CHAPTER V.

“Palsambleu!” the old major exclaimed to himself, as he crossed the Pont

Royal; “I have an idea that things have changed a little in three months

in ‘Little Provence,’ and that my gentleman, tired of waiting to see my

chagrin, has vacated his place—or at least some new rascal has taken it

into his head to finish the other’s work; that is, to disgust me with

existence. Bah! that’s all nonsense, I shall find my little bench

smaller than ever—if however Fortune is still against me—then, mille

diables, I will show him that I am a Phalsbourg—morbleu!—a descendant

of the Lorraines, corbleu!—a gray musqueteer!—bombs and cannon!—and

we will see whether this fellow will keep his ground. It is indifferent

to me whether I die by the stroke of a sabre, or of a little bench

usurped. By the bye! how long is it since my last duel? Let me see!

forty two years! Humph! that’s rather a long interval for the honor of

Phalsbourg. But that duel had great results, and cost me dear—one

hundred thousand crowns! I would like to know whether my money went to

the bottom of the sea with that Palissandre—whom may Heaven confound!

When I think that we endeavored to cut each other’s throats for that

little sinner Guimard!—a little fool! who had no other merit, on my

conscience, but that she was her mother’s daughter—another adventuress

who so completely turned inside out the pockets of the infatuated and

unfortunate Soubise.”

Major Anspach hummed a tune as he lounged along with a most gallant air

in the long brown _scabbard_ which he called his overcoat, and which

gave something so extravagant to his appearance, that the gate-keeper at

the Tuileries had some remorse for letting him pass: nevertheless, the

major, when he had entered the orangery, resumed his gravity and

dignified deportment; besides, he stretched out his neck and held his

head so proudly, that his length was increased beyond all conception,

giving one an idea of the sword of a Swiss guard perambulating the

garden.

The promenade offered that day every imaginable splendor—the sunlight

danced upon the liquid surface of the fountains, and its red rays

piercing the interstices of the foliage, bathed the atmosphere in

glittering vapor—the rays of warm light striking upon the marble

statues, started them as it were into being, while Reverie, with bended

head, seemed to throw its somniferous influence over flowery meads and

shaded walks—and Zephyr, escorted by voluptuous Idleness, sought each

wooded recess like a nymph of Délos under the sacred laurel.

We dare not affirm that our ex-musqueteer sensibly enjoyed the delights

of the garden, thus illumined by the morning sun as we have described

them, for it is the opinion of philosophers that a less pleasure is

swallowed up in a greater one—the little bench, its roses and jasmine,

alone entered his thoughts, and at that moment for it alone he lived.

His eyes on approaching it were directed timidly toward the little seat,

and who can describe the bounding pulsation of his heart on perceiving

it vacant! And besides, how much was it embellished since he last beheld

it! the roses had climbed up and mingled with the jasmine, and formed a

delicious bower of perfume and beauty, almost concealing the little

bench in its deep recesses.

A hundred thousand pounds weight, and something more, slid from the

heart of the dear old major, and enabled him for the first time in three

months to breathe freely. His emotion was so great that his limbs

tottered, and he was obliged to cling to an orange tree for

support—tears sprang to his eyes—he tried to utter some words to

himself that he might hear his own voice, as if he doubted the evidence

of his senses—but he could only bring forth inarticulate sounds whilst

his chest heaved convulsively. He fell into a reverie. “The storm that

lowered on his house” was about to be dissipated, and he had now only to

combat the unhappy daughter of Memory—talon-fingered Regret!

In celebrating thus in thought his returning happiness Major Anspach

resumed his march, and walked along with eyes cast down, as if overcome

with his own pleasant thoughts, when he raised them he was within two

feet of his Mecca. He suddenly bounded backward as if an adder had stung

him, and then stood breathing wildly and with glassy stare—his rival

was there!

The reader would be wrong to conclude that the ill opinion formed in the

mind of Major Anspach regarding the unknown was a just one. The face of

the old man was wrinkled like that of an old soldier of Italy, as

painted by M. Charlet, giving evidence of years of hardship spent in the

service of his country—and if his countenance was somewhat austere,

that severity in his looks was softened by something of amiability and

sweetness.

It was easy to perceive that he had suffered much and long. His person

partook of the military rigidity of his countenance, the blue coat he

wore over a white waistcoat buttoning to the throat, with nankeen

pantaloons, and buckled shoes, indicated a fashion long gone by, and its

well-brushed surface, though worn, presented to the eye a tout ensemble

which claimed the respect of the stranger. In a word, there existed

between the unknown and the major so many points of resemblance, that it

required the blind aversion which had taken possession of the latter to

prevent a feeling of the warmest sympathy springing up between him and

his antagonist: but far from perceiving these symptoms of a poverty

noble and proud in his rival, and which should have inclined him to

stretch out the arms of a brother rather than those of an enemy, the

descendant of the Phalsbourgs, blinded with rage, could scarce recover

himself sufficiently to salute the stranger with a touch of his beaver

of very sinister augury.

The unknown returned the salutation with much urbanity and

self-possession.

M. Anspach, this duty to politeness performed, mechanically as it were,

drew his hat down over his eyes and made a step forward.

At this gesture his rival smiled, and looked around him as if to make

his visiter comprehend that it was impossible from the narrowness of his

quarters to offer him hospitality.

M. Anspach observing this pantomime, smiled also, but it was a bitter

smile. He made increditable efforts to recover his voice.

“I believe I see in you a lover of the Tuileries,” observed he of the

blue coat, bowing gracefully, “and that you have come, like myself, to

enjoy here the fine weather?”

“It is three months since I have enjoyed it, sir,” the choking major

answered, rolling his eyes.

“True—I have remarked your absence.”

“Ah!” growled M. Anspach de Phalsbourg.

That “_ah!_” was a little fiendish.

“You appear to suffer,” rejoined he of the blue coat, “and are

fatigued,” he added, without offering, however, to yield his seat.

“You are right,” replied the major, all at once recovering the use of

his epiglottis. “Yes, sir! I _am_ fatigued—no one was ever more

fatigued.”

The major made a pause as if gathering himself up for an encounter—then

stepping up boldly under the very nose of his adversary, continued:

“Hear me, my very _dear_ sir. I have not the honor to know you, but I

take you to be an honorable man; besides, your exterior pleases me; you

suit me well, and I should be pleased if you will permit me the honor of

cutting your throat.”

The blue coat drew back in astonishment, mingled with fright; he began

to think he had to deal with an insane person, but the major,

interpreting the movement, continued—

“Do not judge the horse by his harness”—assuming at the same time a

port full of dignity and well-bred self-possession. “You will have in me

an antagonist not unworthy of the sword of a man of honor—and if

reasons altogether personal did not at present oblige me to ask as a

favor the permission to conceal my name, you would learn that I was of a

blood which has never dishonored the veins through which it ran.”

“Then, sir,” replied the unknown, in a tone almost serious, “I am

delighted by the accident, whatsoever it may be, that brings us

together; for the name I bear, though I boast not of it, is one of the

most esteemed in Angoumois.”

“This meeting is delightful!” chimed in the major.

“Nevertheless,” resumed our blue coat, rising as he spoke—“perhaps you

will do me the pleasure to explain to me to what unexpected cause I owe

the honor of your challenge?”

“You shall have it in few words. You have not formally insulted me, I

acknowledge, but you have nearly killed me—and I plainly perceive from

the course you have taken that you will eventually accomplish it. I

prefer to anticipate my end.”

The unknown reseated himself; for the idea returned that he was

conversing with a lunatic. But this time the major, appearing to

comprehend most perfectly the suspicions of his enemy, shrugged his

shoulders and smiled in disdain, as he said—

“I hoped that your age, sir, would have prevented any precipitate

judgment concerning my motives; but I see that I was mistaken, for you

appear to partake of that vulgar prejudice which puts beyond the pale of

a just opinion all that apparently outrages the conventionalities of

social life. Be pleased, then, to excuse the strangeness of my address,

and I dare hope that you will reconsider your opinion, when you know the

just grounds I have to seek the honor of a meeting with you.”

The composed and self-possessed manner with which these last words were

spoken, struck the unknown, and he again stood up, while the major,

throwing a rapid glance over the blue coat, continued—

“I believe, sir, you are in a condition to feel some sympathy for those

whom fortune has not deigned to favor. I can, then, without a blush

acknowledge to you that I am one of her victims. Happily, I have not

received in the New World, where I passed many years, severe lessons of

wisdom and moderation without profiting somewhat by them. I have been

twice entirely ruined, and yet am consoled by my philosophy. Returning

from America, I saw myself neglected—even repulsed—by my royal

masters, to whom I had consecrated the best years of my life—a

king—princes who have not deigned to extend the hand of friendship to

an old and faithful servant, and who let him grow old in indigence and

want. Well, I am still resigned, and for more than ten years have lived

without complaint, in a state bordering on the extremest misery. But you

know, sir, that man’s strength is not inexhaustible—there is a point

beyond endurance—it is to that point you, sir, have brought me—”

“I, sir? I?”

“You will see, sir. The necessity I was under to contract my desires has

conducted me, little by little, to a modesty of enjoyment which will

astonish you. Our desires increase with fortune; but a wise man has

strength of mind enough to diminish them in inverse ratio to his

misfortunes. Mine, sir, are concentrated upon an object so humble that I

might well believe it beyond the caprice of destiny. The object of which

I speak is the little bench where you are seated—where, since the 17th

of April, you, sir, have come to seat yourself each day, a little

earlier than it was my custom to come out to rest myself. For two years

I have taken a fancy to this spot in the garden. I love that bench—that

shade—those flowers. In summer I come here in the sweet morning hour,

peacefully to enjoy the perfume of these honeysuckles. In autumn—in

winter—the smallest ray of sunshine upon the corner of the garden wall

reflects its heat upon that narrow bench, making it a delightful

resting-place for the worn out frame of an old man. What shall I say?

This sweet resort obtained soon such an empire over me, that I had but

one end—but one desire to gratify—the least sunshine upon the roofs

which my garret overlooks—the least smile of heaven had for me, a poor

old man, more intoxicating charms than ever glance of a mistress to the

most devoted lover. It was a real passion—a love with all its joys and

delicious griefs—a cloudy or a rainy day threw me in despair, and I

felt all the torments of absence from the thing I loved—but was the

morrow beautiful, I made the most brilliant toilet I could imagine, and

ran to my little bench, convinced that I should find its pleasures

increased.

“Is it necessary to tell you now, sir, that since the 17th of April you

have driven me from my paradise, and that you have become my

executioner!

“I have but little more to say but that when I was a gray musqueteer I

would have killed any one who raised his eyes toward my mistress; you,

sir, have done more than raise your eyes toward her—you have robbed me

of her—you have taken my little bench. It is more than an insult. It

is, believe me, a murder—an assassination. Then, sir, give me again

that seat; assure me on your honor that you will respect my right in

future, or name your place and weapons.”

The unknown listened to the major with increasing interest; the impress

of a thousand contrary feelings flitted by turns across his countenance,

and an observer might have remarked at times that lively combats were

going on within.

When M. Anspach ceased to speak, waiting the answer of our blue coat,

the latter walked backward and forward for some time in silence, a prey

to a visible sorrow, which the major could not but respect.

At length he stopped, and fixing upon the major a grave and melancholy

look, replied—

“I am an old soldier, and the alternative you offer is not repugnant to

me. I, too, for three months have had the habit of resorting to this

sweet spot, and to it I have consecrated the last enjoyments of a life

without happiness.

