“He shall have the same fate as his father—death. The one fell by this

hand, by the sword it is true; his son shall die by the rope. I’ll teach

them to refuse me. One more, and then my vengeance is complete. That

young lover of hers, Seaton!—but he cannot escape me; we have tracked

the band that he belongs to, and in a few days he too will be mine. But

how stands my modest beauty?” he asked of one of the gang who just rode

up from the rear. “She shall have a merry ride to-night, and in the

morning—”

“She has fainted from fatigue, and cannot ride farther,” interrupted the

other; “what must be done? As there is no danger from pursuit now, I

think we had better halt for the night. The Cypress is nigh, and that

will be the safest place between here and the Corners. Besides, the

captain, as they call him, is in the south now. So no fear of him.”

“I do not fear him,” answered the leader; and then after a pause of a

few moments he resumed—“Well, give the command to encamp at the swamp.

In the morning we will see what is to be done.”

Saying this, he relapsed into silence, and the other fell back on the

rear to give the orders for the night. Harry waited until the last of

the band had passed his place of concealment, and faded from sight in

the direction of the proposed stopping-place for the night; and then, as

if satisfied with the result of his plan, he again took the backward

trail to wait at the appointed place young Seaton, and his band, if he

should succeed in raising them.

Morning broke upon the forest with unusual freshness and beauty. The dew

sparkled on the young grass—the birds caroled sweetly from the

trees—the streamlet went leaping on its way in gladness, and sending

its music out into the sunny air as if the spirit of rejoicing sat upon

its tiny waves. It was yet early morning when our scene opens in the

camp of the outlaws. Here all was bustle and excitement. Men could be

seen gathered in groups in low conversation, as if some event of more

than usual interest was about to take place. In the centre of the

encampment could be seen two persons we have heretofore described. They

were seated some distance apart; the brother being fastened to a tree in

a sitting posture, with his hands confined to his side, while the sister

was suffered to remain unbound, but subject to a strict guard. He was

already doomed to death, and that the shameful one of the gibbet. Bitter

as was the pang at being cut off in the bloom of life, when the road to

fame was open to his view, and when his suffering and bleeding country

called aloud on all her sons for aid in this desperate contest. Still

this was nothing for him. But then his sister, and that sister the

witness of a father’s murder, was now a captive, and at the mercy of

that father’s murderer—this made the doom doubly bitter. And there at

his side sat that sister mute and tearless, for the dreadful scenes

through which she had passed seemed to have shut up the fountains of her

grief, while he who should have been her protector was now helpless as

herself. These were the thoughts that were coursing through his mind

when the leader of the band approached the spot where he was confined.

If ever vice and malignity had chosen a resting-place, the face of that

man was their home; and now as he gazed upon the consummation of all his

long-cherished plans of lust and vengeance, the time for which he had

hoarded up the passion of years, his look assumed the aspect of a demon.

Calmly he gazed upon the captives, as preparing himself for the

outbreak, and then advancing still nearer, he said—

“Do you accept my proposals, or must I compel you to that you cannot now

avoid?” This was addressed to Emma Wilson. “Accept this hand, and your

brother lives; refuse me, and he dies upon the tree before an hour.”

What answer Emma would have given is unknown, as at this moment her

brother caught the question, and turning to the ruffian, he answered—

“No, Emma, murderer as he is, he dare not do this; and if death must

come, it would be nothing compared to the union with a wretch like

this.”

But then as the helpless condition of that sister, already in the power

of this man, and as the desperate and lawless character of the band, all

pressed upon the mind of the brother, he sunk his voice to a whisper,

and said, as the tears came gushing into his eyes—

“Man, man, if you have the commonest feelings of humanity, I implore you

do not harm my sister. Do with me as you like—give me to the fire, or

the tree—but spare a brother the agonizing thought of a sister’s

shame.”

A bitter smile passed over the face of the outcast as he saw the agony

of his prisoner—a smile that spoke of triumph and revenge—but it was

only for a moment, and when he again spoke, his voice was calm and

resolute.

“And does the high-spirited and haughty blood of the Wilson’s deign to

supplicate me? Me! the outcast they once spurned. To what am I indebted

for this favor? But no!” and sinking his voice into that of a person

fearful of his own passions, he proceeded, “I offer her this hand—if

she accept it you are free, if not, you die—not the death of a man, but

the death of a dog. And still she shall be mine.”

For the first time since the captain of the gang had made his

appearance, Emma raised her eyes to those of her brother. She heard the

determination of the ruffian, and knew from his previous acts that to

will and to do was the same with him. Nerving herself, therefore, for

the contest, she said:

“Do your worst—I never will be yours. Your hand struck down my

gray-haired father when he knelt to you, and your hand raised the torch

to the family roof-tree, and sent us, homeless orphans, out upon the

world. It can but be death, and that is paradise compared to a life with

you.” And then turning to her brother, she continued—“George, I would

do all to save you but dishonor myself and our spotless name—that I

cannot do—forgive me—that is a sister’s resolve.”

“Bless you, Emma, for those words—now I can die.” And sinking his

voice, he continued—“But there still may be hope—our men cannot be far

off, and if Seaton did but know of this.” The paleness of his sister’s

cheek told George he had touched a tender chord, and hastening to

redress the wound he had inflicted, he said—“I do not entirely despair,

if I could but gain a few hours; the captain is still in the field, and

there is still hope.”

The leader had now left them, and the brother and sister now talked of

the past, and Emma’s heart was fast telling her, as the name of Seaton

was mentioned, that she had long and fondly loved him. But this reverie

was interrupted by the return of the outlaw, who had been talking with

some of his band. Advancing still closer to Emma, he said:

“Have you decided?—the time has come, and I am in no mood for

trifling—remember, this is the last chance for your brother’s life.”

“I remember,” replied Emma, “and I have decided—for death—both of us,

for I survive not him.” And drawing a small knife from her bosom, she

said—“Now leave us.”

“’Tis well—you will find me no sluggard in the fulfillment of my

promises,” said the other, his voice hoarse with suppressed passion.

“Here, guard, hang this rebel to the nearest tree; we will find if his

high-bred sister can act as well as talk.”

Obedient to their leader’s command, the outlaws seized upon the

prisoner, and leading him to a little distance from the spot where his

sister sat, commenced the horrid preparations for his death. Shading her

eyes with her hands, Emma sat mute and motionless, the picture of

despair. In haste the fated noose was made and fastened around the neck

of the captive, and now all was ready. Again did the heartless villain

urge the sister to accept the offer of his hand, but this time in mere

mockery; but the words of her brother, as he blessed her for the

resolve, came to her and she sat mute. Stung by this display of courage,

the ruffian now gave the word for the completion of the execution.

The cord had been run over the limb of the tree, and two of the band

waited the signal from the captain. Around had congregated the gang to

witness the proceeding. All was stillness. The spot was wild and

lonely—a single open space amid the dense swamp that on every hand

spread its curtain of foliage, so that the eye could not reach but a

small distance into the environs of the encampment. And there stood that

brother. He had taken the last view of nature—the last farewell of his

sister—the last thought of his country—and now, he stood firm and

collected. And near him was the leader of the band, a glare of triumph

lighting up his eyes as he saw the end of all approaching. Gazing upon

his victim’s face for a moment, he said—

“George Wilson, you once despised me and rejected my friendship. I loved

your sister—you thwarted me in that love, now I am your captor, ask no

mercy—I will grant none.”

“Wretch!” replied Wilson, “I despise alike your friendship and your

mercy. Talk not of love. Such a villain cannot feel the passion; but

think not to escape for this deed, the band to which I belong will not

let my blood be spilt in vain. You tremble at the name—well you may—it

will be a curse on your path, and you will pay a heavy penalty for this

day’s work.”

“No more of this ranting,” interrupted the outlaw. “Think not to fright

me from my purpose. Marion himself could not do that. Ha! ha!—who

conquers now?”

As he finished, he raised his bugle to his lips and blew a shrill

blast—the signal for the execution. The blast was repeated from the

wood, and the last note had not died upon the ear, when breaking from

the thickness came the band of Marion. Had the trump of the Archangel

sounded, it could not have struck greater consternation into the gang,

who stood paralyzed, mute and lifeless as statues. A moment after came

the crash of a hundred rifles, carrying death and dismay into the ranks

of the Tories, followed by the sabres and pistols of the men, and the

iron heels of the horses. Escape was impossible. Surrounded on all

sides, and struck with terror at this unthought of rescue, the ruffians

made no resistance, but fled. Dashing into the midst of the scene, the

rescuers, with young Seaton at their head, soon made a clear field.

Giving orders to capture the few remaining Tories, he dismounted and cut

the bands that confined his friend, who until this time seemed

unconscious of what was acting around. But as he saw the face of his

companion, and recollected other familiar comrades, he awoke, and

seizing the hand of his friend, pressed it in silence.

When the first moment of surprise was over Seaton asked the fate of

Emma, in a tone and manner that told how much of his happiness was

centered there. Her brother pointed to where he had left her, and there

she lay upon the green sod, for she had fainted amid the noise and

tumult of the last few moments. To fly to her and raise her up—to clasp

those soft hands, and sprinkle the pure brow with water, was the work of

a moment for Seaton, and as she recovered and rested her head upon his

bosom, to tell her she was safe, and that her brother was safe, was a

sweet task; and then to hear from those lips the throbs of a guileless

heart, and to read in those bright eyes more than a maiden’s modesty

would tell, was a sweet recompense for Seaton. And now the brother and

sister were united, and Seaton left them to complete the victory. He saw

the day had been won, as one by one his men returned, bringing with them

the bare remnants of the gang. On the ground he discovered the scout

engaged in searching for the body of the leader. It was found, still

holding in his hand the trumpet, as he had held it when the death-shot

had struck him. Giving his orders to the scout, Seaton made instant

preparations for departure. The lover rode by the side of Wilson and his

sister, and from them he heard all the occurrences of the last few

hours. After a ride of some length they reached the camp in safety, and

the next day Emma Wilson was placed under the charge of some friends

remote from the scene of war; but not until she heard from the lips of

Seaton the confession of his love, and he received in return the

assurances of her affection.

The conclusion is soon told. After Seaton left the scout, he repaired to

the camp, and as Marion had not arrived, he assumed the command of the

band, and led them to the place agreed upon by him and the scout. Here

he fell in with Harry who was waiting for them, and he led them to the

Tories’ encampment, where they arrived just in time to thwart the

designs of the outlaws.

Seaton and Wilson continued to serve with Marion until the close of the

war. Both were in most of those daring and successful enterprises which

so distinguished that gallant officer. Harry also served out the war in

the capacity of scout, one of the most dangerous, as well as useful

posts in the army. After the close of the war Seaton pressed his suit

with Emma, and she again became a captive, though this time the chains

were garlanded with flowers. They rebuilt the old family mansion, near

which they erected a monument to the memory of Emma’s father, and with

her brother, who still continued a bachelor, they made their residence

there. Harry had his home there, and in the long winter nights would

tell to the children the story of “THE CAPTIVES.”

* * * * *

THE POET.

Who is the Poet? Know him by

The downcast and abstracted eye;

By careless mien and lofty brow;

By tones so musically low;

By a pale cheek of spirit light,

Telling of hopes and visions bright;

By a deep communing with all

That earth can good or gentle call;

By silent reveries and lone

The Poet, God’s best work, is known.

Where dwells the Poet? Seek him where

Voices of music fill the air;

Where flowers in beauty meet the sun;

Where streams in gentle silence run;

Seek him beneath the forest tree,

Where bird and breeze meet whisperingly;

Seek him where thunder peals are heard;

Where the proud elements are stirred;

Where Nature shows her giant force,

And earth is troubled in its course.

Seek him where all that stirs the soul

Is independent of control;

Where torrents rush, and lightning gleams,

Till earth a fierce volcano seems;

Where the proud ocean, boiling o’er,

Lashes the weak and frightened shore;

Where Nature moves in awful might,

Or proudly smiles in living light;

Wherever earth hath might or bloom—

There is the Poet’s cherished home.

