental investigation—so much more limited in the

discovery of truth, even the truth of physics, are the senses than the

reasoning faculties. We need, however, but open our eyes to see that the

diversities of form among all created things are, at least, as great as

their differences of character and use; and whether there be a

determinate relation of appearance to constitution or not, there is at

least an unlikeness of configuration or dimension, or of both, wherever

there is unlikeness of quality; and that this difference of form thus

commensurate with difference of constitution, is not merely a matter of

arbitrary distinctiveness among the multifarious objects of creation, as

names or marks are sometimes attached to things for certainty of

reference and recognition, appears from such facts and considerations as

follow—

1. All mineral substances in their fixed, that is, in their crystaline

form, are angular with flat sides and straight edges. This is not only a

general rule and an approximate statement, but exactly accurate and

universal; for in the few instances of crystals occurring with convex or

curvilinear faces, such as the diamond, it is known that their primary

forms have plane or flat faces and a parallel cleavage—making the rule

good against accidental influences and superficial appearances.

Here then we have a mode of configuration appropriate to and distinctive

of one whole kingdom of nature.

2. In vegetables we have a different figure and characteristic

conformation. Their trunks, stems, roots and branches are nearly

cylindrical, and uniformly so, in all individuals clearly and completely

within the class.

Soon as we enter the precincts of life curvature of lines and convexity

of surface begin to mark the higher styles of existence, the law being

that nothing which lives and grows by the reception and assimilation of

food is angular, rectilinear or included within plane surfaces. Inert

bodies take straight, but life assumes curve lines.

3. In animal forms the curve or life line is present of necessity, but

it undergoes such modification and departure from that which marks

vegetable existence as our law demands. We no longer have almost

cylindrical simplicity of shape as the sign of character and kind, but,

retaining curvity, which is common to vitality of all modes, we find the

cylinder shaped or tapered toward the conical, with continually

increasing approach to a higher style of configuration as we ascend

toward a higher character of function.

In the human body all that belongs to the whole inferior creation is

represented and reproduced, for man is logically a microcosm, and in his

body we find the various orders of natural beings marked by their

appropriate modes of construction and configuration—from a hair to a

heart, the multifarious parts bring with them the forms native to their

respective varieties of being.

The bones have in them the material of the mineral kingdom, and they

have conformity of figure. In the short, square bones of the wrist, in

the teeth, and several other instances, the flatness, straightness and

angularity proper to crystalized matter, marks its presence as an

element of the structure.

The correspondence of the vascular system with the forms proper to

vegetation, is most striking. A good drawing of the blood vessels is a

complete picture of a tree. Now, animals and vegetables differ widely in

their manner of taking in food, but they are alike in the method and end

of the distribution of the nutritious fluids, and between them the

resemblance of form obtains only in this, as our law requires. There is

nothing in trees, shrubs or grasses, that has any outline likeness to

the esophagus, stomach or intestinal tube; nothing in them has any

resemblance of office, and nothing, therefore, is formed upon their

pattern. The roots of trees, which are the avenues of their principal

aliment, are merely absorbing and circulating instruments—a sort of

counterpart branches in function—and they have, therefore, what

scientific people call the arborescent arrangement wherever they find

it.

If it is answered here that a hydraulic necessity determines the general

form of circulating vessels, and that certain immediate mechanical

advantages belong to the cylindrical over the square or polygonal shape

of tube, our point is not affected. We are showing, now, that the

expected conformity never fails. It is essential to our position that

mechanical requirements shall not over-rule the general law. The

instance given is in accordance, and a presumption rises that even

mechanical conformation itself is covered and accommodated by the great

principle which we are illustrating. It is enough for us, however, that

no facts contradict, though it be doubted whether all the instances

cited afford us the expected support.

But, leaving the functions and organs, which belong to all living and

growing beings in common, and entering the province of animal life and

animal law proper, we everywhere observe a significant departure from

the angular and cylindrical forms of the mineral and vegetable kingdoms,

and an approach, in proportion to the rank and value of the organ and

its use, toward an ideal or model, which is neither conical nor

heart-shaped, exactly, but such a modification of them as carries the

standard figure farthest from that uniformity of curve which marks a

globe, from the parallelism of fibre which belongs to the cylinder, and

from the flatness of base and sharpness of apex which bound the cone.

The limbs that take their shape from the muscles of locomotion, and the

internal parts concerned in those high vital offices, of which minerals

and vegetables are wholly destitute, are examples and proof of the

configuration proper to the animal kingdom. The thigh, leg, arm,

fore-arm, finger, the neck and shoulders, the chest, and the abdomen

meeting it and resting on the pelvic bones, are felt to be beautiful or

true to the standard form as they taper or conform to this intuitive

life-type.

The glands are all larger at one end than the other, and those that have

the highest uses are most conspicuously so, and have the best defined

and most elegant contour. The descending grade of figure and function is

marked by tendency to roundness and flatness. In the uses, actions and

positions of these organs, there is nothing mechanical to determine

their figure. The human stomach is remarkable for an elegance of form

and conformity to the ideal or pattern configuration, to a degree that

seems to have no other cause, and, therefore, well supports the doctrine

that the importance of its office confers such excellence of shape. The

facts of comparative anatomy cannot be introduced with convenience, but

they are believed to be in the happiest agreement and strongest

corroboration.

The heart, lungs and brain, are eminent instances of the principle. They

hold a very high rank in the organization, and, while their automatic

relations, uses and actions are _toto cœlo_ dissimilar, their agreement

with each other in general style of configuration, and their common

tendency toward the standard intimated, is most remarkable.

Their near equality of rank and use, as measured by the significance of

form, over-rides all mechanical difference in their mode of working. The

heart is, in office, a forcing pump or engine of the circulation. The

lungs have no motion of their own, and the porosity or cellular

formation of the sponge seems to be the only quality of texture that

they require for their duty, which is classed as a process of vital

chemistry. The brain differs, again, into a distinct category of

function, which accepts no classification, but bears some resemblance to

electrical action. Yet, differing thus by all the unlikeness that there

is between mechanical, chemical and electro-vital modes of action, they

evidently derive their very considerable resemblance of figure from

their nearly equal elevation and dignity of service in the frame. This

near neighborhood of use and rank allows, however, room enough for their

individual differences and its marks. The heart is lowest of the three

in rank, and nearest the regularly conical form. The lungs, as their

shape is indicated by the cavity which they occupy, are more delicately

tapered at their apex, and more oblique and variously incurvated at

their base. And the brain, whether viewed in four compartments, or two,

or entire, (it admits naturally of such division,) answers still nearer

to the highest style and form of the life pattern; and with the due

degree of resemblance, or allusion to it, in its several parts,

according to their probable value; for the hemispheres are shaped much

more conformably to the ideal than the cerebellum or the cerebral

apparatus at the base of the brain, where the office begins to change

from that of generating the nervous power to the lower service of merely

conducting it out to the dependencies.

IV. Hitherto we have looked for proof and illustration only to well

marked and clearly defined examples of the orders and kinds of things

examined. But the borders of kingdoms and classes, the individuals which

make the transitions, and the elements and qualities common to several

provinces which link kind to kind and rank to rank, confess the same

law, and even more nicely illustrate where, to superficial view, they

seem to contradict it.

Every species of beings in the creation is a reproduction, with

modifications and additions, but a real reproduction, in effect, of all

that is below it in the scale; so that the simplest and the lowest

continues and reappears in all, through all variety of advancement, up

to the most complex and the highest; in some sense, as decimals include

the constituent units, and hundreds include the tens, and other

multiples of these embrace them again, until the perfect number is

reached, if there be any such bound to either numerals or natures.

