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 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 GIFT OF 
 
 PROFESSOR 
 GEORGE R. STEWART 
 
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FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING : 
 
 OHEISTMAS, NEW YEAR 
 
 AND 
 
 BIRTHDAY PRESENT, 
 
 FOR 
 
 M DcccxLi;^:. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY PHILLIPS & SAMPSON. 
 
 1849. 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1 848, 
 
 Bt E. H. Butler and Co., 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District 
 
 of Pennsylvania. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Once more the publishers present the compliments of the season 
 to the patrons of Friendship's Offering. It has been our constant 
 endeavour from the commencement of the series, to render each 
 succeeding volume, if possible, more deserving of public approval 
 than its predecessor, and we believe that, hitherto, the credit of 
 success in this endeavour has been freely accorded to us. Permit 
 us then to express a conviction as well as the hope that this tenth 
 volume, will not be found less worthy than its predecessors, of 
 the established reputation and steadily increasing circulation of the 
 work. 
 
 In both the Editorial and Arfistical departments, we believe that 
 
 / continual improvement will still be noticed, and the well known 
 
 ability of those engaged in producing and ornamenting the material 
 
 is deemed a sufficient guarantee for its present and future excellence. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 SUBJECTS. ' ATJTnOR. PAGIB, 
 
 The Dilemma N. P. Willis, Esq 13 
 
 Beauty fades, ^ .: ^ . Miss S. C. L 21 
 
 The Smuggler's Isle By the Author of Tales, &c... 23 
 
 Head and Tail Anonymous 48 
 
 The Tell-tale Wreath Editor 53 
 
 Paquita ; from the French Fayette Robinson 56 
 
 Leoline Mrs. Barclay 79 
 
 Immoral Essays Leitch Ritchie 81 
 
 Night John Malcolm, Esq 90 
 
 The Battle Field Editor 95 
 
 Faith and Scandal Camilla Toulmiil 100 
 
 Marguerite Anonymous 122 
 
 The Pet Pigeon Editor 133 
 
 The Funeral of Saint Columba. B G 140 
 
 The Dying Brigand J. Bird, Esq 160 
 
 Bazaarsof the East J. A. St. John 163 
 
 Taking the Vail Editor 179 
 
 The Owl..... Thomas Hood, Esq 184 
 
 The Dying Mother Caroline Bowles 1 90 
 
 The Painter of Munich Miss Emma Roberts 194 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 StTRTKCTa. AUTHOR. PAGI!. 
 
 The Burial at Sea Editor 219 
 
 Isa Lord Lennox 229 
 
 The Forest Mrs. Barclay ' 239 
 
 The Sleeping Partners T. C. Grattan, Esq 241 
 
 Stanzas from Lamartine B. H. Coates, M. D 260 
 
 Leila Julian Cramer. 263 
 
 Memories of the Second Sight. . R. Shelton Mackenzie, LL.D. 265 
 
 The Neglected Child Thomas H. Bayly 280 
 
 You can't Marry your Grand- 
 mother! Thomas H. Bayly 283 
 
 Reconciliation Editor 301 
 
 Vanity Fair Thomas H. Bayly 314 
 
 The FlowerGirlof the Pont Neuf Anonymous 317 
 
 The Fount of Tears Rev. Thomas Dale 323 
 
 Sonnet H O , 325 
 
 The Haunted Ship Author of "The Sketch-book 326 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Subjects. Painters. Engravers. Page. 
 
 THE DILEMMA STEPHANOFF SARTAIN.. FrOlltispieCG. 
 
 THE WIND MILL SALMON SAttTAIN Vignette. 
 
 THE WREATH GARNIEtt SARTAIN 53 
 
 THE BATTLE FIELD. . DELAROCHE SARTAIN 94 
 
 THE PET PIGEON. . . . ANDRE SARTAIN 133 
 
 TAKING THE VAIL, , . RUBIO SARTAIN 178 
 
 FUNERAL AT .SEA. . . . JONES. R. A SARTAIN 318 
 
 LEILA LEUTZE SARTAIN 363 
 
 RECONCILIATION. . . . RUUIO SARTAIN 300 
 
 w 
 
^ 
 
FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING, 
 
 THE DILEMMA. 
 
 BT N. P. -WILLIS, ESQ. 
 
 Strauss was playing a waltz from Robert le Diable, 
 and the best blood of Austria was stirred in its haughty- 
 veins by the divinity of his incomparable instrument. 
 It is, after all, a world of some equahty. The peasants 
 of Hietzing and the Viennese of the Volksgarten danced 
 almost nightly to the same witchery by the same witch- 
 ing player ; and in that mihtary and music-loving nation, 
 the most refined and vanishing cadence of the great 
 master was as thrillingly felt in the gardens of the 
 suburb, as to-night in the royal palace of Schoenbrunn. 
 
 The great saloon, with its pillars of porphyry and 
 rosy goddesses in fresco, was deluged in a blaze of 
 light, common (as the attache at your elbow will tell 
 you, lady!) to but two saloons in the poUte known 
 world — this, in which is laid the scene of our story, 
 2 
 
14 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING, 
 
 and another in the Palazzo Pitti of the Florentine. 
 The white walls of Almack's, I must needs say, are 
 Cimmerian-dark in comparison. 
 
 It was light within — Hghter than day. But without, 
 on the marhle terrace, and in the broad alleys of the 
 imperial gardens, it was shadowy and starHght, and 
 .cool as the nights are ever in June. 
 
 Come out with me to the terrace of roses, and I will 
 show you the heroine, perhaps the hero, of my story. 
 
 " What a breath of heaven has the rose to-night ! 
 Now, slowly, and look well at the promenaders as they 
 pass. She will be here where wind stirs the freshest." 
 
 And between two worshipping lovers, leaning con- 
 fidingly on each, came the Countess Ermengarde up 
 the terrace of roses. She was looking at the stars, and 
 the younger of the two gentlemen was not. The elder 
 wore the gold key of a chamberlain at his side, and a 
 diamond cross of honour at his breast ; and, with hair 
 shghtly touched with grey, but eyes of undimmed 
 enthusiasm and lustre, he discoursed of the stars to the 
 lovehest lady ever cradled on the banks of the Danube. 
 
 *<They are but gates to the source of hght and life, 
 lady," he said; "and we shall pass through them as we 
 are now passing through this world, in an ascending 
 order of existences." 
 
THE DILEMMA. 15 
 
 A strain of a waltz poured out upon the air that 
 might have stirred St. Madelene in her grave. 
 
 ** Cousin!" said the younger gentleman for the third 
 time to the fair listener, pressing her arm impatiently, 
 and looking toward the blazing windows of the palace. 
 
 <'Hear what the baron says, my dear Maximilian!" 
 
 << There is grave reason to believe," continued the 
 chamberlain, "that there are lesser worlds than ours, 
 full of sentient and immortal beings, who are destined 
 to rise to this world in their progression, as we have 
 risen from theirs, and shall still rise to a higher and 
 better ; and this explains—" 
 
 "Fair cousin," interrupted the younger gentleman, 
 leaving the lady's arm, and putting himself with a semi- 
 circular step directly in her path, "will you do me the 
 honour to take a single turn in the dance before this 
 divine waltz ceases fw ever ?" 
 
 The lady quietly laid her arm within that of the 
 impatient boy, turned him again to her side, and, putting 
 her shght foot forward as if to recommence their saunter- 
 ing promenade, requested the baron to proceed. 
 
 "Fairest Meina!" said Count Max, dashing from the 
 side of his cousin, and springing to the hand of a blue- 
 eyed girl who stood with her mother by a vase of 
 flowering cactus, "you are a truant to the waltz." And 
 away they flew to the dazzling hall ; and, while the 
 
16 friendship's offering. 
 
 pleased mother followed morevslowly, the baron moved 
 on with his fairer companion, explaining, with the 
 increased confidence of a tete-a-tete, his theory of intima- 
 tions of a previous existence.^And the Lady Ermen- 
 garde heard not one syllable of it all ! 
 
 Two mortal weeks, seven days each and seven nights, 
 had given themselves and their events into the hands of 
 history, and the Countess Ermengarde sat in a verandah 
 of her own chateau upon the Danube, looking sometimes 
 at a bow of a moon new bent in the sky, and sometimes 
 up an avenue by which might arrive, at that dewy 
 hour, a slovenly lad in the Hvery of her noble house, 
 bringing (empty, or otherwise, as pleased Providence) a 
 
 The lady's thoughts had just wandered from a certain 
 theory of the musical order of the stars (mentioned by 
 Pythagoras), to a certain spot, which shall be mentioned 
 presently, on the Rhine, when the clatter of hoofs came 
 up the avenue, and the post-bag was safely deUvered 
 of two letters. 
 
 It will be rather abrupt to mention here, that the 
 Baron Asterisk Von Asterisk was a man who deserved 
 well of his country. He had deep, wild, unfathomable, 
 German eyes, full of blue sky and enthusiasm ; and, 
 besides being the right-hand man of Metternich, he was 
 
THE DILEMMA. 17 
 
 (what required study less profound) a most passionate 
 reader of the stars. These two quahties had taken up 
 their abode in a very ehgible tenement ; and the baron 
 (Count Maximihan Von Lurlstein could not well deny 
 it) was excessively handsome. 
 
 It will seem scarce apropos again to remark, that the 
 younger of the two lovers mentioned in the opening of 
 this grave tale, was the Lady Ermengarde's cousin (as 
 cousins go in Germany), that he was nineteen (a year 
 older than herself), very good-looking, very wild and 
 good-for-nothing, a student at Heidelberg, and terribly 
 in love. 
 
 The Countess Ermengarde read her letters. 
 
 "Dearest Lady, 
 
 The star which winds my destiny within its 
 golden sphere is in fortunate conjunction. I have waited 
 for it with the impatience of love, and hasten, ere it 
 sets, to offer you the heart, hand, and name of Asterisk 
 Von Asterisk. Need I say more ? We will read the 
 sparkling wisdom of the sky together, on the turrets of 
 Castle Asterisk. 
 
 Devotedly, dearest Lady, 
 
 Your own 
 Asterisk Von Asterisk." 
 2* 
 
18 friendship's offering. 
 
 The Lady Ermengarde pressed the letter in her hand, 
 and sat lost in thought. She was an orphan, and the 
 mistress of heTself and the broad estates of the noblest 
 house of Austria. The baron was handsome — yes, 
 very handsome ! and would probably be the successor 
 of Mettemich. Ambition whispered with a most cunning 
 witchery in her ear, 
 
 Poor Count Maximilian Von Lurlstein ! 
 
 She opened the other letter. It was from her newly 
 departed cousin, dated at the University of Heidelberg, 
 and contained a copy of verses, and something at the 
 bottom, which the Lady Ermengarde alone (they had 
 learned the art of writing together) had skill to decipher. 
 
 The lady read on with a smile, but with a beating 
 heart : — 
 
 "TO FAIREST ERMENGARDE. 
 
 ** I know not if the sunshine waste — 
 
 The world is dark since thou art gone ! 
 The hours are, oh, so leaden-paced ! 
 
 The birds sing, and the stars float on, 
 But sing not well, and look not fair — 
 A weight is in the summer air. 
 
 And sadness in the sight of flowers ; 
 And, if I go where others smile. 
 
 Their love but makes me think of ours, 
 
THE DILEMMA. ^ 19 
 
 And heavier gets my heart the while : 
 Like one upon a desert isle, ' 
 
 I languish of the weary hours ; 
 I never thought a life could be 
 So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee ! 
 
 "I sit and watch the summer sky- 
 There comes a cloud thro' heaven alone, 
 
 A thousand stars are shining nigh — 
 It feels no light, but darkles on ! 
 
 Yet now it nears the loveHer moon, 
 And, flushing thro' its fringe of snow, 
 
 There steals a rosier dye, and soon 
 Its bosom is one fiery glow ! — 
 
 The Glueen of Night within it lies ! 
 Yet, mark how lovers meet to part : 
 
 The cloud' already onward flies. 
 And shadows sink into its heart,'§ 
 And, (dost thou see them where thou art?) 
 
 Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes ! 
 Its Hght, like mine, is seen no more, 
 
 And, like my own, its heart seems darker than before ! 
 
 " Where press this hour those fairy feet ? 
 
 Where look this hour those eyes of blue ? 
 What music in thine ear is sweet ? 
 
 What odour breathes thy lattice through ? 
 
20 
 
 What word is on thy hp ? What tone — 
 What look — replying to thine own ? 
 Thy steps along the Danube stray — 
 
 Alas ! it seeks an Orient sea : 
 Thou wouldst not seem so far away, 
 
 Flow'd but its waters back to me ! 
 I bless the slowly-coming moon, 
 
 Because its eye look'd late in thine ; 
 I envy the west wind of June 
 
 Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine ; 
 The flower I press upon my brow 
 Were sweeter if its like perfum'd thy chamber now." 
 
 The Lady Ermengarde dropped the fair hand which 
 held the letter of the passionate boy across the almost 
 fairer hand which held that of the astrological baron ; 
 and, with the tender pleasure from those caressing 
 verses still warm on her heart and hps, endeavoured to 
 resolve her dilemma. 
 
 As it was a struggle between love and ambition, I 
 do not well see the propriety of stating the result. I 
 know very well what you would Uke, mademoiselle ! 
 but I am not so sure that it would be popular with your 
 venerable aunt. I shall leave you to resolve the dilemma 
 on your own responsibility. 
 
"BEAUTY FADES." 
 
 BY MISS S. C. L- 
 
 Go ! mark the lovely flower, 
 
 Where'er bright nature sighs, 
 It hlooms a sunny hour. 
 
 The next — it droops and dies. 
 But dost thou scorn its fairy shades. 
 And only mourn that beauty fades * 
 
 When the rich twilight beams 
 
 Burn in the golden west, 
 And paint their glowing dreams 
 
 Of sweeter, purer rest ; 
 Then dost thou turn from heaven's rich smile. 
 And murmur still, — '< 'Twill fade erewhile." 
 
 Or when some glorious star 
 
 Glows in the deep blue sky, 
 With not a cloud to mar 
 
 The brightness of its eye ; 
 Dost thou contemn its radiant light. 
 Because its beams must wane with night ? 
 
friendship's offering. 
 
 Is not sweet nature's book 
 With fairest beauty fraught ? 
 
 Canst thou in sorrow look 
 On all thy Father wrought ? 
 
 No ! who could gaze on those fair things, 
 
 Nor feel the joy such beauty brings ? 
 
 Then wherefore mourn the spell 
 
 O'er all earth's beings cast, 
 And tremble at the knell 
 
 That tells of glories past ? 
 Though our own beauty withers, yet 
 Scorn not its star because t'will set. 
 
 The flowers — the sunny ray— 
 The burning gems of night — 
 
 All these may pass away, 
 Ne'er to relrew their light : 
 
 But living forms of beauty wane, 
 
 In fairer lands to beam again. 
 
THE SMUGGLERS' ISLE. 
 
 A TALE or THE SEA 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF '' TALES AND CONFESSIONS." 
 
 The sea-port town of Mowbray, every body knows, 
 rose, flourished, and fell with the last war. A faithful 
 chronicle of its fortunes would, no doubt, be interesting 
 to the curious reader, but the unthinking many would, 
 I fear, prefer the stories of Tyre and Carthage. There 
 is one incident, however, in the annals of its zenith, 
 which I cannot help imagining deserves a place in 
 history, and it is, therefore, hereinunder set forth, with 
 the brevity and simplicity which should characterise 
 the historic style. No sooner had Mowbray begun to 
 emerge from the insignificance of a fishing village, and 
 to assume a place among the number of maritime towns, 
 than it split, according to what seems to be a law "made 
 and provided" in such cases, into a variety of petty fac- 
 tions. Every man's hand was against his neighbour, 
 and every woman's tongue against hers. The jarring 
 atoms of society at length separated, as they usually do, 
 into two vast masses ; and the moral and political 
 
24 friendship's offering. 
 
 government of the town was vested in the two chiefs, 
 whose purse or principles possessed this chemical 
 power of attraction. 
 
 The Montague and Capulet of Mowhray were two 
 elderly men, whose waxing fortunes increased inversely 
 with their waning vigour. They could remember 
 when their native place was little better than a ren- 
 dezvous for fishing craft, and when the condescension 
 of a Mediterranean bark in accepting the protection of 
 its bay from a gale of wind, was matter of triumph for 
 a month. The fortunes of the place were now mightily 
 changed. The fishing village had become a busy, 
 busthng port, with rich argosies, not only from the Con- 
 tinental towns, but from the West Indies, lying secure 
 within her two quays, which clasped them like a pair 
 of greedy arms. To the free trade, however, as it is 
 called in contradistinction to the fair trade, Mowbray 
 was beholden for a considerable portion of its wealth 
 and importance ; the coast being singularly well adapted 
 for the running business, while as yet no port-blockade 
 had been established. To the lawless habits introduced, 
 and rendered familiar in such cases, it was owing, that 
 a certain wildness wa§ exhibited in the character of the 
 people, and that even in their most common transactions 
 there was manifested a portion of the reckless and ad- 
 venturous spirit which, on a great scale, furnishes ma- 
 
THE smuggler's ISLE. 25 
 
 terials for history, and on a small scale suggests hints 
 for romance. 
 
 The Montague of this place was a Mr. Mortimer, and 
 its Capulet Mr. Grove; the resemblance between the 
 real and fictitious personages being further kept up by 
 the circumstance of Mr. Mortimer having a son, and 
 Mr. Grove a daughter. A bitter hostility had existed 
 between the two families from time immemorial, which 
 — ^^in the chronology of a mushroom-town like Mowbray 
 — means somewhere about twenty years, and had con- 
 tinued unabated up to the moment when the son and 
 daughter of the rival houses had attained that period of 
 life when boys and girls begin to think of love, and 
 their fathers and mothers of matrimony. When old 
 Mortimer cast his eyes around among his neighbours, 
 in search of a fitting match for his son, his view was 
 always intercepted by a great glaring white house, 
 towering aloft among its brethren of the town, with an 
 air of wealth and an assertion of supremacy, which 
 made him sigh, as he reflected that it was the abode of 
 Mr. Grove. 
 
 When old Grove, for a similar purpose, threw a keen 
 and discriminating glance among the smoky mass of 
 bricks and mortar around him, his wandering looks re- 
 turned unconsciously to fix themselves upon a huge 
 red house, looking grim and lowering upon its neigh- 
 3 
 
FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 hours, and by its very absence of neatness exhibiting 
 the careless superiority of acknowledged opulence. 
 The old man groaned at the sight, for it was the dwell- 
 ing of Mr, Mortimer. 
 
 When Frank Mortimer, posting himself near the 
 church door after the service, as was the custom of the 
 young men of Mowbray, surveyed with a critical eye 
 the blooming lasses of the town, as they tripped de- 
 murely over the stones, a quick bouncing of his heart 
 and a flushing of his cheek proclaimed, almost before 
 her appearance, the approach of Miss Grove ; and 
 Frank sighed as he reflected that so beautiful a creature 
 was the daughter of his father's enemy. 
 
 When Ellen Grove, on such occasions, turned the 
 angle of the church door, her proud step and swan-like 
 motion were broken, and her tottering walk, rising 
 colour, and conscious look, proclaimed that she was 
 about to pass under the eyes of the boldest and hand- 
 somest youth in the county side,— -and Ellen sighed at 
 the thought that he was the son of the hated Mortimer. 
 
 The consequence of all this sighing may be con- 
 ceived. The two fathers, far from being inconsistent 
 in their conduct, only yielded, as usual, to the attraction 
 of interest. Under this powerful spell their enmity was 
 forgotten ; — they shook hands, exchanged visits, and 
 finally signed and sealed an agreement, by which Grove 
 
THE smuggler's ISLE. 27 
 
 engaged on that day two years to give his daughter in 
 marriage to Mortimer's son, with a portion of five thou- 
 sand pounds ; and Mortimer consented to add another 
 thousand to the stock of the love-firm, in token of his 
 good- will and further intentions. As for the young 
 people, unlike the heroes and heroines of romance, they 
 entered at once, with the most filial devotion, into the 
 plans of their parents ; and this with so much zeal and 
 spirit, that, on the very day of the introduction, Mr. 
 Grove, on entering hastily the room to break the ice of 
 a first tete-a-tete, was at once surprised and rejoiced to 
 find Frank Mortimer at his daughter's feet. 
 
 Two years, all but one month, elapsed. Twenty- 
 three of those true honeymoons which fight up the para- 
 dise of love, rolled away. Frank Mortimer passed his 
 nights in dreaming of bliss, and his days in enjoying it. 
 The marriage-day was fixed ; the promise-land of his 
 heart was distinctly visible in the distance, its heights 
 ghttering in the morning sun, and its bowers and breath- 
 ing groves sparkhng with eternal green. One morning, 
 at this epoch, a report arose in the town, no one knew 
 whence or how. It was whispered by one to another, 
 with pale lips and faltering speech ; it made the round 
 of the counting-houses like some watchword of terror 
 and dismay, awakening an echo of alarm wherever it 
 fell. A pause then succeeded — still — heavy — terrible ; 
 
»» FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 ai^d in the evening of the same day this was followed 
 by the expected crash — " all that the heart beheved not 
 — ^yet foretold I" 
 
 With heaviest sound a giant statue fell— 
 
 the firm of Mortimer and Co. stopped payment ! 
 
 The ruin of the house, occasioned by the misconduct 
 of their agents abroad, was sudden and complete ; old 
 Mortimer, who was in dechning health at the time, died 
 almost immediately of the shock, and Frank became, 
 in the same moment, an orphan and a beggar. When 
 his stunned and bewildered mind had somewhat reco- 
 vered from the blow, he hastened to the counting-house 
 to open the letters of the firm, among which he found 
 the following,- addressed to himself:-— 
 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 <* Beg to condole with you on the melancholy 
 occasiouy — ^but death is a debt that must be paid by us 
 all. Refer you to inclosed copy of agreement between 
 the late Mr. Francis Mortimer, sen., and self, by which 
 you will observe, that your marriage with my daughter 
 depends upon the clause being fulfilled, which provides 
 for one thousand pounds being paid into the joint stock 
 by you or the said Mr. F. M., senior. Have no objec- 
 tion to sign your certificate ; but, as there appears to be 
 
29 
 
 some doubt of the said one thousand pounds being forth- 
 coming on the twenty-third, previous the marriage-day, 
 as per agreement, would rather decline till then, and 
 till such time after as I may take to come to terms with 
 a suitable partner for my daughter, the favour of your 
 further visits. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, 
 
 " Your obedient servant, 
 
 <^ John Grove." 
 
 This third blow would have stunned beyond recovery 
 a feeble or timid spirit ; but it had the effect of rousing 
 into action the fainting energies of Frank Mortimer. 
 The letter of the prudent old merchant was followed by 
 such steps as a man more accustomed to action than to 
 theory Would be hkely to adopt. He guarded his 
 daughter from the very looks of her lover ; and as for a 
 billet reaching her hand or a whisper her ear, the thing 
 was impossible. Notwithstanding his precautions, how- 
 ever, a flash of joy might have been observed sometimes 
 to illumine her face, as a seeming stranger would pass 
 suddenly across her path in her morning walk ; in the 
 evening too, when sauntering along the beach, which 
 ■v^as the mall of Mowbray, a great, awkward, lounging 
 figure of a sailor, with his hands stuck in his pockets, 
 was regularly seen raising his httle straw hat to wipe 
 3* 
 
30 friendship's offering. 
 
 his brow with the back of a hard tawny hand as she 
 neared him. ; and in water excursions, to which the in- 
 habitants of the place were passionately addicted, a 
 small boat, rowed by a single man, never failed to cross 
 the bows of her pleasure-yacht, while the eyes of the 
 young lady eagerly followed its course, till the object 
 was lost in the distance. 
 
 In the mean time, the waxing moon, which every 
 evening threw more and more Hght on these dumb and 
 momentary interviews, proclaimed that that twenty- 
 third day was at hand, on which the mind's eye of both 
 had been fixed for two years. Mortimer, at first rest- 
 less and unhappy, became now almost wild. His last 
 hopes of a residue being left after payment of the debts, 
 were now overturned; the agreement, which he had 
 been accustomed to think of as if it had been the mar- 
 riage contract, was about to expire ; and worse than all, 
 a new suitor — unexceptionable in age, person, fortune, 
 and character — ^made his appearance, ready to pounce 
 upon the prize as soon as the strict mercantile honour 
 of old Grove should perinit him to give the signal. 
 The very constancy of Ellen, who relinquished both her 
 walking and saihng excursions after the overtures of 
 the rival, deprived him of every opportunity of catching 
 a single beam of hope from her beautiful eyes ; conceal- 
 ing from his view those worshipped stars of love, the 
 
THE smuggler's ISLE. 31 
 
 only lights which of late had been visible above the 
 misty horizon of his fate. 
 
 One day, however, feehng probably the impohcy of 
 her seclusion, the young lady consented to accompany 
 her future lover on a short sail in the bay, and escorted 
 by him, she repaired to the pier at an early hour in the 
 morning, and glanced around with a flushing cheek 
 and restless eye. No answering look met hers. A 
 sailor, in her father's employment, was the only 
 boatman, Mr. Wingate (the aspirant) being himself 
 skilful in such matters ; and the only spectator was an 
 old foreign-looking seaman, one of those fellows who, 
 with short bowed legs, drooping shoulders, contracted 
 eye-Hds, and hands dug in their pockets, may be seen 
 at all hours of the day and night hulking about the quays 
 of a shipping town. This man eyed their preparations 
 with that contemptuous curiosity which is often vouch- 
 safed by such personages, to the small afiair of getting 
 a pleasure-boat under way; but sometimes, with a 
 greater appearance of interest, he turned his face to the 
 weather quarter, which presented, as might have been 
 conjectured from his manner, indications not strikingly 
 auspicious. Mr. Wingate himself was probably not 
 altogether free from suspicion ; for ever and anon he 
 turned behind him a restless and somewhat anxious 
 look, which was then suddenly transferred to the black- 
 
33 
 
 ened waters of the sea, rising in slow and sullen surges 
 before him, as if moved rather by some internal impulse 
 than by the slight gusts which blew from the land. 
 The opportunity, however, was tempting to one who 
 had so long sought for it in vain; and beside, it was 
 more than probable that any backwardness on the part 
 of the gallant might materially injure his character in 
 the estimation of a lady, brought up, as the song says, 
 with "one foot on sea, and one on shore." 
 
 At the moment of embarkation, he recollected that 
 the bundle of shawls and cloaks had been forgotten, 
 which forms so indispensable a part of the appliances 
 on such occasions, and begged the marine idler on the 
 quay to go up to the house and fetch it ; but the latter, 
 affronted possibly at the offer of money which accom- 
 panied the request, replied, with characteristic brevity, 
 "Nein: dat is, no! Donner! go yourself;" and jerk- 
 ing up his canvas trowsers, turned away upon his heel. 
 The boatman being engaged in clearing the tackle, Mr. 
 Wingate was thus compelled to set out upon the errand 
 himself, which he did at full speed. 
 
 The foreigner, having probably more sympathy with 
 one of his own class and calling, now returned to the 
 edge of the pier, and looked earnestly at the boatman ; 
 when the latter, as if struck with a sudden thought, 
 started instantly up and exclaimed, " Shiver me, if I 
 
33 
 
 ha'nt forgot, holloa, mounseer ! give an eye for a mo- 
 ment, will ye ?" And immediately scrambling upon the 
 quay, he scudded off in the wake of his master. At 
 that instant, a heavy gust rattled among the half-bent 
 sails,- and Miss Grove, with a momentary feehng of 
 alarm, called out to the seaman to see that the mooring 
 line was fast. 
 
 "Good God!" she cried, "he does not understand 
 me ! Wretch ! leave it alone !" But the old tar had 
 already, with perfect composure, "hove off" the folds 
 of the rope from the post. 
 
 " Ya, my tear, ya !" he repHed, in a complacent 
 growl, to her exclamation, as he threw the coil upon 
 the deck. The liberated vessel plunged Hke a mettled 
 steed when the bridle is thrown over his head, and then 
 dipped on the leeward side, till the water rushed over 
 the gunwale. The re-action, which naturally took 
 place, — there being as yet no way upon her, — ^brought 
 the mast within a couple of yards of the quay ; and the 
 sailor, springing upon the shrouds, was upon the deck 
 in an instant. No sooner had his hands emerged from 
 the accustomed pockets, than the stoop disappeared 
 from his shoulders, the bow from his legs, and the con- 
 traction from his eyes. One minute sufficed to shake 
 out the main-sail ; in the next, the fore -sail and jib rat- 
 tled up the rigging; and the third found Mortimer 
 
34 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 seated in the stern, one arm embracing the hehn, and 
 the other the waist of his fair mistress. 
 
 The Httle vessel was cutter-rigged, and three-quarter 
 decked, with a gangway all round, for the purpose of 
 working the ship without incommoding the passengers. 
 She was as tight and trim a concern of the kind as 
 could well be imagined ; and in ordinary weather, with 
 two men on board, would have Hved in any sea that 
 runs upon the Enghsh coast. She was now destined, 
 however, to form a closer acquaintanceship with wind 
 and water than usually falls to the lot of a pleasure- 
 boat. The lovers lost all recollection of their situation, 
 in the enjoyment of their good fortune. Mortimer 
 steered mechanically ; and when a more than ordinary 
 lurch took place, the warning was lost in the closer em- 
 brace it authorized. At length, startled into remem- 
 brance by a heavy shower-bath of spray, Ellen insisted 
 upon returning. 
 
 "We may land," said she, "on the Point, where 
 there is no creature visible, and you will easily escape 
 undetected. The affair will pass for a sailor's froHc, 
 and will leave Httle for remembrance behind, excepting 
 the satisfaction we shall both feel in the certainty of 
 each other's fidelity." 
 
 " We shall land on the Point," said Mortimer firmly, 
 directing her attentipn to a promontory nearly twelve 
 
35 
 
 miles distant ; " you shall reside under the protection 
 of my aunt till arrangements are made with your father : 
 he will never dream of opposition after matters have 
 gone so far. The worst that can happen, will be the 
 loss of your portion ; hut even for that I have provided. 
 I can enter the merchant service whenever I please, as 
 first mate, and it will be hard if in a couple of voyages 
 you do not find yourself a captain's lady !" 
 
 Ellen sat stupified for a moment by the abruptness 
 and audacity of the proposal ; but recovering immedi- 
 ately, she-, with crimsoned cheek and flashing eyes, bit- 
 terly upbraided him for what she termed his treachery. 
 
 "You speculate," said she, "on my reputation, as 
 you would upon an article of traffic. My father, you 
 argue, must either consent to your wishes, or his daugh- 
 ter will remain disgraced in the eyes of the world ! Is 
 this the conduct of a lover ? Great heaven ! is it the 
 conduct of a man?" And she gave way to a passion- 
 ate burst of tears. Mortimer could have stood the 
 thunder of a woman's tongue ; but in the rain which 
 followed from her eyes, his sturdiest resolution melted 
 away. With a heavy sigh, expressing at once anger, 
 sh^me and sorrow, he gave his project to the winds, 
 and prepared for putting the vessel about. 
 
 In the mean time, the portentous blackness in the 
 windward horizon, which had attracted his attention on 
 
'86 friendship's offering. 
 
 the quay, was greatly increased in size, and the gusts 
 swept longer and heavier every moment over the bosom 
 of the deep. The smooth and confused surges which 
 had risen sullenly around the cutter, were now roUing 
 in huge yet low masses to leeward, proclaiming, by the 
 volume of their base, the size of the superstructure they 
 were prepared to sustain. Already the ridges of some 
 were broken into boihng foam; and a hoarse yet not 
 unmusical voice, from the whole body of the waters, 
 fell, with a solemn and foreboding sound, upon the ear. 
 Every thing proclaimed the coming of a storm. The 
 screaming sea-birds, as they winged their flight towards 
 the land, hung low down over the surface, as if the 
 tempest already rode in upper air; the cautious sea- 
 men, near the shore, might be observed securing their 
 craft, both large and small, from some expected danger ; 
 and in the offing, every stick and stitch on the sea was 
 stretching eagerly to the nearest port. 
 
 The little cutter went gallantly about ; but before re- 
 covering her way, a sudden squall nearly threw her on 
 her beam-ends. It was no time to trifle. The squall 
 was . succeeded by others in quickened succession, till 
 the whole, blending as it were into one, became entitled 
 to the formidable name of a storm. Ellen, undaunted 
 for a time, grasped the helm with both hands, while 
 Mortimer, jumping fore and aft, as the circumstances ' 
 
THE smuggler's ISLE. 37 
 
 required, took in every inch of canvas that could be 
 spared. It was an exciting moment. The tight httle 
 vessel, holding on by the water, as if actuated by some 
 living and reasoning impulse, — now toiling up the steep 
 of some enormous wave, whose ridges of boiling foam 
 hung high and howling above her, — and now sweep- 
 ing gallantly into an abyss, formed, it might seem, by 
 the. flight of the billows before a conquering foe, — pre- 
 sented a proud and magnificent spectacle to those who 
 were identified with the struggle, and whose fate was 
 involved in the event. 
 
 Ellen, with uncovered head, and long dark hair float- 
 ing wildly upon the storm, stood straining the helm 
 with convulsive energy to her bosom, one foot fixed 
 firmly at midships, and the other anclordeep in the 
 water which now rushed over the lee gunwale. Her 
 eyes, turned to the weather bow, looked proudly and 
 boldly upon the tempest, while a bright glow, called 
 into her cheek as much by the enthusiasm of the mo- 
 ment as by the agency of that unseen Spirit whose 
 chariot is the cold wind and whose dwelling is on the 
 deep, gave an appearance of almost unearthly beauty 
 to her face. Mortimer, as he hung upon the mast, 
 casting a quick and wary eye around him, could not 
 help losing some moments in gazing on this apparition 
 of the sea ; but the helm soon became too unruly for her 
 hands, and laying her down upon the planks, protected 
 4 
 
38 friendship's offering. 
 
 in some measure by the gangway and deck, he re- 
 sumed his place at the stern. 
 
 A moment of inaction was sufficient to chase the 
 colour from her cheek ; and she turned a look of pale 
 and terrified inquiry upon her lover. 
 
 "There is no help for it, Ellen," said he, after a 
 pause. " The wind has veered round to the north- 
 west, and now sits steadily midway between the in- 
 tended point of my landing and the quays of Mowbray. 
 You will see neither my aunt nor your father to-night. 
 We must run for it !" 
 
 " Where ?" inquired Ellen faintly. 
 
 <*To the Smuggler's Isle." Ellen shuddered at this 
 announcement ; for she knew that doubt must have 
 bordered upon despair before Mortimer would have 
 proposed so almost hopeless a step. The Smuggler's 
 Isle was a barren rock, some distance out at sea, on 
 which a hght-house had formerly stood, but which was 
 now removed to the mainland. Beside the risk of 
 going down in the dangerous sea between, if the 
 entrance to one of the winding creeks with which the 
 island is indented, was not hit with the nicest precision, 
 a much stronger vessel than theirs would go to pieces 
 upon the sharp rocks at the first blow. There was no 
 help for it, however, as he had said ; and to the "What 
 say you, Ellen ?" which Mortimer whispered in breath- 
 less anxiety, she answered faintly, " Run !" The 
 
THE SMUGGLER S ISLE. d» 
 
 next moment, the vessel, with ahout a handkerchief of 
 canvas, was plunging, remote and alone, before the 
 storm, leaving far behind the hospitable shore, and 
 diving madly, as a landsman would have thought, into 
 the unknown wilds of the desert sea. , 
 
 That night the Smuggler's Isle presented a scene 
 resembhng a country inn, in which travellers of every 
 opposite character and pursuit are shuffled into temporary 
 contact or coUision. The crew of a smuggling sloop, 
 which had sought refuge among the rocks, were thrown 
 into consternation by a luminous appearance in the 
 ruined light-house, from which the lamp had been 
 banished for many years ; and the captain and his four 
 satellites crept silently and cautiously to the spot. Chmb- 
 ing to the broken window, the leader could not restrain 
 an exclamation of surprise as he beheld a young lady, 
 of extraordinary beauty, standing beside the fire-place, 
 which blazed with wood apparently just torn from the 
 walls. The female darted into an inner chamber at the 
 noise of his approach, and as the outlaw jumped upon 
 the floor, his men made their appearance by the more 
 legitimate avenue of the door; and the party stood 
 confronting, for an instant, a young man in a sailor's 
 dress, who seemed ostensibly the sole inhabitant of the 
 mysterious domain. 
 
 The next moment the stranger was in the clutches 
 
4l> friendship's offering. 
 
 of the nifpans, and Captain Brock making his way 
 eagerly to the inner apartment; when, by a sudden 
 effort, the prisoner burst from his jailers, and darting 
 upon their captain seized him by the collar, and said 
 in a low, stern whisper, — '^ Brock, are you mad ? — you 
 are about to ruin both your own fortune and mine ; look 
 at me — I am Frank Mortimer." 
 
 The smuggler stared at the announcement, but was 
 speedily able to identify the stranger with the only 
 remaining representative of the once great firm of 
 Mortimer and Co. He motioned his men to withdraw ; 
 and leading Frank to the fire by the button, with the 
 familiarity produced by an anticipated fellowship in 
 crime, inquired, ^' But what do you want with me, 
 Master Frank, — and what do you mean to do with the 
 girl?" 
 
 "Can you ask," answered Mortimer, "what is the 
 intention of a ruined and desperate man in seeking the 
 friendship of a bold smuggler ? As for the girl, that 
 was a chance affair; but one that will enable me to 
 begin my new career in briUiant style. She is the 
 daughter of old Grove. On a sailing excursion this 
 morning, with Mr. Wingate, her intended husband, we 
 were driven by the storm to take shelter here : the boat 
 struck upon the rocks, and went down, — every soul 
 perishing but Miss Grove and myself. My proposal is 
 this. Let us carry her off to Holland, where I know 
 
THE smuggler's ISLE. 41 
 
 you are bound, and then go share and share in the 
 ransom." 
 
 The smuggler's eyes sparkled at the bright sugges- 
 tion, and his satisfaction evinced itself in a volley of 
 oaths. 
 
 ''Hush !" whispered Mortimer; "we are now upon 
 honour with each other. The affair, you understand, 
 is to be managed by you alone — I have nothing to do 
 with it. As soon as day breaks, I will throw the things 
 I have saved from the wreck into that old trunk, and 
 carry it on board of you. I expect to find you by that 
 time at the mouth of the creek, and ready for sea. 
 Having thus made a prisoner of me, — prisoner you 
 understand, — I cannot prevent you, if you have a mind, 
 from coming over to the light-house and carrying off 
 the lady too." 
 
