CHAPTER V.

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[Illustration: A. E. Chalon, R.A. W. H. Egleton

MIRROR OF BEAUTY.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXVI. April, 1850. No. 4.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

April

Kate Lorimer: Or The Pearl in the Oyster

Loiterings and Life on the Prairies of the

Farthest West

The Lady of the Rock

Fanny. A Narrative Taken from the Lips of a Maniac

Gods and Mortals

Minna

Life of General Baron De Kalb

The Housekeeping Husband

The Darkened Casement

Review of New Books

Mount Prospect Institute, West Bloomfield, N. J.

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico. No. III.

Lines

Aileen Aroon

Sonnet

Uriel

Out of Doors

Miss Dix, The Philanthropist

Invocation to Sleep

German Poets

The Song of the Axe

Le Follet

The Shawl Designer Salaville

Blanche and Lisette

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, April, 1850. NO. 4.

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APRIL.

“The shower is past, the birds renew their songs,

And sweetly through its tears the landscape smiles.”

“APRIL,” says the author of the “Fairie Queene,” “is Spring—the

juvenile of the months, and the most feminine—never knowing her own

mind for a day together. Fickle as a fond maiden with her first lover;

toying it with the young sun till he withdraws his beams from her, and

then weeping till she gets them back again.” April is frequently a very

sweet and genial month, partly because it ushers in the May, and partly

for its own sake. It is to May and June what “sweet fifteen,” in the age

of woman, is to the passion-stricken eighteen, and perfect

two-and-twenty. It is to the confirmed Summer, what the previous hope of

joy is to the full fruition—what the boyish dream of love is to love

itself. It is, indeed, the month of promises—and what are twenty

performances compared with one promise? April, then, is worth two Mays,

because it tells tales of May in every sigh that it breathes, and every

tear that it lets fall. It is the harbinger, the herald, the promise,

the prophecy, the foretaste of all the beauties that are to follow

it—of all and more—of all the delights of Summer, and all the “pride,

pomp, and circumstance of glorious Autumn.” It is fraught with beauties

itself, which no other month can bring before us.

“When proud, pied April, dressed in all his trim,

Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.”

It is one sweet alternation of smiles, and sighs, and tears—and tears,

and sighs, and smiles—till all is consummated at last in the open

laughter of May.

April weather is proverbial for a mixture of the bright and gloomy. The

pleasantness of the sunshiny days, with the delightful view of fresh

greens and newly opened flowers, is unequaled; but they are frequently

overcast with clouds, and chilled by rough, wintry blasts. This month,

the most perfect image of Spring—

“Looks beautiful as when an infant is waking

From its slumbers;”

and the vicissitudes of warm gleams of sunshine and gentle showers, have

the most powerful effects in hastening the universal _springing_ of

vegetation, whence the season derives its appellation.

The influence of the equinoctial storms frequently prevailing, causes

much unpleasant weather; its opening is—

“Mindful of disaster past,

And shrinking at the northern blast,

The sleety storm returning still,

The morning hoar, the evening chill:

Reluctant comes the timid Spring,

Scarce a bee, with airy ring,

Murmurs the blossomed boughs around

That clothe the garden’s southern bound;

Scarce a sickly, straggling flower

Decks the rough castle’s rifted tower;

Scarce the hardy ivy peeps

From the dark dell’s entangled steeps,

Fringing the forests devious edge,

Half-robed, appears the privet hedge,

Or to the distant eye displays,

Weakly green, its budding sprays.”

An ancient writer beautifully describes one of those bright, transient

showers which prevail at this season.

Away to that sunny nook, for the thick shower

Rushes on strikingly: ay, now it comes,

Glancing about the leaves with its first dips,

Like snatches of faint music. Joyous bird,

It mingles with thy song, and beats soft time

To thy warbling notes. Now it louder falls,

Pattering, like the far voice of leaping rills;

And now it breaks upon the shrinking clumps

With a crash of many sounds; the thrush is still,

There are sweet scents around us; the flow’ret hides,

On that green bank, beneath the leaves;

The earth is grateful to the teeming clouds,

And yields a sudden freshness to their kisses.

And now the shower slopes to the warm west,

Leaving a dewy track; and see, the big drops,

Like falling pearls, glisten in the sunny mist.

The air is clear again, and the far woods

Shine out in their early green. Let’s onward, then,

For the first blossoms peep about the path;

The lambs are nibbling the short, dripping grass,

And the birds are on the bushes.

The month of April not unfrequently introduces us to the chimney or

house-swallow, known by its long, forked tail and red breast. At first,

here and there only one appears glancing quickly by us, as if scarcely

able to endure the cold, which Warton beautifully describes—

The swallow for a moment seen,

Skims in haste the village green.

But in a few days their number is much increased, and they sport with

seeming pleasure in the warm sunshine.

Along the surface of the winding stream,

Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim,

Or round the borders of the spacious lawn,

Fly in repeated circles, rising o’er

Hillock and fence with motion serpentine,

Easy and light. One snatches from the ground

A downy feather, and then upward springs,

Followed by others, but oft drops it soon,

In playful mood, or from too slight a hold,

When all at once dart at the falling prize.

As these birds live on insects, their appearance is a certain proof that

some of this minute tribe of animals have ventured from their winter

abodes.

Thomson thus describes this busy month among the feathered tribes—

Some to the holly-hedge

Nestling repair, and to the thicket some;

Some to the rude protection of the thorn

Commit their feeble offspring. The cleft tree

Offers its kind concealment to a few,

Their food its insects, and its moss their nests.

Others apart, far in the grassy dale,

Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave;

But most in woodland solitudes delight,

In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks,

Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,

Whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day,

When by kind duty fixed. Among the roots

Of hazel, pendent o’er the plaintive stream,

They frame the first foundation of their domes;

Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,

And bound with clay together. Now ’tis naught

But restless hurry through the busy air,

Beat by unnumbered wings. The swallow sweeps

The slimy pool, to build the hanging house

Intent. And often, from the careless back

Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills

Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved,

Steal from the barn a straw, till soft and warm,

Clean and complete, their habitation grows.

Another celebrated poet completes the picture:—

The cavern-loving wren sequestered seeks

The verdant shelter of the hollow stump;

And with congenial moss, harmless deceit,

Constructs a safe abode. On topmost boughs

The oriole, and the hoarse-voiced crow,

Rocked by the storm, erect their airy nests.

The ousel, long frequenter of the grove

Of fragrant pines, in solemn depth of shade,

Finds rest. Or mid the holly’s shining leaves,

A simple bush, the piping thrush contents;

Though in the woodland contest, he, aloft,

Trills from his spotted throat a powerful strain,

And scorns the humble quire. The wood-lark asks

A lowly dwelling, hid beneath some tuft,

Or hollow, trodden by the sinking hoof:

Songster beloved! who to the sun such lays

Pours forth as earth ne’er owns. Within the boughs

The sparrow lays her spotted eggs. The barn,

With eaves o’er-pendent, holds the chattering tribe.

Secret the linnet seeks the tangled wood,

The white owl seeks some antique ruined wall,

Fearless of rapine; or in hollow trees,

Which age has caverned, safely courts repose.

The velvet jay, in pristine colors clad,

Weaves her curious nest with firm-wreathed twigs,

And sidelong forms her cautious door; she dreads

The taloned hawk, or pouncing eagle,

Herself, with craft suspicion ever dwells.

As the singing of birds is the voice of courtship and conjugal love, the

concerts of the groves begin to fill all with their various melody. In

England the return of the nightingale in the spring is hailed with much

joy; he sings by day as well as night; but in the daytime his voice is

drowned in the multitude of performers; in the evening it is heard

alone, whence the poets have always made the song of the nightingale a

nocturnal serenade. The author of the “_Rime of the Ancient Mariner_,”

thus beautifully describes an April night, and the song of this siren:—

All is still,

A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,

Yet let us think upon the vernal showers

That gladden the green earth, and we shall find

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

And hark! the nightingale begins his song;

He crowds, and hurries, and precipitates,

With fast, thick warble, his delicious notes,

As he were fearful that an April night

Would be too short for him to utter forth

His love-chant, and disburden his full soul

Of all his music!

I know a grove,

Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,

Which the great lord inhabits not; and so

This grove is wild with tangling underwood,

And the trim walks are broken up; and grass,

Thin grass and king-cups, grow within the paths;

But never elsewhere in one place I knew

So many nightingales. And far and near,

In wood and thicket o’er the wide grove,

They answer and provoke each other’s songs—

With skirmish and capricious passagings,

And murmurs musical and swift—jug, jug!

And one low, piping sound, more sweet than all,

Stirring the air with such a harmony

That, should you close your eyes, you might almost

Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes

Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,

You may, perchance, behold them on the twigs,

Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,

Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade

Lifts up her love-torch.

Oft a moment’s space,

What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,

Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon

Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky

With one sensation, and those wakeful birds

Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,

As if one quick and sodden gale had swept

An hundred airy harps! And I have watched

Many a nightingale perched giddily

On blossoming twig, still swinging from the breeze,

And to that motion tune his wanton song,

Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.

Milton, too, in the first of his sonnets, has a beautiful address to

this success portending songster:

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,

While hours lead on the laughing month of May,

Thou with fresh hopes the lover’s heart dost fill.

The fishes are now inspired by the same enlivening influence which acts

upon the rest of animated Nature, and in consequence, again offer

themselves as a prey to the art of the angler, who returns to his usual

haunt.

