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TALES, POEMS, ESSAYS. 
 
 EDITED BY EPES SARGENT. 
 
 THE SAPPHIRE. 
 
THE SAPPHIRE 
 
 to 
 
 A COLLECTION OF 
 
 tepfrk amfo $nhxt Kitting fault*, ^xxllmnt 
 
 GLEANED CHIEFLY FROM FUGITIVE LITERATURE OF THE 
 NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 
 
 ■ r - / 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JOHN L. SHORET, 13 WASHINGTON STREET. 
 
 NEW YORK : W. I. POOLEY. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 18 67. 
 
33 
 
 NOW EEADY: 
 
 Uniform with " The Sapphire," 
 
 11 The Emerald." 
 
 Being the first issue of " The Gem Series." 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by 
 
 EPES SARGENT, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massa- 
 chusetts. 
 
 \ 
 
 3-2. S- / "X 
 
 Stereotyped and Printed by Geo. C. Rand & Avery. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Bob Burke's Duel . . William Maginn, 7 
 
 Robert Jeffery . . . Chambers's Journal, 33 
 
 Thou wilt Never Grow Old . Mrs. Howarth, 45 
 
 Ode . . . . . . Henry Timrod, 46 
 
 In Vain .... Lucy Hamilton Hooper, 47 
 
 Reliqule Public Opinion, 48 
 
 The Beggar-Girl of the Pont-des-Arts 
 
 Wilhelm Hauff, 49 
 
 Carpe Diem .... Mrs. A. G. Wools on, 105 
 
 Mary by the Cross . . . Anonymous, 107 
 
 The Bellows-Mender of Lyons 
 
 From the French, 108 
 
 "I Know Thou art Gone" . T. K. Hervey, 131 
 
 First and Last . . . William Mudford, 133 
 
 The Departure of Summer .... 142 
 
 The Sentimental Young Lady . . . 143 
 
 Invocation Edwin Arnold, 147 
 
 All's Well Anonymous, 148 
 
 The Two Mottoes . . . Emile Souvestre, 149 
 
 Great Men Anonymous, 161 
 
 The Jewelled Watch . Chambers's Journal, 162 
 
 v 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Going to Sleep .... Anonymo-us, 169 
 The Stars and the Earth ; or, Thoughts 
 upon Space, Time, and Eternity. Part 
 
 First . .170 
 
 Part Second ...... . 183 
 
 The Value of Ciphers . Fro?n the French, 202 
 My Fortune . . Dickens's Household Words, 206 
 The Departing Swallows . William Hayley, 222 
 The Man in the Bell Blackwood' 's Magazine, 223 
 The Ante-Nuptial Lie . . Anonymous, 229 
 Doris ; A Pastoral . . . Arthur Munby, 250 
 
 To * * * W. H. B. 252 
 
 The Main Truck ; or, A Leap for Life . 
 
 William Leggett, 253 
 To Lucasta .... Richard Lovelace, 263 
 The Lightning-Rod . Original translation from 
 
 the French of Charles de Bernard, 264 
 The Double Pain . . Florence McCarthy, 299 
 Annie Marshall's Destiny . Anony?nous, 300 
 
THE SAPPHIRE. 
 
 BOB BURKE'S DUEL WITH ENSIGN 
 BRADY. 
 
 BY THE LATE WILLIAM MAGINN, LL.D.* 
 
 (Maga, May, 1834.) 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HOW BOB WAS IN LOVE WITH MISS THEODOSIA MAC- 
 NAMARA. 
 
 " When the 48th were quartered in Mallow, I was there 
 on a visit to one of the Purcells, and, being some sixteen or 
 seventeen years younger than I am now, thought I might as 
 well fall in love with Miss Theodosia Macnamara. She was 
 a fine grown girl, full of flesh and blood, rose five foot nine 
 at least when shod, had many excellent points, and stepped 
 out slappingly upon her pasterns. She was somewhat of a 
 roarer, it must be admitted, for you could hear her from one 
 end of the walk to the other : and I am told, that, as she has 
 grown somewhat aged, she shows symptoms of vice ; but I 
 knew nothing of the latter, and did not mind the former, be- 
 cause I never had a fancy for your nimini-pimini young 
 ladies, with their mouths squeezed into the shape and dimen- 
 
 * William Maginn, the author of this amusing narrative, which 
 appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, May, 1884, was one of the most 
 fertile and versatile writers of his times. He was born at Cork, Ire- 
 land, in 1793; died in 1842. He contributed largely to Fraser's and 
 Blackwood's Magazines. 
 
 7 
 
8 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 sions of a needle's eye. I always suspect such damsels as 
 having a very portentous design against mankind in general. 
 
 " She was at Mailow for the sake of the Spa, it being un- 
 derstood that she was consumptive, though I'll answer for 
 it, her lungs were not touched ; and I never saw any signs 
 of consumption about her, except at meal-times, when her 
 consumption was undoubtedly great. However, her mother, 
 a very nice middle-aged woman, — she was of the O'Regans 
 of the west, and a perfect lady in her manners, with a very 
 remarkable red nose, which she attributed to a cold which 
 had settled in that part, and which cold she was always en- 
 deavoring to cure with various balsamic preparations taken 
 inwardly, — maintained that her poor chicken, as she called 
 her, was very delicate, and required the air and water of 
 Mallow to cure her. Theodosia (she was so named after 
 some of the Limerick family), or, as we generally called her, 
 Dosy, was of rather a sanguine complexion, with hair that 
 might be styled auburn, but which usually received another 
 name. Her nose was turned up, as they say was that of 
 Cleopatra ; and her mouth, which was never idle, being 
 always employed in eating, drinking, shouting, or laughing, 
 was of considerable dimensions. Her eyes were piercers, 
 with a slight tendency to a cast ; and her complexion was 
 equal to a footman's plush breeches, or the first tinge of the 
 bloom of morning bursting through a summer cloud, or what 
 else verse-making men are fond of saying. 
 
 " I remember a young man who was in love with her, writ- 
 ing a song about her, in which there was one or other of the 
 similes above mentioned, I forget which. The verses were 
 said to be very clever, as no doubt they were ; but I do not 
 recollect them, never being able to remember poetry. Dosy's 
 mother used to say that it was a hectic flush : if so, it was a 
 very permanent flush ; for it never left her cheeks for a mo- 
 ment, and, had it not belonged to a young lady in a gallop- 
 ing consumption, would have done honor to a dairymaid. 
 
 u Pardon these details, gentlemen," said Bob Burke, sigh- 
 ing ; " but one always thinks of the first loves. Tom Moore 
 says that ' there's nothing half so sweet in life as young love's 
 dram ; ' and, talking of that, if there's any thing left in the 
 
WITH ENSIGN BRADY. 9 
 
 brandy-bottle, hand it over to me. Here's to the days gone 
 by : they will never come again. Dear Dosy, you and I had 
 some fun together. I see her now, with her red hair escap- 
 ing from under her hat, in a pea-green habit, a stiff-cutting 
 whip in her hand, licking it into Tom the Devil, a black 
 horse that would have carried a sixteen-stoner over a six-foot 
 wall, following Will Wrixon's hounds at the rate of fifteen 
 miles an hour, and singing out, ' Go it, my trumps ! ' These 
 are the recollections that bring tears in a man's eyes." 
 
 There were none visible in Bob's ; but, as he here finished 
 his dram, it is perhaps a convenient opportunity for conclud- 
 ing a chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HOW ENSIGN BRADY WENT TO DRINK TEA WITH MISS 
 THEODOSIA MACNAMARA. 
 
 " The day of that hunt was the very day that led to my 
 duel with Brady. He was a long, straddling, waddle-mouthed 
 chap, who had no more notion of riding a hunt than a rhi- 
 noceros. He was mounted on a showy-enough-looking mare, 
 which had been nerved by Rodolphus Bootiman, the horse- 
 doctor ; and, though a ' good 'un to look at, was a rum 'un to 
 go : ' and, before she was nerved, all the work had been 
 taken out of her by long Lanty Philpot, who sold her to 
 Brady after dinner for fifty pounds (she being not worth 
 twenty in her best day), and Brady giving his bill at three 
 months for the fifty. My friend the ensign was no judge of a 
 horse ; and the event showed that my Cousin Lanty was no 
 judge of a bill, — not a cross of the fifty having been paid from 
 that day to this ; and it is out of the question now, it being long 
 past the statute of limitations, to say nothing of Brady hav- 
 ing since twice taken the benefit of the Act. So both par- 
 ties jockeyed one another, having that pleasure which must 
 do them instead of profit. 
 
 " She was a bay chestnut, and nothing would do Brady, 
 
10 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 but he must run her at a little gap which Miss Dosy was go- 
 ing to clear, in order to show his gallantry and agility : and 
 certainly I must do him the credit to say that he did get his 
 mare on the gap, which was no small feat ; but there she 
 broke down, and off went Brady, neck and crop, into as fine 
 a pool of stagnant green mud as you would ever wish to see. 
 He was ducked regularly in it ; and he came out, if not in 
 the jacket, yet in the colors, of the Rifle Brigade, looking 
 rueful enough at his misfortune, as you may suppose. But 
 he had not much time to think of the figure he cut ; for, be- 
 fore he could well get up, who should come right slap over 
 him but Miss Dosy herself upon Tom the Devil, having 
 cleared the gap and a yard beyond the pool in fine style. 
 Brady ducked, and escaped the horse, a little fresh daubing 
 being of less consequence than the knocking-out of his brains, 
 if he had any ; but he did not escape a smart rap from a 
 stone which one of Tom's heels flung back with such un- 
 luck accuracy as to hit Brady right in the mouth, knocking 
 out one of his eye-teeth (which, I do not recollect). Brady 
 clapped his hand to his mouth, and bawled, as any man 
 might do in such a case, so loud, that Miss Dosy checked 
 Tom for a minute to turn round ; and there she saw him 
 making the most horrid faces in the world, his mouth stream- 
 ing blood, and himself painted green from head to foot with 
 as pretty a coat of shining slime as was to be found in the 
 province of Munster. 
 
 " 4 That's the gentleman you just leapt over, Miss Dosy/ 
 said I (for I had joined her) ; ' and he seems to be in some 
 confusion/* — ' I am sorry,' said she, l Bob, that I should have 
 in any way offended him, or any other gentleman, by leap- 
 ing over him ; but I can't wait now. Take him my compli- 
 ments, and tell him I should be happy to see him at tea at 
 six o'clock this evening, in a different suit.' Off she went, 
 and I rode back with her message (by which means I was 
 thrown out) ; and, would you believe it ? he had the ill man- 
 ners to say, ' the h ; ' but I shall not repeat what he said. 
 
 It was impolite to the last degree, not to say profane ; but 
 perhaps he may be somewhat excused under his peculiar 
 circumstances. 
 
WITH ENSIGN BRADY. 11 
 
 M There is no knowing what even Job himself might have 
 said immediately after having been thrown off his horse into 
 a green pool, with his eve-tooth knocked out, his mouth full of 
 mud and blood, on being asked to a tea-party. 
 
 " He — Brady, not Job — went, nevertheless ; for, on our 
 return to Miss Dosy's lodgings, we found a triangular note, 
 beautifully perfumed, expressing his gratitude for her kind 
 invitation, and telling her not to think of the slight accident 
 which had occurred. How it happened, he added, he could 
 not conceive, his mare never having broken down with him 
 before, — which was true enough, as that was the first day 
 he ever mounted her, — and she having been bought by 
 himself at a sale of the Earl of Darlington's horses last 
 year, for two hundred guineas. She was a great favorite, 
 he went on to say, with the earl, who often rode her ; and 
 she ran at Done aster by the name of Miss Russell. All this 
 latter part of the note was not quite so true ; but then, it 
 must be admitted, that, when we talk about horses, we are 
 not tied down to be exact to a letter. If we were, Heaven 
 help Tattersal's ! 
 
 " To tea, accordingly, the Ensign came at six, wiped 
 clean, and in a different set-out altogether from what he 
 appeared in on emerging from the ditch. He was, to make 
 use of a phrase introduced from the ancient Latin into the 
 modern Greek, togged up in the most approved style of his 
 Majesty's 48th Foot. Bright was the scarlet of his coat, deep 
 the blue of his facings." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Antony Harrison, here inter- 
 rupting the speaker, " the 48th are not royals ; and you 
 ought to know, that no regiment but those which are royal, 
 sport blue facings. I remember, once upon a time, in a 
 coffee-shop, detecting a very smart fellow, who wrote some 
 clever things in a magazine published in Edinburgh by one 
 Blackwood, under the character of a military man, not to be 
 any thing of the kind, by his talking about ensigns in the 
 fusileers ; all the world knowing, that, in the fusileers, there 
 are no ensigns, but, in their place, second lieutenants. Let 
 me set you right there, Bob : the facings your friend Brady 
 exhibited to the wondering gaze of the Mallow tea-table 
 must have been buff — pale buff." 
 
12 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 " Buff, black, blue, brown, yellow, Pompadour, brick- 
 dust, no matter what they were," continued Burke, in no- 
 wise pleased by the interruption : " they were as bright as 
 they could be made, and so was all the lace, and other 
 traps, which I shall not specify more minutely, as I am in 
 presence of so sharp a critic. He was, in fact, in full dress, 
 — as you know is done in country quarters, — and, being 
 not a bad plan and elevation of a man, looked well enough. 
 Miss Dosy, I perceived, had not been perfectly ignorant of 
 the rank and condition of the gentleman over whom she had 
 leaped ; for she was dressed in her purple satin body and 
 white skirt, which she always put on when she wished to be 
 irresistible ; and her hair was suffered to flow in long ring- 
 lets down her fair neck — and, by Jupiter ! it was fair as a 
 swan's, and as majestic too, and no mistake. Yes : Dosy 
 Macnamara looked divine that evening. 
 
 " Never mind ! Tea was brought in by Mary Keefe, and 
 it was just as all other teas have been, and will be. Do 
 not, however, confound it with the wafer-sliced and hot- 
 watered abominations which are inflicted, perhaps justly, on 
 the wretched individuals who are guilty of haunting soirees 
 and conversaziones in this good and bad city of London. 
 The tea was congou or souchong, or some other of these 
 Chinese affairs, for any thing T know to the contrary ; for, 
 having dined at the house, I was mixing my fifth tumbler 
 when tea was brought in, and Mrs. Macnamara begged me 
 not to disturb myself; and, she being a lady for whom I had 
 great respect, I complied with her desire. But there was a 
 potato-cake an inch thick and two feet in diameter, which, 
 Mrs. Macnamara informed me in a whisper, was made by 
 Dosy after the hunt. 
 
 " ' Poor chicken ! ' she said, ' if she had the strength, she 
 has the willingness ; but she is so delicate ! If you saw her 
 handling the potatoes to-day ! ' 
 
 " ' Madam,' said I, looking tender, and putting my hand 
 on my heart, ' I wish I was a potato ! ' " 
 
WITH ENSIGN BEADY. 13 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW ENSIGN BRADY ASTONISHED THE NATIVES AT MISS 
 THEODOSIA MACNAMARA'S. 
 
 " I thought this was an uncommonly pathetic wish, after 
 the manner of the Persian poet Hafiz ; but it was scarcely 
 out of my mouth, when Ensign Brady, taking a cup of tea 
 from Miss Dosy's hand, looking upon me with an air of in- 
 finite condescension, declared that I must be the happiest of 
 men, as my wish was granted before it was made. I was 
 preparing to answer ; but Miss Dosy laughed so loud, that 
 I had not time, and my only resource was to swallow what I 
 had just made. The Ensign followed up his victory without 
 mercy. 
 
 " ' Talking of potatoes, Miss Theodosia,' said he, looking 
 at me, ' puts me in mind of truffles. Do you know this most 
 exquisite cake of yours much resembles a gateau aux truffes? 
 Gad ! how Col. Thornton, Sir Harry Millicent, Lord 
 Mortgageshire, and that desperate fellow, the ' Hon. and 
 Rev. Dick Sellenger, and I, used to tuck in truffles, when 
 we were quartered in Paris ! Mortgageshire — an uncom- 
 mon droll fellow : I used to call his lordship Morty ; he 
 called me Brad, we were on such terms ! and we used to 
 live together in the Rue de la Paix, that beautiful street 
 close by the Place Venddme, where there's the pillar. You 
 have been at Paris, Miss Macnamara ? ' asked the Ensign, 
 filling his mouth with a half-pound bite of the potato-cake, 
 at the same moment. 
 
 " Dosy confessed that she had never travelled into any 
 foreign parts, except the kingdom of Kerry ; and, on the 
 same question being repeated to me, I was obliged to admit 
 that I was in a similar predicament. Brady was trium- 
 phant. 
 
 " ' It is a loss to any man,' said he, * not to have been in 
 Paris. I know that city well, and so I ought ; but I did 
 many naughty things there.' 
 
 " * Oh, fie ! ' said Mrs. Macnamara. 
 
14 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 " ' O madam ! ' continued Brady, l the fact is, that the Paris 
 ladies were rather too fond of us English. When I say- 
 English, I mean Scotch and Irish as well ; but, nevertheless, 
 I think Irishmen had more good luck than the natives of the 
 other two islands/ 
 
 " ' In my geography book,' said Miss Dosy, i it is put down 
 only as one island, consisting of England, capital London, 
 on the Thames, in the south; and Scotland, capital Edin- 
 burgh, on the Forth, in the north ; population' — 
 
 " ' Gad ! you are right/ said Brady, ' perfectly right, 
 Miss Macnamara. I see you are quite a blue. But, as I 
 was saying, it is scarce possible for a good-looking young 
 English officer to escape the French ladies. And then I 
 played rather deep : on the whole, however, I think I may 
 say I won. Mortgageshire and I broke Frascati's one night : 
 we won a hundred thousand francs at rouge, and fifty-four 
 thousand at roulette. You would have thought the crou- 
 piers would have fainted : they tore their hair with vexation. 
 The money, however, soon went again : we could not keep 
 it. As for wine, you have it cheap there, and of a quality 
 which you cannot get in England. At Very's, for example, 
 I drank chamber tin, — it is a kind of claret, — for three 
 francs two sous a bottle, which was, beyond all comparison, 
 far superior to what I drank a couple of months ago at the 
 Duke of Devonshire's ; though his Grace prides himself on 
 that very wine, and sent to a particular binn for a favorite 
 specimen, when I observed to him, I had tasted better in 
 Paris. Out of politeness, I pretended to approve of his 
 Grace's choice ; but I give you my honor — only I would 
 not wish it to reach his Grace's ears — it was not to be com- 
 pared to what I had at Very's for a moment.' 
 
 " So flowed on Brady for a couple of hours. The Tool- 
 eries, as he thought proper to call them ; the Louvre, with 
 its pictures, the removal of which he deplored as a matter 
 of taste, assuring us that he had used all his influence with 
 the Emperor of Russia and the Duke of Wellington to pre- 
 vent it, but in vain ; the Boulevards, the opera, the theatres, 
 the Champs Elysees, the Montagnes Busses, — every thing, 
 in short, about Paris, was depicted to the astonished 
 
WITH ENSIGN BRADY. 15 
 
 mind of Miss Dosy. Then came London, where he be- 
 longed to, I do not know how many clubs, and cut a 
 most distinguished figure in the fashionable world. He was 
 of the Prince Regent's set, and assured us, on his honor, 
 that there was never any thing so ill founded as the stories 
 afloat to the discredit of that illustrious person. But, on 
 what happened at Carleton House, he felt obliged to keep 
 silence, the prince being remarkably strict in exacting a 
 promise from every gentleman whom he admitted to his 
 table, not to divulge any thing that occurred there, — a 
 violation of which promise was the cause of the exclusion 
 of Brummell. As for the Princess of Wales, he would 
 rather not say any thing. 
 
 " And so forth. Now, in those days of my innocence, 
 I believed these stories as gospel, hating the fellow all the 
 while from the bottom of my heart, as I saw that he made 
 a deep impression on Dosy, who sat in open-mouthed 
 wonder, swallowing them down as a common-councilman 
 swallows turtle. But times are changed. I have seen 
 Paris and London since, and I believe I know both vil- 
 lages as well as most men ; and the deuse a word of truth 
 did Brady tell in his whole narrative. In Paris, when 
 not in quarters (he had joined some six or eight months 
 after Waterloo), he lived au cinquantieme in a dog-hole, 
 in the Rue Git-le-Coeur (a street at what I may call the 
 Surrey side of Paris), among carters and other such folk ; 
 and, in London, I discovered that his principal domicile was 
 in one of the courts now demolished to make room for the 
 fine new gimcrackery at Charing Cross : it was in Round 
 Court, at a pieman's of the name of Dudfield." 
 
 " Dick Dudfield ? " said Jack Ginger. " I knew the man 
 well, — a most particular friend of mine. He was a duffer, 
 besides being a pieman, and was transported some years 
 ago. He is now a flourishing merchant in Australasia, and 
 will, I suppose, in due time, be grandfather to a member 
 of Congress." 
 
 " There it was that Brady lived then," continued Bob 
 Burke, " when he was hobnobbing with Georgius Quartus, 
 and dancing at Almack's with Lady Elizabeth Conyng- 
 
16 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 hame. Faith ! the nearest approach he ever made to 
 royalty was when he was put into the King's own Bench, 
 where he sojourned many a long day. What an ass I 
 was to believe a word of such stuff! but, nevertheless, it 
 goes down with the rustics to the present minute. I some- 
 times sport a duke or so myself, when I find myself among 
 yokels, and I rise vastly in estimation by so doing. What 
 do we come to London or Paris for, but to get some touch 
 of knowing how to do things properly V It would be devil- 
 ish hard, I think, for Ensign Brady, or Ensign Brady's master, 
 to do me nowadays, by flamming off titles of high life." 
 
 The company did no more than justice to Mr. Burke's 
 experience, by unanimously admitting that such a feat was 
 all but impossible. 
 
 " I was," he went on, " a good deal annoyed at my inferi- 
 ority ; and I could not help seeing that Miss Dosy was making 
 comparisons that were rather odious, as she glanced from the 
 gay uniform of the Ensign on my habiliments, which, having 
 been perpetrated by a Mallow tailor with a hatchet or pitch- 
 fork or pickaxe, or some such tool, did not stand the scrutiny 
 to advantage. I was, I think, a better-looking fellow than 
 Brady. Well, well — laugh if you like. I am no beauty, I 
 know ; but then consider that what I am talking of was 
 sixteen years ago, and more ; and a man does not stand the 
 battering I have gone through for these sixteen years with 
 impunity. Do you call the thirty or forty thousand tumblers 
 of punch, in all its varieties, that I have since imbibed, 
 nothing ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Jack Ginger, with a sigh. " There was a song 
 we used to sing on board ' The Brimstone ' when cruising 
 about the Spanish main, — 
 
 11 * If Mars leaves his scars, jolly Bacchus as well 
 Sets his trace on the face, which a toper will tell ; 
 But which a more merry campaign has pursued, — 
 The shedder of wine, or the shedder of blood ? ' 
 
 I forget the rest of it. Poor Ned Nixon ! It was he who 
 made that song. He was afterwards bit in two by a shark, 
 having tumbled overboard in the cool of the evening, one 
 fine summer day, off Port Royal." 
 
WITH ENSIGN BRADY. 17 
 
 " Well, at all events," said Burke, continuing his narrative, 
 " I thought I was a better-looking fellow than my rival, and 
 was fretted at being sung down. I resolved to outstay him ; 
 and, though he sat long enough, I, who was more at home, 
 contrived to remain after him ; but it was only to hear him 
 extolled. 
 
 * ' A very nice young man/ said Mrs. Macnamara. 
 
 " fc An extreme nice young man,' responded Miss Theo- 
 dosia. 
 
 " ' A perfect gentleman in his manners : he puts me quite 
 in mind of my uncle, the late Jerry O'Kegan/ observed Mrs. 
 Macnamara. 
 
 " ' Quite the gentleman in every particular/ ejaculated 
 Miss Theodosia. 
 
 " ' He has seen a great deal of the world for so young a 
 man/ remarked Mrs. Macnamara. 
 
 u ' He has mixed in the best society too/ cried Miss Theo- 
 dosia. 
 
 " ' If is a great advantage to a young man to travel/ quoth 
 Mrs. Macnamara. 
 
 " ' And a very great disadvantage to a young man to be 
 always sticking at home/ chimed in Miss Theodosia, looking 
 at me. 4 It shuts them out from all chances of the elegance 
 which we have just seen displayed by Ensign Brady of the 
 48th Foot/ 
 
 " ' For my part/ said I, ' I do not think him such an elegant 
 fellow at all. Do you remember, Dosy Macnamara, how he 
 looked when he got up out of the green puddle to-day ? ' 
 
 " ' Mr. Burke/ said she, ' that was an accident that might 
 happen to any man. You were thrown yourself this day 
 week, on clearing Jack Falvey's wall ; so you need not reflect 
 on Mr. Brady/ 
 
 " ■ If I was/ said I, ' it was as fine a leap as ever was made, 
 and I was on my mare in half a shake afterwards. Bob 
 Buller of Ballythomas, or Jack Prendergast, or Fergus 
 O'Connor, could not have rode it better. And you 
 too' — 
 
 " ' Well/ said she, ' I am not going to dispute with you. I 
 am sleepy, and must get to bed.' 
 2 
 
18 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 " 4 Do, poor chicken/ said Mrs. Macnamara soothingly ; 
 ' and Bob, my dear, I wish it was in your power to go travel, 
 and see the Booleries, and the Tooleyvards, and the rest ; and 
 then you might be, in course of time, as genteel as Ensign 
 Brady/ 
 
 " ' Heigho ! ' said I at once ; and left the house in the most 
 abrupt manner, after consigning Ensign Brady to the par- 
 ticular attention of Tisiphone, Alecto, and MegaBra, all com- 
 pressed into one emphatic monosyllable. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HOW BOB BURKE, AFTER AN INTERVIEW WITH BARNEY 
 PULVERTAFT, ASCERTAINED THAT HE WAS DESPER- 
 ATELY IN LOVE WITH MISS THEODOSIA MACNAMARA. 
 
 " On leaving Dosy's lodgings, I began to consult the state 
 of my heart. ' Am I, really/ said I, ' so much in love, as to 
 lose my temper if this prating ensign should carry off the 
 lady ? ' I was much puzzled to resolve the question. I 
 walked up and down the Spa-walk, whining a cigar, for a 
 quarter of an hour, without being able to come to a decision. 
 At last, just as the cigar was out, my eye caught a light in 
 the window of Barney Pulvertaft, the attorney, old Six-and- 
 Eightpence, as we used to call him. I knew he was the 
 confidential agent of the Macnamaras ; and, as he had carried 
 on sixteen law-suits for my father, I thought I had a claim 
 to learn something about the affairs of Miss Dosy. I under- 
 stood she was an heiress, but had never, until now, thought 
 of inquiring into the precise amount of her expectancies. 
 Seeing that the old fellow was up, I determined to step over, 
 and found him in the middle of law-papers, although it was 
 then rather late, with a pot-bellied jug, of the bee-hive 
 pattern, by his side, full of punch, or rather, I should say, half 
 full; for Six-and-Eightpence had not been idle. His snuff- 
 colored wig was cocked on one side of his head, his old 
 
WITH ENSIGN BRADY. 19 
 
 velveteen breeches open at the knee, his cravat off, his 
 shirt unbuttoned, his stockings half down his lean legs, 
 his feet in a pair of worsted slippers. The old fellow was, in 
 short, relaxed for the night ; but he had his pen in his hand. 
 
 " i I am only filling copies of capiases. Bob/ said he, — 
 ' light and pleasant work, which does not distress one in an 
 evening. There are a few of your friends booked here. 
 What has brought you to me so late to-night ? — but your 
 father's son is always welcome. Ay, there were few men 
 like your father, — never staggered in a lawsuit in his life, 
 saw it always out to the end, drove it from court to court. 
 If he was beat, why, so much the worse; but he never 
 fretted : if he won, faith ! he squeezed the opposite party 
 well. Ay, he was a good-hearted, honest, straightforward 
 man. I wish I had a hundred such clients. So here's his 
 memory anyhow ! ' 
 
 " Six-and-Eightpence had a good right to give the toast, 
 as what constituted the excellence of my father in his eyes 
 had moved most of the good acres of Ballyburke out of the 
 family into the hands of the lawyers ; but from filial duty 
 I complied with the attorney's request, — the more readily, 
 because I well knew, from long experience, that his skill in 
 punch-making was unimpeachable. So we talked about my 
 father's old lawsuits, and I got Barney into excellent humor 
 by letting him tell me of the great skill and infinite adroit- 
 ness which he had displayed upon a multiplicity of occasions. 
 It was not, however, until we were deep in the second jug, 
 and Six-and-Eightpence was beginning to show symptoms 
 of being cut, that I ventured lo introduce the subject of my 
 visit. I did it as cautiously as I could ; but the old fellow 
 soon found out my drift. 
 
 " 4 No,' hiccoughed he, ' Bob, 'twon't — 'twon't — do. Close 
 as green — green wax. Never te-tell profess-profess-profes- 
 sional secrets. Know her expec — hiccup — tances to a ten- 
 ten-penny. So you are after — after — her ? Ah, Bo-bob ! 
 She'll be a ca-catch ; but not a wo-word from me. No, never. 
 Bar-ney Pe-pulverta-taft is game to the last. Never be-be- 
 trayed ye-your father. God rest his soul ! He was a wo- 
 worthy man.' 
 
20 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 " On this recollection of the merits of my sainted sire, the 
 attorney wept ; and in spite of all his professional determina- 
 tions, whether the potency of the fluid or the memory of the 
 deceased acted upon him, I got at the facts. Dosy had not more 
 than a couple of hundred pounds in the world. Her mother's 
 property was an annuity which expired with herself; but 
 her uncle by the father's side, Mick Macnamara of Kaw- 
 leash, had an estate of at least five hundred a year, which, 
 in case of his dying without issue, was to come to her, be- 
 sides a power of money saved ; Mick being one who, to use 
 the elegant phraseology of my friend the attorney, would 
 skin a flea for the sake of selling the hide. All this money, 
 ten thousand pounds, or something equally musical, would, in 
 all probability, go to Miss Dosy : the five hundred pounds a 
 year was hers by entail. Now, as her uncle was eighty-four 
 years old, unmarried, and in the last stage of the palsy, it 
 was a thing as sure as the bank, that Miss Dosy was a very 
 rich heiress indeed. 
 
 ■ u l So, so/ said Six-and-Eightpence. ' This — this — is 
 strictly confiddle-confid-confiddledential. Do — do not say a 
 word about it. I ought not to have to-told it ; but, you do- 
 dog ! you wheedled it out of me. Da-dang it ! I co-could not 
 ref-refuse your father's son. You are ve-very like — like 
 him, as I sa-saw him sitting many a ti-time in that cha-chair; 
 but you nev-never will have his spu-spunk in a sho-shoot 
 (suit). There, the lands of Arry-arry-arry-bally-bally-be- 
 beg-clock-clough-macde-de-duagh — confound the wo-word ! — 
 of Arryballybegcloughmacduagh, the finest be-bog in the co- 
 country, are ye-yours ; but you haven't spu-spunk to go into 
 cha-chahcery for it, like your worthy fa-father, Go- God rest 
 his soul ! Blow out that se-second ca-candle, Bo-bob ; for I 
 hate waste.' 
 
 " ' There's but one in the room, Barney,' said I. 
 
 " ' You mean to say,' hiccoughed he, ' that I am te-te- 
 tipsy ? Well, well, ye-young fe-fellows, well, I am their 
 je-joke. However, as the je-jug is out, you must be je-jog- 
 ging. Early to bed, and early to rise, is the way to be — 
 However, le-lend me your arm up the sta-stairs ; for they are 
 very slip-slippery to-night.' 
 
WITH ENSIGN BEADY. 21 
 
 " I conducted the attorney to his bed-chamber, and safely 
 stowed him into bed, while he kept stammering forth praises 
 on my worthy father, and upbraiding me with want of spunk 
 in not carrying on a chancery-suit begun by him some twelve 
 years before for a couple of hundred acres of bog, the value 
 of which would scarcely have amounted to the price of the 
 parchment expended on it. Having performed this duty, I 
 proceeded homewards, laboring under a variety of sensations. 
 
 " How delicious is the feeling of love when it first takes 
 full possession of a youthful bosom ! Before its balmy influ- 
 ence vanish all selfish thoughts, all grovelling notions. Pure 
 and sublimated, the soul looks forward to objects beyond self, 
 and merges all ideas of personal identity in aspirations of the 
 felicity to be derived from the being adored. A thrill of rap- 
 ture pervades the breast ; an intense but bland flame perme- 
 ates every vein, throbs in every pulse. O blissful period ! 
 brief in duration, but crowded with thoughts of happiness 
 never to recur ajjain. As 1 gained the walk, the moon was 
 high and bright in heaven, pouring a flood of mild light over 
 the trees. The stars shone with sapphire lustre in the cloud- 
 less sky ; not a breeze disturbed the deep serene. I was 
 alone. I thought of my love, — of what else could I think ? 
 What I had just heard had kindled my passion for the divine 
 Theodosia into a quenchless blaze. ' Yes,' I exclaimed aloud, 
 ' 1 do love her. Such an angel does not exist on the earth ! 
 What charms ! What innocence ! What horsewomansbip ! 
 Five hundred a year certain ! Ten thousand pounds in per- 
 spective ! I'll repurchase the lands of Ballyburke ; I'll re- 
 build the hunting-lodge in the Galtees ; I'll keep a pack of 
 hounds, and live a sporting-life. O, dear, divine Theodosia ! 
 how I do adore you ! I'll shoot that Brady, and no mistake. 
 How dare he interfere where my affections are so irrevocably 
 fixed ? ' 
 
 " Such were my musings. Alas, how we are changed as 
 we progress through the world ! That breast becomes arid, 
 which once was open to every impression of the tender pas- 
 sion. The rattle of the dice-box beats out of the head the 
 rattle of the quiver of Cupid, and the shuffling of the cards 
 renders the rustling of his wings inaudible. The necessity of 
 
22 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 looking after a tablecloth supersedes that of looking after a 
 petticoat, and we more willingly make an assignation with a 
 mutton-chop than with an angel in female form. The bonds 
 of love are exchanged for those of the conveyancer ; bills 
 take the place of billets ; and we do not protest, but are pro- 
 tested against by a three-and-sixpenny notary. Such are 
 the melancholy effects of age. I knew them not then. I 
 continued to muse full of sweet thoughts, until gradually the 
 moon faded from the sky, the stars went out, and all was 
 darkness. Morning succeeded to night ; and, on awaking, I 
 found, that, owing to the forgetfulness in which the thoughts 
 of the fair Theodosia had plunged me, I had selected the bot- 
 tom step of old Barney Pulvertaft's door as my couch, and 
 was awakened from repose in consequence of his servant- 
 maid (one Norry MulcakyJ having emptied the contents of 
 her washing-tub over my slumbering person." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HOW BOB BURKE, AFTER CONSULTATION WITH WOODEN- 
 LEG WADDY, FOUGHT THE DUEL WITH ENSIGN 
 BRADY FOR THE SAKE OF MISS THEODOSIA MACNA- 
 MARA. 
 
 " At night I had fallen asleep fierce in the determination 
 of exterminating Brady ; but with the morrow cool reflection 
 came, made probably cooler by the aspersion I had suffered. 
 How could I fight him, when he never had given me the 
 slightest affront ? To be sure, picking a quarrel is not hard, 
 thank Heaven, in any part of Ireland ; but, unless I was quick 
 about it, he might get so deep into the good graces of Dosy, 
 who was as flammable as tinder, that, even my shooting him, 
 might not be of any practical advantage to myself. Then, 
 besides, he might shoot me ; and, in fact, I was not by any 
 means so determined in the affair at seven o'clock in the 
 morning as I was at twelve o'clock at night. I got home, 
 however, dressed, shaved, &c, and turned out. ' I think/ 
 
WITH ENSIGN BRADY. 23 
 
 said I to myself, ' the best thing I can do is to go and consult 
 Wooden-leg Waddy ; and, as he is an early man, I shall 
 catch him now.' The thought was no sooner formed than 
 executed ; and in less than &vq minutes I was walking with 
 Wooden-leg Waddy in his garden, at the back of his house, 
 by the banks of the Blackwater. 
 
 " Waddy had been in the Hundred-and-First, and had seen 
 much service in that distinguished corps." 
 
 " ' I remember it well during the war/ said Antony Harri- 
 son. " We used to call it the Hungry-and- Worst ; but it did 
 its duty on a pinch, nevertheless." 
 
 " ' No matter,' continued Burke ; " Waddy had served a 
 good deal, and lost his leg somehow, for which he had a pen- 
 sion besides his half pay ; and he lived in ease and affluence 
 among the Bucks of Mallow. He was a great hand at set- 
 tling and arranging duels, being what we generally call, 
 in Ireland, a judgmatical sort of man, — a word which I 
 think might be introduced with advantage into the English 
 vocabulary. When I called on him, he was smoking his 
 meerschaum, as he walked up and down his garden, in an old 
 undress-coat, and a fur cap on his head. I bade him good- 
 morning ; to which salutation he answered by a nod and a 
 more prolonged whiff. 
 
 " ' I want to speak to you, Wooden-leg ' said I, 'on a matter 
 which nearly concerns me.' On which, I received another 
 nod, and another whiff in reply. 
 
 " ' The fact is/ said I, ' that there is an Ensign Brady, of the 
 48th, quartered here, with whom I have some reason to be 
 angry; and I am thinking of calling him out. I have come 
 to ask your advice whether I should do so or not. He has 
 deeply injured me, by interfering between me and the girl 
 of my affections. What ought I to do in such a case ? ' 
 
 " ' Fight him, by all means/ said Wooden-leg Waddy. 
 
 " ' But the difficulty is this : he has offered me no affront, 
 direct or indirect ; we have no quarrel whatever ; and he 
 has not paid any addresses to the lady. He and I have 
 scarcely been in contact at all : I do not see how I can man- 
 age it immediately with any propriety. What, then, can I 
 do now ? ' 
 
24 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 " ' Do not fight him, by any means,' said Wooden-leg 
 Waddy. 
 
 " ' Still, these are the facts of the case. He, whether in- 
 tentionally or not, is coming between me and my mistress, 
 which is doing me an injury perfectly equal to the grossest 
 insult. How should I act ? ' 
 
 " ' Fight him, by all means/ said Wooden-leg Waddy. 
 
 " l But then, I fear if I were to call him out on a groundless 
 quarrel, or one which would appear to be such, that I should 
 lose the good graces of the lady, and be laughed at by my 
 friends, or set down as a quarrelsome and dangerous com- 
 panion/ 
 
 " i Do not fight him, then, by any means/ said Wooden-leg 
 Waddy. 
 
 " ' Yet, as he is a military man, he must know enough of 
 the etiquette of these affairs to feel perfectly confident that 
 he has affronted me ; and the opinion of a military man, 
 standing, as of course he does, in the rank and position of a 
 gentleman, could not, I think, be overlooked without dis- 
 grace/ 
 
 " ' Fight him, by all means/ said Wooden-leg Waddy. 
 
 " c But then, talking of gentlemen, I own he is an officer 
 of the 48th; but his father is a fish-tackle seller in John 
 Street, Kilkenny, who keeps a three-halfpenny shop, where 
 you may buy every thing, from a cheese to a cheese-toaster, 
 from a felt hat to a pair of brogues, from a pound of brown 
 soap to a yard of huckaback towels. He got his commission 
 by his father's retiring from the Ormonde interest, and acting 
 as whipper-in to the sham freeholders from Castlecomer; 
 and I am, as you know, of the best blood of the Burkes, 
 straight from the De Burgos themselves ; and, when I think 
 of that, I really do not like to meet this Mr. Brady.' 
 
 " ' Do not fight him, by any means/ said Wooden-leg 
 Waddy." 
 
 " This advice of your friend Waddy to you," said Tom 
 Meggot, interrupting Burke, " much resembles that which 
 Pantagruel gave Panurge on the subject of his marriage, as 
 I heard a friend of mine, Percy of Gray's Inn, reading to 
 me the other day." 9 
 
WITH ENSIGN BRADY. 25 
 
 " I do not know the people you speak of," continued Bob, 
 " but such was the advice which Waddy gave me." 
 
 " ' Why,' said I, ' Wooden-leg, my friend, this is like 
 playing battledore and shuttlecock ; what is knocked forward 
 with one hand is knocked back with the other. Come, tell 
 me what I ought to do.' 
 
 " ' Well,' said Wooden-leg, taking the meerschaum out of 
 his mouth, ' in dubiis suspice, &c. Let us decide it by toss- 
 ing a halfpenny. If it comes dowu head, you fight; if harp, 
 you do not. Nothing can be fairer.' 
 
 ; ' I assented. 
 
 u ' Which,' said he, ' is it to be, — two out of three, as at 
 Newmarket, or the first toss to decide?' 
 
 " ' Sudden death,' said I, l and there will soon be an end 
 of it.' 
 
 " Up went the halfpenny, and we looked with anxious 
 eyes for its descent, when, unluckily, it stuck in a goose- 
 berry-bush. 
 
 " ' I don't like that,' said Wooden-leg Waddy ; ' for it's a 
 token of bad luck. But here goes again.' 
 
 " Again the copper soared to the sky, and down it came 
 — head. 
 
 " ' I wish you joy, my friend : 'said Waddy : ' you are to fight. 
 That was my opinion all along ; though I did not like to com- 
 mit myself. I can lend you a pair of the most beautiful duel- 
 ling-pistols ever put in a man's hand, — Wogden's, I swear. 
 The last time they were out, they shot Joe Brown of Mount 
 Badger as dead as Harry the Eighth.' 
 
 " ' Will you be my second ? ' said I. 
 
 " ' Why, no,' replied Wooden-leg, ' I cannot ; for I am bound 
 over by a rascally magistrate to keep the peace, because I 
 barely broke the head of a blackguard bailiff, who came here 
 to serve a writ on a friend of mine, with one of my spare legs. 
 But I can get you a second at once. My nephew, Major Mug, 
 has just come to me on a few days' visit ; and, as he is quite idle, 
 it will give him some amusement to be your second. Look 
 up at his bedroom : you see he is shaving himself 
 
 " In a short time, the Major made his appearance, dressed 
 with a most military accuracy of costume. There was not a 
 
26 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 speck of dust on his well brushed blue surtout ; not a vestige 
 of hair, except the regulation whiskers, on his closely-shaven 
 countenance. His hat was brushed to the most glossy perfec- 
 tion ; his boots shone in the jetty glow of Day and Martin. 
 There was scarcely an ounce of flesh on his hard and weather- 
 beaten face ; and, as he stood rigidly upright, you would have 
 sworn that every sinew and muscle of his body was as stiff as 
 whipcord. He saluted us in military style, and was soon put 
 in possession of the case. Wooden-leg Waddy insinuated that 
 there were hardly as yet grounds for a duel. 
 
 " ' I differ/ said Major Mug, decidedly ; ' the grounds are 
 ample. I never saw a clearer case in my life ; and I have 
 been principal or second in seven-and-twenty. If I collect 
 your story rightly, Mr. Burke, he gave you an abrupt answer 
 in the field, which was highly derogatory to the lady in ques- 
 tion, and impertinently rude to yourself? ' 
 
 " ' He certainly,' said I, ' gave me what we call a short an- 
 swer ; but I did not notice it at the time, and he has since 
 made friends with the young lady/ 
 
 " ' It matters nothing,' observed Major Mug, ' what you 
 may think, or she may think. The business is now in my 
 hands, and I must see you through it. The first thing to be 
 done is to write him a letter. Send out for paper, — let it be 
 gilt-edged, Waddy, that we may do the thing genteel. 
 I'll dictate, Mr. Burke, if you please.' 
 
 " ' And so he did. As well as I can recollect, the note was 
 as follows : — 
 
 " * Spa Walk, Mallow, June 3, 18 — . 
 Eight o'clock in the morning. 
 
 " ' Sir, — A desire for harmony and peace, which has at 
 all times actuated my conduct, prevented me, yesterday, from 
 asking you the meaning of the short and contemptuous mes- 
 sage which you commissioned me to deliver to a certain young 
 lady of our acquaintance, whose name I do not choose to drag 
 into a correspondence. But now that there is no danger of 
 its disturbing any one, I must say that in your desiring me to 
 tell that young lady she might consider herself as d — d, you 
 were guilty of conduct highly unbecoming of an officer and 
 a gentleman, and subversive of the discipline of the hunt. I 
 
WITH ENSIGN BRADY. 27 
 
 have the honor to be, sir, your most obedient, humble ser- 
 vant, 
 
 " ' Robert Burke. 
 
 " ' P. S. — This note will be delivered to you by my friend, 
 Major Mug, of the 3d West Indian ; and you will, I trust, see 
 the propriety of referring him to another gentleman without 
 further delay.' 
 
 " ' That, I think, is neat/ said the Major. ' Now, seal it 
 with wax, Mr. Burke, with wax, and let the seal be your 
 arms. That's right. Now direct it " Ensign Brady." ' 
 
 " i No — no — the right thing would be, "Mr. Brady, Ensign, 
 48th foot," but custom allows "Esquire." ' That will do — 
 " Thady Brady, Esq., Ensign, 48th Foot, Barracks, Mallow." 
 He shall have it in less than a quarter of an hour.' 
 
 "The Major was as good as his word, and in about half 
 an hour he brought back the result of his mission. The En- 
 sign, he told us, was extremely reluctant to fight, and wanted 
 to be off on the ground that he had meant no offence, did not 
 even remember having used the expression, and offered to 
 ask the lady if she conceived for a moment he had any idea 
 of saying any thing but what was complimentary to her. 
 
 " ' In fact, said the Major, ' he at first plumply refused to 
 fight ; but I soon brought him to reason. " Sir," said I, " you 
 either consent to fight, or refuse to fight. In the first case, 
 the thing is settled to hand, and we are not called upon to 
 inquire if there was an affront or not ; in the second case, 
 your refusal to comply with a gentleman's request is, of itself, 
 an offence for which he has a right to" call you out: Put it, 
 then, on any grounds, you must fight him. It is perfectly in- 
 different to me what the grounds may be ; and I have only to 
 request the name of your friend, as I too much respect the 
 coat you wear to think that there can be any other alterna- 
 tive." This brought the chap to his senses ; and he referred 
 me to Captain Codd, of his own regiment, at which I left 
 much pleased, because Codd is an intimate friend of my own, 
 he and I having fought a duel three years ago in Falmouth, 
 in which I lost the top of this little finger, and he, his left 
 whisker. It was a near touch. He is as honorable a man as 
 
28 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 ever paced a ground ; and I am sure that he will no more let 
 his man off the field until business is done, than I would my- 
 self.' 
 
 " I own," continued Burke, " I did not half relish this 
 announcement of the firm purpose of our seconds; but I was 
 in for it, and could not get back. I sometimes thought Dosy 
 a dear purchase at such an expense ; but it was no use to 
 grumble. Major Mug was sorry to say that there was a 
 review to take place immediately, at which the Ensign must 
 attend, and it was impossible for him to meet me until the 
 evening ; ' but,' added he, ' at this time of the year it can be 
 of no great consequence. There will be plenty of light till 
 nine ; but I have fixed seven. In the mean time, you may as 
 well divert yourself with a little pistol-practice ; but do it on 
 the sly, as, if they were shabby enough to have a trial, it 
 would not tell well before the jury.' 
 
 " Promising to take a quiet chop with me at five, the Major 
 retired, leaving me not quite contented with the state of 
 affairs. I sat down and wrote a letter to my cousin, Phil 
 Purdon of Kanturk, telling him what I was about, and giving 
 directions what was to be done in the case of any fatal event. 
 I communicated to him the whole story, deplored my unhappy 
 fate in being thus cut off in the flower of my youth, left him 
 three pair of buckskin breeches, and repented my sins. 
 This letter I immediately packed off by a special messenger, 
 and then begun half a dozen others, of various styles of ten- 
 derness and sentimentality, to be delivered after my melan- 
 choly decease. The day went off fast enough, I assure you ; 
 and at five the Major and Wooden-leg Waddy arrived in high 
 spirits. 
 
 "* Here, my boy/ said Waddy, handing me the pistols, 
 1 here are the flutes ; and pretty music, I can tell you, they 
 make.' 
 
 " As for dinner,' said Major Mug, 1 1 do not much care ; but, 
 Mr. Burke, I hope it is ready, as J am rather hungry. We 
 must dine lightly, however, and drink not much. If we come 
 off with flying colors, we may crack a bottle together by and 
 by ; in case you shoot Brady, I have every thing arranged for 
 our keeping out of the way until the thing blows over : if he 
 
WITH ENSIGN BRADY. 29 
 
 shoots you, I'll see you buried. Of course you would not 
 recommend any thing so ungenteel as a prosecution ? No. 
 I'll take care it shall all appear in the papers, and announce 
 that Robert Burke, Esq., met bis death with becoming forti- 
 tude, assuring the unhappy survivor that he heartily forgave 
 him, and wished him health and happiness. 
 
 a 1 1 must tell you,' said Wooden-leg Waddy, ' it's all over 
 Mallow, and the whole town will be on the ground to see it. 
 Miss Dosy knows of it, and is quite delighted : she says she 
 will certainly marry the survivor. I spoke to the magistrate 
 to keep out of the way ; and he promised that, though it de- 
 prived him of a great pleasure, he would go and dine five 
 miles off, and know nothing about it. But here comes dinner. 
 Let us be jolly/ 
 
 " I cannot say that I played on that day as brilliant a part 
 with the knife and fork as I usually do, and did not sympathize 
 much in the speculations of my guests, who pushed the bottle 
 about with great energy, recommending me, however, to re- 
 frain. At last, the Major looked at his watch, which he had 
 kept lying on the table before him from the beginning of din- 
 ner, started up, clapped me on the shoulder, and, declaring it 
 only wanted six minutes and thirty-five seconds of the time, 
 hurried me off to the scene of action, a field close by the 
 castle. 
 
 " There certainly was a miscellaneous assemblage of the in- 
 habitants of Mallow, all anxious to see the duel. They had 
 pitted us like gamecocks, and bets were freely taken as to the 
 chances of our killing one another, and the particular spots, 
 One betted on my being hit in the jaw ; another was so kind 
 as to lay the odds on my knee. A tolerably general opinion 
 appeared to prevail that one or the other of us was to be 
 killed; and much good-humored joking took place among 
 them while they were deciding which. As I was double the 
 thickness of my antagonist, I was clearly the favorite for being 
 shot ; and I heard one fellow near me say, l Three to two on 
 Burke, that he's shot first : I bet in ten-pennies.' 
 
 u Brady and Codd soon appeared ; and the preliminaries 
 were arranged with much punctilio between our seconds, who 
 mutually and loudly extolled each other's gentlemanlike mode 
 
30 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 of doing business. Brady could scarcely stand with fright ; 
 and I confess that I did not feel quite as Hector of Troy or 
 the Seven Champions of Christendom are reported to have 
 done on similar occasions. At last the ground was measured, 
 the pistols handed to the principals, the handkerchief dropped ; 
 whiz ! went the bullet, within an inch of my ear ; and crack ! 
 went mine, exactly on Ensign Brady's waistcoat pocket. By 
 an unaccountable accident, there was a five-shilling piece in 
 that very pocket, and the ball glanced away, while Brady 
 doubled himself down, uttering a loud howl, that might be 
 heard half a mile off. The crowd was so attentive as to give 
 a huzza for my success. 
 
 " Codd ran up to his principal, who was writhing as if he 
 had ten thousand colics, and soon ascertained that no harm 
 was done. 
 
 " ' What do you propose ? ' said he to my second ; * what do 
 you propose to do, Major ? " 
 
 " ' As there is neither blood drawn nor bone broken/ said 
 the Major, ' I think that shot goes for nothing.' 
 
 " ' I agree with you,' said Captain Codd. 
 
 " ' If your party will apologize,' said Major Mug, ' I'll take 
 my man off the ground.' 
 
 " ' Certainly,' said Captain Codd, ' you are quite right, Ma- 
 jor, in asking the apology ; but you know that it is my duty 
 to refuse it.' 
 
 a ' You are correct, Captain,' said the major ; ' 1 then for- 
 mally require that Ensign Brady apologize to Mr. Burke/ 
 
 " ' I as formally refuse it,' said Captain Codd. 
 
 " ' We must have another shot then,' said the Major. 
 
 " l Another shot, by all means," said the Captain. 
 
 " ' Captain Codd,' said the Major, * you have shown your- 
 self in this, as in every transaction of your life, a perfect gen- 
 tleman.' 
 
 " 4 He who would dare to say,' replied the Captain, ' that 
 Major Mug is not among the most gentlemanlike men in the 
 service, would speak what is untrue.' 
 
 " Our seconds bowed, took a pinch of snuff together, and 
 proceeded to load the pistols. Neither Brady nor I was par- 
 ticularly pleased at these complimentary speeches of the gen- 
 
WITH ENSIGN BRADY. 31 
 
 tlemen ; and, I am sure, had we been left to ourselves, would 
 have declined the second shot. As it was, it appeared inevi- 
 table. 
 
 " Just, however, as the process of loading was completing, 
 there appeared on the ground my cousin Phil Purdon, rattling 
 in on his black mare as hard as he could lick. When he 
 came in sight, he bawled out, — 
 
 " ' I want to speak to the plaintiff in this action : I mean, 
 to one of the parties in this duel. I want to speak to you, 
 Bob Burke/ 
 
 " ' The thing is impossible, sir/ said Major Mug. 
 
 " i Perfectly impossible, sir,' said Captain Codd. 
 
 " ' Possible or impossible is nothing to the question/ shouted 
 Purdon ; ' Bob, I must speak to you.' 
 
 " ' It is contrary to all regulations,' said the Major. 
 
 " ' Quite contrary/ said the Captain. 
 
 " Phil, however, persisted, and approached me. 
 
 " 4 Are you fighting about Dosy Mac ? ' said he to me in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " ' Yes/ I replied. 
 
 " ' And she is to marry the survivor, I understand ? ' 
 
 " c So I am told/ said I. 
 
 " ' Back out, Bob, then ; back out at the rate of a hunt. 
 Old Mick Macnamara is married.' 
 
 " ' Married ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 " ' Poz/ said he, ' I drew the articles myself. He married 
 his housemaid, a girl of eighteen; and, — ' here he whis- 
 pered. 
 
 " ' What ! ' I cried/ six months ! ' 
 
 " ' Six months/ said he, ' and no mistake.' 
 
 " ' Ensign Brady / said I, immediately coming forward, ' there 
 has been a strange misconception in this business. I here 
 declare, in presence of this honorable company, that you have 
 acted throughout like a man of honor, and a gentleman ; and 
 you leave the ground without a stain on your character.' 
 
 " Brady hopped three feet off the ground with joy at the 
 unexpected deliverance. He forgot all etiquette, and came 
 forward to shake me by the hand. 
 
 " ' My dear Burke/ said he, ' it must have been a mistake : 
 let us swear eternal friendship ' 
 
32 BOB BURKE'S DUEL 
 
 " 4 Forever,' said I. ' I resign you Miss Theodosia.' 
 
 " ' You are too generous/ he said, ' but I cannot abuse your 
 generosity.' 
 
 " ' It is unprecedented conduct,' growled Major Mug. ' I'll 
 never be second to a Pekin again.' 
 
 " * My principal leaves the ground with honor,' said Cap- 
 tain Codd, looking melancholy nevertheless. 
 
 " ' Humph ! ' grunted Wooden-leg Waddy, lighting his 
 meerschaum. 
 
 " The crowd dispersed, much displeased ; and I fear my 
 reputation for valor did not rise among them. I went off 
 with Purdon to finish a jug at Carmichael's ; and Brady 
 swaggered off to Miss Dosy's. His renown for valor won her 
 heart. It cannot be denied that I sunk deeply in her opinion. 
 On that very evening, Brady broke his love, and was accepted. 
 Mrs. Mac. opposed ; but the red-coat prevailed. 
 
 " ' He may rise to be a general,' said Dosy, ' and be a 
 knight ; and then I will be Lady Brady." 
 
 " ' Or if my father should be made an earl, angelic Theo- 
 dosia, you would be Lady Thady Brady,' said the Ensign. 
 
 " ' Beautiful prospect ! ' cried Dosy ; ' Lady Thady Brady ! 
 What a harmonious sound ! ' 
 
 " But why dally over the detail of my unfortunate loves ? 
 Dosy and the Ensign were married before the accident which 
 had befallen her uncle was discovered; and, if they were not 
 happy, why then you and I may be. They have had eleven 
 children ; and, I understand, he now keeps a comfortable eat- 
 ing-house close by Cumberland Basin in Bristol. Such was 
 my duel with Ensign Brady of the 48th." 
 
 " Your fighting with Brady puts me in mind, that the finest 
 duel I ever saw," said Joe MacGillycuddy, " was between a 
 butcher and bulldog in the Diamond of Deny." 
 
 " I am obliged to you for your comparison," said Burke ; 
 " but I think it is now high time for dinner ; and your beauti- 
 ful story will keep. Has anybody the least idea where din- 
 ner is to be raised ? " 
 
 To this no answer was returned ; and we all began to re- 
 flect with the utmost intensity. 
 
ROBERT JEFFERY: A TREE STORY. 
 
 Among the group known as the Caribbean Islands, there 
 is a little spot — in a great atlas, scarcely so large as a pin's 
 head, and in reality a mere dot in the waters which sweep 
 around it — called Sombrero, a naked, desolate, barren, mis- 
 erable lump of rock, the resort of the sea-gull, the occasional 
 playground of the turtle, and the scoff of the great billows 
 of the Atlantic, which hurl their unwieldy bodies against it, 
 as if it would take a very little to induce them to swallow 
 it up altogether. However, the little island, with its territory 
 embraced by a periphery of a mile and a half, has long kept 
 up a gallant resistance ; taking, in obdurate sullenness, the 
 attack of the waves, which appear to be forever gnashing 
 their white teeth against its rugged sides. Sombrero offers 
 a striking exception to the character of the surrounding 
 islands : it possesses no alluvial soil, no refreshing rivers or 
 brooks or springs, no verdant vegetation ; nothing, in short, 
 to invite or to favor the residence of man, or to excite any 
 thing beyond the incidental notice of the passing vessel. 
 
 His Britannic Majesty's sloop of war, " The Recruit," on 
 the 13th of December, 1807, was standing towards this un- 
 promising spot, on which the first act in our drama opens. 
 It was Sunday afternoon ; and, as the day closed in, the 
 island lifted its head, lonely and melancholy-looking at all 
 times, in dusky obscurity above the waves, and looked out 
 upon the ocean, if possible, even in gloomier solitude than 
 ever. " The Recruit " was now about a mile and a half off 
 shore, when, between five and six o'clock in the evening, 
 
 Capt. L , her commander, came on deck, having just 
 
 risen from dinner, with a face flushed with wine, and a quick 
 3 33 
 
34 EGBERT JEFFERY: A TRUE STORY. 
 
 impatience of gesture, which portended evil to some one on 
 board. Giving a rapid glance at the dim mass of rock now 
 so near, he hastily summoned the master, and asked, " What 
 island is this ? " 
 
 " Sombrero," was the reply. 
 
 " Have we not some thieves on board ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, there are two," answered the master somewhat 
 startled. 
 
 " Send up my pistols," said the captain. 
 
 The pistols were accordingly brought up, and, after under- 
 going a careful examination as to their condition for service, 
 were ostentatiously laid on the capstan. 
 
 u Now send the ship-painter here with a strip of black tar- 
 paulin, and his paint and brushes/' 
 
 The master hurried down to execute this strange order, 
 while the crew forward were gathered into little knots, each 
 inquiring of the other what all this could mean. Presently 
 the painter appeared with his tools and the piece of canvas 
 in his hand. 
 
 " Take your brush, and paint the word ' THIEF ' on that 
 piece of canvas ; paint it in large letters ! " exclaimed the 
 captain. 
 
 With a hand not altogether the steadiest, and, under the 
 fierce eye of the commander, not improving in steadiness, 
 the man proceeded to his task. The five letters of shame 
 soon, however, glared from the canvas ; and, although not 
 exactly conspicuous for perpendicular and rectangular accu- 
 racy of outline, they were plain enough for the purpose ; and, 
 after completing his work, the man gladly received permis- 
 sion to go below. 
 
 " Now send Robert JefFery up here ; lower the ship's 
 boat, and let her crew get ready to take her off to the shore 
 yonder ! " shouted the captain, who had already worked him- 
 self up into a towering passion. 
 
 Robert JefFery, a lad of eighteen, soon came on deck, little 
 dreaming of the terrible sentence he was about to receive. 
 He was dressed in a blue jacket and trousers, and he held 
 his hat in his hand, but he had neither shoes nor stockings. 
 (Jiving a significant glance at his pistols, the captain said to 
 
ROBERT JEFFERY : A TRUE STORY. 35 
 
 him, " Jeffery, do you see that island ? I am going to land 
 you on it." 
 
 The poor fellow looked astonished, but dared not offer any 
 remonstrance ; and was effectually prevented from resisting 
 the cruel order, by being immediately hurried over the side 
 of the ship, and seated in the boat's stern, with the lieuten- 
 ant and the boat's crew. He was allowed no time to collect 
 his clothes. " Never mind his things," thundered the cap- 
 tain to one of the men who was endeavoring hastily to gather 
 together a few necessary articles for the lad. He was east 
 out of the ship without provisions, without shoes, without a 
 covering, beyond the clothes he wore ; and, in this destitute 
 condition, he was rapidly rowed ashore, half-stupefied at 
 the suddenness and severity of his fate. Upon his back was 
 sewn the strip of canvas which published his crime. The 
 lad was naturally of a weak, nervous, retiring temperament, 
 and had always been somewhat of a skulker on board. His 
 feelings now overwhelmed him, and he continued crying 
 bitterly until the boat reached the shore. As they drew 
 nearer the island, the rocks assumed a more definite form, 
 and a little way inland were several which bore all the ap- 
 pearance of cottages. 
 
 On landing, the lieutenant and the boat's crew accom- 
 panied the lad ashore, and proceeded some little way into the 
 island to see whether or not it was entirely desert, or whether 
 the masses, which, in the duskiness of a rapidly-approaching 
 night, looked like human habitations, were really so. As 
 they scrambled up the sharp rocks, poor Jeffery's unprotected 
 feet were cruelly cut, and bled profusely. One of the crew, 
 seeing this, humanely plucked off his own shoes, and gave 
 them to the lad ; another gave him a knife ; and a third, a 
 pocket-handkerchief, which he might use as a signal. As 
 they proceeded to the house-like rocks, it was mentioned that 
 the French fishermen occasionally resorted thither to catch 
 turtle ; so that Jeffery's hopes were sustained with a pros- 
 pect of shortly getting shelter and food. On arriving at the 
 rocks, how bitterly were these hopes disappointed ! It was 
 now quite dark, and became, therefore, necessary that the 
 crew should immediately return to the ship. 
 
36 ROBERT JEFFERY: A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Leaving Jeffery on the desolate rocks, after bidding him 
 a hasty farewell, they got into the boat, and were soon at 
 the ship's side. The boat was hauled up, and " The Recruit " 
 made all sail from the spot where she had left one of her men 
 to perish. This transaction took place at a little past six in 
 the evening. The captain shortly afterwards went down to 
 his cabin ; and poor Jeffery " embraced the rock for shelter." 
 As the wind came in fitful breaths upon the ship, mingled 
 with the murmur of the surf, the crew of " The Recruit " 
 more than once fancied that they heard the lamentations and 
 cries of their unhappy mate. Soon after, the wind died away 
 altogether, and nothing was heard beyond the idle splash of 
 the waters against the ship's side, and the far-off and inces- 
 * sant sounds of the conflict between the waves of the Atlantic 
 and the rocks of Sombrero. 
 
 The night passed away ; at six the following morning, the 
 ship was still in sight of the spot, and many were the conjec- 
 tures of her crew as to the probable fate of Jeffery. He 
 could not be discerned by them from the deck. Between 
 eight and nine, the captain made his appearance ; and the 
 officer of the watch, in the hope of inducing him to send off a 
 boat for Jeffery, reported that Sombrero was still in sight. 
 But he was inexorable. Strong fears were now entertained, 
 that, if the lad did not perish from hunger and thirst, he 
 would fall a victim to the wild birds, which were both large 
 and numerous there. None of these things, however, moved 
 him ; and, having ordered all sail to be made, " The Recruit,'' 
 under the impulse of a brisk wind, bore off rapidly to the 
 northward. 
 
 Leaving Jeffery to his fate, let us follow the ship. Direct- 
 ing her course to Barbadoes, she there joined the admiral's 
 squadron. But the hard-hearted act of her captain being 
 whispered about, it at length came to the admiral's ears ; and 
 he, after severely reprimanding him for his cruelty, com- 
 manded him immediately to return, and look for the man. 
 Two months had passed since he was set on shore, when " The 
 Recruit" again hove in sight of this melancholy island; and 
 now, under the sting of an avenging conscience, and the ter- 
 rors of a prospective court-martial, the commander hastily 
 
ROBERT JEFFERY: A TRUE STORY. 37 
 
 despatched a boat to the shore, with the same* commanding 
 officer and men who had landed his victim, giving them 
 urgent directions to leave no corner unsearched. On land- 
 ing, they disturbed a vast flock of the birds called " noddies," 
 and found near the shore a multitude of nests full of their 
 eggs, and of young birds recently fledged, which hopped 
 about in all directions. At this visit it was broad daylight ; 
 and now they saw to what a dreadful tomb their captain had 
 consigned Jeffery, two months previously. They searched 
 in vain for a drop of fresh water. There were many spark- 
 ling pools as clear as crystal ; but every one, without excep- 
 tion, was salt, and consequently undrinkable. The island 
 had a craggy, sharp ascent, but on its summit was perfectly 
 flat, naked, and barren, unless a little withered grass, rough 
 and wire-like, can be called a production, and a thin coat of 
 sand and a little detritus, a covering. 
 
 After a long search, nothing was discovered of Jeffery. 
 But a rude tomahawk-handle was picked up by one of the 
 men, and, to their dismay, a tattered pair of trousers by 
 another. Again and again they explored the rocks, dividing 
 and uniting, and searching every hole and corner ; but they 
 found nothing more. They at length returned, and reported 
 the fruitless result of their expedition to their anxious cap- 
 tain ; and the news rapidly spread among the men, who, on 
 hearing of the tomahawk-handle and the trousers, were unani- 
 mous in the conviction that Jeffery had perished, and pro- 
 bably by a violent death. The boat was again ordered on 
 shore, and this time the captain himself went in her : every 
 cranny in the island was again searched, but with the same 
 result. There was no heap of bleaching bones to indicate his 
 death by the attacks of the birds ; but the handle and the 
 torn garment seemed to quench all hopes of his existence. 
 What had become of him was the universal inquiry ; and 
 a profession of utter ignorance, and of the inability even to 
 conjecture, was the universal answer. 
 
 '•The Recruit" again quitted Sombrero for Barbadoes. 
 
 Capt. L appeared before the admiral, and expressing 
 
 a conviction, which his anxiety and fears belied, that the lad 
 was safe, and must have been picked up by some passing 
 
38 ROBERT JEFFERY: A TRUE STORY. 
 
 vessel, the admiral was satisfied, and, with a culpable will- 
 ingness to forgive, suffered the matter to rest. And it rested, 
 strange to say, for two years ; but it was again to be put into 
 agitation. A person having experienced, as he conceived, 
 some injustice at the hands of the admiral, and being in full 
 possession of all the particulars of the cruelty he had so lightly 
 passed over, determined to bring it to the light. He addressed 
 a letter to a member of parliament, the representative of his 
 native city, and strongly insisted upon the propriety of call- 
 ing a court-martial upon the captain, in order to bring the 
 question to an issue. This appeal was sufficiently powerful 
 to set in motion the whole official machinery. A court of 
 inquiry was summoned, and sufficient grounds were procured 
 for the appointment of a court-martial. This step was ac- 
 cordingly taken ; many witnesses of the deed were examined, 
 whose testimony proved the fact beyond the possibility of 
 doubt; and the particulars were given with a clearness 
 which, considering the lapse of time since the event, was 
 remarkable, but was easily to be accounted for by the deep 
 impression such an occurrence was likely to have made on 
 the minds of the men. In the defence, no attempt was made 
 to deny the fact ; but it was pleaded that the lad Jeffery 
 was of infamous character, and had proved incorrigible while 
 on board. Nothing worse, however, than theft was brought 
 home to the poor lad ; and it remains to be seen that even 
 this was of a character so peculiar, as, in some degree, to 
 diminish its guilt. The court did not hesitate an instant in 
 its sentence : its verdict was perfectly unanimous ; and it 
 condemned the captain to be immediately dismissed his 
 Majesty's service : and he was dismissed accordingly. 
 
 Whoever will turn to " The London Times" for Feb. 13, 
 1810, will find under the head u court-martial," a few par- 
 ticulars of this singular case ; and, on looking over Cobbett's 
 " Weekly Kegister " about the same period, it will be seen 
 that the public excitement on the subject was extreme. The 
 verdict against Capt. L received the entire approba- 
 tion of the country. So far an act of justice was signally 
 rendered ; but where was the victim in the mean while ? 
 Was he dead or alive ? Had he been killed, or killed him- 
 
ROBERT JEFFERY : A TRUE STORY. 39 
 
 self, or been devoured, or starved, or drowned, or rescued ? 
 Upon a motion by a popular leader in the House of Commons, 
 further inquiries about his fate were immediately set on foot. 
 Official instructions were forwarded to our plenipotentiary 
 in the United States ; for the report went that an American 
 ship had rescued him. The proper steps were taken, and the 
 result was as follows : At Marblehead, near Boston, Mass., 
 the lost Robert Jeffery was said to have been discovered. 
 He was immediately taken before a magistrate, and, being 
 interrogated, gave the following account of himself : He stated 
 that he was twenty-one years of age ; was born in Polperro, 
 a village in Cornwall ; had been seized by a pressgang when 
 he was eighteen, which carried him on board " The Recruit; " 
 and, having been brought up to the trade of a blacksmith, he 
 was made armorer's mate on board of her. She soon after- 
 wards sailed for the West Indies : after a while, her stock of 
 water ran low ; the crew were allowanced to a certain quan- 
 tity daily ; and he, becoming very thirsty, went one Saturday 
 evening to the beer-cask, and drew off about two quarts of 
 spruce-beer into a bucket, drinking about three-fourths of that 
 quantity, and leaving the remainder. On the captain dis- 
 covering his theft, he was ordered to be placed on the black 
 list. The Sunday following, he was landed, by the captain's 
 orders, on Sombrero. He found it to be a desolate island, 
 without any inhabitant, or sustenance of any kind to support 
 life ; and he remained on it nine days without any food, save 
 about a dozen limpets that he picked off the rocks. At 
 length he was rescued by an American vessel, and landed at 
 a port in the State of Massachusetts. This declaration was 
 signed with a cross. It was transmitted to England, and ap- 
 peared at once in all the newspapers. 
 
 This, it may be thought, was the end of the matter. But 
 far otherwise. Robert Jeffery had a mother " yet alive." 
 She had perused with the utmost anxiety the declaration 
 thus officially set forth, and she immediately addressed a let- 
 ter to the public journals, which rekindled all the previous 
 uncertainty. Therein she solemnly declares her conviction 
 that the declaration thus made was, if not wholly a fabrica- 
 tion, at any rate not made by her own son, but by some one 
 
40 ROBERT JEFFERY: A TRUE STORY. 
 
 who had been suborned to personate her unfortunate child. 
 The most remarkable circumstance in confirmation of this 
 opinion was the fact, that the papers signed Robert Jeffery 
 were marked with a cross, as is usual with persons who can- 
 not write their name : whereas it was averred that Jeffery 
 was a good scholar, and it was unlikely that he should pre- 
 tend ignorance of the art of writing. The anxious mother 
 further added, that it was of the utmost importance to her to 
 know of the real existence of her son, in consequence of the 
 lease of her premises being held on the dropping of three 
 lives, of which her son's was one ; otherwise it would fall into 
 the power of the lord of the manor. Some of the journals 
 espoused her cause, but others affected to doubt that this 
 letter was in reality written by her. The question was soon 
 set at rest. A gentleman went down to her native village, 
 found her out, and was assured from her own lips that she 
 was the author of the letter. The village schoolmaster also 
 bore his testimony to the fact of Jeffery being able to write a 
 fair hand. The intelligence also came out that, when put on 
 shore at Sombrero, he begged some of the men who were his 
 fellow-townsmen, on no account to tell his mother what had 
 happened to him ; thus indicating a regard for her feelings 
 which, it was urged, would surely, if he were yet alive and 
 well, have long since induced him to write, and assure her of 
 his safety. Public interest was now at fever-heat. Mr. 
 Cobbett fanned the flame ; and, with his homely, common- 
 sense questions, kept poking the ribs of the government in a 
 most uncomfortable manner, while he stirred up an immense 
 blaze among the people by asking, " Is this the treatment our 
 'jolly tars' are to expect ? " — a question which, considering 
 the popularity of the navy, greatly added to the ferment. 
 
 Matters now assumed a very serious aspect. The public 
 appeared determined to bring, by any means, the whole sub- 
 ject to an issue, and to obtain information as to whether the 
 lad was really dead, Or was yet living. Those in authority 
 found that it was high time to take some decisive step to 
 decide the question ; and, in a short time, a ship, under the 
 command of a captain in the navy, was on her way to Bos- 
 ton with the necessary documents to find out the young man, 
 
ROBERT JEFFERY : A TRUE STORY. 41 
 
 and, if living, to bring him home. This proved the climax 
 in Jefferv's history. Some little time elapsed before the re- 
 sult of the mission could be known ; during which, however, 
 the interest in the young man's fate by no means diminished. 
 And, if the attention of the public had been commanded by 
 the peculiarities of the case, how are we to describe the alter- 
 nations of hope and fear which agitated a mother's anxious 
 heart ! At length the vessel returned to put a final end to 
 suspense as to the man's destiny. The notice of her arrival 
 was accompanied by the following announcement in " The 
 London Morning Post : " — 
 
 " Jeffery, the seaman, was this day discharged from the navy, 
 by order of the lords commissioners of the admiralty. He was 
 immediately brought on shore, and set off for London. 1 " 
 
 Thus was this long-pending and much-agitated question 
 finally settled by the appearance of the young man himself. 
 A thousand inquiries were now, of course, put to him about 
 his adventures ; to most of which the following narrative was 
 the answer : — 
 
 At first he was altogether unable to believe that it was 
 intended to abandon him in that destitute condition, upon an 
 island, which the men who brought him there knew to be 
 uninhabited and unproductive. He thought it probable he 
 was merely left there for the night, to frighten him ; yet he 
 could not help fearing the worst, from the stern character of 
 his captain. How anxiously he watched for the morning ! 
 How wearily that wretched night passed away without shel- 
 ter, and without a second covering for his frame ! The 
 morning came, and all his hopes were confirmed on behold- 
 ing " The Eecruit " only a few miles off the shore. He sat 
 watching her from the gray dawn until it was bright day- 
 light : every moment he expected to see the same boat 
 which had torn him from her return on the welcome errand 
 to convey him back again. Vain hope ! He saw her white 
 sails unfurling, and filling out with wind, and perceived that 
 the distance between her and the island was rapidly increas- 
 ing ; and then, as she became a speck on the mighty waters, 
 then only, did he give himself up to overwhelming despair, a/ 
 the awful reality of his fate came home to his mind. Sh 
 vanished in the horizon, and he saw her no more. 
 
42 ROBERT JEFFERY: A TRUE STORY. 
 
 For two whole days, he suffered dreadfully from thirst, and 
 deeply, though less distressingly, from the cravings of hunger. 
 To allay the fever which consumed him, he drank a consid- 
 erable quantity of salt water, which, however, only rendered 
 his sufferings more intense. Death was now before him, 
 when, most providentially, a refreshing shower of rain fell ; 
 and the quantity which remained in the crevices of the rocks 
 supplied him so long as he remained on the island. But he 
 was at some difficulty in drinking it ; for it lay in such shal- 
 low pools, or in such narrow fissures, that it was at first per- 
 plexing how to avail himself of the precious gift. The idea 
 at length entered his mind of sucking it out with a quill ; and, 
 as the island abounded in birds, he was at no loss to find one 
 suitable for his purpose. Inserting one end of this into the 
 crevices, he was able to suck sufficient to quench his thirst, 
 feeling inexpressibly grateful for this most opportune blessing. 
 But Nature now renewed her other calls upon him, and was 
 imperative in her demands for food. How to supply this 
 want he knew not, nor could he think of any means of doing 
 so. He saw a great number of birds of the gull kind, rather 
 larger than a goose, and attempted to catch some, but in vain. 
 He then hunted for their eggs ; but he could only find one, 
 which had probably lain there for months, for it was in such 
 an offensively putrid state, that, fainting as he was from in- 
 anition, he could not touch it. The only food he had, if it 
 could be called food, was some bark, which he was so fortu- 
 nate as to find cast upon the seashore. 
 
 At length, greatly to his joy, he saw a vessel in the dis- 
 tance. With an exulting heart he watched her emerge, sail 
 after sail, from the blue horizon. When her hull rose above 
 the line, he was half wild with delight ; and, plucking forth 
 his handkerchief, he waved it incessantly, every minute ex- 
 pecting some signal to indicate that he had been perceived. 
 The great ship, with her load of wealth and life, took no 
 heed of the poor outcast, and " passed by on the other side," 
 at a distance too great for him to be discerned by those on 
 board. Another and another ship hove in sight, and passed 
 away, leaving him to his tears and hunger and despair. 
 Altogether, five vessels were descried by him, each leaving 
 
ROBERT JEFFERY : A TRUE STORY. 43 
 
 him more cast down, and nearer death, than before. He had 
 now despaired of rescue, and, fainting through hunger, he 
 sank down upon the shore ; but relief was at hand. An 
 American vessel, passing nearer the island than usual, was 
 hove to at the command of the captain, in order that he 
 might examine the birds which were flying in great numbers 
 around it. On landing, the men discovered our perishing 
 seaman, carried him in all haste to the boat, conveyed him 
 on board, and, by kind and judicious treatment, speedily 
 restored him to perfect health. He was thus delivered from 
 his imminently perilous situation, conveyed to Marble- 
 head, where his story excited at once the indignation and 
 active compassion of the people, who soon supplied him with 
 clothes, work, and wages. There he had peaceably spent 
 this interval of time ; and while England was ringing with 
 his name, he was pursuing his humble occupation, wholly 
 ignorant of the tumult his case was exciting at home. 
 
