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 THE 
 
 FOR 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 MRS. EMELINE P. HOWAR D, 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY NAFIS AND CORNISH. 
 ST. LOUIS, MO. : VAN DIEN & MacDONALD. 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 4 
 
 Entered according to the Act of Conf;ress, in the year 1849, by 
 
 NAFIS AND CORNISH, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. 
 
 a O. JENKINS, PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER, 
 
 No. 114 Nassau street. New York. 
 
AYii 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Harry Lincoln, Miss Caroline E. Roberts, 
 
 Moss-Rose and Cupid, Editress, 
 
 The Maid of the Beryl, Mrs. Hofland, 
 
 The Wind, Miss 0. E. Roberts, ■ . 
 
 Our Moss-Rose, Editress, 
 
 The Life Clock, From the German, 
 
 Destiny, F. . . . . 
 
 Niagara, Mrs. E. A. Curtiss Hulce, 
 
 The Covenant of Hearts, Mrs. Dumont, 
 
 Trust in God, E. P. JImeard, 
 
 The Snow Acquaintance, 
 
 The Voice of the Grass, 3fiss Sarah Roberts, 
 
 A "Wedding at School, .... 
 
 Winter, E. P. H., . . . -. 
 
 Prospect Hill, Editress, 
 
 Burial of the Consumptive, Mrs. E. A. G. Hulce, 
 
 A Tale of the Woods, W. G., 
 
 Night, Miss C. E. Roberts, 
 
 My Card-Basket, Editress, 
 
 Fireside Verses, Bernard Barton, 
 
 Flirtation, ..... 
 
 Listen! Miss G. E. Roberts, 
 
 PAGE 
 9 
 
 32 
 
 83 
 
 46 
 
 48 
 
 68 
 
 •70 
 
 86 
 
 88 
 
 103 
 
 104 
 
 125 
 
 121 
 
 150 
 
 151 
 
 158 
 
 161 
 
 lU 
 
 175 
 
 ISl 
 
 183 
 
 194 
 
 Z^A 
 
IV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Reminiscences of the American Revolution, A Soldier of 
 Seventy-six, ... . . . 
 
 Old-fashioned Flowers, 3Irs. E. A.C. Hulce, 
 
 Winter Recollections, Editress, . . . . 
 
 Fragment— the Offering, E. P. H., . . . 
 
 A Visit to Mount Hope, Miss O. E. Roberts, 
 
 My Bird, Mrs. E. C. Judson, .... 
 
 Fatal Love, From the German, . • . . 
 
 Song — ^to a Lady, Mrs. E. A. Curtiss Hulce, 
 
 Fragments of My Early Life, . . . . 
 
 The Inebriate, . . . . • 
 
 The Lost Eate, Miss Gould, . . . . ■ 
 
 Alice, Proteus, ....•• 
 
 A Hundred Years Ago, . . . • • 
 
 My Cousin Lucy and the Village Teacher, James Hall, . 
 The Orphans, Miss G. E. Roberts, . . . ■ 
 
 Golden Dreams, Wm. L. Stone, . . . ■ 
 
 Fall from Paradise, E. P. H, 
 Ellen, Miss Mary Russell Mitford, 
 
 196 
 208 
 211 
 223 
 225 
 231 
 233 
 241 
 243 
 251 
 252 
 254 
 268 
 269 
 2S8 
 290 
 298 
 800 
 
EMBELLISHMENTS. 
 
 The Moss- Rose. 
 
 Vignette. 
 
 Harry Lincoln, 
 
 ♦' Take this Moss-Rose, too," 
 
 Trust in God, 
 
 Winter, . . . 
 
 Fireside Verses, 
 
 The Inebriate, .... 
 
 My Cousin Lucy and the Village Teacher, 
 
 The Orphans, . . . . 
 
 9 
 
 48 
 103 
 150 
 ISl 
 251 
 269 
 288 
 
i 
 
 ■I 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 oil I 1 love the sweet-blooming, the pretty Moss-rose, 
 'Tisthn typo of true pli'Miire ami pcrfi'ctcd joy ; 
 
 Oil, 1 envy each insect tliat dares to reposo 
 'MUl iti leaves, or among jLs soft beauties to toy I 
 
 I love the sweet lily, so pure and so pale, 
 With a bosom as fair as the new-fallen snows ; 
 
 Iler luxuriant odors she spreails through the valo. 
 Yet e'en she must yield to my pretty Moss-rose. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 In presenting the Moss-Rose for 1850 to our read- 
 ers, we do so with diffidence, knowing its high claims, 
 not only in point of beauty, but in the language of 
 flowers. One author interprets it " Superior Merit ;" 
 another, " Pleasure without alloy ;" another still, 
 " Elegance ;" but all agree in its surpassing excel- 
 lence, and yield it the right to the title of " Excel- 
 
 J5 
 
 sior. 
 
 To make this work equal, at least, to the numerous 
 competitors for public favor, has been the design and 
 earnest wish of the Editress. How far she has sue- 
 ceeded, the voice of its readers must determine. It 
 is to be hoped, however, that within these pages, the 
 
I 
 
 Vlll 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Moss-Rose may not be found wholly destitute of 
 beauty and fragrance. 
 
 To an indulgent public, then, this book is offered, 
 with the hope that it may meet the approbation, and 
 suit the taste of those who are friends to virtue, and 
 love flowers. 
 
 E. P. H. 
 
 Delhi, N. Y., June, 1849. 
 
r- 
 
 -N 
 
HARRY LINCOLN. 
 
 BY MISS CAROLINE E. ROBERTS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Too late ! — oh, no ! thank God ! not too late !" burst 
 from the lips of Harrj Lincoln, as he raised himself in the 
 stirrups of his noble war-horse, and casting a keen, search- 
 ing glance in an easterly direction, his quick eye discerned 
 that which at first filled him with despair — then hope. 
 " Not too late ! thank God !" he reiterated, and plunging 
 his spurs into his horse's sides, dashed on at a furious 
 pace — on, on — through the tangled brushwood, and low, 
 swampy ground, where he again lost sight of aught that 
 could raise his fainting hopes ; but upon reaching another 
 slight elevation, once more he raised himself in the stir- 
 rups, and with a face irradiated with joy, he hurried on 
 his rapid course. But hark! his well-trained ear detects 
 the sound of horses' feet in the distance. " They are upon 
 me ! close at my heels — like lightning, my brave horse ! 
 or I am a dead man — or — or — (and his voice lowered) or 
 worse than dead — a prisoner, (an inglorious fate !) a pris- 
 oner in a strange land, among those who love us so little, 
 thouofh we are their brothers ! But neither death nor a 
 prison await me if my good horse fail me not. I saw our 
 fliag in the distance ; I could not be mistaken. I shall yet 
 be saved !" A sudden turn in the road brought the horse 
 2 
 
10 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 and rider to a stand ; for within a few rods of them lay a 
 broad and beautiful river, towards which Lincoln had been 
 hasting with such fearful speed ; and in the agony of de- 
 spair, he threw himself from his horse and plunged into the 
 water. " Help ! help !" he cried, " in God's name, help ! 
 put back, good fellows ! Ah ! they spy the rebels — see, 
 they fire ! what a glorious discharge from the broadside 
 of our noble British ship ! they come to ray rescue ; help ! 
 help ! it is Harry Lincoln !" and he pushed on into the 
 stream as deep as he dared venture ; being heavily accou- 
 tred, he dared not give up his foothold. His noble char- 
 ger stood hy, with raised head and nostrils expanded ; his 
 fiery eye glancing first on the waste of waters before him, 
 then upon the broad green country on the other side, and 
 at length, with almost human tenderness, his gaze rested 
 upon the face of his young master, who, with his plumed 
 cap in one hand, raised high above his head, and his sword 
 in the other, seemed reckless of all else in existence but 
 the little boat which was nearing him, and on which seem- 
 ed to hang his chances of immediate life or death ; but at 
 that instant he turned his head, and the kind glance of his 
 faithful horse met his own. " We will not part, well-tried 
 friend !" he said ; " thou art a good swimmer, give me 
 the reins, the ship is not far off, the boat nears." 
 
 " Harry Lincoln ! are you safe ?" " God bless you, did 
 you drop from the clouds, Harry ?" and many other ex- 
 clamations of surprise and pleasure burst from the lips of 
 his friends in the long-boat, as the brave young man jump- 
 ed on board. With the bridle of his horse in one hand, he 
 steered (as it were) his favorite charger as they moved out 
 into the stream, while, with heaving chest and vigorous 
 limb, the noble beast pressed onward as if he were in his 
 native element. 
 
HARRY LINCOLN. 
 
 11 
 
 Harry Lincoln was a British officer, chivalrous and 
 brave — an officer in a regiment which had displayed dar- 
 ing courage and undaunted valor, during many of the early 
 battles in our memorable revolutionary war. It is not our 
 place here to descant upon the right or the wrong of that 
 war. Though we have selected a British officer for our 
 hero, we are all American, and those who know how an 
 American's heart throbs with pride and pleasure, as he 
 hears recounted, one by one, the deeds of glory and of 
 blood by which our independence was achieved, can judge 
 whether the so-styled rebels have not the warmest place 
 in our heart. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 But to return to our hei'o, the young and chivalrous 
 Harry Lincoln. A few days previous to the incidents re- 
 corded in the previous chapter, he had been sent out at 
 the head of a party to reconnoitre, and had met with a 
 small body of the enemy ; upon which a short, but severe 
 skirmish ensued. Lincoln displayed great skill and cour- 
 age ; the enemy was completely routed, while his own 
 httle band was almost unbroken. " This was an unex- 
 pected rencontre on our part," said Harry to one of his 
 men ; " who can tell but it may lead to similar skirmishes ? 
 It may yet be weeks before we leave this hated country ; 
 though the ship is under sailing orders, we may be de- 
 tained longer than most of us would wish." And here in 
 spite of himself a deep sigh escaped from his manly breast; 
 for thoughts of a pleasant home and loving faces in dear 
 old England came to his mind. "But come, my men ; we 
 
12 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 had better return and report to our commander ; are we all 
 here ? I will call the roll ;" and voice after voice answer- 
 ed as the name was called. Many of the men were wound- 
 ed, but none severely ; some came forward with an arm in 
 a sling ; or limping a little, with a handkerchief about the 
 knee ; and other indications of the severe conflict in which 
 they had been engaged ; but as yet, none were missing. 
 The last name was called — "John Duncan" — no answer. 
 " Where is Duncan ? — is he not among you ?" 
 
 "Was he in the company?" said one; " I have not 
 seen him." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; he was in the early part of the engagement. 
 I saw him wheel round upon one of the dastardly rebels, 
 and the poor fellow got a shot from Duncan, which he 
 will not forget very readily — but where is Duncan ?" 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! where is Duncan ?" was echoed from mouth 
 to mouth. 
 
 " Look among the underbrush and low trees," said 
 Lincoln ; " he may be wounded, and have crawled away 
 to die." Search was made for him, but all in vain. Asfain 
 the young officer summoned his men ; and giving the com- 
 mand to an officer next in rank, he proposed going in ad- 
 vance, in order to discover where poor Duncan had fled. 
 " I may yet discover him," said he ; " he may have gone 
 in advance ;" and putting spurs to his horse, he was out 
 of sight in an instant. He had not proceeded above a 
 quarter of a mile, when he saw in the distance a horse 
 standing quietly, with his head bent, as if gazing upon 
 some object at his feet. Lincoln immediately recognized 
 Duncan's horse. " Duncan is thrown, poor follow — killed, 
 perhaps — alas ! who can tell !" he said to himself, as he 
 hastened to the spot. There stood the horse, and lying 
 beside him on the turf was poor Dun«an ! one arm fearfully 
 
HARRY LINCOLN. 13 
 
 mangled ; and on his face seemed settled the pallor of 
 death. 
 
 " Duncan ! Duncan ! my good Duncan ! speak — are 
 you yet living ? Speak, Duncan !" said Lincoln, as he 
 jumped from his horse, and was beside him in an instant. 
 " Taste this," said he, as he poured a few drops of cor- 
 dial from a small flask which he drew from his knapsack, 
 upon the pale lips of the apparently lifeless soldier. At 
 the taste of the cordial, Duncan revived a little, but 
 almost immediately relapsed into seeming death. 
 
 " Hasten, comrades ! hasten my good fellows !" shouted 
 Lincoln to his men in the distance ; and as they approached, 
 he raised the wounded man, and laid his head upon his 
 knees, and with his sash bound up the fearful wound 
 from which the life-torrent was fast flowinsf. "Water! 
 water ! Allen !" said he to the man who first approached — 
 and Lincoln proceeded to bathe the pallid face of Duncan, 
 with the tenderness of a woman. The moist hair was 
 brushed back from his temples. " He breathes," said 
 one of the men, who with his ear bent closely to Duncan's 
 chest, had caught the sound of a faint pulsation ; " he is 
 living !" and as he spoke, Duncan unclosed his eyes, and 
 muttered — 
 
 " It was a death- wound ! I felt it ! I felt it !" They 
 motioned him to be silent, and with the aid of the poor 
 restoratives they had, he was soon enabled to raise him- 
 self, and look about him. 
 
 " Ah ! he will be better soon," said Lincoln, " you 
 must proceed forward and report to our commander ; I 
 will tarry behind with Duncan. He will soon be strong 
 enough to mount his horse, and we will follow." 
 
 "No, no! let me remain, captain,'' said several of the 
 soldiers; " you go forward with the men." 
 
14 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 " No, no !" replied Harry, " Duncan is my charge ; for 
 three years he has been my tried, faithful adherent. His 
 father entrusted him to my care, when he left old Eng- 
 land. I dare not leave him — we will follow — perhaps in a 
 couple of hours we shall be able to start." 
 
 " God bless you, captain ; God bless you !" said Duncan, 
 and feeling still weak and faint, he reclined his head 
 against a tree which was near him, and closed his eyes 
 In a moment, and the men were called to order ; and 
 " Cheer up, Duncan !" " Don't be down-hearted, boy ; 
 you will be ready to join the regiment in a few days, when 
 we sail for home !" and many more such kind exclama- 
 tions, to raise the fainting heart of poor Duncan, as the 
 men wheeled off, and the sound of horses' hoofs died 
 away, and young Lincoln was left alone with the wounded 
 man. 
 
 " Come, come, Duncan ! cheer up ; why you have a 
 faint heart, Duncan, not to bear up under such a wound 
 as that. Think of your father, and Bessie, and our own 
 dear England, for which we are so soon to set sail ; we 
 shall be on our passage home in a week's time ; think of 
 that, Duncan !" 
 
 " You, but not I, master Harry ! — you, but not I ! I 
 feel it here," (and he laid his hand upon his head,) " and 
 here," (and he pressed his hand upon his heart,) " but 
 yet — home — you said we should be home soon ; you, but 
 not I ! oh, master Harry, my father — you spoke of him — 
 God bless my old father — soon he will have no son to 
 love and talk about — my poor old father — and Bessie — 
 what will Bessie do without me ?" 
 
 " Don't talk so, Duncan, you miist not talk so — here" — 
 and taking one of the cloaks the men had left behind, and 
 rolling it up — " here — take this for a pillow, Duncan ; and 
 
HARRY LINCOLN 
 
 16 
 
 lie back — with a little more of the cordial and a short 
 sleep, you will soon be able to join the men, and we will 
 see what the surgeon can do to your arm. I will cover 
 you with my cloak — lie still, and all will be well. We will 
 remain here until the morning — I think it will be wise. I 
 will keep watch by you while you sleep." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The sun was just then setting, and lighting up with his 
 cheering rays the beautiful tree-tops and quiet dells of 
 that lovely retreat — the birds soared on light wing with 
 hearts full of music, as thej^ poured forth their evening- 
 song, and quietly dropped down in their nests in the 
 shady greenwood — the timid hare ran with fleet step 
 across the rude pathway, pausing with erect ears, ever 
 and anon, to listen to the many sounds which her keen 
 sense of hearing alone can detect ; for Nature, in her soli- 
 tude, ever seems silent to us — occasionally a noble deer, 
 with tall antlers, would walk leisurely by, stopping to 
 quench his thirst at the water-brook, and as he raised his 
 head from the cooling stream, would cast an upward 
 glance with his full, soft eye, as if looking a thanksgiving 
 for the good gifts of God to him. 
 
 Night stole on, draperied in her garment of stars, and 
 the moon arose — and still sat Harry Lincoln alone in that 
 wilderness with the wounded, and perhaps dying man. 
 For a Avhile he sat with his body inclined forward, his 
 head resting upon his hand — now and then a deep sigh 
 escaped his breast, as if from a heart ovei'burdened with 
 . anxiety — not grief. It was a picture for a painter — the 
 
16 T 11 E MO S S - R O S E . 
 
 wounded man lying there, the bright moon lighting up 
 his ghastly features — with a soldier's cloak for a pillow, 
 and a soldier's cloak for a covering — the young officer, 
 vigorous and manly, sitting in such an attitude of profound 
 abstraction — his uncovered head resting upon his hands, 
 his plumed cap beside him on the turf — these two only 
 human creatures in that great solitude — let us add to the 
 picture the noble war-horse of Lincoln, who, with loose 
 rein, was cropping the fresh dewy herbage, and the more 
 humble horse of an humbler master, standing unheeded 
 at no -Treat distance, with drooping head and melancholy 
 air, as if he apprehended evil to himself and owner. 
 
 "He sleeps quietly," said Lincoln to himself; "how 
 heavily he breathes ! Is it well that he should be thus ? 
 I will rouse him, and make him once more take the cor- 
 dial. I will strike a light — but no, no — I dare not — who 
 knows how near the enemy may be, and light would be 
 like a signal to show them where we are. It is a blessed 
 thing that the moon shines so brightly. How still it is ! 
 I wish Allen had remained with us — not that I fear for 
 myself — for my horse is the fleetest in our whole little 
 army — but I could not leave Duncan should we be dis- 
 covered. Take this, Duncan — it Avill build you up soon !" 
 and poor Duncan heaved a heavy sigh, and opened his 
 lids slowly. 
 
 " Is it you, master Harry ? God bless you !" — he closed 
 them again, and slept once more. 
 
 Night wore on — hour after hour glided by — and by the 
 moonlight Harry saw his watch point to half-p;ist two 
 o'clock, and still he kept his lone vigil. Suddenly Dun- 
 can unclosed his eyes and looked about him. 
 
 " Yes, yes, father !" ho exclaimed, " I have come 
 back — your own poor Jolni has come back — but where is 
 
 L 
 
HARRY LINCOLN. 17 
 
 Bessie ! it is me, Bessie — your own Duncan, come back to 
 England again — father — Bessie — where am I — how dark 
 it is — no lights — oh, yes ! the moon — where am I ! who 
 is this ! Oh, now I know — master Harry — master Harry 
 — I am wounded — I am dying. Don't tell me I shall be 
 well — I was dreaming of father and Bessie. I am dying 
 — come close to me, master Harry — will you take poor 
 Duncan's hand in yours, while he utters the last words 
 which his poor lips will ever speak" — 
 
 " You have been dreaming, Dxmcan, don't talk so ; 
 you are not dying ; you must not talk." 
 
 " Just place your hand here, Master Harry ; what a 
 faint fluttering is there, like a bird in a cage, trying to get 
 free. It is my life fluttering there, trying to be freed ; 
 it will soon return to Him who gave it. Bear my dying 
 words to my old father, captain ; tell him I wish I had been 
 a more dutiful son. But God will forgive me ; God is 
 very kind to me. He has permitted my young master to 
 be with me in my last hour ; may the same good God 
 give him strength to bear up imder my loss ! But he is 
 old. Master Harry, and he will follow me soon. But Bes- 
 sie ! my gentle, lovely Bessie ! What a sad, sad heart will 
 be that of my dear, dear Bessie ! what a sad heart to bear 
 about her all her lifetime ! Tell her I thous^ht of her at 
 the last, and pity her. Captain, be kind to Bessie, and 
 in your happiest hours think of her — so lonely, so discon- 
 solate ! and, pardon me, captain, but should you ever 
 wed your own gentle friend. Miss Weston, will you not let 
 Bessie come and live with you ? She always loved Miss 
 Mary, and I should be more willing to — to — die, if I felt 
 Bessie was cared for. For the sake of your faithful Dun- 
 can, be kind to my Bessie ; tell her kindly how I died — 
 
 alone — at night — in a strange land — with none but you 
 9* - . _ 
 
18 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 and the good God to watch over me. My strength is al- 
 most gone, but I must speak while I can. God be merciful 
 to me ! Christ be merciful to me ! Farewell ! captain ; 
 God will bless you — my father — Bessie ! I am dying." 
 A convulsive shudder passed over his frame — his breath- 
 ing became rapid and painful. " Captain ! are you here ?" 
 His head dropped back — and Harry Lincoln was alone 
 with the dead*. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Alone with the dead — in the hush of night — in a wil- 
 derness — perhaps in instant danger of being surprised by a 
 dreaded enemy ! It was not an enviable position ; poor 
 Lincoln felt lonely indeed. He had lost an honest and 
 faithful attendant, and shall we call him unmanly if we say 
 that the hot tears chased one another down his cheek, 
 and dropped upon the pallid face of the dead man ? 
 With an unsteady hand he closed those eyes, now glazed 
 in death, and with a sad shudder he .straightened those fast 
 stiffening limbs upon the green turf, laid his cloak decently 
 over the cold body, and quietly waited the dawning of 
 day, that he might look about for a place in which to de- 
 posite the lifeless remains. He thought of Duncan's last 
 ■words — of his old father — and the young Bessie ; and he 
 removed the covering of the ill-starred dead, and unsheath- 
 ing his sword, severed a lock of iiair from liis head, and 
 felt if he might not ilnd some keepsake, which might bring 
 a ray of comfort to the sad hearts which his death would 
 cause. lie drew from his breast a small psalm-book, 
 in which the name of Bessie Gray was written, a much 
 
HARRY LINCOLN. 19 
 
 worn letter, and a few other trifling articles found about 
 his person, all of which were carefully deposited in the 
 knapsack of the poor young man, and fastened with Lin- 
 coln's own, securely to the horse. 
 
 As the day dawned, with a heavy heart Lincoln began 
 to look about him for a place where he might safely de- 
 posit the body of Duncan, until his own men could come 
 to give him decent burial. He removed the low brush 
 away, and with the hilt of his sword raised the light earth, 
 and then drawing the pale corpse slowly along, he laid it 
 within its rude grave, clasped the pale hands over the 
 quiet breast, and with uncovered head he knelt upon the 
 sod, and uttered a low-voiced prayer over the silent sleep- 
 er ; then throwing the earth lightly over him, and re- 
 placing the low shrubs and brush, he left him with a sad 
 farewell. " Farewell ! honest and brave friend ! Fare- 
 well ! honest Duncan ! Sleep sweetly here, brave heart ; 
 rest thee alone in this wild forest, until the last great day, 
 when the voice of the Lord shall be beard by thee, calling 
 thee to thy reward !" 
 
 The day had dawned, and the clouds about the eastern 
 sky were already tinged with hues of crimson and gold, 
 heralds of the coming king of day. Lincoln had turned 
 away from the lowly grave of his honest Duncan, and was 
 preparing to mount his horse, when a too familiar sound 
 broke upon his ear — the trample of horses' hoofs in the 
 distance, rapidly approaching. " I must lose no time," 
 said he ; " they are upon me !" and he bounded into his 
 saddle. " Duncan's horse, poor fellow, I must leave him ; 
 like lightning, my brave steed !" and on, on he dashed. 
 His horse seemed to fly ; the enemy could not gain upon 
 him ; it seemed days instead of hours to the young officer 
 as he rode on, and on ; till at length, from a rising ground, 
 
20 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 he espied the flag of an English ship in the distance ; and 
 dashing on with his faithful horse, he reached the shore, 
 as we have seen, in time to be taken on board the long- 
 boat, which had just pushed out in the stream, and was 
 warmly welcomed by many a friendly voice ; and the tale 
 of poor Duncan's death was told, and his lonely grave in 
 the wilderness; and many a rough voice trembled, and 
 tears stood in the eyes of many of those hard-featured 
 men, as they listened to the melancholy recital. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 We have said that Harry Lincoln was brave and chiv- 
 alrous ; we have seen that he had a kind and noble heart, 
 and deep religious feeling ; let us add, that he was young, 
 handsome, and of good descent, and we have a hero 
 worthy a romance. Many a fair face had watched the 
 brave young captain in his military manoeuvres, many a 
 gentle eye had looked kindly upon him ; and may we not 
 add, that, even in our colonial region, at that time, some 
 few of the fair dames would not unwillingly have ex- 
 changed freedom from England, for a loving, manly heart 
 in England, any day. Not that T would speak disparag- 
 ingly of the patriotism of our American ladies — no, no, 
 ladies are loyal if those they love are loyal — and to the 
 last will urge a brother, husband, or lover on to victory 
 and glory, in what is termed by them the right cause. 
 Our revolutionary annals tell many wonderful tales of 
 woman's untiring patriotism and heroic deeds; but the 
 heart was in it — the woman's heart, the same every- 
 where — the unselfish, loving woman. It was not that the 
 
HARRY LINCOLN. . 21 
 
 colonists were right and the British wrong ; it was not 
 that the one were oppressed and the other ruthless op- 
 pressors ; no, it was that those she loved were on the one 
 side, and those for whom she cared not were on the other. 
 I do no injustice to woman in thus speaking; let each of 
 the gentle sex look within her own breast and see if above 
 all — love of life, of country, and of home, high, high 
 above, just this side heaven — there is not a motive of deep 
 love towards some cherished one, which prompted her to 
 urge him on to victory or death ; it is that the loved one's 
 cause might triumph ; the loved one's hopes be answered ; 
 the loved one's home be made secure and peaceful ; the 
 loved one's death be glorious. 
 
 Two weeks have elapsed — two weeks of suspense and 
 anxiety, and the ship in which was embarked the regi- 
 ment to which young Lincoln belonged had swung from 
 her moorings, and was on her way to " meriy England." 
 Many of the men on board had been absent three and four 
 years from their home ; and communication with the 
 fatherland was at that time very iincertain, and months 
 would often elapse without receiving a word from those 
 dear ones who had been left behind. And now the ship 
 is under sail. Homeward — homeward-bound is the word. 
 How infinite was the variety of hopes and fears, and 
 anxious hearts which were crowded into that small space ! 
 and who could divine what was passing within the bosom of 
 a fellow-passenger ! Some seemed sad and thoughtful — 
 others bustling and active — some calm and happy. What 
 changes may have taken place in the home of each since 
 they left ! How many will seek in vain for those whom they 
 left blooming and happy ! The quiet church-yard may tell 
 many a story unlearned before ; and home may no longer 
 be home to those who most eagerly anticipate a return. 
 
22 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 But where is our young hero, the gallant Captain 
 Lincoln ? He is sitting quietly at the bow of the vessel, 
 watching apparently the progress of the ship through the 
 deep-blue waters ; but though his head is bent, his eye 
 does not see the waters. Is it fixed on vacancy ? No ! 
 it is, as it were, turned within, and he is reading a tale of 
 his own hopes and fears in his own heart-book. His atti- 
 tude is one of deep thought and abstraction ; his heart is 
 now in dear old Enofland — he treads over the well-known 
 ground — a gentle eye meets his — a small, white hand 
 clasps his own — " Mary, dear Mary !" escapes unawares 
 from his lips — he draws from his bosom a small golden 
 case, and touching a secret spring, disclosed a miniature to 
 his eager eye. It might have been the face of an angel 
 painted there — so fair, so young — eyes like the violet's 
 cup, and hair like threads of gold. One hasty glance, 
 and the treasure is returned to its hiding-place. It might 
 have been the face of a sister there depicted ; but young 
 men of six-and-twenty do not generally heave such deep 
 sighs over a sister's miniatiire ; neither are they very 
 likely to wear a sister's picture next their heart. We have 
 giiessed aright — it was no sister — it was the face of the 
 fair Miss Weston, to whom poor Duncan confided his dear 
 Bessie ; it was the gentle Mary of the noble youth's medi- 
 tative reverie, as he sat upon the bow of the vessel, that 
 summer evening. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 But who is this fair Mary Weston of young Lincoln's 
 day-dreams ? Reader, she was but a woman — a gentle, 
 
HARRY LINCOLN. 23 
 
 loving woman — naj', child, I might say, with a woman's 
 heart. Her father was a retired officer in the British 
 army, and it was through his iniluence that Harry ob- 
 tained his appointment in the service. He rented a small 
 cottage, not far from the retired home of our brave hero. 
 Mary was an only child — left motherless at an early age — 
 confided to the care of a faithful nurse — the sfood, old 
 Nannie, who had loved her as if she were her own little 
 daughter ; and if Mary Weston could have been spoiled by 
 over-indulgence, we think Nannie might have spoiled her ; 
 'but there are some few who are all the better, and more 
 loveable for being spoiled, if I may so speak ; who possess 
 such warm sympathies ; are " so keenly alive to all sensa- 
 tions," (as some writer hath it,) who make such continual 
 demands upon the love and sympathy of those about 
 them ; who twine themselves in and about the heart, and 
 to whom an unkind word would seem like inflictinor the 
 point of a dagger, so heavily would it wound, that one 
 cannot choose but grant all the demands made upon them; 
 and every one seemed inclined to help Nannie in indulging 
 the little, lovely Mary. Harry Lincoln could not remem- 
 ber the time when he did not love Mary. From early 
 boyhood, it had been his delight to ramble with her, over 
 hill and dell — to gather wild flowers — to peep into bird's 
 nests — to help her make her little garden — to assist her 
 at her lessons, and be a companion on all occasions. As 
 Motherwell says of his Jeanie Morrison, our hero might 
 say of his Mary : 
 
 " 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
 'Twas then we twa did part ; 
 Sweet time — sad time — twa baimies then — 
 Twa bairns, and but ae heart." 
 
 But unlike the lover of " dear, dear Jeanie Morrison," the 
 
24 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 time did never come " when first, fond love grows cool," 
 for Harry had never doubted the love of his dear Mary ; 
 neither had she in her turn ever dreamed that there was 
 another man to love save Harry Lincoln. 
 
 That Mary was beautiful, as she was gentle and loving, 
 we have seen from the hasty glimpse we caught of that 
 treasure worn next Harry's heart: like the wild rose, graceful 
 and beautiful she had grown up, and with him every day 
 seemed to add some new charm to her fair person ; her 
 eye was indeed blue as the violet's cup when filled with 
 dew and glistening in the sunlight ; and her fair hair did 
 seem like threads of golden light, as it hung about her 
 face and shoulders, as a gilded cloud. Harry could not 
 have found a more beautiful picture to gaze upon than 
 this tableau vivant — this living picture, which, in an 
 endless variety of attitude and expression, filled the gallery 
 of his memory, and to which he loved to revert, over and 
 over again. How the love of boyhood deepened into a 
 holier and tenderer passion, neither could tell ; when the 
 name of Harry first brought the crimson blush to Mary's 
 cheek, and made her heart beat quickly, she never knew ; 
 but the time had come — that heaven on earth — that lov- 
 ing and being loved had been experienced, and they were 
 most happy. But the hour of parting had come; the 
 boy-lover had received a commission, and was soon to join 
 his regiment. Poor Mary ! the first parting seemed very 
 hard ; but for some time he did not leave the country, 
 and often a week's leave was obtained, and he would 
 hasten to gladden the heart of his mother, and fill Mary's 
 bosom with delight and pride by his unexpected visits. 
 But the regiment was ordered to America ; the rebellious 
 colo7iists must be kept under. That parting was a sad 
 one. His mother, on whom he most fondly doated, folded 
 
HARRY LINCOLN. 25 
 
 liini to her heart : a mother's speechless grief, as she 
 gives up her cherished one, who can tell ! 
 
 " I shall be back again, mother ; you must write me 
 every week, and tell me about yourself and the dear 
 home. Keep up a good heart, mother, and encourage 
 your soldier son." 
 
 It was Mary's first great sorrow — this parting for years, 
 and perhaps forever, from him whom she loved better 
 than life. She clung to him in the agony of desperation ; 
 it seemed as if the depths of her heart were broken up ; 
 she sobbed and wept tears of such real grief — she hardly 
 knew she loved him so much. He was gone — she was 
 alone — alone. Had she not done wrong to distress Harry ? 
 But she loved him so much — she would write cheerful 
 letters — she would go and see his good mother every day 
 — she would prove her love by many deeds of devotion 
 and kindness — and she kept her word. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Reader ! we have no tale of lovers' trials, and hair- 
 breadth escapes ; no estrangement of loving hearts brought 
 together again by some romance or concocted miracle ; no 
 mysteries to clear up ; no surprise to astonish ; no re- 
 criminations ; no heart-burnings ; jealousy even, the stra- 
 tum upon which most novels are founded, has no part to 
 play in this short story. 
 
 The passage of our good British ship had no more than 
 the usual complement of high winds and rough weather, 
 and in due time arrived at her destined port. We will 
 pass over the voyage, and steal upon our favorite, the 
 
-^ THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 young Lincoln, as he walks quietly through a shady and 
 pleasant road, within two miles of his native hamlet. 
 The coach had left him a few moments before, or ralher 
 he had left the coach, as he wishes to come unheralded 
 to his own cottage home, and stealthily catch a glimpse of 
 its inmates. He takes a narrow and verdant lane, so that 
 he might meet none who would recognize him. It was an 
 evening in early autumn; he pauses a moment to look 
 about him, and convince himself he is not dreaminor of the 
 verdant hedge-rows, the fine broad fields, yet fresh and 
 beautiful ; the gallant shade-trees in all their glory, as vet 
 unchanged in foliage; the many gaudy flowers which 
 gleam out and meet his eye from small cottage gardens — 
 the brilliant aster and golden marygold, and others equally 
 rich and gorgeous in their attire. He wishes to convince 
 himself that it is not all a dream, but a refreshing welcome 
 home to him, after over three years' absence and hard 
 service. It was a lovely evening ; the western sky was 
 gorgeously apparelled in clouds of purple and amber, 
 shading off into delicate tints tinged with blue, which 
 seemed to add a new brilliancy to all above and below. 
 On, on, he went, meeting now and then a laborer return- 
 ing from his field ; or a lazy school-boy who turned to 
 look at the tall gentleman as he passed on : his mother's 
 cottage is in sight — he approaches it with a beating heart. 
 It looks just as it did three years ago — his favorite flowers 
 were cared for — the clematis and honeysuckle about the 
 door looked as though they lacked not careful culture — 
 the very same cat sat with half-shut eyes in the sunny 
 window — the mellow-voiced canary chirped in his wire- 
 bound cage. 
 
 " I will steal round to my mother's room — perchance I 
 may catch a peep at her before I announce my approach. 
 
HARRY LINCOLN. 27 
 
 If I recollect right, the vines were thick over the western 
 window," he said, as he proceeded accordingly. The 
 casement was thickly shaded by rich vines ; and he stood 
 a mocaent and gazed upon a picture that pleased him well. 
 In a low, well-cushioned chair, at an opposite window, sat 
 his .much-loved mother ; her cheek was pale, as if from 
 recent illness. The delicate outline of her countenance, 
 shaded by its cap of simple lace — the loose, white dress, 
 and heavy shawl about the shoulders, all spoke a conva- 
 lescent. Her eyes are bent with much love upon a fair 
 girl sitting upon a low seat beside her ; a form light and 
 graceful, shrouded in habiliments of deep mourning, which 
 fall in heavy folds upon the floor — the head is averted 
 slightly. Harry's heart beats quickly — can he mistake 
 the rose-leaf tint of that fair cheek, and the liffht cloud of 
 golden hair, which contrasts so richly with the sable dress ? 
 — the delicate hand laid upon an open book — a small 
 volume — but he fancies he recognizes the velvet cover 
 and golden clasp as a familiar friend. Will his heart never 
 cease beating, that he may catch the sounds uttered from 
 the lips of those dear ones ? The young girl had evidently 
 just been reading, for suddenly her voice ceased, and her 
 head dropped upon her book ; and sobs burst forth from 
 an over-charged heart. 
 
 " Sometimes I can bear it better than I do now — 
 indeed, indeed, I can — but, oh, it is so very lonely ! I 
 am very sad to-night ; I try to feel that it is all right, but 
 home is very lonely. If Harry only would come back — 
 but my heart sickens when I think another year may still 
 find him far away. His absence seemed lighter to bear 
 when I had my beloved father to love and care for, but 
 now" — 
 
 It was not exactly wise in Harry Lincoln to spring into 
 
28 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 that open window, (to what detriment to his mother's 
 well-trained vines we need not say,) to clasp his now 
 orphaned Mary to his heart — to fold his mother in a warm 
 embrace — and ask each if it would be lonely now he had 
 come back to share the solitude? What an evening 
 of perfect happiness, if such there be in this life, was 
 that of which we write ! And yet there were many tears 
 shed, and many sad recollections brought up. He learned 
 of the short illness and happy death of Mary's father — 
 of his mother's long and dangerous illness, and slow 
 recovery ; and in his turn, poor Duncan's melancholy end 
 was spoken of ; and the thought of poor Bessie Grey's 
 deep sorrow seemed to impress Mary Weston strongly. 
 It was a pleasant walk for the young lovers to Mary's 
 lonely home — through the dewy grass, and by the richly 
 scented hedges, with the fair moon beaming down upon 
 them like a blessing from above, and the " tranquil, 
 patient stars" looking so calm and holy from their blue 
 home. 
 
 " You must stop a moment, and see good Nannie !" 
 said Mary, as she paused at the cottage door ; " she will 
 be so rejoiced at your return." She ran in, while Lin- 
 coln stood in the background; "Nannie! Nannie !" she 
 called, "some one wishes to see you." Nannie hurried 
 forward. 
 
 " Who is it ? who is it. Miss Mary ? Lord preserve us! 
 Is it his ghost ? Master Harry, come back alive from the 
 wars ! I never expected to live to see this, I am sure !" 
 She warmly grasped the kindly extended hand of the 
 young captain, and blessed him over and over again, for 
 coming back alive from the wars. Mary stood by, with 
 swimming eye and joyful heart — a slight noise causes 
 them to turn round tlu-ir heads — a door ajar is gently 
 
HARRYLINCOLN. 29 
 
 moved, and a demure -looking country lassie looks quickly 
 in, and then withdraws her head. 
 
 "Who is there ?" said Lincoln. 
 
 " Only me, captain ; Bessie Grey. I thought perhaps you 
 might tell me something of John Duncan — his poor father 
 wants to know if he is ahve and well." 
 
 " Bessie Grey ! alas, poor Bessie Grey ! come to me !" 
 and he took her by the hand, and kindly placed her on 
 the sofa beside him. " Bessie Grey ! do you love John 
 Duncan very dearly ?" 
 
 " Dearer than all the world beside, sir !" quickly an- 
 swered Bessie, a blush overspreading her fair round 
 cheek. 
 
 " Would you do everything that you thought Duncan 
 would wish you to do, whether he were absent or present ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ;" said she, astonished ; " I would lay down 
 my life for him !" She started — her eye met that of Lin- 
 coln — she seemed to half guess its expression. " What 
 is it, sir ? has he not returned with you ? will I not see 
 him ? ! what is it, sir ?" 
 
 " Bessie ! I must not keep you in this state of suspense 
 any longer. Yet how can you bear it ? Duncan is no 
 more. You never will see him again in this life ; but if 
 you love him" — 
 
 A wild shriek rent the air. " Dead ! John Duncan 
 dead ! Oh, God in heaven ! is it so ? is he dead ? No, 
 no, sir — don't say that !'' and poor Bessie fell back on the 
 sofa in a state of utter lifelessness. Cordials were given 
 her, and she revived ; but revived to such a sense of utter 
 woe and anguish, the siffht of her would melt the hardest 
 heart. She was borne up stairs, and placed in bed ; a 
 violent fever set in, and for weeks her hfe was despaired 
 of; but her constitution was vigorous, and at length she 
 
i30 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 I 
 
 rallied ; and such an altered creature — so frail — so sad — 
 so unlike the Bessie Grey of Duncan's love, that one could 
 hardly have recognized her. 
 
 The mornincr after Lincoln's arrival, he went to carry 
 the sad story of Duncan's loss to his aged father. The 
 old man, like the patriarch, " lifted up his voice and 
 wept." His only earthly hope was taken from him — his 
 desire to live was removed ; and though for poor Bessie's 
 sake he tried to rally, it was a most painful efibrt. Lin- 
 coln gave into their keeping the few articles he took from 
 poor John's dead body ; and though the sight of them 
 seemed to renew the grief, it seemed a comfort to them to 
 have aught that he had cherished and valued. 
 
 The rest of our story is soon told. We will pass over 
 
 the simple bridal, and the calm delights of the honey- 
 
 I moon ; and go forward a little, and take one glimpse of 
 
 our charminir friends on a calm evening early in summer. 
 
 Six months had passed by since the vows of holy matri- 
 
 j mony had been uttered, and Harry Lincoln and Mary 
 
 I Weston had been made man and wife. The cottage door 
 
 ' stands open, and under its vine-covered trellis stand the 
 
 young and lovely couple. W^e will peep into the cottage. 
 
 What an air of refined comfort, even elegance do we see! — 
 
 vases of fresh flowers, musical instruments, and other 
 
 tokens of cultivated taste. At an open window sits the 
 
 mother of Harry, her pleasant face turned towards the 
 
 door with the expression of deep love and maternal pride — 
 
 her eye rests upon her son and daughter. Poor Bessie 
 
 Grey sits with her needle in her hand, but her whole 
 
 appearance betokens a sad, sad heart. 
 
 "Just one year to-day," said Harry Lincoln, as ho drew 
 his Mary towards him, and looked in her soft, blue eye, 
 with more than a lover's tenderness — "just one year 
 
HARRY LINCOLN. 31 
 
 to-day, since I was so sorely chased by those poor rebels 
 in our provinces across the water. A hard chase I had of 
 it ; had they come upon me, I fear such happy hours as 
 these never would have been enjoyed by you and me, 
 my Mary." 
 
 "And just one year to-day," said the low, sad voice of 
 Bessie Grey ; "just a year since, poor Duncan spoke my 
 name for the last, last time before he died in that soli- 
 tary place." 
 
 " Yes, yes, poor Bessie ; one year to-day since the poor 
 fellow, commending you to my care, and himself calmly 
 yielding to the hands of Him who made him, quietly 
 breathed his last in that lonesome place. A year to-day 
 since I wrapped my cloak about him, folded his pale 
 hands meekly on his silent bosom, and laid him within 
 that humble grave ; a year to-day since that gallant, 
 honest, and trusting Duncan was released from all earthly 
 sorrow and trouble ; and he calmly now waits the hour 
 when the Judge of quick and dead shall call him forth 
 to receive that crown of glory, which the Lord shall have 
 laid up for him in heaven. 
 
THE MOSS-ROSE AND CUPID. 
 
 BY THE EDITRESS. 
 
 A DEEP blushing rose, on its pillow of moss, 
 
 Was sent as a token of pleasure ; 
 And the maiden in ecstasy gave it a toss, 
 
 To wear in her bosom, a treasure. 
 
 When, lo ! from the heart of the rose upward sprung 
 Young Cupid, with arrows and quiver ; 
 
 With bow nicely aimed at the mark, and all strung, 
 No chance of escape did he give her. 
 
 The mischief once done, he was off in a trice. 
 And left her the wound to sigh over ; 
 
 But sagely he offered this wholesome advice, 
 " Beware of the gift of a lover !" 
 
THE BIAID OF THE BERYL 
 
 BY MRS. HOFLAND. 
 
 One bright evening in September, 1587, the sun shone 
 cheeringly on many a gay boat and fancy -formed vessel, 
 sporting on the silver bosom of the Thames, between the 
 regal palace of Greenwich and the cit}' of London ; but 
 one boat shot forward before all the rest, as if impelled 
 by bolder hands or more buoyant spirits. The owner at- 
 tracted the admiration of all eyes as he glided along, and 
 many a low obeisance or friendly recognition, was returned 
 by him with an air of lofty courtesy, or kindly frankness, 
 which displayed his character and his feelings. He was 
 a very young r#in, with a handsome, ingenuous counte- 
 nance, expressive of joyous con6dence and conscious power. 
 His eyes were dark and lustrous, his foi'ehead high and 
 polished, his mouth small, but symmetrically formed. 
 His beard at this period was light and curling, contrasting 
 with his hair, which was of a dark brown. His figure, tall 
 and elegant in its proportions, was attired in the height 
 of the reigning mode, which was alike splendid and be- 
 cominnf. He wore a white satin doublet, embroidered in 
 stripes of the same color, intermingled with costly pearls ; 
 the sleeves were made extremely large about the shoul- 
 ders, and an answering appearance of fullness was j^^iven 
 about the hips, in the lower part of his clothing, which 
 was in texture and ornament the same as the upper, and 
 3 
 
34 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 from the middle of the thigh to the ankle fitted closelj', 
 and displayed his finely proportioned limbs to great ad- 
 vantage. White shoes, with Inrge roses, and a small 
 crimson velvet cap, with three diooping white feathers, 
 placed on one side of his head, completed his clothing. 
 His hands were embellished by rings ; the left was cov- 
 ered by an embroidered glove ; the right was employed 
 in caressing a greyhound, so beautiful as to divide atten- 
 tion with his master, who lay in a reclining position on a 
 Crimson cloak of Genoa velvet, under an awning of blue 
 damask. Six rowers in gay liveries completed the spec- 
 tacle presented by this gallant young nobleman, to the 
 floatino; world around him. 
 
 By degrees all were left behind him ; but, as the shad- 
 ows of evening deepened, his attention was drawn to one 
 small bark which had lately followed in his wake. It was 
 rowed by a young boy of foreign aspect, and contained 
 only one other person, who was so entirely enveloped in a 
 larcre garment of a dusky hue, that the sex of the wearer 
 could not be known. It appeared to nre man of rank 
 that these persons were gipsies, a race much proscribed at 
 that time ; and he apprehended that they souglit protec- 
 tion from the watermen, amongst whom they were thread- 
 ing their way with gieat skill, by keeping in his vicinity. 
 His attendants had the same conception of the case, with- 
 out the same will to befriend the despised foreigners; and 
 when, on arriving near the Temple-stairs, the poor boy 
 tried to land, in the spirit of malicious sport, they so ma- 
 noeuvred their own vessel, that the principal occupant of 
 the bo;it was thrown by a violent jerk into the water, in 
 the direction of the pleasure barge. 
 
 To seize the floating vestment with a strong and agile 
 hand, and to rescue the slight form which it enfolded, was 
 
THE MAID OF THE BERYL. 35 
 
 the work of a moment with our favorite of nature and for- 
 tune ; and as his loud reproof showed the necessity of re- 
 paration to his followers, all were soon placed in safety on 
 the steps. It now appeared that the person still ti-em- 
 bling in the preserver's arms was a woman, and the ap- 
 proach of a flambeau, in the hand of a man who was light- 
 ing a party to their boat, showed that she was youno- and 
 beautiful, and of singular and striking appearance. 
 
 Like the inhabitants of Africa in general, she had been 
 covered with an haick or wrapper ; but this being now 
 dropped, she appeared dressed in a caftan or jacket, 
 richly embroidered, drawers and petticoat of white camlet, 
 and a head-dress of gavize handkerchiefs, becomingly inter- 
 mincrled with her own dark braided hair. Her neck was 
 encircled by links of gold. She had bracelets and armlets 
 of the same precious, metal enriched with emeralds ; but 
 these articles of value, however unexpected, wer« forgot- 
 ten the moment she began to speak ; for her coral lips 
 and pearly teeth, aiding the effect of her large dark eyes, 
 seemed to throw a lustre on her countenance, and to pro- 
 duce an impression of beauty new even to one wont to dis- 
 tinguish and to admire it. The melody of her low and 
 tremblinof voice, her solicitude to regain the haick that 
 would shroud her beauties, and her desire to be left alone 
 with the boy, whom she called her brother, proved the re- 
 tirement of her habits and the modesty of her nature, and 
 added to the curiosity which her appearance was calcu- 
 lated to excite. As pity for her distressing situation 
 superseded even his desire to see more of her, the young 
 nobleman hastened to engage the bearer of the flambeau to 
 see her safely home. Reassured by his unobtrusive afik- 
 bility, and the near prospect of being suff"ered to depart, 
 she ventured to expi'ess her gratitude warmly, and even 
 
30 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 eloquent!)', though in somewhat imperfect langunge, and 
 had once half drawn a ring from her finger, and was on 
 the point of beseeching him to wear it in memory of his 
 own good deed, when she suddenly replaced it, saying, 
 " No ; if I read the heavens aright, rings are to you un- 
 fortunate, whether given or received." 
 
 " So then," said he internally, " this girl is a gipsy for- 
 tune-teller after all !" and, half ashamed of his adventure, 
 he jumped hastily into the boat, and, by ordering it to 
 Essex House, informed the few bystanders that they had 
 enjoyed the good fortune of beholding the young earl of 
 that title, who had been lately introduced at court by the 
 all-powerful Earl of Leicester, and on whom the queen 
 had already bestowed marks of hei- distingui.^hed appro- 
 bation. 
 
 Eager as the African girl had hitherto been to depart, 
 yet she now lingered, as if to catch the last sound of his 
 oars, and ascertain the painful truth that he was indeed 
 removed beyond observation From this eventful night 
 the lovely stranger received an impression dangerous to 
 all her sex, but to her decidedly unhappy ; since it com- 
 municated hopeless and intense interest in one so com- 
 pletely divided fiom her by superior station, country, 
 and faith. 
 
 Yet was she not forgotten. Many a time did the 
 bright eyes of the admired and flattered Essex dart anx- 
 ious glances through the dense crowds that pressed near 
 him, as he slowly rode towards the palace, or walked from 
 his garden in the Strand to take the water, in tlie hope of 
 beholding her again. Constantly disappointed, he at 
 length questioned Sir Horatio Pallavioini on the s^ibject, as 
 being a person likely to be acquainted with all resident 
 fon'igniirs. He was an Ttnlian niiMchiiMt of great repute, 
 
THE MAID OF THE BERYL. 37 
 
 in the queen's service, residing in Lollesworth, a part of 
 the Bishop of London's fields, towards which the stranger 
 had directed her steps. 
 
 " Your lordship must inquire after Arsinoe el Abra, the 
 Maid of the Beryl; yet surely one so favored by fortune 
 has no temptation to task her skill?" 
 
 " You do not mean to say that one so young as this 
 Arsinoe practises witchcraft, or pretends to the learning of 
 an asti'oloorer ?" 
 
 o 
 
 " No ; she is distinct from both, and equally so from the 
 tribe of dissolute and idle vagabonds which have lately in- 
 fested this country. Arsinoe is highly, and even royally, 
 descended, and from her ancestors inherits a knowledge in 
 occult science distinct from that of the wizard, termed 
 sorcery or magic, and which professes to receive aid from 
 good spirits alone. Of these curious and forbidden mat- 
 ters I know nothing, but that this young creature has rare 
 talents, and great virtues also, I can testify ; she was an 
 excellent daughter to the parents she has lost, is of 
 a noble nature, and endowed with equal modesty and 
 dignity." 
 
 A sudden call to attend the Earl of Leicester to Hol- 
 land, wheie, at the battle of Zutphen, the favorite gave 
 signal proof of his valor, and witnessed the death of the 
 brave Sir Philip Sidney, suspended his inquiries after 
 Arsinoe ; but when he returned a knight banneret, and 
 was received with more than usual honors by the queen, 
 his desire to see the eastern maid, not only for herself but 
 for her art, revived, and, by the assistance of Sir Horatio, 
 the interview was effected. 
 
 The visit was made with that secrecy which belongs to 
 mysterious and forbidden things. Under the sole guidance 
 of Akra el Abra, the brother of Arsinoe, and wrapped 
 
38 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 in a laigc cloak, the earl set out at midnight, unknown to 
 bis household, and reached in due time a retired house, 
 situate among dilapidated buildings, and exhibiting in its 
 appearance much that might excite suspicion. After 
 opening the outer door his guide proceeded up so many 
 stairs, that at length the earl recollected that he had been 
 too successful not to have made enemies, and it was 
 possible that he might be throwing himself into their 
 power. 
 
 Just as he' was instinctively grasping his sword, the 
 guide stopped, and desired him to place that weapon, to- 
 gether with his cloak, cap, and shoes, in his hands. 
 
 Essex hesitated ; but being always more valiant than 
 prudent, in another moment he complied with the request. 
 The door of a room, evidently devoted to the pursuits of 
 Arsinoe, was then unlocked, and he entered a place well 
 calculated to make a strong impression on the mind of a 
 young and ardent inquirer into the secrets of futurity. 
 
 The room in question was an exact square, with a dome 
 roof. The walls were hung with crimson cloth, on which 
 numerous hieroglyphics were curiously wrought ; and the 
 floor was covered with that rare article of oriental luxury, 
 a Persian carpet. In the centre of the dome was a sky- 
 light, from which was suspended a beryl of extraordinary 
 size and brilliance, and of the foi-m of a globe. The rays 
 of the full moon fell directly on this precious stone, from 
 which they were so reflected as to illumine the room, which 
 was small, and completely surrounded by a divan, or sofa, 
 except at the east end, which was occupied by a white 
 marble sarcophagus, tilled with pure water, on each 
 side of which stood beautiful statues of the Egyptian 
 Isis. 
 
 Essex had scarcely had time to notice the objects in 
 
THE MAID OF THE BERYL. 39 
 
 this singular boudoir, when Arsinoe entered, bearing in 
 her hands a refulgent lamp. She was splendidly attired 
 in the costume of her country, and exhibited in her car- 
 riage the majesty of a princess ; while her graceful form, 
 i-egular features, and finely-tinted complexion, confirmed 
 the previous impression of her extraordinary beauty. Her 
 countenance mingled with the lofty expression conferred 
 by conscious power, anxiety, and solemnity ; and since the 
 earl did not advert to their former meeting, but merely an- 
 nounced himself as the friend of the Italian merchant, 
 Arsinoe received him as such by a silent movement. 
 When he proceeded to inquire if her prophetic powers 
 were connected with the precious stone before him, she re- 
 plied : " Yes ; it is in the beryl that I must read so much 
 of your future destiny as my instructors see it meet to re- 
 veal. He who has lifted his hand against his fellow man 
 cannot distinctly descry those images which will shortly 
 people the clear expanse before us." 
 
 "Be it so," said the earl, seating himself on the divan, 
 yet looking towards the beryl, beneath which Arsinoe 
 placed the brilliant lamp, uttering at the same time a kind 
 of incantation in her own tongue. In a few moments the 
 beryl, originally of the size of a small orange, appeared to 
 expand considerably ; dark lines divided it into four dis- 
 tinct parts, and numerous moving forms were delineated 
 on the surface of each portion, in a manner equally beau- 
 tiful, miraculous, and awful. 
 
 Arsinoe knelt down, and gazed on the eastern side. " I 
 see," said she, " the queen of these realms riding through 
 a camp, prepared for battle, and you, as the master of the 
 horse, accompanying her. The pageant changes ; j^ou re- 
 turn home from foreign conquest, and your sovereign now 
 receives you rather with the tenderness of woman than the 
 
40 THEMOSS-KOSE. 
 
 condescension of majesty. You kneel at her feet, and rise 
 Earl Marshal of England." 
 
 At tliese words Essex sprang from his seat, as if to con- 
 vince himself of the fact ; but the eastern maid waved her 
 hand majestically, as one born to be obeyed, and placed 
 herself at the southern side of the beryl, as soon as he was 
 re-seated and silent. 
 
 " I see you again kneeling, but it is by the side of a 
 young and lovely woman. Her shape is fine, her eyes 
 dark, her complexion of northern whiteness ; but there is 
 an expression of melancholy in her countenance. She is 
 the widow of one whose name will go down to posterity 
 with honors even brighter than yours. Ah ! she listens to 
 your vows ; she receives from you a ring ; that ring I saw 
 in the heavens ; it is the harbinger of sorrow to the giver 
 and receiver." 
 
 "Your spirits play you false, fair damsel, Robert Deve- 
 reux is as little likely to wed a young widow as an ancient 
 maiden." 
 
 " It is written here ; she is your wedded wife now, and 
 will be anothei''s in days to come." 
 
 A sigh of unutterable anguish followed this declaration, 
 and the fair sorceress, changing her situation, gazed 
 eagerly on the eastern side in silence, until her auditor in- 
 quired what she beheld. 
 
 " I see battle and victory, honor and anger ; the pre- 
 sumption of a favored subject, the weakness of an aged 
 queen. Again the guerdon of valor is bestowed on you, 
 but enemies are around, and the whispers of calumny assail 
 you. The sovereign gives a ring as the pledge of safety, 
 but trust not to it. Now I behold you aoain at the head of 
 armies, but your look is dispirited, and rather befitting an 
 e.vile than a general." 
 
THE MAID OF THEBERYL. 41 
 
 •' That is not the expression I should choose to wear, or 
 can brook to consider. Try the fourth part of your magic 
 globe, my sybil." 
 
 Arsinoe fulfilled the wishes of her impatient guest. She 
 bent her dark eyes on the northern quarter of the beryl 
 with penetrating gaze, but in a moment recoiled, then 
 looked again, and shrieked aloud. The earl rose in alarm, 
 and approached close to the beryl ; but when he reached 
 it the forms became indistinct, the supernatural expansion 
 was withdrawn, and the precious stone remained in its 
 natural state. Casting his eyes around in disappointment 
 not unmixed with terror, he perceived Arsinoe, pale and 
 senseless, on the floor, her fine features bearing the impres- 
 sion of that agony which had given her temporary death. 
 
 " Alas ! why did I come hither ? why did I dare, like 
 Saul, to seek the knowledge which heaven has hidden ?" 
 were the first exclamations of the earl, whose religious 
 principles, deeply implanted by a pious father, now rushed 
 upon his mind, and, while they condemned him for the sin 
 of seeking forbidden knowledge, prohibited further in- 
 quiry as to the object which had so severely affected Ar- 
 sinoe. Pity for her state, indeed, soon obliterated every 
 other impression; he bore her to the sarcophagus, sprink- 
 led her temples and hands with the water, and, as life re- 
 turned, soothed her by gentle words indicative of pity to- 
 wards herself, unmixed with those inquiries which it would 
 have embarrassed her to answer. 
 
 Casting upon him a look of animated gratitude, which 
 was followed by one of the sincerest compassion, Arsinoe 
 rose, and with great solemnity loosed the golden chain by 
 which the beryl was suspended, and suffered it to drop on 
 the floor, saying at the same time, in a voice of deep emo- 
 tion, "I resign thee forever." 
 3* 
 
42 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 Sincerely did the earl, as a Christian, rejoice in a reso- 
 lution wliich he considered to be for the " soul's health" 
 of one in whose well-being he felt deeply interested ; but, 
 in conoratulating so young and fair a woman, it is but too 
 possible that the ardor and tenderness of his nature might 
 express too strongly the feelings of the moment. It is at 
 least certain that, fearful of the power of Arsinoe or of his 
 own susceptibility, the earl hastily fled from her presence, 
 and endeavored in the career of ambition and the pleasures 
 of literature to banish from his mind both the predictions 
 of the beryl and the charms of its possessor. 
 
 The history of this nobleman, his rapid rise to almost 
 sovereign power, his secret marriage with the widow of Sir 
 Philip Sidney, and his unfortunate end, are known to 
 every one. It is probable that when he received from the 
 queen that ring which the cruelty of his enemies eventu- 
 ally rendered useless to him, he thought of the adventure 
 of this memorable night ; but no part of his story induces 
 us to conclude that it dwelt upon his mind. As a warrior 
 or a statesman, he was too perpetually employed to look 
 back on that action, which he probably considered as the 
 frolic of a boy, or the sin of a legislator. 
 
