CHAPTER VII.

Mighty ones, Love and Death,

Ye are strong in this world of ours;

Ye meet at the banquet, ye dwell amidst the flowers

—Which hath the conqueror’s wreath.

Hemans.

Let us now transport ourselves to a large and luxurious apartment in one

of England’s stateliest mansions. It was dusk, but there was no light in

the room save the flickering and uncertain glare of a cheerful

wood-fire, in front of which was seated a man in the prime of life, yet

with deep lines of care engraven on his high brow, and traces of some

bitter sorrow round his thin, compressed lips; but those lips were

parted now with a smile of deep and fond affection, and his eyes were

fixed earnestly upon a sweet, loving face upturned to his; it was the

face of an exquisitely beautiful girl, who sat on a low stool beside

him—she had apparently been reading, for a large volume lay in her lap,

but now they were silent for a long time—his hand rested on her silken

hair, and he seemed absorbed in thought; at last she whispered, “Dear

father.” A tear started to those eyes so unused to weep—

“And do you, indeed, love me, my sweet, forgiving Mabel. Can you so

easily forget, in a few months of kindness, the cruelty, sternness and

injustice of years? But, in truth, my child, I have been bitterly

punished; in all those long, long years I have never known happiness. In

the dark night a pale, sad, weeping form would come and stand beside my

bed, and stretch out its thin, shadowy arms so imploringly. I fled from

society—I shut myself up in my own apartments; I called to mind my past

life, and I shuddered at the review; I could not bear the presence even

of my gay and haughty wife, and for months I never spoke one word to

her. I was wicked—proud—angry with the world. At last I partly

overcame my hatred and bitterness. I hoped on in spite of every thing

that I should yet see my Mabel and ask her forgiveness. When Lady

Arlington died I shut myself up once more, and I humbly hope meditation

and sorrow had made me a better man, even before I had your sweet

example and precious words to be my daily support.

“Oh, my child, my only comfort, you can never know half the blessedness,

the peace your presence brings me; truly I can say, ‘Lord, now lettest

thou thy servant depart in peace.’”

There was no reply save Mabel’s silent tears and the fond pressure of

her hand.

It was the announcement of Lady Arlington’s death; which Mabel had seen

in the English papers, accompanied by rumors of her father’s entire

seclusion, that first induced her to return to her forsaken home. Then,

too, she thought it would be better for her to avoid Walter and Evelyn,

which she could not do, while any where within their reach, without

awakening some suspicion in the latter’s mind. A thousand times since

her return had she thanked God who had guided her through so many trials

to the very place where she was most needed; yes, in her devoted heart

there was no murmuring, though all that life could give she had

renounced in resigning Walter’s love; even for that she thanked God,

since it had been the means of leading her to be the comfort and the

solace of her father’s lonely home; and Mabel saw, with a joy too deep

for utterance, that her example, her words, and her constant influence

were bringing her father back to the pure faith she had so nobly

illustrated in her life. This was reward enough—quietly and peacefully

their life glided along. Her father’s wealth was in Mabel’s hands an

instrument of good to hundreds—she established schools, visited the

poor and the sick, and was idolised by all the tenantry. She had told

her father her whole history, and they often now talked together about

Walter and Mr. Dacre. Lord Arlington confessed, with burning shame and

sorrow, his having written that letter to prevent Mr. Dacre’s coming to

London, and to destroy all friendship between them; and then he would

look at Mabel so humbly, and ask her if she could forgive him, could

love him after all the misery he had caused her.

“Do not think of those things now, dearest father; you know I love you,

and you make me so happy now, that I can almost forget the past.”

* * * * *

Two years have passed since Mabel’s return. It is a bright June day, and

in a little cottage, covered almost by the clustering vines that peeped

in at every window, a young, fair creature, with a heart as guileless as

a child’s, was lying on a bed of death.

In that sweet, infantine expression, in those soft, blue eyes and the

cherub mouth, we recognize at once Evelyn Wentworth; but ah! how

changed; those eyes were now sunken and dimmed; the cheeks, once so

roseate, were deadly pale, and the blue veins could be distinctly traced

through the transparent skin. Beside her sat Walter Lee, still young and

handsome, though the struggle of life had cast a shade over his brow,

and taken something from the calm, serene expression naturally his.

A little girl lay in a cradle by the bedside, whose golden curls fell

over shoulders white and round as a classic model; her face, though

glowing with health, was strangely like her mother’s; the fairy’s name

was Mabel.

“My own beloved,” murmured those pale lips, and Walter bent to catch the

lightest sound. “You have been faithful and true to me, and since first

we met, never have you caused me a pang. I bless you for all the wealth

of love with which you have filled my heart; I bless you for the smiles

of fond affection with which you ever greeted me, and oh! for countless

words and tones that my soul has cherished in its deepest shrines; but

ah! my William, I know full well I have never been to you, I never could

be to you, all that your soul required; I am too weak and childish and

ignorant, to be your comfort and strength and help; do not chide me for

these words, dearest, there is no bitterness in the thought; you are too

noble, exalted and talented for such a companion, and I can only thank

and bless you for making my short life so happy, and pray that God would

reward you with a bliss greater than your longing heart has ever known.

“And now, my precious husband, hear my last request; our child, our

little darling will need a mother’s care; and there is only one in all

the world, to whom, without anxiety or fear, I can resign her; it is

Mabel Dacre. Go to her at once, after my death, and tell her with my

last breath I begged her to be a mother to my child; you will love her,

William, she is far more worthy of you than I am; she is the only being

I have ever seen who could, I think, fully appreciate the depths of your

noble nature; she will love our little daughter if only for her mother’s

sake; and oh! William, she will teach her better than I can her duty to

God.

“Promise me you will do as I ask of you, my precious husband, and I

shall have no fears in my last hours that my child will pine as I did

for a mother’s love.”

With tearful earnestness the self-reproached man gave the required

promise, and bending over her kissed the pale face, over which a smile

of such angelic peace and love was hovering.

In a few more days the sods were laid over that loving heart, and Walter

Lee was once more desolate; but in the darkness glimmered a ray of hope,

that Mabel might still be free; could it be that her warm affections had

been hoarded up for him, that she whom to see was to love, had in all

this time found no one to displace his image in her soul; was there on

earth such happiness. He knew that Mabel was with her father, for she

had written to Evelyn after her arrival; so, two years after his wife’s

death, with his little daughter, whose childish beauty attracted all

beholders, Walter sailed for England, his early home.

Let us glance over the events of a few months, and take a peep into that

large, old-fashioned room, where we left Lord Arlington and his

daughter. It is evening now, and seated before the same glowing fire two

figures are revealed by the flickering light; their hands are clasped,

and a look of unutterable happiness dwells in their quiet faces; the

eyes of one are gazing with a tenderness, a depth of love almost holy,

upon the sweet countenance of the other.

At a little distance, in a large arm-chair, sits Lord Arlington, his

face beaming with happiness as he looks upon them; while nestling in his

lap, her little white arms around him, lies a lovely child, his own

adopted daughter—his _second Mabel_.

* * * * *

=THE LUCKY PENNY.=

=BY MRS. S. C. HALL.=

(_Continued from page 315._)

CHAPTER II.

The next morning saw Richard at the bookseller’s door, full ten minutes

before the appointed time. Around his slender throat was the promised

handkerchief; and there was an air of gentility about the lad, though

under evident restraint, in his threadbare best clothes. He was neither

tall nor large of his age, yet he had outgrown his dress: to look at him

when his cloth cap (from which depended a worn tassel, brown with age,)

was on, you would have thought that his eyes were too large for his

small, delicate features; but when that was removed, and the pale, full,

well-developed brow, shaded by an abundance of light-brown hair, was

displayed, then the schoolmaster’s son had an air, despite his

ill-fitting clothes, his patched shoes, his sunken cheeks, and the cold,

mercilessly blue “handkerchief” round his throat, of the highest and

most earnest intelligence. What most rendered him different from other

boys, however, was his frequent habit of uplooking: there was nothing

weak or silly in this manner, nor did his eyes wander away from the

things around him, as if he heard them not; his large, quick eyes,

bright and gray, were rapid and observant; but it was as if he carried

what he saw _below_ to be judged _above_; his leisure looks were

“uplooking,” his slight figure was erect, and he never slouched in his

gait, or dragged his feet after him, as many lads are apt to do. As he

stood at his new master’s door, in the gray fog of a London morning, he

longed for the door to open; he longed to begin work; he thought the

clocks were all wrong; and, though there was hardly a creature moving in

the streets, except a stray cat or a slip-shod charwoman, he would have

it that the entire London population were a set of slug-a-beds, unworthy

of the name of Britons; for he had great veneration for Britons, and

when he used to write impromptu copies on the broken slate, his favorite

sentence was “Rule Britannia.”

At last he heard doors opening beneath the area gratings, and in due

time the shop-door was unbarred by a not very clean-faced woman, who

inquired—

“Are you the new boy?” Richard said he was. “Well,” added the woman,

looking him over carefully, “when master had a mind to get a new boy, he

might have got something with flesh on its bones, and stout arms. Sorra

a much joy I’ll have wid a shrimpeen of a child like you in the house.

Sorra a helping hand at the knives, or shoes, or messages, I’ll go

bail!”