“You speak of your misfortunes,” added he, with a serious smile; “mine

do not cede to them in number or severity: I was noble and wealthy

before the Revolution, but on my return, after a long absence, I found

France republican, and I too became a republican from love to her. My

nobility was opposed to public opinion—I renounced it. My wealth

appeared to insult the public poverty—I offered my entire fortune upon

the altar of my country. The enemy menaced our frontiers—I hastened to

join the phalanx under Moreau. I gave my all to France—my name, my

blood, my fortune. But Bonaparte appeared, and nothing remained for me

to offer to the expiring Republic but my tears and my despair. Advances

were made to me—I rejected them. They would have restored my fortune

and my rank—I preferred my honor and my misery—and it was only in

1815, when France made a last effort, that I prepared to die at

Waterloo. Alas! much better would it have been to have died there!

Prisoner, and designedly overlooked in the exchanges, (for you are aware

that it could not be forgiven to a count to have fought for France,) I

was banished to the end of Russia, dragged to Tobolsk, and abandoned

there without resources to all the horrors of nakedness and hunger.

“How I escaped from those deserts would not interest you. Heaven has

permitted me to revisit France, and here I am a mark for the resentments

of the throne; regarded as a traitor to the monarchy, and contemned by

those who to-day might aid me.”

The old man on concluding these words slowly crossed his arms upon his

breast, his head drooped, as if memory remounted the lapse of years of

misfortune, and without apparent consciousness of the presence of his

interlocutor.

The major, let us say it to his praise, had equally lost sight of the

subject of their quarrel. Touched by this recital, which awakened in his

heart sensibilities somewhat moss-grown by age, he approached the

unknown, and placing his hand upon his arm, said in a voice filled with

emotion—

“Providence has had its secret designs, my dear count, (for I perceive

you bear that title,) in permitting two unfortunates such as we are to

cross each other’s path; and if I experience something soothing to my

pain in listening to the recital of your sorrows, it is in thinking that

you have met the only person in the world capable of sympathizing with

you as you deserve.”

“You forget, my dear sir,” replied the blue coat, smiling blandly, “that

we have to cut each other’s throats to-morrow.”

The major hung his head in confusion.

“Hear me,” said the old soldier of the Republic. “I do not really think

that this affair is important enough to fight about. Confess, besides,

that such pastime does not become our age. Ah! there was a time I did

not say so! In coming from the theatre, I as willingly went to fight at

the Porte Maillôt as to laugh at the Café Procope. Sir, would you

believe it, he who speaks to you has fought and been wounded, and

afterward voyaged six thousand miles to seek his antagonist, and all

because one evening Mademoiselle Guimard, the younger, let her

handkerchief fall!”

“What do I hear!” exclaimed Major Anspach, making a start of surprise,

“you said—you—ah! mon Dieu!”

“What do I see! you tremble—you become pale—do you know any thing of

that unhappy affair? Ah! sir, if it is true that you do, render me a

service that I will never forget—tell me what has become of Major

Anspach?—but now I think of it, you said you had been a gray musqueteer

under the Comte D’Artois—perhaps you have known the major—you

certainly must have been acquainted with him—ah! speak. I only possess

six hundred francs of revenue, but I would give it all only to see the

major once more before I die.”

“You are then the Chevalier De Palissandre?” murmured the grand-nephew

of the Guises by the female line, who had fallen upon the little bench

from a faintness he in vain endeavored to overcome.

“I inherited the title of count on the death of my two brothers, but

you, sir—may I believe—my eyes do not deceive me!—those features! Oh,

speak once more—you are—”

“Yes, count. I am—I am your ancient rival—”

“Oh, joy! Heaven is just—it would not let me perish without seeing him

once more. Oh! if you knew, my dear baron, how often since your

departure from France—your flight I may call it—I have cursed the

ill-fortune which did not allow me to arrive in London in time to join

you—I was acquainted with the rascality of your banker, and not wishing

to entrust to his hands the fortune which you had left in your carriage,

I hastened after you to inform you of it—to advise you of your danger

of loss through him in time to remedy it. Missing you there, I did not

feel myself relieved of the obligation to seek you. I followed you to

the Havana—I pursued your traces, but meeting contrary winds and

tempests, the vessel in which I embarked failed to overtake you, and I

was obliged to renounce the dearest object of my life.”

“Well, chevalier—that is to say, sir count—pardon me the neglect. Take

the hand I offer you, and let us bless the good fortune which permits us

to meet in our unhappy circumstances, in which we both have need of the

friendly offices of the other.”

“What the devil do you say, D’Anspach?” cried the count, crushing in his

own the offered hand of the major. “What do you say about unhappy

circumstances? There are none hereafter for you, my friend—you are

rich, devilish rich—I believe, devil take me! that you are a monstrous

millionaire!”

The old major fixed his eye on De Palissandre in stupid astonishment.

“Notwithstanding your surprise, it is nevertheless true,” continued the

count, “for despairing of ever seeing you again, I took the only course

which remained, which was to wait until you should yourself return to

seek your 300,000 francs. But not wishing to resemble the bad servant in

the parable who buried his talent in the earth, and not believing your

money safe in France, I returned to London, placed your little fortune

in the hands of one of my friends connected with the East Company—and

remember, major, that forty years have passed away since that! May I go

to the devil, if I can pretend to tell you what the honorable baronet

has done to multiply your francs; but his son, who succeeded him in

business fifteen years ago, and with whom I have corresponded since my

return from Russia, wrote me the other day that the funds invested in

the house of Ashburton & Co. amounted to nearly eight hundred thousand

pounds sterling—twenty millions of francs! It seems like a fairy tale!”

We will not attempt to paint the expression upon the face of Major

Anspach. He remained for a long time without speech or color—his eyes

shut—like a man half-killed by some overwhelming blow, and who seems

bewildered in his mind—at length his features regained their natural

appearance, his cheeks their color; he drew a long sigh, opened his

eyes, and saw before him M. de Palissandre anxiously watching the effect

of the crisis—stretched out his arms and threw them around the neck of

his old friend; shedding torrents of tears.

When the first effervescence of feeling was a little subdued, the major

seized the hand of the count anew. “Hear me, Palissandre—if you do not

promise me to submit yourself without the slightest remark to my wishes,

I take to witness my great grand-aunt, who was cousin in the eighth

degree removed of Monsieur de Guise le Balafré, that I will go to

London, receive my millions, and on my return will throw them into the

sea. Ma foi! it will only be the second fortune old ocean owes to me.”

“Sarpejeu! speak then!”

“Well, then, we will live together—be happy—be rich together—and

_both shall have new suits of clothes_!—and when we have lived long

enough, I hope Heaven will put an end to us both at the same time. I

shall give immediate orders for the purchase, at whatever cost, of the

lands of De Phalbourg and our Castle de Palissandre. Then we shall have

two fine estates, and you will see what lots of nephews and nieces, who

do not know us to-day, will spring out of the earth as it were,

expressly to continue the rank and blood of the two noble houses. We

shall not want for heirs, depend upon it!”

The two friends again embraced each other—the treaty was concluded.

Then the count and baron, with arms interlaced, marched from the

Tuileries with a step which would have done honor to two voltigeurs of

Louis Quinze—

And the little seat?

We feel ashamed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the

truth. Yes, dear lady reader, Major Anspach in departing forgot to

salute even with a parting glance that little embowered seat, perfumed

with jasmine and rose—the object of so much tender regard, and for

which a single hour ago he was willing to risk cutting throats with a

stranger. Alas! Mademoiselle, love will not last forever even at sixty

years! Nevertheless, it must be confessed the little bench, like your

sex, soon obtained consolation.

* * * * *

THE BROKEN REED.

BY S. S. HORNOR.

Many a maiden, if she knew

The sorrows of an injured wife,

Would robe herself in sable hue

When entering on married life.

Oh, man! be careful how you deal

With one so tender and so pure;

Remember that a wife can feel

A wound for which there is no cure.

Like to the fond, confiding dove,

Howe’er so gay and blithe before,

Repel the promptings of her love,

Her spirits sink to rise no more.

Teach her but that she loves in vain

And life becomes a worthless part;

The streams of love rush back again

And choke the fountains of the heart.

Though she may flourish for awhile,

The counterfeit of what she’s been.

The secret sadness of her smile

Tells, but too plainly, death’s within.

’Twere better she were never born

Than feel the shaft of anger dealt;

The deep contempt, the bitter scorn,

That many a suff’ring wife has felt.

Remember you’re her only stay;

And every slight and insult shown

Will fester unto deep decay,

Until the grave shall claim its own.

Then, with affection trifle not,

Nor smite the breast you should protect,

Lest mem’ry sad should haunt the spot,

Where lies the victim of neglect.

* * * * *

SELF-DEVOTION.

BY GIFTIE.

Upon the margin of a blue stream that ran singing through a lonely

valley among the green hills of New England, there stood in the olden

time, a low cottage, built of logs, and half covered with woodbine and

wild honeysuckle. The small patch of Indian corn near it hardly deserved

the name of a garden, and the dense forests that surrounded it, showed

that as yet civilization had penetrated but little way into the wilds of

the new world. Yet the variety of wild flowers which, transplanted from

their native glades, blossomed around the low doorway, and the air of

neatness that pervaded the rude establishment, proved a degree of

refinement greater than was usual among the Indian tribes.

It was now the hour of twilight, and not a sound was heard save the low

murmuring of the wind as it swept through the dark recesses, and swayed

the tangled branches of the mighty forest-trees. In one of the two small

rooms into which the cottage was divided, an aged Indian and his squaw

were seated beside a rude couch, where lay the form of a dying woman.

Her delicate complexion and light hair betrayed her English origin, and

she was still young, and had once been beautiful, though her face bore

the traces of a wo more heavy than the weight of years. Yet peace was

there, and the smile of calm resignation which rested upon her features,

told that not in vain had been the sorrow which had bowed her to the

grave. At the foot of the couch stood a missionary—one of those holy

men whose lives of toil and suffering were passed in the vain endeavor

to counteract the effects of the vices introduced among the Indians by

their foreign oppressors.

The chieftain lifted his head from his breast and said, in a low tone,

“She is passing away. The fair flower we would have cherished upon our

hearts is withered.”

At these words the dying woman opened her eyes, and a smile broke over

her pale face as she said, “Mourn not for me, kind father; and thou,

tender mother, weep no more. Ye would not keep a bird from its native

sky, that its song might cheer you. Even like a bird my spirit would

spread its wings that it may fly away and be at rest.”

The Indian mother raised her eyes wildly and wrung her hands as she

gazed on her adopted child. Then swaying her body to and fro, she

murmured in the half singing half wailing tones of an Indian lament,

“Will not our hut be very desolate, my bird, when thy song is hushed;

and who will bring us light like the light of thy starry eyes? Shall we

not miss thy voice at eventide when we kneel to the God thou hast taught

us to worship? Leave us not—leave us not, for our life goes with thee

to the grave!”

The missionary raised his hands to heaven, and a lofty faith spoke in

his voice, as he said, “Mourn ye not, nor weep. The exile departeth for

her native land, the wanderer for her father’s house. A light is fading

from your path, but another star shall soon be added to the Redeemer’s

crown. The flower ye would have cherished hath drooped amid these alien

skies, but it shall bloom in fresher beauty in the Paradise above.”

As he finished speaking, the dying lady placed in his hands a

manuscript, bidding him read it when she was dead; and then, with one

farewell look of love on the kind faces that surrounded her, she closed

her eyes wearily, and crossing her small white hands upon her breast,

she composed herself as if to sleep. There was a long silence, broken

only by the low wailing of the Indian woman, as she murmured in an under

tone, “The way is long, the way is dark; oh, bird of the bright eye,

thou soarest out of sight! who shall tell us the path to the spirit-land

when thy singing voice is hushed? Wo for us! wo, wo—for the way is

dark!” Gradually these low moans seemed to reach the ear that was fast

closing to earthly sounds. The lips of the dying moved, as if in a vain

effort to speak, and at length, in faint tones, she whispered, “They

shall be gathered out of every kindred and tribe and nation, and there

shall be one fold and one Shepherd. I know—I know that my Redeemer

liveth.” A brilliant smile lighted her whole face with an expression of

triumph, as she uttered these words of hope, and even in speaking them,

the spirit fled.

