Chapter III.

_The Letter: The Discovery._

“She loves me—she loves me,” exclaimed the page joyfully, as he stood

in a sequestered alley in the garden, a few hours later than when she

first saw him, “yes!” he exclaimed, as if he could not too often repeat

the glad tidings, “she loves me; and, poor, as I am, I may yet win her.”

As he spoke his whole countenance lighted up; his slender figure

dilated; his chest heaved; and all the lofty spirit of his sires shone

in the boy’s eyes, and spoke in his tones.

“Yes! she loves me,” he repeated, “she called me ‘sweet coz,’ and

thanked me a ‘thousand times’—these were the very words—and she played

so with Wyn, and said I sang better than ever. Yes! yes! I cannot be

mistaken—she loves me, me only.”

The page suddenly ceased, for he heard a rustling as of some one walking

slowly up an adjacent path, separated from his own by a narrow belt of

shrubbery. His heart fluttered, and the blood rushed into his cheek. He

wanted nothing to tell him that the intruder was the lady Isabel.

She was evidently reading something, though in a low voice, as if to

herself. For a minute the page hesitated whether he should join her, but

then he reflected that she could be perusing nothing that she would not

wish him to hear, when something in her glad tones, something in the

words she read, induced him, the next instant, to pause. The lady Isabel

was apparently repeating a letter, but from whom? Did he dream? Could

those terms of endearment be addressed to her? Was it her voice which

lingered upon them in such apparent pleasure? She was now directly

opposite to the page; not more than a few feet distant; and the sense

which hitherto had only reached him in broken fragments, now came in

continuous sentences to his ear. The letter ran thus:

Dearest Isabel:—I write this in haste, and with a sad heart,

for instead of being on my journey to see your sweet face once

more, I am suddenly ordered back to Flanders with despatches for

the commander in chief. You may judge of your Edward’s feelings,

to have the cup of bliss thus dashed from his lips at the very

moment when he had thought a disappointment impossible. Oh! if I

knew that you still thought of me, love, as you once said with

your own sweet lips that you did, I would depart with a lighter

heart. God only knows when I shall see you. But the king’s

messenger has come for me, and I must go. Farewell, dearest. I

have kissed the paper over and over again. Farewell, again, and

again.

Here the words of the reader became once more undistinguishable; but had

they continued audible, Lorraine could have heard no more. A fearful

truth was breaking in upon him. His brain was like fire: his heart beat

as if it would snap its bonds asunder. He staggered to a tree, for a

faintness was coming over him. Big drops of agony rolled from his brow,

and he placed his hand to his forehead, like one awaking from delirium.

At length he found words for his woe.

“No no, it cannot be,” he exclaimed “it was all a dream. Yes! it is too,

too true. But I will not, cannot believe it, unless I hear it from her

own lips,” and starting forward, with sudden energy, the page placed his

hand upon the shrubbery, and pushing it aside with superhuman strength,

he stood the next instant panting before his cousin.

Astonished at his unexpected appearance, Isabel started back with a

suppressed shriek; but on recognising the intruder, her fear gave way to

confusion. The blood mounted in torrents over brow, neck, and bosom; and

hastily crushing the letter in her hands, and concealing it in her

dress, she paused hesitatingly before her cousin. His quick eye detected

the movement, and rushing forward, he flung himself at the feet of

Isabel.

“It is then true—true—true,” he exclaimed passionately, “my ears are

not deceived, and you love another. Is it not so Isabel?” The maiden

averted her head, for she saw at once that she had been overheard, and

she could not endure the boy’s agonised look. “Oh! Isabel, dear, dear

Isabel, say it is untrue. Only say I was mistaken, that it was all a

dream, that you still love me as you used to love me.”

“I do love you still,” murmured Isabel, in broken accents, “as I ever

did, as my dearest, nearest cousin.”

“Is that all!” said the boy, whose eyes for a moment had lighted up with

wild unchecked joy, but which now shewed the depth of his returning

agony in every look, “is that all?” he continued in a tone of

disappointment. “Oh Isabel,” and the tears gushed into his eyes, “is

there no hope? Speak—only one word, dear Isabel. I have dared to love

you—I might have known better—and now you spurn me. Well—the dream is

over,” and dropping the hands which he had seized, he gazed a minute

wildly into her face, to see if there was one last gleam of hope. But no

response came back to dispel his agony. The lady Isabel was violently

agitated, and though her look was one of pity, it was not, alas! one of

encouragement. She burst into tears, and turned her head partially away.

Striking his brow wildly with his hands, the page rushed from her

presence, and when she murmured his name and looked up, he was gone.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

CALLIRHÖE.

BY H. PERCEVAL.

Whence art thou bright Callirhöe,

Calm, Hebé-eyed Callirhöe?

Art thou a daughter of this earth,

That, like myself, had life and birth.

And who will die like me?

Methinks a soul so pure and clear

Must breathe another atmosphere,

Of thought more heavenly and high,

More full of deep serenity,

Than circles round this world of ours;

I dare not think that thou shouldst die,

Unto my soul, like summer showers

To thirsty leaves thou art,—like May

To the slow-budding woodbine bowers.

Oh no! thou canst pass away.

No hand shall strew thy bier with flowers!

Those eyes, as fair as Eve’s, when they,

Untearful yet, were raised to pray,

Fronting the mellow sunset glow

Of summer eve in Paradise,

Those bright founts whence forever flow

Nepenthe-streams of ecstacies.

It cannot be that Death

Shall chill them with his winter breath,—

What hath Death to do with thee,

My seraph-winged Callirhöe?

Whence art thou? From some other sphere,

On which, throughout the moonless night,

Gazing, we dream of beings bright,

Such as we long for here,—

Or art thou but a joy Elysian,

Of my own inward sight,

A glorious and fleeting vision,

Habited in robes of light,

The image of a blessed thing,

Whom I might love with wondering,

Yet feeling not a shade of doubt,

And who would give her love to me,

To twine my inmost soul about?

No, no, these would not be like thee,

Bright one, with auburn hair disparted

On thy meek forehead maidenly,

No, not like thee, my woman-hearted,

My warm, my true Callirhöe!

How may I tell the sunniness

Of thy thought-beaming smile?

Or how the soothing spell express,

That bindeth me the while,

Forth from thine eyes and features bright,

Gusheth that flood of golden light?

Like a sun-beam to my soul,

Comes that trusting smile of thine,

Lighting up the clouds of doubt,

Till they shape themselves, and roll

Like a glory all about

The messenger divine.—

For divine that needs must be

That bringeth messages from thee.

Madonna, gleams of smiles like this,

Like a stream of music fell,

In the silence of the night,

On the soul of Raphael.

Musing with a still delight,

How meekly thou did’st bend and kiss

The baby on thy knee,

Who sported with the golden hair

That fell in showers o’er him there,

Looking up contentedly.

Only the greatest souls can speak

As much by smiling as by tears.

Thine strengthens me when I am weak,

And gladdens into hopes my fears.

The path of life seems plain and sure,

Thy purity doth make me pure

And holy, when thou let’st arise

That mystery divine,

That silent music in thine eyes.

Seldom tear visits cheek of thine,

Seldom a tear escapes from thee,

My Hebé, my Callirhöe!

Sometimes in waking dreams divine,

Wandering, my spirit meets with thine,

And while, made dumb with ecstacy,

I pause in a delighted trance,

Thine, like a squirrel caught at play,

Just gives one startled look askance,

And darteth suddenly away,

Swifter than a phosphor glance

At night upon the lonely sea,

Wayward-souled Callirhöe.

Sometimes, in mockery of care,

Thy playful thought will never rest,

Darting about, now here, now there,

Like sun-beams on a river’s breast,

Shifting with each breath of air,

By its very unrest fair.

As a bright and summer stream,

Seen in childhood’s happy dream,

Singing nightly, singing daily,

Trifling with each blade of grass

That breaks his ripples as they pass,

And going on its errand gaily,

Singing with the self-same leap

Wherewith it merges in the deep.

So shall thy spirit glide along,

Breaking, when troubled, into song,

And leave an echo floating by

When thou art gone forth utterly.

Seeming-cheerful souls there be,

That flutter with a living sound

As dry leaves rustle on the ground;

But they are sorrowful to me,

Because they make me think of thee,

My bird-like, wild Callirhöe!

Thy mirth is like the flickering ray

Forthshooting from the steadfast light

Of a star, which through the night

Moves glorious on its way,

With a sense of moveless might.

Thine inner soul flows calm forever;

Dark and calm without a sound,

Like that strange and trackless river

That rolls its waters underground.

Early and late at thy soul’s gate

Sits Chastity in maiden wise,

No thought unchallenged, small or great,

Goes thence into thine eyes;

Nought evil can that warder win,

To pass without or enter in.

Before thy pure eyes guilt doth shrink,

Meanness doth blush and hide its head,

Down through the soul their light will sink,

And cannot be extinguished.

Far up on poiséd wing

Thou floatest, far from all debate,

Thine inspirations are too great

To tarry questioning;

No murmurs of our earthly air,

God’s voice alone can reach thee there;

Downlooking on the stream of Fate,

So high thou sweepest in thy flight,

Thou knowest not of pride or hate,

But gazing from thy lark-like height,

Forth o’er the waters of To be,

The first gleam of Truth’s morning light

Round thy broad forehead floweth bright,

My Pallas-like Callirhöe.

Thy mouth is Wisdom’s gate, wherefrom,

As from the Delphic cave,

Great sayings constantly do come,

Wave melting into wave;

Rich as the shower of Danäe,

Rains down thy golden speech;

My soul sits waiting silently,

When eye or tongue sends thought to me,

To comfort or to teach.

Calm is thy being as a lake

Nestled within a quiet hill,

When clouds are not, and winds are still,

So peaceful calm, that it doth take

All images upon its breast,

Yet change not in its queenly rest,

Reflecting back the bended skies

Till you half doubt where Heaven lies.

Deep thy nature is, and still,

How dark and deep! and yet so clear

Its inmost depths seem near;

Not moulding all things to its will,

Moulding its will to all,

Ruling them with unfelt thrall.

So gently flows thy life along

It makes e’en discord musical,

So that nought can pass thee by

But turns to wond’rous melody,

Like a full, clear, ringing song.

Sweet the music of its flow,

As of a river in a dream,

A river in a sunny land,

A deep and solemn stream

Moving over silver sand,

Majestical and slow.

I sometimes think that thou wert given

To be a bright interpreter

Of the pure mysteries of Heaven,

And cannot bear

To think Death’s icy hand should stir

One ringlet of thy hair;

But thou must die like us,—

Yet not like us,—for can it be

That one so bright and glorious

Should sink into the dust as we,

Who could but wonder at thy purity?

Not oft I dwell in thoughts of thine,

My earnest-souled Callirhöe;

And yet thy life is part of mine.

What should I love in place of thee?

Sweet is thy voice, as that of streams

To me, or as a living sound

To one who starts from fev’rous sleep,

Scared by the shapes of ghastly dreams,

And on the darkness stareth round,

Fancying dim terrors in the gloomy deep.

Then if it must be so,

That thou from us shalt go,

Linger yet a little while;

Oh! let me once more feel thy grace,

Oh! let me once more drink thy smile!

I am as nothing if thy face

Is turned from me!

But if it needs must be,

That I must part from thee,

That the silver cord be riven

That holds thee down from Heaven,

Not yet, not yet, Callirhöe,

Unfold thine angel wings to flee,

Oh! no, not yet, Callirhöe!

Cambridge, Mass., 1841.

* * * * *

THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER.

BY J. ROSS BROWNE.

Continued from Page 87.

Part II.

That irrevocable passion which sprung up between Marco Da Vinci and

Valeria, during the hours of mutual communion which they enjoyed while

preparations were in progress for the annual exhibition at the Academy

of Arts, was not destined to wither in its infancy.

Scarcely had the portrait been finished, when notice was conveyed to the

candidates to send in their productions; and of course my anxiety was

great to ascertain what impression my daughter’s beauty should make in

public. Completely blinded by those deep and damning schemes which have

proved my ruin, I meantime suspected nothing of what was in progress

between the young and ardent lovers. They were bound heart and soul to

each other; but except by those involuntary signs, which none but the

victims of passion can understand, their love was unuttered. Hourly was

this misplaced flame acquiring an increasing degree of vigor, from the

very means taken to suppress it. I saw not, in my blindness, that in

spite of the respectful and irreproachable conduct of Da Vinci toward

the idol of my mercenary dreams, his tender flame, his ill-disguised

sentiments of admiration, his involuntary devotion, were all returned in

the same manner by Valeria.