“Beneath a willow long forsook,

The fisher seeks his ’customed nook;

And bursting through the crackling sedge

That crowns the current’s caverned edge,

He startles from the bordering wood

The bashful wild-ducks early brood.”

A considerable number of plants flower in this month, which Bloomfield

beautifully describes.

Neglected now the early daisy lies,

Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom’st the only prize,

Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad

Flowers of all hues with sweetest fragrance stored,

Where’er she treads Love gladdens every plain,

Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train;

Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies,

Anticipating wealth for Summer skies.

In particular, many of the fruit-bearing trees and shrubs, the flowers

of which are peculiarly termed _blossoms_. These form a most agreeable

spectacle, as well on account of their beauty, as of the promise they

give of future benefits.

“What exquisite differences and distinctions, and resemblances,”

exclaims Warton, “there are between all the various blossoms of the

fruit-trees; and no less in their general effect, than in their separate

details.

“The almond-blossom which comes first of all, and while the tree is

quite bare of leaves, is of a bright blush-rose color; and when they are

fully blown, the tree, if it has been kept to a compact head, instead of

being permitted to straggle, looks like one huge rose, magnified by some

fairy magic, to deck the bosom of some fair giantess. The various lands

of plum follow, the blossoms of which are snow-white, and as full and

clustering as those of the almond. The peach and nectarine, which are

now preparing to put forth their blossoms, are unlike either of the

above; and their sweet effect, as if growing out of the bare wall or

rough wooden paling, is peculiarly pretty. They are of a deep blush

color, and of a delicate bell-shape; the lips, however, divided and

turning backward, to expose the interior to the cherishing sun. But,

perhaps, the bloom that is richest, and most promising in its general

appearance, is that of the cherry, clasping its white honors all around

the long, straight branches, from heel to point, and not letting a leaf

or bit of stem be seen, except the three or four leaves that come as a

green finish at the extremity of each branch. The blossoms of the pears,

and, loveliest of all, the apples, do not come in perfection till next

month.”

It is, however, an anxious time for the possessor, as the fairest

prospect of a plentiful increase is often blighted. Shakspeare draws a

pathetic comparison from this circumstance, to paint the delusive nature

of human expectations:

This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost!

And Milton beautifully uses the same simile:

Abortive as the first-born bloom of Spring,

Nipped with the lagging rear of Winter’s frost.

Herrick indulges in the following “fond imaginings” to blossoms:

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do you fall so fast?

Your date is not so past

But you may stay yet here awhile

To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

What! were ye born to be

An hour and half’s delight,

And so to bid good-night?

’Tis pity Nature brought ye forth,

Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite!

But your lovely leaves where we,

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne’er so brave;

And after they have shown their pride,

Like you away to glide

Into the grave.

The poet of the Seasons gives delightful utterance to the aspirations of

many a bosom at this inspiring season:

Now from the town,

Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,

Oft let me wander o’er the dewy fields,

Where freshness breathes; and dash the trembling drops

From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze

Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk;

Or taste the smell of daisy; or ascend

Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains,

And see the country far diffused around,

One boundless blush of white empurpled shower

Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye

Hurries from joy to joy, and hid beneath

The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

The farmer is busied in sowing early sorts of grain and seeds for

fodder, for which purpose dry weather is most suitable, though plentiful

showers, at due intervals, are desirable for feeding the young grass and

springing seeds:

“The work is done, no more to man is given,

The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven;

Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around,

And marks the first green blade that breaks the ground;

In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun,

His tufted barley yellow with the sun,

Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store,

And all his harvest gathered around his door.”

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KATE LORIMER:

OR THE PEARL IN THE OYSTER.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

“The pearl in ocean’s cavern lies,

The feather floats upon the wave.”

KATE LORIMER was neither a beauty, a wit, nor an heiress: she was only

one of those many commonplace young ladies, who are “brought out” every

winter to laugh, dance and flirt, for a season or two, then to marry,

and fulfill their destiny by immuring themselves in a nursery for the

rest of their lives. So said the world—but for once that many-eyed and

many-tongued gossip was mistaken. Kate was very unlike most young

ladies. With her Juno-like figure, and fine, though somewhat massive,

features, there needed only a careful study of the mysteries of the

toilet to make her appear what dandies call “a splendid woman.” But

Kate, though in reality she was neatness itself, generally seemed but

one degree removed from a sloven; so careless was she respecting the

color, make, and adjustment of her clothes. Then she had what Shakspeare

calls “a very pretty wit,” a certain shrewdness of intellect, and a

quiet sense of the ridiculous, which wanted only the piquant sauce of

boldness and ill-nature to make her what the witlings in primrose kids

would style “_bre-i-lliant_.” But Kate was equally indifferent to her

own looks and manners. She seemed like a kind of human machine, moved by

some invisible springs, at the volition of others, but by no positive

will of her own.

What, you will ask, was the secret of this cold abstraction in a young

and not ungifted girl? There was no mystery about it; Kate was only one

of the many instances of “a candle placed in the wrong socket,” as my

poor friend —— used to say. She was one of a large family, but she was

neither the oldest—the first inheritor of parental love—nor the

youngest—the recipient of its fond dotage. Her elder brother, a tall,

graceful youth, was the pride of both father and mother, and whatever

privileges Kate might have claimed as the _first_ of the troop of

damsels who chattered their days away in the nursery and school-room,

they were entirely forgotten in favor of the second daughter, who

chanced to be extremely beautiful. The fact was that Kate occupied a

most insignificant position between a conceited oldest son and a sister

who was a belle. Her brother Tom’s sententiousness overwhelmed her and

crushed her into nonentity, while Louisa’s beauty and vivacity threw her

completely into the shade.

At her very first entrance into society, Kate felt that she had only a

subordinate part to play, and there was a certain inertness of character

about her, which made her quietly adopt the habits befitting her

inferior position. Her mother, a handsome, stylish woman, with an

easiness of temper which won affection but not respect from her

children, and a degree of indolence which sadly interfered with the

regularity of her household—sometimes fretted a little at Kale’s

sluggishness, and wished she was a little less “lumpish” at a party. But

there was a repose in Kate’s manner, which, upon the whole, Mrs. Lorimer

rather liked, as it effectually prevented any rivalry between the two

sisters. Aunt Bell, a somewhat precise, but sensible old maid, was the

only one who was seriously dissatisfied. She remembered Kate’s ambition

as a schoolgirl; she preserved among her most precious mementoes all

Kate’s “prizes,” “rewards of merit,” etc. And she could not conceive why

this enthusiasm and eagerness for distinction should have died away so

suddenly and so completely. Aunt Bell suspected something of the truth,

but even she, who loved Kate better than any body in the world, could

not know the whole truth.

Kate Lorimer was like one of those still, quiet mountain lakes, which at

one particular spot are said to be unfathomable, but whether because

they are so deep, or because a wonderfully strong under-current carries

away the line and plummet in its descent, is never clearly ascertained

by those who skim over the surface of the sleepy waters. Almost every

one liked her; that is, they felt that negative kind of liking which all

persons have for a quiet, good-humored sort of a body, who is never in

the way. At a crowded party Kate always gave up her place in the

quadrille if there was a want of room on the floor; if beaux were

scarce, Kate was quite content to talk to some frowsy old lady in a

corner; if a pair of indefatigable hands were required to play

interminable waltzes and polkas, Kate’s long white fingers seemed

unwearied; in short, Kate never thought of herself, because she honestly

believed she was not worth anybody’s thinking about.

Was she so inordinately humble as to set no value upon herself? Not

exactly that; but she had so high a standard of excellence in her own

soul, and was so conscious of her utter inability to attain to that

standard, that she grew to feel a species of contempt for herself, and

therefore she neglected herself, not as a penance, but because she would

not waste thought or time upon any thing appertaining to herself. No one

understood poor Kate, and of course nobody appreciated her. When she

spent hours in dressing her beautiful sister for a ball, and then

twisting up her own fine hair in a careless knot, and slipping on a

plain white dress, was ready in ten minutes to accompany the belle to

the gay scene where she knew she could never shine, people only called

her slovenly and careless, but gave her no credit for the generous

affection which could lavish decorations on another, and be content

through a whole evening

“to hear

Praise of a sister with unwounded ear.”

When she refused invitations to parties that she might stay at home and

nurse Aunt Bell through a slow fever, people said—“She is so indolent,

she is glad of an excuse to avoid the trouble of going out.” No one knew

that she was not too indolent to watch through the long hours of night

beside the sick-bed of the invalid, while her lovely sister was sleeping

off the fatigues of the dance. When she gave up a gay season at the

Springs, rather than disappoint her old grandmother, who had set her

heart upon a visit from one of the sisters—when she spent a long, dull

summer in a hot country-house, with no other companions than Aunt Bell

and the infirm old lady, and no other amusement than could be found in a

book-case full of Minerva-Press novels, then people—those wonderfully

knowing people—again said, “Kate Lorimer is turning her indolence to

account, and will earn a legacy out of it;” while the fact was, neither

Aunt Bell nor grandmother had a cent in the world beyond their

life-interest in their old country home.

“If Louisa makes an engagement this winter, I think I shall hurry Ella’s

education a little, so as to bring her out next season;” said Mrs.

Lorimer to her husband, during one of those “_curtain conferences_”

which are quite the opposite to “curtain lectures.”