That evening the missionary opened the manuscript. It read as follows:

“You have been kind to me, and have respected the sacred silence of the

sorrow which has worn out my life. There are moments when every heart

yearns for sympathy, and the long closed fountains of the soul flow

again. Such a mood is on me now, and therefore I open to you this

long-sealed heart.

“Of my childhood I will say little, save that it passed like a fairy

revel. Heiress of unbounded wealth, and last of a long-descended and

honorable family, I was loved with a lavish and doating fondness, until

a sudden and terrible disease, that cut down my parents in the pride and

glory of their days, left me an orphan. From that grief, which, for a

time, was so violent as to threaten the destruction of life and reason,

I never fully recovered. Even when change of scene, the progress of

time, and the natural elasticity of youth had so far changed me, that I

appeared to have forgotten my sorrow, there lay ever upon my heart the

shadow of the tomb. After a time I was sent to reside with my aunt, at

the north of England. She was waiting in the castle gate to receive me

when I arrived there, and beside her rode her only son—my Cousin

Gerald.

“How slight a thing may seal the whole future of our lives. We greet

with a careless word and a momentary glance those whose fate is to color

our own forever, and then pass on unthinking that henceforth our destiny

is fixed. And yet the first time I saw him his image was stamped on my

heart. Sorrow, change, wrong, despair have passed over it—but that

image is there still. As I write, the curtain of the past seems drawn

back, and again I greet thee, Gerald Bellamont. Again I meet the gaze of

those flashing eyes—I hear the low, rich music of thy voice, and I feel

the floods of deep, unquenchable love, rising in my soul for thee—thou

loved so vainly.

“Days, weeks and months passed on, and we spoke not of love, perchance

knew not that the fatal spell was upon us. But at last the dream was

broken—the hours of peaceful affection passed away. Gerald left us for

a tour on the Continent, and with the struggle of that first parting

came the knowledge of all that we were to each other—came the tumult,

the trembling, the fearfulness of love.

“At first the tedious hours were relieved by frequent letters from him,

so full of tender affection, and withal so overflowing with youthful

enjoyment of the new scenes around him, that even my fond heart was

content to have him absent. Then letters came more seldom—then ceased

altogether—and then, in the midst of our wonder and anxiety, he

appeared suddenly in his old home; but so changed from the merry-hearted

boy to the reserved, thought-stricken man, that my timid nature was

abashed, and I dared not question him concerning the change which I

_felt_ had come over his inmost being.

“We were wedded; and if I detected, even amid the bridal festivities, a

shade of sadness on my husband’s brow, I strove to console myself with

the hope that now he was mine—mine forever; the love so deep, so

self-sacrificing, which I would every moment lavish upon him, could not

but chase away the bitter memories which oppressed him. Residing on my

own estate near London, our house was the resort of the noble and the

gay; and amid the exciting whirl of this new life, little time was left

for anxious thought. I entered into the pleasures which surrounded me

with the zest of a young and joyous heart; and for a few months life was

filled with sunshine—and the hours flew swiftly away; ah! why came so

soon that night of agony on which there dawned no morrow.

* * * * *

“I was dressed at last—ready for the fancy ball. My costume, which had

been selected by Lord Bellamont, had been pronounced perfect by my

maids, and even my fastidious taste could suggest no improvement. After

one parting glance of satisfaction at the mirror which reflected my

brilliant figure, I descended to the library, where I knew Gerald waited

for me, expecting to be welcomed with that smile of admiration which

woman so highly prizes from the lips of love. To my surprise, Gerald did

not turn at my entrance; and as I approached the window where he sat, I

found him gazing at a small picture, with which he was so intently

occupied as to be unconscious of my presence. It was a full-length

female figure. She stood with one arm thrown across a lyre, and one

raised to heaven. A long, dark curl had strayed from her bandeau of

pearls and rested on her neck, and the hair was parted back smoothly

from her high brow. The face was passing beautiful, with a fire in the

dark eyes, and on the small mouth, an air of lofty determination which

might have become a priestess at the altar of sacrifice. Beneath was

written—Leonore St. Clair.

“As I stood behind him, hesitating how to break his revery, Gerald

started up suddenly, and tearing the picture to pieces, threw the

fragments out of the window, where the night wind scattered them far and

wide. He watched them with a look made up of scorn and grief, and was

turning away with a sigh, when he first saw me standing near him. A deep

flush passed over his face, and he looked earnestly, almost sternly at

me for a few moments. I was as much confused as himself, though I scarce

knew why, but I had sufficient command of myself to ask some question

about the picture—I know not what. Folding me in his arms, he kissed me

again and again before he answered. ‘I will tell you about it some

time—do not ask me now. I thought it destroyed long ago, until by

accident I found it to-night. It is a relic of something I must

forget—I would gladly forget;’ and he pressed me passionately to his

heart, with words of deep tenderness. Was I mad, was I blind, that even

then no foreboding whisper told my heart its doom? Yet at that moment I

thought only that he was unhappy; and when I saw him smile again, the

suspicion fled, that for a moment had disturbed me, and, gayest of the

gay, proudest of the proud, I mingled with the throng which filled the

saloons of Lady Gordon.

“Late in the evening, as leaning on the arm of Lord ——, I wandered

from room to room, seeking refuge from the crowd and the oppressive

heat, we found our way into the library, where but few had collected. As

we entered, we were greeted by a strain of music so sweet and thrilling,

that I involuntarily pressed forward to listen. On a sofa near us the

musician was seated. One arm, exquisitely moulded, and white as snow,

was thrown across a harp, as she drew from the strings a few simple

notes. She was dressed in white satin, which was not more purely

beautiful than her complexion, and was without ornament, save a few

pearls that gleamed among the braids of her raven hair, and on her bosom

she wore a single white rose—its leaves were withered. The instant I

saw her, I had a dim recollection of having seen that face before, and

while I was striving to recall the time and place, she commenced

singing. Never heard I music like the melody she uttered. It might have

been thought the voice of an angel chanting the songs of heaven; but,

alas! though the voice was of heaven, the song was earthly. She sang of

love—not the happy love of that better land, but sad, broken-hearted,

such as woman’s hath too often been—utterly vain and hopeless.

‘I love thee not—and yet thy name,

A word, a thought of thee,

Can flush my cheek and thrill my frame,

Almost to agony.

‘And rarely do I think of thee,

Save at some lonely hour,

When memories of the buried past

Come over me with power.

‘Or when upon the moonlit air,

I hear the sound of song,

Or a low music, like thy voice,

Borne on the wind along,

‘Touches some fragment of the chord

That lies all shattered now,

Stirring its thrilling tones to tell,

Of thy forgotten vow.’

“At this moment I was startled by a deep sigh near me, and looking up,

saw Gerald standing in the deep shadow of the window recess. He was

gazing on the singer, who sat directly before him. The lady heard the

sigh—their eyes met, and the glance which flashed from them, spoke

volumes. For a moment she seemed confused and agitated, then with a look

of proud anguish, and a voice that faltered not in its clear, low tones,

she finished the song.

‘Farewell—farewell! My dearest hope

Is that we ne’er may meet;

That passing years may teach my heart

To scorn thee, and forget.’

“Her lips quivered, and her pale cheek became crimson as she concluded,

and I fancied tears trembled in the depths of her dark, radiant eyes.

She turned her face toward Gerald, and for a moment they continued

gazing on each other with a look full of sorrowful love, of agony and

despair. It was not till she had left the room that I found strength to

speak. ‘Who is she?’ I asked. The answer told me the whole story. It was

Leonore St. Clair.

“When and how he had met her I knew and thought not. It was enough to

know that she loved him—that his whole soul was given to her, and that

I—oh God! I was unbeloved. My brain seemed to burn, and my heart ceased

to beat—and yet I did not faint. There is a fearful strength in woman’s

heart, of which she is unconscious till the hour of her uttermost agony.

Turning from the brilliant scene, I passed through the window into the

garden. There was one walk which had been left unlighted, and thither my

steps were bent. It led to a small temple, which had been erected to

Cupid, and a lamp that hung over the altar, showed the figure of the

sleeping boy; but the recesses of the temple were in deep shadow. I

entered, and threw myself on a seat in the darkest corner. Was it

_chance_, or was it ordered by the mysterious Providence which revealed

to me the fearful secret that was to blight my happiness forever?

“As I lay there striving to still the tumult of my thoughts, footsteps

approached, and Leonore St. Clair entered, followed by my husband. She

cast a hurried glance around, but saw me not, and then turning to him,

said, haughtily, ‘Leave me, rash man. Is it not enough that you once

cold and cruelly deceived me, but must you thus force yourself into my

presence, and revive the memory of feelings I deemed long since dead.

Leave me—I command you!’ and she motioned him away with an impatient

gesture. I leaned forward to hear the reply. ‘Say not so, Leonore. Hear

me—nay, turn not away, for you must hear me. Long ere I knew you I was

betrothed to another. She was gentle and beautiful; oh, dearest, can you

blame me that I shrunk from breaking her kind and faithful heart. Would

you have taken my hand if it were stained with her tears? Would you have

accepted a dishonored name? Too well I knew you, too deeply had I read

your noble nature to dream of doing aught but to bow in silence to my

sad destiny. Nay, more, deeply, wildly as I loved you, until that last

day we spent together on the Rhine, I knew not that I was beloved in

return; I had been told you were the promised bride of another. Then,

when I first knew that you were free, and I—I bound to another; I

cannot speak of this—I cannot think of it; sometimes I fear I am going

mad.’

“I did not hear her answer, for as he spoke he drew her to the steps of

the altar, and they sat down together. They conversed some time in a low

tone, and I heard the sound of weeping. At last they rose, and as the

light fell full on their faces, I saw they were both fearfully agitated.

She drew her hands from his with a look of passionate despair. ‘Go,

now,’ she said, ‘go, while I have power to bid you leave me. God knows I

shall never forget you; but from this moment we must never, never meet

again.’

“‘I go,’ he replied, sadly; ‘yet ere we part, Leonore, I ask one

kiss—the first, the last. Let me press you once to this heart, and it

will be nerved to endure all things.’

“She fell into his arms—he clasped her to his bosom, and I saw their

lips meet. Another moment and he had turned from her. ‘Farewell!’ he

said, in a low, hoarse tone. ‘Farewell, _forever_!’ was the response.

“She remained standing until the sound of his steps had died away, and

then flung herself down heavily on the marble floor. Even in that first

hour of misery I felt no hatred of her. I longed to creep to her bosom,

and mingle my tears with hers, and echo the sobs that came thick and

gaspingly from her lips. After a while she rose slowly, and leaned

against the altar, while words came from her lips, faint at first, and

broken, but growing louder, till I could distinguish them. ‘To die—to

die! It would be but a moment of agony, and then all is peace. Why

should I tremble? What can the world be to me henceforth but a living

tomb? And he—the vainly loved; ah! Gerald, were I gone forever—couldst

thou not soon learn to forget me? For thy sake, beloved, I dare die.’ As

she spoke she took from her bosom a small phial, and as it passed before

the light, I saw it was full of a red liquid. Almost involuntarily I

sprung forward and dashed it to the ground as she raised it to her lips.

‘Do not—do not commit murder!’ I whispered breathlessly. She gazed at

me wildly for a few moments, pressed her hands to her brow, and sunk

fainting to the floor.