 • "It will do ! — I see it ! — I take it !" ejaculated the 
 smuggler, as Mortimer pushed him towards the door. 
 "Goodnight." . 
 
 "Good night," said the latter ; — "Captain ! honour ?" 
 
 " Oh, honour ! honour !" 
 
 The next morning the wind had fallen considerably 
 when the faint light of the dawn first streamed upon the 
 black bosom of the sea. The waves, although still 
 rising in wreaths of foam upon the rocks of the 
 Smuggler's Isle, rolled elsewhere along in almost 
 unbroken masses, seeming to owe their remaining 
 4* 
 
42 friendship's offering. 
 
 agitation more to unquiet recollections of the preceding 
 day, than to the actual agency of the morning breeze. 
 The ocean was no longer a desert ; for some far and 
 filmy masts might already be descried in the offing ; 
 and along the crowded coast, among the still lingering 
 shadows of night, the symptoms were discernible of 
 renewed activity. The smugghng sloop was already 
 at the mouth of the creek, moored to both sides by 
 strong tackle ; the decks were cleared, and every thing 
 in proper order for getting under way at- a moment's 
 notice. The crew were anxiously looking out for 
 Mortimer's appearance ; and as the increasing hght 
 disclosed every minute more and more of the distant 
 coast, a darker shade was observed to lower upon the 
 brow of Captain Brpck. 
 
 The expected passenger was at length seen toiling 
 along the ridges of the rocks, with a trunk upon his 
 shoulders, the size and apparent weight of which very 
 easily accounted for his delay. On his arrival, the 
 captain and he shook hands in silence; and a significant 
 glance from Mortimer directed the eyes and thoughts 
 of his new friend to the hght-house. 
 
 "Shall we stow your chest away in the hold?" 
 asked the captain. 
 
 "There is no need," said Mortimer, "we shall have 
 plenty of time by and by; and the object now" — 
 pointing to the far coast, where the craft by this time 
 
THE smuggler's ISLE* 43 
 
 were seen stirring like bees— "is to get clear out to 
 sea without the loss of a moment.'* 
 
 Captain Brock and two of his, satellites hereupon 
 sprang upon the rocks, and armed with nothing more 
 than a piece of canvas, contrived to serve the purpose 
 of a palanquin in case of need, took their way to the 
 ruined light-house. 
 
 .While they were still in sight, Mortimer stood gazing 
 upon the party with an uneasy look ; but when they 
 had disappeared among the rocks, he turned with a 
 sudden and decided motion to the remaining man. His 
 air expressed perhaps more of hostihty than he intended 
 to exhibit ; for, as an idea of treachery seemed to enjter 
 the smuggler's mind, a shout of warning or for help^ 
 which perhaps no personal danger could have extorted, 
 rung over the deep. The next moment a heavy plunge 
 in the water told what were his thanks for his gratuitous 
 communication, and on the ridge of a broken wave he 
 was conveyed to the land, and discharged most 
 emphatically upon a ledge of the cHff. 
 
 The shout, however, had^sufficed to alarm the smug- 
 gling captain and his two men, and they were now 
 seen rushing furiously back to the vessel. The catas- 
 trophe had been brought on prematurely, and Mortimer 
 perceived no means at hand of severing the cables more 
 efficacious or expeditious than the clasp-knife he had in 
 his pocket. To work, therefore, he went with his frail 
 
4t4 friendship's offering. 
 
 instrument, and cut, and sawed, and hacked for very- 
 life. Every moment the holloa of the smugglers came 
 louder upon his eai;; and the indistinct glance he was 
 enabled to take of his enemies, without raising his eyes 
 from the rope, told him that they had already sur- 
 mounted the highest ridge of the cliff. This singular 
 property of vision which the eyes possess, of seeing 
 without looking, appeared at the time to be more a 
 quality of the mind exercising its mysterious functions 
 without the agency of the bodily organs : he felt their 
 approach without seeing it; their feet trode upon his 
 heart, when as yet the sound of their steps \ms unheard. 
 To have been able to fling upon the work in which 
 he was engaged his utmost strength — to tear with hands 
 and teeth — to struggle till his sinews cracked and his 
 heart was ready to burst — -would. have been comparative 
 enjoyment. But the weak blade required the nicest 
 and gentlest management, and while his whole frame 
 trembled with terror and impatience, his hand was 
 obliged to move like tha:t of a lady, when armed with a 
 pair of scissors for the destruction of silk or gauze. 
 The shout of the smugglers became louder as they 
 approached, and their steps now grated harshly upon 
 the rocks. A cold sweat broke over Mortimer's. forehead, 
 as all the horrors of Ellen's situation rushed upon his 
 mind. Well he knew the desperado into whose power 
 she must shortly fall — he could hear the boards of her 
 
THE SMUGGLER S ISLE. 45 
 
 prison creaking with her struggles for freedom — he 
 could even hear the convulsive catching of her breath ; 
 and amply did he appreciate the loftiness of spirit which 
 repressed every cry of womanish terror ; which refrained 
 from interrupting by the very sound of her voice, the 
 labours of him who she knew was labouring for her 
 deliverance. 
 
 The smugglers were now at hand^ — they gained the 
 edge of the cliff — they threw themselves into their 
 boat, and with cries of mingled rage, blasphemy, and 
 exultation, pushed furiously towards the vessel. At 
 this moment, by a heavy roll of the sea, a sudden strain 
 was given to the nearly severed rope, which broke with 
 a loud report, and the sloop drifted a few yards, and 
 swung by the remaining cable. Mortimer's eyes were 
 lighted up with a momentary gleam of hope ; but when 
 he saw that the weight and pitching of the vessel had 
 no effect upon the single rope by which she was now 
 held, and when he knew that a few strokes of their 
 oars were sufficient to bring the smugglers alongside, it 
 gave way to absolute despair. 
 
 The lurch, however, had had the effect of splitting 
 the chest in which Ellen was confined, against a bulk. 
 The next instant she stood before Mortimer ; and, as the 
 boat of the assailants rattled against the ship's side, and 
 a wild huzza burst from the qfew, she snatched the 
 knife from his hand and replaced it with a handspike. 
 
46 friendship's offering. 
 
 Mortimer was now in his element. Brock first 
 appeared upon the gunwale, and was received with a 
 tremendous blow, which laid him sprawling in the 
 bottom of the boat. His comrades met successively with 
 the same salutation ; and as Ellen worked at the rope 
 with more skill and ingenuity than her lover, it might 
 have seemed that the fate of the action was at least 
 doubtful. The smugglers, howevery used to hard knocks, 
 were no sooner down than up again ; Mortimer's arm 
 grew weaker at every blow ; and at length, quite spent 
 with fatigue, he lost his balance, and nearly fell over- 
 board. 
 
 A hoarse roar of exultation rose from the boat's crew 
 as they extended their hands to drag him into the boat ; 
 and although their triumph was deferred by a lofty 
 wave rising between, when it subsided the two vessels 
 came together with a crash, which threatened to prove 
 fatal to the weaker. 
 
 A shrill scream from Ellen startled the dbmbatants 
 on both sides. It was a scream of joy; for, at that 
 moment, the rope burst with a noise hke the report of a 
 musket, and the sloop drifted to leeward. The smug- 
 gler's boat had received so much injury in the coUision, 
 that instead of being able to pursue, they had much 
 difficulty in gaining the rocks before she filled and 
 went down. 
 
 It is a matter of dispute among historians, whether 
 
THE smuggler's ISLE. 47 
 
 old Grove would, in any case, have refused to sanction 
 the union of the lovers, after the foregoing adventure. 
 His magnanimity, however, was not put to the trial ; for 
 Mortimer obtained an advance on the same evening 
 (the 23d) of one thousand pounds, on his share of the 
 revenue prize. The bond was thus implemented in ail 
 its parts; and Mortimer and Ellen entered forthwith 
 into partnership as husband and wife, and became one 
 of the first houses in Mowbray in the great business of 
 matrimony. 
 
HEAD AND TAIL. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 List to my tale ! An ancient snake, 
 CoiPd on the margin of the lake, 
 His choice repast of pick'rel done, 
 Lay basking in the ev'ning sun. 
 When thus the Tail address'd the Head, 
 And in complaining accents said, — 
 "Good sir, for years, and many a mile. 
 O'er mountain, moor, and dark defile ; 
 Through cold and heat, by night, by day. 
 Where'er your Headship led the way, 
 I've mov'd with steady pace, behind. 
 Nor, to this hour, have once repin'd. 
 Where, coil'd within, you safely slept. 
 The outward watch I've truly kept ; 
 And when the lake you chose to sail, 
 I've been your most obedient tail. 
 
HEAD AND TAIL. 49 
 
 Now sir, in truth, I do not know 
 The reason, why 'tis order'd so ; 
 That all the sov'reign pow'r should be 
 From me withheld, and giv'n to thee. 
 Though you, sir Head, I can't deny 't 
 Have order'd all our windings right, 
 'Twould be but fair, would you concede. 
 That, now and then, the Tail should lead." 
 
 << My friend, it cannot be denied," 
 The Head, with accent mild, rephed, 
 " That I have never known you fail, 
 In what became a faithful tail. 
 It is by Providence decreed. 
 That Tails should follow. Heads should lead : 
 Go, ask the oldest snakes, you'll find, 
 That Tails have always gone behind. 
 But as thou wilt, so let it be, 
 Proceed, and I will follow thee." 
 The Tail, enraptur'd with dehght. 
 Set forth, at once, with all his might ; 
 Down to the lake his course he bent, 
 And forward, Tail on end, he went. 
 The younger serpents star'd aghast. 
 And rais'd their heads up, as he pass'd ; 
 And* all agreed the case was plain. 
 Some strange conceit had tuin'd his brain. 
 5 
 
50 friendship's offering. 
 
 At length, the Tail, elate with pride, 
 Had fairly reached the farther side ; 
 And on he journey'd, winding through 
 ~^ A place where thickest alders grew. 
 
 'Twixt two, though placed extremely near, 
 The Tail conceiv'd the path was clear ; 
 And on he press'd, till caught at last, 
 Between them both, they held him fast. 
 He tried t' escape, but tried in vain. 
 And twisted, tum'd, and writh'd for pain. 
 At length convinced, he meekly cried, 
 **Good sir, I now am satisfied. 
 Pray take the lead once more, and I 
 Will follow humbly, 'till I die." 
 
 The Head, at once, resum'd the lead. 
 And, gliding forth, with wonted speed, 
 Repass'd the lake, and in a coil, 
 Enjoy'd sound slumber, bought with toil. 
 
ViKlK WtSiE A'^u'lSln 
 
•r^/ 
 
THE TELL-TALE WREATH. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 They say he will he here to-night, 
 
 With all the suitor band, 
 Allured like moths around the light, 
 
 By the Heiress and her land : 
 
 And I must bind my hair with flowers 
 
 For one I never saw, 
 iBecause his grounds adjoin to ours, 
 
 And mother gives the law. 
 
 So, I must bid these flowers to he ; 
 
 For each one has a voice. 
 And how am I to know that I 
 
 Approve my mother's choice ? 
 
 The laurustinus in the wreath. 
 Must mark a " token" sent; 
 
 The star-wort slyly shows beneath, 
 For whom the ^^ welcome" meant; 
 
54 
 
 The almond bloom gives ^^hope'^ to him 
 
 Who ne'er a wish expressed ; 
 I cannot read the purpose dim 
 
 That's whispered by the rest — 
 
 I never studied Mrs. Hale — 
 
 (I wonder if he's fair !) 
 To me it seems too bold a tale^ 
 
 (What colour has his hair ?) 
 
 But sure mamma knows best, and I 
 
 Can no objection plan, 
 (I hope he has a deep, dark eye !) 
 Until I see the man. 
 
 They call me Heiress of the Hall, 
 
 Since pa and brother died, 
 Of manor, park, and acres all 
 
 That spread so far and wide ; 
 
 And yet they bid me marry him, 
 
 To double my domain ! 
 I asked if he were stout or slim ; 
 
 What answer did I gain ? 
 
 " Pshaw, child ! He owns half Harrowgate, 
 
 What matters that to thee ?" 
 Instead of heiring the estate, 
 
 The estate inherits me ! 
 
 # 
 
THE TELL-TALE WREATH. 55 
 
 Pve more, already, than my share 
 
 Of houses and of land, 
 Then why should I add care to care 
 
 By giving up my hand ? 
 
 Since mother chose the tell-tale wreath 
 
 And chose the lover too, 
 And wishes wider room to hreathe, 
 
 I'll teU you what I'll do. 
 
 I'll take the wreath to ma again, 
 
 And say. Dear ma, as pelf 
 Makes you love Harrowgate domain, 
 
 Do marry it yourself! 
 
 5* 
 
PAaUITA, 
 
 FKOM THE FKKNCH. 
 
 A STORY OF THE SPANISH GUERILLA WAR. 
 BY FAYETTE ROBINSON. 
 
 In 18 — , I was a Lieutenant of Cavalry, and in gar- 
 rison in a small city in the south of France. I was 
 very young, hut anxious to imitate the officers of the 
 ancient regime, would have fancied myself a very in- 
 competent personage had I not engrafted on the pecu- 
 Har follies of youth the inherent faults of my profession, 
 I was mischievous as a page of the empire^ and whim- 
 sical as any other overgrown hoy. In the words of the 
 charte, anxious to unite the past and present, I assumed 
 with a pipe all the airs of a veteran, which contrasted 
 strangely enough with my juvenile air ; I was I beheve 
 popular with my comrades. How could they avoid 
 hking one who was ready to ride any horse, and wil- 
 Hng to do the duty of every body else, if he neglected 
 his own — who, though never drinking himself, paid 
 
PAQUITA. 57 
 
 always for the wine of his associates — who was always 
 ready to fight, yet ever sought to adjust the difficulties 
 of others ? 
 
 Our garrison was one of the most dreary places con- 
 ceivable. Picture to yourself a city of eight thousand 
 inhabitants, built upon the south side of a bare moun- 
 tain, at the foot of which ran one of those treacherous 
 streams which in the summer go dry, and in the winter 
 overflow everything. The promenades were all with- 
 out shade ; the roads were dusty, and there was no 
 society in the city, except a weekly assembly at the 
 house of the maire, to which, however, I never heard 
 of any officer being induced to go twice. 
 
 The regiment therefore lived very much to itself; 
 and this circumstance was no grievance to me, as I 
 then had no passion for society, notwithstanding that I 
 had full faith in the existence of disinterested friendship 
 — a hallucination to which military men are prone. 
 I passed my time in pottering carelessly over my duty, 
 in reading romances which are not met with in family 
 libraries, in idling on an esplanade where grew four 
 dozen stunted sycamores, or in long sittings at the cafe 
 where, with a long pipe, I aped the manners of my 
 superiors, and listened to the stories of the old officers, 
 about the almost homeric wars of the empire. 
 
 For about six months, I passed a fife which monotony 
 rendered, as it were, pleasant, when we learned that 
 
58 friendship's offering. 
 
 the French government, at the instance of Ferdinand 
 VII., -had ordered a depot of Spanish refugees, all of 
 them partisans of King Joseph Napoleon, to be re- 
 moved from Pau, which they fancied was too near the 
 Pyrenees, to the city in which we were quartered. 
 To idlers like us, this was an event giving rise to God 
 knows how many idle hopes, for we knew that many 
 of these refugees were accompanied by their families. 
 Those of the regiment who treasured up the recollec- 
 tions of the Peninsular war — speaking continually of 
 dark-eyed Andalusians and revengeful Castilians — ^be- 
 gan to dream of moonlight serenades, bouquets thrown 
 through jealousies, dagger thrusts in the dark, and 
 veiled sefioras kneehng on the floor of the cathedral. 
 
 These things touched me, in fact, but sHghtly ; but 
 the same iriotive which had induced me to assume the 
 pipe and, parrot-like, the manners of my superiors, 
 made me wish to seem interested in the arrival of these 
 beautiful and unfortunate strangers. One evening, 
 when according to custom we sate on the benches of 
 the esplanade beneath which passed the road to Paii, 
 we saw in the distance a long procession of carriages 
 of every form and shape, moving slowly towards us. 
 Men wrapped in large brown cloaks walked at the 
 head of the procession, which appeared almost ijirie- 
 real. " They are the refugees, I understand ; they were 
 to arrive to-day," said our major. 
 
PAQUITA. 59 
 
 We went at once to the edge of the esplanade, in a 
 grave and respectful manner: interest had replaced 
 curiosity, and on my own part, I remembered that I too 
 first drew breath in exile. As the cortege defiled by 
 us, we uncovered ourselves. The men, who were on 
 foot, saluted us with an expression of mingled dignity 
 and gratitude. The women, however, shut up within 
 the carriages, gave no token of existence. We sought 
 our quarters with breasts filled with unwonted emotions. 
 We pictured to ourselves the troubles to which the 
 strangers would be exposed in a foreign land, without 
 letters and perhaps without resources, allowed to pitch 
 their tents, perhaps but for a day, whence they would 
 not improbably be driven off again, as soon as they 
 should have made friends and established acquaintances 
 for themselves. 
 
 I Hved in the lower part of the town in a house di- 
 rectly opposite the barracks. The ground floor was 
 occupied by the proprietor and his family, who treated 
 me as kindly as if I had been their son, and not their 
 lodger. The husband took me hunting with him, and 
 the wife, when I was under arrest, came to chat with me 
 in my rooms, and to describe to me the great charity of 
 Monseigneur the last archbishop before the revolution. 
 Each of them made me the confident of their affairs, 
 and never questioned me about my own, which, how- 
 ever, they were not under the necessity of doing, as I 
 
60 friendship's offering. 
 
 told them readiljr without being asked. I was then 
 very young, and only a subaltern. 
 
 On the evening of the coming of the refugees, I found 
 Madam Delpech sitting at the door when I arrived. 
 She spoke to me significantly, and said : . 
 
 "Sir, you return early this evening. Have you by 
 any chance been placed under arrest ?" 
 
 I answered, " No, Madam ; I returned because the 
 fortune of these poor emigrants distressed me." 
 
 " Ahy you saw them ! Well ; my husband has just 
 gone to the Mairie to offer his ser^aces ; you know we 
 have for rent a little estabhshment at the end of the 
 court which would suit a small family." 
 
 " How much do you ask for it ?" 
 
 " That would depend on the poverty or wealth of its 
 tenants. You know Delpech and I are not avaricious : 
 God, in giving us fortune without children, certainly 
 wished us to be kind to the poor." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you speak so. Such thoughts 
 are worthy of you — Bon soir, Madame T^ 
 
 A short time after this, a carriage drove to the door of 
 the house,"and I heard the worthy landlord speak to 
 his wife. I fancied that I heard trunks thrown upon 
 the pavement, and an unusal noise in the court which 
 led to the house of which Madame Delpech had spoken. 
 The noise ceased and I fell asleep ; this, however, did 
 not take place until late in the evening. 
 
PAQUITA. 61 
 
 On the next morning, when my servant came to 
 awaken me and to say that the hour for drill was come, 
 he told me that an old Spanish general and his daugh- 
 ter occupied the pavillion, 
 
 " Have you seen them ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir; I helped to carry in their baggage. You 
 will conceive, sir, how unfortunate they are, when you 
 learn that the old general is blind, and the daughter 
 dumb." 
 
 " Do all you can to assist them, and do not wait 
 even for them to ask of you any service. If they offer 
 you a recompense, take it : the poor believe themselves 
 rich, when they have an opportunity to be generous—. 
 let us not deprive them of this gratification." 
 
 When the drill was over, I asked Madame Delpech 
 about her new lodgers. She confirmed all that my 
 servant had said. Madame Delpech appeared inter- 
 ested in them, and already was meditating on some 
 means to lessen the burden of their misfortunes. I had 
 two rooms, in one of which I slept, while the other — a 
 parlor — opened into the court, which was handsomely 
 enough arranged a V*8.nglaise, forming a kind of garden 
 common to the two houses, and separating them from 
 each other, where the occupants of both not unfre- 
 quently met. 
 
 For some days I heard nothing of my neighbours. 
 It is true that I avoided looking out of the window, as 
 
02 friendship's offering. 
 
 they also seemed to do. So soon as I become aware of 
 this, I begged Madame Delpech to say to them, that I 
 was distressed by their forbearance, and wished to be 
 . no restraint on them. They replied that they used 
 ceremony only because I set the example, and that 
 nothing would be more agreeable to them than to lay 
 aside all fasU, provided that I would meet them half 
 way. , 
 
 Before long I went into the garden with my pipe and 
 a book, and sate beneath a tree which was nearly in 
 its centre. I remained there some time to discharge 
 my portion of the agreement, and then rejoined my 
 companions at the cafe. They sate over _a bowl of 
 bishop with two Spanish officers who belonged to the 
 refugees, and to whom I was introduced at once. In 
 a short time we laid aside all reserve. I spoke of the 
 old general, and asked if it was true that his daughter 
 was dumb. The eldest of the officers answered, <' the 
 person with him is not his daughter, but an angel from 
 heaven; for no one knows whence she came. The 
 poor man needs a guide, for none of us will associate 
 with him." ^ - 
 
 " Why this double exile V^ said many of us at once. 
 
 " It is a terrible story, of which as far as possible we 
 avoid speaking ; but it will be well to make an exception 
 of you." And the Spaniard gave the following state- 
 ment. *' The Chevaher de Colombres, a field officer of 
 
PAQUITA. 63 
 
 the Walloon Guards, was Governor of Tolosa, when the 
 army commanded by the Duke of Berg took possession 
 of Spain. Having or believing that he had cause of 
 complaint, he was one of the first to recognise the new 
 government, and devoted himself to its service with all 
 the zeal of a new convert. Being brave and influential, 
 his example had its effect over a vast number of per- 
 sons whom, at different times, he had commanded ; and ' 
 he was soon enabled to form a large Guerilla party, at 
 the head of which he became the terror of all Guipus- 
 coa, and to his fellow citizens an object of horror. 
 Though not trusted by your countrymen, his daring 
 achievements won for him a reputation equal to that of 
 our own most celebrated partisans. The indomitable 
 peasantry of Spain, who had withstood the threats and 
 efforts of the greatest captains of the age, trembled at 
 the name of one they would have adored, had he used 
 his talents for the good of his country. The whole 
 night would not suffice for me to tell even a fragment 
 of his daring deeds — of the terrible vengeance of a man 
 whom Spain, yet curses. I will select from the long 
 list of the horrors of which he has been the hero, the 
 one which contributes most to the unenviable notoriety 
 which debars him from our society. 
 
 (•<■ The Chevaher de Colombres had an elder brother, 
 a member of the Cortes, and an officer, also, of reputation 
 and merit. The junta fancied that, if they sent the 
 6 
 
64 
 
 Count de Colombres to Guipuscoa, they would render 
 the position of his brother so odious, that the latter 
 would be compelled to withdraw into another province, 
 where, having personally . less influence, his forces 
 would be more easily annihilated. They did so, but 
 were grievously disappointed. After many battles, in 
 which fortune alternated, the Chevaher would have 
 been overcome, had he not, by a strange stratagem and 
 infernal treason, gained possession of his brother. * What 
 would you do were I your prisoner?' asked th€ Cheva- 
 lier, when they met. ^ I would hang you,' answered 
 the General of Ferdinand, as a traitor to your king and 
 country ! * I will be mote humane,' repHed the follower 
 of King Joseph. ' You shall die the death of a soldier.' 
 Within five minutes, the Count de Colombres was shot 
 behind a hedge by five soldiers, within twenty steps of 
 his brother — 
 
 A movement of horror, the expression of which we 
 could not resist, interrupted the Spaniard — 
 
 <' The French army was on the point of evacuating 
 Spain, and with them, the Chevalier expatriated him- 
 self. We know not what he did or how he Hved dur- 
 ing the two first years of his exile, but when he joined 
 us at Pau, he had become blind, and his very life was 
 a burden. Too poor to keep a servant, and too much 
 detested by his companions to have associates, he was 
 compelled to seek an asylum in the military hospital, 
 
PAQUITA. B5 
 
 whither the story of his crime had preceded him. In 
 it he had vegetated for many months in complete seclu- 
 sion, when the almoner of the house came to say to 
 him that a young dumb girl wished to partake of his 
 fortune, and place some resources at his disposal. No 
 one knew who she was, or whence she came ; and the 
 general, though he accepted her services, was ignorant 
 of her history as every one else was. She has been 
 with him a year, and all have admired her tenderness 
 to one who, but for her, would be friendless. You see, 
 gentlemen, I was not wrong when I called her an angel." 
 
 " Yes," said I, with impetuosity ; "but her protege 
 is a monster ! I can not remain in the same house with 
 him." 
 
 '^ Do not say so, lad," said an old captain who had 
 commenced his career in La Vendee ; " civil wars make 
 conscience dull and crime right, and give to cruelty the 
 appearance of inflexible justice. Let us pray God to 
 spare us the horror of a new revolution, and to destroy 
 if possible the memory of those which have been." 
 
 "I approve captain of your charity, but to shoot a 
 brother!" - ' 
 
 "You forget that the victim would have hung his 
 brother!" 
 
 " Own at least how noble it would have been to have 
 spared the count — " 
 
66 friendship'^ offering. 
 
 . " It would, indeed ! Detest the general, if you think 
 it your duty, but pity him !" 
 
 The captain's words made much impression on me ; 
 yet, when I reached home, I was still undecided as to 
 the course I should adopt, but was rather disposed not 
 to form any association with the general. 
 
 -The next morning the story was still in my mind, 
 and I could scarcely bring myself to pity a person who 
 had stained his hands with the blood of a brother. I 
 imagined him to be tall, thin, and stooping in person, 
 with a retreating forehead, half bald, of bihous com- 
 plexion, with a. hoarse voice and ferocious smile ; in a 
 word, hke the only criminals of whom I then knew 
 ally thing — those of the melo-drama. So definite was 
 this idea, that I fancied wherever I met the Chevaher 
 de Colcmbres, I would know him ; and I also similarly 
 conceived an idea in relation to his young companion, 
 of whom I formed a most flattering picture. From such 
 a revery, I was arouse by footsteps in a chamber near 
 my own, and immediately a hght hand tapped at my 
 door. I gave the answer usual in such cases, and 
 my surprise was great, when two persons entered 
 whom I recognized' at once as my neighbours, though 
 they did not in the least resemble my fancy sketch. 
 The Chevaher de Colombres was tall, and his whole 
 bearing was noble and impressive. His high forehead, 
 
PAQUITA. 67 
 
 calm and meditative, wa&. overshadowed by his long 
 hair, which hung in curls over his face, and, white with 
 age, gave to it an expression of dignity and mildness. 
 His eyes, which were rather obscured than extinguish- 
 ed, still presented a certain brilliancy proving them not 
 absolutely insensible to hght. His large, but well 
 chiseled mouth gave evidence of decision, and these 
 two features were the only ones which seemed to con- 
 firm the opinion I had formed of the general. He was 
 led towards me by a young woman remarkable for 
 nothing but touching grace, and a most intellectual 
 countenance. 
 
 ^' Monsieur," said the old Guerilla-leader, in a tone 
 the sweetness of which astonished me, so prepared was 
 I to find it disagreeable, '^because I wish to express 
 my gratitude for your courtesy, I am come to speak to 
 you without concealment." This circumstance, and 
 the frankness of this conduct deranged entirely all my 
 plans. I muttered, however, some meaningless phrases 
 of politeness, and handed seats to my visitors. 
 
 The young girl led the general to a chair, and after- 
 wards stood beside him. " If you wish to leave Pa- 
 quita, Monsieur will be kind enough to accompany me 
 home, as soon at least, as my presence shall annoy 
 him." The Chevaher having said this, moved as if to 
 leave. To this I could make no equivocating answer. 
 
 6» 
 
&8 friendship's offering. 
 
 I told the Chevalier that I highly appreciated his visit, 
 as I spoke, the young girl left the room. 
 .' "Monsieur," said the general, "I have come thus 
 to see you, not to fulfil an empty form, but because I 
 have understCJod that you have spoken kindly of me, 
 and because I have thought it best to explain to you 
 my isolation among my companions in exile." 
 
 '< I am aware of the cause, general ; and will frankly 
 own that it had iiKpired me with resolutions which are 
 much shaken by the noble frankness of your conduct. 
 Have you l)een calumniated ?" 
 
 " If they told you that I ordered the execution of my 
 brother, they have not spoken falsely ; but they do me 
 great injustice if they believe I have since enjoyed one 
 moment of repose." 
 
 " That I can well imagine, without hearing you say 
 so." 
 
 <^ I thank you ;" said the general, with emotion ; '' I 
 am not come to apologise for an act which I then con- 
 sidered my duty as a soldier, but now, since I have 
 learned to look upon it as the world does — as a crime. 
 I acknowledge it, because I think it better to brave the 
 hatred of men — than to defraud them of their esteem." 
 
 Without allowing me to reply, the ChevaHer then 
 told me in detail all the circumstances, not only of this 
 sad affair, but of others in which he .had participated. 
 
PAQUITA. 69 
 
 For five years, his life had been one series of melancholy- 
 events, during the course of which, he had rarely been 
 able to act according to the dictates of his judgment. 
 He described to me, in the most striking terms, the pe- 
 cuhar traits of the people which fancied vengeance a 
 virtue, and ever charged the moderate with apostacy. 
 *i.One party ,-^" said he, '' perhaps with justice, declared 
 me a traitor to my country, and the other, without a 
 cause, suspected my fidelity. On the field of battle, 
 the eyes of dying men gazed on me with hatred ; and 
 in the tents of my companions, the most polished words 
 seemed always the covert vehicles of reproach and con- 
 tempt. On the day after the death of my brother, I 
 was as much suspected as I had previously been. I 
 knew they said among themselves, ' He is a Spaniard, 
 and all that he has done proves nothing.' " 
 
 The Chevaher spoke for two hours, without my 
 thinking once of interrupting him, and without uttering 
 a single word which betrayed the least intention of 
 lessening the magnitude of his crime. I was interested 
 in the highest degree by this confession ; and soon, 
 from mere interest, there arose a feeling of compassion. 
 
 The Chevaher continued, " I have wished to explain 
 every thing to you, sir, that you too may abandon the 
 outlaw if you judge him unworthy of pity. And now, 
 sir, I am ready to return to my own lodgings. Will 
 you have the kindness to lead me a& far as my door ? 
 
70 friendship's offering. 
 
 If hot, be pleased to show me yours, and I will feel my 
 way home by the wall. 
 
 "You may do a third thing, general, if you prefer 
 it to the two you have pointed out," said I, seating him 
 again in his chair. *< Remain a few minutes longer, 
 and I will speak of gentler affairs than your own sad 
 story." His acknowledgments were at once warm and 
 dignified, and,^at the same time, expressed the feehngs 
 of one who receives an unexpected favour, and the ac- 
 knowledgment of a man of the world for an agreeable 
 civility. 
 
 " Suffer me," said he, "to be touched by, and to 
 acknowledge the kindness of your invitation. Let me 
 tell you, however, though I am not astonished at it — 
 that you would be less kind were you not so young."- 
 
 " Does youth only account for kindness ?" 
 
 "At your age, one is naturally doubtful of the exist- 
 ence of crime : later, we learn that it exists, but forget 
 how to pardon it. Men atone for their own faults, by 
 stifling mercy for those of others. But let us speak of 
 yourself, since' you have promised to talk of more 
 agreeable things." 
 
 The old general spoke to me, with rare address and 
 charming dehcacy, of my family, my country, my past 
 life, my tastes ; in fine, of every thing which could in- 
 terest me. I replied to his questions with frankness and 
 freedom, and afterwards spoke of his young companion. 
 
PAQUITA. 71 
 
 '' I know," he said, '' no more of her than you; for I 
 take it for granted that they who spoke of me to you, 
 also told you that, during my residence at Pau, the 
 almoner of the establishment offered ttie the eyes of one 
 of my compatriots, in return for my voice. I accepted 
 the .offer, because I believed that, by the aid of Paquita, 
 through God's mercy, I would be less unhappy. She 
 came at once and took me home with her. Since then 
 she has never left me." 
 
 '^ Have you not sought to find out who she is ?" 
 
 '' How could I do so ? I am alone with her, and she 
 can answer no questions. Why, though, should I seek 
 to penetrate a mystery which Providence evidently in- 
 tends for my good ? Is it not enough that I know a 
 -guardian angel is ever by me ?" 
 
 For some time we spoke like old, acquaintances,; and 
 when the general arose to take my arm, that I might 
 lead him to his own apartments^, he pressed it in grati- 
 tude, Paquita was waiting for him at the door. I re- 
 turned to my quarters, as you may fancy, — with my 
 feelings much altered from what they were, when I first 
 heard the general's story. My association with him 
 became every dhj more intimate, and finally I passed 
 with him all my leisure time. To me, his conversation 
 had an irresistible charm ; the depth of his repentance 
 inspired me with an interest which soon assumed all 
 the characteristics of friendship. Paquita, who always 
 
72 friendship'^ -offering. 
 
 disappeared when she thought her presence unneces- 
 sary, was rarely with us ; and I too began to look up'on 
 her as a spiritual personage— so much so, that I 
 ceased almost to speak to her as she glided by me. 
 Early in the winter, the Chevalier became ill with 
 pleurisy ; and as I saw that he was indifferent to suffer- 
 ing, I thought it my duty to bring the regimental sur- 
 geon to "see him. He was at first unwilling to take any 
 remedies, but at my persuasion, finally consented. 
 Thanks to the kindness of M. Duriviere, (thus was our 
 good doctor called,) my friend recovered. One evening 
 the room was lighted by only a single small .lamp, and 
 the doctor had occasion to ask for another, to examine 
 more accurately the condition of his patient. Paquita 
 brought one ; and when it was placed before the Che- 
 valier, both the doctor and I observed that it affected his 
 eyes, which had been thought to be dimmed for ever. 
 
 When the general had become entirely well, I asked 
 him to breakfast with me, and invited the doctor to 
 meet him. Some conversation ensued, and never be- 
 fore had my unfortunate friend appeared to so great an 
 advantage. He seemed thankful even for the restora- 
 tion of his health ; though to him, Hfe had long been a 
 burden. The doctor said, in replying to him, "I am 
 happy, general, to have been so far of service to you, 
 but shall be far better pleased to restore you your sight 
 -i-than which, I am sure nothing would be easier, were 
 
PAQUITA. 73 
 
 you to consent to a slight operation, which is without 
 danger, and will subject you to but little pain." 
 - <'I fear neither dapger nor pain, doctor; but I have 
 become used to my situation. The loss of sight is not a 
 severe privation to an outcast, such asl am." 
 
 ''Remember,", said I, "some day or other your 
 exile may cease ; and what pleasure you will lose if 
 you then be unable to behold that country for which 
 you have made such sacrifices !" 
 
 " I have no country, my friend, and therefore do not 
 need my eyes. Even were I to receive a pardon, I 
 should not return to Spain." - 
 
 " I do not press you to submit yourself to an opera- 
 tion ;" remarked the doctor, "but should you change 
 your intention, remember I am at your service." The 
 general thanked him kindly, but sought to give another 
 direction' tg the., conversation. The doctor soon after 
 left us. When the chevaher and I were alone, I asked 
 him why he refused a thing which, even if indifferent 
 to him, would be so gratifying to me, and would so 
 dehght Paquita. 
 
 "Because," he replied, "I suffer a punishment 
 hnposed on me by divine wrath, in consequence of 
 which, men have lost the right to molest me. Though 
 for three years I have been blind, I have always been 
 aware that the affliction might be remedied, and am 
 
74 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S .OFFERING. 
 
 grateful to heaven for having thus placed an expiation 
 in my powet." , ^ 
 
 ^^ General," replied I — amazed at the grandeur of his 
 penance^ and with the conviction of crime which in- 
 spired him- — f^ you have suffered long enough, and now 
 that you have the advice of the doctor, perhaps you 
 should consult some reveren^ jnan, tq learn if, in his 
 opinion, your perseverance is not an outrage on divine 
 mercy, and a sacrifice to human pride." 
 
 " Your arguments, my young friend," he repHed, 
 <' awake in my breast much trouble. Is it certain, 
 however, that if God has pardoned me, -it is presumption 
 longer to punish myself?" 
 
 " You should not have entertained a doubt about it, 
 from the day God sent you- an angel to guide and con- 
 sole you." 
 
 .<^But should I lose Paquita after having regained 
 my sight, which her care renders almost unimportant 
 to me ?" 
 
 ^' It would be but one other proof of your obedience 
 to the will of heaven." 
 
 '^Listen, my young friend," said the general, in an 
 animated tone. "Heaven is my witness, that, for 
 myself, I never wish again to see that earth which I 
 have moistened with the blood of a brother ; but I will 
 consent to one trial, and if it should confirm ypu in the 
 
PAQUITA. 75 
 
 opinion that I should consent to the operation, I will 
 not resist. Tell Paquita what the doctor says, and I 
 will act as she may wish me." 
 
 In five minutes Paquita was by the general's side, 
 and I looked carefully into her countenance. 
 
 "My child," said he, "the doctor who so kindly 
 visited me during my illness, thinks he can restore my 
 sight, — what do you wish me to do ?" 
 
 Paquita fell upon her knees with her hands raised to 
 heaven, and her lips half open, as though she would 
 
 " She is an angel," said I. 
 
 " You will not leave me, even if I regain my sight ?" 
 asked the general, in great anxiety. 
 
 Paquita kissed again and again the hand of the exile. 
 
 "My friend," said h.e, "say to the doctor that I 
 await his pleasure." 
 
 The doctor decided that after a preparatory treatment 
 of a few days, the operation should be performed on 
 the next Sunday. The intervening time was passed 
 by the old general with a kindly bearing, not unhke 
 utter resignation. Before Paquita he was silent, but 
 when she was absent he regretted having given his 
 consent, and expressed a wish that the operation might 
 be unsuccessful. 
 
 " You will have a proof," said he, that God has not 
 pardoned me yet." 
 
 7 
 
76 friendship's offerixg. 
 
 "On the contrary, you will be convinced that He has 
 done ao long ago," said I. 
 
 "Well, my friend, let His will be done." 
 
 The day fixed for the operation came. I aAvaited it, 
 you may conceive, with great impatience, and I went 
 to call upon the chevalier some minutes before the time 
 fixed for the arrival of the doctor. 
 