“Why should you do that? You will have Kate still to provide for, and

Ella will be all the more attractive for another year’s study,” was the

reply of the calculating though kind father.

“Oh, Kate is a hopeless case; she will never be married, she is too

indifferent; no man will take a fancy to a girl who at the first

introduction shows by her manner that she does not care what he thinks

of her.”

“Then you think Kate is one of the ‘predestinate old maids?’”

“I am afraid so.”

“Well, Kate is a good child, and we shall want one of the girls to keep

house for us when we grow old; so I don’t know that we need regret it

much.”

“You don’t consider the mortification of bringing out two daughters at a

time and having one left on hand, like a bale of unsaleable goods, while

such a woman as that vulgar Mrs. Dobbs has married her four red-headed

frights in two seasons.”

“How was that done?”

“Oh! by management; but then the girls were as anxious as the mother,

and helped themselves along. As to Kate, I don’t believe she would take

the trouble to walk across the room in order to secure the best match in

the country.”

“She certainly is very indifferent, but she seems perfectly contented.”

“Yes, that is the trouble; she is perfectly satisfied to remain a

fixture, although she knows that she will have to rank with the

‘_antiques_’ as soon as I begin to bring out her four younger sisters.”

“Perhaps it would be better to bring out Ella next winter,” sighed the

father.

“Yes, Ella is lively and fresh-looking, and during the festivities which

will follow Louisa’s wedding, she can slip into her place in society

without the expense of a ‘_coming-out_’ party.”

“You speak as if Louisa’s marriage were a settled thing.”

“Because she can have her choice now of half a dozen, and by the time

the season is over she will probably decide.”

“Well, under your guidance, she is not likely to make an imprudent

choice.”

“I hope not. To tell you the truth, I am waiting for one more

declaration, and then there will be no more delay,” said the mother.

“Has she not admirers enough?”

“Yes, but if she can secure young Ferrers it will be worth waiting.”

“What! Clarence Ferrers? Why, he is worth almost half a million; is he

an admirer of Louisa’s?”

“He is a new acquaintance, and seems very much struck with her beauty;

but he is an odd creature, and seems to pride himself upon differing

from all the rest of the world; we shall see what will happen. One thing

only is certain, Louisa will be married before the year is out, and Kate

will, I think, resign herself to old-maidism with a very good grace.”

And having come to this conclusion, the two wise-acres composed

themselves to sleep.

Clarence Ferrers, so honorably mentioned by Mr. Lorimer as “_worth_ half

a million,” was a gentleman of peculiar tastes and habits. His father

died while he was yet a boy, and he had struggled with poverty and

hardship while acquiring the education which his talents deserved, and

which his ambition demanded. He had stooped his pride to labor, and he

had learned to submit to want, but he had never bowed himself to bear

the yoke of dependence. Alone he had toiled, alone he had struggled,

alone he had won success. His mother had been the first to encourage his

youthful genius, and to plant the seeds of honorable ambition within his

soul. He had loved her with an almost idolatrous affection, and when he

saw her eking out by the labors of the needle the small annuity which

secured her from starvation, in order that he might devote all his own

little stipend as a teacher to his own education, he felt that gratitude

and love alike required him to persevere until success should reward the

mother by crowning the son.

There is something ennobling and hallowing in such a tie as that which

existed between Mrs. Ferrers and Clarence. A gentle, humble-minded woman

herself, she was ambitious that her son should be good and great. She

knew the benumbing effect of poverty upon the soul, but she took care

that the genial warmth of affection should counteract its evil

influences upon the gifted mind of her darling son. She was his friend,

his counselor, his sympathizing companion, sharing all his hopes, his

aspirations, his pleasures, and his sorrows, as only a true-hearted and

loving woman can do. Long ere he reached the years of mature manhood the

bond between mother and son had been made stronger than death; and,

alas! far more enduring than life. Mrs. Ferrers lived to see Clarence

occupying a position of honor and usefulness as professor in one of our

most distinguished colleges. Her death left him a lonely and desolate

man, for so close had been their communion, so thorough had been their

mutual sympathy, that he had never till then felt the need of another

friend. But in the enthusiasm of his deep and fervent love, he felt that

he was not dissevered by the hand of death; and many an hour did he hold

converse in his secret soul with the “spirit-mother,” whom he felt to be

ever near him.

Clarence Ferrers had counted his thirtieth summer, when an old

great-uncle, who had suffered him to struggle with poverty during all

his early years, without stretching forth a finger to sustain him, died

very suddenly, leaving behind him an immense fortune, which he

distributed by will, among some dozen charitable associations, whose

very names he had never heard until they were suggested by his lawyer,

and making not the slightest mention of his nephew. Luckily for him, the

will was _unexecuted_, and the neglected Clarence learned that, as

heir-at-law, he was entitled to the whole of his miserly uncle’s hoarded

wealth. Years had passed since Clarence had even seen the old man; and

he certainly owed him no gratitude for the gift which would have been

withheld from him if death had not been more cruel even than avarice.

But Clarence was not a man to feel selfishly on any subject. One hundred

thousand dollars, the fifth part of his newly-acquired fortune, was

distributed among the charities named in the will, thus fulfilling the

supposed wish of the deceased. With another large portion he endowed a

“Home for Poor Gentlewomen,” as a tribute to the memory of his mother,

whose life had been one of struggle and care for want of such “a home”

in the early days of her widowhood. Then, after liberally providing for

all who had any claims upon the old miser, he placed his affairs in the

hands of a trusty agent, and sailed for Europe.

Clarence Ferrers set out upon his travels with no fixed purpose, except

that of acquiring knowledge of all kinds, and of compelling occupation

of mind to quiet yearnings of the heart. Eight years elapsed ere he

revisited his native land. During that time he had explored every part

of Europe, treading the greensward of its by-ways, no less than the dust

of its high-roads. From the islands of the Archipelago to the most

northerly part of Russia, he had traveled, commanding respect by his

scientific attainments, receiving attentions every where for his courtly

elegance of manner, winning love wherever he went by his suavity and

kindness. Then to the East, that land of sacred memories, he turned his

steps; Egypt, the land of mystery, too, was not forgotten, and when

Clarence returned to his own country, he bore with him treasures of

learning and wisdom from every land where the footsteps of man had trod.

Yet was he as modest as he was learned, and few would have suspected

that the quiet, gentlemanlike person, whose tall figure bent so

gracefully over some timid girl at the piano, or who so carefully

escorted some old lady to the supper-room at a party, was the celebrated

traveler and man of world-known science.

Such was the man whom Mr. Lorimer pronounced to be “WORTH _half a

million_!” I have sketched him at some length, because this is no fancy

portrait, and memory has been faithful to her trust in thus enabling me

to trace, though but in faint and shadowy outline, the noble character

of one of God’s noblest creatures.

But all this time I have forgotten poor Kate Lorimer. She would have

thought it strange that she ever should be remembered, especially when

Clarence Ferrers was in one’s mind. Kate had seen Clarence Ferrers

introduced to her beautiful sister, and had felt a glow of pleasure as

she marked his look of genuine admiration. She had listened to words of

graceful compliment, so unlike the vapid flattery of others. She had

heard the tones of that thrilling voice, whose musical accents had been

able to move alike the wild Arab, and the wilder Cossack, by their

melody. She sat alone in the only shadowy corner of a gay and crowded

saloon, but she would not have exchanged places with the most flattered

and courted of the guests; for she could listen unobserved to the gifted

traveler, and look unnoticed upon his expressive countenance. She had

heard of him from childhood; for Aunt Bell had been one of Mrs. Ferrers’

earliest friends, and the story of his early struggles, his devoted love

for his mother, and his subsequent good fortune, had been one of Aunt

Isabel’s favorite themes. But he was a man when Kate was still in the

nursery, and was but a shy girl of fourteen when, as she remembered, he

called to pay his farewell visit to his mother’s friend previous to his

departure. To the unappreciated girl, living in the midst of an ungenial

though not unhealthy moral atmosphere, the picture of perfect sympathy

and affection, as it had existed between the gentle mother and her

gifted son, was one which, unconsciously, left its reflection within her

soul, and became a sort of ideal to her half-developed nature. She did

not retain the slightest remembrance of his actual appearance, but so

vivid an image of his mental and moral gifts was traced upon her memory,

that she felt she needed not the intercourse of social life to make her

know him better. Yet as the beauty and vivacity of her sister attracted

him closer to her side, it was impossible for Kate, with all her

shyness, to avoid becoming acquainted with him; and it sometimes

happened that when the beautiful Louisa was led off to the dance by one

of her host of admirers, she would leave Kate to entertain Mr. Ferrers

till her return, thus flattering him by her evident desire to retain his

society, and, at the same time securing him from all rival belles.

Clarence Ferrers was now eight-and-thirty, an age when a man, however

gifted, will not be insensible to the evident admiration of a very young

and extremely pretty woman. He was still a fine looking man, but he was

no longer youthful in his appearance. His teeth were fine, and his eyes,

those soft, bright, tender eyes, were as beautiful as in boyhood, when

his mother loved nothing so well as to kiss those full, heavily-fringed

lids for the sake of the beaming look which rewarded the caress. But

Clarence had not escaped the touch of Time; his luxuriant locks were

thinned, and the silver threads were mingled among those dark chestnut

curls. He appeared full as old as he really was; but who could look on

his magnificent brow, watch the play of his flexible lips, or listen to

the tones of his exquisite voice, and think of the ravages of Time?