1. The rectilinear and parallel arrangement of parts proper to

crystalization, which is the lowest plastic power of nature known to us,

continues, proximately, in the stems and branches of vegetables. This

will accord with our theory, if ascribed to the abundant mineral

elements present in the woody fibre, and to its insensibility and

enduring nature, as shown by its integral preservation for ages after

death, to a degree that rivals the rocks themselves. But the stems of

trees are not exactly cylindrical and their fibres are not quite

parallel; for there is something of life in them that refuses the

arrangement of dead matter. From root to top they taper, but so

gradually that it is only decidedly seen at considerable distances or in

the whole length.

2. A section of a timber tree shows a regular concentric arrangement of

rings—the successive deposits of sequent years—and its cleavage proves

that it has also a radiated disposition of fibres. In the flat bones of

the head this same arrangement of parts obtains. The cartilaginous base

of bone has a life of perhaps equal rank with that of the vegetable

structure; it has its insensibility, elasticity, and durability at

least, with scarcely any higher qualities; and the osseous deposit is

thrown into figure and order similar to the ligneous.

3. The fruits, kernels, and seeds of plants, being the highest results

of the vegetable grade of living action, and so bordering upon the

sphere of animal existence, and even intruding into it, begin to take

its proper forms, and they are spheroidal, oblate spheroids, conical

exactly, ovoid, and even closely touch upon the heart-shaped; yet

without danger of confusion with the forms distinctive of the higher

style of life. This comparison, it must be remarked also, is between the

fruits of one kind and the organic structures of the other, and not of

organ with organ, which in different kinds shows the greatest diversity,

but of spheres of existence immediately contiguous, and therefore

closely resembling each other.

V. Of these forms the globular is probably the very lowest; and,

accordingly, of it we have no perfect instance in the animal body, and

no near approach to it, except the eye-ball, where mechanical law

compels a rotundity, that muscle, fat, and skin seem employed to hide as

well as move and guard, and, in the round heads of bones, where the ball

and socket-joint is required for rotatory motion. But in both these

cases the offices which the roundness serves are mechanical, and so, not

exceptions to our rule. The perfectly spherical must rank as a low order

of form, because it results from the simplest kind of force, mere

physical attraction being adequate to its production, without any

inherent modifying power or tendency in the subject. It is, accordingly,

very repugnant to taste in the human structure; as, for instance,

rotundity of body, or a bullet-head. Nothing of that regularity of curve

which returns into itself, and might be produced upon a turning lathe,

and no continuity of straight lines within the capacity of square and

jack-plane, are tolerable in a human feature. Lips, slit with the

straightness of a button-hole, or conical precision, or roly-poly

globularity, would be equally offensive in the configuration of any

feature of the face or general form. Cheek, chin, nose, brow, or bosom,

put up into such rotundity and uniformity of line and surface, have that

mean and insignificant ugliness that nothing can relieve. In raggedest

irregularity there is place and space for the light and shade of thought

and feeling, but there is no trace or hint of this nobler life in the

booby cushiony style of face and figure. Nose and brows, with almost any

breadth of angle; and chin, with any variety of line and surface, are

better, just as crystalization, flat and straight and sharp as it is,

nevertheless, seems to have some share in its own make and meaning,

which rolls and balls cannot lay any claim to.

VI. But the law under consideration cannot be restrained to shape only.

Dimension is also a result of intrinsic qualities, and must in some way

and to some extent, indicate the character to which it corresponds.

Druggists are so well aware of, and so much concerned with the

difference in the size of the drops of different fluids, that they have

constructed a table of equivalents, made necessary by the fact. Thus a

fluid drachm of distilled water contains forty-five drops, of sulphuric

ether one hundred and fifty, of sulphuric acid ninety, and of Teneriffe

wine seventy-eight. So that the law is absolutely universal, however

varied in expression, and a specific character in fluids and other parts

of the inanimate world declares itself as decidedly in bulk or volume,

as difference of constitution is shown by variety of figure in the

living and sentient creation.

Among the crystals termed _isomorphous_ by chemists, the dominant

ingredient which is common to them all, controls the form, but

difference of size answers sufficiently to the partial unlikeness of the

other less active elements; and so in the instances of cubes and

octahedrons formed of dissimilar minerals where difference of

constitution is indicated by varied dimensions only.

VII. Crystal and crystal, and, drop and drop, are alike within the

limits of the species, or their unlikeness, if there be any, is not

appreciable to our senses, and scarcely conceivable though not

absolutely impossible to thought; but we know certainly that clear

individuality of character is everywhere pursued and marked by

peculiarity of form and size throughout the entire universe.

While among minerals and fluids dissimilarity occurs obviously only

between species, among plants it begins to be conspicuous between

individuals, growing more and more so as observation ascends in the

vegetable kingdom. Two stalks of grass may resemble each other as much

as two crystals of the same salt, but timber trees grow more unlike, and

fruit trees differ enough to make their identification comparatively

easy. But it is in the animal kingdom, eminently, and with increasing

distinctness as the rank rises, that individuals become distinguishable

from each other; for it is here that diversity of character gets

opportunity, from complexity of nature, freedom of generating laws, and

varied influence of circumstances, to impress dissimilarity deepest and

clearest. Crystals undergo no modification of state but instant

formation and the sudden violence which destroys them. Vegetables pass

through the changes of germination and growth, and feel the difference

of soil, and winds, and temperature, and to the limits of these

influences, confess them in color, size, and shape; but animals, endowed

with acuteness of sense, enjoying locomotion, and related to all the

world around them—living in all surrounding nature, and susceptible of

all its influences—their individual differences know no limits, and

they are universally unlike in appearance as in circumstances, training

and character.

Even in the lower orders there is ample proof of this. The mother bird

and beast know their own young; the shepherd and the shepherd’s dog know

every one of their own flock from every other on all the hills and

plains; and among the millions of men that people the earth, a quick eye

detects a perfectly defined difference as broad as the peculiarity of

character which underlies it.

_Narrowness of relations and Simplicity of function are as

narrowly restrained in range of conformation; Complexity makes

proportionate room for difference; and Variety is the result,

the sign, and the measure of Liberty._

Detailed illustrations of the law would interest in proportion to the

range of the investigation; and gratification and delight would keep

pace with the deepening conviction of its universality; but the limits

of an essay restrain the discussion to mere hints and suggestions, and

general statements of principles which reflection must unfold into

formal demonstration for every one in his own department of observation.

Some inaccuracies of statement have been indulged to avoid the

complexity which greater precision would have induced. Broad, frank

thinking will easily bring up this looseness of language to the required

closeness of thought as the advancing and deepening inquiry demands.

Moreover, it may be difficult or impossible to meet every fact that

presents itself with an instant correspondence in the alleged law; but

such things cannot be avoided until people learn how to learn, and cease

to meet novel propositions with a piddling criticism, or a wrangling

spirit of controversy. Looking largely and deeply into facts in a

hundred departments of observation will show the rule clear in the focal

light of their concurrent proofs, or, looking out from the central

position of _a priori_ reasoning, it will be seen in every direction to

be a _necessary_ truth.

It would be curious, and more than curious, to trace ascent of form up

through ascertained gradation of quality in minerals, plants, fruits,

and animal structures; and it would be as curious to apply a criticism

derived from this doctrine to the purpose of fixing the rank and

relations of all natural beings—in other words, to construct a science

of taste and beauty, and, striking still deeper, a science of universal

physiognomy, useful at once as a law of classification, and as an

instrument of discovery. The scale would range most probably from the

globular, as the sign of the lowest character, through the regularly

graded movement of departure which in nature fills up all the stages of

ascending function from a drop of fluid to the model configuration of,

perhaps, that cerebral organ which manifests the highest faculty of the

soul.

