GIFT OF 
 
 
TALES, BALLADS, &c 
 
TALES AND BALLADS. 
 
 BY 
 
 CAROLINE OILMAN. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 
 SAMUEL COLMAN. 
 1839. 
 
Entered according to an Act of Congress, in the year 1838, by 
 
 T. H. CARTER, 
 
 In the Clerk s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 Marden & Kimball, Printers, 
 No. 3 School Street. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Missionaries. A Tale. 9 
 
 Rosalie. A Ballad. 27 
 
 An Incident. 43 
 
 The Young Conspirators. A Tale. 45 
 
 Rosalba s Lament. 69 
 
 Mr. Niblo, the Bashful Lecturer. .... 73 
 
 Isadore. A Dramatic Sketch. 90 
 
 A Sketch. 95 
 
 The Lost Mail. A Tale of the Forest. ... 96 
 
 The Monarch at Prayer. 117 
 
 The Mummy s Flower. 119 
 
 The Wife. 120 
 
 The Gamester. 146 
 
 The Disfigured Miniature. 150 
 
 The Student of Valencia. A Tale. - - 151 
 
 Francisco De Ribalta, the Spanish Artist. A Ballad. 162 
 
 Mr. Inklin, or the Man of Leisure. - - - 166 
 
 The Backwoodsman. - 180 
 
 He for God only She for God in him." - - 483 
 
 The Fortieth Wedding-Day. 185 
 
 My Garden. 186 
 
 My Knitting- Work. 189 
 
 4H46S 
 
10 VH?. MISSIONARIES. 
 
 of woods enclosed the planted fields, forming a green 
 curve in the distance, stopping where the river, beau 
 tifully clear, came in with its graceful flow at the 
 foot of the oak, one huge branch of which looked at 
 its own glossy leaves and gray drapery mirrored in 
 the waters ; a warmly tinted sky broke in bright 
 flickerings through the leaves, and tinged the stream ; 
 while the birds of day flitted to their nests with fare 
 well strains. The only other sounds that interrupted 
 the stillness, were the plash of an oar and the distant 
 horn or chorus of the negroes. 
 
 " Look up, Isabel," said the speaking girl, " from 
 that book to this glorious sunset. It is worth a thous 
 and volumes !" 
 
 Isabel shook her head gravely, her downcast eyes 
 bent to the turf at her feet. At length she sighed and 
 said, " Cousin Ellen, a solemn duty is pending over 
 me which makes me blind and deaf even to these 
 great natural manifestations of deity. I begin to feel 
 with a thrilling consciousness, that I have no right to 
 linger over these scenes of my early joys. This book 
 describes the wants of the heathen, the poor heathen, 
 who when they look at nature acknowledge no crea 
 ting hand, and if they possess a friend dear to me as 
 you are, Ellen, know nothing of that world where 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 11 
 
 such friendship shall be made brighter and unbroken 
 through eternal years." 
 
 A soft and solemn depth was in the tones of the 
 speaker, and her full dark lids were wet with tears. 
 
 " And can you be willing to think for a moment," 
 said Ellen, " of leaving your well-defined fireside 
 duties, your father, your mother and little Rosalie, 
 for an uncertain sphere among the heathen ? " 
 
 " There is nothing uncertain in the missionary s 
 path," exclaimed the enthusiast, as she rose and 
 clasped her hands with an onward gesture. " Every 
 step he takes is heavenward, every sorrow he en 
 dures adds a gem to his immortal crown. Yes, dear 
 garden, where my childhood s foot has trod, skies that 
 have so long looked down upon me, birds which have 
 sung me songs from year to year, father, mother, 
 sister, farewell ! A prophetic hope of good is upon 
 me. I must go." 
 
 " With which of these handsome students are you 
 about to partake the crown of martyrdom ? " said 
 Ellen, archly, yet trying to suppress the smile on her 
 lips. 
 
 " With Henry Clayborne, as his wedded wife," 
 said Isabel with dignity, scarcely a blush tinging the 
 delicate hue of her cheek. 
 
 Ellen turned deadly pale a rush as of sudden 
 
12 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 winds sounded through her brain ; but recovering 
 instantly, she stooped to caress a tame fawn which was 
 browsing at her side. We will not penetrate the 
 secrets of that young heart; like many others it must 
 bend or break in loneliness, but too happy if it can 
 suffer unseen. Isabel, absorbed in the contemplation 
 of her own lofty purposes, did not observe the agita 
 tion of her cousin. These almost masculine purposes 
 belonged to a young and seemingly fragile being; 
 but it is wonderful how feminine enthusiasm bears 
 up the frail and delicate, where seemingly stronger 
 spirits fail. One who noted Isabel s slight figure, arid 
 looked into the soft depths of her eyes, and heard her 
 gentle voice, would never have dreamed that she 
 could voluntarily leave the feathered nest of her 
 childhood for the dangers of the ocean and the hard 
 ships of an Indian exile ; but such have not studied 
 the promptings of human will, coupled with strong 
 religious enthusiasm. 
 
 That evening Henry Clayborne came to hear his 
 final sentence : he felt what it would be, for Isabel s 
 touching welcome told more than words. It was not 
 the downcast blush of common acceptance, but the 
 frank determined glow of a holy resolution. 
 
 " This kindness augurs well for me," he said, 
 fondly, as he held her confiding hand, " but I have 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 13 
 
 come resolved not to take advantage of it. Better, 
 dearest, is it for me to brave this wild path alone. I 
 leave no mother who nursed my childhood to weep 
 over my absence, no father to sigh for attentions he 
 just begins to realize, no little sister whose opening 
 mind I ought to mould. Besides, I am a man, and 
 can tread through dangers where your softer spirit 
 would droop. I could not bear, love, to see this white 
 brow " and he pressed his lips to it with subdued 
 homage "burning beneath those sultry skies; I 
 could not bear that these tender feet should fail in the 
 wilderness, nor that your intellectual powers and 
 affectionate heart should languish for sympathy. Be 
 my bride, and with that claim upon you I shall de 
 part braced for danger but I must go alone. My 
 dreams were terrific last night ; and when I awoke, 
 the glow of the missionary was lost in the tremor of 
 the lover. You must remain, my Isabel." 
 
 " You have been tempted, Henry," said the brave 
 girl, caressing the hand she held. " God has with 
 drawn his countenance from you, or you would not 
 talk thus. My parents will shortly feel a holy pride 
 in their bold missionary girl, as friend after friend 
 gathers round to hear of her welfare with religious 
 sympathy. Besides, Henry, who should think of 
 such ties when God calls ? We must tread the waves 
 
14 THE MISSION ARIES. 
 
 at the voice of Jesus. His voice is near, I hear it 
 now. Help, Father, help, or we perish," she ex 
 claimed, and her face glowed like an angel s as she 
 sank on her knees with clasped hands and prayerful 
 eyes. " Shall we sink while he is by ? Look on thy 
 servants in this hour of need ; the storm of temptation 
 is near, the billows rage, put forth thy hand and save." 
 Henry knelt beside her; he caught the soaring 
 enthusiasm of his promised bride his voice was 
 not heard, but his lips moved. In those moments of 
 stillness, a sublime self-dedication had been made. 
 They both rose. " We go together," he whispered, 
 and folded her to his heart. 
 
 A MOTHER S TRIALS. 
 
 There were busy preparations for the bridal and 
 voyage. Religion, love, friendship, were active ; and 
 even strangers, as they heard the story of the self- 
 immolation of the young and beautiful girl, sent in 
 their testimonials of interest. 
 
 When friends entered and bestowed their parting 
 kiss on her sister, Rosalie s pretty eyes filled with 
 tears ; but the gifts, the bustle, and novelty of prepa 
 ration soon dried them up again. A doubting cast of 
 care was on the father s brow, but he bade God speed 
 and bless his child. Ellen went mechanically through 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 15 
 
 her duties. If she was sadder and paler than her 
 wont, was it not for Isabel, her dear friend and cousin ? 
 And how fared it with the mother of the young exile ? 
 She busied herself, for she dared not be idle. She 
 checked the struggling sigh, and wiped off the gather 
 ing tear, and her short ejaculatory prayer for patience 
 and submission went up when none could hear. 
 Time sped, (how soon he flies with moments counted 
 by parting friends !) and the bridal was to take place 
 on the morrow, the departure the succeeding day. 
 One by one the family retired the mother last, for 
 a troubled and restless emotion made her wakeful. 
 As she sat alone, the ticking of the timepiece seemed 
 almost shrill to her excited ear. She recalled the 
 childish joy of Isabel, when, raised to that old clock, 
 she clapped her hands at the revolving moon, whose 
 round face looked upon her ; there was the little chair, 
 now Rosalie s, in which Isabel had sought ambi 
 tiously, but in vain, to rest her dimpled feet on the 
 floor. That room could almost tell her history. 
 There w r as the framed and faded sampler, mocked by 
 the changing fashions of the day ; the more elaborate 
 and tasteful decorations of the pencil ; the piano 
 which had soothed and brightened her varying hours. 
 Was it possible that those dear hands should touch 
 its chords no more for years, perhaps forever ? There 
 
16 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 was the work-box, the quiet but precious instrument 
 over which a woman s heart pours out its home emo 
 tions in most unconscious freedom. She opened it 
 with a trembling hand. How tasteful, how judicious ! 
 Character was visible in all its combinations ; it spoke 
 of economy, just arrangement and fancy, while little 
 touches of the affections peeped forth from its many 
 compartments. As she gazed on these things, tears 
 gushed forth, and she heard not Isabel s light foot 
 step until her arms were thrown around her. 
 
 " I would that you had not witnessed these emo 
 tions," said her mother almost coldly. " You have 
 chosen your path, and leave me to go down coldly to 
 mine. Strangers are to occupy the heart which I 
 have trained for eighteen years. But go. Console 
 yourself as you will, midnight and tears are my por 
 tion." 
 
 Isabel clung to her mother beseechingly, the lofty 
 look of heroism almost driven from her brow. " Moth 
 er, your parents doted on you," she said falter- 
 ingly, " as you on me yet you left their arms for 
 an earthly love. How much greater is the duty that 
 calls me from you to give salvation to the lost, life 
 to the dying ! Oh mother," she continued, grasping 
 her hand with kindling eye and solemn gesture, 
 " should I die in this enterprise, go boldly to the court 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 17 
 
 of Heaven and ask for your child. How proud will 
 be your joy to see the weak and humble girl you 
 nurtured in your bosom surrounded by the white- 
 robed souls she has rescued through Christ s mercy, 
 perchance leading their hymns in Heaven as she has 
 done on earth ! Oh, mother, will they not greet you 
 with a new song of joy? Welcome thou whose 
 child has opened unto us the book of life ! 
 
 Her mother was awed, silenced. She took the 
 dear enthusiast to her arms, stroked the falling hair 
 from her glistening eyes, and pressing that soft cheek 
 to her bosom said, " I will resign thee, beloved 
 God s will be done." 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 The bridal was over, the few guests had gone, and 
 silence settled on that little group so soon to be sev 
 ered by rolling seas. Isabel touched a few chords on 
 her piano. At first her hand trembled, and Rosalie r 
 who stood by looking wistfully, wiped her sister s 
 cheek with her little handkerchief. Gradually her 
 fingers became firm as her thoughts possessed them 
 selves of her great mission, and her voice full and 
 deep as in her freest moments, while she sang to the 
 tune of the " Bride s Farewell," the touching verses 
 of a southern poetess. 
 
18 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 BY MISS MARY PALMER. 
 
 Farewell, mother ! Jesus calls me 
 Far away from home and thee ; 
 Earthly love no more enthrals me, 
 When a bleeding cross I see. 
 Farewell, mother do not pain me 
 By thine agonizing woe, 
 Those fond arms cannot detain me 
 Dearest mother, I must go. 
 
 Farewell, father ! 0, how tender 
 Are the cords that bind me here ; 
 Jesus ! help me to surrender 
 All I love, without a tear. 
 No my Saviour ! wert thou tearless, 
 Leaning o er the buried dead? 
 At this hour, so sad and cheerless, 
 Shall not burning tears be shed ? 
 
 Farewell, sister ! do not press me 
 To thy young and throbbing heart ; 
 Oh ! no longer now distress me 
 Sister sister, we must part. 
 Farewell, pale and silent brother 
 How I grieve to pain thee so ! 
 Father mother sister brother 
 Jesus calls 0, let ^e go ! 
 
 Every heart was throbbing, every eye gushing with 
 tears except that of the rapt singer, who sat with up 
 ward look like a bird preparing to wing its homeward 
 way to warmer skies. 
 
 Rosalie had been cradled in her sister s arms for 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 19 
 
 three years ; that night was her first banishment, and 
 the child had sobbed herself to sleep in the little crib 
 assigned to her by her mother s bedside. Isabel 
 sought the slumberer alone, for the first time almost 
 overpowered by regrets stronger than religious duty. 
 She locked the door, and trode lightly to the bedside. 
 The little sleeper s face had resumed its tranquillity, 
 but there was a deeper flush than usual on her 
 rounded cheek ; and as Isabel put softly aside the en 
 tangled hair on the pillow, she found it wet with tears. 
 Long and earnest and loving was the gaze of the 
 missionary s bride ; and as she looked, the chest of 
 the child stirred with a prolonged and trembling sob, 
 like the heaving of a billow when the gale has died 
 away. Isabel disengaged one of those moist curls, 
 severed it from its luxuriant companions, and placed 
 it in her bosom, pressing her hand a moment on her 
 own throbbing heart. The struggle passed away 
 and kneeling by the bedside, she whispered a prayer. 
 
 " God and Father of innocence ! " she said, " as I 
 love the soul of this little child, so may I love the 
 souls of the young benighted ones who are in the 
 darkness of heathenism. Let me crush every love 
 which would draw me away from my high calling." 
 
 She rose from her knees tearless in the might of 
 holy resolution ; and bending over the little girl, 
 
20 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 kissed her hands and forehead ; then looking upward, 
 said again, " God bless thee, young angel, and teach 
 me to save kindred souls." 
 
 A low knock at the door and a tender voice aroused 
 her, and with a light tread she left the room. 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 The young bride at sea ! Who has not seen her 
 gush of parting sorrow dried slowly away, as one for 
 whom she has left all stands near to comfort her ! 
 And she is comforted. The long, long day, listless 
 to others, is full of thought to her, for HE watches her 
 steps, her smile, her sigh his future and hers are 
 one. She loves to see the sun-lit waves, the evening 
 stars, with him ; and the storm loses its dreadfulness, 
 for she is clasped in his arms amid its tumult. Young, 
 confiding bride, be it ever thus even on the ocean of 
 life ! May thy trim ship tread well the waters, the 
 sky of heaven be bright above thee, the winds waft 
 thee kindly on, and he who holds the helm be true ! 
 
 It was sweet to hear the hymns that rose from time 
 to time from the young missionaries in the holy joy 
 of their sotils. Isabel s voice kindled in rapt delight, 
 until the roughest sailor paused and caught the reli 
 gious glow. 
 
 There was little to try the fortitude of the missions- 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 21 
 
 ries in the voyage, which was marked by the common 
 incidents of sea-life, until they entered the bay of 
 Bengal. The day previous had been oppressive ; 
 there was a stagnation in the air, as if its circulation 
 had been suddenly suspended; and on the following 
 morning the experienced commander reefed his sails, 
 though the winds as yet but threatened in light gusts. 
 A yellow haze loomed athwart the sun, which was 
 strangely reflected in the gurgling waters ; this aspect 
 continued through the morning. Henry and Isabel 
 observed a change in the countenances of the seamen, 
 which at first they could scarcely think was authorized 
 by the appearance of the heavens, for though unusual, 
 there was nothing terrific in the brazen hue of the 
 clouds ; but as they continued to gaze, there was a 
 mystery in the stillness as if the foot of the Eternal 
 might be treading on his wonderful watery creation. 
 After a few hours a steady gale commenced gigan 
 tic clouds rolled like troubled spirits through the air. 
 and as they strode low like seeming monsters above 
 and around, Isabel shrank nearer to her husband. At 
 twilight the hurricane began and the chafed ship, 
 like a living thing, now sank as in despair, now 
 leapt over the swelling billows. 
 
 The missionaries summoned the strength of their 
 souls, and awaked in silence God s will. It was a 
 
22 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 night of fearful anxiety ; no one slept but Isabel, who, 
 leaning on her husband, dreamed sweetly of her oaken 
 seat beside the river, startled only when the en plain s 
 voice spoke in the deep tones of the trumpet and 
 over-topped the gale. 
 
 Suddenly a heavy sea struck the ship astern, and 
 the waters rushed into the cabin. The shock was 
 tremendous. Henry bore his dripping charge in his 
 arms to the captain s cabin. She was quite insensible, 
 her loosened hair fell about her in wet masses, her 
 lips were blue and her whole frame rigid. Henry 
 chafed her cold hands, wrung the damp from her hair, 
 and gave her restoratives. She opened her eyes at 
 length, spoke his name, and laid her head on his 
 shoulder like a glad child. 
 
 " We will die together," whispered she, " and 
 though we are not God s favored instruments, he will 
 carry on his good work by other hands." 
 
 And now the uproar on deck became dreadfully 
 terrific ; huge billows burst over the bows of the ship, 
 writhing and spouting and glittering with phosphoric 
 light, while the lightning darted and flashed over the 
 ocean. The captain lost his assumed calmness, and 
 - his wild oaths sounded arnid the storm like the shouts 
 of a demon. Isabel shuddered at the impiety which 
 could thus brave Heaven, when seemingly so near its 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 23 
 
 final judgment. At this period the vessel was inert 
 and powerless, drifting like a disabled swan on the 
 waters. Isabel sat, her hands clasped in Henry s, 
 her eyes up-turned and her lips moving as in prayer. 
 At length the welcome sound of relief was heard, the 
 vessel righted and the waves rushed like released 
 prisoners from the deck. 
 
 The morning rose in beauty, and soon the lines of 
 green, so dear to the landsman s eye, opened on the 
 view. 
 
 " Is your heart still strong, beloved ? " said Henry, 
 as he pointed to the distant shore. " Are there no 
 yearnings for friends and home ? " 
 
 Isabel smiled and pressed the hand of her husband. 
 " The Lord has not preserved me from a watery grave, 
 that I should bear a faltering heart. I feel strong in 
 his arm, let him lead me where he willeth, so I can 
 aid his cause." 
 
 THE NEW HOME. 
 
 Isabel s emotions, as she neared the shore of Hin- 
 dostan, were almost dreamlike, and she asked herself, 
 as objects of strange novelty met her eye, " What am 
 I, who have ventured thus ? an atom amid the 
 ocean ; but the Lord careth even for the sparrow." 
 
24 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 The new perfume from the flowers was among the 
 first things that told her of her distance from home. 
 
 " I have to remember," she said to Henry, " that 
 the same God scented these rich blossoms, who gave 
 the odour to my garden rose ; let me not forget that 
 he too is the God of heathen, as well as of Christian 
 souls." 
 
 They were touched with the picturesque beauty of 
 the scene as they sailed up one of the mouths of the 
 Ganges. Hindoo cottages in the form of hay-stacks, 
 without chimnies or windows, clustered beneath luxu 
 riant trees, contrasted in their rudeness by the more 
 elaborate pagodas. Wide fields of rice and grass of 
 exquisite verdure were spread around, while herds of 
 cattle fed on the banks of the river. But a glance at 
 the inhabitants concentrated the thoughts of the mis 
 sionaries, and fixed them on the worth of human 
 souls. They were willing, in the devotion of their 
 feelings, to enter one of those hovels and begin the 
 work of salvation. But new objects arrested their 
 attention as they journeyed to the seat of the mission. 
 A bridegroom, about ten years of age, was carried in 
 a palankeen crowned with flowers, followed by a pro 
 cession with musical instruments. Tears started to 
 Isabel s eyes as they followed this idle pageant, at the 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 2t) 
 
 thought of the rational and simple rites of her own 
 betrothal. 
 
 The next object that called prayer deep from the 
 souls of the strangers, was the worship of Juggernaut, 
 the miserably-painted wooden idol, before which 
 immense multitudes assembled with overwhelming 
 shouts. Henry and Isabel cast down their eyes at 
 the sacrilege, and remembered the simple church at 
 home, where spiritual prayers were the choicest gift 
 to Heaven. 
 
 Their curiosity was attracted by a rude kind of 
 basket, suspended from a tree. On looking within 
 they discovered the partially devoured remains of a 
 little child. Isabel shuddered, and thought of the 
 happy home of her childhood and Rosalie pillowed 
 on her mother s bosom. 
 
 But the most horrible scene to Isabel in this memo 
 rable journey, and one which Henry would willingly 
 have spared her, was the sacrifice of a woman to the 
 manes of her husband. In vain the missionaries tried 
 to move away from that harrowing scene ; there was 
 a spell, a fascination, even in its terrors, that chained 
 them to the spot ; and Isabel, sick at heart, with start 
 ing eyes and panting chest, looked on. " A grave 
 was dug near the river, large and deep; and after a 
 few initiatory rites, as unintelligible as they were fan- 
 3 
 
26 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 tastical, the widow took a formal leave of her friends 
 and descended into the chamber of death. It may 
 be that she was stupefied with opium, for there was 
 a mechanical insensibility about her that seemed 
 scarcely human. As soon as she reached the bottom 
 of the pit, to which she descended by a rude ladder, 
 she was left alone with the body of her husband, in a 
 revolting state of decay, which she embraced and 
 clasped to her bosorn, and then gave the signal for 
 the last act of this shocking scene to commence. The 
 earth was deliberately thrown upon her, while two 
 persons descended into the grave and trampled it 
 tightly round the self-devoted sacrifant. During this 
 tardy and terrible process, the doomed woman sat 
 an unconcerned spectator, occasionally caressing the 
 corpse, and looked with an expression of almost 
 sublime triumph as the earth embraced her body. 
 The hands of her own children aided in this terrible 
 rite, heaping around her the cold dust to which she 
 was so soon to be resolved. At length all but her 
 head was covered, when the pit was hurriedly covered 
 in, and her nearest relatives danced over the inhumed 
 body with frantic gestures, either of ecstacy or of 
 madness." 
 
 Before the termination of this scene, .Isabel, who 
 had lingered with infatuated interest, fainted. On 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 27 
 
 recovering, she said to Henry, " Assist me, my hus 
 band, to hate this act more than I do. Again and 
 again I thought I could bear to die thus with you, 
 rather than live without you. Will God forgive my 
 idolatry ? " 
 
 At length the young missionaries reached their 
 home. Home ? And was this the abode of the deli 
 cate Isabel ? The late inmates had died of the fever 
 of the climate, and no kind hand had arranged the 
 few relics that remained. The dwelling consisted of 
 two rooms, made of bamboo and thatch, with doors 
 opposite each other; an air of desolation prevailed 
 everywhere around. Day after day Isabel labored 
 with those fair hands so unused to toil, until an air 
 of comfort wrought its charm around her ; then her 
 love of the beautiful broke forth ; she trained the 
 native shrubbery around the dwelling, and planted a 
 spot on which her husband s eye might gratefully 
 repose as he sat at his daily studies ; but alas, hunger 
 and heat and debility often took from her the power 
 of more than necessary effort. Nothing is more 
 wearing to an ardent missionary, who has sacrificed 
 everything for spiritual good, than to find himself 
 trammeled down to the physical wants of life. Isabel 
 felt this pressure a trial almost more than she could 
 bear and it was a day of prayerful thanksgiving for 
 
28 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 her, when she was permitted, by the employment of 
 other hands in menial occupation, to aid her husband 
 in teaching. His labors were lightened by her active 
 spirit, and it was a blessing to her soul to toil with 
 him, to listen to his earnest voice as he preached of 
 salvation. And O how beautiful he was to her, as 
 he stood with earnest eyes and gestures breaking the 
 bread of life to the benighted souls around him ; and 
 then, when evening came, they could sit by their open 
 door, and inhale the perfume of their garden, and talk 
 of distant America. Were they happy ? Troubled 
 thoughts and forebodings sometimes shot through 
 their minds like an ice-bolt, for death might come 
 and sever them ; conversions were slow ; brutish 
 ignorance or ingenious scepticism baffled their dearest 
 hopes ; the seed which they planted seemed thrown 
 on stony hearts, but still their faith was firm ; strong 
 prayer went up daily, hourly from the temple of their 
 hearts, though all others were closed against them ; 
 faith looked with her bright, keen glance, beyond the 
 present hour, and showed them precious souls re 
 deemed by their toils. 
 
 In the midst of these emotions, Henry was seized 
 with the fever of the climate. Poor Isabel left all for 
 him. Night and day she bent over his pillow, and 
 forgot that it was wrong to idolize an earthly form ; 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 29 
 
 all memory, all hope were lost in the present thought 
 of his possible death. He recovered. How sweet it 
 was to present him the first fruits from their little 
 garden, to bring him one by one his manuscripts and 
 books, to see the faint glow of health kindle on his 
 cheek, to aid his faltering steps, to feel the cool hand 
 which had so lately burned and throbbed beneath her 
 touch ! Isabel sat at his feet, and looked and looked, 
 until tears started to her eyes for love and joy. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 One evening Henry was summoned to his wife s 
 apartment. She had given birth to a boy. The little 
 one lived but to receive a father s first and last bless 
 ing, before his perfect features settled to repose. And 
 Isabel was departing too the loving eye grew dim, 
 the sweet voice low. The boy was brought to her, 
 his young eyes closed, the discolored lips" where the 
 dark touch of death first appeared bound up, and his 
 little hands, the exact pattern of his mother s, crossed 
 on his cold breast. She pressed him feebly in her 
 dying arms, raised one meek glance to Heaven, then 
 fixed it on Henry, who stood statue-like before her. 
 That look recalled his flitting senses, and kneeling 
 by the bedside he threw his arms around her, and 
 bent his face to hers. 
 
30 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 " God calls your Isabel," she whispered. " What 
 he wills is right ; but be not alone. Send for Ellen 
 marry her. Cease not to labor for the perishing 
 heathen. A slight convulsion passed over her face, 
 and the lovely spirit was gone. 
 
 Henry wept not ; his soul seemed hardened to stone ; 
 he placed the babe in his mother arms, and it was a 
 strange pleasure to lay that little head on her bosom, 
 and twine their cold hands together. Night came 
 his attendants left him alone. The breeze that swept 
 through the open doors waved the white garments of 
 the dead. Henry started ; a burst of wo, a loneliness 
 most drear and dreadful came over him ; he wrung 
 his hands, he traversed the floor with groans of unut 
 terable despair, he bent over those pale forms with 
 clenched hands. What was life, what was duty to 
 him? He must tread the world alone the silence 
 was insupportable. He shouted aloud, 
 
 " Isabel ! Isabel ! speak. Speak, my boy utter a 
 sound, one human cry. Oh, death ! death ! " 
 
 The wretched man threw himself on the floor, and 
 wept aloud. From tears followed prayer. The spirit 
 of God descended and wrapt him in its folding wings, 
 and he grew calm. 
 
