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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 PROFESSOR 
 GEORGE R. STEWART 
 
 » 
 
 University of California • Berkeley 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2007 witii funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/amarantliortokenoOOpercricli 
 
THE 
 
 AMAEANTH: 
 
 OR, 
 
 TOKEN OF REMEMBRANCE 
 
 mxmmu M& §m %m'^ &>lit 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 EMILY PERCITAL. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY LEAVITT & ALLEN. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 rO JULIET, 9 
 
 EDUCATED WOMEN, 11 
 
 FAITH'S VIGIL, 87 
 
 THE MANGLING llOOM, 29 
 
 THE WISH, 49 
 
 FOREST OF ARDEN, 51 
 
 THE JEWELLER'S DAUGHTER, 53 
 
 STANZAS, 95 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF THE FANCIES, 97 
 
 OLIVIA, 100 
 
 THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE, 102 
 
 THE WAYSIDE BROOK, 129 
 
 TO THE FRIEND OF MY HEART, 131 
 
 A STROLL BY THE RIVER AMSTEL, 134 
 
 OLD CHRISTMAS, 148 
 
 CLOUD MUSINGS MB 
 
 1* (6) 
 
g CONTENTS. 
 
 DAY, . 157 
 
 LEICESTER ABBEY, 160 
 
 MKS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNY, . . . 162 
 
 SCANDAL IN FAIRYLAND, . . .... 173 
 
 LIFE'S KOH-I-NOOR, 175 
 
 MR. JOHN CAMPBELL'S MISTAKES 178 
 
 SONNET, 197 
 
 MIRANDA, 198 
 
 KATIE YALE'S MARRIAGE, 200 
 
 FAITH, . 210 
 
 AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLEBT, . . . .211 
 
 CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS, 286 
 
 LOOK BEFORE THEE, . . 9S8 
 
 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY, 230 
 
 DESPAIR NOT, . 260 
 
 TO MY BELOVED, . 961 
 
 SOUTHAMPTON, 263 
 
 THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE, 265 
 
 SONNET, 279 
 
 FAR FROM THE HUM OF MEN, 280 
 
THE AMAEANTH 
 
 TO JULIET. 
 
 Sweet lady, look not thus again ; 
 
 Those bright, deluding smiles recall ; 
 A maid remembered now with pain, 
 
 Who was my love, my life, my all. 
 
 O, while this heart bewildered took 
 Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, 
 
 Thus would she smile, and lisp, and look 
 And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh. 
 
 Yes, I did love her — wildly love ; 
 
 She was her sex's best deceiver ; 
 And oft she swore she'd never rove ; 
 
 And I was destined to believe her. 
 
 (9) 
 
10 TO JULIET. 
 
 Then, lady, do not wear the smile 
 
 Of one whose smile could thus betray ; 
 
 Alas ! I think the lovely wile 
 Again could steal my heart away. 
 
 For, when those spells that charmed my mind 
 On lips so pure as thine I see, 
 
 I fear the heart which she resigned 
 Will err again and fly to thee. 
 
EDUCATED WOMEN. 
 
 BY MRS ABDT. 
 
 Let not my readers be alarmed at the title of my 
 paper. I am not going to advocate the claims of lady 
 colleges, on the one hand, or cookery schools, on the 
 other. I hold that education to be the best which not 
 only fits a woman for the station which she is likely to 
 fill in the world, but which so strengthens her character 
 that, should fortune see fit to elevate her to a higher or 
 depress her to a lower station, she would still be able to 
 act in becoming accordance with its duties. Illustration 
 is often better than precept : I will therefore give a 
 short sketch of three married women of my acquaint- 
 ance who, in my opinion, admirably exemplify the effects 
 of a judicious education ; but, lest my readers should 
 surmise that I am about to inflict upon them the delin- 
 eation of paragons of perfection, I Avill tell them before- 
 hand that each of these exemplary persons possesses 
 one fault, which I am about to point out, with the hope 
 
 (11) 
 
12 EDUCATED WOMEN. 
 
 that, in their case as well as in that of many others, it 
 may be not only confessed, but amended. 
 
 Lady Corwyn was the daughter of a quiet widow 
 with a moderate income, who was prevented, partly by 
 ill health and partly by an indolent disposition, from 
 introducing her daughter into general society. Sir 
 James Corwyn, however, a baronet with a fine country 
 seat and fifteen thousand a year, obtained an introduc- 
 tion to the secluded fair one at the house of one of her 
 relations, and a marriage took place. Twenty years 
 have elapsed since that event. Lady Corwyn is now 
 eight and thirty; and her country neighbors and her 
 London associates, her husband's friends, nay, even her 
 husband's family, those chartered critics of a wife's 
 sayings and doings, unite in praising the uniform pro- 
 priety of her conduct — propriety which does not array 
 itself in buckram, but which is evinced by the exquisite 
 good taste and ease with which every relaxation of life 
 is enjoyed, every social and domestic duty performed. 
 Sir James Corwyn and his family pass the spring in 
 London ; it is his wish that his wife should mingle with 
 the gay world ; and she does so cheerfully and wilhngly 
 She is no flirt ; yet men love to congregate around her 
 and to listen to her animated, sparkhng anecdotes. She 
 is no flatterer ; yet women consult her in their millinery 
 dilemmas and girls eagerly seek her as a chaperon. 
 
EDI^CATKD WOMEV. 13 
 
 Eight months of the year, ho v^ ever, she passes at her 
 husband's country seat ; here she is the kind benefactress 
 of the poor and the wise and prudent manager of her 
 household. She keeps up an extensive circle of visiting 
 acquaintance ; but, as her habits are very active, she 
 finds time for many other pursuits, from the cultivation 
 of her mind to that of her flower garden, from playing 
 chess and singing duets with her husband to directing 
 the studies and sharing the pastimes of her children. 
 She has a son, nineteen years of age, who is already 
 distinguished by his talent and excellence, and two 
 daughters, of fifteen and sixteen, who have not yet 
 " come out." When they do so it is predicted that they 
 will meet with excellent opportunities of marrying. 
 Girls brought up under the inspection of such a mother 
 may be safely trusted to make admirable wives. 
 
 Mrs. Stafford is about nine and twenty ; ten years ago 
 she married a very rich merchant ; her tastes and habits 
 were expensive ; she enjoyed her splendid dresses and 
 elegant carriages. These inclinations, however, qualified 
 her but the more for the station she was called upon to 
 fill. Stafford valued wealth not for its own sake, but 
 for the sake of the luxuries that it procured ; and a vvife 
 incapable of spending money would have been in his 
 (^}>inion quite unworthy of possessing it. Yet Mrs. 
 Srafibrd was no frivolous, thoughtless worldling ; two 
 
14 EDUCATED WOMEN. 
 
 points she strenuously urged on her husband — to give 
 liberally in charity from his abundance, and to abstain 
 from all speculative attempts to increase the fortune 
 which was already more than sufficient for every rea- 
 sonable want and wish. Stafford was quite willing to 
 oblige his wife in the first particular. So long as she 
 did not require him to devote his time and thoughts to 
 the service of his distressed fellow-creatures she might 
 command checks on his banker for their use ; but the 
 second part of her counsel was more difficult to follow. 
 Stafford entered into a tempting speculation ; it failed, 
 embarrassments ensued, and, although he was enabled 
 to pay every body, he was reduced to the very unpleas- 
 ant necessity of — so runs the mercantile phrase — 
 " beginning life again." To " begin life again " is the 
 frequent aspiration of poets ; but it is very seldom de- 
 siderated by merchants, still less by merchants' wives. 
 Stafford felt the shock even more for his dear, indulged, 
 pampered wife than he did for himself; but he was 
 speedily comforted and encouraged by the mingled spirit 
 and sweetness with w^hich she accommodated herself to 
 her new situation. She parted with her jewels, locked 
 up I er finery, and looked far prettier in a muslin dress 
 and straw bonnet than she had ever done in the most 
 elaborate Paris fashions. She managed her little house- 
 hold so well that it did not bear tlie appearance of 
 
EDUCATED WOMEN. 15 
 
 having cost her any trouble to manage ; neither did she 
 make a point of abjuring recreations and amusements. 
 The well-chosen books arrayed in splendid bindings had 
 passed into other hands; but cheap literature and a 
 subscription to a neighboring circulating library supplied 
 the deficiency. Balls and banquets were henceforth to 
 be unknown to her husband and herself; but the lecture 
 room, the concert room, and the social meeting at a 
 friend's house remained open to them. Carriages and 
 horses were extinct ; but IVIrs. Stafford's step was more 
 light and the roses bloomed more freshly in her cheeks 
 Bince she had been what her commiserating friends de- 
 nominated " reduced to walking." No one said of Mrs 
 Stafford that she bore her altered circumstances well, 
 for she did not seem to consider them as troubles ; she 
 was just as smiling, happy, and pleasant as when en- 
 cumbered with a large house, a colony of servants, and 
 an income to match. She will not long, however, con- 
 tinue to live in a confined manner ; for I have just heard 
 of the death of a relation of Stafford's, who cut him out 
 of his will for marrying a fine lady, and put him in 
 again when his reverse of fortune discovered to his 
 friends that a fine lady may be a very earnest, simple, 
 loving woman. I believe the money that Stafford will 
 inherit amounts to a large sum ; but no matter : I have 
 80 firm a trust in the consistency of Mrs. Stafford that 
 
16 EDUCATED WOMEN. 
 
 I should not fear for her even if it were discovered thai 
 her husband possessed a vested right in the largest gold 
 field in Austraha. 
 
 My third paragon, IMi-s. Rushton, is the wife of a 
 country clergyman ; she is four and twenty years old 
 and much handsomer than my other two favorites — in 
 fact, she is a decided beauty ; and when, at the age of 
 eighteen, she was well introduced into the gay world by 
 an aunt, and known to be the independent possessor of 
 ten thousand pounds, no one can be surprised that her 
 conquests were many and extensive ; she was the belle 
 of the ball room, the goddess of tableaux vivans, the 
 heroine of acted charades ; verses were written to her, 
 sketches were made of her, and hearts and hands — 
 some of them very desirable ones — were proffered 
 to her acceptance. Her aunt was never easy but in 
 society, and certainly she rejoiced in a most complaisant 
 niece ; the young beauty was never tired, never low 
 spirited, never pale, never sleepy, never troubled with 
 the headache. For three years she remained in a con- 
 stant vortex of amusement and dissipation, till at length 
 she made choice of one of her suitors ; and to the as- 
 tonishment of every body he proved to be a quiet coun- 
 try clergyman residing in a distant village on a small 
 living. Poor man ! I wonder that he ever found cour- 
 age to propose to her. How divided he must have 
 
EDUCATED WOMEN. 17 
 
 been ])etween fear of being refused and fear of gaining 
 a very unsuitable wife for himself if he should be ac- 
 cepted ! Her aunt vehemently opposed her marriage ; 
 but, as she was of age, it was impossible to prevent it ; 
 and, as the income which her lover derived from his 
 living was somewhat more than she herself drew from 
 her ten thousand pounds, all threats held out of ultimate 
 starvation were of course to be regarded in a metaphor- 
 ical point of view. The beautiful bride entered on the 
 duties of a clergyman's wife not only with cheerfulness, 
 but with a tact and activity which surprised every one. 
 I could quite conceive that her fine sense and fine prin- 
 ciples would enable her to " quit the flaunting town " 
 without regret when she had once made up her mind to 
 do so. I could also well understand that, loving as she 
 did deeply and truly, the affection of one fond, faithful 
 heart would far outweigh all the triumphs and flatteries 
 of society ; but I cannot even now quite comprehend 
 how she became at once as if by intuition so versed in 
 her new pursuits that any body might suppose she had 
 been teaching schools and visiting cottagers all her life. 
 JNIrs. Rushton has refused all offers from her husband to 
 take her occasionally to London or to a watering-place ; 
 tlie little village where her home is fixed may occupy a 
 very insignificant position in the map of England, but 
 to her it is a scene of perfect and unvarying h^j)piness 
 
18 EDUCATED WOMEX. 
 
 and the veriest dowdy who ever vegetated m seclusion 
 from childhood to womanhood could not make a more 
 quiet, contented, unassuming wife for a country pastor 
 than does the darling of society, the flattered ball-room 
 beauty. 
 
 The three ladies whose characters I have endeavored 
 to sketch are of different ages and move in different 
 circles. They do not know each other — nay, as far as 
 I am aware, they have never even heard of each other ; 
 and yet they each have precisely the same fault in pre- 
 cisely the same degree. But before I mention it I 
 must trespass on the patience of my readers for a short 
 time while I delineate to them yet one other person. 
 
 There is a neat, trim row of houses in Brompton, 
 bearing that peculiar air which denotes that they are let 
 out in lodgings. In oi^e of them the parlor and bed 
 room on the ground floor are occupied by an elderly 
 lady named Allen ; she is thoroughly the gentlewoman 
 in manner and appearance ; and the beautiful drawings 
 and tasteful pieces of needlework which form the prin- 
 cipal ornament of her little parlor have owed their ex- 
 istence to her owTi skilful and active hand. I cannot 
 say that I consider IVIrs. Allen a very happy person ; it 
 is far from being my habit to estimate felicity in refer- 
 ence to pounds, shillings, and pence ; but a certain 
 roominess of income — to use the expression of an old- 
 
EDUCATED WOMEN. 19 
 
 fashioned friend of mine — is, in my opinion, quite ne- 
 cessary for comfort ; and this it is not Mrs. Allen's loi 
 to enjoy. Her table, dress, and apartments, although 
 managed with the strictest economy, merge nearly the 
 whole of her moderate life annuity; and she has nothing 
 to spare from it for the little indulgences of life. She 
 is of a social temper and has great powers of conversa- 
 tion ; but she pays and receives very few visits. She 
 has outlived her relations; some of her friends have 
 forgotten her, others live at a distance from her ; and 
 she cannot make new acquaintance, since visiting is 
 expensive even when carried on in the most moderate 
 way. Mrs. Allen loves the country; and she is fre- 
 quently haunted with images of breezy hills, flowery 
 valleys, and umbrageous woods ; but she rents her little 
 lodging by the year for the sake of economy, and she 
 cannot afford an excursion from thence ; so she reads 
 Our Village and Summer Time in the Country, fills her 
 pretty painted flower jars with moss roses purchased 
 from street venders, and tries to forget that there was 
 once a time when she enjoyed " free Nature's grace " 
 without restriction. IVIrs. Allen has another di-awback 
 upon happiness; her health is failing; she can only 
 walk to a very short distance from home, and carriage 
 hire is out of the question. She has lately suffered 
 under a severe attack of illness; and her landlady 
 
20 EDUCATED V/OME><. 
 
 earnestly persuaded her to have recourse to medical 
 assistance. She resolutely refused ; and the landlady 
 expatiated long and fluently to her next " caller in" on 
 Mrs. Allen's " unaccountable dislike to doctors." But 
 Mrs. Allen has no dislike to doctors ; she only dislikes 
 the expense of them. 
 
 When I have said that I do not consider Mrs. Allen 
 happy, let me not be understood to infer that she ever 
 complains of her lot in life. No ; on the contrary, she 
 often expresses her gratitude to Providence that she 
 has been able by her unassisted efforts to accumulate a 
 sufficient sum to place her in independence for the rest 
 of her days, giving her sufficient to satisfy the wants of 
 nature and allowing her abundant leisure to prepare her 
 mind for a future world. 
 
 Mrs. Allen's story is very short and very common- 
 place. Highly educated and slenderly dowered, she 
 became the wife of a man of reputed wealth ; she en- 
 joyed every luxury for several years, when the sudden 
 death of her husband discovered that his affairs were in 
 so involved a state that nothing could be saved from 
 the wreck of them for the use of his widow. 
 
 Mrs. Allen now deemed it advisable to avail herself 
 of her talents and accomplishments as a means of sup- 
 port, and became a governess. Perhaps few govern- 
 esses had ever less to complain of than she had ; her 
 
EDUCATED WOMEN. 21 
 
 superior abilities insured her a good salary, and she 
 was extremely fortunate in entering families who treat- 
 ed her with kindness and consideration ; while her pu- 
 pils, generally speaking, were amiable and intelligent 
 and did credit to the excellent instructions which they 
 received from her. Thirty years did Mrs. Allen pursue 
 this way of life, regularly laying by as much of her 
 yearly stipend as she could consistently save after mak- 
 ing the appearance expected from a well-salaried gov- 
 erness. At the conclusion of that period, when her 
 health and spirits both gave symptoms of failing, she 
 was truly grateful to find that it was in her power to 
 purchase a small life annuity which, managed with fru- 
 gality, would procure her the means of living without 
 future labor. Mrs. Allen had not very frequently 
 changed her situations ; but of course in thirty years 
 occasional transits were unavoidable; and among her 
 pupils at different periods were numbered the three 
 ladies whom I have described as doing so much honor 
 to the education bestowed on them. Lady Corwyn, 
 Mrs. Stafford, and Mrs. Rushton were each under her 
 care for some years. Now have I come to the moral 
 for which I have been endeavoring to prepare my 
 readers. Why has IMrs. Allen so completely passed 
 from the remembrance of the pupils who owe so much 
 
22 EDUCATED WOMEN. 
 
 to her ? Why do they not feel that it is equally a dw^y 
 and a pleasure to keep up frequent intercourse with 
 her, to invite her to their houses, and to introduce her 
 to the husbands who have such cause to be thankful to 
 her for having trained up for them such admirable 
 wives ? What would Lady Corwyn have been if left 
 to the sole direction of a sickly, indolent mother ? Mrs. 
 Stafford, as an orphan under the care of a stately guar- 
 dian with a silly wife, would have had still fewer ad- 
 vantages of moral training ; and Mrs. Rushton, if her 
 worldly, trifling aunt had been her sole preceptress, 
 would probably have never been any thing but worldly 
 and trifling herself. Were you to talk to these ladies 
 on the subject of their education, I am persuaded that 
 not one of them would deny that they were under the 
 greatest obligations to Mrs. Allen ; were you to tell 
 them that she was suffering from poverty, they would 
 assist her readily and abundantly ; were you to apprise 
 them that she was a candidate for admission into any 
 charitable institution, they would write letters, pay 
 morning visits, work for a fancy fair, or adopt any other 
 mode which might be suggested to them as being most 
 likely to be beneficial to her. Why, then, do tliey not 
 seek her as a companion and guest ? How many com- 
 forts and indulgences might they be the means of be- 
 
EDUCATED WOMEN. 23 
 
 stowing upon her, without causing any humiliation to 
 her independent spirit ! How many happy hours might 
 she enjoy in the beautiful park and pleasure grounds of 
 Lady Corwyn ! How might Mrs. Stafford have made 
 her the occasional sharer of her prosperity, and have 
 been rewai'ded by finding in her one of her few firm, 
 unshi'inking friends in the season of adversity ! How 
 might Mrs. Rushton delight to welcome to her peaceful 
 retirement the governess who implanted in her mind the 
 excellent principles which qualified her to enjoy and to 
 adorn it ! I have frequently heard married women 
 describe the pleasure they feel in renewing their ac- 
 quaintance with those whom they have known in early 
 girlhood, because they could retrace with them innu- 
 merable little incidents, scenes, and dialogues interesting 
 to themselves, although dull and trivial to an indifferent 
 person. Surely none can be so well qualified to share 
 in such pleasant reminiscences as the governess, who 
 was not only an occasional visitor, but the actual inmate 
 of the house of her young charge during the delightful 
 season of life's fresh spring. And yet, among the most 
 amiable of women, how constantly do we see that the 
 governess is suffered to pass into entire oblivion from 
 the time she ceases to reside with them ! Possibly in 
 some cases a few letters may be exchanged; but the 
 
24 EDUCATED WOMEN. 
 
 languid correspondence soon comes to a close; her 
 nam<^ is never mentioned, and her very existence is 
 forgotten. 
 
 Is not this wrong, unfeeling, ungrateful ? Yes ; the 
 right word has come forth at last — I will not gloss it 
 over. 
 
 Ingratitude is the one fault of my three fair friends, 
 and of many other equally esteemed members of socie- 
 ty. It is a harsh word ; it is a heavy accusation ; there 
 are few, even among the most humble minded, who 
 could be induced to plead guilty to it. And yet what is 
 the deifinition of ingratitude ? Is it not the want of a 
 due sense of the benefits that we have received from 
 others ? And how great are the benefits that a pupil 
 receives from a thproughly conscientious governess, who 
 is not content with imparting showy accomplishments 
 nor even solid information to her, but who carefully 
 guards her young mind from evil, and instils into it the 
 great truths of religion ! Gratitude should be shown 
 through hfe to such a preceptress ; and the expression 
 of it ought to be considered as an enjoyment and a priv- 
 ilege. Her married pupils, in particular, should delight 
 to welcome her to their domestic fireside, to make her 
 intimately acquainted with the failings and the excel- 
 lences of their children, and to listen with pleasure 
 
EDUCATED WOMEN. 25 
 
 while she recounts to those children anecdotes of the 
 youthful days of their dear mother. Is there any rea- 
 son why such an intercourse should not be of frequent 
 occurrence, with mutual comfort and advantage to each 
 party ? No ; it is not even attempted to give any rea- 
 son why it should not be so. Such an intimacy is never 
 sought for because it is never thought of; and I am 
 inclined to believe that want of thought more than want 
 of real principle and kindness is the source of the error 
 that I deplore. But the governess has deep feelings, 
 warm sympathies, strong affections ; the nature of her 
 employment in life has alienated her from the society 
 of her own family ; she has given all her earnest inter- 
 est to strangers ; she has sat with them by the winter 
 hearth, joined them in the summer walk, heard their 
 troubles, shared their joys, partaken their prayers. She 
 has won their friendly confidence ; is it to be withdrawn 
 from her the moment she quits them ? She has quali- 
 fied them to bless and be blessed in their progress 
 through life ; is she to be deprived of the gratification 
 of seeing how it has pleased Providence to prosper the 
 good seed which she has sown? No — no; let her 
 lonely home be gladdened, let her sinking heart be 
 cheered, by the renewal of ties so long dissevered ; let 
 her hear the sound of well-known voices, and gaze on 
 3 
 
26 EDUCATED WOMEN. 
 
 the smile of familiar faces; let the husbands of her 
 pupils delight to honor her, and their young children 
 welcome her with caresses ; and then, and not till then, 
 shall I say that the blot on our national character is 
 removed, and that England has reason to be proud of 
 her " educated women." 
 
FAITH'S VIGIL. 
 
 BY CHARLES H. HITCHINOS. 
 
 It is said that the spirits who haunt lakes and streams very tre* 
 quently entice children away with them, and bring them back, after 
 a lapse of years, not as they were when stolen, but always more 
 beautiful and with rich and valuable gifts. The following song was 
 suggested by this legend. 
 
 MOTHER, ask me now no more 
 Why night by night I stray 
 
 To where the darkling waters bore 
 My brother dear away. 
 
 1 know that, free from guilt and pain. 
 
 He sleeps beneath the river ; 
 But we shall see him once again 
 More beautiful than ever. 
 
 I know the spirits pure and mild 
 That peer with angel faces 
 
 (27) 
 
28 faith's vigil. 
 
 To lure away the little child 
 To holier, happier places ; 
 
 And these my brother dear have ta'en 
 Adown the darkling river ; 
 
 But we shall see him once again 
 More beautiful than ever. 
 
 "We shall not see him, as of old, 
 
 A weakling human creature. 
 But gifted with a crown of gold — 
 
 A high, angelic nature. 
 Then say not that my watch is vain 
 
 Beside the darkling river ; 
 For we shall see him yet agaia 
 
 More beautiful than ever. 
 
THE MANGLING ROOM. 
 
 A 8CKKX OUT OF TUB KTEBT-OAT LIFX OF A DAITISU HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 One day, when I was about ten years old, having 
 found my uncle's powder horn, I filled my pocket hand- 
 kerchief with a quantity of gunpowder, with which, as 
 soon as it grew dusk, I stole down to the shore, that I 
 might amuse myself wuth what the children call water- 
 spouts. I was so absorbed with the pleasure I was 
 anticipating that, having set up my first waterspout, I 
 forgot to place my powder in safety ; it lay, therefore, 
 in my left trousers* pocket whilst I swung round the 
 little black instrument which sputtered forth glittering 
 yellowish-red sparks. Just when, with a shriek of de- 
 light, I was about to hurl it up in the air, I was startled 
 by a dull report ; and then a hot, burning current of air 
 rushed past my face, and I was thrown to the ground. 
 The first thing which I saw when I rose up was my 
 8 * (29) 
 
30 THE MANGLING ROOM. 
 
 pocket handkerchief still burning in a tall tree. I 
 had, however, no time to form any plans for recov- 
 ering it, because a violent pain in my left leg made 
 me look down to discover the cause, wlien to my 
 unspeakable horror I perceived that my trousers were 
 burning. 
 
 " "What will my aunt say ? And perhaps she will tell 
 my uncle. And the powder ! and the powder horn ! " 
 "While I thus thought I began to cry with terror and 
 pain, for the lire in the woollen cloth became still 
 stronger. At that moment I felt myself seized by the 
 neck, and the next over head in water. 
 
 It was the head man in my uncle's brandy distillery 
 who had thus laid hands on me ; for by chance, being 
 near me, he had seen what had happened. "When he 
 had taken me out of the water and convinced himself 
 that I had not suffered any injury, he said, — 
 
 " But, Lodwig, what sort of a freak was that ? " 
 
 I answered, crying all the time, that I did not know 
 what it was ; that there had come something just hke 
 fire and had burned me. 
 
 " Don't tell me any stories, Lodwig," said the man ; 
 " I saw as plain as could be that you were playing with 
 waterspouts." 
 
 " Dear Ole," besought I, « don't tell my aunt." 
 
 " No," replied Ole, " I won't get you into trouble." 
 
THE MANGLING EOOil. 31 
 
 "But what am I to tell my aunt?" exclaimed I, 
 beginning to cry again more than ever. 
 
 Ole bethought himself a little while, and then said, 
 '* You can say that you tumbled into the water aind that 
 I picked you out" 
 
 " But, Ole, I durst not tumble into the water." 
 
 He bethought himself again. " Well, then, you can 
 say that I pushed you hito the w ater." 
 
 "Yes; but, Ole," said I, "they will be cross with 
 you." 
 
 " Never mmd that," said Ole ; " I'll bear all that if 
 you will only promise me never to play with powder 
 again." 
 
 This conduct of Ole's appeared to me the most disin- 
 terested which one human being could show to another ; 
 and from this time forth I began to think of all the good 
 that I could do to him. I was continually with him 
 in the distillery ; I ran errands for him, drew his ale 
 when he was thirsty, and on Sundays always gave him 
 the piece of cake which was given to me after dinner. 
 Ole was not very polite, and did not even say that it 
 was almost a shame to eat my cake. On the contrary, 
 he ate it up to the last crum, and wiped his mouth 
 aftei-wards with the back of his hand with an expression 
 \hat seemed to say he could eat as much more ; after 
 which he asked, " But it was your own cake, Lod- 
 
82 THE MANGLING ROOM. 
 
 wig — was it? You have not stolen it from your 
 aunt ? " 
 
 On one occasion, however, I was able to give him a 
 still more substantial proof of my devotion. Happening 
 one day to go into the distillery, I saw him and another 
 fellow lying struggling together under a bench. Ole 
 was very strong ; but his antagonist, having fallen upon 
 him from behind, now held him down by the throat, his 
 body lying uppermost. When I beheld Ole lying thus 
 black in the face I was almost out of my senses, and, 
 running to them, I tpok a wooden shoe from one of the 
 four struggling feet, and with its iron-bound heel struck 
 his assailant so violently on the head that he instantly 
 let go Ole and started up to fall upon me ; but the next 
 moment Ole was upon his feet again and soon put him 
 to flight. 
 
 From this time forth our friendship was mutual, and I 
 became as indispensable to him as he to me. Wlien he 
 was not very busy in the distillery he cut out cards for 
 me, or cast leaden bullets for my crossbow down in the 
 cellar-like place into which the boiler fires opened, or 
 else played at " touchwood " with me round the great 
 mash tubs. On Sunday afternoons he took me with 
 him the only walk he ever indulged in — down to the 
 enclosed piece of land on the shore. When he had sat 
 here for some time perfectly still he returned to the 
 
THE MANGLING ROOM. t83 
 
 house and went up to his own chamber, where he dressed 
 himself in his Sunday's best ; and then we two went and 
 stood at the court-yard gate. There we stood — he 
 with his hat on, and in his red waistcoat buttoned with 
 small silver buttons up to his throat, dark-blue coat, and 
 three or four watches in his pockets, each with its watch 
 chain hanging conspicuously out, and with one silver- 
 mounted meerschaum pipe sticking out from the hind 
 pocket of his coat and another in his hand ; for the head 
 distiller at my uncle's had high wages and many perqui- 
 sites. My uncle used to say that his head man earned 
 more than he did himself. 
 
 When we had thus stood for half an hour or so, and 
 spoken to the young girls of the town who went by, and 
 all of whom had a kind look for the handsome Ole, he 
 returned to his chamber and again put on his every-day 
 clothes ; after which he went to look after his distilling, 
 unless there was mangling to be done this afternoon, in 
 which case he betook himself from the gate to the man- 
 gling room in all his bravery. 
 
 This mangling room was a large square apartment 
 which lay behind the dairy. Tlie floor was of clay, and 
 the furniture consisted alone of the mangle and a large 
 square table. Two small holes served for windows ; 
 these the servant maids stopped up in winter with rags, 
 and therefore on the afternoons of high days and holi- 
 
i84 THE MANGLING ROOII. 
 
 days lighted the great iron lamp, with its two wicks, 
 which hung directly over the mangle. 
 
 I had always had a sort of horror of this room — 
 partly because it was so dark and lay at the end of a 
 long, dark passage, and partly because I had once heard 
 a story about it which did not greatly redound to its 
 credit. I was sitting one winter afternoon in a corner 
 of the drinking room, — for my uncle also dealt in liquors 
 by retail, — and was amusing myself with an old pack 
 of cards. It was early in the afternoon ; and the room 
 was empty with the exception of old Niels Olsen, who 
 sat asleep beside the stove, when all at once in rushed 
 IMaren, the dairy maid, and threw herself upon a bench. 
 The noise woke Niels Olsen, who exclaimed, — 
 
 " What is amiss with you, Maren ? " 
 
 " 0, 1 am just ready to swoon," replied Maren. 
 
 Niels raised himself from his bowed position, looked 
 compassionately at her, and said, " Drink a drop, Ma- 
 ren." 
 
 " You drunken old swine," said Maren, " would you 
 have me drink brandy as well as you ? O Lord Jesus 
 my Savior ! " 
 
 " I think she's out of her mind," said Niels to himself, 
 and then asked once more, " What is amiss with you, 
 Maren?" 
 
 " Lord Jesus ! " again cried Maren ; " God grant 
 
THE MAXGLIXG ROOM. 85 
 
 that I may never bear the like again; Niels Olsen, just 
 now when I was coming out of the dairy, w^^t %hould I 
 hear but mangling in the mangling rooir ' " 
 
 " Nay, then, I know for sure said Niels Olsen 
 
 with suppressed voice and folded hands. 
 
 " What do you know ? " screamed Maren, and became 
 as white as chalk. 
 
 " Is there any body ill in the house ? " asked Niels 
 Olsen. 
 
 " Ay, little Kirstine lies ill," said Maren, her eyes 
 expanding and her whole appearance as if her blood 
 was turning to ice. 
 
 " O, then, you'll see in three days." 
 
 "What shall we see, Niels Olsen?" asked Maren, 
 coming close to him as if she feared to stand alone. 
 
 " Did not I live here in sei-vice with Birgitta ? " smd 
 Niels. 
 
 " And who was Birgitta, Niels Olsen ? " 
 
 " Yes ; that was before your time, Maren. Birgitta 
 was the first dairy maid that the master had after he 
 was married." 
 
 « Well, and what about her, Niels ? " 
 
 "Yes, she and I were to mangle together by our- 
 selves ; for there were not so many of us then as there 
 are of you now. The last time I had mangled with her 
 she was poorly ; and she said to me, ' I think this will 
 
3b THE MANGLING ROOM. 
 
 be tlie last time that we shall mangle together, Niels 
 Olsen.' * You musn't say so, Birgitta,' said I ; * God 
 willing, we'll mangle many a good piece of cloth together 
 yet.' The next Sunday, as I was standing in the sta- 
 ble and was filling the rack for the big bull that we had 
 then, and which afterwards went mad and tossed butcher 
 Mogensen, I heard Birgitta calling to me that I must 
 come in and mangle. I thought nothing but that it was 
 all right, and went up into the mangling room; and 
 when I opened the door, Maren, there I saw Birgitta as 
 plain as ever I saw her in my life standing and turning 
 the mangle all by herself; but there were no clothes in 
 the mangle. * In Jesus' name ! ' said I, shut the door 
 after me, and went back into the stable. And on 
 Wednesday night Birgitta died." 
 % " God be merciful to us ! " cried Maren, and became 
 more faint than ever. 
 
 Niels Olsen filled a half measure with brandy, drank 
 some of it himself, and threw the rest into Maren's face ; 
 on which she recovered, and they then promised each 
 other not to say a word about what had happened to 
 any of the people of the house, lest it should come to 
 the ears of little Kirstine. After this Maren went back 
 into the dairy. 
 
 It is only necessary now to teU that little Kirstine did 
 not, after all, die at that time ; nevertheless, I retained 
 
THE MANGLING ROOM. 37 
 
 all my terror of the mangling room. I entered for the 
 first time with 01c ; for where should I have been afraid 
 of going when Ole was with me ? 
 
 Although I did not at that time understand all that I 
 saw going forward in the mangling room, yet it has re- 
 mained as clearly imprinted on my memory as if it had 
 occurred but yesterday. The lamp with its two -wicks 
 was lighted, and threw its strong reddish light upon the 
 two oldest herdsmen who turned the mangle — this 
 having been from time immemorial a part of the duty 
 attached to the stable. In a less strong light stood all 
 the men servants of the house side by side along one 
 wall ; and exactly opposite to them, against the opposite 
 wall, stood the maid servants of the family as well as 
 other young women from the neighborhood. The young 
 men conversed at broken intervals among themselves ; 
 but their conversation had reference to the girls, who 
 replied to it by talking to each other. Without the two 
 opposite rows looking at each other, yet they mutually 
 communicated in this way all the news, flung repartees 
 backwards and forwards, and talked till they were tired. 
 
 As soon as the "family's linen" was mangled the 
 two old herdsmen walked oif to the drinking room, as 
 if they knew that they were unnecessary for the scene 
 which followed. Then stepped forward one young wo- 
 man after another to the table, placed the linen ready 
 4 
 
88 THE MANGLING ROOM. 
 
 on the roller, and laid it under the mangle ; on which 
 one of th.e young men stepped forward from their side 
 and helped her to turn the mangle. When this was 
 done sufficiently, the girl gave the young man her hand 
 and said, " Thanks, so and so," mentioning his name. 
 Sometimes it would happen that two or more young 
 fellows would rush forward at once to help some one 
 girl; and then followed a short combat, until one of 
 them succeeded in possessing himself of the mangle, 
 when all quietly retired and the work proceeded as be- 
 fore. Sometimes, also, a young fellow who wished to 
 go forward was withheld from doing so amid the laugh- 
 ter of the whole row. The more earnestly he tried to 
 get away the louder grew the laughter ; nor would they 
 release him till he had promised to give them some bran- 
 dy. All this appeared so very amusing to me that I 
 asked Ole whether he also would not mangle ; to which 
 he replied, " Hush, Lodwig ! there is something about 
 this which you don't understand." 
 
 When all the girls had finished, one of them went out 
 and called to Fransine, my aunt's parlor maid. Fran- 
 sine was a peasant girl, who had entered my aunt's 
 service when she was a child, and thereby had acquired 
 the appearance of a city maiden ; her face was not so 
 red as those of other girls ; neither did she wear wooden 
 shoes nor yet heavily -plaided petticoats; nevertheless 
 
THE MANGLING ROOM. 39 
 
 she was much liked by the house servants because she 
 was not proud, by which it might be inferred that her 
 predecessor had been so. 
 
 Fransine came hastily in with a small bundle of 
 clothes, saluted the company with a " Good evening to 
 all in the room," arranged the Hnen round the roller, 
 then placed it in the mangle, and seemed as if she were 
 about to mangle by herself. On this Ole left his place 
 in the ranks, without any one attempting to inteiTupt 
 him, placed himself at the mangle, and turned it for 
 Fransine. Fransine never once looked up all the time 
 he was mangling ; but when he had finished she gave 
 him her hand, looked kindly at him, and said, " Thanks, 
 Ole." 
 
 At that moment such an expression of joy passed 
 over Ole's face that I also felt involuntarily glad and 
 exclaimed, " I, too, will mangle." 
 
 Maria, the kitchen maid, said, " In that case we must 
 send a message after little Emilie ; but you two are too 
 young for that yet." 
 
 About this Emilie there is, however, a long story ; 
 but I will not tell it now. 
 
 It was towards the end of the midsummer holidays 
 that this scene took place in the mangling room ; and 
 as I inmiediately afterwards went to Copenhagen to 
 school, I was not present at any others for some time. 
 
iO THE MANGLING ROOM. 
 
 When I returned at Christmas a great delight await- 
 ed me. My cousin Anton was at my uncle's house on 
 a visit. I now had my uncle, my aunt, Ole, the whole 
 house, and, over and above all, cousin Anton. I did 
 not at all know how I should divide myself among so 
 many. I had almost more to love than I could manage. 
 
 Anton Falsen was the one whom I most desired to 
 resemble when I became a man. He was, properly 
 speaking, in trade — that is to say, he managed his 
 father's business ; and I was to be a student ; but he 
 had no resemblance whatever to any other merchant's 
 clerk or shopkeeper's assistant. He understood every 
 thing; he could sing, dance, play comedy, imitate peo- 
 ple's way of talking and looking ; and, let any body be 
 as melancholy as they might, they were sure to laugh 
 when he begun ; then he had also a strange, indescriba- 
 ble smile which produced an irresistible effect upon all. 
 I once heard his father say, when speaking of him, 
 " Anton is a wildcat and has cost me a deal of money ; 
 but, for all that, he will get through the world — for he 
 is a merry fellow and is Hked by every body, especially 
 by the ladies." 
 
 And I can very well remember that it was from this 
 very assertion of his father's that I wished so much to 
 be like Anton when I became a man. ' 
 
 In the beginning I spent all my time with Anton and 
 
THE MANGLING ROOM. 41 
 
 quite forsook Ole and the distillery ; after a wliile, how 
 ever, my conscience smote me for so doing ; and, leaving 
 my cousin, I once more visited Ole. I could not help 
 fancying that he was less gentle and kind than former- 
 ly ; and, as I supposed that it might be in consequence 
 of my having deserted him, I now redoubled my atten- 
 tion to him; but this produced no effect whatever on 
 Ole. Now and then he would show somewhat of his 
 former kindness ; but the next moment he again became 
 gloomy and said that I must go away from him. One 
 day, when I stood beside him on the best of terms as I 
 supposed, he pushed me away so that I fell, while he 
 said, " Get away ! You look just the image of your 
 cousin." 
 
 When I, however, began to cry, he took me in his 
 arms, caressed me, asked my forgiveness, and promised 
 me every thing I wished for if I only would be quiet 
 and not tell any body in the house any thing about it. 
 
 When on Sunday I took to him, according to old cus- 
 tom, my piece of after-dinner cake, I found him sitting 
 down by the boiler fires looking very melancholy. 
 
 *' No, Lodwig," said he, when I offered it to him ; " I 
 shall not have it ; give it rather to your cousin." 
 
 " Why should I give it to him ? " asked I ; "he has 
 had a piece as well as me." 
 
 " Give it to him," said Ole ; " let him have it as well," 
 4* 
 
42 THE MANGLING ROOM. 
 
 Ole's voice was so very sorrowful that I was ready- 
 to cry. 
 
 " Are you angry with me ? " I asked. 
 