Kate Lorimer was one of the best _listeners_ in the world. There was a

certain negligent ease with which she inclined herself toward the

speaker, and a look of quiet attention on her countenance which always

gratified the self-love of those who conversed with her. To be sure, in

nine cases out of ten, this pleasant manner arose only from her indolent

good humor, which found a kind of luxurious repose in the monotonous hum

of a busy talker. But when listening to Clarence Ferrers, (for she

seldom talked with him, except as much as common politeness required,)

Kate soon found that his conversation did not afford her a mere cushion

for mental repose. Not that Clarence dealt much in the marvelous, or

excelled much in narration, although he abounded in illustrative

anecdotes and reminiscences on every subject; but he had the art—so

rare and so delightful—of waking up every faculty in the mind of those

with whom he conversed. He imparted knowledge in such a manner as to

make his hearer feel as if the _ideas_ were his own, and the

corroborative _facts_ only were the results of the traveler’s

observation. Yet he was no flatterer, he only, as I said before, had the

power of arousing and stimulating the intellect of his hearers.

If Clarence Ferrers had been at first struck with the extreme beauty of

Louisa, he was not less sensible to the “surprises of sudden joy” with

which he beheld the dawning of Kate’s peculiar qualities of character.

Her moral nature he had read at a glance, and it inspired him with

respect and esteem, but her intellectual being, which was a mystery even

to herself, became a study to the man of science and research. There was

so much freshness of thought in her hitherto slumbering mind; such

clearness of perception when she was unconsciously led to exercise her

mental vision; such harmony of movement between the reasoning and the

imaginative faculty, that Clarence became daily more interested in the

“lumpish” Kate, despite the attractions of her beautiful sister.

“Mamma, I do not believe I can put off Frank Dormer any longer; he is

desperately in love, and determined to make a declaration,” said Louisa,

one morning, as she sat assisting Kate to trim a ball-dress with which

she expected to charm all eyes.

“It would be a pity to lose so rich and generous an admirer, Lou,” was

the reply of the prudent mother.

“But suppose I should accept him, mamma?”

“That you would not do; Frank Dormer is only rich in expectancy, while

Clarence Ferrers has both wealth and fame.”

“I like Frank best;” said the young lady, coolly.

“My dear Louisa, have you lost your senses?”

“No, madam; but you may as well let me tell you now, that, for all his

fortune, I would not marry Clarence Ferrers.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, he is so frightfully sensible, I should never dare do or say an

absurd thing for fear of seeing those great _lamping_ eyes looking

reproval at me. Besides, he does not seem inclined to offer himself.”

“How can you say so, Louisa? I am sure he never leaves us at a party,

and seems never so happy as when sitting near us and watching your

graceful movements when you are dancing.”

“Well, he can’t expect me to drop into his arms by the mere fascination

of his look. If he were not so rich, I should not think of him for a

moment, while I really like Frank. He is full of gayety and frolic, and

with him I should have a merry life. Clarence Ferrers is too old and

grave for me. Don’t you think so, Kate?”

Kate started at the question; she had evidently been in one of her

dreamy moods, and perhaps had not heard a word of their conversation.

Poor Kate! she bent over her sewing, and seemed intent only on placing

at proper distances the delicate white roses which looped the gauze

drapery of Louisa’s new dress; but she felt a sudden faintness come over

her, which required all her habitual self-control to subdue. Not until

the dress was finished and displayed upon the sofa to her mother’s

criticism; not until the pearl ornaments had been laid upon the beauty’s

dark curls by the skillful fingers of the all-enduring Kate; not until

she had listened to all her sister’s ideas respecting the sash, which

was to be tied at the side, with long floating ends; in short, not until

all the important trivialities of a belle’s ball-costume had been

discussed and decided upon by the aid of Kate’s taste, was she at

liberty to retire to her own room. At last she was released, and as

Louisa sprung up stairs, humming a lively Opera air, Kate, gathering up

her sewing materials, slowly followed till she arrived at the door of

her own apartment, which, in consideration of its being the smallest

room in the house, and in the fourth story, she was permitted to occupy

_alone_. This had long been poor Kate’s sanctuary, where she could think

and feel and act as she pleased. Now she quietly locked the door, and

then, when she had secured herself from intrusion, she sat down in the

rocking-chair which had been her companion from childhood, and gave way

to the tears which were pressing so painfully against her hot eye-lids.

Kate had often wept—much oftener than those who called her indifferent

and cold in temper, could have imagined—but never had she shed such

bitter, burning tears as now. There was grief and shame, and wounded

affection, and mortified pride, all blended in the emotion which now

agitated her. She could not have analyzed her own feelings; she only

knew she was very unhappy and very lonely.

That evening Kate was too unwell to accompany her sister to the ball. A

severe headache, arising from an attack of influenza, which accounted

for the humid eyes that would weep in spite of all poor Kate’s efforts,

was sufficient apology. So Mrs. Lorimer, with her tall son and beautiful

daughter, were whirled off to the gay scene, leaving Kate to read the

newspaper and play backgammon with her rheumatic father, who never went

out after sunset.

But the old gentleman’s evenings were generally short. By nine o’clock

he was comfortably fixed in bed, and Kate sat alone in the deserted

drawing-room, when she was startled by the sound of the door-bell. It

was too late for a visiter, and Kate’s first thought was that it might

be a message for a parcel for her brother. She did not alter her

position, therefore, but sat with her head bent, her hands listlessly

lying in her lap, and her whole attitude one of the deepest dejection. A

gentle footstep, and the tones of a well-known voice, startled her from

her painful dream, and as she looked up her eyes fell on the stately

form of Clarence Ferrers.

“I heard you were kept at home by indisposition, Miss Lorimer,” said he,

“will you pardon me if I have availed myself of this opportunity of

seeing you alone?”

Kate was a little bewildered, but she murmured something about “the

pleasure of seeing him,” etc. like a well-bred young lady.

“Kate—Miss Lorimer—will you answer me frankly? I have lately indulged

the hope that we may be united in a closer bond than even the friendship

with which you have honored me; have I deceived myself with vain

fancies?”

Kate’s heart seemed to stand still for a moment, and an icy coldness ran

through her veins. She saw it all in a moment. Clarence Ferrers wanted

to learn from her his chance of success with her beautiful sister. What

should she do? Louisa did not love Clarence, but it was a desirable

match. Should she sacrifice the prospects of her sister, or should she

betray the noble confidence of him who called her his friend? How could

she decide when her own heart was just awakened to a dim sense of its

own mad folly and weakness?

Clarence watched her countenance, and marveled at the lights and shadows

that flitted so rapidly across it. “I am afraid I have given you pain,

Miss Lorimer,” said he at length: “I meant not to distress you; only

tell me whether I have done wrong in believing that I might yet occupy a

nearer and dearer place in your esteem; whether I have been mistaken in

my hope of finding you my strongest advocate?”

Kate felt that she must speak. “You can scarcely need an advocate,” said

she timidly: “I presume I understand your meaning, and I can only say

that any woman might be proud to be the object of your choice.”

“And is this all you can say? Am I to think that on the empty gifts of

fame, or the paltry advantages of fortune, I must depend for that most

precious of earthly things, a sympathizing heart. ‘_Proud to be my

choice_’—oh! Kate, I did not expect such a cold rebuff from you.”

Tears rushed into Kate’s eyes; she felt herself growing weaker every

moment, and she determined to put an end to the conversation.

“Have you spoken to my sister, Mr. Ferrers?” said she, while she strove

in vain to check the quick gasps that almost suffocated her.

“To your sister!” said Clarence, in some surprise. “No, Miss Lorimer, I

preferred coming first to you.”

“I have but little influence over Louisa,” said the trembling girl, “but

all that I have shall be exerted in your behalf.”

“Louisa!—your sister!—I really do not comprehend you, Kate.”

A momentary feeling of wounded pride aroused Kate, and mastered her

coming weakness. She rose from her seat; “Did you not ask me to be your

advocate with my sister?” asked she, while her cheek and lip grew white

as ashes.

“My advocate with your sister!” exclaimed Clarence; “no indeed: Kate! my

own dearest Kate! it was with your own sweet self I wanted an advocate,

and hoped to find my strongest one in your heart.”

Kate grew dizzy and faint; a mist gathered before her eyes, and when it

cleared away she was sitting on the sofa, with a strong arm lovingly

twined about her waist, and on the soft white hand which lay in the

grasp of Clarence glittered the betrothal ring, though how or when it

was placed there she never clearly could remember.

* * * * *

“How strangely Clarence Ferrers disappeared from the ball to-night,”

exclaimed Mrs. Lorimer, as she puffed her way up to her room at two

o’clock in the morning.

“I was not sorry he went, mamma, for it gave Frank the chance he has so

long wanted. He offered himself last night, while we were in the midst

of that last polka; and I referred him to papa,” said Louisa, as she

turned toward her own room.

“Well, I only hope you have not been too hasty,” said the mother, too

sleepy just then to care much about the matter.

The next morning Mr. Lorimer was visited in his private office by the

young and handsome Frank Dormer. He was an only child; his father was

prepared to “come down” handsomely with the cash, and Mr. Lorimer gave a

ready assent to the proposition of the enamored youth. He had scarcely

finished his after-dinner nap, on the same day, when Clarence Ferrers

sought an interview. Matters were soon arranged with a man who was

“_worth half a million_,” and Mr. Lorimer chuckled and rubbed his hands

with infinite glee, as he reminded his wife of her prediction that

“_Kate was a predestinate old maid_.”