The signs that substance and its states give of intrinsic nature and

use, or the connection of configuration and function, are not understood

as we understand the symbols of arithmetic, and the words of artificial

language; that is, the symbols of our own creation answer to the ideas

they are intended for, but the signs of the universal physiognomy of

nature are neither comprehended fully, nor translated even to the extent

that they are understood, into the formulæ of science and the words of

oral language. Many of them are telegraphed in dumb show to our

instincts, to the great enlargement of our converse with nature, both

sentient and inanimate; but still a vast territory of knowledge lies

beyond the rendering of our intuitions, and remains yet unexplored by

our understanding; a dark domain that has not been brought under any

rule of science, nor yielded its due tribute to the monarch mind. We

have no dictionary that shows the inherent signification of a cube, a

hexagon, an octagon, circle, ellipse, or cylinder; no tables of

multiplication, addition, subtraction, and division, which, dealing in

forms and their equivalents, might afford the products, quotients, and

remainders of their various differences and interminglings with each

other. States, qualities, and attitudes of structure, contribute much of

that natural language by which we converse with the animal world beneath

us, and with the angel world within us, but it remains as yet

instinctual, except so far only as the fine arts have brought it out of

the intuitive and oracular into rule and calculation, nor have we any

methodic calculus, universally available, by which these revelations of

nature may be rendered into demonstrative truth ruled by scientific

method.

It is conceivable that the form of every natural being is a full report

of its constitution and use, but as yet, tedious and dubious chemical

analysis, observation, and experiment are our directory to the hidden

truth. In some things it is otherwise. We know perfectly a passion or

emotion, and the meaning of the attitudes, colors, and forms of limb,

person and feature which denote them; and the interior qualities of

texture, also, as they are intimated to the sight and touch, lead us

without reasoning, to definitive judgments of human character. Of

animals, in their degree, we receive similar impressions and with equal

conviction, but we know so little more about these things, than that we

know them, that we can make no advantage of such knowledge beyond its

most immediate purpose in our commerce with the living beings which

surround us.

It remains, therefore, for mind to explore the philosophy of form, that

all which lies implied in it, waiting but still undiscovered, may come

out into use, and all that we instinctively possess of it may take a

scientific method, and so render the service of a law thoroughly

understood.

The principle gives us familiar aid every day, yet without revealing its

own secret, in physiognomy, painting, statuary, architecture, and

elocution. It is obeyed in all the impersonations of metaphor, fable and

myth; it is active every instant in the creations of fancy, and

supplies, so to speak, the material for all the structures of

thought—ruling universally in the earth, and fashioning and peopling

the heavens. To the most delicate movements of the imagination it gives

a corresponding embodiment of beauty; and it helps, as well, to realize

the monstrous mixtures of man and beast occurring in human character by

the answering monstrosity of centaur, syren, sphinx, and satyr. The old

Greek theology held that the eternal Divinity made all things out of an

eternal matter, after the forms of eternal, self-subsisting patterns; a

statement, in its utmost depth beyond the discovery of human faculties,

certainly, but not too strong to express the universal prevalence of

this law in the creation. To the human intellect all things _must_ exist

in space, bounded and determined by figure appropriate to the subject;

in fact, we can conceive of nothing except under such conditions; and

our doctrine but refers this necessity of mind to a primordial necessity

of being, ranking it among the harmonies of existence, as an adaptation

of sense, thought, and feeling to the correspondent truth in the

constitution of the universe.

E.

* * * * *

ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL TAYLOR.

BY R. T. CONRAD.

_Quid me mortuum miserum vocas, qui te sum multo felicior? aut

quid acerbi mihi putas contigisse?_

Weep not for him! The Thracians wisely gave

Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to the grave.

’Tis misery to be born—to live—to die:

Ev’n he who noblest lives, lives but to sigh.

The right not shields from wrong, nor worth from wo,

Nor glory from reproach; he found it so.

Not strong life’s triumphs, not assured its truth;

Ev’n virtue’s garland hides an aspic tooth.

His glorious morn was past, and past his noon;—

Life’s duty done, death never comes too soon.

Then cast the dull grave’s gloomy trappings by!

The dead was wise, was just—nor feared to die.

Weep not for him. Go, mark his high career;

It knew no shame, no folly and no fear.

More blest than is man’s lot his blameless life,

Though tost by tempests and though torn by strife.

’Neath the primeval forest’s towery pride,

Virtue and Danger watched his couch beside;

This taught him purely, nobly to aspire,

That gave the nerve of steel and soul of fire.

No time his midnight lamps—the stars—could dim;

His matin music was the cataract’s hymn;

His Academe the forest’s high arcade—

(To Numa thus Egeria blessed the shade;)

With kindling soul, the solitude he trod—

The temple of high thoughts—and spake with God:

Thus towered the man—amid the wide and wild—

And Nature claimed him as her noblest child.

Nurtured to peril, lo! the peril came,

To lead him on, from field to field, to fame.

’Twas met as warriors meet the fray they woo:

To shield young Freedom’s wild-wood homes he flew;

And—fire within his fortress, foes without,

The rattling death-shot and th’ infuriate shout—

He, where the fierce flames burst their smoky wreath,

And war’s red game raged madliest, toyed with death;

Till spent the storm, and Victory’s youngest son

Glory’s first fruits, his earliest wreath, had won.

Weep not for him, whose lustrous life has known

No field of fame he has not made his own:

In many a fainting clime, in many a war,

Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot’s car.

Whether he met the dusk and prowling foe

By oceanic Mississippi’s flow;

Or where the southern swamps, with steamy breath,

Smite the worn warrior with no warrior’s death;

Or where, like surges on the rolling main,

Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain;

Dawn—and the field the haughty foe o’erspread,

Sunset—and Rio Grande’s waves run red;

Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey

Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray;

Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak

How frail the fortress where the heart is weak;

How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy,

Men sternly knit and firm to do or die;

Or where, on thousands thousands crowding, rush

(Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush,

The long day paused on Buena Vista’s height,

Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright;

Till angry Freedom, hovering o’er the fray,

Swooped down, and made a new Thermopylæ;—

In every scene of peril and of pain,

His were the toils, his country’s was the gain.

From field to field, and all were nobly won,

He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on:

New stars rose there—but never star grew dim

While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him.

The heart is ne’er a castaway; its gift

Falls back, like dew to earth—the soul’s own thrift

Of gentlest thoughts by noblest promptings moved:

He loved his country, and by her was loved.

To him she gave herself, a sacred trust,

And bade him leave his sword to rest and rust;

And, awed but calm, nor timid nor elate,

He turned to tread the sandy stairs of state.

Modest, though firm; decided, cautious, clear;

Without a selfish hope, without a fear;

Reverent of right, no warrior now, he still

Cherished the nation’s chart, the people’s will;

Hated but Faction with her maniac brand,

And loved, with fiery love, his native land.

Rose there a foe dared wrong in her despite,

How eager leaped his soul to do her right!

Her flag his canopy, her tents his home—

The world in arms—why, let the armed world come!

Thus loved he, more than life, and next to Heaven,

The broad, bright land to which that life was given;

And, loving thus and loved, the nation’s pride,

Her hope, her strength, her stay—the patriot died!

Weep not for him—though hurried from the scene:

’Twill be earth’s boast that such a life has been.

Taintless his truth as Heaven; his soul sincere

Sparkled to-day, as mountain brooklets clear.

O’er every thought high honour watchful hung,

As broods the eagle o’er her eyried young.

His courage, in its calmness, silent, deep,

But strong as fate—Niagara in its sleep;

But when, in rage, it burst upon the foe—

Niagara leaping to the gulf below.

His clemency the graceful bow that, thrown

O’er the wild wave, Heaven lights and makes its own.

His was a spirit simple, grand and pure,

Great to conceive, to do and to endure;

Yet the rough warrior was, in heart, a child,

Rich in love’s affluence, merciful and mild.

His sterner traits, majestic and antique,

Rivaled the stoic Roman or the Greek;

Excelling both, he adds the Christian name,

And Christian virtues make it more than fame.