 " With you, poor lad ? " said Ole, and began to mend 
 the fire vigorously under the boiler. 
 
 There was going to be a mangling that same after- 
 noon ; and I went wath Ole into the room. We did not 
 go until it was almost over ; and when the message was 
 sent to bid Fransine come, she was a long time before 
 she made her appearance ; and when she came she said 
 " Good afternoon to all here " in a different tone to 
 what she had done before. 
 
 Every body was quite silent when she came in ; and 
 all the time that she was placing the clothes within the 
 linen of the roller the whole place was so still that you 
 might almost hear the people breathing. Wlien she 
 had got all ready and stood by the mangle there was a 
 pause of a minute or two before any one offered to help 
 her. At length Ole stepped forward from the ranks as 
 on the former occasion. He seized the handle, and at 
 the first turn that he gave the huge mangle rocked to 
 and fro and was shaken out of its place ; and Fransine, 
 throwing down the mangle stick, rushed out of the 
 "oom. 
 
 Ole and several other of the men went round into 
 the public drinking room, ordered each a measure of 
 
THE MANGLING ROOM. 43 
 
 brandy, and were more than usually merry. After a 
 short time, however, Ole grew very quiet, and, rising 
 up, stood leaning against the inner door of the room. 
 
 While he was thus standing my cousin Anton came 
 in from the street. He staid a moment at the threshold 
 of the outer door to knock the snow from his shoes, and 
 then was about to pass through the room on his way to 
 the parlor, against the door of which Ole was leaning. 
 He might very well have gone in without disturbing 
 Ole if he had chosen ; but instead of that he cast an 
 angry glance at him and bade him go out of the way. 
 
 Ole stood immovable as if he had not heard him 
 speak, whilst the other young fellows drew together in a 
 group by the counter. 
 
 " Did you not hear that I told you to stand out of the 
 way ? " cried my cousin. 
 
 Ole still leaned against the doorpost as before and 
 replied, " There has hitherto been, just as there is to- 
 night, room enough for two people at master's door." 
 
 One of the young men tittered ; the rest drew closer 
 together. 
 
 " Out of the way, fellow," shouted my cousin, growing 
 angry, " or else I'll help you." 
 
 " You had better help yourself,'* replied Ole. 
 
 My cousin was almost beside himself. 
 
 "You rascal," said he, "are you making game of 
 
44 THE MANGLING ROOM. 
 
 me ? " And with this he seized Ole by the breast of 
 his coat. 
 
 But Ole was as if planted in the earth ; and he mere* 
 ly said, " Take your hands off.'* 
 
 I knew Ole well ; and the tone in which he spoke 
 these few words made me tremble. 
 
 " Take your hands off ! " said Ole once more. 
 . " You rascal, I'll teach you manners," cried my cousin, 
 and struck him in the face. But at the very moment 
 when I heard the blow I saw my cousin fly the length 
 of the room and strike against the counter ; here he 
 stood for half a moment, gasped for breath, and then 
 sank to his knees, the blood covering his face. 
 
 All the spectators stood as if petrified. 
 
 Ole stood staring for a moment and then said, " Now 
 I also have done some mischief ;" and then, bursting 
 open the sitting-room door, stalked through it with long 
 strides into the kitchen; and I, crying with all my 
 might, ran after him. 
 
 In the kitchen stood Fransine. Ole with his left hand 
 seized her by the arm ; and she, terrified, sank upon her 
 knees before him, whilst, with his right outstretched, he- 
 seemed as if grasping after some deadly weapon. Fran- 
 sine screamed ; and I, scarce knowing what I did, seized 
 upon his outstretched arm and screamed too. The maid 
 servants came rushing in from the maid servants' room ; 
 
!fHE MANGLING KOOM. 4«> 
 
 my aunt came out of her bed chamber ; and my uncle, 
 who heard the noise in the distant counting house, hur- 
 ried in also. My cousin came reeUng in, with a bloody 
 pocket handkerchief held to his face and otherwise 
 looking very white. At sight of my uncle and aunt Ole 
 let go Fransine, and remained standing immovable with 
 downcast head. Fransine sat down on the chopping 
 block, and, putting her apron before her face, began to 
 cry. 
 
 " What is amiss here ? " asked my uncle, looking 
 round him. " How came you to be bleeding ? " asked 
 he of Anton. ^ 
 
 "It is your brandy distiller who has struck me," 
 said he. 
 
 "And he has rushed through the parlor into the 
 kitchen, and knocked down one of my maid servants," 
 said my aunt. 
 
 " Ole, what is the meaning of all this ? " asked my 
 uncle ; " you have hitherto been a well-conducted fellow. 
 Have you had any cause of offence from any one? 
 What is amiss, Ole ? " 
 
 Ole seized my uncle's hand without looking at him, 
 kissed it, and said, " God bless you, master ! but I must 
 leave you." 
 
 "What, will you leave before your time is up, 
 Ole?" 
 
4^ THE MANGLING ROOM. 
 
 " Yes, let him go," cried my aunt, who was very irri- 
 table ; " we are not going to ask him to stay, I should 
 think." 
 
 " Master, I'll willingly forfeit a quarter's wages," said 
 Ole. 
 
 " What ! a quarter's wages ? Do you think that I 
 am troubling myself about your wages ? You can set 
 
 off for what I care Heaven forgive me, I was 
 
 nearly swearing ! Only let me have peace in my own 
 house." 
 
 With these words my uncle turned round to go, evi- 
 
 ^ipdently greatly disturbed, and in passing Anton he said 
 
 to him in a low voice, " It is all owing to you, you bad 
 
 fellow. It is you and nobody else who has made all 
 
 this mischief." 
 
 Anton followed my uncle out of the kitchen, and said 
 something to him which I did not hear. 
 
 " Pack up your things and be off," said my aunt to 
 Ole ; " and, Fransine, do you come with me." 
 
 Before Ole went into the men servants' room they 
 already knew what had occurred. They were all talk- 
 ing together in a loud voice ; but as soon as he entered 
 they fell into a deep silence. After a pause one of 
 them said, " Where will you have your things taken to, 
 Ole?" 
 
 Ole named the place. 
 
THE MANGLINQ ROOM^ 47 
 
 The one who had spoken continued, " You need not 
 be at the trouble of packing them, Ole ; we fellows will 
 look after that for you ; and you need not fear that you 
 should miss a single thing." 
 
 " I am sure I shall not," said Ole ; " and I think," 
 added he, " that you will all of you say for me that 1 
 am not a bad one to live in service with." 
 
 " That we can," said the spokesman of the party. 
 
 " Well, then, I will bid you all farewell," said Ole ; 
 " and thanks for this time." 
 
 " Nay, but we shall go with you to the road," said 
 the spokesman. " But now I must call the girls." 
 
 All the women servants with the exception of Fran- 
 sine came out and took leave of Ole — all seeming very 
 sorrowful about it. 
 
 On this Ole passed through the door, the men accom- 
 panying him in a close crowd across the court yard to 
 the great gate, where he so often had stood in his Sun- 
 day finery. Here they remained standing and looking 
 after him. 
 
 " Shall we not give him an hurrah ? " said the one 
 who had spoken before. " A happy journey to you, 
 Ole Hanson!" 
 
 Ole looked back from the street and nodded to them. 
 All his fellow-servants, lifted their red caps from their 
 
■* 
 
 48 THE MANGLING ROOM. 
 
 heads and set up a loud hurrah. The next moment Ole 
 was out of sight ; and they all returned to their several 
 employments. 
 
 But from that time forth there was no one who would 
 mangle with Fransine. 
 
 * 
 
THE WISH. 
 
 O THAT I were a little flower 
 
 With dewdrops filled and fragrance sweet, 
 With thee to pass but one short hour 
 
 And then to kiss thy sylphlike feet ; , 
 To bloom beneath thy smile ; to be 
 Caressed, admired, and loved by thee I 
 
 O that I were a crystal stream 
 
 That murmurs by some mountain's side I 
 Thy form should, as in some sweet dream, 
 
 Upon the silver waters glide ; 
 And mirrored on my breast would be 
 The image then, dear maid, of thee. 
 
 O that I were the bird of night 
 
 That sings as sweet as 'twere midday. 
 
 Close by thy lattice to alight 
 
 And sing the shades of night away ; 
 
 5 (49) 
 
60 THE WISH. 
 
 To fill with liquid notes tlie air, 
 
 As though heaven's echoes lingered there ! 
 
 O that I were some forest tree, 
 
 That, standing in sequestered shade, 
 
 Might form a summer bower for thee 
 To sit beneath my ample shade ! 
 
 The whispering breeze should bid thee, sweet, 
 
 Glad welcome to my lone retreat. 
 
 O that I were some seraph bright 
 
 To guard and cheer thee on thy way ; 
 
 To hover round thee, love, by night, 
 And sweetly smile on thee by day ; 
 
 To gladden thee when bowed with care. 
 
 And on my wings a blessing bear ! 
 
 By Death's cold hand when snatched away 
 To sleep beneath the dreary tomb, — 
 
 Wlien Death's sad messenger, Decay, 
 
 Had robbed thee of thy youthful bloom, — 
 
 Might then the bliss to me be given 
 
 To waft thy sainted soul to heaven I 
 
FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 Duke, Amiens, and Lords. 
 
 1 Lord. The melanclioly Jaques grieves at that ; 
 And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp 
 Than doth your brother that hath banished you. 
 To-day my lord of Amiens and myself 
 Did steal behind him, as he lay along 
 Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this wood : 
 To the which place a poor, sequestered stag, 
 That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt, 
 Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord, 
 The wretched animal heaved forth such groans 
 That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 
 Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears 
 Coursed one another down his innocent nose 
 In piteous chase ; and thus the hairy fool, 
 Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, 
 
 (61) 
 
52 FOREST OP ARDEN: 
 
 Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, 
 Augmenting it with tears. 
 
 Duke S. But what said Jaques ? 
 
 Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 
 
 1 Lord, O, yes, into a thousand similes. 
 First, for his weeping into the needless stream ; 
 " Poor deer," quoth he, " thou mak'st a testament 
 As worldUngs do, giving thy sum of more 
 To that which had too much." Then being there alone, 
 Left and abandoned of his velvet friend : 
 " 'Tis right," quoth he ; " thus misery doth part 
 The flux of company." Anon, a careless herd. 
 Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, 
 And never stays to greet him. 
 
THE JEWELLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 BY MRS. ABDY. 
 
 It was a day of great interest in the quiet little coun- 
 try town of Oakbury. Mrs. Everett was about to give 
 a dinner party. Now, Mrs. Everett was one of those 
 
 " Lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks, 
 Whose teaspoons do duty for knives and for forks." 
 
 To give a dinner party at all was a remarkable 
 event on her part ; still more so to invite Sir Thomas 
 and Lady Chisholm, who lived in good style in the 
 neighborhood of Oakbury, and, above all, to invite them 
 when Colonel and Lady Charlotte Huntley were staying 
 on a visit to them, and to venture on the desperate step 
 of sending a card to the fashionable London couple. 
 That the invitation should ever have been sent was 
 matter of wonder ; that it should have been accepted, 
 Itill more so. Some envy was excited by Mrs. Everett's 
 5* W 
 
64 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 success ; but not so much so as if, after the usual cus- 
 tom of country-town ladies, she had invited no one but 
 the clergyman and physician of the place to meet her 
 brilliant guests. Mrs. Everett asked bcven of her rela- 
 tions to dinner, all of whom felt a peculiar wish to see 
 and to converse with the colonel and his lady. Oakbury 
 was a dull, primitive, little town; indeed, it must of 
 course have been so to have felt any excitement about 
 such a trifling matter as Mrs. Everett's dinner party; 
 and my readers may reasonably wonder what link could 
 possibly exist between its denizens and the stylish pair 
 to whom I have alluded which could make them so 
 desirous of an introduction ; yet such a link there 
 was. Colonel and Lady Charlotte Huntley were in 
 the habit of continually meeting in London with Rosa- 
 mond Sutton, the beautiful heiress of the wealthy jew- 
 eller, who, in right of her own loveliness and her father's 
 riches, was a welcome guest in the first society ; and, 
 strange to say, Mrs. Everett and her family party were 
 all of them connected by first or second cousinship with 
 the jeweller, who had actually achieved the difficult 
 point of making his wealth talked about in London. 
 
 Many years ago James Sutton, then a young lad, was 
 smitten with the ambition of going up to London and 
 making his fortune there. His parents were dead ; and 
 none of his relations interfered to prevent him from 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER, 55 
 
 doing as he wished. In fact, London to the inhabitants 
 of Oakbuiy at that time was what CaUfornia is to the 
 rest of the world at the present day — a i)]ace where 
 gold was considered certain to be within the reach of 
 those who had courage to stretch out their hands to 
 grasp at it. Sutton had an old schoolfellow settled in 
 London ; and from him he doubted not that he should 
 immediately be able to obtain information of at least a 
 dozen different roads to fortune. 
 
 As for the story of Whittington, although Sutton had 
 more than once read it attentively, it fell far short of 
 realizing his ambitious ideas. To be lord mayor for a 
 year, and then to relinquish his golden glories, would 
 not at all have met his views ; no, he trusted that he 
 should eventually be able not only to gain, but to main- 
 tain, a firm footing in the world's high places, live in a 
 series of perpetual banquets, and associate on familiar 
 terms with the nobles of the land. Strange aspirations 
 these for a moneyless youth reared in a fourth-rate 
 country town — aspirations which some of his friends 
 concluded would terminate in an unlimited shower of 
 gold and others in a leap from Blackfriars* Bridge; 
 neither of these conjectures, however, seemed likely to 
 be verified. Sutton, soon after his arrival in London, 
 established himself as assistant to a working jeweller ; 
 iind year after year he remained with him, paying an 
 
B6 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 annual visit to bis friends at Oakbury ; and, in return 
 to tbe condolence tbat be received touching bis bumble 
 position in tbe great city of London, be constantly re- 
 plied tbat " it was a difficult tbing to gain even a tolera- 
 ble start in life, and tbat be was disposed to tbink tbat 
 he bad been very fortunate in doing so well as be bad 
 done." Years passed on ; and, altbougb tbey did not 
 improve Sutton's position in life, tbey greatly improved 
 bis personal appeai'ance — be became decidedly good 
 looking ; and, in one of bis visits to bis native town, a 
 certain Miss Margaretta Sutton, wbo ranked among bis 
 many cousins, gave bim such unequivocal tokens of her 
 partiality tbat be was obliged to confide to another lady 
 cousin, wbo was tbe chosen intimate of bis enamoured 
 fair one, bis intention of " only marrying to improve bis 
 circumstances." Now again could tbe good people of 
 Oakbury see the probability that a golden shower might 
 eventually descend on tbe bead of their adventurous 
 townsman. Unluckily, old Willis, the working jeweller, 
 was a bachelor ; he had no daughter to dower, no wife 
 wbo might become bis wealthy relict; these roads to 
 story-book prosperity were closed to Sutton ; but still 
 London abounded with heiresses, — at least so thought 
 the unsophisticated people of Oakbury, — and they 
 doubted not tbat Sutton v/ould soon be successful in 
 gaining 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 " A weel-tocliered lass or jointured widow." 
 
 Sutton, however, seemed destined to fall short of his 
 own ambitious views and to disappoint those of his 
 friends. His marriage was no very brilliant affair, after 
 all ; he united himself with a plain, quiet widow, some 
 years his senior, having a life income of three hundred 
 a year. This income, nevertheless, amply sufficed for 
 the expenses of Sutton's frugal establishment, even 
 ■when his family was increased by the birth of the 
 little Rosamond, of whom honorable mention has already 
 been made. Shortly after Sutton's marriage the jewel- 
 ler, feeling of course a greater inclination to befriend 
 him when he knew that he was independent of his as- 
 sistance, received him into partnersliip ; but still Sutton 
 spent not an additional five-pound note in consequence 
 of his increased exchequer. His wife was naturally 
 retiring and economical, and was quite reconciled to the 
 thrift of her husband when he told her that it was neces- 
 sary to lay by a poition for the infant Rosamond, as the 
 income of each of her parents would cease with their 
 life. Sutton continued his annual visits to Oakbury, 
 where his wife was much hked and the beauty of his 
 little daughter extremely admired ; in fact, his marriage 
 turned out no bad speculation — for the painstaking, 
 money-loving old Willis would have shrunk from the 
 idea of enriching a couple who seemed to have the least 
 
58 THE JEWELLER*S DAUGHTEB. 
 
 taste for spending money when they had got it. ISfrs, 
 Sutton was the counterpart of her prudent husband; 
 the httle Rosamond was brought up with an extremely 
 limited knowledge of toys, bonbons, and necklaces ; and, 
 when the prudent old jeweller departed this life ten 
 years after the union had taken place which had given 
 him so much satisfaction, it appeared that he had left 
 behind him a substantial token of his approbation of 
 the tactics of the economical pair in the shape of a 
 properly signed and witnessed parchment whereby he 
 bequeathed the wiiole of his property of every descrip- 
 tion to his esteemed partner, James Sutton. Whether 
 the surprise of sudden wealth was too much for the 
 nerves of Mrs. Sutton I cannot say; but certain it is 
 that her health at this time began rapidly to decline, 
 and that Sutton was a widower in a very few months 
 after he became an heir. Doubtless, had his wife died 
 before his benefactor he would have bitterly and deeply 
 mourned for the loss of her — three hundred a year. 
 As it was, he bore his troubles with edifying resigna- 
 tion ; he had never really loved any being on earth but 
 himself and his daughter, and brilliant prospects now 
 seemed to be opening to both of them. A magnificent 
 jeweller's shop in a fashionable street at the west end of 
 the town shortly gave visible signs of Sutton's wealth ; 
 the windows blazed with gems ; enraptured pedestriani 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 59 
 
 stopped to cast longing looks on the treasures thus 
 temptingly displayed to them, and a throng of splendid 
 carriages crowded the door. Sutton engaged an elegant 
 private residence ; and an accomplished and highly-sal- 
 aried governess undertook the education of his daughter, 
 assisted by a bevy of " professors " of all sorts of ai*ts, 
 sciences, and languages. I am sorry to say that as soon 
 as Sutton became wealthy he also became forgetful of 
 his old friends at Oakbury ; his summer visits were now 
 paid to the continent; and the correspondence which 
 his wife had so patiently and indefatigably kept up with 
 Mrs. Everett, Mrs. Mullins, IMiss Colyton, and half a 
 dozen other cousins, was suffered to fall to the ground. 
 Deeply did the inhabitants of Oakbury lament that their 
 townsman should become lost to them just as they had 
 reason to feel proud of him ; they could not console 
 themselves by saying it was "the way of the world," for 
 of the world and its ways they knew nothing — Oakbury 
 at that time being unable to boast even of a hterary 
 institution or a railway to London. 
 
 Years rolled on ; the jeweller's wealth gathered like 
 a snowball ; the governess retired on an annuity , Ros- 
 amond took the head of her father's table ; they removed 
 into a larger house and engaged additional carriages 
 and servants. Various " nymphs of quality" had " ad- 
 mired " or affected to admire the jeweller ; but none of 
 
60 THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 
 
 their spells was successful ; he openly declared his res(r 
 lution never to marry and his intention that none but a 
 man of rank should marry his daughter. There was 
 small difficulty apparently in bringing about this ar- 
 rangement ; the jeweller's wealth was sufficient to pur- 
 chase half a, dozen scions of quality ; but his daughter 
 and himself were particular in their choice, and Rosa- 
 mond did not, as was predicted, marry in her first sea^ 
 son. That first season was just over. Rosamond had 
 lent the light of her countenance to the Book of Beauty, 
 had been celebrated by fashionable poets, and panegy- 
 rized in fashionable newspapers. 
 
 Mrs. Everett could no longer resist the craving de- 
 sire she felt to behold and to exhibit to others the noted 
 beauty to whom she was allied; letter after letter of 
 solicitation was sent to the long-obdurate jeweller, till at 
 length, fairly worn out by the tenacity of his country 
 cousin, he very reluctantly promised that his daughter 
 and himself should spend a couple of days at Mrs. 
 Evei'ett's house in their way to visit a titled friend in 
 the north. Like most pleasures to which people have 
 eagerly looked forward, this visit proved a disappoint- 
 ment to the people of Oakbury ; the good-natured, un- 
 assuming Sutton had been converted by prosperity into 
 " a very magnificent, three-tailed bashaw," making con- 
 stant allusioiAS to the marquises and viscounts with 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 61 
 
 whom he seemed to live oa the most intimate terms, 
 patronizing the cousins who used to patronize him, and 
 condescendingly praising the viands which he once es- 
 teemed it a great favor to be invited to partake of. 
 Rosamond was still more changed ; the timid, plainly- 
 dressed, simple-mannered child was now a brilliant, 
 graceful girl of fashion, dressed in the extreme of the 
 mode, playing and singing like a professor, (according 
 to the Oakbury ideas of a professor,) and talking inces- 
 santly of operas, fancy balls, and public breakfasts. The 
 French waiting maid of Rosamond and the Swiss valet 
 of her father acquitted themselves still less to the satis- 
 faction of Oakbury than their superiors ; unfortunately, 
 they could both speak English well enough to be under- 
 stood, and their criticisms on the discomforts and short- 
 comings of Mrs. Everett's establishment — all faithfully 
 reported to that lady by her housemaid — were pecu- 
 liarly pointed and expressive. It was a relief to all 
 parties when the visit came to an end ; and it was never 
 repeated. Still, however, the jeweller and his daughter 
 were regarded by the people of Oakbury in the light of 
 a property; and they made them a constant subject 
 of conversation when in company with new acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 There was a little bathing-place at a convenient dis 
 tancc from Oakbury, consisting of a dozen cottages, 
 6 
 
62 THE JEWELLEH'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 three villas, a few shops, a library, and a couple uf 
 hotels, where in the autumn a tolerable number of per- 
 sons were wont to congregate. And here Sutton's Oak- 
 burj relatives particularly shone. They were contin- 
 ually repeating anecdotes of the rich jeweller and his 
 fascinating daughter, unsparingly heaping upon them all 
 soi-ts of private good qualities in addition to their pub- 
 licly known advantages ; indeed, they appeared qualified 
 to draw their characters with fidelity, since, according to 
 their own account, Sutton was in the habit of asking 
 advice on matters of importance from all the elderly 
 men of Oakbury, and his daughter was the bosom friend 
 of all the young ladies in it. Latterly, however, they 
 had felt a great wish to add to their stock of anecdotes 
 from some authentic source of information ; and Mrs. 
 Everett obtained great credit from having originated 
 the bold stroke of inviting tlie London couple to her 
 house. Her invitation was accepted because Sir Thomas 
 Chisholm had a nephew on the point of standing for the 
 county, and wished to cultivate the good graces of his 
 country neighbors ; and for the same reason Sir Thomas 
 and Lady Chisholm and their accommodating visitors 
 took their places at Mrs. Everett's board in the most 
 amiable of all possible moods, resolved to please and be 
 pleased ; and, when they found that their hostess was 
 particularly anxious to talk about Rosamond Sutton, 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 65 
 
 Ihej slio\\'ed themselves perfectly willing to keep up tlie 
 ball of conversation just as long as she wished. 
 
 " In my opinion," said Mrs. Everett, " Rosamond is 
 a model of beauty and excellence; but perhaps as a 
 near relation I may be allowed to be partial." 
 
 " I cannot admit that you show any partiality," replied 
 Lady Charlotte. " Miss Sutton quite verifies the char- 
 acter you give of her ; the Marchioness of Arlingford 
 was lately observing to me that Miss Sutton was not only 
 one of the most beautiful girls in London, but that her 
 mind and manners would render her attractive even 
 if she were deprived of every personal recommenda- 
 tion." 
 
 Happy Mrs. Everett! How she triumphed in the 
 success of her dinner party ! How she colored with 
 delight at the idea that she was second cousin to a fash- 
 ionable beauty who had been admired and commended 
 by a marchioness ! 
 
 " Miss Sutton's lovers," pursued Lady Charlotte, "are, 
 as you may conceive, numerous ; many wonder that she 
 still remains unmarried." 
 
 " Dear Rosamond ! " said Mrs. MuUins, sentimentally, 
 "I am selfish enough to wish that she may continue 
 single ; marriage so oflen estranges a girl from her 
 family." 
 
 If marriage could have estranged Rosamond Sut-to» 
 
64 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 from her family more than she was estranged abeadj il 
 would, indeed, have brought about a great marvel. 
 
 "Her offers of marriage," said Colonel Huntley, 
 " have all been from men of rank ; it is understood that 
 her father would sanction no other suitors." 
 
 "I should think not, indeed," said !Mrs. Everett, 
 drawing herself up with dignity. 
 
 "And even these suitors," continued the colonel, 
 " have a difficult part to play ; for Mr. Sutton is apt to 
 suspect that they are attracted towards his daughter by 
 the charms of her dowry." 
 
 " I should hope tliose mercenary motives are not very 
 common in any rank of life," said Mr. Mulhns, who, be 
 it knoAvn to my readers, had married an extremely 
 plain, shrewish woman for the sake of her four thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 " Lord Robert Ransford," said Lady Charlotte, " had 
 wealth as well as rank, and was, I believe, truly and 
 devotedly attached to Miss Sutton ; but she refused him 
 because she could not reciprocate his attachment." 
 
 " Exactly my own feelings," murmured Louisa Mul- 
 lins, who had for two years been laying desperate siege 
 to a gouty, ill-tempered old miser. 
 
 " At present," said Lady Charlotte, " she has two dis- 
 tinguished admirers, who are rivals for her good graces. 
 Lord Belson is reported to stand high in her own good 
 
THE jeweller's daugiitek. 65 
 
 opinion, the Earl of Eppingliara in that of her father. 
 But I am repeating what cannot by any possibility be 
 matter of news to the present party." 
 
 " O, surely not," replied JMrs. Everett. « But the 
 subject of dear Rosamond is one of which we are never 
 weary ; she and her father occasionally spend a part of 
 the summer with us ; " (Mrs. Everett did not absolutely 
 violate truth by this statement, inasmuch as the memo- 
 rable two days spent with her by the Suttons certainly 
 constituted a part of the summer ;) " and I assure you 
 we are eagerly looking forward to their next visit." 
 
 " Mr. Sutton," said the colonel, " is a devoted father 
 and an excellent man." 
 
 " He is, indeed," sighed Miss Margaretta Sutton, the 
 cousin who five and twenty years before had fixed her 
 youthful affections on the assistant of the working jew- 
 eller, and who was now a sharp, sour-looking old maid. 
 
 " I am sure we have all reason to say so," said Miss 
 Sutton, her still sharper and sourer-looking elder sister. 
 " I remember the time " 
 
 Here Colonel Huntley, who thought that remem- 
 brance had now gone to its utmost allowable extent, 
 interposed wi^^-* a remark about the opera house which 
 had the effect of turning the conversation, much to the 
 regret of the Oakbury cousins, who could have talked 
 about Rosamond Sutton and her father till midnight 
 6* 
 
66 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 without showing any signs of weariness. Nevertheless, 
 there was a handsome young man of the party who had 
 studiously avoided taking any share in the discourse; 
 and yet he also was one of the enviable cousins of the 
 heiress. His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Colyton, had been 
 among the kindest of Sutton's relations — always giving 
 to himself, his wife, and child, in their yearly visits to 
 Oakbury, not only a warm and hospitable welcome, but 
 many acceptable little presents. 
 
 A few years after Sutton's inheritance of old Willis's 
 hoards they had both died, leaving a small property to 
 their son, who had just taken orders and accepted a 
 curacy in a neighboring village. Colyton was scA-en 
 years older than Rosamond Sutton ; he had been not 
 only the playfellow, but the protector, of the timid child ; 
 he had deeply lamented the cessation of all intercourse 
 with her; and none expected her arrival with more 
 heartfelt interest than himself when she and her father 
 vouchsafed to pay their two days' visit to Mrs. Everett. 
 Yet to no one did Rosamond behave with so little kind- 
 ness as to Colyton; her relations in general were so 
 perfectly well disposed to consider her as a descending 
 goddess that she could not well avoid iniusing a little 
 graciousness into the appropriate dignity of that char- 
 acter ; but Colyton, in whose mind, at the moment of 
 meeting, the lapse of time and distinctions of worldly 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 67 
 
 fvealth were annihilated, and who only beheld in his 
 cousin the " little Rosamond " of former days, greeted 
 her with such unquestionable warmth and cordiality that 
 the spoiled beauty, accustomed to the smooth flatteries 
 of the nobles of the land, had become distant and freez- 
 ing in her manner; and the Lady of Lyons could 
 scarcely have evinced more scorn to the enamoured 
 Claude Melnotte than did the London heiress to the 
 presumptuous country curate. Yet in spite of her dis- 
 dain she was seldom absent from the thoughts of Coly- 
 ton; and he listened to the accounts of her splendor 
 and gayety not with pleasure, still less with envy, but 
 with fear lest the temptations of the wo^ld might prove 
 fatal to her happiness, and lest she should become the 
 unit /ed wife of one who might wed her not for herself, 
 but for her riches. 
 
 When the ladies retired into the drawiiig room Lady 
 Charlotte was again beset with eager inquiries on the 
 subject of Rosamond Sutton, to all of which she good 
 naturedly replied ; and the " womankind " of Oakbury, 
 who had hitherto only possessed floating and indefinite 
 ideas of the style in which Rosamond lived, were now 
 actually made aware of the color of her carriages and 
 liveries, the costumes which she had worn at fancy 
 balls, and the songs which she had sung at musical par- 
 ties. At length tbs STciirg came to an end. The 
 
63 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 Chisholms and Huntleys honored the company they left 
 behind with a very brief notice. 
 
 " How fond those people are of talking about the 
 Suttons !" said Lady Charlotte Huntley. 
 
 " And really/' replied Lady Chisholm, " they have no 
 reason to be fond of the subject ; it is years since the 
 Suttons have taken the smallest notice of them." 
 
 Not so brief was the conversation in Mrs. Everett's 
 drawing room. 
 
 " Really," said Mrs. Everett, taking the lead in dis- 
 course, as she had the right of a hostess to do, " when 
 I hear all these particulars of the grandeur of Sutton 
 and his daughter, I am more and more shocked at their 
 ingratitude. Why are we to be informed of all these 
 festivities ' y strangers ? Why are we not to be invited 
 as relations to partake of them ? " 
 
 " Carriages at command must certainly be a great 
 luxury," said Mr. Richard Sutton, who suffered griev- 
 ously from rheumatic gout. 
 
 " And how delightful to be able to go to fancy balls 
 in character ! " exclaimed Louisa Mullins. " Rosamond 
 Sutton appeared at one ball as Anne Boleyn, at another 
 as Psyche, and at a third as the White Lady of Ave- 
 nel." 
 
 "Then how many eligible offers of mamage she 
 ^cems to have received ! " exclaimed Miss Margaretta 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 69 
 
 Sutton, (who had never received one in her life,) heav 
 ing a deep sigh as she spoke. 
 
 " It is sad," remarked ]VIi's. Mullins, looking intently 
 on her daughter, " that, where Nature has made so little 
 distinction between young people. Fortune should make 
 so much." 
 
 No one was so ill bred as to contradict IVIrs. Mullins's 
 inference ; but, in reality. Nature had made a great deal 
 of difference between Miss Mullins and her cousin — 
 the one being clumsy, plain, and dull ; while the other 
 was abundantly gifted with grace, beauty, and talent. 
 
 " You do not seem to have a word to say on the sub- 
 ject," said Mrs. Everett, sharply addressing Colyton; 
 "and yet I am sure you have been as ungi-atefully 
 treated as any of us. What kindness was shown to the 
 Suttons by your father and mother and your father's 
 sister ! and what repayment of it have you ever had ? 
 A word from Sutton to one of his titled friends would, 
 very likely, get you the promise of a good living." 
 
 " I am not ambitious, my dear aunt," replied the 
 young man, " and probably am far happier in my state 
 of mediocrity than my London relatives in the midst of 
 then* splendor. There are many temptations attendant 
 upon prosperity, and also the great danger of a reverse. 
 We frequently hear of rich men who su\idenly become 
 poor and, m that case, how much happier woald it have 
 
70 THE JEWELL KR*S DAUGHTER. 
 
 been for them, had they, hke me, been accustomed to 
 * range with humble livers in content ' ! " 
 
 " It is absurd," said Mrs. Everett, " to talk of James 
 Sutton ever being a poor man. I should just as soon 
 think of the failure of the Bank of England. He is 
 more likely to be raised than depressed in the world. I 
 suppose he will soon be saluting his daughter as Countess 
 of Eppingham ! " 
 
 "And forgetting his best and earliest friends," said 
 Miss Margaretta, spitefully, " in the distribution of cake 
 and cards. I dare say we shall only hear of the mar- 
 riage through the newspapers." 
 
 The next morning Colyton, at an early hour, entered 
 the simple, pretty little cottage of his maiden aunt. 
 Miss Colyton had been invited to join Mrs. Everett's 
 dinner party ; but indisposition had prevented her. She 
 was a remarkably amiable person, intelligent, sweet 
 tempered, and unaffectedly religious ; she was charitable 
 to the poor on a small income, and was a great favorite 
 with her equals ; for she possessed the difficult art of 
 giving advice without giving offence, and the still more 
 difficult art of knowing when to refrain from giving it 
 at all. None had shown more kindness than herself to 
 Sutton and his daughter in former days ; but she never 
 complained of their ingratitude nor envied their pros- 
 perity. 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTEE. 71 
 
 " I tremble for poor Rosamond," she said, when her 
 nephew had given her an account of the party of the 
 preceding day. " Thrown into the vortex of the world, 
 without a hand to restrain her or a voice to warn her 
 of its dangers, I can scarcely venture to hope that she 
 will escape unhurt. Truly did Bishop Latimer say, 
 * He was justly accounted a skilful poisoner who de- 
 stroyed his victims by bouquets of lovely and fragrant 
 flowers. The art has not been lost ; nay, it is practised 
 every day by the world.' " 
 
 Two days from this time Mr. MuUins was leisurely 
 and composedly unfolding the newspaper. Had he in- 
 dulged Mrs. MuUins or Louisa with the first reading 
 of it they would unquestionably have turned to the 
 marriages, that they might have ascertained if Rosa- 
 mond Sutton had yet become a countess ; and, failing 
 of making any discovery in that quarter, they would 
 have sought for an account of fashionable festivities, to 
 learn if she had appeared in any new character at a 
 fancy ball. Mr. MuUins, however, did neither of these 
 things ; he turned, as was his constant custom, to the 
 list of bankrupts. 
 
 Surprising ! Could he really trust the evidence of 
 his own eyes? Was it, could it be, the fact that 
 James Sutton figured among the bankrupts? Sutton, 
 so wealthy that he was worth incalculable sums, and so 
 
72 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 honorable that " his word would pass for more than he 
 was worth," could Sutton indeed be degraded, penniless 
 — nay, worse than penniless ? 
 
 In another part of the paper was a confirmation of 
 this statement in the shape of a paragraph expressing 
 much astonishment at the unlooked-for event ; but hint- 
 ing at a speculation in railroads as the cause of it. 
 Railroads are certainly very convenient things, both in 
 novels and real life Whenever a man becomes sud- 
 denly and unaccountably ruined, railroad speculations 
 are constantly seized upon as the solution of the mys- 
 tery, and nobody ever thinks of questioning it. 
 
 Mr. Mullins speedily made the results of his morning 
 reading known to Mrs. Mullins and Louisa ; and they 
 eagerly set out, in a sharp, drizzling rain, to spread 
 the intelligence through Oakbury. 
 
 The feelings of Sutton's relations were of a mixed 
 kind. It was quite clear that they must abstain from 
 all future boasting on the subject of the jeweller and 
 his daughter. They must appear with greatly dimin- 
 ished consequence at their favorite little watering-place ; 
 but still there were counterbalancing advantages in the 
 matter. 
 
 Rochefoucauld says that "there is something in the 
 misfortunes of our best friends that does not displease 
 us." Now, Sutton was not the "best friend" of any 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 body in Oakbury. He had wounded the pride of his 
 family by his long-continued neglect; and so far from 
 being a displeasing, it was rather an agreeable, reflec- 
 tion that he had sunk decidedly beneath them, inasmuch 
 that he was oppressed by the weight of innumerable 
 debts, while they had got their receipted Christmas bills 
 snugly ensconced in their writing desks or secretaries. 
 
 Miss Margaretta Sutton was peculiarly aUve to this 
 feehng, and talked so much about her " lucky escape in 
 not marrying James Sutton " that she almost persuaded 
 herself — although she failed in persuading her audi- 
 tors — that she really had once had the option of 
 doing so. 
 
 Colyton and his aunt were the only persons who truly 
 felt grieved at the intelligence that their dignified towns- 
 man had thus abruptly " fallen from liis high estate." 
 
 " Poor Rosamond!" concluded Colyton, after half an 
 hour's conversation, in which not one ill-natured or self- 
 righteous remark had been made by himself or his com- 
 panion. " How sad a change for her ! How soon will 
 she have cause to experience the fallacy of the friend- 
 ship of the world ! " 
 
 " Let us hope," said Miss Colyton, " that there is a 
 bright side to the question, and that this misfortune 
 may prove a blessing to our dear Kosamond. Well and 
 truly has Wordsworth said, — 
 
m 
 
 74 THE JEWELLERS DAUGHTER. 
 
 * The shower whose reckless burden weighs 
 Too heavily upon the lily's head. 
 Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root.* " 
 
 The jeweller and his daughter were seated in one of 
 the smallest rooms of the splendid house from which 
 they were soon to take their departure forever. Three 
 weeks had elapsed since Sutton's bankruptcy had been 
 proclaimed, and the fashionable world had behaved just 
 as badly as the most bitter satirist or the most gloomy 
 cynic could have predicted. The young friends who 
 had " loved Rosamond as a sister," the matrons who had 
 "regarded her as a daughter," the elderly men of 
 fashion who had "wished themselves young for her 
 sake," the lover of her own choice, the lover of her 
 father's recommendation, — all were seized with a sud- 
 den unanimity of purpose which induced them to think 
 that the very kindest way of consoling the Suttons in 
 their trouble was to leave them entirely to themselves. 
 Too true is it, that, when Poverty comes in it at the 
 door. Friendship is to the full as ready as Love to jump 
 out of the window. 
 
 "Next week, dearest Rosamond," said poor Sutton, 
 " we must remove from this house. I cannot quit Lon- 
 don ; I have many arrangements to make in my con- 
 fused affairs. We must separate for a time ; and happy 
 
THE JEWELL EU*5 DAUGHTER. 75 
 
 am I to say that a friend has kindly offered to take 
 charge of you." 
 
 " The Marchioness of Arlingford ? " eagerly inquired 
 Rosamond. 
 
 The lady to whom she alluded was the aunt of her 
 favored admirer, Lord Belson, and had always professed 
 the warmest affection for her. 
 
 " The marchioness has neither called nor written," 
 Baid Sutton, dryly, " since she heard of our misfortunes." 
 
 " I am glad," said Rosamond, wdth a sigh, " that we 
 have even a solitary friend remaining ; but I am per- 
 fectly unable to guess her name." 
 
 " She is one of our relations at Oakbury," replied 
 her father. 
 
 *' Mrs. Everett, no doubt," said Rosamond, reddening. 
 " Dear father, do not accept her invitation. She, who 
 was so fawning and servile in our prosperity, will indem- 
 nify herself for our neglect of her by her malicious 
 triumph over us in our adversity." 
 
 " Fear not, Rosamond," replied her father ; " the let- 
 ter does not come from Mrs. Everett, but from a very 
 different person. You need apprehend no ungener- 
 ous triumph from her. I experienced many instances 
 of friendship from her in former days ; and you also, 
 young as you were at the time of our mtimacy, can 
 have no difficulty in calling to mind the kindness that 
 
76 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 she always showed toward? you. "We have both for- 
 gotten her for a time ; but .his letter will show that i^ 
 our trials she has not for^ 'tten us." 
 
