THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 PROFESSOR 
 GEORGE R. STEWART 
 
THE 
 
 KEEPSAKE OF FRIENDSHIP: 
 
 Christmas and New Tear's Annual 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 GK S. MUNROE. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 PUBLISHED BY LEAVITT & ALLEN. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18S4,by 
 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, 
 la the Clerk'e Office of the District Court of the District of Mosgachuwtte 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE USE OF FLOWERS, t 
 
 HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS, . . MRS. ABDY 11 
 
 SUNSHINE, MARIA NORRIS, . . 53 
 
 BACHELOR BIM, HATTIE, 57 
 
 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY, FROM THE ITALIAN, . 64 
 
 ELINORE, . JOHN 8. ADAMS, ... 107 
 
 THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE, ANONYMOUS, .... 110 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF THE ANGELS, JOHN PATCH, 129 
 
 THE STOLEN CHILD, ANONYMOUS, .... 132 
 
 FORGET-ME-NO'i, FROM PLATEN, . . . 163 
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO ? J. S. A., 166 
 
 BRIDGET PATHLOW, ANONYMOUS, .... 168 
 
 MATERNAL DREAM, FROM THE GERMAN, 194 
 
 THE DREAMERS OF DOCKUM, FROM THE GERMAN, . 195 
 LOVE'S MEMORY. MBS. GRAY, . 805 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 SEEKING, DORA GREENWELL,. .207 
 
 THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE, . . . . J. 8. A., 213 
 
 ON A WITHERED BOUQUET, . . E. S., 224 
 
 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S ) 
 
 . MARY HO WITT, .... 225 
 CHRISTMAS EVE . . J 
 
 FLOWER ANGELS, .... RUCKERT, 262 
 
 QUEEN ESTHER, , . E. P. 265 
 
 SONNETS, MRS. N. CROSLAND, . 269 
 
 A TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME, . E. M. R., .... 271 
 
 JOSEPHINE, MABY E, HEWITT, . 981 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 " THE KEEPSAKE " has already such a wide circle of ac- 
 quaintance as to render a formal introduction wholly un- 
 necessary. 
 
 Its constantly increasing sale, from year to year, has been to 
 the publishers a gratifying indorsement of the literary and 
 mechanical execution of the work. 
 
 Although in title and dress the same as heretofore, yet, in 
 its literary and illustrative departments, it is entirely new, and, 
 it is believed, will be found even more attractive than any one 
 of its predecessors in the series. 
 
THE KEEPSAKE. 
 
 THE USE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 GOD might have made the earth bring forth 
 
 Enough for great and small, 
 The Oak tree and the Cedar tree, 
 
 Without a flower at all. 
 
 He might have made enough, enough 
 
 For every want of ours : 
 For luxury, medicine, and toil, 
 
 And yet have made no flowers. 
 
 The clouds might give abundant rain, 
 
 The nightly dews might fall, 
 And the herb that keepeth the life in man, 
 
 Might yet have drank them alL 
 
10 THE USE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Then wherefore, wherefore were they made 
 And dyed with rainbow light, 
 
 ,/Ul fashioned with supremest grace, 
 Upspringing day and night ; 
 
 Springing in valleys green and low, 
 And on the mountains high : 
 
 And in the silent wilderness 
 Where no man passes by ? 
 
 Our outward life requires them not, 
 Then, wherefore had they birth? 
 
 To minister delight to man ; 
 To beautify the earth : 
 
 To comfort man to whisper hope 
 
 Whene'er his fate is dim : 
 For whoso careth for the flowers, 
 
 Will much more care for Him* 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 BY MBS. ABDY. 
 
 "As the diamond excels every jewel we find, 
 So truth is the one peerless gem of the mind." 
 
 A NEW tragedy was about to be brought forth at 
 the Haymarket Theatre. Report spoke loudly of its 
 merits, and report touched closely on the name of its 
 author. Either Talbot or Stratford must have written 
 it ; those regular attendants at rehearsal, who seemed 
 equally interested in every situation, equally at home 
 in every point, throughout the piece. Some said that 
 it was a Beaumont and Fletcher concern, in which 
 both parties were equally implicated; and this conjec- 
 ture did not appear improbable, for the young men 
 in question were indeed united together in bonds of 
 more than ordinary friendship. They had been school- 
 fellows and brother collegians ; each was in the en- 
 joyment of an easy independence; and their tastes, 
 pursuits, and ways of living were very similar. So 
 
12 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 congenial, indeed, were they in taste, that they had 
 both fixed their preference on the same lady. Ade- 
 laide Lhiley was an accomplished and pretty heiress, 
 who, fortunately for them, was the ward of Mr. Gray- 
 son, an eminent solicitor, with whom they had recently 
 renewed an early acquaintance. Rivalry, however, 
 failed of its usual effect in their case; it created no 
 dissension between them ; indeed, the manner of Ade- 
 laide was very far removed from coquetry, and although 
 it was evident that she preferred the friends to the 
 rest of her wooers, she showed to neither of them 
 evidence of any feeling beyond those of friendship 
 and good will. 
 
 The night of the tragedy arrived. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Grayson, their ward, and two or three of her "woo- 
 ers " were in attendance before the rising of the cur- 
 tain ; they were just as ignorant as other people 
 touching the precise identity of the dramatist about 
 to encounter the awful fiat of the public. Talbot 
 and Stratford were sheltered in the deep recesses of 
 a private box ; had they been in a public one, no- 
 body could have doubted which was the hero of the 
 evening. Talbot's flushed cheek, eager eye, and ner- 
 vous restlessness plainly indicated that the tragedy 
 was not written on the Beaumont and Fletcher plan, 
 but that it owed its existence entirely to himself. 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 13 
 
 The curtain rose ; the tragedy was admirably per- 
 formed, and many of the speeches were beautifully 
 written ; but it lacked the indescribable charm of 
 stage effect, so necessary to stage success : the last 
 act was heavy and uninteresting, great disapprobation 
 was expressed, and finally another piece was an- 
 nounced for the succeeding evening. 
 
 Adelaide was much concerned; it mattered nothing 
 to her whether the play was written by Talbot or 
 Stratford : she wished well to each of them, and sym- 
 pathized in the disappointment of the author. Talbot, 
 who had anticipated stepping forward to the front of 
 the box, and gracefully bowing his acknowledgments 
 to the applauding audience, now found himself under 
 the necessity .of making an abrupt exit, muttering in 
 vectives on their stupidity ; and Stratford repaired to 
 his own lodgings, aware that Talbot, in the present 
 state of his mind, was unfitted for the society even 
 of his Favorite friend. The next morning, Stratford 
 had half finished breakfast when Talbot entered the 
 room. Stratford was about to accost him with a 
 lively remark, that " he hoped the severity of the 
 audience had not spoiled his night's rest;" but a mo 
 mentary glance at his friend told him that such a 
 remark would be cruelly sarcastic : it was quite clear 
 that his night's rest had been spoiled ; it was quite 
 2 
 
14 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 clear that what had been " sport " to the public had 
 been death to the dramatist ; it was quite clear that 
 the " Russian Brothers," although they had ceased to 
 exist on the stage of the Haymarket Theatre, were 
 still hovering about, like shadowy apparitions, " to 
 plague the inventor" ! 
 
 " Read these papers," said Talbot, placing four or 
 five newspapers in the hands of Stratford, " and do 
 not wonder that I look and feel miserable at having 
 thus exposed myself to the derision of the world." 
 
 Stratford hastily finished a cup of coffee, and 
 pushed away a just broken egg ; it seemed quite un- 
 feeling to think of eating and drinking in the pres- 
 ence of so much wretchedness. He turned to the 
 dramatic article of one newspaper after another, ex- 
 pecting to find his friend victimized, slandered, and 
 laughed to scorn ; but in reality, as my readers may 
 perhaps be prepared to hear, the critics were very 
 fair, reasonable critics, indeed ; and it was only the 
 sensitiveness of the author which had converted them 
 into weapons of offence. 
 
 " I am sure," said Stratford, after the scrutiny was 
 concluded, " the dramatic critic of the i Times ' speaks 
 very kindly of you ; does not he say that there is 
 much beauty in many of the speeches, only that the 
 drama is unsuited for representation ? " 
 
THE HEIEESS AND HER WOOERS. 15 
 
 " Exactly so," replied Talbot, dryly ; " the only de- 
 fect he finds in it is, that it is perfectly unsuited for 
 the purpose for which it was written." 
 
 " But," persisted Stratford, " he says that he is cer 
 tain you would succeed better in a second attempt." 
 
 " As I shall, most assuredly, never make a second 
 attempt," replied Talbot, " his opinion, or that of any 
 one else on the subject, is of very little importance 
 to me." 
 
 " Surely, however," said Stratford, " it is better to 
 receive the commendation of writers of judgment and 
 ability, than the applause of the one shilling gallery. 
 Arbuscula was an actress on the Roman stage, who 
 laughed at the hisses of the populace, while she re- 
 ceived the applause of the knights." 
 
 Talbot only replied to this anecdote by a muttered 
 exclamation of impatience. 
 
 And here let me give a few words of advice to my 
 readers. Whenever you condole with those in trouble, 
 do it in the old-fashioned, cut-and-dried way; it is 
 true that your stojck phrases and tedious truisms may 
 cause you to be called a bore, but thousands of highly 
 respectable condoling friends have been called bores 
 before you, and thousands will be called so after you. 
 But if you diverge at all from the beaten track, and 
 attempt to introduce a literary allusion, or venture on 
 
16 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 a classical illustration, depend upon it you will be 
 cited ever afterwards as an extremely hard-hearted 
 person, intent alone on displaying your own wit or 
 wisdom, instead of properly entering into the sorrows 
 of your friend. 
 
 "The ' Morning Chronicle,'" resumed Stratford, 
 " speaks highly of the scene between the brothers at 
 the end of the second act." 
 
 "Yes," replied Talbot, "and the 'Morning Chron- 
 icle* winds up its critique by advising me never to 
 write another drama." 
 
 " Did you not say just now that you never intended 
 to do so ? " asked Stratford. 
 
 "How I wish, Stratford," exclaimed Talbot, im- 
 petuously, "that I could make you enter into my 
 feelings. How very differently you would think and 
 speak if you were the author of a condemned tragedy ! " 
 
 " I do not consider," said Stratford, " that if such 
 were the case, I should, in any respect, think or speak 
 differently. I should feel far more pleasure in know- 
 ing that I had written a work which deserved to be 
 successful, than mortification at the want of good taste 
 in a mixed and misjudging audience, which had caused 
 it to fail of success." 
 
 Stratford, having been unfortunate in his previous 
 attempts at consolation, had taken some pains to 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 17 
 
 demise a prettily-turned speech ; but he little thought 
 how completely successful it would prove ; the coun- 
 tenance of Talbot actually lighted up with pleasure. 
 
 " Are you really sincere in what you have said ? n 
 he replied. "I have a particular reason for wishing 
 to know ; do not reply to me in a hurry ; take a few 
 minutes for consideration." 
 
 Somewhat surprised, Stratford began the course of 
 mental examination prescribed by his friend ; and the 
 result of it was, that although he had only meant to 
 speak civilly, he found that he had been speaking 
 truly ; for Stratford had a great admiration for liter- 
 ary talents, and a great wish to possess them ; he also 
 knew that Adelaide Linley was a warm admirer of 
 dramatic poetry; he could not doubt that her judg- 
 ment would lead her to approve of the " Russian 
 Brothers ; " and, in regard to its condemnation, she, 
 like every other intelligent person, must be fully 
 aware that the plays that read best in the closet are 
 often least adapted to the stage. 
 
 " I have considered the matter again," said Strat- 
 ford, after a pause, " and I repeat what I previously 
 Baid. I should be glad to be the author of the 
 Russian Brothers/ even although it has been con- 
 demned. But after all, Talbot, how useless is this 
 conversation ! No good wishes on your part, or aspiring 
 2* 
 
18 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS 
 
 wishes on my own, can make me the author of a 
 drama to which I never contributed an idea or a 
 line." 
 
 " Yet," said Talbot, " I do not see why the business 
 might not be arranged to our mutual satisfaction. 
 You wish to be known as the author of this play; I, 
 perhaps foolishly and irritably, repent that I ever wrote 
 it ; no one but ourselves is aware which of us is the 
 author : why should you not own it ? I will most joy- 
 fully give up my claim to you." 
 
 Stratford was a little startled at this proposition. 
 
 " But should the deception be discovered," he said, 
 "people will allege that, like the jay, I have been 
 strutting in borrowed plumes." 
 
 " Not at all," replied Talbot ; " your plumes are not 
 borrowed, but are willingly bestowed upon you by 
 the owner ; besides, how should any discovery ensue, 
 except from our own disclosures ? You, of course, 
 will not wish to disown what you consider it a credit 
 to gain ; and for myself, I give you my word, that 
 should the i Russian Brothers ' be destined to attain 
 high celebrity at a future day, I shall never assert 
 my rights of paternity they are the children of 
 your adoption ; but remember, you adopt them for 
 life." 
 
 "Willingly," replied Stratford; "and now let rii 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 19 
 
 pay a visit at Mr. Grayson's house. Doubtless the 
 fair Adelaide will be impatient to pour balm into the 
 wounds suffered by one of her adorers ; pity is some- 
 times akin to love." 
 
 " It is more frequently akin to contempt," mur- 
 mured Talbot, in too low a voice to be heard; but 
 nevertheless the friends proceeded on their way, talk- 
 ing much less cheerfully, and looking much less con- 
 tented, than might be supposed, when it is considered 
 that they had recently entered into a compact so sat- 
 isfactory to both of them. I wish I could say that 
 conscience bore any share in their disquietude, and 
 that each felt grieved and humiliated at the idea 
 that .he was violating the sacred purity of truth ; but 
 such was not the case. Either Talbot or Stratford 
 would have shrunk from the idea of telling a false- 
 hood of malignity or dishonesty ; but the polite un- 
 truths of convenience or flattery were as " household 
 words" in their vocabulary. A dim foreboding of 
 evil, however, now seemed to overshadow them. Tal- 
 bot had something of the same sensation which a man 
 may be supposed to have, who has cast off a trouble- 
 some child in a fit of irritation. His tragedy had 
 been a source of great disappointment and mortifica- 
 tion to him ; but still it was his own ; it had derived 
 existence from him ; he had spent many tedious dayj 
 
20 THE HEIRESS AND HEK WOOERS. 
 
 and nights watching over it before he could bring it 
 to perfection ; he was not quite happy in the idea 
 that he had forever made over all right and title in 
 it to another. Stratford also was somewhat dispirited ; 
 he could not help thinking about a paper in the 
 " Spectator " concerning a " Mountain of Miseries/* 
 where Jupiter allowed every one to lay down his own 
 misery, and take up that of another person, each in- 
 dividual in the end being bitterly dissatisfied with the 
 result of the experiment. Stratford had laid down 
 his literary insignificance, and taken up the burden 
 of unsuccessful authorship : should he live to repent 
 it? This in the course of a little time will appear. 
 Adelaide Linley sat in the drawing room of her 
 guardian, eagerly awaiting a visit from her two favor- 
 ite admirers. She was not alone, neither was one of 
 ner " wooers " with her. Her companion was a quiet- 
 looking young man, whose personal appearance had 
 nothing in it to recommend him to notice, although a 
 physiognomist would have been struck with the good 
 expression of his countenance. His name was Alton, 
 and he was the confidential clerk of her guardians 
 He had never presumed to address the heiress, save 
 with distant respect ; but she valued him for the 
 excellent qualities which had made him a high favor- 
 ite with Mr. Gray son, and always treated him t*\i 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 21 
 
 kindness and consideration. On the present occasion, 
 however, she was evidently somewhat out of humor, 
 and accepted the sheet of paper from him, on which 
 he had been transcribing for her some passages from 
 a new poem, with a cold expression of thanks. Alton 
 lingered a moment at the door of the room. " There 
 is peculiar beauty," he said, "in the closing lines of 
 the last passage." 
 
 " There is," replied the heiress, carelessly ; " but I 
 should scarcely have thought, Mr. Alton, that you 
 would have taken much interest in poetry : why did 
 you not accompany us, last night, to see the new 
 tragedy, although so repeatedly pressed to do so?" 
 
 " I had a reason for declining to go, Miss Linley, : ' 
 said Alton. 
 
 " Probably you disapprove of dramatic representa- 
 tions," said Adelade ; " in which case, I approve your 
 consistency and conscientiousness in refusing to fre- 
 quent them." 
 
 Alton would have liked to be approved by Ade- 
 laide ; but he liked to speak the truth still better. 
 
 " That was not my reason," he replied ; " I do not 
 disapprove of the drama, nor could I expect any 
 thing that was not perfectly excellent and unexcep- 
 tionable from the reputed authors of the tragedy in 
 question. I had another reason." 
 
22 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 "May I beg to know it?" said Adelaide, half in 
 jest and half in earnest. 
 
 Alton's cheek became flushed, but he replied, " I 
 am not in the habit of withholding the truth, when 
 expressly asked for it. I never go to public amuse- 
 ments, because I object to the expense." 
 
 Alton could scarcely have made any speech that 
 would more have lowered him in Adelaide's estima- 
 tion. The young can make allowance for "the good 
 old gentlemanly vice" of avarice, in those who have 
 lived so many years in the world that gathering gold 
 appears to them as suitable a pastime for age as that 
 of gathering flowers for childhood; but avarice in 
 youth, like a lock of white hair in the midst of sunny 
 curls, seems sadly out of its place. Adelaide knew 
 that Alton received a liberal stipend from her guar- 
 dian, and that he had also inherited some property 
 from a cousin ; he had not any near relations ; he was 
 doubtless hoarding entirely for his own profit ; he was 
 a gold worshipper in a small way, accumulating the 
 precious metal by petty economies in London, instead 
 of going out manfully to dig it up by lumps in Cali- 
 fornia. She therefore merely replied, "You are very 
 prudent, Mr. Alton," with a marked and meaning in- 
 tonation of the last word, which converted it into a 
 severe epigram, and took up a book with an air of 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 23 
 
 such unmistakable coldness, that the discomfited econ- 
 omist was glad to beat a retreat. Adelaide's solitude 
 was soon more agreeably enlivened by the arrival of 
 Talbot and Stratford. Talbot quickly dispelled all 
 embarrassment as to the lubject of the tragedy, by 
 playfully saying, " I bring with me an ill-fated author, 
 who, I am sure you will agree with me, deserved 
 much better treatment than he has met with." 
 
 Hereupon, Adelaide offered words of consolation, 
 and very sweet, kind, and winning words they were ; 
 indeed, Stratford deemed them quite sufficient to com- 
 pensate for the failure of a tragedy ; but, then, we 
 must remember that Stratford was not really the au- 
 thor of the " Russian Brothers ; " his wounds were 
 only fictitious, and therefore it was no very difficult 
 task to heal them. Possibly, Talbot might have felt 
 a little uneasy at Adelaide's excess of kindness, had 
 he been present during the whole of Stratford's visit; 
 but Talbot had soon made his escape to his club ; he 
 had several friends there, who suspected him of hav- 
 ing written the tragedy of the preceding night : a few 
 hours ao he had dreaded the idea of meeting them ; 
 but now he encountered them with fearless openness, 
 expressing his concern for the failure of Stratford's 
 tragedy, and remarking that "the poor fellow was so 
 terribly cut up about it, that he had advised him to 
 
94 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 keep quiet for a few days, and let the affair blew 
 over." 
 
 Talbot and Stratford dined together; both were in 
 good spirits: neither of them had yet begun to feel 
 any of the evils of the deceptive course they were 
 pursuing. A week passed, and the sky was no longer 
 so fair and cloudless. Adelaide's pity for Stratford 
 was evidently far more akin to love than contempt; 
 she was an admirer of genius, and was never wearied 
 of talking about the tragedy, which had really made 
 a deep impression upon her. She requested Strat- 
 ford to let her have the rough copy of it ; the request 
 was not so embarrassing as might be supposed, for 
 Stratford had been obliged to ask Talbot to give it 
 to him, that he might be able to answer Adelaide's 
 continual questions as to the conduct of the story and 
 development of the characters : the handwriting of 
 the friends was very similar, and the blotted, inter- 
 lined manuscript revealed no secrets as to its especial 
 inditer. " Remember," said Adelaide, as she playfully 
 received it, "that I consider this as a gift, not as a 
 loan ; it will probably be introduced into various 
 circles." 
 
 Talbot was present at the tune, and felt a pang 
 of inexpressible acuteness at the idea of the offspring 
 of his own brain being paraded in "various circles" 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 25 
 
 as the production of Stratford. He could not offer 
 any opposition to Adelaide's intentions; but he re- 
 venged himself by constant taunting allusions to the 
 mortifications of an unsuccessful dramatist, shunned by 
 the manager, scorned by the performers, and even a 
 subject of sarcastic pity to the scene-shifters. 
 
 These speeches hurt and offended Stratford, espe- 
 cially as they were always made in the presence of 
 Captain Nesbitt, another of the "wooers" of the 
 heiress, who shared Talbot's newly-born jealousy of 
 Stratford, and consequently was delighted both to 
 prompt and keep up any line of conversation likely 
 to humiliate him in the presence of his lady love. A 
 short time ago, Talbot and Stratford had been gener- 
 ous and amicable rivals ; but they had ceased to walk 
 together in peace from the period when they entered 
 on the crooked paths of dissimulation. When Ade- 
 laide had attentively read the manuscript tragedy, she 
 transcribed it in a fair hand ; she had already fixed 
 on a destination for it. One of the oldest friends of 
 Adelaide's late father was a fashionable London pub- 
 lisher. Adelaide had kept up frequent intercourse 
 with him, and waited on him with her manuscript, 
 secure of being kindly received, even if he did not 
 grant her request Fortunately, however, for her, he 
 Viad been present at the representation of the " Russian 
 3 
 
26 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 Brothers," and had been extremely struck with the 
 beauty of the dialogue, and he readily agreed to print 
 it. "When the proofs were ready, Adelaide, quite sure 
 that she should be giving great pleasure to Stratford, 
 announced to him what she had done. 
 
 Stratford nervously started, and gave a hurried, ap- 
 prehensive glance at Talbot. 
 
 "It will be certain to be a favorite with the read- 
 ing public, will it not?" said Adelaide, addressing 
 Talbot. 
 
 " I am sure it will," answered Talbot, with anima- 
 tion, forgetting for the moment every thing but that 
 he was the author of the " Russian Brothers," and 
 that the " Russian Brothers " was going to be printed. 
 " How well the scene will read between the brothers 
 at the end of the second act ! " 
 
 " It will, indeed, returned Adelaide, with an ap- 
 proving glance at Talbot, whom she had lately sus- 
 pected of being somewhat envious of the genius of 
 his rival ; " really we must try and inspire our friend 
 with a little more confidence. I don't think he is at 
 all aware of his own talents." 
 
 " I don't think he is, indeed," said Talbot, with a 
 distant approach to a sneer. 
 
 " But my favorite passage," pursued Adelaide, " is 
 the soliloquy of Orloff, in the third act. Will you 
 repeat it, Mr. Stratford?" 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 27 
 
 Stratford began to repeat it as blunderingly and 
 monotonously as he had been wont to repeat " My 
 name is Norval," in his schoolboy days ; but Talbot 
 quickly took possession of it, and recited it with feel- 
 ing and spirit. 
 
 " How strange it is," said Adelaide, " that authors 
 rarely give effect to their own writings ! But how 
 beautiful is the sentiment of that speech more 
 beautiful, I think, every time one hears it. How 
 did you feel, Mr. Stratford, when you wrote those 
 lines?" 
 
 Stratford declared, with sincerity, that he had not 
 the slightest recollection how he felt ; and Adelaide 
 asked Talbot to repeat another speech, and praised 
 his memory and feeling, in return for which he praised 
 her good taste. Poor Talbot ! he was somewhat in 
 the position of the hero of a German tale : a kind of 
 metempsychosis seemed to have taken place in rela- 
 tion to himself and his friend, and he did not know 
 whether to be delighted that his tragedy should be 
 admired, or angry that it should be admired as the 
 composition of Stratford. All contradictory feelings, 
 however, merged into unmistakable resentment and 
 discontent when the tragedy was published : it became 
 decidedly popular; the Reviews accorded wonderfully 
 in their commendation of it, and the first edition was 
 
28 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 speedily sold off. Stratford's name was not prefixed 
 to it, at his own especial request ; he did not want 
 to plunge deeper into the mazes of falsehood than he 
 had already done. But Talbot had proclaimed with 
 such unwearied perseverance that Stratford was the 
 author of the condemned tragedy, that his name on 
 the title page would have been quite an unnecessary 
 identification. Poor Talbot ! he certainly had much 
 to try his patience at present. Stratford received 
 abundance of invitations, in virtue of his successful 
 authorship ; he went to many parties in the character 
 of a lion, where he was treated with much solemn 
 reverence, and his most commonplace remark was 
 evidently treasured as the quintessence of wit and 
 judgment. These festivities Talbot did not wish to 
 share. But frequently Stratford was invited to lit- 
 erary, real literary parties, where every body in the 
 room was celebrated for doing something better than 
 it is done by people in general ; and were any half 
 dozen guests taken at random from the assemblage, 
 they would have sufficed to stud an ordinary party 
 with stars. Here Stratford was introduced to brilliant 
 novelists, exquisite pbets, profound scholars, and men 
 of searching science. Here, also, he met with literary 
 women, as gentle and unassuming as they were gifted 
 and celebrated, who wore their laurels with as much 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 29 
 
 simplicity as if they had been wild flowers ; and who, 
 so far from possessing any of the old-fashioned ped- 
 antry which has aptly been defined as " intellectual 
 tight lacing," were ready to converse on the most 
 trite and every-day subjects casting, however, over 
 every subject on which they conversed, the pure and 
 cheering sunshine of genius. 
 
 All these new acquaintance of Stratford's were ex- 
 tremely kind and encouraging in their manner towards 
 him, inquiring into his tastes and employments, prais- 
 ing him for that which he had already done, and 
 encouraging him to do more in future. Such society 
 and such conversation would have realized Talbot's 
 earliest aspirations, and he could not willingly cede 
 those privileges to a man who had never written 
 half a dozen lines to deserve them. Yet Talbot was 
 not a vain nor a selfish man : had Stratford been 
 really gifted by nature with superior abilities to his 
 own, he would have been quite satisfied that he 
 should have reaped the harvest of them. But that 
 Stratford should be distinguished . at once by the notice 
 of the gifted ones of earth, and by the smiles of 
 Adelaide Linley, and that he might himself have been 
 occupying that doubly enviable position, had he only 
 kept in the simple path of truth, it was indeed a 
 trial to the nerves and to the temper. At length; 
 
30 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 one day, when the rivals were alone, the smouldering 
 fire burst forth. 
 
 " I am very much surprised, Stratford," said Talbot, 
 flattering himself that he was speaking in a remark- 
 ably cool, self-possessed tone, when in reality his cheeks 
 were flushed with excitement, had his voice trembled 
 with irritation "I am very much surprised that you 
 can continue from day to day to enjoy literary celeb- 
 rity to which you must feel that you have not the 
 shadow of a claim." 
 
 Stratford did not return an angry answer to liis 
 friend ; he was on the winning side, and successful 
 people can always afford to be good tempered. " I do 
 not see," he replied, " how I can possibly escape all 
 the marks of kindness and distinction that are shown 
 to me." 
 
 " Have you any wish to escape them ? " asked Tal- 
 bot, sneeringly. 
 
 " Before you reproach me," said Stratford, " I think 
 you should remember at whose suggestion the decep- 
 tion was first entered into." 
 
 " I did not foresee the consequences," said Talbct. 
 
 " Pardon me," said Stratford ; " the consequences 
 were foreseen by both of us. I remarked that I was 
 unwilling to strut, like the jay, in borrowed plumes ; 
 and you replied, that if the ( Russian Brothers ' attained 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 31 
 
 the greatest celebrity, you would never assert your 
 rights of paternity." 
 
 " You certainly possess an excellent memory," said 
 Talbot, sarcastically, " whatever other mental attributes 
 you may be deficient in. I remember the promise of 
 secrecy to which you allude, but no promise was 
 made on your part, ; therefore, if you are inclined to 
 descend from your usurped position, and give it up 
 to the rightful owner, there is no cause why you 
 should refrain from doing so." 
 
 " And can you really," asked Stratford, with sur- 
 prise, " expect that I should expose myself to the 
 censure and ridicule of society for the purpose of 
 reinstating you in rights which you voluntarily made 
 over to me ? " 
 
 Talbot paused some time before he replied. " I 
 feel," he said, " that I have expected too much. I 
 rescind my proposal. I will only require you to make 
 known the truth under a strict promise of secrecy to 
 one individual." 
 
 " And that individual is Adelaide Linley, I con- 
 clude," said Stratford. 
 
 " It is," replied Talbot ; " let Adelaide but know me 
 as I really am, and I do not heed at least I will 
 endeavor not to heed the opinion of the world ; be- 
 sides, Stratford, recollect that, if you marry Adelaide, 
 
32 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 she must certainly find out the deception eventually; 
 she can never believe that the fount of poetry has sud- 
 denly dried up within you ; no doubt, indeed, she has 
 already begun to wonder that you have not given vent 
 to ' a woful sonnet made to your mistress's eyebrow.' " 
 Stratford returned no answer, but the conversation 
 left a deep impression on his mind ; and he felt that 
 it would indeed be the most honest and upright course 
 that he could pursue, to confess the whole truth to 
 Adelaide, and then silently to withdraw himself from 
 the literary society of which he was so little calcu- 
 lated to be a member. Nor was this resolution of 
 Stratford's so great a sacrifice as might be imagined ; 
 he had for some time felt himself very little at ea?e 
 among his brilliant new associates ; he was aware 
 that he was only " cloth of frieze," although circum- 
 stances had for a time matched him with " cloth of 
 gold." He could not respond to the literary quota- 
 tions and allusions constantly made in his presence. 
 He had heard some wonder expressed that he had 
 no scraps in his portfolio to show confidentially to ad- 
 miring friends ; and the editor of a leading periodical 
 had kindly suggested to him a subject for a tale in 
 blank verse, which, if written at all in the style of 
 the tragedy, should, he said, receive immediate atten- 
 tion from him. Then, in other circles, young ladies 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 33 
 
 had requested contributions for their albums, and Ade- 
 laide had more than once expressed her wish to have 
 new words written for some of her favorite old airs. 
 
 Stratford, the morning after his conversation with 
 Talbot, sought the presence of Adelaide, resolved that, 
 if his courage did not fail him, he would make a 
 confession of his misdeeds, and an offer of his hand 
 and heart before he left the house. He found Ade- 
 laide, as he had wished, alone ; she was reading a 
 letter when he entered, and it dropped on the ground 
 as she rose to receive him ; he lifted it up, and rec- 
 ognized the hand in which it was written ; it was 
 that of Captain Nesbitt, and the letter appeared to be 
 of some length. Stratford felt disposed to be rather 
 jealous ; Captain Nesbitt was well connected, remark- 
 ably handsome, very lively, and had, like Captain 
 Absolute, " an air of success about him which was 
 mighty provoking/' 
 
 " Do not let me interrupt your perusal of that let- 
 ter," he said, rather coldly and stiffly. 
 
 " You have doubtless," said Adelaide, with a smile, 
 " seen the handwriting ; you do not prevent me from 
 reading the letter I have just finished it ; and, al- 
 though your visit may cause my answer to it to be 
 delayed a little while longer, the delay is of no man- 
 ner of importance, since I shall only write a few lines 
 of no very agreeable purport." 
 
34 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 " I pity the poor fellow from my heart," exclaimed 
 Stratford, and he spoke with sincerity ; he could af- 
 ford to pity Captain Nesbitt when he knew that 
 Adelaide was about to reject him. 
 
 " He does not deserve your pity," said Adelaide. 
 
 " Can the gentle and kind-hearted Adelaide express 
 herself so harshly?" asked Stratford, feeling more 
 and more generously inclined towards his rival, when 
 he saw how much he was disdained. 
 
 " I must explain myself," said Adelaide ; " for I 
 should be very sorry that you (and the delighted lover 
 actually fancied that he detected a slight emphasis on 
 the word you) should believe me to be hard-hearted 
 and unkind. Captain Nesbitt has considerably fallen 
 in my estimation during the last few days. I have 
 received abundant proofs that he does not always love 
 and respect the truth." 
 
 Stratford began to feel rather nervous ; he had a 
 particular dislike to conversation which turned on the 
 subject of love and respect for the truth. 
 
 " Captain Nesbitt," continued Adelaide, " when he 
 first became acquainted with me, informed me that, 
 although his present property was but limited, he ex- 
 pected to succeed to the estates of an old and infirm 
 uncle residing in Wales. I was lately in company 
 with a family who happened to live in the immediate 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HEE WOOERS. 35 
 
 neighborhood of this wealthy old uncle ; he has indeed 
 large estates, but he has two sons in excellent health, 
 to inherit them." 
 
 Adelaide here paused, expecting to hear an excla- 
 mation of indignant surprise from Stratford; but it 
 was not uttered. Stratford was by no means troubled 
 with an over-development of conscientiousness, and it 
 appeared to him that Captain Nesbitt had committed 
 a very venial offence in keeping two Welsh cousins 
 in the background, who might have interfered so ma- 
 terially with his interests. 
 
 " Doubtless," he at length remarked, " this subter- 
 fuge on Captain Nesbitt's part was owing to the excess 
 of his affection for you." 
 
 " I doubt it very much," said Adelaide ; " affection 
 is always prone to overrate the good qualities of its 
 object : now Captain Nesbitt must have greatly under- 
 rated mine, if he could deem it likely that, possessing 
 as I do an ample sufficiency of the goods of fortune, 
 it could make any difference to me whether the lover 
 of my choice were wealthy or otherwise." 
 
 " Could you not in any case deem an untruth ex- 
 cusable?" asked Stratford. 
 
 " In none," replied Adelaide ; " but there are cases 
 in which I deem it particularly inexcusable : the false- 
 hoods of pride or vanity, the assumption of being 
 
36 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 bettsr, or richer, or wiser than we really are, thes 
 are, in my opinion, as contemptible as they are xepre- 
 hensible." 
 
 " Men of the world," pursued Stratford, " are apt to 
 think very little of an occasional deviation from truth." 
 
 " Pardon me," said Adelaide, " if I entirely differ 
 from you. Should one man of the world tax another 
 with the violation of truth in homely, downright phrase, 
 what is the consequence? The insult is considered 
 so unbearable, that in many cases the offender has 
 even been called on to expiate his words with his life. 
 Now, if a departure from truth be so mere a trifle, 
 why should not the accusation of having departed 
 from truth be also considered as a trifle ? " 
 
 Stratford was silent ; his shallow sophistry could 
 not contend with Adelaide's straitforward right-mind- 
 edness, and he was rejoiced when the entrance of 
 visitors put an end to the conversation. A tete-a-tete 
 with Adelaide had on that morning no charms for 
 him ; he lacked nerve for either a confession or a 
 proposal ! Perhaps, however, it would have been bet- 
 ter for Stratford if he could have summoned courage 
 to have outstaid the visitors, and revealed every thing 
 to Adelaide ; for discovery was impending over his 
 head from a quarter where he could not possibly expect 
 it, inasmuch as he was ignorant of the very existence 
 
THE HEIRESS AXD HEB WOOERS. 37 
 
 of the person about to give the information. Every 
 one must have been repeatedly called on to remark, 
 that in society there seems to be a mysterious agency 
 perpetually at work, bearing news from one quarter 
 to another apparently quite unconnected with it. In 
 every class or set we meet with some person who 
 makes us cognizant of the sayings and doings of 
 another class or set, from which we have been hitherto 
 removed at an immeasurable distance. Often the in- 
 formation thus gained is desultory and uninteresting, 
 and it passes away from our mind almost as soon as 
 we receive it; occasionally it strikes upon soiL.3 con- 
 necting chord, and we eagerly listen, and respond to it. 
 When Adelaide Linley left school, she had, like 
 most young girls, a favorite friend, with whom she 
 kept up a regular correspondence, at the rate of three 
 sheets of rose-colored note paper a week. Emma 
 Penryn, however, lived in Cornwall ; and as year after 
 fear passed by, and the friends never met, the cor- 
 respondence decidedly slackened. Still, however, it 
 was never wholly given up, and Adelaide had written 
 tc her friend shortly after the introduction of Talbot 
 and Stratford to her, mentioning their names, and 
 speaking of them as likely to prove pleasant and de- 
 lirable acquaintance. The day after Adelaide's inter- 
 view with Stratford, a letter arrived for her from 
 4 
 
00 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 Emma Penryn. She apologized for her long silence, 
 and gave an excellent reason for it; .she had been 
 receiving the addresses of a very desirable admirer, 
 who had at length proposed, and been accepted ; he 
 was a Cornish man, and his property lay within a 
 few miles of that of her father. After entering into 
 numerous details regarding the carriage, the trousseau, 
 and the marriage settlement, (young ladies in the nine- 
 teenth century are very apt to talk and write about the 
 marriage settlement,) the bride elect continued : 
 
 " I am quite sure you will hear an excellent char- 
 acter of my dear Trebeck, if you mention his name 
 to Mr. Talbot ; only think of their being great friends : 
 indeed, Mr. Talbot was quite confidential with Tre- 
 beck a year ago, when staying with him in the 
 country house of a mutual friend, and actually was so 
 kind as to read to him the beautiful tragedy of the 
 
 1 Russian Brothers/ to which he had just put the 
 finishing stroke. Mr. Talbot did not let any one else 
 know a word about it, and in fact extracted a prom- 
 ise of the strictest secrecy from Trebeck ; the reason 
 was, that he meant to produce the tragedy on the 
 stage, and had a terrible nervous fear of failure a 
 fear which was unfortunately realized by the event ; 
 I suppose because it was too good for the audience to 
 understand. Trebeck kept the secret most admirably, 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 39 
 
 never breathing a word of it even to me, till the 
 brilliant success of the published play of course look 
 off the embargo of silence, and now we tell it to every 
 body ; and Trebeck, I assure you, is not a little proud 
 of the confidence reposed in him by his literary 
 friend." 
 
 Adelaide read this part of the letter with incredu- 
 lous surprise, imagining that Emma was under some 
 misapprehension ; but when she came to reflect on 
 past events, she could not but see that it was very 
 likely to be true ; she had several times been much 
 struck with the inconsistency of Stratford's conversa- 
 tion and his reputed literary talents, and had felt 
 surprised that he should so invariably have resisted 
 all persuasion, even from herself, to give any further 
 proof of his poetical abilities. It might seem aston- 
 ishing that Talbot should so freely have acquiesced 
 in this usurpation ; but Emma's letter threw light on 
 the subject, by alluding to Talbot's nervous horror 
 of failure, and Adelaide's quick apprehension soon 
 enabled her to see the real state of the case, and to 
 become sorrowfully convinced that Captain Nesbitt 
 was not the only one of her " wooers " who had shown 
 himself regardless of the sacred laws of truth. 
 
 Reluctantly, but steadily, did the young heiress pre- 
 pare herself to act as she considered for the best 
 
40 THE HEIRESS AND HER TVOOERS. 
 
 under the circumstances. She wrote to Talbot and 
 to Stratford, requesting that they would each wait 
 upon her at the same time on the following day 
 Neither of them suspected the reason of this sum- 
 mons ; Talbot had indeed almost forgotten the exist- 
 ence of the silly, good-natured Trebeck : he had read 
 the " Russian Brothers " to him, because, like most 
 writers, he felt the wish, immediately after complet- 
 ing a work, to obtain a hearer for it ; and because, 
 like some writers, he had a great deal of vanity, and 
 had been flattered by the deferential admiration of a 
 man much inferior to him, and from whom he need 
 not fear any distasteful criticism. Talbot knew Tre- 
 beck to be perfectly honorable, and if he had ever 
 thought of him at all, he would have remembered the 
 promise of secrecy he had exacted from him, and 
 would have felt quite at ease. It never entered his 
 mind that circumstances might happen which would 
 induce Trebeck to consider himself absolved from his 
 promise, and that, as the " Russian Brothers " had 
 been published without a name, it was perfectly natural 
 and probable that the Cornish squire might be igno- 
 rant that the London world of letters imputed the 
 authorship of it to Stratford, and not to Talbot. The 
 rivals were punctual to their appointment, anticipating 
 nothing more important than that they should be 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 41 
 
 invited to join a party to a flower show or the opera 
 house. Adelaide did not keep them in suspense, but 
 said that she wished to read to them part of a letter 
 which she had recently received. When she had fin- 
 ished, she told them that she had considered it right 
 to make them acquainted with this statement, and 
 asked if they had any thing to say in refutation of 
 it. They looked confused, and were silent. Stratford 
 was the first to speak. " Forgive me for my seeming 
 assumption of talents not my own," he said ; " and 
 remember that my motive was to save a friend from 
 the mortification of acknowledging a defeat." 
 