What is the Poet? One who hath

A lonely and a troubled path;

He walks through life as in a dream—

Among mankind, but not of them;

A strange anomaly of earth—

A compound of despair and mirth;

A proud, high spirit, strange and wild,

Yet gentle as a little child;

A being filled with love and hate—

Each powerful—a thing of fate!

Who are the Poet’s friends? Alas!

But few in human shape he has;

Yet Nature shrines a hoard for him,

Far in her sanctuary dim:

Forth, from the flowers and gentle streams,

For him a ray of friendship gleams;

The breeze that shakes the forest-tree,

For him hath love and sympathy;

The sunset cloud a radiance lends—

And wave and star to him are friends.

Who is the Poet’s worshiped love?

A being from the halls above;

A thing of ideal life and light,

Intensely beautiful and bright;

Embodying it in human form,

With passions redolent and warm—

But sees, upon a near survey,

The visionary pass away;

And finds, instead of hope’s ideal,

A being cold, and false, and real.

What is the Poet’s heritage,

In every clime, in every age?

While living, disappointment, doubt,

To wear his wasting spirit out;

To feel ambition’s haughty fire,

Yet doomed to see its light expire;

To struggle on, and toil for fame;

To bear with scorn, and want, and shame;

To hope, and find that he must die.

For him, is life’s sole certainty.

What is the Poet’s meed, when life

Has passed, with all its toil and strife?

A tardy justice to his name;

A place upon the scroll of fame;

A wreath of praise which must atone

For years of suffering dark and lone;

A guerdon valueless at last,

When he who would have prized has past

Far from the sound of man’s rank breath—

A victor over all—even Death!

When should the Poet die? At eve,

When dew-drops glisten on each leaf;

When stars come forth from their abode

Beneath the footstool of our God,

And linger on the holy sky;

Then should the earth-worn Poet die:

When all is still, and pure, and calm,

Beneath the twilight’s hallowed balm—

When flowers and stars unfold to pray—

The Poet’s soul should pass away.

Where should the Poet sleep, when death

Has chained his proud, aspiring breath?

For those who loved earth’s gentle bloom,

Within a quiet lonely tomb,

Afar the deep still woods among—

Beneath green shadows, where the song

Of bird, and bee, and breeze can fall,

Making it pure and sacred all;

Where flowers pour forth their latest sigh—

There should the lowly Poet lie.

The proud in heart should slumber where

Enters no sound of earthly air;

Silent, in some cathedral old,

Where shadows fall from each marble mould;

Where the colored radiance scarce can tell

Of the world he toiled for, long and well—

Where, side by side, the mighty dead

A hallowing spell from their proud tombs shed—

Where the kings of the earth to muse may come—

The Poet may find his last, long home.

What is the Poet’s future lot

When death has passed? Oh, question not!

Those who in virtue’s pathway trod

Have found a dwelling with their God;

Those who, like straying sheep, have erred,

And doubted His revealed word,

Their fate is in His power who tries

Each pilgrim underneath the skies;

And He who kept the Poet here

Will bless him in a holier sphere.

* * * * *

TAKING TEA SOCIABLY.

FROM MY BUDGET OF ADVENTURES.

BY ELLA RODMAN.

It was a most lovely afternoon in June, neither inconveniently warm nor

uncomfortably chilly; the birds were singing merrily around, the breeze

came clear and refreshing, and an inexpressible gladness seemed to be

borne on the very atmosphere, while I stood in a state of considerable

satisfaction before the toilet-glass in my own particularly pleasant

little room. Not that I was in the least vain; oh no, I do not think I

was, because I remember wishing that my nose was not quite so

_retroussé_, and wondering if people could have the assurance to call my

eyes green, though, to tell the truth, I did not exactly know what else

to call them myself. I was going out to tea that afternoon; not to meet

a bevy of girls and get up a complete frolic, but to see an old friend

of my mother’s, a regular married woman, with several responsibilities,

who claimed all her care and attention—a place where there was not an

article in the shape of a beau, and yet I wished to be particularly

fascinating, interesting, and agreeable. I wore nothing but a simple

white muslin to be sure, yet I think I have seldom, if ever, taken as

much pains with my toilet as on that particular afternoon. I brushed,

and brushed my hair, which would friz in spite of me; and at last,

finding that I could do no better, I concluded to be sweet simplicity in

natural curls and unadorned innocence. I was pretty short, and pretty

stout, and not much calculated for a heroine at best, and yet as I

clasped a certain little gold cross around my neck, I fell to building

castles in the air, and dreaming scenes from life, in which I figured as

chief performer.

Must I explain? It is rather awkward to expose one’s own little plots

and manœuvres, but I really see no help for it, as this particular one

happens to be the centre around which all my movements revolved. We

lived in the village, which was quite a pretty collection of half houses

half villas, but still it was not _quite_ the country; there were no

handsome edifices standing far back from the road, with noble,

English-looking lawns in front, and endless gardens and a beautiful

water prospect back; oh no! every thing looked far more exact and

methodical, and an actual tea-drinking, with strawberries and cream, at

a real country-seat was not to be despised. There was a very handsome

place about a mile from the village, which had lately been taken by an

old friend of my mother’s, who, on moving from the city, was

considerably shocked and discouraged by the many inconveniences

attending a residence in the country.

Mrs. Morfield, when she had time, was a very entertaining woman, and

always had a great deal to say to my mother, and not much in particular

to me; but she had repeatedly pressed me in a very kind manner to come

and take tea with her sociably; and having never before availed myself

of this invitation, I had now concluded to go. Mrs. Morfield’s good

qualities, however, were considerably enhanced in my estimation by the

knowledge of her being the happy sister of a brother who had been quite

a favorite with me in my younger days. It was now three years since

Henry Auchinclass departed for college, and during that time I had never

once seen him, but his name had been frequently brought forward with a

grand flourish of trumpets, till my curiosity was quite excited to see

if he had altered so much from what I remembered him. Once a fugitive

piece of poetry fell into my hands, after passing through various

channels, and having just begun to admire sentiment, this production of

my old playmate’s stirred up all my ecstasy and enthusiasm. Prizes were

showered upon him at every examination, and in the eyes of his old

acquaintances his brow was encircled with a wreath of laurel that raised

him almost to a level with Shakspeare and Milton. This hero was now

actually coming among us with all his honors fresh upon him; whether he

really had arrived, or was going to arrive that afternoon, I did not

know, but thinking it extremely probable that, as the distance from Mr.

Auchinclass was not far, he would visit his sister as soon as possible,

I was seized with a sudden fancy to execute one of my long promised

tea-drinkings. At our last parting something of a fracas took place; but

I was quite a juvenile then, not more than fourteen, and now, with the

experience and improvement of three additional years, I _collected_ all

my energies to startle him with my fancied transformation.

There was a gentle tap at my door, and, her face quite radiant with

excitement and anticipation, in walked (or rather bounded, for she never

walked,) my chosen colleague, Annie Wilmot. A small basket hung on her

arm, a huge sun-bonnet almost concealed her pretty face, and she was

evidently bound on a strawberry excursion.

“Come, quick!” she exclaimed, “put on your hat, snatch up a basket, and

let us be off, for we shall have a grand time of it. The girls are all

pretty lazy, and require considerable stirring up, but there is a whole

caravan at the door now, waiting for the light of your presence. Come,

Ella, you’re a terrible snail! do make haste!”

_A strawberry excursion!_ Dear me, what an idea! my lip curled at the

very thoughts of it. Soil and tear my white frock among the brambles,

disarrange my carefully smoothed ringlets, and stain my hands like any

old strawberry-picker! I, a young lady of seventeen, perform such an

undignified part!

“I am sorry, Annie,” I replied, “but you really must excuse me in

consequence of a prior engagement.”

“_Prior engagement!_” repeated the laughing girl, mimicking my tone, as

she eyed me from head to foot, “I am afraid you will choke yourself with

big words—have you swallowed Webster, my dear? But really,” she

continued, with a courtesy of mock reverence, “you must excuse my not

being struck with your resplendent appearance before. Pray, if I may be

so bold as to ask, what do all these curls mean, and that cross, and

that particularly unrumpled-looking dress? Do initiate me as to this

prior engagement.”

“I am only going out to tea,” I replied, a little confused, while I

determined not to tell her where, for fear of her suspecting me. “But I

really think,” said I, “that we are too old to go a-strawberrying,

Annie—remember that we are no longer children.”

“Mercy on us! what has got into the girl? _too old to go

a-strawberrying!_ If we are too old to _gather_ strawberries,” said she,

“we must be too old to _eat_ them, so I advise you to give them up at

once. Farewell, Miss Propriety; I shall certainly send you a cap and a

pair of spectacles suited to your advanced years. Wherever you are

going,” she concluded, “I hope you will enjoy yourself as much as we

expect to—but I very much doubt it.”

“So much you know,” thought I; and away bounded my merry visiter,

probably to enlighten the waiting bevy as to the nature of my

objections, for I soon heard a great deal of buzzing and laughter as the

whole troop finally disappeared.

My toilet had received its last finishing touch, I screened my face with

a large sun-bonnet, and taking my parasol for further protection,

sallied forth. I entered upon my journey in a very pleasant frame of

mind; I was benevolently inclined that afternoon, and quite disposed to

view every thing in the best possible light; but notwithstanding this

happy temper, I became reluctantly convinced that walk was one of the

hottest and most disagreeable I had ever taken; the trees were few and

far between, so that it was really fatiguing to get from one to the

other, and scarcely a blade of grass refreshed the eye—nothing but

barren, parched, discouraging looking soil, whereon nothing ever could,

would, or did grow. Resolved, however, not to be damped at the very

outset, I toiled along, shut my eyes to keep out the sun, and tried to

feel happy and contented with my mouth full of dust.

At length, to my great relief, I approached the house, and worn and

exhausted as I was, it burst upon me almost like a vision of

Paradise—looking as cool and shady as possible in the midst of trees

that appeared at least half a century old. I closed the heavy gate

behind me, and walked leisurely up the graveled walk, quite charmed and

enraptured with every thing I saw. Here and there was placed a handsome

marble urn; tubs of orange and lemon-trees lined the whole walk from the

house; and in the back-ground I perceived strawberry-beds, cherry-trees,

and a large green-house. The steps leading to the front entrance were

very broad, and with a light step I sprung up the whole flight, quite

prepared for an afternoon of felicity. Those dark, solemn-looking

trees—there was something sad in their very grandeur. A low melody

played among the leaves as the summer wind wailed gently through them,

and I stood watching and listening, fascinated by a strange power, until

I almost forgot that I was to enter the house. All appeared very still

around, the blinds were closed, and the sound almost startled me as my

hand touched the bell.

Some time elapsed before the ring was answered; I was obliged to give

another, and another—and at length a slatternly-looking Irish girl made

her appearance, who kept the door as closely shut as possible, and by

placing her own substantial person in the aperture, effectually

prevented my efforts at ingress. She appeared by no means to relish my

intention of entering, and saying, in no gentle key: “And is it the

misthress ye’d be wanting to see? She’s busy with the childer, and

pr’aps will not lave them—but walk in a bit till I see.”

I followed my conductor, and entered an apartment on the first floor,

which evidently answered the purpose of a dining-room, and was, without

exception, as dismal-looking an apartment as I ever entered. The black

hair-cloth sofa was ornamented with slits in various places, from which

the stuffing was peeping forth, an exploit of which the young Morfields

were particularly proud; the chairs were in the same condition, the

carpet was torn in various places, and the whole room had a very

poverty-stricken appearance. On the mantel-piece were two large glass

jars, covering pots of very unnatural-looking artificial flowers,

considerably faded; over the sofa hung a picture of a sinking ship, and

on one side a representation of Robinson Crusoe landed on the desert

island. I felt irresistibly drawn toward that picture—it was dark,

gloomy, and discouraging, and it sympathized with my own feelings. My

hopes, too, had suffered a complete wreck; I entered upon the expedition

with warm, glowing feelings, but the walk, the Irish woman, and the

hopeless-looking apartment had blasted them entirely; and I was almost

wishing myself with the strawberry party, when the door opened, and Mrs.

