CHAPTER III.

How completely scattered to the winds was Ellison’s long, fond dream of

Italy! How obscured was the beautiful ideal of his art, toward which his

mind had aspired with such an intense devotion! The cold present, with

its imperious demands and uncovered facts was before him, and turn this

way or that, he could not shut out the vision.

As calmly as he could, he conferred with his wife about her property in

the West. Placing in his hands the various papers relating thereto,

Clara asked him to make the business his own, as it now really was, and

do whatever in his judgment seemed best. All this was easily said, but

how was the young man to act without means? His own income, uncertain as

it was in its nature, did not yet exceed three hundred dollars a year,

and his expense for boarding alone would double that sum. Embarrassment,

privation, and deep mortification must soon come, and so oppressed did

Ellison feel in view of this, that he could no longer conceal, even from

the eyes of his wife, his unhappiness, although the cause lay hidden in

his heart.

“Are you not well?” Clara frequently asked, as she looked at him with

earnest tenderness.

“Oh yes! I’m very well,” Ellison would reply quickly, forcing a smile,

and then endeavoring to appear cheerful and unconcerned; but his real

feelings would flow into the tell-tale muscles of his face and betray

the uneasiness of mind from which he was suffering.

“Something troubles you, Alfred,” said Clara, a few days after she had

informed him of the attempt to deprive her of her property in the West.

“What is it? I will not be content to share only your happy feelings.

Life, I know, is not all sunshine. Disappointments must come in the

nature of things. You will have them and so will I. Let us, from the

beginning, divide our griefs and fears as well as our joys and hopes.”

And Alfred did not only look troubled; he felt also deeply depressed and

anxious. Not a single new sitter had come to his rooms since his

marriage; nor had he been able to get any thing to do that would yield

even a small return, although he had offered to paint, at mere nominal

prices, portraits from daguerreotypes—work that he had previously

declined doing in a way to leave the impression that he looked upon the

proposition as little less than a professional insult. On that very day

he had paid out the last of his borrowed two hundred dollars. Where was

the next supply to come from? How was he to obtain the sum he had

expended, when the friend from whom he had received it should ask to

have it returned?

The first impulse of Ellison after this tender appeal from his wife, was

to throw open to her the whole truth in regard to his circumstances. But

an instant’s reflection caused him to shrink back from the exposure.

Pride drew around him a mantle of concealment, while his heart became

faint with the bare imagination of Clara’s discovering that he had, too

evidently, been won more by her supposed wealth than her virtues.

“It’s a little matter, not worth troubling you about,” was his evasive

reply.

“If it trouble you, let it trouble me. To share the pressure will make

it lighter for both. Come, Alfred! Let us have no concealments. Do not

fear my ability to stand by your side under any circumstances. When I

gave you my heart, it was with no selfish feeling. I loved you purely

and tenderly, and was prepared to go with you through the world amid

good or evil report, joy or sorrow, health or sickness, prosperity or

adversity. I promised not only with my lips but in my inmost spirit,

that I would be to you all that a wife could or should be. Meet me then

freely and fully. Let us begin without a concealment, and go through

life as if we possessed but one mind and heart.”

While Clara was speaking thus, Ellison partly shaded his face and tried

to think to some right conclusion. But the more he thought, the more

embarrassed did he feel, and the more entire became the confusion of his

ideas. At length, finding it impossible to avoid uttering at least a

portion of the truth, and perceiving that the truth must soon become

known, he concluded to make at least some allusion to the embarrassment

under which he was laboring. Suffering from a most oppressive sense of

humiliation, he said—

“Clara, there is one thing that troubles me, and as you urge me to speak

of what is in my mind, I don’t see that I can with justice conceal it

any longer. I find myself not only disappointed in my expectations, but

seriously embarrassed in consequence.”

The young man paused, while an expression of pain went over his face,

which was reflected in that of his wife. He saw this, and read it as the

effect a glimpse of the real truth had produced on her mind.

“Go on. Speak plainly, Alfred. Am I not your wife?” said Clara, tenderly

and encouragingly.

“In a word, then, Clara, I have not, since our marriage, obtained a

single new sitter, nor received an order for a picture of any kind.”

“And is that all!” exclaimed the young wife, while a light went over her

face.

“Little as it may seem to you,” said Ellison in reply to this, “it is a

matter of great trouble to me. In my ability as a painter lies my only

claim upon the world. I have no fortune but in my talents and skill, and

if these find not employment, I am poor and helpless indeed.”

The young artist spoke with emotion, and as the last word was uttered,

he hid his face with his hands to conceal its troubled expression. Ah!

the terrible humiliation of that moment! Never through life was it

forgotten, and never through life could memory go back to the time when

a confession of his poverty was made, without a shrinking and shuddering

of the heart. Some moments elapsed before Clara made any answer; and

these were, to Ellison, moments of heart-aching suspense. The truth

having been wrung from him by mental torture, a breathless pause

followed.

“And so you fear,” said Clara, with something like rebuke in her voice,

“that I do not love you well enough to share your fortune, be it what it

may? Alfred, when I gave you my hand it was with no external or worldly

views in my mind. You said you loved me, and my own heart responded

fully to the sentiment. In giving you my hand, I gave you myself

entirely; for you were virtuous and I could _confide_ in as well as love

you. To share with you any condition in life, no matter how many

privations it may involve, will always be my highest pleasure—

‘E’en grief, divided with thy heart,

Were better far than joy apart.’

“And is this all that troubles you?” she added, in a cheerful voice.

“Heaven knows that it is enough, Clara! But what adds to the pain of my

embarrassment, is the fact, that for me to marry you with such slender

prospects was little more than a deception. It was unjust to you.”

“Love is blind, you know, dear!” Clara replied to this, with a lightness

of tone that surprised Ellison; “and one who is loved will find it no

hard matter to excuse a little wandering sometimes from the path of

prudence. Fortunately, in our case, the error you so grieve over will be

of no account, for it happens that I have a few thousand dollars

independent of the property in dispute, which is now as much yours as

mine. I ought to have said this to you before, but deemed it of little

consequence.”

The response of Ellison to this announcement was not so cordial as his

wife had expected. His sense of humiliation was too strong to admit a

free pulsation of his heart after the external pressure was removed.

“For your sake, Clara,” said he, “I rejoice to hear this. But I feel

none the less conscious of having acted wrong.”

“Come, come, Alfred! This is a weakness. Am I not your wife? and do I

not love you tenderly and truly?”

“I do not doubt it, Clara. But it looks so as if I had been governed by

mercenary views in offering you marriage when I ought to have known, and

did know in fact, that I was not able to make your external condition as

comfortable as it should be.”

“Alfred! don’t speak in this way. Do I not know you to be incapable of

such baseness? I could not wrong, by an unjust suspicion, one whom I

love as my own life.”

And Clara drew her arm about her husband’s neck affectionately, and

pressed her lips upon his forehead.

“Forgive this weakness,” said the young man. “It is wrong, I know.”

“Yes, it is wrong, very wrong. So now, let the shadow pass from your

brow, and the light come back again.”

[Illustration]

But the weight was not removed from Ellison’s feelings. And though he

swept the shadow from his brow at the word of Clara, it did not pass

from his heart. It was a great relief for the moment to know that he

possessed the means of support for himself and wife until he could win

his way to professional eminence; but this fact did not heal the wound

his natural independence and sense of honor had received. Even in the

language Clara had used as a means of encouragement, he saw rebuke,

though he knew that it was given unconsciously.

The amount of Clara’s property, independent of her western land, was

about five thousand dollars in good stocks, that were paying an annual

dividend of six per cent. On the interest of this she had been living

for some years. But an addition of three hundred dollars was not

sufficient to meet the deficiency in Ellison’s income. Had the value of

the stock been only two or three thousand dollars, the necessity for

selling it would have been so apparent to Clara’s mind, as to cause her

to suggest its disposal. But Ellison was not wrong in his supposition

that his wife would think the mere additional income arising from the

stocks all that he needed in his present embarrassment. But the sum of

three hundred dollars was not enough for him at present, for he had no

certain income of his own. He might succeed in earning, by means of his

pencil, two, three or four hundred dollars a year for the next four or

five years; but at their present rate of expense this would leave a

serious deficiency. He could not say to his wife that even her three

hundred dollars would not make his income sufficient, for that would be

a too broad declaration of the fact, that, while actually unable to

support himself he had assumed the additional expense of a wife. And a

step so unreasonable could not be explained satisfactorily, except by

bringing in the additional fact that this wife was reputed to be worth

some twenty thousand dollars.

To the mind of the unhappy young man was presented only a choice of

evils. He must lay open fully to his wife the whole truth in regard to

his circumstances, or attempt to struggle on with debt and

discouragement, working and hoping for a brighter day in the future when

he could feel free and independent. He preferred the latter.

It was impossible for a scene such as took place between Ellison and his

wife to transpire without leaving an impression behind. Clara’s

thoughts, after she was alone, naturally recurred to what had passed,

and she became aware of a pressure upon her feelings. She did not

suspect her husband of improper motives in seeking her hand, yet the

fact that he had proposed a marriage while his income was insufficient

to support a wife, was indicative of a weakness in his mind, or a want

of sound judgment and discretion, that it was not pleasant to think

about. This conclusion was based on the supposition that he had made no

calculations in regard to her property—an impression which, in the late

interview, he had evidently designed to make; and she gave him the full

benefit of this conclusion, for, in her eyes, he was incapable of any

thing mean, selfish, or false.

On going to his studio, after the occurrence we have mentioned, Ellison

was far from being happy. It did not take him long to resolve to

struggle on, and thus seek to maintain his independence. That he would

fall into debt and become seriously embarrassed, he knew; but that was

something in every way to be preferred to further and deeper humiliation

on the subject of his wife’s property. The little already suffered on

this score was so exceedingly painful and mortifying, that he had no

wish to encounter any thing more of a like nature. Earnestly he searched

about in his mind for suggestions. Many things presented themselves. As

a teacher of drawing he might do something to increase his income; but

his professional pride came quickly to oppose this idea—moreover, in

advertising or sending around cards, Clara must necessarily become aware

of the fact, and she would doubtless think it strange, after the

increase in his income, that he should be compelled to resort to such a

course. To propose to a number of his friends to paint them at a

temptingly low price, was next pondered over. But they would naturally

ask, “Why this necessity? Had he not married a little fortune?”

While in this state of doubt and anxiety, the friend who had furnished

him with a couple of hundred dollars came in. Ellison, the moment he saw

him, had an instinctive impression that he had come to ask a return of

the money, as the loan had been only a temporary one. And he was not

wrong. After sitting and chatting for some five minutes, during all of

which time the young artist felt his presence exceedingly embarrassing,

he said—

“Well, Alfred. How are you off for money?”