 Immediately on his arrival in London, Robert Jeffery be- 
 came one of the metropolitan lions, and was for some time 
 visited by crowds of persons, much to his pecuniary advan- 
 tage. This publicity stimulated Capt. L to come to 
 
 an arrangement by which Jeffery should be compensated for 
 all his wrongs ; and a handsome sum was accordingly paid 
 him, on condition of removing to his native village. 
 
 After the manner of a real romance, we must bear our 
 hero company to the last. Accompanied by an attorney's 
 clerk, to whom he was intrusted, he set out for home. On 
 the road from Plymouth, they met JefFery's father-in-law (for 
 his mother had been twice married) : he immediately recog- 
 nized with joy his long-lost relative ; and he ran forwards to 
 apprise his anxious mother of the speedy arrival of her son. 
 The news flew like lightning through the village, — Robert 
 Jeffery was coming home safe and well ! Before the young 
 man reached the place, the sound of the village-bells was 
 borne to his ears, and quite overcame him. The inhabitants, 
 old and young, turned out to meet him, and were prepared 
 to receive him ; " and," says " The Times," in its sober ac- 
 count of this romantic business, " it is scarcely possible to 
 express the cordial greetings and exulting transports that 
 
44 ROBERT JEFFERY: A TRUE STORY. 
 
 attended his arrival." The whole village was for the time in 
 a commotion which it had rarely or never experienced. 
 People who, when Jeffery was a humble workman in his 
 father's shop, never cared a jot about him, and little dreamt 
 of the noise he would one day make, without intending it, 
 now pressed forward, and warmly shook him by the hand, 
 congratulating him on his safe arrival in hearty expressions 
 of welcome. After the tumult of joy had a little subsided, 
 they began to look upon the clerk with suspicion, and to 
 exhibit alarming symptoms of hostility against that gentle- 
 man ; but Jeffery immediately assured them that he was one 
 of his friends, and had taken so long a journey only for the 
 purpose of protecting him. This produced a speedy revolu- 
 tion in the sentiments of the villagers,, and their angry looks 
 and expressions were at once exchanged for those of respect 
 and kindness. 
 
 The meeting between Jeffery and his mother was particu- 
 larly interesting. At first she gazed upon him with a kind 
 of bewildered anxiety, as if doubtful whether she could trust 
 what she saw. Her son that was dead was alive again ; " he 
 that was lost was found." In a few moments, she recovered 
 herself, and they rushed into each other's arms. " O my 
 son ! " " O my mother ! " interrupted by sobs on both 
 sides, were all that they could utter for some time. At 
 length the agitation of their feelings subsided, and a scene of 
 calmer endearment ensued. Nothing but the safe arrival 
 of the wonderful Jeffery engrossed the attention, minds, and 
 tongues of the warm-hearted villagers. 
 
 In concluding this curious history, we wish we could au- 
 thoritatively explain what may seem to require clearing up. 
 If this had be^aa a fiction, it would have been easy to have 
 invented a key to the lock : as it is, we leave it to our readers, 
 with the simple assurance that the narrative, in all its par- 
 ticulars, is exactly as it is to be found in the newspapers of the 
 period. 
 
THOU WILT NEVER GROW OLD. 
 
 BY MRS. HOWARTH.* 
 
 Thou wilt never grow old 
 
 Nor weary nor sad, in the home of thy birth : 
 My beautiful lily, thy leaves will unfold 
 
 In a clime that is purer and brighter than earth. 
 Oh, holy and fair ! I rejoice thou art there, 
 
 In that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold ; 
 Where the air thrills with angel hosannas, and where 
 
 Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, — - 
 Never grow old ! 
 
 I am a pilgrim, with sorrow and sin 
 
 Haunting my footsteps wherever I go ; 
 Life is a warfare my title to win ; 
 
 Well will it be if it end not in woe. 
 Pray for me, sweet ; I am laden with care ; 
 
 Dark are my garments with mildew and mould : 
 Thou, my bright angel, art sinless and fair, 
 
 And wilt never grow old, sweet, — 
 Never grow old ! 
 
 Now canst thou hear from thy home in the skies 
 
 All the fond words I am whispering to thee ? 
 Dost thou look down on me with the soft eyes 
 
 Greeting me oft ere thy spirit was free ? 
 So I believe, though the shadows of time 
 
 Hide the bright spirit I yet shall behold : 
 Thou wilt still love me, and (pleasure sublime ! ) 
 
 Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, — 
 Never grow old ! 
 
 Thus wilt thou be when the pilgrim, grown gray, 
 
 Weeps when the vines from the hearthstone are riven ; 
 
 * A contributor to the London Magazines of 1865-6. 
 
 45 
 
46 ODE. 
 
 Faith shall behold thee as pure as the day 
 
 Thou wert torn from the earth and transplanted in heaven. 
 Oh holy and fair ! T rejoice thou art there, 
 
 In that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold, 
 Where the air thrills with angel hosannas, and where 
 
 Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, — 
 Never grow old ! 
 
 ODE* 
 
 BY HENRY TIMROD. 
 
 Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 
 
 Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ; 
 Though yet no marble column craves 
 
 The pilgrim here to pause. 
 
 In seeds of laurels in the earth, 
 
 The blossom of your fame is blown ; 
 
 And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
 The shaft is in the stone ! 
 
 Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 
 
 Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 
 
 Behold, your sisters bring their tears, 
 And these memorial blooms. 
 
 Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 
 More proudly on those wreaths to-day 
 
 Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
 Shall overlook this bay. 
 
 Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 
 
 There is no holier spot of ground 
 Than where defeated valor lies 
 
 By mourning beauty crowned ! 
 
 * Sung- on the occasion of decorating the graves of the confederate 
 dead at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C. Since Collins's ''How- 
 sleep the Brave," nothing better in the way of a tributary ode has 
 appeared. It is a pity that such noble stanzas should not have had 
 the inspiration of a noble cause. But perhaps the author's imagination 
 is all the more to be admired under the circumstances. 
 
47 
 
 IN VAIN. 
 
 BY LUCY HAMILTON HOOPER. 
 
 Clasp closer, arms, press closer, lips, 
 
 In last and vain caressing ; 
 For nevermore that pallid cheek 
 
 Will crimson 'neath your pressing. 
 For these vain words and vainer tears 
 
 She waited yester even : 
 She waits you now, — but in the far 
 
 Resplendent halls of heaven. 
 
 With patient eyes fixed on the door, 
 
 She waited, hoping' ever, 
 Till death's dark wall rose cold between 
 
 Her gaze and you forever. 
 She heard your footsteps in the breeze, 
 
 And in the wild-bee's humming : 
 The last breath that she shaped to words 
 
 Said softly, " Is he coming ? " 
 
 Now silenced lies the gentlest heart 
 
 That ever beat 'neath cover ; 
 Safe, never to be wrung again 
 
 By you, a fickle lover ! 
 Your wrong to her knew never end 
 
 Till earth's last bonds were riven ; 
 Your memory rose cold between 
 
 Her parting soul and heaven. 
 
 Now vain your false and tardy grief, 
 
 Vain your remorseful weeping ; 
 For she, whom only you deceived, 
 
 Lies hushed in dreamless sleeping. 
 Go : not beside that peaceful form 
 
 Should lying words be spoken ! 
 Go, pray to God, " Be merciful, 
 
 As she whose heart I've broken ! " 
 
 47 
 
48 
 
 RELIQUI^S* 
 
 A wild, wet night ! The driving sleet 
 Blurs all the lamps along the quay ; 
 
 The windows shake ; the busy street 
 
 Is yet alive with hurrying feet ; 
 The winds rave from the sea ! 
 
 So let it rave ! My lamp burns bright ; 
 
 My long day's work is almost done ; 
 I curtain out each sound and sight : 
 Of all the nights in the year, to-night 
 
 I choose to be alone. 
 Alone, with doors and windows fast, 
 
 Before my open desk I stand. 
 Alas ! can twelve long months be past, 
 My hidden, hidden wealth, since last 
 
 I held thee in my hand ? 
 
 So there it lies ! From year to year 
 I see the ribbon change, the page 
 Turn yellower, and the very tear 
 That blots the writing disappear, 
 And fade away with age ! 
 
 Mine eyes grow dim when they behold 
 The precious trifles hoarded there, — 
 
 A ring of battered Indian gold, 
 
 A withered harebell, and a fold 
 Of sunny chestnut hair. 
 
 Not all the riches of the earth, 
 Not all the treasures of the sea, 
 
 Could buy these house-gods from my hearth ; 
 
 And yet the secret of their worth 
 Must live and die with me. 
 
 * From " Public Opinion," an English Journal, April, 1866. 
 
 48 
 
THE BEGGAR-GIRL OF THE PONT- 
 DES-ARTS. 
 
 BY WILHELM HAUFF.* 
 
 Any one who may have chanced to have lodged at the 
 "King of England," in Stutgard, in the year 1824, or to 
 have strolled in the spacious gardens in front, must have 
 noticed certain figures who attracted general attention. 
 There were, among others, two men, who, it seemed, did not 
 belong to the population of Stutgard, and would have been 
 more at home on the Prado or the plaza de Peros at 
 Seville. 
 
 Imagine a tall, thin, elderly man, with iron-gray hair, 
 deepset, burning eyes, a hawk nose, and thin, compressed 
 lips. His walk is slow and stately; and, if you have a lively 
 fancy, you cannot but wish him, instead of his black frock- 
 coat, a slashed doublet and Spanish cloak to complete the 
 picture. When you look at his black silk breeches and stock- 
 ings, the huge roses in his shoes, the long sword by his side, 
 and the high-pointed hat pressed down on his forehead ; and 
 that servant, with a step as stately as his master's, does not 
 his heavy yet roguish face, his parti-colored dress, and the 
 boldness with which he stares at every thing, remind us of 
 the servants in Spanish plays, who follow their master like 
 his shadow, far below him in manners, his equals in pride, his 
 superiors in cunning ? Under his arm he carries his master's 
 cloak and umbrella, and in his hand is a silver segar-box, a 
 flint and steel. Every one stopped to look at this pair as they 
 moved slowly along. It was Don Pedro de San Montanjo 
 
 Ligez, chamberlain of the crown prince of , who was 
 
 living in Stutgard at the time, and his servant. 
 
 * One of the most graceful prose-writers of Germany. Born at 
 Stutgard, 1802 ; died, 1827, at the early age of twenty-five. 
 
 49 
 
50 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 A very trifling circumstance often makes a man conspicu- 
 ous. This was the case with young Froben. He had been in 
 town about six months, and used to come into the gardens 
 every day at two o'clock precisely, and walk three times round 
 the lake, and then five times up and down the broad walk. 
 He passed by all the splendid equipages and pretty women, 
 by all the crowd of senators, aulic counsellors and militaires y 
 without being noticed, for he looked like an every- day person- 
 age of some eight and twenty or thirty. But ever since one 
 afternoon, when he happened to meet Don Pedro, when 'the 
 latter greeted him cordially, took his arm, and walked up and 
 down with him a few times in earnest discourse, he was looked 
 upon with a good deal of curiosity and even respect. Yes, 
 the proud reserved Spaniard treated him with marked dis- 
 tinction. The very prettiest of the young ladies began to 
 observe that he was not ugly, that there was even something 
 interesting in his features ; and the senators and counsellors 
 began to ask who he might be ? Some young officers pro- 
 fessed to be able to answer this question, and stated that he 
 
 now and then took a steak for a dinner, lived in street, 
 
 and rode a very pretty horse. They then enumerated the 
 good qualities of his horse with great accuracy ; and this led 
 them to a discussion on horse-flesh in general, which is said 
 to have been profound and valuable. 
 
 After this, Froben was often seen in company with the 
 Don, especially at night in his hotel, where they sat and 
 talked apart from the other guests, Diego standing behind 
 his master's chair, and serving them with segars and Xeres. 
 No one could divine the subject of these long conversations. 
 
 What was it but the fine gallery of Messrs. Boiseree and 
 Bertram, in which they had first become acquainted V These 
 hospitable gentlemen had given our young friend permission 
 to visit their collection as often as he chose, and he availed 
 himself of it most liberally. In rain, in snow, and in fine 
 weather, he came ; he often looked ill, but still he came. We 
 should estimate Herr von Froben's taste too highly, however, 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 51 
 
 if we supposed he was busy in studying or copying the admi- 
 rable works of the Flemish school. He came in softly, bowed 
 in silence, and hurried to a distant room, which contained 
 one single picture. This he examined long, and then left the 
 gallery in silence. The proprietors had too much delicacy 
 to inquire into the cause of his extraordinary affection for the 
 picture, but they could not but wonder at it. Often, when 
 he went out, the tears stood in his eyes. 
 
 The picture had no great value as a work of art. It repre- 
 sented a lady partly in the Spanish and partly in the old 
 German costume. ' A blooming, cheerful face, with clear, 
 loving eyes, finely chiselled lips, and rounded chin, stood 
 boldly out from the back-ground. The forehead was adorned 
 by a profusion of hair, and a little hat, with heavy white 
 feathers, placed somewhat archly on one side. The dress, 
 which was high in the neck, was loaded with rich chains, and 
 bore testimony to its owner's wealth as well as modesty. 
 
 " I suppose he is in love with the picture," thought the pro- 
 prietor ; " but, if so, he loves without hope, for it is at least 
 three hundred years old." By and by it seemed as though 
 Froben was not the only admirer of the portrait. One day 
 
 the prince of P visited the gallery with his suite. His 
 
 chamberlain, Don Pedro, when he saw this painting, uttered 
 a cry of surprise, and seemed overcome by astonishment. 
 When the prince left the gallery, Don Pedro was not to be 
 found : at last he was discovered standing with folded arms 
 and in deep thought before the picture. He asked where it 
 came from, and was told that it was painted by a celebrated 
 artist several hundred years before, and had been obtained by 
 accident. " Oh, no," he cried, " it is new ; it is not a hundred 
 years old : tell me, pray tell me, when you got it — where can 
 I find her?" 
 
 He was old, and looked too venerable to be laughed at for 
 his burst of passion ; but, when he was again told that the 
 picture was supposed to be painted by Lucas Cranach, he 
 shook his head gravely : " Gentlemen," said he, laying his 
 hand upon his heart, " Don Pedro de San Montanjo Ligez 
 believes you to be honorable men. You are not picture- 
 dealers, and have no interest to misrepresent the age of this 
 
52 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 picture. But, unless I am greatly deceived, I know the lady 
 who is here represented." He made a ceremonious bow, and 
 left the gallery. " Really," thought the proprietor, " if we 
 were not so certain about the age of this picture, I should be 
 in doubt. At any rate, unless I am greatly deceived, as the 
 Spaniard says, this is not his last visit to our collection." 
 
 And so it happened. As soon as the gallery was opened, 
 Don Pedro de San Montanjo Liges stepped gravely and ma- 
 jestically in, sweeping past the long rows of paintings towards 
 the lady in the hat and feathers. He was vexed to find the 
 ground already occupied. A young man stood there, gazed 
 at the picture, stepped back to a window to watch the flights 
 of the clouds, and then came up, and gazed again. He was 
 vexed, but had to be patient. He busied himself with the 
 other paintings, but kept turning his head every moment 
 to see whether the young gentleman had not gone. But he 
 stood there firm as a wall, and seemed lost in thought. The 
 Spaniard coughed to arouse him, but he kept dreaming on ; 
 he moved his foot roughly ; the young man looked round at 
 him a moment vacantly, and then turned to fasten again on 
 the picture. " San Pedro ! Santiago de Compostella ! what a 
 tedious amateur ! " muttered he, and left the room angrily, 
 feeling that the disappointment had deprived him of all 
 enjoyment for that day. The next day, before the clock had 
 done striking twelve, he mounted the gallery stairs in digni- 
 fied haste, and made for the well-known picture ; and, by good 
 luck, he was the first and only visitor, and free to look his fill. 
 He gazed long and fixedly at the picture ; his eye grew dim ; 
 he drew his hand across his shaggy eyelashes, and murmured, 
 " O Laura ! " A sigh was plainly heard as an echo to this 
 exclamation. He turned round in surprise : the same young 
 man stood near him, looking earnestly at the portrait. Vexed 
 at the interruption, he nodded a careless salutation : the young 
 man returned it with less coldness but equal pride. The 
 Spaniard determined to sit his troublesome neighbor out, but 
 in vain ; for, to his amazement, the young stranger took a 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 53 
 
 chair, and sat down a few paces off, so as to be at his ease. 
 " The fool ! I really believe he is making sport of my gray 
 hairs," said Don Pedro, and left the room in great indignation. 
 In the ante-chamber, he met one of the proprietors of the 
 collection. He tendered him his thanks for his politeness, but 
 at the same time could not help saying a word about the dis- 
 turber of his peace. " You may have noticed," he remarked, 
 " that one of your pictures has a special value in my eyes. I 
 came, on your invitation, to see this, to spend my time before 
 it undisturbed ; and now a mischievous young man watches 
 my movements, comes whenever I come, and spends whole 
 hours, merely to vex me, before a painting that he has no 
 interest in." 
 
 The owner smiled. " I am not so certain as to that : the 
 contrary seems to be the case ; for this is not the first day that 
 he has devoted to that picture." 
 
 " Who is he ? " 
 
 " A certain von Froben, who has been here six months. 
 Ever since he saw the portrait in question, he has been in the 
 habit of coming every day at the same hour to pay his respects 
 to it. You see, at any rate, that he must feel an interest in 
 the picture, since he has been so constant a visitor to it for 
 so long a time." 
 
 " What ! six months ! " cried the old man ; " I have done 
 him wrong in my thoughts : God forgive me ! I really fear 
 that I have behaved rudely to him. And he is a caballero, 
 you say ? No ; it shall never be said of Pedro de Ligez, that 
 he was rude to a stranger. Tell him — but no, I will speak 
 to him myself." 
 
 The next day he found Froben at his post. The young 
 man stepped aside to make room for his senior, who bowed 
 ceremoniously as he addressed him, " If I am not mistaken, 
 Senor, I have seen you looking at this picture before. So it 
 is with me : I take great interest in this picture, and am never 
 tired of looking at it." 
 
 Froben was surprised, and hesitated a little as he answered, 
 
54 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 " I admit it has peculiar merit in my eyes — for — since — 
 as there is something in it which I greatly admire." The 
 Spaniard looked at him inquiringly ; and Froben added, more 
 calmly, " It is singular what effect a painting will sometimes 
 produce. Thousands pass by this picture, find the drawing 
 correct, and praise its coloring, but it does not affect them 
 profoundly ; while one person may find in it a deep hidden 
 meaning ; he cannot tear himself away ; he feels chained to 
 the spot, and returns to it again and again/' 
 
 " You may be right," replied the old man, thoughtfully ; 
 " but I conceive this applies only to great compositions, in 
 which the artist sought to express a profound conception. 
 Many pass by, and, at last, the true expression is felt by some 
 one, who is then lost in admiration. But will this hold true 
 of such heads ? " 
 
 The young man colored. " Why not ? the fine outlines of 
 the face, this noble forehead, this thoughtful eye, this sweet 
 mouth, are not these finely conceived and expressed f Is 
 there not something attractive in the features which — 
 
 " Certainly. She was, unquestionably, a very pretty 
 woman ; the family is remarkable for beauty." 
 
 " What family ? " asked Froben, doubting whether his new 
 acquaintance was in his right mind. " This is a fancy piece, 
 and some hundred years old." 
 
 " What ! do you, too, believe that silly story ? Between 
 ourselves, the owners are mistaken this time : I know the 
 lady." 
 
 " For God's sake ! do you know her ? Where is she now ? 
 Who is she ? " 
 
 " I should rather say, I efaiknow her," replied the old man, 
 raising his moist eye to the painting. " Yes, I knew her in 
 Valentia, twenty years ago ; a long time ! It is Dona Laura 
 Tortosi." 
 
 " Twenty years ago ! " repeated Froben, sadly ; " no, it is 
 not she ! " 
 
 " Why ? " cried Don Pedro ! " Do you suppose, then, the 
 painter invented these features, even without knowing the 
 Tortosi family ? Do you not see it must be a family portrait ? 
 I say it is Dona Laura, as I knew her many years since." 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 55 
 
 " It may be like her, — in which case she must be a very 
 lovely person ; but, as for this piece, the records prove that 
 it was hanging in the church of St. Mary Magdalen at least a 
 hundred and fifty years ago." 
 
 " Then may the fiend pluck out my eyes ! " exclaimed the 
 Spaniard, seizing his hat, and rushing from the room. " It is 
 a device of the evil one to torture me ; " and the tears stood 
 in his eyes. 
 
 One evening, when the two gentlemen were sitting in the 
 parlor of the " King of England," Don Pedro suddenly said, 
 " The crowd here prevents all conversation ; will you help me 
 empty a bottle of Ximenes in my, apartment ? " 
 
 " With pleasure." 
 
 " Wait a moment till I prepare to receive you. I will send 
 for you." 
 
 In a few minutes, Diego appeared with a silver candlestick 
 in each hand, and bowed gravely to Froben, as the signal to 
 follow him. On entering, he found his host had laid aside his 
 frock-coat, and appeared in a close-fitting black doublet and 
 ample scarlet mantle. A sword with golden hilt was buckled 
 by his side. 
 
 a Welcome, Don Frobenio," was his salutation. " I have 
 long desired a moment's friendly conversation with you. 
 Whenever I paid a visit to my Laura's likeness, I found you 
 there before me. And, excuse me playing the spy, but I 
 could not help seeing that you felt more deeply interested in 
 the picture than you have ever been willing to confess." 
 
 Froben blushed, for the old man's glance was keen and 
 penetrating. He told him, " It is true, and you are right in 
 supposing it is not the painting, but the subject, that attracts 
 me. Alas ! it reminds me of the sweetest, yet most unhappy 
 hour of my life ! You will smile when I tell you that I once 
 saw a lady who is very like that picture : that I saw her but 
 once, and yet, that I never shall forget her." 
 
 " Alas ! it is my case, too ! " murmured the Spaniard. 
 
 " You will laugh outright, however," continued Froben, 
 
56 - THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 " when I confess that I am able to speak as to only half of 
 her face. I do not know whether she is a blonde or a bru- 
 nette ; whether she has a high or a low forehead ; blue eyes 
 or black : I really don't know. But the finely shaped nose, 
 the lovely mouth, the chiselled chin : these I behold in the 
 picture, the same as I once beheld the reality." 
 
 " Strange ! And can you remember so distinctly those 
 features, which are generally more easily forgotten than the 
 eyes and the hair, and after seeing them only once, too ? " 
 
 " Ah, Don Pedro ! lips that we have once kissed, such lips 
 we do not soon forget. I will tell you how it happened." 
 
 " Stop ; not a word ! " exclaimed the Spaniard. " You 
 would have a right to think me ill-bred, if I asked a cavalier 
 for his secret, without first communicating my own. I will 
 tell you what I know of the lady." 
 
 " Senor, I was born in Grenada, of a noble family, by 
 whom I was instructed in religion and in science, and destined 
 to the profession of arms. When I had reached the rank of 
 captain, I was sent to my uncle, a stern old veteran, who 
 commanded in Valencia. A great change had taken place in 
 his household since I saw him last. I was surprised when he 
 introduced an elderly lady to me as his second wife, and still 
 more agreeably so, when I was made acquainted with a beau- 
 tiful young one, whom he called his daughter Laura, my 
 cousin. 
 
 " You have seen her, Don Frobenio. That picture is a 
 faithful copy of her lovely features, at least so far as it was 
 possible for earthly art to imitate them. I need not say that 
 I loved her. My affection was open and joyous ; there were 
 none of those barriers between us that usually separate lovers 
 in my country. My uncle loved me as a son, and, if I un- 
 derstood his hints rightly, was not unwilling to make me so. 
 On my father's part, there could be no objection, for Laura 
 was of a noble as well as wealthy family. You may judge 
 how violent my love must have been, as I loved where there 
 were no obstacles to feed the flame. As for the lady, she 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 57 
 
 allowed me to confess my sentiments ; my uncle gave his con- 
 sent ; and we were to be married as soon as he could obtain 
 a majority for me. About this time, I became intimate with 
 a captain in the Swiss Guard, and we were soon the closest 
 friends. He was a fair-haired, handsome youth, with a deli- 
 cate complexion and light-blue eyes. He would have been 
 too effeminate for a soldier, but for his renown in arms. This 
 made him so much the more dangerous. His style of beauty 
 was one so new among us, that, when he talked about the ice 
 and snow of Switzerland, many a lady sighed to think that 
 his heart seemed equally cold. * 
 
 " One day a friend, who knew of my engagement, gave me 
 to understand, in mysterious circumlocution, that I had better 
 marry my cousin at once, as otherwise something unpleasant 
 might happen. I made further inquiries, and learned Dona 
 Laura was in the habit of meeting a stranger at a friend's 
 house. I could not believe it, and yet a jealous pang re- 
 mained. I determined to watch her closely. That very after- 
 noon she left us, saying that she wished to see a friend. A 
 little while afterwards I followed her, and kept watch by the 
 door of the house. A fury seized me as I saw a man, 
 wrapped in a mantle, stealing along at nightfall in the shade 
 of the buildings. As the figure approached me, I seized hold 
 of its dress, and cried, ' Whoever you are, give me your 
 honor that you do not come here to visit Laura de Tor- 
 tosi ! ' ' Who dares to question me thus ? ' said a deep 
 voice. His accent betrayed the stranger, and I felt a painful 
 foreboding. ' It is Capt. de* San Montanjo Ligez,' I replied, 
 and pulled the cloak from before his face, and saw my friend, 
 the Swiss captain. He stood there like a culprit, without 
 speaking. I drew my sword, and motioned to him to do the 
 same. ' I have no arms but a dagger,' he said. I was about 
 to pass my blade through his body, but could not do it as he 
 stood there helpless before me. I appointed the next morn- 
 ing for our meeting, and he left the place. I kept guard at 
 the door till Laura's litter was brought, and I saw her enter 
 it. The torture of mind I felt would not let me sleep, and at 
 midnight I heard a knock at my door. It was Laura's old 
 servant, who handed me a letter, and retired. Senor, heaven 
 
58 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 forbid that you should ever receive such a letter ! She told 
 me that she loved the Swiss long before she knew me ; that 
 she had kept it a secret, knowing how her mother detested 
 foreigners ; and that she had been forced to accept my pro- 
 posals in spite of herself. She took all the blame to herself: 
 she protested solemnly, that Tannensee had often wanted to 
 confess the truth to me, and would have done it but for her 
 entreaties. She intimated that the family would be disgraced 
 unless I furnished them with the means of flight. She beaded 
 me not to seek a meeting with him ; for that, if he fell, she, 
 his wife, would not survive him. She ended by appealing to 
 my magnanimity, declaring that she always esteemed, though 
 she could not love me. You can conceive that such an epistle 
 threw cold water on the flame of my love ; and it cooled my 
 anger, too, in part. But, as I had been deceived, I felt that 
 honor required me to be at our rendezvous the next morning. 
 The captain felt, perhaps, how deeply he had injured me; 
 for, though the better swordsman, he merely defended him- 
 self, and it was not his fault that I ran my hand, here between 
 the thumb and finger, on his sword, so that I could fight no 
 longer. While they were binding up the wound, I handed 
 him Laura's letter. He begged and implored me to forgive 
 him. I did it, but with a heavy heart. 
 
 " The story of my love is ended, Don Frobenio ; for, five 
 days afterwards, Laura and the Swiss captain had disap- 
 peared." 
 
 " And with your assistance ? " 
 
 " I did all I could to help .them. My aunt was deeply 
 grieved ; but it was better that she should never see her 
 daughter than to have disgrace come upon our house." 
 
 " Noble-hearted man ! " cried Froben. " What must it not 
 have cost you ! In truth, it was a hard trial." 
 
 " It was, indeed ! " said the old man, smiling bitterly. " At 
 first, I thought the wound would never heal ; but time does 
 wonders, my young friend. I have never since seen or heard 
 of her ; only once the papers mentioned Col. Tannensee, 
 as an officer under Napoleon, who had distinguished himself 
 at Brienne. But when I came here, and saw my Laura 
 before me, the same as she was twentv vears ago, the old 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 59 
 
 wounds opened afresh, and — you know yourself, I used to go 
 every day to see her." 
 
 Don Pedro had told his story with all the gravity of an old 
 Castilian. When he had ended, he took off his hat, stroked 
 his beard, and said, "I have told you, Don Frobenio, a story 
 which I have confided to but a few ; not to lead you to imi- 
 tate my confidence, though your secret would be as safe in my 
 breast as the ashes of our kings in the escurial. I will con- 
 fess I am anxious to ask why you take such an interest in the 
 lady ; but curiosity is unbecoming a man of my years, and I 
 say no more." 
 
 Froben answered, " I will tell you my little adventure with 
 pleasure. It does not reveal a lady's secret, and ends, in fact, 
 where other tales usually begin. But with your permission, 
 as it is now so late, we will leave it till to-morrow." 
 
 " As you please," said the Spaniard. 
 
 The next day, Froben was in the gallery, as usual, before 
 the picture. He waited a whole hour ; but the old man did 
 not make his appearance. He walked up and down the 
 grounds, but looked in vain for the well-known black breeches 
 and pointed hat. At the hotel, his absence was explained. 
 " They are all gone, his highness and all. Despatches came 
 at midnight, and the prince and his suite set off before day- 
 break." Don Pedro had left a card, on the back of which 
 was written in pencil, " Farewell, my dear Don Frobenio: you 
 s^ll owe me your story. Kiss Dona Laura for me." He smiled 
 at the commission, but soon felt that his old friend's absence 
 left him solitary. There was nothing now to detain him in 
 Stutgard, and he left the city as quietly as he had entered it. 
 
 Froben pursued his journey along the Rhine. His head 
 was still full of the romantic ideas that the portrait had called 
 into being. As he drew near the lovely plain of the Is eckar, 
 he began to forget these 'fantastic visions, and to remember 
 the object of his journey. It was a visit to a friend in whose 
 company he had travelled through France and England. 
 Similarity of character did not form the ground of their 
 friendship. The Baron von Faldner was somewhat rough and 
 rude, and even his travels had not polished him. He was 
 one of those who, because they neglect books, think they can 
 
60 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 do without them, and persuade themselves that they are what 
 they call " practical men ; " that is, universal geniuses, who 
 know every thing without studying it, and are perfect mas- 
 ters of business, agriculture, housekeeping, and the like. He 
 was happy, because he did not know his own deficiencies ; but 
 self-conceit made him overbearing in company, and a tyrant 
 at home. " I wonder if he still says, 1 1 told you so/ " thought 
 Froben. " He always used to speak thus, even if he had 
 prophesied the contrary the minute before ; and there was no 
 undeceiving him." His estate lay in one of the loveliest val- 
 leys of the Rhine, and our traveller could not but hope that 
 the beauties by which he was surrounded had tended to 
 soften his natural harshness. 
 
 He entered the park, and saw his friend at a distance. He 
 seemed to be disputing with an old man, who was busy dig- 
 ging round a tree. " I don't care if you have done it that 
 way for a hundred years, and not fifty ; you must transplant 
 the tree as I tell you." The old man put on his cap with a 
 sigh, looked at the noble tree with a sad eye, and set to work 
 hastily, and, as it seemed, unwillingly. The baron whistled 
 a tune as he turned away, and saw a stranger, who held out 
 his hand to him with a smile. " What's your wish ? " he 
 asked hastily. 9 
 
 " Don't you know me, then, Faldner ? Have your trees 
 made you forget London and Paris ? " 
 
 " Froben ! is it possible ? " cried the host, as he embraced 
 him. u But how thin and pale you look ! That comes from 
 your sitting and studying so much ; but you never would take 
 advice. I always told you it would not answer for you." 
 
 " Think a moment, my dear fellow. Didn't you always tell 
 me that I would never do for a sportsman or farmer, and that 
 I must take to law or diplomacy ? " 
 
 " Ah ! I see you are troubled with your old complaint, — 
 want of memory. Did I not tell you " — 
 
 " Let it pass, and tell me where you have been since we 
 parted." 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 61 
 
 The baron's story was a short one, wholly made up of 
 complaints of bad weather and stupid servants. He gave him 
 to understand that he was a great proficient in farming, but 
 found all his neighbors and people very obstinate. He con- 
 fessed that he lived a life of care and trouble, of vexation and 
 quarrel. His friend could see plainly that he still rode his 
 hobby, and could not rein it in. 
 
 It was now Froben's turn, and he said, in a few words, that 
 he had been attached to one or two embassies, had got tired 
 of them, and asked for a long leave of absence, and was now 
 seeing the world. 
 
 " Happy fellow ! " cried Faldner, u I much envy you. 
 Here to-day and there to-morrow, nothing to tie you down, 
 and as free as air. I only wish I could live like you." 
 
 " But why not ? Look out for a good overseer, saddle 
 your horse, and set off with me." 
 
 " Ah ! you don't understand," answered Faldner, embar- 
 rassed. " If I am away only one day, every thing goes 
 wrong. Besides, I have done a foolish thing — but no mat- 
 ter. However, my travelling days are over." 
 
 A servant came up just then to say that his mistress was 
 returned, and asked where tea should be served ? 
 
 " Up stairs," said Faldner, in some confusion. 
 
 " What ! are you a married man," asked Froben, " and 
 haven't told me of it yet ! Well, I congratulate, and so forth ; 
 but pray, tell me — I should as soon have thought of the sky's 
 falling — how long since." 
 
 " About six months," said the baron, in a low tone, and 
 looking at the ground ; " but why should you wonder at it ? 
 You ought to know, that, in such a large establishment " — 
 
 " Certainly, it is very natural and proper. But I remember 
 how you used to talk about marriage. I never supposed you 
 would find anybody to suit you." 
 
 " No, excuse me. I always told you " — 
 
 " To be sure, I admit it," answered Froben, with a smile ; 
 " and / always told you, that, with your romantic fancies of 
 ideal perfection, you would always live a bachelor. As there 
 is a lady in the case, I can't appear in my travelling-dress ; so 
 you will excuse me a few moments. Farewell till we meet 
 a^ain." 
 
62 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 Just as he left him, a tall and graceful lady came up, and 
 asked the baron hastily, " Whom were you talking with just 
 now ? Who was it that said, ' Farewell till we meet again.' " 
 
 The baron started up, and gazed on his wife with astonish- 
 ment at seeing the delicate paleness of her cheek . suffused 
 with crimson. " It is too bad, Josephine ! " he cried. " How 
 often have I told you that Hufeland forbids violent exercise to 
 people of your constitution I You have been walking here 
 from the house, I suppose, and got warm ; and now you want 
 to sit down in the cool air. I have to tell you every thing 
 twenty times over, as I would to a child. You ought to be 
 ashamed of yourself! " 
 
 " Oh, don't be angry with me ! " said his wife, in a trembling 
 voice. u I only came out to meet you, and rode all the way." 
 
 " Your cheeks condemn you," was the answer. " Must I 
 be forever talking to you ? No shawl, either ; and so late ! 
 What is the use of my flinging away money for such nonsense 
 if you don't wear them ? It's enough to make a man mad. 
 You will not do any thing to please me. Your self-will wears 
 me out completely. It's enough " — 
 
 " Pray, forgive me, Franz ! " said she, wiping away the big 
 tears from her eyes. " I have not seen you all day long, and 
 I wanted to surprise you, and forgot all about a shawl. You 
 will forgive me, you will forgive your wife ; won't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, that's enough ; now leave me alone. You know 
 I don't like such scenes. And in tears, too ! Do for heaven's 
 sake break yourself of this foolish habit of crying at any 
 thing and every thing. We have a guest to-day, — Froben, 
 who travelled with me. Behave yourself as you ought ; do 
 you hear me ? See that nothing is wanting ; for I don't like 
 to have to keep house besides all my other business." 
 
 He walked before her to the castle in silence. 
 
 When Faldner showed Froben to his room, he could not 
 refrain from congratulating his host on his choice. " Really, 
 Franz, I never saw her equal. You were always a lucky 
 fellow ; but I never thought you would get such a prize, with 
 your strange ideas." 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 63 
 
 " Yes, yes ; she is well enough," answered the Baron dryly, 
 as he snuffed the candle. "A man can't have every thing, and 
 ought not to expect it in this world." 
 
 " Why ! I hope and trust you are not insensible to such 
 excellence. I have seen many women in my day, but never 
 one of such perfect beauty. What eyes ! What a figure ! 
 And I do not know but that I admire her cultivated mind and 
 delicate taste even still more highly." 
 
 " You seem quite captivated," rejoined Faldner, laughing ; 
 " but you have read too much : you are not a practical man. 
 I always told you so. Believe me, a smart, active house- 
 keeper is worth more than what you call your accomplished 
 women. . Good-night ; thank your stars that you are a free 
 man, and — don't be in a hurry to choose." 
 
 Froben had not failed to observe how anxiously she had 
 watched her husband's looks, and how much she seemed to 
 stand in awe of him. He felt that so ill-assorted a union 
 must have been the work of interest, and not of affection, and 
 that so delicate, so sensitive a creature, was ill fitted to bear 
 the humors of her stern and selfish lord. He sat plunged in 
 such thoughts, till he began to reproach himself for them. 
 " I have been false to my first love to-night," thought he. 
 " Another image has filled my thoughts, and I have given way 
 to ideas that are perhaps sinful, certainly idle." With these 
 words, he unrolled the engraving from the beloved picture in 
 his bosom, which he always carried with him ; but what was 
 Jiis surprise as he noticed the wonderful resemblance it bore to 
 the Baroness von Faldner? As to hair and eyes, he could 
 not speak ; but the mouth, nose, chin, and throat were sur- 
 prisingly alike. " What ! " thought he, " can she be my 
 friend's wife, — she whom I saw but once, and imperfectly, 
 yet whom I love, and shall love forever ? The stature and 
 the figure, too, the same ! Her eyes were fixed on me the 
 whole evening, as though she had seen me before. But it is 
 all folly. The proud Baron of Faldner, with his high ideas 
 of nobility and pure descent, would never have stooped to wed 
 a beggar -girl ! " 
 
64 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 The next morning, when Froben came down to the draw- 
 ing-room, he found himself alone. His host had ridden out 
 to view the estate, and his lady was busied with household 
 affairs. He took up carelessly the cards that lay on the 
 mantel. Among them was his friend's wedding-card, on 
 which he saw, u Baron von Faldner and Josephine von Tan- 
 nensee." 
 
 < The name surprised him. It was the very name of the 
 Swiss officer who had figured in Don Pedro's story. He had 
 hardly time to collect his thoughts, disturbed by this coinci- 
 dence, when Josephine appeared. She apologized for her hus- 
 band's absence, adding, " His life is always a laborious and 
 anxious one ; but I really believe he is so accustomed to a 
 press of business, that he would not be contented without it." 
 
 " Is there more than usual to be attended to on the estate ? " 
 
 " No, he is always so : he is never at rest ; and he spends 
 the whole day, from morning to night, among his workmen." 
 
 " You must often feel solitary, I should suppose, during his 
 absence." 
 
 " Solitary ! " she repeated, and her voice trembled a little. 
 " No : memory is the companion of those who are alone. 
 And besides," she added, with an effort at a smile, u in so large 
 an establishment as ours, there are a thousand things to be 
 attended to ; so that I do not, must not, feel lonesome." 
 
 The slight accent of sorrow with which she spoke impressed 
 Froben deeply ; and he paused a while before he answered. 
 a Women, nowadays, possess talents and acquirements which 
 can be developed in society alone. And I have often thought 
 how unhappy one of your sex would be, supposing her to 
 possess a cultivated mind, a taste for reading and for intellect- 
 ual society, if she finds no kindred spirit in her domestic cir- 
 cle, and yet is confined to it." 
 
 Josephine blushed, and our hero could not but feel that he 
 had unconsciously reminded her of her own situation. To 
 give the conversation a more general character, she replied : 
 " We country ladies, of course, enjoy such pleasures less fre- 
 quently ; but still we are not so lonely as you might suppose. 
 We visit each other often, — only see what a pile of cards 
 there is on the mantel there." 
 
OF TH% PONT-BES-ARTS. 65 
 
 " That reminds me," said Froben, " that I was guilty of a 
 petty larceny just now ; and he produced the wedding-card. 
 44 Will you believe it, that I did not know of my friend's mar- 
 riage till last night ? The card first informed me of your 
 name. It is Tannensee, I find." 
 
 " Yes," she answered, with a smile ; " and I was no loser in 
 exchanging so insignificant a name for the noble one of 
 Faldner." 
 
 " If your father was, as I suppose, Col. von Tannensee, 
 you cannot call it insignificant." 
 
 She blushed. " My dear father ! They tell me the empe- 
 ror esteemed him a gallant officer, and he died a general. I 
 never knew him." 
 
 " Was he not a Swiss ? " 
 
 She looked at him with some surprise. "If I am not 
 mistaken, my mother told me he was." 
 
 " And was not your mother named Laura, and of a Spanish 
 family ? " She turned pale. " Laura was her name ; but — 
 What do you know about her ? Spanish, no ! She spoke Ger- 
 man, and was of that nation." 
 
 To account for this curiosity, Froben told the story of his 
 meeting with Don Pedro, and his firm belief that she was the 
 daughter of that Laura whom the Spaniard had loved so 
 warmly. He enlarged on the rank and wealth of her newly 
 found relative ; but Josephine betrayed no pleasure at the dis- 
 covery : on the contrary, she leaned her head on her hand, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 " What have I done ! " cried Froben, in despair. " It was 
 all my folly, — a mere conjecture only. Your relatives can 
 decide that better, I " — 
 
 " Alas ! it is my evil fate to have no kindred," said she. 
 " Happy are they who can look back to a long line of honor- 
 able ancestors ; who have kind and good relatives, endeared 
 to them by the ties of blood. I was an only child, and I have 
 always lived among strangers. My father, I heard, quarrelled 
 with his relations in Switzerland, because they wanted him to 
 marry a rich heiress at home ; and, when my mother died, 
 there was not a soul in the world to whom I could say, Have 
 pity on me ! " 
 5 
 
66 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 Froben was anxious, as well as affected, at her grief. " Was 
 not your mother's name Tortosi ? " he asked. 
 
 " She was called Laura von Tortheim." 
 
 " The names are the same ; and I believe you will now have 
 no cause to complain of being alone in the world. One kins- 
 man at least, you have, and one of the most excellent of men. 
 Faldner will be delighted when he hears of our discovery." 
 
 Her tears began to flow afresh. " You do not know my 
 husband," she replied. " You have no idea how suspicious he 
 is. Every thing must go on regularly and soberly ; and he 
 detests any thing like a surprise or a change from the very 
 bottom of his soul. I had to regard it as a favor," she added 
 bitterly, " as a favor, that a man of such an ancient family 
 would make me his wife, and be satisfied with the few papers 
 I had to show my birth. He tells me every day that he might 
 have married into the first houses, or else that my family is only 
 newly ennobled ; that he knows nothing about my mother ; and 
 that some of the Tannensees have even turned merchants." 
 
 It was plain that she had married from poverty, not choice, 
 and that her brutal husband treated her with rudeness and 
 cruelty. Faldner's return to dinner cut short the conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 His wife came forward to meet him ; but he passed hastily 
 by her. " Is it not enough to drive a man mad, Froben ? " 
 were his first words. " I have spent a fortune in getting a 
 steam-engine from England, and it won't work at all ! Some- 
 thing has been left out or lost. I brought down an engineer 
 from Mentz to put it up. I showed him the drawings. 
 There is the whole story, all lettered and numbered ; and yet 
 the bungler cannot put it up ! " 
 
 Faldner ate little, but drank freely; and his displeasure 
 gradually gave way to boisterous mirth. At the close of the 
 meal, Josephine gathered courage, and addressed him. "I 
 had a singular conversation with our guest this morning, 
 which has led to the discovery of a kinsman of mine." Fro- 
 ben repeated the story, not without some anxiety as to the 
 effect it would produce ; but, contrary to his expectations, the 
 baron seemed delighted. " ' Tis as clear as day, " he cried. 
 " Tortheim and Tortosi — all the same thing. And you say 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 67 
 
 the old chap is rich, my dear fellow ? Rich, and a bachelor, 
 and always talking about his Laura ! Zounds, Josephine ! 
 there's a chance for lots of piastres ! " 
 
 Josephine was not much pleased, perhaps, at his coarse way 
 of expressing himself; but she answered calmly, " This will 
 account for the snatches of Spanish songs that always floated 
 in my mind, and also for my having been brought up a Cath- 
 olic." With these words she retired. 
 
 " Write to the old man, will you, Froben ? and tell him you 
 have found his Laura's daughter. I always told Countess 
 Landstrom that, even though my wife had nothing, I was 
 sure she would bring luck to the house. How much do you 
 suppose the Don will cut up ? " 
 
 Froben changed color. " How should I know ? Do you 
 suppose I asked him? But what were you saying about 
 Countess Landstrom ? " 
 
 " Oh ! it was there I met my wife. You know I'm a prac- 
 tical man. I might have married the richest girl in the coun- 
 try ; but I said to myself, ' All is not gold that glitters.' Jose- 
 phine was a kind of companion to the countess. She was 
 busy all day long, making tea, sewing, overseeing the ser- 
 vants, watering flowers, and every thing. I thought she 
 would make a good housekeeper, and, though I could not find 
 out much about her family, I married her." 
 
 " And you are as happy as the day is long ! " 
 
 " Why, so so. She has nothing of a practical turn ; but I 
 lock up all her books, and make her keep house. But come, 
 let us look at my unlucky steam-engine." 
 
 As the gentlemen were mounting their horses, Froben saw 
 Josephine at a window, waving her handkerchief. " The 
 baroness is saluting you," he said ; but his host only laughed, 
 and rode on. " Why do you support her in all that senti- 
 mental folly, so that we must kiss and flourish handkerchiefs 
 whenever I am going away for a few hours ? It is enough to 
 spoil any woman ; and, whenever you marry, do as I do. You 
 never say where you are going. Your horse is brought round. 
 1 Where are you going, dear ? ' she asks two or three times. 
 You say nothing, but put on your gloves. 4 How can you go 
 away and leave me here all alone ? ' she asks, and lays her 
 
68 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 hand on your shoulder. You pick up your whip, and say, ' I 
 am going to so and so : there is something to be done to-day. 
 Adieu ; and, if I don't come back by supper-time, don't wait 
 for me.' She is shocked — you whistle ; she goes to the win- 
 dow, and flourishes her handkerchief — you ride straight on, 
 and take no notice of ,her. That makes a woman respect you. 
 After two or three such scenes, my wife gave up asking me 
 any question, I assure you." 
 
 The engineer was at work, but had made no progress. 
 Faldner grew violent, and called him a bungler and a rogue. 
 The man's face was crimson with resentment ; but he sup- 
 pressed it. " I will engage to put any machine in order, but 
 I must have my own way about it ; and in this case " — 
 
 u I've been helping you a little, and that I suppose has put 
 you out ? I have seen half a dozen such machines, and I 
 know perfectly well that the large wheels work on the cyl- 
 inder, and the small ones above " — 
 
 " This is of another pattern, however, as the drawings show." 
 
 " What do I care for drawings ? I'm deceived all round, — 
 cheated by everybody." 
 
 Froben, meanwhile, had been examining the drawings 
 carefully, and said at last, u I will lay a bet that it is all as it 
 should be. F and H here go with I, and this connects the 
 stamping-mill with the machine." 
 
 " To be sure it does ! " cried the engineer triumphantly. 
 " This makes the whole thing easy." The baron laughed to 
 conceal his surprise, and left the management to his friend, 
 expressing little faith in his success. He was deceived, how- 
 ever ; for in a very short time the machine was put up, and 
 at work. 
 
 This restored him to good humor, and he gave a little en- 
 tertainment in honor of his success. Cheerful and good-hu- 
 mored as he seemed, it did not escape Froben that he perse- 
 cuted his wife incessantly. She did every thing wrong, and 
 he drove her, without remorse, from the kitchen to the parlor 
 and back again. His visitors were delighted with her grace 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 69 
 
 and beauty, and the old ladies were loud in their praises of 
 her good housewifery, " See now," the baron whispered to 
 his friend, " what wonders good discipline will do ! She has 
 got along very well to-day, with a little help from me, of 
 course. But shell mend, she'll mend." The general mirth 
 and the good wine elevated his spirits still higher ; and it was 
 soon high time to leave the table, as he and some of his friends 
 were indulging in some excellent jokes, which were rather too 
 broad for the delicate ears of the ladies. Sport of every kind 
 was now the order of the day, and even the good old-fash- 
 ioned game of forfeits was tolerated. It chanced to be Fro- 
 ben's turn to redeem his favor, and Josephine, who fixed the 
 forfeits, decided that he should tell some true passage in his 
 life. The choice was loudly applauded, most of all by Fald- 
 ner ; and, when he saw Froben hesitate, he cried, " Come, 
 begin ! or I will for you, and tell your piquant adventure with 
 the beggar-girl of the Pont-des-Arts " 
 
 Froben blushed, and looked displeased ; but the company, 
 who suspected that some good jest was at the bottom of the 
 allusion, cried, " The story ! — the story of the Pont-des- 
 Arts!" And he made up his mind to tell it, chiefly to avoid 
 any indiscretion on the part of his host, who was warmed with 
 wine. Faldner promised, if the narrator departed from the 
 truth in any respect, to bring him back to it, as he was him- 
 self a witness of the adventure. 
 
 " I do not know," began Froben, " whether you are aware 
 that, some years ago, our friend Faldner and I travelled to- 
 gether, and lived in Paris in the same house. Our studies 
 were the same ; we visited the same circles ; in a word, we 
 
 were inseparable. We had a mutual friend, Dr. M , 
 
 a fellow-countryman, who lived in the Rue Taranne, which, 
 as you know, lies on the left bank of the Seine, and leads into 
 the Rue Dominique. Our regular evening walk was through 
 the Champs Elysees, across to the Fauxbourg St. Germain, 
 and thence to our friends ; where we often sat till very late, 
 chatting about Germany, France, and what not. We lived, 
 
70 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 I ought to add, in the Place des Vicioires, a good way off from 
 the Rue Taranne ; and we generally came home by the Pont- 
 des- Arts, so as to cross the Louvre, and save time. One 
 night — it was after eleven — it had rained a little, and the 
 wind blew chilly and keen, especially along the river. We 
 were going from Quai Malaquois across the Pont- des- Arts. 
 The bridge is only for foot-passengers ; and, of course, at that 
 time of night, every thing was quite still around it. We 
 walked across in silence, wrapping our cloaks around us ; and 
 I was just hurrying down the steps on the other side, when I 
 saw an extraordinary sight. A tall, slim female stood leaning 
 against the side of the bridge. A little black hat was tied 
 close before her face, which was still more completely hidden 
 by a green veil. She wore a black-silk cloak, and the wind 
 betrayed a delicate, youthful figure. A little hand, holding a 
 plate, peeped out of the cloak. In front stood a little lantern, 
 whose flickering light showed a small neat foot. There is no 
 place, perhaps, where the contrast between the greatest splen- 
 dor and the lowest depths of misery is as striking as in Paris ; 
 but still yon meet few beggars. They seldom attack you for- 
 wardly, and you never find them follow you up or persecute 
 you with their demand. A blind old man sometimes sits or 
 kneels at the corner of the street, holding out his hand qui- 
 etly, and leaves it to the passer-by to notice his look of en- 
 treaty, or not. The most affecting of all, as I thought, were 
 the shamefaced ones, who stand motionless, almost breathless, 
 in a corner, with their faces covered, and a taper burning be- 
 fore them. Many of my acquaintances assured me that they 
 were generally people of the better class, who had become 
 so much reduced, that they must either go to labor, or, if they 
 were ashamed or unable to work for their daily bread, chose 
 this last resource before ending their lives and sorrows in the 
 Seine. The female figure at the bridge, which enchained my 
 attention, was of this class. I eyed her more closely. Her limbs 
 seemed to tremble with the cold even more than the flicker- 
 ing light in her lantern ; but she was silent, and let her sor- 
 row and the cold night-wind speak for her. I felt in my 
 pockets ; but I had no small change, and not even a single 
 iranc. I turned to Faldner, and asked him to lend me some ; 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 71 
 
 but he was out of temper, as it seemed, at my keeping him 
 waiting in the cold ; and he called to me in German, 4 Leave 
 the beggar alone, and come home to bed ; I'm almost frozen.' 
 1 Give me a couple of sous, my dear fellow/ I said ; but he 
 pulled me by the cloak, and tried to drag me away. The 
 veiled figure before me spoke in a trembling but sweet-toned 
 voice, and, to our surprise, in good German, 4 O gentlemen, 
 have pity on me ! ' The tone and the language made such an 
 impression, on me, that I again asked him for some money. 
 He laughed. ' Very well, there is a couple of francs,' said he ; 
 4 try your luck with the girl if you choose ; but let me go to 
 sleep.' He gave me the money, and walked away. I was 
 really confused, for she must have heard what Faldner said ; 
 and the unhappy are the last that I should wish to insult. I 
 drew nearer to her, irresolutely. ' My girl,' I said, ' you have 
 chosen a poor stand : there will be few people coming by here 
 to-night.' She did not answer aloud ; but whispered after a 
 while, ' May those few have pity on the unfortunate ! ' This 
 answer surprised me : it was so natural, yet so apt. Her 
 graceful attitude and the tone of her voice indicated a person 
 of education. i We are fellow-countrymen,' I said. ' Let me 
 ask if I cannot do something more for you than this mere 
 passing assistance.' — ' We are very poor,' she answered, and 
 this time more boldly ; ' and my mother is sick, and has no 
 one to help her.' Without reflection, and led only by the 
 vague feeling that attracted me to her, I said, ' Show me 
 w r here she is.' She was silent and seemed embarrassed. 
 4 You must consider this as my honest wish to aid you if I 
 can,' I said. ; Come, then, sir,' she rejoined, picked up her 
 lantern, blew it out, and hid it and the plate under her cloak." 
 
 " What ! " cried the baron, bursting into a laugh, as Froben 
 seemed to pause, " do you mean to stop here ? Do you want 
 to deceive me now, as you tried to then V Thus far, ladies 
 and gentlemen, he has spoken the exact historical truth. He 
 supposed, probably, that I was far away ; but I was standing 
 some two paces off from this moving, good Samaritan dia- 
 
72 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 logue, under the portal of the Louvre, and witnessed the 
 whole affair. Whether the conversation is truly reported or 
 not, I cannot say ; for the confounded wind made me lose it : 
 but I saw the damsel blow out her lantern, and go back with 
 him over the bridge. The night was so cold, that I did not 
 follow up his adventure ; but, after all, I will bet that he did 
 not find mamma sick, or any thing of the kind, but the fair 
 dame was only singing the old siren song to a new tune." 
 He laughed loudly at his own wit, and the men joined him. 
 The ladies looked down, and Josephine seemed displeased 
 both at her husband's remarks, and her guest's strange story ; 
 for her fingers trembled so, that she could hardly hold her 
 plate ; and she eyed the narrator with a look which he felt 
 himself bound to interpret in a way little honorable to him- 
 self. " I cannot allow my friend here," he continued in a loud 
 voice that silenced the company, " to put such an interpreta- 
 tion on my conduct : allow me, therefore, to proceed, and, by 
 my life," — and as he spoke his color grew deeper and his 
 eyes brightened, — "I will tell you nothing but the truth." 
 
 u The girl crossed the bridge I had just passed over. I had 
 time enough to look at her, as I walked silently by her side, 
 or rather behind her. Her figure, so far as I could see for 
 her cloak, and more particularly her voice, were quite youth- 
 ful. Her gait was quick, but easy. I offered her my arm ; 
 but she would not take it. At the corner of the bridge, she 
 turned into the Rue Mazarin. ' Has your mother been sick 
 long ? ' I asked her, stepping up alongside, and trying to get 
 a peep at her face. ' For two years,' she answered, with a 
 deep sigh ; ' but, for a week past, she has been much worse.' 
 ' Have you been there often before now ? ' — i Where ? ' she 
 asked. ' On the bridge.' — ' This is the first time,' was her 
 answer. ' You did not choose a good place, then : the other 
 avenues are more frequented. 1 I was sorry, even while say- 
 ing so ; for I felt that it must hurt her deeply. And she whis- 
 pered and sobbed in reply, 'lama stranger here, and — I 
 was ashamed to go into the crowd.' — 'How great must be the 
 misery,' I said to myself, 'that can force such a creature to ask 
 alms ! ' It is true, some such thoughts as Faldner had ex- 
 pressed occurred to me now and then ; but I set myself against 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 73 
 
 them : they were too unnatural. If she really belonged to 
 that wretched class of women, why should she hide her fea- 
 tures, and stand in such a lonely place ? Why should she 
 take such care to conceal a figure, which, so far as I could 
 judge from a few hasty glimpses, was a fine one ? No : it 
 could be nothing but real wretchedness and that shame of 
 unmerited poverty which makes it so touching. i Has your 
 mother a physician ? ' I asked, after a while. ' She had ; but, 
 when we got to be too poor to buy medicines, he wanted to 
 send her to the Hopital des Incurables, and I could not bear 
 that. O heavens ! my dear mother in a hospital ! ' She 
 wept at this, and raised her handkerchief to her eyes. As the 
 plate and lantern which she held in the other hand prevented 
 her from keeping her cloak close folded, the wind blew it 
 aside, and I saw that I was not mistaken. Her figure was tall 
 and graceful, her dress plain ; but, as far as I could notice, 
 perfectly neat. She caught at her cloak, and, in assisting her, 
 I felt the touch of a soft, white hand. 
 
 " By this time we had walked through the Rue Magasin, 
 St. Germain, Ecole de Medecine, and a few little alleys; 
 when, all at once, she stopped short, and said she had lost 
 her way. She said she lived in Rue St. Severin. I was 
 puzzled, for I did not know where to find it myself. I saw 
 a light in a brandy-shop in a cellar, and went down to ask 
 the way, leaving her alone. When I came up, I heard 
 voices speaking loud, and saw, by the dim light of a street- 
 lamp, that the girl was struggling with two gentlemen, one 
 of whom had seized her hand, while the other had hold of 
 her cloak : they were laughing and talking to her. I sus- 
 pected what was going on, and pulled the cloak out of his 
 grasp. She clung to my arm, sobbing and speechless. ' Gen- 
 tlemen/ I said, ' you see you are mistaken. Let go the lady's 
 cloak this moment ! ' — i Ah ! excuse me, sir,' said the stran- 
 ger, i I see you have a prior right to the lady ; ' and they 
 went off laughing. We walked on, and the poor girl clung 
 to my arm as though she was afraid of falling down in the 
 street. ' Courage, courage !. ' I said, ' St. Severin is only 
 a little way off, and you'll soon be at home/ When we 
 reached the street, she stopped short. ' No, sir, you must not 
 
74 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 go any farther with me,' said she. ' Why not, pray, since you 
 have brought me so far with you already ? I beg of you not 
 to suspect me of an improper motive/ I had unconsciously 
 taken her hand, and, perhaps, pressed it. She withdrew it 
 hastily, and added, ' Forgive me my rudeness in bringing you 
 so far out of your way. I beg of you, leave me now ! ' I 
 understood that the advances of the strangers had wounded 
 her deeply, and perhaps even made her suspicious of me, and 
 this had a great effect upon me. I took out the silver I had 
 got from Faldner, and was going to hand it to her ; but the 
 thought of the trifling aid this small sum would afford made 
 me withdraw my hand, and I gave her what little gold I had 
 about me. Her hand trembled as she took it : she seemed 
 to suppose it was silver, thanked me in an unsteady but 
 sweet voice, and was going away. ' Stop,' said I : 'I hope 
 your mother will be better ; but she may, perhaps, be in 
 want of something ; and, my girl, you are not the right per- 
 son for such night-excursions as this. Will you not be in 
 front of the Ecole de Medecine this day week at the same 
 hour, so that I can hear how your mother is ? ' She seemed 
 to hesitate, but at last said, 4 Yes.' — ' And put on that hat 
 with the green veil ; so that I may know you again/ She 
 promised to do so, thanked me again, ran hastily up the 
 street, and was lost in the darkness." 
 
 " When I awoke the next morning, my adventure seemed 
 like a dream. But Faldner, who came soon, and began to 
 rally me with his usual delicacy, removed all doubts. The 
 thing seemed to me, when considered in the clear light of the 
 morning, altogether too fabulous to be told to my sceptical 
 friend. We have reached, nowadays, a pitch of delicacy 
 which borders closely on indelicacy: we had often rather 
 seem wild and debauched than singular, or unused to the 
 ways of the world. I was disturbed by some undefinable 
 feeling, even more than by Faldner's jokes. I reproached 
 myself for not having got a sight of her face at any rate. 
 1 Why this excessive delicacy ? ' I said to myself. ' Really, for 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ABTS. 75 
 
 a couple of Napoleons, it would not have been too much just 
 to ask her to raise her veil for a moment.' And yet, when I 
 reflected on her whole deportment, which, simple as it was, 
 was wholly free from vulgarity, I was forced, half-unwillingly, 
 to own that I did right. The voice alone is a sufficient dis- 
 tinction between good-breeding and rudeness ; and the sweet 
 tones I had listened to must belong to a person of some edu- 
 cation and refinement. I could not get rid of these thoughts 
 all day long ; and at night, when I visited a brilliant circle 
 of ladies, I was accompanied in my mind by the poor girl in 
 her black hat, green veil, and impenetrable cloak. The rest 
 of the week I kept blaming myself for my folly, and yet 
 indulging in it. It seemed as though the capital of the civil- 
 ized world, with all its attractions, had nothing worth noti- 
 cing except the Pont-des-Arts. At last the Friday came. I 
 used every stratagem to get rid of Faldner and the rest of 
 my friends, and set out as soon as it was dark. It was an 
 hour's walk, and I had time enough for reflection; and I 
 determined to see her face at any rate, and to make up my 
 mind what to think of her. I had started off so early, that it 
 was only ten when I reached the Ecole de Medecine, — a full 
 hour before my time. I stepped into a cafe, and tumbled 
 over a file of newspapers : at last it struck eleven. 
 
 " There were few people about, and no green veil to be 
 seen anywhere. Suppose she should not come, thought I, as 
 I walked up and down for the tenth time. The half-hour 
 struck, and I began to grumble at my own folly, when I saw 
 something green under a lamp some thirty paces off. I hur- 
 ried up, and it was she. l Good-evening,' said I. 1 1 am glad 
 you are come ; I was afraid you would not keep your ap- 
 pointment.' She bowed low, without taking my hand, and 
 walked by my side. She seemed deeply moved. ' Sir, my 
 noble-hearted countryman,' said she, ' I could not but keep 
 my word, if only to thank you. Be assured it is not in order 
 to make fresh demands on your benevolence. Oh, how 
 richly, how generously, you have treated us ! Can a daughter's 
 heartfelt thanks, can my sick mother's prayers and blessings, 
 be any return for it ? ' — ' Don't say a word about it,' an- 
 swered I. i How is your mother ? ' — 'I believe I may begin 
 
76 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 to hope again. The physician does not speak decidedly, but 
 she feels stronger. Oh, how much I thank you ! Your lib- 
 eral present enabled me to buy her strengthening food ; and 
 believe me, sir, the thought that such good men are still to be 
 found in the world has done her almost as much service/ — 
 ' What did your mother say to you when you came home ? ' 
 I inquired. ' She was very anxious, as it was so late : she 
 had been very unwilling to let me go out, and was afraid of 
 some mischief happening. I told her every thing ; but when 
 I untied my handkerchief, and drew out the presents you 
 gave me, and there was gold among them, — gold among the 
 copper and silver — she was astonished, and — ' She stopped, 
 and seemed unable to go on. I could guess that her mother 
 had suspected something wrong, and I put some more ques- 
 tions ; but she answered with touching frankness, ' that her 
 mother said their generous countryman must be either a 
 prince or an angel.' — ' I am neither the one nor the other,' 
 I replied. ' But how much have you left? any thing ? — ' Oh, 
 yes ! ' said she confidently ; but it did not escape me that she 
 sighed unconsciously at the same time. ' How much is there 
 left ? ' I asked, and more peremptorily. ' Oh ! we paid our 
 bill at the apothecary's, and a month's rent ; and I bought 
 something for mother to eat, and there is something left yet.' 
 ' How wretchedly they must live !' thought 1, 4 when, out of this 
 trifle, they can pay for medicines and a month's rent, and 
 buy food for a week ! ' 'I want you to tell me exactly how 
 much there is left,' I continued. ' Sir ! ' was her reply, as 
 she drew back a step. ' My good girl, you do not, or you 
 will not, understand me. I ask you seriously what you expect 
 to do when this little sum is gone. Have you any prospect 
 of assistance ? ' — ' No, none,' was the sad answer. 4 Think 
 of your mother, and do not reject my aid,' I added. I offered 
 her my hand, and she pressed it to her heart gratefully. 
 < Come with me, then,' said I. 'I do not come straight from 
 home, and am, unluckily, without money : be good enough to 
 go a little way with me, and I will give you something for 
 your mother.' She went with me in silence ; and, though I 
 was pleased with the thought of having her with me, I felt 
 almost hurt that she should go with me so readily, by night, 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS, 77 
 
 to a gentleman's lodgings : but it was not so. After walking 
 a few hundred paces, she drew her arm out of mine. ' No, 
 no, I must not, I cannot/ she cried, bursting into tears. 
 1 Why not ? what is the matter ? ' asked I. ' I will not go 
 farther : I cannot go with you.' — ' Upon my word/ I cried 
 with some anger, ' you really have very little confidence in 
 me : if it was not for your mother, I would quit you at once, 
 for you insult me.' She took my hand, and pressed it fer- 
 vently. ' Have I offended you ? God knows I did not mean 
 it. Pardon a poor ignorant girl. You are so generous ! how 
 could I think of offending you ? ' — ' Come along, then,' I 
 rejoined, ' we have no time to lose ; it is late, and we are a 
 good way off.' But she stopped short, and said, ' No, nothing 
 shall tempt me to go farther.' — 'What are you afraid of? 
 There is no one here : you may go with me in safety.' But 
 she only repeated, ' I beg you, for God's sake, to leave me ! ' 
 I knew very well, that, if I painted her mother's need in 
 lively colors, she would go with me ; but I was moved at her 
 suffering. ' Well, then, stay,' I told her ; ' but stop, do you 
 understand needlework ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh, yes, sir ! ' she said, drying her tears. 
 
 " ' Here is a white handkerchief; can you hem and mark a 
 half-dozen such for me ? ' 
 
 " She looked at it, and answered, ' With pleasure, sir, and 
 do it neatly too.' 
 
 " To my mortification, I had to produce money, though 1 
 had pretended to have none about me. 
 
 " Here, buy six of them. Can you have three ready by 
 next Sunday ? ' She promised to do it, and I gave her some- 
 thing more for her mother. She thanked me warmly, and 
 seemed to be pleased that I had given her work ; for she 
 kept chattering on about how neatly she would do the hand- 
 kerchiefs. And once she asked me if I would have a border 
 a VAnglaise. I said yes to every thing, but held her fast as 
 she was leaving me. ' There is something else you must do 
 to oblige me : you can do it, and that easily,' I remarked. 
 
 " ' And, pray, what is it ? I will gladly do any thing for 
 you,' was her answer. 
 
 " ' Let me, then, lift that envious veil, and see your face, 
 that I may have some recollection of this night.' 
 
78 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 " She slipped aside, and only held her veil tighter. * Do 
 not, I beg of you ! ' she said, seeming to struggle with herself 
 at the time. * You have the sweet remembrance of your 
 bounty : my mother strictly forbade me to lift my veil, and, 
 besides, I assure you I am as ugly as darkness itself. I would 
 only frighten you ! ' 
 
 " Her resistance only roused my curiosity still more. A 
 really ugly woman, I thought, would never say so of herself. 
 I tried to catch her veil ; but she slipped away like an eel, 
 crying, c Dimanche a revoir, 9 and was gone. She stopped 
 some fifty yards off, waved my white handkerchief, and said, 
 1 Good-night/ in her silvery voice." 
 
 " The next week I busied myself in thinking what the 
 girl's rank in life could be. The more I dwelt on her choice 
 language and delicate feelings, the higher I was inclined to 
 place her. I determined to ascertain that point at any rate, 
 and not be put off again so easily as in the matter of the 
 veil. The Sunday came ; and you may remember that 
 afternoon, Faldner, which we spent at Montmorenci. You 
 wanted to stay late, and I urged you to go home early, and, 
 finally, went off without you. You did not believe the ex- 
 cuse I gave, that I could not bear the night-air ; but you did 
 not dream of a rendezvous with the beggar-girl of the Pont- 
 des-Arts, — and how could you ? She was the first on the 
 ground this time ; and, as she had the handkerchiefs to give 
 me, she was beginning to fear I had missed her. She kept 
 talking on with almost childlike delight, and, as I fancied, 
 with more confidence than before, while showing me her 
 work by the light of a street-lamp. She seemed delighted to 
 hear me praise her needlework. 
 
 " 4 See,' said she, 4 1 have worked in your name, too,' point- 
 ing to E. V. F. beautifully embroidered in the corner. She 
 wanted to give me back a handful of silver, and nothing but 
 my declaring that I should feel insulted by her doing so in- 
 duced her to take it again. I ordered something else, as I 
 saw that this way of giving charity was most agreeable to 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 79 
 
 her feelings. Her mother was not worse, though still con- 
 fined to her bed. When we had disposed of this subject, I 
 asked her directly what was her family and condition. Her 
 story, which was told in a few words, is so common a one in 
 France, that I suppose it is the burden of every beggar's 
 petition. Her father was an officer in the grande arme'e, who 
 had been put upon half-pay after the restoration, had joined 
 the emperor in the hundred days, and fallen with the guard 
 at Waterloo. His widow lost his pension, and lived after- 
 wards poorly and wretchedly. For two years, they had sub- 
 sisted on the remains of their little property, and had just 
 reached that lowest degree of misery, when no resource re- 
 mains but to quit the world at once. I asked her if she 
 could not have assisted her mother in some other way. 
 
 " ' You mean by going out to service ? ' inquired she with- 
 out the least embarrassment. ' Certainly ; but I could not do 
 it. Before my mother fell sick, I was too young, hardly 
 fourteen ; and, when she got so bad that she could not leave 
 her bed, I had to remain with her. If she had continued 
 well, I would gladly have forgotten our former situation, and 
 would have gone to a milliner's, or got a situation as govern- 
 ess, for I have been well educated, sir : but it could not be.' 
 
 " I again begged her to raise her veil, but in vain. The 
 allusion she made to her age rendered me, I will confess, still 
 more anxious to see her face. She could not be much over 
 sixteen ; but she begged me so earnestly to excuse her ; she 
 said her mother had given her such good reasons for avoiding 
 it that it could not be. After this, we used to meet twice a 
 week. I had always some work for her, and she was always 
 ready with it at the appointed time. The more closely I 
 adhered to the deportment I had always showed towards her, 
 the more distant and respectful I was, the more frank and 
 confiding did she become. She even confessed to me, that, 
 when at home, she was always thinking of our next meeting ; 
 and did not I do the same ? Day and night I thought only 
 of this singular creature, whose refined taste, amiable soft- 
 ness, and peculiar situation, made her every day more inter- 
 esting to me. Meantime, spring had arrived, and, with it, the 
 time at which I had promised Faldner to join him in a trip to 
 
80 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 England. Many may think what I say silly ; but it is the fact, 
 that I thought of our journey with reluctance. Paris had 
 nothing to interest rue longer ; but the beggar- girl had so 
 captivated my senses, that I looked forward with sorrow to 
 our separation. I could not avoid going without making 
 myself a laughing-stock; for no other sufficient reason for 
 putting off our excursion could be devised. I was ashamed 
 of myself, too, and reproached myself with my own folly. I 
 determined to go ; but certainly no one ever took so little - 
 pleasure in seeing England as I did." 
 
 " I told her of my intention a week beforehand : she trem- 
 bled and wept. I told her to ask her mother for permission 
 to visit her, and she gave it. The next time, however, she 
 told me, with great concern, that her mother begged me to 
 give up the idea, as a visit, in her present frame of mind, 
 would overcome her. I thought of it only as a means of 
 seeing my fair one by daylight, and unveiled ; so I requested 
 this favor again. She wished me to come again before going 
 away, and promised to obtain her mother's permission. I 
 shall never forget that evening. She came, and my first 
 question was, whether she had agreed to it : she said yes, and 
 raised her veil herself. The moon shone bright, and I looked 
 under her hat with trembling eagerness. It seemed, however, 
 that the permission to unveil was only a partial one ; for she 
 wore what is called a Venetian mask, which hides the upper 
 part of the face. But how beautiful, how finished, were the 
 features that I saw ! A small, delicate nose, blooming cheeks, 
 a lovely mouth, a perfect chin, and a graceful, dazzling white 
 neck. As to her eyes, I could not satisfy myself; but I fan- 
 cied they were dark and fiery. She blushed, as I gazed long 
 and transportedly at her. ' Do not be angry with me, sir,' 
 said she, ' for wearing this half-mask : my mother would not 
 allow it at all at first, and, after all, it was only on this con- 
 dition. I felt provoked at it myself; but she gave me good 
 reasons for it, and I saw the force of them.' 
 
 " ' And, pray, what were her reasons ? ' I asked. 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 81 
 
 " ' Oh, sir ! ' cried she mournfully, i you will live forever in 
 our hearts ; but you must forget us, nevertheless : you must 
 never, never see me again, or, if you do, must not recognize 
 me !' 
 
 " ' Do you suppose, then, that I shall not recollect these 
 fine features, even if I should not see your eyes or fore- 
 head ? ' 
 
 " ' My mother thinks you will not,' was her answer : ' she 
 says it is very hard to remember a face that we have only 
 seen half of/ 
 
 " ' And why must I not see you, not recognize you ?' " 
 
 " She wept again, and clasped my hand, as she replied, l It 
 must not be ! You will not care about ever meeting the 
 poor beggar-girl again ; and — No, my mother was right : it 
 is better thus ! ' 
 
 " I told her that my journey would be a short one ; that I 
 should probably be back in Paris in two months, and that 
 I hoped to meet her again. She only wept more bitterly, and 
 shook her head. I asked why she doubted it. 
 
 " ' I feel that this is the last time I shall ever see you,' she told 
 me. ' I do not think my mother will live long (our physician 
 told me so yesterday), and then all is over ! And even if she 
 should live, when you go to London, you'll soon forget such a 
 poor, wretched creature as I am.' Her grief affected me 
 deeply. I tried to console her : I promised solemnly that I 
 never would forget her. I made her promise to be in the 
 same place on the 1st and 15th of every month to meet 
 me. She promised it, smiling through her tears, as if she felt 
 little hope of it. ' Farewell, then, till we meet again/ I 
 said, as I clasped her in my arms, and put a small plain ring 
 on her finger. ' Farewell ! think of me sometimes, and do not 
 forget the 1st and 15th.' 
 
 " * How could I forget it ! ' she answered, looking up to me 
 tearfully. ' But I shall never see you again : you are bidding 
 me adieu forever.' 
 
 " I could not refrain from kissing her soft lips. She blushed, 
 
 but did not resist. I slipped a bank-note into her hand : she 
 
 eyed me anxiously, and clung closer to me. ' Farewell, till 
 
 we meet again,' I said, as she gently freed herself from my 
 
 6 
 
82 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 embrace. The moment of parting seemed to give her courage. 
 She threw her arms around me, and I felt a warm kiss on my 
 lips, as she said passionately, ' Forever ; farewell forever ! ' 
 and disappeared. 
 
 " I have never seen her since. After a stay of three 
 months, I returned to Paris; on the 15th, I repaired to the 
 Place de VEcole de Medecine, and waited there over an 
 hour ; but my fair one did not appear. I went there again 
 and again, on the 1st and 15th of every month. Many a 
 time, too, I strode through the Rue St. Severin, and looked up 
 to the windows, and inquired for a poor German lady with 
 one daughter ; but I never heard of them again ; and the sweet 
 girl was right when she bade me farewell ' forever.' " 
 
 Our hero told his tale with a degree of earnestness that 
 added to its effect ; and it plainly produced a deep impression, 
 at least on the feminine portion of the company. Josephine 
 wept, and many of the ladies wiped their eyes by stealth. 
 The gentlemen had grown serious, and seemed to listen with 
 much interest ; only the baron smiled meaningly, and touched 
 his neighbor's elbow every now and then, and whispered 
 something in his ear. When Froben paused, he broke into 
 a loud laugh. " That's what I call getting cleverly out of the 
 scrape," he cried. " I always said our friend was a deep one. 
 Only see how the ladies are moved ! the dog — and my wife 
 there is whining as though the priest had refused her ab- 
 solution. Capital, upon my word ! Truth and fiction ! 
 Yes, yes : you have been copying Goethe. Truth and fiction ! 
 It's a capital joke ! " 
 
 Froben felt hurt, and answered, in some displeasure, " I 
 told you at first that I intended to avoid fiction, and tell 
 nothing but the truth ; and I hope you will not refuse to 
 believe it such." 
 