“I supported her till she revived, and with her first breath of

consciousness she asked my name. I did not reply. Just then we heard

voices calling her. She sprung up hastily, and I was astonished at her

self-possession—for I was new in the school of misery, she poor thing,

knew what it was to smile, while her heart was breaking. For a while she

buried her face in her hands, and when she looked up, save a slight

trace of tears round her eyes, all trace of emotion had vanished from

her features. Seizing my arm as I stood leaning for support against a

pillar, she drew me forward to the light, saying, in a tone too proudly

bitter ever to be forgotten, ‘You have seen and heard much—more than

could have been wrung by years of torture from the proud heart of

Leonore St. Clair. Yet when you see me, you shall know how bravely a

strong soul can sustain itself when all its hopes are crushed, and life

is a burden. You shall see how my calm, haughty mien shall fling

defiance at you if you choose to publish my secret. Tell me, girl—who

are you?’

“‘I am the wife of Gerald Bellamont.’

“With a start of horror and a faint cry, she dropped my arm and fled

from the spot.

“Do you wonder that I can think and write of this with calmness? I tell

you there have been moments when, as the flood-gates of memory were

opened, and the buried past came rushing back over my soul, I have cried

out in my agony, and prayed to drink of the blessed fountain of Lethe,

and forget forever. But this is past now. A higher faith hath taught me

the meaning of this fearful lesson, a higher hope sustains me than was

ever born of human love. Truly earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot

cure.

“The night was far spent ere I reached my home. My husband came soon

after. I heard him enter his chamber, and for a long time I listened to

the sound of his heavy steps as he paced the floor. At last he threw

himself on the bed, and then all was still. Nature could endure no more,

and I fell asleep. Wild and terrible were the visions that flitted

around my couch. I was in a vast banqueting-hall, and with me the

companions of the last night’s revel. Again I saw the flowers, the

lights, the bright, happy faces, and again the dancers whirled by me.

The night waned, the stars went out one by one, and daylight shone in on

the dying lamps; yet still those wild revelers flew by me. The sun rose

up and shed his fervent beams upon us. The flowers faded, and the faces

of the dancers grew wan, and one by one they dropped down and died. The

twilight crept over the hills, and night came on—not radiant with

stars, and redolent with the breath of flowers, but horribly dark—the

realization of impenetrable gloom. And slowly from out of that blackness

came forth the form of a woman, clothed in white, and grasping a lyre,

from the strings of which she drew forth no sound. Over her head a veil

was thrown, hiding her face, and descending in wavy folds to her feet.

She moved not, breathed not—all was still as the silence of the tomb.

“Light rose no more upon me, but I saw all things in that deep darkness

more distinctly than ever. _Years_ passed over me. I saw the finger of

Time smite the walls of my prison-house, and they crumbled to dust. The

grass grew up from the decaying floor, and became longer and longer,

till its dull rustling answered to the moaning wind. From the dust of

those beings, once so full of life and loveliness, the ivy weed sprung

and wound itself round the roofless pillars till the vast charnel-house

was green and beautiful as a garden.

“Then there came around me, as I stood there in my awful solitude, faces

and forms that looked out fitfully from the darkness, and then

disappeared. They wandered around, they stood beside me, some gazing on

me with pale, spiritual faces, bright, yet mournful in their loveliness,

and some with the countenances of fiends, that laughed horribly at my

desolation. And there was one form that took its place beside that

marble figure, and fixed upon me the glance of its dark eyes, reaching

forth its hands as if in vain efforts to approach me. Amid a thousand

phantoms I should have known him—it was Gerald.

“I had borne all things else in my dreadful destiny, but I could not

bear the mournful expression of that dear face. Tears, blessed tears

came to my relief. I sprung forward, the fetters that had bound me

seemed broken, and I would have flung myself into his arms, when

suddenly that long, motionless figure interposed itself between us, and

as her hand swept the lyre-strings, there came from them a strain of

unearthly melody. It was repeated from the distance, and on its pealing

echoes there came the sound of voices mingled with the tramping of many

feet, and forth from the darkness there came, two by two, a band,

clothed in garments of sable blackness, and girdled each with a girdle

of living fire; and on the girdle, and on the forehead of each were

written, in letters of blood, these words, ‘forever and forever.’ They

passed slowly by, and in passing each turned and looked at me. I

shuddered at the sight, for it was like the faces of the damned.

“Suddenly I felt myself seized and borne onward by an invisible force.

Then there rose on the air a low, wailing anthem, that might have been

the dirge of a lost soul, and as it grew louder and nearer, directly

before me there seemed as it were a great curtain rolled up, and I was

in a vast cathedral. We stood before the altar; around me were ranged

that band of fearful ones, with their burning girdles, and before me the

priest, dressed in his pontifical robes, and wearing still that cincture

of living fire. The marriage ceremony proceeded—it was finished, and I

turned to receive the bridal kiss. The person at my side turned also,

and I saw his face—it was Gerald. With a cry of joy I sprung forward to

his embrace, when suddenly there came that marble form between me and my

beloved. She fell into his arms, she was pressed to his heart, she

received the kiss which should have been mine alone. Then rose again

that strain of dirge-like music—then pealed the shouts of fiendish,

mocking laughter; the whole scene vanished from my sight; I felt the

ground pass from under my feet, and from the immense distance I heard a

voice cry, ‘Come, come, come—come to the judgment of the deceived and

the deceiver.’ With these words I felt myself borne swiftly through the

air. A giant’s strength would have been vain against the force which

held me—I was powerless as an infant.

“We passed with the speed of a whirlwind through the region of clouds

and storm, and left star after star behind us, till we reached the

bounds of the visible universe. Still there appeared system after system

of worlds, each with its suns and stars, and still our flight was

onward—onward, while ever and anon there came through the blue ether,

the echo of that awful summons, ‘Come, come, come!’ At length we reached

the bounds of inhabited space, and entered the lone fields of chaos. And

now faintly there came upon my vision another star, which seemed flying

on its way as if pursued by the spirit of wrath. We approached it

rapidly—it was a world on fire. I saw forms that wandered to and fro,

striving in vain to fly from their torments—‘hateful, miserable, and

hating one another.’ They ran to and fro, they plunged into rivers that

rolled in sullen billows through that world of despair, and shrunk back

howling, for the waves were of liquid fire. They glared horribly on one

another with their fiery eyes, and raised their hands with deep curses

to where, in the lurid sky above them, burned in blood-red letters, the

curse of their awful sentence, ‘forever and forever!’

“Upon the verge of this fiery world we paused, and for a few moments

there was a deep and fearful silence. Then the band of dark spirits

opened their ranks and led forth the form of a man. It was Gerald. I saw

them hover with him over the fiery abyss. I saw his impotent struggles

to escape; and breaking from the power that held me, I cried, ‘I am

thine, beloved—take me with thee—in the midst of guilt and anguish,

thine, still thine!’ An instant more and I should have reached him,

when, with a wild laugh, _that_ form came again between us. Slowly she

raised from her features the shadowy veil—it was the face of Leonore.

With a sharp cry, I started from her. The spell which had bound me was

broken. In mercy I awoke.

“Trembling, scarcely daring to think it all a dream, I drew aside the

curtains to look around, and beheld my husband standing before me. He

was frightfully pale and haggard, his eyes were dim and bloodshot, and

startled at his appearance, and for a moment half forgetting the

dreadful secret I had learned, I threw my arms around him, and drew his

face down to mine. A deeper shade passed over his brow, and he sighed

heavily as he pressed his lips to my cheek. I could not return the kiss.

I could not speak. Perhaps he did not notice my silence, for in a few

moments he told me that he had received letters requiring his immediate

presence in France, and had made preparations to leave in a few hours.

Some more words he spoke, but I knew not what they were, and then

clasping me convulsively to his heart, he bade me try to sleep again,

and left me.

“Sleep—oh mockery! What had I to do with sleep or rest, while I bore

within me the blight of a sleepless wo! How may I tell of the weary days

that succeeded? At first there were hours of frantic misery—tears of

wild and passionate despair. Then came the silent sorrow—the dull

heart-aching that so slowly and surely wears out the life. Had I loved

Gerald less, I might have called pride to my aid—I should have felt

resentment or jealousy, but judging him from the fullness of my

forgiving heart, I had none of these emotions, which might have nerved

me to forget my wrongs. Once after that fatal night I saw Leonore at the

Opera, where I had been carried by the solicitations of my friends. She

was fearfully changed. The rich fullness of her form was gone, the bloom

had faded from her cheek, and her eyes were dim, as if she too had wept

tears of vain sorrow. She sat among her gay and splendid companions,

silent, motionless, abstracted.

“That night I returned home to find a new affliction. Lights were

flitting to and fro, and the servants avoided me as I entered—for none

cared to tell me the sad tidings. Lord Bellamont had returned home

violently ill, and when I entered his bed-chamber, I found the physician

already there, striving to rouse him from the stupor into which he had

fallen. Sorrow and sickness had written deep lines on that dear face,

and even amid the weakness of delirium he seemed to battle with the

strong heart’s agony. Seven days I sat beside his pillow. I faltered

not—I wearied not. Seven nights I saw the twilight steal over the

hills, and the moon fade from the sky, and I slept not. Naught but a

love like mine could have endured these torturing vigils. My whole being

resolved itself into one intense thought of him—one fervent prayer that

he might not go down in the noonday of his life and beauty to be a

dweller with the dead. For myself—my resolution was taken. I would no

longer be the living mildew on his brightest hopes—the fetter that

bound him from all he loved best. Ah, woman’s heart is strong, and He

who formed it for love and sorrow, alone knows how much it will endure

ere it break.

“Religion forbade that I should for his sake give up this mortal life,

else I would willingly have died, but I could give up the _life_ of

_life_—sacrifice all that made earth joyous or beautiful—break the tie

that bound him to misery and to me. I could leave him. Poorly as he had

requited my love, he was still the chief pleasure and glory of my

existence. Even then to hear his voice, to watch the return of health to

his enfeebled frame, to gaze upon his face in silence and unheeded, was

the sole happiness left me, and that, even that I gave up for his sake.

Ah, Gerald, could I know that when free thy heart turned back once, only

once, after the lost one, I would not regret the sacrifice. Alas! it was

vain—all in vain. Let me hasten on, lest my brain grow wild again with

these fearful memories.

* * * * *

“My preparations were soon made. Fortunately for my purpose, one of the

servants had some relatives who were to emigrate to America, and I had

at his request, supplied them with the requisite means. I sent for him,

and with a calmness at which I even then wondered, I told him I wished

to send under his care a young friend, whom I requested him to treat

with respect and attention, as grief for the loss of a friend had made

him slightly insane. He promised to take the charge, and appointed the

place where I should meet him, suspecting nothing of my design. Why

should he? Too well had that fatal secret been kept; my nearest friends

knew nothing of what had passed.

“The parting hour came too quickly. I was calm, for there was neither

hope nor fear in my heart. I only knew that I must leave Gerald, and

what else remained to me in life. I stained my face till I was dark as a

gipsy, and cut off the long, silken tresses of which I was once so

proud. Then clothing myself in the garments of my page, I secreted about

my person a small amount of money, and taking a bundle of clothes in

order to sustain my assumed character, I was ready to depart. At the

threshold of the door I paused, and unable to go without seeing him once

more, I stole softly to the room where my husband lay sleeping; I knelt

by his couch, over which the moonlight fell brightly, and gazed into his

face with that earnest look which a drowning man might give of earth and

sky ere the blue waters closed over him forever. As I gazed, the sleeper

stirred, a smile passed over his face, and he spoke my name. That one

word unnerved me. Tears rose to my eyes, and hope, which I had deemed

long since dead, sent her low, thrilling whisper through my heart. For a

few moments I was swayed with conflicting emotions, as visions of past

days rose before me. It was not long. Again came the thought of the last

few months of sorrow, and I could no longer doubt. Rising with a new

resolution, I went to the table that stood near and wrote a few

lines—the transcript of my heart’s despair.