To country, youth, age, love, life—all were given;

In death, she lingered between him and Heaven;

Thus spake the patriot in his latest sigh,

“_My duty done—I do not fear to die._”

Weep not for him; but for his country, tost

On Faction’s surges: “think not of the lost,

But what ’tis ours to do.”[2] The hand that stayed,

The pillar that upheld, in dust are laid;

And Freedom’s tree of life, whose roots entwine

Thy fathers’ bones—will it e’er cover thine?

Root, rind and leaf a traitor tribe o’erspread;

Worms sap its trunk and tempests bow its head.

But the land lives not, dies not, in one man,

Were he the purest lived since life began.

Upon no single anchor rests our fate:

Millions of breasts engird and guard the state.

Yet, o’er each true heart, in the nation’s night,

Will Taylor’s memory rise, a pillared light;

His lofty soul will prop the patriot’s pride,

His virtues animate, his wisdom guide.

Faction, whose felon fury, blind and wild,

Would rend our land, as Circe tore her child,

In sordid cunning or insensate wrath,

Scattering its quivering limbs along her path—

Ev’n Faction, at his name, will cower away,

And, shrieking, shrinking, shield her from the day.

Then up to duty! true, as he was true;

As pure, as calm, as firm to bear and do;

Nerve every patriot power, knit every limb,

And up to duty: but _weep not for him_!

-----

[2] _Non quos amisimus, sed quantum lugere par sit cogitemus._

Cicero.

* * * * *

“PSYCHE LOVES ME.”

BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

I have no gold, no lands, no robes of splendor,

No crowd of sycophants to siege my door;

But fortune in one thing at least is tender—

For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?

I have no fame, nor to the height of honor

Will my poor name on tireless pinions soar;

Yet Fate has never drawn my hate upon her—

For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?

I have no station, know no high position,

And never yet the robes of office wore;

Yet I can well afford to scorn ambition—

For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?

I have no beauty—beauty has forsworn me,

On others wasting all her charming store;

Yet I lack nothing now which could adorn me—

For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?

I have no learning—in nor school nor college

Could I abide o’er quaint old tomes to pore;

But this I know which passeth all your knowledge—

That Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?

Now come what may, or loss or shame or sorrow,

Sickness, ingratitude or treachery sore,

I laugh to-day and heed not for the morrow—

For Psyche loves me—and I ask no more.

* * * * *

TO THE LOST ONE.

BY DUNCAN MOORE.

_Vale et Benedicite._

In joy we met; in anguish part;

Farewell, thou frail, misguided one!

Young Hope sings matins in thy heart,

While dirges ring in mine alone,

Solemn as monumental stone.

Thy life is Spring, but Autumn mine;

Thy hope all flowers; mine bitter fruit,

For hope but blossoms to repine;

It seldom hath a second shoot;—

A shadow that evades pursuit.

Though poets are not prophets here,

Yet Time must pass and you will see,

While o’er dead joys you drop the tear,

This world is one Gethsemane

Where all weep—die—still dream to be.

Flowers spring, birds sing in the young heart,

But Time spares not the flowers of Spring;

The birds that sang there soon depart,

And leave God’s altar withering—

Flowerless and no bird to sing.

God pronounced all things good in Eden;

Young Adam sang—not knowing evil,

Until the snake plucked fruit forbidden,

And made himself to Eve quite civil.—

Did he tempt her, or she the devil?

True, she made Eden Adam’s heaven;—

Also the green earth Adam’s hell;

Tore from his grasp all God had given;

Cast him from bliss in sin to dwell;

To make her food by his sweat and blood.

Then what should man from woman hope,

Who hurled from Paradise his sire?

Her frailty drew his horoscope,

And barred the gates of heaven with fire;

Changed God’s intent for her desire.

And what should she from man expect

Who slew his God her soul to save?

A dreary life of cold neglect;—

For Eden lost;—a welcome grave,

Where kings make ashes with the slave!

A welcome grave! man’s crowning hope!

All trust from dust we shall revive;

Despite our gloomy horoscope,

Incarnadined God will receive

His children who slew him to live.

A frail partition but divides

Your husband from insanity;

He stares as madness onward strides

To crush each spark of memory—

I gave you all—this you give me!

_Vale et Benedicite._

* * * * *

COQUET _versus_ COQUETTE.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

_Benedict._ One woman is fair; yet I am well:

another is wise; yet I am well: another virtuous;

yet I am well: but till all graces be in one woman,

one woman shall not come in my grace.

_Much Ado About Nothing._

_Princess._ We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.

_Rosaline._ They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.

That same Biron I’ll torture ere I go.

How will I make him fawn, and beg, and seek;

And wait the season, and observe the times,

And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes;

And shape his service wholly to my behests;

And make him proud to make me proud that jests!

So portent-like would I o’ersway his state

That he should be my fool, and I his fate.

_Love’s Labor Lost._

CHAPTER I.

Nature had been very profuse in bestowing her favors upon Mr. Frank

Gadsby. In the first place she had given him a very elegant person, tall

and of manly proportions; secondly, a pair of large, dark-hazel eyes,

which could beam with tenderness or become fixed in the “fine frenzy” of

despair, as best suited the pleasure of their owner. Above them she had

placed a broad, white forehead, and adorned it with waving hair, of a

dark, glossy brown. Next, a splendid set of teeth attested her skill and

favor; and, to complete the _tout ensemble_, whiskers and moustache were

unsurpassable.

“Well,” said Fortune, rather ruffled, “if Nature has been so prodigal,

he shall have none of my assistance—not he! Let him make his way

through the world by his good looks, if he can. I will seek out some

ordinary looking fellow, whom nature has neglected, and with my golden

smiles atone for the want of those attractions which soonest win the

favor of the fair.”

And thus, under the ban of Fortune, Frank Gadsby left college.

He professed to study the law as a means of winning the favor of the

goddess, and had a small backroom, up three flights of stairs, furnished

with a table and two chairs, on which table several voluminous law-books

very quietly reposed, being seldom forced to open their oracular jaws to

give forth their sage opinions. This was his study. But the person who

should expect to find him there, I am sorry to say, would have a

fruitless visit, and drag up those steep stairs for nothing. He would be

much more likely to meet him promenading Chestnut street, gallanting

some beautiful young girl up and down its thronged _pavé_—or at the Art

Union, with an eye upon the living beauties there congregated, not upon

the pictures which adorn its walls.

And yet I would not wish to convey an erroneous opinion, in thus hinting

at the usual whereabouts of Mr. Gadsby. If he did not study, it was not

for the want of talents or aptness; for he possessed a fine mind, and

only needed some impetus to call forth those brilliant traits which were

concealed beneath an exterior so vain and trifling—for vain he

certainly was, and trifling I think I can prove beyond dispute. The fact

is, being a general favorite with the ladies, he was inclined to push

his advantage a little too far; or, in other words, Frank Gadsby was a

coquet—a male coquet, of the first magnitude—insinuating, plausible,

soft-voiced, and, in the words of Spencer,

“When needed he could weep and pray,

And when he listed he could fawn and flatter,

Now smiling smoothly, like to summer’s day,

Now glooming sadly so to cloke the matter.”

But although, like the fickle zephyr, he wooed with light dalliance

every fair flower of beauty which came across his path, he yet managed

to retain his heart safe in his own lordly bosom, and Frank Gadsby, the

charmer, alone possessed that love sworn to so many.

Yet, as one cannot very well live without money, especially in the

atmosphere which surrounded my hero, and as the law put little money in

his purse, and the small annuity left him by some deceased relative

almost as little, Mr. Gadsby resolved to make a rich match one of these

days; no hurry—there was time enough—he had but to pick and

choose—any lady would be proud to become Mrs. Frank Gadsby—and until

stern necessity forced it upon him, he would wear no conjugal yoke! And,

with this self-laudatory decision, he continued his flirtations.

A conversation which passed between Mr. Gadsby and his friend Clarence

Walton, will serve better than any thing I can vouch to substantiate the

charge of trifling which I have preferred against him.