 Morning came and he was tranquil. He laid his 
 beloved at the foot of the garden beneath a tree she 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 31 
 
 loved, the blessed baby in her arms, and left her 
 there ; but when evening drew nigh, and the night 
 odours breathed abroad, he sought the spot. It was 
 a terrible joy to be there ; he laid his face to the sod, 
 and listened, as if her voice might answer and the 
 breathings of her heart respond to his own. He 
 struggled for prayer but his lips were parched, and 
 the words died away. He felt as if an awful tempta 
 tion were on him, as if God had forsaken him ; he 
 lay gasping for breath ; dim and dreary shadows 
 flitted before him, wailings as of new-born infants 
 passed through the air, mingled with gurgling death- 
 moans ; he touched cold forms, and they clasped him 
 with chill chatterings. He was found in the morn 
 ing in high delirium. 
 
 THE CONFLICT. 
 
 Henry recovered, and returned to his duties but 
 a deep cloud of sadness invested his soul ; loneliness, 
 as of a desert, was around him ; there was light, but 
 no warmth in his existence. As he sat one evening 
 in his desolate abode, a keen rush of memory like 
 sudden winds came by him, and he fancied he heard 
 a voice, saying, "Be not alone send for Ellen 
 marry her." He started; he drove the thought away 
 like a guilty thing. It came again and again : it 
 
32 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 clung to him in the midst of duty, in silence, in 
 prayer ; the winds whispered it ; it rose in dreams. 
 He ceased to visit the grave of Isabel; young flowers 
 were springing there, and he knew it not. Impulse 
 ripened to resolution. He wrote to Ellen he told 
 her of her friend s dying request ; he made bare the 
 sorrows and wants of his bereaved heart, and he asked 
 if she would be the ministering angel to heal its 
 wounds. He promised to cherish and love her ; and 
 though a cloud would shadow their memories, it would 
 be tinged by the hope of aiding each other in the great 
 cause of rescuing souls from death. 
 
 Henry s frame of mind for some time after sending 
 this letter was calm. If his proposal was accepted 
 the answer w r ould be in person, as an immediate 
 opportunity offered for Ellen s departure. But as the 
 time drew near for her arrival, he became nervous 
 and depressed ; he re-arranged and improved his 
 residence, and removed every object that directly 
 reminded him of Isabel. He never glanced at her 
 grave ; the shrubs grew wildly on its rank soil, and 
 the turf was green. Time flew so rapidly, that Henry 
 sometimes caught his breath at the nearness of his 
 fate. He labored in every possible shape; there was 
 a rapidity in his step and eye, that showed a hurried 
 mind; he slept little and the meanest companion 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 33 
 
 was more welcome than solitude. Did he wish Ellen 
 to come ? 
 
 She arrived ; the conflict between varying feelings 
 and motives had almost rent her frame ; but she came, 
 shrinking, sensitive but loving. Trembling to her 
 heart s very core, she extended her hand to Henry ; 
 he shrank as from a basilisk and uttering a loud, 
 deep cry of horror and disgust, sank on a chair and 
 wept. Ellen, deeply affected herself, scarcely com 
 prehended the nature of his feelings ; she too was 
 willing to weep for the lost and gentle Isabel. Henry 
 roused himself but there was a strange and hurry 
 ing tone of manner that agitated the embarrassed girl. 
 He urged their immediate marriage, as his house was 
 their only residence ; and that evening she became 
 his bride. 
 
 A year, just a year that night, Isabel had died. 
 What image haunted the new bridegroom ? Not that 
 of the adventurous girl, who had braved everything, 
 even reputation for him; no, the cold pale form of 
 Isabel was before him and as he glanced at the 
 apartment where the evening breeze had stirred her 
 shroud, he shrank from entering, and instead of the 
 bridal chamber he sought her grave. Hour after hour 
 passed away; a new alarm filled the breast of poor 
 Ellen, a stranger and alone. She drew back the 
 
34 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 curtain of her window ; the air was sultry, and bore 
 heavily the odor of night-blossoms on its wing. She 
 leaned from the casement; the blossoms looked silvery 
 soft in the moon s rays. Her tears gushed forth, for 
 she felt forsaken and she knew that the world 
 would point to her in derision. She heard a moan, 
 deep, wild and piteous, like that with which Henry 
 had greeted her when she had sought him with 
 love s true confidence. Oh, heaven ! was this the 
 meeting on which her thoughts had dwelt with such 
 dreams of hope and tenderness ? Why had she fan 
 cied that his arms would have enfolded and supported 
 her? Her brain grew dizzy, and she leaned once 
 more from the window. Again that groaning shriek 
 met her ear, more wild and fearful than before ; and 
 straining her sight to the remote part of the garden, 
 she saw Henry, with frantic gesticulations, embracing 
 a grassy mound. The truth flashed upon her : he 
 had sought the grave of Isabel rather than her arms. 
 Desolate and broken-hearted, she swooned away. 
 
 The morning aroused her to misery. Henry was 
 raving in the delirium of a fever, now calling on 
 Isabel and his boy, and now shrinking as from some 
 demoniac vision he dared not name. A few days 
 passed away, and gradually and humbly poor Ellen 
 introduced herself into his apartment her eyes down- 
 
THE MISSIONARIES. 35 
 
 cast, her voice in whispers and performed the gentle 
 offices of woman s love. By and by the sufferer began 
 to call her Isabel, and stroke her hand fondly as it lay 
 by his side, while with the other she smoothed the 
 entangled hair on his burning forehead. He listened 
 as Ellen talked of Isabel, and showed him her picture, 
 the gift of early friendship ; he took the gathered 
 flowers when she told him they were fresh from 
 Isabel s grave; she sang the hymns they had once 
 sung together, in soft, rich tones like Isabel s and 
 kneeling by the bedside, prayed that her pure spirit 
 might look down and bless them. 
 
 The struggle of reason was awful and mysterious, 
 and sometimes Ellen s heart failed within her, and a 
 sickness like death came over her soul ; then would 
 she go to Isabel s grave, and pray. The soft breeze 
 revived her, and as it played amid her curls, she 
 looked like the spirit of hope and tenderness and 
 trode back with a lighter step to that scene of dark 
 ness and care. 
 
 One day while she read, and thought Henry slept, 
 he was gazing upon her, and presently he spoke her 
 name. Was it a dream ? Ellen clasped her hands 
 in eager hope. 
 
 "Ellen," he said, softly and tenderly. " Ellen 
 my wife ! " 
 
36 THE MISSIONARIES. 
 
 The outcast bride threw herself in intense and 
 trembling joy beside him. 
 
 "I have had strange dreams, my love," he said, 
 drawing her gently towards him ; "I am glad you 
 are with me, my sweet nurse." 
 
 Ellen could not speak ; she laid her head on his 
 bosom, sobbing in excess of happiness, and Henry 
 wiped away her tears, 
 
ROSALIE. 37 
 
 ROSALIE. 
 
 ? Tis fearful to watch by a dying friend, 
 
 Though luxury glistens nigh ; 
 Though the pillow of down be softly spread 
 
 Where the throbbing temples lie ; 
 
 Though the loom s pure fabric enfold the form, 
 Though the shadowy curtains flow, 
 
 Though the feet on sumptuous carpets tread, 
 As " lightly as snow on snow; " 
 
 Though the perfum d air, as a garden, teems 
 
 With flowers of healthy bloom, 
 And the feathery fan just stirs the breeze 
 
 In the cool and guarded room ; 
 
 Though the costly cup for the fevered lip 
 
 With grateful cordial flows, 
 While the watching eye and the warning hand 
 
 Preserve the snatched repose. 
 
 Yes, even with these appliances 
 
 From wealth s unmeasur d store, 
 Tis fearful to watch the spirit s flight 
 
 To its dim and distant shore. 
 
 But oh, when the form that we love is laid 
 
 On Poverty s chilly bed, 
 When roughly the blast to the shivering limbs 
 
 Through crevice and pane is sped ; 
 
 When the noon-day sun comes streaming in 
 On the dim or burning eye, 
 
38 ROSALIE. 
 
 And the heartless laugh, and the worldly tread, 
 Is heard from the passers by ; 
 
 "When the sickly lip for a pleasant draught 
 
 To us in vain up-turns, 
 And the aching head on a pillow hard 
 
 In restless fever burns ; 
 
 When night rolls on, and we gaze in wo 
 
 On the candle s lessening ray, 
 And grope about in the midnight gloom 
 
 And long for the breaking day ; 
 
 Or bless the moon, as her silver torch 
 
 Sheds light on our doubtful hand, 
 When pouring the drug which a moment wrests 
 
 The soul from the spirit-land ; 
 
 W T hen we know that sickness of soul and heart 
 
 Which sensitive bosoms feel 
 When helpless, hopeless, we needs must gaze 
 
 On woes we cannot heal, 
 
 This, this is the crown of bitterness ; 
 
 And we pray as the lov d one dies 
 That our breath may pass with their waning pulse, 
 
 And with theirs close our aching eyes. 
 
 My story tells of sweet Rosalie, 
 
 Once a maiden of joy and delight, 
 A ray of love from her girlish days, 
 
 To her parents devoted sight. 
 
 The girl was free as the river-wave 
 
 That dances to ocean s rest ; 
 And life looked down like a summer s sun 
 
 On her pure and gentle breast. 
 
ROSALIE. 39 
 
 She saw young Arthur their happy hearts 
 
 Like two young streamlets shone, 
 That leap along on their mountain path. 
 
 Then mingle their waters as one. 
 
 They parted ; he roved to western wilds 
 
 To seek for his bird a nest ; 
 And Rosalie dwelt in her father s halls, 
 
 And folded her wings to rest. 
 
 But her father died, and a fearful blight 
 
 O er his child and his widow fell 
 They sunk from that day in the gloomy abyss 
 
 Where sorrow and poverty dwell. 
 
 Consumption came, and he whispered low 
 
 To the widow of early death ; 
 He hastened the beat of her constant pulse, 
 
 And baffled the coming breath. 
 
 He prey d on the bloom of her still soft cheek. 
 
 And shriveled her hand of snow ; 
 He check d her step in its easy glide 
 
 And her eye beamed a restless glow. 
 
 He choked her voice in its morning song, 
 
 And stifled its evening lay, 
 And husky and hoarse rose her midnight hymn 
 
 As she lay on her pillow to pray. 
 
 Poor Rosalie rose by the dawning light, 
 
 And sat by the midnight oil, 
 But the pittance was fearfully small that came 
 
 By her morning and evening toil. 
 
 Twas then in her lodging the night- wind came 
 Through crevice and broken pane, 
 
40 
 
 ROSALIE. 
 
 Twas there that the early sun-beam burst 
 With its glaring and burning train. 
 
 When Rosalie sat by her mother s side 
 
 She smothered her heart s affright, 
 And essay d to smile, though the monster Want 
 
 Stood haggard and wan in her sight. 
 
 She pressed her feet on the cold damp floor, 
 And crushed her hands on her heart, 
 
 Or stood like a statue so still and pale 
 Lest a tear or a cry should start. 
 
 Her household goods went one by one 
 
 To purchase their scanty fare ; 
 And even the little mirror was sold 
 
 Where she parted her glossy hair. 
 
 Then hunger glared in her full blue eye, 
 And was heard in her tremulous tone, 
 
 And she longed for the crust that the beggar eats 
 As he sits by the way-side stone. 
 
 The neighbors gave of their scanty store, 
 
 But their jealous children scowled ; 
 And the eager dog that guarded the street, 
 
 Look d on the morsel and howl d. 
 
 Then her mother died twas a blessed thing ! 
 
 For the last faint embers had gone 
 On the chilly hearth, and the candle was out 
 
 As Rosalie watched for the dawn. 
 
 Twas a blessed exchange from this dark, cold earth 
 To those bright and blossoming bowers, 
 
 Where the spirit roves in its robes of light 
 And gathers immortal flowers ! 
 
ROSALIE. 41 
 
 Poor Rosalie lay on her mother s breast, 
 Though its fluttering breath was o er ; 
 
 And eagerly press d her passive hand 
 Which returned the pressure no more. 
 
 In darkness she closed the fixing eyes, 
 
 And saw not the deathly glare ; 
 Then straigtened the warm and flaccid limbs 
 
 With a wild and fearful care. 
 
 And ere the dawn of the morrow broke 
 
 On the night that her mother died, 
 Poor Rosalie sank from her long, long watch 
 
 In sleep by her mother s side. 
 
 T was a sorrowful sight for the neighbors to see 
 (When they woke from their kindlier rest) 
 
 The beautiful girl, with her innocent face, 
 Asleep on the corpse s breast. 
 
 Her hair flowed about by her mother s side, 
 
 And her hand on the dead hand fell ; 
 Yet her breathing was light as the lily s roll 
 
 When waved by the ripple s swell. 
 
 There was surely a vision of heaven s delighi 
 
 Haunting her exquisite rest, 
 For she smiled in her sleep such a heavenly smile 
 
 As could only beam out from the blest. 
 
 T was fearful as beautiful ; and as they gazed, 
 
 The neighbors stood whispering low, 
 Nor dared they remove her white arm from the dead, 
 
 Where it seemed in its fondness to grow. 
 
42 ROSALIE. 
 
 Life is not always a darkling dream 
 God loves our sad waking to bless, 
 
 More brightly perchance for the dreary shade 
 That heralds our happiness. 
 
 A stranger stands by that humble door, 
 
 A youth in the flush of life, 
 And sudden hope in his thoughtful glance 
 
 Seems with sorrow and care at strife. 
 
 Manly beauty and soul-formed grace 
 Stand forth in each movement fair, 
 
 And speak in the turn of his well-timed step 
 And shine in his wavy hair. 
 
 With travel and watchfulness worn was he, 
 Yet there beamed on his open brow 
 
 Traces of faith and integrity, 
 Where conscience had stamped her vow. 
 
 T was Arthur he gazed on those two pale forms 
 Soon one was clasped to his heart ! 
 
 In piercing accents he called her name 
 That voice bade the life-blood start. 
 
 Not on the dead doth she ope her eyes, 
 Life, Love, spread their living wings ; 
 
 And she rests on her lover s breast as a child 
 To its nursing mother clings. 
 
 A pure white tomb in the near grave-yard 
 
 Betokens the widow s rest, 
 But Arthur has gone to his forest home, 
 
 And shelters his dove in his nest. 
 
AN INCIDENT. 43 
 
 AN INCIDENT. 
 
 She gave me violets. 
 All know these flowers, 
 
 The simple, lovely things, 
 Decking bright nature s bowers 
 
 With blossomings ! 
 With hidden head 
 
 They throw their treasures round, 
 Where careless footsteps tread 
 
 The scented ground. 
 
 She gave me violets. 
 Not in the time 
 
 Of laughing summer s sway, 
 Nor in spring s floral prime, 
 
 The flowerets holiday ; 
 In winter wild, 
 
 When the bleak winds were chill, 
 She gave them, and they smiled, - 
 
 Were odorous still. 
 
 Sweet, sober violets ! 
 Not in the hall 
 
 Where beauty smiles and glows, 
 And fairy footsteps fall, 
 
 And music flows, 
 In the retreat 
 
 Of Sabbath were ye given r 
 The Church s fane, where meet 
 
 Warm prayer and heaven. 
 
44 AN INCIDENT. 
 
 She gave me violets, 
 Whose odor spread 
 
 Like incense-prayer, heaven-tending, 
 While each slight, delicate head 
 
 Was humbly bending. 
 The blessed child 
 
 A violet was she, 
 Growing on this world s wild 
 
 In modesty. 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 45 
 
 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 " At the revolution in Naples, in 1779, two brothers, one 
 fifteen, the other twelve years old, were condemned to death, 
 and upon the entreaties of their mother for their pardon, the 
 king s attorney told her that one, could be spared, and bade 
 her choose." 
 
 THE flames of Vesuvius were hidden by a bright 
 morning sun that lay in glory on the noble bay at 
 its feet, when two Neapolitan boys were seen issuing 
 from a vine-clad way, removed from the populous 
 city. They were followed by an attendant bearing a 
 basket of fruit. Their laugh rang free and wild upon 
 the morning air, its hilarity tempered by the grace of 
 courtesy. They were brothers, alike, yet differing. 
 When the laugh was past, a tender thoughtfulness, 
 as when a cloud presses on dying sunbeams, shaded 
 the face of the younger, while lines of light like the 
 twilight of their own beautiful clime lingered upon 
 that of the elder. Amid the play of youthful fan 
 cies was mingled a classic, softened grace, called out 
 by the nature of their studies, the ancient ruins 
 around them, and a yet softer impulse that urged 
 them towards a widowed mother, for whose morning 
 
46 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 meal they had selected the choicest fruit of the en 
 virons. 
 
 Rosalba de Loria, who awaited her son s return at 
 the door of her villa, stood in the glow of perfect ma 
 tronly beauty, for the sorrow of the widow had faded 
 away in a mother s love. Ferdinand, the eldest 
 youth, pressed her extended hand, while Lorenzo 
 received her kiss on his ready lips. 
 
 The education of the boys, though conducted in 
 retirement, did not prevent familiarity with the scenes 
 of classic interest around them. They glided on the 
 beautiful bay with its garden-like borders, where 
 vineyards, groves and villages blend in delightful 
 harmony, and saw the skiffs darting from shore to 
 shore, or pleasure-barks, with ornamental streamers 
 and musical accompaniments, glancing like summer 
 birds in plumage and sound. They climbed to the 
 heights which overlook the delicious country of Cam 
 pania Felix, and their eyes wandered far over islands 
 and seas. Sometimes Rosalba paused with them at 
 the tomb of Virgil, awakening the love of poetry in 
 their souls ; sometimes they sojourned at Pozzuoli, 
 where the grandeur of the sea beyond rivaled the 
 opening glory of countless flowers at their feet ; or 
 the wonders of Herculaneum and Pompeii attracted 
 their curious regards ; but the most delightful enjoy- 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 47 
 
 ment was to sit with Rosalba in the balcony of their 
 villa, and listen to the story of their brave father, 
 while the stars twinkled above, and Vesuvius threw 
 out its fires on the darkened sky. 
 
 Nor were they debarred access to the populous 
 city, where their little knowledge of the world re 
 ceived an accession. The great street of the Toledo, 
 itself a world, formed an exciting contrast to the ro 
 mantic seclusion of their home. The following 
 animated description by a modern traveler, (Quin,) 
 almost places one down on the animated scene, a 
 visit to which was an impulse and a reward to the 
 young students. 
 
 "The great street of Toledo presents the most 
 diversified and amusing scene. Every body has a 
 costume peculiar to himself, as if attending a car 
 nival or a fancy ball. The sun, blazing in a cloud 
 less sky, flung bright lights here and there, while the 
 lofty houses cast their shadows in other quarters, as 
 if to prepare a suitable stage for this national exhi 
 bition of character and occupation. A merry fellow, 
 with a dozen tamborines ingeniously arranged and 
 perched on his head, while he played on another he 
 held in his hand, dressed in a cloth cap, a round 
 jacket, a silk handkerchief neatly tied round his open 
 shirt collar, a blue waistcoat, and red striped trousers, 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 invited the world to buy a charming beguiler of tears 
 for the baby at home. Next a green-grocery-man 
 caught the eye : his donkey is laden with a mat sack, 
 nicely balanced on both sides, having a large mouth, 
 where cabbages, cauliflowers, salads, and celery, are 
 heaped in verdant abundance. A sugar-loafed hat, 
 flatted however at the top, is on his head over a 
 worsted cap ; his swarthy face and bare neck defy 
 the sun ; a pipe in his mouth, and a red waistcoat, a 
 small pouch in front for his money, and short calico 
 breeches, complete his apparel. No stockings hath 
 he, nor shoe, nor sandal. He and his donkey seem 
 to be real brothers. 
 
 " A pious piper, who lives on charity, begins the 
 labors of the day before some shrine of the Virgin, 
 where a lamp is perpetually burning. His instru 
 ment, composed of three tubes, with trumpet extre 
 mities, derives its melody from a bag of wind which 
 he fills from the proper wind of his own lungs. His 
 pointed hat is clapped on the top of his bag while he 
 is playing his propitiating prayer for success. His 
 nightcap is displayed on his innocent cerebellum, his 
 curly long hair flowing beneath it, and showing off 
 his ruddy distended cheek. His green coat, sleeve 
 less mantle of goatskin, and ash-colored breeches, a 
 piece of linen wrapped round his legs for stockings, 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 49 
 
 and kept there by leathern thongs, which also secure 
 his sandals, show that he has not been blowing to the 
 shrine in vain. In fact, he looks a very respectable 
 tradesman in his way. No man need be ashamed to 
 beg after such a fashion as that. 
 
 " Venders of roast smoking chestnuts are a numer 
 ous tribe in the Toledo. They have prescriptive sta 
 tions, where they fix their stalls, within which a small 
 charcoal fire is always burning, and communicates its 
 heat to a basket filled with the fruit placed on the 
 top, and covered with a a blanket to keep the nuts 
 quite hot. Whether men or women, these people 
 seem to be a thrifty set, and well dressed. The man 
 has a gay red worsted cap, a silk handkerchief tied 
 tightly round his neck, a fine yellow waistcoat, a green 
 round jacket, blue inexpressibles, clean white stock 
 ings, neat shoes, a stool to stand upon and a stool to 
 sit upon, as business or relaxation may require. He 
 cries out his wares at the very pitch of his voice, 
 holding his left hand to his cheek to render it louder. 
 
 " But have you seen the melon-man ? There is a 
 picture of independence. A ragged suit of loose 
 short trousers, a tolerably good waistcoat, yellow or 
 sky-blue, as the case may happen to be, and some 
 fragments of a shirt, are all he requires in the way 
 of wardrobe. A long board is balanced on his head, 
 displaying the blushing fruit nicely sliced ; and on 
 
50 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 the palm of his left hand, equally well poised, a 
 shorter board, exhibiting another sample of his mer 
 chandize, whilst in his right hand he gracefully 
 waves a sprig of myrtle. 
 
 " Who is he with that snug capote and hood, and 
 some pretty little baskets piled one on another under 
 his arm, running along bare-legged ? A fisherman, 
 who sells the most delicate fresh herrings in the 
 world, just taken out of the neighboring bay ! The 
 bottle-vender, whom he has almost knocked down in 
 his haste, is a still greater curiosity. Long wooden 
 pins are stuck all round in the edge of his basket, on 
 which pins very thin flasks for oil or wine, with long 
 necks, are fixed. He looks to be one of the high- 
 priests of Bacchus, with his merry face always 
 sure of a market, for the flasks are so speedily broken 
 that he can scarcely supply all his customers. 
 
 " The segretario is a perfect picture. Seated at 
 his table in a quiet entry, in a retired corner of a 
 street, with a wise-looking old hat shading his gray 
 locks, spectacles perched on his nose, paper, and well- 
 mended pens, and ink bottle, sand and wafers ar 
 ranged in due order before him, he waits to indite a 
 petition, or a love-letter, or a letter from a sailor to 
 his mother, or from a creditor to a debtor, or to trans 
 late from Italian into French, or from French into 
 Italian, a law paper or a memorandum of accounts : 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 51 
 
 he is prompt at all things, methodical, confidential, a 
 clear-headed clean writer a very valuable sort of 
 person in his way, who always attracted my particu 
 lar respect on account of the unweared patience with 
 which he waited for his customers, who were too 
 " few and far between." 
 
 " The pride of the Toledo are assuredly the money 
 changers at least in their own opinion. They are 
 almost universally females, and it is a part of their 
 trade to display their riches in the ornaments on their 
 persons. The hair, carefully braided, is tied under a 
 dashing silk handkerchief, knotted in front in a some 
 what coquetish style. The broad forehead, and 
 sharp, well-practiced eye, and intelligent face, pretty 
 well show that if her ladyship make any mistake in 
 the reckoning, it will not be on the wrong side. There 
 she sits, on a chair before her strong-box, on the top 
 of which little baskets, overfilled with silver or copper 
 coins, are arranged. A pair of massive gold real 
 gold rings and large pendants dangle from her ears. 
 Her open neck displays a coral or pearl necklace, and 
 an embroidered kerchief. A velvet or gross-de-Na 
 ples spencer, a chintz gown, a handsome silk apron, 
 fingers covered all over with rings set with precious 
 stones, sometimes even with diamonds, attract cus 
 tomers on all sides. The itinerant trader who dis- 
 
52 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 poses of all his stock early, and is laden with copper 
 pence, realizes his gains in silver at her table, on 
 which she receives her small commission. The 
 housekeeper, who is passing by, and wants to buy 
 some trifling things, gets change in copper for silver, 
 on which the small commission is freely paid. The 
 neighboring shops that want accommodation in either 
 way, copper for silver, silver for copper, copper and 
 silver for gold, or gold for silver in any quantity, are 
 sure of finding all they want at the money-changer s 
 stall. A most smiling, happy, unspeculative tribe of 
 bankers are they. If you look at one of them, she 
 will expect you to pay her a small commission 
 which small commission in time accumulates to a 
 very handsome fortune, to go down, always aug 
 menting, from generation to generation. An um 
 brella, fixed on her counter, forms a canopy over her 
 head to protect her highness from the sun. 
 
 " Not quite so opulent, but much more captivating, 
 are the female venders of fried fish magnificent- 
 looking women, fresh from the sea-side, whence they 
 have come early in the morning. You may know 
 them by their yellow-plaided neckerchiefs, their gipsy- 
 looking faces, their snow-white linen sleeves tucked 
 up to the bend of the beautiful arm, their red-striped 
 aprons and blue gowns. Of these syrens let the fish- 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 53 
 
 eater beware. With her earthen pan, in which a 
 charcoal fire is kept alive by a fan of rushes, her 
 soles or herrings smoking and browning on the said 
 fire, the basket of dried flags covered with fresh green 
 flags by her side, filled with "live" fish, cooling in 
 beds of fresh rushes her bonny figure seated on a 
 stool, and her well-dressed, dangerous feet peeping 
 out beneath her long petticoat, St. Anthony himself 
 could scarcely refuse to take a fry or two from those 
 clean taper fingers. She holds the fish on a skewer, 
 and turns the little martyr round and round, until he 
 is done to a turn, the mouth watering while the fra 
 grant odor breathes around ! 
 
 " The egg-woman is a more quiet kind of body, 
 though she too seems to be sitting for her picture, 
 dressed in her tidy green apron, her russet gown and 
 linen sleeves, her ruby kerchief negligently flung over 
 her head and flowing over her shoulders behind. 
 Next comes, shouting his " oil to sell," a great farm- 
 er s-boy-looking sort of a fellow, in a gay straw hat. 
 A goat-skin sack of oil is tied round his left shoulder, 
 through the tail of which he admits the smooth liquid 
 to descend into brass pint or half-pint, or smaller mea 
 sure, for the customers whom he has the happiness 
 to serve. 
 