The color rose in the face of Ellison at this question, and he answered

with evident distress and confusion.

“Not very well, I’m sorry to say. I have been thinking of you for the

last hour.”

“I thought you would have been flush enough by this time,” said the

friend.

“So did I. But it is otherwise.”

“Then you have not bettered your condition so much as you anticipated,”

was remarked, with a familiarity and coarseness that stung the young

artist like an insult.

“How do you mean?” asked Ellison, his brow falling as he spoke.

The other looked surprised at the change his words had produced.

“What should I mean, except in a money point of view?”

Ellison was under obligation to the young man for money loaned.

Moreover, at the time of borrowing the money, he had given out the idea

that, after his marriage, he would no longer be troubled with the

disease of empty pockets. All this was remembered at the moment, and,

while it occasioned a feeling of extreme mortification, was in the way

of his resenting the rude familiarity.

“You shall have your money to-morrow,” said the artist, lifting his eyes

from the floor where they had fallen, and looking steadily at his young

friend.

“If it’s any inconvenience,” remarked the latter, who felt the rebuke of

Ellison’s manner, “it’s of no consequence just now. I am not pressed for

money.”

“It will be none at all. I will bring it round to you in the morning.”

“I hope you’re not offended. I didn’t mean to wound your feelings,” said

the friend, looking concerned. He felt that he had been indelicate in

his allusions, and saw that Ellison was hurt.

“Oh no. Not in the least,” replied the latter.

“I hope you won’t put yourself to any inconvenience about the matter.”

“No; it will be perfectly convenient.”

Then followed a silence that was oppressive to both. A forced and

distantly polite conversation followed, after which the visiter went

away. As he closed the door of Ellison’s studio, the young artist

clasped his hands together, while a distressed expression came into his

face.

“Oh! what an error I have committed!” came almost hissing through his

teeth, at the same time that his arms were flung about his head with a

gesture of impatience and despair. “I have sold myself—I have parted

with my manliness—my independence—my right to breathe the air as a

freeman. And what have I gained?”

“A true-hearted, loving woman.” A gentle voice seemed to whisper these

words in his ears as his mind grew calmer.

“I have paid too high a price,” fell almost audibly from his lips. “And

even she, when she knows the whole truth, will despise and turn from me.

What madness!”

For half an hour the young man remained in a state of great excitement.

After that he grew calmer, and sitting down before his easel, took up

his pallet and brushes and tried to work on a picture that he was

painting. But his thoughts were too much disturbed.

“I have promised to return the two hundred dollars to-morrow morning,

and I must keep my word to _him_ if I steal the amount! When that

obligation is removed we are no longer friends.”

As Ellison said this he threw down his pallet and brushes, and springing

from his chair, resumed his hurried walk about the door of his room.

While thus occupied, a gentleman, accompanied by a lady, entered and

asked to see some of his pictures.

“What is your price for a portrait of this size?” was asked after a

number of paintings had been examined.

For a moment Ellison hesitated, and then replied—

“Fifty dollars.”

The gentleman and lady talked together, in a low tone, for a little

while. Then the former said—

“We have two children, and think about having them taken. Including our

own portraits we would want four. If we give you the order, what would

you charge for the whole?”

“How old are the children?”

“Young. The eldest is but five.”

“You would want the children full length, I presume.”

“Why, yes. We would prefer that, if it didn’t cost too much. What is

your price for a full length of a child?”

“Seventy-five dollars.”

“That would make the four pictures cost two hundred and fifty dollars.”

The lady shook her head.

“Could you not take the four for two hundred dollars?”

“Perhaps so. Four pictures would be a liberal order, and I might feel

inclined to make a discount if it would be any object. My prices,

however, are moderate.”

“Money is always an object, you know.”

“Very true.”

“You say two hundred dollars, then.”

“Oh yes. I will take the four portraits for that sum.”

“Very well. To-morrow we will decide about having them taken. How many

sittings will you require?”

“About half-a-dozen for each picture.”

The lady and gentleman retired, saying that they would call in the

morning.

Here was a promise of good fortune for which the heart of Ellison was

profoundly thankful. But while he looked at it, he trembled for the

uncertainty that still hung over him. The lady and gentleman might never

return. Still, his heart was lighter and more hopeful.

Soon after these visiters had retired, the young man went out and called

upon a gentleman with whom he had some acquaintance. His object was to

borrow a sum of money sufficiently large to enable him to cancel the

obligation. This person did not, so he thought, receive him very

cordially. The coldness of his manner would scarcely have been apparent,

however, but for the fact that Ellison had a favor to ask. It seemed to

him as if he had a perception of what was in his mind, and denied his

request as intelligibly as possible, even before it was made. So strong

was this impression, that the young artist acted upon it, and was about

retiring without having made known his wishes, when the man said—

“Can I do any thing for you to-day, Alfred?”

So plain an invitation to make known his wishes could hardly be

disregarded. The young man hesitated a little, and then replied as if

half jesting—

“Yes—give me an order for two hundred dollars worth of pictures, and

pay me in advance for them.”

“Are you in earnest?” inquired the man, looking curious.

“Certainly. Painting is my profession.”

“I know. But do you really want a couple of hundred dollars?”

“Yes; I really want that sum. A young artist, you know, is never

overstocked with cash.”

“I will lend you the amount with pleasure, Alfred. But I am in no want

of pictures. For how long a time do you wish to have it?”

“For a couple of months, if you wont give me an order.”

The man drew a check and gave it to Ellison.

“You can return it at your convenience,” said he, “and in the meantime,

if I can throw any thing in your way, I will do it with pleasure.”

Ellison received the check with a feeling of relief. He now had it in

his power to wipe out the obligation he was under to a man who had

approached him with what he felt to be little less than an insult. But,

as he went back to his studio, the pressure on his feelings was not

removed. There had only been a shifting of the obligation; a painful

sense of its existence yet remained. Moreover, as an artist, he had done

violence to his professional self-respect by asking an order for

painting—and this added to his disquietude of mind.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

LINES.

I’ve loved thee, as the breeze to kiss the sweetest flowers;

I’ve loved thee as the thirsty earth eve’s refreshing showers;

I’ve loved thee, as the bird to sing its softly thrilling lay;

I’ve loved thee, as the heated rock the ocean’s dashing spray;

I’ve loved thee, as the fevered cheek to feel the cooling air;

I’ve loved thee, as a mother loves her child of tender care;

I’ve loved thee, as the murky morn to hail the sunny beam;

I’ve loved thee, as the moonlit loves to dance upon the stream—

As all these, did I love thee, and with yet a wilder spell;

’Till thy coldness caused my spirit to sound love’s parting knell;

And though in fearful stillness my life glides gently on,

There is one note of harmony I feel forever gone.

Other hands might sweep the strings, and even thine may try,

But never shall an echoing sound to the sweet tune reply.

ANNIE GREY.

* * * * *

ARIADNE.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

O, thrice as swiftly as yon argent gull

On snowy pinions cleaves the azure sky,

Thy galley cuts the purple wave, and flies my eager, straining eye.

O, Thésëus, beloved and beautiful,

My lovely warrior, white-limbed, like a god,

Why hast thou left me on this desert isle, save by ourselves, untrod?

Immortal Jove, divine Progenitor,

Exert thy power; reverse his sails:—O, King

Of Gods and Men, why does the cup of love conceal the scorpion’s

sting?

Like ghastly ghosts, with veiled and weeping orbs,

My hopes depart; cadaverous Despair

Sits glaring at me with his wolfy eyes: bid the foul thing forbear!

On yester-eve, at this forgotten isle—

Forgotten almost of gods—our storm-beat bark

Let fall its ponderous flakes; night, like a falcon, swooped, and all

was dark.

Here, where this lonely palm expands its leaves,

Our couch was spread; yes, here, on Theseus’ breast

I laid my head, and, like a love-sick dove, sunk meaningly to rest.

My sleep was restless: from the Realm of Dreams

Came changing shadows: I beheld my home—

Our hills, like wrinkle-faced, white-headed men—our cataract’s snowy

foam.

I saw myself a merry, mad-cap girl,

Dancing along our glades, with laughing eyes;

Light-footed as our deer—free as the birds that filled our happy

skies.

And then a woman, still most happy, though

A shadow rested on my sunny brow,

Such as a wintry cloud, when all is light, throws faintly over snow.

My step, too, had less lightness, and my breast

Throbbed quickly, while my heart beat, and my brain

Ran round and round, delirious with delight, so deep, it seemed like

pain.

I left the song, the dance, my maiden mates—

An endless yearning filled my craving soul,

Which sadly walked apart from them toward some unknown and glorious

goal.

One day, when thus depressed, I stood, in thought,

Beside a babbling brook, whose tinkling fall

Among the mossy rocks, from stone to stone, made silence musical.

Contemplating the beauty of the scene,

Imagining me the Naiad of the stream,

I grew the spirit of the place, and stood the deity of a sylvan dream.

Just then, a being, much more god than man,

Fell at my feet: I had no power to fly,

No wish, no thought; the serpent’s fabulous spell spoke in his

eloquent eye.

He prayed; I listened, for his words were song,

Drowning my heart; like surf along a strand

Their melody rose and rolled, wave following wave, covering the

helpless land.

Even then he vanished; but his image filled

The void that, hitherto, my spirit felt;

I stood erect—a loving woman, Jove—there, where, before, I knelt.

And all things passed; a dull and opiate blank

Fell, like Nepenthé, blackly on my brain:

I was a living corpse, insensible to pleasure, dead to pain.

I dreamed again: a glorious city rose,

Like Aphrodite, on a summer strand;

Palaces, pyramids and temples stretched away on either hand.

Its harbor, guarded by two massy towers,

Was filled with ships, whose plethoric pinions bore

The treasures of an hundred sister lands to her heroic shore.

Even while I gazed, slowly along the quay,

Moving in melancholy march, to strains

Of heavy harmony, whose solemn sounds made pity in my veins,

A long procession, like a funeral,

Approached the shore. There, moored, a galley lay,

Black as the wings of night, like an eclipse blighting the light of

day.

The crowd closed round: some stood, with lifted hands,

Adjuring heaven; some turned aside to hide

Their streaming tears, while others dumbly gazed on the receding tide.

With downcast eyes, seven youths, seven maidens passed

On board the galley, when my Cretan eyes

Saw Niobe-like Athens mourn her sons, passing to sacrifice.

The raven bark unfurled its ebon wings

And like a bird, flew lightly from the strand;

While, far behind, in distance growing dim, declined the cloud-like

land.