 " I cannot conceive that such was your only mo- 
 tive," replied Adelaide : " you evidently took pride and 
 pleasure in your new character. Did you attempt to 
 suspend the publication of the drama ? Did you 
 shrink from the distinctions that followed it ? No ; 
 you courted popularity, and enjoyed it, knowing all 
 the time that you had done nothing to merit it, and 
 that the whole of the applause that you received was 
 in reality the right of your friend ! " 
 
 Adelaide's words sounded a knell to the hopes of 
 Stratford, but they seemed " merry as a marriage 
 bell" to the eager ears of Talbot. "Dearest Ade- 
 laide," he said, " how kindly, how gratifyingly do you 
 speak of my talents ! They are entirely dedicated to 
 4* 
 
42 THE HEIRESS AND HER "WOOERS. 
 
 you : all the laurels that they may hereafter gain for 
 me shall be laid at your feet ! " 
 
 " Do not trouble yourself to be so very grateful, 
 Mr. Talbot," replied Adelaide. "You will be little 
 obliged to me when you have listened to all that I 
 have to say to you. r Your talents are undoubtedly 
 great, but I do not consider that vividness of imagina- 
 tion and elegance of composition constitute a man of 
 really fine mind, any more than a suit of regimentals 
 and an acquaintance with military tactics constitute a 
 brave soldier. I may continue the parallel. You en- 
 tered the field of battle by your own choice, knowing 
 that it was possible you might meet with defeat. 
 Your first defeat came, and what was the course you 
 purstied? Did you resolve to try again with added 
 vigor ? No, you determined to conceal that you had 
 tried at all ; you deserted the noble ranks to which 
 you belonged, to sink into the mass of commonplace 
 beings; and should your conduct ever become gen- 
 erally known, rely upon it that all literary men who 
 sit in judgment upon you will unanimously sentence 
 you to be cashiered for cowardice." 
 
 Stratford breathed a little more freely during this 
 speech : it -was a great relief to his feelings to hear 
 his friend so severely reproved. 
 
 " I will not," pursued Adelaide, " dwell upon the 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 48 
 
 offence that you have mutually committed in depart* 
 ing from the straight, clear, and beautiful path of 
 truth ; you well know my opinion on the subject. 1 
 could never feel happy in a near connection, or even 
 in an intimate friendship, with any one who did not 
 know and revere truth as I have always done. I 
 shall, probably, occasionally meet again with both of 
 you ; but we must meet hereafter only on the footing 
 of common acquaintance." 
 
 The disconcerted " wooers," now no longer rivals, 
 took a speedy departure : they exchanged a few sen- 
 tences on their way, in which there was much more 
 of recrimination than of condolence, and then coldly 
 separated. Their friendship had long been at an 
 end, and in the midst of all their recent mortifica- 
 tions, each felt consoled at the thought that he was 
 not compelled to cede Adelaide to the other. 
 
 It was easy for Adelaide to avoid future intimacy 
 with her two rejected lovers, without causing any re- 
 mark among her circle of acquaintance. 
 
 It was now nearly the end of June. Mr. Grayson 
 was quite a man of the old school : he did not stay 
 in London till the middle of August, and then repair 
 to Kissengen or Interlachen. He had a pretty coun- 
 try house a few miles from London, and always 
 removed to it at midsummer. Mrs. Grayson, who 
 
44 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 enjoyed nothing so much as her flower garden, was 
 delighted to escape from the brown, dusty trees of a 
 London square ; and Adelaide, although she liked 
 public amusements, liked them as " soberly " as Lady 
 Grace in the " Provoked Husband," and always pro- 
 fessed herself ready to rusticate as soon as the 
 roses were in bloom. Three days after her interview 
 with Talbot and Stratford, she removed from the 
 bustle of London to a region of flowers, green trees, 
 and singing birds. The former friends now, alas ! 
 friends no longer travelled abroad. They had each 
 studiously contrived to depart on a different day, and 
 to visit a different point of the continent; but they 
 happened accidentally to meet on a mountain in Swit- 
 zerland. They passed each other merely with the 
 remarks that " the scenery was very grand," and that 
 "the panorama of the Lake of Thun, at the Colos- 
 seum, had given one a capital idea of it." 
 
 Stratford returned to London in January : Captain 
 Nesbitt was the first person of his acquaintance whom 
 he encountered. Now Captain Nesbitt possessed an in- 
 fallible characteristic of a narrow-minded, mean-spirited 
 man : he never forgave a woman who had refused him, 
 and never omitted an opportunity of speaking ill of 
 her. After having anathematized Adelaide and her 
 coquetries for some time, he proceeded : " Her marriage, 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 45 
 
 however, will shortly take place, and it is, I think, 
 a fitting conclusion to her airs and graces. Per- 
 haps, as you have only just arrived in England, you 
 are not aware that she is engaged to her guardian's 
 clerk." 
 
 " To Alton ! " exclaimed Stratford " to that quiet, 
 dull young man ! Impossible ! She used to ridicule 
 his unsocial habits, and also was very severe on his 
 propensity for hoarding money." 
 
 " However that might be," replied Captain Nesbitt, 
 "he has proved himself not too dull to devise and 
 succeed in an admirable matrimonial speculation ; and 
 as for his system of hoarding, perhaps the fair Ade- 
 laide, although she objected to it in an indifferent 
 person, may not disapprove of it in a husband. Heir- 
 esses are always terribly afraid of marrying men who 
 are likely to dissipate their money." 
 
 " When is the marriage to take place ? " asked 
 Stratford, with affected carelessness. 
 
 " I believe in a few weeks," said Captain Nesbitt ; 
 " that is, if nothing should happen to prevent it. I 
 think I could set it aside at once, if I took interest 
 enough in Adelaide to make it worth my while to do 
 so. I could communicate to her something respect- 
 ing Alton which would decidedly lower him in he* 
 opinion." 
 
46 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 * Indeed ! " exclaimed Stratford, eagerly. " Haa 
 Alton, then, been guilty of any deviation from the 
 truth ? " 
 
 Poor Stratford! He that is giddy thinks the 
 world turns round ; " and he had no idea that a lover 
 could offend in any other way than by deviating from 
 the truth. 
 
 "I do not know that Alton has told any untruth," 
 said Captain Nesbitt ; " but I have reason to think 
 that he has kept back the truth." 
 
 "That may do quite as well," thought Stratford, 
 " when one has to deal with so scrupulous a person 
 as Adelaide ; " and he requested Captain Nesbitt to 
 explain himself. 
 
 "Alton's father," said Captain Nesbitt, "did not 
 resemble the father in an old song of O'Keefe's, 
 
 '"WTio, dying, bequeathed to his son a good name.' 
 
 He was, like his son, a confidential clerk not, how- 
 ever, to a solicitor, but to a Liverpool merchant. He 
 repaid the confidence of his employer by embezzling 
 sundry sums of money, which he hazarded at the 
 gaming table. At length the frequency of his losses 
 occasioned him to commit a more daring act than a 
 breach of trust : he forged the name of the merchant to 
 a banking-house check : discovery ensued, and he only 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOEKS. 4T 
 
 escaped the punishment of the law by committing 
 suicide. This event happened five years ago, and is 
 fresh in the remembrance of many persons in Liver- 
 pool." 
 
 " But do you not think it likely that Alton may have 
 revealed these facts to Adelaide ? " asked Stratford. 
 
 " I do not think it in the least likely that he should 
 have proved himself such a blockhead ! " replied Cap- 
 tain Nesbitt. " Adelaide would never marry the son 
 of a man who only escaped hanging by suicide." 
 
 " They do not hang for forgery in these' days," 
 said Stratford. 
 
 " So much the worse," said Captain Nesbitt. " It 
 is a crime that cannot be too severely punished. I 
 remember hearing that many years ago a man was 
 hanged for forging the ace of spades : I wish those 
 good old times would come back again." 
 
 Stratford was silent ; not all his pique, nor all his 
 jealousy, could induce him to think that it would be 
 desirable for the times to come back again, when a 
 man was hanged for forging the ace of spades. 
 
 The next day Stratford called at Mr. Grayson's, 
 and found Adelaide alone in the drawing room. She 
 looked a little surprised at seeing him, but received 
 him as she would have done a common acquaintance. 
 Stratford congratulated her on her future prospects, 
 
48 THE HEIRE&S AKD HER WOOERS. 
 
 and uttered some forced commendations on the excel* 
 lence of Alton's character. " He affords a convincing 
 proof," he said, with a little trepidation, " that the son 
 of an unworthy father need not necessarily tread in 
 his steps." 
 
 " There are so many similar instances of that fact," 
 said Adelaide, "that I think there is nothing aston- 
 ishing in them. The good or bad qualities of a father 
 are not, like landed estates, entailed upon his son." 
 
 "Then you do know," said Stratford, "that Alton's 
 father was an unworthy man ? " 
 
 Adelaide looked at him with grave, earnest surprise. 
 " You have chosen a strange subject of conversation," 
 she said ; " but I have no objection to satisfy your 
 curiosity. I heard of the circumstance to which you 
 allude from Alton himself." 
 
 "I conclude," said Stratford, "that Mr. Grayson 
 insisted on his being candid with you, previous to 
 your engagement being concluded?" 
 
 " You are quite in the wrong," returned Adelaide. 
 " Mr. Grayson is much attached to Alton, (whom he 
 is on the point of taking into partnership,) and was 
 very desirous that he should propose to me. He en- 
 joined him to keep secret the melancholy circum- 
 stances connected with his father, as they could only 
 tend to give me uneasiness ; and it was quite certain 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 49 
 
 that no one else would be so deficient in kind feeling 
 as to mention them to me." Stratford felt f rather 
 embarrassed and uncomfortable as Adelaide uttered 
 these words. " Alton's strict and honorable love of 
 truth, however," pursued Adelaide, " led him to dis- 
 regard this counsel. Some weeks before he proposed 
 to me, he made known to me every particular of his 
 father's transgression ; and I assured him, in reply, 
 that I did not consider him in the smallest degree 
 lowered in excellence by having become good, con- 
 scientious, and truthful, without the aid of parental 
 precept or example." 
 
 Stratford was determined to discharge a parting 
 arrow at the provoking heiress. " You have shown 
 yourself extremely liberal in your opinions," he said 
 " and you have the very comforting reflection that, 
 from Mr. Alton's known and remarkable habits of 
 frugality, he is never likely to fall into the same 
 snares that proved fatal to his father, but will dis- 
 tinguish himself rather by saving money than by 
 squandering it." 
 
 "As you appear," said Adelaide, "to speak in 
 
 rather an ironical tone concerning Alton's economy, I 
 
 think it due to him to enter into a short explanation 
 
 of his motives. When Alton first paid me thosa 
 
 5 
 
.50 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 marked attentions which I knew must lead to a 
 proposal, I sometimes rallied him on his strict fru- 
 gality, and sometimes gently reproved him for it : he 
 was not only sparing to himself, but I felt grieved to 
 remark that, although ever willing to devote time 
 and thought to the poor, he rarely assisted them with 
 money. He assured me that he had a reason for his 
 conduct, and that he was certain that I should not 
 blame him if I knew it. He added that the neces- 
 sity for economy would soon cease, and that he should 
 then have the pleasure of indulging his natural feel- 
 ings of liberality. I was not satisfied with this reply. 
 I required him to give a direct answer to a direct 
 question, and to tell me what were his motives for 
 saving, and why they should exist at one time more 
 than another." 
 
 " It was very merciless of you," said Stratford. 
 
 " Not in the least," replied Adelaide. " Alton had 
 given me such ffroofs of his truthful and honorable 
 nature, that I knew, if he held back any communica- 
 tion from me, he could only do so because it was 
 creditable to him, and because he wished to avoid the 
 appearance of boasting of his own good deeds : and 
 so it indeed proved to be. Alton had for five years 
 been denying himself every enjoyment suitable to his 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 51 
 
 age and tastes, for the purpose of saving the sum of 
 money of which his father had defrauded his em- 
 ployer. When he first began this undertaking, if 
 seemed likely to prove a very tedious one ; but two 
 years ago, he happily received a legacy from a rela- 
 tion, which more than half realized the amount that 
 he required: still, however, he did not slacken in his 
 laudable energy; and shortly after the conversation 
 to which I have alluded, he was enabled to pay 
 over the whole sum, with the accumulated interest, to 
 the Liverpool merchant, who sent him a letter full 
 of the kindest expressions of approbation, concluding 
 with the assurance that he should make his noble act 
 of atonement generally known among all his friends. 
 Therefore by this time every one who has censured 
 the faults and frailties of the father is engaged in 
 lauding the honor and honesty of the son." 
 
 Stratford had heard quite enough ; he took a hasty 
 leave, sincerely repenting that he had ever thought 
 of troubling the bride elect with a morning call. 
 
 Alton and Adelaide were married in the course of 
 a few weeks : two years have elapsed since that time, 
 and I am of opinion that the unusual happiness they 
 enjoy is greatly to be attributed to the truthfulness 
 which is the decided characteristic of both of them. 
 
52 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 I am aware that many of my readers will say that 
 it is of little importance whether a married couple, 
 whose interests necessarily bind them together, should 
 mutually love truth, or mutually agree in sanctioning 
 the thousand and one little falsities of worldly ex- 
 pediency; but I think that those who hold such an 
 opinion cannot have had many opportunities of closely 
 observing the domestic circles of their friends and 
 neighbors. Had they done so, they would have been 
 aware that the beginning of matrimonial unhappiness 
 repeatedly arises from the detection by one party of 
 some slight violation of truth on the part of the other. 
 Often such a violation is committed with no ill intent ; 
 nay, often, indeed, is it done with the kind motive of 
 sparing some little trouble or anxiety to the beloved 
 one. A trifling trouble is concealed, a small expense 
 kept in the background, the visit of an intrusive guest 
 unmentioned, or a letter read aloud with the omission 
 of a short part of it, which might be supposed to be 
 unpleasant to the listener. These concealments and 
 misrepresentations, in themselves so seemingly slight, 
 become of terrific account when frequently repeated; 
 confidence is shaken, and when once that is the case, 
 conjugal happiness is soon at an end. Adelaide and 
 her husband are on the most confidential terms, 
 
THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 53 
 
 because neither of them ever thinks whether a true 
 remark or communication is agreeable or not ; they 
 speak it because it is the truth ; and if a moment's 
 pain be thus given, the passing cloud breaks almost 
 as soon as it is perceived; no tempests are suffered 
 to gather in the distance, and the heiress constantly 
 congratulates herself that she chose not the handsom- 
 est, the cleverest, or the most fashionable, but the 
 most truthful of her "wooers." Of these wooers I 
 have but little to say. Captain Nesbitt is on the 
 point of marriage with a middle-aged widow of good 
 fortune ; he was successful in impressing her with the 
 belief that he must ultimately inherit his uncle's, prop- 
 erty ; but she was more cautious than ladies of fewer 
 years and less experience might have been, and made 
 so many inquiries about the state of health of the old 
 gentleman, that his nephew was obliged to improvise 
 an apoplectic fit for him ! This intelligence caused 
 the widow to fix the day, but she is providing a very 
 limited trousseau, since she anticipates the "melan- 
 choly pleasure" of giving large orders in the course 
 of a few weeks at one of the "mansions of grief" 
 in Regent Street. 
 
 Talbot and Stratford seldom meet: indeed, if one 
 becomes introduced into a family, the other almosf 
 5* 
 
54 THE HEIRESS AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 invariably ceases to visit there. However, there are 
 two points in which they show great sympathy and 
 congeniality of mind. They particularly dislike to 
 hear of the failure of a new piece at the theatre ; 
 and there is no work for which they feel such unmiti- 
 gated detestation as one which still engrosses much 
 of the public notice the tragedy of the "Russian 
 Brothers." 
 
SUNSHINE, 
 
 BY MARIA. NORRI3. 
 
 CoimAGE, faint heart! "Why all these fearg 
 
 And questions for the morrow? 
 Wipe, wipe away these bitter tears, 
 
 Mute signs of useless sorrow ! 
 God's planets shine behind the mist; 
 
 So beam thy faith unclouded 
 Like mountain tops by daylight kissed, 
 
 Though all their base be shrouded. 
 
 One Hand holds up the stars that roll, 
 
 And girdles in the ocean; 
 His love is shed on every soul 
 
 To which he gave emotion. 
 O, not one slightest woe befalls 
 
 But he gives strength to bear it; 
 Can He be deaf to Sorrow's calls 
 
 Who came on earth to share it ? 
 
56 SUNSHINE. 
 
 Look up, my brother ! God is good, 
 
 And cares for human grieving; 
 His discipline is spirit food 
 
 To strengthen thy believing. 
 Look up ! Tread under feet the earth - 
 
 Keep free a soaring spirit; 
 Clay only gave thy body birth; 
 
 That soul may all inherit. 
 
 Faith, hope, and love are golden keys, 
 
 That brighten in the using; 
 Thou mayst unlock all heaven with these, 
 
 Thine every foe confusing. 
 Courage, faint heart ! Why all these fears 
 
 And questions for the morrow? 
 Dear brother, wipe away thy tears 
 
 God's love metes out thy sorrow. 
 

BACHELOR BBI, 
 
 OR THE MAGIC OP A LAUGH, 
 
 BY HATTIE. 
 
 You know her, do you ? the bright-eyed, kind- 
 liearted, happy Fannie, she, the light and joy of a 
 wide circle of friends, who luxuriate in her loving 
 smiles as in the sunshine of spring, who laugh be- 
 cause she laughs, and carol their sweet songs because 
 she leads the way with her chirruping voice. O, you 
 know her ; I know you do. I can see it in the 
 dimpling smile that sleeps within your cheek when I 
 mention her name ; the bewitching glance of your 
 eye when I tell you of her. 
 
 She is always happy. She sees nothing in nature 
 but gladness ; nothing in its God but goodness ; and 
 blending these together in one sweet, harmonious 
 whole, she worships with all the devotion of an inno- 
 cent love. 
 
58 BACHELOR BIM. 
 
 Fannie was born in the spring, and whether or 
 not the fact is to be attributed to such a birth time 
 or not, it nevertheless is a fact that she delights in 
 the spring time and beauties. As it advances, and its 
 " ethereal mildness " wafts the sweet fragrance of wood 
 and forest to her cottage home, she instinctively hies 
 away to the home of the birds and flowers. She 
 calls around her half a score of loved companions, and 
 hand in hand romps with them in Nature's festival 
 hall, tapestried with green leaves, bright blossoms, and 
 budding vines. 
 
 They wander by brook and brae, and bind wreaths 
 for their friends at home, whose avocation or ill 
 health prevents them from being participants in their 
 out-door sports. 
 
 Adventurous was the spirit of Fannie. She de- 
 lighted to clamber over the rude rocks, and cast the 
 bright glances of her eyes into nooks and crevices 
 never before illumined by so fair a light. Nor was 
 her limit the forest and field, as the sequel will show. 
 
 There was an old, large, dilapidated building, situ 
 ated about a quarter of a mile from Fannie's dwell- 
 ing. The reputed owner was a bachelor, one of those 
 creatures who are so fond of themselves that they 
 desire no other companion no warm heart to beat 
 in unison with their own, no hand to press the aching 
 
BACHELOR BIM. 
 
 brow, no gentle voice to soothe, comfort, cheer the 
 hours of lingering sickness : 
 
 " Ocean and land the globe divide ; 
 
 Summer and winter share the year; 
 Darkness and light walk side by side ; 
 And earth and heaven are always near." 
 
 But these poor, mistaken fellows, who dream of 
 bliss without aught to create it, would live alone, un- 
 supported, unaided, alone. O, cheerless word to a 
 heart made to love and be loved. 
 
 The grim old mansion stood alone also. It partook 
 of the general appearance of loneliness that surrounded 
 it ; even the stones seemed desirous of parting ; and 
 a few really had done so, and remained where they 
 had fallen types of bachelors' hearts. 
 
 The house was one of those large, uncouth struc- 
 tures, not uncommon, known as somebody's "folly," 
 and was large enough to justify truth in a newspaper 
 ad , ertisement of "a two-story house, containing an 
 acre of land and other conveniences." Bachelor Bim 
 lived in one undivided corner of this edifice, and it 
 was he that Fannie and her friends proposed to 
 visit, en masse. So, one summer morning, just as 
 breakfast had been dished, they dressed themselves in 
 gay attire, and laughing with an earnestness indicative 
 
60 BACHELOR BIM. 
 
 of the peculiar feature of their merry mission, passed 
 in the direction of the field of battle. 
 
 As they neared it, unmistakable signs of theii close 
 approach were to be seen. Here was a wagob. with 
 but one wheel; there a chaise, old and musty, with 
 
 but one seat. 
 
 / 
 
 Fannie, quick in thought, saw all, and accounted 
 for the singleness of spirit which had diffused itself 
 into all animate and inanimate things, by indiscrimi- 
 nately calling them " chips of the old block." 
 
 The building was in view ; and, inclined to jocund 
 laughter as the fair invaders were, a feeling, not really 
 of sadness, but inclined that way, came upon their 
 minds. How lonely, when all might be so cheerful ! 
 And as they carefully opened the gate which, by the 
 way, was dangling upon one hinge, they thought how 
 different all would be with woman's gentle hand to 
 arrange, woman's sweet smile to cheer. 
 
 Then followed a loud, clear laugh, that made the 
 old porch echo with its sourid. 
 
 Fannie was the first to enter. Silently, with finger 
 on her mouth as a token of the momentary silence 
 she wished her companions to observe, unconscious of 
 the near presence of the owner of the house, who, 
 having heard the visitants, had concealed himself be- 
 hind an old carpet that hung near the door, and 
 
BACHELOR BIH. 61 
 
 looking out from an opening in its folds, was intently 
 watching their movements. 
 
 They continued to advance, and one by one ascended 
 the dusty stairs. 
 
 Bachelor Bun, seeing the boldness of the intruders 
 upon his single blessedness, began to twitch about 
 and make himself uneasy. 
 
 Altogether unused to such visitors, he hated their 
 presence. Hermit-like, he had withdrawn himself 
 from his fellows, and saw none, neither man nor 
 woman, except as they occasionally passed his house 
 and then not very distinctly, for they invariably glided 
 by with all speed, a rumor being in circulation that 
 Bim and the evil one lived together, and laid traps 
 for strangers. 
 
 As he saw the last of the frolicsome ascend, Mr. 
 Bim passed up by a rear stairway, and, determined 
 to appear as well as circumstances would allow, seated 
 himself on a broken chair in what he called "the 
 best room." 
 
 Shook ! How he shook and shivered as the laugh 
 was heard resounding within those sombre walls ! And 
 the madcaps, as he calls them, approach. Closer to his 
 chair he clings, firmer he sits. Lo ! one leg breaks 
 beneath his weight, and he balances himself on two. 
 Just at this moment the door opens, and in rush the 
 6 
 
62 BACHELOR BIM. 
 
 visitors, in all the beauty and liveliness of girl- 
 hood. 
 
 Fannie, with her light hood carelessly tossed upon 
 her head ; Imogen, with her bright, black curls dancing 
 around her clear, white shoulders ; Minnie, with a 
 wreath of green encircling her brow ; Anna, tall and 
 graceful as a fawn ; Jeannette, with full, flooding eye 
 of blue ; and six others, equally as fair, enticing, be- 
 witching, and beautiful, in an instant stood laughing 
 with hearty zest around Bachelor Bim. 
 
 What should he do? 
 
 What could he do but participate with them in the 
 sunlight of the moment ? And so he did. At first 
 his heart inclined to anger: unaccustomed to the so- 
 cial habits of life, he would at first withdraw. But 
 how to withdraw ? Ah, that was the question ! There 
 was where Greek met Greek. There was where 
 came the tug of war. He could not withdraw. They 
 encircled him. They all laughed loud and heartily, 
 in compliance with the request of Fannie, who led the 
 expedition for the purpose of testing the efficacious- 
 ness of laughter and hilarity as an antidote for 
 stoicism and moroseness. 
 
 Beneath the effect of the laughter, Bim's heart 
 melted ; he jumped up, danced about, mad with joy, 
 and though he resisted at first, he yielded at last. 
 
BACHELOR BIM. 63 
 
 He conducted his gay company around his house, and 
 though ashamed of what was to be seen, he excused 
 all by promising improvement, and living more like a 
 human being in future. 
 
 " And now," said Fannie, as they were about to 
 leave, " we must have your promise ; you must prom- 
 ise to marry." 'Twas hard to promise such an event, 
 so allied to an impossibility. Yet he did. 
 
 Fannie and her companions each 'kissed the old 
 fellow, after which operation he reiterated, with de- 
 cided emphasis, his determination to marry ; and they 
 left him fully satisfied with the effects produced by 
 the " magic of a laugh." ** 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN. 
 
 "AND what 13 your opinion?" asked the youngest 
 of the party, turning to. the schoolmaster. 
 
 " Mine ? " answered he. " O, I never talk politics I 
 Women and priests are exempt ; and I am not at all 
 disposed to give up my privilege a great one in 
 my eyes." 
 
 " And yet," said the youth. But another voice was 
 raised above his, and then another, and then all spoke 
 at once, and an eager and noisy discussion ensued ; 
 till at last, in the midst of the confusion, were heard 
 the words, "At least, in the tune of the French " 
 
 " In the time of the French," interrupted the school- 
 master, with unusual emphasis " in the time of the 
 French was the conscription." 
 
 " And so there is now," cried two or three voices. 
 
 "In the time of the French," resumed the school- 
 master, and repeated the words a fourth time "in 
 the time of the French the conscription was quite 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STOET. 65 
 
 another thing sons, husbands, and brothers torn from 
 their families, tied together like cattle, and sent a 
 thousand miles off to slaughter ! For slaughter it was, 
 as far as we were concerned. The war was no affair 
 of ours, and signified nothing to us in any way ; and 
 the authors of it were not the greatest sufferers ; rather 
 those who lost by it all that they cared for in the 
 world, without the consolation of feeling they had been 
 serving their king and country. And even of those 
 who took a liking for the trade, how many paid cru- 
 elly for it in the long run ! " And here he paused, 
 but as if he had more to say on the subject ; and as 
 he was much liked by all the young folk, and gen- 
 erally listened to with pleasure, and so much the more 
 just now, as is commonly the case with one who has 
 kept silence during a long debate, and speaks only 
 when his heart is full, and when others have had 
 their say, all were silent, and seemed to expect him 
 to continue. So, after a few minutes, he added, " If I 
 were not afraid of disturbing the gayety of the evening, 
 I would tell you of something which came within my 
 own knowledge, in which I took a part myself, and 
 which I can never forget as long as I live. But it 
 is not by any means an amusing tale. It is a story 
 of poor country people, which I would not tell to coun- 
 try people ; but to you it may serve as an illustration 
 6* 
 
66 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STOUT. 
 
 of the matters in dispute, into which I do not wish 
 to enter." And all begging that he would tell it, 
 except two or three, who went out to play at skittles, 
 we drew near him, and he began thus : 
 
 " In the time of the French, when I was school- 
 master in a parish of the Monferrato country, not far 
 from Le Langhe, I knew a lad named Toniotto, and a 
 girl called Maria. I believe their families were some- 
 how related ; at any rate they were near neighbors, and 
 the two children were such great friends, and such 
 constant companions, that those who did not know 
 them took them for brother and sister ; and those who 
 did know, and had seen them grow up together, were 
 always saying what a nice couple they would make as 
 man and wife. Toniotto at eighteen was one of the 
 finest lads in the country round, or, indeed, that T 
 ever saw any where, though I lived many years in 
 Rome and in the south of Italy, where the handsom- 
 est men in all the world are to be met with. Maria 
 was quite a little Madonna, fair and gentle, and sim- 
 ple as a dove. Neither of them made any secret of 
 it; they loved each other, and every one knew it, 
 and they were beloved by all about them. There was 
 but one opinion of them, and one wish for them 
 that their love might prosper. The girl was but six- 
 teen: their marriage was a settled thing, but her 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 67 
 
 parents wished them to wait to see whether Toniotto 
 might not chance to be included in the conscription. 
 ' What would be the use of her marrying,' they said, 
 * when she might be as good as unmarried, or a widow, 
 directly after ? ' The parents of Toniotto thought the 
 same. Not so the two young people. Maria said 
 that if she were once married to him, she might go 
 with the regiment as laundress, or in some other ca- 
 pacity ; and Toniotto, though he did not encourage 
 this notion, said, if he must leave her, he should prefer 
 leaving her as his wife ; but both of them, with the 
 confidence of youth, hoped for the best, and if they 
 thought on the matter at all, trusted Toniotto would 
 draw a lucky number : and so they went on loving all 
 the same ; or rather, loved each other better every day. 
 " One day, however, when no one was thinking 
 about it, I remember well how my heart sank when 
 I saw them, came the soldiers of the conscription. 
 The poor children were piteous to behold. Maria, 
 who had before been like an opening rosebud, was 
 now languid and pale, her head hanging down, and 
 her heavy eyes surrounded by a dark circle, which 
 told of nights passed more in tears than in sleep. 
 Toniotto, on the contrary, appeared every day more 
 excited, his cheeks flushed, his lips compressed, or 
 biting his thumb, and his large eyes glaring upon 
 
68 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 every one he met, as if he were the gendarme who 
 was to tear him from the arms of his betrothed. It 
 was plain that thoughts had entered into his mind 
 which, once admitted, ruin and change a man's char- 
 acter entirely. Hitherto he had been a steady, home- 
 keeping youth, and any thing but dissipated ; now he 
 began to absent himself for days together, which he 
 pretended he passed at the fetes of the neighboring 
 villages. But no one believed this ; because Maria 
 had never once gone out of the house. To tell you 
 the truth, many people, and I amongst the number, 
 thought at that time that he was getting into bad com- 
 pany, and had put himself in communication with some 
 bandits who were just then in the neighborhood the 
 remains of the troop of that Majino, who, a few years 
 before, had made himself famous, under the name of 
 Emperor of the Alps. However, this may have been 
 a false report. 
 
 " When the day came on which the drawing was to 
 take place, Toniotto went, as desired, to the principal 
 town of the district ; and Maria, who accompanied him, 
 was observed talking to him warmly and earnestly, as 
 if trying to persuade him to something, while he lis- 
 tened in sullen silence. Arrived at the place where 
 the lottery was to be drawn, he dropped her arm 
 suddenly, and she slipped away into a corner, where, 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 69 
 
 unperceived, she could hear the numbers as they 
 were called, while he mingled with the crowd of 
 youths who were waiting. There were many among 
 them who said to him, < Toniotto, we pray God you 
 may draw a lucky number rather than we. To be 
 sure, there is not one of us but has father, or mother, 
 or sister, or some one with whom, God willing, it is 
 our duty to stay ; but if it is our lot to leave them, 
 why, it's not our own fault; and we shall see new 
 countries, and who knows but we may become officers, 
 and perhaps generals ! How many have returned so, 
 who left the country like ourselves ! But for you, 
 poor fellow, to leave that pretty sweetheart of yours 
 who is crying there, it would be a sin ! ' 
 
 " Toniotto made no answer ; and the prefect and 
 the commandant of the department having arrived, 
 they proceeded to call each man in turn to draw his 
 number. You may imagine how poor Maria's heart 
 beat when Toniotto's turn came, and his too, though 
 he appeared firm. He stepped up to the table, and 
 drew one of the very first numbers. There could not 
 be a doubt: he must be among the conscripts. The 
 poor girl was carried out senseless. Toniotto spoke 
 not a word ; and the drawing being over, the men 
 examined as to their fitness or unfitness for ser- 
 Tice, and orders given to those who were selected 
 
70 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 (amongst whom was Toniotto, of course) to be at the 
 same place at the end of three days, and the penal- 
 ties in case of disobedience read, all departed, and he 
 
 
 
 with the rest. His parents wanted him to return 
 with them ; but he refused, saying he would come 
 with the other young men. They expected him in 
 vain, however, all that day and night. He never 
 came. You may imagine the fright they were in, 
 thinking that both the happy youth and themselves 
 would incur those heavy penalties which, in default 
 of fugitive conscripts, fell upon the parents. They 
 spent the whole three days in this misery, constantly 
 hoping for Toniotto's return. On the fourth day, a 
 corporal came to inquire into his absence ; and, as 
 the family was respectable, and every one ready to 
 be bail for them, two more days were granted for 
 them to discover and give up the recusant; but they 
 had no idea where to look for him, and were in utter 
 despair. 
 
 " On the fifth day came two other soldiers, (called 
 in French garnisaires,) to quarter themselves upon 
 the father of Toniotto, until the conscript was -given 
 up or fine paid. 
 
 " The same evening, certain ill-looking fellows were 
 seen hanging about the village ; and in the middle of 
 the night, a boy came to Toniotto's father to ask him 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STOUT 71 
 
 to go and speak with somebody who was waiting 
 behind the church. On going thither, there he found 
 his son, and they remained full three hours together, 
 in warm discussion. They were seen by several per- 
 sons, and it was thought that Toniotto was endeavor- 
 ing to prevail upon his father, who had been a good 
 soldier in his youth, and was yet a hale, hearty man, 
 to unite with him in joining his friends the bandits, 
 and that the father resolutely refused. 
 
 " In the morning, Toniotto reappeared at home. The 
 soldiers would have taken him into custody, but he 
 said there was no occasion. He would go of his own 
 accord to head quarters, and give himself up, as soon 
 as he had breakfasted and bid adieu to his people ; 
 and, showing them something or other he had hidden 
 in his belt under his waistcoat, bade them beware of 
 touching him. 
 
 " He did as he had promised. I remember some 
 one came and told me what was going on, and I 
 hurried to see Toniotto, whom I found just going 
 from his own house into Maria's. I had but just 
 time to say to him, ' God bless you ; you are acting 
 like a dutiful son ; ' to which he only answered, * True/ 
 as he entered her house. I do not know exactly what 
 passed between them; but Maria has often told me 
 that he offered to give her back her word, and set 
 
72 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 her quite at liberty ; but she would not have it, and 
 promised she would wait for him. And I must say, 
 at that time, being yet inexperienced, we all believed 
 in the promise made by our laws ; namely, that con 
 scripts were to serve for four years only, at the end 
 of which they would be restored to their families. 
 
 " How this promise was kept, we now know too 
 well. None ever returned, unless he had lost a limb, 
 or was otherwise disabled for service. 
 
 " "Well ! I walked up and down before the house 
 some twenty minutes, and at last there was a loud 
 cry within doors ; and Toniotto, with a disordered 
 countenance, hurried out and ran back into his father's 
 house for a minute. I heard him peremptorily desire 
 they would not accompany him, and so he came out 
 and set off alone. Poor fellow ! he knew what awaited 
 him, and so did I ; so I followed him at a distance 
 for about a mile, and let him alone to indulge his 
 grief, and then gradually approached and joined him. 
 He took my hand as if to thank me, and I saw a 
 large tear roll down his cheek ; but he recovered 
 himself in a minute, composed his countenance, and 
 began to talk on indifferent matters. When we got 
 to the town, I wanted him to let me go to the sub' 
 prefect, whom I knew, to speak for him ; but he would 
 not allow it, and having asked an audience for 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 73 
 
 himself, said, ' I am Toniotto Such-a-one, who drew 
 such a number t'other day. I have had hard work to 
 make up my mind to come with the others ; and, to 
 tell the truth, I don't think I ever should if it had 
 not been for my father and my brothers ; but any 
 how, here I am/ 
 
 " I then came forward and bore witness to his 
 character and general good conduct before the prefect, 
 who was very civil, and sending for the quarter- 
 master, spoke to him in the office apart, I suppose in 
 recommendation, for I heard the man say, as he went 
 out, ' I will do all I can.' He then made a sign to 
 the youth to follow him to head quarters. 
 
 " Toniotto bade me an affectionate farewell, (which 
 I took to be more for others than for myself,) and 
 begged that, by all I held dear, I would endeavor to 
 prevent his parents or Maria from coming to him, 
 especially on the day of his departure. I understood 
 him ; and having found out from one of the men, 
 with whom I entered into conversation for the pur- 
 pose, that they were to march on next day, I returned 
 home very sad, to fulfil ,my promise to the young 
 man, which was as sacred to me as if given on his 
 death bed. 
 
 " "When I arrived, finding that Maria was with 
 Toniotto's family, I went to execute his commission 
 7 
 
74 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORT. 
 
 at once. Maria said directly, that she should cer 
 tainly go to him to-morrow all the same. I told her 
 she would not see him. ' Then he is in prison ! ' 
 cried she. ' I do not think he is/ said I ; ( but he 
 does not wish you to be there when he goes/ ' Then 
 he goes to-morrow ! ' she exclaimed. She had heard 
 from some one or other how recusant conscripts were 
 treated on their march, and the poor girl now saw it 
 all clearly; and I don't believe the most prudent di- 
 plomatist in the world could have kept it from her. 
 
 " Next morning, Maria went out with her little bas- 
 ket on her arm, so early that no one was up at home, 
 and the folks who met her on the road supposed she 
 was going to market ; but her own people, who had 
 been astonished that she should have the heart to go 
 there that day, finding she did not return at the usual 
 time, made up their minds that she must have gone 
 to see Toniotto, and sent her two brothers after her; 
 but when they got to the town, they found him gone, 
 and no news of her. 
 
 " In fact, thinking that they would most likely come 
 to look for her there, she had not gone to town at 
 all, but had taken the road by which she knew the 
 conscripts must pass, and by dint of asking, right and 
 left, had found out what would be their first halt, and 
 gone straight there. 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 75 
 
 " Here Toniotto found her when he arrived, escorted 
 by two gendarmes like a felon, but not pinioned ; and 
 the soldiers, recognizing her, allowed her to speak to 
 him, and upon her offering them a share of the pro- 
 visions she had brought for Toniotto, they permitted 
 her to give the rest to him, and to stay with him 
 the short time they stopped there. He could not 
 succeed in dissuading her from her determination to 
 go on with the party that evening, and accompany 
 them to the place where they halted for the night. 
 
 " There he was locked up, and Maria contrived to 
 get shelter from a poor woman who took her in for 
 charity, and was at the prison door next morning 
 before Toniotto was brought out. Think what she 
 must have felt at seeing him with his hands tied 
 behind his back, and joined by a long rope to twenty 
 others, two and two together, like galley slaves ; and 
 these were soldiers of that general who exalted the 
 military profession above all others ! The other men 
 did not so much feel this degradation, which they 
 knew would not last for more than a day or two, till 
 they should have crossed the Alps, or at most till 
 they had reached the depot; but what a grief was it 
 to poor Toniotto to be seen by his betrothed in such 
 a condition ! 
 
 " As she persisted in walking along with them, he 
 
76 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 asked her what she meant to do, and what good there 
 could be in her following them thus. She answered 
 that she did not know; she had thought of nothir* 
 but her wish to see him once more and go part of 
 the way with him ; and then she went back to her 
 old idea of going with the regiment as washerwoman. 
 He would not hear of this, and spoke of her duty to 
 her parents, at which she began to cry ; and his com- 
 panions, most of them, made game of her, and the 
 gendarmes, who were not the same as those of the 
 day before, teased and insulted her. 
 
 " It was still worse when they reached the place 
 where they were to dine. The men were all put into 
 a barn behind the inn, and locked up ; and the poor 
 girl, driven from the door, sat down at a little dis- 
 tance and waited, without taking even a bit of bread 
 or a cup of water, till the recruits came out again, 
 bound as before. Then she took her old place be- 
 side Toniotto, and, as they walked along, kept putting 
 into his mouth some fruit to refresh him. In vain 
 he implored her to leave him : she still went on, 
 without knowing why or wherefore, till at last, that 
 evening, just before they reached the inn where they 
 were to stop, they were overtaken by her two broth- 
 ers, who, guessing what had become of her, had fol- 
 lowed her hither. As they were good-hearted lads, 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 77 
 
 and besides felt that it might not be long before they 
 were themselves in the same case, they did not scold 
 her, but only pressed her kindly to return home with 
 them ; and she made no resistance, especially as To- 
 niotto joined his entreaties to theirs. So it was settled 
 that they should all stay there that night, and next 
 morning, after the soldiers had set out, Maria should 
 go home with her brothers. 
 