In due time the exhibition took place. A week of thrilling excitement

passed away. On the evening the premiums were to be awarded, I sallied

out to await the decisions, persuaded that Valeria’s beauty, and not the

skill of Marco Da Vinci, must make serious impressions in favor of the

portrait. How describe my delight, when the premium was bestowed on the

limner of my daughter’s charms! Her fame, I well knew, would now rapidly

spread, and my fortune was sure!

In the excitement of the moment, I hurried from the Academy, and sought

to drown my feeling in deep potations. While under the influence of an

unusual quantity of the stimulant, the time flew rapidly past; and it

was late in the night before I recovered myself sufficiently to stagger

home. To account for the sight which there paralyzed my eyes, it is

necessary to touch upon what happened during my inebriation.

Marco Da Vinci, on learning the decision made in favor of his work,

proceeded with haste to pour out his feelings of gratitude to Valeria,

whom he regarded as the instrument of his success. In the passionate

eloquence of his temperament, he dwelt upon all, save that which was

consuming his vitals, and which he dared not avow. They who pass any

portion of their time in a state of beatitude, can alone say how swiftly

it flies. Valeria and Da Vinci, entranced with their own dreamy visions

of future happiness and of present joy, noted not that the hour of

midnight had approached. At length the “iron tongue” of the town clock

warned them to part; and with a deep sigh Valeria murmured a request

that Da Vinci would visit the house again and frequently.

“My determination,” said Marco, “can no longer be suppressed.” In a

voice of the deepest agitation he proceeded: “I had hoped, Valeria, that

we might part without a word of regret on either side; but your kindness

and friendship toward me, render it a duty that I should make some

explanations in defence of my refusal of your hospitable invitation. I

must speak, whatever be the penalty. Your beauty and charms of

person—your mental fascination—render it too dangerous for me to

continue my visits! We must part—forever!”

In a hurried and agitated manner the young painter rushed toward the

door.

“Stay!” cried Valeria, in whom the struggle between love and duty was

for a moment so violent as to deprive her of her faculties, “Da Vinci,

why must we part thus? Why are we never again to meet? I am sure it is

no harm for us to enjoy the pleasure of each other’s society.”

This was said in a voice of such warmth and artlessness, that, for a

moment, he was unnerved in his resolution. The danger, however, was too

great; and he resisted the temptation.

“Valeria,” said Marco Da Vinci, endeavoring to answer calmly, “I am an

outcast—a beggar!”

“But I do not think less of you for that!” cried Valeria, passionately.

“Hear me!” cried Da Vinci, in a hurried and choaking voice, “you know me

not! I have dared—I still dare—to love you!”

Valeria might have suspected, and probably did suspect, that this

declaration was inevitable; but there is a great deal of deceit in the

female heart; and she evinced much astonishment at the words of her

lover. She endeavored to frown—to look serious—to speak of _my_

authority—but love was the conqueror!

That resource which woman is ever prone to make use of, was at hand; and

Valeria wept. Her beauty had always been a subject of dangerous interest

to Marco Da Vinci: it was now heightened in his mind by the

consciousness that she loved him. No longer able to control those

feelings, which from the moment of their meeting, had taken possession

of Da Vinci’s heart, the enthusiastic lover sprang forward and clasped

Valeria to his bosom. He pressed her lips to his own, and imprinted on

them the burning kiss of first-love.

At this critical moment I entered. Unable to believe my senses, I stood

gasping for breath, and transfixed with doubt and astonishment.

Convinced at length that I was not deceived, I sprang forward to wreak

my vengeance on the villain who had so basely abused my confidence.

“Monster!” cried Da Vinci, confronting me face to face, and darting from

his fine expressive eyes the most deadly hatred, “Monster! you are

known! whatever obligations I may have formerly considered myself under

to you, I now look upon them as entirely cancelled by your hypocrisy

toward myself, and your base conduct toward your daughter. Know, hoary

villain, that no later than to day, I received a letter from Don

Ferdinand Ruzzina, warning me to be on my guard in any of my

transactions with you. Nor was this all! He openly exposed your

villainy, and revealed the unnatural and cruel schemes you have

concerted for the disposal of your daughter’s honor. Behold, wretch, in

_me_ her protector! You have forfeited the title, and by the God that

made me, your baseness shall not triumph!”

So struck was I at this change in the conduct of Da Vinci, that for

several moments I stood transfixed to the spot. Still stupified with

rage and shame, I staggered back, and flung myself on a bench. Valeria,

with that filial affection, which I had never known her to violate,

sprang toward me in an agony of remorse; and kneeling at my feet,

earnestly avowed her determination to remain forever obedient to my

will; and craved forgiveness for her instrumentality in causing me such

shame and misery. Already goaded to desperation by the taunts of young

Da Vinci, and the reproaches of my own conscience, I was not prepared

for this act of unmerited constancy. In the bitterness of my own

self-detestation, I rushed from the room, striking my temples with my

clenched hands, and uttering imprecations on those who gave me life. I

hastily mounted the ladder, leading to my miserable garret; and darting

through the trap-door, threw myself head-long on the squalid and

tattered pallet.

Ruzzina had not forgotten me! Awed by the unconquerable virtue of my

daughter, he had no desire to renew visits which he well knew were alike

useless and unwelcome. But I had exacted large sums from him. He was my

dupe! Even in _that_, there was a pleasure. Aye, such a pleasure as a

miser can feel when avarice triumphs over conscience, and vice over

virtue!

Early on the following morning, I indited a note to Don Ferdinand,

which, in the plenitude of my craft, I looked upon as relieving me from

all claims whatever on his part. It ran thus:

“If you have any intention of consummating your designs on my

daughter’s virtue—a thing which I regard as a mere

misnomer—you must do so immediately. The advance-money hitherto

received from you, I consider fairly my own; and if you think

proper to neglect the chance I now give you of achieving your

wishes, I am sure it is your own fault.

“Be so good as to let me have a definite answer, when it suits

your convenience; and believe me,

Catruccio Faliri.”

It afforded me much gratification to anticipate the wrath and

indignation Ruzzina should evince on reading this. To gloat over the

dark traits of men’s characters, has ever been my choicest amusement;

and I well knew that he would either make a desperate attempt to

retrieve his imprudence by recovering the money, or desist altogether

and keep silent to avoid the shafts of satire and ridicule.

I suffered much uneasiness, and had much to fear on account of the

ardent and fiery temperament of Valeria. The passion she had betrayed

for Marco Da Vinci was no childish fancy; but a deep-rooted, irrevocable

love, which nothing could eradicate or assuage. Her pure Italian blood

permitted no medium between passion and indifference. She loved him

once, and was destined to love, or hate him forever after. Of this I

quickly had a most satisfactory proof.

Enraged one day at the obstinate manner in which she rejected the

advances of every suitor I thought proper to introduce into my house, I

bitterly reproached her for her disobedience; and in the excess of my

anger, struck her a violent blow. Her proud spirit was instantly up.

“Father,” said she, “you have struck me for the first, and for the last

time. In defiance of your cruel and unnatural machinations for the

disposal of my honor, you shall never reproach me with their success. I

have hitherto mildly resisted your iniquitous designs; and I now boldly

put myself out of your power. This roof shall never more shelter your

daughter!”

In scarcely any gradation of human depravity is man totally callous to

the qualms of conscience. I have before remarked that I anticipated with

joy the hour of death; but this was merely a fiendish delirium, wrought

by the recollection of past iniquities: a kind of bravo, which, in the

hour of cool contemplation, would be regarded with fear and horror.

I confess I was much staggered at the justice of Valeria’s reproaches,

and the firmness and dignity of her demeanor. Whatever might have been

the nature of my former conduct toward her, I _did_ feel, at that

moment, a sense of my baseness. Her fine, expressive eyes were eloquent

with determination; and her beautiful figure, as she glided steadily

from my presence, seemed to acquire a queenliness from passion and

indignation. She spoke no more; and I was too relentless to excuse

myself, or break the silence. I had pride—ay, the pride of a demon. I

would not humble it by confessing my cruelty, or soliciting her

forgiveness. Thus originated a disunion, which was soon destined to lead

to the most tragical effects.

I follow, for a moment, the fortunes of Valeria.

During her residence in that part of Venice, in which we had latterly

lived, she had, by the merest accident, become acquainted with the

daughter of a neighboring officer, and had cultivated the society of

this young lady, more from a natural fondness for association with the

educated of her sex, than from any particular liking to her new

acquaintance. Signora Almeda—the lady’s name—was not unusually

prepossessing in her person or manners; but she had a vigorous and

masculine mind, and possessed no small share of sound knowledge, both

literary and scientific. She had, from the beginning, regarded my

daughter with peculiar favor. Their acquaintance had latterly become

quite intimate; and on the strength of this intimacy, and the dependance

of her situation, Valeria resolved to claim the hospitality of her

friend, until fortune should place it in her power to earn a livelihood

by her own exertions. Signora Almeda accepted, with pleasure, the

proposition of her accomplished acquaintance.

For several months a sisterly harmony was observed between the friends.

Though Valeria steadily refused to enter into society, yet it soon

became obvious to her entertainer that she had the ascendency in the

social circle. Of all stings prone to penetrate the female heart, none

is so poisonous or painful as that which wounds vanity. Signora Almeda

was piqued to discover that the suitors, who had before paid her the

utmost devotion, now eagerly transferred their addresses to her guest.

From learning to view her as a rival, she presently looked upon her as

an ungrateful and disagreeable dependant. Every opportunity was now

taken advantage of, both publicly and privately, by Signora Almeda, to

vent her envy toward Valeria. The innocent cause of this disquietude,

meantime wondered at the change. It was true, her entertainer still

continued to treat her with formal hospitality; but all intimacy and

friendship were at an end. This state of things was destined to be

speedily brought to a close.

Signora Almeda had among other suitors, one who really admired her, and

for whom she had evinced much respect. This gentleman, inspired by the

superiority of Valeria, physically if not mentally, forgot for a moment

his promises and devotions toward Signora Almeda. The blow was not to be

borne. A proud Italian spirit was roused. Revenge was now the sole

subject of her thought.

Valeria one evening, soon after this, retired to her chamber to enjoy a

few moments of solitude. In searching a small drawer for some article of

habiliment, she accidentally discovered a note, directed to herself and

handsomely sealed. It was inscribed in a bold, masculine hand; and ran

thus:—

“Bewitching girl!—In accordance with your repeated desire, I

shall to-night gently tap at your chamber-window. O raptures!

how I shall—but why anticipate.

“_Votre roturiex_

“Caius Pazzio.”

Astonished and indignant, Valeria was about to tear this insulting

epistle to atoms, when the door gently opened; and Signora Almeda glided

in.

“Ah! my charming guest,” she whispered, with forced friendship, “what

now? Mercy, you seem like one who had just caught sight of an

apparition! Dear me! what’s the matter?”

“Matter!” cried Valeria, fired with shame and indignation, “read!—but

no—the insult must not be known!”

“Heavens! a letter—Ah, I guess the contents!” She snatched it

playfully, and read with apparent surprise—what she had herself

written!

The result was such as might be expected. Valeria was peremptorily

forbidden the house. Her character was blasted—her happiness destroyed!

In this melancholy situation, Marco Da Vinci found her, when after a

long and indefatigable search, he succeeded in tracing her to the

residence of Signora Almeda. With all the ardor and sincerity of his

character, Da Vinci had determined on bringing his fate to a speedy

close, either by wedding the object of his affection, or by bidding her

farewell forever. The critical situation in which he found her,

immediately determined him to adopt the former course, if possible. He

had, since his triumph at the Academy of Arts, attained some eminence;

and his circumstances were now in a favorable condition.

Valeria had many objections to the course proposed; but on the one hand

poverty—perhaps beggary would be her lot; while on the other the

importunities of Da Vinci were so urgent as to remove most of the

remaining obstacles. After much hesitation she consented to acquiesce in

his wishes. The young and loving couple were immediately united. I now

return to my own narrative.

Nearly a year had elapsed since I was left alone and desolate; when one

evening I was astonished to see a female, closely muffled, enter my

house. My mind had that day been peculiarly embittered against my

daughter, and she was even now the subject of my thoughts. Great,

indeed, was my astonishment, when the apparent stranger flung herself in

a kneeling posture before me, and casting off her disguise revealed to

my sight the faded lineaments of Valeria!