 Far different were the feelings of Arsinoe ; her occupa- 
 tion was gone, and with it that sense of power, wliich, 
 however blamably, had allied her to higher natures ; wliile 
 she had drunk more deeply of that unliappy passion which, 
 though hopeless, was incurable. To wean her from that 
 unknown sorrow, which destroyed her faculties and threat- 
 ened her life, her young brother, now advancing to man- 
 hood, prevailed upon her to travel, and, under the aus- 
 pices of Sir Petei- Pallavicini, She wandered for years in 
 Italy and Sicily. The mildness of the climate counteracted 
 her apparent disease, but neither that nor tlie beauties of 
 
THE MAID OF THE BERYL. 43 
 
 the country could restore her spirits. The only rehef that 
 her melancholy admitted arose fi"om the enjoyment which 
 music afforded her, and which she constantly sought at 
 the hours of worship in the august ceremonies of the 
 Catholic churches. Everywhere her finished beauty, 
 rendered more touching by the gentle melancholy that 
 pervaded her classic features, awoke admiration, which was 
 confirmed by the melting softness of her voice ; but the 
 language of flattery fell on her ear as that of the dead, 
 I and, save in giatitude towards her generous and devoted 
 1 brother, no smile parted the coral lips of Arsinoe, and no 
 j word of hope or cheerfulness interrupted the pensive sad- 
 ness of her meek dejection. 
 
 In the winter of 1600-1, circumstances occurred which 
 rendered it desirable that Akra should visit Eng-land, and 
 Arsinoe made no objection to accompany him, as the sea- 
 son was favorable. They landed below the Tower of Lon- 
 don, and, observing many persons entering the principal 
 gate of that fortress, as they believed for the purpose of 
 { worship — for it was Ash-Wednesday — they entered with 
 ' them, the brother being desirous of seeing a person resi- 
 dent there, whilst his sister should seek her wonted solace 
 in the church. They had, however, proceeded only a 
 short distance within the enclosed space, when they per- 
 ceived with extreme horror, that a scaffold was erected, 
 on which was a block, and by its side two executioners 
 I were already stationed. 
 
 I Arsinoe gazed wildly around. The black object before 
 j her, the dark towers in the background, the stern faces of 
 the headsmen, and the appalled countenances of the spec- 
 tators, were all recognized, and she looked as if bound by 
 . fascination to the objects she loathed and dreaded. In an- 
 other moment, and the whole of that terrific vision was re- 
 
44 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 alized. A noble looking man, in the very piime of life, 
 stepped upon the scaffold. He was arrayed in a diess of 
 black satin, which showed to advantage the singular grace 
 and dignity of his person. His beard was long and full, 
 his face pale but composed, and his dark eyes, though 
 somewhat robbed of their youthful lustre, told the trem- 
 bling Arsinoe, in their first penetrating glances, that he, 
 the worshipped idol of her young heart, stood before her 
 a sufferer and a victim. 
 
 It was believed by all around, until the last moment, 
 that the mercy of the queen would interpose to snatch 
 from destruction one so dear and so distinguished. Whis- 
 perings to that effect mingled with the audible sighs of 
 those present. Arsinoe heard them not ; with one con- 
 vulsive sob she sank fainting on the ground, unheeded at 
 this awful period by all but her brothei-. When life re- 
 turned — when in eagerness and tei ror she again looked to- 
 wards the scaffold, the newly dissevered head, bleeding 
 and ghastly, met her view, and again she sank senseless to 
 the earth. 
 
 The sorrows of Arsinoe now drew rapidly to a close. 
 She had loved as woman only loves, in silent hopelessness 
 and unabated admiration, that object which imagination, 
 not less than memory, endued with its power to chaim. 
 Her brother knew not, till this terrific chcumst.incc re- 
 vealed the mystery, the cause of the deep-seated sorrow 
 which had desolated the best years of her life, and sub- 
 dued the energies of her capacious mind ; but he found 
 himself unable, as before, to alleviate the sorrow which he 
 so sincerely pitied. 
 
 Happily the extreme anxiety evinced by Arsinoe to learn 
 every word uttered by the unfortunate Essex in his la^t 
 moments, and which she besougbt her brother to lepeat 
 
THE MAID or THE BERYL. 45 
 
 daily, led her to seek consolation from that religion -which 
 sustained him in that awful hour, and had influenced him 
 during life. In Italy she had attended Christian worship 
 to sooth and divert her mind, but she now sought its sa- 
 cred truths as the consolation of her heart ; and under its 
 divine influence, hopes of a glorious and exalted nature 
 illuminated the death-bed of the Maid of the Beryl. 
 
THE WIND. 
 
 BY MISS C. E. ROBERTS. 
 
 The day is clear and bright — and clouds 
 
 Of fleecy white arise 
 
 Upon the perfect skies, 
 Mere playthings for the frolic wind, 
 Who, for wild sport inclined. 
 
 Out swiftly hies ! 
 
 The dry leaves sure are sport enough, 
 For his strange, fitful play ; 
 He scattereth them away, 
 
 And whirls them, see — all round and round 
 
 Upon the sober ground, 
 The livelong day. 
 
 It makes me smile to watch the wind — 
 
 To-da)' he seems to be 
 
 Full of wild trickery ; 
 Then sings himself to sleep, and you 
 Would think him dreaming too, 
 
 So still he'll be. 
 
 Then of a sudden, up he starts, 
 And like a gleesome child, 
 With fun and frolic wild ; 
 
THE WIND. 
 
 47 
 
 He'll play most antic tricks, and then 
 Most still he'll be again, 
 And very mild. 
 
 He bends the tree-tops to and fro, 
 Then mounteth to the sky, 
 To chase the clouds that lie 
 
 Like sleeping doves in the far west; 
 
 He wakes them from their rest. 
 And bids them fly. 
 
 Then far away he hies, to rouse 
 The placid wave, and creep 
 Over the tranquil deep. 
 Unquiet wind ! I prithee rest 
 Upon the billow's gentle breast. 
 And sweetly sleep. 
 
 I hardly thought to write a verse 
 
 On such a fitful theme, 
 
 But it doth ever seem 
 That nature bringeth to my view 
 Some subject ever new, 
 
 For ray day-dream. 
 
OUR MOSS-ROSE 
 
 BY THE EDITRESS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Surely you are not in earnest, Lauia !" said her fiiend, 
 Ella Morris, as both were seated upon a little mound, in 
 the thick s^hade of a maple grove, towards the close of u fine 
 afternoon in June. 
 
 " I assure you, I was never more so, Ella; and I re- 
 peat it — 1 will never marry a man who does not love flow- 
 ers." 
 
 " Not if he were possessed of excellent qualities, and 
 
 you loved him ?" 
 
 " If he were indeed excellent," answered Laura, "his 
 soul would appreciate the beautiful in Nature ; he would 
 see the hand of a Creator in every little flower that sheds 
 its fragrance ; in every tiny bell that bows to earth, and 
 every soft, meek eye that turns to heaven.* 
 
 •' I too love flowers," said Ella, " but never thought 
 that circumstance would influence me in the choice of a 
 husband. If a young man loved me, who was fine look- 
 ing, well educated, possessed of good morals, and rich, 
 I do not think I should refuse him because he did not love 
 flowers." 
 
 " I understand your meaning," said Laura, slightly 
 coloring ; " but Walter Lee, splendid as he is, has few sym- 
 
',/ 
 
 ■'/■^ //?(^< C^-/ic\i^' ^ 
 
OUR MOSS-ROSE 
 
 49 
 
 patliies in common with mine. I could not be happy as 
 his wife ; of course could not contribute to his happi- 
 ness. I have frankly told him this ; and I doubt not his 
 decision of character will aid him to forget me, and turn 
 his attentions to one who will appreciate his worth. He 
 has my best wishes." 
 
 " Well, I will only say, I hope, Laura, you will not re- 
 gret this step. But what think you of our new acquaint- 
 ance, Mr. Elliston ?" 
 
 " His manner is agreeable," was the reply ; " and as a 
 physiognomist, I see nothing in his face to censure. That 
 he has a highly cultivated mind may be inferred from his 
 conversation, I think. I have heard my brother mention 
 him with great pleasure." 
 
 " Ah ! I see how it is. I observed his glances were 
 directed to you last evening at Coleman's, to the exclusion 
 of other gay ladies. I wonder if he loves flowers ?" 
 
 " Nonsense, Ella ; remember, we are almost strangei's." 
 The tint which mantled her cheek deepened as she ob- 
 served the approach of the two gentlemen of whom they 
 had been speaking. Retreat was impossible, even had it 
 been desired ; and the four were soon absorbed in the con- 
 templation of the charming view before them. Fleecy 
 clouds of silver floating leisurely in the deep blue sky ; the 
 bright green robe of earth, as yet unsullied by the hot 
 breath of a summer sun ; the delicate and blushing flow- 
 ers, luxuriantly blooming in their mountain homes ; the 
 luscious strawberry, with its crimson pvilp drooping in 
 clusters among the rich velvet that adorns the hillside 
 and valley ; the thick foliage of the forest trees, gently 
 waving in the breeze ; and the sweet melody of the birds, 
 who find a secure home in the almost impenetrable 
 branches ; all these were beheld with admiration. To add 
 
50 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 to tire beauty of the landscape, not far distant a majestic 
 river with its glassy surface, reflected the wliite sails and 
 dark bows of the vessels, as they glided peacefully on, 
 bearing wealth, and beauty, and fashion, to a crowded 
 mart. 
 
 Who would not enjoy such a picture, and involuntarily 
 turn his thouglits from Nature up to Nature's God ? 
 Such, indeed, was the effect upon the minds of those to 
 whom the reader has just been introduced. Even the 
 flowers, stones, and pebbles in the path had a charm ; 
 and Mr. Elliston improved the opportunity to speak of 
 the unhmited gratitude due to the great Architect from 
 his creatures. " When looking upon such a scene," said 
 he, " I greatly wonder that any one can say, ' there is no 
 God.' His voice may be heard in every gentle zephyr — 
 His handiwork may be seen in every object that meets 
 the eye. Is it not strange. Miss Fordham, that an athe- 
 ist can exist in this beautiful world?" 
 
 " It surely is, Mr. EUiston," said Laura ; " we can 
 hardly suppose any one serious, or capable of reflection, 
 who ascribes everything to chance." 
 
 " Such a one should ask himself," continued he, " Can 
 chance produce the regularity of the seasons ? Can 
 chance cause this lovely Azalea to be dressed annually in 
 the same rose-colored petals ? Can chance array the 
 flowers of a peculiar rose-tree only, with a delicate cover- 
 ing of moss?" 
 
 " There is, indeed, convincing proof of a Deity in every- 
 thing we see, and hear, and feel," said Laura ; " and 1 
 hope tlie time may not be far distant when all will be 
 willing to admit, what must be the inward conviction of 
 the heart, that there is an overruling Providence, who can 
 lead the very soul." 
 
OUR MOSS-ROSE. 51 
 
 " It is to be regretted that individuals exert themselves 
 so little for the benefit of the world at large. Did it ever 
 occur to you, Miss Fordham, that extreme diffidence might 
 prevent much moral good to community ? We not un- 
 frequently meet with those who think themselves of so 
 little consequence, as to suppose that their example and 
 exertions would have no influence upon those around 
 them — who fear to act according to the dictates of con- 
 science — who feel that each one is comparatively but a 
 drop of water to the ocean — and yet, were every person 
 to think thus of himself, where would be the result ? 
 Where the ocean, consisting of innumerable drops ? We 
 know that in machinery, wheel acts upon wheel, till a 
 mighty force is produced ; so mankind act upon each 
 other, whether the tendency be good or evil. How im- 
 portant, then, that the young mind be directed aright ! — 
 that"— 
 
 "EUiston!" said Fordham, who with Ella had wan- 
 dered a short distance, and was now approaching, " ElUs- 
 ton ! here is a fine specimen of flesh-colored feldspar, 
 which Ella found among these stones ; besides some crys- 
 tals of quartz which are worth preserving. How glori- 
 ously they reflect the sunHght ! but look ! the sun is 
 nearly down, or rather we can see his bright face peeping 
 between yonder trees as he is sinking behind the hill. 
 Shall we walk on, and be in time to take a turn in the 
 garden before dark, and talk over our college hours ?" 
 
 " As you please," said Mr. Elliston ; and they were \ 
 soon among the rare exotics which Laura's care had 
 reared. 
 
 " Ah ! here are my favorites," said he, as he paused ; 
 among the Eglantine, Damask, and White Roses. " To j 
 me no garden flowers can surpass this faniily, of which ' 
 
52 T H E M O S S - R O S E . 
 
 the Moss Rose is queen ; thougli it does not expand its 
 rich petals till some weeks later, I think. What say you, 
 ladies ? Is my taste correct in a love of old-fashioned 
 flowers ?" 
 
 " I believe we are ready to admit that a Rose is more 
 delicately beautiful and fragrant, more pleasing than any 
 other flower," said Ella ; " the little modest Violet, however, 
 ought not to be forgotten." 
 
 " J should have said. Miss Morris, that the lowly Vio- 
 let, perhaps, ranks next the Rose in loveliness — but here 
 is such a variety to look at and admire, that I may be in 
 danger of passing a wrong judgment amidst so much 
 beauty." 
 
 " My attention and love are divided among my flowers, 
 and I scarcely dare acknowledge to myself a preference," 
 said Laura. 
 
 " Ellistou !" said Horace, gaily, " I have a secret for 
 you. My sister is passionately fond of flowers, as you 
 may perceive by the care she has bestowed upon them, 
 and the Moss Rose is her pet of pets. Ella and I some- 
 times call her ' our Moss Rose.' " And taking an album 
 from the summer-house, he added, " Here are your senti- 
 ments precisely, Laura !" and he read aloud — 
 
 " Tbe Angel of tlie flowers, one day, 
 Beneath a Rose-tree sleeping lay ; 
 That angel to whose charge 'tis given 
 To bathe young buds in dews from heaven. 
 Awaking from its light repose, 
 The Angel whispered to the Rose — 
 'Oh, fairest object of my care ! 
 Still fairest found where all is fair, 
 For the sweet shade thou'st given to me, 
 Ask what thou wilt — 'tis granted thee.' 
 
OURMOSS-ROSE. ^3 
 
 " ' Then,' said the Rose, with deepened glow, 
 'On rae another grace bestow.' 
 The spirit paused in anxious thought — 
 What grace was there this flower had not ? 
 'Twas but a moment — o'er the Rose, 
 A veil of Moss the A.ngel throws. 
 And, clothed in Nature's simplest weed. 
 Can there a flower this Rose exceed ?" 
 
 "I will not deny that T am half in love with the lines 
 myself, as well as with the Roses," continued he ; " but 
 let us be seated a while for our intended purpose upon 
 this bench, Elliston, while the girls are engaged in the 
 house ; for I perceive a messenger is calling them away. 
 We will join you soon in the drawing-room, ladies. 
 Meantime, ' Bon soir !' " said he, with a smile. 
 
 With what delight mm reverts to his college hours ! — 
 that portion of life spent so industriously plodding over 
 books, maturing the mind, and fitting it to enter upon 
 the arena of life, to contest with its cares and necessary 
 trials. The stern, dignified faces of the President and 
 Professors — the mock-gravity of some Tutors — the long, 
 perhaps dry, recitations in the dead languages — the ro- 
 guish pranks and sly tricks played by some mischeivous 
 wag, who perhaps received merited disgrace — the excitement 
 attending Commencement — the valedictory honors, and 
 the parting of the graduates — furnish abundant themes of 
 interest. To pursue the subject further, and trace the 
 various paths which they have entered for life — some, 
 perhaps, to arrive at an honorable distinction in this fa- 
 vored country, where it is said merit receives its reward, 
 and poverty is no bar to preferment ; otliers neglecting to 
 improve the talents God has given them, pursuing the 
 downward path which terminates in a total prostration of 
 
54 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 hopes in this ■world, and in a prospect of a miserable 
 eternit}' — these subjects, we say, would make one forget- 
 ful of passing time ; and no wonder that our friends were 
 thus occupied till a late hour, ere they sought the house. 
 
 it may be well to mention that they had emulated each 
 other in the college race, and graduated with high honors. 
 Firmly attached, their friendship never diminished, not- 
 withstanding their paths lay widely apart. They knew 
 that 
 
 "Equity demandeth recompense; for liigh place, calumny and 
 care ; 
 
 For state, comfortless splendor, eating out the heart of home ; 
 
 For warrior-fame, dangers and death ; for a name among the 
 learned, a spirit overstrained ; 
 
 For honor of all kinds the goad of ambition ; on every acquire- 
 ment, the tax of anxiety." 
 
 Horace Fordham decided to dive into the forbidding vol- 
 umes of Blackstone, Kent, Chitty and Coke ; and by mak- 
 ing himself acquainted with the laws of nations, rise to 
 eminence, though he received the recompense of an " over- 
 strained spirit," and felt "the goad of ambition;" still he 
 pressed on undaunted and uncomplaining. Having been 
 admitted into the high courts of the Slate, he retired to 
 his quiet home on the bank of the Hudson River, and with 
 an only sister and her orphan friend, who was spending 
 some weeks with her, enjoyed the luxuries of a retired 
 life, and cheered the declining ])atlnvay of their parents. 
 
 The gifted Charles Elliston, feeling that the pleasures 
 of this world would soon pass away, and anxious to d(^ his 
 Master's bidding, and prepare for an inheritanoe above, 
 entered a theolojifical seininarv ; and in due time took 
 holy orders, and entered ujton the ministry in Baltimore. 
 
OURMOSS-ROSE. 55 
 
 There, by precept and example, he was the means of do- 
 ing great good ; but his health failing by close applica- 
 tion to his duties, his physician advised a tour to the north 
 for a few months, much to the regret of his parish; still 
 they felt that in their present privation rested the only 
 hope of his usefulness and happiness. Many a sad heart 
 pressed round the beloved rector for a parting pressure of 
 the hand ; many a tearful eye looted up as the voice bade 
 farewell. The good young man gave them an aflPection- 
 ate benediction, and was soon on his way leisurely north- 
 ward. He spent several days both in Philadelphia and 
 New York ; and finding his health improving, he de- 
 termined to extend his travels somewhat further, and 
 visit his old friend Horace Fordham, whom he had not seen 
 after leaving Yale College. Accordingly he took lodgings 
 at the hotel two days before his introduction to our reader ; 
 the next evening was invited to a soiree at Coleman's ; 
 and now came, at the solicitation of his friend Horace, to 
 spend the remainder of his sojourn at the bouse of Mr. 
 Fordham. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Morning came in all its glory. Who does not love, 
 above all seasons, a pleasant June morning ; and who 
 would not prefer to lose a few hours' sleep in that part of 
 the day, for the far more rational enjoyment of early 
 rising; ? The air is so fresh and bracing — the birds are 
 warbling their rich love-notes — the glorious sun sheds his 
 first beams on the green hill-tops, and as he ascends still 
 higher, changes the dew-drops upon the grass into glitter- 
 
56 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 ing gems — the air is fragrant with flowers ; and while the 
 body is invigorated and refreshed, the soul seems to over- 
 flow with gratitude to the Creator, and love to all man- 
 kind. Does not this leave a calm within the breast, a 
 kind of forbearance and good humor, which enables us the 
 better to bear the crosses and vexations of the dav ? 
 
 Charles Elliston rose early, and threw open his window 
 to enjoy the luxury of the hour. His heart warmed with 
 holy love, and he drew near in reverence to his Master, and 
 indulged, as was his custom, in a sweet season of secret 
 devotion. On descendino- to the sfarden, he found Horace 
 at the door of the sitting-room, who, after inquiring how 
 he had passed the night, asked if he would like a walk in 
 the fresh air before breakfast ; and afterward he would 
 show him some portraits that were said to be good like- 
 nesses; upon his own particularly, he wished his opinion. 
 
 The good old gentleman and lady considered the so- 
 ciety of their son's friend a great acquisiUon. During the 
 breakfast hour they drew forth the rich stores of his mind, 
 and began to look upon him as a being of superior order. 
 He had seen much of the world, and his perceptive facul- 
 ties had been employed as well as the intellectual — ever 
 realizing that the time would come when he should be 
 required to render an account of the manner in which he 
 had improved his talents, and return them to his Lord. 
 
 And where were Laura and Ella, meanwhile ? At the 
 breakfast table, surely, drinking in the draughts of wis- 
 dom that fell from the lips of their guest ; as first simply 
 replying to an occasional question, and afterwards entering 
 more fully into the general conversation. 
 
 " What think you of my portrait, Elliston ?" asked 
 Horace, after an inspection of its merits. 
 
 " A perfect likeness, and a fine painting !" was the re- 
 
OURMOSS-ROSE. 67 
 
 ply. " In my opinion it could not be improved. The 
 shades are admirably applied to produce a life-like ap- 
 pearance. Who was the artist ?" 
 
 "A lady in our neighborhood — a particular friend," 
 I'eplied Horace, " to whom I will introduce you before you 
 leave." 
 
 " Do so. I have a strong curiosity to become acquainted 
 with a lady who possesses such rare talent." 
 
 " She is not ambitious of beinor known to the world as 
 an artist ; indeed it is kept a profound secret, and she dis- 
 plays her skill upon the canvass only for her own family, 
 or some favored friend. I said I would introduce you to 
 her ; but must be excused from doing so, till I am con- 
 vinced your heart is not at your own disposal," said Ford- 
 ham as he passed on to the next picture. 
 
 " I believe I have caught your meaning, my friend," 
 said the young clergyman ; " and fear I shall lose the 
 privilege of seeing your inamorata, upon those terms ; for, 
 truth to tell, I came here heart-free, (and his voice 
 slightly faltered ;) there are many truly excellent and in- 
 tellectual ladies in the circle of my acquaintance at the 
 South, who will doubtless make worthy wives ; but some- 
 how, I never sought such a life-companion. And yet I am 
 not a confirmed, unrepentant bachelor." 
 
 The merits and demerits of each likeness were dis- 
 cussed, as the friends continued their examination. 
 
 " Is this a picture, or a portrait ?" asked Mr. Elliston, 
 as he stood admiringly before a large painting. 
 
 " It is both a picture and a portrait," was the reply ; 
 " and was executed by a travelling artist about twelve 
 years since. To me it is full of interest ; and if you will 
 sit down here, beside me, I will explain it." 
 
 Both being seated, he began : " The sweet, thoughtful 
 4 
 
58 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE.- 
 
 looking girl, plainly dressed in black, and holding a white 
 lily, which the other has just given her, is Vesta Wilmot. 
 A smile lights her pale, sad face, to hear the voice of 
 kindness from a fellow-being ; and to receive a token of 
 love, though it be only a simple flower. The little curly- 
 headed cherub beside her, with a basket of flowers upon 
 her arm, guarded by the faithful Fido, and who is offering 
 a Moss Rose to the little orphan, is my sister Laura. 
 Being an only daughter, therefore, without a playmate, 
 except myself, who am seven years her elder, she was 
 much alone, and attached herself to birds and flowers. 
 Indeed she seemed to have a loving heart, and a kind 
 word for almost everything that could understand her ; 
 and the instinct of animals generally prompts them to 
 know a fiiend. She was permitted at all times to ramble 
 in ihe garden, and sometimes in the fields, though rarely 
 without an attendant ; and a certain part of the garden was 
 reserved for her especial use, to gratify her love for those 
 httle ' gifts from Heaven,' as she called them. 
 
 "When about six years of age, one morning in the 
 beginning of August, after having attended to her usual 
 task — my good mother being her teacher — she tied on 
 a httle sun- bonnet, took a basket on her arm, and said to 
 the companion of her rambles, ' Come, Fido, come with 
 me, and gather flowers.' Away both bounded in biwh 
 glee, and her absence elicited no an.xiety till noon came, 
 and they returned not. A servant was sent to the <i-ar- 
 den to seek her, but the search was fruitless. In a state 
 of distraction, my mother sent the servants in every direc- 
 tion to scour the fields and groves ; but in vain. My 
 father was absent on business, and I returned from a 
 neighboring town, with the Umner, in time to witness my 
 mother's distress. 1 begged iu-r to be calm, and told her 
 
OUR MOSS-ROSE. 59 
 
 I would find my sister, if such a thing were possible ; and 
 assured her I did not doubt ray success, as I knew all her 
 favorite haunts. Each put spurs to his horse, and we 
 were off in a moment. 
 
 " More than a mile from the house is a narroAV gorge, * 
 where a small stream runs rapidly through, at times quite 
 deep, and on its banks, and in the shady nooks, are wild 
 flowers in great beauty and abundance. To that place 
 Laura frequently resorted, nor left till she had filled her 
 basket. It was so cool and shady, she could hardly have 
 found a more delightful one. Thither we bent our steps, 
 and tying our horses, we took the small footpath which 
 led from the highway, and soon found ourselves in that 
 romantic spot. Long and vainly we sought her ; and we 
 made the woods reverberate with the name of ' Laura ;' 
 but echo alone replied. As we were about to leave, I 
 discovered her sun-bonnet upon a little mossy seat I had 
 constructed for her. I called again with the same result 
 as before. * Laura is drowned !' I exclaimed in agony. 
 
 " ' Not so,' said my companion ; * see ! here are her 
 footprints, and those of the dog. Let us follow up the 
 stream !' and we'ipushed on with fresh hope. Sometimes 
 we would lose sight of the tracks, and my heart seemed 
 to die within me ; again some little token would encourage 
 us on. Once, I recollect, we found a green rose-leaf in 
 the path, and I knew she must have dropped it there ; for 
 no roses grew near that sequestered spot. 
 
 " The stream comes tumbling down from yonder moun- 
 tain, and forms many little cascades and waterfalls ere it 
 comes to the spot which I have spoken of as ' the gorge.' 
 After going perhaps a mile beyond the last-mentioned 
 place, we came to a sudden bend in the stream ; and turn- 
 ing an angle, this tableau vivant, as represented in the 
 
60 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 picture, burst upon our enraptured sight, a little distance 
 before us. We paused in silence to contemplate it for a 
 moment. The little orphan Vesta, some four years older 
 than my sister, was evidently on an errand for the family 
 with whom she resided ; and setting down her large, 
 covered basket near the shining waterfall, paused to rest 
 and cool herself in the thick shade. Laura's face was 
 turned from us, so that she did not perceive our approach ; 
 and we heard her say : ' Keep the lily ; it is purity : and 
 take this Moss Rose too, for it means elegance and superior 
 merit. Love them, for my sake, httle girl ; for you say 
 you have no mamma or papa to love ! Hence the origin 
 of her appellation, ' The Moss Rose.' 
 
 " ' Here is a fine subject for my pencil,' said my com- 
 panion Alexander ; ' I will observe it well. But can I 
 ever equal it ! the round, white neck and auburn curls of 
 our little favorite — the well-formed arm and delicate hand 
 extended over her flower-basket, as if to protect it, almost 
 restincr upon Fido's well-washed coat — the left hand off"er- 
 ing the rose witli so much grace — and that pensive face 
 illumined by a beam of joy that she has found a friend — 
 the dense shade-trees — the crystal streatn and the silver 
 waterfall — beautiful ! beautiful !' 
 
 " I desired my friend to remain where he could watch 
 my sister, while I flew to relieve my mother's extreme 
 anxiety ; and promised to return immediately after, and 
 accompany them home. 1 will not attempt to describe 
 our o-ood mother's joy, that the lost was found — her meek 
 and quiet spirit poured forth its gratitude to Heaven in 
 secret. w^ 
 
 " ' Come and see me, sometimes, at my papa's house, ■ 
 will you not?' said Laura, as I took her by the hand to 
 lead lier hf)nie ; ' and do not cry any more for your papa 
 
OUR MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 61 
 
 and mamma, for they cannot come to you ; but my mamma 
 says if we are good, when we die, we shall go to heaven, 
 and be with our friends there ; and if yours are in heaven 
 they will know if you are good, and will look down and 
 smile, and take care of you.' 
 
 " My friend Alexander completed this picture with 
 credit to himself, and I love to look at it ; it reminds me 
 of those by-gone days, and if I ever have any religious 
 feelings, it is when gazing on the representation of so much 
 innocence. I must accompany you, some fine day, to the 
 two most conspicuous places in my story — that is, if you 
 will feel interested in them. They are slightly altered, 
 but not entirely changed." 
 
 •' I am, indeed, deeply interested in all," said Mr. Ellis- 
 ton ; " but where is the little orphan ?" 
 
 " She is the accomplished wife of our worthy rector," 
 answered Horace. " You will see her, perhaps, at our 
 house this evening ; and a very lovely woman she is, be- 
 lieve me." 
 
 " By what good fortune, or rather providence, did she 
 obtain an education ?" 
 
 " Laura recounted her adventures to our parents, and 
 earnestly besought that the sad little girl might come 
 and live with them, and be her sister ; and that her own 
 papa and mamma would be Vesta's too," 
 
 "And they consented ?" 
 
 " Yes ; they were always most happy to grant any 
 reasonable re'quest to their darling daughter, and circum- 
 stances being taken collectively, they considered it a duty, 
 as well as pleasure, to do so. Both girls had the same 
 teachers — the same lessons — the same attention ; and, as 
 far as could be discerned, the same aftection manifested to 
 them. Two years since, she became the happy bride of 
 
62 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 the Rev. Mr. D , and receives the merited esteem of 
 
 the parish." 
 
 " How mysterious are the ways of Providence !" said 
 Elliston. " Great must be the satisfaction of your ex- 
 cellent parents and sister to feel that they have been the 
 means of doing so much good." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 We pass over the events of the day till evening ; suffice 
 it to say, it had been a day of heartfelt enjoyment. The 
 rooms were brilliantly lighted, and a few select friends 
 joined the family circle. Among these were the Rev. 
 
 Mr. D and lady. Our two young clergymen were 
 
 drawn together by a similarity of tastes, pursuits, and ef- 
 forts, and shortly acquired the familiarity of brothers. It 
 was pleasant for each to listen to, and recount the success 
 of his labors in the ministry, and the great good each de- 
 signed, with God's help, to accomplish. 
 
 " But I must not allow my selfishness to pre\'ent you 
 from enjoying the society of those around us," said Mr. 
 
 D , " I trust we may have frequent opportunities 
 
 to meet and resume our subject." 
 
 Charles Elliston found Mrs. D all that his friend 
 
 had described her to be ; and succeeded in tracing some 
 httle resemblance to the fair lily whicli had* so much in- 
 terested him in the picture. The sweet " Moss Rose" 
 too was there — his beau ideal oi perfection; but a thorn 
 prevented his approach. Walter Lee was ever at her 
 side ofliciously escorting her from place to place — stand- 
 ing beside her at the piano, and evidently willing that all 
 
OUR MOSS-ROSE. 63 
 
 present should look iqion him as her accepted lover. 
 More than once Mr. EUiston instinctively, met the glance 
 of her mild eye, and lie tliought she looked embarrassed — 
 uneasy. Could Laura indeed be betrothed ? All was to 
 him a mystery. 
 
 A severe head-ache induced him to leave the company 
 apparently unobserved. He sought tlie fresh air, hoping 
 its gentle influence would quiet the throbbings of his 
 heart. " Why should I be troubled," thought he, " or 
 encourage sentiments which may distui-b her happiness, 
 and forever destroy my own ? I must be more guarded 
 in future, and look upon her as the almost wedded sister 
 of a dear friend. Assist me, heavenly Father, to tear all 
 idols from my heart, and worship only Thee !" 
 
 He returned to the drawing-room, and with forced com- 
 posure sought to aid in entertaining the company. At an 
 early hour they dispersed. That night, in the loneliness 
 of his chamber, by self-examination and prayer his mind 
 became calm, and sleep came with her gentle soothings to 
 lull him to forgetfulness. The excitements of the day — 
 the interesting picture and associations — the union of con- 
 genial spirits — the blighted hopes, which, until now, he 
 scarcely knew had sprung up in his heart, all were for- 
 gotten ; and he awoke in the morning refreshed and 
 grateful. 
 
 A week passed rapidly by ; another and another suc- 
 ceeded, all frauarht with interest The moruino: ride — the 
 pleasant ramble — the friendly call — hours for reading, 
 study, meditation, and mutual entertainment occupied the 
 time, and Elliston still lingered at the home of his hospi- 
 table friend, and still became more unwilling to say adieu. 
 But he had not even the plea of indisposition now to de- 
 tain him there, for the fine bracing air had nearly restored 
 
64 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 his health, and he intimated to his friend Horace that he 
 purposed returning to Baltimore in about a week to re- 
 sume his charge. 
 
 " Not, surely, in this unhealthy season ?" said Fordham ; 
 "it would be madness to go now. Stay with us till 
 August is past, and then you can go with greater safety." 
 
 " But remember, Horace, my little flock there are as 
 sheep without a shepherd." 
 
 "Would it not injure you very much, without benefit- 
 ting them, if you return before your health is permanently 
 established ? I believe I must exeicise my prerogative 
 as a physician, for I have undertaken your cure, and I 
 shall insist that you remnin here so long as there is any 
 danger from leaving." 
 
 " But the necessity of thercase, my kind friend ; — indeed 
 there are important reasons why I should go." 
 
 " And I have important reasons why you should re- 
 main," said Horace. " In the first place, your health is 
 not firmly established, though much improved ; in the 
 second place, the yellow fever is ravaging the city ; and 
 in the third place, we wish your presence at a certain 
 wedding which is to take place in the next month." 
 
 " Spare me ! spare me, Fordham ! Do not ask me to 
 witness that marriage !" said Elliston, thrown off his guard. 
 
 " You amaze me, Elliston !" 
 
 " This is not unexpected, Fordham. I have, for some 
 time, been convinced that such an event must take place 
 sooner or later ; but hoped it might be delayed till I was 
 far away. Horace, my friend, you will not be displeased, 
 I trust, when I say that I had fondly hoped to call you 
 brotlier, by a union with the only lady I ever ventured to 
 love — the most excellent of womankind. Do I need an 
 apology for loving exalted worth ? It could not be that 
 
OURMOSS-ROSE. 65 
 
 I should associate thus with her — seeing her daily as she 
 is — fulfilling all the sacred duties of daughter, sister, friend 
 and neighbor— beautiful, intellectual, and accomplished — 
 and not be in danger of loving her. I had the vanity to 
 suppose that my character, prospects, and family were not 
 objectionable ; but she will never know the sentiments 
 with which she has inspired me ; it would wound her 
 gentle spirit to think she had made me unhappy ; and in 
 fulfilling the duties of my holy office, where I shall no 
 longer see her, I shall endeavor to be cheerful even if I 
 cannot forget." 
 
 " Elliston, I suspected your attachment to my sister ; 
 why did you not propose ? If I can read woman's heart 
 aright, you would have had little to fear." 
 
 " Was she not betrothed to Lee ?" 
 
 " No ; and will never marry him. She declined his 
 proposal before you came ; and, for aught I know, stands 
 a good chance of being an old maid, unless the Rev. 
 Charles Elliston condescends to conduct her to the altar at 
 the same time that your humble servant, Horace Ford- 
 bam, Esq., is united to his beloved Ella Morris in August 
 next. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 What a revulsion of feeling ! It would require the pen 
 of a ready writer to describe it — we dare not. Elliston 
 did not go south, till after his friend's wedding — the urgent 
 reasons no longer existed. Did " our sweet Moss Rose" 
 reject him? No! but "with deepened glow" she said, 
 " Ask my father !" That excellent old gentleman replied, 
 4* 
 
66 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 " Mr. Elliston, you alone are worthy of her. I confide 
 her to your care ; watch over and protect our cherished 
 ' Moss Rose ;' and may Heaven's choicest blessings attend 
 you both !" 
 
 "And now, my good brother-in-law in perspective," 
 said Horace, " shall I introduce you to the artist, whose 
 skill upon my portrait called forth such commendations 
 from your lips ? Our ' Moss Rose,' Mr. Elliston ! Ah, I 
 perceive you are already acquainted — well, then, permit 
 me to introduce to you another likeness from her pencil. 
 Do you recognize this ?" and he brought a portrait for- 
 ward. 
 
 " My own likeness, Laura ! and you painted it ?" She 
 blushingly acknowledged the secret to the delighted 
 original. 
 
 Meantime Laura and Ella were busily engaged in pre- 
 paring for the eventful period, when they were to take 
 upon themselves the duties of a wife. It was arrant^ed 
 that the double wedding should be solemnized in the 
 church ; and the family party were to go to Baltimore for 
 a few weeks; stopping for a short time in New York, 
 where Ella's relatives resided. One day, when the friends 
 were engaged with their needles, and laying plans for the 
 future, Laura said — 
 
 " Dear Ella ! you and I shall live so far from each 
 other, I fear we shall seldom meet — but you will be a 
 daughter to my dear parents; otherwise I could not 
 leave them. I trust you will supply my loss to thom." 
 
 "And Mr. Elliston will supply my loss to )-ou, dear 
 Laura ! I have no fears for your happiness, nor many for 
 my own. By the bye, Laura, docs Mr. Elliston love 
 flowers ?" said she, archly. 
 
 A sweet smile was the only answer. 
 
OURMOSS-ROSE. 67 
 
 Time continued his course as usual. The sun rose and 
 set — and rose and set — and July was ended. Even to the 
 lovers, the month seemed very short — to the parents 
 still shorter ; for they realized that the time was at hand, 
 when the best of daughters would be with them no more, 
 for a season — and they felt that the absence of her gentle 
 heart and loving smile would leave a blank difficult to be 
 filled. But the sacrifice was for her happiness — with the 
 chosen of her heart, she would exert a hallowed influence 
 around her — equalling, at least, her beloved Vesta in dis- 
 charging the duties of a clergyman's wife ; and if they 
 permitted tears to fall at thoughts of parting, they fell not 
 before mortal eye. 
 
 The day arrived. The church was filled. Charles El- 
 liston and Horace Fordham stood before the altar beside 
 the chosen of each heart. Robed in simple muslin, pure 
 as the virgin snow — a white Moss Rose-bud in the hair of 
 each, Laura and Ella promised "love, obedience, truth ;" 
 and after a few minutes of deep solemnity, the " man of 
 God" pronounced each pair " husband and wife." 
 
 As they were entering the carriage, Mr. Ellis ton said 
 to the parents, " You have indeed bestowed upon me a 
 treasure ; this is now my own " sweet Moss Rose," which 
 I have promised to love and cherish — and if transplanted 
 to a southern soil, I trust it may continue to flourish in 
 beauty there, and diffuse fragrance and loveliness far and 
 wide." 
 
THE LIFE CLOCK 
 
 FEOM THE GE&MAN. 
 
 There is a little mystic clock, 
 
 No human eye hath seen, 
 That beateth on — and beateth on. 
 
 From morning until e'en. 
 
 And when the soul is wrapped in sleep. 
 
 And heareth not a sound. 
 It ticks, and ticks, the livelong night. 
 
 And never runneth down. 
 
 Oh, wondrous is the work of art. 
 Which knells the passing hour. 
 
 But art ne'er formed — nor mind conceived 
 The Life Clock's magic power. 
 
 Nor set in gold, nor decked with gems. 
 By wealth and pride possessed ; 
 
 But rich or poor, or high or low. 
 Each bears it in his breast. 
 
 When life's deep stream 'mid beds of flowers, 
 
 All still and softly glides. 
 Like the wavelet's step, with a gentle beat 
 
 It warns of passing tides. 
 
THELIFECLOCK. 69 
 
 When threat'ning darkness gathers o'er, 
 
 And hope's bright visions flee, 
 Like the sullen stroke of muffled oar, 
 
 It beateth heavily. 
 
 When passion nerves the warrior's breast, 
 
 For deeds of hate and wrona:, 
 Though heeded not the fearful sound. 
 
 The knell is deep and strong. 
 
 When eyes to eyes are gazing soft. 
 
 And tender words are spoken. 
 Then fast and wild it rattles on. 
 
 As if with love 'twere broken. 
 
 Such is the clock that measures life, 
 
 Of flesh and spirit blended ; 
 And thus 'twill run within the breast. 
 
 Till this strange life is ended. 
 
D E S r I N Y 
 
 BY F . 
 
 " For atijlit thai I couli) over read, 
 Coulil ever hear by tale or history, 
 The c.iurso of true love never did run smooth ; 
 Bui either it was diflerenl in blood, 
 Or else misgrafled in resp>-ct ofyears, 
 f)r else it stood upon the choice of friends ; 
 Or if there we-e a symiia'hy in choice, 
 War, deatli, or sicjjness did lay siege to it. 
 Making it momentary as a sound, 
 Swift as a sliadow, short as any dream : 
 So qnick bright things come to confusion." 
 
 The splendid apartments of Mr. Bertine were crowded 
 with visitors. They were all light, gayety, and beauty. 
 The rich damask curtains hung in heavy crimson folds 
 around the windows. The shaded lamps shed their softly 
 brilliant rays upon the dazzling throng which decorated 
 one of the most elegant houses in the city. Music 
 breathed to the step of angel forms mingling in the grace- 
 ful dance, and a spirit of happiness seemed as universally 
 diffused as if the children of our fair mother Eve were yet 
 gliding among the careless bowers of Eden. Of the 
 sweet girls who gave witcherj^ to the swift evening, no one 
 was more fascinating than Marion Bertine. Equally cal- 
 culated to strike the attention of the amateur of beauty, or 
 to awaken the interest of the admirer of mind/» she 
 charmed all who came within her sphere. She would 
 
DESTINY. 71 
 
 reason with the sophist, and reply to the "vvit. The dull 
 were amused with her facility in eliciting their slender col- 
 loquial powers, and the sentimental and romantic found 
 responsive feelings in all her words and actions. 
 
 As the object of general admiration she was, of course, 
 usually blockaded by an army of fashionable heroes, such 
 as ever seek to dwell in the light of fair ladies' eyes ; con- 
 tent with a stray glance, or a civil, perhaps an accidental 
 smile. Tall gentlemen laid at her shrine their humble 
 offerings of gallantry and wit ; and, set off by all the art 
 of fashion, with large whiskers and elegant attitudes, be- 
 sieged her wherever she went ; and others, of lesser 
 dimensions, rustled, glittered, and -rattled in her train, with 
 chains, seals, white gloves, and glasses, who could dance, 
 sing, and bow, lead a lady to her piano with studied 
 grace, whispering and smiling at the height of their glory. 
 It was not easy to gather from the young lady's deport- 
 ment that she was dissatisfied with her subjects, for her 
 face bespoke a mind at ease, and a heart free from the 
 touch of deep feeling ; but women are well versed in the 
 art of hiding their thoughts, and, like some painted cloud 
 that conceals beneath its surface the elements of tempest, 
 many a serene countenance is lighted with smiles, while 
 the bosom cherishes anxiety or anguish. A close observer 
 might have detected, in the countenance of Marion, an 
 occasional restlessness, not that of joy ; and traced her 
 glances, stolen at long intervals, when most unnoticed, to 
 the figure of one who apparently participated but slightly 
 in the surroundinor animation. His seriousness was not 
 without comment. One condemned it as affectation ; an- 
 other ridiculed it as folly. One of his friends, with a view 
 to rally him into better spirits, addressed him laugh- 
 ingly— 
 
72 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 " Why, what the deuce is the matter with you, Wilson ? 
 Are you sick, or married, that you stalk about as stately 
 as Childe Harold ?" 
 
 " I am neither sick nor married, Harry, but enjoy ray- 
 self uncommonly well." 
 
 " Then let me introduce you to some Hebe here, whose 
 smiles shall call out your sense, if sense you have. Yon- 
 der is one — that tall, beautiful, blue-eyed girl. See how 
 she casts about her those radiant eyes. There is death in 
 every beam. She is merry, too, as a bird. Can you be- 
 hold all those sweet thoughts of hers escaping so pro- 
 fusely, without a wish to catch some ? Come, let me in- 
 troduce you." 
 
 " I thank you, Hal," said his serious companion ; " I am 
 not in the mood. I should rather be a looker-on." 
 
 " But," rejoined he, " direct your eyes to yon other 
 nymph. By all the graces, she is beautiful ! Care never 
 came to that brow, nor tears to those eyes, unless pity 
 sometimes moistened them from the fountain of a heart 
 pure as the element of heaven." 
 
 " Go, rattle your nonsense into other ears, eloquent 
 Hal," said Wilson, turning away from the unconscious 
 belle, " and leave me to the selection of my own divini- 
 ties." 
 
 " Well, one more, Charles. There is Miss Bertine her- 
 self. If you scowl on her as you do on my other adora- 
 bles, you may buy yourself a tub and set up for Diogenes 
 at once. Look at her Charles. Did you ever see such a 
 smile, and wasted too, by all that's lovely, upon a com- 
 mon fop ? There are lips I never looked upon without 
 dreaming of kisses, and a voice — listen, and let its warm 
 tones melt your frozen philosophy into love. She is beau- 
 tiful as a dream." 
 
DESTINY. 73 
 
 " Beautiful, indeed," murmured Charles ; but in a tone 
 so low and tremulous, so different from the careless voice 
 with which fashionable young' men laud the features of a 
 passing belle, that his companion, surprised, looked up 
 into his face. " I beg your pardon," stammered Charles; 
 " but"— 
 
 "Why," interrupted the other, laughing, " there is no 
 occasion to beg my pardon for calling Miss Bertine beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 " I meant" — 
 
 "Oh, no matter what you meant. Nature never made 
 a more lovely being, and if, as by your look I surmise, you 
 have thought of her before, walk up to her; she's the 
 very thing for you — rich, handsome, well educated, amia- 
 ble ; she'll make your fortune, my boy — that is, if 3'ou can 
 get her." 
 
 " I assure you, sir," said Charles, with even a slight 
 curl of scorn upon his lip, "I have not the least intention 
 or wish that way." 
 
 " Glad of it, my friend ; for, between you and me, her 
 father is as proud as Lucifer, and just as ambitious. No- 
 thing will suit him less than a hundred thousand, with an 
 ambassador, judge, or colonel ; but never mind, there are 
 plenty more as good as she. Yonder's my Charlotte — I 
 would not give her for a hundred Miss Ber tines ; she sees 
 me — she beckons. You see what an irresistible attraction 
 she has in her smile. Ah, the little jade ! Good by, good 
 by," and off he dashed after his Charlotte, leaving Charles 
 in a humor of no very agreeable nature. 
 
 Wilson was poor and proud. Struggling with the diffi- 
 culties which ever oppress such a character, had not yet 
 diminished his povert}^ nor lowered his pride; and, at this 
 time, he saw himself surrounded by apparently insur- 
 
74 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 moimtable obstacles, with a disappointment whibli shaded 
 all his tliouirhts. The conflicting emotions of his mind 
 were gradually undermining his constitution, and he aban- 
 doned himself to a kind of despondency, which caused him 
 to sicken at hope, as productive of only despair. It was 
 not his fear either to live or die. But this vacillation be- 
 tween life and death — this soft hour of pleasure, suc- 
 ceeded by long ones of misgiving and anguish, poisoned 
 all his comfort, and gave him a tinge of misanthropy to- 
 tally foreign to his nature. It was under the influence of 
 such impressions that he had met and loved Marion Ber- 
 tine ; loved her against his own wish and resolution ; loved 
 her in spite of all his endeavors to the contrary, and witli 
 shame at his weakness in yielding pride to passion. His 
 character was one of impulse rather than of reason ; and al- 
 thoutrh he had determined to avoid all intercourse with 
 one whom fortune had made so much his superior in 
 wealth, and consequently in the rank of fashion, yet acci- 
 dent — as if some mischievous spirit delighted to frustrate 
 his plans — would constantl}^ fling them into each other's 
 society, and surprise them in delightful but dangerous sit- 
 uations. No communication had passed between them 
 but those nameless and irresistible passages in tlieir famil- 
 iarity with each other, which are felt like instinct infused 
 into the heart by nature. A mere consciousness — a 
 dream, a doubt — rather than any thing to be recalled and 
 admitted into calculation, was all the evidence either had 
 detected of a mutual attachment. On this evening Charles 
 had observed her closely as circumstances would permit ; 
 and as a dark conviction that he was surrounded by men 
 wealthier and happier than himself, induced him to stand 
 a^oof from their idle mirth, his pride and impetuous dispo- 
 sition urged him into a conclusion that he held no place in 
 
DESTINY. 75 
 
 her affection. It caused in his manner towards her an in- 
 difference, perhaps a rudeness, which the lady felt and 
 retaliated by a display of spirits more than usually exu- 
 berant. He called up all his energy, and with a cheerful- 
 ness altogether artificial, paid his attentions to a charming 
 girl, who received them with complacency ; and thus the 
 evening passed away in mutual error. 
 
 Marion returned to her pillow with a sad conviction that 
 Wilson had never thought of her as a wife, and a conse- 
 quent resolution to banish him from her mind at every 
 sacrifice ; and Charles reconciled, or deemed that he re- 
 conciled himself to fate, in yielding his sweet false dream 
 of one whose affections seemed divided among a multipli- 
 city of admirers, and who would look down, nay, who had 
 looked down upon him with contempt. 
 
 '* Yes," said he, as he strided on in the darkness of mid- 
 night to his home, " yes ! I caught her eyes, and they 
 flashed upon me with scorn, while her smiles were lavished 
 upon the butterflies around her, as if each were destined 
 to be her husband. Wherefore have I fallen into this dis- 
 graceful weakness ? What am I, that I should intrude 
 my poverty upon her brilliant sphere ? If she were poor 
 and wretched, if she needed one to live in obscurity, or 
 die in anguish for her, then should she behold me at her 
 feet ; but now, in possession of all that ornaments and 
 sweetens life, with those at her bidding who will lead her 
 the round of fashion and pleasure, why should I disturb 
 her peace, or shape her destiny along a darker or an hum- 
 bler path ? No, sweet girl ! be still above me. I will 
 think of you — love you, as I hope you will be loved by 
 others ; but see you again — never !" 
 
 Two or three years made Marion a wife and a mother. 
 As Charles had predicted, a gentleman of immense wealth 
 
76 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 succeeded, "with the aid of her father, in obtaining her 
 hand. It was said she lived contentedly, and found, in 
 the aftection of her boy, a joy almost enough to compen- 
 sate her for all worldly disappointments. Charles, too, in 
 the interests of his business, ceased to experience the an- 
 guish which he had once felt, and his passion for the re- 
 membered object now lost to his hope, slept quietly in his 
 bosom, except when awakened by some of those inci- 
 dental associations which link us so mysteriously with the 
 dim world of past scenes and feelings. 
 
 While his own character thus went on with little change, 
 his business prospered. He grew more useful to the firm 
 in which he had commenced his commercial labors, and 
 was at length appointed to sail as supercargo to the East 
 Indies, with a probability of remaining there in a lucrative 
 situation several years. 
 
 A few days before his departure his attention was ar- 
 rested by the distress of a lost child, whose extreme 
 beauty excited much notice. To an inquiry as to his name 
 the child gave that of the husband of Marion. Charles 
 took the hand of the little wanderer, who looked up to him 
 confidingly, and revealed the same features which for 
 years had floated in his imagination ; the same speaking 
 forehead and transparent complexion, the same blue eyes, 
 through which streamed the light of feeling, and the rosy 
 mouth of nameless SAveetness. With a sudden resolution 
 to see once more the mother of this fair boy, he ofl'ered to 
 conduct him home, and, in a few moments, lie found him- 
 self in the parlor of her mansion, and in the presence of 
 the being wIjo, of all others on earth, was dearest to liis 
 lieart She recognized him instantly, and whether from 
 the joy of recovering her child, whose absence had occa- 
 sioned her mucli alarm, or whether from surprise, or any 
 
DESTINY. ''"^ 
 
 other feeling, at beholding one who had so long been a 
 stranger to her sight, her face was suddenly suffused with 
 a crimson, which passed as rapidly away, and left her pale 
 as a marble statue. 
 
 " I have brought home your boy, madam," said Charles, 
 in a low tone ; for his eyes were moist and his voice fal- 
 tered. " I am very happy in this opportunity to meet you 
 once more, Mrs. Sterling." 
 
 " You are welcome, Mr. Wilson," said Marion, while 
 her boy clinibed into her lap, and hid his face in her bo- 
 som. " I have been much frightened — I have not yet re- 
 covered from my alarm ; but you will excuse my embar- 
 rassment, for — " She stopped, cast down her eyes, 
 raised them again, filled with tears, and folded the boy in 
 her arms with a feeling for which she found no utter- 
 ance. 
 
 There was something in this silence more expressive 
 than words. The idea that he had been loved flashed 
 upon him with singular force, and called up all the tumvil- 
 tuous crowd of sensations which he had long since deemed 
 overcome. She recovered herself immediately, and spoke 
 in her natural manner. 
 
 " You have been quite a stranger, sir ; I did not antici- 
 pate the pleasure of ever seeing you again." 
 
 "It was only accident," replied Charles, "which 
 brought me to your presence ; but if an unwelcome guest, 
 I have committed a fault which I cannot repeat, as I leave 
 this country in a few days — perhaps forever." 
 
 He gazed steadily at her as he spoke. The tears again 
 arose into her eyes, and her cheek grew pale again. An 
 irresistible impulse, strengthened with rapture and melan- 
 choly at the conviction that he had been mistaken in his 
 previous opinion of her, urged him to take her hand. He 
 
78 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 pressed it unresisting to his lips, and, thrown off his guard, 
 his agitated feelings found their way in words, from a 
 heart in which, for the moment, the rising tide of passion 
 Avas swollen to overflow. 
 
 " I have loved you, Marion, but we part forever." 
 
 The hand, linked in his, half confirmed its pressure. It 
 revealed to him the history of her life. She attempted to 
 rise, but he interrupted her. 
 
 " One moment more — one moment more. I ask but 
 one single look, to bear with me in my recoUectipn over the 
 loneliness of distant places, and through the gloom of fu- 
 ture years. Fate has decreed I shall never see you on 
 earth again ; but if, in the revolution of time, you should 
 want a friend, remember me." 
 
 Once more he pressed to his lips her passive hand ; 
 once more trazed on her — now dearer than she had ever 
 been before — then, starting at the situation into which this 
 singular occurrence had betrayed him, he caught one 
 glance from her thrillingly beautiful eyes, and was the 
 next moment Avandering he scarcely knew whither, among 
 the careless and busy multitude that thronged the streets. 
 It all seemed to him like a dream. 
 
 It was fifteen years after this incident, that a stately 
 vessel, with her snowy sails spread out like wings, was 
 borne by a fresh breeze into the harbor of New York. A 
 steamboat was in readiness to convey the passengers on 
 shore, and, as tliey landed at Whitehall, and rattled away 
 in their respective carriages to the hotels or other places 
 where they intended to reside, a single individual, having 
 consigned his baggage to the care of a porter, Avalked with 
 a steady pace up Broadway. 
 
 It was a fine evening in summer. All the beauty of the 
 c.il y seemed gliding to and fio along tlu' spK-nilid jh-omio- 
 
DESTINY. 79 
 
 nade. Carriages and horses daslied by. The boys were 
 playmg along the streets, and many sweet faces passed 
 him, all lighted up with health and pleasure, careless of 
 the future and unconscious of the past. As Charles gazed 
 at and admired this new generation, that had sprung up 
 around him as if by magic, he could not but recall the 
 days long gone by. He still remembered when Miss Ber- 
 tine, radiant with charms and mirth, moved over these 
 very pavements, the delight of every eye, and the idol of 
 his heart. Strange emotions filled his breast as he ap- 
 proached her dwelling. It looked the same as when he 
 used to walk by it and bless it, in his rambles, when the 
 moon was shining, and the large stars twinkling in the 
 shadowy vault of heaven. The same moon was there, 
 and the stars were yet as brilliant, for nature never grows 
 old. Everything wore the aspect of other years, as if it 
 were but yesterday that he had parted from her, and he 
 were now hastening again, his heart quick beating with 
 hope and joy, to revel in the luxury of being with her. 
 There was a large tree before the door. He remembered 
 the night — ^just such a cloudless and happy time as the 
 present — when he had leaned against that very tree, and 
 listened to the melting tones of one whose music thrilled 
 through him like a voice from heaven. 
 
 " And now," thought he, " years and years have fled ; 
 and thousands, once moving in joy and pride through these 
 streets, are gone ! I myself am a stranger — unknown, un- 
 loved. What may be her fate? Perchance she too has 
 passed away ! or, if she remain, it will be to behold me in 
 possession of wealth ; alas ! how valueless, when not 
 shared with her ! How wayward is destiny ! My heart 
 prompted me ever, and yet whispers, that with her, any 
 humble cottage would have been a paradise ; yet I have 
 
80 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 wasted my precious life in gloomy solitude, to acquire the 
 heartless, petty distinction which wealth confers, and 
 which is the cause of all my disappointment." 
 
 He reached the door, and was surprised to find the 
 mansion had been converted into a hotel. How singularly 
 independent of reason are those we call the fine feehngs ! 
 He owned a pang at the sight of strangers moving care- 
 lessly through the rooms where he had long ago enjoyed 
 so many hours of happiness ; and there was a sternness 
 in his manner of addressing an old man who seemed to be 
 at home in the transaction of domestic duties. 
 " Who keeps this hotel, sir?" 
 
 " Mr. D ," was the answer. 
 
 " How long is it since the building was inhabited by 
 Mr. Bertine?" ^> 
 
 " Ten or twelve years, sir. Old Bertine failed, and 
 died long ago. I believe the whole family are dead, or 
 gone off to some distant country. We know nothing of 
 them here." 
 
 " He left a daughter who married a Mr. Sterling. Can 
 you afford me any information of that gentleman ?" 
 
 " Why, yes," said the man ; " there's no harm in speak- 
 ing now, the poor fellow's dead. He was a hard chap, 
 that Sterling — and unless he was some particular friend of 
 yours, sir, I should call him a great villain." 
 " Villain, sir ! how ? — in what way ?" 
 " Why, in the first place, he came here and made a fine 
 show ; every body thought him worth a hundred thousand 
 dollars at least. He married old Bertine's daughter — Sa- 
 rah, or Julia, or Marion — yes, Marion Bertine ; as fine a 
 girl as ever trod shoe-leather." 
 
 "Well, well, sir, the event, quick !" 
 
 " Well. He spent her fortune — failed — almost killed 
 
DESTINY. 81 
 
 his wife with unkindness, and died himself a poor misera- 
 ble drunkard. His broken-hearted widow lingered a ht- 
 tie — but, what's the matter, sir ? you are sick. Let me 
 give you some wine — help yourself, sir — it's as good old 
 port as you ever drank — fill your glass." 
 
 "No, no — no wine," said Charles, in a voice choked 
 with emotion.. "Goon — it is nothing." 
 
 " Why— that's all, sir." 
 
 " But there was a boy ?" 
 
 " So there was ; I had forgotten. Yes, there was a 
 boy — Charles, I think they call him." 
 
 " Was — was his name Charles ? Are you sure that was 
 his name ? 
 
 " Why, yes. I am sure it was. He's somewhere about 
 the city now, I guess. I can't tell you where. Pray, sir, 
 help yourself to some wine. I hope I have not — perhaps 
 you are a relation ? I am sorry I have spoken so freely." 
 
 Wilson rushed from the house. We shall not attempt 
 to define his feelings. 
 