 " The porters are now the only remaining repre- 
 
54 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 sentatives of the lazzaroni to be seen at Naples. They 
 form a kingdom within themselves, of which every 
 individual is monarch " of all he surveys." One of 
 these, putting down his oblong-square flag basket on 
 its end, dressed in his shirt open half-way down his 
 sunburnt hairy breast, where also the scapular his 
 amulet makes its appearance, and further decked 
 out in his loose cotten trousers, that scarcely descend 
 below the knee, bound tight at the waist by a red 
 cotton handkerchief, his blue jacket suspended on the 
 very end of his shoulder, his face and huge whiskers 
 crowned by a red cap, his long pipe in his mouth, 
 supported by his left hand, his right, holding his well- 
 worn cords, resting on the other end of his perpendi 
 cular basket, while his brawny naked legs and feet be 
 tray his occupation, stands looking at the passing scene 
 with an air of ineffable contempt. When he has done 
 smoking, and imagines that he has sufficiently vin 
 dicated his dignity by attitudinizing, he will place his 
 basket flat on the ground, and go to sleep in it, until 
 a job comes to summon him from his slumbers. 
 
 " At every corner of every street, there is a stall 
 for maccaroni, where it may be seen served out from 
 morning till night in all sorts of ways hot or cold, 
 in its own plain soup, or in savory soup, or mingled 
 with a little stew, or simply boiled, or baked, or in 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 55 
 
 cakes, or in elongated ropes of about a mile in length. 
 When graced by the savory soup, it seems to be most 
 popular. It is handed out smoking hot to the ragged 
 customer, in an earthen dish ; he, without any cere 
 mony, takes up the maccaroni in his hand, and in 
 troducing the extremities of three or four ropes at 
 once into his thorax, lifts his hands high in air, and 
 the whole dishful vanishes in a trice. The soup is 
 drank at discretion, either with a wooden spoon, or ex 
 abrupto, out of the dish itself; the latter more expe 
 ditious mode of proceeding being usually preferred. 
 
 " The water-vender is met everywhere, and at all 
 hours of the day. The ice-man is more stationary, 
 though equally persevering. Here the female res 
 torer of old chairs is busy with her rushes. There 
 the smirking milliner s maid is tripping it on the fan 
 tastic toe, with a bandbox in her hand ; she is wholly 
 French, and out of keeping, in her trim cap and 
 ribands, with such a scene. Everybody lives in the 
 street. The baker s shop is thrown so much open, 
 that all the mysteries of his art are conducted in pub 
 lic. It is the same with the tinman, whose hammer 
 never ceases to hammer ; the blacksmith, whose bel 
 lows are perpetually blowing, whose fire, in the hot 
 test days, still burns on as fierce as ever, and whose 
 anvil never gets a moment s rest all the day long. 
 
56 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 All the gay shops are in the Toledo. All the pretty 
 women of Naples show off in the Toledo. There 
 the idler constantly lounges there the merchants 
 meet on business there the military men are riding 
 or walking up and down in their splendid uniforms." 
 
 Yet amid this gay and brilliant population float the 
 seeds of those revolutions which have so often marked 
 the political history of Naples. 
 
 On one occasion, while Lorenzo was purchasing at 
 a stall in this busy scene, Ferdinand s attention was 
 arrested by an individual, who with a gesture seen 
 only by him, beckoned him apart. A cloak and 
 slouched cap concealed alike his face and figure, 
 except that through the folds shone forth eyes of 
 peculiar significance and lustre. Ferdinand instinc 
 tively obeyed the summons, warned to silence by the 
 uplifted finger of the stranger. Withdrawing just 
 far enough to keep Lorenzo in view, without them 
 selves being seen, he uttered a few words to the 
 listening youth. A flush of surprise lit up the face 
 of Ferdinand, followed by an air of interest and 
 chained attention, until Lorenzo turned inquiringly. 
 
 " Remember," said the stranger, fixing his piercing 
 eyes on the boy " trust, secrecy " and disap 
 peared among the crowd. 
 
 From that moment a thoughtful expression gath- 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 57 
 
 ered on Ferdinand s serene brow ; something which 
 gave it the stamp of manhood. The quiet of his 
 home was no longer attractive, the Toledo alone en 
 gaged his thoughts, and when there, his eye roved 
 unfixedly as if in pursuit of some unattained object. 
 At the same hour, on the same spot the following 
 week, the stranger appeared. Ferdinand, already 
 taught the language of deception, beguiled his brother 
 to a distance. Then followed whispered emphatic 
 words, and the keen eyes of the stranger seemed to 
 search the inmost soul of the youth, as with a part 
 ing glance he again uttered, " trust secrecy" 
 
 The following day circumstances called Lorenzo 
 alone to the Toledo, and as he strolled, with his usual 
 careless footsteps along, glancing at the brilliant spec 
 tacles around him, he felt a slight but emphatic 
 touch on his shoulder. He turned, and the eyes of 
 the stranger were on him. His first feeling was to 
 escape, but a deep toned voice, full of strange autho 
 rity, whispered " follow me ; your country demands 
 you." Lorenzo shook off the momentary apprehen^ 
 sion, and with a new impulse of curiosity followed 
 the steps of the figure, who threading the crowd led 
 him to a spot of comparative retirement. Whatever 
 were the words then uttered, they took deep hold of 
 the inmost heart of the sensitive boy, and as the 
 5 
 
58 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 stranger on departing uttered the watchword " trust, 
 secrecy" he laid his hand upon his throbbing breast, 
 and responded like a prayer. From that day there 
 was a struggle of feeling in Lorenzo s hitherto calm 
 existence, that shook its very depths. He became 
 reserved to Ferdinand, but a deeper tenderness cha 
 racterized his manner to his mother, mingled with a 
 fitfulness, an excess, that almost alarmed her. He 
 followed her footsteps like one he feared to lose. 
 
 It was one of those bright nights that woo to watch 
 fulness rather than slumber, when Ferdinand leaned 
 from his casement, and looked out on the scene 
 flooded by moonlight. But it was not the softness of 
 night s smile that wooed him to where the moonlight 
 decked the meanest leaf with a diamond glitter ; nor 
 was the glow on his beardless cheek awakened by its 
 mellow hue. " Trust, secrecy" were uttered by a 
 muffled figure retreating through the shrubbery, 
 while Ferdinand held his breath to hear. He glanced 
 hurriedly at Lorenzo, who lay wrapt in the innocent 
 beauty of sleep, his white brow upturned to the light. 
 While Ferdinand looked, a troubled smile crossed the 
 lips of the dreamer, and he whispered " trust, se 
 crecy." His tones were low and soft as woman s first 
 answer to love, but they darted through his brother s 
 ear like a thunderbolt. His first impulse was to 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 59 
 
 arouse and tax him as a listener, but the profound 
 ness of his repose seemed to contradict his first belief, 
 and he left him to his slumbers, while with mingled 
 emotions he sought his own pillow. 
 
 At the same hour on the following night the 
 stranger again appeared. 
 
 " Our secret is known," said Ferdinand. 
 
 " How ! " cried the stranger, grasping the dagger 
 concealed beneath his cloak. 
 
 " Lorenzo has whispered the watchword in his 
 sleep," said his brother. 
 
 " Noble boys ! " exclaimed the stranger, and a 
 smile crossed the dark lines of his countenance, like 
 the ray that struggled through the flitting clouds. 
 " No trust is betrayed. I have confided in him that 
 I might try you both. The time draws near for ac 
 tion." 
 
 " But he is so young," hesitated Ferdinand ; " and 
 our mother how can we risk her happiness, cen 
 tered as it is in us alone ? " 
 
 " It is woman s fate to yield and suffer," said the 
 stranger moodily. " I too have ties to rend." He 
 paused, and a thrilling sigh sounded audibly in the 
 stillness. " Awaken Lorenzo." 
 
 Ferdinand retired from the window to the bedside, 
 and touched the arm of the slumberer. His was the 
 
60 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 delicious repose of youth, and clung to him like a 
 garment. 
 
 " Lorenzo, Lorenzo ! " said his brother, " awake." 
 
 The boy turned languidly, half opened his eyes, 
 and throwing his arm over his head, fell again to 
 slumber. 
 
 " Trust, secrecy" whispered Ferdinand in his ear. 
 The word was like flame to the mine; he started 
 wildly from the bed, planted his foot firmly on the 
 floor, and exclaimed, "ready." 
 
 Ferdinand drew his arm within his own, and in a 
 few moments they were in a recess of the garden 
 with the stranger. 
 
 There was an expression of anxiety and alarm on 
 the countenances of the youths as he unfolded his 
 plans. 
 
 " It is robbery," murmured Lorenzo, " robbery 
 of a mother too ! " 
 
 " Things have a different name under different cir 
 cumstances, young gentlemen," said the stranger. 
 " History will call the deed patriotism. The noble 
 band who have resolved to rescue the state from op 
 pression, have sworn that none of the softer affections 
 shall stand between them and their country. They 
 require pecuniary aid, and you can give it. If you 
 drive away these boyish feelings, and procure me the 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 61 
 
 paper from your mother s cabinet, you aid in that for 
 which heroes have sacrificed more than paltry gold. 
 And remember," he continued, while a flickering 
 moonbeam brought out the aggravated expression of a 
 countenance naturally sinister, " that you are pledged, 
 known through me. If our party succeed, and suc 
 cess is almost as certain as that the skies are above 
 us, your mother will be elevated to the rank she de 
 serves. If, however, you stop in this movement, and 
 I betray you, as I swear to heaven I will, she will be 
 implicated, for who will believe, boys as you are, that 
 you act in this fearful plot voluntarily ? " 
 
 Sad it is to unloose the first strong link of filial 
 sympathy, when no contact with the world has 
 dimmed the brightness and beauty of the chain. How 
 often through the long day that followed that night, 
 tears started to Lorenzo s eyes, and groans, in the 
 solitude of his chamber, burst from Ferdinand s 
 heart ! 
 
 Darkness came how unlike the starry nights of 
 innocent days. Every wind seem to murmur, every 
 leaf swell the word, treachery, treachery. Their 
 mother slept, their beautiful and good mother, who 
 had nursed them at her breast, who had watched, not 
 betrayed their slumbers, who had taught their lips to 
 pray against temptation. The cabinet to which the 
 
62 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 stranger referred was in a dressing-room adjoining 
 her sleeping apartment. They went together with 
 the hurried step of young deception. As they passed 
 her door the moonbeams revealed her form ; they 
 faltered a voice low but thrilling was heard beneath 
 the casement, "trust, secrecy," it said. They de 
 layed no longer ; the spring yielded to their touch, 
 and the paper was soon grasped with eagerness by 
 the stranger s hand. 
 
 A few weeks rolled away. Rumors were abroad 
 of danger to the state. Many individuals were 
 seized on suspicion of conspiracy. Rosalba knew not 
 why, but there seemed somewhat like a blight on her 
 once cheerful household. A haughty defiance sat 
 on Ferdinand s brow as he read the papers of the day, 
 while the healthy glow on Lorenzo s cheek faded, or 
 a sudden flush threw up at times a transient coloring. 
 Rosalba watched the boys as a mother will watch the 
 casket where her heart s treasures are enshrined. 
 She felt that the bitter moment had come, when pa 
 rental sympathy was unasked, when the moorings 
 of youthful confidence were severed, and the barque 
 thrust forth on life s wide sea alone. She stood like 
 a wintry tree deserted by sunshine. 
 
 There had been a tranquil day, undisturbed by ru 
 mor or apprehension ; and at twilight Rosalba and her 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 63 
 
 sons sat in their favorite bower. Something of the 
 lovely confidence of the past was restored. Lorenzo 
 leaned with his arm thrown around the neck of his 
 mother, and Ferdinand threw himself on the turf at 
 her feet, his flashing eyes softened by her gentle 
 smiles. 
 
 " How like your father you are growing," said she 
 as she pressed her lips to his polished forehead. 
 
 " I shall be jealous, mother," said Lorenzo. " I 
 call such kisses mine," and he turned her cheek 
 with his hand until it came in contact with his own. 
 
 They were interrupted by strange voices, and sud 
 denly there stood before the group, several officers of 
 police, who arrested the boys as prisoners of state. 
 Rosalba sat for a moment like one in a dream. 
 
 " This is some strange mistake," at length she said 
 to them. " These are mere children, and have 
 scarcely ever wandered from my side." 
 
 The men showed their orders they were de 
 finite the individuals could not be mistaken; the 
 charge was conspiracy. 
 
 Rosalba turned from the men and wildly urged 
 the boys to assert their innocence. Her heart sank 
 within her at their statue-like silence. The move 
 ments of revolutionary periods are rapid and decided. 
 
64 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 They were conveyed to prison, before her eyes, and 
 sentenced to death. 
 
 Rosalba hastened to the constituted authorities, and 
 with tears and prayers implored their pardon. The 
 answer was, that one could be saved, she might choose 
 between them. 
 
 She repaired to the prison, broken-hearted. They 
 were in different cells. As she entered the first, the 
 light through the grating fell strongly on Ferdinand, 
 and now flashed forth to her sight in stronger lines 
 the likeness to his father. Those deep full eyes were 
 his ; that ivory forehead and the crisp retreating curls 
 that showed its strong development, were his ; the 
 compressed lip and manly bearing were his, and his 
 too the smile which was so soon to be extinguished 
 forever. She sank into his arms. Ferdinand sup 
 ported her to his wretched pallet, kissed her cold 
 cheek upon which big tears fell fast ; twined his arms 
 around her, and bade her be comforted. 
 
 " Comfort ! oh God, comfort ! " shrieked the widow, 
 in the first paroxysm of hopeless wretchedness; 
 " where, where but in the grave with my children ? " 
 and hiding her face in the bosom of her son, her sobs 
 rose so strong and wildly, that he thought her heart 
 would break. 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 65 
 
 " Listen to me, mother, listen to me," he said in 
 tremulous tones, " and I will tell you what will com 
 fort you : the memory of what a good parent you 
 have been, from the first moment I nestled in your 
 arms, until this dark hour. How you have warned 
 and guided us, and sacrificed your wishes to ours ! 
 Your have been a true mother to me, God knows. 
 You have been like an angel watching my path, my 
 own, own mother," and as he said this he knelt and 
 bowed his head to her lap and hid his face there. 
 
 She spoke not, she even shook him ofFin her agony ; 
 the waves were rolling over her soul, and the life-star 
 was gone. 
 
 He drew her gently towards him and soothing 
 ly pressed her hands in his. " Since I left you, 
 mother, I have had a dream ; a strange but sweet 
 dream. I have never thought much of Heaven be- i 
 fore, but I am sure I was there in my dream. We 
 were all there, all four ; and you and father were so 
 young and beautiful ! A wreath was on your heads, 
 and a light around you, and you seemed too glorious W- 
 to Lorenzo and me, until we saw your lips move, and 
 heard you say, my children ! Oh mother, there 
 were no tears in that Heaven, no death," and as he 
 said this his voice faltered, a shudder went over his 
 frame, and he was silent. 
 
66 THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 " Death, death ! " almost screamed Kosalba ; " why 
 did you not die in your cradle ? I could have closed 
 your eyes softly, and crossed your small hands on 
 your breast, and strewn your grave with flowers. 
 Now, now" there was a pause of passionate sor 
 row. 
 
 Ferdinand knelt still at his mother s feet, and 
 gazed in her face with a look of pleading earnestness. 
 " Mother, dear mother, for mercy s sake be composed, 
 or I shall go wild too ;" and he pressed his hands 
 to his head. " Mother, you forget that I must be 
 strengthened for this great trial, and our poor Lo 
 renzo too." 
 
 Rosalba turned on him such a gaze of mournful 
 admiration as we give the meteor darting to sudden 
 extinguishment. Lorenzo s name subdued her; it 
 was not a moment for words, but turning from Fer 
 dinand she knelt before a rude crucifix inserted in the 
 wall, offered a silent prayer, and kissing him, passed 
 to the cell of his brother. 
 
 As she entered, Lorenzo rushed to her with such a 
 scream of joy and fear, that the empty vaults sent 
 back the sound. 
 
 " You have come to save me, mother," he cried. 
 " I knew you would not let your poor boy die." 
 
 Rosalba turned aside in agony. He followed her 
 
THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 67 
 
 beseechingly. " Look at me, mother. I am your 
 own, your youngest one. Here," said he, throwing 
 back the glossy hair that shaded his features, " here 
 is your likeness. My father loved me because I 
 looked like you ; you would not have me die ; " 
 and he threw his arms around her neck, and nestled 
 as a bird beneath the parent-wing. 
 
 Rosalba sat upon the damp floor, and took the boy 
 to her heart as in the days of infancy; she wiped 
 away his gushing tears, and uttered soft low tones of 
 endearment. 
 
 " You will save me, then, my mother ? " he asked, 
 wildly. 
 
 " I can save one of you," she whispered almost 
 inaudibly. " The sentence is, that one of you may 
 live, if I will choose him." 
 
 Lorenzo sprang from her arms, and threw himself 
 at her feet. " You will save me, me" he cried vehe 
 mently. " I am too young to die. Mother, my 
 heart will break with terror if you say I must die. 
 O mother, I think of it, I dream of it. I am afraid I 
 am crazy, mother ; save me, save your poor, poor 
 Lorenzo," and he clung to her with a piercing look 
 of entreaty. 
 
 The agonized mother turned upon him with a kind 
 of fierceness, and almost shouted in his ear, 
 
DO THE YOUNG CONSPIRATORS. 
 
 " You say that Ferdinand is to die. / will it not. 
 Thank God it rests not with me. I am guiltless," 
 and she stamped the narrow cell with almost maniac 
 footsteps. 
 
 " I said it not, mother," said the boy, mournfully. 
 " Ferdinand must live, and I will go. It is fearful, 
 but I must go," and with a frightened look he 
 swooned away. 
 
 Three days and nights Rosalba passed in alternate 
 visits to her children. She ate no food, she slept 
 not. The keeper s eyes moistened as she passed to 
 and fro. Sometimes in the horror of despair she 
 threw herself down in the dark passage, and beat the 
 impassive stones with her delicate hands ; sometimes 
 she knelt, and gazed on her crucifix as if asking aid 
 from heaven ; now low muttered sounds escaped her, 
 as if her reason reeled. She shed no tears suffer 
 ing had gone deeper than their fount. 
 
 On the fourth day an eager crowd gathered to the 
 execution of two youths. At the closing moment, 
 when there was a hush in the multitude, a shriek 
 went up from among the spectators so piercing and 
 wild and unearthly, that many a sleeper that night 
 started in his dreams as he remembered it. When 
 the populace dispersed, a senseless female form was 
 discovered closely enveloped in a veil. The pulse of 
 
ROSALBA S LAMENT. 69 
 
 life had ceased to beat in that fair and gentle bosom, 
 on which was discovered the miniature likeness of 
 two beautiful boys embracing, and a braid of dark 
 hair encircling the name of Rosalba di Loria. 
 
 ROSALBA S LAMENT. 
 
 I cannot tell I dare not tell, 
 
 On which, the fearful choice shall rest ; 
 They both have frolick d neath my gaze, 
 
 They both were nurtur d at my breast. 
 
 My Ferdinand ! Nay, look not thus 
 In silence on thy mother s face ! 
 
 Speak, speak, my patient boy, and break 
 That spell of melancholy grace. 
 
 And yet, thy shrill and startling cry, 
 Lorenzo, cuts thy mother s soul ; 
 
 That pleading voice I cannot bear, 
 Thy dreadful eloquence control. 
 
 Thy wooing smile, thine eye of blue, 
 How oft thy father call d them mine ! 
 
 Can I give up the look he prais d ? 
 Can I that eye of love resign ? 
 
 My boy ! my boy ! I thought that thou 
 Shouldst smooth my pillow at its close j 
 
 I hoped thy kind and soothing hand 
 Would rock life s cradle of repose. 
 
70 ROSALBA S LAMENT. 
 
 And thou, my eldest, with thy brow, 
 And eagle look of high emprize, 
 
 I dream d that thou wouldst clear my path, 
 And guard the way where danger lies. 
 
 That brow, that look thy father s look, 
 Oh ! no j I cannot bid thee die. 
 
 Would they had wrapt me in his shroud, 
 How tranquilly I there could lie ! 
 
 Go, boys away ! I will not choose ; 
 
 God must resume the lives he gave 
 For me, I bear a breaking heart, 
 
 Which soon will lay me in the grave. 
 
JAIRUS S DAUGHTER. 71 
 
 JAIRUS S DAUGHTER. 
 
 They have watched her last and quivering breath, 
 
 And the maiden s soul has flown ; 
 They have wrapt her in the robes of death, 
 
 And laid her, dark and lone. 
 
 But the mother casts a look behind, 
 
 And weeps for that fallen flower ; 
 Nay, start not twas the passing wind, 
 
 Those limbs have lost their power. 
 
 And tremble not at that cheek of snow, 
 
 Over which the faint light plays ; 
 Tis only the curtain s crimson glow, 
 
 Which thus deceives thy gaze. 
 
 Didst thou not close that expiring eye. 
 
 And feel the soft pulse decay ? 
 And did not thy lips receive the sigh, 
 
 That bore her soul away ? 
 
 She lies on her couch, all pale and hush d, 
 
 And heeds not thy gentle tread, 
 And is still as the spring-flower by traveler crush d, 
 
 Which dies on its snowy bed. 
 
 Her mother has passed from that lonely room, 
 
 And the maid is still and pale, 
 Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb, 
 
 And blue is the stiffen d nail. 
 
72 JAIRUS S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Her mother retires with folded arms, 
 
 And her head is bent in wo ; 
 Her heart is shut to joys or harms, 
 
 No tear attempts to flow. 
 
 But listen ! what name salutes her ear ? 
 
 It comes to a heart of stone 
 " Jesus," she cries, " has no power here, 
 
 My daughter s spirit has flown ! " 
 
 He leads the way to that cold white couch, 
 And bends o er that senseless form ; 
 
 She breathes ! she breathes ! at his hallow d touch 
 The maiden s hand is warm. 
 
 And the fresh blood comes with its roseate hue, 
 And life spreads quick through her frame, 
 
 Her head is raised, and her step is true, 
 And she murmurs her mother s name. 
 
THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 73 
 
 MR. NIBLO, 
 
 THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 
 
 FROM childhood I was a passionate lover of science. 
 I tore my drum to pieces to examine its internal 
 mysteries ; my kites were the envy and wonder of 
 my schoolmates, so trimly were they cut and so 
 nicely balanced ; and as they soared above all others 
 I felt an exaltation, a prophecy of eminence. My 
 greatest delight was in .chemistry ; it even rivaled 
 the love I felt for a fair little girl, a blue-eyed neigh 
 bor, who loved me in spite of my soiled face and dyed 
 fingers. She was a singular contrast to the young 
 experimenter, whom she occasionally honored with a 
 visit in his would-be laboratory ; for there was a 
 purity in her air as if no stain of earth could dwell 
 on her; the rose-tint on her cheek paled off to a 
 transparent white around her chin and throat; her 
 penciled eye-brows lay in light arches on her serene 
 forehead ; her flaxen hair fell like a fleecy cloud over 
 her cambric dress which emulated snow, and her 
 hands how like unsunned alabaster they gleamed 
 6 
 
74 THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 
 
 beside mine ! Her teacher once described her thus. 
 I was jealous of that man. 
 
 " Behold the pupil-nymph to me consigned, 
 The honored guardian of her opening mind, 
 In all the bloom and sweetness of eleven 
 Health, spirit, grace, intelligence and heaven ! 
 With beauty that so ravishingly warms, 
 It seems the focus of all nature s charms. 
 Yes, rival rays come rushing from the sky, 
 Contending which shall glisten in her eye, 
 And anxious zephyrs play her lips around, 
 Soft suing to be moulded into sound. 
 While still, from each exuberant motion, darts 
 A winning multitude of artless arts. 
 And then, such softness with such smartness joined, 
 So pure a heart, with such a knowing mind 
 So very docile in her wildest mood, 
 Bad by mistake, and without effort good ; 
 So broken-hearted when my frown dismays, 
 So humbly thankful when I please to praise, 
 So circumspect, so fearful to offend, 
 And at a glance so ready to attend ; 
 With memory strong and with perception bright, 
 Her words and deeds so uniformly right, 
 That scarce one foible disconcerts my aims, 
 And care and trouble do not name their names ! 
 But yes, I have one anxious sacred care, 
 I have one ceaseless burden of my prayer, 
 T is this : Great God, teach me to be just 
 To this dear charge committed to my trust ! " 
 
 Well, this bright creature who could awaken such 
 a burst of enthusiasm in a pedagogue, was the chosen 
 
THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 75 
 
 one of my boyhood, but I was destined to lose her 
 early. It was her habit frequently to peep into my 
 laboratory and ask her sweet questions about the 
 mysteries of my craft. One day she advanced fur 
 ther than usual ; tucking aside her snowy dress, and 
 stepping on tiptoe for fear of soiling her trim white 
 stockings, she stood amid my crucibles as unharmed 
 as asbestos in a flame, her light waving hair falling 
 backward, and her blue eyes up-turned in pretty 
 curiosity. I had been preparing oxygen gas from 
 chlorate of potash, in a small gJass retort over an 
 Argand lamp, by which method it can be obtained 
 much purer than by any other. The operation was 
 successfully proceeding, and as the steady flame of 
 the lamp continued to evolve the gas, it gradually 
 escaped through the neck of the retort, and rose in 
 brilliant globules under the water in which the re 
 ceiver stood. Intensely occupied in watching the 
 decomposition of the salt, I started at the sweet tone 
 of her silvery voice, and as I eagerly advanced towards 
 her, with my eyes grimmed and bleared with smoke 
 and heat, and extended my stained hand to welcome 
 her, the flame unnoticed rose too high, the glass 
 shivered into fragments, and the hot contents fell 
 hissing around her. She shrank back to avoid the 
 broken pieces, when a curl of her beautiful hair 
 
76 THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 
 
 caught in the blaze of a lamp near her. My first 
 impulse was to throw over her a diluted solution of 
 nitrate of silver, (indelible ink.) 
 
 The flame was instantly extinguished, but such an 
 object as the poor child presented ! The fast black 
 ening liquid fell dripping from her fair locks, and ran 
 down her face and garments even to the little foot 
 that had just before trod so daintily. The lovely 
 girl s self-possession vanished, and roaring with terror 
 she flew from the apartment, alarming the neighbor 
 hood with screams. This was her last visit to my 
 laboratory, or even my home ; she became shy and 
 avoided me. I soon entered college, and when I 
 returned, four years after, my blue-eyed beauty was a 
 bride. 
 
 My absorption in technical books began to give an 
 awkward and restrained tone to my manners and 
 conversation, while a want of sympathy with those 
 around me, made me unsocial ; a burning love of 
 science, however, and a hope that I might individually 
 enlighten the world, buoyed me up with a silent kind 
 of vanity. With these feelings, I saw my home. 
 What wonder that I should rush to my little labora 
 tory with intense interest. Parental fondness had 
 kept the spot sacred ; there stood the furnace and the 
 crucibles, and placed neatly on one side of the apart- 
 
THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 77 
 
 ment, the nameless articles I had used as expedients 
 in my experiments, abstracted from the kitchen and 
 store-room, for which I had been sometimes punished 
 and sometimes praised. There was the very spot, 
 too, on which my first love had been inundated with 
 that fatal nitrate. 
 