 And he put into Rosamond's hand a letter, which, as 
 my readers have doubtless ere this conjectured, came 
 from the warmhearted and sympathizing Miss Colyton 
 ♦ « * * » 
 
 Poor IMiss Colyton ! she had done a really kind and 
 disinterested deed in oiFering Rosamond shelter and pro- 
 tection till her father had adjusted his most pressing 
 difficulties ; but every body in Oakbury with the excep- 
 tion of her nephew, who was just as kind and disinter- 
 ested as herself, highly disapproved of the course she 
 was pursuing. Her conduct was by turns designated as 
 *'mean spirited," "romantic," and " pharisaical ; " all 
 possible and impossible evils were predicted as the result 
 of Rosamond's residence in her house; it might have 
 seemed that, hke Clmstabel, (only that none of the Oak- 
 bury people had ever read Christabel,) she was on the 
 point of inviting an evil spirit to cross her threshold in 
 the guise of a beautiful lady. Miss Colyton, however, 
 was undismayed by all tliese denunciations ; she knew 
 that she was performing her duty in showing kindness 
 to the friendless, deserted Rosamond ; and the love that 
 she had borne towards her when slie was an engaging, 
 artless child, rendered that duty a pleasure tocher. 
 
THE JEWELLi:i:'5 DAUGHTER, 77 
 
 Rosamond arrived on the appointed day, conducted by 
 her father, who, after warmly and cordially expressing 
 his thanks to INIiss Colyton, took his departure ; and the 
 flattered London beauty, with a limited quantity of lug- 
 gage and no waiting maid, was left to domesticate herself 
 as best she could in a very small quiet cottage, an elderly 
 single lady her only companion, and two plain, neat 
 country girls her only attendants. Rosamond's trials, 
 however, came not from those within the house, but 
 from those without it ; the perpetual wonder expressed 
 by Mrs. Everett regarding the imprudence of her father, 
 the sneering condolence of Miss Margaretta Sutton 
 touching the defection of her lovers, Mrs. MuUins's 
 ceaseless questions whether she did not sadly miss her 
 carriages and servants, and Louisa Mullins's unweai'ied 
 curiosity to learn the minutest particulars of the cos- 
 tumes of Anne Boleyn, Psyche, and the White Lady of 
 Avenel, — these were indeed hard to bear ; but Rosamond 
 came through the ordeal wonderfully well. In the first 
 place, she was four years older than when she enacted 
 the descending goddess on her former visit to Oakbury ; 
 increasing years had brought with them increased good 
 taste and feeling ; and she would not now, under any cir- 
 cumstances, have received with hauteur the fussy atten- 
 tions of^ Mrs. Everett, or chilled with disdain the warm- 
 hearted regard of Coljton. Secondly, she had suffered 
 
78 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 adversity; she had tried the world's friendship, and 
 found it wanting ; her fancy, although not her heart, liad 
 been engaged to Lord Belson; and when his conduct 
 clearly evinced that his motives for seeking her hand 
 had been merely of a mercenary character, she felt 
 grateful for her escape, and disposed to think that honest 
 good will, or even undisguised indifference, was pref 
 erable to the smooth, honeyed declai'ations of affection 
 and devotion which had really never existed. There- 
 fore was Rosamond Sutton disposed to love and resj^ect 
 the quiet, unassuming Miss Colyton, whose kindness to 
 her was so unquestionably disinterested ; and therefore 
 was she ready to tolerate even the occasional imperti- 
 nence of a few of the Oakbury denizens, because she 
 felt impertinence to be far superior to insincerity. Ros- 
 amond, however, was not long destined to suffer imper- 
 tinence, for the Oakbury people soon began to like her 
 very well indeed ; they were selfish, shallow, and narrow 
 minded ; but none of them, not even Miss Margaretta 
 Sutton, possessed that inherent and bitter spirit of ma- 
 lignity, utterly incapable of being disarmed by inoffen- 
 siveness and gentleness. The Oakbury people had long 
 entertained a most exaggerated idea of Rosamond's lux- 
 urious habits and splendid appointments ; and they would 
 have been ready to believe any one who had asserted 
 ©f her as Fag does of Lydia Languish, in the comedy 
 
THE jeweller's daugiiter. 79 
 
 of The Rivals, that her thread papers were made of 
 bank notes, and that she fed her parrot with small pearls ! 
 Then they had ascertained that the creditors of a bank- 
 rupt laid no claim to the " vanities " of a lady's ward- 
 robe ; therefore, if they had been required to put their 
 thoughts into words, they would have predicted that 
 Rosamond would have descended to breakfast in bro- 
 caded silk and Valenciennes lace, paid morning visits in 
 a white satin pelisse, and gone to tea drinkings in a silver 
 gauze dress : as for her daily employments, they sup- 
 posed that they would principally consist in painting 
 greenhouse exotics and singing Italian bravuras. Rosa- 
 mond, however, like all sensible persons, knew that fine 
 dresses and fine ways would neither suit her fallen for- 
 tunes nor the locality in which for the present she 
 seemed destined to remain ; and Oakbury soon dis- 
 covered, to its very great surprise, that the fashionable 
 beauty wore muslin dresses and a straw bonnet worked 
 with a needle, and sang English ballads. I do not 
 mean to say that Rosamond accommodated herself with- 
 out an effort to her new mode of living ; she felt the 
 want of many luxuries which to her seemed necessaries 
 of existence ; she lamented the deprivation of literary 
 institutions, galleries of pictures, and concerts of fine 
 music ; and she missed the conversation of the world ; 
 for, trifling and superficial as it often was, it at least 
 
80 THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 
 
 boasted the charm of variety and of refinement. She 
 was accustomed to hear of the most interesting private 
 and public events while the bloom of novelty was fresh 
 upon thftm ; and it was wearying to her to listen to the 
 perpetual vapid gossip of Oakbury, where the new 
 shawl of a tradesman's wife, or the rose-colored ribbons 
 of a housemaid, furnished matter for half an hour's dis- 
 •ussion. But Rosamond had, like the princesses in 
 Tairy tales, " a great deal of wit," which in fairy-tale 
 phraseology signifies quickness of apprehension ; she 
 felt that the gay world was nothing to her, and that the 
 kind, feeling Miss Colyton w^as worth the whole of " her 
 dear five hundred friends ; " nay, she did justice to a 
 much lower grade of good will, and called to mind that 
 while Mrs. Everett deemed no tea party complete with- 
 out " Rosamond and her music book," and Louisa Mul- 
 lins arranged the proceedings of every picnic excursion 
 with the view of " a nice point for Rosamond to sketch 
 from," the Lady Claras and Lady Emilys, who had 
 vowed eternal friendship for her, were now quite ob- 
 livious of her existence ; and if they thought of her 
 Binging and sketching at all, it would only be to deplore 
 that she did both in too commonplace a style to compete 
 with any of the accomplished prodigies who embellish 
 the governess column of the Times. I have, however, 
 a still better reason to give for Rosamond's increasinjr 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 8i 
 
 satisfaction with her situation ; she could not but leel 
 that while the lover selected for her by her father was 
 taking a continental tour, and the lover encouraged by 
 herself was paying his addresses to the deformed daugh- 
 ter of a rich city mercer, Colyton, the kind companion 
 and protector of her childhood, whom she had treated 
 with disdain during her prosperity, — Colyton was un- 
 wearying in his endeavors to amuse and interest her, 
 and to prevent her mind from dwelling on her recent 
 trials. 
 
 Colyton was a daily visitor at the house of his aunt ; 
 he lent books to Rosamond, sang duets with her, accom- 
 panied her in her walks, and predicted that brighter 
 days were yet in store for her dear father. Thus wore 
 away the winter; the letter that Rosamond received 
 from her father was written in a tranquil spirit, and the 
 arrangement of his affairs was, he said, advancing quite 
 as satisfactorily as he had any right to expect it would do. 
 
 Spring came. Miss Colyton was sitting alone, when 
 Miss Margaretta Sutton was announced. 
 
 " I wonder where Rosamond is,'* said the visitor, look- 
 ing round. 
 
 " She will not be at home for some time,** replied 
 Miss Colyton ; " she has gone to take a long walk with 
 my nephew." 
 
 " I thought so," said !Miss Margaretta, forgetting that 
 
82 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 her " thinking so " was rather at variance with her pro 
 viously expressed wonder on the subject of the " where- 
 about " of Rosamond. " I must say, Anne, that I am 
 quite surprised at your blindness." 
 
 " In what respect ? " quietly inquired JSIiss Colyton. 
 
 " Why, in regard to the attachment so evidently form- 
 ing, or formed, between your nephew and Rosamond 
 Sutton," answered Miss Margaretta. 
 
 " Who told you that I was blind to it ? " asked Miss 
 Colyton, smiling. 
 
 " My dear Anne," exclaimed Miss Margaretta, " surely 
 you cannot but recollect that Rosamond Sutton has no 
 independent fortune, and that a bankrupt's daughter 
 has no claim to a shilling." 
 
 " I am perfectly aware of both these facts," replied 
 Miss Colyton. " My nephew has a small income ; and 
 as it is enough for the moderate comforts of life, and 
 as he will inherit my little property at my death, I 
 think that, if the young people are satisfied with their 
 prospects, we have no right to interfere with their 
 choice." 
 
 " But if Colyton thinks he can afford to marry with- 
 out money," persisted Miss Margaretta, " why cannot he 
 fix on Louisa Mullins, who is just as nearly related to 
 him as Rosamond Sutton, and whom he has seen almost 
 every day from her childhood ? " 
 
THE JEWELLER 3 DAUGHTER. S0 
 
 " Simply because he loves the one and not the other," 
 answered Miss Colyton. 
 
 " And how do you know that James Sutton will ap- 
 prove of the way in which you have disposed of his 
 daughter's hand without consulting him ? " asked Miss 
 Margaretta, in a slightly raised key. 
 
 " I have not done so without consulting him," Miss 
 Colyton replied. 
 
 "Then depend upon it," said Miss Margaretta, tri 
 umphantly, " he will immediately summon his daughter 
 back to London. Do you think he will allow her to 
 throw herself away upon a poor curate? She is a 
 beautiful girl, (it w^as the first time that Miss IVIargaretta 
 had ever allowed her to be so,) and I dare say he will 
 manage to get an outfit and an introduction for her, and 
 export her to India." 
 
 " I do not think he had ever any design of that kind," 
 said Miss Colyton ; " at all events, if he had, he has 
 cheerfully relinquished it, and given his ready consent 
 to his daughter's marriage with my nephew." 
 
 " And do you really mean to say," exclaimed the an- 
 gry Miss Margaretta, " that a marriage is arranged to 
 take place between two of my relations, and that I am 
 the last person to be informed of it ? " 
 
 " I mean to say no such thing," replied Miss Colyton ; 
 " Mr. Sutton's consent only arrived this morning ; and 
 
84 THE JEWELLER*S DAUGHTER. 
 
 therefore, Margaretta, you are the first person to be 
 informed of the intended marriage, as indeed I had de- 
 termined you should be at all events ; and had you not 
 happened to call upon me, I should have been a visitor 
 at your house in the course of an hour for the purpose 
 of giving you the information." 
 
 Miss Colyton was never m the habit of telling polite 
 untruths ; she really meant what she had just said ; she 
 knew that whoever received the first tidings of the pro- 
 posed marriage would disseminate it through Oakbury 
 before sunset ; and, as she thought that Miss Margaretta 
 was the person whose good will would be the most dif- 
 ficult to conciliate, she had resolved to bestow upon her 
 the empty honor of being the original proclaimer of the 
 news, judging rightly that nothing would so much tend 
 to disarm all unamiable feelings on her part. The event 
 proved the wisdom of the course she had pursued. 
 Miss Margaretta took a hasty leave of her, hoping that 
 after all the affair would turn out better than she had 
 expected, and paid a round of visits at Oakbury to tell 
 the news, saying that it was the particular wish of her 
 dear Anne Colyton that she should do so, and hinting 
 that she had all along been in the confidence of the 
 young couple, and that, as their hearts seemed set upon 
 the matter, she did not know but that it was better to 
 let them take their own wa^'. All received the commu* 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 nication in very good part. Louisa MuUins had lately 
 been staying with a friend tolerably well married, who 
 was some years older and much plainer than herself, 
 and had consequently risen so highly in her own estima- 
 tion that she openly declared she would never marry 
 without fifty pounds a year pin money and a one-horse 
 chaise. Therefore she was perfectly well satisfied to 
 relinquish all chance of Colyton, and turned her thoughts 
 with much amiability towards working an ottoman for 
 his destined bride. Mrs. Everett resolved to make the 
 young people a present of a silver cake basket and 
 plenty of good advice ; others were no less gracious ; 
 and the same set of people who a year ago had secretly 
 envied and disliked Rosamond and her father were 
 now well pleased to befriend and assist the former and 
 even expressed their hopes that the latter would " now 
 and then come to see his daughter and take a peep at 
 his old friends." 
 
 « » « « « 
 
 A month had elapsed, and Rosamond's wedding day 
 was approaching; she was staying in London, at the 
 request of her father, who wished daily to see her, but 
 could not spare time from his affairs to visit her at Oak- 
 bury. He had procured her an invitation from the wife 
 of his soUcitor, Mr. Benwell. Rosamond had never 
 Been Mr. Benwell above two or three times, and had 
 8 
 
86 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 never seen Mrs. Benwell at all ; she was a plain, com* 
 monplace person, and lived in a small house in a street 
 near Bloomsbury Square; but Rosamond had been 
 quite cured of fine ladjism during her stay at Oakbury, 
 and made herself so very agreeable that Mrs. Benwell 
 quite regretted that her wedding could not be deferred 
 for a month longer. Rosamond, indeed, was perfectly 
 happy ; her lover came several times to London to see 
 her ; and her father was not only looking remarkably 
 well, but was in excellent spirits ; in fact, he, like her- 
 self, seemed improved by adversity ; there was no longer 
 the least vestige of the " three-tailed bashaw " about 
 him ; there were no allusions to noblemen, no talk about 
 eligible matches. He inquired kindly and repeatedly 
 about his Oakbury friends and relations ; and to hi3 
 son-in-law elect his manner was every thing that could 
 be wished — cordial, confiding, and affectionate. 
 
 The wedding day arrived. Rosamond, attired with 
 simple elegance, was given away by her father. The 
 Benwell family alone were present, Mrs. Benwell's niece 
 ofliciating as bridesmaid ; and they returned to a quiet 
 little collation at the Bloomsbury domicile. The young 
 couple, who lacked money for the usual honeymoon in- 
 dulgence of a continental trip, had thought of immedi- 
 ately returning home ; but Sutton had laughingly de- 
 clared that he must retain possession ot them for a few 
 
THE JEWELLER*S DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 dajs, and that, if they resigned themselves to his 
 guidance, he would venture to say that their time should 
 pass pleasantly. They willingly acceded to his request, 
 anticipating a sojourn of two or three days at one of the 
 villages near London. Leave was taken of the friend- 
 ly Benwells ; and the bride was handed by her father 
 to the carriage waiting at the door, which proved to be 
 not the hired conveyance which had taken them to 
 church, but a new and very elegant barouche. No re- 
 mark was made by any one ; but both the bride and 
 bridegroom felt rather uncomfortable at the unexpected 
 splendor of their transit. Each formed a different opin- 
 ion on the subject. Rosamond concluded that her father 
 had borrowed the carriage " for that day only " from 
 one of his great friends who had not quite thrown him 
 off ; and she was sorry that he should have laid himself 
 under such an obhgation. Colyton, on the other hand, 
 remembering all he had heard of the magnificent tastes 
 of his father-in-law, was apprehensive that, having saved 
 a few hundreds out of the wreck of his property, he was 
 only anxious immediately to dissipate them. 
 
 The coachman, wlio appeared to have received liis 
 orders, drove to a house in Hyde Park Gardens ; here 
 Sutton alighted, kindly welcomed his daughter and son- 
 m-law, and led them up stairs to a tastefully-furnished 
 suite of drawing rooms. 
 
68 THE JEWELL Ell's DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Has this house been lent to you by a friend, my dear 
 father?" inquired the astonished bride. 
 
 " No, Rosamond," replied her father. " I have not a 
 friend in the world who is likely to lend me so much as 
 a fire screen or a hearth brush ; and, happily, I can very 
 well dispense with then* good offices. This house is my 
 own, and therefore yours ; may you both hve long and 
 happily in it ! " 
 
 " But my dear sir," suggested his son-in-law, " is there 
 not some mistake? It is so short a time since your 
 fortunes were under a cloud that " 
 
 " You mean, I suppose," said the jeweller, " to say 
 that, as I have recently become a bankrupt, I cannot 
 fairly possess the means of hving in such a house as 
 this. Under ordinary circumstances such might be the 
 case ; but mine is a bankruptcy of a peculiar descrip- 
 tion." 
 
 Again did the young couple draw a different conclu- 
 sion from Sutton's speech. Rosamond imagined that 
 her father must be speaking in jest, not knowing what 
 peculiar kind of bankruptcy that could be which would 
 enable its victim to live in Hyde Park Gardens. Colv- 
 ton was more enlightened on the subject ; he had heard 
 of fraudulent bankruptcies, where the supposed sufferer 
 came out of his troubles a great deal richer than before 
 he got into them ; but it grieved him to think that Ros* 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 89 
 
 ainond's father should be one of those, and it gi-eatly 
 surprised him that he should have the hardihood to 
 avow it. 
 
 " I will explain the mystery of my bankiiiptey in as 
 few words as possible," said Sutton. " A year ago I was 
 very desirous of quitting business and investing my prop- 
 erty in the funds ; but the enormous sums owing to me 
 seemed to defy all my powers to call them in; they 
 would not * come when I did call for them.' You have 
 heard, Colytoi, that my brilliant tiaras sparkle in the 
 flowing tresses of duchesses and marchionesses, and that 
 my bracelets and rings encircle the slender wrists and 
 snowy fingers of countless court maidens ; and possibly 
 you in your happy ignorance may imagine that these 
 valuables were all paid for on delivery, or at least that 
 a settlement took place eveiy Christmas. Not so ; there 
 is many a Lady Townley in the present day who loses 
 at cards the money destined to defer her just debts. 
 How could I dun my fiiir creditors when I and my 
 daughter were on visiting terms with them ? Could I 
 threaten the Marchioness of Arlingford with arrest 
 when her nephew was inditing love sonnets to Rosa- 
 mond? Could I declare that I would expose Lady 
 Emily Tracey to the world when T was anxiously en- 
 deavoring to promote a marriage between my daughter 
 and her brother? I detennir.ed on a fictitious bank 
 8* 
 
90 THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 
 
 mptcy ; my assignees have gathered in all that is OTving 
 to nie ; my affairs are completely settled ; and I am at 
 this moment, in mercantile phrase, ' as good a man as 
 ever.' " 
 
 " But, my dear father," exclaimed Rosamond, " why 
 did you not admit a few friends into your secret ? " 
 
 "Because," said her father, "it would then have 
 speedily ceased to be any secret at all, and because, 
 Rosamond, I had a double view in my bankruptcy. I 
 wished not only to get my accounts paid, but to try the 
 truth of my professing friends and your fair-speaking 
 lovers. I had always been haunted by the fear that you 
 would be married rather for your fortune than yourself. 
 Here was an opportunity of testing the disinterestedness 
 of all the young men who had said, in the words of the 
 old song in Lionel and Clarissa, * O, talk not to me of 
 the wealth she possesses ! ' The experiment succeeded ; 
 and I had cause to feel so much displeased with my 
 friends that I began to feel very much displeased with 
 myself, and to think that 1 had done unwisely in hfting 
 my daughter and myself out of the sphere in which we 
 had been accustomed to move for the sake of associating 
 with people who merely tolerated us on account of our 
 wealth, and who cast us off directly Ave ceased to possess 
 it. Then I thought of Oakbury and of the many happy 
 days I had enjoyed there during the lifetime of my wife, 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTEK. 91 
 
 when every body believed our means to be very moder- 
 at3 and sought our society solely for the sake of our- 
 selves. Just then came in the kindest of letters from 
 the excellent Anne Colyton ; and most happy was I, 
 Rosamond, to reflect that you would have the advantage 
 of residing for a few months under the roof of so admi- 
 rable a person ; for, while I was blaming myself a great 
 deal, I could not help blaming you a little and thinking 
 that you had been the spoiled child of prosperity, and 
 that a short season in the school of adversity would do 
 you a great deal of good. JSIy wishes have been 
 promptly fulfilled ; not only have you gained an invalu- 
 able friend and many well wishers by your visit to Oak- 
 bury, but a true and disinterested lover. You will 
 pardon me, my dear Colyton, for trying your disinter- 
 estedness to the very last point. I have heard of in- 
 stances where the lovers of penniless beauties thought 
 better of a foolish business even at the altar." 
 
 " Not when so cliarming a bride as Rosamond was 
 standing at it, I conjecture," replied the young man. 
 "But surely, my dear sir, you might have imparted 
 your secret to your daughter." 
 
 " My good young friend," said the jeweller, " you en- 
 tertain a very high opinion of Rosamond, and so do I 
 out still she is but a woman ; and it has always been my 
 opinion that there is only one secret which a woman can 
 
92 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 be trusted to keep — that of her own age." (At the 
 time this conversation occurred the new census had not 
 taken place, otherwise Sutton would have seen women 
 deprived of the power of keeping even that solitary- 
 secret.) " Besides," lie continued, " I wished to try 
 Rosamond's stability as well as your own. She believed 
 that * her face was her fortune ; * and I imagined she 
 might consider that so very pretty a face entitled her to 
 expect no trifling fortune in exchange. And now, hav- 
 ing finished all my explanations, lot me again welcome 
 you to the house which I hope you will share with me. 
 You must give up your country curacy, Colyton ; you 
 will find that the gay world stands much in need of your 
 admonitions, and I trust that it will profit by them. In 
 two or three days we will all visit Oakbury ; and you 
 shall tell your dear aunt in person of your changed 
 prospectr " 
 
 And they did visit Oakbury ; and great was the bustle 
 and the excitement of that happy little town when the 
 important news was circulated through it. Sutton was 
 full of kindness and cordiality to his old friends ; and 
 not only did he warmly invite them to come and see 
 him in London, but he made purchase of a pretty house 
 and grounds, about half a mile from Oakbury, to which 
 he promised that himself, his daughter, and her husband 
 would pay frequent visits, if Miss Colyton would favor 
 
THE jeweller's DAUGHTER. 93 
 
 him by taking up her resideace there. This she agreed 
 fo do ; nor was she the only pei*son who experienced 
 the hberality of their old townsman. Every silver cake 
 basket, worked ottoman, china jar, or papier mache 
 portfolio that had been given to the curate's aflfianced 
 bride was returned to the donor in presents of large 
 value ; and these were all received with pleasure, be- 
 cause they were not given in a spirit of patronage and 
 ostentation, but were offered as tokens of friendship and 
 good will. 
 
 Five years have now elapsed ; Colyton is a celebrat- 
 ed preacher at a London chapel, and has, as his father- 
 in-law predicted, been the cause of great benefit to many 
 of his hearers. His wife and himself live happily with 
 the worthy jeweller; and two children are added to the 
 family party, who, to the great delight of Miss Colyton, 
 pass much of their time at the house at Oakbury. As 
 for the Oakbury people, they talk more about the But- 
 tons than ever ; but they do it with a far different feel- 
 ing ; the stories of intimacy and regard which they were 
 formerly compelled to improvise have now become mat- 
 ter of fact ; and the envy and dissatisfaction lurking in 
 their minds have been exchanged for the truest esteem 
 and regard. Only one evil has resulted from the course 
 that Sutton has pursued — the Oakbury people, never 
 \ cry bright and quickwitted, have become thoroughly 
 
94 THE jeweller's daughter. 
 
 confused and mystified in their ideas touching the stabil- 
 ity or instability of men of business. Formerly, if they 
 saw the name of any one they knew in the list of bank- 
 rupts, they used to talk of him with pity ; but now they 
 conceive it probable that he is only perpetrating a play- 
 ful ruse on the " Fair of May Fair," and that, when all 
 his accounts have been duly settled and made over to 
 him, he will, like Sutton, emerge from the temporary 
 clouds that surrounded him. "Whether such events are 
 frequent I am not prepared to say ; but the one in ques- 
 tion has certainly had the happiest effects in improving 
 the character as well as the fortune of the jeweller, and 
 in gaining a sincere and disinterested lover for th«» 
 "jeweller's daughter." 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 BY iDA TREVANION. 
 
 O, DEEM not, when the turf is spread 
 
 O'er one long prized and justly dear, 
 The flowers of love and friendship shed 
 
 Their latest fragrance on the bier ; 
 There is a soul-bom sympathy 
 
 No tears may quench or time remove, 
 Which joins in mystic unit}' 
 
 The fond below and blest above. 
 
 As bounds the bark which breezes sweep, 
 
 While waters coldly close around, 
 Till of her pathway o'er the deep 
 
 The sinning track no more is found, 
 Thus floating down Death's silent tide 
 
 The best and loveliest of eai-th 
 Fleet as that white-winged pageant glide 
 
 And leave no record of their worth. 
 
 (90) 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 But as the bark, though lost to view, 
 
 *Mid scowl of storm or calm of rest, 
 Takes the lone heart's affection ti-ue, 
 
 Like holy sunshine, on her breast, 
 So, when our idols pass from s-ight, 
 
 Our love, if pure, knows not decay ; 
 It triumphs o'er the grave's dark night, 
 
 And mounts with them to realms of day. 
 
 Death, who divides all outward ties. 
 
 Dissevers not heart linked to heart ; 
 He does but guard love's sacred prize 
 
 From earthly chance and change apart ; 
 Making it higher, holier seem. 
 
 More chastely pure, more heavenly fair; 
 As the ice, closing o'er the stream. 
 
 Keeps baser things from mingling there. 
 
THE VOYAGE OF THE FANCIES. 
 
 BT CHARLES H. HITCHIN6S. 
 
 A CREW of bright Fancies, one fair sunny day, 
 
 In the bark of the Muses towards heaven sped their 
 
 way. 
 Love and "Wit were on board, and a prosperous gale 
 (A good gift of Apollo) set right in their saiL 
 
 Away through the air full of frolic they sped, 
 Dreary earth left below, happy skies overhead ; 
 While the gay songs of mirth echoed blithe through the 
 
 spheres. 
 And they well nigh forgot the sad world and its tears. 
 
 They had spirits about them ; for when travelled Love 
 
 But the Angel of Sorrow sate brooding above ? 
 
 And the Guardian of Earth watched the bales thai 
 
 were stored 
 Full of fair human interests for ballast on board. 
 9 (97) 
 
98 THE VOYAGE OF THE FANCIES. 
 
 Up away, up away, through the clear sunny blue. 
 With the wind still in favor, the compass still true. 
 Not a cloud to o'ershade them, or shut from their sight 
 The blest haven they sought with its turrets of light. 
 
 They went bounding along, tUl impatient at length 
 
 Of the ballast that curbed the vrild force in its strength. 
 
 And as eager as lightning to press to their mark. 
 
 Ere the night should close in with its shrouding of dark, 
 
 ** What are these," cried a Fancy, " retarding our sails ? " 
 As he spumed 'neath his foot the poor earth-laden bales. 
 "We should speed twice as swift were these dead 
 
 weights away — 
 Sordid clods of corruption, vile compounds of clay I " 
 
 To the clearance they went. Scarce a sand grain had 
 
 run 
 In the glass of old Time ere their labor was done ; 
 And away 'gan the bark like an arroTV to fly. 
 But all aimless and vague, through thi* waste of the sky. 
 
 For the ballastless bark by a tempest was crossed, 
 And the rudder was broken, the compass was lost ; 
 And a heaven-darted bolt of the lightning af kst 
 Those Fancies to earthward avengingly cast 
 
THE VOTAGE OF THE FANCIES. 99 
 
 For think not that earthless the Fancy can soar 
 To the reahns of pure spirit, remembering no more 
 The dull world and its creatures, but, glorious and bright^ 
 Hurry on its swift course to the regions of light. 
 
 But if heavenward thou sail, take as ballast the woe 
 And the sufferings and pains of thy fellows below ; 
 For the sole song of earth that to heaven may aspire 
 Is the song that is hallowed by sympathy's fire. 
 
OLIVIA. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Vio, Good madam, let me see your face. 
 
 Oil. Have you any commission from your lord to 
 negotiate with my face ? You are now out of your 
 text ; but we will draw the curtain and show you the 
 picture. 
 
 Look you, sir, such a one I was this present : 
 Is't not well done ? [ Unveiling, 
 
 Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. 
 
 Oli. 'Tis in grain, sir ; 'twill endure wind and weather. 
 
 Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white 
 Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on. 
 .Lady, you are the crudest she alive 
 If you will lead these graces to the grave, 
 And leave the world no copy. 
 
 Oli. O sir, I will not be so hardhearted ; I will give 
 out divers schedules of my beauty; it shall be inven- 
 
 rioo) 
 
OLIVIA. 101 
 
 toned; and every particle and utensil labelled to my 
 will : as items, two lips indifferent red ; item,, two gray 
 eyes, with lids to them ; item, one neck, one chin, and 
 60 forth. Were you sent hither to praise me? 
 9* 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 
 
 A TRUE INCIDKNT. 
 
 BY GERALDINE E. JEWSBURY. 
 
 • Visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third 
 and fourth generation." — Book of Exodus. 
 
 This is not, as at first sight it might appear, an arbi- 
 trary threat of vengeance — a declaration of malice 
 instead of justice ; it is simply a declaration that the 
 everlasting laws of cause and effect can never be turned 
 aside. There is no.escape possible from an action that 
 has once been done. 
 
 That the innocent suffer with the guilty, often instead 
 of them, is not injustice, but only a portion of the immu- 
 table law by which every action brings its own conse- 
 quences, as a tree bears fruit after its kind. There is 
 no chapter of human life more tragically sorrowful 
 than that which relates the sufferings of those who are 
 victims to the deeds of others ; although few, be it said, 
 
 (102) 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELlQUE. 103 
 
 are so personally guiltless as not to have quickened or 
 aggravated their sufferings by some error of their own. 
 
 The following story, which is in all respects true, 
 bears upon this subject ; it was related to us some years 
 ago by an old physician since dead. He was an excel- 
 lent man, and remarkable for his skiU and sagacity in 
 treating all phases of mental alienation and insanity. 
 He was one of the first who endeavored to strip these 
 terrible afflictions of the mysterious, almost supernatural 
 dread with which they were invested, and to bring back 
 the poor sufferers within the confines of humanity, from 
 which they had been banished by the fear and cruelty 
 their malady inspired. When a young man he resided 
 for some time in Paris, for the sake of attending the 
 lectures of the Ecole de Medicine and visiting the hos- 
 pitals; and it was during that period he became ac- 
 quainted with the following history, which we give, as 
 nearly as we can recollect, in his own words : — 
 
 " One day," said he, " I was walking in the court of 
 the Salp^triere along with one of the physicians attached 
 to the hospital ; I was surprised to see a young and 
 very beautiful girl standing near a group of infirm, 
 crone-like old women, such as are the chief inmates of 
 this hospital. She walked with an air of listless ab- 
 straction along the paved court, upon which the after- 
 noon sun was pouring its fatigued and dusty rays ; from 
 
104 THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 
 
 fime to time she quickened her pace and exhibited a 
 '•estless and angry impatience as her attention was 
 roused by the conversation of those around her. 
 
 " * What is she doing here ? ' I asked of my compan- 
 "on, who, as I told you, was one of the physicians at- 
 tached to the hospital. 
 
 " * Ah,' replied he, * that lovely creature is one of my 
 insane patients.' 
 
 " ' She looks more like an angel than an insane pa- 
 tient,' I replied with enthusiasm. She wore a white 
 dress ; her rich, brown hair fell in natural curls over 
 her shoulders and was confined round her head by a 
 blue fillet ; her hands hung loosely before her ; and, as 
 she walked, she was constantly twisting her fingers. 
 
 " * Ah, poor child ! ' said my companion, whose eyes 
 followed her with a look of compassion ; * she has been 
 quite mad for more than two years past. She is never 
 easy unless she is moving about ; and, as she is quite 
 harmless, I leave her at Hberty to go where she chooses 
 about the house and grounds. She seldom, however, 
 comes into this court, for she dislikes to see persons 
 uround her. Did you ever behold a face so unutterably 
 sad?' 
 
 " * No ; and I pray God that I never may again. 
 
 " As we spoke the young girl seated herself upon the 
 teps of the fountain that was in the midst of the court. 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 105 
 
 gazing vacantly upon the splashing water ; and, except 
 for the picking motion of her fingers, she was quiet as 
 a stone. 
 
 " * She cannot be yet twenty. What sorrow can have 
 caused all this ? * 
 
 " * It is about as miserable a story,* replied my com- 
 panion, * as any I have known in the whole course of 
 my five and thirty years* practice. If you care to hear 
 it I will tell you ; but I must first persuade Angelique 
 to go in doors. This sun is far too powerful for her to 
 be sitting under the full blaze of it as she is now doing.* 
 
 " He approached and took her hand ; she arose like 
 one walking in her sleep and accompanied him into the 
 house. 
 
 ** * Now,* said he, when he returned to me, * let us go 
 into my sitting room ; there is a good hour before lec- 
 ture, and I will tell you the history of Angelique.* 
 
 " My friend had rooms assigned to him in another 
 part of the hospital, although he only resided in them 
 occasionally. A wrinkled old woman, who looked as if 
 she had stepped out of a Dutch picture, opened the door 
 for us. She had formerly been one of his patients ; he 
 had performed a difl&cult and complicated operation 
 upon her, which was one of the miracles of surgical skill 
 and intrepidity of that day. It had been successful; 
 and the poor creature, who was a widow, had attached 
 
106 THE STORY OF ANGELIQIHE. 
 
 herself to him. He had given her the post of concierge 
 to his apartments in the hospital ; and day and night 
 they were kept in readiness for him. She lived in a 
 little room at the head of the stairs ; and there she sat 
 with her knitting listening like a dog for the footsteps 
 of her masters. She did not speak as we entered ; her 
 awe and admiration kept her dumb ; but there was a 
 look of such intense affection and delight when she saw 
 him as I can never forget, Her hand trembled so much 
 as she attempted to unlock the door that he took the 
 key from her and began to praise the comfort and order 
 in which she kept the place. It was a dehciously cool 
 and shady room ; every thing was in the exactest order 
 — the books on the shelves round the room, the cases 
 of instruments arranged on the table, and writing mate- 
 rials laid ready for use. The white muslin curtains 
 looked like ball dresses. A glass filled with fresh flow- 
 ers stood in the window. The bed room adjoining was 
 equally luxurious in its freshness and delicate cleanli- 
 ness. * Who would imagine that so much misery and 
 suffering were only separated from us by a brick wall?" 
 I exclaimed, looking round. 
 
 " * Ah, yes. Old Marguerite is my guardian angel^ 
 and keeps all evil sights and sounds out of these rooms. 
 Nobody knows but myself all the good she does.' 
 
 " The old woman's face grew radiant under these 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 107 
 
 words ; and after setting down a pitcher of iced water, 
 as there was nothing else to be done, she retired. 
 
 " * That old creature deserves to be canonized,' said 
 the doctor, looking after her. ' I will tell you her histo- 
 ry some day. She has attached herself to me, and I 
 suppose considers me her master ; but there is not a 
 patient inside these walls but has reason to be thankful 
 for her presence. Poor, old, infirm as she is, without a 
 penny or a friend in the world, she makes her life a 
 blessing to all who come within her reach. What she 
 continues to accomplish with so little makes it wonder- 
 ful how others, possessing every facility of fortune and 
 position, contrive to do nothing but make a heavy bur- 
 den to themselves of their own advantages. The very 
 sight of her, when I am weary and dispirited, is worth 
 a hundred a year to me.' 
 
 " * Well,' replied I, * you shall tell me about old Mar- 
 guerite another day ; but what of Angelique ? ' 
 
 " * Ah,* said he, shaking his head and smiling, ' it is 
 easy to see you are a young man. It is true enough, 
 however, you came here to listen to the sorrows of 
 Angelique and not to the virtues of my dear old wo- 
 man ; but there is a connection between them, as you 
 will see.' 
 
 " The doctor placed his watch on the table, that he 
 might not forget the time for his lecture, and began : — 
 
108 THE STORY OP ANGELIQUB. 
 
 "Angellque belongs to a good family who reside 
 near Beauvais. Her mother is even now more lovely 
 than her daughter ; she was married when very young 
 to an officer of artillery, one of my oldest friends. I 
 was present at the marriage. He was much older than 
 his wife. His good looks, such as they were, had been 
 pretty well eflfaced by the hardships of active service. 
 He had, amongst other things, served in the Russian 
 campaign. His hair was gray and his face stern and 
 wrinkled, though scarcely arrived at the term of middle 
 age. Under a cold, undemonstrative manner he carried 
 one of the noblest and most generous hearts in the 
 world. His words were few; but all who knew him 
 felt that one word of regard or commendation from him 
 meant as much as the passionate protestations of others. 
 To many of his friends it seemed an ill-assorted match ; 
 but he was deeply attached to the beautiful and wilful 
 young creature ; whilst she, whether from the instinct 
 which taught her to appreciate his noble qualities or 
 attracted by the difficulty of inspiring a romantic pas- 
 sion in one so calm and self-possessed I know not ; but 
 she certainly had exerted all her fascinations to attract 
 him, and refused a brilliant proposal of marriage from 
 another quarter. Unhappily, when once married, the 
 discrepancy between their characters was not long in 
 making itself felt. He a calm, straightforward, and 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 109 
 
 essentially matter-of-fact man, who, having once told her 
 that he loved her more than any thing in the world, and 
 reposing in the intense consciousness of his own affec- 
 tion, would as soon have thought of assuring her every 
 day of his existence as of repeating protestations of 
 affection ; whilst she, an undisciplined, passionate crea- 
 ture, with all the mobile, impressionable organization 
 of genius, was constantly made wretched by his unde- 
 monstrative, silent habits. I dare say she really suf- 
 fered ; for I was more than once called in to see her, 
 and found her in a state of hysterical prostration arising 
 from some casual word or slight inattention on his part, 
 against which she had broken herself in a passion of 
 wounded susceptibility, and which distressed him none 
 the less that he could not understand how he had occa- 
 sioned so much suffering. I believe in my heart that 
 all women have a touch of insanity in them; they are 
 always either mad or mischievous ; none of them are to 
 be depended upon for an hour together, and they can 
 neither guide themselves nor submit to be wisely guided 
 by others. When Madame de M. did not torment her 
 lusband by her wounded affection she persecuted him 
 with displays of tenderness which to a man of his dispo- 
 sition must have been perfect martyrdom. To give you 
 dome idea of her mode of proceeding I will tell you an 
 instance. Her husband was military superintendent of 
 10 
 
110 THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 
 
 the district, and had to be frequently absent from home. 
 Once he happened unexpectedly to be detained beyond 
 the time he had fixed for his return. A violent storm 
 arose that same evening. Any woman might have been 
 excused feeling some anxiety ; but Madame M., instead 
 of reflecting that her husband was an old campaigner, 
 completely lost what little sense Nature had given her, 
 and rushed off alone into the road, thinly clad, and wan- 
 dered about for two hours in the midst of the storm, 
 until she met him peaceably returning and making all 
 speed to save her from prolonged anxiety. Of course 
 she was seriously ill after this fine exploit, and com- 
 plained to me bitterly of her husband's indifference and 
 coldness because he had mildly commented upon her 
 imprudence and said, ' But, my dear, supposing the sky 
 to have actually fallen upon me, what good could you 
 have done by coming to see it ? ' 
 
 " These words cost the poor lady many bitter tears. 
 Her unregulated sensibility was the bane of her own life 
 and the torment of her husband's ; but he was deeply 
 attached to her, and supported her fantastic humors with 
 a patience that made me sometimes wonder whether it 
 were a folly or a virtue. I suppose it must have been 
 her beauty that blinded him. It must be confessed that 
 she was very lovely ; and her personal beauty was even 
 less than tlie exquisite gracefulness of all her move- 
 
THE STORY OF ANGEHQUE. Ill 
 
 ments ; and I suppose tliat, much as her husband was 
 occasionally annoyed, his natural vanity was propitiated 
 by being the object of her extravagant demonstrations. 
 