 A few days after the preceding conversation, Wilson 
 rose early and wandered forth alone. There are some 
 men who, in the traffick of business, become hardened 
 against the influence of their earlier feelings. Time and 
 circumstances remould their characters, and wear away 
 from their minds the impressions of inexperience and 
 youth. They attach importance to objects only as they 
 relate to their present or future interests, and find nothing 
 of the past to cherish or regret. Others, on the contrary, 
 look back upon the distant scenes of their boyhood, with 
 sensations which become richer and more delightful as 
 they advance in age. The occurrences around them are 
 devoid of every value, when compared with those which 
 have fled away forever, and they treasure up undisturbed 
 5 
 
82 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 in the depths of their hearts, tastes for pleasures they can 
 no longer enjoy, and affections for objects which have 
 passed irrevocably away. Wilson was of the latter class. 
 Although he had been absent for years, and mingled in 
 remote society, and engaged in adventures which had no- 
 thing in them to keep alive his associations, yet, as he 
 went forth on this lovely morning, perhaps his sensations 
 were as lively while dwelling on the incidents of long van- 
 ished time, as if he had but lecently heard the well re- 
 membered voice he best loved, and felt the gentle pressure 
 of the hand Avhose touch thrilled through him with a 
 strange rapture which had never been repeated or forgot- 
 ten. A short walk brought him to a rich grassy meadow, 
 overshadowed by many large trees in full foliage, and used 
 as a place of sepulture. It was yet early, and the silence 
 of the dead was unbroken but by the sound of his own 
 step, and the warblings of a bright bird, that, careless of 
 human woe, sat pluming its golden feathers upon a sunny 
 branch, and filled the air with ever varying and delicious 
 music. 
 
 As he walked among the graves of the imknown, and 
 perchance long-forgotten beings around, and read inscrip- 
 tions of names first noticed above their moulderinof re- 
 mains, the fleetness and vanity of life chilled his heart, and 
 pity for the crowd who slumbered beneath his feet, once 
 radiant with hope and health, and, perhaps, beautiful as 
 she over whose tomb he came now to mourn. The di- 
 rection which he had received soon guided him to the 
 wished-for spot. It was in an obscure corner of the mea- 
 dow, upon a green hill that sloped gently to the morning 
 sun. Long grass, bent down with heavy dew-drops, grow 
 upon the turf, beneath which rested one, witliout whom 
 the clear light, and the fragrant air, uiul all the charms of 
 
DESTINY. 83 
 
 life, were to him scarcely preferable to the shadows that 
 hid her own once lovely and beloved image. A plain slab 
 of white marble met his eyes. It bore simply the name 
 of "Marion Sterling." As he stopped by the mound 
 which weighed upon the bosom once so fraught wuh pure 
 and happy affections, his grief mastered the manliness of 
 age and experience ; and tears dropped down upon the un- 
 conscious grass, unlieeded by her for whom they fell. 
 " Dear, dear Marion !" broke from his lips. 
 
 It was all that found utterance. The rest of his heavy 
 feelings sunk down into the recesses of his heart, buried in 
 silence and too deep for language. A slight noise arrested 
 his attention. He lifted up his eyes toward a youth whose 
 features bore so striking a resemblance to her who then 
 filled his thoughts, that, in the excited state of his imagi- 
 nation, he startled with a doubt of their reality. He was, 
 however, recalled to his reason by the voice in which the 
 stranger addressed him. 
 
 " You knew my mother, sir ?" 
 
 " Your mother ! Was Mrs. Sterling your mother ? 
 Then I speak to Charles Sterling," and he seized his hand 
 and pressed it to his lips. 
 
 " That is indeed my name," replied the youth, with some 
 surprise. " May I inquire who it is that seems so much 
 interested in our unfortunate family, and so well ac- 
 quainted with one whom certainly he never could have 
 seen before ?" 
 
 " First tell me," asked Wilson, whom this singular co- 
 incidence had, in some measure, diverted from his melan- 
 choly train of meditations, " do you apply the term un- 
 fortunate to your present situation or your past history ?" 
 
 " To both," said the youth. " My mother's fate seemed 
 equalled in misery only by mine. She died of a broken 
 
84 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 heart, and I see little more remaining for me. My friends, 
 out of the wreck of our family fortunes, saved only suffi- 
 cient to complete my education. I have endeavored in 
 vain to procure occupation here, and sliall embark in a 
 week for a distant clime, perhaps never to return. The 
 station to which I am ordered is sickly, and I have a pre- 
 sentiment that I am bidding my nativ^e country farewell 
 forever. It was with these forebodinors that I came to 
 visit my mother's grave. Thank heaven, she rests in 
 peace, ignorant of the anguish that agitates my bosom." 
 
 " But why so much anguish," inquired Wilson, " in go- 
 ing abroad to seek your fortune in the great world ? 
 Thousands have done so, and returned with wealth and 
 honor. But, perhaps you have relations ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; none for whom I have any affection." 
 
 " Friends, perhaps ?" 
 
 " I have a friend" — 
 
 He stopped. A slight glow came over his face. It 
 passed away, and left his features pale and firm. Wilson 
 thought he looked strangely like his mother. 
 
 "It is foolish to speak of it," he continued; "but I 
 have nothing to conceal. I love, no matter how deeply, 
 one who is rich and above me. It were vain and cruel to 
 make her share my poverty. I shall see her once again, 
 for the last time. But may I know why you interest 
 yourself thus in my behalf?" 
 
 "You shall know, indeed. I am under hea\y obliga- 
 tions to your mother. My name is* Wilson. You may 
 have heard her speak of me" — 
 
 " Wilson ?" interrupted Sterling, "Charles Wilson, from 
 the East Indies ?" 
 
 " The same." 
 
 " My dear sir," exclaimed Sterling, all his features 
 
DESTINY. 85 
 
 lighted up with surprise and joy ; " indeed I have heard 
 of you. My mother gave me a letter upon her death-bed, 
 charging me, if ever I should meet you, to give it into your 
 own hands. I have this morning accidentally taken it 
 from my drawer, as I was arranging my things for sea. 
 It is here." 
 
 Wilson seized it, with a reeling brain. It was faintly 
 and tremblingly traced ; and contained a small curl of 
 hair, with these word§ : 
 
 " You bade me, when last we parted, if ever I wished 
 a friend, to remember you. The world is changed much 
 since that night when I woimded your feelings at my fa- 
 ther's house, by a feigned indifference. It avails little 
 now that I am willing to confess it. My husband is dead ; 
 my fortune spent ; when you read this, I myself shall be 
 in my grave. There remains, therefore, no reason for me 
 to deny, that from the moment I saw, I loved you. For- 
 give me — be a friend to my boy — heaven bless you ! 
 
 " Marion." 
 
 It would be superfluous to continue the narrative. Ster- 
 ling was Wilson's heir. 
 
NIAGARA. 
 
 AFTER LOOKING AT A PICTURE 
 
 BY MRS. E. A. C. HULCE. 
 
 EoLL on, Niagara! speak in thunder tones 
 
 Of Him who made thee great ! Thou dost befit 
 
 Thy stern companions — the eternal hills, 
 
 The all-blazing arch that nightly o'er thee bends, 
 
 Its gentler blue caressing thee by day. 
 
 What is thy music like ? The knell of Time 
 
 Against Eternity's all-shoreless sea ! 
 
 What thoughts do thy dread hymns bring forth to man ? 
 
 Thy never-ending chants that awe the soul, 
 
 Rolling in one unbroken cadence forth 
 
 Since first " the morninq;-stars together sano- !" 
 
 Thoughts of the ocean — dirge of elder Time, 
 
 When the deep founts were broken ; thoughts of winds 
 
 Whose organ-swell sweeps o'er Norwegian pines. 
 
 With the loud forest anthems ; most of all 
 
 Thou bringest thoughts of Him who staid thee here ! 
 
 Thou art meet workmanship of His high hand ! 
 
 Seal of thy Architect's omnipotence ! 
 
 (How do we vaunt man's little genius forth, 
 
 That hath suspended domes to regal piles ; 
 
 Blind to the jewelled dome above our heads.) 
 
 Will puny man, that cannot form a fly. 
 
 E'en compass half the world to gaze on thee. 
 
 And on thy page read not Jehovah's name ? 
 
 An infidel nlust blush to look on thee. 
 
NIAGARA. 87 
 
 An atheist, having eye, and ear, and thought, 
 Sure cannot be ! What is an atheist, then ? 
 One, credulous in crude absurdities ; 
 Who can beheve in all things, save in God ! 
 
 One — he who dwelt the Arno's wave beside, 
 
 Of late there was ; but he must have a shrine ! 
 
 A fervent worshipper, this fancy's child ! 
 
 No zealous puritan more lowly knelt ; 
 
 But at the opening porch — the vestibule — 
 
 The very threshold of great Nature's temple, 
 
 He stopped and offered incense ; sated there, 
 
 He saw not God, yet deified His works ; 
 
 A spiritual materiahsm — perchance, 
 
 Refined and subtle theory, gross in deed ; 
 
 Such Rousseau, Shelley, priests of Nature's creed ; 
 
 Strange thus to stop at matter for a God ! 
 
 And they who boast the whole world's treasured lore, 
 
 Find but the faith that the poor pag an claims ! 
 
 Oh ! lofty, boastful man ! thou shouldst have power 
 
 To strive with death and gain the mastery ! 
 
 Thou'rt not so weak as to require His aid. 
 
 Who holds creation's pillars in His hand ! 
 
 Sufficient in thyself, thou needest not 
 
 Pluck from the Tree of Life a deathless boon ! 
 
 These are thy thoughts, Niagara ! to me ; 
 Thy shadowy image, thy faint likeness here. 
 Which the school-miss so ruthlessly invades, 
 That I may well believe its semblance dim. 
 Fills me with envy to behold thyself ! 
 To let thy solemn beauty wrap my soul ! 
 
 '« 
 
THE COVENANT OF HEARTS 
 
 BT MBS. DUMONT. 
 
 " How gentle is the death of the Christian !" thought 
 Henry Arville, as he wiped the gathering dews from the 
 cold forehead of his dying mother. Disease had rioted on 
 her form with hngering triumph, and her free spirit had 
 struggled long with the fetters of mortality. These fetters 
 were at length dissolving, and the images of beatitude 
 already floated in her tranced vision. Henry, who had 
 witnessed the slow wasting of life with wordless agony, re- 
 joiced that the conflict was about to cease — rejoiced, did I 
 say ? — the language of earth has no name for the feelings 
 of the mourner, when the bitterness of individual desola- 
 tion is mingled with the assurance of consummated happi- 
 ness for the lost object of aff"ection. Henry had long known 
 that the spirit of his mother held slight communion with 
 the things of time — that, like the weary traveller, whose 
 days of journeying aie numbered, she lost the passing re- 
 alities of the present in deej) and exquisite visions of ap- 
 proaching home. Aspiring to a higher and more peima- 
 nent union, even the imperishable ties of maternal love had 
 ceased to bind her to life ; and the prayer that went up in 
 secret for the child of her liopes, embraced not the objects 
 of decay. Her faded features were now lighted up with 
 an unimaginable glow, like the reflection of light on the 
 wliite folds of a stainless cloud — and wlion that i^low liad 
 
THE COVENANT OF HEARTS. 
 
 89 
 
 passed into the fixed serenity of death, Henry forgot for a 
 brief season that he was yet left a habitant of the lonely 
 earth. Few, however, are the souls that always hold com- 
 munion with high and holy thought — young hearts are 
 bound to life with sinuous chords ; though lured for a time 
 beyond its delusive influence, they are again drawn back 
 to wrestle with its phantoms. When he had seen the 
 form of his beloved mother consigned as dust to dust, he 
 then felt the deep desolation of the grave. The apart- 
 ments hitherto gladdened by the light of her smile, were 
 now fearfully void. He gazed on the vacant seat, and a 
 cold shuddering convulsion of the heart passed over him. 
 There were voices near him, but they came not on his ear 
 in the soft tones of affection — and busy forms flitting 
 around him — but he vainly sought the glance of a mother's 
 love. Nay, the presence of a father for a moment called 
 forth the trust of filial affection, but it was only for a mo- 
 ment ; the manner of that father, even the sound of his 
 voice, came with a sacrilegioiis dissonance over the chords 
 of sorrow. Henry felt that he mourned alone — that even 
 at this hour of mutual bereavement, the soul of his survi- 
 ving parent had no affinity with his. The conviction was 
 intensely painful ; he shrunk from a presence that thus 
 chilled the gushings of tenderness, and shuddered lest he 
 should forget the respect due the author of his being. 
 His health, already impaired by long confinement, gradu- 
 ally sunk under the influence of a morbid excitability ; 
 and desirous of rousing himself to exertion, he sought and 
 obtained permission for a tour through the distant States. 
 
 Arriving at a small village in he found himself, for 
 
 some days, unable to proceed. A slow fever had seized 
 his frame, and forbade farther fatio-ue. He lodcred at an 
 inn in the village, and sometimes amused himself, as a re- 
 5* 
 
90 T II E M O S S - R O S E . 
 
 laxation from thought, with the children of the family. 
 The day consecrated to devotion had arrived, and they 
 prepared for their Sabbath-school. Even the playfulness 
 of the children was now chastened with something of a 
 holy cast, as the little group approached Henry and beg- 
 ged him to hear their exercises. " Will you not go with 
 us?" said the yoimgest; and, unable to resist the artless 
 appeal, our invalid immediately accompanied them. A few 
 only were as yet assembled, but the attention of Henry 
 was at once riveted by the young and lovely teacher. 
 Her dress resembling, in its exquisite simplicity, the purest 
 blossoms of spring, revealed a form of perfect and delicate 
 proportions. Her features, though regular, were of a 
 marked and decided character. She was pale, but that 
 paleness, contrasted with the deep shade of her dark and 
 shining hair, and the long silken lashes that partially veiled 
 the light of her clear blue eye, gave a yet stronger inte- 
 rest to a countenance of unearthly beauty. As the youth- 
 ful flock dropped in, one by one, her features assumed an 
 anxious expression, and she watched their entrance with 
 evident intensity. Two lovely children at length entered, 
 hand in hand. A sudden flush now tinged her cheek, a 
 smile, a glance of unutterable import, welcomed the little 
 strano-ers. They approached and flung their arms silently 
 around her neck. There was no sound, not even a breath 
 to break the deep quiet of the school — but to the soul of 
 Henry there was something in this simple scene that spoke 
 a language of high and sacred feeling. The interesting 
 teacher commenced her labors, and the soft melody of her 
 voice gave a peculiar pathos to the accents of instruction. 
 At length, addrest^ing the children, whose fate was appa- 
 rently concerned with her own, she reipiired their tasks. 
 " We have learned the Orphan's Hymn," they replied ; 
 
THE COVENANT OF HEARTS. 91 
 
 and the youngest, instinctively folding her little hands, re- 
 peated : 
 
 " Oh thou ! who hearest the raven's cry, 
 And mark'st the sparrow's fall — 
 Wilt thou not hear, from tliy far blue sky, 
 The orphan's bitter call ? 
 
 The grave our hearts has forever barred 
 
 From the deepest love of earth — 
 But we come, in our need, to thee, oh Lord ! 
 
 Who gave our spirits birth. 
 
 The tones that have soothed our wants are still — 
 
 But we wait thy still small voice — 
 And our hearts, though gloomy, and low, and chill, 
 
 In thy light may yet rejoice. 
 
 For a shield, from the storms of our future path, 
 
 To thee, in trust, we come ; 
 Preserve us, Lord, from their fearful scath, 
 
 And fit us for thy high home!" 
 
 As the child proceeded, the young woman raised her 
 downcast eyes to heaven, as if mentally sharing the prayer. 
 For a moment a tear trembled on her lashes — the next it 
 had passed away like an exhaled dew-drop, and the light 
 of holy trust rested on her features in its stead. Henry 
 left the scene with impressions never to be effaced. As 
 he walked thoughtfully back to the inn, he was joined by 
 the village pastor, who had closed with prayer the exer- 
 cises of the school. Hearts of the same tone blend at 
 once like corresponding music. The attenuated form of 
 young Arville, his interesting countenance, deeply marked 
 with melancholy thought, all were calculated to awaken 
 an immediate interest in the heart of the benevolent 
 Harley. 
 
I 92 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 " I fear," said the venerable old man, as they at length 
 separated, " I fear that an inn can scarcely afford you the 
 quiet so necessary to an invalid — your society would be a 
 most welcome accession to ray small family circle ; come 
 then and stay with us till returning health enables you to 
 proceed." 
 
 Henry might have hesitated, but the half-formed scru- 
 ples of delicacy were at once obviated by the manner of 
 Mr. Harley ; and early on the following day he became an 
 inmate of a house peculiarly fitted as a sanctuary for bro- 
 ken hearts. It was the mansion of peace, of piety, of love 
 — a scene of holy quietude, where the spirit of its inhabit- 
 ants might hold a bright and continual Sabbath. Henry 
 was received by Mr. Harley in his study. Reserve was 
 banished — they conversed with the freedom of friends. 
 The scene of the Sabbath-school was adverted to, and 
 Henry spoke of its young and interesting teacher. " She 
 is an orphan," replied Mr. Harley to his implied inquiries ; 
 " and the little girls that clung so fondly around her are 
 her sisters. They lost their parents while Malvina, tlie 
 eldest, was yet a mere child, but even then she seemed to 
 assume the high duties of a mother. They were left ex- 
 posed to all the ills of penury. Their father's little pro- 
 perty was utterly Avasted away by the unavoidable expen- 
 ditures of a long — long illness, lie had, however, in his 
 better days been the friend of the unfortunate, and the 
 bread he had cast upon the waters, was found by his or- 
 phan children in the hour of their extremity. The two 
 younger were taken into separate families, and cherished 
 with all the tenderness their various circumstances allowed. 
 Malvina meanwhile had already evinced an energy of cliar- 
 acter that annulled the intended humanity of proffered 
 protection. She became a member of my family, but, in 
 
THE COVENANT OF HEARTS. 93 
 
 receiving her, I only added a tivaiure to my household. 
 Her habits of industry — her intuitive skill in all the vari- 
 ous branches of domestic usefulness — her powers of mind 
 — her gentleness — her piety — must have rendered her a 
 welcome inmate in the dwellincr of avarice. Her sorrows 
 were deep ; the affections of her heart rolled silently in- 
 deed, but with a measui-eless depth, and no longer divided 
 by the several relations of life, they were drawn exclu- 
 sively to her sisters. She felt their desolation more 
 strongly than her own, and wailed their severance from 
 each other more deeply than the stroke that had unavoid- 
 ably separated them. Yet she mourned in silence, and a 
 slight observer would have thought her perfectly happy. 
 Joyfully would I also have taken the bereaved little ones 
 beneath my roof, but the small salary afforded by a needy 
 flock sets but narrow limits to the offices of humanity. 
 As time rolled on, the industry of Malvina enabled her to 
 add something to their support ; meanwhile she sought 
 every measure of forming their young minds to virtue, and 
 devised various means of instructing them, without lessen- 
 ing the little services which they owed their kind protec- 
 tors. She became an active agent in the establishment of 
 a Sabbath-school, and has since continued unwearied in 
 the performance of its sacred duties. Absorbed, however, 
 as is every recollection of herself in the deep solicitude of 
 the sister, she neglects no offices Avhich my family might 
 claim, were she bound to us by the strongest ties of kin- 
 dred, love, and gratitude. To Mrs. Harley and myself she 
 supplies the place of an affectionate child ; and, indeed, 
 her filial tenderness is the solace of all our domestic cares. 
 Were her strength of earth, she must prematurely sink 
 beneath the intensity of exertion — but I trust in her sup- 
 port, for it is the strength of Omnipotence." 
 
94 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 Henry heard this little tale with deep interest ; and 
 when, a short time afterwards, he was presented to Mal- 
 vina, he beheld her with those high and exquisite emo- 
 tions, that an evening sky, radiant with light and beauty, 
 awakens in the soul of feeling. 
 
 " So young," thought Arville, as he gazed at her mild 
 but pensive countenance, " so young, and yet so settled in 
 the practice of virtue !" and as if his soul was already 
 familiar with exalted sentiment, he felt himself still fur- 
 ther purified from the dross of human frailty, by the con- 
 verse of this daughter of penury. Their spirits were in- 
 deed congenial, and whether they chatted on the light 
 topics of the day, or dwelt on the high interests of futuri- 
 ty — whether they knelt in prayer, or lifted up their voices 
 in the evening or morning hymn — the same tone of feeling 
 was awakened in either heart. A week passed away, and 
 the health of Arville was much improved — a second was 
 gone, and he could no longer claim the immunities of sick- 
 ness. Pursued he then his journey with alacrity ? Far 
 otherwise ! Feelings of mortality, visions of earthly ori- 
 gin, had at length mingled with the pure and passionless 
 homage of virtue. The evening preceding his intended 
 departure passed away gloomily. Malvina was absent, 
 having been called to attend her youngest sister, who was 
 taken suddenly ill ; and Arville, restless and dissatisfied 
 with himself, stole silently away, and strolled he knew not 
 whither. Passing at length the open door of a small farm- 
 house, he beheld the form of Malvina. His whole frame 
 thrilled with emotion, and the next moment he stood on 
 the threshold. She was kneeling beside a pallet, and was 
 for some time unconscious of his approach. Her hair had 
 fallen in rich masses over her shoulders, and her attitude 
 developed the graceful flexure of her bending figure. Ar- 
 
THE COVENANT OF HEARTS. 95 
 
 ville at leno-th uttered her name, and a lancruid smile 
 crossed her features at beholding him. He advanced, and 
 inquiring for the little sufferer, learned that she was some- 
 what better. Still he lingered, though unbidden, and a 
 long silence succeeded. 
 
 Malvina, absorbed in watching the slumbers of her sis- 
 ter, became again unconscious of every other object ; and 
 while she gazed at the pale and sunken features of the 
 child, Henry read the deep conflict of her heart but too 
 well. It was a moment of uncontrollable excitement. He 
 approached her. 
 
 " Malvina," he said, " pardon this abrupt disclosure of 
 sentiments I can no longer dissemble. To leave you thus 
 is impossible ; the deep, deep interest you have awakened 
 in my soul, renders me more than a sharer of your sor- 
 rows. I know them all — T understand, I revere the source 
 from which they spring. Suffer me then to look forward 
 to the period when I may in some degree control your fu- 
 ture fate — when Malvina and her orphan sisters shall hav e 
 the same home, the same guardian ; when it shall be my 
 task to render that home the seat of confidence and hap- 
 piness — oh ! deign to tell me if I may cherish this hope ; 
 if I may leave you but to seek the approval of my father, 
 and return to receive my trust !" 
 
 Henry paused, but Malvina seemed unable to reply ; she 
 pressed her hand on her white forehead, and her delicate 
 frame trembled with emotion. 
 
 " Pardon my vehemence," continued Henry ; " I would 
 not extort the promise that even delicacy alone withheld. 
 I will leave you, but my purpose is fixed. To Mr. Harley, 
 as your best earthly friend, I shall immediately appeal for 
 his sanction to my views, and then, Malvina, I trust to ob- 
 tain your decision." 
 
96 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 He rose, but Malvina now detained him. She was 
 deadly pale, and there were traces on her countenance of 
 some strange emotion, resembling the last movement of 
 troubled waters when the cause that ruffled them has dis- 
 appeared forever. 
 
 " Staj^" she said, and her voice was completely calm ; 
 "I may not suffer you to go under the influence of delu- 
 sion. Gratefully as I must feel the high distinction you 
 offer me, highly as I value your friendship, our fates can 
 never be united." 
 
 Henry stood motionless, as if a sudden blight had passed 
 over hira. There was a solemnity in her manner that car- 
 ried the conviction of an irrevocable sentence. Caprice 
 could have no part in a character like hers, and Henry felt 
 that his fate was sealed. The few broken and passionate 
 sentences that followed, served only to elicit the confirm- 
 ation of his wretchedness. The dignity of his character, 
 however, regained its ascendant, and that tempest of feel- 
 ing subsided. He took tlie hand of Malvina and pressed 
 it to his lips. 
 
 " Farewell, lovely and amiable girl ! I go to forget the 
 visions of gladness I had but too presumptuously cher- 
 ished, but not the virtues that inspired them. I shall 
 treasure up your image as the awakener of holy thoughts, 
 and whatever may be my individual fate, my deepest 
 prayer will embrace your happiness." Then kneeling for 
 a moment, and kissing the cheek of the little slumberer, he 
 fervently added, " Mnj Heaven restore thee, to share the 
 virtues of thy guardian sister." 
 
 The morning sun rose in its wonted brightness on the 
 
 village of , but Henry was already winding his way 
 
 over the distant plains. He had left his home to seek the 
 spirit's repose, and found himself now tossing on those 
 
THE COVENANT OF HEARTS. 97 
 
 billows of passion where the soul never sleeps. Such are 
 the mists that veil futurity to the eyes of man. Were he 
 not guided by the arm of Jehovah, where would he wan- 
 der in the darkness of his path ? Henry completed his 
 intended tour, and once more sought the paternal roof. 
 To a mind like his, accustomed to commune with itself, 
 solitude is the most efficient antidote for unavailing regret. 
 He who dares to probe his own heart, will spurn its weak- 
 ness, and tear away its follies. Henry was soon calm, 
 though not happy. Malvpa was not, indeed, to be for- 
 gotten, but he thought of her rather as some unearthly 
 vision, than a being of mortality ; and again assuming the 
 quiet round of practical duties, he spurned forever those 
 brilliant dreams of imagination that insidiously liot on the 
 strength of the soul. Meanwhile, a fatal disease had seized 
 on the frame of his father, and again it was the part of 
 Henry to keep a ceaseless vigil in the chamber of suffer- 
 ing ; not, however, as when he watched the calm decay of 
 his uncomplaining mother, were these vigils cheered by the 
 light of a spirit at peace with heaven. Amid the agonies 
 of dissolving nature, the elder Arville clung to life with a 
 desperate intensity ; and while his disease baffled human 
 skill, he struggled with death as the warrior struggles with 
 his mortal enemy. 
 
 " Ah !" thought Henry, as day after day he watched 
 the parting soul, writhing, yet unbent, beneath the strong 
 power of the spoiler, "Ah ! how different was the depart- 
 ure of my sainted mother ! Would to God ! oh, my fa- 
 ther, that, like her, thou hadst that strength which robs 
 the grave of its victory !" 
 
 The cares of the son were, however, unavailing ; and the 
 unhappy man was now evidently struggling with the last 
 conflict of humanity. The heart of Henry was torn with 
 
98 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 unutterable anguish, and his spirit wrestled in ceaseless 
 prayer for the sufferer. As he bent over the bed of 
 death, his lips instinctively moved ; and his father at 
 length fixed his glazed eye wildly in his face. 
 
 " Prayest thou for me ?" he said ; " for me, who never 
 taught thee even the form of prayer ? But for thee it 
 matters not. There was one who led thee by secret paths 
 to thy God, and preserved thee, amid the example of a 
 father's vices, from the deadly contamination of guilt." 
 
 " And wilt thou not pray also, my father ? Even at this 
 dreadful hour the voice of supplication shall be heard." 
 
 " Pray !" said the dying man, in a deep and hollow 
 voice, " and who shall dare to lift the hands of fraud to 
 the throne of Jehovah?" 
 
 Henry shuddered, and a momentary silence followed. 
 He then exclaimed, as if roused by a new and sudden 
 energy — 
 
 " If there is aught of injustice resting on your soul, oh ! 
 my father, suffer it not to pass without entering the fear- 
 ful account. For this purpose, perhaps, mercy yet stays 
 your departure. Let me conjure thee, by the terrors of 
 the grave, lose not a moment in transferring to your son 
 the high duty of restitution." 
 
 A faint gleam passed over the countenance of the fa- 
 ther, and he looked at Henry with unwonted tenderness. 
 
 " Knowest tliou," he at length said, " that this long de- 
 layed restitution will sweep away thy expected inherit- 
 ance ?" 
 
 "And what is the wealth of earth," exclaimed Henry, 
 " that its price should be an everlasting heritage ?" 
 
 The expiring Arville seemed now imbued with preter- 
 natural strength, and at length distinctly luifoldod a tale 
 of fraud, long since practised on one who had trusted in 
 
THE COVENANT OF HEARTS. 
 
 99 
 
 his integrity, and was then reduced from affluence to a 
 scanty pittance. Of his subsequent fate, or present resi- 
 dence, Arville was now ignorant. 
 
 " But I will seek him," said Henry, "with a vigilance 
 that distance shall not baffle ; his rights shall yet be re- 
 stored, and his injuries effaced from the records of 
 heaven." 
 
 An hour after this, the penitent Arville expired, with 
 his hands clasped in voiceless, but fervent prayer. 
 
 One absorbing purpose now animated Henry to exer- 
 tion. To trace out the victim of his father's guilt, and 
 redress his wrongs, was his only object of earthly solici- 
 tude. Months, however, passed away, and as yet inquiry 
 was unavailing. He had just returned from a long tour 
 of fruitless search, and was sitting gloomy and alone in 
 the splendid mansion, where he now felt himself an usurp- 
 er, when he was surprised by the entrance of his reverend 
 friend, Mr. Harley. Deep and mingled emotions for some 
 time deprived him of utterance, and he flung himself into 
 the arms of the orood old man in silence. 
 
 " To what," he at length said, "am I indebted for this 
 \jelcome visit ? Kind and compassionate as you are, I 
 cannot suppose that you have taken so long a journey for 
 my exclusive gratification." 
 
 " I was indeed led hither by other motives," replied 
 Mr. Harley, "but the anticipated pleasure of this meeting 
 has divested the journey of fatigue. I come, however, in 
 behalf of the heirs of Sidney Howard, to receive the in- 
 formation in which a late advertisement of yours has an- 
 nounced him deeply interested." 
 
 "Is Sidney Howard then dead?" asked Henry, and a 
 bitter pang of disappointment wrung his heart at receiving 
 an affirmative. 
 
100 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 " I had hoped," he said, " to restore to himself his 
 usurped rights — to obtain his forgiveness for the memory 
 of the dead. But the will of Heaven be done ! Tell me 
 who aj'e those that inherit his claims." 
 
 " His orphan children." 
 
 " Ah ! then I will no longer repine. In discovering 
 this injured family I am sufficiently blest." 
 
 Mr. Harley now inquired the nature and extent of those 
 claims that were yet to be unfolded. 
 
 Henry for a moment hesitated. From his venerable 
 friend he could reserve nothing, and the crimes of his fa- 
 ther flushed his pale cheek. The disclosure, however, 
 was at length made — he told his shame, his sorrows, and 
 his plans for the future. Mr. Harley listened with pater- 
 nal interest, and then folded him to his heart with pious 
 affection. 
 
 " Noble youth ! in thus renouncing the wealth that has 
 hitherto surrounded you, you become invested with a 
 splendor far above the control of circumstances." 
 
 The children of the deceased Howard now became the 
 subject of inquiry. 
 
 " Were tliey left friendless and in want ? Or had d^- 
 tant fiiends, or bequeathed wealth, preserved them from 
 destitution ?" 
 
 " They were thrown on the world," said Mr. Harley, 
 " penniless, and without kindred or home. But, Henry," 
 he added, with a changed expression of countenance, " I 
 cannot trifle with feelings sacred as yours — know, then, 
 that the orphans of Sidney Howard are the interesting 
 sisters of the Sabbath-school." 
 
 Language is powerless to describe the emotions of 
 Henry. We must hasten to a conclusion. Mr. Harley 
 returned not alone. Respect for Malvina rccjuired the 
 
THE COVENANT OF HEARTS. 
 
 101 'i 
 
 personal restoration of her rights, and Henry accompa- 
 nied him. He wished her prepared for the interview, and 
 appointing an early hour for rejoining his friend, he re- 
 mained at the village inn. Once more in the bosom of his 
 family, Mr. Harley gradually unfolded the result of his 
 journey. Till now, from a deep regard to the delicacy of 
 her feelings, she had been kept ignorant even of its pur- 
 pose ; mingled and overwhelming emotions wrought lier 
 whole frame during the disclosure, and she looked for- 
 ward to the appointed arrival of Henry with an indefina- 
 ble intensity of feeling. He ai'rived — he was already at 
 her feet — he presented her the deeds which made the 
 heirs of Sidney Howard the legal proprietors of the late 
 Arville estate. 
 
 " Receive from me," he said, " the restoration of your 
 paternal rights. I present them as the representative of 
 my father's dying will ; and beg, as the last boon I shall 
 ever crave of Malvina, that she will cease to execrate his 
 unfortunate memory." 
 
 Henry paused ; his dark eye was lifted to her face with 
 a mingled expression of dignity and tenderness, and his 
 pale countenance glowed with the enthvisiasm of holy 
 feeling. 
 
 " Tell me, Malvina," he continued, and the tones of his 
 voice had now something of .yet unsubdued passion, and 
 the purple veins of his wan temples swelled with emotion, 
 " tell me, Malvina, gentle and amiable as you are, may I 
 not hope that you will forgive the deep injuries of your 
 family ?" 
 
 Malvina gradually recovered her wonted calmness. 
 
 " Rise," she said, giving her hand to Henry, " and think 
 not that aught dear to you can inspire ungentle feeling ; 
 all that has passed is already and forever effaced from my 
 
102 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 memory, save that when I was yet a child of penuiy, you 
 would have shared with me your better fortunes — that for 
 my sake you would have cherished the fatherless children 
 whose fate was united with my own." 
 
 "Alas !" said Henry, "why do you touch this chord of 
 agony? why probe the wounds thai? can never heal?" 
 
 " Stay your reproaches," said Malvina. "When I last 
 saw you, could the daughter of Sidney Howard at that 
 time have become a member of your family ? That sea- 
 son of trial is, however, past; and if I still retain a place 
 in your affections, receive at length a heart which has long 
 been yours, and accept in trust the future guardianship of 
 my orphan sisters." 
 
 A week after, the covenant of hearts was forever sealed. 
 Mr. Harley pronounced the bridal benediction, and those 
 who had given even of their penury to the orphans of the 
 deceased Howard, were the chosen friends who witnessed 
 the sacred scenes, and who shared the future prosperity of 
 Malvina. 
 
... Vy. 
 
"TRUST IN GOD AND ALL WILL BE WELL." 
 
 BY MES . E. P. H. 
 
 When sorrow presses down the heart, 
 
 And youth's bright hopes have fled ; 
 When one by one our joys depart, 
 
 And we mourn o'er the early dead ; 
 When a cloud of gloom hangs o'er the soul, 
 
 That the lips refuse to tell, 
 A whisper is borne on the stilly air — 
 
 "Trust God ; and all is well." 
 
 When the smile of the world has lost its charm. 
 
 Loved friends have proved untrue. 
 And the secret tear-drops, fast and warm, 
 
 Down the care-worn cheek pursue ; 
 Oh ! even then a solace sweet, 
 
 The dark clouds may dispel — 
 " Where is thy faith ? 0, child of Earth ! 
 
 Trust God ; all will be well." 
 
 I feel that this world is not my home. 
 
 That its trials will soon be past ; 
 And oft through the lengthened night will come 
 
 Glad thoughts of peace at last. 
 When the shadows of death will dim my eye. 
 
 And to earth I bid farewell. 
 Heaven grant that in that dread hour I may 
 
 "Trust God— and all will be well." 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 A REAL INCIDENT. 
 
 " Shepherd. Ye may mony and mony times think yersel' surroanded wi' happi- 
 ness, when misery, bitin' misery, is gnashin' at yoar hough." 
 
 " Queer weather, this," said I to my landlady, as, 
 turning from the window where the snow was driving at 
 a brisk pace, I attempted to pull on my warm boot, 
 which had been keeping sentry at the fireside for an hour ; 
 " queer weather this ; and to prepare himself for all the 
 changes of our fickle climate, one must e'en wear a wea- 
 ther-watch under his nose. Yesterday I was abroad 
 without a cloak ; last evening the moon was clear, though 
 cold ; and to-day, i'faith, it is snowing as briskly as if 
 winter had just made its enlne. Tempora mutant et." 
 My Quaker landlady interrupted my Latin, (for she does 
 not like gibberish,) saying — 
 
 "Thee knows, Vivy, that every back is made for its 
 burden, and the hand that put thee here has fashioned 
 the weather to thy need." 
 
 " That is a fact," said I, more good-humoredly, (for 
 who could resist the placid smile that shone btMieath her 
 plain cap ; she must have been a beauty in her day ;) and, 
 revolving over sundry other things which might bring a 
 little sunshine on my cloudy humor, I drew on the second 
 
 boot, with a smile far more becoming to a youth of , 
 
 (I shan't tell you my age,) than that morbid discontent 
 which wears out the good nature of its owner without 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE. 105 
 
 mending an unexpected hole, clearing an unexpected 
 storna, or warming a cold breakfast. 
 
 Standing awhile in front of the good orrel coal fire, in 
 order that my clothes might inhale all the heat possible, 
 I wrapped my espaiiol, drew down the " tabs^ of my fur 
 cap, spread my umbrella, and in a few seconds was on the 
 pave, braving Avith my best humor the headwind and the 
 sleet. 
 
 Every one who ventures forth in a snow-storm knows 
 the inconvenience, when the wind is ahead, of making 
 way for windward passers ; if he carry his umbrella above 
 a certain line, he exposes his face and breast to the storm ; 
 if he try to defend these sensitive parts from the hurri- 
 cane, he is liable to butt the first comer, thereby causing a 
 cracking of umbrella-bones, and an efflux of angry words on 
 both sides. In this state of manao-ement or mismanaofement, 
 
 I was passing along ■ street ; tired at last of bobbing 
 
 this way and that way, I found myself in the wake of a 
 fellow-passer, who (to speak in Irish jig-blarney) "showed 
 a clean pair of heels ;" lowering my umbrella, then, to the 
 most defensive attitude, I kept on in his wake, having the 
 hem of his cloak and his Avell-armed heels to philosophize 
 upon. Now the knowledge of this modern world is so 
 diffuse, and its sources so varied, that the trite themes of 
 antique philosophy are absolutely hurs du combat ; and we 
 moderns, when we do take it into our heads to reverie, 
 must come to something absolutely extraneous, or else so 
 vulgar as to have been considered too low to think upon ; 
 ergo, the "philosophy of a pair of heels" would have as 
 just a title to the admiration of all philo-philosophs, as an 
 errant discourse upon the stars, or a metaphysical one 
 admitted into the pages of the Westminster Review. 
 
 Mais au revoir. My antecedent traveller was walking 
 6 
 
106 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 an easy pace, and I trode in his steps thankful for such a 
 guide ; if he bobbed streetward, I bobbed streetward ; if 
 he bobbed wallward, I bobbed wallward ; thus avoiduig 
 those concussions which give rise to more temper than com- 
 fort. 
 
 I philosophized. Judging from his heels, which were 
 brif)-htly polished and armed with brazen foundations ; from 
 the hem of his cloak also, which was nicely covered with 
 braid ; and also from his well-brushed pantaloons, which 
 huno- beneath his cloak, the person befoi-e me was a good 
 husband with a good wife, a handsome estate, and every- 
 thing to make this life comfortable ; he must be a happy 
 man, who, attending to his profession during the day, re- 
 tired to his wife, friends, books, and wine at evening. I 
 thought him to be a middle-aged man, for his step was 
 firm, without the elasticity of youth ; I thought him to be 
 a happy man, he hem'd so good-humoredly ; I thought 
 him. to be a gentleman, he carried his head so knightly. 
 After pursuing this dos-h-vis pace for a while, he appeared 
 to be sensible that he was dogged, and first slackened, then 
 quickened his tread ; perceiving, at last, that I followed 
 his motions, he turned. He was a Scotchman ; I swore it 
 from his pleasant gray eye and sandy hair, not to say any 
 thing of his neat vest of Maxwell plaid. I met his gaze, 
 which was pleasant, though he meant it to be pettish, with 
 one equally good-humored ; he smiled, apologetically, ob- 
 
 servmg — 
 
 " A deuced comfortless day." 
 
 " Not at all," said I, (for I felt original,) " not at all ; I 
 love a stormy day ; all my good feelings gather round my 
 heart to keep it warm ; and I can truly say, I never feel 
 80 well towards myself or my fellow-men as I do on a day 
 like this." 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE 
 
 107 
 
 " Weel, weel, young m on, I like muckle your kindly 
 spirit ; and I believe that when ye are sae comfortable 
 yoursel', your heart yearns towards your fellow -creatures 
 mair and mair." 
 
 " 'Tis very true," said I, " I never love mortals so well 
 as when everything around makes me feel desolate ; it is 
 then I turn even to a stranger, and could take him to my 
 bosom with as ready a heart as if I had known and loved, 
 him for years ; still more, if I guessed he had sorrows at 
 his heart that my sympathy could, assuage." 
 
 He seemed touched. 
 
 " Weel, young mon, what think ye o' me ; hae I the 
 look o' dolor or o' happiness ?" 
 
 " I should imagine you to be a fond father, a happy 
 husband, a staid friend, and a rich citizen." 
 
 "Ah, young frien', (for I dinna ken what to call ye) — " 
 
 " Vivian," said I, interrupting him. 
 
 " Vivian, it isna a' gowd as glisters ; it isna a' sun that's 
 sheen. I like ye muckle," he rejoined ; " and I will tell 
 ye that before ye stands ane who wears a cheerfu' face but 
 a cankered heart ; wha might wi' his gowd trick himsel' 
 out wi' gear and laces, but couldna buy a new heart, ne 
 repair his wounded spirit. Ye hae more sympathy in your 
 face than I have been blessit wi' the sight o' syne I touchit 
 the shore o' America." 
 
 " I am young, sir, and uninitiated in the distresses of 
 the world ; my fate has been kindly cast, and I have never 
 bad reason to weep for real sorrows ; you well know that 
 all mortals have a surfeit of imaginary ones." 
 
 " It is very true, ilka douce maun hae its bitter, and our 
 dainty palate will find it oot where there isna a drap. But, 
 come alang, gin ye hae a bittock, to spare to an auld^ne 
 who is i' the search for consolement. If naethin' mair it 
 
108 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 would be kind to see where I hae picchit my tent, that ye 
 may drap in hke a fellow-sodger i' this wearisome warfare 
 o' the world. I will a'ways guaranty ye Hielaud ale, 
 warm slippers, and a warmer welcome." 
 
 I consented cheerfully, and we soon stopped before a 
 small, neat house, where the outside showed, to a casual 
 glance, an air of thorough comfort, without the least at- 
 tempt at display. On knocking, the door was opened by 
 a well-clad urchin, whose broad face bespoke him a sprig 
 of " the land o' cakes ;" and we were ushered into an en- 
 try, well warmed and carpeted, provided with a large 
 couch and stuffed chairs, for the ease of those whose des- 
 tiny was to '•' groom the parlors." We entered the first 
 door, and I found myself in the presence of a kind-faced 
 matron, who was industriously forming stars, rhomboids, 
 and parallelograms, on a chintz counterpane ; she rose at our 
 entrance, and I was introduced to the " gude wife, Judith." 
 
 " Who," my host added, " was my foster-mate in child- 
 hood, and has noo come to dream awa' the rentail o' her 
 days i' the keepin' and ganin' o' my crouse household." 
 
 Bowing to the curtseying housekeepei", who seemed to 
 have acquired that accomplishment, so rare with females, 
 silence, I followed my kind entertainer to an inner room, 
 where a blazing fire invited us to sit. Mine iiost pointed 
 to a wadded chair, which appeared to have been inhaling 
 for an hour or two the delicious caloric of the three oaken 
 logs, that were blazing and crackling so merrily in the 
 chimney. I showed my perfect willingness to make my- 
 self as much chez inoi as poiisible, and thrusting my feet 
 forward, exposed their damp soles to the cheering heat. A 
 thump on the deal table with his fist brought to mine host 
 the J^Ltle Scotch Ganymede, who first greeted us with his 
 chubby face. 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE. 109 
 
 "Comforts for twa, Geordie," was the concise request. 
 
 He disappeared, and soon returned with slippers, lined 
 with linsey ; an ominous looking jug, of the species called 
 " monkey," and a couple of solid tankards, on whose bright 
 sides gleamed a tasteful crest. Crossing the room to a 
 heaufet, which filled one corner, he produced some clean 
 pipes, with a small package of well-laid tobacco ; handing 
 then from a crypt near the fireplace a well-worn snuff- 
 box, of the goodly size of Voltaire's geant tabatiere, he 
 retired, closing the door with the least possible noise. 
 
 While mine host was assiduously arranging the " comforts 
 for twa," and after I had exchanged my boots for the 
 linsey-slippers, I took a cursory survey of the room. 
 
 The first object which attracted my notice was a large 
 oaken bookcase ; on whose ample shelves were piled 
 large antiquated volumes, and a few of more modern dress ; 
 on the top were two busts of marble, much smoked, ap- 
 parently heads of maids and fawns ; back of these, against 
 the wall, was a brown, rusty gun, of an inch and a half 
 calibre, curiously adorned with rough fretwork in silver; 
 a large roquelaure of the Maxwell plaid hung on one side 
 of the bookcase. Some fishing-tackle and sporting accou- 
 trements were dispersed around. In the corner was the 
 fore-mentioned bemifet, which, desecrated from the use of 
 the costly china and ancient plate, was filled with pipes, 
 tobacco, pamphlets, fishing-lines ; and was, in fact, a me- 
 lange of the odds and ends of mine host's boudoir. Over 
 the mantel were suspended three portraits ; one was a 
 sturdy old smoke-faced veteran, in stiff armor and drapery, 
 evidently a pi'oduction of the Holbein school ; the second 
 was the portrait of a pleasant-faced lady, in the coif and 
 ruffle of the last century ; near this hung a fresh painting 
 of a young female, apparently twenty ; a melancholy ex- 
 
110 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 pression was thrown over the face, although the artist had 
 evidently striven to force a smile on the pale visage of 
 the damsel ; her hands were folded, and there was a some- 
 thing peculiarly bewitching in the straight gaze of her 
 mild eye. A framed sampler hung between the two win- 
 dows of the apartment ; a small cabinet of polished oak 
 was under it. The windows were shaded with curtains 
 of plaid cotton, and supported by a rough valance, where 
 the thistle was scored into a half-existence by some 
 doughty Canova. My eye again returned to the pensive 
 face over the mantel, and I fell into a reverie. 
 
 My thoughts were soon interrupted by a loud pop, and 
 I saw a cork finding its way to the ceiling. The white 
 froth streamed over the sides of the " monkey," and mine 
 host offered me one of the silver tankards filled to the 
 brim with ale, " the like of which," he said " had never 
 found its way adown the Frith o' Solway." After having 
 drunk a willie-waugh of the best ale I ever tasted, and 
 lighted our pipes (I am quite a pipester for a youth) the 
 old man began the following discourse : 
 
 " Gin ye are wise o' the plaids, ye maun hae kenned 
 afore this by the three black and twa green on this vest 
 and that auld rokelo, (whilk I call my coat o' arms,) that I 
 am a Max'cll ; John Max'ell ; I am noo fifty, and liae led 
 a life as chequered as the chess-board ; but amid a' the 
 troubles wi' whilk a gude Providence has laden me, I hae 
 preservit gude spirits and a light heart. My story (and I 
 ken ye are too kind to be uninterested in it) is soon tauld ; 
 and gin I mak' ye gape, I will pay wi' a plate o' Aberdeen 
 brosc, and a round o' beef o' Judith's ain cookin', wlia 
 willna dolf her peak to any French cidsiiiier. 
 
 " I was born at Braemar, whilk ye ken is at the head o' 
 the bonnie Dee ; my father was a'so John Max'ell of the 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE. HI 
 
 auld and proud line, wha made sick a feck and fasli because 
 they drew their ruddy blude from twa dukes, three earls, 
 and a score o' lairds and baronets ; my father wasna a 
 proud man ; he was muckle smit wi' republican principles, 
 and o' his ain gude will droppit the title o' Sir, because, 
 said he, chantin a staff o' rantin' Robbie, 
 
 " The rank is hut the guinea stamp, 
 The man's the gowd for a' that." 
 
 He was the anely son o' his father. Sir Rob Max'ell, and 
 received the last breath o' his father wi' his clear estate o' 
 Max'ell holm at the age of twenty-three. At twenty-five 
 he married my blessit mother Mary, (peace to her banes !) 
 who in my twelfth year gave up the ghaist, and socht the 
 God she had a' ways loved sae weel. That is her picture 
 whilk ye see aboon the mantel ; the day she died she laid 
 her ban's on my head wi' just the pure look you see there, 
 and bade me loe my Maker and my father wi' a' my heart 
 an' soul ; after some more gentle words she closit her lips 
 and went to her endless sleep." (Here I observed a tear 
 start into the eye of Maxwell ; he wiped it away with his 
 finger and continued :) 
 
 " I had the best education whilk could be procured at 
 Braemar, for my father wouldna trust me in Edinbro', and 
 my mither on her death-bed tauld him to keep me, aboon 
 a', frae the chiels o' the town. 
 
 " Twa miles and a bittock adoun the Dee, (dinna laugh 
 at an auld man's love tale,) lived Esther M'Khay ; I lo'ed 
 her ; she lo'ed me ; we made mony and mony times, i' the 
 silent walks near M'Khay cottage, a tryst whilk baith 
 keepit i' gude faith ; her father's blude wasna gentle, he 
 being the son of an armorer at Aberdeen ; by thrift he 
 had saved a " mansel or twa," and lived on ane o' the 
 
112 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 prettiest spots in Scotland ; we lo'ed in secret, for I kend 
 my father, though nae sae proud as tome folk, had still a 
 •winkin' to a body's tree o' pedigree. I keepit a little boat, 
 and under the cloak of anglin' for some o' the little vipers 
 o' the Dee, I drifted down a'ways to the quay in front o' 
 M'Khay cottage ; being social in ray temper I could not 
 bear to fish alane, and Ettie was sic a boon companion, and 
 was sae handy in baitin' the angle, that I believit a mon 
 couldna but be fou' to deny himsel' sic a bird to sit i' the 
 bush wi' him. 
 
 " The mon my father lo'ed the maist, he wha wad eat 
 his dinners, drink his wine, and use his bed and board as 
 if they were his ain, was Ma rk Thorndyke ; oh ! that mon 
 had a de'il in his e'e ; his very speech was worms and 
 adders ; he Avound himsel' around my father, shared his 
 livin' and his secrets, and (to use an old saw of the dominie 
 of Braemar school) he was amicus alter ipse to him. My 
 mither feared him. She warned my father o' him. My 
 father's breast was pure as the day, and he couldna and 
 wouldna believe that the fiien' o' his bosom was a treason- 
 ish mon. My mither said nae mair. Day after day, and 
 night after night, they wad tak' their guns and dogs, and 
 gang awa' frae hame in search o' buck and fowl. I' my 
 natal month o' my twelfth year, my mither died. Mark 
 and my father were mair thegither than ever. I said nae- 
 thing ; I could do naething. For five years mair they 
 were han' in glove. Ane day in July they were anglin' 
 i' the Dee; about noon a storm arose; the little waves o' 
 the Dee grew larger and fiercer ; the winds roared and 
 the water heaved like a kraken i' the North sea ; the boat 
 capsized ; my father was drownit ; Thoriulyke swam ashore ; 
 O God ! I never shall forget the day when the body o' 
 my father was draggit frae the bosom o' the Dee, gnawit 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 ii; 
 
 and liauklit by tlie fishes ! I think I see it noo as it lay 
 sae manght i' the shroud i' front o' the porch o' Max'ell 
 holm. Many were the tears that were shed by our tenants 
 and kin to the memory o' the kind soul wha had gane. 
 He lies i' the Max'ell grave-yard wi' a' his forefathers, and 
 close by the side o' my reverit mither. Noo comes the 
 sairest part o' the tale. The will was openit. I was left 
 to shirk for mysel'. The estate o' Max'ell holm, its auld 
 elms under whose shade I had studied my Liber Primus ; 
 its hounds, horses, shaw deer, mere, birds and a', Avere 
 left (my lips burn wi' the word !) to Mark Thorndyke. 
 My blude bqilit at the injustice. I ran gnashin' my teeth 
 to the stead where this devil incarnate lived. I rated 
 him, swore and callit on the blessit shades o' John and 
 Mary Max'ell. ' Cool your blude, cool your blude, young 
 mon,' said he wi' a sardonic grin that wouldna hae shamit 
 Moloch, ' your father has left a thing or twa mair here 
 whilk mayna please ye as week' He handed me twa 
 pieces o' paper on whilk was written i' my father's ain 
 fair han' : 
 
 "'Braemar, Maxwell Arms, May 17 — 
 
 "'This is to certify that I, John Maxwell, bart., have 
 at certain and sundry times, and at certain and sundry 
 games at whist, drafts, palm, and shovel-board, lost to 
 Mark Thorndyke, gent., of Aberdeen, £20,000 in ready 
 stocks and money ; besides my whole estates of Maxwell 
 Holm, manse, demesne, chattels, tenements, feoffs and 
 freeholds; also my dogs, cattle, horses, pictures, books, 
 plate, and jewels. 
 
 " ' God forgive me, 
 
 " ' John Maxwell, of Maxwell Holm. 
 
 "' Signed dnd sworn before Alex. Thrackle, cleric, pro - 
 thonUary, S^cJ 
 6* 
 
114 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 " Had a waxen torcli been held close upon my e'en, 
 they couldna hae been mair dry and parchit than they 
 were then ; the sight o' the cursed parchment had searit 
 and scalit my very tears. ' Oh !' I groaned in my bitter- 
 ness o' spirit, ' the curses o' a' the Max'ells be upon ye ; 
 tak' my birthright, ye hell-hound ! Tak' from the orphan 
 the very sod to sleep on; close your hatefu'-e'en gin ye 
 can, and rest quiet 'neath the roof o' my fathers ; God for- 
 o-ive ye, I canna.' Flinging at him the hateful witnesses 
 of my father's guilt, I rushit out wi' a burnin' brow, and 
 sat me down aneath ane of those trees whilk had grown 
 wi' my growth, and strengthenit wi' ray strength. My 
 sorrows soon found a way to run out in tears, and I wecpit 
 lano- and bitterly. I gatherit my books, claies, and jewels 
 thegither, whistled to my dog Bruce, my anely frien', 
 (nae, nae, my anely frien',) seatit mysel i' my little boat, 
 and paddlit wi' as light a heart as possible adown the 
 
 Dee. 
 
 " I stoppit at the quay of M'Khay cottage ; it was twi- 
 lio-ht. • I stole to the Httle room aboon the dairy, whilk I 
 reachit by creepin' up a bower o' cinqucfoil, until I steppit 
 upon its little balcony. ' Ettie' — 'John'— her head was 
 in my bosom. She gave me a sweet look ; (here the bright 
 tears ran races down the cheeks of Maxwell ;) ' Why are 
 your e'en sae red, John ?' * The warld has deserted me, 
 Ettie.' — ' Nae, nae, John, dinna say that, for I will cling 
 to ye when the warld and a' are gane.' A burst of grief 
 easit my achin' heart. I sat down wi' my head restin' on 
 the saft bosom o' Ettie, and tauld her my sorrows. In 
 sic sweet communion passit the bonis till the morn was 
 hie i' the heavens, and I started frae the arms o' Ettie. 
 'We maun part,' said I, 'the warld is a' ane to nic. I 
 am young and healthy, puir and cantie ; i loved you when 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE. H5 
 
 I was rich, I winna marry when puir; but gin God pros- 
 per me, we will be ane.' The saut tears fell in abundance 
 frae our e'en, and I canna tell the whilk wept the harder. 
 I left wi' her my books and the few jewels ; tied my bonnie 
 boat in the boat-house ; callit Bruce, and travellit afoot 
 to Aberdeen. Frae there I took passage to the Firth of 
 Forth, and in due time enterit Edinbro'. 
 
 " Born to affluence I wasna taught i' the mystery o' 
 ony useful occupation, but was intendit for the bar, and 
 was therefore inexperiencit and unkenn'd i' the warld. I 
 was fash wi' the pen, and had mair than an inklin' o' arith- 
 metic. I enterit a compting-house. At twanty-ane I was 
 i' the house as a partner. At twanty-five I married 
 Ettie. 
 
 "When I returnit to the quay o' M'Khay cottage, I 
 felt proud to think that I had showit mysel' worthy the 
 blude o' the Max'ells ; auld Nigel himsel' (that's he over 
 the mantel wi' the straight armor on, and is the ooner o' 
 the big blutherbuss over the bookis,) wouldna blush for 
 the spirit o' his great gran' child. Na, na, the blude he 
 spillit at Both'ell Brig wasna mair worthy a king's favor 
 than mine, Vivian. 
 
 " After Ettie and I were ane, I went to Braemar ; my 
 heart was full ; I couldna breathe the air o' Max'ell holm 
 wi'out my mither's sweet face risin' amang a' the trees and 
 o'er ilka hillock. Thorndyke was dead. A' the tenantry 
 cam' wi' tears i' their e'en to greet the return o' the lawfu' 
 laird. Amang the rest cam' Sandie Broon, wha tauld me 
 anither horror. 
 
 * " ' I were fishin' on the Dee,' said Sandie, ' not a bittock 
 mair than ten ells frae your blessit father, when the storm 
 cam' up, and the boat was o'erturnit. Thorndyke caught 
 baud o' the keel ; your father sank ; he cam' up agin to 
 
116 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 the tap ; I saw Thorndyke (and he lookit hke a bogle 
 o' hell when he did it) strike your father down wi' 
 his ain foot; the douce John Max'ell sunk to rise nae 
 mair.' 
 
 " My blude froze i' my veins ; I would hae uttered 
 blightin' curses o' the head o' the hell-hound Thorndyke ; 
 but he has gane to render accounts to ane mair worthy to 
 judge and punish than I, puir worm ! 
 
 " I willna tell ye how proud I was o' my blushin' bnde 
 Ettie, but gin ye will gie me that ebon box, ye shall see 
 her. (I here handed him a small casket of ebony, orna- 
 mented with pearl buhl. He opened it and showed me a 
 lovely picture, which closely resembled the melancholy 
 face over the mantel. She was in her bridal dress, and 
 I sitting in the bower of cinquefoil, which had so often been 
 the scene of their tender love. In the same casket was an 
 aigrette of pearls and diamonds ; a splendid ring, whose 
 diamonds formed a crest, while beneath the largest one 
 could be perceived the initials M. D., Mary Douglas : it 
 was his mother's bridal lint;. Jn the casket were a few 
 other seals and jewels, all having an appearance of anti- 
 quity.) We lived peacefu* and happy ; my marriage was 
 blest wi' anely a daughter — (here he sighed deeply) — at 
 the age o' thirty I retired to IVIax'ell holm, whilk I had 
 purchasit wi' my ain siller, blest wi' wealth, a wife, and 
 ane dear, dear child. 
 
 " The rose whilk opens its velvet leavis to inhale the 
 douce breeze o' the mornin', and thraws open its wee 
 bosom to take in' the kindly draps o' dew, dreams na o' 
 the cauld wind o' the mountain, whilk will rush aboon It, 
 dryin' the dew and carryin' awa its tender leavis. 
 