 I smiled, but it was sadly ; and as I began in earnest 
 my more manly and scientific arrangements, I almost 
 hoped such blue eyes as hers might look on me again. 
 But I soon forgot that vision ; and from that period 
 my whole soul seemed centered in this apartment. 
 I rushed to it with the first dawn of light, and the 
 bright lamps of heaven were forgotten for its fitful 
 rays. Such strong and passionate love cannot long 
 keep within a narrow channel; it will burst forth, and 
 fertilize or destroy. Without power to utter in con 
 versation the deep stirrings of my thoughts, I resolved 
 to lecture, to throw myself on the public ; it seemed 
 to me that I should be stimulated by numbers, and I 
 was confident that in a mixed audience some hearts 
 would beat responsive to the enlightened hopes of 
 mine. Confirmed in this opinion by the advice of 
 my family, I commenced writing a course of lectures 
 on chemistry. I had never tried my powers of elocu 
 tion beyond the college walls, and the themes there 
 having no immediate interest for me, were sufficient 
 
78 THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 
 
 excuse to my mind for any deficiency of grace or 
 power. The moment I began to write, an ambitious 
 thrill ran through me, and I poured out on paper 
 paragraphs that I thought would go with the force of 
 light and sound through my audience. 
 
 The morning of the day on which my introductory 
 lecture was to be delivered arrived. I read and re 
 read the advertisement inserted by my father, until I 
 trembled and glowed like a girl. I revised my lecture 
 for the last time, and inserted here and there slips of 
 paper containing additional notes. 
 
 The evening came, and I stood before a crowded 
 audience of partial townsmen. If my readers are 
 interested in this moment, they will like to know my 
 appearance. I was twenty-four years of age, spare 
 and of middle size, pale, with somewhat sharp fea 
 tures ; my eyes were always thought remarkable ; 
 they were of a light blue, of a singularly piercing 
 expression, so penetrating that they often attracted 
 attention in a crowd, and yet, strange to tell, I could 
 never fix them on a woman s face. I felt like a 
 startled deer when a woman s eye met mine ; but this 
 peculiarity was compensated by quickness of motion 
 that made me see without seeming to observe. My 
 hands were delicately formed, and my thin hair was 
 scattered on a high forehead. I had read my lecture 
 
THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 79 
 
 frequently aloud in my own apartment. I., had half 
 fancied that the walls shook under the power of my 
 language, and that the spirits of Bacon, Priestley, 
 Lavoisier and Black were bending down in angelic 
 sympathy. Thus prepared, I stood before the audi 
 ence, but in how different a frame ! As I glanced 
 round, I felt myself the merest atom. I forgot the 
 bow that I had made twenty times before my mirror, 
 my eyes began to swim, my teeth to chatter; the 
 rustling of the first blank leaf that I turned sounded 
 like thunder. I began to speak ; my voice seemed to 
 have descended two feet in my system. I lisped, I 
 mumbled out one page, two pages, without raising 
 my eyes ; then came a reference to one of my inter 
 locutory notes ; it had slipped out, I could not find it. 
 In searching for it I lost my place, began three wrong 
 sentences and attempted to extemporize. It was in 
 vain, and crushing my manuscript in my hand I re 
 treated from the hall, hurried through the streets, and 
 locked myself in my own chamber. There I trod the 
 floor like a frantic man, until tears, gushing freely as 
 a school-boy s, came to my relief. I left my native 
 town the next day. 
 
 But better hopes came over me. I condemned 
 myself for attempting a lecture without experiments ; 
 they would have aided me, I thought. Attention 
 
80 THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 
 
 would have been drawn away from myself to them, 
 and I gradually came to the resolution of pronouncing 
 the same course of lectures among strangers, with 
 whom I nattered myself I should be more at ease. 
 With this view I visited a neighboring city, and, 
 without delivering letters or seeking patronage, issued 
 an advertisement. Of all seemingly simple things, 
 an advertisement is the most difficult and perplexing. 
 To advance one s claims sufficiently without an air 
 of self-importance, to combine one s meaning in a few 
 words, and those few the right ones, is no small task. 
 Few who glance over the columns of a daily print, 
 are aware of the waste of paper, the biting of nails, 
 and the knitting of brows that have attended the con 
 cocting of those concise looking squares. 
 
 My advertisement appeared. 
 
 Mr, Niblo, from Homertown, respectfully informs 
 the inhabitants of Cityville, that he proposes com 
 mencing a course of Lectures on Chemistry and 
 kindred subjects, illustrated by various interesting 
 experiments, beginning with an introductory essay, 
 on Thursday evening, which will be gratuitous. 
 
 Here was no trick or cant, no forced comet-tail of 
 patrons names following the announcement. My 
 hearers would come from the pure love of science. 
 I breathed hard, but commenced conveying my appa- 
 
THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 81 
 
 ratus to the lecturing hall. On the way I broke a 
 retort of great value and rarity. The two next days 
 were employed in vain endeavors to supply its place. 
 Every lecturer will sympathize with me in the horror 
 I felt at the prospect of saying to my audience, in the 
 midst of a brilliant experiment, " this should be so 
 and so, ladies and gentlemen," instead of " this is." 
 In the meantime I was stimulated and comforted by 
 the daughter of rny hostess, an intelligent girl, who 
 possessed that class of frank bright manners, that 
 save a bashful man an effort, and insensibly put him 
 at his ease. 
 
 Lucia Breck had just past her girlhood, without 
 laying aside her simplicity. Her feelings and thoughts 
 gushed out like a full stream ; they were scarcely 
 wise thoughts, but I delighted in their freshness, and 
 if ever she bordered on silliness, a just taste brought 
 her back again. Her eyes were dark and glittering, 
 and her brown hair lay smoothly on her forehead. 
 Her rounded form spoke of youth and health, and her 
 cheek was mottled with " eloquent blood." Impetuous 
 and self-confident, she sometimes startled those who 
 loved her, who forgot how soon the world trammels 
 the exuberance which to me was delicious from its 
 spontaneousness. 
 
 I scarcely knew how, but Lucia was often by my 
 
82 THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 
 
 side, aiding me in my preparations, and chatting 
 away without looking at me. Her needle was usually 
 in her hand, and she seemed to talk as much to that 
 as to me. Thursday evening arrived. Lucia, sweet 
 creature, sprang about like a fawn ; her eyes glittered 
 with expression, and her jests and laugh rang out 
 like silver bells. We went with her mother to the 
 hall. I had visited it repeatedly by daylight, but 
 never at night. As we entered we were struck with 
 " the dim disastrous twilight." A few tallow candles, 
 like sleepy sentinels, were placed in tin hoops against 
 the walls, and two ornamented the desk where I was 
 to stand. Who has not felt the chill of a badly lighted 
 apartment, as the forms glide in and out like spectres ? 
 As it was too late to remedy the evil, my object was 
 to attract immediate attention to the experiments. 
 The stillness was awful, broken only by the tinkling 
 of the glasses in my trembling hand. 
 
 " Now, ladies and gentlemen," said I, " observe this 
 receiver. It is filled with a very peculiar gas. It has 
 hitherto borne the name of oxymuriatic acid gas, but 
 you will perceive its pale yellow green color, which 
 has gained it from Sir Humphrey Davy, the name of 
 chlorine. I shall insert this small piece of phospho 
 rus into the vessel, and you will perceive an instanta 
 neous and brilliant combustion." Alas for me, I had 
 
THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 83 
 
 forgotten in my hurry that chlorine is rapidly absorbed 
 by cold water, and I had been so long detained by the 
 slow dropping in of the audience, that the water with 
 which I had filled the pneumatic cisterns was entirely 
 chilled. I might have noticed that the gas had dis 
 appeared, but for the dimness of the light. Ignorant 
 of this, and too much embarrassed to feel if the water 
 were warm or not. I desperately inserted the slight 
 stick of phosphorus, expecting the usual brilliancy to 
 ensue, which I had a thousand times admired. In 
 vain, dark and quiet all remained. This was a sad 
 failure. My assumed confidence vanished, and I 
 stammered out a few words, endeavoring to explain. 
 The audience, disappointed as they were, were too 
 good natured to manifest any strong signs of disap 
 probation. 
 
 I determined then to recover my fast sinking credit, 
 by a very beautiful and critical experiment of the 
 union of the gases which are the constituents of 
 water. Oxygen and hydrogen gas in their proper 
 proportions had been prepared beforehand, in a tall 
 glass tube. The wire from the Voltaic battery had 
 been introduced, and I nattered myself there could be 
 no failure here. Again I called the attention of my 
 audience. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to show you an 
 
84 THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 
 
 interesting and exceedingly beautiful experiment; 
 you know what are the constituent parts of water, 
 they are mixed in this tube " (here I held up the 
 tube apparently empty, but filled with the invisible 
 gases,) " in their proper proportions and gaseous form ; 
 I shall explode them by a spark from the battery, and 
 you will see a small portion of water produced by 
 the reunion of the gases." Unfortunately, in re 
 placing the tube, I permitted the gases to make their 
 escape. Unconscious of this, I applied my freshly 
 charged Leyden vial to the Eudiemeter. A spark 
 shot from one wire to the other across the tube, but 
 no explosion followed. 
 
 The audience looked and listened with all their 
 might; nothing was visible but empty vessels; my 
 trembling touch had caused the gas to escape, and 
 the experiment was a nullity. Some lecturers pos 
 sess the happy faculty of filling up such awful failures 
 with fluent remarks or jests ; but I was overwhelmed, 
 and as the tube freed from its pent-up gas shook in 
 my trembling hand, my heart sank within me, and I 
 dashed it away. Just at this crisis T heard a hys 
 terical giggle from Lucia. I was angry enough to 
 have put her into the air pump. 
 
 Utterly defeated in this effort, I turned my atten 
 tion to the electrical machine. My audience gath- 
 
THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 85 
 
 ered in a circle hand and hand. I applied the battery. 
 Not a start not an exclamation ! My wires were 
 as innocent as lambs ; my audience looked at me with 
 eyes between curiosity and ridicule, and retired to 
 their seats, and again Lucia s involuntary laugh met 
 my ear. At this crisis one of those annoyances, 
 commonly called a thief, took possession of one of 
 my tallow candles. It sank rapidly, until the flame 
 reached the paper which enveloped it at the socket. 
 I had no extinguisher, and was obliged to stop in the 
 middle of a sentence to puff and blow at the increas 
 ing blaze. I forbear to describe the utter forlornity 
 of my feelings and appearance, as I stood before the 
 upshooting rays of that dying candle ! I dismissed 
 my audience, and almost clutching Lucia s passive 
 arm, returned home. 
 
 It was necessary that an effort should be made to 
 secure an audience for the next lecture after this 
 failure. I laid aside my noble disdain of patronage, 
 and examining my letters of introduction, selected 
 those which were addressed to the most influential 
 persons, and calling on them, requested their advice. 
 I was courteously received by all, and allowed to use 
 names at discretion. Friendly hands greeted me, 
 and cordial bows dismissed me with wishes and pro 
 phecies of success. I inserted costly advertisements 
 
86 THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 
 
 with the formerly despised comet-tail of patrons, and 
 determining that the hall should be well lit, spared 
 no pains or expense for the perfect illumination. Lu 
 cia was sure that all would go off well. 
 
 " You wanted nothing but light," said she, " to 
 have made the last lecture capital ; besides, people 
 knew that the matter of an introductory lecture will 
 be repeated in the course, and they are less anxious 
 
 to attend. I am sure I saw Mr. , and Mr. , 
 
 in one corner on Thursday, but then it was so dark. 
 But dear Mr. Niblo, we will have a glorious time to 
 morrow ! " 
 
 Sweet Lucia ! 
 
 The evening came. I started with Lucia on my 
 arm, ten minutes before the time. We saw the bril 
 liant lights of the hall sparkling up as we turned the 
 square, and they burst upon us as we entered the hall, 
 while the polished brass of my apparatus shone in 
 their beams. 
 
 " Give me a front seat," whispered Lucia, " where 
 I can see and hear without being crowded." 
 
 I seated her, and went behind the desk to look for 
 the hundredth time if all was in order. The clock 
 struck eight, the appointed hour. No one appeared ; 
 twice I was deceived by the door-keeper s recon- 
 noitering. Quarter past eight. Not a soul. I could 
 
THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 87 
 
 not look at Lucia. Half-past eight. An old gentle 
 man entered and took his seat at a distance. He 
 blew his nose. Mercy, how it reverberated ! Another 
 quarter of an hour elapsed. I dismissed the old gen 
 tleman, who claimed his money of the door-keeper, 
 and Lucia almost led me home. 
 
 A few of my acquaintance rallied ; they knew that 
 my expenses had been great, and by dint of purling 
 and appealing, with a promise that I should exhibit 
 some transparences, a lecture was got up by subscrip 
 tion. A breeze was given by some leading people 
 adding their names, and on the first of March, 18 , 
 I stood before a full and fashionable audience. My 
 experiments were brilliant, and Lucia s eyes were as 
 bright as phosphorus. Applause ran through the 
 appartment at my success ; I forgot my diffidence, 
 threw by my notes, and poured forth the tribute to 
 science which had been burning like silent fire in my 
 bosom. 
 
 " And now, ladies and gentlemen," I said, in a 
 voice of unhesitating dignity, " let me call your at 
 tention to a beautiful experiment, which though of 
 secondary importance in science, is still attractive like 
 the gem which glitters over the brows of the fair." 
 With this flourish I directed their attention to an 
 union which I was about to make of nitrate of am- 
 
88 THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 
 
 monia and chlorine, and which I expected would 
 prove a very beautiful experiment, but which requires 
 peculiar care ; for after being together for some time, 
 a highly explosive substance forms, which detonates 
 with great violence upon the contact of any oil Un 
 fortunately, a small portion of oil adhered to the rod 
 which I introduced, and a most terrible explosion fol 
 lowed. A jar of sulphuretted hydrogen stood near, 
 and its contents were liberally diffused, filling the 
 room with appalling odor. 
 
 Splinters of glass with the colored mixture spirted 
 around the apartment. In an instant the jetty broad 
 cloth of the gentlemen, and the rich silk of the ladies 
 shared a common fate ; groans of fright and disgust, 
 screams and laughter, mingled discordantly; friend 
 scarcely recognized friend, as the vile preparation ad 
 hered to their faces. I flew to Lucia ; her new bon 
 net, her only silk frock were ruined. As we walked 
 home in silence, her good nature was fairly over 
 come, and when we reached the door she flung her 
 self angrily from my arm, exclaiming, that she 
 " wished chemistry was in the Dead Sea." I said 
 Amen, and retreated to my chamber in despair. 
 
 #: # $c X $: $: $: 
 
 I am far from wishing by the above narration of 
 my calamitous debut as a lecturer, to intimidate 
 
THE BASHFUL LECTURER. 89 
 
 others. Many years have rolled away since that 
 disastrous experience, and crowded audiences have 
 testified to my success. The name of Dr. Niblo is 
 not unknown in foreign academies, while he reaps 
 at home the advantages of a successful professor 
 ship ; while another Lucia, a pretty fairy, with eyes 
 like her mother s, and the same round and merry 
 laugh, wipes his spectacles and hangs upon his arm. 
 
90 
 
 ISADORE. 
 
 I SAD RE. 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 Scene First. A garden. 
 FATHER. 
 
 She comes my Isadore ; how large the claim, 
 The double claim, she lays upon my care 
 For her sweet self, and almost dearer still, 
 As her pure mother s dying gift of love ! 
 How rich the rose is opening on her cheek ! 
 Not the red rose s hue, but that soft die 
 That slowly fades like morning clouds which melt 
 In mottled softness on the whitening heaven. 
 Her chestnut locks float in the sunshine free ; 
 Her soft blue eyes, deep in their tenderness, 
 Reflect all beautiful and kindly things. 
 She would seem infantile, but that her brow 
 In lilied majesty uptowers, and tells 
 That lofty thought and chastened pride are there ! 
 
 And must I break the calm of that young spirit ? 
 Come o er that peaceful lake with ruffling storms ? 
 Wake up its billowy strife, and wreck perchance 
 The forms of hope that float above its depths ? 
 
 [Isadore enters.] 
 
 My child, she knows what I would say, and reads 
 The thoughts which only yester-morn I breathed 
 With sympathetic sighs and mournful tone 
 Into her startled ear, List, Isadore. 
 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 91 
 
 ISADORE. 
 
 I may not listen, father. I have vowed 
 On the high altar of a faithful heart 
 To be his bride and I will keep the vow. 
 
 But thou didst vow to purity and truth 
 At least its semblance ; and thou wert deceived. 
 
 Deceived, my father ? Look upon his eyes, 
 Where truth lies mirrored ; look upon his lips, 
 That speak in wreathed smiles ingenuous 
 And then thou canst not say I am deceived. 
 
 Last eve it was a calm and lovely one 
 We stood upon this garden-mound, where flowers 
 Sprang up like blessings neath our happy tread j 
 The moon looked down with that still gentle eye 
 With which she greets young love ; courage I drew 
 From the pure beaming of her heavenly gaze. 
 And when my hand poor Julian took, I breathed 
 Our traitor fears ; an angry flush, that spake 
 Of injured innocence lit up his brow. 
 Unjust, ungenerous Isadore ! he said, 
 < Think st thou the nectar-beverage of the gods 
 Could tempt me from thy love ? No, Isadore ! 
 Perchance I might, not knowing thee, have prized 
 A coarser joy ; but now that thy young heart 
 In love s pulsation answers true to mine, 
 Now that thy lips blushing and faltering 
 Have sealed thy vow, I never more can stray. 
 
 My Isadore, tis hard to break the wreath 
 That buds and twines around a faithful heart. 
 But, dearest, love has blinded thee nor canst 
 
92 ISADORE. 
 
 Thou see th incipient form of wo. His words, 
 
 Heartless to me, like oracles arrest 
 
 Thy listening ear ; his eyes, with revel glazed, 
 
 Seem but to thee bright orbs of hope and truth. 
 
 Arouse thyself, my child awake, awake ! 
 
 Thou rt folding to thy heart a serpent s coil, 
 
 And thou wilt feel its sting while I, alas, 
 
 Who took thee from thy dying mother s breast, 
 
 Her last sad gift, and nursed thy feeble frame ; 
 
 Who watched thy gentle slumbers, and on whom 
 
 Thy first smile fell like dawning light from heaven 
 
 When with the ray of young intelligence 
 
 It broke its infant chaos ; I, who saw 
 
 Thy little feet and heard thy shout of joy, 
 
 When with a tottering step thou gain dst my arms ; 
 
 I, who perceived thy rich and active mind 
 
 Ope to high culture ; and to whom indeed 
 
 No longer child, thou hast become a friend, 
 
 Shall see thee chained for aye nay, I must speak 
 
 To one who, caught by sensual low desires, 
 
 Knows not the precious value of the pearl 
 
 Which melts within his coarse and turbid grasp. 
 
 ISADORE. 
 
 Father, tis not that any girlish pride, 
 Low principle, or tendency to wrong 
 Enthrals me, that I cling to Julian thus. 
 I gave my heart to virtuous love ; but if, 
 In any space of time thy will demands, 
 I find him aught that virtue shall condemn, 
 I pledge myself to cast him from my heart 
 As lightly as the vessel flings the spray 
 That gathers on its prow. Think st thou thy child, 
 Whom thou hast trained with strong and upward hopes. 
 And clothed with faith as armor, and inspired 
 With trust that that high spark thou call st her soul 
 
A DRAMATIC bKETCH. 93 
 
 Shall rise and mingle with th eternal flame, 
 
 Will stoop to be the victim of unblest 
 
 Desires ? No hear me, Heaven ! and father, hear 
 
 If it be true and O, my God, if prayers 
 
 And groans and tears issuing in troubled strife 
 
 From out a bursting heart are heard above, 
 
 It will not be if it indeed be true 
 
 That Julian seeks the reveler s haunt, I vow 
 
 To thee, who, having framed the mind, dost claim 
 
 Its homage, that these lips shall proudly spurn 
 
 His cherished name. Spurn, did I say ? Ah, no 
 
 For the close tendrils of a faithful love 
 
 Will cling around me still ; but I will loose 
 
 Gently and firmly from my fettered soul 
 
 Their twining hold yes, father, though I die. 
 
 Scene Second. The Garden-Mound Sunset. 
 
 Tis done, and I am free so is the oak 
 O er which the storm with lightning wrath hath sped 
 And left a ghastly pile ; so is the wave, 
 The cold and midnight wave, that tosses on 
 Beneath a stormy sky ; so is the star 
 When clouds are drifting round its lonely path, 
 And other stars are gone ! Oh ! father, father ! 
 Take me to your kind arms they will not sear 
 Nor scorch me with the drunkard s burning touch, 
 Nor shall I hear thy unpolluted lips 
 Pour forth the babblings of a reeling brain. 
 
 [Throws herself into her father s arms.] 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 Heroic child ! thine was a high resolve, 
 
94 IS ADORE. 
 
 And followed up in nobleness of soul ! 
 I knew thou wouldst not compromise with sin, 
 Nor give soft names to foul intemperance. 
 She hears me not : my Isadore look up ! 
 Thy father s arms are round thee, and he knows 
 Thy deep, deep wo. Alas, poor stricken flower ! 
 Thou wert not made for this unkindly storm ; 
 Thy cheek is pale, beloved, pale with grief : 
 Distended on thy marble brow and lids 
 Too sad for tears arise the straggling veins ; 
 And thou dost start as if some fearful task 
 Oppressed thee still. 
 
 Almighty ! thou who knowest 
 The anguished throes with which the youthful hand 
 Cuts its own hopes, look down upon my child 
 Comfort and bless her in this bitter hour ! 
 
 My prayer is heard ; she rests and to her lips 
 A smile, almost serene, has winged its way. 
 
 ISADORE (in a Ion tone.) 
 
 Father, I ve dreamed ; and as my half-formed thoughts 
 Came bruised and bleeding through my riven mind, 
 I seemed to grope, where, in the far gray depths, 
 With waving robes, above a dark abyss, 
 I saw a shadowy form. It beckoned me, 
 And eagerly I strove to reach its side, 
 Until I saw Temptation on its brow 
 Inscribed. Then prayed a voice, "Lead me not there ! " 
 From my own heart it came distinct and calm. 
 Again I looked and there, in golden hues, 
 While floated off the form in murky clouds 
 Blazed the word Duty, and once more the voice 
 Stirred in my softened soul, "Those whom he loves 
 He chastens: 1 
 
A SKETCH. 95 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 The gay saloon was thronged with grace and beauty, 
 While astral rays shone out on lovely eyes, 
 And lovely eyes looked forth a clearer beam. 
 
 Fashion was there not in her flaunting robes, 
 Lavish of charms but that fair sprite who moulds 
 All to her touch, yet leaves it nature still. 
 
 The light young laugh came reed-like on the ear, 
 Touching the chord of joy, electrical ; 
 And smiles too graceful for a sound passed out 
 From ruby lips, like perfume from a flower. 
 
 Catching the gracious word of courtesy, 
 The listening maid turned to the speaker s eye ; 
 And bowing in his honored lowliness, 
 His manly head inclined to her slight form. 
 
 There was a hum of social harmony, 
 "Like the soft south" upon the rushing seas. 
 Between its pauses burst the harp s rich tone, 
 Poured out by one who filled the poet s eye 
 With fond fruition of his classic dream. 
 
 A voice was there clear and distinct it rose 
 Like evening s star when other stars are dim ; 
 Clear, sweet and lonely, as that southern bird s 
 Who on far turrets trills his midnight lay. 
 In the heart s cavern, deep that voice went down, 
 Waking up echoes of the silent past. 
 
 woman ! lovely in thy beauty s power ! 
 Thrice lovely, when we know that thou canst turn 
 To duty s path, and tread it with a smile. 
 
THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 A TALE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 My cousin Lewis Walpole from the earliest child 
 hood was remarkable for finding things. His com 
 panions thought he enjoyed what is commonly called 
 good luck, but a closer philosophy might say he was 
 particularly observing. He once found two letters 
 in a morning walk, the reward for which filled his 
 pocket with spending money for a year ; and as we 
 were rambling together one day, he brought up from 
 the mud on his rattan a gold ring. It was a plain 
 ring with two initials ; and though no immediate re 
 ward followed, it introduced him to a friendship 
 which was like golden apples for the rest of his days. 
 Once I stepped on a bit of dirty paper ; Lewis fol 
 lowed me, picket it up and laid it in his little snug 
 pocket-book. Six weeks after, an advertisement ap 
 peared offering three hundred dollars reward for that 
 very bit of paper, which was the half of a note worth 
 as many thousands. 
 
 It seemed to me that pins sprang from the earth 
 for Lewis, for he was never without a row of them 
 in his waistcoat. If an old lady was in want of one. 
 
THE LOST MAIL. 97 
 
 Lewis was always ready, and then his head was 
 patted, and he was treated to tit-bits. If a pretty girl s 
 shawl was to be fastened, behold Lewis s pin came 
 forth, and then such a beautiful smile beamed upon 
 him ! If a child was in danger of losing her bonnet, 
 Lewis s offered pin was seized, and he was caressed 
 with lips and eyes, for her preservation from a ma 
 ternal chiding. 
 
 Cousin Lewis, some time since, removed to the far 
 West, and I, his senior by a dozen years, (though he 
 was a stricken bachelor,) went with him to darn his 
 stockings and keep his hearth clean. We called our 
 log house Sparrownest, and in one way and another 
 made it as cozie as heart could wish. What could 
 poor cousin Lewis find now, in his wide fields and 
 vast forests ? Not pins, certainly ; but one day, 
 twenty miles from home, he did find in the wild 
 woods a strange thing, a pretty Irish girl about six 
 teen years old, all alone, wringing her hands and 
 sobbing as if her heart would break. Cousin Lewis 
 dismounted, (he was a noble horseman,) and offered 
 her assistance. The poor child only wept the more, 
 crying out 
 
 " And isn t it alone in the wide world that I am ? " 
 
 It was an awkward business, but cousin Lewis 
 
 knew better than anybody how to do a kindness, so 
 
98 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 he wiped her eyes, soothed her, and bade her be of 
 good cheer ; then took her up on his saddle and 
 brought her home. 
 
 What big bundle has cousin Lewis brought home ? 
 thought I, as he rode up to the door in the twilight 
 and great was my astonishment to see a red-cheeked 
 girl slip down from the saddle, with a shamefaced 
 look. I bestirred myself and got supper, for the child 
 was cold and hungry. When her appetite was ap 
 peased (she ate a whole chicken, poor thing !) she 
 began to cry. 
 
 " What can I do for you, my child ? " said I. 
 