This same charge Walton had been reiterating, but to which, with perfect

nonchalance, Gadsby answered:

“A trifler—a coquet! Come, that is too bad, Walton! To be sure, I pay

the ladies attentions, such as they all expect to receive from the

gentlemen. I give flowers to one, I sit at the feet of a second, go off

in raptures at the music of a third, press the fair hand of a fourth,

waltz with a fifth, and play the gallant to all—but it is only to

please them I do it; and then, I say, Walton, if they will fall in love

with me, egad, how can I help it!” and, saying this, our coxcomb looked

in the glass, as much as to say, “poor things, _they_ surely cannot help

it!”

“There was Caroline D——, for instance,” replied his friend; “why, as

well as I know your roving propensities, I was induced to think you

serious there!”

“What, Cara D.! I smitten! O, no! I said some very tender things to her,

to be sure, and visited her every day for a month—wrote her notes, and

presented her daily with some choice bouquet; but I was honorable; as

soon as I saw she was beginning to like me too well, why, I retreated.

Did, upon my honor! Here is her last note—read it Walton!” taking one

from a private drawer, evidently crowded with a multitudinous collection

of faded bouquets, knots of ribbon, gloves, fans, billet-doux, and

silken ringlets of black, brown and golden hair.

“No; excuse me, Frank, from perusing your love notes,” said Walton! “but

there was also Emma Gay.”

“Ah, poor Emma! She was a bewitching little creature!” was the answer.

“I wrote some verses to her beautiful eyes, and gazed into them so

tenderly that they folded themselves in their drooping lids to hide from

me. She gave me a lock of her soft, brown hair—I have it somewhere;

but, faith, I have so many such tokens that it is difficult to find the

right one. O, here it is!”

“And Cornelia Hyde!”

“She was a splendid girl! Sang like an angel, waltzed like a sylph! Yes,

I flirted with her half a season. I believe she did get a little too

fond of me—sorry for it; upon my soul I meant nothing!”

“But you can hardly say your attentions to Miss Reed meant nothing,”

said Walton, continuing the category.

“Why, what could I do?” answered Gadsby. “Confound it, if she did not

send for me every third night to sing duets with her, and every other

morning to pass judgment upon her paintings. I could not be otherwise

than civil.”

“Then, there was Julia Hentz, and her friend, Hatty Harwood.”

“O, spare me, Walton! Julia was a sentimental beauty, doating upon the

moon, and stars, and charity children! On my soul, it is no unpleasant

thing to stroll in the beautiful moonlight with a pretty, romantic girl

leaning upon your arm, and to gaze down into her languishing eyes as

they turn their brilliant orbs to the less brilliant stars. I tell you

what, it is a taking way, and came pretty near taking me; for I was

nearer popping the question to the sentimental, moon-struck, star-gazing

Julia, than I love to think of now; see what I drew from her fair hand

on our last moonlight ramble,” (showing a delicate glove.) “As for her

friend Harriet, although not so handsome as Julia, she is a shrewd,

sensible girl—told me, with all the sang-froid imaginable, that I was

flirting a little too strongly—that she could not think of having me

dangling after her, for two reasons—conclusive ones. First was, she did

not like me; and, secondly, my professions were all feigned, for she

knew me to be the greatest coquet extant—a character which, she added,

with provoking coolness, she had no respect for!”

“Good! A sensible girl, Frank!” said Walton, laughing.

“Hang me if I did not begin to like her all the better after that,”

continued Gadsby, “and had a great mind to pursue the game in earnest;

but I found it would not pay the exertion. She is as poor as myself.”

“What can you say of the sisters, Louise and Katrine Leslie, whom you

followed as their shadow for more than six weeks?” pursued the

indefatigable Walton.

“The brunette and the blonde,” answered Gadsby. “Both charming girls.

Louise, with those large, tender, black eyes—why, she melted one’s

heart as though but a lump of wax; but, then, the roguish glances of

Katrine’s sparkling gray ones! Well, well; a sensible fellow might be

very happy with either. Fact is, they were jealous of each other—ha,

ha, ha. If I wrote poetry to Louise, then Katrine pouted, and her little

white dimpled shoulder turned very coldly upon me. So, I gave flowers to

Katrine and pressed her dimpled hand; then the bewitching Louise cast

her reproachful eyes upon me, and a sigh came floating to me on her

rose-scented breath, at which I placed myself at her feet, and read the

Sorrows of Evangeline in Search of her Lover, and begged for the ringlet

on which a tear had fallen; then Katrine—but no matter; they were both

very fond, poor things!”

“In the words of the song, I suppose you might have sung,

“‘How happy could I be with either,

If the other charmer were away,’”

exclaimed Walton.

“Precisely. Have you finished your catechism?”

“I have; although many other names, whose fair owners you have trifled

with, are in my mind,” said Walton. “You must excuse my frankness,

Gadsby, when I tell you that your conduct is unworthy a man of honor or

principle. There is not one of the ladies of whom we have spoken, but

has had reason to think herself the object of your particular interest

and pursuit; and if, as you flatter yourself, they have seemed partial

to your attentions, that partiality has been awakened by those winning

words and manners which none better than yourself know how to assume.

Shame on the man, I say, who can thus insinuate himself into the

affections of a young, unsuspecting girl, merely to flatter his own

egregious vanity or his self-love! Coquetry, idle as it is, is more

properly the province of woman. Nature has given them sprightliness,

grace and beauty, which, in their hands, like the masterly fan in the

days of the Spectator, they are expected to use as weapons against us;

but for a man to assume the coquet, renders him contemptible. If there

is any thing which can add to its meanness, it is boasting of his

conquests—playing the braggart to his own vanity. Woman’s affections

are too sacred to be thus trifled with, nor should her purity be

insulted by the boasts of a—caricature, not a man! Burn all these idle

toys, Gadsby—trophies of unworthy victories—turn to more noble

pursuits, nor longer waste the talents which God has given you, nor the

time which can never be regained.”

“As fine a lecture as I ever listened to,” quoth Gadsby, feigning a

laugh. “When do you take orders, most reverend Clarence? Why, you

deserve to be elected moralist of the age—a reformer in the courts of

Cupid. However, I will give you the credit of honesty, and more—for I

confess you have given me some pretty sharp home-thrusts, which I will

not pretend to parry; but you take things too seriously, upon my soul

you do. One of these days you shall behold me a sober, married man, in a

flannel night-cap; but until then, Walton,

“_vive l’amour!_”

CHAPTER II.

“Blue or pink, Charlotte?”

“O, the blue, by all means, Lucia.”

“And pearls or rubies?”

“Pearls.”

“Blue and pearls! Why, I shall personate the very ideal of maiden

simplicity. I might as well appear all in white!”

“And it would be beautiful, Lucia,” answered her friend.

“Think so? Well, I have a great mind to try it, for you must know it is

my desire to look uncommonly well to-night,” said Lucia.

“But why to-night do you so particularly wish to shine?” inquired

Charlotte.

“Why? Why, don’t you know we are to meet that renowned enslaver of

hearts, that coquet, Frank Gadsby! Is not that enough to inspire my

vanity?” replied the lively girl.

“And you are resolved upon leading this renowned conqueror in your own

chains, Lucia?”

“He shall not escape them, Charlotte. I will bring him to my feet, and

thus become the champion of my sex,” said Lucia.

“And have you no fears for yourself? Where so many have yielded their

willing hearts, do you expect to escape without paying the same

penalty?”

“Fears!” answered Lucia. “Why, Charlotte, you don’t think I would give

up my affections to one who has no heart, and never had one; or, if he

had, it has been so completely divided and sub-divided, quartered and

requartered, and parceled out by inches, that not a fragment is left to

hang a hope upon! Why, I should as soon think of falling in love with

one of those effigies of beau-dom—those waxen busts at a barber’s

window—as with this hollow-hearted Frank Gadsby.”