Away, away, across the billowy sea,

The galley flew: night came and went again,

When, with the rising sun, Crete’s porphyry walls rose from the

crimson main.

—I sat beside my sire: around us stood

The wise, the brave, the lovely of our land,

When, led by Thésëus, Athens’ offspring came, a self-devoted band.

I sat entranced: the lover of my dreams.

He, to whom nightly I had poured my sighs,

The ideal of my soul, stood visibly before my waking eyes.

Calmly the Self-Devoted stood and smiled,—

Thésëus, king-born, with his radiant face

Flushed with the glory of a fame which pierced the ultimate star of

space.

My heart waxed sick, for I was woman, Jove:

I saw the grim and ghastly Minotaur

Move through the Cretan labyrinth—his deadly, ponderous jaws ajar.

I saw my brother fall by felon hands;

I saw my father’s galleys sweep the seas,

And humbled Athens, cowering like a slave, ask mercy from her knees.

Minos pronounced his doom: the morrow morn

Beheld the sacrifice. I would have wept,

But could not: in their heated cells the sought for tears in silence

slept.

I pitied him; I could not see him die;

I loved—was woman; though my brother’s blood

Cried out for vengeance, still I pitied him: pity was passion’s food.

My soul sat in his shadow: like a babe

Beneath an oak it sat, and smiled, and crowed,

And lifted up and clapped its happy hands, and wildly laughed aloud.

That night I sought his cell: O, happy night,

O, night of light and life: the magic clew

That Dædälos wrought was in his hands; I drank his red lip’s nectarous

dew,

For he, too, loved! O, Jove, my long-caged heart

In that mad moment felt its shackles riven,

And soared and soared and soared, till, like a star, it coursed the

heights of heaven.

Next day I prayed—O, how I prayed: the gods

Were merciful: that night—O, night of nights,

For in its hours the Past became entombed—O, realm of dead delights,

We fled from Crete, and, steering out to sea,

I dreaming always on his manly breast,

At last made land—a desolate wave-worn strand, the sea-gull’s sandy

nest.

I seemed to wake, and found the traitor gone:

I stood in anguish, desolate and lone,

Wasting my wailings on the flinty rocks whose hearts (like his) were

stone.

But still I dreamed, and once more Athens rose

Before my eyes. Upon a beetling rock

That overhung the sea—a cliff, whose crags throbbed in the ocean’s

shock—

Ægéus stood and gazed athwart the wave.

Then I remembered me how Thésëus swore

(Such was his tale to me,) that, ere he sailed from Athens’ sorrowing

shore,

Hopefully trusting in the awful gods,

If he returned, his canvas, changed to white,

Should mark his triumph, but did raven sails meet Athens’ weeping

sight,

Then he had fallen. How the old man gazed,

With moistened eyes, toward the horizon’s verge,

While, far beneath, the chanting surf sent up its melancholy dirge.

I also gazed—when, where the sea and sky

Blended in mist, a speck—a spot—a nail—

Came with the wind: Ægéus stood erect, convulsed and deathly pale.

Closer and closer, where the shadow lay

Across the distance, like a misty cloud,

The galley came: the mute, expecting king tottered and sobbed aloud.

Stretching his thin hands toward the shadowy bark,

So distant still it seemed to float in air,

The aged monarch, with his marble eyes, personified despair.

It passed the gloom, and glided into light,

When, like a raven drifting down the skies,

The black, unaltered galley, ebon-sailed, met my astonished eyes!

A piercing shriek appalled my ears: I turned

And saw the aged king spring toward the steep—

And leap—and fall: no human sound arose from the tumultuous deep.

Anon came other dreams—Arcadian vales,

With Pan, oblivious Satyrs, and a throng

Of Fauns and Nymphs who made the burthened air reel with its weight of

song.

Bacchus rode next: how like a god he looked,

The vine-leaves adding whiteness to a brow

Already snow; his large eyes small with mirth; his dimpled cheeks

aglow.

Silenus, with two Nymphs on either hand

Supporting him, uncertainly pursued—

To amorous passion for the purple grape yielding, though not subdued.

And after came a laughing, dancing rout,

Making the air insane with bacchanal cries;

Some bearing grapes which others stole and ate, with ruddy, twinkling

eyes.

The eye of Bacchus drew me toward his car,

And stooping, he embraced, then lifted me

Beside him, with a kiss: the route rolled on capricious as the sea.

I was his bride: his love, always a god’s,

Saw not my state, nor asked from whence I came;

With him the passion was a living thing and not a naked name.

I was again a wife: my days were spent

In waking dreams of uncontrolled delight;

The light expired in feast and song and dance, unheeded in its flight.

And Night, with Venus sparkling on her brow,

Sat on the mountain top; the nightingale

Breathed an undying hymn to deathless love from every silent vale.

Anon the feast was spread: from leafy nooks

The blushing Dryad came; the amorous Faun

Stole from the laureled hill, returning not until the crimson dawn.

O, I was happy, very happy, Jove,

When, like thy lightning, day broke on mine eyes!

Beneath me was the sand; before, the sea; above, the threatening

skies!

There, like a vulture frightened from his prey,

Flew Thésëus, while, Cassandra-like, I stood

With streaming hair and flashing eyes, and hurled prophetic curses on

the flood.

Are dreams the messengers of gods to men

Foretelling facts? If so, then I await,

Not trembling, but proudly, the decrees of an unerring fate.

Let him depart: I scorn the traitor, Jove—

The parracide: still blacker grow his sails;

Favor his bark, Poseidon; Eölus, bestow him flavoring gales:

So swifter comes my vengeance. For the tears

He made me shed, make him rain tears of fire,

As from this desolate isle I point him to the cold corpse of his sire.

And if the links of love’s decaying chain

Remain united in his hollow heart,

That chain be as a serpent, dragging flame to its secrétest part;

So, when he sees me lie on Bacchus’ breast,

Lip glued to lip, eye flashing into eye,

He may lift up his hands and curse the Gods, and cursing, waste and

die.

NOTE.

Ariadne was the daughter of Minos, king of Crete, one of the sons of

Jupiter by Europa. Her desertion by Thésëus, whose life she had saved,

and with whom she had flown from Crete, has long been a thesis of more

than ordinary poetical importance. Thésëus, the son of Ægéus, king of

Athens, by Æthra, daughter of Pittheus, monarch of Trœzen, on the

discovery of his parentage, visited Athens, and made himself known to

his father, who acknowledged him. Sometime before, Androgeos, a brother

of Ariadne, set sail for Athens for the purpose of participating in the

Athenian games. He was the victor in every conflict. Ægéus, becoming

jealous of his popularity, caused him to be assassinated. Minos at once

declared war against Athens, conquered the Athenians, and imposed upon

them the annual penalty of sending fourteen of their most beautiful male

and female children as an offering to the Minotaur, a ghastly monster

who inhabited the celebrated Cretan labyrinth, the latest invention of

Dædalos, the Athenian sculptor. Thésëus, on the day of the embarcation

of the victims, offered himself as one of the number, with the hope of

destroying the Minotaur, and thus preserving Athens from any further

payment of the terrible tribute. The ship departed, as usual, under

black sails, which Thésëus promised to exchange for white, in case he

should return victorious. On his arrival in Crete he saw Ariadne, who

became enamored of him. She gave him the clew which made him master of

the mazes of the subterranean labyrinth. After a desperate conflict he

succeeded in destroying the monster, and the same night, fled to Athens,

bearing Ariadne with him. On his arrival _en route_ at the island of

Naxos, compelled by the gods, he deserted his mistress and returned

home. By some accident he neglected to exchange his sails, and his

father, Ægéus, filled with grief at the supposed death of his son,

precipitated himself from a lofty rock, on which he had taken a position

to watch the return of the galley, into the sea, and was drowned.

Ariadne afterward became the wife of Bacchus.

* * * * *

THE MOTHERLESS.

BY MISS LOUISA OLIVIA HUNTER.

“Henceforth thou wilt be all alone—

What shalt thou do, poor weeper?

Oh human love! oh human wo!

Is there a pang yet deeper?”

MARY HOWITT.

Her eyes are closed—she sleeps at last!

We catch with joy that quiet breathing,

Her first dark day of wo hath passed,

A happier dream her soul is wreathing.

Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,

Perchance with love there glides another!

We cannot hear that spirit-tread—

Yet in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

But four bright summers o’er her head

Have softly, sweetly breathed their blessing,

And yet she mourneth for the dead

With anguish to our souls distressing.

All day by every wile we’ve sought

From sorrow’s stern control to lure her,

Her mind to win from painful thought,

Scarce meet for mind and heart maturer.

With feeling far beyond her years,

We tried in vain her grief to smother,

For still burst forth those burning tears,

With this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”

And last, as ’neath affliction’s blight,

She coldly turned from game and story,

We told her of the spirit’s flight

To realms of endless light and glory.

That vision of a clime so rare,

Brought out this thought anew to grieve her,

E’en for a home so wondrous fair,

Could one who _loved her well_ thus leave her?

We strove in vain to lull her fears;

We sought in vain such doubts to smother,

More wildly came those bitter tears,

And this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”

It ceased at length—those weary eyes

We marked with languor faintly closing,

And now on yonder couch she lies,

In slumber deep and sweet reposing.

Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,

Perchance with love there glides another!

We cannot hear that spirit-tread—

But in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

* * * * *

ALICE LISLE.

A SKETCH FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

There is perhaps no data in the annals of English History marked with a

more bloody significance of the fearful extent to which the evil

passions of mankind will reach, when not held in check by religious or

civil discipline, than that characterized as the “Bloody Assizes,” in

the reign of James the Second—1685—which, even from out the lapse of

two centuries, still stands forth in loathsome and horrible

distinctness. When the savage and bloody-minded Jeffreys, empowered by a

vindictive and arbitrary monarch, stalked like a demon through the land,

tracing his passage with blood and tears, while the music of his

infernal march, was the groans and death-shrieks of his victims. And as

he strode onward—behind him he left horrible, eye-blasting,

soul-harrowing proofs of his cruelty—corpses swinging in the wind at

the corners of the cross-roads—gibbets stuck up in every

market-place—and blackening heads and limbs impaled, even before the

windows of the holy house of God!

Such was the more than brutal ferocity with which this fiend in human

shape, George Jeffreys, Chief Justice of the Court of King’s Bench,

prosecuted his commission.