 The general was placed in a large arm-chair opposite 
 the window. His clasped hands and melancholy ex- 
 pression, more melancholy even than usual, announced 
 that he was plunged in a meditation which could be 
 but prayer. Paquita' was kneehng before him with a 
 countenance radiant with joyous hope. 
 
 "It is a happy day for your friends," said I to the 
 general. In silence he clasped my hand. 
 
 "You know that when the operation is over," said 
 I, " your eyes will be covered with a bandage, the 
 thickness of which will be gradually decreased, in order 
 that you may become accustomed to the fight." 
 
 "When I shall have seen Paquita, yourself, and the 
 sun, I will be patient," he repfied, with a sad smile. 
 
 Then his forehead grew dark suddenly, and extend- 
 ing his hand to Paquita, who was still at his feet, he 
 said, " I had rather hear her voice than see unimagin- 
 able wonders." Paquita looked at me with a significance 
 which I did not understand. 
 
 The doctor just then entered, and my whole atten- 
 
PAQUITA. 
 
 77 
 
 tion was concentrated on his arrangements, which were 
 soon completed. Silently and kindly, the good doctor 
 placed the patient in a suitable position, and gave me 
 some indispensible instruments to hand to him at the 
 proper moment. 
 
 Quickly Durivi^re operated; but the five or six 
 minutes he was engaged seemed as many centuries. 
 The general sate voiceless and motionless, as though he 
 were of stone. 
 
 "All is over," said the doctor, " can you see ?" 
 
 The general turned his eyes on Paquita and fainted. 
 
 " He has seen me !" burst from the Hps of Paquita. 
 
 The doctor looked around in astonishment. He 
 could scarcely beheve the evidence of his own senses. 
 As for myself, I was scarcely less astounded. 
 
 The doctor at length said, " There is some mystery 
 here," and resumed his habitual sang-froid. He took 
 advantage however of the opportunity to place on the 
 general the bandages he would be required to wear for 
 some days. 
 
 The ChevaHer de Colombres sopn recovered, and said, 
 <* Take off this veil ! take it off! let me see her again, 
 and then I will die !" 
 
 << Be calm, general," said Duriviere, «'all you have 
 seen once you will see again." 
 
 «One of God's own saints has watched over me," 
 said the exile. " It is Bernadina, the only child of my 
 
78 friendship's offering. 
 
 murdered brother. Now, at last, I see that God has 
 pardoned me. But where are you, my child? Lean 
 on my bosom." 
 
 " I am at your feet," said she, '^ where I give thanks 
 to that God who has heard my prayers. Forgive me, 
 uncle ; I sought you to avenge my father's de'ath, but, 
 from your penitence, I have learned mercy. God is 
 with us. I am no longer, nor are you an exile." 
 
 In 1822 a decree of the Cortes recalled to Spain all 
 refugees. 
 
 In 1823, when King Ferdinand returned to Madrid, 
 Bemadina de Colombres asked for the pardon of the 
 chevalier, on account of her father's services. 
 
 "Ask it, Senora, on accourit of your own virtues," 
 repHed the king. "To reward you, I appoint your 
 uncle Governor of Coruna. 
 
 The Chevalier de Colombres died recently in that 
 city, at a very advanced age. Bemadina never left 
 him. "^ 
 
LEOLINE. 
 
 BY MRS. EMILY G. GOODWIN BARCLAY. 
 
 Tender as bird in parent nest, 
 
 Shielded with care ; 
 
 Leohne ! 
 
 Soft as the down on cygnet's breast 
 
 As snow-flake fair ; 
 
 Jjeoline ! 
 
 Brilliant, as gems of purest water 
 Thine azure eyes,. 
 Leoline ! 
 Oh ! art thou not some lovely daughter 
 Of Paradise? ^ - ^ 
 
 Leoline ! 
 
 Shading thy spiritual brow. 
 Soft golden hair, 
 Leoline ! 
 7* 
 
80 friendship's offering. 
 
 Falls like a veil around thee now. 
 Then floats in air, 
 LeoHne ! 
 
 Art thou a star, for our devotion 
 Visiting earth? 
 Leoline ! 
 Or, did the coral caves of ocean 
 Witness thy birth ? 
 LeoHne ! 
 
 Wert thou of rosy dew cloud born ? 
 Or silver rain ? 
 Leoline ! -' 
 Didst thou the rainbow's arch, adorn 
 Spanning the main, 
 LeoHne ! 
 
 Celestial visitant to earth ! 
 Sure thou must be, 
 LeoHne ! 
 For never maid of mortal birth, 
 Was aught like thee, 
 LeoHne ! 
 
IMMORAL ESSAYS. 
 
 BY LEITCH RITCHIE. 
 
 PRIENDSfilP. 
 
 Of all popular delusions there is none so unaccount- 
 able as that which relates to Friendship. It is a delu- 
 sion of the few as well as the many — of the learned as 
 well as the ignorant ; and far from being one of those 
 Superficial mistakes at which Philosophy can afford to 
 smile, it is a fatal error at which all mankind have daily 
 cause to weep* The follies and dangers of Love are a 
 favourite theme of the satirists, and of those expounders 
 of moral science whom the vulgar call romancers ; but 
 few there be who have obtained even a ghmpse of the 
 true character - of Friendship. Suspicion, indeed, seems 
 here and there to have insinuated itself into the world, 
 hke a sudden flash of hght that is soon lost in the sur- 
 rounding darkness. " Heaven defend me from my 
 friends !" cried pne of the advanced spirits of his age — 
 <'I can defend myself from my enemies!" But the 
 
82 
 
 startling heresy had only a momentary effect. The 
 people did not know what to make of it, and therefore 
 set it down among the miscellanea as a jeu d'esprit, 
 and clapped their hands and laughed ; and the roman- 
 cers went on, as usual, to describe the mischiefs of 
 Friendship as mere exceptions to a golden rule, and the 
 poets to paint it as the choicest boon conferred by Pro- 
 vidence upon the human race. 
 
 The extraordinary thing is, that this delusion con- 
 tinues to exist, in spite of the daily experience of man- 
 kind. If, for instance, you see a gentleman kindly 
 supported to the station-house between two policemen, 
 his knees bending under him, his feet meeting at the 
 toes instead of the heels, his hat knocked in on one 
 side, the pockets of his nameless garment turned out, 
 and one solitary coat tail danghng behind in disconso- 
 late rags, as if it mourned the loss of its fellow — what 
 is his answer to the questions of the constable of the 
 night? ^ . - • 
 
 " How came you into this pickle ?", 
 
 "With great pleasure — hiccup — 'When Britain first 
 at hea — a — a — .' " 
 
 <' Silence ! Give some account of yourself." 
 
 " Hip — ip — ip— hurrah ! Keep it up !" 
 
 " Where have you been, I say ?" 
 
 f' ' Where have I been !' Seeing my friends, to be 
 sure ?'* 
 
IMMORAL ESSAYS. CW 
 
 f' O, that accounts for it !" 
 
 Perhaps on this occasion the gentleman has trans- 
 acted a little business, in consequence of which we find 
 him in a few months under lock and key in a more 
 formidable station-house. On getting out of the cab 
 which takes him thither from the sponging-house, he 
 falls in with a quondam companion with a week's 
 beard, a penny cuba, and apparently the same desti- 
 nation. 
 
 " Glad to see you, my boy,'* says the latter — ^' what 
 are you in for?" 
 
 *< Accepting a bill for a friend, that's all." 
 
 " Precisely my case — a happy coincidence^' 
 
 " Let us be chums then. Don't you go this way ?" 
 pointing to the Debtor's side. 
 
 " No : our position is a little different. In accepting 
 your friend's bill, you wrote your own name, and I 
 wrote his — so I am. for t'other side. Good bye !" 
 
 Having taken the benefit of the insolvency act, the 
 gentleman returns home, and on going in, finds that his 
 wife has gone off — of course with one of his friends. 
 The fortunate man, however, has still a friend in re- 
 serve to whom he flies for counsel on the occasion. At 
 an early hour the next morning he is seen crossing a 
 field, led by this good angel ; and by and bye is brought 
 back to the nearest public house, upon a shutter. His 
 two friends go off for Germany in the same post-chaise ; 
 
84 
 
 and his widow, having lost- her /nenc?, contracts a 
 friendship for the brandy bottle instead, which speedily 
 introduces her into the world of spirits. 
 
 It is strange, but true^, thLt women are more indeh- 
 cate in their friendship than men. A man may con- 
 fide the fact to his male confidant that he loves, but if 
 he be a man of honour, he will rather submit to be 
 torn to pieces, than breathe a syllable that would com- 
 promise her, A woman, on the other hand, betrays 
 every look and word of her lover to her friend. She 
 speculates on the change of his feehngs from sentiment 
 into passion, exhibits his letters, and in short, does her 
 best to «nake him ridiculous and herself miserable. 
 But this is not her fault — it is her nature. A woman 
 is as honourable as a man, but the point of honour is 
 different in the two sexes ; and it is so because it seems 
 to be the fate of the himian race to have their happi- 
 ness destroyed by friendship. Her confidant perhaps 
 loves the same man herself, or her confidant's confidant, 
 or some other link in the chain of confidence ; and the 
 result is treachery, jealousy, heart-burnings, falsehood, 
 broken promises, and broken hearts. 
 
 Let us hear no more of the virtue of this gigantic 
 vice, which is the cause of nine-tenths of the unhappi- 
 ness of mankind. Let us paint friendship as it is, not 
 as it ought to be, and fly no longer in the face both of 
 reason and Scripture. Ay, of Scripture : for although 
 
IMMORAL ESSAYS. 85 
 
 desired therein to love our enemies, it would be vain 
 to search for any command to love our friends. 
 
 LOVE . AND MAilTlIAGE. 
 
 Can Love more than Friendship be considered any- 
 thing else than a delusion, when the object is imagi- 
 nary^ however real may be the passion ? It is not a 
 creature of flesh and blood we love, but 
 
 The angel form that always walked 
 
 In all our dreams, and looked and talked 
 
 Exactly like Miss Brown. 
 
 As for Miss Brown herself, it would be rank incon- 
 stancy to love her two years running, for she is not the 
 same Miss Brown. Not a particle even of her substan- 
 tial bulk remains. The lips you hung on so fondly 
 are almost as evanescent as the flower to which you 
 liken them. The materials of the waist you encircled 
 lafet year with such rapture are by this time diffused 
 throughout the general composition of the universe. 
 She is different even to the eye. She has grown fatter, 
 and, at the time you swore eternal constancy, that su- 
 perficial layer did not form the visible outline of Miss 
 Brown, but existed in a thousand different animals and 
 plants you know nothing about. The Miss Brown of 
 your love was four feet eleven inches and a half ; this 
 one is five feet and half an inch. It is absurd, there- 
 
86 friendship's offering. 
 
 fore, to say that it is the person of Miss Brown you 
 love. 
 
 But it is still niore absurd to talk of her mental 
 qualities as the objects of your attachment ; for these 
 never existed at all, except in your imagination. If 
 you doubt this, marry her ; convert Miss Brown into 
 Mrs. Smith, and you will 'find that the moral dowry 
 you imagined had made you so rich, resembles those 
 fairy treasures that are changed into withered leaves. 
 This transformation, however, does inot take place sud- 
 denly, or you would go mad. Day after day, month 
 after month, unwinds some charm, till, when these 
 Egyptian folds are all cast off, you arrive insensibly at 
 the caput mortuum beneath. 
 
 But you have no right to complain of Mrs. Smith on 
 this consummation, for the fault was yours, not hers. 
 It was not her you loved, but yourself. The ''angel 
 form" was a portion of your own imagination; the 
 divine qualities were part and parcel of your own 
 idiosyncrasy. Your admiration proceeded from vanity. 
 Your love was self-idolatry. The idea that man and 
 wife are one is strictly philosophical, but it is a mistake 
 to suppose that it is the ceremony of marriage which 
 makes them so. They were one previously, or they 
 would not have been married at all — Miss Brown was 
 a portion of your identity or she never would have be- 
 come Mrs^ Smith. 
 
IMMORAL ESSAYS. 87 
 
 This theory explains what would otherwise be inex- 
 plicable, the ill-assorted marriages which are the subject 
 of so much imbecile astonishment. An accomplished 
 man commits his fate to an ignorant Woman — a woman 
 of refined sentiments entrusts her happiness to the 
 keeping of a man of mere instinct, — and all tjiis often 
 without any compulsion arising from circumstances of 
 fortune or station. The explanation is, that the accom- 
 plished man, a victim to the illusions of passion, invests 
 his mistress with his own accomplishments, and the 
 refined woman her lover with her own refinement, and 
 their union takes place through mere mistake. Per- 
 sonal beauty, in like manner, is united to deformity — 
 for there is no limit to the power of this enchantment, 
 — and thus Miss Brown never finds out, till some 
 months after the wedding, that what she had been 
 accustomed to call the engaging cast in Mr. Smith's 
 eye is a downright and hideous squint. 
 
 Tastes have their revolutions as well as fashions, 
 although they may have a wider orbit. If you love 
 your mistress for her sentiment, her moonlight walks, 
 her passion for poetry, is it consistent with reason — nay 
 with constancy — to continue to love her when she cries 
 *< fudge !" as often as Mr. Burchell, doats upon candle- 
 light and cards, and reads nothing with interest but the 
 book of fashions? If it was her downcast eyes that 
 betrayed your heart, her exquisitely slender waist, her 
 8 
 
88 friendship's offering. 
 
 interesting delicacy of nerves, will you stultify yourself 
 by loving her still vrhen she stares you in the face as 
 unblushingly as an attorney, when it takes your two 
 arms to clasp her round, when she marches through 
 the miseries of the world like a dragoon on a battle- 
 field? 
 
 Then, are there no blissful courtships, and no fortu- 
 nate marriages ? A few. Let us not forget that the 
 change described above takes place in both parties. If 
 Mr. Smith still lingers in his moonhght walks with the 
 angel form of Miss Brown, after the said Miss Brown, 
 vulgarised into Mrs. Smith, sits down to her cards and 
 candle-light, the union will be unhappy ; but if on the 
 contrary Mr. S. is fortunate enough to get a Httle 
 twinge of rheumatism, which gives him a distaste for 
 the romance of evening, and inclines him rather to be- 
 stow his legs under the mahogany till Mrs. S. sends 
 for him twice, you may assume with tolerable certainty 
 that they are a happy couple. Some wedded pairs are 
 praised for their constancy, occasioned by similarity of 
 tastes, whereas the whole secret lies in their conformity 
 in change. If these great truths were generally under- 
 stood, the single would not hesitate so long as they 
 sometimes do about giving away their hearts and 
 hands, convinced as they would be that we can only 
 answer for the present, and that no human foresight 
 can penetrate the future ; while the married, instead of 
 
IMMORAL ESSAYS. 89 
 
 talking nonsense about " incompatibility," would hu- 
 mour one another's changes of tastes and tempers, and 
 trundle their canisters with patience, if not good hu- 
 mour. In fine, your grand consolation is, that the 
 object of your love was from the first an imaginary one, 
 and you should not be so silly as to grieve for ascertain- 
 ing, by personal experience, a philosophical truth. " 
 
NIGHT. 
 
 BY JOHN MALCOLM, ESQ. 
 
 Come, solemn Night, and spread thy pail 
 
 Wide o'er the slumbering shore and sea,— 
 And hang along thy vaulted hall 
 
 The star-lights of eternity ; — 
 Thy beacons, beautiful and bright, — 
 
 Isles in the ocean of the blest, — 
 That guide the parted spirit's flight 
 
 Unto the land of rest. 
 
 Come — for the evening glories fade, 
 
 Cluenched in the ocean's depths profound ; 
 Come with thy solitude and shade, — 
 
 Thy silence and thy sound ; — 
 Awake the deep and lonely lay 
 
 From wood and stream, of saddening tone ;- 
 The harmonies unheard by day, — 
 
 The music ail thine own ! 
 
NIGHT. 91 
 
 And with thy starry eyes that weep 
 
 Their silent dews on flower and tree, 
 My heart shall solemn vigils keep — 
 
 My thoughts converse with thee ;— 
 Upon whose glowing page expand 
 
 The revelations of the sky ; — 
 Which knowledge teach to every land. 
 
 Of man's high destiny. 
 
 For while thy mighty orbs of fire 
 
 (So " wildly bright" they seem to live) 
 Feel not the beauty they inspire. 
 
 Nor see the hght they give ; 
 Even I, an atom of the earth, 
 
 Itself an atom 'midst the frame 
 Of nature— can inquire their birth, 
 
 And ask them whence they came. 
 
 And oh ! ye stars, whose distant bowers 
 
 Repose beneath the glowing Hghts 
 Of other suns and moons than ours— 
 
 Of other days and nights ; — 
 Have sin and sorrow wandered o'er 
 
 Each far — unknown — untravelled bourne, — 
 Have ye, too, partings on the shore. 
 
 That never know return ! 
 8* 
 
92 friendship's offering. 
 
 And eyes as here, that wake and weep 
 
 O'er vanished joys and faded blooms ; 
 And beams that (as in mockery) sleep 
 
 O'er dim and mouldering tombs ;— 
 And hopes, that for a moment weave 
 
 Their rainbow glories o'er the mind, — 
 Then melt in darkening clouds, and leave 
 
 But Memory's tears behind. 
 
 Vain guesses all — and all unknown 
 
 To what Creation's wonders tend, — 
 A mighty vision sweeping on 
 
 To some mysterious end ; — 
 Yet not in vain, these thoughts that steal 
 
 Through time and space — from earth to sky ; 
 For they with still, small voice reveal 
 
 Our immortahty ! 
 
nEl^lhlWHE. 
 
 V Inl -f; ili^ AL T II IL t^ If J 
 
■dl 
 
 4^ 
 
THE BATTLE FIELD. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 " Oh, glorious laurel ! since for one sole leaf 
 Of thine imaginary deathless tree. 
 Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea." 
 
 " Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
 Whose every battle field is holy ground. 
 Which breathes of nations saved— not worlds undone." 
 
 ^' Arm for the combat ! our foemen advance j 
 Rush to the hehnet, the sabre, and lance ; 
 Spring to the saddle and welcome the storm, 
 Tamers of desert steeds, — Form, brothers, form ! 
 Little reck we of the cause or the end ; 
 Ours is to fight, — and let statesmen contend 
 Which side the dark claims of justice belong : 
 Strike for our country, in right or in wrong ! 
 Hark ! how their bugle-notes, shrill, wild, high, 
 Echo around us from mountain to sky ; 
 Nearer, and nearer, and nearer they come, 
 With the tramp of steed and the roll of the drum. 
 
96 friendship's offering. 
 
 Who dare face such an army as ours, 
 Steeled by the north-wind its sinewy powers ? 
 Each one is sworn to remain on the field, 
 Victor or vanquished, but never to yield. 
 Soon shall the boast of the southerner fail, 
 Trembhng and chilled by the touch of the gale. 
 Dares he to beard the fierce sons of the Don ? 
 Lo, he is coming ! then on, brothers, on !" 
 
 Such are the shouts as the sun rises high, 
 Cossack and Muscovite gathering nigh — 
 Frank and Itahan, — all eager for fray ; 
 Far gleam the lines in their splendid array. 
 Then comes a pause, deep, breathless, and still. 
 Calm sleep their shadows on valley and hill. 
 Listen ! the boom of the foemen's first gun — 
 "Onward ! no rest till the battle is won !" 
 Loud roars the cannon's deep thunder, and soon 
 Sounds through the valley the rattling platoon. 
 Broad o'er the field, with the gloom of the shroud, 
 Sways in wild billows the sulphurous cloud. 
 Then come the groans of the wounded that bleed. 
 Then comes the neigh of the agonized steed. 
 "Charge !" and they close in the furious strife. 
 None cry for quarter, the game is for life. 
 Deadher the battle-din swells on the ear. 
 Clangs the sharp sabre, and crashes the spear ; 
 
THE BATTLE FIELD. * 97 
 
 Desperately struggling and panting for breath, 
 Foe grapples foe in the vice-grip of death. • 
 
 Hark ! 'Tis an earthquake ! — Though pale without fear, 
 Down kneel the ranks of the stern musketeer. 
 Trembles the firm grotmd, and eddies the gloom 
 As the heavy armed cavalry sweep to their doom. 
 Onward they come, and each hoof-print impressed 
 On the grass of the plain or the warrior's breast 
 Is a drain for the life-blood of friend or of foe. 
 " Hurra for the onset ! What care we to know 
 Who falls for his country, if leaving his name 
 To be graven on high jn the temple of fame !" 
 
 Prancing and dancing as forward they spring, 
 Horse shoe and sabre-sheath merrily ring. 
 Full on the bayonet, ghstening and bright, 
 Plunges the troup in a billow of hght, — 
 Dashed into spray by the terrible shock, 
 Back roll their plumes hke the wave from the rock, 
 Leaving behind them, all strewn in their gore. 
 Rider and horse heaped Hke weeds on the shore. 
 
 RalHes the cuirassier ! Once and again 
 That steel-billow breaks on the echoing plain. 
 Ha ! the fine wavers — the battle is won — 
 Muscovy vanquished — the slaughter begun — 
 
98 friendship's offering. 
 
 Rushing and crushing o'er dying and dead, — 
 Human in carnage, — high tossing his head, 
 Snorts the proud war-horse erecting his mane . 
 As he dashes his hoof in the face of the slain. 
 
 Wildly the shouts of the victors arise, 
 
 And the reddening earth marks the hues of the skies 
 
 As the sun looks oblique with a pitying glance 
 
 On the slaughter-gorged flight of the eagles of France ; 
 
 For the laugh of a demon is heard far away ; 
 
 'Tis the howl of the snow-wolf that welcomes his prey. 
 
 Down sinks the sun, but the victors are gone : 
 <^ Fire the lone hamlet to beacon them on!" — 
 God of my fathers ! Can this be proud man. 
 Made in thy image and lord of thy plan. 
 Patriot and sage, to whose rule thou hast given 
 Power upon earth and an heirdom in heaven ; 
 Creature of reason and monarch of thought. 
 Robbing himself of the wealth which he bought 
 At the price of lost Eden ? 
 
 << Away with the dream ! 
 On with the song, and be glory the theme ! 
 Cowards may cringe at the sound of the knell 
 Tolled for the lost in the battle that fell : 
 We shall not yield to the fear of the grave 
 Prizes that wait on the deeds of the brave. 
 
THE BATTLE FIELD. 99 
 
 Booty and beauty in life, and a name 
 Graven on high in the temple of Fame." 
 
 Hither, thou '^ hero," still armed for the fight, 
 Coursing the field in the stillness of night : 
 Hithe^, thou tiger! Give ear to the tune 
 Glory hymns forth by the fight of the moon. 
 Trembles thy charger with wide flowing mane ? 
 Why threads he so gently the groups of the slain ? 
 Why roll his fierce eye-balls 1 Why drops he his head 
 As his nostrils expand with the scent of the dead ? 
 Unshrinking, this morning, his iron hoof plashed 
 Fetlock deep in the blood-pool as onward he dashed. 
 It was thine, then, not his, the wild fury that bore 
 Thy man-inspired brute amid slaughter and gore ! 
 Aye ! well may thy spear-point be weighed to the ground ; 
 Well saddens thy visage in gazing around : 
 In glory's embrace, to the wild dog a prey. 
 Lie thousands — her minions at dawning of day. 
 They Hved for her — died for her — what are they now ? 
 Shroudless, unnoted, the dew on their brow. 
 Where the long grass, their epitaph, proudly shall wave, 
 With the next vernal sun, o'er the couch of the brave ; 
 And the ox and the wild ass in browsing shall tell 
 Where rest the high hearts in the battle that fell. 
 Fond fool ! wouldst thou ask for each victim a name ? 
 Go, search it '^ on high, in the temple of Fame !" 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. 
 
 BY CAMILLA TOULMIN. 
 
 To the astonishment of "the world," Sir Percy 
 Borrowdaie had remained for ten years a widower, 
 though left such, and without children, at the age of 
 five-and-twenty. Possessed of a princely fortune — 
 tracing his descent through a nohle ancestry for five 
 hundred years, and himself more than commonly hand- 
 some, there is no wonder that he was looked on as an 
 excellent ''match" among the fairest and noblest in the 
 country. His first and very early marriage had been 
 in compliance with his father's wishes ; but though the 
 chosen bride was young and beautiful, and though on 
 her death every mark of respect was paid to her memory, 
 Sir Percy never aflfected to be inconsolable for her 
 loss. And yet for ten years he did not wed again ! 
 Did he prefer the freedom of a single fife, or could he 
 not find one of womankind to reach the standard of his 
 fastidious taste? At last, when that bundle of units 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. 101 
 
 denominated "the world" was fairly at its wits' end to 
 account for his apathy, Sir Percy astonished it yet 
 more by unexpectedly taking a wife to Castle Borrow- 
 dale. There had not been even a hint of his intention 
 in the Morning Post, conveyed by initials and asterisks. 
 All that appeared, one morning, was the simpleannounce- 
 ment of his nuptials with ''Alice, only child of the late 
 Reverend Francis Willoughby ;" and the startled 
 "world" knew not at first in which direction to seek for 
 the further information of who and what she was. After 
 a few persevering inquiries, however, people discovered 
 that Lady Borrowdale, though quite portionless, belonged 
 to an old and respectable family, and indeed was once 
 considered heiress to a large property, which had been 
 diverted into another channel, in consequence of her 
 father being unable to produce some necessary docu- 
 ments. 
 
 After the first shock was over, the busy world began 
 to talk of the disparity of their age, (adding a few years 
 to the baronet's and deducting somewhat from his 
 lady's — for Alice Willoughby was really two-and-twenty 
 when she married,) and then, by degrees, to hint at a 
 sacrifice made for station and splendour. Sir Percy 
 was very reserved — probably morose and ill-tempered 
 at home, — so people said ; and they now remembered, 
 that it had been whispered, his first marriage was an 
 unhappy one : no doubt there were faults on both sides ; 
 9 
 
102 FKTFNDSHIP'S OFFERING. 
 
 but they dared say the first Lady Borrowdale had had 
 a great deal to put up with. So much for the acidity 
 of the grapes; and though, really, according to this 
 account, Alice was rather to be pitied than otherwise, 
 still the five hundred dear friends who laid claim to a 
 place on her visiting list, by a strange contradiction, 
 began weighing her claims to the honour of Sir Percy's 
 hand, as carefully as if he had been a modern Crichton 
 created and perfected for a pattern, and a prize unique. 
 Humanity is made up of strange opposites, we know, 
 but according to " the world's" account, this must have 
 been pecuHarly the case in the instance of Lady Borrow- 
 dale ; for every good quality seemed to be attended by 
 the '^jailor, but yet,'''' ever ready to *' usher in some 
 monstrous malefactor." Her figure was beautiful, 
 certainly, but — she wanted another inch in height ; her 
 hand was the most perfect in the world, but— of course 
 she knew, it, and wore 'Uhat emerald ring" to set it 
 off; her complexion was very fine, but — not of the kind 
 which lasts ; she was considered handsome, certainly, 
 but-^-it is not every one who admires blue eyes and 
 dark hair. Sweet Alice, the wild flower transplanted 
 to the hot-bed of fashionable life ! — little did she dream 
 of the narrow scrutiny to which she had been subject 
 during her first London season, when, towards its close, 
 Sir Percy and his lady withdrew to the comparative 
 retirement of Castle Borrowdale. 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. 103 
 
 The castle was situated in one of the most beautiful 
 of our southern counties, and within half a mile of the 
 coast. The spot had been chosen by an ancestor of the 
 Borrowdales — a distinguished naval officer in the reign 
 of' Elizabeth — and the building, which had belonged to 
 some other family, was altered and enlarged by him in 
 the quaint fashion of the period. It would seem that a 
 love of the glorious ocean — -its thronging associations 
 and heart-stirring poetry, — had ever since distinguished 
 the family. Many of its members had chosen the 
 navy as a profession; and the castle, whose terraces 
 sloped down to the sea, had for ages been a favourite - 
 residence. What a change for the clergyman's daughter, 
 — from the country vicarage, overgrown with roses and 
 honeysuckle, to be mistress of the stately castle ! 
 
 The marriage of Alice Willoughby had been sudden ; 
 for, though known to her by name since childhood, she 
 met Sir Percy for the first time but two months before 
 she became his bride. Her love was built upon the 
 strong foundation of respect and just appreciation of her 
 husband's high qualities ; while every additional mark 
 of tenderness on his part called forth the latent warmth 
 of her own feelings. But it is quite true that Sir Percy 
 was a reserved man : his attainments, too, were of a 
 high order ; and though when first attracted to Alice 
 he had felt, by a sort of intuition, that her feminine yet 
 enlarged mind was precisely the one to receive and 
 
104 friendship's offering. 
 
 mirror his o^yn purest and loftiest aspirations, she was 
 not equallyconscious of the depth of her own character. 
 The natural consequence of this ignorance was, that a 
 slight feeling of awe mingled with her true affection — 
 like a serpent among flowers — and many a thought 
 which her heart longed to shadow forth in words, she 
 repelled from the undefined dread that her simple 
 fancies must to him seem foolish. 
 
 Yet very rapidly was this barrier — icy though trifling 
 — ^melting away ; and even a few days of retirement at 
 the castle after their London gaiety, did wonders towards 
 effecting a change. Xiady Borrowdale was gratified, at 
 first almost astonished, that in their long rides and 
 rambles Sir Percy would listen to her observations on 
 the scenes they visited with interest and attention : thus 
 emboldened she often grew eloquent till she blushed as 
 she recognized the joy and admiration which sparkled 
 in her husband's countenance. Graver subjects, too, 
 were sometimes discussed; and though Sir Percy 
 smiled to discover how often the simple acuteness of 
 her own mind arrived at the conclusions of philosophers, 
 it was not the fool's smile at woman's wit, but one of 
 pure rejoicing that he had. indeed found ^' a help meet 
 for him." Yes, the shadowy barrier was quickly 
 melting, and they were already the happiest of the 
 happy. 
 
 Lady Borrowdale was passionately fond of art, and 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. 105 
 
 indeed somewhat skilled in using the pencil herself; 
 no wonder then that a favourite haunt of hers was the 
 picture gallery of the castle. One morning she was 
 sauntering there while Sir Percy read his letters, pre- 
 paratory to their proposed stroll on the beach, when he 
 surprised her in a deep reverie before the portrait of 
 his first wife. The painting was by Lawrence, and 
 sufficiently beautiful to have arrested the gaze of one 
 less enthusiastic than Alice ; but so entranced was she 
 that she did not hear Sir Percy's approaching footsteps, 
 and was only aroused by his passing an arm round her 
 waist, and saying, as he drew her aflfectionately towards 
 him, ^'Why is my Alice so absorbed?" 
 
 She looked into his face with a smile full of truth 
 and confidence, as she replied, <' I was wondering if she 
 ever were as dear — or dearer to you than I !" 
 
 ^' AHce, you will not be jealous of the dead, if I own 
 to you that I once loved her — deeply — passionately ; 
 but it was reserved for you, dearest, to realize my 
 dreams, and make me supremely happy." 
 
 ''Was she unamiable?" murmured Alice. 
 
 ''No. The secret of our wretchedness was, that 
 she could not love me." 
 
 " Not love you '." 
 
 "Even so. Her heart was wholly another's; she 
 consented to marry. me, at the earnest entreaty of her 
 
 9* 
 
106 friendship's offering. 
 
 parents, and in consequence of false representations of 
 her lover's unworthiness. But within a month of our 
 bridal, accident discovered to her the cruel deception 
 which had been practised, and her agony was such that 
 further concealment, even if she attempted it, proved 
 vain. Thenceforth we were twain ; for though more 
 than once during the last four years of her hfe I tried 
 to play the wooer, I found she had no heart to give. 
 Latterly, indeed, I suspect her reason gave way, though 
 well she knew if half my fortune could have purchased 
 a release for her, it should have been gained. We 
 were both too proud to take the busy Avorld into our 
 confidence ; but you cannot wonder that I long hesitated 
 in making a second choice. Do you know, dearest, 
 that I satisfied myself from your aunt, who had been 
 your companion from childhood, that you had never 
 loved, before I suffered myself to think of taking the 
 little Wild Rose to my heart." 
 
 <'Wild Rose" was one of the many pet names Sir 
 Percy had bestowed on his bride ; yet somehow or other 
 Ahce did not at that moment exactly hke the application 
 of it. In connection with the story she had just heard, 
 it seemed painfuUy to remind her of his probable reasons 
 for taking a wife from a country parsonage, instead of 
 seeking for one in the haunts of fashion. Feelings, 
 too, which will by-and-by be d^velopfed, flashed across 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. 107 
 
 her mind, and a tear fell upon Sir Percy's hand as she 
 raised it to her lips, and said, in faltering accents, "You 
 know I love you." 
 
 He did not see her face, for bonnet and veil were on 
 in readiness for the promised walk ; but he felt the tear, 
 and chiding himself for the cause, he exclaimed, "No 
 more of such dismal stories : I must tell you the letters 
 I have received — there are several enclosures for ^ your 
 ladyship ;' and I doubt not our invitations are accepted. 
 We shall have the castle full of visitors next week ; but 
 let me whisper — it is too inhospitable • thought for 
 louder expression — I almost wish these visits over, that 
 we may again be alone. But come, you are ready for 
 our walk." ^ 
 
 "I wonder what our young hostess can find so 
 attractive in that miserable hut, down by the shingles," 
 was the exclamation of Lady Maria Skipton, a spinster 
 of about thirty, and one of the party at Castle Borrow- 
 dale. 
 
 " Does she find it very attractive ?" repHed an 
 " Honourable Captain," for whom Lady Maria was at 
 that moment netting a purse. 
 
 "I suppose so, for to my certain knowledge this is 
 the third morning she has spent the best part of an hour 
 there." 
 
108 friendship's offering, 
 
 " The fisherman, Grant, arid his wife are in some 
 sort proteges of Lady Borrowdale," said Mrs. Damer, 
 the most sensible, as she was the most elegant woman 
 of the party; "the wife being no other than < nurse 
 Margery,' of whom I think you have more than once 
 heard our sweet hostess «peak." 
 
 "Oh!" murmured Lady Maria, so//o voce, though 
 her inquiring mind was not altogether satisfied on the 
 subject. 
 
 In one of the drawing-room windows at Castle 
 Borrowdale •Ivas fixed a very fine telescope ; and 
 excusing herself on some sHght pretence from joining 
 the rest of the party, who were bent on riding and 
 boating, there did Lady Maria Skipton station herself 
 the following morning. The castle stood on so great 
 an acchvity, that the glass swept the coast for miles ; 
 but though her ladyship paid a few minutes' attention 
 to the party in the boat, she found nothing satisfactory 
 in witnessing their quietness, and so pointed the glass 
 at once in the direction of the fisherman's cottage. 
 Exemplary was her patience— pity it was not tested on 
 a more praiseworthy occasion ! Once or twice she 
 resumed her netting ; but after a few stitches always 
 rose to continue her watch. It would seem that her 
 expectations, whatever they might be, were at last 
 verified, for suddenly she exclaimed to herself, "I 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. 109 
 
 knew there was a mystery !" Then shifting the tele- 
 scope very shghtly, she again peered through it with 
 apparently increased interest. 
 
 . It was evening. The glorious autumn moon shone 
 forth in all its splendour, bathing the noble cattle and 
 its princely domains in a flood of Kght. The day had 
 been sultry, and after dinner some of the ladies walked 
 out on a beautiful terrace, on to which Lady Borrow- 
 dale's boudoir opened. Distinctly might be heard the 
 waves breaking on the shingles, while ocean lay gazing 
 <^with its great round eye" to heaven before them. It 
 was an exquisite scene — one that, where there is a 
 heart to be touched, must awake its best sensibilities. 
 But thus spoke Lady Maria: "Now my dear Mrs. 
 Damer, don't be poetical, for I have something most 
 matter-of-fact to tell you. Indeed I have been watching 
 all day for an opportunity of speaking to you, and now 
 that Lady Bprrowdale and your sister have gone down 
 to the lawn, we can avoid meeting them for a few 
 minutes with ease." 
 
 "I am not at all in a matter-of-fact humour," said 
 Mrs. Damer, with a smile, "listening to the sea's rich 
 music beneath this glorious sky." 
 
 "Well ! but hsten to me.. Did you notice how con- 
 fused Lady Borrowdale was at dinner to-day, when I 
 pretended to think it was Captain Howard with whom 
 she was walking on the beach this morning ? He, with 
 
110 friendship's offering. 
 
 all a sailor's bluntness, denied having had that honour, 
 of which I was quite awaxe before I spoke." 
 
 *'Now you mention it," returned Mrs. Darner, ''I 
 think she did colour slightly; but what of that?" 
 
 *'/ could tell you a great deal of it," continued the 
 spinster, ^' and I think I ought to do so, since, though 
 I dare say no older than myself," (Mrs. Damer was 
 five years her junior,) <'you are the only married lady 
 here." 
 
 .^'Good heavens ! Lady Maria, what do you mean ?" 
 
 ** Listen! I saw Lady Borrowdale walking with a 
 stranger in the garden behind the fisherman's cottage, 
 and I am certain, from the manner in which she raised 
 her handkerchief to her face, that she was in tears ; 
 there was an infant, too, brought out by the fisherman's 
 wife, which she took in her arms and fondled." 
 
 " Most probably it was the child of her old servant," 
 replied Mrs. Damer, *'I see nothing wonderful in that." 
 
 "No such thing; Margery Grant has no children of 
 her own." 
 
 "At all events, it does not concern us," continued 
 Mrs. Damer, apparently quite relieved at finding that 
 the communication was nothing more dreadful. 
 
 " But I think it does," returned the pertinacious 
 lady — ^" I have a great regard for Sir Percy ;" (rumour 
 said Lady Maria, a few years before, had set her cap 
 very desperately at the baronet,) " in my opinion, he 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. Ill 
 
 has made a very imprudent marriage, and I should not 
 be a bit surprised if his parvenue wife, chit as she is, 
 proves no better than she should be !" 
 