 "Heaven forbid !" replied the baron laughingly. "The 
 truth is, you made your own arrangement with the girl, and 
 now you have built up a little romance out of your visits to 
 her. But you told the story well ; that I won't deny." 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 83 
 
 The young man's color changed ; he noticed that Jose 
 phine's eyes were fixed anxiously upon her husband ; he 
 thought he saw that she was of Faldner's opinion, and he was 
 unwilling to be deprived of her esteem by this vulgar wit. 
 " I beg you to say no more about it," he went on. " I have 
 never yet had any reason to put a false coloring on any ac- 
 tion of mine, and I cannot allow others to do it for me. I tell 
 you, for the last time, on my word, every thing happened just 
 as I have told it." 
 
 " Then, Heaven pity you ! " answered Faldner, clapping his 
 hands ; " for, if so, your exaggerated delicacy and theoretical 
 weakness made you throw away a couple of hundred francs 
 on a cunning street-walker, who took you in with an every- 
 day story about poverty and a sick mother ; and you got 
 nothing for it but one poor kiss. Poor devil, to be made such 
 a fool of in Paris ! " 
 
 This insinuation, and the loud laughter with which it was 
 greeted, provoked our hero still farther. He was about to 
 leave the company in a towering passion, when he was ar- 
 rested by an unexpected sight. Josephine rose up slowly, 
 pale as a corpse, and seemed about to make some reply to her 
 husband, but sank down lifeless. Everybody sprang up, and 
 ran about in confusion ; the ladies assisted her ; the gentlemen 
 asked each other how it had happened so suddenly. Froben 
 came near fainting himself, in alarm ; and the baron muttered 
 curses upon the weak nerves of women, and their fastidious 
 delicacy, that makes them faint so easily : all was confusion. 
 Josephine came to herself in a few minutes. She wished to 
 retire to her room ; and all the ladies crowded after her, all 
 busy, and all curious. A hundred remedies were proposed, 
 all of which had been found specifics in cases of fainting, and, 
 finally, it was unanimously resolved, that the baroness's great 
 exertions to entertain her guests, and the cares of her house- 
 hold, had produced the unpleasant accident, aided, perhaps, 
 by the embarrassments she must have felt at the very 
 improper language her husband had allowed himself to use. 
 
 The baron was busy, in the mean time, in bringing back 
 the company to order. He pledged his guests, and endeav- 
 ored to quiet their apprehensions by all the arguments he 
 
84 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 could devise. " It's nothing but a new-fangled notion," said 
 he. " Every lady of rank has weak nerves ; and, if she has 
 not, she fears she will be taken for ill-bred : this fainting 
 away is the fashion. Another notion is, that we must never 
 call any thing by its right name : every thing must be so 
 delicate, devout, lady-like, and propriety-fied, that it is enough 
 to drive a man mad. She is angry now, because I indulged 
 in an innocent jest ; because I did not melt away in sympathy 
 at this most tender and affecting story, but, instead, ventured 
 to throw out a few practical suggestions. Why, there's no 
 harm in such things among ourselves ! And as for you, friend 
 Froben, I thought you were too sensible a man to take offence 
 so easily." 
 
 The person he addressed had disappeared, and repaired to 
 his chamber, out of humor with himself and with the world. 
 He was at a loss how to account for what happened ; and his 
 mind, half indignant at his friend's coarseness, half alarmed 
 at Josephine's accident, was too much moved to admit of calm 
 reflection. " Will not, she believe me ? " he thought to him- 
 self. " Will she give more weight to her husband's sneers than 
 to the plain, unadorned truth with which I told my story ? 
 What meant the strange glances she cast upon me while I 
 was speaking ? How could this adventure affect her so 
 deeply as to make her turn pale and tremble ? Does she 
 really respect me ? and was she offended at his rudeness, which 
 must have lowered me so much in her eyes ? And what did 
 she mean to say when she rose ? to check Faldner's vulgarity ? 
 or to defend me, even ? " He paced up and clown his room 
 as he thought thus, and his eyes fell upon the engraving of 
 his beloved picture. He unrolled it, and eyed it with a bitter 
 smile. " And how could I let a feeling of shame induce me 
 to open my heart to beings who understand nothing about 
 matters of which the fashionable world is ignorant ! vice and 
 meanness seem to them more proper, more natural, than 
 unusual virtue. How could I forget myself so far as to speak 
 of those lips and cheeks to stocks and stones ! Poor, poor 
 girl ! how far nobler art thou 1n thy low estate than these 
 butterflies, who know real suffering and honest poverty only 
 from report, and who treat as a fable every virtue that rises 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 85 
 
 above their own level ! Where art thou now ? and dost thou 
 think of thy friend, and those evenings that made him so 
 happy ? " These thoughts changed the current of his feelings, 
 and grief took the place of anger. 
 
 The next morning, Froben turned over in his mind the 
 events of the day before, and was debating with himself 
 whether or not he should leave the house, when his door 
 opened, and the baron entered, crestfallen and ashamed. 
 " You did not come to table last night, nor this morning," he 
 began. " You are angry ; but be reasonable, and pardon me. 
 I had drunk too much wine, and you know my weakness 
 when I am heated : I cannot forbear joking. I have been 
 punished enough already, in having my fete end so, and mak- 
 ing me the talk of the neighborhood for a month to come. 
 Don't make me more miserable ; let us be friendly as be- 
 fore." 
 
 " Let the affair rest," said Froben gloomily, as he offered 
 him his hand. " I do not like to discuss such subjects ; but 
 to-morrow I must leave you : I cannot stay here longer." 
 
 " Don't be such a fool," said Faldner, who had not expected 
 this, 4i to be off for such a trifle. But I always said you were 
 a hot-headed fellow. No, you can't go ; you know you must 
 wait, at any rate, till we get an answer from the Don. As for 
 our friends, you need not be uneasy ; for they all gave me a 
 famous scolding, especially the women, and said you were 
 right, and I was to blame for all." 
 
 " How is the baroness ? " asked Froben, to change the 
 subject. 
 
 " Oh ! perfectly well ; she was only a little frightened for 
 fear of some difficulty between us : she is waiting breakfast for 
 you. Come down, and be reasonable. I must be off to the 
 mill. It's all forgotten, is it not ? " 
 
 " Certainly, only let us drop the subject," was his answer. 
 And he followed the baron, who, full of pleasure at their 
 speedy reconciliation, informed his lady of what had passed, 
 and hastened to the mill. To Froben, it seemed that every 
 
86 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 thing was changed ; perhaps the change was in himself only. 
 Josephine's features, her whole deportment, seemed different. 
 A settled melancholy, a tender sorrow, seemed to have settled 
 upon her features ; yet her smile, as she welcomed him, was 
 sweet and kind. She ascribed her illness of the day before to 
 over-exertion, and seemed to wish to avoid the subject. But 
 Froben, who set so high a value on her good opinion, could not 
 consent to her refraining from all allusion to his story ; and he 
 told her, " I cannot suffer you to elude me so, baroness. I think 
 little of the opinions of others. What do I care if they choose 
 to measure me by their own standard ! But, really, I should 
 be deeply grieved if you should come to a false conclusion, 
 or even entertain, for a moment, opinions which must lower 
 me greatly in your esteem. I beg of you, tell me honestly 
 what you think of me and of my story." 
 
 She eyed him for some time. Her fine eyes tilled with tears, 
 as she took his hand, and replied, " What I think of it, Fro- 
 ben ? If the whole world should doubt it, /, at least, know 
 that you have spoken the truth. You are not aware how well 
 I know you ! " 
 
 His color rose with pleasure as he kissed her hand. " How 
 good it is in you not to misunderstand me," was his answer. 
 " And, indeed, every word I said was the exact truth." 
 
 " And this girl," she continued, — " is it she of whom you 
 were speaking lately ? Don't you remember when we were 
 talking of Jean Paul's Clotilda, and you owned to me that 
 you were in love, and without hope ? Is it she ? " 
 
 " It is," he answered gloomily. " No, you must not laugh 
 at this folly : you can feel too deeply to think it ridiculous. I 
 know how much may be said against this fancy. I have often 
 blamed myself as a fool, a dreamer chasing a shadow. I do 
 not even know whether she loves me in return." 
 
 " She does!" cried Josephine involuntarily; but, blushing 
 at what she said, she added, " she must love you. Believe me, 
 such noble conduct must have made a deep impression on the 
 heart of a girl of sixteen ; and in all her language, as you 
 have told it, there lurks, unless I am greatly mistaken, a 
 very considerable degree of love." 
 
 Our hero listened to her words with delight. " How often 
 
OF TEE PONT-DES-ARTS. 87 
 
 I have said so to myself, when I was without hope, and 
 looked back sadly to the past ! " he rejoined. " But to what 
 purpose ? Only to make myself more unhappy. I have often 
 struggled with myself, have often sought to distract myself in 
 the crowd, to occupy my mind with a press of business. That 
 fair, unhappy figure, always hovered before my eyes ; and to 
 see her once more was all I craved. I desire it still. I may 
 confess it to you ; for you can understand and respect my 
 feelings ; and I set out on a journey only because my longing 
 desire to search for her and to look upon her drove me from 
 home. And, when I reflect upon it, it sometimes seems to 
 me as if she might yet be mine. You turn away your 
 head. Oh, I understand. You think I ought not to marry 
 any one who was sunk so low in poverty ; of such doubt- 
 ful descent : you are thinking of the opinions of the world, 
 and I have often thought over it myself; but so true as I 
 live, if I were to find her again such as I left her, I would 
 take counsel only of my heart. Would you censure me 
 severely for doing so ? " 
 
 She did not answer : her head was turned aside, and 
 rested on her hand. Without moving, she handed him a 
 book, and asked him to read for her. He took it, looking at 
 her inquiringly ; for the first time he could not understand 
 her behavior : but she made a sign to him to read, and he 
 obeyed, though he would rather have poured out the fulness 
 of his heart still further. He read at first without attention ; 
 but, after a while, the subject attracted him, and drew his 
 thoughts more and more away from their conversation, and, 
 finally, so engrossed him, that he did not observe that the 
 baroness turned upon him a look of sadness ; that her glances 
 were fixed tenderly upon him ; and that her eyes often filled 
 with tears, which it was not easy to repress. By the time he 
 had done, Josephine had recovered herself so far, that she 
 could talk composedly about the author ; but he still fancied 
 that her voice trembled at times, and the kind familiarity 
 with which she had always treated her husband's friend had 
 disappeared : and he would have felt unhappy, except that 
 the warm feelings expressed in her eyes made him doubt the 
 accuracy of his observation. 
 
88 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 As the baron was not expected till evening, and his lady 
 had retired to her apartments, Froben resolved to sleep away 
 the sultry noonday heat till dinner-time. He threw himself 
 down on a mossy bank in the arbor, which the many pleasing 
 hours he had spent there with his amiable hostess had endeared 
 to him, and was soon asleep. He had left his cares behind ; 
 they did not pursue him into the land of dreams. Pleasant 
 recollections only came, and mingled and shaped themselves 
 into new and bright images. The young girl of the Rue St. 
 Severin hovered before him with her sweet voice, and began 
 to talk of her mother : he scolded her for staying away so 
 long, as he had never failed to look for her on the 1st and 
 15th of every month. He tried to steal a kiss to punish 
 her ; she resisted : he raised her veil, and saw Don Pedro, 
 dressed in his love's clothes, and Diego his servant, ready to 
 burst with laughing at the trick. Then fancy, at one bold 
 leap, placed him in the picture-gallery in Stutgard. The 
 paintings had been differently arranged. He looked through 
 all the rooms for his favorite portrait, but in vain : it was not 
 to be found. He began to weep, and to complain loudly, when 
 the attendant came up, and asked him to be quiet, and not 
 wake the pictures, as they were all asleep just then. All at 
 once he saw it hanging in a corner, not as before a half-length, 
 but large as life : it looked mischievously at him, then stepped 
 out of the frame, and embraced its bewildered adorer; he 
 felt a long, warm -.kiss on his lips. It sometimes happens, when 
 we are dreaming, that we think we awake, and say to our- 
 selves it was all a dream: and so it was with him. He 
 thought that the kiss wakened him, and that he opened his 
 eyes, and, lo ! a blooming face, that seemed a well-known one, 
 bent over him. He closed his eyes again, faint with the de- 
 licious feeling of the warm breath, the sweet kisses that he 
 drank in ; he heard a noise ; he opened his eyes again, and he 
 saw a figure in a black hat and cloak, with a green veil, flit 
 away. As she turned a corner, she looked round at him again : 
 it was the features of his beloved, and she wore the same 
 envious mask. " Ah, it's only a dream ! " he said, laughing 
 at himself, and tried to shut his eyes again ; but the conscious- 
 ness of being awake, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-AHTS. 89 
 
 and the plashing of the fountains, were so plain, that he was 
 soon fully aroused. The strange and well-defined shape of 
 his dream stood life-like before his mind : he looked towards 
 the corner round which she vanished, towards the spot where 
 she stood and bent over him; and he thought he yet felt her 
 kisses on his lips. " Has it come to this, then," he thought, not 
 without alarm, " that I dream by . day, and think I see her 
 before me ? To what madness will this lead ? No : I never 
 should have believed that any one could dream so vividly. It 
 is a sickness of the brain, a fever of the fancy ; and I am 
 almost disposed to believe that dreams can leave footprints 
 behind them, for those in the sand here are not the marks of 
 my foot." His glance fell on the bench where he had lain, 
 and he saw a folded paper : he took it up in great surprise. 
 There was no direction : it was folded like a billet-doux. He 
 debated a moment whether to open it or not ; but curiosity 
 prevailed : he opened it, and — a ring fell out. He held it in 
 his hand while he ran over the letter hastily. " Often am I 
 near thee, my noble benefactor ; often am I near thee, filled 
 with that inexpressible love which gratitude inspires, and 
 which will end only with life. I know thy noble heart beats 
 for me alone. Thou hast wandered through distant countries to 
 meet me, but in vain ; forget an unhappy creature ; for what 
 avails it ? There is happiness in the thought of being thine, 
 and thine only ; but it cannot be. Forever, was the word I 
 said, even then ! I love, indeed ; but fate condemns us to live 
 asunder : only in your memory is she allowed to live as The 
 Beggar-girl of the Pont-des-Arts." 
 
 Our hero a second time fancied he was dreaming; he 
 looked round inquiringly, but the well-known objects around 
 him — the arbor, the trees, the distant castle — were all in 
 their places, and he saw that he was really awake. And the 
 letter was there, — a real epistle, and no creation of fancy. 
 " Perhaps some one is playing me a trick," he thought : " it 
 must be so ; it is Josephine's work, and the figure I saw was 
 only a masquerade." He felt the ring lying in his hand, and 
 turned pale as he examined it. No, here was no trick : it was 
 the self-same ring he gave his beloved when he bade her fare- 
 well forever. Though at first tempted to indulge in supersti- 
 
90 THE BEGGAB-GIRL 
 
 tious feelings, the idea that finally gained the mastery was 
 that this token of his mistress indicated that she must be near 
 at hand. The idea was rapture : he would not allow himself 
 to doubt ; he would see her, and that soon. He pressed the 
 ring to his lips, and rushed out of the arbor. His glances 
 wandered in every direction in hopes of seeing her. But he 
 looked in vain. He asked the workmen in the garden, the 
 servants in the castle, whether they had seen any strange 
 lady. They had seen no one. He sat down to table in 
 perfect bewilderment. It was in vain that Faldner sought to 
 learn the cause of his embarrassment ; that the baroness 
 asked whether it was the scene of yesterday that dis- 
 turbed him ; his only answer was, " that something had hap- 
 pened which he should certainly call a miracle if his reason 
 did not overcome his superstitious feelings." 
 
 This strange occurrence, and the language of the note, which 
 he read over ten times a day, made him very thoughtful. He 
 began to consider whether it was possible for heavenly beings 
 to mingle among men. He had often laughed at the enthu- 
 siasts who believe in appearances and messages from another 
 world, and divine spirits that wait on man, as firmly as they 
 do in the gospel. He had often proved the physical impossi- 
 bility of such apparitions ; but what was he to think now ? He 
 determined' to forget it all. and the very next moment wearied 
 himself with efforts to render the recollection still more vivid. 
 The next day, it happened again that Josephine was too busy 
 in household affairs to entertain him, and he repaired to the 
 well-known arbor. He read ; and, as he did so, the thought 
 that perhaps she might appear again distracted his attention. 
 The mid-day heat was exhausting : he tried to keep himself 
 awake ; he read with more zeal and exertion ; but his head 
 gradually fell back, the book dropped from his hands, and he 
 fell asleep. 
 
 He awoke at about the same hour as on the day before, but 
 no green-veiled figure was in sight. He laughed at himself 
 for having expected her, and rose up sad and discontented to 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 91 
 
 return to the castle. All at once he saw a white handker- 
 chief lying near him, which he did not remember to have 
 placed there. He looked at it, and was sure it was his, for it 
 was marked with his initials. " How did this get here ? " he 
 asked himself in amazement, as he saw that it was one of the 
 handkerchiefs which his beloved had hemmed for him, and 
 which he always kept as sacredly as if they had been holy rel- 
 ics. " Is this another token ? " thought he, as he opened it in 
 the hope of finding another billet-doux. He was disappointed; 
 but he noticed something embroidered in one of the corners, 
 and, on examining it, he read the word, u Forever ! " " She has 
 been here, then ! " he exclaimed, " and I have slept through it 
 all like a sluggard ! Why this new token ? Why repeat those 
 sad words which have made me so unhappy already ? " He 
 again asked all the servants if they had seen any stranger in 
 the garden. They all said no ; and the old gardener added, 
 that no one had been in the garden for three hours but her 
 ladyship. " And how was she dressed ? " asked Froben in 
 great surprise. " Oh, sir, that's more than I can tell you," 
 was the answer. u She is always dressed like a lady; but 
 what she wore I can't tell you, by the same token, as she 
 passed, she nodded in her friendly way, and said, ' Good-day, 
 Jacob.' " Our hero took him aside. " I entreat you to tell 
 me," he whispered, " did she wear a green veil ? Had she 
 large black goggles ? " The old man looked at him suspi- 
 ciously, and shook his head. " Black goggles ! her ladyship 
 wear black goggles ! Why, how can you say so ? Her eyes 
 are as clear and sharp as a chamois', and she to wear black 
 goggles like the old women at church ! No, no, sir : you must 
 not let such foolish ideas get into your brain ; and excuse me, 
 sir, but the sun is so hot I think you had better put on a hat, 
 for fear of a stroke of the sun." So said the old gardener, 
 and walked away, touching his forehead with his forefinger, to 
 hint to the other servants that he was afraid there was some- 
 thing wrong in the young gentleman's upper story. 
 
 The only way Froben could account for this mysterious 
 proceeding was that it was unaccountable. And this strange 
 
92 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 way of sporting with his affections and his honor occupied 
 him so much that he did not see many things which otherwise 
 would hardly have escaped his notice. Josephine's eyes were 
 red when they met at table. The baron was cross and silent, 
 and seemed to be obliged to give vent to the ill-humor which 
 clouded his brow and eye, by an occasional curse at his wife's 
 bad cookery and worse housekeeping. She made no answer. 
 Sometimes she cast a glance at Froben, as though imploring • 
 his assistance or consolation. Alas ! she did not notice that 
 her husband watched those looks, and that they made the red 
 spot on his cheek grow deeper. As for Froben, he thought 
 it nothing unusual, and did not even take the trouble to ask 
 the baroness the reason of her husband's ill-humor ; nor did 
 he think it strange that she grew more reserved in Faldner's 
 presence ; and when his friend forced him to accompany him 
 on his visits to his farms, and spend the whole day with him in 
 measuring, viewing, and calculating, he only ascribed it to 
 his restless activity. One day, however, he was a little sur- 
 prised at his behavior. Faldner was waiting for him to ride 
 out, booted and spurred. He feigned slight illness as an ex- 
 cuse, and, on his adding, unsuspectingly, u Besides, you know 
 I must stay and read to your wife sometimes," the baron cried 
 out in high anger, " No, I will not have any more reading. 
 Every thing is going wrong already without that. I don't 
 want to have her head filled with such romantic notions as 
 I've seen a sample of lately. Eead to yourself, my dear fel- 
 low, and excuse me if I dispose of my wife otherwise. Go 
 down into the garden, Josephine : there are some vegetables to 
 be got ready for dinner ; and afterwards be good enough to go 
 to the clergyman's ; you have owed them a visit this long 
 time." Saying this, he took up his whip, and walked away. 
 " What does this mean ? what is the matter with him to- 
 day ? " Froben asked, in astonishment, seeing that Josephine 
 had hard work to keep from sobbing. " Oh^he is always so," 
 was her answer. " Your visit made a little difference at first, 
 but he is now himself again." " But, for heaven's sake ! " 
 cried Froben, " send one of your servants into the garden." 
 "I must not," she answered decidedly; "I must see to it my- 
 self." " And the visit to the clergyman's ? " " You have 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 93 
 
 heard that I must pay it ; let us say no more about it. But 
 yourself seemed changed within these few days ; you are not 
 so cheerful as you were. Do you find it disagreeable here ? 
 Has either my husband or myself done any thing that is un- 
 pleasant ? " 
 
 Froben was corifused. He was on the point of telling her 
 his strange adventure in the garden, but the idea of exposing 
 his weakness to her restrained him. " I received letters from 
 
 lately ; and, if my humor seems changed, they are the 
 
 cause," was his answer. She looked at him doubtingly : a reply 
 seemed to hover upon her lips ; but it seemed as if she was 
 hurt at the want of confidence his looks expressed, and she 
 suppressed it. She rang for her maid, and descended to the 
 garden without inviting him to accompany her. 
 
 Some hours later, he walked into the garden, and, on asking 
 for the baroness, was told that she had gone to the clergy- 
 man's. He hastened to the arbor, and sat down with a beat- 
 ing heart. He was determined to keep awake this time. " I 
 will see," said he, " whether this being that hovers round my 
 steps so strangely will bring me a third token. I will pretend 
 to sleep : and, by my life, if it comes again, I will find out 
 what it is ! " He read till noon, then lay down upon the seat, 
 and closed his eyes. He was more than once nearly over- 
 powered by sleep ; but expectation, uneasiness, and his firm 
 resolution to shake off the heavy dew of slumber, kept him 
 awake. He had lain so for perhaps half an hour, when the 
 shrubbery rustled. He half opened his eyes, and saw how two 
 white hands parted the branches gently, so as to get a view 
 of the sleeper. Then light, light steps were pressed upon the 
 gravel. He looked by stealth at the entrance of the arbor ; 
 and his heart was ready to burst with impatient joy, when he 
 saw his beloved in her black cloak and hat, the green veil 
 thrown back, and the black half mask before the upper part 
 of her sweet face. 
 
 She approached on tiptoe. He saw that a deeper glow 
 tinged her cheeks as she drew nearer. She eyed the sleeper 
 fixedly, sighed deeply, and seemed to wipe away a tear. 
 
94 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 Then she came up to him, bent down, — her breath was upon 
 his lips, — she bent yet lower, and her mouth rested upon his 
 as gently as the rosy morning alights upon the hill. 
 
 He could not restrain himself longer. He threw his arms 
 around her, and she sank upon her knees with a short cry of 
 terror. He sprang up in great alarm, supposing that she had 
 fainted ; but it was not so. Filled with delight at finding her 
 again, he raised her up, and drew her to a seat beside him. 
 He covered her face with glowing kisses ; he clasped her closer 
 and closer. " No : this is no vision of fancy. I hold thee in my 
 arms as I once did. I love thee as I did then, and am happy ; 
 for thou lovest me too." Her cheeks were crimson. She 
 made no answer, but tried to free herself from his embrace. 
 " No : this time I will not let you go," he cried. " I will hold 
 you fast this time, and no power on earth shall tear me from 
 you. Come, away with this envious mask. I will see the 
 whole of that lovely face. Ah ! I have often beheld it in my 
 dreams." She seemed to wish to resist ; she drew her breath 
 heavily, and struggled with him ; but our hero's ecstasy of 
 delight at this unexpected discovery soon made him the con- 
 queror. He held her arms with one hand, with the other he 
 threw back her hat, untied the mask, and saw — his friend's 
 wife. " Josephine ! " he cried in despair, as though an abyss 
 opened before him. She sat beside him pale, stupefied, and 
 speechless, and only said with a sad smile, " Yes, Josephine." 
 " Have you been trifling with me so V " he a^ked ; and all his 
 hopes and his happiness vanished. u You might have spared 
 me this masquerade. But," as a new idea flashed upon him, 
 " tell me, for Heaven's sake, where did you get this ring, this 
 handkerchief? " 
 
 She blushed, wept, and hid her face. " This will not do : I 
 must have an answer." He went on, " The ring and handker- 
 chief are mine. How did they come into your hands ? " 
 
 " From thee ! " was all she whispered. A new light came 
 upon him ; it almost dazzled him : but he embraced her, and 
 gazed at her with looks of love and wonder. " You, you are 
 she ; and it is no dream ! " he exclaimed. " Did I hear aright ? 
 Did you say that you were my beloved girl ? O heavens ! 
 what a cloud was upon my eyes ! Yes, these are her cheeks, 
 
OF THE POXT-DES-ABTS. 95 
 
 this her mouth ; and this is not the first time I have kissed it ! " 
 She looked at him with loving eves. " What would have 
 become of me without you, noble-hearted man ! " she went 
 on ; and the light of her eyes was quenched in tears. " I 
 bring you the blessing of my dying mother. You made her 
 last days quiet, and relieved her from the load of misery that 
 lay so heavy on her. How can I ever thank you ? what 
 would I have been without you ? But," and she hid her face 
 in her hands. " what am I now ? The wife of another, the 
 wife of thy friend ! " He saw that her bosom heaved with 
 grief, and streams of tears flowed through her fingers. He 
 felt how deeply she must love him, and he never thought of 
 reproaching her for having given herself to another. "It is 
 so," said he gloomily, drawing her closer, as though he feared 
 to lose her, — " it is so ; let us think that it must be so, other- 
 wise we should have been too happy. But in this minute you 
 are wholly mine. Fancy that you are once more coming 
 across the Place de 1'Ecoie de Medecine, and that I am wait- 
 ing for you. Oh, come ! embrace me as you did then ! Oh, 
 embrace me for once, only once ! " She hung upon his neck, 
 lost in recollection. The remembrance of the present gradu- 
 ally melted away ; bright and cheering thoughts rose up ; a 
 sweet smile played upon her lips, and dimpled her cheeks. 
 " And did you not know me V " she asked. " And did you not 
 know me?" he asked in return. "Ah!" she said, "I 
 watched your features closely, and thought they were printed 
 on my heart ; yet 1 did not know you. Perhaps it was 
 because 1 only saw you at night, always wrapped in a cloak, 
 with your hat pulled over your eyes. The first night you 
 came, when you called to Faidner, ' Farewell till we meet 
 again,' I thought 1 knew the tone ; but I laughed at myself 
 for my folly. But, the moment you named the Poni-des-Arts, 
 I saw that your face brightened, and I felt that it was you. 
 That vou did.not recognize me is not wonderful : I have grown 
 very pale since then ; have I not V " 
 
 " Josephine ! where were my senses, where was mine eye, 
 mine ear, that I did not know you V The first time we met, a 
 pleasing alarm seized me. you were so like the portrait which 
 chance led me to love, because it was so like vou. But the 
 
96 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 discovery of your mother's family led me astray. I beheld in 
 you only the daughter of the lovely Doiia Laura de Tortosi, 
 and my spirit wandered far away in search of yourself. 5 ' 
 
 " heavens ! " she cried, " is it true, is it possible ? Can 
 you love me still ? " — " Can I not, — but must I, ought I ? " 
 was his sad answer. " You are the Baroness von Faldner ; 
 tell me, tell me how this happened. Could you not wait a 
 little while for me ? " 
 
 She dried her tears, and made an effort to compose herself 
 before she answered him thus : "It seemed as though ill 
 fortune had contrived every thing so as to make me as 
 unhappy as possible. When you left us, I had no friend. 
 From the very first moment, when you asked your companion 
 for money in our dear mother-tongue, my heart was yours ; 
 and, when you supplied our wants with such nobleness of 
 mind and delicacy, I wanted to clasp you to my heart, and to 
 confess that I worshipped you almost as a being of a higher 
 order. When you left us, I wept bitterly, for a painful fore- 
 boding told me that we should never meet again. My mother 
 died suddenly a week afterwards. The money you gave us 
 enabled me to pay for her interment, and to discharge our 
 little debts. A lady, the Countess Landskrau, who lived in 
 the neighborhood, heard of us, and sent for me. She exam- 
 ined me as to my education, looked carefully at my mother's 
 papers, and seemed satisfied. I became her companion, and 
 we left Paris. I will not tell you how my heart bled at the 
 idea. In a fortnight you would return, and I would have had 
 a chance of seeing you again. It was not to be, Edward : I 
 never heard of you afterwards. I did not even know your 
 name, and thought you must have long since forgotten the 
 beggar-girl. I lived on the bounty of strangers. I had to 
 endure many mortifications. When the countess came to live 
 here, and Faldner paid court to me ; when I saw that the 
 countess innocently regarded it as an excellent match, that 
 she was very probably tired of me, — I had been happy only 
 once in my life, and could not hope ever to be so again, — 
 every thing else was indifferent to me, and I became his 
 wife." 
 
 " Poor creature ! Why, with your tender heart, your deli- 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 97 
 
 cate sensibilities, your many claims to a more dignified station 
 at least, — why were you fated to be Ids wife ? But so it is ; 
 and I cannot, must not, remain here a single day longer. 
 Rough as he is, I have once called him friend. I am now his 
 guest ; and, even if this was not, we can never be happy." 
 
 He spoke in deep sorrow, and he kissed her eyes only to 
 avoid being yet more unmanned by the grief he read in them. 
 
 " Oh, stay but one day ! " she whispered. " I have but just 
 found you, and yet you want to leave me. When you are gone, 
 the door of happiness is closed to me forever ; and I want a 
 few recollections to live upon in the wide desert in which my 
 lot is cast." 
 
 " I will confess every thing to Faldner," cried Froben. 
 " He will cast you off, and then I may claim you. My house 
 is not so finely situated as his castle ; you can take in all my 
 estate from its roof; but within my domains you shall be 
 queen, and I your first and truest slave." 
 
 She only shook her head. " Such are your doctrines. I 
 was brought up and married in the holy Catholic Church, and 
 nothing but death can ever make me free. How often our 
 wishes are at variance with our duty ! " 
 
 M Farewell, then, forever," he added gloomily ; " but till 
 to-morrow, and then forever ! " 
 
 " Forever," she whispered, and clung to his breast. 
 
 " What, do I find you here, miserable strumpet ? " cried at 
 this moment a third person, who stood near them. Both 
 sprang up in terror. Before them, trembling and gnashing 
 his teeth with rage, stood the baron, holding in one hand a 
 paper, in the other a whip, which he was about to let fall on 
 the fair shoulders of his unhappy wife. Froben interposed, 
 took the whip from him, and flung it away, saying, u I beg of 
 you not to make a scene here. Your people are in the gar- 
 den, and such violence would only disgrace you and your 
 house." 
 
 " What ! " cried Faldner, " is not my house enough dis- 
 graced already by this wretched creature, — this beggar that 
 I have entertained in it V Do you suppose I don't know your 
 handwriting ? " he asked, showing her the paper. " Here is a 
 sweet letter to the gay gallant, the hero of the romance. So 
 7 
 
98 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 I was fated to marry a lady who had first been under your 
 care ; and, when you are tired of her, honest Faidner is at 
 hand to make her her ladyship ; then, some six months after 
 or so, the first friend comes, by mere accident, on a visit, just 
 to renew an old acquaintance. As to that, you shall answer 
 me, villain ! As for this pauper, she may take her plate and 
 lantern, and go back to the Pont-des-Arts, or live on your 
 wages. My servants shall horsewhip her out of the castle ! " 
 
 The man of breeding has, at such times, a decided advan- 
 tage over a vulgar adversary, whose anger makes him lose 
 reason and self-command, and consequently bewilders. One 
 glance at Josephine, who lay pale and trembling on the mossy 
 bank, told Froben what was to be done. He gave her his 
 arm, and led her to the castle. The baron eyed them with 
 rage : he was on the point of calling his servants to execute 
 his threat, but was kept back by the fear of making his dis- 
 grace still more public. He hurried up to the parlor, where 
 he found Josephine lying in tears on the sofa, hiding her face 
 in the pillow, and Froben standing silently at a window. He 
 ran around the room in fury ; he cursed himself for having 
 married such a creature. " If there is any law left in the 
 country, I will be rid of her ! " he cried : " she has given me 
 false certificates : the pauper represented herself to be of no- 
 ble birth ; the marriage is null and void ! " 
 
 " That is certainly the best thing you can do," rejoined 
 Froben, " if you only set about it in the right way." 
 
 "Ha, sir!" roared the baron, " are you laughing at me, 
 after bringing on me this disgrace V Come along : we don't 
 need a court of law to separate us ; that can be done in a 
 moment ; come along ! " 
 
 Josephine, understanding what he meant, sprang up : she 
 flung herself at his feet, and begged him to punish her alone. 
 She assured him that Froben was innocent ; she confessed that 
 she had written the letter, and declared that he had not dis- 
 covered who she was till that morning. Our hero interrupted 
 her, and led her back to the sofa. " Before taking such a 
 step as you hint at, I generally make my arrangements, and 
 I advise you to do the same," he said coolly. " First of all, 
 the baroness must leave the castle, for I will not suffer her to 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 99 
 
 remain here when I am not present to protect her from your 
 ill-treatment." 
 
 " You act as if you felt yourself at home," replied the bar- 
 on ironically ; " but I had nearly forgotten madam was once 
 your property. Where shall we take the sweet creature, 
 then ? To the poor-house, to a hospital, or to the next hedge, 
 to follow her trade ? " 
 
 Froben did not answer him ; turning to Josephine, he asked, 
 " Does the countess still live in the neighborhood ? Cannot 
 you find a home there for a few days ? " 
 
 " I will go to her," she murmured. 
 
 u Yerj well. Faldner will have the goodness to send you 
 there, and you can remain till Faldner finds out how unjust 
 he has been towards us ? " 
 
 Josephine went to the countess's. Froben advised her to 
 make her visit a short one, promising to inform her of her hus- 
 band's movements, and to persuade him, if possible, to a recon- 
 ciliation. " No ! " she cried passionately, " within these walls 
 I will never appear again. I turn my back upon them for- 
 ever. Believe me, a woman can bear much; and I have been 
 very patient ; but to-day he has insulted me too deeply to be 
 forgotten. Even if I have to go back to the Pont-des-Arts, 
 to beg for a couple of sous, I would rather do it than submit 
 to such insults from such a man. My father was a gallant 
 soldier and esteemed officer of the empire, and his daughter 
 cannot stoop to be Faldner's maid-servant." 
 
 Froben began packing up when she left, and was busy 
 writiug a letter or two when Faldner entered his room. He 
 was surprised to see his host, and expected a new burst of 
 passion. But it was not so : he only said, " The more I read 
 this unlucky letter, which I found in your room this forenoon, 
 the more am I convinced that you are not to blame in this 
 wretched affair ; that is, that you did not know the person : 
 that I found my wife in your arms, I freely forgive you, for 
 that woman ceased to belong to me the moment she wrote 
 that silly letter." 
 
100 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 " I am glad, for the sake of our old friendship," answered 
 Froben, " that you view the matter in this light ; and, more- 
 over, it enables me to speak coolly with you. In the first 
 place, I give you my word that neither to-day nor ever before 
 did any thing pass between us which would cast the least 
 reflection on your honor; that she was a poor girl once, that 
 she was compelled to ask for charity " — 
 
 " No, no ; say at once that she went round begging," cried 
 Faldner, " and strolled about the streets and squares of that 
 wicked Paris by night to earn money. I might have had the 
 honor of her acquaintance then, if I had chosen it ; for I was 
 present at the moving scene on the Pont-des-Arts. No ; even 
 if I could believe what you tell me, I am still disgraced : the 
 Faldner family and a beggar-girl ! " 
 
 " Her father and mother were of noble birth " — 
 
 " Stuff, nonsense ! What a fool I was for letting myself be 
 taken in so ! I might as well have married the bar-maid at 
 the village alehouse, if she carried a beer-glass in her coat of 
 arms, and brought me false registers ! " 
 
 " That is a matter of small consequence in my eyes : the 
 main point is, that from the very first you treated her like a 
 servant, and not a wife. She could not love you : you are 
 not suited for each other." 
 
 " That is the right word," replied the baron ; " we are not 
 suited to each other : the Baron von Faldner and a beggar- 
 girl cannot suit each other. I am very glad now that I fol- 
 lowed my own ideas, and always treated her so : it was what 
 she deserved. I always said there was something vulgar 
 about her." 
 
 His rudeness irritated our hero ; and he was about to make 
 a sharp answer, but checked himself for Josephine's sake. 
 The baron informed him that he meant to bring the whole 
 affair before the civil tribunal, and allege mutual aversion as 
 
 a reason for divorce 
 
 . . . . It is true, that, with the different religious faith 
 of the two lovers, neither of them could indulge the hopes of 
 a new union ; but Josephine, sad as her future prospects might 
 be, preferred any thing to the disgraceful treatment to which 
 she had been subjected. As for her husband, though a feel- 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 101 
 
 ing of remorse sometimes attacked him in a solitary hour, he 
 sought diversion in business, and consolation in the thought 
 that nobody was acquainted with the stain his escutcheon had 
 suffered in making a beggar-girl of doubtful character the 
 Baroness von Faldner. 
 
 A few weeks after these events, Froben was walking up 
 and down the bridge at Mentz. While he was lost in thought, 
 a travelling-carriage rolled past him, whose strange appear- 
 ance attracted general notice. Our hero's eyes were fastened 
 more strongly on the servant upon the box, whose cheerful 
 brown face seemed as familiar to him as the gaudy colors of 
 his livery. As the carriage approached slowly, the servant 
 noticed him in turn, and cried, " Santiago de Compostella ! — 
 there he is himself!" He jumped down, opened the coach- 
 door, and out peeped the well-known features of Don Pedro. 
 Our hero hastened to greet him, and the old man embraced 
 him joyfully. " Where is she ? where is my Laura's daugh- 
 ter ? In the name of the Holy Mary, is she here ? — tell me, 
 — tell me at once ! " Froben was at a loss what to say : he 
 merely told him that she was then living near the city, and 
 that he should see her the next morning. 
 
 Tears of joy stood in the Spaniard's eyes. " How much 
 am I indebted to you, my dear young friend, for giving me 
 news of her ! " he cried. " As soon as I could get leave of 
 absence, Diego got the coach ready, and I drove twenty miles 
 a day, so great was my impatience ! And is she living hap- 
 pily ? does she look like her mother ? " Froben avoided 
 answering these questions till he had led Don Pedro to his 
 lodgings. The generous juice of Xeres was produced, Diego 
 handed him a cigar and a light, as usual, and, as soon as he 
 was comfortably settled, our hero began to tell his story. The 
 Spaniard listened with deep interest ; to Diego's great vexa- 
 tion, he let his cigar go out, for the first time in twenty years ; 
 and, when Froben came to the violent scene between Faldner 
 and his unhappy wife, his southern blood began to boil ; he 
 pulled his hat down on his forehead, wrapped his cloak 
 
102 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 round the left arm, and cried, with flashing eyes, " Bring me 
 my long rapier, Diego. As true as I am a good Christian and 
 a Spanish cavalier, I will have the wretch's life ; I will run 
 him through, if he had a crucifix on his breast ; I will make 
 an end of him without the sacrament and without absolution, 
 that I will! My rapier, I say, Diego!" Our hero tried to 
 soothe the old man, exhausted by his own violence, and showed 
 him that this was useless, as Josephine was no longer in her 
 oppressor's power. The next morning they went to the 
 countess. It was a moving sight to look 'upon, as the old 
 man embraced Josephine's blooming, youthful figure, and 
 eyed every feature closely, till his own stern* expression re- 
 laxed ; and with what deep emotion he kissed her eyes and 
 lips ! " Yes, you are my Laura's daughter ! " he exclaimed. 
 " You have nothing of your father but his golden hair : in all 
 your features you are a Tortosi ! Be henceforth my daughter, 
 my dear child : I am rich ; I have no kinsmen ; you are 
 nearer and dearer to me than any one else on earth, and no 
 one else has so good a claim to you ! " The sidelong glances 
 Josephine sometimes cast at Froben seemed to express some 
 doubt as to this last assertion ; but she kissed his hand respect- 
 fully, and called him her second father. 
 
 The joy of meeting lasted but a short time. Don Pedro 
 related that business called him back to Portugal, and that 
 he did not see why Josephine might not go with him at once. 
 He was so firmly attached to every doctrine of the church that 
 he did not conceive the possibility of Froben's seeking to wed 
 Josephine, the divorced wife of another. (What the views of 
 the lovers may have been as to this point, we have not 
 learned ; we only know that Froben sometimes hinted at the 
 propriety of her turning Lutheran, which she declined sadly, 
 but firmly.) Our hero then proposed to her to let Don Pe- 
 dro depart, and to remain in Germany, promising to remain 
 her friend, if he could not be her husband. This, too, she 
 declined, confessing frankly that she feared her own weak- 
 ness too much, and that now her misfortunes had made her so 
 proud that she could not bear the idea of lowering herself in 
 the eyes of one whom she esteemed as much as she loved him. 
 She had other and nobler reasons, too. " Why," she thought 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. 103 
 
 to herself, " should he waste the flower of his life in devotion 
 to an unfortunate creature who can never be his ? Why 
 should he give up the prospect of domestic happiness, of a 
 family and a home, for my sake ? No ; time will assuage his 
 grief ; and he will one day forget an unhappy woman who will 
 think of him, love him, and pray for him to the last moment 
 of her life." 
 
 It seemed, therefore, as though Josephine's prophetic fare- 
 well, ' ; forever," was yet to receive its fulfilment. Don Pedro 
 and his newly-found kinswoman left the countess's estate, to 
 take shipping in Holland. Froben, who was kept alive only 
 by the hope of soon joining them in Portugal, accompanied 
 them on their journey ; and, when she begged him not to pro- 
 long the pain of separation, he entreated her, in return, " only 
 to the sea, and then — farewell ! " 
 
 In the month of August, in the same year, an English ship 
 was lying at Ostend, bound for Portugal. About nine o'clock, 
 on a lovely cloudless morning, a shot was fired from the vessel, 
 as a signal for the passengers to embark. A boat came off to 
 the shore, and took away a number, with their baggage. Be- 
 fore it returned, there came down to the beach a party of 
 four persons, evidently of a superior rank to the other passen- 
 gers. A tall, elderly man stepped majestically in front : he 
 wore a broad-leafed hat, and his cloak hung so gracefully 
 from his shoulders, that one of the sailors swore " if the old 
 fellow wasn't a Spaniard, he'd eat him." After him came a 
 young gentleman, escorting a lady. He looked pale, and 
 seemed trying to conquer his own grief, in order to speak some 
 words of comfort to the lady in hers. Her features were dis- 
 figured by weeping, and her lips pressed convulsively to- 
 gether. A hat with waving feathers, a costly dress of heavy 
 silk, with rich chains on neck and bosom, seemed ill-suited for 
 a sea-voyage, and seemed to indicate that she had only come 
 to see the young man off. Behind the pair came a servant, 
 who wore his black hair in a Spanish net, and carried a huge 
 umbrella under his arm. 
 
104 THE BEGGAR-GIRL 
 
 When they reached the shore, the lady clung to her com- 
 panion so closely that the feathers she wore hid his face and 
 his tears from the eyes of the spectators. The old man stood 
 a little way off, wrapped in his mantle, and looking at the sea. 
 His eye glistened, either with a tear, or the reflection from the 
 waves. The boat came plashing up ; a plank was thrown out ; 
 the old man shook his young friend's hand heartily, and 
 walked rapidly over it, followed by Diego. The young peo- 
 ple embraced each other again, and the gentleman prepared 
 to lead her to the boat. " Forever ! " she whispered, with a 
 melancholy smile. " Forever ! " sighed the young man in 
 reply. She stood, by this time, on the plank : the mate, a 
 bluff Englishman, stood ready to receive her, and had already 
 stretched out his broad hand, and was getting ready some well- 
 meant commonplace consolation. Then she turned her dark 
 eye away from the boundless ocean, and it rested on her 
 lover. He stood with outstretched arms on the shore : in his 
 features the rapture of love was mingled with the anguish of 
 parting. Then she seemed as if she could control herself no 
 longer : she sprang to the shore, and in a moment hung 
 upon our hero's neck. " No — I cannot go across the sea ! " 
 she cried : " I will stay here ; I will do any thing you ask me ; 
 I will abandon a faith that prevents my being yours. You are 
 now my country, my kindred, my all : I will stay in Ger- 
 many ! " 
 
 " Josephine ! my Josephine ! " exclaimed Froben, pressing 
 her to his heart in a storm of delight ; " mine, then, forever ! 
 Heaven has inspired you ; for, oh ! the pain of parting would 
 have killed me." They were close-locked in each other's 
 arms when the Spaniard came on shore to part them. " Come, 
 children," he said, " one leave-taking ought to have contented 
 you : come, Josephine, it's of no use to wait ; the ship is going 
 to fire for the last time." — " Let them fire a broadside, if they 
 choose, Don Pedro," cried Froben joyfully : " she stays here 
 — she stays with me." "What do I hear?" rejoined the 
 Spaniard, gravely : " I hope it is not as the cavalier supposes. 
 Will you not follow your kinsman, Josephine ? " 
 
 "No!" she answered boldly. "As I stood there in the 
 boat, and looked at the ocean that was soon to divide us, a 
 
OF THE PONT-DES-ABTS. 105 
 
 voice within told me what I ought to do. My mother showed 
 me the way : she followed the man of her heart through the 
 wide world ; she left father and mother. I know what I ought 
 to do. Here stands the man to whom I owe the peace of my 
 mother's last moments, life, honor, every thing ; and shall I 
 leave him? Greet, for me, the graves of my ancestors in 
 Valencia, Don Pedro, and tell them there is yet one of the 
 Tortosi blood left who values love more than life." 
 
 Don Pedro was moved. " Follow your heart, then : per- 
 haps it prompts you better than an old man like me could do. 
 I know that, at least, you will be happy in the arms of this 
 cavalier, and I know the honor of our family is as dear to 
 him as his own. But, Don Frobenio, what will you say to 
 your proud kindred when you present to them this child of 
 misfortune ? Will you have the courage to endure the sneers 
 of the world?" 
 
 " Farewell, Don Pedro," answered our hero, boldly, hold- 
 ing out one hand to the Spaniard, while with the other he 
 clasped his mistress ; " be of good courage, and do not doubt 
 me. I will show her to the world ; and when any one asks, 
 ' Pray, who was she ? ' I will reply, with pride, ' The beggar- 
 girl of the Pont-des-Arts ! ' " 
 
 CARPE DIEM. 
 
 BY MRS. A. G. WOOLSON.* 
 
 Ah Jennie, dear ! 'tis half a year 
 
 Since we sang late and long, my love, 
 As home o'er dusky fields we came, 
 While Venus lit her tender flame 
 In silent plains above. 
 
 I scarcely knew if rain or dew 
 
 Had made the grass so fresh and sweet ; 
 I only felt the misty gloom 
 Was filled with scent of hidden bloom 
 
 That bent beneath our feet. 
 * Concord, N.H. 
 
106 GARPE DIEM. 
 
 In songs we tried our hearts to hide, 
 
 And each to crush a voiceless pain : 
 With bitter force my love returned, 
 But dared not hope that passion burned 
 Where once it met disdain. 
 
 Thus singing still, we reached the hill, 
 And on it faced a breeze of June : 
 
 White rolled the mist along the lea ; 
 
 But eastward flashed a throbbing sea 
 Beneath the rising moon. 
 
 Your lips apart, as if your heart 
 
 Had something it would say to mine, 
 I saw you with your dreamy glance 
 Far sent, in some delicious trance, 
 Beyond the silver shine. 
 
 The hour supreme, that in my dream 
 
 Should bring me bliss for aye, was come ; 
 But, though my heart was fit to break, 
 The scornful words that once you spake 
 Smote all its pleadings dumb. 
 
 No note or word the silence stirred 
 
 As we resumed our homeward -tread ; 
 Below we heard the cattle browse, 
 And wakeful birds within the boughs 
 Move softly overhead. 
 
 The hour was late, when at the gate 
 We lingered ere we spake adieu : 
 
 Your white hand plucked from near the door 
 
 A lily's queenly cup, and tore 
 Each waxen leaf in two. 
 
 My hope grew bold, and I had told 
 Anew my love, my fate had known ; 
 
 But then a quick Good-night I heard, 
 
 A sudden whirring like a bird. 
 And there I stood alone. 
 
MARY BY THE CROSS. 107 
 
 Thus love-bereft my heart was left, 
 
 At swinging of *that cruel door ; 
 So shut the gates of Paradise 
 Upon the fools who dare not twice 
 
 Ask bliss denied before. 
 
 Yes, Jennie, dear, 'tis half a year : 
 
 But all my doubts, my fears, are flown ; 
 
 For did I not on yesternight 
 
 Read once again your love aright, 
 And dare proclaim my own ? 
 
 MARY BY THE CROSS. 
 
 Jews were wrought to cruel madness ; 
 Christians fled in fear and sadness ; 
 Mary stood the cross beside. 
 
 At its foot her foot she planted, 
 By the dreadful scene undaunted, 
 Till the gentle Sufferer died. 
 
 Poets oft have sung her story, 
 Painters decked her brow with glory, 
 Priests her name have deified ; 
 
 But no worship, song, or glory 
 Touches like that simple story, — 
 Mary stood the cross beside. 
 
 And when, under fierce oppression, 
 
 Goodness suffers like transgression, 
 
 Christ again is crucified : 
 
 But if love be there, true-hearted, 
 By no grief or terror parted, 
 
 Mary stands the cross beside. 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OE LYONS.* 
 
 My history is composed of the most singular circumstances. 
 Compelled by the circumstances of my birth to associate with 
 beings of the most abject class, my elevation was the work of 
 human malice. That evil of society, which ruins so many 
 fortunes, laid the solid foundation of mine. I am married, 
 rich, and happy, from having been the docile instrument of 
 an extraordinary act of malevolence. 
 
 I was born in a little hamlet situated in the neighborhood 
 of Montelemart. My father had made many fruitless efforts 
 to raise himself above indigence. His last resource in his old 
 age arose from the exercise of a trade which he had acquired 
 in his youth, — that of a bellows-mender. This, though not a 
 very brilliant occupation, was the work at which I was placed 
 at that time of life when I was thought capable of earning 
 my livelihood. Satisfied at first in following this business 
 under the inspection of my father, nature had endowed me 
 with an industrious disposition ; and I soon rivalled, and even 
 excelled, my master. Ambition led me to imagine my talents 
 were fitted for a wider sphere, and some of my excursions as 
 far as the gates of Montelemart succeeded beyond my wishes. 
 After furnishing all I could spare for the support of my father 
 in his old age, I found means to gather a little sum of money, 
 which enabled me to undertake a journey to Lyons. I made 
 my appearance in that great city, amply provided with such 
 articles as belonged to my profession ; and the public places, 
 and most crowded streets, soon resounded with my cries. I 
 was young, dexterous, and well-formed; I sold my wares 
 
 * This story, translated from the French, has an added interest, from 
 the fact that it furnished Bulwer with the leading incidents of the plot 
 of his celebrated play, " The Lady of Lyons." 
 108 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 109 
 
 rapidly, and became a general favorite with the servant- 
 maids, which was the utmost limit of my ambition at this 
 time. 
 
 Returning home late one evening to my little garret, 
 which served me for a warehouse as well as a lodging, I 
 was accosted by four well-dressed young men, who seemed 
 to be taking an evening walk. We were in one of the 
 most solitary streets of the quarter of St. Clair. They 
 threw out a few pleasantries on the lateness of the evening, 
 accompanied by sarcasms on my profession of bellows-mender, 
 which I answered in a style of raillery, at which they appeared 
 to be surprised. I saw them look at each other significantly, 
 and immediately after heard them say, u This is our man." 
 I own that these words alarmed me. finding myself alone in 
 the dark, without any means of resistance, and at the mercy 
 of four stout young men. What would become of me, was 
 the reflection that occupied my mind ; when one of them, who 
 guessed at the cause of my terror, soon dispelled it by saying 
 to me in a tone of affability, — 
 
 " Perourou," — the name which the people of Lyons give 
 their bellows-menders, — " Perourou," said he, " you, prob- 
 ably, have not supped ; neither have we. Our supper is 
 ready, will you join us ? Our intention is to do you more 
 good than you have any idea of. Come and sup with us, 
 and after supper we will talk with you. Do not be afraid : 
 we are gentlemen. If you will not enter into our schemes, 
 we shall only require your promise of secrecy, which you will 
 run no risk in keeping." 
 
 There was something in the voice of the person who spoke 
 to me, as well as in the proposition itself, so seductive, that 
 I accepted the offer without hesitation. My new acquaint- 
 ances, after having made me cross several streets, entered a 
 house, and conducted me into an apartment elegantly fur- 
 nished, where we found six other young men, who seemed to 
 have been waiting for their friends impatiently. A short 
 explanation followed concerning me, and we sat down to 
 supper. I had the honor of making the company laugh by 
 some of my arch observations, and confirmed them in the 
 good opinion with which it was necessary they should be 
 
110 THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 
 
 impressed, before they would come to a further explana- 
 tion. The servants withdrew, after placing the dessert on 
 the table, and for a few minutes a profound silence prevailed 
 throughout the assembly, which till then had been sufficiently 
 noisy. 
 
 At length, he who presided at the repast addressed me in 
 the following words : — 
 
 " The ten persons with whom you have supped are all 
 citizens of Lyons. "We are engravers : our joint-profits, 
 with what we obtain from our families, afford us an easy 
 independence ; and we also acquire by our talents a consid- 
 erable share of reputation. The happiness we enjoyed has 
 been lately disturbed by love on the one side, and pride on 
 the other. In the street of St. Dominic lives a picture-mer- 
 chant, who is himself an ordinary man, but who has a daugh- 
 ter eminently beautiful. The city of Lyons, extensive as it 
 is, contains not another masterpiece worthy of being placed 
 on a level with this charming creature. Possessed of every 
 accomplishment, and endowed with every grace, all her 
 amiable qualities are shaded by one single defect ; and that 
 defect is an insupportable pride. Vain of being the object 
 of general admiration, she fondly imagines that none ought 
 to aspire to her hand under the rank of a prince. Her 
 father, who is a tolerably good connoisseur in painting, but 
 who has a very limited understanding with respect to every 
 thing else, has entirely spoiled her by adulation amounting 
 almost to idolatry. Novels, her looking-glass, and habitual 
 compliments from all around her, have raised self-love into 
 vanity, and vanity into arrogance, and the most lofty dis- 
 dain towards all who are not decorated with the marks of 
 opulence or the distinctions of rank. I had the honor 
 of engaging her notice, from my connections in business 
 with her father. Sometimes she accorded me the singular 
 privilege* of giving me her hand at a ball, or of attending 
 her to the theatre. These slight favors turned my brain. 
 I thought myself beloved, because I was preferred to others ; 
 and ventured to unfold my pretensions to her father, who 
 lent a favorable ear to my offers. Indeed, my family, 
 profession, fortune, and situation gave me a right to pre- 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 sume that my alliance would be agreeable to the youncr 
 lady. Judge of my surprise, when, on the first overture 
 respecting marriage, the insolent girl, in my presence, 
 answered her father in a tone of the most haughty arro- 
 gance, ' Do you think, sir, that a young woman like me 
 was born for nothing better than an engraver ? ' 
 
 " I confess that this insolent and imprudent remark 
 extinguished every sentiment of love in my bosom ; and 
 love, when fled, is easily followed by a desire of revenge. 
 ' My friends,' I exclaimed to those who now surround me, 
 ' this disdainful girl has, in my person, committed a general 
 outrage against us all. Espouse my cause, and let us form 
 such a plan as shall serve to show her that she has not 
 indeed been born to the honor of becoming the wife of an 
 engraver/ 
 
 " Such is my history. Do you feel sufficient confidence, 
 and think yourself endowed with sufficient discretion, to 
 merit being raised above your present condition ? Beneath 
 the abject covering which now disguises you, it is easy to 
 discern that you have some soul, and no common share of 
 understanding. Will you venture to become the husband 
 of a charming woman, who, to attain perfection, wants only 
 to have her pride mortified, and her vanity punished ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered I with firmness. " I perfectly compre- 
 hend the part which you would have me to act, and I will 
 fulfil it in such a manner that you shall have no reason 
 to blush for your pupil. " 
 
 The following day we conferred together, as we did ever 
 after, with extreme precaution. During a whole week, I 
 bathed two hours every morning and evening, to get rid 
 of my tinkering skin and complexion. In the interval of 
 bathing, the most elegant hair-dressers of Lyons gave my 
 long tresses the form most in fashion. My ten friends fur- 
 nished me with assortments of the finest linen, and the 
 most elegant dresses for the various seasons ; and were soon 
 so fond of their work, that we became inseparable. Almost 
 their whole time was employed in giving me instructions. 
 One taught me to read ; another to write ; another gave 
 me some ideas of drawing, a few lessons in music, a little, 
 
112 THE BELLOWS-MENDEB OF LYONS. 
 
 in short, of every thing : so that, during three months, my 
 time, thoughts, and attention were wholly absorbed in my 
 studies ; and I soon perceived that this kind of life suited 
 perfectly my taste. I felt incited to carry to perfection these 
 first rudiments of my new education, which had become 
 my chief delight. Nature had furnished me not only with 
 a disposition for study, but with a memory so retentive, 
 that my friends observed with some astonishment the rapid 
 progress of their disciple. 
 
 At length, they thought me sufficiently accomplished to 
 carry their projects into full execution, and I was removed 
 from my closet to take possession of a spacious suite of apart- 
 ments in one of the first hotels in Lyons. The bellows- 
 mender disappeared altogether, to make way for the rich 
 Marquis of Rouperou, principal proprietor of the mines of 
 Dauphiny. It was under this title that I presented myself 
 to the picture-merchant, as a purchaser who paid little atten- 
 tion to a few louis, provided he met with pieces that were 
 original. A most perfect imitator of my experienced tutors, 
 I had learnt to twirl my seals, display my repeating watch 
 with an air of indifference, show the brilliant which I wore 
 on my finger, or handle an elegant snuff-box, on which was 
 painted a fancy portrait, which, I modestly observed, was the 
 picture of a beloved sister. 
 
 I was desirous of pleasing, and easily succeeded ; but it 
 was not enough to impose on the father. In order to fulfil 
 the views of my patrons, the daughter must also be deceived. 
 While I was meditating on this point, the picture-merchant 
 gave me notice that he had just received a superb collection 
 of engravings from Rome ; requesting me to call the same 
 morning, as he would not expose them for sale till I should 
 have made my choice. 
 
 I hastened to his house, unconscious of the fate that awaited 
 me. Instead of being received as usual by the father, it was 
 the daughter, whom, till then, I had in vain wished to see ; 
 or, rather, it was beauty itself which stood before my eyes in 
 the form of that lovely young woman. 
 
 My dear friend, a feeling heart often beats under an un- 
 polished form. More susceptible, at my age, of passion than 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 113 
 
 of libertinism, my palpitating heart felt all the power of 
 beauty. A new world unfolded itself before my eyes. I 
 soon forgot my borrowed part. One sentiment absorbed my 
 soul ; one idea enchained my faculties. The charming 
 Aurora perceived her triumph, and seemed to listen with 
 complacency to' the incoherent expressions of passion which 
 escaped my lips. That interview fixed my destiny forever ! 
 All difficulties vanished before the new emotions which 
 animated my bosom. A single instant inspired me with the 
 resolution of devoting my days and nights to study, in order 
 that, possessed with the advantages of knowledge, I might be 
 less unworthy of the happiness to which I aspired. 
 
 Every morning I found some excuse for a visit to the pic- 
 ture-merchant ; every morning I had some new trinket to 
 exhibit, or some object of taste on which to consult Aurora. 
 
 It was the season of flowers, and I presented her every day 
 with a bouquet, composed of such as were best adapted to her 
 style of beauty. My friends often joined in the sonnet, or 
 madrigal, of which I obtained the credit ; and I sometimes 
 surprised the fair eyes of this charming creature fixed on 
 mine with an expression of tender approbation. 
 
 Six months passed in this manner, the engravers being too 
 desirous of complete revenge to hazard losing it by precipita- 
 tion. Every evening, they required an exact account of my 
 conduct, with which they were so well satisfied, that they fur- 
 nished me with funds far beyond the wants of the personage 
 I represented. 
 
 I received at length a formal invitation from the picture- 
 merchant to a fete which he gave in the country, and of 
 which I was led to think myself the hero. The vain beauty 
 behaved so respectfully towards me, loaded me with such dis- 
 tinguished attentions, was so lovely, so enchanting, whether 
 as mistress of the fete or its brightest ornament, that the mo- 
 ment we were alone, impelled by an emotion which I was 
 unable to suppress, I threw myself at her feet, and made an 
 offer of marriage. She heard me with modest dignity, while 
 a tear of joy, which dimmed for a moment her fine eyes, con- 
 vinced me that pride was not the only feeling which agitated 
 her heart. Yes : I discovered that I was beloved. 
 
114 THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 
 
 After Laving deceived the daughter with respect to the 
 person, it was necessary to blind the father with respect to 
 the fortune. This was not difficult. Possessed of little pene- 
 tration, he gave full credit to the story I related of myself. 
 My father, I told him, lived retired at his seat in the farthest 
 part of Dauphiny. Old age and the gout deprived him of 
 the hope of accompanying his son to the altar ; but he gave 
 his consent to the marriage, and that much the more will- 
 ingly, as the fortune of his house had been considerably in- 
 creased from the interest which his son had early taken in the 
 mines of his province. I dwelt also with secret complacency 
 on the words " without portion," alleging that my fortune was 
 too considerable to think of augmenting it by that of a wife. 
 Before the end of this conversation, we were perfectly agreed ; 
 for I left him absolute master of the conditions. All I re- 
 quired was, the avoiding any expensive and unnecessary eclat, 
 as both the family of Aurora and my own were at a distance 
 from Lyons. The marriage, it was fixed, should take place 
 on that day fortnight, and I undertook to arrange all the pre- 
 liminary articles. 
 
 Having with some difficulty obtained permission to lea^ve 
 Aurora, I hastened to Lyons, informed my friends that the 
 drama was hastening to a conclusion, and related all that had 
 passed. They overwhelmed me with so many compliments, 
 that, had I only possessed a slight tincture of vanity, I might 
 have believed they rallied me. The event, however, proved 
 that they were serious ; and their revenge on the haughty 
 Aurora was as expensive as it was singular. That very 
 morning they sent, in my name, to my mistress, the most 
 magnificent bouquet, a watch, bracelets, jewels, laces of ex- 
 quisite fineness, forming a present sufficiently splendid to 
 complete the deception of both father and daughter. Toward 
 the end of the week, the contract of marriage was framed, in 
 which I took care to sign my real name, a precaution which 
 you will perceive hereafter was not useless to me. In this 
 contract, I consented to certain stipulations in my bride's favor, 
 which I was very far from thinking would one day prove so 
 much to her advantage. 
 
 I deceived her ; but heaven is my witness it was not 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 115 
 
 without remorse ! In presence of the beautiful Aurora, intox- 
 icating love made me forget every thing but herself; and, 
 when I was with my joyous friends, their pleasantries, their 
 bon ton, the kind of dependence in which they held me, their 
 services, their instructions, rendered me thoughtless with 
 respect to the present, as well as careless with respect to the 
 future. But, in the stillness of solitude, sophistry and passion 
 disappeared, leaving a dreadful prospective before me. When 
 I associated the idea of Aurora with the miserable flock-bed 
 which was soon to be her portion ; when I figured to myself 
 her delicate hands employed in preparing the coarsest nour- 
 ishment ; when I beheld her, who deserved a palace, lodging 
 under the thatched roof of my aged father, I shrank back 
 with horror, or started up, covered with a cold perspiration. 
 More than once, I resolved to throw myself at the feet of the 
 injured Aurora, make a full confession of my crime, and cover 
 myself with the infamy which belonged to him who could so 
 degrade himself as to act the part of a villain. But self-love 
 and passion came alike to my aid. Enchained by the fasci- 
 nating enjoyments of the present, my imagination gilded with 
 some rays of hope the gloom of the future. The unhappiness 
 of Aurora, said I to myself, will be but transient ; love will 
 soften the bitterness. Her mortal enemies are blinded by 
 their desire of revenge. She will, she shall be, happy in spite 
 of them ! — they will leave me some money, and the means 
 of procuring more by industry. I should be a wretch, indeed, 
 if I did not devote my life to the task of strewing flowers along 
 her path. When she learns who I am, her resentment will, 
 no doubt, at first be vehement ; but, when her good sense 
 shall perceive that the evil is irreparable, resignation will 
 come to her aid, love will supply the place of riches, and 
 we shall yet be happy. 
 
 Such were my reflections during eight days previous to 
 that on which I conducted my mistress to the altar. At the 
 moment when she pronounced the vow to live and die with 
 me, a sudden shivering ran through all my veins, a general 
 trepidation seized my whole frame. I had never had so near 
 a view of villainy. I should infallibly have sunk to the earth, 
 if a flood of tears had not come to my relief; while the silly 
 
116 THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS, 
 
 crowd who surrounded us mistook this last cry of expiring 
 virtue for an excess of sensibility. Aurora herself was de- 
 ceived ; I felt, from the warmth of her caresses, that the poor 
 girl was ambitious of appearing as much my mistress as my 
 bride. The engravers, in order to reward me, as they said, 
 for the ability with which I had acted my part, permitted me 
 to prolong the enchantment for a fortnight. Excess of love a 
 while banished from my mind the fatal catastrophe which was 
 fast approaching. At length, after various conferences with 
 the implacable enemies of Aurora, it was decreed that we 
 should set out on our journey to my native soil. 
 
 In proposing to my wife an excursion of which I foresaw 
 all the cruel consequences, I could not prevent a deep sigh 
 from escaping me, to which the credulous Aurora paid no 
 attention. Her lively imagination was elated with the idea 
 of travelling by my side in a magnificent equipage, attended 
 by her women, escorted by servants on horseback, and find- 
 ing means of indulging at once her pride and her love ; ideas 
 excusable enough at eighteen, which was the age of my wife. 
 She was delighted in making preparations for a journey, the 
 approach of which was to me distraction. More than once I 
 implored my patrons for mercy ; the obligations I had entered 
 into were laid before me. We began our journey. 
 
 Two of my ten friends served me as couriers, while he who 
 had paid his addresses to Aurora pushed his imprudence so 
 far as to offer himself to me as coachman. It is true that a 
 wig dexterously stuck on his hair, and a patch fixed on his 
 right eye, so disguised him, that even his friends did not rec- 
 ognize him. Three others of the young engravers gayly rode 
 behind the carriage as lackeys. The other four, detained at 
 Lyons by their affairs, consoled themselves in not being of 
 the party by making the travellers promise to write to them 
 from every place where we should stop to rest ourselves ; and 
 this we did frequently, travelling only by short stages. 
 Scarcely could these wicked domestics contain their mirth 
 when they heard my vain bride, who always spoke to them 
 with haughty distance, addressing herself to me in terms 
 the most respectful, inquiring the names of my chateaux, 
 the extent of my estates, and of my seignorial rights of hunt- 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS: 117 
 
 ing and fishing; dwelling with complacency on my mines, 
 which, to her lively apprehension, were equal, at least, to those 
 of Peru. On subjects such as these turned our conversations ; 
 when three leagues beyond Montelemart, we perceived the 
 narrow lane which led to a village, the steeple of which 
 appeared distant from the high road. This poor village, alas ! 
 was mine. The critical moment was approaching. 
 
 We passed over lands that certainly were not mine ; and, 
 after three hours' long and difficult travelling, our coachman, 
 too well instructed, stopped the carriage at the door of a mis- 
 erable hut. An old man, clad in the homely garb of poverty, 
 was on the threshold taking the air. In this old man, I dis- 
 covered my venerable father. 
 
 No, my friend, I have no colors with which I can trace 
 this scene. Figure to yourself the trembling Perourou on 
 one side, the haughty Aurora on the other, and six insolent 
 young men ceremoniously placing her on an old broken chair, 
 with most insulting bursts of laughter, and with pleasantries 
 the most aggravating, refining upon their vengeance and her 
 mortification. Figure to yourself the pretended coachman 
 taking off suddenly his patch and his wig, and addressing 
 Aurora with an air of superiority, — 
 
 " No, madam," said he, in a tone of inconceivable disdain, — 
 " no, you have not been born or brought up for an engraver. 
 Such a lot would have done too much honor to your birth, to 
 your fortune, and to your choice. A bellows-mender is wor- 
 thy of you, and such is he, madam, whom you have taken for 
 your husband." I was about to answer ; but the pretended 
 coachman was already on his seat, the five others threw them- 
 selves into the coach choked almost with laughter, and we 
 soon lost sight of the whole equipage. 
 
 I expected that the catastrophe would be singular enough, 
 but less terrible than it proved. My engravers, while they 
 taught me my part, had kept their own secret. They carried 
 off every thing with them, like the scene-shifters of a theatre, 
 who lock up the decorations after the piece is finished. As 
 for the unfortunate Aurora, she saw nothing of this. Her 
 former lover continued speaking when she no longer heard 
 or felt. The ruffians left her, when they departed, in a deep 
 
118 THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. - 
 
 Judge of my situation ! Recollect that I had now acquired 
 a considerable share of sensibility and delicacy from the- in- 
 struction I had received, and the manner of life to which I 
 had lately been accustomed. Alas ! in those cruel moments, 
 I trembled alike at the thought of losing the woman I adored, 
 or of seeing her restored to life. I lavished on her the most 
 tender cares, and almost breathed wishes that my cares might 
 be unavailing. Ah, my friend ! I thought for a long time 
 that my dreadful vows were heard. Nevertheless, after copi- 
 ously bathing her pallid face, Aurora regained for a moment 
 the use of her senses. Her frenzied eyes met mine. " Mon- 
 ster ! " she exclaimed, and her senses again forsook her. I 
 took advantage of this second swoon to remove her from the 
 sight of the spectators, composed chiefly of women with with- 
 ered countenances, who might have passed for witches ; and 
 laid my plaintive bride on a little fresh straw, with which a 
 compassionate neighbor strewed the flock-bed of my old fa- 
 ther. When she had again recovered the use of her senses, 
 I commanded every one to leave us, in order to have no wit- 
 ness of the explanation, and of the dreadful story which I was 
 fated to relate to my wife. 
 
 When I had disembarrassed myself of the crowd, I took 
 Aurora in my arms ; I pressed her to my heart ; my scalding 
 tears bathed her cheeks. At length she opened her eyes, and 
 fixed them on me ; mine shrank from her glance. The first 
 use she made of speech was to request me, under pretence of 
 taking repose, which we both wanted, to defer till the next 
 day the hateful detail of the plot of which she had been the 
 victim. I yielded to her request, and withdrew, leaving with 
 her the niece of the cure of the parish, whose kind offices she 
 seemed to receive with thankfulness. 
 
 How shall I describe to you the horrible night which I 
 passed ? Fallen at once from a situation the most splendid, 
 in a miserable village which afforded no kind of resource, and 
 in possession only of a few louis, while my adored wife, in the 
 morning of life accustomed to constitute as well as to share 
 the pleasures of society, had been led by an infernal plot to 
 the cabin of an old man, respectable indeed, but in a state of 
 wretched indigence ; and I had been the chief instrument of 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 119 
 
 her misfortunes, the accomplice of the atrocity with which she 
 had been treated ! What would become of her ? In what 
 manner could I act that might least wound her feelings ? 
 Would she think herself sufficiently rich in my attachment 
 and tenderness ? Oh, no ! T felt all the horrors of her destiny 
 and my own, — yes, of my own ! I had, indeed, no reverse 
 of fortune to undergo, — I who was born to wretchedness, and 
 nurtured in want. Yet my agonized heart, a heart but too 
 susceptible, told me that I had a sorrow to sustain, perhaps 
 the most cruel in the sad catalogue of human evils. I had not 
 merely to bear indifference from that object in whom I had 
 placed every hope of happiness, to see that heart alienated 
 whose tenderness was necessary to my existence, to read 
 coldness in that eye on whose look my peace depended ; I 
 recollected with distraction that it must be my doom, not 
 merely to support indifference, but aversion. I was not 
 merly to become an object of contempt, but of horror. I was 
 not merely to feel the bitterness of being hateful to her I loved, 
 but to know that I deserved her hatred ; to find that the 
 sharpest of all my sorrows was the poignancy of remorse. 
 
 Had not I been the fatal cause of all she suffered ? Had 
 not I darkened all the fair prospects of her life, and over- 
 whelmed her with intolerable anguish ? Had not I, wretch 
 that I was, planted a dagger in her heart ? Perhaps she 
 would find a refuge from me in the grave; perhaps her last 
 breath would curse me ; or, if she pitied and forgave me, 
 could I endure her cruel mercy ? Would not her pity and 
 forgiveness be more barbarous than reproach, more terrible 
 than her curse ? 
 
 Such were the reflections which absorbed my mind, and 
 made so painful the bed on which I had thrown myself to 
 pass the night. The horror of my situation was increased by 
 a continuance of violent rains, which laid under water the 
 cross-road leading to Montelemart, and rendered it impassable 
 for several days. This circumstance prevented me from send- 
 ing to the town, as I intended, for a carriage to convey 
 Aurora to a lodging less fitted to mortify her pride. You will 
 easily imagine that I sent frequently to inquire respecting the 
 situation of my unfortunate bride. The answers were satis- 
 
120 THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS, 
 
 factory ; my attentions were received with gratitude. I was 
 repeatedly told that the next day I should be admitted to see 
 her ; that she had made up her mind ; that she should display 
 a firmness of character which, in the cruel circumstances in 
 which she was placed, would astonish and confound her vile 
 enemies. All these things, which were repeated to me with 
 an affectation of secrecy, did not lull me into perfect security. 
 That terrible to-morrow affrighted my soul : I dreaded the 
 fatal interview more than death. I was meditating how to 
 elude it under different pretences, when the door of my 
 chamber opened, and discovered to me my interesting bride. 
 I threw myself at her feet, and, seizing one of her hands, 
 bathed it with my tears. She looked at me in this humili- 
 ating posture for some time, in silence ; then, raising me up, ad- 
 dressed me with all the dignity of pride which nothing could 
 vanquish. "You have deceived me," said she. " It is on your 
 future conduct that my forgiveness shall depend. If any 
 generous sentiment remains at the bottom of your heart, if 
 you are desirous of not making me altogether miserable, do 
 not take advantage of the authority which you have usurped. 
 Mademoiselle offers me a decent retirement at her uncle's 
 house. I have accepted it, because it accords both with my 
 situation and my duties. You may visit me there whenever 
 you please. We will arrange together the means of extri- 
 cating ourselves from this horrible situation, and of providing 
 for our future support. Rely on my honor for the care of 
 defending your own." 
 
 Man is a confiding creature. A kind word from the woman 
 we love is sufficient to soften all the misery she occasions. 
 Notwithstanding the cold disdain of Aurora, I gave her credit 
 for her meekness, without reflecting that it would have been 
 more natural for her to load me with reproaches. During 
 five days, my confidence in Aurora's forgiveness continually 
 augmented ; and, while I traced out to her the plan of life 
 which love suggested to me, I saw her more than once smile 
 at the picture. Could I have imagined that, after so many 
 sufferings, the cruel Aurora had one in reserve for me, which 
 surpassed all the rest ? 
 
 One morning, — it was the eighth after our arrival in the vil- 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 121 
 
 lage, — I awakened after having passed a happy night, soothed 
 by delicious dreams. The day was already far advanced, when 
 my father, reproaching me for my indolence, gave me two 
 letters, which he had just received. The handwriting of the 
 directions was unknown to me. The first I opened was from 
 my friends at Lyons. " We are satisfied with you," said they ; 
 " and, after having taken exemplary revenge of the haughty 
 Aurora, it is just that we should remember the friendship 
 with which your talents and your conduct have inspired us. 
 You are not made to live in the class among which you were 
 born ; and we offer you, with pleasure, the means of extri- 
 cating yourself from all your embarrassments, without wish- 
 ing that you should find your gratitude at all burthensome, 
 since we can serve you without any inconvenience to our- 
 selves. You know that we pushed, almost to madness, the idea 
 of revenge on Aurora ; and we had each made the sacrifice of 
 a thousand crowns, to carry our plan into execution. You 
 have not expended the third part of this sum. The rest is 
 deposited in the house of Meme, a notary well known in our 
 city, who will remit it to you on your simple receipt. The 
 jewels, linen, lace, and clothes, with which you amused the 
 credulity of a foolish father and a haughty girl, will likewise 
 be delivered to you. Take care of Aurora. We have put her 
 into your arms, in the hope that you will never give us 
 occasion to regret that we pushed our vengeance too far. 
 Whenever you shall form any undertaking, command the 
 credit, the friendship, and the recommendations of your 
 friends, the engravers of Lyons." 
 
 Well ! exclaimed I joyfully, half my embarrassments have 
 vanished. I shall be able to provide for Aurora. The letter 
 which I next opened (and which had been directed by a 
 stranger) was from Aurora herself. " Some remains of pity," 
 she observed, " which I still feel for you notwithstanding 
 your conduct towards me, pleads in your favor, and induces 
 me to inform you, that, at the moment you receive this letter, 
 I shall be at the gates of Lyens. It is my intention to enter 
 a convent ; which will rid me of your hateful presence. I 
 am an honorable enemy, and declare that you must hold 
 yourself ready to appear before every tribunal in France, 
 
122 THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 
 
 till I have found one which shall do me the justice to break 
 the chains of your victim, and punish the traitors by whom 
 she has been sacrificed." 
 