 " And is n t it of my father I m thinkin," said she, 
 sobbing and wringing her hands. "There were 
 twenty of us big and little in the wagons, and him in 
 the front one. It was with a clever old lady I was, 
 in the after one, we to take the charge of one another, 
 ye mind. And when the orses was stopped for 
 walthering, I minded to go and gather some flowers 
 I had never seen in my own counthry. So I sated 
 myself down to pull some flowers, and a bit of weed 
 thereabout looked like the shamrock, and I fell a 
 thinkin; a kind of thdreamcame upon me, and I was 
 at play with Kathleen and the girls, and thin we were 
 for throwing peat at Dermot, and Dermot made as if 
 to kiss me, the impudent , and I slapped him on 
 
THE LOST MAIL. 99 
 
 the face, and thin I knew nothin more until I started 
 up and found myself alone. The wagons were gone, 
 the owls were hootin , and the night comin on. Then 
 I shouted, and cried, and raved, and ran till my feet 
 failed me, and my heart was jist like to break in two, 
 when the masther, (here she made a low curtsey to 
 cousin Lewis) came along like the light, on a dark 
 night, and took compassion on the poor girl ; and she 
 will love him all her days for his goodness, she 
 will." 
 
 With that cousin Lewis took out his pocket-hand 
 kerchief, and I punched the fire. 
 
 So Dora became one of us, and she sung about 
 Sparrownest like a young bird, with a natural sigh 
 now and then for her father. 
 
 Did cousin Lewis find anything else in the for 
 ests ? Listen. As he was riding on horseback, in 
 his deliberate way on the far outskirts of his fields, 
 he saw something white scattered among the green 
 herbage. He spurred his horse toward the spot. It 
 was strewed with letters, which were dashed with 
 mud and rain. Cousin Lewis alighted, and quietly 
 deposited them all in his saddle-bags. 
 
 Dora and I had made a blazing fire, for the night 
 was chilly, and while I was knitting, she trod about 
 with a light step, laying the cloth for supper, and 
 
100 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 singing an Irish air about " Dermot, my dear." When 
 cousin Lewis came in she sprang towards him with 
 such joy, and hung his hat on the peg, and put his 
 heavy saddle-bags in one corner, and brought hirn 
 water to bathe his hands, and helped to draw off his 
 great boots. He looked very fondly on her. You 
 would not have thought he was so much older than 
 she, for his hair was curling and black as the raven s ; 
 mine has been gray many years. 
 
 At supper, cousin Lewis told us about the letters. 
 I confess, old as I am, I could scarcely keep my hands 
 from the saddle-bags, and I thought Dora would have 
 torn them open. 
 
 " We shall have a rainy day, to-morrow," said cou 
 sin Lewis in his quiet way, " and will want amuse 
 ment ; beside, our Yankee clock points to bedtime." 
 
 " Masther, dear," said Dora imploringly, " the let- 
 thers will not slape a wink for wanting to be read." 
 
 " We must keep them locked up, my love, as we 
 do restless children," said cousin Lewis, and I think 
 I saw him kiss the hand that struggled to take the 
 key of the saddle-bags away from him. No wonder 
 he felt young, for he was very straight and grace 
 ful. 
 
 The next morning, when we assembled at break- 
 
THE LOST MAIL. 101 
 
 fast, the rain descended in that determined style 
 which announces a regular outpouring for the day. 
 
 Dora and I glanced at the saddle-bags ; cousin 
 Lewis smiled. 
 
 " Have you settled it with your conscience," said 
 he, " whether those letters should be read ? There 
 has evidently been a mail robbery." 
 
 " You would nt in rason be after sendin the let- 
 thers away, poor things," said Dora, "when they 
 were left in the forests. And it wasn t that ye did 
 to me, any how ! " 
 
 Cousin Lewis looked down and sighed, and smiled. 
 I could not tell whether he was thinking of the letters 
 or Dora, but I noticed, when he smiled, how white 
 and even his teeth were. 
 
 After some discussion we decided that no ceal was 
 to be broken where the superscription was legible, 
 but that it was right and proper that we should con 
 stitute ourselves a committee to decide which of them 
 were in a state to return to the post-office. Cousin 
 Lewis was appointed reader. While he gave us the 
 contents of the following, Dora amused herself by 
 treading on Carlo s paw, who looked up in her face 
 and whimpered. The date was erased. 
 
 " Dear Judge, 
 
 " You will be surprised to learn that 
 
102 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 has taken the field against us. What will 
 European cabinets say when such addle-headed fel 
 lows form a part of our government ? B - , is up 
 and doing. You must be on the alert, and circum 
 vent these movements if possible. The Secretary 
 ship may yet be secured by a general canvassing. 
 T. and J. are fit tools. Take care of S., and give a 
 sop to the old Cerberus on the Island. Keep the date 
 in mind, as " - 
 
 The rest of the writing was obliterated. The next 
 letter made Dora stop playing with Carlo s paw. 
 
 " Philadelphia, fyc. 
 
 " Dear Russell, 
 
 " I received the books safely and 
 thank you. After looking them over, I had an odd 
 dream, and was awoke with my own excessive laugh 
 ter. It is utterly preposterous that a staid lawyer, 
 half a century old, should be dreaming such dreams. 
 
 " I dreamed that I was blowing soap bubbles out of 
 a clay pipe, a thing I have not done since you and I 
 were boys at Fishkill. One after another they floated 
 off, poetically enough ; now rising gracefully in the 
 sunbeams, and now exploding softly on the turf at 
 my feet. At length one, the king of the rest, grew 
 and grew at the end of my pipe, until it became as 
 
THE LOST MAIL. 108 
 
 large as a wash basin. It fell and lay rolling about, 
 offering beautiful prismatic hues to the eye, when 
 presently a little square-nosed pig came grunting to 
 wards it. Twice he smelt it and tried to turn it, but 
 retreated as it rolled towards him. Again he seemed 
 to gather up his courage, and thrusting his square 
 snout against it, it exploded with a noise like a pistol. 
 Little squarenose ran as if for life and death, and I 
 awoke in a positive perspiration with excess of 
 laughter. 
 
 " interpretation of 
 " your 
 
 " James Col" 
 
 Dora shouted with glee at this droll description, 
 and her interest was kept awake by the following, 
 written evidently by a relation of a certain popular 
 character : 
 
 "Mrs Sippi 
 
 " West End of A merry K. 
 " Dear Veller 
 
 "Wot with my see sickness and 
 warious causes, its bin utterly onpossible for me to 
 rite to you, tho it warnt for want of thinkin on you, 
 as thief said to the constable. Wos you ever see 
 sick, cousin Veller? If you wos, you would say that 
 
104 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 you felt in the sitivation of a barrel of licker, that s 
 rolled over and over agin its vill. A most mortifyin 
 thing happen d a board the wessel. You know, my 
 lovin cozen, the jar of bake beans you put aboard for 
 my private eatin . Wot should the stewhard do, but 
 set it atop of three basins in my stateroom, and won 
 day wen the ladies wos eatin lunch, there came an 
 awful lurch of the see, the wich burstin open my 
 door, driv the whole concern into the cabin. The 
 beans was mouldy beyond account, and smelt werry 
 wilely, as the pig said wen he vent to his neighbor s 
 pen. The beans was awfully griddle about the floor 
 under the ladies feet, who scrambled up into the 
 cheers. I put my head out of my birth to explain, 
 and was taken wiih an awful qualm in the midst of 
 a pology. 
 
 " Give my love to miss , and tell her the Mef- 
 
 rycans have been quite shy of my letter of introduc- 
 shun from her. I m jealous she didn t move in sich 
 respectable society as me, or else she made a mistake 
 as the dissector said wen he got hold of a live body. 
 I ain t seen a drunken lady, nor a young woman mar 
 ried to her grandfather, nor a hypocriticle parson 
 since I left the wessel. 
 
 " I vill write agin as ever I get to Mis Soreeye. 
 " Your loven cozen 
 
 " Timothy." 
 
THE LOST MAIL. 105 
 
 It may well be imagined that Sparrownest rang 
 with our mirth, for little matters move one in the 
 country. Dora laughed until she cried, but her mood 
 was soon changed when cousin Lewis in his pathetic 
 tones read the next letter. 
 
 " Father, 
 
 " I take my pen in desperation, not in 
 hope and yet perhaps, when you know that the body 
 of my child lies beside me without my having the 
 means to buy him a shroud, you may relent. Poor 
 Edward is stretched on his hard matrass beside the 
 boy, and his hollow cough rings fearfully through the 
 empty room. Oh, father, if he had but that old sofa 
 you banished to the garret on the night of my birth 
 day ball ! You will think me crazy to say so, but 
 you are a murderer, father. My boy died for want 
 of nourishment, and you are murdering Edward too, 
 
 the best, the noblest . Oh Heaven, to think of 
 
 the soft beds in your vacant rooms, and the gilt 
 edged cups from which you drink your odorous tea, 
 with that white sugar sparkling like diamonds ! I 
 have just given poor Edward his nauseous draught 
 in a tin vessel. I have not had time to cleanse it 
 since my baby was ill. 
 8 
 
106 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 " My baby, how tranquilly he rests ! Would that 
 Edward and I might lie down beside him ! 
 
 " Father, will God treat his erring children as you 
 
 do ? Like as a father pitieth his children" . 
 
 Oh, Father in Heaven, art thou like mine ? " 
 
 " A change has come upon Edward, father, he is 
 dying dead." 
 
 Dora laid her head upon the table in tears, but she 
 soon wiped her eyes and listened with feminine in 
 terest to another letter. 
 
 " New York. 
 "Dear Isabel, 
 
 " You must not fail to be here on 
 the 21st of next month as my first bridemaid. I can 
 take no excuse. My dress is perfect ; papa im 
 ported it for me. There is and shall be no copy in 
 the city. The pearls too are exquisitely unique. 
 You can form some judgment of what will be neces 
 sary for your own dress by mine. Of course you 
 must be less elegant than the bride. 
 
 " Frock with lace trimmings, &c. . $150 
 
 "Veil, 50 
 
 " Pocket handkerchief (the divine thing !) 20 
 " Embroidered gloves, ... 3 
 
THE LOST MAIL. 107 
 
 " Shoes, 2 50 
 
 " Stockings, 5 
 
 " Embroidered scarf, .... 10 
 " Set of pearls, .... 200 
 " Bouquet of natural flowers, . . 5 
 " Come, dearest Isabel, and witness my dress and 
 
 my felicity ! 
 
 " Your own Eleanor. 
 " P. S. You know you must appear with me on 
 
 Sunday. Mamma has bought me a heaven of a 
 
 bonnet with feathers." 
 
 Dora rolled up her eyes. " And isn t it feathers 
 that s to make that bird ? " said she. Upon which 
 she began to speculate on her own wants if she should 
 be married, and decided that ten dollars would be an 
 ample dower for her. Cousin Lewis, appropriately 
 enough, though accidentally, hit upon a letter of good 
 advice to a bride. I was very much disconcerted, 
 however, at the third paragraph, to see Dora begin to 
 nod ; at the fourth her hands fell in her lap, and her 
 ball of thread rolled on the floor ; at the fifth her 
 head sank on her shoulder, and cousin Lewis had to 
 support her with his left arm. 
 
 " Don t disturb the poor child," said he kindly, as I 
 began to shake her. 
 
108 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 " But cousin Lewis," said I, " it is a pity she 
 should lose such excellent advice, particularly if she 
 should marry a parson." 
 
 " You know nothing about these matters, Rachel," 
 said cousin Lewis, sharply. " I will tell her all the 
 advice to-morrow." 
 
 So his left arm continued to keep her from falling, 
 and he read on : 
 
 " My dear Mary, 
 
 "You ask for advice on the new 
 scene of duties which you have entered. I thank 
 you for the implied compliment contained in such a 
 request. Having watched your growth from the mo 
 ment that you first blessed the eyes of your fond 
 parents, to this time, when with conscientious reso 
 lutions, and warm affections, you have become the 
 wife of a clergyman, it is with no little interest that 
 I answer it. 
 
 " You feel, doubtless, better than I can express, how 
 necessary is true piety to the happiness of one whose 
 husband is devoted to the cause of Christ. Lament 
 able indeed is that connexion, if she go coldly to the 
 house of God, slight the meeting of household prayer, 
 and give no religious point to the events of life ; but 
 beautiful is the spectacle, where confiding hearts 
 
THE LOST MAIL. 109 
 
 move in pious sympathy, pleased with earth, yet 
 looking towards Heaven ; and when the wave of sor 
 row comes (as come it must) and rushes over their 
 souls, together bending but a moment with the shock, 
 and then with a common impulse resuming their up 
 ward view. 
 
 " Yet I would warn you, in the enthusiasm of your 
 aims at religious duty, not to involve yourself in your 
 husband s sphere. Many young ladies, when wed 
 ded to clergymen, have made themselves unhappy 
 by extending too widely the circle of their cares. 
 Ardent in the cause of the Master they profess to 
 follow, they imagine that they must devote their time 
 and powers to the flock over which their husband 
 presides. By degrees, family cares press on and 
 crowd their time, and they lose their equanimity of 
 temper amid conflicting duties. 
 
 " A minister s wife should show by her deportment, 
 that she is one of his flock, and not a leader. A con 
 stant and respectful attendance on his ministry, and a 
 deportment which marks that her thoughts are 
 
 " For God, through him," 
 
 will secure for her a quiet influence over the minds 
 of his people. She should seem not to be first even 
 in good works, but skillfully and delicately promote 
 the cause of truth through others. 
 
110 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 " The best service you can render his people will 
 be to make your husband s home happy ; then will 
 he go forth prepared to sympathize with them, and 
 his free spirit will range over his wide sphere of duty 
 in religious joy. Remember that in common with all 
 
 men 
 
 A something of submission, of respect, 
 Obedience, kindness personal, he loves. 
 A slighter service so adorn d will please 
 Him more than, wanting this, a greater would. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 " Be not cold to his peculiar taste ; if he loves 
 books, cultivate literature, that he may find your in 
 tellectual improvement keeping pace in a measure 
 with his own. If music attract him, forward either 
 in yourself or in those around you an accomplish 
 ment which may soothe his weariness or beguile his 
 care ; and while you faithfully study your domestic 
 duties, either in the preservation of neatness and 
 order in your household or with your needle by his 
 side, let him see that mind is still lord of the as 
 cendant. 
 
 " You will probably, as you pass by the period of 
 youth, see those around you who are coining forward 
 to the same animated scene. Be careful not to for 
 get your sympathy with the young; particularly with 
 those entrusted to you. If you look coldly on scenes 
 
THE LOST MAIL. Ill 
 
 which interest them, you allow them to have a set of 
 enjoyments independent of you which is dangerous 
 to your influence over their characters. Mingle with 
 society in moderation, and watch the little changes in 
 manners that occur there, that they may not be able 
 to teach you. When they begin to direct you on 
 the subject of dress and deportment, they feel that in 
 one point, at least, they have more knowledge than 
 yourself, and you lose just so much authority. 
 
 " Society, and usually their own preferences, de 
 mand from the families of clergymen the same re 
 finement which belongs to those whose means are 
 much better calculated to allow the acquisition of 
 accomplishments. In cultivating the manners and 
 taste of young persons under your charge, you must 
 impress on their minds that you are training them to 
 a means of self-support in case of the intervention of 
 pecuniary need, or that you are giving them re 
 sources in mental suffering, or providing them with 
 means to appear amiable to others, and form a note 
 in the concert which fine talents are sounding over 
 the whole field of existence, and which, in a manner, 
 speak the praise of Him who gave them. These 
 considerations will repress the mere vanity of display, 
 and daily lessons of piety will chasten and refine the 
 whole. 
 
112 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 " I say to you, what I would say to all young 
 wives : cultivate a gentle temper. You have a sweet 
 disposition. Thank God for it, as the best dower for 
 married life. Riches, accomplishments, intellect, fade 
 all away before the genuine smile of good nature. 
 But do not trust to the gift of a sweet temper. None 
 but a woman can know the wear and tear of feeling 
 produced by the minute details of household care. 
 Pray and strive for gentleness, and the soft answer 
 which turneth away wrath. Be willing not to have 
 your own way. The contest for power is always a 
 losing one for woman. 
 
 " Obedience 
 Is her best duty ! 
 
 In obtaining power she may chance to lose the sway 
 of stronger affection. 
 
 " Farewell, dear Mary. May the God who has 
 blessed you thus far, sanctify and accept the offering 
 of the talents which you and your s have laid before 
 him, 
 
 " Your affectionate aunt, 
 
 " Caroline." 
 
 As cousin Lewis s voice ceased after reading this 
 certainly excellent letter, Dora started and rubbed her 
 eyes ; it was not many minutes, however, before her 
 
THE LOST MAIL. 113 
 
 sympathies were excited and her fingers beating time 
 on the table to the musical jingle of the following 
 girlish epistle : 
 
 " Cambridge, Mass. 
 " I ought to make excuses due, 
 Dear Julia, for not writing you, 
 Since with a kindness prompt and free 
 You gave your charming thoughts to me. 
 But I abominate excuses, 
 And rank them among mere abuses, 
 As they come marching full and round 
 To tinkling instruments of sound, 
 "Without a particle of feeling, 
 Mere drapery for the heart s concealing. 
 
 Your letter was delightful to me, 
 And made a pleasant thrill run through me, 
 Like that we feel in smelling flowers, 
 Or when we listen to soft showers 
 That fall upon a sultry day, 
 And chase our languid thoughts away. 
 
 So you are reading Anacharsis ! 
 How well kept up that learned farce is, 
 Showing us sages, states, and kings, 
 Familiarly as common things. 
 
 Stationed once more in this retreat, 
 Where leisure and excitement meet, 
 Where studious pleasures, happy, calm, 
 Show life with every softer charm, 
 Nothing disturbs seclusion s hour, 
 Which hovers with its tranquil power, 
 Save transient visiters, who seem 
 Like shooting stars with brilliant gleam, 
 That dart from out a distant sphere, 
 
114 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 Delight my gaze and disappear. 
 
 The Boston question, What s the news ? 
 Is only answered by reviews, 
 Or weekly papers, letting out 
 The bus ness that the world s about, 
 While the " last book " unfolds its page 
 Of interest in this bookish age. 
 Charles Lamb amid some random start 
 Throws out sweet whispers to my heart, 
 While Bulwer s strong yet poisoned bowl 
 I quaff until my senses roll. 
 Not to his hand the task is given 
 To lift the erring soul to Heaven ; 
 Tartarean darkness fills the soul 
 That yields to his unsound control. 
 
 Some graver things than these I find 
 Daily to occupy my mind. 
 Theology with critic eye 
 Causes my lingering doubts to fly, 
 And history, with reflecting pen, 
 Teaches of empires and of men. 
 
 Then I have evening reveries 
 In gazing on the changing skies j 
 And walks, where, as I look abroad, 
 My soul springs forward to its God. 
 Nor even lonely am I then, 
 Though straying from the haunts of men ; 
 The breeze lifts up a pleasant voice, 
 The streams in whispers say, Rejoice, 
 And nature s tone, wherever given, 
 Thrills me like nature s God in heaven. 
 
 But how I ve written off my time, 
 Led by the marching step of rhyme ! 
 Forgive this light and careless letter, 
 Which leaves me still a heavy debtor 
 
THE LOST MAIL. 115 
 
 To you for yours, with its completeness, 
 Finished, epistolary neatness. 
 And now with kind remembrance true, 
 Receive, dear girl, a warm adieu. 
 
 " EMILY." 
 
 " And is n t it nice, that ? " said Dora, clapping her 
 hands. " Och ! but it dances like Dermot to old 
 O Connor s harp." 
 
 And now the impatient girl s fingers were again 
 thrust into the saddle-bags, but as she drew out seve 
 ral letters, I observed that the superscription on one 
 arrested her attention. She became very pale, broke 
 the seal impetuously, and glanced at the signature. 
 A joyous flush came over her cheeks, she danced 
 about, waving the letter in the air, caught me round 
 the neck and kissed me, and threw herself into cousin 
 Lewis s arms in a passion of tears. When she could 
 speak she sobbed out 
 
 " And is n t it father s own hand writing, darlings ? 
 and is n t he at Louisville, weeping for his own Dora ? 
 And will not the masther" (here she disengaged 
 herself from cousin Lewis, and stood before him with 
 her accustomed courtesy,) " take poor Dora to the 
 father that s her own ? " 
 
 Cousin Lewis was startled. 
 
 " I had hoped," said he, gravely, " that is, cousin 
 
116 THE LOST MAIL. 
 
 Rachel and I had hoped, that Sparrownest would 
 have been your home for life, Dora." 
 
 Dora looked down, embarrassed, for my cousin 
 Lewis s eyes were fixed upon her, and they were 
 very black and sparkling, though he was a stricken 
 bachelor. 
 
 I withdrew towards the window, but did not alto 
 gether look away. I saw cousin Lewis take Dora s 
 hand ; I saw Dora blush all up to the eyebrows ; I 
 heard cousin Lewis speak in a pleading tone. One 
 would not have thought him an old bachelor by his 
 voice. I saw little Dora tremble, her heart seemed 
 starting from her bosom, and she began to cry. 
 
 " I will not distress you," said cousin Lewis, ten 
 derly. " Tell me all your feelings, as you are wont 
 to do. Can you love me, and be my wedded wife ? " 
 
 Dora looked up through her tears. Her eyes shone 
 sweetly. 
 
 " I will love the masther to the day of my death 
 and after," said she, "but thin I will love Dermot 
 better, and it is a sin is that." 
 
 Cousin Lewis dropt her hand abruptly, and left the 
 room. He stayed away an hour, and then calmly 
 prepared for Dora s journey. And now I never hear 
 him speak her name. 
 
THE MONARCH AT PRAYER. 117 
 
 THE MONARCH AT PRAYER. 
 
 George the Third knelt by the bedside of his dying daughter, the Princess 
 Amelia, and prayed. 
 
 Proud Windsor s towers lay bathed in light, 
 And Nature looked and smiled 
 
 On that rich work of human art, 
 As on her own fair child. 
 
 The birds sent up their piping notes, 
 
 Or cut the yielding sky 
 The gardened plains and wooded hills 
 
 Looked gladsome to the eye. 
 
 But sorrow deep and darkly fell 
 
 Beneath those lordly walls, 
 And wailings hushed, but sorrowful, 
 
 "Were whispered through the halls. 
 
 Ah, what avails it, that yon couch 
 
 And canopy are hung 
 With trappings of more brilliant hue 
 
 Than ancient poets sung ? 
 
 She cares not for exotic flowers, 
 Nor fruits that clustering swell, 
 
 Nor all the pomp and gorgeousness 
 That luxury scarce may tell. 
 
 Forbear to tempt her faded lip 
 
 With costly viands now ; 
 Forbear to place the scented wreath 
 
 Above that marble brow. 
 
118 THE MONARCH AT PRAYER. 
 
 Ye need not tread with feathery step 
 
 Her velvet covered floor ; 
 Nor guard with silent sentinels 
 
 The nicely balanced door : 
 
 She heeds not now the sounds of earth, 
 More than the autumn flower 
 
 Heeds the wild winds that pass and strew 
 Its leaves within her bower. 
 
 Yet hush tread light a sound goes up, 
 And o er the heart-pulse rings ! 
 
 A monarch by his dying child 
 Prays to the King of kings. 
 
 It is a sight most beautiful 
 
 For earthly pride to see 
 The faith that lights her dying brow 
 
 And shines so gloriously. 
 
 The monarch clasps her blue veined hands, 
 With gentle pressure given ; 
 
 His filling eyes are fixed on her s, 
 And her s are raised to Heaven. 
 
 Seek thou the sovereign on his throne, 
 The conqueror in his power, 
 
 The statesman, organ of a world, 
 In his successful hour ; 
 
 But cold, oh ! cold the picture seems, 
 
 Of light and grace beguiled, 
 When on the monarch s form I gaze, 
 
 Kneeling beside his child. 
 
THE MUMMY S FLOWER. 119 
 
 THE MUMMY S FLOWER. 
 
 Mysterious plant of death ! expressive flower ! 
 
 Whence didst thou come, and what thy history ? 
 
 Heard st thou the lyre when first its new-born tones 
 
 Struck on the sorrowing heart in thy far clime ? 
 
 Thou thrill st the soul ; not that thy l&ndjirst broke 
 
 In strains of music on a tuneless world ; 
 
 Not that thy towers have boldest soared to Heaven, 
 
 And mocked the stars ; not that thy suns have pierced 
 
 The bright blue skies, and brought down from their orbs 
 
 A scientific glory ; not that thence 
 
 The penman s skill arose t immortalize 
 
 The thoughts of man ; not that the gorgeous Nile, 
 
 Mother of verdure, opes her yearly fount, 
 
 To fructify thy clime ; not that thy nation s art 
 
 Conquered the foul decay which nature dreads, 
 
 And lent a softened horror to the tomb ; 
 
 Thou thrill st the soul, because thy blossom gives 
 
 The Christian s watch-word Conquest o er the grave. 
 
120 THE WIFE. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 I HAD been married about four years, when I re 
 ceived a letter from my friend Eliza Somers, saying 
 she would accept my invitation to pass a few weeks 
 with me at Washington. Five years previous we 
 parted with mutual vows of unchanging friendship. 
 She was my beloved companion in a boarding school, 
 when I was in a land of strangers, and had sympa 
 thized with me in all my childish troubles. Although 
 we had been so long separated, our affection and 
 sympathy remained unchanged, and our letters were 
 records of cherished friendship and esteem. She had 
 just returned from Europe, where a residence of some 
 years had added to her accomplishments and intelli 
 gence, while I remained at home cultivating domestic 
 virtues. 
 
 As the time drew near for her to arrive, I heard 
 such accounts of her surpassing beauty and grace, 
 that I almost regretted having invited her. I had an 
 undefined fear that she might be too attractive in the 
 eyes of him who engrossed all my affection and all 
 my solicitude ; but it was too late to retract, and I 
 felt a feverish anxiety when I thought of her coming. 
 
THE WIFE. 1213 
 
 I was not naturally prone to jealousy, but it was 
 the weakness of my husband s mind, that he could 
 never see an interesting young girl without seeking 
 to excite in her an admiration of himself. I was 
 ashamed to let him know that I suffered from these 
 flirtations, and often wept in secret after an evening 
 spent in the society of young girls by whom he 
 seemed fascinated for the time. I was frequently 
 mortified to see him waste his time and talents in 
 such trifling, but feared to make any suggestions, lest 
 he should think I wished to check a harmless indul 
 gence. 
 
 The eventful day at length arrived ; it was a beau 
 tiful sunny morning when the carriage stopped at the 
 door, and my dear Eliza, with the bounding step of 
 youthful grace, sprung to my arms. We wept with 
 unsubdued emotion, but ours were tears of joy. I 
 forgot my incipient jealousy, and looked on this gifted 
 being as one who was to fill up my sum of earthly 
 happiness. She was dressed in a drab-colored riding 
 habit, with a black velvet hat and feathers. Her hair 
 clustered in beautiful ringlets about her face, and her 
 transparent complexion was tinged with the bloom of 
 health. With the most perfect beauty, she seemed 
 to have an entire unconsciousness of her attractions. 
 