 'They passed the night he in prison, and she 
 with her brothers at the inn ; but the poor girl had 
 hardly got to bed before she was seized with fever, 
 from the fatigue, and hardships, and want of food, 
 and, above all, from the great sorrow she had en- 
 dured. She was delirious all night, and in the morn- 
 ing one of her brothers had to stay and look after 
 her, while the other went to inform Toniotto of her 
 illness and give him a last embrace. The poor fellow 
 could not even return it. He and his companions 
 were hurried off; and thus he parted from the last 
 of his friends. 
 
 " For more than a fortnight Maria continued very 
 ill, her brothers and her mother (who had come to 
 her on hearing where she was) staying to nurse her. 
 As soon as ever she could be moved, they all came 
 back to the village together. No one would have 
 known the girl, she was so altered ; but there was 
 7* 
 
78 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STOBY. 
 
 not a soul who said a harsh word of her on account 
 of her imprudent journey, so much was she loved and 
 esteemed by all, and so well known were their love 
 for each other, and her entire innocence. 
 
 " By little and little, she recovered her health and 
 spirits, and especially when his parents received the 
 first letter from Toniotto, which I heard so often that 
 I know it by heart. This was what it said : 
 
 " ' Dear Father : The first use I make of my hands 
 is to write this to you to tell you that we are safely 
 arrived here at the depot, which is in a town called 
 Besanpon, and they say we shall stay here but a very 
 short time. I am already dressed in regimentals, and 
 you would not know me in them. The number of 
 the regiment and of the company is marked all over 
 them, so we look^ like the sheep in our country who 
 are branded with their master's mark. No sooner had 
 I got my clothes, than I was set to drill ; that is, to 
 learn to march and turn my head this way and that, 
 and in two or three days I am to have my musket. 
 We do nothing else from sunrise to sunset, and we 
 are all longing for marching orders, that there may be 
 an end of this bother, and no more talk of conscripts, 
 which is a word that is always being thrown in one's 
 face here. I shall be glad to hear that you have gol 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 79 
 
 over my leaving you, and especially wish for news of 
 dear Maria. She made me very unhappy by persist- 
 ing in following me those two days ; but I swear to 
 you, my dear father, she was no more nor less than 
 a sister to me and, indeed, it could not have been 
 otherwise, even if I had wished it. I only hope no 
 one thought any harm of her. I beg you will em- 
 brace her for me, for even that was out of my power ; 
 and give my respects to her mother and brothers, 
 and to the good master, and my best thanks to him 
 for haying taught me to write, which is a great com- 
 fort to me this day to be able to do. My love to 
 my brother and yourself, and I ask your blessing for 
 your affectionate son, TONIOTTO.' 
 
 " The next letter that came was from Magdeburg 
 and told of his being at the great battle of Jena; and 
 that he had heard say that every one was frightened 
 at first going into battle, but that to him it was the 
 greatest pleasure he had had since leaving home, for 
 none of his comrades now called him conscript; and 
 he had got into the grenadiers. 
 
 " Another letter was received during the winter 
 from some place or other in Poland ; and then, the 
 summer after, came one from Aranda de Duero, in 
 Spain always giving accounts of battles ; and it was 
 
80 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 clear that he was getting fond of his profession. He 
 had become first a corporal, then a sergeant, and had 
 gained the cross of honor; and he thanked me anew 
 for having taught him to write, which, he said, had 
 helped him on very much, more than any action in 
 the field would have done. 
 
 " At last, after he had been gone about two years, 
 one evening, when I was keeping school as usual, in 
 came one of the children, and began whispering some- 
 thing to his neighbor, who passed it on to the next, 
 until it ran round the whole school ; and, before I could 
 stop them, they had all jumped up and run out, cry- 
 ing, ' Toniotto is come back ! Let's go and see To- 
 niotto/ So I followed too, and went straight to his 
 father's ; and there, sure enough, I found him, looking 
 so happy and triumphant, I never saw tlie like ! 
 and sitting between his father on one side and Maria 
 on the other, who was crying and sobbing like a 
 scolded child, and not able to speak a word ; and 
 there were the brothers of both families, and the re- 
 lations, and all come to see him and make much of 
 him. He started up as soon as he saw me, and 
 threw his arms round iny neck ; and I learned shortly, 
 that his regiment having to pass through Piedmont, 
 on its way from Spain to join the army in Italy, he 
 had obtained three days' leave to come and see his 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STOET. 81 
 
 parents, and . . . Here he seized Maria's hand, and 
 covered it with kisses, with an air of gallantry and 
 confidence which he certainly had not when he went 
 away, and which made me fear that he was quite 
 changed from what he used to be. But I saw and 
 talked with him a good deal during the three days 
 he staid with us; and there is no telling what an 
 excellent, good, and manly fellow he had become in 
 the short time he had been away. And if his love 
 was a little changed in its nature, and partook of his 
 own strengthened character, it was not less hearty 
 and true. He no longer made idle complaints and 
 lamentations over his lot, but -looked hopefully to the 
 end, and talked of his chances of marrying. He 
 said, that if he went on as well as he had begun, 
 thanks to his having some education, he had great 
 hopes of one day or other becoming an officer, when 
 there would be no such great difficulty in getting per- 
 mission to marry ; or if that were refused him, he 
 could leave the service. * So much the more,' he 
 added, smiling, ( that every one gets his share of 
 hard knocks ; and I have had mine, though I have 
 not mentioned them in my letters ; and if I get a few 
 more, at five and twenty I shall be amongst the vet- 
 erans, and get sent, as they say, back to my fireside.' 
 "Well ! those three days were days of rejoicing to alj 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STOR 
 
 the village, and holidays at school, am v ei j the 
 happiest, I do believe, in Maria's whole ILe. When 
 he went away, he left three louis-d'ors for his father, 
 one for his brother, who was a pupil of mine, and a 
 handsome handkerchief and a ring for Maria; and 
 when he got to Venice, he sent her, in a letter, a 
 little gold chain, which never after left the girl's neck 
 
 " Then came the war with Austria, the third in 
 which Toniotto had been engaged; and in this he got 
 both promotion and wounds, especially one bad cut in 
 his head, which we heard of, and which made Maria 
 very uneasy; but he got well of it, and was after- 
 wards exchanged into the Imperial Guard. When 
 he wrote this to us, he was so full of delight he could 
 not have said more if he had been made a field- 
 marshal. At the peace, his regiment went to Paris ; 
 and whilst there, he wrote often, and sent some little 
 trifle or other as a present to Maria, and talked more 
 and more of his hopes of being an officer, and then 
 then would be happiness. 
 
 " Two more years passed thus, and then war with 
 Russia was declared, and Toniotto set off more full 
 of spirits and hope than ever, and wrote, quite elated, 
 from Smolensko, of his having become adjutant, (sub- 
 official,) an 1 having got the cross of the iron crown ; 
 and there was not a doubt of his being made an 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 83 
 
 officer at the end of this campaign. It was generally 
 supposed, too, that this would be the last the em- 
 peror would undertake : be that as it might, so as he 
 got his commission, it would be all right and well. 
 So now every one began to envy Maria, who had 
 formerly been an object of pity among her companions, 
 as fated to die an old maid ; and I forgot to mention 
 that the little Marietta herself had learned to write very 
 nicely, and kept up a correspondence with her future 
 husband, and all seemed going on as happily as 
 possible. 
 
 " But with the winter came rumors of the total de- 
 struction of the French army ; and on going to town 
 to make inquiry, I found this report was not far from 
 the truth. No more letters were received, cither from 
 Toniotto or any one else, until at last, late in the 
 year, some Piedmontese soldiers of the Imperial Guard 
 wrote that he had been amongst the killed at the ter- 
 rible passage of the Beresina. Just imagine the blow 
 this was to the old father and his younger son, who 
 looked up to his Toniotto with the greatest affec- 
 tion above all, to the miserable Maria ! I will not 
 attempt to describe her sufferings, or the illness which 
 brought her to death's door; or the lamentations and 
 despair of her parents and brothers, one of whom, 
 just at this time, was carried off by the conscription 
 
84 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STOUT. 
 
 into Germany ; the other, a few months after, to 
 France ; for the levies then succeed each other rapidly. 
 Why should I dwell upon this time ? When once 
 misfortunes begin in a family, they crowd upon each 
 other in a manner that appalls even the indifferent ! 
 Maria's two brothers were killed, one at Hanau, the 
 other under the walls of Paris, by the last random 
 shot, as it were, of this war, which was so little and 
 so much to us. The only child remaining to console 
 the poor, broken-down parents, half stupefied by sor- 
 row, was their daughter, to whom the duty of support- 
 ing them in their old age, and the special providence 
 of God, which reserved her for other trials, gave 
 strength to survive. 
 
 " The poor girl was then little more than two and 
 twenty, and her beauty had become so angelic, from 
 her sufferings, which she bore like an angel, that I 
 never saw any thing resembling it. Sorrow like this 
 exalts and ennobles the vulgarest person ; but, some- 
 how, I never could regard her as a little country girl : 
 she seemed quite a lady, and latterly, indeed, more 
 like a saint or angel. From that time forward, I 
 never saw her laugh again ; not that there was any 
 thing of harshness or disdain in her melancholy coun- 
 tenance, but a simple, resigned composure, which waa 
 peculiar to herself. 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY 85 
 
 " In the year 1814, when our princes and the fe\V 
 remnants of our soldiers of the French army returned, 
 we heard the last particulars of Toniotto, who, during 
 that awful retreat, had been one of the few who kept 
 up his courage unshaken. "When all around him were 
 dying of cold, he used to say he wore on his heart 
 two things that would keep him warm, though all the 
 sows of Russia were heaped on them. The men 
 'ould not tell us, for. certain, whether he had been 
 jaade an officer : all they knew was, that he marched 
 at the head of the company, and thus they arrived 
 at that terrible bridge, which he had been the first 
 to cross, and, rushing like a lion upon the enemy, 
 received a ball in his heart, and fell dead on the spot. 
 
 " ' Poor Toniotto ! ' said they ; ' he was beloved by 
 the whole regiment, and was the pride of all. the 
 Piedmontese in the army/ 
 
 " ' Poor Maria ! ' thought I. ' Far more are you 
 to be pitied for having to live on through all this.' 
 But I did not yet know all her trials. 
 
 " Three years had passed since Toniotto's death, 
 and I had observed for some time that her counte- 
 nance, usually so calm and sad, now wore an anxious 
 and troubled look. I often threw myself in her way 
 to give her the opportunity of telling me, if she wished 
 it, any thing she had on her mind ; but I asked ha* 
 
86 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 no questions, and she volunteered nothing. At last, 
 one day, when I happened to overtake her walking, 
 and accompanied her a little way, she seemed so much 
 more depressed and agitated than I had ever seen 
 her, that, after a long silence, I could not help ex- 
 claiming, ' My poor Maria ! ' and instantly she burst 
 into a passion of tears, and seemed ready to throw 
 herself into my arms ; but she stopped, hid her face 
 in both her hands, and sobbed out, i O master, they 
 want me to marry ! ' 
 
 "I must confess the thought of such a thing had 
 never once entered into my mind, any more than if 
 it had been a crime or an impossibility. But now 
 these few simple words were like a flash of light 
 opening a new view to me ; and in a moment I saw 
 how naturally the idea had arisen, and what would be 
 the end of it. I could not find a word to say, except 
 to repeat, ' Poor Maria ! ' but I stopped, and made the 
 girl sit down, and waited till she had recovered her- 
 self a little, and till her sobs had ceased. 
 
 " ' And why should you not marry, my dear Maria ? 
 If it will be a consolation and happiness to your old 
 and infirm parents, who want this support to their 
 declining years, I am sure you will not oppose their 
 wishes. For this you have survived ; for this you have 
 struggled with and overcome your grief, instead of 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 87 
 
 g'ving way to it weakly. That was the hardest effort 
 and the greatest sacrifice. -Do not make it useless, 
 and lose the fruit of it, by refusing to endure this 
 much more. My dear, good, dutiful Maria, I know 
 you will, like a brave, devoted girl, fulfil your whole 
 duty on earth. Pay your whole debt, and when this 
 life is over, father, mother, brothers, husband, all will 
 lead you to join your lover in that heaven where all 
 loves are united and absorbed in one immense, eternal, 
 universal . . . 
 
 " l O Maria, they are not empty, idle words, those 
 words of God himself, that we are placed here to 
 suffer. No one can do his whole duty here without 
 having to suffer more or less, and those whose lot 
 carries with it the most suffering may be looked upon 
 as the beloved children of the Father, to whom the 
 highest rewards are destined.' 
 
 " I spoke thus interruptedly, holding the hand of 
 the poor girl, who lifted her head slowly, till her eyes 
 were raised to heaven, and the former placid, serene 
 expression returned to her countenance. At last, she 
 said, * I knew it would be so ; I knew you, too, would 
 wish it.' We rose, and returned home together in 
 silence. 
 
 " Her father and mother were indeed at this time 
 in a sad condition. Always poor, they had become 
 
88 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 more and more so as they grew unfit for daily labor. 
 They were now hardly able to cultivate their own 
 little bit of ground to any advantage ; and though 
 Maria worked hard, and did her very best to conceal 
 the poverty into which they had fallen, it grew worse 
 every day, and they were in absolute want. I was 
 astonished at myself for never having thought before 
 how this must be ; and now I would willingly have 
 shared my bread with this poor family, if by that 
 means I could secure her liberty to Maria. But I 
 might die any day ; and God knows how much I 
 then regretted that I had never been a saving man, 
 and had not laid by any portion of my salary as 
 schoolmaster or the pension I got from my convent. 
 But the more I thought on the matter, the less help 
 I saw for it, and it was plain Maria was making up 
 her mind to it. So, at last, from among the many 
 who had made her offers from time to time, she chose 
 one, named Francesco, a worthy young man, and an 
 intimate friend of Toniotto's when they were both 
 boys. He was one of the few who had not been 
 carried away from us by the conscription during the 
 war. He had never left his home, and had long 
 loved Maria ; and though he well knew she did not 
 return his love, and gave him no hope, yet he never 
 would take any one else to wife. 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 8* 
 
 " Maria now told him frankly what were her reasons 
 for marrying, and that he well knew she never could 
 love any one as she had loved Toniotto, nor ever for- 
 get him ; but that if he would take her as a widow, 
 who is allowed still to love the memory of her first 
 husband, she would be a good wife to him, and would 
 love him better than any living creature. The honest 
 fellow, who hoped for nothing more, accepted joyfully, 
 and declared he was the happiest of men : nay, 
 more ; upon her offering to leave off the little chain 
 Toniotto had sent her, if he wished it, he begged her 
 to continue wearing it. And so the marriage took 
 place without any great to-do ; and the money which 
 would otherwise have gone in a dinner and ball, 
 Francesco (who was rich, and had no relations but 
 his mother) laid out half in repairing his own house, 
 and furnishing a nice room for the old couple, whom 
 he took home the very day of the wedding ; and the 
 other half he gave to me and to the curate of the 
 parish, to distribute amongst the poor. So it was a 
 day of joy and blessing to all, but in a quiet way, 
 and quite different from most wedding days. 
 
 " I need not tell you that the families went on 
 
 comfortably together ; for you may judge from the 
 
 fact of their all joining thus, and not fearing to live 
 
 so many under one roof, that they were all good sort 
 
 8* 
 
90 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY 
 
 of people. Just as the liking to live separate, and 
 not being able to agree to eat out of the same dish, 
 is a proof that they have cold hearts, and value their 
 own independence, as they call it, that is, their own 
 selfuh enjoyment, more than the companionship and 
 love of others. 
 
 " Before the year was out, the family was increased 
 by a little boy, whom they all agreed to call Toni- 
 otto ; and eighteen months after there came another : 
 and Maria's face now wore not only its old, placid, 
 gentle expression, but sometimes the sweetest of smiles 
 for her husband and children. She was as beautiful 
 as ever, though she was now seven or eight and 
 twenty ; and when I saw her of an evening sitting 
 there with the old folks, and children, and her hus- 
 band, all hanging upon her glance, I often thought she 
 was fit to be the Madonna in a holy family of Raphael. 
 
 " But this calm was not to last long. 
 
 " One evening, towards nightfall, I was walking up 
 and down before my door, saying my Breviary aloud, 
 as I was wont to do, when I heard a footstep behind 
 me, and an exclamation of t Dear master ! ' and then 
 was almost lifted off my feet by a sudden embrace. 
 I seemed to know the voice, and turning my head 
 round so that my face nearly touched his, I saw and 
 instantly recognized, in the twilight, Toniotto ! If I 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 91 
 
 had ever believed in ghosts, I should certainly have 
 \Aought he was one, come to reproach me for the 
 part I had taken in the marriage of Maria. And, to 
 tell the truth, the idea, for one moment, did cross my 
 mind ; and then the fearful reality came upon me as 
 not less terrible than a supernatural apparition would 
 have been. The only thing I could do or think of 
 was to seize Toniotto by the arm, and drag him into 
 the house with me. He saw the effect he had pro- 
 duced on me, and with a changed countenance and 
 trembling voice, said, i My father ? . . . . my broth- 
 er ?' ' Alive and well,' said I, ' but the old woman 
 must be prepared for the joyful shock of seeing you.' 
 
 " < And Maria ? ' 
 
 " l Both her brothers were killed in battle a short 
 time after we heard of your death.' 
 
 " < But Maria ? ' 
 
 " * She is living.' And there was a silence for 
 about two minutes. I was the first to break it. 
 
 " ' How did it happen that you never wrote to us 
 for these six years past ? ' 
 
 " * I did write several times, but greatly feared you 
 would not receive my letters in the early part of the 
 time. You have heard from me during the. last two 
 years ? ' 
 
 ut Never once and for these two years ' 
 
92 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 " He interruoted me. 
 
 " * So you have believed me to be dead for six 
 years ? a thing I often dreaded would happen ; and 
 then a thought came across me, which I drove away, 
 as sent by the devil to make me die of despair ! O, 
 and I arrived just now so full of joy ! as if one's 
 return could ever be joyous and happy after an ab- 
 sence of ten years ! Poor Giovanni ! poor Filip- 
 po ! poor dear Maria ! ' 
 
 " ' Maria/ I began, hoping he would question me ; 
 but he spoke not a word, and to save my life I could 
 not have finished my sentence, and said, ' Maria is no 
 longer yours.' At last he resumed. 
 
 " ' If you had received my letters two years 
 ago ' 
 
 " They would have come too late ; ' and I breathed 
 more freely now that it was out ; but raising my eyes 
 to his face, I found it so altered, and bearing such 
 marks of suffering, past and present, that I shuddered 
 to see it. 
 
 " We were again silent for a few minutes. Then 
 he got up, gave himself a shake, and raising his head, 
 said, * Let's go and see my father, and then ' 
 
 " I followed instantly, and we went together to his 
 home. 
 " I need not tell you what a joyful and affectionate 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 93 
 
 greeting he had from his father and brother, nor how 
 the tears rained down the toil-worn face of the sol- 
 dier when their tenderness had opened his heart. I 
 went from them to Francesco, who took it upon him- 
 self to break the news to Maria. In what manner 
 he did so I never knew ; it remained a secret be- 
 tween them, and they never spoke of it. All I know 
 is, that two days after, at their own request, I took 
 Toniotto to see them. Francesco was the most agi- 
 tated of the three. Maria came forward with an 
 angelic smile, though her countenance was not as 
 calm as usual, and, taking his hand, said, ' God be 
 praised ! Who ever expected to see you again, ex- 
 cept in heaven ? There we always trusted we might 
 meet you again Francesco and I.' The soldier's 
 knees trembled visibly, and he was unable to speak a 
 word ; but he took both her hand and Francesco's, 
 and, holding them both together between his, raised 
 them to his lips and kissed them. Then suddenly 
 perceiving the two children, he dropped their hands, 
 hurried to them, kissed and embraced them over and 
 over again eagerly, and then, sitting down, took the 
 eldest on his knee. The child struggled to get away, 
 and Maria calling to him, reproachfully, ' Toniotto ! ' 
 the soldier thought at first she was addressing him ; 
 and then finding they had named the boy after him, 
 
94 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 he again seized and kissed him, hiding his face in the 
 child's curly hair to conceal the tears which burst forth. 
 " By little and little, they all became composed ; 
 and the conversation turning upon Toniotto's adven- 
 tures, Francesco inquired how he had managed to 
 escape after that wound we heard he had received at 
 the passage of the Beresina. Toniotto told his story 
 briefly and simply. The ball had struck him on the 
 shoulder, which was broken by it, and he fell stunned 
 by the blow, and remained senseless till he was 
 roused by soldiers of the enemy stripping him, as 
 they had already done by the other corpses. At this 
 moment, a young officer, happening to pass by, took 
 compassion on him, had him carried to a hospital, 
 where his wounds were looked to, and gave him back, 
 certainly not all his property, but his two crosses, 
 which ever since that time he had worn attached to 
 his shirt, or in some other place where they could be 
 hidden. After some months, being pretty well recov- 
 ered, and the fine season being come, he was sent 
 along with a column of prisoners to retrace the dreary 
 road he had traversed with the flying army, and re- 
 turned to Moscow ; and thence they were marched oft* 
 as far again, and more, to the frontier of Siberia. 
 There the column was disbanded, and the prisoners 
 dispersed here and there, with only a few sous tx> 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 95 
 
 keep them till they could get employment, which they 
 all did in one way or other. He went into service 
 as gardener to a gentleman of that country, and after- 
 wards became bailiff to his estate ; and his master, 
 having taken a liking to him, was much disappointed 
 when, at the beginning of 1815, the prisoners were 
 all discharged : and, as a counter order arrived very 
 shortly after, on account of the war with France 
 breaking out anew, his master took immediate advan- 
 tage of it, sent after him, overtook him before he 
 could get out of the country, and brought him back 
 to the castle. From that time, he felt sure that his 
 letters were intercepted, and the successful battles that 
 ensued were concealed from him. At last, having ac- 
 cidentally heard something of the state of affairs, he 
 made his escape, and put himself under the protection 
 of the governor of the nearest town. 
 
 " Here he paused ; and I guessed that it was at this 
 time he had written the letters which he had reason 
 to hope would reach their destination. 
 
 " What with doubts and delays on the part of the 
 governor, he continued, who would do nothing till he 
 got orders, he was detained a whole year at this town, 
 and it was now six months since he had got leave to 
 depart. But in that twelvemonth he had spent all 
 his little savings, and left his prison with so little ID 
 
96 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 his pocket, that he was forced to make the journey 
 on foot ; and from the pains his wounds gave him, he 
 had been frequently obliged to stop on his road, and 
 sometimes to beg. 
 
 " Here his voice faltered, and Maria seemed so 
 much affected, that I thought it best to put an end 
 to the visit. So I rose, and taking leave of the fam- 
 ily, Toniotto and I walked away together. 
 
 " This was the only time I ever saw these two 
 unhappy lovers give way to their feelings ; and even 
 then but in a slight degree. Unhappy they were, 
 doubtless ; but both bore their sorrow with a degree 
 of fortitude, which might shame many a philosopher 
 who has written folios upon patience ; and many fine 
 people, too, who make their quality and education an 
 excuse for what they call their l sensibility,' but which 
 is, in fact, weakly yielding to grief instead of endur- 
 ing it, as they ought, with courage. They call these 
 poor folk coarse and insensible, not because they feel 
 less, but because they bear it better. The truth is, 
 that born and bred all to more or less of hardship 
 and want, and accustomed to see happiness which they 
 never expect to attain, the poor become really and 
 truly imbued with the principle that we are placed 
 here below to work and to suffer ; whereas your gen- 
 tlefolks hear it preached in sermons, and read it 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 97 
 
 sometimes in books, but it does not come home to 
 you; and you live, forgive me for saying so, and 
 struggle and toil, as if the enjoyments you crave 
 were your due, and look upon it as a cruel injustice 
 if they are withheld, and worse, if actual suffering is 
 imposed on you. It is the indulgence of this feeling 
 which makes misfortune so hard to be borne, and 
 which causes some to become desperate under it, and 
 others to descend to any baseness to avoid it. But 
 perhaps I am wrong ; I have not had much to do with 
 the higher classes. I only wish you to understand 
 that it did not follow that these poor things felt less 
 because they made no display of their feelings. I 
 have told you that what Maria had done was entirely 
 from a sense of duty, which I had myself urged upon 
 her perhaps too strongly : you may judge, therefore, 
 that she followed it up, now that her duty had be- 
 come still more definite. 
 
 " I do not mean the mere duty of being faithful to 
 her husband in thought and deed, but of the far more 
 difficult one of continuing cheerful, and making him 
 happy, and, as much as in her lay, of being happy 
 herself, and not allowing herself to think of what 
 might have been. And as to Toniotto, I knew his 
 thorough goodness from his childhood. Certainly, in 
 the first fire of youth, he had yielded to the temptation 
 
98 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STOUT. 
 
 of choosing an evil for himself, and doing wilfully 
 wrong by joining the bandits of Majino, to avoid an 
 evil imposed upon him by Providence. But now his 
 long and severe experience of a military life had ac- 
 customed him to subordination, and strengthened him 
 against misfortune ; so that I would bet all I am 
 worth he never had a rebellious thought in his heart. 
 I have always considered a soldier's life in time of 
 war to be the best and noblest education a man can 
 have. I never knew one return otherwise than im- 
 proved by it. But many think differently, and, indeed, 
 look upon all old soldiers as so many reprobates. 
 Opinions are various ; and perhaps I formed mine 
 principally from seeing the frank, manly bearing of 
 this poor Toniotto under his grief. Never a word of 
 spite, or envy, or any thing like a sneer at the wor- 
 thy Francesco. He was always the first to take his 
 part, when others quizzed or made fun of him, be- 
 cause they had been in the wars, and seen more of 
 the world than he. Francesco, who had always been 
 his friend, now treated him like a brother, and was 
 always the one to seek him out and ask him home, 
 and would have been satisfied that he should stay 
 there all day if he had liked it. But Toniotto seldom 
 went there, except sometimes of an evening with 
 Francesco, and then staid but a short time, and always 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STOKT. 93 
 
 had one of the children in his arms ; and Maria and 
 he talked together so simply and naturally, that every 
 body, Francesco above all, thought they had forgotten 
 the past. Nay, I almost began to think so myself. 
 
 " One day, however, while I was wandering about 
 upon the hills, climbing up through a grove of chest- 
 nuts, I came out upon a vineyard belonging to the 
 father of Toniotto, and there I saw him, thinking him- 
 self alone in this out of the way place, sitting with 
 his hoe between his legs, his hands clasped upon the 
 handle, and his face resting upon them. I stood a 
 moment looking at him, and then, thinking how cheer- 
 fully he generally seemed to take to his work, I felt 
 ashamed, as if I had stolen upon him to surprise his 
 secret, and turned, hoping to get away unperceived. 
 But in my haste I made a rustling among the branches, 
 and the noise rousing him, he looked up, and called 
 me by name; so I turned back. 
 
 " ' You seem tired, Toniotto,' said I. 
 
 " ' Yes, tired enough. I have almost forgotten my 
 old trade of a vine dresser, you see, after following 
 another so long. But I sliall soon be up to it again/ 
 
 " I was delighted, and so I think was he, to have 
 Lit upon a topic of conversation ; and nothing gives 
 me so much to say on one subject as the wish to avoid 
 Borne other. 
 
100 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 " ' But,' said I, ' I should have thought you had 
 had time to learn it afresh away in Siberia, with that 
 master of yours, who was such a tyrant as to inter- 
 cept your letters.' 
 
 " Here it struck me that I was approaching too 
 near the subject we were both trying to keep away 
 from. He made no answer. 
 
 " ( Perhaps there are no vines in that country 
 hey?' 
 
 " ' No,' said Toniotto ; and the conversation dropped 
 again. This time I thought I had kept away too much. 
 
 " ' Well, Toniotto,' said I, * you have done your duty 
 in your different stations. You were a good son and 
 a good soldier, and now you will be a good laborer 
 and a good son once more.' This time I had hit the 
 mark ; Toniotto answered in his old manner, 
 
 " * That's true, master, that's true. We must do the 
 work it pleases God to give us, and take what he 
 sends now rain, now shine ; now a victory, now 
 a defeat; sometimes promotion and a cross at the 
 button hole; sometimes a shot in the heart. And it 
 is the same here, too ; sometimes a good year, and 
 sometimes a bad ; a fine harvest and vintage, or 
 storms and dearth. And so every day I find some 
 likeness between the two ways of life.' 
 
 "'You are right; there is a resemblance; and I 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 101 
 
 have often heard say, that retired soldiers make tha 
 best laborers. But you were no longer a soldier ; and, 
 by the bye, you wanted but little of being made an 
 officer. If it had not been for your wound, you would 
 have been sure of a commission, would you not ? ' 
 
 " ' 0, if it had not been for my wound ! ' he began, 
 and stopped suddenly. I had blundered on awkwardly 
 enough ; but now that I had got so far, I determined 
 to seize an opportunity I had long wished for. 
 
 " ( And do you never regret your profession ? ' I 
 continued ; ( with the promotion you have got already, 
 I should have thought you might return to it with 
 advantage/ 
 
 " Now we had got upon smooth ground ; and he 
 answered frankly that he had thought about it, and 
 had made inquiries, and taken advice upon the sub- 
 ject ; but he was told it was very difficult, and that 
 he was not likely to succeed in reentering the army, 
 except in the ranks. Certainly he would stand a 
 good chance of soon becoming a sergeant, and per- 
 haps he might ultimately get a commission. But, to 
 tell the truth, he did not feel the heart to start in 
 life a second time. If there were a war, indeed, he 
 might probably be reinstated in the grade he had 
 lost, and at any rate he should have the satisfaction 
 of serving his king and country. But in peace a 
 9 
 
102 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 military life was quite another thing, and he had ftrond 
 it very wearisome being in garrison at Paris when 
 he was in the Imperial Guard. On the whole, he 
 thought as it had been God's will to restore him to 
 his native place and to his old father, it was his will 
 he should stay and pass the rest of his life with him. 
 Not that he was necessary to his father 
 
 " Here he paused, as if he were overwhelmed with 
 sad thoughts ; and finished by saying, 
 
 " ' It is a hard case, master, at thirty years of age 
 to see all one's life rubbed out, as it were, and find 
 nothing of it left ! At thirty, one can't begin life 
 again.' 
 
 " This was true. I could not deny it, and I did 
 not like to assent to it ; so I turned to resume my 
 walk. He took me by the hand whether to shake 
 it, or to stop me, I do not know ; but, shouldering his 
 hoe, he accompanied me home. 
 
 " From that time forward he came much oftener 
 to see me ; and as we had struck upon the right 
 chord, we got on harmoniously together. Although he 
 was rough, and had not much book learning, there is 
 no saying how much the education of circumstances 
 and active life had done towards forming his mind. 
 I never found any one, in spite of the difference of 
 age and orofession, whose society suited me better 
 
103 
 
 than his. Poor Toniotto! Those two remarks he 
 had made, that he was necessary to nobody, and that 
 he could not begin life anew at thirty, weighed on 
 my mind ; and all the more, that I had observed it 
 myself of other conscripts. Those who came back at 
 five and twenty set to easily and resumed their coun- 
 try life, and thought no more of the past; but those 
 who had seen ten or twelve years' service could not 
 adapt themselves to the change. Some clung to their 
 former life, and tried to return to it, and made idle 
 lamentations over the alteration the peace had made. 
 Some stuck to their attempt, staid at home, and died. 
 They did not know of what, but I verily believe of 
 mere weariness and ennui. I always advised these 
 men to marry, and exerted myself to find matches for 
 them, without caring for the jokes made against me 
 as 'match-maker general.' I let them talk. This 
 was the only way I saw of giving these men a new 
 interest in life. And a wife (when you get a good 
 one) and children (who are all good) are as balsam 
 for all wounds, and might bring a man back from the 
 edge of the grave. But what was left for poor To- 
 niotto to do ? To tell the truth, the idea of his mar- 
 rying did occur to me, but I never ventured to speak 
 of it openly. Once or twice, when I alluded to it 
 distantly, he did not understand what I was after 
 
104 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 and when at last he did see my meaning, he left ma 
 with such an air of ill humor and displeasure as I 
 never saw in him before ; and it was full a fortnight 
 before I could get hold of him to have a talk again. 
 " I saw a change in the poor fellow almost from 
 day to day ; the weaker he grew the more he strug- 
 gled against it, but it was plain this could not go on 
 long. Without saying any thing about it to him, I 
 went to town, and having some interest with the 
 colonel of a regiment, endeavored to get him to rein- 
 state Toniotto as a non-commissioned officer ; he gave 
 me some hope, and I returned to tell him the news. 
 But he only thanked me with a melancholy smile, 
 and said he had no wish for it ; and I could see that 
 his weak bodily state had enfeebled his mind. So 
 that even if it had been clearly right and necessary 
 to take this step, he would hardly have had the reso- 
 lution to do it. I believe I was the only person, 
 except, perhaps, Maria, who perceived how he was 
 failing. He made no complaints, and never left off 
 work or spared himself at ah 1 , which, no doubt, helped 
 to make him worse ; but he never would rest, unless 
 now and then when he thought himself quite alone, 
 as I had surprised him that first time, which I now 
 did again sometimes on purpose. Six months passed 
 away, and he had become like a skeleton. The wintej 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTERS STOKT. 105 
 
 had set in, but lie could not remain idle at 
 and he went less and less often to Maria's. 
 
 " As soon as ever the snow was off the ground, he 
 took his hoe and set to work upon the vines planted 
 amongst the tufa, the hardest work of all. I once got 
 the doctor to come and see him, as if by chance, and 
 he told him he might get well if he would leave off 
 hard work, and not overtire himself. But he answered, 
 then, ' Once I get to keep my bed, I shall never leave 
 it.' And so it turned out. He caught a cold, or 
 something which forced him to keep the house, and the 
 fever soon became so violent that he sent by the same 
 messenger for the doctor and for me, that I might 
 confess him. 
 
 " And confess him I did, blessed be his soul ! and 
 afterwards he asked my leave to see Maria and Fran- 
 cesco ; but on my saying, l Poor woman ! what good 
 would it be ? ' he answered, ' Perhaps you are .right ; 
 yet take care she does not come. I know I am a poor 
 weak creature, but I shan't want strength much longer.' 
 
 " He received the sacrament ; and on the third day 
 I gave him extreme unction. I found a lock of Ma- 
 ria's hair hanging round his neck. * Take it off/ said 
 he ; t perhaps I have done wrorig in wearing it since I 
 came home. This, and the little book of prayers you 
 gave me when I first went away, have gone every where 
 
106 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. 
 
 with me, and helped to keep my heart warm in Rus- 
 sia. Keep them and my. two crosses, for my sake.' 
 
 " He pulled the prayer book and the crosses from 
 under his pillow : half an hour after he became insen- 
 sible, and so died in about an hour more. 
 
 " That was what made "me leave that part of the 
 country. I served afterwards as chaplain in the very 
 regiment into which I had tried to get Toniotto." 
 
 " And what became of Maria ? " asked some of the 
 audience. 
 
 " Maria lived for four years after him ; and about 
 six months ago I was sent for, and returned to the 
 village, to administer the last sacraments to her. She 
 departed in peace." 
 
 So saying, the schoolmaster rose and walked out 
 into the garden, and one after another his hearers 
 dispersed. Some had been moved by his story ; others 
 said that this sort of thing happened every day, only 
 one didn't think of it, and that they didn't call it 
 much of a story. However, no one thought of renew- 
 ing the dispute : the subject dropped, and that had 
 been the intention of the good schoolmaster. 
 
ELINORE. 
 
 BY JOHN S. ADAMS. 
 
 SHE stood beside the sea shore weeping, 
 While above her stars were keeping 
 
 Vigils o'er the silent deep ; 
 While all others, wearied, slumbered, 
 She the passing moments numbered, 
 
 She a faithful watch did keep. 
 
 Hun she loved had long departed, 
 And she wandered broken hearted, 
 
 Breathing songs he loved to hear. 
 Friends did gather round to win her, 
 But the thoughts that burnt within her 
 
 Were to her most fond and dear. 
 
 In her hand she held bright flowers, 
 Culled from Nature's fairest bowers ; 
 
 On her brow, from moor and heath, 
 Bright green leaves and flowers did 
 Borrowing resplendent lustre 
 
 From the eyes that shone beneath. 
 
108 ELINOKE. 
 
 Rose the whisper, " She is crazy," 
 "When she plucked the blooming daisy. 
 
 Braiding it within her hair; 
 But they knew not what of gladness 
 Mingled with her notes of sadness, 
 
 As she laid it gently there. 
 
 For her Lillian, ere he started, 
 While she still was happy hearted, 
 
 Clipped a daisy from its stem, 
 Placed it in her hair, and told her, 
 Till again he should behold her, 
 
 That should be her diadem. 
 
 At the seaside she was roaming, 
 When the waves were madly foaming, 
 
 And when all was calm and mild, 
 Singing songs, she thought he listened,' 
 And each dancing wave that glistened 
 
 Loved she as a little child. 
 
 For she thought in every motion 
 Of the ceaseless, moving ocean, 
 
 She could see her Lillian's hand 
 Stretched towards the shore imploring, 
 Where she stood, like one adoring 
 Beckoning to a better land. 
 
ELINORE. 109 
 
 "When the sun was brightly shining, 
 When the daylight was declining, 
 
 On the shore she'd watch and wait, 
 Like an angel heaven-descending, 
 'Mid the ranks of mortals wending, 
 
 Searching for a missing mate. 
 
 Years passed on, and when the morning 
 Of a summer's day gave warning 
 
 Of the sweets it held in store, 
 By the dancing waves surrounded, 
 Like a fairy one she bounded 
 
 To her Lillian's arms once more. 
 
 Villagers thus tell the story, 
 And they say a light of glory 
 
 Hovereth above the spot 
 Where days and years she waited, 
 With a love all unabated, 
 
 And a faith that faltered not. 
 
 There's a stone that is uplifted, 
 
 Where the wild sea flowers have drifted j 
 Fonder words no stone ere bore ; 
 
 And the waves come up to greet them, 
 
 Seeming often to repeat them, 
 While afar their echoes roar 
 "DEATHLESS LOVE OF ELINORE," 
 
THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 
 
 A SCENE IN MADRID. 
 
 IN an inner room of his counting house, which occu- 
 pied a wing of his splendid mansion in the Calle Alcala, 
 sat Don Jose Solano, one of the richest bankers in Ma- 
 drid, ruminating with much self-complacency upon the 
 profitable results of a recent speculation. He was in- 
 terrupted in his meditations by the entrance of one 
 of his clerks ushering in a stranger, who brought a 
 letter of introduction from a banker at Mexico, with 
 whom Don Jose had had occasional transactions. The 
 letter stated that the bearer, the Conde de Valleja, 
 was of a highly-respected family of Mexican nobility, 
 that he was desirous of visiting Europe, and more 
 especially the country of his ancestors, Spain ; and it 
 then went on to recommend him in the strongest 
 terms to the Madrid banker, as one whose intimacy 
 and friendship could not fail to be sought after by all 
 who became acquainted with his many excellent and 
 agreeable qualities. 
 
THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. Ill 
 
 The appearance of the count seemed to justify, a8 
 far as appearance can do, the high terms in which he 
 was spoken of in this letter. He was about eight 
 and twenty years of age, dark complexioned, with a 
 high, clear forehead, short, crisp, curling hair, an in- 
 telligent and regular countenance, and a smile of sin- 
 gular beauty and fascination. His eyes were the only 
 feature which could be pronounced otherwise than 
 extremely pleasing ; although large, black, and lus- 
 trous, they had a certain fixity and hardness of ex- 
 pression that produced an unpleasant impression upon 
 the beholder, and would, perhaps, have been more 
 disagreeable had not the mellow tones of the count's 
 voice, and his suavity and polish of manner, served 
 in great measure to counteract the effect of this pe- 
 culiarity. 
 