“Father!” she cried, “forgive me!—forgive the partner of my misery! We

are ruined by a reverse of fortune—we are beggars! Distress has

deprived us of pride! We seek your pardon!”

“Curse you!” I shouted, spurning her with my foot, “you demand pardon do

you? Begone! Pardon, eh? Begone!” I thundered; and I pushed her

violently toward the door. She fell. Her head struck a bureau; and the

warm blood spouted from the gash. Had I reflected on the delicacy of her

situation, it is probable I might have felt compassion enough to let her

pass unmolested; but the deed was done. I did not regret it. My

vengeance for the series of disappointments she had caused me was

satiated.

(To be Continued.)

Louisville, Kentucky, February, 1841.

* * * * *

THE ALCHYMIST.

BY MRS. LAMBERT.

“The machine of human life, though constituted of a thousand

parts, is in all its parts systematically connected; nor is it

easy to insert an additional member, the spuriousness of which

an accurate observation will not readily detect.”—_Godwin._

It was midnight. Darkness, deep as the sable of a funeral pall, hung

over the streets of Madrid. The wind blew in strong gusts, and the rain

fell in torrents. The lightning, which, at brief intervals, rent the

clouds, and flashed across the gloom, revealed no living, moving thing.

For an instant only, the livid sheets lit up the streets and squares,

and glared over the Plaza Mayon, so often the scene of savage

bull-fights, of cruel executions, and, in former years, of the horrible

_Auto de fé_. And again, as it seemed, a tenfold blackness enveloped

every object; convents, colleges and hospitals, closed at every

aperture, were shrouded in the general gloom. Man, though the noblest

work of his Creator—glorying in his wisdom and in his might—towering

in the battle-field—great in council—overweening, arrogant, boastful;

in such a night learns to feel his own insignificance. He, who adorned

with all the pageantry of wealth, elevates himself far above the lowly

individual that seeks his daily bread by daily labor—who looks down as

from an immeasurable height upon the poor peasant of the soil—even he,

so rich, so powerful, sheltered within his stately walls, listens to the

war of the elements that rage without—and inwardly congratulating

himself on his rich and comfortable asylum, yet shrinks involuntarily as

the blast shrieks by—and silently acknowledges his own impotence.

I have said no living thing moved in the street, and every building was

closed against the storm; but in the outskirts of the city, in a narrow

and solitary lane, built up at intervals with a few houses of mean and

wretched appearance—a faint light shone through the gloom. It proceeded

from the casement of a house of antique structure, and dilapidated

appearance. Years must have gone by since that dwelling was the abode of

comfort, for poverty and wretchedness seemed to have long marked it for

their own. The exterior gave faithful promise of what was revealed

within.

In a large and gothic room, the broken and discolored walls of which

betokened decay, an aged man was bending over a fire of charcoal, and

busily engaged in some metallic preparation. His form was bent by age.

The hair of his head, and the beard, which descended to his breast, were

bleached by time to a silvery whiteness. His forehead was ample, but

furrowed by a thousand wrinkles. His eyes, deep set, small, and still

retaining much quickness and fire, yet at times their expression was

wild, despairing, even fearful.

A cap of peculiar and ancient form was upon his head, and his person was

enveloped in a robe of russet, confined about the waist by a twisted

girdle. His motions were tremulous and feeble, his countenance wan and

death-like, his frame to the last degree emaciated.

A bed stood in one corner of the room; a table, and two roughly made

forms, were all the furniture of that miserable apartment; but around

the small furnace, at which the old man had been lately employed, were

gathered crucibles, minerals, chemical preparations, and tools of

mysterious form and curious workmanship, but well understood by the

artist. Once more the adept, for such was the inmate of this lonely

dwelling, scanned with searching eye the contents of a crucible; while

the pale flame which rose suddenly from the sullen fire, cast over his

sunken features a hue still more livid and cadaverous.

His labors had resulted in disappointment; he sighed heavily, and

dropping his implements, abandoned his self-imposed task.

“It is over,” he murmured, “my hour is almost come—and should I repine?

No—no. Life!—wretched and misspent!—world! I have sacrificed thee, to

thyself!—wonderful enigma, yet how true!”

Turning his steps to the table, he took from thence a lamp, and walked

feebly to a remote end of the room. Here, on a humble couch, lay a

sleeping child; it was a boy, slender, pale, and bearing in his young

face the indications of sorrow and of want—yet was he exquisitely

beautiful. He slept still, and heavily. The adept gazed at him long and

deeply.

“He sleeps. Victim as he is, of his father’s errors, and his

crimes—shunned by his fellows—hunted by the unfeeling—pinched with

cold—and perishing with hunger—yet—he sleeps. Father of Heaven! such

is the meed of innocence! _I_, shall never more know rest,—till the

long sleep of death that knows no awakening!—No awakening—and is it

so?” A blast of wind swept by, rocking the old pile to its foundation,

the thunder rolled heavily above, and the keen blue lightning shone

through every crevice.

The old man looked fearfully around: a deeper paleness overspread his

face, and cold drops stood on his brow and sallow temples.

“The angel of death is surely abroad this night—he seeks his victim.”

Tottering to the bed he sunk down upon it, and closing his eyes, an

almost deadly sickness seized him. He called faintly for Adolf. The lad

had already risen, for the storm had awakened him. He went to the

bedside. The old man could not speak. The child was affrighted and gazed

earnestly upon the face of his parent. The senses of the latter had not

forsaken him, and he motioned with his hand toward the table, on which

stood a small cup. Adolf brought it to his father, and moistened his

lips with the liquid. The old man revived. After a few moments he spoke,

but his voice was tremulous and low.

“Adolf,” he said, “thy father is about to leave thee—dear object of my

fond affection, thou art all that remains of my beloved Zillia—boy,” he

continued exerting the last remains of strength, “thou must go hence.

The moment thy father ceases to breathe thou must fly.”

The child looked on his parent with alarm, and sorrow depicted in his

young face.

“Yes,” he repeated, “thou must quit this place. My enemies are on the

alert. Me they would certainly destroy, and thy youth and

innocence—will hardly save thee from their wrath. Long have they

watched, and sought, and hunted me, from country to country, and from

town to town. I have mingled in the crowd of cities, and hoped to be

confounded with the multitude—to pass

unmarked—unquestioned—unknown—in vain; the ever wakeful eye of

suspicion followed me—danger dogged my footsteps. I sought the shelter

of thick woods—of impenetrable forests, where the wolf howled, and the

raven croaked—but the foot of my persecutor—Man—seldom came. Even

there I was discovered. Imprisonment—famine—torture have been my

portion—and yet I live. I live—but thy gentle spirit, Zillia, could

not bear up under the pressure of so many woes. Adolf, thou wilt shortly

be all that survives of the family of Zampieri.—I repeat, by the

morning dawn _I_ shall be no more, and _thou_ must fly.”

“No, no,” returned the boy, “urge me not to depart—father, I will

remain and share thy fate.” He threw himself as he spoke upon the bosom

of the old man who pressed him in his feeble arms.—“And oh! father, I

_cannot_ go hence—I am weak—I am ill—father I die of hunger.”

An expression of keen anguish passed over the face of Zampieri, and he

pushed his child from him.

“Boy,” he cried, “ask me not for bread—thou knowest I have it not. Have

I not been laboring for thee—for thy wealth—for thy

aggrandizement—ingrate—bread sayest thou—thou shalt have gold, boy,

gold.”

The intellect of the adept wandered, and he laughed wildly. The large,

soft, lustrous eyes of Adolf swam in tears, and his heart trembled

within his bosom. With weak steps he retreated to the foot of the bed,

and kneeling there, hid his face on his folded arms, and wept.

After a pause Zampieri again spoke.

“Life!” he muttered, “how have I wasted thee. Time! Thou art no longer

mine. Would that I could redeem thee—but it is too late. Zillia, my

murdered love! Thou art avenged. I left thy fond and simple affections

for the depths of mysterious research. I madly thought to realise the

dreams of illimitable wealth. Vain and destructive ambition. For thy

sake have I riven asunder every tie.”

The voice of the old man ceased, and the sobs of the child too were

silenced—perchance in sleep.

The violence of the tempest had subsided, and all was still; save that

the blast still shrieked at intervals by, making the old casements

rattle as it passed—and the thunder muttered low at a distance.

The hours rolled on. A faint grey light dawned in the east. The clouds

broken in heavy masses, rolled rapidly onward obscuring and revealing,

as they flew, the few bright stars that appeared far beyond this scene

of petty turmoil, shining on, in their own unchanging, never ending

harmony.

And now the dawn strengthened, and the stars grew pale. The last blue

flickering flame, that wandered _ignus-fatuus_ like, over the surface of

the dying charcoal, had spent itself; and the wasting lamp looked

ghastly in the beams of rising day.

A noise was heard at the lonely portal. It was that of forcible

entrance, and came harshly over the deep silence that reigned within.

Footsteps approached, not such as told the drawing near of a friend, the

light, soft step of sympathy with sorrow. No. They heralded force and

violence—bond and imprisonment—racks and torture.

Three Alguazils of the Inquisition entered the solitary apartment. They

came to conduct Nicoli Zampieri to the holy office on a charge of

performing or seeking to perform preternatural acts by unholy means—by

conjuration and necromancy. Guilty or not guilty, suspicion had fallen

upon him, and he had become amenable to the law. Their anticipated

victim remained quiet. The Alguazils approached the bed on which he lay.

The limbs were stark and stiff—the features immoveable. The Alchymist

was dead.

Yet the eyes—widely opened, glassy, fixed and staring, gave the

startling idea, that the gloomy and reluctant soul had through them

strained its last agonising gaze on some opening view—some unimaginable

scene in the dread arena of the shadowy world beyond the grave.

Silently they turned from the bed of death, for the power of the king of

Terrors, thus displayed before them, quelled for a moment their iron

nerves.

A kneeling figure at the bed’s foot next drew their attention. It was

Adolf. They spoke to him, but he answered not: they shook him, but the

form immobile, gave no sign of warmth or elasticity. One of the men

turned aside the rich curls that clustered above the boy’s fair brow,

and gently raised his head. It was cold and pale. The suffering spirit

of the young and innocent Adolf, had winged its way to a happier world.

* * * * *

THE CIRCASSIAN BRIDE.

BY ESTHER WETHERALD.

“She walks in beauty, like the nights

Of cloudless climes and starry skies.”

_Byron._

Nerinda was the daughter of a shepherd, who dwelt in one of the charming

portions of Circassia. If beauty was a blessing, Nerinda was blessed

beyond the ordinary lot of mortals, for the fame of her loveliness had

extended through the neighboring vallies, and at the early age of

fourteen her hand had been sought by many, with an earnestness which

showed her parents what a treasure they possessed in their eldest born.

But no one had been able to obtain her.

Money is not so plentiful in the vales of Circassia, as in the mart of

Constantinople; and few of the neighboring youths might venture

therefore to aspire to her hand. There appeared, every day, less

probability that the fair girl would be permitted to pass her life

amidst scenes endeared to her by a thousand childish and tender

recollections. Nerinda felt this and her eye became less bright, and her

step less buoyant, than when she trod the flowery turf a few short

months before, a happy careless child, attending those flocks now

abandoned to the care of the younger children. She became pensive and

melancholy. Her rich color faded, and her parents saw with surprise and

concern that the dazzling beauty on which so much depended, would be

tarnished by the very means they were taking to preserve it. What was to

be done? She must resume her old employment, since healthful exercise

was of such consequence to her appearance; she could do so in the

neighboring meadows without danger, accompanied by her sister Leila. Oh!

how happy was Nerinda, when she received this unlooked for indulgence;

with what haste did she braid and arrange her beautiful hair, and fasten

on the veil without which she must not be seen; then joining her sister,

she visited every spot endeared to her by memory, and at length, seating

herself on a mossy bank which separated her father’s possessions from

those of a neighboring shepherd, began to arrange the many flowers she

had culled into beautiful bouquets and chaplets, an occupation befitting

one so young and lovely; but even whilst her hands were thus employed,

it was evident her thoughts were far distant, for she fell into reveries

so deep, that her sister, unable to arouse her from her abstraction,

became weary of attempting it, and returned to her fleecy charge,

leaving Nerinda to muse alone.

Nerinda believed herself alone, but immediately after the departure of

Leila, a finely formed youth had crossed the stream, and stood at the

distance of a few paces, gazing on her with a passionate tenderness

which betokened the strength of his attachment. Almost afraid to disturb

her meditations, yet anxious to obtain a single word, a single glance,

he remained motionless; waiting, hoping that she might raise her eyes,

and give him permission to advance. She raised them at length, uttered

an exclamation of surprise, and in a moment the youth was at her feet.