 " He had, like most men of a reserved disposition, a 
 great dread of being made ridiculous and remarkable ; 
 and he suffered dreadfully from his wife's theatrical 
 taste in devising domestic and dramatic surprises in his 
 honor. I remember on one occasion I was trepanned 
 into assisting at one of these precious scenes, though it 
 was as a victim ; for never would I have sanctioned it 
 had I at all suspected the event ; but Madame M. was 
 full of stratagems and intrigues, and straightforward 
 people had no chance with her. You shall hear how it 
 happened. I can laugh at it now, though I was furious 
 at the time ; it will show you the sort of woman she 
 was. 
 
 " I received an invitation to spend a certain day at 
 their country house. I knew it was the anniversary of 
 their marriage, and thought it quite natural they should 
 have some reunion to commemorate it. On the day 
 appointed I went, unsuspiciously enough, and found a 
 large company assembled, all more or less in fancy rural 
 dresses. Madame M. herself was attired, according to 
 her notion of an Arcadian shepherdess, in Indian mus- 
 lin, with a blue scarf striped with silver and a crook 
 ©domed with blue and silver ribbons. She looked very 
 
112 THE STORY* OF ANGELIQUE. 
 
 pretty certainly ; the weather was lovely ; and there 
 was a tent in the garden where we were to dine, and a 
 band of music in picturesque attire to enable the com- 
 pany to dance on the turf in the approved Arcadian 
 style. I looked about for M., wondering how he had 
 been prevailed upon to consent to all this, when Ma- 
 dame M. informed me with a bewitching smile that it 
 was all a surprise, in honor of her husband, wliich had 
 been got up during his absence, and that he was ex- 
 pected to arrive every moment. In fact, at that instant, 
 poor M., who had travelled malle poste in order to be at 
 home to spend that day with his wife, arrived at the 
 gate : scarcely had he entered the garden when a band 
 of children, fantastically dressed and armed with gar- 
 lands of flowers, sprang from behind a thicket of ever- 
 greens, and, having first executed a pas de ballet, con- 
 cluded by flinging their garlands over him and led him 
 in their chains to the lady of the fete, the band mean- 
 while playing a triumphal march. You may fancy how 
 a man tired to death with a whole night's travelling and 
 hoping to come home to sit peaceably in his dressing 
 gown and slippers would feel at being made the centre 
 of such an exhibition ; but the worst was yet to come 
 He had not recovered from the confusion of such an 
 unexpected reception when we were summoned to din- 
 ner. A species of triumphal chair had been erected for 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 118 
 
 him, as the hero of the feast, decorated with garlands 
 and devices in flowers, as, indeed, was the whole inte- 
 rior of the tent. That nothing might be wanting to 
 complete the foolery, a party of her friends who were 
 in the secret sang a chorus in compliment of the occa- 
 sion as he took his seat. I was furious at having been 
 betrayed into sanctioning such impertinent folly by my 
 presence ; but I confess I trembled lest M. should be 
 provoked into some extremity — I hardly ventured to 
 look at him. However, he resigned himself with the 
 most angelic goodness, and only said, with a slight per- 
 ceptible annoyance, * Adrienne — Adrienne ! this is too 
 much. How could you do so ? ' 
 
 " Shortly after this precious exhibition I was obliged 
 to leave Beauvais. I accompanied a scientific expedi- 
 tion despatched to South Africa by the French govern- 
 ment; after which I continued my travels into other 
 parts of the world. I was absent many years. On my 
 return my first care was of course to pay a visit to my 
 mother at Beauvais ; she was then very old, and I had 
 scarcely dared to hope ever to see her again. 
 
 " I found the M.'s still residing in their old house ; 
 he had received a considerable accession of fortune and 
 consequence, and been employed by government on 
 several occasions in various missions. He was now 
 approaching the evening of his days — a fine specimen 
 10* 
 
114 THE STORY OP ANGELIQUE. 
 
 of a veteran. His wife was still extremely beautiliil ; 
 and I could not but be struck with the great improve- 
 ment in her character — a composed, matronly deport- 
 ment had replaced the fantastic levity of former days ; 
 her manner to M. was at once affectionate and deferen- 
 tial ; and I fancied I read the expression of a certain 
 remorse in the unobtrusive and delicate attentions with 
 which she surrounded her husband. However it might 
 be, I thought her grown quite charming ; and M. him- 
 self was of the same opinion ; he was, in truth, the hap- 
 piest and most contented of mortals. They had two 
 children — their own son Charles, a fine young fellow 
 just entered as student in the Polytechnic School, and 
 Angelique, who was well named, for I never beheld so 
 lovely a child ; she was then about twelve years old and 
 realized one's notions of an angel ; she was not, I was 
 told, their own child, but the daughter of Madame M.'s 
 C(^sin, who having accompanied her husband, who was 
 an emigrant to England, had died there, leaving her 
 little Angelique an orphan in a strange land. Her last 
 act was to write a letter to her cousin Madame M., 
 entreating her to befriend and protect her child. M. 
 showed me the letter himself, which was very touchingly 
 written ; and I was not surprised to find that he had 
 proposed to adopt the little Angelique as their own. 
 Madame M. had joyfully agreed to his proposal, and. 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 115 
 
 as M. expressed it, ^devotedly made a journey to 
 England in the depth of winter to fetch her young 
 relative, who had since that time been to them like a 
 daughter.' 
 
 " Nothing seemed to me more natural ; and I rejoiced 
 that Madame M. had such a resource and occupation as 
 the education of this engaging child. Children are a 
 woman's guardian angels, and the training of them her 
 true vocation — in fact, I incline to think the chief end 
 for which she was sent into the world. However, I had 
 not much time to remain with my friends, as I was ap- 
 pointed to a post in the Jardin des Plantes and was 
 made one of the professors of the Ecole de Medicine, 
 and had to commence my duties without delay. My 
 mother died in the following year ; and I disposed of 
 pur property in that neighborhood, so that for several 
 years I had no occasion to return to Beauvais. After I 
 became attached to this hospital my duties increased so 
 much that my correspondence with my friends almost 
 ceased. I heard at rare intervals from M., whom I 
 regarded with an affection that it did not depend on 
 time and absence to weaken. 
 
 " One day, it might be about five years after the visit 
 I mentioned, I received a letter from Madame M., writ- 
 ten in characters scarcely legible, entreating me to go 
 down at once, as something very dreadful had occurred. 
 
116 THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 
 
 All doctors are accustomed to some exaggeration in 
 the appeals made to them ; I was not therefore very 
 much alarmed, though I determined to attend the sum- 
 mons. After delivering the lecture which was for that 
 afternoon, and engaging a friend to visit my patients, I 
 arranged my business so as to be absent for a couple of 
 days and departed that same evening by the malle poste 
 for Beauvais. I alighted at the gate. On reaching the 
 house Madame M. met me in the hall with an aspect of 
 such stony despair that I started as though she had 
 been a spectre — so utterly changed from her natural 
 appearance, her face and lips were rigid and bloodless, 
 her eyes fixed and open like those of a sleep walker. 
 
 *' ' Has any thing happened to M. or the children ? ' I 
 said hastily, for I confess her manner impressed me with 
 a fear for the worst. 
 
 " * Come this way and you will know all.' 
 
 " Her voice sounded strange ; it was hard and des- 
 perate and seemed as if it came from an automaton 
 rather than a living woman. 
 
 " I followed her to a parlor oh the ground floor, which 
 was so much darkened that at first I could discern noth- 
 ing ; but after a few moments I perceived my poor M. 
 lying on a sofa and propped up with cushions. The 
 windows were ,ppen ; and a current of fresh air laden 
 >vith the scent of flowers came into the room. It is 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 117 
 
 strange how at some moments of crisis we can take no- 
 tice of the meanest trifle. 
 
 " I approached his couch with some precaution not to 
 startle him ; and I observed that his wife sat down in 
 the darkest comer of the apartment. *I knew you 
 were here/ said he in a faint voice, * although no one 
 told me you had been sent for. It is like you to come.' 
 
 " He spoke in a confused voice, articulating with dif- 
 ficulty. I raised a corner of the window curtain to look 
 at him. His face was distorted ; it was a stroke of 
 paralysis which had taken the whole of one side. He 
 was beginning to recover his speech. The physician 
 who had attended him on his first seizure arrived — an 
 intelligent and skilful man ; we agreed upon the course 
 of treatment to be pursued ; and then I made some in- 
 quiries into the particulars of his illness. 
 
 * " I know nothing,' replied the other cautiously, * ex- 
 cept that there is some family mystery connected with 
 it. I was called in to M. three days ago ; he was labor- 
 ing under a congestion of the brain, the result of some 
 severe mental shock. The same day M. Charles, the 
 son, was seen to leave the house in a state bordering on 
 frenzy, and has not been seen since. Old Martin told 
 me that there had been some dispute, for that he had 
 heard high words after dinner between his master and 
 mistress and M. Charles, who were togethpx in the 
 
118 THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 
 
 dining room. That something serious has transpired ] 
 am convinced ; until three days ago Monsieur M. waa 
 in perfect health — I saw liim and conversed with him 
 in the morning.' 
 
 " I returned to the side of my friend, my mind filled 
 with painful anxiety. At the door of the room I met 
 AngeUque, who was watching for me ; she grasped my 
 arm and said hurriedly, * They will not let me see papa ; 
 no one will tell me what is the matter ; and Charles left 
 home three days since without speaking to me. I saw 
 him as he went out and tried to stop him ; but he flung 
 me off with a dreadful look as if I were an evil being, 
 and he has never returned. Mamma has become so 
 strange I am afraid to approach her. What is the 
 matter? Why may I not go into that room and see 
 papa ? ' 
 
 " She was evidently under great nervous excitement, 
 poor child, and there was an expression in her eye that 
 I did not like ; her dress was in disorder, and it was 
 evident she had not slept for a long time. I endeavored 
 to calm her as well as I could, and tried to induce her 
 to lie do^vn, with the promise that she should see her 
 father as soon as he could be permitted to see any one. 
 She was in such a state of agitation and excitement that 
 she was quite unfit to be left alone, and there seemed 
 DO one to take charge of her ; the whole house had the 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 119 
 
 air of being struck by lightning and abandoned, for not 
 a soul was to be seen. However, the domestics were 
 only indulging themselves in gossiping conjectures both 
 about what had happened and what was likely to occur 
 after the fashion of that class who love the excitement 
 of calamity. I succeeded in breaking up the conclave, 
 who were standing openmouthed in the court yard to 
 hear the news just brought in by a countryman that 
 Master Charles had been seen marching with a company 
 of conscripts who were being conveyed to Marseilles. 
 I despatched one of the maids to Angelique, with strict 
 orders not to leave her for a moment, and then once 
 more returned to the room where M. was lying. ]Ma- 
 dame still sat crouched in the darkest part of the room, 
 and had not apparently altered her position since I had 
 left Martin, an old domestic who had lived with his 
 master in the family since his master's marriage and 
 who had been liis servant whilst in the army, sat beside 
 the couch. 
 
 " M. opened his eyes as I approached. 
 
 " * Any news of my son ? ' 
 
 " I briefly told him what I had just heard. 
 
 " ' God's will be done ! ' said he. * We have been 
 living for years over a fearful mine ; and now it has 
 exploded.' 
 
 " He lay silent for a few moments and then said, — 
 
120 THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 
 
 " * Good Martin, leave us for a little. / must speak 
 whilst I am able.' 
 
 " Martin left us ; and, having ascertained that Ma- 
 dame M. was gone and that there was no listener, I 
 returned to my place beside the couch. M. had in 
 great measure recovered the use of his speech, although 
 his articulation was still feeble and indistinct. He was 
 not capable of consecutive conversation ; but he con- 
 trived to make me understand the crisis that had oc- 
 curred ; and afterwards further information came to me 
 from another source. 
 
 " It would seem that Madame M. had for a long time 
 shown a strange jealousy of the family intimacy in which 
 her son Charles and Angelique had always lived to- 
 gether, and insisted that the young man should be sent 
 to Paris to study or else to one of the German universi- 
 ties, and had at the same time shown great anxiety to 
 negotiate a marriage that had offered itself in spite of 
 the youth and disinclination of the young lady herself. 
 This anxiety was attributed by her husband to her ma- 
 ternal ambition ; but as in fact he had an opportunity 
 of placing his son advantageously, it was arranged that 
 Charles should study for an * ingenieur des mines.' All 
 these difficulties and the approaching separation prob- 
 ably enlightened the young people upon the nature of 
 their feelings for each other. The day previous to his 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 121 
 
 departure from home Charles formally demanded per- 
 mission of his parents to consider Angelique as his 
 future wife. M. had not the least objection ; but Ma- 
 dame M., who must long have lived in constant dread 
 of this terrible moment, disclosed to them that Angelique 
 was her owi* cliild, and that all the fable about her 
 cousin's death had been invented by her that she might 
 not be separated from her daughter. 
 
 " The father and son listened without interruption to 
 this fearful disclosure ; the son, with one deep and bitter 
 malediction on the mother who had brought down such 
 misery upon them, fled from the house, none knowing 
 whither he went ; the wretched husband fell at his wife's 
 feet struck down with apoplexy. Poor M. was not in 
 a condition to go into particulars ; but they were after- 
 wards told me by the miserable woman herself. It 
 seems that on one occasion M. was despatched by the 
 government on a mission to one of the colonies ; he was 
 absent more than two years, Madame M. — the impul- 
 sive, passionate, ill-regulated creature I have described 
 to you — being bitterly pained at her husband's refusal 
 to permit her to accompany him, which was in fact quite 
 impossible. After suffering bitterly from what she con- 
 ceived his indifference, she, partly from resentment and 
 partly from the love of strong emotions, which is char* 
 11 
 
122 THE STORY OF AT^GELIQUE. 
 
 acteristic of women of her nature, let herself go into a 
 criminal attachment to a young Englishman who had 
 conceived a romantic passion for her. I believe there 
 was more resentment against her husband than love to 
 the other in the whole aflfair ; but that changed nothing 
 except perhaps to increase the remorse in which every 
 after moment of her life was steeped. 
 
 " Her husband, before his departure, had furnished 
 her with a good excuse for removing to Paris ; where 
 every mystery is safe no one suspected her secret. Her 
 lover died in consequence of the injuries he received 
 by a fall from his horse in a steeple chase which he had 
 got up to show the Parisians how people rode in Eng- 
 land some months previous to her husband's return; 
 and she seemed thus guarantied against all hazard of 
 discovery. She endeavored by redoubled attention to 
 compensate to her husband the treachery of which she 
 had been guilty ; her attachment to him revived with 
 all the tenderness of remorse ; and the unsuspecting 
 generosity with which he adopted the little Angelique 
 touched her to the quick. I believe, if repentance ever 
 could avail to expiate crime, that Madame M. might 
 have washed away hers ; but, as every action is a debt 
 contracted with everlasting justice, there exists no 
 power which can remit the consequences; sooner or 
 later it must be met, with all its liabilities; and the 
 
THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 123 
 
 longer they are delayed the more complicated do they 
 become. 
 
 " It was not until some time afterwards that I learned 
 all these details ; but I tell them you at once not to 
 interrupt my story. 
 
 " When poor M. had made an end of his communi- 
 cation the tears streamed helplessly from his eyes. I 
 pressed the hand that still retained its life; and, although 
 any scene of violent emotion was very bad for his bod- 
 ily health, yet I saw that the discovery of a crime com- 
 mitted against him so many years ago had not broken 
 the habit of affection and the need to see his wife con- 
 stantly in his presence. 
 
 " He looked piteously at me. * What must I do ? — 
 where is she?* 
 
 "With an instinct which in times of emergency is 
 generally more trustworthy than any rules I rose and 
 opened the door. Madame M. sat crouched before 
 it, I took her hand and led her without speaking to 
 the side of her husband. She sank down beside the 
 couch and took hold of his poor paralyzed hand, sobbing 
 convulsively. I was alarmed for the consequences. A 
 spasm contracted his features ; he labored painfully for 
 utterance. At length we distinguished the words, * God 
 forgive — I do.' I whispered to Madame M. to be 
 calm, and administered some medicine to my poor 
 
124 THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 
 
 friend, and then withdrew — leaving the wife restored to 
 her right of watching beside him. The effects of this 
 agitation were not so bad as you might expect ; the calm 
 to the patient's mind overbalanced the danger to his 
 bodily health ; and when I left I was not without hopes 
 that he might be able to move about again. Angelique 
 was the one whose condition the most excited my fears ; 
 and I gave the medical man in attendance many charges 
 about her. I was obliged to return to my own duties in 
 Paris, and could not again visit my friend ; but I con- 
 tinued to receive satisfactory accounts of them. It might 
 be about six months after my former visit when I re- 
 ceived a second summons, more urgent th^n the first. 
 I threw aside every other engagement and went. The 
 fatal consequences of Madame M.'s crime were not yet 
 exhausted. 
 
 " No direct intelligence had ever been received from 
 the unhappy Charles; but the news brought by the 
 countryman of his embarkation at Marseilles with a 
 company of recruits for Algeria had been confinned. 
 A few days previously a letter from the colonel of that 
 regiment had arrived, containing a cross of the order of 
 * military merit ' and a few lines saying that M. Charles 
 M. had been mortally wounded in an expedition against 
 an Arab encampment, and on his death bed had revealed 
 his name and station to his ofl&cer, charging him to send 
 
THE STORY OP ANGELIQDE. 125 
 
 w'ord to his father and to beg his mother to forgive the 
 words he sjjoke when he left her presence. The colonel 
 added many praises of the good conduct and gallantry 
 of the young man, who had seemed to court the death 
 of honor he had found. The cross enclosed was the 
 one with which he had been decorated on the field. But 
 the unhappy woman had not yet drained the cup of 
 retribution. 
 
 " Angelique was up stairs, lying ill of a brain fever, 
 and her uneasiness gave us but too clearly to know that 
 by some deplorable fatality she had become acquainted 
 with the wretched secret of her relationship to her be- 
 trothed lover. Hitherto she had only fancied that the 
 obstacles that had driven Charles from home arose solely 
 from the ambition of his parents, who desired him to 
 form some higher connection ; and she had comforted 
 herself with hopes and dreams of better things, after 
 the manner of the young. The tidings of his death, 
 and the knowledge of the terrible secret of her own 
 birth, had proved too much for the poor young creature's 
 brain. She recovered from the fever, but it was only 
 to live in a state of prolonged mania. 
 
 " As I could not remain to watch her case as I de- 
 sired, I prevailed upon Madame M. to allow her to be 
 removed to Paris, that she might be constantly under 
 my care. I obtained admission for her into this hoa- 
 11* 
 
126 THE STOllY OF ANGELlQUls. 
 
 pital J and that good old woman you saw when you first 
 entered has been her unwearied and devoted attendant. 
 I knew I could depend upon her fidelity as well as upon 
 her devotion to my will ; and, once acquainted with the 
 cause of Angelique's affliction, she has seconded my 
 efforts with an intelligent sympathy that has done more 
 for her than my skill. 
 
 " Of late I have entertained sanguine hopes that An- 
 gelique will recover. At first she used to be in a con- 
 stant state of revery : at times she would shed tears, 
 and speak of * him,^ but without designating him by any 
 name ; and then she would clear up into those smiles of 
 insanity which are so painful to witness ; but she never 
 seemed conscious of any thing passing around her. Of 
 late there has been a change ; she begins to notice ob^ 
 jects like a child, but only for a short time ; and any 
 attempt to prolong her attention irritates her, though she 
 is never violent. Once or twice within the last fortnight 
 she has had what may be called intervals of intelligence, 
 and her mind seems to be gradually recovering its 
 strength, gathering itself together. It will be some 
 time yet before the cure is effected ; but I repeat, that I 
 have sanguine hopes of success. 
 
 " But now," said he, looking at his watch, " we are 
 seven minutes after our time ; the gentlemen will have 
 become impatient — so come along," 
 
THE STOKY OF ANGELIQUE. 127 
 
 I followed my friend into the lecture theatre, after 
 which came other duties and employments. I had no 
 opportunity of again seeing the doctor, except at lecture 
 time, for many weeks afterwards ; neither, though I 
 often walked in the court of the hospital, did I ever 
 again catch a glimpse of the fair creature whose story 
 had so painfully interested me. 
 
 I was suddenly recalled to England by the dangerous 
 illness of my father, and I did not return to Paris to 
 finish my courses until the following autumn. 
 
 My first care was to pay a visit to my old friend and 
 master at the Salpetriere, to enter myself upon his class. 
 I found liim in his old room at the hospital, as kind- 
 hearted and as much occupied as ever ; and old Mar- 
 guerite was still sitting at the head of the stairs, knitting 
 her eternal stocking. 
 
 He received me with cordiality ; and, after replying 
 to all his questions about England as well as I was able, 
 I inquired whether Mile. Angelique was still in the 
 Salpetriere ? 
 
 " No," replied he ; " I am happy to say that my hopes 
 did not deceive me ; Angelique has now returned home, 
 quite cured. She will never again be gay and light- 
 hearted as of old ; for she still recalls the past. But she 
 learned from my dear old Marguerite the secret of re- 
 signing herself to the will of the Highest — a wisdom 
 
128 THE STORY OF ANGELIQUE. 
 
 that would heal many broken hearts if it were more 
 practised. With Angelique it is not a theory, nor an 
 enthusiastic exaltation ; it is a quiet, modest principle, 
 which enables her to accept without complaint the heavy 
 sorrow that has blotted out her youth. 
 
 " With her restored reason she has taken up all her 
 old habits of occupation, and assists her mother with the 
 most aflfectionate devotedness in the care of her adopted 
 father; for my poor friend still Uves, though now in 
 the last stage of weakness. She never recurs to the 
 past by the most distant allusion. I have generally ob- 
 served that, when a patient recovers from alienation of 
 mind, it is with a higher tone of thought and principle 
 than they manifested previously; whatever previous 
 good there was in them is generally strengthened and 
 matured ; but I never saw the fact so strongly marked as 
 in the case of Angelique. All levity, all consciousness 
 or thought of self, seems to have been purged from her 
 nature. She goes about like a being set apart from the 
 world, with a sweet, tranquil seriousness, that it is like 
 the presence of an angeL" 
 
THE WAYSIDE BROOK. 
 
 BT MRS. ABDY. 
 
 The Wayside Brook, — how clear and bright 
 
 Its waters glittered to the sight ! 
 
 It lay beneath a leafy shade, 
 
 Where gladsome birds sweet music made. 
 
 How often there we loved to stay. 
 
 Watching the waning hours of day, 
 
 And then a silent farewell took, 
 
 And parted by the Wayside Brook ! 
 
 We meet in courtly circles now ; 
 Gems sparkle on thy queenly brow ; 
 And I may claim an honored stand 
 Amid the gifted of the land. 
 We are not as we used to be. 
 We boast not spirits light and free. 
 As when the flowery path we took 
 That led us to the Wayside Brook. 
 
 ,129) 
 
130 THE WAYSIDE BROOK. 
 
 Yet, *mid our proud, triumphant track, 
 A word can bring past pleasures back ; 
 We turn from scenes of dazzling show ; 
 Around us fragrant breezes blow ; 
 The birds a choral welcome sing ; 
 The dancing waters gayly spring ; 
 And, still the same in heart and look, 
 We linger by the Wayside Brook. 
 
TO THE FRIEND OF MY HEART. 
 
 BY ALICIA JANE O^NEILL. 
 
 •'Celestial Happiness, whene'er she stoops 
 To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds, 
 And one alone, to make her sweet amends 
 For absent heaven — the bosom of a friend."— YouNO. 
 
 ** Thus blessed, I draw a picture of that bliss." — Cowpkb. 
 
 Five years ! And can it five years be 
 
 Since we set forth together 
 To sail o'er life's uncertain sea 
 
 Through life's uncertain weather ? 
 
 How bright, how brief, how beautiful 
 
 Those fond five years appear, 
 As ^ack through all their homes I glance— 
 
 Back with a smile and teai* ; — 
 
 (131) 
 
132 TO THE FRIEND OF MY HEART. 
 
 ^ A smile of grateful tenderness 
 That I have found in thee 
 All that my early dreams believed 
 A fond heart friend should be ; — 
 
 A smile of joy that worldly cares 
 Have cast no blighting chill 
 
 Upon this heart, so glad of old, 
 So glad and ardent still ; — 
 
 A tear lest coming years should bring 
 Their changes on my lot, 
 
 And I for treasures now possessed 
 Should seek, and find them not ! 
 
 But down, distrustful, trembling heart I 
 Down with thy doubts and fears ! 
 
 The God who blessed thy joys to thee 
 Can likewise kiss thy tears. 
 
 Then let me sing serenely on 
 Of precious years gone by — 
 
 Those beautiful, fond years Fve spent 
 Beneath thy loving eye. 
 
 #:• 
 
TO THE FRIEND OP MY HEART. 133 
 
 Yes, beautiful ! though tempests met 
 
 Our shattered bark, and we 
 Were driven by adverse gales across 
 
 A bleak and troubled sea. 
 
 But thou hadst me, and I had thee 
 
 And, leaning on thy breast, 
 I prayed away my cares and fears 
 
 And blessed my place of rest. 
 
 O, blessed be the God who gave 
 
 That place of rest to me, 
 And kept us strong in faith and hope 
 
 When tempests swept the sea ; — 
 
 Who never left us nor forsook. 
 
 But led us safe to land — 
 Poor shipwrecked mariners forlorn, 
 
 But brave in heart and hand ! 
 
 Strong in the faith " that looks above," 
 
 Our perils sank us not ; 
 Brave in the strength of mutual love. 
 
 We bless our happy lot 
 12 
 
w 
 
 A STROLL BY THE RIVER AMSTEL, 
 AMSTERDAM. 
 
 BY MRS. WHITE. 
 
 Few of the Batavian poets, from old Jacob Cats to 
 Da Costa, but have bestowed a lyric on the " brimming 
 Amstel," which, after winding its mazj way between 
 green prairies to its confluence with the Y,* pours itself 
 out commingled with that river from between the horns 
 of the port at Amsterdam into the Zuyder Zee. ' 
 
 It was a lovely morning that on which, lured by the 
 poet's sweet praises, we determined on a pilgrimage to 
 the village which bears its name, and, with no other 
 companions than our pencil and note book, set forth on 
 the treching path for our destination. 
 
 The canals and rivers, as all the world knows, are 
 the great highways of Holland, and the Amstel a very 
 principal one ; so that every now and then curiously- 
 
 • Pronounced eye. 
 
 (134) 
 
A STROLL BY THE RIVER AMSTEL. 135 
 
 shaped craft, white sailed and highly varnished, with 
 perchance a group of Frisian women seated on deck, 
 their close-fitting headgear of gold or silver plates glit- 
 tering like cavalry helmets in the sun, made pictures in 
 sailing by ; and not less curious and novel was the ap- 
 pearance of the men, who, mounted sideways on their 
 horses, with rings in their ears and pointed klompens * 
 on, rode slowly past, sometimes towing huge canal boats 
 as heavily loaded as the barges on the Thames, and at 
 others smaller vessels with gilt fiddleheads and sides 
 that shone like polished mahogany, with long golden- 
 spotted pennants flying, or painted flags with full-sized 
 figures of the Good Vrow, or Three Zisters, &c., under 
 whose names they sailed. 
 
 Every little while — for it was market day in the 
 metropohs — prams laden with flowers or filled with 
 corbels of raspberries and red currants, with a fringe 
 of green leaves laid round them, and larger boats, flat 
 bottomed and shallow, some heaped with wooden shoes, 
 the manufacture of a distant hamlet, some with vegeta- 
 bles from far-off gardens, and others freighted with the 
 useful turf, stole down upon their way to Amsterdam. 
 
 Even the vehicles upon the roads were quaint looking 
 and oddly shaped as the boats upon the river: some 
 
 • Wooden shoes so called. 
 
13G A STROLL BT THE RIVER AMSTKL. 
 
 with high-carved backs painted green, with red foliage ; 
 others varaished and gilded ; while the more stylish 
 looking resembled in shape the scallop-shell chariot in 
 which the sea-born Venus is sometimes represented; 
 the horses in every instance were sleek and stout limbed, 
 well fed and cared for, and their headgear and harness 
 inlaid with the white shells which children call black- 
 moors* teeth, shone in the sun as if inwrought with 
 silver. 
 
 All the roads in Holland are bordered with trees, as 
 nearly as possible alike in size and height, and which 
 for the sake of the timber are shorn of their lower 
 branches and made to look like overgrown green mush- 
 rooms ; they are for the most part planted in double 
 lines ; and this plan of depriving them of their lateral 
 boughs, while making them more valuable as merchan- 
 dise, prevents all danger of ill-disposed persons lurking 
 in these solitary footways, in which, though high roads, 
 one may walk for half an hour without meeting a fel- 
 low-passenger, so much more popular is the transit by 
 water. Occasionally a young farmer, in a short-tailed 
 coat, with a gold ornament hanging round his neck, and 
 a huge bunch of extinguisher-shaped silver seals that 
 made him jingle like a bell horse as he walked, lifted 
 his cap in passing ; but for the greater part of our jour- 
 ney we had the treckpath and the lime trees, which at 
 
A STROLL BY THE RIVER AMSTEL. 137 
 
 this season — it was full midsummer — drop honey on 
 the earth and fill the air with their delicious odor, all to 
 ourselves. 
 
 For some distance out of the city the houses are 
 mostly places of entertainment — Dutch editions, in fact, 
 of the suburban public houses and tea gardens in the 
 vicinity of London ; but, farther, you come upon the 
 country houses of the citizens, each with a small pavilion 
 full of windows overlooking the road, and as a conse- 
 quence the ditch of stagnant water which borders it. 
 These serve the purposes of summer parlors ; and, ear- 
 ly as it was, a singing party was practising in one of 
 them. 
 
 In leaving tne city the Hollander leaves behind him 
 his taste for high carved roofs and decorated fronts; 
 and the generality of these abodes were either handsome 
 square buildings of modem architecture or unpretending 
 little places, all roses, larkspurs, and hortensia, the mere 
 summer-eve resort of flower-loving citizens, who are so 
 fond of these occasional glimpses of green fields and 
 gardens that those who cannot aiford a country house 
 hire one of the pavilions alluded to, and on Sundays go 
 there with their wives and families to enjoy their pos- 
 session and smoke cigars and drink coffee. This love 
 of retirement and rurality is admirably expressed in the 
 Dames of these suburban residences, which are either 
 12 ♦ 
 
138 A STROLL BY THE RIVER AMSTEL. 
 
 painted or blazoned in golden letters on the gates ; and 
 Zomer Lust, (the love of summer,) Brouw Lust, (a 
 desire for trees and fields,) or Stroom in Lommer, 
 (shade and water,) are the most frequent titles of these 
 retreats. 
 
 We passed one or two houses of more importance 
 than the rest, standing in old-fashioned quadrangular gar- 
 dens, with stately walks embowered with trees, and the 
 interior space laid out in formal flower beds and trim 
 alleys, with statues at each end, and a rustic bridge 
 leaping a piece of water in the centre — exactly the sort 
 of garden that was in fashion two. hundred years ago, 
 and which Evelyn, when in the neighborhood, was like- 
 ly to have visited and admired. 
 
 Once in the course of our walk we came upon a very 
 melancholy spot, bearing all the outward and visible 
 signs which in England indicate a chancery suit — the 
 Zomer Rust (summer rest) of some rich burgomaster 
 of former times reduced to ruins; the house a mere 
 remnant, with half the materials lying in heaps about 
 what had been a flowery garden, but was now a badly- 
 ordered potato pround, over which a nymph in stone, 
 whitewashed for cleanliness, smiled faintly from her 
 moss-grown pedestal, as if she had grown daft with deso- 
 lation ; the trees which remained were lopped, probably 
 for firewood, into the most miserable plight imaginable ; 
 
A STR0L7 IJY TPIE RIVEK AMSTEL. 139 
 
 and a pair of river gods — it may be the Y and Amstel 
 — - gazed frowningly with empty urns upon each other's 
 misfortune in the midst of a rustling oat field ; while a 
 couple of broken-down, had-been-ornsimental bridges led 
 over unseen streams masked with duckweed and sword- 
 leaved waterflags, with the brown maces of the *^ major 
 typha " marshalling their choked-up way and seeming 
 to whisper through the loose panicles of the waving 
 reeds " Omnia vanites." This place was but a stone's 
 throw from a meadow in which a pointed obelisk of 
 gray stone had been set up having reference to the 
 peace between Holland and Russia in 1620. 
 
 Looking back from this point of view, all that broke 
 the smooth, green surface of the land, whichever way 
 the sight diverged, was the red or black glazed roof of 
 a farm house glistening through a sheltering cluster of 
 surrounding trees, or the tall body of a windmill tower- 
 ing in the distance with its expanded sweeps outlined 
 against the horizon, or the white or tawny sails of ves- 
 sels, picturesque in their clumsiness, showing themselves 
 in the midst of grazing cattle and green fields. 
 
 The absence of human bipeds made us the more ob- 
 servant of those " guests of summer, the temple-haunt- 
 ing martlets," as Shakspeare calls them, and those curi- 
 ous little birds, the water wagtails, of which there were 
 numbers about — those on the wing skimming the air in 
 
140 A STROLL BY THE RIVER A5ISTEL. 
 
 undulating circles in the vicinity of their clay-built nests, 
 and these, poised with light steps and nicely-balanced 
 vibrations on " the green mantle of the stagnant pool," 
 seeking their insect food on leaves of frogbit, duckweed, 
 and the water plantain ; while every now and then those 
 zoological-garden birds with us, cranes, with frhigy 
 wings, black and w^hite bodies, and pink legs and beak, 
 would rise up suddenly from the river side, which flows 
 on nearly on a level with its margin, and apparently 
 only prevented from overflowing them by the tall and 
 matted reeds which line the shores. 
 
 The shelter of these plants, like power every where, 
 had gathered round them a multitude of dependants ; 
 and the tough-rooted nightshade hung its dark-blue ex- 
 quisitely-painted petals beside the showy clusters of the 
 yellow loosestrife, whose namesake, with long purple 
 spikes of flowers, bent lovingly above the great St. 
 John's wort, the sol terrestris of the ancient herbalists ; 
 and, edging the border of the road, upon a bed of its 
 own silky leaflets, the silver weed disposed its glittering 
 flowers ; and laughing pimpernel, (a?iagallis,) with dot- 
 ted leaves and scarlet corolla, turned up its weather- 
 wise, wide-open eye, prophetic of the day's continued 
 sunshine. 
 
 It is by such flowery bulwarks that the Amstel is 
 restrained within its banks, and these themselves sup- 
 
A STROLL BY THE RIVER AMSTEL. 141 
 
 ported and consolidated. The intervening roots of trees, 
 binding and grasping the earth together, and the surface 
 overlaid with this fibrous progeny, forms an elFective 
 dike and gives firmness and body to the soil, naturally 
 so loose and sandy as to be easily washed away. 
 
 On the opposite side of the river the reeds are the 
 only impediments to its encroachments and form the 
 boundaries of many of the enclosures belonging to the 
 market gardeners, whose tree-screened houses appear at 
 intervals along the shore. 
 
 It is a sad trial in this land of ditches, with the finest 
 specimens oi flowering rush and other aquatic plants, 
 always growing on the opposite side from that which 
 you are on, that even the innocent larcenies of the bot- 
 anist are prevented by the intervention of relentless 
 dikes, which divide and encompass the fields in every 
 direction and render it impossible for any one less efii- 
 ciently booted than a navigator to get at them. 
 
 In spite of the unbroken flatness of the view, devoid 
 of all those salient points of interest to which the tourist 
 at home is accustomed — the woods, the rising hills, the 
 stately mansions, which are never far apart in English 
 landscape ; the rich, meadowy surface of the surrounding 
 country, with Paul Potter-like groups of grazing cattle, 
 sleek skinned and dappled ; the strange aspect of vessels 
 tailing here and there amidst the fields ; the passing by 
 
\ 
 142 A STROLL BY THE RIVER AMSTEL. 
 
 of eccentric-looking craft upon the brown, smooth waters 
 of the Amstel, with here a patient fisher in a moored 
 'pram and there a shallow boat filled with a party of 
 boys, every one of whom is smoking, as they glide 
 dreamily on, impelled by a pair of short, broad-bladed 
 oars, looking like overgrown bulrushes with black 
 heads, — all had at least the charm of novelty and 
 freshness ; while the coolness of the green prairies, the 
 waving of the ozier holts, the sighing of the gray-plumed 
 reeds as the soft wind winnowed them, and the shadows 
 of the trees edging the path, were as gratefully delicious 
 as the aspect of repose more distantly expressed in the 
 interminable extent of parallel meadows. 
 
 In common paths, as well as on the great highway of 
 life, it is pleasant to recall the memory of the good and 
 the great who have trod therein before us ; and few ways 
 are richer in such remembrances than those in the vicini- 
 ty of Amsterdam. Rembrandt and De Keyser, Stork and 
 Vender Heist, men whose works have made their names 
 " familiar as household words," not only in their father- 
 land but throughout Europe, had hallowed with their 
 steps this very path, and felt their spirits lulled and 
 softened by the same tranquil images we gazed on. 
 Hither came Spieghel and old Dirk Comhert, drinking 
 inspiration from the calm face of their beloved river, as 
 if its waters had been those of Hippocrene ; while Von- 
 
A STROLL BY THE RIVER AMSTEL. 143 
 
 del, th- Milton of the Netherlands, must surelj, in the 
 chorot of Palamedes, have had its details in his mind's 
 eye when he sang, — 
 
 " Here flourishes the waving com, 
 Encircled by the wounding thorn ; 
 Here glides a bark by meadows green, 
 And there the village smoke is seen." 
 
 Here in his boyhood wandered Reiner Anslo, and that 
 apprentice poet of Amsterdam, Gerard Brandt, who for- 
 sook his father's shop and watchmaking for the love of 
 poetry and a poet's daughter, the fair Susannah van 
 Baerle. 
 
 But we must not linger with these masters of high 
 art and sons of song who have made the banks of the 
 Amstel River classic ground, but pursue our way where 
 still 
 
 " The meads red-speckled daisies bear. 
 Whilst maidens milk the grazing cow, 
 And peasants toil behind the plough." 
 
 It was well for us that fancy had not been castle build- 
 ing, and that our walk — for with us the " simplest charm 
 prevails" — had sufficiently repaid the trouble of under- 
 taking it ; for at the hamlet which made the point of 
 our pilgrimage we found nothing to requite us save its 
 
144 A STROLL DY THE RIVKR AMSTEL. 
 
 pure air and ultra cleanliness. It was Saturday afternoon ; 
 and we found the streets newly swept, the windows gar- 
 nished with fresh blinds and flowers ; and the women in 
 their well-scoured klompens, full petticoats, white jack- 
 ets, and snowy caps seated at their doors with quite an 
 air of holiday. A general peace pervaded the village, 
 reminding us of the sweet usage once customary in our 
 own country, and of which this is the remnant, of mak- 
 ing in rustic places the afternoon of the Sabbath's advent 
 almost as sacred as the Sabbath itself. The plough 
 ceased its labor, the hinds left their work ; and it became 
 a sort of half holiday, during which refreshment and 
 rest were all over the hamlet. 
 
 We found the kirk at New Amstel a plain, ugly 
 building, with a few pews crowded into the corners and 
 the rest of the space left vacant for chairs ; the floor 
 paved with gravestones, without other inscription than 
 the name of the occupant ; the walls, like all the Cal- 
 vinistic places of worship, whitewashed ; and over the 
 most lean, dry-breasted pulpit to appearance a gallery 
 in which stood a small hand organ. There were no 
 monuments of any interest, and none dated previous to 
 1758. As we had arrived here by the treckpath^ we 
 resolved to return by the opposite side of the river, and 
 left New Amstel, where we were told a number of 
 English resided, by a willow-shaded path, rich with wild 
 
A STROLL BY THE RIVER AMSTEL. 145 
 
 flowers and haunted by bees and butterflies. The 
 houses on this side of the Amstel are few and far 
 between and of quite another description from those on 
 the opposite bank, being simply farms or peasants' cot- 
 tages, each with a little garden at the side, and a market 
 boat, or pram, drawn up amongst the reeds on the shore 
 or moored beside a wooden landing-place in front of the 
 dwelling, for the convenience of crossing the Amstel 
 and conveying the produce of their homesteads to Am- 
 sterdam, where twice a week the " bluem " (flower) and 
 vegetable markets are held. 
 