“‘Farewell, Gerald—_I know all_; I can no longer endure to be the cause

of wo to you, whom I love far more than life. Ere you read this I shall

be gone from you forever. Be happy, for I shall never return from that

last resting-place to cast a shadow over your soul. God knows I blame

you not. It was sufficient of blessedness for me that I was worn a

little while on your heart, though I be now cast aside like a withered

weed to perish.’

“Folding the letter, I laid it on the pillow. Still he slept, but the

smile had faded from his face, and I bent over him and pressed on his

lips one last kiss—the seal of my sacrifice. The touch disturbed him,

and I paused to catch the words that he spoke, as he turned restlessly

on his pillow—the last words I might hear from him. It came—the word

was ‘Leonore.’

“Silently, as if that word had been a curse to cling to me through life,

I turned and left him. Without a pause I tracked the mazes of the garden

and the park—heedless, tearless, miserable. As I came near to the Park

Lodge, lights were glancing in the cottage, and a carriage stood at the

door. The children were already seated in it, and soon the parents came

to the door, and as I leaned exhausted against a tree, I saw the

parting, and heard the sound of low sobbings, of blessings, and of

prayers. Alas! I had departed, unblest, unwept. I know not what spell

was in the sound, but in a moment I was collected and firm, and entering

the carriage I wrapped myself in my cloak, and as they asked me no

questions, we rode in silence from the spot which contained all that was

dear to me on earth. Morning was breaking before we reached the vessel,

whose sails were spread, and her deck crowded with passengers. A short

time sufficed to place us among them, and in a few moments the anchor

was weighed, and the vessel dropped down the river.

“After this there is a long, long period of which I remember nothing.

The various incidents of our voyage and our arrival in the new world,

passed before me like the vague and changing scenes of a dream. The

necessity for action taken away, my whole being sunk into a sort of

apathy, and heart and mind seemed palsied. From this state I was roused

by finding that preparations were being made to send me back to England,

and a vague horror seized me at the thought, though I had no

recollection of the past. With the cunning of insanity, I made no

objection to the plan, but one day, unnoticed, I rambled away from the

village, and for many days wandered on through the woods without aim or

motive, save the vague fear of something behind. I remember reaching at

last the top of a high hill, amid a violent storm of thunder and

lightning, and there night closed around me, dark and mirky, and beneath

the pouring rain I lay down on a bare rock and slept. There I was found

next morning by the Indian chief whose wigwam has from that time been my

home. A long sickness which ensued reduced me to the brink of the grave,

and for many weeks I was insensible to the care of my kind nurses, but

their simple skill and constant attention at last triumphed over the

violence of disease, and I awoke to reason and—wo is me—to a

recollection of the long hidden past.

* * * * *

“It was Gerald—it was my husband! Merciful heaven! after so many years

of painful separation did we meet again!

“I had been sick and weak for some days, and my Indian father had led me

forth one sunny morning into the green old woods, where I reclined,

concealed by flowering shrubs, upon the mossy trunk of an old tree.

Suddenly we heard the tramp of horses, and winding along the narrow path

came a band of armed men, and their leader was Lord Bellamont. His face

was stern and pale, and there lay the weight of years which were not

his, in the thin, gray locks which floated over his brow; yet at the

first glance I knew him, and rising almost unconsciously, I followed

after him. Mile after mile I went on unheeding, and my kind protector

accompanied me without a question, for he saw that a great purpose

nerved my feeble frame. When the noontide heat had passed, we reached

the top of a small hill, and in an open level plain below, we saw

hostile armies arrayed for battle. One long hour I watched the waving of

that snow-white plume, hither and thither among the soldiers, till at

last it was struck down. Horribly distinct even now is the agony of that

moment, when my straining eye was fixed on that spot with an intensity

which through the confused mêlée of the fight never for one instant

wavered. When the course of the conflict swept the armies further down

the plain, I rose and went to the spot. I knew him—ghastly and bleeding

as he was, and God gave me strength to know that he was dying, and yet

to endure.

* * * * *

“A few hours after he opened his eyes, and the pain of his wounds seemed

relieved. I had laid him on my own bed, and was kneeling beside him.

‘Pray for me,’ he said, faintly, ‘for I must die, and there is guilt on

my soul.’ I bowed my head lower, and tears fell from my hot and aching

eyes. As I listened to that well-remembered voice, all the wild joy of

our first love came rushing back over my soul, and over-powered by the

recollection, I fainted.

“When I recovered, they told me that the missionary we had sent for had

arrived and was with Gerald. I crept silently into the room, and stood

concealed behind a screen, which had been arranged to protect the

sufferer from the draught of air. He was speaking in a low, mournful

tone, but I heard every word distinctly. ‘It was a wild, and sad, but

not a guilty love,’ he said. ‘My own heart would have scorned me, had I

brought shame on the young head I have bowed even to the grave with a

weight of sorrow too heavy to be borne. I looked upon Ella in her young

beauty, and strove to forget the dark, spiritual eyes of Leonore. We

were wedded—Ella and I—and when I spoke the bridal vows, it was with a

heart as pure as if she whose destiny had been so fatally linked with

mine, was what she now is, an angel in heaven, I loved her; but that

hopeless and ideal passion was only part of my remembrance of the

beautiful scenes of sunny Italy; and while those sad thoughts chastened

all present joy, they interfered not with the love I bore for Ella.

Perhaps, had I understood better the deep, thoughtful nature of my

gentle and joyous bride, I had after a while forgotten Leonore. But,

wrapped in painful musings, I heeded not the manifestations of her

sensitive nature, and regarded her only as the play-fellow of my

thoughtless youth—too airy and brilliant to understand my saddened

heart.’ He paused for a few moments, and then continued, in an agitated

tone, ‘We met once more—Leonore and myself—oh, that I had died ere

that evening. I knew not of her presence until I heard her singing a

plaintive melody, and before it ended, she met my impassioned gaze. I

saw the thrill of agony that shook her frame, and when she left the

room, I followed; for the sight of her suffering maddened me. Then were

wild words spoken—words which left lightning traces on more than one

heart and brain. There were tears which seared as they fell—there was

one long kiss, when our two souls rushed into one, and fell back,

crushed and bleeding, from that fearful embrace. There was one wild,

despairing farewell, and we were parted forever. The next morning I left

England, and for months wandered over the Continent like a spirit of

unrest, till at length wearied and sick with that heart-sickness which

no art can cure, I returned home to die. Ella was absent when I reached

my home. I remember being seized with a sudden fainting as I entered the

room, and then all is a vague dream, till I awoke one morning as from

sleep, and found myself weak as an infant. Then, as I slowly recovered,

I first became aware of the exceeding strength of woman’s love. My wife,

who, like an angel of mercy, had watched over my sick bed, whose gentle

and patient tenderness had endured all things without a complaining

word; oh, my father, spare me the recital of what followed—she knew

all—she left me, that I might once more be free; she hoped I might be

happy.’

“For a long time he was silent, and when he spoke again, his voice was

feeble and broken, and he wiped the large drops from his brow.

“‘There is but one scene more. I sat alone in my deserted house, and

prayed to die, for my grief was too heavy to be borne. Suddenly a

carriage drove to the door, and a letter was handed me. It contained but

few words, but those few I can never forget. ‘The time is come when

without guilt thou mayest look upon me. The love which men give the

dead, even the living may forgive. Now, when passed away from thee

forever—now only may I say—_I love thee!_’’

“‘I descended to the carriage, and they drove me to the door of a large

mansion, where I was met by General St. Clair. His face was sad but

stern, as he seized my arm, and simply saying it had been the last

request of Leonore, he led me to a darkened room, and left me. On a

couch near the window lay a form covered with a heavy pall. I raised it,

and saw Leonore reclining there in the perfect beauty of repose. I knelt

beside her, and pressing her cold hand to my aching heart, spoke her

name. But the dark lashes moved not on her cheek—never more might those

glorious eyes flash forth their welcome at my coming—never more would

those pale lips open with words of greeting. She was dead, and the guilt

of a double murder lay upon my soul.’

“Again there was a deep silence, and I heard the slow, labored breathing

of the dying man. The priest bent over him, saying ‘Son, there is mercy

for the guiltiest—despair not.’

“‘I do not despair,’ replied he, fervently speaking with effort. ‘The

time for that passed away with the hour when calmed and humbled I knelt

at the altar of my God, whose dealings with me even then I understood

not, and consecrated my life to his service.’

“‘Thine hour is come. Son, art thou ready to depart?’

“‘There was one hope,’ he replied, faintly, ‘one last hope that my fatal

life might end in peace. But God hath ordered otherwise, and it is

well.’

“‘What was that hope?’ asked the priest.

“‘I heard not long since that Ella was not dead. That she escaped to

this new world. I hoped to find her, and solace her for years of

suffering by my deep devotion. Oh, my God!’ he added, suddenly clasping

his hands together, ‘why couldst thou not grant this last prayer of a

broken heart. To see her, to hear her say that I am forgiven—to die

upon her breast—’

“I could restrain myself no longer, and rushed forward, exclaiming,

‘Gerald, my love, my husband! behold me here, loving thee, forgiving

thee, even as when for thy sake, I left thy country and thy home!’ I

sunk, half kneeling, on the floor beside the bed. He gazed on me a

moment in speechless wonder, and then, with the supernatural strength of

life’s last effort, lifted himself from the pillows, and clasping his

arms around me, drew me close, close to his heart. Oh, the blissful

repose, the unmingled ecstasy of that moment. Forgotten were my wrongs

and my sorrow—the agony behind, and the desolation before—the coming

and the bygone despair.

“Closer and closer grew his embrace, and his face touched mine. ‘My

wife, my bride—receive the last kiss of him who is now wholly thine!’ I

raised my head, and his cold lips pressed mine. I felt his form sink

slowly beneath me, and the clinging arms relax their hold. I knew that

the spirit had fled, and thanked God for that one hour of bliss which

left me alone again on earth.”

Here the manuscript ceased suddenly, and though some words had been

added, apparently at a later date, the hand of the writer must have been

weak indeed, for they were illegible.

* * * * *

A CASE OF GOLD FEVER.

BY JOHN JONES.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Mr. Edwards Perley was not a man of wealth, although, at different

periods of his life, he had been the owner of property valued at from

one hundred thousand dollars to half a million. But this property being

either in Texas land scrip, South Carolina gold mines, Western town

lots, Mulberry trees, Maine wild lands, or other people’s promises to

pay, Mr. Perley had never been able to realize what was so nearly a

splendid fortune within his grasp. The revolution in Texas destroyed the

value of Mexican grants, in which he had become largely interested, and

the sale of square leagues of the “best cotton land in the world,” not

only ceased suddenly, but the bills received for previous sales came

back upon him dishonored. This was a sad damper on the golden hopes of

the enthusiastic Mr. Edwards Perley. For a couple of years he had been

selling land scrip from Bangor to New Orleans; and had been out on the

Red River twice, during the time, with a surveying company, whose

business it was to locate the little league-square lots. On these

expeditions, he had become rather intimately acquainted with alligators

and ague, and, on his return, deemed it no more than prudent to keep

himself quiet until he regained his complexion, and the healthy

roundness of his limbs and features. Mr. Perley worked hard in this

matter; but it suited his temperament. He was no plodding genius,

content to count sixpences first, then shillings, and so on until

dollars began to appear. Not he. In that slow way to wealth he could not

walk.

Just as Mr. Perley, who valued his property at hundreds of thousands of

dollars in the present, and looked upon it as possessing an annually

duplicating quality—just as Mr. Perley had selected a beautiful site

for building a palace in New York, and had decided upon the plans

submitted by a distinguished architect, the troubles in Texas destroyed

the value of his scrip, and down he went to ruin like a collapsed

balloon; and dozens of his confiding friends went with him.