“Nerinda!” “Hassan!” were the first words that escaped their lips.

“Do I indeed see thee? and dost thou still love thy Nerinda?” said the

maiden.

“Love thee?” replied the youth in an impassioned tone, “thy image is

entwined with every fibre of my heart. They may tear thee from me, they

may destroy me if they will, but while life remains I cannot cease to

love.”

“Alas!” said Nerinda, “weeks have passed since I saw thee, and I

feared—I—.” She stopped confused, for Hassan had seized her hand, and

was pressing it to his lips with an energy which showed how well he

understood what was passing in her mind.

“Oh! Nerinda,” said he, “I have entreated, I have implored thy father to

bestow thee on me, but in vain, for all the money I could offer was not

one tenth of the sum he requires; yet do not despair,” he said, as the

color faded from her cheek, “I still may hope if thou remainest

constant.”

“This very morning,” continued Hassan, “I sought thy father; at first he

was unwilling to listen to me. At length I prevailed on him to hearken,

even if he refused his assent to what I proposed: but he did not refuse.

Pleased with my anxiety to obtain thee, he has promised that if in two

years I can gain the required sum thou shalt be my wife; if I cannot he

will wait no longer, but part with thee to him who will pay the highest

price.”

The voice of the youth faltered—he was scarcely able to continue, “in

two days I am to take all the money my father can spare, and join the

caravan which proceeds to the south; fear not,” said he, replying to the

alarm expressed in her varying countenance, “there is no danger, the

caravan is large, and if fortunate as a trader, I shall return before

two years have passed to claim my plighted bride. Wilt thou be true? may

I trust thee?” were questions the lover asked, though he felt sure the

answers would be such as he could desire, and when the assurance was

given, he for the first time ventured to impress a kiss on those

beautiful lips. Long did they thus converse, but at length they parted;

Nerinda promising to come to the same spot on the next evening to bid

him farewell.

They parted, Hassan vainly endeavoring to inspire Nerinda with his own

hopes. She almost sank under the trial, and it was many days before she

had strength to revisit the bank of turf, their accustomed trysting

place. When she did, how changed did all appear; the flowers were still

blooming around; the stream flowed on with its accustomed murmur; the

birds carolled sweetly as of old; where then was the change? Alas! it

was in her own heart: joy and happiness had fled with Hassan, and

melancholy had taken their place.

Two years and six months had passed since the departure of the youth,

and there seemed little probability of his return; even his venerable

father mourned him as dead, when a company of traders entered the

mountains. One of them was an old acquaintance in the valley. He renewed

his solicitations to the father of Nerinda, that she might be placed

under his charge; offering the highest price, and promising that her

future lot should be as brilliant and delightful as her past had been

obscure. The shepherd was greatly disappointed by the non-appearance of

Hassan, for he would have preferred keeping his daughter near him if he

could have done so with advantage to himself, but being poor as well as

avaricious, and imagining he should be perfectly happy if possessed of

so much wealth as the trader offered, he consented to part with her, who

had ever been his chief delight, and the pride of his heart.

Language cannot paint the consternation of Nerinda when she learned her

father’s determination. The delay of Hassan she accounted for by

supposing he had not yet acquired the full amount necessary for his

purpose, and hoped that after a while he would return to call her his.

Now all hope was at an end. Hassan might still come, but she would be

far distant, perhaps the wife of another. Her mother and sister too

shared her grief, for they thought it would be impossible to live

without Nerinda; but all entreaties and lamentations were vain, the

shepherd had made the bargain and would abide by it; and she was hurried

to the caravan in a state little short of insensibility.

And where was Hassan? He had determined in the first place to proceed

with the caravan to Mecca, whither it was bound, and laying out the

money he possessed in merchandise, to trade at the different towns on

their route. Before they arrived at the holy city he had consequently so

greatly increased his store, that he felt no doubt he should be able to

return before the time appointed; but meeting soon afterward with a

heavy loss, he was thrown back when he least expected it, and at the end

of two years had not more than half the amount required. To return

without it was useless, and he set about repairing his loss with a heavy

heart. Six months passed in this endeavor, at the end of which time he

found himself rich enough to return, but it was necessary he should

proceed to Constantinople to settle some business, and join a caravan

which was going toward his native country. His anxiety increased every

day: of what avail would be his wealth, if she, for whose sake it had

been accumulated, was lost forever?

The day before the one fixed for his departure from Constantinople, a

company of traders arrived, bringing with them Circassian slaves. He

happened to be passing by the slave-market, and impelled by sudden

curiosity, entered the room. He had scarcely done so when he was struck

by the graceful figure of one of the girls, which reminded him of

Nerinda. He felt almost afraid to have her veil removed, then

remembering that it would be impossible for her to recognise him in his

present dress, and determining to suppress his emotions whatever the

result, he made the request, which was instantly complied with. It was

indeed Nerinda, but how changed! She stood before him pale as marble,

with downcast eyes, looking as if no smile would ever again illumine

those pensive features; once only a faint color tinged her cheek as he

advanced toward her, then instantly gave place to more deathly paleness.

The price was soon agreed upon, for the trader was now as anxious to get

rid of his fair slave as he had been desirous to obtain her; having

resigned the hope of making an immense profit in consequence of the

continual dejection and grief she indulged, which had greatly impaired

her health and beauty. Hassan ordered the trader to send her to his

apartments immediately.

When he entered the room to which she had been conducted, he gently

raised her veil. She looked up, and recognised him instantly; her joy

was as unbounded as his own, but was displayed in a different manner.

She threw herself into his arms and sobbed and wept. She was, however,

at length able to listen tranquilly to the account of his adventures,

and to relate her own.

The remembrance of his aged parent, doubly endeared by absence, and of

his joyous childhood, were still alive in the breast of Hassan; and

after a few days spent at Constantinople, he proposed to return to his

native valley.

They set out, the health and beauty of Nerinda improving, in spite of

the fatigues of their journey. The joy with which they were greeted was

unbounded. All had given Hassan up for dead, and Nerinda was regarded as

lost to them forever. Even her father had repented of his avarice, and

would willingly have returned his gold, could he have once more had

Nerinda by his side. Her mother and sisters hung around her with tears

of joy; and the whole valley welcomed her return with glad rejoicings.

The young couple took up their residence with Hassan’s father; many a

visit did they pay to that bank of turf, the scene of their former

meetings, and never did they look on that spot without feeling their

bosom swell with the emotions of gratitude to that kind Providence who

had disposed all things for their good, and had watched over and

protected them, even when they believed themselves deserted.

* * * * *

THE MAIDEN’S ADVENTURE.

A TALE OF THE EARLY SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA.

“Well Kate,” said her bridesmaid, Lucy Cameron, “the clouds look very

threatening, and you know it is said to be an unlucky omen for one’s

wedding night to be stormy.”

“Pshaw, Lucy, would you frighten me with some old grandmother’s tale, as

if I were a child? I believe not in omens, and shall forget all unlucky

presages, when the wife of Richard Gaston,” answered the lovely and

smiling bride.

“You treat it lightly, and I trust it may not be ominous of your

conjugal life,” resumed Lucy; “but my Aunt Kitty says that’s the reason

she never married; because it was raining in torrents the day she was to

have been wedded, and she discarded her lover because it was unlucky.”

“Ah, Lucy, I do not mean to doubt your good aunt’s word; but there must

have been some more serious cause linked with the one you have

mentioned. My life on it, _I_ do not lose a husband for so slight a

cause. It must be something more than a common occurrence, that shall

now break off the match with Dick and myself. But see, the company are

beginning to arrive,” said Kate, as she looked from the window of her

room, “and I must prepare for the ceremony.”

The morning of the day of which we have spoken, had opened in unclouded

splendor, and all seemed propitious to the nuptials that were to be

solemnised in the evening. The inmates of the cabin in which the

preceding conversation had been carried on, had arisen cheerfully with

the first notes of the early robin, to prepare for the festival, to

which the whole neighborhood, consisting of all within fifteen or twenty

miles, (for neighborhoods were then large, and habitations scarce) were

indiscriminately invited.

Kate Lee was the only child of her parents, and had been born and raised

in the humble cottage which her father had assisted to construct with

his own hands. Mr. Lee had moved to his present residence, when few

ventured thus far into the Indian territory; and by his own labors, and

that of his two servants, had erected a double cabin, and cleared about

fifty acres of land, upon a rich piece of high ground, a mile and a half

from the James River. By his urbanity and kindness, he had gained the

confidence of the Indians; and in all their depredations so far, he had

gone unscathed. He was of good birth and education, and the most

hospitable man in the settlement. The property which he held, and the

style in which he lived, together with his superior knowledge, gave him

a standing among the settlers superior to all. Ever ready to assist the

needy, and always just in his opinions and actions, he was looked to for

council, rather than treated as an equal.

As we said before, Kate was his only child, and had been the solace of

her parents for nineteen years. She had now attained to full-blown

womanhood, and, from her beauty and intelligence, her hand had been

often asked, by the hardy sons of the pioneers. Her heart was untouched,

until young Gaston laid siege to it. To his eloquent appeals she lent a

willing ear, and promised to be his bride.

As Kate was the loveliest girl in the country, so was Richard Gaston the

most to be envied among the youths. Of fine, manly stature, superior

intellect, and unflagging energy, he was the best match in the

settlement. He cultivated a little farm on the other side of the river,

and when occasion offered, engaged in the practice of law, for which

both education and nature fitted him. He had been in the settlement

about seven years, and from his open and conciliatory manners, his bold

and manly bearing, had become a favorite with all around him. He was

always the first to take up his rifle, and sally against the hostile

Indians, when necessity required it, and from his undoubted courage, was

always chosen leader of the little bands, formed to repel the savage

foe.

When the toils of the week had passed, Gaston might be seen, with his

rifle on his shoulder, moving toward the river where his canoe was

fastened, and springing lightly into it, dashing through the foaming

waters, and among the rocks, as safely and cheerfully, as if passing

over a smooth and glassy lake; and on the following evening, he might be

seen again, braving the rushing current, with the same careless ease,

but more thoughtful brow; for who ever yet parted from the girl of his

heart, with the same joyful aspect, which he wore when going to meet

her? Let us now return to the wedding day.

“Have you heard of the Indian that was found murdered on the bank of the

creek this morning?” said a young man, after the company had assembled,

to Mr. Lee.

“No,” answered Mr. Lee, with surprise, “I had hoped from the long peace

that has reigned, we should have no more such outrages against the poor

Indians. But how is it possible, sir, if they are thus shot down, that

we can expect them to be quiet?”

“The body,” continued the first speaker, “was found by some of his

tribe; and they immediately threatened vengeance if the murderers were

not given up. But that is impossible; because we do not know them.”

At this moment, a loud crash of thunder echoed through the woods, so

suddenly as to make all start from their seats.

“Well, my friends,” said Mr. Lee, as soon as all was again quiet, “we

shall be as likely to suffer from this rashness as the offender, and

must be prepared. I am glad you have brought your guns with you, for

unless they come in too large a body we shall be able to hold out

against them.”

This was said with that calmness which a frequent recurrence of such

circumstances will produce; and as he rehung his rifle, after preparing

it for immediate use, the bride entered the room, in all the loveliness

of graceful beauty. Few ornaments decked her person, because none could

add to her natural grace and elegance. Her hair of jet black, was simply

parted in front, drawn back, and fastened behind, displaying a forehead

of marble whiteness; a wreath, mingling the wild rose with other forest

flowers, was the only ornament on her head. Her skin was of transparent

whiteness. Her large black eyes, peering through their long lashes,

spoke a playful mischief in every glance. A perfectly Grecian nose;

cherry lips; a beautiful row of pearly teeth; a dimple displaying itself

in each cheek whenever a smile suffused itself over her features, and a

complexion richer than the soft red of the tulip, completed a picture

such as the mind can rarely imagine. Her neck and arms were perfectly

bare, and seemed as if they, with her small fairy feet, and the rest of

her figure, had been made in nature’s most perfect mould.

The storm, which had before been heard but at a distance, seemed now to

have attained its greatest violence, and to be concentrated over the

house. Peal after peal of thunder, came ringing through the hollows,

each succeeding one apparently louder and more crashing than the former.