“Indeed I can do every thing you want, and bring you all you wish,” said

Richard, cheerfully.

“Bring me all I wish!” repeated the Irish servant, in a low, desponding

tone. “Oh, then, hear to the presumption of youth! May be, you think I’m

like yer mother, and that all my wishes end in a half-pint of beer, or a

glass of gin?”

Richard felt his susceptible blood rush over his face. “My mother,” he

said, “never took a glass of gin in her life!”

She looked fixedly at him, and gradually her huge mouth expanded into a

smile. “Yer a better boy than I thought ye, though you can’t bring me

all I wish; you can’t bring me my two fine boys back from the withered

church-yard; you can’t bring me back my strength, my heart, my youth, my

gay, bright youth! All I wish! Och, wirrasthue! if I had all I wish,

it’s not in slavery I’d be in an airee all day, with a poor lone man for

a master, that thinks the world and its sunshine is made out of musty

books—and newspapers—that I can’t get the reading of. Can you read?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if you’ll read me a bit of the news—the reale newspaper,

political news—not your po-leece thrash, but the States of Europe—I’ll

stand yer friend.”

Richard followed her down stairs, wondering what interest such a

deplorable looking woman could possibly take in the “States of Europe.”

She told him what to do, concerning knives and shoes and coat-brushing,

and left him to do it; but the “all” was so very little, that, in

addition to her directions, he made up the fire and swept the hearth;

and his habits of order and quickness gave the small, dismal kitchen an

air of neatness approaching to comfort, which perhaps it had never

before exhibited during the dynasty of “Matty Hayes.” It was this good

woman’s habit always to speak in a tone of injured innocence. She

anticipated that every thing must go wrong, and she met the evil

half-way, with a sort of grim exultation. She delighted in

contradiction; and would contradict herself, rather than not contradict

at all. There was, however, as is usual with her “people,” an

under-current of good-nature coursing round her heart, which rendered

her speech and action two different and opposite things.

“Master’s shoes nor coat aint ready, of course?” she called from the

landing. In a moment Richard’s light feet flew up the stairs, and he

laid them on her bony arms.

“Then I’m sure he’s let the fire out, if these are done,” she muttered

to herself. “There never was a boy that did not undo ten things while he

did one!”

When she descended, she looked round, silenced by the change Richard had

wrought in the den of a kitchen, and hardly knowing whether she ought to

blame or praise.

“I don’t mean to pay you for all this fine work,” she said; “and there’s

no breakfast for you—no, nor bit nor sup—it’s as much as I can do to

manage for us three—master, and I, and Peter.”

“I have had my breakfast, thank you; and as I can do nothing here, I

will go up stairs, if you will be so good as to tell me what I can do

there.”

“Tell you what to do,” she repeated. “Are you an apprentice, that you

want teaching? A pretty boy, indeed, you are for a place, if you can’t

take down shutters, and sweep and dust a shop, and clean windows—I dare

say you’ll break ’em when you do—and mop the pavement (always do _that_

in frosty weather, like the doctor’s boy next door, to break people’s

legs, and make a job of their precious limbs)—and sweep the snow over

the slides, that the old people may _slider_ about for your amusement.”

Richard felt a choking sensation at his throat, and as usual he flushed,

but tried not to look angry.

“There!” she exclaimed, “don’t give me any impudence: quick lads are

always impudent. I thought how it would be when you were _so mighty

neat_.”

During this unsavory dialogue, and in direct opposition to her declared

intention, she was cutting a remarkably thick piece of bread and butter;

and having done so, she pushed it to the boy, saying—“There, go to your

work now, and don’t say you are starved by Matthew Whitelock’s

housekeeper.”

Richard was a peace-loving lad: he saw the storm gathering in Matty’s

face, and, notwithstanding his boasted breakfast (he had slipped back

one of the pieces of bread his mother had given him) he could from any

other hands have eaten the bread with great _goût_; but the hands that

fed him from infancy were delicately clean and white, and—it might be

the darkness and murkiness of a January morning, but every thing, and

above all things Matty, looked fearfully dirty—a favorite proverb of

his mother’s took possession of his mind—

“Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

But he loved peace, and he thanked “Matthew Whitelock’s housekeeper;”

simply repeating that he had breakfasted. Matty was a resolute woman;

she had made up her mind he should eat what she had prepared; and,

consequently, laying her massive hands upon his shoulders, she forced

him suddenly down upon a chair, from which he as suddenly sprang up as

from an air cushion, but not before a most unearthly howl intimated that

he had pressed too heavily upon “Peter,” a rough, gray terrier, who, in

these days, when tangled, ragged dogs are the fashion, would have been

called a “beauty.”

“And that’s your thanks, Peter, my darlin’ for not biting him, to have

him scrunch down upon you, as if you war a cat,” she exclaimed; then,

turning suddenly upon poor Richard, she commanded him to eat at once,

and be done with it, and not stand there aggravating her, and murdering

her dog.

At first Richard ate with a feeling of disgust; but the bread was good,

and he was hungry. Peter seated himself before the lad, rising every

second moment on his haunches, and making little twitching movements

with his fore-paws: Richard gave him a piece of the crumb.

“Look at that, now,” said Matty; “ye’ just give the poor innocent baste

the crumb, because ye’ don’t like it ye’rself.”

Richard presented him with a bit of the crisp brown crust.

“See, now, if that brat of a boy ain’t trying already to break every

tooth in the creature’s head with his crusts.”

Richard finished without offering Peter another morsel.

“Well!” ejaculated his tormentor, “if ever I saw such a selfish boy of

yer age, and that’s speaking volumes, as master says; not to give the

brute the last crumb, for good luck; but some has no nature in ’em; and

the poor baste bobbing at you, as if you had never scrooged him into a

pancake. There, go along, do; and, harkee! if you run the window-bars

through the glass, you’ll have to pay for every pane you break: and mind

the trap that’s over the cellar: but sure you war here before, when I

was sick. Ah! I dare say you’ll go off in consumption, just as the last

boy did: it’s all along the smell of the old books, and the _ile_ of the

papers, to say nothing of the gas. I wonder how master and I live

through it; but it wont be for long, I’m certain of that; I’m a poor

fading-away crature.”

As Richard ran up the dark stairs, he could not avoid turning to look at

the “fading-away crature.” The cheerful blaze of the fire threw her

figure into strong light, and her shadow on the wall grew up into the

ceiling. She recalled all Richard had ever heard of “ogres”—so gaunt,

and strong, and terrible—tremendous people who trouble the world

forever, and never die.

Richard entered the shop with the feeling of a governor going to take

the command of a new province. Could it be absolutely real, that he was

the appointed messenger to go in and out, backward and forward, amongst

such a multitude of books! To him the store seemed more than ever

immense. Surely Mr. Whitelock must have added hundreds to his hundreds

since he stood upon that threshold to help the poor dying boy. He

recalled the feeling of awe with which he regarded that dingy interior;

he thought Mr. Whitelock must be the happiest man in the world, not only

to live amongst so many books, but to be their absolute owner; he

wondered how he could bear to sell them: he resolved to count them; and

thrilled from head to foot at the new-born pleasure—even in

anticipation—that perhaps he might be permitted to read them. There was

a delight; to read every one of the books that filled these shelves! But

then came the thought that, however delicious it would be to get all

that knowledge into his head, it would do his mother no _real good_,

unless he could put the knowledge so acquired in practice: yes, put it

in practice, to make money and means sufficient to keep his mother—his

loving, tender, gentle mother—who seemed threatened with a terrible

affliction; to keep her from want—from cold—from every apprehension of

distress. Richard never stood idly to muse: no, _he thought_. His

thoughts were active—strong, too, for a boy of his years; and they came

abundantly while he occupied himself with his duties; fine, healthy,

earnest thoughts they were—sanctified by an unexpressed, yet fervent,

prayer to the Almighty, to bless his mother, and to prosper his own

exertions for her happiness.

There is something most holy and beautiful in the attachment between

mother and son: it is not always so tender or so enduring as the love

between mother and daughter; but when circumstances arise to call forth

the affections of a large-hearted, lonely boy toward his mother, there

can be no feeling more intense or more devoted.

Again Richard’s habits of order increased his usefulness fourfold. He

arranged all things in the neatest way, resolving to ask leave to dust

the shelves, after the shop was shut; and determined to keep the windows

clean; his mother’s window was the cleanest in the court, why should not

his master’s be clean also?

He was finishing his morning’s work by mending an old stumpy pen—the

last of three belonging to a leaden inkstand—when his master entered.

“So, you can mend pens?”

“Yes, sir, I think I can: would you be so good as to try this one?”

He good-naturedly did so, and, as it suited him, he was really pleased;

and then told Richard where to find some things, and where to keep

others, until it was time to carry out certain library books, and make

sundry calls, to inquire after those that had not been returned.

Richard thought it no harm to peep into the books as he went along. The

first novel he opened was all about great lords and ladies, and what

they did and said, and how they looked and walked, and spent their time;

and Richard, when he had read half a page, came to the conclusion that

those grand folks must be different in every respect from any human

beings he had ever seen. He had resolved to be very quick in his

messages; but as he read, his pace insensibly slackened, and his master

(a long, lean man, whose benevolent countenance was somewhat hardened by

a firm set mouth) met him at the door.