 Nature had been bountiful to this beautiful creature 
 9 
 
122 THE WIFE. 
 
 in mind as well as in person, and I soon saw our 
 gravest statesmen listen to her graceful conversation 
 with delighted attention. In the enchantment of her 
 society, I was happy beyond all my former experience. 
 She made no effort to captivate my Henry s imagina 
 tion, or to flatter his vanity, but looked on him as a 
 being set apart and consecrated to her friend; and 
 the thought did not enter her mind that there could 
 be any rivalry between us. I also felt a confidence 
 in her integrity, and in those religious influences 
 which had in her earliest years taken possession of 
 her mind. 
 
 My husband, like her, was gifted with every 
 imaginable grace of mind and person, but not like 
 her blessed with such strict integrity or singleness of 
 heart. It was, as I have remarked, the weak point 
 of his character, to be very susceptible to the influence 
 of female beauty. Although his responsibility as a 
 married man and as a father, prevented him from 
 expressing his admiration openly, yet many a fair 
 girl has felt the pressure of his hand, and many an 
 innocent eye glistened at the tale of flattery he poured 
 into her ear under the insidious guise of friendship. 
 His voice was soft and melting, and his manners so 
 refined and delicate as to inspire immediate confi 
 dence. 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 He could not long resist the temptation of trying 
 to excite in the mind of my friend an admiration of 
 himself; but while he sought to captivate her, he 
 became unconsciously fascinated by her charms. 
 Eliza was gratified by his attentions because he was 
 the husband of her friend; she was proud of his 
 friendship, because his talents and his high place in 
 society made it an honor to her. But although she 
 listened to his conversation with gratified attention, 
 and talked with him with animation and truth, she 
 never flattered him. Thus was the seal placed on 
 our youthful friendship, and although I might wonder 
 how she could be insensible of his admiration whom 
 all the world admired, yet I had consolation in the 
 belief that she would not willingly become my rival. 
 
 The affection between Henry and myself was not 
 impaired by these inconsistencies. He loved and 
 respected me more than all the world beside, and he 
 was a most devoted parent. It is true that he often 
 made me unhappy, and he was sometimes on the 
 verge of danger; but I could not fail to perceive that 
 his impressions were evanescent, and that they did 
 not interfere with his real affection for me. He 
 labored in his profession, he sought honor and dis 
 tinction for my sake, and it seemed his greatest 
 pleasure to meet my approbation. It is possible that 
 
124 THE WIFE. 
 
 if I had represented to him the folly as well as dan 
 ger of his conduct he would have been influenced by 
 my counsel ; but the fear of being considered that 
 degraded being, a jealous wife, kept me silent, and I 
 trusted to the redeeming power of his own principles. 
 Some time after the arrival of Eliza we attended a 
 fancy ball, and Henry with animated looks asked her 
 to dance. They both danced exquisitely, and with 
 great spirit and animation. The exercise gave a 
 glow to her countenance, and my husband looked at 
 her as if he was surprised and bewildered by her 
 beauty. I was sorry I had not confided to my friend 
 the history of my husband s excitability, because she 
 was too generous to have interfered with my happi 
 ness, and her own excellent principles would have 
 led her to check the first indication of an undue pre 
 possession. He was evidently dazzled by her beauty 
 and the eclat attending her; but this was not the 
 moment to allow me to make the humiliating con 
 fession that I feared her as my rival. 
 
 After the dance was ended, he brought her to me 
 and said 
 
 " My dear Laura, 1 shall thank you forever for the 
 pleasure I have enjoyed this evening. Do entreat 
 your friend to waltz with me, for she has refused my 
 solicitation." 
 
THE WIFE. 125 
 
 While he was speaking I was so agitated that I 
 could not reply, and I only gave him a grave and 
 cold bow. But he heeded not my abstraction. My 
 hands and feet were cold as marble, and my lips dry 
 and motionless. He stood by my side, unconscious 
 that I was near, while he poured forth to her strains 
 of the sweetest flattery. She looked at him with 
 surprise, but soon left us to join the dance. My 
 husband followed her with his gaze, but she heeded 
 him not, and he became as abstracted as myself. 
 
 My agitation soon passed away, the frequency of 
 these trials had at length given me power to control 
 my emotions after the first shock, and when Eliza 
 returned to me, I was as serene and tranquil as usual. 
 She was now an object of great admiration and atten 
 tion, surrounded by our most distinguished gentlemen, 
 who listened with delighted attention to her graceful 
 and intelligent remarks. Henry seemed studying 
 her character, from the manner in which she received 
 the homage now paid her. With the selfishness of 
 man s heart, he wished she should look cold on 
 others, and listen with pleasure only to him. His 
 pride would not allow him to love, unless it were to 
 conquer, but at a single look of encouragement he 
 was at her side, and I began to be seriously alarmed 
 lest his allegiance to me should be forgotten in his 
 
126 THE WIFE. 
 
 admiration of my friend. Thus I was kept in a state 
 of agitation and dread, as I saw her power over him. 
 But she was unconscious of the impression she had 
 made, and I was supported by the hope that her sensi 
 bility would soon awaken in favor of one of the 
 numerous candidates for her regard. 
 
 It is fortunate for the happiness of married life 
 that there are interests and sympathies which bind 
 husband and wife together, beyond the reach of 
 external circumstances. Who could believe that he 
 who was often quietly seated by the fire in my dress 
 ing room, alternately caressing my lovely children 
 and their mother, could be the same being, who, 
 perhaps a few hours before, would almost have sacri 
 ficed their happiness and affection, to obtain the 
 transient admiration of some favorite young girl ? 
 When fatigued with the world, the ease and comfort 
 of his own fireside was a luxury to him. He took 
 my hand in his one evening, and said tenderly 
 
 " You look pale, my dearest Laura. I wish I had 
 spent the afternoon with you, rather than with those 
 silly girls." 
 
 The tears started to my eyes, and I was on the 
 point of telling him how much he made me suffer. 
 He kissed away my tears, and said that no man living 
 had so delightful and lovely a wife, and that it should 
 
THE WIFE. 127 
 
 be the study of his whole life to make me happy. 
 Our little girl passed her fingers through his curls 
 and felt his cheeks, and looking up in his face, said 
 
 " Do n t you love mama now, dear papa, better 
 than you do cousin Eliza ? " 
 
 This simple little question awakened all the sensi 
 bility of his character, and he seemed at once to 
 comprehend why I looked pale, and why the tears 
 came into my eyes. He redoubled his assiduity and 
 caresses ; he said I was more dear to him than in our 
 days of early love ; and that if he trifled with others 
 it was through mere vanity and love of admiration. 
 This was a moment of happiness to us all ; and thus 
 the bands of affection were renewed which had been 
 in danger of being broken. 
 
 Some weeks passed away in all the alternations of 
 amusement and weariness, happiness and discon 
 tent. He was proud of my beauty and accomplish 
 ments, and there were times when his attentions to 
 me were almost exclusive and lover-like. At others 
 they were shared by Eliza, and frequently she en 
 grossed him wholly. I believe at this time I was the 
 only object of his love, though to others he appeared 
 to live but in her presence. She was often censured, 
 while the apparently neglected wife was pitied. 
 
 Eliza was more admired than any lady who had 
 
128 THE WIFE. 
 
 appeared at Washington for a long period, and she 
 might have formed a most delightful connexion which 
 would have satisfied even the ambition of her mother, 
 and have secured her own happiness ; but I believe 
 that at this time my husband began to have an undue 
 influence over her. My little Henry had been quite 
 sick ; I was confined almost exclusively to the nursery; 
 and in my anxiety for him, I forgot every other in 
 terest. From this cause my husband and Eliza were 
 thrown much into each other s society. They read 
 together, they wrote poetry for each other, they 
 were both fond of music, and they were very senti 
 mental. She lost her interest in the amusements of 
 society, and by degrees her acquaintances and even 
 her admirers ceased to inquire after her. 
 
 One day when my little boy was nearly recovered, 
 Henry proposed to take me to ride. As I had not 
 enjoyed much of Eliza s society of late, and she 
 seemed dispirited, I asked her to accompany us. It 
 was a delightful morning, and the pleasure of getting 
 out into the fresh air, with the delight of knowing 
 that little Henry was relieved from danger, exhilarated 
 my spirits, and I was as gay as a bird. Henry was 
 all attention and tenderness towards me, and we were 
 both animated and happy. 
 
 Eliza seemed less amiable and less happy than. 
 
THE WIFE. 129 
 
 usual, while I was like a child just released from 
 captivity. The country, in the early spring, looked 
 delightfully, and I proposed to get out and take a 
 ramble in the fields. The proposition was agreeable 
 to all, and we sallied forth. By degrees Eliza recov 
 ered her gaiety, and we were a happy, careless two. 
 Suddenly we heard the crash of a fence, and on the 
 opposite side of the field saw a tremendous bull 
 coming furiously towards us. For an instant Henry 
 hesitated which he should save, but in the next he 
 had taken me in his arms and set me over the fence ; 
 he then turned in hopes of being in time to save 
 Eliza, but the coachman, seeing our peril, rushed to 
 our assistance and arrived just in time to place Eliza 
 over the fence by my side. Henry jumped over and 
 joined us, and I threw my arms round his neck and 
 kissed him in an agony of joy and terror. Eliza had 
 fainted on the ground. She, however, soon recovered, 
 and as she opened her eyes Henry gave her, as I 
 thought, an impassioned kiss. But I ascribed it to 
 the agitation of the moment, and would not allow it 
 to embitter the joy and gratitude I felt for deliver 
 ance from such a peril. I was satisfied that in a 
 moment of danger Henry had given me the prefer 
 ence, when one equally helpless was by his side. 
 
130 THE WIFE. 
 
 The coachman procured her a glass of water, and as 
 she took it, she said 
 
 " Thomas, I am glad it was you who saved my 
 life, because I can reward you. But if it had been 
 you, sir, reward had been out of my power, and my 
 obligation would have been perpetual." 
 
 I thought she spoke with a tone of resentment, and 
 Henry looked distressed. 
 
 As we rode home I made an effort to recover the 
 cheerfulness of the party by entering into conversa 
 tion ; but after a few ineffectual attempts we all 
 relapsed into silence. My apprehensions for the 
 happiness of Eliza were now seriously awakened. 
 I feared that Henry had not been ingenuous with 
 her. I thought that few men were so formed to 
 dazzle the imagination of an unsuspecting young 
 girl; and I had seen him, when he would sometimes 
 seem willing to sacrifice his lofty ambition and aspir 
 ing hopes to gain the fleeting regard of some new 
 being of fashion. I feared that my dear friend was 
 deluding herself into the belief that she might cherish 
 an innocent though romantic attachment for the hus 
 band of her friend; a delusion that would be fatal 
 not only to her own happiness, but to mine. 
 
 I did not see her after our ride until she came 
 down arrayed for a dinner party. She was splen- 
 
THE WIFE. 131 
 
 didly dressed, arid looked radiant in beauty ; she had 
 recovered her cheerfulness and self-possession. I 
 kissed her affectionately, and told her I was delighted 
 to see her look so lovely. Henry handed her to the 
 carriage, and I saw a srnile illumine her face, and a 
 blush of surprise and pleasure spread over her coun 
 tenance, as he stopped at the door to bid her adieu. 
 As he turned to come in, the expression of his face 
 gave me a chill, and a shudder ran through my frame ! 
 He had a look of triumph and satisfaction, for which 
 I could not account. 
 
 He was going the next day on a distant excursion, 
 and expected to be absent a week at least. Employed 
 in making his business preparations, he allowed 
 me no opportunity to observe his feelings. About 
 eight o clock he came in, and he looked so cheerful 
 and happy that my mind was reassured. I resolved 
 not to disturb his few remaining hours, by making 
 inquiries which might lead to painful discussions. 
 We passed the evening alone, chatted, and had mu 
 sic, as we used to do when we were at our happy 
 home in the country. I forgave him silently the look 
 of affection he had given Eliza, and was almost 
 ashamed of my jealous fears. At ten o clock he 
 started up, and said 
 
 " You must be tired with the exertion you have 
 
132 THE WIFE. 
 
 made to-day, my dear Laura, and you had better go 
 to bed. As Eliza has gone to a public ball this even 
 ing, it will be proper for me to see her safe home." 
 
 Before I had time to speak, he had .kissed me and 
 left the house. 
 
 I was now in an agony of suffering. I groaned, 
 I clenched my hands, I raved about the room 
 until I was exhausted, and then sat down and tried to 
 recollect myself. Many little circumstances in the 
 conduct of Henry occurred to my mind, and a con 
 viction that his affections were lost to me forever, 
 almost made me distracted. I spent an hour in this 
 dreadful state ; the idea of my sweet children at 
 length came over my mind, and I went to the nursery. 
 They lay sleeping sweetly together, and I burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Henry." I exclaimed, " how could you blight 
 such a paradise of happiness ? Can you know the 
 wretchedness you have caused ! Dear Eliza, you 
 are innocent, for who could resist such allurements ? " 
 
 Another hour of misery passed, and Henry came 
 not. A second paroxysm ensued. At two o clock 
 the door bell rang, and Henry and Eliza came in 
 laughing and apparently very happy. I was not pre 
 pared for this. I shut the door of the nursery softly, 
 and fainted on the floor. How long I remained I 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 133 
 
 know not; but cold, and exhausted and miserable, I 
 lay down on the bed by the children almost without 
 sense or memory. At daylight the door opened care 
 fully, and Henry came in. He took rny cold hand 
 in his, and said he came to take a parting kiss of me 
 and the children. I could hardly recollect myself. 
 He said he had not been in bed ; that having some 
 unfinished writing to do and being obliged to travel 
 as soon as the sun rose, he had remained in his study. 
 " I was surprised, dear wife," he continued, " not to 
 find you in our room when I went to take leave of 
 you." I attempted to speak, but the words died 
 away, and my tongue absolutely cleaved to my mouth. 
 The room was dark he could not see the haggard 
 expression of my face, and I was too miserable to 
 speak. He kissed me affectionately and went towards 
 the door ; he seemed irresolute, and came and sat by 
 the bed. He took my hand again, and said, " you 
 seem languid this morning; are you well, are the 
 children well ? " My tears began to flow, and I 
 should soon have told all my suffering, but the stage 
 horn sounded, and he left me. 
 
 When the maid came in to dress the children she 
 found me so low and languid, that she alarmed Eliza, 
 and begged her to send for a physician. Eliza came 
 immediately into the nursery, but I was not able to 
 
134 THE WIFE. 
 
 speak. I could only sigh and moan. As soon as 
 the physician saw me he perceived at once that my 
 system was in a high state of nervous excitement. 
 He asked no questions, but ordered an opiate, and 
 perfect rest and quiet. Eliza continued to watch by 
 me through the day, and I gradually became com 
 posed, and slept. On the second day I was still un 
 able to converse, but my recollection returned, and 
 my sense of misery was very much mitigated. I 
 began to think I had given too much consequence to 
 the circumstances which I had noticed. I thought of 
 Henry s unvarying kindness and affection, and of his 
 indulgent forbearance towards all my faults. A thou 
 sand instances of his tenderness and the sacrifice of 
 his own inclinations to my happiness, rushed to my 
 recollection, and I soon began to find comfort. On 
 the third day, I was able to enter into conversation 
 with Eliza. She seemed unconscious that any part 
 of my suffering had been occasioned by her, and I 
 postponed entering on the subject until I had more 
 maturely considered whether it would be expedient 
 for me to notice the past, or to leave everything to 
 the rectitude of her mind and heart. 
 
 It is singular that such a revolution should have 
 taken place in my feelings, without any change of 
 circumstances ; but my nerves were again braced, and 
 
THE WIFE. 135 
 
 reason resumed her empire. Eliza took her needle 
 work, and gave orders that no company should be 
 admitted, and we sat together composedly, but we 
 were both in a grave humor. A servant came in 
 and brought her a book. It was enveloped in a brown 
 paper covering, and besides being sealed, was tied 
 with a string of very narrow blue ribbon. She 
 looked confused, and said, with an effort to seem un 
 concerned, " You may lay it in my dressing-room." 
 All my subdued emotions were again excited, and 
 my boasted philosophy gone. 
 
 I said to Eliza, " if you have no objection I would 
 like to look at that book," and I held my hand out to 
 take it from the servant, but she seized it herself, and 
 said, " It s only a book which William Brown prom 
 ised to send me. Why should you be so curious ? " 
 " I am not curious, Eliza, but I have a particular 
 reason for seeing what is contained in that envelop. 
 I am convinced that the book did not come from Wil 
 liam Brown." 
 
 " Then you doubt my word ? " 
 
 " No, that does not follow ; you may be mistaken." 
 
 She continued to hold the package irresolutely, but 
 
 at length rose up, and was going with it to her own 
 
 room. My resolution was now taken. I took hold 
 
136 THE WIFE. 
 
 of her arm and said, " this book came from Henry 
 perhaps you do not know it, but I have too certain 
 knowledge of the fact, for I gave him this blue rib 
 bon to fasten a bundle of papers with the evening 
 before he went away." 
 
 " then, I see how it is, you are jealous," said she, 
 blushing. 
 
 " No, Eliza, not jealous, but I am grieved to see 
 you under a delusion which may prove fatal to your 
 happiness." 
 
 " Do you think there is any harm in your husband 
 sending me a book ? " 
 
 " None in the world. But there is harm in the 
 mystery and concealment." 
 
 She seemed extremely reluctant to open the pack 
 age, but I was determined now to see whatever it 
 contained. I had not at this time a rague and un 
 settled jealousy, which never fails to obscure the 
 judgment, but I had a clear and distinct perception of 
 duty marked out, and I insisted on the package being 
 opened in my presence. 
 
 She slowly broke the seal and untied the ribbon, 
 trembling with embarrassment. At length she took 
 out the book, looked at it carelessly, and said 
 
 " Here is the book ; it is the Pleasures of Memory. 
 
THE WIFE. 137 
 
 I really do not perceive why you should attach so 
 much importance to my receiving a little present from 
 your husband." 
 
 " Eliza," said I, " you are not ingenuous . in that 
 book is a letter ; and that letter contains the reason 
 of this agitation and concealment. I must read that 
 letter before you quit the room." 
 
 " As the letter is directed to me," said she, " I sup 
 pose you have no objection to my reading it first ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, if you will read it in my pres 
 ence." 
 
 She opened it slowly, and at the first sentence, I 
 saw that she was very much agitated. The color left 
 her cheeks, and having read about a page, she began 
 to tear the letter in pieces. I snatched it out of her 
 hand, rushed into my dressing-room and locked the 
 door. I sat down without sense or motion my cir 
 culation had ceased, and I was like a marble statue ; 
 I thought I should die. 
 
 The idea that Eliza was now in a state of suffer 
 ing and suspense as well as myself, at length aroused 
 me to action. I read the letter deliberately through 
 twice. I saw, through the whole, the sophistry of a 
 man who was dazzled at the idea of being beloved 
 by such an exquisite being, and who was aiming to 
 convince her that an attachment between them might 
 10 
 
138 THE WIFE. 
 
 be pure and perfectly innocent, and could in no way 
 .affect his duty or conduct as a married man. He 
 alluded to this last interview in terms which con 
 vinced me that under the name of friendship, they 
 had exchanged pledges of affection, and he endea 
 vored to convince her that they violated no duty hy 
 such a course. His language and sentiments were 
 .pure and romantic, such as would suit the fancy of 
 an unsophisticated female. 
 
 I will not here repeat his arguments or his expres 
 sions, but I inferred from them that Eliza still be 
 lieved herself under the influence of a calm and holy 
 friendship. It was my painful duty to enlighten her 
 mind on this most momentous occasion. 
 
 I went to her room, and found her involved in the 
 deepest misery. She acknowledged that she had de 
 ceived me, but said she had also deceived herself. 
 She begged my forgiveness, and entreated that I 
 would guide and direct her. 
 
 " I am in utter despair," said she, " and would fly 
 to you, to my friend whom I have injured, for relief." 
 
 "My dear Eliza, there is but one course of recti 
 tude, but one right way. If you have really been 
 yourself deceived, you are not so much to be blamed 
 as pitied. We are both placed in difficult circum 
 stances, and we must take counsel together." 
 
THE WIFE. 139 
 
 I took Henry s letter, read it through to her, and 
 simply pointed out the consequences which would re 
 sult from his reasoning. 
 
 " He has deceived himself as well as you," said I. 
 " If you are sincerely desirous to act on Christian 
 principles, you have but little to do. I do not wish 
 to appear in Henry s eyes as an irritated and jealous 
 wife, and perhaps if / should remonstrate with him, 
 he would ascribe it to unreasonable suspicion. You 
 shall therefore answer his letter in the terms which 
 your awakened conscience and unbiassed judgment 
 shall dictate. If Henry acquiesces in your opinions 
 and relinquishes all intercourse with you, what has 
 passed shall remain a secret between us. I shall love 
 you better than ever, and Henry will be saved the 
 pain of knowing that the wife whom he respects and 
 whom he will again love, is acquainted with his de 
 reliction. 
 
 This proposition was exactly suited to Eliza s cha 
 racter. It shewed a confidence in her integrity and 
 regard for her feelings, which attached her more than 
 ever to me. After some further conversation, I left 
 her to write her letter. 
 
 She brought it in the evening for me to read. It 
 met my approbation entirely ; it contained reproof 
 
140 THE WIFE. 
 
 and counsel, as well as expressions of regard, but 
 / shewed so clearly that she was governed by religious 
 influences, as to leave no room for an appeal from this 
 decision. We passed the evening tranquilly but 
 seriously together, and before parting for the night 
 joined in a devout prayer, that our Heavenly Father 
 would protect us and enlighten our path of duty, and 
 teach all erring minds the way of truth. 
 ^ Eliza and I separated, on that eventful night, on 
 terms of perfect confidence and friendship. She saw 
 that she had erred, but such was the integrity of her 
 mind, that although she might feel sorrow in resign 
 ing the friendship and affection of such a being as 
 Henry, and feel deeply the loss of his society, yet 
 she resolved to act up fully to the promise she had 
 had given me. 
 
 And here let me pause to pay a tribute to the 
 power of education. Principles of truth and piety 
 and responsibility to God had 1)een inculcated with 
 every incident of her life, and although great atten 
 tion was given to her improvement in other respects, 
 yet all was subservient to moral and religious culture. 
 If Eliza forgot for a while her duty, it was owing to 
 the great reliance she placed on Henry s integrity, 
 and on her respect for his character. She did not 
 
THE WIFE. 141 
 
 perceive that she might be the means of alienating 
 his affection from his wife and family, and thus be 
 guilty of a great moral evil, but was led insensibly 
 by the guise of friendship. 
 
 I was now more miserable than I ever had been. 
 I had known sorrow and disappointment, but here 
 was desolation and despair. I thought my husband s 
 affections were lost to me forever, and that he had 
 forfeited my esteem in his attempt to interest the 
 heart of my dear friend. This reflection added bit 
 terness to my grief, and I was almost distracted. I 
 did not attempt to sleep, and I found myself uttering 
 exclamations of wo with wild gesticulations. Then 
 I would sit down and try to be calm. I recollected 
 all his tenderness, all his care for me when I was 
 sick and in trouble, and all the instances of devoted 
 affection he had demonstrated for me through our 
 married life. 
 
 " Is it possible," I exclaimed, " that all this happi 
 ness is lost to me, and that I shall live through it ? 
 Shall I become indifferent to him, and again see him 
 flattering and caressing other beautiful girls ? Shall 
 I still be his wife, and yet perhaps an object of pity 
 to my friends ? There is something appalling in this 
 inroad on the affections." 
 
142 THE WIFE. 
 
 At length morning dawned. I heard the servants 
 below; the doors opened, the shutters were unclosed, 
 Henry s favorite servant went whistling through the 
 hall. All seemed busy. All seemed happy. I alone 
 was wretched. In order not to be spoken to, I laid 
 down in my bed and pretended to sleep. Soon the 
 cheerful voices of my children in the nursery told me 
 they were awake and well ; and a feeling of gratitude 
 to my Heavenly Father that he had preserved them 
 through the night was the first gleam of comfort I 
 had experienced. I became more tranquil, and was 
 soon able to address that Being who is ever ready to 
 answer the supplication of an humble sufferer. I did 
 not rise to breakfast, but sent for Eliza to bring her 
 prayer-book to my room, and she read to me the 
 morning prayers and a portion of the Scriptures, 
 and thus were our hearts sanctified and strengthened 
 for the trials of the day. 
 
 It were vain to tell of the alteration of hope and 
 despondency, of renewed affection and deep resent 
 ment which agitated my mind until the day arrived 
 when we might expect an answer to Eliza s letter. 
 She too partook of my agitation, for she was uncer 
 tain how Henry would act on the occasion. We sat 
 together in my dressing-room, abstracted and sad ; 
 
THE WIFE. 143 
 
 the post horn sounded, and in the next moment a let 
 ter was brought to me, which I knew to be in Henry s 
 handwriting. We both turned pale. There was 
 something very affecting in our situation. So much 
 of the happiness and respectability of our lives de 
 pended on the present communication, that we were 
 almost breathless when I broke the seal. 
 
 I read in silence the first passage ! I sprang from 
 my seat. I threw my arms around Eliza s neck, and 
 exclaimed, " We are happy once more ! Virtue is 
 triumphant, and my dear husband is restored to me." 
 I fainted with excess of emotion. When I recovered 
 I found Eliza standing by my side, and we mingled 
 our tears and our caresses, until we were sufficiently 
 composed to proceed. He entered into a detail of all 
 his feelings and all his transgressions, and enclosed 
 Eliza s letter for me to read, that I might witness his 
 humiliation and learn the value of her character. 
 He said his affection for me had always been para 
 mount to every other sentiment, and it was only in 
 the late unhappy incidents that he had ever been in 
 any danger of sacrificing his allegiance to me. " But," 
 he continued, " if you and Eliza will forgive this 
 dereliction of principle, my future life will show that 
 I am worthy your confidence. Although I can offer 
 no excuse for the past, yet I will prove that I am now 
 
144 THE WIFE. 
 
 awakened to the responsibility conferred by the ele 
 vated station I hold in society, and by the obligations 
 of married life." In conclusion he said, " I shall de 
 pend on you, my dear wife, to watch over me and 
 remind me of my duty. If you see me yielding to 
 my love of female admiration, you can interpose your 
 gentle spirit and reasonable mind, and I shall be 
 shielded from temptation by the armor of hallowed 
 affection." He thus in a frank and manly spirit ac 
 knowledged his faults and his danger, and I was too 
 happy in the belief of his restored affection to inves 
 tigate too closely the reasons for his disclosure. 
 There is indeed a redeeming principle in wedded 
 love. Providence has wisely planted about it in 
 terests and affections which enable married persons 
 to bear with each other s aberrations and infirmities. 
 As our union had been threatened with danger, we 
 mutually felt the necessity of avoiding future trials, 
 by an increased vigilance over each other s faults, and 
 by perfecting our own character as moral and account 
 able agents. 
 