 " My fair chiel' I namit Estlier Douglas ; thereby com- 
 memoratin' my spouse, and my milher whilk is i' lieaven. She 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE 
 
 117 
 
 grew fair as a lily, and promisit mori} and mony happy days to 
 me. When hhe had reachit lu-r rourteenth year her mither 
 Esther, my dear Ettie, Avham 1 had wed frae my boyhood, 
 was laid on her death-bed. She had been lin'erin' more 
 than twa years wi' a disease i' the heart. Ane night she 
 awakit wi' the heart-breakin' words : ' John, I canna live 
 the night out; I shall di' before the sunrise; dinna gang 
 for the doctor; it winna, be o' Any use ; my heart has 
 been gnawit awa' by the con.sumplion, and the last mairsel 
 o't will gang to-night ; I maun see Ettie afore I di'. Ah ! 
 that sweet chiel', she has niver causit me a tear-drap ; I 
 couldna gie ye, John, a better gift ; and still I a'ways had 
 a fear she wouldna di' weel ; her spirit is sae gentle she 
 couldna say nay to her enemy ; watch o'er her, John ; 
 watch her wi' mair than a father's e'en ; dinna influence 
 her love ; ye ken that you yoursel' maun hae di't, gin your 
 father had sayit nay to the lo'e o' me. Mark me, John, 
 be mair than a father to her; noo gang and ca' her, that I 
 may bless my e'en wi' the sight of her. God bless you 
 and Ettie, John.' I tossit on my claics, like a daft mon ; 
 1 flew to awak' the maid, and then to my little Ettie's 
 chamber; dear chiel', she was asleep, wi' as douce a smile 
 on her mon' as wad hae glinted on the lips o' Gabriel ; I 
 awakit her, and she went wi' me like a trettiblin' dove to 
 the bed o' Esther. We arrivit there wi' fear in our hearts. 
 There she lay i' her angelic beauty ; there was her bright 
 e'en, they expressit naethin' ; there were her red lips, they 
 movit not ; there was her lily han', it was cauld. Ettie 
 turnit and weepit on my breast; she kent the truth; we 
 arrivit too late ; her mither's gentle spirit had flown alaft 
 to plead for us i' heav'n." ^ 
 
 A convulsive burst of grief rent the boaom of Maxwell; 
 in a few minutes more he was calm. 
 
118 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 " Do not," said I, wliile the tears were streaming from 
 my own eyes, " pain yourself with the recital ; leave it, 
 my friend, until some time when you can tell the rest with 
 less grief." 
 
 "Na, na," said he, "I am usit to sorrow, and the part 
 o' my tale (whilk ye may think too lang) the maist griev- 
 ous is yet to come. 
 
 " I kent it wasna wise to rpourn ; a' the tears i' the 
 warld wadna bring her back again, sae I dried my e'en, 
 and thankit heaven wi' a hum'le heart that its kindness had 
 spared me my ain Ettie. I sent for the best instructors i' 
 a' tlie gentle arts a leddie should learn, and ilka day I saw 
 tlie dear blossom expan' under my ain e'en. Ye ken a 
 father's is a partial e'e, but maugre that, I maun think the 
 earth never held a cherub like mine Ettie. Gin ye hae 
 seen a mornin' flower besprent wi' dew, sae were the e'en 
 o' my little Ettie when a tale o' sorroV was tauld to her 
 ear. Aften and aften has she sat on my knee, and I hae 
 discoursit to her o' her dear mither, until the tears wad 
 rin down her saft cheeks. 
 
 " Amang the tutors o' accomplishments that cam' to 
 Max'ell holm to teach my Ettie, and make her fit to enjoy 
 the sweets o' this life, was ane o' the name o' Burleigh 
 Jacob Burleigh. He hadna mair than twenty years o'er 
 his head, when he cam' wi' monj' recommends to teach 
 my Ettie to finger the spinet and harp. He was mico 
 douce and gentle in his way, and soon workit himsel' in 
 my good graces by his free carriage and witty clavers", 
 Nae person made himsel' mair welcome to our table, and 
 I lo'ed much to hear his rich voice while Ettie fingerit the 
 harp. I found soon tliat he cam' too often. Ettie took 
 mair lessons i' mubic than becam' a young leddie wha wad 
 mak' hersel' glib i' the chart and lexicon. When BurhMgh 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE 
 
 119 
 
 was absent she wad sigh, and sometimes weep ; and when 
 he openit the door her e'en wad sparkle, and the bright 
 red fly o'er her cheek. While I was present he taught 
 her faithfully the gamut, the stops, and the quivers ; but, 
 the moment my back was turnit, the music ceasit, and I 
 could hear a low gentle whisperin'. This wasna weel ; I 
 didna like it ; besides, I hae seen them arm-in-arm under 
 the arborage o' the auld elms ; to be sure, they had music 
 i' their ban's ; but I saw them look aince at the music and 
 twice at ilk ither. 
 
 "I was ane day wanderin' by the gude auld hostelrie 
 o' Max'ell arms, when the landleddie, a brousie auld wife, 
 cam' out, and tappin' me on the sliouther, beckonit me i'- 
 the tap-room. 
 
 " ' I wouldna wound the feelin's o' a worm,' said she, 
 ' muckle mair sae gude a raon as John Max'ell ; but it isna 
 mair than right that you should ken a' I do.' 
 
 " Sae sayin' she led me back o' the bar, and liftin' a 
 dirty red curtain, pointit to the scene within. I there saw 
 Jacob Burleigh playin' cards wi' Sandy Dribble, a puir 
 shote o' Braemar ; his e'en were red wi' anger and strong 
 drink, his hair was brushit back ; and reelin' about in his 
 chair, he thumpit the table wi' his doublit fist, till the 
 glasses rung again. I retirit, shockit wi' the sight, to my 
 hame. Ettie had gane to bed. 
 
 " The next mornin' Burleigh sent word he couldna give 
 Miss Max'ell her usual lesson, as he was confinit to his 
 bed wi' an ague-fit. Ettie lookit dour enough. I took 
 her on my knee, and in as gentle words as possible tauld 
 her the scene o' the passit night, and o' my intention to 
 dismiss Burleigh. When I had finishit I perceivit that 
 Ettie had fainted i' my arras. I calht upon Judith loudly ; 
 she soon cam' in, and brought Ettie to life wi' sauts ; and 
 
120 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 having put her to bed, and left her in a gentle slumber, 
 returnit again to her household wark. 
 
 " I immediately dispatchit a servant for Burleigh. He 
 hadna gane ten steps frae the door afore he met Burleigh, 
 on his way to my house. I was i' my study when Bur- 
 leisfh enterit. 
 
 " ' You have sent for me, Mr. Maxwell,' said he, 'and 
 your servant luckily encountered me on my way to see 
 you. I suppose you have some ' auld rackie,' or some 
 Aberdeen venison for me, to give my mind on ; but the 
 matter that I have in hand is of a more serious nature. I 
 have long seen, taught, and loved your daughter Ettie ; 
 and, though I cannot boast of much gear, I come to offer 
 her my hand and heart ; to her I know it will be accept- 
 able, and I hope equally so to you.' 
 
 " He very leisurely took a seat, tossit doim his hat, and 
 coolly crossit his legs on anithcr chair. My blude boilit 
 wi'in me. 
 
 " ' Ye miscreant !' at length I cried, 'hae ye the impu- 
 dence to propose your dirty han' to the daughter o' John 
 Max'ell ? What divil or what drink hae ye in j-our head, 
 that ye wad dare to min'le your foul fiddlin' blude wi' 
 mine ? 
 
 " ' I am sorry ye don't like my blood, Mr. Maxwell,' 
 answered he, coolly smiling ; ' but I did not know there 
 was so great a difference between the son of a musician 
 and the grand- daughter of a gunsmith.' (Here the reptile 
 wad quiz the origin o' my lost Esther.) ' It is not well, 
 however,' continued he, ' for a man to cavil with his father- 
 in-law ; you can make me as rich as you please, and I 
 warrant I will scrape up a baronet or two among the Bur- 
 Icighs to match the Maxwells. You would not miss a few 
 angels, old boy, to set up a worthy son-in-law, would ye ?' 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE. 121 
 
 " My auld Adam were risin' i' my throat, but I stufflit 
 it doun, and askit coolly, 'Where were ye last night?' 
 
 " He said he were sei«it wi' an ague-fit, and was con- 
 finit to his bed. ISToo my auld Adam burst forth. 
 
 " ' Na, na, ye son o' a fiddler, ye gam'ler, ye drunkard ; 
 last night ye lost your honor, senses, and money to Sandie 
 Dribble. Out wi' ye! gam'ler, drunkard, liar! and dinna 
 darken my doors wi' the sight o' ye. My son-i'-law, for- 
 sooth ! My son-i'-law ! Out wi' ye.' 
 
 " Sae sayin', I collarit him, and thrust him out the door. 
 After he was gane I felt muckle exhausted, and soothit 
 mysel' into a gentle slum'er. On wakin' it was dark. I 
 ca'ed Judith, and askit gin Ettie were in her cham'er. 
 She noddit her head, and closit her e'en to si'nify that 
 Ettie were asleep ; for ye ken my auld Judith here is 
 doom?" 
 
 " Dumb ?" said I. 
 
 " Ay, sure ; doom as a fish ; and unco good reason to 
 be silent. I said nae mair, but soon retirit to rest. The 
 next mornin' I sat cosily by the fire readin' the Aberdeen 
 Chronicle, while the warm bannocks were smokin' on the 
 table. ' Gang and ca' Ettie,' said I ; ' it is na aften she 
 lags to the breek'ast. God grant she maunna be sick!' 
 Judith went and returnit wi' her e'en and mou' wide open, 
 while she pointit to the chamber o' Ettie. I rushit by 
 her, and enterit the chamber. Nae Ettie were there. 
 Every thin' Avas the same as tofore. The bed was na 
 tum'lit. A few articles o' clothin' were missin' frae her 
 wardrobe. I faintit awa', and lay mony minutes senseless ; 
 but the rea dy han' o' Judith restorit me to my senses. Ettie 
 was gane. Where had she gane ? ' Wi' whom had she 
 gane? 
 
 " Aboot an hour after, a little ragged brat threw a soilit 
 
122 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 paper i' the window, and ran awa' like a deer. 1 recog- 
 nizit the han'writin' o' Ettie. It said, 
 
 " ' I cannot see you again, beloved and only parent. I 
 am married, and have been for a month. God forbid that 
 I should bring sorrow on your gray hairs. Pray for me. 
 Do not revile me. I am broken-hearted. 
 
 " ' Esther Burleigh.' 
 
 "Nae trace could I find o 'em. Nae boat had passed 
 Braemar after twal o'clock. Xae horses had been hirit i' 
 the village. I ravit and stampit like a daft mon, and at 
 last settlit doim into complete melancholy. I closit Max- 
 'ell holm, and biddin' Braemar ' God speed,' wi' tears i' 
 my e'en, I took wi' me my faithfu' Judith and her babie 
 son (for Judith is a widow) and steerit for Edinbro'. Nae- 
 thing could be tracit there ; and for twa years or mair I 
 were travellin' in England and the south o' Europe. My 
 health waxit puirer and puirer. Ane night I arrivit in 
 London, and to pass awa' the time, I went to the play- 
 house. I were watchin' the playin' wi'out interest, when 
 wha should appeay on the stage as an underlin' but Bur- 
 leigh ? He was ca'ed Wilcox i' tlie playbill. I couldna 
 mistake his strut and leer. My bluda rushit to my head ; 
 but I soon coolit doun, and left the house. I set mysel' 
 on a watch at the stiifje-door. It was not lanfj tofore 
 Burleigh came out wi' twa or three companions. lie was 
 beastly drunk; and staggerit alang like a dreamin' mon. 
 Puir, dear Ettie ! whare was she ? My heart was i' my 
 mou'. I fc^llowit him cautiously. He soon leavit his boon 
 companions, and went his way to a dark and dirty alley, 
 where e'en the brisk night breeze couldna allay the nox- 
 ious fumes. He soon turnit up a court-yard. He enterit 
 a murky and sordit stairway, and on tlie sccon' landing he 
 enterit a room. 1 thocht I heard a moanin'. Soon after, 
 
THE SNOW ACQUAINTANCE. 123 
 
 a meek voice (oh liow that voice thrillit through me !) 
 said, 'Jacob, is that you? I thought you would never 
 return. Oh dear, dear ! I am in great pain.' 
 
 " 'Always grumbhng, always grumbling ; keep yourself 
 contented — you might be worse off.' 
 
 " ' True, too true ; I deserve to be worse off. I have 
 deserved all this, and more. I am patient. God forgive 
 me.' 
 
 " ' Patient ! I should like to see the time that you are 
 patient. How's the brat ?' 
 
 " ' He's alive and well. Sorry am I to say it. It were 
 a mercy if he died.' 
 
 " ' Here the voice became fainter and fainter, till it 
 seemit as if prayin'. I could endure nae longer. I rushit 
 in. ' Ettie !' exclaimed I, * my ainly chiel', my dear Ettie !' 
 Upon a squalid bed, coverit with a dank and patchit 
 coverlet, laid a' that remainit o' my dear, my ain Ettie. 
 She startit up at the sound o' my voice. Oh heaven ! I 
 couldna believe that the puir, meagre, wae-begone skel- 
 eton that reachit its arms towards me was Ettie. It had 
 her e'en ; how sunken and diramit. It had her hair ; but 
 how mattit and witherit. I claspit her in my arms. She 
 lookit up wi' a douce smile, while a bright tear stood in"' 
 her e'en. 
 
 " ' Father, do ye forgi'e me ?' 
 
 " ' Ay, Ettie, as I hope to be forgi'en.' 
 
 "She said nae mair, but wi' a look that would hae 
 bribit angels, died i' my arms." (Here Maxwell threw 
 himself back, and gave himself up to a convulsive flood of 
 tears, I could not interrupt him.) He soon continued, 
 " This was my greatest pang. I could hae lost the warld 
 had the warld left me Ettie. She di'it. I hae to thank 
 God for mony mercies. I winna repine for a' my troubles, 
 
124 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 and ye ken weel how mony there are. My father, mither, 
 Ettie, a' gane "wi' the wife o' my bosom to a better earth 
 than this. 
 
 " I never saw Burleigh mair. I heard he was imprisonit 
 for some crime, and died i' prison. I had the body o' 
 Ettie buried i' the graveyard o' Max'ell holm. That is a 
 picture o' her ta'en after death. The painter has tryit to 
 throw her douce expression into the face, but he hasna 
 tauld a' its sweetness. The chiel' o' Ettie died on my 
 way to America. I live here noo wi' nae person but 
 Judith to keep me company. I am happy as a mon o' my 
 miseries can be. I do muckle for the puir,and they thank 
 me iTQuckle in return. It were unkind indeed gin after all 
 the blessin's Providence hae sparit, I couldna gie o' my 
 superfluity to the starvin' children aroun' me. Ye hae 
 heard an auld men's tale. I hae weepit, but I hae weepit 
 wi' satisfaction ; for ye are amaist the only person wha 
 has expressit onythin' like sympathy for me. I hear the 
 step o' Judith i' the entry. It is dinner time. A'ways 
 when ye hae nae better way to gar your time pass, drap 
 in to see ane wha will a'ways mak' ye welcome." 
 
 After a sumptuous and substantial dinner, I bade 
 " good-bye" to John Maxwell. My philosophy of the 
 heels was entirely tiodden down. I had augured wrong ; 
 and must now believe with the old shepherd, " Ye may 
 mony and mony times think yerscP surrounded wi' hap- 
 piness, when misery, bitin' misery is gnashin' at your 
 hough." V. u. v. 
 
THE VOICE OF THE GRASS 
 
 BY MISS SARAH KOBEETS. 
 
 Here I come — creeping — creeping everywhere ; 
 By the dusty roadside. 
 On the sunny hillside, 
 Close by the noisy brook, 
 In every shady nook ; 
 Creeping — creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come — creeping — creeping everywhere ; 
 All round the open door, 
 Where sit the aged poor, 
 There where the children play 
 In the bright and sunny May, 
 I come creeping — silently creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come — creeping — creeping everywhere ; 
 In the noisy city street 
 My pleasant face you'll meet, 
 Cheering the sick at heart, 
 Toiling their busy part — 
 Silently creeping — creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come creeping — creeping everywhere ; 
 You cannot see me coming. 
 Nor hear my low sweet humming, 
 
126 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 For in the starry night, 
 And the glad morning hght, 
 I come creeping — creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come — creeping — creeping everywhere, 
 More welcome than the flowers 
 In summer's pleasant hours, 
 The gentle cow is glad. 
 And the merry bird not sad, 
 To see me creeping — creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come — creeping — creeping everywhere, 
 When you're numbered with the dead 
 In your still and narrow bed. 
 In the happy spring I'll come 
 And deck your silent home. 
 Creeping — silently creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come — creeping — creeping everywhere ; 
 My humble song of praise 
 Most gratefully I'll raise 
 To him at whose command 
 I beautify the land. 
 Creeping — silently creeping everywhere. 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL. 
 
 What a pity that a story — an old soldier's especially — 
 should ever require a beginning ! that it could not like 
 some general actions — and those not the least important I 
 have been engaged in — be irregularly brought on by a 
 random shot from some unknown quarter, or some chance- 
 medley sort of encounter between raw troops ; and thus 
 the hero, heioine, and all the corps d'armee, comfortably 
 enveloped in one cloud of smoke — whether from powder 
 or segars, signifies little — be brought at once into close 
 quarters with each other and the readers. 
 
 Next to the chill discomfort of standing under arms for 
 hours of gray twilight, waiting for an enemy, too wise or 
 too wary to give you an opportunity of doing anything, is 
 the nervous feeling of sitting on a rainy day, when nothing 
 in earth or sky seems dry but one's own brain, with a 
 formidable quire of paper drawn up before one, meditating 
 a beginning to a tale. 
 
 I got over that part of my business, thank my stars, 
 before I sat down ; so now I have only to beg the reader 
 to suppose me, first, a small urchin of an only boy ; next, 
 a roguish, unlucky school-boy, with just nous enough to 
 keep him from being a dunce, and idleness in abundance 
 to keep him from being a scholar ; then a raw ensign, in 
 love with nothing but his own coat and feathers ; then, 
 for a long period, a busy, war-worn soldier, with no leis- 
 ure for any mistress but glory ; and, lastly, for my story 
 I promised, begins in the middle ; a major of some four- 
 and-thirty years' experience in the world, with a few scat- 
 
128 THE MOSS-ROSE. | 
 
 tered gray hairs on his temples, and, for the first time in 
 his life, leisure as well as inclination to be in love. 
 
 I suppose it was this very leisure and opportunity, , 
 that, with the usual waywardness of man, prevented my 
 availing myself of either. I was quartered in a succession 
 of gay, bustling towns, full of beauty and fashion, and all 
 the el ceferas of the newspaper vocabulary. In vain I 
 attended balls ; nay, danced, though I confess neither 
 with the spirit or good grace of an absolute volunteer, 
 flirted — for what Irishman could live in an atmosphere of i 
 youth and beauty, without indulging in that species of 
 lively chit-chat, which a good-natured world styles flirta- 
 tion ? — but it would not all do. I remained like a perfect 
 salamander, if not unsinged, at least unconsumed ; and be- 
 gan to fancy my heart had been changed, like the babes 
 of an Irish nursery tale, by some fairy, and a cannon ball 
 substituted in its place. Yet it went thump, thumping as 
 usual when I saw any dashing aff'air in the gazette, and 
 grew soft as a frosted potato when any old soldier's wife 
 came whining with a story of distress ; but in love I could 
 not manage to be, and it was very provoking to one who 
 literally had nothing else to do. Had the same favorable 
 combination of circumstances occurred ten years sooner, 
 there would, I dare say, have been no difficulty ; but a 
 man past thirty has his wits terribly about him ; and, as 
 the most fluent writer has sometimes all his ideas put to 
 flight by the sound of the postman's bill ; the sight of a 
 stray gray hair, with its "now or never" memento, flur- 
 ries a man too much to allow him to make up his mind. 
 
 I began to fancy myself a lieutenant-general on the 
 staff, with no soul near me but a cross housekeeper, and I 
 a fifteenth cousin, deaf and blind, and with a mind nar- ] 
 rowed to the compass of a regulation shoe-tie. 1 envied i 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL. 129 
 
 every married man I saw ; fancied all their shrews or 
 dowdies, angels incarnate, and wondered why there were 
 no such girls in the markets now. 
 
 My steeple-chase after a wife was interrupted, by re- 
 ceiving notice of my promotion to a lieutenant-colonelcy 
 in a regiment in the West Indies, and orders to join in a 
 month, or six weeks at farthest. This obliged me to go 
 immediately to London, and, happening to pass, on the 
 
 day after my arrival, the fashionable school in Place, 
 
 where my sister was a parlor-boarder, I could not — hur- 
 ried as I was — resist callingr, feelinaf that we micfht so soon 
 be separated, probably for years. 
 
 I was ushered into the drawing-room, and received by 
 one of the stately and somewhat awful ladies at the head 
 of the establishment, whose portly figure and showy style 
 of dress presented the utmost imaginable contrast with 
 those of a fair, sylph-like young creature, in deep mourn- 
 ing, who sat drawing in the bow- window of the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 There was somethinar about this elescant, interesting: 
 creature which rivetted my attention in spite of myself. 
 I felt half sorry she should be so very young — apparently 
 not above seventeen — and ashamed to be so caught by 
 one little beyond childhood. ''There is no fool like an old 
 fool !" thought I to myself. I have seen many prettier 
 faces in my time, and why should I think twice about a 
 school-girl ? 
 
 I did think about her though — and look at her too ; and 
 
 as Miss T , apparently from some scruple of propriety, 
 
 in remaining tete-a-Ute with a smart offiiier, evidently dis- 
 couraged her efforts to escape, I had full leisure to gaze 
 on the sweetest and most regular of profiles. Long, dark 
 lashes, fringing a cheek, pale, but not wan ; lips whose ex- 
 7 
 
130 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 pression was that of one of Raphael's angels, and a lovely 
 polished forehead, round wliich luxuriant auburn curls de- 
 fied the confinement of a little cap, which I concluded 
 she must wear from slight indisposition, and which, from 
 contrast with her young, cherub face, only made her more 
 interesting. Her black dress only enhanced the transpa- 
 rency of her skin, and the delicacy of her figure ; in short, 
 the tout ensemble, dress, figure, and face, were, in my opin- 
 ion, perfect. 
 
 My sister, good girl, kept me waiting, as sisters will 
 do — for she was quite unaware of our probable approach- 
 ing separation — so that conversation between Miss T 
 
 and I began to flag. I could not talk to her on the only 
 subject I cared sixpence about, nor iiould she have an- 
 swered me if I had — so not being able to speak of the 
 young lady in the window, we spoke to her. Miss 
 
 T asked me if I was fond of drawings, and I had no 
 
 more hesitation in answering " yes" than if it had been 
 true. Indeed, so it was, for I found myself suddenly in- 
 oculated with a passion for the fine arts, which prompted 
 me to rise, and beg leave to admire more nearly, what had 
 enchanted me at a distance. Whether this was the draw- 
 ing or the artist, I was of course not bound to declare. 
 
 The subject was a pair of beautiful twin children, evi- 
 dently from nature or memory, for she had no model be- 
 fore her. " Your brother and sister, I presume ?" said I ; 
 " for you seem to have them completely in your mind's 
 eye." 
 
 She sighed, as she answered, with a slight blush, " I 
 am not so fortunate as to have eitiier." 
 
 " Near relations, then, I am sure ?" said I, trying to 
 fancy a resemblance. 
 
 "Not relations," answered Miss T , for her fair 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL. 131 
 
 pupil; "only connected — the children of a very dear 
 friend." 
 
 The pencil trembled in the young painter's hand. She 
 became so evidently uneasy and desirous to escape, that 
 
 Miss T-- 's prudery gave way to her good-nature ; and 
 
 softly saying, " My dear Mrs. Montolieu, will you be kind 
 enough to hasten Miss Donovan ? her brother's time is 
 limited ;" she opened the door and the beautiful vision 
 vanished. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Montolieu !" repeated I, mentally. " Did 
 I hear aright ? Mrs. ! to this girl of sixteen — this girl 
 with whom I was already half in love?" So, according to 
 an inconceivable fatality, I was again doomed to find a 
 paragon in a married woman — one, probably, left on 
 account of extreme youth, and a husband's absence, to 
 finish her imperfect education ! Miss T read my un- 
 governable curiosity in my face, and was about to gratify 
 it, when my sister entered ; and the worthy governess, 
 concluding I should be better pleased with Sophy's eluci- 
 dations than her own, sailed majestically out of the room. 
 
 " Sophy, my dear girl," cried I, after our first hearty 
 greeting, " who is that beautiful little creature, whom Miss 
 
 T has absolutely petrified me by calling Mrs. ? How 
 
 came she to be a wife at her years, and left at school with 
 her charms ? Her husband is either much to be blamed, 
 or pitied !" 
 
 " He is to be lamented, poor fellow !" said Sophy, look- 
 ing very grave. " He is dead ; and Alexina, at eighteen, 
 has been nearly two years a widow." I could not, for my 
 life even, pretend to be sorry, but I was shocked and so- 
 bered. There was something so very romantic and unu- 
 sual in the whole affair, that if romance and mystery be 
 the food of love — and a diet on which I think it thrives 
 
132 THE MOSS-ROSE, 
 
 marvellously — mine had wherewithal to make it grow like 
 a mushroom. "A widow!" I exclaimed, mechanically, 
 thinking whether the two cherub-children could by any 
 possibility be her own. " A widow ! then why does she 
 live here ?" 
 
 " For a very simple reason, brother John, that she has 
 no other place of abode. Poor Alexina ! hers is a strange 
 yet soon-told history. She was placed here in infancy, by 
 an eminent foreign merchant, who duly paid in the hand- 
 somest manner for her education, till about three years 
 ago, on his sudden death, the disorder of his affairs put a 
 stop to the supplies ; nor among his papers could a trace 
 be found of the history or connections of his protege. 
 That she was foreign was evident from her speaking only 
 French when brought hither; but that France is not her 
 country, is equally so, from her infant recollections, imper- 
 fect as they necessarily were at three years old." 
 
 "But her marriage ?" said I, impatiently; "her wid- 
 owhood ?" 
 
 " It is a dismal thing, dear John, to have not a friend in 
 the world — not even a brother to cling to — in a worse than 
 orphan condition. I thought poor Alexina would have 
 sunk under the sense of desolation, which, in spite of the 
 
 kindness of Miss T , preyed on her gentle heart and 
 
 delicate feelings. She was apparently hastening into a 
 decline, when an amiable girl, her favorite companion, in- 
 vited her with an affectionate earnestness, on leaving 
 school, to accompany her for the winter into Devonshire. 
 This was not a proposal to be declined by one so forlorn 
 and friendless ; but had the poor, drooping lily foreseen the 
 suffering that well-meant kindness was to entail on her, 
 she would have shrunk from it with dismay. Ilor friend 
 was all she could fondly wish ; and her parents, though 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL. 133 
 
 cold, selfish, and unconciliating, were too fond of their in- 
 dulged daughter, to blame, while they wondered at, her 
 Quixotic affection for a nameless orphan. 
 
 " Health soon reanimated the poor girl's frame, and man- 
 tled on her blooming cheeks ; and her beauty, whose bud 
 had been chilled and repressed by incipient illness, ex- 
 panded into rare perfection. The very harsh old people 
 at Sidbury felt its influence, and grew kinder to the crea- 
 ture whom every body else loved and admired ; and Alex- 
 ina fancied herself too happy. Her friend Lucy, whose 
 every feeling she shared with sisterly sympathy, was 
 revelling in all the luxury of a permitted and requited at- 
 tachment, and was erelong to be married to the object of 
 her early affection. Captain Willoughby, a young but dis- 
 tinguished officer. 
 
 " The wedding would have wanted its dearest, as well as 
 brightest ornament, had Alexina not remained to act the 
 part of bridemaid. It received an unexpected guest in 
 Lucy's only brother, an amiable and accomplished young 
 man, whom parental jealousy and tyranny had driven to 
 seek independence in India; but who, an early sufferer 
 from its climate, had been reluctantly sent home, with a 
 constitution severely shattered, but it was hoped not irre- 
 mediably injured. His parents, softened by the helpless 
 weakness of their only son, hailed his return with joy and 
 kindness ; and cheered by this reception, and invigorated by 
 his native breeze, he seemed daily, though slowly, to recover. 
 
 "There was, perhaps, an unconscious balm in the smiles 
 of Lucy's friend, which acted as a charm on his harassed 
 spirits ; for he uniformly revived under her presence, and 
 drooped when she was out of his sight. You, Jack, 
 who seem even now to have been fascinated by the faded 
 relics of her dazzHng beauty, need hardly be told how 
 
134 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 soon or how deeply Edmund Montolieu loved. You know 
 the world too — selfish, callous, mercenary as it is — and 
 can fancy the indignant reception the avowal of his at- 
 tachment met with from his ambitious parents. With the 
 dignified frankness of one whom, by driving him from 
 them, they had taught to act for himself, he calmly an- 
 nounced to them, before making the proposal, his unalter- 
 able determination to ask the hand of Alexina. Their un- 
 bridled and impolitic resentment drove the poor girl to 
 seek refuge at her friend Lucy's — whose recent marriage 
 afforded her a temporary home — and there it was loner 
 ere the united eloquence of love and friendship could pre- 
 vail on this high-spirited — and I am confident, high- 
 born — young creature to enter, not clandestinely indeed, 
 but unsanctioned by parental authority, a family so unde- 
 serving of her. 
 
 " There were powerful motives to compliance. On the 
 one hand, an amiable and disinterested lover, present com- 
 petence at least, and future aflluence ; on the other, ab- 
 solute destitution, or a home either the boon of charity, 
 or purchased by the most cruel of sacrifices, that of quiet, 
 leisure, and independence. How few at si.\teen would 
 long have hesitated ? And yet Alexina did so — for, with 
 all her gratitude and esteem for Edmund, she had no irre- 
 sistible passion to blind her judgment — and it was only 
 when, at the end of a long and alarming relapse of illness, 
 even his unfeeling parents migraciously consented to the 
 match, that she yielded to such generous and persevering 
 affection, and became surrounded by his barely civil rela- 
 tions, without one connection of her own to countenance the 
 trembling interloper, the Avife of the transported Edmund. 
 
 " The lovely, timid creature had scarce time to cling 
 with all tlie devotedness of now genuine and unrcprcsscd 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL. 135 
 
 attachment to the only being, save her Lucy, in all the 
 glittering circle, who would not have repulsed her in dis- 
 dain, when the fragile reed on which her young hopes 
 rested, withered from beneath her grasp ! Exhausted by 
 conflicting emotions, and long an unsuspected prey to that 
 disease of the heart which suddenly arrests the springs of 
 life, and freezes in a moment the fount of consciousness 
 and joy, Edward Montolieu was carried from the altar to 
 the grave ! and that sumptuous wedding-feast, which emp- 
 ty state and hollow congratulation had provided, was un- 
 tasted but by the sorrowing poor, who viewed in awe- 
 struck silence the ominous dole. 
 
 " The poor young widow felt like one whose frame and 
 faculties a thunderbolt has nearly annihilated, and when 
 the first few days of speechless woe were past, the unfeel- 
 ing parents, hke too many smarting under the reproaches 
 of conscience, instead of deploring the harsh severity 
 which had first expatriated and then harassed their son, 
 sought to transfer the cause of his early death to a passion 
 which, had it been less thwarted, might perhaps have 
 prolonged his feeble existence. 
 
 " Poor Alexina, with the genero&ity and recklessness of 
 youth, had instructed Edmund not to irritate his parents 
 by urging any settlements on one so utterly portionless ; 
 to which he at length consented, more from the impres- 
 sion of its being an unavailing effort, than from an acqui- 
 escence in her disinterested prayers. She was, therefore, 
 on his death, with the exception of a small sum left by 
 him in India, wholly unprovided for ; and it was a desti- 
 tution in which she could almost at first rejoice ; since all 
 other connection between them seeming likely to expire 
 with her poor husband, it would have been bitter indeed 
 to owe to his proud relations an extorted provision, to 
 
136 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 which they might think a couple of hours' union with their 
 heir but an insufficient title. 
 
 " Lucy's unvarying sympathy and affection was again 
 her first resource ; but the regiment of Captain Willoughby 
 being under orders for the West Indies, Alexina, feeling 
 that her longer residence might estrange her friend from 
 her bereaved parents, and prevent her passing under their 
 roof her last months in England, steadily insisted on 
 returning to the protection of her maternal friend, Miss 
 
 T . From her she experienced such a reception as 
 
 her strong claims on esteem and compassion ensured ; and 
 while the young widow imagined that her sr^lender pittance 
 might prevent her from being a burthen to her governess, 
 she forebore, out of respect for the prejudices of her hus- 
 band's family, as well as from the hopeless languor of 
 sorrow, attempting to exercise her own talents in that 
 line. But ' woes,' says the poet, ' love a train !' and there 
 came accounts from India of the wreck of her little all, 
 in one of those extensive failures so common in the East ; 
 and Alexina, now as penniless as before her inauspicious 
 marriage, insisted on testifying at once her gratitude and 
 
 independence, by devoting to Miss T 's assistance the 
 
 talents she owed to her care." 
 
 " And the children ?" asked I, awaking on the cessa- 
 tion of Sophy's narrative from the deep reverie into which 
 its strantre tenor had thrown me. 
 
 " The children are Lucy's — born just before her quit- 
 ting England, and resigned, with all the deep reluctance 
 of a young and sorely divided heart, to the care of a sister 
 of her husband's — the voyage, the climate, and lluir 
 tender age, presenting insuperable obstacles to their going 
 out to Barbadoes." 
 
 "I am under orders for Barbadoes niysrir," exclainu-d 1, 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL. 137 
 
 "my dear Sophy ! I quite forgot to tell you that it was 
 this which brought me here to-day. I have got a lieu- 
 tenant-colonelcy in a regiment stationed there — probably 
 Captain Willoughby's — and must join in the course of a 
 month or six weeks. But," added I, scarce noticing poor 
 Sophy's blank looks and exclamations about yellow 
 fever, " I must really see something more of your fair 
 friend ; how shall I manage it ? Could not I offer to 
 carry out the picture of the children and letters to their 
 parents ? A capital thought ! But then this would hardly 
 entitle me to call more than once, just at the last, to get 
 my dispatches — and at a school too— €R[lly, Sophy, 
 these Protestant nunneries of yours are almost as difficult 
 of access as foreign ones." 
 
 "But," said Sophy, after a moment's thought, "the pic- 
 ture is very far from being finished ; and the little crea- 
 tures cannot come here to sit, for they are only recover- 
 ing from the whooping-cough. Suppose I should advise 
 Mrs. Montolieu to go and stay a few days in Baker street, 
 where she is a great favorite, to finish her drawing com- 
 fortably ? You might go there in the character of Wil- 
 loughby's new colonel, without much suspicion." 
 
 " Blessings on you for the thought, my dear Sophy !" 
 exclaimed I; "for invention, one school-girl is worth a 
 score of field-officers. Do get this accomplished, and I 
 will put you down in my book for the best husband in 
 my own regiment, or any ten in the service !" So saying, 
 I gave her a hearty kiss, and ran off to the war-office. 
 
 The move was dextrously and unsuspiciously effected. 
 The widow's anxiety to send her Lucy a faithful portrait 
 of her dear babes, nearly equalled mine to see more of the 
 fair artist ; and, under cover of a proper introduction to 
 the amiable sister of Captain Willoughby, and her good hon- 
 7* 
 
138 THE MOSS-ROSE. ^ 
 
 est fellow of a husband, I spent more than one whole day, 
 and v'arious precious mornings, in Baker street. At first 
 I was to the whole family only Frank's new colonel, a very 
 stupid, good sort of a man, who talked little, and ate less, 
 and seemed famous for nothing but fondness for children 
 and drawings. 
 
 The lovely widow exerted herself to bespeak my friend- 
 ship and good-will for the absent objects of her affection ; 
 and I was half pleased, half mortified, to observe with 
 what unsuspecting bonhomie she laid herself out to enter- 
 tain me. It was chiefly, of course, by speaking of Lucy 
 and her husbffcd, and it was with a warmth and sincerity 
 of devotion which made me transfer to brothers and sisters- 
 in-law my former envy and uncharitableness towards 
 married men. 
 
 In about three weeks, during which I put to the full 
 test the hospitality of ray new friends, I began to per- 
 ceive, on my entrance, a slight suppressed smile on their 
 good-humored faces, and an increase of pensive gravity 
 on that of their fair guest. The picture was quite 
 finished, and I received unequivocal hints that it and the 
 letters now only awaited my farewell visit. In a couple 
 of days Alexina was to retire to her nunnery, and as she 
 now studiously avoided our earlier Ute-a-Ule, I had no 
 resource but to write her a letter, explaining the state of 
 my heart, and urging the soldier's plea of necessity for 
 my precipitation, and requesting to be permitted to 
 receive my answer in person on the morrow. I cannot 
 pretend to remember what was in the letter ; I only know 
 that the paper was not gilt, and the lines by no means 
 particularly even. 
 
 On the folloAving morning I sallied from my hotel, fiir 
 earlier than decency warranted for paying a visit in Baker 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL. 139 
 
 street ; so I determined to divert the intolerable suspense 
 by transacting some business about Charing Cross. This 
 occupied me so much longer than I expected, that I was 
 flying in all the agonies of impatience along the Hay- 
 market ; when I ran against a young lieutenant of my late 
 regiment, a very fine lad, for whom I had always had a 
 very great fancy, and who, being equally partial to me, 
 had, I knew, been using every exertion to raise the need- 
 ful, to purchase a step in the regiment I was now about 
 to command. 
 
 "Percival, my dear fellow," said I, "how goes it? 
 I have not a moment to spare — urgent business, a thou- 
 sand miles off, at the very west end of the town." I saw 
 his countenance fall, poor lad, and could not help observ- 
 ing he looked pale and vexed. " Is anything the matter, 
 Henry ?" asked I, still in a great hurry. 
 
 " Oh, not much, colonel," said he ; " I see you are in 
 haste — only — only" — and here he hesitated, 
 
 " Speak out, Harry, do ; there's a good fellow." 
 
 "Only some httle difficulty, then, about the money for 
 my step. I fear I shall not be able to get out with 
 you"- 
 
 " Oh ! is that all ? Come to me to-morrow about it, 
 and I will see vrhat can be done." 
 
 "But," said the young man, modestly, "the money 
 should have been lodged some days ago, and Greenwood 
 says he can wait no longer." 
 
 I looked at the lad, and saw his whole soul was in the 
 affair ; and thinking my suit would not prosper the less 
 for lending him a lift, I performed one of the few actions 
 I call heroic ; and turning back with the best grace I could 
 muster, put my arm in his, and went into Drummond's. 
 
 While I was waiting to speak to one of the partners 
 
140 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 about an immediate advance of the needful to poor Harry, 
 I saw a clerk twisting in every possible light, and trying 
 to decipher, one of those nondescript foreign letters, which 
 are to well-grown, well-foldgd English ones what mis- 
 shapen dwarfs are to men. This one was as broad as it 
 was long, and had its hump-back all covered with char- 
 acters which might have been Runic inscriptions, for any 
 resemblance they bore to a Christian A, B, C. The man, 
 seeing a curious idler lounging near him in a military sur- 
 tout, handed it up to me, saying, "Perhaps, sir, you 
 might be able, from your knowledge of foreign hands, to 
 throw some light on this direction." There was an outer 
 envelope, on v?hich might be plainly enough read, in a 
 cramped chevaux de ///se-like French hand, this some- 
 what primitive address : " A Monsieur Drummond, Ban- 
 quier tres renomme, a Londres." So far all was well ; 
 and the renowned banker being about as well known in 
 London as Dr. Boerhaave in the world, both letters had 
 found their appointed destination. But within the envel- 
 ope was a sealed billet, scribbled all over, as aforesaid, 
 with characters which from their dissimilarity to any Eu- 
 ropean scrawl I had ever seen, I immediately set down for 
 Tartar hieroglyphics from Russia — which mighty empire 
 having pertinaciously retained a sli/le of its own, chooses 
 to have an alphabet also. 
 
 The words expressed by these hyperborean symbols, I 
 began to perceive were French ; and gathering erudition 
 as I proceeded, like many a sage decipherer, I distinctly 
 traced, "A son Excellence Mademoiselle" — but beyond 
 this rather anomalous union of titles^ all was involved in 
 the hopeless darkness that attends guessers at jiroper 
 names. I had lately, however, seen some Russian coins, 
 bought by a brother-officer of a French soldier returned 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL, 141 
 
 from Moscow, and the characters composirg the Avord 
 " Alexander" happened to be fresh in my memory. "VVilh 
 this clue I put together pot-hook after pot-hook ; and 
 found, with no small emotion, the result to be Alexina ! 
 The name might be, nay -was, a common one in Russia, es- 
 pecially of late years ; yet I could not spell and put it to- 
 gether without feeling a revulsion in my whole frame, and 
 as if it could belong but to one being in the world. How 
 did I labor to apply my scanty stock of Russian lore to 
 this unspeakably important surname which succeeded ! 
 But in vain. That it began with F was all I could satis- 
 factorily ascertain ; but the clerk and I, between us, were 
 enabled, by his naming over various eminent Russian mer- 
 chants, to hazard a shrewd guess at the one to whose care 
 the inner letter had been so mystically addressed. 
 
 This gentleman, the clerk told me, was no more, and 
 had died deeply involved in circumstances, exactly coin- 
 ciding with Sophy's account of Alexina's guardian. The 
 case now became terribly critical, and I was just about to 
 suggest what I knew on the subject, when a partner came 
 in, accompanied by a feeble, tottering old man, with the 
 air of one of those respectable, almost dignified-looking 
 valets, or maitres d'hotel, belonging to the old refjime : his 
 hair queued and powdered, and his dress scrupulously 
 adhering to a fashion unknown in England for the last 
 half century, 
 
 "Mr. B ," said the banker, addressing himself to 
 
 the clerk, " has anything been made out about that letter 
 which came some weeks ago from abroad ? This person 
 is just arrived in England, and looks to us for a clue to 
 discover a young lady to whorn, he says, his previous let- 
 ter was addressed." 
 
 " Sir," said the clerk, in some confusion, " the letter 
 
142 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 was unfortunate! 3'^ laid aside till this morning, when, with 
 the assistance of this gentleman, I have just succeeded in 
 ascertaininop the name of the house to whose care the bil- 
 let is addressed. It is to be feared, however, that this 
 will not greatly advance matters, as Mr. Livingstone, you 
 are aware, died some years ago, and his establishment is 
 entirely broken up." 
 
 " That is very unlucky," said the banker to the clerk ; 
 while the old man, only gathering from the blank looks of 
 both a result unfavorable to his hopes, cast up his eyes to 
 Heaven, with an affecting mixture of sorrow and resigna- 
 tion. " My poor master !" ejaculated he in French, and 
 turned away to hide a tear, 
 
 "But, sir," said the clerk, "we have made out the 
 young lady's Christian name, and this gentleman seems to 
 think" — 
 
 " And is the surname all that puzzles you ?" asked Mr. 
 
 D ; " surely that can be at once supplied by this 
 
 good old man." 
 
 The question was put in French, and promptly an- 
 swered : " Fedoroff, only daughter of my master, Count 
 Fedoroff and an English lady, his late Avife." 
 
 What a revolution did these few words make in my re- 
 lative situation with Alexina ! I felt as if all was forever 
 at an end between us ; but, I hope, not the less disposed 
 to forward the inquiries of a sorrowing parent, and restore 
 her to his arms. 1 brieily, and am sure very incoherently, 
 stated what 1 knew of her history and residence ; and 
 while the transported old steward Hew on the wings of 
 duty and affection to cheer his master's heart with the 
 tidings, I set oft", summoning all the courage and disinter- 
 estedness I could muster, to prepare the mind of his 
 daughter for so overwhelming a discovery — to build up, I 
 
A "WEDDING AT SCHOOL. 143 
 
 feared, on the ruins of my own baseless fabric of happi- 
 ness the superstructure of hers. 
 
 This daughter, the long-lost and wept-for heiress of 
 Count Fedoroff, to marry a moderately endowed English 
 soldier ! to go to the West Indies, or elsewhere, and as 
 the old song has it, " lie in a barrack !" Impossible ! 
 Once I was selfish enough to wish the knot had been al- 
 ready tied, but I was soon myself again, and could re- 
 joice that no answer had yet, in any degree, committed 
 her to unite her fate with mine ; and, on the word of an 
 honest man, by the time I knocked at the door in Baker 
 street, I felt only the delight of conferring happiness, 
 where I had so fondly anticipated receiving it. 
 
 My air of conscious exultation, when first ushered into 
 
 the room, where sat Alexina with her friend, Mrs. F , 
 
 must, I am sure, have appeared to the last degree coxcom- 
 ical and absurd. It soon gave place to more selfish and 
 bitter feelings, on beholding again, and with no symptoms 
 of severity on her lovely countenance, the creature I was 
 
 about tacitly to relinquish for life. Mrs. F rose to 
 
 leave the room ; and, though fearful the emotion I should 
 excite might render her presence desirable, I could not, 
 for the life of me, interfere to detain her. 
 
 " I fear, Mrs. Montolieu," said I, in great agitation, " I 
 am much later than you might justly have had reason to 
 expect, but the business which detained me was of a 
 nature" — 
 
 " Oh, no apology is necessary. Colonel Donovan," said 
 she, with the unaffected modesty and gentleness which 
 characterized her whole deportment. " I must have little 
 confidence indeed in the flattering sentiments expressed in 
 your letter of yesterday, to suppose you would voluntarily 
 defer ascertaining mine. I can only assure you" — 
 
144 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 " Assure me of nothing, my dear madam," interr\ipted 
 I, "if you would have me keep my senses, and go 
 through my duty as a man of honor should do. Forget 
 that anything has passed between us — that I ever had 
 the presumption to aspire to your hand." 
 
 I really believe this humble, long-depressed child of 
 misfortune thought me suddenly deranged, so like bitter 
 mockery did my expressions appear. 
 
 " I am not mad, indeed," said I, reading her thoughts, 
 " though I have had much to make me so this morning ; 
 but only the bewildered herald of a very astonishing, and, 
 let me add, delightful discovery relative to yourself." 
 
 " To me !" she repeated, with an accent of unbounded 
 surprise. " I thought, till yesterday, nothing could occur 
 to break the tenor of my monotonous existence." Here 
 a soft blush tinged her pale cheek; and it went to my 
 very heart to see that the sweet soul was mortified by my 
 want of curiosity to know how she had felt yesterday, and 
 was feeling to-day. 
 
 " Alexina!" said I, for the first time in my life feeling 
 the brotherly right so to call her ; " if I could avail my- 
 self of your unsuspecting innocence, I should be a villain. 
 Yesterday you thought yourself, and I thought you, alone 
 in the world ; and on that supposition, what, we might 
 both have done is now as if it had never been. You are 
 no loncer — thanks be to a merciful Providence ! — a friend- 
 less orphan. You have a father, the sole comfort of 
 whose declining age is the vague, and till this day 
 almost relinquished hope, of folding you once more in 
 his arms." 
 
 She grew very pale — trembled violently, but, to my in- 
 finite relief, did not faint quite away. There was water 
 on the table beside her drawings ; I sprinkled some of it 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL 
 
 145 
 
 on her face, and she soon revived ; Tor the swoon of joy 
 carries its own cordial witli it. 
 
 When the pious effusions of a full heart to the Father 
 of the fatherless had given place to less sacred emotions, 
 her first words were : "You will assist me in making up 
 to this dear father, for our long, long separation, will you 
 not ? But perhaps," added she, more gravely, the pride 
 of woman taking alarm at my continued silence, " per- 
 haps there is something in my father's character and cir- 
 cumstances which may have produced a change in your 
 intentions. If so" — and her blush was no longer one of 
 conscious timidity. 
 
 " There is, indeed, everything in your father's situation 
 to make me 7-etract ray rash proposal of yesterday. When 
 it was made, I felt a lover's exquisite sympathy for beau- 
 ty in misfortune, and a pride in placing competence at 
 least within her reach. You are the daughter and heiress 
 of a proud Russian noble ; and Jack Donovan has only to 
 say, ' God bless you both together !' and try to forget 
 his short dream of happiness amid a life of duty and 
 vicissitude." 
 
 " I too have duties, Colonel Donovan," answered she, 
 her calm serenity not in the least impaired by the brilliant 
 prospect I had set before her; " that, to my father, I 
 trust I shall never forget ; and oh, what delightful arreais 
 of love I shall have to bestow on — I fear from your sad 
 silence — my sole remaining parent ! But circumstances, 
 melancholy enough, Heaven knows ! have given me early 
 independence; and I should deserve to be spurned by my 
 new-found parent, could his rank or fortune for one mo- 
 ment make me forget your conduct when I had neither; 
 Read that note, which, in distrust of my nerves for a per- 
 sonal interview, I wrote last night, to be delivered to you 
 
146 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 this morniiifr- The sentiments it contains misrht have 
 gathered added strength and energy from what I have 
 now heard of our relative position ; but I wish you to see 
 them as they emanated from the unconscious fullness of a 
 grateful heart. Take them as my unalterable answer. 
 Were my father capable of sacrificing his child's honor 
 and happiness to pride or ambition, I might tearfully re- 
 quest you to lend her to him for the remnant of a closing 
 existence ; but it would be to return, strengthened by 
 filial duty, to other and perhaps dearer ties. Donovan, 
 I am yours irrevocably — bear me witness, ray vows are 
 sealed before their confirmation can possibly expose me to 
 the charsfe of disobedience." 
 
 I had only time for incoherent expressions of admiration 
 for this noble giil, and resolution to abide by her 'father's 
 determination ; when, as I had arranged with Nicolai, the 
 old steward, a carriage drove up to the door, out of which 
 I saw him step first, and proffer his assistance to a fine, 
 noble-looking wreck of a man, who, enfeebled by infirmity 
 and emotion, could scarcely ascend the staircase. I went 
 to detain him a moment below, while I, in two words, ex- 
 plained the matter to Mrs. F and to my sister Sophy, 
 
 who, burning to know the result of my proposals, had ia- 
 vitcd herself to pass the day in Baker street. 
 
 Their sudden ac(|uaintance with these delightful tidings 
 gave to both of them an appearance of such equal agita- 
 tion with their fair friend, that nothing short of parental 
 instinct could have enabled him to distinguish her. When 
 the fine old man entered, his while hair flowing on either 
 side of his woe-worn countenance, all involuntarily rose. 
 He seemed bewildered by the presence of so many 
 females, and in danger of sinking under the scene. Sophy, 
 who happened to be nearest the door, having made a 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL 
 
 147 
 
 hasty movement to save him from falling, he gazed, for a 
 moment, steadfastly in her face, then shook his head, and, 
 pushing her not ungently aside, made another step or two 
 forward. It was to receive in his arms and heart his own 
 Alexina, whom, in the first transports of recognition, he 
 called by the name of her long-lost English mother. We 
 left the parent and child to their own unutterable emotions, 
 and indemnified ourselves by sharing the transports of old 
 Nicolai, who, after kissing with passionate devotion the 
 hand of his master's daughter, withdrew, and gave us the 
 details of their long separation and its cause. 
 
 They were much too long and complicated to be repeat- 
 ed here. Suffice it to say, that the capricious tyranny of 
 Paul, and his wayward antipathy to everything even re- 
 motely connected with England, involved Count Fedoroff 
 in sudden and apparently hopeless disgrace, and a banish- 
 ment to Siberia ; amid the first shock of which the unfor- 
 tunate mother, before accompanying her husband, em- 
 braced with avidity the opportunity afforded by the hurried 
 flight of her countrymen from St. Petersburgh, to send her 
 only child, a puny, tender infant, wholly unfit for the hor- 
 ror of a Siberian journey, to seek an asylum in England . 
 An ample supply of money and jewels, sufficient to defray 
 her education for years, accompanied the infant ; but as 
 the whole transaction — the affair of a few brief, feverish 
 moments of maternal alarm — was conducted by Madame 
 Fedoroff after her husband's arrest, and while deprived of 
 communication with him, the distressing circumstances of 
 their reunion prevented his being immediately informed of 
 the name of the merchant to whom his child was to be 
 consigned ; and before he aroused himself to make the 
 alas ! indispensable inquiry, his poor wife's reason had 
 given way under the united evils of exile and bereave- 
 
148 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 ment. For years after his recall from banishment, did 
 Count Federoff wander with his harmless and interesting 
 maniac, in vain quest alike of restoring intellect and tid- 
 ings of their child. Not the slightest clue or tiace could . 
 ever be elicited from the poor countess, till, on her death- 
 bed, a few months ago, she had, in such a lucid interval 
 as frequently precedes dissolution, distinctly pronounced 
 in the hearing of Nicolai, the name of Livingstone, con- 
 necting it, though incoherently, with that of Alexina. 
 
 The judicious old man, fearing to raise, on such slender 
 ground, false hopes in his aged and grief-worn master, 
 wrote, without communicating his intentions to any one, 
 the mysterious billet which it was my fate to decipher ; 
 but, after waiting for some time its result, in intolerable 
 suspense, he heard, with delight, the poor Coimt resolve 
 on a voyage to England, and felt renewed hope in the pur- 
 pose of personal investigations. 
 
 Their result has been already mentioned, and it only 
 remains for me to tell, in a few words, the brief sequel of 
 my soldier's tale. Count Fedoroff had seen too much of 
 the power of sorrow to rob the eye of meaning, and the 
 cheek of bloom, to allow its worm to prey twice upon a 
 daughter' heart. Had a peasant gained her affections in 
 her days of friendless obscuiity, I verily believe the chas- 
 tened spii it of the good old man would have hailed him 
 with gj-ateful approbation. He was not, therefore, dis- 
 posed to exclude from his heart a soldier of ancient fami- 
 ly and unblemished reputation. When I next saw Alex- 
 ina's letter of acceptance, which, precious as it was, 1 had 
 insisted on replacing, before her father's entrance, in her 
 almost insensible hand, it bore, in addition to her dear sig- 
 nature, the trembling ratification of a parent. 
 
 What a contrast between Alexina's former nuptials, with 
 
A WEDDING AT SCHOOL. 149 
 
 their extorted consent and half reluctant celebration, their 
 "cold marriage tables" and "funeral-baked" meats, so 
 strangely interwoven, and our blissful union some months 
 after, surrounded by friends, purchased and endeared by 
 years of dignified suffering ! 
 
 There was the old Count, his frame invigorated, and his 
 affections renovated ; his faithful domestic, reflecting his 
 
 master's every feeling, and partaking his every joy ; F 
 
 and his kind-hearted wife, my darling Sophy, and last, not 
 least, Luc}' and her husband ; for, as the picture could no 
 longer go to the West Indies, at least under my auspices, 
 the mountain came to Mahomet. 1 managed Harry Per- 
 cival's exchange into Willoughby's place, and while he was 
 wooing and winning his West India flame, while " all Bar- 
 badoes' bells did ring," those of St. George's, Hanover 
 Square, rung out their merriest peals, in honor of Jack 
 Donovan and his little Russian widow. 
 
 Count Fedoroff ended his life in Britain ; and his daugh- 
 ter made with the nearest male heir an arrangement, by 
 which she exchanged slaves and snow at the Pole for 
 cash and comfort in England. 
 
WINTER. 
 
 BY MES. E. P. H. 
 
 Still here ? old Winter ! thou tarriest long 
 
 In this hill-girt valley of ours ; 
 And dost frighten away all the birds of song, 
 
 And retard the early flowers. 
 Thy cold, pale smile, and thy chilling breath 
 
 Have stiffened each purling rill ; 
 Each roof is decked with an icy wreath ; 
 
 Yet Winter! we like thee still. 
 
 Thy merry bells and sounds of mirth. 
 
 Of frolic, and noise, and glee ; 
 Thy bright fires on the cheerful hearth. 
 
 All have their charms for me. 
 And when thy shrill voice is heard in the blast, 
 
 And the sleet and snow-flakes come. 
 We list to the storm as it circles past, 
 
 And prize our own dear home. 
 
 Thy locks are white, old Frost-king, now ; 
 
 The morning dews are congealed, 
 And glitter like gems above thy brow, 
 
 And thy beauty is all revealed. 
 But tread not too near the green robe of Spring, 
 
 Or thy purity will decay ; 
 And her sunny smiles fresh joys will bring, 
 
 When thou slialt have passed away. 
 
PROSPECT HILL 
 
 BY THE EDITRESS. 
 
 When age, with its chill pulsations, is creeping over the 
 spirit that was once warm and buoyant ; or when the 
 heart, though young in years, has been estranged from the 
 pleasures of earth, and the sad countenance tells of inward 
 suffering ; when we dare not think of the present, or an- 
 ticipate the future ; it is natural, if not beneficial, at such 
 seasons, to turn to memory's bright pages, and visit in 
 imagination those spots to which we have been most en- 
 deared in by-gone days. For a while, the mind luxuriates 
 in temporary forgetfulness of the sad change ; we breathe 
 again the same pure atmosphere ; see the same smiling 
 faces ; recognize the lofty trees whose verdant branches 
 afforded a charming retirement ; and even the little flow- 
 eret, almost unheeded, yields its fragrance. One of those 
 charming places is now before my mind's eye. 
 
 A few paces out of one of those large cities which bor- 
 der upon the majestic Hudson, is an eminence known to 
 those who reside in that vicinity by the name of " Pros- 
 pect Hill." And well indeed it deserves that name ; for 
 a spectator from its summit may behold a part of five 
 States in the distance ; while nearer, the dense city, with 
 its domes and spires, may be seen at a glance ; and the 
 noble river, bearing gallant barks upon its bosom, resem- 
 bles a broad white ribbon, till, with a sudden bend behind 
 the mountain, it disappears from view. The habitations 
 
152 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 of numerous wealthy and respectable Dutch inhabitants 
 are scattered upon the east and south sides ; and, save 
 near the top, the liill is covei-ed with beautiful and venera- 
 ble trees, among which the cedar is eminently conspicuous. 
 I speak of it as it was, when with youthful friends I as- 
 cended it to behold the first rays of the morning sun, as 
 he appeared in splendor above the horizon. Time may 
 have laid his rude hand upon it since, and despoiled it of 
 its native wildness and romantic beauty ; but methinks it 
 should have been sacred, and m(tn should not impiously 
 have sought to improve that which the Creator had so 
 nicely finished. When I last visited it, after an absence 
 of some years, it was in company with several beloved re- 
 latives and friends, who gazed upon the charming prospect 
 with enthusiastic delight, but most of whom are now takin<T 
 tlieir last earthly sleep within the precincts of the cold 
 tomb. Even then the hand of the spoiler had commenced 
 his depredations, and threatened to level the fine forest 
 trees to the ground. No wonder that the poor red man, 
 after being driven from his wild home by an insatiate rival, 
 weeps at the change, when by stealth he revisits the scenes 
 of his childhood. The wigwam is gone ; thai might be 
 rebuilt; but the thick grove where he had chased the wild 
 deer from his retreat — the lu.xuriant vine, beneath which 
 he had received the love- pledge of his dark-eyed maid — 
 and even the hallowed oak, which marked tlie rude grave 
 of his chieftain father, and the wild rose, whose branches 
 overspread the last resting-place of his queenly mother — 
 all, all have disappeared before the a.\e of the white man. 
 He gazes on the scene of such fearful desolation ; wipes 
 the unbidden tear, Avhich may not be seen except by the 
 Great Spirit ; and silentl}', but with speed, retraces his 
 footsteps to the far West, to await renewed pursuit, Hu- 
 
PROSPECT HILL. 153 
 
 manity must sympathize with the persecuted Indians ; 
 though their skins are tinged with a deeper, richer hue 
 than ours, they may not be inferior in the scale of exist- 
 ence, if afforded opportunities to cultivate those talents 
 and fine feelings which it is evident they possess. 
 