 ^' Hush ! hush !" said Mrs. Damer^ «' I cannot listen 
 to such slander. Lady Bofrowdale is our hostess — a 
 gentlewoman in every thing ; and, I would stake my 
 own character, pure in heart and conduct. Lady Maria, 
 no more of this; we had better return to the drawing- 
 room." m ' ~ 
 
 A wonderful interest Lady Maria' Skipton must have 
 taken in all the outward-bound vessels ; for she really 
 spent a large portion of her mornings at the telescope — 
 watching the shipping, we suppose. How learnedly 
 she talked, too, of--— sdhooners, — brigs, — ^barks, — and 
 three-deckers,-^according to the various classifications 
 of the genus " ship." Whether she received it or not, 
 she certainly might have earned the compliment we 
 heard paid to a dear friend .of ours by a rough old 
 sailor, on his witnessing her nautical acumen and 
 enthusiasm, '' Bless your bright eyes, you deserve to 
 be an admiral's lady !" — a dignity, which was no 
 doubt, in his estimation, the most enviable which could 
 fall to the lot of womankind. Yet thrice, when all the 
 rest of the party were absent. Lady Maria suddenly 
 required Sir Percy's aid in the arrangement of the 
 glass — the last time, however, was fatal to her future 
 pleasure, for after using it for some time with a sort of 
 
112 
 
 painful interest, he took the telescope to pieces without 
 a previous word of his intention, and actually put a lens 
 in his pocket on the plea that there was a flaw in it. 
 
 But let us take a peep at the fisherman's cottage, 
 and listen to a conversation of which Lady Maria, with 
 all her diligence, was unable to gather the purport. 
 Seated on a rustic bench was Lady Borrowdale, 
 evidently in tears, while near her, in deep mourning, 
 stood a handliome gentlemanlike man of about thirty ; 
 he had been speaking with some earnestness, when 
 Lady Borrowdale replied, ^'The struggle of the last 
 week has been almost beyond my strength, both of 
 mind and body. Oh ! George, why did I not at first 
 make my kind, generous husband your friend, instead 
 of meeting you thus by stealth, teaching these poor 
 people a lesson of deception, and forfeiting my own 
 self-esteem?" 
 
 " Because, Alice, my sister ! you had not courage to 
 spurn the outcast and prodigal,. when in the depth of 
 his affliction he threw himself before you. The old 
 leaven is in me," he continued, stamping with violence : 
 " I will not show myself as a beggar to your haughty 
 husband. And I am worse than a beggar ; the imputa- 
 tion of dishonour clings to me till I can prove my 
 innocence." ' 
 
 f^You forget," said Alice tenderly, and laying her 
 hand on his arm, ^'that it is only your generosity to 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. 113 
 
 me which prevents your character being cleared imme- 
 diately. Oh, those foolish — foohsh letters! — yet, 
 George, you know it was a silly, girlish fancy, and that 
 I never loved him; nay ; that /was the one to break off 
 our childish engagement." - 
 
 <'Fool that I was, after recovering them, to keep 
 them !" cried the stranger ; '' yet greater was the folly 
 in placing them in the iron chest. — I dare not return to 
 open it myself — and for your sake, Alice, I will not 
 send another. Say, would you rather delay for years, 
 perhaps fail altogether, in the recovery of your father's 
 rights, than suffer your husband to know — sincegihis 
 prejudices are so strong — of your former engagement 
 to ?" 
 
 <'0h! much rather." 
 
 Without another word, George Rushbrook walked 
 a few steps to the beach, and flung a key into the 
 ocean; then murmuring, "You will not let my httle 
 Alice want," he moved away. 
 
 *'Very sudden. Lady Borrowdale's illness!" ex- 
 claimed Lady Maria Skipton, a few hours after the 
 events of the last chapter. 
 
 <' I do not think so," said Mrs. Damer, <^ for she has 
 been looking wretchedly ill the last four or five days." 
 
 "Do you think we ought to continue our visit?" 
 returned Lady Maria. 
 
 10 
 
114 friendship's offering. 
 
 <^ Sir Percy seems anxiously to wish it; for though 
 distracted at Lady Borrowdale's illness, he told me he 
 had urgent reasons for desiring that the party should 
 not be broken up." 
 
 It was quite true that Lady Borrowdale's frame had 
 &unk beneath the strong mental excitement she had 
 undergone. One fainting fit followed another ; medical 
 attendants were called in, and Sir Percy hung over his 
 idolized Alice, in a state of mind bordering on distrac- 
 tion ; for many were the wild and crowding cares which 
 increased his agony. Towards evening she grew 
 mor^ composed, and fell into a light slumber. Sir Percy 
 alone keeping watch beside her. Many broken excla- 
 mations of affection escaped her; and when he took 
 her hand in his, though still without disturbing her, 
 she grasped it warmly. When she did awake, she 
 looked up fondly as she said, 
 
 " Have I been talking, Percy — and what, about ?" 
 
 <' Nothing, dearest, but that which made me happy 
 to hear." 
 
 "Ohybut I have a secret — I must tell you— even 
 though you should not forgive me — and yet it is not 
 my fault — I did not deceive you. Yes, I can tell you 
 now that we are again alone — now those people are 
 gone." 
 
 " No one is gone, Alice." 
 
 <* No ! then I dreamed they were ; but I will tell you 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. 115 
 
 — now at once — give me your hand, feel how my heart 
 beats." • 
 
 " You must have, rest and quiet, you must not speak, 
 dearest. Your husband has faith in you, and beheves 
 that you have nothing to tell him which he can blush 
 to hear." v ^ 
 
 " Bless you for yOur faith !" and she turned on her 
 pillow and was silent — though now she was reheved by 
 tears. 
 
 It was the following morning. The. invalid had 
 been removed to her boudoir, and reclined on a couch ; 
 Sir Percy was seated by her side, his hand again in 
 hers. 
 
 ** You remember my telHng you of my half-brother," 
 said Lady Boftowdale, <^ and relating to you that I had 
 not seen him for three years ; although I had heard of 
 his marriage with one far beneath him in station ?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 " His was always a complicated character, wild and 
 impetuous in action, constant but in one thing-r— his 
 affection to me. He was brought up to the law, and 
 long ago became convinced that the certificates requisite 
 
 to estabhsh my father's claim to the estate of S 
 
 were to be obtained. He devoted, I know, much time 
 to the investigation of our claims, but only within this 
 week have I heard how successful he has been." 
 
116 friendship's offering. 
 
 " Then it was your brother with whom I saw you 
 yesterday ?" interrupted Sir Per?y. 
 
 " You saw me ! and did not scorn me !" 
 
 "Ahce, I had faith — though, that you should have a 
 secret pained me." 
 
 " But George, from a choice of unworthy associates, 
 has become charged with a share in a nefarious money 
 transaction now occupying' the attention of the pubhc, 
 though he assures me — and oh ! I know that whatever 
 his faults, he is not dishonourable — that documents 
 in which he repudiates his partner's intentions, are in 
 the same iron chest which contains the certificates. 
 But he dares not show himself in London till proofs are 
 estabhshed ; and he was on his way to France, intending 
 thence to send a confidential agent with his keys, when 
 the accident of the nurse who attended his motherless 
 child refusing to accompany him further, brought to 
 mind the fact that our old servant Margery was settled 
 in the neighbourhood. He placed his infant in her 
 hands with confidence, intrusting a message to me, for 
 he was too proud to present himself at the castle in 
 poverty and disgrace. It was by accident we met at 
 the cottage, and — and — if it had been a fortnight ago, 
 when we were alone, or before you told me the story 
 of the first Lady Borrowdale, indeed Percy I could 
 never have kept the secret ; but — oh ! I have more, 
 much more !" 
 
FArrH AND SCANDAL. 117 
 
 ~ At that moment there was a tap at the door. A 
 servant entered: *'My Lady — dame Margery Grant 
 begs to be admitted — having something, she desires me 
 to say, very urgent to communicate." 
 
 ^^ Admit her," said Lady Borrowdale, casting an 
 appeahng look to her husband. "What happiness," 
 she added, '< that whether good or evil, her tidings may 
 be deHvered in your presence !" 
 
 Margery's handsome face sparkled with joyful 
 astonishment, as Lady Borrowdale bade her say every 
 thing she had to say, in the presence of Sir Percy. 
 
 ''Dear Miss Alice — I mean ^my lady,'" said the 
 affectionate creature, ''it does my heart good to find 
 the secret's out, whatever it was about. Of course, as 
 I said to my good man, it was our bounden duty to 
 keep it safe — and being two of us, you see, to talk about 
 it together, it wasn't so difficult — as it was your lady- 
 ship's wish, and poor Mr. George— though he was 
 before my service in the family — was in trouble of some 
 kind or another — and the dear baby took to me so from 
 the first—" 
 
 But the anxious Ahce interrupted Margery by ex- 
 claiming, " My brother ! — has he heard of my illness- 
 did he send you?" 
 
 "Alas ! Miss — my lady, we have not. seen him this 
 morning. He must have left the cotage at a very early 
 hour, nor somehow, from what he said last night, do I 
 10* 
 
118 friendship's offering. 
 
 think he will return. My good man fancies he must 
 have been taken up 'by one of the foreign steamers 
 which he made out with his glass. But what I made 
 bold to come up to the castle about was the key — 'I am 
 sure it is the identical one he threw into the water 
 yesterday, and behold, by the wisdom of Providence, the 
 tide last night left it within five yards of the cottage ! I 
 was sure, my lady, you valued the key — so here it is." 
 ,' <<And now, dearest, what are we to do with this 
 mysterious key," said Sir Percy, when once more they 
 were alone, ^' shall it be sealed up until you hear some 
 account of your brother ?" 
 
 ** No !" said Lady Borrowdale, half rising from her 
 couch, as if with her firm resolution she had recovered 
 health and strength. " No, you alone have the right 
 to open that chest, for there are papers in it which 
 concern me. All I ask — and I would sue for your 
 compliance on my knees — is that I may be by your 
 side. It must be immediately, for I can know no peace 
 till it is over — why not to-night — ^by railroad — for the 
 chest is imbedded in the wall — a secret panel — and we 
 miifet go to it ?" 
 
 ^'Good heavens, Alice!" exclaimed Sir Percy, 
 trembling and turning pale with emotion, "there must 
 be some dreadful mystery — do I guress the fearful 
 riddle ? — ^my fatal doom !-^you have loved before — and 
 there are letters !" 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. 119 
 
 " Nc — no— not loved — believe me, never ! — never," 
 cried Alice, sinking on her knees, and twining her 
 arms round her husband. ^' I was engaged to one who 
 was unworthy — but I awoke from the delusion — I was 
 the one to break off our intercourse — your wife was 
 not cast off by another ! — Hear me ! — look at me ! or I 
 shall lose my reason," continued Lady Borrowdale, 
 while she succeeded in removing Sir Percy's hands 
 from the death-hke countenance which he had buried 
 in them. *' Hear me, even at this moment of agony, 
 offer up thanksgiving that I am your wife — that I dare 
 and can tell, and prove to you, how wholly I am yours. 
 Had you questioned me before our maTriage, I should 
 have told you the truth ; but I could not have urged it 
 passionately as I do now. I should have lost you ! 
 Percy ! — Percy, hear me — answer me, one word of 
 love — of the faith you had in me yesterday." 
 
 And it was spoken from the heart at last ! But who 
 shall tell how fierce that momentary struggle had been 
 between love and reason, on one side, as they en- 
 countered an opinion, hardened by fifteen years of 
 prejudice into a master sentiment ? 
 
 "At least you will read the letter in which I broke 
 off the engagement," murmured Alice, as her head 
 leaned on Sir Percy's shoulder. 
 
 "Nay, nay, dearest, let them all be burnt and for- 
 gotten." 
 
120 
 
 *' But if I ask it — if I wish it— it was for this I 
 desired to be with you — that you might read that first ! 
 But think, if your little Alice comes into five thousand- 
 a-year, though dearly has it been purchased — what 
 shall you do with it ?" 
 
 ** Settle your wild brother, who seems hitherto to 
 have been the foot-ball of fortune. And, whether or 
 not, we must take care of your httle nanj^esake !" 
 
 "And our visitors," returned Lady Borrowdale,— 
 " surely some of them were to have left us to-day." 
 
 " I besought Lady Maria to remain till the end of 
 the week. I would not have had her leave while we 
 were twain ^ 
 
 << But we are one now and for ever 1" 
 
 A year passed away, working its mighty changes. 
 Once again Lady Maria Skipton was a guest at Castle 
 Borrowdale, and with one or two additions the party 
 was the same as before. 
 
 <* I think Lady Borrowdale has grown very haughty," 
 said Lady Maria, *^ since she came into her own for- 
 tune." 
 
 " I do not fancy that has had any thing to do with 
 the change," replied Mrs. Darner. 
 
 " No ! what then ?" 
 
 " I think she is a little more dignified, from being 
 more conscious of her own just position in society." 
 
FAITH AND SCANDAL. 121 
 
 ^< Yet Sir Percy is much less reserved, I think." 
 
 <'Just as it ought to be," returned Mrs. Darner; 
 '^ she has ascended — she lias descended a step or two ; 
 so now they stand upon a level." 
 
 "A gentleman-like person her brother !" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "Fortunate in obtaining so fine a situation under 
 government." 
 
 "Very." . " 
 
 "What a romantic affair that was last year, about 
 Lady Borrowdale meeting him and arranging all about 
 the recovery of her property before Sir Percy knew a 
 word of the affair." 
 
 "Was that the case ?" ^M Mrs. Damer. 
 
 "Oh, yes! My maid heard it from one, whose 
 cousin's wife's sister was a fellow-servant for three 
 years with Margery Grant." 
 
 Fortunate it is, that the Lady Marias of the world 
 sometimes beat out a grain of truth to a good, instead of 
 an evil purpose ! 
 
MARGUERITE. 
 
 "Chers enfans, dansez, dansez ! 
 
 Voire age 
 Ech^ppe a I'orage : 
 Par I'espoir gaiement berces, 
 Dansez, cbantez, dansez !" 
 
 Beranoer. 
 
 "It is most wearisomejwinon ! I can never support 
 the fatigue which, as Grande Dame du Village, you 
 say, is necessary ; why, one, fete has succeeded another, 
 ever since I quitted Paris : — it is too much !" 
 
 " Madame went through a great deal more fatigue 
 there,' 'replied the waiting-maid. 
 
 " Ay, true, Ninon ; but it was fatigue of a different 
 character. The marquis, during his lifetime, never 
 thought it expedient that we should pass our summers 
 at Salency : however, it is pleasant to see people 
 happy — innocent and happy ; — and this fete, Ninon, was 
 instituted by St. Medard, bishop of Noyon, for adjudging 
 annually the prize of a crown of roses to the girl who 
 
MARGUERITE. 123 
 
 should be acknowledged by all her competitors as the 
 most amiable, modest, and dutiful in the village : he 
 had the pleasure of crowning his own, sister as the first 
 Rose Queen." 
 
 " Amiable, modest, and dutiful !" thought the attend- 
 ant. *^ Ma foi ! at Paris such quahties would be more 
 likely to win a poor girl a crown of thorns ! What 
 hour will madame command the ceremony?" she in- 
 quired. 
 
 <^I shall be ready at whatever hour the pastor thinks 
 best." 
 
 " Ah ! madame is always go.od," observed the 
 soubrette. ^ , 
 
 " And I shall not alter my dress, Ninon." 
 
 " Madame is always beautiful ; huU — " 
 
 " Well !" inquired the lady, " why do you look so 
 dissatisfied ?" 
 
 " If madame would approve of those hanging sleeves, 
 with the laced bodice over the figured satin?" 
 
 «' They are almost too fine for the occasion," observed 
 her mistress. 
 
 " Pardon, madame ! all the world will be here." 
 
 " Ah, well ; I suppose I must honour La Rosiere ! 
 who is she ?" 
 
 "Madame, she is called Marguerite, and is con- 
 sidered a beauty ; but she wants tournure so much." 
 
 " Who are her parents ?" 
 
124 friendship's offering. 
 
 " Really, madame, I do not know. The villagers 
 say," she added, smiling, " that she never had any." 
 
 «* Poor child!" sighed the marchioness. 
 
 Ninon moved about the dressing-room of the rich 
 lady of Salency ; she folded and unfolded, locked 
 and unlocked, arranged and disarranged, that she 
 might have some excuse for arranging again ; and yet 
 she could not attract the attention of her mistress, who 
 appeared completely absorbed by her own thoughts ; 
 seated in a magnificent chair, rich in antique carving, 
 and velvet cushions, and heavy with bulHon ; the hght, 
 varied by the different tints of the glass through which 
 it passed, flung its stripes of purple, red, and yellow at 
 her feet — a very carpet of sunbeams ! — the air she 
 breathed was heavy to sickhness with perfume : she 
 was the titled and uncontrolled mistress of an overflow- 
 ing abundance ; yet, there she sat, her white fingers 
 clasped, one within the other, on her lap, — her head 
 thrown back — her beautiful features shaded, but not 
 obscured, by the signs of widowhood, which but in- 
 creased their power. Her eyes were fixed ; yet they 
 were full of thought and feeling; for, though the 
 upturned lids remained unmoved, their colour would 
 deepen and expand ; and once — but oncC'— two gHtter- 
 ing tears, that had hung heavily upon these jetty lashes, 
 stole gently down her cheeks. She looked a gorgeous j 
 but not a happy woman. 
 
MARGUERITE. 125 
 
 "Madame !" said Ninon, who had been absent from 
 the room more than an hour, and, on returning, found 
 her lady in the position she had left her : '' Madame ! 
 will it please you to dress ?" 
 
 The marchioness rose from her seat without speak- 
 ing ; but, when Ninon had nearly finished her toilet, 
 she noted that her lady sighed, as if from the depths of 
 her heart, and said, " Poor child !" Ninon could not 
 think, for her life, what " child" she thought of. 
 
 There is a depth of deKcate and poetic beauty in 
 making a crown of roses the reward of female virtue 
 and loveliness, which confers the distinction of a pure 
 and exquisitely toned mind on the worthy bishop who 
 introduced the custom at Salency. 
 
 The marchioness, accustomed to the artificial pomp 
 of town-made assemblies, was not at all prepared for 
 the joy and harmony of the happy fete. The sunny air 
 of sunny France — the smiles and blushes of the maidens 
 appointed to attend their rural queen — the earnest and 
 dehghted aspect of the multitude, proud of La Rosiere 
 and proud of the national festival — the music — the con- 
 secration of the garland within the walls of the chapel 
 of Saint Medard — the enthusiasm of the people, when 
 La Rosiere re-appeared in the open air, a crowned 
 queen, without care or sorrow — all combined to create 
 in the mind of the "great lady of Salency" sensations 
 which she had never before experienced. The peasantry 
 11 
 
126 - friendship's offering. 
 
 of the neighboarhood had been invited to partake of her 
 bounty in the gardens of her chateau ; and she was 
 seated, after the termination of the ceremony, ready to 
 receive them. The rose queen, followed by her attend- 
 ants and the venerable priest, advanced, to render the 
 respect which her rank, beauty, ' and generosity 
 demanded. Marguerite paused, as if afraid to approach 
 too near : the marchioness rose to her, and, as the 
 maiden bent lowly before her, she raised, for a moment, 
 the crown from her beautiful head, and cast her eyes 
 to the earth to conceal the emotions with which she 
 struggled. 
 
 " Bless — bless you, dearest girl !" she murmured, 
 dropping the coronet on her brows. " Bless you, for 
 
 !" 
 
 ever ! 
 
 The night of that festival is talked of in Salency to 
 this day. Early as the peasants of France usually 
 seek repose, still earher did the marchioness seek her 
 chamber. Loudly did she ring her silver bell, but no 
 one answered. Men and women were all at the festival, 
 little expecting their lady would retire so early. 
 
 The sun flung his beams upon the tapestried walls, 
 and the ancestors of that noble house looked down from 
 their pictured monuments upon one who, till that day, 
 had believed herself the last of her noble race. She 
 
, MARGUERITE. • 127 
 
 had thrown open one of the casements of the great 
 gallery, and stood opposite to the setting sun. Her 
 eagle eyes undauntedly gazed upon his glory. She 
 watched until all his rays appeared concentrated in one 
 mighty ball of crimson fire, that majestically descended 
 the firmament, leaving its golden trail upon countless 
 multitudes of clouds, to tell where he had been ; — she 
 watched until those clouds paled in the soft night air, 
 and then she rang again ; but the echo of her bell was 
 the only answer she received. 
 
 "I can support it no longer," she exclaimed. "I 
 will seek the priest myself ; he, doubtless, knows what- 
 ever is to be known of this mysterious girl." 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 It was the deep and holy hour of midnight : a lamp 
 of the purest alabaster burned upon a golden table, but 
 its light was so subdued, that you could see the soft 
 moon shed its calm and silver rays upon the self-same 
 objects which, a few hours before, had been burnished 
 by the golden sun. The pastor of Salency was seated 
 opposite the marchioness, but at that moment she 
 looked neither proud nor gorgeous. She was weeping 
 an abundance of heavy tears ; her bosom heaved, and 
 at intervals her sobs replied to the night breeze which 
 sighed among the trees. 
 
 " There can be no doubt, good father," she said at 
 
138 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 •last; "I felt the impulse, though I could not account 
 for it. I knew my sister had a child ; but whether it 
 died with her or lived, I could not tell. Father, I do 
 hope for mercy ; but I did not render it. The case 
 was this. Both my sister and myself both loved St. 
 Vallery : he loved well in return, but it was not me ! 
 He loved my sister Marguerite. She laughed at the 
 ruin of my hopes, and married him. May God forgive 
 me ; but, though six months after, I wedded a right 
 noble husband, and a rich, while St. Vallery was but 
 one of the poor soldiers of a blighted fortune, I envied, 
 and I hated that poor sister; /or I loved him still. 'Tis 
 my confession, father ; I hope to expiate my crime. He 
 died in youth and poverty, but not in shame. He was 
 gallant, noble-hearted — even now I cannot think of 
 him r." 
 
 Again she bent her head and wept ; and the priest 
 pondered on the strangeness of that love which, sinful 
 as it was, outhved the glittering prosperity that often 
 cankers the affections and eats up the heart by slow 
 but sure degrees. 
 
 " My sister came, and clasped my knees, and prayed 
 that I would give her food. She came alone; if she 
 had brought his child, I should have forgotten it was 
 hers. And then I laughed at her, as she had laughed 
 at me !" 
 
MARGUERITE. 129 
 
 The pastor wondered in his simplicity how any thing 
 so beautiful could be so cruel. 
 
 " She died, you say, while passing through this 
 village," continued the marchioness : " his parents 
 lived, I heard, somewhere in Picardy." 
 
 " Yes," said the priest ; " she arrived, fainting and 
 foot-sore, at the cottage I told you of; and pressing her 
 child to her bosom, slept — but woke no more. We 
 knew not who she was ; but all Salency loved the 
 child. The relics, her husband's picture, (which 
 poverty could not wrench from her,) were pressed upon 
 her heart. You say you know the tokens I have 
 shown you." 
 
 *<A11, all!" she answered: "And now I am not 
 alone in this wide world. Let me send for her to-night, 
 good sir— let me send for her to-night — she is mine ! 
 She shall be rich and happy, and so shall those who 
 succoured her. She will not know how I — ." 
 
 Again she was obhged to suffer the sentence to remain 
 unfinished ; and the kind priest sympathised with that 
 deep anguish which is born of sin. 
 • *' Oh ! if you could but know how I have suffered !" 
 she continued; " husbandless, childless; the wide and 
 dismal feel of being quite alone. Gold is a cold com- 
 panion to the heart. I tried to fill up mine, as others 
 do ; but when I looked into myself, there was an aching 
 
 void. Do you think she will love me, father ?" 
 
 11* 
 
130 friendship's offering. 
 
 There was a moisture in the good priest's eyes ; and 
 his hps trembled at the simple and natural question. 
 The virtue and excellence of Marguerite had been 
 declared ; But she little dreamed, sweet girl, as she 
 slept that night upon her cottage pillow, of the jewelled 
 coronet that was to replace the flower crown of La 
 Rosiere. 
 
11' Gil V. rrff- Y .rosffidi) w 
 
^ 
 
THE PET PIGEON. 
 
 BY AN OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 And so, because I occasionally write a story which 
 finds its way into print, instead of being discreetly 
 committed to the study coal-grate — that purifying re- 
 ceptacle in which two-thirds of the crude creations of 
 the modem brain might be most profitably digested 
 —nothing that I can produce, in the way of a new- 
 year's memento, will satisfy my fair young friend 
 except "aw articled Oh, Muses! — That such a pair 
 of strawberry Hps should give utterance to the formi- 
 dable word! 
 
 "An article!" — Why, the very word reminds one of 
 the clatter, buzz, and hissing of the power-press — ^that 
 intellectual mill in which old ideas are ground to 
 powder and kneaded into mental dough, preparatory to 
 being divided by the editorial scissors into penny loaves, 
 and sixpenny loaves — that mill in which thought, like 
 wheaten flour, loses a moiety of nutritive properties in 
 the attempt to render it "extra super-super XXX." to 
 
134 friendship's offering. 
 
 gratify the vicious taste of a public ever ready to com- 
 pensate itself for the defective quality of its daily food, 
 by a proportionate increase of its quantity, provided 
 only, that the material be perfectly uniform in texture 
 and utterly devoid of colour, according to the approved 
 rules of modern refinement. 
 
 Well ! And what is to be the subject of the "article ?" 
 When the heavenly Nine undertake the business of 
 miUing upon commission, it is expected, of course, that 
 their customers will supply the grain to be thrown into 
 the hopper. Semper paratus is the proudest motto of 
 the hero of the pen, as well as the hero of the sword ; 
 so, as I needs must act as foreman to the Heliconic 
 Sisters, upon this important occasion, bring in the grist, 
 my pretty maiden, and I will do the best I can with 
 it ; although the days when Albums were considered 
 the orthodox granaries of pointless and over-poHshed 
 nothings have long been passed ; — the monthlies having 
 obtained a species of patent-right in this branch of trade 
 of latter years ; — no matter ! — what is to be the subject ? 
 
 Your "httle pet pigeon!" Nay; this is actually too 
 cruel. What new idea can be possibly expressed 
 upon a theme already exhausted by the united genius 
 of all the rhymesters of every age and country, from 
 the primal moment when the great father of our race 
 improvised his earHest sonnet to the first-bom of thy 
 sex ? That accident occurred, as I presume, just as he 
 
THE PET PIGEON. 135 
 
 woke with a peculiar pain about the left side of the 
 chest, which is still renewed with all his progeny, 
 whenever the bright glance of a woman's eye awakens 
 the vulture gnawing at the heart, or, as the ignorant 
 ancients thought, (what wonder, when those ancients 
 centered the affections in the stomach!) the liver — of 
 every young Prometheus, until he marries. Since Eve 
 gave entrance to this troublesome guest, through the 
 hole-in-the-side from which she sprung, woman has 
 monopolized the type of innocence as a stool pigeon, 
 while the bird of prey remains with us. 
 
 But do not frown at this picture. I acknowledge 
 the punishment just. Eve and her descendants have 
 troubles enough of their own ; and even to this day, the 
 representatives of Adam, when things go wrong at 
 home or abroad, still lay the blame of their own weak- 
 ness on "the woman." Adam should have taught her 
 better, or, failing in that duty, he should have borne 
 the penalty without complaint. I have but Httle sym- - 
 pathy with the unmanly cowardice of his attempted 
 defence, and my chief regret is, that grey hairs and 
 Time's plough-share have made me what few of the 
 fair sisterhood would think it worth their while to 
 tempt or to deceive. Said I ''few?" My looking-glass 
 says — none. Perhaps it wants resilvering. But, touch- 
 ing this ''Article:" must it be indited in prose or 
 verse? 
 
136 
 
 "In poetry," you say; — in metre, I presume you 
 mean, and thank you for the selection. While wooing 
 continues to chime with cooing, nothing will be easier 
 than to rhyme upon this text, from morning dawn until 
 the witching hour 
 
 " When day-light dies, 
 
 r In softened radiance o'er the burning west." 
 
 In witness whereof, (to use the language of one 
 profession), I will write you a prescription, (to use the 
 language of another.) 
 
 Gather the proper number of Hearts and Darts — 
 Loves and Doves — Streams and Dreams — Fly's and Dies 
 — Guesses and Yesses — Domes and Homes — Kisses 
 and Blisses; all ''sold wholesale and retail, by Lusi- 
 anni, (now Giovanni,) Market street, Philadelphia." 
 At least they were thus obtainable in the days when 
 
 Bearded men called me a promising boy. 
 And I frowned to be called so by them. 
 
 Detach these elements of the legitimate sonnet from 
 the delicate little pieces of lemon candy hid beneath their 
 paper folds Hke the nectarine of a flower in the labyrinth 
 of its petals. Chp off the redundant expletives and in- 
 terjections with which the aforesaid Giovanni ornaments 
 tljem ; then add a few nouns, and about twice the number 
 of adjectives. Triturate the whole thoroughly in a mor- 
 
THE PET PIGEON. 137 
 
 tar ; dust over the mixture quant, suff. of.the other parts 
 of speech, to render the mass adhesive ; moisten it vsrith a 
 little of the essence of sentiment, diluted with ten times 
 its vreight of milk and water ; and divide into fourteen 
 equal parts. Direct the patient to take the whole at 
 one dose. 
 
 "Come sit thee down, my bonny, bonny lass, 
 Come sit thee down by me, love;" 
 
 And let us try the experiment. Toss in the ingre- 
 dients ! There ; pound, pound, pound, — ruh, rub, rub ! 
 Gather the mass — roll it out to the desired length — 
 divide it into fourteen parts — range them in any order 
 — rhyming never goes wrong in a sonnet, the example 
 of the most approved poetasters of the age having led 
 to the final repeal of all classic laws on this subject, 
 and as for reason, there is no room for that in a love 
 ditty. Now, behold the result ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Come thou, and be to me, that gentle dove. 
 My Emma, fondled to my cheek and heart ! 
 Then shall no tear of thine from blighted dream, 
 Swell the rough current of Time's troubled stream. 
 A power unseen shall guard thee from the dart 
 Of stern misfortune, in a cloud of love ; 
 Till thou shalt own that from my arms to fly, 
 As were that dove from thine — would be to die ! 
 
138 friendship's offering. 
 
 Smile you^ my Emma? — Maiden ! Few can guess 
 
 Wiio, born in humble cot or stately dome, 
 Have whispered 'neath the moon their trembling " Yes," 
 What charms shall centre in our quiet home, 
 Where heaven decrees that thou, with love's warm kiss, 
 Shall seal the bond of years — long years of waking bliss. 
 
 There, now ; the task is done akeady ! And Emma, 
 as no one will ever beheve that an old bachelor like 
 myself can have been inspired w*ith half the good 
 sense which has found its way, in spite of the chance 
 medley of the material, into our patent "Article," you 
 may safely regard it as oracular. The inspiration is 
 from the Muses,— the principals of the firm, — and not 
 from their humble agent in dealings with the aforesaid 
 Giovanni, Confectioner, Market street, Philadelphia. 
 A word in your ear then : — He who speaks has made 
 much observation on these matters, and will give you 
 three important rules in relation to matrimony, that 
 have been too generally omitted by novel writers and 
 moral writers on the tender passion. 
 
 Should a lover ever kneel to you, amuse yourself 
 with him : he is a fool, and one, too, who deserves no 
 consideration in his folly ; for, either he fails to respect 
 himself' — and what claim has such an one to the respect 
 of woman— -or else he lacks respect for you, and has 
 the grossness to expose the fact — thus • losing every 
 title to your charity. 
 
 Should any one seek to win you by rich presents 
 
THE PET PIGEON. 139 
 
 and attentions of the more imposing class, playing 
 love's music in the condescending key — some minion 
 of fashion or of wealth — refer him to papa : He is the 
 man of business of the family. 
 
 Should modest merit hold itself aloof — and modest 
 merit may sometimes be met with, although most 
 adages are founded in untruth — then call in the assist- 
 ance of mamma ; The case requires Jinesse, and she 
 is the politician of the domestic circle. 
 
 But should some gallant youth — upright, respectful, 
 but unflinchingly self-confident — approach with lan- 
 guage kind and bold, such as thy sonnet breathes, and 
 beckon thee away, then ask no counsellor but thy own 
 dove-Hke heart. Whatever aged experience may utter 
 in defence of wisdom and authority, the higher powers 
 still smile at human forethought ; and when a man, 
 that is indeed a man, sees that which Heaven has 
 formed in truth for him — he takes it, let who will dis- 
 pute the prize ! Alas ! this happy fate occurs to one 
 in thousands ! 
 
 12 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUxMBA. 
 
 A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 To make the following narrative duly intelligible to 
 readers who have paid little attention to the early cha- 
 racter of Britons, it will be necessary to give some 
 account of -the gambols conducted by a very popular 
 personage, known in England by the designation of the 
 Lord of Misrule, and in Scotland called the Abbot of 
 Unreason. The irregularities and outrages perpetrated 
 under that disguise became so flagrant, that, by an act 
 of the Scottish parliament, during the reign of Queen 
 Mary, in 1555, the Abbot of Unreason and his sports 
 incurred a heavy censure and rigid prohibition. Under 
 James the Fifth, the sons of noblemen often assumed 
 the lead in those revels ; and it is said the king did not 
 disdain to personate the gamesome Abbot, who was 
 always selected according to the advantages of com- 
 manding stature, inventive fancy, frolic, and enterprise ; 
 but his real quality was a secret confided only to his 
 guards. The guizars, as they are named, who go at 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUMBA. 141 
 
 Christmas from house to house, in all the towns of 
 Scotland, are supposed to be a slight remainder of the 
 custom we are describing. The body-guards of the 
 Abbot of Unreason were all arrayed in gaudy colours, 
 bedecked with gold or silver lace ; with embroidery and 
 silken scarfs, the fringed ends of which floated in the 
 winds. They wore chains of gold, or baser metal 
 gilded, aiid glittering with mock jewels. Their legs 
 were adorned and rendered voluble by links of shining 
 metal, hung with many bells of the same material, 
 twining from the ancle of their buskins to their silken 
 garters ; and each flourished in his hand a rich silk 
 handkerchief brocaded over with flowers. This was 
 the garb of fifty or more youths who encircled the 
 person of the leader. They were surrounded by ranks, 
 six or more in depth, consisting of tall, brawny, fierce- 
 visaged men, covered with crimson or purple velvet 
 bonnets, and nodding plumes of the eagle, the hawk, 
 or branches of pine, yew, oak, fern, boxwood, or flower- 
 ing heath. Their jerkins were always of a hue that 
 might attract the eye of ladies in the bower, or serving- 
 damsels at the washing-green ; they had breeches of 
 immense capacity, so padded or stuffed as to make each 
 man occupy the space of five, in their natural propor- 
 tions ; and in this seeming soft raiment they concealed 
 weapons of defence or offence, with which to arm 
 themselves and the body-guard, if occasion called for 
 
142 friendship's offering. 
 
 resistance. To appearance, they had no ohject but 
 careless sport and glee ; some playing on the Scottish 
 harp, others blowing the bagpipes, or beating targets, 
 fot drums, and jingling bells. Whenever the proces- 
 sion halted, they danced, flourishing about the banners 
 of their leader. The exterior bands perhaps repre- 
 sented, in dumb show, or pantomime, the actions of 
 warriors, or the wildest buffoonery; and those were 
 followed' by crowds, who, with all the grimaces and 
 phrases of waggery, solicited money or garniture from 
 the nobles and gentry that came to gaze upon them* 
 Wherever they appeared, multitudes joined them ; 
 some for th© sake of jollity, and not a few to have their 
 fate predicted by spae-wives, warlocks, and interpreters 
 of dreams, who invariably were found in the train of 
 the Abbot of Unreason. 
 
 A family, once illustrious among the heroes and 
 legislators of Scotia, but now fallen into decay, have 
 preserved a remarkable tradition concerning the troub- 
 lous times of the Reformation in that country. About 
 the end of May, in 1569, the Abbot of Unreason, ac- 
 coutred as already depicted, and accompanied by a 
 retinue in the usual style, appeared on the outer verge 
 of a moat which encompassed a baronial castle in the 
 southwest of Scotland. During twelve years, this isola- 
 -ted fortress had denied access to every stranger. If 
 travellers by land, or shipwrecked mariners, sought 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUMBA. . 143 
 
 refuge in the hospitality of the chief, they were re- 
 manded to a tower, erected on a rocky peninsula, 
 within view of the frowning battlements of the castle, 
 where the Baron had twenty aged, yet robust men, 
 waiting to administer relief; and the applicants were 
 awfully premonished that, if they transgressed a certain 
 boundary, summary execution must be their doom. 
 The Abbot of Unreason could not have obtained an 
 approach so near, unless the lord of the castle had been 
 at St. Columba, paying the last duties to his mother. 
 The inmates had heard much of the Abbot of Unreason, 
 and were dehghted at this opportunity of seeing him, 
 and sharing in the -diversions created by his blithesome 
 retainers. Above all, they were eager to penetrate the 
 veil of dim futurity, to be drawn aside by the seers of 
 both sexes, who, invested with peculiar insignia of 
 solemn grandeur, composed the outskirts of this itine- 
 rant exhibition. As the Baron could not return from 
 St. Columba in less than seven days, though wind and 
 weather should be propitious, the waiting maidens of 
 the young lady, his daughter, did not despair of elud- 
 ing the vigilance of seven aged women, and thrice 
 seven aged men, on whom devolved the government of 
 the keep, in absence of the rightful lord. About sun- 
 set, the Abbot and his gorgeous court arranged them- 
 selves in view of the balcony. The lady Dulsibella, in 
 ecstacy, called upon her favourite damsel. 
 12* 
 
144- friendship's offering. 
 
 "Alice! good Alice ! I have heard and read about 
 visions of angels, and now, in living forms, they greet 
 my admiring eyes." 
 
 "My lady," responded Alice, "these are no angels, 
 but mortal, and it may be, sinful, though truly very 
 handsome young men." 
 
 " Never tell me so, Alice," said the lady; "nothing 
 human could be so beautiful. Oh, how unhke the 
 blear-eyed, grey-bearded, wrinkled men that serve my 
 father ! Even he is not so handsome as these." 
 
 " Dear lady, my lord the Baron is not young, and 
 his serving-meil are old and withered, yea, almost de- 
 crepid," replied Ahce. "Remember, I humbly beg, 
 my lady, that I have been at Edinburgh, where the 
 creatures you are pleased to call angels are as common 
 as leaves on the trees of yonder wood, and often as 
 mischievous as the wasps that hinder us from walking 
 under the green shade." 
 
 " That may be," said Dulsibella, sighing. " I know 
 little, and have seen less of the world than you, Ahce. 
 My dear, my honoured, lamented grandmother ! to her 
 I owed all the information I possess." 
 