Through all those districts where the inhabitants had either taken up

arms in the Monmouth Rebellion against the king, or who had been known

five years before to have received the unfortunate duke with favor and

homage, when assuming the rank of a rightful prince he passed with

almost regal triumph through the land, did Jeffreys and his well-picked

myrmidons pursue their murderous track, sparing neither sex nor age—the

death-blow descending alike upon the silver head of tottering age, or

lisping, helpless infancy “And,” says Macaulay, “his spirits rose higher

and higher as the work went on. He laughed, shouted, joked, and swore in

such a way that many thought him drunk from morning to night, but in him

it was not easy to distinguish the madness produced by evil passions,

from the madness produced by brandy.”

In such a frame of mind he entered Southampton and proceeded toward

Winchester, which, although not the scene of any warlike encounter with

rebel and royalist, had nevertheless been resorted to by many of the

former as a place of safety, among whom was their unhappy leader, the

infatuated Monmouth himself. It was here, near the borders of the New

Forest that the unfortunate man was taken prisoner. Worn out by

fatigue—crushed by disappointment—his high hopes blasted by defeat,

the ill-fated son of Charles was discovered concealed in a ditch, where

all through a long, long day, and a weary night, without food or drink,

the unhappy fugitive had vainly hoped to evade the search of his

pursuers.

Hither, then, came Jeffreys, tainting the air as with a pestilence, and

causing great terror and dismay, particularly among the peasantry, no

one knowing who next might prove the victim of the tyrant’s insatiate

thirst for blood.

He was now, however, in hot pursuit of two men—one a Nonconformist

divine, named Hicks; the other a lawyer, Richard Nelthorp, an outlaw,

who had made himself obnoxious by being concerned in the Rye House plot.

These men, it is needless to say, Jeffreys was resolved to pursue to the

death.

In a fine old mansion, encompassed by a closely wooded park of a

century’s growth, dwelt the Lady Alice Lisle. She was the widow of John

Lisle, who had held a commission under Cromwell, and had also sat in the

Long Parliament. He had been created a Lord by Cromwell, and the title

of Lady was still courteously assigned to his widow, for she was one

greatly beloved by all persons and parties, both Whig and Tory, for her

many excellent qualities, and was also nearly allied to many noble

families.

It was near the close of a beautiful autumnal day, that the Lady Alice,

clad in deep mourning weeds, might be seen passing slowly beneath the

dark foliage of those venerable trees, stretching in such primeval

grandeur far on either side her domain. The chastened radiance of the

setting sun here and there burnished the almost motionless leaves with

gold, or stealing athwart the mossy trunks, and over the deep green

sward, mildly illumined the forest aisles, seeming thereby as paths

angels might love to tread. The only companion of the lady was a

child—a beautiful boy of perhaps six years old—an orphan, whom the

kind Lady Alice had taken under her protection, and who now, far from

partaking in the seriousness of his benefactress, skipped and gamboled

before her in wild and happy recklessness—now springing like a fawn

into the path before her from behind some leafy screen, where for a

moment he had lain concealed, or striving to attract attention by his

childish prattle as he bounded playfully at her side.

As heedless to the deepening twilight as she seemed to all else around

her, the Lady Alice had proceeded further into the depths of the wood

than was her usual custom, when she was suddenly aroused to the lateness

of the hour by a scream from little Edwin, who, burying his face in the

folds of her mantle, cried,

“O run, dear lady, run—bad men—ah, they will kill us!”

“What are you talking of, Edwin?” she answered, taking his hand—“who

will kill us? We shall soon be at the Hall; fie, boy, are you afraid

because the sun has set, and the old woods grown dark! Ah, is this my

little hero!”

“But, lady, I see men—bad, wicked men; there, lady, there,” pointing,

as he spoke, to a clump of low oaks.

“Foolish boy, it is only an owl!” said the lady, now turning to retrace

her steps.

At that moment two men sprung from out the thicket and stood in her

path. Well might that lady tremble, alone and unprotected in the deep,

dark wood, yet in tones well belieing her fears, she unfalteringly bade

them stand aside, and give passage to herself and the pale, timid child

she led by the hand.

“We mean not to harm or frighten you, madam,” said one of the men,

lifting his goatskin cap, and stepping aside, “we seek at your hands

shelter and food. For three days we have lain concealed within these

woods, not daring to venture forth even to satisfy the cravings of

hunger. We are neither thieves nor murderers—slight offences may be in

these signal times of despotism and injustice—but men hunted down like

wild beasts in the cause of civil and religious freedom. It is for our

lives we implore your aid.”

“Yea, for our lives—that we may be spared to trample the sons of Belial

under our feet, and smite, and slay and destroy the arch tools of

oppression!” interrupted the other, with violent gesticulations; “and

thou, woman, art the chosen vessel of the Lord to shield his servants

from the man of blood against that dreadful day of retribution!”

“I ask not to know why you are thus thrown within peril of your lives,”

answered the Lady Alice, “it is enough for me that you are fellow beings

in distress, and as such must claim my sympathy, and the shelter of my

roof. God forbid the doors of Alice Lisle should be closed against

misfortune. Follow me, then, friends, and such food as my house affords,

and such security as its walls can give, may the Lord bless unto you.”

Confident in the attachment and fidelity of her domestics, the Lady

Alice, in a few words, made known to them that the lives of these

unfortunate men were in jeopardy, and that they sought from her kindness

safety and concealment, and sharing in the benevolence of their

mistress, each one of that well-tried household regarded the fugitives

with generous sympathy.

An excellent supper, such as their famishing natures required, and a

bottle of old wine, was soon placed before the weary men. They were then

conducted by the Lady Alice herself to a room on the ground floor.

“Observe,” she said, “this oaken panel—press your finger thus; a door

opens, leading into a secret passage, connected with the vaults of the

old chapel, where, in case of emergency, you will be perfectly secure

from search. Sleep, then, my friends, in peace, one of my most faithful

servants will this night keep watch, and upon the least alarm, you will

be notified in time to avail yourselves of the way of escape I have

pointed out.”

As she bade them good-night, one of the men, seizing the hem of her

mantle, carried it to his lips with a grace not unfitting the presence

of a queen, while in the canting oratory of the day, his companion

devoutly prayed the Most High to bless the woman, through whose

assistance vengeance was yet to be heaped on the head of the scorner,

and those who now sat in high places to be brought low.

And thus fortified and encouraged by the assurances of their noble

benefactress, the fugitives took heart, and throwing themselves upon the

bed, were soon soundly sleeping.

Not so the Lady Alice. True, these men had not revealed their names,

neither had she sought to discover who they were, or for what crime they

were driven to their present strait—yet that they fled the wrath of the

cruel-minded Jeffreys she felt persuaded, and fearful that with his

myrmidons he might be close on the track of these unhappy men, she, too,

sat watching all the night, or pacing with light footfall the long

galleries, ever and anon stepping out upon the balcony and listening to

every sound, her fears magnifying the whispers of the wind stealing

through the branches of the old trees, into the suppressed murmurs of an

armed force. All, however, remained quiet. Just as the day began to

dawn, she threw herself upon her couch—not meaning to sleep. But,

overcome with the fatigue of her lonely night-watch, and lulled perhaps

by the security which almost always comes to the watcher with the dawn

of day, she soon unconsciously sunk into a deep sleep, from which, alas!

she was but too rudely aroused; for even in that brief half hour when

tired nature claimed its own, the wily Jeffreys had surrounded the house

with his no less brutal soldiers.

“Come, come, madam, bestir yourself—you are wanted,” cried the leader,

seizing the Lady Alice by the shoulder, and rudely shaking her;

“methinks you sleep well this morning—long watching makes sound

slumbers, _eh_! Come, up with you, woman, and tell us in what corner of

this rebel’s nest you have stowed away the Presbyterian knave and his

worthy friend?”

In a moment the lady was fully awake, and comprehended at once her

perilous situation. But her self-possession did not forsake her, and

breathing an inward prayer for the safety of the two unhappy men so

closely pursued, she said, as she drew herself proudly up,

“What means this unmannerly intrusion? Off, sir! unhand me, or your

audacity shall be punished as it deserves!”

“Ho-ho, my brave wench, words are cheap! you will find proofs not so

easy! Know, mistress, yourself and your servants are my prisoners,”

replied Jeffreys.

“_Your_ prisoners!” cried the lady, with cutting contempt; “and who are

_you_, and by whose authority do you dare to lay hands on me or any

beneath my roof!”

“Who am I? That you shall soon know to your cost,” said Jeffreys, with a

horrible oath. “George Jeffreys has a peculiar way of making himself

known, my mistress. Now deliver up these two arch rebels—the canting,

whining priest, and the traitor Nelthorpe, into our hands, and mayhap

I’ll not press my further acquaintance upon your ladyship, except to

taste the quality of your wine, for I’ll warrant you, my men, (turning

to his followers) these old cellars are not dry.”

“I know no such persons as those you seek,” replied the Lady Alice,

firmly; “and what reason have you to suppose they are within my house?”

“We know it, and that is enough,” replied Jeffreys. “They are known to

have lain hid within your neighborhood; and we know they have been

secreted by _you_; and now, by G—d, madam, unless you lead us to their

kennel, your body shall writhe in flames, or be hacked in pieces by my

soldiers!”

“Infamous, cowardly wretch,” replied Alice Lisle, undaunted, “think you

your threats would induce me to betray, more especially into your

blood-thirsty hands, any unhappy individual who had sought my

protection! Know Alice Lisle better.”

“Ho-ho, are we so brave! here, my men, take this boasting mistress, and

give her a dance upon hot coals!” cried the ferocious Jeffreys.

At that instant little Edwin, still in his night-dress, opened the door

of his little bed-room, and ran terrified toward the Lady Alice; but he

was not permitted to reach her; a soldier rudely seized the poor boy by

the shoulder, and notwithstanding his shrieks, held him with such a grip

as left the print of his fingers upon the tender flesh.

“Ruffian, unhand the child!” exclaimed the lady, attempting to rise, but

held back by the iron hand of Jeffreys.

“_Ha!_ a pretty hostage, truly!” he said. “Here, Ratcliffe, draw your

dagger across his pretty white throat, unless this stubborn woman yields

up our prey—do you hear that?” turning to the Lady Alice.

“O save me—save me! don’t let them kill me!” screeched the poor little

fellow, striving to break away; then turning his beautiful eyes upon the

hard, stern features of the man who held him, he clung piteously around

his knees, repeating his cry for mercy, his face uplifted, and his soft,

golden curls falling over his white shoulders, from which the loose

night-dress had slipped away.

Tears, which neither her own danger, or the insults heaped upon her

could draw forth, now streamed down the pallid cheek of the Lady Alice.

“Are you men?” she cried, turning to the rude soldiers, “are you men,

and can you stand by and see that innocent, helpless lamb inhumanly

murdered before your eyes!”