 Long before the popular seminary, Avhich stands in dig- 
 nified retirement upon the northern side of Prospect Hill, 
 was erected, Moreena, the bright " Morning Star" of her 
 tribe, glided fearlessly about her father's wigwam, near 
 that lovely spot, or paddled her light canoe upon the 
 glassy surface of the Hudson. The countenance of her 
 sire was at times dark and terrible, for the pale-faces had 
 already trespassed upon his wild domains ; and three 
 miles eastward had cleared a few acres and constructed 
 two dwellings, after their own fashion. Yet the features 
 of Wish-la-ya were not always repulsive. When caressed 
 by the playful Moreena, or gazing upon his bosom com- 
 panion, the gentle Soonsetah, his eye beamed with love 
 and tenderness, and their home was the seat of domestic 
 felicity. 
 
 One day, while the mother and daughter were employed 
 in weaving gay-colored quills in fanciful figures upon 
 moccasins, to trade with their intruding neighbors, the 
 former, anxiously scanning her companion's countenance, 
 said — 
 
 " Why wears my daughter the sad face of the warrior- 
 chieftain ? Cannot Soonsetah, the ' Sunny Eye,' light her 
 to happiness ?" 
 
 " Moreena loves her mother, but" — 
 
 " Ha ! has the young Mohawk turned from the Morn- 
 ing Star, and left her in loneliness to sigh in the hut of 
 Wish-la-ya ?" 
 
 " Monadnoc is good ; his dark eye looks on me with af- 
 8 
 
154 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 fection. In war he is terrible, but not so when he smokes 
 the calumet of peace, or lays the panther at thy daughter's 
 feet." 
 
 Then taking from its hiding-place a splendid broach, 
 and giving it to her mother, she informed her that on the 
 previous day, while pursuing the gold-fish in her birch ca- 
 noe, and gathering the pond-lilies which grew in profu- 
 sion, two white men appeared on the bank, one of whom 
 accosted her rudely, but the other — whom she had met 
 before — in silver tones asked her acceptance of the bril- 
 liant ornament, and desired her to remember that all the 
 white men were not her enemies ; and promised if she 
 would forsake her native wilds to unite with civilized so- 
 ciety, he would insure her happiness. 
 
 The countenance of the mother fell. 
 
 "Would the pale-face deprive us of thee too, my be- 
 loved ? Is it not enough that he take our hunting-grounds 
 and destroy our warriors ? Sad will be the home of 
 Wish-la-ya and Soonsetah if the Morning Star shine not in 
 their dwelling." 
 
 " She will not leave thee, ray mother ! The Sunny 
 Eye and the Morning Star shall make light the dwelling 
 of the chief, and he shall be happy. Soon the brave Mo- 
 nadnoc will join us ; he shall counsel Moreena about the 
 gift of the white man." 
 
 At this moment the father entered, bearing upon his 
 shoulders a fine deer, which he had just killed; and hav- 
 ing thrown it down he seated himself in a dark corner, as 
 wont to do when his heart was oppressed. For a long 
 time not a word was uttered, for the other inmates felt 
 that there was a fearful struggle in the breast of the red 
 man. At length Soonsetah timidly asked — 
 
 " Is Wish-la-ya wearied from the chase ? Let him re- 
 
PROSPECTHILL. 155 
 
 pose on this soft buffalo skin, dressed with fresh flowers, 
 and we will watch his slumbers." 
 
 No reply. 
 
 "Has my father no smile for Moreena ?" asked his 
 daughter, gently putting her arms about his neck. 
 
 " Alas, my child ! they would take thee from me. The 
 fierce hawk would take the gentle dove to his nest, and 
 devour her. Ask me no more." 
 
 The cause of the Indian's grief may be explained. In 
 his hunting excursion he had encountered young Roe, the 
 giver of the broach, who, charmed with the beauty of the 
 dark maid, asked her in marriage of the stern father. He 
 replied : 
 
 " Can the pale-face love her as her kindred do ? Can 
 he defend her when the war-whoop sounds through the 
 forest, and when the enemy is near ? Or when the cata- 
 mount leaps from his lair, will he tear it asunder for her 
 safety ? No ; his blood is white ; his heart weak ; let 
 him choose a maiden from his own nation. Moreena stays 
 with her tribe till she is given to the red chieftain." 
 
 After much had been said, it was decided that when the 
 next sun had attained the meridian, each accompanied by 
 a friend, should try his skill with his own weapon, and 
 stand as a mark for the other. If Wish-la-ya was 
 wounded. Roe was to claim the hand of his daughter ; 
 should the reverse prove the case, the offer was never to 
 be renewed. 
 
 •Long and lonely was that night spent in silent anguish 
 by the trio. At length the day dawned, and Moreena, 
 unobserved, departed to ascend the hill, and enjoy the 
 balmy fragrance of the morning air. Glowing in native 
 beauty, her glossy black hair parted above the forehead 
 and falling gracefully upon her shoulders, bound only by 
 
156 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 a wreath of evergreens and beads tastefully entAvined, 
 which had been placed there the day before ; her dress 
 simple, displaying her arms, which were ornamented with 
 beads of divers colors ; she stood forth a fine subject for 
 the artist. 
 
 " Why lingers Monadnoc ? has he sounded the war- 
 whoop, and gone forth with the tomahawk ? The moon 
 has waxed and waned, yet he comes not." 
 
 " Is the bright Morning Star already here, to shine upon 
 the tired warrior ?" and the youth was in an instant be- 
 fore her, and his offerings at her feet. " Monadnoc offers 
 his gifts ; will the daughter of the Sunny Eye accept 
 them ? He comes to win his bride. Will Moreena leave 
 the home of her father, and sit in the wigwam of her hus- 
 band, where the vine grows over it, and the purple clus- 
 ters are seen among the thick leaves ?" 
 
 The reddening cheek and downcast eye gave assent, 
 clearly as the words in return. But why listen to the 
 tale of love, or pry into the secrets of the heart ? 
 
 Before they parted, the young chief, stretching his arms 
 toward the extended prospect, said, " Seest thou, my love, 
 the wide hunting-grounds of the red man, far as the eye 
 can look ? The time will be when the pale-face shall call 
 it all his own, and no foot-place shall be found for the poor 
 Indian ; but Hobomok, who dwells beyond the great wa- 
 ters, shall take the good red man home to his green fields, 
 where the tomahawk shall be buried deep ; and ho shall 
 smoke with the (rreat Spirit." 
 
 Prophetic words ! Short was the period before they 
 were fultilled. 
 
 The hour arrived when the prowess of men was to de- 
 cide the destiny of the innocent Indian girl. They met ; 
 the signal was given ; an arrow from the trusty bow 
 
PROSPECT HILL. 
 
 157 
 
 winged its way to the heart of the unfortunate young Eng- 
 lishman, at the same moment that a ball from his fusee 
 was directed to the Indian chief. Soonsetah, rushing for- 
 ward to save her husband, received the fatal charge, and, 
 in an instant, the Sunny Eye was closed forever ! Let us 
 drop a curtain over the scene. 
 
 Wish-la-ya buried his preserver beneath the branches 
 of a young elm, a short distance from his now dark dwell- 
 ing ; arid accompanied by his daughter and the young 
 chief, wandered West, where the white man's axe was 
 not heard. 
 
 Though the same place be still used as a sacred recep- 
 tacle for the dead by the present inhabitants of the soil, 
 yet the lone elm, which was spared many years for its 
 beauty, is no longer found ; and the bones which rested 
 beneath it. have lona: since mouldered into kindred dust. 
 Perhaps persons residing in that vicinity may have ob- 
 served, at certain seasons of the year, a thick mist rising 
 from the earth in that burial-place, and gradually con- 
 densing, till, with a little aid from fancy, the form of a tall 
 female is seen, with outstretched arms, which soon expands 
 and is dissipated in air. A superstitious mind might sup- 
 pose it to be the spirit of Soonsetah, rising to declare ven- 
 geance against the persecutors of her race. 
 ■ Such are the changes of this world. A few short 
 years and Prospect Hill will have lost its present beauty, 
 and our nation, hke that of the aborigines, shall be known 
 no more. 
 
BURIAL OF THE CONSUMPTIVE. 
 
 BY MBS.E.A.CURTISS HULCE. 
 
 Come, list ! I'll tell tliee of a burial scene ; 
 'Tis an old tale thou'lt say — for life is dark, 
 
 And earth hath many mourners ; fold the screen 
 Close o'er the burdened heart ; they may not mark 
 Who at the revel speed in pleasure-freighted bark. 
 
 She died in youth ; ah, many thus do die ! 
 Her smooth brown hair, like hue where sunlight lingers. 
 
 Low o'er her temples fell, and a blue eye 
 Soft as for angels made, death's icy fingers 
 Sealed the star-hope of home, the all-caressed, 
 The soul-illumined face, a lip that ever blessed. 
 
 Death came with stealthy pace, with rose-leaf wreathed; 
 See'st thou yon river's sheen, in laurel sheathed ? 
 (Brother, thou know'st it well — that mountain strand 
 Clasping the streams wild edge, with lofty band ;) 
 One lustrous autumn since, there did we guide 
 Yon mould'ring skiff, wont o'er its blue to glide, 
 And on the forest's many-colored brow 
 Forth then she gazed where I am gazing now. 
 Leaves rainbow-hued strewn o'er (he pathway lie, 
 Oh what a gorgeous shroud the earth puts on to die ! 
 
BURIAL OF THE CONSUMPTIVE. 159 
 
 My wonted walks bring back her gentle glee ; 
 
 My daily paths must spirit-tokens be ; 
 
 Oh, sister of ray soul, could I have died for thee ! 
 
 She died — afar they bore her to her home ; 
 Through the long day the black-veiled hearse moved on 
 
 Solemn and slow, nor do they greeting come 
 With crowded loner array, as oft is done 
 When pomp and state are sepulchred ; that band 
 Wend silent up the vale to their own hearthside's land. 
 
 A low white cottage, and a silver lake 
 Blue glistening thro' green leaves and care-reared flowers, 
 
 And misty hills just on the vision break. 
 While near a mount, with a rich forest towers; 
 And peasant, neighbor, friend, gathered at day's last light, 
 Faces that feign not grief, bent o'er the hearse that night. 
 
 Thus was borne back, begirt with tear and pall, 
 One who went forth some waning moons ago 
 
 With hope : Death wore his loveliest look, but all 
 Too deep the holy calm for aught below ; 
 A solemn beauty, and too hushed for sleep. 
 That chills the gazer's veins, but makes hira weep. 
 Thenceforth that home grief's shadow resteth o'er. 
 To wake to that glad step — ah, never more ! 
 Stilled now that heart-toned voice, that through the strife, 
 The dubious struggle of disease with life. 
 With whispered cadence in the last damp chill 
 Lent to o'erwatching love a radiance still, 
 'And 'mid the faintness of hfe's ebbing sand. 
 Her low-breathed murmur of the happier land : 
 A funeral torch, that crimson, fearful glow. 
 
160 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 Death's omen, burning on a foce of snow ; 
 
 Lighting the downward steps that to his dwelling go ! 
 
 Hence she went fortli when summer blossoms die, 
 
 With lightly said farewell, yet lingering eye ; 
 
 They bore her back when bird-songs filled the day. 
 
 And o'er her piled the sod with the young buds of May. 
 
 I stood beside the grave, the rain-drops fell 
 On the fresh opened turf heav}' and fast, 
 
 And on the bier a few crushed flowerets tell 
 Of her within ; the first light earth o'ercast 
 They pause, solemn the priest said o'er the " dust to dust," 
 And thus they gave to earth the beauteous one in trust. 
 
 And then those mourners parted ; white-haired sire, 
 Brother and sister, mother, sorrow-stricken, 
 
 One to her mountain-home ; and all aspire 
 More humbly now to tread the path to heaven ; 
 Ah, blest — if there they meet, all wayward sin forgiven. 
 
A TALE OF THE WOODS 
 
 BY W. G. 
 
 " Each lonely spot was hallowed then — tlie oak, 
 That o'er the village altar hung, would tell 
 Strange hidden things ; the old remembered well. 
 How from its gloom a spirit oilea spoke." — Percival. 
 
 To the mind disposed to be contemplative, there is 
 something extremely fascinating in the silence of nature — 
 the deep, sweet, and unbroken repose of creation. There 
 are some individuals who cannot enjoy existence unless it 
 is passed amidst the crowded streets and never-ceasing 
 din and bustle of the city. Frightened at themselves, 
 they shun thought, and spend their days in a state of 
 feverish and continued excitement, without ever enjoying 
 the pleasure which a spring in the country affords — a 
 pleasure which seems to proceed directly from the hand 
 of Him who bestowed existence. With great truth it has 
 been remarked, that man is the creature of circumstances ; 
 and while we cling with fond delight to the spot that gave 
 us birth, and remember with undefined rapture the scenes 
 of our youthful days, and believe the country in which we 
 may happen to reside to be the only one that feels not the 
 curse of Heaven — by the kind decree of Providence, the 
 inhabitant of every other land, and every clime, feels the 
 same hallowed attachment to the spot which chance has 
 made his home. 
 
 Thirty years ago, my parents, with some other families 
 
162 THE MOSS-ROSE, 
 
 from one of the Kew England States — that prohfic Live, 
 which has sent forth so many swarms to people the 
 West — passed the white settlements on the Mohawk, and 
 plunged into the vast forests which, with a few trifling 
 exceptions, covered the western district of New York. I 
 was young, and unacquainted with the cares and toils 
 which are attendant on the pioneers of civilization — every- 
 thing was new and charming — and the continued succes- 
 sion of novelties, to a young and ardent mind, contributed 
 to lessen the hardships we encountered on our journey 
 and arrival. We fixed our home in the midst of the coun- 
 try of the Six Nations, in the county of Onondaga ; other 
 emigrants followed our steps ; the blue smoke began to 
 ascend from the sea of woods, the primeval forests began 
 to disappear, and the native proprietors of the region saw 
 with astonishment that their territory had passed into 
 other hands, and that they would soon be driven to follow 
 their game in a distant region. To me, the first few years 
 I spent in those wilds were the fairest and brightest I 
 have ever known ; the cultivated field, the populous city, 
 for me can never have the charm which my young bosom 
 then felt ; and were I permitted to select any portion of 
 my life, as one I would wish to live over again, it would 
 be those days when, heedless of the future, I reclined 
 myself beneath some giant of the forest, read Don Quixote 
 or Robinson Crusoe, or a tale of still sweeter and dearer 
 import in the eyes of one of nature's purest, loveliest 
 creations, the young and innocent Caroline Williams. But 
 Caroline has long since gone to heaven. Sweet flower ! 
 she was too bright, and pure, and fair for earth, and, in 
 kindness, was early transplanted to a more congenial clirae 
 and holier sky. 
 
 Near the place where my parent^ — and hers too, for we 
 
A TALE OF THEWOODS. 163 
 
 were in the same neighborhood — had located themselves, 
 was a spot which a mind less disposed than my own to 
 think favorably of nature, whether in her wildest or her 
 most placid and beautiful dress, must have admired ; this 
 spot was a small lake, of a mile or two in circumference, 
 situated in a deep glen — a place the most secluded and 
 quiet imaginable, and perhaps a mile from my father's 
 house. Lying in a deep valley, the rocks in some places 
 arose dark and perpendicularly from the water's edge to a 
 great height; while, in others, the transparent sheet slum- 
 bered on white sand, or smooth and rounded pebbles. 
 The tall hemlocks, with their dark green tops seeming to 
 lean against the blue skies; covered the high banks and 
 the sloping shores ; and their massy trunks, reflected from 
 the surface of the lake, appeared like sentinels, which na- 
 ture had placed on the rocky margin, to guard the place 
 from unhallowed intrusion. But the most singular and 
 striking feature of the place was the peculiar hue of the 
 waters, which invariably, to the spectator, was a most 
 beautiful green, lighter or darker as the sunshine or the 
 the cloud rested upon it ; and from which circumstance 
 the natives, who had so long roamed unmolested on its 
 margin in pursuit of the red deer which loved to lave in 
 its waters, had conferred upon it the name of Green Lake. 
 Though the hue was unquestionably owing to the never- 
 fading verdure with which it was suiTounded, still it was 
 none the less striking ; and when you emerged from the 
 deep gloom of the forest, and stood on one of the high 
 cliffs which overhung the lake — when you saw the wood- 
 ed shores inverted in the unruffled mirror, and reflected 
 with such perfect distinctness, that even the wild roses 
 which blossomed on the margin seemed floating on the 
 pellucid wave, and the red flowers of the maple and the 
 
164 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 white clusters of the boxwood appeared witliin reach — 
 when the h\ke itself had all the soft richness and vivid 
 greenness which belong to the meadow — when the last low 
 rays of a September sun have converted it into velvet — 
 when the white clouds which floated in the blue sky had 
 the appearance of snow-wreaths drifting slowly over its 
 surface — it was impossible not to feel and admire its 
 beauty. And then it was so still and serene : frequently, 
 indeed, the soft winds, as they came sighing through the 
 gently-waving branches, would wake the little ripples on 
 the surface, and set them sparkling and glittering in all 
 the splendor of green and gold ; yet the guardians of its 
 margin prevented its being w^ked to billowy agitation. 
 
 Here, far away from the world, I spent many of my 
 youthful days ; and never, no, never shall I forget those 
 hours when, in company with my lovely and loved Caro- 
 line, we walked on the shores of the lake, or, seated on 
 some moss-covered rock, permitted the hours to pass un- 
 heeded ; while the innocent girl, with blushing cheek and 
 eyes, which the dews of young affection moistened, listen- 
 ed to the simple and artless tale of love. Then, I could 
 scarcely fancy a heaven of purer happiness than I at such 
 hours enjoyed ; and earth — away with the thought ! it 
 was profanation — thrones and sceptres would not have 
 weighed a feather against that paradise and the lovely 
 Caroline. Passionately fond of music as I was, if I wish- 
 ed it, I had only to listen to the sweet, melting tones of a 
 voice which, with all the tenderness that love alone can in- 
 spire, sang some simple favorite melody ; and as the sounds 
 gradually died away, it needed no fanciful imagination to 
 people each jutting rock and wooded cliff witli spiritual 
 beings, who cauglit up the melody and sent it back with 
 increasing softness and lightly echoing sweetness. And 
 
A TALE OF THE WOODS. 165 
 
 the tall forests, when at such hours the winds swept over 
 them, did not they make music ? I do not hesitate to say, 
 that the man who can hear the first approach of the 
 breeze as it moves onward, waving the leafy branches — 
 now rising, now sinking, now sighing through the pointed 
 tops of the pine or hemlock — and not feel that the spirit 
 of harmony is abroad, has not a particle of music in his 
 soul. Then, too, there was the gentle cooing of the wild 
 pigeon — the saddened, plaintive notes of the wood-dove — 
 the merry, joyous tones of the beautiful black-bird and 
 the thrush — and when twilight came on, the wood-robin 
 sent its sweet melodies from the depth of the thicket — and 
 echo wafted the soothing and delicious sounds, in many a 
 delightful undulation, over the smooth waters. Frequent- 
 ly, while enjoying this happy retreat, the red deer would 
 come to lave herself in the lake, and, followed by her 
 spotted fawn, would sport for hours in wild playfulness on 
 the pebbled margin ; and the buck, with his branching ant- 
 lers and proud bearing, Avould bound by us, scarcely 
 deigning to notice the intruders on his domain. 
 
 Caroline and myself were one day sitting on our favorite 
 moss-covered rock, which was shaded from the intense 
 heat of a summer sun by the thick foliage of some majes- 
 tic trees, and viewing the lake, which, placid as the bo- 
 som of innocence, was in all its beauty spread before us. 
 The head of the lovely girl was reclining on my shoulder — 
 her speaking eyes frequently met mine, and in them I read 
 the most delightful proof of her unaltered affection and 
 love. From this trance of happiness we were roused by 
 footsteps, and turning, saw Pianottimo, a chief of the Sen- 
 ecas, standing near us. He had for some time been hunt- 
 ing in that neighborhood, and was well known to us, con- 
 sequently no alarm was caused by his sudden appearance ; 
 
166 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 and placing his rifle against a hemlock at some little dis- 
 tance, he approached us with a smile, offered me his 
 hand, and, after the usual salutations, stretched himself 
 on the bank near us, and, as he conversed, looked alternate- 
 ly at us and at the lake below. Pianottimo was a tall, 
 dignified-looking person, about fifty years of age, firmly 
 attached to the habits and dress of the Indians, while at 
 the same time he was the undeviating friend of the whites, 
 and was considered as a person of more than ordinary 
 acuteness and sagacity. He could converse in English, 
 and although it was in a broken manner, yet he chose it, 
 when he wished to make himself understood by the whites, 
 in preference to the signs to which many of the natives 
 confined themselves. A lio-ht fleecv cloud was, when he 
 came up to us, drifting over the heavens — it grew thicker, 
 and a smart shower of rain fell, pattering on the dry leaves, 
 and breaking, with its large drops, the surface of the 
 lake into ten thousand eddying circles. Beneath the thick 
 branches of a huge hemlock \ve were safe from the effects 
 of the shower ; and when it ceased, and with sullen roar 
 was passing off to the east, Caroline and myself again 
 walked to the cliff, where Pianottimo was still reclining. 
 
 The lake, when we stood on the bank by the side of the 
 chief, exhibited an appearance as new as it was beautiful. 
 Small wreaths of wliite mist were slowly rising from its 
 surface, light as the fleeting gossamer, and scarcely leav- 
 ing the water before they vanished into thin air. 
 
 " We sluill have more showers, " said the chief, in his 
 broken English ; " when the fog rises not to the tree- tops, 
 the clouds are not all past. " 
 
 From our knowledge of the skill which observation con- 
 fers upon the Indian in determining the coming events of 
 that kind, I had no reason to doubt liis correctness now, 
 
A TALE OF THE WOODS. 167 
 
 and proposed to Caroline that we should return to our 
 homes. This design was interrupted by Pianottimo. 
 
 " See you that on the high rock yonder ?" said he, 
 pointing to a precipitous cliff on the other side of the lake. 
 
 "I see nothing, " I answered, "but the mist which is 
 leaving the lake and creeping up the side of the rock. " 
 
 " That is not mist," he answered, emphatically ; " see 
 you not that now it is motionless — that, when it has 
 reached the top of the rock, it stirs not. What we see, is 
 there by permission of the Great Spirit ; it bodes no good 
 to us ; better would it have been, had we not seen it !" 
 
 " It is nothing but the effect of that little spring which 
 trickles down the rocks, and up the current of which the 
 fog is climbing," I replied, laughing ; though the coun- 
 tenance of the chief showed that he fancied he saw in the 
 occurrence matter far too serious for mirth. 
 
 " Many years ago, " said Pianottimo, " Oroma, a young 
 chief of the Delawares, was hunting in the grounds of the 
 Oneidas — for the tomahawk had been buried between the 
 Six Nations and the Delawares — when he saw and loved 
 the young Euroka, the daughter of Cannadea, a powerful 
 chief of the Oneidas. Euroka was fair as the morning — 
 tall and graceful as the whitewood — her dark hair hung 
 around her shoulders like the moss of the cypress — her 
 eyes were sparkling as the stars in the heaven of Manitou — 
 and her breath was sweet as the wind which, in the months 
 of spring, blows over the thick blossoming tufts of the 
 maple, and is scented with the fragrance of the wild rose. 
 He told the Oneida maiden his tale of love ; and, pleased 
 as the timid dove, Avhen she hears in the thick wood the 
 first notes of her faithful partner, Euroka listened. They 
 were never tired of each other's company ; together they 
 visited this place, and stood on that rock, upon which 
 
168 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 what you call the mists of the lake are now settled. Love 
 shuns the world, and in this solitude Oroma was all the 
 young daughter of the chieftain wished. " As Pianottimo 
 said these words, he turned his dark and expressive eyes 
 upon us ; and as I pressed Caroline's hand, the blush that 
 covered her beautiful features showed that the chief had 
 spoken the truth. 
 
 The sachem continued his narrative : " They were con- 
 versing as you were, when this day I first saw you. Oroma 
 was arranging some strings of wampum in the flowing hair 
 of his favorite girl ; and, pleased, she was examining a 
 beautiful pair of moccasins which he had procured for her. 
 Her bright eyes were telling of the love that filled her in- 
 nocent bosom, when there was a sudden report of a rifle ; 
 and Oroma, staggering a few feet towards his rifle, which 
 was lying on the ground at a little distance from him, 
 made an ineff'ectual effort to grasp it, but it was too late ; 
 and though Euroka flew to his aid, he reeled, and fell from 
 the precipice. To the consternation of the terror-struck 
 and confounded maiden, with the ferocity of a tiger the 
 malicious and vindictive Connequoit, the powerful Iro- 
 quois who had in vain sought the love of the Oneida 
 maiden, rushed from the wood, and, seizing her in his 
 arms, was bearing her rapidly towards the thicket. De- 
 spair, when she saw the shadowy forms of a number of his 
 followers waiting to execute his orders, and carry her be- 
 yond the hope of rescue, restored lier to the exercise of 
 her powers, and she demanded to be released. 
 
 " ' Never,' said the Iroquois ; ' you are mine now, and 
 you shall remain so ; nor can the great Manitou himself 
 prevent it.' 
 
 " His boast was vain — her resolution was taken, and 
 with a sudden effort she sprang from the arms of Con- 
 
A TALE OF THE WOODS. 169 
 
 uequoit, and with tlie swiftness of an arrow darted to the 
 chff. A precipice near the water's edge had broken the fall 
 of Ororaa, and life still remained. Light as the red deer, 
 Euroka leaped the dangerous descent, at the moment the 
 enraged Iroquois came up, and clasping the dying Del- 
 aware in her ai-ms, plunged from the rock into the dark 
 green wave. Deep they sunk, and after the waves had 
 closed over them, a few bubbles that rose to the surface 
 alone pointed out the .'^pot where the faithful lovers had 
 sunk — to lise no more. 
 
 " Stung with madness" at the escape of his victim in 
 such an unexpected manner, the Iroquois chief ordered 
 his followers to endeavor to save her; but while he 
 remained motionless on the verge, they saw it was impos- 
 sible to reach the water without making the same des- 
 perate plunge that she had done, and the attempt was 
 relinquished as hopeless. The great Manitou was pleased 
 with the affection and constancy of the lovers, and permits 
 their spiiits to roam where they please in this land they 
 loved so well; but long experience has proved, that those 
 who behold their shadowy forms as they revisit the scenes 
 of their youth and love, will never again see the leaves fall 
 from the trees, or cover the thick branches with their wav- 
 ing green. " 
 
 So much had our attention been engrossed by the little 
 history of the Oneida maiden, and which was so intimately 
 associated with the scenery around us, that we had for- 
 gotten our intention of returning ; and I was proceeding 
 to gain some further information from the chief with 
 regard to what he considered the supernatural appearance 
 before us, when our attention was suddenly recalled by 
 a quick and loud peal of thunder, and turning, I per- 
 ceived that a dark and gloomy mass was already filling the 
 
170 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 western horizon, and had begun to cast its deep shadows 
 over the hxke ; and that, from the threatening appearances, 
 a severe storm might be expected. 
 
 " Shall we endeavor to reach our houses before the 
 storm overtakes us?" I inquired, as I took Caroline's arm. 
 
 " Certainly ; though I fear we have lingered too long," 
 replied Caroline, as she cast a hurried glance at the 
 heavens. 
 
 "If an Indian might be permitted to advise," said 
 Pianottirao, "I would say, take shelter under this rocky bank 
 until the storm is over. The forest is not a place of safety 
 when the thunders of the Great Spirit are abroad : you will 
 not reach your home ; and I fear that evil is before you." 
 
 " Shall we take the advice of our friend, and remain 
 with him ?" I asked of the trembling Caroline. 
 
 " No," was the answer ; " and let us not lose a moment 
 in returning ;" and bidding the chief adieu, we plunged 
 into the forest. 
 
 We had not proceeded far, before I saw that the tem- 
 pest was rapidly approaching, and the quick bursts of the 
 thunder and the vivid flashing of the lightning plainly indi- 
 cated its violence. Caroline was unusually agitated — pale 
 and almost breathless, she urged me forward, while she 
 hung upon my arm, unable to support herself. At last 
 the deepening and increasing roar, only broken by the 
 thunder — the cloud of leaves torn from their branches, 
 and driven onward by the coming blast — the tumultuous 
 screaming and hurried flight of the birds of prey, as they 
 hasted to a place of shelter — all told that the fury of the 
 tempest would soon be upon us. Large drops of rain, min- 
 gled with scattering hailstones, came driving through the 
 tree-tops, wliich were already bending before tlie furious 
 winds. Tile gloom was jirofoiiiul, ami remlrred more ter- 
 
A TALE OF THE WOODS. 171 
 
 rific by the vividness of the lightning, which with sulphu- 
 reous flashes lighted up the dark recesses of the forest. 
 To advance was rendered impracticable by the violence of 
 the wind ; and the crash of the falling trees, if we remain- 
 ed, threatened*us with instant destruction. The question 
 was, however, decided by Caroline, who declared her in- 
 ability to proceed ; and selecting a large linden, whicli 
 from its size promised to resist the impetuosity of the tor- 
 nado as well as afford a comparative shelter, I placed her 
 behind it in such a manner that she was in some degree 
 sheltered from the rain, which was pouring through the 
 branches in drifting torrents. Wrapping her in an outer 
 garment was the last that I remembered for some hours — 
 to me there was a blank in existence — and when I recov- 
 ered my reason, the first object I saw was Pianottimo 
 standing over me, with a countenance in which o-rief and 
 joy alternately prevailed, or were so strangely blended in 
 his dark features that I shall never forget the impression 
 they made. The storm had passed — the sun, low in the 
 west, was setting fair and bright — that delicious and pecu- 
 liar fragrance, which fills the air when a forest has fallen 
 before the axe of the woodman or the fury of a tornado, 
 existed in all its richness ; but when I attempted to move, 
 I found myself utterly unable ; the least effort produced 
 the most excruciating agony, and the whole surface of my 
 body, on the slightest motion, felt as though it had been 
 burned to a cinder. 
 
 The chief raised me up. " Tell me," said I, " what has 
 become of Caroline ?" 
 
 He answered nothing, but pointed with his finger down- 
 ward. I looked, and, good heavens, what a spectacle ! — 
 Caroline was lying on the ground — her face pale and 
 stamped with the hand of death — her clothes partly con- 
 
172 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 sumed, and her arm, which was lying on her bosom, livid 
 and burned. I instantly comprehended the whole — I saw 
 the rifted and shattered tree, and felt that the fire of 
 heaven had consumed the dross of her mortality, and 
 freed in a moment, and without pain, tl?e immortal and 
 ethereal spirit. I sunk to the earth by her side, kissed her 
 cold lips, which but a few hours before had glowed with the 
 warmth of pure and kindred affection, and in the bitter- 
 ness of the moment, cursed the fate that had left me behind. 
 
 Pianottimo saw my grief, and, in the peculiar manner of 
 a native chief, attempted to fortify my mind. 
 
 " Men meet and overcome the evils of life," said he, as 
 he took my hand ; " but women and boys murmur and 
 sink under them." 
 
 I felt his reproof, and rose. The chief assisted me in 
 walking about a little distance, during which he informed 
 me, that, as soon as the storm ceased, he set out after us, 
 convinced, from the rapidity with which it rose, that we 
 must have been overtaken by it, and found that his pre- 
 sentiment of evil had been too fatallv verified. 
 
 " Will you be my friend now, and assist me in removing 
 Caroline to our home ?" I incjuired of the chief, when I 
 found that a little exercise had removed the painful sensa- 
 tions I first experienced, and given me strengtli to walk. 
 
 "Pianottimo has always been tlie friend of the white 
 man," he replied ; " and were he not, the Groat Spirit has 
 taught him to Iielp even an enemy when in distress — much 
 more, one who has always been his friend." 
 
 So saying, he raised the lifeless Caroline in his arms ; 
 and while 1 followed him with much dilliculty and many 
 pauses tlirough the fallen timber, we at last reached my 
 father's house, where we liad for a long time bt'cn ex- 
 pected, with an anxiety which parents only can feel. 
 
A TALE OF THE WOODS. 173 
 
 The young, the loved, the innocent and the beautiful 
 Caroline was committed to the earth ; but I found it im- 
 possible to remain where my happiness had suffered such 
 an irreparable and fatal blow ; and I, with the consent of 
 ray parents, left that place and the country, for Europe. 
 Twenty years did not obliterate the recollections of Caro- 
 line from my heart ; and when I returned to the United 
 States, and had visited my parents, who had returned to 
 their native State, with much the feelings which fill the 
 mind of the pilgrim to the sacred shrine of Mecca I 
 sought out the place where one so dear to me slept her 
 peaceful sleep. 
 
 The willow I had planted, marked the hallowed spot 
 where Caroline reposed, and I again watered it with ray 
 tears ; but how changed were all things around ! I felt 
 like a stranger in a strange land ; the desolating hand of 
 man had been over the face of nature, and the forest had 
 disappeared ; and it was not without a feeling of regret 
 that I saw the majestic trees, which had shaded my favor- 
 ite retreat on the margin of the beautiful lake, floating, a 
 fit emblem of the prostration of my hopes, on the wave 
 they had once so proudly shadowed and so securely 
 guarded, and which had so often reflected to the blue sky 
 the deep-green foliage which, like my happiness, had 
 passed away forever. 
 
NIGHT 
 
 BY MISS CAROLINE E. ROBERTS. 
 
 'Tis holy night — the stars are out 
 Upon their watches far on high ; 
 
 The moon's shght shell upon the edge 
 Of the horizon's verge doth lie, 
 
 Lookincr a fair " sfood nioht" to me, 
 
 Who watch her course thus silently. 
 
 'Tis holy night — the moon hath gone 
 With timid steps to seek her lord ; 
 
 The sun her master is, and she 
 Ever with loving sweet accord. 
 
 Through night and day doth follow him, 
 
 Lest her pale lamp should grow more dim. 
 
 'Tis holy night — God grant that I 
 
 A lesson from its page may borrow ; 
 Just like the moon, through night and day, 
 
 Through present joy and coming sorrow. 
 May I, with meek and lowly heart, 
 
 Follow my Lord with trusting love. 
 Keeping an eye undimmed and clear 
 
 Upon His glory far above ; 
 Knowing, like her, more and more dim 
 My light, and life, if far from llim. 
 
MY CARD-BASKET. 
 
 BY THE EDITRESS. 
 
 Kind reader, have you ever enjoyed the luxury of 
 spending an hour alone in examining the contents of a neg- 
 lected card-basket ? If not, you have lost an hour of 
 pleasure. The heart receives a fresh impulse ; kind and 
 gentle feelings creep over the spirit, and bear it away from 
 present cares, as "lang syne" comes before us with vivid 
 reality. Who does not like to indulge occasionally in 
 reminiscences of the past, even back to the hours of child- 
 hood ? Stransce that vre are so constituted as to allow 
 events of a late date to pass from the mind ; while early oc- 
 currences, even of threescore years' standing, are before the 
 mental eye in all their freshness. The smiles, caresses, 
 and corrections of loving parents ; the old homestead, 
 where our tiny feet wandered for the early wild flowers ; 
 the solemn church, where a loved father delivered his em- 
 bassy from the Most High to an attentive congregation ; 
 the village church-yard, where the earthly remains of an 
 angel sister were laid to rest ; the pleasant school-house, 
 where the young idea was first developed ; the huge flat 
 rock under the wide-spreading chestnut tree — a favorite 
 resort for reading and study ; all present themselves to 
 view, and for a moment cause us to forget that years of 
 trial and sorrow have intervened between that time and 
 the present. 
 
^"^^ THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 But to return to my subject. 
 
 Know then, indulgent reader, that I (allow me to use 
 the first person singular) have a card -basket ; not one of 
 those small, elegant, and expensive articles that adorn the 
 centre-tables of the aristocratic ; but one of ample dimen- 
 sions — perhaps some twelve inches in diameter — once oc- 
 tagonal, now circular, in consequence of the pressure of 
 its contents ; still, however, displaying the variety of sea- 
 shells and sea-weed which were designed to ornament the 
 pieces of Bristol-board, edged with gold paper and laced 
 with blue ribbon, of which it is .composed. 
 
 This basket, capacious as it is, has long been overladen ; 
 and this morning (as every neat housewife should) I 
 sought to improve its appearance by removing the dust, 
 and arranging the numerous cards, invitations, &c., think- 
 ing to burn up the soiled, and retain those which were 
 still beautiful or fair. 
 
 Business was commenced by emptying the papers in a 
 mass upon the piano. Curiosity induced me to examine 
 each one. Here was a dilemma — even the soiled were pre- 
 cious ; many, aye, most of the cards were names of be- 
 loved pupils, (for I have been some years a teacher ;) 
 those endeared to me by many ties ; those wlio I fondly 
 believe loved me truly in return. Indeed, I always con- 
 sidered myself peculiarly fortunate in having the best 
 scholars in the world ; those who were agreeable, amiable, 
 and affectionate. Seldom did anything occur to mar the 
 kind feeling that existed between teachers and pupils, 
 while, for seven years, I was connected with a certain lite- 
 rary institution at D ; and if occasionally a refractory 
 
 spirit appeared among our sisterhood, harmony was soon 
 restored by our judicious and distinguished principal. Es- 
 timable and lamented 8— — ! A tear starts at the rccol- 
 
MY CARD-BASKET. 177 
 
 lection of one so deservedly loved, so universally regret- 
 ted ! But we trust thy pure spirit looks down from a 
 brighter world approvingly, and perhaps hovers near, to 
 hallow the spot where thy successors toil on in thy foot- 
 steps. 
 
 His name is treasured as a precious relic, inscribed by 
 his own hand in a volume of poems, a valued keepsake. 
 
 Sorrowfully we turn to our card-basket. 
 
 First comes an invitation to a wedding, in a neatly em- 
 bossed envelope, with a silver seal. The bride was a 
 young and accomplished friend, a pupil and assistant. 
 That must be retained. 
 
 The next is a card, " P. S. P., United States' Consul, 
 Bombay, India." The best of cousins ; laid to rest in the 
 coral caves of the deep, green sea, near that port. May 
 we meet in heaven ! 
 
 " G. A, P." A brother of the above. Methinks I see 
 his happy face, and hear his ever-cheerful voice, though 
 now upon the weary way to the land of gold. 
 
 A visiting card of a distinguished lady. 
 
 Ditto, of an honorable gentleman and his lady. 
 
 Ditto, from a resident in Alabama. 
 
 Note from a dear friend — all to be preserved with care. 
 
 Numerous cards of invitation to weddings, soirees, and 
 parties. These to be laid aside for pleasant recollections, 
 and references. 
 
 Here are some scores of cards from my scholars, neatly 
 enclosed in envelopes, and tied with blue or white ribbon. 
 The covers being soiled, I will remove them, that the cards 
 may be bright and new. Some rude hand has broken off 
 this blue ribbon, leaving a tight knot. No matter — I can 
 tear the envelope. " L. A. T." -A talented girl; now a 
 9 ) 
 
178 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 wife and mother in the far West — doubtless diffusing light 
 and happiness around her. 
 
 " H. M. C," with an inscription of love upt)n the back 
 of the card. Sweet child ! She is an antjel now. 
 
 "L. M. C." Upon the reverse is written, "July 20, 
 '40. When other years, dear teacher, shall have removed 
 from my brow the mists that now gather around it, as oft 
 as my mind would dwell upon some cherished theme, be 
 assured it will picture the recollection of my early friend 
 and instructress." 
 
 " H. R. H." Edged with black; an emblem of mourn- 
 ing for a dear mother. 
 
 " A. H. I'll think of thee, dear teacher, as oft as mem- 
 ory fond shall chance to call to mind the recollections of 
 some happier hours." 
 
 " C. G." A loved and loving one — called to a world 
 of spirits. 
 
 " H. M. De G." Sweet giil ! and justly beloved for 
 every amiable quality. She too has gone before us. 
 
 "C. T." A talented writer. 5^ 
 
 " J. M. T.," " Little Julc," as she was called, to distin- 
 guish her from a cousin of a similar name. How I love 
 to think of her blue eyes, and rich golden tresses, and 
 pleasant smiles ! 
 
 " B. A. E." My soul sickens when I call to mind the 
 untimely death of this excellent young lady. There is no 
 sickness like that of the heart — hers was broken ! 
 
 But lest I tire your patience, gentle reader, I will hasten 
 on, and place numbers in the basket, without giving 
 names ; contenting myself with copying a few sentences 
 from them. Oh ! how these all'ectiunate inscriptions act 
 upon the heart, and bring to mind the pleasures, as Avell 
 as toils of the school-room ! 
 
MY CARD-BASKET. 179 
 
 "Amicum recordere." 
 " Remember me." 
 "Absent — not forgotten." 
 
 — " Trifles in themselves 
 Are, to the feeling heart, of greater worth 
 Than India's richest gems." 
 
 " Touched by the magic hand of those we love, 
 A trifle will of consequence appear ; 
 A flower, a blade of grass, a pin, a glove, 
 A scrap of paper, still become most dear." 
 
 "For my dearest teacher." 
 
 " A spell to call back by-gone times." 
 
 " In distant lands if I may be, 
 Or on my native shore, 
 But one request I make of thee. 
 Remember me — I ask no more." 
 
 " Blest be the tie that binds 
 Our hearts in Chi'istian love." 
 
 " Oh, knowest tlyf^u why, to distance riven, 
 When friendship weeps the parting hour. 
 The simplest gift that moment given, 
 Long, long retains a magic power ?" 
 
 " Accept this as a token of friendship and love." 
 " Pensez a moi, ma chere ami." 
 " Te mihi in memoria habeo." 
 " Forget me not." 
 
 " May I never forget the kindness of my dear precep- 
 tress." 
 
 " Hath not thy voice been here among us heard. 
 And that deep soul of gentleness and power ? 
 Have we not felt its breath in every word, 
 
 Wont from thy lips as Hermon's dews to shower ? 
 Yes, in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burned." 
 
180 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 " Ever dear to my heart shall thy memory be, 
 And bright be thy days, from adversity free." 
 
 " Remember me when thou dost sigh, 
 And softly bend the knee, 
 To offer up thy prayer on high, 
 While kindred spirits hover nigh, 
 Oh, then remember me !" 
 
 These are but few of the many contained in my notable 
 card- basket. I find I have none to spare — even thougjli 
 some are not as fair and beautiful as in earlier days. All 
 are dear to me. Each card has a language of its own ; 
 speaking to the heart of the teacher kindness, affection, 
 love. The modest, attentive, and quiet listener to the lec- 
 ture or recitation ; the bolder, more energetic and inquir- 
 ing spirit, aspiring for information and truth ; the mirthful 
 glance, or mischievous whisper, are vividly impressed at 
 the glance of the name. More than once has the tear 
 fallen during the examination of these treasures ; but the 
 pleasure L derive from this secret communion, as it were, 
 with the absent of by-gone days, outweighs the pain. 
 Should this story meet the eyes of any who recognize a 
 portrait, and they are desirous of seeing the original card, 
 they can be accommodated by patiently diving to the bot- 
 tom of my cherished card-basket. 
 
6. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^^IfiHM^ J^^l^<^ 
 
FIRESIDE VERSES. 
 
 BT BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 The gladsome hearth — the gladsome hearth, 
 Whose social thoughts flow free, 
 
 Through all the shifting scenes of life. 
 The fond heart turns to thee. 
 
 The cheerful hearth — the cheerful hearth, 
 
 Where childhood's happy voice 
 Gladdens the twilight hour of rest. 
 
 And bids each home rejoice. 
 
 The holy hearth — the holy hearth, 
 
 Around whose sacred flame, 
 Each household chu,rch doth daily bow 
 
 To plead a Saviour's name. 
 
 The blessed hearth — the blessed hearth. 
 
 By hearts encircled round. 
 Whose rule of Hfe, and on whose lips 
 
 The law of love is found. 
 
 The saddened hearth — the saddened hearth, 
 Whose sweetest sounds are stilled. 
 
 The vacant seat, the tone subdued, 
 The eye with tears oft filled. 
 
182 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 The quenched hearth — the quenched hearth. 
 
 Whose flame will yet arise, 
 Will yet impart its cheerful glow. 
 
 To welcome strangers' eyes. 
 
 Thus human hearths — thus human hearths. 
 
 Their daily records tell, 
 Of human hopes, extinct, o'erthrown. 
 
 Which seem unquenchable. 
 
 There is an home — an endless home. 
 
 To it we fondly turn ; 
 Where buried hopes immortal made. 
 
 With purer flame shall burn. 
 
FLIRTATION. 
 
 " What tender things was Weston whispering in your 
 
 ' charmed ear' last evening, my demure coz ? I really 
 
 felt very like an intruder, as I entered the arbor in search 
 
 of you — anything but being a third person in such" — 
 
 Mary Ann Dorr stopped speaking suddenly, as, to her 
 
 surprise, she saw her cousin colored deeply, " cheek, brow, 
 
 neck and bosom," and fix her eyes on the ground, with 
 
 an expression of deep embarrassment. There was an 
 
 appearance of distress mingled with her emotion, which at 
 
 once stemmed the tide of raillery with which she had 
 
 accosted her. Passing her arm fondly about her neck, 
 
 she continued, half reproachfully, " I did not think, Helen, 
 
 that you would have concealed from me your feelings on 
 
 this subject ; me, who you know to be interested like 
 
 yourself in all your concerns — but I see how it is, Weston 
 
 has won that good heart of thine ; do not deny it, Helen — 
 
 only be sure it is an even bargain." 
 
 " I believe I have received ah equivalent, cousin, I 
 believe that — Edmund does love me — at least, if I may 
 judge from his manner, it certainly has long expressed 
 the truest affection. Perhaps it is vanity in me ; but I 
 have thought he was attached to me ever since" — She 
 hesitated, overpowered with that shame which every 
 delicate woman feels at owning a preference for which 
 she is not sure of an open, decided, honorable return. 
 With her burning brow covered in her hands, and her 
 whole attitude expressive of the most painful and humil- 
 iating confusion, she awaited her cousin's calm reply. 
 
184 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 To her it would be a sentence ; so highl}- did she respect 
 her judgment and delicacy, and so fearlessly did she trust 
 her heart in her hands. 
 
 Helen was not a vain girl, neither was she peculiarly 
 susceptible ; but her heart was warm and affectionate, 
 and her gratitude for attentions was so intense, that she 
 was ever in danger of feeling too deeply, too devotedly. 
 A painful sense of her inferior claims to personal attrac- 
 tions contributed, perhaps, to enhance this sentiment — 
 for Helen was never deemed beautiful, even by her most 
 partial friends. To those who knew well her ardent and 
 generous disposition, her lofty and pure heart, her culti- 
 vated and refined intellect, her rich, beautiful imagination, 
 she ever appeared lovely ; but to strangers, her counte- 
 nance was even uncomely. A scar on her temple gave 
 her face a forbidding expression, and years of delicate 
 health had prevented her dark complexion from being 
 enlivened with the rich glow that gives so much beauty 
 to the brunette. When animated by conversation, or 
 agitated with emotion, you would forget that she was not 
 beautiful, so beaming Avas her face, so expressive and 
 intelligent her large hazel eyes ; but as emotion sub- 
 sided, her features rested in an expression placid, but 
 repelling. 
 
 Mary Ann Dorr knew her perfectly, she thought — 
 but, as often happens, the inner feelings of the heart are 
 more apparent to a stranger eye, than to the unsus- 
 pecting one of intimate friendship. There was not a 
 gossip in the town who did not assert the positive engage- 
 ment of Miss Helen to young Squire Weston, and not 
 an eye or a heart which did not truly interpret the smile 
 and the blush that overspread Helen's face at any allu- 
 sion to him, save that of the watchful friend with whom 
 
FLIRTATION. 185 
 
 she resided, and who deemed herself fully aware of the 
 terms on which they stood, and did not hesitate to con- 
 tradict the assertion of any undue interest between the 
 parties. Now that she did understand Helen's feelings, 
 she was surprised and distressed. 
 
 " I do not wonder, dear Helen, that your good heart 
 is affected by Weston's worth and devoted attention 
 to you ; you would not be woman were it otherwise ; but 
 I will not, cannot believe it is irrevocably given, iintil it is 
 openly and honorably claimed. No, my friend — keep 
 your heart. Why has not Weston avowed his preference 
 in plain manly terms, and sought you as a high-minded 
 man ought and would do ?" 
 
 " Dear Mary Ann, what can I do ? I cannot, would 
 not for worlds allow Edmund to think I am waitintj for 
 him to offer his hand ; I cannot treat him coldly, it would 
 be indelicate — it is impossible." 
 
 " No, true, you cannot; the conquest must be in your 
 own soul. Let your manner to him continue as usual ; 
 but, as you value your peace of mind, restrain your feel- 
 ings ; regard his professions as idle ; do not think of them. 
 It is more necessary than you can imagine, that your 
 affections should be under your own guidance and regu- 
 lation ; necessary not only to your peace, but even to your 
 purity of mind. Perhaps my ideas on the subject of love 
 are singular, dear Helen ; but I have never considered 
 that heart as very valuable, which is so susceptible as to 
 take an impression from every seal of beauty and manli- 
 ness it may happen to meet, till its most delicate sympa- 
 thies, and most beautiful, hidden devotedness, are frittered 
 away by the very variety of the action of that heart. The 
 confession, that we love, cannot be repeatedly and variously 
 made, even in the chambers of our own souls, without in- 
 9* 
 
186 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 juring the price and purity of the confession ; and to a 
 deUcate and reflecting mind, how far deeper and holier is 
 that ' hid treasure' of aff"ection, which wells up from the 
 guarded fountains of years, than the babbling, shining rill, 
 that smiles in the sun, and spends itself in the smile. 
 Pardon my sermon, Helen — and, as I live, here comes the 
 youth himself." 
 
 Edmund Weston entered the apartment with a smile 
 and a bow to the cousins ; and a very fascinating smile 
 and bow they were. His fine countenance was flushed 
 with exercise, and, passing round, he seated himself by 
 Helen, and threw a handful of roses into her lap. There 
 was something so elegant, so graceful, so altogether what 
 is called '' taking" in his manner, that Mary Ann wondered 
 at her own stupidity in not having foreseen the conse- 
 quences of an exposure to such fascinations. Weston was 
 one of those gifted beings who are peculiarly susceptible 
 of all the noble and beautiful in the moral and natural 
 world ; who draw intense delight from the hue of a flower, 
 the beaming of a soft star-light, whom an expression of 
 friendly interest has power to thrill with pleasure ; in 
 short, one whose enjoyments were too deep and ardent to 
 be called by the usual names that represent them ; his 
 friendships were loves ; his vexation was deep grief; 
 wounded feeling was an agony. With a mind highly cul- 
 tivated, a fancy delicate, changing, and glittering as; a sun- 
 beam, a store of valuable information on any and every 
 subject, it is not strange that Helen found in his society 
 peculiar charms. When I add, that in his manner to fe- 
 males there was a devotedness, an earnestness the most 
 flatterintr to the sex, thouah at the same tiiiio the most 
 misleadinijf ; and that this devotedness had been for the 
 last three months addressed wholly to Helen ; who will 
 
FLIRTATION. 187 
 
 censure her for believing herself preferred before all other 
 women, or for giving herself up to the delight which the 
 idea aft'orded her ? 
 
 Weston loved Helen's society certainly ; he thought her 
 superior to any female he had ever known ; he fully ap- 
 preciated the beauty of her mind ; and, in conversing with 
 her, he felt a sympathy, an union of feeling and tastes, 
 which he had never felt before. I am even inclined to 
 think that, for the time, he fancied he loved her ; for 
 Weston was " an honorable man ;" honorable in the view 
 of his friends and acquaintances, and, what was of more 
 importance, in his own. Had any one told him, in so many 
 words, that he was winning Helen's love without design- 
 ing a return, he would not have believed it of himself ; but 
 the gratification of vanity, in seeing himself an object of 
 interest to a high-hearted and enthusiastic being, could not 
 be resisted; and then, there was the opiate — " she will 
 never remember it ; she is too sensible, too independent, 
 too much accustomed to such attentions to think of them" 
 — that lulled the remorseless feelings which would some- 
 times seize him, after witnessing the blush and sigh that 
 followed some fervent demonstration of his own regard, 
 and which he could not help seeing was not the calm 
 beaming of friendship. Weston was not blinded ; he saw 
 the pleasure with which his society was greeted, above 
 that of a circle of very endeared friends ; he could not 
 but see her tastes assimilating themselves to his ; he saw 
 her loving the things he loved, and correcting herself of 
 what he deemed faulty in her character. Yet he contin- 
 ued to pay her all those silent and minute attentions which 
 steal the heart surely and unconsciously, and trusted to a 
 firmness in Helen's heart, as her safeguard, which he was 
 fatally undermining. 
 
188 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 I have digressed thus much, in order, if possible, to 
 give some idea of Weston's real feelings and intentions. 
 His is not a solitary instance ; there are many such men 
 cherished in society, nay, /who believe themselves worthy, 
 and who would shrink from the imputation of a dishonora- 
 ble act as from death. Perhaps, had Weston known the 
 full extent of the mischief his idle vanity had wrought, 
 he would have regretted it deeply, and censured himself 
 severely ; but he never did know it. 
 
 I left him seated with the cousins. Mary Ann left 
 them for some household duty, and Weston was triflino- 
 with some beautiful moss-roses, binding them among the 
 chesnut curls that hung profusely about Helen's brow, 
 and saymg some very poetical thi.ngs on the subject of 
 flowers in general, and moss-roses in particular. Helen 
 was fond of flowers, as all women should be ; and she 
 repeated those lines of a gifted poet, beginning, " The an- 
 gel of the flowers one day," with much animation. 
 
 " There is a story that lingers in my memory but faintly, 
 which grew out of the custom of afiixing ideas to flowers. 
 I beheve it is in Berkeley's Romance of Gaudentio di 
 Lucca. The Mazzoronians, with a simplicity worthy the 
 early days, used the rose as an emblem of love. A bud 
 accepted, encouraged the dawning of affection in those 
 single-hearted beings ; a half-blown rose was the token of 
 a deeper and dearer feeling ; and the acceptance of a full- 
 blown rose AYas considered as binding as the most solemn 
 engagement. I do not know that there was ever a viola- 
 tion of this simple and beautiful compact. The story is 
 one of deep interest, full of fanciful beauty and touchincj- 
 pathos. I will bring it to you, if you will allow nie." 
 
 As Weston spoke, he disengaged one of the half-blown 
 roses from the cluster, and bending on one knee, with an 
 
FLIRTATION. 189 
 
 air of mock gallautry, laughingly offered it to Helen. 
 Nothing could have been easier to an indifferent person, 
 than an acceptance of the proffer, and a sportive rejoin- 
 der ; but Helen's mind was full of the conversation that 
 had just passed between herself and her cousin, and her 
 heart rose to her lips in tumultuous emotion. With a sud- 
 denness that alarmed Weston, she flung the rose far from 
 her, and rising hastily, and pressing both her hands on her 
 temples, that throbbed to bursting, she sought the silence 
 of her own apartment. 
 
 Helen had a proud, though an affectionate heart ; and 
 the suspicion, which for the first time pressed iipon her, 
 that she was trifled with, pierced her to the soul. In an 
 agony of wounded feeling and delicacy she passed the 
 night. With the bitter sorrow that comes from the feel- 
 ing of slighted love, she mingled the degrading thought, 
 that she had given that love unsought ; for in the first 
 paroxysm of disappointed affection she reproached only 
 herself. 
 
 " It is my own fault. I ought to have received his 
 kindnesses as they were meant. I ought to have seen 
 that they were merely friendship — I — I only am to 
 blame." 
 
 It was Helen's generous nature spoke ; she chose rather 
 to criminate her own imprudence than injure another in 
 thought. I do not acquit her of weakness. Could her 
 heart have been seen in that bitter struggle, many a weak 
 and wrong thought might have been discovered ; but they 
 were subdued, and the humbled spirit rose calm and pure 
 from the trial. 
 
 Helen knew too well the frailty of our best resolves, to 
 trust hers to circumstance or impulse. She separated 
 herself from the friends she loved so much, and removed 
 
190 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 from the dangerous influence of Weston's attractions. The 
 parting pressure of the hand, so fervent, so speaking ; 
 the earnest and imploring glance with which he begged 
 her sometimes to think of him, as he should ever of her ; 
 all these and a train of similar thoughts were resolutely 
 banished from her mind, for Helen knew that memory was 
 as deceitful and dantjerous as it was delischtful, and she 
 was bent on the conquest of herself. In the comparative 
 isolation of her present situation, she found many moments 
 which she would gladly have given to the indulgence of 
 remembered pleasures ; many twilights recalled those 
 when one very dear walked quietly by her side, or 
 breathed thoughts of deep beauty in her attentive ear. 
 His voice mingled with the tones of her piano ; his pen- 
 cil traced characters of peculiar grace on the paper be- 
 fore her ; he had so entwined his image with every 
 event, every circumstance that was delightful in retro- 
 spection, that she sometimes almost despaired of effecting 
 her object. 
 
 A year passed, and she was again with her friend. Per- 
 haps her countenance was less animated than in former 
 days, as her person was evidently wasted by mental suf- 
 fering ; yet the cheerful smile was ever ready for her 
 friends, and if there was an effort, it was not evident. 
 
 "And so Rose Elvvyn has arrived at last. I had alifiost 
 despaired of seeing her, she has so long delayed her visit ; 
 she will probably be with us to-night, and I understand 
 she is accompanied by Edmund Weston, as bridegroom 
 elect." 
 
 As Mary Ann made this forced remark, she did not 
 look at Helen, who sat quietly netting by her side, and 
 who made no sort of reply. Curiosity at length overcame 
 her delicacy, and she raised her eyes to Helen's face. Pale 
 
FLIRTATION. 
 
 191 
 
 as ashes, she sat hke a statue, her eyes fixed steadfastly 
 on Mary Ann, as if she would read her soul. 
 
 " Dearest Helen, you are ill ! let me do something for 
 you ; let me give you something," cried her cousin, now 
 seriously alarmed — but Helen did not move or speak — she 
 smiled at last, but such a smile — so sad, so full of woe ! 
 At length, deep-drawn sighs and repeated sobs announced 
 returning consciousness, and a heavy gush of tears gave 
 relief to her overcharged spirit ; it was the last evidence of 
 weakness, and this was of the frame rather than of the soul. 
 
 Imagination has never pictured a lovelier being than 
 Rose Elvvyn. Her tiny and graceful form scarce veiled the 
 more beautiful spirit, and in the deep blue of her large 
 melancholy eyes there was a world of thought and heart. 
 Her voice was melody itself, and though she spoke but 
 little, what she said was always full of sweetness and gen- 
 tleness. The tint on her cheek was not so deep as the 
 blush-rose, and it was ever coming and going with the 
 changes of her soul. A beautiful beina^ she was to gaze on I 
 to worship as the embodying of beauty ; and to weep 
 over, as one gazed, that so fair a form was so evidently 
 vanishing from earth. As Helen looked on her, she did 
 not marvel that Weston's whole heart was given to her ; 
 and though she felt a crushing of the spirit as she saw the 
 well-known fascinating smile, and heard the soft tones of a 
 well-remembered voice, the hovering form whose anxious 
 affection anticipated the slightest wish ; when she saw all 
 this bestowed on another, and felt his altered manner to 
 herself, she quelled the rising of resentment, she buried 
 deeper the memory of wrong. They do not know the 
 heart of woman, who believe Helen had, or ever could, 
 arsrue herself into indifference for Weston. Hers was a 
 better feeling. She had disciplined her spirit to look 
 
192 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 calmly on his union with another ; to promote it, if in her 
 power ; she had overcome the pride of an injured woman, 
 and the principle on which she acted forbade her to pun- 
 ish the offender. 
 