Flash upon flash, of the quick and vivid lightning, streamed out,

resting awhile upon the surrounding scenery, and striking terror into

the hearts of the more superstitious guests. The rain, which at first

fell in large drops, that could be distinctly heard, amid the awful

silence, save when the thunders echoed, now came down in torrents; and

the thunder pealed out, louder and louder, quicker and quicker, leaving

scarcely intermission enough, for the voice of Richard Gaston to be

heard by his beautiful bride. He had impatiently awaited the invitation

of Mr. Lee to meet his daughter, but no longer able, amid the war of

elements, to restrain himself, he advanced to, and seated himself by the

side of his beloved Kate, and gently taking her hand in his, inquired if

she was alarmed by the storm? To his enquiry, she only smiled, and shook

her head.

“I see not then, why we may not proceed with the ceremony; the

storm,”——here a keen and fearful crash, jarred the house to its

foundation, leaving traces of fear on the countenances of all, but the

lovers and the parson; Gaston continued, however, “the storm may last an

hour, and that is longer, my Kate, than I would like to defer the

consummation of my hopes.”

“I am ready,” answered Kate, blushing, and without raising her eyes.

They rose from their seats, and advanced to the parson, who immediately

commenced the ceremony. It was impossible to tell, whether pleasure or

fear predominated on the countenances of the guests, as they pressed

forward, to witness the solemn ceremony of uniting two beings for life.

In the intervals of the thunder, a faint smile would play upon their

faces, but, as a rattling volley would strike their ears, their

shrinking forms and bloodless lips, betrayed their terror. The tempest

seemed for a moment to have held its breath, as if to witness the

conclusion of the nuptials; but now as the parson concluded with,

“salute your bride;” a peal of thunder, keener and more startling than

any yet, struck such terror to their souls, that none, not even the

parson, or Gaston himself, both of whom had been shocked, perceived that

the chimney had fallen to the earth; until awakened to a sense of their

situation, by the shrill war-whoop of the Indians, which now mingled in

dreadful unison with the howling storm.

All thought of the storm vanished at once—defence against the savages

seemed to be the first idea of all, as each man, with determined look,

grasped his rifle, and gathered around the females.

The Indians, led on by their noted chief Eagle Eye, to avenge the death

of their comrade, found in the morning, would perhaps have awaited the

subsidence of the storm, had not the falling of the chimney displayed to

them, the disorder and confusion within the cabin. Viewing it, as the

most favorable time for an attack, they raised their dreaded war-whoop,

and sprung to the breach. That whoop, however, served but to nerve the

hardy pioneers, and chase from their bosoms the fears, which the wars of

nature alone created. Richard Gaston, from custom, assumed the command;

and with that coolness and self-possession, which indicates undaunted

bravery, proceeded to give such orders as the time would allow.

“Let the females,” said he, “go above, and lie upon the floor, and we,

my brave boys, will show them what stout hearts and strong arms can do

in defence of beauty. Six of you go in the next room, and see that the

villains enter not, except over your dead bodies; the rest will remain,

and defend this opening.”

The reader must not suppose that all was still during this brief

address. The Indians, whose numbers amounted to several hundred, had

fired once, and not being able, on account of the rain, to load again,

now attempted to enter over the ruins of the chimney, and through the

windows. The lights had been extinguished at the first yell, and all was

dark, save when the flashes of lightning revealed to the few within, the

fearful odds against them without. Several volleys had meanwhile been

poured into the Indians, and a momentary flash revealed the effects.

Many were lying dead or dying, forming a sort of breastwork at the

breach. Becoming more infuriated, as those who had gone before, fell,

under the constant fire of the whites, the savages, now, in a compact

body, attempted an entrance; and the whites, still cool, as if danger

threatened not, waited until they reached the very breach, and then

every man, with his muzzle almost touching the Indians, discharged his

piece. The savages wavered and then fell back, amid the shouts of the

victorious yeomen.

The next flash of lightning discovered the Indians retreating to the

woods, and dragging many of their dead with them. Another wild shout

burst from the lips of the victorious whites. When all was again still,

the voice of Mr. Lee was heard in thanksgiving, for their deliverance so

far; and when he had concluded, he proposed a consultation upon the best

means to be pursued, as it was certain the Indians had only retired to

devise some other mode of attack. Some were for deserting their present

situation, and flying to the woods for concealment; others, and the

greater number, proposed remaining where they were, because the Indians

had not certainly gone far, and if discovered, unprotected by the logs,

they must fall an easy prey, to such superior numbers, while by

remaining, they had some advantage, and a small chance to keep them off.

In the meantime, the females, the firing having ceased, had left their

hiding-place, and now mingled with the warriors. It was soon determined

to hold on to their present situation, and defend it to the last, should

they be again attacked. The better to add to its security, several of

the stoutest commenced raising a barrier at the opening, with the logs

that had been thrown down; while others, barricaded the doors and

windows. This being finished, they began an enquiry into the injury they

had received; and found six of their number were killed.

The rain meanwhile had ceased, and the distant mutterings of the thunder

could be heard only at intervals. All was silent in the cabin, awaiting

the expected approach of the savages. Kate had approached Gaston when

she first came into the room, and timidly asked if he was hurt. Having

received a satisfactory answer, she had remained silently by his side,

until all was prepared for action. Then, for a moment forgetting the

dangers that surrounded him, Gaston yielded to the impulse of his heart,

and drawing the lovely being, who was now his wedded wife, in all the

ardor of passionate love, to his bosom, imprinted upon her ruby lips,

the kiss of which he had been so suddenly deprived by the onset of the

savages.

“My own Kate,” said he, “if you find we are to be overcome, you must try

and make your escape through the back door, and thence to the woods.

Here is one of my pistols, take it, and if you are pursued, you know how

to use it; shoot down the first foe who dares to lay a hand on you. Make

for the river, you know where my canoe is; the current is rapid and

dangerous, but, if you can reach the other bank you are safe. Farewell

now, my own sweet love, and if I fall, may heaven shed its protection

over you.”

Gaston was not a man to melt at every circumstance, but to be thus

separated from his bride, perhaps never to meet again, brought a tear to

his manly cheek. Love, had for a moment, unmanned his firm and noble

heart; but it had passed, and he was again a soldier; thinking only how

best to defend, what he valued more than his life—his wife.

At this instant the whoop of the Indians again sounded to the assault.

Each man sprang to his post. The whites had been equally divided, and a

party stationed in each room. The rooms were now simultaneously attacked

by the foe; and with clubs and large stones, they endeavored to force

the doors. The silence of death reigned within, while without all was

tumult and confusion. The door at length yielded—one board and then

another gave way, while yell upon yell rose at their success.

“Hold on boys, until I give the word,” said Gaston, “and then stop your

blows only with your lives.”

The door and its whole support yielded, and in poured the savages like a

whirlwind. “_Fire now_,” cried Gaston, “and club your guns.”

Almost as one report, sounded the guns of every one in the house—the

yells and cries of the wounded and infuriated foe, almost appalled the

stoutest hearts; but this was no time to admit fear, if they felt it.

The Indians were making every exertion to enter over the pile of dead

bodies that blocked up the doorway; and the gun of each man within,

clenched by the barrel, was lowered only to add another to the heap. For

twenty minutes the fight had raged with unabated fury, and with

unrelaxed exertions, when the moon, breaking forth in all her splendor,

exhibited the combatants as plain as in the light of mid-day. One

Indian, stouter and bolder than the rest, had gained an entrance, and

fixing his eyes on Gaston, as he saw him encouraging and directing the

others to their work of death, he gave a loud yell, and sprang at him

like the tiger on his prey. The quick eye and arm of Gaston were too

rapid for him; and in an instant he lay dead from a blow of the young

man’s rifle.

But the strength of the brave little band began at length to fail. Their

numbers had diminished more than half. Before the enemy had, however,

entered, it had been proposed and acceded to, as the only chance, that

the females should attempt an escape from the back door, next the river,

while the men should cover their retreat, as well as their diminished

numbers would admit. Accordingly, the attempt was made, and an exit

gained; the whole force of the Indians being collected at the front

door, to overcome the stubborn resistance of the whites.

The little phalanx stood firm to its post, until they saw the women had

sufficient start to reach the woods before they could be overtaken; and

then, pressed by such superior numbers, they slowly fell back to the

same door, and the few that survived, made a rush, and drew the door

close after them. They had now given way, and nothing but superior speed

could possibly save them. If overtaken before reaching the woods, they

were inevitably lost—if they could gain them they might escape. The

delay caused by the closing of the door was short, and the enemy were

now scarcely fifteen yards in the rear. Fear moved the one party almost

to the speed of lightning—thirst for revenge gave additional strength

to the other. The Indian, fresher than his chase, gained upon them

rapidly. As they heard the savages close upon them, every nerve was

excited, every muscle strained to the utmost. For a short distance

indeed they maintained the same space between them, but alas! the

strength of the whites failed, and too many of them overtaken, fell

beneath the club of the savages. Gaston, who was equal in activity to

any of his pursuers, had soon gained the lead; and with the speed of an

arrow, had increased the distance between him and the Indians.

He knew that his wife would make for the river, and in all probability,

would be able to reach it, and it was his object to get there also, if

possible, in time to assist her across the rocky and rapid current, or

at least to see that she was safe beyond pursuit. The river was not far,

and as he bounded down the rough hill sides, he could distinctly hear

the rolling of its waters, over the rocky bed. He took the nearest

course to the landing, and the yells of the Indians, scattered in every

direction through the woods, strained him to the greatest exertions. He

reached the river—his canoe was there—his wife was not—despair

overcame his soul.

“She must be taken, and I too will die,” he exclaimed, in bitter agony.

At that moment, a light and bounding step, like that of a startled fawn,

drew his attention to the top of the bank, and his wife, whom he had

given up for lost—his darling Kate, bounded into his embrace. This was

no time for love. He took but one embrace, and hurried her into his

canoe; for the Indians were but a few yards behind. It was but the work

of a moment, to cut loose the line that held his bark; but before he

could spring into it, three stout Indians were close upon him.

“Shove off, Kate, and trust to fortune to reach the other shore,” cried

Gaston, distractedly, as he turned to engage the Indians, while his

bride escaped. The devoted girl seemed doubtful whether to fly, or stay

and die with her husband. Gaston, seeing her hesitation, again called

frantically to her to escape, before the Indians were upon them. She now

attempted to push her boat off, but she had remained a minute too

long—a brawny and athletic savage seized the boat and sprang into it,

within a few feet of the alarmed maiden. She quickly retreated to the

other end, and faced about, despair painted in every lineament of her

face. The Indian involuntarily stopped to gaze upon the beautiful being

before him. That pause was fatal to him. Kate’s self-possession

instantaneously returned, and as the savage sprang toward her she

levelled her husband’s pistol and fired. The bullet entered the savage’s

brain: he fell over the side of the boat, and disappeared beneath the

bubbling waters; while instantly seizing the oar which had dropped from

her hand on her first alarm, Kate turned the bow of her boat in the

direction of the opposite shore, and began to stem the rapid current.

During the few seconds that had thus elapsed, the canoe had shot below

the place where her husband struggled with the remaining Indians; and

she was now out of hearing of the combatants. Standing erect in the

boat, her long hair hanging loosely on her uncovered neck, her white

dress moving gently to the soft breeze, and her little bark avoiding the

many rocks jutting their heads above the rushing waters, it gave to a

beholder the idea of some fairy skiff, kept up, and guided by the

superior power of its mistress. Steadily she moved on, until near the

middle of the river, when she heard a splash, followed by a voice, some

distance behind her. At first she thought it another Indian in pursuit,

but soon the chilling thought was dispelled. Her own name, breathed in

accents that had often thrilled her to the soul, was heard, sounding a

thousand times more sweetly than ever on her ear. She quickly turned the

head of her boat, and although she could not propel it against the

stream, she kept it stationary, until Gaston, who had overcome his

pursuers, reached it. His great exertions in the unequal struggle on the

bank, his efforts to reach the boat, and the loss of blood from a deep

cut on his arm, had left him so little of the powers of life, that he

fainted a few moments after he had regained his wife. Kate knew the

peril of permitting the boat to float with the current, and with all

that courage and coolness, which woman possesses in times of danger, she

did not stop to weep over him, but again seizing the oar, directed her

bark to the opposite bank. Guided by the careful hand of love, how could

the fragile skiff be lost, even amid the rushing whirlpools it had to

pass. They safely reached the bank, and Gaston having returned to

consciousness, supported by the arm of his wife, slowly wended his way

to his farm.