“You are right, Lucia; for I certainly think that when you marry, it

would be well to have at least one heart between you and your _cara

sposa_, for I am sure you have none,” said Charlotte, laughing.

“Now, that is the unkindest cut of all, Charlotte—I no heart! Why, I am

‘all heart,’ as poor Mrs. Skewton would say,” answered Lucia.

“Ah, Lucia, it is conceded by all, I believe, that you are an arrant

coquette.”

“I a coquette!” exclaimed Lucia. “I deny the charge; there is my gage!”

drawing off her little glove and throwing it at the feet of Charlotte.

“I accept the challenge,” answered her friend. “In the first place, let

me remind you of a poor Mr. F——.”

“You need not remind me of him,” answered Lucia. “I am sure I shall not

soon forget him, with his tiresome calls every day, nor his attempts to

look tender with those small, twinkling gray eyes of his. Imagine an owl

in love, that’s all.”

“And yet you encouraged his visits. Then, there was young Dornton.”

“Dornton! yes, I remember. Poor fellow, how he did torment me with his

execrable verses!”

“Execrable! If I remember, Lucia, you once told me they were beautiful.”

“Ah, I tired of them, and him too, in a fortnight. Why, Charlotte, it

was a perfect surfeit of antimony wrapped up in honey.”

“Then, your long walks last summer with Dr. Ives.”

“Were very pleasant walks until he grew sentimental, and suddenly popped

down upon his knees, one day, in the high grass, like a winged

partridge; he looked so ridiculous that really I could not help laughing

in his face. It was a bitter pill; doctor, as he was, he could not

swallow it.”

“For six weeks you flirted with Henry Nixon,” continued Charlotte. “Why,

he was your shadow, Lucia; what could have tempted you to trifle with

him as you did? I am sure he loved you.”

“There you are mistaken,” was the reply. “He was only flattered by my

smiles and proud of being in my train. Such magnificent bouquets, too,

as he brought me! It was party season, you know, and his self-love, thus

embodied in a flower to be worn by me, was quite as harmless to him as

convenient for myself.”

“But not so harmless were the smiles and flattering words you bestowed

upon young Fairlie. O, Lucia, your thoughtless vanity ruined the

happiness of that young man, and drove him off to a foreign clime,

leaving a widowed mother to mourn his absence.”

“Indeed, Charlotte,” replied Lucia, in a saddened tone, “I had no idea

James Fairlie really loved me until too late. He painted so exquisitely

that, at my father’s request, he was engaged to paint my portrait. I

believe I gave him a lock of my hair, and allowed him to retain a small

miniature which he had sketched of me; but, as I told him, when he so

unexpectedly declared his love, I meant nothing.”

“Ah, Lucia,” said her friend, reproachfully, “and did you mean nothing

when you allowed the visits of Colonel W——?”

“O, the gallant Colonel! Excuse me Charlotte—a pair of epaulettes

answer very well, sometimes, in place of a heart. The Colonel’s uniform

was a taking escort through the fashionable promenades; and, then, he

was so vain that it did one good to see him lose the ‘bold front of

Mars’ in the soft blandishments of Cupid; and not forgetting, even when

on his knees, to note, in an opposite mirror, the irresistible effect of

his gallant form at the feet of a fair lady! So far, I think, I have

supported my ground against your accusation of coquetry,” added Lucia.

“On the contrary, my dear Lucia, I am sorry to say that you have but

proved its truth,” answered Charlotte. “Sorry, because there is, to my

mind, no character so vain and heartless as that of a coquette, and I

would not that any one whom I love should rest under such an imputation.

The moment a woman stoops to coquetry she loses the charm of modesty and

frankness, and renders herself unworthy the pure affection of any

noble-minded man. It betrays vanity, a want of self-respect, and an

utter disregard for the feelings of others. A coquette is a purely

selfish being, who, by her hollow smiles and heartless professions, wins

to the shrine of her vanity many an honest heart, and then casts it from

her as idly as a child the plaything of which he has tired. She is

unworthy the name of woman.”

“Hollow smiles—heartless professions! Why, what is all this tirade

about, Charlotte?” interrupted Lucia, indignantly. “I do not understand

you. You surely do not mean to class me with those frivolous beings you

have named.”

“It will do for young coxcombs and fops,” continued Charlotte, “whose

brains centre in an elegant moustache or the tie of a cravat, who swear

pretty little oaths, and can handle their quizzing glass with more skill

than their pen—it will do for them to inflate their vanity by the sighs

of romantic school-girls; but for a high-minded, noble woman, like you,

Lucia, to descend from the dignity of your position to the contemptible

artifices of a coquette—fie, Lucia, be yourself.”

“From no other but you, Charlotte,” she replied, “would I bear the

unjust imputation you cast upon me, and I should blush did I think

myself deserving one half your censure. I do not feel that I have

descended at all from the ‘dignity of my position,’ as you are pleased

to term it, and consider a coquette quite as contemptible as you do.”

“Ah, Lucia,” said Charlotte, archly,

“O wad some power the giftie gie us,

To see oursel’s as ithers see us.”

“Nonsense! I know I am not a coquette, Charlotte,” retorted Lucia. “Gay

and thoughtless I may have been; but I have never, nor would I ever,

trifle with the affections of one whom I thought any other feeling but

his own vanity had brought to my feet. But come, Madam Mentor, I will

make a truce with you. I must first vanquish this redoubtable Gadsby, in

honorable warfare, and with his own weapons, and then, I promise you, no

duenna of old Spain ever wore a more vinegar aspect than shall Lucia

Laurence, spinster.”

“But, Lucia—”

“No—no—no! stop! I know what you are going to say,” interrupted the

gay girl, playfully placing her little hand over the mouth of her

friend. “Positively I must have my way this time. And now for the

business of the toilet. Let me see—blue and pearls; no, white—white,

like a bride, Charlotte!”

CHAPTER III.

A brilliant company swept through the elegant apartments of Mrs. De

Rivers. It was the opening soirée of the season, and here had gathered,

in the regal train of Fashion and Display, the wealth, wit, beauty, and

grace, of Penn’s fair city. Music’s enchanting strains breathed delight,

fair forms moved in the graceful dance, and through the thronged

assembly gay groups were gathered,

“Where the swift thought,

Winging its way with laughter, lingered not,

But flew from brain to brain.”

“Who is that queenly young lady, dressed with such elegant simplicity,

talking with Miss De Rivers?” inquired Frank Gadsby of a friend at his

elbow.

“Where? ah, I see. Why, is it possible you do not know Miss Laurence?

She is the greatest coquette in Philadelphia. Beware—no one escapes who

comes under the influence of her bewitching eyes.”

“A fair challenge—I will dare the danger. Will you introduce me?” was

the reply.

“With pleasure—but remember my warning,” answered his friend. “Miss

Laurence is full of wit, and will cut up your fairest speeches to serve

her ridicule; she is proud, and leads her many captives after her with

the air of a Juno; she is sensible, and will carry out an argument with

the skill of a subtle lawyer. She is handsome—”

“That is easily seen,” interrupted Gadsby. “Pray spare me further

detail, and give me an opportunity, if you please, to judge of the rest

for myself.”

At the same moment when these remarks were passing between the

gentlemen, Lucia said to Miss De Rivers:

“Pray tell me, Fanny, who is that stylish gent lounging so carelessly

near the door?”

“Tall—talking with young Bright, do you mean?”

“The same.”

“Ah, beware!” was the answer; “that same gentleman wears a perjured

heart. He is no other than that gay deceiver—”

“Who—Mr. Gadsby!” interrupted Lucia.

“Yes, Frank Gadsby, whose vows of love are as indiscriminate as his

smiles.”

“I have heard of him, Fanny. Well, he is certainly very handsome,” said

Lucia.