 Alas ! if the objects of view had been limited on the 
 other side, they were still more so on this, where the 
 reeds and tall-growing typha closed out our sight of the 
 river and voices sounded in boats invisible to us though 
 not an oar's length from the shore. 
 
 Except the passing by of a peasant with a pair of 
 dazzling white milk pails, followed by an assistant vrow, 
 we had only the face of Nature, calm as Dutch physi- 
 ognomies generally are, to interest us. Countless oxen 
 spread themselves over the wide extent of rich green 
 pasture land ; at long intervals the thin, gray turf smoke, 
 indicative of human habitations, curled up amongst the 
 distant tree tops ; while the aroma of new-mown hay — 
 and " good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow " — came min- 
 13 
 
146 A STROLL BT THE RIVER AMSTEL. 
 
 gled with the tempered redolence of raspberry planta- 
 tions, the perfume of which hung about our path almost 
 aU the way to Amsterdam. Moreover, at intervals we 
 heard the flutelike whistling of an orange-billed black- 
 bird, and the vesper hymn — for the clouds were grow- 
 ing gold hued in the west — of a choir of skylarks, fresh 
 voiced as if the day had only just begun, and the chirp- 
 ing of innumerable cicadas. 
 
 Then there was no lack of wild flowers ; for here, as 
 on the contrary shore, the gamboge-colored lysimachia 
 put forth its clustered panicles ; and close at hand, as if 
 to contrast with its golden splendor, the stately loose- 
 strife waved its purple plumes. Then there was com- 
 freyy with its pensile blossoms, and holy thistle, and 
 pink willow herb ; while midst the blue, green reeds the 
 greater bindweed, prodigal of ornament, looped up her 
 leafy wreaths with snow-white flowers, or threw them 
 out like streamers in the wind, or, venturously running 
 round their roots, crept to the very verge of the brown 
 Amstel, and lay there, nymphlike, glassing her loveli- 
 liness in its smooth depths. 
 
 Anon the railway came in sight, and the ships' masts, 
 and tall, black, Moorish steeples, with windmills, houses, 
 and the palace dome. So, crossing the river in a mar- 
 ket boat, we exchanged the flowery solitude of its 
 
A STROLL BY THE RIVER AMSTEL. 147 
 
 banks for a crowded avenue in the outskirts of Am- 
 sterdam, and entered the city, as the sun went down, 
 not at all sorry that the plainings of a Dutch poet, on 
 the banks of the Rhine, for the quiet beauties of his 
 native Amstel, had tempted us to seek them for our- 
 selves. 
 
OLD CHRISTMAS. 
 
 BY MRS. NEWTON CROSLANO 
 
 Old Christmas we know 
 
 By his locks of snow 
 And his crown of ivy green ; 
 
 The lintel we arch 
 
 For his triumph march 
 With the holly's prickly sheen 
 
 And its crimson fruit 
 
 Like a winter suit, 
 And the mistletoe nitched between. 
 
 Though his locks are white, 
 
 His eyes are as bright 
 As a poet's in ardent youth, 
 
 When a rich voice chimes 
 
 To the fervent rhymes 
 That glow with the light of truth. 
 
 (148, 
 
OLD CHRISTMAS. 149 
 
 Though his locks are pale, 
 
 His step is as hale 
 As a yeoman's in prime of years ; 
 
 And his genial laugh 
 
 Is more glad by half 
 Than a jester's boisterous cheers. 
 
 But his stalwart hand, 
 
 It holds a wand 
 That hath surely a fairy spell. 
 
 When he waves it back 
 
 On the Past's worn track. 
 Where the silent memories dwell. 
 
 Then his laugh is hushed. 
 
 And our mirth is crushed. 
 As he points to some vacant seat, 
 
 While o'er our souls 
 
 The cadence rolls 
 Of a voice we no more shall greet 
 
 And he asks us each, 
 If we list his speech, 
 How the year gone by has sped — 
 With heart and mind 
 13* 
 
160 OLD CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Have we loved our kind, 
 And blessings around us shed t 
 
 For he hateth strife 
 
 And a selfish life 
 With a hatred so severe 
 
 That where they abide 
 
 His face he will hide, 
 And his joy will disappear. 
 
 What he loves to do 
 
 In the world's full view, 
 Or perchance in a quiet way, 
 
 Is to link our hands 
 
 In brotherly bands 
 That shall never indeed decay. 
 
 His Name shows us Love 
 
 The purest, above 
 What mortals can fairly discern ; 
 
 In that one little word 
 
 Every text may be heard. 
 And we every lesson may learn. 
 
 As he takes up his staff 
 We can hear the last laugh 
 
OLD CHRISTMAS. 151 
 
 Of Christmas so honored and dear ; 
 
 Thea he lifts from the floor 
 
 A corpse to the door, 
 And buries the dead old year. 
 
 While there glides in the heir 
 
 To the old years care 
 As well as its worth and wit ; 
 
 Who for sceptre upholds 
 
 A scroll's thick folds, 
 AU white and unwritten yet. 
 
CLOUD MUSINGS. 
 
 BT MRS H. J. LEWIS. 
 
 *• The Lord shall make bright clouds and give them showers of rain.** 
 
 The season is approaching when soft showers will 
 call from the brown earth tender grass and flowers, 
 weaving a robe of beauty which will endure until the 
 winds of autumn revisit the earth. Bright clouds will 
 come, noiselessly saihng through the ethereal ocean, and 
 with their forms and hues of loveliness awaken a wish 
 in the thrilled bosom of the lover of Nature to be, like 
 them, rovers among all things bright and beautiful. 
 
 I love to lie down of a dear spring day, when the air 
 is fresh and fragrant, and watch the clouds pile them- 
 selves in threatening masses or slowly dissolve and dis- 
 appear. They move up from behind the distant hills, 
 their silver edges bright but not dazzling, borne on the 
 wings of the wind to the zenith, changing but still beau- 
 tiful, never reposing, but seeking the horizon, and at last 
 
 (162) 
 
CLOUD MUSINGS. 155 
 
 disappearing, to be succeeded by a long train as fair, as 
 fragile, and as unresting as themselves. 
 
 No words can paint the wondrous, ever-varying beau- 
 ty of the clouds. They pluck the rainbow's hues for 
 their adorning; they glow sometimes like floods of 
 molten gold ; they weave themselves into fantastic 
 forms ; they open the very heart of their blackness for 
 the moon to shine through and touch the whole with 
 glory ; and, when the parched earth calls to them, they 
 answer with blessed and refreshing showers ; and the 
 trees, and the blossoms, and the hearts of men rejoice. 
 
 Precious, then, to the spirit should be the assurance 
 that the Lord will make bright clouds. How should 
 we miss their moving shadows from the uplands and the 
 meadows and from the glittering streams ! Did you 
 ever stand in the woods, not dense enough to hide the 
 distant landscape, when a cloud came between you and 
 the sun, and all save the spot where you reposed was 
 flooded with golden light? If you have, the vision 
 comes back, and the heart thrill to which no words do 
 justice. 
 
 The showers of rain in the spring time are not the 
 least lovely among the changes of the natural world. 
 They fall tenderly upon the springing grass and budding 
 wild flowers, and their silvery clashing has a music of 
 its own. Sometimes their accompaniment is the light- 
 
154 CLOUD MUSINGS. 
 
 ning and the thunder peal; and sometimes they fall 
 before the very eye of the sun, which pierces them and 
 renews upon the clouds the tinted bow of promise. 
 They come in the morning and hush the matin song of 
 the birds ; they fall at noon, and send the ploughboy 
 from his toil to the protection of the cot ; they visit the 
 parched earth at eve and moisten it after the fervent 
 kissing of the sun ; and in the hushed and holy night 
 they tread softly lest they awaken the sleepers whom 
 they come to bless. 
 
 How the young leaves and the blossoms glisten after 
 their baptism in the pure element ! The breezes come 
 and shake the heavy drops from their edges ; and the 
 earth takes them to its bosom and yields them back in 
 added strength and beauty to her floral children. No 
 drop of all the multitudinous showers that fall is lost in 
 the great laboratory of Nature. Each one has its mis- 
 sion and performs it, though often wrought out beyond 
 our wisest thoughts. What do these soft showers upon 
 the bare mountain tops, where no flower looks to them 
 and no blade of grass springs up for a covering ? The 
 waters lie there until a strong wind bears them away or 
 they find a pathway down the rugged sides and join 
 the rivulets, which gleam like silver threads in the 
 sunshine and swell the river sources. Then they flow 
 through cultivated fields and by the dwellings of the 
 
CLOUD MUSINGS. 155 
 
 happy, till at last the hroad ocean takes them to its 
 bosom and thej mingle with its world of waters. Are 
 their sojoumings ended here ? O, no. They rise again 
 upon the invisible element, and again sweep over conti- 
 nents, mountains, and rivers, sometimes pausing over 
 some far-off ocean isle and scattering healing from its 
 borders, and sometimes hovering over the deserts, but 
 gathering up their skirts and yielding no rain. 
 
 With all lovely things and precious let us henceforth 
 number the clouds of heaven. We shall not love less 
 the shell that lays its rose lip beside the foaming waters, 
 the beauty and the music of the summer birds, the in- 
 sects' hum and the sound of falling water, the spirit 
 melody of the human voice, the subdued soul light of 
 the eye, " the infinite magnificence " of the stars, and 
 the wild majesty of the mountain land. 
 
 The dull-gray mass which sometimes limits our vision 
 may indeed suggest gloomy thoughts ; but the mingling 
 of cloud and sunshine is all joyous and beautiful. With 
 what uninterrupted and graceful motions they glide 
 through the infinite space above us ! How rapturous, 
 and at the same time calming and elevating, are the 
 thoughts they suggest to us ! and from the fever of life 
 the soul seems to cast itself upon their vapory forms, 
 and flee away and be at rest. 
 
 Very beautiful are the morning, the noon, and the 
 
156 CLOUD MUSINGS. 
 
 evening clouds, with their background of serenest blue, 
 and their edges of gold, silver, scarlet, or purple. 
 Sometimes they pile themselves up, as if preparing a 
 throne for the monarch of the day, and again their rug- 
 ged outline seems like mountain summits shattered by 
 the storms of centuries ago. Sometimes they are so 
 light and fleecy one would imagine a breath might scat- 
 ter them, and we think to see them fade while we gaze ; 
 and in a few hours, perhaps, the storm king summons 
 his forces, and the hills are black with shadows, and the 
 fierce lightning rends the vapory mass, and the heavens 
 and the earth seem meeting in the terrible conflict. 
 Peace, the burden of the angels' song, soon succeeds the 
 rush of the storm ; and, as the darkness rolls away, all 
 things seem to rejoice, whether animate or inanimate. 
 
 Thanks, from the depths of an adoring spirit, that the 
 Lord has made and will make bright and beautiful 
 clouds. 
 
DAT. 
 
 BT ELIZABETH LEATHK8. 
 
 How beautiful is Day ! — 
 Day with its sunny gleams, 
 
 Its veils of silver light, 
 
 And shadows on the streams. 
 
 How beautiful is Mom, 
 When first its golden glow 
 
 Steals o'er the dewy hills 
 To woo the vale below ! 
 
 How beautiful is Noon, 
 
 When radiantly from heaven 
 
 The cloudless sun looks down 
 On glories he hath given ! 
 
 How beautiftd is Eve, 
 Sweet sister of the Night, 
 
 14 (W) 
 
158 DAT. 
 
 With roseate blush and smile, 
 And soft, unearthly light ! 
 
 All, all are beautiful — 
 
 Mom, Noon, and dewy Eve. 
 
 Shall man with thankless heart 
 Their loveliness receive ? 
 
 Through them a Father speaks — 
 Through them an all-wise God ; 
 
 His book the starry skies — 
 His book the flowery sod. 
 
 His voice is on the storm, 
 His whisper in the breeze, 
 
 His smile the sunbeam bright 
 Which resteth on the trees. 
 
 Earth is one mighty harp 
 
 Whose chords are silver streams ; 
 God lists its music soft, 
 
 Unworthy as it seems. 
 
 Will he not much more hear 
 When tremblingly we raise, 
 
DAT. 159 
 
 With loving, childlike hearts, 
 Our fervent songs of praise ? 
 
 There is an angel air — 
 
 We may not catch it yet ; 
 These few poor strains of ours 
 
 In sadder keys are set. 
 
 Yet He whose master hand 
 
 First tuned creation's lyre 
 Its feeblest notes can blend 
 
 With those of heaven's own choir 
 
 Then let the widespread earth 
 
 With hallelujahs ring ; 
 How beautiful is Day ! 
 
 How glorious is her King I 
 
LEICESTER ABBEY. 
 
 HENRY VIII. 
 Queen Katherine and Griffith. 
 
 Katfu Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st 
 me, 
 That the great child of honor, Cardinal Wolsey, 
 "Was dead ? 
 
 * * * ♦ • 
 
 Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam : 
 For after the stout earl Northumberland 
 Arrested him at York, and brought him forward 
 (As a man sorely tainted) to his answer. 
 He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill 
 He could not sit his mule. 
 
 Kath. Alas, poor man ! 
 
 Grif, At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, 
 Lodged in the abbey ; where the reverend abbot, 
 With all his convent, honorably received him ; 
 
 (160) 
 
LEICESTER ABBEY. 161 
 
 To whom he gave these words : " father abbot, 
 An old man, broken with the storms of state, 
 Is come to lay his weary bones among ye ; 
 Give him a little earth for charity ! " 
 So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness 
 Pursued him still ; and three nights after this, 
 About the hour of eight, (which he himself 
 Foretold should be his last,) full of repentance, 
 Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, 
 He gave his honors to the world again, 
 His blessed part to Heaven, and slept in peace. 
 14* 
 
MRS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNr. 
 
 Mrs, Smith, I have just finished a new novel, the 
 Head of the Family, which you must read. 
 
 Fanny. By the author of Olive and the Ogilvies, is 
 it not ? 
 
 Mrs. Smith. Yes ; but an advance even on those 
 clever and remarkable novels. I cannot but believe 
 that this young authoress — for youthful she is under- 
 stood to be — is destined to take a very high rank 
 among our writers of fiction. Her versatility is sur- 
 prising ; only the other day we were talking about her 
 Christmas story, Alice Learmont, a little book of a 
 highly imaginative character, in which fairyland is 
 painted in a poet's glowing hues, and fairy folk deline- 
 ated in the most fantastic manner ; and now we have 
 three volumes, in which, though a rich imagination and 
 the many graces of poetry are every where apparent, 
 there is an under current of strong sense which will 
 please the mere intellect even of prosaic readers. 
 
 Fanny. Is it, then, a less emotional work than Olive ? 
 
 (162) 
 
MRS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNY. 163 
 
 Mrs. Smith. Nay, I will not say that; on the con- 
 trary, it deals with sterner and deeper passions than the 
 former works ; but the emotion is, as it were, reined in 
 with a stronger hand, as if, while the heai't of the author 
 had expanded, tlxe mind had acquired new force and 
 grown " many sided." 
 
 Fanny. Is it a tragic story ? 
 
 Mrs. Smith. Partially so ; but by the side of poor 
 Hachel Armstrong's history there flows a more simple 
 tale, which yet in its truth and pathos has even a deeper 
 interest. Rachel is the victim of a repudiated Scotch 
 marriage. Most people are aware that north of the 
 Tweed a very slight ceremony, even a pubHc avowal, 
 is enough to estabhsh a marriage ; but the villain who 
 betrays Rachel believes that he has destroyed every 
 vestige of evidence, and after some changes of name 
 and fortune weds another. Rachel is of humble birth, 
 but has educated herself, possesses talent, and finally be- 
 comes an actress. I need not tell you how her love 
 turns to vengeance or how the retribution is ultimately 
 worked out. The true hero of the book, however, is 
 Ninian Gra3me, the "head of the family," the elder 
 brother of a large family, who generously devotes him- 
 self to his younger brothers and sisters, perhaps uncon- 
 scious at the time what sacrifices may be demanded from 
 him, but who bravely and nobly makes those sacrifices 
 
164 MRS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNT. 
 
 which a high-wrought sense of duty demands from 
 him. It is a beautiful ideal of a man that is shadowed 
 forth in Ninian; and I cannot help thinking that the 
 author has been thus successful mainly because she has 
 ventured to depict human nature as of no sex, and has 
 thus developed in her hero many of those noble, self- 
 denying qualities which the world commonly attributes 
 almost exclusively to women. It would be well if gen- 
 tlemen authors would take the hint, and, when they 
 are depicting their Isabels and their Clementinas, not 
 imagine that they have to describe denizens of some dif- 
 ferent planet; then we should be spared the unreal, 
 unnatural wooden dolls, which either on stilts or in slip- 
 pers shuffle through their prescribed three volumes, 
 doing every thing in the world except seeming for one 
 moment genuine women, 
 
 Fanny. You are severe on the gentlemen novelists, 
 but really not more so than they deserve. 
 
 Mrs. Smith. I am glad you agree with me. But to 
 return to the Head of the Family. Ninian has a sort 
 of ward, Hope Ansted, the daughter of a runaway bank- 
 rupt, — who is a reckless character, sketched with no 
 common truth and force, — and the poor girl is in her 
 desolation received into the family circle and treated 
 and considered as one of Ninian's sisters. Hope is a 
 charming character ; not wonderfully brilliant or amaz- 
 
MRS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNY. 16D 
 
 ingly beautiful, but something much truer and better — 
 a gentle, earnest, affectionate girl, that steals into Nin- 
 ian's strong, manly heart before he is aware. Now 
 come the strife and the struggle ; his love remains un- 
 spoken ; and Hope, whose deep reverence and sisterly 
 love a word would have fanned into something warmer, 
 weds another, that other being the villain of the book, 
 the sleek gentleman of fortune, the betrayer of Rachel. 
 I must read to you a scene between Ninian and his 
 younger sister Christina, familiarly called Tinie. This 
 sprightly lassie has just received an offer of marriage. 
 You will guess that her heart is not quite her own, 
 though far enough from the keeping of Mr. MacCallum. 
 
 " And what am I to say to Mr. MacCallum ?*' 
 " Say ? Nothing ! Or just tell him that I never meant 
 any thing but fun, an^ I couldn't think of marrying 
 him — a comical, fat, little goose of a man. I wonder 
 he could ever fancy such nonsense ! " replied Tinie, 
 whose light spirits revived in a brief space of time. 
 Strangely, bitterly, they jarred upon her brother. 
 
 " Child," said he, " you have done a wrong thing. In 
 this matter, my heart goes more with that poor man 
 than it does with you. If, instead of your thoughtless 
 message, I told Mr. MacCallum you were not worthy 
 this sincere attachment of his, it would be nearer the 
 truth." 
 
166 MRS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNT. 
 
 " Tell him so then — little I care ! " 
 
 " No, I will not tell him. But I will write at once, 
 as he entreats me; and something in his perseverance 
 touches me, so that I shall do it more warmly than I 
 would have done a week ago, when I thought he was a 
 mere wealthy simpleton, beneath the least notice of my 
 sister." 
 
 " And you think him not beneath my notice now ?'* 
 
 " No ; because he offers you an honest heart, which, 
 though refusing, no woman ought contemptuously to 
 spurn. Child, you are young ; you don't know the 
 world or the men in it — how lightly they love, how 
 continually they play and trifle with girls' hearts, — 
 especially such gay, sparkling creatures as you, — and 
 never say frankly, as Mr. Mac Galium does, ' I love you ; 
 be my wife, and I will try to make you happy.' And if 
 I must explain all, — mind, I do it, not thinking of my 
 own feelings in the matter, but simply fulfilHng my duty 
 towards this honest man, who has left his cause in my 
 hands, — I ought to tell you, Christina, that, as the world 
 goes, this would be deemed no unworthy offer for a giii 
 entirely without fortune, between whom and poverty 
 hangs only one life — mine. I say this because I wish 
 to lay all sides of the case before you, that at no after 
 time you may repent of your decision." 
 
 This was a long, gra\ e speech, the first of the kind 
 
MBS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNY. 167 
 
 tiiat Tiiiie had ever heard from Ninian. She looked up 
 a moment to see if he were in earnest. He was, in- 
 deed ; she even felt delighted at the stem lines of his 
 face. 
 
 " Would you be glad, then, if I married Eneas Mac- 
 Callum ? " she asked. 
 
 " I never said that." 
 
 " No ; but you implied it. I see how it is. Miss 
 Reay was right in what she told me — I beheve it all 
 now," cried Tinie, the angry tears rising to her eyes. 
 
 " You believe what ? Nay, answer — I must know I " 
 said Ninian, firmly, though his face flushed. 
 
 " That some of these days you would long to be rid 
 of us ; that we — the twins and myself — ought to 
 make haste and get husbands, ere we found we had no 
 home in our brother's house." 
 
 " And you believed this ? Go on ; tell me all she 
 said." 
 
 " All ! as if that were not enough ! No, thank Good- 
 ness ! I have not yet seen my sister-in-law. I did not 
 suppose you would marry a mad woman hke Mrs. Arm- 
 strong, or a mere baby like Hope Ansted, or " 
 
 "Or Miss Reay herself," added Ninian, trying to 
 smile. " Tinie might imagine even that, when once she 
 takes into her head such unjust thoughts of her brother.** 
 
 He was indeed one worthy the name of man, who 
 
168 MRS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNY. 
 
 could speak so calmly, with a voice that never betrayed 
 one trace of the struggle beneath — the passion, the 
 self-reproach, the love warring against other love, and 
 the stern, iron hand of duty laid over all. 
 
 " "Were they unjust ! O, say over again that they 
 were unjust ! You couldn't do it, Ninian ; you couldn't 
 turn away your poor little pet and marry her to any 
 stupid fool that asks her ; no, not even that you might 
 take a wife yourself! Never mind what Miss Reay 
 said — the wretch ! If I had really believed it, it would 
 have broken my heart." 
 
 So exclaimed the little creature, pouring out her feel- 
 ings amidst a shower of tears, trying to draw Ninian*s 
 hands to her, and wondering that he stood so grave, so 
 cold, so unlike himself, though without a shadow of un- 
 kindness or anger. 
 
 " You will forgive me now ? I would not grieve you 
 for a moment, my own brother ! We all know what an 
 angel of a brother you are. You will never think of 
 marrying when we love you so much ? That was what 
 I said to Miss Reay. Tell me, only tell me that it is so ! 
 You will never go and love some stranger, and leave 
 your sisters alone in the wide world?" 
 
 He turned his face upward ; it was very white, or 
 else the sunshine made it seem so. He said, " Grod is 
 my witness, I never wiU ! " 
 
MRS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNY. 169 
 
 Then he sat down on a stone and let his little sister 
 creep to him, clasping him round the neck, laughing and 
 crying at once, breaking off at times to mm-mur, "O, 
 forgive me ! " " O, don't let my naughty words grieve 
 y^u ! " " Ninian, — brother Ninian, — you are quite sure 
 you love me better than you love any one ? " 
 
 " What, not satisfied yet ? " And he tried to look at 
 her with his old smile and caress her in his old affec- 
 tionate way, but could not. " God forgive me ! " he 
 muttered, and once more turned his face up to the broad 
 sky, that wore to him a brightness like marble, as daz- 
 zling and as hard. He was thankful that Tinie's tears 
 blinded her, so that she did not see her brother. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I am quite satisfied ! I will never 
 grieve you any more — never ! Say that you are not 
 grieved now — at least not very much." 
 
 " O, no ! O, no ! " He patted her hands, which held 
 him so closely ; and then, as he rose up, their clasp dis- 
 solved of itself. " We must walk on now, Tinie — at all 
 events, I must. I think," — he faltered, as if for the 
 first time his heart recoiled at the necessary hypocrisy, — 
 " I think you will be tired if you go farther ; nor shall I 
 like you to return alone." 
 
 " I am not tired in the least, and I would like to walk 
 with you all the way to Helensburg." 
 
 " It will not do," said Ninian, with a faint smile. " 1 
 15 
 
170 MRS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNT. 
 
 have business. I must send my wee sister back, now 
 that we have talked over all we had to speak about.*' 
 
 Tinie looked ashamed. She waited a minute for him 
 to recur to the subject of their earlier conversation ; but 
 he did not. He walked along mechanically, as if ob- 
 livious of every thing. She said at length, timidly, — 
 
 " Brother, I know how wrong I have been about that 
 letter. Will you tell me what I must do ? or will you 
 tell Mr. MacCallum yourself?" ^ 
 
 " Tell Mr. MacCallum what ? Ah, yes, child, what 
 we were saying. I understand ! " 
 
 " You will write to him, then ? Tell him I am very 
 sorry, — I am, indeed, — and I will never do so any 
 more," said the little maiden, in a tone of great compunc- 
 tion. " For the rest, brother, you know what to say." 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! " He drew his hand over his eyes. " I 
 am very stupid, Tinie ; but I did not quite hear you. 
 My head aches, the sun so dazzles on the loch. Tell 
 me over again what you wish written, and I will do it at 
 once. I rather think I shall walk to Dr. Reay's." 
 
 " O, don't write the letter there ! Pray, pray don't 
 tell the Reays any thing about it. She would think, and 
 he would think " 
 
 " Think what ? " said Ninian, attracted by the degree 
 of alarm expressed by his sister. 
 
 "I don't care — I don't care — not a jot! The 
 
MRS. SMITH AND HEB COUSIN FANNY. 171 
 
 professor may consider me what he likes — a foolish Uttle 
 Jhing ' of the genus Papilionaceae,' as I heard him say. 
 But I don't choose that Miss Reay, knowing I have re- 
 fused Mr. MacCallum, should therefore imagine — what 
 she had the insufferable impertinence to tell me one 
 day " 
 
 " More confessions ? Nay, wee thing ! don't stammer. 
 Let us have them ! " 
 
 " She said I was trying — and you, too, in your eager- 
 ness to get me married — that — that I should be made 
 her niece. There, you have it now ! No wonder I was 
 in a passion ; no wonder I have been playing all sorts 
 of wild games. She shall never think I want to catch 
 people that have all brains and no heart — dry, musty, 
 geological, old " 
 
 "Nay, keep that foolish little head cool. Nobody 
 with any sense, certainly not Kenneth Reay himself, 
 would ever dream of such a ridiculous thing," said Nin- 
 ian, trying to reassume his ordinary manner and to turn 
 his mind to the things she was talking about. But he 
 heard them and answered through a mist; they made 
 no impression upon him. Only once more he attempted 
 to send away Tinie, dismissing her with a smile and 
 a jest. 
 
 " Go home, lassie ; I will keep your counsel. And 
 don't get into more love labyrinths for your sage elder 
 
172 MRS. SMITH AND HER COUSIN FANNY. 
 
 brother to have to dash in and rescue you. He migLt 
 get lost himself, you know." 
 
 " O, no fear ! Nothing would ever bewilder brother 
 Ninian," cried the blithe creature, as she turned back and 
 went singing along the shore of the sunny Gare Loch. 
 
 Fanny. I guess that the young lady is in love with 
 the professor, though she does rail at him. 
 
 Mrs. Smith. I shall not tell; but even this one pas- 
 sage may give you an idea of the book. 
 
 Fanny. I am sure I shall like it. 
 
 Mrs. Smith. I have half a mind to say I will not read 
 another novel for three months to come. I cannot read 
 poor ones, and the good ones are so interesting — I would 
 say exciting if I were not tired of that hackneyed word 
 — that there is no laying them down. 
 
 Fanny. Especially one like the Head of the Fam- 
 ily, which is not to be skipped and rattled through ; for 
 BO much of its merit consists in its subtle touches of 
 character and powerful writing. 
 
SCANDAL IN FAIRYLAND. 
 
 BY CHARLES H. HITCHING8. 
 
 Do you lie«r *he Breeze whispering ? Hush ! hush 
 Do you he.«r him ? Now listen to me : 
 
 There's a bonny iweet Brier there, hid in the bush ; 
 
 And he whispers and ki<sses, and makes her to blush : 
 
 But I'm told by a dear little spy of a Tlu-ush 
 He has rivals — and oiX3 is the Bee ; 
 Entre nous, 
 He's a very rich rival,, tie Bee. 
 
 "We all know how the Fuc)i%Aj tight laces — 
 
 Well, her cheeks have gro'w i^ perfectly red ; 
 And I've heard it reported in si^veral places 
 That the Lily is losing the who?o of her graces, 
 That failing and fading her beautiful face is, 
 Through tippling cold dewdrops in bed ; 
 
 Entre nous, 
 It's a bad habit tippling in bed. 
 
 15* (173) 
 
174 SCANDAL IN FAIRYLAND. 
 
 They dx) say that the Rose is a figure, 
 
 (But we mustn't believe half they say,) 
 That she's losing her petals and lacking her vigor, 
 Growing weaker and weaker, and bigger and bigger - 
 It's a shame among friends to use overmuch rigor. 
 
 But, hark you ! I saw her to-day ; 
 
 Entre nous, 
 
 I'm afraid she is fading away. 
 
 Have you heard little Puck is exiled ? 
 
 Such, I vow, was reported to me ; 
 Yes ! for being a somewhat too tricksome and wild, 
 And behaving far more like a little pet child 
 Than a decent small fairy, whose pranks should be mild. 
 
 But Pease Blossom is waiting for me ; 
 Au revoir, 
 
 You'll remember the Brier and the Bee ! 
 
LIFE'S KOH-I-NOOR. 
 
 BT J. J. REYNOLDS. 
 
 Of all the pleasures life can give, 
 Of all that makes it blest to live 
 
 Upon this lukewarm earth, 
 Grant me but one congenial mind 
 Wherein my own can ever find 
 
 All sympathy's sweet worth. 
 
 Not a submissive, pliant thing. 
 Which unto mine would meekly cling, 
 
 The semblance of a shade. 
 That could but think as I had thought, 
 As if it had the echo caught 
 
 Of every speech I made. 
 
 The kindred mind my love desires, 
 Something beyond a power requires 
 To image back my own ; 
 
 (176) 
 
176 life's koh-i-noor. 
 
 Its rich ideal world within 
 Should peopled be with tastes akin, 
 But not that mine had sown. 
 
 Its precious attributes should be — 
 To feel deep interest in me ; 
 
 That interest to impart ; 
 To learn, not track, my inner ways ; 
 To note, not use, my mental gaze 
 
 By LoA'e's perceptive art. 
 
 To waken life, and warmth, and light, 
 Where hang the dewy damps of night 
 
 Around my slumb'ring breast ; 
 So that those rays of mind may shine 
 Back on the chosen one from mine 
 
 With all my soul impressed. 
 
 To deem it favor's choicest task 
 My mind or body's aid to ask, 
 
 A smile or tear to claim ; 
 And so with hand, eye, tongue, and ear 
 Be ready, watchful, and sincere 
 
 In oiFering me the same. 
 
 To bid me view its hidden cells ; 
 To tell me what there secret dwells, 
 
life's koh-i-noor. 177 
 
 Be it of joy or woe ; 
 A thrill of happiness to feel 
 Whene'er it would to me reveal 
 
 What none but I should know. 
 
 With me to tread the path of flowers— 
 With me to pass life's thorny hours, 
 
 And still together learn 
 To walk above with angel feet, 
 Where truth is full and bliss complete, 
 
 Where sin knows no return. 
 
 Call it Affection, Friendship, Love, 
 A gleam on earth of heaven above, 
 
 Faith, Trust, or Constancy ; 
 All would unite to make us blessed 
 All in a word may be expressed, 
 
 And that is — Sympathy. 
 
 Say not two mortals here below 
 Such unison can never know. 
 
 So pure and so sincere ; 
 Perfection none indeed attain. 
 Yet surely 'twere not quite in vain 
 
 To strive for something near. 
 
ME. JOHN CAMPBELL'S MISTAKES. 
 
 BY PAULINE FORSYTH. 
 
 There was a lyceum in Louden. It had some Greek 
 name, which I have forgotten, as we seldom tried to 
 pronounce it. Almost all the young gentlemen of the 
 place were members of it, and sharpened their wits 
 during the winter by weekly contests with each other. 
 At the close of the season they usually held a public 
 debate, to which the ladies were especially invited. 
 The subject announced for discussion upon the only 
 meeting which I attended was whether, " intellectually 
 considered, women are equal to men." 
 
 I presume this topic was chosen out of respect to the 
 fairer part of the audience ; and it was one too generally 
 interesting not to command a full attendance. Every 
 bench in the large hall was crowded with ladies in their 
 prettiest array. Many of the gentlemen were obliged 
 to stand during the whole evening ; others encroached 
 
 (178) 
 
MB. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 179 
 
 upon the seats reserved for the speakers or gathered 
 round the platform. 
 
 Some of the disputants, "unaccustomed to public 
 speaking," were thrown into such great consternation by 
 finding themselves gazing down upon so many bright 
 eyes and rosy cheeks That, after stammering out a sen- 
 tence or two, they fled precipitately down from their 
 trying elevation to hide themselves among their com- 
 panions. All these, I am happy to observe, were on 
 the negative side of the question. 
 
 Those who spoke in the affirmative had too good an 
 opportunity to pay the ladies highflown and astonishing 
 compliments not to improve it. One of them, I remem- 
 ber, compared woman to " the moon careering like a 
 storm through the firmament and throwing light on the 
 orb beneath." 
 
 I doubt much whether 
 
 *' That white-orbed maiden, 
 
 With bright fire laden, 
 Whom mortals call the moon," 
 
 was ever known to forget the usual serene majesty of 
 her slow progress through the sky in so surprising a 
 manner ; but I am afraid it is but too true that woman, 
 especially in these latter days, does sometimes " career 
 like a storm." 
 
180 MR. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 
 
 There was an inconsistency in the bestowal of ap- 
 plause that my rigid sense of justice rebelled against. 
 The gentlemen, on whom this duty devolves by long 
 usage and faithful performance, clapped and stamped 
 with the most gallant and generous forgetfulness of their 
 hands or boots whenever any particularly felicitous com- 
 pliment to the ladies was uttered ; even the slightest 
 hint in that direction or flattering allusion met with 
 ready sympathy and approval ; while all the speeches 
 in the negative were heard in the most profound and 
 depressing silence. My feelings of compassion were 
 quite moved for the poor unfortunates who had chosen 
 so unpopular a side. If it had not been for my strict 
 ideas of propriety, and my timidity, and my thin boots, 
 and very tight French gloves, I would have given them 
 a little encouragement myself. I had the heart to do 
 it ; but there were too many obstacles in the way. 
 
 Yet when the decision was pronounced, and, though 
 all the best speakers and best arguments had been in 
 favor of " Heaven's last, best gift," it was given against 
 the sex, the room rang and shook again with the clam- 
 orous approbation with which the sentence was received. 
 It was a Parthian arrow shot at us ; and, coming at a 
 moment when we were looking for victory, the surprise 
 utterly routed us. I have never again, I hope, wasted 
 60 uselessly my stock of sympathy. 
 
ME. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 181 
 
 The evening of this particular speaking was rendered 
 memorable in Louden by an event which occurred just 
 after the performance. It was a case of love at first 
 sight — that most romantic of all romantic things. 
 
 Mr. John Campbell, a young gentleman studying law 
 with his uncle, Mr. Woods, fell in love at the first 
 glance he caught of the fair face of Imogen Edwards, a 
 young lady returned a few days before from the convent 
 at Georgetown, where she had been completing her 
 education. 
 
 Of course the attack was sudden. One moment Mr. 
 Campbell was as free as air ; woman was to him, and 
 had been since he was sixteen, nothing but an obstacle, 
 a perplexity, an embarrassment. He had no objection 
 to their sharing the world with him ; but he wished that 
 they would keep out of his way — it was all he asked. 
 They would not grant him that* simple favor; so he 
 walked squares to avoid meeting any one of them that 
 he knew would expect a bow from him. There was a 
 very talkative and benevolent maiden lady who took it 
 into her head that he was dull and moping, and persist- 
 ed in hunting him out of every corner in which he took 
 refuge, or stopping him in the street to have a little chat 
 with him and " cheer him up," as she said. How he 
 dreaded the sight of her! He had walked miles, 
 plunged into alleys and lanes when they were in a state 
 16 
 
182 MR. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 
 
 of mud that rendered them almost impassable, and dart- 
 ed into his friends' offices or shops — and all to avoid 
 the good, gossiping, little Miss Parker. 
 
 But his hour was come ; and in one second he wa? 
 drowned so deep in love that all assistance was in vain. 
 Perhaps my younger readers would Hke to know exact- 
 ly how and when the deed was done. 
 
 The debate was ended. The ladies, after having 
 been raised to the seventh heaven and dashed so sud- 
 denly to the earth again, were gathering themselves to- 
 gether with a most wonderful unconcern and lightness 
 of spirit, proving of what elastic materials they were 
 made, and discussing the merits of the several speakers. 
 Some remark was uttered that Imogen thought amusing, 
 and she laughed. That low, sweet laugh, like the sil- 
 very tinklings of a musical box, struck upon Mr. Camp- 
 bell's ear as the pleasantest sound he had ever heard. 
 
 He was standing near her; for, though he avoided 
 all mixed society where any of the burden of the enter- 
 tainment might fall to his share, lie rather affected 
 crowds and assemblies, where he could be allowed to 
 remain a mere listener and observer. Attracted by the 
 laugh, he turned to discover from whom it proceeded, 
 and saw a fresh, delicate young face, whose dimpled 
 cheeks and parted lips confirmed the sweet assurance 
 the voice had given ; and the unconscious Imogen 
 
MR. JOHN CAMPBELL'S MISTAKES. 183 
 
 completed her first conquest. Yet she was not remark- 
 ably pretty. There were many handsomer girls in 
 Louden. It was the dovelike expression that inno- 
 cence and amiability gave her face that made her so 
 attractive. 
 
 The next evening there was to be a party ; and Mr. 
 Campbell announced his intention of attending. His 
 aunt was amazed ; for he had steadfastly refused all for- 
 mer invitations and entreaties. She was astonished, too, 
 when he came down prepared for the evening, to see 
 how well he looked when carefully dressed ; for he was 
 generally very negligent in his attire. 
 
 " Why, John," said she, " I had no idea you were so 
 good looking." 
 
 He seemed quite pleased, but said, — 
 
 " Don't you think, aunt Ellen, the barber here cuts 
 hair shockingly ? It seems to me mine never looked so 
 badly ; and my coat fits dreadfully ; I am going down 
 to New Orleans to get a new one as soon as I can." 
 
 " Aha ! Somebody has made an impression on 
 that flinty heart of yours. Nothing less could work 
 such a change. Who is it, John ? Is it Imogen Ed- 
 wai-ds ? " 
 
 The color rose to his forehead as he replied, — 
 
 " Can't a man go to a party without being in love, 
 aunt Ellen ? And of course, if I do go, I want to look 
 
184 MR. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 
 
 like the rest of the people. To tell the truth, though," 
 he continued, after a moment's pause, " I do think hei 
 the prettiest girl I have ever seen — beautiful, in fact ; 
 and I wish, aunt, that you would contrive to introduce 
 me to her. But I have seen so little of ladies lately 
 that I have forgotten how to talk to them. I haven't 
 the first idea on the subject. I have been puzzUng my 
 head about it all the afternoon. If I could begin, I 
 could go on, I am sure. Couldn't you help me out a 
 little?" 
 
 Those are perplexities that meet with very little sym- 
 pathy ; and his aunt only laughed at him and amused 
 herself by proposing all kinds of absurd and ridiculous 
 remarks with which he might at least astonish the young 
 lady. He listened patiently for a while in hopes of 
 hearing something that might be useful ; but at last he 
 became a little indignant at being made a source of 
 amusement, for he was very much in earnest. 
 
 " I will ask her to dance," said he. 
 