 I shall not attempt to paint the violent and conflicting 
 emotions which agitated my mind at the perusal of this 
 letter. One moment, I determined to pursue Aurora, to 
 detain, and force her to pay due obedience to a man, whom 
 fate had made her husband ; the next, I felt the most invin- 
 cible repugnance to persecute a woman whom I so ardently 
 loved. The project, also, was impracticable. Aurora had 
 already departed several hours. I must have sent for horses 
 from Montelemart, or walked thither on foot : either would 
 have required so much time, that I renounced all hopes of 
 overtaking Aurora, and only thought of contriving the means 
 of leaving a place, which served to recall so many bitter 
 remembrances. I had still as much money left as would 
 enable me to reach Lyons. Before my departure, I interro- 
 gated severely the cure and his niece with respect to their 
 knowledge of my wife's escape. Threats and entreaties were 
 lavished in vain ; and though they were, as I have since dis- 
 covered, the primary authors of the plot, it was impossible to 
 bring them to any confession. 
 
 New embarrassments crowded upon me when I reached 
 Lyons. Where begin my researches ? how come to any 
 knowledge, in a great city, of the asylum which Aurora had 
 chosen V In what manner could I present myself before a 
 father, amidstv-the first transports of his indignation against 
 the criminal deceiver of his daughter ? How could I wander 
 from one convent to another, without the risk of being 
 suspected, from the nature of my inquiries, and exposing 
 myself to the danger of a dungeon, where I might be plunged 
 for having acted so shameful a part ? In order to deliver my- 
 self from these perplexities, I had recourse to my friends the 
 engravers, who all advised me to remain quiet, and wait 
 peaceably till the procedure for breaking the marriage became 
 the topic of general conversation at Lyons. I consented to 
 follow their counsels, to forbear inquiries, alike dangerous 
 and useless, and to take measures for improving my fortune ; 
 too well convinced that this was the only chance of hereafter 
 regaining the heart of Aurora. 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 123 
 
 Thanks to my generous friends, after having disposed ad- 
 vantageously of the jewels, lace, and other valuable articles, 
 which were useless to me, I found myself in possession of near 
 ten thousand crowns. It was reported at that time that we 
 were on the eve of a war with some of the principal powers 
 of Europe. In consequence of this information, and with the 
 aid of my friends, I made one of those bold speculations, 
 which, if it had not succeeded, would have placed me where 
 I had set out ; but which, by splendid success, increased more 
 than threefold my capital. 
 
 While my commercial operations were going forward in 
 profound secrecy, my story became the topic of public ani- 
 madversion. The intrepid Aurora, from her monastic retreat, 
 hurled her criminations against me and my confederates. 
 This want of address on her part, in attacking the engravers, 
 besides turning the laugh against herself, was of infinite ad- 
 vantage to me, by throwing me in the background, while my 
 friends were so much the more awake to my interests, as it 
 was the best mode of defending their own. Aurora insisted 
 peremptorily that the marriage should be annulled. The ab- 
 bess of the convent in which she had found an asylum, and 
 who was respected for her birth, as well as her good qualities, 
 moved heaven and earth in her cause. Her father brought 
 together his protectors and friends, and every thing threat- 
 ened us with a defeat, — the shame of which would have fallen 
 on the engravers, and the weight of it on myself. The wags 
 amused themselves in seeing the pride of Aurora made the 
 instrument of her punishment ; but no smiles can smooth the 
 brow of wrinkled and severe justice. Already a warrant to 
 arrest me had been issued, from which I had only been saved 
 by the obscurity in which I lived. The affair was brought 
 before the courts with great rapidity. 
 
 My haughty enemy had requested guards to escort her to 
 the tribunal in which our marriage was to be declared null or 
 valid. She made her appearance arrayed in all her charms, 
 which were still heightened, by the semblance of the most 
 unaffected modesty. Never had any cause assembled so 
 immense a crowd of spectators. Aurora's council pleaded for 
 her with so much eloquence, that the tears of the auditory 
 
124 THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 
 
 sometimes forced him to suspend his declamation. The emo- 
 tion of the judges indicated what kind of sentence they were 
 about to pronounce, and which the feelings of the audience 
 were powerfully impelled to sanction, when the engraver 
 who had sought to be the husband of Aurora, seeing that no 
 counsel arose to plead on my side of the question, requested 
 permission from the judges to enter on my defence. This 
 request was immediately granted, that it might not be said I 
 had been condemned unheard. He gave my history in a few 
 words, in which nothing was exaggerated, except the eulogium 
 with which he honored me. He owned, nevertheless, that 
 the singular circumstances of my marriage would authorize 
 the judges to declare it null and void. He hesitated for a 
 moment. The most solemn silence reigned throughout the 
 assembly ; when, turning to Aurora, he added in a firm tone 
 of voice, — 
 
 " No, madam, you are not the wife of the bellows-mender ; 
 but Nature destines you to become the mother of his child ! 
 Listen to the powerful cry of the infant which you carry in 
 your womb, and then say if you desire to become free while 
 your child is condemned to the infamy of illegitimacy." 
 
 " No, no ! " exclaimed the trembling Aurora, bursting into 
 a flood of tears ; and the whole audience, weeping in sympa- 
 thy with her, joined in the exclamation of " No, no ! " 
 
 This cry of maternal tenderness decided the cause. The 
 judges declared that the marriage was valid according to the 
 contract, in which I had signed my true name, alleging also 
 that our situations were not sufficiently unequal to authorize 
 the dissolution of our union. But they wisely decreed, in 
 order not to leave the adventurer too much cause for triumph, 
 that my wife should be permitted to reside in the convent 
 which she had chosen for her asylum ; an injunction was laid 
 on the husband, under certain penalties, neither to reclaim, 
 pursue, or molest her in any manner whatever ; that the child 
 should be baptized under his name, but that he should at no 
 time have a right over its education. The rest of the sen- 
 tence turned on objects of detail more interesting to gentle- 
 men of the long robe than the historian. Aurora left the 
 audience in triumph. The crowd escorted her to the convent, 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 125 
 
 crowning her with eulogiums for the tender sacrifice which 
 she had just made to the infant with which she was pregnant. 
 
 Such was the result of this celebrated trial, during the de- 
 cision of which I was little at my ease. Obliged to hide my- 
 self from every eye, I took advantage of my not being known, 
 to glide among the crowd ; no one conjecturing that the bel- 
 lows-mender, of whose history they heard so much, wore 
 decent clothes, fine linen, and was a personage in no mean 
 circumstances. The most ridiculous stories were fabricated 
 respecting my absence and my marriage. I sometimes endea- 
 vored to laugh with the rest, but was horribly abashed to find 
 that even those who amused themselves most at the expense 
 of Aurora were virulent declaimers against what they called 
 my infamy. Agreeably to the dictates of my own feelings, and 
 in conformity with the advice of my friends, I determined to 
 quit Lyons, and employ my funds in some other place, where 
 my name and history were unknown. I made choice of Paris 
 for my residence, where, amid an immense population, I could 
 most easily escape observation, and also where I could employ 
 my capital to most advantage. There the poor bellows-mend- 
 er, with a hundred thousand livres, and the credit of his 
 friends at Lyons, established a commercial house, which suc- 
 ceeded beyond all his hopes. I was, during five years, the 
 favorite of fortune ; and my conscience renders me this testi- 
 mony, — that I had no reason to blush at any of my specula- 
 tions. 
 
 My correspondence with Lyons was active. A happy 
 accident gave me the means of rendering essential service to 
 one of the first banking-houses of that great city. The 
 proprietors testified their boundless gratitude towards me, and 
 pressed me so earnestly to pay them a visit, that the desire 
 of yielding to their solicitations, together with the secret wish 
 of breathing the same air as Aurora, led me to accept of the 
 invitation. I made my appearance in Lyons with carriages, 
 servants, and fine clothes, none of which were at this time 
 borrowed. Fortune had so successfully labored for me during 
 five years, that I had the means of supporting a magnificent 
 style of living. 
 
 My old friends scarcely recognized me : it may therefore 
 
126 THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 
 
 be imagined, that it was not a very difficult task to escape 
 the penetration of my new acquaintances. Without appear- 
 ing to annex the slightest importance to the subject, I some- 
 times talked of the celebrated trial which had interested the 
 city of Lyons five years before, and terminated my question 
 by cursorily inquiring what had become of Aurora and her 
 family. I learned that her father had lately died : that 
 losses on the one hand and ostentation on the other, joined 
 to tfye sums he had lavished on the education of his daughter, 
 had left his affairs so embarrassed, that Aurora, at his decease, 
 found herself almost without resource, and in some measure 
 dependent on the benevolence of the abbess of the convent 
 where she had taken refuge. I was also informed, that 
 although, whenever Aurora appeared, she was still the object 
 of general applause, she conducted herself with so much 
 propriety, that she was not less respected than admired. The 
 bellows-mender, it was observed, had suffered her to remain 
 tranquil since the trial, without attempting to reclaim his lost 
 rights. 
 
 I did not listen to these recitals without the most lively 
 emotion. During five years' residence in the capital, young 
 and ambitious, as well as deeply enamoured of Aurora, the 
 ardor of my efforts to acquire a fortune which might give me 
 the right of reclaiming her I loved had absorbed my mind ; 
 but my abode at Lyons, and the unsuspected testimony of all 
 with whom I conversed in favor of my wife, awakened every 
 latent sentiment of tenderness in my bosom. The image of 
 Aurora, of her whom I had deceived, but whom I adored, 
 again occupied every thought of my soul, again throbbed in 
 every pulse. I felt how worthless was the acquisition of 
 wealth which she refused to share. I felt that she was neces- 
 sary to my existence. And my child ! — was I never to fold 
 it in my arms ? never to feel the endearments of the being 
 who owed to me its life ? I could bear these cruel reflections 
 no longer. I determined to behold Aurora and my child. 
 
 One of the engravers, by my orders, assembled her father's 
 creditors, and discharged all his debts, purchasing for me at 
 the same time certain pieces of furniture to which long habit 
 had communicated an idea of value in the mind of Aurora : 
 this was the least difficult part of my enterprise. 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 127 
 
 The merchant who had given me so satisfactory an account 
 of Aurora was a man generally esteemed. It struck me that 
 I might choose him for my confidant, and advise with him 
 what plan I should pursue. I knew that his name alone was 
 sufficient to smooth every obstacle in my path. He was in 
 possession of a beautiful pavilion on the banks of the Rhone. 
 I requested an interview in the most solitary walk of his 
 grounds ; and, having obtained his promise of inviolable 
 secrecy, " You have hitherto," said I, " seen in your friend a 
 merchant, who, still young, owes to his talents and his probity 
 an affluent and honorable position. It has been my fate to 
 appear in a mask to the eyes of those whose esteem I most 
 value. I have deceived my mistress : let me no longer impose 
 upon my friend. You have spoken to me of Aurora in a 
 manner the most favorable : you know the half of her history, 
 hear the remainder. You see before you the unfortunate 
 bellows-mender, chosen by a set of young wags as the instru- 
 ment of their vengeance." 
 
 At this unexpected declaration, my friend started back 
 with surprise. It was easy for me to read on his countenance 
 the sensations which agitated his mind. 
 
 " I am indebted," continued I, " to nature for some talents, 
 which I have improved by self-education and study : fortune, 
 and the generosity of my employers, have done the rest. I 
 am, as you know, about to leave Lyons ; but I am firmly 
 decided not to depart without Aurora. You enjoy the esteem 
 and confidence of the public ; you will be the mediator of 
 your friend with her, and I shall owe my happiness to your 
 intervention." 
 
 The banker, when he recovered from his astonishment, 
 assured me that he had no doubt of effecting the reconcilia- 
 tion I so ardently desired. " The abbess of the convent 
 where Aurora resides," said he, " honors me with a certain 
 degree of friendship. It is not late ; we are near Lyons ; let 
 us order horses, and we shall soon be able to arrange with 
 Aurora herself the points which seem to you at present so 
 embarrassing." 
 
 I adopted this project with fond avidity. I was now no 
 less eager for an interview than I had once been anxious to 
 
128 THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 
 
 avoid it. I thirsted with, impatience to gaze upon Aurora 
 and my child. 
 
 The merchant was announced at the convent under his 
 real name, and myself as the principal of a great commercial 
 house at Paris. We were admitted. Ah, what a picture 
 presented itself to my view ! Aurora, the enchanting 
 Aurora, in all the pride of a beauty of twenty-three years 
 of age, occupied a seat near the venerable abbess. A lovely 
 child slept upon her knees, and seemed so entirely to absorb 
 all the attention of its mother, that she scarcely thought of 
 returning the usual salutations. The first instant that she 
 threw her eyes on me, I remarked distinctly, from her invol- 
 untary starting, that my presence recalled some disagreeable 
 idea ; but introduced by a man whom she well knew, and 
 who was honored with general esteem, and presented as the 
 principal of a commercial house in Paris, those circumstances, 
 together with the shade of twilight, so completely set all 
 conjectures at fault, that Aurora was far from recollecting 
 her husband in the stranger. My friend opened the conver- 
 sation by some vague observations, spoke of my speedy 
 departure for Paris, mentioned my having connections with 
 all the great houses of the capital, and requested to know 
 if the abbess had any orders with which to honor me. 
 
 While this conversation passed, the infant awoke, and the 
 sight of strangers, instead of surprising him, led him to 
 smile. After having looked at us both with a kind of hesita- 
 tion, it was towards me that he advanced. Imagine my 
 feeling, when I found myself covered with the sweet caresses, 
 the innocent kisses, of my child. An emotion which I had no 
 power to subdue made me eagerly seize him in my arms; 
 and, throwing myself with him at the feet of my pale and 
 trembling wife, — 
 
 " Aurora, Aurora ! " I exclaimed. " Your child, your 
 child claims from you a father ! Will you suffer affection for- 
 ever to be vanquished by pride ? " 
 
 While I uttered these words, in a voice half choked by 
 emotion, Aurora quivered, seemed ready to faint, and fixed 
 her wandering eyes alternately on me and on her child, who 
 clung to her knees, and seemed to implore forgiveness for his 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDEB OF LYONS. 129 
 
 father. At length, a torrent of tears bathed Aurora's face. 
 The child, unable to comprehend why his mother wept, joined 
 his plaintive cries to mine. 
 
 " Pardon, pardon ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 Aurora's only answer was to throw herself into my arms. 
 " I know not," she sobbed, " whether you again deceive me ; 
 but your child pleads too powerfully. Aurora is yours." She 
 pressed me against her palpitating heart. We were unable 
 for a long time to speak. Our uncontrollable emotion, the 
 caresses of the child, the tears of my friend, the place 
 itself, every thing, served to add to our delirium. 
 
 " My children," said the abbess, looking at us with eyes 
 moistened by affection, " you have both performed your duty. 
 There can be no deception in this gentleman's emotion. It 
 is genuine. And you, Aurora, have too much the heart of a 
 mother to live any longer the victim of foolish pride. May 
 this marriage, which you solemnly renew in my presence, be 
 more lasting than the first ! May you enjoy that lasting 
 felicity which belongs only to virtue ! " 
 
 These words, pronounced in a serious tone of voice, calmed 
 our turbulent sensations. I related my history in its full 
 extent, without sparing the confession of my faults, and my 
 remorse. I failed not to remark, with transport, that the 
 hand of Aurora often pressed mine while I spoke of my 
 projects of tenderness, although she testified neither pleasure 
 nor pain when I mentioned the fortunate situation of my 
 affairs. The part of my narration which most affected her 
 was that which regarded the payment of her father's debts, 
 and my attention to her feelings in saving from the hands of 
 the creditors the pieces of furniture to which she had been 
 accustomed from her infancy. 
 
 My friend celebrated our conjugal reconciliation by a Jete. 
 Near his pavilion stood a house delightfully situated, and 
 which the heirs of the proprietor, who had lately died, had 
 announced their intention of selling. A word which invol- 
 untarily escaped Aurora discovered to me that this acquisi- 
 tion would be agreeable to her. I made the purchase in her 
 name, and twenty-four hours after, I put into her hands the 
 papers, which left it entirely at her own disposal. 
 9 
 
130 THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 
 
 I returned with Aurora and our child to Paris. Whether 
 from some remains of her former haughtiness, or from real 
 greatness of mind, she expressed no surprise at finding her- 
 self mistress of a house decorated with the utmost taste and 
 magnificence. I found her character much ameliorated by 
 adversity. I found myself beloved by her who was now the 
 object of my affection. 
 
 One happy year had elapsed, when Aurora entered my 
 cabinet, her eyes sparkling with joy. 
 
 " My dear," said she, " you will not refuse the invitation 
 of your wife. I wish to give you a dinner in my house at 
 Lyons. No objection ! This very morning I am going to set 
 off with my son. I want to teach him how a son ought to 
 play the host to his father." 
 
 I did not fail to arrive at Lyons at the appointed time. The 
 day had scarcely dawned, when I found Aurora ready to 
 receive me. She was still in all the splendor of her beauty, 
 and had adorned herself with more than her accustomed 
 elegance. The day was delightfully passed in enjoyment 
 of many little surprises she had prepared for me. About 
 four o'clock, dinner was announced ; and judge of my sensa- 
 tions when Aurora, giving me her hand, led me into an apart- 
 ment which had been decorated by the graces themselves. And 
 who were the guests she had assembled ? My friends the en- 
 gravers ! — my first friends, — the authors of my fortune, of my 
 marriage. I cannot paint my emotion. Daring the repast, 
 the gayety of Aurora animated all her guests with delight and 
 admiration. After the dessert, she led us into the apartment 
 which she had destined for me. A slight spring, touched by 
 Aurora, withdrew a curtain, which concealed two pictures, 
 finely painted. We drew near to survey them. 
 
 " O enchantress ! " exclaimed my friends, together with 
 myself. 
 
 The first represented the village-scene near Montelemart. 
 I was kneeling at the feet of Aurora, who repulsed me with 
 disdain, throwing a look of indignation on the coachman- 
 engraver. Underneath was written, 
 
 LOVE CONQUERED BY PRIDE. 
 
THE BELLOWS-MENDER OF LYONS. 131 
 
 The second picture represented the scene of the present 
 day, — my ten friends at table, Aurora placed between her 
 happy husband and the coachman-engraver, and appearing 
 to smile on both. At the bottom was written, 
 
 PRIDE CONQUERED BY LOVE. 
 
 Here finishes my history. My present happiness I can feel 
 better than define. Aurora made me the father of three 
 other children, and requested that the first of them should 
 have for his god-father the engraver whose hand she had 
 refused. He is now the happy husband of a charming 
 woman, well known in Lyons for the care which she bestows 
 on the education of her only daughter. Aurora tells me that 
 she shall not be completely happy till this young girl calls her 
 mother ; and what is singular in this affair is, that my son is 
 of the same opinion. 
 
 « I KNOW THOU ART GONE." 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY.* 
 
 I know thou art gone to the home of thy rest — 
 
 Then why should my soul be so sad ? 
 I know thou art gone where the weary are blest, 
 
 And the mourner looks up, and is glad ; 
 Where Love hath put off, in the land of its birth, 
 
 The stain it had gathered in this ; 
 And Hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth, 
 
 Lies asleep on the bosom of Bliss. 
 
 I know thou art gone where thy forehead is starred 
 With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul ; 
 
 * Thomas Kebble Hervey was born in Paisley, Scotland, in 1802, 
 and died in 1859. His versification has many characteristics which 
 entitle him to a rank among the truly original" poets of our time. 
 
132 "I KNOW THOU ART GONE." 
 
 Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred, 
 Nor thy spirit flung back from its goal. 
 
 I know thou hast drunk of the Lethe that flows 
 Through a land where they do not forget ; 
 
 Which sheds over Memory only repose, 
 And takes from it only regret. 
 
 In thy far-away dwelling, wherever it be, 
 
 I believe thou hast visions of mine ; 
 For the love that made all things as music to me 
 
 I have not yet learned to resign. 
 In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea, 
 
 Or alone with the breeze on the hill, 
 I have ever a presence that whispers of thee ; 
 
 And my spirit lies down, and is still. 
 
 This eye must be dark that so long hath been dim, 
 
 Ere again it may gaze upon thine ; 
 But my heart hath revealings of thee and thy home 
 
 In many a token and sign. 
 I never look up, with a vow, to the sky, 
 
 But a light like thy beauty is there ; 
 And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply, 
 
 When I pour out my spirit in prayer. 
 
 And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb, 
 
 I am wrapped in a mantle of care, 
 Yet the grief of my spirit — oh ! call it not gloom — 
 
 Is not the black grief of Despair. 
 By Sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night, 
 
 Far off a bright vision appears ; 
 And Hope, like the rainbow, a being of light, 
 
 Is born, like the rainbow, of tears. 
 
FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 BY WILLIAM MUDFORD.* 
 
 Take down from your shelves, gentle reader, your folio 
 edition of Johnson's Dictionary, or, if you possess Todd's 
 edition of Johnson, take down his four ponderous quartos ; turn 
 over every leaf; read every word from A to Z ; and then con- 
 fess, that, in the whole vocabulary, there are not any two words 
 which awaken in your heart such a crowd of mixed and di- 
 rectly opposite emotions as the two which now stare you in 
 the face, — first and last. In the abstract, they embrace 
 the whole round of our existence ; in the detail, all its bright- 
 est hopes, its noblest enjoyments, and its most cherished recol- 
 lections ; all its loftiest enterprises, and all its smiles and tears ; 
 its pangs of guilt, its virtuous principles, its trials, its sorrows, 
 and its rewards. They give you the dawn and the close of 
 life, the beginning and the end of its countless busy scenes. 
 They are the two extremities of a path which, be it long, or 
 be it short, no man sees at one and the same moment. Hap- 
 py would it be for us sometimes if we could — if we could be- 
 hold the end of a course of action as certainly as we do the 
 beginning ; but oftener, far oftener, would it be our curse and 
 torment, unless, with the foresight or foreknowledge, we had 
 the power to avert the end. 
 
 But let me not anticipate my own intentions, which are to 
 portray in a few sketches the links that hold together the first 
 and last of the most momentous periods and uudertakings of 
 our lives ; to trace the dawn, progress, and decline of many 
 of the best feelings and motives of our nature ; to touch with 
 a pensive coloring the contrasts they present ; to stimulate 
 honorable enterprises by the examples they furnish ; and to 
 
 * A contributor to "Blackwood's Magazine" (1829-35); author of 
 u Five Mghts of St. Albans," a novel, and several other works. 
 
 133 
 
134 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 amuse by the form in which the truths they supply are em- 
 bodied. I shall begin with a subject not exactly falling with- 
 in the legitimate scope of my design ; but it will serve as an 
 appropriate introduction, and I shall call it, — 
 
 snfje iftrst mxH Hast Binmv. 
 
 Twelve friends, much about the same age, and fixed by 
 their pursuits, their family connections, and other local inter- 
 ests, as permanent inhabitants of the metropolis, agreed one 
 day, when they were drinking their wine at the Star and Gar- 
 ter at Richmond, to institute an annual dinner among them- 
 selves, under the following regulations : That they should dine 
 alternately at each other's houses on the first and last day 
 of the year ; that the first bottle of wine uncorked at theirs* 
 dinner should be recorked and put away, to be drunk by 
 him who should be the last of their number ; that they should 
 never admit a new member; that, when one died, eleven 
 should meet, and, when another died, ten should meet ; and 
 so on ; and that, when only one remained, he should, on those 
 two days, dine by himself, and sit the usual hours at his soli- 
 tary table ; but the^rs^ time he so dined alone, lest it should 
 be the only one, he should then uncork the^rs^ bottle, and, in 
 the first glass, drink to the memory of all who were gone. 
 
 There was something original and whimsical in the idea, 
 and it was eagerly embraced. They were all in the prime of 
 life, closely attached by reciprocal friendship, fond of social 
 enjoyments, and looked forward to their future meetings with 
 unalloyed anticipations of pleasure. The only thought, in- 
 deed, that could have darkened those anticipations was one 
 not very likely to intrude itself at this moment, — that of the 
 helpless wight who was destined to uncork the first bottle at 
 his lonely repast. 
 
 It was high summer when this frolic compact was entered 
 into ; and as their pleasure-yacht skimmed along the dark bo- 
 som of the Thames, on their return to London, they talked of 
 nothing but their first and last feasts of ensuing years. Their 
 imaginations ran riot with a thousand gay predictions of fes- 
 tive merriment. They wantoned in conjectures of what 
 
FIRST AND LAST. 135 
 
 changes time would operate, joked each other upon their ap- 
 pearance when they should meet; some hobbling upon 
 crutches after a severe fit of the gout ; others poking about 
 with purblind eyes, which even spectacles could hardly ena- 
 ble to distinguish the alderman's walk in a haunch of veni- 
 son ; some with portly round bellies and tidy little brown 
 wigs, and others decently dressed out in a new suit of mourn- 
 ing for the death of a great-grand-daughter or a great-grand- 
 son. Palsies, wrinkles, toothless gums, stiff hams, and poker 
 knees were bandied about in sallies of exuberant mirth, and 
 appropriated, first to one and then to another, as a group of 
 merry children would have distributed golden palaces, Hying 
 chariots, diamond tables, and chairs of solid pearl, under the 
 fancied possession of a magician's wand which could trans- 
 form plain brick and timber, arid humble mahogany, into such 
 costly treasures. 
 
 " As for you, George," exclaimed one of the twelve, ad- 
 dressing his brother-in-law, " I expect I shall see you as dry, 
 withered, and shrunken as an old eel-skin, you mere outside 
 of a man ! " And he accompanied the words with a hearty 
 slap on the shoulder. 
 
 George Fortescue was leaning carelessly over the side of 
 the yacht, laughing the loudest of any at the conversation 
 which had been carried on. The sudden manual salutation 
 of his brother-in-law threw him off his balance, and in a mo- 
 ment he was overboard. They heard the heavy splash of his 
 fall, before they could be said to have seen him fall. The 
 yacht was proceeding swiftly along; but it was instantly 
 stopped. 
 
 The utmost consternation now prevailed. It was nearly 
 dark ; but Fortescue was known to be an excellent swimmer, 
 and, startling as the accident was, they felt certain he would 
 regain the vessel. They could not see him. They listened. 
 They heard the sound of his hands and feet. They hailed 
 him. An answer was returned, but in a faint gurgling voice ; 
 and the exclamation, u O God ! " struck upon their ears. In 
 an instant, two or three, who were expert swimmers, plunged 
 into the river, and swam towards the spot whence the excla- 
 mation had proceeded, One of them was within an arm's- 
 
136 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 length of Fortescue. He saw him ; he was struggling and 
 buffeting the water : before he could be reached, he went 
 down ; and his distracted friend beheld the eddying circles 
 of the wave just over the spot where he had sunk. He dived 
 after him, and touched the bottom ; but the tide must have 
 drifted the body onwards, for it could not be found. 
 
 They proceeded to one of the nearest stations where drags 
 were kept ; and, having procured the necessary apparatus, they 
 returned to the fatal spot. After the lapse of above an hour, 
 they succeeded in raising the lifeless body of their lost friend. 
 All the usual remedies were employed for restoring suspended 
 animation ; but in vain : and they now pursued the remainder 
 of their course to Loudon, in mournful silence, with the corpse 
 of him who had commenced the day of pleasure with them in 
 the fulness of health, of spirits", and of life. Amid their se- 
 verer grief, they could not but reflect how soon one of the joy- 
 ous twelve had slipped out of the little festive circle. 
 
 The months rolled on, and cold December came with all its 
 cheering round of kindly greetings and merry hospitalities : 
 and with it came a softened recollection of the fate of poor 
 Fortescue. Eleven of the twelve assembled on the last day of 
 the year, and it was impossible not to feel their loss as they 
 sat down to dinner. The very irregularity of the table, five 
 on one side, and only four on the other, forced the melancholy 
 event upon their memory. 
 
 There are few sorrows so stubborn as to resist the united 
 influence of wine, a circle of select friends, and a season of 
 prescriptive gayety. Even those pinching troubles of life, 
 which come home to a man's own bosom, will light up a smile 
 in such moments, at the beaming countenances and jocund 
 looks of all the rest of the world ; while your mere sympa- 
 thetic or sentimental distress gives way, like the inconsolable 
 affliction of a widow of twenty closely besieged by a lover of 
 thirty. 
 
 A decorous sigh or two, a few becoming ejaculations, and 
 an instructive observation upon the uncertainty of life, made 
 up the sum of tender posthumous "offerings to the manes of 
 poor George Fortescue," as they proceeded to discharge the 
 more important duties for which they had met. By the time 
 
FIRST AND LAST. 137 
 
 the third glass of champagne had gone round, in addition to 
 sundry potations of fine old hock, and " capital madeira," 
 they had ceased to discover any thing so very pathetic in tjie 
 inequality of the two sides of the table, or so melancholy in 
 their crippled number of eleven. 
 
 The rest of the evening passed off to their hearts' content. 
 Conversation was briskly kept up amid the usual fire of pun, 
 repartee, anecdote, politics, toasts, healths, jokes, broad laugh- 
 ter, erudite disquisitions upon the vintage of the wines they 
 were drinking, and an occasional song. Towards twelve 
 o'clock, when it might be observed that they emptied their 
 glasses with less symptoms of palating the quality of what 
 they quaffed, and filled them again with less anxiety as to 
 which bottle or decanter they laid hold of, they gradually 
 waxed moral and tender ; sensibility began to ooze out ; " poor 
 George Fortescue ! " was once more remembered. Those who 
 could count sighed to think there were only eleven of them ; 
 and those who could see felt the tears come into their eyes, as 
 they dimly noted the inequality of the two sides of the table. 
 They all agreed, at parting, however, that they had never 
 passed such a happy day, congratulated each other upon hav- 
 ing instituted so delightful a meeting, and promised to be 
 punctual to their appointment the ensuing evening, when they 
 were to celebrate the new year, whose entrance they had wel- 
 comed in bumpers of claret, as the watchman bawled " past 
 twelve ! " beneath the window. 
 
 They met accordingly ; and their gayety was without any 
 alloy or drawback. It was only the^rs^ time of their assem- 
 bling, after the death of " poor George Fortescue," that made 
 the recollection of it painful ; for, though but a few hours had 
 intervened, they now took their seats at the table, as if eleven 
 had been their original number, and as if all were there that 
 had been ever expected to be there. 
 
 It is thus in every thing. The first time a man enters a 
 prison ; the first book an author writes ; the first painting 
 an artist executes ; the first battle a general wins ; nay, the 
 first time a rogue is hanged (for a rotten rope may provide a 
 second performance, even of that ceremony, with all its single- 
 ness of character), — differ inconceivably from their first repe- 
 
138 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 tition. There is a charm, a spell, a novelty, a freshness, a 
 delight, inseparable from the first experience, (hanging 
 always excepted, be it remembered), which no art or circum- 
 stance can impart to the second. And it is the same in all 
 the darker traits of life. There is a degree of poignancy and 
 anguish in the first assaults of sorrow which is never found 
 afterwards. Ask the weeping widow, who, " like Niobe all 
 tears," follows her fifth husband to the grave, and she will tell 
 you that the first time she performed that melancholy office, 
 it was with at least five times more lamentations than she last 
 discharged it. In every case, it is simply that the first fine 
 edge of our feelings has been taken off, and that it can never 
 be restored. 
 
 Several years had elapsed, and our eleven friends kept up 
 their double anniversaries, as they might aptly enough be 
 called, with scarcely any perceptible change. But, alas ! 
 there came one dinner at last, which was darkened by a 
 calamity they never expected to witness; for on that very day, 
 their friend, companion, brother almost, was hanged ! Yes! 
 Stephen Rowland, the wit, the oracle, the life of their little 
 circle, had, on the morning of that day, forfeited his life upon 
 a public scaffold for having made one single stroke of his pen 
 in a wrong place. In other words, a bill of exchange which 
 passed into his hands for £700, passed out of it for £1700; 
 he having drawn the important little prefix to the hundreds, 
 and the bill being paid at the banker's without examining the 
 the words of it. The forgery was discovered, brought 
 home to Rowland, and, though the greatest interest was 
 used to obtain a remission of the fatal penalty (the particular 
 female favorite of the prime minister himself interfering), 
 poor Stephen Rowland was hanged. Everybody pitied him ; 
 and nobody could tell why he did it. He was not poor ; he 
 was not a gambler ; he was not a speculator ; but phrenology 
 settled it. The organ of acquisitiveness was discovered in his 
 head, after his execution, as large as a pigeon's egg. He 
 could not help it. 
 
 It would be injustice to the ten to say, that even wine, 
 friendship, and a merry season, could dispel the gloom which 
 pervaded this dinner. It was agreed beforehand, that they 
 
FIRST AND LAST. 139 
 
 should not allude to the distressing and melancholy theme ; 
 and having thus interdicted the only thing which really occu- 
 pied all their thoughts, the natural consequence was, that 
 silent contemplation took the place of dismal discourse ; and 
 they separated long before midnight. An embarrassing re- 
 straint, indeed, pervaded the little conversation which grew 
 up at intervals. The champagne was not in good order, but 
 no one liked to complain of its being ropy. A beautiful paint- 
 in & of Vandyke, which was in the room, became a topic of 
 discussion. They who thought it was hung in a bad place 
 shrunk from saying so ; and not one ventured to speak of the 
 execution of that great master. Their host was having the 
 front of his house repaired ; and at any time he would have 
 cautioned them, when they went away, as the night was very 
 dark, to take care of the scaffold: but no, they might have 
 stumbled right and left before he would have pronounced 
 that word or told them not to break their necks. One, in par- 
 ticular, even abstained from using his customary phrase, " this 
 is a drop of good wine;" and another forebore to congratulate 
 the friend who sat next him, and who had been married since 
 he last saw him, because he was accustomed on such occasions 
 to employ figurative language, and talk of the holy noose of 
 wedlock. 
 
 Some fifteen years had now glided away since the face of 
 poor Rowland, and the ten remained ; but the stealing hand 
 of time had written sundry changes in most legible characters. 
 Raven locks had become grizzled; two or three' heads had 
 not as many locks altogether as may be reckoned in a walk of 
 half a mile along the Regent's Canal ; one was actually cov- 
 ered with a brown wig ; the crow's feet were visible in the 
 corner of the eye ; good old port and warm madeira carried 
 it against hock, claret, red burgundy, and champagne ; 
 stews, hashes, and ragouts, grew into favor; crusts were 
 rarely called for to relish the cheese after dinner ; conversa- 
 tion was less boisterous, and it turned chiefly upon politics 
 and the state of the funds, or the value of landed property ; 
 apologies were made for coming in thick shoes and warm 
 stockings ; the doors and windows were more carefully pro- 
 vided with list and sand-bags ; the fire more in request ; 
 
140 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 and a quiet game of whist filled up the hours that were wont 
 to be devoted to drinking, singing, and riotous merriment. 
 Two rubbers, a cup of coffee, and at home by eleven o'clock, 
 was the usual cry, when the fifth or sixth glass had gone round 
 after the removal of the cloth. At parting, too, there was now 
 a long ceremony in the hall, buttoning up great coats, tying 
 on woollen comforters, fixing silk handkerchiefs over the 
 mouth and up to the ears, and grasping sturdy walking-canes 
 to support unsteady feet. 
 
 Their fiftieth anniversary came, and death had indeed 
 been busy. One had been killed by the overturning of the 
 mail, in which he had taken his place in order to be present 
 at the dinner ; having purchased an estate in Monmouthshire, 
 and retired thither with his father. Another had undergone 
 the terrific operation for the stone, and expired beneath the 
 knife. A third had yielded up a broken spirit, two years 
 after the loss of an only-surviving and beloved daughter. A 
 fourth was carried off in a few days by a cholera morbus. 
 A fifth had breathed his last the very morning he obtained 
 a judgment in his favor by the Lord Chancellor, which had 
 cost him his last shilling, nearly, to get ; and which, after a 
 litigation of eighteen years, declared him the rightful pos- 
 sessor of ten thousand a year. Ten minutes after, he was no 
 more. A sixth had perished by the hand of a midnight 
 assassin, who broke into his house for plunder, and sacrificed the 
 owner of it, as he grasped convulsively a bundle of exchequer 
 bills, which the robber was drawing from beneath his pillow, 
 where he knew they were every night placed for security. 
 
 Four little old men, of withered appearance and decrepit 
 walk, with cracked voices, and dim, rayless eyes, sat down, by 
 the mercy of heaven (as they themselves tremulously declared), 
 to celebrate for the fiftieth time the first day of the year ; 
 to observe the frolic compact which, half a century before, 
 they had entered into at the Star and Garter at Richmond. 
 Eight were in their graves. The four that remained stood 
 upon its confines. Yet they chirped cheerily over their glass, 
 though they could scarcely carry it to their lips if more than 
 half full ; and cracked their jokes, though they articulated 
 their words with difficulty, and heard each other with still 
 
FIRST AND LAST. 141 
 
 greater difficulty. They mumbled, they chartered, they laughed 
 (if a sort of strangled wheezing might be called a laugh) ; and, 
 when the wines sent their icy blood in warmer pulse through 
 their veins, they talked of their past as if it were but a 
 yesterday that had slipped by them ; and of their future, as 
 if it were a busy century that lay before them. 
 
 They were just the number for a quiet rubber of whist, and 
 for three successive years they sat down to one. The fourth 
 came, and then their rubber was played with an open dummy ; 
 a fifth, and whist was no longer practicable. Two could play 
 only at cribbage, and cribbage was the game ; but it was little 
 more than the mockery of play. Their palsied hands could 
 hardly hold, or their fading sight distinguish, the cards, while 
 their torpid faculties made them doze between each deal. 
 
 At length came the last dinner ; and the survivor of the 
 twelve, upon whose head fourscore and ten winters had 
 showered their snow, ate his solitary meal. It so chanced, 
 that it was in his house, and at his table, they had celebrated 
 the first. In his cellar, too, had remained for eight and fifty 
 years the bottle they had then uncorked, re-corked, and 
 which he was that day to uncork again. It stood beside him. 
 With a feeble and reluctant grasp, he took the " frail memo- 
 rial " of a youthful vow ; and for a moment Memory was 
 faithful to her office. She threw open the long vista of 
 buried years ; and his heart travelled through them all, — 
 Their lusty and blithesome spring, their bright and fervid 
 summer, their ripe and temperate autumn, their chill, but 
 not too frozen winter. He saw as in a mirror, how, one by 
 one, the laughing companions of that merry hour at Rich- 
 mond had dropped into eternity. He felt all the loneliness 
 of his condition (for he had eschewed marriage, and in the 
 veins of no living creature ran a drop of blood whose source 
 was in his own) ; and, as he drained the glass which he had 
 filled " to the memory of those who were gone,''* the tears 
 slowly trickled down the deep furrows of his aged face. 
 
 He had thus fulfilled one part of his vow, and he prepared 
 himself to discharge the other by sitting the usual number 
 of hours at his desolate table. With a heavy heart, he 
 resigned himself to the gloom of his own thoughts. A lethar- 
 
142 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 gic sleep stole over him, his head fell upon his bosom, con- 
 fused images crowded into his mind, he babbled to himself, 
 was silent ; and when his servant entered the room, alarmed 
 by a noise which he heard, he found his master stretched upon 
 the carpet at the foot of the easy-chair, out of which he had 
 slipped in an apoplectic-fit. He never spoke again, nor once 
 opened his eyes, though the vital spark was not extinct till 
 the following day. And this was the last dinner ! 
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 
 
 Summer, Summer, fresh, ambrosial Summer ! 
 With thy blue love-eyes, and thy verdant robe 
 Inwoven with all flowers, and dew-begemmed, 
 Be with us till we die : go not so soon ! 
 
 When Spring was new upon the verdant plains, 
 And soft winds woke the sleeping buds to bloom, 
 And lambkins frisked about the laughing rills, 
 
 1 loved thee, Summer ; and I love thee yet. 
 
 I loved thee when the deep, dark foliage rolled 
 On sombre woods most like a stormy sea, 
 And each blue orb was gazing up to heaven ; 
 The throstle and the blackbird piping loud. 
 
 And now the reaper hath long gathered in 
 His Autumn stores, and sits upon the hutch ' 
 Watching the wheeling swallows while they fly, 
 With twitter, ere they seek a warmer sun. 
 
 The brook, that sang so sweet at noon of day, 
 When the tired hind lay stretched beneath the shade, 
 Hath lost its liquid tone, and chants a dirge 
 That Summer goeth from the fields so soon. 
 
 O Summer, Summer, fresh, ambrosial Summer ! 
 The bending flowers weep dewy tears and mourn, 
 And I mourn with them ; and yet thou must go : 
 Oh ! come again, sweet Summer, come right soon. 
 
THE SENTIMENTAL YOUNG LADT. 
 
 The sentimental young lady has a family resemblance to 
 the sentimental young gentleman ; but, personally, they are as 
 unlike as if they were no relatives at all. The coarseness and 
 hardness of the masculine animal modify his sentimentality. 
 He is not melancholy, but severe. The arrow has entered 
 his soul by anticipation. He bestows his contempt and 
 detestation upon mankind in the form of an advance. Know- 
 ing the pangs of betrayed friendship and unrequited love to 
 be in store for him, he rushes up to them indignantly, and 
 feels them beforehand. These, however, are endurable by 
 the brave and scornful : but the loneliness of his being is an 
 immortal pang. How is it that he is not understood by his 
 fellow-men V Why is he a single, solitary atom in this tremen- 
 dous universe, belonging to no system, and the object of no 
 sympathy ? If he cannot be loved, he will at least make 
 himself feared : he cultivates an awful head of hair ; and, if 
 his profession is intended to be a peaceable one, addicts 
 himself, with stern resolution, to the mustache. Seldom he 
 laughs ; but he is an adept at the smile, for which we have 
 no name in our language, although the French indicate it by 
 the word, ricaner, expressing the alarming hilarity of a death's 
 head. It is no wonder that his (prospective) miseries should 
 drive him to take refuge in soda-water and Havanas, since 
 he ranks himself among those castaways of the world who 
 are privileged to have recourse, in their isolation, to intem- 
 perance and crime ; repeating, with the proud despair of a 
 fallen angel, the Byronic lines — 
 
 " Then the spirits that still float above the wreck of happiness 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess ; 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain, 
 The shore to which their shivered sail can never stretch again I " 
 
 143 
 
144 THE SENTIMENTAL YOUNG LADY. 
 
 This young gentleman finds the world he defies an ugly 
 customer. It thrashes him into good humor with it. It 
 knocks him about till he has no breath for vituperation. His 
 betraying friend helps him out of a sponging-house, or he 
 helps the other, which is all one. He marries his unrequi ; - 
 ing love, and discovers, to his consternation, that he has 
 changed her into a wife. All his corners are finally rubbed 
 off by the collisions of time : likewise the hair from the crown 
 of his head. He becomes fond of ease and long stories and 
 sipping claret ; he grows gouty and obese ; he dies, and is 
 buried. 
 
 The sentimental young lady is quite a different person. She 
 is more melancholy than severe, more plaintive than vituper- 
 ative. There is a mystery in her sadness which piques the 
 curiosity of others, — perhaps her own. She has various 
 difficulties to struggle with in a world that seems to be made 
 up of antagonisms between mind and matter. Her tendency 
 to embonpoint is kept down only by the ceaseless anxiety it 
 costs her ; and a distressing appetite forces her to all sorts of 
 expedients. At dinner, she will trouble you for nothing more 
 than the side-bone of a chicken, " as she is not partial to 
 animal food," and as she had eaten enough of bread and 
 butter before the company came in to remove the sensation 
 of hunger. It is to this delicacy of eating, in fact, she owes 
 the faint perfume included by Barry Cornwall among the 
 attributes of beauty, but which the coarser Byron alludes to 
 as smelling of bread and butter. 
 
 We admit, however, that there is some want of science 
 betrayed in the young lady's proceedings on this point ; bread 
 and butter containing, in reality, much more of the fattening 
 principle than animal food. However, she does all for the 
 best, listening, poor girl, to the crackling of her corsage- 
 strings, as if they were so many pistol-shots fired by an 
 ambushed assassin at her peace. Another misery is the 
 vulgar suffusion to which her face is liable. To spread the 
 hue of health over the pale sufferer's cheek, is a mere hypoc- 
 risy of nature ; and she opposes it as far as pearl-powder and 
 internal draughts will go. She is seldom entirely successful ; 
 the color, banished from every other part, lingering occasion- 
 
THE SENTIMENTAL YOUNG LADY. 145 
 
 ally on her nose; a remarkable phenomenon, since she 
 rigorously abstains from wine. 
 
 The sentimental young lady has a heavy epistolary corres- 
 pondence, although for the most part confined to a single 
 individual. This is the serious business of her life. On 
 coming down stairs in the morning, she darts upon the basket 
 on the hall-table like a bird of prey. At other post-hours, 
 she watches at the parlor window. She has learned to 
 interpret the physiognomy of the postman, between whom 
 and her there is gradually developed a masonic intelligence. 
 Sometimes he shakes his head, and says, " No, Miss," with a 
 deprecating look ; and, at other times, he puts the looked-for- 
 letters into her hands confidentially, and passes on as if 
 relieved from a responsibility. 
 
 What is the subject of these letters ? We dare not conjec- 
 ture ; but we have a dim impression that they relate mainly 
 to metaphysics, and contain the true key to ever so much of 
 the philosophy of life. But we must here advert — and not 
 without indignation — to the practice this young lady has of 
 crossing her letters. This she perpetrates not only vertically, 
 but often diagonally to boot ; thereby converting the letter 
 into a dense congeries of scratches, as unintelligible as the 
 Rosetta Stone would have been, if its three inscriptions had 
 been jumbled together. It was our intention, we may hint 
 to those concerned, if a certain borough that shall be name- 
 less had not unaccountably rejected our proffered services in 
 Parliament, to introduce a bill, bringing this offence — at 
 present reckoned a mere immorality — into the category of 
 criminal misdemeanors, visited by lengthened imprisonment, 
 bread and water, and the deprivation of pen and ink.- 
 
 The sentimental young lady has usually another friend, 
 who resides in the next street. They take solitary walks 
 together ; they go to one another's houses at all sorts of odd 
 times ; they are always seen speaking to each other confi- 
 dentially, and are never overheard. No one knows the . 
 nature of their intercommunications. When a third person 
 approaches, they look at each other warningly, and are silent. 
 Their private business follows them everywhere ; and, when 
 they meet in the evening, they sit side by side, whispering in 
 10 
 
146 THE SENTIMENTAL YOUNG LADY. 
 
 a corner of the room. They converse a great deal, too, with 
 their eyes, exchanging the looks it is customary to designate 
 as " meaning," when people don't know what they mean. 
 
 It might be supposed that the sentimental young lady would 
 be in love with the sentimental young gentleman : but this 
 never happens. Her chosen one, both in mind and person, is 
 the most common-place specimen of his sex. All the qualities 
 she adores in him are electro-biological ; and, between her and 
 her friend, he is made up into a figure which his own mother 
 would not know. Even when he laughs at her sentiment, — 
 of which he cannot make head or tail, — she is delighted ; for 
 it is not to be expected that these shocking men should com- 
 prehend a woman like her. She thinks, however, that he is 
 impressionable. His tendencies are all right ; and by degrees 
 she will be able to refine and elevate him. This must be 
 done before marriage ; and there is no hurry. To be " en- 
 gaged " is paradise, with marriage looking beautifully blue in 
 the distance. She never would marry, if she could help it, 
 but always be going to be married : it is so delicious to be in 
 a continual mystery, to exchange conscious looks with him, 
 and meaning ones with her friend, and to hear people whis- 
 pering about her as she enters the room. She has, in fact, 
 an instinctive misgiving as to marriage. 
 
 And no wonder ; for that is the end of the sentimental 
 young lady. No sooner is the magic ring on her finger, than 
 the hallucination vanishes, and she sees nothing about her but 
 pianos, carpets, and milk and water. She abandons bread 
 and butter, -and takes without remorse to animal food and 
 two glasses of wine. She drops acquaintance with the post- 
 man, gives up crossing her letters, and by-and-by rarely writes 
 at all. Her friend feels that something has come between 
 them, and relinquishes, of her own accord, the confidential 
 tone. The married lady grows communicative with the 
 world, but not on the subject of her earlier history. No man 
 knows to this day the nature of her written correspondence, 
 or the secret of her confidential whispers. In the mean time, 
 she gives way to her natural tendency, thrives on what she 
 eats and drinks, acquires a good, round, comfortable armful 
 of a waist, while the warm hue of health, subsiding from the 
 
INVOCATION. 147 
 
 tantalizing position it had taken up on her nose, diffuses 
 itself over her ripe cheeks. Her delicate voice grows distinct 
 and matronly ; and her laugh rings sharp and clear through 
 the room. In the course of time, she has any reasonable 
 number of children, or any unreasonable number ; and she 
 takes special care that not one of them shall have any chance 
 of turning out a Sentimental Young Lady. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 BY EDWIN ARNOLD.* 
 
 Where waitest thou, 
 Lady I am to love ? Thou comest not ; 
 Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot ; 
 
 I looked for thee ere now. 
 
 It is the May, 
 And each sweet sister-soul hath found its brother ; 
 Only we two seek fondly each the other, 
 
 And, seeking, still delay. 
 
 Where art thou, sweet ? 
 I long for thee, as thirsty lips for streams. 
 O gentle, promised angel of my dreams ! 
 
 Why do we never meet ? 
 
 Thou art as I ; 
 Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee : 
 We cannot live apart. Must meeting be 
 
 Never before we die ? 
 
 Dear soul, not so ! 
 That Time doth keep for us some happy years, 
 That God hath portioned out our smiles and tears, 
 
 Thou knowest, and I know. 
 
 * Son of Dr. Arnold of Rugby, England, and brother of Matthew 
 Arnold. 
 
148 ALL'S WELL. 
 
 Yes, we shall meet ; 
 And therefore let our searching be the stronger : 
 Dark ways of life shall not divide us longer, 
 
 Nor doubt, nor danger, sweet. 
 
 Therefore I bear 
 This winter-tide as bravely as I may, 
 Patiently waiting for the bright spring-day, 
 
 That cometh with thee, dear. 
 
 'Tis the May-light 
 That crimsons all the quiet college gloom : 
 May it shine softly in thy sleeping-room ; 
 
 And so, dear wife, good-night ! 
 
 ALL'S WELL. 
 
 The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep, 
 My weary spirit seeks repose in thine ! 
 
 Father, forgive my trespasses, and keep 
 This little life of mine. 
 
 With loving-kindness curtain thou my bed, 
 And cool in rest my burning pilgrim feet ; 
 
 Thy pardon be the pillow for my head : 
 So shall my sleep be sweet. 
 
 At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and thee, 
 No fears my souPs unwavering faith can shake : 
 
 AlPs well, whichever side the grave for me 
 The morning light may break. 
 
THE TWO MOTTOES, 
 
 BY EMILE SOUVESTRE.* 
 
 In the coach-office at Cernay stood two young men who 
 had just taken their places for Kaysersberg. They were of 
 the same age, each about four and twenty ; but there were 
 remarkable differences in their physiognomy and general ap- 
 pearance. The shorter of the two was dark, pale, quick in 
 his movements, and of an impatient vivacity of manner, which 
 betrayed at a first glance his Southern origin. His compan- 
 ion, on the contrary, tall, fair, and ruddy, was a perfect type 
 of that mixed Alsatian race in which French expansiveness 
 is happily blended with German good humor. On the 
 ground at their feet were two small portmanteaus, upon which 
 cards of address were fastened with sealing-wax. On one 
 of these cards was inscribed, — 
 
 Henry Fortin, Marseilles ; 
 
 and at its four corners a seal had impressed upon the wax the 
 motto, Man Droit. 
 
 On the other card was written, — 
 
 Joseph Mulzen, Strasburg ; 
 
 and the motto of the seal was Caritas. 
 
 The office-keeper had entered their names in his book, 
 and added the words, with two portmanteaus, when Henry 
 demanded that these should be weighed. They would be 
 weighed at Kaysersberg, the office-keeper replied. The young 
 man said it would be inconvenient to be delayed by that for- 
 mality at the moment of their arrival. It was his right ? he 
 maintained, to have them weighed at once. The office-keep- 
 er, thus hard pressed, grew obstinate in his turn. In vain did 
 
 * Bora at Morlaix, Finistere, in 1806; died in Paris in 1854. His 
 writings are distinguished by pure morality and genial sentiment. 
 His complete works embrace about 20 vols. 12mo. 
 
 149 
 
150 THE TWO MOTTOES. 
 
 Joseph interfere, and remind Henry that they had barely 
 time to dine before departure. In virtue of his motto, the 
 Marseillese never gave way when he thought he was in the 
 right ; and he always thought that. At last the office-keeper, 
 weary of the dispute, beat a retreat, and escaped into his 
 dwelling-house. Henry would have continued the discussion 
 with the porter ; but, fortunately, the porter spoke nothing but 
 German. So he was fain to accompany his friend to the inn, 
 venting upon him, by the way, the superabundance of his ill 
 humor. 
 
 " By heavens ! " he exclaimed, as soon as they were in the 
 street, " you would make a saint swear. What ! you would 
 not back me against that obstinate fellow ! " 
 
 " It seems to me," replied Joseph with a smile, w that it was 
 rather he who was in want of a backer. You brought for- 
 ward as formidable an array of arguments as if your fortune 
 or your honor had been at stake." 
 
 a In your opinion, then, I should have done better not to 
 defend my right ? " 
 
 " When the right is not worth defending." 
 
 " Ah, how like you ! " interrupted Henry warmly. " You 
 are always ready to yield. One must be walking over your 
 body, before you think of defending yourself. Instead of 
 considering the world as a battle-field, you take it to be a 
 drawing-room for the interchange of courtesies." 
 
 " Not so," replied Joseph ; u but a great ship, all the passen- 
 gers by which owe each other reciprocal friendliness and 
 toleration. Every man is my friend until he has declared 
 himself my enemy." 
 
 " For my part, I consider every man my enemy until he has 
 declared himself my friend," replied the Marseillese. " It is 
 a prudent system, which I have always found answer, and I 
 advise you to adopt it at Kaysersberg. There we shall find 
 ourselves face to face with our uncle's other heirs, who will 
 not fail to appropriate all they can of the inheritance. For 
 my part, I am determined to concede nothing to them." 
 
 Thus conversing, the cousins reached the White Horse Inn, 
 and entered the public dining-room, which was unoccupied, 
 save by the hostess, who was laying, for three persons only, a 
 
THE TWO MOTTOES. 151 
 
 large table at one end of the apartment. Henry ordered 
 two more knives and forks to be laid for himself and 
 Joseph. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said the woman ; " but you can- 
 not dine here." 
 
 " Why so ? " inquired the young man. 
 
 " Because the three persons for whom we have just laid 
 this table desire to dine alone." 
 
 " Let them dine in their own room, then," replied Henry, 
 abruptly. " This is the public room and the public table : 
 here every traveller has a right to enter and to dine." 
 
 " What matter," said Joseph, " whether we dine here or 
 in another room ? " 
 
 " And what does it matter to those three persons whether 
 we dine here or not ? " retorted Henry. 
 
 " They came before you, sir," objected the hostess. 
 
 " Then, in your inn, it is the first-comers who lay down the 
 law ? " cried Henry. 
 
 " Besides that, they are persons whom we know." 
 
 11 And you care more for them than for us 1 " 
 
 " You understand, sir, that, when customers are in the 
 case " — 
 
 " All other travellers must submit to their caprice ? " 
 
 " Your dinner shall be laid elsewhere." 
 
 " Yes : with the broken meat from your favorites' table, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 bt The hostess was hurt by this imputation upon her estab- 
 lishment. 
 
 u If the gentleman is afraid of getting a bad dinner at the 
 White Horse, there are other inns at Cernay," said she. 
 
 "I was just thinking so," replied Henry, quickly, taking up 
 his hat. And without listening to Joseph, who tried to de- 
 tain him, he darted out of the room, and disappeared. 
 
 Mulzen knew by experience that the best plan, in cases 
 like the present, was to let his cousin's ill humor burn itself 
 out ; and that any attempt to recall him to reason served only 
 to aggravate his pugnacity. He resolved, therefore, to let him 
 seek his dinner elsewhere, and ordered his own to be served 
 up in an adjoining apartment: but, just as he was about ad- 
 
152 THE TWO MOTTOES. 
 
 journing to it, the three expected guests entered the public 
 room. These were an old lady and her niece, and a gentle- 
 man about fifty years of age. The hostess, who was telling 
 them what had just occurred, stopped short at sight of Joseph, 
 who bowed, and was withdrawing, when the gentleman de- 
 tained him. " I am grieved, sir," said he urbanely, "to learn 
 the dispute that has occurred. In desiring to dine alone, 
 our object was to avoid the society of persons whose conver- 
 sation and manners might have shocked these ladies. But, 
 certainly, we were far from desiring to drive away customers 
 from the White Horse, as your friend, perhaps, believed ; and, 
 in proof of what I say, I beg you to do us the favor of sit- 
 ting down to dinner with us." 
 
 Joseph would have refused, declaring himself in no way 
 offended by a precaution which he found quite natural ; but 
 Mr. Rosman (it was thus the two ladies called their compan- 
 ion) pressed his invitation in so cordial and friendly a manner, 
 that he ended by accepting. 
 
 The old lady, who seemed little accustomed to travel, sat 
 down opposite to him, with her niece, and heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 " You are tired, Charlotte ? " said Mr. Rosman. 
 
 "Tired indeed!" replied the old woman; " as well I may 
 be, after being shaken up for a whole day in that crazy 
 coach, getting my meals irregularly, and running all manner 
 of dangers : for I know not how we escaped being upset 
 twenty times. The diligence was always leaning to one side or 
 to the other. I would give a year of my life that our journey 
 were at an end." 
 
 " Fortunately, the bargain is impossible," cried the young 
 girl, smiling, and kissing her aunt. 
 
 " Yes, yes, you laugh at my troubles," said Miss Charlotte, 
 in a half grumbling, half affectionate tone. " Young girls, 
 nowadays, fear nothing. They travel by railway and steam- 
 boat ; they would travel by balloons if they could get places. 
 It is the Revolution that has made them so bold. Before 
 that, the bravest amongst them travelled only in carts, or on 
 ass-back ; and even then, only when they had pressing busi- 
 ness. I have heard my poor mother say, that she never would 
 travel in any other way than on foot." 
 
THE TWO MOTTOES. 153 
 
 " Yes," observed Mr. Kosman ; " and therefore her farthest 
 journey was only to the chief town of her canton." 
 
 " That did not prevent her being a worthy and happy wo- 
 man," replied Miss Charlotte. " When the bird has built his 
 nest, he stays there. The present custom of passing one's 
 time upon the high-road impairs one's love of home and fam- 
 ily: people get a habit of being at home everywhere. It 
 may be more advantageous to society at large ; but it renders 
 individuals less good, and less happy." 
 
 " Come, come, Charlotte," said Mr. Rosman, gayly. " Your 
 late jolting has set you against all journeys ; but I hope your 
 discontent will disappear before this excellent soup. I appeal 
 to your impartiality whether a better can be got, even at 
 Fontaine." 
 
 The dialogue continued in this strain of affectionate famil- 
 iarity. Joseph at first maintained a discreet silence ; but Mr. 
 Rosman spoke to him several times, and conversation had 
 become general, when the waiter came in to say that the dili- 
 gence was about starting. They paid for their dinner, and 
 hastened to the coach-office. 
 
 On arriving there, Joseph saw his cousin hurrying up. 
 Whilst Mulzen had dined, Henry had run from one tavern to 
 another, finding nothing ready at any of them, and at last, 
 pressed for time, he had been fain to buy a roll and some 
 fruit, which he ate as he ran. 
 
 As may be imagined, the frugal repast had done little to 
 sweeten his temper. Joseph observed this, and abstained from 
 questioning him. Indeed, he had no time ; for the way-bill 
 was already being called over, and the travellers were about 
 to take their places, when the office-keeper discovered that he 
 had made a mistake, and booked two persons too many, and 
 that the coach was full without Mulzin and Fortin. 
 
 " Full ! " cried Henry ; u but I paid you my fare ! " 
 
 " I will return it you, sir," replied the clerk. 
 
 " Not at all," answered the young man. " Having once 
 taken my money, there is a contract between us. I have a 
 right to a place, and a place I will have." 
 
 And, so saying, he grasped a strap, and ascended the impe- 
 rial, where was a place as yet unfilled. The traveller to whom 
 
154 THE TWO MOTTOES. 
 
 it belonged protested against this usurpation ; but Henry per- 
 sisted, declaring that none had a right to make him get down, 
 and that, if any attempted it, he would repel violence by 
 violence. Joseph in vain endeavored to compromise the 
 matter. The Marseillese, whose humor had been by no means 
 mended by his bad dinner, persisted in his resolution. 
 
 " To every one his right," cried he. " That is my motto : 
 yours is ' Charity.' Be as charitable as you please ; for my 
 part, I am satisfied with justice. • I have paid for this place : 
 it belongs to me. I shall keep it." 
 
 The traveller whose place he filled objected his priority of 
 possession ; but Henry, who was a lawyer, replied by quota- 
 tions from the code. There was a sharp interchange of 
 violent explanations, recriminations, and menaces. Miss 
 Charlotte, who heard everything from her place in the coupe, 
 groaned and sighed her alarm, and recommenced her dia- 
 tribes against travelling in general and public vehicles in par- 
 ticular. At last, Joseph, perceiving that the dispute became 
 more and more envenomed, proposed to the office-keeper to 
 have a horse put to a cabriolet which stood in the yard, and in 
 which he and the dispossessed traveller would continue their 
 journey. The expedient was adopted by the parties con- 
 cerned, and the diligence set off. 
 
 It was in the month of November; the air, damp and chilly 
 at the moment of departure, grew colder still as night ap- 
 proached. Henry Fortin, accustomed to the sun of Provence, 
 was any thing but comfortable in his exposed place upon the 
 top of the diligence, In vain did he button his great-coat to 
 the very chin : he shivered like a leaf in the frigid evening 
 fog. His lips were blue, his teeth chattered. Soon a small, icy 
 rain, driven full in his face by the wind, penetrated his clothes. 
 His neighbor, protected by an ample blanket-cloak, might 
 easily have spared him a portion of it, and been no worse off 
 himself: but the neighbor was a corpulent shopkeeper, very 
 tender of his own person, and extremely careless of the com- 
 fort of others. When Fortin refused to give up the place of 
 which he had taken possession, the fat man applauded, de- 
 claring that " every one travelled for his own account, and 
 should look after his own interests," — principles which the 
 
THE TWO MOTTOES. 155 
 
 young man then found perfectly reasonable, and from whose 
 application he now suffered. About the middle of the jour- 
 ney, the stout traveller put his head out of his cloak, looked 
 at his neighbor, and said — 
 
 " You seem very cold, sir ? " 
 
 " I am wet to the skin," replied Fortin, who could hardly 
 speak. 
 
 The fat man shook himself in his huge wrapper, as if in- 
 tensely enjoying the warmth and dryness it secured him. 
 
 " It is very bad for the health to get wet," said he philo- 
 sophically. u Another time I advise you to bring a cloak like 
 mine : it is very warm, and not dear." 
 
 Having given this sensible advice, he withdrew his comfort- 
 able countenance within his snug garment, and relapsed into 
 a luxurious doze. 
 
 It was long after nightfall when the diligence arrived at 
 Kaysersberg. Half dead with cold, Fortin scrambled down 
 from the roof, and sought refuge in the inn-kitchen, where a 
 large fire blazed. On entering, he found a group of travel- 
 lers already assembled round the cheerful hearth, and amongst 
 them, to his surprise, were his cousin and the traveller whom 
 he had deprived of his place. The cabriolet had taken them 
 by a cross-road, which was a short-cut ; and they had been an 
 hour at the inn. 
 
 On remarking his cousin's deplorable plight. Mulzen at 
 once gave up his chair to him. As for the traveller whom 
 Fortin had dispossessed at Cernay, he could not restrain a 
 hearty laugh. 
 
 l * Upon my word ! " he cried, " I must thank this gentleman 
 for having driven me from the imperial of the diligence ; 
 tor. had he not done so, I should now be wet and half frozen 
 as he is, instead of being warm and comfortable as I am." 
 
 Fortin's position was altogether too bad to admit of a retort. 
 He sat down before the fire, and tried to warm himself. 
 
 As soon as he was a little revived, he asked for a room and 
 a bed ; but the Kaysersberg fair was only just over, and the inn 
 was full of persons who were to leave next morning. Joseph 
 and his companion, although they had arrived before the dili- 
 gence, had found but one small bed vacant, which the former 
 
156 THE TWO MOTTOES. 
 
 had generously given up to the latter. However, after much 
 inquiry and investigation, it came out that there was another 
 bed disengaged ; but this stood in a room with four others, 
 occupied by four peddlers, who refused to admit a stranger 
 into the apartment. 
 
 " Did they engage the room for themselves alone ? " in- 
 quired Fortin. 
 
 " By no means,''* replied the innkeeper. 
 
 " Then you have a right to dispose of the unoccupied 
 bed." 
 
 " Undoubtedly." 
 
 " Then what reason do they give for refusing to admit a 
 fifth person into the room ? " 
 
 " No reason at all ; but they are four rough-looking fellows, 
 and nobody cared to have a quarrel with them." 
 
 Fortin rose quickly from his seat. 
 
 " That is weakness," cried he. " For my part, I certainly 
 will not sleep upon a chair because four strangers think 
 proper to monopolize five beds. Show me their room. They 
 must be made to hear reason." 
 
 " Have a care, Henry," said Mulzen. " They are brutal, 
 ill-conditioned fellows." 
 
 " Does their brutality entitle them to make us sit up all 
 night ? " sharply demanded the native of Marseilles. " No, 
 pardieu I I will go to bed in spite of them." 
 
 He put on his travelling cap, and was leaving the room in 
 company with the innkeeper, when Mr. Rosman, who, whilst 
 seeking a man to carry his baggage, had overheard the con- 
 versation, approached the two cousins. 
 
 u I perceive, gentlemen," said he, with his friendly, smiling 
 air, " that you have difficulty in finding beds for to-night." 
 
 " I shall not be long without one," replied Henry, passing 
 on. 
 
 " One moment," said Mr. Rosman. " Those men will per- 
 haps reply to your reasons with insults, and you may have 
 difficulty in getting them to admit your right. Had you not 
 better accept beds at my house, gentlemen ? I live but a few 
 yards off, and shall have great pleasure in receiving you." 
 
 Fortin and Mulzen bowed, and returned their thanks for 
 
THE TWO MOTTOES. 157 
 
 this hospitable invitation, but in very different tones. That 
 of Mulzen was grateful and joyous ; that of his companion 
 constrained, although polite. Henry had not yet forgotten 
 that Mr. Rosman was the primary cause of the meagerness of 
 his dinner at Cernay. 
 
 " You are too obliging, sir," said he, softening his voice ; 
 " but I would not on any account occasion you so much 
 trouble. It is well, besides, to give a lesson to these people, 
 and to teach them to respect the rights of travellers." 
 
 Having thus spoken, he again bowed, and betook himself 
 to the apartment occupied by the pedlars. Mulzen, fearing a 
 quarrel, followed him ; but whether it was that the hawkers 
 did not care much about the matter, or that they were daunted 
 by the Provencal's resolute mien, they contented themselves 
 with a little grumbling, in spite of which Henry installed 
 himself in the fifth bed. His cousin, relieved of his appre- 
 hensions, then re-descended the stairs, and joined Mr. Ros- 
 man, who "had been so obliging as to wait for him. 
 
 Miss Charlotte and her niece Louisa were preparing the tea 
 before a crackling fire of fir-cones. Mulzen's guide spoke a 
 few words in a low voice to the two ladies, who received the 
 young man with courteous kindness. They made him sit 
 down at table, and Louisa filled the cups. As to Miss Char- 
 lotte, she had not yet recovered from the fatigue of her jour- 
 ney. Seated in her arm-chair, she fancied she still felt the 
 jolts of the diligence, and heard the rattle of the wheels in 
 the singing of the kettle. She did not forget, however, to in- 
 quire what had become of the young man who had carried 
 the imperial of the diligence by assault at Cernay ; and Mr. 
 Rosman related what had just occurred at the inn. 
 
 " Bless me ! " cried Miss Charlotte, " he passes his life in 
 search of quarrels and litigation ! He is a man to be avoided 
 like a pestilence ! " 
 
 "It is impossible to have a better heart or more upright 
 character," replied Mulzen ; " but he makes a point of acting 
 up to his motto : To every one his rights" 
 
 " Whereas your motto is Charity" rejoined the old lady, 
 with a smile. " Oh ! I overheard all that passed at Cernay." 
 
 " You travel together ? " inquired Mr. Rosman. 
 
158 THE TWO MOTTOES. 
 
 " We are cousins," replied Mulzen ; " and we have come to 
 Kaysersberg to be present at the opening of a will, which 
 takes place to-morrow." 
 
 " A will ! " repeated Miss Charlotte, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " The will of our uncle, Dr. Harver." 
 
 The two ladies and Mr. Rosman looked at each other. 
 
 " Ah ! you are the doctor's relatives? " said Mr. Rosman, 
 gazing at the young man with a certain degree of interest. 
 " Chance could hardly have directed you better, sir, for I was 
 his oldest and most intimate friend." 
 
 This sort of mutual recognition naturally led the conversa- 
 tion to the subject of the deceased doctor. Mulzen had 
 never seen him, but he felt for him that sort of respectful re- 
 gard which instinct establishes between members of the same 
 family. He talked a long time of the doctor, listened with 
 interest to details of his life and of his last moments ; and at 
 last, after one of those intimate conversations in which heart 
 and mind throw off disguise, and display themselves as they 
 really are, he retired to bed, delighted with his hosts, who, on 
 their part, were equally pleased with him. 
 
 Tired with his journey, it was late when he awoke next 
 morning. He hastened to dress himself, in order to seek his 
 cousin, whom he was to accompany to the notary with whom 
 the will was deposited. But on going down into the break- 
 fast room he found the notary there, with Mr. Rosman and 
 with Fortin, for whom a messenger had been sent. Miss 
 Charlotte and Louisa soon appeared. When all were assem- 
 bled, Mr. Rosman turned to the two young men, and said, 
 with a smile, — 
 
 " All here present are interested in the matter which brings 
 you to Kaysersberg, gentlemen ; for my sister-in-law, Miss 
 Charlotte Revel, and her niece, Louisa Armand, whose guar- 
 dian I am, have come hither, like yourselves, to witness the 
 opening of the will of their brother and uncle, Dr. Harver." 
 
 The two young men bowed to Miss Charlotte and Miss 
 Louisa, who returned their salutation. 
 
 " Since accident has brought together all the parties con- 
 cerned," continued Mr. Rosman, " I thought the doctor's last 
 wishes might be made public here as well as at the notary's 
 office." 
 
THE TWO MOTTOES. 159 
 
 Fortin made a sign of assent. Everybody sat down, and 
 the notary was about to break the seal of the will, when he 
 checked himself. 
 
 " This will," he said, " is of old date ; and, during the latter 
 months of his life, Dr. Harver told me several times that it 
 was his intention to destroy it, so that each of his heirs might 
 receive the share regulated by law. The non-execution of 
 his intention I can explain only by the suddenness of his 
 death. I deem it my duty to declare this ; and now I ask all 
 the interested persons here present whether they are disposed 
 to fulfil the doctor's expressed intention, and to cancel this 
 will with one consent, before any know whom the document 
 enriches." 
 
 This unexpected proposal was followed by a pause of some 
 moments' duration. Mulzen was the first to break silence. 
 
 " As far as I am concerned," said he, modestly, " having no 
 particular claim upon the good will of the deceased, I cannot 
 consider that I make a sacrifice in agreeing to an equal divi- 
 sion of the property, and I am quite willing to consent to it." 
 
 " For my part," said Miss Charlotte, " I make no objection 
 whatever." 
 
 " In the name of my ward," said Mr. Bosnian, " I give my 
 consent." 
 
 " Then," said the notary, turning to Henry, " there is only 
 this gentleman." 
 
 Fortin seemed somewhat embarrassed. 
 
 " Like my cousin,'' he at last said, " I have no ground to 
 expect that the will favors me ; but that is the very reason 
 why I should be guarded in my decision. Whatever may 
 have been the doctor's intentions, his will alone can now be 
 considered to express them. To neutralize beforehand his 
 testamentary dispositions, is to infringe both on the rights of 
 the will and on those of the unknown legatee." 
 
 " Let us say no more about it," interrupted the notary. 
 " Prompt and perfect unanimity could alone make legitimate 
 my proposition. Let us remain within the strict limits of legal 
 right, as you, sir, propose. And now be pleased to listen." 
 
 With these words he tore the envelope, opened the will, and 
 read as follows : — 
 
160 THE TWO MOTTOES. 
 
 " Of the four persons who can lay claim to my inheritance, 
 I know but two, — my sister, Charlotte Revel, and my niece, 
 Louisa Armand. But these two, long united by the strictest 
 affection, have but one common interest, and may be consid- 
 ered, in fact, to constitute but one person. With respect to 
 them, therefore, I have only Louisa to consider. My first 
 intention was to bequeath to her all I possess ; but it after- 
 wards occurred to me that one of my two nephews might be 
 equally worthy of my regard. The sole difficulty is to find 
 out which of the two it is. 
 
 " Unable to investigate this point myself, and well knowing 
 the intelligence and right-mindedness of my niece Louisa, I 
 refer the matter to her judgment ; and I constitute my sole 
 heir that one of the two cousins whom she shall select for her 
 husband. " Harver." 
 
 When the notary paused, after completing the perusal of 
 the will of the eccentric but well-meaning doctor, a silence 
 of some duration ensued. The two young men looked embar- 
 rassed, and Louisa held down her head. 
 
 " Mon Dieu I " cried Miss Charlotte at last, " the doctor 
 has bequeathed a very difficult task to my niece." 
 
 " Less difficult than you think, sister," said E-osman, smil- 
 ing. u I have long been well acquainted with the contents of 
 Harver's will, and I made inquiries in consequence. The 
 result of those inquiries convinced me that, whatever her 
 choice, there was nothing to fear for Louisa." 
 
 " Then let Miss Armand decide," said the notary, laughing. 
 " Since there is safety in either case, she has but to consult 
 her inspirations." 
 
 " I will beg my aunt to decide for me," murmured the 
 young girl, throwing herself into Miss Charlotte's arms. 
 
 " I decide ! " cried the old lady. " It is very perplexing, 
 my dear, and I really do not know " — 
 
 But, whilst uttering these words with an air of indecision, 
 Miss Charlotte's first glance was at Mulzen. Fortin perceived 
 this. 
 
 " Ah, madam ! " cried he, quickly, " I see that your choice 
 is made, and, whatever my regrets, I cannot but approve it. 
 
GREAT MEN. 161 
 
 Mademoiselle," he continued, taking Mulzen's hand, and lead- 
 ing him to Louisa, u your aunt has seen and judged rightly : 
 my cousin is more deserving than I am." 
 
 " Your present conduct proves the contrary," said Miss 
 Charlotte, touched by this generosity. " But we already 
 know Mr. Mulzen a little ; and then — in short, you deserve 
 to hear the whole truth." 
 
 u Tell it me, by all means," interrupted Fortin. 
 
 " Well, then, his motto encourages, whilst yours deters me. 
 He promises indulgence, and you justice. Alas ! my dear sir, 
 justice may suffice for angels, but men have need of charity." 
 
 " You are perhaps right, madam," said Henry Fortin, 
 thoughtfully. " Yesterday and to-day every thing seems to 
 combine to give me a lesson. The rigid defence of my right 
 has always turned against me, whilst my cousin's benevolence 
 has, in every instance, profited him. Mulzen was in the 
 right : his motto is better than mine, for it is nearer to the 
 law of God. Christ did not say, To every one his rights, but 
 rather, Love your neighbor as yourself" 
 
 GREAT MEN. 
 
 Great men were all great workers in their time, 
 Steadfast in purpose, to their calling true, 
 Keeping with single aim the end in view ; 
 Giving their youthful days and manhood's prime 
 To ceaseless toil : matin and midnight chime 
 Often upon their willing labors grew. 
 In suffering schooled, their souls endurance knew, 
 And over difficulties rose sublime. 
 
 Genius alone can never make one great : 
 There must be industry to second skill, 
 Faith, tireless perseverance, strength of will, 
 
 Ere triumph and success upon thee wait. 
 Would'st thou ascend Fame's rugged, frowning steep V 
 It must be thine to toil while others sleep. 
 11 
 
THE JEWELLED WATCH. 
 
 Among the many officers, who, at the close of the Peninsu- 
 lar war, retired on half-pay, was Capt. Button, of the — -th 
 regiment. He had lately married the pretty, portionless 
 daughter of a deceased brother officer ; and, filled with roman- 
 tic visions of rural bliss and " love in a cottage," the pair, who 
 were equally unskilled in the practical details of housekeep- 
 ing, fancied they could live in affluence, and enjoy all the- 
 luxuries of life, on the half-pay which formed their sole in- 
 come. 
 
 They took up their abode near a pleasant town in the south 
 of England, and for a time got on pretty well ; but when at 
 the end of the first year a sweet little boy made his appear- 
 ance, and at the end of the second an equally sweet little girl, 
 they found that nurse-maids, baby-linen, doctors, and all the 
 etceteras appertaining to the introduction and support of 
 these baby-visitors, formed a serious item in their yearly ex- 
 penditure. 
 