“And as fascinating in his manners as he is handsome,” replied her

friend. “Why, he makes every woman in love with him—myself excepted,

Lucia; every fair lady elicits, in turn, the same homage, the same

tender speeches, and, in turn, finds herself the dupe of his flattery

and melting glances.”

“Perfectly absurd!” exclaimed Lucia, with a toss of her head.

“But see, Lucia, he has already marked you; look, he approaches, with

Earnest Bright. Now prepare for the introduction, which he has, no

doubt, solicited.”

The presentation was gone through with in due form. Lucia assumed an air

of the most perfect indifference, scarcely deigning to notice the

elegant man of fashion, who, by his most courtly smiles and winning

compliments, endeavored to attract her favorable attention. But both

smiles and fine speeches were thrown away; and, not a little chagrined

at his reception from the fair Lucia, Gadsby at length turned coldly

away, and began chatting, in a gay tone, with Miss De Rivers, while, at

the same moment, Miss Laurence, giving her hand to a young officer,

joined the dancers.

“Well, how do you like Miss Laurence, Frank?” said Earnest Bright, later

in the evening, touching the shoulder of Gadsby, who stood listlessly

regarding the gay scene.

“She has fine eyes, although I have seen finer,” was the answer; “a good

figure, but there are others as good; ’pon my soul, I see no particular

fascination about her—I could pick out a dozen here more agreeable.”

“Think so? Well, don’t be too secure, that’s all,” replied his friend.

“Never fear. I have escaped heart-free too long to be caught at last by

one like Miss Laurence. Less imperiousness, and more of woman’s

gentleness, for me,” said Gadsby. “And yet, it were worth while to

subdue this inflexible beauty, and entangle her in her own snares,” he

mentally added.

In the supper-room Charlotte Atwood found herself, for a moment, near

her friend Lucia.

“Well, you have met the foe; what think you now, Lucia?” she whispered.

“Of Mr. Gadsby, I suppose you mean,” she replied. “I am sadly

disappointed, to tell you the truth. I expected to find him too much a

man of the world to betray his own vanity. Why, he is the most conceited

fellow I ever met with.”

“Do you wonder at it? Such a universal favorite as he is with the

ladies, has reason to be conceited,” said Charlotte.

“Perhaps so. It would be doing him a kindness, therefore, to take a

little of this self-conceit out of him—don’t you think so?” Lucia

laughingly replied.

These two invincible coquettes are now entered for a trial of their

skill, in fair and equal combat. “Let him laugh who wins,” but a crown

to the victor, I say. A too minute detail of this well-contested game,

might prove tedious; therefore, we will pass over three months of

alternate frowns and smiles, and allow the reader to judge, by the

following chapter, to whose side the victory most inclines.

CHAPTER IV.

A pleasant spring morning found Frank Gadsby—where? Not promenading

Chestnut street—not lounging upon the steps of a fashionable hotel, nor

whispering smooth flatteries in the ear of beauty; but positively up

those three flights of stairs, in that gloomy back room dignified by the

name of study. Several books were open before him, and

papers—promising, business-like looking papers, with red tapes and huge

seals—were scattered around him. Indeed, the very man himself had a

more promising, business-like appearance; there was less of the dandy,

more of the gentleman, and the look of self-complacency lost in a more

serious, thoughtful expression. As I said before, Mr. Gadsby had

talents, hidden beneath the mask of frippery, which needed but some

impetus to bring into power, and this impetus seemed now to have been

supplied.

For three months the fashionable world had wondered why so often its

most brilliant ornament had been missing from its gay gatherings; nor,

perhaps, wondered more than Mr. Gadsby himself at his own sudden

distaste for those pursuits which had but lately afforded him so much

pleasure. Perhaps the remonstrances of his friend Walton had awakened

him to a sense of the unprofitable life he was leading; but, as we have

more to do with effects than causes, at present, we will not pursue the

inquiry.

For some time, perhaps half an hour, Gadsby steadily applied himself to

his studies—now turning over the pages of a folio, now lost in deep

thought, and then rapidly transferring his conclusions to paper. At

length, with a sigh of relief, as if he had mastered some complicated

problem of the law, he pushed books and papers from him, and, rising

from the table, walked back and forth the narrow limits of his study.

“Are you ready?” said Clarence Walton, unceremoniously opening the door.

“I believe I shall not go. Make my excuses, if you please, to the

ladies,” replied Gadsby, slightly embarrassed.

“Not go! Why, what has come over you, man? The party are now only

waiting your presence to start. What will Miss Laurence think? It will

never do to slight her invitation in this way. Come!”

“No!” answered Gadsby. “Say what you please for me to Miss Laurence; if

she chooses to take offense, it matters but little to me. The frowns of

one whose smiles are so general, are easily borne. I hope you will have

a pleasant ride.”

“But what new freak is this? Last night you were in fine spirits for the

excursion, and I am sure you received the invitation of Miss Laurence

with undisguised pleasure.”

“Think so? Well, I have altered my mind—that’s all,” said Gadsby,

carelessly.

“Ah-ha! Are your wings scorched, that you thus shun the presence of the

irresistible Lucia?”

“Cannot a man of business absent himself from the society of a flirt,

without giving a reason, Walton?” said Gadsby, tartly.

“A man of business! Good—excellent! I will report that weighty concerns

of the law interfere with your engagements. You wont go, then?”

“No!” and saying this, Gadsby took up a book and sat down, with a

dogged, resolute air.

“Well, I must be off. _Au revoir._”

No sooner did the door close after his friend, than, throwing away the

book, Gadsby started up, exclaiming:

“No! this syren—this coquette—this all fascinating woman, as she is

called, shall find I am not so easily made her dupe! She is a perfect

mistress of art, that is certain; for who that did not know her would

think the light of her beautiful eyes shone only to deceive—they are

heavenly! Who would think that sweet, gentle smile which she sometimes

wears, and the soft, witching tones of her voice were but superficial.

In outward appearance she is a type of all that is most perfect in

woman; and if this beauty of mind and person but extended to the

heart—ah, I dare not think of it! I am told she considers me a vain,

conceited fellow—ha! ha! she shall find yet that I am not what I have

appeared, and that this vain, conceited fellow, has at least wit enough

to see through and despise her arts. What a beautiful morning for the

ride. I was foolish not to go; besides, she may think—no matter what

she thinks. But then I would not be uncivil; as I accepted the

invitation, I should have gone. I wish I had. Let me see, it is now ten

o’clock; perhaps I may yet be in time. Yes, I will show her that I can

meet her fascinations unmoved, and leave her without one sigh of

regret—heigh, ho!” And Mr. Gadsby ended his soliloquy by catching up

the broom-brush and rapidly applying it to his shoulders and arms, and

then with a glance at the small looking-glass, he seized his hat, and

rushing down stairs, swiftly thridded his way through the crowd until he

reached the residence of Miss Laurence, whence the party were to set

forth. Running up the steps, he rang the bell.

Much to his mortification he learned the party had been gone about ten

minutes, and he was turning from the door, when the servant added,

“Miss Laurence is at home—will you walk in, sir?”

Then she had not gone! Strange!—no, he would not go in; but perhaps he

had better, and apologize for his apparent rudeness. Yes, he would go

in; and following the servant, he was ushered into the drawing-room.

Sending up his card, Gadsby sat down to await the entrance of the lady.

Opposite the sofa on which he reclined hung the full length portrait of

Miss Laurence—the work of the unfortunate young painter whom love of

her had driven from his native land. It was a beautiful creation of art,

but not more beautiful than the fair original herself. There was grace,

dignity, and repose in the attitude, harmonizing so perfectly with the

sweet expression of the features. The eyes of Gadsby were soon riveted

upon it, and rising from his seat, he approached nearer, and remained

standing before it, lost in contemplating its loveliness.

“Charming girl!” he exclaimed inadvertently aloud; “but false as thou

art charming!”