“You have loitered.”

“I just looked into the book, sir; and I am afraid I did not come as

fast as I intended.”

“I sent you to carry books, not to read them; and this sort of books

would not do you any good, but rather harm.”

“Please, sir, I thought I had time enough.”

“Remember what Poor Richard says, ‘that what we call time enough always

proves little enough.’ Besides, I have a right to your _time_; it is all

you have to give in exchange for my money, and it is as dishonest to

squander the one as it would be to squander the other.”

“I will never look in a book again, sir, without your leave.”

It was perhaps strange that, though the bookseller had seen as much of

what is called “the world,”—that is, of his own particular “world,”

with now and then a peep into its higher and lower regions—as most men,

and been—as kind-natured men invariably are—frequently deceived, yet

he never doubted the integrity of his little messenger’s promise,

believing he would keep it to the letter; and he turned away without a

single additional word of reproof or displeasure; but Richard heard

sundry murmurings and grumblings on the stairs—ascending and

descending—which convinced him that Matty would not be as easily

pacified as her master. The bookseller told him he might go down and

have his dinner.

“Your room would be more pleasing than your company,” said Matty.

Without a word he was returning whence he came.

“Where are you going?” she inquired, vehemently.

“You did not wish me to stay.”

“But yer master did; he’s never contint but when he fills up this bit of

a kitchen with tagrag and bobtail; but, no matter—there, eat your

dinner.”

“Am I always to dine here?” he said, in a hesitating voice.

“Just like the rest of them! Yer going to find fault with the blessed

food—I knew ye’ would—I said so to-day. Says I, ‘He was too fond of

giving his bread to the dogs, to care for his dinner.’”

The woman’s contradictions perplexed the boy so much that he could not

speak. Moreover, he felt a sort of self-reproach for eating all that

meat, when his mother wanted; this made him more than once lay down his

knife and fork, and look upward.

“Mighty fine eyes ye’ have, to be sure, and fond of showing them,” said

the sarcastic Matty.

“I’m quite done, thank you,” he said, after murmuring a grace he truly

felt.

“Come back: what’s to come of what ye’ choose to lave on yer plate? Do

you mean that I don’t give Peter enough? He wouldn’t think it worth his

while to ask for all you’d eat in a month. Why ye’ve left the best cut

of the silver side!—the daintiness of some boys! I’ll go bail ye’ve eat

yer own weight of pudding or hard-bake while ye’ were out; but as master

said, ‘Give him his dinner,’ I’v no notion of yer not eating it; so, put

it up in paper, and let me see the last of ye’ this blessed day.”

Richard thanked her so warmly, that she knew, with instinctive feeling,

there was some one at home he loved better than himself. Her heart

softened—or rather, her mood changed. But while she paused, Richard

thought, and held the piece of meat on the paper she had given him,

without folding it up.

“I’d rather not take it, thank you,” said the boy, gently. “I’d much

rather not take it.”

“Poor and proud—poor and proud,” muttered Matty; “but ye’ _shall_ take

it. I’m not to be contradicted by the likes of you.”

“I will not take it,” he said, firmly. “Master ordered me my dinner, but

did not say I was to take away any thing; and, as it is his—not

yours—So, thank you—all—”

He dared not finish the sentence: Matty struck down the knuckles of both

hands violently on the table, and advanced her strongly-marked face

close to his: it was illumined by fierce anger, and her small, piercing,

black eyes flashed fire.

“Do ye’ mean to tell me, ye’ _waspeen_, that I’m a thief?”

“No—no—no, indeed,” said Richard, backing out as fast as he could.

Still the flaming face and flashing eyes followed him; but something

arrested his progress—he could retreat no farther: it was the

bookseller, who inquired what was the matter. Matty multiplied and

exaggerated: the little “nagur” had as good as called her a thief. After

many fruitless exertions to obtain silence, the master at last succeeded

in hearing the truth from Richard.

“She gave me a beautiful dinner—a fine dinner, sir—too good—too

much—and I could not eat it all; so she desired me to take up what I

left, and carry it home. It was so kind of her; but I thought you would

not approve of my taking it. It was no longer my dinner, when I had

eaten all I could: it did not appear to me quite hers to give.”

“To doubt my right!” commented Matty; but Mr. Whitelock commanded her to

listen, in a tone she was little accustomed to.

“The lad is right, Matty; it is the proper sense of justice and honesty.

I am glad to see it, Matty; it is not common. You may take what you

leave in future, my boy; Matty was right, and you were right. No words,

Matty.”

And the master—who was really, like many peace-lovers, fearful of

noise, and consequently gave way more frequently than he ought to do,

merely to avoid it—seeing that he had, in this instance, the advantage,

and being well pleased with himself, resolved to make a dignified exit,

and withdrew, thinking—“An evidence of truth, and an evidence of

honesty—both in one day—both in one day; very pleasing, very

remarkable.”

Matty, however, had been offended, and she determined to show it. She

paced up and down the kitchen, talking loudly to herself.

“I’m not the sort to squander my master’s property on comers or goers; I

know what’s enough for a boy’s dinner; and, whether he eats it or not,

there it is, and I have nothing to do with it after; for Peter scorns

scraps. There—be off with ye’rself—there’s nothing keeping ye’ that I

know of now, ye’ got yer answer. Setting up for honesty, indeed! as if

there was no one ever honest before ye’.”

The boy’s eyes filled with tears.

“I do not know,” he said, “why every one should be so kind to me.”

“You young villain!” exclaimed Matty, with a flourish of a brobdignag

poker, which seemed forged by the Cyclops. “Get out of my kitchen this

moment! What do ye’ mean by saying I’m _kind_—kind enagh! A mighty fine

thing ye’ are to take away my character! Botheration! _is that_ what I’m

come to?”

Richard flew up the stairs, concluded his evening’s shop-work to his

master’s satisfaction, again went out to distribute and gather books,

and religiously kept his promise; never paused before a print-shop, nor

under a tempting lamp-post, to read a sentence; thought it would not

become him to be proud, so nodded to Ned Brady, at his old corner. Ned

hopped after him, first on one leg, then on the other, and after a

brilliant somerset stood right in his path.

“Come and watch for a job,” he exclaimed.

“I don’t want it, thank you; I’ve a place.”

“A place! Britons never should be slaves! I like odd jobs, and freedom!

Lend us a bob?”

“I have not got it.”

“Well, then, a brownie.”

“I have not even that,” replied Richard.

Ned eyed him closely.

“To think of your turning out like _that_,” he said, and he then walked

round and round him. “We did not think we had such a fine gentleman for

a friend, when we said he’d got the lucky penny.”

“We were never _friends_,” observed Richard, coldly.

“Don’t be too up,” was the reply, “and cut a poor cove because his

toggery is not as fine as your’n. Rather small, though, aint they? Would

just fit me.” He made two or three mocking bows round Richard, and

vanished, playing the cart-wheel—turning over and over—along the

street.

“He carried many a heavy load for me, though, when I was in my former

hard place, and it’s a pity he is such a bad boy in some things,”

thought Richard, as he trudged on. He left the books, offering to do any

thing else he could, at his master’s, and felt all the anticipations of

“_home_” more delightfully than ever, when he saw the candle-light

glimmering through the chinks of his mother’s shutter. The tiny room

seemed to him a paradise. The widow had finished her embroidery and was

netting, so her eyes did not look as strained and weary as usual. There

was something simmering and smelling very savory on the fire; but

Richard put back his hand to pull out his piece of beef. It was gone!

Richard had no doubt that his quandam “friend” had picked his pocket,

more in fun than malice; and he was confirmed in the idea, by seeing a

boy’s shadow on the wall of the opposite houses—Ned, doubtless, waiting

to see how he bore his disappointment. His first impulse was to run out

and thrash the thief; but the memory of their nodding companionship, and

of the loads the unfortunate lad had carried for him twice or

thrice—running off with what Richard had staggered under—harmonized by

the perfume of the _pot au feu_, taught him forbearance, and the evening

passed, as the widow said, “full of hope.” Many such succeeded. Richard

well satisfied his master, although he was a reserved, peculiar man, not

much known, and less liked; he frequented no public places, and kept

little society, spending his evenings in making up his accounts,

arranging his books, and reading. Matty had often told her confidential

friend, the milk-woman, that “one might as well live in the house with a

_corpse_,” adding her belief “that all would be corpses one day, for

certain; and the sooner she was one the pleasanter it would be for

herself, only that, being a lone woman, she thought while people had the

holy breath of life in their bodies they might as well be alive—that

was all.”

Richard had numbered more than fourteen years when he entered Mr.

Whitelock’s service. He managed to keep on speaking terms with Matty,

for when she would not talk to him she talked at him. He frequently

remained half an hour after all was shut up to read to her; and once

when Mr. Whitelock called to her to inquire who was below, she answered,

in a tone of fierce indignation, that it was only the “State of Europe,

the French at another revulsion, and Spain on the top of the Pyramids.”