Morfield entered, with a very bold, staring baby in her arms.

She appeared delighted to see me, and welcomed me so cordially, that I

quite forgot my recent dissatisfaction. She had one of the most sunny,

joyful dispositions I have ever encountered; she would have turned a

desert island into sunshine, and laughed at every trouble that came in

her way. Her temper must have been a happy one to stand the wear and

tear of six noisy boys; but although a delightful and entertaining

companion, she would have been still more so had she not always been in

a hurry. All she said was uttered so fast that her auditors were in

continual fear of her losing her breath; and one carefully avoided

lengthy replies with her, she always seemed so pressed for time.

“I am very glad,” said she, with a merry laugh, “that you have come, for

my own sake—and very sorry for yours, for both cook and nurse left me

this morning in a fit of ill-temper; and as I have only Kitty for a

helper, I am afraid you will fare but poorly for your tea. However, I

shall not make a stranger of you.”

I hastened to assure her that it was not of the least consequence to me,

for I thought to myself that with strawberries and cherries, a person

need not care for any thing else; and having succeeded in setting her

mind at ease on that point, she proposed that we should leave our room

for some other apartment. “Exactly like Kitty to put you here,” said

she, laughing, “but we will try if we cannot find a pleasanter.”

The baby, who behaved very much like a wooden machine, with the

exception of staring and sucking its fingers, was again clasped in her

arms, and we proceeded to the parlors. The blinds were shut closely and

fastened to, and Mrs. Morfield, encumbered with the baby, tried in vain

to open them. I gazed around, as well as I was able in the dark, and saw

that the rooms were very large and handsomely furnished—having a cool

appearance that was extremely pleasant. Very well satisfied with this

prospect, I lent my assistance to unfasten the shutters—but in vain,

they were obstinately determined not to open; and with a sigh I followed

Mrs. Morfield into the hall.

“Come here,” said she, as she threw open a door on the other side, “here

is a room that will just suit you, Miss Ella. I believe you are a little

romantic, and the prospect from these windows cannot fail to please

you.”

It was a complete fairy bower; the floor was covered with a light straw

matting; the pretty French bedstead had a canopy of thin white muslin,

bordered with lace, with a corresponding cover on the little

toilet-table; the chairs were of wood, prettily painted, and every thing

looked as light, airy, and country-like as possible. I was in ecstasies

with the whole arrangement, and on glancing from the window, I found

that the prospect quite justified Mrs. Morfield’s praises. Directly

beneath was the green, close-shaven lawn, studded with wide-spreading

trees, across which a majestic peacock every now and then strutted in

all the glory of beauty and splendor; while far away rose a dim,

indistinct mist of blue waters and purple mountains.

Mrs. Morfield, having placed her marvelous baby on the floor—marvelous

because it had been so quiet—seated herself in a low rocking-chair, and

gave me the whole history of her morning’s misfortunes. I was totally

uninterested in the whole proceeding, but not being required to make any

responses, I fixed my eyes on the scene without, and listened patiently

to the end. She then commenced a panegyric on the still piece of

humanity that sat sucking its shoe, which was quite natural, considering

that it was the only sister of six brothers. I even joined in these

praises, for its not crying appeared to me remarkable; and I began to

think that I had at length met with that often-described, but always

invisible curiosity—_a good baby_! The young lady was lifted from the

floor, and even bribed to sit on my lap, which surprised me still more,

as babies always had an invincible repugnance to me, which I returned

with interest, and no performance was more disagreeable to me than

baby-talk. I quite sympathized with the old bachelor, who, having picked

up a woman and baby on the road, took them into his wagon on condition

that the mother refrained from talking nonsense to her child. This the

lady readily promised; but forgetting at length the scruples of her

companion, she burst forth with: “Bless its little heart! so it should

go ridy pidy in the coochee poochee—” “Get out of my wagon!” thundered

the exasperated gentleman.

But the baby in question behaved remarkably well, and I really began to

feel quite an attachment for it. It was no great beauty, certainly; and

I did think I had seen heads that boasted more hair; but in its mother’s

eyes it was pre-eminently lovely, and as I wished to earn a character

for amiability, I praised it up to the skies. Its eyes were round, and

very staring, so I remarked on their unusual size, and Mrs. Morfield

observed complacently that they were exactly like its father’s—its

forehead was high and broad, which of course was a mark of genius—and

thus, with my own skill, and some promptings from the mother, I patched

up quite a beauty out of materials which seemed to have been thrown

together at random.

We had been chatting gayly for some time, and with the prospect from the

window, the charming room, and the pleasant manners of Mrs. Morfield, to

say nothing of what was yet in expectancy, I looked forward to a

delightful afternoon, when my entertainer suddenly rose, and declaring

she had quite forgotten Kitty, requested me to watch the child during

her absence.

“You seem to be so fond of her,” said she, “that I am going to make you

head nurse for a little while; but all you will have to do is to see

that she does not get into mischief. Just keep an eye upon her, will

you?”

I smilingly consented to perform this slight service: and skillfully

manœuvering her way out without attracting the child’s attention, Mrs.

Morfield closed the door behind her, and left me absorbed in a train of

very pleasant fancies. I thought it very probable that she would ask me

to make her a visit of a week at least; she must be so lonely, with no

companions but those riotous boys—for her husband, having just become

initiated into the mysteries of farming, spent his whole time out of

doors, directing, arranging, and often hard at work himself. He was only

visible at meal times, and I did wonder what had possessed his wife to

marry him, he was so little of a companion; but she appeared quite

satisfied with him, and looked upon all he did with admiring eyes. I

intended, during my visit, to be the tenant of the pretty room in which

I sat, and I pictured myself early in the morning throwing up the sash,

and leaning out to catch the sweet air of summer as it played amid my

hair, while a perfect burst of melody swept around from the birds, who

always took up their station in those grand old trees—or at evening,

when I wandered over the lawn, or rested, with a book in my hand beneath

one of those spreading oaks—oh, it would be so delightful!

Here my attention was suddenly brought back to realities by a loud

squeal which proceeded from the mouth of my forgotten charge. The young

lady, having grown tired of amusing herself with an old shoe, glanced

about for further employment, and not being at all pleased to see a

stranger substituted for her mother, gave vent to her indignant feelings

in a succession of particularly edifying screams. I was at first quite

surprised, having been deluded into the belief that she was an excellent

kind of a child, who would maintain almost the same position for a whole

day at least. I did not suppose it necessary to feel the least

responsibility concerning her; but I soon found that nothing was further

from her intentions than to be neglected in this manner. Having a mortal

aversion to strangers, the child crept rapidly toward the door, crying

all the time, and it seemed almost impossible to pacify her. But at

length I succeeded in placing her on my lap, where I tried very hard to

convince her that the cross which I wore, and two or three rings, were

the greatest curiosities that had refreshed her sight in a long time.

For a little while she condescended to be duped by the lavish encomiums

which I bestowed upon these articles; but soon recollecting that she had

seen very much such things before, she broke forth anew. I then resorted

to the very original amusement of shaking a thimble on a pair of

scissors; but quite enraged at the idea of my attempting to quiet her in

this manner, she screamed louder than ever, and I was obliged to

surrender my poor curls to her savage grasp.

She even deigned to laugh and be quite amused with this employment for

some time, especially when she saw my evident reluctance to be so

tortured; but after a while I grew more accustomed to it, and endured

her pulls with so much philosophy that she left off in high dudgeon. She

then became quite interested in the excitement of scratching at me with

her nails, and crying between spells; but finding this performance any

thing but pleasant, I placed her on the bed and gave her a small box of

tapers from the writing-table, which she opened and shut, and scattered

about with evident satisfaction. Finding the young termagant so quietly

disposed, I ventured to glide back to my window, and wondered what could

keep Mrs. Morfield so long—not feeling exactly satisfied with this

baby-tending. But then as her sunny face rose up before me all my anger

vanished, and I felt quite sorry and concerned to think that she was

probably busy in the kitchen with the awkward Kitty, in order to get a

presentable tea for her visiter. The baby was now so quiet and

well-behaved, that I almost regretted the hard thoughts I had

entertained toward it; and in a more pleasant frame of mind, I took up

the last number of “Graham,” which lay upon the table, and was soon

deeply buried in its fascinating pages.

The quiet, however, was of short duration; I was startled by a noise of

something falling, and on glancing at the bed, it was empty! In horror

and despair I sprung to the other side, and there lay my young torment,

quite purple in the face, with the tapers scattered around, and one of

the large, ruffled pillows under her. I fully expected to be imprisoned

and tried for murder, and hesitating to have my fears confirmed, I

caught up the child to see if it still breathed. My touch immediately

restored life and animation; having fortunately fallen with the pillow

under her, she had not been hurt in the least—but extremely frightened

and angry at her unceremonious descent, she held her breath for some

time with passion, (an exploit in which good babies are very apt to

indulge,) but she now sent forth screams that were absolute music in my

ears, as they assured me beyond a doubt that my tormentor was still in

the land of the living. The tapers were bitten quite flat in various

places, and several had disappeared—whether down her throat or not I

could not tell; but I gathered up the remainder, and devoted myself to

the task of quieting the child.

I was now fairly in for it; I reasoned with myself a short time, and

became convinced that the fault must be entirely my own—_I_ was the one

to blame, for its own mother had praised it as an excellent baby, and

she surely ought to know—my bad management was the sole cause of its

present behavior. My ambition was concerned to restore its good humor;

Mrs. Morfield would be far better pleased to be relieved from the

trouble of tending it, and animated with new energy, I seized it in my

arms, and began dancing wildly around the room. The young lady regarded

me with a look of approval, and sucked her fingers in quiet content. It

was very solid, and appeared to me the heaviest baby I had ever carried,

still I toiled on as long as I was able, but the moment I sunk into a

seat she began to scream; and as I had at length found the means of

quieting her, I endeavored to keep up for a short time longer—hoping

every moment that Mrs. Morfield would enter the door and relieve me. I

wondered that she did not hear the child cry; it seemed as though such

screams must pierce the thickest wall; but the time passed on, and I was

still imprisoned with my tormenting charge. At length I was obliged to

give up—I really could not lug her around any longer; and sinking down

in a kind of despair, I was entertained with an interminable fit of

crying.

In the midst of this ebullition I happened to look out upon the lawn,

and seeing a peacock pass leisurely along, I resolved to turn it to some

account. Resting my heavy burden on one arm, with the other I pointed

out the bird, knocked on the glass to it, talking as much nonsense in

the meantime as I had ever heard in my whole life. The young lady was

highly delighted—she stopped crying, and gazed with rapture on the

brilliant color of the feathers. But at last, the peacock grew tired of

spreading out his tail, and walked slowly away to my great annoyance,

and also to that of my charge—who, finding that no more was to be seen,

resumed her customary music. If ever a full sense of the beautiful

dawned upon me, it was at the sight of a black hen and a brood of little

chickens, who very obligingly supplied the absence of the peacock, and

quarreled over some crumbs which had been thrown beneath the window. The

child appeared to be fascinated by any thing that had the power of life;

on the disappearance of the hen and chickens she transferred her

raptures to a grave-looking cat; and I even hailed with delight the

appearance of a grasshopper, if he took a pretty high spring.

But at last everything was gone; there seemed to be a strange

perverseness among the live-stock that afternoon—not a peacock

refreshed my sight, not a chicken could I spy, not even a grasshopper

beamed upon my eagerly strained vision; and evidently regarding me as

the cause, the child screamed furiously, and struggled to escape from my

hold. Oh, how my poor arm did ache with tending that little termagant! I

was hot and exhausted with my efforts to amuse her, the afternoon was

now rapidly passing away, and as yet I had tasted none of my expected

felicity. The child was screaming; I sat quite listless and passive in a

large easy-chair, regarding my burden with a look of hopeless weariness,

and wondered if this could possibly be the excellent baby who had only

wanted an eye kept upon it. An eye, indeed! Eyes, arms, tongue, feet,

breath, every thing had been spent in vain; and now, in a state of

desperation, I resolved to be freed from my odious bondage, and flung

wide open the door leading into the hall, that Mrs. Morfield might reap

the full benefit of her child’s inexhaustible lungs.