 Weston was thoroughly deceived by the calm and friend- 
 ly manner in which Helen interested herself in the pros- 
 pects of the lovers ; if the feeling of remorse had ever 
 visited his bosom for the deception he had practised on 
 her mind, it was completely banished. 
 
 " She could not do thus, if she had ever loved me," 
 he thought ; but he knew not a female heart. 
 
 Rose Elwyn was portionless, and though Weston's for- 
 tune was sufficient for his own support, or even competent 
 for that of an active and diligent helpmeet, it was not to 
 be thought of in the present case. Rose was a beautiful 
 and frail plant, that needed continual cherishing and 
 watchino- and could not brook the rain-cloud or the ijust. 
 With some personal sacrifices, Helen was able to place 
 independence in the grateful hand of Rose : by the death 
 of her only near relative she had been possessed of a 
 handsome property, and enough was left for her own 
 limited desires. When all obstacles were removed to the 
 union of her friends ; when she had seen the eloquent face 
 of Weston glowing with delight, and the touching beauty 
 of Rose gratefully beaming with feeling, and knew and 
 felt that it was her own work, she blessed Heaven that she 
 had been able to " overcome evil with good." 
 
 The sweet blossom which Weston had gathered and 
 placed in his bosom, drooped in the sun of happiness ; the 
 dew of afl'ection could not reach it; it bent in fragrance to 
 the earth ; and in one short year from the hour that Rose 
 Klwyn had left the village a blooming bride, she was laid 
 to her rest. 
 
FLIRTATION. 193 
 
 Many years have now passed, and Helen is no longer 
 young ; a plain muslin cap covers the ringlets which now 
 are not glossy or dark ; and the large brilliant eyes have 
 become so dependent as to seek aid in a manner the most 
 unfavorable to good looks. You may see about the mouth 
 a chastened expression that betokens an habitual struggle 
 with sorrow, but the forehead remains bland and fair as 
 youth. The active exercise of Christian duty, the habit 
 of making others happy, has imparted to her countenance 
 "a something than beauty dearer;" a softness, a benevo- 
 lence which, in her happy days, she had not. Many 
 hearts has she made glad, many lips has she wreathed 
 with smiles, many grateful beings look to her as the 
 means of their felicity. True, she is an old maid — true, 
 she sometimes sighs, as she enters the dwellings of 
 domestic love, and witnesses the beautiful charities which 
 grow out of those relations only ; but she does not repine; 
 and the tear of regret that glitters for a moment on her 
 pale cheek, is succeeded by the upward glance of grati- 
 tude. 
 
 I have never asked Helen why she did not accept the 
 hand that Weston offered her some twenty years since ; 
 the sentiment that impelled her, for perhaps it could 
 hardly be called a reason, will find an echo in many 
 hearts. 
 
LISTEN! 
 
 BY MISS CAROLINE E. EGBERTS. 
 
 Listen ! dost love the voice 
 
 Of wild bird on the air, 
 As up he soars — the merry heart 
 
 Rejoicing everywhere ? 
 Dost love to hear the sound 
 
 Of water's "silver feet," 
 Tripping o'er pebbles round and smooth, 
 
 To music low and sweet ? 
 The streamlet's careless tone 
 
 As he goes singing by, 
 'Mid flowers that, peeping o'er the banks. 
 
 Their own bright faces spy ? 
 
 Listen ! dost love to hear, 
 
 At twiliiiht's blessed hour. 
 Tones of the lute steal o'er thy soul, 
 
 With their resistless power? 
 Dost love the huvian sound 
 
 Of children at their play. 
 The merry laugh, the gleesome shout. 
 
 Telling of life's young day ? 
 Voices of friends around 
 
 The consecrated hearth, 
 Tlie pleasant word, the kind response. 
 
 The chastened, quiet mirth ? 
 
LISTEN. 195 
 
 Listen ! dost love to hear, 
 
 At holy hush of even, 
 Voices of dear, departed ones, 
 
 Novv dwelling up in heaven ? 
 Thy father's tone of love, 
 
 Thy mother's gentle word, 
 Come back to thee, in later years. 
 
 The same that childhood heard. 
 Listen ! to cheer thy heart 
 
 These angel voices come. 
 Whispering, Onward is thy path. 
 
 And upward is thy home. 
 
REMINISCENCES OF THE -AMERICAN 
 REVOLUTION. 
 
 BY A SOLDIER OF SEVENTY-SIX. 
 
 In the beginning of the autumn of 1776, a few days 
 after General Washington had conducted his army to the 
 heights of Harlem, and to the vicinity of Kingsbridge, 
 and the British troops commanded by General Howe bad 
 taken possession of New York, several of their soldiers' 
 wives were observed to collect together in a larQ-e frame 
 building, near Whitehall-dock, previously designated the 
 " Livingston storehouse." These Avomcn, for the purpose 
 of dressing their provisions, procured from an adjacent 
 yard a number of pine boards, the ends o^ which they 
 placed in the chimney, while their opposite points rested 
 upon the cedar floor of the apartment ; to this the fire 
 rapidly communicated, when the careless gipsies had 
 made an end of their feast, and had withdrawn from the 
 heated and smoky atmosphere within, to enjoy the fresh 
 sea-breeze without. The cry of fire was heard soon after, 
 and fearfully reiterated from every quarter of the city ; 
 and the day being hot and dry, the flames ran through 
 the building with the rapidity of lightning, enveloping in 
 a few moments the whole of the structure, through the 
 top of which the fire was at first seen to arise in a single 
 splendid column, Avitli its ininiense summit curling in fan. 
 tastic wreaths, amid the clouds of smoke ; but instanta- 
 
A soldier's reminiscences. 197 
 
 neously clianging its appearance, and spreading into a vast 
 sheet of flame, it presented an object at the same time of 
 terror and admiration. The firemen, ever alert, were 
 readily summoned by the ringing of bells and other signs 
 of alarm, as anxious as were their haughty invaders'^ to 
 subdue the destructive element before them, which moved 
 in the sun's rays with the subtlety of a serpent, whose 
 sudden evolutions can be perceived only by the vividness 
 of its colors. 
 
 The king's officers, uncertain in whom to confide, or 
 rather regarding in each individual citizen a rebel at heart, 
 became suspicious of the firemen, and seemed to dread a 
 counteracting exertion on their part; under which persua- 
 sion they franticly hurried them from place to place, and 
 urged them with oaths and imprecations to do their duty, 
 which the poor fellows had not then even thought of 
 abandoning; and while they were making the gi^eatest 
 exertions in their power at one post, and ere they had 
 time to quench the fire there, they were driven to an- 
 other by their impetuous commanders, who retarded their 
 endeavors by ruthlessly beating them with their swords ; 
 and, in some instances, it has been said, pushed them into 
 the flames. Others of the citizens, perceiving the danger 
 of their comrades, fled in alarm from the scene of terror 
 and confusion, and sought refuge from their enraged pur- 
 suers. While the discordant cry of " Punish the rebels !" 
 mingled with the shrieks of the affi-ighted women and 
 children, and with the deep and reiterated call of fire ! the 
 gathering flames, wafted by a strong southerly breeze, and 
 unchecked by a proper course, had rapidly advanced up 
 the whole extent of Broadway, communicating with the 
 buildings on both sides, even to the very heart of the city, 
 and threatening its total destruction. 
 
198 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 An idea that the liberty party had determined on de- 
 stroying the town had taken such possession of the minds 
 of the British troops, that in the height of their irritation 
 they threatened death to every man who should be found 
 abroad in the streets, upon whom a shadow of doubt 
 could fall touching his loyalty to the king. 
 
 In the course of this tumultuous scene a noted and 
 active tory, by the name of , to make an open dis- 
 play of his true and sworn allegiance, sallied forth into the 
 streets, with his drawn sabre in his hand, muttering 
 " downfall and death to all rebellious subjects." In his 
 gallant career he happened to encounter a company of 
 rude and exasperated soldiers, who knew nothing of his 
 political virtue, and disbelie\'ing his earnest asseverations 
 of fidelity and attachment to their cause, they charged 
 him with an intention of destroying the fire-buckets. 
 " Down with the rebel and incendiary !" they cried, and 
 in an instant the poor wretch was smitten to the earth, 
 where he rolled, writhing at their feet, and expired cov- 
 ered with wounds and bruises. They then dragged his 
 lifeless body to the upper end of the city, i. e., in Pearl, 
 near Cherry-street, and suspended it by the feet from the 
 sign-post of the Hand and Hammer, where it remained for 
 the space of a day, a fearful example to the timid well- 
 wishers, as well as to the secret enemies of the kinir. 
 
 Meanwhile the fire, threatening its worst, had gained 
 an alarming height. Of the western part of the city the 
 church of St. Paul and one dwelling only stood iminjured ; 
 all else were burned to the open fields, presenting a scene 
 of noise and devastation, amid clouds of smoke and dust. 
 But to attempt the giving a just dosrription of the tlisniay 
 of the citizens, and the exasperation of the British soldiery, 
 would task the powers of a Paulding or a Cooper. 
 
A soldier's reminiscences. 199 
 
 As soon as the fire was extinguished, and the tumult 
 and the noise had abated, all was restored to order in the 
 city, under a government of a severe military discipline 
 and civil regulation. The old fortifications and the breast- 
 works of the city, at which the Americans had so recently 
 toiled, with strongly excited feelings and with severe in- 
 dustry, were now regularly and well manned, and were 
 soon rendered strong and complete, and placed in the best 
 possible state of defense, while the banner of St. George 
 floated proudly over the most advantageous post of the 
 country. The enemy, thus situated, had little to fear 
 from the disheartened army under General Washington, 
 to which the horrors and fatigues of war were new and 
 dispiriting, many having fled in terror to their families and 
 homes, totally unused to, and therefore holding in disre- 
 gard, all military discipline. 
 
 General Howe occupied the finest house in the city, 
 adjacent to the Battery, and fronting the Bowling-green ; 
 this was also the head-quarters of Sir Henry Clinton, at a 
 later period of the war. 
 
 Many changes were made in the public buildings as 
 well as in the private dwellings of New- York, which were 
 both disagreeable and torturing, as it regarded the feelings 
 of the citizens. 
 
 The places of public worship, that were not of the Epis- 
 copal order, were converted into hospitals, prisons, or 
 guard-houses, which caused great off'ense and bitter heart- 
 burnings among the Calvinists, Lutherans, and Quakers. 
 But this was a pill which they were all obliged to swal- 
 low, although it caused many a wry face and suppressed 
 murmur ; and when a crest-fallen dissenter happened to 
 pass the sacred portal, at which he had been accustomed 
 to enter to unburden himself before his Creator, it was 
 
200 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 ever and anon with raised hands and eyes, or with a shrug 
 and a suddenly averted face ! To have breathed a word 
 indicative of his rea:rets or resentments would have been 
 highly impolitic, for if overheard by a jealous adversary it 
 might have exposed him to severe punishment, or to im- 
 minent danger. 
 
 The old jail, as it is now called, was under the conduct 
 of Marshal Cunningham, who was then the provost, and 
 into it he was wont to crowd the unfortunate rebels who 
 fell into his iron grasp. 
 
 Cunninofham was a man strong and athletic in his make, 
 and upwards of six feet in height; his complexion was 
 florid, but his countenance was harsh, and its expression 
 at times odious in the extreme ; yet he could smile with 
 his boon companions over a bottle, and be jocose, pass his 
 jokes, though coarse and vulgar, and be merry, more par- 
 ticularly when he had made up his mind to the accom- 
 plishment of some dreadful enormity, which he had 
 meditated against his half-starved prisoners. Oh ! could 
 the old walls of that prison-house but speak the secrets of 
 the past, what horrid deeds would they not reveal ! 
 What scenes of mortal agonies ! Death from pestilence, 
 famine, and poison ! But I must turn from this, the reflec- 
 tion is too dreadful, and continue my recital. 
 
 General Howe had regulated and arrantrcd all thinors 
 in the city according to his own pleasure ; had attended 
 with humane care to the comforts of his soldiers, and had 
 provided his oflScers with good quarters, where, indeed, 
 they were often received too well, and with too studious 
 a care, by the fairer inmates, and greeted by them with 
 too kind a welcome. The campaign being closed a few 
 weeks after, and the winter setting in, these gentlemen 
 had much leisure to reflect on the measures of the war. 
 
A soldier's reminiscences. 201 
 
 its future battles, and, moreover, on the certain success of 
 their arms ; for amona^ them were the noble, the haughty, 
 the proud, and the brave, who had never been taught the 
 lessons of submission. Nor did the war or its fortunes 
 alone occupy their minds ; they had other and more agree- 
 able avocations, their pleasures and their pastimes. 
 
 Their favorite amusement seems to have been the drama, 
 which they studied with taste and care, and which they 
 brouglit at length to great perfection. Its various char- 
 acters were personated by the most elegant and refined 
 gentlemen of the army, among whom the unfortunate 
 Andre used frequently to bear a part, and receive distin- 
 guished applause. 
 
 Such being the pursuits of the officers of the British 
 army, who were caressed by the fair, admired wherever 
 they moved, boldly presuming that victory over our land 
 would be an easy task, a thing at any time within their 
 reach ; is it to be wondered that the time and opportunity 
 should have been allowed to pass away, wherein a con- 
 summation such as that might have been effected ? That 
 months should have rolled on, unheeded by men who were 
 made too happy to seek or wish a change ? 
 
 The conquest of General Gates over Burgoyne, that 
 brave soldier and accomplished scholar, may well be con- 
 sidered as the dawn of American glory; for until that 
 period of the war, the English, accustomed to triumph 
 wherever they carried their arms, had never for a moment 
 doubted their own invincibility ; and their daily papers, 
 the "Royal Gazette," the "New York Mercury," &c., 
 had hitherto been the constant vehicles through which 
 misrepresentations and slurs were cast against the conti- 
 nental leader, and the army under his command. Hence 
 the British soldiers, all, from the highest to the lowest 
 10 
 
202 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 grade, looked with contempt upon the foe which they had 
 come to conquer. 
 
 For some weeks previous to the battle of Saratoga, all 
 regular communication between that place and New York 
 was prevented by the vigilance of that part of the Ameri- 
 can army which lay encamped in the Highlands ; there- 
 fore, notwithstanding that the English in the city were 
 quite certain of the final result of the undertaking, which 
 was to annihilate the continental army, still they were 
 anxious to learn the particulars of the action, and the time 
 moved with heavy step that brought no messenger. 
 Crowds each day collected round those fountains of intel- 
 ligence, the printing-offices, in pleasing expectation of the 
 good tidings, but nothing could be obtained; and though 
 they were confident of victory, yet hope, long suspended, 
 had become almost painful. One morning, at an early 
 hour, an old Scotchwoman, in simple attire, appeared at 
 the office of the Royal Gazette, and requested to see Mr. 
 Rivington, the editor, who was by no means so tardy in 
 obeying the summons as modern gentlemen often are when 
 they have learned the degree and condition of those who 
 wait upon them. It was sufficient that an aged person 
 and a female waited his coming. 
 
 " Good morrow, madam," said the polite editor, pleas- 
 antly, "how do you find yourself? I trust your early 
 rising will do you no harm." 
 
 " I am verra weel, an' I thank yc for speering. A quiet 
 morrow to ye, sir. An' I wad na hae distuibed ye noo, 
 but tliat I am auld, an' weary too, for I hae travelled a 
 lang way, wi' na ither conveyance than these twa feet, ye 
 see, an' which hae dune me muckle service these fourscore 
 gude years, but nae sae sure noo for stumblin' a bit." 
 
 " Pray sit down and rest yourself, while you relate 
 
A soldier's reminiscences. 203 
 
 your errand," said Mr. Rivington, as he reached her a 
 chair. 
 
 " Na, I thank ye kindly ; I am stiff to rise when ance 
 I'm doon ; but wull ye assist, sir, to get a permit that I 
 may gang my ways in quietness ; forbye, 'tis a hmg jour- 
 ney fra Albany hither, an' a' in sae short a time." 
 
 " From Albany, say you ? Oh ! and what of Burgoyne, 
 dear madam ?" 
 
 " He is safe there, he is safe there, hinny ; an' these twa 
 een saw him verra weel, an' I thank ye." 
 
 " Are you sure of it ? Are you quite certain that you 
 saw the general there ? In Albany '?" 
 
 " Oh, just as sure as onything. I saw him ance before ; 
 an' I suld ken him weel amang a thousand, for his is na 
 the look that ane wad forget in a while, he is sae braw an' 
 bonny." 
 
 " Burgoyne in Albany ! that's news, indeed !" And the 
 delighted editor ran about the room in ecstasy, clapped 
 his hands joyfully together, and at last caught the old 
 woman in his arms, and kissed her with as much fervency 
 as if she were a Hebe ; then, without waiting for his hat, 
 he hastened to head-quarters with the news, that the noble 
 officer there might participate in his feelings. 
 
 The old woman stood for a moment aghast, looking 
 after Mr. Rivington, for whose senses she began to enter- 
 tain strong doubts ; and she had just seated herself, to 
 ruminate at her leisure upon the violence of the malady 
 under which she supposed him to labor, when the identi- 
 cal madman suddenly re-entered the room, half out of 
 breath, and snatching his hat and cane, he drew the old 
 woman's arm within his own, and said — 
 
 " You must accompany me to head-quarters, my dear 
 madam, for such are the orders of the commander-in-chief, 
 
204 THE MOSS-KOSE. 
 
 who is desirous of lieuriiig iVoui your own lips the glorious 
 news." 
 
 An entire cun\iclion of tlie truth now, for liie first time, 
 darted into tlie mind of the aged tra\elier; and she &hw 
 clearly that she had occasioned some terrible mistake, by 
 not being more explicit in her relation, yet s>he feared to 
 undeceive her gallant attendant, and wisely determined, 
 after a little retlection, that she would simply answer the 
 questions which might be put to her by the ulhcers ; but 
 that, as she did not mean to witliiiold the truth, so on the 
 other hand, she would not nuuiifest it ulUlece^sarily. 
 
 They soon reached head-tjuarters, wliicli were thronged 
 with officers ; and seldom before had there assembled &o 
 many delighted countenances. The old woman was 
 greeted kindly, as she was conducted through the crowd 
 to the commander-in-chief, who shook ln'r hand most cor- 
 dially, and said — 
 
 •■ Then, my good womaji, you saw (iejieral lUirgoyne 
 in Albany, did you?" 
 
 *• Aye, sir, that did 1." 
 
 " You saw him yourself, you say ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; yes, 1 did." 
 
 " A thousand thanks for the inloini:uion, ami hi-re are 
 three guineas to punha.ie you a tartan plaidie for the 
 coming winter." 
 
 "1 maun «''en tak' it, then," said she, pressing tin* pieces 
 in her palm; " but I am na sae huvv that I sidd neither, 
 for it is waur I ban taking charily ;" ami she olfered t«> rt}' 
 turn them, but (Jeneral Howe prevented her d<»ing so, by 
 tpiii'tly closing her lingers upon the gold, to which they 
 seemed to adhere naturally enough, and with a friendly 
 Stjuee/.e he di>niissi'd her. 
 
 Mr. Kivington followed her out of the house, and kindly 
 
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206 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 obliged to lecad, began to murmur seriously, and to throw 
 out hints which, though indirect, might by rebounding 
 strike the ear for which they were intended. This went 
 on for a while, but met with little or no attention — for 
 when the plebeian counsels, the patrician but closes his 
 ear more closely. 
 
 An inclosure at the corner of Broadway and John-street 
 was dedicated to this game, and here the commander-in- 
 chief, in company with a select party of officers, was 
 accustomed to come and amuse himself for some hours on 
 every fine day. One afternoon, when he had extended 
 his sports to an unusually late hour, and, animated by his 
 success and the plaudits of bis companions, had forgotten 
 all other engagements, an arrow, with a billet-doux at- 
 tached to it, alighted amid the gay group, and was sud- 
 denly snatched up by one of the younger officers, who, 
 having glanced his eye over it, handed it resp(ictfully to 
 the adjutant-general. Andre laughed as he perused the 
 paper. This drew the attention of Sir Henry Clinton, 
 who approached with a smile, and leaned familiarly over 
 the shoulder of Andre, discovered the cause of bis merri- 
 ment by reading the following queries and replies : 
 
 " What is General Washinoton about? Strenfjtheninsf 
 his fastnesses in the Highlands ; and, vigilant of time, he 
 devotes each moment to the furtherance of the cause 
 which he has espoused. What has the Marquis de Lafay- 
 ette gone after ? To procure succor and resources from 
 France for his rebellious brethren here. What is De 
 Esteign engaged in ? Carrying his conquests from island 
 to island in the J3ritish West Indies. What is Paul Jones 
 after ? He is, with his scjuadron, cruising olf Scarboro\igh- 
 head for the Baltic fleet. Well — and what is Sir Henry 
 Clinton doing ? Phnjiiuj at jives !" 
 
A soldier's reminiscences. 207 
 
 The commander-in-cliief colored with vexation, while 
 he attempted to make a jest of the pointed rebuke ; and 
 drawinar the arm of Andre within his own, he left the 
 inclosure and walked away towards head-quarters ; leav- 
 ing the rest of the party to make themselves merry at his 
 expense. 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS. 
 
 BY MES. E. A. CUBTISS HULCE. 
 
 Old-fashioned flowers ! old-fashioned flowers ! 
 
 Such as I loved in childhood's hours; 
 
 A butterfly across my track 
 
 Brings all my school-day loiterings back ; 
 
 The wayside, where I used to see. 
 
 The blossoms of the alder tree. 
 
 Wliat fairy chains hath Nature cast 
 To link the spirit to the past ! 
 A bird's song on a summer's day 
 Speeds lightning thought far years away ; 
 That spot where we, the lake beside, 
 Tlnew pebbles in its glassy tide. 
 And marked the wid'ning circles break, 
 Like many a dream of Fancy's make. 
 
 Exotics of the sickly room. 
 
 Fashion and Art may nurse their bloom ; 
 
 Than Dahlia or than Fleur-de-lis — 
 
 0, give old-fashioned flowers for me; 
 
 The Button with its sapphire blue ; 
 
 The Marigold of topaz hue ; 
 
 Tlie queenly Rose hath mastery yet. 
 
 And the turf-loving \'iolet. 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS. 209 
 
 With velvet leaf of Tyrian dye, 
 
 And bending mien that shuns the eye ; 
 
 These that have memories allied, 
 
 The path along the old hill-side ; 
 
 The meadow offerings — childhood's claim — 
 
 That recks not of their Linneean fame. 
 
 Ah ! since those early flowers we found, 
 Gray Time hath sped his wonted round, 
 Hope and fruition — cares and tears. 
 Linked to the coming scroll of years, 
 A shadow of the weary strife. 
 The passion fever dream of life. 
 Some lines of silver now are laid 
 Among the locks of raven braid ; 
 And from us, some are gone to rest — 
 Death for his trophies sought the best ! 
 The soft blue eye — the placid brow — 
 Rest in the church-yard corner now : 
 Peace with them be ! we soon shall go 
 To sleep those flowery sods below. 
 With treasures garnered in the dust. 
 Till earth and sea yield up their trust. 
 They come no more, their blighted race 
 Hath made the world a mournful place. 
 Whom Earth in her green bosom holds ; 
 They call us to the land of souls. 
 
 Then cherish as the kindliest ties 
 The spirit's varied sympathies ; 
 Nor doubt that He these gifts who lent 
 Hath each on Mercy's errand sent ; 
 10* 
 
210 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 And links of love in earlier hours 
 Lie buried in old-fashioned flowers. 
 The midnight heaven — that starry sea- 
 Hath whispers from thy God to thee ; 
 And He who man from Eden hurled, 
 Spared flowers to grace a guilty world. 
 
WINTER RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 BY THE EDITRESS. 
 
 In the winter of 18 — was a deep fall of snow, long to 
 be remembered by the gay inhabitartts of New York city. 
 For weeks, some of the narrow streets were rendered im- 
 passable by the great accumulations there ; but not so 
 were the wider and more fashionable avenues. Brilliant 
 vehicles containing more brilliant ladies, whose bright eyes 
 and joyous faces might be seen peeping between furs and 
 feathers, and the merry musical bells played by the 
 richly caparisoned horses, passed each other in such rapid 
 succession that the wary foot-passenger could scarcely cross 
 the street, except at the peril of his life. The httle 
 chimney-sweep, enveloped in his sooty blanket, oc- 
 casionally sang, " Oh, ho ! sweep, oh, ho !" but seemed 
 to forget his labors in the rare sport of snowballing his 
 fellows. The jolly milkman, with his glistening cans, 
 crowded his way to the doors of his customers ; the team- 
 ster, with his fine load of hickory wood, now and then 
 halted to clap his numb hands briskly, in order to restore 
 warmth and vigor. The heavy omnibus forced its way 
 through the overflowing streets ; and the persevering car- 
 man nimbly passed between the obstacles, with a skill 
 which practice alone could confer. Shovel and spade 
 were in requisition to clear the door steps and sidewalks 
 
212 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 of their snowy treasures ; and fortunate was the passer- 
 by who heard the warning admonition of " Slun miner /" 
 in time to escape a deluge of sleet and snow from the 
 heavily laden roof. All seemed mirth, and joy, and 
 activity. 
 
 But was all indeed activity, and joy, and mirth ? Were 
 there no sad, aching hearts ; none suffering from disease, 
 poverty, and neglect, in that great metropolis ? Alas ! 
 how many, unknowing and unknown, were draining the 
 cup of wretchedness to the dregs ! How little reck the 
 rich and joyous of the unseen misery which may be found 
 in almost every street ! Little would they suppose that 
 the very circumstances which add so much to the enjoy- 
 ment of the wealthy, will exercise a contrary influence 
 over the poor and miserable. Let us turn from the gay 
 and brilliant, to an opposite picture ; more useful, perhaps, 
 to our better feelings, if not so pleasant. 
 
 In a respectable-looking street running north from 
 Canal, and parallel with Broadway, might be seen a two- 
 story brick building with a closely curtained window, 
 where some of the broken panes were carefully replaced 
 with white paper ; an indication that some poverty-stricken 
 soul, who had seen better davs, was lano-uishiiiix in sick- 
 ness there. 'Twas the middle of January, and for some 
 time the cold had been intense until the previous dav — 
 when in common phrase, " tin- weather had moderated," 
 and a violent snow-storm succeeded, which continued 
 through the following night. Morning came, and the dark 
 and threatening skies bore striking contrast to the snow- 
 clad roofs and pavements. The very few trees and shrubs 
 which were permitted to beautify the streets in summer, 
 were laden with snow-gems, and bending bciu'adi tlu'ir 
 weight. The window to which we have alluded was 
 
WINTER RECOLLECTIONS. 213 
 
 nearly half hidden — the bright snow ]ui\ing drifted in the 
 area, lay undisturbed and unstained. 
 
 Within that cold and comfortless room a niiddle-ased 
 lady was lying upon a bed, which was one of the few use- 
 ful articles of furniture there. Beside her, two daughters 
 had sought refuge from the inclement air of the room. 
 
 Not thus destitute had always been this lady and her 
 daughters. In early life she was an heiress, beautiful and 
 accomplished ; and at the age of twenty, with the consent 
 of her parents, gave her heart and hand to William 
 Tracy, a junior partner in her father's mercantile establish- 
 ment. For a while they were prosperous and happy — 
 fortune smiled, and three lovely children heightened their 
 joys. But some unfortunate speculations deeply involved 
 the concern, and rendered it necessary that Mr. Tracy 
 should make a voyage to the Indies. With many sad 
 forebodings he departed — hoping to return in three years 
 to his family. Meantime, at home misfortune succeeded 
 misfortune, until a total failure was the residt ; and soon 
 after Mrs. Tracy was called to close the eyes of her be- 
 loved parents. A heavier blow awaited her : news arriv- 
 ed that the ship in which her husband sailed, had founder- 
 ed, and every soul perished. She was left destitute. Her 
 talents, and those of her daugliler Lucy, who, at the time 
 our story commences, was about sixteen years of age, were 
 usefully employed, and served to support them. But 
 grief weighed down a constitution naturally frail, and she 
 found her resources rapidly diminishing. Edward, a prom- 
 ising boy of thirteen, at his own request was bound to 
 a printer ; Ellen, three years younger, long the pupil of 
 her sister, devoted herself wholly to the care of her 
 sick mother. Lucy most assiduously plied her needle in 
 ornamental work, which, at that time commanded a great 
 
^l"* THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 price ; but, alas ! the rich forget to repay the labors of 
 the poor ; or rather, as they know no want themselves, 
 they cannot appreciate the wants of others. Will not this 
 sin be visited upon those thus neglectful ? 
 But to return to our snow-bound basement. 
 " Oh, Lucy !" said the mother, in a voice enfeebled by 
 suffering ; " has the day dawned at last ? This has been 
 a long, lomj night — and so cold too. Give me" a drink, 
 daughter !" 
 
 Lucy hastened for a cup of water from the shelf, and 
 finding it frozen, sought to pass out to obtain so me ; but 
 her strength was unable to make her way throuorh the 
 snow. Taking some of it in her hand, however, she 
 moistened her mother's lips, and received a blessino-. 
 After a pause, Mrs. Tracy said — 
 "My daughter — my dear Lucy ! I shall soon be releas- 
 ed from the trials of this cold-hearted world ; while you, 
 and my little Ellen, and your noble-hearted brother will 
 be left orphans, with none to care for you but our Heaven- 
 ly Father. May you be the objects of His especial kind- 
 ness, and love and serve Him forever !" 
 
 Ellen awoke ; and in that cold, desolate, and cheerless 
 room — no food — no fire — nor warmth but that of lovino- 
 hearts, a prayer went forth on high — not of lip-service, 
 but a fervent outpouring of the pious soul. 
 
 The sisters rose from their bended knees ; Ellen re- 
 peating, " ' Give us this day our daily bread !' and, oh ! 
 comfort my mother !" 
 
 How strong the ties of filial love ! And firmer still 
 those links are rivetted when all other joys are gone. 
 Adversity, stern monitor, oft brings to li<rht the hidden 
 virtues of the human heart ; and brightly shone those 
 virtues in this darkened home. They chafed their mother's 
 
WINTER RECOLLECTIONS. 215 
 
 temples, thus seeking to impart warmth, health, and hope ; 
 nor once complained of cold and hunger. 
 
 At length Lucy said, " Shall I leave you with Ellen a 
 few minutes, dear mother? I wish to sfo round aa:ain to 
 see Mrs. Lawrence, in Beekman street. Perhaps she will 
 let me have some money." 
 
 " It is in vain, my daughter. The rich have few sym- 
 patliies for the poor. I fear she will think your frequent 
 calls troublesome. You know you were there yesterday." 
 
 " Yes, mother ; but she was reading then, and could 
 not be disturbed, and bade me call this morning. And I 
 am stronger now." 
 
 " Then go, my dearest, and may Heaven protect you! 
 There only is my hope." 
 
 With less fortitude than she would have her mother 
 suppose, the delicate, though energetic girl, having put on 
 a hood and shawl, prepared to go out, but with faint 
 hopes of success. Were she the only one interested, she 
 would rather have died than place herself in a position to 
 be again repulsed. But the lives of a mother and sister 
 were at stake, and what sacrifice would she not make for 
 them! And tremblingly she bent her footsteps towards 
 No. — , Beekman street. Weak, chilled, and sick at 
 heart, she ascended the steps, but paused at the thresh- 
 old ere she ventured to pull the bell. " If I should not 
 succeed?" thought she; "but I will remember my 
 trust ;" and she passed in as the servant opened the door. 
 
 " La ! miss, why do you come so early ? Mistress has 
 not breakfasted yet ; it isn't nine o'clock. But sit down 
 in the hall if you like, and I will tell her you are here." 
 
 The ofier was most gladly accepted, for her limbs refused 
 longer to sustain her ; and as soon as she was alone, the 
 tears gushed forth to relieve her wounded spirit. Soon 
 
216 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE, 
 
 the door of llie back room was opened, and a person 
 approached to pass out of the house, but stopped on per- 
 ceiving her, and said, " Young lady, do you wish to see 
 Mrs. L ?" 
 
 " If you please, sir ?" 
 
 " Well, walk in this room ; she will soon be here. 
 You are cold ; pray be seated near the grate." 
 
 The voice of kindness, except from her own family, had 
 long been a stranger to her ; and stirring up the deep 
 fountains of her heart, again sent the tears from her eyes 
 profusely. 
 
 " Have I distressed you ?" he inquired. 
 
 " Oh no, sir ; excuse me, I was thinking of my 
 mother"—- 
 
 At this moment the servant entered, saying Mrs. L 
 
 was engaged, and wished her to call again. Mr. L , 
 
 seeing her agonized look, hastily said, " Perhaps I can 
 attend to the business as well as my wife, if you will let me 
 know what it is." 
 
 " Oh, sir ! may Heaven bless you for your great kind- 
 ness ! My mother is sick, perhaps dying from want ; we 
 have neither provisions nor fuel — and I came to ask Mrs. 
 L fur the payment of a small sum of money for em- 
 broidering her cape last summer. Believe me, sir, 1 
 would not have troubled her, but from absolute ne- 
 cessitv." 
 
 " Indeed ! what is the amount r" 
 
 "Twenty shillings, sir. I wrought it at half-price." 
 
 " Is five dollars the usual price for embroidering a 
 cape ?" 
 
 " It is, sir, for that style, when there is so much work 
 upon it." 
 
 " Why, then, did you do it for half-price ?" 
 
WINTER RECOLLECTIONS. 217 
 
 " Because Mrs. L said she would give that, and 
 
 could pay no more ; and at that time I had no other 
 work. Ask her, if you please, bir^ and she will tell you 
 so." 
 
 " It is unnecessary at present, especially as she is 
 engaged. Here are five dollars, the worth of your work, 
 to which you are justly entitled ; and some compensation 
 is surely due you for having waited thus long. Good 
 morning." 
 
 " Oh, my mother ! your hope was in your God ! 
 Blessed be his name for ever !" murmured Lucy, as she 
 rose to depart. 
 
 A third person had been sitting unobserved in the 
 recess of a window, apparently absorbed with a book ; 
 but he hastily closed it, and throwing on his cloak, fol- 
 lowed her at a little distance. Mr. L , also, prompted 
 
 by curiosity, or a holier feeling, walked on to observe her 
 movements ; and both found it necessary to quicken their 
 pace to keep sight of the young girl, so rapidly did filial 
 love and anxiety hurry her forward. The stranger paused, 
 and from the opposite side of the street saw her descend 
 
 to the area of her basement room ; but Mr. L walked 
 
 down soon after, and rapping at the door, was admitted. 
 What was his amazement to see the pallid face of the 
 mother leaning upon the bosom of little Ellen, and the 
 room so cold, so comfortless ! Lucy hastened to inform 
 her sick parent of their good fortune, and immediately 
 left to buy bread. 
 
 Mr. L asked Ellen if she had eaten anything that 
 
 day. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Nor yesterday ?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
218 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 " Had you no bread ?" 
 
 " We had some the day before ?" 
 
 The eyes of Mr. L filled with tears, and turning 
 
 away, he hastily ascended the steps, and walked rapidly 
 on. Little had he expected to find such extreme poverty 
 and suffering, and his heart yearned to relieve the dis- 
 tressed. Though not rich, he was a merchant of good 
 standing, and though he seldom gave the common beggar, 
 was not backward to relieve the deserving poor. He felt 
 the importance of the trust which the Creator had con- 
 fided to his care ; and by acts of kindness, as well as of 
 charity, caused many a sorrowing heart to sing for joy. 
 " Some fuel must first be obtained," thought he ; " though 
 the deep snow may prevent any from being carried through 
 the streets this morning, I may find some at the wood- 
 yards. Fortunately, however, near the corner of Broad- 
 way and Canal street, he obtained sight of a load of wood. 
 Learning it was not sold, he asked the price, and taking 
 the money from his wallet, was placing it in the hand of 
 the teamster, and requesting him to drive to the basement 
 he had just left, when the stranger who had breakfasted 
 at his house came up, and presenting a well-filled purse, 
 claimed the right to pay for the wood himself — having 
 great wealth, and at present no one to share it with him. 
 
 The generous Mr. L , his countenance glowing with 
 
 benevolence and his eyes still tearful, declined his purse, 
 
 and desired his friend, Mr. T , to send a physician 
 
 there without delay ; proposing that both should call 
 together, to ascertain what was necessary for the comfort 
 of the desolate family. 
 
 Dr. W , of C street, a man eminent in his pro- 
 fession, as well as for his Christian virtues, was soon seated 
 by the bedside, counting the pulse of the invalid, and seek- 
 
WINTER RECOLLECTIONS. 219 
 
 ing to ascertain her disease and its cause. '' A brio-bt fire 
 blazed cheerfully upon the hearth ; the remains of a white 
 loaf were upon a stand, covered with a clean cloth ; Ellen 
 beside her mother ; and Lucy preparing to make a little 
 
 broth for the invalid. Dr. W lengthened his call, 
 
 contrary to the general practice of city physicians, at 
 length prescribed an anodyne, and rose to depart, saying 
 he would call again soon. 
 
 "Will my mother recover?" faltered Lucy, after he 
 had passed out of the room. 
 
 " With care, I think she will. rfer nervous system is 
 prostrated. Anxiety, fatigue, and want of nourishing food 
 have reduced her thus. Be careful of her diet; give her 
 a little of the broth when it is prepared, and keep her 
 mind as calm as possible." 
 
 After the door was closed, Ellen said — 
 
 "Dear mother, God has given us more than our daily 
 bread; and see, how cheerful our room looks! If you 
 were well we should be quite happy. Are you not better, 
 dear mother !" 
 
 " Yes, my Ellen, I believe I am. I feel calm and quiet 
 now ; and but for my dear children, I could die peaceful 
 and happy. I hope for rest beyond the grave." 
 
 She slept — peaceful as the infant on its mother's bosom. 
 
 Let us turn to the house of Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "Emily," said he to his wife upon entering, "what 
 young girl was that who was waiting in the cold hall, to 
 speak with you this morning?" 
 
 " Oh ! a girl who did some sewing for me last summer. 
 She is very troublesome, calling here so frequently, and 
 for such a little sum too." 
 
 " Why not pay at once, when anything is due, and re- 
 move the necessity of being troublesome." 
 
220 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 " I hardly know, myself. I believe it was not conve- 
 nient at first." 
 
 " How much did you owe her?" 
 
 " Only twenty shillings. She embroidered a cape for 
 
 me." 
 
 " Was not the work worth more ?" 
 
 " Yes ; she was anxious for employment, and ofifered to 
 do it at half price." 
 
 " To say nothing of taking advantage of her necessity, 
 did it never occur to your mind that you were doing great 
 injustice by withholding her pay so long ? What if a 
 sick mother and little sister were dependent upon her ex- 
 ertions, and the three were almost perishing from want ?" 
 
 " Oh, that could not be the case, or she would have 
 told me ; besides, you know there is provision made for 
 the poor. They need not suffer. But I will pay her the 
 next time she calls." 
 
 " I have done that already upon her representation of 
 her mother's illness. And now, Emily, will you put on 
 your cloak and bonnet, and walk out with me a short dis- 
 tance ? The air is fine, and our new friend, Tracy, will 
 accompany us. lie is very sad, you perceive, having as 
 yet had no tidings of his family. To-morrow he leaves 
 for Philadelphia, to continue his almost hopeless search." 
 
 The invitation accepted, the three were soon going down 
 Beekman street to Broadway, thence to Canal. 
 
 " What a bright and beautiful day, though cold ! The 
 clouds have passed away, and the bright snow dazzles the 
 eyes. But where are we going ? not down those steps, 
 surely ?" 
 
 " Follow me," said her husband ; and tapping lightly 
 at the door was admitted. 
 
 " She still sleeps," said Lucy ; and slu' placed some 
 
WINTER RECOLLECTIONS. 221 
 
 chairs, which had been sent her a siiort time before by an 
 unknown friend. A table had also been added to their 
 scanty furniture; and a well-filled basket of delicate pro- 
 visions placed there by some benevolent hand. 
 
 "Lucy!" said Mrs. L. "Is it possible!" and whis- 
 pered, "Is your mother ill?" 
 
 "She is very, very sick !" was the reply. 
 
 " How long has she been thus ?" 
 
 "She has been failing since last summer, but only a 
 few days so poorly." 
 
 " Oh, why did you not tell me of this, Lucy ? I might 
 have been of great service to her. But I trust it is not 
 yet too late." 
 
 " Is this heaven, dear William ?" murmured the sleep- 
 ing invalid. 
 
 The stranger started, and for the first time looked upon 
 that pale, attenuated face. A stilled groan escaped him 
 as he gently placed his chair beside the bed, and fixed his 
 eyes upon her. 
 
 A few minutes of silence, and she awoke. 
 
 "Are you here, Lucy ? I have had a delicious dream. 
 Why did I wake so soon ? I was exhausted with fatigue 
 and alone — all alone — and your dear, lost father came, 
 and called me his own Marion. He embraced me, and car- 
 ried me in his arms to a bower of roses we had reared to- 
 gether in happier days. My children were sporting round 
 me ; and looking up among the flowers, I saw bright faces 
 gazing upon us. My father and my mother M'ere of the 
 number; they smiled, and said, 'Happy, happy group !' 
 And a loud, sweet strain of heavenly music awoke me !" 
 
 " My own Marion !" said the stranger ; and Tracy 
 pressed the cheek of his wife, after an absence of nine 
 years. " Thank God for his mercies ! I have found my 
 
222 THEMOSS-ROSE. 
 
 loved ones. Lucy ! Ellen ! come to a father's aiins ! 
 Where is Edward ?" 
 
 The bright boy was descending the steps to inquire 
 about his mother, when he soon felt himself folded to a 
 proud father's bosom. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Mrs. L returned home a wiser woman, and by a 
 
 life of active benevolence sought to retrieve the follies of 
 the past. Her errors had been more of the head than of 
 the heart ; and this visible change endeared her still more 
 to the best of husbands. They seemed to see the hand of 
 Providence in all things, and blessed the hour when busi- 
 ness brought William Tracy to their house, a stranger ; 
 where, notwithstanding their ignorance of even the name 
 of the sewing girl, they had been instrumental in restoring 
 him to the bosom of his family, and laid the basis of en- 
 during friendship. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Spring came with its mild breath and early flowers. Its 
 hallowed influence, with the aid of joy and plenty, brought 
 the glow of returning health to the clieek of Mrs. Tracy. 
 The attentions of a devoted husband — his description of 
 events in India ; of his hair-breadth escape from a watery 
 grave ; of his arrival from sea at Mr. L 's so oppor- 
 tunely, in search of his family — left no time for weary 
 hours. The smiles and caresses of their children, growing 
 up in the path of virtue, and possessing those higli 
 Christian principles which were tlie rule of action with 
 their parents, left no earthly wish unsatisfied ; and if the 
 spirits of the departed are permitted to hover round the 
 loved of earth, we may well supjiose those bright faces 
 beam among the flowers, exclaiming, "Happy, happy 
 group!" 
 
FRAGMENT— THE OFFERING 
 
 BY MBS. E. P. H. 
 
 They journeyed on, 
 The fair young boy beside his aged sire ; 
 Perchance he turned aside to quench his thirst 
 At tlie bright sparkling rill, or stooped to pick 
 The sweet wild-flowers that grew upon its bank ; 
 Perchance a butterfly, with gilded wings. 
 Might cross his path, and bid him catch the prize ! 
 
 Sweet innocent ! methinks e'en now I see thee, 
 With noble brow, like my own sainted boy ; 
 Such silken, clustering curls as angels wear, 
 Just parted by a tender mother's hand. 
 To press aftection's kiss more surely there. 
 Go on — thy God is with thee ! 
 
 Pensive still. 
 But with a holy calm within his breast. 
 The " Father of the Faithful" wends his way 
 Beside the "Child of Promise." Dearer far 
 Than life, that artless one ; the pride and joy 
 And comfort of his acre : but faith was strono; 
 In God. A spirit- wing fanned his pale brow 
 And cleared all doubt away, strength 'ning his heart. 
 
 Thrice had the morning sun gilded the plains. 
 And shed his cheering beams on hill and vale, 
 Since they had left the hallowed home of love, 
 
224 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 When, lo! Moriah bursts upon their sight — 
 
 The place of sacrifice ! Alone they went, 
 
 The father and the son, upon the mount, 
 
 Builded the altar there, and placed the wood. 
 
 " Father ! all now is readj', but the lamb ! 
 
 Where is the lamb, my father, for the offering ?" 
 
 What pangs with lightning speed oppressed that heart! 
 
 " My son, God will provide himself a lamb !" 
 
 Soon bound upon the wood was that fair boy. 
 
 A moment more, and the uplifted knife 
 
 Had drunk the life-blood of the young and pure 
 
 And sent his soul on ancjel winsfs to heaven. 
 
 When lo ! a voice — " Stay, Abraham, stay thy hand ! 
 
 The fear of God is with thee ; thou hast not 
 
 Withheld thy son, tliinc only son, from me !" 
 
 God did provide a lamb for a burnt-otTering ! 
 Type of the Lamb who died to save mankind ; 
 And gave such blessing as ne'er man received, 
 To that fond, faithful parent ; for in him 
 Should all the nations of the earth be blest ! 
 
 % * -A * * 
 
 Glowed not their hearts with gratitude to Heaven, 
 And holy love, while journeying homeward 
 From Jehovah-jireh ? And who may tell 
 The holy, sacred joy that wrapt each soul. 
 As to her breast the mother clasped her boy, 
 And with his father knelt in thanks to God ! 
 
A VISIT TO MOUNT HOPE, 
 
 IN THE CITY OF ROCHESTER, NEWYOKK. 
 BY MISS 0. E. EGBERTS. 
 
 I HAVE visited many of • the large cities of our extensive 
 Union, but never was more agreeably surprised than when 
 I first saw the beautiful city of Rochester, in the State of 
 New York. Perhaps it was because I had never heard 
 its beauties descanted upon, though I had often listened 
 ij to accounts of its rapid growth and fast increasing popu- 
 !| lation ; but of its local charms I had heard but little, 
 |l though I fancy they are rarely equalled. 
 J! But I do not mean here to enlarge upon the Genesee 
 '' River, which threads its way amid as beautiful a landscape 
 ji as the eye ever rested upon — nor those falls, of which so 
 :i much has been written, whose sheets of snow-white foam 
 ii descend in a cataract of nearly a hundred feet — nor of the 
 
 j! •' 
 
 jl mill-seats, each with its own stream of rushuig water — nor 
 !| of the not less picturesque lower falls, which, if seen from 
 !| that most enchanting of all roads, " Buel's Avenue," look 
 ■' like hills of moving snow amid the verdant scene — the 
 ii River Genesee, like liquid crystal, runs along on one side of 
 !' you, and high walls of rock upon the ot er side, in some 
 || parts covered with ric'i verdure, and luxuriant wild flow- 
 !i ers, and again bare and dark, with water trickling down 
 its sides, and softening the hard stone, and crumbling it 
 11 
 
226 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 away — the steep green banks of the opposite shore, with 
 their long descents of rude steps — the pleasant-looking 
 cottages, (what would not look pleasant from such a spot !) 
 no, beautiful as all this may be, I cannot now enlarge upon 
 it ; but it is of Mount Hope, the city of the dead, of which 
 I would write. 
 
 What an appropriate name for a cemetery ! It speaks 
 of immortality, rather than mortality. How cheering the 
 sound to bereaved Christians Avho lay some beloved friend 
 beneath the sod, in the full assurance she will rise again — 
 " We have laid her in Mount Hope !" Oh, should not all 
 our grave-vards, instead of being dull and gloomy recep- 
 tacles of the dead, be made pleasant gardens, and have 
 " Mount Hope" inscribed over the gates of these silent 
 cities ! With how much less of reluctance should we en- 
 ter these hallowed precincts ; and yet of how compara- 
 tively late date has been the change ! A few years since 
 where was pleabant Mount Auburn — the Greenwood Cem- 
 etery — Mount Hope ? 
 
 It was a lovely afternoon, early in July, as our party 
 drove through the rural city of Rochester, to visit Mount 
 Hope. It is a pleasant drive — the children were delighted 
 with all they saw. I always enjoy the society of children 
 upon a journey, their expressions of delight are so from 
 the heart — nature comes to them so pleasantly, as it came 
 to myself lang-syne, and I fancy it is myself again, full of 
 hope and youth. We noticed one beauliful cottage as we 
 passed — beautiful moie from its home among trees, and 
 fine shrubs, and rare exotics about the pretty piazza, and 
 vines whose tendrils twined gracefully round the white 
 pillars. 
 
 " Those plants are the deliglil ami care of a little inva- 
 lid," said my friend ; " she devotes her time and attention 
 
A VISIT TO MOUNT HOPE. 227 
 
 to them constantly when she is able to be round ; she has 
 a room in the cottage devoted to them, and very pleasant 
 companions does she find them, when stretched upon her 
 couch of suffering. She prides herself upon her roses, 
 which she rears in great health and beauty, and her. chief 
 delight is in transplanting these children of her love to 
 Mount Hope ; and one of the sweetest spots in that gar- 
 den of the dead, is where her father and little brothers 
 sleep. She has bordei'ed a grave for herself and mother ; 
 and says when God sees fit to call her soul to himself, her 
 poor body, which has been such a painful load in life, will 
 have a pleasant nook among roses in the grave-yard." 
 Alas ! like herself, how much of watchfulness and care do • 
 these sweet plants need ! The sunlight of love must cheer 
 them alike, and the kindly dews of afi"ection refresh them ; 
 at last they die, but the plants " drop without decrepitude 
 and pain into the tomb," while her feeble body wears it- 
 self away in suffering — and again they will both " break 
 forth in glory." 
 
 But I am digressing — here we are at Mount Hope. In- 
 deed it is a most lovely spot — nature in her own wild state, 
 and art with all her refinements. The pretty pond of clear, 
 bright water, " like a set gem," at the foot of the hill, re- 
 flects the blue sky and green borders with a peculiar clear- 
 ness; the winding road leads up the hill, and into dells ; 
 green bordered lots with roses planted round them, which 
 shed their rich perfume over pleasant graves — deep dells 
 where nature, with her own hand, has planted trees, and 
 low brush, and wild flowers — rustic steps leading down 
 into these shady nooks, where stand, in quiet places, sim- 
 ple white grave-stones, as if guarding the peaceful slum- 
 berers. 
 
 But the most lovely part of the ground, perhaps, is a 
 
228 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 deep hollow, whether natural or artificial I do not know, 
 but a series of labyrinthine walks leacf to the small circu- 
 lar grass-plat at the bottom, bordered with flowers; look- 
 ing up from this spot, the grave-stones upon the terraces, 
 one alcove another, look like sentinels holding watch over 
 priceless treasures. From the summit of Mount Hope, 
 Lake Ontario is seen stretching afar ofi", though it is forty 
 miles distant from Rochester. From the observatory in 
 this point a most rich and highly diversified prospect is to 
 be seen. 
 
 We wandered about this beautiful place for hours — 
 children full of life and health stooping to read the names 
 pn little grave-stones, or spelling from some tall monument 
 letters that they could scarcely decipher ; with so vague 
 and indistinct an idea of the change that cometh upon all. 
 
 Beautiful, beautiful Alount Hope who would not be 
 willing to rest at last within thy pleasant borders ? The 
 birds here sing unharmed in their native trees, and the 
 little squirrel bounds unmolested over the low graves — 
 here the wild flowers live their life of beauty and fade 
 away — the trees cast their many-colored leaves upon thy 
 bosom, and decorate themselves again in the sweet spring- 
 time with their accustomed garments — the snow of winter, 
 like a silvery mantle, covers thee — the soft winds blow over 
 thee. Oh, may we hope that all who rest within thy quiet 
 borders, may rise in spotless and glorified bodies to join 
 the host of the redeemed in heaven ! 
 
 A Sabbath-like stillness reigns around — the children have 
 strayed fiom our side; and as they approacli, one says in 
 a low sad tone to the other, " Wliy, Mary ! 1 did not 
 know your mother had so many dead children !" " Not 
 dead children, little Charles; all lUuny unto God." They 
 all lived long enough to hear of a Saviour's dying love ; and 
 
A VISIT TO MOUNT 'HOPE. 229 
 
 each little sleeper knew the evil of sin, and the need of a 
 pardon. These dear ones (the oldest the grave-stone tells 
 you was but ten years old) have all died trusting in a 
 Saviour's mercy, and I trust are now among those who 
 follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth. "Oh, I often 
 think," she continued, " how fearful must be the anguish 
 of a parent who lays an unrepentant child within the 
 grave!" 
 
 Long and deeply did I muse upon the lesson. Would 
 I be happier if I laid an unrepentant child in Mount Hope, 
 than if he slept in the dreary ocean bed ? Could I hope 
 his body would rise a glorified and spiritual body at the 
 last day ? Would the beauty of the spot, the blooming 
 flowers, the bird's song, the white stone, take aught 
 from the sting of death ? Would it not seem sweeter to 
 bury a believing and Christian friend in the dreariest spot 
 compared to it ? But the beauty of such spots as Mount 
 Hope has a soothing, and I trust a beneficial effect vipon 
 the heart — the grave itself is not so clad in terrors — the 
 tomb, the shroud, the dark abode are forgotten, among 
 sunny nooks and bright flowers, and how imperceptibly a 
 peace is diffused over the heart ! We love to come and 
 watch about our treasure, whose earthly form sleeps in a 
 garden of roses ; and we are led onward and upward to 
 contemplate the glorious kingdom where those who sleep 
 in Christ, live again in giorj. 
 
 " We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, 
 (says St. Paul ;) in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 at the last trump, the dead shall be raised incorruptible, 
 and we shall be changed." God grant that at the last 
 great day we " may all come unto Mount Sion, and unto 
 the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and 
 to an innumerable company of angels, and to the general 
 
•230 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 assembly and church of the first-born, which are "written 
 in heaven, and to God, the judge of all ; and the spirits 
 of just men made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of 
 the new covenant." If we hope to come unto such an 
 inheritance, "let us pray for grace, whereby we may 
 serve God acceptably, in reverence and godly fear." 
 
BY 
 
 MY BIRD. 
 
 FANNY FORESTER, (mRS. E. C. JUDSON.) 
 
 Ere last year's moon had left the sky, 
 A birdling sought my Indian nest, 
 
 And folded all so lovingly, 
 
 Her tiny wings upon my breast. 
 
 From morn till evening's purple tinge, 
 In winsome helplessness she lies ; 
 
 Two rose-leaves with a silken fringe. 
 Shut softly o'er her starry eyes. 
 
 There's not in Ind a lovelier bird. 
 
 Broad earth owns not a happier nest ; 
 
 Oh, God ! thou hast a fountain stirred. 
 Whose waters never more shall rest. 
 
 This beautiful, mysterious thing. 
 This seeming visitant from heaven. 
 
 This bird with an immortal wing, 
 To me, to me. Thy hand has given. 
 
 The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, 
 The blood its crimson hue, from mine 
 
 This life that I have dared invoke, 
 Henceforth is parallel with Thine. 
 
232 
 
 ,. 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 A silent awe is in my room, 
 I tremble with delicious fear — 
 
 The future with its light and gloom. 
 Time and eternity are here. 
 
 Doubts, hopes, in eager turn arise ; 
 
 Hear, oh, my soul, our earnest prayer ! 
 Room for my bird in Paradise, 
 
 And give her angel-plumage there. 
 
FATAL LOVE, 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF BOEING, 
 
 At a village in France, two strangers were driven by a 
 storm to seek shelter in the house of a huntsman named 
 Martin. Here the flame of an unequal love was suddenly 
 lighted up between the fair Aloyse and one of the strangers, 
 of whose dignity the country maiden was entirely ignorant. 
 She accidentally discovered that the object of her heart's 
 adoration was threatened with serious dangrer, and that 
 his apparent friend. Colonel Montejo was his concealed 
 enemy. To divert his guests the huntsman gave a rural 
 fete. Madame Gageot, his sister, went to Nevers, to tell 
 all her acquaintances about the agreeable strangers, and 
 to invite some of Aloyse's friends to pass the evening with 
 them, that she might show her young favorite with what 
 tact she managed these matters. The provincial girls, 
 seated under some spreading trees, resembled a wreath of 
 blooming flowers, which exhibited every pale and deeper 
 tint of spring and summer's blossoms. Madame Gageot 
 presided at a large table covered with fruits and confec- 
 tions. Montejo, under pretense of sudden indisposition, 
 retired precipitately into the house. His companion, who, 
 by his gayety and engaging manners, had quickly wound 
 himself into the hearts of the youthful party, hastily fol- 
 lowed him, but almost as quickly returned, bearing a small 
 casket. He opened it, and, after a short speech, he pre- 
 sented a gift to each of the blushing girls, saying, as he 
 passed from one to the other, it was a remembrancer of 
 11* 
 
234 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 that happy evcnhig. He placed a sparkling gem in the 
 hair of one, put a brilliant ring upon the finger of another, 
 and fastened a gold comb in the auburn ringlets of a third ; 
 and before they had time to recover from their surpiise, 
 or reject his offered gifts, they sparkled -with the jewels 
 with which he had so profusely ornamented them ; and 
 the last rays of the setting sun, which had hitherto in this 
 happy spot shone only upon flowers, now fell upon these 
 brilliant gems, and added a dazzling lustre to the wreath. 
 Struck -with astonishment, Madame Gageot and Aloyse 
 gazed upon the scene. Madame, who was deeply read in 
 fairy lore, believed that she beheld some enchanter before 
 her. Aloyse grew pale with a variety of sensations, as 
 she looked upon the munificent stranger. Who could this 
 youth be, who, with such laughing and careless indill'er- 
 ence, threw from him what appeared to her to be im- 
 measurable riches ? She did not wish to be treated in the 
 same manner as her companions had been. He passed 
 by her with his sparkling gifts ; and, when he had gone the 
 round of the circle, he set the casket upon the ground, 
 bent down to a bed of flowers, took from it a violet, and 
 gave it to the gratified Aloyse. " I well knew," he 
 whispered, " that I dared not so approach you, Aloyse. 
 Flowers only are fit for flowers ; the daughter of nature 
 loves nature alone. Ah ! Aloyse, this violet will be happy, 
 even in withering upon your bosom; but 'longer, much 
 longer than its short existence may my remembrance 
 dwell in your heart !" Aloyse felt her heart sink within 
 her ; she received the flower with a trembling hand, and 
 glanced anxiously around, apprehending that he might 
 have been overheard ; but her companions were too 
 deeply engaged to attend to her. Tliey were all busily 
 occupied in comparing their jewels, laughing, jesting ; 
 
FATAL LOVE. 235 
 
 and were so superlatively happy, that they could scarcely 
 wait with composure for the appointed hour of separating, 
 so impatient were they to return home to exhibit their 
 gifts, and astonish their parents with the extraordinary 
 tale. At length the hour of departure arrived, and they 
 bade a grateful good night to their entertainers and the 
 generous stranger ; and with light steps they hurried 
 home, holding fast their precious gems. 
 
 This incident made a great noise in the village. The 
 girls were closely questioned by their parents, and they 
 spoke so much of the stranger, that people did not know 
 what to think of the matter. They were examined again 
 and again, and they only repeated that they had received 
 costly presents from a singularly handsome young man, 
 but that his companion had scarcely remained long enough 
 to throw a glance upon them. The gems were examined 
 by a lapidary, and declared to be of great value ; and, as 
 there were amongst the girls' parents some of the magis- 
 trates, and even the mayor himself, the interesting enigma 
 quickly began to take a somewhat different character. 
 