Kate has been more than two years a wife, and in the elegant,

self-possessed, dignified woman, whose statuesque repose of manner seems

now the result of the most perfect grace, no one would recognize the

dull, indifferent, “lumpish” Kate of former years. In the atmosphere of

affection every faculty of mind and body has attained perfect

development. She has learned to value herself at her real worth, because

such a man as Clarence Ferrers has thought her deserving of his regard.

She is not the less humble, but she is no longer self-despising and

self-neglectful. In order to do honor to her husband, she has striven to

be all he would have her, and the result is one of the most intellectual

and elegant women of whom our country can boast. The “light” which was

threatened with extinction has now found “its right socket,” and no

brighter luminary shines either in the world of fashion, or in the

circle of home.

* * * * *

BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. III.

BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.

[Illustration: Monterey.]

IT was early in September, in the morning of the day,

When our army paused admiringly in front of MONTEREY;—

Like Cortez, had our general led his gallant little band

Through hosts of savage foemen to the centre of the land;—

Guerilla and Ranchero had followed on his track,

Like hungry wolves, but steadily our men had beat them back.

There lay the noble city—its cathedrals, and its towers

And parapets; its palaces, and gardens bright with flowers—

With the sunlight falling on it, over tower and dome and spire,

Through the mellow morning radiance, in a rain of golden fire:

Never, even in dreams of Orient lands, had Saxon eyes looked down

On so glorious a country, or so beautiful a town.

Through the grove of San Domingo our general led the way,

Reconnoitring in silence the city as it lay—

When from the Citadel, which frowned scarce half a league before,

We saw a flash of flame leap out, and heard a cannon’s roar:

The enemy were there in force, and we braced us for the fray,

Though retiring for the time before the guns of MONTEREY.

All day our parties scanned the place; and never had our eyes

Beheld a spot so guarded from all danger of surprise;

Its fortresses apparently all human force defied,

For what nature left unfinished, consummate art supplied:

We felt, while gazing on it, that many a bloody day

Would pass before our gallant troops were lords of MONTEREY.

Next morning came the order; and we saw chivalrous WORTH,

With his regulars, march silently and determinedly forth.

On the heights that overhung his road the Bishop’s Palace rose,

Like a giant looking down on the columns of his foes;

But his men pressed bravely on, led by HAYS and noble MAY,

Till from their eyry in the hills they gazed on MONTEREY.

Meanwhile we stood like restive steeds, fretful and full of fire,

And anxious for the conflict which every hour brought nigher.

Day waned, and morning came again, and then the word was given

And answered by a thousand shouts that shook the vaults of heaven,

For our troops, long curbed, now held the reins, and lightly leapt

away,

Sweeping with headlong fury toward defying MONTEREY.

We saw brave WORTH, whose noble band was ordered to the right,

Lead on his men through sheets of flame, and storm the castled height,

And the Mexic flag go down, and the stars and stripes expand

In the golden yellow sunlight, like a rainbow o’er the land,

As, led by gallant BUTLER, our division fought its way,

Foot by foot, and step by step, toward the town of MONTEREY.

The Citadel had greeted us, but we passed along the plain,

While its showers of grape and musket-shot deluged our ranks like

rain;

But fierce and hot as was its fire, ’twas naught to what ensued

When in the suburbs narrow ways our little phalanx stood;

But BUTLER led us on, and we swore to win the day

Or die, like Yankee volunteers, in the streets of MONTEREY.

The cannon of the Citadel still swept our falling flanks—

The guns of Fort Teneria sent death throughout our ranks;—

Every window, door and house-top concealed a hidden foe,

Who sent his leaden welcome to the files that fought below:

Death reigned supreme: we stood aghast; but not a man gave way,

Though never yet was fight so fought as that at MONTEREY.

Sudden! arose a cry—a yell! and we saw our banners wave

Over Fort Teneria’s summit: God! what a shout we gave!

QUITMAN and his brigade were there, and the enemy’s flag went down,

As, with another rallying cry, we hurried through the town:

Fort Diablo’s guns received us, and one third our columns lay

Gasping—wounded—dying—dead—in the streets of MONTEREY.

The rest grew sick at heart; but we closed our ranks and dashed

Onward, with cheers, as all around our enemies’ muskets flashed;

But BUTLER, tottering on his steed, staggered, and reeled, and sank,

And with him, at the same discharge, went down our leading rank:—

Human nature could endure no more, and the now departing day

Saw us retreating slowly through the town of MONTEREY.

Another day passed slowly by, and we made our bivouac

Where we fought, for, though our foes were brave, they could not drive

us back;

But the morrow brought fresh orders, and our men with hurrying feet

Pressed on again, troop after troop, contesting street by street;

From door to door, from house to house, we fiercely fought our way,

Determined that the night should see us lords of MONTEREY.

Then came the deadly conflict, foot to foot and hand to hand,

For at every nook and corner our foemen made a stand;

From the barricades which swept the streets, from the roofs above our

head,

And the windows at our sides, descended showers of iron and lead;

And the crash of tumbling timbers, and the clash of steel, that day,

With the death-cries of the dying, rent the skies of MONTEREY.

That night the conflict ceased, and the crimson morning sun

Beheld the city in our hands—the bloody battle won.

Next day our conquered foes marched out, and slowly over the plain

Moved from our sight in silence—a sad, disheartened train;

But many an eye glanced backward, remembering the affray,

While we gazed on, like statues—the MEN OF MONTEREY.

[Illustration: woman weeping over a dead soldier]

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE SUNSHINE OF LOVE.]

* * * * *

LOITERINGS AND LIFE

ON THE PRAIRIES OF THE FARTHEST WEST.

BY J. M. LEGARE.

IN October of forty-six, while on a visit to St. Louis, I met a

college-mate, Charles G., who, after a two years’ ramble toward the

South, was now about to lace on his moccasin again, from a pure love of

adventure, and distaste for the so-called comforts of life in the

States. He had once before traversed the prairies skirting the

Mississippi, and even passed a winter among the Chippeways on the frozen

lakes, but his present design was to build a lodge somewhere in the

neighborhood of the head-waters of the Missouri, and run the risk of

losing his scalp, for the sake of the abundance of game of all sorts,

and freedom from the trammels of civilization, to be found on the

farther side of the Yellow-Stone river. As I had abundance of leisure,

and not a little fancy for stirring adventure myself, he readily made me

a convert to his way of thinking, and in three days we were steaming up

the Missouri for Fort Leavenworth, where we designed taking a canoe and

paddling the rest of the voyage. This outpost is fully six hundred miles

from St. Louis; but as these sketches are such as one would scrawl off,

lying full-length on the grass, with rifle within reach, and a blazing

fire in front, drawing savory steams from a haunch of antelope or deer,

or buffaloe-hump, I will describe nothing so commonplace as a voyage in

the high-pressure steamer which landed us in company with half a

regiment of raw dragroons en route for New Mexico.

We were all anxiety to begin our expedition in earnest, and the same day

purchased a dug-out of sufficient capacity from a couple of traders on

their way down stream, in which we embarked the next morning by

daylight, with a cargo consisting of a keg or two of powder, pig-lead,

Mackinaw blankets, biscuits, coffee, and liquor enough to take the

clayey taste out of a _few_ gallons of the river-water. Our party

consisted of four, Charlie G., myself, a Canadian trapper, named Jean le

Louche, from an outrageous squint in one eye, whom Charlie had hunted

with formerly, and hailed as an old acquaintance, and now hired to add

to the physical strength of the future little garrison, and lastly, a

woolly-headed servitor of mine, (Jock,) more honest than brilliant, (I

mean intellectually—for his face shone,) who had begged hard to

accompany me, in place of being sent back to Carolina. The true banks of

the Missouri are from two to twenty miles apart, and two or three

hundred feet in perpendicular height, sometimes rising in pinnacles and

terraces studded with glittering fragments of gypsum, making a splendid

show in the full blaze of the sun, and variegated with broad parallel

stripes of red, yellow, and gray, where the stratas of different soils

appear in their natural position laid bare by the heavy rains. The space

between is occupied by a rich plain, deposited by the river during its

frequent overflowings; and through this beautiful meadow, shaded as it

is here and there by forests and groves of cotton-wood, beech, sycamore,

and oak, the current flows, winding, from bank to bank, with an average

rate of speed of four or five miles. From the summit of the cliffs

stretches a vast level prairie quite to the falls of the Missouri, a

distance of perhaps 2,500 miles; but of this great pasture for game I

will say nothing for the present, but return to the region of the river,

which abounds with antelopes, deer, bears, and big-horns—the former

trooping down the grassy slopes in herds of from fifty to a hundred,

stamping their little feet and stretching out their necks, in their

impatience to learn the errand of the voyageurs, and the last-mentioned

making their appearance on the most inaccessible heights, often standing

motionless between the looker and the blue sky above, like images carved

out of the chalk which capped many of the peaks. These wild sheep or

goats, (for they resemble both,) I observed frequently perched on the

precipitous banks within reach, or very nearly, of a good rifle from the

shore, but on pointing this out to Jean, the Voyageur, he only laughed,

saying, “_Sacré!_ monsieur, dat vere true—a’most, tourjours a’most—but

nevare anyting else. _Monsieur bighorn a bien de connaissance_—all de

Injens call him ‘med’cine’—ha! Him stan’ vere quite—him not move an

pouce. Mais, tenez, him eye fix on you steady, not so much as make vink.