This manœuvre answered the expected end; my hostess soon made her

appearance with a troubled look, and relieving me of the torment, she

clasped it fondly in her arms, saying in a soothing voice:

“Did they leave it, darling? No, they shouldn’t plague my baby, no they

shouldn’t—mother’s own pet! Ah, oh, you naughty girl!” with a pretended

slap, “I’ll teach you to plague my darling!”

The young lady, having satisfied herself that I was undergoing proper

correction for my misdemeanors, condescended to be pacified, and

surveyed me with an aspect of great complacency. Quite wearied out with

her superhuman exertions, she soon fell asleep; and having deposited her

on the bed, Mrs. Morfield expressed her wonder at the child’s behavior.

“It is quite surprising,” she continued, “she is generally so good and

so little trouble—I begin to think, Ella, that you cannot be very well

versed in the accomplishment of nursing.”

I was quite provoked at this insinuation, after all the pains I had

taken, and replied with some warmth, that good or bad, such a child was

enough to provoke the patience of Job.

“Oh, stop! stop!” said she pleasantly. “It is easy to see that you are

cut out for an old maid.”

Well, if this really was not too much! wasn’t it, now? To be sure old

maids are very nice people—I would speak of the community with all due

respect; but still no girl of seventeen likes to be threatened with a

life of single blessedness, because she cannot regard with much

affection a cross, troublesome baby, who has teased and tormented her a

whole afternoon. I was too full to speak, and Mrs. Morfield regarded me

with considerable amusement; but swallowing my irritated feelings as I

could, I complied with her invitation to walk out to tea. I fear that I

regarded the table with a blank look of astonishment, for not a sign of

fruit could I discover; and Mrs. Morfield apologized for the omission by

saying that she had no one to gather it. I had quite forgotten that

fruit did not drop into dishes of its own accord; and in no very amiable

mood I sat down to a supper of flannel-cakes, which I soon found had

been very appropriately named.

Mr. Morfield now made his appearance, and took his seat without a coat;

the table being further embellished with the six young Morfields, who

had been sent out with their father. Mr. Morfield liked every thing

countrified, and in accordance with this prejudice, the eating utensils

consisted of large buck-handled knives and forks, which, after my

fatigue, I could scarcely hold; and my hand trembled so in lifting my

cup that I narrowly escaped spilling the whole contents. I never worked

so hard in my life as I had then; I felt completely reduced and

enervated, and could scarcely move my arms.

“It is rather strange,” said Mrs. Morfield, “that Henry has not been

here—he was to have come to-night, was he not, father?” Mr. Morfield

nodded assent, being busily engaged with the flannel-cakes, and she

continued—“It is really too bad, Miss Ella, to have no beau to offer

you—but have patience, and perhaps the truant will come yet.”

After tea I concluded to reconnoitre the garden; but there was not much

pleasure, after all, in wandering off alone; Mrs. Morfield being engaged

with the baby, who was now wide awake, and Mr. Morfield occupied in some

distant part of the ground. Then, too, the view of ripe fruit staring

one right in the face with such an impudent kind of an air, as if it

knew that I could not get at it, was any thing but agreeable; I thought

of the baskets I had intended to bring to carry home all my spoils, and

turned aside in extreme irritation. I looked up and down the road, but

the tardy collegian was not to be seen; and with no very high opinion of

“a social tea-drinking,” I returned to the house. We passed a tedious

evening, and at length quite tired out, I announced my intention of

going home. With Mr. Morfield for an escort, I again traversed the weary

road, forcibly impressed with the difference between Romance and

Reality.

Oh, how they did laugh at me! as bursting into tears I recounted all my

toils and troubles; the idea of going out sociably to tea, and tending

baby for an afternoon’s amusement, drew forth bursts of merriment, that

grated on my ears as if in mockery of my overthrown expectations. But I

seemed to dwell more particularly on Mrs. Morfield’s disagreeable

prophecy than the unsatisfactoriness of the visit, and their laughter

redoubled when after representing in glowing colors my toiling efforts

to gain the name of a good nurse, I told of my dismay at finding myself

branded with such an epithet. This appeared to strike them as the most

ridiculous part, and I sat in sullen silence while they gave vent to

their amusement. “So much for sympathy,” thought I.

For myself, I was thoroughly disgusted with “not being made a stranger

of;” but my mortification was complete when the next morning Anne,

looking over the fence which joined ours, exclaimed—

“You cannot tell what a delightful strawberrying we had. None of us

returned with empty baskets, which you know has sometimes been the case;

and we not only found strawberries, but, would you believe it, picked up

a real, actual _beau_! Now, guess who it was—some one you have not seen

in a long time?”

I _did_ guess, but remaining silent, my companion continued—

“Why, we were actually discovered by the college-poet, Henry

Auchinclass, just returned to be lionized and spoiled—who came upon us

rather suddenly as we were making somewhat of a noise for well-behaved

young ladies, and insisted upon helping us. What a merry time we had! He

told us so many funny stories, and then we all concluded to take a walk

off to the mill-pond; and I believe we stayed almost as late as you did.

Now, where were you?”

_Where_, indeed! Oh, that I had gone with the strawberry-party! Anne

communicated many more particulars, and then, unperching herself from

the fence, ran into the house, while I, in quite a brown study, followed

her example. That very afternoon I beheld the object of this commotion,

but with that one glance vanished all my disappointed feelings—for _he

had a cigar in his mouth_! Sentiment, vanity, castle-building, all ended

in smoke. I had always despised tobacco-snuffers, tobacco-chewers, and

tobacco-smokers; that one cigar brought down my hero from the pedestal

whereon I had placed him, and again I “roamed in maiden meditation,

fancy free.”

By the bye, Mrs. Morfield never did ask me to make her a visit—she

would doubtless require a better baby-tender; and ever since I have had

an unconquerable aversion to taking tea sociably.

* * * * *

THE COQUETTE’S VOW.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

I promise _while_ I love you,

To love you true and well;

But, by that cloud above you,

How long—I dare not tell.

I promise to be tender,

And docile to your sway;

I promise to surrender

My soul—at least—_a day_.

But if—but if—to-morrow

I chance to grow more wise—

If Love should dream you borrow

Your light from Fancy’s eyes;

If I should weary, playing

On one eternal lyre,

And touch, with fingers straying,

Some other chords of fire;

If they should answer willing,

In sweeter tones than you,

Forgive my heart for thrilling,

And own _my ear is true_.

You have the same permission

To tire, to change, to go,

With only one condition—

That you will _let me know_.

Then chide me not for changing

When I’ve gone through the book,

But chide the bee for ranging,

And chide the sportive brook.

When through the dark cloud smiling

The sunbeam wandered warm,

A rainbow came, beguiling

To beauty all the storm.

But if when light was banished

By cold, unwelcome rain,

That rare guest paled and vanished,

Oh! could the cloud complain?

A wild bee found a rose

And nestled in its heart,

But when its leaflets close

The flutterer fain would part.

Air, freedom, light and heaven

It would not so resign;

Then if those leaves be riven,

Ah! should the rose repine?

Since round your being real

My fancy deigns to fly,

Keep up to my Ideal,

Or you are false—not I.

Yet though unlike most lovers,

I vow at once to change

If fancy e’er discovers

A nobler field to range.

Of this at least be sure,

That even when I go

I’ll probably be truer

Than some who swear they’re so.

And though less true than truant,

I shall not _fall_ in love;

But of some star pursuant,

Still rise to light above.

Then, since around your Real

My Fancy deigns to fly,

Keep up to my Ideal,

Or you are false as I.

* * * * *

STANZAS.

Harm not the living—on the stage of life

Play well your parts, that when the bell shall toll

To note your exit, ye shall hear the strife

Of echoing plaudits, and the deafening roll

Of music round you. O! across the soul

Will come the freshness of its dewy Spring;

And ye shall leap toward the destined goal,

And snatch the victor’s garland; while there ring,

Through the arena, shouts of kindly welcoming!

So live, that when upon the voiceless air

Shall come the echoes of your passing bell,

From the lone minster, they to you shall bear

Sweet thoughts and pleasant memories—the dell

Where grew the violets, shall, like a spell,

Rise up before your spirit, and the rill

That wantoned with them, laughing, ere it fell

For very joy adown the craggy hill—

And so your dream shall end—awake in Heaven ye will.

* * * * *

THE REVEALINGS OF A HEART.

BY D. T. KILBOURN.

“Oh, Ellen! is not this a most enchanting prospect! How lovingly those

little islands rest their grassy heads upon the tranquil bosom of the

deep blue waters! And those distant sails—how like beings of life and

thought they seem, gliding so gracefully over its glassy surface.

Indeed, when one views this noble edifice—these cultivated

gardens—this lovely prospect—and inhales the cool sea-breeze wafted

from the bosom of the mighty ocean—instead of the abode of the poor,

helpless and forsaken, he would suppose it the resting-place of some of

the great from yon proud city; who, weary of its noise and din, had

retired hither to enjoy in sweet repose the accumulated wealth of

years.”

“It is, indeed, a lovely prospect,” said her companion, gazing

thoughtfully upon the scene before her—and as a pensive smile lit up

her expressive features, she continued—“Invariably after visiting an

institution of the kind, such a weight of sadness seems to oppress me,

that my mind is little calculated to enjoy the beautiful.”

“Sadness, Ellen! What is it possible you can find here to make you sad!

For, laying aside the beauties of nature, have we not seen with what

care and neatness every thing is arranged—what a regard to comfort. And

then not only are the physical wants of the inmates provided for, but

the mental and religious seem not forgotten.”

“Mental, Lucy! Where the mental?”

“Why,” said her companion, slightly coloring, “did we not see those

spacious school-rooms for the children, and the chapel, where public

services are held every Sunday?”

“Why, Lucy, you cannot possibly suppose some eighty or a hundred

children, placed under the care of one instructor, and that one,

perhaps, taking no interest in his duties further than to secure a

livelihood, as likely to derive much benefit from such a course of

mental instruction. But,” added she, in a more lively tone, observing

the embarrassment of her companion, “but, dear coz, those little ones

formed not the burden of my thoughts—for children, you know, like

flowers, though crushed to the earth by the pelting storm, the drops

which weigh down their trembling petals, reflect but light and love. And

however the foreshadowings of their destiny may creep upon the soul, it

requires but one bright smile to chase all gloom away. Bless their sunny

hearts! this earth would be a dreary waste without them. But, Lucy, what

makes me particularly sad, is that whenever I visit a place of the kind,

I see so little of joy and gladness; so much of sorrow and concealed

despair expressed in the countenances of its inmates.”

“But, Ellen, is it not always thus wherever we meet the unfortunate?”

“This is precisely what oppresses me—to see their physical condition so

materially altered, while the diseases of the mind remain unchanged. I

may be, Lucy, like ‘the Charming Woman,’ talking of things which I do

not understand, but still it is no _heresy_ for me to express my

thoughts, at least to yourself, dear coz. It seems to me, could we but

raise the veil which shrouds the human heart, and witness there its

temptations, its hopes, its fears, its anguish; its struggles to free

itself from the incubus of passion which weighs it to earth; its ardent

longings for the soothing dews of Heaven to cleanse and heal its

poisoned wounds; yes, could we but look into the heart of the veriest

wretch that breathes, and trace throughout the searing hand of sin, and

then into the depths of our own bosom, it might be that the only

difference we should find between that blackened, noisome thing, and our

own boasted purity would prove but the absence of temptation! And yet,

when we see around us all the exertions which are made for the relief of

the poor and distressed, the imperfection of the work seems not so much

a lack of _will_, as a lack of knowledge of its cause. Had there been

but one-fourth the time devoted to man’s spiritual, that has been to his

physical being—to the habits, dispositions and sagacity of the inferior

animals—or even to the investigation of unorganized matter—how

different would have been the result.”