 Doing due honor to the strong recommendation of 
 his esteemed correspondent, Don Jose welcomed the 
 young Conde with the utmost hospitality, insisted on 
 taking possession of him for the whole of the day, 
 and, without allowing him to return to his hotel, 
 dragged him into the house, presented him to his son 
 and daughter, and charged them to use their utmost 
 exertions to entertain their guest, while he himself 
 returned to his occupations till dinner time. At one 
 o'clock the old banker reappeared in the sala, where 
 
112 THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 
 
 he found Rafael and Mariquita Solano listening with 
 avidity to the agreeable conversation of the count, 
 who, in his rich and characteristic Mexican Spanish, 
 was" giving them the most interesting details concern- 
 ing the country he had recently left. The magnifi- 
 cence of Mexican scenery, the peculiarities of the 
 Indian races, the gorgeous vegetation and strange 
 animals of the tropics, formed the subjects of his dis- 
 course, not a little interesting to a young man of 
 three and twenty, and a girl of eighteen, who had 
 never as yet been fifty leagues away from Madrid. 
 Nor had the stranger's conversation less charms for 
 the old banker. Valleja had been at the Havana ; 
 was acquainted with scenes, if not with persons, with 
 which were associated some of Don Jose's most agree- 
 able reminiscences scenes that he had visited in the 
 days of his youth, when he laid the first foundation 
 of his princely fortune. To be brief: the agreeable 
 manners and conversation of the count so won upon 
 father, son, and daughter, that when ? at nightfall, he 
 rose to take his leave, tlie banker put his house a * 
 disposition, and followed up what is usually a mere 
 verbal compliment, by insisting upon Valleja's taking 
 up his abode with him during his stay in Madrid. 
 Valleja raised many difficulties on the score of the 
 inconveniences or trouble he might occasion ; but they 
 
THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 113 
 
 were all overruled, and the contest of politeness ter- 
 minated in the count's accepting the hospitality thus 
 cordially pressed upon him. The very next day he 
 was installed in a splendid apartment in the house of 
 Don Jose. 
 
 Several days, even weeks, elapsed, during which 
 Valleja continued to be the inmate of the Casa So- 
 lano. He appeared very well pleased with his quar- 
 ters, and, on the other hand, his hosts found no reason 
 to regret the hospitality shown him. He soon became 
 the spoiled child of the family ; Don Jose could not 
 make a meal without Valleja was there to chat with 
 him about the Havana; Rafael was the inseparable 
 companion of his w r alks, rides, and out-door diver- 
 sions ; while the blooming Mariquita never seemed so 
 happy as when the handsome Mexican was seated 
 beside her embroidery frame, conversing with her in 
 his low, soft tones, or singing to the accompaniment 
 of her guitar some of the wild melodies of his native 
 country. Indeed, so marked were the count's atten- 
 tions to the young girl, and so favorably did she 
 receive them, that more than one officious or well- 
 meaning friend hinted to Don Jose the propriety of 
 instituting some inquiry into the circumstances and 
 antecedents of a man, who, it seemed not improbable, 
 might eventually aspire to become his son-in-law. But 
 10* 
 
i!4 THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 
 
 the banker's prepossession in favor of Valleja was so 
 strong that he gave little heed to these hints, content- 
 ing himself with writing to his correspondent at Mex- 
 ico, expressing the pleasure he had had in making the 
 count's acquaintance, and receiving him as an inmate 
 in his house ; but without asking for any informa- 
 tion concerning him. In fact, the letter Valleja had 
 brought was such as to render any further inquiries 
 nearly superfluous. It mentioned the count as of a 
 noble and respected family, and credited him to the 
 amount of ten thousand dollars, a sum of sufficient 
 importance to make it presumable that his means 
 were ample. 
 
 Before Valleja had been three days at Madrid, he 
 had obtained his entree to a house at which a num- 
 ber of idlers and fashionables were in the habit of 
 meeting to play monte, the game of all others most 
 fascinating to the Spaniard. Thither he used to re- 
 pair each afternoon, accompanied by Rafael Solano, and 
 there he soon made himself remarked by his judg- 
 ment in play, and by the cool indifference with which 
 he lost and won very considerable sums. For some 
 time he was exceedingly successful. Every stake he 
 put down doubled itself; he seemed to play with 
 charmed money ; and the bankers trembled when they 
 saw him approach the table, and after a glance at the 
 
THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 115 
 
 state of the game, place a pile of golden ounces on a 
 card, which almost invariably won the very next mo- 
 ment. This lasted several days, and he began to be 
 considered as invincible, when suddenly his good for- 
 tune deserted him, and he lost as fast, or faster, than 
 he had previously won ; so that, after a fortnight of 
 incessant bad luck, it was estimated by certain old 
 gamblers, who had taken an interest in watching his 
 proceedings, that he had lost not only all his win- 
 nings, but a very considerable sum in addition. Rafa- 
 el, who rarely played, and then only for small stakes, 
 urged his friend to discontinue a game which he 
 found so losing ; but Valleja laughed at his remon- 
 strances, and treated his losses as trifling ones, which 
 a single clay's good fortune might retrieve. Gambling 
 is scarcely looked upon as a vice in Spain, and young 
 Solano saw nothing unusual or blamable in the count's 
 indulging in his afternoon juego, or in his losing his 
 money if it so pleased him, and if he thought an 
 hour or two's excitement worth the large sums which 
 it usually cost him. Indeed, the circumstance of their 
 visits to the gaming room appeared to him so unim- 
 portant, that it never occurred to him -to mention it 
 to his father or sister ; and they, on their part, never 
 dreamed of inquiring in what way the young men 
 passed the few hours of the day during which they 
 absented themselves from their society. 
 
116 THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 
 
 The monte table which Valleja was in the habit of 
 frequenting was situated on the third floor of a house 
 in a narrow street leading out of the Calle Alcala, 
 within two or three hundred yards of the Casa So- 
 lano. Amongst the persons to be met there were 
 many of the richest and highest in Madrid : generals 
 and ministers, counts and marquises, and even gran- 
 dees of Spain were in the habit of repairing thither 
 to while away the long winter evenings or the sultri- 
 ness of the summer day ; and the play was propor- 
 tionate to the high rank and great opulence of most 
 of the players. The bank was held, as is customary 
 in Spain, by the person who offered to put in the 
 largest sum, the keeper of the room being remuner- 
 ated by a certain tax upon the cards ; a tax which, 
 in this instance, was a heavy one, in order to com- 
 pensate for the luxury displayed in the decoration 
 and arrangements of the establishment. The three 
 rooms were fitted up in the most costly manner ; the 
 walls lined with magnificent pier glasses ; the floor 
 covered in winter with rich carpets, and in summer 
 with the finest Indian matting ; the furniture was of 
 the newest French fashion. Splendid chandeliers hung 
 from the ceiling ; musical clocks stood upon the side 
 tables ; the gilt balconies were filled with the rarest 
 exotics and flowering plants. Two of the rooms were 
 
THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. I]' 7 
 
 devoted to play ; in the third, ices and refreshments 
 awaited the parched throats of the feverish gam- 
 blers. 
 
 On a scorching June afternoon, about a month after 
 Valleja arrived at Madrid, the Mexican and Rafael 
 left Don Jose's dwelling, and bent their steps in the 
 usual direction. While ascending the well-worn stairs 
 of the gaming house, young Solano could not forbear 
 addressing a remonstrance to his friend on the sub- 
 ject of his losses. Although the count's perfect com- 
 mand over himself and his countenance made it very 
 difficult for so young and inexperienced a man as 
 Rafael to judge of what was passing in his mind, the 
 latter, nevertheless, fancied that for three or four 
 days past there had been a change in his demean- 
 or, denoting uneasiness and anxiety. It was not 
 that he was duller or more silent ; on the contrary, 
 his conversation was, perhaps, more brilliant and 
 varied, his laugh louder and more frequent, than 
 usual, but there was a hollowness in the laugh, and a 
 strained tone in the conversation, as if he were com- 
 pelling himself to be gay in order to drive a*vay 
 painful thoughts intoxicating himself with many 
 words and forced merriment. Rafael attributed this 
 to the annoyance caused by his heavy losses, and 
 now urged him to discontinue his visits to the monte 
 
118 THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 
 
 table, at least for a time, or until his luck be- 
 came better. The count met the suggestion with 
 a smile. 
 
 " My dear Rafael," cried he, gayly, " you surely do 
 not suppose that the loss of a few hundred miserable 
 ounces would be sufficient to annoy me for a moment ? 
 As to abandoning play, we should be puzzled then to 
 pass the idle hour or two following the siesta. Be- 
 sides that, it amuses me. But do not make yourself 
 uneasy ; I shall do myself no harm, and, moreover, I 
 intend this very day to win back all my losings : I 
 feel in the vein." 
 
 " I heartily hope you may do as you intend," said 
 Rafael, laughing, quite reassured by his friend's care- 
 less manner; and, as he uttered the words, the count 
 pushed open the door, and they entered the monte 
 room. 
 
 The game was already in full activity, and the play 
 very high ; the table strewed with the showy Spanish 
 cards, on which, instead of the spades and diamonds 
 familiar to most European card players, suns and vases, 
 sabres and horses, were depicted in various and bril- 
 liant colors. An officer of the royal guard and a dry, 
 snuffy old marquis held the bank, which had been 
 very successful. Large piles of ounces and of four 
 and eight dollar pieces were on the green cloth before 
 
THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 119 
 
 tfiem, as well as a roll of paper nearly treble the 
 value of the specie. Twenty or thirty players were 
 congregated round the table, while a few unfortunates, 
 whose pockets had already been emptied, were solacing 
 themselves with their cigars, and occasionally indulging 
 in an oath or impatient stamp of the foot, when they 
 saw a card come up which they would certainly have 
 backed had they had money so to do. Two or 
 three idlers were sitting on the low sills of the long 
 French windows, reading newspapers and enjoying the 
 fragrance of the flowers ; protected from the reflected 
 glare of the opposite houses, on which the sun was 
 darting its rays, by awnings of striped linen that fell 
 from above the windows, and hung over the outside 
 of the small semicircular balconies. 
 
 After standing for a few minutes at the table, and 
 staking a doubloon, which he instantly lost, Rafael 
 Solano took up a paper, and threw himself into an 
 arm chair, while Valleja remained watching with keen 
 attention the various fluctuations of the cards. For 
 some time ,he did not join the game, rather to the 
 astonishment of the other players, who were accus- 
 tomed to see him stake his money, as soon as he en- 
 tered the room, with an unhesitating boldness and 
 confidence. Half an hour passed in this manner, and 
 the presence of Valleja was beginning to be forgotten^ 
 
120 THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 
 
 when he suddenly drew a heavy rouleau of gold from 
 his pocket and placed it upon a card. The game 
 went on ; Valleja lost, and with his usual sang froid 
 saw his stake thrown into the bank. Another fol- 
 lowed, and a third, and a fourth. In four coups he 
 had lost three thousand dollars. Still not a sign of 
 excitement or discomposure appeared upon the hand- 
 some countenance of the Mexican ; only an officer 
 who was standing by him observed, that a pack of 
 the thin Spanish cards, which he had been holding in 
 his hands, fell to the ground, torn completely in halves 
 by one violent wrench. 
 
 The four high stakes, so boldly played and so rap- 
 idly lost, riveted the observation of the gamblers upon 
 Valleja's proceedings. Every body crowded round the 
 table, and even the slight buzz of conversation, that 
 had before been heard, totally ceased. His attention 
 attracted by this sudden stillness, Rafael rose from his 
 chair and joined his friend. A glance at the increased 
 wealth of the bank, and the eagerness with which all 
 seemed to be awaiting Valleja's movements, made him 
 conjecture what had occurred. 
 
 " You have lost," said he to the count, " and heav- 
 ily, I fear. Come, that will do for to-day. Let 
 us go." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " replied the Mexican, " a mere 
 
THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 121 
 
 which you shall see me win back." And then turning 
 to the banker, who was just commencing a deal, 
 
 " Copo" said he, " the king against the ace." 
 
 For the uninitiated in the mysteries of monte it 
 may be necessary to state, that by uttering these words 
 Valleja bound himself, if an ace came up before a 
 king, to pay an equal amount to that in the bank, as 
 well as all the winnings of those who had backed the 
 ace. If, on the other hand, the king won, the whole 
 capital of the bank was his, as well as the stakes of 
 those who bet against him. 
 
 " Copo al rey." 
 
 There was a general murmur of astonishment. The 
 bank was the largest that had been seen in that room 
 since a certain memorable night, when King Ferdi- 
 nand himself, being out upon one of the nocturnal 
 frolics in which he so much delighted, had come up 
 in disguise with an officer of his household, and lost 
 a sum that had greatly advantaged the bankers and 
 sorely diminished the contents of his Catholic majesty's 
 privy purse. There were at least thirty thousand dol- 
 lars on the table in gold and paper, and besides that, 
 scarcely had the Mexican uttered the name of the 
 card he favored, when, on the strength of his pre- 
 vious ill luck, some of the players put down nearly 
 half as much more against it. The two bankers 
 11 
 
122 THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 
 
 looked at each other; the guardsman shrugged his 
 shoulders and elevated his eyebrows. Both move- 
 ments were so slight as to be scarcely perceptible ; 
 but they were, nevertheless, excellently well observed 
 and understood by his partner, the high-dried old 
 marquis, sitting opposite to him, who laid the pack 
 of cards upon the table, their face to the cloth, and, 
 after placing a piece of money on them to prevent 
 their being disturbed by any chance puff of wind, 
 opened his gold box and took a prodigious pinch 
 of snuff. Having done this with much deliberation, 
 he let his hands fall upon his knees, and leaned 
 back in his chair with a countenance expressive 
 of inexhaustible patience. The players waited for 
 nearly a minute, but then began to grow impatient 
 of the delay. At the first question put to the mar- 
 quis, as to its motive, he waived his hand towards 
 Valleja. 
 
 " I am waiting for the Senor Conde," said he. 
 " For me ? " replied Valleja. " It is unnecessary." 
 " There are about twenty thousand dollars in the 
 bank," said the marquis, leaning forward, and affect- 
 ing to count the rouleaus lying before him, "and 
 Borne eight thousand staked by these gentlemen. Will 
 your senoria be pleased to place a similar sum upon 
 the table ? " 
 
THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 123 
 
 Several of the gamblers exchanged significant glances 
 and half smiles. The rule of the game required the 
 player who endeavored, as Valleja was doing, to an- 
 nihilate the bank at one fell swoop, to produce a 
 sum equal to that which he had a chance of carrying 
 off. At the same time, in societies like this one, 
 where the players were all, more or less, known to 
 each other, all men of rank, name, and fortune, 
 it was not unusual to play this sort of decisive coup 
 upon parole, and, if lost, the money was invariably 
 forthcoming the same day. 
 
 Valleja smiled bitterly. 
 
 " I thought I had been sufficiently known here," 
 said he, " to be admitted to the same privilege as 
 other players. Rafael," added he, turning to his 
 friend and handing him a key, " your father's ten 
 thousand dollars have melted, but I have a packet of 
 notes and current securities to considerably more than 
 the needful amount, in the brass-bound box, in my 
 Apartment. Will you have the kindness to fetch 
 them for me? I do not wish to interrupt my obser- 
 vation of the game." 
 
 " "With pleasure ! " replied Rafael, taking the key, 
 and eager to oblige his friend. 
 
 " And, perhaps," continued Valleja, smiling, and 
 detaining him as he was about to hasten out of the 
 
124 THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 
 
 room, "perhaps you will not object to tell these gen- 
 tlemen, that, until you return with the money, they 
 may take Luis Valleja's word for the sum he wisnes 
 to play." 
 
 " Most assuredly I will," answered the young man, 
 hastily, "and I am only sorry that the sefior mar- 
 quis should have thought it advisable to pu.t any 
 thing resembling a slight upon a friend of mine and 
 my father's. Gentlemen," he continued, to the bank- 
 ers, " I offer you my guaranty for the sum Count 
 Valleja is about to play." 
 
 The old marquis bowed his head. 
 
 " That is quite sufficient, Don Rafael," said he. " I 
 have the honor of knowing you perfectly well. His 
 senoria, the Count Valleja, is only known to me as 
 Count Valleja, and I am certain that, on reflection, 
 neither he nor you will blame me for acting as I do, 
 when so heavy a sum is at stake." 
 
 Don Rafael left the room. The formal marquis 
 removed the piece of money from off the pack, and 
 took up the cards with as much dry indifference as 
 if he were no way concerned in the result of the im- 
 portant game that was about to be played. Valleja 
 sauntered to the window, humming a tune between 
 his teeth, and stepping out, pushed the awning a little 
 uside, and leaned over the balcony. 
 
THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 125 
 
 The banker began to draw the cards^ one after the 
 Dther, slowly and deliberately. Nearly half the pack 
 was dealt out, without a king or an ace appearing. 
 The players a^id lookers on were breathless with anx- 
 iety ; the fall of a pin would have been audible ; the 
 tune, which the count continued to hum from his sta- 
 tion on the balcony, was heard, in the stillness that 
 reigned, as distinctly as though it had been thundered 
 out by a whole orchestra. Another card, and another, 
 was drawn, and then the decisive one appeared. 
 The silence was immediately exchanged for a tumult 
 of words and exclamations. 
 
 " Que es eso ? " said Valleja, turning half round, 
 and smelling, as he spoke, at a superb flower, which 
 he had just plucked from one of the plants in the 
 balcony. "What's the matter?" 
 
 " The ace " said the person nearest the window, 
 who then paused and hesitated. 
 
 " Well ! " said Valleja, with a sneer, " the ace 
 what then? It has won, I suppose." 
 
 " It has won." 
 
 " Muy bien. It was to be expected it would, since 
 I went on the king." And, turning round again, he 
 resumed his tune and his gaze into the street. 
 
 " Ha de ser rico" said the Spaniard to another of 
 the players. " He must be rich. It would be difficult 
 11* 
 
126 THE GAMBLER'S LAST SIAKE. 
 
 to take the loss of thirty thousand dollars more coolly 
 than that." 
 
 Five minutes elapsed, during which the bankers 
 were busy counting out their bank, iij order to see 
 the exact sum due to them by the unfortunate loser. 
 When the jingle of money and rustle of paper ceased, 
 Yalleja looked round for the second time. 
 
 " How much is there, senores ? " cried he. 
 
 " Thirty thousand four hundred and thirty dollars, 
 Senor Conde," replied the old marquis, with a bow 
 of profound respect for one who could bear such a 
 loss with such admirable indifference. 
 
 " Very good," was the count's answer ; " and here 
 comes the man who will pay it you." 
 
 Accordingly, the next minute, a hasty step was 
 heard upon the stairs. All eyes were turned to the 
 door, which opened, and Rafael Solano entered. 
 
 " Where is the count ? " exclaimed he, in a hurried 
 voice, and with a discomposed countenance. 
 
 Again every head was turned towards the window ; 
 but the count had disappeared. At the same moment, 
 from the street below, which was a quiet and unfre- 
 quented one, there arose an unusual uproar and noise 
 of voices. The monte players rushed to the windows, 
 and saw several persons collected round a man whom 
 they were raising from the ground. His skull was 
 
THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 127 
 
 frightfully fractured, and the pavement around sprin- 
 kled with his blood. Rafael and some others hurried 
 down ; but, before they reached the street, Count 
 Luis Valleja had expired. The gambler's last stake 
 had been his life. 
 
 When young Solan o reached his father's house, 
 and, repairing to the count's apartment, opened the 
 desk of which Valleja had given him the key, he 
 found that it contained neither notes nor any thing 
 else of value, but merely a few worthless papers. 
 Astonished at this, and, in spite of his prepossession 
 in favor of the count, feeling his suspicions a little 
 roused by what he could hardly consider an oversight, 
 he hurried back to the monte room, where his arrival 
 served as the signal for the catastrophe that has been 
 related. 
 
 The same evening, the amount lost was paid by 
 Rafael Solano into the hands of the winners. The 
 following day, the body of the count was privately 
 interred. 
 
 After the lapse of a few weeks, there came a letter 
 from Mexico, in reply to the one which Don Jose 
 Solano had written to announce the arrival of Valleja. 
 His Mexican correspondent wrote in all haste, anxious, 
 if still . possible, to preserve Don Jose from becoming 
 the dupe of a swindler. " The Conde de Valleja," he 
 
128 THE GAMBLER'S LAST STAKE. 
 
 said, "was the last and unworthy scion of a noble and 
 once respected family. From his early youth he had 
 made himself remarkable as well for the vices of his 
 character as for the skill with which he concealed 
 them under a mask of agreeable accomplishments and 
 fascinating manners. His father, dying shortly after 
 he became of age, had left him the uncontrolled mas- 
 ter of his fortune, which he speedily squandered ; and 
 when it was gone, he Lived, for some time, by the ex- 
 'ercise of his wits, and by preying on all who were 
 sufficiently credulous to confide in him. At length, 
 having exhausted every resource, when no man of 
 honor would speak to him, and no usurer lend him a 
 maravedi at any rate of interest, he had, by an 
 unworthy artifice, duped the very last person who 
 took any interest in him, out of a few hundred dol- 
 lars, and taken ship at Vera Cruz for Europe." 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to add, that the letter of 
 credit was a forgery. 
 
THE TEMPLE OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 BY JOHN PATCH, ESQ. 
 
 'Tis said, when God first made the world, 
 Earth's veins ran streams of liquid gold ; 
 
 Ai*d the bright courts of paradise 
 
 Were paved with priceless gems untold. 
 
 Scarce ceased the " song of morning stars," 
 That ushered in the primal day, 
 
 Ere from their burning thrones to earth 
 An angel host quick winged their way, - 
 
 To build a consecrated fane, 
 
 Where men and angels might unite 
 
 To worship God in holiness, 
 
 And sing his praise by day and night. 
 
130 THE TEMPLE OP THE ANGELS. 
 
 On gold foundations, deeply laid, 
 
 Bright quarried diamonds they pile ; 
 
 Mingled with precious stones and pearls, 
 Gathered from earth's remotest isle. 
 
 So quick is angel work divine, 
 That, ere the second sun had set, 
 
 The tower and columned roof arose, 
 Crowned by a crystal parapet. 
 
 Within beneath the vaulted dome 
 
 Of amethyst cerulean blue 
 Bright, clustering constellations shone, 
 
 As shone the stars when earth was new. 
 
 The angels viewed it with delight, 
 
 And God a day had set apart, 
 To meet therein his favored ones, 
 
 Who serve him with a perfect heart. 
 
 But ere it came man recreant fell, 
 
 And joined death's foul, black-bannered host ; 
 _ And with him fell the angel fane, 
 And man's proud legacy was lost. 
 
THE TEMPLE OF THE ANGELS. 131 
 
 Deep hid by earthquakes swallowed up 
 The " Temple of the Angels " lay, 
 
 While round were " cherubs' flaming swords, 
 That turned to guard it every way." 
 
 At length, when to the centre riven, 
 The world was by the flood o'erthrown, 
 
 Scattered beneath the cope of heaven, 
 The ruined fane in fragments shone. 
 
 Hence all the stones we precious deem 
 And all the jewels from abroad 
 
 With which again shall be rebuilt 
 ZION, the city of our God. 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 IT was towards the commencement of the month 
 of December, 1825, that I was going down the Mis- 
 sissippi in the steamboat Feliciana. We had arrived 
 in the neighborhood of Hopefield, Hampstead county, 
 when one of our paddles struck against a sawyer,* 
 and was broken to pieces. We were obliged, in con- 
 sequence, to cast anchjr before ^13 tcwn, 
 
 Hopefield is a small town on the west bank of the 
 river, about six hundred miles above New Orleans, 
 and five hundred below the junction of the Ohio and 
 Mississippi. It consisted, at the time of which I 
 speak, of about fifteen houses, two of which were 
 taverns and shops of the usual kind found in such 
 places their stock in trade consisting of a cask or 
 two of whiskey, a couple of dozen knives and forks, a 
 
 * The local name for large tree trunks which get partially 
 buried in the mud, one end sticking up just below the surface 
 of the water. They cause frequent accidents to the steamboats 
 on the Mississippi. 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. % 133 
 
 few colored handkerchiefs, some earthen ware, lead, 
 powder, and the like. Our party was composed of 
 ten ladies, the same number of young men, and 
 several elderly gentlemen. Nothing appears so de- 
 sirable, during a long voyage in a river steamboat, 
 as a stroll upon shore ; and, as there was nothing to 
 be done at Hopefield, the proposal of one of our 
 number to take a ramble in the forest was met with 
 unqualified approbation by all the young men. We 
 3quipped ourselves each with a rifle, and a bottle of 
 wine or brandy, to keep the vapors of the swamps 
 out of our throats ; the son of one of the tavern keep- 
 ers, who offeree^ himself as a guide, was loaded with 
 a mighty ham and a bag of biscuits, which we pro- 
 cured from the steamboat ; and thus provided, we sal- 
 lied forth on our expediton, attended by the good wishes 
 of the ladies, who accompanied us a few hundred yards 
 into the wood, and then left us to pursue our march. 
 I have often had occasion to notice, that the first 
 entrance into one of our vast American forests is apt 
 to reduce the greatest talker to silence. In the pres- 
 ent instance, I found the truth of this remark fully 
 confirmed. Whether it was the subdued half light of 
 the luxuriant wilderness through which we were pass- 
 ing, the solemn stillness, only broken by the rustling 
 of the dead leaves under our feet, or the colossal 
 12 
 
134 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 dimensions of the mighty trees, that rose like so many 
 giants around us, that wrought upon the imagination, 
 I cannot ^ay ; but it is ^certain that my companions, 
 who were mostly from the Northern State j, and had 
 never before been beyond Albany or the Saratoga 
 Springs, became at once silent, and almost sad. The 
 leaves of the cotton tree, that giant of the south- 
 western forests, had already assumed the tawny hues 
 of latter autumn ; only here and there a streak of 
 sunbeam, breaking through the canopy of branches 
 that spread over our heads, brought out the last tints 
 of green, now fast fading away, and threw a strange 
 sparkling ray, a bar of light, across our path. Here 
 was a magnolia with its snow-white blossoms, or a 
 catalpa with its long cucumber-shaped fruit, amongst 
 which the bright-hued redbirds and paroquets glanced 
 and fluttered. 
 
 "We walked for some time through the fores/, 
 amused more than once by the proceedings of two 
 young clerks from Boston, who saw a wild animal in 
 every thicket, and repeatedly levelled their guns at 
 some bear or panther, which turned out to be neither 
 more nor less than a bush or tree stump. They pes- 
 tered our guide with all sorts of simple questions, 
 which he, with a true backwoodsman's indifference, 
 left for the most part unanswered. Aft*? about ac 
 
1?HE STOLEN CHILD. 135 
 
 hour, we found ourselves on the borders of a long 
 and tolerably wide swamp, formed by the overflow- 
 ings of the river, and which stretched for some five 
 miles from north to south, with a broad patch of clear 
 bright-green water in the centre. The western bank 
 was covered with a thick growth of palmettoes, the 
 favorite cover of deer, bears, and even panthers ; and 
 this cover we resolved to beat. We divided ourselves 
 into two parties, the first of which, consisting of the 
 New Englanders, and accompanied by the guide, was 
 to go round the northern extremity of the swamp, 
 while we were to take a southerly direction, and both 
 to meet behind the marsh, on a certain path which 
 led through a thicket of wild plum trees and acacias. 
 Our guide's instructions were not the clearest, and 
 the landmarks he gave us were only intelligible to a 
 thorough backwoodsman ; but as too many questions 
 would probably have puzzled him, * without making 
 matters clearer to us, we set off, trusting to our eyes 
 and ears, and to the pocket compasses with which 
 several of us were provided. 
 
 After another hour's walk, during which we had 
 seen nothing but wild pigeons and squirrels, and a 
 few moccason snakes warming themselves in the sun- 
 beams, which latter, on our approach, drew hastily 
 back under the heaps of dry leaves, we arrived at 
 
136 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 the southern extremity of the swamp. Proceeding a 
 short distan?e westward, we then took a northerly 
 direction, along the edge of the palmetto field, with 
 the marsh upon our right hand. It was a sort of 
 canebrake we were passing through, firm footing, and 
 with grass up to our knees ; the shore of the swamp 
 or lake was overgrown with lofty cedars, shooting out 
 of water four or five feet deep, which reflected their 
 circular crowns. The broad streak of water looked 
 like a huge band of satin, and the slightest motion 
 of the leaves was immediately perceptible in the mir- 
 ror beneath them. From time to tirm, the least pos- 
 sible breeze rustled through the trees, and curled the 
 water with a tiny ripple. The water itself was of 
 the brightest emerald-green ; and the forest of pal- 
 metto stems, that grew along the ed^e, was reflected 
 in it like myriads of swords and lances. In the small 
 creeks and inlets, flocks of swans, pelicans, and wild 
 geese were sunning themselves, and pluming their 
 feathers for their winter flight. They allowed us to 
 come within a score of paces of them, and then flew 
 away with a rushing, whirring noise. 
 
 We had been for some time plodding patiently 
 along, when our attention was suddenly attracted by a 
 slow but continued rustling amongst the palmettoes 
 Something was, evidently, cautiously approaching us, 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 137 
 
 but whether panther, stag, or bear, we could not tell ; 
 probably the last, We gave a glance at our rifles, 
 cocked them, and pressed a few paces forward amongst 
 the canes ; when suddenly a bound and a cracking 
 noise, which grew rapidly more distant, warned us 
 that the animal had taken the alarm. One of c'ir 
 companions, who had as yet never seen a bear hunt, 
 ran forward as fast as the palmettoes would allow him, 
 and was soon out of sight. Unfortunately we had no 
 dogs, and after half an hour's fruitless beating about, 
 during which we started another animal, within sight 
 or shot of which we were unable to get, we became 
 convinced that we should have to meet our friends 
 empty handed. It was now time to proceed to the 
 place of rendezvous, on the farther side of the pal- 
 metto field, which was about half a mile wide. The 
 man who had gone after the bear had rejoined us, 
 and from him we learned that the brake was bordered 
 on the western side by a dense thicket of wild plum, 
 apple, and acacia trees, through which there was not 
 the least sign of a path. On arriving there, we saw 
 that his account was a correct one ; and, to add to 
 our difficulties, the nature of the ground in our front 
 now changed, and the canebrake sank down into a 
 sort of swampy bottom, extending to the northern ex- 
 tremity of the lake. Our situation was an embarrassing 
 12* 
 
138 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 one. Before us, an impassable swamp ; to our right, 
 water ; to our left, an impenetrable thicket ; and four 
 hours out of the eight that had been allotted to us 
 already elapsed. There seemed nothing to be done 
 but to retrace our steps ; but, before doing so, we 
 resolved to make a last effort to find a path. To 
 this end we separated, taking different directions, 
 and for nearly half an hour we wandered through 
 the thicket, amongst bushes and brambles, tearing 
 and scratching ourselves to no purpose. At last, 
 when I for one was about to abandon the search 
 in despair, a loud hurrah gave notice that the path 
 was found. We were soon all grouped around the 
 lucky discoverer; but to our considerable disappoint- 
 ment, instead of finding him at the entrance of the 
 wished-for road, we beheld him gravely contemplating 
 a cow, which was cropping the grass quite undis- 
 turbed by our approach. Nevertheless, this was no 
 bad find, if we could only ascertain whether it was a 
 stray cow, that had wandered far from its home, or a 
 beast of regular habits, that passed each night in its 
 master's cow house. An Ohioman solved the question, 
 by pointing out that the animal had evidently been 
 milked that morning ; and as we were debating how 
 we should induce . Brindle to proceed in the direction 
 of its domicile, he settled that difficulty also, by firing 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD, 139 
 
 off his rifle so close to the beast's tail, that the bullet 
 carried off a patch of hair, and grazed the skin. 
 The cow gave a tremendous spring, and rushed 
 through a thicket, as if a score of wolves had been 
 at its heels. We followed, and the brute led us to a 
 tolerably good path through the wilderness, which we 
 had thought impenetrable. It was doubtless the path 
 that was to take us to the appointed place of meet- 
 ing ; and we now slackened our pace, and followed 
 the cow's trail more leisurely. We had proceeded 
 about a mile, when a strong light in the distance 
 made us aw^re that we were coming to a clearing ; 
 and on arriving at the place, we found several maize 
 fields enclosed by hedges, and a log house, the smok- 
 ing chimney of which bespoke the presence of in- 
 habitants. 
 
 The dwelling was pleasantly situated on a gentle 
 slope, roofed with clapboards, and having stables and 
 other outhouses in its rear, such as one usually finds 
 in backwood settlements of the more comfortable kind. 
 Peach trees were trailed against the house, in front 
 of which stood some groups of papaws. The whole 
 place had a rural and agreeable aspect. 
 
 We were scarcely within the hedge that surrounded 
 the domain, when a brace of bull dogs rushed upon 
 us with open jaws. We were keeping off the furious 
 
140 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 brutes with some difficulty, when a man came out of 
 the barn, and, upon seeing us, again entered it. After 
 a few moments, he appeared for a second time, in 
 company with two negroes, who were leading by the 
 horns the very same cow which we had so uncere- 
 moniously compelled to become our guide. We greeted 
 the man with a " good morning ; " but he made no 
 answer, merely gazing hard at us with a cold, sullen 
 look. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man 
 with an expressive, but extraordinarily sad, gloomy, 
 and almost repulsive countenance. There was a rest- 
 less excitement of manner about him, whj^i struck us 
 at the very first glance. 
 
 " A fine morning," said I, approaching the stranger. 
 
 No answer. The man was holding the cow by one 
 horn, and staring at the tail, from which a drop or 
 two of blood was falling. 
 
 " How far is it from here to Hopefield ? " asked I. 
 
 " Far enough for you never to get there, if it's 
 you who've been drivin* my cow," was the threaten- 
 ing reply. 
 
 " And if we had driven your cow," said I, " you would 
 surely not take it amiss ? It was a mere accident," 
 
 " Such accidents don't often happen. People don't 
 shoot cows, if they haven't a mind to eat other folk's 
 beef." 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 141 
 
 " You do not suppose," said the Qhioman, " that 
 we should wish to hurt your cow we, who have no 
 other intention but to shoot a few turkeys for the 
 voyage. We are passengers by the Feliciana : one 
 of our paddles is broken ; and that is the reason that 
 our boat is at anchor in front of Hopefield, and that 
 we are here." 
 
 This circumstantial explanation seemed to produce 
 little effect on the backwoodsman. He made no reply. 
 We walked towards the house, and, on stepping in, 
 found a woman there, who scarcely looked at us, or 
 seemed aware o*f our entrance. There was the same 
 appearance of fixed grief upon her countenance that 
 we had remarked in the man ; only with the differ- 
 ence, that the expression was less morose and fierce, 
 but on the other hand more mournful. 
 
 " Can we have something to eat ? " said I to the 
 woman. 
 
 " We don't keep a tavern," was the answer. 
 
 " The other party cannot be far off," said one of 
 my companions. " We will give them a sign of our 
 whereabout." And so saying, he passed out at the 
 door, and walked a few paces in the direction of a 
 cotton field. 
 
 " Stop ! " cried the backwoodsman, suddenly, pla- 
 cing himself before him. "Not a step farther shall 
 
142 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 you go, till you satisfy me who you are, and where 
 from." 
 
 " Who and where from ? " replied our comrade, a 
 young doctor of medicine from Tennessee. "That is 
 what neither you nor any other man shall know who 
 asks after such a fashion. If I'm not mistaken, we 
 are in a free country." And as he spoke he fired 
 off his rifle. 
 
 The report of the piece was echoed so magnifi- 
 cently from the deep forests which surrounded the 
 plantation, that my other companions raised their guns 
 to their shoulders, with the intention ef firing also. I 
 made them a sign in time to prevent it. Although 
 there could hardly be any real danger to be appre- 
 hended, it appeared to me advisable to hold ourselves 
 prepared for whatever might happen. The next mo- 
 ment a shot was heard the answer to our signal. 
 
 " Keep yourself quiet," said I to the backwoods- 
 man ; " our companions and their guide will soon be 
 here. As to your cow, you can hardly have so little 
 common sense as to suppose that five travellers would 
 shoot a beast that must be perfectly useless to them." 
 
 As I left off speaking, there emerged from the. for- 
 est our other detachment and the guide, the latter 
 carrying two fat turkeys. He greeted the backwoods- 
 man as an old acquaintance, but with a degree of 
 
THE STOLE* CHILD. 143 
 
 and compassion in the tone of his saluta- 
 tion which contrasted strangely with his usual rough, 
 dry manner. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Clarke," said he, " heard nothing yet ? 
 I am sorry for it very sorry." 
 
 The backwoodsman made no reply, but his rigid, 
 sturdy mien softened, and his eyes, as I thought, 
 glistened with moisture. 
 
 " Mistress Clarke," said our guide to the woman, 
 who was standing at the house door, "these gentle- 
 men here wish for a snack. They've plenty of every 
 thing, if you'll be so good as to cook it." 
 
 The woman stood without making any reply ; the 
 man was equally silent. There was a sort of stub- 
 born, surly manner about them, which I had never 
 before witnessed in backwoods people. 
 
 " Well," said the doctor, " we need expect nothing 
 here. We are only losing time. Let us sit down on 
 a tree trunk, and eat our ham and biscuits." 
 
 The guide made us a significant sign, and then 
 stepping up to the woman, spoke to her in a low and 
 urgent tone. She did not, however, utter a Word. 
 
 "Mistress," said the doctor, "something must have 
 happened to you or your family, to put you so out 
 of sorts. We are strangers, but we are not without 
 feelings. Tell us what is wrong. There may be 
 means of helping you." 
 
144 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 The man looked up ; the woman shook her head. 
 
 " What is it that troubles you ? " said I, approach 
 ing her. " Speak out. Help often comes when least 
 expected." 
 
 The woman made me no answer, but stepped up 
 to our guide, took a turkey and the ham from him, 
 and went into the house. We followed,' sat down at 
 the table, and produced our bottles. The backwoods- 
 man placed glasses before us. We pressed him to 
 join us, but he obstinately declined our invitation, and 
 we at last became weary of wasting good words on 
 him. Our party consisted, as before mentioned, of 
 ten persons: two bottles were soon emptied; and we 
 were beginning to get somewhat merry whilst talking 
 over our morning's ramble, when our host suddenly 
 got up from his seat in the chimney corner, and ap 
 preached the table. 
 
 " Gemmen," said he, " you musn't think me uncivil 
 if I tell you plainly, that I can have no noise made 
 in my house. It an't a house to larf in that it 
 an't, by G !" And having so spoken, he resumed 
 his seat, leaned his head upon both hands, and re- 
 lapsed into his previous state of gloomy reverie. 
 
 " We ask pardon," said we ; " but really we had 
 no idea that our cheerfulness could annoy you." 
 
 The man made no reply, and half an hour passed 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 146 
 
 away in whisperings and conjectures. At the end 
 of that time, a negro girl came in to spread the table 
 for our meal. 
 
 After much entreaty, our host and hostess were 
 prevailed on to sit down with us. The former took 
 a glass of brandy, and emptied it at a draught. We 
 filled it again ; he drank it off, and it was again re- 
 plenished. After the third glass, a deep sigh escaped 
 him. The cordial had evidently revived him. 
 
 " Gemmen," said he, " you will have thought me 
 rough and stubborn enough, when I met you as you 
 had been huntin' my cow ; but I see now who I 
 have to do with. But may I be shot myself, if, when- 
 ever I find him, I dpn't send a bullet through his 
 body ; and I'll be warrant it shall hinder his stealin* 
 any more children." 
 
 " Steal children ! " repeated I. " Has one of your 
 negroes been stolen?" 
 
 " One of. my niggers, man ! My son, my only son ! 
 Her child ! " continued he, pointing to his wife. " Our 
 boy, the only one remaining to us out of five, whom 
 the fever carried off before our eyes. As bold and 
 smart a boy as any in the backwoods ! Here we 
 set ourselves down in the wilderness, worked day and 
 night, went through toil and danger, hunger and thirst, 
 beat and cold. And for what? Here we are alone, 
 13 
 
146 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 deserted, childless ; with nothin' left for us but to 
 pray and cry, to curse and groan. No help ; all in 
 vain. I shall go out of my mind, I expect. If he 
 were dead ! if he were lyin' under the hillock yon- 
 der, beside his brothers, I would say nothin'. He 
 gave, and He has a right to take away ! But, Al- 
 mighty Grod ! " And the man uttered a cry so 
 frightful, so heart-rending, that the knives and forks 
 fell from our hands, and a number of negro women 
 and children came rushing in to see what was the 
 matter. "We gazed at him in silence. 
 
 " God only knows," continued he, and his head sank 
 upon his breast ; then suddenly starting up, he drank 
 off glass after glass of brandy, as fast as he could 
 pour it out. 
 
 " And how and when did this horrible theft oc- 
 cur?" asked we. 
 
 " The woman can tell you about it," was the answei. 
 
 The woman had left the table, and now sat sobbing 
 and weeping upon the bed. It was really a heart- 
 breaking scene. The doctor got up, and led her to 
 the table. We waited till she became more com- 
 posed, anxiously expecting her account of this horrible 
 calamity. 
 