Ven you come assez close, you raise your fusil—oh, vere softly—den you

quite sure ob him rib for supper. Mais—dans l’instant—_sacré!_—where

him jomp? You look leetle more high up de cliff, and dare him stan’

a’most in de—de—how you call? Ah, in de shot-rifle. Nevare mind, you

say, I not so slow anoder time. Den you climb up leetle vay and take de

aim agen. Mais, come autrefois, him no longer dere—mais _a’most_—ah,

diable! toujours _a’most_!”

We laughed at Jean’s odd description of the habits of these wonderful

mountain-sheep, which he rendered more forcible by his extravagant

gestures, sometimes rising suddenly in our narrow canoe, at the risk of

turning it bottom upward.

“But,” said I, “what if one were to drive one of your ‘medicine’ goats

where he would have no higher place to leap to, and only a sheer

precipice before him?”

“Oh ho, monsieur, you tink you got him vere safe now—mais, monsieur,

med’cine not tink so—him laugh, oh vere much in him sleeve—diable! in

him hide! Eh bien, you much fatigué—you say to yourself, now or nevare!

Den you raise your rifle for de last time—your finger feel for de

trigger—_n’est-ce pas?_—Hola! sacré, diable, ventrebleu—were him? You

rub your eye, you open him wide—_so_ wide. Presently you look more

closer—you not see no terrace, noting but deep prec’pice—ha! Den you

smile vid yourself, you quite sure him break de neck at de bottom. You

creep down, creep down vere slow, dat your neck might not brake _aussi_.

Mais, ven you reach de bottom, you not see him novere!”

“How—you don’t mean to say that this devil of a goat can fall a hundred

feet or more without breaking every bone in his body?”

“Précisement, monsieur, précisement. Vhen him jump down, him fall on him

big horn—him not broke noting at all. Den à l’instant him on him four

foot—him cut caper—him say, _bec—bah_! And dat is de last you shall

see of monsieur vid de grandes hornes—eh bien!”

This was all very fine, but I credited about one-half of Jean’s

assertions, and determined to embrace the first opportunity of trying a

shot on my own account. Accordingly while the others were constructing

our usual night-camp one afternoon, I slipped quietly away, and after a

half hour’s prying about, discovered a big-horn, and crept cautiously

under the cliff upon which he was perched, but the animal discovered me

before I could get within long-shot. I followed, however, and to do so,

was obliged to begin the ascent, which was toilsome and sometimes

dangerous, from the narrowness of the ledges affording foot-hold.

Several times my eye glanced along the rifle-barrel, but before I could

draw trigger, a sudden leap would again place him out of reach; and in

this manner I persisted in creeping and clambering higher and higher,

until I found myself near the edge of the prairie above, and the

big-horn some distance _below_, with only a sloping ledge intervening

between us. I saw in a moment that he could not escape me this time,

unless he threw himself over the brink of the precipice, as Jean

related—a feat I placed no faith in.

To reach the nimble animal it was necessary to slide a portion of the

way down the inclined shelf, which I did sitting, with my eye fixed on

the game; the first part of the slope was hard clay, and I counted on

putting a stop to my descent a dozen or so yards below, where a stratum

of sand appeared; but when I reached what I had taken for sand, I found

it to be sand-_stone_ instead, and so smooth, that my velocity was

augmented rather than retarded. Away I went faster than ever—I quite

forgot the big-horn, and only thought of saving myself from a leap which

would certainly prove fatal without a pair of monstrous spiral horns.

Luckily, the ledge became horizontal before it terminated, which saved

my neck; but the seat of my trowsers, although of stout buckskin, were

grated away, and it was a great marvel I was not ground off to the

waist. As for the big-horn, he had thrown himself over even before I

touched the rock, and up the face of this last I was obliged to climb,

breaking holes in the slippery surface with my hatchet to serve as

steps, before I could regain my former position. I related my disaster

with the best grace I could to a grinning audience around the camp-fire,

and sought consolation in the broiled ribs of a fat doe Jean had brought

in, during a running fire of jokes and mock sympathy directed against

me, sitting _in naturalibus_ as to my legs, while Jock stitched in a new

piece of leather where it was most needed. A day or two after this we

came upon a herd of buffaloes for the first time. A party of Kanzas,

whom we met on their way to Fort Leavenworth, informed us that not many

leagues due west large game abounded—an assertion borne out by the long

strips of jerked meat with which their pack-horses were loaded. The same

day we arrived opposite Bellevue, and after a council held, determined

to land, drag our canoe and freight into the enclosure of the station,

and spend a week or two in collecting a good store of buffaloe-tongues

and pemican. Accordingly, we disembarked, and found no difficulty in

lodging our small vessel in a block-house not far from the water’s edge,

the main fort being situated on the brow of a hill of considerable

elevation. Here we purchased horses with the condition of returning them

to the traders from whom they were obtained, should we return in the

course of a few weeks, and desire to continue our voyage. On the second

or third day, (I forget which,) Jean, on mounting a steep eminence

somewhat in advance, cried out, “_Voilà des buffaloes!_” in a rapturous

manner, which quickly brought us to his side. Sure enough, some miles

off, a vast number of black specks were to be distinguished scattered

over the plain below, a semicircular range of low hills, separating the

prairie we had just traversed, and which terminated at the banks of the

Missouri, from that stretching to the Platte River. As a light wind was

blowing in the direction of the buffaloes, we retraced our steps down

the side of the hill, and following the direction of the range, after a

couple of hours’ ride, came into the immediate vicinity of the grazing

herds, but this time to leeward. From the thicket of dwarf bushes

bordering the ravine in which we stood, and extending into the plain a

short distance, was little more than three hundred yards to the nearest

group, and we could see all the cows and half-grown calves lying about

in the sunshine, or feeding by twos and threes, while the bulls paraded

themselves, occasionally tearing up the soil with their hoofs,

bellowing, and locking horns with a chance antagonist, all wholly

unsuspicious of the proximity of an enemy. We determined to descend the

ravine cautiously, and if possible get a standing shot from the

extremity of the cover before making a dash into the open plain; but our

care was thrown away, for before we had advanced fifty yards, a pack of

wolves, who were lurking about the skirt of the herd, in the hope

probably of making a meal of a sick individual, galloped off toward the

next line of thicket, and drew the attention of those closest to our

party. There was now no chance of approaching unperceived, so dashing

boldly out, we each selected a victim as we rode, and made straight for

it, regardless of the rest. The rest, however, were far from unmindful

of our presence, and such a bellowing roaring, and scampering, I never

saw or heard before. Some of the larger bulls stood for an instant

eyeing us through the shaggy mane in which their heads were buried, cast

earth into the air, lowered their horns as if for a rush, but

immediately after wheeled, and, tail on end, followed their companions

in an ungainly sort of race, which, when hard pushed, they exchanged for

a lumbering gallop.

The whole surface of the prairie, as far as eye could see, was now in

motion, the nearer masses thundering along amidst clouds of dust, and

making the plain quake with the dint of thousands of hoofs, while those

in the distance were just beginning to take the alarm, and stopped

frequently, fronting about to distinguish the cause of the disturbance.

We had only time to make these hasty observations, when our horses bore

us into the very midst of the melée, and as, of course, every thing was

literally lost sight of, as well as forgotten for a time, with the

exception of one’s own deeds and misdeeds, I will confine myself for the

present to what befell me in person. I cannot say whether the others

succeeded in reaching the buffaloes they had selected from the cover,

but for my part, I lost sight of the cow I had chosen before I was

fairly among the panic-stricken multitude; my horse, however, was a

thorough Indian hunter, and entering into the spirit of the thing,

presently brought me alongside of a huge bull, who, with his stump of a

tail elevated at an angle of forty degrees, head down, and small, red

eyes dilated with terror, was making the most of his time under the

circumstances. At first our course took us into a dense crowd of

fugitives, who would have been only too glad to afford us plenty of

space, had it laid in their power to do so; as it was, I saw myself at

one hasty glance, surrounded on all sides by the flying throng, some

ahead, striving their utmost to keep out of harm’s way, others on each

side jostling and pressing their fellows, and others again, those we had

passed in our career, bringing up the rear, and laboring to overtake

their more vigorous companions, and all seen dimly through a cloud of

dust, and in the midst of an uproar which I never saw equaled. I think

this must have been the last general observation I made, for a moment

after, the bull to whom we had attached ourselves broke from the flank

of the moving mass, toward which he had been by degrees edging, and made

across the prairie at an acute angle to the line of flight pursued by

the greater number. This manœuvre gave him a start of some yards, as it

was no easy matter to extricate ourselves at a moment’s warning; but

when we did, the superior speed of my horse rapidly decreased the

distance between us. Now that there was only one object to engross my

attention, I entered heart and soul into the wild excitement of the

chase, and as far as my individual senses were concerned, the world was

compressed in a single buffalo, hotly pressed by a half-mad horseman,

the one endeavoring as strenuously to preserve his life, as the other to

take it. Away we went—sometimes over the short-tufted sward, then into

a wooded hollow, and out again on the other side—up hills and down, at

the same furious pace at which we had parted from the herd. I was soon

enabled to use my rifle which the denseness of the throng in which we

had at first ridden had prevented me from doing to advantage, as there

was no room to wheel, and to have attempted a halt would have been a

sure means of finding ourselves run down and possibly trampled to death

by the press behind. We were now running abreast, and holding my rifle

across the saddle, and braced against my left arm, I fired without

sighting, and lodged the ball in his bushy neck instead of behind the

fore-shoulder, as I intended.