“Ah!” cried Jeffreys, with a hideous leer, “we are used to butchering

lambs, madam; bless you, we do it so easy the poor things don’t have

time to bleat! Strike, Ratcliffe!”

A scream—a wild scream of agony burst from the heart of Alice Lisle;

then dashing off the arm of Jeffreys, in the strength of her despair, as

but a feather’s weight, she sprung to the boy, and threw her arms around

him.

There was heard at the moment a loud shout from the court-yard, coupled

with oaths and imprecations, and one of the troop burst in, waving his

cap.

“Hurra, your honor! they’re caught, your worship; we’ve got the

rascals—hurra! hurra!”

“Now God help them!” murmured Alice.

“Your life shall answer for this, vile traitress!” muttered Jeffreys, in

a voice hoarse with rage, and shaking his fist at the unshrinking

heroine. “But where found you the knaves?” he added, turning to the

bearer of such fiendish joy.

“Ha, ha, your worship—but I can’t help laughing; we found his

reverence, chin-deep, in a malt-tub—ha, ha, ha! and the other rogue we

hauled from the kitchen chimney, as black as his master, the Devil!”

“And to his master he shall soon be sent with a crack in his windpipe,”

said Jeffreys.

“Wounds, your honor, you loves a joke!” said one, who might be called

the Trois Eschelles of the company, edging up to Jeffreys with a horrid

grin; “shall we string the rascals up below there—yonder is a good

strong beam; or shall we leave their heads in the market-place, as a

kind of warning to all traitors!”

“Peace, knave!” replied Jeffreys, with a frown which made the villain

turn pale; “attend to your duty, and see that the prisoners are well

secured; these fellows are slippery rascals—and now, madam,” (turning

to Alice Lisle,) “up with you, and prepare to follow either to the

scaffold or the stake, as suits my pleasure.” Then, with a brutal blow

with the back of his sword, he rudely pushed his victim on before him.

Her weeping and terrified domestics would have approached their beloved

mistress, but were thrust back by the drawn swords of the soldiers, and

when the unfortunate lady crossed her threshold, it was over the dead

body of her aged butler, brutally struck down before her.

“Farewell, my friends,” said the Lady Alice, turning to her faithful

attendants, “I look for no mercy at the hands of these cruel men, whose

pastime is death; yet though they may torture the body, unto the mercy

of my Redeemer do I humbly commit my soul. May God forgive these my

enemies, for in their blind rage they know not what they do; pray for

them, my friends.”

“Come, none of your cant here, if you please, madam; if we want any

praying done, we’ll call on yonder long-nosed, whining saint,” cried

Jeffreys pointing to Hickes, who, with Nelthorpe at his side, and both

closely bound together with ropes, and guarded on either side, was now

brought forward.

Lest by appearing to recognize the Lady Alice they might increase her

danger, the prisoners took no notice whatever of her who for their sakes

was now in such peril, and met her glance as they would that of a

stranger. Nelthorpe, indeed, essayed once to speak, for the purpose of

acquitting the Lady Alice of all knowledge of himself and companion, but

his speech was cut short by vile taunts and curses.

These wretched men had slept soundly through the night, and with the

stupor of heavy fatigue still hanging about them, heard too late the

tramp of their pursuers, and forgetting in their sudden alarm the secret

panel, sprung through a window, and endeavored to conceal themselves in

some of the outbuildings; but vainly—they were soon dragged forth, and

knew that from the jaws of the blood-hound Jeffreys, _death_ was to be

their only release.

And now, without any delay, the prisoners were brought to trial, the

Lady Alice being first placed at the bar, charged with treason, in

concealing or harboring persons disaffected to the king, and known to

have been concerned in the late insurrection.

Many of the jurors were of the most respectable men of Hampshire, and

all shrunk from convicting an amiable and exemplary female, for a crime

(if crime it could be called) which certainly arose from the purest and

noblest emotions of the heart. But Jeffreys was not to be so robbed of

his prey.

Witnesses, forestalled by his vindictive spirit, appeared against her,

and those who would have testified in her favor, were so put down by the

bold-faced cunning of these hirelings, as to do more injury than good to

the cause which they came to sustain.

The Lady Alice was then called upon for her defence. In a modest and

dignified manner she addressed the Court. She began by saying that she

knew not the men who had sought her protection, nor had she asked for

what offence they were thus hunted down; it was enough that famished and

weary they required her assistance, and that assistance she had freely

rendered them; “Yet for this, gentlemen,” she continued, “I am arraigned

for treason. Has charity, then, become a crime? Is it a capital offence

to relieve the wants of our suffering fellow beings; and must the cold

voice of prudence overcome the Divine precepts of Jesus? Now God

forbid!”

She was here interrupted by an insolent remark from the judge; and if

allowed again to speak, it was only to draw upon herself his coarse,

unfeeling ribaldry.

The jury retired, their sympathies more than ever excited for the

unhappy lady.

Their consultation was too long for the patience of the judge. He grew

furious at their delay—stamping and swearing like a madman. “He sent a

messenger to tell them that if they did not instantly return, he would

adjourn the Court, and lock them up all night. Thus put to the torture,

they came, but came only to say they doubted whether the charge had been

made out. Jeffreys expostulated with them vehemently, and after another

consultation, they gave a reluctant verdict of ‘Guilty!’”[1]

This was received by demoniac joy by Jeffreys, who immediately proceeded

to pass sentence, which was, that the most unfortunate Alice Lisle

should that very afternoon be _burned alive_!

This dreadful sentence caused universal horror, and moved the pity even

of the most devoted supporters of the king. The judge was overwhelmed

with petitions and prayers for mercy; but the only mercy he granted was

a few days’ delay ere the dreadful sentence should be accomplished.

During that time the royal clemency was eagerly solicited, and many

persons of the highest rank interceded with James for the release of

Alice Lisle. Ladies of the Court entreated his mercy. Feversham, flushed

with recent victory, pleaded for her; and even Clarendon, the

brother-in-law of the king, spoke in her behalf.

It was all in vain.

Scarcely less cruel than his cruel judge, James was inexorable, and only

so far showed his clemency as to commute the sentence from _burning to

beheading_!

But peace—peace, such as the world can neither give or take away, went

with Alice Lisle into that dark, cold prison, to which her enemies

consigned her. Those damp walls, in whose crevices the slimy lizard made

its bed; though they shut her out from the world—from friends—from

freedom—they could not imprison her soul, nor crush the spirit of the

martyred Alice, as it ascended in prayers to the Heavenly Throne. Divine

love and holy trust in the promises of her Redeemer illumined her dark

dungeon with the brightness of heaven; and when led forth to the

scaffold—death was swallowed up in victory.

Alice Lisle was beheaded in the Market Place at Winchester, Anno Domini,

1685.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

-----

[1] Macaulay.

* * * * *

WE ARE DREAMERS ALL.

BY RICHARD COE, JR.

We are dreamers all! the babe that lies

Asleep on its mother’s breast,

In a dream of peace will sweetly smile,

As if its spirit were e’en the while

By angel ones caressed!

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the lover dreams

Of a fair one by his side;

Of the happy hour when he shall stand

Before the altar, to claim the hand

Of his bright and beauteous bride!

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the poet dreams

Of the laurel-wreath of fame;

He struggles and toils for weary years,

And awakes at last with sighs and tears,

To grasp but an empty name.

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the Christian dreams

Of a promised rest above;

Of the pleasant paths of Paradise—

Of a home of peace beyond the skies,

Prepared by the Saviour’s love!

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! but oh! to me

The Christian’s dream be given!

For bright as his dream on earth may be,

He wakes to a blest reality

When he opes his eyes in Heaven!

We are dreamers all!

* * * * *

MARY NORRICE.

BY JEANNIE DEANE.

Mary Norrice! With that name how many blessed memories come flitting by,

like bright-winged passage-birds, leaving in their flight a sadness—a

feeling of brightness gone!

It was the bright and merry autumn-time when I met thee, Mary, and thou

wert in thy girlhood—beautiful and care-free. _Another_

autumn-time—the time when withered leaves go whirling over barren

places where flowers erst were blooming, and dancing to a wild mournful

measure over the graves where _human_ flowers are meekly

sleeping—_then_ saw I thee, sweet Mary, on thy bridal morning, and

orange-flowers were in thy hair. And then another autumn-time—a sad and

withering autumn-time, and they laid thee in the _grave_. Alas! that one

so pure, so good as thou wert, should lie _there_! Alas! for thee, sweet

Mary Norrice!—and yet _joy_ for thee! Joy! joy for thee!

“An airy fairy Lillian” was my friend Mary—so “innocent-arch, so

cunning-simple,” that she was an especial favorite, the “bright

particular star” among that joyous band of school-girls where I saw her

first. Dark, roguish eyes, soft brown curls clustering about a low sweet

forehead, and a sunny, bright complexion had Mary Norrice.

For two bright years that went by on an angel-wing, she was my constant

companion—my best, dearest friend, and in this time, I became well

acquainted with the beauty, trustfulness, and purity of her character.

If there was _any_ fault in Mary, we girls used often to say, it was in

her adoption of the Catholic religion. It might have been Mary’s

imaginative disposition which inclined her to this belief; or perhaps

because it was the faith of her mother, who had died when Mary was very

young, and whose memory she cherished in her heart’s “holy of holies.”

Beautiful it was to see that fair child kneeling at morning before an

elegantly wrought crucifix, her mother’s dying gift; her white fingers

straying among the pearls of her rosary: or at evening, her slight form

bending in the moonlight, the white night-robe falling gracefully about

her, a few curls escaping from the delicately laced cap! her white hands

crossed on her beating breast—and her dark eyes full of prayer—as she

commenced with “Mary Mother.” It was a scene to look upon, and feel that

a pure spirit dwelt in her heart, and beamed forth from the child-like,

sinless face which looked in pure devotion up to Heaven.

Years are gone since the sweet voice of Mary Norrice was _hushed_—but

often when I sit alone in the thoughtful twilight, a “smiling band of

early hours come clustering about my memory,” and I can almost believe

that those soft brown curls touch once more my cheek! that dear head

seems again to nestle lovingly down upon my shoulder—and the little

hand feels warm in mine—as looking out together upon the evening-star,

I hear the now stilled voice, singing once more, so unutterably sweet

and spiritual, its evening song—“Ave Sanctissima!”

One evening when quiet, an unusual guest, seemed to reign throughout the

seminary of G——; when the hum of subdued voices, and the softened

tones of some distant harp or guitar echoed through the halls only at

intervals, we sat together in the big, old-fashioned parlor—Mary, her

cousin Claude Norrice, who was the pastor of the village, and myself.