 " It was four weeks yesterday," she began ; " Mister 
 Clarke was in the forest ; I was in the fields, looking 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 147 
 
 after the people, who were gathering in the maize. 
 I had been there some time, and by the sun it was 
 already pretty near eleven ; but it was as fire a 
 morning as ever was seen on the Mississippi, and the 
 niggers don't work well if there's not somebody to 
 look after them ; so I remained. At last it was time 
 to get the people's dinner ready, and I left the field. 
 I don't know what it was, but I had scarcely turned 
 towards the house, when it seemed as if somebody 
 called to me to run as fast as I could ; a sort of fear 
 and uneasiness came over me, and I ran all the way 
 to the house. When I got there, I saw little Cesy, 
 our black boy, sitting on the threshold, and playing 
 all alone. I thought nothing of this, but went into 
 the kitchen, without suspecting any thing wrong. As 
 I was turning about amongst the pots and kettles, I 
 thought suddenly of my Dougal. I threw down what 
 I had in my hand, and ran to the door. Cesy came 
 to meet me : l Missi,' said he, * Dougal is gone ! ' 
 
 " ' Dougal is gone ! ' cried I. * Where is he gone 
 to, Cesy?' 
 
 " ' Don't know/ said Cesy ; ' gone away with a man 
 on horseback.' 
 
 " ' With a man on horseback ? ' said I. ' In God's 
 name, where can he be gone to ? What does all this 
 mean, Cesy ? ' 
 
148 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 " ' Don't know,' said Cesy. 
 
 " ' And who was the man ? Did he go willingly ? ' 
 
 "'No, he didn't go willingly,' said Cesy; 'but the 
 man got off his horse, put Dougal upon it, and then 
 jumped up behind him, and rode away.' 
 
 "'And you don't know the man?' 
 
 "'No, missi.' 
 
 " ' Think again, Cesy,' cried I ; 'for God's sake, 
 remember. Don't you know the man ? ' 
 
 "'No,' said the child, 'I don't know him.' 
 
 " ' Didn't you see what he looked like ? Was he 
 black or white ? ' 
 
 " ' I don't know,' said Cesy, crying ; ' he had a red 
 flannel shirt over his face.' 
 
 " ' Was it neighbor Syms, or Banks, or Medling, 
 or Barnes ? ' 
 
 " ' No,' whined Cesy. 
 
 " ' Gracious God ! ' cried I. ' What is this ? What 
 is become of iny poor child ? ' I ran backwards and 
 forwards into the forest, through the fields. I called 
 out. I looked every where. At last I ran to where 
 the people were at work, and fetched Cesy's mother 
 I thought she would be able to make him tell some- 
 thing more about my child. She ran to the house 
 with me, promised him cakes, new clothes, every 
 thing in the world ; but he could tell nothing moro 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 149 
 
 than he had already told me. At last Mr. Clarke 
 came." 
 
 Here the woman paused, and looked at her husband. 
 
 " When I came home," continued the latter, " the 
 woman was nearly distracted ; and I saw directly that 
 some great misfortune had happened. But I should 
 never have guessed what it really was. When she 
 told me, I said, to comfort her, that one of the neigh- 
 bors must have taken the child away, though I didn't 
 think it myself; for none of the neighbors would 
 have allowed themselves such a freedom with my only 
 child. I shouldn't have thanked 'em for it, I can tell 
 you. I called Cesy, and asked him again what the 
 man was like ; if he had a blue or a black coat. 
 He said it was blue. * What sort of a horse ? ' 'A 
 brown one/ 'What road he had taken?' ' That 
 road/ answered the boy, pointing to the swamp. I 
 sent all my niggers, men, women, and children, round 
 to the neighbors, to seek for the child, and tell them 
 what had happened. I myself followed the path that 
 the robber had taken, and found hoof prints upon it. 
 I tracked them to the creek, but there I lost the 
 trail. The man must have got into a boat, with his 
 horse and the child ; had perhaps crossed the Missis- 
 sippi, or perhaps gone down the stream. Who could 
 tell where he would land? It might be ten, twenty ; 
 13* 
 
*50 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 fifty, or a hundred miles lower down. I was terribly 
 frightened, and I rode on to Hopefield. There noth- 
 ing had been seen or heard of my child ; but all the 
 men got on their horses to help me to find him. 
 The neighbors came also, and we sought about for a 
 whole day and night. No trace or track was to be 
 found. Nobody had seen either the child or the mat) 
 who had carried him off". We beat the woods for 
 thirty miles round my house, crossed the Mississippi, 
 went up as far as Memphis, and down to Helena 
 and the Yazoo River; nothing was to be seen or 
 heard. We came back as we went out, empty handed 
 and discouraged. When I got home, I found the 
 whole county assembled at my house. Again we set 
 out ; again we searched the forest through ; every 
 hollow tree, every bush and thicket, was looked into. 
 Of bears, stags, and panthers there were plenty, but 
 no signs of my boy. On the sixth day I came home 
 again ; but my home was become hateful to me 
 every thing vexed and disgusted me. My clothes and 
 skin were torn off by the thorns and briers ; my 
 very bones ached; but I didn't feel it. It was noth- 
 ing to what I suffered in my mind. 
 
 " On the second day after my return, I was lying 
 heart and body sick in bed, when one of the neighbors 
 tame in, and told me that he had just seen, at Hopefield, 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 151 
 
 a man from Muller county, who told him that a stran- 
 ger had been seen on the road to New Madrid, whose 
 description answered to that which Cesy had given 
 of the child stealer. It was a man with a blue coat 
 and a brown horse, and a child upon his saddle. I 
 forgot my sickness and my sore bones, bought a new 
 horse, for I had ridden mine nearly to death, and 
 set out directly, rode day and night, three hundred 
 miles, to New Madrid ; and when I arrived there, sure 
 enough, I found the man who had been described to 
 me, and a child with him. But it was not my child. 
 The man belonged to New Madrid, and had been on 
 a journey with his son into Muller county. 
 
 " I don't know how I got home again. Some peo- 
 ple found me near Hopefield, and brought me to my 
 house. I had -fever and was raving for ten days; 
 and during that time the neighbors advertised the 
 thing in all the papers in Tennessee, Arkansas, Mis- 
 sissippi, and Louisiana. We had ridden altogether 
 thousands of miles, but it was no use. No ! " con- 
 tinued he, with a deep groan ; " if my child had died 
 of a fever, if he had fallen in with a bear or panther, 
 and been killed, it would be bitter, bitter sorrow 
 he was my last child. But, merciful God stolen ! 
 My son, my poor child, stolen ! " 
 
 And the man cried aloud, sprang from his seat, 
 
152 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 and wrung his hands and wept like an infant. Even 
 his wife had not shown such utter agony of grief. 
 
 " When I go to work," continued he, after a pause, 
 " my little Dougal seems to stand before me, and my 
 hands fall to my sides, as stiff and heavy as though 
 they were lead. I look round, but no Dougal is 
 there. When I go to bed, I put his bed beside mine, 
 and call him, but no one answers. Sleeping . or 
 waking, my poor boy is always before me. Would 
 to God I were dead ! I have cursed and sworn, 
 prayed and supplicated, wept and groaned, but all 
 all in vain ! " 
 
 I have seen many persons suffering from distress 
 of mind, but never did I meet with one whose sorrow 
 was so violent and overpowering as that of this back- 
 woodsman. We did our utmost to console him, and 
 to inspire him with new hope, but he was incon- 
 solable ; his eyes were fixed, he had fallen into a 
 sort of apathy, and I doubt if he even heard what 
 was said to him. We ourselves were so affected that 
 our words seemed almost to choke us. Time pressed, 
 however; it was impossible for us to remain any 
 longer, nor could we have done any good by so doing. 
 We shook the unfortunate couple by the hand, prom- 
 ised to do all in our power to learn something of 
 their child's fate, and took our departure. 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 153 
 
 It was six weeks after the time above referred to, 
 that I found myself compelled by business to make 
 a journey to Natchez. I had often thought of poor 
 Clarke's misfortune, and, in conjunction with my 
 friends, had done all in my power to discover the 
 villain who had robbed him of his child. Hitherto 
 all our endeavors had been fruitless. The facts were 
 circulated in every newspaper, were matter of con- 
 versation at every tea table in the country ; rewards 
 were offered, researches made, but not the smallest 
 trace of the boy or his stealer was to be found. 
 
 It was a bright January afternoon when I landed 
 at Natchez. In company with some acquaintances, I 
 was ascending the little hill between the lower and 
 upper town, when we heard an unusual noise and 
 bustle ; and on reaching the summit, we saw a crowd 
 assembled before the door of Justice Bonner's house. 
 Upon going to see what was the matter, we found 
 that the mob consisted of the better class of people 
 in Natchez, both women and men, but especially the 
 former. Every face wore an expression of interest 
 and anxiety ; and upon making inquiry, we learned 
 that the child stealer had been at length discovered ; 
 or rather, that a man had been taken up on strong 
 suspicion of his having stolen Mr. Clarke's son, of 
 Hampstead county. I was heartily rejoiced at the 
 
154 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 news, and endeavored to press forward through the 
 throng, in hopes of hearing some particulars ; but the 
 crowd was so dense that it was impossible to get 
 through. I stood there for nearly two hours, the con- 
 course all the while increasing, none stirring from the 
 places they occupied, while every adjacent window 
 was filled with eager, anxious faces. 
 
 At last, the door opened, and the prisoner, guarded 
 by two constables, and followed by the sheriff, came 
 out of the house, and took the direction of the town 
 prison. " That is he ! " whispered the women to one 
 another, with pale faces and trembling voices, clasp- 
 ing their children tighter, as though fearful they would 
 be snatched from them. The countenance of the cul- 
 prit was the most repulsive I had ever seen a 
 mixture of brutal obstinacy and low cunning, with a 
 sort of sneering, grinning expression. His small, 
 green-gray eyes were fixed upon the ground; but as 
 he passed through the lane opened by the crowd, he 
 from time to time partially raised them, and threw 
 sidelong and malicious glances at the bystanders. He 
 was rather above the middle height, his complexion 
 of a dirty-grayish color, his cheeks hollow, his lips 
 remarkably thick and coarse, his whole appearance in 
 the highest degree wild and disgusting. His dress 
 consisted of an old, worn-out blue frock, trousers of 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 155 
 
 the same color, a high-crowned, shabby hat, and tat- 
 tered shoes. The impression which his appearance 
 made might be read in the pale faces of the specta- 
 tors. They gazed after him with a sort of hopeless 
 look as he walked away. " If that is the man who 
 stole the child," murmured several, " there is no hope. 
 The boy is lost ! " I extricated myself from the 
 throng, and hastened to Justice Bonner, with whom I 
 was acquainted, and who gave me the following par- 
 ticulars : 
 
 About four weeks after our excursion in the neigh- 
 borhood of Hopefield, Clarke had received a letter, 
 signed Thomas Tully, and stamped with the Natchez 
 postmark. The contents were to the effect that his 
 child was still living; that the writer of the letter 
 knew where he was ; and that, if Mr. Clarke would 
 enclose a, fifty dollar bank note in his answer, he 
 should receive further information. On receipt of the 
 said sum, the writer said he would indicate a place 
 to which Mrs. Clarke might repair, unaccompanied, 
 and there, upon payment of two hundred dollars more, 
 the child should be delivered up. 
 
 Upon receiving this letter, the unfortunate father 
 consulted with his friends and neighbors ; and, by 
 their advice, he wrote immediately to the postmastei 
 a,t Natchez, informing him of the circumstances, and 
 
156 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 requesting that the person who applied for his answer 
 might be detained. Four days afterwards, a man 
 came to the window of the post office, and inquired if 
 there was any letter to the address of Thomas Tully. 
 The postmaster pretended to be searching for the 
 letter amongst a pile of others, and meanwhile a 
 constable, who was in attendance, went round and 
 captured the applicant. Upon the examination of the 
 latter, it appeared that he was an Irishman, who had 
 some time previously been hanging about Natchez, 
 and had endeavored to establish a school there. As 
 he, however, had been unable to give any satisfac- 
 tory account of himself, of where he came from, or 
 what he had been doing up to that time, arid as his 
 manner and appearance were, moreover, in the high- 
 est degree suspicious and repulsive, he had not suc- 
 ceeded in his plan, and the few parents who sent 
 their children to him had speedily withdrawn them. 
 He was known at Natchez by the name of Thomas 
 Tully, nor did he now deny that that was his name, 
 or that he had sent the letter, which was written in 
 a practised schoolmaster-like hand. It was further 
 elicited that he was perfectly acquainted with the 
 paths and roads between Natchez and Hopefield, and 
 in the neighborhood of those two places, as well as 
 With the swamps, creeks, and rivers there adjacent. 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 157 
 
 He was fully committed, till such time as the father 
 of the stolen child should be made acquainted with 
 the result of the examination. 
 
 In five days, Clarke arrived with the negro boy 
 Caesar. The whole town showed the greatest sym- 
 pathy with the poor man's misfortune : the lawyers 
 offered him their services free of charge, and a sec- 
 ond examination of the prisoner took place. Every 
 thing possible was done to induce the latter to confess 
 what had become of the child ; but to all questions 
 he opposed an obstinate silence. The negro boy did 
 not recognize him. At last, he declared that he knew 
 nothing of the stolen child, and that he had only 
 written the letter in the hope of extorting money from 
 the father. Hardly, however, had this been written 
 down, when he turned to Clarke, witlj an infernal 
 grin upon his countenance, and said, " You have per- 
 secuted and hunted me like a wild beast, but I will 
 make you yet more wretched than you are able to 
 make me." He then proceeded to inform him of a 
 certain place where he would find his child's clothes. 
 
 Clarke immediately set out with a constable to the 
 indicated spot, found the clothes as he had been told 
 he would do, and returned to Natchez. The accused 
 was again put at the bar, and said, after frequently 
 contradicting himself, that the child was still alive, 
 14 
 
158 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 but that, if they kept him longer in prison, it would 
 inevitably die of hunger. Nothing could persuade 
 him to say where the boy was, or to give one sylla- 
 ble of further explanation. 
 
 Meantime the quarter sessions commenced, and the 
 prisoner was brought up for trial. An immense con- 
 course of persons had assembled to witness the pro- 
 ceedings in this remarkable case. Every thing was 
 done to induce the accused to confess, but all in vain. 
 Promises of free pardon, and even of reward, were 
 made to him, if he told where the child was ; but 
 the man maintained an obstinate silence. He at last 
 again changed his story, retracted his previous decla- 
 ration as to his knowledge of where the boy was, said 
 he had found the clothes, which he had recognized 
 by the descriptions that had been every where adver- 
 tised, and that it was that which had put it into his 
 head to write to the father, in hopes of making his 
 profit by so doing. In the absence of witnesses, al- 
 though there was strong suspicion, there could be no 
 proof of his having committed the crime in question. 
 In America, circumstantial evidence is always received 
 with extreme caution and reluctance ; and even the 
 fact of the child's clothes having been found in the 
 place the prisoner had pointed out was insufficient to 
 induce the jury to find the latter guilty of the capital 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 159 
 
 charge brought against him. Many of the lawyers, 
 indeed, were of opinion that the man's last story was 
 true, that he had found the clothes, and, being a 
 desperate character and in needy circumstances, had 
 written the letter for purposes of extortion. Of this 
 offence only was he found guilty, and condemned, as 
 a vagrant and impostor, to a few months' imprison- 
 ment. By the American laws, no severer punishment 
 could be awarded. This one, however, was far from 
 satisfying the public. There was something so infer- 
 nal in the malignant sneer of the culprit, in the joy 
 with which he contemplated the sufferings of the be- 
 reaved father, and the anxiety of the numerous friends 
 of the latter, that a shudder of horror and disgust 
 had frequently run through the court during the trial. 
 Even the coolest and most practised lawyers had not 
 been free from this emotion, and they declared that 
 they had never witnessed such obduracy. 
 
 The inhabitants of Natchez, especially of the upper 
 town, are, generally speaking, a highly intelligent and 
 respectable class of people ; but upon this occasion 
 they lost all patience and self-control, and proceeded 
 to an extreme measure, which only the peculiar cir- 
 cumstances of the case could in any degree justify. 
 Without previous notice, they assembled in large num- 
 bers upon the night of the 31st of January, with a 
 
160 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 firm determination to correct for once the mildness 
 of the laws, and to take the punishment of the crim- 
 inal into their own hands. They opened the prison, 
 brought out the culprit, and after tying him up, a 
 number of stout negroes proceeded to flog him se 
 verely with whips of bullock's hide. 
 
 For a long time, the man bore his punishment with 
 extraordinary -fortitude, and remained obstinately silent 
 when questions were put to him concerning the stolen 
 child. At last, however, he could bear the pain no 
 longer, and promised a full confession. He named a 
 house on the banks of the Mississippi, some fifty 
 miles from Natchez, the owner of which, he said, 
 knew where the child was to be found. 
 
 The sheriff had, of course, not been present at these 
 Lynch-law proceedings, of which he was not aware 
 till they were over, but of which he probably in secret 
 did not entirely disapprove. No sooner, however, was 
 he told of the confession that had been extorted from 
 the prisoner, than he set off at once in the middle 
 of the night, accompanied by Clarke, for the house 
 that had been pointed out. They arrived there at 
 noon on the following day, and found it inhabited by 
 a respectable family, who had heard of the child hav- 
 ing been stolen, but, beyond that, knew nothing of the 
 matter. The "mere suspicion of participation in sucb 
 
THE STOLEN CHILD. 161 
 
 a crime seemed in the highest degree painful and of- 
 fensive to them. It was soon made evident that the 
 prisoner had invented the story, in order to procure 
 a cessation of his punishment of the previous night. 
 
 The fatigues and constant disappointments that poor 
 Clarke had endured had worn him out, and at last 
 again stretched him on a bed of sickness. His life 
 was for a long time despaired of, but he finally re- 
 covered; and shortly afterwards the term of impris- 
 onment to which the child stealer (for so the public 
 persisted an considering Tully) had been condemned 
 expired. There was no pretext for detaining him, 
 and he was set at liberty. Clarke was advised to 
 endeavor to obtain from him, by money and good 
 treatment, some information concerning the child. 
 Both father and mother threw themselves at the man's 
 feet, implored him to name his own reward, but to 
 tell them what had become of their son. 
 
 " You have flogged and imprisoned me," replied 
 the man, with one of his malicious grins ; " you would 
 have hung me if you could ; you have done all in your 
 power to make me miserable. It is now my turn." 
 
 And he obstinately refused to say a word on the 
 subject of the lost child. He left the town, accom- 
 panied by Clarke, who clung to him like his shadow, 
 in the constant hope that he would at last make a 
 14* 
 
162 THE STOLEN CHILD. 
 
 revelation. They crossed the Mississippi together, 
 and on arriving behind Coneordia, the bereaved father 
 once more besought Tully to tell him what had be- 
 come of his son, swearing that, if he did not do so, 
 he would dog him day and night, but that he should 
 never escape alive out of his hands. The man asked 
 how long he would give him. " Six and thirty hours," 
 was the reply. Tully walked on for some time be- 
 side Clarke and his wife, apparently deep in thought. 
 On a sudden, he sprang upon the backwoodsman, 
 snatched a pistol from his belt, and fired it at his 
 head. The weapon missed fire. Tully saw that his 
 murderous attempt had failed, and apprehensive, doubt- 
 less, of the punishment that it would entail, he leaped, 
 without an instant's hesitation, into the deepest part 
 of a creek by which they were walking. He sank 
 immediately, the water closed over his head, and he 
 did not once reappear. His body was found a couple 
 of hours afterwards, but no trace was ever discovered 
 of the Stolen Child.* 
 
 * Various particulars of the above incident may be found in 
 the Mississippi newspapers of the years 1825-6. 
 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 FROM PLATEN. 
 
 Two lovers strayed, at day's calm close, 
 
 Along a lake's green shore, 
 Love's tale of mingled joys and woes, 
 
 Oft told, still telling o'er. 
 In heaven already Hesper shone, 
 Yet hand in hand they wandered on, 
 
 Fair dreams around them floating. 
 
 " Ah," said she, " wilt thou me embrace, 
 
 Kind as to-day, to-morrow ? 
 And ne'er for us will joy's bright face 
 
 Grow dark with clouds of sorrow ? " 
 " Yes, as to-day e'en so forever ! 
 Fate cannot love's firm union sever," 
 
 The fearful one he answered. 
 
 " 'Tis well," she cried ; " thus swear I now, 
 
 To thee my heart is given. 
 Hear, Heaven! and register my vow; 
 
 For love is heard in heaven. 
 
164 FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 Yes, let it soar to God afar, 
 Who haply yon first golden star 
 Hath for his throne selected. 
 
 " O, seest thou there upon the strand 
 Those fair blue flowerets blowing? 
 
 Meet type, methinks, they yonder stand 
 Of hearts with true love glowing. 
 
 They blossom there so soft, so calm, 
 
 The angry waters fear to harm 
 Their unobtrusive beauty. 
 
 " Beloved, gather one for me, 
 
 To be my breast's adorning." 
 She spake, the youth fled joyously, 
 
 But never came returning. 
 The lake's steep bank the flowerets crowned, 
 And when the maiden came, she found 
 
 Amid the waves her lover. 
 
 Yes, there, beyond the reach of aid, 
 
 Embraced by death he stood ; 
 The shore his heedless steps betrayed, 
 
 And plunged into the flood. 
 The gurgling waters round him swelled, 
 
 But still with lifted arm he held 
 
 > 
 
 Above the waves a flower. 
 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 165 
 
 "To die for thee, my love, is sweet; 
 
 Yet quickly me pursuing, 
 O'er yon bright star soon let us meet, 
 
 And love have sweet renewing ; 
 And hear me, ere the waters blot 
 Thee from my sight, Forget-me-not!" 
 
 He said, and sunk forever. 
 
 But gently from his sinking hand 
 
 The waters washed the flower, 
 Which drifted to the neighboring strand, 
 
 Drawn by magnetic power. . 
 She raised it thence, and weeping pressed 
 The fatal blossom to her breast, 
 
 In woe that mocked controlling. 
 
 Then turning from her lover's grave, 
 
 The mourning one departed, 
 To fade like the last gift he gave, 
 
 All lone and broken hearted. 
 Now both in heaven have happier lot, 
 And called since then Forget-me-not 
 
 Has bee.n thit small blue flower. 
 
WHAT SHALL I DO? 
 
 BY J. 8. A. 
 
 "O, WHAT shall I do?" said Rosell, with a sigh, 
 With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye ; 
 " For, lo, he hath sent for my miniature now, 
 And soon he will send for the pearls on my brow ; 
 Then he will want that which no one has got 
 Save myself what is it? Ah, you must guess 
 what. 
 
 " Here is his letter 'tis really provoking ; 
 I almost believe the fellow is joking: 
 He praises my form, calls my face veiy fair, 
 Expatiates some on the shade of my hair ; 
 He talks of my eyes in a rapture of bliss, 
 And wonders if I would refuse him a kiss. 
 And, 0, what a flatterer ! I can't understand 
 Why he should call mine ' a lily-white hand. ' 
 lily * eyes so enchanting,' my ' features so true,' 
 I don't think them any thing extra do you? 
 
WHAT SHALL I DO ? 167 
 
 " He says he is coming precisely at four, 
 And wants me to meet him at the hall door. 
 Now, what shall I do ? Shall I answer his call, 
 And bound like a roe the whole length of the hall, 
 Grasp his warm hand with the fervor of passion, 
 Disobey every commandment of fashion ? 
 He'd think that I loved if I thus before him 
 Should appear. Well, I do almost adore him ; 
 But you know, we young ladies do love the perplexing 
 Of men, and our aim is to ever be vexing 
 Their souls with innumerable doubts and disasters, 
 And thus of the ' lords of creation ' be masters. 
 
 " Ah ! quite insensibly, while I've been sighing, 
 It has come from my neck : by the letter 'tis lying, 
 As though it would chide me for being so loath 
 Of having it go on a love-errand forth. 
 
 " Listen ! a footstep ; a coach at the gate ; 
 
 I know it is Charles, for, unwilling to wait, 
 
 He enters unaided ; and now at the door 
 
 He stands, and the old village clock striketh four. 
 
 " I know what I'll do. Yes, I've made up my mind, 
 And no one can change it in one of my kind. 
 Regardless of every incentive of pelf, 
 I'll give him the miniature, pearls, and myself." 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 To work out an honest purpose, in spite of oppo 
 sition, misfortune, penury, taking no heed of scorn, 
 no heed of ridicule ; to say that you who now despise 
 shall yet respect, you who scorn shall yet have bene- 
 fit ; to say these things and do them, is to present 
 human nature in a form which sooner or later must 
 obtain universal sympathy. In this virtue a world 
 of hope lies hidden, even for the meanest ; for, in 
 being honest to ourselves, we create a power of hon- 
 estly serving others. 
 
 In the town of Lincoln there lived, some years ago, 
 a man of the name of Pathlow, who, having served 
 in the army, had retired, at the close of the war, upon 
 a small pension. He belonged to what is commonly 
 called a good family, was proud of this relationship, 
 and having dissipated his little patrimony, and made 
 an ill-assorted marriage, had entered the army, not 
 with the desire to serve, but as the only means he 
 had of finding to-day or to-morrow's bread. Afte* 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 169 
 
 many struggles between poverty and pride, debt and 
 disgrace, he settled in Lincoln, when he was some years 
 past middle life. Here the old course was run. Fine 
 houses were taken, fine appearances made ; but these, 
 unlike the three degrees of comparison, did rather be- 
 gin with the largest and end with the smallest; so 
 that, when our tale commences, the fine house in the 
 finest street had dwindled into a mean habitation, 
 that could only boast its neighborhood to the minster, 
 where, shadowed by some antique trees, and within 
 sound of the minster's bell, it was the birthplace of 
 Bridget Pathlow. 
 
 There were two brothers several years older than 
 Bridget, born before Pathlow had settled in Lincoln, 
 and on whose education he had spent all available 
 means ; for, as he had great promises from great re- 
 lations, he destined them to be gentlemen. Besides 
 these two, Bridget had another brother, some years 
 younger than herself, who, being born, like her, during 
 the poverty and ill fortunes of the parents, was looked 
 upon with no favorable or loving eye. 
 
 Whilst the elder brothers were better clad, well 
 taught, inditing pleasant epistles to far-off relations, 
 poor Tom and Bridget Pathlow were the household 
 drudges. To do dirty work ; to repel needy creditors ; 
 to deny with the prompted lie; to steal along the 
 15 
 
370 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 streets, and, with the heart's blood in her face, to 
 hear the unpaid tradesman dishonor her father's 
 name ; to sit by the fireless hearth, or by the window 
 to watch her father's return, who, urged for money, 
 would perhaps keep from home whole nights, having 
 first told Bridget that he should not return alive ; to 
 watch through those hours of mental pain, and yet in 
 this very loneliness, in these childish years, to have 
 one never-failing belief of being by self-help not al- 
 ways so very sorrowful or so despised, surely made 
 this young child no unworthy dweller under the shadow 
 of the olden minster. Tom was not half so resolute 
 as Bridget, nor so capable of endurance. 
 
 The elder brothers left home when Bridget and 
 Tom were not more than eleven and eight years old. 
 No love had been fostered between these elder ami 
 younger children ; yet in the heart of Bridget much 
 was garnered. Now that they were alone, the chil- 
 dren were more together, the household drudgery was 
 shared between them, as well as the cares and sor- 
 rows of their miserable home, and the stolen play 
 round the minster aisles, where many, who despised 
 the parents, said kind words to the children. Design- 
 ing her for some humble employment, where the 
 weekly gain of two or three shillings would supply 
 the momentary want, Captain Pathlow (as he waa 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 171 
 
 called) denied Bridget any better education than such 
 as was afforded by a school, the weekly fees of which 
 were sixpence ; but she had a kind friend in an old 
 glass stainer, who lived hard by, and another in his 
 son, a blind youth, who was allowed to play upon 
 the minster organ. As a return to this poor youth 
 for some few lessons in organ playing, Bridget would 
 carry home each evening the key of a little postern 
 door, (which a kind prebend had lent him,) and by 
 which private access was gained to the cloisters. So 
 often did Bridget carry back that key, that at last, 
 becoming a sort of privileged person, she was allowed 
 to come through the garden, which, shadowed by the 
 cloister walls, lay pleasant before the prebend's quaint 
 study window. The old man, looking up often from 
 his book, and remembering that in Lincoln her fa- 
 tfier's name was linked to all meanness and disgrace, 
 would wonder to see her push back from the over 
 hanging boughs the ripe apples, or the luscious grapes, 
 untouched, untasted ; so, judging from small thjngs, he 
 took to heart that this poor Bridget had a touch of 
 nobleness about her. From this time he observed 
 her more narrowly. Hurrying across the garden, she 
 yet always lingered (particularly if the shadows of 
 evening were low) to look at one piece of wood carv- 
 ing, which, projecting from the old cloister wall, looked 
 
172 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 in the waning light like the drooping ivy it mimicked. 
 One night the old man questioned her, and said he 
 should like to be her friend, to have her taught, to 
 serve her. 
 
 "I thank you much, sir," said she; "but if " 
 
 Shs stopped abruptly. 
 
 If what, Bridget ? " 
 
 " If I could sew or earn " She stopped again. 
 
 " Well," said the old man, smiling, " I see you are 
 a good girl, Bridget. There are, if I remember 
 what my housekeeper said, six Holland shirts to make, 
 which " 
 
 " I will do them. To-morrow night I will come ; 
 for I have a purpose to serve, which will make me 
 work with a ready finger." 
 
 She was gone before the old man could answer. 
 The morrow and the morrow's night saw that poor 
 child plying the quick needle, whilst brother Tom 
 guarded the chamber door, lest a gleam of the candle 
 should betray the solitary and hidden task. 
 
 Unknown to Bridget, the worthy prebend made to 
 Captain Pathlow an offer of serving his child. But 
 this offer was repulsed with bitter scorn. " He had 
 rich relations," he said, " who could serve Bridget, 
 without her being a pauoer. For the rest, no one 
 had a right to interfere." 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 173 
 
 Bridget was henceforth forbidden even to quit the 
 house. But the six fine Holland shirts were at length 
 completed and carried home ; Tom returning the 
 happy bearer of a bright, shining piece of gold. This 
 was soon laid out. In what ? Bridget knew best, 
 for she still worked on by night. 
 
 Returning home late one evening, the father ob- 
 served the gleaming light from the lone garret window, 
 ind creeping upon the two children unseen, not only 
 paralyzed them with fear, but holding in the candle's 
 flame the diligent work of many weeks, the fruition 
 of that child's earliest desire, that fruit of an honest 
 purpose, no dainty piece of needlework was it, but 
 the drawn image, leaf by leaf, of the curious carv- 
 ing, burnt it to ashes. 
 
 " If you can work," he said fiercely, " there are 
 milliners in Lincoln who want errand girls. Ha ! ha ! 
 two shillings a week will add ale to our night's 
 meal ! " 
 
 The girl was only saved from this destiny by the 
 arrival one Saturday, during dinner time, of a very 
 large letter sealed with black, which, being opened, 
 was found 1 to have come from the elder brother, who, 
 stating the death of an uncle, advised that Bridget 
 should be sent immediately upon a speculative visit 
 to the widowed aunt. This was food of a right kind 
 15* 
 
174 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 to Pathlow ; he began its digestion immediately. " You 
 must say good words for us, Bridget good words. 
 Hint that a suit of clothes, or a five pound note, will 
 be acceptable to me, and a new silk gown to your 
 mother ; and, in short, any thing." 
 
 The girl's few miserable clothes were soon packed 
 within one narrow box, a letter written to the guard 
 of the coach, which was to convey her from London 
 into the western provinces, to say, that her relation 
 would pay at the end of the journey. Dear Tom 
 parted with a copy, on paper, of that rare carving, 
 laid secretly on the prebend's reading desk, and on 
 the morrow after the letter came, Bridget saw the 
 last glimpse of Lincoln minster. Her eldest brother 
 he who had written the letter lived in London, a 
 gay, apparently rich, gentleman, studying, it was said, 
 for a physician, if study he ever did ; but as Bridget 
 had been forewarned not to make her appearance at 
 his lodgings during the day, she was forced to stop 
 till night came within the garret chamber assigned to 
 her at the inn where the coach had staid. With 
 that apology for a trunk, small as it was, it would 
 have held the wardrobes of three Bridgets, mounted 
 on the burly shoulders of an herculean porter, the girl 
 found her brother's home. She had expected to see 
 rich apartments, but none so rich as these, where, 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 175 
 
 surrounded by all the semblance of aristocratic life, 
 her brother lay stretched upon a sofa sipping his 
 wine, and reading the evening paper. 
 
 " Well," was his greeting, " you're come ; " and 
 then he went on with his paper. 
 
 These words fell chill upon the girl's heart ; but 
 she knew she was his sister, and she knelt to kiss 
 him. " Dear Richard, dear brother, I have so counted 
 on this hour. They all send their love Tom, and 
 Saul, and " 
 
 " There, that'll do. Go and sit down. These things 
 are low ; you must forget them all. But, faugh ! how 
 you're dressed ! Did any one see you as you came 
 in ? " 
 
 The answer was satisfactory : so the reading went on. 
 
 " You must forget these Lincoln people altogether," 
 he said, after a while ; " you are going to be a lady, 
 and the memory of poverty sits ill upon such. Mind, 
 I warn you to have a still tongue. For the rest, 
 make yourself comfortable ; say black is black, and 
 white white. A very good maxim, I assure you, for 
 a dependant." 
 
 " Can happiness come from such belief, or future 
 good ? " asked Bridget. " Can " 
 
 " There, that'll do ; I never discuss points with 
 children. Talk the matter over with the next maid 
 
176 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 servant, or reserve it for private meditation when you 
 are upon the top of the coach." 
 
 Bridget had little to say after this, and a late hour 
 of that same night found her journeying to the west- 
 ern province, where her widowed relation dwelt. At 
 length, on the second morning after leaving London, 
 she found herself in a country town, in a gay street, 
 standing upon a scrupulously clean step, knocking 
 upon a very bright knocker, not only for her own 
 admittance, but for that of the scantily-freighted box. 
 A demure-looking servant appeared, who, taking in 
 to her mistress the introductory letter which the elder 
 Pathlow had indited, being, as he had said, the fishing 
 hook whereby to catch the fish, left the Lincoln girl 
 to a full hour's doubt as to whether she should have 
 to retrace her way to Lincoln, or be received as the 
 poor dependant. It seemed that her unexpected ar- 
 rival had created much discussion ; for loud voices 
 were heard in a neighboring parlor. The dispute, 
 rising into a storm, was only stayed by Bridget's be- 
 ing ordered into the presence of the bereaved widow, 
 who, being of substantial form, sat in a capacious 
 chair, with a plentiful flow of lawn before her weep- 
 ing face. She was surrounded by several relatives, 
 each of whom had children to recommend ; but wish- 
 ing to exhibit her power, and triumph over their 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW 177 
 
 greedy expectations, she rose, and throwing herself 
 upon the astonished girl's neck, made visible election 
 of a dependant. Foiled in their purpose, the relations 
 disappeared. The widow, like a child pleased with a 
 toy, made for a while much of the poor Lincoln girl : 
 old dresses were remodelled, old bonnets cunningly 
 trimmed, by-gone fashions descanted on, till, to crown 
 the whole, the girl wished back her Lincoln rags, 
 rather than walk the streets to be gazed at by every 
 passer by. In this matter there was no appeal ; 
 there never is against dogged self-opinion or selfish 
 cunning. Pleased with having one on whom to wreak 
 a world of spite, the widow soon changed her first 
 show of kindness to taunts, reproaches proportionate 
 to the loneliness and dependence of the child. Months 
 went by without one solitary gleam of happiness, for 
 books or learning were forbidden ; added to all this, 
 too, were perpetual secret letters from her home, 
 urging her to send money. But there was no mean- 
 ness in Bridget ; she could endure, but not crave un- 
 worthily. Things had gone on thus for a twelvemonth, 
 when, one winter's day, the widow came back, after a 
 week's absence, a gay bride ; and that same night 
 Bridget was sent back on her way to Lincoln, with five 
 shillings in her pocket over and above the coach hire. 
 Bridget had a fellow-passenger, who, having travelled 
 
178 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 far, and being young, and troubled with a child, was 
 much pleased with the thousand little kindnesses that 
 the girl performed ; so that, before the journey to 
 London was ended, a vast friendship was established 
 between them. They parted with much regret ; for, 
 to one like Bridget, so lonely, so destitute of friends, 
 the mere semblance of kindness was a treasure in 
 itself. She had sat some time in the office waiting 
 for the Lincoln coach, not without comfort, for the 
 bookkeeper had stirred up the office fire, and, sus 
 pecting her scanty purse, had supplied her with a 
 glass of warm ale and a toast, when a pale but 
 respectable-looking man entered, and saying that he 
 was the husband of Bridget's fellow-passenger, had 
 come to offer her the comfort of his home for a day 
 or so, as a return for her kindness to his wife and 
 child. After some little deliberation, Bridget accepted 
 the offer, for she dreaded to return home without 
 having written to say that - she was coming ; so an 
 hour afterwards, Bridget sat with a baby on her knee, 
 by the side of her fellow-passenger, in a comfortable 
 second-floor room, in a street leading from Long Acre. 
 Never was such a tea prepared as on this memorable 
 night, never such a hearth, never such a baby, never 
 such a happy young wife, never such a wondering 
 Bridget; for here seemed the visible presence of all 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 179 
 
 riches her heart had ever craved ; here in this work- 
 ing chamber of a Long Acre herald painter. Here, 
 too, without wealth, was the power of mind made 
 visible ; here, in this chamber of the artisan. A few 
 cheap books nicely arranged, a few prints, rich pan- 
 elled escutcheons, and cunning tracery, that brought 
 to mind old things in Lincoln minster, covered the 
 walls. These things stood out like the broad written 
 words of hope and perseverance. 
 
 Bridget had never been so happy. On the morrow, 
 a letter was despatched ; but the answer was one of 
 bitter reproach, harsh threats. It bore no invitation 
 to return ; and when it said that Tom had left Lin- 
 coln, Bridget had no desire to do so. The stay of a 
 few days was lengthened into one of months ; for when 
 her good friends knew her history, all of it, sav 
 ing her love of art, they could but pity, which pity, 
 ripening into estimation as her character became more 
 known, turned friendship into love. We draw no 
 romantic character, but one of real truth. Bridget 
 was the busiest and cheerfulest ; up early, so that 
 the hearth was clean, the breakfast ready, the baby 
 neatly dressed ; and this not done for once, but al- 
 ways ; so that Bridget became a necessary part of the 
 household in Long Acre. By and by, when she was 
 found to possess an aptitude for drawing, the artisan 
 
180 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 set busily to work, and by the evening fire paid back, 
 in teaching, her honest service. An upturned cup, a 
 book, a jug, were drawn ; and when these were per- 
 fect, things of greater difficulty were sketched. Her 
 progress was but slow, yet so perfect, that in a few 
 months' time she was a real help to her master ; and 
 when he fell into bad health, and had to work at 
 home, she assisted to bring bread to that poor house- 
 hold. The artisan grew no better, but lingering week 
 by week in a consumption, was each day less able to 
 perform the work which, being of a rare and delicate 
 kind, his master would intrust to no other hand. 
 
 One week (the week before he died) a crest of rare 
 device had to be painted on the panels of a rich 
 city merchant's carriage. No hand could execute it 
 like that of the dying man ; but his hand was past 
 work, though the mind could still invent ; and Bridget, 
 who knew that, but for this work being done, no bread 
 could come, knelt, and by his bed earned what was 
 last eaten by that dying man. The work excelled 
 the master's hope ; he wondered more when, with that 
 artisan's last breath, he learned the act of mercy, how 
 done and by whom. Bridget reaped good fruit : when 
 she had lost one friend, when his widow and child 
 had left London for the country, the good old master 
 eoaehmaker took Bridget home into veritable Long 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 181 
 
 Acre itself. He was not rich ; but paying Bridget 
 for all her services, she had money wherewith to take 
 new lessons in art, to begin the learning of wood 
 engraving, in which she afterwards rarely excelled, 
 to lay by four bright gold pounds, as the means of 
 seeing Lincoln once again. They had never written 
 to her from home, never for years ; but still her heart 
 clung to those old memories which had encompassed 
 her childhood. 
 