 " Don't, John, I entreat you ; you know nothing about 
 dancing ; and you will commit a hundred blunders, you 
 are so shortsighted. Besides, your parents disapprove 
 of it so much — I do not know what they would say if 
 they saw you on the floor." 
 
 ** I think, aunt, they should have allowed me to learn 
 dancing. Every gentleman ought to be familiar with 
 
MR. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 185 
 
 all those accomplishments that will make him feel at his 
 ease in society." 
 
 " Well, John, there is no use in reasoning with a man 
 in love. In one short night you are entirely changed. 
 I suppose you have forgotten how often you have 
 amused yourself at the expense of ' rational people with 
 souls spending whole evenings in moving their feet 
 about to a tune scraped by untutored fingers out of 
 some poor fiddle.' Those were your very words. I 
 thought them quite fine at the time. But little did I 
 expect to see my sensible nephew bitten by the taran- 
 tula he pretended to despise." 
 
 " It is very easy to laugh, aunt Ellen ; but that same 
 nephew, now looking at society from another standpoint, 
 says — and it is one of his most sensible remarks — that 
 if people wish to go into society wnthout feeling intol- 
 erably awkward there they must comply with its cus- 
 toms." 
 
 " Do any thing, John, but dance," was his aunt's last 
 warning. 
 
 If he had attended to it his love affair might have 
 had a diflTerent termination. 
 
 The dancing had already commenced when Mr. 
 Campbell aiTived with his aunt ; and, Imogen entering 
 soon after, Mrs. Woods seized a favorable opportunity 
 to introduce them. 
 
 16* 
 
186 MR. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 
 
 They stood for a moment in an embarrassing silence. 
 Both were new to society and very diffident, and neither 
 could think of a word to say. Rousing himself with a 
 sudden resolution Mr. Campbell ventured to request the 
 pleasure of her hand for the next " set." 
 
 Imogen danced very well ; she had a slight, graceful 
 figure that seemed to move itself through all the mazy 
 windings of the reel and cotillon. Waltzes, polkas, and 
 schottisches had not yet arrived in Louden. She was 
 very fond of it too ; but her pleasure for that evening 
 was soon destroyed. 
 
 A man desperately in love is not exactly in a fit con- 
 dition to make his first attempt at dancing in a crowded 
 ball room; his mind is not cool enough. And Mr. 
 John Campbell achieved in five minutes the entire 
 breaking up of the cotillon from his reckless determi- 
 nation to follow Imogen through every thing. If it 
 would have given his mother a pang to know that he 
 had danced, it made his aunt's heart ache to see how 
 he did it. 
 
 Imogen retreated to her mother's side covered with 
 confusion. She was very sensitive ; and with the ex- 
 aggerated importance the young attach to such little 
 mortifications she imagined herself an object of ridicule 
 and amusement to the whole room. She refused to 
 iance any more that evening, and told her friends the 
 
MB. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 187 
 
 next day that " she could not endure Mr. Campbell ; she 
 hoped she should never see him again.'* 
 
 Her manner was so soft and gentle that Mr. Camp- 
 bell, unused to reading the signs, slight but unmistaka- 
 ble, of a woman's preference or dislike, did not perceive 
 her displeasure. It passed away in some degree after 
 a time ; but the first unfavorable impression remained. 
 
 Mr. Campbell was constant in his attentions and spent 
 several miserable evenings with her, when long passages 
 of silence were broken now and then by spasmodic at- 
 tempts at conversation. Sometimes he would go home 
 quite sad and desponding ; at other times some Httle 
 word or expression raised him to the sunmiit of felici- 
 ty. His general impression was that he was " com- 
 ing on." 
 
 Once as he was leaving the room she said " Adieu " 
 with a pretty French accent. This kept him awake all 
 night. He repeated the word over and over, trying to 
 catch the very tone in which she had spoken it; and 
 there was no meaning of which it was susceptible that 
 he did not extract from it. 
 
 Volumes might be filled with imaginary dangers from 
 which he rescued her and the distress and sorrow from 
 which he shielded her. 
 
 One very stormy morning he was indulging in these 
 daydreams sitting in his study chair by the fire in his 
 
188 MK. JOHN CAMPBELl/S MISTAKES. 
 
 office. The wedding was over ; the house was bought 
 and furnished, and she, the idol of his heart, transformed 
 from the shy maiden that he was half afraid of to the 
 busy little wife with a basket of keys in her hand, was 
 just saying " What shall we have for dinner, John ? " in 
 the most matter-of-course way. He stopped to brood 
 over this question for a moment. That " we," implying 
 such a unity of interest, the familiar calling him by his 
 name, the household nature of the question, filled his 
 heart with more pleasant reveries than all the poetry he 
 had ever read. He almost forgot that it was not real, 
 when, glancing towards the window, he saw Imogen 
 hurrying by without an umbrella, although the rain was 
 falling in continuous streams rather than drops. It 
 seemed as though the clouds had been seized with a 
 hydropathic mania, and were determined to give the 
 world and the poor atoms toiling on its surface a douch- 
 ing, (which is nothing but a German way of spelling 
 ducking.) 
 
 Mr. Campbell, distressed at the thought of the deli- 
 cate Imogen being caught in such a storm and delighted 
 at the prospect of being of use to her, seized his hat 
 Mnd umbrella, as he supposed, and ran after her. She 
 uras walking very fast and was already some distance 
 from his office ; but he overtook her at last. 
 
 " Miss Imogen, let me offer you my umbrella.** 
 
MR. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 189 
 
 For once she was really pleased to see him. She 
 •ooked round with a smile, saying, — 
 
 " Thank you." The smile changed to a look full of 
 mirth and wonder. " Do you call that an umbrella, Mr. 
 Campbell ? " 
 
 His attention directed to it, he perceived that he held 
 his cane upraised umbrella fashion in his hand. He 
 was too much confused to speak. 
 
 " I do not think that will afford me much protection, 
 Mr. Campbell — good morning!" And Imogen hur- 
 ried on. 
 
 He returned to his office quite out of patience with 
 himself. He called himself an "absent-minded idiot" 
 and by every other opprobrious epithet he could find, 
 walked up and down the room with hurried strides, 
 then threw himself into a chair clasping his forehead 
 with his hand. If any one had observed him they might 
 have been justified in supposing he had committed some 
 crime, in such distress did he appear. 
 
 At last he took refuge in reading Byron : — 
 
 " I have not loved tlie world, nor the world me," 
 
 touched a sympathetic chord in his heart But happen- 
 oig to light upon 
 
 " O that the desert were my dwelling-place. 
 With one fair spirit for my minister ! " 
 
190 MR. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 
 
 he went off into a revery again, and, after meditating 
 for some hours, resolved to take the first opportunity to 
 decide his fate. 
 
 The next morning he received a letter which, on 
 opening, he found to be a very spirited and amusing 
 indictment in verse accusing him of an attempt to com- 
 mit assault and battery on a lady in the public square. 
 
 " Hast thou found me, O mine enemy ? " he groaned, 
 as he recognized the writing of Tom Jessup, the wittiest 
 man in Louden and one who never allowed a good story 
 to be forgotten. 
 
 He had hoped that his blunder had not been ob 
 served ; but he knew too well that concealment now was 
 hopeless ; for if every other window had been closely 
 shut and barred, and among all the inhabitants of Lou- 
 den only Tom Jessup, like his peeping namesake of 
 Coventry, had caught a glimpse of him with his uplifted 
 cane, every lounger in the hotel or at the comers of 
 the streets would be laughing about him before nightfall. 
 
 His prognostications were verified ; for every person 
 he met while going to and from his office seemed called 
 upon to stop him with some question or remark they 
 evidently intended to be very jocose and witty, and to 
 which Mr. Campbell, though he was internally suffering 
 tortures, felt obliged to hear with a calm and smiling 
 face. It was as bad as running the gantlet. 
 
ME. JOHN CAMPBELL S MISTAKES. 191 
 
 But greater troubles were in store for hira. All 
 Imogen's distaste to him returned when she found that 
 the whole town was amusing itself with his mistake. 
 She could not bear the idea of having her name asso- 
 ciated in any way with one who made himself so ridic- 
 ulously conspicuous. She took the greatest pains to 
 avoid him whenever they were thrown together in social 
 meetings, and generally contrived to be out when he 
 called. 
 
 Several weeks passed by ; and during all that time 
 Mr. Campbell had found it impossible to obtain even 
 ten minutes* conversation with Imogen. One beautiful 
 moonlight evening he took his flute, on which he played 
 delightfully, and went out to serenade " the star of his 
 night." For more than half an hour the dulcet tones 
 of his instrument floated on the night air ; and, tranquil- 
 lized and soothed, he was still playing away vigorously, 
 when Imogen's old nurse, who hated, she said, " to see 
 the poor young man wasting his breath so," thrust her 
 head over the gate and told him " 'Twasn't of the least 
 use; Miss Imogen had been gone these two days to 
 Miss Percy's." 
 
 He returned home, not in despair, but in desperation ; 
 and, his tumultuous feelings demanding some expression, 
 he seized a pen and found himself to his own great 
 adtonishment suddenly possessed of a poetic power, of 
 
192 MR. JOHN CxOIPBELL'S MISTAKES. 
 
 wliich lie had supposed himself utterly deficient. He 
 wrote several verses full of ardor and passion, and 
 which were truly remarkable, not only from the facility 
 with which they were written, but from their concen- 
 trated power and strength of expression. It was his 
 first and last attempt at poetry ; for his feelings were 
 never again wrought to so high a pitch as to force from 
 him such burning words. 
 
 He did not send the verses to Imogen, as he had in- 
 tended. Cooler reflection determined him to keep them 
 till the interview, which he was anticipating with so 
 much trembling, hope, and fear, had taken place. 
 
 Not long after his attempted serenade he met her 
 again at a party. Most unfortunately, as he thought, 
 whenever he asked her to dance she was engaged. He 
 did not imagine that she had made an arrangement with 
 a good-natured cousin of hers to be at her command for 
 that evening, that she might with truth plead a previous 
 engagement. He asked her to walk in the piazza ; but 
 she replied that her mother did not like her to expose 
 herself to the night air. He made numerous efforts to 
 obtain an opportunity for a tete-a-tete, but in vain. At 
 last he took refuge by Miss Parker's side, whose niece 
 and namesake Imogen was. This relationship had 
 gradually overcome Mr. Campbell's old dread and 
 dislike of her ; and he now often found himself seek- 
 
MR. JOHN Campbell's mistakes. 19? 
 
 ing her society when his own Imogen was inacces- 
 sible. 
 
 The time for the breaking up of the party arrived. 
 The ladies were in the dressing room up stairs; the 
 gentlemen, hat in hand, waiting in the passage below. 
 That odious cousin, whose obliging disposition had al- 
 ready aroused the demon of jealousy in Mr. Campbell's 
 heart, was standing near the staircase. Mr. Campbell 
 took his station, a little in advance of him, at its very 
 foot. 
 
 Many ladies passed in review before him and disap- 
 peared with their attendant cavaliers ; but Imogen still 
 delayed her coming. At last he heard an affectionate 
 " Good night, Imogen," followed by a kiss ; and two 
 ladies came hastily down the staircase. The cousin 
 stepped quickly forward ; so did Mr. Campbell. " Will 
 you take my arm, Miss Imogen?" said he to the first lady. 
 
 Born and brought up in Louden, Miss Parker was 
 oftener called even yet by her first name than her last ; 
 so, without being surprised, — for lately Mr. Campbell 
 had been unusually attentive to her, — she accepted the 
 offered arm, and they went out in the starlight together. 
 His mistake was not so strange, either ; for there was 
 that general resemblance between the two Imogens in 
 height and air that relationship often gives, and their 
 evening wrappings almost hid their faces. 
 17 
 
194 MB. JOHN CAMPBELL*S MISTAKES. 
 
 They had but a short distance to walk ; and Mr. 
 Campbell knew he had no time to lose — he plunged at 
 once into the midst of his confession. He told his as- 
 tonished listener how long and how ardently he had 
 loved her. 
 
 " Dear me ! " thought little Miss Parker. 
 
 He told her that he had loved her from the first mo- 
 ment in which he saw her. 
 
 " And I never even suspected it," thought she. 
 
 He told her that without her life would be to him a 
 burden, a dreary void. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " and little Miss Parker sighed and 
 shook her head. 
 
 He told her that the aim of every thought, every 
 wish, every hope of his through life would be her hap- 
 piness. 
 
 " Dear me ! dear me ! I am really afraid for him," 
 thought little Miss Parker. 
 
 " And now will you not speak to me one word of 
 encouragement ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Campbell, you have taken me so by 
 surprise that I don't know exactly what to say. Don't 
 you think the difference in our ages " 
 
 They were standing by the door. Mr. Campbell had 
 his hand on the knob, unwilling to turn it till his fate 
 was decided. He flung the door wide open, gave one 
 
MR. JOHN CAMPBELI/S MISTAKES. 195 
 
 Bearcliing glance at the lady's face as the light from 
 the hall lamp fell on it, and, without a word, sprang 
 down the steps and out of the gate. He passed Imo- 
 gen walking slowly along w^ith her cousin, but did not 
 even touch his hat to her, though the same merry, mu- 
 sical laugh that had first charmed him again floated to 
 his ears. 
 
 Mr. Campbell left Louden the next day. His father 
 had written for him to return some time before ; but he 
 had delayed on the plea of business. He concluded 
 he had " done the business," and that there was nothing 
 left for him to wait for. We often heard of him after- 
 wards as one of the most promising lawyers in St. 
 Louis. 
 
 I met him a year or two ago. Our conversation nat- 
 urally turned on our mutual acquaintances at Louden. 
 He talked very frankly about his love for Lnogen ; and 
 I was surprised to find how deep that old attachment 
 had struck its roots. Not that he had been constant to 
 her memory ; " for several virtues he had " since " loved 
 several women ; " but he told me that she was the only 
 one whom he had thought beautiful — the only one 
 whom he had regarded as perfect. 
 
 I thought of her, long since a happy wife and mother, 
 and, though married to a man by no means Mr. Camp* 
 
196 MR. JOHN CAMPBELI/S MISTAKES. 
 
 Dell's equal, yet remembering lilm only to smile at his 
 mishaps. And then I fell to wondering at the love that 
 is wasted in this world. 
 
 My story has a moral ; but, for fear people would not 
 suspect it, I will point it out to them : — 
 
 " Look before you leap." 
 
 .f 
 
SONNET. 
 
 BT 6. A. D. BRUCKS. 
 
 How to my failing spirit shall be givea 
 
 Realization of its cherished dream ? 
 
 A bower of rest where golden mornings gleam 
 Smiles through serener depths of azure heaven; 
 Where I might watch the glorious tropic even, 
 
 When from the moon a tranquillizing stream 
 Of silver sheen, against the sunset driven, 
 
 Mingles with day the night's ethereal beam ; 
 Where the gold orange shines *mid glossy leaves, 
 
 And Nature's sweet benevolence we learn 
 From purpling grapes clust'ring aneath low eaves. 
 
 Where brighter flowers the evening dews inum. 
 And the large moon a mellower influence weaves 
 
 Round nights whose intense stars divinely bum. 
 17* (i'^7) 
 
MIRANDA. 
 
 TEMPEST. 
 
 Miranda. What is't ? a spirit ? 
 
 Lord, how it looks about ! Believe me, sir, 
 It carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit. 
 
 Prospero. No, wench: it eats and sleeps, and hath 
 such senses 
 As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest 
 Was in the wreck ; and, but he's something stained 
 With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou mightst call him 
 A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows, 
 And strays about to find them. 
 
 Mir, I might call him 
 
 A thing divine ; for nothing natural 
 I ever saw so noble. 
 
 Pro, It goes on, I see, [^Aside, 
 
 As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit I I'll free 
 
 thee 
 Within two days for this. 
 
 (198) 
 
MIRANDA. 199 
 
 Ferdinand, Most sure, the goddess 
 
 On whom these airs attend. Vouchsafe my prayer 
 May know if you remain upon this island, 
 And that you will some good instruction give 
 How I may bear me here. 
 
KATIE YALE*S MARRIAGE. 
 
 BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 ** If ever I marry," Katie Yale used to saj, half in 
 jest, half in earnest, — " if ever I marry, the happy man 
 — or the unhappy one, if you please — ha ! ha ! — shall 
 be a person possessing these thi'ee qualifications : — 
 
 " First, a fortune. 
 
 " Second, good looks. 
 
 " And, thirdly, common sense. 
 
 " I mention the fortune first, because I think it the 
 most needful and desirable qualification of the three. 
 
 " Although I could never think of marrying a fool or 
 a man whose ugliness I could be ashamed of, still I 
 think to talk sense for the one and shine for the other, 
 with plenty of money, would be preferable to living ob- 
 scurely with a handsome, intellectual man, to whom 
 economy might be necessary." 
 
 I do not know how much of this sentiment came 
 fi"om Katie's heart. She undoubtedly indulged lofty 
 
 (200) 
 
KATIE YALE'S MARRIAGE. 201 
 
 i'ieas of station and style ; for her education in the 
 duties and aims of life had been deficient, or rather 
 erroneous ; but that she was capable of deeper, better 
 feelings, none doubted who had ever obtained even a 
 partial glimpse of her true woman's nature. 
 
 And the time arrived at length when Katie was to 
 take that all-important step of which she had often 
 spoken so lightly ; when she was to demonstrate to her 
 friends how much of her heart was in the words we 
 have quoted. 
 
 At the enchanting age of eighteen she had many 
 suitors ; but, as she never gave a serious thought to 
 more than two, we will follow her example, and, discard- 
 ing all except those favored ones, consider their relative 
 claims. 
 
 If this were any other than a true story I should 
 certainly use an artist's privilege, and aim to produce an 
 effect by making a strong contrast between these two 
 favored individuals. If I could have my way, one 
 should be a poor genius and somewhat of a hero ; the 
 other a wealthy fool and somewhat of a knave. 
 
 But the truth is, — 
 
 Our poor genius was not much of a genius, nor very 
 poor either. He was by profession a teacher of music, 
 and he could live very comfortably in exercise thereof 
 — without the most distant hope, however, of ,ever 
 
202 KATIE tale's marriage. 
 
 attaining to wealth. Moreover, Francis Minot possessed 
 excellent qualities, which entitled him to be called by 
 discreet elderly people a " fine character ; " by his com- 
 panions a " noble, good fellow ; " and by the ladies gen- 
 erally a '^ darling" 
 
 Katie could not help loving Mr. Frank, and he knew 
 it. He was certain she preferred his society even to 
 that of Mr. Wellington, whom alone he saw fit to honor 
 with the appellation of rival. 
 
 This Mr. Wellington (his companions called him the 
 "duke") was no idiot or humpback, as I could havf 
 wished him to be in order to make a good story. On 
 the contrary, he was a man of sense, education, good 
 looks, and fine manners ; and there was nothing of the 
 knave about him, as I could ever ascertain. 
 
 Besides this, liis income was sufficient to enable him 
 to live superbly. Also he was considered two or three 
 degrees handsomer than Mr. F. Minot. 
 
 Therefore, the only thing on which Frank had to 
 depend was the power he possessed over Katie's sym- 
 pathies and affections. The " duke " — although just the 
 man for her in every other sense, being blessed with a for- 
 tune, good looks, and common sense — had never been 
 aWe to draw these out ; and the amiably conceited Mr. 
 Frank was not wilhng to believe that she would suffei 
 mere worldly considerations to control the aspirations of 
 her heart 
 
KATIE tale's marriage. 203 
 
 However, she said to liim one day, when he pressed 
 her to decide his fate, — she said to him with a sigh, — 
 
 " O Frank, I am soriy that we have ever met ! " 
 
 "Sorry?" 
 
 " Yes ; for we must part now " 
 
 " Part ? " repeated Frank, turning pale. It was evi- 
 dent he had not expected this. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Katie, casting down her eyes with 
 another piteous sigh. 
 
 Frank sat by her side ; he placed his arm around her 
 waist without heeding her feeble resistance ; he lowered 
 his voice, and talked to her until she — the proud Katie 
 — wept, wept bitterly. 
 
 " Katie," said he, then, with a burst of passion, " I 
 know you love me ; but you are proud, ambitious, 
 selfish. ' Now, if you would have me leave you, say 
 the word, and I go." 
 
 " Go ! " murmured Katie, very feebly ; " go V* 
 
 ** You have decided ? " whispered Frank. 
 
 « I have!" 
 
 « Then, love, farewell ! " 
 
 He took her hand, gazed a moment tenderly and sor- 
 rowfully upon her beautiful, tearful face, then clasped 
 her to his bosom. 
 
 She permitted the embrace. She even gave way 
 to the impulse of the instant, and twined her arms about 
 
204 KATIE yale's marriage. 
 
 his neck ; but in a moment her resolution came to her 
 aid, and she pushed him from her with a sigh. 
 
 " Shall I go ? " he articulated. 
 
 A feeble yes fell from her quivering lips. 
 
 And an instant later she was lying upon the sofa, sob- 
 bing and weeping passionately, alone. 
 
 To tear the tenacious root of love out of her heart 
 had cost her more than she could have anticipated ; and 
 the certainty of a golden life of luxury proved but a 
 poor consolation, it seemed, for the sacrifice she had 
 made. 
 
 She lay long upon the sofa, I say, sobbing and weep- 
 ing passionately. Gradually her grief appeared to ex- 
 haust itself. Her breathing became more regular and 
 calm. Her tears ceased to flow, and at length her eyes 
 and cheeks were dry. Her head was pillowed on her 
 arm, and her face was half hidden in a flood of beauti- 
 ful curls. 
 
 The struggle was over — the agony was passed. She 
 saw Mr. Wellington enter, and arose cheerfully to 
 receive him. His manners pleased her ; his station and 
 fortune fascinated her more. He offered her his hand ; 
 she accepted it. A kiss sealed the engagement; but 
 it was not such a kiss as Frank had given her, and she 
 could not repress a sigh. 
 
 There was a magnificent wedding. Splendidly attired, 
 
KATIE tale's marriage. 205 
 
 dazzling the eye with her beauty thus adorned, with 
 every thing around her swimming in the charmed atmos- 
 phere of fairyland, Katie gave her hand to the man 
 her ambition, not her love, had chosen. 
 
 But certainly ambition could not have made a better 
 choice. Already she saw herself surrounded by a mag- 
 nificent court, of which she was the acknowledged and 
 admired queen. The favors of fortune were showered 
 upon her ; she floated luxuriously upon the smooth and 
 glassy wave of a charmed hfe. 
 
 Nothing was wanting in the whole circle of her out- 
 ward existence to adorn it and make it bright with 
 happiness. 
 
 But she was not long in discovering that there was 
 . something wanting within her own breast. 
 
 Her friends were numerous ; her husband tender, 
 kind, and loving; but all the attentions and affections 
 she enjoyed could not fill her heart. 
 
 She had once felt its chords of sympathy moved by 
 a skilful touch ; she had known the heavenly charm of 
 their deep, delicious harmony ; and now they were 
 silent, motionless, muffled, so to speak, in silks and 
 satms. These chords still and soundless, her heart was 
 dead ; not^the less so because it had been killed by a 
 golden shaft. Having known and felt the life of sym- 
 pathy in love she could not but mourn for it and sigh 
 18 
 
206 KATIE tale's marriage. 
 
 for it, unconsoled by the life of luxury. In short, 
 Katie in time became magnificently miserable, splen- 
 didly unhappy. 
 
 Then a change became apparent in her husband. 
 He could not long remain blind to the fact that his love 
 was not returned. He sought the company of those 
 whose gayety might lead him to forget the sorrow and 
 despair of his soul. This shallow joy was unsatisfactory, 
 however ; and, impelled by powerful longings for love, 
 he went astray to warm his heart by a strange fire. 
 
 Katie saw herself now in the midst of a gorgeous des- 
 olation, burning with a thirst unquenchable by golden 
 streams that flowed around her, panting with a hunger 
 not all the food of flattery and admiration could appease. 
 
 She reproached her husband for deserting her thus ; 
 and he answered with angry and desperate taunts of 
 deception and a total lack of love which smote her 
 conscience heavily. 
 
 " You do not care for me," he cried ; " then why do 
 you complain that I bestow elsewhere the affections you 
 have met with coldness ? " 
 
 " But it is wrong, sinful," Katie remonstrated. 
 
 " Yes ; I know it ! " said her husband, fiercely. " It 
 Is the evil fruit of an evil seed. And who sowed that 
 seed ? "Who gave me a hand without a heart ? Who 
 became a sharer of my fortune, but gave me no share in 
 
KATIE tale's marriage. 20) 
 
 sympathy? Who devoted me to the fate of a loving, 
 unloved husband ? Nay, do not weep, and clasp your 
 hands, and sigh and sob with such desperation of impa- 
 tience ; for I say nothing you do not deserve to hear." 
 
 "Very well," said Katie, calming herself; "I will 
 not complain. I will not say your reproaches are un- 
 deserved. But, granting that I am the cold, deceitful 
 thing you call me, you know this state of things can- 
 not continue." 
 
 "Yes; I know it." 
 
 "WeU?" 
 
 Mr. Wellington's brows gathered darkly; his eyes 
 flashed with determination ; his lips curled with scorn. 
 
 " I have made up my mind," said he, " that we should 
 not live together any longer. I am tired of being called 
 the husband of the splendid Mrs. Wellington. I will 
 move in my circle ; you shall shine in yours. I will 
 place no restraint on your actions, nor shall you on mine. 
 We wiU be free." 
 
 " But the world ! " shrieked Katie, trembling. 
 
 " The world will admire you the same ; and what 
 more do you desire?" asked her husband, bitterly. 
 " This marriage of hands, and not of hearts, is mock- 
 ery. We have played the farce long enough. Few 
 know the conventional meaning of the term husband 
 and wife ; but do you know what it should mean ? Do 
 
208 KATIE TALE*S MARRIAGE. 
 
 you feel that the only true union is that of love and 
 sympathy ? Then enough of this mummery ! Farewell ! 
 I go to consult friends about the terms of a separation. 
 Nay, do not tremble, and cry, and cling to me now, for I 
 shall be liberal to you. As much of my fortune shall 
 be yours as you desire." 
 
 He pushed her from him. She fell upon the sofa. 
 From a heart torn with anguish she shrieked aloud, — 
 
 " Frank ! Frank ! why did I send you from me ? 
 Why did I sacrifice love and happiness to such fate as 
 this ? Why was I blind until sight brought me misery ? " 
 
 She lay upon the sofa, sobbing and weeping passion- 
 ately. Gradually her grief appeared to exhaust itself; 
 her breathing became calm ; her eyes and cheeks dry. 
 Her head lay peacefully upon her arm, over which swept 
 her dishevelled tresses, until with a start she cried, — 
 
 " Frank ! O Frank, come back ! " 
 
 " Here I am ! " said a soft voice by her side. 
 
 She raised her head — she opened her astonished eyes. 
 Frank was standing before her ! 
 
 " You have been asleep," he said, smiling kindly. 
 
 "Asleep?" 
 
 "And dreaming, too, I should say — not pleasantly, 
 either." 
 
 " Dreaming ? " murmured Katie ; " and is it all a 
 dream ? " 
 
KATIE Yale's marriage. 209 
 
 " I hope so," replied Frank, taking her hand. " You 
 could not mean to send me from you so cruelly, I know. 
 So I waited in your father's study, where I have been 
 talking with him all of an hour. I came back to plead 
 my cause once more, and found you here where I left 
 you — asleep." 
 
 " O, what a horrid dream ! " murmured Katie, rub- 
 bing her eyes. " It was so like a terrible reality that I 
 shudder now to think of it. I thought I was married ! " 
 
 " And would that be so horrible ? " asked Frank. " I 
 hope, then, you did not dream you were married to me ! " 
 
 " No ; I thought I gave my hand without my heart." 
 
 " Then, if you gave me your hand, it would not be 
 without your heart?" 
 
 "No, Frank," said Katie, her bright eyes beaming 
 happily through tears ; " and here it is." 
 
 She placed her fair hand in his: he kissed it in 
 transport. 
 
 And soon after there was a real marriage; not a 
 splendid, but a happy one ; not followed by a life of 
 luxury, but by a life of love and contentment ; and that 
 was the marriage of Frank Minot and Katie Yale. 
 18* 
 
FAITH. 
 
 Tis enough that I have loved thee 
 
 And that I love thee now ; 
 Tis enough that thou hast proved me 
 
 And won my spirit's vow. 
 There's a bond of truth between us 
 
 Eternal as 'tis dear ; 
 And its purity will screen us 
 
 From the rebuke we fear. 
 
 Dost thou need a surer token 
 
 That my faith is fully gained ? 
 'Tis enough that I have spoken 
 
 With sympathy unfeigned. 
 Temptation well hath proved me — 
 
 So let it prove me now : 
 *Tis enough that / have loved thee — 
 
 That thou hast won my vow. 
 
 (210) 
 
AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY. 
 
 BT SARAH ROBERTS. 
 
 I STROLLED the other day into a daguerrian gallery ; 
 and, after amusing myself with looking round on the 
 r umerous faces, old and young, beautiful and ugly, that 
 decorated the walls, and conjuring up the various char- 
 actei-s they represented, I threw myself on a comer of 
 the sofa and for the sake of amusement watched the 
 many groups that one after another passed in and 
 out 
 
 "This is truly the democratic, the levelling age of 
 every thing," said J to myself. " In years gone by, to 
 procure the precious likeness of a friend was only in 
 the power of those who had great wealth at command ; 
 but now, in the twinkling of an eye, for a single dollar, 
 the humblest citizen can possess the treasure. "Won- 
 derful discovery ! Kind, blessed power ! " 
 
 I was roused from my reflections by hearing a slow, 
 heavy footfall on the stairs. The door opened ; and a 
 
 (211) 
 
212 AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY. 
 
 young man with an honest, sunburnt face, in a sailor's 
 best dress, fathom of black ribbon and all, with a reeling 
 gait as if just from shipboard, entered. A smile of great 
 satisfaction beamed on his broad, good-natured face; 
 and he was leading by the hand a small, humble, quiet- 
 looking old lady, poorly but very neatly dressed. He 
 seated her most tenderly in a chair quite near me ; and 
 at a second glance I perceived she was bhnd. She ap- 
 peared to be very old, and trembled much from fatigue 
 and weakness. The sailor looked upon her with much 
 affection and delight, and, approaching the artist, said, — 
 " Can you make a picture of her, mister ? I hope 
 she is not too old, or that her being bhnd won't make 
 any difference ; her eyes are open, you see, and look as 
 good as yours or mine, though the dear old soul has 
 been blind these twenty years. Please to try, sir ; for 
 you see she is my mother ; and I have plenty of money 
 to pay for it ; and I must have her dear old face to take 
 away with me ; and she wants you to take mine, for me 
 to leave with her — for I am just going to take a long 
 voyage, sir. Though she cannot see, she says she can 
 hold it in her hand and kiss it, and know that it is me. 
 I am her only child, sir — all she has left out of a hus- 
 band and ten children. She wept herself blind, they 
 told me, when I was an infant ; for I am the youngest, 
 and all the world to her now." 
 
AN HOUK IN A DAGUERIUAN GALLERY. 213 
 
 Jack*s garrulity was stopped by the artist's requesting 
 him to seat his mother before the camera ; and he was 
 loud in his praises at the success. 
 
 Next entered — O, such a pleasant group ! — a young 
 couple, followed by a nurse bearing a lovely child of 
 about a year and a half old in her arms. Well might 
 they wish to have perpetuated the remembrance of such 
 a beautiful child — large, dark, full eyes ; soft, golden 
 curls ; and that expression of angelic purity seen only 
 in infancy. A fanciful little chair, richly carved and 
 cushioned, was brought in to hold the treasure. How 
 happy they all looked ! The mother was very youtliful 
 and scarcely less beautiful than the child. " How long 
 will this felicity last ? " thought I. " Will this sweet 
 child be torn from their fond embrace and consigned to 
 an early grave, or will he in after years bring agony 
 and shame to the hearts of those who have cherished 
 him ? Or will all their fond imaginings be realized ? 
 God only knows. How pleased tliey looked as they 
 propped up the little darling in his pretty chair ! — the 
 young mother, now arranging this curl, now the dress, 
 now displaying to more advantage the dimpled shoulder 
 and arm, and now the tiny naked foot, encouraging by 
 tender words the timid infant. All was at last satisfac- 
 torily arranged ; and I heai'd the parents say, when it 
 was finished, it was almost as pretty as wee WiUie. My 
 
214 AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY. 
 
 blessing went with the sweet child and the happy pair 
 as they left the room. 
 
 A tall, gentlemanly man now entered, holding in his 
 arms a delicate, frail-looking little girl about four years 
 old. He was dressed in a suit of deep mourning ; and 
 the sad expression of his refined and noble countenance 
 told that grief was in his heart. " A widower," thought 
 I, " and his only child ; " and I think I was not mista- 
 ken. The little creature was most richly and exquisitely 
 dressed ; and her almost baby face seemed also to wear 
 an expression of sadness. " No mother, poor little one," 
 mused I ; " you have lost what can never be replaced." 
 As if in reply to my thoughts, she clung closely round 
 her father's neck. " Ah, love him, cling closely to him 
 while you can ; man's nature is not woman's ; business, 
 pleasure, power, and other love than yours will soon fill 
 his heai't, now yours alone. Other ties will be, his ; the 
 first love may pass into forgetfulness and her child into 
 neglect ; but I hope better things for thee, sweet Nelly," 
 — for so her father called her ; " but should the time 
 come, this miniature of thy delicate, loving, tender child- 
 hood may bring back the warm blood to his estranged 
 heart 
 
 " Country lovers," I said to myself, as the door, 
 opened, and a sunburnt, hard-working man entered, all 
 in his Sunday best, which made him feel and move 
 
AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY. 215 
 
 rather awkwardly, followed by a roi^jd, cherry-cheeked 
 damsel, looking modestly on the ground, with many an 
 extra ribbon and flower decorating her really rustic 
 beauty. After various preliminaries, — 
 
 " How will you be taken ? " inquired the artist. 
 
 "0, side by side, of course," answered the man. 
 " Susey and I always sits side by side whenever we can ; 
 don't we, Susey ? '* said he, taking her hand with great 
 gallantry to lead her to the seat. "Why, don't the 
 tyown's folks know that Susey and I has kept company 
 DOW going on these two year ? I don't like such leetle 
 uns as them," he continued, pointing to some of the min- 
 iatures. " Make us pretty big, can't you ? If you must 
 stint either on us, why, stint me a leetle and don't stint 
 Susey, that's all. I don't want to lose none on her ; 
 she is too hamdsome for that — ain't you, Susey ? " said 
 he, giving her a loud smack on her rosy cheek, which 
 brought the blood rushing into Susey's face. 
 
 " If you do that agin, John," she said, " you sha'n't 
 have my face made on your picter at all; and how 
 you'll look sitting all alone on a picter — such a homely 
 man as you are ! " 
 
 " That would be bad enough, to be sure," said John. 
 " Well, I will wait until we get home to give one to the 
 other cheek." 
 
 " Please sit perfectly still," requested the artist. 
 
216 AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY, 
 
 *• Hand so we are," answered John. " But I suppose 
 we can talk a leetle, just to kill time, as I suppose well 
 have to sit here till sundown." 
 
 " Please not even to speak," said the artist. 
 
 " Well, that's pretty hard, sitting so nigh Susey ; but 
 I'll try," was the answer. 
 
 They sat perfectly quiet, hand in hand ; and in the 
 usual time the plate was taken from the camera. 
 
 " You may rise now, if you choose," said the artist. 
 
 " What for ? " asked the man. " I told you we want- 
 ed to be taken sitting side by side and hand in hand, so 
 as, when we grow old, we might remember how we 
 courted under the old apple tree and by the fireside. 
 If you can't take us to suit ourselves, I'll hire the job 
 done somewhere else." 
 
 "It is done," answered the artist. "Wait a few 
 moments." 
 
 " Done ! That you can't make me believe," said 
 John. " 'Stonishing how these city folks thinks we 
 country folks are all fools ; but I'll let you know, mis- 
 ter, I am called a rale cute un in our parts. * There's no 
 cheating John Simpson,* every body says. Susey and I 
 got up early this morning ; and I got Tom to do my 
 work, and Susey got Molly to do hern. And a rale lot 
 we both have to do ; for Susey is a rale smart un about 
 house, and so is I about the farm ; and we rode four- 
 
AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY. 217 
 
 teen miles to come here to get our faces made, because 
 we sawed un that you took here of Judy Smith and 
 Phil Hayes — only Judy ain't half so harndsome as my 
 Susey ; and now you want to cheat us out of it, hurry- 
 ing of us over in this style as if we wam't nobody. I'll 
 pay you, mister, just as much as your fine city folks that 
 owns these faces all over your walls; and one folk's 
 money is as good as another folk's money. I choose to 
 set a proper spell. Why, I just got to putting on my 
 best 'spression — the one Susey told me to : kyind o' so ; 
 and you say we may get up. 'Taint fair, nohow you 
 can fix it. Well, mister, I sha'n't pay whole price with- 
 out I sits long enough to pay for it." 
 
 The good-natured artist looked much amused, and 
 could not refrain from laughter. 
 
 " You may laugh, sir," said John ; " but we country 
 folks knows a thing or two. You can't cheat an old 
 crow." 
 
 The artist left the man talking to finish the daguerre- 
 otypes, and in due time returned and presented it to 
 him. 
 
 " Land o' mercy, Susey ! " he exclaimed, his face 
 beaming with delight, " if there ain't you and me ! How 
 did you get us, mister ? I know Judy and Phil told 
 you how we looked when they was down ; and so you 
 got it all ready for us to surprise us with. Well, you 
 19 
 
218 AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY. 
 
 have just hit it ; and you are a bright un. Shake hands, 
 mister. O land, how natrel we do look — 'specially 
 Susey ! Susey, you are a beautiful picter ; and I ain't 
 none of the ugliest — bees I, Susey, with my Sabbadays 
 on ? I looks like a gentleman, for sartin, 'cept that 
 my hands is rather bigger than some I've seen; but 
 that's a trifle. But there's no lady in the land can beat 
 you for good looks, Susey, any day. Well, it wam't 
 fair in Phil and Judy to tell you how we looked. I 
 sha'n't tell you how any more on us looks down our 
 way, because you'll be taking on 'em to sell ; and nobody 
 wants their faces sold all over the world for folks to 
 make their fortins by. How much longer must we stay 
 here, mister ? Bein's you got our picter all ready for us, 
 can we go putty soon ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said the artist, " as soon as you have 
 paid for it." 
 
 "Well, upon the whole, sir," said the countryman, 
 pulling out a small greasy wallet, " I'm 'bliged to you for 
 getting it ready agin we come ; only, if you've got any 
 more on 'em, just leave out Susey, — can't you? — or 
 else all the fellers in town will be a-comin' down to find 
 her out, and may be turn her head and get her away 
 from me. Sich things has happened in books, you 
 know — I'm a leetle of a scholar," he continued, giving 
 the artist the squint as if he meant he was a good deal 
 
AN HOUR IN A DAGUERBIAN GALLERY. 219 
 
 Df a one. " "Well, Susej dear, we shall have a nice frolic 
 to-day in the cit j — time enough for us to see the wax- 
 work, and the dancing monkeys, and the giant, and the 
 lamed pig, and get some oysters, and ice cream, and all 
 the good things city folks eat. Come along, Susey, my 
 angel ; we will make a day of it. Good day, mister ; 
 when this is worn out we will call agin." 
 
 As they were bowing and courtesying hand in hand 
 out of the door backwards in true country style they 
 stumbled on a group of schoolgirls, who came bounding 
 into the room in the heyday of spirits and glee. There 
 were six of them — what a pretty group ! 
 
 " You must take us all on one plate, Mr, W.," said 
 several, speaking at once. 
 
 " I want to sit by Kate," said one. 
 
 "And Cora and I want to sit together," said an- 
 other. 
 
 The artist glanced with pleasure at the young fair 
 faces, and asked them to be seated. 
 