 For a while they struggled on without falling into debt ; but 
 at length their giddy feet slipped into that vortex which has 
 engulfed so many, and their affairs began to assume a very 
 gloomy aspect. About this time an adventurer named Smith, 
 with whom Capt. Dutton became casually acquainted, and 
 whose plausible manners and appearance completely imposed 
 on the frank, unsuspecting soldier, proposed to him a plan for 
 insuring, as he represented it, a large and rapid fortune. 
 This was to be affected by embarking considerable capital in 
 the manufacture of some new kind of spirit-lamps, which 
 Smith assured the captain would, when once known, super- 
 sede the use of candles and oil-lamps throughout the kingdom. 
 . To hear him descant on the marvellous virtues and money- 
 making qualities of his lamp, one would be inclined to take 
 162 
 
THE JEWELLED WATCH. 163 
 
 him for the lineal descendant of Aladdin, and inheritor of that 
 scampish individual's precious heir-loom. Our modern magi- 
 cian, however, candidly confessed that he still wanted the 
 " slave of the lamp," or, in other words, ready money, to set 
 the invention agoing ; and he at length succeeded in persuad- 
 ing the unlucky captain to sell out of the army, and invest the 
 price of his commission in this luminous venture. If Capt. 
 Dutton had refused to pay the money until he should be able 
 to pronounce correctly the name of the invention, he would 
 have saved his cash, at the expense, probably, of a semi-dis- 
 location of his jaws ; for the lamp rejoiced in an eight-sylla- 
 bled title, of which each vocable belonged to a different 
 tongue, — the first being Greek, the fourth Syriac, and the 
 last taken from the aboriginal language of New Zealand ; the 
 intervening sounds believed to be respectively akin to Latin, 
 German, Sanscrit, and Malay. Notwithstanding, however, 
 this prestige of a name, the lamp was a decided failure : its 
 light was brilliant enough ; but the odor it exhaled in burning 
 was so overpowering, so suggestive of an evil origin, so every- 
 way abominable, that those adventurous purchasers who tried 
 it once seldom submitted their olfactory nerves to a second 
 ordeal. The sale and* manufacture of the lamp and its ac- 
 companying spirit were carried on by Mr. Smith alone in one 
 of the chief commercial cities of England, he having kindly 
 arranged to take all the trouble off his partner's hands, and 
 only requiring him to furnish the necessary funds. For some 
 time, the accounts of the business transmitted to Capt. Dut- 
 ton were most flourishing, and he and his gentle wife fondly 
 thought they were about to realize a splendid fortune for their 
 little ones : but at length they began to feel anxious for the 
 arrival of cent-per-cent profits which had been promised, but 
 which never came ; and Mr. Smith's letters suddenly ceasing, 
 his partner one morning set off to inspect the scene of opera- 
 tions. 
 
 Arrived at L , he repaired to the street where the 
 
 manufactory was situated, and found it shut up ! Mr. Smith 
 had gone off to America, considerably in debt to those who 
 had been foolish enough to trust him ; and leaving more rent 
 due on the premises than the remaining stock in trade of the 
 
164 THE JEWELLED WATCH, 
 
 unpronounceable lamp would pay. As to the poor ex-captain, 
 he returned to his family a ruined man. 
 
 But strength is often found in the depths of adversity, cour- 
 age in despair ; and both our hero and his wife set resolutely 
 to work to support themselves and their children. Happily 
 they owed no debts. On selling out, Capt. Dutton had 
 honorably paid every farthing he owed in the world before 
 intrusting the remainder of his capital to the unprincipled 
 Smith ; and now this upright conduct was its own reward. 
 
 He wrote a beautiful hand, and, while seeking some perma- 
 nent employment, earned a trifle occasionally by copying 
 manuscripts, and engrossing in an attorney's office. His wife 
 worked diligently with her needle ; but the care of a young 
 family, and the necessity of dispensing with a servant, hin- 
 dered her from adding much to their resources. Notwith- 
 standing their extreme poverty, they managed to preserve a 
 decent appearance, and to prevent even their neighbors from 
 knowing the straits to which they were often reduced. Their 
 little cottage was always exquisitely clean and neat ; and the 
 children, despite of scanty clothing, and often insufficient 
 food, looked, as they were, the sons and daughters of a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 It was Mrs. Dutton's pride to preserve the respectable ap- 
 pearance of her husband's wardrobe ; and often did she work 
 till midnight at turning his coat and darning his linen, that 
 he might appear as usual among his equals. She often urged 
 him to visit his former acquaintances, who had power to be- 
 friend him, and solicit their interest in obtaining some perma- 
 nent employment ; but the soldier, who was as brave as a lion 
 when facing the enemy, shrank with the timidity of a girl 
 from exposing himself to the humiliation of a refusal, and 
 could not bear to confess his urgent need. He had too much 
 delicacy to press his claims ; he was too proud to be importu- 
 nate ; and so others succeeded where he failed. 
 
 It happened that the general under whom he had served, 
 and who had lost sight of him since his retirement from the 
 service, came to^ spend a few months at the watering-place 
 near which the Buttons resided, and hired for the season a 
 handsome furnished house. Walking one morning on the 
 
THE JEWELLED WATCH. 165 
 
 sands, in a disconsolate mood, our hero saw, with surprise, his 
 former commander approaching ; and, with a sudden feeling 
 of false shame, he tried to avoid a recognition. But the quick 
 eye of Gen. Vernon was not to be eluded ; and, intercept- 
 ing him with an outstretched hand, he exclaimed, " What, 
 Dutton ! is that you ? It seems an age since we met. Living 
 in this neighborhood, eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, general ; I have been living here since I retired from 
 the service." 
 
 " And you sold out, I think — to please the mistress, I sup- 
 pose, Dutton ? Ah ! these ladies have a great deal to answer 
 for. Tell Mrs. Dutton I shall call on her some morning, and 
 read her a lecture for 'faking you from us." 
 
 Poor Dutton's look of confusion, as he pictured the gener- 
 al's visit surprising his wife in the performance of her menial 
 labors rather surprised the veteran ; but its true cause did 
 not occur to him. He had had a great regard for Dutton, 
 considering him one of the best and bravest officers under his 
 command, and was sincerely pleased at meeting him again ; 
 so, after a ten minutes' colloquy, during the progress of which 
 the ex-soldier, like a war-horse who pricks up his ears at the 
 sound of the trumpet, became gay and animated, as old asso- 
 ciations of the camp and field came back on him, the general 
 shook him heartily by the hand, and said, " You'll dine 
 with me to-morrow, Dutton, and meet a few of your old 
 friends ? Come, I'll take no excuse : you must not turn her- 
 mit on our hands." 
 
 At first Dutton was going to refuse, but on second thoughts 
 accepted the invitation, not having, indeed, any good reason to 
 offer for declining it. Having taken leave of the general, 
 therefore, he proceeded towards home, and announced their 
 rencontre to his wife. She, poor woman, immediately took 
 out his well-saved suit, and occupied herself in repairing, as 
 best she might, the cruel ravages of time ; as well as in starch- 
 ing and ironing an already snowy shirt to the highest degree 
 of perfection. 
 
 Next day, in due time, he arrived at Gen. Yernon's 
 handsome temporary dwelling, and received a cordial wel- 
 come. A dozen guests, civilians as well as soldiers, sat down 
 
166 * THE JEWELLED WATCH, 
 
 to a splendid banquet. After dinner, the conversation hap- 
 pened to turn on the recent improvements in arts and manu- 
 factures ; and comparisons were drawn between the relative 
 talent for invention displayed by artists of different countries. 
 Watchmaking happening to be mentioned as one of the arts 
 which had during late years been wonderfully improved, the 
 host desired his valet to fetch a most beautiful little watch, a 
 perfect cJief-d'ceuvre of workmanship, which he had lately pur- 
 chased in Paris ; and -which was less valuable for its richly 
 jewelled case, than for the exquisite perfection of the mechan- 
 ism it enshrined. The trinket passed from hand to hand, and 
 was greatly admired by the guests ; then the conversation 
 turned on other topics, and many subjects were discussed un- 
 til they adjourned to the drawing-room to take coffee. 
 
 After sitting there a while, the general suddenly recollected 
 his watch, and ringing for his valet, desired him to take it 
 from the dining-room table, where it had been left, and re- 
 store it to its proper place. In a few moments the servant 
 returned, looking somewhat frightened : he could not find the 
 watch. Gen. Vernon, surprised, went himself to search, 
 but was not more fortunate. 
 
 " Perhaps, sir, you or one of the company may have carried 
 it by mistake into the drawing-room ? " 
 
 " I think not ; but we will try." 
 
 Another search, in which all the guests joined, but without 
 avail. 
 
 " What I fear," said the general, " is that some one by 
 chance may tread upon and break it." 
 
 Gen. Vernon was a widower, and this costly trinket was 
 intended as a present to his only child, a daughter, who had 
 lately married a wealthy baronet. 
 
 " We will none of us leave this room until it is found ! " ex- 
 claimed one of the gentlemen with ominous emphasis. 
 
 " That decision," said a young man, who was engaged that, 
 night to a ball, " might quarter us on our host for an indefi- 
 nite time. I propose a much more speedy and satisfactory 
 expedient : let us all be searched." 
 
 This suggestion was received with laughter and acclama- 
 tions ; and the young man, presenting himself as the first vie- 
 
THE JEWELLED WATCH. 167 
 
 • 
 tiin, was searched by the valet, who, for the nonce, enacted 
 the part of custom-house officer. The general, who at first 
 opposed this piece of practical pleasantry, ended by laughing 
 at it ; and each new inspection of pockets produced fresh 
 bursts of mirth. Capt. Dutton alone took no share in what 
 was going on : his hand trembled, his brow darkened, and he 
 stood as much apart as possible. At length his turn came ; 
 the other guests had all displayed the contents of their pock- 
 ets, so with one accord ; and amid renewed laughter, they 
 surrounded him, exclaiming that he must be the guilty one, 
 as he was the last. The captain, pale and agitated, muttered 
 some excuses, unheard amid the uproar. 
 
 " Now for it, Johnson ! " cried one to the valet. 
 
 " Johnson, we're watching you ! " said another ; " produce 
 the culprit." 
 
 The servant advanced ; but Dutton, crossing his arms on his 
 breast, declared in an agitated voice, that, except by violence, 
 no one should lay a hand on him. A very awkward silence 
 ensued, which the general broke by saying : " Capt. Dutton 
 is right : this child's play has lasted long enough. I claim ex- 
 emption for him and for myself." 
 
 Dutton, trembling and unable to speak, thanked his kind 
 host by a grateful look, and then took an early opportunity 
 of withdrawing. Gen. Yernon did not make the slightest 
 remark on his departure, and the remaining guests, through 
 politeness, imitated his reserve ; but the mirth of the evening 
 was gone, every face looked anxious, and the host himself 
 seemed grave and thoughtful. 
 
 Capt. Dutton spent some- time in wandering restlessly 
 on the sands before he returned home. It was late when he 
 entered the cottage ; and his wife could not repress an excla- 
 mation of affright when she saw his pale and troubled counte- 
 nance. 
 
 " What has happened ? " cried she. 
 
 " Nothing," replied her husband, throwing himself on a 
 chair, and laying a small packet on the table. " You have 
 cost me very dear," he said, addressing it. In vain did his 
 wife try to soothe him, and obtain an explanation. " Not 
 now, Jane," he said * " to-morrow we shall see. To-morrow I 
 will tell vou all." 
 
168 THE JEWELLED WATCH. 
 
 Early next morning he went to Gen. Vernon's house. 
 Although he walked resolutely, his mind was sadly troubled. 
 How could he present himself? In what way would he be 
 received ? How could he speak to the general without risk- 
 ing the reception of some look or word which he could never 
 pardon ? The very meeting with Johnson was to be dreaded. 
 
 He knocked : another servant opened the door, and in- 
 stantly gave him admission. " This man, at all events," he 
 thought, " knows nothing of what has passed." Will the gen- 
 eral receive him ? Yes ; he is ushered into his dressing-room. 
 Without daring to raise his eyes, the poor man began to speak 
 in a low, hurried voice. 
 
 " Gen. Vernon, you thought my conduct strange last 
 night ; and painful and humiliating as its explanation will be, 
 I feel it due to you and to myself to make it," — 
 
 His auditor tried to speak ; but Dutton went on, without 
 heeding the interruption. " My misery is at its height : that 
 is my only excuse. My wife and our four little ones are act- 
 ually starving ! " 
 
 " My friend ! " cried the general with emotion. But Dut- 
 ton proceeded — 
 
 u I cannot describe my feelings yesterday while seated at 
 your luxurious table I thought of my poor Jane, depriving 
 herself of a morsel of bread to give it to her baby ; of my little 
 pale, thin Annie, whose delicate appetite rejects the coarse 
 food which is all we can give her ; and in an evil hour I 
 transferred two pates from my plate to my pocket, thinking 
 they would tempt my little darling to eat. I should have died 
 of shame, had these things been produced from my pocket, 
 and your guests and servant made witnesses of my cruel pov- 
 erty. Now, general, you know all ; and, but for the fear of 
 being suspected by you of a crime, my distress should never 
 have been known ! " 
 
 " A life of unblemished honor," replied his friend, " has 
 placed you above the reach of suspicion ; besides, look here ! " 
 And he showed the missing watch. " It is I," continued he, 
 " who must ask pardon of you all. In a fit of absence, I had 
 dropped it into my waistcoat-pocket, where, in Johnson's pres- 
 ence, I discovered it while undressing." 
 
THE JEWELLED WATCH. » 169 
 
 " If I had only known ! " murmured poor Dutton. 
 
 " Don't regret what has occurred," said the general, press- 
 ing his hand kindly. " It has been the means of acquaint- 
 ing me with what you should never have concealed from an 
 old friend, who, please God, will find some means to serve you." 
 
 In a few days Capt. Dutton received another invitation 
 to dine with the general. All the former guests were assem- 
 bled ; and their host, with ready tact, took occasion to apolo- 
 gize for his strange forgetfulness about the watch. Capt. 
 Dutton found a paper within the folds of his napkin : it was 
 his nomination to an honorable and lucrative post, which in- 
 sured competence and comfort to himself and his family. 
 
 GOING TO SLEEP. 
 
 i. 
 
 The light is fading down the sky ; 
 The shadows grow and multiply ; 
 
 I hear the thrush's evening song ; 
 
 But I have borne with toil and wrong 
 So long, so long ! 
 Dim dreams my drowsy senses drown ; 
 So, darling, kiss my eyelids down ! 
 
 II. 
 
 My life's brief spring went wasted by, 
 My summer's ended fruitlessly : 
 
 I learned to hunger, strive, and wait, 
 So late ! so late ! 
 Now all my fields are turning brown, 
 So, darling, kiss my eyelids down ! 
 
 III. 
 
 O blessed sleep ! O perfect rest ! 
 
 Thus pillowed on your faithful breast, 
 Nor life nor death is wholly drear, 
 O tender heart, since you are here, 
 So dear, so dear ! 
 
 Sweet love, my soul's sufficient crown ! 
 
 Now, darling, kiss my eyelids down ! 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH;* 
 
 OR, 
 
 THOUGHTS UPON SPACE, TIME, AND ETERNITY. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 It is a well-known proposition, that a luminous body arising 
 at a certain distance from an observer cannot be perceived 
 in the very same instant of time in which it becomes lumi- 
 nous, but that a period of time, although infinitely short, exists 
 whilst the light, our only medium of vision, passes through the 
 space between the object and our eyes. 
 
 The rate at which the light travels is so exceedingly rapid, 
 that it certainly * has never been observed, nor have any 
 attempts to measure it been made in the insignificant distances 
 at which objects upon the earth are visible to us. But, since 
 we see bodies at a distance immeasurably greater than the 
 compass of terrestrial dimensions (namely, in viewing the 
 stars above), the most acute calculations and observations 
 have enabled astronomers to measure the speed of light, and 
 
 * This remarkable essay appeared originally in London in 1849. 
 In a recommendatory letter attached to the first American edition, 
 the Rev. Thomas Hill remarks, " The circulation of this book 
 would be, I am convinced, of benefit both to Science and Religion: 
 to Religion, by showing, so far as it goes, that Science leads to faith; 
 to Science, by pointing out to younger students the true spirit in 
 which she should be wooed; still more, by presenting her in a lovely 
 and attractive garb to the notice of men. It is a book of sublime 
 poetry." 
 
 The " London Critic " thus characterizes the work: " Forty-eight 
 small pages, suggesting food for a life of thought." 
 
 The " Family Herald " says, i; This little book contains a new 
 idea: it is an idea, too, which is infinitely sublime and beautiful." 
 170 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 171 
 
 to find that it travels at a rate of about two hundred and 
 thirteen thousand miles in a second. 
 
 This number is not quite accurate; but as we now only 
 propose to lay down a general idea, for which the close 
 reckoning of astronomical calculation is not necessary, we 
 will content ourselves here and in the following pages with 
 adducing a general average number. 
 
 Thus light travels two hundred and thirteen thousand miles 
 in a second ; and, as the moon is two hundred and forty 
 thousand miles distant, it follows, that, when the first narrow 
 streak of the crescent moon rises above the dark horizon, 
 nearly a second and a quarter elapses before we see it ; for 
 the light takes this time to pass from the moon to our eyes. 
 The moon, therefore, rises above the horizon a second and a 
 quarter before it becomes visible to us.* 
 
 The sun, ninety-five millions of miles distant, four hundred 
 times farther than the moon, requires a period four hundred 
 times longer than the moon (i.e., four hundred times five 
 quarters of a second) to send its light upon our earth. Hence, 
 when the sun rises, i.e. when the first ray from the outermost 
 edge of the sun's disk reaches above the horizon, about eight 
 minutes elapse before it passes into our eyes. The sun has, 
 therefore, already risen eight minutes before it becomes 
 visible to us. 
 
 The distance of the planet Jupiter from our earth, at the 
 time when it is the greatest, is nearly six hundred and seven- 
 teen millions of miles. This is six times and a half as great 
 as the distance of the sun, and therefore the light requires 
 fifty-two minutes to penetrate from Jupiter to us. Lastly, 
 Uranus runs his solitary course at a distance of eighteen 
 hundred millions of miles from us : his light requires, there- 
 fore, twenty times as long a period to travel to us as that of 
 the sun ; i.e., more than two hours : so that Uranus has really 
 risen two hours when we first perceive him. 
 
 No planet has hitherto been discovered more distant than 
 Uranus : but an infinite space exists beyond, separating our 
 sun and its system of planets from the nearest fixed star. 
 
 The distance of the fixed stars from our earth was, until 
 
 * We take no notice of the refraction of the light. 
 
172 
 
 THE STARS AND THE EARTH 
 
 a very recent time, when the measurements of Struve and 
 Bessel were crowned with such glittering results, a deep, 
 inscrutable secret ; but now we know that the nearest fixed 
 star — namely, the brightest star in the constellation of Cen- 
 taur — is about eighteen billions of miles distant. Its rays of 
 light, therefore, penetrate to us in about three years ; that is, 
 the ray of light which meets our eye from this star was not 
 developed and emitted at the same moment, but three years 
 ago. 
 
 Struve has calculated, with respect to the well-known bright 
 star Vega, in the constellation of the Lyre, that its light 
 consumes twelve years and one month in reaching the earth ; 
 and, according to the measurements of Harding and the 
 inquiries of recent astronomers, the following numbers have 
 been deduced as the average distance of the fixed stars 
 from us. 
 
 A ray of light requires, before it reaches the earth, from a 
 star of the 
 
 1st magnitude . .. 
 
 . 3 
 
 to 12 years 
 
 2d 
 
 . 20 
 
 years. 
 
 3d 
 
 . 30 
 
 5) 
 
 4th „ . . 
 
 . 45 
 
 11 
 
 5th „ . . 
 
 . 6Q 
 
 ii 
 
 6th „ 
 
 . 96 
 
 ii 
 
 7th „ . . 
 
 . 180 
 
 ii 
 
 Moreover, Struve, from the dimensions of his telescope, 
 and from the observation of the fact, that a star of the twelfth 
 magnitude, seen through it, has as much light as a star of the 
 sixth magnitude seen with the naked eye, concludes that the 
 distance of a star of the twelfth magnitude is forty-one times 
 greater than that of one of the sixth magnitude ; and, con- 
 sequently, that the smallest of these stars visible to him is at 
 a distance of twenty-three thousand billions of miles, and 
 requires a period of time for the travelling of the light to the 
 earth as great as four thousand years. That is, the ray of 
 light from a star of the twelfth magnitude, which we . may 
 mention is only perceptible by means of a very good teler 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. . 173 
 
 scope, has, at the time it meets our eyes, already left the star 
 four thousand years, and since that time has wandered on in 
 its own course, unconnected with its origin. 
 
 We have hitherto confined our considerations to our sys- 
 tem of fixed stars ; and we will not at present overstep this 
 limit ; although it would be easy, were we to enter into 
 hypotheses, to multiply indefinitely these enormous propor- 
 tions hitherto adduced. 
 
 According to a conjecture first made by the great Herschel, 
 and afterwards further developed and rendered intelligible by 
 M'adler, this entire system of fixed stars forms, if we may use 
 the expression, a single lens-shaped canopy. That is, we, with 
 our sun, are situated nearly in the middle of a space having 
 the form of two watch-glasses, placed with the concave sur- 
 faces towards each other. The surfaces of this canopy are 
 studded tolerably equally with fixed stars. But as we are a 
 thousand times nearer those situated above and below than 
 those at the edges of this hollow lens, so the distances between 
 the stars immediately above us seem greater, whilst the 
 legions of those distributed at the edge are seen in densely 
 crowded masses. We may consider the Milky Way as the 
 edge and farthermost limit of this set of fixed stars, where 
 the infinitely distant crowds of stars are collected in such 
 masses, that their light flows together into a whitish cloud, 
 and no longer permits us to isolate one star from another. 
 
 Beyond this our lens, Herschel and the most recent astron- 
 omers imagine that the spots of clouds which appear like 
 oval flakes in the sky are other entirely distinct and inde- 
 pendent systems, which float at such an immeasurable distance 
 from us, that the light has to wander millions of years in 
 reaching to us. 
 
 It is, however, as we before remarked, sufficient for our 
 purpose to take into consideration only the stars of the 
 twelfth magnitude, from which the light can travel to us in 
 four thousand years. From what we have already said, — viz., 
 that the ray of light meeting our eye is not sent forth from 
 the star at the same moment, but arrives here according to 
 the corresponding and requisite number of seconds, minutes, 
 or years, it follows that we do not see the star as it is, but as 
 it was at the time when the rav of light was emitted. 
 
174 THE STABS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 Thus we see the star in Centaur as it was three years ago, 
 Yega as it was twelve years and one month ago ; and so on 
 to the star of the twelfth magnitude, which we look upon as 
 it shone four thousand years ago. Hence follows the conclu- 
 sion which has frequently been made by astronomers, and 
 which in its result has become popular ; viz., that a star of the 
 twelfth magnitude may have been extinguished or set four 
 thousand years ago, whilst we, nevertheless, continue to see 
 its light shining. 
 
 This conclusion, when applied to each of the former 
 positions, gives the following results. 
 
 We do not see the moon as it is, but as it was a second and 
 a quarter before : i.e., the moon may already have been dis- 
 persed into atoms for more than a second, and we should 
 still see it entire and perfect. 
 
 We do not see the sun as it now is, but as it was eight 
 minutes before ; Jupiter as it was fifty- two minutes before ; 
 Uranus as it was more than two hours before ; the star in 
 Centaur as it was three years ago ; Vega as it was nine and 
 a quarter years ; and a star of the twelfth magnitude as it 
 was four thousand years ago. 
 
 These propositions are well known, and have already been 
 published in popular works upon astronomy. 
 
 It is really marvellous that nobody has thought of reversing 
 them, and of drawing the very remarkable and astonishing 
 conclusions which pour upon us in a full stream from the 
 converse ; and it is our intention here to examine the con- 
 verse, and the inferences which may thence be drawn. 
 
 The following is the relative view of the matter. As we 
 have before remarked, we see the disk of the moon, not in the 
 form in which it now is, but as it was five quarters of a sec- 
 ond before the time of observation. 
 
 In exactly the same way, an imaginary observer in the moon 
 would not see the earth as it was at the moment of observa- 
 tion, but as it was five quarters of a second before. An 
 observer from the sun sees the earth as it was eight minutes 
 before. From Uranus the time between the reality and the 
 perception by the eye being two hours and a half apart ; if, 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH 175 
 
 for example, the summit of the Alps on a certain morning 
 was illumined *by the first rays of the sun at six o'clock, an 
 observer in this planet, who was provided either with the 
 requsite power of vision, or a sufficient! y good telescope, 
 would see this indication of the rising of the sun at half-past 
 eight of our time. 
 
 An observer in Centaur can, of course, never see the north- 
 ern hemisphere of the earth, because this constellation never 
 rises above our horizon. But supposing it possible, and that 
 an observer were standing in this star with such powerful 
 vision as to be able to distinguish all particulars upon our little 
 earth, shining but feebly luminous in its borrowed light, he 
 would see in the year 1843 the public illuminations which, 
 in the year 1840, made the cities of our native country shine 
 with the brightness of day during the darkness of night. An 
 observer in Vega would see what happened with us twelve 
 years ago ; and so on, until an inhabitant of a star of the 
 twelfth magnitude, if we imagine him with unlimited power 
 of vision contemplating the earth, sees it as it was four thou- 
 sand years ago, when Memphis was founded, and the patri- 
 arch Abraham wandered upon its surface. 
 
 In the immeasurably great number of fixed stars which are 
 scattered about in the universe, floating in ether at a distance 
 of between fifteen and twenty billions of miles from us, reck- 
 oning backwards any given number of years, doubtless a star 
 could be found which sees the past epochs of our earth as 
 existing now, or so nearly corresponding to the time, that the 
 observer need wait no long time to see its condition at the 
 required moment. 
 
 Let us here stop for a moment to make one of the infer- 
 ences to be drawn from these propositions, which we have 
 laid down, and which are so clear and evident to every rea- 
 sonable mind. 
 
 We have here a perfectly intelligible perception of the idea 
 of the omniscience of God with relation to past events. If 
 we imagine the Deity as a man with human powers, but in a 
 far superior degree, it will be easy for us to attribute to him 
 the faculty and power of really overlooking and discerning, 
 
176 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 even in the most minute particulars, every thing which may 
 be sensibly and actually overlooked and seen from a real 
 point of observation. 
 
 Thus if we wish to comprehend how any past earthly deed 
 or occurrence, even after thousands of years, is as distinctly 
 and immediately in God's presence as if it were actually tak- 
 ing place before his eyes, it is sufficient for our purpose to 
 imagine him present at a certain point at which the light and 
 the reflection of the circumstance is just arriving. 
 
 Supposing that this result is established. Omniscience 
 with respect to the past becomes identical and one and the 
 same thing with actual omnipresence with regard to space. 
 For, if we imagine the eye of God present at every point of 
 space, the whole course of the history of the world appears to 
 him immediately and at once. 
 
 That which occurred on earth eight minutes before, is 
 glancing brightly and evidently in his sight in the sun. Upon 
 the star of the twelfth magnitude, occurrences which have 
 passed away, for four thousand years are seen by him ; and in 
 the intermediate points of space are the pictures of the events 
 which have happened in every moment since. 
 
 Thus we have here the extension of time, which corre- 
 sponds with that of space, brought so near to our sensible per- 
 ception, that time and space cannot be considered as at all 
 different from one another ; for those things which are con- 
 secutive one to the other in point of time lie next to one 
 another in space. The effect does not follow after the cause ; 
 but it exists visibly in space near it; and a picture has spread 
 itself out before us, embracing space and time together, and 
 representing both so entirely and at once, that we are no 
 longer able to separate or distinguish the extension of space 
 from that of time. 
 
 The omniscience of God with regard to the past is become 
 intelligible and easy to us, as a sensible and material all-sur- 
 veying view. Before his eyes, endued with immeasurable 
 powers of sight, the picture of past thousands of years is, at 
 the present moment, actually extended in space. 
 
 Hence, when we imagine the purely human sense of sight 
 rendered more extended and acute, we are able actually to 
 comprehend one of the attributes of the Deity. 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 177 
 
 But, according to the reverse, the excellence of this human 
 sense becomes clear to us if we have by this time understood 
 that it only requires an increased optical and mechanical 
 intensity of it to communicate, at least by approximation, a 
 divine power ; viz., omniscience with regard to the past, to 
 beings endowed with such exalted powers of vision. 
 
 Having drawn this clear and intelligible inference from 
 the previous considerations, let us take a step further in 
 advance ; but since, from this point, the ideas of Possibility 
 and Impossibility must be frequently referred to, it is neces- 
 sary that we and our readers mutually understand each other 
 on this subject. 
 
 We call that possible which does not contradict the laws 
 of thought : we call that impossible which contradicts these 
 laws. 
 
 Hence every ultimate accomplishment of a human discov- 
 ery is possible ; but it is impossible to reach the limit which 
 can only be attained on such suppositions as are themselves 
 impossible according to the foregoing definition. 
 
 For example, it is possible to pass through any given 
 definite space in any fixed and definite period of time. For 
 as, with a steam-carriage, we can travel a geographical mile 
 in ten minutes, and, with the electric telegraph, can ring a bell 
 at a distance of ten miles in a second; so the supposition that 
 we may be enabled to move from one place to another with 
 speed far surpassing the rapidity of light rests upon possi- 
 bility. 
 
 We repeat, that, practically and experimentally, such a 
 result will never be arrived at, and require simply that the 
 following be allowed. 
 
 If we show that something which hitherto existed only 
 in a dream, or in the imagination of the enthusiastic, can 
 appear attainable and real, but has only such impediments 
 as arise from inability to render perfect certain known 
 mechanical powers, and to move from one place to another 
 with sufficient rapidity; I say that, when we have shown 
 this, the question is transferred from the jurisdiction of 
 dreams and enthusiasm to the jurisdiction of that species 
 of possibility which does not contradict the laws of thought. 
 12 
 
178 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 For example, the question whether there is such a bird as 
 the phoenix belongs to the dominion of dreams and folly. 
 But, I say, if, supposing it were possible for us to prove that 
 this bird actually were living in the centre of the earth, or 
 below the depths of the ocean, and if this evidence were 
 perfectly accurate, lucid, and irrefutable ; then indeed it 
 would still be impossible for us to see this bird with our bodily 
 eyes. But, now that the impediments which oppose the reali- 
 zation of the sight are clearly and intelligibly demonstrated, 
 we may proceed to our purpose of contriving mechanical 
 means to overcome them in the present instance. 
 
 Thus a question hitherto only referable to the region of 
 ideas, dreams, and enthusiasm, being brought to such a point 
 that the impediments against its resolution are simply me- 
 chanical and relative to space, is placed quite in another and 
 much nearer district ; viz., under the dominion of what we 
 above designated as possible. We must not here forget, that 
 this possibility is not to be mistaken for experimental practi- 
 cability, and not to be looked upon in reference to its execu- 
 tion being attained at any time ; but it simply bears upon the 
 question, inasmuch as ideas which are, as it were, overcome, 
 and won out of the region of empty thought into this district 
 of possibility, are now brought nearer to our immediate 
 perception (be it well observed, perception, and not practica- 
 bility), and are thus raised out of mere cloudy and feverish 
 fancies into intelligible ideas. 
 
 I now continue, in the supposition that I have hitherto 
 made myself perfectly understood by the reader ; that the 
 idea of possibility which I have laid down, has as little to do 
 with dreams, as it has, on the other side, with the question of 
 practicability. With this idea, we may maintain that it is 
 possible, i.e., not in contradiction to the laws of thought, that 
 a man may travel to a star in a given time ; and that he may 
 effect this, provided with so powerful a telescope as to be able 
 to overcome every given distance, and every light and shadow 
 in the object to be examined. With this supposition, and 
 with the aid of a knowledge of the position and distance of 
 every given fixed star (to be attained by the study of astrono- 
 my), it will be possible to recall sensibly to our very eyes an 
 
THE STARS AND THE-EARTH. 179 
 
 actual and true representation of every moment of history 
 that has passed. If, for instance, we wish to see Luther before 
 the Council at Worms, we must transport ourselves in a 
 seeond to a fixed star from which the light requires about 
 three hundred years (or so much more or less) in order to 
 reach the earth. Thence the earth will appear in the same 
 state, and with the same persons moving upon it, as it actually 
 was at the time of the Reformation. 
 
 To the view of an observer from another fixed star, our 
 Saviour appears now upon earth, performing his miracles, and 
 ascending into heaven ; and thus every moment which has 
 passed during the lapse of centuries, down to the present 
 time, may be actually recalled so as to be present. 
 
 Thus the universe encloses the pictures of the past, like an 
 indestructible and incorruptible record, containing the purest 
 and clearest truth. And as sound propagates itself in the 
 air, wave after wave ; and the stroke of the bell, or the roar 
 of the cannon, is heard only by those who stand nearest in 
 the same moment when the clapper strikes the bell, or the 
 powder explodes ; but each more distant spectator remarks a 
 still greater interval between the light and the sound, until 
 the human ear is no longer able to perceive the sound on 
 account of the distance ; or, to take a still clearer example, 
 as thunder and lightning are in reality simultaneous, but, in 
 the storm, the distant thunder follows at the interval of some 
 minutes after the flash : so, in like manner, according to our 
 ideas, the pictures of every occurrence propagate themselves 
 into the distant ether, upon the wings of the ray of light. 
 And although they become weaker and smaller, yet, in im- 
 measurable distance, they still have color and form ; and as 
 every thing possessing color and form is visible, so must these 
 pictures also be said to be visible, however impossible it may 
 be for the human eye to perceive it with the hitherto discov- 
 ered optical apparatus. It is, besides, for the same reasons, 
 the greatest rashness to wish to determine beforehand the 
 limits beyond which the perfection of our optical instruments 
 may never step. Who could have guessed at the wonderful 
 results which have been discovered by means of Herschel's 
 telescope and Ehrenberg's microscope ? We do not, however, 
 
180 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 require its practicability, nor even any indication that it is to 
 be hoped for, since we have before explained to the- reader 
 the idea which we intend to convey under the word " possible ; " 
 and we wish only to move in the regions of possibility of this 
 kind. 
 
 Thus that record which spreads itself out farther and far- 
 ther in the universe, by the vibration of the light, really and 
 actually exists and is visible, but to eyes more powerful than 
 those of man. 
 
 The pictures of all secret deeds which have ever been 
 transacted remain indissolubly and indelibly forever, reach- 
 ing from one sun beyond another. Not only upon the floor 
 of the chamber is the blood-spot of murder indelibly fixed ; 
 but the deed glances farther and farther into the spacious 
 heaven. 
 
 At this moment is seen in one of the stars the image of 
 the cradle from which Casper Hauser was taken to be en- 
 closed in a living tomb for so many years : in another star 
 glances the flash of the shot which killed Charles XII. But 
 what need is there to refer to individual instances ? It would 
 be easy to carry it out to the smallest details ; but we leave 
 this to the fancy of the reader, and only request that he will 
 not scorn these images as childish, until he has gone through, 
 with us, the very serious and important inferences which we 
 will now proceed to make. 
 
 Let us imagine an observer, with infinite powers of vision, 
 in a star of the twelfth magnitude. He would see the earth 
 at this moment as it existed at the time of Abraham. Let 
 us, moreover, imagine him moved forwards in the direction of 
 our earth, with such speed, that in a short time (say in an 
 hour) he comes to within the distance of a hundred millions 
 of miles, being then as near to us as the sun is, whence the 
 earth is seen as it was eight minutes before ; let us imagine all 
 this quite apart from any claims of possibility or reality, and 
 then we have indubitably the following result, — that before 
 the eye of this observer the entire history of the world, from 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 181 
 
 the time of Abraham to the present day, passes by in the 
 space of an hour. For, when the motion commenced, he 
 viewed the earth as it was four thousand years ago ; at the 
 half-way, i.e. after half an hour, as it was two thousand years 
 ago ; after three-quarters of an hour, as it was one thousand 
 years ago ; and, after an hour, as it now is. 
 
 We want no further proof, and it is evident beyond the 
 possibility of contradiction, that, if an observer were able to 
 comprehend with his eye the whirling procession of these 
 consecutive images, he would have lived through the entire 
 history of the world, with all the events and transactions which 
 have happened in the hemisphere of the globe turned to- 
 wards him, in a single hour. If we divide the hour into four 
 thousand parts, so that about a second corresponds to each, he 
 has seen the events of a whole year in a single second. They 
 have passed before him, with all the particulars, all. the motions 
 and positions of the persons occupied, with the entire changing 
 scenery ; and he has lived through them all, — every thing en- 
 tire and unshortened, but only in the quickest succession, — 
 and one hour was for him crowded with quite as many events 
 as the space of four thousand years upon earth. If we give 
 the observer power also to halt at pleasure in his path, as he 
 is flying through the ether, he will be able to represent to 
 himself, as rapidly as he pleases, that moment in the world's 
 history which he wishes to observe at leisure, provided he 
 remains at a distance when this moment of history appears to 
 have just arrived ; allowing for the time which the light con- 
 sumes in travelling to the position of the observer. 
 
 Here again we leave to the fancy of the poet the prosecu- 
 tion of further details, and come to the conclusions which we 
 intend to make. 
 
 As we imagined an observer from a star of the twelfth 
 magnitude capable of approaching the earth in an hour, we 
 will now once more suppose that he can fly through the space 
 in a second, or, like the electro-magnetic power, in an im- 
 measurably short time. 
 
 He would now live through the period of four thousand 
 years with all their events completely, and as exactly, in a 
 moment of time, as he did before in the space of an hour. 
 
182 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 The human mind, it is true, grows giddy at the thought of 
 such a consecutive train of images and events ; but we can 
 easily attribute to a higher or the highest spirit the power of 
 distinguishing and comprehending with accuracy every indi- 
 vidual wave in this astonishing stream. 
 
 Hence the notion, that the Deity makes use of no measure- 
 ment of time, is become clear and intelligible to us. 
 
 When it is written, " Before God, a thousand years are as 
 one day," it is a mere empty word, unless the idea is rendered 
 perceptible to our senses. But when, as we have done by 
 sensible and actual suppositions, we are enabled to show that 
 it is possible for a being simply endowed with a higher degree 
 of human power to live through the history of four thousand 
 years in a second, we think we have materially contributed 
 to render intelligible the philosophical statement, that time is 
 nothing existing for itself, but only the form and repository, 
 without which we cannot imagine its contents ; viz., the series 
 of consecutive events. 
 
 If time was something real, and actually existing, and neces- 
 sary to the occurrence of events, it would be impossible for that 
 to take place in a shorter time which occurs in a longer time. 
 But here we see the entire contents of four thousand years 
 concentrated into one second, and not mutilated or isolated, 
 but every event completely surrounded with all its individual 
 particulars and collateral circumstances. The duration of 
 time is, therefore, unnecessary for the occurrence of events. 
 Beginning and end may coalesce, and still enclose every thing 
 intermediate. 
 
 Having thus laid our contemplations before the reader, we 
 will express a hope, that the images may appear as poetical 
 and sublime to him as to us, and that an hitherto unknown 
 clearness and insight has been given to his ideas of the omnis- 
 cience, omnipresence, and eternity of God. 
 
 In conclusion, we must acknowledge a slight deception 
 practised on the reader, of which we have rendered ourselves 
 guilty with a quiet conscience. For the images of human and 
 earthly events are not carried forward into the universe upon 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 183 
 
 the wings of the light in so complete a manner, and without 
 any exception, as we have represented. For example, what 
 takes place within the houses cannot be seen, because the 
 roofs and walls impede the passage of rays, &c. 
 
 Nevertheless, as we have frequently and expressly de- 
 clared, we do not treat of a corporeal view, but of one indi- 
 cated by possibility in the sense in which we have explained 
 it ; and we^ therefore consider it conducive to the interest of 
 these beautiful and poetical ideas to defer this correction 
 until the end. 
 
 We leave the further execution of the details, as we before 
 remarked, to the poet. We hope, however, soon to lay before 
 the public, in continuation of these pages, a development of 
 the new and penetrating ideas which have crowded upon us 
 in such abundance, as the result of the foregoing considera- 
 tions. 
 
 PAET SECOND. 
 
 [The author hopes that the appearance of this second part of his 
 Reflections upon Space, Time, and Eternity, will be received with as 
 much indulgence as the first. In place of supplying the reader 
 with conclusions, he has here rather to stimulate him to more dis- 
 tant and independent considerations. 
 
 Eternal Truth, says the proverb, lies at the bottom of a well ; 
 but it works and strains to rise upwards to the light. Frequently 
 have the bubbles which have escaped from the fermentation under- 
 neath been mistaken for the lost treasure ; and frequently, too, 
 have we greeted their appearance with precipitate joy, as a mani- 
 festation of truth itself. But, even if we have been deceived, this 
 sign of life and movement in the spiritual world deserves to be 
 welcomed by us ; and on these grounds the following considera- 
 tions may be taken as an indication, though perhaps a slight one, 
 that truth lies at the bottom.] 
 
 It has been shown, in the first part, how the reflection of 
 earthly events is borne farther and farther upon the wings of 
 
184 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 a ray of light into the universe, so that the transactions which 
 took place here thousands of year ago are to-day visible in a 
 distant fixed star ; for every thing that has form and color, 
 however weak the light, and however small its proportions, 
 must be considered to be visible. Our theory has been 
 allowed up to this point ; viz., that an observer endowed with 
 infinite powers of vision, who in an immeasurably short time 
 has passed from a fixed star of the twelfth magnitude to the 
 vicinity of the earth, must have seen completely, in this short 
 space of time, the reflection of every thing which has passed 
 during four thousand years upon the surface of the hemi- 
 sphere directed towards him. 
 
 From these positions, we deduced consequences which have 
 the effect of rendering the ideas of Space, Time, and Eter- 
 nity generally and easily intelligible. 
 
 The present little work is intended still further to illustrate 
 these ideas in the same way, and to deliver to the public, in a 
 comprehensible form, those truths and ideas which have hith- 
 erto been the exclusive property of professed philosophers, — 
 a service with which the reader should be so much the more 
 pleased, since the author of these lines is very far from being 
 willing to reckon himself among the number of these philoso- 
 phers. 
 
 As the former treatise has already made our readers well 
 acquainted with the plan of the argument, and the mode of 
 demonstration which we employ, so much ceremony and so 
 many details will not be necessary in the following considera- 
 tions as were found to be so in the former part. A friendly 
 amount of attention alone will enable us to go through to- 
 gether the following points, which are thus briefly enunci- 
 ated : — 
 
 Let us come to the question. 
 
 Exactly in the same way in which an infinitely quick pas- 
 sage from a fixed star to the earth crowds together the images 
 of all earthly events into a single moment, so, by reversing 
 the process, the succession of these pictures may, in the fol- 
 lowing way, be indefinitely deferred. Let us suppose that the 
 light, and, with it, the reflection of some earthly occurrence, 
 arrives at a fixed star of the second magnitude in about 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 185 
 
 twenty years. Let us also suppose, that the observer mounts 
 to this star in the space of twenty years and one day, start- 
 ing at the moment when, for example, the blossom of a 
 flower was beginning to unfold itself; he will there find the 
 image of this flower in that stage of development in which it 
 was one day after the commencement of its blooming. If he 
 was endowed with infinite powers of sight and observation, 
 and had been able to follow the development of the blossom 
 throughout his entire journey, he would have had time and 
 opportunity of studying for twenty years the changes which 
 occurred to the flower upon earth in a single day. The suc- 
 cessive changes in its form are, as it were, fixed before his 
 eyes. As it is scarcely possible to catch with the eye a butter- 
 fly which flits past us, so as to detect the coloring of its wings'; 
 and, on the contrary, if we could follow and observe it in its 
 flight, we might count out and separate even the minute 
 grains of colored dust upon its wings : so would the observer 
 who had the power of following the reflection of a transitory 
 event upon the wings of the light be enabled to distinguish 
 the most sudden changes with the greatest accuracy and 
 leisure. 
 
 In this way we have, to a certain extent, a microscope for 
 time. For as the magnifying-glass apparently enlarges a thou- 
 sand times the space which a minute object occupies, and thus 
 renders it possible to separate the small contiguous portions of 
 which it consists, which appear to the naked eye as collected 
 into a single point ; so he who is able to follow the reflected 
 images of the stages of a rapid development with the speed 
 of a ray of light will be enabled to discover an endless num- 
 ber of separate transactions, of the existence of which we 
 had no previous notion. 
 
 A flash of lightning, for example, appears as a momentary 
 light, which blinds us for a time, without permitting us any 
 power of distinguishing the causes which produce it. But 
 if we could follow the image of such a flash, only up to 
 the sun, i.e., for eight minutes, we should be able to unfold 
 secrets respecting the nature of the phenomenon, which would 
 not be less astounding of their kind than the living worlds 
 which the microscope exposes to our view in a drop of water. 
 
186 THE STARS AND THE EARTH 
 
 Moreover, if, as we have remarked, the revolutions of our 
 earth at the time of the deluge are at the present time re- 
 flected upon a star of the twelfth magnitude, as we should see 
 (if we were provided with infinite visual powers^ the events 
 which took place upon the star, not as they are to-day, but as 
 they were thousands of years ago ; so an inhabitant of that 
 star, mounting away with the images and rays of light, would 
 be able to solve, by his own personal inspection, all the prob- 
 lems of geology and the creation, concerning which our 
 inquirers into natural history are to this day puzzling them- 
 selves. And this reflection does not refer to our earth alone ; 
 but the inhabitant of each star sees the past occurrences of 
 other stars : and the events, not only of our world, but of all 
 worlds, are at present expanded in space as the greatest and 
 truest history of the universe. 
 
 It was laid down and inculcated as strongly as possible in 
 the first part of this work, that, in these considerations, we 
 only treat of such things as can be imagined to be possible, and 
 that we avoid altogether any claims towards reality or practi- 
 cability. To bring, however, our ideas one step nearer to 
 those who cannot altogether resign their notions of probabil- 
 ity, we will make the following remark : The fact that more 
 distant objects appear to us smaller, and with less distinct out- 
 lines and colors, than those which are near, depends, in the 
 first place, upon the formation of the human eye, and, secondly, 
 upon the opacity of the atmosphere. 
 
 The rays of sight diverge from the eye, so that a very small 
 body close to it fills up the interval between two such rays ; 
 whilst, at a greater distance, a much larger body is necessary 
 to fill up the proportionately increased space between them. 
 If we hold up a shilling at arm's-length before our eyes, we 
 may completely conceal the sun with it. If, on the contrary, 
 an organ of vision was constructed in such a manner, that the 
 rays proceeded in parallel lines, every object would appear in 
 proportion to every other, and of its own proper size, without 
 any reference to the distance between it and the eye. We 
 certainly should not see distant bodies entire, but only such 
 small portions of them as are proportionate to the size of the 
 organ of vision, constructed after this vision ; but this little 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 187 
 
 portion would be visible, with equal clearness, at every dis- 
 tance, and a blade of grass upon the most distant fixed star 
 could not escape our sight, provided our atmosphere was clear, 
 and freed from all disturbing influences. 
 
 By the supposition of an organ of vision of such a construc- 
 tion as this, which assuredly no one will consider impossible 
 to be imagined, it is hoped that the possibility of all that we 
 have brought forward is rendered much more intelligible to 
 many readers. 
 
 It would, nevertheless, be but fruitless trouble to spin out 
 the thread of these thoughts any longer, if no further result 
 could be deduced from them than the proof that some one 
 thing would be possible if some other thing were possible ; for 
 one such combination of assumptions, however it may lay 
 claim to some momentary interest, would remain but an emp- 
 ty sport of the fancy, which flits across the mind of the reader, 
 without leaving any lasting effect behind. 
 
 As we proceed in our reflections, we become convinced that 
 we can build up a more solid superstructure by the help of 
 this airy scaffolding, since the consequences which we think 
 we can deduce will enable the reader to grasp the ideas of 
 Space and Time, as it were, by intuition ; whilst, without some 
 such instructions, the description of metaphysical objects is 
 frequently mere words for the generality of men. For it is 
 one thing to acknowledge a certain position to be true, be- 
 cause we cannot refute the premises from which it is deduced, 
 and another to comprehend it so immediately and completely, 
 that, from this time, it is in itself intelligible to us, and we con- 
 sider any thing which contradicts it to be absurd. Thus, for 
 example, he to whom the geometrical proposition, that the 
 angles of a triangle are together equal to two right angles, 
 has been intelligibly demonstrated, must acknowledge the 
 truth of it ; but he has not necessarily comprehended the pro- 
 position in its strictest sense. For this, it is requisite that he 
 should get that close insight into the fact, that it belongs to 
 the very existence of a triangle that the angles shall be to- 
 gether equal to two right angles, and that a triangle without 
 this property is as inconceivable and as absurd as a four-cor- 
 nered circle. 
 
188 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 To prepare a way for such intuitive perception, and such 
 immediate knowledge with respect to the nature of Time 
 and Space, and to facilitate its acquisition, is the object of the 
 following reflections. They shall, from their plainness, con- 
 strain the reader to understand, and shall force upon him clear 
 notions with respect to matters from which he has often 
 turned away without any consideration. 
 
 Truly, the interest which men take in things is very varied, 
 and frequently contradictory : what appears to one as of the 
 highest importance appears of no material consequence to 
 another. There is, however, one question which must inter- 
 est every one, even though his leisure, and the bent of his 
 mind, may not permit him to devote himself earnestly, and 
 without intermission, to the labor of attempting its solution. 
 This question is the How and the Wherefore of all things. 
 It is one from which the mind of man cannot be repulsed. 
 When a child, he asks after the Maker of heaven and earth, 
 and is relieved and contented by being directed to an all-wise 
 and perfectly good Almighty Creator. To more mature re- 
 flection, this answer is no longer sufficient ; because the at- 
 tempt to deduce the multiplicity of things in the world around 
 us from one single cause, viz. from God, leads us to contra- 
 dictions which it is the province of philosophy to unravel. 
 Our mind can indeed only attribute a single effect to a single 
 cause ; and, when we perceive manifold and different effects, 
 it becomes at once requisite to our intellect to seek for mani- 
 fold and various causes. This is a law which is so intolerant 
 of exceptions, that we unwillingly suppose a difference to 
 exist even where our senses cannot discern it. For example, 
 the single ray of the sun gives us light and warmth : it is in 
 our thoughts at once considered double, and analyzed into a 
 lighting and a heating ray, because we are absolutely com- 
 pelled, even against our inclination, to look out for two causes, 
 a lighting and a warming power, for the two effects, light and 
 heat. 
 
 Now if, in consequence of some certain inherent property 
 of our minds, we are compelled to look for a single First 
 Cause and a single Creator for the sum of all the causes and 
 effects which are manifest in the world, which fill it, and 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 189 
 
 which, indeed, are the world, the First Cause must be entirely 
 single and one, because, if we are unwilling to admit in it any 
 difference or variety, we are again as irresistibly driven to 
 the question, What can be the cause of these differences and 
 varieties ? It is, however, absurd to inquire after the origin 
 of the First Cause of all things, because the very essence of 
 a First Cause consists in the fact, that the inquiry after some 
 more distant origin is impossible. 
 
 To solve and remove this contradiction and absurdity is, as 
 I have already remarked, the province of philosophers. It has 
 frequently been asserted, that they have discovered the solu- 
 tion ; but the answer to the question " How ? " is still due to 
 the uninitiated, since philosophers allege, that the most intense 
 study of philosophy is requisite to enable us to understand the 
 results at which they arrive. 
 
 We are not, however, sufficiently submissive to be put off 
 with such a mysterious answer ; and the circumstance itself 
 makes us suspect, that the philosophers cannot have convinced 
 one another, but that the successor always confutes his prede- 
 cessor ; so that, in the most favorable view, philosophy has 
 taken a step farther each time, but has not yet arrived at the 
 goal. 
 
 Now since all hope, upon the side of philosophers, has been 
 cut off from us, of our ever arriving at the solution of the 
 contradiction from which the intellect in vain struggles to 
 free itself, we will make an attempt to point out in a gene- 
 rally intelligible manner a path by which the solution becomes 
 conceivable, — to point out a path, I say ; that is, I point 
 out the way and prove it, and render it intelligible that this 
 path, if it is really pervious, must lead to the goal. Whether 
 it can be travelled, must be decided by the inquiries, to stimu- 
 late and to advance which is the chief end of these lines, and 
 the most earnest wish of the author. The course which our 
 reflections will take, apparently leads us away from the " stars 
 and the earth ; " but we shall return to them, and beg the 
 reader to accompany us, step by step, to the conclusions which 
 are the end of our journey. 
 
 But, as I have already said, since there is a contradiction 
 between the assumption of a single original cause, and the 
 
190 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 world with its manifold changes and phenomena, it follows 
 that there is either no First Cause or no multiplicity in the 
 world, or, lastly, that both these assumptions are false. 
 
 To point out one of these three possible sources of error is, 
 therefore, a step upon the road to truth. 
 
 If, for example, it is shown that the various and manifold 
 phenomena in the world are really not various and manifold, 
 but that they are only apparently so, the necessity of discover- 
 ing for every variety a particular cause no longer exists, and 
 thus a single cause becomes sufficient. We will show that 
 such a view is possible, and how it is so. 
 
 As a single and colorless ray of the sun, when it is seen 
 through a prism, is decomposed into a broad surface with seven 
 different colors, so a world which was really only a single 
 undivisible point might, by our human senses, and by man's 
 method of contemplation and comprehension, be divided, as 
 through a prism with a thousand sides, into the endless multi- 
 tude of phenomena which are round about us. 
 
 All differences and distinctions which we perceive are of 
 two kinds : first, the difference between things which are per- 
 ceptible to our senses, as the sun, the heavenly bodies, men, 
 beasts, and plants ; and, secondly, the difference in matters 
 beyond the cognizance of our senses, as of thoughts and 
 truths. Thus, to mark out the way by which we can lead 
 ourselves to consider the entire world as a single indivisible 
 unit, we must solve a double problem : To show, first, that 
 the different thoughts and truths may be looked upon as a 
 single truth ; and, secondly, that the parts of the universe, and 
 of the history of the world, which bear reference to time and 
 space, can also be viewed together as a single indivisible point. 
 
 'The first part of the question is that which may be solved 
 most) easily, and in the most intelligible way. There is only 
 one truth ; and, if we think that we can distinguish many, it 
 only depends upon the limited nature of our understanding, 
 which separates- and decomposes this unity into many rays. 
 
 Let us begin with quite a simple example, — man is mortal : 
 he thinks and he feels. These are three separate and differ- 
 ent truths according to our ordinary ideas ; but the difference 
 only depends upon the fact that our mind is not able at once 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 191 
 
 and completely to grasp and understand the idea of man, 
 with all its consequences. If this was the case, and if, as soon 
 as we heard the word man, there was present in our minds 
 every thing which is requisite to the realization of the idea, 
 we should immediately entertain the notion of mortality, of 
 thought, and of sensation ; and it would not at first occur to 
 us to analyze the idea, and to say, " Man is mortal," any more 
 than we should think that we are saying something particular 
 when we state that a square has four corners, because this 
 property is already understood in the object, and together 
 with it. 
 
 A second example will make this more evident. For one 
 who has fully comprehended and knows what a triangle is, it 
 is not requisite that he should be first informed that a triangle 
 has three sides and three angles, that the three angles are 
 together equal to two right angles, and that three lines drawn 
 perpendicularly from the angles to the opposite sides cut one 
 another at the same point ; in short, all that mathematicians 
 have made out concerning the properties of a triangle by a 
 troublesome scientific process : but he understands it all at 
 once. He who has completely comprehended the idea of the 
 globe of our earth understands at once and immediately that 
 it is round, that it is heavy, of what chemical components it 
 is formed, the course it runs, and what creatures it produces. 
 He has included man, with all his deeds and transactions, his 
 perceptions and ideas, his understanding and the illusions of 
 his senses, as necessary attributes of the earth ; and has seen 
 that he could not bring himself to describe or imagine one 
 of these points or truths as any thing special or separate, 
 because he has comprehended all as indivisible and distinct 
 consequences, and components of the idea earth. He can 
 put down and acknowledge each of these positions as a dis- 
 tinct truth, just as little as we can think that we are saying 
 something particular when we remark, " a square has four 
 angles." 
 
 Lastly, if we enlarge our ideas to the universe, to the 
 whole creation, in which all experience, truths, and ideas are 
 included, it follows, that, for the most perfect acquaintance 
 with it, only one truth and one idea exists, viz., the universe, 
 
192 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 and that the subdivision of this one universal knowledge is 
 as purely human, and as certainly depends upon the imper- 
 fection of human powers of perception, as the necessity of 
 dividing a single ray of the sun into a double power, viz., a 
 lighting and heating ray, because it enlightens and warms us 
 at the same time. For the universe is a great organic whole ; 
 and he who has understood and entirely comprehended the 
 idea of an organized being has also grasped and compre- 
 hended all its separate component parts. 
 
 In order to point out the way in which we can bring our- 
 selves to consider the universe as one indivisible unit, we had, 
 as I have above remarked, two questions to solve ; 1st, that 
 there is only one truth, or, at least, that all truths may be 
 considered as a single one, and one which is only divisible 
 from the imperfection of human knowledge. This first part 
 of the proposition I think we have proved : in the second 
 part, we have to show that the phenomena of the universe 
 which are referable to space and time may be equally well 
 conceived, as forming together a single point. 
 
 By means of the journey which we have imagined an 
 observer to take from a star of the twelfth magnitude down 
 to the earth, in an immeasurably short space of time, we have 
 shown that there is a point of observation from which the 
 whole expanse of time, with the occurrences which took place 
 in it, appear to be compressed into a single point. But as, 
 in such a case, the events themselves do not in reality appear 
 to us, but we see their images on the light in the quickest 
 succession, the problem still remains, — to compress these 
 events into a single point, and to make it intelligible that 
 they themselves, and not their images only, can happen most 
 completely in a single moment of time : and, even more, that 
 a space of time which we call long or short \s actually and 
 really caused by our human mode of comprehension. 
 
 Let us suppose, that from some given time, for example, 
 from to-day, the course of the stars and of our earth becomes 
 twice as rapid as before, and that the year passes by in six 
 months, each season in six weeks, and each day in twelve 
 hours ; that the period of the life of man is, in like manner, 
 reduced to one-half of its present duration, so that, speaking 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 193 
 
 in general terms, the longest human life, instead of eighty 
 years, lasts for forty, each of which contains as many of the 
 new days of twelve hours, as the former years did, when the 
 days were twenty-four hours long : the drawing of our 
 breath, and the stroke of the pulse, would proceed with double 
 their usual rapidity, and our new period of life would appear 
 to us of the normal length. 
 
 The hands of the clock would no longer make the circuit 
 in one hour and in twelve ; but the long hand in thirty 
 minutes, the short one in six hours. The development of 
 plants and animals would take place with double their usual 
 speed ; and the wind and the lightning would consume in 
 their rapid course but one-half of their present time. 
 
 With these suppositions, I ask, in what way should we be 
 affected by the change ? The answer to this question is, We 
 should be cognizant of no change. We should even consider 
 one who supposed, or who attempted to point out, that such a 
 change had taken place was mad ; or we should look upon him 
 as an enthusiast. We should have no possible ground to 
 consider that any other condition had existed. 
 
 Now, as we can determine the lapse of any period of time 
 only by comparison, or by measuring it with some other 
 period, and as every division of time which we use in our com- 
 parison or in our measurements has been lessened by one-half 
 its duration, the original proportion would still remain un- 
 changed. 
 
 Our forty years would pass as the eighty did ; we should 
 perform every thing twice as quickly as before ; but as our 
 life, our breath, and movements are proportionately hastened, 
 it would be impossible to measure the increased speed, or even 
 to remark it. As far as we could tell, every thing had remained 
 precisely as it was before, not comparatively, but absolutely, 
 provided we had no standard external to the accelerated 
 course of events in the world by which we could perceive the 
 changes, or measure them. 
 
 A similar result would follow, if we imagined the course of 
 
 time reduced to the fourth, instead of to the half, so that the 
 
 year would consist of three months, the greatest age of man 
 
 would be reduced to twenty of the present years, and our 
 
 13 
 
194 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. ' 
 
 entire life, with that of all the creatures about us, would be 
 passed in a proportionately shortened period. In this case, we 
 should not only not perceive the change ; but we should, in 
 reality, suffer no change, since we should live to see every 
 thing which we should otherwise have seen; and all the ex- 
 perience and the events of our life, in their duration and with 
 their consequences, would remain unchanged in the relations 
 which they bear to one another. 
 
 For the same reasons, if the period and processes of life, 
 and the course of events in the world around us, were accel- 
 erated a thousand or a million times x or, in short, if they were 
 infinitely shortened, we should obtain a similar result ; and we 
 can in this way imagine the entire course of the history of 
 the world compressed into a single immeasurably short space 
 of time, without our being able to perceive the change : in 
 fact, without our having undergone any change. For, whether 
 any space of time is longer or shorter is a question which can 
 only be answered, and which can, indeed, only be looked upon 
 as reasonable, if we are able to compare the time to be meas- 
 ured with some other limited period, but not if we compare it 
 to the endless duration which is looked upon as without be- 
 ginning, and without end, which we call " Time." 
 
 Hence the proposition, that, for the occurrence of any given 
 event, a certain lapse of time is requisite, may be altogether 
 rejected. This time which elapses during the occurrence is 
 rather accidental than necessary, and it might as easily be 
 any other period. We shall bring another example to our 
 aid to illustrate the point more clearly. A tune may be per- 
 formed in different times, either quicker or slower, without 
 altering thereby in any way its nature. The intervals, the 
 succession of the tones, and the proportionate length of one 
 note to another, remain unchanged ; but the impression which 
 it makes upon the hearer will be different if his entire life has 
 not undergone a corresponding and proportionate change. 
 Now, suppose a musical clock is so contrived as to play any 
 piece in a space of time which may be determined at plea- 
 sure : this time may be lengthened or shortened, and it may be 
 so much shortened, that it can become almost infinitely small. 
 It is therefore possible, according to the notion of possibility 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH 195 
 
 which was laid down in the first part, to cause the longest 
 piece of music to be played in an immeasurably short space 
 of time ; and even although our ears would be as little able to 
 distinguish and appreciate the succession of the separate parts 
 as our eyes are to unravel the overcrowded and rushing 
 stream of the images in a history of four thousand years in a 
 single moment, yet, in one case as in the other, we only re- 
 quire that the human senses should become finer and more 
 perfect in order to render such comprehension possible. 
 
 Thus, as the tune remains unchanged in its nature, even 
 when performed in the shortest space of time, — and it can 
 and must be imagined to exist in itself, without reference to 
 any time in which it sounds, — and as such a space was only 
 necessary for the mode of organization of our senses, which 
 is of such a kind that the ear cannot perceive the different 
 tones in any other way than successively ; so the succession of 
 events can and must be considered independently of the time 
 in which they happen ; and, on the other hand, Time can as 
 little be imagined to exist alone, and in itself, as we can 
 imagine " Allegro " and " Adagio " to exist without any tune 
 or melody. 
 
 But if it is objected, that, even when the lapse of time has 
 been infinitely shortened, there still remains some period, and 
 that the expansion of time has not been completely set aside, 
 it may be answered scientifically, that, in its strictest sense, 
 the idea of any thing infinitely small is the same as the idea 
 of nothing : for, as long as more than nothing remains, we 
 must continue to divide it ; and the search after an infinitely 
 small space is only satisfied when we have arrived at that 
 which is really indivisible, viz., a point which has no parts. 
 
 But by continuing the comparison to a tune, which we 
 have commenced, we can refute the objection in a popular 
 way. 
 
 It does not require even the shortest space of time to com- 
 prehend the idea of the tune, or even to present it to our 
 senses, and communicate it to those of others. This simply 
 follows from the consideration of the page of music upon 
 which it is written. Here the tune exists entire and alto- 
 gether, and not in successive parts; and the time which a 
 
196 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 musician requires to read it is not caused by the nature of the 
 melody, but is a consequence of the impossibility of taking in 
 and understanding the whole contents of the page in an indi- 
 visibly short space of time. Thus a looking-glass represents 
 the objects which are placed opposite to it, not one after the 
 other, but altogether and at once, without requiring for the 
 purpose the lapse of any time whatever. From all these con- 
 siderations, it becomes sufficiently clear that time is merely a 
 mode and condition by which the human mind, with the as- 
 sistance of human senses, perceives the occurrence of events ; 
 w r hilst the events themselves, in all their fullness and perfec- 
 tion, may occur in a longer or a shorter time, and thus must 
 be looked upon as independent of time. A thought or an 
 idea is something momentary. He who has such an idea has 
 it entire and at once ; but he who wishes to communicate it 
 . to others requires for the purpose a certain time, just as such 
 a space is also necessary for those to whom it is communi- 
 cated. Hence time is not necessary for the origination or 
 existence of the idea, but only for its communication and 
 comprehension ; and the idea exists as independently of time 
 as, according to the points we have discussed before, the en- 
 tire history of the world can and must be looked upon as in- 
 dependent of time. Time is only the rhythm of the world's his- 
 tory. 
 
 Having arrived at this conclusion, it will be useful to reca- 
 pitulate, as clearly as we can, the course of our reflections. 
 
 Of the three ways in which we thought we could solve the 
 contradiction between a manifold world and a single Crea- 
 tor, we entered upon that .one which denied the existence of 
 the multiplicity in the world, and by which it can be sup- 
 posed that the world is really single and indivisible, and that 
 it is, by the human mind and its limited mode of comprehen- 
 sion, subdivided into a multiplicity of phenomena. 
 
 In order to show how such unity can be imagined, we have 
 first reduced the empire of thought to the single idea of the 
 universe ; and then the empire of phenomena appreciable to 
 our senses remained, which is manifold in its nature, because 
 its parts and its events become perceptible to us by being sep- 
 arated, and referred to time and space. But we have so far 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH Iff, 
 
 set aside the notion of time, in that we have pointed out that 
 it does not exist in and for itself, bat that it is only a mode 
 by which we observe events, and by which their occurrence 
 comes to our knowledge. We must, in like manner, examine 
 the idea of space. 
 
 As it appeared, in our examination into the essence of time, 
 that the question whether any thing lasted a longer or a short- 
 er time had any meaning only when the period was com- 
 pared with some other limited given period of time, but that, 
 in comparison to endless time, the question whether a cer- 
 tain space was long or short was nonsense, since every finite 
 thing compared with something infinitely greater appears like 
 nothing ; so, in like manner, it will appear with regard to the 
 expansion of space. The entire created universe, considered 
 with respect to its limits, is a mere point in that which we call 
 endless space, even if we imagine these limits to extend be- 
 yond the most distant fixed stars and nebulge. This proposi- 
 tion, which we have so often laid down and argued from, does 
 not become entirely intelligible to the generality of mankind, 
 until we illustrate it in a way as appreciable to our senses as 
 we did with respect to time. The plan of our illustration is 
 also exactly similar to the former one. 
 
 Let us suppose, for example, that, from the present mo- 
 ment, all the measurements of the universe are reduced to the 
 half of their size, and that all distances are equally shortened, 
 it would be absolutely impossible for us to perceive, or indeed 
 to believe if it was told us, that any change had happened to 
 us or to the world around ; and we might, like Gulliver's 
 Liliputians, fairly consider ourselves perfectly grown men. 
 But, if every thing was lessened a million or a billion times, 
 it would be as little noticed by us as when the reduction of all 
 measurements to the half of their size took place ; and if our 
 system of fixed stars, with all that it contains, was suddenly 
 contracted to the size of a grain of sand, we should move and 
 exist with the same freedom from restraint, and with the 
 same convenience, in that 'little world, as we now do in this 
 which seems so large to us. No change would have taken 
 place in the universe, as long as we did not imagine an- 
 other universe beyond it; and the question whether any 
 
198 THE STARS AND THE EARTH 
 
 such change had taken place would have as little meaning in 
 reference to space as a similar question had in respect to the 
 duration of time, which we supposed to have been suddenly 
 shortened. 
 
 In this way it is shown, that, to our recollection and knowl- 
 edge, a proportionate change in the whole space of the uni- 
 verse would be completely and altogether unobserved and 
 imperceptible. 
 
 But even though, in these considerations, we have imagined 
 the universe to have been compressed into so small and nar- 
 row a compass, yet we have not altogether done away with 
 space, because we can still imagine something more minute 
 than the infinitely small space, viz. an indivisible point. In 
 our reflections concerning an infinitely short period of time, 
 we have already shown, that, strictly and scientifically con- 
 sidered, they are one and the same thing. We can, how- 
 ever, show, in an intelligible way, that it is conceivable, and 
 not at all contrary to reason, to assume that the expanse of 
 space, and the distance and propinquity of various objects, 
 do not really exist, but that space or propinquity is only ap- 
 parent, and originates from the fact, that, with our circum- 
 scribed understanding and the limited powers of our senses, 
 we can contemplate the one indivisible point, the universe, 
 in no other way than by dividing and stretching it out into 
 length, breadth, and height. These are the only three proper- 
 ties which we need attribute to space ; but they are, of course, 
 indispensably necessary, and without them physical existence 
 cannot be imagined. And length cannot exist without breadth, 
 nor breadth without height ; for in those cases the body would 
 have only length and height, or only breadth and length. 
 That which has only two of these dimensions is not a body, 
 but only the boundary of a body, viz. a superficies. In like 
 manner, that which has only one dimension, viz. length, is no 
 longer a surface, but the edge of a surface, viz. a line. Thus, 
 in order that any physical space can exist, it is, of course, abso- 
 lutely necessary that all three dimensions should exist, as, in 
 other words, all three are necessary properties of space. 
 
 But a necessary property of any thing is that without 
 which it is no longer the same, but something else. For 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 199 
 
 example, the necessary properties of a square are, that all 
 four sides should be equal, and all angles right angles. If 
 one side is no longer like another, or if one angle is no longer 
 a right angle, the figure ceases to be a square, and becomes 
 some other kind of quadrilateral figure ; and we should not 
 listen to any one who would persuade us that it was still a 
 square. Let us apply this to the idea of space, or, what is 
 the same thing, to the idea of a body. It is necessary to the 
 existence of any limited body, that it should have length, 
 breadth, and height ; that it should be bounded by surfaces ; 
 and that the edges of these surfaces should be formed by 
 lines: and that the ends of the lines should be points. All 
 these properties must exist together, otherwise the body itself 
 does not exist. 
 
 Now, if we can imagine evidence which will bring us to 
 the conclusion, that, in any case, a body has not three dimen- 
 sions, and a surface has not two, and if such evidence is in- 
 controvertible, and not to be refuted, it would necessarily 
 follow that this body and this surface are not a body and a 
 surface, but that some delusion of our senses, or some false 
 conclusions, had induced us to consider them so. The same 
 may be said of a point. A point is that which has no parts. 
 Now, if a point was found in which, nevertheless, there were 
 different parts,, it would not be a point ; or the difference of 
 the parts would not be a real difference, but only one which 
 would become apparent from our limited powers of thought 
 and perception. These conclusions are clear and incontro- 
 vertible ; and, supposing that the reader has completely 
 agreed with us up to this point, we proceed a step further. 
 
 There is an optical apparatus, known to all of us under 
 the name of a magic lantern. It is constructed in the fol- 
 lowing manner : A picture, painted upon glass with trans- 
 parent colors, is thrown upon a lens which has the property 
 of refracting all the rays incident upon its surface, and of 
 concentrating them to a single point called the focus. 
 Through this point, the refracted rays continue their course 
 onwards, and diverge from one another as much as they pre- 
 viously converged. They form, therefore, beyond the focus, a 
 cone of rays with the apex at the focus, and which, at any 
 
200 THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 
 
 distance from the apex, forms an inverted image of the 
 picture which was originally thrown upon the lens, as can 
 be proved by directing the cone of rays upon the wall, when 
 the reversed picture is seen, larger in proportion to the 
 distance of the focus from the wall. If the necessary lenses 
 were ground with perfect optical and mathematical accuracy, 
 and if the position of the glasses was also strictly perfect, 
 and the wall completely smooth, upon approaching the magic 
 lantern so near that the focus falls upon the wall, the light 
 would be seen as a single distinct bright point. In this point, 
 the entire surface of the picture is concentrated ; and from it 
 the picture spreads out again upon the wall, if the apparatus 
 is moved to a greater distance. 
 
 Now, this point contains the many-colored surface of the 
 picture completely, with all the parts which actually compose 
 it, and with the form and color of every single figure ; and 
 the whole picture is really and truly in this single point, for 
 here it has been concentrated by the refraction of the rays. 
 We have thus made it readily apparent to our senses, that 
 the indivisible point contains within it different parts, con- 
 tiguous to one another, according to our usual mode of com- 
 prehension ; and thus we have come to a direct contradiction 
 of an idea which has generally been considered quite clear 
 and incontrovertible. The solution of the contradiction is 
 found in the proposition of which it is the object of this little 
 work to prove the possibility ; viz., that the universe, or 
 space, as far as it is within the scope of our senses, does not 
 exist in the expanded and varied forms which we see around 
 us, but that the expansion and the differences only depend 
 upon our human mode of perception, and are caused by it. 
 For if, here, by means of the magic lantern, a surface has 
 become a point, and if the point contains all the various and 
 distinct parts of the surface, we have shown that the differ- 
 ences which appear by the separation or juxtaposition of the 
 component parts do not require space as absolutely necessary 
 to their existence ; but that one single and indivisible point 
 can obtain them all. But, if a surface is no longer necessary 
 that we may understand the juxtaposition of bodies, its very 
 existence is disturbed, and a point is advanced to the dignity 
 
THE STARS AND THE EARTH. 201 
 
 of a surface ; for it contains and embraces the whole contents 
 of a surface. But, when we wish to perceive the contents 
 with human eyes, we must return, and expand the point into 
 the surface which it had before included.* 
 
 Now, since we have in this way shown that a surface can 
 only be considered a means of rendering the juxtaposition 
 and relation of images cognizable to our senses, in other 
 words, that it is a mere mode, of observation for that which, 
 as far as its essence is concerned, may be contained in a single 
 point ; and since one of the three dimensions of space has, in 
 this way, been brought down from something real to a mere 
 mode of contemplation, — we have deprived space of one of 
 its necessary properties ; and it is no longer real and true 
 space, but has become a mere condition by which objects are 
 rendered perceptible to us. 
 
 We have thus completed the course of the argument which 
 we proposed ; for we have shown that a point of view is 
 conceivable, from which the universe no longer requires the 
 expansion of time and space in order to exist, and to be 
 intelligible to us. And since our human method of contem- 
 plation, inasmuch as it considers this expansion, with all its 
 phenomena, as real and necessary, leads only into inextricable 
 contradictions ; so we are compelled to seek for the higher 
 point, and to look upon it as conceivable and possible, even 
 if we are never able actually to realize it, or to look down 
 upon the world from it, in consequence of the limited nature 
 of our powers : for with such a point of view, and by it alone, 
 can we imagine and completely understand the universe to 
 be the work of a single Creator. 
 
 * In a letter to us from the Rev. Dr. Thomas Hill, dated Cam- 
 bridge, Mass., Sept. 24, 1866, the writer observes, " I have several 
 times regretted that I did not, in the preface to the American edition, 
 point out the error in the assumption that a camera picture may be 
 reduced to a point. The camera picture bears a linear proportion to 
 the original object, in the ratio (approximately) of the distance from 
 the lens to the picture to the distance of the lens from the original 
 object. Of course, the picture could be reduced to a point only by 
 bringing it to the centre of the lens, which would be possible only 
 if the lens were a point; that is, were no lens at all." — Editor of Gem 
 Series. 
 
THE VALUE OF CIPHERS. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 One day, during the clerk's dinner-hour, I was seated in 
 my office-parlor, in front of a table covered with papers, 
 among which was a letter that had been brought in earlier in 
 the morning, with a visiting card bearing the name, A. Bied- 
 rnann, of Hamburgh. I had opened this letter, pre-occupied 
 with other matters, and finding it to be one of those nume- 
 rous recommendations continually coming before me, I had 
 thrown it aside on the table, where, half buried under rail- 
 way prospectuses, it lay waiting my further consideration. 
 Scarcely distinguishable in the confused heap crowded to- 
 gether in too narrow a space, nothing more than the upper 
 edge of the sheet could be seen, with the first two lines of the 
 writing. They were : — 
 
 " Mon chef Monsieur 1 — I have the honor to recommend 
 to your especial attention, our worthy and respectable friend, 
 Mons. Biedmann, of Hamburgh, who is the fortunate pos- 
 sessor of a fortune of 12 — " 
 
 Here the figures composing the sum were cut off by an 
 over-lying sheet of paper, and left me in a state of complete 
 incertitude as to the amount of M. Biedmann's fortune ; it 
 might even have been supposed, although not very probable, 
 that this poor gentleman's whole means were not more than 
 twelve francs, or, if more agreeable, twelve marks banco. 
 The supposition made me smile. Nothing certainly could 
 have been easier than for me to have satisfied myself as to 
 how matters stood with the individual who had been recom- 
 mended to me ; but I preferred finding out, little by little, 
 the position to be assigned to him in the world. 
 
 Helas ! I thought, impressed by the feelings of the mo- 
 ment, a man is esteemed only for what he is worth. This 
 202 
 
THE VALUE OF CIPHERS. 203 
 
 stranger, accredited to me, is lie amiable, interesting, emi- 
 nent in any quality or qualification? Useless queries. 
 Specify the amount of his fortune, that is enough ; that tells 
 his value, and prescribes the measure of his reception. My- 
 self, for instance ; am I altogether free from this ungenerous 
 influence ? Let us come to the test of experiment. And, in 
 fact, the idea of finding out a man by the amount of his for- 
 tune is not more extraordinary than the pretensions of many 
 persons to arrive at a knowledge of character by the inspec- 
 tion of handwriting. Have we not heard expert professors 
 of the art declare seriously, There is an / which denotes 
 much greatness of soul ; this upstroke is from a frivolous 
 mind ; the tail of that p gives reason to fear a little avarice 
 on the part of the writer. 
 
 Taking advantage of the peculiar position in which lay the 
 letter of recommendation, I slid the upper sheet a little on 
 one side, so as to expose the following figure only ; similarly 
 to a gamester, who, unwilling to reveal his game all at once, 
 uncovers his card by degrees. As I expected, there came a 
 cipher (0). It is no longer 12 francs, but 120. The addi- 
 tion, however, modifies my sentiments with regard to the 
 possessor but slightly. Ah ! my poor Biedmann, your 120 francs 
 a year have not brought you much further ; for it must be 
 observed, that, from a benevolent feeling for the unknown 
 individual, I wished to consider this sum as the income, and 
 not the principal. 
 