Richard’s life passed very happily: he was gaining knowledge, he was

assisting his beloved mother, he was inhaling the atmosphere of all

others he most enjoyed. He had permission to take home any book at

night, provided he brought it in the morning; at first, he greedily

devoured all that came in his way, but the reading-stock of a third

class library was not likely to feed a mind eager for actual knowledge,

and largely comprehensive. Poetry he imbibed fervently; but whenever he

could get biography or scientific books, he dispensed with the luxury of

sleep, and came with pale cheeks and haggard eyes to his employment in

the morning. Sandford and Merton, with its bright lessons of practical

independence, was his favorite relaxation, and frequently, as he told

his mother, “he took a plunge” into Franklin’s life as a refreshment.

Then he wrote copies upon stray slips of paper; worked sums and problems

on a rough piece of common slate; read what he most admired to his

mother, though he was often grieved that her enthusiasm did not keep

pace with his, and that she had little relish for any thing that “had

not hope in it.” Then she would insist on his going to rest, when he was

all eagerness to finish a book or unravel a mystery—not the transparent

mystery of a novel, but the mystery of some mighty worker in the

business of life; some giant amongst men, who achieved greatness though

born in obscurity; some artist, whose fame towered toward the heavens,

like the tree produced by the grain of mustard-seed; some Lancaster, or

Washington, or Howard, or Watt, or humble, benevolent Wilderspin,

revolutionizing sloth into activity, touching the eyes of multitudes

with a magic wand, so that they cried out as one man. Behold, we

see!—electrifying nations, calling into existence the dormant powers

and sympathies of nature and of art.

Often his eyes refused to slumber or sleep, when, in obedience to the

gentle request which love turned into a command, he lay down, beneath

the shadow of his mother’s blessing; and his brain would throb, and his

heart beat; and when _she_ slept, he would creep from his humble pallet

and read by the light of the one lamp which illumined the court, and was

(so he thought) fortunately placed opposite their window. Not that the

boy understood all he read, but he imbibed its influence, and clasping

his large brow within his palms, he would weigh and consider, and feel,

within that narrow room, where poverty still lingered—though _then_,

with their simple and few wants, rather as a shadow than a

substance—and his heart throbbing as he thought, “What shall I do to be

_great_?” even, it might have been, when the chastened and subdued

spirit of his young but almost sightless mother murmured in her

half-broken sleep, “What shall I do to be _saved_?” And then, as the

spring advanced, and night and morning blended sweetly together, he

hastened to his work joyfully—for he loved the labor that gave him food

and knowledge. Matty would say his “food went into an ill skin—never

did credit to man or _mortial_;” while his silent master, absorbed in

his occupations, and pretty much abstracted from the every-day goings-on

of his establishment—having, as he said of himself, an honest curse of

a housekeeper and a jewel of a boy—was, nevertheless, sometimes

startled by the singular questions Richard asked, meekly and modestly

seeking for information, from him whom his enthusiastic nature believed

one of the mild lights of literature.

What will youths who are pampered or wooed into learning say of the

circulating boy of a circulating library, performing the menial offices

of his station, yet working his mind ardently and steadily _onward_?

One evening, after he had gone out with his books, his mother entered

the shop, timidly and with hesitating step, which those who struggle

against blindness unconsciously assume. Matty was there, removing some

papers; Peter, the most silent of all dogs, lay upon the mat, and Mrs.

Dolland stumbled over him: Peter only gave vent to a stifled

remonstrance, but that was enough to set Matty into a passion.

“Couldn’t you see the dog!” she exclaimed. “If you war a customer tin

times over, you had no call to the baste; he’s neither pens, ink,

wafers, books, nor blotting-paper—no, nor the writer of a book—to be

trampled under your feet.”

“I did not see him,” she said meekly.

“Can’t you use your eyes?”

The unconscious roughness cut like a razor.

“I did,” she replied, turning her large, sorrowful, and dimmed eyeballs

toward Matty—“I did; I used them night and day, until it was the will

of God to take away their light.”

“God look down upon you!” exclaimed the woman tenderly. “Sure it isn’t

going blind you are—a young woman like you to go blind?”

“I wanted to see Mr. Whitelock,” she said, without heeding Matty’s

observation. “I wanted to speak a few words to him.”

Matty loved a gossip. She never suspected the fair, frail, trembling

woman, “going blind,” to be Richard’s mother. He never mentioned his

mother’s blindness; he could not speak of it; he hoped it would never be

worse than it was. She could still read; and do plain work; and so Matty

heard not of it. She had nothing particular to do that evening, and the

sight of a stranger did her good, because she expected a gossip.

“Master can’t always be interrupted,” she replied, “particularly by them

he doesn’t know; but if you will tell me your name and business, I’ll

see what can be done for you.”

“I am Richard’s mother.”

“Think of that now. We do our best with him, poor boy—but he’s an

unruly member!”

“Richard!” exclaimed the poor woman, in a tone of dismay.

“Ay, indeed; that is, he’s not so jist at the prisent time, but he’ll

become so, like all the rest of them boys, one of these days.”

“God forbid!” ejaculated the widow.

“Amin!” said Matty; “but he’ll be sure to come to it at last.”

“Come to what?” inquired the alarmed mother.

“To all sorts and kinds of contrariness,” replied Matty, rapidly; “boys

can’t help it, you see; it’s their nature; they’re not patient, bidable,

gentle creatures like _us_—not they! Mischief, and all kinds of

murther, and upsetting, and latch-keys, and fidgets, and police-courts,

and going out at nights, and staying out all day (though that’s a good

riddance) and boxing, and apple-stealing, falling in love, and kicking

up _shindies_.”

“I beg your pardon, but I do not understand you,” interrupted Mrs.

Dolland, with more determination than she had exercised for years. She

felt as if this strange, abrupt, half-mad woman was stringing together a

set of accusations against her child.

“I’m obleeged to you, ma’am, for the compliment,” said Matty, dropping a

curtsey; “but, as that’s neither here nor there, what’s your business

with the masther?”

“That I can only tell himself,” she replied.

“Well,” muttered Matty, “that beats—! But the women now have no

modesty. Them English is all a silent set—no sociability in them. Tell

himself!—as if it wasn’t more natural for a half-blind craythur like

that to discoorse a woman than a man. Well, well! No wonder my hair’s

gone gray and my heart hard!”

There was something almost courtly in Mr. Whitelock’s manner of

addressing women. People in his own class of life, who observed it,

thought it ridiculous, and never speculated as to how this politeness

became engrafted on his nature. He placed a seat for Mrs. Dolland in his

little parlor; and, though it was a warm autumn evening, he moved it to

keep her out of the air that blew over a box of yellowish, stunted

mignonette, and two sickly wall-flowers, which graced the sill of his

back window; he also pushed his own chair as far as he could from the

widow’s, but, like all persons with impaired vision, she moved nearer to

him, and turned her restless eyes toward the door.

“It is shut close,” said the bookseller.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

=MEDITATIONS ON THE LAST JUDGMENT.=

=BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.=

Thou, who, from majesty of light,

Didst move Isaiah’s heart aright,

And touch his prophet lips with fire,

Once more a mortal song inspire.

Uplift my powers above the sphere

Of themes that daily earth me here;

Give me, on things within thy Book,

With the large eye of truth to look.

So shall my daily works be sped,

For when this heart of mine is fed

On things of lofty consequence,

My daily life is more intense.

My mortal spirits most ally

With nature and humanity,

When most I bear, however known,

Some deep emotion all my own.

Night hovers! What with hand and thought

My will would do, must soon be wrought;

Lo! how the years no more return,

Each with his own sepulchral urn.

Give me, O Lord, an eye to see

Illusion from reality:

This world, and all its ample scene,

Is like a grand cathedral screen;

So vastly spread, and graven high

With labyrinthine blazonry;

Rapt to a whisper, I behold

Art so sublime and manifold.

Lo! half in light, and half in gloom,

Sleeps at the base an ancient tomb,

Whose prickly-blooming niches bear

All forms of rapture and despair.

Above, in solemn ’scutcheons hung,

Are legends in an unknown tongue—

The fingers of the God of light

Touched on the awful walls of night.

Through middle breadth, from side to side,

The bounding-footed hours glide,

And scatter blooms, like meteor things,

About a glass with glowing wings.

But I behold an usher wait,

And wave me onward to a gate,

Whose leaves on groaning staples turn,

Within whose arch no lamp will burn.

When, for thy feet, those valves shall play,

How soon this grandeur fleets away,

How, through a vista vast and clear,

These eyes shall look, these ears shall hear,

Preluding my eternity,

Deep stops unmouthed in symphony—

Hymns of an inexpressive choir,

Or tremblings of a winnowed fire.

O Thou, who laidst thy splendors by,

To show me how to live and die,

Be thou, O Lord, my hope and home,

Now, and in ages yet to come.

When, the firm stars and swinging spheres,

Conscious of their accomplished years,

Flare in the motions of thy mind,

As cressets to a midnight wind,

And shrunk of oil, collect their gold,

And the great angel, once foretold,

Girt with a noonday, comes to stand,

One foot on sea, and one on land;

When powers that wear a grand impress,

Beatitudes expressionless,

Curbed in the glory of a zone,

Set forth the white eternal throne;

When the loud trump, with solemn jar,

Shall rouse thy creatures to thy bar,

Unhousing all the sprites that dwell

In realms of heaven and earth and hell;

When, up from where earth’s empire stirs,

From all her unchained sepulchres,

The trump-alarmed nations run,

As vapors flitting to the sun;

When, up from hell’s volcanic gloom,

The devils soar to final doom,

And shade, in horror and affright,

Their eyelids from access of light.