At the report, my steed, who knew well what he was about, dashed off at

a tangent just in time to avoid a furious charge from the horns of the

huge brute, but in a short while we had recovered the lost ground, and

were bearing hard upon his flank. This time I used my pistol, and, as it

happened, with success; for my finger pressing the trigger sooner than I

designed, the charge hamstrung the bull and brought him down headlong in

an instant, rolling over in a whirlwind of dust. As he was now safe

enough, I dismounted, reloaded, and approached with the bridle over my

arm, to give the coup de grace; and this I was glad to do, for the poor

brute had raised himself on his fore legs and was making violent efforts

to regain his feet, his eyes blood-shot and rolling, and a bloody foam

flying from his nostrils, while he bellowed as much from terror and rage

as pain. A third bullet put an end to his sufferings, and after cutting

out the tongue, I looked about for the rest of the party. Nothing

whatever was to be distinguished moving on the great level, but far away

to the north, a low, gray mist showed the route pursued by the herds. A

perfect stillness had fallen over all nature, and this sudden change

from the recent life and tumult was startling and even oppressive. No

idea can be formed of the solitude of these vast tracts from that

experienced in the midst of a forest; for in the latter there are either

birds, or living creatures of some sort, or if there be none of these,

every trunk aids in creating an echo, and the very motion and rustling

of leaves convey an idea of existence; but alone in the open prairie,

the voice is lost in the vast space if a shout is attempted, and a

solemn hush succeeds which overawes the rudest heart. I felt much

relieved, then, when from the summit of a mound some hundred yards

removed, I perceived on the farther side of a low ridge, a number of

buffaloes which had been headed off, and were now making straight for

where I stood. They must have been nearly two miles distant, and it was

not until they were near enough to distinguish my presence and wheel as

I approached, that I perceived any one in pursuit. It was Charlie, who

fired at the moment, and brought down a fat cow, as I discovered when I

reached the spot. I assisted in cutting off the choicest portions of the

meat, after which we rejoined the others half a mile farther on. Jean’s

horse was loaded with thin strips of meat, two or three tongues, and a

couple of humps, the greatest delicacy of the prairies; and on these we

feasted that night, building our camp at the foot of the ravine down

which we had descended some hours before. Every one had some exploit or

misadventure to relate. Jean had killed two bulls and a cow, and Charlie

a couple of cows, but the last had received a fall and bruised his

shoulder in rather an odd manner. When a herd of buffaloes are excited

and begin running, a number of the bulls are usually found in the rear,

and these, in the first panic, rushing blindly onward, and being more

clumsy than the cows, not infrequently stumble in some of the numerous

holes in the surface, and roll over and over before they can recover

their legs; although occasionally the violence of the shock is such that

they are maimed and unable to make much progress afterward. Charlie had

just finished his first cow, and was in the act of pursuing another,

when one of these accidents occurred directly in his path, and both he

and his horse were precipitated over the shaggy monster on the instant.

Fortunately, he was not at full speed, or the fall might have been

fatal; and he possessed presence of mind enough to retain fast hold of

the bridle, so that, although dragged a short distance, he was enabled

to prevent his hunter from following the throng and ultimately to regain

his seat. But the worst off of all was Jock, who had begged so hard to

be allowed to try his chance also, that we had given him a heavy

horseman’s pistol, and left him to tie the pack-horse in the ravine when

we sallied forth from cover. It seemed that having done so securely, as

he thought, he galloped after a cow, which, from frequently facing about

to protect the retreat of her calf, had fallen behind the others. This

female buffalo turned out to be a regular vixen, for either exasperated

at the _color_ of her pursuer, or unwilling to abandon her offspring

without a struggle, contrary to their usual custom, instead of scouring

off the faster when pushed hard, she wheeled and made a determined rush

at the terrified Jock. He managed to fire full at her breast, but

without the least apparent success, for the next instant his horse was

knocked over broadside by the impetus of her charge, and he himself

projected through the air, and landed on his head with a shock which

would have fractured the skull of any but a negro.

However, on rising, he had the satisfaction of seeing his late

antagonist lying quite dead, the ball having entered her heart, and the

effort which overthrew her enemy being the last of life. There was a

slight drawback to this self-gratulation in the fact, that his horse had

taken advantage of the moment of liberty to dart after a detachment of

the great herd which had thundered by, and could now be distinguished

afar off, the flapping of Jock’s Mackinaw-blanket, which had been tied

about the steed’s neck, and served the rider in place of a saddle, every

instant accelerating his speed. When he came to look about,

nevertheless, his face expanded into a grin of delight, for the calf had

stopped short when the dam was slain, and now returned, stamping his

feet and eyeing the sable hunter with some signs of anger, and certainly

very few of fear. Jock from the first moment had coveted the calf, and

now, in his charming ignorance, thought nothing easier than to catch it

by the ears and drag it into the ravine, where he could secure it alive

with a cord. With this design he marched directly up to his proposed

prisoner, who stood his ground by the side of the carcase, his small,

red eyes watching the enemy from under his shaggy brows; but the instant

Jock stretched out his hands to clutch him, the undaunted little brute

plunged forward and gave the former a thump in the stomach, which

knocked the breath fairly out of his body, and laid him flat on his back

in the grass. Greatly indignant, the discomfited aggressor scrambled up

and began a search for his pistol, which in the fall from his horse he

had lost possession of, but before he could recover it, the calf,

emboldened by success, made a second attack on him, and taking Jock at a

disadvantage in that portion of his body which is most prominent in

stooping over, cleverly caused him to perform an involuntary somerset.

This was the last of Jock’s adventure, for as soon as he could recover

his perpendicular, he took to his heels, and now related his ill-luck

with a crest-fallen air enough. We all went to see this sturdy calf, but

the little fellow had no sooner caught sight of our white (or what

passed for white) faces, than he scampered off, and we saw no more of

him. Jock profited by this retreat to find his pistol, but when we

returned to the ravine, we discovered a worse misadventure had occurred;

the pack-horse had broken loose, and gone off at full speed, to judge

from the numerous cups, pans, and a dozen other miscellaneous articles

scattered for some yards along his track until he got clear of the

bushes. If he chanced to cross the path of the wolves we started up

earlier in the day, I am sorry for him.

* * * * *

LINES.

BY GEO. D. PRENTISS.

THE sunset’s sweet and holy blush

Is imaged in the sleeping stream,

All nature’s deep and solemn hush

Is like the silence of a dream;

And peace seems brooding like a dove

O’er scenes to musing spirits dear—

Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,

And I were blest if thou wert here.

The myriad flowers of every hue

Are sinking to their evening rest,

Each with a timid drop of dew

Soft folded to its sleeping breast

The birds within yon silent grove

Are dreaming that the spring is near—

Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,

And I were blest if thou wert here.

On yon white cloud the night-wind furls

Its lone and dewy wing to sleep,

And the sweet stars look out like pearls

Through the clear waves of heaven’s blue deep;

The pale mists float around, above,

Like spirits of a holier sphere—

Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,

And I were blest if thou wert here.

The pale full moon, in silent pride,

O’er yon dark wood is rising now,

As lovely as when by thy side

I saw it shining on thy brow;

It lights the dew-drops of the grove

As hope’s bright smile lights beauty’s tear—

Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,

And I were blest if thou wert here.

Ah! as I muse, a strange, wild thrill

Steals o’er the fibres of my frame—

A gentle presence seems to fill

My heart with love and life and flame;

I feel thy spirit round me move,

I know thy soul is hovering near—

Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,

And I am blest, for thou art here.

* * * * *

AILEEN AROON.[1]

BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK.

GIRL of the forehead fair,

Aileen, aroon!

Girl of the raven hair,

Aileen, aroon!

Girl of the laughing eye,

Blue as the cloudless sky,

For thee I pine and sigh,

Aileen, aroon.

Girl of the winning tongue,

Aileen, aroon!

Flower of our maidens young,

Aileen, aroon!

Sad was our parting day,

Fast flowed my tears away,

Cold was my heart as clay,

Aileen, aroon.

When o’er the heaving sea,

Aileen, aroon!

Sailed the ship fast and free,

Aileen, aroon!

Wailing, as women wail,

I watched her snowy sail

Bend in the rising gale,

Aileen, aroon.

I watched her course afar,

Aileen, aroon!

Till rose the evening star,

Aileen, aroon!

Then fell the shades of night,

Wrapping all from my sight

Save the stars’ pensive light,

Aileen, aroon.

Stranger to grief is sleep,

Aileen, aroon!

What could I do but weep?

Aileen, aroon!

Worlds would tempt in vain,

Me, to live through again

That night of bitter pain,

Aileen, aroon.

Oh! but my step is weak,

Aileen, aroon!

Wan and pale is my cheek,

Aileen, aroon!

Come o’er the ocean tide,

No more to leave my side,

Come, my betrothed bride,

Aileen, aroon.

Come, ere the grave will close

Aileen, aroon!

O’er me and all my woes,

Aileen, aroon!

Come with the love of old,

True as is tested gold,

Pet lamb of all the fold,

Aileen, aroon.