 With 120 francs a year, a man travels neither by diligence 
 nor railway ; he goes with dusty shoes, and coat soon to be 
 obliterated at the elbows. A recommendation for a rentier 
 of such modest dimensions says plainly enough what is to be 
 done for him. Two or three crowns will settle the business. 
 
 But let me banish a thought which deals so harshly with 
 the man placed under my protection. I would rather his 
 lot were less irksome. Just so ; 1200 francs. 
 
 Well, what is a man with twelve hundred francs ? A 
 retired grocer ? A clerk ? No. A strolling teacher ; a pro- 
 fessor escaped from some university. Ah ! I have him now. 
 We shall have to persecute parents, and find scholars for him. 
 But, mon cher Biedmann, we were in no want of your litera- 
 
204 THE VALUE OF CIPHERS. 
 
 ture or calligraphy. We are already abundantly provided : all 
 the courses are arranged for the winter. Must I add still more 
 to my poor children's curriculum, and retrench their hours of 
 recreation ? Besides, this professor may be a communist. 
 With 1200 francs, is a man a communist or not ? I cannot 
 say. 
 
 Communist ? No. Teacher of languages ? No. Noth- 
 ing of the sort. 12,000 francs! Ah, here's a man of the 
 right stamp. Do you know, Monsieur Biedmann, that with 
 your additional ciphers, you grow in the opinion of the pub- 
 lic, and in mine ? It is but too certain, that the world 
 attaches something of vulgarity to a very small fortune. It 
 is one of the errors of society. True, I do not mean to say 
 that there are not numerous exceptions, and that very hon- 
 orable persons are not to be found among the twelve hun- 
 dred, the eight hundred, and even the four hundred francs. 
 But, after all, my gentleman has come out of the somewhat 
 equivocal classes. It puts my mind at ease. With such a 
 fortune as that, he can very well pass the winter at Geneva. 
 I will enter him at the Reading Society, and have him at our 
 next family dinner. 
 
 But, with his twelve thousand francs, what can he be ? I 
 wager, a philanthropist. Yes, it is mostly your average people 
 who busy themselves with improving social institutions. A 
 figure less is not enough ; a figure more is too much for 
 working at the re-organization of society. Mons. Biedmann 
 appears to me hewn from the same block as those who write 
 upon different prison systems. And here he will find no 
 lack of people ready to enter into discussion with him upon 
 penitentiary regulations. Admirable vocation, when one has 
 the wherewithal, that of travelling for the welfare of hu- 
 manity. 
 
 No, indeed ; he is not a philanthropist. Pleasantry apart ; 
 seriously — 1 20,000 francs ! What an existence ! Chief of 
 a mercantile house, with European credit ; protector of the 
 arts ; benefactor of the poor ; knight of several orders ; 
 
 cherished by all who and with that, perhaps, a little 
 
 shattered in health and spirits, a little ennuye. Poor man ! 
 it is not, however, to be wondered at. He wants diversion, 
 
THE VALUE OF CIPHERS. 205 
 
 excitement ; he is much to be pitied ; and I will do what I 
 can to dissipate this unhappy state of mind. 
 
 What ! can there still be more ? Impossible ! I see double. 
 Xo ; for my correspondent repeats in words, and under- 
 lined, one million, two hundred thousand francs of income. 
 What a personage ! What an overwhelming fortune ! It 
 confuses the imagination. Besides, a million two hundred 
 thousand francs of income presumes a principal of twenty- 
 five or thirty ;: Jean ! " I called out. My servant ap- 
 peared. 
 
 " At what hour did the gentleman call who left this card 
 and letter?" 
 
 " At ten o'clock." 
 
 "Is he young or old." 
 
 " Neither young nor old ! " 
 
 " Something distinguished in his appearance ? " 
 
 " Well, Monsieur, I cannot say he was quite the thing." 
 
 " Still, there was But, what of that ? Bepeat what he 
 
 said." 
 
 11 He said. Monsieur, that he was sorry at not finding you 
 at home, and would call again at two o'clock." 
 
 " But you should have told him that I would soon be in, 
 and asked him to take a chair." 
 
 " I did not know, Monsieur, that I was to do otherwise for 
 him. than for others." 
 
 M How vexed I am ! He said two o'clock there's yet 
 
 time ; yes. I will save him the trouble of a second walk. 
 Quick. Jean, my hat. And listen ; you will go directly home. 
 
 and say to Madame For dinner ? It is hardly possible. 
 
 You will say to Madame, that I shall bring home with me, 
 this evening, a very rich and interesting gentleman. She 
 will get every thing prepared, and make sure of a few 
 amiable friends. On my part, I will invite one or two also. 
 Bemember, Jean, Monsieur de Biedmann, of Hamburgh ; you 
 won"t forget: a name known to all the world. But stop — 
 say the Baron de Biedmann : she will comprehend better 
 what I mean." 
 
MY FORTUNE. 
 
 A great many years ago — two and twenty years to-night 
 — I well remember what a cold, wet night it was, with a 
 thick sleet driving against the windows, and a melancholy, 
 moaning wind creeping through the leafless branches. It had 
 been quite a sad winter time to us at home, — the only sad 
 one I had ever known, for it was just two or three weeks after 
 the accident had happened that first laid me on my couch ; 
 and only a few days before, my father had told me that I 
 should never be able to rise from it any more. It had been 
 a heavy blow to us all. 
 
 We sat together in the drawing-room all the long evening, 
 my father, and my mother, and I. My sister Kate had gone 
 the day before to some friends of ours in the country. One 
 gets so soon used to misfortunes and disappointments when 
 just a little time has passed ; but, at the first, they are often so 
 hard to bear ! and I think that never, at any time, did I feel 
 such sorrow at the thought that I must be an invalid my whole 
 life as I did that night. I was only a girl — not fifteen yet ; 
 and at that a^e we are so full of bright dreams about the 
 future, looking forward with such clear, joyous hopefulness to 
 the world that is just beginning to open before us, stretching 
 out our hands so eagerly to the golden light that we think we 
 see in the far distance ! It was so hard to have the bright 
 view shut out forever, to have the bright dreams fade away, 
 to have all the hopes that to me had made the thought of life 
 so beautiful, torn from me forever in one moment ! 
 
 I had borne the knowledge of it all quite calmly at first : it 
 
 was only now that I thought I really felt and knew all that 
 
 I was losing. But, thank God, my life has not been what, in 
 
 my faithlessness, I thought, that night, it would be. Thank 
 
 206 
 
MY FORTUNE. 207 
 
 God that the whole bitterness of those few hours' thought 
 has never come to me, as it did then, again ! 
 
 Early in the evening, my father had been reading to us 
 aloud ; but, since he ceased, no word had been spoken in the 
 room. He had been writing for the last two hours : my 
 mother, sitting by the fire, was reading. The whole house was 
 silent ; and from without the only sounds that came to us were 
 the wind howling through the trees, and the cold rain dashing 
 on the windows, — both cheerless sounds enough to hear. It 
 was indeed a night for melancholy thoughts ; and to one ill and 
 weak as I was then, perhaps it was to be forgiven, that think- 
 ing of the future and the past, looking back upon the happy 
 days that were gone, and forward to where the sunless clouds 
 hung so heavily, I should scarcely be able to press back the 
 tears that tried to blind me. 
 
 For, when we are very young, we shrink so from feeling 
 prison-bound ; we pray so earnestly, that, if sorrow must come 
 to us, it may rather burst in sudden storm upon us, and, pass- 
 ing away, leave the blue sky clear again, than that our whole 
 life should be wrapped up in a cold gray shroud, through 
 which no deep sorrow can ever pierce into our hearts, no 
 deep joy ever come to gladden us ! 
 
 And in that gray shroud I thought that my life was to lie 
 hidden and withered ; and now, while as yet it was only 
 closing over me, while with passionate resistance I would 
 still have struggled to tear it back, I felt that my hands were 
 bound. 
 
 A little thing will sometimes serve to divert our thoughts 
 even when they very much engross us ; and so it was that 
 night, that I was suddenly startled out of the midst of my 
 revery by two loud, sharp knocks upon the street door, — a 
 sound certainly by no means uncommon. And perhaps, if 
 nothing more had followed, I might have fallen again into my 
 former thoughts ; but as I lay for a few moments, listening, 
 the door was ^opened, and then there followed such strange 
 hurried exclamations, — half of surprise, half of alarm, — 
 mingled with such apparently irresistible bursts of laughter, 
 that my first dull interest began rapidly to change into a far 
 more active feeling. 
 
208 MY FORTUNE. 
 
 " My love, what's that ? " asked my father, without looking 
 up. 
 
 " I can't imagine ! " my mother answered in a puzzled 
 tone, laying down her book. 
 
 Just at this moment, we heard a quick step running up the 
 stairs ; and all our eyes, with one accord, turned to the door, 
 which, in two or three minutes, was burst open, and, to our 
 extreme amazement, in rushed our servant Ann with a little 
 half-naked child in her arms. Yes, that little creature stand- 
 ing on the step was the only thing to be seen when she 
 had opened the door. 
 
 " Upon my word, this is going too far ! " my father exclaimed 
 angrily, when we had heard Ann's story. " It isn't two 
 months since the same trick was played in town. Ann, call 
 Tom to get a lantern immediately, and follow me. We must 
 make a search ; though, indeed, it's hopeless to think of catch- 
 ing any one on such a night as this. Whoever has done it is 
 out of reach by this time. My dear," he turned round as he 
 was hurrying from the room, " don't do any thing with the 
 child until I come back. I'm afraid she's ill," and he closed 
 the door. 
 
 I shall never forget what a poor little object it was. It had 
 scarcely an atom of clothing on it, — just a torn old frock that 
 would hardly hang together, and its poor little white shoul- 
 ders and arms were all bare, and wet with the heavy rain. 
 Her pretty fair hair was wet too ; but her face was what 
 attracted and astonished me most, for, in spite of the bitter 
 coldness of the night, it was glowing like fire, with a spot of 
 the brightest scarlet on each cheek, and her large blue eyes so 
 unnaturally bright, that it was quite painful to look at them. 
 Yet such a sweet face it was ! 
 
 My mother made her kneel beside me on my couch ; and we 
 talked to her, and kissed her, and, taking off the old wet frock, 
 wrapped my mother's shawl around her : but all the time, and 
 though she was certainly more than two years old, she re- 
 mained as perfectly unmoved as though she had been a little 
 statue, only those great bright eyes were fixed upon my face, 
 until I began to get absolutely frightened at her. 
 
 In about twenty minutes, my father returned from his use- 
 less search. 
 
MY FORTUNE. 209 
 
 " We can do nothing more to-night," he said, in a tone of 
 considerable vexation, as he joined us again. " Poor child ! 
 she's very feverish indeed. Why ! exposure on such a night 
 is enough to kill her. My love, you must put her to bed ; 
 there's no help for it : and I'll see what I can do for her. But, 
 really, it's a little too much to expect that all the sick children 
 of the neighborhood are not only to be cured for nothing, but 
 to be housed too, by the physician." And my father left the 
 room to change his wet garments, in no very contented state 
 of mind. 
 
 My mother put out her hands to lift the child from my side ; 
 and then, for the first time, a moaning sound broke from 
 her, and, leaning forward, she caught my dress with her little 
 hands, and held it tight, half crying as if she feared to go away. 
 I pressed her to me, and clasped my arms around Jier. I 
 couldn't help it ; and she let me do it, and laid down her 
 head upon my bosom, the dear child ! with that plaintive, 
 moaning sound again. I was almost weeping myself, — half 
 with pity, half with love, — for I loved her so much already ! as 
 we love all things that cling to us, all things that, weaker 
 than ourselves, appeal to us for protection. And so, for I 
 could not bear that against her will she should be made to 
 leave me, -still keeping her in my arms, I had the couch 
 wheeled into my bedroom ; and there, in Kate's bed, we laid 
 her, — poor little weary, suffering thing. 
 
 It would be too long to tell you all about her illness, for she 
 was ill for many weeks ; how patient she was ; how anxious 
 we all were for her ; how, in spite of a few cross words at 
 first, my kind father tended her with as much care as ever he 
 bestowed upon his wealthiest patient ; how my dear mother 
 sat up night after night with her, as though she had been her 
 own child; how the little thing crept so into all our hearts, 
 that when at last, one evening, my father pronounced her out 
 of danger, even his voice was broken with emotion, and we 
 were fairly crying, — both my mother and I. 
 
 Nor will I trouble you with an account of all the fruitless 
 search that was made to discover who she was or where she 
 came from ; but one thing I must mention, because it per- 
 plexed us very much, and added to our difficulty in deciding 
 14 
 
 i 
 
210 MY FOB TUNE. 
 
 how to dispose of her. It was this : that we began to suspect 
 
 — what at first had never entered our heads — that she had 
 been stolen, and was not a poor woman's child. It was her 
 own dim recollections of past things that gave rise to this 
 supposition ; but the fever had so confused all things in her 
 poor little head, that we never could reach any certainty upon 
 the subject. 
 
 Well, the end of it all was that we could not part from her, 
 for we had all grown to love her so well already ; and we knew, 
 that, if we sent her away from us, the only place that would 
 receive her was the workhouse. So it was quite settled at last 
 that she should stay with us ; and, because she had taken to me 
 so much from the first, they pronounced, laughing, that she 
 should be my child ; and I was so happy ! 
 
 I called her Fortune, — Fortune Wildred we baptized her, 
 
 — that, should we never find her own surname, she might at 
 least have some proper claim to ours. Of course she must 
 have had a Christian name before : indeed, she said she re- 
 membered it, and declared that it was AVillie; but Willie 
 seemed so odd a name to give a little girl, that we agreed it 
 would not do, and then I chose Fortune. 
 
 My little Fortune — she was so dear to me, and she loved 
 me, too, so well ! Young as I was, our relation to each other 
 became in many things like that of mother and child. It was 
 strange that, of her own accord, from the first she called me 
 Aunt Dinah. And I so soon grew accustomed to the title, 
 and so soon, too, fell quite naturally into calling her my child ; 
 for, though yet but a girl in years, I was becoming a woman 
 very quickly, as I should think must often be the case with 
 those who have their destiny in life fixed as early as mine 
 was ; for I had no other outward change to look forward to as 
 most girls have, and all my business was to settle down and be 
 content. 
 
 My life, I often think, might have been lonely and sad with- 
 out my child ; but with her I was very happy. It was as if I 
 lived again in her ; for all the hopes and wishes that my illness 
 had crushed came into life again, but not for myself now. It 
 was for her that I dreamed and hoped and thought, — for the 
 little bright-eyed child who loved to lay beside me, with her 
 
MY FORTUNE. 211 
 
 white arms round my neck, and her soft cheek pressed on 
 mine ; who loved — Heaven bless her — to be with me always ; 
 who never was so happy as when, even for hours, we two 
 would be left alone together, and, with the perfect confidence 
 that only children have, she would talk to me of all things 
 that came into her mind, gladdening my very heart with the 
 loving things she said. They all loved her, but none as I did, 
 for she loved none of them so well. They used to say that I 
 should spoil her, but I never did : she was not made to be 
 spoiled, my little Fortune, my sunny, bright-haired child ! 
 
 She was my pupil for the first few years ; and such dear 
 lessons they were that we used to have together, — dear to 
 both of us, though most to me. She was so good and gentle, 
 so sorry if she ever grieved me, so eager to be good and be 
 forgiven again, — as though my heart did not forgive her 
 always, even before she asked it, — so loving always. She 
 never wearied of being with me, — the kind child, — not even 
 when, as happened sometimes, I was too ill to bear her child- 
 ish merriment, and she would have to sit quietly in my room, 
 and lower her sweet, clear voice when she spoke to me ; for 
 she would hang upon my neck then, too, and whisper to me 
 how she loved me. Ah ! I never shall forget it all, — I never 
 shall forget how good my little Fortune was to me. 
 
 I may as well mention here, that, soon after it was settled 
 she should stay with us, we had a little miniature portrait of 
 her taken, which I have worn ever since as a locket round my 
 neck. We did this on the chance that it might possibly serve 
 on some future day as a means of identifying her. Here is 
 the little picture now : it is so like her, as I have seen her a 
 thousand times, with her sunny veil of curls around her. 
 
 The years went on, and brought some changes with them, 
 — one change which was very sad, my mother's death. It came 
 upon us suddenly, at a time when we were least thinking of 
 sorrow ; for, when her short illness began, we were preparing 
 for my sister Kate's marriage. It was long before the gloom 
 and grief that her loss threw upon our little household passed 
 away ; for she was dearly loved amongst us, and had been a 
 most noble and true-hearted woman. 
 
 When Kate had been married about a year, my father 
 
212 MY FORTUNE. 
 
 withdrew from practice ; and, to be near her, we removed to 
 Derbyshire, and he and I and Fortune kept house there, in a 
 quiet cheerful way together. And so the years went on until 
 my child was about seventeen. 
 
 In this new part of the country, we had not many neigh- 
 bors with whom we were intimate ; but there was one family, 
 who, since our first coming, had shown us much kindness. 
 Their name was Beresford ; and they consisted of a father and 
 mother, and one son who was at college. They were wealthy 
 people, with a good deal of property in the county. When 
 we first knew them, I had not been without a suspicion — I 
 almost think it was a hope — that Arthur Beresford and my 
 Fortune might one day fall in love with one another. But it 
 was not to be ; for, as they grew up, I saw that there was no 
 thought of more than a common friendly love between them : 
 and, indeed, boys of one-and-twenty are generally occupied 
 with other things than falling in love ; and girls of seventeen, 
 I think, generally suppose that one-and-twenty is too young 
 for them to have any thing to do with, as no doubt it very often 
 is. So they remained good friends and nothing more. 
 
 I remember well Arthur Beresford's return from college, 
 two or three months before he came of age, and how, on the 
 day after, — a bright June morning it was, — he burst into our 
 drawing-room, with the gay exclamation, u Here I am, Aunt 
 Dinah, and free for the next four months ! " and, coming up to 
 me, took both my hands in his, and looked so gay, and so 
 happy, and so handsome, that it did me good only to look at 
 him. He was in very high spirits indeed ; for not only had he 
 gained his freedom, as he Called it, but -he had succeeded in 
 bringing back with him his cousin, Nevill Erlington, a fellow 
 and tutor at Oxford, who had done him, so he said, such ser- 
 vices during his career there, that, had it not been for him, he 
 should never have been the happy fellow he was there, which, 
 whether it was as true as he thought it or not, I liked the boy 
 for saying and thinking. 
 
 And, one or two days afterwards, Nevill Erlington came 
 with Mr. Beresford and Arthur to call on us. He was six or 
 seven years older than Arthur, and neither so lively nor so 
 handsome ; but he had a firm, broad, thoughtful brow, and 
 
MY FORTUNE. 213 
 
 deep, lustrous eyes, and a voice so deep and rich and soft, 
 that it was like the sound of music to hear him speak. I 
 liked him from the first — we all did ; and it was not long 
 before he became an almost daily visitor at our house, coming 
 sometimes alone, on the excuse — I knew it was but an ex- 
 cuse — of bringing us books or news, or some such thing, but 
 more often with one or other of the Beresfords. Indeed, after 
 a little time, I knew that I, for one, fell quite into a habit of 
 missing him if ever a day passed without his coming ; for his 
 quiet, gentle presence had in it a great charm to me ; and he 
 had fallen so kindly and naturally into my ways, that I had 
 felt, almost from the first day, that he was not a stranger but 
 a friend. 
 
 Nor was I the only one who watched for his daily visits, or 
 felt lonely when he did not come. My dear child seldom 
 spoke much of him when he was away : even when he was 
 with us she was often very quiet ; but I knew soon that in 
 both their hearts a deep, true love was growing up, and that 
 my darling would one day be NevilPs wife. And he deserved 
 her, and she him. Timid as she was now, I knew that it 
 would not always be so. I knew that, presently, when all 
 was understood between them, her present reserve would pass 
 away, and my Fortune, as she really was, with her bright, 
 sunny gayety, with her graceful, hoping woman's nature, with 
 her deeply-loving, faithful heart, would stand beside him, to 
 illumine and to brighten his whole life. Such happy days 
 those were while these two young hearts were drawing to 
 each other, — happy to them and me, though over my joy 
 there was still one little cloud. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Beresford were the only persons amongst our 
 new friends to whom I had told my Fortune's story. I did 
 not feel that it was a thing I needed to tell to every one ; but 
 now I was anxious that Nevill should know it, and felt uneasy 
 as day after day passed, and kept him still in ignorance. But, 
 indeed, I was perplexed what to do, for he and I were almost 
 never alone ; and, in the state in which matters were yet be- 
 tween him and Fortune, it would have been premature, and 
 even indelicate, to ask Mrs. Beresford to interfere. There was 
 only one opportunity I had for speaking to him, and that I 
 
214 MY FORTUNE. 
 
 lost. I remember that day well. My father and Fortune 
 had gone after dinner to my sister Kate's, expecting to be 
 back in an hour ; and, when the hour had nearly elapsed, Nev- 
 ill came in alone, bringing a request that they would return 
 with him to spend the evening at the Beresfords. I thought 
 they would soon be in, so he willingly agreed to wait ; and, 
 sitting beside me at the open window, he presently began — 
 it was the first time he had ever done so — to talk of For- 
 tune. It was strange : without a word of preparation or in- 
 troduction, he spoke of her as only one who loved her could 
 speak. For a moment I was startled ; then I fell into his tone ; 
 and I, too, talked of my child as I could have done to few but 
 him. There was no explanation between us, but each read 
 the other's heart fully and perfectly. And yet, not even then 
 did I tell him Fortune's story. I longed to do it ; it was on 
 my lips again and again ; but I was expecting her return 
 with my father every moment, and I feared to be interrupted 
 when I had once begun. So the time went past ; and I was 
 vexed with myself, when it was gone, that my tale was still 
 untold. 
 
 Though it was after sunset when they came in, Nevill per- 
 suaded them still to accompany him back. I remember well 
 his warm though silent farewell to me that night. I remem- 
 ber, too, when they were all away, how long I lay and thought 
 in the summer twilight. I ought to have been glad, and I was 
 glad ; but yet some low, sad voice, that I thought I had hushed 
 to silence years ago forever, would awake in my heart again, 
 making me break the beauty of that summer evening with my 
 rebellious tears. It was only for a little time ; for I, who had 
 been so happy, what right had I to weep because some hopes 
 had died ? I pressed my tears back, praying to be forgiven ; 
 and soon the soft stillness of the night calmed me, and I 
 thought again of my dear child, and, eagerly and hopefully as 
 ever I had done when I was young, I dreamed bright dreams 
 for her future life. When I was young ! I was but nine-and- 
 twenty now, yet how far back my youth seemed ! Strange ! 
 there was scarcely two years between me and Nevill ; yet how 
 every one — how he, how I myself — looked on me as old 
 compared with him. 
 
MY FORTUNE. 215 
 
 It was late when they came home that night, and I thought 
 my darling looked sad : I had thought so once or twice of 
 late. She slept in a room opening from mine, and always 
 came the last thing to say good-night to me. To-night, when 
 she came, I was grieved, for she looked as if she had been 
 weeping. She stood beside my couch — the light from be- 
 hind that streamed through the opened door falling on her 
 bright, unbound hair, and also herself, looking so pure and 
 beautiful — my own Fortune ! I kept her a few minutes by 
 me, for I longed to cheer her ; but she did not seem to care 
 much to talk. I said something about Nevill ; and she asked 
 if he had been long here before they came. 
 
 " About an hour," I said. 
 
 " Ah, I am glad," she answered. " I was afraid my poor 
 Auntie had been alone the whole night. It was kind of him." 
 
 " Yes ; he is always kind, dear," I said. 
 
 Which she did not answer, but smiled gently to herself, 
 and stood in silence, with my hand in hers : then suddenly she 
 frightened me ; for, quickly stooping down, she laid her head 
 upon my shoulder, and I felt her sobbing. At first she would 
 not tell me why she wept, but whispered, through her tears, 
 that it would grieve me ; that I should think she was ungrate- 
 ful — I, who had been so good to her, and loved her so well 
 always. But, when I pressed her earnestly, it came at last. 
 It was because, through the wide world, she knew not where 
 to seek for a father or a mother; because to the very name 
 she bore she had no claim ; because to all but us, she said, her 
 life had ever been a deceit, and was so still ; because she felt 
 so humbled before those she loved, knowing that she had no 
 right they should be true to her whose first step had been a 
 falsehood to them. 
 
 She told me this, pouring it out rapidly — passionately ; 
 and I understood it all, and far more than she told me. Alas ! 
 I might have guessed it all before. 
 
 I comforted her as I could. I told her that her first grief 
 she must bear still — hopefully, if she could ; that, for the rest, 
 she should not sorrow any longer, for all whose love she cared 
 for should know what her history was. I told her to have 
 courage ; and I thanked her earnestly and truly for how she 
 
216 MY FORTUNE. 
 
 had spoken to me then; and presently, weeping still, but 
 happier and full of love, my darling left me — left me to 
 weep, because a grief I should have known would come had 
 fallen on me. 
 
 I said that the Beresfords were landed proprietors, and Ar- 
 thur was their only son ; so his coming of age was to be a 
 great day. Of course, I very seldom moved from home; but 
 it had long been a promise, that, on this occasion, we were to 
 spend a week with them, and the time was now close at hand : 
 indeed, it was on the second day, I think, after I had had this 
 talk with my child, that our visit was to begin. So, early on 
 that day, we went. 
 
 I have not mentioned, that for the last fortnight, besides 
 Nevill, the Beresfords had had other visitors with them, — a 
 brother of Mrs Beresford's, — a Col. Haughton, with his 
 wife and their two children, a little boy and girl. They had 
 just returned from India, where, indeed, Mrs. Haughton had 
 lived many years. She was in delicate health, and did not 
 go out much, so that she was as yet almost a stranger to me ; 
 but the little I had seen of her, and all that Fortune had told 
 me about her, pleased me so much that I was not at all sorry 
 for this opportunity of knowing more of her. There was 
 something graceful and winning in her manner, indeed, that 
 prepossessed most people in her favor ; and there was much, 
 both of beauty and refinement, in her face. 
 
 It was the day after we came, and a kind of preliminary 
 excitement was through the house, for the next morning was 
 to usher in Arthur's birthday ; and to-day Mrs. Beresford was 
 giving a large children's party, expressly in honor of little 
 Agnes and Henry Haughton. I think we had every child 
 for six or seven miles round assembled together ; and there had 
 been music and dancing, and a ceaseless peal of merry voices, 
 all through the long summer evening ; and everybody looked 
 gay and happy, and all went well, for not a few of the elder 
 ones had turned themselves into children t too, for the time, to 
 aid them in their games. 
 
 It was growing late, and even the lightest feet began to 
 long for a little rest, when, from one large group that had 
 gathered together, there came a loud call to play at forfeits ; 
 
MY FORTUNE. 217 
 
 and in two or three moments all were busy gathering pretty 
 things together to pour into Fortune's lap ; and then they 
 merrily began the game, and laughed, and clapped th&ir hands 
 with delight, as each holder of a forfeit was proclaimed. 
 
 The most uproarious laughter had just been excited by Ne- 
 vill's performance of some penalty allotted to him ; and then 
 I recollect well how he came, looking very happy, to kneel at 
 Fortune's feet, and deliver the next sentence. She held up a 
 little ring ; and, when she asked the usual question, what the 
 possessor of it was to do, he answered gayly, — 
 
 " To give us his autobiography." 
 
 There was a pause for a moment, while they waited for 
 Fortune to declare whose the forfeit was; but she did not speak, 
 for the ring was hers. Nevill had risen from his knees, and, 
 seeing it, he exclaimed laughing, for he knew it, — 
 
 " What, Miss Wildred, has this fallen to your lot ? " 
 
 She looked up hurriedly from him to me, and said, " Aunt 
 Dinah," quickly, as if to ask me to speak. But, before I had 
 opened my lips, Mrs. Beresford came forward, and said 
 kindly, — 
 
 kt Nevill, I think it will be hardly fair to press this forfeit. 
 We can't expect young ladies to be willing to declare their 
 autobiographies in public, you know." 
 
 I interrupted Nevill, and answered, — 
 
 " But, if you will take my account of Fortune's life instead 
 of calling on her for her own, I think I can answer for her 
 willingness to let you hear it. Shall it be so, Mr. Erling- 
 ton ? " 
 
 But he was eager that it should be passed over, was even 
 vexed that any word had been said about it at all. I under- 
 stood his delicacy well, and thanked him for it in my heart ; 
 but I knew what my child's wish was ; so I would not do what 
 he asked me, but promised, that, when the children were 
 away, the story should be told. And then the game went on. 
 
 It was past ten o'clock when 'they gathered round me to 
 hear my child's history. There was no one there but the 
 Beresfords, and the Haughtons, and Nevill, and ourselves. I 
 saw that my poor child was agitated : but I would not have 
 her either know that I guessed she was so, or that I shared 
 
218 MY FORTUNE. 
 
 her agitation ; so I took out my knitting, and began working 
 away very quietly as I talked, just glancing up now and then 
 into one or other of my hearer's faces, — into Nevill's oftenest, 
 because there was that in the earnest look he fixed on me 
 which seemed to ask it more than the rest. 
 
 There was not really very much to tell ; and I had gone on 
 without interruption nearly to the end, and was just telling 
 them how I called her Fortune because we thought the name 
 she said she had so strange, when, as I said the word " Wil- 
 lie," a sudden cry ran through the room. 
 
 It fell upon my heart with a strange terror ; and, in an in- 
 stant, every eye was turned to whence it came. 
 
 Pale as death, her figure eagerly bent forward, her hand 
 grasping Fortune's shoulder, Mrs. Haughton sat. From my 
 child's cheek, too, all color had fled : motionless, like two mar- 
 ble figures, they fronted one another ; their eyes fixed on 
 each other's faces, with a wild hope, a wild doubt in each. 
 It lasted but a moment ; then both, as by one impulse, rose. 
 Mrs. Haughton stretched out her hands. " Mother ! " burst 
 from Fortune's lips. There was a passionate sob, and they 
 were wrapped in one another's arms. 
 
 I saw like one in a dream, — not feeling, not understanding, 
 not believing. A giddiness came over me ; a sudden dimness 
 before my eyes; a feeling of deadly sickness, as we feel when 
 we are fainting. There began to be a buzz of voices ; but I 
 could distinguish nothing clearly until I heard my own name 
 spoken. 
 
 " Dinah," my father was saying hurriedly, " you have that 
 little portrait : give it to me. I roused myself by a great, 
 effort, and, taking the locket from my bosom, put it in his 
 hand. Another moment, and there was a second cry ; but 
 this time it was a cry only of joy. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " I heard Mrs. Haughton passionately saying, 
 in a voice all broken with emotion' " I knew it, I knew it ! 
 It is my child — my Willie — my little Willie! " And she 
 pressed the portrait to her lips, and looked on it as even / 
 had scarcely ever done. 
 
 Ah! I needed no other proofs. I needed nothing more 
 than that one look to tell me I had lost my child. 
 
MY FORTUNE. 219 
 
 Mrs. Haughton had sunk upon her seat again ; and my dar- 
 ling was kneeling at her feet, clasping her hand, and weeping. 
 They spoke no more ; they nor any one : then, when a minute 
 or two had passed, Col. Haughton raised my child kindly 
 from the ground, and, placing her mother's hand again in hers, 
 led them silently together from the room. 
 
 I closed my eyes, and turned away ; but still the tears would 
 force their way through the closed lids upon my cheek. And, 
 as I wept, feeling — that night I could not help it — so lonely 
 and so sad, a warm, firm clasp came gently, and closed upon 
 my hand. It was Nevill who was standing by my side ; and 
 as I felt that friendly pressure, and met the look that was 
 bent upon me, I knew that there was one at least, who, rejoi- 
 cing in my Fortune's joy, could yet feel sympathy for me. 
 
 It was not long before Col. Haughton came back, and 
 from him we learnt all that there was to tell. Mrs. Haughton, 
 when very young, had married a Capt. Moreton, and ac- 
 companied him to India, where my child was born, and called, 
 after her mother, Wilhelmina. But she was delicate, and the 
 doctors said that the Indian climate would kill her ; so, before 
 she was two years old, they were forced to send her home to 
 England, to relations in the north. An English servant was 
 sent in charge of her, and both were committed to the care 
 of an intimate friend of theirs who was returning to England 
 in the same vessel ; but the lady died during the passage, and 
 neither of child nor nurse were there ever more any tidings 
 heard, except the solitary fact — which the captain proved — 
 that they did arrive in England. It was fifteen years ago. 
 The woman had money with her belonging to Mrs. Haughton, 
 as well as the whole of the child's wardrobe, — quite enough to 
 tempt her to dishonesty. 
 
 And such was the history of my Fortune's birth. 
 
 I went away as soon as I could to my room, and lay there 
 waiting for my child ; for I knew that she would come. The 
 moonlight streamed in brightly and softly ; and the shadow of 
 the trees without the window came and waved upon my couch, 
 rocking gently to and and fro, with a low music, like a song 
 of rest. It stilled my heart, that quiet sound ; and, lying there 
 alone, I prayed that I might have strength to rejoice, and not 
 
220 MY FORTUNE. 
 
 to mourn at all ; and then, after a long time, I grew quite calm, 
 and waited quietly 
 
 My darling came at last, but not alone. Her mother en- 
 tered the room with her ; and they came together, hand in 
 hand, up to my couch, and stood beside me with the moon- 
 light falling on them, and shining on .my child's white dress, 
 as if it was a robe of silver. We spoke little ; but from Mrs. 
 Haughton's lips there fell a few most gentle, earnest, loving 
 words, which sank into my heart and gladdened me ; and then 
 she left me with my child, alone. 
 
 My darling clung around my neck, and wept ; and, calmer 
 now myself, I poured out all my love upon her, and soothed 
 her as I could ; and then we talked together, and she told me 
 all her joy. And there were some words that she said that 
 night that I have never since forgotten, nor ever will forget, 
 — words that have cheered me often since, — that live in my 
 heart now, beautiful, distinct, and clear as when she spoke 
 them first. God bless her — my own child ! 
 
 Brightly as ever the sun rose upon an August morning, did 
 his first rays beam through our windows to welcome Arthur's 
 birthday. There was nothing but joy throughout the house, 
 and happy faces welcoming each other, and gay voices, and 
 merry laughter making the roof ring. There are a few days 
 in our lives which stand but from all others we have ever 
 known, — days on which it seems to us as if the flood of sun- 
 light round us is gilded with so bright a glory, that even the 
 commonest things on which it falls glow with a beauty we 
 never felt before ; days on which the fresh breeze passing over 
 us, and sweeping through the green leaves overhead, whispers 
 ever to us to cast all sorrow from our hearts, for that in the 
 great world around us there is infinite joy and happiness and 
 love. Such a day was this ; and bright and beautiful, with 
 the blue, clear sky, with the golden sunbeams, with the light, 
 laughing wind, it rises in my memory now, a day never to be 
 forgotten 
 
 I was not very strong ; and in the afternoon I had my couch 
 moved into one of the quiet rooms, and lay there resting, with 
 only the distant sound of gay voices reaching me now and 
 then, and every thing else quite still. I had not seen much 
 
MY FORTUNE. 221 
 
 of my child during the morning ; but I knew that she was 
 happy, so I was quite content. And indeed I too, myself, was 
 very happy ; for the sunlight seemed to have pierced into my 
 heart, and I felt so grateful, and so willing that all should be 
 as it was. 
 
 I had lain there alone about half an hour, when I heard 
 steps upon the garden walk without. The head of my couch 
 was turned from the window, so I could not easily see who it 
 was ; but in a few moments they came near, and Fortune and 
 Nevill entered the room by the low, open window. 
 
 " I was longing to see my child," I said softly ; and, with a 
 few loving words, she bent her head down over me, kissing me 
 quickly many times. 
 
 Nevill stood by her side, and, smiling, asked, — 
 
 " Will you not give me a welcome too ? " 
 
 I said warmly, for I am sure I felt it, — 
 
 " You know that you are always welcome." 
 
 He pressed my hand ; and after a moment's pause, half se- 
 riously, and half gayly, he went on — 
 
 " Aunt Dinah, I have come to ask a boon, — the greatest 
 boon I ever asked of any one. Will you grant it, do you 
 think ? " 
 
 I looked at him earnestly, wondering, hoping, doubting; 
 but I could not speak, nor did he wait long for an_ answer, 
 but, bending his head low, — 
 
 " Will you give me," he said — and the exquisite tender- 
 ness of his rich voice is with me still — "will you give me 
 your Fortune to be evermore my Fortune, and my wife ? " 
 
 I glanced from him to her. I saw his beaming smile, as he 
 stood by her, and her glowing cheek and downcast eyes ; and 
 then I knew that it was true, and tried to speak. But they 
 were broken, weeping, most imperfect words, saying — I well 
 know so faintly and so ill — the deep joy that was in my 
 heart ; and yet they understood me, and, whispering " God 
 bless you ! " Nevill stooped, and kissed my brow, and my dar- 
 ling pressed me in her arms ; and gazing in my face with her 
 bright, tearful eyes, I saw, in their blue depths, a whole new 
 world of happiness. 
 
 A few more words will tell you all the rest. My child was 
 
222 MY FORTUNE. 
 
 very young ; and Nevill had little beside his fellowship to de- 
 pend upon, and that, of course, his marriage would deprive 
 him of. So it was settled that they should wait a year or two 
 before they married ; and at the close of the autumn they par- 
 ed, Nevill — who had been sometime ordained — to go to a 
 curacy near London, and Fortune, with her mother, to rela- 
 tions further north. 
 
 It was to me a very sad winter, for I was lonely without 
 my child ; but I looked forward hopefully, and every one was 
 very kind. And in the spring an unexpected happiness be- 
 fell us ; for a living near us, in Mr. Beresford's gift, became 
 vacant suddenly, and, before it was quite summer again, Ne- 
 vill was established as the new rector there. And then my 
 darling and he were married. There is a little child, with 
 dark blue eyes and golden hair, who often makes a sunshine 
 in my room ; whose merry laughter thrills my heart ; whose 
 low, sweet songs I love to hear, as, nestled by my side, she sings 
 to me. They call her Dinah, and I know she is my darling's 
 little girl ; but, when I look upon her face, I can forget that 
 twenty years have passed away, and still believe she is my 
 little Fortune, come back to be a child again. 
 
 THE DEPAETING SWALLOWS. 
 
 BY WM. HAYLEY.* 
 
 Ye gentle birds, that perch aloof, 
 
 And smooth your pinions on my roof, 
 
 Preparing for departure hence, 
 
 Now Winter's angry threats commence, — 
 
 Like you, my soul would smooth her plume 
 
 For longer flights beyond the tomb. 
 
 May God, by whom is seen and heard 
 Departing men and wandering birds, 
 In mercy mark us for his own, 
 And guide us to the land unknown ! 
 
 * An English poet, born 1745; died 1820. He was the friend of 
 Cowper. These lines were written during his last illness. 
 
THE MAN IN THE BELL. 
 
 In my younger days, bell-ringing was much more in fashion 
 
 among the young men of than it is now. Nobody, I 
 
 believe, practises it there at present except the servants of 
 the church, and the melody has been much injured in conse- 
 quence. Some fifty years ago, about twenty of us who dwelt 
 in the vicinity of the cathedral formed a club, which used 
 to ring every peal that was called for ; and from continual 
 practice, and a rivalry which rose between us and a club at- 
 tached to another steeple, and which tended considerably to 
 sharpen our zeal, we became very Mozarts on our favorite 
 instruments. But my bell-ringing practice was shortened by 
 a singular accident, which not only stopped my performance, 
 but made even the sound of a bell terrible to my ears. 
 
 One Sunday, I went with another into the belfry to ring 
 for noon prayers ; but the second stroke we had pulled showed 
 us that the clapper of the bell we were at was muffled. Some 
 one had been buried that morning ; and it had been prepared, 
 of course, to ring a mournful note. We did not know of this ; 
 but the remedy was easy. " Jack," said my companion, " step 
 up to the loft, and cut off the hat ; " for the way we had of 
 muffling was by tying a piece of an old hat, or of cloth (the 
 former was preferred), to one side of the clapper, which 
 deadened every second toll. I complied, and, mounting into 
 the belfry, crept as usual into the bell, where I began to cut 
 away. The hat had been tied on in some more complicated 
 manner than usual, and I was, perhaps, three or four minutes 
 in getting it off ; during which time my companion below was 
 hastily called away — by a message from his sweetheart, I 
 believe ; but that is not material to my story. The person 
 who called him was a brother of the club, who, knowing that 
 the time had come for ringing for service, and not thinking 
 
 223 
 
224 THE MAN IN THE BELL. 
 
 that any one was above, began to pull. At this moment I 
 was just getting out, when I felt the bell moving. I guessed 
 the reason at once. It was a moment of terror ; but, by a 
 hasty and almost convulsive effort, I succeeded in jumping 
 down, and throwing myself on the flat of my back under the 
 bell. 
 
 The room in which it was, was little more than sufficient to 
 contain it, the bottom of the bell coming within a couple of 
 feet of the floor of lath. At that time, I certainly was not so 
 bulky as I am now ; but, as I lay, it was within an inch of my 
 face. I had not laid myself down a second, when the ringing 
 began. It was a dreadful situation. Over me swung an 
 immense mass of metal, one touch of which would have 
 crushed me to pieces. The floor under me was principally 
 composed of crazy laths ; and, if they gave way,. I was pre- 
 cipitated to the distance of about fifty feet, upon a loft, which 
 would, in ail probability, have sunk under the impulse of my 
 fall, and sent me to be dashed to atoms upon the marble floor 
 of the chancel, an hundred feet below I remembered — for 
 fear is quick in recollection — how a common clockwright, 
 about a month before, had fallen, and, bursting through the 
 floors of the steeple, driven in the ceilings of the porch, and 
 even broken into the marble tombstone of a bishop who slept 
 beneath. This was my first terror ; but the ringing had not 
 continued a minute, before a more awful and immediate dread 
 came on me. The deafening sound of the bell smote into my 
 ears with a thunder which made me fear their drums would 
 crack : there was not a fibre of my body it did not thrill 
 through. It entered my very soul; thought and reflection 
 were almost utterly banished ; I only retained the sensation of 
 agonizing terror. Every moment I saw the bell sweep within 
 an inch of my face ; and my eyes — I could not close them, 
 though to look at the object was bitter as death — followed it 
 instinctively in its oscillating progress until it came back 
 again. It was in vain I said to myself that it could come no 
 nearer at any future swing than it did at first : every time it 
 descended, I endeavored to shrink into the very floor to avoid 
 being buried under the down-sweeping mass ; and then, re- 
 flecting on the danger of pressing too weightily on my frail 
 support, would cower up again as far as I dared. 
 
THE MAN IN THE BELL. 225 
 
 At first my fears were mere matter of fact. I was afraid 
 the pulleys above would give way, and let the. bell plunge 
 on me. At another time, the possibility of the clapper being 
 shot out in some sweep, and dashing through my body, as I 
 had seen a ramrod glide through a door, flitted across my 
 mind. The dread also, as I have already mentioned, of the 
 crazy floor, tormented me ; but these soon gave way to fears 
 not more unfounded, but more visionary, and, of course, more 
 tremendous. The roaring of the bell confused my intellect, 
 and my fancy soon began to teem with all sort of strange and 
 terrifying ideas. The bell pealing above, and opening its 
 jaws with a hideous clamor, seemed to me at one time a 
 ravening monster, raging to devour me : at another, a whirl- 
 pool ready to suck me into its bellowing abyss. As I gazed 
 on it, it assumed all shapes ; it was a flying eagle, or rather a 
 rock of the Arabian story-tellers, clapping its wings, and 
 screaming over me. As I looked upward into it, it would 
 appear sometimes to lengthen into indefinite extent, or to be 
 twisted at the end into the spiral folds of the tail of a flying- 
 dragon. Nor was the flaming breath or fiery glance of that 
 fabled animal wanting to complete the picture. My eyes, in- 
 flamed, bloodshot, and glaring, invested the supposed monster 
 with a full proportion of unholy light. 
 
 It would be endless were I to merely hint at all the fancies 
 that possessed my mind. Every object that was hideous and 
 roaring presented itself to my imagination. I often thought 
 that I was in a hurricane at sea, and that the vessel in which 
 I was embarked tossed under me with the most furious vehe- 
 mence. The air, set in motion by the swinging of the bell, 
 blew over me, nearly with the violence, and more than the 
 thunder, of a tempest ; and the floor seemed to reel under me, 
 as under a drunken man. But the most awful of all the ideas 
 that seized on me were drawn from the supernatural. In the 
 vast cavern of the bell, hideous, faces appeared, and glared 
 down on me with terrifying frowns, or with grinning mockery 
 still more appalling. At last, the Devil himself, accoutred, as 
 in the common description of the Evil Spirit, with hoof, horn, 
 and tail, and eyes of infernal lustre, made his appearance, 
 and called on me to curse God, and worship him, who was 
 15 
 
226 THE MAN IN THE BELL. 
 
 powerful to save me. This dread suggestion he uttered with 
 the full-toned clangor of the bell. I had him within an inch 
 of me, and I thought on the fate of the Santon Barsisa. 
 Strenuously and desperately I defied him, and bade him be- 
 gone. Reason, then, for a moment, resumed her sway ; but it 
 was only to fill me with fresh terror, just as the lightning dis- 
 pels the gloom that surrounds the benighted mariner, but to 
 show him that his vessel is driving on a rock, where she must 
 inevitably be dashed to pieces. I found I was becoming de- 
 lirious, and trembled lest reason should utterly desert me. 
 This is at all times an agonizing thought ; but it smote me 
 then with tenfold agony. I feared lest, when utterly deprived 
 of my senses, I should rise, — to do which I was every moment 
 tempted by that strange feeling which calls on a man, whose 
 head is dizzy from standing on the battlement of a lofty castle, 
 to precipitate himself from it, — and then death would be in- 
 stant and tremendous. When I thought of this, I became 
 desperate. I caught the floor with a grasp which drove the 
 blood from my nails ; and I yelled with the cry of despair. I 
 called for help, I prayed, I shouted ; but all the efforts of my 
 voice were, of course, drowned in the bell. As it passed over 
 my mouth, it occasionally echoed my cries, which mixed not 
 with its own sound, but preserved their distinct character. 
 Perhaps this was but fancy. To me, I know, they then 
 sounded as if they were the shouting, howling, or laughing of 
 the fiends with which my imagination had peopled the gloomy 
 cave which swung over me. 
 
 You may accuse me of exaggerating my feelings ; but I am 
 not. Many a scene of dread have I since passed through ; but 
 they are nothing to the self-inflicted terrors of this half-hour. 
 The ancients have doomed one of the damned, in their Tar- 
 tarus, to lie under a rock, which every moment seems to be 
 descending to annihilate him ; and an awful punishment it 
 would be. But if to this you add a clamor as loud as if ten 
 thousand furies were howling about you, — a deafening uproar 
 banishing reason, and driving you to madness, — you must 
 allow that the bitterness of the pang was rendered more ter- 
 rible. There is no man, firm as his nerves may be, who could 
 retain his courage in this situation. 
 
THE MAN IN THE BELL. 227 
 
 In twenty minutes, the ringing was done. Half of that 
 time passed over me without power of computation, — the 
 other half appeared an age. When it ceased, I became gradu- 
 ally more quiet ; but a new fear retained me. I knew that five 
 minutes would elapse without ringing ; but, at the end of that 
 short time, the bell would be rung a second time, for five min- 
 utes more. I could not calculate time. A minute and a hour 
 were of equal duration. I feared to rise, lest the five minutes 
 should have elapsed, and the ringing be again commenced, in 
 which case, I should be crushed, before I could escape, against 
 the walls, or framework of the bell. I therefore still con- 
 tinued to lie down, cautiously shifting myself, however, with a 
 careful gliding ; so that my eye no longer looked into the hol- 
 low. This was of itself a considerable relief. The cessation 
 of the noise had, in a great measure, the effect of stupefying 
 me; for my attention, being no longer occupied by the chi- 
 meras I had conjured up, began to flag. All that now dis- 
 tressed me was the constant expectation of the second ringing, 
 for which, however, I settled myself with a kind of stupid 
 resolution. I closed my eyes, and clinched my teeth as firmly 
 as if they were screwed in a vice. At last the dreaded mo- 
 ment came ; and the first swing of the bell extorted a groan 
 from me, as they say the most resolute victim screams at the 
 sight of the rack to which he is for a second time destined. 
 After this, however, I lay silent and lethargic, without a 
 thought. Wrapt in the defensive armor of stupidity, I defied 
 the bell and its intonations. When it ceased, I was roused 
 a little by the hope of escape. I did not, however, decide on 
 this step hastily ; but, putting up my hand with the utmost 
 caution, I touched the rim. Though the ringing had ceased, 
 it still was tremulous from the sound, and shook under my 
 hand, which instantly recoiled as from an electric jar. A 
 quarter of an hour, probably, elapsed before I again dared to 
 make the experiment ; and then I found it at rest. I deter- 
 mined to lose no time, fearing that I might have lain then 
 already too long, aud that the bell for evening service would 
 catch me. This dread stimulated me, and I slipped out with 
 the utmost rapidity, and arose. I stood, I suppose, for a min- 
 ute, looking with silly wonder on the place of my imprison- 
 
228 THE MAN IN THE BELL. 
 
 ment, penetrated with joy at escaping ; but then rushed down 
 the stony and irregular stair with the velocity of lightning, 
 and arrived in the bell-ringers' room. This was the last act I 
 had power to accomplish. I leaned against the wall, motion- 
 less, and deprived of thought, in which posture my companions 
 found me, when, in the course of a couple of hours, they re- 
 turned to their occupation. 
 
 They were shocked, as well they might, at the figure before 
 them. The wind of the bell had excoriated my face, and my 
 dim and stupefied eyes were fixed with a lack-lustre gaze in 
 my raw eyelids. My hands were torn and bleeding ; my hair 
 dishevelled; and my clothes tattered. They spoke tome ; but 
 I gave no answer. They shook me ; but I remained insensible. 
 They then became alarmed, and hastened to remove me. He 
 who had first gone up with me in the forenoon met them as 
 they carried me through the churchyard ; and through him, 
 who was shocked at having, in some measure, occasioned the 
 accident, the cause of my misfortune was discovered. I was 
 put to bed at home, and remained for three days delirious, 
 but gradually recovered my senses. You may be sure the 
 bell formed a prominent topic of my ravings ; and, if I heard a 
 peal, they were instantly increased to the utmost violence. 
 Even when the delirium abated, my sleep was continually 
 disturbed by imagined ringings, and my dreams were haunted 
 by the fancies which almost maddened me while in the steeple. 
 My friends removed me to a house in the country, which was 
 sufficiently distant from any place of worship to save me from 
 the apprehensions of hearing the church-going bell ; for what 
 Alexander Selkirk, in Cowper's poem, complained of as a 
 misfortune, was then to me as a blessing. Here I recovered ; 
 but, even long after recovery, if a gale wafted the notes of a 
 peal towards me, I started with nervous apprehension. I felt 
 a Mohammedan hatred to all the bell tribe, and envied the 
 subjects of the Commander of the Faithful the sonorous voice 
 of their Muezzin. Time cured this, as it does the most of our 
 follies ; but even at the present day, if, by chance, my nerves 
 be unstrung, some particular tones of the cathedral bell have 
 power to surprise me into a momentary start. 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 IN TWO PARTS. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 On the morning of my twenty-third birth-day, I awoke 
 early, and with a profound sense of happiness and thankful- 
 ness. My five years of married life, without having been a 
 realized dream or sentimental idyl, had inclosed the happiest 
 and worthiest period of my existence. Tracing the details of 
 it, I rejoiced to think my worst difficulties were overcome, and 
 that strong affection and deep-rooted esteem had changed an 
 anxious course of duty into blessedness and fruition. 
 
 My husband, Mr. Anstruther, had yielded to my earnest 
 wish to celebrate our wedding anniversary in our country 
 home, and had granted me just three days, snatched from the 
 toil of active parliamentary life, to taste my holiday; and I 
 was tasting it, slowly, but with intense enjoyment, as I stepped 
 out that morning upon the dewy lawn, and devoured, with my 
 aching London sight, one of the loveliest park landscapes in 
 all England. I looked in the distance upon low ranges of 
 hills, blue in the early, misty light, and granting, here and 
 there, peeps of the adjacent sea, sleeping quietly beneath the 
 rosy amber of the eastern sky, and immediately at my feet 
 upon flower-gardens planned and cultivated with all the exi- 
 gence of modern taste, and glowing with a hundred dyes. My 
 mind recurred involuntarily to the narrow court in which my 
 father's house was situated, and to the dreary prospect of 
 brick and mortar, of factory-chimney and church-steeple, 
 which for eighteen years had bounded my horizon ; and, if the 
 recollection brought with it the old inevitable association, I 
 was able to thank God that now no pulse beat quicker, no 
 traitorous thrill responded. 
 
 229 
 
230 THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 How strange it seems that fate should come upon us with 
 such overwhelming suddenness that we are not suffered to 
 hear the approaching footstep, or see the outstretched arm, 
 but are struck down instantly by the blow which might per- 
 haps have been withstood had a moment's warning been 
 granted ! I went back to the house that morning with the 
 most absolute sense of security and happiness : but, on the 
 threshold of the breakfast-room, I met my husband ; and 
 the first glance at his face told me something was wrong. 
 His face was always grave ; it was now stern. His man- 
 ner was always reserved ; it was now severe. 
 
 I had approached him naturally, with smiling face and out- 
 stretched hand, anticipating his congratulations; but I stood 
 still at once, as efficiently arrested as if he had held a drawn 
 sword at my breast. 
 
 " That is right," he said ; " come no nearer ! " Then, after 
 a pause, he added, " You have been up some time ; let us 
 have breakfast at once ; " and he opened the door of the room 
 for me to enter. I took my place, and went through the 
 accustomed forms without a word. I saw he wished me to eat 
 and drink ; and I did so, although the effort nearly choked me. 
 Indeed, I was thankful for the few minutes' respite, and was 
 striving to command my resources for the approaching con- 
 flict with all the strength of mind I possessed. I was not 
 altogether ignorant of what had come upon me : there could 
 be between us but that one point of disunion, that one cause 
 of reproach ; and surely, surely, neither God nor man could 
 condemn me as without excuse upon that score ! 
 
 While I ate, he walked deliberately up and down the room, 
 making no pretense to eat ; and, as soon as I had finislied, he 
 rang the bell to have the table cleared, and then sat down 
 before it opposite to me. " We have friends asked to dinner 
 to-day to celebrate the double anniversary of our marriage and 
 your birthday, have we not ? " he said, leaning his arms 
 heavily on the table, and gazing steadily into my face. " I 
 shall not meet them. I fear it will be impossible for me ever 
 to recognize you as my wife again ! " 
 
 I think he expected that the cruel abruptness of this an- 
 nouncement would strike me swooning, or at least convicted, 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 231 
 
 at his feet ; but it did not. My heart did for a moment seem 
 to stand still, and every drop of blood faded from my cheeks ; 
 but I did not tremble or flinch under his hard scrutiny. I was 
 even able to speak. 
 
 " Tell me at once," I said, " the meaning of this. You are 
 under some delusion. What have I done ? " 
 
 As I spoke, his face softened. I could see, in spite of the 
 iron mould of his physiognomy, the instinctive hope, the pas- 
 sionate yearning, produced by my manner. It was very eva- 
 nescent, however ; for, almost before I had gathered courage 
 from the look, it was gone, and all the hardness had returned. 
 
 " I am not the man," he said, u to bring a premature or 
 rash accusation, especially against the woman I have made 
 my wife. I accuse you of having deceived me, and here is 
 the proof." 
 
 He opened his pocket-book slowly, and took out a letter. I 
 recognized it instantly, and my heart sank. I had sufficient 
 self-command to repress the cry that rose instinctively to my 
 lips ; but no effort could keep back the burning glow which 
 dyed face and hands like conscious guilt. 
 
 My husband looked at me steadily, and his lip curled. " I 
 will read the letter," he said. 
 
 The letter began thus : " You have told me again and again 
 that you loved me : were those words a lie ? You shall not 
 make good your Moloch offering, and sacrifice religion and 
 virtue, body and soul, youth and happiness, to your insatiate 
 craving after position and wealth. This man is too good to be 
 cajoled. What if I showed him the pledges of your love ? 
 taught him the reliance .that is to be placed on your faith ? 
 Why should you reckon upon my submission to your per- 
 jury ? " 
 
 The letter ran on to great length, mingling vehement re- 
 proaches with appeals and protestations of such unbridled 
 passion, that, as my husband read them, his voice took a tone 
 of deeper scorn, and his brow a heavier contraction. 
 
 The letter was addressed to me, on the back of the same 
 sheet on which it was written. It was not dated beyond 
 " Tuesday evening ; " but the post-mark, unusually legible, 
 showed May 19, 1850, — just three days before we were mar- 
 
232 THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 ried. My husband indicated these facts with the same delib- 
 eration that had marked his conduct throughout ; and then he 
 said, " I found this letter last night in your dressing-room, 
 after you had left it. Perhaps I ought not to have read it, 
 but it would now be worse than mockery to make any 
 excuses for so doing. I have nothing more to say until I have 
 listened to your explanation. You tell me I am under a 
 delusion : it will therefore be necessary for you to prove that 
 this letter is a forgery." 
 
 He leaned back in his chair as he spoke, and passed his 
 hand over his forehead with a gesture of weariness : other- 
 wise, he had sustained his part in the scene with a cold insen- 
 sibility which seemed unnatural, and which filled me with the 
 most dreadful foreboding of failure and misery. I did not 
 misjudge him so far as to suppose for a moment that he was as 
 insensible as he appeared ; but I perceived that his tenacious 
 and inflexible nature had been cut to the quick, both in its 
 intense pride and love, and, that, though the wound bled 
 inwardly, — bled mortally perchance, — he would never utter 
 a cry, or even allow a pang. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! he would never forgive me. The concealment, 
 the deception, as he would call it, which had appeared to me 
 justifiable, would seem crime and outrage in his eyes. I low- 
 ered my head beneath his searching gaze, and remained silent. 
 
 " You have nothing to say ? " he inquired, after a vain 
 pause for me to speak. u You cannot deny that letter ? God 
 is my witness," he said, solemnly, " that I wish to be a merci- 
 ful judge. I may hold extreme views of a girl's folly, a 
 woman's weakness : you would only be vain and faithless, like 
 your sex, if you had played with this young man's feelings 
 and deceived his hopes. Is this your explanation ? " 
 
 It was a very snare of Satan offered for my fall, — one easy 
 lie. " I deceived him, but never you." And the way of for- 
 giveness was open. I saw he was clinging to the hope with a 
 concentrated eagerness it was impossible for him entirely to 
 disguise. Oh ! was it necessary for my punishment that the 
 hard task should be made harder by that relenting glance ? 
 
 I only hesitated for a moment : the discipline of the last 
 five years had not left me so blind and weak as, even in this 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 233 
 
 supreme emergency, to reject truth for expediency. How- 
 ever he might judge me, I must stand clear before God and 
 my conscience. 
 
 " No, Malcolm," I said, desperately ; " the truth is rather 
 as it first appeared to you. I have been guilty in this matter : 
 but my fault is surely one that you will consent to pardon ; 
 for, even were it greater, I think our five years of happy 
 union might turn the scale in my favor." 
 
 " Yes," he said ; " you have borne with the difficulties of 
 my temper with angelic patience, until the passion which in- 
 duced me to marry you, despite of many obstacles, was weak- 
 ness in comparison with the love I had for you — yesterday. 
 Only tell me I have not been your dupe throughout ; only " 
 — He broke off abruptly. " I can bear no more fencing 
 round the point," he said, harshly ; one word is enough : did 
 you love this youth ? " 
 
 " I did, from childhood, with all my heart and soul." 
 
 " Up to the date of that letter ? " he asked quietly ; but the 
 muscles worked round the clenched lips. 
 
 " Yes, and beyond it," I found courage to say ; but hardly 
 had the words been spoken when I felt I had exceeded the 
 limit of his endurance. An involuntary oath escaped his 
 lips. 
 
 I saw there was no hope for me in deprecation and irresolu- 
 tion. I must speak to the point, and decisively. " I have a 
 right to be heard before I am condemned," I said ; " and I 
 claim my right. I confess I loved the youth who wrote that 
 letter, but it would have been a miracle had it been other- 
 wise. You know from what a life you rescued me, — a prisoner 
 in the dull rooms above my father's book-store, without a 
 pleasure, a friend, a hope in life. You were astonished at my 
 proficiency in unusual studies : if, at that time, an active brain 
 had not driven me to intellectual Jabor, I should have gone 
 mad in the midst of my austere and desperate loneliness.- I 
 was scarcely fifteen when Duncan Forsyth, a kinsman of my 
 father's, came to study medicine in our city university, and to 
 live as boarder in our house. I say it was inevitable that 
 such*a connection should, in due course, ripen into love. He 
 was young, gifted, and attractive ; but it would have needed 
 
284 THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 but half bis endowments to win my heart then. T was noth- 
 ing but a blind, passionate child, neglected utterly till he flat- 
 tered, caressed, and wooed me. I think he loved me with 
 all the faculty of love he had, and for a time we were very 
 happy. To me, it was a delicious dream. Have patience 
 with me, Malcolm : I must tell all . the truth. My dream, at 
 least, was brief enough : I soon awoke to discover, it little 
 matters how, that the lover I was canonizing in my imagina- 
 tion as the type of heroic virtue was unworthy. For a 
 while, I would not believe. When conviction became inevit- 
 able, I clung desperately to the forlorn hope of reform. It 
 was in vain. His vices were too confirmed and tyrannous for 
 even my influence — and it was great — to overcome. Then 
 I gave him up. I thought the struggle would kill me, 'for my 
 foolish soul clung to him desperately ; but I could not mate 
 with drunkenness and dishonor. My father, who had approved 
 of our engagement, and who did not know or believe the 
 facts concerning him, upbraided and coerced me. Duncan 
 himself, relying on my weakness, tried all the skill he had to 
 move me, till I was nearly frantic in my misery. 
 
 " It was just at this crisis that you first saw me, visited my 
 father's book-store, and desired to be made known to me. 
 AVhat followed, I need not tell. You told me you loved me 
 well enough to marry me, despite of social inferiority, if 1 
 thought I could love you in return, if I had a young girl's 
 free heart to give you. You insisted upon this, Malcolm, — I 
 dare not deny it, — and I came to you with a lie in my right 
 hand ! Here lies my offence, and God knows I do not wish 
 to palliate it ; but, before you utterly condemn me, consider 
 the temptation. My father forbade Duncan the house, and 
 threatened me if I dared to tell you the truth concerning 
 him; but I hardly think that would have moved me, had I 
 not persuaded myself also that I was justified in deceiving 
 you. Had I told you I loved Duncan Forsyth, you wMild 
 have given me up, and shut against me all the vague but glo- 
 rious hopes such an alliance offered. But, more than all, I 
 knew this unworthy love must soon die out, and that my deep 
 recognition and reverence for your goodness and excellence 
 would end in an affection stronger and deeper than the weak 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 235 
 
 passion of a girl. Before God, I vowed to do my duty. From 
 that hour, I have striven, with his help, to keep my vow ; and, 
 save in that preliminary falsehood, Malcolm, I have never 
 wronged you." 
 
 My husband had recovered his self-command while I was 
 speaking, but the last phrase seemed to overthrow it again. 
 " Wronged me ! " he repeated ; and the intonation, quiet as it 
 was, thrilled me like physical pain, it was so hard and unre- 
 lenting. " I wish to be calm, Ellinor," he continued, " and 
 therefore I will speak briefly. You seem to think you have 
 extenuated yourself by your confession. To my heart and 
 mind you are condemned past forgiveness. Nay, do not plead 
 or protest," he said, with a haughty movement of restraint, as 
 I was about to approach him : u it is a point for feeling, not 
 casuistry, to decide. You understand fully the delusion under 
 which I married you. I imagined I took to my arms a pure- 
 hearted girl, fresh and innocent as her seclusion warranted 
 me to believe her ; instead of that, I find myself to have been 
 cajoled by a disappointed woman, with a heart exhausted by 
 precocious passion. You think it excuse sufficient that it was 
 your interest to deceive me ; to my mind, the fact adds only 
 insult to the injury. Ellinor, you have ruined the happiness 
 of my life. While I have been resting on the solace of your 
 love, worshipping you for your sweet patience with a temper 
 roughened by many causes unknown to your inexperience, it 
 has all been the insensibility of pre-occupation, or at best a 
 miserable calculation of duty. So gross is your sense of con- 
 jugal faith, that, because your treachery has been only of the 
 heart, you dare to say you have never wronged me, and to 
 call upon God to approve your virtue because the lapse of time 
 and better influences, I trust, have enabled you to school a 
 disgraceful passion, and offer a measure of regard for the im- 
 measurable devotion I have felt for you." 
 
 He paused in spite of himself, unable to proceed ; and, be- 
 fore he could prevent me, I had thrown myself at his feet. 
 It was in vain to argue, to fight against his hard words ; I 
 could only implore. 
 
 " Malcolm," I cried, " you cannot believe what you say. 
 Your affection has been the chief happiness of my happy life : 
 
236 THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 you could not desire, you could not exact, from a wife a deep- 
 er love, more entire and minute, than I feel for you. Forgive 
 this one deception, Malcolm; believe me now." 
 
 I would fain have been eloquent ; but sobs choked my voice. 
 I was completely overcome ; and, when he forcibly extricated 
 himself from my hold, I fell almost prostrate at his feet. He 
 lifted me up coldly but courteously, and placed me on the 
 sofa. 
 
 " Pardon me," he said ; " this excitement is too much for 
 you, and can do no good. When you are calmer, we will con- 
 clude this matter." 
 
 There was the same cruel decision of tone and aspect in his 
 manner which had marked it throughout the interview, and 
 which convinced me he still adhered to his original purpose. 
 I felt my situation was desperate, and that the time for pray- 
 ers and tears was over. Were all my hopes of the future — 
 his happiness, too, in which was involved my own — to be 
 dashed to pieces against the rock of his unjust severity ? 
 Was it required of me to submit passively to disgrace and 
 misery ? In a moment, I, too, had taken my resolve, and con- 
 quered my agitation : I rose up nerved and calm, and spoke 
 accordingly. 
 
 " One word before you leave me," I said. u However this 
 ends between us, you do not, I suppose, desire to inflict upon 
 me unnecessary shame and exposure. I request you, as a 
 personal favor, — it may be the last I shall ever ask, — to post- 
 pone your decision till to-morrow, and help me to-day to en- 
 tertain our friends as much as possible in the accustomed man- 
 ner. Do you hesitate, Malcolm ? " 
 
 His face flushed: some impulse seemed to incline him to 
 refuse, but he checked it. " It shall be as you desire," he said 
 coldly ; and left me alone — alone, with the conviction of a 
 blasted life ! 
 
 For a few moments, with my hands clasped over my eyes 
 to shut out the redundant sunshine, I sat trying to realize my 
 position. Granting that the threatened separation was effect- 
 ed with a so-called due regard to my honor and future 
 relations with society, all that I valued and cared for in life 
 would be irremediably destroyed. What honor remains to the 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 237 
 
 wife repudiated by an honorable husband ? What chance of 
 happiness for her when at the same time he is the centre of 
 her affection, of all her worldly ambition and hope ? Doubt- 
 less, I was tolerant to my own transgression ; but I alone knew 
 the force of the temptation. I alone knew — what, alas ! I 
 felt my husband would never believe — how near extinction 
 was the old love smouldering beneath its own contempt, and 
 how strong was the gratitude and esteem he had already ex- 
 cited. Oh, could I but convince him of my love for him ! I 
 rose up and paced the room. I felt he judged me harshly, 
 was severe even to cruelty ; but then I knew the innate in- 
 flexibility of his temper, and his rigorous sense of truth and 
 duty. I knew how love, pride, and self-esteem had been all 
 alike wounded, and I pitied him even in the extremity of my 
 misery almost more than I pitied myself. Still, I would not 
 accept my ruin at his relentless hands : I was a true wife, and 
 would not submit to the position of a false one. I had vowed 
 to love and honor him till death parted us, and nothing but 
 compulsion should make me abandon my post. 
 
 I scarcely know how I got through that day ; but the neces- 
 sity for self-command was so stringent that I could not but 
 meet it. Fortunately, our guests were only a few country 
 neighbors ; for it was in the height of the London season, and 
 I in some measure supported myself by the belief that their 
 unsuspicious cordiality was not likely to make any discoveries. 
 Mr. Anstruther's hospitality was always splendid, and his 
 deportment as host peculiarly gracious and inviting ; and, if 
 there was any difference on this occasion, it would be impalpa- 
 ble to all but a very keen observer. I perceived, indeed, a 
 change in the aspect of the countenance I had long studied so 
 closely, and, beyond that, the intonation of his voice when ad- 
 dressing me fell hard and constrained upon my shrinking ear. 
 It was over at last ;. and I saw our last guest depart smiling 
 and congratulatory, with the consolation at least left me that 
 I had acted my part successfully. 
 
 The next day, the trial was renewed. Mr. Anstruther 
 wrote me a few words, saying it was his intention to return to 
 his parliamentary duties that day, and that he deemed it ad- 
 visable I should remain in the country. His final detcrmina- 
 
238 THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 tion and all accessory arrangements should be made known to 
 me through the family lawyer, which would spare the pain of 
 a second interview. " Cruel ! " I said to myself, crushing the 
 letter in my nervous hand, and for a moment a passionate 
 feeling rose in my heart that I would suffer things to take 
 their hard course, and leave duty and effort unattempted. It 
 was but a brief paroxysm ; for, at the same instant, I saw a tiny, 
 white-robed figure flitting across the lawn toward my open 
 window, and the sweet shrill voice of our little daughter cry- 
 ing aloud, " Mamma, mamma, may I come in ? " I stepped 
 out and met her ; stooped down, and kissed the eager, up- 
 turned face ; and with that quiet kiss I renewed my vow, and 
 strengthened it with a prayer. 
 
 " My darling," I said, " go into papa's study, and tell him 
 mamma is coming to speak to him, if he is not busy." She 
 ran away on her errand, and I followed at once : I did not 
 mean to be refused. It was well I did so ; for he had already 
 risen, as if to leave the room, and had taken the child in his 
 arms, to carry her away with him. As I entered, his face 
 flushed with a mixed expression of anger and pain ; but he 
 was soon calm again, sent away our little girl, and then placed 
 me a chair. " There is no occasion for me to sit." I said, with 
 a voice as steady as concentrated resolution could make it : 
 " I shall not need to detain you long. I come to say, Mal- 
 colm, that I am quite willing to obey you so far as to remain 
 here while you return to London, but that I must positively 
 refuse to have any interview with your lawyer." 
 
 " You refuse ! " 
 
 "I do refuse, and that finally," I pursued ; " for it would 
 answer no end. I could only tell him what I come now to 
 tell you, that no power save physical coercion shall separate 
 me from you. I know it is in vain to extenuate my fault in 
 your eyes, but it is at least one on which no legal proceedings 
 can be raised ; you cannot divorce your wife because she told 
 you an ante-nuptial lie. It remains to you to abandon or 
 malign her ; but I will be accessory to no mutual arrangement. 
 My duty is by your side while life lasts, whether in weal or 
 woe ; and I will hold my post. That is, henceforth I will con- 
 sider this our home, and will remain here, unless driven from 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 239 
 
 it. I am now, as before, your true wife in heart and soul, as 
 in word and deed ; as anxious to fulfil my sweet duty to you, 
 with no hope in life so strong as your forgiveness." 
 
 I had said my say, and was going, for I dared not trust my- 
 self longer, dared not even look into my husband's face to 
 read the effect of my words ; but he arrested me with a pe- 
 remptory motion. 
 
 " I am to understand, Ellinor, that you mean to defy my 
 determined purpose, and, in spite of alienation and contempt, 
 to insist upon the shelter of my roof, or rather to exile me 
 from a place which would be intolerable under such circum- 
 stances ? Do not be afraid, if you will consent to a formal 
 separation, that the terms of it shall fail in all possible delicacy 
 and liberality ; but I cannot live with the wife who has cheat- 
 ed me of her first kiss." 
 
 " I am resolved," I answered. " I am able to say no more, 
 I think I see my duty plain, and I mean to strive to do it. 
 You must follow your own will ; it will be for me to endure." 
 
 He paced the room in strong excitement. 
 
 " I cannot bear it," he said ; " it would eat my life out ! 
 You shall have our child, Ellinor, if she is the motive of this 
 strange unwomanly resolution : far be it from me to torture 
 the heart of the mother ! She shall be yours unreservedly, 
 and her interests shall never suffer one whit. You know how 
 I love that little creature ; there was but one thing dearer : 
 judge then, by this, of my intense desire to sever the connec- 
 tion between us." 
 
 " Cruel ! unmerciful ! " I exclaimed, with an impulse of bit- 
 terness I could not resist ; but I stopped as soon as the words 
 had escaped me : to upbraid was no part of my purpose. 
 
 " It is in vain," I said, " to think to move me by any words, 
 however hard. I have nothing more to say. Let me gg>, 
 Malcolm ; " and I turned and fled from the room. 
 
 PAET SECOND. 
 
 Then" began as hard a struggle as any woman could have 
 been called upon to endure. My husband went up to town 
 
240 THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 that same day, and Parliament sat late that year. During all 
 that time he never wrote to me, nor, save from a casual notice 
 of him in the papers, did I know any thing of his movements. 
 The intolerable suspense and misery of such a separation may 
 be conceived. My love for him, indeed, was no mere dutiful 
 regard, but of that profound yet passionate nature which men 
 of his stern and reticent character seem calculated, by a 
 strange contrariety, to excite. Add to this, that I knew my- 
 self to be exposed to the pitying wonder and suspicion of the 
 world at large. 
 
 Mr. Anstruther's character stood above imputation ; but I, at 
 the best, was but a successful parvenue, and had at length no 
 doubt stumbled into some atrocious fault, beyond even his in- 
 fatuation to overlook. The very servants of the household 
 whispered and marvelled about me. It was inevitable that they 
 should do so, but all this added bitterness to anguish. 
 
 Worst of all there was a wistful look in Florry's childish 
 eyes, and a pathos in her voice, as she pressed against my side 
 to stroke my cheek, and say, " Poor mamma ! " which almost 
 broke my heart with mingled grief and shame. She, too, had 
 learned in her nursery that her mother had become an object 
 of compassion. 
 
 It was the deep sense of pain and humiliation which my 
 child's pity excited which aroused me to make some attempt 
 to relieve my position. I sat down, and wrote to my husband. 
 I wrote quietly and temperately, though there was almost the 
 delirium of despair in my heart. I had proved that an appeal 
 to his feelings would be in vain, and I therefore directed my 
 arguments to his justice. 
 
 I represented to him briefly that his prolonged neglect and 
 desertion would soon irretrievably place me in the eyes of the 
 world in the position of a guilty wife ; and that for my own 
 sake, but still more for the sake of our daughter, I protested 
 against such injustice. I told him he was blighting two lives, 
 and entreated him, if forgiveness was still impossible, at least 
 to keep up the semblance of respect. I proposed to join him 
 in London immediately, or to remain where I was, on condi- 
 tion of his returning home as soon as Parliament was pro- 
 rogued. 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE, 241 
 
 I waited with unspeakable patience for a reply to this letter, 
 and the next post brought it. How I blessed my husband's 
 clemency for this relief! My trembling hands could scarcely 
 break the seal ; the consideration of the sad difference between 
 the past and present seemed to overwhelm me : it was not 
 thus I had been accustomed to open my husband's letters, 
 feeling like a criminal condemned to read his own warrant of 
 condemnation. 
 
 The letter was brief, and ran thus : — 
 
 u As the late events between us have been the subject of 
 my intense and incessant deliberation since we parted, I am 
 able, Ellinor, to reply to your letter at once. I consent to 
 return, and attempt the life of hollow deception you demand, 
 under the expectation that you will soon become convinced of 
 its impracticability, and will then, I conclude, be willing to con- 
 sent to the formal separation which it is still my wish and 
 purpose to effect." 
 
 " Never ! " I said, crushing the hard letter between my 
 hands ; and then my passion, long suppressed, burst forth, and, 
 throwing myself on my knees by my bedside, I wept and 
 groaned in agony of soul. Oh ! I had hoped till then, — hoped 
 that time might have softened him, that the past might have 
 pleaded with him for the absolution of that one transgression. 
 Had my sin been indeed so great, that the punishment was so 
 intolerable ? And then I thought it all over again, as I had 
 done a thousand times before in that dreary interval, weigh- 
 ing my temptations against my offence, and trying to place 
 myself in my husband's position. I did not wish to justify it : 
 it was a gross deception, a deliberate falseness ; but then I 
 was willing to prostrate myself in the dust, both before God 
 and my husband, and to beg forgiveness in the lowest terms 
 of humiliation and penitence. But the pardon granted me 
 by the divine was steadily refused by the human judge : 
 against his hard impenetrability I might dash my bleeding 
 heart in vain. What should I do ? What should I do? 
 Which was the path of duty ? And, frail and passionate as I 
 was, how could I hold on in such a rugged way ? Had I not 
 better succumb ? — suffer myself to be put away, as he de- 
 sired, and close the door of hope on what was left of life ? 
 16 
 
242 THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 My child, — he said he would give me up my child. Then 
 resolution arose renewed. For that child's sake I would not 
 yield. I could not endure the thought of separating her from 
 such a father's love, care, and protection, and of chastening 
 with sorrow and humiliation her opening girlhood. No, with 
 God's help, she should yet honor and revere her mother. 
 However my husband judged me, that one fault had not cut^ 
 me off from all moral effort hereafter. I would not be van- 
 quished by it. I would, as I had said, keep my post as wife, 
 insist, if need be, on external forms, and leave no means un- 
 tried of patiencej meekness, and womanly art, to melt down 
 the iron barrier between us. 
 