When thou art come to judgment sore,

Whom every eye shall see; before

Whose eyes the heavens shall crack and roll,

Even as a furnace-writhing scroll;

When Thou, alone, dost sit serene,

In that immense concurrent scene,

Revolving, in thy dome of thought,

All that eternal ages wrought.

When Gabriel lays, with solemn look,

Beneath thine eye the dooms-day book,

And opens where the leaves rehearse

The index of the universe;

When the proud rebel’s reckoned score

Is big with debts unknown before;

When, ’lumined in unshaded day,

The good man’s whiteness all is gray;

When, at that session in the air,

My name is called in judgment there,

When what is writ shall plainly draw

The sword of that unswerving law;

When swathed in tempest, like a star

O’er an unknown horizon bar,

Millions of ghosts unharbored all,

Shall watch to see me rise or fall;

O then, what prayer shall I renew

To make my Judge my Father too?

What breath of mine—what moving tone

Shall make my bosom all his own?

Look not on alms my hands have done,

Nor on the tint my soul hath won;

Lord, when thine eye shall rest on me,

Remember thy Gethsemane.

* * * * *

=THE TRIAL BY BATTLE.=

=A TALE OF CHIVALRY.=

(_Continued from page 330._)

CHAPTER II.

THE CHAMPION.

The Emperor Henry IV. of Germany, the husband of the falsely accused

empress, was one of the bravest and most unfortunate princes who ever

sat upon a throne. He had succeeded his father, Henry the Black, in

1056, at the age of six years, and the diet had given to Agnes of

Aquetaine the administration of the affairs of state during his

minority. But the princes and barons of Germany feeling themselves

humiliated by their subjection to a foreign female, revolted against the

empire, and Otho, Margrave of Saxony, commenced that series of civil

wars, in which the emperor was destined to consume his life. Thus Henry

IV. was always engaged in contests, first with his uncles, and then with

his son; sometimes an emperor, sometimes a fugitive; to-day a

proscriber, to-morrow proscribed; but always a “man of war and wo,” even

in his greatest triumphs. After having deposed Pope Gregory VII.—after

having, in expiation of that sacrilege, crossed the Apennines on foot,

his staff in his hand, like a mendicant, in the depth of winter—after

having waited three days in the court of the Castle of Canassa without

clothes, without fire, without food, till it pleased his highness to

admit him to his presence, he kissed his feet, and swore on the cross to

submit himself to his authority; for at this price alone would the pope

absolve the imperial penitent of the guilt of sacrilege; but the

humiliation of the emperor displeased and disgusted the Lombards, who

accused him of cowardice. Threatened by them with deposition, if he did

not break the shameful league he had made with the pope, he purchased

peace with the Lombards by renouncing his submission to Gregory. His

acceptance of these terms set him at variance with the German barons,

who elected Rodolphe, of Suabia, in his place. Henry, who had gone to

Italy as a supplicant, returned to Germany a soldier, though under the

ban of the church, for his rival, Rodolphe, had received from Pope

Gregory a crown of gold, in token of his investiture by him of temporal

dominion, and a bull invoking the malediction of heaven upon his enemy.

Henry defeated and slew Rodolphe at the battle of Wolskieur, near Gera,

after which he returned victorious and furious into Italy, bringing with

him the Bishop Guibert, whom he had made pope. This time it was for

Gregory to tremble, who could not expect more mercy than he had shown to

Henry. He shut himself up in Rome, and when the emperor appeared under

the walls, sent a legate to make up the quarrel, by the offer of the

investiture of the crown, and absolution and reconciliation to the

church. Henry’s only reply was the capture of the city. The pope fled to

the Castle of St. Angelo, where he was put in a state of blockade by

Henry, who placed upon the papal throne the Anti-Pope Guibert, from

whose hand he received the imperial crown. He had scarcely done this

before he received the annoying intelligence that the Saxons had elected

in his room, Hermann, Count of Luxembourg. Henry repassed the Apennines,

beat the Saxons, subdued Thuringia, and took Hermann prisoner, whom he

permitted to live and die unknown in an obscure corner of his empire. He

once more re-entered Italy, where he caused his son Conrad to be elected

King of the Romans. Believing he had settled peace on a firm basis, he

came back to Germany, and turned his arms against the Bavarians and

Suabians, who still remained in a state of revolt.

His son, whom he had just made king of the Romans, and who aspired to

the empire, conspired at that time against his father, raised an army,

and got Pope Urban II. to excommunicate him a second time. Henry upon

this convoked the diet to Aix-la-Chapelle, laid open before it his

paternal grief, and displayed the wounds of a heart wrung by filial

ingratitude, and demanded that his second son, Henry, should be

acknowledged for king of the Romans, in the place of his brother. In the

midst of the sitting, he received a mysterious intimation that his

presence was required at Cologne, where, he was told, an important

secret would be made known to him. Henry quitted the diet in great

haste; and found two of the noblest barons in the empire, Guthram de

Falkenbourg and Walter de Than, waiting for him at the gates of his

palace. The emperor invited them to enter with him, and led them into

his chamber, when perceiving sadness and gloom painted on their faces,

he demanded “why they appeared so thoughtful and sorrowful!”

“Because the majesty of the throne is in danger,” replied Guthram, with

some abruptness.

“Who has endangered the throne?” demanded the emperor.

“The Empress Praxida, your wife,” said Guthram.

No other tidings would have made Henry of Germany turn pale, for he had

only been married to the empress two years, for whom he felt the

tenderness of a parent, and the faithful love of a husband. His union

with this angelic young woman had given him the only happy hours he had

passed during his stormy and unfortunate life. He had not courage at

this miserable moment even to ask what his wife had done, but was

gathering the strength of a failing heart to do so, when Guthram broke

the ominous silence, by saying, “she has done what we cannot pass by

unnoticed, for the honor of the imperial throne, and we should deserve

the name of traitors to our sovereign lord, if we should hesitate to

make her misconduct known to him.”

“What has she done?” again demanded the emperor, growing paler than

before.

“In your absence she has encouraged the love of a young knight, and that

so openly,” replied Guthram, “that if she gives birth to a son, however

the people may rejoice in that event, your nobility will mourn; for

though any master is good enough for the multitude, none but the noblest

in the empire can command the highest nobles in the world, who will

render homage to none but the son of an emperor.”

Henry supported himself against the chair of state on which he leaned,

or he would have fallen to the floor, for he remembered that only a

month before, the empress had written to him to announce her maternal

hopes, with the pleasure natural to a young woman about to become a

mother.

“What has become of the knight?” asked the emperor.

“He quitted Cologne as suddenly as he entered it, without any person

knowing from whence he came, or whither he is going. His country and

name are secrets with which we are unacquainted, but you had better ask

the empress, she perhaps, can satisfy your majesty.”

“Very well,” replied the emperor, “Enter, gentlemen, that cabinet.” Then

the emperor summoned his chamberlain, and bade him conduct the empress

to his chamber. As soon as the emperor was alone, he threw himself into

the chair, like a man who had lost his personal strength and mental

firmness. He who had endured with unbending fortitude civil and foreign

wars, the ban of the church, and the filial revolt, yielded to a doubt.

His head, which had borne the weight of a crown for five-and-forty

years, without bending beneath the burden, grew feeble under the weight

of a suspicion, and hung down as if the hand of a giant was upon it. In

a moment the man, who had scarcely passed his full meridian of

intellect, forgot every thing—empire, ban, malediction, revolt. He

remembered nothing but his wife, the only human being who possessed his

entire confidence, and who had deceived him more basely than any other

creature had yet done. Much as he had experienced, throughout his long

regnal life, of disloyalty and guile, tears fell from his eyes, for the

rod of misfortune, like that of Moses, had struck the rock so forcibly,

that it had drawn these drops from a source hitherto sealed up and

barren.

The empress entered unseen, for her light step had not been heard by her

unhappy husband. Fair, blooming, and blue-eyed, with a graceful form, of

tall and slender proportions, this daughter of a northern clime

approached her lord with a sweet smile, and with almost filial reverence

united to conjugal affection, imprinted a chaste kiss on the troubled

brow of her lord, who shrank and shuddered as if the touch of her rosy

lips had been the fangs of a serpent.

“What is the matter, my lord?” asked the empress, in a tone of alarm.

“Woman,” replied the emperor, raising his head and showing her his

tearful eyes, “you have seen me for four years carrying a heavy cross;

you have seen my crown a crown of thorns; you have seen my face bathed

in the sweat of toil, my brow in blood; but you never saw my eyelids

moistened with tears. Well, behold me now—and see me weep!”

“And why do you weep, my dearly-beloved lord?” replied the empress, in a

tone of sorrowful inquiry.

“Because, abandoned by my people, denied by my vassals, cursed by the

church, and proscribed by my son, I had nothing but you in the

world—and you, Praxida, you too have betrayed me.”

The empress stood like a statue, only her complexion, varying from red

to pale, betrayed her feelings. “My lord,” said she, “it is not true.