“Ellen,” said her cousin, “can you believe that _every heart_ craves the

pure aliment of Heaven! Are there not some, who, place before them what

inducements you might, would still prefer the grosser joys of earth?”

“Lucy,” answered she, while from her deep blue eyes beamed Heaven’s own

purity—“look at those beautiful islands, like so many emeralds embedded

in the deep. Those cultivated fields, rich with the burden of a coming

harvest. Should the dews of Heaven cease to refresh them what would they

present? One barren, scorching waste, from which the eye would turn with

pain. Our body, too, deprive it of its proper sustenance, how soon would

it sicken and die! And thus, if the soul be immortal (and surely it must

be so, since it is a breath of Deity!) then must it ever crave the food

of immortality, though the poor trembling wretch, led blindfold by his

passions, may not know for _what_ he so longingly sighs, nor why his

earthly pleasures, as soon as tasted, become a nauseous drug. But see,

uncle is waiting for us.”

The foregoing conversation was held between the daughter and niece of a

wealthy merchant of one of our populous cities. His daughter, Lucy, the

younger by two years, possessed, together with great personal beauty and

love for the beautiful, an active and playful imagination, which, like

the first glad rays of the morning sun, that sport around the mountain’s

brow, gilding its summits with a thousand varied hues, but never

penetrate the depths below—while from Ellen’s stronger and more highly

cultivated intellect (though possessing in a less degree the light

attractiveness of morn,) there radiated the glowing and vivifying

influence of its noontide intensity. Lucy, with her merry laugh, sunny

smiles, and playful wit, was the delight of her father. Ellen was his

support! She prepared his favorite dishes—she charmed him with her

conversation, and soothed him with her song. Often was the old gentleman

heard to exclaim—“Never was a man so blessed in his children! My merry

Lucy forms the sunny spot in life—but my beautiful Ellen gives to life

its charm.” Though few beyond her own domestic circle, and the poor,

were ever heard to call her beautiful! To a common observer, or (in the

circles of fashion) as she moved by the side of her lovely cousin, there

appeared little in Ellen’s face or figure to call forth admiration;

although, as mistress of a large fortune, flatterers were not wanting.

But, as one gazed upon her animated countenance, as with witching

kindness she endeavored to chase from the brow of her aged uncle, some

cloud of anxious care, or bent over the couch of distress in the home of

the wretched, and, with the soft low tones of sympathetic melody seemed

to quell the raging storm in the bosom of the blasphemous inebriate,

such a halo of purity seemed to encircle her broad, thoughtful brow,

that the gazer turned away a better and a holier being.

The two girls had been standing on the eastern balcony of the Alms-house

at ——, so absorbed that they noted not the flight of time, until

Ellen’s exclamation, “Uncle is waiting for us,” aroused them.

“My children,” said Mr. Norton, as they descended, “I had begun to think

you had quite forgotten me, and my rheumatism prevented me seeking you

above stairs; but, now that you are here, Mr. Barker is going to

accompany me through the insane department—you, Ellen, I know would

like to go—but what says my little Lucy?”

“If you please, papa, I will wait here your return, and watch that noble

steamer as she ploughs the wave, proud as it were of her happy burden,

for from the music and the throng, I judge they have a pleasure-party on

board. And as cousin Ellen seems determined to chase away all my fairy

visions, do, dear papa, take her with you while I endeavor to recruit my

spirits.”

Ellen, smiling, placed her arm within her uncle’s, and Mr. Barker led

the way to a long low range, not far from the main-building.

Entering an apartment from which the light and pure atmosphere of heaven

seemed banished, while the howls of the wretched maniacs (caged, like so

many wild beasts, in their dreary cells, with naught upon which to rest

their weary, lacerated limbs, but a heap of filthy straw,) struck upon

the ear like the shrieks of the lost, causing the warm life-blood to

recede from the heart and curdle in the veins. Mr. Norton, feeling the

sudden grasp of Ellen, and noting her pallid countenance, said

hurriedly—

“My dear, we had better not proceed; let us turn back.”

“Oh, no! dear uncle,” she exclaimed, making an effort at composure, “do

not think of me, it was but a momentary weakness.”

As they proceeded from cell to cell, Ellen’s kind tone and pleasant

smile, seemed to touch some hidden spring in the heart of these wretched

beings, causing the jarring discordant strings to vibrate in momentary

harmony. Each strove to withdraw her from the other, to listen to his

tale of wo or imagined felicity. Some insisted that she was a being of

superior order, sent to release them from their horrible

confinement—until at last, overcome by her feelings, she leant for

support against the frame of a half-open door that led to an inner

apartment, lost in thought, and taking no cognizance of what passed

around her.

From this abstraction she was aroused, by—“Madam, he has been dying

these two days. I do not think he can last over to-night.”

“Who dying?” said Ellen, with a shudder, observing at the same time the

coarse, hard-hearted looking female that addressed her.

“I thought you were looking at that gentleman,” pointing to a low cot.

“Yes, as I said, he has been dying these two days; and a hard time we’ve

had of it with his endless screeching and screaming for somebody to pray

for him! But hard praying it would take, in my opinion, to do much good

for the likes o’ him! Why, madam, you should have heard his raving—it

would have made your hair stand on end!”

Ellen approached the bed. Before her lay, though pale and motionless as

in the cold embrace of death, a being of God-like impress. His jetty

locks flung from his upturned face, fell in loose masses on his pillow,

displaying a brow which bore the stamp of high and lofty intellect:

while drooping lashes of the same dark hue, pressing so heavily on his

marble cheek, contrasted strangely with the deathly pallor of his

chiseled features, on which were marked deep furrows—not such as

wrought by either time or care, but mighty convulsions of the soul!

* * * * *

It was a dreary night in the month of November—the dark spirit-wind

which had all day murmured in sullen grandeur the funeral dirge of the

departing year among the leafless branches of the mighty forest, as the

sun sunk in the cloudy west, and the gray mists of evening closed in

around the cheerless earth, swept forth in strains louder and more

terrific, until the naked branches of the towering oaks danced in wild

glee, as it rushed past them howling along through the caverns of the

giant mountains, and playing its rude gambols round their hoary heads,

exulting in barbarian triumph over the gentler spirits of earth.

But though he had frightened the spirits of song from the woods, and

chained the melody of the little brooks, banishing from the laughing

fields the spirits of the flowers, and leaving them all barren and

desolate—yet some of these sweet fugitives had sought a refuge in the

habitations of man—for, in a neat little cottage, sheltered in the

valley beneath, one might be seen peeping from the petaled cup of a

snowy japonica. And as it looked forth from its pearly bed, when the

storm had passed by, sweet delicious tones of a thousand lutes and

harps, as touched by the spirits of the sunbeams and showers, burst upon

the ear, filling the room with an atmosphere of strange delicious

melody. Forth, on aerial pinions, floated the little flower-spirit, and

lit upon the mossy sepals of a bursting rose-bud—beneath upon a downy

couch lay a sleeping babe—above and around hovered a choir of cherub

angels, some playing with its golden locks, and others whispering sweet

words of peace and love, parting its rosy lips with a bright, sweet

smile.

On wings of dreamy light was a shadowy form of beauty inconceivable! Its

long, fair hair floated on the rosy air, while encircling its radiant

brow was a chaplet of beautiful flowers, sparkling with dew drops fresh

from heaven’s own bowers. This bright and glorious being, sent from the

presence of the great “I AM!” to guard the footsteps of this precious

child, just purified from every stain of earth in the regenerating

waters of the sacred font—the image of its God restored; the object of

a Saviour’s fondest love; a spectacle for angels and for men.

As the little flower-spirit gazed entranced upon this glorious scene, a

tear drop seemed to sparkle in the angel’s eye. In mute surprise it left

its mossy couch and lit upon a drooping floweret grasped within the

sleeper’s tiny hand, and as it gazed to where the angel’s eyes seemed

bent, there lay exposed to view that infant’s fluttering heart, pure and

white as fresh fallen snow-flakes; and there, too, glistened the angel’s

tear. And then was borne on zephyr’s wings, a sweet and sorrowful

supplication to the Majesty enthroned on high, “Oh, Father! give to me

the power to banish from this little heart those dark and dreary shadows

that are hovering near: that I may bring it thee when life shall cease,

all pure and beautiful as now it is, a trophy worthy the redeeming love

of thy dear Son.”

And a voice, like the murmuring of many waters as they rush through the

caverns of the deep, replied:

“My laws are fixed, immutable—man was made for glory, pure and

holy—the breath which animates his clay is breath of Deity—it gave the

power of a God, the power to _choose_ between the good and ill. Those

dark forms you so dread, are the effects of laws transgressed; for it is

written in my sacred word—‘the father’s sins are visited upon the

child.’”

“But, oh!” still pleaded the angel-voice, “this babe is sinless,

stainless, pure as those sweet flowers that wave upon the banks of

Paradise.”

“He’s born of flesh, and like the Holy One of God, he’s heir to its

temptations; but _Calvary_ is on earth, and one _free_, ardent sigh,

heaved by that heart, and borne upon thy wings to Calvary’s height, can

have the potency to banish far _all_ the contending powers of ill.”

The angel’s head bent low in silent adoration.

* * * * *

Four years had passed. ’Twas in the month of May. The earth was clothed

in emerald-robe of varied hue, begemmed with sparkling flowers. The

blushing trees poured forth their spicy fragrance on the hazy

atmosphere, till it seemed heavy with their odorous breath. The social

hum of a thousand insects—the carol of the feathery songsters, warbling

forth their richest strains from the topmost boughs, rousing the

wood-nymphs from their mossy beds to mingle their wild music with the

laughing brooks that gurgle at the shaggy mountain’s base—all, all

shone forth with the unrivaled splendor of the primal moon, when Nature

first, awaked by God’s command, burst forth from chaos!

Such was the scene—well suited to the gambols which a fairy child held

with his guardian-angel as they played along the flowery meads, like

cherub spirits in the fields of Paradise. As the little one would tottle

o’er some tiny shrub, the angel form with outstretched wing upheld him,

and he rose unhurt, and onward ran, till charmed by the music of some

little flower, he wondering stopped to pluck its shining blossoms, and

as the golden petals of a buttercup were scattered in his grasp, the

little spirit freed, beheld the rosy babe that erst had slumbered on the

downy couch—the same sweet angel by his side. Full in the pathway of

the innocent there lay a sleeping reptile—his tiny foot was raised to

tread upon the venomed head—when lo! a gaudy butterfly, lured by the

angel’s whisper, lit on his outstretched arm, and when from shrub to

shrub it flew, the little rover turned in eager chase.

Time sped again. The sweet flower-spirits had, once more, sought the

abodes of man. One rested on a nectared leaf of rose-geranium; a low

moan roused it from its fragrant couch; and there before it lay the

little child, and near, hovered the angel! But, as it bent over the

restless sleeper, a cloud, like mists that veil the evening star,

shadowed its beaming face: for, on the surface of that snowy breast,

there sat a little elf, tracing dark characters. A rude blast whistling

through the trees shook the loose casement. The dreamer woke—and,

clambering from his little bed in haste, he sought his mother’s couch.

“Oh! mother, mother dear!” he cried—her arms were forth to meet

him—and as she clasped his trembling limbs, and folded him closer to

her breast, he murmured, “Dear, dear, sweet mamma! let me sleep beside

you! I’m afraid to stay in that cold, dark room alone!”

“My love,” answered a mild, sweet voice, “Arthur is not afraid—Arthur’s

a little man!”

“But Arthur _is_ afraid to-night, mamma!” cried he, nestling still

closer to her breast.

“’Tis nothing but the wind you hear, my love; the good wind, that blew

down Arthur’s pretty kite when it had lodged in the high branches. And

will it not displease papa, when he comes home, to find his little son

afraid to stay alone.”

“Mamma, but will the wind not hurt me when it blows so hard?”

“No, my love; God will let nothing injure Arthur while he is good.”