 I should weary the reader if I detailed all the minute plans 
 I formed ; but at last I rose up from the prayers by which I 
 strove to strengthen and sanctify my purpose with a firm heart 
 and a new-born hope of success. That evening, I sent for 
 Florry to keep me company in the drawing-room. I told her 
 her favorite stories, played her her favorite tunes, and joined 
 with her in singing a simple evening-hymn, which was her 
 supreme delight. Then \ took her up to the nursery myself, 
 and bade her good-night with as much of the serene feeling of 
 old as perhaps I could ever hope to know again. I also, hold- 
 ing my husband's letter in my hand told the assembled servants 
 I expected their master home to-morrow, and gave the neces- 
 sary orders in such a natural and collected manner as must 
 have gone far to disarm their suspicions. Then the long night ; 
 then the expected day. I knew the hour when he must 
 necessarily arrive ; and, taking Florry with me, I went to a 
 certain part of the grounds which commanded a view of the 
 public road. I was externally calm — the morning's discipline 
 had made me that ; but the subdued excitement was intense. 
 Florry ran and chattered by my side as children do, little 
 guessing, poor innocents ! the cruel strain they often make on 
 their mother's patience. It chanced, as sometimes happens, 
 that the very intensity of our anxiety caused us to miss our 
 object ; the train was evidently behind time, and our attention, 
 so long kept at full stretch, began to slacken ; so that when 
 Florry, who had wandered to some little distance from me, 
 espied the carriage, it was so near the park-gate, that there 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE, 243 
 
 was no chance of our reaching the house before it. I was 
 vexed at my purpose being thus partially defeated, and, tak- 
 ing the child's hand, hurried back by the shortest route. 
 
 Mr. Anstruther was waiting us in the accustomed room. 
 Still holding Florry's hand, I went in to face the dreaded 
 meeting. The first glance at his face nearly overcame me, 
 he looked so worn and harassed. True, that might have been 
 from parliamentary hours and hard committee work, but it is 
 a plea a woman's heart can rarely withstand. Florry ran into 
 his arms, talking eagerly of how glad we were to see him, and 
 how dull poor mamma had been without him, and the momen- 
 tary diversion gave me time to rally my failing calmness. 
 " We are very glad you are come home, Malcolm," I said at 
 last, approaching him, and laying my hand on his. " Are you 
 very tired ? Do not trouble to dress before dinner to-day." 
 
 Perhaps my self-possession was overdone, so difficult is it in 
 such cases to keep the golden mean ; for I saw the unusual 
 color mount even to his forehead : and he replied in a hurried 
 voice, as he slightly returned the pressure of my hand, "I 
 could scarcely sit down to table in this state ; I shall not 
 keep you waiting long. And with Florry in his arms, — I 
 could see how he tightened his embrace of the child, — he left 
 the room. 
 
 I did not sit down and weep, although I was sick at heart. 
 I had imagined it would be something like this, and had for- 
 tified myself to endure it. I sat there thinking, till I heard 
 him come down stairs ; and then I went into the drawing- 
 room. Immediately on my entrance, dinner was announced ; 
 and he offered his arm to lead me to the room, just as he 
 had always been accustomed to do when we were alone. 
 There was no hesitation, no perceptible difference, in his 
 manner : I saw he had made up his mind to do it. During 
 dinner, we talked but little ; but, even in days of old, he had 
 been wont to be absent and taciturn. Florry came in with 
 the dessert, and her sweet prattle was felt to be a gracious 
 relief by both. I soon rose, and took her away with me ; 
 keeping her with me, and amusing her with talk and music, 
 until her bedtime. My husband joined me at the usual time, 
 and, though he did not voluntarily converse, he replied to 
 
244 THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 any thing I said without apparent constraint. Before the 
 servants, his manners were scrupulously as of old : in- 
 deed, so undemonstrative was his natural character, that it 
 required no very great effort for him to appear the same. I, 
 indeed, felt a radical difference, which cut me to the heart. 
 The hard tone, the averted or chilly glance, convinced me of 
 the reality of our altered relations. Could I live such a life 
 as this ? — so near, yet so far off. I had a vague perception 
 that every day we spent like this would make the separation 
 more complete and fatal. Had I not better make one last 
 attempt, before I was chilled into silence, and fear of him ? 
 Perhaps he resented the dignified, and all but peremptory, 
 tone I had assumed in my letter, and was still to be moved, 
 by entreaty and penitence. Acting on the *vague hope, I 
 put down the work on which I had tried to engage myself, 
 and went up to the sofa on which he was lying. 
 
 " Malcolm," I said, leaning over the head of it, partly to 
 sustain my trembling limbs, partly to secure a position of ad- 
 vantage, " is this the way we are to live together ? I cannot 
 resign myself to it without a word, without knowing better 
 what are your feelings toward me* Am I to believe you will 
 never forgive me ? Do you hate me V " 
 
 He rose impatiently from his recumbent attitude, so as to 
 be able to look into my face. " What do you mean by for- 
 giveness, Ellinor ? " was his answer, — " the old love and esteem 
 restored ? Your own sense must convince you you ask an 
 impossibility : a broken mirror can't be pieced again. Don't 
 let us rake up the miserable ashes of our feud. I am here 
 at your desire, willing to maintain your credit in the eyes of 
 society. I have yielded so far out of regard for our little 
 girl, of a solemn consideration of my own marriage- vows, 
 and your exemplary performance of a wife's external duty. 
 Do your duty, now, Ellinor, and obey me, when I charge 
 you not to urge on me this topic again : it is unwise." 
 
 " This night shall be the last time," I said ; " so suffer me 
 to ask you one more question. Do you doubt my assurances 
 of affection for youself ? Can you believe, in the face of the 
 evidence of all our married life, that, however I deceived you 
 in the beginning, I did not soon bring to a wife's duty a wife's 
 entire and passionate devotion ? " 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 245 
 
 " Ellinor," he exclaimed with sudden excitement, " you 
 are mad to torment me thus ! You compel me to say what 
 had better remain unsaid. I repudiate your boasted love, 
 which you parade as if it were the triumph of virtue. Had 
 it been mine, as I believed, and you swore it was before God, 
 it should have been the crown and glory of my life : as it is, 
 I care nothing for a sentiment provoked by habit, and cher- 
 ished as a point of calculated duty. One word more : you 
 think me cruelly intolerant ; but I must follow the bent of my 
 nature. Some lies I could forgive, — or even, perhaps, some 
 grosser sins ; but yours cheated me into an irrevocable act, 
 and defrauded me of the best and strongest feelings of my 
 nature. Do I hate you ? No : I cannot hate Florry's 
 mother, and my own intimate and cherished companion ; but 
 I hate myself for having been befooled so grossly, and almost 
 loathe the wealth and its accessories for which you perjured 
 your soul." 
 
 I was silent; but it was by a powerful effort. I could 
 scarcely restrain myself, with all my power of self-control, 
 from saying, " Now that I understand you fuMy, let us part ; I 
 could not brook the mockery of intercourse." But the thought 
 of Florry closed my struggling lips. " For her sake, for her 
 sake," I repeated to myself. u The last hope, the last, the 
 last chance of happiness, is gone ; but duty remains." I looked 
 up at my husband, deadly pale, I knew, but calm. " Are 
 you resolved," I asked, a to separate from me eventually ? I 
 claim it from your honor to answer me that question now." 
 
 " I care little," he said bitterly. " The sharpness of the 
 sting must abate some day, and we shall become indifferent, 
 like our neighbors ; meanwhile, the effort may be salutary. 
 No," he added haughtily, as he perceived I was not satisfied 
 with the reply : " I am willing to pledge my word that I will 
 never force you into a separation on this account. So long 
 as you think proper to claim my protection, it is yours, only 
 we must avoid suclf scenes as these." And so the case stood 
 between us. 
 
 From that time, my life became a hard monotony. To all 
 appearance, there was no change in our relations. We went 
 
246 THE ANTENUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 the same round in social life as of old ; and, as I have said 
 before, my husband's natural character gave little scope for 
 self-betrayal. Occasionally, some outside comments reached 
 us ; but they were generally expressive of the belief that Mr. 
 Anstruther's temper was becoming more morose than ever, 
 and of pity for the poor wife who was allied to it. He cer- 
 tainly did become more irritable and exacting. I could see 
 daily the bitter effects that his disappointment in my sincerity 
 produced, how his fine nature was growing warped and 
 soured. It was not so much toward myself that these effects 
 were manifested (he kept too rigid a control over our rela- 
 tions) ; but it grieved me to notice it in his impatience with 
 his inferiors, and even with our little tender F lorry, and in 
 his cynical and cruel judgment of the world at large. He 
 had always been very much absorbed in political affairs, and 
 ambitious for distinction ; but now he seemed to throw heart 
 and soul, without reserve, into the arena, and to struggle for 
 the stakes with the eagerness of a gambler. There had 
 ceased to be any communion between us. In past days, 
 hopes and schemes had been discussed with me ; and I was 
 proud to believe my influence had often availed with him for 
 good. I cannot describe the intensity of my misery at this 
 time. Not to speak of alienation and mistrust in the midst 
 of daily intercourse, which, alone, contains almost the bitter- 
 ness of death, I saw myself the cause of deterioration in one 
 dearer to me than life ; and He who meted my punishment to 
 my offence knows that no heavier cross could have been 
 laid upon me. Once or twice I again attempted expostula- 
 tion ; but I soon learned to desist : it was of no avail, but 
 to provoke some hard reply, which would otherwise have 
 remained unspoken. Then I turned to my daughter. It was 
 for her sake I endured this life, this daily martyrdom ; and I 
 would not miss my reward. I devoted myself to her educa- 
 tion, so far as my numerous avocations allowed ; for I was 
 scrupulous in the performance of all the duties of my station, 
 and in any which my husband would suffer me still to 
 perform for him. I strove with intense anxiety to make her 
 attractive to her father, and to cultivate her affection and 
 esteem for him. That he loved her passionately, I knew ; 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 247 
 
 but, as was his wont, he manifested the feeling but little ; 
 perhaps in this case he was checked by her inevitable prefer- 
 ence for her mother, or by the difficulty of ever having her 
 to himself. To me, she was the one solace and spur of exist- 
 ence ; and life began to brighten when, resigned to suffer 
 myself, I dreamed and planned her future. 
 
 Thus, more than a year passed on monotonously, fruitlessly, 
 so far as I could see ; for my husband was as far off from me 
 as ever. Sometimes, indeed, I hoped I had extorted some 
 portion of respect from him by the sustained performance of 
 my routine of duty ; but his heart seemed turned to stone. 
 
 At last the gloomy depth was stirred. God ! I had 
 prayed for the movement of the healing angel's wing, not for 
 a stroke of judgment. 
 
 One evening during the session, I was sitting up awaiting 
 his return from the House. I was not accustomed to do so : 
 but, on this occasion, I was deeply interested in the result of 
 the night's debate ; and, added to that, I was uneasy about 
 Florry, who had been slightly ailing all day, and seemed 
 increasingly restless as the evening advanced. When he 
 came in, he looked surprised to see me up ; for it was already 
 nearly three o'clock in the morning, and I could see that he 
 seemed wearied and annoyed. 
 
 " You are anxious, I suppose," he said, " for the news I 
 bring ? Well, the ministers are thrown out." 
 
 I knew he, and, indeed, the country in general, had been 
 quite unprepared for such a result, and that, personally, it 
 was a severe mortification to him. As I involuntarily looked 
 at him with an expression of earnest concern I hardly ven- 
 tured to express, I saw his face soften. Perhaps, in that mo- 
 ment of vexation, he yearned for the sympathy of old. 
 Should I dare to risk another appeal ? 
 
 " Malcolm," I said ; but, at the now unfamiliar name, his 
 brow clouded again, and I finished my speech with some 
 measured expressions of regret. I knew I should damage my 
 cause if I were to attempt to press into my service a momen- 
 tary weakness he was ashamed to feel. I could not, however, 
 command my feelings sufficiently to speak of Florry : and, 
 after leaving him, I flew up stairs to my child's room, and, 
 
248 THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 
 
 after putting down ray candle, sunk on my knees by her 
 bedside. Oh, how my heart ached ! I felt this life was 
 killing me, and that one of my moments of abandonment was 
 come. Before, however, I gave full vent to my tears, I 
 paused, midway, as it were, to look at Florry ; and that look 
 dried them up. I felt my cheek blanch, my eyes start ; I 
 felt — who has not felt it ? — a premonitory horror chill my 
 blood. I had left her pale and restless an hour before ; now 
 her face was tinged with a crimson heat, her lips dry and 
 parted, and she was moaning heavily. I touched her burning 
 hand, her burning brow ; and the shadow of that awful calam- 
 ity seemed to fall upon me. I did not moan ; I did not even 
 appeal ; despair straitened my heart. 
 
 Mr. Anstruther I knew was still up. I went down stairs 
 with a strange quietness, and re-entered the room. 
 
 " I do not wish to alarm you," I said, and my own voice 
 had a strange sound to me, " but Florry is not well. She 
 has been ailing all day, but her appearance now frightens me. 
 Will you send some one for a physician at once ? " 
 
 I waited for no reply, but went back to the room. The 
 fire in the grate was laid, but not lighted : I kindled it. I 
 changed my evening-dress for a morning-gown, doing all me- 
 chanically, as if under a spell I could not resist. Then I sat 
 down by the bed-side to watch my child, and await the doctor. 
 I seemed to hold all my faculties in suspense : no tear must 
 blind my eye, no tremor unnerve my hand, until this agony 
 had reached its crisis ; then let life and hope go out together. 
 
 My husband and the doctor came in after what seemed to 
 me an intolerable interval, but at first I only saw but one. 
 Who knows not, in such cases, how the very soul seems hang- 
 ing on the physician's first glance, drinking life or death from 
 it. I drank death. The steady professional gaze did not de- 
 ceive me; but the stroke was beyond my taxed endurance, 
 and I fell senseless on the floor. 
 
 Thank God ! it was but a brief weakness. For the few 
 days that that sweet life was left to me, I held my post, un- 
 conscious of fatigue, enabled to comfort and sustain, and 
 even smile upon, my darling through her brief struggle with 
 death. God bowed my stubborn heart, and strengthened me 
 
THE ANTE-NUPTIAL LIE. 249 
 
 with the might of submission. I seemed, in the strong light 
 of this fiery trial, to see the past more clearly ; to acknowledge 
 that I had not humbled myself sufficiently under the chas- 
 tisement of my own sin. 
 
 It was midnight when she died. I was holding her in my 
 arms, hushed and grief-stricken, when I saw that unspeakable 
 change pass over the sweet face which tells the sinking heart 
 the awful hour is come. Her laboring breath fluttered on my 
 cheek, the look of love that still lingered in the glazing eyes 
 fixed upon my face died out, and I was childless. 
 
 My husband was standing at the foot of the bed, watching 
 the scene, with an agony all the keener that he suffered no 
 expression of it to escape ; but as the last faint struggle 
 ceased, and the baby-head fell prone upon my breast, I saw 
 the strong frame quiver, and drops of perspiration start upon 
 his forehead. 
 
 " God forgive me," he said in a stifled whisper, " for every 
 harsh word spoken to that angel child ! " Then, as his eyes 
 fell, as if involuntarily, upon me, the expression of stern 
 anguish softened for a moment to one of pitying tenderness. 
 " Poor Ellinor ! — poor mother ! " he added, " you think me 
 a hard man ; but God is my witness, I would have saved you 
 that little life at the cost of my own." 
 
 " It would have been but a cruel compromise," I answered ; 
 " and yet — my darling ! how I have loved you ! " 
 
 My husband had turned away a moment, as if to pace the 
 room ; but at the sound of my cry of irrepressible anguish, he 
 came back hastily to the bedside, and, bending over me, tried 
 to separate me gently from the dead child in my arms. 
 
 As I felt the touch of his hand, his breath upon my cheek, 
 caressing, warm as of old, it recalled, even in that moment 
 of supreme bereavement, the passionate yearning of my 
 heart. '; and, yielding to the uncontrollable impulse, I threw my 
 arms round his neck. 
 
 " Only give me back what is in your power," I cried, — 
 " give me back your love and trust, our old happiness, 
 Malcolm, and even the death of our child will not seem too 
 hard a sacrifice ! " 
 
 There was a moment's breathless pause ; then he raised me 
 
250 DORIS. 
 
 in his arms, and strained me to his heart in a close, vehement 
 embrace. 
 
 " God forgive me," he said, " for what I have made you 
 suffer ! If your love has survived my long intolerance, I 
 may well trust you, Ellinor. If I have the power left to 
 comfort you, be to me again all, and more than all that I 
 remember in the sweet past. A hundred times during the 
 last few melancholy days have I been on the point of con- 
 fessing my injustice, and entreating your forgiveness ; only it 
 seemed to me a mean thing to take advantage of the softness 
 of sorrow. Life is not bearable without you, Ellinor ; only 
 satisfy me once more that I have not worn out your heart, — 
 that it is not magnanimity, but love/' 
 
 I did satisfy him. We began henceforth a new life, chas- 
 tened, indeed, by the shadow of a little grave, but a life, I 
 trust, humbler and more blessed than the old past had been. 
 
 DORIS. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 BY ARTHUR MUNBY.* 
 
 I sat with Doris, the shepherd-maiden ; 
 
 Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers : 
 I sat and wooed her, through sunlight wheeling 
 
 And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 
 
 And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 
 
 Wild summer-roses of faint perfume, 
 The while I sued her, kept hushed, and hearkened, 
 
 Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 
 
 She touched my shoulder with fearful finger : 
 She said, " We linger, we must not stay ; 
 
 My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander ; 
 Behold them yonder, how far they stray ! " 
 
 * A contributor to Macmillan's, Fraser's, and other English Maga- 
 zines; also author of a volume entitled " Verses New and Old," 
 published, London, 1865. 
 
DORIS. 251 
 
 I answered bolder, " Nay, let me hear you, 
 
 And still be near you, and still adore ! 
 No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling, 
 
 Ah ! stay, my dear ling, a moment more." 
 
 She whispered, sighing, " There will be sorrow 
 
 Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day; 
 My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 
 
 I shall be scolded and sent away." 
 
 Said I, denying, " If they do miss you, 
 
 They ought to kiss you when you get home ; 
 
 And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
 Should be the labor from which you come." 
 
 " They might remember," she answered meekly, 
 " That lambs are weakly, and sheep are wild ; 
 
 But, if they love me, it's none so fervent : 
 I am a servant, and not a child." 
 
 Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, 
 
 And love did win me to swift reply : 
 " Ah ! do but prove me ; and none shall bind you, 
 
 Nor fray nor find you, until I die ! " 
 
 She blushed and started : I stood awaiting, 
 
 As if debating in dreams divine ; 
 But I did brave them ; I told her plainly 
 
 She doubted vainly, — she must be mine. 
 
 So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 
 Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes ; 
 
 And homeward drave them, we two together, 
 Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 
 
 That simple duty fresh grace did lend her, 
 
 My Doris tender, my Doris true ; 
 That I, her warder, did always bless her, 
 
 And often press her to take her due. 
 
252 TO * * * 
 
 And now in beauty she fills my dwelling 
 With love excelling, and undefiled ; 
 
 And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 
 No more a servant, nor yet a child. 
 
 TO * * * 
 by w. H. B. 
 
 When the sweet syllables that form thy name 
 Are on my lips, ere yet the conscious air 
 Receives their music, in my heart a prayer 
 
 (The offspring of a reverent love) doth claim 
 
 Of Heaven a boon for thee. Thou canst not guess 
 
 Its nature : 'tis not wealth, nor happiness, 
 
 Nor poet-fame, by many coveted 
 
 As the best good of all ; nor idle ease, 
 
 On velvet couched, and skied by silk o'erhead, 
 And lulled to sleep by silvery cadences : 
 
 For luxury palls, and fame is but a breath ; 
 
 Wealth bloats with pride, or, even worse, contracts 
 The soul to petty thoughts and paltry acts ; 
 
 And happiness is tested but by death. 
 
 No — no ! for thee my loving heart hath wrought 
 A nobler wish, with better reason fraught, 
 
 Worthier thyself, beloved ! therefore, best. 
 Thine be a life, not free from pain and care, 
 But nobly good and sanctified by prayer, 
 
 Finding, in duty, peace made manifest, 
 Equal to all that fortune may bestow 
 Of good or ill, of happiness or woe. 
 Taught by them all thy trust in God to place ; 
 From all deriving needed strength and grace 
 
 To tread the flinty path or flowery way, 
 The while thy soul shall evermore expand, 
 And all thy hopes grow beautiful and grand, 
 
 Tinged with the dawn-light of the heavenly day ! 
 Such life, or long or short, breathes holy breath, 
 And, bright'ning still, is perfected by death ! 
 
THE MAIN TRUCK; OR, A LEAP 
 EOR LIFE. 
 
 BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.* 
 
 Stand still ! How fearful 
 And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low ! 
 The murmuring surge, 
 That on th' unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, 
 Cannot be heard so high : I'll look no more, 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight, 
 Topple down headlong-. — Shakespeare. 
 
 Among the many agreeable associates whom my different 
 crnisings and wanderings have brought me acquainted with, 
 I can scarcely call to mind a more pleasant and companion- 
 able one than Tom Scupper. Poor fellow ! he is dead and 
 gone now, — a victim to that code of false honor which has 
 robbed the navy of too many of its choicest officers. Tom 
 and I were messmates during a short and delightful cruise ; 
 and, for a good part of the time, we belonged to the same 
 watch. He was a great hand to spin yarns, which, to do him 
 justice, he sometimes told tolerably well ; and many a long 
 mid-watch has his fund of anecdote and sea stories caused to 
 slip pleasantly away. We were lying, in the little schooner 
 to which we were attached, in the open roadstead of Laguyra, 
 at single anchor, when Tom told me the story which I- am 
 about to relate, as nearly as I can remember, in his own 
 words. A vessel from Baltimore had come into Laguyra that 
 day ; and by her I had received letters from home, in one of 
 which there was a piece of intelligence that weighed very 
 heavily on my spirits. For some minutes after our watch 
 
 * This admirable story has been frequently reprinted in England, 
 and erroneously attributed to Capt. Basil Hall. William Leggett was 
 born in the city of New York, in 1802. He was for some time a 
 midshipman in the American navy, and became afterwards conspic- 
 uous as a political writer. Ke died in 1839. 
 
 253 
 
254 THE MAIN TRUCK; 
 
 commenced, Tom and I walked the deck in silence, which was 
 soon, however, interrupted by my talkative companion, who, 
 perceiving my depression, and wishing to divert my thoughts, 
 began as follows : — 
 
 The last cruise I made in the Mediterranean was in " Old 
 Ironsides," as we used to call our gallant frigate. We had been 
 backing and filling for several months on the western coast 
 of Africa, from the Canaries clown to Messurado, in search of 
 slave-traders ; and during that time we had some pretty heavy 
 weather. When we reached the Straits, there was a spank- 
 ing wind blowing from about west-southwest ; so we squared 
 away, and, without coming to at the Rock, made a straight 
 wake for old Mahon, the general rendezvous and place of re- 
 fitting for our squadrons in the Mediterranean. Immediately 
 on arriving there, we warped in alongside the Arsenal quay, 
 where we stripped ship to a girtline, broke out the holds, tiers, 
 and store-rooms, and gave her a regular-built overhauling 
 from stem to stern. 
 
 For a while, everybody was busy, and all seemed bustle 
 and confusion. Orders and replies, in loud and dissimilar 
 voices, the shrill pipings of the different boatswain's mates, 
 each attending to separate duties, and the mingled clatter and 
 noise of various kinds of work, all going on at the same timu, 
 gave something of the stir and animation of a dock-yard to 
 the usually quiet arsenal of Mahon. The boatswain and his 
 crew were engaged in fitting a new gang of rigging ; the gun- 
 ner in repairing his breechings and gun-tackles ; the fo'castle- 
 men in calking ; the topmen in sending down the yards and 
 upper spars ; the holders and waisters in whitewashing and 
 holystoning ; and even the poor marines were kept busy, like 
 beasts of burden, in carrying breakers of water on their 
 backs. On the quay, near the ship, the smoke of the armor- 
 er's forge, which had been hoisted out and sent ashore, ascend- 
 ed in a thick black column through the clear blue sky ; from 
 one of the neighboring white-stone warehouses, the sound of 
 saw and hammer told that the carpenters were at work ; near 
 by, a livelier rattling drew attention to the cooper, who in the 
 open air was tightening the water-casks ; and not far removed, 
 under a temporary shed, formed of spare studding-sails and 
 
OR, A LEAP FOR LIFE. 255 
 
 tarpaulins, sat the sailmaker and his assistants, repairing the 
 sails, which had been rent by the many storms we had en- 
 countered. 
 
 Many hands, however, make light work, and in a very few 
 days all was accomplished : the stays and shrouds were set up 
 and new rattled down ; the yards crossed, the running-rigging 
 rove, and sails bent ; and the old craft, fresh painted, and all 
 a-taunt-o, looked as fine as a midshipman on liberty. In place 
 of the storm-stumps, which had been stowed away among the 
 booms and other spare spars, amidships, we had sent up cap 
 to'-gallant-masts and royal-poles, with a sheafe for skysails, 
 and hoist enough for sky-scrapers above them : so you may 
 judge the old frigate looked pretty taunt. There was a Dutch 
 line-ship in the harbor ; but, though we only carried forty-four 
 to her eighty, her main-truck would hardly have reached to 
 our royal-mast head. The side -boys, whose duty it was to lay 
 aloft, and furl the skysails, looked no bigger on the yard than 
 a good sized duff for a midshipman's mess, and the main-truck 
 seemed not half as large as the Turks-head knot on the man- 
 ropes of the accommodation ladder. 
 
 When we had got every thing ship-shape and man-of-war 
 fashion, we hauled out again, and took our berth about half 
 way between the Arsenal and Hospital Island ; and a pleasant 
 view it gave us of the town and harbor of old Mahon, one of 
 the safest and most tranquil places of anchorage in the world. 
 The water of this beautiful inlet — which, though it makes 
 about four miles into the land, is not much over a quarter of 
 a mile in width — is scarcely ever ruffled by a storm ; and, on 
 the delightful afternoon to which I now refer, it lay as still 
 and motionless as a polished mirror, except when broken into 
 momentary ripples by the paddles of some passing waterman. 
 What little wind we had in the fore part of the day died 
 away at noon ; and though the first dog-watch was almost 
 out, and the sun was near the horizon^ not a breath of air had 
 risen to disturb the serenity of the scene. The Dutch liner, 
 which lay not far from us, was so clearly reflected in the glassy 
 surface of the water, that there was not a rope about her, from 
 her main-stay to her signal-halliards, which the eye could not 
 distinctly trace in her shadowy and inverted image. The buoy 
 
256 THE MAIN TRUCK; 
 
 of our best bower floated abreast our larboard bow ; and that, 
 too, was so strongly imaged, that its entire bulk seemed to 
 lie above the water, just resting on it, as if upborne on a sea 
 of molten lead, except when, now and then, the wringing of 
 a swab, or the dashing of a bucket overboard from the head, 
 broke up the shadow for a moment, and showed the substance 
 but half its former apparent size. 
 
 A small polacca craft had got under way from Mahon in the 
 course of the forenoon, intending to stand over to Barcelona : 
 but it fell dead. calm just before she reached the chops of the 
 harbor ; and there she lay as motionless upon the blue surface 
 as if she were only a part of a mimic scene, from the pencil 
 of some accomplished painter. Her broad cotton lateen sails, 
 as they hung drooping from the slanting and taper yards, 
 shone with a glistening whiteness that contrasted beautifully 
 with the dark flood in which they were reflected ; and the dis- 
 tant sound of the guitar, which one of the sailors was listlessly 
 playing on her deck, came sweetly over the water, and har- 
 monized well with the quiet appearance of every thing around. 
 The whitewashed walls of the lazaretto, on a verdant headland 
 at the mouth of the bay, glittered like silver in the slant rays 
 of the sun ; and some of its windows were burnished so 
 brightly by the level beams, that it seemed as if the whole in- 
 terior of the edifice were in flames. On the opposite side, 
 the romantic and picturesque ruins of Fort St. Philip, faintly 
 seen, acquired double beauty from being tipped with the de- 
 clining light ; and the clusters of ancient looking windmills, 
 which dot the green eminences along the bank, added, by the 
 motionless state of their wings, to the effect of the unbroken 
 tranquillity of the scene. 
 
 Even on board our vessel, a degree of stillness unusual for 
 a man-of-war prevailed among the crew. It was the hour of 
 their evening meal ; and the low hum that came from the gun- 
 deck had an indistinct and buzzing sound, which, like th Q . tiny 
 song of bees of a warm summer noon, rather heightened than 
 diminished the charm of the surrounding quiet. The spar- 
 deck was almost deserted. The quarter-master of the watch, 
 with his spy-glass in his hand, and dressed in a frock and 
 trowsers of snowy whiteness, stood aft upon the taffrail, erect 
 
OB, A LEAP FOR LIFE. 257 
 
 and motionless as a statue, keeping the usual lookout. A 
 group of some half a dozen sailors had gathered together on 
 the forecastle, where they were supinely lying under the shade 
 of the bulwarks ; and here and there, upon the gun-slides 
 along the gangway, sat three or four others, — one, with his 
 clothes-bag beside him, overhauling his simple wardrobe ; an- 
 other working a set of clues for some favorite officer's ham- 
 mock ; and the third engaged, perhaps, in carving his name 
 in rude letters upon the handle of a jack-knife, or in knotting 
 a lanyard by which to suspend it round his neck. 
 
 On the top of the boom-cover, and in the full glare of the 
 level sun, lay black Jake, the jig-maker of the ship, and a 
 striking specimen of African peculiarities, in whose single 
 person they were all strongly developed. His flat nose was 
 dilated to unusual width, and his ebony cheeks fairly glis- 
 tened with delight, as he looked up at the gambols of a large 
 monkey, which, clinging to the main-stay, just above Jake's 
 woolly head, was chattering and grinning back at the negro, 
 as if there existed some means of mutual intelligence between 
 them. It was my watch on deck, and I had been standing 
 several minutes leaning on the main fiferail, amusing myself 
 by observing the antics of the black and his congenial play- 
 mate ; but at length, tiring of the rude mirth, I had turned 
 towards the taffrail, to gaze on the more agreeable features 
 of that scene which I have feebly attempted to describe. Just 
 at that moment a shout and a merry laugh burst upon my ear ; 
 and, looking quickly round to ascertain the cause of the unu- 
 sual sound on a frigate's deck, I saw little Bob Stay (as we 
 called our commodore's son) standing half-way up the main- 
 hatch ladder, clapping his hands, and looking aloft at some 
 object that seemed to inspire him with a deal of glee. A 
 single glance to the main-yard explained the occasion of his 
 merriment. He had been coming up from the gun-deck, when 
 Jacko, perceiving him on the ladder, dropped suddenly down 
 from the main-stay, and, running along the boom cover, leaped 
 upon Bob's shoulder, seized his cap from his head, and imme- 
 diately darted up the main-topsail sheet, and thence to the 
 bunt of the main-yard, where he now sat picking threads from 
 the tassel of his prize, and occasionally scratching his side 
 17 
 
258 THE MAIN TRUCK; 
 
 and chattering, as if with exultation for the success of his 
 mischief. But Bob was a sprightly, active little fellow ; and 
 though he could not climb quite as nimbly as a monkey, yet 
 he had no mind to lose his cap without an effort to regain it. 
 Perhaps he was more strongly incited to make chase after 
 Jacko from noticing me to smile at his plight, or by the loud 
 laugh of Jake, who seemed inexpressibly delighted at the 
 occurrence, and endeavored to evince, by tumbling about the 
 boom-cloth, shaking his huge misshapen head, and sundry 
 other grotesque actions, the pleasure for which he had no 
 words. 
 
 " Ha, you rascal, Jacko, hab you no more respec' for de 
 young officer den to steal his cab ? We bring you to de* 
 gangway, you black nigger, and gib you a dozen on de bare 
 back for a tief." 
 
 The monkey looked down from his perch as if he understood 
 the threat of the negro, and chattered a sort of defiance in 
 answer. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Massa Stay, he say you mus' ketch him 'fore you 
 flog him ; and it's no so easy for a midshipman in boots to 
 ketch a monkey barefoot." 
 
 A red spot mounted to the cheek of little Bob, as he cast 
 one glance of offended pride at Jake, and then sprang across 
 the deck to the Jacob's ladder. In an instant he was half way 
 up the rigging, running over the ratlines as lightly as if they 
 were an easy flight of stairs, whilst the shrouds scarcely quiv- 
 ered beneath his -elastic motion. In a second more his hand 
 was on the futtocks. 
 
 " Massa Stay ! " cried Jake, who sometimes, from being a 
 favorite, ventured to take liberties with the younger officers 
 — " Massa Stay, you best crowd through de lubber's hole : it 
 take a sailor to climb the futtock shroud." 
 
 But he had scarcely time to utter his pretended caution 
 before Bob was in the top. The monkey, in the mean while, 
 had awaited his approach, until he had got nearly up the rig- 
 ging, when it suddenly put the cap on its own head, and, run- 
 ning along the yard to the opposite side of the top, sprang up 
 a rope and thence to the topmast backstay, up which it ran to 
 the topmast cross-trees, where it again quietly seated itself, 
 
OR, A LEAP FOR LIFE. 259 
 
 and resumed its work of picking the tassel to pieces. For 
 several minutes I stood watching my little messmate follow 
 Jacko from one piece of rigging to another, the monkey all 
 the while seeming to exert only as much agility as was neces- 
 sary to elude the pursuer, and pausing whenever the latter 
 appeared to be growing weary of the chase. At last, by this* 
 kind of manoeuvring, the mischievous animal succeeded in en- 
 ticing Bob as high as the royal-mast-head, when, springing 
 suddenly on the royal stay, it ran nimbly down to the foretop- 
 gallant-masthead, thence down the rigging to the foretop, 
 when, leaping on the foreyard, it ran out to the yard-arm, and 
 hung the cap on the end of the studding-sail boom, where, 
 taking its seat, it raised a loud and exulting chattering. Bob 
 by this time was completely tired out; and, perhaps, unwilling 
 to return to the deck to be laughed at for his fruitless chase, 
 he sat down in the royal cross-tree, while those who had been 
 attracted by the sport returned to their usual avocations or 
 amusements. The monkey, no longer the object of pursuit or 
 attention, remained but a little while on the yard-arm; but 
 soon, taking up the cap, returned in towards the slings, asid 
 dropped it down upon deck. 
 
 Some little piece of duty occurred at this moment to engage 
 me, as soon as which was performed, I walked aft, and, leaning 
 my elbow on the taffrail, was quickly lost in the recollection 
 of scenes very different from the small pantomime I had just 
 been witnessing. Soothed by the low hum of the crew, and 
 by the quiet loveliness of every thing around, my thoughts 
 had travelled far away from the realities of my situation. 
 when I was suddenly startled by a cry from black Jake which 
 brought me on the instant back to consciousness. " My 
 God ! Massa Scupper," cried he, " Massa Stay is on de main- 
 truck ! " 
 
 A cold shudder ran through my veins as the word reached 
 my ear. I cast my eyes up : it was too true ! The adventu- 
 rous boy, after resting on the royal cross-trees, had been seized 
 with a wish to go still higher, and, impelled by one of those 
 impulses by which men are sometimes instigated to place them- 
 selves in situations of imminent peril, without a possibility of 
 good resulting from the exposure, he had climbed the skysail 
 
260 THE MAIN TRUCK; 
 
 pole, and, at the moment of my looking up, was actually 
 standing on the main-truck ! — a small, circular piece of wood 
 on the very summit of the loftiest mast, and at a height so 
 great from the deck that my brain turned dizzy as I looked 
 up at him. The reverse of Virgil's line was true in this 
 * instance. It was comparatively easy to ascend ; but to de- 
 scend — my head swam round, and my stomach felt sick, at 
 thought of the perils comprised in that one word. There was 
 nothing above him or around him but the empty air ; and 
 beneath him, nothing but a point, a mere point — a small, un- 
 stable wheel, that seemed no bigger from the deck than the 
 button on the end of a foil, and the taper skysail-pole itself 
 scarcely larger than the blade. Dreadful temerity ! If he should 
 attempt to stoop, what could he take hold of to steady his 
 descent ? His feet quite covered up the small and fearful 
 platform that he stood upon ; and, beneath that, a long, smooth, 
 naked spar, which seemed to bend with his weight, was all that 
 upheld him from destruction. An attempt to get down from 
 " that bad eminence " would be almost certain death : he 
 would inevitably lose his equilibrium, and be precipitated to the 
 deck, a crushed and shapeless mass. Such was the nature of 
 the thoughts that crowded through my mind as I first raised my 
 eye, and saw the terrible truth of Jake's exclamation. What 
 was to be done in the pressing and horrible exigency ? To 
 hail him, and inform him of his danger, would be but to insure 
 his, ruin. Indeed, I fancied that the rash boy already per- 
 ceived the imminence of his peril ; and I half thought that I 
 could see his limbs begin to quiver, and his cheek turn deadly 
 pale. Every moment I expected to see the dreadful catas- 
 trophe. I could not bear to look at him, and yet could not 
 withdraw my gaze. A film came over my eyes, and a faint- 
 ness over my heart. The atmosphere seemed to grow thick, 
 and to tremble and waver like the heated air around a fur- 
 nace ; the mast appeared to totter, and the ship to pass from 
 under my feet. I myself had the sensations of one about to 
 fall from a great height ; and making a strong effort to recover 
 myself, like that of a dreamer who fancies that he is shoved 
 from a precipice, I staggered up against the bulwarks. 
 
 When my eyes were once turned from the dreadful object 
 
OR, A LEAP FOR LIFE. 261 
 
 to which they had been riveted, my sense and consciousness 
 came back. I looked around me : the deck was already 
 crowded with people. The intelligence of poor Bob's temerity 
 had spread through the ship like wild-fire , — as such news al- 
 ways will, — and the officers and crew were all crowding to 
 the deck to behold the appalling, the heart-rending specta- 
 cle. Every one, as he looked up, turned pale, and his eye 
 became fastened in silence on the truck — like that of a spec- 
 tator of an execution on the gallows — with a steadfast, un- 
 blinking and intense yet abhorrent gaze, as if momentarily 
 expecting a fatal termination to the awful suspense. No one 
 made a suggestion ; no one spoke. Every feeling, every 
 faculty, seemed to be absorbed and swallowed up in one deep, 
 intense emotion of agony. Once the first lieutenant seized 
 the trumpet, as if to hail poor Bob ; but he had scarce raised 
 it to his lips, when his arm dropped again, and sank listlessly 
 down beside him, as if from a sad consciousness of the utter 
 inutility of what he had been going to say. Every soul in 
 the ship was now on the spar-deck, and every eye was turned 
 to the main-truck. 
 
 At this moment there was a stir among the crew about the 
 gangway, and directly after another face was added to those 
 on the quarter-deck : it was that of the commodore, Bob's 
 father. He had come alongside in a shore-boat, without hav- 
 ing been noticed by a single eye, so intense and universal was 
 the interest that had fastened every gaze upon the spot where 
 poor Bob stood trembling on the awful verge of fate. The 
 commodore asked not a question, uttered not a syllable. He 
 was a dark-faced, austere man, and it was thought by some of 
 the midshipmen that he entertained but little affection for his 
 son. However that might have been, it was certain that he 
 treated him with precisely the same strict discipline that he 
 did the other young officers, or if there was any difference at 
 all, it was not in favor of Bob. Some, who pretended to have 
 studied his character closely, affirmed that he loved his boy 
 too well to spoil him, and that, intending him for the arduous 
 profession in which he had himself risen to fame and eminence, 
 he thought it would be of service to him to experience some 
 of its privations and hardships at the outset. 
 
262 THE MAIN TRUCK. 
 
 The arrival of the commodore changed the direction of 
 several eyes, which now turned on him to trace what emotions 
 the danger of his son would occasion. But their scrutiny was 
 foiled. By no outward sign did he show what was passing 
 within. His eye still retained its severe expression, his brow 
 the slight frown which it usually wore, and his lip its haughty 
 curl. Immediately on reaching the deck, he had ordered a 
 marine to hand him a musket ; and with this stepping aft, and 
 getting on the lookout-block, he raised it to his shoulder, and 
 took a deliberate aim at his son, at the same time hailing him 
 without a trumpet, in his voice of thunder, — 
 
 " Robert !" cried he, "jump! jump overboard! or I'll fire 
 at you ! " 
 
 The boy seemed to hesitate ; and it was plain that he was 
 tottering, for his arms were thrown out like those of one scarcely 
 able to retain his balance. The commodore raised his voice 
 again, and, in a quicker and more energetic tone, cried, — 
 
 " Jump ! 'tis your only chance for life." 
 
 The words were scarcely out of his mouth, before the body 
 was seen to leave the truck and spring out into the air. A 
 sound, between a shriek and a groan, burst from many lips. 
 The father spoke not — sighed not — indeed he did not seem 
 to breathe. For a moment of intense agony a pin might have 
 been heard to drop on deck. With a rush like that of a can- 
 non-ball, the body descended to the water ; and, before the 
 waves closed over it, twenty stout fellows, among them several 
 officers, had dived from the bulwarks. Another short period 
 of bitter suspense ensued. It rose — he was alive ! his arms 
 were seen to move ! he struck out towards the ship ! and, 
 despite the discipline of a man-of-war, three loud huzzas, an 
 outburst of unfeigned and unrestrainable joy from the hearts 
 of our crew of five hundred men, pealed through the air, and 
 made the welkin ring. Till this moment the old commodore 
 had stood unmoved. The eyes, that glistening with pleasure 
 now sought his face, saw that it was ashy pale. He attempt- 
 ed to descend the horse-block, but his knees bent under him ; 
 he seemed to gasp for breath, and put up his hand, as if to 
 tear open his vest ; but, before he accomplished his object, he 
 staggered forward, and would have fallen on the deck, had he 
 
TO LUC AST A. 263 
 
 not been caught by old black Jake. He was borne into his 
 cabin where the surgeon attended him, whose utmost skill was 
 required to restore his mind to its usual equability and self- 
 command, in which he at last happily succeeded. As soon as 
 he recovered from the dreadful shock, he sent for Bob, and 
 had a long, confidential conference with him ; and it was no- 
 ticed, when the little fellow left the cabin, that he was in 
 tears. The next day we sent down our taunt and dashy 
 poles, and replaced them with the stump-to'-gallantmasts ; 
 and on the third, we weighed anchor, and made sail for 
 Gibraltar. 
 
 TO LUCASTA. 
 
 ON GOING TO THE WAR. 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, 
 
 That from the nunnerie 
 Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, 
 
 To warre and armes I flee. 
 
 True, a new mistress now I chase, — 
 
 The first foe in the field ; 
 And with a stronger faith embrace 
 
 A sword, a horse, a shield. 
 
 Yet this inconstancy is such 
 
 As you, too, shall adore ; 
 I could not love thee, deare, so much, 
 
 Loved I not honor more. 
 
 Richard Lovelace (1618-1658.) 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DE BERNARD.* 
 
 Towards the end of last summer, I was walking pensively 
 from my parlor to my study, from my study to my dining 
 room, and from my dining-room to my parlor ; for I may men- 
 tion, en passant, that I share the taste for the comfortable to 
 which most young bachelors of fortune, and even some who 
 have no fortune, do homage at the present day. I have a 
 study for work, though I do nothing ; a parlor, though I do 
 not entertain ; and a dining-room, although I dine away from 
 home. My lodgings, carefully-chosen and artistically decorated, 
 would certainly not be fit for a saint ; but they do very well 
 for the sinner who inhabits them. On that day, however, I 
 found them unattractive ; and I was possessed with an irresisti- 
 ble longing to go away. But where to go ? or, to present the 
 difficulty more fully, how to pass the month of September ? 
 The employment of time, that ever-recurring problem for the 
 idle, embarrassed me at that moment beyond measure ; and for 
 two hours, while wandering through my apartments, I had in 
 vain sought a solution. 
 
 Travel ? During the last five months, what else had I 
 done ? Since the opening of spring, I had visited the banks 
 of the Rhine, Belgium, Holland, and the principal cities of 
 England. The travelling appetite was satiated. Go to the 
 watering-places ? After leaving London, I had spent fifteen 
 days at Brighton, and three weeks at Dieppe : I had had 
 enough of the sea. Vichy, Bareges, Mount Dor ? — old sto- 
 ries. Besides , the bathing-season was near its end. Remain 
 at Paris ? Pshaw ! aside from the police-officers, who remains 
 in Paris at such a time ? The very grocers have their villas 
 
 * Born 1804, died 1850. See his story of " The Consultation " in the 
 first issue of the Gem Series, entitled " The Emerald." 
 264 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 265 
 
 where they spend the fine days of autumn. It was not the 
 want of a country-house that forbade me to follow this exam- 
 ple. I owned a valuable estate near Meaux, on which there 
 was a very comfortable dwelling, and I had it in my power to 
 lead the life of a country gentleman as long as I pleased ; but 
 the very thought of the plains of La Brie sent a shock to my 
 nerves. How, then, was I to get through that abominable 
 month of September ? 
 
 October did not trouble me. I had a lovely cousin by the 
 hills of Auvergne, who was to be married in that month. As 
 a near relation, and a bachelor still young, perhaps, also, in 
 consideration of an income of thirty thousand francs, which 
 I enjoy, and of three or four marriageable girls who embel- 
 lish the branch of my family established in the environs of 
 St. Flour, I had been promised on this occasion the solemn 
 office of first groomsman. I counted on these Auvergne nup- 
 tials as a holiday, and I danced the polka in imagination at 
 the thought of it. The month of October, then, had its em- 
 ployment ; but what should I do with myself during the thirty 
 long days of that infernal month of September ? 
 
 For the fiftieth time, perhaps, I asked myself this question, 
 without finding a satisfactory answer ; when my meditation 
 was unexpectedly interrupted by one of my friends, the ele- 
 gant and witty Edmond Vanois, whom I had not seen for some 
 time. 
 
 " Still in Paris ! " said he, with that sprightly familiarity 
 which passes readily for the accent of cordiality and frank- 
 ness. " I have happened in by chance, not expecting to find 
 you at home. What are you going to do this autumn ? " 
 
 " That is just what I was asking myself," replied I, offering 
 him my box of cigars. 
 
 " What have you decided upon V " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 '.' Then I have the advantage of you. I was for some days 
 quite at a loss to know what to do with myself from now un- 
 til the middle of October ; but yesterday evening a sublime 
 inspiration flashed upon me by which you may profit. I am 
 going to Switzerland to see our friend Kichomme. What say 
 you to it ? " 
 
266 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 " I hardly know our friend Richomme." 
 
 " Pooh ! I have dined at his house with you, and he has in- 
 vited you in my presence to visit him at his country-seat. His 
 wife highly appreciates your wit. Besides, the greatest favor 
 one can do them is to visit them. You know our friend Rich- 
 omme is very well named. He has a magnificent estate near 
 Berne, and lives like a prince. Are you fond of hunting ? 
 There are superb woods, and game in abundance. Do you 
 prefer fishing ? The Aar is a few steps off. Have you a taste 
 for study ? A large library is at your disposal. And then 
 there are journals, billiards, saddle-horses, carriages ; in a 
 word, all the resources that a perfectly furnished establishment 
 can offer. I do not speak of the table, which is excellent ; nor 
 of the scenery, which you know. The place is at the gates of 
 Oberland : in point of the picturesque, that is all I need say. 
 In fine, to heighten all these attractions, there is a society 
 perpetually renewed, — charming Bernoises, fascinating Fri- 
 bourgeoises, seducing Lucernoises, ravishing Zurichoises ! 
 Does not this tempt you ? " 
 
 " I believe you have indeed sworn to tempt me," replied I, 
 smiling at the warmth with which Vanois extolled the delights 
 of our common friend's country-seat. 
 
 " You must understand," said he^ graciously, "that I should 
 be enchanted to have you for a travelling companion. Let us 
 see : supposing that I succeed in carrying you away, how much 
 time could you place at my disposal ? " 
 
 " But 1 will confess to you, that, for about a month from 
 
 this time, I anticipate neither urgent business nor absorbing 
 pleasures." 
 
 " Just time enough : four days to go, as many to return, and 
 three weeks there. That suits me perfectly. When shall we 
 set out ? " 
 
 Could I do better than accept a proposition which came 
 thus, as it were, in the nick of time, to terminate my embar- 
 rassment ? Without being intimately acquainted with M. 
 Richomme, I was sure of being well received at his house ; for, 
 as Edmond had said, he indulged his pleasure, and, above all, 
 his vanity, in the exercise of an ostentatious hospitality. He 
 had, indeed, at several times invited me to pay him a visit in 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 267 
 
 Switzerland ; his wife, too, had always received me in the 
 most amiable manner : in all respects I found myself en regie. 
 
 u Upon my word, my dear friend, you are so eloquent," said 
 I, " that I have not strength of mind to refuse you. For Hel- 
 vetia ! is the word then, and set out when you will." 
 
 " Day after to-morrow," replied he with a satisfied air. 
 
 " Day after to-morrow, be it ; but how ? " 
 
 " It seems to me," my dear Duranton, " that two gentle- 
 men like us ought to travel post in our own conveyance." 
 
 " Agreed. I have a briska which will be the very thing ; 
 and I answer for its convenience and safety." 
 
 " You are a charming man. Day after to-morrow, then, I 
 shall expect you at breakfast ; and, after our stomachs are 
 stayed as effectually as possible, crack your whip, postilion ! " 
 
 " It is agreed ; it is understood," we repeated simultane- 
 ously, exchanging a grasp of the hand. 
 
 Contrary to usage, our programme was carried out. The 
 next day but one, we put ourselves en route ; and, four days 
 after, we made a most brilliant entrance into the court of 
 honor of M. Richomme's quasi princely habitation, about two 
 leagues from Berne. As we got out of the carriage, the mas- 
 ter of the house appeared on the steps, and came forward to 
 meet us with a hospitable eagerness which was peculiarly sig- 
 nificant. It was easy to read in that reception the jubilant 
 vanity of the newly-rich man who loves to dazzle others by 
 the display of a luxury to which he himself is not yet accus- 
 tomed. M. Richomme, the well-named, as Edmond had just- 
 ly called him, was one of those tall, stout, and fat individuals, 
 whom common people of mean breed admire on account of 
 their pompous presence, which, in its turgidity, seems the sym- 
 bol of wealth. In that vast body, a small soul would have 
 lodged quite easily, if it had not been for an excessive self-es- 
 teem that completely filled the void. On the whole, M. Rich- 
 omme was neither more conceited, nor more ridiculous, nor 
 more impertinent, than was natural in an ex-fournisseur, twice 
 or thrice a millionnaire. In the eyes, too, of many people, all 
 his little faults were amply compensated by two admirable 
 qualities : he lent money with quite a good grace, and he 
 kept an open table. 
 
268 THE LIGHTNING-BOD. 
 
 " What ainiajble lads you are ! " said the Croesus, giving us 
 his hand. " It is very kind of you to have turned aside from 
 your route to visit this cheese-house of mine." 
 
 a We have not turned aside from our route," replied Va- 
 nois : we have come from Paris expressly to see you." 
 
 " So much the better; and Madame Richomme will be very 
 much gratified to learn that you sacrifice the delights of Paris 
 for her society. My simple abode will not indemnify you," 
 pursued the big man, showing us the rich facade of his house ; 
 " but, if my hospitality is modest, at least it is cordial." 
 
 Edmond nudged me with his elbow. I had no need of this 
 warning to remark the diverting contrast between the humble 
 language of our host and his pompous gesture. As he pointed 
 out with a circular motion the distant perspective of the Eng- 
 lish garden by which the main house was surrounded, it 
 seemed as if his hand would stretch out as far as the horizon, 
 and appropriate the whole canton of Berne, including the 
 Alps. 
 
 " You arrive in an unlucky moment," resumed M. Rich- 
 omme, directing us towards the steps: " you find us reduced to 
 our little family resources. Last week I had here fifteen mas- 
 ters and eleven servants : the Count and Countess of Manlev- 
 rier, Lord and Lady Rothsay, the Prince Liparini — " 
 
 " It is you that we come to see," interrupted Yanois, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 " The Countess Czarniwienska and her daughter," con- 
 tinued the ex-fournisseur, who seemed to take particular 
 pleasure in sounding in our burgher-like ears the titles of the 
 distinguished guests whom he had entertained the preceding 
 week. " We have had also a visit from our ambassador, a 
 delightful man ! We are very good friends. I will introduce 
 you to him the first time he dines here." 
 
 I should desire first to be presented to Madame Richomme," 
 said I in my turn ; " but, for that, a change of costume seems 
 to me important after four days' travel." 
 
 " You shall be shown to your rooms," replied the master of 
 the house : " you have time to dress for dinner. Entire lib- 
 erty in all other matters, but punctuality at table, is the rule 
 of the house. For the rest, I need not tell you that you are 
 quite at home here." 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 269 
 
 M. Eichomme, himself setting an example of the liberty he 
 proclaimed, put us in charge of a servant, who installed my 
 compagnon de voyage and me in two chambers adjoining one 
 another, and perfectly furnished, as indeed was the whole 
 house. Without losing time, we proceeded to the adjustment 
 of our persons. After adorning ourselves each in his own 
 room, we met again at the sound of the dinner-bell, and went 
 down stairs together. 
 
 In the drawing-room, besides the owners of the house, there 
 were present two guests of mature age, Helvetian from head 
 to foot. Without paying much attention to these two natives, 
 we advanced towards the wife of our host, vying with each 
 other in the display of our French graces. 
 
 As it often happens in a family, the wife offered a striking 
 contrast to the husband : when she gave him her arm, it re- 
 minded one of a deer yoking with a buffalo. Small, thin, 
 delicate ; her bearing refined and resolute ; her glance keen 
 and penetrating ; ugly on the whole, but not disagreeable, — 
 Madame Eichomme was one of those persons in whom mind 
 seems to compensate for the defects of matter. 
 
 After a few moments' conversation, we took our seats at the 
 dinner-table. Little was said during the first part of the meal. 
 Madame Eichomme spoke only to give orders to the servants. 
 Vanois, usually talkative, seemed equally devoted to silence. 
 The Swiss ate as we are told their compatriots drink ; but to 
 contribute to the general entertainment was evidently the 
 least of their concern. For myself, with an appetite sharp- 
 ened by my journey, I rudely enough imitated their example. 
 The repast would have "ended in a veritable pantomime, if 
 M. Eichomme, having dulled the edge of his appetite, had not 
 brusquely revived the languishing conversation. 
 
 " Come, Messieurs Parisians," said he suddenly, filling my 
 glass and that of my companion, " it seems to me that you 
 are deucedly melancholy ; but 1 know the reason why. You 
 expected to find here a swarm of beauties. As I have told 
 you, you should have come last week : we had, among others, 
 Lady Eothsay, the most charming blonde " — 
 
 " I don't like blondes," said Edmond, looking out of the 
 corner of his eye, as it seemed to me, at the dark hair which 
 enclosed the face of Madame Eichomme, 
 
270 THE LIGHTNING-BOD. 
 
 u Which is as much as to say that you do like brunettes," 
 resumed the amphitryon, with an air which aimed at slyness. 
 
 " Yes, when they are pretty," replied Vanois. 
 
 " Well," said M. Richomme, " since such are your notions, I 
 will tell you confidentially, that, perhaps this very evening, 
 you will see here a woman after your own heart, a brunette 
 and pretty." 
 
 " Do you mean that you expect Madame Baretty this eve- 
 ning ? " asked one of the Swiss, with his mouth half full. 
 
 " This evening or to-morrow," said M. Richomme. " You 
 know my sister-in-law ? " continued he, addressing me. 
 
 I knew vaguely that Madame Richomme had a sister ; but I 
 did not know the name of that sister's husband, c? at least, I 
 had forgotten it. 
 
 " I have heard a great deal about the wit and beauty of 
 Madame Baretty," answered I gallantly, " but I have never 
 had the pleasure of seeing her." 
 
 u You will have that pleasure presently, and you will see, 
 that, in announcing to you a pretty woman, I have not exag- 
 gerated." 
 
 " I am convinced of it in advance, and my admiration is 
 ready." 
 
 M. Richomme shut one eye, nodded his head two or three 
 times, and chuckled quietly before resuming the conversation. 
 
 " If you will take my advice," said he, with an accent half 
 jesting, half serious, " you will keep your admiration in re- 
 straint." 
 
 " Why so ? " said I, a little surprised at this advice. 
 
 The fat man began his pantomime again, and, leaning 
 towards me, whispered in my ear, — 
 
 " Have you seen Othello played ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " In that case you know my brother-in-law." 
 
 " Is he jealous?" 
 
 " Unmanageably, devilishly, furiously ! " 
 
 Notwithstanding his confidential attitude, M. Richomme 
 had raised his voice, and was speaking so as to be heard by 
 the whole company. A look from his wife imposed silence 
 upon him. 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 271 
 
 " You are right," said he, bowing. Then leaning again 
 towards me : " My wife," continued he, in a low- voice, "does 
 not wish us to talk of the dear brother-in-law's follies in pres- 
 ence of servants ; and, indeed, she is right, for these rascals 
 are impertinence and tattling incarnated. At dessert I will 
 tell you the story." 
 
 A pretty woman, a jealous husband : there was nothing 
 here very extraordinary. This vulgar prologue sufficed, nev- 
 ertheless, to excite my curiosity, and I waited with impatience 
 for the departure of the servants. They disappeared after 
 serving the dessert, according to the custom of the house. 
 Without thinking how indiscreet my conduct might appear, I 
 was about to remind our host of his promise, but he antici- 
 pated my request. As gossiping as I was curious, he longed 
 evidently to exercise, at the expense of his sister-in-law's 
 husband, the dull malice which he took for wit, and which 
 constituted the jocose part of his character. 
 
 " Messieurs Wendel," said he, addressing the two Bernese, 
 " you have already seen Baretty, but these gentlemen are not 
 acquainted with him. Is it not true that he is a delightful 
 fellow ? " 
 
 To this question, ironically put, the Helvetians responded 
 only by a grimace, which it was difficult to take for an assent. 
 
 " It is not because we are almost brothers-in-law that I say 
 it," continued M. Richomme derisively; "but I doubt whether 
 one could find a more amiable man. It is true that evil 
 tongues accuse him of being difficult to live with, — morose, 
 passionate, grumbling, peevish, and, above all, jealous as a 
 crocodile. But these are calumnies, are they not, Cesarine ? " 
 
 Madame Richomme had listened to her husband with marked 
 impatience : she shrugged her shoulders imperceptibly, and 
 replied in a sharp tone , — 
 
 " Every one has his faults : those of M. Baretty take noth- 
 ing from the goodness of his heart, or from the nobleness of 
 his character." 
 
 " I tell you he is a charming bird ; only he has beak and 
 talons, and it is well to warn these young gentlemen of them. 
 I do not speak on your account, gentlemen of the Grand 
 Council : you are reasonable men, fathers of families ; but 
 
272 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 here are two fashionable young men, who hesitate at nothing, 
 being Frenchmen, and to whom a little lesson of prudence 
 will, perhaps, not be useless." 
 
 I glanced at Edmond, whom these last words concerned as 
 much as me. He was methodically peeling an apple, and 
 seemed inattentive. Madame Richomme, evidently annoyed, 
 endeavored, by a disapproving look, to impose silence on her 
 husband. 
 
 " My dear," continued the millionnaire, " look at me as you 
 will, I have no desire to see repeated at my house the foolish 
 affair that took place at Bareges." 
 
 " What affair ? " said I, at the risk of displeasing the mis- 
 tress of the house. 
 
 " You have not heard it spoken of? The story has made 
 noise enough everywhere. Last year, Baretty, who suffers 
 sometimes from an old wound, went to Bareges with his wife. 
 My sister-in-law, amiable and handsome, found herself, from 
 the time of her arrival, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, 
 vying with each other for the pleasure of being her partner 
 in dancing or singing. You must know that she dances and 
 sings like an angel. This was certainly a very harmless mat- 
 ter, and ninety-nine husbands out of a hundred would not 
 have thought of taking exception to it ; but dear Baretty 
 has Corsican blood in his veins. Behold him, then, furious, 
 and dreaming of nothing but slaughter. To massacre in a 
 lump the dozen young sparks which fluttered around my sis- 
 ter-in-law would have heen embarrassing ; so, to simplify the 
 thing, my jealous friend adopts the plan of making an exam- 
 ple. Among the gallants who offended him, he selects the 
 most prominent, and picks with him, before thirty persons, 
 the most German of quarrels. The said individual attempts 
 to turn the affair into a joke : a slap in the face compels him 
 to take it seriously. A duel follows, and Baretty puts a 
 bullet in the leg of his adversary, who will dance no more, 
 poor devil ! for it had to be amputated. There was a terrible 
 uproar as you may suppose. 
 
 " Everybody blamed Baretty ; justice interposed, and, to 
 avoid the scandal of an arrest, my amiable brother-in-law was 
 obliged to surrender himself as a prisoner. In short, he re- 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD, 273 
 
 mained three months under lock and key, during the investi- 
 gation of the affair, and was very happy to be acquitted 
 at last by the jury. 
 
 a You think, perhaps, that he has profited by the lesson ? 
 You do not know the Corsican. On the first occasion he will 
 do the same thing again, and I should be very sorry that that 
 occasion should be presented in my house. Take warning, 
 then, Messieurs Parisians: when you see my sister-in-law, per- 
 mit yourselves to admire her, but let it be at a distance and 
 in silence. Otherwise, beware the tragedy ! " 
 
 " Indeed, you make your brother-in-law a perfect ogre," 
 said Vanois, smiling ironically. 
 
 " If you think it advisable to make love to his wife," replied 
 M. Richomme, " you will see whether he makes more than a 
 mouthful of you." 
 
 " I shall be careful," replied my companion playfully; "for, 
 although I do not pride myself on being a good dancer, I am 
 fond of my legs." 
 
 This pleasantry made the company laugh, with the excep- 
 tion of Madame Richomme, who rose suddenly, and thus, as 
 we were forced to follow her example, broke up a conversa- 
 tion which seemed to displease her beyond measure. 
 
 Contradiction is natural to man. I soon had proof of it ; 
 for the warning of our host produced, so far as it concerned 
 me at least, an effect quite opposite to that which he had 
 doubtless expected. Madame Baretty, whom I had never 
 seen, suddenly possessed my imagination. I knew that she 
 was pretty ; but this merit, commendable as it was, would not 
 have sufficed to cast me into the revery in which I fell as I 
 was sipping a cup of excellent coffee. To my romantically 
 inclined taste, the lovely unknown had an attraction more 
 intense even than that of her charms. It is incontestable that 
 the apples of the garden of the Hesperides borrowed a part 
 of their value from the dragon charged with guarding them : 
 in like manner, the beauty of a woman is enhanced by mari- 
 tal jealousy ; and, the more the latter shows itself intractable, 
 the more subjugating becomes the former. Madame Baretty 
 had a right to be irresistible, since, if her brother-in-law was 
 to be believed, there was deadly peril in loving her. Now, I 
 18 
 
274 THE LIGHTNING-BOD. 
 
 pique myself on not being one of those feeble hearts that are 
 cooled by the prospect of danger ; and, my self-esteem being 
 called into action, I began to ask myself seriously whether the 
 vigorous reserve recommended by M. Richomme was not 
 incompatible with a just regard for my personal dignity. 
 After debating this important question for some time, I 
 decided it by holding myself committed to nothing. " I will 
 let things take their natural course," said I, to myself: U I 
 will not try to inflame myself with a factitious passion ; but, if 
 by chance I fall in love, I will not make the least resistance 
 to my penchant." 
 
 This fine resolution taken, I found myself quite exhilarated ; 
 and my journey to Switzerland immediately presented an 
 interest of which, until then, it had seemed to me totally 
 deprived. 
 
 After taking coffee, we promenaded some time in the gar- 
 den ; but the coolness of the evening soon drove us indoors, 
 and we re-entered the drawing-room, where a whist party 
 was organized without delay, M. Richomme, Edmond, and the 
 two Swiss, taking their places at the table, while I remained 
 in conversation with the mistress of the house. 
 
 In a few moments we heard the crack of a whip and the 
 noise of carriage-wheels. At this sound, which announced 
 the arrival of her sister, Madame Richomme rose, and went 
 out of the room. The players imperturbably continued their 
 game, at which I was little surprised, knowing that whist is a 
 sacred work, which even the end of the world would hardly 
 interrupt. As for me, I must confess I did not partake in 
 this impassibility : I even experienced a slight palpitation 
 which I little expected, and which proved to me that I was 
 less blase than I had sometimes feared. 
 
 " Lord bless me ! my heart beats," thought I, pleased 
 enough at this youthful emotion ; " does that signify that I am 
 going to fall in love ? I accept the augury." 
 
 Let me acknowledge my weakness. I rose, and looked at 
 myself a moment in the glass. After rumpling my hair and 
 rectifying the tie of my cravat, I leaned against an angle of 
 the chimney-piece, in an attitude which, in my own opinion, 
 was wanting neither in distinction nor character, and thus 
 
THE LIGHTNING-BOD. 275 
 
 waited, under arms, the woman in whom I was strongly dis- 
 posed to find the future sovereign of my heart. 
 
 As I had anticipated, the door soon opened, and Madame 
 Richomme re-entered hand in hand with the new arrival. 
 The ogre followed them ; but at the first moment I paid no 
 attention to him, so much were my eyes occupied elsewhere. 
 A little younger than her sister, that is to say, about twenty- 
 eight years of age, of a medium height, and admirably pro- 
 portioned, Madame Baretty presented in all her features the 
 characteristics of the beautiful Southern races. The brown 
 paleness of her complexion likewise betrayed her origin, and 
 heightened the ardent, though habitually chastened, expression 
 of her countenance. A black-silk dress, a straw-hat, a dark 
 shawl carelessly thrown on, composed a travelling costume 
 elegant and harmonious in its simplicity. In this modest at- 
 tire, Madame Baretty appeared to me a queen. She advanced 
 slowly with a nonchalant dignity ; received with a polished but 
 serious air my salute and that of the players, who, at her 
 approach, at length decided to rise ; and extending her hand 
 to M Richomme, who hastened to kiss it with as much grace 
 as a bear would have shown, — 
 
 a Good evening, brother," said she, in a soft and vibrating 
 voice. 
 
 Nothing could be more commonplace, certainly, than these 
 three words, "Good evening, brother ; " and yet never did 
 phrase of Rossini fall more deliciously on my ear. I prefer 
 contralto voices, and I found myself exactly suited: on the 
 other hand, the melancholly pallor of the beautiful traveller 
 completely satisfied one of my most peculiar tastes ; in a word, 
 although Madame Baretty had magnificent teeth, she had not 
 yet laughed since her entrance into the room. Now, I have 
 always sincerely esteemed women who have fine teeth, and 
 laugh little. From these various secondary causes, and, above 
 all, from the adventurous disposition of my heart, it followed 
 that I was instantaneously subjugated. I had resolved, it is 
 true, to succumb without resistance ; but I must confess, that 
 this promise was more easy for me to keep than the contrary 
 would have been. 
 
 After exchanging some compliments with the new-comers, 
 
276 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 the whist-players resumed their game. The two sisters sat 
 down side by side, and began in a low tone a conversation, 
 the confidential appearance of which seemed to forbid me 
 from taking part. I withdrew discreetly ; and, seating myself 
 behind the card-table, I made use of my isolation by examin- 
 ing at my leisure a personage whom I had as yet hardly 
 noticed, although it was important for me to know him 
 thoroughly. 
 
 M. Baretty, the ferocious husband, was a man of fifty years, 
 thick-set, corpulent, yet active, and bearing his embonpoint 
 resolutely. This physique was very appropriate for an old 
 captain of voltigeurs : such was the employment which he had 
 filled until 1832, when a severe wound received in Algeria 
 had decided him to quit the service. His copper-colored com- 
 plexion had preserved the imprint of the African sun, and 
 reddened at the least emotion with a violence bordering upon 
 apoplexy. His hair, cut very short, and beginning to grow 
 gray, stood up like a brush on his head. Thick eyebrows 
 crowned his black pupils, which reminded me of the eyes of 
 flame of which Dante speaks in drawing the portrait of Charon. 
 Martially ugly in his ordinary condition, it seemed as though 
 the veteran, when inflamed by jealous fury, must be terrible to 
 look upon. A large scar at one corner of his mouth, and a miss- 
 ing finger on his left hand, announced that he had kept in the 
 army the promise of his energetic face, and gave a serious 
 value to the red ribbon decorating his blue coat, which was 
 buttoned up to the chin, with a relic of military habit. 
 
 As I finished taking this likeness, M. Baretty had just 
 stretched himself out without ceremony in an immense arm- 
 chair a la Voltaire, in which, notwithstanding his rotundity, he 
 seemed to be ingulfed. His pose had something in it so fero- 
 cious, and accorded so well with the crabbed expression of 
 his face, that I could not help comparing him to a bull-dog 
 lying in his kennel, with his nose on his paws, his eyes sleepy, 
 but his teeth awake. I soon remarked, that, through his halt- 
 shut eyelids, he cast a scrutinizing look, which, after examining 
 Edmond some time, rested on me, and forced me to tarn away 
 my eyes. I comprehended immediatt ly the meaning of this 
 sullen observation. Doubtless, at the mere aspect of strangers, 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 277 
 
 this agreeable husband had felt a stirring in his suspicious in- 
 stincts; and, in stealthily studying my friend and me, perhaps 
 he was endeavoring to divine for which of the two he would 
 have the pleasure of breaking an arm or a le,o-, conformably 
 to the receipt which he had made use of at Bareges. This 
 idea, well fitted to moderate my sentimental inclinations, on 
 the contrary only excited them. I felt that the savor of peril 
 heightened the relish of love itself; and, in looking again at 
 Madame Baretty, I found her more beautiful even than she 
 had at first appeared. Little by little I abandoned myself to 
 the pleasure of contemplating her ; and, forgetting the sombre 
 surveillance of which I was probably the object, I fell into a 
 profound revery. 
 
 " O marriage ! here is one of thy blows," thought I, with 
 an irony mingled with compassion. " Thou takest in one 
 hand a being full of grace, of distinction, of intelligence, in 
 the other a vulgar, mean, brutal creature ; and thou unitest 
 them. Bitter mockery ! the barrack united to the parlor ! " 
 
 As I was pitying the destiny of this rare woman delivered 
 to the despotism of a coarse soldier (so in my indignation I 
 called the ex-captain of voltigeurs), Madame Baretty turned 
 her head towards me ; and her beautiful dark eyes fixed them- 
 selves upon mine with an expression so melancholy and so pen- 
 etrating, that I felt agitated in my inmost soul. The strange 
 emotion which this look excited in me will be sufficiently 
 explained when I say that I had not been in the habit of re- 
 ceiving such favors : this obliges me to make an avowal painful 
 to my self-love, but necessary to the clearness of this recita!. 
 
 The good fortune of being handsome has found its poet : if 
 the misfortune of being ugly could give inspiration, I should 
 have legitimate reasons for tuning my lyre. My misfortune 
 does not stop there. A rare and picturesque ugliness, fiercely 
 borne, does a man more good than harm. Mirabeau, certainly, 
 would not have exchanged his tiger-face, pitted with small-pox, 
 for the smooth countenance of an exquisite. Unhappily for 
 me, the irregularity of my features is not compensated by their 
 expression. My ugliness is that of the common people : I re- 
 semble everybody to such a degree, that people with whom I 
 have been intimate forget my face, and others, who have never 
 
278 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 seen me, claim my acquaintance. Born with a sensitive heart 
 and a romantic imagination, it is needless to tell how often I 
 have been mortified and distressed by this disagreeable vul- 
 garity of my physiognomy. 
 
 The expressive glance of Madame Baretty was then a nov- 
 elty as well as a favor. For the first time, a woman took such 
 an initiative towards me. Such was the astonishment of my 
 modesty, that I experienced at first more embarrassment than 
 pleasure. A feeling of distrust was awakened in my mind. 
 Was it not possible that I saw before me a coquette, who, in 
 taking aim at me, sought only to amuse herself at my expense ? 
 I quickly perceived the impossibility of su'h a supposition, 
 and I thought there would be too foolish a humility in inter- 
 preting unfavorably an action which was wholh compliment- 
 ary, and the cause of which after all was not impenetrable. 
 
 " Married to a man unworthy of her, this woman," thought 
 I, " cannot but be very unhappy. Now, the unhappy seek 
 for sympathy, and, when they believe that they have found it, 
 accept it with thankfulness. As for me, I am not handsome \ 
 but perhaps I have had too poor an opinion of my appearance. 
 After all, the eyes are the interpreters of the soul. She has 
 read in mine the warm interest which she inspires in me ; she 
 has discovered in me an intelligence made to understand her ; 
 in a word, she has recognized a friend : this is what her look 
 of suffering innocence was intended to express." 
 
 Instinctively I assumed an attitude suited to this tender 
 role of friend of an unhappy woman, for which I felt a very 
 particular call. With arms folded on my breast, and my fore- 
 head bent over with a dreamy air, I continued to gaze at 
 Madame Baretty, convinced already, that, by this contempla- 
 tion, I ran little risk of displeasing her, in case she hap- 
 pened to observe it. Presumptuous as it was, this conjecture 
 soon appeared to me to be realized. A second look, sweeter, 
 more sustained, more decisive, than the first, struck me point- 
 blank, as artillerists say. I was thrilled by it : but my ecstasy 
 was immediately disturbed by a sharp sound of broken porce- 
 lain, which interrupted, all of a sudden, the silence of the 
 room. Everybody looked towards M. Baretty. The captain 
 had just risen with the impetuousness of a wounded tiger ; 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 279 
 
 and the violence of his movement had made the arm-chair 
 in which he had been sitting roll against an etagere covered 
 with ornaments. 
 
 " What ails you ? " cried M. Bickomme, regarding pitifully 
 the ruins scattered over the carpet. " Do you take my Japan 
 vases for Bedouins ? " 
 
 " A thousand pardons ! I believe I was asleep," replied 
 M. Baretty. 
 
 A furious look which he hurled at the same instant at his 
 wife apprised me what I ought to think of such an excuse. 
 
 " You have a murderous way of sleeping ! " growled the ex- 
 fournisseur. " Deuse take it! When one wants to sleep, 
 one should go to bed." 
 
 " That is what I am going to do," replied the jealous man, 
 in a tone not less peevish. " It is more than eleven o'clock, 
 and high time to retire. Come, madame, I am at your com- 
 mand." 
 
 Madame Baretty rose immediately, without saying a word. 
 This passive obedience, so unusual in a pretty woman, con- 
 firmed me in the idea that I had before my eyes the most 
 absolute of despots and the most submissive of slaves. If my 
 sympathies had not already been gained by the beautiful 
 victim, the touching and resigned way in which she accepted 
 the arm which her tyrant offered her would have sufficed to 
 soften my heart. The couple went out almost immediately 
 from the room, which suddenly appeared to me as desert as 
 the Orient to Antiochus after the departure of Berenice. I 
 waited with impatience for the end of the whist, which came 
 at length, and permitted every one to retire. Under the pre- 
 tence of smoking a cigar, I accompanied Yanois to his cham- 
 ber before going to my own. 
 
 " How do you find Madame Baretty ? " asked I, without 
 preamble. 
 
 " Not bad," responded he negligently. 
 
 " Not bad ! " repeated I, growing warm in spite of myself. 
 " The praise is faint enough. But, in the first place, did you 
 look at her ? " 
 
 " Enough to enable me to judge. I prefer her sister. But 
 I think Madame Baretty not only not bad, but extremely 
 
280 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 pretty ; and, as she has honored you this evening with a very 
 significant attention, I would in your place " — 
 
 " In my place ? " 
 
 " I would risk the displeasure of her ogre of a husband." 
 
 " It is done," said I thoughtlessly. 
 
 I repented of these words as soon as spoken ; but it was too 
 late, and the questions of Vanois drew from me a complete 
 confession. On hearing the cause of the disaster which had 
 befallen the Japan vases, he burst out into a roar of laughter, 
 so heartily, that I could not help sharing his hilarity. 
 
 My conversation with Vanois strengthened me in my 
 adventurous projects, or rather barred my retreat from them. 
 In fact, how could I withdraw, now that I had made a confi- 
 dant of a master of raillery, who would not fail to attribute 
 any retrograde step to a most unheroic prudence ? 
 
 The next day at breakfast, I saw Madame Baretty again ; 
 and I remarked that at several times her eyes met mine. 
 Her indulgent disposition towards me could no longer be a 
 matter of reasonable doubt. Whatever was the cause of her 
 conduct, whether it was excessive coquetry, or desire of sym- 
 pathy, this charming woman had authorized me, in the clear- 
 est manner, to continue my attentions. Thus far there had 
 been only a tacit agreement, a mysterious understanding, 
 between us. I determined to make a more open advance, if 
 possible, before the close of the day. 
 
 After breakfast, M. Richomme proposed to his sister-in-law 
 to play a game of billiards. A lover without brains would 
 have accompanied them. Too politic for that, I sauntered 
 into the garden, hoping that M. Baretty, thus thrown off 
 his guard, would decide to go out hunting, as he had mani- 
 fested an intention to do in the morning. After letting a 
 half-hour (which seemed to me half a century) pass away, 
 I glided slyly towards the billiard-room. Provoking contre- 
 temps ! the first person I saw on entering was the detestable 
 captain, who had taken a position on a sofa, whence, with a 
 cigar in his mouth and a newspaper in his hand, he kept 
 watch over his wife ; for how, otherwise, can I describe such 
 conduct ? At seeing me, he laid his paper on his knees, 
 crossed his arms on his breast, and looked me full in the face. 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ItOD. 281 
 
 A wolf from which one should attempt to snatch a lamb 
 which he holds in his jaws must certainly look just as he did. 
 Instead of responding to this kind of provocation, I pretended 
 not to observe it. I assumed an air of indifference ; and, after 
 looking at the players a moment, I went out of the billiard- 
 room, inwardly cursing that barbarous husband, who, being 
 the possessor of a treasure, had the intolerable presumption 
 to keep it for himself alone. 
 