You are my liege lord and my sovereign master; but if any other man than

yourself had dared to utter such words, I would answer that he lied

through envy or malice.”

The emperor turned in the direction of cabinet, and in a loud voice

said, “Come in.” The door opened, and Guthram de Falkenbourg, and Walter

de Than entered the imperial chamber. The empress, at the sight of her

enemies, trembled all over. They advanced to the other side of the

emperor’s chair, and, holding up their hands, prepared to make their

unjust accusation good upon the first sign he might give.

He motioned them to speak, and they were not slow to avail themselves of

his permission.

“Sire,” said they, “what we have told you is true; and we are ready to

support the charge at the peril of our bodies and souls, two against

two, against any knights who may dare to dispute the truth of our

impeachment of the empress.”

“Do you hear what they say, madam! for it shall be done as they have

demanded; and if, in a year and a day, you cannot find any knights to

clear your fame by a victorious combat, you will be burned alive in the

great square of Cologne, in the face of the people, and by the torch of

the common hangman.”

“My lord, I invoke the aid of God,” replied the empress, “and I hope, by

His grace, my truth and innocence will find vindicators, and will be

completely established.”

“Well, be it so,” said the emperor; and he summoned his guards, to whose

wardship he consigned his empress. By his command she was conveyed to

the lowest apartment in the castle, which differed in nothing from a

prison but in name.

She had been imprisoned nearly a twelve-month, and had given birth to a

son, condemned, like herself, to the pile. This babe she nourished at

her own bosom, and reared with her own hands, like one of the wives of

the people. None of her women paid her any attention or rendered her the

smallest service, but Douce, Marchioness of Provence, who, having

abandoned her own country, then the theatre of civil war, to seek an

asylum at the court of her suzerain, had remained faithful to her

mistress in her misfortunes. The empress, who had diligently exerted

herself, by letters and promises, to procure champions for her ordeal by

battle, had been hitherto completely unsuccessful. The renown of her

accusers, their prowess in war and revengeful dispositions, had

outweighed all her entreaties and largesses. Only three days of the time

allowed by the emperor now remained, and the envoy sent by the fair

Marchioness of Provence had not yet returned. She began to despair

herself—she who had always soothed the despondency of the injured

empress with hope.

As to the poor emperor, no one suffered like him; struck by this blow at

once as sovereign, husband, and father, he had vowed publicly to join

the Crusades, in the hope of averting the wrath of heaven; and the day

he had fixed for the vindication or execution of the empress, would

bring to him as severe a trial as to that unfortunate and injured

princess. He had, at length, given the matter into the care of heaven,

and, immuring himself in the most private apartments in his palace of

Cologne, gave up all business, whether public or private, having no

heart to attend to any thing, whatever. Such was the state of his mind

when the dawn of the three hundred and sixty-fifth day found him still

miserable, and his accused empress championless.

At noon, he had scarcely quitted his oratory when he was told that a

foreign knight, from a distant country, wished to speak to him. The

emperor was agitated, for, at the bottom of his heart, he secretly

wished that heaven would yet send the unfortunate Praxida a champion;

and he received him in the same chamber in which, sitting in the same

chair, he had commanded the arrest of the empress. The knight entered,

and bent his knee to the ground. The emperor bade him rise, and declare

the occasion of his visit to his court.

“My lord,” replied the unknown knight, “I am a Spanish count. I was told

at matins that the empress, your spouse, was accused by two knights of

your court, and that if, within the space of a year and a day, she could

not find a champion to defend her by battle, she would be publicly

burned. Now, I have heard so much good said of this lady, and she is so

renowned for piety throughout the world, that I am come from my own

distant land to undertake her quarrel against both her accusers.”

“Count, you are welcome,” replied the emperor. “Certainly you show great

friendship for the accused, or a great desire for renown. You are yet in

time to save her, for there still remains one day before the sentence to

which the laws of Germany condemn the adultress can be put in force

against her.”

“Sire,” said the count, “I have a favor to ask you, which I hope you

will courteously grant me. I wish to see the empress, for in this

interview I should be able to form some opinion of her guilt or

innocence; for, if I think her guilty, I will not imperil my body and

soul in battle for her, but if she is innocent, I will fight, not only

with one of her accusers, but with both, and indeed, will undertake her

defense against every knight in Germany.”

“It is but justice on my part,” replied the emperor, “to grant your

request, Sir Count.”

The unknown bowed, and retreated toward the door, but the emperor

recalled him. “My lord count, have you made a vow to keep your visor

down, and conceal your face?”

“No, sire,” replied the knight.

“Then you will do me the favor to raise your visor, that I may engrave

on my memory the features of him who is about to imperil his life to

save my honor?”

The knight took off his helmet, and the emperor saw the

dark-complexioned, but expressive features of a young man of eighteen or

nineteen years. His forehead and head were finely formed, and indicative

of talent and power. The monarch regarded the youthful countenance of

the champion with a sigh, and remembered with regret that the accusers

of Praxida, his empress, were men not only well-skilled in war, but in

the prime of manly strength. “May God preserve you, lord count,” said

he, “for you appear to me full young for success in the difficult

enterprise you have undertaken. Reflect, for there is still time to

withdraw your promise.”

“Do me the honor to let me see the empress,” replied the knight, who had

no intention of abandoning without cause an unfortunate lady.

The emperor gave him his signet-ring. “Go then, Sir Knight; this seal

will open for you the doors of her prison.”

The knight kissed, on his knee, the hand which offered him the ring;

then rose, saluted the monarch, and departed.

The sight of the emperor’s signet opened, as he had said, the guarded

apartment of the empress, and in ten minutes the youthful champion found

himself in the presence of the accused lady, for whom he was about to

risk his life.

The empress was seated on her bed, nursing her infant. Accustomed to the

entrance of her jailors, and for a long time abandoned by her women, she

never even raised her head when the door was opened, only, by the

instinct of modesty, she covered with her mantle her unveiled bosom,

still continuing the plaintive hymn by which she lulled her babe to

rest, accompanying the air with the movement of a nurse who rocks her

babe to sleep.

The knight contemplated for some minutes, in tearful silence, this

moving picture of fallen greatness, till, perceiving that the empress

seemed unconscious of his vicinity, he accosted her in these words:

“Madam, deign to raise your eyes, and honor with your notice, a man whom

the renown of your virtue has led from a distant land, to vindicate your

honor, defamed, he trusts, by false accusation; but before I undertake

your cause, it is absolutely necessary that I should learn from you

whether you are innocent of the charge laid against you. For, madam, I

require a clear conscience, as well as a strong arm, since a trial by

battle is an appeal to God, the judge of all, to decide the cause by the

victory or fall of the champion. In the name of heaven, I entreat you to

speak the truth; in which case, if you can prove your innocence to me, I

swear by my knighthood that I will defend you to the last drop of my

blood; trusting that the Lord will strengthen me to do your battle with

such power as will clear your honor, and preserve my own life.”

“First, let me thank you, Sir Knight,” replied the empress, shedding

tears of joy; “but, before I clear up my fame in your hearing, I pray

you tell me your name, and permit me to see your face.”

“My face, madam, may be seen by every body,” said the count; “but my

name is a different thing, since I have sworn to tell it to none but

you.” He removed his helmet, and displayed to her sight his noble and

ingenuous countenance, full of the fire and intelligence of upright

youth verging upon manhood.

“Your name and quality, then, be pleased to show me,” replied the

empress.

“I am a prince of Spain: Raymond Berenger, Count of Barcelona.”

At that name, so celebrated from father to son for lofty generosity and

heroic deeds, the empress clasped her hands together, while a smile of

joy lighted up her beautiful features through her tears, like a sunbeam

breaking through a watery cloud.