Imprudent man! These words were not lost; even as he spoke the fair

Lucia herself stood very near him, waiting for him to turn around that

she might address him; but as she caught this expression, a glow of

indignation suffused her features, and with noiseless footsteps she

glided from the room.

“How dare he say this of me!” she exclaimed, as she closed the door of

her chamber; “what reason have I given him for such a supposition! He

judges of me by his own false and fickle heart; yet why should I care

for the opinion of such a man as he is. How stupid in John to say I was

at home. I believe I will send word I am engaged; no, I will even see

him, and let him know by my indifference how little value I place either

on his society or his opinion.”

And Lucia re-entered the drawing-room with a stately step, and received

the salutation of her visiter with the utmost hauteur of manner.

“I have called, Miss Laurence, to apologize for my apparent incivility

in not keeping the engagement formed with you last evening,” said

Gadsby, with evident embarrassment.

“It was not necessary, Mr. Gadsby, to take so much trouble for that

which is of so little consequence,” answered Lucia, coldly.

“Pardon me, Miss Laurence, nothing but—but imperative business—”

“Pray do not exhaust your invention, sir, for excuses.”

Gadsby’s face crimsoned.

“Let me hope nothing serious prevented your accompanying the party, Miss

Laurence,” he at length said.

“To be more honest than you, I had no inclination to go, and therefore

did not.”

“But last evening—”

“O, last evening I arranged the excursion merely for my friends, not

feeling, of course, obliged to go with them,” was the answer.

“Then I certainly cannot regret so much the cause which prevented my

joining them, since the only attraction would have been wanting.”

This implied compliment was noticed only by a haughty bow.

“Cold, unyielding beauty!” thought Gadsby, carelessly turning over the

leaves of an annual.

“False, idle flatterer!” thought Lucia, pulling her bouquet to pieces.

“Those are beautiful flowers, Miss Laurence—what have they done to

merit such treatment at your fair hands!” said Mr. Gadsby, glad of the

opportunity to say something, for he felt himself completely embarrassed

by her repulsive manners. “You treat them with as little favor as you do

your admirers, and throw them from you with as little mercy. Fair,

beautiful flowers!” he added, gathering up the leaves of a rose from the

rich carpet, “fit emblems they are in their fragility of woman’s

short-lived faith and truth.”

“A lesson upon faith and truth from Mr. Gadsby is a paradox well worth

listening to!” retorted Lucia, with a sarcastic smile.

“Why so—do you then believe me destitute of them?”

“I have never deemed the subject worthy of reflection; yet, if I mistake

not, the world does not burthen you with such attributes.”

“And the world is probably right, Miss Laurence,” answered Gadsby,

piqued and angry. He arose, and walked several times across the room,

then again pausing before her, he said in a softened tone, “And yet,

although our acquaintance has been but brief, I trust I have given you

no reason to pass such severe censure upon me.”

A quick retort rose to the lips of Lucia, but as she raised her eyes,

they met those of Gadsby fixed upon her with an expression such as she

could not well define, so strangely were reproach and tenderness

blended. She was embarrassed, a deep blush mantled her face, and the

words were unspoken.

“She is not, then, utterly heartless—that blush belies it!” thought

Gadsby. “Say, Miss Laurence, may I not hope for a more lenient judgment

from you than the world accords?” he said, again addressing her.

“What ails me? Why do I tremble thus? Am I really to be the dupe of this

deceiver. No! let me be true to myself!” mentally exclaimed Lucia; and

then, with a look which instantly chilled the warm impulse in the heart

of Gadsby, she said,

“My opinion can be of very little consequence to Mr. Gadsby.”

“True, Miss Laurence. I wish you good morning,” and proudly bowing

himself out of the room, Gadsby took leave.

“Fool that I am to blush before him, who of all men has the least power

over me. It is well I know him, or even I might be deceived by such

looks as he just now cast upon me!” cried Lucia, as the door closed

after her visiter.

CHAPTER V.

It was some weeks after this ere Mr. Gadsby so far mastered his pride as

to call again upon the disdainful Miss Laurence. To his great regret he

was then informed that she was ill, very ill; and for many days his

inquiries were all met by the same painful answer. There is nothing

sooner breaks down the barrier of feigned indifference than the illness

of one whom we are schooling ourselves to avoid; and thus, in the heart

of Gadsby, coldness, distrust, disdain, yielded at once to the most

painful solicitude and deep tenderness. This sudden revulsion quite

overcame even the caution of this redoubtable coquet, so captious of any

appearance of surrendering the long boasted freedom of his heart; and

careless of what “the lookers on in Venice” might say, he called daily

to make inquiries, and sent to the fair invalid the most beautiful

flowers as delicate memorials of his sympathy, however he might once

have named them as fit emblems of the frailty of woman’s vows.

One morning early Clarence Walton entered the office of Gadsby.

“Good morning. Have you heard from Miss Laurence to-day, Walton?” was

the first inquiry.

“I am sorry to say she is not so well.”

“Is it possible! Who told you—are you sure?” said Mr. Gadsby, turning

quite pale.

“Yes; I am told she is better of the old complaint, but her friends

think now that she has a confirmed heart disease!” answered Walton,

gravely.

“Good God! you don’t say so! Is it incurable—is there no hope?”

exclaimed Gadsby, starting from his seat.

“Heart complaints are very dangerous in all cases, I believe,” replied

Walton, turning his head to conceal a smile, “yet I hope Miss Laurence

is not incurable; indeed, I feel quite confident that if she would but

call in a physician I could recommend, she might soon be restored.”

“And wont she? Have you spoken to her friends? Where is he to be

found—for not a moment should be lost; it is your duty to insist upon

it!” cried Gadsby, catching the arm of his friend, who seemed

provokingly indifferent.

“If she will only consent to see him, I shall gladly name him to

you—but why are you so much interested? To be sure, common kindness

dictates sympathy for the illness of one so young and beautiful; but why

you should take her sickness so much at heart, quite astonishes me,”

said Walton.

“Then, Walton, let me tell you that it is because I love her; yes, love

her more than my life!” replied Gadsby. “I know she despises me, for I

have appeared to her in a false light, for which I may thank my own

folly, and in giving my heart to her, I have sealed my own

wretchedness.”

Walton respected the feelings of his friend at this candid avowal, and

checking the well-merited jest which rose to his lips, said,

“In so hasty a decision, and one so fatal to your happiness, I think you

do both Miss Laurence and yourself injustice; if you really love her,

pursue the game boldly—I think you need not despair.”

Grateful for his forbearance on a point to which he was aware he was a

fair subject for ridicule, and somewhat encouraged by the words and

manner of Walton, Gadsby frankly continued,

“If her life is spared, I will show her that I am not what she has

thought me. Yes, I will study to win her love. O, my friend, should I

succeed—should I gain that rich treasure of beauty and intelligence, my

whole life shall be devoted to her happiness!”

What think you now, dear reader, of our invincible coquet?

Let us now change the scene to the sick room of Lucia.

“Look, my darling! see what beautiful flowers have been sent you this

morning!” said Mrs. Laurence, as Charlotte Atwood entered the room,

bearing in her hands two large and splendid bouquets.

“How beautiful!” cried Lucia, a faint color tinging her pale cheek.

“Yes, they are beautiful,” said her friend Charlotte; “really, Lucia, to

be so tenderly remembered in sickness, compensates for a great deal of

suffering. But you are favored; now I dare say poor I might look in vain

for any such fragrant tokens of kindness.”

“You carry them always with you, dear Charlotte; your heart is a perfect

garden of all fair and beautiful flowers,” said Mrs. Laurence, smiling

gratefully at the affectionate girl, who had shared with her so

faithfully the cares and anxieties of her child’s sick bed.

“Do you know who sent them?” asked Lucia, as she bent her head to inhale

their sweetness.