 Though the position of conjugal intercourse in the 
 United States is one among the most beautiful fea 
 tures of society, still there is danger, as European 
 customs more extensively prevail, that this profound 
 deference to the married tie may be loosened. Let, 
 
THE WIFE. 145 
 
 every unmarried woman then, by the sanctity of her 
 deportment, check the first impulse to overleap the 
 barriers which are her dearest safeguard, and let 
 every married man remember when he trifles with 
 the young and inexperienced, that he desecrates a 
 - holy temple." 
 
 A MATRON, 
 
146 THE GAMESTER. 
 
 THE GAMESTER. 
 
 They came before the altar in their love, 
 " And both were young, and one was beautiful." 
 He stood in strength, and she in trustingness. 
 The dark curls, flung from off his open brow, 
 Revealed its Jove-like fullness, while her hair 
 With free and floating tresses, veil d the cheek 
 That blush d and paled in beautiful surprise, 
 As the strong waves of hope and memory, 
 With struggling current, mov d her depth of heart. 
 Firm was his step, like one whose soul is nerv d 
 For combat with the world ; a rock for life s 
 Rough waves to dash on ; while her airy tread 
 " Scarce from the heath-flower dash d the morning dew." 
 
 They sought that fair and solitary home ; 
 Fit residence ! The silent trees stood round, 
 Nor mock d young love s first tenderness. Spring flowers 
 Look d up and smil d ; and happy birds thrill d out 
 The epithalamium chaunt. It was the heart s 
 Fresh holiday. 
 
 A rolling year went by, 
 
 " When on their eyes a new existence smil d," 
 And Agnes clasp d a babe, a living boy 
 To her young throbbing breast, and Winton press d 
 His lips, with thoughts that man but once can know, 
 Upon his first-born s brow. Oh was not this 
 Earth s Paradise ? Alas, that in its path 
 A serpent should arise with specious wile ! 
 
 A change came o er that scene of quiet bliss, 
 And Agnes soft caress and the boy s smile 
 Fell cold on Winton s heart ; he stray d from home ; 
 
THE GAMESTER. 147 
 
 His brow grew pale, abstracted, and dark words 
 Broke muttering through his sleep. Rumor awoke 
 Whispering of guilty haunts, and rumor grew 
 To dreadful certainty. 
 
 One night, among 
 
 The reckless band that seek the gamester s hall, 
 Frantic, young Winton stood, a ruin d man. 
 With staggering step, clench d hands and fiery eyes 
 He wildly raved ; then, crush d and impotent, 
 As thoughts of home and Agnes cross d his mind, 
 Lean d his hot, aching brow upon his hand. 
 Ha ! is it so ? A mirror to his eye 
 Discloses signs and looks, from one in view, 
 That speak of fraud and trickery ! Winton sprang, 
 And with a bound fierce as a tiger s leap, 
 Level d a blow with word opprobrious. 
 
 The morning light rose coldly on his eyes ; 
 That eve must stamp him murderer, or must lay 
 His senseless form within a hurried grave. 
 
 He call d on one who long had lov d and warn d, 
 (Alas, how fruitlessly he lov d and warn d !) 
 To aid him in the coming scene of blood. 
 The good physician went. Strange courtesies 
 Pass d round ; the studied bow, the measur d step, 
 And gravely busy air. Upon a mound 
 He sat, and mark d the scene. There was the sky 
 Expanding its wide arms in love ; the trees 
 Were whispering kindness ; blossoms smilingly 
 Turn d their soft leaves upon the passing breeze, 
 Which kissed them as it rov d ; all, all but man 
 In harmony with heaven. 
 
 His heart was touch d ; 
 
 Thought with its busy tide came deep and strong ; 
 Earth seem d a speck, eternity was all ; 
 And on that mound arose his solemn vow, 
 That never, while the life-blood filPd his veins, 
 
148 THE GAMESTER. 
 
 And reason kept her throne, would he, by thought 
 Or word or deed or presence, sanction give 
 To the duello s dark and murderous rite. 
 
 Fierce was the cry for blood ; the signal pass d ; 
 Life gush d, and Winton was a murderer. 
 
 Rapid his fate ; the stone that from the height 
 Of some far mountain dashes to the earth, 
 Falls not more certainly than he who seeks 
 The downward progress of the gamester s way. 
 ***** 
 
 Whose is that spectral form, that by the light 
 Of new-born day seeks the cold casement s air, 
 And strains her sight with yet a lingering hope 
 Her lov d one may return ? For he is lov d 
 As woman still will love through slight and shame. 
 Tis Agnes, sad and chill ; the bright rose gone 
 That deck d her cheek, the elastic step subdued, 
 Her soft eye dim with tears that fall in showers 
 Upon her sleeping boy. 
 
 He comes, but how ? 
 
 The intended victim of self-murder. Pale 
 And weak he lies, by menial arms upborne, 
 And Agnes kneels beside him, bathes his brow 
 With her soft hands, calls fondly on his name 
 In tones as soft as when, a blushing girl, 
 She dared to breathe it only to the winds. 
 She, the high born, the beautiful, the good, 
 For him prays fondly. She is heard. He lives. 
 
 Lives ! What is life ? Is it to breathe earth s air, 
 To tread its soil, to eat, to drink, to sleep ? 
 This is not life. The man that knows but this, 
 Had better sink in dust, in dark oblivion. 
 He only lives whose soul is blent with Heaven, 
 Like dew that falls at night to rise at morn. 
 
 The gamester lived, revived on Agnes brow 
 To stamp deep furrows ; sear her gentle heart 
 
THE GAMESTER. 149 
 
 With unheal d wounds, and fill his cup of sin 
 With the deep scandal of a felon s crime. 
 He died a hiss of scorn and infamy 
 Went up upon his grave, his boy unlearn d 
 The name of father, and his drooping wife, 
 With downcast eyes, went sorrowing to the tomb, 
 
150 THE DISFIGURED MINIATURE. 
 
 THE DISFIGURED MINIATURE. 
 
 Alas ! I cannot trace the beams 
 That sparkle in thy soft, dark eye, 
 
 Like summer lightning s chasten d gleams, 
 That linger on an evening sky. 
 
 And lost, too, is the gentle smile, 
 That, like a sunbeam over flowers, 
 
 Has danced upon thy lips the while 
 And charm d my gay or anxious hours. 
 
 The quick idea genius gave, 
 The cold reflection reason wove, 
 
 Study s deep thought, abstruse and grave, 
 And gentler looks that told of love ; 
 
 The glance benevolent and kind, 
 That banish d pain, distrust and fear, 
 
 All these in vain I seek to find, 
 
 And sigh to think they are not here. 
 
 And yet I cast thee not away 
 
 Poor image of a face divine ! 
 But clasp thee to my heart, and say, 
 
 " Deform d, yet precious, thou art mine !" 
 
 Oh ! when the hand of withering care, 
 Shall bid, like this, thy beauty fade, 
 
 Or sickness plant her farrows where 
 The bloom of youth has brightly stray d, 
 
 Then may st thou prize the faithful heart, 
 That like the flower of night perfume, 
 
 Asks no parterre where sunbeams dart, 
 But blossoms gladly mid the gloom. 
 
THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 151 
 
 THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 
 
 In the studio of an artist at Valencia, in Spain, 
 about the year 1550, surrounded by the designs of 
 his master, worked, or dreamed, from day to day, his 
 pupil, Francisco di Ribalta, giving himself up to idle 
 musings rather than to the inspiration of his art. 
 At times stimulated by the stern rebuke or biting 
 satire of his master, he seized his brush, and dashed 
 off strokes of such gusto and power as showed that 
 perseverance rather than genius was wanting to give 
 him a name in his profession ; sometimes those very 
 rebukes provoked him to obstinacy, his dark eyes 
 flashed, and his compressed brows showed an inward 
 stirring of the vindictive spirit ; but oftener he might 
 be seen lost in delicious reveries, gazing covertly on 
 the likeness of a girl whose slight and airy figure 
 was contrasted by the terrible beauty of patriarchs 
 and martyrs, saints and angels, which stood out 
 strong in the chiaro-oscuro which characterized the 
 altar pieces around. The picture was frequently re 
 moved for convenience from place to place in the 
 apartment, to give room to others. Sometimes it 
 
152 THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 
 
 was thrown quite in the shade, where only a gleam 
 of one of the lustrous eyes beamed upon the young 
 artist ; sometimes the finely turned shoulder projected 
 from behind the heavy form of a Judas, or the dark 
 curls rose above the feathered wing of a cupid ; and 
 at length, one morning when Ribalta entered the 
 studio, he perceived it unceremoniously turned to the 
 wall, and the artist s foot placed against it as he stood 
 sketching a saint s head. Various were the manreu- 
 vres of the youth to restore this gem of his love to a 
 spot where he could gaze without obstruction on its 
 transcendent loveliness. Restless and dissatisfied, he 
 threw on his colors awhile with careless profusion, 
 and then sat gazing listlessly on his pallet until the 
 hues were lost as in a prism. 
 
 " To work, idler, to work," said the old man, in a 
 tone of authority. 
 
 Ribalta might have answered unadvisedly, but a 
 slight tap at the door, and the airy figure of Isabel 
 the artist s daughter, arrested him. As she entered, 
 the concentrated light was shed on her like a glory, 
 while a blush, a suffusion as if the vermilion of the 
 student had been showered on her neck and face, 
 rushed over her, and then subsided into chastened 
 rose-tints, as she recovered herself from her low and 
 graceful salutation. Having completed her errand to 
 
THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 153 
 
 her father, she discovered her likeness in its dishon 
 ored condition. 
 
 " My father, is it thus you treat your poor Isabel ! " 
 said she, smiling, as the old man withdrew his foot 
 from the position it had occupied. 
 
 Stooping down, she removed the picture, and 
 throwing her left arm across the top, with a fold of her 
 veil lightly brushed away the dust that had gathered 
 over it. The act brought her own head in contact 
 with the picture, the sunny eyes of which glanced 
 through her curls. An exclamation of admiration 
 burst from the lips of the student. The artist, who 
 had laid one of his powerful touches on the eyebrow 
 of his saint, appropriated the compliment and nodded 
 complacently, but the stroke which was to go down 
 to posterity was lost on Ribalta ; his eyes were riv 
 eted on the living picture before him with a look 
 which made her speedily withdraw, another daylight 
 glow mantling on her cheek. 
 
 The rough tone of his master roused the youth 
 from a reverie, if that can be called a reverie where 
 thought is concentrated on one sole object. The deep 
 gaze which had followed Isabel until her floating gar 
 ments disappeared, reverted to the picture with a 
 thrilling joy that he might dwell unrebuked on its 
 passive charms. The love of the beautiful had long 
 11 
 
154 THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 
 
 been brooding over his soul, but the turbid waters of 
 passionate youth had hardly yet shown a leaf of 
 promise. It was for Isabel to be the dove to find that 
 sign, and equalize his character. She alone now oc 
 cupied his thoughts, whether moving in modest grace 
 with averted eyes, or whether her silent image turned 
 those beaming orbs on his. Study was forgotten, or 
 but reverted to as a glass where he might trace her 
 charms in some new modification. 
 
 In this state of feeling the artist assigned to him 
 the shading of a fair-browed cupid. The pupil, blind 
 as the god before him, and dreaming only of the dark 
 curls of Isabel, drew the like raven tresses over the 
 blue eyes of the little deity. It was not long before 
 both he and the artist discovered the inappropriate 
 peruke of the god. A storm of wrath came down 
 on Ribalta, who, blushing and alarmed, in vain en 
 deavored to produce the feathery touch of flaxen 
 curls on the desecrated head. 
 
 On the evening of that day Isabel sat in her bal 
 cony. The Guadalquiver lay in brightness before 
 her, enlivened by gondolas darting here and there in 
 the glow of the declining sun, as he shot up rays of 
 light and beauty in that golden clime. The perfume 
 of the orange and mulberry was wafted on the breeze, 
 while the branches of the palm rose and fell on the 
 
THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 155 
 
 air like a graceful band upon the harp strings. Richly 
 attired ladies and plumed cavaliers, released from the 
 heat of mid-day, issued forth to enjoy a walk on the 
 Alameda, inhaling the odor and reveling in the 
 beauty and nature. Amid its wildness and unfixed- 
 ness youth loves to moralize, and the tongue which 
 has uttered words of levity, and the eye which has 
 seemingly followed only the butterflies of existence, 
 will be arrested by high and serious thoughts, as 
 waves dancing and swelling in the sunbeam pause 
 around a rock. The indwelling spirit of God looks 
 through its veil in almost every period of life, and 
 asks lofty questions of truth and eternity. Isabel 
 stopped in the midst of a careless tune, her fingers still 
 between the leaves of a ballad of the times, to look 
 abroad on nature as the landscape closed in in mel 
 low darkness, and a religious peace dwelt around her 
 heart while a prayer to the virgin rose upon her lips. 
 Ribalta came, and the lofty look of religious trust 
 was changed to the bright glow of welcome. They 
 sat together in the dim beauty of twilight, and with 
 hearts open to the poetry of mind and nature, poured 
 out the softest sympathies ; they saw the evening star 
 arise, the moon looked out on her silvery way, the 
 breeze bore along the breath of flowers, and they gave 
 
156 THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 
 
 their grateful tribute by loading its wings with happy 
 .songs. 
 
 " You will be mine," said Ribalta. " Let not 
 doubts and tears accompany me again to my pillow, 
 when one word can strew it with dreams of bliss." 
 
 " I cannot give that word without my father s 
 will," said Isabel. " I have nursed even his infir 
 mities of mind until they seem sacred to me. Gain 
 his consent and you have mine," and the noble girl 
 sealed the frank promise by laying her hand within 
 her lover s. 
 
 " Your father never will consent," said Ribalta. 
 " He hates me, and gives all his ear to Pietro, with 
 his prate of technicalities and rules of art, and his 
 straight lines as if the world was made of angles." 
 
 " Nay," said Isabel, half laughing, " I never heard, 
 I confess, that Pietro represented cupid with dark 
 hair. How can you expect to be approved in such 
 wilfulness ? You commit high treason against me 
 when you disfigure Love." 
 
 Thus sped the evening, and the morning brought 
 Ribalta to the studio; his heart was full, and on the 
 entrance of the artist he threw down his pallet, 
 poured out deep arid earnest vows of honorable love 
 and besought the hand of Isabel. The old man with 
 
THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 157 
 
 a half rueful, half comical air, pointed to the cupid 
 with his nondescript curls, and shook his head. Ki- 
 balta blushed, apologized, pleaded his love, and the 
 old man bade him hope. So a few days passed, and 
 hope did her kindly work, and lent patience to the 
 lover s soul, and every evening he sought his reward 
 in the bower of his beloved. 
 
 At length there came one morning an Englishman 
 to the studio of his master. He was attired in a deep 
 mourning suit, and there was a depth of grief on his 
 countenance painful to the beholder. He passed list 
 lessly around the apartment, scarcely attracted by 
 any of the designs, until his eye fell on the picture of 
 Isabel. He started a brightness passed over his eye 
 like stars in the rack of a cloud, an awe, as if angel 
 garments had floated by, and he exclaimed, " My 
 child, rny Emily." Eibalta heard the words, and 
 looked up from the easel. He observed the stranger 
 approach and address the artist in earnest tones, who 
 shook his head as if in denial ; the stranger s manner 
 then became more earnest, and his gesticulations be 
 trayed strong excitement, while he pressed a heavy 
 purse on the old man, who refused it as though it 
 were dross compared with the jewel he sought, and 
 let it fall on the floor unheeded. Then followed a 
 lower tone, a choking utterance, as if the heart were 
 
158 THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 
 
 struggling to be heard, and the stranger s handker 
 chief was passed across his eyes, while Ribalta with 
 instinctive delicacy lowered his to his easel. But a 
 new movement induced him to look again. Two 
 servants in livery entered, and the artist directed 
 them to remove the picture of Isabel. They started 
 as they saw its youthful beauty ; the elder of the two 
 shaded his face for a moment with an air of reverence ; 
 the younger clasping his hands together exclaimed, 
 "Miss Emily!" while the stranger, his enthusiasm 
 subdued, stood with folded arms watching their move 
 ments, while tenderly as a relic, they bore the picture 
 away. They were gone, the artist followed, and 
 Ribalta was alone. It was so sudden so dream 
 like ! He looked round the apartment, and it seemed 
 deserted. A mysterious sadness possessed him, a 
 presentiment that thus might Isabel be torn away; 
 he strode the floor, and as his foot struck the forgotten 
 purse he spurned it like a viper. 
 
 On this memorable morning the artist had entrusted 
 to his pupil for some touches, a head of St. John, on 
 which he had bestowed much thought and care. On 
 returning to the apartment and examining the pro 
 gress of the work, what was his dismay to find the 
 bland and beautiful expression converted to that of a 
 demon, and his labor gone forever ! With an irrita- 
 
THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 159 
 
 bility naturally increased by the scene that had 
 in which he had unwillingly parted with the likeness 
 of his child to comfort a bereaved parent, heno sooner 
 saw the wreck of his picture, than he poured forth a 
 storm of indignation on the youth, bade him quit his 
 presence forever, and swore that " a dauber should 
 never marry his Isabel." 
 
 The balcony that witnessed their first vows saw 
 the parting of the lovers. Ribalta lay despairing, at 
 Isabel s feet. He had urged the burning arguments 
 of passion to induce his beloved one to share his 
 lonely exile in vain. 
 
 " I cannot leave my father," said Isabel, mournfully ; 
 i( the poor old man loves nothing on earth but me. 
 Go, Ribalta, win a name and return to claim me. 
 As I am true to him, so will I be true to you." 
 
 Long and bitter was their parting ; and on the 
 morrow, when Isabel returned to her bower, there 
 was a cloud on her young spirit. She gazed with a 
 wild and piercing eye on the spot where his parting 
 plume had disappeared, until coming forms unwove 
 the spell of memory. 
 
 Ribalta turned his steps to Italy, with a noble re 
 solve to win a name and claim his bride. He followed 
 the path of science untired, kindling into thought and 
 hopes that nerved his arm to toil. The gray dawn 
 
160 THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 
 
 found him a watcher, and its first beams fell on his 
 ready imagination, while with a strained and doubtful 
 eye, he urged his midnight task, and when the pic 
 ture grew upon his touch, and his kindling glance 
 told him that he had stamped truth and beauty on 
 the canvass, he shouted in his solitude, Isabel ! Isabel ! 
 
 Three years passed away, and the lovely Isabel 
 ripened like rich fruit by her father s side ; and while 
 her lover was drawing ideal forms on earthly canvass, 
 her filial piety was a picture for angels. 
 
 " Is he not my father ? " she would say, when some 
 little trial of her forbearance arose. " If I respect and 
 serve him not, who will ? " Then seeking his studio, 
 she arranged the light for his failing eyes, and with 
 her book or work sat near to aid his wishes. 
 
 One morning he left her to examine some pictures 
 of a brother artist, and Isabel, released for the day 
 from her filial cares, turned to the shaded balcony to 
 arrange her flowers. There was one she had never 
 slighted the gift of Ribalta. She had kissed its 
 leaves, prayed over its blossoms, and near that flower 
 was she bending when a footstep startled her. It was 
 he, Ribalta, pale and attenuated but 0, the intel 
 lectual beauty that sat upon his brow ! Few were 
 their words of fond and passionate sympathy, and 
 they passed hastily to the artist s room. A noble 
 
THE STUDENT OF VALENCIA. 161 
 
 sketch lay unfinished on the easel, Ribalta caught up 
 the brush and wrought as if soul were in his touch. 
 The picture grew, and the colors stood out in their 
 rich blend ings all gloriously. Isabel was by, and 
 now triumphant laughter broke from her opened lips ; 
 now tears stood in her eyes ; now a prayer to the 
 Virgin rose from her heart, and now she stamped her 
 foot in irrepressible excitement, while he, stirred by 
 the genius of his art, waved his arm over the canvass, 
 bound heart and eye to that one growing image, 
 scarcely heeding the young creature who stood half 
 breathless beside him. 
 
 A glorious sunset poured in on the painting after 
 that day of toil. A step approached, and Ribalta 
 panting and exhausted retreated behind a neighboring 
 picture frame. 
 
 The artist entered, started, raised his hand to his 
 brow, rubbed his dim eyes, walked again andagain 
 around the picture, and then grasping Isabel s hand, 
 exclaimed 
 
 "Whose magic is this, my girl? Think you I 
 would wed you to the dauber Ribalta? None but 
 this painter deserves you for a bride." 
 
 RibaHa, springing from his concealment, clasped 
 the yielding form of Isabel to his heart, and kneeling 
 beside her sire, they asked and received his blessing. 
 
162 FRANCISCO DE KIBALTA. 
 
 FRANCISCO DE FJBALTA, 
 
 THE SPANISH ARTIST. 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 A gathering spot glowed burningly 
 On young Ribalta s.brow, 
 
 As he stood on fair Valencia s plain, 
 And breathed a parting vow. 
 
 For neither name nor wealth had he, 
 Yet sweetly on him smiled 
 
 The young and lovely Isabel, 
 His master s only child. 
 
 " Farewell ! farewell ! my Isabel, 
 Mine, though I wander far, 
 
 My love shall still shine over thee, 
 Like yonder distant star. 
 
 " I feel within my restless soul 
 The power to toil and die, 
 
 Or fix upon the scroll of fame, 
 My name in letters high. 
 
 " And dearest ! I will come again, 
 Though he may now deride. 
 
 And in thy father s presence claim 
 My own, my gentle bride. 
 
FRANCISCO DE RIBALTA. 163 
 
 " He spurned me ; but the goading word 
 
 To thee alone I tell ; 
 He said a dauber ne er should wed 
 
 His peerless Isabel. " 
 
 She spoke not, but her beaming eye 
 
 Looked eloquently kind, 
 And her young fingers in his own 
 
 Were trustingly entwined. 
 
 One single, solitary tear 
 
 Came trickling down, the while ; 
 He kissed the falling gem away ; 
 
 T was followed by a smile. 
 
 And not until his waving plume 
 
 Had parted from her sight, 
 Seemed she to feel the cloudiness 
 
 Upon her hope s young light. 
 
 what a wild and piercing gaze 
 
 Is that we throw upon 
 The sacred spot where one has stood 
 
 Who loved us, and is gone ! 
 
 And what a sigh upheaves the soul 
 
 When stranger-forms pass by, 
 And with their dark, ungenial shade, 
 
 Unspell the memory ! 
 
 Ribalta neath Italia s skies 
 
 Pursued the path to fame, 
 Untired he followed where it led, 
 
 With thoughts and hopes of flame. 
 
 He watched the day -dawn s earliest ray 
 To urge his pictured toil, 
 
164 FRANCISCO DE RIBALTA. 
 
 And bent with strained and doubtful eye 
 Beneath the midnight oil. 
 
 And when upon his growing work 
 
 His kindling glances fell, 
 A gush of joy came o er his heart, 
 
 That spake of Isabel. 
 
 Three circling years his gentle love 
 Hushed up her widowed soul ; 
 
 And if a sigh escaped her heart, 
 Hope through the current stole. 
 
 At length he came in manly truth ; 
 
 He heard her whispered tone, 
 Her eye-beam sank into his soul, 
 
 And she was still his own. 
 
 Soon to her father s vacant room 
 They passed with stealthy tread 
 
 There on the easel temptingly, 
 A noble sketch was spread. 
 
 Eager, Kibalta seized the brush 
 And wrought as life were there, 
 
 The picture grew, and every stroke 
 Stood out with colors rare. 
 
 And Isabel looked breathless on 
 With eyes and hands upraised, 
 
 And large drops beaded on his brow 
 As thus she stood and gazed. 
 
 Tis done and now a coming step, 
 Her father s step is heard ; 
 
 Ribalta, shrinking from his sight, 
 Stifles the whispered word. 
 
FRANCISCO DE RIBALTA. 165 
 
 The master starts so beautiful 
 
 The new creation shone, 
 The color, shade, expression too, 
 
 More lovely than his own ? 
 
 " Why girl, there s magic in this touch, 
 
 The enraptured painter cried, 
 "And only he who wrought this work, 
 
 Deserves thee for his bride." 
 
 A moment and Ribalta s arm 
 
 Encircled that fair maid, 
 While at her father s knee they knelt, 
 
 And for his blessing prayed. 
 
166 MR. INKLIN, OR 
 
 MR. INKLIN, 
 
 OR THE MAN OF LEISURE. 
 
 Mrs. Sheridan, a happy wife and mother, having 
 concluded the bustle of a housekeeper s morning, as 
 cended to her bed-room with the agreeable conscious 
 ness of a neat parlor and pantry, and commenced 
 the important business of cutting out a piece of linen. 
 The smooth surface of a well made bed was appro 
 priated to this somewhat intricate process, on which, 
 humble as it seems, the happiness of one s husband 
 greatly depends. There is scarcely a more forlorn 
 or pitiable object in the universe, than a man, who 
 putting on a new shirt perceives some radical defect, 
 with the awful consciousness that nine, fifteen or 
 twenty more are cut upon the same pattern. It so 
 happened that Mr. Sheridan had detected, almost 
 with complacency, the incipient decay of a set of 
 shirts that had kept his neck as in a vice for a year 
 and a half, and with many injunctions to his wife to 
 be merciful, had purchased a piece of new linen. 
 
 Mrs. Sheridan began her work with a light heart, 
 and humming a low tune, placed the various pieces 
 on different parts of the bed in the most systematic 
 
THE MAN OF LEISURE. 1G7 
 
 manner. It is delightful to create ; and the humble 
 evolutions of the needle and scissors have healed 
 many a wounded heart ; but to work for those we 
 love, gives an added charm to this seemingly humble 
 employment. Mrs. Sheridan went tripping lightly 
 round the bed to the growing tumuli of gussets, 
 wristbands, &c., looking back to her life of placid 
 duty, where even the clouds that had sometimes 
 shaded her path were tinged with the light of love 
 and hope. 
 
 She had not advanced far in the progress of her 
 work, when a ring at the door-bell was heard, and a 
 visiter announced. She smoothed down the border 
 of her pretty morning cap, and with a sorrowful part 
 ing glance at the bed, descended to the parlor. 
 
 The visiter was Mr. Inklin, a broken merchant, 
 who had contrived to save just enough for his sup 
 port without energy to strike into new plans, though 
 it was his intention to enter upon some occupation at 
 a future day. Mr. Inklin had no gift in conversa 
 tion ; his voice was an anodyne, and his sleepy eyes 
 seemed wandering to the ends of the earth. Noth 
 ing is so chilling in conversation as an unariswering 
 eye. Besides this unfixed look, he kept up perpetu 
 ally a grunting kind of affirmative which destroyed 
 the hope that a difference of opinion might stimulate 
 
168 MR. INKLE, OR 
 
 his ideas. He dressed well, and made great use of 
 his watch key. Most men of leisure do. 
 