Mary was looking from the window somewhat sadly—Claude was gazing into

her large dark eyes fondly and earnestly, while my poor foolish heart

was weaving a bright fabric for those two gifted beings who sat beside

me—a dream which I was to waken from, even before that bright ray of

moonlight which was sleeping in its holiness upon Mary’s brow, and which

I had been watching for the last ten minutes, should pass away. So

golden and so fleeting is the light which hope flings on the fairy

fabric of _love_.

“Sing us something, Cousin Mary,” said Claude, and her musical voice

stole upon our hearts in its magic sweetness, chanting softly that song

she loved, “Ave Sanctissima!” Insensibly my heart was yielding to the

strain, and I walked in old cathedrals “high and hoary,” listening to

some fair nun, as she chanted her mysterious vesper-hymn; when my

fancies were suddenly dispelled by Claude’s voice, begging Mary would

choose some other song.

“It is very beautiful,” said he, “and seems doubly so, Mary, sung by

your dear voice; but the devotion it expresses for an ideal object is

very disagreeable to me.”

I was called from the room at that moment, and when I returned an hour

later, I knew that Claude Norrice had told his cousin how dearly and

truly he loved her, how indispensable was her presence—her affection to

his life’s pathway. Mary stood before him, her head erect, as she said

proudly and with flashing eyes—

“I’m not to be treated as a mere child, Claude Norrice—I tell you again

that nothing you can say to me—no professions of affection you have

made, shall lure my heart from the faith of my _mother_.”

And she bowed her head in veneration as she spoke that name, and crossed

her fair white arms upon her breast as if she would still its wild

beatings. But I saw her cheek grow white as he bowed down and kissed her

forehead, and I saw her lips quiver fast, as he said:

“The shadow is on my heart, Mary—the shadow which your cruel words have

cast there, and it can never be effaced. God forgive you, Mary—and

Father in Heaven, help me! help me!”

Again he bowed down and kissed her, long and wildly—turned his face

toward me pale with agony, and rushed from the room.

“Claude! _dear_ Claude, forgive me,” murmured Mary as she slept that

night; raising her pale face from her pillow, and clasping her hands as

if she prayed. And often in that long, weary night she would wake with a

sudden start, and lifting her eyes toward the crucifix, pray

wildly—“Ave Mary! Madonna! help me!” When she would place her hand

beneath her pale cheek, weary with her grief, and sleep again, murmuring

all the while of Claude—her mother and Heaven.

There were no vows of eternal affection exchanged when Mary Norrice and

I stood on the shaded piazza of G—— Seminary, watching for the old

green coach, which was momentarily expected to take her to her city

home. No vows were needed—we loved each other with that trustfulness,

that confidingness which asks no pledge. Mary had promised to write me

very often, and this I assured her would be a panacea for every human

ill.

Not quite three months after we left school, I received from Mary the

following hastily written letter:

“You will make big eyes, Jeannie, dear, when I tell you that I

am just about to commit matrimony—only think of _that_! In one

little week I am to slip my head into the sacred noose, and who

think you is to help me bear the gentle yoke? Arthur Monterey,

of whom you have often heard me speak, is the “lucky man,” and

though he is a deal older than myself, I dare say we shall learn

to love each other very much. He is very handsome, talented, and

very much esteemed; but more than all, he is of my own

religion—of the same faith as my sainted mother. You will

“haste to the wedding” Jeannie, because you remember you long

ago promised to act as bride’s-maid on the occasion of this bit

of a ceremony. _Au revoir_, Jeannie dear, come to your own,

“MARY.”

I was not surprised that Mary was to marry a catholic, but I _was_

surprised to hear her speak of learning to love Arthur Monterey—_learn_

to love him! Mary Norrice with her loving, enthusiastic nature, _learn_

to love the man who was to be her husband!

The sunlight fell in through the windows of stained glass, glancing upon

the high forehead of her betrothed, and bathing in its warm rich light

the snowy bridal robes of Mary Norrice.

The vows were spoken; a golden circlet glistened on Mary’s finger, and

she was bound in joy and sorrow, for “weal or wo,” to go through life’s

pathway by the side of Arthur Monterey. Mournfully fell the tones of the

organ upon my ear, for in my heart it was two years agone, since I saw

Mary standing in the moonlight, and I heard Claude Norrice say in a

voice low with despair—“God forgive you, Mary!”

Arthur Monterey was a very handsome man, but there was a stern

expression on his proudly curved lip, and about his high intellectual

forehead, which made me fear for Mary. In the few weeks of gayety which

followed their marriage, I saw but little of him, though when with us,

he seemed very proud of his wife’s rare beauty and fascinations, and was

wholly devoted to her.

Winter, spring, and summer passed away, and in the autumn I received a

letter from Mary, saying that her husband was traveling, and begging me

to come to her. There was a terrible feeling at my heart as it looked

once more into those once merry eyes, now so large and sad—and somehow

a thought of _death_ as I kissed those lips so mournful and resigned in

their expression.

One evening we sat together in Mary’s room, at twilight—her head rested

on my shoulder, one pale hand supporting her soft cheek, as the other

swept the chords of her harp, with her own peculiar grace and magic.

Mournful and low was the prelude; and sad, and spirit-like the dear

voice which sang once more to me “Ave Sanctissima!” Midnight had passed,

and yet we sat by the open window—the moonlight falling in through the

curtains of snowy muslin, its beams as pure, as spiritual as the frail

creature who sat beside me, and whose face I fancied grew paler in its

light.

We stood within the church again—and Mary’s robes were snowy white; but

her brow was paler than before—the long dark lashes fell upon a

lifeless cheek—and the pale hands were crossed upon a hushed breast.

With mourning for the young and fair, solemnly echoed the deep tones of

the organ through the high arches; and there were white faces, and

stilled sobs around the coffined—beautiful—the coffined—_dead_.

In a package directed to me, which I opened after her death, Mary wrote

these lines—

“I trusted in ideal worth, dear Jeannie—I have laid my heart’s best and

holiest affections as a sacrifice upon the altar of my religion. I am

dying now, and promise me you will bring some of those deep-blue violets

from my mother’s grave, and plant them on my own—_then_ I shall sleep.

My husband has been kind to me—but his love is not that for which my

heart has yearned.

“If you do not think it wrong, Jeannie dear, you may give my bible to

cousin Claude, that same bible which he gave me so long ago. I have

placed a curl among its leaves—in Heaven I shall be his _wife_—there

are no _tears_ there.”

Bitterly did Claude Norrice weep as he held that long bright curl first

in the sunshine, then in the shade; but there was a glance of joy in his

dark religious eye as he murmured, “Mine in Heaven—Mary Norrice! in

Heaven—mine _forever_!”

I stood beside him in the spot where Mary’s earthly part is lying. The

shadow of the willow-tree waved sadly to and fro upon the white marble

cross, on which was graven “Mary Monterey, aged seventeen—there are no

tears in Heaven.” As I saw Claude Norrice gather a tuft of violets from

the grave, and press them to his lips in an agony of grief, I wept that

one so young and beautiful should die. But when I thought of the many

high imaginings, the lofty hopes, and holy aspirations the sleeper there

had taken hence to Heaven—when I thought how fair the flowers are, how

sweet the music, and how white are the angel’s wings in Paradise, I said

in my heart—joy for thee, dear Mary Norrice! Thou art gone _home_!

“Joy! joy forever! thy task is done,

The gates are passed—and Heaven is won.”

* * * * *

DEATH OF THE PATRIARCH

[Genesis. Chap. xlix.]

BY MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL.

The day declined in Egypt, and the faintly fluttering breeze

Drooped, with dew-laden pinion, ’mid the dark pom’granate trees;

The purple grapes, like clustering gems, hung heavy on the vine,

Half bursting with their luscious pulp, and rich with ruddy wine,

The broad green leaves that shadowed them throughout the noontide

glare,

Now, quivering, fanned their glowing rinds, and cooled the brooding

air;

While hitherward, and thitherward, the date tree and the palm,

Their graceful branches, slowly swayed, majestically calm.

The day declined in Egypt, and the sun had sought the west,

Where, like a king whose destiny was done, he sunk to rest,

While palace, dome, and pyramid, gleamed with celestial fire,

And heaven’s burnished battlements, glowed like a funeral pyre.

But in the zenith of the sky, transparent clouds, and white,

Rolled hurriedly athwart the blue, their billowy zones of light,

And parting in translucent waves, as the sea was doomed to do,

A throng of white-winged angels, swept that gate of glory through.

The day declined in Egypt, and an old man looked his last

Upon evening’s fading glories, for his life was ebbing fast;

And dim, to him, the rosy earth, though beautifully bright,

And dark, to him, the western heaven, though bathed in golden light.

Yet, though his feeble sight no more might trace the forms of earth,

His kindling soul looked from its clay, prophetically forth;

Futurity’s enfolding shroud rolled heavily away,

And ages, yet to be revealed, their secrets to the day.

Nations unborn around him thronged, with all their _deeds_ and _doom_,

And the Patriarch glowed with prophecy, on the confines of the tomb.

The day declined in Egypt, and the Patriarch’s sons drew nigh,

To hear their father’s parting words, receive his parting sigh.

A noble band of brothers they, the princely twelve, who came

And bowed their stately heads before that worn and weary frame.

“Draw near, my sons,” the old man said, “while I reveal to ye,

The hidden things, of old ordained, in latter days to be.

“REUBEN! beginning of my strength! my first born and my flower,

_The excellency of dignity, the excellency of power_!

But what are lofty gifts to thee, while thy impulsive heart

Will prompt alike the generous deed, or choose the baser part!

Unstable as the waves thou art, I read thy nature well,

And dignity and power are _vain_, for _thou shalt ne’er excel_.

“LEVI and SIMEON, brethren ye, in wickedness and wile!

My soul abhors your cruelty, mine honor shuns your guile!

Lost and accursed shall ye be by God’s avenging wrath,

And scattered wide, like sifted chaff, upon the whirlwind’s path.

“Thou, princely JUDAH, nearer draw, my proud and peerless one,

Mine eyes would rest once more on thee, my lion-hearted son;

I see thy calm, majestic front, thou generous, true, and just!

In _thee_ the children of thy sire, for aye shall place their trust.

The gathering of the nations around _thy_ house shall be;

_And until_ SHILOAH’S _coming the sceptre rests with thee_!”

And thus, as round their prophet sire, the awe-struck brethren wait,

To each of all the listening twelve, he speaks, unfolding fate.