But Mr. Edwards Perley had too much native buoyancy of character, too

much hope in life, to be put down by ill-natured fortune after this

summary manner. In the wreck and ruin in which he was involved, he

managed to get hold of a plank on which to float ashore. With a few

hundred dollars, which he had contrived to save, under a self-enacted

“homestead exemption” law, he opened an exchange office in Wall street,

on a very small scale. Though his business operations scarcely reached,

for a time, the aggregate of hundreds per day, there were not a few of

his acquaintances who believed his transactions to be limited only by

thousands; and they were indebted to him for their ideas on the subject.

Give a man the reputation of doing a large business, and business will

be sure to come. So it was in the case of Edwards Perley. Talking and

boasting were of great use to him. In a few years he was getting along,

as the saying is, “swimmingly.” But, like the man who, after creeping

along for a week in a stage-coach, grows impatient if the cars do not

make thirty miles an hour instead of twenty, Mr. Perley, as soon as

affairs became prosperous with him again, grew dissatisfied with what

appeared a slow accumulation, and began to look around him for some good

speculation. He was not long in finding what he sought.

But it is not our purpose to follow Mr. Perley through the various

stages of his Carolina gold and Morus Multicaulis fevers; nor to

minutely detail his operations in Western lands and town lots. As it had

been in Texas land scrip, so it proved in all these. The visionary

speculator, who sought wealth for its own sake, and was too eager for

its possession to be willing to give back to society an equivalent of

useful acts, after running a wild course for a few years, again tripped

and fell. This time he found it much more difficult to recover himself.

But with an elasticity of feeling that few possess, he went hopefully to

work, and by dint of magnifying his own peculiar abilities, and his

knowledge of business, induced a shrewd, calculating Yankee, who had a

few thousand dollars, to join him in business.

For a year or two, Perley was content to move on slowly. After that, he

grew ambitious and restless again. The fire had not burned out; it was

only covered for a while. Of Jenkins, his partner, he had no very high

opinion. He considered him a mere plodding genius, whose mind was in no

way suggestive. He would do for a well beaten track, but for enterprise

he was nobody. So he thought. But Jenkins had rather more shrewdness

than his partner gave him credit for. He belonged to the class of men

who think a great deal before they act, and who, therefore, rarely make

mistakes in business matters. He understood Perley “like a book,” and

was, therefore, prepared to counteract, judiciously, all his efforts

that were not wisely directed. Reactions of this kind becoming, as

business grew into importance, more and more frequent, Mr. Perley felt

restless under them, and often lamented that affairs were not entirely

under his own control.

This was the aspect of things when the golden news from California

startled the most sober-minded with its tale of wonder. Perley believed

every word of the first account, while Jenkins coolly took the liberty

of doubting the whole story.

“It’s preposterous,” said he.

“But look at the official nature of the intelligence,” urged Perley.

[Illustration: _Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine._

A CASE OF GOLD FEVER.]

“Officials can lie as well as other people. It’s all a speculation to

get settlers out there. Don’t tell me of gold scattered about as thick

as jack-stones.”

Perley maintained the other side of the question, and soon had the

satisfaction of pushing most abundant confirmations into the face of his

partner.

“Well,” said Jenkins, “what of it? Suppose there is gold there? It

doesn’t make me any better off.”

“But it will make you better off, if you seize the advantage now offered

to every energetic and truly enterprising man.”

Mr. Jenkins opened his eyes rather wider than usual; then shrugging his

shoulders, he answered:

“My business creed is—‘Let well enough alone.’”

“And mine,” replied Perley, “is to seize upon every advantage that

offers.”

At this point the conversation was interrupted, and as neither party,

for good reasons, thought it advisable to renew it, the subject did not

come up between them for several days. During this time Perley could

think of little else but California, and the golden harvest it

presented; and the more he thought of it, the more fully satisfied was

he that an immense fortune might speedily be realized by trading in that

region. What was in the way, when blankets sold for ten dollars each, a

pair of boots for double that sum, flour for sixty dollars a barrel, and

every thing else in proportion?

“The fact is, Jenkins,” said he, renewing the subject not many days

after the first conversation, “we must make some of this hay while the

sun is shining.”

“The golden hay, you mean.”

“I do.”

“How are we to make it?”

“By going sickle in hand to the field, and reaping with the rest.”

“Suppose the field should be reaped before we get there?”

“That cannot be. The gold region is a thousand miles in length and

several hundreds in breadth. There is enough for all who will go for the

next ten years.”

“I must beg leave to doubt that,” coolly replied Jenkins. “It’s all a

feverish imagination. Gold dazzles the eyes and keeps men from seeing in

a clear light.”

“But, my dear man,” said Perley, “look at the facts and judge for

yourself. Take Governor Mason’s statement.”

“Very well. Suppose we believe all the governor says, what then? Why,

the man who finds an ounce of gold a day has to pay about sixteen prices

for the necessaries of life, and, so is no better off than the man here

who earns a dollar in the same time. The only way in which he can

accumulate gold is to live like a savage.”

“But, I wouldn’t go to _dig_ gold!”

“Go! Surely you do not think seriously of going?”

“I certainly do.”

“I’m sorry to hear you say that, Mr. Perley. We are doing exceedingly

well and our business is growing. Last year it doubled, and is in a fair

way of doubling itself again this year.”

“But what is such a rate of increase to the golden gains that are now

offered? Nothing—nothing.”

Mr. Jenkins could not talk as fluently as his partner, and was in this

instance, as he had been once or twice before, silenced but not

convinced.

Daily there came some fresh intelligence touching the gold deposits in

our new possessions, and the note of preparation for a speedy flight was

sounded in all directions. The newspapers teemed with exciting

statements, and every man you met in the street, on ’change, or in the

social circle, had something to say about California. Daily the fever

increased, and particularly with Mr. Edwards Perley, until he began to

be slightly delirious. But, though the epidemic raged all around him,

Mr. Jenkins remained calm and cool. If any one talked to him about

California, he shook his head with an emphasis that left no doubt as to

the state of his mind.

“My California is here,” he sometimes replied. “Wait for ten years, and

see then who is best off. If gold is so abundant as they say it is, and

obtained so easily, I shall benefit as well as those who dig for it.

‘Come easy, go easy,’ you know. The man who picks up a pound of gold

wont value it as much as he who earns it by the sweat of his brow, and

will part with it far more easily. So, after all, the gold will flow

from the hands of those who gather it freely, through all the channels

of trade, and we who continue in the pursuit of useful employments, will

be likely to reap the most abundant harvest.”

“All this,” Perley said, “was little better than nonsense. ‘Give me a

bird in the hand, and you may have two in the bush.’”

“Just my own sentiment,” returned Jenkins. “I have the bird in the hand

here, I can’t let it go for two in the bush away out on the Pacific.”

Still the fever went on increasing.

“Mr. Jenkins,” said Perley, as he was about leaving the store one

afternoon, “I wish you would drop down to my house this evening, I want

to have some talk with you.”

“Very well,” replied the partner. So about eight o’clock he called down.

“I want to see you in order to have a more serious talk about

California,” said Perley. “I am satisfied that the subject has not had

in your mind the consideration it demands, and that if you saw it as I

do, you would not be so insensible to the extraordinary advantages that

are now offered.”

Jenkins felt in no mood for argument or controversy, though his mind was

as clear as a bell, and his purpose as immovable as ever. So he bent his

head in a listening attitude, and looked up from under his drooping

eyelashes, willing to listen, but firmly resolved not to be started from

the rock upon which he had fixed himself.

The first proposition made by Perley, after eloquently setting forth the

advantage of turning all their capital and energy into this new field,

was to charter a vessel, put their whole stock of goods on board, and

take a flight to San Francisco. But the wonderful profit to be made did

not in the least tempt his phlegmatic, long-headed partner, who was

beginning to calculate the amount of advantage he might gain in the

approaching dissolution of co-partnership—for to that he saw it would

come.

“You will not go,” said Perley, on receiving a positive negative to this

proposal.

“No, not for twice the inducement. I am not going to risk my life, nor

abridge my comfort, in a wild enterprise like this, when I am doing well

at home.”

Perley leaned back, looked to the ceiling, and mused for some moments.

“Very well,” said he, “if you are unwilling to assume so great a risk,

let me go out with an adventure, and you remain at home.”

But Jenkins was growing wider awake every moment. Having once

entertained the idea of getting rid of his partner, and coming into the

undivided advantage of his business, he had no notion of agreeing to any

thing short of that. So he affirmed, in his quiet way, that he would

have nothing to do with the gold bubble in any form.

“Then we must dissolve,” said Perley, half fretfully. He was restive

under the check-rein of his cool-tempered partner.

“As you like about that,” was imperturbably answered. It would have

taken an eye well skilled in the signs of human emotions to have

detected, in the immovable face of the calculating Yankee, the smallest

indication of pleasure. Yet his pleasure was great.

The proposition thus made and agreed to, was forthwith carried out. As

Perley was determined upon a dissolution at all hazards, and, as his

partner affected entire indifference, the odds were altogether against

him, and he was compelled to accept of any arrangement that suited the

other. So excited was he about California, and so eager to get off, that

he accepted, as his half of the business, a portion of old, and, to a

great extent, unsaleable stock, and shipped it by the first vessel that

sailed for Monterey and San Francisco. Its real value in the New York

market was about five thousand dollars; its estimated value in the

settlement ten thousand, and its prospective value as an adventure at

the gold diggings fifty thousand. Above this, three thousand dollars in

cash were paid to Mr. Perley. Two thousand were left for the support of

his family, and one thousand he took with him.

Three weeks after the vessel in which he had shipped his goods sailed,

the impatient Mr. Perley, who neither thought nor dreamed of any thing

else but gold, and who already saw himself surrounded with heaps of the

precious lumps and scales from Feather River, left New York in a steamer

for Chagres. As to what Chagres was really like, and as to the real

nature of the journey across the Isthmus, Mr. Perley had no correct

notion. He had thought of a town with comfortable accommodations, and

when those around him talked of canoes and mules as the means of

transportation to Panama, something elegant, like a Venetian gondola, or

a richly caparisoned animal, was present to his imagination. A few mud

huts, with their naked inhabitants, was all he found, upon being

disgorged, with some two hundred others, in the rain, to join a

congregation of nearly a hundred others, who had arrived on the day

before, and who were awaiting the return of canoes from Cruces.

Mr. Perley, like most men of his class, never gave as much attention to

little things as prudence required. The man who couldn’t waste time and

precious thought on so insignificant an article as a linchpin, was about

as wise as Mr. Perley in many of the affairs of life. His friends had

nearly all asked him in regard to his outfit.

“Oh, that is all right!” or, “I’ve taken good care of that,” he would

unhesitatingly answer. Yet, on reaching Chagres, he had neither tea,

coffee, sugar, bread nor meat in his possession. He had money, and this

he knew to be all powerful in procuring supplies of any kind; at least,

such had been his experience in life. But he was about coming into some

new experiences. Neither food nor lodgings were to be had from the

natives at Chagres, for “love or money.” Such a sudden influx of Yankee

gold diggers was a thing altogether unanticipated and unprovided for,

and those who came had, therefore, to provide for themselves.