 The man of leisure sat down composedly, remark 
 ing that the day was fine. 
 
 Mrs. Sheridan assented, and tried to recollect if she 
 had stuck a pin as a guide where she had drawn the 
 last thread in the linen. 
 
 Mr. Inklin enlarged upon the weather. " It had 
 been warm," he asserted, " perhaps warmer than it 
 was that time twelve-month. Warm weather agreed 
 with him. He thought it might last a few days 
 longer it was apt to in June." 
 
 Mrs. Sheridan looked towards him as he spoke, 
 but it was silently to observe that his shirt collar was 
 more pointed than Mr. Sheridan s. 
 
 " You have a quiet time," said the man of leisure, 
 " with the children at school." 
 
 " Yes, sir, very quiet," said Mrs. Sheridan, falling 
 into a reverie, as she thought how well it was adapted 
 to cutting out shirts. 
 
 Mr. Inklin went through the commonplace matter 
 of morning visiters, with many a resting place be 
 tween, until he remarked that " the wind was rising." 
 Mrs. Sheridan had observed it too, with a feeling of 
 dismay at the prospect of the commingling of all her 
 shirt elements. 
 
THE MAN OF LEISURE. 169 
 
 The man of leisure staid an hour, (he liked a 
 morning visit one hour long,) and then exclaiming, 
 as the hand of his watch turned the expected point, 
 " bless my soul ! past twelve o clock ! " made his bow 
 and departed. 
 
 Mrs. Sheridan went to her chamber. The wind 
 was whirling neck, sleeve and flap gussets in uncere 
 monious heaps ; and collars, wristbands and facings 
 were dancing in eddies on the floor. In her agita 
 tion she lost the important boundary pin, and an error 
 occurred in her calculations. The shirts were made, 
 but for eighteen months her husband never took one 
 from his drawer but with a nervous shudder or a 
 suppressed execration. 
 
 THE MAN OF LEISURE IN A COUNTING-HOUSE. 
 
 The man of leisure next visited the counting-room 
 
 of B & Co., and socially seating himself on a 
 
 barrel, hoped he should not prevent the head clerk, 
 who was his acquaintance, from writing. 
 
 " Not at all," said the polite clerk, putting his pen 
 behind his ear with a constrained air. 
 
 " Pray don t stop on my account," said Mr. Ink- 
 lin, with a patronizing smile. 
 
 The clerk returned to his accounts and letters, 
 while the man of leisure described, with somewhat 
 12 
 
170 MR. INKLIN, OR 
 
 more animation than usual, some herring he had 
 eaten for breakfast. The clerk made an error in a 
 
 figure, which cost Messrs B & Co. one week to 
 
 rectify ; and one of the correspondents of the firm was 
 shortly after surprised with the announcement by let 
 ter, that an hundred bales of pickled herring would 
 shortly be forwarded to order. 
 
 THE MAN OF LEISURE AND HIS MINISTEE. 
 
 It was Saturday night, and the Rev. Dr. Ingram 
 sat in his study with his sheets before him, commen 
 tators and lexicons around him, and a well mended 
 pen in hand, when the man of leisure was announced. 
 He entered slowly and almost diffidently, so that the 
 compression of the Dr. s brow produced by the in 
 terruption gave way to an open smile of encourage 
 ment. I have mentioned that Mr. Inklin was taci 
 turn, and not only that, but that he threw an opiate 
 over the minds of his associates there were long 
 pauses in that long hour, and the good words of the 
 clergyman fell on barren ground. At length Mr. 
 Inklin arose, saying, " I fear I have broken the thread 
 of your argument, sir." And broken it was. Dr. 
 Ingram retouched the nib of his pen ; listlessly 
 turned the pages of Clark, Rosenmueller, Grotius, 
 &c., rubbed his forehead, took two or three turns across 
 
THE MAN OF LEISURE. 171 
 
 the room, and threw himself on a seat in despair. 
 The impetus was gone the argument was frittered 
 away ; he stole off to bed, and dreamed that a thirty- 
 two pounder was resting on his chest, with the man 
 of leisure surmounting it. 
 
 THE MAN OF LEISURE AND THE POLITICIAN. 
 
 As Mr. Inklin was walking the next morning, with 
 his usual measured step, his arm was touched by a 
 serious looking gentleman with spectacles. 
 
 " Fine weather," said the gentleman in specs. 
 
 " Uncommon fine ; " said the man of leisure, 
 " nine more days of fair weather this month than the 
 last," 
 
 " By the way, my dear sir," said the gentleman in 
 specs, " I must not forget to tell you that ^^^ has 
 set up an opposing claim to the office for which I am 
 a candidate. My friends have calculated closely, and 
 it is ascertained that a very few votes will turn the 
 scale in my favor. May I hope for your aid at the 
 election tomorrow ? " As the man in specs concluded, 
 he cast a slightly inquisitorial glance on the some 
 what worn-through, well-brushed suit of Mr. Inklin. 
 
 " Assuredly, my dear sir," said the man of leisure, 
 with a patronizing air. " I will make it my especial 
 business to attend to your interests." 
 
172 MR. INKLIN, OR 
 
 Crowds pressed to the polls on the following day, 
 at the appointed hour. The man in specs was there, 
 smiling benignly. The opposing candidate was an 
 nounced as elected by a majority of one. 
 
 As the man in specs walked home he met Mr. 
 Inklin coming with a more rapid pace than usual, 
 followed by two men in ragged jackets. 
 
 " Hope I am not too late with my friends," said the 
 man of leisure. 
 
 The politician s lips moved, and he " grinned 
 ghastly." His words were inaudible, but his thoughts 
 were, " Wear your old coat and be hanged." 
 
 THE MAN OF LEISURE AND HIS LAUNDRESS. 
 
 " Plase your honor," said the laundress, as she laid 
 two nicely bleached shirts, neck-cloths, and pocket- 
 handkerchiefs on Mr. Inklin s dressing table, u ye are 
 owing for three months, and the soap and the starch 
 and the firing runs up a heap, and my good man 
 Patrick that should be a help lying with his broken 
 shoulther, and the landlord seeking his rent, and me 
 not able to tell which side to look, and poor Patrick 
 to be turned out of doors for no crime at all, if you 
 plase, sir." 
 
 " 0, really, yes ; I remember hearing of Patrick s 
 fall. A very clever fellow that husband of yours. 
 
THE MAN OF LEISURE. 173 
 
 Here are two dollars, and I will give you the remain 
 ing trifle next week." 
 
 " Trifle ! " said the laundress, counting on her 
 ringers the amount of twelve dollars due, as she left 
 the room, " that s a trifle to some as isn t to others. 
 
 Two days after, while the man of leisure was 
 fastening a paste brooch in his smoothly folded shirt- 
 bosom, poor Patrick was borne to the work-house for 
 a shelter. 
 
 THE MAN OF LEISURE AND A PRETTY GIRL. 
 
 The man of leisure called on Miss Emma Rob 
 erts, a pretty blooming girl of seventeen. Emma 
 was clear-starching. Talk about the trials of men ! 
 What have they to annoy them in comparison with 
 the mysteries of clear-starching ; alas, how seldom 
 clear ! Emma was going on in the full tide of suc 
 cess, indulging in the buoyant thoughts of her age ; 
 there was a soft light about her eye, as she drew out 
 the edge of ajichu, or clapped it with her small hands, 
 as if they felt the impulse of young hopes. 
 
 " I am sure Harry Bertram looked at this collar 
 last Sunday ; I wonder if he liked it," thought she, 
 and a gentle sigh rustled the folds of the morning 
 robe on her bosom. Just then the door-bell sounded, 
 and the man of leisure walked into the sitting-room, 
 
174 MR. INKLIN, OR 
 
 where Emma, with a nice establishment of smoothing- 
 irons, &c. had ensconced herself for the morning. 
 
 " You won t mind a friend s looking in upon you," 
 said Mr. Inldin, with an at-home air. 
 
 Emma blushed, loosened the strings of her apron, 
 gave a glance at her starched fingers, and saying 
 " take a seat, sir," suspended her work with the grace 
 of natural politeness. In the meanwhile, the starch 
 grew cold and the irons were overheated. Emma 
 was not loquacious, and the dead pauses were neither 
 few nor far between. Emma, rendered desperate, 
 renewed her operations, but with diminished ardor :; 
 her clapping was feeble as the applause to an un 
 popular orator ; she burnt her fingers, her face became 
 flushed and by the time the man of leisure had 
 sitten out his hour, a grey hue had settled over her 
 muslins, and an indelible smutch disfigured Harry 
 Bertram s collar. 
 
 Mr. Inklin soon called again, and met Harry Ber 
 tram. It was no influence of coquetry but Emma 
 rallied her powers and talked more to Mr. Inklin 
 than to Harry, a modest youth, thrown somewhat into 
 the shade by the veteran visiter, who outstaid him. 
 Harry, who was not a man of leisure, could not call 
 for several days ; when he did, Mr. Inklin had " dropt 
 in " before him, and was twirling his watch-key, with 
 
THE MAN OF LEISURE. 175 
 
 his cold wandering eyes and everlasting affirmatives. 
 Emma sewed industriously, and her dark lashes 
 concealed her eyes. Her cheeks were beautifully 
 flushed, but for whom ? Mr. Iriklin toyed with her 
 work-box, without seeming to know that he was 
 touching what Harry thought a shrine. 
 
 Harry looked a little fierce, and bade good night 
 abruptly. Emma raised her soft eyes with a look 
 that ought to have detained a reasonable man, but he 
 was prepossessed, and the kind glance was lost. 
 Emma wished Mr. Inklin at the bottom of the sea, 
 but there he sat, looking privileged, because he was a 
 man of leisure. 
 
 The fastening of the windows reminded him that 
 it was time to go, for he did not limit his evening 
 calls to an hour. Emma went to her bed-room. She 
 was just ready to cry, but a glance at her mirror 
 showed such bright cheeks that it stopped the tears, 
 and she fell into a passion. She tied her night-cap 
 into a hard knot, and broke the string in a pet. 
 
 " Harry Bertram is a fool," said she, " to let that 
 stick of a man keep him from rne. I wish I could 
 change places with him," and sitting down on a 
 low seat, she trotted her foot and heaved some deep 
 sighs. 
 
176 MR. INKLIN, OR 
 
 The man of leisure "just called in " twice a week, 
 for three months. Report was busy Harry s pride 
 was roused. He offered himself to another pretty 
 girl, and was accepted. Emma s bright cheeks faded, 
 her step grew slow, and her voice was no longer 
 heard in its gay carol from stair to stair. She was 
 never talkative, but now she was sad. Mr. Inklin 
 continued to " drop in," his heart was a little love- 
 touched, but then there was " time enough." One 
 evening he came with a look of news. 
 
 " I have brought you a bit of Harry Bertram s 
 wedding cake," said he to Emma. 
 
 Emma turned pale, then red, and burst into tears. 
 The man of leisure was concerned. Emma looked 
 very prettily as she struggled with her feelings, while 
 the tears dried away ; and he offered her his heart 
 and hand. 
 
 " I would sooner lie down in my grave than marry 
 you," said the gentle Emma, in a voice so loud that 
 Mr. Inklin started, and rushing to her own apartment, 
 the china rang in the closet as she slammed the door. 
 Mr. Inklin was astonished. Poor Emma covered up 
 her heart and smiled again, but she never married, 
 nor ever destroyed a little flower that Harry Bertram 
 gave her when it was right for her to love and hope. 
 
THE MAN OF LEISURE. 177 
 
 The man of leisure bore her refusal with philosophy, 
 and continued to " drop in." 
 
 THE MAN OF LEISURE AND THE PALE BOY. 
 
 " You ll please not to forget to ask the place for me, 
 sir," said a pale blue-eyed boy, as he brushed the 
 coat of the man of leisure at his lodgings. 
 
 " Certainly not," said Mr. Inklin, " I shall be going 
 that way in a day or two." 
 
 " Did you ask for the place for me, yesterday ? " 
 said the pale boy, on the following day, with a quiver 
 ing lip, as he performed the same office. 
 
 " No," was the answer. " I was busy, but I will 
 to-day." 
 
 " God help my poor mother," murmured the boy, 
 and gazed listlessly on the cent Mr. Inklin laid in his 
 hand. 
 
 The boy went home. He ran to the hungry chil 
 dren with the loaf of bread he had earned by brush 
 ing the gentlemen s coats at the hotel. They shouted 
 with joy, and his mother held out her emaciated 
 hand for a portion, while a sickly smile flitted across 
 her face. 
 
 " Mother, dear," said the boy, " Mr. Tnklin thinks 
 he can get me the place, and I shall have three meals 
 
178 MR. INKLIN, OR 
 
 a day only think, mother, three meals I and it 
 won t take me three minutes to run home and share 
 it with you." 
 
 The morning came, and the pale boy s voice 
 trembled with eagerness as he asked Mr. Iriklin if 
 he had applied for the place. 
 
 " Not yet," said the man of leisure, " but there is 
 time enough." 
 
 The cent that morning was wet with tears. Another 
 morning arrived. 
 
 " It is very thoughtless in the boy to be so late," 
 said Mr. Inklin. " Not a soul to brush my coat ! " 
 
 The child came at length, his face swollen with 
 weeping. 
 
 " I am sorry to disappoint you," said the man of 
 
 leisure, "but the place in Mr. C s store was 
 
 taken up yesterday." 
 
 The boy stopped brushing, and burst afresh into 
 tears. " I don t care now," said he, sobbing, " we 
 may as well starve. Mother is dead." 
 
 The man of leisure was shocked, and he gave the 
 pale boy a dollar ! 
 
 THE MAN OF LEISURE ON A DEATH-BED. 
 
 Mr. Inklin was taken ill. He had said often that 
 
THE MAN OF LEISURE. 179 
 
 he thought religion might be a good thing, and he 
 meant to look into it. His minister hastened to him 
 and spake to him of eternal truths. With parched 
 lips he bade him come to-morrow. 
 That night the man of leisure died. 
 
180 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 THE BACKWOODSMAN.* 
 
 He flies ! 
 He seeks the moaning forest trees, 
 
 The sunny prairie, or the mountain sweep, 
 The swelling river rushing to the seas, 
 The cataract, foaming neath the dizzy steep, 
 Or softer streams, that by the green banks sleep, 
 To these he flies. 
 
 He lists 
 The crackling of the springing deer, 
 
 The shrill cry of the soaring water-fowl, 
 The serpent hissing at his lone couch near, 
 The wild bear uttering loud her hungry howl, 
 The panther with his low expecting growl, 
 Unmoved he lists. 
 
 Wanderer, 
 " Beyond the Sabbath," tell me why, 
 
 With eager step you shun the haunts of men, 
 And from the music of the church bells fly, 
 That, floating sweetly o er your native glen, 
 Call you to worship by their chime again ? 
 Say, wanderer, why ? 
 
 * The Backwoodsmen of North America, when they throw 
 off the forms of society, and retreat into the forests, say, 
 they will "fly beyond Sabbath." Flint s " Valky of the 
 Mississippi." 
 
 The record-tree alluded to, refers to the custom of some 
 settlers, who preserve the date of time by marking the seventh 
 day. 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN. 181 
 
 You kno\v, 
 You feel, beneath the woodland skies, 
 
 When comes the seventh day of sacred rest, 
 Deep wells of fond remembrance struggling rise. 
 Within the caverns of your rocky breast 
 A gush of thought, like visions of the blest. 
 At times you know. 
 
 And you 
 Will turn, and mark the record-tree 
 
 In stealthy silence, and a gentle prayer 
 Unconsciously will struggle to get free, 
 And you will feel there is a purer air, 
 More holy stillness over nature fair, 
 Which softens you. 
 
 How sweet 
 The strain of skyey minstrelsy, 
 
 That floats above you in the wild bird s song ! 
 Seems it to you, the hymn of infancy, 
 Borne on the breezes of remembrance long, 
 When you were foremost in the Sabbath throng ! 
 Those strains were sweet ! 
 
 Such tones 
 Are swelling yet in many a spot, 
 
 Sacredly twining out with praise and joy ; 
 And there s a group oh, they forgot you not 
 Who prayers and tears for you, for you employ. 
 And hopes, that even time cannot destroy, 
 Are in their tones. 
 
 They call, 
 They call you, rover, back again ! 
 
 There is a mound beneath your village spire, 
 Where, touched by love, your tears would fall like rain 
 
182 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 It shields a holy man, your aged sire. 
 Who sought in life to curb your youthful fire. 
 Hear his death-call ! 
 
 In vain ; 
 Alas, you heed not e en that call ; 
 
 Proudly you stand upon the red-man s ground. 
 And woman s tears, that slow and silent fall, 
 Slighted, from your resolved breast rebound, 
 Your free words through the woodland depths resound 
 " Her call is vain ! " 
 
 Farewell 
 Forever, roamer of the wild ! 
 
 God, whom you can forget, his own will see 
 His sun still shines upon his erring child, 
 His breezes fan you with their current free, 
 And his green sod your burial-place shall be. 
 Oh, fare you well ! 
 
HE FOR GOD ONLY, SHE FOR GOD IN HIM. 183 
 
 HE FOR GOD ONLY, SHE FOR GOD IN HIM. 
 
 When Pleasure gilds thy passing hours, 
 And Hope enwreaths her fairy flowers, 
 And Love appears with playful hand 
 To steal from Time his falling sand, 
 Oh, then I ll smile with thee. 
 
 When nature s beauties bless thy sight, 
 And yield a thrill of soft delight ; 
 When morning glories greet thy gaze, 
 Or veiling twilight still delays, 
 
 Then I ll admire with thee. 
 
 When the far-clustering stars unroll 
 Their bannered lights from pole to pole, 
 Or, when the moon glides queenly by, 
 Looking in silence on thine eye, 
 
 I ll gaze on Heaven with thee, 
 
 When music with her unsought lay 
 Awakes the household holiday, 
 Or sabbath notes in concert strong 
 Lift up the sacred wings of song, 
 
 I ll sing those strains with thee. 
 
 But should misfortune hovering nigh 
 Wrest from thy aching heart a sight* 
 Or, with an aspect chill and drear, 
 Despondence draw the unbidden tear, 
 Oh, then, I ll weep with thee. 
 
184 HE FOR GOD ONLY, SHE FOR GOD IN HIM. 
 
 Should poverty with withering hand 
 Wave o er thy head his care-wrought wand, 
 And ope within thy soul the void, 
 That haunts a mind with hopes destroyed, 
 I ll share that pang with thee. 
 
 "When youth and youthful pleasures fly, 
 And earth is fading on thine eye, 
 "When life has lost its early charm, 
 And all thy wish is holy calm, 
 
 I ll love that calm with thee. 
 
 And when unerring death at last, 
 Comes rushing on time s fatal blast, 
 And naught (not e en my love) can save 
 Thy form from the encroaching grave, 
 I ll share that grave w r ith thee. 
 
 And when thy spirit soars above, 
 Wrapt in the foldings of God s love, 
 Is it too much to ask of Heaven, 
 That some low seat may there be given, 
 Where I can bow near thee ? 
 
THE FORTIETH WEDDING-DAY. 185 
 
 THE FORTIETH WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 Again thour t come, and I am here, 
 With faded eye and locks of gray ; 
 
 How changed the scenes of life appear, 
 On this, my fortieth wedding-day. 
 
 Was this the morn whose early hours, 
 Woke fluttering with a troubled joy ; 
 
 When all my footsteps were on flowers, 
 And hope alone my heart s employ ? 
 
 And where are they the young and fair, 
 Who graced that day with opening bloom ? 
 
 I ask, and "echo answers where," 
 Dear inmates of the silent tomb. 
 
 I see them now, the welcome throng, 
 That pressed around my bridal home ! 
 
 The tale, the laugh, the merry song, 
 Like shadows o er my senses come. 
 
 I see them round my toilette press, 
 
 And fold the plait, and smooth the hair, 
 
 And give the soothing, fond caress, 
 And kiss the brow they said was fair. 
 
 I hear the solemn promise given, 
 I feel the small ring s circle now, 
 
 The closing prayer ascends to Heaven, 
 And angel pens record the vow. 
 
 ? Tis gone tis gone the fading dream ! 
 
 My hair is blanched, my eyes are dim ; 
 I m floating on life s closing stream, 
 
 But, /praised be God) it leads to Him. 
 
 13 
 
186 MY GARDEN. 
 
 MY GARDEN. 
 
 My garden, fresh and beautiful ! the spell of frost is o er, 
 And earth sends out its varied leaves, a rich and lavish store ; 
 My heart too breaks its wintry chain, with stem and leaf and 
 
 flower, 
 And glows in hope and happiness amid the spring-tide hour. 
 
 J Tis sunset in my garden the flowers and buds have 
 
 caught 
 Bright revelations from the skies in wondrous changes 
 
 wrought ; 
 
 And as the twilight hastens on, a spiritual calm 
 Seems resting on the quiet leaves, which evening dews 
 
 embalm. 
 
 Tis moonlight in my garden ; like some fair babe at rest 
 The day-flower folds its silky wing upon its pulseless breast ; 
 Nor is it vain philosophy to think that plants may keep 
 A holiday of airy dreams beneath their graceful sleep. 
 
 Tis morning in my garden ; each leaf of crisped green 
 Hangs tremulous in diamond gems with emerald rays 
 
 between ; 
 
 It is the birth of nature : baptized in early dew, 
 The plants look meekly up and smile as if their God they 
 
 knew. 
 
 My garden fair and brilliant ! the butterfly outspread 
 Alights with gentle fluttering on the wall-flower s golden 
 
 head, 
 
 Then darting to the lily-bed floats o er its sheeted white, 
 And settles on the violet s cup with fanciful delight. 
 
MY GARDEN. 187 
 
 My quiet little garden ! I hear the rolling wheel 
 Of the city s busy multitude along the highway peal, 
 I tread thy paths more fondly, and inhale the circling air 
 That glads and cools me on its way from that wide mart of 
 care. 
 
 My friendly little garden ! few worldly goods have I 
 To tender with o erflowing heart in blessed charity, 
 But, like the cup of water by a pure disciple given, 
 An herb or flower may tell its tale of kindliness in heaven. 
 
 My small herbescent garden ! what though I may not raise 
 High tribute to thy fruitfulness in these familiar lays 
 Yet when thy few shrunk radishes I pluck with eager haste, 
 They seem a daintier food to me than gods ambrosial taste. 
 
 And as for those three artichokes, the fruit of toilsome care, 
 And my angel-visit cucumbers that come so sparse and rare, 
 And the straggling ears of corn that shoot so meagre, thin, 
 
 and small, 
 To me they still outweigh the hoards that crowd the market 
 
 stall. 
 
 I own I have mistakenly oft trained a vulgar weed, 
 And rooted up with savage hand some choice and costly 
 
 seed, 
 
 And boiled a precious bulbous root of lineage high and rare, 
 And planted onions in a jar with most superfluous care : 
 
 But truth springs out of error, and right succeeds to wrong ; 
 Mistakes that wound, and weeds that vex, give morals to 
 
 my song, 
 
 That bid me clear my mental soil and calmly look within, 
 To check the growth of earth s wild weeds, of passion and 
 
 of sin. 
 
188 MY GARDEN. 
 
 To nobler themes, and hopes, and joys, my garden culture 
 
 tends ; 
 To that high world where only flower without the weed 
 
 ascends, 
 
 I lift my soul in reverie, enraptured and alone, 
 Still coining links of thought that wreathe my spirit to God s 
 
 throne. 
 
 Yet sadness sometimes fills my mind, as each unfolding sweet 
 Springs up in ready beauty beneath my household s feet 
 For some young hand that gathers now the plants that gaily 
 
 wave, 
 May shortly lie in withered bloom within the dreary grave. 
 
 My faith-inspiring garden ! thy seeds so dark and cold 
 Late slept in utter loneliness amid earth s senseless mould ; 
 No sunbeams fell upon them, nor west-wind s gentle breath, 
 But there they lay in nothingness, an image meet of death. 
 
 Now, lo ! they rise in gorgeous ranks, and glad the eager 
 
 eye, 
 
 And on the wooing summer-breeze their odor passes by ; 
 The flower-grave cannot chain them ; the spirit-life upsprings 
 And scatters beauty in its path from thousand unseen wings. 
 
 My garden ! may the morning dew rest lightly on thy 
 
 bowers, 
 And summer clouds distil around their most refreshing 
 
 showers, 
 
 And when the daily sun withdraws his golden tent above, 
 May moon and stars look watchful down and bless thee with 
 
 their love. 
 
MY KNITTING-WORK. 189 
 
 MY KNITTING-WORK. 
 
 Youth s buds have oped and fallen from my life s expand 
 ing tree, 
 
 And soberer fruits have ripened on its hardened stocks for 
 me; 
 
 No longer with a buoyant step I tread my pilgrim way, 
 
 And earth s horizon closer bends from hastening day to day. 
 
 No more with curious questioning I seek the fervid crowd, 
 Nor to ambition s glittering shrine I feel my spirit bowed, 
 But as bewitching flatteries from worldly ones depart, 
 Love s circle narrows deeply about my quiet heart. 
 
 Home joys come thronging round me, bright, blessed, gentle, 
 
 kind; 
 The social meal, the fireside book, unfettered mind with 
 
 mind; 
 The unsought song that asks no praise, but spirit-stirred and 
 
 free, 
 Wakes up within the thoughtful soul remembered melody. 
 
 Nor shall my humble knitting-work pass unregarded here, 
 The faithful friend who oft has chased a furrow or a tear, 
 Who comes with still unwearied round to cheer my failing 
 
 eye, 
 And bid the curse of ennui from its polished weapons fly. 
 
 Companionable knitting-work ! when gayer friends depart, 
 Thou hold st thy busy station even very near my heart ; 
 And when no social living tones to sympathy appeal, 
 I hear a gentle accent from thy softly clashing steel. 
 
190 MY KNITTING-WORK. 
 
 My knitting- work ! my knitting-work ! a confidant art thou, 
 As smooth and shining on my lap thou liest beside me now ; 
 Thou know st some stories of my thoughts the many may 
 
 not know, 
 As round and round the accustomed path my careful fingers 
 
 go. 
 
 Sweet, silent, quiet knitting-work ! thou interruptest not 
 My reveries and pleasant thoughts, forgetting and forgot ! 
 I take thee up and lay the down, and use thee as I may, 
 And not a contradicting word thy burnished lips will say. 
 
 My moralizing knitting-work ! thy threads most aptly show 
 How evenly around life s span our busy threads should go ; 
 And if a stitch perchance should drop, as life s frail stitches 
 
 will, 
 How, if we patient take it up, the work may prosper still. 
 
THIS B 
 
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 THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY 
 WILL INCREASE TO 5O CENTS ON THE FOURTH 
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 OVERDUE. 
 
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 1937 
 
 MAY 25 
 
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 LD 21-100m-8, 34 
 
GENERAL LIBRARY - U.C. BERKELEY 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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