 Aloyse had, for some time past, been in the habit of 
 daily visiting a poor old woman, who would scarcely have 
 been able to support a feeble and suffering existence, had 
 she not been supported and consoled by Aloyse's tender 
 and benevolent cares. She devotedly loved her young 
 benefactress, and her little cottage always seemed to be 
 lighted up when Aloyse made her appearance in it, for 
 she was like a ministeiing angel to her. The morning 
 after the little festival, Aloyse set out to visit, as usual, 
 her poor old friend, simply clad, and with her half- 
 withered violet in her bosom. When she entered, Mar- 
 garet fixed her eyes upon her with a look of so much 
 anxiety, that she tenderly inquired if she wished for any- 
 
236 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 thing. "Nothing, my sweet child," she replied, "while 
 you are with me. I desire only a crown of glory to deck 
 thy pure brow. What now disquiets me is a dream I 
 have had, in which you bore a part. I thought you were 
 threatened by some danger to which I could give no 
 name. You bent down to seize a sparkling jewel which 
 was rolling toward an abyss ; you grasped it, and as you 
 pressed it to your bosom, it pierced you to the heart. I 
 saw you afterwards in a magnificent chamber, where every- 
 thing shone with gold, but the gold cast a pale, ghastly 
 shade upon your cheek ; and when I observed you more 
 closely, your bright and lovely color was no longer there 
 — your eyes were closed — you belonged no more to the 
 livinsf." Aloyse shuddered at these words; and thoughts 
 of the jewels of the preceding day sank deeply into her 
 heart. She felt the wound ; but her grief was mingled 
 with so much sweetness, that she could not know it to be 
 a consuming poison. 
 
 Montejo was employed by Cardinal Mazarine and the 
 Jesuits to remove the young prince, in order to pave the 
 way to the throne of Spain for another candidate ; and it 
 was on a journey to Toulon that these adventures ensued. 
 At this time the king of Spain died, and the ambassadors 
 were on their way to Paris with his will and the Spanish 
 crown, to lay them at the feet of the new monarch. They 
 were to pass by the residence of Martin ; and Montejo 
 now began to fear that his companion — who was Philip of 
 Anjou — would not fall into the snares contrived for his 
 ruin. On her way home from her charitable visit, she 
 overheard the paiticulars of the atrocious scheme. She 
 remained for an hour immovable, and lost in deep thought. 
 Now she clearly felt tliat an invincible barrier lay on lier 
 path, and that a deep and impassable gulf separated her 
 
FATAL LOVE. 237 
 
 from happiness. She was now awakened to all the depth 
 of her love ; and an inexpressible anguish mingled itself 
 with her tenderness, for it was evident that some horrible 
 fate was impending over her lover. At this fearful 
 thought she sprang from the ground, and, while she 
 rapidly pursued her way homewards, endeavored to think 
 what it was her duty to do. " Away," she thought, " he 
 must not go ; I must hnd out*some way of detaining him ; 
 he is safe with us." She desired the mayor to prevent the 
 strangers from escaping. " I accuse them," she said, "of 
 having stolen those jewels." A thunderbolt could not 
 have occasioned greater astonishment and consternation 
 than these words. She repeated the accusation in a 
 firmer tone. Montejo threw upon her a look of the deep- 
 est mahgnity, while Philip gazed at her in the utmost sur- 
 prise. Martin dropped the glass of water which he was 
 about to raise to his lips, and Madame Gageot surveyed 
 her from head to foot with angry eyes. Upon this 
 charge they were stopped. She watched Philip during 
 the night like a guardian angel ; and Montejo, enraged 
 at her interposition, wounded her with his dagger, and 
 disappeared. Philip scarcely observed the villain's flight, 
 for all his attention was fixed upon the beautiful, bleeding- 
 girl at his feet. He raised her up, and held her in his 
 ai-ms ; then placed her upon a seat, uncovei-ed her 
 shoulder, tore a handkerchief in two, and stanched the 
 blood. He bent over her, endeavored to revive her, part- 
 ed her ringlets from her pale brow, and supported her 
 sinking head. For an hour she thus lay in silent bliss, 
 her cheek resting upon that gentle, princely hand. " Oh, 
 sir !" she murmured in a soft, low voice, " why was I not 
 wounded to death ? why am I not permitted to make thee 
 the only sacrifice that was in ray power?" He entreated 
 
238 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 her to be calm, and they uow came to mutual explana- 
 tions. She related everything she had heard in the 
 forest ; and the more he heard, the more indignant he be- 
 came. 
 
 " Yes !" he exclaimed, " I indeed believe that he would 
 have betrayed me. He obtained ray friendship and con- 
 fidence only to lead me more certainly to destruction. 
 Austria, or perhaps Spain itself, has sent him to me." 
 
 As the envoys from Spain were hourly expected in this 
 part of France, Philip resolved to make himself known to 
 them, and accompany them to Paris. With faltering 
 steps Aloyse now approached the door of his apartment. 
 She paused ; she stretched out lier arms toward liim. 
 " Philip !" said her pale trembling lips — " Philip ! once 
 only in this life — we meet no more — once only — ." She 
 could not finish, but he understood her. He pressed her 
 ardently to his bosom ; for one short moment she rested 
 in his embrace, then tore herself away, rushed down the 
 steps, and threw herself upon her couch. 
 
 On the arrival of the ambassadors, Philip prepared to 
 depart with them. While they were occupied in dispatch- 
 ing expresses to Madi id and elsewhere, he retired into the 
 thicket, and motioned to Martin and Aloyse to follow him. 
 He took a kind farewell of the former, and begged him to 
 come and see him in Paris. " But what shall I say to 
 thee ?" continued he, turning to Aloyse, " thou gentle, 
 unhappy one ! Shall I ever repay thee thy sacrifice and 
 thy tears ? Oh, may thy heart soon regain its tran- 
 quillity, for we part forever in this woild !" She replied 
 not, but, with deep sobs, pressed his hand to her heart. 
 He embraced her once more, and laying her on her fa- 
 ther's breast, rushed from the spot. After his departure 
 she wept bitterly. Martin bent tenderly over her, and 
 
FATAL LOVE. 239 
 
 softly named Philip. " Oh, my father !" she vehemently 
 exclaimed — " I own my affection for him : I shall love 
 him forever ; he has taken my life with him. Yet be not 
 uneasy, dear father; I shall be composed. Fulfil your 
 promise, and let us set out for Paris instantly." 
 
 Louis had already accepted for his grandson the crown 
 of Spain, and the ambassadors were appointed to a solemn 
 audience. The French nobles were assembled. A num- 
 ber of men of rank from the young Bourbon's different 
 dominions, even from distant America, arranged them- 
 selves round Louis's still empty throne. The ladies of 
 the court were also present, and at their head was the. 
 admired, the envied Madame de Maintenon. In the back- 
 ground were many persons of the middle rank, spectators 
 of this magnificent scene, and amongst these were Ma- 
 dame Gageot and Aloyse. The door of the royal cabinet 
 was now flung open, and Louis stepped proudly forth, 
 leading his grandson by the hand, . with the air and 
 majesty of the master of the world. Beautiful as the son 
 of a god, led by the hand of Jupiter, walked Philip by his 
 side. He was attired in the Spanish costume, sparkling 
 with jewels. The royal mantle flowed gracefully from 
 his shoulder, the sword of Castile glittered at his side, and 
 the feathers of Arras^on waved from the diadem that bound 
 his youthful brow. "Spaniards, behold your king!" 
 said Louis, as he looked with paternal pride upon his 
 grandson, whom he presented to them. The ceremony 
 was nearly concluded, when Philip's eye fell upon a pale, 
 dying countenance, that looked as if it had risen from the 
 dead to gaze upon him. The color suddenly fled from 
 his cheek ; for it was Aloyse's sweet, mournful glance 
 he had encountered, and it was impossible for him to 
 conceal his emotions. His hand trembled in that of 
 
240 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 Louis, who said, in a low voice, " Dost thou tremble, king 
 of Spain ?" 
 
 Philip departed for Spain; and about a year after- 
 wards Aloyse went one evening, as usual, to visit old 
 Margaret. "My child," said she, as she looked upon the 
 pale, death-like countenance of her forlorn young friend, 
 " have I not been right with my dream ? Oh, that you 
 had never known this death-bringing jewel!" 
 
 " Good mother," replied Aloyse, " do not thus grieve 
 over me; I am not unhappy." 
 
 But Margaret remarked such an extraordinary weakness 
 1 about her, that she determined, although against her wishes, 
 to accompany her on herway home. When they came to the 
 forest, Aloyse felt herself overpowered by great weakness 
 and indisposition, about the place where she had over- 
 heard Montejo's treachery. " It was here," said she, in 
 a low, stifled voice ; "I recollect a particular tree ; it lies 
 there still. Let us sit down upon it, good mother." 
 Aloyse seated herself beside Margaret, and laid her head 
 upon her friend's shoulder. The setting sim gilded the 
 leaves with his dying rays. " See," whispered Aloyse, 
 "the sun goes down in Spain; but," she continued, "in 
 his America it rises again, and in his heaven it shines for- 
 ever !" These were her last words. She died in Mar- 
 garet's arms. 
 
SONG. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 BY MRS. E. A. CURTISSHULCE. 
 
 Ah no ! he is not coming, 
 
 He'll not be here to-night ; 
 Smooth not thy raven tresses. 
 
 Glance not thine eye so bright. 
 Yet doubt not that he loves thee 
 
 With true devotion still, 
 Though man hath sterner duties 
 
 Than wait on woman's will. 
 
 I know that woman's pathway 
 
 Is strewn with autumn flowers, 
 Save in her beauty's zenith. 
 
 Her summer's golden hours ; 
 Yet autumn days are laden 
 
 With fi'uits which spring hath not, 
 And with leaves, whose rainbow goi-geousness. 
 
 Makes the rose-bud's all forgot. 
 
 And when thy babe is sleeping. 
 
 And thou art worn and sad 
 With watching for his footstep 
 
 Who makes thy home so glad ; 
 When the light of faith is burning 
 
 Dimly at its mortal shrine, 
 Tiu-n whei-e incense tears are heeded, 
 
 Richer drops have gushed than thine ! 
 
242 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 Crimson drops at Gethseraana, 
 
 Holy tears at Lazarus' tomb, 
 Cana's bridal, Nain's burial, 
 
 And Jerusalem's wept doom, 
 Show man's humblest hours of sorrow, 
 
 As of joy, were felt by Him, 
 And if with thee when life's brightest, 
 
 He'll be with thee when 'tis dim. 
 
 And let me, gentle lady, 
 
 One whisper to thee tell. 
 Make not an earthly idol — 
 
 Love thou " wisely" — not " too well ;' 
 For thy heart of burning passion 
 
 May be broken in its trust, 
 And a woe awaits the worship 
 
 Of so frail a thing: as dust ! 
 
 o 
 
 I have seen the grave's green bosom 
 
 Fold the fairest to its breast. 
 And I know by many a token 
 
 They were idols to the rest ; 
 I have shared in this vain worship, 
 
 For ray locks are blanched, you see, 
 And these bitter heart-revealings 
 
 Treasure as a shield to thee ! 
 
FRAGMENTS OF MY EARLY LIFE. 
 
 I WAS ever an unfortunate child, and the very first 
 lesson which the nurse endeavored to instill into me, was, 
 that it was the intention of nature to make me the sport 
 of misfortune. Rude and unkind as that prophecy was, 
 it has since been accurately verified in every step which I 
 have taken, and in every avenue which I have traced. 
 Often when I look back and dwell upon the various freaks 
 I have encountered, I have fervently wished that some 
 vivid Cervantes would spring into being, and call forth 
 human sympathy by a faithful picture of my many un- 
 toward plights. 
 
 My misfortunes date their origin at the cradle, and they 
 have scrupulously and diligently followed me up to the 
 time I undertake to tell them. Were I to descend to 
 trifles, I can safely aver 
 
 " I never had a slice of bread 
 Particularly nice and wide, 
 But fell upon the sanded floor, 
 And always on the buttered side." 
 
 When a school-boy, if there was any rig to be played 
 off, I was sure to be the subject upon which the experi- 
 ment might be duly tried ; if anything went in opposition 
 to the notions of decorum entertained by our instructor, I 
 always had the honor of standing in the attitude of a 
 " general martyr " for the rest ; and when I did cringe 
 and writhe imder the weighty vibrations of the ferule, it 
 never failed to elicit ixnbounded applause from my school- 
 
244 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 fellows, and afforded the most appropriate occasion for 
 merriment. While I would wring my whole body from 
 the intensity of the pain, they would wring theirs from 
 the intensity of laughter. 
 
 So it was, and whatever is predestined must come to 
 pass ; it was a merry song, and I made it a point to laugh 
 as heartily as the rest, as soon as the body had regained 
 its wonted placidity. At length I attained my fourteenth 
 year — wise enough in my own estimation,' yet too deep 
 in the mire of human ignorance. Unqualified as I was, 
 I became a freshman in one of our colleges, and (chide 
 me not when I say it !) the feeling was scarcely less than 
 ethereal in which I was enwrapped, when, after a tedious 
 and anxious examination, my name was read over as en- 
 titled to admission. If my emotions before were heavenly, 
 what tongue could describe them, when the venerable 
 president, enshrouded in his silken gown, descended from 
 his apparent throne, and addressed me thus : " Juvene ! 
 admit to vos honori hvjus collefjiis ; . lege el inteUeye, sed 
 cave ludis." My heart responded thanks, and my voice 
 whispered gratitude. 
 
 A step once taken, is difficult often to be retraced. It 
 was then, after deep and mature reflection — after a brown 
 study, in Avhich for weeks I had been involved, tliat I 
 injudiciously determined to make good bj' sport what I 
 lacked in learning ; so that, by the time the first quarter 
 had made its evolution, I was quite an adopt in inventing 
 means by which 1 could glide over corrosive time. In this 
 respect I was by no means singular, for I am willing to 
 be (|ualifiod to the fact, that if ever " imps " onjcn'cd a, 
 liberal education, they graduated in 182—. " Halo follows 
 well met" we were, and "deviltry" was the order of the 
 day. At one time wc would silence the vociferousncss 
 
FRAGMENTS OF MY EARLY LIFE. 245 
 
 of a tutor by an explosion of artillery at his room door ; 
 at another, disturb the somniferous exploits of a professor 
 by frequent and multifarious breaches of peace. On the 
 whole, nothing was left undone which should not have 
 been done, and nothing was done that ought to have been. 
 It was a cold night in December, that my classmates were 
 in secret and solemn conclave assembled. It was an 
 affecting time, and the length of physiognomy which 
 might there have been encountered, plainly told that 
 some affair of moment occupied the bosom of each mem- 
 ber of the assembly. Silence then reigned with all its 
 solemnity, and not a discordant voice intruded itself 
 towards obstructing the passage of the following pre- 
 amble and resolutions : 
 
 " Whereas, it is incumbent upon us, by the duties of 
 our collegiate course, to assemble in the chapel two full 
 hours before daylight ; and wheieas, also, the intensity of 
 cold experienced by that operation is beyond endurance, 
 therefore — 
 
 " Resolved, that the sudden transition from the tem- 
 perature of a bed-room to the icy atmosphere of a chapel, 
 tends grievously to refrigerate the heated state of our 
 bodies. 
 
 " Resolved, in order to protract this untimely mode of 
 rising, that a committee of two be appointed, (delegated 
 as plenipotentiaries,) to wait upon the bell, and devise 
 ways and means for its perfect silence. 
 
 " Resolved, as the notes of said bell are somewhat harsh 
 and grating to the ear, that the aforementioned committee 
 be authorized to examine its tongue, and, if possible, en- 
 tirely pluck out the unruly member." 
 
 As usual, I had the honor of being one of that com- 
 mittee ; for if any thankless vacancy was ever to be filled, 
 
246 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 my name was sure to soil the blank — demurring to the 
 contrar}', notwithstanding. Strict!}' in compliance with 
 the letter of my credentials, I called upon the sublime 
 and lofty disturber of the students' repose, and. having 
 nicely and scientifically inspected its organ of sound, with 
 the all-penetrating eye of an M. D., I concluded that 
 amputation, or rather extraction, was alarmingly neces- 
 sary. With my instruments, comprising files and a ham- 
 mer, I made the requisite incisions, when with a peculiar 
 Vulcanic knock and twist, the tongue fell into the hands 
 of my overjoyed companion. " A handsome operation," 
 whispered ray friend. 
 
 "Admirable," responded I, with a due portion of 
 gravity. "Now for inverting the bell, and applying a pail 
 of water to its mouth." 
 
 This procedure, on account of its alderman-like appear- 
 ance, was an undertaking of no every-day occurrence ; 
 but we accomplished it by dint of perseverance, after a 
 struggle, unequalled, except by the Spartan band at the 
 strait of Thermopylae. While occupied in this responsible 
 and elevated situation, I could not help imagining myself 
 another philanthropic Howard, fathoming the depth of 
 misery, and dispensing aid to the needy — students need 
 sleep — ergo, they are needy. But one pail of water was 
 as a drop in the bucket, or, rather, in the bell ; so by re- 
 peated efforts at persuasion, 1 at length succeeded in con- 
 vincing my brother committee-man that it was absolutely 
 necessary towards the fulfilment of our instructions, that 
 we should add two more. In five minutcis after, you 
 might have seen the conmiittee, each with a bucket in his 
 hand, clambering a ladder directly under the bell. IJav* 
 ing reached the summit of our labors, tiic invfrted organ 
 of sound speedily received the liquid portion — this done. 
 
FRAGMENTS OF MY EARLY LIFE. 247 
 
 the committee bewtred leave to be discharofed from the 
 further consideration of the subject. 
 
 Thus far we had been pecuharly fortunate, and I was 
 descending from the belfry, laughing in my sleeve at 
 having made my prophetic nurse a liar, when lo ! and be- 
 hold ! the bell, losing its poise, dashed its whole contents 
 upon my devoted head. This was no time for conflnent ; 
 discovery was like to ensue ; so, making the best of an 
 unsuccessful speculation, I skulked off unseen. A few 
 moments after this unlucky event might be seen entering 
 room No. 32, a complete walking icicle — there was no 
 imitation, the whole was reality. 
 
 But we had not to submit to a perfect failure, for the 
 very next morning found us all snugly reposing beneath 
 our blankets, the bell-clapper having been bulletined 
 among the missing. Respecting my future collegiate 
 course it is sufficient to say, that nothing material trans- 
 pired, except that I met with a solitary " suspension," 
 two " rustications," of six weeks each, and the eloquent 
 and interesting perusal of four " confessions," merely for 
 the diversion of the faculty and students ; not to say any 
 thing of seven or eight, (I do not recollect those things 
 accurately, although they made a -very beneficial impres- 
 sion on me at the time,) candid admonitions and a number 
 of feeling and gentle intimations that unless my conduct 
 was quite different in future, I might anticipate an oppor- 
 tunity of commencing a profession before my classmates. 
 However, things resulted most brilliantly, since having 
 been caught in an affair which was rather " counter " to 
 the tune of college regulations, I was suffered to graduate 
 three months previous to my classmates, bearing in my 
 pocket a diploma, headed with capitals horribly black. 
 
 The meaning of this premature expression of approba- 
 
248 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 tion on the part of the faculty was to me a problem I 
 could not solve. What I had done, which entitled me to 
 this honor, I could not for the soul of me divine. On my 
 arrival home, I set myself immediately about inditing an 
 epistle to the good old venerable president, acknowledging 
 to him candidly the many and great obligations under 
 Avhich he had laid me by this signal mark of his esteem, 
 in advancing merit and retarding stupidity ; at the same 
 time, also, condoling with him by reason of the backward- 
 ness of ray classmates, who, like me, and with me, might 
 have graduated, had they been possessed of intellects 
 sufficiently capacious. And when in the postscript I 
 blessed the pure old saint, the tears rolled down my 
 cheeks so large, that the memory of some of our oldest in- 
 habitants cannot produce a parallel. And now, kind 
 readers, be good enougl; to regard distance, for you are 
 at this very moment liolding intercourse with one who came 
 within ihree months of being "dubbed" a liberally edu- 
 cated man ; and although the phantom honor of a bache- 
 lor's degree does not happen to hang to my name, yet I 
 comprise almost as much intelligence as if I had attained 
 the " valedictory " as an award. As above hinted, with 
 the legible and black-lettered diploma in my coat pocket, 
 I launched upon the world, and, in short, made a com- 
 mencement of the voluminous and highly interesting study 
 of the legal profession. To me, everything was the same, 
 and in my view, books, (no matter of what they treated,) 
 " were born," (in the language of that great republican 
 eftbrt,) " free and equal." Since small matters never in- 
 terfered in dampening my calculations, I encountered, not 
 only without a sigh, but even with a savage audacity, the 
 gloomy reminiscences of that monster Blackstone. 
 
 To read, was to me no herculean labor, but to under- 
 
FRAGMENTS OF MY EARLY LIFE. 249 
 
 stand was quite a different occupation Upon the perusal 
 of the very first page, I put down my foot with a fixed 
 determination not to allow my studies to draw in the 
 slightest degree upon my intellect ; or if they should, to 
 protest the draft at sight. This determination I manfully 
 maintained, notwithstanding I read every passage from 
 cover to cover, and when I had finished, I could say with 
 emphasis, / had read Blackstune, but of what it treated I 
 left for others to answer, who were more skilled in legal 
 lore. Next followed Dunlap, then Johnson, and when I 
 had digested his digest, then I digested his reports. 
 Then came Cowan, next Gil Bias ; then the Statutes ; 
 then Rob Roy ; then Jacobs' Law Dictionary ; Eaton on 
 Mineralogy ; Henry on Chemistry ; Edwards on Divinity • 
 and then followed in the train Peregrine Pickle, and after 
 all, notwithstanding I had endeavored to sweeten the sour 
 doses of law, I nevertheless found I had extracted none 
 of their valuable juices. I mixed light reading with heavy 
 reading, hoping for favorable results, but I found the "gen- 
 eral issue" to be, that oil, vinegar, and honey would 
 never unite. I studied with a great man, as great in body 
 as in mind ; and it required no criterion eye to read what 
 was passing inwardly in his mind respecting my future 
 brilliancy. In fact, (taking me aside one day,) he re- 
 marked — " I have some serious misgivings with regard to 
 your eminence, for, waving all symptoms of compliment, 
 I should be very much surprised should you hereafter 
 rival Lord Eldon ; but as miracles are by no means rare 
 in latter days, such an occurrence might take place. Do 
 not, however, understand me, (I entreat you,) to say that 
 I anticipate any such result, (far be it from me to mislead,) 
 but on the contrary, should you turn out to be a middling 
 pettifogger, (and this expression was accompanied by a 
 12 
 
250' THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 supercilious curl of the lip,) you will, let me assure you, 
 derange every idea I have ever formed on the subject." 
 Having brought to a conclusion this rodomontade attack 
 upon my vanity, I gave him a hearty squeeze of the hand 
 and left him in disgust ; inwardly confounding him for being 
 so purblind as not to discover in me some pledge of future 
 success. However, having concluded to ponder well his 
 salutary hints, I sounded a retreat from the legal pro- 
 fession. I adopted the idea of turning my attention 
 towards procuring a partner for life, and then comfortably 
 retiring from the busy and unprotitable gaze of the world. 
 Here, indeed, a pretty face saved me. For while 
 many of my laborious and learned companions plodded 
 on through life, always industrious, always correct in their 
 deportment, and always poor, I married an heiress who 
 fell in love with me from my personal charms ; and in 
 spite of my idleness and my hatred of Blackstone, I am 
 now a lawyer of more business than most of my com- 
 patriots. 
 

 '/.V 
 
THE INEB RI ATE. 
 
 There is woe in the gleam of the sparkUng cup, 
 A subtle spell in its wild flashing light ; 
 It scorches the heart with a burning breath, 
 And casts o'er each joy a dark mildew blight. 
 
 But there's hope for the fall'n, then be not despairing ; 
 Arise in the might of stern Virtue's control ; 
 Make trial at once, thy God will sustain thee, 
 Should waves of temptation encircle thy soul. 
 
 O, listen, inebriate, to one who would win thee ! 
 Shake off the fetters which gallingly bind ; 
 Rouse to thy manhood, let not the oppressor, 
 With shackles of iron, chain down thy free mind. 
 
 Yield to the pale-browed, sad pleader beside thee, 
 Let the vows of thy marriage hour steal to thy heart, 
 sign but the Pledge, and the bright bow of promise 
 Shall illumine thy pathway, nor ever depart. 
 
 C. K. K. 
 
 Willi A.MSBURGH, July 7th, 1849. 
 
THE LOST KITE 
 
 BY MISS GOULD. 
 
 " My kite ! my kite ! I've lost my kite ! 
 Oh ! when I saw the steady flight 
 With which she gained lier lofty height, 
 How could I know, that, letting go 
 That naughty string would bring so low 
 My pretty, buoyant, darling kite, 
 To pass forever out of sight ! 
 
 " A purple cloud was sailing by. 
 With silver borders, o'er the sky ; 
 I thought it seemed to come so nigh, 
 I'd let my kite go up and light 
 Upon its fringe so soft and blight, 
 To see how noble, high, and proud 
 She'd look while riding on a cloud ! 
 
 " As near her shinino- mark she drew, 
 
 I clapped my hands — the line slipped through 
 
 My silly fingers — and she flew 
 
 Away ! away ! in airy ])lay. 
 
 Right over where the water lay ! 
 
 She veered, and fluttered, swung, and gave 
 
 A plunge ! then vanished in tlie wave ! 
 
THELOSTKITE. 253 
 
 " I never more shall want to look 
 On that false cloud, or on the brook ; 
 Nor e'er to feel the breeze that took 
 My dearest joy, thus to destroy 
 The pastime of your happy boy ! 
 My kite ! my kite ! how sad to think 
 She soared so high, so soon to sink !" 
 
 " Be this," the mother said, and smiled, 
 " A lesson to you, simple child ! 
 And when by fancies vain and wild 
 As that which cost the kite that's lost. 
 Thy busy brain again is crossed. 
 Of shining vapor then beware. 
 Nor place thy joys on fickle air ! 
 
 " I have a darling treasure, too. 
 
 That sometimes would, by slipping through 
 
 My guardian hands, the way pursue. 
 
 From which more tight than thou thy kite, 
 
 I hold my jewel, new and bright ; 
 
 Lest he should stray without a guide, 
 
 To drown my hopes in sorrow's tide !" 
 
ALICE 
 
 BT PROTEUS, 
 
 She arrived at the school on a holiday afternoon, to- 
 wards the close of spring, when all the scholars were out 
 in the neighboring fields, except Frank and myself. We 
 were seated under the great elm in the dooryard, engaged 
 in our favorite game, in which each alternately endeavored 
 to surpass the other by reading a greater number of lines 
 in Virgil without breaking the measure, when the carriage 
 drove up, and Alice Prior alighted. We spent the re- 
 mainder of the day in introducing the new-comer to all the 
 objects of interest within and around the seminary ; and 
 from that time forth, for two years, we three were insepa- 
 rable companions whenever school regulations did not pre- 
 clude our intercourse. It was the happiest period of my 
 life. I loved the gentle orphan as a brother may love a 
 favorite sister ; but farther than this, I dared not give way 
 to my feelings, being aware of the previous attachment of 
 the cousins. At length I was recalled to the city to su- 
 perintend my father's mercantile aftairs, as his partner. 
 Frank and I corresponded for many months, until at length 
 becoming more and more engrossed in the business of the 
 busy world, I neglected to answer his letters altogether. 
 In his last he informed me of the death of lus parents, that 
 Alice had been adopted by a natural uncle, a Mr. Morton, 
 who was childless, and reported to be among the wealthiest 
 
ALICE 
 
 255 
 
 of the metropolis, and that his collegiate course was almost 
 completed. I made inquiries for Alice soon after, but not 
 being able to ascertain her place of residence, her remem- 
 brance gradually passed from my mind, and I thought no 
 more of the country belle for three whole years, till one 
 night I met her at a large party. I knew her at the first 
 glance, but the artless school-girl had grown into the ac- 
 complished woman. She had just been led to the piano 
 by her adopted father as I recognized her. Scarcely had 
 she struck a dozen notes, before the numerous groups 
 throughout the spacious and thronged saloon became still, 
 and ere the first stanza was ended, I fancied myself in 
 some vast hall where music and statuary had united their 
 fascination, so motionless were the listeners, so charming 
 the strain. There was more of melody than power in her 
 voice, which, with the touching expression she gave to the 
 sentiment, made its way directly to the heart. She sang 
 a few more popular airs, and then resigned her seat. 
 
 "Can this be Alice Prior?" whispered I, audibly, as 
 she passed me, arm-in-arm with a gentleman, who was 
 conducting her to a little knot of friends. 
 
 " It is even so," returne d a familiar voice at my elbow. 
 
 I looked round and beheld a tall figure leaning against 
 a pilaster just on my right. I recognized the features oi 
 Frank Werner. I grasped his hand, and in a moment we 
 were boys again. We retired to a distant corner of the 
 room, and there ran over the prominent events in the his- 
 tory of our lives since we parted at boarding-school. 
 Among other particulars, he acquainted me with an en- 
 gagement between himself and cousin, previous to her re- 
 moval to the metropolis ; of their subsequent correspond- 
 ence while he was yet at college ; " which lasted but a few 
 months," continued he, with emotion, " before she became 
 
256 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 remiss in answering my letters, till at length I heard from 
 her no longer. By and by I came to the city to pursue 
 my professional studies ; but my feelings had been too 
 deeply wounded by her silence to seek an interview. We 
 met, however, occasionally, as the sphere of my acquaint- 
 ance enlarged, but she had forgotten me, and she was no 
 longer the unsophisticated being for whom we contrived 
 so many gratifications in our school-boy days. Adopted, 
 nay, idolized by a man of large fortune, transplanted into 
 the fascinating scenes of metropolitan gayety and splendor, 
 and enchanted by all the pleasures which wealth and 
 beauty can summon, she has learned to forget, or to look 
 back with disdain on those simple delights amid which she 
 was nurtured. She has breathed the malaria of flattery, 
 till her young heart has been tainted with its poison. She 
 has learned that she is an object of admiration. She has 
 learned that she is heir to a splendid inheritance, and the 
 consciousness of independence is but another name for 
 pride. No expense has been spared to perfect her in the 
 fashionable accomplishments of the day, and these with 
 her elegant person and prospective dowry, have drawn 
 around her a crowd of admirers. I too still observe her, 
 but it is at a distance ; I stand aloof and gaze at her as at 
 some glorious and unapproachable being, from the mastery 
 of whose presence it is impossible to break away. We 
 meet comparatively often, for I cannot bring myself to shun 
 the opportunity of seeing her, though she passes me un- 
 noticed, or notices rae but with indifterence." 
 
 " Assuredly, my friend," said I, " there is a fortune in 
 love, and therefore to repine at the awards of the blind 
 goddess is of no avail. In the disappointments of alTcc- 
 tion, as in all others of the heart, stoicism is the true phi- 
 losophy. Come, come, Frank, away with Ihisboyi.sh mel- 
 
ALICE. 267 
 
 ancholy — cheer up, and remember that though this pas- 
 sage in your life be gloomy and desolate, it may be the 
 highway to scenes of light and beauty which await your 
 future progress." 
 
 " It is useless to philosophize," replied Werner. "Rea- 
 son, I ow^n, shows us true beacons by which we might 
 safely direct ovir course ; but, Love sits at the helm of the 
 heart, and" — 
 
 " Should be thrown overboard for a blind pilot," inter- 
 rupted I, " whenever he trifles with his trust, amid break- 
 ers and quicksands." 
 
 Before he had time to reply, a friend beckoned me to 
 her from a distant part of the room. The lady who had 
 summoned me was one of the gay circle in which Alice 
 was seated, and after a little time I was introduced to the 
 latter. She had not forgotten me ; but whenever, in the 
 course of conversation, 1 reverted to past scenes, she be- 
 came silent, and even apparently disconcerted. At first I 
 did not notice her embarrassment, so pleasing was it to 
 speak of the associations awakened by her presence ; but 
 I soon discovered my error, and lemarked to myself that 
 there is no surer way of forfeiting the good graces of those 
 who have risen to consequence from the humble walks of 
 life, than to remind them of their first estate. Pride, like 
 the eagle, looks upward, and finds no gratification in sur- 
 veying the low perch from which it plumed its wing for 
 eminence. 
 
 " Who is that student-looking unknown, whom you left 
 in the corner yonder ?" asked one of the group. " He 
 looks as pale and melancholy as a discarded lover." 
 
 All eyes were directed towards Frank, whose face was 
 partly turned towards the window, through which the full 
 moon was beaming;. 
 
268 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 "That's my friend, Dr. Werner," I returned. " I be- 
 lieve you formerly knew him, Miss Prior." 
 
 " Indifferently," she replied, with nonchalance. 
 
 " He affected to be your beau at school, I have been 
 informed," observed another of the party. " His country 
 gallantry must have been really amusing." 
 
 " He my beau !" cried Alice, extending her foi'e-finger 
 with a scornful smile ; " that tall mountaineer my beau, 
 indeed !" and she laughed outright. 
 
 The gesture and the contemptuous smile did not escape 
 the notice of their object. I looked at the haughty girl, 
 and our eyes met. A blush passed over her features, but 
 it was instantly followed by an expression of careless gayety ; 
 and tossing a billet to me, she said — 
 
 " Here, Mr. Morgan, this is for you ; you used to be an 
 admirer of sonnets, and of course you will be greatly ob- 
 liged to me for so valuable a present. Your friend handed 
 it to me this evening, by mistake, I presume." 
 
 "Read it, do, do !" cried half a dozen voices at once. 
 
 " No, no, indeed," interrupted Alice ; " you must spare 
 me — I am positive I should not survive such an intliction." 
 
 Werner turned away in confusion, and withdrew from 
 the apartment, stung to the quick. 
 
 The group was soon after dispersed in a cotilHon, and 
 as my feelings were warmly excited in my friend's behalf, 
 I took the opportunity of being alone to see what he had 
 written as a valedictory to his cousui. The following were 
 the lines : 
 
 Farewell — the spell is broken 
 That l>cld mo in its thnill ; 
 Farewell — the wonl is sj)oken 
 
 My lips shall ne'er recall ! 
 And though we oft may meet, perchance, 
 And mingle in the stirring dance 
 
ALICE. 259 
 
 With pleasure's idle-hearted ; 
 "We shall not meet as we have met, 
 Ere hope's first morning-star had set, 
 
 Nor part as we have parted. 
 
 I loved thee, and must love thee still 
 
 In memory of the past. 
 Amid whate'er of earthly ill 
 
 My future lot be cast ! 
 For in my boyhood's sunny prime, 
 When brightly from the urn of time 
 
 Life's golden moments fell. 
 Thou wert a peri to ray eyes, 
 Sent from Love's own sweet paradise 
 
 In my young heart to dwell. 
 
 Ay, curl that cherub lip in scorn. 
 
 And give to wit the reiu ; 
 And barb that tongue with sarcasm born 
 
 From thy proud heart's disdain, 
 In mockery of one who erst 
 Was ever foremost of the first 
 
 To guard thy maiden fame — 
 One who, with quick adventurous hand, 
 Had braved the proudest of the land, 
 
 That lightly named thy name. 
 
 And yet if thou canst borrow. 
 
 In beauty's mirthful pride. 
 Delight from friendship's sorrow, 
 
 Smile on, I will not chide. 
 Yet ah, methinks it were more kind, 
 More fraught with woman's feeling mind, 
 
 To hide derision's fang 
 From one who even now would dare 
 More than life's brittle thread could bear, 
 
 Ere thou shouldst feel a pang. 
 
260 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 Farewell, may naught of sadness 
 
 Thy coming hours befall : 
 But thine to meet with gladness 
 
 And gentle looks from all — 
 And mine to wend my way alone, 
 "Whether with thorns or roses strewn. 
 
 I care not — fate shall tell — 
 Soul-nerved with stoic pride to bear 
 Calmly the cold world's wintriest air. 
 
 And ev'n thine own — farewell. 
 
 I was suddenly roused from the reverie into which the 
 perusal of the stanzas had thrown me, by a shriek which 
 broke from near the centre of the apartment, and hurrying 
 towards the spot, I beheld Alice, pale and insensible, in 
 the arms of the gentleman with whom she had been danc- 
 ing. One of the large chandeliers had broken from its 
 fastenings by the jar of the cotillions, and the whole weight 
 of tlie massy ornament had fallen obliquely upon the neck 
 and shoulder of the beautiful girl. The external injury 
 was scarcely perceptible, and after a little time she was so i 
 far recovered as to be enabled to ride home. An expe- \ 
 rienced surgeon was summoned, and when I called, a few ' 
 days after, to learn the state of her health, her father in- | 
 formed me that her case had been pronounced hopeless ! I 
 A large and deep-seated aneurism had made its appear- 
 ance in such a situation that an openttion was deemed im- 
 practicable. As T left the house, my promise to Frank 
 occurred to me, and T took my way to his office, I found 
 him in rather a melancholy mood, surrounded with books 
 and anatomical drawings, and deeply engaged in study. 
 After a little conversation on topics connected with past 
 scenes, I asked him if he had seen his cousin since her late 
 accident. 
 
ALICE. 
 
 261 
 
 " No," be replied, "has anything of consequence be- 
 fallen her ?" 
 
 I gave him the particulars of her misfortune. At first 
 he "would not believe me, but when convinced that I was 
 in earnest, he dropped his head upon his hand and remain- 
 ed silent for several minutes. At length he asked — 
 
 " Did you say that Dr. despaired of her recovery ?" 
 
 " So her father assured me." 
 
 " Then I will see her," resumed he, after a little pause. 
 "I have had no inconsiderable experience in the treatment 
 of such injuries." 
 
 " He took from a drawer a case of instruments ; and hav- 
 ing satisfied himself that they were in perfect order, we set 
 off toarether for Mr. Morton's. 
 
 We found the old gentleman walking the room in an 
 agony of grief. As soon as he became a little calm, I in- 
 troduced my companion as a young surgeon of eminence, 
 whom I had taken the liberty to call in, thinking that pos- 
 sibly his experience might prove of some benefit to the suf- 
 ferer. 
 
 " Thank you," returned Mr. Morton ; "but I fear that 
 all our efforts will end in disappointment." 
 
 " While there is life there is hope," observed Frank, en- 
 couragingly, as they entered the apartment of the invalid. 
 
 After a short absence they returned. 
 
 '•'And what think you, doctor?" whispered the old gen- 
 tleman, as soon as he had closed the door. 
 
 "I think — nay, I know that she can be saved," was the 
 firm reply. 
 
 "Saved! How?" 
 
 " By a painful and most perilous operation." 
 
 " And who will perform it," asked I, " since Dr. 
 
 has refused ?" 
 
262 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 " There i$ one," replied Werner, " who will attempt it, 
 if his seniors lack courage." 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Dr. , the sur- 
 geon in attendance, entered. 
 
 " Ah, Dr. Werner, I am very glad to meet you — I have 
 just driven round to your office to bring you here ; but 
 some one has anticipated me." 
 
 "He has seen her, doctor," said the father, "and bids 
 me take comfort in the prospect of her recovery." 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Dr. , addressing Werner, •" will 
 
 you attempt to take up that artery, seated as it is in the 
 very neighborhood of the heart ?" 
 
 " With your approval and assistance, sir," was the re- 
 
 The fact was, Werner had been the favorite pupil of 
 Dr. , who had formed so high an opinion of his pro- 
 fessional abilities from the science and skill he had display- 
 ed on several occasions while yet a student, that he almost 
 looked upon him as his superior, even at that period, and 
 always consulted him in all dangerous emergencies. 
 
 "But," continued Dr. , " how can you expect my 
 
 approval in this case, when I remind you that the opera- 
 tion you have in view has never been attempted but once, 
 and then by the first surgeon in Europe, in whose hands 
 it completely failed. I stood by him at the time, and wit- 
 nessed the painful reluctance with which he abandoned it, 
 after a long-continued and most anxious efibrt." 
 
 " Sir," replied the young surgeon, respectfully, " I have 
 twice successljilly reduced a similar aneurism, and with 
 your support can do it again." 
 
 "Then will 1 stand by you," said Dr. , and retired 
 
 to make the necessary preparations. Before he withdrew, 
 however, Frank said to him — 
 
ALICE. 263 
 
 " Be kind enough, doctor, not to mention my name to 
 the patient, if you please ; I have a special reason for the 
 request ; and, pray, throvT a handkerchief over her face, 
 for the countenance of a suffering female unmans me." 
 
 The arrangements were soon completed, and we were 
 admitted to the apartment of the invalid. The patient 
 had on a white undress, and was seated in a low easy- 
 chair, with her head reclining on Dr, 's shoulder. Her 
 
 neck and the upper margin of her bosom were uncovered, 
 exposing a large pulsating tumor which seemed on the 
 very point of yielding to the vital current that circled be- 
 neath. Her father stood by, holding her hand, with a 
 countenance in which hope, fear, and sorrow were most 
 touchingly depicted. I glanced instinctively and with an 
 absorbing feeling of apprehension towards the young sur- 
 geon, as he prepared himself for the fearful operation with 
 a composure so marked, that it seemed to border on 
 apathy. He was paler than usual, but then I could not 
 detect the slightest quivering of a muscle — he was per- 
 fectly firm and self-collected. Every lineament of his 
 face showed the mastery of mind over the strong passions 
 which inust be subjected during the performance of his 
 dangerous task, and accordingly there was no more emo- 
 tion to be detected in the bearing of that manly frame, 
 than if it had been chiselled from the insensible marble. 
 As he bent down, however, and with one stroke of the 
 knife made a deep and free incision along that beautiful 
 bust, which was followed by a convulsive tremor and a 
 suppressed groan of the sufferer, I thought 1 heard him 
 catch his breath for once, spasmodically ; but no other 
 sign of discomposure escaped him. 
 
 " Father, dear father," cried the poor girl, "clasp my 
 
264 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 hand closer — closer still — I can't feel you — so — so — that 
 will do." 
 
 Tears stood in the old man's eyes, and he turned away 
 
 his face from the scene. Even Dr. , veteran as he 
 
 was, respired with difficult)'. But the adventurous opera- 
 tor kept steadily on, dextrously winding deeper and 
 deeper amidst nerves, veins, and arteries, with a skill, on 
 the perfect integrity of which depended the life of the 
 lovely being in whose fate he was so warmly interested — 
 his progress rendered doubly obscure by the effusion of 
 blood, and doublj" dangerous from the tinnatural situation 
 of the surrounding parts — until at length, by a masterly 
 effort, he succeeded in securing the deep-laid and ruptur- 
 ed vessel. The dressings were soon adjusted, and leaving 
 
 Dr. and the father to replace the patient in bed, we 
 
 retired to the drawing-room. Frank threw himself on the 
 sofa, exhausted by the smothered and almost insupporta- 
 ble excitement of the scene through which he had just 
 passed. 
 
 " Some air," said he, faintly ; " I feel ill — very ill. There 
 is a strange sense of dizziness in my head, and of suffoca- 
 tion here," he continued, laying his hand on his breast, 
 " which almost overcomes me." 
 
 I threw up the window, and the cool air, with a glass 
 
 of wine, partially restored him. Dr. now entered, 
 
 his benevolent countenance beaming with such an expres- 
 sion of admiration as a fond parent exhibits on the triumph 
 of a favorite child. 
 
 •' Well, well, my son," he exclaimed, " I will no longer 
 be proud of my surgical abilities. Hitherto I have thought 
 there was nothing practicable within the compass of my 
 art which I coidd not perfoim ;. but you have taught me 
 a new lesson, and I own my mistake." 
 
ALICE. 265 
 
 I will not attempt to describe the mingled expressions 
 of gratitude and respect with which the father greeted the 
 saviour of his child. He took him affectionately by the 
 hand, he solicited the favor of his friendship, and amid 
 thanks and benedictions, begged him to mention any sum 
 — even to the extent of half his fortune — as a remunera- 
 tion for the obligation he had conferred. 
 
 " The consciousness of having performed my duty, and 
 
 secured the regard of such men as yourself and Dr. ," 
 
 returned the young surgeon, "were an ample reward for 
 my services. But of this we will speak at some future 
 day. In the mean time, as I am obliged to leave town 
 to-morrow, you will be kind enough to dispense with any 
 further assistance on my part — the welfare of your daugh- 
 ter could not be entrusted to safer hands than those of 
 Dr. ." 
 
 Before the expiration of a month, Alice was restored to 
 perfect health. About this time, one afternoon, the ser- 
 vant brought in a note from Mr. Morton to Werner, re- 
 questing him to call at his house as early as he could make 
 it convenient. He did so. The old gentleman met him 
 with all the kindness of their last interview. 
 
 " I have sent for you, doctor, partly because I had a 
 selfish wish to see you myself, and partly because my 
 daughter desires to thank you personally for the continu- 
 ance of that life for whose preservation, under Providence, 
 she is indebted to yom-self alone. Walk into the parlor, 
 and she will be with you presently." 
 
 The door opened soon after, and Alice entered. Her 
 cheeks had not yet recovered their usual color, yet never, 
 perhaps, before had she appeared so beautiful as at that 
 moment. During: her convalescence she had been made 
 acquainted with the danger from which she had just es- 
 
266 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 caped, and the name of the injured individual whose skill 
 had conducted her safely through that fearful crisis. There 
 is no better moralist than sickness. The spirit of pride, 
 mirth, and ambition are rebuked and exorcised from the 
 bedside of disease. This was the case with the poor girl 
 during her recent illness. The fascinating illusions of the 
 gay world, which had for years dazzled her too credulous 
 imagination, had given place to the sober realities of the 
 sick chamber. Removed from the excitement of that 
 thoughtless world, she had an opportunity for reflection. 
 Memory had been busy with the images, the endearments 
 of the past. The friends of her early orphanage — the 
 kindness she had experienced at their hands — the vows 
 and the visions of her first attachment, had all passed 
 again and again before her mind, mingled with the con- 
 sciousness of ingratitude and broken faith ; and she now 
 presented herself before her slighted lover, humiliated and 
 self-condemned. Frank rose to receive her. The poor 
 girl hid her face with her hands, while the tears gushed 
 out from her jewelled fingers. 
 
 He led her to the sofa and seated himself beside her. 
 After a momentary silence, he said — 
 
 " Spare me, cousin Alice, I entreat you. Though there 
 have been times when I have prayed to see you shed such 
 tears, yet now that those prayers are answered, I cannot 
 see you weep." 
 
 " Ah, Werner, forbid not the sacrifice of sincere con- 
 trition — it is the fittest requital I can make for the wrongs 
 you have suffered from my unkindncss, and the one which 
 remorse would wring fron my heart, though it should 
 struggle to resist the impulse of its better nature ." 
 
 " Tliere is no longer need of such a sacrifice. Fortune 
 has already more than requited rae for the trials of which 
 
ALICE. 267 
 
 you speak, by affording me the opportunity and the will- 
 ing power to serve you when you had ceased to remem- 
 ber me." 
 
 " Ample has been your revenge," sighed the disconso- 
 late girl. " Yet, can you forgive me ?" 
 
 " I can — I do," exclaimed Frank. " Your temptations 
 to err were such as might have shaken a strongfer mind. I 
 was poor, friendless, unknown ; you were rich, accomplish- 
 ed, and admired. Let us deem this a sufficient palliation 
 for the neglect which perhaps I have merited." 
 
 He took her hand and pressed it to his lips — it was wet 
 with the dews of repentant love. 
 
 " These tears," said he, tenderly, " shall be the lethe 
 in which I will drown every unpleasing remembrance. 
 Come, dear Alice, let us to your father. He professes to 
 be greatly obliged to me. With your permission, I will 
 teach him how he may cancel the obligation." 
 
 " I have told him all — your brotherly solicitude in my 
 behalf — our plighted affection — together with my bitter 
 ingratitude and estrangement — all this I have told him " 
 
 " And my answer was," said the old gentleman, who, 
 having entered a moment previous, had caught the last 
 few words of Alice, " my answer was, doctor, that though 
 you have a perfect claim on her heart and hand, you have 
 no right to remove her from her present home, and there- 
 by leave me childless and solitary. I cannot live without 
 her ; and as you, doubtless, like all true lovers, are in the 
 same unfortunate predicament, I see no other way than for 
 you to consent — and the sooner the better — to become 
 one of my own little family !" 
 
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 
 
 Where, where are all the birds that sang 
 
 A hundred years ago ? 
 The flowers that all in beauty sprang, 
 
 A hundred years ago? 
 The lips that smiled, the eyes that wild 
 In flashes shone, soft eyes upon ; 
 Where ! oh, where, are lips and eyes, 
 The maiden's smiles, the lover's sighs. 
 
 That lived so long ago? 
 
 Who peopled all the city streets 
 
 A hundred years ago ? 
 Who filled the church with faces meek 
 
 A hundred years ago ? 
 The sneering tale of sister frail, 
 The plot that worked a brother's hurt ; 
 Where, oh, where are plots and sneers, 
 The poor man's hopes — the rich mnn's fears — 
 
 That lived so long ago? 
 
 Where are the graves where dead men slept 
 
 A hundred years ago? 
 Who, when they were living, wept, 
 
 A hundred years ago ? 
 By other men that knew not them, 
 Their lands were tilled, their graves were filled : 
 Yet nature then was just as gay, 
 And bright the sun shone, as to-day, 
 
 A hundred yenrs ago. 
 
.'i'U-, "s.". -■..»-?!:iiCrLe-.r^; 
 
 >' //. 
 
 
MY COUSIN LUCY AND THE VILLAGE 
 TEACHER. 
 
 BY JAMES HALL. 
 
 It has been well said, that memory never loses an im- 
 pression that has once been made upon it. The lines may 
 be obscured for a time, as an inscription is defaced by 
 rust, but they are never obliterated ; they may be buried 
 under a crowd of other recollections, but tiiere are times 
 when these roll away as the mist rises from the valley, and 
 the whole picture stands disclosed in its original integrity. 
 Impressions made in childhood are the most vivid ; years 
 may pass and other remembrances be gathered in, but 
 those that lie deepest are longest retained, and most fondly 
 cherished. Other events touch the heart and pass off with- 
 out leaving a trace, but these strike in, engraft themselves 
 and become a part of our nature. Such, at least, has been 
 my experience. I have lived a busy, and I trust not an 
 useless hfe ; I have seen much of the world ; my feelings 
 and passions have been excited, and my attention power- 
 fully fixed by events of deep interest ; but none stand re- 
 corded in the same bold, indelible characters, as those 
 which mark some of the remembrances of my childhood. 
 
 Not far from my father's residence there was a school- 
 house. It was a small log building, such as we often see 
 in new countries, and stood in a grove on an eminence near 
 the road. Whether chance, or taste, or convenience. 
 
270 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 dictated the choice of the spot, I cannot tell ; but it al- 
 ways struck me as being uoL only well adapted to its pur- 
 pose, but remarkably picturesque. The grove contained 
 not more than an acre or two of ground, but the trees 
 were large spreading oaks, that I have seldom seen sur- 
 passed in size or beauty ; for every observer of nature will 
 agree with me, that trees, even of the same species, differ 
 in appearance as widely as human beings. In every grove 
 the vegetation has some distinguishing characteristic, just 
 as all the inhabitants of a village have some trait in com- 
 mon. The trees are stinted or luxuriant, spreading or tall, 
 majestic or beautiful ; or else they are vulgar, common- 
 place trees, as devoid of interest as the unmeaning people 
 whom we meet with every day. I never see a great oak 
 standing by the roadside without observing its peculiari- 
 ties. Some are round and portly, some tall and spindling ; 
 some aspire and others grovel ; one has a gracefully 
 rounded outline, and another a rugged irregular shape. 
 Here you may behold one waving its head with a courtly 
 bend ; and there you may see another tossing its great 
 arms up and down like some angular, long-limbed, gigantic 
 body. Trees, too, have their diseases, their accidents, and 
 their adventures. They are torn by the winds, shattered 
 by the lightning and nipped by the frost ; and while 
 some of them have in their youth the aspect of sallow and 
 dyspeptic invalids, others flourish in a green old age ; and 
 whether standing singly in the field, or crowded together 
 in a forest, whether embraced by ivy, clothed with moss, 
 or hung with mistletoe, they always attract attention by 
 the peculiarities which they derive from these and other 
 incidents. 
 
 Our school-house oaks were of the majestic kind. 
 They had braved the elements for at Iciist a centuiy, and 
 
MY COUSIN LUCY. 271 
 
 seemed to be still in the vigor of life. Their great, dark 
 trunks were covered with moss, and their immense 
 branches, interlocking far above the ground, shadowed it 
 with a canopy, that not a sunbeam could penetrate. The 
 soil was trodden hard and smooth by the school-boys, and 
 covered with a short greensward, over which the wind 
 swept so freely as to carry away all the fallen leaves. 
 
 Here we played, and wrestled, and ran races ; here in 
 hot weather, the master, forsaking the school-house, dis- 
 posed his noisy pupils in groups among the trees ; here 
 the rustic orator harangued his patriotic fellow- citizens on 
 the Anniversary of Independence ; and here the itinerant 
 preacher addressed the neighbors on the Sabbath. On 
 occasions like the latter, our grove became as gay as a 
 parterre. The bonnets, and ribbons, aixd calicoes were as 
 numerous and many-colored as the flowers of the field. 
 The farmers and their families generally came to the 
 preaching on horseback ; and it was a fortunate animal 
 that bore a lighter burden than two adults and a brace of 
 children. The young women rode behind their brothers or 
 sweethearts, or, in default of such attendants, mounted 
 sociably in pairs, the best rider taking the saddle and 
 holding the reins, as smart girls are always willing enough 
 to do. It was a goodly sight to see the horses hitched to 
 the trees in every direction, showing off their sleek hides 
 and well-combed manes to the best advantage ; and 
 decked with new saddles, and gaudy saddle-cloths, and 
 fine riding-skirts, that were never exposed to the weather 
 or the eye except on Sundays and holidays. Then the 
 people, before the sermon began, sitting in groups, or 
 strolling in little companies, looked so gay. and so happy, 
 that Sunday seemed to be to them, not merely a day of 
 rest, but of thanksgiving and enjoyment. When they col- 
 
272 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 lected round the preacher, sitting silent and motionless, 
 with their heads uncovered and thrown back in devout 
 attention, the scene acquired a graver and deeper interest 
 I have never witnessed that spectacle on a calm, sunnv 
 day, without a sensation of thrilling pleasure ; and often 
 as I have seen it, the impression that it made continued 
 ever fresh and beautiful. There was a mingled cheerful- 
 ness and solemnity in this sight, that attached itself to the 
 spot, and I have afterwards felt in the midst of my studies 
 or sports on school-days, a soothing calmness creeping 
 over me, a feeling that the place was hallowed, like that 
 which we experience when strolling in a grave-yard, or 
 lingering in the aisle of a church . 
 
 My memory clings to this spot, as a scene of the most 
 vivid pains and pleasures of my childhood. I pass over 
 the detail of all the sufFerinors that I endured from the 
 brutality of ignorant and tyrannical teachers ; perhaps I 
 was more sensitive than other children; but be that as it 
 may, it is certain that although I was fond of learning, 
 and docile in my disposition, 1 imbibed very early in life a 
 cordial hatred for the whole race of schoolmasters. But 
 I loved my books and my companions ; I loved to plav at 
 ball, and run races ; and I loved the school-house crrove, 
 with its tall oaks and verdant lawn. I used to linger on 
 a neighboring hill, to look on that graceful swell, and 
 those fine trees, and to wonder whj- 1 thought the land- 
 scape so attractive. Those who recollect their sensations 
 on first entering a theatre, or reading a novel, can form 
 some idea of my feelings. That first play, and first novel, 
 remain through life impressed upon the imagination, as 
 standards with which all similar objects are compared ; 
 and it was thus that the most interesting spot that attracted 
 
MY COUSIN LUCY. 273 
 
 my young fancy, became to me the beau ideal of rural and 
 romantic beauty. 
 
 There was another charm connected with this spot, the 
 secret of which I will now disclose to the reader, althoucfh 
 for many years I hardly dared acknowledge it to myself. 
 My cousin Lucy was my school companion, and I never 
 think of that green hill without seeing: her slender form 
 gliding among its shades, with the same calm blue eye, 
 and meek countenance, and soft smile, that she wore when 
 we were children. I hardly know why I loved Lucy bet- 
 ter than anybody else, for she was several years my senior, 
 and never was my playfellow. I romped and laughed 
 with the other girls, and played them all sorts of tricks ; 
 but I never hid her bonnet, or pinned her sleeve to that 
 of her next neighbor. From her childhood she was se- 
 date and womanly ; her deportment was always delicate 
 and dignified ; there was a something about her that repelled 
 familiarity, while the winning softness of her manners in- 
 vited love and respect. When I came near to Lucy I was 
 no longer a wild, mischievous boy, but was elevated into a 
 better and more rational being, by the desire that I felt to 
 please and serve her. 
 
 We had a succession of schoolmasters, the most of whom 
 were illiterate men, who remained with us but a few 
 months. At last there came one of higher pretensions 
 than the rest. He was a young man of liberal education, 
 who brought with him the hisfhest testimonials of his char- 
 acter and attainments. He strolled into the neighborhood 
 on foot, and so great was his modesty, that it was some 
 time before anybody discovered his acquirements, or sus- 
 pected the object of his visit. At length he proposed, 
 with some diffidence, to fill the vacant situation of teacher ; 
 and having produced his credentials, was readily admitted 
 13 
 
274 
 
 THE MOSS -ROS E 
 
 to that thankless office. He was altogether a different 
 man from any of his predecessors. His temper was even, 
 his heart kind, his manners easy, and he had the rare 
 talent of commanding respect and communicating know- 
 ledge, without the appearance of an effort. He was as 
 bashful as a girl, and as artless a being as ever lived. 
 Everybody liked him ; his good sense, his cheerfulness, 
 his inoffensive manners and industrious habits made him 
 the favorite of young and old. 
 
 It was customary in those days for the schoolmaster to 
 board with his patrons, each one entertaining him for a 
 week at a time, in rotation; an arrangement which, while 
 it divided the burden of his subsistence equally, enabled 
 the whole neighborhood to become personally acquainted 
 with the pedagogue. When the latter happened to be a 
 dull, prosing dog, scantily supplied with good manners 
 and good fellowship, the week of his reception wore heav- 
 ily away, the table was less plentifully spread than usual, 
 and the whiskey-jug was sure to have suffered some dis- 
 aster on the day previous to his arrival. The head of the 
 family indulged himself on such occasions in liberal re- 
 marks upon the idleness and effeminacy of learning ; and 
 the good wife, by frequent allusions to the scarcity of pro- 
 visions, and the high price of schooling, gave the unfortu- 
 nate teacher to understand that he was considered a mere 
 incubus upon the body politic, a Mr. Nobody, who yas 
 only tolerated, and fed, and allowed to sit in the chimney 
 corner, for the purpose of keeping the children out of mis- | 
 chief. But if the schoolmaster was a pleasant fellow, one 
 who read the newspapers, and played the fiddle, and told ' 
 a good story, the week of his visitation brought holiday 
 times and high doings to the farmer's hospitable fireside. 
 Then the good man heard the news, the girls heard the 
 
MY COUSIN LUCY. 
 