By the strand of the sea,

Aileen, aroon!

Still I’ll keep watch for thee,

Aileen, aroon!

There with fond love I’ll hie,

Looking with tearful eye

For thee until I die,

Aileen, aroon.

-----

[1] Aileen, aroon—pronounced Ileen a roon—Ellen, darling, Anglice.

* * * * *

SONNET.

BY CAROLINE MAY.

LOVE before admiration! Yes, oh yes!

Far sooner than give up the quiet love

Of a few warm, strong hearts, or even less,

Of one true heart alone, where like a dove,

To her own nest, I may for comfort press,

I’d yield the admiration of the world,

Were the world’s admiration mine! Confess,

Thou, over whom Fame’s banner is unfurled,

Can that broad banner hide thee from distress?

Thou, in whose ears the trumpet-peals of Fame

Forever sound, can those loud peals suppress

The secret sigh that trembles through thy frame?

Ah no! Take empty Fame away, and give

Love before admiration, or I cannot live.

* * * * *

THE LADY OF THE ROCK.

A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND.

BY MISS M. J. WINDLE.

(_Continued from page 181._)

CHAPTER V.

The convent bells are ringing,

But mournfully and slow;

In the gray, square turret swinging,

With a deep sound, to and fro,

Heavily to the heart they go!

Hark! the hymn is singing—

The song for the dead below,

Or the living who shortly shall be so!

BYRON’S PARISINA.

THE thirtieth of January, memorable in history, rose gloomy and dark, as

though the heavens would express their sympathy with the tragedy about

to be enacted.

Three days only had been allowed the condemned prisoner between his

sentence and his execution. This interval, during the day, he had spent

chiefly in reading and prayer. On each night he had slept long and

soundly, although the noise of the workmen employed in framing his

scaffold, and making other preparations for his execution distinctly

reached his ears.

On the morning of the fatal day he rose early, and calling his

attendant, desired him to employ great care in dressing and preparing

him for the unusual solemnity before him.

At length he appeared attired in his customary suit of black, arranged

with more than his wonted neatness. His collar, edged with deep lace,

set carefully round his neck, and was spotless in color, and accurate in

every fold, while his pensive countenance exhibited no evidence of

emotion or excitement.

Bishop Juxon assisted him at his devotions, and paid the last melancholy

duties to the king. After this, he was permitted to see such of his

family as were still in England. These consisted only of his two younger

children, the Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Gloucester.

Notwithstanding the tender years of the young Elizabeth, she seemed

fully to appreciate her father’s unhappy situation, and her young heart

appeared well nigh bursting.

“Weep not for thy father, my child,” said Charles, kissing her tenderly;

“he but goeth where thou mayest one day meet him again.”

She threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed aloud. He pressed her to

his bosom and soothed her gently, but seemed for the first time since

his interview with Alice Heath, on the night previous to his sentence,

half unmanned. “It is God, my love, who hath called thy poor parent

hence, and we must submit to his will in all things. Bear my love to

your mother, and tell her that my last thoughts were with her and our

precious children.”

Separating himself from her by a great effort, and then pressing the boy

to his heart, he motioned to the attendants to remove them, lest the

trial of this interview might, at the last, unnerve his well-sustained

resolution and courage.

The muffled bells now announced with mournful distinctness, that the

fatal moment was approaching. The noisy tramp of the excited

populace—ever eager to sate their vulgar gaze on any bloody spectacle,

but anticipating extraordinary gratification from the novel sight of the

execution of their king—was plainly audible. Presently, the guard came

to lead him out. He was conducted by a private gallery and staircase

into the court below, and thence conveyed in a sedan-chair to the

scaffold, followed by the shouts and cries of the crowd.

About the time that these sounds were dying away from the neighborhood

of Lisle’s house, William Heath hastily entered the library, and taking

pen and paper, wrote the following brief letter.

MY DEAR ALICE,—I cannot but rejoice, that after finding, as we

believed, all hope for Charles Stuart at an end—your visit to

Cromwell having been unsuccessful—I removed you to a distance,

until the tragical scene should, as we thought, be ended. The

tumult and noise which fill the city, together with the

consciousness of the cause creating it, would have been too much

for your nerves, unstrung as they have been of late, by the

feeling you have expended for the unhappy king. There is yet,

though—I delight to say, and you will delight to hear—a single

hope remaining for him, even while the bells now ring for his

execution. Lord Fairfax, who though, like myself, friendly to

his deposition, still shudders at the thoughts of shedding his

blood, will, with his own regiment, make an attempt to rescue

him from the scaffold. There is, in fact, scarce any reason to

doubt the success of this measure; and this evening, Alice, we

will rejoice together that the only cloud to dim the first

blissful days of our union has been removed—as I shall rejoin

you at as early an hour as the distance will permit.

I write this hastily, and send it by a speedy messenger, in

order to relieve, by its agreeable tidings, the sorrowful state

of mind in which I left you a few hours since. I am, my own

Alice, your most affectionate husband,

WILLIAM HEATH.

The street before Whitehall was the place prepared for the execution.

This arrangement had been made in order to render the triumph of popular

justice over royal power more conspicuous, by beheading the king in

sight of his own palace. All the surrounding windows and galleries were

filled with spectators, and the vast crowd below were kept back by

soldiery encircling the scaffold. Charles mounted it with a steady step,

and the same dignified resolution of mien which he had all along so

admirably maintained. Uncovering his head, he looked composedly around

him, and said, in a clear, unfaltering voice, though only sufficiently

loud to be heard by those near him, owing to the buzz of the crowd,

“People of England, your king dies innocent. He is sentenced for having

taken up arms against Parliament. Parliament had first enlisted forces

against him, and his sole object—as God is his judge, before whom he is

momently to appear—was to preserve, as was his bounded duty, inviolate

for himself and his successors, that authority transmitted to him by

royal inheritance. Yet, although innocent toward you, and in that view

undeserving of death, in the eyes of the Omniscient his other sins amply

merit his coming doom; in especial, having once suffered an unjust

sentence of death to be executed against another, it is but meet that he

should now die thus unjustly himself. May God lay not his death in like

manner to your charge; and grant that in allegiance to my son, England’s

lawful sovereign at my decease, you may speedily be restored to the ways

of peace.”

Lord Fairfax, with his regiment, prepared for the rescue of Charles, was

proceeding toward the place of execution by a by-street, at the same

time that the king was being conducted thither. On his way, he was

passed by Cromwell, who then, for the first time, became aware of his

purpose.

Much disturbed in mind at the discovery of a project so likely to thwart

his own ambitious views, just ripe for fulfillment, the latter walked on

for some moments in deep reflection. Presently quickening his pace, he

turned a corner, and stepped, without knocking, into a house near by.

His manner was that of a person perfectly at home in the premises,

which, indeed, was the case; for James Harrison, the tenant, was one of

his subservients, chosen by him in consequence of his austere piety, and

great influence with his sect, of whom it will be recollected that

Fairfax was one. Harrison’s appearance, though coarse, was not actually

vulgar. He was a middle-aged man, tall and strongly made, and his

manner, rough and military, might command fear, but could not excite

ridicule. Cromwell found him in prayer, notwithstanding all the tumult

of the day.

“I have sought thee, Harrison,” he said, “to beseech thee engage in

prayer with Lord Fairfax, who is now on his way to rescue this Saul from

the hands of the Philistines. He should first crave the Lord’s will in

regard to his errand. Wilt thou not seek him and mind him of this?”

“I will e’en do thy bidding, thou servant of the Most High,” said

Harrison, rising and accompanying him to the door. “Where shall I find

Fairfax?”

“Thou wilt overtake him by turning speedily to the right,” replied the

other, parting from him.

“One of his lengthy supplications at the throne of grace,” said Cromwell

to himself, as he walked on, “will detain Fairfax until this son of

Belial is destroyed.”

Meanwhile, upon the scaffold, Charles, after delivering his address, was

preparing himself for the block with perfect equanimity and composure.

“There is but one stage more, sire,” said Juxon, with the deepest

sympathy of look and manner. “There is but one stage more. Though

turbulent, it is a very short one; yet it will carry you a long

distance—from earth to heaven.”

“I go,” replied the king, “from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown,

where no downfall can transpire.”

So saying, he laid his head upon the block, and the headsman, standing

near, in a visor, at one blow struck it from his body. Another man, in a

corresponding disguise, catching it and holding it up, exclaimed,

“Behold the head of a traitor!”

At this moment Lord Fairfax and his regiment came up. His humane

purpose, so artfully defeated, becoming known, with the strange

perversity of mankind, now that its benefits were too late to reach the

king, an instant revulsion in the feelings of the populace took place;

and the noise of quarrels—of reproaches and self-accusations rent the

air, until the tumult grew terrific.

But the reverberation of no thunder-clap could have reawaked the

dissevered corpse of the dead monarch. Charles Stuart, the accomplished

scholar and elegant poet—Charles Stuart, the husband, father,

friend—Charles Stuart, the descendant of a long line of sovereigns, and

legitimate king of the most potent nation upon earth—was no more; and a

human life was blotted from existence! That life, what was it? Singular

and mysterious essence—capable of exquisite pleasure and intense

pain—held by such a precarious tenure, yet valued beyond all price—the

gift of God, and destroyed by man—a moment past here, and now gone

forever—tell us, metaphysician, what was it, for we cannot answer the

question.