The brawny breast of ISSACHER, heaves heavily and high,

As years of cruel servitude arise before his eye;

Luxurious ASHER’S curving lip, half wreaths into a smile,

As visions of voluptuousness, flit o’er his brain the while;

And BENJAMIN, exulting hears of his successful toil—

“_At morn thou shalt pursue the prey, at eve devour the spoil._”

But JOSEPH, of the steadfast soul, triumphant over wrong,

Round thee, the best belovéd one, the choicest blessings throng.

Of the deep that lieth under, of the far spread heavens above;

Of thy home and of thy household, in thy life and in thy love,

The words wherewith he blesseth thee, o’er all prevaileth still—

_Unto the utmost boundary of the everlasting hill_.

The day declined in Egypt, and from fertile mound and plain,

The golden sunlight fades away—night gathers dark again.

The clouds roll their dark billows back, and through the rifts on

high;

The solemn stars, in marshaled hosts, tread up the midnight sky;

While chanting, through the firmament, the errant angels come;

They lead the unfettered spirit up, in triumph to its home.

* * * * *

A MONTICELLO DAY.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

Monticello is one of the loveliest villages upon which the sun shines.

It occupies, in two rows, the aides and summit of a steep hill,

surrounded by orchards, grain-fields, and meadows; which in turn are

girdled by the unbroken wilderness. The single street is formed by the

broad turnpike, with smooth grassy margins that extend like carpets of

emerald up to the very porches, from the edges of the highway. Two

side-walks fringed with maples, (the most beautiful shade trees in the

world) form, with their brown stripes, the only interruption to the

smooth green margins above referred to. The street (or highway more

properly speaking) is hard and smooth as a sea-beach, over which the

wagon-wheel rolls as evenly and swiftly as over the surface of that very

important invention of modern times, the Plank road. Indeed it is more

like the glide of the rail-car over the T road than any thing else, and

the way that a span of Halsey’s horses can whirl a carriage through the

street of the village, “is a caution” to lazy folks.

The houses are mostly new and uniformly painted white, and peep out from

their rows of maples in the most agreeable and picturesque manner. In

fact, so sylvan is the whole appearance of Monticello, buried as it is

amongst its leaves, that it looks like some huge bird’s nest in the

branches of an enormous tree. It is an isolated place, too, tucked away

behind the Shawanyunk Mountain, and although placed upon a hill, is as

far removed from the busy world as it well could be. It is true,

Hamilton’s red coach crawls daily from Newburgh on the Hudson, through

it, carrying the mail with great regularity and despatch, (good

conscience,) on its snail-like pace to Lake Erie, but if the line

depended only for its continuance upon its passengers, its life would be

short indeed. In fact, if Uncle Sam’s “pap” (as Uncle Jack says) were

not freely bestowed, it would not really last longer than a chicken with

the pip.

Such being the state of things, it may readily be imagined that we

villagers have every thing to ourselves, as far as the great world

without is concerned, and that we are very little troubled with any

affairs except our own. It is true they furnish trouble enough of

themselves, but they are generally of such a nature that the detachment

of grannies and old maids from the main body of the village which take a

most pious and praise-worthy care of the morals of the place, can

usually settle them over a long “tea drink” at one or the other of their

dwellings.

With these preliminaries I now proceed to endeavor to sketch the gliding

of a summer’s day over our beautiful village, albeit my touches may be

skill-less, and my colors faint.

Not yet sunrise! What a sweet gray delicate light glimmers in the air,

and how fresh and cool the universal hue over every object. The sky is

stainless, pure as the thoughts of Innocence, and bright as the dreams

of the happy, although it wants the splendor of the risen sun. Faint,

faint, as the memory of other days to the aged are those few white stars

throbbing in the mid-sky, sinking deeper and deeper in the lustrous

heavens. In the east is a wreathed cloud, just above the spot where the

sun is expected, and evidently awaiting the period for it to burn under

the glance of the orbed God, like the arch-angel nearest to the Throne

of the Mighty. The west is dusky with the outlines of the forest upon it

misty and undefined, as if the breath of the vanished night was still

lingering there. Nothing is there to arrest my gaze; but the east draws

my eye toward it with the power of a magnet. The east! solemn and

mysterious spot in the wide heavens! how it sways, with its mighty

influence, the whole human race.

Upon its brow did the splendid Star of the Nativity blaze out with its

sudden glory, upon the astonished eyes of the shepherds upon the

hill-side, and there was the group of angels unveiled to the cowering

mortals who heard, as they shuddered upon their mother earth, the glad

anthem of “Peace on earth—good-will to men,” pealing through the

brightened heavens, and echoing even down to the dim, night-clad scene

around them.

From the east did the steps of the “wise men” come when they brought

their gifts of “frankincense and myrrh” to the hallowed infant in the

manger. And even now, as the first level ray streams across the desert,

does the wild Arab check the lofty step of his camel, and kneeling

toward the east, join in the praise then ascending from a thousand

minarets, that “God is great and Mahomet is his Prophet.”

To the east then will I turn, and with no infidel praise in my heart,

but with the feeling of pure gratitude to that beneficent Being who has

watched my pillow through the “dangers of the past night,” I gaze upon

it. Ha! that sudden flash, like the leaping of flame upon the altar! How

the wreathed cloud starts into light—how it brightens, how it glows!

like the iron in the furnace, how it turns to sudden red! Now o’er its

downy surface a crimson flush is spread! now its edges burn with gold,

it is a glorious banner now, burning, gleaming, flaring, glaring on the

east’s illuminated brow.

What a splendid object! and yet but a few moments ago it was nothing but

a wreath of cold gray vapor—a fragment doubtless of that dim blanket

which kept the stars from shining the past night. What a splendid

object, and yet the tints will soon fade, and it will once more turn to

a dim curl of cloud insignificant and hueless. Solomon’s mantle will

change to a garment that a beggar would scorn, particularly if the

morning should be cold. Garments of cloud may be very romantic, but they

would prove deucedly uncomfortable, particularly in winter I fancy,

although the sun does turn them into golden, crimson, and jeweled

glories.

But the east is kindling brighter and brighter, and at last a spot,

directly beneath the cloud, is burning almost like “white heat.” That is

the bath of splendor into which the sun will rush when it spurns the

mountain top and launches into the heavens. And see the lower edge now

burns with a fire that sears the very eyeball, and ha! yes, there comes

the sun. Up, up, with slow and stately, and solemn motion as yet, up,

up, with seeming accelerated speed; now it launches into its bath of

splendor, and in plain Saxon, it is sunrise.

Two broad streams of light roll toward me. One comes flashing directly

in front, tipping the summit of “Tonner’s hill,” and placing, quick as

thought, bright caps of gold upon the pines and hemlocks of the next

ridge this way, thence lighting upon “Brownson’s Hill,” and helmeting

the pines and hemlocks of that locality, and thence hitting here and

touching there, it bathes with rosy splendor the chimneys of the

village, and they straightway, like altars just touched by flame, begin,

every mother’s son of them, to smoke. And not your blue, common smoke

either, but smoke of _lapis lazuli_, or whatever other hue is radiant

and rich.

The other beam shoots off to the left, and leaving the valley-meadows

below Tonner’s, still steeped in their silver down of mist, it glorifies

the summits of the next wood, and spreads in a huge ring of golden glow

upon the tops of the forests that form the framework of “Pleasant Pond.”

One towering pine that plumes a green turban of a hill near the liquid

silver of the pond, has caught the splendor upon its apex, and how the

glad light there laughs and sparkles and dances. Like the brain of a

poet when the pure fire descends upon it, it seems to break out into a

glow of inspiration, and hark! borne to the fine and subtle ear of

fancy, through the intervening space thus sounds the song of this Memnon

of the forest—its sunrise hymn—

Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!

Hail to its keen swift arrows! hail to its joy and its gladness!

Light rushes up from the east, as from an eternal fountain,

And straightway all Nature glows like steel that burns in the

furnace!

Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its radiant splendor!

Hail to the wings of its speed! to its glad and its glorious

presence!

It comes to the dusky east like a thought of fire to the brain!

It comes to the brightening east, like a “bridegroom to his

bride!”

It comes to the glowing east like liberty to the slave!

And Nature laughs out in its splendor, and turns into light in its

joy.

Sing pæans, sing pæans all Nature! about pæans to God in His

glory!

He rolls up the sun in His might! He spreadeth the wings of the

morning!

Arise, oh! man, and come forth! glad morning calls out to arise!

Break, break the fetters of slumber! lo! beauty is here to salute

thee!

Here freshness, here splendor, here beauty! yes, purity, beauty,

and health!

Health in the soft sweet air, and beauty on earth and in heaven!

Wake man from the fetters of sleep! come forth and rejoice in this

gladness.

Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!

It comes like a seraph from heaven! yea, from heaven, and fresh

with its glory!

And lighting upon the dim Earth, the dim Earth straight bursts

into beauty.

Hail to the morning, hail! it comes with the speed of its pinion

To turn the dim Earth into splendor, to clothe it in garments of

light!

Hail to the morning, hail! all hail to its glorious presence!

Peal upward, rise upward my song! hail beautiful morning! all

hail!

And thus endeth the first chapter.

* * * * *

Scene the second, is after breakfast, for the inhabitants of Monticello

generally, notwithstanding the invocation of the smitten pine to them,

with almost the single exception of myself, don’t trouble themselves

about rising until nature is pretty well aired. In other words they are,

nearly all, late risers.

This, however, is a sweeping remark, and does not include the various

“hired helps” of the village, who are now sallying out of their

respective domiciles, milk-pail in hand; and soon at every gate, and in

every green lane I hear the whizzing sounds of the milk streaming in

slight threads of pearl into the fast mantling pails beneath. Neither

does it include poor Hank Jones who, shaking in every limb from the want

of his morning dram, is hastening to the nearest bar-room; nor “Loafing

Joe” either, who, I believe, never goes to bed, and who is always astir

with the earliest bird, and who now, with the seeds of the hay-mow which

afforded him his last night’s couch, and his hat all crushed up, giving

good evidence that he has used it for a night-cap, is lounging, with his

customary slouching gait, along the maple-sidewalk leading from

Hamble’s. But these morning sights and sounds soon vanish—the cows wend

their lazy way, lowing, to their respective sweet-scented pastures—the

“helps” disappear with their foaming pails—poor lost Hank, after

swallowing a draught sufficient to set his stomach in a flame, leaves

for home, and even “the Loafer” has turned up the “Stone Store road”

toward his little cabin on the hill-side. (He lives on the summit of

“Antimony Hill,” the name for the bluff at the left of the road, forming

the termination of “Coit’s Ridge.” I have a story to tell about that

“Ridge” one of these days.)