 She was now seventeen. It was a bright May 
 morning when she travelled onward to the minster 
 town. How her heart beat audibly, when, by the 
 waning evening light, the home even of that misera- 
 ble childhood was seen again ! Lifting the latch, she 
 stole into the house ; but no happy voice, no greeting 
 met her ear : all that was said was, " Well, you're 
 come at last." But by and by, when it was hinted 
 that the larder was empty, and the relic of those four 
 bright pounds were seen, more civil words were heard, 
 which, warming into a full tide of kindness, lasted, 
 veritably lasted, till the last shilling was spent ; then 
 then laughing her poverty to scorn, she was ordered 
 to travel back to London in the best fashion she could. 
 
 The good old prebend was absent from Lincoln ; so 
 it was only from poor blind Saul she could borrow a 
 scanty sum, which sum was the more needful, as she 
 16 
 
182 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 had to travel out of the high road to a little town 
 where her dear brother Tom now lived. He had run 
 away from home soon after Bridget had left, and, 
 after many ups and downs in those few years, was 
 now become half clerk, half servant, in the house of 
 a country attorney. His nature was more passive 
 than that of Bridget, more yielding, less energetic : 
 having been from childhood weak in body, he had 
 scarcely bettered his condition in changing one scene 
 of drudgery for another. In the little parlor of the 
 country inn, his long, sad tale of passive suffering was 
 told to the sister's ear. If she wept, it was but for 
 a moment ; then talking cheerfully of what the future 
 should be how they would work together, how they 
 would be dear friends, how they in London would have 
 one common home, and asking nothing from the world, 
 still pay to it one never-failing debt of cheerfulness 
 and sympathy ; how they would do all this they said 
 so many times, that the supper grew cold, and poor 
 feeble Tom laughed outright. They parted that sum- 
 mer's night ; there was comfort when Bridget promised 
 that a letter should come soon. She did not even 
 hint the joy that should be in it. 
 
 Once more in London, she began that very week 
 to build a home for Tom. By a little help from her 
 Long Acre friends, she procured some few pupils, 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 183 
 
 whose parents, being ambitious to adorn their parlor 
 walls at the cheapest rate, had their children initiated 
 into the mysteries of art at sixpence the lesson. Six- 
 teen lessons a week made eight shillings little, enough 
 to exist upon ; but it yet hired a room and bought 
 bread, and something like the consciousness of inde- 
 pendence. At night, too, there were hours to work in ; 
 and then the practice of wood engraving went nimbly on. 
 In returning home once a week, from a distant part 
 of London, Bridget had to pass in an obscure street 
 an old bookstall. She sometimes stopped to look upon 
 it ; she always did so when she had seen upon it an 
 old thumbed copy of Bewick's British Birds. In 
 those rare tailpieces, that never were surpassed, one 
 who knew all the difficulties of the art found infinite 
 delight. She was observed one evening by a gentle- 
 man who had come up to the bookstall some minutes 
 after Bridget ; like her, too, he was curious in art, 
 and wondered what this young poor-clad female could 
 find of interest in one or two small pictured pages, 
 not hastily turned over, but dwelt upon long, minute 
 after minute. He followed, but her light step soon 
 left him far behind : he came again there she was, 
 on the same day week, with that same old thumbed 
 Bewick. Weeks went by in this manner, till the 
 stall keeper, remembering her often-seen face, bade her 
 
184 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 " buy or else not touch the books again ; " and End- 
 get, creeping away like one guilty of a misdeed, saw 
 not that the curious gentleman had bought the books, 
 and now followed her with speedy foot. This time 
 he might have found her home, but that, in a street 
 leading into Holborn, some papers fell from the little 
 roll of drawings she carried ; he stooped to pick them 
 up in the moment of glancing at them she was lost 
 to sight. 
 
 Now that night labor had made her somewhat pro- 
 ficient in the art, she tried to get employment ; but 
 for weeks without success. Specimens sent in to en- 
 gravers were returned, letters to publishers unheeded ; 
 letters or specimens from Long Acre were of a surety 
 inadmissible. The master who had taught her was 
 dead. At last there was pointed out to her an ad 
 vertisement in one of the daily papers, that engravers 
 upon wood were wanted for the designs of a cheap 
 publication. There was reference to a person of whom 
 Bridget had heard ; so, sending first for permission, 
 she was introduced to the advertiser. A subject for 
 illustration was chosen, and a pencil placed in her 
 hand. When the design came out visibly from the 
 paper, the advertiser, shaking his head, said he would 
 consider. This consideration took some weeks ; mean 
 while a sleepless pillow was that of poor Bridget 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 185 
 
 At last the answer came ; he would employ her, but 
 at a very moderate remuneration. Yet here was hope, 
 clear as the noonday's sun ; here was the first bright- 
 beaded drop in the cup of the self-helper ; here was 
 hope for Tom ; here matter for the promised letter. 
 The work done, the remuneration coming in, the 
 fruition came ; new yet humble rooms were hired, 
 second-hand furniture bought piece by piece ; and it 
 was a proud night when, alone in her still chamber, 
 the poor despised Lincoln girl thanked Heaven for 
 its holy mercy. 
 
 The proverb tells us that good fortune is never 
 single-handed. On the morrow, it was a wet and 
 rainy day, Bridget, in passing into Spring Gardens, 
 observed that the stall of a poor lame apple woman 
 had been partly overturned by some rude urchin. 
 She stopped to help the woman, and whilst so doing, 
 a very fat old gentleman came up, and looking, very 
 quietly remarked, in a sort ,of audible whisper to 
 himself, " Curious, very curious ! this same very little 
 act of mercy first introduced me to my excellent Tom 
 ay, ay ! Tom's gone ; there isn't such another from 
 Eastcheap to Chelsea." 
 
 The name of Tom was music to Bridget's ears. 
 The old gentleman had moved away ; but following 
 quickly, Bridget addressed him. 
 16* 
 
186 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 "I have a brother, sir, whose name is " 
 
 " Tom," interrupted the old gentleman ; " find me 
 my Tom's equal, and I'll say something to you. Here 
 is my address." He thrust a card into Bridget's 
 hand, and went on. Here was a romantic omen of 
 good for Tom. 
 
 That same night the letter was indited. Two days 
 after, the country wagon deposited Tom in the great 
 city. An hour after, he sat by Bridget's hearth. 
 
 "This night repays me for all past sorrow," said 
 the sister, as she sat hand in hand by her brother's 
 side. " Years ago, in those lonely winter nights, some- 
 'hing like a dream of this same happy hour would 
 come before me. Indeed it did, dear Tom." 
 
 Each thing within those same two narrow rooms 
 had a history ; the cuckoo clock itself would have 
 furnished matter for a tale ; the six chairs and the 
 one table were prodigies. 
 
 On the morrow, Tom, guided by the address, found 
 out the office of the fat old gentleman, who, being a 
 bachelor and an attorney, held pleasant chambers in 
 Clement's Inn. Whether induced by Tom's appear- 
 ance or his name, we know not, but the old gentleman, 
 after certain inquiries at the coachmaker's in Long 
 Acre, took Tom for his clerk at the salary of six 
 shillings a week. 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW 187 
 
 "We must now allow weeks to pass by. In the 
 mean while, Bridget's work increased, though not the 
 money paid for it. Yet out of these same earnings 
 a small sum was laid by, for what our Lincoln girl 
 breathed to no living ear. About this time, better 
 work was heard of, but application for it, through the 
 person who employed her, failed ; how, she knew not. 
 " If I had a friend," she said, " I might succeed ; and 
 though Richard has passed me in the streets un- 
 heeded, still I will make one last appeal to him." She 
 went, not in rags, but decently attired. 
 
 " That you are rich, and above me in circumstances, 
 I know, Richard," she humbly said ; " hitherto you 
 have scorned to own one so poor ; but as I have 
 never wronged you or your name, you will perhaps 
 say that I am your sister ? " 
 
 " I made your fortune once," he bitterly answered ; 
 " of your honest purposes since then I know nothing. 
 For the rest, it is not convenient for a man in my 
 condition to have pauper friends you have my an- 
 swer." 
 
 " Brother," she said, as she obeyed the haughty 
 gesture that signalled her to leave the room, " may 
 you regret the words you have so harshly spoken. 
 For the rest, believe me, I shall yet succeed, in spits 
 of all this opposition." 
 
188 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 The peace of Bridget's home was now broken by 
 weekly letters from Lincoln for loan of money, which 
 applications being successful for a few times, only 
 made the letters more urgent and pressing in their 
 demands. 
 
 Some months after Bridget's interview with Richard, 
 there sat, one winter's evening, in the study of a cele- 
 brated author, three gentlemen. The one was the 
 author himself, as widely known for his large human 
 loving heart as for the books he had written. He 
 had now been for some days translating a child's story 
 from the German, a sort of spiritual child's book, like 
 the Story without an End. 
 
 " Were this book illustrated by one who had the 
 same self-helping soul as its author, the same instinc- 
 tive feeling," said the translator to one of his friends, 
 " it would indeed be priceless. I have sometimes 
 thought none but a woman could catch the simple yet 
 deep maternal feeling that lies in these same pages ; 
 but where is " 
 
 " There is a woman capable of this," said one of 
 the friends, turning to the author; beyond all doubt 
 capable. Look here." 
 
 He drew forth from a pocket book the very papers 
 which, two years before, Bridget had lost. 
 
 " You say true," answered the translator ; u but 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 189 
 
 what is this ? It seems like the copy of some carved 
 foliage, some " 
 
 " This must be Bridget's," interrupted the other 
 guest, leaning across the table with anxious face, (for 
 it was no other than the minster prebend ;) " I see 
 it is ; yes, yes, a copy of the antique carving from 
 the minster wall. Good things have been said in 
 Lincoln of this Bridget, but the father would never 
 tell where she was." 
 
 The enthusiastic old gentleman now entered into a 
 long detail of Bridget's youth, which, coupled with 
 the other gentleman's story, left no doubt that the 
 peeper into the thumbed copy of Bewick and the 
 Lincoln girl were one and the same. 
 
 Next day, anxious inquiries were set on foot re- 
 specting Bridget, but without effect. Then weeks 
 went by, and in the mean while the German book 
 could find no fit illustrator. But at last the wood cuts 
 in the cheap periodical, for which Bridget engraved, 
 were remarked upon. The man who had the name 
 of being both the artist and engraver was applied to, 
 and he agreed to furnish the desired illustrations. A 
 few were sent in, surpassing the author's hopes ; but 
 a stray leaf, a graceful touch, brought to memory 
 the hand of Bridget. Yet she could not be heard of, 
 though the old Lincoln gentleman was indefatigable in 
 his inquiries. 
 
190 BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 At length, one night the prebend and his friend 
 were returning along the Strand, in a westerly direc- 
 tion, when by St. Clement's Daines they observed a 
 very fat old gentleman creeping slowly along the pave- 
 ment, whilst a diminutive youth kept watch and guard, 
 now right, now left, as either side seemed likely to be 
 jostled by some rude passer by. 
 
 " You shall go no farther," at length said the old 
 gentleman, stopping short ; " not an inch farther. Go ! 
 give my love to your sister, you dog, and say that I 
 have to thank her for introducing to me a second in- 
 comparable Tom." 
 
 But the boy was so far incomparable, that, being 
 wilful and obstinate, he would see the old gentleman 
 safe within New Inn, which was near at hand ; and 
 the friends, waiting outside, staid till the boy returned, 
 for his voice had brought to the prebend's ear that 
 of Bridget. They followed him into Long Acre, up 
 two pair of stairs, where, lifting the latch, the prebend 
 beheld the same Bridget whom he had known at 
 Lincoln, while his companion recognized, in the same 
 person, her whom he had followed years ago. A 
 good fire burnt upon the hearth, Tom's tea ready, his 
 shoes and his coat by the fire ; for the night was wet, 
 and Bridget herself busily at work upon the illustra- 
 tion of the German story. Happy was the meeting 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 191 
 
 between the old man and her he almost thought his 
 child ; strange the feelings of the gentleman who had 
 bought the thumbed Bewick, and hoarded those poor 
 drawings. We have not room to tell the joy of that 
 night. 
 
 From this hour Bridget had worthy friends. The 
 morrow brought the sister of the one who had re- 
 membered Bridget at the bookstall. He was the same 
 rich city merchant who so unknowingly had praised 
 Bridget's first work and act of mercy. When he 
 heard from the worthy coachmaker that story, when 
 he knew from Tom what a sister Bridget was, when 
 the old prebend said so many kindly things, no won- 
 der that admiration ripened into love. By the hand 
 of his sister (who was his housekeeper) all manner 
 of graceful acts were performed, all manner of good 
 fortune offered ; but nothing could shake Bridget's 
 self-helping resolves, no promises induce her to quit 
 poor, humble, trusting Tom : the only help she asked 
 was that of work to be done. The excellent prebend, 
 returning to Lincoln, spoke much of Bridget, which 
 good report of fortune coming to her father's ears, he 
 presently resolved (as his wife was now dead) to make 
 one home serve for himself and Bridget. So coming 
 to London, he was soon comfortable ; exacting money, 
 craving for delicacies, not caring how they were to 
 
r BRIDGET PATHLOW. 
 
 be procured, till their once happy home became one 
 of misery to Tom and Bridget. 
 
 Months went by, often during which it was mercy 
 to escape to the home of her kind city friends, even 
 for a few hours. The house that they occupied in 
 summer time it was now that season was situated 
 a few miles from town, and here one evening the rich 
 merchant asked Bridget to be his wife. 
 
 " You might live to regret marriage with one so 
 poor as myself, sir," was her answer ; " you who could 
 ask the hand of ladies of wealth and beauty." 
 
 " Wealth of money, Bridget, but not with thy wealth 
 of soul. Money is an advantage which the many have ; 
 but the heroism of self-help in women is rare because 
 few are so willing to be self-helpers. It is I who will 
 be made rich in having you. I know that time would 
 prove it. Come, my home must be yours." 
 
 Bridget did at last consent, but with a reservation 
 which must be yet a secret. Whatever was its pur- 
 pose, it was a resolve not to be shaken ; but as time" 
 wore on, many were the protestations against this 
 resolution. At length, after days and weeks of inde- 
 fatigable labor, Bridget asked the old prebend and the 
 merchant to meet her at the' chambers of Tom's mas- 
 ter. They did so. Tom was there, as well as the fat 
 old gentleman, the one looking sly because he knew 
 
BRIDGET PATHLOW. 193 
 
 the secret, the other wonderingly. The old gentleman 
 signed some papers, which an old clerk attested j then 
 Bridget, drawing forth a purse of gold, laid the fees 
 upon the parchment of Tom's indenture as articled 
 clerk. 
 
 " This was my reservation, this my secret. As I 
 have now shown myself a humble, loving sister of this 
 dear Tom, so I am now willing to become the wife." 
 
 A week after, Bridget stood as the wife of the rich 
 city merchant by the altar of Lincoln minster ; and dear 
 as the marriage ring was on that day was the gift of 
 the old thumbed copy of Bewick's British Birds. 
 
 Habits of self-help, like all good things, are endur- 
 ing. Bridget, as the wife and mother, is still the same, 
 losing no opportunity of self-culture, no power of being 
 the best teacher to her children. 
 
 Tom is at this time a quaint bachelor attorney, hav- 
 ing succeeded to the snug practice of the fat gentleman. 
 That there exists between him and Bridget a rare and 
 enduring love, we need not make record. 
 
 Of the death of the father we need not speak. Over 
 the selfishness, the pride of the elder brother, we will 
 draw a veil, for the memory of good is better than 
 the memory of evil. Bridget had triumph enough in 
 the fruition of honest labor. 
 17 
 
MATERNAL DREAM. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 THE mother prays in her heart, and eyes 
 Her slumbering infant with still delight; 
 In the cradle so calm, so dear he lies, 
 An angel he seems hi her sight. 
 
 She kisses and fondles him, scarce herself; 
 All thought of the pains of earth departs ; 
 Hope roves in a future of fame and wealth; 
 Such the dream of fond mothers' hearts. 
 
 Meanwhile at the window loud this lay 
 The raven shrieks with his croaking brood : 
 "Thy angel, thy angel shall be our prey! 
 The robber doth serve us for food ! " 
 
THE DREAMERS OF DOCKUM. 
 
 A TALE OP PRIESLAND. 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 DURING the Christmas holidays, Saske invited her 
 brother's children, two boys and four girls, from Al- 
 dega ; the guests came, for it was fine frosty weather. 
 On the Wednesday there was to be a race at Frent- 
 jer, for a knife with a silver handle, and the whole 
 troop of young people were to go, with Rommert at 
 their head ; but in the forenoon the weather became 
 overcast, and every now and then the sky was cloudy. 
 " I* don't know," said Pibe ; " I have strong doubts 
 about your going. Yesterday there was a ring round 
 the sun, and I felt a pain last night in my back. I think 
 there will be a heavy fall of snow." " No, no, uncle," 
 said one of his nieces, " it is beginning to brighten 
 up, and there are breaks and openings in the clouds." 
 "But a little before twelve, it began to pour down, and 
 whilst they were at dinner there blew a strong east 
 
196 THE DREAMERS OF DOCKUM. 
 
 wind, which swept right over the fields, so that it was 
 impossible for any one to look out of his eyes. The 
 girls, who were. all eager to go to Frentjer, said, "It 
 w T ill be better by and by." But the weather, far 
 from clearing up, became so much worse, that a peas- 
 ant would not have turned his dog out of doors ; they 
 all, therefore, staid at home. 
 
 The air became keen and frosty ; and, whilst the 
 cutting wind blew sharply against the buildings, the 
 party within were weary of playing at draughts, and 
 had chatted till they were tired. One of the children 
 proposed telling stories. This amusement would have 
 been at once begun, when in came two friends of the 
 clergyman into the room. They were to have gone 
 to Frentjer, too, but as they heard there were some 
 pretty girls at Pibe's, they preferred spending the 
 evening with them. They were two students from 
 Groningen ; the one a nephew of the clergyman, and 
 the other his college friend, the son of a quack doc- 
 tor of some celebrity. They both took a share in 
 story-telling. 
 
 " But where there's no king, there's no honor," ob- 
 served the clergyman's nephew. " I propose that he 
 who tells the best tale shall be beau, for the rest oi 
 the evening, to the girl he likes best." 
 
 So fair a proposal was readily agreed to. Mother 
 
THE DREAMERS OF DOCKUM. 197 
 
 Saske set a pot of Coffee on the hearth, and Gabe 
 threw on some more firing, which crackled and flared 
 up, whilst the quack doctor's son began the following 
 story : 
 
 "In the year 1343, two citizens of Dockum, with 
 Rouke Lefferts, a peasant from a neighboring com- 
 mon, set out on a pilgrimage to Rome. As there 
 were not many inns on the route, each pilgrim carried 
 a knapsack on his back, and in his hand a long knob- 
 by stick ; this, with a few odd shillings in their pockets, 
 completed their equipment for the journey to Italy. 
 Now it so happened, that, towards the evening, they 
 came either to a monastery or a castle ; there they 
 had shelter for the night, fire and water gratis, and 
 they boiled or roasted whatever they had in their 
 knapsacks, or what chance might throw in their way. 
 But when there were no castles or monasteries within 
 reach, then they slept out in the open air, like Adam 
 and Eve ; and whilst the leaves of the trees served 
 them for curtains, the ground was their bed. When, 
 however, they were about half a day's journey from 
 Rome, their scanty stock of provisions began to fail 
 them ; their meal was so nearly exhausted, that of the 
 small quantity which remained there was not sufficient 
 for each to make himself a cake, and unluckily they 
 were benighted at a place where neither castle nor 
 '7* 
 
198 THE DREAMERS OF DOCKUM. 
 
 monastery was to be seen far or near. How were 
 they to manage the next morning? for they already 
 began to feel the pangs of hunger, and if they went 
 on half a day longer, they would not fare much bet- 
 ter. Hunger is a sharp sword ; it quickens men's 
 wits ; it had this effect on our men of Dockum. One 
 of them whispered in his fellow's ear, * Can't we de- 
 vise some plan for getting Rouke's meal ? We towns- 
 men may easily get the better of such a clown as he 
 is ; he is so simple, a child might cheat him.' ' Yes, 
 yes ; that's seen at once/ said the other ; ' that is 
 nothing ; we will soon outwit him.' 
 
 " Immediately one of them, standing up, addressed 
 his companions in the following manner : ' My friends, 
 we are in a sad plight ; for so small a quantity of 
 meal is left, that it would not be sufficient to satisfy 
 our hunger ; but, if we were to put the three portions 
 together, would fill one of our hungry stomachs ; 
 therefore I think it would not be amiss if we could 
 manage that the whole should fall into the hands of 
 one or other of us three. However, for my part, I 
 would not put a mouthful into my lips except in the 
 most honorable manner. So I propose that the mat- 
 ter be left to the decision of Heaven. Let us go and 
 lie down to sleep ; and let him have all the meal tc 
 whom Heaven sends the best dream.' * Capital I 
 
THE DREAMERS OF DOCKUM. 199 
 
 Baid his fellow-citizen from Dockum. The peasant, 
 too, agreed to the plan with as good a grace as pos- 
 sible, though the poor fellow began to suspect that he 
 was not likely to have fair play at the hands of his 
 comrades. The three portions of meal were thrown 
 together, well kneeded, and made up into a cake, 
 which they laid on some hot stones, and covered over 
 with the glowing embers, to bake whilst they closed 
 their eyes in sleep. 
 
 " The citizens thought as little of any trick on the 
 part of the clown as they did of the day of their 
 death ; it never occurred to them that he was capable 
 of attempting one. So they tranquilly laid their 
 weary heads on the green bank, and soon fell into a 
 real sleep. Hunger had, however, made their com- 
 panion restless and wakeful ; the opportunity was not 
 to be lost ; he gently brushed the ashes from the 
 dough with his cap, and devoured the cake with a 
 good appetite. As he swallowed the last morsel, he 
 could scarcely restrain himself from laughing, at the 
 expense of the men of Dockum, as they lay snoring 
 at his side, while the big drops of sweat chased each 
 other down their cheeks. ' Now,' said he to himself, 
 * you dear, good men, Rouke is perfectly contented. 
 You will not suffer from an overloaded stomach to- 
 day. Sure you would' have found a plain cake too 
 
200 THE DREAMERS OF DOCKUM. 
 
 dry for you, and Rouke could read his lesson verj 
 well without your help. How fresh you'll rise afte 
 such sound sleep ! Good night, my dear creaturea 
 once more, good night ! ' In two seconds he laid hirr 
 self down again to sleep. 
 
 " As soon as the sun was risen, one of the sla'Jk 
 berers awoke, and roused his confederate, to whom he 
 related the following tale : 
 
 " * My friends, hear me. I am going to tell you 
 my dream. One evening, I thought I was standing 
 near the Fetje-Put, at Dockum, when two angels, 
 with wings on their backs, came flying through the 
 air, and carried me away, like a couple of eagles, into 
 the sky. In my flight, there passed both blue and 
 green before my eyes, and the wind whistled in my 
 ears, just like a storm through the rigging of a bhip ; 
 indeed, our flight was so rapid, that it seemed to be 
 blowing great guns, ad every hair on my head was 
 so violently blown about, that I felt as if it were all 
 coming out by the roots. One of the angels gave me 
 such a swing that he stripped the skin from my finger 
 ends up to my elbows. After we had flown thirty 
 four weeks, we arrived at the gate of heaven, wherr 
 the other angel drew from his pocket a golden key. 
 and with it opened the door. What then burst be- 
 fore my view was so bright and dazzling, that had I 
 
THE DREAMERS OF DOCKTJM. 201 
 
 an inkstand as large as the Spanish sea, and a pen 
 mat would reach from Dockum to Home, I should 
 completely fail in endeavoring to give you any ade- 
 quate description of it. The streets were all golden, 
 and glittered so with precious stones, that no mortal 
 eye could for a moment gaze on them. In this world 
 of splendor and magnificence, I could not see a single 
 body ; but millions of souls were flitting about, so 
 small that eleven thousand might dance upon the 
 point of a needle/ 
 
 " When the man had related many more of the 
 extraordinary scenes he beheld in the regions of bliss, 
 his friend from Dockum arose and told his dream. 
 
 " ' It is very singular/ he began, ' that you have 
 dreamed you were in heaven, and I, that I visited 
 hell. As I was walking one evening in the Keppels, 
 there met me two persons in the garb of blacksmiths, 
 who seized hold of me by the hand, and dragged me 
 to the fiery pool at Stavoren. Then we sank down 
 with the rapidity of lightning until we reached the 
 bottom, when I found myself standing as it were in 
 the midst of a vast common, on which nothing grew 
 or flourished but moorgrass and rushes. After we had 
 groped about in it for a long time, we ascended a 
 very steep hill, on approaching the summit of which 
 one of the black men exclaimed, " Take care ; we are 
 
202 THE DREAMERS OF DOCKUM. 
 
 at the brink of hell." These were the only words 
 they uttered. Having crept to the very edge, I ven- 
 tured to look over, with iny neck stretched out like 
 a stork's, on the sea of fire beneath. It roared and 
 hissed, it crackled and snapped, and the foaming 
 flames poured forth their smoke like a caldron in a 
 violent state of ebullition. This awful sight struck 
 terror into my bosom, and I drew back as frightened 
 as a young weasel. My dark companions bound two 
 wings to my arms, and flew with me until we arrived 
 just over the burning abyss, where I remained shak- 
 ing my wings, like a seamew about to dart upon its 
 victim in the depth beneath. But, comrades, when I 
 think of what I saw then, my skin crawls up my 
 arms. I heard the immense bellows creak and puff, 
 which forever blew up the infernal flames ; while the 
 suffocating heat, which continually rose to the top of 
 this awful gulf, made me swoon away, and the sparks 
 flew about so thickly that the very hair of my head 
 was singed. In these abodes of torment I beheld the 
 inhabitants killing one another, and troops of devils 
 flying hither and thither with curses on their tongues/ 
 " During the narration of these .two dreams, the 
 peasant pretended he was in a sound sleep, although 
 he had heard every word that was spoken. As soon 
 as the men of Dockum had finished, they called out 
 
THE DREAMERS OF DOCKUM. 203 
 
 to him to rise and tell his dream. 'He immediately 
 woke up, and appearing much alarmed, fixed both his 
 eyes on them like a person who has been aroused 
 from a deep slumber, and asked, in a shrill voice, 
 Who are you ? ' 
 
 "'What!' said they; < do not you know us?' 
 
 " * You ? ' he asked again ' you ? What ! are you 
 returned ? ' 
 
 " ' Returned ! ' said they ; ' we have not been away.' 
 
 " ' Wh^i, ! indeed, you have not been away ? Then 
 
 I must be mistaken. But it is O, I suppose I 
 
 dreamed it ! ' 
 
 " * What have you dreamed ? ' asked one af his 
 companions ; ' tell us your dream.' 
 
 "'Well,' said Rouke, 'I thought that one of you 
 had flown to heaven, under the care of two angels, 
 and that the other was gone to hell with two black 
 fellows. It seems only just now that you left me. At 
 first I gazed after you as long as I could, and when 
 you were out of sight, I waited and waited ; but as 
 neither of you made his appearance, I thought to my- 
 self, both the men of Dockum will never come back 
 again ; and because you had no more need of any 
 thing to eat, I have in my solitude (for the secret 
 must come out) despatched the whole cake!'" 
 
 Here the tale finished ; the nieces from Aldega 
 
204 THE DREAMERS OF DOCKUM. 
 
 had listened with such attention that you could have 
 heard them breathe ; at the end they all four heaved 
 a deep sigh. 
 
 In the mean while, Saske had prepared the coffee, 
 of which each guest now partook, while the clergy- 
 man's nephew was thinking of the story he in hia 
 turn should relate to the company. 
 
LOVE'S MEMORY. 
 
 MRS. GRAY. % 
 
 I WOVE a wreath ; 'twas fresh and fair j 
 Rich roses in their crimson pride, 
 
 And the blue harebell flowers, were there j 
 I wove and flung the wreath aside : 
 
 Too much did those bright blossoms speak 
 
 Of thy dear eyes and youthful cheek. 
 
 I took my lute ; methought its strain 
 Might wile the heavy hours along; 
 
 I strove to fill my heart and brain 
 
 With the sweet breath of ancient song: 
 
 In vain ; whate'er I made my choice 
 
 Was fraught with thy* bewitching voice. 
 
 And down I laid the restless lute, 
 
 And turned me to the poet's page ; 
 And vainly deemed that converse mute* 
 
 Umningled, might my heart engage: 
 But in .the poet's work I find 
 fellow-essence of thy mind. 
 IS 
 
LOVE'S MEMORY. 
 
 I wandered midst the silent wood, 
 
 And sought the greenest, coolest glade, 
 
 Where not a sunbeam might intrude ; 
 And in a chestnut's quiet shade 
 
 I sate, and in that leafy gloom 
 
 Thought of the darkness of the tomb, 
 
 And strove to lead my heart to drink 
 
 At the deep founts of wandering thought ; 
 
 To ponder on the viewless link 
 
 Between our souls and bodies wrought; 
 
 To quench my passionate dreams of thee 
 
 A while in that philosophy. 
 
 Yet, all the while, thine image bright 
 Still flitted by my mind to win, 
 
 Casting through dreamy thoughts its light, 
 Like sunshine that would enter in ; 
 
 And every leaf and every tree 
 
 Seemed quivering with beams of thee. 
 
 Beloved ! I will strive no more ! 
 
 Thine image, in vice-regal power, 
 Shall ruling sit all memories o'er, 
 
 Throned in my heart, until the hour 
 When thoii thyself shalt come again, 
 Restoring there thine olden reign. 
 
SEEKING. 
 
 BY DORA GREENWELL. 
 
 " AND where, and among what pleasant places, 
 Have ye been, that ye come again, 
 
 With your laps so full of flowers, and your faces 
 Like buds blown fresh after rain?" 
 
 "We have been," said the children, speaking 
 
 In their gladness, as the birds chime 
 All together " we have been seeking 
 
 For the Fairies of olden time ; 
 For we thought they are only hidden 
 
 They would surely never go 
 From this green earth all unbidden, 
 
 And the children that love them so. 
 Though they come not around us leaping, 
 
 As they did when they and the world 
 Were young, we shall find them sleeping 
 
 Within some broad leaf curled ; 
 
208 SEEKING. 
 
 For the lily its white doors closes, 
 
 But only over the bee, 
 And we looked through the summer roses, 
 
 Leaf by leaf, so carefully ; 
 But yet rolled up we shall find them 
 
 Among mosses old and dry, 
 "With gossamer threads to bind them ; 
 
 They will dart like the butterfly 
 From its tomb. So we went forth seeking ; 
 
 Yet still they have kept unseen, 
 Though we think our feet have been keeping 
 
 The track where they have been ; 
 For we saw where their dance went flying 
 
 O'er the pastures, snowy white, 
 Their seats and their tables lying 
 
 O'erthrown in their hasty flight. 
 And they too have had their losses ; 
 
 For we found* the goblets white 
 And red, in the old spiked mosses, 
 
 That they drank from over night; 
 And in the pale horn of the woodbine 
 
 "Was some wine left, clear and bright. 
 But we found," said the children, speaking 
 
 More quickly, "so many things, 
 That we quite forgot we were seeking; 
 
 Forgot all the Fairy rings ; 
 
SEEKING. 209 
 
 Forgot all the stories olden, 
 
 That we hear round the fire at night, 
 Of their gifts and their favors golden, 
 
 The sunshine was so bright ; 
 And the flowers we found so many, 
 
 It almost made us grieve 
 To think there were some, sweet as any, 
 
 That we were forced -to leave, 
 As we left by the brookside lying, 
 
 The balls of drifted foam, 
 And brought (after all our trying) 
 
 These Guelder roses home." 
 
 Then, O ! " I heard one speaking 
 
 Beside me, soft and low, 
 " I have been, like the blessed children, seeking; 
 
 Still seeking, high and low ; 
 But not, like them, for the Fairies ; 
 
 They might pass unmourned away 
 For me, that had looked on angels, 
 
 On angels that would not stay ; 
 No ! not though in haste before them 
 
 I spread all my heart's best cheer, 
 And made love my banner o'er them, 
 
 If it might but keep them here ; 
 18* 
 
210 SEEKING. 
 
 They staid but a while to rest them; 
 
 Long, long before its close, 
 From my feast, though I mourned and pressed thenit 
 
 The radiant guests arose ; 
 And their flitting wings struck sadness 
 
 And silence ; never more 
 Hath my soul won back the gladness 
 
 That was its own before. 
 No, I mourned not for the Fairies ; 
 
 When I had seen hopes decay, 
 That were sweet unto my spirit 
 
 So long, I said, ' If they 
 That through shade and sunny weather 
 
 Have twined about my heart 
 Should fade, we must go together, 
 
 For we can never part.' 
 But my care was not availing; 
 
 I found their sweetness gone ; 
 I saw their bright tints paling; 
 
 They died yet I lived on." 
 
 Yet seeking, ever seeking, 
 
 Like the children, I have won 
 A guerdon all undreamed of 
 
 When first my quest begun; 
 
SEEKING. 211 
 
 And my thoughts come back, like wanderers 
 
 Outwearied, to my breast : 
 What they sought for long they found not, 
 
 Yet was the unsought best ; 
 For I sought not out for crosses; 
 
 I did not seek for pain j 
 Yet I find the heart's sore losses 
 
 "Were the spirit's surest gain. 
 
THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 
 
 BY J. 8. A. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ROME was enjoying the blessings of peace, and so 
 little employment attended the soldier's every-day life 
 that the words " as idle as a soldier," became a prov- 
 erb indicative of the most listless inactivity. 
 
 The people gave themselves up to joy and glad- 
 ness. The sound of music was heard from all parts 
 of the city, and perfumed breezes went up as an 
 incense from the halls of beauty and mirth. 
 
 It was, indeed, a blessed time for the city of the 
 seven hills, and its people rejoiced as they had not 
 for many a long, long year ay, for a century. 
 
 "Peace, sweet Peace, a thousand blessings attend 
 thy glad reign. See you how quietly the peasant's 
 flocks graze on our eternal hills ? The tinkling bell 
 is a sweeter sound than tlfe trumpet's blast, and the 
 curling smoke, arising from the hearth stones of con- 
 
P. 268. 
 
THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 213 
 
 tented villagers, is a truer index of a nation's power 
 than the sulphurous cloud from the field of battle. 
 What say you, Alett, is it not?" 
 
 Thus spake a youth of noble mien, as he stood 
 with one arm encircling the waist of a lady, of whose 
 beauty it were useless to att 3mpt a description. There 
 are some phases of beauty i~hich pen cannot describe 
 nor pencil portray a beauty which seems to hover 
 around the form, words, and motions of those whose 
 special recipients it is ; a sort of ethereal loveliness, 
 concentrating the tints of the rainbow, the sun's golden 
 rays, and so acting upon the mind's eye of the ob- 
 server as almost to convince him that a visitant from 
 a sphere whose perfection sin lias never marred is in 
 his presence. 
 
 Such was that of Alett. She was the only daugh- 
 ter of a distinguished general, whose name was the 
 terror of all foes, and the confidence of all friends, of 
 Italy his eldest daughter ; and with love approach- 
 ing idolatry he cherished her. She was his confidant. 
 In the privacy of her faithful heart he treasured all 
 his plans and purposes. Of late, the peaceful security 
 in which the nation dwelt gave him the opportunity 
 of remaining at home, where, in the companionship 
 of a wife he fondly loved, children he almost idolized, 
 and friends whose friendship was not fictitious, he found 
 
214 THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 
 
 that joy and comfort which the camp could never 
 impart. 
 
 Alett was ever in the presence of her father, or 
 the young man whose apostrophe to peace we have 
 just given. 
 
 Rubineau was not the descendant of a noble family, 
 in the worldly acceptation of the term. It was noble, 
 indeed, but not in deeds of war or martial prowess. 
 Its nobleness consisted in the steady perseverance in 
 well doing, and a strict attachment to what conscience 
 dictated as right opinions. The general loved him 
 for the inheritance he possessed in such traits of 
 character, and the love which existed between his 
 daughter and the son of a plebeian was countenanced 
 under such considerations, with one proviso ; which 
 was, that, being presented with a commission, he should 
 iccept it, and hold himself in readiness to leave home 
 and friends, when duty should call him to the field 
 of battle. 
 
 We have introduced the two standing on a beauti 
 ful eminence, in the rear of the general's sumptuous 
 mansion. 
 
 The sun was about going down, and its long, golden 
 rays streamed over hill and dale, palace and cot, 
 clothing all in a voluptuous flow of rich light. 
 
 They had stood for several moments in silence, 
 
THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 215 
 
 gazing at the quiet and beautiful scene before them, 
 when the musical voice of Rubineau broke forth in 
 exclamations of delight at the blessings of peace. 
 
 Alett was not long in answering. It was a theme 
 on which she delighted to dwell. Turning the gaze 
 of her large full eye up towards those of Rubineau, 
 she said, 
 
 " Even so it is. Holy peace ! It is strange that men 
 will love the trumpet's blast, and the smoke and the 
 heat of the conflict, better than its gentle scenes. Peace, 
 Peace ! blessings on thee as thou givest blessings." 
 
 Rubineau listened to the words of his Alett with a 
 soul of admiration. He gazed upon her with feelings 
 he had never before felt, and which it was bliss for 
 him to experience. 
 
 She, the daughter of an officer, brought up amid 
 all the glare and glitter, show and blazonry, of mili- 
 tary life, she, who had seen but one side of the 
 great panorama of martial life, to speak thus in praise 
 of peace, and disparagingly of the profession of her 
 friends it somewhat surprised the first speaker. 
 
 " It is true," he replied, " but how uncertain is the 
 continuance of the blessings we now enjoy ! To-mor- 
 row may sound the alarm which shall call me from 
 your side to the strife and tumult of war. Instead 
 of your gentle words, I may hear the shouts of the 
 
216 THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 
 
 infuriated soldiery, the cry of the wounded, and the 
 eighs of the dying." 
 
 " Speak not so," exclaimed AJett ; " it must not be." 
 
 " Do you not love your country ? " inquired the 
 youth. 
 
 " I do, but I love Rubineau more. There are war- 
 riors enough ready for the battle. It need not be 
 that you go. But why this alarm ? We were talking 
 of peace, and behold now we have the battle field be- 
 fore us war and all its panoply." 
 
 " Pardon me, my dearest Alett, for borrowing 
 trouble; but at times, when I am with you and 
 thinking of our present joy, the thought will arise 
 that it may be taken from us." No more words were 
 needed to bring to the mind of Alett all that filled 
 that of Rubineau. They embraced each the othor 
 more affectionately than ever, and silently repaired to 
 the house of the general. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 to To remain will be dishonor, to go may be death. 
 When a Roman falls, the foe has one more arro\t 
 aimed at his heart; an arrow barbed with revenge 
 and sent with unerring precision. Hark! that shout 
 
THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 217 
 
 is music to every soldier's ear. Hear you that tramp 
 of horsemen ? that rumbling of chariot wheels ? " 
 
 Twelve months had passed since the time of the 
 last chapter, and after repeated threatenings war had 
 actually begun. 
 
 Instead of idle hours, the soldiers had busy moments, 
 and every preparation was made to meet the oppos- 
 ing array in a determined manner, and with a steadi- 
 ness of purpose that should insure success. 
 
 The general watched for some time the fluctuating 
 appearance of public affairs, and it was not until war 
 was not only certain, but actually in progress, that he 
 called upon Rubineau to go forth. 
 
 A week hence Rubineau and Alett were to be 
 united in marriage, and invitations bad been extended 
 far and near, in anticipation of the event. It had 
 been postponed from week to week, with the hope 
 that the various rumors that were circulated respect- 
 ing impending danger to the country might prove 
 untrue, or at least to have a foundation on some 
 weak pretence which reasonable argument might over- 
 throw. 
 
 Day by day these rumors increased, and the gath- 
 ering together of the soldiery betokened the certainty 
 of an event which would fall as a burning meteor in 
 the midst of the betrothed and their friends, 
 ' 19 
 
218 
 
 The call for Rubineau to depart was urgent, and 
 its answer admitted of no delay. 
 
 " To remain," said the general, " will be dishonor ; 
 to go may be death : which will you choose ? " 
 
 It was a hard question for the young man to an- 
 swer. But it must be met. The general loved him, 
 and with equal unwillingness the question was pre- 
 sented and received. 
 
 " I go. If Rubineau falls " 
 
 "If he returns," exclaimed the general, interrupt- 
 ing him, "honor, and wealth, and a bride who loves 
 and is loved, shall be his all his." 
 