 " But I warrant you, my lady," thought Alice, "the 
 old Baroness did not tell you half of what I could say 
 about the rogues that have caught your eye." 
 
 Her flippant soliloquy was interrupted by observing 
 the lady Dulsibella dissolved in tears. She would have 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUMBA. 145 
 
 offered the best consolation she could think of, but Dul- 
 sibella hastily retired to her bower, beckoning Alice to 
 follow. She heard the old men and women ascending 
 to the balcony, and wished to shun them. These do- 
 mestics sincerely loved their young lady, yet they re- 
 pined that she was not of the other sex, and her father's 
 behaviour emboldened them to consider her as their 
 prisoner, or rather as a child committed to their watch- 
 ful control. With mild dignity she avoided coming 
 into contact so wounding to her self-respect, and with 
 feminine delicacy, yet firm resolution, taught 'them to 
 bend before her just claim to superiority. As they 
 reached the balcony, they murmured aloud their griev- 
 ances. " You gave us a comfortable dinner, Mrs. 
 Housekeeper," said the steward; "and if my lord had 
 not taken a stingy fit and carried off the keys, I should 
 have crowned the feast with flowing cups of his best 
 wine." 
 
 << The saints fore fend that I should say my lord has 
 ta'en a stingy fit !" said a demure, upright, skinny- 
 lipped spinster, foster-sister to the Baron. <^ But I 
 cannot take it well that he seems to fear we might 
 not take due care of his daughter, unless he deprives 
 us of the drop of liquor allowed to all the servants in 
 braid Scotland. 
 
 " I would not wonder though the lady Dulsibella 
 should, poor dear ! try to get out of this dismal' prison," 
 
146 friendship's offering. 
 
 said the housekeeper. " For my share, I believe no 
 natural spirits can hold out against the foggy sky and 
 chilly sea air, if a cordial from the cellar did not help 
 to throw off the vapours." 
 
 " Bless my two eyes, and grant they don't deceive 
 me !" interrupted the master cook. ^' Sure as flame 
 flies upward, there comes a hearty fellow, leading a 
 shelty along the narroiV^ path that goes across the moat, 
 and his beast carries panniers, Hk« those we get with 
 pitchers of brandy." 
 
 All bustled down stairs to meet the messenger, who 
 presented several pitchers of brandy, in the name of 
 the Abbot of Unreason, craving leave to cut oak 
 branches to adorn the bonnets of his train. The stew- 
 ard readily accorded the boon, but insisted that the 
 messenger should try whether the venison, moor-game, 
 and hill beef, of the lower hall in the castle, were not 
 fit companions for his brandy. The shelty was led to 
 the stable to regale on hay and oats, and the worthies 
 of the inferior hall were again seated to do the honours 
 of convivial hospitality to their very welcome visitant. 
 Each was desirous to be entertaining ; and after a few 
 glasses of brandy, all were abundantly communicative. 
 The brandy-ambassador gleaned information, that the 
 Jady Dulsibella was the youngest, and now the only 
 child of the Baron. His deceased lady had brought 
 him many sons and daughters ; but the small-pox, with 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUMBA. U7 
 
 many other maladies and casualties, sent them to early- 
 graves, except the young lady, their charge, and the 
 eldest son, a brave warrior in early youth, who, at 
 Solway Moss, adhered to his sovereign, and defended 
 the royal banner, when men grown grey under arms 
 preferred party-spirit to loyalty and patriotism. The 
 Baron was severely wounded in the first onset ; but his 
 gallant son covered his body, until some followers re- 
 moved him to a place of safety. The young hero was 
 slain, and his father never after held up his head, until 
 the Baroness gave another child to his affections. No 
 sublunary blessing comes without its alloy. The Baron 
 discovered that his lady was a convert to the tenets of 
 Luther, and, instigated by a bigoted confessor, treated 
 her with a severity that shortened her Hfe : she survi- 
 ved the birth of her daughter only a few months. The 
 Baron's mother, a high-descended lady, of uncommon 
 strength of mind and unconquerable spirit, came to su- 
 perintend the physicians and sick-nurses employed for 
 her daughter-in-law, whom she found more dutiful 
 than the Baron, her own offspring. She also had em- 
 braced the doctrines of the Reformation ; but, protected 
 by her grandnephew, the Earl of Murray, and possess- 
 ing more wealth than any dowager in the kingdom, the 
 displeasure or good graces of her son gave her no con- 
 cern, while duty and policy enjoined him to conciliate 
 her favour. When his lady was no more, the Baron, 
 
148 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 alike vehement in resenting her irreclaimable aposta(?y, 
 and anxious to atone for the unkindness that sent her 
 prematurely to the tomb, consumed his days and nights 
 in penances or in prayers for her soul, and in beseech- 
 ing the Blessed Virgin to avert from Scotland that phi- 
 losophic temerity, which menaced a total extinction of 
 the pious ardour, that through ages had exalted and 
 enriched the Holy Mother Church. He grew weary 
 of the world, and withdrew to the sequestered castle, 
 where Dulsibella blossomed and bloomed into match- 
 less beauty and attainments, under the fostering tender- 
 ness and assiduity of her grandmother. The priest 
 who recommended this seclusion, flattered himself that 
 a few years would terminate the mortal pilgrimage of 
 the old Baroness, and that Dulsibella would fall to the 
 disposal of her popish relatives ; but Providence mer- 
 cifully prolonged the years of this illustrious female, 
 until Dulsibella reached the age of seventeen. The 
 dying Baroness had committed her child, as a sacred 
 trust, to her grandmother; and she saw no material 
 objection to a retiteat from the vicinity of a court, where 
 she perceived with horror the prevalence of dissimula- 
 tion and frenchified manners, that would perhaps un- 
 dermine the principles of rehgion and morals she was 
 anxious to implant, cherish, and establish, in the heart 
 of her charge. She . had, besides, a young relation to 
 whom, she wished to intrust the present and future 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUMBA. 149 
 
 happiness of Dulsibella. Lord Glenonan had volun- 
 teered his aid to the Hollanders against the supersti- 
 tious tyranny of Spain. His command of money and 
 his valorous services had essentially promoted the tri- 
 umph of the Protestant cause in the Netherlands. He 
 had returned to Scotland, crowned with unfading 
 laurels, about the time that the aged Baroness was 
 seized with her last illness. By her own express de- 
 sire she was interred at St. Columba — a strange ap- 
 pointment by a Protestant, but not without a right 
 motive, as will soon appear in relating its consequences. 
 Having given a summary of the particulars collected 
 from her jovial domestics, we shall follow the lady 
 Dulsibella to her bower. Alice had views of her own 
 to accomphsh, and she asked leave to go for a draught 
 of fresh water. The length of her absence was unno- 
 ticed by Dulsibella, while melancholy thoughts of her 
 own situation engrossed her attention. She knew that 
 she was regarded as a heretic by her father and all 
 around him ; yet she felt a firm conviction, that to sur- 
 render life itself in defer^fce of her religious opinions 
 was a bounden duty. During the existence of her 
 grandmother, none dared to question her ; there seemed 
 to be a tacit compact on both sides not to agitate inqui- 
 ries that could end only in discord ; but the restraining 
 spirit had ascended to happier regions, and she dreaded 
 some terrible concussion when her father returned'. 
 
150 friendship's offering. 
 
 Her grandmother indeed had assured her she had 
 taken effectual measures to save her from prosecution. 
 
 << By what means?" asked the weeping, -yet deter- 
 mined martyr. 
 
 The Baroness was too much debiHtated to make ex- 
 planations. Dulsibella brushed away her tears, as a 
 hasty step broke off her reverie. Alice appeared. 
 <« My lady! my dear lady!'* she said, "I have just 
 met the brandy messenger on the stairs going t^way. 
 He has made the old folks blind drunk ; and if they 
 attempt to move before they take a nap with their 
 muddled heads on the table, they must fall on the floor. 
 They never observed me when I crept into the ser- 
 vants' hall, and took the key of the wicket off the por- 
 ter's hook behind the side-door. I got out from the old 
 folks, and have them fast locked under this other key. 
 Now, dear lady, if you would condescend to disguise 
 yourself like one such as I, we might all go to the Abbot 
 of Unreason, and get our fortunes read over and over, 
 before the old tipsy fools awake from their heavy sleep, 
 side by side where they sit." 
 
 "Poor- souls," said Dulsibella, "want of employ- 
 ment or proper amusement has led them to kill time 
 ov&r their cupsi Surely, living in society has at least 
 one advantage : people need not be tempted to the 
 abuse or oblivion of their rational faculties, on account 
 of a deficiency in the means that should exercise them." 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUMBA. 151 
 
 " But, my dear lady, shotild we not be going ? One 
 of your own long^lawn morning-dresses and your own 
 beautiful ringlets will answer charmingly to make you 
 pass for a girl such as I." 
 
 Dulsibella languidly smiled at a comparison with her 
 waiting-damsel, and after a pause, said with a graver 
 aspect and voice, '< I will gratify you, my good Alice, 
 so far as to admit some of the fortune-tellers by the 
 wicket. I have no objection to see them as a simple 
 country maid — more simple than you, Alice, who, till 
 of late years, lived at Edinburgh ; but I will not dis- 
 obey my father by going out of the castle." 
 
 *' Then, my lady," returned Alice joyfully, <* I shall 
 run to overtake the brandy messenger, and desire him 
 to hurry the seers to your presence." 
 
 Ahce ran, though she well knew that the messenger, 
 an old acquaintance, waited her instructions. The 
 spae-wives, warlocks, and interpreters of dreams, soon 
 assembled in the armoury, a large apartment detached 
 from the servants' hall. The seers of futurity were led 
 by a figure of stately port, clad in a long mantle of 
 black velvet, richly embroidered. He accosted Dulsi- 
 bella as a rustic maid, professing himself to be a lineal 
 descendant of the far-famed sage of Ercildoun, and in 
 that quality, must converse with the lady of the castle. 
 Whilst all the damsels were engaged in Hstening to 
 predictions flattering to their wishes, the sage drew her 
 13 
 
163 friendship's offering. 
 
 a little aside, and mentione'd the secret history of her 
 parents, of the recently deceased Baroness, and herself, 
 so explicitly, that she fully helieved in his pretensions 
 to superhuman intelligence. He then laid hold of her 
 arm, to draw her to a recess at a great distance from 
 her attendants. Dulsibella gently, yet steadily, reproved 
 this freedom. He said, "Lady Dulsibella! — Nay, 
 start not : I am no betrayer of confidence ; and may 
 not these silvered hairs, this grisly beard, flowing even 
 to the magic girdle bequeathed by the sage of Ercil- 
 doun — ^may they not. dispel thy fears ? — Compose thy 
 astonished mind, and know, that though in visible form 
 I never beheld thy countenance, each beauteous feature 
 is famiHar to my admiration. I must speak with thee 
 in private. Thy own safety urges the interview." 
 
 He took a lamp. Dulsibella opened an anteroom. 
 Having both entered, the majestic seer closed the door, 
 saying, ''Are we overheard? You have attempted 
 one imposition, lady. It was harmless. But now to 
 deceive me must injure yourself." 
 
 Dulsibella assured him they had no auditor. He 
 took a packet from his bosom, and while, with every 
 varying shade of complexion, answering to her perplex- 
 ing state of mind, the lady watched, his motions, he un- 
 tied several silken strings and produced a letter. 
 
 "Lady," he resumed, "know you the hand-writing 
 of the Earl of Murray?" 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUMBA. 153 
 
 << I know it well. His Lordship's correspondence 
 with my grandmother, the late Baroness, was by her 
 often placed in my hands." 
 
 "My mission further authorizes me to inquire— do 
 you prize liberty of conscience ? Would you desire to 
 avoid the sacred vows of marriage to a Roman Catho- 
 lic ? Pardon my abrupt and brief interrogatories. Lady 
 Dulsibella, since time presses and is teeming with 
 
 <^My answer shall be concise and peremptory. 
 Death, in the most terrific form, would be more wel- 
 come than the fate you denounce. Speak, sir, explicitly 
 and without ceremony.' Be assured I have foresight 
 to perceive and dread the worst, yet shall not want 
 courage to- act as duty and prudence may require." 
 
 i' Spoken in the Hving spirit of the defunct magna- 
 nimous Baroness ! Then, lady, invoke her spirit while 
 you peruse this epistle." 
 
 The packet came from the Earl of Murray. He 
 counselled and exhorted Dulsibella to accept the guard- 
 ian protection of the venerable descendant of Ercildoun, 
 who was pledged to conduct her in safety. The Earl 
 told her, a small but potent fleet awaited to waft hex to 
 his domains. Three ladies of honour and several 
 female attendants were on. board of the ship fitted up for 
 her reception ; and his Lordship admonished her to re- 
 member, that fiight would not only save herself from 
 
IH 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 disastrous nuptials, but likewise extricate her father 
 from the consequences of a detected correspondence 
 with the enemies of Scotland. The cheeks of Dulsi- 
 bella grew pale as her snowy neck and arms, and tears 
 trembled on her long eyelashes. 
 
 In a voice that vibrated on all her nerves, the sage 
 implored her speedily to decide whether she would re- 
 main the slave of superstition, or avert evil from herself 
 and her father, by yielding to the monitions of her 
 truest friend, the Earl of Murray; Dulsibella, starting 
 as from a dream of anguish, looked up ; a glowing 
 crimson chased the lily hue from her face, when she 
 saw the brilliant dark eyes t)f the sage fixed on h^r 
 countenance, as if his very soul hung on her decision. 
 — " Lady ! pardon my importunity, but not a moment 
 should be lost !" 
 
 "Alas! to cast myself upon a world unknown i6 
 appalHng; yet to remain is obviously more perilous. 
 Lead, sir ! I follow, in the name of God !" 
 
 « And God so deal with me and with the far-famed 
 race of Ercildoun, as I prove my fidehty and upright- 
 ness in this precious trust !'* 
 
 Dulsibella was surprised yet secretly charmed by 
 those expressions, uttered in a tone ardent as tender. 
 She directed the sage to a concealed outlet, made 
 known to her by the late Baroness ; and by that sub- 
 terranean passage her hoary guide proceeded with her 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUMBA. " 155 
 
 to the narrow bridge of the moat, where a splendid 
 retinue of armed men in the Earl of Murray's livery 
 received them. The sage raised her in his arms and 
 seated her on a velvet cushion ; and he walked by her 
 side till the footmen bore her where a white palfry, 
 richly caparisoned, was honoured in becoming her mode 
 of conveyance to. the shore. With the agile grace of 
 early manhood, the sage vaulted upon a war-horse ; a 
 sword gUttered in his hand, and his followers marched 
 on all sides with their weapons unsheathed. They 
 soon overtook Alice, mounted on a pad behind the 
 messenger who first approached the castle. They 
 journeyed all the night, and about daybreak hailed the 
 maritime power of the Earl of Murray. On board of 
 the largest ship the Lady Dulsibella was introduced to 
 three noble matrons, the near relatives of her mother. 
 Ten days of light winds and sunny weather brought 
 the vessel to anchor in the sight of Lord Murray's 
 castle. During the voyage no gentleman was privi- 
 leged to enter the cabin occupied by the ladies, except 
 the sage. Dulsibella found in him an active and sym- 
 pathising assistant, while attending those suffering from 
 sea-sickness. Even the waiting-damsels were in want 
 of kind offices, in place of being helpful to the noble 
 ladies ; and our heroine, with her venerable companion, 
 insensibly slided into close intimacy, as they ministered 
 to their shipmates. The state of feverish excitement 
 13* 
 
156 friendship's offering. 
 
 which prevailed in Dulsibella's feelings, repelled every 
 uneasy physical sensation ; and while, by soothing con- 
 verse, he drew the sting from her afflictive impressions, 
 it seemed to her as if his presence supplied to her 
 every tie, every happiness. She imparted to him, with 
 perfect confidence, every thought of her artless bosom ; 
 she related to him all the passages of her life that dwelt 
 on her memory, and with unaflfected goodness lamented 
 that, in a sudden departure, she made no provision for 
 her poor pensioners. Her father !— -dear though mis- 
 taken parent ! — he would take care of her dependants, 
 and regard with peculiar interest every object of her 
 favour. Floods of t^rs accompanied any allusion to 
 her father. The sage evidently shared her griefs, 
 and consoled her by pleading that in leaving the Baron 
 she rescued him from attainder and disgrace ; and 
 through her influence he might be safe and happy. 
 He gently stole her attention from past or anticipated 
 sorrows, by engaging her to talk on subjects fraught 
 with the rich and select inteUigence of his own mind, 
 improved by study and by travel in foreign lands. 
 
 Late in the evening her Sage guardian resigned Dul- 
 sibeUa to the protection of the Earl of Murray. His 
 Lordship received the fair voyager with paternal cor- 
 diality; and after a sumptuous repast, she and her 
 noble kinswomen retired to rest. Next morning the 
 Earl introduced Dulsibella to the young Lord Gleno- 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUMBA. 157 
 
 nan, the favourite hero of Holland, and a correspondent 
 of her grandmother, the late Baroness. Dulsibella had 
 often mentioned him to the sage ; and though he ac- 
 knowledged having a great affection for the soldier of 
 the Netherlands, he said so little in his praise, that the 
 lady was quite unprepared to meet an object so conspi- 
 cuous in every fascination of person and manners. 
 The inflections of his heart-appeahng voice reminded 
 her of the sage ; his eyes had the same animated ten- 
 derness when he addressed her ; but all the attractions 
 of youth sat on his brow, fair and polished as her own, 
 and hke her own half shaded by chestnut ringlets. 
 
 Many days passed. The sage did not reappear. 
 Dulsibella had risen early, and pacing the great hall, 
 tried to divert her pensive meditations from the sage 
 and his rival. Lord Glenonan, by admiring the cum- 
 brous magnificence of the furniture, when the young 
 hero joined her. This interview produced the usual 
 effect upon two ingenuous overflowing hearts, and Dul- 
 sibella had tacitly assented to her lover's intense solici- 
 tation for leave to make a formal application to her 
 father, and to Lord Murray, when his Lordship accosted 
 them with significant hints of the predicament in which 
 they respectively stood. In that era of broad facetious- 
 ness, courtly language or demeanour had not reached 
 the perfection of modern refinement by many degrees. 
 Dulsibella's complexion had often been indebted to the 
 
168 friendship's offering. 
 
 Earl of Murray's unsparing jests for a brighter roseate; 
 and now her blushes outglowed the scarlet vestments 
 of her admirer, when Lord Murray said, "I hope, 
 Lady Dulsibelk, you have prevailed with Lord Qleno- 
 nan to recal the sage, or perhaps his Lordship may do 
 as a substitute." 
 
 Lady Dulsibella's spirit was roused by this gross 
 allusion to sentiments she had not dared to scan in her 
 utmost privacy. She hastily said, ^'I have never be- 
 held lord or gentleman worthy to become a substitute 
 for the descendant of Ercildoun — none who could equal 
 him as an instructive and engaging companion." 
 
 <'It is, I see. Lord Glenonan's turn to blush," ex- 
 claimed the Earl of Murray, with an unmerciful laugh. 
 <<Is not he a very reverend preceptor for a fair novice? 
 You look incredulous. Lady Dulsibella ; but, on my 
 sacred honour, I affirm that your peerless sage and 
 Lord Glenonan are identically the same ; and for this 
 reason the ladies and I eluded your inquiries about the 
 venerable companion of your voyage." 
 
 Lady Dulsibella, with the consent of her father, was 
 in a few weeks the bride of Lord Glenonan. The ro- 
 mantic delights of their first acquaintance gilded the 
 subsequent conjugal union through a long and prosper- 
 ous life. The portrait of his Dulsibella, which the old 
 Baroness had sent to Lord Glenonan's mother, was still 
 his bosom treasure, though the lovely original held 
 
THE FUNERAL OF ST. COLUMBA. 159 
 
 there a pre-eminent station. This miniature had se- 
 conded the Earl of Murray's request to the young hero 
 for an attempt to rescue Dulsihella, while her father 
 left the castle in which he had long immured her. 
 The Baroness appointed lona as her place of interment, 
 as the only inducement that could lead to her son's 
 absence, and procure a release to her grand-daughter. 
 The Earl of Murray's protection, granted to her dying 
 entreaties, completed the enterprise, and saved the 
 Baron from being called to a severe account for prac- 
 tices against the state. He made over his lands to 
 Lord Glenonan, in tru^t for the heirs of Dulsibella, and 
 retired to a monastery in France. 
 
 B. G. 
 
THE DYING BRIGAND. 
 
 She stood before the dying man, 
 
 And her eye grew wildly bright ; — 
 *^ Ye will not pailse for a woman's ban 
 
 Nor shrink from a woman's might ; 
 And his glance is dim that had seen you fly, 
 
 As ye before have fled: — 
 Look, dastards ! how the brave can die — 
 
 Beware, — he is not dead !— 
 
 " By his blood ye have tracked him to his lair; 
 
 Would you bid the spirit part ? — 
 He that durst harm one single hair, ' 
 
 Must reach it through my heart. 
 I cannot weep, for my brain is dry, — 
 
 Nor plead, for I know not how ; — 
 But my aim is sure, and the shaft may fly, — 
 
 And the bubbhng Hfe-blood flow ! 
 
THE DYING BRIGAND. 161 
 
 "Yet leave me, while dim life remains, 
 
 To list his parting sigh ; 
 To kiss away these gory stains. 
 
 To close this beamless eye !^ 
 Ye will not! — ^no, — he triumphs still, , « , 
 
 Whose foes his death-pangs dread.— 
 His was the power — yours but the will :— 
 
 Back,— ^back, — he is not dead ! 
 
 << His was the power that held in thrall. 
 
 Through many a glorious year. 
 Priests, burghers, nobles, princes, all 
 
 Slaves worship, hate, or fear : 
 Wrongs, insults, injuries, thrust him forth, 
 
 A bandit-chief to dwell ; — 
 How he avenged his slighted worth. 
 
 Ye, cravens, best may tell ! — 
 
 " His spirit lives in the mountain breath, 
 
 It flows in the mountain wave ; — 
 Rock, — stream, — hath done the work of death, 
 
 Yon deep ravine the grave ! — 
 That which hath been, again may be ! — . 
 
 Aye, by yon fleeting sun. 
 Who stirs, no morning ray shall see, — 
 
 His sand of life has run !" 
 
162 friendship's offering. 
 
 Defiance shone in her flashing eye, 
 
 But her heart beat wild with- fear : — 
 She starts, — the bandit's last faint sigh 
 
 Breathes on her sharpened ear.— 
 She gazes on each stiifening limb, 
 
 And the death-damp chills her brow ;- 
 " For him I lived,— I die with him I 
 
 Slaves, do your office, now !" 
 
BAZAARS OF THE EAST. 
 
 BY J. A. ST. JOHN. 
 
 The bazaars of London and Paris, though the idea 
 of them was originally borrowed from the Orientals, 
 afford but Httle aid in forming a just conception of the 
 scenes of traffic which are known by the same name in 
 the East. No doubt the high perfection to which arts 
 and manufactures have been carried in Europe — the 
 elevation, capaciousness, and elegance of the buildings 
 appropriated among us to the display of the hghter and 
 more graceful productions of our industry — the taste 
 with which the various articles are arranged — the neat 
 costume of the sellers — the beauty and superb appear- 
 ance of the fair visiters, sauntering with airy negHgence 
 through the crowded galleries, — contribute to render an 
 Enghsh bazaar a highly interesting spectacle. And 
 were trading speculations more generally attended With 
 success, the moral aspect of the place would be no less 
 agreeable than its exterior is showy. But in the faces 
 of those who sit there to sell their wares, it is impossi- 
 14 
 
164 friendship's offering.. 
 
 ble not to perceive a restless anxiety, the manifestation 
 of a constant inward reference to the exorbitant price 
 they pay daily for their counters, and of keen anticipa- 
 tion or apprehension of loss. Their eye busily peruses 
 each passer by; their pohteness is painful and unna- 
 tural ; you see they are all unhappy. Nevertheless, to 
 an Oriental, who should visit our bazaars for the first 
 time, they must undoubtedly present the appearance of 
 so many fairy scenes. 
 
 A bazaar in the East, more particularly in Cairo, is 
 distinguished by features altogether different. It is not 
 a separate building., but a Small quarter of the city, con- 
 sisting of several narrow streets, disposed upon a square 
 area, and intersecting each other at right angles. In 
 general, the houses are uniform in height and appear- 
 ance. The streets are covered above with mats or 
 canvass, supported by hght poles or rafters of palm 
 wood, small openings being left at intervals for the ad- 
 mission of light ; and thus, as the buildings are lofty, a 
 refreshing coolness in the air is always kept up. The 
 shops, entirely open in front, are raised about three feet 
 above the level of the pavement, and have a broad 
 stone -bench, covered with carpets, running the whole 
 length of the bazaar. To prevent the entrance of asses, 
 horses, or camels, a massive iron chain, extending 
 across the street, and resting in the middle on a stone 
 pillar, is fbund at every adit of the bazaar, and hangs 
 
BAZAARS OF THE EAST. 165 
 
 SO low that all who go in or out are compelled to stoop, 
 and at the same time lift the chain, which is thus 
 rendered almost as bright as steel. Immense gates, 
 shut at a certain hour of the night, defend the entrance 
 to the great area of the bazaar, which resembles an 
 extensive fortress isolated in the midst of a populous 
 city. Here sentinels are nightly stationed ; but, instead 
 of pacing to and fro, as on a mihtary post, they gene- 
 rally wrap themselves snugly in their blankets, and 
 sleep on the ground. 
 
 In the innumerable shops which Hne either side of 
 the various streets of the bazaar, all the different pro- 
 ductions of Europe and Asia ^are exposed, mingled and 
 confounded with each other, for sale. Here Hkewise 
 we find many rare and curious articles, in their 
 wrought or unwrought state, from the interior of 
 Africa : - ivory, gold dust, ostrich feathers, beads of 
 scented wood, or of semi-transparent substances of un- 
 known nature, extraordinary seeds or berries, used as 
 ornaments by the capricious inmates of the harem, A 
 thriving trade appears to be carried on by the money- 
 changers. Every gold and silver coin of the known 
 world may be here converted, with little or no loss, into 
 the current money of the country; for the constant 
 passing of strangers from every land through Cairo, led 
 thither by curiosity, commerce, or rehgion, familiarises 
 the bankers with foreign money, with the exact value 
 
166 
 
 J-RIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 of which they are almost universally acquainted. For 
 several years past, however, the Enghsh sovereign and 
 the Spanish dollar are the gold and silver pieces most 
 in request. During the Syrian war, the Turkish pias- 
 tre was prohibited ; and, from the great proportion of 
 alloy it contained, was of almost no intrinsic value. 
 
 Next in importance, perhaps, to the bankers are the 
 goldsmiths and jewellers, many of whom are persons of 
 considerable skill, and, from their- assiduous apphcation 
 to business and their parsimonious habits, have amassed 
 great wealth. In the knowledge of precious stones 
 they are probably equalled by few Europeans; and in 
 cutting, polishing, and setting them, though possessing 
 but clunisy tools, they exhibit extraordinary skill. 
 They appear, however, to be unacquainted with the 
 secret of blanching pearls : for Mohammed Ali, who 
 seems to be lavish in supplying the artificial wants of 
 his harem, has recourse, in this part of the business, to 
 Europeans. Some time before my arrival in the coun- 
 try, his Highness had purchased, of an Italian mer- 
 chant, for two thousand pounds, a magnificent pearl 
 necklace, for one of his women. The merchant made 
 frequent appHcations for the money, but was put off 
 with promises, and> at last, began to suspect his High- 
 ness meant that the present should be made at his 
 expense. While I was at Alexandria, the lady, who 
 had probably grown tired of the toy, and longed for 
 
BAZAARS OF THE EAST. 167 
 
 something new, took it into her head that the pearls 
 were not sufficiently white ; and the necklace, was, in 
 consequence, returned to the merchant for the purpose 
 of being sent to Italy to be blanched. I saw it in his 
 hands. The pearls were of exceeding beauty, and of 
 the largest size. He smiled with delight, Hke a man 
 who had recovered a lost treasure : — '' I will send them 
 to Europe," said he, "and they shall be made whiter; 
 but, per Dio ! she shall never see her necklace again, 
 until I get my money for it." 
 
 One of the articles in which the goldsmiths of the 
 East display their taste, is the zerf, or stand, of silver 
 or gold, in which the coffee-cups, among the great, are 
 presented to the guests. Resembling an egg-stand in 
 form, the zerf is frequently ornamented above with the 
 most delicate filigree work, not inferior in elegance of 
 execution to the finest specimens of Malay workman- 
 ship. The nose jewels, the earrings, the necklaces, 
 anklets, bracelets, the ornaments for the forehead and 
 bosom, the jewelled girdles, the rings, signets, and 
 amulet cases, which are found in their shops, aU of 
 native workmanship, are often executed with much 
 taste. 
 
 Numerous shops are filled with blue glass beads, 
 
 which are chiefly purchased by Arab pedlers, who, 
 
 with these, and other light wares, travel from village to 
 
 village, supplying the country belles with finery. Con- 
 
 14* 
 
168 friendship's offering. 
 
 siderable quantities, also, appear to be purchased for 
 the markets in the Black Countries in the interior of 
 Africa, whither the merchants proceed with the slave 
 caravans. The stranger, desirous of beholding the 
 bright eyes of Cairo, should saunter in the morning 
 about the jewellers' shops, and all others where articles 
 of female dress and ornaments are sold : — 
 
 Thither in crowds they run, 
 Some to undo, and some to be undone. 
 
 In spite of all the restraints of custom and jealousy, 
 those who possess remarkable beauty will contrive 
 some means of displaying it. The ladies of various 
 harems, as many sometimes as ten in a flock, may often 
 be seen in the bazaar, each company under the super- 
 intendence of an eunuch. While the Argus is occu- 
 pied in watching the foremost, or in clearing a way for 
 them through the crowd, some of the others, if they 
 happen to observe a stranger, will turn the mouth veil 
 aside, and exhibit their beautiful Hps and chin, the only 
 portions of the face which it is thought necessary to 
 hide, these , being the features that distinguish one in- 
 dividual from another. For, in the East, where every 
 woman's eyes are black, there is in. the eye much less 
 characteristic expression than is generally supposed. 
 When a lady walks forth, attended only by a female 
 
BAZAARS OF THE EAST. 169 
 
 slave, she still more boldly oversteps the laws of cus- 
 tom. She will then even chat and laugh with a 
 stranger, give or take a joke, honouring him from time 
 to time with a revelation of her charms ; and, if occasion 
 permit, renew the acquaintance thus formed, as if, in 
 spite of her national prejudices, she experienced a dis- 
 position to contract friendships beyond the pale of the 
 harem. Instances of this I have myself known. 
 
 From an attentive observation of what takes place in. 
 the bazaar, it is, in fact, easy to discover that the in- 
 trigues described in the Arabian Nights, and elsewhere, 
 as conducted, in oriental cities, by the ministry of shop- 
 keepers and slaves, are not only probable, but in per- 
 fect keeping with the manners of the people. Every 
 woman being in perpetual masquerade, disguised so 
 that her own husband could not recognize her in the 
 street, such as are disposed to take advantage of their 
 position find abundant opportunities. 
 
 To turn, however, to the other attractions of the ba- 
 zaar, — there is no place where one can more agreeably 
 sip his coffee or smoke a pipe. Reclined in a cool, 
 shady recess, alone or with a pleasant companion, one 
 may here enjoy a spectacle ever changing. Men of all 
 nations, of all complexions, in every variety of costume, 
 are moving to and fro, not with that hurried gait and 
 uneasy manner observable in all European cities, in 
 the resorts of business, but with a calm, composed air, 
 
170 friendship's offering. 
 
 arising apparently from intense self-satisfaction. It is 
 not buyers and sellers only who frequent the bazaar. 
 Lomigers make it their favorite resort, and amuse 
 themselves by taking the air in its cool covered streets, 
 as they would, among us, in Kensington Gardens, or 
 the Parks : — for the Orientals are by no means so 
 averse, as has been pretended, to locomotion, and re- 
 quire only shade and a refreshing breeze to tempt them 
 into walking. 
 
 Not the least extraordinary among the individuals 
 here beheld, are the Derwishes from different parts of 
 the Mohammedan world. These men, who, in adopt- 
 ing the Derwish's mantle, profess to forsake the world, 
 appear, notwithstanding, to dehght in being constantly 
 before the eyes of mankind ; as if desirous that the 
 sacrifices they make and the mortifications they endure 
 should, not escape notice. With many, vanity is no 
 doubt the principal, if not the sole, motive for adopting 
 a hfe of seeming penance and real pleasure ; and, even 
 in those whom disappointment, disgust, or religious 
 enthusiasm leads to abandon all secular pursuitSj a 
 spice of vanity secretly mingles with their more sombre 
 feelings, and urges them, even while they seem most 
 insensible to all earthly satisfaction, to court, in the ba- 
 zaars, and other public places, the observation and 
 sympathy of the crowd. Hence we find them con- 
 stantly flocking to the spots where numerous assembhes, 
 
BAZAARS OF THE EAST. 171 
 
 for whatever purpose, congregate together. Admira- 
 tion, and the wonder of the crowd, are necessary to 
 their happiness. With these they console themselves 
 for what they have lost ; for the proud and aspiring 
 consider any species of marked distinction a sufficient 
 compensation for the sacrifice of what are vulgarly re- 
 garded as pleasures. 
 
 Busthng through the throng is seen, in various parts 
 of the bazaar, an auctioneer, who, holding up a double- 
 barrelled gun, a sabre, a watch, or an illuminated 
 manuscript of the Koran, offers the article to the 
 highest bidder. Some one begins, perhaps with a 
 piastre, a second says "two," a third "five," and so 
 on ; while the peripatetic auctioneer descants in glow- 
 ing eloquence on the rare merits of the property for 
 sale. If it be a sabre, why it has belonged to Roostum 
 or Antar, and has shed blood by the hogshead. It has 
 been manufactured of the finest Damascus steel — it 
 was cooled in the Abana — its edge could not be turned 
 by granite — it would cut through the moon. Perhaps 
 he is offering a shawl. Imagine the agreeable ideas, 
 the graceful allusions, the rich and spirit-stirring asso- 
 ciations, connected with a shawl ! Who knows whither 
 it may find its way? His imagination penetrates 
 through doors, and walls, and troops of guards, into 
 the harem, and pictures it thrown neghgently round 
 the waist of some young sultana. Or, supposing it 
 
179 friendship's offering. 
 
 has been already wom,^for second-hand goods are 
 by no means viewed with contempt in the East, — what 
 a field is then opened to his ingenuity ! — he will swear 
 it has been at Mekka, that its fringe has licked up the 
 dust of" the Kaaba, that it has been sprinkled with the 
 waters of Zemzem, that it has touched, at Medina, the 
 golden raihngs of the prophet's tomb. Or, Mashallah ! 
 —it may have been worn and darned by some pretty 
 favourite of the Shah of Persia, some captive princess, 
 sighing, in a gilded prison, for the liberty and innocent 
 happiness of her childhood. <' Buy this article," says 
 he; "it is as good as a talisman, as you yourselves 
 will admit when you have heard its history. Do you 
 see these spots ? Nay, don't' be afraid : come nearer, 
 and look at them. Aye, they are blood-stains. How 
 they come to be there I shall explain. Many years 
 ago the Shah of Persia, while engaged in hunting, was 
 separated from his companions, and, after wandering 
 several hours among the woods, towards evening 
 emerged into a spacious plain, where there was an 
 Eylat encampment. His Majesty, though he loved 
 not those wandering tribes, and had veiy Httle faith in 
 their loyalty, — for, in fact, he had murdered some of 
 their chiefs, — was nevertheless constrained by hunger, 
 and his utter ignorance of the country, to trust himself 
 among their tents. Accordingly, riding up with affected 
 composure, and addressing himself to the first man he 
 
BAZAARS OF THE EAST. 173 
 
 saw, he requested to be conducted to the chief's tent. 
 On arriving before the door, a young woman, beautiful 
 as Zuleikha, but unveiled as is their custom, came 
 forth, and, observing that her father was old and infirm, 
 entreated him to alight and enter. Her lovehness 
 pierced his heart Hke an arrow. For some time he sat 
 still in the saddle, gazing at her eyes, without answer- 
 ing a word. Presently, perceiving his amazement, 
 she repeated her invitation ; and the Shah, starting as 
 from a dream, dismounted, and apologising for his ab- 
 sence of manner, followed her into the tent. Here he 
 was received with true Eylat hospitahty ; and, when 
 he had eaten, taking the old chief aside, 
 
 ^' ^ Mashallah,' said he, ^your daughter is beautiful. 
 I am the Shah ; will you give her to be the sun of my 
 harem V 
 
 " < It is impossible !' replied the old man ; < she is 
 already married ; and her husband, a young man of 
 our tribe, who will be here presently, loves her more 
 than his eyes.' 
 
 " 1 will make him governor of a province,' rejoined 
 the Shah, < if he will yield her up to me. My heart is 
 scorched to a cinder.' 
 
 " ^ It cannot be,' replied her father. * She is the star 
 of my tribe, her husband is my bravest warrior. I am 
 old, and who knows ? In a short time my horse and 
 
174 friendship's offering. 
 
 my spear may descend to him. I am on the edge of 
 the grave.' 
 
 *''01d man!' exclaimed the monarch, <all the gold 
 of Persia is mine. Let him yield her up, and he shall 
 have her weight in tomans !' 
 
 " ' What ! sell my daughter ? By my heard, if you 
 were not the Shah ! . . . But say no more of it. The 
 blood of the Eylat is hot.' 
 
 "His Majesty now perceived that he was not in 
 Ispahan, where every man's head was at his disposal. 
 Biting his hps, therefore, he remained silent for som6 
 minutes ; then, feigiiing to be content, — 
 
 "< Mashallah ! there is no evil,' said he ; < you have 
 other daughters, perhaps ; and, if not, why we must 
 rest satisfied.' 
 