Their anxiety, however, was, for some time, almost intolerable to learn

the fate of their friends whom they had left on the other side of the

river. Whether the Indians had triumphed completely, whether a

successful stand had been made by any of those they pursued, or whether

all had been alike murdered by the relentless savages, were unknown to

Kate and Gaston, and filled their minds with uneasy fears. While,

however, they were thus in doubt as to the fate of their friends, a

hurried footstep was heard approaching, and Mr. Lee, the next moment,

was in his daughter’s arms. With about half of his visitors, he had

escaped, and, in a few days, rallying around them their remaining border

neighbors, they succeeded, finally, in driving the hostile savages from

their vicinity.

If any one will visit the hospitable mansion of the present proprietor

of the estate, which has descended from our Kate, they may hear her

story with increased interest, from the lips of some of her fair

descendants; and upon taking a view of the place, where she crossed amid

such perils, they will not be surprised to learn that the circumstance

should have given to it the name of the “Maiden’s Adventure.”

S.

February, 1841.

* * * * *

NAPOLEON.

BY J. E. DOW.

“About the twenty-second of January, 1821, Napoleon’s energies

revived. He mounted his horse and galloped for the last time

around Longwood, but nature was overcome by the effort.”

Chained to a wild and sea-girt rock

Where the volcano’s fires were dead;

He woke to hear the surges mock

The living thunder o’er his head.

His charger spurned the mountain turf,

For he o’er glaciered Alps had trod,—

He scorned to bear the island serf,

And only stood to Europe’s God.

And now, the prisoner’s spirit soared,

And fiercely glanced his eagle eye;

He grasped again his crimson sword,

And bade his silken eagle fly.

High on a cliff, that braved the storm,

And beat the thundering ocean back;

He felt the life-blood coursing warm

As oft in mountain bivouac.

Around him bowed a bannered world:

And lightnings played beneath his feet;

The storm’s wild ensign o’er him curled,

And ocean drums his grand march beat.

Above the Alps’ eternal snows

He led his freezing legions on:

And when the morning sun arose—

The land of deathless song was won.

The desert waste before him rolled,

And haughty Mam’lukes bit the ground;

Old Cairo reared her mosques of gold,

And Nile returned his bugle’s sound.

The doors of centuries opened wide

Before the master spirit’s blows,

And flapped his eagles’ wings in pride

Above the time-dried Pharoahs.

Then northward moved his chainless soul,

And Europe’s host in wrath he met,

The Danube heard his drum’s wild roll,

And Wagram dimmed his bayonet.

On many a field his cannons rung,

The Nations heard his wild hurrah:

And brazen gates were open flung,

To usher in the Conqueror.

The Cossack yelled his dread advance,

And legions bared their scymetars,

When with the infantry of France

He trampled on the sleeping Czars.

And Moscow’s sea of fire arose

Upon the dark and stormy sky,

While cohorts, in their stirrups froze,

Or pillowed on the snow to die.

A merry strain the lancers blew

When morning o’er his legions shone!

But evening closed o’er Waterloo,

And death, dread sentinel, watch’d alone.

His eagles to the dust were hurled,

And bright Marengo’s star grew dim,

The conqueror of half the world,

Had none to sooth or pity him.

And he has come to view again

The hills his flashing sword hath won:

To hear the music of the main,

And note the thunder’s evening gun.

His heart is cold, his eye is dim,

His burning brand shall blaze no more;

The living world is dead to him,

The sea’s wild dash, the tempest’s roar.

Marengo’s cloak is round him cast,

And Jena’s blade is by his side,

But where is now his trumpet’s blast?

And where the soldiers of his pride?

They sleep by Nilus’ bull-rushed wave,

They slumber on the Danube’s bed;

The earth is but a common grave

For gallant France’s immortal dead.

His charger rushes from the height:

The fitful dream of life is o’er,

And oh! that eye that beamed so bright,

Shall never wake to glory more.

Beneath the mountain’s misty head,

Where streamed the lava’s burning tide.

They made the scourge of Europe’s bed,

And laid his falchion by his side.

He sleeps alone, as sweetly now

As they who fell by Neva’s shore:

And peasants near him guide the plough,

And craven Europe fears no more.

He sleeps alone—nor shall he start

Till Time’s last trumpet rings the wave:

For death has still’d the mighty heart

Where fierce ambition made his grave.

’Tis sad to view, when day grows dim,

The stone that closed o’er Europe’s fears:

And listen to the waves’ wild hymn,

That swallowed up the exile’s tears.

The eagle screams his dirge by day,

The tempest answers, and the sea,

And streaming lightnings leap to play

Above the man of Destiny.

Washington, February, 1841.

* * * * *

LINES.

To the Author of the Requiem, “I See Thee Still.”

BY E. CLEMENTINE STEDMAN.

Oft when o’er my young being, shades of grief

Have darkly gathered, and been spent in tears,

Thy “spirit-stirring muse” hath brought relief,

And called back images of other years!

As from the world my soul removed her care,

And sought the healing balm of Poesy to share.

Perchance ’twas but some scraps that met my eye,

Yet like a charm, it soothed an aching heart—

Bidding it turn from hopes beneath the sky,

To choose above the wise, unfailing part;

And while I read, I blessed aloud thy name,

And prayed that Heaven’s best gifts might mingle with its fame!

And now, though stranger to thy form and face,

Yet since familiar with thy spirit’s tone;

Pardon this humble pen, which fain would trace

Some thought, to cheer a heart bereaved and lone,

Some sympathetic token, from a soul

Which bleeds to know that thine is bowed ’neath grief’s control.

The human heart, it hath been aptly said,

Is like that tree, which must a wound receive,

Ere yet the kindly balsam it will shed,

Which to the sufferer’s wound doth healing give;

Such as have seen their fondest hopes laid low,

Can only feel for thee, or thy deep anguish know!

This bosom bears a kindred stroke to thine.

Yet owneth that the Hand which wounds can heal!

May Gilead’s balm, as it hath brought to mine,

So to thy wound restoring life reveal;

Show thee a Father, in a chastening God,

And bid thee meekly bow, and kiss his gentle rod.

I knew her not, whose image blendeth yet

With every dream of joy the night doth bring—

Whose blessed features Love will ne’er forget,

Nor of whose worth thy muse e’er cease to sing!

But ’tis enough, that she was all _thy_ choice,

To know that sorrow hath with thee a deep-toned voice.

And is she not thy “guardian angel” _now_?

Doth she not “live in beauty” _yet_, above,

And oft descend, to watch thy steps below,

And whisper in thy dreams sweet words of love?

A spirit, ’twixt whose spotless charms, and thee,

Hangs but the veil of Time, behind which, soon thou’lt see.

Till then, look upward to her home of light—

’Twill chase the shadows from thy lonely hearth,

And think of her, as of a being bright—

_Still_ thy “beloved,” though not now of earth!

Follow the traces of her heavenward feet,

And soon in perfect love, to part no more, ye’ll meet.

Cedar Brook, Plainfield, N. J., 1841.

* * * * *

THE DESTROYER’S DOOM.

For if we do but watch the hour,

There never yet was human power

Which could evade, if unforgiven,

The patient search, and vigil long,

Of him who treasures up a wrong.

_Mazeppa._

The night was waxing late, when the beautiful and witty Mrs. Anson was

promenading at a party where all the _élite_ of the city were assembled,

with an imposing looking man, who seemed to unite—rare

combination—high fashion and dignity of bearing. His face was almost

constantly turned toward the lady, and he seemed careful that his words

should reach no ears but those for which he uttered them. His last

remark, whatever it was, seemed to have offended the lady, for she

stopped suddenly, and gazing full in his face, exhibited as dark a frown

as those bright, beautiful eyes could be made to produce. It was but a

passing cloud, however, for the next moment she said, laughingly, “Upon

my word, Major Derode, you give your tongue strange license.” His peace

was soon made, and drawing the arm of Mrs. Anson within his own, he

asked her if she would dance any more.

“No,” she replied, “if you’ll tell them to draw up, I’ll go home; the

rooms are close; I am fatigued; besides, in the absence of my husband, I

must keep good hours.”

“Excuse me,” said the major, “if I am not anxious for his return. I

should not dare to hope for so much of your precious society, were he to

command it.”

“He has the best right to it,” rejoined the lady, “but he never uses

command with me;—I vow I am an ungrateful wretch, and love him much

less than he deserves to be loved.”

“That sentiment, my dear Mrs. Anson, is not founded on nature or truth.

Gratitude and love are sensations as different in their natures, as your

disposition and that of your husband; but for what should you be

grateful to him? For having had the vanity to address, and the good

fortune to win the loveliest creature that ever wildered human brain, or

fired human heart? And how does he repay an affection which monarchs

would value more than conquest?—by indifference,—nay, studied

neglect.”

“You wrong him,” said the wife, but with much less warmth than she would

have defended her husband a fortnight before, “his passion for

literature, it is true, estranges him from me more than many wives would

like, but I have reason to know he loves me well. Alas! why should love

be such a sickly flower, that needs constant culture to keep it from

perishing! Time was, when the hour he passed from my side was fraught

with anxiety,—now, days glide by, and I scarcely think of him!”

“Think only of him,” returned the major, “whose love for you is as

imperishable as it is ardent. Renounce the man who is unworthy of you,

and—”

“Render myself unworthy of any man,” continued the lady, “no, I implore

you, urge me to this no more; spare me, dear Henry, I entreat you.” And

I will spare the reader the remainder of a dialogue which evinced

yielding virtue on one side, and seductive sophistry on the other. “The

woman who hesitates is lost,” says the proverb.

Charles Anson, a young man of high intellectual endowments, and fine

personal appearance, had studied law in his native

city—Philadelphia—and at an early age married the daughter of a

merchant in moderate circumstances. The union was thought to have

resulted from love on both sides, and indeed for four years the youthful

pair enjoyed as much happiness as is allotted to mortals; when,

depending on his professional exertions, no ambition disturbed their

dreams, no envy of rank or grandeur poisoned their present blessings.

In a luckless hour, a relation, living in England, from whom Anson had

no expectations, died, leaving him a large fortune. This sudden

acquisition of wealth enabled him, much to his satisfaction, to quit a

profession in which he wanted several requisites for great success. He

turned his attention to a science which has since become popular in this

country, and became so devoted to its pursuit, that he spent large sums

of money in prosecuting it. His wife launched at once into a mode of

life which she said her husband’s altered circumstances justified. She

plunged deeply into fashionable dissipation, and although Anson seldom

accompanied her into the gay circles she frequented, he never objected

to her giddy course. His only wish was to see her happy. He was on a

visit to an eastern city, collecting materials for a work on his

favorite science, at the time I introduced his wife to the reader, and

spring advanced before he was ready to bend his steps homeward. He had

travelled, as was usual then, by land from New York, and having taken a

whole day to perform the journey, it was night when the lumbering mail

coach, set Anson down at the door of his house. He had received no

answer to the last two letters he had written to his wife, and he feared

she was ill. If any one of my readers has been long absent from a happy

home, he can understand the trembling eagerness with which the traveller

placed his foot upon his door-stone. He pulled at the bell, and its

clear sound came back upon his ear, as he stood in breathless anxiety

waiting for an answer to the summons. No hasty footstep, however, no

opening of inner doors, no audible bustle within, gave token of

admittance. Almost convulsively, he grasped again at the handle of the

bell, and its startling response pealed through the adjacent dwellings.

Slowly a sash creaked up in an adjoining house, and a petulant female

voice said,—

“There’s no use of your disturbing the neighborhood by ringing

there,—nobody lives in that house.”

Anson staggered back from the step, and falteringly enquired,—

“Has Mrs. Anson removed?”

“Removed!” croaked the old woman, “aye, she has removed, far enough from

this, I warrant.”

“Where has she gone?” gasped the husband.

“I know nothing about her,” was the reply, and the sash fell with a

rattling sound that struck like clods upon a coffin upon the desolate

heart of Anson. He stood upon the pavement with one foot resting on a

trunk, and his eyes turned to the windows of his late dwelling, as if

expecting the form of his wife to appear there. The voice of the

watchman, calling the first hour of the night, aroused him from his

abstraction, and suggested the necessity of present action. He

remembered that he had a duplicate key of the street door, and if not

fastened within, he could at least gain admittance. On applying the

instrument, it was evident that the person who had last left the house,

had egressed through the door, for no bar or bolt betrayed the caution

of an inmate. Anson engaged the watchman to place his effects in the

hall, and procure a light. Having once more secured the main entrance of

the house, he wandered through its tenantless chambers, like a suffering

ghost among scenes of its happier hours. The splendid paraphernalia

which wealth and taste had spread throughout that happy mansion, were

there yet. Not an ornament had been removed, nor had the most fragile

article decayed,—nay, the very exotics in the bow-pots had begun to put

forth their tender blossoms under the genial influence of the season.