 " You must group us in the way we shall look the 
 best, and tell us how to' sit gracefully," said another little 
 fairy, throwing herself in a chair in the most graceful 
 attitude possible. How long they were arranging them- 
 eelves ! The artist called upon me for an opinion as to 
 the grouping ; ani i was glad of the chance to scan the 
 bright and lovely faces. We succeeded in arranging 
 
220 AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY. 
 
 them satisfactorily to all ; but several attempts failed. 
 Cora's large dark eyes looked small and light, or Ber- 
 tha's soft blue ones dark and large ; or Kate laughed at 
 the wrong time and declared her pretty mouth looked 
 like a trapdoor ; Minna's was squint, or Ellen's nose was 
 crooked. It was evident they came there as much for 
 a frolic as for any thing. When they had almost ex- 
 hausted the artist's paiience they contrived to sit still, 
 and procured an accurate and beautiful picture. I 
 would have liked it myself, and asked the saucy little 
 things most humbly to sit for one for my benefit. But 
 even at fourteen the woman is too chary of her favors 
 to throw them away lightly; and I was peremptorily 
 and unanimously refused. How gayly they chatted and 
 laughed as they descended the stairs ! I hstened until 
 the last sound of their girlish voices died away, and 
 sighed ; for woman's lot was on them. 
 
 " How short," thought I, " is the step from these gay, 
 merry creatures to the sober, careworn matron ! What 
 destiny is in store for them ? Will an early grave soon 
 close over one of those fair young forms, and the foul 
 worm riot on its loveliness ? Or will a long life of toil 
 and care, of joys and sorrows, be the portion of all ? 
 Their lots will be various. Who will have the tender, 
 loving heart given her in return for her own deep, well- 
 ing love? Which of them will waste away through 
 
AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY. 221 
 
 eold neglect, and pledge her trusting love to a deceiver ? 
 Which of them will early wear the widow's sombre 
 weeds, and weep in the dayspring of her joys over their 
 grave ? Which will in agony consign to the earth the 
 sweetest treasures of her home, and in childless misery 
 wend her solitary way ? Who will rise a brilliant star 
 in our literary horizon ? I thought of Cora's intellect- 
 ual brow and dark flashing eye. Who will be the weak 
 devotee of fashion and folly? Kate appeared to me, 
 with her already coquettish smile, chestnut curls, and 
 varying hazel eye. Who will walk in the broad and 
 wid 3 way that leadeth to destruction ? And who will 
 meekly follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth? 
 Should I see these fair creatures twenty years hence, 
 even then, before life's allotted span were half told, I 
 should not probably recognize one of them ; hardly a 
 trace of their youth and girlish beauty would be visible. 
 God help them ! God in mercy keep those sweet young 
 creatures ! " I mentally ejaculated, as my attention was 
 attracted by two interesting figures just entering. One 
 was an old man, very old, but still tall, erect, and mus- 
 cular, his hair white and long, his eye undimmed and of 
 a calm, holy expression, as if he already, though through 
 a glass darkly, discerned the golden gates of the New 
 Jerusalem which he must shortly enter. He was led 
 oy a fair young girl, of sixteen summers I should say, 
 19* 
 
222 AN HOUR IN A DAGUKRRIAN (JALLERT, 
 
 in a dress of pure white, herself the picture and emblem 
 of all that was pure and lovely. 
 
 " Gertrude will have a daguerreotype of her old 
 grandfather, Mr. W.," said the old man; "and, on 
 condition that she sits with me, I have consented to have 
 it taken. But the truth is, I can refuse her nothing." 
 
 " Who could ? " thought I, as I gazed at the modest 
 face and beseeching eye of the gentle Gertrude. And 
 what a contrast they were, as they sat there together ! 
 Gertrude took a low seat at her grandfather's knee — 
 her pretty head resting on her tiny hand, her fair curls 
 arranging themselves as they liked, and they certainly 
 did like to arrange themselves in the most picturesque 
 style imaginable. Nothing could be more touching or 
 striking than the contrast, or more beautiful. The fine, 
 noble-looking old man, with his snow-white locks, broad, 
 high brow, and heaven-searching eye, just passing away 
 to the world unseen, ready to be offered, the time of his 
 departure at hand, life's toils and labors over, its wreath, 
 its honors, its strife nothing to him, passing away. She 
 in her almost infantine beauty, just on the threshold of 
 life, full of hope and freshness, every thing wearing the 
 rose-colored tint of early morning, no cloud, no care, 
 fearing nothing, hoping all things ; the one just entering 
 the world of sense, the other the world of spirits — 
 which was the most fearful ? 
 
AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN 6ALLERT. 223 
 
 But who is this walking in so daintily and so painfully 
 in his pinched mirror-topped hoots ? Truly a Broadway 
 exquisite come to have his pretty face perpetuated. 
 Deluded puppy ! wishing to perpetuate an empty brain ! 
 Mr. W. looks quite puzzled ; for he, plain man, can 
 hardly understand the fashionable lisp. 
 
 " Mithter W., I have thopped in to avail mythelf of 
 your renowned thkill to obtain a daguerreotype of my- 
 thelf." 
 
 "Be seated, if you please, sir," said Mr. W. " I am 
 now at leisure." 
 
 " In a moment," replied the dandy. He went to the 
 mirror to see if all was comme ilfauL " Dear me ! " he 
 exclaimed, " how unbecomingly Mothemp hath arranged 
 my hair and cut my muthtache to-day ! I declare, the 
 curl on my left temple ith cropped tho clothely that the 
 effect is odiuth, and the therenity of my expression is 
 entirely thpoiled by the turn of my muthtache. Indeed, 
 I wath not aware of thethe imperfectionth when I en- 
 tered ; and I now pertheive that my crethent ring, which 
 dithplays my hand more advantageouthly, ith left at 
 home. Alath ! how blind I have been ! My collar ith 
 one of lath monthth cut ; and the air, being to the north- 
 eath, hath given my complexion quite a thallow tinge. 
 Excuthe me, Mithter W., to-day ; I will prepare my- 
 thelf more becomingly and call again ath thoon atl» the 
 
224 AN HOUR IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY. 
 
 curl on my left temple hath obtained a becoming length, 
 and when the wind ith at the wetht ; and, ath I path, I 
 will tliop and rebuke my barber for making me look tho 
 like a shopboy. Good morning, thir ; " and, drawmg on 
 his white kids, with his tortoise-shell walking stick be- 
 neath his arm, this exquisite piece of mortality and im- 
 mortality left the room. 
 
 He was quite discomposed by being run over at the 
 door by two sturdy little fellows, and a large, black, shag- 
 gy Newfoundland dog; they all came running in to- 
 gether. 
 
 " O Mr. W. ! " exclaimed the eldest ; " father says 
 we may have Bruno's daguerreotype taken; will you 
 please take it ? " 
 
 " If Bruno can sit still I will," answered Mr. W. 
 
 " He can sit as still as a man ; he has been practising 
 for two months and has learned his lesson well. Ever 
 since he pulled httle sister Amy from the water, when 
 we were in the country two months since, we promised 
 him he should have his daguerreotype taken ; and he 
 understands it as well as we do. Little Amy was 
 reaching for waterlilies, one day, and slipped into the 
 water, and would have been drowned if Bruno had not 
 jumped in and taken her out. He drew her out very 
 carefully and laid her on the bank, and then went to the 
 house and tried by signs to make mother follow him. 
 
AN HOUK IN A DAGUERRIAN GALLERY. 225 
 
 Mother was very busy, and turned him from the room 
 Beveral times ; but he always came back and looked at 
 her so beseechingly, and pulled her dress, and looked 
 towards the garden, that finally mother to his great joy 
 followed him, and found our dear little Amy all drip- 
 ping with water, lying on the grass, and just recovering 
 from her terror. Father says Bruno saved her life, and 
 we all want his daguerreotype. Come here, sir," he 
 said to Bruno, " and sit for your picture." 
 
 Bruno immediately obeyed, and seated himself in the 
 most becoming attitude for his likeness ; and, to the 
 great delight of the children, Mr. W. declared he did 
 not even once wink his large human eyes during his 
 Bitting. 
 
 " Bruno is more of a man than the Broadway exqui- 
 site, though he has four legs and is ranked among * the 
 beasts that perish,' " I said to myself, as I followed the 
 little fellows and the noble animal down stairs and 
 walked thoughtfully homewards, musing on this short 
 but varied picture from life's drama. 
 
CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS. 
 
 Christmas is here ; and what doth it bring ? 
 
 What gifts do hope and memory bear ? 
 Rise our spirits on rapture's wing, 
 
 Or sink we down on the couch of care ? 
 
 How have we learned, in the months gone by, 
 
 Our yearly task of trial and sorrow ? 
 How oft have we cured disappointment's sigh 
 
 With the powerful faith that enchants to-morrow ? 
 
 Christmas is here ; and the trusting heart, 
 That hath suffered meekly its share of pain. 
 
 Must measure the worth of hfe's fairest part. 
 And count the best links of affection's chain. 
 
 We all shall discover great Ccause for praise 
 
 If we turn from the spell of joy's broken dreams, 
 
 And, fixing on Christ our constant gaze, 
 
 Move on to the home whence his mercy beams. 
 
 (226) 
 
CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS. 227 
 
 Though Christmas with Christmas charms hath come, 
 Though music and fiction hold Christmas store, 
 
 Though the Christmas roses and holly bloom, 
 They find me asking for something more. 
 
 A pensiveness mingles with eyery thought, 
 Shadowing gently the smiles of mirth. 
 
 Until I muse on the tidings brought 
 By angels to man of a Savior's birth. 
 
 Then without drawback my spirit rejoices ; 
 
 Perfectly happy is Christmas tide ; 
 I join the sweet choir of celestial voices 
 
 That carol of Jesus on every side. 
 
 " Glory to God ! " be unceasingly given ; 
 
 Glad hallelujahs the universe fill ; 
 Whilst we who are heirs of the kingdom of heaven 
 
 Blume the way thither with " peace and good wilL" 
 
LOOK BEFORE THEE. 
 
 Look before thee ; gaze on high ; 
 Fix on heaven thine upward eye ; 
 Heed not where the earthworms lie. 
 
 Look before thee ; guided still 
 By an all-controlling will, 
 To the river speeds the riU. 
 
 Look before thee ; onward ever 
 (O'er it though the shadows quiver 
 Slumberously) hastes the river. 
 
 Lo, where — thundering from afar — 
 Glory mounts her shining car, 
 Calls the nations to the war. 
 
 Freedom lifts her mailed hand. 
 Waves on high a flaming brand, 
 Sends a warning through the land. 
 
LOOK BEFORE THEE. 
 
 Forward ! 'tis the trumpet's clang ; 
 Forward ! there the clarion rang ; 
 And the war horse forward sprang. 
 
 Look before thee ; 'twere in vain 
 Now to trace thy steps again ; 
 " Tarry not in all the plain ! " 
 
 Forward ! time is speeding fast ; 
 Forward ! danger waits the last ; 
 Forward till the course be passed. 
 
 Onward till the work is done ; 
 Onward till the race is run ; 
 Onward till the goal is won. 
 
 So shall thy spirit soar on high, 
 Shake its glad wings, and speed the cry, 
 ^ Forward ! " through eternity ! 
 20 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 BY MRS. WHITE. 
 
 "It is very pretty, very pretty indeed," said Abel 
 Hardstaff, looking from the ceiling with its painted 
 flower wreath and plaster of paris Cupid, suspended, 
 with outspread wings, from the centre — a myth, antici- 
 patory, as it seemed to the calculating bachelor, which 
 had better have been left out in his friend's matrimonial 
 preparations. 
 
 " Very pretty ! But I think, had I been hurried into 
 asking a woman to marry me at a time when I was 
 short of money and out of work, I should not have 
 spent on mere ornament what you may want in a day 
 or two for absolute necessaries." 
 
 "Pshaw! a mere trifle," ejaculated Nathan Slack, 
 with a movement of the head which seemed to throw 
 off with a jerk the necessity of his friend's censures. 
 " Besides," he added, with a spruce air, " one does not 
 get married every day." 
 
 (230) 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAT 231 
 
 " Just SO," responded Abel, gravely ; " but every day 
 afterwards you will find that you are married, and that, 
 with working men like you and I, it is best beginning as 
 we intend to go on ; the importance of the wedding day, 
 in my estimation, is only as it affects the days to come. 
 And now let me look at the other room. Have you got 
 a Cupid there also ? " 
 
 " No," exclaimed Nathan, delighted to turn the con- 
 versation from prudence to mythology. "My Venus 
 will bring him with her ; for, between ourselves, Abel, 
 she is the sweetest girl I have ever seen ; such perfect 
 features, and blue eyes, and bright hair, and such a com- 
 plexion ! I flatter myself I have met on the stage " 
 (Mr. Slack had been a scene painter, and loved to 
 consider himself as belonging to the profession) "as 
 much and varied beauty as most men ; but my little 
 wife (that is to be) surpasses all." 
 
 " It is only right that she should in your eyes," ob- 
 served Abel Hardstaff, dryly ; " but I think you seem to 
 have made her prettiness the most important matter in 
 your estimation of her. Is she good tempered, sensible, 
 industrious ? " 
 
 " She is a first-rate needlewoman, I understand," said 
 Nathan ; " and as for her temper being good, I can swear 
 for it. Her sensibleness," he added, with a little laugh 
 at the conceit, (not the less conceited for all that,) 
 
282 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAT. 
 
 "I think she has shown in accepting your humble 
 servant." 
 
 I am afraid, in Abel Hardstaflf's opinion, this was 
 any thing but a convincing proof of the quahty in ques- 
 tion ; for he said nothing, but, walking into the small, ill- 
 furnished, and ill-ventilated bed room, surveyed it with a 
 dissatisfied air, and came out again. 
 
 " There isn't much in it," said Nathan, deprecatingly ; 
 ** but we shall get things about us by and by." 
 
 " There are no drawers, and the bed's a flock one,'* 
 rejoined Hardstaff. "You haven't studied your wife's 
 comfort much." 
 
 " O, she must make shift as weU as others have 
 done," replied the scene painter. " Rome wasn't built 
 in a day." 
 
 " Then why not have begun these here ? " continued 
 Abel, looking up once more at the wreath and the Cupid. 
 " You are going the way to make your wife a slattern. 
 Women can't keep their clothes to rights nor their hus- 
 band's either if they have no place to put them away ; 
 and, instead of reserving your best room for the use of 
 your acquaintance, why not have made this the bed 
 room, and nestled all the neatness and cosiness you could 
 into it ? Here you have breathing space and light, and 
 there you have scarcely room to put a chair on any side 
 between the bed and the wall ; and whatever light and 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAT. 233 
 
 air there would be is kept off by the narrow, closed-in 
 yard on which it looks." 
 
 " What ! and would you have that the parlor, then ? " 
 exclaimed Nathan, now thoroughly annoyed at what he 
 deemed the hypercritical remarks of his friend. 
 
 " Rather than have it in the bed room, decidedly," said 
 Abel. " Why, if you and your wife had the best health 
 and tempers in the world, that room would be enough 
 to destroy them. Two persons shut up in that space 
 would exhaust all the wholesome air it could contam be- 
 fore half the night was passed; in which case you 
 would rise feeling lassitude and low spirits and a sense 
 of imperfect rest, which naturally tends to irritability of 
 temper, loss of appetite, and finally absolute ill healt^i." 
 
 "Well," exclaimed Nathan, " if I had known you 
 were going to preach me such a sermon, I should have 
 taken care not to have asked your opinion about the 
 matter." 
 
 " That is showing me your value of the opinion, at 
 all events," said Hardstaff, smiling. " And yet, Nathan, 
 it is because I feel deeply interested in the step you are 
 taking that I speak so freely to you. I know May Allen, 
 (and his eye softened and his voice grew lower as he 
 spoke ;) I know her to be gentle and kindly in her dispo- 
 sition, and industrious and beautiful ; but her meekness 
 will become reserve if not nursed into strength by 
 20* 
 
234 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 perfect confidence, and truths and kindness ; and hei 
 small white hands, so skilful in the nice duties of a 
 lady's toilet and the business of a seamstress, will re- 
 quire double work on your part to keep them so. Such 
 hands, of all others, are the most untidy when brought 
 down to the drudgery of a poor man's hearth. And, 
 Nathan, there is something in her beauty," (and the work- 
 man spoke tenderly, as if it could be marred by men- 
 tioning it,) "something in her transparent color, fined 
 off, as it were, till one scarcely knows where the shade 
 of health ends and hectic commences, that tells me her 
 life is as delicate as her complexion, and that any rough- 
 ness, or coarse words, or unkindness, Nathan," (and 
 Hardstaff looked fixedly at him while he spoke,) " would 
 surely kill her." 
 
 " You appear to have paid such particular attention 
 to her," said Slack, now thoroughly angry, " and to be 
 so interested in her treatment, that I w^onder you did 
 not marry her yourself, to make sure that she would be 
 taken care of." 
 
 " She would not have had me had I offered," replied 
 Abel, calmly. 
 
 " Or, as the next best turn you could have done," con- 
 tinued Nathan, " advised her against marrying me." 
 
 " I would have done so," rejoined Hardstaff, firmly, 
 " had there been any use in it ; but, like all the rest of 
 
THt: IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 23«5 
 
 her sex, she is blinded by her preference, and would only 
 have scorned me for my pains. When it is too late, 
 you will both waken to find you have mistaken a clay 
 love for an immortal one." And, so saying, he hurried 
 down stairs and out of the house, and though his din- 
 ner hour had not expired, and he certainly had not yet 
 dined, proceeded straight to the printing office where he 
 worked, and, laying aside his coat and hat, set himself 
 quickly to some employment, upon the principle that 
 labor physics pain. 
 
 In the mean while, Nathan Slack, highly indignant at 
 what had passed, wrote a poHte note to a person who 
 had sent for him to regild the letters of his name over 
 his shop front, informing him of an urgent business en- 
 gagement elsewhere, and then retired to a public house 
 to drown his annoyance in beer ; in which he so well 
 succeeded that, after several failures to retain his per- 
 pendicular on his way home, he arrived there shortly 
 after midnight, in such a state of mental and personal 
 muddiness as threatened to leave him without either ha- 
 biliments or recollection for the events of the morrow, 
 when he was to make May Allen, the pretty lady's maid, 
 his wife. 
 
 He woke so late that, though a dim remembrance 
 of his engagement to meet her at church that morning 
 made him hurry up from his bed, he had neither time 
 
 0' 
 
286 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 and scarcely sense to remove the soil of the kennel 
 from his clothes, which were his best, and I believe I 
 may say his only ones, and started off in stupid haste to 
 complete the most solemn engagement in this life. 
 
 Just within the church door, in a high, old-fashioned 
 seat, sat May Allen, in her simple bonnet and white 
 dress, the picture of daintiest neatness. No father, nor 
 sister, nor any other relative was with her to counte- 
 nance the step she was taking. She was alone here as 
 she had been in the world almost from infancy, and 
 like many of her sex, distrustful of her own strength, 
 had accepted the first protection that offered, from an 
 instinct of its need rather than from any well-grounded 
 affection for the offerer. An orphan, accustomed to 
 all the sorrowful trials that in their loneliness and de 
 pendence wait upon the poor and unprotected of her 
 sex, especially when to youth is added the charm of a 
 pretty face and graceful person, the attentions of Na- 
 than Slack had wakened certain feelings of gratitude and 
 pleasure which she mistook for love — a mistake as 
 great as she had made in construing the reserve and in- 
 difference of Abel Hardstaff into apathy, and the selfish 
 eagerness of the scene painter into affection. How- 
 ever, here was the wedding day, and close at hand the 
 beginning of the end of her delusion. 
 
 A step paused at the pew door, the handle tumed» 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAT. 237 
 
 &nd May, who felt it was Nathan, timidly raised her 
 eyes to see, not the trim bridegroom of her anticipa- 
 tions, but a disgusting-looking man, bearing in his neg- 
 lected appearance marks of recent intemperance and 
 unseemly haste, who, dropping down beside her, whis- 
 pered a falsehood in apology for his tardiness, assuring 
 her that he had been obliged to attend to some work in 
 the city of a nature not to be neglected, and that he had 
 only finished it in time to reach the church without 
 making any change in his dress. 
 
 Poor May ! Not even the thrifty industry implied in 
 his excuse could counterbalance the disrespect for the 
 place, the solemn service, and herself which this want 
 of preparation of mind and body expressed, and for 
 the first time a sort of doubt of their aptitude for one 
 another occun-ed to her ; too late, as she weakly im- 
 agined, to be entertained. 
 
 For the first time in her hfe (and this upon her bridal 
 day) her neatness was out of place, and blushes more 
 scarlet than those of maiden modesty covered her face 
 with a distressing sense of shame at the discrepancy be- 
 tween her own appearance and that of the man beside her. 
 
 But the working-day, sullied aspect of the bride- 
 groom's attire, in contrast with the purity and niceness 
 of the bride's, was not the worst point of unlikeness be- 
 tween them. 
 
238 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 In her face (which was fair as one of Raphael*? 
 angels) truth, innocence, and honesty were written with 
 a golden clearness ; in his these virtues were reversed — 
 the eje wavered with conscious falsehood, the brow in 
 its closeness indicated cunning, and, when not sensual, 
 the expression of the mouth became morose. But May, 
 who had been laughed out of the infallibility of first 
 impressions, (since when she had learned to think Na- 
 than very agreeable and amiable,) only knew that, taken 
 as a whole, the face was rather handsome than other- 
 wise ; and of his temper and disposition, what could she 
 learn in those short evening hours when the cares and 
 labor of the day were done and Nathan relaxed into a 
 lover ? 
 
 Shall we wait to see them come forth, followed by 
 the eyes of the pew openers, and confronted by those of 
 the beadle, who stands just within the portico, in the 
 full glory of his cocked hat and gold-laced capes, with 
 his brass-headed staff of office in his left hand, and a 
 huge pinch of snuff in the act of being conveyed to his 
 Bardolphian nose between the thumb and first finger of 
 the right ? See ! the sun shines out and slants its beams 
 upon the scene painter, and his bride, whose hght form 
 in her filmy robe clings to his side like the luminous 
 edge skirting a darksome cloud in winter. Morally as 
 well as externally the metaphor holds good ; but who. 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 239 
 
 (as they pass from the church steps to mingle aiid be 
 lost sight of in the stream of humanity flowing through 
 the great thoroughfare before them,) who shall say 
 "which liaoiety in this union of good and evil shall here- 
 after conquer? Shall the bright sp.^ck, bom of its 
 nearness to heaven, absorb tie cloud into its own fair 
 splendor ? or shall this in its sullen darkness involve the 
 hght? 
 
 Alas ! poor May; the struggle has already commenced, 
 or rather, in the meek helplessness of her disposition, 
 her submission. She cannot hide from herself that her 
 innocent eyes have recognized that something in her 
 husband's looks which, while disgustingly accounting for 
 his conduct and appearance, fills her with apprehension 
 and loathing. This first bitter test of the firmness of 
 her affection has already shaken it, and her hand leans 
 less confidently on the arm of her husband than it did 
 the overnight on that of her lover. 
 
 Let us follow them home and into the room the dec- 
 oration of which Abel Hardstaff had pronounced so 
 pretty, and which, to May's quick perception, seemed so 
 much more, that, with a sudden reaction of feehng, she 
 forgave (for the sake of its fair symbolism) the disre- 
 spectful conduct of her bridegroom, with all the dis- 
 honor it had cast upon their bridal. 
 
 Poor simple girl ! The imaged Love (which to hei 
 
240 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 looked pure and beautiful as Parian marble, though but 
 of clay) was full of tenderest meaning — a myth, so 
 she translated it, of the spii-it of aflfection which Nathan, 
 on his part as she on hers, desired to pervade their 
 hearts and dwelling ; while he, if the truth must be 
 told, had never thought of sentiment in the matter. He 
 felt, when sober, a certain vanity in his right-hand's cun- 
 ning, which had resulted in the wreath ; the Cupid was 
 merely there for ornament. Such things decorate the 
 cots of lovers in the gaslit Arcady of the theatres, and 
 beyond this the artist had no meaning for their presence ; 
 and therefore, when May's blue eye turned from the 
 decorated ceiling to himself with a timid look of grate- 
 ful pleasure, Nathan understood it to convey a proper 
 appreciation of his talent, and, for the sake of heighten- 
 ing it, could scarcely forbear throwing in another fib, 
 and assuring her that it had all been done over night ; 
 but remembering how late he had been with the friends 
 with whom she lodged, and how early (by his own ac- 
 count) he had attended his supposititious engagement in 
 the city this morning, he found himself obliged to forego 
 the opportunity, neat as it was. 
 
 It required but few days of wifehood to show May, 
 not only the poverty of her husband's wardrobe and 
 purse, but his worse want of principle and truthfulness. 
 He seemed to have made Rochefoucauld's maxim, that 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 241 
 
 " language is given us to conceal our thoughts," his own, 
 and to act upon it on all occasions. Day by day she 
 trusted to his representations, to be from day to day 
 deceived ; added to which the habit of drink, which for 
 one short week he had resisted, came back again in full 
 force, overwhelming the miserable girl with new and 
 terrible affliction. At first, after these breaches of de- 
 cency and respect for her, he affected the greatest anger 
 against himself, and attributed the occurrence to the 
 custom prevalent with artisans of drinking together on 
 such occasions and to the excitability of his own feelings 
 from very joy that she was his — thus softening with 
 tacit flattery the wounds he inflicted on her. But after 
 a little time these outbreaks became so frequent that she 
 could no longer doubt herself the wife of an habitual 
 drunkard ; and with this conviction the flowery links of 
 faith and hope wore out together, making a very fetter 
 of their bond. 
 
 Midnight, sometimes the breaking dawn, found her, 
 with swollen eyes and beating heart, waiting in fear and 
 loathing the return of this man who but a long month 
 since had been so eager to make her the " loadstone of 
 his home," the "joy of his life," the " anchor of his affec- 
 tions," and for whom she had parted with the pecu- 
 niary independence and plenty of respectable servitutle 
 21 
 
242 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 and tliat cheerfulness which freedom from all anxiety 
 bestows. 
 
 Then there came with his occasional awakenings of 
 conscience a sense of self-upbraiding, which reacted in 
 irritabihty or ferocious outbreaks of temper, crushing 
 out of her meek and loving nature aU its gentleness, 
 making her face thin and her voice sharp, and leaving 
 but the careworn outline of a form that a few weeks 
 back had been symmetry itself. So day by day her 
 hair lost its brightness and her eyes their light ; she 
 grew careless of her personal appearance ; her dress 
 hung upon her rapidly declining figure, and was never 
 altered ; her home grew neglected ; the warmth and 
 neatness of her fireside waned. What cared she for 
 either when the companion of them (that should be) 
 was squandering in an alehouse whatever he had earned 
 towards their maintenance throughout the day, while 
 she sat there miserable and alone, fearing, while wishing 
 for his coming, lest he should be in the state she was 
 now almost nightly accustomed to see him — the gross, 
 heavy bacchanalianism of heer ? 
 
 And for all this was there no help ? Where was the 
 powerful aegis of her young, pure beauty, the arrowy 
 words tipped with the honey of tenderness and persua- 
 sion, which she might have used against him and 
 conquered ? Alas ! May wanted the moral courage 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 243 
 
 /hat should have interposed and defended him even 
 from himself. She had tears, but not firmness, and, 
 when her first timid efforts failed, gave up when she 
 should most have struggled ; and so, not gradually, but 
 almost at once, sank down into the very being Abel 
 ITardstaff had prognosticated — a nervous, slatternly, 
 broken-spirited, reserved woman, wishing for the shadow 
 of the grave while yet in youth, nor even desiring life 
 when children were given to her. 
 
 In the mean while the dust settled on the clay love 
 as it did on every thing else in this sad home, turning 
 its beauty to disfigurement, its purity to a soil, till at 
 length it became a darksome eyesore hanging bat-like 
 from the ceiling, with wings forever spread forth as 
 if longing to fly away but for the wire that kept and 
 bound it there. And May, whose perceptions were 
 rather quickened than blunted by suffering, and who 
 saw in it a daily emblem of her own sad state, at last, in 
 the hope of relieving herself of its ever-present memo- 
 ries, thrust it forth into the passage, where Nathan's eye 
 fell upon it. Liking it no better than his wife, it was 
 pushed out into the area, and the door closed upon it. 
 ***** 
 
 Years went by, sweeping with them Nathan Slack's 
 credit, such as it had been, and his wife's good looks and 
 health, but not her sorrows. The parlor, with its flower- 
 
244 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 wreathed ceiling, was now exchanged for the ill lighted 
 and worse ventilated basement floor, between the boards 
 of which, on every change of weather, mephitic vapors 
 oozed up from the drains, discoloring the subterranean 
 walls with natural frescoes in incipient fungus and cling- 
 ing in green mildew to the sides of the mattresses on 
 which they slept, occasioning colds and coughs in the 
 mother and her children, which from repetition became 
 constitutional. These poor little beings lived in fretful- 
 ness and discontent, exhibited a peevishness and irrita- 
 bility of temper which added not a little to their moth- 
 er's trials, increasing by their tiny thanklessness all she 
 suffered, casting back to her with repelling hands- and 
 passionate tears the bread she mulcted herself of in 
 order to give them full meals, and often tearing up in 
 purest mischief the garments she had sat up half the 
 night to repair or (perhaps out of some hardly-spared 
 ones of her own) to make for them. She seemed to 
 overlook the fact that both temper and appetite depend 
 on health, and that, shut up without air or exercise, 
 robbed of their birthright of play and sunshine, it was 
 but natural, without anterior causes, her children should 
 be impatient and wilful, and that, in not providing them 
 with amusement, she was in fact forcing mischief upon 
 them as an occupation. 
 
 Other children in the house played out of doors ; but 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 245 
 
 hers, not having shoes when they had hats, or vice versoy 
 breathed the same tainted air night and day, and, as the 
 widest extent of their infantile liberty, never got beyond 
 the yard or the area. 
 
 Another consequence of this unhealthy confinement 
 was that when night came they were not prepared to 
 sleep ; and therefore, instead of evening bringing with 
 it the calm and leisure which most housewives enjoy, 
 and which enable them at each day's close to strike a 
 balance with its varied, and, but for this period, unfin- 
 ished labors. May's neighbors were annoyed with the 
 noise and cries of her children as long as she herself 
 remained up. 
 
 Miserable mother, and yet more miserable children, 
 who have the misconduct of your parents visited on you 
 even in those days of utter helplessness ! Without a 
 doubt the primary root of all this home evil was to be 
 found in Nathan Slack's love of drink and want of 
 principle, which prevented him, though an excellent 
 workman, from obtaining constant employment or con- 
 tinuing in it when obtained ; but at the same time May's 
 moral feebleness and want of management doubled the 
 extent of the mischief, and afforded him in the estima- 
 tion of those who knew nothing of his habits before 
 marriage almost an excuse for his misconduct. 
 
 Who knows what smiles, worn through the heart's 
 21* 
 
246 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 martyrdom, and a bright, clear, cheery hearth, and quiet, 
 might have done even with so untoward a patient as the 
 scene painter ? Instead of which, May, who was doing 
 all day long, without ever appearing to make headway 
 against her own want of method and tidiness, was sure 
 to be as neglected-looking and dirty in her person as in 
 her place, where every thing was in disorder ; and her 
 children, instead of being in their rosy sleep pictures of 
 purity and repose, were more probably crying and strug- 
 gling on the floor, with its soils for the most part trans- 
 ferred to themselves and clothing. These are not the 
 circumstances tliat tend to waken the better nature of 
 a man when dormant, or to keep it active when awake ; 
 and accordingly, finding none of that comfort which 
 quiet and cleanliness bestow upon the humblest hearth 
 to counterbalance the turmoil, vexations, or disappoint- 
 ments of the day, Nathan Slack spent as short a time 
 as possible beside it and characterized that period with 
 ill temper. 
 
 In the mean while Abel Hardstaff remained unmar- 
 ried ; but a sister, through whom he had first known 
 May, lived with him, and kept his rooms so neat and his 
 clothes so well looked after that it seemed as if nothing 
 short of losing her could induce him to be other than a 
 bachelor. 
 
 The conscious change in herself and sh^me for her 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 247 
 
 poverty-stricken home and appearance had induced 
 Mrs. Slack to give up all her acquaintance shortly after 
 her marriage ; and thus Susan Hardstaff had almost or 
 quite lost sight of her ; but true friendship does not die 
 out even in the absence of its object ; and Susan never 
 ceased to think with interest of her. 
 
 Now, it happened that in one of Nathan's fits of in- 
 toxication one of his friends and companions on those 
 occasions, wanting some money, persuaded him to accept 
 an accommodation bill for twenty pounds, value received, 
 payable in three months. Something was said at the 
 time of their mutually benefiting by the transaction; 
 but his friend altered his mind, and Nathan never re- 
 ceived a penny of it. At the end of the three months, 
 however, he found himself called upon to meet the 
 amount ; and the person who had drawn the bill having 
 got out of the way, the discounter, finding that* the 
 WTCtched scene painter had neither money nor goods of 
 the value, at once arrested and threw him into prison. 
 
 On the afternoon of the day on which this happened, 
 a fair and sunny afternoon in June, Susan Hardstaff, 
 who had heard it fioni her brother, slipped on her 
 coarse but clean straw bonnet, and, taking with her a 
 little basket of necessaries, ran down the area steps of 
 Mi*s. Slack's lodging in order to avoid the other persons 
 in the house, and knocked very gently at the door. Nff 
 
248 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLaY. 
 
 one answered ; but she heard sounds between sobs and 
 moans and the fractious wrangling of children; and, 
 taking courage from the pure feeHng of kindness with 
 which she came, she pushed open the door and went in. 
 There lay May, with her face buried in the bed and her 
 tarnished hair tossed down about her shoulders, the very 
 picture of heart-broken hopelessness. 
 
 Though four o'clock on a summer's day, the stained 
 and dirty tablecloth remained on one end of a deal table, 
 and was covered with the unwashed breakfast things 
 and remnants of the morning meal, while the other was 
 heaped with potatoes half pared in preparation for din- 
 ner ; and on the floor, in the midst of an emptied basket 
 of peas, — which the one opened and ate, and the other 
 crunched a part of such as pleased her and then threw 
 back again into the basket, — sat two pretty but veiy 
 dirty children. The dresser had scarcely three plates 
 remaining on it ; but a heap of clothes, washed the week 
 before, were tumbled together on a corner of the shelf 
 to be ironed or put on rough dried as might happen ; 
 while the floor, slopped and filthy and only partially 
 covered by a very ragged piece of carpet, perfected the 
 disarray and comfortless appearance of the room. 
 
 " Do not cry, my poor girl," said Susan, lifting May 
 tenderly, and speaking in a voice which like her looks 
 overflowed with compassion for her quondam friend. 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 249 
 
 * Your tears cannot undo what is done, nor help your- 
 self or husband to endure it; take courage and be 
 patient ; and who knows but that, as morning comes out 
 of night, there may be sunshine under this thick dark- 
 ness ? There, that is right ; get up and bathe your eyes 
 and put your hair and dress to rights ; and I will look 
 after your place and the children while you go to your 
 husband and comfort him, for doubtless he needs it.'* 
 
 " But will he let me ? " cried May, looking round as 
 if she had waked from a dream. " Will he not be angry 
 with me for leaving home and the little ones, and per- 
 haps drive me from him with hard words ? " 
 
 " No, depend upon it," said Susan, dryly ; " he will 
 only be too glad to see you ; for he must want food un- 
 less he had money to procure it ; if he had not, he is 
 tame enough by this time, you may be sure. There, 
 don't stay to put any thing away ; I shall not expect 
 you home to-night, for you will hardly have time to 
 walk there and see your husband before it will be time 
 to come away." And, thus hurrying her off, Susan 
 Hardstaff put the basket she had brought with her upon 
 May's ai-m, and, bidding God bless her, fairly pushed 
 her out of doors before the children could suspect she 
 was leaving them. 
 
 In the mean while Nathan Slack, who had never for 
 one moment contemplated such a termination to the 
 
250 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 affair, but had trusted to the assurances of his unprinci 
 pled partner in it to furnish the means of meeting the 
 bill, wakened, on finding himself within the walls of a 
 prison, to the dishonesty, and, what was then infinitely 
 more a source of discontent to him, the folly, of the 
 transaction. It would have been bad enough to have 
 gone to jail for his own debts ; but to have been duped 
 in order to benefit another, who, not satisfied with de- 
 frauding him of all participation in the money, could 
 then heartlessly throw the responsibility upon his shoul- 
 ders and actually suffer him to be sent to prison, was 
 almost more than he could bear ; and by turns he chafed 
 himself into a rage or sank into complete prostration. 
 In this state of mind he had consideration even for his 
 wife and children, and added to the misery of his position 
 a picture of their loneliness and want which became ab- 
 solutely pathetic now that it was forced upon them invol- 
 untarily. Time, too, and labor, for the first occasion in 
 his existence, grew into matters of importance and priv- 
 ilege ; and the thought that the advantages of both were 
 forcibly withheld from him assumed a shape of grievous 
 loss and wrong ; so that when poor May arrived, which 
 was as quickly as her own strength and the weight of 
 Susan's basket would permit her, she found her husband 
 in a much more sobered and sympathizing frame of 
 feeling than she had ever before seen him in ; while the 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 251 
 
 eight of her wan, thin face, first to find him out in his 
 misery, wakened a host of wholesome self-upbraidings, 
 and suddenly overflowed his cup of commiseration for 
 himself with sprinkhngs of it for her — a state of feel- 
 ing which gave such kindness to his looks and gentleness 
 to his accents that May found her heart drawn towards 
 him with a tenderness she had never before experi- 
 enced ; and after a mDment's scrutiny, as if to satisfy 
 herself that it was real, she cast herself with a sudden 
 impulse in his arms weeping, she could scarcely tell 
 whether with grief or joy, and Nathan kept her there ; 
 and it was no dream — she felt a tear fall on her neck. 
 That night the scene painter was seized with symptoma 
 of illness, which resulted in fever; and for an entire 
 week May never left him night or day. She felt, how- 
 ever, no anxiety for her children ; for Abel HardstalF 
 had called several times to bid her be under no appre- 
 hension for them, as his sister found no trouble in look- 
 ing after them, and would continue to do so until her 
 return. 
 
 At the end of this time, however, her husband's dis- 
 order took a favorable change ; and, though very weak 
 and exhausted, hopes were given her that his Ufe would 
 be spared, which at one stage of his illness had been 
 doubtful ; but, as he required careful nursing more than 
 ever, she was still unable to visit home, where, in every 
 
252 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 interval of her attendance on him, her thoughts' were 
 always wandering. The long hours of lingering debil- 
 ity which ensued gave Nathan ample time for reflection ; 
 and much of repentance and regret mingled with it. 
 He saw as in a glass his wasted opportunities pass by 
 him, felt how time and talent had been given him in 
 vain, and groaned with anguish over his own heartless- 
 ness and folly which had left but a shade between his 
 family's position and that of the beggars in the streets. 
 May's conduct, too, throughout his illness had shown 
 him more of her inner nature and roused in him a 
 more real affection than he had ever felt for her in his 
 life ; she was no longer the timid, spiritless, cold-man- 
 nered woman, seeming indifferent to every thing save 
 the reality of despair, but an anxious, affectionate help- 
 mate, exerting herself to the very utmost to tend and 
 comfort him, affecting courage in order to give him 
 hope, working throughout the day to provide the nour- 
 ishment required for him, and waking at night to minis- 
 ter, and, often when she thought he slept, to pray, for 
 him — prayers that had their answer in his progressive 
 restoration, in these painful but healthy retrospections, 
 and in his changing feelings to herself. The clay love 
 was becoming spiritualized — the mom was breaking 
 out of darkness. 
 
 And now at length a day arrived when May could 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 253 
 
 comfortably leave her husband to pay a hasty visit to 
 her children. The grated windows and darksome walls 
 of the gloomy prison were left behind ; and she almost 
 ran through the streets in her eagerness to meet them. 
 At last the house is reached ; and she enters her hum- 
 ble lodgings, wondering how her little ones will look and 
 what they will say at seeing her. But can these rooms, 
 with their white boards and whiter ceilings and every 
 thing in them looking so fresh and bright, be really hers ? 
 Yes ; and here is the handmaid who has effected the 
 alteration — kind Susan Hardstaff, with her warm hand 
 grasp and pleasant smile. But where, where are the 
 children ? 
 