 It was a niglit of unusual loveliness. The warm 
 and sultry atmosphere of the day had given place to 
 cool and gentle breezes. The stars were all out, 
 shining as beacons at the gates of a paradise above, 
 and the moon began and ended her course without 
 the attendance of one cloud to veil her beauties from 
 the observation of the dwellers on earth. 
 
 Rubineau and Alett were seated beneath a bower, 
 cultivated by the fair hand of the latter. 
 
 The next morning Rubineau was to depart. All 
 the happy scenes of the coming week were to be 
 delayed, and the thought that they might be de- 
 layed long ay, forever came like a shadow of 
 
THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 219 
 
 evil to brood in melancholy above the plao? and the 
 hour. 
 
 We need not describe the meeting, the parting. 
 
 "Whatever befalls me, I shall not forget you, 
 Alett. Let us hope for the best. Yet a strange pre- 
 sentment I have that I shall not return." 
 
 " that I could go with you ! " said Alett. " Think 
 you father would object ? " 
 
 " That were impossible. Nothing but love, true 
 and enduring, could make such a proposal. It would 
 be incurring a twofold danger." 
 
 " Death would be glorious with you, life insup- 
 portable without you." 
 
 In such conversation the night passed, and when 
 the early light of morning came slowly up the east- 
 ern sky, the sound of a trumpet called him away. 
 
 The waving of a white flag was the last signal, 
 and the general, all urused to tears as he was, min- 
 gled his with those of his family as the parting kiss 
 was given, and Rubineau started on a warfare, the 
 result of which was known only to Him who governs 
 the destinies of nations and of individuals. 
 
 And now, in the heat of the conflict the war raged 
 furiously. Rubineau threw himself in the front rank, 
 and none was more brave than he. It seemed to his 
 
220 THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 
 
 fellow-officers that he was urged on by some unseen 
 agency, and guarded from injury by some spirit of 
 good. % 
 
 To himself but one thought was in his mind, and, 
 regardless of danger, he pressed forward for a glori- 
 ous victory, and honor to himself and friends. 
 
 Those whose leader he was were inspirited by his 
 courageous action, and followed like true men where 
 he led the way. 
 
 They had achieved several victories, and were mak- 
 ing an onset upon numbers fourfold as large as their 
 own, when their leader received a severe wound, and 
 falling from his noble horse, would have been tram- 
 pled to death by his followers, had not those who had 
 seen him fall formed a circle around, as a protection 
 for him. 
 
 This serious disaster did not dampen the ardor of 
 the soldiers ; they pressed on, carried the point, and 
 saw the foe make a rapid retreat. 
 
 The shouts of victory that reached the ears of 
 Rubineau cam 3 with a blessing. He raised himself, 
 and shouted, " On, brave men ! " But the effort was 
 too much for him to sustain for any length of time, 
 and he fell back, completely exhausted. 
 
 He was removed to a tent, and had every atten- 
 tion bestowed upon him. As night approached, and 
 
THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 221 
 
 the cool air of evening fanned his brow, he began to 
 revive, but not in any great degree. 
 
 The surgeon looked sad. There was evidently 
 reason to fear the worst; and accustomed as he was 
 to such scenes, he was now but poorly prepared to 
 meet it. 
 
 " Rubineau is expiring," whispered a lad, as he 
 proceeded quietly among the ranks of soldiers sur- 
 rounding the tent of the wounded. 
 
 And it was so. His friends had gathered around 
 his couch, and conscious of the approach of his dis- 
 solution, he bade them all farewell, and kissed them. 
 
 "Tell her I love I die an honorable death; tell 
 her that her Rubineau fell where the arms of the 
 warriors clashed the closest, and that victory hovered 
 above him as his arm grew powerless ; and, O, tell 
 her that it was all for her sake, that love for her 
 nerved his arm, and love for her is borne upward on 
 his last, his dying prayer. Tell her to love as I " 
 
 " He is gone, sir," said the surgeon. 
 
 " Gone ! " exclaimed a dozen voices. 
 
 "A brave man has fallen," remarked another, as 
 be raised his arm and wiped the flowing tears from 
 bis cheek. 
 
 19* 
 
222 THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 At the mansion of the old general, every arrival 
 of news from the war sent a thrill of joy through the 
 hearts of its inmates. Hitherto, every despatch told 
 of victory and honor ; but now, a sad chapter was to 
 be added to the history of the conflict. 
 
 Alett trembled as she beheld the slow approach of 
 the messenger, who at all previous times had come 
 with a quick step. In her soul she felt the keen 
 edge of the arrow that was just entering it, and longed 
 to know all, dreadful though it might be. 
 
 Need we describe the scene of fearful disclosure ? 
 If the reader has followed the mind of Alett, as from 
 the first it has presumed, conjectured, and fancied, 
 followed all its hopes of future bliss, and seen it 
 revel in the sunshine of honor and earthly fame, ht 
 can form some idea, very faint though it must be, of 
 the effect which followed the recital of all the facts 
 in regard to the fallen. 
 
 In her wild frenzy of grief, she gave utterance 
 to the deep feelings of her soul with words that told 
 how deep was her sorrow, and how unavailing every 
 endeavor which friends exerted to allay its pangs. 
 
THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE. 223 
 
 She would not believe him dead. She would 
 imagine him at her side, and would talk to him of 
 peace, " sweet peace," and laugh in clear and joyous 
 tones as she pictured its blessings, and herself enjoying 
 with him its comforts. 
 
 Thus, with enthroned reason she would give vent 
 to grief, and with her reason dethroned be glad and 
 rejoice. 
 
 And so passed her lifetime. 
 
 Often, all day long, attired in bridal raiment, the 
 same in which she had hoped to be united indisso- 
 lubly to Rubineau, she remained seated in a large 
 oaken chair, while at her side stood the helmet and 
 spear he had carried forth on the morning when they 
 parted. At such times she was as calm as an in- 
 fant's slumberings, and saying that she was waiting 
 for the sound of the marriage bells ; asked why they 
 did not ring, and sat for hours in all the beauty of 
 loveliness the Warrior's Bride. 
 
ON A WITHERED BOUQUET. 
 
 E. S. 
 
 WHEN beneath my Cynthia's smile 
 Smile, fit image of her heart ! 
 
 All your beauty blushed a while, 
 
 Soon from its frail throne to part, 
 
 Fairer ye than those that spring 
 'Neath the foot of radiant May ; 
 
 Fairer than the wood nymphs bring 
 Offerings to the god of day. 
 
 But when I, with ruthless hand, 
 Plucked ye from your blissful seat, 
 
 Like a wreck upon the strand 
 That the incessant surges beat, 
 
 All your beauty ruined lay 
 Drooping fell your faded leaves : 
 
 So the exile far away 
 
 For his own loved country grieves ! 
 
 Ah ! how like our common lot ! 
 
 Blessed alone when she is nigh 
 Banished from the charmed spot, 
 
 Plunged hi grief, we lingering die 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS 
 EVE. 
 
 BY MART HOWITT. 
 
 I WISH you had all been at old Frau Goetzen- 
 berger's last Christmas Eve ! But as you were not, 
 and as you know nothing about it, the best thing I 
 can do is to tell you exactly how it was, who was 
 there, and what came of it. 
 
 Old Frau Goetzenberger lived, or rather lives 
 but we will speak of it in the past tense she lived, 
 I say, in an old university town in the south of Ger- 
 many ; a very old-fashioned town it was, with all sorts 
 of old memories and traditions connected with it. The 
 university, with its tall, red roof, looked as dark and 
 ancient as the church, which had a tall, red roof to 
 correspond ; and the church looked quite as old as 
 the gray limestone rocks which stood up, like huge, 
 frowning walls, round the little town. 
 
 Not far from the university stood a large, heavy, 
 dismal-looking stone building, like a great, gloomy 
 
226 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 town hall; the lower front windows, which looked 
 upon the street, were all guarded with strong iron 
 work, composed of upright bars, with iron scrolls 
 among them, which gave it very much the appearance 
 of a prison. In the centre of this building was a 
 wide, round-arched gateway, in the projecting key- 
 stone of which grinned a stone face. The face pro- 
 truded its tongue from its leering mouth, its nose was 
 curled up, and its ears were of an unusual length. 
 It was, upon the whole, as ugly a face as you would 
 wish to see, and it seemed to grin down upon every- 
 body who approached the gateway. So wide was 
 this gateway, that a coach and four might have driven 
 into it ; and on either hand, soon after you entered, 
 you came to a wide, stone staircase, with iron balus- 
 trades, which led up to the dwellings of many fami- 
 lies of a dozen, at least who inhabited this great, 
 old house, most of them being professors or students, 
 belonging to the university. 
 
 Between this old house and the university lay a 
 large garden, full of trees and walks, and with a 
 fountain, which fell into a great stone basin, in the 
 middle of a grass plat, which was not, I am sorry to 
 say, by any means neatly kept, for two or three milk 
 womni cut the grass with sickles for their cows, 
 This gard' n, to a certain extent, was public ; that is, 
 
MADAME UOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 227 
 
 was common to about a dozen different houses opening 
 into it, and which were all occupied, more or less, by 
 people connected with the university, who had thus, 
 as it were, a privileged private entrance, either to the 
 great university library, or to ordinary lectures and 
 classes. Hence it was that the houses opening into 
 this universitdts garten, as it was called, brought a 
 higher rent than any others, and the people residing 
 there were looked upon as the elite ; it was, in fact, 
 the Belgravia of the town. 
 
 On the principal floor of that great old house 
 with the grinning face over the door, lived the most 
 celebrated professor in the whole university the 
 Herr von Hoffman, professor of Roman law ; a very 
 learned man, whose fame extended over all Germany. 
 So great, indeed, was he, that the king, not many 
 years before, had presented him with a patent of no- 
 bility, and hence it was that he had von before his 
 name. He was, in fact, the Herr Baron von Hoff 
 man ; but he preferred being called simply the Herr 
 Professor, because he had more pleasure in being a 
 great teacher than in being a baron. He was not, how- 
 ever, an old man ; he was only a little turned forty, 
 and this was his first year at the famous old univer- 
 sity when I introduce him to your knowledge. 
 
 He was a very quiet, domestic man, was this 
 
228 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 Professor von Hoffman, and there was nothing in 
 the world which he wished so much for as a sweet- 
 tempered, good, little wife, and a dear, happy family 
 of pretty children. When he was only twenty, and a 
 student at the old University of Greifswald, his do- 
 mestic wishes were just the same. But he was a 
 very poor man in those days ; nevertheless, he made 
 up his mind to marry as soon as he was able to main- 
 tain a wife and family ; and more than that, to marry 
 no one else than the pretty Ida, the youngest daugh 
 ter of old Professor Schmidt, under whom he had 
 studied Roman law ; and the sweet-tempered and pretty 
 Ida had promised to be his wife whenever he should 
 be ready to offer her a home. But things did not 
 fall out as either the student Eberhard or his fair 
 Ida hoped. Old Professor Schmidt would not consent 
 to part with his daughter Ida, who was his favorite. 
 He was, unfortunately, a very sour-tempered, obstinate 
 old gentleman ; he said that Eberhard was too poor 
 to marry, and could not afford to have a wife. In 
 this way year after year went on ; Ida's sister Mario 
 married, and went away to her husband's home, and 
 her mother, the old professor's wife, died, and then 
 there was nobody left to look after him but poor Ida, 
 and, what was worst of all, the old gentleman's tem- 
 per grew still more and more tyrannical, because he 
 
MADAME GOETZENBEROER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 2^9 
 
 now suffered so much from rheumatism and tooth* 
 ache. 
 
 There did not now seem to be the least chance in 
 the world that Ida could ever leave her father. Eber- 
 hard had been away two years, and he grew very 
 impatient. He had risen from privat docent, without 
 any salary, to be professor of Roman law in the 
 University of Tubingen. He now could abundantly 
 afford to maintain that dear little wife that was only 
 wanted to complete his happiness ; so he wrote to 
 Ida, saying that she must consent to marry him at 
 once, and that, to make all easy and agreeable, the 
 old gentleman, her father, should live with them. Ida 
 was delighted with the proposal ; not so the old pro- 
 fessor. For what was he to leave Greifswald? No, 
 he had no intention of leaving it ! He had not many 
 years to live, and he was not going to be torn up by 
 the roots for any body ! It would be the death of 
 him. No, no ; he should stop at Greifswald, and Ida 
 might leave him, if she liked ; but he would never 
 give his blessing to an undutiful child ! 
 
 It was very hard both on Ida and her lover. They 
 waited yet a while longer ; but Tubingen was a very 
 dull place, and all the professors there were married 
 excepting Eberhard. So at last he wrote to Ida, say- 
 ing that if she could not marry tim, he must look out 
 20 
 
260 MADAME GOETZENBERGER S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 for another wife. He quite expected that this would 
 have determined Ida, by one means or another, to 
 obtain her father's consent; but, instead of that, Ida, 
 who was the most generous-hearted and most self- 
 *brgetting creature in the world, could not again anger 
 and distress her old father by urging her wishes, and, 
 as she knew what a loving, domestic heart was Eber- 
 hard's, and that without family life he could not be 
 happy, she wrote, in reply, that though it broke her 
 heart, she must give him up, for that, to leave her 
 old father in his present state was impossible. She 
 returned to him, therefore, the betrothal ring which 
 she had faithfully worn so many years, and, with 
 anguish of heart and many tears, of which she said 
 nothing, sent off her letter. 
 
 The professor received the ring, and read the lettei 
 with the deepest grief, disappointment, and some little 
 anger. He believed that Ida's love for him was 
 nothing in comparison with what he had felt for 
 her. He returned to her the ring which he too had 
 worn with equal fidelity, with a long letter, which, in- 
 stead of comforting, only added to her misery. For 
 several weeks he felt very unhappy and desolate ; but 
 all his married friends and acquaintance thought it 
 their duty to be doubly kind to him. What sisters, 
 and nieces, and cousins, all beautiful young ladies, 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 231 
 
 were introduced to him at suppers and little tea 
 parties, which were got up expressly for the occasion ! 
 And at length it appeared to him that the beautiful 
 Caroline, only daughter of the rich Oberst or Colonel 
 Hoffman, might probably fill the place in his heart 
 left vacant by the loss of his Ida. Caroline, or Lina, 
 as she was called, was reckoned a great match, for 
 her father not only wore many orders at his button 
 hole, but was possessed of a handsome estate and 
 house in the Saxon Switzerland, which, having come 
 to the oolonel by his wife, would pass direct to his 
 daughter on his death, with the simple condition of 
 her husband taking the name of Hoffman. A very 
 good match was this for the professor, who, though 
 he was growing into great reputation for learning, had 
 nothing but his head to make money by, and his 
 good heart to make a wife happy with ; and these do 
 not always rank as high in value as gold and silver, 
 houses and lands. - 
 
 The professor married the beautiful Lina, and not 
 long afterwards, her father dying, her husband came 
 into possession of the fine house and estate in the 
 Saxon Switzerland, and assumed the excellent name 
 of Hoffman, henceforth dropping his own undignified 
 family name of Grim, and by which he had been 
 betrothed to Ida Schmidt. The next event that 
 
232 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 occurred to him was the birth of a little daughter, 
 who was called, after her mother, Lina ; and soon after 
 wards he received from his sovereign that patent of 
 nobility which I have mentioned, and which was be- 
 stowed upon him in consequence of his great learn- 
 ing, and henceforth he was the Herr Baron VOD 
 Hoffman. 
 
 But wonderful as was the professor's outward pros- 
 perity, his domestic happiness was not destined to be 
 of very long continuance. Four years after his mar- 
 riage, his wife died, leaving him no other child than 
 his little Lina, then about three years old. Very 
 desolate was now the professor's heart and home. 
 As time went on, and the acuteness of the grief 
 caused by the death of his wife a little wore off, he 
 thought about equally of Ida, his first love, and Lina, 
 his child's mother. People wondered that he did not 
 marry again. With his reputation, his title, and his 
 fine estate in the Saxon Switzerland, he might marry 
 any lady in the land. I believe he knew that very 
 well; but, as I said before, he thought a great deal 
 about poor Ida and her hard life with the cross 'old 
 gentleman,* her father. He thought so much, indeed, 
 that five years after his wife's death, when his little 
 Lina was eight years old, he set off during the um- 
 fewity^sr&n, cr holidays, on a journey to the north, 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER ; S CHRISTMAS EVE. 233 
 
 taking Greifswald in his way. He did not ttll ?. 
 single soul that he did so, but I mention it to you in 
 confidence. 
 
 Well, the first thing he did when he arrived at 
 Greifswald was to inquire after old Professor Schmidt 
 and his family. He made his inquiries from an old 
 woman who was knitting by the side of a wood, while 
 a white goat, fastened to her apron string by a long 
 chain, was feeding, and she was keeping two cows, 
 which were likewise grazing, within bounds. 
 
 " Of Herr Professor Schmidt ask you ? " said the 
 oW woman ; " he's been dead and buried these six 
 years." 
 
 And Fraulein Ida ? " 
 
 " No ; she's not here. She M r as an angel ! What 
 a daughter she was ! She never thought her duty 
 hard ; and yet it is unknown what she had to bear, 
 and yet I know, for I was sick nurse in that family 
 for years. Ah, Fraulein Ida ! she would have made 
 any man happy ; she was such an angel ; many's the 
 good chance for herself that she sacrificed to her duty 
 to her father. You never knew Fraulein Ida, then?'* 
 asked the old woman. 
 
 The professor made a sort of sound which she un- 
 derstood to mean no ; therefore she went . on : " Then 
 you never knew what an angel she was ? She was 
 20* 
 
234 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 cruelly used, sir, by a student ; but he's a learned 
 professor now, they tell me ; one Eberhard Grun. 
 You, may be, may know him, and can tell me what's 
 become of him, for he studied in Greifswald ? " 
 
 Again the professor made that peculiar sound which 
 passed for a negative, and the old woman went on : 
 " No ; I dare say you don't ; but no good co-uld come 
 to him, that's certain. He's married, however, and he 
 was betrothed to Fraulein Ida for several years. I 
 never shall forget her reading of his marriage to her 
 father, for she always read the newspapers to him, 
 and he would have every word : she dropped down 
 in a fainting fit when she read that, and if it had 
 not been for me, who had just come in to tell the 
 Herr Professor that his bran bath was ready, she 
 would have fallen on the stove. Poor Fraulein Ida ! 
 And when her friends said to her, as many did at 
 first, how heartless was that Eberhard Grim to leave 
 her as he had done, she used to say, with tears in 
 her eyes, ' Don't blame him. I don't blame him my- 
 self. It is a good thing if he does not suffer as I 
 do ; and I hope he doesn't.' That was the way she 
 talked. But she's gone from Greifswald now," con- 
 tinued the old woman. "When the Herr Professor 
 died, he left her nothing but his books and pay 3rs, 
 and they were not worth much; and soon aftei >j; 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERQER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. o5 
 
 death, Mrs. Bernhard, the eldest daughter, died also : 
 she had been a widow some years, but she was well 
 off; she left a child, a beautiful little girl, to Frau- 
 lein Ida's care, with a small legacy, which brings her 
 in a little income, and after that Fraulein Ida and 
 her little orphan niece went to live with an old aunt 
 of the late Herr Bernhard, but where nobody knows 
 They did live at Cassell for a time, but they are 
 gone away ; but go where she will, Heaven's blessing 
 will light on her, sooner or later ; of that I am sure." 
 
 " Perhaps," said the Herr Professor von Hoffman, 
 in a voice which was very husky, but which the old 
 woman, not knowing him, supposed to be natural to 
 him "perhaps she may be married by this time?" 
 
 The old woman almost screamed at the idea. 
 
 " Married ! " repeated she ; " married by this time ! " 
 and, in her impatience, she gave the poor little goat 
 such a sudden pluck by its chain, that, thinking the 
 tuft of yellow ragwort at which it was smelling was 
 some forbidden fruit, it set up a sharp bleat, and gave 
 a great leap so far in a contrary direction, that the 
 old woman was pulled in her turn. " Married by 
 this time ! " repeated she once more ; " you gentlemen 
 know nothing about women ! Fraulein Ida Schmidt 
 will never marry any man but Eberhard Griin, be- 
 cause she never can love another as she loved him ; 
 
236 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 and it may please God to make him worthy of her, 
 because, as ihe Bible says, all things are possible 
 with God!" 
 
 " Amen ! " said the professor, strangely affected. 
 
 The old woman went after her goat, which had 
 now grown very wayward ; and he pursued a solitary 
 path which led deep into the wood, and which, in 
 those far-distant days, which the old woman had so 
 sadly recalled, he and his beloved Ida had often trod 
 together. 
 
 The tidings which the professor had thus obtained 
 left him in no state of mind to call on any of his old 
 friends in Greifswald. He continued his journey into 
 the north, even as far as Upsala, where, in the library 
 of "the old university, he added still more to his 
 amazing amount of learning, and then returned to Tu 
 bingen, where he delivered his lectures as formerly. 
 
 The next thing that happened to him was, that he 
 was appointed by government to take the law pro- 
 fessor's chair in that still more famous university 
 where we first found him. Hither he removed early 
 in the year, and took up, as I told you, his quarters 
 in the principal suit of rooms in that gloomy old 
 house with the iron-barred windows, and the grinning 
 face over the gateway. His spare hours he spent in 
 arranging and cataloguing hig immense library, and 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 237 
 
 the rest of the day in delivering his famous course of 
 lectures, which very soon brought such an access of 
 students to the university, that, with the tradespeople 
 and the middle classes at large, who lived principally 
 by accommodating students, as well as by all the young 
 ladies who thus were provided with so many more 
 agreeable partners at the public and private balls, he 
 was considered quite a benefactor to the town, and, 
 consequently, was very popular with every one. 
 
 There was something, however, peculiar in the pro- 
 fessor ; every body agreed in this ; finding it, never- 
 theless, not difficult to be accounted for, because he 
 was so very learned, and all learned men were unlike 
 common people ; they had a right to be odd, and 
 even disagreeable, if they chose. But disagreeable 
 Professor von Hoffman was not ; he was only very 
 grave, and had an anxious, self-absorbed look. 
 
 The truth was, though nobody knew it, he was very 
 unhappy about poor Fraulein Ida, and could not get 
 her other sorrows out of his head. It is wonderful 
 what a number of letters he wrote to all parts of 
 Germany, to ascertain, if he could, whither she had 
 betaken herself with her little orphan niece, or where 
 this old Madame Bornhard lived who was aunt to the 
 child's father. But he could obtain no satisfactory 
 information. Now and then he fancied he was upon 
 
238 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 the right track ; but when he came to pursue it ar 
 ther, and he took many long journeys for this pur 
 pose, it always ended in disappointment. 
 
 Thus time wore on. He lived in a dream of hope 
 and disappointment, busied over the endless arrange- 
 ment of his books, and looking neither to the righ^ 
 hand nor to the left, as he crossed the great university 
 garden to his lectures. On summer afternoons the 
 garden was full of people, who turned out from the 
 surrounding houses. Ladies sat with their knitting 
 on the various benches and under the trees ; children 
 played about, and the milk women cut the grass for 
 their cows. Every body knew him ; but he knew 
 nobody, took notice of nobody. " That is the way," 
 said they, " with all these learned men ; their eyes 
 are turned inwards." 
 
 It must have been a very dull, unnatural sort of 
 life for little Lina von Hoffman, if she had had no 
 more cheerful person N with her than her father, as he 
 appeared to the world ; but I assure you her life was 
 by no means without its pleasures. In an evening 
 she was with her father, and then came out something 
 of the joy and affection which lived in his large, warm 
 heart. Little Lina knew very w.il what a glorious 
 and noble human being was her father, and to him 
 he opened all her little heart. She showed him ho\v 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 239 
 
 knitting progressed, and how many additional 
 she had done in her Berlin-wool work ; but 
 not a word did she say to him about those beautiful 
 slippers which, soon after midsummer, she had begun 
 to work for him. O, no ! not a word of them ; they 
 were a great secret in her heart, and were to remain 
 BO until they should be brought forth by the wonder- 
 ful Christ-child at Christmas, who, she knew from old 
 experience, would then bring something very charming 
 for her. Of these things Lina spoke to her father, 
 but most of all she spoke of her little friend San- 
 chen, who lived at the end of the garden, in such 
 pretty rooms, with her old great-aunt Goetzenberger, 
 who was quite, quite blind, yet such a cheerful old 
 lady, and with aunt Ida, who was just like an angel. 
 Lina now knew what angels must be like ; they must 
 be like Sanchen's aunt Ida, if she had only wings. 
 She wore such beautiful light silks ; and she had such 
 V)vely hands, and such a beautiful face. O, there nevei 
 ^as any lady that smiled as she did. 
 
 It was wonderful what pleasure our good professor 
 felt in hearing his darling Lina thus talking of her 
 friends. There was an inexpressible charm to him 
 in that sweet name of Ida. If it had not been for 
 the old lady, and even aunt Ida, as he believed, 
 being called Goetzenberger, he might, perhaps, have 
 
240 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 taken it into his head that this might be his own 
 long-lost Ida. But he never did ; and when little 
 Lina saw him walking from his afternoon lectures 
 across the garden, and ran to him, saying, " There's 
 aunt Ida ! " he never even gave himself the trouble 
 to look at her, but, catching up the child in his arms, 
 carried her to the house with him. Aunt Ida, on 
 her part, saw him only at a distance : there was 
 something about him which painfully reminded her 
 of an old, long-lost lover, and for that very reason 
 she purposely avoided meeting him. She did not 
 wish to walk over the grave, as it were, of those 
 buried feelings, on the death-like repose of which 
 alone depended her own peace of mind. 
 
 Little Lina went very often to Frau Goetzen- 
 berger's. She found it much more cheerful there 
 than at her own home. Her father's rooms were all 
 lined with dark, old books, piles of which still lay on 
 the floor, and over which she was sure to tumble if 
 she did not take great care ; besides which, there was 
 always such a smell of tobacco smoke, for, like all 
 learned Germans, he was a great smoker. " If I 
 had a wife," said he to himself, " I should rarely 
 smoke ; but it is now my only amusement." So the 
 rooms were full of a smoke cloud, which circled about 
 her father's head, and curled up into all the darl; 
 
241 
 
 corners and into the vacant spaces on the shelves, 
 and which filled the* curtains, and even her father's 
 hair, with a never-dying smell of tobacco. Very dif- 
 ferent were Frau Goetzenberger's rooms. All was 
 light and cheerful there, and a fresh, delicious odor 
 seemed to pervade every thing. The floor of the 
 sitting room was of inlaid wood, which gave a very 
 pretty effect, and a very beautiful carpet of needle- 
 work, deeply fringed, was laid before each of the two 
 sofas. On one of these sofas always sat the old blind 
 lady, in her rich black satin and large gray shawl. 
 To look at her, nobody would have supposed her to 
 be blind, for there was nothing unsightly or strange 
 in the appearance of her eyes, and yet they could see 
 no more than if they were stones. She appeared tc 
 be, and was really, very cheerful ; had learned to go 
 about their rooms by herself; the only difference be- 
 tween herself and other people being that she walked 
 very slowly, feeling her way from point to point, and 
 treading as softly as if her feet had been shod with 
 velvet. She was always employed in knitting, and 
 this prevented time from seeming long to her. 
 
 Ida, as little Lina often told her father, was like a 
 
 gentle, lovely angel ; not because she was so young 
 
 and beautiful, but because she looked so pure and 
 
 good. Aunt Ida, indeed, waa no longer young; she 
 
 21 
 
242 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 was considerably turned of thirty ; was thin and pale ; 
 her countenance, to thoughtful observers, looking as 
 if at some former time she had known great sorrow, 
 though now her soul was bright and cheerful in the 
 peace of resignation and faith in God. Her joy lay 
 in the fulfilment of her duty, and this now was no 
 longer painful. She surrounded the blind lady with 
 objects of beauty ; though they could not gladden 
 her sight, still she said their influence was felt. Every 
 thing was elegant and pure. Beautiful flowers in pots 
 Btood in the windows, and gathered flowers in a glass 
 vase stood ever on the table, among cheerful-spirited 
 books, from which Ida read at least half the day. 
 Sometimes she played exquisite pieces of music to 
 her; and this the blind lady loved best of all, for 
 Ida played divinely. 
 
 Lina often told her father about aunt Ida's play- 
 ing, and at length, one evening, Barbet, their maid, 
 accompanied her home, with a request from aunt Ida 
 that the professor would permit his little daughter to 
 take in future her music lesson with Sanchen, which 
 would be such a pleasure to every one. The pro- 
 fessor could not object; he returned a message by 
 Barbet which was satisfactory to all parties. " The 
 Herr Professor von Hoffman was much honored by 
 the interest which the Fraulein Ida Goetzenberger 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 243 
 
 took in his little daughter's progress in music, and 
 that he should feel infinitely obliged if she would 
 condescend to instruct her with her niece ; and that 
 the Herr Professor hoped before long to have the 
 honor of thanking in person the Frau and Fraulein 
 Goetzenberger for the kindness they had so long 
 shown to his little daughter." Barbet was very clever 
 in delivering verbal messages ; she did not, therefore, 
 omit or vary one word. 
 
 Ida smiled. " My name is not Goetzenberger," said 
 she ; " but that is of no moment." From that time 
 little Lina took her lessons with Sanchen, and thus 
 the best understanding grew up between the two fam- 
 ilies, the heads of which had never as yet spoken to 
 each other. The little girl was much more at Frau 
 Goetzenberger's than at her own home, and thus the 
 professor found his room more desolate than ever. 
 " But never mind," said the good man ; " she is much 
 happier with our cheerful neighbors than she can be 
 with me." He sighed and thought of that fair Ida, 
 who existed still, but not for him, and blew tre- 
 mendous puffs of smoke out of his long, handsomely- 
 painted pipe. 
 
 It was now the autumn ferien, and a letter came 
 to the professor which took him at once from home. 
 A trusty friend of his had found in Konigsberg a 
 
244 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Madame Bernhard and a Fraulein Ida Schmidt, who 
 were living together. They seemed to answer the 
 description of the persons he was in search of, more 
 especially as Fraulein Schmidt, it was said, was from 
 a northern university town. Off, therefore, set our 
 good professor, once more fondly hoping that she 
 whom he had sought so long was at length found. 
 He set off at night, when his little Lina, who had 
 spent the day at the good neighbors', was in bed, 
 and, kissing her in her sleep, and leaving a note for 
 Fraulein Ida, was a long way on his journey before 
 she woke. The note, which little Lina presented 
 next morning, was addressed, as the professor believed 
 correctly, to Fraulein Goetzenberger, and it said that 
 the Professor von Hoffman was suddenly called from 
 home on business of great importance, and begged to 
 commend his little Lina to the kind attentions of 
 Fraulein Ida Goetzenberger during his absence. Again 
 aunt Ida smiled, and remarked that her name was 
 not Goetzenberger, adding, however, that it was not 
 of much importance ; and she undertook the charge 
 of little Lina with right good will. The professor 
 had written his note in great haste, and it was such 
 an almost unintelligible scrawl as scarcely ever was 
 seen ; but there was for all that a something in the 
 handwriting which made our dear Ida look at it again 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 24.S 
 
 and again. " There is a something about it that re- 
 minds me of a handwriting that was very dear to me 
 many years ago," sighed she to herself, " but all 
 learned men, to a certain degree, write alike;" and 
 she put the note into her work box. 
 
 Little Lina was as welcome as daylight. " It is 
 such an excellent thing," Ida said, " for Sanchen to 
 have a companion of her own age, and besides, little 
 Lina is a very lovable child ; there is a something 
 about her which has taken strange hold of my heart ; " 
 and so saying, she once more took the note from her 
 work box and read it through, though there was noth- 
 ing more to puzzle out in it. I can hardly tell why 
 she did so, yet it is a fact nevertheless. 
 
 " I am to be your child while papa is away ! " 
 said little Lina, throwing her arms round aunt Ida's 
 neck. " I wish you were my mamma, I love you so 
 dearly ! " 
 
 Poor Ida ! the letter, or rather the recollections 
 that it called up, and the words of the child, stirred 
 her heart very strangely. She clasped the little one 
 in her arms, kissed her with tender emotion, and said 
 that from that time she should call her aunt Ida, as 
 little Sanchen did, and they two should be sisters. 
 
 The poor professor had a fruitless journey, all that 
 long, long way to Konigsberg ; h travelled night 
 21* 
 
246 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 and day to find, once more, a disappointment. The 
 Fraulein Ida Schmidt was, he found, older than him- 
 self, and the Madame Bernhard was her niece. It 
 was a mistake altogether, and a sad disappointment 
 to the poor professor, who immediately leaving K6- 
 nigsberg made another long journey to Carlsbad, 
 where he determined to spend 4 the autumn ferien. In 
 the mean time, all was as happy as could be at the 
 house of Frau Goetzenberger. The children's lessons 
 were joyful amusements ; they played together the 
 sweetest little duets ; they sang with aunt Ida, and 
 they danced while she played. They wore, at the 
 same time, their white frocks, and their pink frocks; 
 they called each other sister, and they lived as if the 
 relationship had been real. 
 
 The days had shortened greatly before the pro- 
 fessor returned, and during the long evenings Frau 
 Goetzenberger many a time spoke of her Christmas 
 tree, and of the marvellous things which the Christ- 
 child would lay beneath it. Little Lina had finished 
 the slippers for her papa, and Sanchen was working 
 him a cover for his queer oil-skin tobacco bag, while 
 Lina threaded steel beads on dark-blue netting silk, 
 for the beautiful purse which aunt Ida had begun t<< 
 knit for him. She had once before, many years ago, 
 knitted such a purse for that very student, Eberhard, 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 247 
 
 of whom she retained such tender, yet painful recol- 
 lections. The note which the Professor von Hoifman 
 had sent her about his little Lina must indeed have 
 had a strange effect upon her, for it was the sight 
 of that very note which had determined her to make 
 just such another purse for him. She was now, there- 
 fore, knitting it while little Lina threaded the beads, 
 and Sanchen worked the tobacco bag. 
 
 "When the children were gone to bed, the purse 
 was put aside, and so was Frau Goetzenberger's usual 
 knitting ; and out came two beautiful pieces of wool 
 knitting, which were destined, in die end, to become 
 two pretty little jackets of sky-blue, with white bor- 
 ders, as Christmas presents from Frau Goetzenberger 
 to the two little girls. Ida helped her, therefore, at 
 night ; she did all the difficult parts, and thus the 
 work went on, both with rapidity and accuracy. 
 
 The professor returned just in time for the com- 
 mencement of the winter session, or semester, as it is 
 called. The number of students was now much greater 
 than ever, and the professor, who had been studying 
 hard at Carlsbad, in order to add new matter to his 
 lectures, was consequently more than ordinarily busy. 
 He had not even time to call on his good neighbors 
 to thank them for the care they had taken of his 
 Lina, and he thought her greatly improved during his 
 
248 JIADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 absence. He sent, however, once more a verbal mes- 
 sage by his old servant, Gretchen, to thank them, and 
 to say that as early as possible he would call. 
 
 Lina, who found her home very dull in comparison 
 with her little friend Sanchen's, was but seldom with 
 her father, whose time, as I said before, would be, 
 until Christmas, so very much occupied. Little San- 
 chen sometimes went home with Lina, but the grave 
 looks of the professor rather frightened her; besides, 
 having lived all her life with ladies, she had not 
 been used to tobacco smoke, which she greatly dis- 
 liked ; therefore Lina, in order that she might enjoy 
 her society, spent most evenings still at Frau Goet- 
 zenberger's. The two ladies, Frau Goetzenberger and 
 Fraulein Ida, knew enough of learned professors to 
 be quite sure that no slight was intended them, al- 
 though the Professor von Hoffman did not call. They 
 were by no means exacting, and they thought that he 
 had done all that could be required from so learned 
 and so celebrated a man, whose time was more valu- 
 able than gold, when he had sent them a polite mes- 
 sage of thanks, by Gretchen. 
 
 At length Christmas was at hand, when the pro- 
 fessor's labors were remitted for a time, and when, 
 learned as he was, he knew that it was his duty, as 
 well as every body else's, to have a Christmas tree, 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 249 
 
 and to make a present to every one, rich or poor, whom 
 he either loved or respected, or to whom he was under 
 an obligation of gratitude. All these things, learned 
 man as he was, he took into consideration. " If," 
 thought he to himself, " I had found my Ida Schmidt 
 at Konigsberg, I should have laid out a hundred 
 florins, at the least, in a Christmas present for her; 
 but, alas, such good luck was not for me ! The hun- 
 dred florins, as far as she is concerned, still remain 
 in my purse. I must, however, make those good 
 ladies, Frau and Fraulein Goetzenberger, a handsome 
 present, because they have been so good to Lina. 
 Poor, dear, little Lina ! what a blessing it would have 
 been to her had I but found my Ida ! but it is no 
 use lamenting. The day after to-morrow is Christmas 
 eve ; there is, therefore, no time to lose. I must have 
 a Christmas tree in my dull room for Lina ; she shall 
 find beneath it not only a present for herself, but also 
 for her kind friends, and I will take her in myself to 
 present them. I have too long neglected to call on 
 them to return them my thanks. If they ask me to 
 stop and eat a little salad and sausage that night, and 
 to drink good wishes to them in a glass of wine, I 
 will do so : that will be much better than stopping 
 here by myself." 
 
 With these thoughts, out came the professor's purso 
 
250 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 a purse, for all the world, just like that which Ida 
 was finishing at that very moment for him. He 
 looked at the purse and sighed. Why did he sigh? 
 for it was not by any means an empty purse. He 
 thought to himself, as he looked at it, " This purse is 
 many years old. I have kept it carefully, and never 
 used it until I set out on that luckless journey to 
 Konigsberg, for. I thought, if it should be my Ida, 1 
 would prove to her by the purse, which I had treas- 
 ured so long, how much I had valued her gift ! " and 
 again the professor sighed. 
 
 But sighing would not buy either his Christmas 
 tree or the presents for his Lina's friends. He be- 
 thought himself, and soon decided that he would buy 
 some splendid fur for the ladies. This was always 
 acceptable. For Fraulein Ida he would buy ermine, 
 and for the old lady sable. He would purchase the 
 best that money could buy, and to the children he 
 would be as good a benefactor as if he were a fairy 
 godfather, if there ever were such beings. He filled 
 bota ends of his purse. I cannot tell you how much 
 money he put into it ; and, throwing round him hia 
 large fur-collared blue cloak, and putting on his over- 
 shoes, he set off into the town, where he made such 
 astonishing purchases as put every shopkeeper into 
 good humor for a week. He bought also an enormous 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 25- 
 
 Christmas tree, standing in its green garden, with 
 sugar sweetmeats innumerable; and all were received 
 safely into the house by ten o'clock, which, in that 
 old-fashioned town, was a late hour. 
 
 On the morning before Christmas day, Frau Goet- 
 zenberger sent over her old servant Barbet with her 
 compliments, and she begged that the Herr Baron 
 von Hoffman would do her the honor to bring in his 
 little Lina at five o'clock to see her Christmas tree, 
 and afterwards to eat a little salad and sausage and 
 to drink a glass of wine with her and Fraulein Ida. 
 
 The professor hesitated to reply. " He was intend- 
 ing," he said, " to have a Christmas tree at home 
 for his little Lina, and would have invited the ladies 
 to his rooms, but that he could not think of bringing 
 them out at night." He therefore returned his com- 
 pliments by Barbet, and begged that Frau Goetzen- 
 berger would oblige him by deferring her Christmas 
 tree for half an hour; and still further, would she 
 permit her little grandniece Sanchen to come over 
 and see what the good Christ-child might bring, after 
 which he would have the pleasure of accompanying 
 the two children to Frau Goetzenberger's, and would 
 feel much honor in partaking of supper with her and 
 Fraulein Ida. 
 
 Again Barbet crossed the garden to assure the 
 
252 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Herr Professor that nothing could be more satisfac- 
 tory than this arrangement. 
 
 Very busy was the good professor all that morning 
 in his library, the door of which was locked, so that 
 Lina, had she been so disposed, could not even have 
 peeped in. He had a deal to do about his Christmas 
 tree, and often and often did he wish that he had 
 but some skilful female fingers to aid him. How he 
 managed it all by himself I really cannot say ; how- 
 ever, at half past four o'clock, little Sanchen was 
 brought over in a new pale-blue silk frock, with 
 black satin shoes on, and little black silk mits, and 
 with her lovely flaxen hair plaited like a crown round 
 her head, and conducted into the professor's sitting 
 room, which looked very gloomy with its black stove 
 and one lamp, with a blue shade over it. Here, how- 
 ever, she was rapturously received by Lina, likewise 
 dressed in a new pink silk frock, with her little black 
 satin slippers on, and little black silk mits, and with 
 her dark hair plaited just like Sanchen's. 
 