But human life was absent. She that had diffused joy, and hope, and a

heaven-like halo round her, was gone.

Mad with apprehension, Anson rushed to his wife’s bed-chamber, hoping

there to find some clue to her mysterious departure. Her toilet was in

confusion; ornaments lay scattered about; and a diamond ring, his gift

to her on her last birth-day, shone, on the approach of the light, so

like a living thing, that Anson, in the wildness of his brain, thought

that its thousand eyes flashed with intelligence of its departed

mistress. On a small writing desk lay some sheets of pure paper, and in

the open drawer a sealed note caught the eye of Anson. He seized it with

a trembling hand, but paused ere he opened it; a sickness, like that of

death, settled down upon his heart. Unhappy man! What had he to hope or

fear?—he read:

“Husband:—We meet no more on earth. At the bar of eternal

justice your curse will blast me! I am in the coils of a fiend,

disguised like a god! As the fluttering bird, though conscious

of destruction, obeys the fatal fascination of the serpent’s

eye, so I, beholding in the future nought but despair, yield, a

victim to a passion that has mocked my struggles to subdue it.

You must be happy because you are virtuous, and in mercy forget

the fallen,

“Josephine.”

Anson sat long with this letter in his hand, gazing firmly on a portrait

of his wife, that hung over her escritoire. She had sat for that

painting at a time when her health was delicate, and a sacred pledge of

their happy love was expected. Heaven had—mercifully it seemed

now—denied the boon. Memory struck the fountain of tears in the heart

of that bereaved man, and he wept. Oh! it is fearful to see a strong man

weep. Tears are natural in children, and beautiful in women;—in men,

they often seem mysterious gushings from the stern soul—dread

forebodings of evil to come. The deserted husband gazed upon the

painting, until he thought some evil spirit had changed the sweet smile

and mild eye into a scornful sneer. A change came over his spirit—his

features gradually assumed a look of unutterable ferocity; his frame

dilated as with the conception of awful deeds—strange whisperings of

dark purposes whizzed, as from legions of fiends, through his brain, and

he went forth REVENGE!

* * * * *

Major Derode, of the British army, was one of the most strikingly

handsome men of the last age, and his address the most insinuating that

a constant intercourse with the best society could confer. Although he

had led a life of much dissipation, his fine constitution had withstood

its ravages, and calling art to the aid of nature, he looked like a man

of thirty, when he was really twelve years older. He had married in

early life, and was the father of a son and daughter. The son had

entered the navy, and had already obtained a lieutenancy,—to the

daughter fell a large share of the singular beauty of her father,

refined into feminine loveliness by the delicate graces of her mother.

Mrs. Derode had been dead some years, and the major’s present visit to

America was connected with some governmental mission to the

commander-in-chief of the British forces in Canada. Viewing the cities

of the United States on his return home, he became acquainted with the

beautiful Mrs. Anson. He became at once her lover. He was a cold-hearted

systematic seducer, and besieged her heart with a perseverance and

address long accustomed to conquer. He imagined that his own callous

heart was touched by her bright eyes, and he delayed his departure for

two months, in order to accomplish her ruin.

When I introduced him to the reader, in conversation with Mrs. Anson,

the poison of his flattery had already tainted that weak woman’s heart.

I will not follow his serpent-like course—it is sickening to mark the

progress of such arts. We left him in a gay assembly in Walnut

Street—we now find him in London, and, it pains me to write it, Mrs.

Anson was with him. To dispel the gloom that had already overcast her

features, and to feed his own inordinate vanity, Derode introduced his

victim to much society, but her keen eye soon penetrated the equivocal

character of those who visited her in her splendid apartments. With this

discovery came the first deep sense of her utter degradation.

“I will mix no more with these people,” said she to the major one day,

after an unusually large party left the house.

“As you please,” said he, “I was in hopes society would amuse you.”

“Not _such_ society,” she replied with some dignity. The major observed

the slight curl on her lip, and said, with something of a sneer,—

“Your notions are elevated, my pretty republican; your visiters are

people of fashion, and you know _we_ should not scrutinise character too

severely.”

This cruel remark pierced deeper than the base speaker intended. The

deluded woman raised her eyes—those eyes, in repose so meek—to the

face of Derode, and he quailed beneath their unnatural light.

“True,” said she with a choking voice, “true, true!—the meanest wretch

that ever bartered her soul for bread, should spurn my fellowship, and

flee my infecting touch.” Her head fell on her lap, and a series of

hysterical sobs threatened to end her brief career of guilt upon the

spot.

But it was not so to be. She recovered only to new miseries. Half tired

of his new victim already, Major Derode hired a cottage a few miles from

London, and, taking Mrs. Anson at her word, carried her down there to

reside in lonely misery. His visits, at first frequent, soon became

rare, and many days had now elapsed since she had seen him. She stood by

the open casement watching the moonlight for his expected appearance,

but he came not. A horseman emerged from the deep shadow of the trees,

but seemed to pass on toward the turnpike. Hope sank within her, and she

wished to die. She was now gathering the bitter fruits of her guilt. Her

love for her destroyer was eating up her life—the scorching intensity

of her passion was consuming the heart that gave it birth.

“Great God!” she exclaimed with frantic impiety, “art thou just? Thou

didst not endow me with strength to resist this destiny. Thou knowest it

was not volition, but FATE! If for thine own unseen ends, thou hast

selected me to work out thy great designs.—oh! for the love of thy meek

son who was reviled on earth, make my innocence clear. I am but thy

stricken agent, oh! God! I am innocent—innocent!”

The suffering creature was on her knees, and when she had uttered this

wild sophistry, she threw her head downward, until it almost touched the

ground. Her temples throbbed till the bandage that confined her hair

snapped, and the dark covering of her head enveloped her figure like a

pall.

“Innocent! ha! ha! ha!” shouted a hoarse voice, in a tone of wild

mockery, that rung through the lonely house, and reverberated in the

stillness of the night.

Starting to her feet, Mrs. Anson gazed around the room with an

indescribable awe, for she thought the sound bore a harsh resemblance to

that of her forsaken husband. No one, however, was visible, and she

began to think it was some creation of her excited fancy, when, turning

her eye to the latticed casement that overlooked the garden, she plainly

saw a man gliding away through the copse. Another moment, and the same

horseman she had before observed, dashed into the shadow at furious

speed, and disappeared.

* * * * *

Major Derode was holding high revel in London. There was a report that

two marriages had been projected—those of himself and of his daughter.

His fortune, never large, had been entirely dissipated at the gaming

table, and he was deeply involved in debt. The contemplated alliances

would, however, bring wealth into the family, and causing his

expectations to be known, his creditors were patient. The object of his

personal attentions was the Honorable Mrs. Torrance,—a widow of

brilliant charms and large property. The handsome major had won her

heart and received her troth before his visit to America, and but one

obstacle existed to their immediate union. Rumor, with her hundred

tongues had apprised the dashing widow that the gallant major had

brought over with him an American beauty, who was now residing in the

neighborhood of the metropolis. The major first denied, then confessed

it, but declared she had returned to her native forests.

“I scarce believe you,” said the widow, “but I will send down to-morrow

to the cottage, which has been pointed out to me as her residence, and

learn the truth.”

“She must remove, then, before to-morrow,” said Derode to himself as he

drove home. “Fool that I was to bring her here; however, I suppose I can

ship her home again, consigned to her plodding Yankee husband, who will

be rejoiced that his wife has seen the world free of expense.”

Night had closed in when Derode arrived at the cottage. Mrs. Anson was

ill. She had been in a high fever, as the abigail informed the major,

and delirious. She was calmer now, however, and he approached her couch.

“How unlucky you are ill at this time,” said he, “for circumstances

render it necessary for you to quit this place immediately.”

“Let me remain a few days longer,” replied the heart-broken woman, “and

my next remove will be to the peaceful grave.”

“It is impossible—to-morrow morning, the earlier the better, you _must_

depart.”

“And whither must I go?”

“Why, reflection must have convinced you that it was an imprudent step

to leave your husband; nay, tears are useless now,—the frolic was

pleasant enough while it lasted, but it is time to think of more serious

matters. My advice to you is, that you immediately return home, solicit

your husband’s forgiveness, and no doubt that will be the end of the

affair. For myself, you must know it—and it is best you should learn it

at once—my pecuniary involvements make it imperative on me to marry

immediately—the sale of this furniture will enable you—”

But his voice fell on a dull ear. Mrs. Anson heard nothing after the

word “marry,” and she lay in a death-like swoon. Finding she did not

revive immediately, Derode consigned her to the care of her maid, and

hastily wrote the following lines:—

“Madam,—Our unfortunate connexion must be broken off at once. I

can see you no more. I enclose you twenty pounds, a sum

sufficient to bear your expenses to America. My last command is,

that you quit this cottage to-morrow morning.

“Yours,

“Derode.”

He gave the note to the girl, for her mistress, and left the house.

“How do you feel now, madam?” enquired the maid, as Mrs. Anson opened

her heavy eyes, and pressed her hands against her temples, as if

endeavoring to collect her thoughts, “can I do anything for you, madam?”

“Yes; assist me to rise; bring my bonnet and shawl;—thank you. You have

been very kind to me my good girl; take this ring—it is of some

value—keep it for the sake of her whom no living thing regards.”

“But, dear madam,” affectionately enquired the girl, “for heaven’s sake,

where are you going? You will not leave the house to-night? you are

ill—weak—a storm threatens,—there—the thunder mutters already, and

the rain is plashing in big drops on the broad leaves of that

strange-looking tree at the window. It is midnight, and will be broad

day before you can reach the nearest part of London. The major said you

might stay till morning,—and, oh! I had forgot, here is a letter he

left for you.”

The hapless woman took the note mechanically; no ray of hope gave

brightness to her eye—no emotion lighted up her features as she broke

the seal. Misery had chilled her heart’s blood—despair had unstrung the

chords of life. She glanced over the lines, and dropping the letter and

bank note on the floor, supported herself for a moment by a chair. She

rallied her strength, and saying, “farewell, my good Martha,” staggered

forth into the dreary night.

The sun had long risen, when Martha was startled from the deep sleep

into which the last night’s watching had thrown her, by a loud knocking

at the cottage door. A splendid carriage had driven up the narrow

avenue, and a liveried footman enquired if a young lady, under the

protection of Major Derode, lived there. Martha stated the manner in

which Mrs. Anson had, on the previous night, left the cottage.

“My mistress, the Hon. Mrs. Torrance,” said the footman, “seems so

anxious to learn the particulars respecting this young woman, that I

wish you would ride up to town with us, and give her whatever

information you can.”

Martha willingly complied, and the carriage had scarce accomplished

seven miles of the journey, when the girl observed a female toiling

slowly and painfully along the road. She called to the coachman to stop,

for she recognised her mistress in the wanderer. They partly forced the

passive creature into the carriage, and as she expressed no wish to be

driven to any particular place, in less than an hour she was reposing

her wearied limbs on an ottoman in the house of the Hon. Mrs. Torrance.

All the servants who knew of the arrival of the strange lady, were

forbidden by the Hon. Mrs. Torrance to reveal the circumstances, and

Martha was instructed to tell the major she had seen nothing of Mrs.

Anson after her departure from the cottage;—Derode, therefore, had no

doubt that his victim had left the kingdom. Still he observed that the

widow had altered her demeanor toward him. She received him coldly, and

with something like mystery. He urged the hastening of the nuptials. She

baffled him by trifling excuses, for she resolved the moment Mrs. Anson

had recovered from the fever which seized her on the day she entered

that hospitable abode, to confront her with the treacherous man.

* * * * *

“So, in three weeks more, my dear Isabel, I must give more form to my

speech, for I shall address in you the bride of Lord Edward Fortescue;

your elevation to the peerage will not change your heart toward us,

Isabel?” said a sprightly girl to the daughter of Major Derode.

“For shame, to think of such a thing,” answered the affianced, “but, as

poor Juliet says in the play,

‘I have no joy in this contract to-night.’

I have, my dear Emily, for a day or two past, felt a strange reluctance

to marry his lordship. His title dazzled me at first, but I fear its

novelty will wear off, and then where shall I seek for happiness?”