“But Arthur’s not good! Arthur’s naughty. Arthur did not say his

prayers!” And here, bursting into tears, he clung sobbing to his

mother’s neck; while her fond arms encircling his form pressed him still

closer to her heart in yearning tenderness. Then, in a voice so sweet,

so gentle, she inquired, “Why did my love not say his prayers?”

“Arthur was thinking of his pretty new hat and coat, and so forgot them;

and oh! mamma, I felt so badly here, (pressing his little hand upon his

heart,) I could not sleep! and something seemed gone! and then it was so

dark, I was afraid. Mamma, I will not wear them any more; they make me

forget my prayers!”

“My love, the fault lies with yourself—not with your hat or coat. It

was that you thought more of them than of the kind, good God, who gave

them to you.”

“Mamma, if I say my prayers now, will God forgive me, and will he let me

feel afraid no more?”

“Yes, love, God will forgive you, if you are sorry for forgetting them.”

He knelt—and while that cherub face, now bathed in pearly drops, was

raised to heaven, he lisped, in accents sweet, a prayer to Jesus. Then,

clasping his hands in joy, while a gleam of sunshine glistened through

his tears, he cried, “Arthur’s not afraid now, mamma; he don’t feel

alone any more!”

One fond embrace—and soon the little penitent was locked in slumbers

sweet; while near, all radiant with the smiles of heaven, hovered his

angel guide.

* * * * *

In an arbor, round which the jasmine and honeysuckle gracefully clung,

mingling their spicy breath with the gentle zephyrs that fondly caressed

their trembling leaves, sat a beautiful child, his curly locks resting

upon his little arm, his whole soul mirrored in his deep, full eyes, as

he gazed out upon the distant hills, now bathed in sun-set splendor.

And, as he continued thus in childish thought to muse, the spirit of the

flowers saw him encircled with an atmosphere of strange, mysterious

beings; some, in their dull and heavy flight scarce rising from the

earth, seemed busy linking chains to bind his spirit to their groveling

appetites; others, with silvery wings sporting in sunbeams mounted high

in air, while others still, of diamond light, to which the rays of

mid-day sun looked pale, played round his noble brow.

As the bright guardian whispered sweet visions to the innocent, it saw

the little flower-spirit gazing inquiringly upon the scene, and in a

sweet melodious voice, it said, “The beings that you see belong to this

fair child. Together, all, they form what man calls _life_! The

beauteous form he bears is made of dust; and when this _life_ forsakes

it, it returns to dust. Those beings creeping on the earth are ministers

of flesh. They add to its pleasures, modify its pains, and by collecting

other particles of dust together, construct for, feed, and clothe it.

Every creature crawling on the earth partakes this life, these

appetites. Their home is in the flesh, and with the flesh they die. In

worldly language, these are called ‘The Passions!’

“Those pure, bright spirits, sparkling like the rays of morn upon the

ice-capped mountains, gamboling in sunbeams, are formed to worship, to

adore; to bask forever in the beauty, power, and wisdom of creation’s

God. These are called ‘Moral Sentiments.’

“And those that cluster round his brow, beings of power, called

‘Intellect,’ encompass sea and land, penetrate the deep bowels of the

earth, and mount on wings of light to the revolving spheres, tracing in

all the wisdom, power, consistency of nature’s laws, then tracing all to

God.

“See’st thou yon radiant vision clothed in light, reflecting every tint

of joy in earth and heaven? Its name is _Love_. Its birth-place is the

bosom of a God. ’Twas sent from the high court of heaven as help-meet to

man’s _will_—that power which likens him to Deity. Together, they are

ministering angel and guardian of the soul, while prisoned in its

earthly tenement. While free, love bears the smiles of heaven reflected

on its wings to the bright beings of the mind. These crave a still

higher aliment—_knowledge of God_! Unsatisfied, they pluck the specious

fruit which earth presents, and hug it to the heart, believing to have

found the ‘Pearl of Price.’ In haste, ere they awake from the delusion,

the Passions weave their dull and heavy chains fast round the Will, and

with it, _this_ bright being’s dragged to earth. Love’s pinions may be

clipped, its lustre dimmed, its beauteous form be shrouded in earth’s

clay; but its celestial nature can’t be changed. Disfigure it, crush it

to dust if you will, the glory of heaven will cling round it still, and

hallow all on whatsoe’er it rests. And when this pure and holy vision

forms a chain, linked by the will, uniting the brilliant powers of

intellect with the bright spirits that adore, then is man god-like.

“Each of these orders leaves its impress on the heart for weal or wo.

The heart, that great ‘Recording Scroll’ of Majesty Supreme.”

* * * * *

Again the dark spirit-wind held upon earth his desolating reign, and

breathing forth his icy breath till all nature seemed locked in the

frozen embrace of death; then, as at loss whereon to wreak his wrath, he

sought the haunts of men.

All day long had he pelted his missiles of snow and hail on the

defenseless heads of the weary pedestrian in the city of ——. The rich

heard but his threatening war-notes, as he rushed madly, but harmlessly

against the casements of their luxurious homes; but the trembling poor

felt the full burden of his merciless ire, as he swept through the

gaping crevices of their time-shattered dwellings. Thus, as he fled

howling down a dark, dismal alley, a creaking-door flew wide at his

approach, scattering the blaze of paper and shavings, over which a

little girl was stooping. As she endeavored to close the resisting door,

a feeble voice from the corner of the miserable apartment whispered,

“My son, have you returned?”

“No, mamma, it is not brother,” answered the sweet voice of the child.

“It was the wind, and it has blown all my fire away.” Then seating

herself by the low bed of her mother, and endeavoring to cover her

little red feet with her scanty robe, she said, “Dear mamma, did you

feel any warm when I made the fire?”

“I saw the blaze, my love, and it looked warm,” was said, in a low,

hoarse tone; “but come, my Amy, lie down beside me, and I will try to

keep you warm.”

Shrinking back from her mother’s arms, while the tears flowed down her

wan little cheeks, she cried, “No, no, sweet, dear mamma, you are so

sick and I am so cold; I told brother Arthur I would try to keep you

warm till he came back.” And seeing the tears fill her mother’s eyes,

she continued, “Dear, pretty mamma, _I_ am not cold, but Buhddy said I

would make you sick; and when he comes home, he will bring me some

bread, and take me in his arms to warm me”—and she continued blowing on

her little cold fingers.

On rushed the spirit-wind along a public thoroughfare, making harsh

music with the loose shutters and creaking signs, while the gas-lamps

shone with a ghost-like light through the murky atmosphere. On a corner,

heedless of the beating hail, stood a lad of some twelve years; near

hovered an angel, as if to shelter him from the storm—but he heeded it

not. Dark forms of temptation encircled him—hunger, want, and despair

shone from his dark, full eyes, as he gazed eagerly into the countenance

of each passer-by. Oh! could but one have heeded that imploring

look—given but one word, one tone of sympathy, one mite from their

abundance, what a host of dark spirits had been banished, what years of

misery had been saved.

But no, each one hurried on to his own comfortable abode, leaving that

young, untaught heart to battle with its fierce temptations. At length,

as the pale faces of his mother and sister rose before him, he put forth

his hand for charity. It was repulsed—and oh! with what withering

blight that look sunk to his heart, while the dark spirits gathered

round him closer and closer. But still his angel hovered near, as he

rushed recklessly along the streets, until exhausted nature yielding, he

sunk on the steps of an elegant mansion. The soft light peeping through

the half-closed shutters, whence issued the sound of merry voices,

recalled to mind the dear image of his once happy home. Again the voice

of the angel echoed in his heart, “Here is plenty of bread, and here are

kind hearts also!” One hand was tremblingly raised to the knocker, while

the other was pressed upon his heart to hush its throbbings.

A liveried porter answered his feeble summons. Again was he repulsed,

and with harsh words. Despair now seized his heart; and as the dying

form of his mother, that mother, so dearly, fondly loved, his only

parent and friend in the cold, dark world—and the little patient,

suffering face of his sweet sister, whose smile was once so bright—as

they rose before his reeling brain, he rushed toward the market-place.

Here was bread enough—and should all that he loved die for one morsel?

The angel whispered him a Father in heaven—but hunger, and love, and

despair urged him on; and as the vender turned from the stand, he seized

a loaf, and thrusting it beneath his threadbare coat, sped with the

wings of lightning along the now nearly deserted streets until he

entered a dark alley.

A few moments brought him panting to the abode described. Raising the

latch, one bound brought him to the centre of the room. Amy uttered a

cry of joy, and would have sprung to meet him, but her little limbs,

weakened by long fasting, now stiff with cold, refused to support her

trembling frame, and staggering forward, she fell upon the hard, damp

floor, ere his outstretched arms could save her.

Clasping her to his heart, he cried, “Amy, dear—dear sister! don’t,

don’t die! see, I have brought you bread!” and he seized the loaf, which

had rolled upon the floor, broke, and pressed some to her quivering

lips.

Raising her blue eyes to his, and clasping her little cold arms about

his neck, she murmured, “Oh, Buhddy, you have been gone so long! and I

have tried to keep dear mamma warm, and did not cry! The wind blew all

my fire away—but I would not lie beside mamma, because I was so cold,

and I would make her sick, you said. But mamma’s asleep now. I have been

blowing on her cheeks to warm them, they are so cold. Shall we not wake

her, Arthur, and give her some bread?”

“No, Sissy, while she sleeps, she don’t feel hungry and cold. She don’t

know that we are cold! We will sit beside her and wait till she wakes.”

“Buhddy, don’t you think that God will send somebody to take care of

dear mamma in the morning? I tried to pray when I was waiting for you,

Buhddy. I know he will. I prayed for bread, and he gave you some.”

Every word of the little prattler struck like a dagger on the poor boy’s

heart. Yet, as he saw how greedily she swallowed the crusts, carefully

laying aside the soft part for her sleeping mother, and felt her warm

breath upon his cheek, a wild delight seemed to fill his heart that he

had procured the bread. And he dared not pray, for he recollected his

mother had told him he must be sorry for his fault, ere he asked God’s

forgiveness. Wrapping her little purple feet in part of his own scanty

covering, and pressing her closer in his arms, her little prattle soon

ceased, and she lay asleep upon his breast. With his precious burden he

crept nearer to his mother’s side, and anxiously watched her pallid

countenance as the uncertain rays of the glimmering taper, flitted

across that form, once so beautiful, still so loved, so reverenced. Dark

shadows seemed to gather round him, as he kept his lonely vigils; and at

every gust of wind, fear, to which he had before been a stranger, crept

chillingly along his veins. Some genial influence seemed to have left

him. No more he raised his eyes in confidence above. All was lone, and

dark, and desolate.

Thus wore on each weary hour; and, oh! how that young heart did yearn to

pour forth its sorrows to his mother’s fond ear, that she might, at the

throne of heaven, plead for his forgiveness. But when he gazed upon her

tranquil slumber, and then around upon the cold, dark room, he could not

wake her; it had been so long since she had slept. Perhaps she would be

better in the morning; and at the thought, oh, what a thrill of joy shot

through his heart.

Where was his angel-guardian? Had that fled? Oh no, it hovered near,

though shrouded; and on the wings of the winds was borne a prayer so

sad, so mournful, that the angels paused in their songs of bliss around

the throne of God.

The morning-sun beheld the poor boy gazing in speechless agony upon the

cold, stiff form of his dead mother, while the little Amy, to whom death

was a stranger, endeavored by every fond endearment, to awake her from

that long, long slumber.

It was the hour of midnight; not a cloud veiled the faces of the clear

stars, as they looked down in their silent beauty upon the slumbering

earth, throwing around it a holy light, such as emanates only from those

spheres unknown.

One soft ray, borne upon the balmy breath of spring, stole through a

casement, across the bed of a sleeping boy; and, as it rested on his

downy cheek, one by one, the big tears started from his closed lids, and

trembling upon the drooping lashes, dropped heavily upon his pillow,

while in his feverish dreams, accents of love trembled upon his

quivering lips, as he seemed endeavoring to clasp some cherished form.