 The next moment a little bell was heard to ring, 
 which the children knew to be Christkindchen's, and 
 the door between the library and sitting room opened, 
 and there was a sight for them ! Such a blaze of 
 light ! such a Christmas tree ! all hung over with 
 beautiful things dolls, and work boxes, and cakes, 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER' s CHRISTMAS EVE. 253 
 
 and sugar birds, and dogs, and milkmaids, and Tyro- 
 lian shepherds. O, it was beautiful ! And there 
 were muffs and tippets, of ermine and sable ! But 
 those could not be either for Lina or Sanchen. 
 
 " No," the professor said, his countenance beaming 
 with joy (Sanchen was no longer afraid of him) as 
 he eyed the two lovely children who stood so beauti- 
 fully hand in hand before him " no, those fur tippets 
 and muffs the Christkindchen had told him were for 
 Frau Goetzenberger and Fraulein Ida." 
 
 Sanchen clapped her hands for joy, because aunt 
 Ida had wished for an ermine tippet, and the great- 
 aunt Goetzenberger loved to be warm. But where 
 was the good Christkindchen that had brought these 
 beautiful things ? 
 
 The professor smiled, and said that Christkindchen 
 was in such a hurry to be off to Frau Goetzenberg- 
 er's, that she would not stop to say where the things 
 came from. Lina flung her arms round her father's 
 neck and kissed him. She knew, she said, where the 
 things had come from, for Gretchen had told her 
 something. She loved her papa dearly, because it 
 was he who had bought those nice warm things for 
 Fraulein Ida and Frau Goetzenberger, and he had 
 bought things for other people beside ! The good 
 papa ! he had not forgotten old Martin, who lived in 
 22 
 
254 
 
 the court below, and had such a bad leg ; nor Gret 
 chen, nor Barbet, nor the poor milkwoman and all 
 her children, nor the shoemaker who was ill. 
 
 Certainly the good professor must have had an 
 excellent, thoughtful heart, thus to remember every 
 body ! I assure you he had. Little Sanchen kissed 
 him, and thought nothing about the tobacco smoke. 
 But now it was half past five, and Barbet was come 
 to carry Sanchen across the snowy garden ; the pro- 
 fessor was to carry Lina. They set out, accompanied 
 by Gretchen with a lantern in one hand and a bas- 
 ket in the other, containing the gifts which had been 
 left by Christkindchen under the professor's tree for 
 Frau Goetzenberger and her household. 
 
 While the professor took off his cloak and over- 
 shoes, the children rushed in, having easily slipped 
 out of the large shawls in which they were wrapped, 
 to tell of the wonderful things that had happened, and 
 of the wonderful things they brought ; but there was 
 no aunt Ida to listen to them. Frau Goetzenberger 
 sat, all dressed in her best, on her sofa, with a green- 
 shaded lamp before her, and with no knitting in her 
 hands. But where was aunt Ida? She was gone, 
 the old lady said, to receive the Christkindchen, who 
 was every moment expected. They must sit down 
 and wait patiently ; good little children always did so. 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 255 
 
 " But, aunt," said SJinchen, " here is the Herr Pro- 
 fessor." 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! " returned the old lady, in quite 
 another voice, for from being blind she was not 
 aware that he had approached the table before her. 
 " Bring him here to me, my dear ; I am truly glad 
 to see the Herr Professor." 
 
 He took her hand kindly, and seated himself be- 
 side her. There was something inexpressibly attrac- 
 tive to him in all that he saw around him ; he felt 
 his heart drawn, as it were, to the old blind lady, 
 as if she had been his mother, and he spake words 
 of unfeigned kindness, in a voice which went equally 
 to her heart. She apologized that Ida was not pres- 
 ent to receive him ; she had, said she, much to do 
 on an occasion of that kind, as the Herr Professor 
 no doubt knew. Of course he knew perfectly well ; 
 the Christkindchen must always be well received ; he 
 feared that he himself had not done her all due 
 honor, for she was in so great hurry to depart that 
 the little ones had not seen even the shimmering of 
 her wings. 
 
 " But we saw what she left," said Sanchen, heaping 
 the beautiful furs on the table before the old lady ; 
 " feel what she brought for you ; " and taking up her 
 hand, she passed it over the fur ; M she brought you 
 
256 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 a sable muff and tippet, and the same for aunt Ida, 
 only ermine ! " 
 
 " My dear," remonstrated aunt Goetzenberger, " this 
 is too much ! Christkindchen does not bring such 
 presents as these ! " 
 
 " But my papa does ! " said little Lina ; " and I am 
 so glad, and I love him so for it ! " said she, spring- 
 ing to his knee and kissing him. 
 
 " This is quite too much, Herr Professor," said the 
 old lady, turning to him. 
 
 He made no reply, for at that very moment a 
 little silver bell rang, and a sight presented itself 
 which dazzled all eyes. The professor's tree, with 
 all his skill, was nothing to this. How indeed 
 could it have been ? This was all arranged by 
 Fraulein Ida herself, and there was nobody in all 
 Germany who could make these things so beautiful 
 as she. 
 
 But where was Fraulein Ida all this time? The 
 children hardly thought of her, so wholly was their 
 attention occupied by the wonderful tree, with all its 
 wonderful fruits, and by the lovely Christkindchen 
 herself, who, in soft, flowing white muslin, which fell 
 in folds to her feet, and was confined at the waist by 
 a silver girdle, stood in front of her tree. She had 
 silvery, shining wings oh her shoulders, and a little 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGEK'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 257 
 
 silver crown on her head. Never was a more beau 
 tiful figure beheld. She looked like a pure angel 
 just descended from heaven. The children stood in 
 the open doorway, with their hands extended and 
 their eyes fixed in delighted wonder. Dear old Frau 
 Goetzenberger saw nothing, or certainly she would 
 have observed the extraordinary effect which this 
 vision produced on the Herr Professor. 
 
 Christkindchen spoke her words were in poetry 
 beautiful, softly-flowing poetry, full of tenderness and 
 love. The professor had silently risen, and now stood 
 in the shadow of the long curtain which was with- 
 drawn from the door ; for he did not dare to trust 
 himself within the light. Very powerful was the 
 effect of that low, sweet voice upon him ; he had 
 known one like it in former years ; and did not, in 
 truth, his long-lost and beloved Ida now stand before 
 him ? O, what a divine gift had not the Christkind- 
 chen brought him ! I assure you that the professor, 
 standing there in the shade of that curtain, shed tears 
 of joy. " God, perhaps, deems me at length deserv- 
 ing of her ! " thought he, remembering the words 
 of the old woman at Greifswald ; and he silently 
 thanked God. 
 
 " But where is the Herr Professor ? " at length 
 exclaimed Christkindchen, when now, having concluded 
 22* 
 
258 MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 her poetical address, she proceeded to appropriate 
 her gifts. " Let him come forward, for here I find 
 a beautiful pair of slippers from his little daughter, 
 every stitch being done by her tiny fingers. I have 
 also a purse knitted with beads of steel upon a 
 dark-blue ground, to represent the stars of heaven on 
 Christmas eve : this is from a lady who wishes well 
 to the excellent Herr Professor. But where is he ? " 
 
 The Herr Professor stepped forward. He said 
 not a word, but, advancing to Christkindchen, took 
 her hand in his, and whispered softly, " My Ida ! " 
 All at once Christkindchen's other hand dropped pow- 
 erless to her side, and she lay motionless in the pro- 
 fessor's arms. He carried her to the unoccupied sofa, 
 speaking words of the utmost tenderness ; the chil- 
 dren began to cry; poor blind Frau Goetzenberger 
 rose up, felt her way round her table, and, advancing 
 forward, exclaimed, " What has happened ! O Ida ! 
 Ida ! speak, my child ; art thbu ill ? Do, somebody, 
 tell me what has happened ! " repeated she hi impa- 
 tient terror. 
 
 " Papa has kissed her ! She is better now," ex- 
 claimed little Lina, still sobbing. 
 
 Ida raised herself from the sofa, and leaned her 
 head, weeping, on the professor's shoulder. He kissed 
 her hands and her forehead many times, and then, as 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 259 
 
 poor old Frau Goetzenberger still impatiently inquired 
 what had happened, he turned round, and said, " I 
 have found here her whom I have sought for years 
 the betrothed of my youth ! Pardon me, madam, if 
 I have forgotten myself pardon me, Ida, if I have 
 been too abrupt ! " 
 
 " O Eberhard ! " said Ida, rising, " how is this ? 
 But take off all this finery first, which is not real 
 these wings and this crown : let me not find any 
 thing unreal at this moment. And you, Eberhard, 
 how can you be the Herr von Hoffman ? " 
 
 He explained it in a few words. " And you," 
 said he " you are called Ida Goetzenberger. How 
 is that ? " 
 
 " Nobody calls me so but you," she replied, smiling ; 
 "I am Ida Schmidt." 
 
 "But I understood," said he, " that my Ida lived 
 with Madame Bernhard." 
 
 " My maiden name was Bernhard," said the old 
 lady, who now understood it all, for she knew the 
 history of Ida's early love ; " my nephew it was who 
 married Ida's sister. I am not aunt to Ida, but only 
 great-aunt to Sancheu ; but they are both my children. 
 Ida is dear to me as a daughter ; she has bee a a 
 daughter to me ! " and the blind eyes of the dear old 
 lady shed tears. 
 
260 MADAME GOETZENBERGER S CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 The professor told the history of his many fruitless 
 journeys in search of her who was so near to him 
 after all. In a while they all laughed together. 
 
 Together they walked to the yet brilliant Christ- 
 mas tree : they looked at the various presents ; he 
 took up the new purse, and compared it with the old 
 one. Ida saw how her present, given so many years 
 ago, had been treasured. The children sat one on 
 each of the professor's knees, and he told Sanchen 
 that he should like to be her uncle, and he told Lina 
 that he hoped aunt Ida would be her mother. The 
 old lady sat by and smiled, for she saw it all, although 
 not with the outward sight ; and she blessed God 
 that he had given so much happiness to those who 
 were so dear to her. 
 
 The professor ate his sausage and salad with Frau 
 Goetzenberger that night, and so he did every night 
 until early in May, when, having made his own hab- 
 itation very neat and cheerful, arranged all his books 
 by the help of a poor student, whom he paid hand- 
 somely, and furnished, in beautiful style, several new 
 rooms, Ida became his wife ; and Frau Goetzenberger, 
 and little Sanchen, and old Barbet moved across the 
 university garden, and took up their abode with their 
 new relative, in the great old house with the grin- 
 ning face over the gateway. 
 
MADAME GOETZENBERGER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 26i 
 
 That same summer an operation was performed on 
 the eyes of Frau Goetzenberger by a famous oculist, 
 a friend of the professor, and she fully regained her 
 sight ; and in the autumn they all spent the holidays 
 on little Sanchen's splendid property in the beautiful 
 Saxon Switzerland, the professor, at the request of 
 Ida, having secured it to his little daughter, in right 
 of her deceased mother, retaining only for himself its 
 income during her minority. 
 
 Such is the history of the wonderful occurrences on 
 Frau Goetzenberger's last Christmas eve. 
 
FLOWER ANGELS. 
 
 RUCKERT. 
 
 THE angels, dear maiden, that round us be, 
 Are gentle and beautiful like to thee ; 
 Though we cannot pee them with mortal sight, 
 When they visit earth from the realms of light 
 
 And if it be thou wert never told 
 Where chiefly their home the angels hold, 
 When heaven they leave for this world of ours, 
 I'll tell thee their homes they make the flowers 
 
 Each floweret blooming in sunshine or shade 
 Is a pavilion by angel made, 
 Where he rests a while, till again he flies 
 To his mansion bright in the azure skies. 
 
 And as each on his dwelling thought bestows, 
 So care for his, too, the angel shows ; 
 Within and without he decks it fair, 
 That pleasant may be his lodging there. 
 
FLOWER ANGELS. 263 
 
 He fetches him store of sunbeams bright, 
 And borders his roof with a fringe of light ; 
 He fetches him colors of every dye, 
 And painteth his walls with an artist's eye. 
 
 Lest he hunger on earth, he bakes him bread 
 Of the glittering dust o'er the floweret spread, 
 And brews him his nectar of pearly dew, 
 Keeping house in all as one used thereto. 
 
 And joy it is to the flower to see 
 
 Its tenant employed thus busily ; 
 
 And Heaven no sooner the angel recalls, 
 
 Than, for sorrow, his house in ruin falls. 
 
 Thus, dearest maiden, on every hand 
 Around thee wouldst have an angel band ; 
 So bide with the flowers, the fragrant and gay' 
 And angels about thee will rule alway. 
 
 Place at thy lattice a flower, and ne'er 
 Will it let an evil thought enter there ; 
 Bear on thy bosom a posy, and lo, 
 Wherever thou goest will angels go. 
 
 At early morn water a lily spray, 
 And pure as a lily thou'lt be all day; 
 
264 FLOWER ANGELS. 
 
 At night on thy bed place a rose guard to keep. 
 And lulled by an angel on roses thou'lt sleep. 
 
 No frightful dreams can thy slumber break, 
 For charge o'er thee doth an angel take ; 
 And the dreams that he lets come to thee 
 No other than pleasant dreams will be. 
 
 And O, if thus guarded thou shouldst e'er 
 Dream of the love which to thee I bear, 
 Think that true and pure it needs must be, 
 Else kept had the angel that dream from ihee* 
 
QUEEN ESTHER. 
 
 BY E. P. 
 
 THE decree had gone forth. Letters had been 
 sent by posts into all the provinces, to kill all Jews, 
 young and old, in one day. And with the decree 
 had gone forth the gold and the silver of the king 
 to carry it into execution. 
 
 Must the offended favorite of the rich court of 
 Ahasuerus seek and find revenge, not only in the 
 destruction of the offender, but wreak it forth on 
 thousands of innocent people men, women, and 
 children ? So thought Mordecai ; and he rent his 
 clothes, put on sackcloth with ashes, and walked the 
 streets of the rich city of Shusan, crying with a loud 
 voice. He mourned as few ever mourn bitter tears 
 over the fate of a down-trodden nation. And in every 
 province the Jews wept. They saw the day fast ap- 
 proaching when they should be destroyed, and all 
 their riches given as a spoil to their murderers. 
 Queen Esther was informed of the decree, and of the 
 
266 QUEEN ESTHER. 
 
 affliction of her uncle. She remembered with, woman's 
 heart all the goodness Mordecai had bestowed upon 
 her from earliest childhood. His wise counsels had 
 guided her, and she forgot not how he had led her 
 on, step by step, with all the care and solicitude of 
 parental love ; and she was also fully conscious that 
 she owed her present affluent position mainly to his 
 watchfulness in her behalf. Learnirvg the rash com- 
 mand of the king, she sent rich raiment to Mordecai, 
 with the request for him to put away his sackcloth. 
 But he would not be comforted. The uplifted sword 
 was not removed ; and till that was done, nothing 
 could stay the torrent of his grief. 
 
 The raiment returned, Esther sent Hatach, one of 
 the king's chamberlains, to Mordecai to know more 
 of the matter. By him, Mordecai sent a copy of the 
 written decree to the queen. She read it, and at 
 once saw her duty, and resolved to perform it. 
 
 She proclaimed a fast among the Jews of Shusan, 
 and closed her reply with the noble declaration, " I 
 will go in unto the king, which is not according to 
 the law, and if I perish, I perish." 
 
 It required no small degree of courage to make 
 guch decision. It was no small danger she was to 
 encounter. It might end in her banishment, and the 
 fate of her predecessor, Vashti, the beautiful, the 
 strongly-virtuous Vashti, might be her own ; or death 
 
QUEEN ESTHER. 267 
 
 might seal her devotion for her beloved people. To 
 enter into the king's presence uncalled would be an 
 offence of great magnitude against the customs, usages, 
 and laws of the land. Should he extend his golden 
 sceptre to her, all would be well ; but should he be 
 governed by some ill freak of the moment, some 
 fancy leading him to consider her unsummoned ap- 
 pearance an infringement on his rights, evil might be 
 the result. 
 
 Whatever the end might be, she determined to go 
 and petition for her people, and if she perished, 
 perish. 
 
 Had the king known that she herself was a Jewess, 
 that the merciless command, in its execution, would 
 bring death into his own household, he might not 
 have granted Haman's request. Even so will all 
 wickedness return to its originator, and the evil, man 
 "vould throw upon another, fall upon himself. 
 
 On the third day, attired in her royal apparel, 
 Queen Esther stood in the inner court, over against 
 the king's house. How deeply must she have re- 
 joiced as she felt the danger of her position past, and 
 touched the golden sceptre, extended to her in token 
 of the king's favor ! 
 
 What illuminations of hope must have shone upon 
 her path, as she heard the voice of Ahasuerus, say- 
 ing to her, "What wilt thou, Queen Esther? and 
 
268 QUEEN ESTHER. 
 
 what is thy request? It shall be given tLee to tna 
 half of the kingdom." The prayers and fasting of 
 the Jews had prevailed upon the Ruler of all hearts, 
 and the first intimation of the glorious result was 
 now seen. 
 
 The queen desired the presence of the king and 
 Haman at a banquet on the morrow, at which re- 
 quest Haman was greatly rejoiced, and prided himself 
 on the honor, which, in his selfish heart, he thought 
 was thus bestowed upon him. But alas *br Haman 
 and his iniquitous designs ! at this feast /ie king was 
 rightly informed of his base character : with wrath he 
 arose from the banquet, and the instrument of death 
 which Haman had made for Mordecai became that 
 of himself. And the order was revoked throughout 
 all the land, and there was great joy and rejoicing 
 in all the assemblies of the Jews. 
 
 Noble woman ! Courageous in a good cause ; thou 
 triumphedst over the emissary of evil, and madest 
 thyself a name glorious among men. 
 
 Queen Esther, standing in all thy womanly pride, 
 with the merciless decree clasped in thy hands, re- 
 solved to do or die in the pursuit of right, thou art 
 a pattern and an example to the people of every age, 
 and thy success shall encourage all, who, with thy 
 daring in a righteous cause, trust God and press on- 
 ward. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 BY MBS. NEWTON CROSLAND. 
 
 a AIM high ! and though you fail your mark to 
 
 reach, 
 
 Some quarry not to be despised you'll win ! " 
 Advice fair sounding, that with wordy din 
 
 Dulls the tired ear, till wakening mind impeach 
 
 Its truth, and seek for argument to teach 
 That often does the arrow back recoil 
 We shot too high ; and find for only spoil 
 
 The soul that hurled it forth with vaunting speech. 
 
 A wall of adamant we do not see 
 
 May rise between us and the wish on high ! 
 
 No middle hope no less desire may be 
 Between us and the star for which we try. 
 They are earth-happiest, who small arrows fly 
 At small near toys, but never dare the skyl 
 23* 
 
270 SONNETS, 
 
 II. 
 
 [ In answer to an objection that was made to the fore* 
 going Sonnet.'] 
 
 Dear friend ! I know not to unweave the thought 
 
 Whose meshes seem too tangled in thy sight : 
 
 I am not wrong; yet thou still more art right 
 In sovJ conviction, spirit wisdom fraught ; 
 Thus much I grant. My words but idly sought 
 
 To show earth-happiest they the small-brained 
 crew 
 
 With bounded wishes and aspirings few, 
 Who call it noon when twilight gleams are caught. 
 Such are the heritors of this fair earth, 
 
 Who, by the strength of numbers, hold it still. 
 I do not speak of other joys more worth 
 
 Which the mind martyrs upon earth may thrill, 
 E'en while they bleeding lie, the theme for mirth 
 
 And football for th' ignorant scoffers' will! 
 
A FAIRY TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME, 
 
 BY E. M. R. 
 
 IN the days of chivalry, when life to the wealthy 
 was a series of exciting enjoyments, and to the poor a 
 hopeless slavery, a Fairy and a beautiful child lived 
 in an old castle together. The owner of this large 
 and neglected building had been absent on the cru- 
 sade ever since the time which gave him a daughter 
 and deprived him of a wife ; but many an aged pil- 
 grim brought occasional tidings of the glory he was 
 winning in the distant land. At last it was said that 
 he was wending his way homeward, and bringing with 
 him a young orphan companion, who had risen, by 
 dint of his own brave deeds alone, from the rank of 
 a simple knight to be the chosen leader of thousands. 
 The child had grown to girlhood now, and very bright 
 upon her sleep were the dreams of this youthful 
 hero, who was to love her and be the all of her 
 solitary life. I said she had dwelt with the Fairy 
 
272 A FAIBY TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 true, but of her presence she had never dreamed. 
 Always invisible, the being had yet never left her. 
 She whispered prayer in her ear as she knelt, morn- 
 ing and evening, in the dim little oratory ; she brought 
 calm and happy feelings to her breast, which the 
 commonest things awoke to joy and life ; she led her 
 to seek and feel for the needy, the sick, and the suf- 
 fering ; she nurtured in her the holiest faith in God 
 and trust in man : yet the maiden thought she breathed 
 all this from the summer evenings, the flowers, the 
 swift labors of her light fingers, and the thousand 
 things which cherished the happiness growing up 
 within her heart. It was night, and Ada slept ; the 
 moon's rays, gilding each turret and tower, crept in 
 at the narrow portal which gave light to the cham- 
 ber, and lingered on the sunny hair and rounded 
 limbs of the sleeping girl. The Fairy sat by her side, 
 weeping for the first time. 
 
 " Alas ! " said she, " the stranger is coming ; thou 
 wilt love him, my child ! and they say that earthly 
 love is misery. Among us, we know no unrest from 
 it; we love, indeed, each other and all things lovely j 
 but ages pass on, and love changes us not. Yet they 
 say it fevers the blood of mortals, pales the cheek, 
 makes the heart beat, and the voice falter, when it 
 comes ; yet it is eternal, mighty, and entrancing. 
 
A FAIRY TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 273 
 
 Alas ! I cannot understand it ! Ada, I must leave 
 thee to other guidance than my own ; I love thee 
 more than self, still I can be j\o longer thy guide ! " 
 
 The Fairy started ; for she felt, though she heard 
 not, that other spirits had suddenly become present. 
 She raised her eyes, and three forms, more radiant 
 than any fairy can be, were gazing on her in silent 
 sadness. 
 
 " O spirits ! " cried the weeper, faintly, " who can 
 ye be ? " 
 
 " The Shades of Love," replied voices so ethereally 
 fine that a spirit's ear could hardly discern the words. 
 
 " The Shades ! " repeated the Fairy, in surprise. 
 "I thought Love was one/* 
 
 " I am Love," said the three together ; " intrust the 
 untainted heart of your beloved one to me ! " 
 
 " O pure beings ! " cried the Fairy, bending rever- 
 ently before them, " will ye indeed guide Ada to hap- 
 piness, yet ask my permission ? Tell me only how ye 
 each will guide her ; and grant me, though not human, 
 to choose which a human heart would prefer." 
 
 "My name is Mind," replied the first. "When I 
 dwell on earth, I bind together two ethereal essences ; 
 I unite the most spiritual part of each ; I assimilate 
 thought; I cause the communion of ideas. No love 
 can be eternal without me, and with me associate 
 
274 A FAIRY TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 the loftiest enjoyments. Words cannot tell the rapture 
 of love between mind and mind. Dreams cannot 
 picture the glory of that union. Very rarely do I 
 dwell unstained and alone in a human breast ; but 
 when I do, that being becomes lost in the entireness 
 of its own bliss. Fairy, the lover of Ada is a hero ; 
 wilt thou accept me to reign in her heart ? " 
 The Fairy paused, and then spoke sadly, 
 " Alas, bright being ! Ada is a girl of passionate 
 and earnest feeling ! Thou couldst not be happiness 
 to her. Thou mightest, indeed, abstract her intellect 
 in time from all things but itself ; but the heart within 
 her must first wither or die, and the death of a young 
 heart is a terrible thing ! Pardon me, but Ada can- 
 not be thine." 
 
 " They call me Virtue," said the second spirit. 
 " When I fill a heart, that heart can live alone. It 
 wakes to life on seeing my shadow in the object it 
 first loves ; that object never realizes the form of 
 which it bears the semblance, and then it turns to 
 me, the ideal, for its sole happiness. I am associated 
 with every thing pure, and holy, and true. Where 
 human spirits have drawn mgnest to the Eternal, I 
 have been there to hallow them ! Where the weak 
 have suffered long without complaint ; where the 
 dying have to the last, last breath held one name 
 
A FAIRY TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 273 
 
 dearer than all ; where innocence hath stayed guilt, 
 and darkest injuries been forgiven, there ever am 
 I ! Fairy, shall I dwell with Ada ? " 
 
 Still sadder were the accents of the guardian Fairy. 
 
 " And is this human love ? " said she. " This would 
 be no happiness to my child, who is a mortal and a 
 woman, and who will yearn for a closer and a dearer 
 thing than the love of goodness alone ! Erring crea- 
 tures cannot love perfection as their daily food. Beau- 
 tiful spirit ! thou art fitted for heaven, not earth 
 for an angel, but not for Ada ! " 
 
 Then spoke the third. 
 
 " My name is Beauty," said she. " Men unite me 
 to imagination and worship me. Many have degraded 
 me to the meanest things I own, because my very 
 essence is passion ; but they who know my true na- 
 ture unite me with every thing divine and lovely in 
 the world. If I fill Ada's heart when she loves, the 
 very face of all things will change to her. The flow- 
 ing of a brook will be music, the singing of the 
 summer birds ecstasy ; the early morning, the dewy 
 evening, will fill her with strange tenderness, for a 
 light will be on all things the light of her love ; 
 and she will learn what it is to stay her very heart's 
 beatings to catch the lightest step of the adored 
 to feel the hot blood rushing to her brow when only 
 
276 A FAIRY TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 he looks on her ! the hand tremble, and the whole 
 frame thrill with exquisite rapture, and meet with 
 delicious tremor the first look of love from a man ! 
 The rapture of my first bliss were worth ages of 
 misery ; and, pressed to the bosom of the beloved, a 
 human spirit feels it is blessed indeed. Youth 13 
 mine, eternal youth and pleasure. Fairy, Ada must 
 be mine ! " 
 
 " Thou seemest," said the Fairy, musingly, " to be 
 the most suited for mortals. In thy words and em- 
 blems I see nothing but sensuality of the least mate- 
 rial order. And to all there seemeth, too, to be a 
 time when one clasp of the hand that is loved is 
 more than the comprehension of the grandest thought 
 Beauty, I will give up my child to thee ! and O, if 
 thou canst not keep her happy, keep her pure till 1 
 return ! Guard her as thou wouldst the bloom of the 
 rose leaf, which may not bear even a breath ! " 
 
 The Fairy's voice faltered as she turned away and 
 imprinted a kiss on the sleeper's cheek. Ada moved 
 uneasily, but did not awake ; and in the last glance 
 that she gave to her charge was united the form of 
 the spirit of Beauty, folding, in motionless silence, her 
 radiant wings over the low couch. The other Shades 
 had fled some brief time since, and, burying her face 
 in her slight mantle, the beautiful Fairy faded slowly 
 away in the moonlight. 
 
A FAIRY TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 277 
 
 A brief time passed, and the baron had returned 
 with his hero guest to the castle, and the beneficent 
 being who had guarded Ada's childhood had been up 
 and down upon the earth, cheering the sad, soothing 
 the weary, and inspiring the fallen. Much had she 
 seen of human suffering, yet many a great lesson had 
 it taught her of the high destiny of mortals, and she 
 winged her flight back to Ada's couch sanguine of 
 her happiness. The spirit of Beauty still floated 
 above it, but the Fairy thought that the bright form 
 had strangely lost its first ethereality. Fevered and 
 restless, the sleeper tossed from side to side. With 
 trembling fear she drew near the low bed, and gazed 
 fondly on the unconscious form. Alas ! there was no 
 peace on that face now ! There was that which some 
 deem lovelier than even beauty passion ; but to the 
 pure Fairy the expression was terrible. 
 
 " My child ! my child ! " cried she in agony ; " is 
 this thy love ? Better had thine heart been crushed 
 within thee, than that thou shouldst have given thy- 
 self up to it alone ! Thou hast an eternal soul, and 
 thou hast loved without it ! Thou art feeding flames 
 which will consume the feelings they have kindled ! 
 Spirit, is this thy work ? " 
 
 " Such is the love of mortals," answered the Shade. 
 " It is ever thus ; the sensual objects are but emblems 
 24 
 
278 A FAIRY TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 of the spirit union of another world ; yet this is never 
 seen at first, and every impetuous soul, rushing on 
 the threshold of life, worships the symbol for the 
 reality the image for the god. Fear not, Fairy; 
 the flame dies, but the essence is not quenched : from 
 the ashes of Passion springs the Phoenix of Love. 
 Ada will recover this burning dream." 
 
 " Never ! " cried the Fairy, " if she yields her heart 
 up to 'thoughts like these. Thou art a fiend, Beauty 
 a betrayer ! Avaunt, thou most accursed ! thou hast 
 ruined my child ! " 
 
 And as she spoke, weeping bitterly, she averted her 
 face from the Shade. All was once more still, and, 
 her grief slowly calming, the Fairy hoped * she was 
 now alone, until, raising her eyes, she saw the being, 
 more radiant and glorious than ever, still guarding 
 the sleeping girl. 
 
 "Fairy," said the Shade, sadly, "this is no fault 
 of mine. I have ever come to the human heart with 
 thoughts pure as the bosom of the lily and beautiful 
 as paradise, but the nature of man degrades and en- 
 slaves me. Thou sawest how my wings were soiled 
 and their light dimmed by the sin of even yon guile- 
 less girl, and, alas ! thousands have lived to curse me 
 and call me demon before thee. Now, at thy bidding, 
 I will leave Ada, and forever. She will awake, but 
 
A FAIRY TALE OP THE OLDEN TIME. 279 
 
 never again to that fine sympathy with nature, that 
 exquisite perception of all high and holy things, I 
 have first made her know. She will awake still 
 good, still true ; but the visions of youth quenched 
 suddenly, as these will have been, leave a fearful 
 darkness for the future life." 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! " cried the Fairy, wringing hel* hands, 
 with a burst of sudden grief, " whether thou goest or 
 remainest now, Ada must be wretched." 
 
 " Not so," returned the Shade, in a voice whose 
 sweetness, from its melancholy, was like the wailing 
 of plaintive music "not so, if thou wilt otherwise. 
 Thou hast erred : from the Shades of Love thou didst 
 select me; and, panting as we each do for sole pos- 
 session of the heart we occupy, it is impossible either 
 separately can bring happiness to it. Each has striven 
 for ages, but in vain. It is the union of the three, 
 the perfect union, that alone makes Love complete." 
 
 " But will Mind and Virtue return ? " asked the 
 Fairy, doubtingly. " I bid them myself depart." 
 
 " They will ever return," said Beauty, joyfully, 
 " even to the heart most under my sway, if desired 
 in truth. A wish, sometimes, fervent and truthful 
 it must be, but still a wish, alone often brings 
 them." 
 
 At that moment, a hurried prayer sprang to the 
 
280 A FAIKT TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 Fairy's lips ; but ere it could frame itself into words, 
 light filled the little chamber, and the three Shades 
 of Love stood there once more, beautiful and shining, 
 
 "Mighty beings," said the Spirit, "forgive me! 
 Attend Ada united and forever, and I shall then have 
 fulfilled my destiny." 
 
 " We promise," returned the Shades. 
 
 And gazing for a few moments in earnest fondness 
 on the dreamer's happy face, the Fairy bade a last 
 farewell to her well-loved charge. 
 
JOSEPHINE, 
 
 EMPRESS OF THE FRENCH. 
 BY MAKT E. HEWITT. 
 
 JOSEPHINE ROSE TASCHER DE LA PAGERIE was 
 born at Martinique on the 24th of June, 1763. At 
 a very early age she came to Paris, where she mar- 
 ried the Viscount Beauharnais, a man of talent and 
 superior personal endowments, but not a courtier, as 
 some writers have asserted, for he was never even 
 presented at court. Beauharnais was a man of linv 
 ited fortune, g,nd his wife's dower more than doubled 
 his income. In 1787, Madame Beauharnais returned 
 to Martinique to nurse her aged mother, whose health 
 was in a declining state ; but the disturbances which 
 soon after took place in that colony drove her back 
 to France. During her absence, the revolution had 
 broken out ; and on her return, she found her husband 
 entirely devoted to those principles upon which the 
 regeneration of the French people was to be founded. 
 24* 
 
282 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 The well-known opinions of the Viscount Beauharnaig 
 gave his wife considerable influence with the rulers 
 of blood, who stretched their reeking i sceptre over 
 the whole nation ; and she had frequent opportunities, 
 which she never lost, of saving persons doomed by 
 their sanguinary decrees. Among others, Mademoi- 
 selle de Bethisy was condemned, by the revolutionary 
 tribunal, to be beheaded ; but Madame Beauharnais, 
 by her irresistible intercession, succeeded in obtaining 
 the life and freedom of this interesting lady. The 
 revolution, however, devouring, like Saturn, its own 
 children, spared none of even its warmest supporters, 
 the moment they came in collision with the governing 
 party, then composed of ignorant and bloodthirsty 
 enthusiasts. The slightest hesitation in executing any 
 of their decrees, however absurd or impracticable, was 
 considered a crime deserving of death. Beauharnais 
 had been appointed general-in-chief of the army of 
 the North. Having failed to attend to some foolish 
 order of the convention, he was cited to appear at its 
 bar and give an account of his conduct. No one ap- 
 peared before this formidable assembly, but to take, 
 immediately after, the road to the guillotine ; and 
 such was the case with the republican general Beau- 
 harnais. He was tried and condemned, and, on the 
 23d of July, 1794, he was publicly beheaded at the 
 
JOSEPHINE. 283 
 
 Place de la Revolution. Meantime, his wife had 
 been thrown into prison, where she remained until 
 Robespierre's death, expecting each day to be led out 
 to execution. Having at length recovered her free- 
 dom, she joined her children, Eugene and Hortense, 
 who had been taken care of during their mother's 
 captivity by some true and devoted though humble 
 friends. After the establishment of the Directory, 
 Madame Tallien became all-powerful with the direct- 
 or Barras, to whom she introduced Madame Beau- 
 harnais. 
 
 Bonaparte at length became passionately attached 
 to Madame Beauharnais, and married her on the 17th 
 of February, 1796. She accompanied him to Italy, 
 where by her powers of pleasing she charmed his 
 toils, and by her affectionate attentions soothed his 
 disappointments when rendered too bitter by the im- 
 pediments which the jealousy of the directory threw 
 in the way of his victories. 
 
 Bonaparte loved Josephine with great tenderness ; 
 and this attachment can be expressed in no words 
 but his own. In his letters, published by Queen 
 Hortense, it may be seen how ardently his soul of 
 fire had fixed itself to hers, and mixed up her life 
 with his own. These letters form a striking record. 
 A woman so beloved, and by such a man, could have 
 been no ordinary person. 
 
284: JOSEPHINE. 
 
 When Napoleon became sovereign of France, after 
 having proved its hero, he resolved that his crown 
 should also grace the brows of Josephine. 
 
 With his own hand he placed the small crown 
 upon her head, just above the diamond band which 
 encircled her forehead. It was evident that he felt 
 intense happiness in thus honoring the woman he 
 loved, and making her share his greatness. 
 
 It was truly marvellous to see Josephine at the 
 Tuileries, on grand reception days, as she walked 
 through the Gallerie de Diane and the Salle des 
 Marechaux. Where did this surprising woman ac- 
 quire her royal bearing? She never appeared at 
 one of these splendid galas of the empire without 
 exciting a sentiment of admiration, and of affection 
 too ; for her smile was sweet and benevolent, and 
 her words mild and captivating, at the same time 
 that her appearance was majestic and imposing. 
 
 She had some very gratifying moments during her 
 greatness, if she afterwards encountered sorrow. The 
 marriage of her son Eugene to the Princess of Ba- 
 varia, and that of her niece to the Prince of Baden, 
 were events of which she might well be proud. Na- 
 poleon seemed to study how he could please her 
 he seemed happy but in her happiness, 
 
 He generally yielded to her entreaties, for the 
 
JOSEPHINE. 285 
 
 manner in which she made a request was irresistible. 
 Her voice was naturally harmonious, like that of most 
 Creoles, and there was a peculiar charm in every 
 word she uttered. I once witnessed, at Malmaison, 
 an instance of her power over the emperor. A sol- 
 dier of the guard, guilty of some breach of discipline, 
 had been condemned to a very severe punishment. 
 Marshal Bessieres was anxious to obtain the man's 
 pardon ; but as Napoleon had already given his de- 
 cision, there was no hope unless the empress under- 
 took the affair. She calmly listened to the marshal, 
 and, having received all the information necessary, 
 said, with her musical voice and bewitching smile, 
 
 " I will try if I can obtain the poor man's pardon." 
 
 "When the emperor returned to the drawing room, 
 we all looked to see the expression his countenance 
 would assume when she mentioned the matter to 
 him. At first he frowned, but, as the empress went 
 on, his brow relaxed ; he then smiled, looked at her 
 with his sparkling eyes, and said, kissing her fore- 
 head, 
 
 " Well, let it be so for this once ; but, Josephine, 
 mind you do not acquire a habit of making such 
 applications." 
 
 He then put his arm round her waist, and again 
 tenderly kissed her. Now, what spell had she employed 
 
286 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 to produce such an effect ? Merely a few words, and 
 a look, and a smile ; but each was irresistible. 
 
 Then came days of anguish and regret. She had 
 given no heir to Napoleon's throne, and all hope of 
 such an event was now past. This wrung her heart ; 
 for it was a check to Napoleon's ambition of family 
 greatness, and a disappointment to the French nation. 
 The female members of Napoleon's family disliked 
 the empress, they were perhaps jealous of her in- 
 fluence, and the present opportunity was not lost to 
 impress upon the emperor the necessity of a divorce. 
 At length he said to Josephine, 
 
 " We must separate ; I must have an heir to my 
 empire." 
 
 With a bleeding heart, she meekly consented to 
 the sacrifice. The particulars of the divorce are too 
 well known to be repeated here. 
 
 After this act of self-immolation, Josephine with- 
 drew to Malmaison, where she lived in elegant retire- 
 ment, unwilling to afflict the emperor with the news 
 of her grief, and wearing a smile of seeming content 
 which but ill veiled the sorrows of her heart. Yet 
 she was far from being calm ; and in the privacy of 
 friendship, the workings of her affectionate nature 
 would sometimes burst forth. But she was resigned; 
 and what more could be required from a broken 
 heart? 
 
JOSEPHINE. 287 
 
 On the birth of the King of Rome, when Provi- 
 dence at length granted the emperor an heir to his 
 thrones, Josephine experienced a moment of satisfac- 
 tion which made her amends for many days of bit- 
 terness. All her thoughts and hopes were centred 
 in Napoleon and his glory, and the consummation of 
 his wishes was to her a source of pure and unutter- 
 able satisfaction. 
 
 " My sacrifice will at least have been useful to 
 him and to France," she said, with tearful eyes. But 
 they were tears of joy. Yet this joy was not unal- 
 loyed ; and the feeling which accompanied it was the 
 more bitter because it could not be shown. It was, 
 however, betrayed by these simple and affecting words 
 uttered in the most thrilling tone : 
 
 " Alas ! why am I not his mother ? " 
 
 When the disasters of the Russian campaign took 
 place, she was certainly much more afflicted than the 
 woman who filled her place at the Tuileries. When 
 in private with any who were intimate with her, she 
 wept bitterly. 
 
 The emperor's abdication and exile to Elba cut 
 her to the soul. 
 
 " Why did I leave him ? " she said, on hearing that 
 he had set out alone for Elba ; " why did I consent 
 to this separation ? Had I not done so, I should 
 
288 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 now be by his side, to console him in his misfor 
 tunes." 
 
 Josephine died at Malmaison, on the 29th of May, 
 1814, after a few days' illness. Her two children 
 were with her during her last moments. 
 
 Her body was buried in the Church of Ruel. 
 Every person of any note then at Paris attended 
 her funeral. She was- universally regretted by for- 
 eigners as well as by Frenchmen ; and she obtained, 
 as she deserved, a tribute to her memory, not only 
 from the nation whose empress she had once beenj 
 but from the whole of Europe, whose proudest sov- 
 ereigns had once been at her feet. 
 

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