 " Nothing further took place that night ; hut, on the' 
 morrow, the Shah's hunting companions and guards, 
 after traversing the country in all directions, having 
 discovered that their master was in the Eylat's tent, 
 came galloping up, and, being in considerable numbers, 
 exhibited that sort of insolence by which power is 
 often distinguished. Now it was his Majesty's turn 
 to talk authoritatively. Sending for the old man, who, 
 apprehending evil, had retired into his harem, he said, 
 at T^Q are not accustomed to entreat our subjects 
 when we would do them the honour to take their 
 daughters into our harem. Still, in the present case, we 
 
BAZAARS OF THE EAST. 175 
 
 condescend to ask your permission, though determined, 
 should you refuse to grant it, to make use of the power 
 and authority entrusted to us. See, my troops surround 
 your camp. Your daughter I must have. Her hus- 
 band, if he submit with a good grace, shall receive a 
 high command, with presents of inestimable value ; if 
 not, his head is ours, and we shall order it to be laid 
 at our feet. Let the woman be brought forth.' 
 
 "The husband stood near. His heart was rent by 
 the fiercest passions — his eyes rolled— ^his Hps quivered. 
 At length, turning to the Shah, 
 
 " < Your Majesty,' said he, ^ must allow that it is 
 hard to part with those we love. Nevertheless, as it 
 seems to be the will of God, I shall submit to it; and 
 only demand your gracious leave to salute and bid her 
 adieu in your presence.' 
 
 " This being readily granted, the lady was brought 
 forth, and the husband stepping up to her, and kissing 
 her lips, whispered in their own language, * The day 
 is come for us to part. If you have loved as I have, 
 say the word^I will free you yet — ^but, if words only 
 have passed between us, you may go with the Shah.' 
 
 " <How can you doubt me ?' she answered. *I have 
 loved you as my soul. I see the handle of your poniard. 
 Use it and let us meet in heaven.' 
 
 "In another moment he had plunged the dagger in 
 her breast, and the blood spouting forth in streams, 
 15 
 
176 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 8 OFFERING. 
 
 some drops fell upon this shawl, which the Shah then 
 wore about his waist. ^ The Eylat was cut down and 
 joined his beloved in paradise ; but the men of his 
 tribe, rushing with fury to the combat, the Persians 
 were repulsed with great slaughter ; and in the combat 
 his Majesty received a wound, Avhich, though not 
 instantly mortal, in the end was the cause of his death. 
 His shawl, stained with the blood of the Eylat princess, 
 he sent as an offering to the shrine of Hassein ; but on 
 the way it fell into the hands of the Bedouins, who 
 sold it here in Cairo. Such is the history of this 
 article. Judge whether it be not equal in virtue to a 
 talisman." 
 
 After such recommendation, who could resist buying? 
 I became the purchaser, and the blood of the Eylat 
 princess is no^ religiously preserved in London, as a 
 relic rendered sacred by love. 
 
V^MOKItS Visual WADIL, 
 
TAKING THE VAIL. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 How gently towards the skies, young bride of heaven ; 
 
 Turn thy moist eyes, swimming with holy Hght ! 
 
 I can detect no sorrowing thought, the while, 
 
 Casting its shadow on thy paUid cheek — 
 
 PalHd with love — not care — with love divine. 
 
 As o'er thee hangs the pure and colourless vail, 
 
 Precursor of that pall of breathing death , 
 
 So soon to fall between thee and the world — 
 
 Thy very name gone from the starry roll 
 
 Of earth's sweet sisterhood — is there no passing doubt 
 
 In shunning thus the sorrows of man's lot 
 
 By murder of its joys ? 
 
 Look on those flowers, 
 Cast on the altar in their vernal bloom ! 
 True, they must fade. — Frail as thy beauty they — 
 And thrown by, as its memory. Have they not 
 Still perfume to thy sense ? Who made those flowers ? 
 Were they created that their breath should waste 
 Its music of sweet odours all unprized 
 
180 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 By those who, solely of God's children, hear 
 
 The deep tones of their wonderful songs ? Beware ! 
 
 Pause, e'er fate's gaping shears shall sharply close 
 
 On thy bright locks, spreading a natural veil — 
 
 From heaven direct, not from the fallible hand 
 
 Of earthly agents — round thy opening charms ! 
 
 Is it a crime that, in the flush of youth, 
 
 When first thy swelling form assumed the grace, 
 
 And thy firm step the buoyant dignity 
 
 Of the world's mistress — woman, — floating forth 
 
 O'er the scarce bended grass — strong, yet how light-— 
 
 As if awaiting but the tardy growth 
 
 Of budding pinions, to arise at once 
 
 An angel, poised upon the impalpable air 
 
 Which even now, envious, scarce yields thy pressure 
 
 To the half-conscious earth, — is it a crime 
 
 That thoughts of innocent pride came bubbling up 
 
 From the bright springs of feehng, as thy channs, 
 
 Mirrored in other eyes, glanced back all warm 
 
 On thy young heart ? Rose not thy spotless soul 
 
 Up to the giver, from his glorious gifts, 
 
 Offering that very pride before his throne ? 
 
 Is it not grosser pride, in humble guise, 
 Which, under holy semblance, casts away 
 Blessings, however brief, still born on high ? 
 Is there true merit in the coward step 
 
TAKING THE VAIL. 181 
 
 That spurns all active sin, by sacrifice 
 
 Of all life's active duties ? Pause and think ! 
 
 I last thou no brother, vrhom thy gentle sway 
 May save from many a draft upon the bank 
 Of Conscience, the stern broker, who still claims 
 His interest in the coin of fell Remorse 
 Or the Bowl-bearer, dagger-armed Despair ? — 
 No sister, left to grieve her lonely lot. 
 Breasting youth's heart-storm, with no friendly ear 
 In which to breathe the secret of her soul ? — 
 No father, who may need thy hand to smooth 
 Care's wrinkle on his brow, and close his eyes 
 When earthly care may task his peace no more ?— - 
 No mother, who /or thee has borne the woes, 
 The dangers of a life which thou wouldst sliun, 
 Thus, by a living death ? — Not one of these ? 
 
 Poor child! Yet pause and think! Has no bright 
 
 dream 
 Of woman's noblest destiny disturbed 
 The grave repose of night, which thou wouldst mock 
 In the dull twihght of the cloister's gloom — 
 Has no dim picture of a mundane joy, 
 But Httle less than heavenly, roused thy mind 
 From its deep lethargy in balmy sleep, 
 Painting a misty circle far away, 
 15* 
 
183 friendship's offering. 
 
 Luminous with something hke to hght, — 
 Such as in second-sight the seer beholds, 
 Fraught with the moving images of things 
 In the dark laboratory of future time ? 
 Hast thou not seen in shadowy outline there 
 Thyself divided, while another self, 
 Sharing thy very soul, looked up to thee 
 As thou looked on thy mother ? 
 
 Yet unmoved ! 
 Why dost thou hug to thy devoted breast 
 That holy sign, — ^type of a holier deed, 
 The eternal sacrifice of infinite good ?— 
 Needs the high cause for which thou layest down 
 On the same altar, beauty — pleasure — wealth — 
 All that God gives of joy to hving man — 
 Such need of thee ? — I thought His sacrifice 
 Had been complete ! 
 
 But take thy chosen path, 
 Thou that had been the mother of young angels ! 
 Each has his mission — sweet 'twould be to me, 
 O'erwearied with long years of strugghng hfe, 
 Thus to withdraw, in meditative mood. 
 And watch the circling waves that vddening sweep 
 Over hfe's current, by small pebbles raised 
 Which it was mine to cast. — It may not be ! 
 
TAKING THE VAIL. 183 
 
 Some still remain ; and I — must struggle on, 
 Marking with curling lip the idle sport 
 Of little great ones tickled with their toys ! 
 False friendship — buried love — the furtive glance 
 Of smirking treachery — poverty's keen tooth — 
 Pleasure's deceptive lure — soul-deadening wealth — 
 And cold ingratitude — these evils thou wouldst fly : — 
 I, who have tried them all — live on and smile ! 
 
 Loving his kind, — stern censor of the wrong, 
 
 But lenient to the actor, — undismayed 
 
 By the world's frown — untempted by its praise, — 
 
 Careless of hate, revenge, traduction, pride, — 
 
 Looking with equal eye on Czar and serf, — 
 
 Supporter of the weak — adviser of the strong,-— 
 
 Liberal, and just, and prodigal of self. 
 
 Should he be formed who calls himself a man. 
 
 Such is not woman's duty ; for the vine 
 
 Clings to the sturdy oak that braves the storm — 
 
 This, to my feeble vision, had been thine — 
 
 But I'll not judge thee ! On the same broad rock 
 
 Rests thy firm faith and mine. We yet may meet . 
 
 Where purposes, not actions, test our claim. 
 
 " Whom the Gods love, die young," may thou not live 
 
 To doubt, too late, the irrevocable deed. 
 
 Go to thy cloister child ! 
 
^-^k 
 
 THE OWL. 
 
 BY THOMAS HOOD, ESQ. 
 
 An indiscreet friend, says the proverb, is more 
 dangerous t"han the naked sword of an enemy ; and, 
 truly, there is nothing more fatal than the act of a mis- 
 judging ally, which, like a mistake in medicine, is apt 
 to kill the unhappy patient it was intended to cure. 
 
 This lesson was taught, in a remarkable manner, to 
 the innocent Zerlina, a peasant ; to conceive which, 
 you must suppose her to have gone, by permission, 
 into the garden of the Countess of Marizzo, near the 
 Amo, one beautiful morning of June. It was a spacious 
 pleasure ground, excellently disposed, and adorned 
 with the chc»cest specimens of shrubs and trees, being 
 bounded, on all sides, by hedge-rows of laurels and 
 myrtles, and such sombre evergreens, and in the midst 
 was a pretty verdant lawn, with a sun-dial. The 
 numberless plants that belong to that bountiful season 
 were then in full flower, and the deHcate fragrance of 
 
THE OWL. 185 
 
 the orange blossoms perfumed the universal air. The 
 thrushes were singing merrily in the copses, and the 
 bees, that cannot stir without music, made a joyous 
 humming with their wings. All things were vigorous 
 and cheerful, except one, — a poor owl, that had been 
 hurt by a bolt from a cross-bow, and so had been 
 unable, by dayhght, to regain its accustomed hermitage, 
 but sheltered itself under a row of laurel trees and 
 hollies, that afforded a delicious shadow in the noon- 
 tide sun. There, shunning and shunned by all, as it 
 is the lot of the unfortunate, he languished over his 
 wound, till a flight of pert sparrows espying him, he 
 was soon forced to endure a thousand twittings, as well 
 as buflets, from that insolent race. The noise of these 
 chatterers attracting the attention of Zerlina, she crossed 
 over to the spot, and, lo ! there crouched the poor 
 bewildered owl, bUnking with his large bedazzled eyes, 
 and nodding as if with giddiness from his huffetings, 
 and the blaze of unusual light. The tender girl, being 
 very gentle and compassionate by nature, was no way 
 repelled by its ugliness, but, thinking only of its suffer- 
 ings, took up the feathered wretch in her arms, and 
 endeavoured to revive it, by placing it on her bosom. 
 There, nursing it with an abundance of pity and con- 
 cern, she carried it to the grass plat, and, being ignorant 
 of its habits, laid out the poor, drooping bird, as her 
 own Hvely spirits prompted her, in the glowing sun- 
 
186 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING, 
 
 shine ; for she felt in her own heart, at that moment, the 
 kind and cheerful influence of the genial sun. Then, 
 withdrawing a little way, and leaning against the dial, 
 she awaited the grateful change, which she hoped to 
 behold in the creature's looks ; whereas, the tormented 
 owl, being grievously dazzled, and annoyed more than 
 ever, hopped off again, with many piteous efforts, to 
 the shady evergreens. Notwithstanding, believing that 
 this shyness was only because of its natural wildness, 
 or fear, she brought it back again to the lawn, and then, 
 running into the house for some crumbs to feed it 
 withal, the poor old owl, in the meantime, crawled 
 partly back, as before, to its friendly shelter of holly. 
 
 The simple girl found it, therefore, with much 
 wonder, again retiring towards those gloomy bushes. 
 Why,i what a wilful creature is this, she thought, that 
 is so loth to be comforted. No sooner have I placed 
 it in the warm, cheerful sunshine, which enlivens all 
 its fellow birds to chirp and sing, than it goes back and 
 mopes under the most dismal corners. I have known 
 many human persons to have those peevish fits, and to 
 reject kindness as perversely ; — but who would look for 
 such unnatural humours in a simple bird ? Wherewith, 
 taking the monkish fowl from its dull leafy cloisters, 
 she disposed him once more on the sunny lawn, where 
 it made still fresh attempts to get away from the 
 over-painful radiance, but was now become too feeble 
 
THE OWL. 187 
 
 and ill to remove. Zerlina, therefore, began to believe 
 that it was reconciled to its situation; but she had 
 hardly cherished this fancy, when a dismal film came 
 suddenly over its large round eyes, and then, falHng 
 over upon its back, after one or two slow gasps of its 
 beak, and a few twitches of its aged claws, the poor 
 martyr of kindness expired before her sight. It cost 
 her a few tears to witness the tragical issue of her 
 endeavours ; but she was still more grieved, afterwards, 
 when she was told of the cruelty of her unskilful treat- 
 ment ; and the poor owl, with its melancholy death, 
 were the frequent subject of her meditations. '. 
 
 In the year after this occurrence, it happened that 
 the Countess of Marezzo was in want of a young female 
 attendant, and, being much struck vdth the modesty 
 and lively temper of Zerhna, she requested her parents 
 to let her live with her. The poor people, having a 
 numerous family to provide for, agreed very cheerfully 
 to the proposal, and Zerlina was carried by her bene- 
 factress to Rome. Her good conduct confirming the 
 prepossessions of the Countess, the latter showed her 
 many marks of her favour and regard, not only furnish- 
 ing her handsomely with apparel, but taking her as a 
 companion, on her visits, to the most rich and noble 
 families, so that Zerlina was thus introduced to much 
 gaiety and splendour. Her heart, notwithstanding, 
 ached oftentimes under her silken dresses ; for, in spite 
 
18$ 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 of the favour of the Countess, she met with many sHghts 
 from the proud and weahhy, on account of her humble 
 origin, as well as much envy and .maHce from persons 
 of her own condition. She fell, therefore, into a deep 
 melancholy, and, being interrogated by the Countess, 
 she declared that she pined for her former humble but 
 happy estate ; and begged, with all humihty, that she 
 might return to her native village. The Countess being 
 much surprised, as well as grieved at this confession, 
 inquired if she had ever given her cause to repent of 
 her protection, to which Zerlina replied with many 
 grateful tears, but still avowing the ardour of her wishes. 
 *'Let me return," said she, ^'to my homely life, — this 
 oppressive splendour dazzles and bewilders me. I feel, 
 by a thousand humiHating misgivings and disgraces, 
 that it is foreign to my nature ; — my defects of birth 
 and manners making me shrink continually within 
 myself, whilst those who were bom for its blaze, per- 
 ceive readily that I belong to an obscure race, and taunt 
 me with jests and indignities for intruding on their 
 sphere. Those also who should be my equals, are 
 quite as bitter against me, for overstepping their station, 
 so that my life is thus a round of perpetual mortifica- 
 tions and uneasiness. Pray, therefore, absolve me of 
 ingratitude, if I long to return to my native and proper 
 shades, with their appointed habits. I am dying, like 
 the poor owl, for lack of my natural obscurity." The 
 
THE OWL. 189 
 
 curiosity of the Countess being awakened by the last 
 expression, Zerlina related to her the story of that 
 unfortunate bird, and applied it, with a very touching 
 commentary, to her own condition, so that the Countess 
 was affected even to the shedding of tears. She imme- 
 diately comprehended the moral, and carrying back 
 Zerlina to her native village, she bestowed her future 
 favour so judiciously, that, instead of being a misfortune, 
 it secured the complete happiness of the pretty peasi^nt. 
 
 16 
 
THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 
 
 BY CAROLINE BOWLES. 
 
 My baby ! my poor little one ! thou hast come a winter 
 
 flower, — 
 A pale and tender blossom, in a cold, unkindly hour ; 
 Thou comest with the snow-drop — and, Hke that pretty 
 
 thing,. 
 The pow^r that called my bud to life, will shield its 
 
 blossoming. 
 
 The snow-drop hath no guardian leaves, to fold her safe 
 
 and warm, 
 Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the 
 
 storm : 
 I shall not ^ long enfold thee thus — not long, — ^but well 
 
 I know' 
 The Everlasting Arms, my babe, will never let thee go ! 
 
THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 191 
 
 The snow-drop — how it haunts me still ! — hangs down 
 her fair young head ; 
 
 So thine may droop in days to come, when I have long 
 been dead: 
 
 And yet the little snow-dropJs safe! — From her, in- 
 struction seek ! 
 
 Fot who would crush the motherless, the lowly, and 
 the meek ? • ' - ■ 
 
 Yet motherless thou'lt not be long — not long in name, 
 
 my life ! 
 Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer 
 
 wife; 
 Be loving, dutiful to her ; — find favour in her sight ; 
 But never, oh my child ! forget thine own poor mother 
 
 quite. 
 
 But who will speak to thee of her ? — The gravestone at 
 her head, " > 
 
 Will only tell the name, and age, and hneage of the 
 dead. 
 
 But not a word of all the love^the mighty love for 
 thee. 
 
 That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity. 
 
192 friendship's offering. 
 
 They'll put my picture from its place, to fix another 
 
 there, — 
 That picture, that was thought so like, and yet so 
 
 passing fair ! 
 Some chamber in thy father's house they'll let theo. 
 
 call thine Own ; 
 Oh ! take it there, to look upon, when thou art all 
 
 alone ; 
 
 To. breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my 
 
 child ; 
 To turn to, from less loving looks, from faces not so 
 
 mild. 
 Alas ! uncouscious httle one ! — thou'lt never know that 
 
 best. 
 That holiest home of all the earth, a living mother's 
 
 breast ! 
 
 I do repent me now, too late, of each impatient thought 
 That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I 
 
 ough,t; 
 I've been too hasty, peevish, proud, — I longed to go 
 
 away; 
 And now I'd fain Hve on for thee, God will not let me 
 
 stay.— 
 
THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 193 
 
 Oh ! when I think of what I was, and what I might 
 
 have been — 
 A bride last year,-— and now to die ! and I am scarce 
 
 nineteen ; — 
 And just, just opening in my heart a; fount of love, so 
 
 new, 
 So deep ! — Could that have run to waste I — could that 
 
 have failed me too ? 
 
 The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my 
 
 side ! 
 My prime of Hfe scarce overblown, and hers in all its 
 
 pride ; 
 To deck her with my finest things — with all' Fve rich 
 
 and rare ! 
 To hear it said — '' How beautiful ! and good as she is 
 
 fair !" 
 
 And then, to place the marriage crown upon tha| bright 
 young brow ! ^ . .. 
 
 Oh no ! not, that — 'tis full of thorns ! Alas, I'm wander- 
 ing novir ! 
 
 This weak, weak head ! this foolish heart ! they'll 
 cheat me to the last ; 
 
 I've been a dreamer all my hfe, and now that life is 
 past. 
 
 16* 
 
THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. 
 
 A TALE, 
 
 An exile and a fugitive, the wide world was spread 
 out, like a map, before Lorenzo Montesecco. He had 
 incurred the jealousy of the Venetian senate ; and, 
 almost miraculously, escaping the fury of a vindictive 
 government, was now a wandering outlaw, with little, 
 save his own talents and industry, to depend upon for 
 support. Unfortunately for the adventurer, the Chris- 
 tian world was at peace ; his good sword was, therefore, 
 useless.; and, bending his spirit to his fortunes, he 
 determined to make the love of an art, to which he had 
 formerly devoted himself for amusement, subservient 
 to the more urgent necessities which now pressed upon 
 him. Resolved to trust to his pencil for the means of 
 existence, Montesecco's proud heart- revolted at the 
 idea of exhibiting himself, in the character of ^n artist, 
 in Italy, where so many person^ must, necessarily, be 
 acquainted with his name and misfortunes. Germany 
 
THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. 195 
 
 offered a field for his exertions, and a place of conceal- 
 ment, and thither he determined to pursue his course. 
 Although intending to enter upon his new profession 
 at Vienna, the state of the traveller's finances warned 
 him to rest, for awhile, in the capital of Bavaria, and 
 he took up his residence at Munich, in the hope that 
 he should there find employment, and be enabled, by the 
 profits derived from it, to prosecute his original design. 
 The stranger established himself in a suite of cheap 
 apartments, on the first floor of a house in a mean and 
 narrow street. . Seated by a small fire, which the chilly 
 climate obHged him to kindle, and satisfying the 
 cravings of hunger with a very, frugal supper, he felt 
 all the loneliness of his situation. 
 
 While surrounded by friends at Venice,' Lorenzo had 
 never been reminded of the want of relatives : an or- 
 phan, without brother, sister, or any near kindred, the 
 loss of family connexions was supplied by his intimate 
 acquaintance ; but, now, he experienced the misery of 
 being cut off from the rest of the world, without a single 
 being to share in his afflictions, or to feel interested in 
 the success of his undertakings. . The youi;ig artist had 
 little hope of tasting the pleasures of society in Munich, 
 unless the grand picture which was still to be painted, 
 should bring him into notice ; he sickejied at the idea 
 of communion with the ignorant and vulgar; and, 
 aware that his poverty would exclude him from polite 
 
196. friendship's offering. 
 
 circles, went to bed full of miserable anticipations of soli- 
 tariness, during the period which must elapse before he 
 could exhibit his productions to public view, if, even then, 
 they should meet with attention from the great people 
 whose patronage it was necessary for him to obtain. 
 
 > The first thing which Lorenzo did, after dressing 
 himself on the following morning, was to reconnoitre 
 his opposite neighbours : for, when a person is utterly 
 destitute of friends and acquaintance, opposite neigh- 
 bours become particularly interesting. The appear- 
 ance, however, of the adjacent houses was not very 
 promising : the one exactly facing his own, was much 
 larger than the rest; but the quantity of flowering 
 plants, which were placed on two green shelves on the 
 front of the windows, rendered him almost hopeless of 
 penetrating the interior : the next was even more 
 squalid and dirty than those around it; and the third 
 seemed entirely shut and deserted. The painter ar- 
 ranged his apartments, went out to purchase a few of 
 the necessary articles for, the commencement of his 
 work, and, .on his return home, was surprised to find 
 that there was much more to be ^een from his window 
 than he had expected. A pair of ragged canvas 
 Winds had been drawn up, in the mansion which had 
 so much disgusted him, and disclosed an apartment 
 furnished in a tawdry style, but displaying more of 
 wealth and of comfort than he cotild have imagined, 
 
THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. 197 
 
 from the dilapidated state of the exterior. An old 
 man, possessing one of those singular countenances, 
 which, invariably, betray the origin of a tribe scattered 
 over the whole face of the earth, clad in mean habili- 
 ments, and casting a suspicious glance around,^ stood 
 at the door ; and a young female, bearing, in a softened 
 image, the striking hneaments of her father, looked 
 out of the window to give some new direction respecting 
 the household affairs. The Jewess was handsome, 
 and, unhke her parent, indulged in costly attire. Per- 
 haps, to a nice critic, her dress might have appeared 
 gaudy, a little tarnished, and put on in somewhat a 
 slovenly. manner; but Lorenzo gazed with the eye of 
 a painter: he was delighted with the rich contrast 
 between the folds of the yellow turban, and the dark 
 masses of black curls below, the war hue of the purple 
 vest and the crimson shawl which fell in graceful 
 drapery over it ; while the long pendant gold ear-rings, 
 and the strings of many-coloured beads, which encircled 
 the rather exposed neck of the beautiful brunette, 
 seemed appropriate, and not ill-fancied, ornaments. The 
 young Jewess, perhaps, not wholly unconscious of the 
 admiration which she had excited, loitered at the 
 window, and played off' a few coquettish airs, as if 
 anxious to attract further notice. Lorenzo was begin- 
 ning to detect a fault in the object which had engaged 
 him, but his attention was diverted, by the appearance 
 
109 friendship's offering. 
 
 of a small white hand wandering amid the flower-pots, 
 at the next door : he gazed upon the beautiful appari- 
 tion, as the taper fingers twitched off, here and there, 
 a dead leaf,- — now displaying the rosy palm, and now 
 resting its snow upon the dark foliage of the myrtle. 
 At length, in placing the flowers so as to admit Hght 
 into the interior, nearly the whole form of the operator 
 became distinctly visible. She, too, was young, and 
 exquisitely fair ; her bright sunny tresses hung, like a 
 cloud of amber, round her dehcate countenance ; a 
 scrupulously clean and neatly-plaited boddice, of cam- 
 bric, rose to her throat, where it was fastened with a 
 pale blue ribbon ; her vest and petticoat were of blue 
 stuff; and beads of the same confined her full white 
 sleeves: her appearance was as picturesque as that 
 of her neighbour, but infinitely more charming. After 
 having been engaged, some time, with her plants, she 
 cast her eyes, accidentally, across the street, encountered 
 those of the gazer, and, blushing deeply, retired imme- 
 diately from the window^ Lorenzo stood rooted to the 
 spot, long after the fair girl had withdrawn from view. 
 Every thing inside the apartment betokened a rigid sys- 
 tem of economy, blended with the most spotless delicacy. 
 , , The stranger, strongly interested, yet ashamed of 
 appearing rude, contrived, by a couple of looking- 
 glasses judiciously placed, to discover all that was 
 passing in the opposite chambers, without danger of 
 
THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. ' 199 
 
 attracting observation to himself. The fairest of his 
 neighbours pHed her needle diligently, until interrupted, 
 in her work, by an elderly man, a striking contrast to 
 the old Jew at the next door: tall and upright, he 
 moveTi about with an air of authority; seemed par- 
 ticularly fidgety, respecting the placing of his long, 
 laced ,and fringed cravat ; made his patient attendant 
 kneel down, until every wrinkle of the silk stocking, 
 round his dwindled leg, was smoothed up ; and returned 
 his nicely-folded mantle to her with an air of disgust. 
 She brushed it a second time, re-arranged the drapery, 
 and, finally, having had his sword buckled on to his 
 satisfaction, the old beau, for such he seemed, took his 
 hat, and marched into the street, picking his way 
 through the dirty children, and other nuisances which 
 infested the narrow avenue, with an air of supreme 
 contempt. The young female, who_ had been so dili- 
 gently employed about his person, had resumed her 
 needle-work, the Jewess had flaunted out, and Lorenzo, 
 having nothing else to do, repaired to his "easel. He 
 spent several hours in retouching a head, which had 
 been a favourite study, only interrupted in his employ- 
 ment, by occasional glances at the mirror, in which 
 he saw the inhabitant of the opposite room, as lonely 
 as himself, prepare her scanty dinner. A small stew 
 of herbs and vegetables, a thin oaten cake, and a glass 
 of water, comj^osed the repast. Lorenzo longed to share 
 
'^ao friendship's offering. 
 
 it with her ; or, rather, to add his own to it ; and when 
 his painting had reached its last finish, and hunger ahso- 
 lutely compelled him to seek a meal, he took the oppor- 
 tunity, while inquiring of his hostess whether she could 
 retommend him to any person who would take charge 
 '.of his work,' and hang it up in some conspicuous place, 
 of putting a few questions respecting his opposite 
 neighbours. 
 
 Dame Brigette, when her admiration of her lodger's 
 performance, which, to her, appeared a master-piece 
 of art, permitted her to speak, said, that old Ephraim 
 Manasses and his wife were decentish people enough, 
 for Jews, and would, doubtless, leave Miriam a hoard 
 of money-bags ; but that, were it not for the kind heart 
 and sweet looks of Miss Bertha, nobody could, or would, 
 endure the insolence of Baron Von Mildenthal, her 
 father, who was as proud as he was poor ; " some 
 petty employment," continued the old lady, waxing 
 wroth as she spoke, "which he has contrived to get 
 at the Electoral palace, just keeps his head above 
 water, and enables him to strut in idleness, while he 
 immures his poor daughter almost from the light of 
 Heaven, shutting her up, and employing her, all day, 
 at work, in order, that nobody at Court may guess at 
 her existence, because, forsooth, he is ashamed of the 
 mean place in which he is obHge^ to live, and can't 
 afford to let the poor thing brave it like the fine ladies 
 
THE. PAINTER OF MUNICH. 201 
 
 of his acquaintance.", This account deeply engaged 
 the painter's feelings in favour of the fair recluse ; he 
 pitied her, for the hardships which she endured under 
 an austere and selfish parent; and, with all the romance 
 of youth, ahandor^ed himself to the sweetest hopes. 
 The future, arrayed in fancy's magic mirror^ presented 
 a prospect full of felicity ; — he was at the head of his 
 profession, . estahhshed in a handsome house, and en- 
 abled to offer his hand to the lovely Bertha. In the 
 interim, it was necessary to begin the work which was 
 to lead to such magnificent results : he saw his picture 
 judiciously placed; and trusting that he should soon 
 have abundance of employment in portrait-painting, 
 commenced the sketch for a historical piece, on which 
 he hoped to lay the foundation of his fame* 
 
 Lorenzo was not long at a loss for a subject : his 
 own neighbourhood furnished him with models, and 
 suggested the idea of Esther appearing before Ahasu- 
 erus. Miriam, perhapSy. as the fair pleader was of 
 Jewish birth, ought in strict propriety to, have been 
 selected for the Q,ueen ; but, following the example of 
 Tintoretto, who has given his heroine golden tresses 
 and a brow of snow, he fixed upon Bertha for the 
 royal suppliant. How earnestly did he wish for her 
 sweet assistance, while manufacturing, from coarser 
 materials, the pompous array of dresses which were to 
 shine in the Eastern court, in which he was wont to 
 17 
 
202 friendship's OFFERmO. 
 
 attire his landlady and the layman, in order to judge 
 of the effect of light and shade in the grouping. 
 
 The only relaxation Lorenzo now indulged in, was 
 his visits to the window. Doomed to eternal labour, he 
 saw Bertha turn away from the half tasted dish of 
 »aaur kraaut, to her never-ending embroidery. Miriam 
 was more happily circumstanced : her doating parents 
 were her slaves ; and in addition to these anxious 
 relatives", she had a handmaid wholly devoted to her 
 will; her time, therefore, except when gadding abroad 
 to display her finery, was chiefly spent at the window ; 
 and Lorenzo had abundant opportunity of sketching 
 her handsome features, which he proposed to transmit 
 to canvas, as an attendant upon the lovely Esther. 
 The painter was not discouraged in his task, by the 
 speaking glances which the Israehtish maiden cast 
 across the streets ; and, conscious that his admiration 
 was not displeasing to her, he indulged it to its full 
 extent. Seldom were Bertha's blue orbs Hfted up : 
 but compelled, soitietimes, to come to the window for 
 air, and to tend her plants, the downcast eyes and timid 
 look' suited -the artist's views, for the imploring Glueen, 
 and he produced a touching likeness of his gentle 
 favourite. 
 
 Lorenzo's picture had hung up long enough in 
 Wilikind Mayseder's shop, for the whole population 
 of Munich to have discerned its merits, but without 
 
THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. 203 
 
 producing the effect which the artist had 'so fondly- 
 anticipated. The expedience of placing a more attrac- 
 tive subject by its side, was soon apparent : he had 
 finished: a beautiful head of a nymph, which owed its 
 chief loveliness to the charms of Bertha, and this was 
 speedily exhibited as a pendant to the former ; the 
 consequences were as disagreeable as they were unfore- 
 seen. But to Lorenzo's surprise, he received a visit 
 from Ephraim Manasses, who, bowing and cringing 
 after the manner of his tribe, and professing his utter 
 inability to pay Hke my lords, the nobles and princes 
 of Bavaria, drove a hard bargain for the portrait of his 
 darling Miriam, and invited the painter to commence 
 his labours immediately. Montesecco had no objection 
 to undertake the task, indeed, although the sum which 
 the haggling Jew had at last consented to give, was 
 scarcely sufficient to cover the expense of the oil and 
 the canvas ; yet he hailed it as a commencement of 
 patronage, however humble, and was not aware of all 
 the mischief which was likely to ensue, from the ex- 
 hibition of Bertha's beauty, until, .paying his diurnal 
 visit to his, friend Mayseder's house, he saw a splen- 
 didly-dressed Cavaher standing, enraptured, opposite 
 the picture, and heard him offer the shopkeeper a 
 large bribe, to obtain from the artist the name ,of the 
 original of so lovely a portrait. The confident look 
 and supercilious air of this haughty noble raised Lo- 
 
204 friendship's offering. 
 
 renzo's ire ; but, restraining his temper, and reflecting 
 that every gazer possessed a right to ask questions 
 concerning a picture purposely exposed to public view, 
 he made a sign of .silence to Wilikind, whose mouth 
 wag already open to announce him as a limner wholly 
 at his lordship's service, and retired to the back of the 
 shop. As soon as the unwelcome visitant had departed, 
 Mbiitesecco charged Mayseder to assure him, that the 
 head with which he had been so much delighted was 
 a fancy-sketch made at Rome: he then inquired out 
 the character of this connoisseur of female -beauty, and 
 learned such a history of the profligacy of the cele- 
 brated Count Reichendorf^ that, utterly dismayed by 
 the incaution which had placed so charming an object 
 as Bertha before the eye of the wildest libertine in 
 Munich-, he took down the picture, and covering it 
 carefully with his handkerchief, conveyed it, in haste, 
 to his own lodgings. . 
 
 The hospitable reception which Lorenzo received 
 from the Jew's family, speedily effaced the remem- 
 brance of the late unpleasant incident ; but, with all the 
 delicacy of a lover, he immediately abandoned the sub- 
 ject which had so lately occupied all his time and 
 attention, and, notwithstanding the progress already 
 made in Esther and Ahasuerus, it was cast aside, and 
 the trial of Susanna, iand the Elders, before Daniel, 
 substituted in its stead. The female form, lest he 
 
THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. 205 
 
 might injure Miriam by drawing the public attention 
 towards her, he determined should be purely imagi- 
 nary; but Ephraim Manasses, and a visitor, whose 
 countenance was the most revolting and sinister that 
 Lorenzo had ever beheld, he selected for the two accu- 
 sers ; and the economy now so imperative, rather than 
 any sentiment of personal vanity, induced him to sketch 
 his own handsome figure for the youthful prophet, 
 Manasses gladly offered himself as a sitter, at the price 
 of his daughter's portrait; but Mordecai, the friend, 
 was more difficult to deal with : he pleaded poverty, 
 the value of his time, and his abject necessities, until 
 he had grasped the last thaler which the painter could 
 possibly give. 
 
 Though still auguring the full success of his picture, 
 Lorenzo's enthusiasm, and his spirit also, considerably 
 abated : his finances were reduced to a very low ebb ; 
 and he feared that even the small solace derived from 
 his visits to the Jews, must be speedily rehnquished : 
 the looks and actions of Miriam, though her tongue was 
 silent, told him, that he had made a serious impression 
 upon her heart ;. and he was too honourable to wish to 
 engage affections, which he felt, that, from the wide 
 difference of birth and of rehgion, he could never re- 
 turn. His contemplations opposite to Bertha's window, 
 also, began to be very melancholy : though concealing 
 herself in the most distant corner of her apartment, and 
 17* 
 
306 friendship's offerino. 
 
 barricading the lattice with flowers, Lorenzo's inven- 
 tive genius had devised the means of obtaining a com- 
 plete view over the whole room, and he saw that his 
 fair neighbour was often in -tears ; once, and only once, 
 for a long time, their eyes had met, and he thought 
 that she looked reproachfully at him. The idea, that 
 she might be jealous of his visits to Miriam, was very 
 dehghtful; yet he strove, by a thousand mute but elo- 
 quent declarations, to convince her, that he was devoted 
 to her alone. It was, perchance, only a fond conjec- 
 ture, yet it appeared to him, that the drooping Bertha 
 seemed to revive under the influence of his tender 
 attentions. She seldom went out, except sometimes 
 upon a Sunday to church, or of an evening, when her 
 father invariably accompanied her. Lorenzo, compelled 
 to content himself vdth following her footsteps, and 
 kneeling at the same shrine, while she made her orisons 
 in the church of Notre Dame, was too much afraid of 
 exciting the jealousy of the Baron, to venture more than 
 the civilities which one passing stranger might offer to 
 another. 
 
 Time, meanwhile, lagged on. Count Reichendorf 
 ceased his visits at Mayseder's shop, to the discomfi- 
 ture of the trader, who had sold him a piece of dama- 
 ged silk, a crown an ell above the price demanded by 
 his fellow-mercers for their best goods, and a variety- 
 of other equally profitable bargains. Lorenzo began 
 
THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. 207 
 
 to hope that he had entirely forgotten lineEiments which 
 had never since been presented to his gaze. What, 
 then, was the painter's astonishment and dismay, when 
 charmed, one warm morning, with the full view of 
 Bertha, who had opened the window to its utmost ex- 
 tent, and removed all the flowers — an operation some- 
 times necessary to ventilate the confined apartment — he 
 saw the Count standing in the street below, and survey- 
 ing, with undisguised pleasure, the fair vision before 
 him: it was soon withdrawn ; Bertha caught the bold 
 glance of her tiew admirer, and retired in haste. Rei- 
 chendorf lingered for a long time in the street, and 
 Lorenzo, cutsing his own imprudence, which had ex- 
 posed the loveliest maiden in Munich to the Hcentious 
 pursuit of an avowed profligate, could .scarce repel the 
 strong desire which he felt to drive him by force from 
 the sacred precincts of the chaste Bertha's abode. He 
 watched the intruder's departure ; but, a prey to num- 
 berless cruel apprehensions, the calm delight with 
 which he had contemplated the sequestered beauty 
 known to himself alone, had vanished ; henceforth, he 
 must contend with a rival far superior in rank and 
 fortune, and one who had never yet been known to fail. 
 Confident in the virtue of his beloved, Lorenzo only 
 feared that the difliculty of obtaining access to her 
 would induce Reichendorf, so happy in the power of 
 raising her to the station which her beauty and excel- 
 
i?08 friendship's offering. 
 
 lence justly merited, to make honourable proposals to 
 her father ; and then, what hope could remain for him, 
 an obscure and indigent artist, who had already wasted 
 his little substance, with small prospect of obtaining 
 even the common necessaries of hfe, for which he had 
 struggled so hardly? Tormented by these thoughts, 
 Lorenzo knew it would be useless to seek his couch at 
 the early hotir at which he usually retired, in order to 
 devote every moment of daylight to his pencil ; at 
 length, in the hopes of obtaining short oblivion from 
 care, he prepared to retire, but was stayed by the tink- 
 ling of a guitar, an unwonted sound at such a time, in 
 the quiet street. The night was exceedingly dark ; 
 but, opening his window, he could perceive, through 
 the deep gloom, the figure of a man wrapped in a 
 cloak, and, after a soft prelude, a rich manly voice 
 accompanied thfe instrument, in a song which breathed 
 of love alone : several casements were unclosed, and 
 several hsteners apparent from the adjoining houses ; 
 but Lorenzo's utmost watchfulness could not detect the 
 slightest movement in Bertha's apartment. The sere- 
 nader paused, and then commenced his strain anew : 
 nor was it until the first grey dawn of morning had 
 spread its faint light over the horizon, that the strings 
 of his guitar were completely hushed: Montesecco 
 had 'no difficulty in recognizing Reichendorf in the 
 minstrel ; and, though this perseverance was only a 
 
THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. 209 
 
 fulfilment of his previous expectations, he felt all the 
 pain of a disagreeable surprise. 
 