Near by was his celestial guardian, but a hazy mist obscured it, rising

from that child’s fluttering heart, from which the angel seemed trying

to obliterate with its tears, the dark unformed images traced thereon.

The dreamer woke, and starting up, looked fearfully around; but as his

eyes rested on his little sleeping companions, consciousness seemed to

resume her throne. Creeping from his bed, he gazed awhile upon the

shining stars, then throwing himself upon his pillow, wept long and

bitterly. Again he went to the casement, and seemed watching for the

coming dawn. Its gray robe at length appeared in the east, when hastily

throwing on his clothes, he stole cautiously, as if fearful of awakening

his companions, to a side door, and rapped. A harsh voice asked from

within, “Who’s there?”

“It is Arthur,” answered the child. “Do let me see dear sissy, before

they come to take me away.”

“There’s time enough—go to bed,” was the impatient reply.

“Oh, good Mrs. Williams, do, do let me see her alone, before they are

all up!”

Whether the woman’s heart was touched, or that she foresaw she could not

easily rid herself of his importunities, we know not, but rising and

opening the door, she said, “You’re a very foolish boy, to be crying so

about your sister! Like as not, you’ll never see her again after you

leave here! But go down stairs, I’ll send her to you.”

A few minutes, and the little Amy was clasped in the arms of her

brother. She was the same little fragile being that we saw watching

beside the form of her dead mother; but there was a subdued shade of

touching sadness in her sweet face, that showed the blight of sorrow was

on her young heart. Twining her arms about her brother’s neck, and

kissing the tears from his cheeks, she said,

“Dear Buhddy, don’t cry. I know that they are going to take you a long

way from me; but don’t cry, dear Buhddy, I shall not be left alone long.

I am going to dear mamma. Last night, when they told me they were going

to send you away from me, oh, how I cried. I could not sleep; and then

Sarah whipped me, because I kept her awake. I could not help crying—I

tried not to cry; and then I dreamed there came such a beautiful little

angel, and it sat down beside me, and told me not to cry, for it was

going to take me home to dear mamma. You will go too, wont you, Arthur?”

“I dreamed, too, that the angels had taken you away; but you wont go,

dear Amy, will you? I will grow to be a man; I will get money, and come

and take you to a pretty home.”

“Will dear mamma be there, Arthur?”

“No, mamma’s dead!” and here again the tears filled his eyes.

“Buhddy—what is dead?”

“I don’t know; but they put her, when she was so pale and cold, and

could not speak to us, into the ground; and they said that her spirit

had gone to a good Father in Heaven, who made her die, and can do any

thing. But I don’t think him a good Father, who let the fire burn up our

beautiful home, and killed papa, and made dear mamma die of cold and

hunger, (as that good man said she did, who cried so, when he came in

and found her dead,) and let them bring us to this ugly old Alms-House.”

“Buhddy, but that pretty lady who came here the other day, and gave me

those sweet flowers, said that God had taken mamma to his own beautiful

home in the clouds, where there was no cold, and she could never die any

more, and that we would go there too, if we are good. Dear mamma always

said that God was good, Buhddy.”

Here Mrs. Williams entered, and told Arthur that the man was waiting for

him. But seeing that he clasped his little sister still closer to his

heart, she tore her forcibly from his arms, and bore her struggling form

to another apartment.

* * * * *

“Who could have foreseen this, Mrs. Buckler? I wonder where the boy can

be gone. I must certainly advertise him,” was said by a wealthy

merchant, as he impatiently threw himself upon an elegant lounge,

regardless of his lady’s favorite _poodle_, that lay upon its velvet

covering, one eye half open, as if ruminating on the luxuries of his

home, and of his importance in comparison with the rest of his canine

race. From these cogitations he was aroused to a sense of danger by the

descending form of his master. Giving a loud yelp, he endeavored to

elude the honor, but not quickly enough to save one of his outstretched

paws.

At this outcry, the lady sprung from her languid position, followed by

her daughters, and folding the trembling dog to her bosom, exclaimed,

“Oh dear, Mr. Buckler, you have killed my darling _Adonis_!” while the

elder daughter flew to the bell and rang it violently. “Oh, Martha,”

cried Mrs. Buckler, as the frightened domestic made her appearance, “for

Heaven’s sake, make haste and bring the linen and hartshorn! I fear my

sweet pet’s foot is broken.”

“This all comes, pa,” said Clementina, the younger daughter, “from your

thinking so much of that _low boy_! Indeed, I feel relieved that he’s

gone. To have a creature about one who has been the inmate of an

Alms-House—it is so vulgar! And then one always feels afraid of being

contaminated!”

“I do not know why you should be afraid of him, Clem; he’s a very

gentlemanly little fellow, and I would not part with him for five

hundred a year. The store has never been opened so early, nor things

kept in such order since I have been in business, as during the time

Arthur has been in it.”

“Why, papa, the cook told me to-day that he is in the habit of sitting

up half the night studying and writing.”

“I don’t care what he did, nor how he sat up, as he was at the store,

and all things ready betimes. And so provoking, to have him go away just

at Christmas, when we have so much extra to do in the store, and so many

bills to send out!”

“Do you think, my dear, it is possible he can have gone to the

Alms-House? You know he left a sister there,” said Mrs. Buckler, looking

up from her poodle, who had now been _be-hartshorned_ and _be-linened_

to her satisfaction.

“Oh, surely not—that is more than fifty miles distant. Beside, he has

no money to pay his fare; and more than all, he does not know the way.

But now, I think of it, he did want me to let him go there at Christmas;

but I told him I could not spare him, and he had better not think of it.

Beside, it was very unlikely he would find his sister there, as in all

probability she had been taken out by some person before now.”

“Yes,” continued Mrs. B., “he seems to have had it on his mind; for last

summer, when he saved our little Willy from drowning, and I in gratitude

asked him what I should give him, he said he wanted nothing; but if I

would only beg of you to let him go to see his sister. I told him I

would; but I thought afterward, if he was going to remain with us, it

were better he should give up such associations.”

During the above conversation poor Arthur was pursuing his tedious way

along a rough frozen road toward the city of P——. In his hand he bore

a little bundle, the hoarded treasures of months, destined as gifts for

that dear, loved sister. The day had been beautifully clear, but as

night approached, dark clouds hung over the earth, and the snow had

already begun to fall. Still Arthur continued his lone and weary way;

sometimes blinded by the snow, he would stumble into a rut, or fall upon

the slippery ground, until completely exhausted, he leaned against a

tree for support.

“Who goes there?” cried a rough voice—and a man, bearing an axe upon

his shoulder, emerged from the gloom.

“It is a poor boy,” answered Arthur, “that’s going to P—— to see his

sister.”

“To P——! not to-night, surely! that’s thirty miles from here. Where

are you from, my lad?”

“From L——, sir,” answered Arthur.

“From L——! and have you walked all that distance to-day?”

“I have, sir,” was Arthur’s reply.

“Then you’ve walked far enough for one day, my boy; beside, you are on

the wrong track. Come, go home with me, take a good sleep, and start

fresh in the morning.”

“Could I get there, to-morrow evening?” asked Arthur, hesitatingly.

“You may not—but what then, there’s another day.”

“But to-morrow will be Christmas Eve!” here his voice began to tremble.

“Never mind, my lad, come with me, and if I find you a good boy, I will

try to help you on the way.” And reaching forth, he grasped the

unresisting hand of Arthur.

It was long since the poor boy had heard words of kindness, and there

was something in the warm grasp of that hard hand, and in the tones of

that coarse voice which recalled the visions of the past, and the tears

silently coursed each other down his cheeks, as he involuntarily clung

closer to the side of his companion.

When the cottager arrived at his neat home, there burned a bright,

cheerful blaze, around which his wife and children waited his return. He

presented Arthur, saying, “Here, Mary, I have brought you a little

traveler to spend the night, who is on his way to P—— to see his

sister, and has walked all the way from L—— this cold day.”

“Poor boy!” said she, rising, and taking his cold hands within her own,

then brushing his dark locks from his pale brow, and glancing at her own

hearty, cheerful-faced little ones, (who had clustered around to get a

sly peep at the stranger,) she murmured, “Poor boy, a mere child, to be

going so far! Have you no mother?”

Poor Arthur could bear no more; at the name of _mother_, he bent his

head, and sobbed aloud.

Pressing him to her heart, while the tears streamed down her own

benevolent face, she said, hushingly, “There, there now, never mind! God

takes care of the orphan!” while her good husband, who had taken the

youngest child upon his knee, brushed his sleeve across his eyes,

saying, “There, there, never mind; don’t cry, and to-morrow Johnny shall

take you a good bit of your journey on the old mare.”

The good couple had so won on Arthur’s heart, that ere supper was over

he had told them his simple tale; and they felt a still deeper interest

when they found in him the companion of their eldest son, who had been

in Mr. Buckler’s store for several years. And as he knelt with them ere

he retired to rest, and heard them ask God to bless and protect him, a

feeling of happiness crept over his soul, such as he had never felt

since that fearful night on which he had sought bread for his dying

mother.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE BELLE OF THE SEASON.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by A. S. Walter.]

* * * * *

THE BELLE OF NEWPORT.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

It was the height of the season at Newport, and the long piazza of the

Ocean-House was crowded with loungers. Suddenly a young man, with

something of a foreign air, exclaimed—

“Heavens, Harry! what a divinity!”

He pointed, as he spoke, with his light cane to a young lady, who,

having approached on the other side of the street, was now picking her

way daintily across the dusty road. Her figure was one of unusual grace,

and her step light and elastic. When she reached the pavé she glanced up

at the piazza, but seeing a score of idle eyes fixed upon her, she

dropped her veil, and advanced to the ladies’ entrance with a slightly

hurried pace.

But the momentary exposure of her countenance showed that its beauty

justified the general look of admiration. The eyes were lustrous and

dark, a rich bloom mantled healthily on her cheek, and the fresh air

blew freely to and fro her redundant curls of glossy raven hair; added

to this the mouth was one of indescribable loveliness, around the

dimpled corners of which Love himself seemed to lurk.

“By Jove!” said the gentleman who had spoken before, “I have seen no

woman so beautiful in all my travels abroad. What eyes! they seem to

look into one’s very soul. And such a step, free and graceful as a

fawn’s, or rather like that of Diana, the maiden huntress, herself.”

“That, Derwent,” replied his companion, “is Miss Stanhope, the belle of

Newport we call her; beautiful enough, to be sure, but only the

companion to some rich Southern heiress.”

“And half the house, I suppose, is in love with her?”

“No, and yes,” replied Harry. “She has plenty of admirers, but no

suitors; her friend, the rich Miss Arnott, though as ugly as a giraffe,

carries the palm off from her.”

“I find my countrymen as mercenary as foreigners, though without half

the excuse,” said Derwent. “However, they can’t be blamed. Take my own

case, for instance. Here am I with just income enough to support myself,

and no prospect of being able to marry unless I select a rich wife, or

what is even worse, go to work in earnest at my nominal profession! In

such a case, one must either remain single or look out for an heiress.

It is well enough to talk of ‘love in a cottage,’ but what can two

people accustomed to the luxuries of life do in a house no bigger than a

dog-kennel, and with but one servant, a maid-of-all-work. However, you

must introduce me to this Miss Stanhope, I may as well flirt with her

like the rest.” Thus spoke Derwent, one of whose affectations was to

seem worse than he was.

That evening accordingly saw Derwent numbered among the acquaintance of

the belle of the season. She received him graciously, for in addition to

a remarkably fine person, he had an air of high-breeding; while his

countenance carried assurance of the owner being something more in both

intellect and heart, than the ephemeral men of fashion around him.