The village is buried in quietude, and so, I’ll go to breakfast. Well,

breakfast has been dispatched, and I am again at my post, pencil in

hand, to note down events as they shall occur. Ah! there comes “Squire

Belldong” along the turnpike from his dwelling, after having discussed

his first meal of the day. I’ll hasten up and follow him into “Saint’s”

store, for I see he is bound there—that is always his first

stopping-place. There’ll be some fun now. He is the greatest

mischief-maker in the village, pursuing his trade out of pure love for

it, for nothing delights him so much as “setting people by the ears,” as

he calls it. He is a lawyer, and as he lives by this laudable business,

perhaps he should not be blamed. At any rate, living or no living, he

follows the business up with the pertinacity of a greyhound after a

hare.

“Good morning, Saint! how are you this fine morning!” is his first

salutation to the keeper of the store.

“Good morning, Squire! I am very well! How are you and your family!”

“Very well, I thank you! although I didn’t sleep very well last night!”

“Ah! what was the matter?”

“Old John P.’s dog kept up such a confounded barking and yelling, that I

couldn’t sleep a wink. However, there was a deuced quick stop put to it

about two o’clock as I should judge.”

“How was that?”

“A pistol shot I fancy. I heard the report, and one yell from the dog,

and then all was as quiet as could be wished.”

Here Saint John began to pick up his ears. He stopped measuring some

calico which he had been busy on, and said—

“The deuce! Who could have shot him?”

“Loafing Joe they say. At least old Wheeler, whom I met at the upper end

of the village, told me so.”

“There’s a chance for a suit for you, Squire! John P. will complain,

wont he?”

“No doubt of it. Well Joe has got nothing, so he must e’en go to jail!”

“Good riddance for the village. I wish the vagabond was always there.”

“So do I. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Squire.”

Over goes the mischief-maker to Hamble’s across the road.

“Good morning, Hamble!” as he enters the bar-room, where he finds that

worthy making his lemons still sourer by looking at them.

“Have you heard the news, Hamble!” elevating his heels on the bar-room

table, and deliberately drawing out a cigar. “By the way, Hamble, give

me a light.” (He is also the most free and easy fellow in the world.)

“News! no—what news?”

“They say that old Wheeler shot John P.’s dog last night!”

“_They_ say! _who_ says? _They_ say means nobody.”

“Well, _they_ say in this case means your own son-in-law. Saint John

just told me so.”

“Where! I don’t believe it!”

“Well, you are very polite, Hamble. (Puffing away at his cigar in the

most imperturbable manner possible.) Saint told me so in his own store

not a minute ago. (Knocking off the gray ashy tip of his cigar with his

little finger.) However, it is a secret. Don’t say to Saint that _I_

told you, for he’ll be angry with me.”

“Not I. I shant probably think of it again.”

Down goes Belldong, not half satisfied yet, to Claypole’s store.

“Hellow, Claypole! how goes it with you this beautiful summer’s morning?

Heigho! I’m so confounded sleepy, I can hardly see.”

“What’s the matter now, Squire?”

“Why I was kept awake nearly all night, last night, by that infernal dog

of John P.’s. By the way, have you heard the news?”

“No! what is it?”

“Saint John shot that devilish dog last night.”

“N-o! you don’t say so!”

“Yes, but I do say so, and know so too.” (Very positively, at the same

time throwing away the stump of his cigar.)

“Why, who told you so?”

“Hamble—not a minute ago. He’s good authority isn’t he? About his own

son-in-law, too?”

“Why, yes—he’s the best kind of authority, considering whom he tells it

of.”

“Well it’s true, no doubt of it. However, don’t say I told you that

Hamble told me. It might get me into trouble.”

“Of course not. I shant bring your name in. But who would have thought

it? However, I am glad of it on the whole. That dog was the perfect

horror of the whole village with his yowling and yelling. I declare, on

the whole, I’m rejoiced at it. We’ll have some peace nights and stand a

chance of sleeping some. I vow to you, the other moonlight night he made

such a noise I couldn’t close my eyes. I got up and opened the window,

and what should I see (you know it was as bright as day) but that

infernal creature, planted on his four legs with his tail as stiff as a

mackerel, yowling at the moon, as if he was in the last stages of the

hydrophobia. I was so mad that I took one of my old boots, and may I be

hanged, if I didn’t hit him slap, right on his head. He had just opened

his great mouth for another yowl, but it changed to a yell double quick

time, I tell you, and the way he streaked it round the corner was

nothing to nobody. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I’m glad he’s dead, any way.”

“He! he! he! so am I. Well, good morning.”

Opposite walks he, straight as a bee-line, to Nate’s store.

“Well, Nate, how are you?”

“Pretty well, how is it with yourself?”

“So as to be stirring, though I’m sleepy as the deuce. Have you heard

the news this morning, Nate?”

“News, no! (Nate is as keen after news as after money, and that is

saying all that can be said on the subject.) What news? Do tell me,

Squire?”

“Well, I mean to tell you. You know John P.’s big dog, don’t you?”

“Yes. I hear him often enough nights to know him. What of it?”

“He’s been shot.”

“Good! First rate. But who shot him?”

“Old cheese, your brother-in-law up at the tavern there.”

“What, Hamble! You don’t say so!”

“But I do say so. And I say further, (but this you mustn’t repeat for

the world, Nate, that is, with me as your authority—now you wont, will

you?)”

“No, no, no, I tell you. What was you going to say further?”

“Why, I was going to say further, (and of course you wont repeat it as

you’ve promised not,) that Claypole told me so.”

“Whew! Who would have believed it? I’m devilish glad of it though,

anyhow.”

Down, as fast as his legs (and they are long ones,) can carry him,

stalks the mischief-maker to Wiggins’ tavern.

“I say, Wiggins, how goes the morning with you? Had many customers at

the bar yet, eh!”

“Well, not a great many, Squire! It’s rather airley yet.”

“So it is. You’ve heard the news this morning, doubtless, Wiggins?”

“News! no. What news, Squire?”

“Why, John P.’s infernal great yowling dog has been shot!”

“Shot—dog—John P. Why, you don’t say so, squire!”

“No. _I_ don’t say so, but Nate Hemstitch does, and further more he says

who shot him.”

“_The deuce_ he does. Who was it?”

“I’ll tell you, if you’ll promise not to bring me in the scrape.”

“I promise of course. Now, who was it?”

“Well, Nate says that Bill Claypole did it.”

“BILL CLAYPOLE! Well—who—would—have—supposed it. I’m all struck into

a heap!”

“So am I, and I haven’t been struck out of it yet. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I

must go to my office. Good morning.”

And away goes Belldong after having, like a great spider, woven a web of

mischief all over the blessed village, that isn’t untangled in a month,

and will probably be the cause of divers fisticuffings, if not lawsuits.

In the meanwhile, the sun has glided higher and higher on his golden

wheel up his steep blue eastern pathway. The day promises to be a real

Titian, where a splendid coloring steeps the landscape in a lake of

light, where the rich yellows and deep blacks lie side by side in

distinct gradations, where the leaves embroider their ghostly

counterfeits on the sidewalks, where the sky is glittering in its most

cerulean intensity, and the air is so crystal clear that the outlines of

the distant hills seem as if traced with a hair-pencil on their azure

background. The morning shadows, however, are commencing to shrink back,

so that an edging of sunlight stripes the left border of the village

street, whilst the street itself is bathed in deep gold, and the white

houses opposite sparkle from the breaks in the glossy foliage with the

most radiant and beautiful effect.

The country wagons now begin to roll in. Old Taggett appears with his

ox-cart creaking like “Deacon Morgan, with his voice like a wagon,” and

urging his piebald steeds with a goad as long as Mrs. T.’s tongue (and

that is long enough in all conscience).

Deacon Decker is also in the village, having driven from “Decker’s

Settlement” since sunrise, with eggs and butter to exchange for goods

and groceries at Saint John’s store; and, as I’m alive if here doesn’t

come old Deacon Lackstir, urging his fat lazy horses to an unwonted

trot, as if on especial and driving business.

He is making his way to Esq. Loop’s, and I’ll enter the precincts of

“Pettifogger’s Delight,” to see what constitutes his hurry.

“Good morning, Squire Loop,” says the deacon, drawing in his breath

through his mouth all puckered up as if in the act of whistling. “How

you do this morning? How is your wife and children? Doing well under

Providence, I trust! Well, squire, I’ve come this morning with a little

piece of paper to have you sue on’t. I don’t want to be deficient in

Christian meekness, but it’s scripter doctrine, you know, ‘to pay what

thou owest.’ He! he! he!”

Whilst the old deacon is thus giving evidence of his “Christian

meekness,” I take the opportunity to look over the justice’s docket.

Ha! by all that’s laughable, there is a suit to come off to-day.

“Nirum Coger _vs._ Jacob Kettle”—plea, slander. “For that whereas the

said defendant did on divers days and times, to wit, on the 4th day of

July, A. D. 1847, being then and thereunder the influence of strong

drink, and at the instigation of the devil, did, with sticks, staves and

stones, to wit, with a sharp instrument commonly called the tongue, say,

utter and publish, in the presence and hearing of divers respectable

persons of the village, and to their great scandal, that he (meaning the

said Nirum) was an infernal thief, and that he (meaning the said

defendant) could prove it; and furthermore, that he (meaning the said

Nirum) had stole a sheep and hid its ears in a stump,” &c. &c. &c.

Here’s fun enough in prospect for the greatest stoic in the universe. “I

will be there! At eleven o’clock—and it is within a few minutes of the

time now. So I’ll e’en take a seat.”

In a few minutes Nirum comes stumping over, on his crutches, from his

little saddler’s shop opposite, and after him, mimicking his gait in the

most ludicrous manner, comes his opponent, the most incorrigible

vagabond in the whole village, not excepting “Loafing Joe” himself. Abe

Kettle is certainly the very personification of blackguardism. “You are

as great a vagabond as Abe Kettle,” is a perfect proverb throughout the

place. This will be a rich trial, depend upon it.

By and by the jury (the standing one of the village,) come stringing in,

looking very solemn and important. Esquire Loop takes his seat at his

desk, “spectacles on nose,” and calls over the case.

“Nirum Coger.”

“Here.” (Propping himself up on his crutches.)

“Abraham Kettle.”

“Here.” (Suddenly overtaken with lameness himself, and limping up to the

desk.)

“Gentlemen, are you ready to proceed?”

“Yes, your honor,” squeaked little “Blackberry,” who was counsel for the

plaintiff, and popping up from his chair.

“I aint, your honor,” interrupts Abe.

“Why not pray?” asks the justice, looking over his spectacles at him

with a magisterial frown.

“I haint got no witness.”