“My lord, I can never repay you for the consolation you have afforded me

this day; but you have demanded the truth from me—the whole truth: I

ought to tell it you, and I will not disguise it from your knowledge. It

is true that there came, in my husband’s absence, to the court of

Cologne, a young and handsome knight, who, perhaps, was under some vow,

either to his sovereign or the lady of his heart, to conceal his name

and rank; for he told them to no one, not even to me. It was supposed,

from his magnificence and generosity, that he was the son of a king; but

we called him, from the gem he wore on his finger, the Knight of the

Emerald. It is true that he sometimes conversed with me; but with so

much respect, that I could not distance him without appearing to

consider his attention as a matter of more consequence than it really

was. Still he made a point of attending me on every public occasion. It

happened one day, when we were hawking on the borders of the Rhine, and

were got as far as Lusdorf, without meeting any game, till at last a

heron rose, and I unhooded and cast off my falcon, who immediately

soared; and, as he was a fine one, of true Norwegian breed, he soon

reached the quarry, and I put my horse to a full gallop, to be in at the

death. Carried away by my ardor, I leaped a stream, followed by none of

my ladies but Douce, for they were timid horsewomen. The wicked knights,

who have falsely slandered me, could not take the leap on their heavy

steeds, but led my ladies to a fordable part of the rivulet. While

making to the spot where the game had fallen, we saw a mounted cavalier

fly from it like a phantom, and reënter a wood along the shore. The

heron we found fluttering in the agonies of death, for the falcon had

pierced his brain; but he still held an emerald ring in his beak, which

Douce, as well as myself, immediately recognised as the one we had often

seen on the finger of the unknown knight, whom we rightly supposed to be

the cavalier who had galloped into the wood. I was wrong, I will own, to

do as I then did; but women are vain and thoughtless. So, instead of

throwing the jewel into the stream, as I ought, perhaps, to have done, I

put it on my finger, and displaying it to my suite as they came up,

related the adventure, without being aware of my own imprudence. Nobody,

however, doubted the truth of my recital but Guthram and Walter, who

smiled incredulously, in a manner that seemed to ask explanations which

would have compromised my dignity, without allaying their unjust

suspicions. I put on my glove, replaced my falcon on my wrist, without

meeting with any other extraordinary discovery. At mass, however, I

again met the knight of the emerald, and then perceived that he was

without his ring, which, from that moment, I resolved to return to him

upon the first suitable opportunity. A week after this adventure, the

festival of Cologne was held. You are aware that this feast attracts a

concourse of people from all parts of Germany: minstrels, players, and

jongleurs of course abound. Among these last, there was a man who showed

wild beasts, which he displayed on a theatre built for the occasion, in

the grand square, where the spectators could gaze without danger on a

lion from Barbery, and a tiger from India. Seated in a gallery, raised

fifteen feet above them—I was there with my ladies—when, happening to

discover the knight of the emerald among the company, I was going to

give the ring to Douce, in order to restore it to him, when a spring

from the tiger, accompanied by a dreadful roar, so terrified me, that I

dropped the jewel from my finger into the cage of the lion, which was

immediately below the balcony in which I was placed. Instantly, before I

could utter a word, I saw the knight in the theatre, sword in hand. The

tiger remained for a moment quiet, apparently astonished at the

unparalleled boldness of the action, before he sprung upon the dauntless

stranger; then we saw what appeared like a flash of lighting, and the

head of the monster rolled upon the sand, upon which his immense body

and terrible paws were deeply impressed. The knight took a diamond

agraffe from his cap, flung it to the wild-beast man, and thrusting his

arm through the bars of the lion’s cage, took up the ring I had dropped,

and brought it to me, while the air rang with the acclamations of the

spectators; but, as I had resolved to return it to him, I put back his

hand, and said—‘No, my lord knight; this ring has cost you too dear for

me to retain. Keep it in remembrance of me.’ These were the last words I

ever addressed to him; for fearing the adventure would make more noise,

I dispatched Douce with a message to the knight of the emerald,

beseeching him in my name to quit Cologne. He departed the same evening,

without informing me of his name or quality, or telling me whence he

came, or whither he was going. This, my lord count, is the whole truth.

And if I have been imprudent, I have, I think, paid dearly for my fault,

by a twelve-month’s imprisonment, and a false accusation, that imperils

my life.”

The count drew his sword, and turning the cross of the handle most

reverently toward the empress, said—

“Swear to me, madam, upon this blade, that what you have just now

related to me is perfectly true.”

“I swear,” replied the empress, “that I have told you nothing but the

truth.”

“Well, by this sword, and the help of God, you shall be delivered from

this prison, in which you have been confined a year, and be cleared also

from the deadly accusation that clouds your fame.”

“May God grant it!” said the pious empress.

“Now, madam, will you bestow upon me one of your jewels, in token that

you accept me for your knight?”

“My lord count, take this gold chain, the only relic of my former state

that I still possess. This pledge will serve as a proof that I have

chosen you for my champion.”

“Madam, I take it with thanks,” replied the Count of Barcelona,

returning, as he spoke, his sword to its scabbard, and replacing his

helmet on his head. He bowed courteously to the fair prisoner, and

rejoined the emperor, who was anxiously expecting his return.

“Sire,” said the count, “I have seen her majesty, the empress, and am

satisfied with her explanations. Will you, therefore, be pleased to

inform her accusers, that I am ready to do battle in her cause with one

or both—either together, or by single combat.”

“My lord count,” replied the emperor, “you shall engage them separately;

for it shall never be said that a knight who undertook the cause of an

accused lady in so noble a manner did not find noble enemies.”

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

=“I KNOW WHERE THE FAIRIES ARE.”=

=BY MARIE DELAMAIE.=

PROEM.—Giant Night in grim repose was sleeping beneath the soft

influence of the moonbeams, which spread over him like the silvery

drapery of a bridal couch; when the fairies came forth from their

flowery abodes, and engaged in their merry dance, with laughter and

song; till, growing boisterous in their mirth, they aroused old Nox from

his slumber, who, frowning, drove the affrighted moon behind the western

hills, when the children of Gladness hid themselves in haste. But when

Aurora, Goddess of the Morning, showed her radiant face in the east,

Darkness folded his wings and retired before her.

The moon on the bosom of night was reposing,

As wrapped in her mantle of glory he lay,

Whilst the wings of the angel of darkness were closing

Beneath the soft touch of her bright silvery ray.

Far, far from her smile grim darkness had fled,

And queen of the night she gloried to rise,

While the tears which the angels o’er mortals had shed,

Congealed into stars, bespangled the skies.

’Twas the hour of twelve, the bright, witching hour,

That I gazed on this slumber of night,

And thought of the time when the fairies had power

To dance, while he slept o’ercome by moonlight.

While thus the proud giant lay hushed in repose,

There suddenly burst from the bosom of earth

A strain of low music, that swelled as it rose

Till it seemed the outpouring of gladness and mirth.

At the sound of this music the flowers awoke—

Their bright little cups in a moment expand—

When lo! from these cells there suddenly broke,

As freed by some magic, a gay fairy band.

Each flower sent forth a sweet laughing elf,

Whom safely it guarded from danger by day,

And kept closely prisoned, in spite of itself,

Till their queen gave the elfins permission to play.

Their prisons then opened, and out they came streaming,

From the cell of each flower that was blooming around,

Methought, for a while, I surely was dreaming,

I knew not that earth did with fairies abound.

I saw the bright cerius its golden rays spread,

Its snowy-white petals next slowly unfold,

And forth from its centre, whence fragrance is shed,

Came the queen of the fairies in emerald and gold.

From the leaves of the rose-bud, from the violet’s cell,

From the depths of the fuchia, they merrily sprung;

A thousand seemed hid in the jessamine’s bell,

And e’en on the bachelor’s-button they hung.

Away they all sped with the swiftness of thought,

To form a bright court for their lovely young queen,

Who, borne on the wings of a zephyr, was brought

To grace with her presence their dance on the green.

I saw them then dance around an old oak,

To the sound of that heart-stirring strain,

Till, growing too noisy, old Darkness awoke

And sent them all back to their flowers again.

Then slowly the giant arose from his rest,

His mantle of glory aside he first cast,

Then frowned on the moon till she sunk in the west,

For she knew that her hour of triumph was past.

Yes, yes it was o’er, and darkness again

Spread out his broad wings for a while,

Till the light of the Morn, as she rose o’er the plain,

Dispelled all his gloom by her smile;

She breathed on the stars till they melted in dew,

Which she shed on the flowers around—

And I said in my heart as I bade them adieu,

I know where the Fairies are found.

* * * * *

=CANADIAN LIFE.=

=BY MRS. MOODY.=

JEANIE BURNS.

Ah, human hearts are strangely cast,

Time softens grief and pain;

Like reeds that shiver in the blast,

They bend to rise again.

But she in silence bowed her head,

To none her sorrow would impart;

Earth’s faithful arms inclose the dead,

And hide for aye her broken heart!

S. M.

Old man James came to me to request the loan of one of the horses, to

attend a funeral. M. was absent on business, and the horses and the

man’s time were both greatly needed to prepare the land for the fall

crops. I demurred; James looked anxious and disappointed; and the loan

of the horse was at length granted, but not without a strict injunction

that he should return to his work the moment the funeral was over. He

did not come back until late that evening. I had just finished my tea,

and was nursing my wrath at his staying out the whole day, when the door

of the room (we had but one, and that was shared in common with the

servants,) opened, and the delinquent at last appeared. He hung up the

new English saddle, and sat down by the blazing hearth without speaking

a word.

“What detained you so long, James? You ought to have had half an acre of

land, at least, ploughed to-day.”

“Verra true, mistress. It was nae fau’t o’ mine. I had mista’en the

hour. The funeral didna’ come in afore sun-down, and I cam’ awa’

directly it was ower.”

“Was it any relation of yours!”

“Na, na, jist a freend, an auld acquaintance, but nane o’ my ain kin. I

never felt sae sad in a’ my life, as I ha’ dune this day. I ha’ seen the

clods piled on many a heid, and never felt the saut tear in my e’en.

But, puir Jeanie! puir lass. It was a sair sight to see them thrown doon

upon her.”

My curiosity was excited; I pushed the tea-things from me, and told Bell

to give James his supper.

“Naething for me the night, Bell—I canna’ eat—my thoughts will a’ rin

on that puir lass. Sae young—sae bonnie, an’ a few months ago as blythe

as a lark, an’ now a clod o’ the earth. Hout, we maun all dee when our

ain time comes; but, somehow, I canna’ think that Jeanie ought to ha’

gane sae sune.”

“Who is Jeanie Burns? Tell me, James, something about her.”