 275 
 
 violin, and the mistress of tlie house found a patient 
 auditor to the recital of all the misadventures which had 
 befallen the family within the scope of her memory. 
 Then the boys wore their holiday clothes every day ; the 
 hospitable board groaned under a load of good things, and 
 the cheerful family enjoyed seven long days of good humor 
 and good eating. 
 
 Of all schoolmasters, Mr. Alexis, the gentleman 
 above alluded to, was the most popular one that ever 
 darkened the door of a farm-house. In his time the 
 " schoolmaster's week" was a week of festival. He not 
 only read the news, and played the fiddle, but could sing 
 a good song, and recite the veracious biography of a hun- 
 dred real ghosts. He could explain all the hard words in 
 the Testament, all the outlandish names in the newspapers, 
 and all the strange hieroglyphics which are mischievously 
 set down in the almanac to puzzle the brains of simple 
 country folks. Then he was affable and talkative ; with 
 all this he was good-humored, and what perhaps was 
 more effective than all the rest, he was good-looking. 
 With such qualifications he was always a welcome visitor, 
 and I can well remember the stir that his coming occa- 
 sioned in my father's house. On the preceding Saturday 
 there was an universal scrubbing ; the floors, the windows, 
 the chairs, the pewter plates, the milk-pails, and the chil- 
 dren, were all scrubbed. The dimity curtains that lay 
 snugly packed away in the great press, sprinkled with 
 lavender and rose leaves, were now brought forth and 
 hung over the parlor windows ; and the snow-white coun- 
 terpanes that were kept for great occasions, were osten- 
 tatiously spread upon the beds. The yard was swept, 
 and the great weeds that had been suffered to grow un- 
 molested, were plucked up ; and the whole messuage, 
 
276 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 outhouses, tenements, and appurtenances, made to look 
 as fine and as smart as the nature of the case would 
 admit. Then such baking, and brewing, and cooking! 
 The great oven teemed witli huge loaves and rich pastry ; 
 yielding forth from its vast mouth, puddings, and pies, 
 and tarts enough to have foundered a whole board of 
 aldermen. The fatted calf was killed, the brightest orna- 
 ments of the pig-sty and poultry-yard were devoted to 
 the knife ; and the best blood of the farm was freely spilled 
 to furnish forth delicate viands, with which to pamper the 
 appetite of that important and popular character, the 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 I am often singular in my opinions, for I do not consider 
 myself bound to believe anything, merely because every- 
 body else believes it. As to the schoolmaster, I disliked 
 him from the very first ; and when everybody else praised 
 him I was silent. I had an inherent antipathy against all 
 pedagogues. I viewed them as our natural enemies; a 
 race created to scourge and terrify' children ; and for the 
 person in question I entertained a special and particular 
 aversion. This was the more singular as I was by nature 
 confiding and placable, and never indulged a malignant 
 feeling towards any other human being. He treated me 
 with kindness, instructed me with unwearied patience, 
 and I verily believe, would have found the road to my 
 heart, had I not suspected that he was searching out the 
 way that led to my cousin Lucy's. 1 was always jealous 
 of her, because the disparity of our ages placed her at a 
 distance which almost extinguished hope, and because 
 she always treated me as a boy and a relation; and either 
 never did, or never would, see that I cherislu-d feclin<rs 
 towards her infinitely more tender tlian any that ihe mere 
 ties of consanguinity could have awakened. A boy in 
 
MY COUSIN LUCY. 
 
 277 
 
 love becomes cunning beyond his years. Unable to enter 
 the lists as a candidate, and obliged to look on in silence, 
 he becomes the secret and vigilant enemy of his uncon- 
 scious rival. I was continually watching the schoolmaster 
 and my coiisin Lucy ; and not a glance, nor a blush, nor 
 a touch of the hand escaped my jealous eye. An indiifer- 
 ent observer would have seen nothing in their intercotirse 
 to excite the slightest suspicion ; an enamored boy, who 
 had loved devotedly from the first dawn of intelligence, 
 read volumes of meaning in every act and look. The con- 
 duct of both of them was perfectly delicate and unexcep- 
 tionable. There was not the least approach to gallantry 
 on his part, not an inviting nor an encouraging glance on 
 hers ; but I could mark the softened tone of his voice, and 
 the involuntary reverence of his manner when he addressed 
 her. I could detect the brightening of his eye when she 
 spoke, and the courteous bow with which he replied to 
 any question from her, so different from the commonplace 
 civility with which he treated his other female pupils. 
 He often walked home with her, but never without other 
 company, for she was always surrounded by children, one 
 or two of whom she held by the hand, as if to prevent 
 the possibility of a tele-a-Ute. Perhaps she never had a 
 thought that there was any particular meaning in his at- 
 tentions ; but there is an instinct in female delicacy, and 
 although it might never have occurred to Lucy that her 
 teacher had oppoi-tunities beyond other men, which re- 
 quired that she should place a careful watch over her 
 affections, nature regulated her conduct. I was often with 
 them ; they conversed without constraint, and never spoke 
 of love, of courtship, or marriage. But he pointed out to 
 her the finest traits of the landscape, gathered for her the 
 choicest flowers, and discoursed of poetry ; sometimes 
 
278 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 reciting the most beautiful passages, in so elegant a tone 
 that I could have knocked him down, and was ready to 
 quarrel with Lucy for the apparent interest with which 
 she listened. Often did I wish that he was a thousand 
 miles off, or that I was a schoolmaster. 
 
 It would be too tedious to set down all the mischievous 
 pranks that I played our teacher in revenge for his sup- 
 posed attachment to my cousin. Though fond of learning, 
 I obstinately persisted in a resolution to owe nothing to 
 his teaching ; and more than once disgraced him and my- 
 self by wilful blunders, at our public examinations. I 
 incited the biggest boys into conspiracies against his peace 
 and dignity. Once when he was going to a tea party at 
 my uncle's, a little better dressed than usual, a troop of 
 us scampered past him as he was crossing a miry brook, 
 and pretending not to observe him, splashed a shower of 
 mud and water over his holiday suit. We sent him one 
 day into a large company, with a grotesque figure chalked 
 on his back; and on another occasion scorched off his 
 eyebrows by exploding gunpowder under his nose, while 
 he was intently engaged in working a problem in algebra. 
 None of these persecutions ever ruffled his temper ; and 
 when my mother, who could not believe that the fault was 
 mine, reproached him with the slowness of my progress, 
 he mildly told her that the greatest geniuses were often 
 dull boys at school, and that I would no doubt make a 
 shining man. 
 
 At length the terra of the schoolmaster's engagement 
 expired, and my heart bounded with joy when I heard he 
 was going to quit the country. I was at my uncle's on 
 the morning of his departure, when he called to take 
 leave of the family. Lucy was in the garden, and Ak'xis 
 went -there to look for her. Young as I was, I could 
 
MY COUSIN LUCY 
 
 279 
 
 readily compreliend that a latent passion would be most 
 apt to betray itself in a parting interview ; and that of all 
 places in the woi'ld a garden is the fittest to excite tender 
 feelings in the bosom of young lovers. In a moment a 
 thousand thoughts flashed through my mind ; in another 
 moment, love and jealousy prompted me to observe a meet- 
 ing which my foreboding heart told me would be fraught 
 with more than usual interest. It was a mean act ; but 
 jealousy is always mean. I was too young, too much in 
 love, and too angry to reflect ; and if I had reflected, who 
 could have thought it improper to witness anything which 
 could possibly take place between two such perfect beings 
 as my cousin Lucy and the schoolmaster ? 
 
 I crept secretly to the garden, and from the covert of a 
 thick hedge saw Alexis approach my cousin. He took 
 her hand, and told her that he had come to bid her fare- 
 well ; that he had bade adieu to all his other friends, and 
 had deferred calling upon her until the last, because to 
 part with her was more painful than all the rest. There 
 was a touching softness in his voice, and a corresponding 
 melancholy clouded his features. " What a canting ras- 
 cal !" said I to myself; " I'm afraid Lucy will never be 
 able to stand it." 
 
 He then dropped her hand, and began to pluck twigs 
 from a peach-tree, while Lucy was industriously engaged 
 in demolishing a great rose. At last he said, " There is 
 one subject" — Lucy stooped down, and began to pull 
 the weeds from a tulip-bud. The schoolmaster stopped, 
 and looked embarrassed. 
 
 " Silly fellow !" said I, exultingly ; " why does he not 
 kneel down, and lay his hand upon his heart?" I took 
 courage when I saw his trepidation, believing that he 
 
280 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 would never be able to tell his love, or that Lucy would 
 discard so clumsy a lover. 
 
 " Miss Lucy" — said the schoolmaster. 
 
 " Sir," said Miss Lucy. 
 
 " What a canting villian!" said I. 
 
 Mr. Alexis looked round, as if fearful of observation. 
 
 "He looks as if he were steaUng," said I; "and well 
 he may — the vile pedagogue !" 
 
 Alexis sighed, threw down his eyes, and resumed : 
 " There is one subject. Miss Lucy, upon which I have long 
 wished" — he looked up, but Lucy was several paces off, 
 twining the delicate vines of a honeysuckle through the 
 lattices of a summer-house. 
 
 " She will never have him !" said I, in an ecstasy ; " I 
 know she would never have a whining, canting, pitiful 
 schoolmaster." 
 
 Alexis followed Lucy to the summer-house, and re- 
 marked that the honeysuckles were very fragrant. 
 
 " Very !" said my cousin. 
 
 "He has dropped the subject," thought I. "Dear 
 Lucy ! hoAv well she managed him ! Ah ! these school- 
 masters know not how to make love; if I were there I 
 could show him how !" I breathed freely, and thought 
 it was all over. 
 
 Alexis stood by the side of Lucy ; he leaned towards 
 her, and spoke in a low voice. What he said I know not, 
 but the words were potent, for Lucy turned her head from 
 him ; and I saw that her face was covered with blushes, 
 redder than the coral flowers that liunu around her. I 
 thouglit she was angry. " If he has dared to insult my 
 cousin," said I, " liow proudly will 1 avenge her quarrel !" 
 I looked again, and could scarcely believe my eyes ! Lu- 
 
MY COUSIN LUCY. 281 
 
 cy's head was reclining upon the shoulder of Alexis, and 
 one arm was thrown gently around her ! I thought their 
 lips met ! 
 
 I could stay no longer. I fled from the hateful scene, 
 burning with rage and jealousy, and deeply mortified at 
 my own meanness, in having become the voluntary and 
 secret witness of that which should have been sacred from 
 every eye. 
 
 In a few days after this occurrence I left my native 
 country. I had long been destined for the sea, and hav- 
 ing now received a midshipman's warrant in the navy, set 
 out for the sea-board. After I had bid adieu to all my 
 other friends, I went to take leave of Lucy ; for I, too, felt 
 that this was the most painful of my separations ; the part- 
 ing with her seemed like breaking the last and tenderest 
 tie that bound me to the land of my birth. She had al- 
 ways treated me with the affection of a sister, and never 
 did her manner seem so tender as at this moment. When 
 I left her father's house, she followed me across the lit- 
 tle lawn before the door, and as I threw the reins over my 
 horse's neck and lingered to repeat my adieu, she put a 
 paper into my hand. Her eyes were filled with tears, and 
 my own were not dry. 
 
 I v/as some miles on my way from home before my 
 emotion subsided sufficiently to permit me to read Lu- 
 cy's note. In this she disclosed to me her engagement 
 with Alexis ; she said it had been approved by her 
 parents, and that the marriage would take place when- 
 ever he should be established in a profession, for which he 
 was preparing himself. She spoke of the fair prospects 
 that smiled before her, in an union with one so amiable 
 and highly gifted. She said that she made this disclosure 
 because I was her nearest and dearest relative, after her 
 13* 
 
282 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 parents, and was on the eve of so long an absence, that 
 the separation seemed to be almost final. More she said 
 which I need not repeat ; it was all kind and sisterly, and 
 I vowed that I would always love my cousin Lucy, whether 
 she married the schoolmaster or not. 
 
 Her note had one good effect, which harsher measures 
 would have failed to produce. Her generous confidence 
 subdued me ; and as I reflected upon it in my cooler mo- 
 ments, I determined to smother my ill-fated passion, and 
 to love Lucy only in manner and form as her cousin 
 lawfully might. I resolved, moreover, to forego all my 
 veno-eance aofainst Alexis and to think of him with kind- 
 ness. 
 
 In a few days I embarked. We had a brilliant cruise. 
 The war with Great Britain was just declared, and the 
 ocean swarmed with our enemies. We were frequently 
 engaged, and generally successful. The novelty and ex- 
 citement of this life soon caused a wonderful revolution in 
 my feelings. I was no longer a romantic boy, brooding 
 over a hopeless passion, with the single object of my ado- 
 ration continually before my eyes. My heart had set up 
 other idols ; it had now ample sea-room, and like our gal- 
 lant vessel, rode gaily over the sparkling ocean of life. I 
 learned to think of Lucy as the destined bride of another; 
 yet I thought of her as a lovely and a hallowed being, 
 and sometimes pronounced her name with the reverence 
 with which a devout Catholic utters that of his tutelar 
 saint. Often when our ship lay becalmed, when the clear 
 moonlight was spread over the ocean, when the waves 
 were at rest and everything was still, I would lie for 
 hours upon the deck, thinking of the school-house and 
 its beautiful grove, and my fair cousin. Then I would 
 think of the honors that awaited me ; of the time when !• 
 
MY COUSIN LUCY. 283 
 
 should be numbered among tlie heroes of my country ; 
 and would sigh to reflect that the lovely flower which so 
 proudly I would have twined among my laurels, would be 
 blushing unseen in the lowly cottage of a country school- 
 master. 
 
 During my first cruise, which lasted nearly two years, I 
 was so fortunate as to distinguish myself on several occa- 
 sions. But I panted for higher honors ; and on our re- 
 turn to port, finding a fine frigate on the point of sailing, 
 I solicited permission to join her ; and being considered as 
 an efficient officer, my request was granted, and I sailed 
 on another cruise without setting my foot on shore. This 
 act of devotedness to my profession raised me in the eyes 
 of my commander, v/^ho afforded me every opportunity of 
 acquiring distinction. - I now rose rapidly. When at sea 
 I was engaged in every hazardous enterprise, and when in 
 foreign ports my superior introduced me into the best so- 
 ciety. Among the exotic beauties whom I beheld I saw 
 none so beautiful as Lucy, but many who were more pol- 
 ished. Perhaps my taste became vitiated, for although I 
 still cherished the memory of her unpretending graces, I 
 learned to admire the more dazzling charms of others, and 
 to indulge the thought that I might at some future day 
 adore another in her stead. 
 
 After a long cruise, in which many dangerous exploits 
 were attempted, and some of them briUiantly accomplish- 
 ed, we were homeward bound, when we fell in with a fine 
 frigate of the enemy. Both ships were soon cleared for 
 action, and after a bloody engagement we succeeded in 
 capturing our foe. I was now acting as a lieutenant, and 
 having the good fortune to be placed on the spar-deck, 
 immediately under the eye of my commander, received his 
 compliments for my conduct. 
 
284 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 We came into port triumphantly. Public honors of the 
 highest character were awarded to us. Dinners and balls 
 were given, and the population of a great city vied in the 
 expression of their patriotic gratitude ; while the news- 
 papers throughout the whole continent were filled with 
 our praises. I was promoted to a lieutenancy, and had 
 the gratification of seeing my name emblazoned in the 
 public prints, with those of my distinguished superiors. 
 In these proud moments I did not forget my fair cousin ; 
 entirely as I had resigned her, and cordially as I wishe'd 
 her happiness, I sighed to think of her obscure and lonely 
 fate. With a partner so bright, so gentle, and so dear, 
 to share my laurels, I should have been supremely happy ; 
 and I could not but marvel at the capricious decree of 
 fortune, which had doomed one who miglit have shone as 
 the bride of a naval hero, to drag out her existence in the 
 vulgar lot of wife to a country pedagogue. 
 
 I had written to my parents on my arrival ; but a round 
 of entertainments, given in honor of our victory, prevented 
 me from visiting them. One evening, as I strolled through 
 the streets with a friend, we passed a spacious church, 
 into which crowds of fashionable people were hurrying with 
 apparent eagerness. 
 
 " Let us go in here," said my companion, " and hear the 
 fashionable preacher — one who has tuined tlie heads of the 
 whole town, and is more talked of than Commodore Perry 
 or General Scott. He is a new man, who has eclipsed all 
 his cotemporaries by his eloquence, while his learning and 
 modesty win universal esteem. 
 
 We entered the church, and I looked round upon the 
 novel exhibition, as upon some fairy scene. It was long 
 since I had sat in the bosom of a worshij)ping congrega- 
 tion ; and how different was this from the rustic assembla<re 
 
MY COUSIN LUCY. 286 
 
 that I had been accustomed to see, gathered in pious 
 silence under the school-house oaks ! Here was a splendid 
 edifice, ornamented with gilding, decorated with rich hang- 
 ings, and lighted with brilliant chandeliers, whose intense 
 effulgence awakened in my unpractised heart a thrilling 
 sensation of excitement. But the audience — how gay, 
 how gorgeous, how beautiful ! Those to whom such 
 scenes are familiar can form but a faint idea of the impres- 
 sion made by a fair and fashionable crowd upon the mind 
 of one accustomed only to rustic assemblages, or to the 
 hardy multitudes who fill the camp or crowd the quarter- 
 deck. Here were gems, and plumes, and silks, and glow- 
 ing cheeks, and sparkling eyes ; but there was also a sim- 
 ple elegance in the attire, a sedateness in the demeanor, 
 and above all a devout humility reigning through this 
 thrilling scene, that added to it a solemn grandeur, which 
 exceeds my powers of description. My heart was elevated 
 as I gazed on that rich, and silent, and motionless picture ; 
 and I felt how the omnipotent influence of religion can 
 quell the happy, and sooth the wretched, and win the gay, 
 and calm down all the tumultuous passions of human na- 
 ture, as oil poured upon the waves reduces them to a 
 placid surface. 
 
 At length the preacher arose, and every eye was turned 
 towards him. I looked up, and what was my surprise at 
 beholding Alexis ! I could not be mistaken, for there he 
 stood in the same simple attire, with the same humble 
 aspect, and the same benignant smile, that were so fa- 
 miliarly impressed upon my recollection. His manner 
 had all its former mildness, and his voice its accustomed 
 melody ; there was only a little more of fullness and com- 
 pass in the one, and a slight tinge of self-confidence 
 added to the other. His sermon was eloquent and able ; 
 
286 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 the language was* clear, classical, and simple ; the manner 
 of its delivery, calm and unassuming. His voice was 
 never strained, and seldom elevated above its ordinary 
 pitch ; it swelled and softened upon the ear, without the 
 slightest effort on the part of the speaker, without the 
 least violence to the sense of the hearer. There was no 
 labor of the body, the arm was never extended, the hand 
 only was raised occasionally from the cushion. The 
 whole manner of the speaker was mild and persuasive ; 
 his argument was acute, close, and powerful, without any 
 attempt to adorn it with the graces of composition, or to 
 win applause by the arts of oratory ; yet such was the 
 effect produced by the delicate choice of harmonious 
 words, their symmetrical arrangement and chaste deliv- 
 ery, together with the apostolic earnestness, and an air of 
 pious conviction that breathed throughout, that all felt 
 and acknowledged that the speaker had opened a new 
 vein of genuine eloquence. 
 
 The deep silence that prevailed during the sermon, and 
 the subdued murmur of applause that ran in whispers 
 through the congregation when the service was over, at- 
 tested the powerful effect of the discourse. As the peo- 
 ple dispersed I endeavored to make my way to Mr. 
 Alexis ; but the crowd was so great as to prevent me 
 from reaching the pulpit imtil he had disappeared ; and 
 as it was late, I returned to my lodgings, determined to 
 seek him on the following day. I now saw that Lucy 
 was not wedded to obscurity and indigence, and gave her 
 full credit for having discovered a man of genius and feel- 
 ing in the despised schoolmaster, who had been so long 
 the object of my contempt and aversion. I took shame 
 to myself for having presumed to institute comparisons 
 between Alexis and myself; and felt humble in acknow- 
 
 J 
 
MY COUSIN LUCY. 287 
 
 ledging that my ephemeral honors would be soon forgot- 
 ten ; Avhile his useful career and splendid powers would 
 sustain for him a brilliant reputation during his existence, 
 and earn a name which his countrymen would cherish 
 with gratitude when he should be no more. One thing 
 flattered my pride and consoled my prejudices ; I learned 
 that Mr. Alexis had long since abandoned his former vo- 
 cation, and that my cousin had not, after all, married a 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 On the following morning early, Mr. Alexis anticipated 
 my visit, by calling to see me. We met cordiallj^ and on 
 the day after were jogging sociably together towards my 
 native place. I found Lucy a proud and happy wife. 
 They had built a neat cottage on the school-house hill, in 
 the midst of that beautiful grove, which thej' carefully 
 preserved in memory of former days ; and I now found 
 that I had not been singular in my admiration of its syl- 
 van graces. The school-house had been removed ; and a 
 large, plain meeting-house on a neighboring eminence is 
 occupied by a numerous congregation, under the ministry 
 of Alexis. Loved and honored by his former pupils, the 
 worthy pastor is surrounded by them, who look up to him 
 with gratitude as the teacher of their youth, and with 
 reverence as the guide of their maturity ; while the happy 
 Lucy, in the society of her early friends and chosen part- 
 ner, enjoys the sweetest fruits of innocence and virtue. 
 Here they live in contentment and honor ; and when I 
 witnessed their placid lives, their pious labors, their active 
 benevolence, and simple virtues, I scarcely knew which to 
 love and admire most ; my fair and gentle cousin Lucy, 
 or my ancient rival, but now my very reverend and much 
 honored cousin, " the schoolmaster." 
 
THE ORPHANS 
 
 BY MISS CAROLINE E. ROBERTS. 
 
 Close — close to me, little one ! here on my knee, 
 Let me fold you thus — thus to my heart ; 
 
 My Willie ! oh, fondly I love you, dear child ! 
 God grant that we never may part ! 
 
 We are poor lonely children — no parents we have ; 
 
 Alone — quite alone now are we ; 
 In this wide, weary world, no kindred or friends ; 
 
 There's only thee, WilHe, and me. 
 
 And Willie, vfe ofttimes will come to this wood. 
 
 With Ponto to keep us from harm ; 
 Here then by this brook, little Willie ; and I 
 
 Will fold thee thus — thus in my arms. 
 
 And I'll tell thee of father, so brave and so good. 
 Who loved thee, young Willie, and me ; 
 
 But who died far away on the ocean so wide. 
 And sleeps in the fathomless sea. 
 
 And I'll tell thee of mother, dear mother, sweet Will ! 
 
 Wiio lies 'neath the church-yard's green sod ; 
 But her blessed spirit in happiness rests. 
 
 At peace in the bosom of God. 
 
-e'^/ 
 
i 
 
THE ORPHANS 
 
 289 
 
 And of little pet Mary, and Johnny, our brotliei-. 
 Whose graves, side by side, may be seen ; 
 
 When the daisies and violets lift up their heads, 
 On those small mounds so fresh and so green. 
 
 And so, little Willie, no one is now left, 
 
 But only thy sister and thee ; 
 Alone — quite alone, in this weary wide world. 
 
 No parents or kindred have we. 
 
 God bless thee, wee Willie, my little pet lamb ! 
 
 God guard thee by night and by day ; 
 Enfold thee about with the arms of his love. 
 
 That thy little feet never may stray. 
 
 And lead thee at length, little Willie, and me. 
 
 To the pastures of heavenly love ; 
 Where by those " still waters," our wanderings all o'er, 
 
 We may rest in his mansions above. 
 
GOLDEN DREAMS 
 
 BY WILLIAM L. STONE. 
 
 I AM not one of those fortunate dofjs who are born into 
 this wicked world having their ears ah-eady ringed with 
 gold, silver spoons in their mouths, and diamonds sparkling 
 upon their fingers ; and who, of course, have nothing to do 
 but vegetate and grow rich. But still I can build as 
 many castles in the air, and adorn them with as much 
 splendor as other people, since the building-lots cost 
 nothing ; and I sometimes have golden visions, as well 
 as the brokers. Nor do they vanish much sooner than 
 I have seen some fortunes. Very lately I was the rich- 
 est man north of Me.xico, and remained so for some time. 
 I will tell the good public how it was. 
 
 Taking a lounge upon the old sofa one afternoon, not 
 a great while since — but no matter exactly when — and 
 feelino: none of the britrhtest for having been detained 
 abroad on the preceding evening to a late hour, by the 
 mao-ic influence of bright eyes and dulcet voices, I was 
 soon overtaken by a dream, which 1 will attempt to 
 relate ; tliouorh I have not the lani;uage at command to 
 enable me to describe it in such glowing colors as the 
 remnants of the vision, which are indistinctly floating 
 in beautiful fragments through my imagination, seem to 
 possess. As well might the painter attempt to adorn 
 the meadow of his landscape with the glittering dew- 
 
GOLDENDREAMS. 291 
 
 drops "which deck the original as with liquid pearl, or 
 think to catch the brightness and glory of the melting 
 sunbeams as they dance upon the watery clouds, tinging 
 their fleecy edges with molten gold. I had but recently 
 returned from a tour through the delio-htful resfions of 
 Western New- York ; and as my eyes began to swim, and 
 my senses to float away in utter forgetfulness of the cares 
 of this world, I was suddenly transported by bright-eyed 
 fancy to the charming shores of the beautiful Owasco 
 Lake. Presently afterwards, the mind having entirely 
 " shufiled off" this mortal coil," and beina: no longer fet- 
 tered by time and space, I found myself straying leisurely 
 from the shore through a deep forest of tall and stately 
 trees, the primitive growth of the rich slopes and hillsides 
 of the west. It was on a lovely autumnal afternoon ; 
 a light haze hung lazily in the air, and thickened in the 
 distant horizon, softening and mellowing the intenser 
 light of the sun, which in turn imparted to the sky and 
 the atmosphere that bright orange hue, at times lending 
 such richness and beauty to that delightful portion of the 
 falling season, known as the Indian summer. " The time 
 of the singing of birds" was past, and my walk was not 
 serenaded by those cheerful little warblers which in the 
 vernal season would have been hopping and twittering 
 from twig to twig, enlivening the solitude, and making 
 the forest vocal with their melodies. But there were 
 other objects of sufficient interest and attraction to 
 occupy the mind. The trees had fallen into " the sear 
 and yellow leaf ;" and as the withering foliage was 
 dropping silently to the earth, it was a source of plea- 
 sure, not unmingled with pensiveness, to look upon the 
 various beautiful hues with which the frosty fingers of 
 Nature had pencilled the leaves, from the dark purple 
 
292 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 and crimson of the oak, to the bright scarlet and yellow 
 of the maple, and the russet brown of the beech. A soli- 
 tary crow rose with lazy wing from the decaying limb 
 of a tree ; now and then a few straggling pigeons hov- 
 ered among the branches over my head, having alighted 
 to rest on their return journey to the south : and Moore's 
 noisy woodpecker was yet " tapping the hollow beech- 
 tree ;" while the busy squirrels were chirping briskly 
 about, as these industrious and providential little crea- 
 tures were gathering in their winter supphes of maize 
 and nuts. My walk thus enlivened, and my mind thus 
 pleasingly occupied by the numerous objects of attention 
 and contemplation, above and around me, I strolled 
 leisurely along for several hours, unconsciously as it 
 were, and without any determinate purpose. At length 
 I reached a mound like the remains of an artificial breast- 
 work of earth and stones, evidently piled together by 
 human hands, and under the direction of those possessino- 
 some knowledge of strategy and the science of war. 
 But so long ago had the mound been reared, that the 
 largest and tallest trees had planted themselves thereon, 
 as securely as their giant neighbors upon the surrounding 
 plain. At the foot of this wall, or embankment, beneath 
 the highest point, disclosing through the earth the rao-tred 
 side of a ledge of rock, near the roots of a lofty maple, 
 issued a clear spring of living water. Here then, me- 
 thought, was the great spring which once supplied the 
 garrison. Here have the dusky chieftains of the forest 
 — the mighty Nimrods of unwritten aboriginal history — 
 slaked their thirst for ages • on ages before the leaves 
 of these trees ever rustled beneath the white man's tread. 
 How many grim visages, thought 1, have been rellected 
 from the bright waters of this fountain, ere the pale- 
 
GOLDEN DREAMS. 293 
 
 faces taught them to mingle the pure element with the 
 maddening fire-water ! How many councils have circled 
 this little spot — how many thrilling traditions have been 
 told, and how many spirit-stirring songs of war have 
 been sung ! While thus musing upon its brink, and 
 looking upon its clear, bright waters, the beautiful though 
 melancholy inscription near a deserted fountain in Cash- 
 mere, occurred to me : " Many, like me, have viewed 
 this fountain, but they are gone, and their eyes are closed 
 forever !" But it seemed now as though the fountain 
 had not for a long time been visited, unless by the elk and 
 the stag. The channel of the rivulet was choked, and 
 the spring itself half-filled with brushwood and decay- 
 ing vegetables. Regarding it with feelings approaching 
 a holy reverence, I forthwith commenced the work of 
 cleansing it by removing the rubbish, and opening a little 
 trench, that the waters mig-ht flow into the neiirhborinsr 
 valley in a clear, bright stream, instead of being com- 
 pelled to ooze sluggishly through the vegetable mire 
 which had filled its native, and once pebbly bed. In 
 displacing the earth and stones which had accumulated 
 in the well, I threw out many fragments of an ancient 
 wall, which must at some remote period have tumbled in ; 
 and while engaged in this labor, I caught hold of a stone, 
 at nearly an arm's length below the surface of the water, 
 which felt rough, and came up heavily. What was 
 my amazement and delight, however, when after tugging 
 some time, on bringing it up, I found it studded and 
 glittering with gems ! The stone was about eighteen 
 inches long by ten in width, rhomboidal in shape, and 
 the most beautiful and valuable precious stones, strangely 
 intermingled, completely covered it on every side. The 
 diameter of the gems seemed to be about an inch ; and 
 
294 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 although they were but rude pebbles in shape, and 
 roughness of surface, having never passed the hands 
 of the lapidary, yet methought they glittered and spark- 
 led, as I held the mass up to the play of the sunbeams, 
 with the most dazzling lustre. The valley of diamonds 
 of the oriental legend could not have looked more re- 
 splendently or shot forth more effulgent rays. There 
 were amethysts, some of violet color, others bordering 
 on purple, and others again tinctured with yellow ; " living 
 sapphires" of the purest blue, and of the finest azure, 
 with some of a still paler lustre ; the beryl, of a bluish, 
 transparent green, of various degrees ; the delicate ruby, 
 of pale red, or red mingled with purple ; the emerald, 
 of the deepest green and richest lustre ; gems of onyx, 
 transparent and variegated with belts and veins, bluish 
 and now white ; and the still more resplendent diamond, 
 pellucid and sparkling with intensest brilliancy, was thickly 
 studded there. Richly commingled with these was the 
 deep red and glowing carbuncle, varying its hues with the 
 position in which it was held, until, turning it directly to 
 the sun, it lost its beautiful, soft tinge, and shone in- 
 tensely like a burning coal ; yellow golden topazes were 
 sprinkled amongst them, some of which were lightly and 
 beautifully clouded like the Bohemian ; the reddish and 
 bloody-colored sardine was sparsely intermingled, with 
 numbers of the lazulia, deep blue and half transparent, 
 enriched with delicate spots and stars of gold. Added to 
 this splendid array of tieasurcs from the palace of the 
 gnomes, a few of the humbler goms — jaspers, white, red, 
 brown, bluish, and green ; crystals, clear and limpid as 
 water ; carnelians, of all the varieties ; and agates, some 
 of which were of deep green, irregulaily sprinkled with 
 red. But the nobler gems predominated. Such was the 
 
GOLDEN D REAM S 
 
 295 
 
 prize now sparkling and glittering in my hands with 
 gladdening lustre. The largest and more brilliant gems, 
 methought, shot back the sunbeams, reflecting a thousand 
 beautiful hues, which, as they became mingled and blend- 
 ed together, formed a halo around me rich and bright as 
 the soft tints of the melting rainbow. Travellers have 
 told us of what has been called the double refraction of 
 the sun's rays, somewhere on the coast of Candia, which 
 tint every shadow, so that shadows fall upon the ship's 
 deck sometimes of azure blue ; now assuming a yellowish, 
 and now a reddish tint ; now varying from blue to green, 
 and now succeeded by the deep glow of evening crimson. 
 So with the halo emitted, so richly and brilliantly, from 
 this clustering mass of gems, mingling their thousand 
 bright and varying hues into a soft glowing circle of com- 
 mingling beauty — of radiating glory ! Long were my 
 ravished senses chained to the contemplation of this 
 splendid treasure. At length I attempted to pluck a 
 noble diamond, of surpassing brilliancy, from between a 
 carbuncle and a lazulia, when, lo ! the whole became 
 loosened, and I shelled them off into my handkerchief — as 
 precious, as perfect, and as brilliant a collection of jewels 
 as the napkin full which the mother of Aladdin presented 
 to the sultan, on demanding the incomparable princess 
 Badroulboudour, for the wife of her vagabond son. But • 
 what was my farther surprise on finding that the stone 
 upon which these magnificent gems had been set by the 
 hand of Nature, which was of a whitish, clayey slate, 
 contained an accurate map of the city of New York ; its 
 streets and houses, its domes and lofty spires, with gallant 
 ships and gay steamers moored at the wharves ! That this 
 picture could have been the work of man was impossible, 
 since the stone had doubtless been imbedded there for 
 
296 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 ages — long ere this occidental world had been discovered — 
 and the colors had been written in the stone by the pencil 
 of Nature. To rae, the discovery of a drawing of my 
 favorite city, not in its infancy, but in the full extent of its 
 present wealth and magnificence, imbedded within a mass 
 of precious stones of unparalleled size and beauty, and 
 painted by the finger of the Almighty, bears an emblem 
 of the prosperity which is to attend it, and the splendor 
 and glory to which it will attain. But my attention soon 
 reverted to my own personal concerns, and the unexam- 
 pled treasures which it was my happy lot to bear back 
 from my afternoon's ramble. I felt proudly conscious 
 that there was no longer a man in America who could vie 
 with me in fortune, nor could the crown jewels of the 
 richest potentate on earth be compared with mine. But 
 my heart was not to be closed to the charities of life, and 
 I resolved to select beautiful presents for my friends, and 
 make ample provision for ray less fortunate relatives. It 
 was, therefore, with emotions of the most aflfectionate 
 pride, that I anticipated the splendid and dazzling array 
 of jewels with which my wife would now mingle in the 
 gayest circles of wealth and magnificence. With these 
 feelings I sat me down to select first and foremost for her, 
 the richest gems in the collection, to be set for a necklace, 
 • bracelets, and a coronet. Diamonds, sapphires, and 
 beryls ; the lazulia, the topaz, and the emerald, were to 
 sparkle in profusion upon her person — no mortal could 
 have been more happy than I ; and the golden vision con- 
 tinued until the spell was broken, the charm dissolved, 
 by an unlocked for and very impertinent intrusion. I 
 fancied that some one from behind had seized me by the 
 arm — probably with the design of robbing me of my 
 newly acquired treasures. I sprang upon my feet and as- 
 
GOLDEN DREAMS. 297 
 
 sumed a posture of defense ; but there was no serious 
 demand upon my courage. The audacious intruder was 
 only my faithful servant, who had shaken me from a glori- 
 ous siesta upon the sofa, merely to say, " Mr. Doolittle, 
 Mr. Doolittle, can't you let me have two dollars to pay 
 the milkman ; he has already ax'd for it a number of 
 timee !" Here was a pail of ice- water ! My wrapt senses 
 were speedily called back to the dull reality of this poor 
 world ; for, without rummaging my pockets, I was quite 
 sensible of being worse off than " the captain bold of 
 Halifax," who, if the song be true, actually had a one 
 pound note in the pocket of his regimental small-clothes, 
 with which the " unfortunate Miss Bailey" was very well 
 satisfied. 
 
 14 
 
FALL FROM PARADISE 
 
 BY E. P. H. 
 
 The glorious sun was beaming 
 
 Upon a sinless world, 
 And, like proud banners streaming, 
 
 The blue skies seemed unfurled. 
 Beneath the folds were peering 
 
 Spirits with lov'C-lit eyes, 
 To smile upon tlie new-born sphere, 
 
 For Earth was Paradise. 
 
 Sweet flowers were ever blushing, 
 
 Fruits luscious met the eye ; 
 And joyous streamlets gushing, 
 
 Welled forth their praise on high ; 
 And fragrant were the dew-drops. 
 
 All pendent from the trees ; 
 Bird-music floated through the air. 
 
 In every answering breeze. 
 
 The tremulous orauije-flowers 
 
 Their balmy drops distilled, 
 As, in those sliady bowers, 
 
 They sat with rapture lilled. 
 And fearless our first parents 
 
 In Holy presence stood ; 
 Or flew to welcome to their hearts 
 
 The Omnipotent and Good. 
 
FALL FROM PARADISE. 299 
 
 But, lo ! the skies are darkened. 
 
 Approaching thunders roll ; 
 Alas ! hath woman hearkened 
 
 To sin, and lost her soul ? 
 Tears fall from weeping angels, 
 
 M usic is silent now ; 
 And from His sight the tempted flee, 
 
 For guilt is on their brow. 
 
 Yes, weep, celestial spirits ; 
 
 Weep, fallen human kind ; 
 Weep, that your race inherits 
 
 Sin, sorrow, nature blind ; 
 And weep, ye drooping willows, 
 
 Beside the moaning stream. 
 For Eden's bowers are desolate, 
 
 Without a sunny beam. 
 
 Yet Mercy comes with healing — 
 
 Jehovah's promised Son, 
 Our own redemption sealing, 
 
 A glorious crown hath won. 
 Emanuel, our Saviour, 
 
 Left the bright throne above, 
 And tasted death that we might live. 
 
 And share the Father's love. 
 
 Oh, woman ! last created. 
 
 And first to sin, beware ! 
 To death and sorrow fated, 
 
 Oh, guard your trust with care ! 
 Deal gently with the erring, 
 
 Let fervent prayers arise ; 
 And train young souls for brighter realms. 
 
 For Heaven is Paradise. 
 
ELLEN 
 
 BY MISS MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 
 
 A VERY small gift may sometimes cause great pleasure. 
 I have just received a present which has delighted me 
 more than anything ever bestowed on me by friends or 
 fortune. It is — but my readers shall guess what it is; 
 and, that they may be enabled to do so, I must tell them 
 a story. 
 
 Charlotte and Ellen Page were the twin daughters of 
 the rector of N., a small town in Dorsetshire. They were 
 his only children, having lost their mother shortly after 
 their birth ; and, as their father was highly connected, 
 and still more highly accomplished, and possessed good 
 church preferment, with a considerable private fortune, 
 they were reared and educated in the most liberal and 
 expensive style. Whilst mere infants they had been un- 
 commonly beautiful, and as remarkably alike as occasional- 
 ly happens with twin sisters, distinguished only by some 
 ornament of dress. Their very nurse, as she used to 
 boast, could hardly tell her pretty " couplets" apart, so 
 exactly alike were the soft blue eyes, the rosy cheeks, the 
 cherry lips, and the curly light hair. Change the tur- 
 quoise necklace for the coral, and nurse herself would 
 not know Charlotte from Ellen. This pretty puzzle, this 
 inconvenience, of which mammas and aiuUs, and grand- 
 mammas love to complain, did not last long. Either from 
 
 4 
 
ELLEN. 301 
 
 a concealed fall, or from original delicacy of habit, the 
 little Ellen faded and drooped almost into deformity. 
 There was no visible defect in her shape, except a slight 
 and almost imperceptible lameness when in quick motion ; 
 but there was the marked and peculiar look in the fea- 
 tures, the languor and debility, and above all, the distress- 
 ing consciousness attendant upon imperfect formation ; 
 and, at the age of twenty years, the contrast between the 
 sisters was even more striking than the likeness had been 
 at two. 
 
 Charlotte was a fine, blooming, noble-looking girl, 
 rather above the middle height ; her eyes and complexion 
 sparkled and glowed with life and health ; her rosy lips 
 seemed made for smiles, and her glossy brown hair played 
 in natural ringlets round her dimpled face. Her manner 
 was a happy mixture of the playful and the gentle ; frank, 
 innocent, and fearless, she relied with a sweet confidence 
 on every body's kindness, and was ready to be pleased, 
 and secure of pleasing. Her artlessness and naivete had 
 great success in society, especially as they were united 
 with the most perfect good-breeding, and considerable 
 quickness and talent. Her musical powers were of the 
 most delightful kind ; she sang exquisitely, joining, to 
 great taste and science, a life, and freedom, and buoyancy, 
 quite unusual in that artificial personage, a young lady. 
 Her clear and ringing notes had the effect of a milk-maid's 
 song, as if a mere ebullition of animal spirits ; there was 
 no resisting the contagion of Charlotte's glee. She was a 
 general favorite, and above all, a favorite at home — the 
 apple of her father's eye, the pride and ornament of 
 his house, and the delight and comfort of his life. The 
 two children had been as much alike, and born so nearly 
 together, that the precedence in age had never been de- 
 14* 
 
302 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 finitely settled ; but that point seemed very early to decide 
 itself. Unintentionally, as it were, Charlotte took the 
 lead, gave invitations, received visitors, sat at the head of 
 the table, becoming in fact, and in name, Miss Page, while 
 her sister continued Miss Ellen. 
 
 Poor Ellen ! she was short, and thin, and sickly, and 
 pale, with no personal charm but the tender expression of 
 her blue eyes and the timid sweetness of her countenance. 
 The resemblance to her sister had vanished altogether, 
 except when very rarely some strong emotion of pleasure, 
 a word of praise, or a look of kindness from her father, 
 would bring a smile and a blush at once into her face, and 
 lighten it up like a sunbeam. Then, for a passing moment, 
 she was like Charlotte, and even prettier-:— and there was 
 so much of mind, of soul, in the transitory beauty. In 
 manner she was unchangeably gentle and distressingly shy 
 — shy even to awkwardness. Shame and fear clung to 
 her like her shadow. In company she could neither sing, 
 nor play, nor speak, without trembling, especially when her 
 father was present. Her awe of him was inexpressible. 
 Mr. Page was a man of considerable talent and acquire- 
 ment, of polished and elegant manners, and great con- 
 versational power — quick, ready, and sarcastic. He never 
 condescended to scold ; but there was something very 
 formidable in the keen glance, and the cutting jest, to 
 which poor Ellen's want of presence of mind frequently 
 exposed her — something from which she shrank into the 
 very earth. He was a good man too, and a kind father 
 • — at least he meant to be so — attentive to her health 
 and comfort, strictly impartial in favors and presents, in 
 pocket-money and amusements ; making no ditference be- 
 tween the twins, except that which he could not help, the 
 difference in his love. But, to an apprehensive temper 
 
ELLEN. 303 
 
 and affectionate heart, that was everything ; and whilst 
 Charlotte flourished and blossomed like a rose in the sun- 
 shine, Ellen sickened and withered like the same plant in 
 the shade. 
 
 Mr. Page lost much enjoyment by this unfortunate par- 
 tiality ; for he had taste enough to have particularly 
 valued the hicrh endowments which formed the delight of 
 the few friends to whom his daughter was intimately 
 known. To them not only her varied and accurate ac- 
 quirements, but her singular richness of mind, her grace 
 and propriety of expression, and fertility of idea, joined to 
 the most perfect ignorance of her own superiority, ren- 
 dered her an object of as much admiration as interest. In 
 poetry, especially, her justness of taste and quickness of 
 feeling were almost unrivalled. She was no poet herself, 
 never, I believe, even ventured to compose a sonnet ; and 
 her enjoyment of high literature was certainly the keener 
 for that wise abstinence from a vain competition. Her 
 admiration was really worth having. The tears would 
 come into her eyes, the book would fall from her hand, 
 and she would sit lost in ecstasy over some noble passage, 
 till praise, worthy of the theme, would burst in un- 
 conscious eloquence from her lips. 
 
 But the real charm of Ellen Page lay in the softness of 
 her heart and the generosity of her character : no human 
 being was ever so free from selfishness, in all its varied 
 and cUnging forms. She literally forgot herself in her 
 pure and ardent sympathy with all whom she loved, or 
 all to whom she could be useful. There were no limits to 
 her indulgence, no bounds to her candor. Shy and timid 
 as she was, she forgot her fears to plead for the innocent, 
 or the penitent, or even the guilty. She was the excixser- 
 general of the neighborhood, turned every speech and 
 
I 
 
 304 THE MOSS-ROSE.. 
 
 action the sunny side without, and often in her good-na- 
 tured acuteness hit on the real principle of action, when 
 the cunning and the worldly-wise, and the cynical, and 
 such as look only for bad motives, had failed. She had, 
 too, that rare quality, a genuine sympathy, not only with 
 the sorrowful — there is a pride in that feeling, a superior- 
 ity ; we have all plenty of that — but with the happy. 
 She could smile with those who smiled, as well as weep 
 with those who wept, and rejoice in a success which she 
 had not contributed, protected from every touch of envy, 
 no less by her noble spirit than by her pure humility : she 
 never thought of herself. 
 
 So constituted, it may be imagined that she was to all 
 who really knew her, an object of intense admiration and 
 love. Servants, children, poor people, all adored Miss 
 Ellen. She had other friends in her own rank of life, 
 who had found her out — many ; but her chief friend, 
 her principal admirer, she who loved her with the most 
 entire affection, and looked up to her with the most de- 
 voted respect, was her sister. Never was the strong and 
 lovely tie of twin-sisterhood more closely knit than in 
 these two charming young women. Ellen looked on her 
 favored sister with a pure and unjoalous delight that made 
 its own happiness, a spirit of candor and of justice that 
 never permitted her to cast a shade of blame on the 
 sweet object of her father's partiality; she never,, indeed, 
 blamed him ; it seemed to her so natural that evory one 
 should prL-fer her sister. Charlotte, on the other hand, 
 used all her inlluencc for Ellen, protected and defended 
 her, and was half tcnijtted to murmur at an aftection 
 which she would have valued more if shared equally with 
 that di;ar friend. Tluis they lived in peace and harmony ; 
 Cliarlotte'H bolder trmper and higher spirits leading and 
 
ELLEN. 
 
 305 
 
 guiding in all common points, ■n'hilst on the more im- 
 portant she implicitly yielded to Ellen's judgment. But, 
 when they had reached their twenty-first year, a great evil 
 threatened one of the sisters, arising — strange to say — 
 from the other's happiness. Charlotte, the reigning helle 
 of an extensive and affluent neighborhood, had had almost 
 as many suitors as Penelope ; but, light-hearted, happy at 
 home, constantly busy and gay, she had taken no thought 
 of love, and she always struck me as a very likely subject 
 for an old maid ; yet her time came at last. A young 
 man, the very reverse of herself, pale, thoughtful, gentle- 
 manlike, and melancholy, wooed and won our fair Euphro- 
 syne. He was the second son of a noble house, and 
 bred to the church ; and it was agreed between the 
 fathers, that, as soon as he should be ordained — for he 
 still wanted some months of the necessary age — and 
 settled in a family living held for him by a friend, the 
 young couple should be mai-ried. 
 
 In the mean while Mr. Page, who had recently succeed- 
 ed to some property in Ireland, found it necessary to go 
 thither for a short time ; and, imwilling to take his 
 daughters with him, as his estate lay in the disturbed dis- 
 tricts, he indulged us with their company during his ab- 
 sence. They came to us in the bursting spring-time, on 
 the very same day with the nightingale ; the country was 
 new to them, and they were delighted with the scenery 
 and with our cottage hfe. We, on our part, were en- 
 chanted with our young guests. Charlotte was certainly 
 the most amiable of enamored damsels, for love with her 
 was but a more sparMing and smiling form of happiness ; 
 all that there was of care and fear in this attachment fell 
 to Ellen's lot ; but even she, though sighing at the thought 
 
306 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 of pfirting, could not be very miserable whilst her sister 
 was so happy. 
 
 A few days after their arrival, we happened to dine 
 with our accomplished neighbors, Colonel Falkner and his 
 sister. Our joung friends, of course, accompanied us ; 
 and a similarity of ago, of liveliness, and of musical talent, 
 speedily recommended Charlotte and Miss Falkner to each 
 other. They became immediately intimate, and were soon 
 almost inseparable. Ellen at first hung back. 
 
 " The house was too gay, too full of shifting corapanj^ 
 of titles, and of strange faces. Miss Falkner was vciy 
 kind ; but she took too much notice of her, introduced her 
 to lords and ladies, talked of her drawings, and pressed 
 her to sing ; she would rather, if I pleased, stay with me, 
 and walk in the coppice, or sit in the arbor, and one 
 might read Spenser while the other worked — that would 
 be best of all. Might she stay ?" 
 
 " Oh, surely ! But Colonel Falkner, KWt-n, 1 thought 
 you would have liked him ?" 
 
 " Yes !" 
 
 " That yes sounds exceedingly like ?jo." 
 
 " Why, is he not almost too clever, too elegant, too 
 grand a man ? Too mannered, as it were ? Too much 
 like what one fancies of a prince — too high and too con- 
 descending ? These are strange faults," continued she, 
 laughing, "and it is a curious injustice that I should dis- 
 like a man merely because he is so graceful, that he makes 
 me feel doubly awkward — so tall, that I am in his presence 
 a conscious dwarf — so alive and eloquent in conversation, 
 that I feel more than ever puzzled* and unready. But 
 so it is. To say the truth, I am more afraid of iiiin than 
 any human being in the world, except one. I may stay 
 with you — may 1 not ; and read of Una and of I^ritomart 
 
ELLEN. 307 
 
 — that prettiest scene, where her old nurse soothes her to 
 sleep ? I may stay ?" 
 
 And for two or three mornings she did stay with me ; 
 but Charlotte's influence and Miss Falkner's kindness 
 speedily drew her to Holly-grove, at first shyly and re- 
 luctantly, yet soon with an evident though quiet enjoy- 
 ment ; and we, sure that our young visitors could gain 
 nothing but good in such society, were pleased that they 
 should so vary the humble home-scene. 
 
 Colonel Falkner was a man in the very prime of life, of 
 that happy age which unites the grace and spirit of youth 
 with the firmness and viofor of manhood. The heir of a 
 large fortune, he had served in the Peninsula war, fought 
 in Spain and France, and, quitting the army at the peace, 
 had loitered about Germany, and Italy, and Greece, and 
 only returned on the death of his father, two or three 
 years back, to reside on the family estate, where he had 
 won " golden opinions from all sorts of people." He was, 
 as Ellen truly described him, tall and graceful, and well- 
 bred, almost to a fault. He certainly did excel rather too 
 much in the mere forms of politeness, in clokings and 
 bowings, and handings down stairs ; but then he was 
 thoroughly imbued with its finer essence — considerate, 
 attentive, kind, in the most comprehensive sense of that 
 comprehensive word. I have certainly known men of 
 deeper learning and more original genius, but never anv 
 one whose powers were better adapted to conversation, who 
 could blend more happily the most varied and extensive 
 knowledge with the most playful wit and the most interest- 
 ing and amiable character. Fascinating was the word that 
 seemed made for him. His conversation was entirely free 
 from trickery and display — the charm was, or seemed to 
 be, perfectly natural ; he was an excellent listener ; and 
 
308 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 when he was speaking to any eminent person — orator, artist, 
 or poet — I have sometimes seen a slight hesitation, a mo- 
 mentary diffidence, as attractive as it was unexpected. It 
 was this astonishing evidence of fellow-feeling, joined to the 
 gentleness of his tone, the sweetness of his smile, and his 
 studied avoidance of all particular notice or attention, that 
 first reconciled Ellen to Colonel Falkner. His sister, too, 
 a charming young woman, as like him as Viola to Sebas- 
 tian, began to understand the sensitive properties of this 
 shrinking and delicate flower, which, left to itself, repaid 
 their kind neglect by unfolding, in a manner that siu-pris- 
 ed and delighted us all. Before the spring had glided 
 into summer, Ellen was as much at home at Holly- grove 
 as with us ; and talked, and laughed, and played, and 
 sang, as freely as Charlotte. She would, indeed, break 
 off, if visibly listened to, either when speaking or singing ; 
 but still the ice was broken ; that rich, low, mellow voice, 
 unrivalled in pathos and sweetness, might be heard every 
 evening, even by the colonel, with little more precaution, 
 not to disturb her by praise or notice, than would be used 
 with her fellow-warbler the niffhtino-ale. 
 
 She was happy at Holly-grove, and we were delighted ; 
 but so shifting and various are human feelings and wishes, 
 that, as the summer wore on, before the hay-making was 
 over in its beautiful park, Avhilst the bees were still in its 
 hme-trees, and the golden beetle lurked in its white rose, 
 I began to lament that she had ever seen Holly-grove, or 
 known its master. It was clear to me, that unintentional- 
 ly on his part, unwittingly on hers, her heart was gone — 
 and, considering the merit of the unconscious possessor, 
 probably gone forever. She had all the ])retty marks of 
 love at that happy moment when the name ;yul nature of 
 the passion are alike unsuspected by the victim. To her 
 
ELLEN 
 
 309 
 
 there was but one object in the whole world, and that one 
 was Colonel Falkner : she lived only in his presence ; 
 hung on his words ; was restless, and knew not why, in 
 his absence ; adopted his tastes and opinions, which 
 differed from hers as those of clever men so frequently do 
 from those of clever women ; read the books he praised, 
 and praised them too, deserting our old idols, Spenser 
 and Fletcher, for his favorites, Dryden and Pope ; sang 
 the songs he loved as she walked about the house ; drew 
 his features instead of Milton's in a portrait which she was 
 copying for me of our great poet — and finally, wrote his 
 name on the margin. She moved as in a dream — a dream 
 as innocent as it was delicious — but oh, the sad, sad 
 waking! It made my heart ache to think of the misery 
 to 'which that fine and sensitive mind seemed to be re- 
 served. 
 
 Ellen was formed for constancy and suffering — it was 
 her first love, and it would be her last. I had no hope 
 that her affection was returned. Young men, talk as they 
 may of mental attractions, are commonly the slaves of 
 personal charms. Colonel Falkner, especially, was a pro- 
 fessed admirer of beauty. I had even sometimes fancied 
 that he was caught by Charlotte's, and had, therefore, 
 taken an opportunity to commimicate her engagement to 
 his sister. Certainly he paid our fair and blooming guest 
 extraordinary attention ! anything of gallantry or com- 
 pliment was always addressed to her, and so for the most 
 part was his gay and captivating conversation ; whilst his 
 manner to Ellen, though exquisitely soft and kind, seemed 
 rather that of an affectionate brother. I had no hopes. 
 
 Affairs were in this posture when I was at once grieved 
 and relieved by the unexpected recall of our young visitors. 
 Their father had completed his business in Ireland, and 
 
310 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 was easrer to return to his dear home, and his dear chil- 
 dren; Charlotte's lover, too, was ordained, and was im- 
 patient to possess his promised treasure. The intended 
 biidegroom was to arrive th e same evening to escort the 
 fair sisters, and the journey was to take place the next 
 day. Imagine the revulsion of feeling produced by a 
 short note, a bit of folded paper — the natural and re- 
 doubled ecstasy of Charlotte — the mingled emotions of 
 Ellen. She wept bitterly ; at first she called it joy — ^joy 
 that she should again see her dear father ; then it was 
 grief to lose her dear Charlotte ; grief to part from me ; 
 but, when she threw herself in a farewell embrace on the 
 neck of Miss Falkner, whose brother happened to be ab- 
 sent for a few days on business, the truth appeared to 
 burst upon her at once, in a gush of agony, that seemed 
 likely to break her heart. 
 
 Miss Falkner was deeply affected ; begged her to write 
 to her often, very often ; loaded her with the gifts of little 
 price, the valueless tokens which aflfection holds so dear, 
 and stole one of her fair ringlets in return. 
 
 " This is the curl which William used to admire," said 
 she — " have you no message for poor William ?" 
 
 Poor Ellen ! her blushes spoke, and the tears dropped 
 from her downcast eyes ; but she liad no utterance. 
 Charlotte, however, came to her relief with a profusion of 
 thanks and compliments ; and Ellen, weeping with a voice 
 that would not be controlled, at last left Holly-grove. 
 
 The next day we too lost our dear young friends. Oh, 
 what a sad day it was ! how much we missed Charlotte's 
 bright smile and Ellen's sweet coni})lacency ! We walked 
 about desolate and forlorn, with the painful sense of want 
 and insufficiency, and of (hat vacancy in our home, and at 
 our board, which the departure «)f a cherished guest is 
 
ELLEN. 311 
 
 sure to occasion. To lament the absence of Charlotte, 
 the dear Charlotte, the happiest of the happy, was pure 
 selfishness ; but of the aching heart of Ellen, my dear 
 Ellen, 1 could not bear to think — and yet I could think of 
 nothing else, could call up no other image than her pale 
 and trembhng form, weeping and sobbing as I had seen 
 her at Holly-grove ; she haunted even my dreams. 
 
 Early the ensuing morning I was called down to the 
 colonel, and found him in the garden. He apologized for 
 his unseasonable intrusion ; talked of the weather, then of 
 the loss which our society had sustained; blushed and 
 hesitated ; had again recourse to the weather ; and, at last, 
 by a mighty effort, after two or three sentences begun and 
 unfinished, contrived, with an embarrassment more grace- 
 ful and becoming than all his polished readiness, to ask 
 me to furnish him with a letter to Mr. Page. 
 
 " You must have seen," said he, coloring and smiling, 
 " that I was captivated by your beautiful friend ; and I 
 hope — I could have wished to have spoken first to her- 
 self, to have made an interest — but still if her affections 
 are disengaged — tell me, you who must know, you who 
 are always my friend, have I any chance ? Is she dis- 
 engaged ?" 
 
 " Alas ! I have sometimes feared this ; but I thought 
 you had heard — your sister at least was aware" — 
 
 " Of what ? It was but this very morning — aware of 
 what ?" 
 
 "Of Charlotte's engagement." 
 
 " Charlotte ! It is of Ellen, not her sister, that I speak 
 and think. Of Ellen, the pure, the delicate, the divine ! 
 That whitest and sweetest of flowers ; the jasmine, th© 
 myrtle, the tube-rose among women," continued he, 
 elucidating his similes by gathering a sprig of each plant, 
 
312 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 as he paced quickly up and down the garden walk — " El- 
 len, the fairest and the best ; your darhng and mine ! 
 Will you give me a letter to her father ? And will you 
 wish me success ?" 
 
 " Will I ? Oh, how sincerely ! My dear colonel, I beg 
 a thousand pardons for undervaluing your taste — for sus- 
 pecting you of preferring a damask rose to a blossomed 
 myrtle; I should have known you better." And then we 
 talked of Ellen, dear Ellen — talked and praised till even 
 the lover's heart was satisfied. I am convinced that he 
 went away that morning persuaded that I was one of the 
 cleverest women and the best judges of character that 
 ever lived. 
 
 And now my story is over. What need to say, that the 
 letter was written with the warmest zeal, and received 
 with the most cordial graciousness — or that Ellen, though 
 shedding sweet tears, bore the shock of joy better than 
 the shock of grief — or that the twin-sisters were married 
 on the same day, at the same altar, each to the man 
 of her heart, and each with every prospect of more than 
 common felicity ? What need to say this ? Or having 
 said this, why should I tell what was the gift that 
 enchanted me ? I will not tell ; my readers shall decide 
 according to their several fancies between silver favors or 
 bridal gloves, or the magical wedding cake drawn nine 
 times through the ring.