 Throwing himself, for a few hours, on the bed, Lo- 
 renzo, after he had risen from a feverish slumber, felt 
 little desire to pursue his daily toil : the appearance of 
 Mordccai, however, warned him to commence his la- 
 bour^ for the Jew would have, at least, demanded half 
 the price of a sitting, if he had been dismissed with a 
 request to give an hour to the artist another day; and, 
 anxious to avoid the storm of words, and the extortion- 
 ate proposals which- an alteration of arrangements never 
 failed to produce, he began, as usual, to work at the 
 picture. Disinclined for conversation, and absorbed in 
 his own meditations, it was some time before Lorenzo 
 observed the crest-fallen and agitated countenance ,pf 
 his yisitor: the dejected aspect, which he had so fre- 
 quently assumed, now bore the stamp of truth; no 
 flash from the quick eye, no sign of suppressed mirth, 
 betrayed the triumph of deceit : but plunged, himself, 
 in melancholy musings, Lorenzo forbore to inquire the 
 reason of this striking alteration, and worked on ^ in 
 silence. At length, the Jew began to mutter, in an 
 under tone : — '' Holy father Abraham ! if there were 
 any one in this dreary wilderness that I could trust,^ 
 but no, no, — who is there that would not rejoice at 
 spoiling the dog Jew ? who would not bereave him of 
 his goods, his chattels, his gold, aye even to the last 
 
210 friendship's offering. 
 
 florin ?. My own tribe ? ha ! ha ! they, too, bow the 
 knee to Mammon ; they, too, would make their profits 
 of my misfortune :— -end for these Christian dogs!" — 
 *' Unbehever," exclaimed Lorenzo, ^' how darest thou 
 revile the followers of the true faith, in my presence ?" 
 — '* Master !" cried the Jew, throwing himself, in utter 
 agony and abasement, at his astonished auditor's feet ; 
 — ''good young man, I have observed that thou art 
 just in all thy deaHngs ; thou hast not cheated the poor 
 outcast of Israel, oi his hard earnings ; the strong hand 
 is against me ; the Phihstine thirsts after my coffers ; 
 the monies I have saved — it is but a small matter — I 
 have not pressed the wine-cup to my. lips, or fed on 
 deHcacie&, yet I have Httle for the robber's clutch' — 
 bulky it is, and that will deceive them — perchance, 
 then,- — ^but it is household stuff*, poor, and of little 
 value," — "What is that to me ?" said Lorenzo; "I 
 neither know, or desire to know, aught about your 
 private "concerns." — *' I know thou dost not," returned 
 the Jew. " Thou hast not pryed into my^ secrets^and, 
 for that, I trust thee — ^but by what oath ? Will not thy 
 shaven priests absolve thee from thy promise to the 
 Jew?" The painter betrayed his impatience by an 
 angry gesture, and Mordecai continued, with great 
 velocity of speech : " There is not much — much that 
 I can call my own ; I hold it in trust for the brethren of 
 my tribe ; and he, who would lay the finger of violence 
 
• THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. 211 
 
 upon it, would have the cry of the widow, the curse 
 of the orphan, the fearful vengeance of Heaven, ahght, 
 in bitter plagues, upon his house for ever. We are 
 despised and sorely treated ; but the J^ears of our suf- 
 fering shall be at an end ; then the daughters of Jeru- 
 salem shall rejoice, and the exact Christian eat dust 
 beneath their feet." — '<Art/thou mad, or intoxicated 
 with wine, old man ?" said Lorenzo, contemptuously ; 
 and Mordecai, making strong effort to collect his wan- 
 dering thoughts, told his tale with some degree of pre- 
 cision. The painter gathered, that persecution hovered 
 over the Jews ; that he himself was marked out for de- 
 struction, and though he might be saved . by a timely 
 flight, there was no chance of conveying away his 
 property, and of this he besought Lorenzo to take 
 charge. Refusal only rendered the Jew more impor- 
 tunate, though advised to bury his treasures in the 
 ground in some place only known to himself. Morde- 
 cai, wrejtched at the idea of leaving his riches to the 
 chance of an accidental discovery, would not listen to 
 the suggestion, and, at length, prevailed upon his 
 humane companion to be the depository of his gold. 
 Lorenzo's apartments offered many facihties for the 
 concealment of the Jew's coffers, and of free egress 
 without the knowledge of the neighbours. That very 
 evening, the confederates commenced their operations : 
 bags and chests were carefully removed and placed, in 
 
212 friendship's offering. 
 
 security, during several successive nights : Mordecai, 
 one moment, imploring the painter, in the most abject 
 terms, to accept the unwelcome office which he pressed 
 upon him ; in the next, exacting repeated assurances, 
 that he would account for the vast sums entrusted to 
 his hands, to the last groschen. 
 
 During the period thus employed, Lorenzo observed, 
 that the house of Ephraim Manasses was closely shut 
 up. Poor Miriam was no longer to be seen, decked in 
 her rich attire, with one hand caressing a favourite 
 bird, and the other parting the locks that clustered be- 
 neath her turban, on the warm and crimsoned , cheek : 
 the music of the serenader had ceased ; yet, once or 
 twice, in his midnight excursions with the Jew, Mon- 
 tesecco thought he caught a glimpse of her command- 
 ing figure, steafing rtirough the gloom. He spent 
 hours in watching for Reichendorf 's return, resolved, 
 upon the slightest pretext, to punish his intrusion ; but , 
 no opportunity offered, and he was compelled to re- 
 main quiescent. A few days after the final removal of 
 the miser's wealth, and when Lorenzo supposed him 
 to be far beyond the frontiers of Bavaria, happening to 
 pass through the principal streets, he saw an immense 
 multitude of people, pressing forward with tumultuous 
 cries : the whole city was in a state of confusion and 
 uproar, on account of a report, that the Jews had sacri- 
 ficed a Christian infant, in some of their religious cere- 
 
THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. 213 
 
 monies. This accusation, like many others raised 
 against the persecuted Israelites, was unjust, but it was 
 dangerous for any of the tribe to appear in the streets. 
 The roar of the maddened populace increased ; the 
 rabble had hunted Mordecai from some den which he 
 had chosen for his asylum, and Lorenzo beheld him 
 flying, with ineffectual speed, from the blood-hounds 
 who pursued. He was surrounded ; a wild yell pro- 
 nounced his doom; and his mangled body, dragged 
 along by his inhuman murderers, attested their atro- 
 cious triumph. Montesecco rushed, horror-stricken, to 
 his home : it was many hours before the image of the 
 Jew faded from his eyes ; but when the first burst of 
 indignation at the barbarous spectacle he had wit- 
 nessed had subsided, the recollection of the hidden 
 wealth flashed upon his mind. Mordecai's repeated 
 declarations assured him that he did not possess a 
 single relation or even a friend, who, in case of his 
 death could claim, either from the ties of kindred or 
 the bond of affection, the gold he should leave behind ; 
 and even admitting that he had been entrusted with 
 the property of others, to whom must restitution be 
 made. Lorenzo felt that he had suddenly become a 
 rich man. Too much occupied to observe the lapse of 
 time, night had closed in upon his meditations. His first 
 impulse, when convinced that he might justly consider 
 himself the heir of the murdered Jew, led him to the 
 18 
 
214 friendship's offering. 
 
 window, whence he could contemplate the residence of 
 his beloved Bertha, with whom, in imagination, he had 
 already shared his good fortune. A fearful shock 
 awaited the lover, for, on the pavement below stood a 
 tall form, holding tender parley with the Baron's 
 daughter, who, covered with the black veil which she 
 always wore in her excursions abroad, leaned from the 
 open lattice and whispered to the stranger : in the next 
 moment, the flower-pots were removed, and Reichen- 
 dorf, for it was he, climbing the projecting posts of the 
 door-way, sprang Hghtly into the chamber, and the 
 window was immediately closed. 
 
 Half suffocated with rage and despair, Lorenzo only 
 drew his stifled breath, to pour curses on the head of 
 the false fair girl, who had deceived him with a show 
 of innocence ; too easily won, to deserve a brave man's 
 sword, he flung down the weapon, which, on the first 
 flow of indignation against the hbertine seducer, he had 
 drawn to avenge her dishonour, and, seating himself 
 on the ground, gave loose to all the agony of a disap- 
 pointed and wounded heart. Ashamed, at length, of 
 permitting his spirit to be overcome by a worthless wo- 
 man, he retired to his couch, and there, reckless of 
 time, tossed to and fro, until mid-day ; when, through 
 mere weariness, he arose, and, resolving to seek out a 
 lodging in some distant quarter of the city, in which he 
 proposed to remain no longer than the afl^airs connected 
 
THE PAINTER OF MUNICH. 
 
 215 
 
 with Mordecai's now little- valued wealth obhged him to 
 stay, he left the house. Crossing the street, Lorenzo's 
 path led him to the door of his neighbour, the Jew : it 
 was a-jar ; and he felt his cloak gently pulled by scttne 
 one within. He obeyed the summons, and was ushered 
 with much care and caution, into a back apartment, 
 where Ephraim and his wife were sitting, in great de- 
 jection, on the ground. "Save us ! Save our daughter 
 Miriam, the corner-stone of our house, the vine branch 
 that gladdened our hearts !" they both cried, as Lo- 
 renzo entered : " they wifl seize on our substance, and 
 we shall be cast out — we and our little ones, — in a 
 land more desolate to our devoted race than the sandy 
 soil of Arabia, unless thou wilt befriend us :" and then, 
 rehnquishing even their religion in their distress, they 
 offered Miriam to him for a wife ; assuring him, that 
 she would gladly turn Christian, for one whom she 
 had long loved in secret. 
 
 The painter, almost utterly regardless of his future 
 doom, touched to the heart by the haggard looks and 
 imploring voices of the miserable parents, and proudly 
 conscious that, in the possession of Mordecai's trea- 
 sures, he could not be influenced by the dowry of the 
 dark-browed bride, was tempted to perform an act of 
 mercy to the suppliants who knelt before him : he cast 
 a glance around, in search of Miriam. " She is not 
 here," said Ephraim; "we have conveyed her to a 
 
216 friendship's offering. 
 
 place of greater safety.'* ^' But," cried the mother, 
 observing that their guest's countenance betrayed much 
 emotion, when the sufferings that awaited her darling 
 were mentioned, "she can soon be here : we have given 
 her to the kind guardianship of the Christian maiden 
 at the next door." — '' Ha !" exclaimed Lorenzo, in an 
 ecstacy of delight, " then look to your daughter, old 
 man !" But before he could explain the reason for this 
 caution, a gilded lacquey of Count Reichendorf entered, 
 to invite them, in the name of Miriam, to the palace of 
 his master, where the beautiful Jewess reigned as a 
 queen. A few minutes only elapsed, before Lorenzo 
 was at the feet of Bertha, from whom he gained per- 
 mission to apply to the Baton Von Mildenthal. His 
 inquiries concerning Mordecai were satisfactorily an^ 
 swered : he bore too bad a reputation with the people 
 of his tribe to be considered trustworthy for a single 
 stiver, and Montesecco, having hallowed his wealth by 
 devoting a part to the church and to charitable pur- 
 poses, led his fair bride to the altar, and conducted her 
 to a splendid domain, purchased in the bright land 
 from which he had fled in sorrow and in indigence. 
 
'UWIEtRUXti. f^r 5§lgA\ 
 
THE BURIAL AT SEA. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 Why is it that so many turn away with a shudder 
 from the closing scene of hfe ? Why dread we the 
 shadow of the pall which bringeth rest ? Is then the 
 night so dreary ? 
 
 Truly, when it closes in utter darkness — when the 
 winds howl around, and dense and low the masses of 
 deep cloud oppress the very air they float upon, shutting 
 out every ray of heaven-horn light — then, night may 
 well he dreadful. It is so to those who dare not claim 
 the shelter of a home, — to those who feel Hope's 
 whisper failing on their ear, as their exhausted powers 
 sink in the weary struggle to discover in the wilderness 
 the path of safety, — to those who, on the ever-heaving 
 bosom of the deep, look up in vain towards the silvery 
 pivot of the globe, that little shining speck which, of 
 all visible things in heaven or earth, alone remains 
 unchanged ; — type of eternal rest ! 
 
 But in the midst of gloom ; fainting in the forest ; lost 
 18* 
 
220 friendship's offering. 
 
 on the trackless wave ; or braving the driving rain in 
 the half-hghted streets of crowded capitals, where every 
 door is closed, and loneliness becomes more lonely by 
 the neighbourhood of life ; if, for a moment, in the arch 
 labove, the storm-veil blown aside reveals that tiny star, 
 singing amid the din of elemental strife, ^' heaven sees 
 thee wander," how falls the weight from off the break- 
 ing heart ! 
 
 To those who claim an earthly domicil, and all the 
 soft endearments of the domestic circle, that feeble ray 
 recalls the memory of a fond wife's smile, — the little 
 prattler, waiting impatient for the well known knock, 
 the signal for quick pattering feet along the hall, and 
 the bold leap into a parent's arms. The promise of 
 these joys may not be for the morrow, or the next day, 
 or the next, but while the heavenly messenger brings 
 hope into the soul, it points the way, and breathes 
 assurance. Even to the outcast, the victim of the 
 world's scorn — it may be, of his own vices — that same 
 unchanging star tells of a realm of peace. To him, the 
 journey may be longer, with no friendly port, no inn 
 by the way-side, where he may rest his weary Hmbs, 
 and by the glowing hearth renew his energies ; yet he 
 feels that the world's scorn, just or unjust, though it 
 may drive him from the fellowship of man, is powerless 
 to debar his entrance at those gates whereof long-suffer- 
 ing mercy holds the key. He feels that even for him 
 
THE BURIAL AT SEA. 221 
 
 there is a home, though far away, and lays him down 
 upon his earthen couch, hungry and cold, but not devoid 
 of hope ; — he feels himself a man, with strength to bear. 
 If, then, the physical night, even in its worst aspect, 
 loses its terrors at the first glance of that little star 
 which guides the bewildered wanderer to his rest, why 
 dread that longer night which brings still deeper and 
 more perfect rest ? Comes not bright morning to the 
 one as to the other? Lack we the guiding star — the 
 pivot of the soul, round which the heavenly host revolve 
 in ceaseless harmony, felt though not heard, — 
 
 " That lures to brighter worlds, and leads the way V 
 
 In the first blush of youth, when the untried path of 
 life lies smooth before us, gemmed with the earliest — 
 ever the most beautiful— flowers of spring, and its 
 green sward sparkhng with dew-drops, while each 
 passing breeze comes charged with odours, it is reason- 
 able that the very thought of death should waken an 
 instinctive tremor ; for who would not shrink with awe 
 to witness an unnatural night folding its ebon robe about 
 the landscape, before the noon of day ? Who would 
 not weep to see the fading leaf, nipped by November 
 frosts, untimely falhng in the lap of June ? But when 
 the sun dechnes in its due course, when evening or the 
 autumn drawing nigh gives notice that the labours of 
 the day or year are nearly done, then sweet and calmly 
 
222 friendship's offering. 
 
 cheerful should be the influence of the deepening 
 shadows — the oblique and tempered rays prophetic of 
 the appointed hours or days of rest. And why is it not 
 thus more generally with those who meditate upon the 
 natural end of l^fe ? 
 
 The wisdom of that policy — perhaps it would be 
 more correct to say, the truthfulness of that sense of 
 duty — which induces so many teachers of mankind to 
 paint the author of this glorious creation in characters 
 of gloom, dweUing upon the sterner features of his 
 unbending justice, to the exclusion of the paternal 
 tenderness of the universal parent, may well be 
 doubted. Even in th,e eye of abstract justice, the 
 obedience which results from terror of the law bears no 
 comparison with that which flows from the pure love of 
 right : — the one secures society against the meditated 
 outrage which fierce passion, bridled, though rankhng 
 still, would perpetrate, but that it dare not ; — the other, 
 springing from self-imposed restraint, is virtue, and by 
 miraculous contagion spreads its magnetic influence 
 around, till all on whom its shadow falls own but one 
 common sense — one common will. It is not in the act, 
 but in the purpose, that infinite wisdom finds the proof 
 of good or evil. In these, our latter days, we five 
 beneath a mdlder dispensation, breathing of love, not 
 vengeance, — persuading, but rarely uttering a threat, — 
 a dispensation which in its crowning act gave origin to 
 
THE BURIAL AT SEA. 223 
 
 that remarkable phrase, the concentration of all charity, 
 " Father, forgive them ; they know not what they do 1'* 
 
 Let us then cease to clothe the grave with images of 
 dread. Religion was not meant to cast a cloud over 
 the beautiful creation which leads the soul from gazing 
 on its countless proofs of the immeasurable goodness of 
 Almighty power, to contemplate, with the fond gratitude 
 of trustful childhood, the images of its father and our 
 own. 
 
 Among the most common sources of the fear which 
 causes many to shun the humanizing and refining re- 
 flections awakened by the thoughts of death, is the 
 mistaken idea that the last hours of life are usually 
 past in the midst of bodily torture, heightened by men- 
 tal anguish, or, at least, the awful harassment of doubt, 
 — the sense of our own uhworthiness, and the memory 
 of long forgotten faults, looming as dim, but giant forms, 
 like distant mountains in the exaggerating shades of 
 twilight. Not so! The hand that ''tempers the wind to 
 the shorn lamb," as a general rule, deprives us, in that 
 trying hour, of even the capacity for suffering ; and, as 
 the physical powers fail gradually, beneath the pres- 
 sure of the chilling hand then laid upon our frame, the 
 powers of memory and reflection too, with the suscepti- 
 bility to bodily pain, fail gradually with equal pace. 
 The careful housewife delays not the proper ordering 
 of her nightly couch, until the approach of ''Death's 
 
224 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 haii-brother,'* unconquerable Sleep gives notice that the 
 moment for repose has come ; but in the early morn- 
 ing, while the sun shines brightly, or if the heavens 
 be cloudy and the cold wind keen, then while the 
 cheerful fire is crackhng on the hearth, she tosses and 
 makes soft the yielding feathers, smooths down the 
 bolster and the pillow, and as she hums some favour- 
 ite ditty well loved in innocent childhood, arranges the 
 decent drapery of her destined place of rest. Let not 
 the man who would descend in peace to his last rest- 
 ing place neglect these preparations till the night draws 
 near : — then it will be too late ; and though the fading 
 ]f>ulse of over-wearied nature may deaden the anxiety 
 which in more vigorous hours such negligence might 
 well occasion, and he may sink, — " to sleep ! — per- 
 haps to dream !"■ — unconscious of his folly ; who shall 
 assure him against the aching head and heart that wait 
 upon the morrow ? 
 
 I have stood by a hundred death-beds — some, round 
 which sorrowing friends and the bright hghts of morals 
 and of science stood ready to anticipate each wish and 
 to assuage each real or imaginary pain, — some, where 
 the tempest howled along the deep — in the damp fore- 
 castle — while oaths and ribald jests, mingling with the 
 war of wave and storm and the loud creak of the strain- 
 ied spars and timbers, were the sole earthly sounds that 
 struck upon the ear. I have watched the parting 
 
THE BURIAL AT SEA. 225 
 
 breath in the log-cabin, among girdled trees, while flake 
 by flake the noiseless snow stole through the gaping 
 crevices, and the httle bare-foot daughter wiped with 
 her tattered frock the melting crystals from the dying 
 widow's cheek. I have closed the eyes of the forsa- 
 ken and the lost, nurtured in luxury as the admired, 
 the almost worshipped star of this earth's heaven — 
 home, — ^^to set in misery amid the horrible orgies of 
 drunkenness and vice, mdre by the parent's folly than 
 the sufferer's crime. I have seen the last flash of the 
 intellectual lamp, as with one bright spark of returning 
 reason, the maniac soul took wing. But never yet — 
 never hut once — have twenty years of sad experience 
 presented death clad in the garb of terror, with which 
 some moralists delight to clothe him. That once ! — 
 But reader, I will not imitate the fault I censure ! 
 
 The fierce convulsions of expiring nature are mere 
 unconscious throes. The real sufferings, mental or 
 physical, are passed before — it may be, long before — the 
 final struggle ; and when the dreaded monarch at 
 length lays claim to all the little he can claim of poor 
 humanity, he finds the victim already half immersed in 
 the lethean wave, beyond the reach of torture. So far 
 as present sufl^ering is concerned, death to the dying 
 comes as a welcome friend — as the benevolent- physi- 
 cian who knows not, asks not, what may have been the 
 virtues or the crimes which have preceded, and, per- 
 
826 friendship's offering. 
 
 haps, produced the fatal malady, but with equal hand 
 administers the alleviating opiate without a question. 
 The survivors — not the lost — demand our present sym- 
 pathies, for with them the real pangs of final separation 
 rest. — The husband, the mother, the father or the wife, 
 gazing upon an empty chair, weeping over some ne- 
 glected toy, or looking forth along the dreary road of 
 life, feeling that now, no earthly arm remains to stay 
 the tottering footsteps — for these, death wears a crown 
 of real terrors ! Nor less should it wear this aspect, for 
 those whose selfish meanness or weak carelessness 
 assists to swell the crowd of miserable victims annually 
 sacrificed beneath the three-faced Juggernaut of plea- 
 sure, power and wealth, — the idol in which dwells the 
 Moloch spirit of society. It matters little how we die, 
 or where, being dead, we lie. The one great question 
 for a rational being, claiming the lofty attributes of the 
 world's master — man, made in the image of his Maker 
 — is, how we hve ! — not how we die ! I had rather 
 be the veriest wretch that ever starved in his igno- 
 rance, — breathing his last on the unboarded floor of some 
 low hovel, driton forth from the assembly of mankind 
 for what the world calls vices, born of that ignorance — 
 than share, with the" earth's great-ones, the burden of 
 the authors of those laws, and those conventional rules 
 which made him what he is. 
 
 Then, let not our reflections on the last parting^scene 
 
THE BURIAL AT SEA. 2^ 
 
 of life be rendered a subject of unpleasant thought, to' 
 be postponed from year to year, as a far distant evil, 
 while daily, hourly errors,- unchecked through this 
 procrastination, combine to render it the very thing we 
 dread. He that, in every undertaking, still contem- 
 plates the end, can hardly fail. — He to whom death is 
 a familiar object is likely so to live, that when, at length, 
 the deep-veiled mystery draws near, its approach will 
 be welcome as winter to the exhausted forest, or night 
 to the tired labourer in the field. 
 
 Then deck the grave with flowers ! Bring round it 
 the young, the gay, the thoughtless ! There breathes 
 a calm and quiet sermon from the turf, to which none 
 listen and depart unpurified or uninstructed* — why 
 should they shun such converse? Bring hither the 
 forlorn and broken-hearted. The tears that water the 
 long grass are doubly blessed ; for while they clothe in 
 liveHer green the last couch of the loved, the Hving 
 rain dispels the mists of sorrow that overshadow the 
 bereaved. 
 
 To him, the gifted one whose pictured obsequies 
 called forth these passing thoughts,* the earth denied 
 the darkened chamber and the sculptured tomb— for he 
 was of the family of fame. What matter! His is a 
 nobler mausoleum. Keenly his eye drank in the 
 
 * Wilkie, the Artist. 
 19 
 
beautiful forms of nature ; boldly his hand struck out 
 the image! of those beauties on the glowing canvas. 
 His works, deep graven in imperishable steel, are 
 spread throughout the world ; wide as the world, then, 
 be his monument! Not in his loaded sea-shroud,^ like 
 a true son of ocean shot from the tilted plank, but in 
 full pomp of the funeral rites, he sank to his repose. 
 Around him bloom the living flowers, strewed in the 
 lap of nature's oldest child — the brown gorgonia and 
 the waving corralline a,re intertwined about his pillow, 
 and the sea-worm on their thousand branches lights his 
 phosphoric lamp to illuminate the twilight of his place 
 of rest, where wind or wave comes not. Stranger, 
 wouldst thou shed one tear above his grave ? — Go, 
 drop it in the sea ! 
 
ISA; 
 
 A TALE OF KHORASSAN. 
 
 BY LORD WILLIAM LENNOX. 
 
 The scene is laid during the attacks made by the Arabs on the 
 Persian empire. At the celebrated battle of Kudseah, nearly all 
 the Persian army, 100,000 strong, fell. The Arabs lost 3,000 
 men. The battle of Nahavund decided the fate of Persia, when 
 out of an army of 150,000 men, 30,000 fell, pierced by the lances 
 of the Arabs ; and 80,000, in retreating, were drowned. 
 
 The sound of revelry was loud, in Shahryar's brilliant 
 palace. Azor, the flower of Persian chivalry, had 
 returned ; and all the beautiful and the brave were 
 assembled there to greet the youthful warrior. All 
 hearts beat high — music breathed around its witching 
 power, and combined with the mazy dance to steep the 
 senses in delight. There, every beauteous race beneath 
 the sun was met — there shone the full and Jfiawn-like 
 eyes of Persia's daughters, the half-closed glances of 
 the Kathayan, the bloom of Georgian cheeks, the 
 golden ringlets of the Western isles. On a throne of 
 pure white marble, carpeted with shawls and cloth of 
 
230 friejJdship*s offering. 
 
 gold, Shahryar sat, arrayed in royal attire. His only 
 child, the lovely Isa, to whose heart the pageant had 
 been like death, had quitted the joyous festival to seek 
 her lonely bower, to brood there in melancholy stillness 
 over her grief. The moon was forcing its tender light 
 through gilded lattices, wreathed with woodbine, honey- 
 suckle, and the timid jasmine-bud ; and Isa's heart was 
 impressed with the solemn and quiet beauty of the 
 scene, heightened by its striking contrast with that she 
 had quitted ; though sounds of merriment, issuing at 
 intervals from the haram, obtruded upon her ear as if 
 in mockery of her serious feehngs. Gradually yielding 
 to the calm and tranquiUizing influence of the evening, 
 she took her lute and trembhngly struck the chords. 
 The strain at first was wild and irregular, but soon ran, 
 as if unconsciously, into a melody, the favourite of her 
 beloved Azor: that melody was accompanied with a 
 voice which mated well wjth the tones of the soft 
 instrument. The last notes were still hngering, as if 
 unwiUing to leave their lovely creator, when a light 
 and well-known footstep made her conscious of her 
 lover's approach. He stood before her, and, in hurried 
 accents, said, <'Isa, my betrothed, this night we part — 
 before to-morrow's sun has kissed the brow of Turok, 
 we meet the Arab on the plains of Kudseah. Victory 
 will crown our arms, for righteous Allah will support 
 the.ji;ist : then, with the speed of the eagle, will I return 
 
231 
 
 and claim my beauteous bride. Bethink thee of thy 
 vow — may every saint watch over thee !" 
 
 Isa rephed, in trembhng accents, " Farewell ;^" and 
 detaching from her rosary a golden amulet, fretted with 
 Arabic characters, she threw it round his neck : "Be 
 this a charm of safety in the hour of danger — may this 
 avert every threatened evil." She paused, for at that 
 instant there burst upon them from beyond the grove 
 that crowned their solitude, the tramp of horses, the 
 shrill call, the clash of the cynibal, the ringing of arms. 
 It was Azor's signal for departure : he started at the 
 sounds ; his hands pressed upon his beating brow told 
 how remembrance throbbed within ; then, throwing 
 himself upon his knees, and as suddenly starting up, 
 he cried, ' ' Oh ! Isa, in vain I strive to offer up a prayer 
 —my knee may bend, my hps may move, but without 
 thee I cannot pray." 
 
 Isa's head bent upon his trembhng arm, startled by 
 the breathing of hps that echoed back her anguish : 
 she suddenly raised herself ; her mild eyes looked up 
 to heaven— eyes whose light seemed rather given to be 
 adored than to adore ; and, with a countenance calm 
 but sorrowful, a sadness that could not weep, breathed 
 an inarticulate prayer. The impatient pawing of the 
 ground, the champing of a bit, told Azor his faithful 
 steed awaited him. In happier hours Isa had ridden 
 hhn, when, as if conscious of his precious burden, he 
 19* 
 
232 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 was all gentleness ; now, his wild nostrils snorting, his 
 mane erected, he struggled fiercely under his warlike 
 equipments. Isa rushed to him, and, cHnging to his 
 neck — "Rakush, dear Rakush, carry your master to 
 victory." Azor's foot was now in the stirrup — his 
 burning Hps impressed a kiss upon her extended hand ; 
 her eyes took their agonizing farewell — she fell sense- 
 less into the arms of her faithful Maridah. 
 
 Isa had from her childhood been affianced to Azor : 
 the deadly wars with the Arabs had taken him from 
 her ; but absence had increased her love. Hers was a 
 pure, deep, ardent, and imperishable feehng. Azor 
 was the sole joy, the pride, the ambition of her fond 
 heart ; and never did saintly martyr dedicate herself 
 with more intense devotion to his faith than- did Azor 
 consecrate his heart to her. Love had. been to his 
 impassioned soul not merely a part of his existence, but 
 the whole, the very Hfe-breath of his heart ; and a purer 
 shrine at which to offer up the fragrant incense of a 
 first affection never existed. Isa's was not alone that 
 lovehness by which the wilder passions are captivated ; 
 it possessed the mind which sparkled through her whole 
 frame, and lighted every charm. Her playful blushes 
 seemed but the luminous escapes of thought ; her clear 
 forehead was shaded by a rich profusion of glossy hair; 
 her eyes were full, and when stirred by anger or sur- 
 prise, were fire itself, but, at a word of tenderness, 
 
ISA. ~ sas 
 
 became subdued and soft. Her mouth was harmony 
 and love ; and hers was a form that could have spared 
 from its rich world of beauty, charms enough to have 
 made others fair. 
 
 In her, were combined all that the spirit seeks for in 
 heaven, and all that the senses pine for on earth. 
 Maridah, for whom she felt a sister-s affection, had 
 early been bereft of one who had been her sole terres- 
 trial hope ; and, in her widowed state, the only feehng 
 that seemed happiness to her, or rather the sole rehef 
 from aching misery, was to see Isa happy. Her smile 
 brought to this faithful friend warmth and radiance 
 like moonlight on a troubled sea. Many had sought 
 Maridah's hand, but in vain : the hymeneal chaplet 
 that first graced her virgin brow was withered, and she 
 knew no second vow could ever bid it bloom again. 
 Daily did she pray and weep at the sepulchre of the 
 dead, strewing the grave with fragrant blossoms, from 
 the divine armita to the humble rosemary and basil-tuft, 
 looking forward with meek confidence to the time when 
 their spirits, bursting from their charnel-vault, would 
 be reunited, and wing their way to eternity. 
 
 Time lingered on — Isa, the once fight-hearted maid, 
 with sinking heart and tearful eyes, now bitterly, day 
 by day, mourned her lover's absence. Her faltering 
 speech, her estranged look,, her very beauty changed, 
 showed too well how deep his memory was graven on 
 
234 friendship's offering. 
 
 her heart. The cypress-leaf was withering — unsoothed 
 by rest or sleep, death seemed approaching. Some- 
 times she would start from her feverish slmnber, and 
 in the fond but deceitful thought that he had returned, 
 instinctively clasp to her panting bosom its disordered 
 drapery. Sometimes, too — for vague rumours of a 
 battle had reached her — she beheld him, in her troubled 
 dreams, on the field of blood, his scimitar fashing, his 
 gallant steed springing to his touch, outnumbered, not 
 outbraved, opposing despair to daring, his sabre shiver- 
 ing to the hilt. The groans of the dying, the shout of 
 Allah Akbar, the cry of ravening vultures, sounded 
 on her ears ; she saw her lover blackening within her 
 arms, parched and writhing in agony— his ashy lips 
 approached hers. Maddening, and in torture, she 
 awoke. Her dream had been too true — a wounded 
 straggler from the field brought her the fatal news that 
 her soul's first and last idol had been missing after the 
 murderous strife. 
 
 Azor, had been foremost in the battle ; with vigour- 
 more than human he animated all. His crimson hand 
 had given bloody welcome to the foe ; now foiling the 
 enemy's ranks, then reuniting his own. Wounded, at 
 last, he bent senseless over his saddje-bow ; a film swept 
 across his eyes ; with ^feeble and convulsive effort he 
 raised the amulet to his parching lips, then, gasping, 
 fell senseless to the ground. Across his dizzy brain 
 
235 
 
 came the vision of her, his heart's pure planet, shining 
 above the waste of memory : stupor crept over his 
 frame. The voices of the exulting foe soon woke him 
 from his transient forgetfulness— he tried to spring all 
 bleeding from the earth — his creese was raised to stab 
 his war-horse, who now, masterless, was struggling to 
 burst his bloody girth. A band of Arabs seized the 
 chief, and he, his country's pride, was doomed to 
 experience an exile's sorrow. Azor's sufferings were 
 acute in mental as in bodily anguish : he Hngered on a 
 wretched existence ; one dear thought still haunted him ; 
 but the expiring throb of hope was nearly over. 
 
 On the eighth morning, Maridah entered Isa's apart- 
 ment, and, with a countenance brightened with unusual 
 joy, awoke her suffering friend. " Rise, sister ! rise ; 
 I've news will make this day most blessed to thee and 
 me-— see these lines from Azor, brought by a ransomed 
 prisoner." 
 
 A faint scream escaped Isa's pallid lips: her heart 
 throbbed high. Seizing the scroll, she pressed it to her 
 lips ; and, falling upon her knees, from her heart's 
 inmost core, breathed a fervent prayer ; then, with a 
 glow of rapture^, she threw herself into Maridah's arms, 
 wildly exclaiming, ''Allah be praised! he lives! a 
 captive — yet he lives !" ' 
 
 Shahryar, whose territory was threatened by the 
 powerful Abdallah, sought the alliance of the CaHph 
 
83^ 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFTERING. 
 
 Istkahar,' unhappily one of the many slaves of Isa's 
 charms. He had offered ransom for the captive, Azor 
 — the terms struck heavy upon a father's ears : they 
 were the hand of his affianced child. In vain did his 
 better nature, his paternal feeling, struggle with his 
 people's welfare ; suffice it to say he consented to sacri- 
 fice his child. Isa heard his determination with calm 
 resignation— even without a murmur. She saw but 
 one vray to extricate herself, and resolved to adopt it. 
 
 Istkahar Was hourly expected at'Merou: the nuptials 
 were to be celebrated in the most sumptuous manner. 
 The morning arrived ; the rising sun seemed to visit 
 with unusual splendour the poHshed domes, the fretted 
 minarets, and stately towers. Like an eastern queen, 
 decorated to receive her lord returning from triumphant 
 warfare, so was the royal city arrayed in all her gala 
 decorations; and the young morning breeze sported 
 joyously with ten thousand banners, making them 
 to flaunt and flicker with their gaudy folds, and to 
 seem like hving inhabitants of the deep azure of the 
 Persian sky. The bridal cavalcade was one unbroken 
 line of splendour to the beholder's eye : to Isa it was a 
 melancholy funeral pageant. Through the apartments, 
 rich with arabesque painting and gilding, flowers and 
 censers breathing sweets, Isa roamed almost bewil- 
 dered. To her it was a maze of light and lonehness — 
 the pomp of the scene was in opposition to her feelings. 
 
ISA. 237 
 
 Paler than the marble pillar against which she 
 leaned, Isa awaited the sacrifice : her anxious friend 
 Maridah was by her side, and privately conveyed to 
 her a small casket, which Isa concealed within her 
 vest. The spacious hall was now crowded ; the con- 
 tract was read ; Isa's trembling fingers seized the pen, 
 and signed the fatal deed. The tidings spread ; mes- 
 sengers were dispatched to the Arab camp. The cere- 
 mony was proceeding. Isa was now called upon to 
 pledge her vow at. the altar : she approached it with 
 firm step ; then, taking the mysterious casket, was 
 about to press it to hej hps, wh6n a thrilling cry of 
 Azor reached her ear. Every eye turned towards the 
 corridor — there Azor stood, his desperate hand raised 
 towards heaven ; and, almost inflamed to madness, he 
 shouted, ^* Isa ! thy vow ! — by the remembrance of pur 
 once pure love ! — ^thy vow ! — ^heaven ! — vengeance !" 
 
 "Oh, curse me not^ dear Azor !" Isa wildly repHed; 
 "it was grief, it was madness caused it all. Doubt 
 not, my love : when every hope was over, when fright- 
 ful voi<5es told me thou wert lingering in captivity, I 
 thought but of thy freedom — I would have purchased 
 thy ransom with my life — my brain gave way ; and 
 think how maddened I must have been when, to save 
 thee, I courted death ! Be not deceived — death is the 
 bridegroom that awaits me !" 
 
238 friendship's offering. 
 
 Azor rushed forward, dashing the casket from her 
 hand, sprang into her arms, and clasped her in speech- 
 less ecstacy. 
 
 Istkahar, who had witnessed this scene with intense 
 interest, a|)proached Isa, and, uniting her hand with 
 Azor's, tore the contract. At this generous action the 
 shouts of Allah echoed through the halls — the warriors' 
 swords were pointed to heaven ; whilst the harem's 
 loveliness, waving their emhroidered scarfs, made the 
 air resound with the hridal song :— . ' - r 
 
 " MAibiirak bid ! Mubdrak bdd ! 
 
 Auspicious may your fortunes be ; 
 • And ever may your hearts, still glad, 
 ,~ ' Respond to nuptial revelry. .• 
 
 Mubdrak bdd ! Mubdrak bdd !" 
 
 The ceremony proceeded ; and never did earth he- 
 hold a sight more beautiful, when, as the rays of 
 heaven (descending on the altar) shed their holy beams 
 upon each brow, they knelt before* that shrine, at the 
 foot of which she would have immolated herself — their 
 hands clasped in one, -thus fondly pledged to Hve and 
 die together. 
 