In compliance with my request, the man gave the following story. I wish

I could convey it in his own words, but though I can perfectly

understand the Scotch dialect when spoken, I could not write it in its

charming simplicity: that honest, truthful brevity, which is so

characteristic of this noble people.

“Jeanie Burns was the daughter of a respectable shoemaker, who gained a

comfortable living by his trade in a small town in Ayrshire. Her father,

like herself, was an only child, and followed the same vocation, and

wrought under the same roof that his father had done before him. The

elder Burns had met with many reverses, and now helpless and blind, was

entirely dependent upon the charity of his son. Honest Jock had not

married until late in life, that he might more comfortably provide for

the wants of his aged parent. His mother had been dead for some years.

She was a meek, pious woman, and Jock quaintly affirmed, ‘That it had

pleased the Lord to provide a better inheritance for his dear auld

mither than his arm could win, proud and happy as he would have been to

have supported her when she was no longer able to work for him.’

“Jock’s paternal love was repaid at last; chance threw in his way a

canny young lass, baith guid and bonny: they were united, and Jeanie was

the sole fruit of this marriage. But Jeanie proved a host in herself,

and grew up the best natured, the prettiest, and the most industrious

lass in the village, and was a general favorite both with young and old.

She helped her mother in the house, bound shoes for her father, and

attended to all the wants of her dear old grandfather, Saunders Burns;

who was so much attached to his little handmaid that he was never happy

when she was absent.

“Happiness is not a flower of long growth in the world; it requires the

dew and sunlight of Heaven to nourish it, and it soon withers, removed

from its native skies. The cholera visited the remote village. It smote

the strong man in the pride of his strength, and the matron in the

beauty of her prime; while it spared the helpless and the aged, the

infant of a few days, and the parent of many years. Both Jeanie’s

parents fell victims to the fatal disease, and the old blind Saunders

and the young Jeanie were left to fight alone a hard battle with poverty

and grief. The truly deserving are never entirely forsaken. God may

afflict them with many trials, but he watches over them still, and often

provides for their wants in a manner truly miraculous. Sympathizing

friends gathered round the orphan girl in her hour of need, and obtained

for her sufficient employment to enable her to support her old

grandfather and herself, and provide for them the common necessaries of

life.

“Jeanie was an excellent seamstress, and what between making waistcoats

and trowsers for the sailors, and binding shoes for the shoemakers, a

business that she thoroughly understood, she soon had her little hired

room neatly furnished, and her grandfather as clean and spruce as ever.

When she led him into the kirk of a Sabbath morning, all the neighbors

greeted the dutiful daughter with an approving smile, and the old man

looked so serene and happy that Jeanie was fully repaid for her labors

of love.

“Her industry and piety often formed the theme of conversation to the

young lads of the village. ‘What a guid wife Jeanie Burns will mak’,’

cried one. ‘Ay,’ said another, ‘he need na complain o’ ill-fortin, who

has the luck to get the like o’ her.’

“‘An’ she’s sae bonnie,’ would Willie Robertson add with a sigh, ‘I

would na’ covet the wealth o’ the hale world an she were mine.’

“Willie was a fine, active young man, who bore an excellent character,

and his comrades thought it very likely that Willie was to be the

fortunate man.

“Robertson was the youngest son of a farmer in the neighborhood. He had

no land of his own, and he was one of a very large family. From a boy he

had assisted his father in working the farm for their common

maintenance; but after he took to looking at Jeanie Burns at kirk,

instead of minding his prayers, he began to wish that he had a homestead

of his own, which he could ask Jeanie and her grandfather to share. He

made his wishes known to his father. The old man was prudent. A marriage

with Jeanie Burns offered no advantages in a pecuniary view. But the

girl was a good, honest girl, of whom any man might be proud. He had

himself married for love, and had enjoyed great comfort in his wife.

“‘Willie, my lad,’ he said, ‘I canna’ gi’e ye a share o’ the farm. It is

ower sma’ for the mony mouths it has to feed. I ha’e laid by a little

siller for a rainy day, an’ this I will gi’e ye to win a farm for

yersel’ in the woods o’ Canada. There is plenty o’ room there, an’

industry brings its ain reward. If Jeanie Burns lo’es you, as weel as

yer dear mither did me, she will be fain to follow you there.’

“Willie grasped his father’s hand, for he was too much elated to speak,

and he ran away to tell his tale of love to the girl of his heart.

Jeanie had long loved Robertson in secret, and they were not long in

settling the matter. They forgot in their first moments of joy that old

Saunders had to be consulted, for they had determined to take the old

man with them. But here an obstacle occurred of which they had not

dreamed. Old age is selfish, and Saunders obstinately refused to comply

with their wishes. The grave that held the remains of his wife and son

was dearer to him than all the comforts promised to him by the impatient

lovers in that far foreign land. Jeanie wept—but Saunders, deaf and

blind, neither heard nor saw her grief, and, like a dutiful child, she

breathed no complaint to him, but promised to remain with him until his

head rested upon the same pillow with the dead.

“This was a sore and great trial to Willie Robertson, but he consoled

himself for his disappointment with the thought that Saunders could not

live long, and that he would go and prepare a place for his Jean, and

have every thing ready for her reception against the old man died.

“‘I was a cousin of Willie’s,” continued James, ‘by the mither’s side,

and he persuaded me to accompany him to Canada. We set sail the first

day of May, and were here in time to chop a small fallow for a fall

crop. While Robertson had more of this world’s gear than I, for his

father had provided him with sufficient funds to purchase a good lot of

wild land, which he did in the township of M——, and I was to work with

him, on shares. We were one of the first settlers in that place, and we

found the work before us rough and hard to our heart’s content. But

Willie had a strong motive for exertion—and never did man work harder

than he did that first year on his bush-farm, for the love of Jeanie

Burns.’

“We built a comfortable log-house, in which we were assisted by the few

neighbors we had, who likewise lent a hand in clearing ten acres we had

chopped for fall crop.

“All this time Willie kept up a constant correspondence with Jeanie

Burns; and he used to talk to me of her coming out, and his future

plans, every night when our work was done. If I had not loved and

respected the girl mysel’ I should have got unco tired o’ the subject.

“We had just put in our first crop of wheat, when a letter came from

Jeanie bringing us the news of her grandfather’s death. Weel I ken the

word that Willie spak’ to me when he closed that letter. ‘Jamie, the

auld man is gane at last—an’, God forgi’e me, I feel too gladsome to

greet. Jeanie is willin’ to come whenever I ha’e the means to bring her

out, an’, hoot man, I’m jist thinkin’ that she winna’ ha’e to wait

lang.’

“Good workmen were getting very high wages just then, and Willie left

the care of the place to me, and hired for three months with auld Squire

Jones. He was an excellent teamster, and could put his hand to any sort

of work. When his term of service expired he sent Jeanie forty dollars,

to pay her passage out, which he hoped she would not delay longer than

the spring.

“He got an answer from Jeanie full of love and gratitude, but she

thought that her voyage might be delayed until the fall. The good woman,

with whom she had lodged since her parent’s died, had just lost her

husband, and was in a bad state of health, and she begged Jeanie to stay

with her until her daughter could leave her service in Edinburgh and

come to take charge of the house. This person had been a kind and

steadfast friend to Jeanie in all her troubles, and had helped her nurse

the old man in his dying illness. I am sure it was just like Jeanie to

act as she did. She had all her life looked more to the comforts of

others than to her ain. But Robertson was an angry man when he got that

letter, and he said, ‘If that was a’ the lo’e that Jeanie Burns had for

him, to prefer an auld woman’s comfort, who was naething to her, to her

betrothed husband, she might bide awa’ as lang as she pleased, he would

never trouble himsel’ to write to her again.’

“I did na’ think that the man was in earnest, an’ I remonstrated with

him on his folly an’ injustice. This ended in a sharp quarrel atween us,

and I left him to gang his ain gate, an’ went to live with my uncle, who

kept a blacksmith’s forge in the village.

“After a while, we heard that Willie Robertson was married to a Canadian

woman—neither young nor good-looking, and very much his inferior in

every way, but she had a good lot of land in the rear of his farm. Of

course I thought that it was all broken off with puir Jeanie, and I

wondered what she would spier at the marriage.

“It was early in June, and our Canadian woods were in their first flush

o’ green—an’ how green and lightsome they be in their spring

dress—when Jeanie Burns landed in Canada. She traveled her lane up the

country, wondering why Willie was not at Montreal to meet her as he had

promised in the last letter he sent her. It was late in the afternoon

when the steamboat brought her to C——, and, without waiting to ask any

questions respecting him, she hired a man and cart to take her and her

luggage to M——. The road through the bush was very heavy, and it was

night before they reached Robertson’s clearing, and with some difficulty

the driver found his way among the logs to the cabin-door.

“Hearing the sound of wheels, the wife, a coarse, ill-dressed slattern,

came out to see what could bring strangers to such an out-o’-the-way

place at that late hour. ‘Puir Jeanie! I can weel imagine the fluttering

o’ her heart when she spier’d of the woman for ane Willie Robertson, and

asked if he was at hame?’

“‘Yes,’ answered the wife gruffly; ‘but he is not in from the fallow

yet—you may see him up yonder, tending the blazing logs.’