A week was spent at Chagres before Mr. Perley was lucky enough to

procure passage up the river in a canoe, with one of the five trunks of

merchandise he had brought with him in the steamer—the remaining four

were left behind, with instructions to have them sent over to Panama as

quickly as possible. He never saw or heard of them afterward! During

this week the poor man nearly starved, for all he could get to eat was

an occasional hard biscuit from some fellow passenger. It rained nearly

the whole time, and night and day he was in the open air. Wet to the

skin, when affirmed of Mr. Perley, was about as literally true as ever

the saying was or will be. In this plight, with a fever of rather a more

serious character than the gold fever, our adventurer embarked in a

canoe, for the privilege of sitting in one end of which, or lying flat

on the bottom, for three or four days, he paid the moderate price of

fifty dollars, and then thought himself lucky. For a hundred dollars

more he was to share the scanty food of his traveling companion, who,

wiser than he, had more accurately counted the cost, and prepared

himself for the contingencies of the journey.

On the day after leaving Chagres, the sun came out from beneath a veil

of clouds, and poured its hot rays upon the head of Mr. Perley. Under

this he wilted down like a leaf before the fire. On the second day he

was so ill that he could not hold up his head; and by the time he

reached Cruces, instead of being in a condition to take his place on a

mule’s back, he was utterly prostrate in body, and delirious with fever.

Seeing this, and considering him as good as dead, his companion, after

possessing himself of his money and trunk, gave the natives who had

brought them up twenty dollars to take him back to Chagres in their

canoe.

When distinctly conscious once more, Mr. Perley found himself on

shipboard, with the rush of waters around him. He was as weak as an

infant in body, and almost as weak as an infant in mind. Ideas came

confusedly, and faded ere he was able to separate the tangled mass. In a

few days he was enough recovered to connect his thoughts, and to call up

events to the period of his embarking from Chagres. Beyond that, his

memory did not serve him. He soon after became apprized of the fact that

he was on his way to New York, and might expect to be there in less than

a week.

On arriving at home, Mr. Perley was as one who had risen from the grave.

News of his illness, with a prophecy of his certain death, had reached

New York by a previous arrival. Slowly recovered the disappointed man,

and as health came flowing once more along his veins, his thoughts were

again turned toward El Dorado, whither he had sent an adventure, and

from which, he yet hoped to realize a splendid fortune. Of his five

trunks and the money he had taken with him no traces remained. Even he

had some pretty well grounded doubts of ever seeing them again; and in

this matter his doubts only foreshadowed the truth.

A month after Mr. Perley’s return to New York, he was preparing to start

again, although thousands and thousands had gone before, and were

choking up all the avenues of communication to the Pacific and along the

coast. His friends urged him not to risk his life again; but his goods

were on the way to San Francisco, and here was his only chance to

realize a fortune. So he got himself ready for another flight. But just

as he was on the point of starting, the vessel in which he had shipped

his goods returned to port, so much damaged by a storm as to be unfit to

weather the Cape. When she put to sea she was scarcely equal to the

voyage, and insurance could only be effected at very high rates. A heavy

leak had damaged, more or less, a great portion of the cargo, among

which were the goods of Mr. Perley. This damage, so far as Mr. Perley

was concerned, was assessed at one thousand dollars, and paid. The

balance of his goods were sold off at auction, in a spirit of

recklessness engendered by a temporary despondency, for two thousand

dollars more. And thus ended Mr. Perley’s California expedition!

Disappointed, disheartened and almost beside himself, the unfortunate

man wandered about the city in a state of irresolution for a month or

two; while his old partner, the cool, shrewd Yankee, was rejoicing over

the fine business which had come exclusively into his hands, and saying

to himself—“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.” At last Mr.

Perley’s organ of Hope became again active; and, as intelligence from

the gold region came with so many drawbacks, he concluded to try his

fortune once more at home, and so, with the three thousand dollars that

remained, started his old exchange business in Wall street, where he may

now be seen counting his uncurrent money, and sighing over the smallness

of his gains.

* * * * *

THE OLD WOODEN CHURCH ON THE GREEN.

BY HENRY MORFORD.

They are all laying hands on the things I loved best,

They are all closing up my dim past,

They are all heaping sods upon Memory’s breast,

Till but little is left me at last;

But I sometimes look back to the things of old time,

And I think of the things that have been,

And the memory comes, like a nursery rhyme,

Of the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

It is little and old in this plentiful age,

It has neither a steeple nor bell,

It is bowing its roof to the pitiless rage

Of the storms it has battled so well;

It is guiltless of glass, and the paint’s washed away

In the storm and the sunshine, I ween,

For no kind hand attends, for this many a day,

To the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

Beneath the mossed roof the small swallow-nests hang,

And the bees hive and swarm in the eaves,

And the loosed shutters swing with a sorrowful clang

When the wind through the old church-yard grieves;

Neglect and decay are around the old walls,

Dark ruin looks over the scene,

Oh, sad is the sound of the lone foot that falls,

Round the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

Yet I’d rather to-day they should crumble away,

Earth’s proudest and loftiest pile,

Built up as a mock for neglect and decay,

To stand while the broad heavens smile—

Than tear off one shred from its moss-eaten roof,

Or call it the shabby and mean,

For we’re all, when grown old and neglected enough

Like the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

And I hear the sweet voices that chanted within,

Oh! many a summer ago,

Still chanting the hymn when the eve closes in,

Though they echo from heaven, I know;

And I sit in the pew where they sat by my side,

And as back in the shadows I lean,

I hear the low prayers that echoed and died

In the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

I will weep when it falls, I will smile while it stands,

As winter on winter goes by,

Protected by naught but invisible hands,

Till I sleep in its shade when I die;

Let them bury me there in a mound poor and low,

When the blast of the winter is keen,

That the winds that wail over me pass as they go

The Old Wooden Church on the Green.

* * * * *

[Illustration: OPERA EXTRAVAGANCE.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

MY FIRST LOVE;

OR THE NIGHT-KEY.[1]

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

-----

[1] Herlotzsohn, in his Experiences, relates a story similar to the

following.

-----

Although a stricken bachelor, I cannot speak without emotion of my first

love. An eastern philosopher says—it is with first love as with a first

cigar; one precipitates himself upon it, luxuriates to the utmost in the

draught, and when it is over, is sensible of a melancholy unlike that

induced by any other loss. I suppose I may consider myself particularly

fortunate, having felt no reaction after my first cigar, and finding

equally harmless consequences from my first love. I do not mean to say

that I was so happy as to find the passion returned; ah, no! for then—I

should have been a Benedict. I mean that I imbibed all of bliss which

belongs to the feeling, without hazarding the loss of my peace; I

enjoyed it while it was permitted to last, with but a few trifling

drawbacks, and that without stirring a fountain of remorse or regret to

sprinkle with bitterness my future years.

In the winter of 18— I chanced to lodge in —— Place, in the

establishment then kept by Mrs. ——. My apartment was on the third

floor, and overlooked the street; the room immediately back of it, which

I used for my books and papers, looked into a small court, and commanded

a view through the windows opposite, of the parlor on the second floor

in the rear, which was occupied by the young lady to whom my attention

was devoted. She and her mother had been inmates of the house but a

short time, when the sight of her, seated at her embroidery-frame near

the window, took my heart captive at once. She had long, fair ringlets,

that seemed touched with gold when the light fell on them; her

complexion was beautifully fair, with a rose-like tint in her cheeks;

the bright line of her lips disclosed pearly teeth, and she had the

finest turned neck and shoulders nature ever fashioned to put art to

shame. But her hand—that small, white, dimpled hand, which she often

held up in my view, while selecting a shade of worsted, threading her

needle, counting the stitches, or practicing any of the little

coquetries of her work! No sculptor could have rivaled the perfection of

that hand. Those taper fingers drew the string which sped Cupid’s arrow

to my heart. I often tried to draw that hand, and as often gave up the

task in despair, for it never was still long enough. Sometimes I saw it

wandering over the strings of her guitar; for almost always, of an

evening, she played and sang, and then, after having watched her tuning

it, how I hated the envious curtains that were so closely drawn to shut

out paradise from my longing eyes. For hours I would stand at my window,

having no other occupation than feeding the pigeons that gathered about

the frame, observing her by stealth as she worked or watered the flowers

that lived under her care, or petted a delicate canary-bird, whose cage

hung on the wall outside. I had no pleasure so great as that of gazing

upon her; yet I could plainly see that my devotion was unmarked, for she

was near-sighted, and could not, at even a short distance, perceive that

she was so earnestly regarded. To that circumstance, in all probability,

I owed the liberty I enjoyed.

I always retreated from the window when her mother approached, for she

had eyes that rivaled those of a lynx. She was tall, moreover, with

black eyes and hair; rather robust in person, and with an unmistakable

air of hauteur, which proved quite as effectual as she could have wished

in keeping people at a distance. Her voice was naturally harsh and

imperious, though usually subdued in its tones, except on occasions when

sudden irritation caused the speaker to forget her dignity. Even in her

gentlest moods it had a latent sharpness that twanged uneasily on my

ears, especially when I remembered how necessary it was to secure the

favor of this haughty lady, in order to advance a step toward the

accomplishment of my hopes with the lovely daughter.

Thus, then, stood the case; I was desperately, irremediably in love with

this young girl; ready for any venture to win her, but uncertain how to

commence an acquaintance, for I was not even among the privileged number

of her visiters. We lodged under the same roof; we sat at the same

table, though at different ends of it; but I knew no one of whom I could

ask an introduction to her; and I felt, alas! that my position in life

did not quite entitle me to enter the list of her suitors without such

formalities as might smooth over a surprise. I was a painter; rising in

my profession, it is true, and numbering many friends, but as yet,

having fortune only in prospect. Mrs. Elwyn, for that was the name of

the mother of my charmer, was independent, though not rich; and having

in early life moved much in fashionable society, and been much admired,

was very proud, and would scarcely have owned among her acquaintances

one who depended on the labor of hands or head for a maintenance.

Neither she nor her daughter ever entered the common drawing-room; and

those of the lodgers who knew her slightly, spoke of her as distant and

unsocial, except to the favored few whom she thought worth cultivating,

on account of their possession of worldly advantages. She was precisely

the sort of woman on whom I would never have wasted an act of courtesy,

had she been the mother of any other daughter. But in the fair Gertrude

there was such a bewitching unconsciousness of her own superiority, such

an appealing eloquence in silence, to the sympathy of those around

her—such an air of child-like humility, mingled with just enough of the

graceful pride of woman, as completed the fascination her beauty had

begun, and inspired one with a wish to please even her repulsive parent.

I saw her not only at meals, but occasionally out of the house, at

concerts or the Opera. To me she was the soul of the music, and the

finest symphony of Beethoven would have been lifeless without her. At

church I met her now and then, and sometimes walking; but Mrs. Elwyn

never vouchsafed me the most distant bow of recognition. She seemed by

intuition to guess my bold wishes and frown upon them. Gertrude was

always modestly looking down; but at intervals the fringe of her blue

eyes would be suddenly lifted, disclosing a world of witchery beneath,

to be quickly veiled again, as if she knew she was transgressing. It was

the evidence of this consciousness on her part that fanned my love

continually into a brighter flame, and caused me to revolve various

expedients to secure to myself the enjoyment of her society.

I thought of painting her picture as she sat embroidering at the window,

and sending it as a present to the mother; but I lacked as yet,

sufficient confidence in my talent for the art, in which I was but a

student, and the terror of her condemnation, both of the artist and the

lover, was too formidable to be encountered. A dread of her cold

penetration prevented me also from putting in execution a cherished

project; that of offering my services to teach the beautiful Gertrude

Italian, which I knew she wished to acquire. The very day I had mustered

up courage to resolve on the experiment, I heard that Mrs. Elwyn had

hired a teacher—a dark-visaged, whiskered fellow, whom, from that

moment, I wished in the dungeons of Spielberg.

Was there ever a more hopeless case of love; yet I was not unhappy, for

I had the privilege of seeing her, unawed by fear of interruption; and

my passion was not yet so encrusted with selfishness that it demanded

more. I lived in the present, and hope colored the future with rosy

light; even the feeling of disappointment was but momentary. I almost

dreaded a change, though I knew this could not satisfy me long, and that

a wilder, more impetuous, and less amiable stage was to follow. Already

the first sweet, sparkling foam of the cup had been quaffed; beneath was

that which bewilders the brain and steals away the senses.