Indeed, Derwent possessed unusual ability, improved by book-study and

travel. He talked to Miss Stanhope of England, and its lordly demesnes;

of Paris, and its boulevards; of Germany, and the Rhine; of Italy, and

her priceless works of art; of Greece, and her temples, even in decay

the wonder of the spectator; and of Egypt, the parent of all, with her

venerable Nile, her Luxor, her Philæ, and her pyramids, which though

they have braved three thousand years, seem as if they will yet, in the

minds of the awe-struck Arabs, conquer Time itself. Nor did he confine

himself merely to these monuments of the past. He spoke of the manners,

the religious and the social condition of the nations he had traveled

among, from the starving operative of England to the free Bedouin of the

desert. This style of conversation, so different from the empty small

talk and insensate flattery with which her ears were usually greeted,

arrested the attention of Miss Stanhope; for being of a cultivated mind

herself, she not only appreciated what he said, but felt it as a

compliment to be talked to thus. In a word, Derwent managed to

monopolize her evening, and when the hour of retiring came neither

imagined it was half so late.

“And so you were engrossed by the beauty the whole of last evening,”

said Harry, as the friends sauntered to the billiard-room the following

morning. “You had other listeners, however, than Miss Stanhope; and, let

me whisper to you confidentially, have made quite a conquest in a

certain quarter. Miss Arnott herself, it seems, heard you describe your

presentation at St. James’, and was so charmed with your account of the

queen, that she has asked to be introduced to you; a favor never

bestowed on any gentleman before.”

“I forgot all about Miss Arnott, last night,” replied Derwent. “How does

she look? Is she a woman of sense?”

“As for how she looks,” replied Harry, “here she comes with Miss

Stanhope: you see her now, a tall, lean figure, with a face that might

be pretty if it had a bit of expression. There, that slouchy, awkward

figure, is worth just twenty thousand a year; while the one beside it,

all grace, beauty, and vivacity, has not a cent. Whether Miss Arnott has

common sense you must decide for yourself, for I intend to introduce you

on the moment.”

Before Derwent had time to reply, the introduction had taken place, and

Derwent been left dexterously to Miss Arnott, while his friend had

contrived to monopolize her companion.

It was a lovely morning for walking. A shower the preceding evening had

laid the dust, the sun shone without a cloud, and a cool breeze, laden

with saline freshness from the sea, blew pleasantly past. The ladies

were executing a long cherished determination to visit the cliffs on

foot; and the two young men solicited leave to accompany them. In a few

minutes Derwent had grown heartily tired of his companion. She was, he

thought, the most insipid creature he had ever met. Yet, to do Miss

Arnott justice, she was quite as interesting as most fashionably

educated young ladies; but then Derwent could not help contrasting her

with Miss Stanhope, whose playful wit, strong sense, and rich stores of

reading rendered the penniless companion as fascinating as the heiress

was dull. He was glad when, the cliffs being reached, his _tête-à-tête_

was broken up. He had secretly resolved to be revenged on Harry, and

accordingly luring Miss Stanhope off to look at the sea from a new

point, he set out on his return, without going back for Harry and Miss

Arnott, contenting himself with waving his hat for them to follow.

If Miss Stanhope detected his little stratagem, she was not displeased

with it; and the walk back to the hotel comprised an hour of the

sweetest enjoyment to Derwent. Though the beauty of Miss Stanhope had

first attracted his attention, it was the qualities of her mind that now

fascinated him; yet we will not deny that what she said received

additional interest by falling from such lovely lips. In short, from

that morning Derwent became the constant cavalier of Miss Stanhope; and

this, notwithstanding the marked efforts which Miss Arnott made to

attract him to herself. At last, the partiality of the heiress became so

strong that she frowned openly on her companion whenever she saw Derwent

and Miss Stanhope together—finally, the latter from some cause avoided

his attentions, and left the field open to her more fortunate rival.

Whether, however, this was the result of Miss Arnott’s direct

interference, or whether Miss Stanhope herself began to think Derwent

only trifling with her, our hero had no means of discovering. For three

or four days he bore the avoidance of his mistress with comparative

patience, but when he found that she persisted in it, and was apparently

not governed by any whim, he became almost mad with jealousy and

despair. For the first time in his life he was really in love. He no

longer thought of the comparative moderation in which he would have to

live, if he married a woman without fortune; on his part he was now

willing to make any sacrifice. After a sleepless night, he arose

resolving to seek Miss Stanhope to offer his hand, when, on opening a

letter that had been sent up to his room, marked “in haste,” he read the

astounding intelligence that the bank in which most of his fortune was

invested, had stopped payment, and that he was now comparatively a

beggar.

Those who have never experienced the sudden loss of wealth, and who have

never found themselves reduced, as it were in an hour, from a competence

to poverty, know nothing of what Derwent suffered. For awhile he even

forgot his love. He read and re-read his letter, but there was no

mistake in the fact; he rang for the public papers, the announcement of

the bank’s failure was there too. He paced his chamber, how long he knew

not, until at last the door was thrown violently open, and Harry

entered.

“What, in heaven’s name, is the matter?” cried his friend. “Have you

forgotten your engagement to ride with me this morning? I waited till

past the hour, and then came up and knocked at your door; you gave me no

answer, though I heard you walking about like a mad lion in his cage; so

I made bold to enter _vi et armis_, as a plea of trespass says. Now,

don’t look as if you would eat me—but tell me what’s the row.”

Derwent had indeed glared at Harry like an enraged wild beast when the

latter entered. He did not wish to be interrupted, much less by his

mercurial companion; but, while Harry was speaking, he reflected how

ridiculous anger would be, and hence, when the latter ceased, he

advanced to the table by which Harry stood, and pushed the open letter,

which contained the news of his ruin, to the intruder.

“Good God!” cried Harry, when he had perused it, “how unfortunate. I saw

the failure of the bank in the papers, but did not know you owned any of

the rascally stock. How came it, my dear fellow? I always invest in

mortgages or ground-rents.”

“It was left there by my guardians, and since I came of age I have been

abroad. I intended to change the investment, but left the business, with

other things, till fall, intending to be here all summer. And what is

worse, it is my entire fortune, except about five thousand dollars.”

“You shock me,” said Harry. “I did not think it was half so bad as

that.” He paused, mused, and then said, looking up brightly—“However,

Derwent, you are a lucky fellow yet. I have seen, for some days, that

you have had half a mind to make love seriously to Miss Stanhope; now

this blow will rescue you from that folly, for to marry on three hundred

a year would be lunacy itself. Miss Arnott will have you, if you speak

quick, so cheer up, it is always darkest just before the day.”

Derwent looked at his friend sternly, and was about to characterize the

proceeding Harry advised as villainy; but he said nothing, only

mournfully shaking his head.

“Pshaw!” said Harry, “what foolish notions have come over you? Be a man,

Derwent. I wish to heaven Miss Arnott would only have me; I like to talk

to her companion well enough; and it’s pleasant, too, to dance with such

a beautiful creature; but, egad, my two thousand a year would not go far

toward supporting a wife.”

“I will be a man,” replied Derwent, with sudden energy, “I will not

yield to this blow. There, Harry, good-bye for the present—I will join

you in an hour.”

When the door had closed on his friend, Derwent said—

“Yes! I _will_ be a man. All thoughts of Miss Stanhope must now be

dismissed; the most delightful dream of my life is over. I must

hereafter toil for my very bread. Well, let the storm rage—I can breast

it!”

In this half defiant, half despairing mood, he concluded his toilette

and went down stairs. His first visit was to the office, where he

announced his intention of leaving early the next morning—“For since,”

he said, “I must pull the oar, the sooner I begin the better.”

He hesitated whether to seek Miss Stanhope and tell her all, or to leave

her without explanation. “I will say nothing,” at last he said. “She

will hear of the cause of my departure soon enough; and even if she had

thought of me, will then bless her good fortune which preserved her from

marrying a beggar.”

He had scarcely arrived at this conclusion, however, when he met Miss

Stanhope herself face to face. He had been sauntering up the street, his

hands folded behind him, his whole air listless and dejected. He was

taken by surprise, bowed to her with embarrassment, and then, after she

had passed, remembering that she looked amazed at his manner, he turned

about and joined her mechanically. He scarcely knew why he went back;

and when he had done it, he was more embarrassed than ever. Miss

Stanhope was the first to speak.

“Are you ill, Mr. Derwent?” she said, in a voice of sympathy, “you look

so.”

The tone of kindness in which these words were spoken opened the

flood-gates of his heart, and he could not resist the impulse to tell

her how much he had loved her, and how he should cherish her memory,

though fate had placed an insurmountable barrier between them. His words

flowed in a torrent of burning eloquence. Unconsciously he and Miss

Stanhope walked on, though they had long passed the hotel; and when he

had concluded they were at the end of the street, on the wild, bleak

common.

Not until he had told his tale, and a minute or two of silence had

followed, did Derwent venture even to look at his companion. But, on

doing so, he found she was scarcely less agitated than himself. She

trembled visibly, and when, as soon happened, she turned to answer him,

traces of tears were on her cheeks.

“Mr. Derwent,” she said, “I will be frank with you, for, in these

matters, perfect frankness is a suitor’s right. I will not say that this

declaration of passion surprises me, for, in spite of my having heard

that you were insincere, I thought I saw in you a real esteem for me. It

would be affectation for me to deny this. That I am shocked at your loss

of fortune, I need not say; I feel too great an interest in you to do

otherwise, and this interest I am not unwilling, you see, openly to

acknowledge.”

She looked at him with such noble frankness, that Derwent, enraptured by

so unexpected an avowal, could scarcely refrain from snatching her hand

and carrying it to his lips. But he thought of the public common; and

then he thought also of his poverty, and how idle all this was—so he

remained motionless and silent.

“You tell me,” she continued, “that you are now almost a beggar; and

that, therefore, you resign my hand. But, excuse me—for surely it is

not unmaidenly for me to say this—are you doing right in acting thus?

Is wealth necessary to happiness? Will not a sufficiency insure felicity

if there is real love in the union? You have talents, and I hope,

energy; if I thought otherwise I could not love you. You have also a

profession, which you avow your intention of following. Pray do not

misunderstand me—I do not wish to make myself a burden to you—but

neither must you suppose that I am base enough to you, or sufficiently

ignorant of what will constitute my own happiness, to refuse you because

you are a poor, instead of a rich man. In a worldly view even a

penniless lawyer,” she said, smiling, “is a very good match for the

companion of a rich heiress.”

Amazement at this noble conduct had kept Derwent silent until now, but

he could no longer remain quiet.

“And you are generous enough,” he cried, “to unite your fate with mine,

if ever I grow rich enough to offer you a home?”

“I am not very exacting in my tastes, Mr. Derwent,” replied the fair

girl, “and, therefore, shall be contented with what you would think a

very humble home. The moment, therefore, that you can give me one, in

which you will be willing to live yourself, that moment I will become

your wife. But remember,” she added archly, “I am flesh and blood after

all, and cannot live merely on love. I am willing, with that confidence

which my affection inspires, to wait for you, and believe you will never

seek me until you can support me; but that will not be long hence, if I

judge your talents aright. And now never, never,” she added earnestly,

“doubt again a woman’s single-heartedness in love.”

Derwent was equally bewildered and transported. In his wildest dreams he

had never imagined Miss Stanhope as noble and generous as he now found

her. He told her as much.

“You flatter me more than I deserve,” she replied. “Life, in all

circumstances, is a season of trial; wealth cannot secure immunity from

trouble; and perhaps the happiest, after all, are those who labor for

their daily bread, because their toil sweetens the meal. Nay, I am sure

I shall love you more, because I shall think you more manly.”

Derwent parted from Miss Stanhope a different man from what he had been

before the interview. It was not the knowledge of her love merely which

had worked the change in him, but it was the discovery that he had

thought the human heart more selfish than it is, that he had doubted the

existence of a generous affection.

They parted that evening. Miss Stanhope, though she pledged herself to

Derwent, stipulated that he should not accompany her to the South, but

that he should at once begin the practice of his profession.

“You may write to me,” she said, playfully, “and I will answer, and we

shall then see, from the punctuality of the answers, which loves the

most. Next year I shall probably come North again with my cousin, and be

assured I will let you know of my arrival the instant we are established

at the hotel in New York.”