 Some hours later, as soon as the extreme heat of the day 
 was over, the company joined in a walk to visit a chalet pic- 
 turesquely situated a half a mile from the chateau. It 
 appeared to me impossible that such an excursion, in so wild 
 a region, should not result in putting at fault the surveillance 
 of the odious veteran, and give me a chance to speak to 
 Madame Baretty, to whom I had not yet addressed a single 
 word ; for, in view of the romantic character which I attrib- 
 uted to her, I had assumed that a better introduction to her 
 favor would be made by an expressive silence than by the 
 commonplaces of conversation. I resolved to improve the 
 first favorable opportunity. It was not long delayed. 
 
 As we were going out of the park, a steep descent pre- 
 sented itself before us : a foot-path, where only two persons 
 could walk abreast, cut it diagonally, and, after describing 
 several zigzags through a grove of fir-trees, descended to the 
 bottom of a narrow valley through which we were to pass. 
 In the face of this rough road, to offer one's arm to a woman 
 was a very natural action, not to say a duty. One of the 
 Swiss had already presented his to Madame Richomme : with- 
 out hesitation, I stepped towards Madame Baretty, who pre- 
 ceded her sister by a few paces ; but I was held back by 
 Edmond, who was walking behind me. 
 
 " Against the rules," said he, in a magisterial tone : " you 
 have already done too much since yesterday. The husband is 
 jealous, the wife imprudent ; be reasonable. Observe me. 
 Do I offer my arm to Madame Richomme ? It is by such 
 childishness that one spoils all. Go and make yourself 
 agreeable to the Corsican ; he has suspicions, destroy them. 
 While you are doing that, I will make your infant prattle, and 
 I will learn what she thinks of you." 
 
282 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 The counsel of my compagnon de voyage appeared to me 
 rigorously conformed to the laws of the code galant. 
 
 " You are right," said I to Vanois. " To conquer the good 
 graces of the husband, or at least to put his distrust to sleep, 
 is, without doubt, the first business with which I ought to 
 occupy myself. But what can I say to this alligator ? " 
 
 " Talk to him of his campaigns, of his wounds : you will 
 soon have nothing to do but listen." 
 
 The task was heavy ; but, after recognizing the necessity of 
 it, it would have been illogical to defer its execution. I 
 resigned myself to it, then ; and yielding to my friend the 
 agreeable office which, an instant before, I had hoped to make 
 my own, I slackened my steps to wait for M. Baretty. That 
 iealous individual, perhaps for the purpose of watching me, 
 had placed himself in the rear-guard. When he had over- 
 taken me, I addressed to him some commonplace remark in 
 regard to the wild scenery through which we were passing. 
 An unintelligible growl was the only response from the ferocious 
 biped whom I was endeavoring to tame. This debut was not 
 at all encouraging : but the first step was taken ; and that is, 
 they say, the most difficult. 
 
 Notwithstanding the ill success of my first advances, I per- 
 severed in the patient amiability which I had imposed upon 
 myself. I redoubled my gayety and good nature. I sought 
 the most opportune subjects: in a word, I manoeuvred so 
 adroitly, that at last, whether I had succeeded in destroying 
 his suspicions, or whether, choosing between two annoyances, 
 he preferred to endure my company rather than to see me 
 hovering about his wife, M. Baretty grew sociable. 
 
 A very puerile and very trivial circumstance announced 
 to me that we were passing from the state of dull hostility to 
 that of truce. And why should I omit this vulgar but char- 
 acteristic incident ? Is not the pipe the symbol of peace 
 among savages ? and do not many civilized smokers find this 
 habit full of poetry? Now, from a pipe to a snuff-box, the 
 distance is short, and the descent is small. I ought not to 
 have omitted to mention that the jealous husband took snuff: 
 he at last decided to offer me some, and I, at the risk of 
 sneezing, accepted it ; for it recalled to my mind the disserta- 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 283 
 
 tion of Sganarelle, on snuff considered as an element of con- 
 cord, harmony, and sociability. On re-entering the chateau, 
 the Corsican and I were on such* good terms, that he proposed 
 to me to join him in a hunting excursion the next day. 
 
 No incident worthy of mention occurred during the rest 
 of the day. Some significant looks were again exchanged 
 between Madame Baretty and me ; but I found no oppor- 
 tunity of speaking to her without a witness, and I continued 
 to act on my principle, viz., with women, silence is better 
 than an insignificant conversation. 
 
 In the evening, when each of us retired, it was Edmond, 
 who, in his turn, accompanied me to my chamber. 
 
 " Bravissimo, my dear fellow I " said he, as soon as we were 
 alone. " Yesterday evening and this morning you appeared 
 to me a little green ; but now I restore to you all my esteem. 
 Impossible to angle a husband with more grace and dex- 
 terity." 
 
 " You speak of it quite at your ease," replied I. " You do 
 not know what it costs me to conduct the thing according to 
 the rules of art. If, like me, you were condemned to kill an 
 indefinite number of partridges to-morrow " — 
 
 " He goes out hunting, then ? " interrupted Yanois, with sin- 
 gular vivacity. 
 
 " That is to say we go out hunting. He proposed to me 
 this entertainment, and I had not presence of mind to evade 
 it." 
 
 " Do you start early ? " 
 
 " At daybreak." \ 
 
 " At daybreak ! " repeated my friend, his face becoming 
 radiant, the cause of which I did not think to inquire. 
 
 " It is not certain that I may not back out," replied I, nod- 
 ding my head : " I am very desirous to have a headache to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 " Are you losing your senses ? " cried Yanois in a most pas- 
 sionate tone ; ;t partridges to kill ! One would suppose that 
 you had poison to take ; and you think I will listen to your 
 complaints ! Why, I have played three games of chess a 
 day for six months with a husband of my acquaintance. 
 There is something that may be called a task. Come, you are 
 
284 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 a child. Do you wish to re-awaken his distrust ? If you do 
 not accompany him to this hunt, he is not the man to go him- 
 self; and then what will you have gained ? " 
 
 Again I was forced to acknowledge that my friend was 
 right ; and I armed myself with patience for the pleasure-party 
 of the next day. 
 
 " Now, my dear friend, be frank," resumed I, approaching 
 a more agreeable subject ; " you conversed a long time to-day 
 with Madame Baretty. Did you speak of me ? " 
 
 " Of what else should we have spoken ? " replied my friend 
 smiling. 
 
 " What did she say ? " 
 
 " A thousand things." 
 
 " But what ? " 
 
 " You know how very difficult it is to recall exactly what 
 women say when they have any interest in disguising their 
 thoughts. They employ then such delicate expressions, they 
 surround themselves with such adroit oratorical precautions, 
 they arrive at their end by such ingenious circumlocutions, 
 that it is as much as one can do to comprehend the secret 
 meaning of their words ; and it is useless to attempt to repro- 
 duce them." 
 
 " You have learned, then " — 
 
 " I have learned, that, if you succeed in metamorphosing the 
 ferocious captain into a cupid, by means of a bandage artisti- 
 cally applied to his eyes, you will have gone more than half 
 your way ; but to do that, my dear fellow, you will have to 
 kill a good many partridges." 
 
 " I will kill chamois, bears, if necessary," cried I in a sud- 
 den transport. 
 
 " Bravo ! cultivate the husband ; that is the essential point. 
 Above all, don't disappoint him to-morrow as you just now 
 manifested an intention of doing." 
 
 " Make yourself easy : if we are not intimate friends 
 already, you shall see that we will be when we return from the 
 hunt." 
 
 The next day, at the hour agreed upon, that is to say, at 
 daybreak, M. Baretty and I took the field. The chase is, 
 they say, the image of war. The old captain of voltigeurs 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 285 
 
 found himself therefore restored to his natural element. To 
 see him marching resolutely with his gun on his shoulder, his 
 pantaloons in his gaiters, and his head covered with a cap simi- 
 lar to the truncated cones of the soldiers of the corps d'afrique, 
 one would have said that he was resuming his old profession. 
 Partridges to massacre in default of Bedouins had made him 
 forget every thing else, even his jealousy. Besides, of whom 
 should he have been jealous ? Did he not hold me in reach, 
 so to speak, at the muzzle of his gun ? Near him I ceased to 
 be dangerous, and consequently I disturbed him no longer. 
 In this view, my plan had succeeded. A few days more of 
 similar maneuvering, and his suspicions would fall of them- 
 selves. So I said to myself to encourage my patience. 
 
 All went well enough at first. Less ferocious than the even- 
 ing before, M. Baretty showed from time to time a sort of 
 brutal jollity ; there lay his best humor, and I endeavored to 
 maintain it by my own amiability. Unfortunately circumstan- 
 ces opposed my efforts. The partridges on which we had reck- 
 oned were missing ; in place of them, a storm, as violent as it 
 was unforseen, overtook u» in the middle of the woods, more 
 than two miles from M. Kichomme's house. The foliage, our 
 only shelter, gave us little protection ; and we were soon wet 
 through to the skin. Misfortunes, they say, never come singly. 
 On starting, we had intended to return to breakfast; but the 
 pursuit of imaginary game had carried us farther than we 
 anticipated. We began to be hungry. The country seemed 
 a desert, and was unknown ground to us. To heighten our dis- 
 grace, we missed our way. After innumerable marches and 
 counter-marches, fate at length took pity on us. We regained 
 our path, and two hours later were on our return to the chateau. 
 But in what a condition ! Our game-bags empty as well as our 
 stomachs ; our clothes torn and soiled ! I have confessed that I 
 am not handsome ; I must also confess that I am not one of the 
 most robust; and, in the whole course of my life, I had never 
 taken so long or so rough a tramp. Towards the end, I no 
 longer walked : I dragged myself along. I was harrassed, de- 
 moralized, vanquished. I thought of the retreat from Moscow, 
 and for the first time I comprehended it. As to the captain, 
 he endured our reverses with the patient courage of an old 
 
286 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 soldier ; and, in spite of his embonpoint, he marched on the 
 return with a step as firm as on the departure. 
 
 " It was not your vocation to serve in the voltigeurs," said 
 he ironically, remarking my wearied step and my inclination 
 to lag behind. 
 
 " The devil take the partridges ! " replied I spitefully. 
 
 " One cannot expect to be lucky every day." continued 
 he ; " to-morrow we will take our revenge. 
 
 This mode of consoling me gave me a positive desire to 
 strangle the brute who employed it. For fear of exposing 
 myself, I held my tongue : he did as much ; and we arrived at 
 the chateau without renewing the conversation. The dinner 
 hour approached. I made my way in all haste to my chamber, 
 for fear of being perceived by the lady of my thoughts in the 
 sad plight to which I had been reduced by the walk, the rain, 
 and my hunger. I changed my costume from head to foot, 
 and endeavored to repair my dejected look. Mazarin, in dy- 
 ing, put on rouge ; but I had not this resource, and my sad 
 countenance resisted all my efforts to ameliorate it. 
 
 u After all," thought I, " if I have a worn-out look, it will 
 be put to the account of passion quite as much as to that of 
 fatigue. Perhaps I shall appear to her all the more interest- 
 ing." 
 
 Tranquillized by this sagacious reflection, I descended to 
 the dining-room, where I found only Madame Richomme, her 
 sister, and Vanois. The manner in which all three received 
 me was singular enough. My compagnon de voyage came from 
 one end of the room to the other to meet me, and pressed my 
 hand with a warmth which seemed to express the liveliest 
 gratitude. Nevertheless, to my knowledge at least, I had ren- 
 dered him no service. Madame Baretty bestowed upon me 
 an enchanting smile, which resembled a return of thanks. 
 What had this charming woman to thank me for ? Madame 
 Richomme let fall upon me the most ironical, the most dis- 
 dainful, the most contemptuous of her glances. What crime 
 had I committed towards this usually amiable creature ? 
 Under other circumstances, I should have been anxious to 
 discover the meaning of this triple enigma ; but at this 
 moment all my thoughts and all my sentiments were mastered 
 
the lightning-rod. 287 
 
 by a sensation eminently trivial : if my curiosity spoke, my 
 appetite cried out, and I had to obey its vehement calls before 
 any thing else. 
 
 While devouring my part of a succulent dinner, I was 
 devoured in my turn by an indefinable discontent. I recapitu- 
 lated the little events accomplished for two days. What step 
 had I taken ? What obstacle overthrown ? What triumph 
 obtained ? For a practical man, what value was there in a 
 few glances dazzling as the lightning, but as evanescent ? To 
 judge of things without illusion, I had made no progress from 
 the first moment. Under pain of falling into self-contempt, I 
 was bound to change my tactics, and to employ more effica- 
 cious means than the exclusively prudential manoeuvres to 
 which I had thus far had recourse. 
 
 After dinner, instead of following the rest of the company 
 into the garden, I ascended stealthily to my chamber. There, 
 inspired by the beautiful eyes of Madame Baretty, and, if all 
 must be told, by the excellent wine I had just been drinking, 
 I sat myself to the composition of a most eloquent epistle, in 
 which I demonstrated triumphantly, First the grossness, the 
 vulgarity, the brutality, in a word the unworthiness, of the old 
 captain of voltigeurs ; second, the rare wit the divine grace, 
 the irresistible charms, of the angelic being whom an unjust 
 destiny had given to this barbarian for a wife ; third, the 
 devotion, the discretion, the respect, the love, in short, of the 
 sensible man who held the pen. 
 
 These three main points well established, the consequence 
 deduced itself. Unless she was as unjust as she was lovely, 
 and as cruel as she was charming, Madame Baretty must per- 
 mit me to adore her. In conclusion, I begged her to confirm 
 the language of her eyes by a word, a single word ! and I took 
 care not to forget the exclamation point, which, at the close 
 of a passionate letter, looks excellently well. 
 
 My note finished, and reduced to the smallest possible form, 
 I descended to the drawing-room, where I found the whole 
 household reassembled. The whist party was formed ; Madame 
 Richomme there taking the place of Edmond, who was playing 
 ecarte with the captain. Madame Baretty, seated at the 
 piano, was playing a fantasie by Chopin. The opportunity 
 
288 THE LIGHTNING-ROD, 
 
 was more favorable than I had expected, and I hastened to 
 seize it. Approaching tlie piano with a careless air, with one 
 hand I turned the leaf of the music at the proper time, and 
 with the other I boldly placed my note on the keys. Without 
 losing the time, without missing a single note, the charming 
 musician snatched the paper away amidst a rattle of demi- 
 semi-quavers, and concealed it so quickly that I myself could 
 not guess what had become of it. 
 
 From the manner in which my note had been received, I 
 had no doubt that on the next day I should receive an answer. 
 I was deceived. When I again met Madame Baretty, I inter- 
 rogated in vain her beautiful eyes, usually so eloquent; they 
 remained mute, and insisted on avoiding mine. I saw, it is 
 true, in this unaccustomed severity, only one of those little 
 artifices that women sometimes employ in order to increase 
 the value of a favor by causing it to be longed for ; but, if I 
 easily explained Madame Baretty's reserve, I had more diffi- 
 culty in comprehending the change that had come over the 
 manners of her husband. The surly roughness of the captain 
 had given place to a sort of affected amenity ; his hedge-hog 
 countenance grinned benignly; and, with some good will, one 
 might take this grin for a smile. He walked slowly, spoke 
 gently, agreed with everybody, and wiped his nose noiselessly. 
 Never, in a w T ord, was there so sudden a metamorphosis. M. 
 Kichomme himself was struck by it. 
 
 61 On what grass has your husband trodden?" asked he 
 of his sister-in-law : " he is a perfect sheep this morning." 
 
 Instead of answering, Madame Baretty smiled languidly, 
 and raised her eyes to heaven. 
 
 After breakfast, the captain came to me good-humoredly : 
 " Well, Monsieur Duranton ! " said he familiarly, " the weather 
 is superb again. Have you still a desire to go the Grindel- 
 wald ? " 
 
 The day before I had spoken vaguely of my wish to visit 
 the glaciers of the Oberland. 
 
 " To make such an excursion agreeable there ought to be 
 at least two in the party," replied I, without foreseeing the 
 embarrassment into which this imprudent reply would cast me. 
 
 " That is just my opinion," resumed the veteran, offering 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 289 
 
 me his snuff-box. " I have never been to the Grindelwald ; 
 if you will, we will make this little trip together." 
 
 I so little expected this friendly proposition, that at first I 
 was struck dumb with surprise. I glanced mechanically at 
 Madame Baretty, who was standing behind her husband. By 
 a prompt and imperious look, the meaning of which it was 
 impossible to mistake, she said to me " accept." 
 
 She doubtless had reasons for giving me such an order, 
 which she reserved for future explanations ; but, in the first 
 place, it was necessary to obey her. I did so, while cursing 
 the beauties of nature from the bottom of my heart. 
 
 " I shall be delighted to have you for a companion," replied 
 I, with as smiling a look as it was possible for me to put on. 
 
 " In that case," continued the captain, " what hinders us 
 from setting out to-day, immediately ? It is only noon : by two 
 o'clock we shall be at Flenn, where we will leave our carriage. 
 If the boat which runs regularly has already gone, we shall 
 easily find another. We will dine at Untersen, and we will 
 push our reconnoissance as far as Lauterbrunnen, where we 
 will sleep. To-morrow," continued he with a strange smile, 
 to which I paid little attention at the moment, " to-morrow, 
 he who lives shall see ! " 
 
 M To-morrow," said M. Bichomme, who was present at the 
 conversation, " you will go up to Grindelwald ; and, after vis- 
 iting the glaciers, you will descend to Meyringen by the 
 Scheidegly. Your journey is all marked out, even to your 
 return by the Lake of Brientz. You can be back here by 
 day after to-morrow evening ; but I advise you to take one 
 day more.. Our mountains are rough " — 
 
 " And M. Duranton has not an Alpine foot," interrupted 
 the captain, with an air of condescension. 
 
 It was arranged that we should make our preparations for 
 departure in half an hour. I went up sadly to my chamber, 
 and threw pell-mell some clothes into a little haversack. 
 Before the expiration of the half hour, a servant came to 
 announce that the carriage which was to take us to Thun was 
 ready, and that my companion was waiting for me. On the 
 porch I found Madame Bichomme, who was looking smilingly 
 at her brother-in-law, already seated in the carriage. I 
 19 
 
290 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 saluted her as I passed, and expressed briefly my desire to see 
 her again soon. I was never more sincere. I wished also to 
 bid adieu to Madame Baretty, but the captain did not allow 
 me time. 
 
 " I have been waiting for you a quarter of an hour," cried 
 he impatiently. 
 
 I sprang briskly into the carriage, and in a moment the 
 horses started off at full trot. 
 
 During this first day, we followed exactly the itinerary 
 traced by my companion. After crossing the lake of Thun, 
 and dining badly at Unterseen, we traversed, on horseback, 
 the narrow valley of Lauterbrunnen. At eight o'clock in the 
 evening, seated in front of the inn, together with some other 
 travellers, we smoked some excellent cigars by moonlight, in 
 sight of the cascade of Stanbach. Fatigued perhaps by the 
 attempts at amiability which he had made in the morning, 
 M. Baretty had become quite taciturn, and I accommodated 
 myself to this silence which left me at liberty to muse. We 
 retired early; for we were to start at daybreak for the end of 
 our pilgrimage. My ill humor did not disturb my sleep. I 
 was still sleeping, and the sun had hardly begun to break 
 through the thick fog spread over the valley, when the piti- 
 less captain knocked rudely at my chamber door. 
 
 u Up, and en route!" cried he, just as if he were giving 
 orders to a company of voltigeurs. 
 
 I jumped out of bed; and, dressing myself while yawning, 
 I rejoined my companion. He was waiting for me before the 
 door of the inn, a cigar in his mouth, a travelling bag on his 
 back, and in his hand a long staff pointed with iron at one 
 end, and terminated at the other by a chamois horn. 
 
 " Where are the horses ? " asked I, surprised to see him 
 equipped in this manner. 
 
 ^ The horses 1 " replied he sneering ; " dispensed with. We 
 must have variety in travelling. Yesterday we travelled in a 
 carriage, in a boat, and on horseback; to-day we go on foot."* 
 
 I regarded with a melancholy eye the almost perpendicular 
 walls of the immense gorge, at the bottom of which we were 
 standing ; and, in .thinking that I was condemned to climb them 
 on foot, I felt leg weary in anticipation. 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 291 
 
 u It seems to me," I ventured to say, u that we are going to 
 break our backs uselessly ; while by taking horses " — 
 
 " I have not served in the cavalry/' interrupted the captain 
 in a sharp tone ; u horseback riding fatigues me, and march- 
 ing gives me an appetite." 
 
 To such reasons, what could I answer ? 
 
 " I do not perceive our guide," continued I, seeing that my 
 amiable companion was beginning to move. 
 
 " A guide ! for what purpose V " replied he, without stop- 
 ping : " the road from Lauterbrunnen to Grindelwald is as 
 much frequented as the road of the Bois de Boulogne." 
 
 This assertion, doubtless, was not one of those which it is 
 impossible to refute ; but what would have been the use of 
 contradicting an obstinate person to whom I owed so much 
 consideration ? I renounced the guide as I had renounced the 
 horse ; and, passing my arms through the straps of my haver- 
 sack, I provided myself with a staff like the captain's. We 
 set out at last, both in silence. The steepness of the ascents 
 which we had to climb was not favorable to conversation ; 
 besides we were smoking, he from habit, I to neutralize the 
 sharp humidity of the fog which enveloped us. Providence, 
 which watches, they say, over the drunk, protects also the 
 imprudent. Against all probability, we did not lose our way ; 
 and. after several hours of the most laborious ascension, we 
 arrived safe and sound at Grindelwald. Until then, although 
 I had spoken more than once of making a halt, M. Baretty 
 had always refused to do it. 
 
 " You shall rest at the glacier," he had replied, every time 
 with a smile, the sullen expression of which did not strike me 
 till afterwards. 
 
 At the inn of Grindelwald, we found a passable breakfast, 
 but not the rest on which I had reckoned, and of which my 
 companion must have had as much need as I. My last cup 
 of tea was hardly swallowed, and I was trying to make a bed 
 of my chair by leaning the back of it against a corner of the 
 sulle-a-manger, when the devilish veteran rose from the table, 
 and put on his haversack. 
 
 " To the glacier ! " cried he, in a harsh voice, beside which 
 the barking of a dog would have seemed to me full of mel- 
 ody. 
 
292 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 "Are you made of iron, then ? " said I in a pitiful tone, 
 without making any show of stirring : " let me sleep an hour " 
 
 " You shall sleep at the glacier," replied he, emphasizing 
 these words strangely. 
 
 " A droll bed ! " thought I ; "it is plain that this brave 
 man began his career in the Russian campaign." 
 
 I had anticipated that this little pleasure-trip would be a 
 season of penitence for me. I submitted, therefore, to my 
 destiny, and arose, painfully dragging my aching limbs one 
 after the other. 
 
 " Let us go, since you wish it," said I with a forced smile ; 
 " but why load ourselves with baggage ? shall we not return 
 this way ? " 
 
 " Leave your bag if you think proper," replied M. Baretty ; 
 " I keep mine. I walk better when I have something on my 
 back." 
 
 The assertion appeared to me absurd, and under other cir- 
 cumstances I should not have let it pass ; but contradiction 
 requires a certain physical energy of which I felt myself 
 completely deprived. 
 
 Arrived at the border of the glacier, we stopped an instant. 
 From the place where we stood, we had an admirable view 
 of the whole of that curious and magnificent picture. I had 
 no other desire than to stretch myself out on the ground, and 
 abandon myself to contemplation, the only pleasure which is 
 consistent with weariness of body or of mind. But my com- 
 panion had decided otherwise. 
 
 " Let us go down upon the glacier," said he suddenly, join- 
 ing the act to the word. 
 
 I followed him in silence, and we were soon beyond the 
 limit where most tourists stop. M. Baretty walked over the 
 ice as if it had been a highway. For my part, I kept a good 
 countenance ; though occasionally, some crevasses put my firm- 
 ness to the proof. Notwithstanding his embonpoint, the cap- 
 tain, as I have observed, was Mthe and active : at fifty years 
 he was still a worthy voltigeur. It was an amusement for me 
 only to see him, armed with his pointed stick, leaping reso- 
 lutely over the gaping crevasses, which I had then somewhat 
 less pleasure in leaping myself. We walked a long time in 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 293 
 
 this manner, across a hundred abysses, some of which, only to 
 look into them in passing, gave me a touch of vertigo. In the 
 midst of this chaos, my imagination was exalted. Notwith- 
 standing the very life-like and unpoetical appearance of the 
 fat man who walked before me, I compared myself to Dante, 
 following Virgil into the ninth circle of the infernal regions, 
 where the traitors are plunged into the ice. This fine revery 
 was rudely interrupted by a false step which just missed 
 sending me to the bottom of a pit, beside which, the well of 
 Grinelle would have appeared a very insignificant hole. I 
 felt a cold sweat moistening my forehead, and was forced to sit 
 down ; for my head was dizzy, and my legs gave way under 
 me. 
 
 " Halloa ! where the deuse are we going ? " cried I, when 
 1 was a little recovered from this emotion. 
 
 M. Baretty turned round. 
 
 " Are you afraid ? " . said he, with a sneer which seemed 
 to me odious. 
 
 " I am not a chamois," replied I, dryly ; " go and break your 
 neck, if it is agreeable to you ; I do not take a step farther." 
 
 The captain cast a look on all sides as if to explore the 
 character of the place. This examination was easy. In the 
 distance, the granite peaks surrounding the upper hem of the 
 glacier, above our heads the sky, under our feet a petrified 
 sea : that was all. Around us solitude and silence. Not a 
 living creature within reach of sight or hearing. We could 
 have believed that the earth had no other inhabitants. 
 
 " All right," said M. Baretty, returning on his steps, " for 
 what remains to be done we are as well off here as further 
 on." 
 
 " What remains to be done ? " asked I, ingenuously. 
 
 " You are about to see," replied he with a jocose manner. 
 
 He took off his haversack, placed it on the ice, and began 
 to undo the strings. I followed with some curiosity these 
 preparations, the object of which I thought I understood at 
 once. The captain had no contempt for the bottle. He had, 
 doubtless, thought that a sample of the excellent wines which 
 we had drank at his brother-in-law's house would lose none of 
 its savor for being tasted on the open glacier. The idea 
 
294 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 seemed to me ingenious and the precaution praiseworthy. I 
 made my mouth ready for the agreeable liquid, whether it was 
 Clos-Vougeot, Chambertin, or Marsalla, when, instead of the 
 bottle-neck which I expected to see peeping out, I caught a 
 glimpse of a narrow, flat box, the appearance of which all of 
 a sudden gave my ideas a rough shock, and fairly took away 
 my thirst. 
 
 The captain, having taken out of his bag this piece of furni- 
 ture, opened it by means of a very delicate key, and presented 
 to my view two magnificent duelling pistols with all their 
 accessories. 
 
 " You comprehend the apologue ? " said he, looking at me 
 full in the face. 
 
 The triviality of this speech did not impair its sanguinary 
 meaning. The comedy was turning into a melodrama : I 
 summoned to my aid my sang-froid. 
 
 " You wish to make an experiment in acoustics ? " replied I, 
 in the most natural tone it was possible for me to take : " the 
 condensation of the atmosphere acts strongly on sound, and, 
 at the height where we are, we ought to obtain quite a 
 curious effect." 
 
 " It has nothing to do with acoustics, nor with music, nor 
 with physic," replied the jealous husband brutally ; " its pur- 
 pose is to see whether you will look into the mouth of a pistol 
 with as much coolness as you exhibit in ogling women." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " said I, affecting surprise. 
 
 " I mean by it that we have both arrived at the glacier, 
 and that only one of us will go away from it." 
 
 " But, my dear captain " — 
 
 " But, my dear monsieur, it is precisely so." 
 
 " It seems to me, that, among people of courage, before 
 cutting throats, one explains himself." 
 
 " Let us explain, then ; it will not take long : I am not one 
 of your Parisian husbands ; I am of the Corsican race. Do 
 you understand ? It is possible that I may appear to you very 
 ridiculous, but that makes no difference to me. I am jealous, 
 and I do not conceal it. It is a weakness, it is a folly, it is 
 whatever you please ; but it is a fact. The man who seeks 
 to please my wife becomes, at the very instant, my mortal 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 295 
 
 enemy as much as if he had given me a blow in the face ; and 
 you are that man." 
 
 " I, captain ? " cried I, clasping my hands. 
 
 " You, monsieur, you," replied the jealous man, who, while 
 continuing to jerk out inarticulate words much like the growl- 
 ings of a wild boar, seized one of the pistols, and began delib- 
 erately to load it. 
 
 The catastrophe was imminent, and there was not a minute 
 to lose in order to prevent it. 
 
 " Monsieur, two words only," said I, in a tone which I 
 endeavored to render calm and dignified : " you accuse me of 
 having sought to please Madame Baretty. To that I reply, 
 that I should be a blind man if the eminent merit of Madame 
 Baretty had not produced ou me the effect which it produces 
 on all who have the honor to know her : but, from a reserved and 
 respectful admiration to a sentiment at which you have a right 
 to take offence, the distance is great, it seems to me ; and even 
 that sentiment, should it exist, so long as it is not manifested, 
 could not become the subject of an altercation. There may 
 be an injury in a deed, but not in a thought." 
 
 " You reason admirably," replied the captain, feeling in his 
 pocket ; " do you require deeds ? Here they are." 
 
 At the same moment, he raised his hand to the height of 
 my chin, and showed me, between his thumb and finger, a 
 little paper, in which it was impossible for me not to recognize 
 the eloquent epistle which I had written a day or two before. 
 
 The thrust was as severe as it was unforeseen, and I had 
 not the address to parry it. 
 
 a I do not perceive," said I, stammering, " what relation 
 that paper can have " — 
 
 u That letter is from you," interrupted M. Baretty imperi- 
 ously. " I do not concern myself about the impertinent 
 manner in which you there speak of me ; that item will be 
 settled in the general account. But I have to show you how 
 well I am informed. The other evening, hoping, doubtless, 
 that my wife would take this note, you fastened it to her 
 dress with a pin. 
 
 " With a pin," cried I, overwhelmed with amazement. 
 
 " It was not she who found it ; it was I : she not only has 
 
296 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 not read it, but she does not even suspect that it exists. You 
 have your return now for your expenditure of eloquence. 
 The quitf-pro-quo is droll enough, is it not ? " 
 
 While the veteran was thus expressing himself with an air 
 of crushing irony and the most evident sincerity, I experienced 
 one of those hallucinations which make one doubt whether he 
 is awake or asleep. It was some time before I comprehended 
 that the singular variation given to the history of my letter 
 was nothing else than a black treachery, of which the captain's 
 wife was the author and I the victim. At last, however, I 
 recognized this cruel and mortifying truth. 
 
 " Well, monsieur," resumed the captain, seeing that, instead 
 of replying, I kept a mournful silence, " will you deny that 
 this letter is from your hand ? " 
 
 " I deny nothing, monsieur," replied I, with a bitter smile ; 
 " I accept the responsibility of the note and of the pin too," 
 continued T, with a sneer. " Here, then, the discussion comes 
 to a point. I acknowledge myself the author of a letter 
 which you regard as an outrage and for which you demand 
 satisfaction." 
 
 " Precisely so," said M. Baretty, ramming a ball into the 
 barrel of one of the pistols. 
 
 " I am ready to give you the reparation which you demand ; 
 but I do not feel bound to submit to the extraordinary 
 arrangement which you have chosen. I do not fight without 
 witnesses." 
 
 > " Allow me," responded the captain without discontinuing 
 his warlike preparations : "we are agreed on the main point, 
 that is the essential thing ; as to the details, I believe you 
 incapable of quibbling about a little irregularity which pecu- 
 liar considerations impose upon me. I know that Bichomme 
 has told you what happened to me last year at Bareges: 
 three months' imprisonment on account of a most regular 
 duel. That was hard. Therefore I have resolved that I will 
 not be caught in that way a second time, and that justice shall 
 no longer thrust its nose into my affairs. Witnesses babble, 
 and the result is that the king's attorney-general interferes. 
 To avoid all annoyance to either of us, this is what I have 
 contrived : do you see those two crevasses ? they are wide 
 
THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 297 
 
 enough to swallow an elephant ; that is just what we want. 
 There are about twenty-five paces between them, a good dis- 
 tance. You shall place yourself on the edge of this one ; I 
 will stand on the edge of that one. We will draw lots for the 
 first fire, and we will fire alternately until there shall be a 
 final result. There are ten chances to one that the man who 
 shall be hit will fall into the crevasse behind him. So much 
 the better then for him if he is killed immediately. In any 
 case, his disappearance will pass for one of those accidents 
 which sometimes happen in the glaciers. You understand, 
 now, why I did not wish to take a guide ? " 
 
 M. Baretty continued to enlarge with the most frightful 
 tranquillity upon the advantages of this ingenious plan, which 
 struck me as worthy of a cannibal ; but I listened no longer. 
 His words had just recalled to my mind a recollection, the 
 effect of which was such that I can scarcely describe it. I 
 remembered that on a visit at Chamouny, some years before, 
 I had heard related the tragical story of an English traveller. 
 This unfortunate man had fallen into a crevasse, and, about 
 three years afterwards, had re-appeared, very well preserved, 
 at the source of the Aveyron, which serves as the excretory 
 canal of the glacier. Lamentable legend, to which, perhaps, 
 I was about to furnish an appendix ! This idea seized upon 
 me with the grip of a vice. I felt the frightful agony of the 
 miserable being precipitated alive into one of those chasms 
 which opened their greedy jaws around me. I saw myself at 
 a depth of some hundreds of feet arrested in my fall by 
 the gradual contraction of the crevasse ; I felt myself slowly 
 ground between two mountains, whose power of compression 
 would make the irresistible clasp of a boa-constrictor seem 
 feeble. At the mere thought of it, I was suffocating, I was 
 stifling. In this fearful moment, considerations of human 
 respect fell flat before the animal instinct which leads all cre- 
 ated beings to seek their own preservation. Till then I had 
 remained seated on the ice in front of the captain. With a 
 bound, inspired by frenzy, I sprang up ; with one hand I 
 snatched from him the pistol which he still held ] with the 
 other I picked up the one he had just loaded, and I hurled 
 them both with all my might over the glacier; with a kick I 
 
298 THE LIGHTNING-ROD. 
 
 sent the staff which he had used to the bottom of a crevasse ; 
 and, by the aid of my own, I leaped so energetically, that, in 
 a few seconds, I had put two or three respectable chasms 
 between my ferocious enemy and me. 
 
 " Coward ! blackguard ! " shrieked M. Baretty, when the 
 stupor into which this stunning manoeuvre had plunged him 
 permitted him to speak. 
 
 We were fifty paces apart, he had no more weapons, and 
 without his staff it was almost impossible for him to cross the 
 crevasses which separated us. I stopped now, and, turning 
 round, — 
 
 " I am neither a coward nor a blackguard," replied I 
 majestically. " You know my name. I reside in Paris, rue 
 Trevise, No. 8. I am going back there, and you will find me 
 at any hour. We will cut each other's throats whenever you 
 please, but on condition that it is done on civilized ground. 
 If you kill me, I intend to repose in good vegetable earth, 
 and not in this ice, where I should look like a preserved lob- 
 ster. Don't try to get away without your staff, for you would 
 certainly break your neck. I am going to send you a guide." 
 
 Instead of listening to the furious apostrophes which the 
 captain continued to address to me, I resumed my leaps, and 
 traversed the glacier with an agility of which I should have 
 supposed myself incapable. I descended straightway to the 
 inn of Grindelwald, whence, faithful to my promise, I sent a 
 guide in search of my companion, who, according to my 
 account, had missed his way on the glacier. Then, without 
 stopping to take breath, I rushed with a gymnastic step over 
 the road to Lauterbrunnen, which place I fell upon like an 
 avalanche. My lassitude had disappeared as I thought of 
 the crevasses which I had escaped. I felt as though I had 
 wings. 
 
 At the inn of Lauterbrunnen, I stopped for the first time to 
 reflect on my singular adventure. What motive had led 
 Madame Baretty to cause my letter to fall into the hands of 
 her husband ? What was the explanation of her conduct ? 
 I was completely mystified for a moment ; but, all of a sud- 
 den, a theory occurred to me which grew so rapidly in my 
 mind, from a mere suspicion to a certainty, that I forth- 
 
THE DOUBLE PAIN. 299 
 
 with adopted it as the true one. Calling for pen and 
 paper, I wrote a letter to be sent to Vanois, in which, after 
 relating to him the scene of the glacier, I added, " It was a 
 bright idea in you, Edmond, to make me your lightning-rod 
 to draw off the jealous rage of M. Baretty ? Am I to give 
 the whole credit to you, or is the invention partly due to 
 madame ? Certainly you have both played your parts well. 
 Make the most of your time, for the captain (if he has not 
 gone to the bottom of a crevasse) will be home again to-mor- 
 row. Be on the lookout for another friend to utilize. Make 
 my apologies to the Richomme family, not forgetting Madame 
 Baretty ; for I go direct to Paris, without taking leave of any- 
 body. When you see M. Baretty, say to him for me a thou- 
 sand amiable things, and give him my address, in case he 
 should have forgotten it. At the Bois de Vincennes or at the 
 Bois de Boulogne, I shall be his man whenever he chooses. You 
 know where I am to be found in Paris ; and I shall be glad to 
 see you when you return to that city, especially if you bring 
 with you my briska and baggage." 
 
 The next day, I was well advanced on my way to Paris. I 
 carried from the Canton of Berne a lesson by which I have 
 profited. I distrust now women's looks ; to make amends, I 
 always believe their words. Sceptical persons will say, per- 
 haps, that something is yet wanting for my instruction. 
 
 THE DOUBLE PAIN. 
 
 My heart doth own a double fear, 
 
 A double pain, a double sigh ; 
 The one when you are absent, dear, 
 
 The other when you're by. 
 
 At seeing you, my heart doth mourn 
 With love that cannot find relief ; 
 
 At missing you, my heart is torn 
 With all the bitter pangs of grief. 
 
 And now I shed the burning tear, 
 And now I heave the useless sigh : 
 
 The one when you are absent, dear, 
 The other when you're by ! 
 
 Florence McCarthy. 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY.* 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WAITING FOR THE SHIP. 
 
 " The stars are with the voyager, 
 
 Wherever he may sail ; 
 The moon is constant to her time; 
 
 The sun will never fail, 
 But follow, follow round the world, 
 
 The green earth and the sea ; 
 So love is with the lover's heart 
 
 Wherever he may be." — Hood. 
 
 " When Britain first, at Heaven's command, 
 
 Arose from out the azure main, 
 This was the charter of the land, 
 
 And guardian angels sung the strain : 
 Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves; 
 Britons never shall be slaves." 
 
 So sang, or rather growled, old Matthew Pengelly, as he 
 paced along the cliffs, telescope in hand, looking out upon the 
 lowering sky and stormy sea. " Old Matthew," he was famil- 
 iarly called by the good folks of Looe and its environs ; but 
 old he was not, spite of his gray hairs and weather-beaten 
 face. He was barely forty, though a casual observer would 
 have set him down for fifty at least ; but Matthew had weath- 
 ered many a storm and seen many a sorrow, and had grown 
 in looks, if not in heart, old before his time. He was known 
 far and wide as the bravest and trustiest of the little band of 
 coast-guard men stationed in that sequestered nook ; and many 
 a shipwrecked mariner and storm-beaten sailor, driven to what 
 
 * In this story, which appeared many years prior to the publication 
 of Tennyson's " Enoch Arden," the reader will recognize the germ of 
 that beautiful domestic idyl. 
 300 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 301 
 
 seemed certain death, could tell with gratitude how the in- 
 trepid fellows on shore, under the guidance of his clear head 
 and skilful hand, had been, under heaven, the means of sav- 
 ing their lives. Matthew had never married, to the surprise 
 of every one who knew him : he lived with a sister older 
 than himself, and an orphan girl whom they had brought up. 
 
 Twelve years before, when he had been in the service but 
 a little time, a terrible storm drove a small coasting vessel 
 ashore on the reefs below Downderry, between Plymouth and 
 Looe ; and Matthew, at the risk of his life, had saved a little 
 child, the only rescued creature, from the pitiless sea. She 
 was but six years old, and her father and mother both were 
 drowned. Matthew took her home ; and when he rose, a 
 gray-haired man, from a terrible illness brought on by the 
 peril of that awful night, little Annie Marshall was running 
 about their humble home, a veritable gleam of sunshine in 
 the dulness of their life. She had no friends that they could 
 find out ; and they had kept her, to find, in her gentle care and 
 grateful service, bountiful recompense for all that their benev- 
 olence had done for her. She was a pretty, fair girl, with a 
 certain air of refinement about her which accorded well with 
 her delicate features and slight form ; and she was secretly 
 envied by all the girls, and openly admired by all the lads in 
 the little town. But Annie had no heart to give any one, it 
 was gone out of her keeping ; though only herself and the 
 happy possessor of it knew her secret. 
 
 David Batley was the son of a fisherman, who lived in the 
 next cottage to the Pengellys ; and, being but a few years 
 older than the orphan girl, they had played together as chil- 
 dren, and fallen in love with each other as lad and lass. He 
 was at sea now. With his growing love had grown ambition 
 too ; and he wanted to make more money than he could gather 
 at his trade. His parents had sorrowed over his leaving them 
 at first, but the simple-hearted dwellers by the sea, who draw 
 their daily bread from the deep waters, are used to partings 
 like this : the ocean to them is a high road to life and inde- 
 pendence ; and they consign their best and dearest to its keep- 
 ing, with honest prayers and subdued sorrow. But David 
 was coming home now from a^ long voyage, — might be ex- 
 
302 ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 
 
 pected any time : he had arrived safely in Liverpool, and from 
 thence he had written to say that he was going to give an old 
 acquaintance a hand in his schooner, and that they should be 
 at Looe in a few days, wind and weather permitting. Annie's 
 heart beat high with hope and expectation. David would 
 tell Matthew and his sister of their love, and she should be 
 his wife. Her head was full of bright visions for the future 
 on this stormy evening, as she tripped along the cliff road to 
 where Matthew paced up and down, singing to the sea and 
 sky. 
 
 Now Matthew had a secret, too, which Annie in her sim- 
 plicity had no suspicion of: he loved her, this rugged coast- 
 guardsman, with his rough speech and weather-beaten face, 
 — loved her with all his great honest heart ; but, with all his 
 bravery, he lacked the courage to tell her of if. She was in 
 his thoughts now, as he mused and sang, and looked seaward 
 to where the bright gleam from the Eddystone shone fitfully 
 over the troubled sea. " It's coming up stiffish," he mur- 
 mured, " right from the sou-west. I'm glad it's not Dick 
 Hanway's watch to-night ; he's getting past his work, he is. 
 Why, Annie, lass, is that you ? " 
 
 a Yes, it's I," said the girl, who had come up close behind 
 him. " I've brought your things ; see." 
 
 She held up a little basket and a woollen comforter as she 
 spoke. " Auntie Joan was afraid I should be blown away ; 
 but I would come. I like the wild wind and the dashing sea, 
 though it did take my father and mother from me," she added, 
 with a sadder look coming over her bright young face. 
 
 " But it gave you to me, Annie, instead," said the coast- 
 guardsman, drawing her out of the wind into a sheltered 
 nook in the rock of the cliff. " Sit here a minute, dear, I 
 want to talk to you. You are not sorry I took you from the 
 waves, are you ? " 
 
 " Sorry ! " she exclaimed. " Why, Uncle Matthew, what 
 are you thinking of? Has not my life been one long sun- 
 shine ? Does not every wave that comes lapping on to the 
 beach yonder speak to me of you, and all that you have done 
 for me ? You and auntie have spoiled me ; you know you 
 have." 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 303 
 
 " Don't, Annie, don't," he whispered, as she threw her arms 
 round his neck, and pressed her soft cheek to his. " Sit down 
 by me, darling, and let me tell you all that's in my heart, if 
 it's not too full to let me speak. Do I look so very old to you, 
 Annie ? " 
 
 " Why, what a funny question, uncle." 
 
 " Don't call me that, dear ; we only call old people uncle 
 in Cornwall, you know ; and I do not want you to think me 
 old. I want you to think of me as some one you could love 
 may be ; some one who would lay down his life, if dying 
 would make you happy. I am not crazy, my lass, don't look 
 scared at me ; but the love that's been in my heart for all the 
 years I've had you in my house has found a voice at last. 
 Annie, I love you ! Will you be my wife ? " 
 
 " Your wife ! " 
 
 She could hardly utter the words, so stunned was she by 
 the unexpected avowal ; and her heart turned cold and sick. 
 
 " Yes ; my wife," he replied. u Hold hard a bit, my darl- 
 ing, as I've watched grow up and waited for till my heart 
 seemed fit to burst. Hold hard if you're going to say me nay ; 
 let me have the happy hope that fills my breast for a little 
 longer yet : it has been to me like yonder beacon light, the 
 one glimpse of brightness to keep me in the right way." 
 
 Annie did not speak, but she trembled from head to foot 
 with agitation. What should she say ? What should she do ? 
 To Matthew Pengelly she owed her life and all that made 
 life happy ; he was good and true ; and in his tranquil home 
 there would be peace and protection. But David ! He who 
 was even now on the sea, speeding home to her with joy and 
 hope in his heart, — what would it be to him ? She was on 
 the horns of a dilemma, poor girl, and knew not how to act. 
 Matthew felt her shaking, and drew her close to him. 
 
 " I've frightened you, little one," he said, in a strangely 
 tender voice. " I'm rough in my ways, and blunt in my 
 speech, and may be I've been too sudden for you ; but I 
 love you tender and true, — I do, indeed, dear ; and I've 
 watched and waited for many a long year for the minute 
 when I could clasp you to. my breast, and call you wife ; and 
 I may now, mayn't I, darling ? " 
 
304 ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 
 
 " Stop a bit," she said, breathlessly, " Let me think a little ; 
 it's so sudden, I " — 
 
 " Ay, that's it, — I've been sudden, — think over it, dear ; 
 I think you'll say yes. I've watched you many a time, with 
 your loving ways, and listened to your pretty voice ; and I've 
 said to myself, ' Of course, she'll love me when I ask her ; 
 she can't know any one else that'll be to her what I will. 
 And you don't, do you, darling V ' Oh, speak to me, Annie I 
 Speak, if it's only to dash out the life and hope that fill my 
 breast ; or if you can't say any thing, if you're frightened and 
 shy like, just slip your hand into mine, and let your dumb 
 fingers speak for you." 
 
 " I'm not fit," faltered the poor girl. " I never thought of 
 this : I shouldn't make you a good wife, Matthew." 
 
 " Time'll show that, dear. Is it a bargain ? " 
 
 She made no answer, except to put her hand shyly into his 
 brown palm ; it was well it was too dark for him to see her 
 white face. He gave a gasp, which was almost a sob of joy ; 
 but when he would have folded her in his arms she shrank 
 back with a slight shiver. 
 
 " Let me go," she pleaded. " Let me go home to Auntie 
 Joan." 
 
 M Not auntie any more, dear," he said, tenderly adjusting 
 her cloak. " She'll be your sister from this time. Go home, 
 my birdie, you're all trembling, — go home, and pray that 
 yonder coming storm may do no harm to any poor soul at sea." 
 
 It was a strange betrothal, — the flashing lightning played 
 upon Annie's face as she turned away, and the rumble of the 
 thunder drowned the tender words that her lover sent after. 
 Her lover ! The dashing sea seemed to roar it into her ears, 
 and the whistling wind to shriek it around her head as she 
 hurried along. Matthew Pengelly her lover ! soon to be her 
 husband, and David coming back over the sea hoping to call 
 her his own. It was a strange dilemma for a young girl to be 
 in ; one of those sudden turns of fortune's wheel which dashes 
 the cup of happiness from the lips, and places the bitter 
 draught of duty there instead. And she would do her duty, 
 — she would give Matthew all her obedience, her devotion ; 
 but her love, oh, never ! no that, she must bury forever deep 
 in her own heart ! 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 305 
 
 Matthew looked long and earnestly after her as she went 
 slowly away, his heart beating high with joy. What mattered 
 to him the stormy sea, the cloudy sky, and the prospect of a 
 night of discomfort out of doors ? Annie had promised to be 
 his without a murmur, without a word. 
 
 " Ay," he said to himself, " without a word ; she never made 
 any fuss. I wish she'd kissed me though ; she was so quiet 
 and shy. Eh, my darling, I'll soon break her of that. What 
 have I done that I should be so happy ? Thank God for it I" 
 and he reverently lifted his cap in a moment of grateful joy, 
 and sent up a heartfelt thanksgiving for his new happiness. 
 The sky grew darker and darker, and the sea lashed itself 
 into white foam on the rocks below him ; but he heeded it not 
 in his happy dream, till the sound of a gun came booming 
 over the water. Then the stern voice of duty came back 
 again, and the lover was forgotten. 
 
 " A ship ! " he muttered, " and coming right in, by the 
 sound ! Lord help 'em ! " 
 
 While he spoke, another gun flashed and roared ; and a 
 moment afterwards a blue light gleamed out from the vessel, 
 and he saw her drifting right in. She came upon the pitiless 
 rocks with her helpless crew, — at his very feet it seemed, 
 she was so near. To fire the little beacon, always kept ready 
 to alarm the town, was the work of a moment ; and, ere he 
 had time to take any further measures, hurrying feet came to- 
 wards him through the darkness, and a Babel of voices rose upon 
 the wind. Half the population of the place were astir, ready 
 to help, — the men to risk their lives if need be, the women 
 to succor and restore any who might be saved. It was no 
 uncommon scene on those rocks, with the wind in that quar- 
 ter. Boats were not to be thought of; but the station was 
 rich in the possession of all the appliances for saving life from 
 shipwreck, and the lines and ropes were soon in readiness. 
 
 " What's the ship ? " said an old man, the father of David 
 Batley, pressing forward. " For God's sake, tell me ! " 
 
 " I doubt she's the ' Good Intent,' " said another, in a low 
 tone. " It's a pity the old man's here, poor soul ! " 
 
 " The ' Good Intent ! ' " said Annie, who had come out with 
 Joan Pengelly, and stood clinging to her arm. " Don't say 
 20 
 
306 ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 
 
 that ! And yet, better so, better so ; he's on board, and he'll 
 die." 
 
 The man stared at her in wonder, at her wild face and 
 strange words ; and Matthew came to her side. 
 
 " Annie, dear," he said, gently, " you should not have come 
 here. Such sights are not for the likes of you. Please God, 
 we'll save them. I'm going to fire the rocket, and I never 
 missed my aim yet ; and we'll bring off your old playmate to 
 dance at our wedding. So cheer up, lass, and help me with 
 your prayers." 
 
 Annie clung to Joan's side in an agony of fear, as amid 
 breathless silence the rocket went whizzing through the air, 
 and an answering shout told that it had been well aimed. 
 Then they gave back shout for shout as they paid out the line, 
 and ere long felt it tighten in their grasp. Then the cradle 
 was hooked on, and lowered ; and they lent themselves with a 
 will to pull it up. Slowly and heavily it came with its living 
 burden, — a man, a woman, and a little boy. 
 
 A few breathless questions asked and answered, and the 
 basket was lowered again, this time in breathless silence ; for 
 they heard that their young townsman was badly hurt and 
 unable to move, and that two out of the little crew were gone 
 forever. Some one must go down, but who ? The ship was 
 beginning to break up, and it was a chance if he who went 
 ever came back again. Old Jonathan Batley threw himself 
 at Matthew Pengelly's feet, sobbing the tearless sobs of old 
 age. 
 
 " My boy ! my boy ! " he murmured. " Fetch my boy for 
 his mother's sake ! " 
 
 " I will, Heaven helping me," he said, solemnly. " Bear a 
 hand, mates, and lower quietly : I'm a good weight." 
 
 He turned for a moment to Annie : her self-control had 
 entirely deserted her ; and she was struggling frantically with 
 Joan, as though she would have thrown herself into the sea. 
 
 " Let me go," she was saying. " If he can't be saved, let 
 me die too ! " 
 
 Matthew heard her words ; and the brave light died out of 
 his eyes, and for a moment his head drooped. Only for a 
 moment, however ; and he stood erect again with a white face, 
 and took both her hands. 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 307 
 
 " Annie, if I don't die with him," he said, " I'll bring him 
 back to you." 
 
 His words recalled her to herself, and she shrieked after him 
 to stay ; but he was already half-way down, and she could only 
 dimly see the moving ropes which lowered him into what 
 seemed a huge grave. Her over-strained nerves could hear no 
 more, and she fainted in Joan's arms. 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 MARRIED. 
 
 " Married ! married ! and not to me ! 
 Is it a dream ? or can it be ? " 
 
 It was with straining eyes and aching hearts that those 
 above watched the descent of the basket with their brave 
 comrade in it ; for every moment increased the danger to life 
 and limb. The cable was slackening, the timbers of the 
 devoted vessel parting and cracking, and many a heart- 
 felt prayer went up for his safety and the preservation of 
 those he went to save. Joan hid her face on Annie's insensi- 
 ble form, and tried to shut out all sight and hearing till time 
 enough had passed to make suspense into certainty either for 
 good or ill. 
 
 " Don't touch her ; let her alone," she said to those who 
 would have tried to revive the unconscious girl. " She'll 
 rouse soon enough ; it '11 only be to hear he's gone from us 
 forever." 
 
 " Don't say that, Aunt Joan," said a lad at her side, who 
 held up a lantern. " Uncle Matthew'll come back to us, 
 never fear. Hurrah ! they're pulling again ! Easy now, lads ! 
 altogether ! " 
 
 And, joining his fresh young voice to swell the shouts that 
 rang on every side, he laid to with a will, and helped to pull 
 up the basket once more. Very slowly now ; it was the last 
 time they would pull any one up out of that doomed wreck, 
 and they sadly hoped that they might be all there. A dozen 
 
308 ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 
 
 willing hands seized the edge of the cradle, as a last vigorous 
 pull brought it up to their feet, and fifty voices cried out, 
 " Well done, Matthew ! " But a stranger stepped out. There 
 was no Matthew there. Two sailors, and the insensible body 
 of David Batley, sorely cut and bruised, but not their brave 
 companion. " Where is he ? where is he ? " they cried 
 unanimously, as the two men stood unhurt among them, and 
 Jonathan Batley's son was laid tenderly on a tarpaulin till 
 they could carry him away. 
 
 " On board," replied one of the sailors. " He wouldn't 
 come ; said he could swim. He bid us care well for the lad 
 there ; said his folk were waiting for him up here." 
 
 " Swim in such a sea ! " said the men. " Impossible ! Down 
 with the basket, mates ; it may be in time yet. 
 
 " No," said the sailor who had just come up ; " 'twould be 
 surer death. The ' Good Intent's " broken her back on those 
 cursed rocks, and your tackle won't hold. See ! " 
 
 Even as he spoke, there was a crash below them ; and the 
 hawser hung limp and loose over the rock. 
 
 " O Matthew, Matthew ! " moaned poor Joan, " why did 
 you go to your death, and leave me all alone ? " 
 
 " Don't say that, ma'am," said one of the rescued men ; 
 " please God we'll save him yet. He can swim, you say ? " 
 
 "Like a fish," said two or three voices. "And the cur- 
 rent's setting right in, and there's soft beach at Pleady. 
 There's hope, yet, Joan ! " 
 
 " You stay here," said a coast-guardsman to the dripping 
 sailor, who was for scrambling off with the rest to the place 
 indicated ; " you've had enough for one night, I reckon." 
 
 " I'm none the worse, now I've had a pull at your brandy," 
 he answered ; " and it shan't be said that Bill Dawson, of the 
 i Good Intent,' left any one to die after he owed his life to 
 them. Keep up heart, old lady, and you my pretty flower : 
 we'll have him out yet, please God." 
 
 It was not Heaven's will that the noble life should be sacri- 
 ficed that night ; and, when they reached the little bit of soft 
 sand, Matthew Pengelly lay prone and exhausted upon it. 
 His thorough knowledge of where he was, and the current 
 setting that way, had saved him from being dashed upon the 
 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 309 
 
 rocks ; and a wild shout of exultation rang up to tell those 
 above of his safety. Down through a speaking trumpet came 
 the question — 
 
 « Alive ? " — " Ay." — " Well ? " -— " Ay." 
 
 And there came another hurrah till the very rocks re-echoed ; 
 and Annie, who had recovered enough to comprehend what 
 was going on, burst into passionate tears. 
 
 " Thank the Lord ! " exclaimed old Jonathan Batley, sol- 
 emnly, uncovering his white head, while tears streamed down 
 his aged cheeks. 
 
 " Ay, thank the Lord, indeed," said the young girl, wildly ; 
 " thank Him for me, auntie, dear, for I've been nearly a mur- 
 derer this night ; I have indeed. Take me home, Aunt Joan, 
 and I'll ask you and Heaven to forgive me." 
 
 " Poor child ! she's overcome, and no wonder," said Joan, 
 tenderly. " We'll go, dear, and Matthew '11 be there before 
 us, to say his thankful prayers along with us. Come along, 
 darling, they'll take the Undercliff way." 
 
 They went slowly towards the town, and David Batley was 
 borne gently along with them ; and at the end of the little 
 straggling streets they met Matthew. He was very white and 
 weary-looking, and was supported by two men : but he smiled, 
 and told them he was none the worse ; and they helped him 
 into the house, and laid him on his bed. Annie would have 
 ministered to him ; she could have wept her heart out over 
 him ; but he kissed her hand, and put her lovingly away. " Let 
 Joan wait upon me," he said, " she's used to it : sit where I 
 can see you, darling, that's all I want of you to-night." 
 
 So she sat down where the firelight fell upon her fair face 
 and sunny hair, and mused with a sad heart over all that had 
 passed that evening. Her mind was made up : she would do 
 her duty to the man who had been a father to her till this 
 day ; and David should help her to do it. She would tell him 
 all, and he would go away and forget her. And she — no, she 
 should never forget him ; but she would strive to think of him 
 as a friend, a brother, — any thing which would not interfere 
 with her wifely duties. She glanced at the pale, exhausted 
 face of the man who loved her so truly, and vowed in her 
 heart that she would never in word or deed do aught unbe- 
 
310 ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 
 
 coming to a good man's wife. And so the night wore on, and 
 morning brought relief to all the anxious watchers. 
 
 Matthew was, as he said, only shaken and bruised ; and the 
 doctor called in to David Batley gave every hope of his 
 speedy recovery, though he was seriously injured. Annie was 
 very calm and quiet, going about her usual avocations with a 
 serenity that astonished Matthew very much. 
 
 " Can I have made a mistake after all ? " he asked himself. 
 " But no ; her words, her manner, all convince me of the 
 truth. I was an old fool to think she could love me. I'll talk 
 to her this very day." 
 
 It was evening before he could make up his mind or get an 
 opportunity ; and then his words seemed as though they would 
 not come : it was so hard to dash away his own cup of happi- 
 ness from his lips. He chose a moment when his sister went 
 out for something to draw close to Annie, and begin. 
 
 " I want to speak to you, dear." 
 
 " Well, Matthew." 
 
 He started at her words. It was not Uncle Matthew now, 
 and she slid her hand into his as she had done on the cliff. 
 
 " I want to give you back your promise, Annie. I was 
 wrong to talk to you of love. I didn't know — I thought " — 
 
 " Thought what ? " 
 
 " That your heart was yours to give me, my child. Nay, 
 never blush ; it's no fault of yours : it was only an old man's 
 mistake, that's all." 
 
 " I said what I meant when I promised to be your wife," 
 she said simply ; " and I'll keep my word, Matthew. Can't 
 you trust me ? " 
 
 " Trust you ! " he said, with a world of tenderness in his 
 voice, " ay, with my life ; but I want to make you happy, 
 Annie, that's all." 
 
 " And so you will, I'm sure of it ; and I'll do my best, if 
 you'll put up with my ways, to be a good, true wife to you. 
 You think I love David," she went on, her face flushing all 
 over. " I saw it in your eyes last night upon the cliff; and so 
 I do, but as a sister loves. Will you believe me when he 
 wishes you joy himself, and tells you that Annie Marshall was 
 his little sister always ? " 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 311 
 
 " Will he do it ? " 
 
 " Yes," she replied, unhesitatingly : she had faith enough in 
 him to believe that he would help her to the sacrifice. 
 
 u Then God bless you, my own wife," Matthew said sol- 
 emnly ; and she went away to spend a weary night of watch- 
 ing and weeping, praying in wild fashion for help and comfort 
 in her chosen path of duty. The next day she was able to 
 see David, and talk to him ; but it was too soon to tell him 
 all that was in her heart, and many days slipped by ere she 
 could do it. The time came at last, when, weak and wan, he 
 was able to crawl out into the sunshine, and walk feebly 
 about upon the beach. Then, in one quiet interview, Annie 
 told him all, — how Matthew loved her ; how she wished to do 
 her duty, and be his wife ; how her heart could never go with 
 her hand ; and she besought her young lover, with bitter 
 tears, to help her to do right. It was a sore trial to David 
 Batley. At first, he was sorely tempted to curse her for her 
 faithlessness, and leave her in her sorrow ; but his better 
 nature triumphed : he would not make her struggle greater 
 than it was. 
 
 " I owe my life to him," he said. " But for him I should 
 have lain at the bottom of yonder sea. Why did he save me 
 for this ? I had better have died while I had the knowledge 
 of your love." 
 
 " You have it, David, now and forever ; but you will not 
 betray the knowledge to him who has befriended me all my 
 life, and who wants to be a better friend still. You will help 
 me, David ? " 
 
 The promise was given at length, almost with a broken 
 heart ; and David Batley, with a calm face and steady voice, 
 wished Matthew Pengelly joy of his fair young bride, and 
 once more turned his back upon his home. He could not stay 
 to see them married, though Matthew and Joan both begged 
 him to do so ; and he went to London to seek a ship, with a 
 bitter wish in his heart that he might never come home any 
 more. Annie went about as usual ; though there were those 
 who noticed, that, after the night on which the " Good Intent " 
 was wrecked, she was graver and quieter than of yore — 
 not so fond of singing as she worked, or of running about 
 
312 ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 
 
 here, there, and everywhere, as was her wont before that 
 catastrophe. Joan was well pleased at the change : she 
 thought it was seemly that her brother's xuture wife should, 
 as she said, " behave herself; " and she set about all sorts of 
 preparations for the wedding, in which Annie assisted, if not 
 with all her heart, at least with all her fingers. News came 
 from David that he had got a ship, and was going away for 
 twelve months. He sent his best wishes to the bride, and a 
 handsome shawl purchased at a fine London shop. Poor fel- 
 low ! it was paid for with the money he had saved, as he 
 thought, for his wedding ; and the bride-expectant wept silent 
 tears over it as she put it away. Joan would have had her 
 wear it on the occasion, but she would not hear of it. " She 
 would wear the dress she had prepared," she said, " and no 
 other ; " so the handsome present lay hidden in the bottom 
 of her box, a very skeleton among her simple trousseau. A 
 bright, clear, spring sunshine shone upon her wedding-day, 
 making the little flowers lift their bright heads in welcome, 
 and filling the old folks' mouths with pleasant predictions. 
 
 " Happy is the bride that the sun shines on," says the prov- 
 erb ; and, if Annie was not happy, she was calm and peace- 
 ful in the reflection of Matthew's radiant joy. The good 
 peeple of Looe, one and all, remarked that he looked years 
 younger since the dawn of his fulfilled hopes ; and they fore- 
 told a pleasant life to the young creature who had given her 
 future into his keeping. They walked to church, accompa- 
 nied by hosts of friends, as is the custom in that primitive 
 little place, and back again in the same simple style. There 
 was open house to all who liked to come, and plenty of good 
 cheer ; and, when evening came, Matthew took his bride 
 away in a jingling post-chaise with two horses, a turn-out 
 seldom attempted in the town, to Plymouth , the London of 
 the west, to give her a two days' sight of the wonders to be 
 seen there ; and Jonathan Batley wrote a circumstantial his- 
 tory of all the grand doings to his son, which he received 
 many a month after, and read with bitter pain gnawing at his 
 heart, in a far-off land of spices and myrtle and glowing sun- 
 shine, with the image of Annie's sunny hair ever floating 
 between his eyes and the paper. 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 313 
 
 CHAPTER TIL 
 
 SLEEPING THE LAST SLEEP. 
 
 " Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
 Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; 
 Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
 And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
 Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! 
 Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled ; 
 You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will. 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still." — Moore. 
 
 Seven years passed swiftly over Annie's bead, bringing 
 many changes ; making her a matronly, thoughtful woman, 
 and leaving darkening shadows on her daily path. She had 
 been a good, faithful wife to Matthew Pengelly, learning to 
 love him as he deserved, and regarding David Batley, when 
 he came and went, as a brother, to be loved always, but with 
 no un wifely love. But Annie was alone now : the pretty 
 home, which the tender love of a good man had furnished 
 with everything that could add to her comfort and happiness, 
 was desolate ; three names on a pretty tombstone in the little 
 churchyard which overhung the sea were all that was left to 
 her of her wifely happiness. Joan had died soon after their 
 marriage : then they had laid their only child in the same grave, 
 with sorrow which the mother thought could never be sur- 
 passed. Poor wife ! there was a deeper sorrow in store for 
 her : for the past two years the stone had borne another name, 
 and her cup of grief was full. Under the record of Joan's 
 death and the baby's came the words : — 
 
 Also to the Memory of 
 
 Matthew Pexgelly, 
 
 Lost at Sea, March 10th, 18—. 
 
 " iSTot lost, but gone before." 
 
 Matthew had had a good chance offered him of going to 
 sea, as part owner of a small vessel bound on a whaling expe- 
 dition. She had been built under his own eye, and he saw a 
 way to making money for Annie if he went ; and with many 
 
314 ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 
 
 tears and misgivings, she consented to the separation. Alas ! 
 her forebodings were only too real : the end of the year that 
 was to have brought him home brought only the dismal tidings 
 of his loss ; the vessel had been wrecked, and two of her crew 
 were missing, one of them being Matthew Pengelly. It was 
 a terrible trial to the young wife ; but she bore it bravely and 
 well, setting her worldly affairs in order, and striving to act in 
 all things as would have pleased him had he been there to see 
 her. She had enough to live on in her simple way, but she 
 employed her time in needlework, for Joan had taught her 
 well in the old days ; and there was not such a skilful hand 
 for miles around as " Young Widow Pengelly," as she came 
 to be called by the neighbors. She might have married over 
 and over again : her pretty face and independent position 
 won for her many suitors ; but she turned from them all with 
 aversion and disgust. There were none among them to be 
 compared to him, — the dead husband of her youth, — so good, 
 so tender, and so true. David Batley had never spoken- of 
 love to her since the time, so long ago, when both their hearts 
 had well-nigh broken over the^ sacrifice of their love to her 
 sense of duty. He was unmarried, and, people said, fast get- 
 ting rich ; but he seemed to have no heart for any of the girls, 
 who were quite ready to accept him whenever he should offer 
 himself to them. More new bonnets and smart dresses were 
 donned in his honor, when he came home from his long 
 voyages, than in his simplicity he ever dreamed of. He went 
 his way among them, fancy free to all appearances, doing a 
 loving son's duty to his old father and mother, till the latter 
 faded away into her quiet grave, her last spoken words a bless- 
 ing on his dutiful head. Then their home grew very lonely, 
 and his heart turned once more to her who had never lost her 
 place in it. He had never ceased to love her deeply and 
 truly ; his heart was as much hers now as it had ever been, 
 when he strolled by her side in the bright sunshine, and built 
 fairy castles in the air to be dwelt in some time in the glowing 
 future. But would she have him now ? Would she turn 
 from him again, after his long years of probation and patient 
 weary waiting ? He scarcely dared to hope it ; and yet he 
 resolved to " put his fate to the touch, and win or lose it all." 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 315 
 
 He would ask her the first fitting opportunity, and the oppor- 
 tunity came sooner than he dared to hope. It was a bright 
 summer day : the air was redolent of the breath of sweet 
 flowers, and the clear blue sea broke in light waves upon the 
 beach, flecking the shingle with diamond sparkles. David 
 Batley strolled up to the old churchyard, which lies on the 
 top of a hill overlooking the sea, where the dead lie in their 
 quiet graves, with the mighty ocean, where so many of them 
 have met their death, plashing and heaving at their feet. 
 Many a story of wreck and disaster do the stones of that old 
 churchyard tell ; and the young man sighed over many a name 
 he had known in life, as he passed to his mother's grave. It 
 was not far from the place where Matthew Pengelly's name 
 was inscribed below his sister's and his child's. Annie's loving 
 hands had made a garden of the little plot, and it was bright 
 with summer flowers. She was kneeling by it now, training a 
 creeper so that it should be a framework for the names she 
 loved ; and he stood and watched her for some moments unob- 
 served. When she looked up it was to meet his earnest eyes 
 gazing at her with the old look she so well remembered, and 
 to have her hands taken in both his. 
 
 " Annie," he said, " let me speak to you." 
 
 She divined what he would say, and drew back from the 
 grave. 
 
 " Not here," she said ; " not in the sight of that stone, 
 David. Come away." 
 
 " And why not here, Annie ? He loved me as a lad, and I 
 loved him. I think if he could look down upon us now he 
 would give you to me. You know what I would say to you ; 
 my heart has never changed ; and I have waited, as Jacob 
 waited for Rachel, seven long, weary years. Don't send me 
 away to sea again, with no hope save that I may die in the 
 dark waters as I have seen others die." 
 
 " Don't talk like that, David : we have all something to live 
 for." 
 
 " I only live for you. Have pity on me, and think what my 
 lonely life has been. Say you have not forgotten the old love 
 quite, that you will give me some little hope." 
 
 " I cannot," she said, shuddering. " I have never forgotten 
 
316 ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 
 
 our love, David : but we were boy and girl then ; and since 
 that time I have been a good man's happy, honored wife. I 
 feel as if I were wronging even his memory in even thinking 
 of another." 
 
 " You do love me ! I know you do. These are idle fancies, 
 dear Annie. Could poor Matthew see you now, he would be 
 glad you had a true heart to protect you. You have seen how 
 patient I have been ; and, with Heaven's help, I will show you 
 how loving I can be. Don't say me nay, or I swear that I 
 will never set foot in my home again, or strive to" — 
 
 " Hush, David ! Don't talk so wildly. Let me have till 
 to-morrow to think, to pray that I may do what is right. I 
 do love you — hush ! don't speak yet ; but, 'mid all my 
 thoughts of you, his voice seems to sound in my ear, his face 
 to rise ever before me, and bid me pause and reflect." 
 
 " You're too much alone, darling, that's it. Do think of it. 
 What, you won't kiss me ! Well, well ! I'll live and hope. 
 Go home, my own Annie, — my wife that will be yet, I trust." 
 
 Annie did go home, and think, and pray ; and two days from 
 that time saw her the promised wife of David Batley. All 
 the town sympathized with the joy of the bridegroom, and 
 the bride was envied by half the women in the place. A 
 speedy union theirs was to be. David had waited too long 
 for his happiness to be patient any longer, and it mattered 
 little to Annie when once her word was given. Before the 
 autumn was over they were married in the little church where 
 she had plighted her troth to Matthew, and seldom had the 
 quiet place seen so gay a wedding. When the bride and 
 bridegroom had gone home, and the crowd dispersed, an old, 
 weather-beaten sailor rose from a tombstone where he had 
 been sitting gazing on what was going on, and addressed a 
 woman who was slowly sauntering away. 
 
 " I say, Missis ! " 
 
 " Well ! " 
 
 " Is there ere a Missis Pengelly lives here ? " 
 
 The woman stared at him with a blank face. 
 
 " Mrs. Pengelly ! " she repeated. 
 
 " Ay, wife of one Matthew Pengelly, as went to sea long 
 since, and never come back." 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 317 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she said, clutching him by the 
 arm, and staring straight into his face. " You're not he, are 
 you ? " 
 
 " No, I'm his mate ; though he's a'most such another old 
 scarecrow as I am. He bid me come here, and look at the 
 tombstones, and see if his wife was dead. I can't find her 
 name." 
 
 " Better she were — better she were ! Did you see yonder 
 handsome bride and joyous bridegroom ? " 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 The woman was Annie Pengelly ; the man, the lad David 
 Batley, that he saved from death long ago. She thought him 
 dead. Look here." 
 
 She led him to the tomb which recorded the loss of Matthew 
 Pengelly, and showed him the name. 
 
 " She's mourned him long and true," she said ; " and David 
 Batley's loved her through it all ; and what'll come of it now ? ' 
 
 " Misery for all," the old man said. " Matthew Pengelly's 
 on his way here from Penzance in a trawler : I'm to meet him 
 at Downderry yonder ; for his heart failed him at the thought 
 of coming home, and finding her dead. But it's worse ; it's 
 worse ! " 
 
 " Don't take on ; there's comfort yet, may be." 
 
 " Comfort ! Ay, pretty comfort to a man who's been a slave 
 to savages, and endured hunger, thirst, and privation of all 
 sorts, with one hope in his heart to buoy him up ; it's a com- 
 fort to him to come home, and find his wife married to another, 
 isn't it ? I love Matthew Pengelly as though he were my own 
 brother, and I'd rather jump into the deep sea yonder than 
 to carry this news to him." 
 
 The woman went her way into the town, and the sailor 
 walked slowly away towards Downderry. She did not go 
 straight to Annie, and tell her, but she hinted of something 
 terrible about to happen : and her gossips talked ; and ere long 
 Matthew's name was in every mouth, though the majority of 
 the talkers scarce knew why. To David Batley and his bride 
 it came at length, scaring away the sunshine of their wedding 
 day, and filling their hearts with sickening terror. They found 
 the woman who had talked with the old sailor, and from her 
 they extracted the truth. 
 
318 ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 
 
 " You had better go away," she urged in her fright. 
 " There'll be murder maybe if he finds you here." 
 
 11 David will go," Annie said, with white lips. " There has 
 been no wrong done, but it is best he should. He will leave 
 me ; and I, — I will go to Downderry to meet my husband." 
 
 They tried to dissuade her, but she was firm ; and David let 
 her go. She put off her bridal attire, and went away unat- 
 tended, though the sky was lowering by this time, and the 
 waves had begun to dash and moan upon the beach as they 
 had done on the night when the coast-guardsman had asked 
 her to be his wife. That evening was ever present to her 
 thoughts now as she walked along with her head bent against 
 the wind : he was coming back ; and the old life would begin 
 once more. Her heart was full of mingled joy and sorrow : 
 joy for him ; sorrow for the suffering, loving heart she had left 
 behind. She found the old sailor without any difficulty ; he 
 was wandering about in a purposeless fashion : and, making 
 herself known to him, she heard all he had to tell of Mat- 
 thew's long sojourn among the Esquimaux, who had rescued 
 him from death, and of his fear lest he might find some disaster 
 had happened to his home. She wept bitter tears over the 
 sad tale ; but there was joy mixed with it at the thought of 
 how she would atone to him for all : and she waited with terri- 
 ble impatience the coming of the vessel which was to bring 
 him back. " They can't be longer than to-night," the old 
 man said. " I've travelled up from Penzance, and they should 
 have been here as soon as me. This wind's in their favour, 
 though it's a bit too strong to be good for 'em just now." 
 
 It rose to a gale ere the night was over ; and Annie's heart 
 grew sick as she sat in the station-house window, watching 
 the boiling waves below her. None of them could persuade 
 her to take any rest ; her aching heart would not let her. 
 The morning dawned clear and bright, but no tidings of 
 the little vessel ; and she returned to Looe with strange fore- 
 bodings filling her breast. David had shut himself up, and 
 would see no one ; and she went about her little home, won- 
 dering whether it were all some dreadful dream from which 
 she should presently awake. So passed that day, and the 
 next ; and on the evening of the second a fisherman stumbled 
 
ANNIE MARSHALL'S DESTINY. 319 
 
 over the body of a man lying face downwards on the sand 
 about a mile from the town. He gave the alarm, and soon 
 the rumor went round that a corpse had been washed ashore. 
 It was too common an occurrence to cause very much excite- 
 ment ; but Annie, with a wild fear choking at her heart, 
 rushed madly to the little beach. The men did not recognize 
 the careworn face, with its long beard and silver hair : but she 
 did ; and, with a long, wild cry, she threw herself upon the cold 
 form. Yes, it was Matthew Pengelly, dead upon the very 
 spot where he had lain exhausted after saving David Batley's 
 life. The roar of the storm had been his only welcome to the 
 home he left so happy ; the cold clasp of the booming waves 
 the only embrace for him on this side of eternity. There is but 
 little more to tell of this true but simple history. Nothing was 
 ever heard of the trawler or her crew : she had foundered in 
 the storm, and gone to the bottom with all on board save him 
 who had floated home to be buried among his own kin. 
 Annie mourned him afresh, with a grief that would not be 
 comforted ; and David Batley went away with a stricken 
 heart to sea once more. There came a time, however, when 
 his patience won the treasure he coveted ; and, ere he laid his 
 father's head in the grave, the old man blessed Annie Pengelly 
 as a daughter, and prayed that the love and duty she had 
 shown in this world might be rewarded in that which is to 
 
JOHN L. SHOREY'S 
 
 New and Standard Publications. 
 
 T 
 
 ~^HE EMERALD. A Collection of Graphic and 
 Entertaining Tales, Brilliant Essays, Poems, 
 &c. Being the first issue of The Gem Series. 
 Edited by Epes Sargent. 
 
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