“In the spending of his fortune, to be sure,” replied her companion,

“and as his lordship’s way of life is fallen into the sere and yellow

leaf, he surely cannot object to such a proceeding. Besides, if dame

nature does you but common justice, you’ll be in weeds before you are

thirty. But when was it your first objection started against his

lordship?—last Thursday, was it not?—yes, Thursday it was: I remember

it, because it was the morning after you danced with that young wild man

of the woods. Where did they say he came from? New South Wales was

it?—or Slave Lake—or the Ural Mountains? the Carrabee Islands—New

Holland—or New Jersey? Why don’t you answer? You must know; for after

he led you to a seat so gracefully, I observed you took a deep interest

in his conversation during the rest of the night, and I have no doubt he

was giving you lessons in Geography. Well, he is a handsome fellow,

although his eyes have so wild an expression. Now, if he had a plume of

eagle feathers on his head, and a tiger skin thrown over his shoulder,

he would be irresistible. I think it entirely out of taste for these

foreign monsters, when they come among us, to cast off their savage

costume, and don our unpoetic garb.”

“Peace, Emily, you talk absurdly,” exclaimed the now thoughtful Isabel.

“I scarce attended to what he was saying—I only observed he seemed to

be a man of general information and great conversational powers. He

possesses refinement in an eminent degree, and the earnestness and

evident candor of his politeness contrast favorably with the sickly,

superficial, drawling sentiment that daily and nightly clogs our wearied

ears.”

“Ah! it is clear you scarce attended to what he said. I met him this

morning at Mrs. Balford’s, and thinking you wished to resume your

researches into ‘The History of the Earth and Animated Nature,’ I asked

him to come here this evening.”

“Heavens, Emily! you could not be so imprudent!”

“Where can be the imprudence, Isabel, since you scarce attend to what he

says? Hark! a cab; it is the American,—stay where you are—I’ll bring

him up;” and away flew the giddy girl, leaving her companion in a state

of flurried anxiety, scarce proper for the bride elect of Lord Edward

Fortescue.

The American prolonged his stay till a late hour, and that night Isabel

Derode imbibed a deep, absorbing passion for the graceful foreigner.

Lord Edward, feeling himself secure of his prize, troubled his betrothed

but little with his company. He confined his attentions to sending her

presents, and escorting her twice a week to the opera.

The latitude which English society allows females of rank, caused the

persevering assiduities of the American to be but little noticed, and

one week before the intended nuptials of Lord Edward Fortescue and

Isabel Derode, the fashionable circles were thrown into unutterable

excitement by the following announcement in a morning paper:—

“_Elopement in High Life._—On Wednesday last, the beautiful and

accomplished daughter of a certain gallant major in —— Square,

eloped with a young gentleman of fortune from the United States.

This imprudent step, on the part of the young lady, is the more

to be regretted, as she was under promise of marriage to a

certain noble lord. As her flight was almost immediately

discovered, hopes are entertained of overtaking the fugitives

before they reach Gretna Green.”

No such parties, however, as those described, had reached that

matrimonial mart. Pursuit was made on almost every avenue leading from

the metropolis, but in vain. The fugitives had an hour’s start, and the

advantage of having _arranged_ their means of flight. The smoking horses

were scarcely checked at the door of each inn, when fresh relays were

springing in the harness, and Anson—for it was he—with his victim, was

enjoying a hasty repast in Calais, at the moment the emissaries of

Derode reached Dover.

Lord Edward professed himself greatly shocked at the unhappy occurrence,

but derived comfort from the reflection that his betrothed had eloped

before, instead of after marriage; and having politely expressed to

Derode his opinion that all the daughters of Eve were dangerous, if not

useless members of the community, he, with the utmost _sangfroid_ wished

him adieu.

A month elapsed, and Derode pushed his suit with Mrs. Torrance with more

vigor, from the unlucky circumstance of his daughter having frustrated

his hopes of her high match with Lord Edward. All enquiries concerning

the whereabout of the erring girl were fruitless, and what was singular,

none knew the name or person of her seducer—until one night a hackney

coach drew up at the door of Mrs. Torrance, and a gentleman handed, or

rather lifted a drooping woman out of the carriage, and placed her on

the steps of the house. The parties were Anson and his victim. He merely

said to the servant who answered the knock, “take care of this lady: she

is a friend of your mistress,” and hastily re-entering the vehicle,

drove rapidly off. The benevolent mistress of the mansion received the

forsaken wanderer with the utmost kindness, and overlooking her error,

sought, with true Christian charity, to bind up her crushed spirit.

Thus, by a strange coincidence, this amiable lady had under her roof at

the same moment, two wretched outcasts—victims to man’s unhallowed

passions.

Mrs. Anson had been growing weaker every day since she entered this

hospitable dwelling, and it was now evident she held her life by a frail

tenure. Derode was a constant visitor, yet he knew not Mrs. Anson was an

inmate of the house; he deemed she had complied with his wishes and

crossed the Atlantic.

“What motive can you have,” said he to Mrs. Torrance one day, “for

deferring our happiness? You are too generous to allow so untoward an

event as my daughter’s flight to influence your decision. Add not to the

affliction of that blow, by cold procrastination. Speak, madam, have my

misfortunes lost me your affection?”

“No, major,” replied the lady, “but I fear your faults have lessened it.

Where is the American lady?”

“At home,” said he earnestly, “at home, with her husband. I, myself,

placed her on board a packet bound to New York.”

The lady regarded the utterer of this bold falsehood with ineffable

contempt, and stepping into the middle of the room, she threw open a

folding door, and pointed to Mrs. Anson, who was reclining on an

ottoman.

“Are there devils in league against me?” muttered Derode, “how came that

wretched woman here, madam?—she is a maniac—but I will convey her to

an asylum, whence she shall not escape,” and he was advancing toward

her.

“Stay,” exclaimed Mrs. Torrance, restraining him, “that lady is under

the protection of my roof, and she leaves it only with her own free

will.”

“By heavens! madam,” said he, “she quits not my sight till I consign her

to a mad house;” and, forgetting every thing in his wrath, he roughly

removed the lady from before him, as the door abruptly opened, and a

tall, stern looking man stood before him. The intruder was dressed in

strict conformity with the fashion of the day, and, on removing his hat,

he exhibited a forehead of high intelligence, but two or three strong

lines were drawn across it; two deep furrows also descended between his

heavy brows, giving, to his otherwise agreeable features, a fierce, if

not a ferocious expression. His dark eyes, deeply set in his head,

flashed with the fierceness, and yet fascination, of a serpent’s orbs,

ere he makes his deadly spring. The stranger expanded his lofty figure,

and throwing forward his ample chest, he crossed his arms upon it, and

gazed intently on Derode.

The major turned from his burning gaze, and advancing to the couch where

lay the invalid, said, in a harsh voice, “rise, madam, and follow me,”

at the same time laying his hand on her shoulder. Three strides brought

the stranger to the spot, and seizing Derode, he whirled him against the

opposite wall with the strength of a giant, exclaiming, “let your victim

die in peace!” The expiring woman raised herself with her last collected

strength, and articulating, “_my husband!_” sank back in a swoon.

The moment Derode became aware of the relation in which the stranger

stood to the fainting woman, he made an attempt to reach the door, but

was intercepted by Anson.

“Stay,” said the latter, “you stir not hence. Stay, and behold the

consummation of your villainy. See! she breathes again. Let her curse

you and expire!”

The lamp of life had been long flickering in the poor patient, and was

now giving forth its last brightness. She held out her hands imploringly

to her husband, and said, “forgive me!” but before his lips could utter

the pardon, she fell back in the arms of Mrs. Torrance—a corpse.

The mysterious awe with which the presence of death fills the human

heart, caused a silence as profound as that which had just fallen on the

departed. Anson bent over the stiffening body and murmured: “Hadst thou

died spotless, my wife, how joyfully would my spirit have journeyed with

thine to the bar of God—and in the realms of peace, where the tempter

comes not—where sin and shame, and sorrow enter not—we should forever

have enjoyed that bliss—our foretaste of which on earth, was so rudely

broken by the destroyer. But enough. The last tears these eyes shall

ever shed, have fallen upon thy bier—and now again to my work of

vengeance!” He arose, and bent on Derode a look of ineffable ferocity.

“Look,” he said, “on the man you have ruined. _You_ beheld _me_ for the

first time, yet my eyes have scarce lost sight of you for months—and

henceforward will I be like your ever-present shadow. The solace of _my_

life shall be to blight the joy of _yours_—in crowds or in

solitude—amid the gay revel, and through the silent watches of the

night, will I hover around you. I will become the living, embodied

spirit of your remorse; walking with you in darkness and in light, and

when a smile would mantle on your lips, I will dispel it with the sound

of MURDERER!”

“I’ll rid myself of such companionship,” said Derode,—“I have pistols

here—follow me, sir, and seek a manly satisfaction at once.”

The loud voices of Anson and her father, had been heard by Isabel, and

the unhappy girl on entering the apartment—to the astonishment and

horror of Derode—threw herself on the bosom of Anson, who, putting her

aside, exclaimed—“that you may want no motive to _hate_ as well as

_fear_ me, know that I am the seducer of your daughter. Thus have I

_begun_ my work of destruction.” Driven to desperation by this taunt,

Derode drew a pistol, aimed it at Anson, and fired. By a movement

equally sudden, Isabel, with a scream, threw herself before her

betrayer, and received the ball in her shoulder. The wretched father

groaned in agony, and fled from the house, while Anson, consigning the

wounded girl to the care of Mrs. Torrance, pursued the culprit.

The same day on which Anson committed his wife to the earth, Isabel

Derode yielded up her spirit—and a jury declared that she died from a

wound inflicted by the hand of her father.

Time passed slowly away, and Derode was preparing for his trial. The

legal gentlemen whom he had employed, could perceive some palliating,

but no justifiable points in his case. He vehemently declared he had no

purpose of injuring his daughter—his object being to inflict a just

punishment on her seducer. His counsel, however, sorrowfully assured

him, that if the _intent_ and _attempt_ to kill could be proved, and a

death resulted from such attempt, it mattered little who fell by his

hand.

The amiable Mrs. Torrance, resolving not to appear as a witness against

him, had retired to the continent, and was now living in much seclusion

at Dresden. But Anson remained; and the relentless heart of that altered

man expanded with savage joy when he reflected that it was _his_

evidence that would condemn his wronger. Some of the friends of the

unhappy criminal waited on Anson, and besought him, in the most moving

manner, not to appear against the wretched man, alleging that if no

direct evidence were adduced, justice would wink, and the offender

escape. The witness was inflexible. Derode himself sent a respectful

request to see him. Anson entered his cell, and the despairing murderer

begged for life like a very coward. Anson spurned the miserable

suppliant from him:—“Villain! villain!” he said, “ten thousand dastard

lives like yours would but poorly expiate your fiend-like crime, or glut

my insatiate vengeance!”—and casting a look of inextinguishable hate on

the prisoner, he left the cell.

A few days after his commitment, Derode had written to his son who was

stationed at Bermuda, an account of his misfortunes and imprisonment.

The dutiful boy having obtained leave, had instantly sailed for England,

and was now sitting in his father’s dismal apartment.

“Cheer up, father,” said the young sailor,—“things will go well yet. No

proof, you say, but that man’s evidence,—and that man the seducer of my

sister?”

“Even so,” replied the parent—“no prayers can touch him.”

“I’ll touch him,” said the fiery young man, “but not with prayers.

Farewell father! to-morrow I’ll be here to tell you I have stopped the

mouth of the king’s witness.”

Anson, promptly answering the challenge of young Derode, was at Chalk

Farm at daylight. When he surveyed the slightly formed, but noble

looking youth who stood before him, prepared for deadly contest, he

remembered his unremitting pistol-practice, his unerring aim, and one

human feeling, one pulsation of pity played around his heart. They were

evanescent. He recalled his deserted home, his violated hearth, his vow

for REVENGE, and at the fatal signal, his youthful antagonist lay on the

frozen earth, with his life-blood bubbling out.

Could Anson have seen Derode when his son’s death was communicated to

him, he would have deemed the destroyer’s cup of bitterness full.

Anson was arraigned for this murder, and underwent a trial, which was

mere mockery, for having plied his gold freely—flaws, defective

evidence, and questions of identity, as usual, in cases of dueling,

hoodwinked justice.

“Plate sin with gold, and the strong lance of justice hurtless

breaks,

Clothe it with rags, a pigmy’s straw will pierce it.”