 " Why, at school," said Susan, laughing. 
 
 " At school," repeated May, with something very like 
 reproach in her tone. " Poor little things ! " 
 
 " Yes ; and you can't think how happy they are,** con- 
 tinued Susan, affecting not to notice the pity implied 
 in May's expression ; " but you will hear Avl;eii four 
 o'clock comes. So now tell me all about poor Nathan 
 and yourself. The clock will strike presently," she con- 
 tinued, observing poor May's distress, " and then you 
 shall tell me which is best for them — to stop at home 
 in your way all the day long, making themselves dirty 
 and getting into all sorts of mischief, or to be where 
 they are kept out of both and are at the same time 
 22 
 
254 THE IMAGE OP LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 taught, without the toil of such teaching as yours 
 and mine would be, those first steps in learning 
 which were so painful and laborious to us. At the 
 'Infant School,* while they are playiny they are 
 gaining knowledge ; and you cannot think how happy 
 they are there and how anxious they are always to 
 return to it." 
 
 I am obliged to own that more of shame than gratifi- 
 cation entered into May's feelings as she gazed round 
 on the altered appearance of her home. Nor did she 
 quite like Susan's plan of sending the little ones to 
 school; but in the midst of her secret chagrin there 
 came bounding down the area steps, laughing their fare- 
 well of an elder girl, who had brought them so far on 
 their way and now stood watching them from the top, 
 two happy-looking, pink-cheeked, sprightly children, who 
 raced forward to meet Susan, and fell into the arms of 
 their poor mother, whose heart, too genuinely delighted 
 in the change effected in them to suffer for a moment a 
 petty jealousy to overshadow it, with a generous out- 
 burst of feeling alternately clasped them to her bosom, 
 and then, between tears and caresses, expressed as best 
 she could her thanks to Susan. They were so clean, so 
 fresh looking and happy, — so different from the quar- 
 relsome, and, by contrast, squalid-looking beings she had 
 left, — that it seemed impossible little better than a fort' 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 255 
 
 night should have made so complete an improvement in 
 them. 
 
 " The fact is, my dear May, you had no time for 
 keeping things to rights," said Susan, kindly. " And I 
 am sure I should have managed no better had I kept 
 little Nat and May at home ; but, with them out of the 
 way, it is easy to put the place in order and to keep it 
 so ; besides, it gives plenty of time for mending and 
 washing their clothes, without running the business of 
 the day into the only hours your husband is at home 
 and can enjoy it with you. Now, only listen to those 
 little things' prattle ; they are telling you all they have 
 learned and played at to-day. How they will amuse 
 you and their father ! and, as they have had an hour 
 or two's exercise in the play ground, by the time you 
 have had tea they will be ready for bed ; and then the 
 whole evening will be yours for needlework. Now, do 
 you forgive me for sending them, and agree with me 
 that it is a better plan and has more real love in it for 
 the little things themselves than the keeping them at 
 home to their own and your discomfort ? " 
 
 " But, Susan," interrupted May, " I am afraid I shall 
 never be able to keep things looking as nice as they are 
 now ; if I could," — and she laughed jv^ith hysterical joy 
 as she spoke, — "I think I might be a happier wife than 
 I have ever been, and Nathan a different man." 
 
zoo ' THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 ** But there is no diflSculty in it w/ien once you begin 
 with a determination to go on," said Susan, earnestly ; 
 " it only wants method ; and there, you know, I had the 
 advantage of you. What should you know of the best 
 way of doing household work who were always busied 
 with ball dresses and such like things ? But I will come 
 in every day for a while and show you my plan, so 
 that by the time Nathan comes back it will be your own; 
 and you have only to keep to it to insure comfort at your 
 hearth for your husband, your children, and yourself. 
 And 0, dear May, what more does a good wife want ? 
 Affection follows it, for a man cannot be indifferent to 
 the blessings of a quiet, cleanly home ; it creates habits 
 of order and decency in your children, and encourages 
 carefulness on the part of your husband, who has then 
 something to toil for worth mentioning. And now I 
 have another little bit of hope for you ; only we must 
 not be too sanguine of its being realized, besides that 
 Nathan may not perhaps agree to it ; but Abel has been 
 again and again to Mr. Zumpt, the bill discounter, and 
 has represented as strongly as he could the uselessness 
 of the step he has taken with regard to your husband, 
 and the poverty and sorrow he is inflicting on you and 
 your innocent children ; while, on the other hand, he has 
 taken upon himself to say that, if set at liberty, Nathan 
 would in all probability be willing to pay the money by 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 257 
 
 instalments; and though this seems very hard, dear 
 May, considering that he did not have the spending of 
 any part of it, who knows but that, after all, the suffering 
 may be worth the cost ? " 
 
 " O, only too gladly would he pay it, Susan, if this 
 man would once more give him the freedom to earn it," 
 cried the poor wife. 
 
 " Well, I think he is almost certain to do it," re- 
 joined her friend ; " but now we will talk of something 
 else." 
 
 In brief, a few weeks later Nathan Slack was re- 
 leased from prison, his creditor withdrew the detainer 
 against him, and so ended his sejour in "VVhitecross 
 Street, but not its effects : from henceforth he resisted 
 intemperance, and being, as I before said, a first-rate 
 workman, found no difficulty in obtaining emplojTnent 
 as soon as his change of character established itself. 
 Ambition now took the place of that sottish recklessness 
 which had kept him indifferent to every thing but self- 
 indulgence, and he became as remarkable for industry 
 and forethought as he had been for the want of these 
 qualities. 
 
 In the mean while Susan's system had not been thrown 
 
 away upon her friend. May had tried with her whole 
 
 heart to break herself of her ill habits and acquire that 
 
 economy of time and method which she perceived was 
 
 22* 
 
2S8 THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 
 
 the secret of good housewifery ; and her docility and 
 perseverance were richly rewarded in their effects upon 
 her lowly home and the attraction thus cast around it ; 
 for her husband, whose artist eyes, no longer offended by 
 its appearance and that of herself and children, came 
 home as to an ark of rest after the occupation of the 
 day, delighted to sit at his own fireside, while little Nat 
 leaned beside him and May clambered on his knee ; and 
 May, his own dear May, sat opposite, busied with her 
 work, from which she only lifted her eyes to cast a lov- 
 ing look upon the group, and then perchance to the clay 
 love, purified, which, once more brought within doors, 
 looked in its silken bands above the chimney piece as if 
 content to hover there forever. They had prepared 
 it, too, even as pure love prepares the heart, so 
 that every stain that fell upon it might be washed off 
 and its own whiteness show the fairer for the passing 
 blemish. 
 
 And now every day brings them closer to a new and 
 healthier home ; for Nathan has become a member of a 
 building society and aims at the honor of a freehold 
 which shall be his son's after him ; and May, who has 
 the same hope at heart, finds time to use her needle in 
 behalf of it. 
 
 Here, therefore, we shall leave them, happy in theif 
 own and children's society and in the true friendship of 
 
THE IMAGE OF LOVE IN CLAY. 259 
 
 Abel Hardstaff and his sister, but for whom, in all 
 probability, the Image of Love in Clay would have moul- 
 dered to its native element, and that of which it was 
 the myth in the heart of the scene painter and his wife 
 never have tnown regeneration. 
 
DESPAIR NOT. 
 
 We were not made to pass in sorrow 
 Our brief existence here away ; 
 
 For grief's a cloud that on the morrow 
 Gives promise of a brighter day. 
 
 Bright flowers decay ; gay foliage fades 
 Beneath November's chilly reign ; 
 
 But, robed in gayer tints, the spring 
 Beholds the blushing flowers again. 
 
 So, when some grief has blighted hopes 
 Of happiness too dearly cherished, 
 
 Too oft we deem that every joy 
 Has with departed idols perished. 
 
 However deep the wound we feel, 
 However great our cause of sadness, 
 
 Time rolls the clouds of grief away, 
 And brings again our wonted gladness. 
 
TO IVIY BELOVED. 
 
 Come, gently lay thy head upon this fond and faithful 
 
 breast ; 
 I would that it should be to thee a home of peace and 
 
 rest ; 
 If care or pain should ever east a shade upon thy brow, 
 Then let me kiss that shade away as thus I kiss thee 
 
 now. 
 
 If song can cheer thee, then I'll sing some old familiar 
 
 strain, 
 Whose well-remembered tones shall woo thee back to 
 
 love again — 
 Shall win thee from each gloomy thought, and with its 
 
 mirth beguile 
 Thy soul unto its wonted ease, thy lip its wonted smile. 
 
 The sweetest moments I have known are those I've 
 
 spent with thee, 
 Wlien, mingling in the joyous dance, our hearts were 
 
 light and free ; 
 
262 TO MY BELOVED. 
 
 Yet would the gayest scene be dull without that thou 
 
 wert near, 
 That I might give thee smile for smile, or give thee tear 
 
 for tear. 
 
 And, as I think, the words of Ruth come floating through 
 
 my brain ; 
 It is the fondest dream I have ; my wish it is the same. 
 That wheresoe'er thy footsteps turn, wherever thou 
 
 shalt roam. 
 There will I live, there will I die ; thy home shall be 
 
 my home. 
 
SOUTHAMPTON. 
 
 KING HENRY V. 
 
 Chorus. And the scene 
 
 Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton. 
 
 This building is still in good preservation : it is situ- 
 ated in the Place de la Pucelle, so called from its being 
 the scene of the execution of the celebrated Joan of 
 Arc, to whose memory a monument is erected. This 
 fabric is shown in the engraving. 
 
 Upon the accession of Henry VI., the Duke of Bed- 
 ford was constituted chief councillor and protector of the 
 king, then an infant, and appointed at the same time 
 Regent of France. But all his splendid achievements 
 in the " land of the Gaul," great, glorious, and gallant 
 as they were, lie forever obscured beneath one dark 
 
264 SOUTHAMPTON. 
 
 deed of inhumanity — his cruel and savage treatment 
 of the most undaunted of his foes — the enthusiastic 
 Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc. The duke died at 
 Rouen September 14, 1435, and was interred in the 
 Cathedral of Notre Dame there, deeply lamented by 
 the English people. 
 
THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 FACT, WOT FICTIOS'. 
 
 BY ELIZA JULIA SPARROW. 
 
 '• Am I awake, or is it all illusion ? " — The Roman Fathek : Trag. 
 " CtBsar. Et tu, Brute ? Then fall, Caesar." — Shakspeabe. 
 
 It was a busy night in the metropolis of Ireland that 
 20th of June on which the Queen of England ascended 
 the throne. Every window glittered with lights ; and 
 beautiful as gorgeous were the many-colored lamps 
 which decked the public buildings and threw their 
 varied hues over the queenly city. Many a banquet 
 was spread to celebrate the event ; and many a ball 
 room was filled with gay and brilliant guests, whilst 
 bands of music pealed far and wide. 
 
 It was on that night that, amongst a dazzling crowd 
 
 assembled at the residence of Lady S , in 
 
 Square, the handsome daughter of a baronet attracted 
 the admiration of the lighthearted and imaginative 
 23 (26.5) 
 
266 THE FATAL CORRES^O^DENCK. 
 
 Alfred Fitzallen, then a student in College. Al 
 
 fred was young and good looking, high spirited and 
 ingenuous ; fresh from his mother's home, his mind was 
 as pure and unsullied as it had been in childhood. His 
 figure was tall and manly, and not wanting in grace ; 
 and his whole deportment indicated that open and un- 
 suspecting nature which is at once so pleasing and 
 attractive, yet which, alas ! too frequently leads its pos- 
 sessor to become the dupe of the wily or the vicious. 
 "With Alfred, to think and to act were almost simulta- 
 neous ; and once attracted by the fair and stately Helen 
 B , it took him but another moment to get an intro- 
 duction and demand her hand in the dance. Fre- 
 quently, during the evening, he was by her side ; and 
 more than once he " led her through the glittering 
 throng." The glow of a summer's morning was abroad 
 
 ere the music had ceased and the dance was done, and 
 
 » 
 
 Alfred returned to his chambers in College amidst 
 
 the raillery of his young companions, with whom he 
 was an especial favorite, who each and all declaimed that 
 Fitzallen had positively lost his heart. 
 
 Days passed away, and every time they met the jest 
 was renewed ; and, whenever the friends chanced to sup 
 together, Helen's health was drank with aU the honors, 
 and Alfred called upon by many a merry voice to return 
 thanks for his lovely enslaver. 
 
THE FATAL COREESPONDENCE. 267 
 
 Thus were the topic and the railleiy kept up for some 
 time, when one morning a neatly-folded and delicatelj- 
 written billet waa placed in the hands of Fitzallen ; and, 
 on opening it, what was his astonishment to find it bore 
 
 the signature of Helen B , and contained a request 
 
 for the loan of a particular work from a certain library 
 to which he had free access with instructions to have 
 
 the volume left at Street till called for ! For an 
 
 instant it crossed his mind that it v.- as singular to be 
 thus addressed by a lady almost a stranger and one 
 whose family and friends were altogether unacquainted 
 with him ; but this thought was momentary, and soon 
 drowned in the pleasure of being thus remembered by 
 his gay and handsome partner of the last ball. The 
 book was despatched, accompanied by an entreaty that a 
 like honor and pleasure might occasionally be granted 
 him. It was not long until the favor was repeated ; 
 another and another billet came and was answered ; and 
 thus a regular correspondence sprang up, which shortly 
 carried words of more than friendly import. The brief, 
 
 bright hour upon which they had met in Lady S 's 
 
 ball room was recurred to and dwelt upon as the young 
 and the ardent know how to dwell upon such topics ; 
 
 and Alfred ceased to think of Helen B as a passing 
 
 acquaintance, and began to watch for each fresh epistle 
 with trembling interest. 
 
268 THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 In this correspondence he showed a mind exalted 
 above the usual vanity of men, in the love of displaying 
 such favors when bestowed on them by the opposite sex. 
 With true delicacy of feeling he kept it secret from all 
 save one favorite friend, young Armand, who had been 
 his companion from childhood, and to whom he had been 
 in the habit of imparting every family secret as if they 
 had been brothers. Harry Armand was a few years 
 older than Alfred, for whom he felt a warm attachment. 
 Though deficient in refinement of feeling, he was never- 
 theless goodhearted and generous, and possessed many 
 excellent and noble qualities to warrant our hero's par- 
 tiaUty for him. But, gay even to thoughtlessness, his 
 untiring love of amusement sometimes led him into fol- 
 lies. Reckless and well tempered, there was no frolic 
 of which Harry was not one of the first projectors and 
 foremost actors; there was nothing too hazardous or 
 troublesome for him to undertake and carry through ; 
 and frequently his own companions were the subjects of 
 his merry and at times somewhat provoking humor; 
 but the sound of his hearty laugh as it rang upon their 
 ears, and the inexhaustible stores of fun that lurked in 
 his half-closed eyes or lingered about the corners of his 
 mouth, told but too plainly that it was useless to be 
 angry with Harry. 
 
 Weeks and months had rolled over since the night of 
 
THE FATAL COKBESPONDENCE. 269 
 
 ihe ball ; and it was only now and then that the subject 
 af Fitzallen's lost heart was revived. But absence from 
 the object of his now frequent thoughts, and the power 
 which Imagination is ever sure to make use of in adorn- 
 ing our mind's idols in her brightest colors, were doing 
 their work on the heart of Alfred Fitzallen. She*had 
 attracted his admiration by her beauty ; and, slight as a 
 ball-room acquaintance is, it served to leave an interest- 
 ing and pleasing impression upon his mind. This, aided 
 by an already close correspondence, by which he ob- 
 served traits of a delicate, loving, and confiding character, 
 was it any wonder that Alfred fancied her a faultless 
 being, and was really in love? Immured within the 
 close precincts of a college, with but few acquaintances in 
 town, and wholly debarred from all female society except 
 the snatch he had of it at a chance ball, was it strange 
 that Helen should become the sole object of his thoughts, 
 " the morning star of memory " ? And there was a high 
 degree of romance and mystery in the whole proceeding 
 which served to give it a deep and absorbing interest. 
 
 More than once in his epistles he begged to be per- 
 mitted to wait upon her and to make the acquaintance 
 of her family and friends ; but this proposal was at all 
 times postponed to a future day, and latterly he forbore 
 to urge it. Helen's letters revealed, as we before men- 
 tioned, a loving and confidiRg nature ; therefore he fully 
 23* 
 
270 THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 trusted her. " She has her own reasons for not permit- 
 ting me to call at her father's house at present," thought 
 he ; " but that happiness is in store." He trusted with 
 a " fearless faith," and he was happy. 
 
 His feelings had thus ripened into an attachment 
 which had all the ennobling effects that a pure attach- 
 ment for an estimable woman is ever sure to produce. 
 It made him shun every thing that could degrade or 
 lessen him in the eyes of her whose image he carried in 
 his heart ; it made him delight in communing with his 
 own spirit and cultivating his fine mind ; and being des- 
 tined to push his way through life by embracing a 
 learned profession, he studied harder and more closely 
 than heretofore, led on and cheered by words of kind- 
 ness, interest, and affection that he had never known be- 
 fore ; and, in short, he came to feel that there was no 
 difficulty he could not surmount in order to be thought 
 worthy of the hand of Helen B . 
 
 The routine of college life had gone on — as it had 
 done for years — in midnight vigils and hard study, 
 comfortless breakfast tables and untidy dressing rooms ; 
 and when the morning of the examinations arrived a 
 considerable degree of bustle and excitement was obser- 
 vable, until every cap and gown disappeared within the 
 closed doors of the hall. That fearful ordeal passed, and 
 again they were emancipated, some joyous and triumph- 
 
THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE. 271 
 
 ant^ others downcast and disheartened, to seek their 
 domiciles amidst the tumult of the busy city, or in tlie 
 small, dark abodes appropriated to their use in the great 
 square of the college. A short time sufficed to rally 
 every disappointed spirit, and soon all were ready to 
 renew the jest upon his fellow, to join a serenading 
 party, or in any way to make merry with their friends. 
 Thus summer and autumn had been succeeded by win- 
 ter, and spring had again returned. Tlie air was fresh 
 and balmy, and the sky bright and cloudless, as the two 
 
 friends walked arm in arm towards Square, where 
 
 the band of the regiment had attracted numbers 
 
 of pedestrians. 
 
 "Well, Armand," said Alfred, as they entered the 
 square, " I have partly succeeded at last in my wish to 
 be permitted to visit Helen. Last week I ventured to 
 repeat the request ; and in her reply she has made no 
 opposition, which I take to be at least half a grant." 
 
 " I am glad of it," was the reply ; " we are — I — I 
 am sure you are tiretl of it, and it is well to end it by 
 seeing the girl." 
 
 He turned abruptly away and joined some ladies, with 
 whom he entered into an animated conversation. Fitz- 
 allen was not less lighthearted, less happy, or less ca- 
 pable of enjoyment than he had ever been ; but his 
 mind was engrossed by one object, which, from its single* 
 
272 THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 ness, had taken a powerful hold upon it. He left Ar- 
 mand to his own diversions, and turned towards his 
 lodgings, repeating the words of his friend, " Tired of 
 it ! end it ! Little he knows how dear has every word of 
 Helen's become to me. Little he dreams how that fair 
 and guileless being has won her way to my heart." 
 
 Next day found Fitzallen in high though somewhat 
 excited spu'its, having been urged by Armand to visit 
 Helen without further permission. That day of all days 
 the reader will excuse his bestowing more than ordinary 
 care upon his toilet, and seldom had such care been so 
 well repaid. In the afternoon he sallied forth in all the 
 vigor of youth and strength. Hope and joy lit up his 
 eye and flushed his cheek as he bent his steps towards 
 the haven of his wishes, thinking, as he proceeded, over 
 the not unpleasing novelty of his position. Often had 
 he taken the same direction with a hope of getting one 
 glimpse of Helen, but always returned disappointed ; and 
 now he was about to see her, — although without her 
 decided permission, — but still to see her at last, to con- 
 verse with her, to hear from her hps the revealings of 
 that mind which he had learned to look up to as oi' a 
 superior order. These thoughts occupied him until his 
 
 arrival at the residence of Sir Francis B . His heart 
 
 beat violently as his summons was answered by a foot- 
 man, who instantly admitted him and ushered him into 
 
THE FATAL COKRESPONDENCE. 273 
 
 a spacious and elegant drawing room, which, to his re- 
 lief, he found unoccupied. In a few moments the door 
 opened, and a lady entered, in whom he at once recog- 
 nized Helen B . He advanced towards her, but was 
 
 checked by her dropping a low courtesy and requesting 
 him with a graceful and unembarrassed air to be seated. 
 She at once entered into conversation with him on the 
 trifling occurrences of the day with the ease and dignity 
 of one accustomed to do the honors of her father's 
 house — which was the case, as she was the only child 
 of Sir Francis, and had long since lost her mother. 
 Somewhat puzzled and abashed by her manner, Alfred 
 experienced a painful sinking of the heart. Was she a 
 coquette, thought he, that she would not recognize him ? 
 Could he have been deceived ? Could this self-possessed 
 and indifferent lady be the tender, the kind, the gentle 
 Helen whom fancy had so often painted, and whom he 
 expected to see trembling and shrinking with a sweet 
 bashfulness when brought into the actual presence of 
 him who had so long been the sharer of her every 
 thought ? He felt like one in a dream. At length he 
 summoned courage to recur to their first meeting at Lady 
 
 S 's ball. She replied that she well remembered the 
 
 ball, as it had been her first, but she did not recollect 
 having had the pleasure of seeing him there. " But for- 
 give me," she added hastily, and with a smile, observing 
 
274 THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 the shade that crossed his face ; " you must forgive me, 
 Mr. Fitzallen, if I cannot exactly call to memory every 
 partner that led me out at my first ball." Tliis was said 
 with so much frankness and courtesy that it was impos- 
 sible to doubt its sincerity. Alfred felt bewildered; 
 something was wrong, and he could hardly tell what, in 
 the confusion of his thoughts ; but, at all events, he came 
 to the resolution of unravelling the mystery, cost what 
 it might. The delicacy and awkwardness of his present 
 situation were as nothing to the intense pain that throbbed 
 in his temples and weighed down his whole being ; and 
 without further preamble, he frankly, though timidly, 
 stated that he had been under the impression, for many 
 months, of having had the honor and happiness of a 
 correspondence with her. The lady colored deeply, and 
 astonishment was depicted on her countenance ; and she 
 asked in a haughty tone how could he suppose that she 
 would enter into a clandestine correspondence, such as 
 he described, with a perfect stranger. Alfred answered 
 her as he best could, and gasped to hide himself from 
 the sight of her who had been his dream by night and 
 his thought by day. Helen had lost none of her loveli- 
 ness since he last beheld lier. The same stately step and 
 gi'aceful mien were there ; the same earnest eyes and 
 musical voice ; but slie was not the Helen his fancy had 
 painted ; and lie left tl:e hoii. c inuki' the mournful im- 
 
THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE. 275 
 
 pression that he had been deceived — doubly deceived — 
 how or by whom he knew not, and that he had been 
 worshipping an imaginary being, and not the real 
 
 Helen B . With rapid steps he hurried through the 
 
 city ; the idol that had so long possessed his heart thus 
 suddenly shattered, it throbbed with a new and strange 
 sensation of agony, and an acute sense of shame at 
 having been betrayed into making such an avowal as he 
 had made to Miss B . To seek comfort in the sym- 
 pathy of Armand was his first thought; and, entering 
 his apartment, he was met by him with his usual happy 
 countenance ; but, observing the altered looks of Fitzal- 
 len, Armand started back. 
 
 "Armand," said he, scarcely able to articulate the 
 words, "I have been deceived — basely deceived — 
 how and by whom I know not." 
 
 " Come, come, Alfred," returned his friend ; " you must 
 not take it so badly as this. It was all a joke amongst 
 us — I assure you it was all a joke. I had no idea you 
 would feel it thus. Come, man, you must cheer up acd 
 forgive us. It was but a jest, and you must forget it." 
 
 Alfred stood erect and motionless as if rooted to the 
 earth — his lips of an ashy paleness, his eyes dilated, 
 and his whole countenance overspread with the pallor of 
 death, whilst Armand continued, — 
 
 "To say the truth, when we commenced the corre- 
 
276 THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Bpondence we had no intention of carrying it on for any 
 length ; but we did not know how to put a stop to it ; 
 and, when we all got thoroughly tired of it, we thought 
 your visiting Helen was the best way to end it, and 
 therefore I recommended you to go. And here," con- 
 tinued he, opening a small desk and taking out a packet, 
 " to convince you it was all amongst ourselves, here are 
 your letters." 
 
 Armand did- not observe the fearful workings in the 
 countenance of his friend during this speech ; but, as he 
 turned to lay the packet on the table, the words, " And 
 it was you — you — " broke from Fitzallen in a deep, 
 sepulchral voice ; and he fell heavily on the floor. Hor- 
 ror stricken and terrified, Armand called loudly for as- 
 sistance. The room was quickly filled by the party of 
 friends who had been on the watch to hear the result 
 of his visit, and who had thus, for their own amusement, 
 deceived a companion who was a favorite with all. 
 Alfred was carried to bed and medical aid promptly 
 called in. 
 
 " He is very ill," said Armand to his companions, as 
 they quitted the chamber by order of the physician. " Is 
 it possible his feelings could have thus overcome him ? " 
 
 " We carried it too far," said several, with one voice. 
 
 " Yet who could have thought it would affect him so 
 deeply?" 
 
THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE. 277 
 
 "Ah," said a pale young man, who had not before 
 spoken, " it was kept up too long. I often advised you 
 to beware of such a jest ; but you all laughed at what 
 you termed my * fine feelings.' The shock he received 
 during his visit was as much as he could bear ; for I 
 saw him as he returned like a blasted oak — he who 
 went forth in the morning full of life and vigor. Then 
 the double blow which Armand's confession gave him has 
 wholly prostrated him. God grant it may end well ! " 
 
 He left the room ; and how truly had he spoken ! It 
 was the second blow that had given the deepest wound. 
 In his anguish and humiliation he had fled for sympathy 
 to the bosom of his friend ; and he heard from the lips 
 of that friend that he was the deceiver ! The strong 
 man was overcome by the wild tumult of his feelings, 
 and sunk beneath them. The following morning he was 
 pronounced in a brain fever ; and the tidings brought a 
 terrible lesson to those who had sported with his feelings 
 and affections. A heavy gloom overspread eveiy face, 
 and told that remorse was avenging Alfred. 
 
 The giddy triflers grew old and sage in their nightly 
 watch over their victim ; their ears tingled with his fran- 
 tic ravings ; and men who had never bent the knee since 
 they bent it in childhood at their mothers' feet bent it 
 now to pray that he might be spared to speak one word 
 of forgiveness. He was spared, but not to speak his 
 24 
 
278 THE FATAL CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 forgivciness — nevermore to mingle amongst them I 
 Alfred Fitzallen rose from his bed a madman ! His 
 fine, manly form enclosed in a strait waistcoat, he was 
 borne in a close carriage from the sight of those who 
 branded themselves as his worse than murderers, accom- 
 panied by the physician and attendants of that hospital 
 where those afflicted with that direful malady find a 
 temporary relief or wear out their melancholy existence 
 within its walls. 
 
 Years have passed. Armand's grief threw him into a 
 consumption which carried him to an early grave. The 
 other partners in the jest mourned long and sincerely 
 over Alfred's fate and their own folly. Not long since 
 Alfred was dismissed from the hospital an idiot — the 
 mournful victim of a practical joke. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 BY CALDER CAMPBELL. 
 
 Around us still extends a paradise 
 In the true hearts that love us. Friendship seta 
 Young saplings all about, that turn to trees, 
 Abundant in the fruitage of rich thoughts 
 And generous emotions. Round us rise 
 Prolific flowers, which vernal dewfall wets 
 With gushing odor — whence do stingless bees 
 Gather unsating honey. Round us floats 
 A breath of fearless health ; and with us strays 
 A spirit of cheerful industry, which keeps 
 The mind from brooding on its idle cares, 
 Intent on aiding others. Eden ways 
 May still be traversed ; and where Adam sleeps 
 Quietly near Eve, may we breathe Eden airs ! 
 
 (279) 
 
FAR FROM THE HUM OF MEN. 
 
 An intimate friend of mine in Paris, the Vicomte 
 
 de , inhabited for fourteen years a pleasant entresol 
 
 in the Boulevard des Italiens. Young, rich, and healthy, 
 he enjoyed life as only those favored mortals do whose 
 purses are crammed with bank notes and whose limbs 
 are untouched by rheumatism. 
 
 In the first year of his eighth lustre the viscount sud- 
 denly remembered that eight times five make forty ; and 
 one fine evening, coming out of the Cafe de Paris to go 
 to the opera, he in like manner acquired the bitter cer- 
 tainty of the fragility of human things. Lobster salad 
 had lost its flavor ; Meyerbeer no longer pleased the ear 
 nor Fanny EUsler the eye ; and my young friend felt 
 that he could easily play the part of the great St. An- 
 thony in the midst of the seductions of the French me- 
 tropolis. He reentered his apartments, superintended 
 the immediate packing of his furniture, placed " To let" 
 in his balcony, took a conveyance for the north, and on 
 the 1st of May settled himself in a charming little villa 
 
FAR FROM THE HUM OF MEN. 281 
 
 about a gunshot from my house, a very nest of shade ver- 
 dure and flowers. Though this paradise was his own 
 property, he had never before visited it save about once 
 a year when he did not happen to prefer Switzerland 
 or Italy. 
 
 " My dear friend," he exclaimed, the first day he 
 called upon me, " I am now one of you. I have left far 
 behind the whirl of the modern Babylon, where they 
 manufacture joys as they fabricate Seltzer water. I 
 shall henceforth live for myself and a few friends. I 
 return to natural pleasures — to a calm and real exist* 
 ence; and my last sigh will be breathed beneath the 
 old ancestral oaks, far from importunate fools, from 
 deceitful man, and doubly deceitful woman. In short, 
 far from the hum of men." 
 
 By the 2d of May my new neighbor had bought 
 a spade, two rakes, four watering pots, and a pruning 
 knife ; he had likewise furnished himself with sundry 
 jackets of coarse cloth such as the peasants wear, and 
 headgear to correspond. Dispensing forever with var- 
 nished boots, he purchased a pair of sabots fit for any 
 weather, and at length considered himself at all points a 
 country gentleman. 
 
 The first day of his installation the sixty peasants 
 who formed the male population of the hamlet on the 
 estate arrived, with a drum at their head, and a fiddle 
 24* 
 
282 FAB FEOM THE HUM OF MEN. 
 
 biinging up the rear, and arranged themselves in a circle 
 at the foot of the hall steps, where the poor viscount, who 
 had so fuUj reckoned upon peace, was compelled to ap- 
 pear to receive their compliments. So highly did they 
 vaunt the virtues, the high breeding, and, above all, the 
 generosity of the descendant of their ancient lords, that 
 that honored individual could do no less than open wide 
 the strings of the purse whose inexhaustible riches the 
 village schoolmaster, the official author of the dithyrambic, 
 had, among other topics, so loudly sung. Then the drum 
 beat, the violin gave forth its repertory of village polkas, 
 and the peasants shouted, " Vive Monsieur le Comte ! " 
 
 At these shouts and the appeal of the fiddler the 
 female portion of the hamlet could no longer contain 
 themselves. Like one single shepherdess they rushed 
 to the lawn, where the young girls pounced on the par- 
 terre and improvised gigantic bouquets, with which they 
 covered the jacket of M. le Comte, who, according to 
 ancient usage, placed his right hand upon his heart, and 
 his left in his pocket, and cried, " Merci, mes enfans ! " 
 Thereu2)on a shower of five-franc pieces responded to the 
 vivats, and the new lord of the manor could not in po- 
 liteness decline to open the ball with the first damsel 
 who came to his hand. 
 
 When once we launch out it is difficult to stop. 
 Upon a sign from the viscount, a hogshead of wine wag 
 
FAR FKOM THE HUM OF MEN. 283 
 
 broached. Then the vivats rose to a pitch of frenzy — 
 the men sang all manner of Marseillaises, the women 
 outscreamed a first trombone of hussars, the babies cried, 
 and the mastiffs in the court yard added their contralto to 
 this thundering concert. 
 
 The evening came ; it was time to separate. The 
 viscount hastened to bed and endeavored to sleep ; but 
 a frightful nightmare oppressed him. He dreamed that 
 they drank all the wine in the cellar, that they devas- 
 tated his thickets of roses, that his chest was emptied of 
 five hundi-ed francs, and that he caught a rheumatic 
 ague. Upon awaking he felt very ill, and, counting the 
 cost of the day before, he found that the dream was a 
 reality. Thanks to friction, repose, and perhaps the ab- 
 sence of the doctor, he was well and afoot again in 
 eight days. 
 
 " After all," said he to himself, " it was a necessary 
 tribute to custom ; and these good people really appear to 
 love me heartily. Now that I have satisfied the usages 
 of the place, I shall certainly enjoy the silence and soli- 
 tude I long for ; for here, at thirty leagues from Tortoni's, 
 I am, or ought to be, far from the hum of men.'* 
 
 Just as he finished this consoling monologue, up came 
 the garde champetre in his otter-skin cap and respect- 
 fully signified to the viscount a little joroces verbal — the 
 consequence of the musket shots that had been fired in 
 
284 FAR FROM THE HUM OF MEN. 
 
 his honor a week before, and which had been strictly 
 prohibited by a municipal regulation. So complete had 
 been the tumult that my friend could not doubt the word 
 of the officer ; and as the mayor was a republican, who 
 would enjoy making an example of monsieur the aristo- 
 crat, the viscount judged it best to submit to the fine im- 
 posed. He paid it at once, and hoped at length to enjoy 
 the peace he sighed for. 
 
 He had already put on his blue and white striped 
 jacket, and armed himself with his garden knife, for 
 the purpose of pruning his first rose tree, when the 
 servant announced Gros-Pierre and his spouse Mathu- 
 rine. They came to ask M. le Vicomte to be the god- 
 father of their seventh son ; and as this is an honor a 
 good Roman Catholic can never refuse, my neighbor, 
 perforce, consented. He assisted at the baptism of the 
 young thresher, of course accompanying his services by 
 a feast to the friends on both sides and a few hundred 
 sou pieces to Franpoise the godmother. 
 
 In eight days more the viscount w^as at his eighth 
 godfathership ; and as the citizens of my arrondissement 
 seldom stop short of their fifteenth paternization, it soon 
 came to pass that my neighbor spent nearly all Ills 
 mornings at the font. 
 
 He now went another step. Invited to all the mar- 
 riages and funerals, he quitted the font but for the altar, 
 
FA& FBOM THE HUM OF MEN. 285 
 
 and had no sooner given away the bride than he had 
 to bear the pall. 
 
 My neighbor, however, was yet but in the honeymoon 
 of village usefulness. He beheld himself loved, hon- 
 ored, sought after — a little too much — by the good 
 peasants who surrounded him. Eighteen hundred and 
 fifty-two approached, and who could tell what might 
 happen ? It was as well to cook a little ragout of popu- 
 larity beforehand. The viscount denied neither his door 
 nor his services to his new friends. 
 
 As he came from the capital, and as every Parisian 
 is supposed to be gifted with a universal genius, there 
 was no process to plead against, no lease to renew, no 
 clover crop to secure, but my friend was consulted. 
 Did a difference ai'ise, the disputants straightway rushed 
 to the presence of M. le Vicomte. They explained the 
 matter in hand ; he gave his advice ; and the interview 
 usually ended by the belligerent parties, as in duty 
 bound, falling to fisticuffs in the very audience chamber 
 of their arbitrator. He was at once the village justice, 
 advocate, and notary. 
 
 But he did not rest here. He became its physician. 
 " Medecin molgre Itii," be it understood. They forced 
 him to say what he thought of sucli a one's cut finger, 
 of such another's asthma; they awoke him in the 
 middle of the night, that he might apply plasters and 
 
286 FAR FROM THE HUM OF MEX. 
 
 administer enu sucree. He was consulted by the entire 
 community, insomuch that he at length attempted leeches, 
 and even ventured to lay a sacrilegious hand upon the 
 lancet. But here the faculty awaited him. The officer 
 of health of the neighboring village, who owed him a 
 grudge for having recovered without a prescription, sur- 
 prised him in the very act of phlebotomy. The man 
 made his report in the proper quarter, and the correc- 
 tional police taught my noble neighbor that philanthropy 
 becomes amenable to the penal law from the moment 
 that it launches out into the piercing of veins and the 
 application of leeches. 
 
 The viscount, who was far from wishing to resign his 
 post of general benefactor, now thought he would con- 
 fine himself to an employment out of reach of legal 
 interference. Recognized from the first as the only 
 decent writer in the community, he became public scribe 
 to the hamlet. From morning till evening his little 
 cabinet was crowded with all who had a cousin at a dis- 
 tance, a sister in service, or a lover with his regiment 
 My neighbor thus composed more than three folio vol- 
 umes of epistles in every variety of style. The pen- 
 knife superseded the pruning knife ; the watering pots 
 gave way to the inkstand. 
 
 Two days ago the crisis arrived. The young and 
 fresh Fran9oise, who had played godmother to mj 
 
FAR FKOM THE HUM OF MEN. 287 
 
 friend's part of godfather at his first baptism, was seated 
 near his desk, explaining how she wished to break with 
 Fran9ois Dumanet, a corporal on furlough, who was des- 
 perately jealous of all the shepherds of the hamlet. She 
 had come to ask the viscount to arrange the "matter, see- 
 ing that Jacquat, the farmer's head man, had asked her 
 in marriage ; and Jacquat was a likely lad, who could 
 easily earn his thirty crowns in the year, without count- 
 ing the oats he pilfered from the stable and the eggs he 
 picked up in the poultry yard. 
 
 The good viscount was bestowing upon his pretty cli- 
 ent the most fatherly counsels when the door suddenly 
 opened, and Corporal Dumanet, with cuffs turned up and 
 mustaches bristUng with rage, entered hastily. He 
 first applied his cane lustily to the shoulders of his be- 
 loved, and then, faUing upon the innocent viscount, proved 
 how very possible it is for our best intentions to be mis- 
 taken by a jealous lover. This was too much for my 
 friend. He seized the first weapon that came to hand, 
 and retaliated the caning by a thrust with the pruning 
 knife. 
 
 Poor fellow ! It was the first time he had had an op- 
 portunity of using it ; and so excellently did he profit by 
 this one, and so neatly did he operate upon his adver- 
 sary's face, that it never lost from that day the marks 
 of his skill. But arboriculture, applied to the human 
 
288 FAR FROM THE HUM OF MEN. 
 
 species, is forbidden by the law as well as the unprofes- 
 sional exercise of leeches and lancet. The viscount 
 spent forty-eight hours in a tedious negotiation with 
 Dumanet, which was only yesterday evening brought to 
 a conclusion. He bought a substitute for the corporal, 
 who remained in the village and espoused Fran9oise. 
 The business cost from twelve hundred to fifteen hun- 
 dred francs ; but then my neighbor received a pressing 
 invitation to the nuptials. 
 
 This morning I was coursing near my house, when 
 I saw a vehicle whirling along the high road towai'ds 
 Paris. Within it was the viscount, who looked out of 
 the window, and, observing me, ordered the driver to 
 stop. " My friend," cried he as I came within hearing, 
 " au revoir this winter at Paris ! I precede you to the 
 modern Babylon. I return to my pleasant entresol, 
 which happily has not yet met with a new tenant. I 
 go to seek calm, leisure, peace in the Boulevard des 
 Italiens. I take with me a rose tree, that I shall prime 
 on my window sill, and two strawberry plants, to water 
 in my dressing room. I leave hamlets, shepherds, and 
 the shady grove, to live and die far from the- hum of 
 men." 
 
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