I had been reading one night till past midnight—for strangely enough, I

had a taste for novels after the beginning of the romance of my

life—when my attention was arrested by hearing a carriage stop in the

street before the door. Presently the bell rang, not very gently. A

short pause, and it was again rung; while I was conscious of a twinge of

sympathy for the late comer; for the night was piercing cold, and the

wind came in hoarse blasts, rattling the window-panes, and sending a

chill through the bones. The contrast offered by my snug apartment, with

its crimson curtains and chintz-covered sofa, and the dying glow of the

embers thrown on the Venetian rug, was peculiarly suggestive of ideas of

comfort. I thought how hard it must be for the porter to be summoned out

of his warm bed in the little chamber at the back of the court, and

judged the applicant for admission at such an hour justly punished by

delay.

Again, and again, and yet again sounded the bell, each time with a more

prolonged and angry pull, as if the person at the door, with patience

exhausted, was resolved to take the house by storm. A thought darted

like lightning through my brain. I had seen Miss Elwyn that evening, in

full dress, passing with her mother through the hall. They had gone to a

party—they had returned late. I sprung to the window—threw it open;

and sure enough, though it was too dark to distinguish any object, I

heard with sufficient distinctness the shrill, complaining tones of the

mother.

By good luck I was still dressed, and I lost not an instant. Snatching

up the light, I hastened down two flights of stairs, to the front door.

My heart beat; my breath came quickly; I felt as if the crisis of my

life were at hand. I should meet her face to face; I should speak to

her—should render a service that demanded acknowledgment, and might

open for me a vista of happiness; I grasped the handle of the door, and

with trembling hands unlocked and opened it; there was a rush of wind,

and—my light was extinguished.

“You sleep like a night-watcher, sir!” screamed the angry voice of Mrs.

Elwyn, as she pushed her way in. “To keep us standing half an hour in

the cold! We might have caught our death! You deserve to lose your

place; I shall make complaint of you in the morning, depend upon it.”

While she spoke, the daughter’s silken mantle brushed past me, and her

gloved fingers pressed something into my hand. I had no time to explain;

I could not have uttered a word; my breath seemed to forsake me, and my

silly bashfulness held me motionless, as if chained to the spot. I stood

there till the ladies had ascended the first flight of stairs—the mamma

grumbling as she went—still grasping mechanically in my hand what the

fair Gertrude had placed therein. Ere long, however, my self-possession

returned; I ascended to my room, lighted the candle, and examined the

gift. My beloved had presented me with half a dollar.

It was quite evident that both had mistaken me for the unlucky porter,

at that time snoring in his dormitory; and that the gentle girl had

bestowed the coin by way of consolation for her mother’s chiding. I

kissed the piece of silver which had come from her hand, and was a token

of the benevolence of her heart. A ray of hope gleamed from its polished

face. The matter must necessarily be explained; the mistake must be

rectified. This would lead to an interview; and I would trust fortune

for the rest.

After due deliberation, I came to the conclusion that as the affair in

some points wore a comical aspect, it would be best to present it in

that light. I took my pencil and hammered out some poetry, which was to

be sent with the half dollar to the fair donor. Under the veil of a

sprightly and facetious effusion, I thought, more could be said, than in

a grave note; and no offence could be taken at verses meant for a _jeu

d’esprit_, describing the feeling experienced when the coin touched my

palm, as “shocking”—which word terminated the line—imperative

necessity called for a rhyme—it ran as follows:

“Oh, had the gift been but a glove—or stocking!

Such token from _thy_ hand a joy had given,

I would not barter for the joy of heaven!”

I was not much used to writing poetry; but on reading over the missive,

it struck me as combining humor and sentiment in a manner peculiarly

felicitous. The lines could not fail to make an impression; she would,

perhaps, reply; all would fall out as I wished, and I should look upon

that night as the most fortunate of my life. I mended a crow-quill, and

copied the verses neatly on rose-colored paper, resolving to send them

the first thing in the morning. She would then see they had been written

impromptu. It was late when I threw myself on the bed, and late when I

awoke. No benevolent genius warned me in the visions of slumber.

The next day I folded the money and verses together, and dispatched the

package to my charmer by the maid. I was frequently at my post of

observation; but not once did I catch a glimpse of her at the window.

The guitar was silent—the embroidery-frame untouched. Toward evening I

waylaid the chamber-maid, and having crossed her hand with a piece of

silver, inquired particularly how my dispatch had been received.

“Why, sir,” was the answer, “the young lady only laughed, and showed the

paper to her mother; and Mrs. Elwyn threw it into the fire, and said as

how she wondered how you could have had the impudence; but she expected

you did not know any better.”

A blight fell upon my hopes; I had evidently committed an error. That

unlucky “stocking!”, it was that which had played me false—which had

offended the lady’s sense of propriety—which had suddenly let down a

partition-wall between me and the accomplishment of my hopes. But

through the chinks of that now impassable barrier, Gertrude appeared

lovelier than ever. A thousand wild projects floated through my brain. I

would hire bandits to assail her; would rush in time to the rescue, and

be wounded in her defense. I would play the incendiary, and bear her in

triumph through the flames; I would get up a quarrel, and fight a duel

for her sake. But these were only feverish fantasies—castles built in

the air—which melted in the cold current of reality. I could perceive

plainly that at table, when I stole a glance at her, Mrs. Elwyn had

grown colder and statelier than ever. She never honored me by a look,

and, worse than all, Gertrude did not appear. It was not till after two

days I learned, by mere accident, that she had taken cold on that

eventful night, and was indisposed.

But ill luck cannot last always. The beautiful girl soon reappeared at

meals as blooming and radiant as usual; and, oh joy! again I was so

happy as to behold her seated at the window, and watch the movements of

her delicate fingers over the strings of her guitar. Here was a bliss of

which no frowning matron could deprive me. One day, too, as in my

eagerness to drink in the tones of her music, I had softly opened my

window, and was imprudently leaning forward, rapt in a trance of bliss,

I saw an unmistakable smile on her lips. Yes, she smiled; and though at

the same moment she drew back, and let the guitar slide from her lap, my

heart was thrilled by the knowledge that she was at last aware of my

secret. What woman could be insensible to homage so delicate and

unobtrusive. Hope once more stirred within me. The next morning I bribed

the maid to leave on her table, as if by mistake, a just published

number of the “Home Journal,” in which was a poem of rare beauty, which

aptly expressed my admiration and my love. I had ventured to draw a

light pencil line around the verses, which I hoped she might perceive

and understand. My little ruse succeeded. A servant brought me the paper

in the evening, saying it had been left by mistake in Mrs. Elwyn’s

apartment; but it bore evidence of having been carefully read.

It was not safe to venture often on such expedients; but the fourteenth

of February was at hand; and the most timid lover might avail himself of

its privileges. Valentines of all descriptions, for all stages of the

tender passion, were to be had at the fancy stores; and a little

alteration made them original. On the morning of the festival, one,

delicately painted on embossed paper, and glowing with sentiment, was

dispatched to the fair Gertrude, and was followed by one for each day of

the week succeeding. I received none in return—but I was not

discouraged; it was enough that mine were read.

I was now at the height of my content; for there was a charm in the sort

of mystery that enveloped our intercourse, the more delightful to me,

because I had the authority of all the romances I had ever read, for

believing that it was the best nourisher of affection. Fancy would

invest with a thousand gifts and graces, the lover whom she knew not,

yet whose devotion was breathed into the air around her. Flowers would

succeed verses as the messengers of the heart; I should grow bolder in

time, till every obstacle was triumphed over. Such would have been the

natural course of things but for the awkward interruption which brings

me to the conclusion of my story.

I had gone one evening to a supper given by a bachelor friend, and

returned late from the scene of mirth and revelry. As I walked rapidly

down —— Place, for the night was chilly, and the street covered with

snow, I saw two ladies alight from a carriage in front of Mrs. ——’s

house. I hastened my pace; a thrill of joy penetrated my breast; it was

she—my beloved, with her mother; and both were, by a happy chance,

destined to be obliged to me. I sprung up the steps, murmured a “good

evening,” and drew out my night-key. I was surprised to find how much

courage, nay, even pride, I derived from the possession of this little

instrument. Briefly apologizing to the ladies for thus venturing to save

them the trouble of summoning a servant, I thrust the key in the lock,

and turned it with all my force. It snapped violently; I drew out the

fragment, and, to my horror, discovered that in my haste, I had not used

the night-key, but the key of my chamber.

“I really—beg ten thousand pardons,” I faltered—“it was the wrong

key—”

“The key is broken!” cried the shrill voice of Mrs. Elwyn. “It is

dreadful to be kept standing here!” She pulled the bell furiously.

In affright I pulled it also; the porter’s hurried steps were presently

heard in the hall, and he was rattling at the lock.

“Open the door!” cried the lady, impatiently.

“I cannot unlock it!” said the man within; “there must be something in

the key-hole.”

“The broken key!” screamed Mrs. Elwyn, with an angry glance at me; “so

officious, to insist—”

“Mother!” pleaded the soft, low voice of Gertrude; for she saw that the

dame was forgetting herself.

“It must—it can—I will run for a locksmith!” I exclaimed. I saw that

the carriage had driven off.

“And we are to stand here alone, perhaps to be insulted by any drunken

vagabond!” cried Mrs. Elwyn. “But go—nothing else can be done. Make

haste—why do you wait?”

A locksmith lived in the next street; I flew thither; by chance he was

still up, and as soon as his tools could be collected, he hastened to

the spot. There stood the angry lady, her teeth chattering with cold,

her mantle covered with the snow-flakes that had begun to fall,

murmuring at the delay; her daughter was leaning in silence against the

side of the door; and within could be heard the grumbling of the porter.

I could not see Gertrude’s face, even if I had been calm enough to read

its expression.

The skillful locksmith, with the ready tact of his profession, soon

comprehended the difficulty, and having tried to pick the lock, decided

that it must be done from the inside. A ladder was in requisition, to

enter by the window above. Mrs. Elwyn was in despair at this

intelligence, and broke out into complaints and reproaches, intended for

me, which I heard but imperfectly, as I ran to borrow a ladder of some

firemen in the neighborhood. It was brought by two of the company, who

were followed by several others eager to learn what was going on. These

were joined by some late idlers, while the windows of the adjoining and

opposite houses, as well as those of our own, were thrown open, and a

multitude of heads thrust out to see what was the matter. A pretty scene

for the crowd-hating, aristocratic, haughty Mrs. Elwyn! For once,

unmindful of her dignity, she stood giving voluble directions to the

locksmith, already at the window, calling to him with flurried emphasis,

to be careful not to throw down the flower-stand, or break the vase full

of goldfish—which articles belonged to her. As for me, my only feeling

was one of absolute despair, for I knew that my transgression, with its

consequences, was unpardonable. We obtained entrance at last, and I

heard the farewell of my love in the indignant rustle of Mrs. Elwyn’s

mantle, as she swept up stairs. A day or two after she and her daughter

departed on a visit to Washington, and when they returned, took lodgings

elsewhere. I heard in a few months of Gertrude’s marriage, but felt no

sorrow, for the spell was broken. That midnight scene, with the

mortification it caused me, was a harmless termination to my First Love.

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD

HURDIS,” &c.

_Guard._ What work is here? Charmian, is this well done?

_Charmian._ It is well done, and fitting for a princess,

Descended of so many royal kings.

SHAKSPEARE.

AUGUSTUS CÆSAR. DOLABELLA.

_Augustus._ Dead! say’st thou? Cleopatra?