THE FOREST: 
 
 " ^ A FRAGMENT. 
 
 BY MRS. E. G. GOODWIN BARCLAY. 
 
 Night in the forest ! Solemn, dreamy night ! 
 And through its aisles so gloomy, silent, dim, 
 Echoes the whip-poor-will's sad evening hymn ; 
 Dark, traiHng shadows slowly gather round ; 
 And human footsteps shun the haunted ground : 
 Here, frowning rocks majestic loom on high. 
 Till, Titan-like, they seem to touch the sky ; 
 There, tower aloft, in wavy masses — vast — 
 The ancient trees, and rustle in the blast ; 
 Spreading a shade so dense, the starlight glow 
 Rests on their tops, nor penetrates below. 
 
 F^rimeval forest ! Monument of time ! 
 
 Thou art magnificently grand ! — sublime, 
 
 When midnight's stormy arms around thee thrown 
 
 Thy giants — trembling — ^bending — shriek and groan, 
 20 
 
240 friendship's offering. 
 
 As if destruction's vulture-wing out-spread 
 Had doomed them to a place among the dead ! 
 Hark ! how they moan, as with a living tone, 
 While their broad branches on the air are strewn ; 
 Yet they defy the tempest's mighty power : 
 Why should they dread the shock of one short hour- 
 Those veterans of centuries ? 
 
# 
 
 THE SLEEPING PARTNERS; 
 
 A SKETCH OF THE HARD EROST: 
 BY T. C. GRATTAN, ESQ. 
 
 The snow had lain for several weeks in crisp masses 
 on the streets and boulevards of Brussels, and its sur- 
 face was worn as smooth and slippery as glass, by the 
 few coaches that phed during the inclement weather, 
 and' the numerous traineaux, or sledges, for which this 
 inclemency was the very harvest-time. Nothing could 
 be more animated than the general appearance of these 
 vehicles, and few things more absurd when examined 
 in detail. Their brilliant colours and gildings, the 
 gay plumes and caparisons of the horses, and the fan- 
 ciful costumes of the drivers and the driven, formed a 
 striking and picturesque combination when gazed at 
 from a distance; but when one closed in upon the 
 imposing train that whisked by so rapidly, and inspected 
 its motey materials, every individual machine was but 
 a galloping illustration of the bathos. A few, being 
 
243 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 private property, had some slight pretensions to taste 
 in their decorations ; but the great majority, hired out 
 for each occasion, were gaudy and flimsy receptacles 
 for a poor vanity, which braved the annoyance of their 
 cramped accommodations and the piercing cold, for 
 the glory of being stared at by the crowds that thronged 
 the flagged ways round the park, which was the grand 
 scene of exhibition. 
 
 Those who have never seen a traineau may be glad 
 to know that it is a sort of car, or shell — for such is, in 
 most cases, its fantastic shape — without wheels ; capa- 
 ble of containing one person, with moderate discomfort ; 
 or two, painfully wedged together. On a peak, behind, 
 the driver places himself astride, and w;ith his feet 
 resting on the shafts which shoot out in the rear and 
 terminate in an united point, he guides his horse or 
 horses, by reins of cord coming most awkwardly over 
 the shoulders of the person in front. It requires no 
 small cleverness to preserve his equilibrium, while he 
 leans to the right or left, having at one and the same time 
 to look sharply out after his shambhng steeds, and to 
 keep up his soft whisperings into the ear of the furred 
 fair one, for the honour of driving whom he suffers such a 
 straddle-legged gibbeting. It is something awful to look 
 at these Jehus when they have a couple of awkward 
 horses to manage, either a-breast or tandem, curveting 
 at every curve in the course, running at wrong angles 
 
THE SLEEPING PARTNERS. 243 
 
 wherever a corner is to be turned, and threatening 
 utter annihilation to the frost-bitten face of the poor 
 lady placed at the mercy of their hoofs. The prow of 
 the car is always shaped and coloured in the abomi-^ 
 nable likeness of some dragon or hippogriff, or other 
 monster of ughness ; some wagging their heads or 
 flapping their wings with the motion of the sledge, or 
 shaking out tongues of flame-coloured tin, or staring 
 with a large pair of green glass goggle eyes — meant 
 altogether to look very funny. 
 
 These eflbrts at pleasantry are generally failures ; 
 but, to an Enghsh eye, nothing can be more irresistibly 
 ludicrous than the sober seriousness of the attempt 
 at style, in these and other equipages. The gaudy 
 liveries and grotesque accoutrements of the grooms and 
 coachmen form a virtual act of bankruptcy against de^ 
 scription. The cocked-hats, broad-flapped laced coats, 
 and Hessian boots, of the footmen, bid defiance to 
 prose or poesy ; but the appearance of a jocki, such 
 as is an indispensable atrocity in the completion of a 
 traineau equipment, really out-Punches Punch. A 
 continental Jocki is decidedly the most unhappy possi- 
 ble specimen of human degradation; for, unlike the 
 tumblers and rope-dancers of a fair-green, he does not 
 put himself in masquerade or exhibit himself for his 
 own amusement or profit, but merely in accordance 
 with his master's vitiated taste, which is invariably as, 
 20* 
 
244 friendship's offering. 
 
 bitter bad as that of rhubarb, gentian, and camomile, 
 combined. These unhappy caricatures precede the 
 traineauXf on huge high-trotting steeds with long tails ; 
 and it is impossible to conceive any thing more pain- 
 fully risible than their appearance, jogging away in 
 high-peaked saddles, long stirrups, jackets, hunting- 
 caps, wide leather breeches, and troopers' boots. To 
 disfigure their domestics out of all semblance of regular 
 respectabihty seemed to be a study with the Dutch 
 nobihty of those days; for I speak of a time some years 
 back, when the heavy hand of the Hollander crushed 
 all the buoyancy of Belgian spirit and taste. Attached 
 to one frightful equipage — a huge German landau, with 
 the wheels taken off, tied on a sledge, and dragged on 
 at the slowest possibly rate — ^was a coachman in purple 
 livery, a footman in dark green, and a cadaverous- 
 looking jocki, of about sixty years of age and six and 
 a half feet high, in a bright yellow jacket and pink 
 cap! It looked as if each servant had snatched a 
 stripe from a rainbow, and clothed himself in it at 
 random. 
 
 But there was one exception to these execrable com- 
 binations, in the droski of the Prince of Orange. This 
 was a present from the Emperor of Russia, and was, 
 in its ensemble, such a contrast to the traineaux, that 
 one was surprised at the dulness which failed to attempt 
 an imitation, or the callousness to ridicule which al- 
 
THE SLEEPING PARTNERS. 245 
 
 lowed so many persons to put their miserable equipages 
 in perpetual contact with it. It was lightly built, 
 strong, free from all gaudiness of colour or decoration ; 
 driven by a regular Cossack, in his native costume and 
 long bushy beard, and drawn by a pair of thorough- 
 bred horses, light limbed, and long tailed, one of which, 
 with his head ardently forward, trotted at his full 
 speed of a dozen miles an hour ; while the other, with 
 curved neck, and head held low down by a tight mar- 
 tingale, galloped along at the same pace, most grace- 
 fully varying the interest of the exhibition. 
 
 This equipage, no doubt, would have found some 
 attempts at imitation, had not its owner been far from 
 popular in those days among his countrymen ; for he 
 was then an Enghshman in manners, a Belgian in 
 heart, and a Hberal in politics. 
 
 I don't know how I have happened to linger so long 
 on these je collections of the. ludicrous and amusing, for 
 the main subject of my sketch is of a far different 
 nature. It may appear incongruous to approach a 
 painful topic in a mood of merriment. In entering the 
 chamber of death,, we ought not, perhaps, to 
 
 " Trip it gaily, as we go, 
 On the light fantastic toe"~ 
 
 Yet if» in the sad varieties of life, pleasure is fenced 
 round with pain ; if the rose cannot be plucked without 
 
846 friendship's offering. 
 
 our first feeling the thorns, it may not be an inde- 
 corous philosophy, after all, that would festoon with 
 "wreathed smiles" the portal which leads to the in- 
 evitable grave. 
 
 During that hard, hard frost of 1829 — 30, when all 
 that was bright and generous — wine, wit, even charity 
 -^seemed at least benumbed, and all the social enjoy- 
 ments shrunk from a wide-spread circle into a point, 
 the poor of Belgium, always in a frightful mispropor- 
 tion to the general population, suffered intensely. 
 Many were the families cramped by cold and thinned 
 by famine. Benevolence freely paid its heavy tax. 
 The wards of the hospitals were full, and the hearts of 
 the home patients as well ; for many a stove was with- 
 out fuel, and, oh, how many a stomach without food ! 
 It was altogether a heart-rending season; one that nei- 
 ther body nor mind is Hkely to forget. 
 
 But the pecuhar featui^e of this hard winter, in Brus- 
 sels, the marked circumstance which fixes it more 
 particularly in my memory, was the decree of night 
 banishment issued by the authorities of the city against 
 that wretched class of beings who have always pos- 
 sessed an extraordinary claim on my sympathy, — the 
 wandering, idle, lazy, houseless, friendless Savoyards. 
 In no season or country are those poor boys any thing 
 in my eyes but objects of great compassion. Even in 
 the native freedom of their own glorious mountains, 
 
THE SLEEPING PARTNERS. 247 
 
 they are marked as vagabonds and outcasts ; e very- 
 youthful brow seems to bear Cain's mark; yet they 
 have killed no brother, nor taught a new crime to their 
 little world. Born as it were on speculation, reared 
 from the mother's lap like some animal fattened for the 
 market, doomed to banishment from the cradle up, they 
 have no tendril ties binding their young hearts to home, 
 no hnks of family love, no hope of domestic quiet, no 
 haven of peace towards which to look. To turn out 
 on life's broad highway and to beg, is their foredoomed 
 career, as «oon as ever their legs are strong enough to 
 carry into execution the sentence which is born within 
 them. 
 
 What can such mothers as theirs care for such ofP- 
 spring as they? How little of the common culture 
 which the female heart, even in the savage wilds of 
 Africa, lavishes on its offspring, can fall to the lot of 
 those unhappy weeds, flung on the world's wide ocean, 
 to swim or sink by chance ! Their marmots or their 
 mice, the sole friends of their destiny, are better off 
 than they, for they have minds — the splendid curse of 
 the unfortunate ! 
 
 Not one excitement, not one enjoyment brightens the 
 path of the Savoyard child, who turns his back on the 
 high places of his birth, to brave the dangers of the 
 populous waste which spreads before him, interminably 
 hopeless. Degradation of the basest kind awaits him 
 
848 friendship'* OFl^KRING^ 
 
 on the very threshold of theoivorld. His passport is 
 signed and sealed in miserj'. Some servile trick of 
 imitation, some cringing tones of mock hilarity, coarse 
 raiment, a hard couch, scant food, a tyrant taskmaster, 
 form the bright side of the picture in which he is the 
 main figure: but imagine him in ill health, in cold, 
 htmger, desolateness, and despair ! Who does not feel 
 a heart-cramp as he looks, at the poor beggar-boy, and 
 gives himself one moment's time to think ? 
 
 Well ; it so happened, that in the very depth of the 
 hard winter Brussels, was unusually populous of those 
 parias of the civilized world : a shoal of them, on its 
 way to England, had been stopped short by the cruel 
 frost. Even the instinct of suflTering bom with the Sa- 
 voyard boys could not stand against the pinching tor- 
 ments of that seeison. The ice-covered roads wore out 
 their weary feet ; the keen wind pierced their flimsy 
 rags, and cut them to the heart. They could move no 
 further ; and Brussels seemed a heaven to the hapless 
 group. 
 
 For some days, they revelled in all the ignominy of 
 street antics. They pattered on the hard snow, and 
 played on their cracked viols, and threw out their 
 smiles and quirks with the plaintive meanness of men- 
 dicant sohcitation. The pubHc heart was not yet quite 
 congealed ; purse-strings were opened, and the poor 
 Savoyards picked up a passing store of charity. But 
 
THE SLEEPING PARTNERS. 249 
 
 the conscience of the corporation at length became 
 frost-bitten. Fear lest the native pauperism might by 
 and by want supplemental funds, and the patrician 
 stores be mulcted for some new forced loan, prevailed 
 on "the authorities" to launch an ordonnance, com- 
 manding the hapless << vagabonds" whose jery title is 
 their patent for general compassion, to sleep without 
 the walls. This extra muros banishment was attempt- 
 ed to be justified by the imputation flung on the out- 
 cast tribe, of being the chief depredators in the nightly 
 pilferings to which misery drove many a man in those 
 cruel times, to save himself and his family from perish- 
 ing. 
 
 It needs hardly to be stated that, in this instance, like 
 almost all others, the mass, which in this nether world 
 must ever be "worldly," were willing enough to let 
 their prejudices range on the side of power, and not 
 sorry for an excuse to check the sympathies which, 
 mayhap, rose up in favour of the oppressed. Men in 
 general are very angry at the imputation of weakness, 
 except when it implies a tendency to be generous ; but 
 even then, while boasting that they have been fool&, 
 they resolve to put a padlock on their liberality, out of 
 all possibility of being picked. Many, therefore, re- 
 joiced in the moral branding inflicted on the reputations 
 of the poor Savoyards, as an excellent reason for reject- 
 ing their importunate appeals. Such epithets as "la^y 
 
250 friendship's OFFERmo.' 
 
 dog," " little rogue," <' idle scoundrel," and the like, 
 were lavished freely; and meanwhile the wretched 
 boys were, like poor Tom, ^'a-cold." 
 
 And so were the marmots, the white mice, and the 
 monkeys, who partook the drudgery of their masters' 
 prosperity, and bore a full part in their privations. 
 While the boys began to droop and shiver, and grow 
 day by day more listless, as coughs and catarrhs op- 
 pressed them and their gnarled limbs became stiffened 
 and swoln, the less sentient, but as suffering animals 
 shared amply in the sad companionship. Crouching 
 in their cages, the mice refused to run the wonted 
 round of their wire-work cylinders ; the marmots rolled 
 themselves sluggishly up ; and a frost-spasm seemed to 
 warp and curdle those crabbed mimicries of man, 
 which mow and chatter as he grins and talks, and 
 jump as he struts, and do not " imitate humanity so 
 abominably." 
 
 Among the whole of the scattered community I am 
 describing, I never observed any thing Hke a partner- 
 ship but in one instance. Those Savoyard boys are 
 most unsocial beings; their principle is evidently 
 <* every one for himself." They almost always go 
 about singly; and seem to avoid each other's beats. 
 Selfishness is forced upon them by their isolation ; and 
 it is the only case in which this odious vice may be 
 pitied as a misfortune, rather than loathed as a fault. 
 
THE SLEEPING PARTNERS. 25-1 
 
 There were two of those boys, however, whom I ob- 
 served frequently together : one was about twelve years 
 of age, the other, perhaps, a year older. They had 
 each a monkey ; and the intimacy appeared not to be 
 confined to the bipeds ; for, while they crouched in 
 some corner nook, sheltered from the blast, and counted 
 their money, or discoursed unfathomable secrets in 
 their native patois, the monkeys used to cuddle to- 
 gether, scratch each other's backs, or, while one ludi- 
 crously " trimmed the other's jacket" with a piece of 
 dirty apple or orange-peel, and the other, perhaps, 
 settled the draggled feather in his comrade's cap, they 
 mutually grinned most ghastly smiles ; or, at times, 
 looked so profoundly melancholy and miserable, that 
 one was tempted to beHeve mere physical suiFering in- 
 capable of giving such keen expression to a counte- 
 nance. But this was matter of speculation: what 
 follows is matter of fact. 
 
 On one of the bitterest of those cruel mornings, in 
 about the fifth week of the frost, I had occasion to pass 
 early between the two palaces of the King and the 
 Prince of Orange, a station where the partie carree just 
 mentioned were wont to fix themselves, to catch stray 
 passengers, before the idle and money-giving part of 
 the population were abroad. There was scarcely any 
 one on the Boulevards, and not a creature to be seen 
 in or about the park : there was, therefore, no audience 
 21 
 
252 FlilENDSHIP's OFFERING. 
 
 -on wliich to work, and, consequently, no acting in 
 what I observed. 
 
 Low crouched beside a corner pillar was one of the 
 unfortunate beings above alluded to, moving his body- 
 backwards and forwards and sideways, all at once, as 
 it were, with the heaving roll so comnion in great 
 physical pain — ^but it is not exclusively so caused. In 
 this case it was induced by intense sorrow — the poor 
 fellow's monkey was dead in his arms, and he sobbed 
 and moaned over it as though his heart was breaking, 
 and hugged it to his bosom as if he would force it back 
 to life. 
 
 I know what a delicate subject I touch on here : from 
 sentiment to absurdity there is scarcely a greater space 
 than from the sublime to the ridiculous. The - genius 
 of Sterne could barely save the mark. A dead horse 
 or dog finds ready mourners, where an ass or a monkey 
 meets derision. Humanity has httle sympathy for 
 what resembles it the most. Nature does not love the 
 mirror that is held up to it : but if men would be less 
 sensitive to these personal reflections, and forgive the 
 libels of creation in spite of their truth, they could hot 
 resist a keen feeling of compassion for the fate of a 
 poor monkey, dragged prisoner from the abounding 
 paradise of his native woods to the ignoble doom of 
 amusing and mimicking such beings as compose the 
 mass of mankind, and then fated to die, — how ? Who 
 
THE SLEEPING PARTNERS. 253 
 
 ever thought of inquiring into the average modes of de- . 
 struction to v^^hich these miserable animals are doomed, 
 or of calculating their previous certainties of suffering ? 
 Naturalists and philosophers have taken great pains to 
 study the whole species, and still greater to persuade 
 their fellow men that they are by no means so like it 
 as they seem to be : but there is an instinct of stubborn 
 consciousness within us which behes their reasoning ; 
 and there was more real nature, and probably as much 
 true philosophy, in the grief of this poor Savoyard boy 
 far the lose of his second self, than in the scepticism of 
 half the writers, from Alpha to Omega, or, as Tony 
 Lumpkin would have stated it, from A to Izzard. 
 
 "Where is your friend?" asked I of the poor 
 mourner, as I gave him a small piece of money — so 
 small that I need not be afraid that my mentioning the 
 fact will be mistaken for ostentation, — so small that my 
 right hand might have blushed had it known what the 
 left was doing. 
 
 " Here, here ! I have no friend now," was the reply, 
 sobbed out with action suited to the words, and both 
 one and the other acutely touching. 
 
 « Well, well; I mean your comrade— where is he ?" 
 was my next inquiry. 
 
 <'I don't know — I don't care — I did not think of 
 him ;" and a new burst of lamentation told who he did 
 think of. 
 
254 * FRIENJ)SHIP'S OFFERING. 
 
 "It is very unfortunate," said I, " but you must 
 now take care of yourself; crying' will do no good, you 
 know ; and it is well for the poor thing to be dead, and 
 out of misery ; and — " 
 
 A-nd I might have run on stringing commonplaces, 
 like an old woman counting her beads, had not the 
 Savoyard turned upon me such a look of brimful and 
 simple reproval, that I was quite ashamed of myself. 
 . I thought I could read in it a whole volume of refutation 
 to my stale condolements ; and I felt that it^was, after 
 all, as impertinent to worry this poor child with argu- 
 ments about his deceased brute, as it would be to check 
 the grown-up anguish of an adult for a departed friend. 
 It is monstrous to lay down limits for affection ; — that 
 monkey was better worth mourning than many a man 
 I could name. Real grief comes from a source too 
 deep to be reached by reason : the only chance is to let 
 the heart send out some other spring from the same 
 reservoir, which may take a different turn. Sorrow 
 ;nay be diverted into other channels ; if not, it finally 
 sinks inwards and wears into the soil, and wastes and 
 consumes it until all is over: and that is the simple 
 process of a broken heart, which is never battered in 
 breach, but always destroyed by sap. But this is a rare 
 occurrence, and I have no reason to suspect that my 
 Savoyard became, an example of it in this instance. 
 
 After some further short conversation, the result of 
 
THE SLEEPING PARTNERS. 255 
 
 which is neither here nor there, I left him, in a not 
 more comfortless state than I found him ; and, as chance 
 would have it, I, within an hour after, turned my steps 
 towards the irregular rising grounds fronting the Prince 
 of Orange's palace, outside the Boulevards, beyond the 
 low brick wall which is meant as a protection against, 
 but is in reality a temptation to, contraband. There 
 was a hard path beaten on the snow between the 
 Louvain and Namur gates, winding through rugged 
 ravines and inequalities of surface, hiils and hollows, so 
 monotonously intricate from their snowy covering, that 
 a stranger might easily enough have lost his way, 
 during a night-wandering at least. I stepped on at a 
 rapid pace, the crisp air powdering my whiskers and 
 side-locks, and my breath condensed into a flake of 
 white mist as it escaped from my lungs, looking as 
 though I sent forth a vapoury flag of truce — for I was 
 at peace with all the world. 
 
 I, however, had not yet quite shaken ofl^ some angry 
 remains of my discontent with fate, which had treated 
 the Savoyard boy so badly. I thought his case a hard 
 one ; and had more than once asked myself why or 
 wherefore a poor devil hke that, or the abounding 
 millions of other poor devils, should liave their path 
 paved with sharp flints from the cradle to the grave ? 
 But, getting no satisfactory answer to these ready- 
 springing inquiries, I had shaken my head some four 
 21* 
 
366 friendship's offering. 
 
 or five times, as much as to say, It's no use — we may- 
 knock at the^ door of knowledge again and again, and 
 not find it at hotne — '< Whatever is, is" — and there let 
 us stop the quotation : even if we can't believe it the 
 " best," let us at any rate make the best of it. It is in 
 this way I generally pacify myself, when there is 
 nothing to be got by making war. There is no disgrace 
 in knocking under to destiny, provided one is sure it 
 is not of one's own making. But when it is, it is the 
 bounden duty of a brave spirit to battle with the ills he 
 has himself created ; and, if he cannot otherwise destroy 
 the offspring of his "minority of sense and majority of 
 folly," (as a quaint writer expresses it,) why then he 
 must follow old Saturn's example, and swallow them. 
 
 Just as I ascended from the deepest part of the ravine 
 and the reverie, and gained the upper ridge, I was 
 startled at hearing a few bars of the melody of " Sweet 
 home," irregularly grinded out of one of those miserable 
 music-mills which are exclusively the badge of the 
 Savoyards. The tones were quite familiar to me, as 
 well as the tune they tortured. I had often heard them 
 from the instrument worked by the comrade of the boy 
 I have been saying so much about, and I thought it an 
 odd coincidence that I should stumble thus on those 
 two poor fellows in the same morning, one in town and 
 the other out of it, and for the first 4ime I had ever seen 
 them separate. I stopped for a moment to catch exactly 
 
THE SLEEPING PARTNERS. 257 
 
 the direction from which the music, so to call it, pro- 
 ceeded ; hut it had stopped also. In a minute or two, 
 it came again, but in irregular fits, short, quick, and 
 broken, as if the instrument was out of temper as well 
 as out of tune, and dissatisfied with its own discords. 
 The beautiful air, thus murdered, was never so well 
 adapted to carry the mind back to the memory of early 
 associations. The bleak scene, the foreign land, the 
 gulf between the past and present, the shifting changes 
 of Hfe, the withered hopes, the faded friendships, the 
 altered hearts! "Well, well," thought I, hurrying 
 upwards with my longest strides, "it is all nonsense — 
 a dream, a farce ! The past is dead, the future unborn 
 — let me enjoy the present ; it is full blown, ripe, and 
 fragrant. When to-morrow grows into to-day, it shall 
 have all my allegiance ; when it fades into yesterday, I 
 will forget it-^if I can. That is my philosophy ! But 
 where is tha musician ?" 
 
 Turning round, my eye fell upon the; object it sought ; 
 he was lying against the bank at some yards from me, 
 on his back, his open eyes turned up to the keen blue 
 sky, his bosom unbuttoned, his arms stretched beside 
 him. " Thinking !" thought I, " and of home, perhaps, 
 such as it was — no matter — < be it ever so homely :' " 
 the last two bars of the melody finished the quotation, 
 but played so wildly out of measure, that, in conjunction 
 with the motionless figure of the boy, it sounded quite 
 
258 friendship's offering. 
 
 unearthly. I looked again — it was the monkey that 
 turned the handle of the " hurdy-gurdy," (which was 
 close beside the boy's head) with one hand, while with 
 the other he was pulHng the collar of his master's coat, 
 or playing with his long hair, I could not distinguish 
 which exactly. 
 
 " What," said I, <' sleeping, like the hare, with his 
 eyes open ! Is he afraid of the hunters even here ?" 
 and I stepped up close and gazed upon him. There 
 was no fear of my awaking him—- he was stark dead ! 
 
 Caught in the too close embrace of the frost, the poor 
 wanderer had perished— -perhaps a shelter had been 
 refused him for the night. He had a narrow walk 
 through life, but ample room to die in. He was stiff 
 when I discovered him, as the bank he lay on, and 
 must have been dead many hours ; but even then his 
 face, except for its paleness, looked scarce like death. 
 Either he suffered httle, or the pang was like a light- 
 ning flash : it must have struck on his heart at once, 
 and not approached it by the extremities. The monkey 
 might well have beheved him to sleep, and imagine the 
 notes of his music box had power to rouse him. 
 
 The Savoyard was buried with all the honours of 
 the poor-house — they are not very noisy or exciting. 
 Vagrancy has no right to be fired over ; nor do drums 
 and tnmipets flourish for the departed poor. Charity 
 is in these cases very taciturn : in truth it has not much 
 
THE SLEEPING PARTNERS, 259 
 
 to boast of. A shell, a sexton, a short prayer or two, 
 and a few shovelfuls of earth— all that is scarcely worth 
 boasting about, or writing about either — so I leave the 
 funeral to the reader's imagination. 
 
 I took care that the other poor fellow duly enjoyed 
 his lawful inheritance — some three or four francs in 
 a leathern bag, the coarse suit of clothes, the hurdy- 
 gurdy, and the Uving monkey. The fourfold association 
 was broken up; only two of the firm remained; and 
 they proceeded^ heaven knows where, to carrj'- on the 
 business, while the remaining partners slept. 
 
 The corporation legislators had broken dreams, per- 
 haps, when they heard the story. 
 
FROM LAMARTINE. 
 
 BY B. H. COATES, M. D. 
 
 'Tis thee I see, *tis thee I hear 
 
 In deserts or in clouds of air. 
 The wave reflects thy image dear ; 
 
 Thy gentle voice the zephyrs hear. 
 
 When slumhers earth, and others know 
 The solemn night wind's mystic tone, 
 
 I hear thee whisper, soft and low, 
 Some holy words for me alone. 
 
 If on the fires of heav'n I gaze 
 
 That sparkle o'er the veil of m'ght, 
 
 I see thy beauty in the rays 
 
 That make each fav'rite star more bright. 
 
 And when the zephyr, o'er the rose. 
 Flings sweetness from the gentle tree, 
 
 In what his balmiest hours disclose. 
 He ever wafts the breath of thee. 
 
E :i [1. X, „ 
 
• 
 
 '# 
 
 m 
 
LEILA. 
 
 BY JULIAN CRAMER. 
 
 « * Say to him my spirit is often with hira — around him — breath- 
 ing its ardent desires for his happiness.' * * » When the letter 
 conveying these words reached me, amid the anguish of my 
 bereavement, I felt that I had received a message from my dead 
 Leila in the land of spirits." 
 
 Oh thou, whose loving face I see 
 
 No more, except in dreams at night, 
 I heed thy message — it shall be 
 
 In all my woes a sure dehght. 
 Though parted by a stern decree 
 
 That leaves me on a desert shore. 
 Our souls, from every fetter free. 
 
 Shall meet and mingle evermore. 
 
 Yes, thou art near me. On my brow 
 
 The whitening locks move to and fro : 
 There is no zephyr blowing now 
 
 To stir them — 'tis thy breath, I know ! 
 Thy spirit lips are hovering nigh — 
 
 Oh could mine meet them as of yore ! 
 Was that the echo of my sigh? 
 
 I knew not that I sighed before. 
 
264 friendship's offering. 
 
 Yes, thou art near me : round me dwells 
 
 An atmosphere so sweet and pure, 
 It fills my heart's most secret cells. 
 
 And is for care the perfect cure. 
 Can I forget thee? Deep within, 
 
 Where memory paints with fadeless hues, 
 Supreme thine image e'er hath been, 
 
 And all my inner hfe imbues. 
 
 Few are the joys that light my way 
 
 Along the dusty road of hfe : 
 Earth's brightest scenes are cold and grey — 
 
 I languish in perpetual strife. 
 Sorrow hath made me from my birth 
 
 The target for her poisoned spears. 
 And every hour of careless mirth 
 
 Hath heralded an hour of tears ! 
 
 But, when my spirit sinks in gloom. 
 
 And blackness gathers o'er my soul — 
 When gapes beneath the open tomb, 
 
 And mournful bells within me toll — 
 Then thou — my loved and lost — shalt press 
 
 Thy spiritual Hps to mine: — 
 Unseen, unheard, thy sweet caress 
 
 Shall fill me with a peace divine. 
 
MEMORIES OF *'THE SECOND SIGHT." 
 
 BY R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, LL.D. 
 
 The wanderer through a gay parterre, — rich with 
 a thousand beautiful flowers, indigenous to foreign 
 dimes, and only naturalized in this by the exercise of 
 skill and the outlay of expense, — delights to see some 
 homely, simple plant, such as the Httle daisy or the 
 pale primrose, which charms him amid the brilliant 
 array ; and does so charm because of that very home- 
 liness and simphcity. Let us consider the ornate and 
 splendid volume for which I write — rich with its fan- 
 ciful Song and its picturesque Story — as somewhat 
 resembling the garden ; imagine the reader to be the 
 wanderer through its beauties, and hope that if I bring 
 a blossom or two of Fact before him, amid all the bril- 
 liant Fiction he may there encounter, he will not reject 
 the offering, which in its own place would be unheeded, 
 but view it with somewhat of favour on account of its 
 very homeliness. With this supposition — as much an 
 22 
 
266 
 
 apology as a preface — I venture to relate a few modem 
 instances of that Second-sight which is a superstition 
 not only apparently peculiar to the Scottish Highlanders, 
 but limited to a few famihes here. 
 
 A few years ago, in the Scottish Highlands, the 
 chapter of accidents threw me into chance companion- 
 ship with a gentleman, in whose society a wet evening 
 passed on, pleasantly and rapidly, with conversation 
 upon almost every subject, and, at length, naturally 
 turned to "the Second-sight," which even yet is 
 claimed for a few Scottish families — those of indis- 
 putable Celtic descent. It was not until he saw that 
 I possessed some hereditary respect for the superstition 
 in question, that I could get my companion to discuss 
 it with the freedom which had characterized our pre- 
 vious discourse upon other topics. 
 
 "In my own family," said he, " Hhe Second-sight' 
 has been held from time immemorieil. In other Scottish 
 famihes — that is, in the few which also possess this 
 prophetic vision, the gift has descended from father to 
 son : in ours, from a circumstance which it would be 
 tedious to relate, it has been delivered from grandfather 
 to grandson, there being a lapse between its exercise 
 by the respective parties. Thus, supposing that your 
 grandfather possessed this gift, it would not descend to 
 you during the hfe of your father, though he would be 
 wholly out of the line of succession. I could tell you 
 
MEMORIES OF "THE SECOND SIGHT." 267 
 
 an anecdote or two which would shew you how, in my 
 own house, this has been the case. 
 
 "My grandfather, who resided near CuUoden Moor, 
 had taken a wife shortly before the Jacobite out-break 
 in 1745. On the morning before the battle, he sat 
 down to breakfast with such a grave countenance, that 
 his bride was induced to inquire what had happened 
 to gloom it. He attempted to evade the inquiry which 
 her womanly curiosity or her bridal affection made, 
 but confessed at length, that he had seen the shadow 
 of coming evil — that, in short, he had beheld, by anti- 
 cipation, a bloody fight, and the downfall of the Cheva- 
 lier's cause. I should tell you that my grandfather 
 was an adherent of the Stuarts, and the head of our 
 clan had forfeited an Earldom and estate, and had 
 narrowly escaped with life, on account of his active 
 participation in the rebellion of 1715. <But,' he added, 
 *I saw also, my Isabella, that we shall this evening 
 receive a gallant and royal leader under our roof. . It 
 can be no other than the Prince, and it behoves you to 
 make the best preparation for him.' In Scotland, at 
 that time, the wife's motto was to hear and to obey, 
 and she who was thus spoken to, hastened to put her 
 house in order and make it ready for the reception of 
 the visioned guest. A few minutes before midnight, 
 the tramp of cavalry was heard approaching. It came 
 nearer — nearer. It paused at my grandfather's gate. 
 
268. friendship's offering. 
 
 A loud knocking summoned the inmates, and they 
 received a royal leader, as had been anticipated, but 
 not exactly him whom they had expected. Instead of 
 bonny Prince Charley, it was the burly Duke of Cum- 
 berland!" 
 
 * ^ That,' ' said I, * < was somewhat of a disappointment?" 
 "It was. The Duke sat up during the greater part 
 of the night, and snatched an hour's sleep on the bed, 
 without taking off his clothes. He quitted the house 
 at day-break, and asked the loan of a snuff-box, as he 
 went away. The worst in the place, namely, a com- 
 mon Scotch mull, was handed him — for, sooth to say, 
 independent of my grandfather's sympathies being 
 with the Stuarts, he never expected to see his box 
 again. Two or three days after the battle, however, a 
 soldier rode up to the house, inquired for its occupant 
 by name, and restored him the mull <with the Duke's 
 compHments and thanks.* That evening, when it was 
 accidentally opened, it was found to be filled with gold. 
 In this manner had the Duke chosen to make his 
 acknowledgment for the night's lodging which had 
 been unwillingly afforded him. The box, thus honoured 
 by having been in the Duke of Cumberland's pocket 
 during the eventful day of Culloden, was long preserved 
 in our family, as a sort of heir-loom, and if you have 
 the slightest curiosity, y6u can see it now." 
 
 In compHance with my desire, the box was produced. 
 
MEMORIES OF "THE SECOND SIGHT." 2G9 
 
 It was a very plain mull, without the slightest orna- 
 ment except a small silver shield on the cover, and a 
 shght rim of the same material round the top. 
 
 *^I keep it," said its owner, << precisely as it was 
 dehvered to me — the only portion of my father's pro- 
 perty that ever came into my possession on his death. 
 Not having the smaller vices of smoking or snuffing— 
 indeed, having as much antipathy for *the weed' as 
 ever King James had, — I yet keep the box, as a me- 
 morial, rather of its last than its original possessor," 
 
 "Did he see any more visions?" 
 
 < ' Certainly. Having made so promising a commence- 
 ment in '45, he constantly exercised the faculty. The 
 last occasion, which was exactly half a century after — 
 for he lived to extreme old age-— was one which such 
 of his descendants as heard the incident were not likely 
 to forget. My father, being, like Horatio, of * a truant 
 disposition,' took French leave of his birth-place when 
 he had scarcely reached his eighteenth year. The fol- 
 lowing fifteen years witnessed his wanderings through 
 all quarters of the globe, and during all that time, most 
 undutifuUy, he did not attempt to hold any communi- 
 cation with his family by letter. It was generally 
 beHeved by his kinsmen that he was dead ; but his 
 father declared that he felt to the contrary, and his 
 mother clung to the belief with the trust that maternal 
 feelings alone can retain — hers was that hoping against 
 22* 
 
270 friendship's offering. 
 
 hope, which believes what it wishes rather than what 
 circumstances might make it fear. At last, when, 
 except by his parents, his very memory was almost 
 forgotten, the long absent reappeared in the scenes of 
 his youth. The manner in which he was received, as 
 I have heard him relate it, was inexpressibly striking. 
 The father, white with the snow, and bowed by the ail- 
 ments of upwards of eighty years, had maintained most 
 of his mental faculties unimpaired, and was cherished 
 •^amid his children and his children's children — as a 
 venerable patriarch, a living link between the past and 
 the present. On the thirty-third anniversary of the 
 birth-day of the absent son — which they celebrated, 
 rather from custom than a behef in his continued exist- 
 ence — the old man suddenly exclaimed, fixing his eyes 
 intently upon the open window, ^I see the return of 
 the absent : to-night, even to-night, his voice will sound 
 in the house where he first drew breath !' Not a word 
 more did he speak, but his wife, who had the fullest 
 confidence in his < second-sight,' decreed that prepara- 
 tions should be made for the reception of a guest. The 
 day had far declined, and no visitant appeared. The 
 younger members of the fEimily smiled, in scepticism, 
 at the non-fulfilment of their grandsire's prediction. 
 At last, when it now was almost midnight, a step was 
 heard outside. The window had been left open, and 
 through it, though rather an unusual mode of entrance, 
 
MEMORIES OF *'THE SECOND SIGHT." 271 
 
 bounded in the robust man, bronzed with foreign travel, 
 who had left the pkce when a lad. No one recognized 
 him, except his aged parents. He bent on his knee 
 before his father for a blessing, and the old man, laying 
 his hands upon the head of the long absent, fervently 
 said, ^Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in 
 peace.' Some hours were spent in questions and an- 
 swers, and, rather early in the morning, the happy 
 family retired to rest. When they arose and assembled 
 round the breakfast-table, it was noticed that my grand- 
 father's seat was vacant. One of his daughters went 
 to summon him. Why need I prolong my story ? She 
 found him dead, and his wife sleeping by his side in 
 happy unconsciousness of her loss! If ever a heart 
 had broken with joy it was that old man's. Was I 
 wrong in saying that there was something striking in 
 the wanderer's return to his native hills ?" 
 
 My companion did not much hesitate, at my urgent 
 request, to relate the instances in which, in his own 
 person, the faculty of ^'second-sight" had been mani- 
 fested. They were related with such an apparent faith 
 in their reality, — and it should be remembered that the 
 narrator was now drawing upon his own painful experi- 
 ence, in which there was scarcely chance of a mistake- 
 that Doubt itself would be almost silenced if, even as I 
 did, it heard the story told so much more impressively 
 than I can pretend to write. 
 
272 friendship's offering. 
 
 . " According to what .is understood to be the usual 
 custom," said he, "the faculty of which I spoke de- 
 scends from grandsire to grandson, passing over the 
 entire intermediate descendants. None of my grand- 
 father's sons, therefore, could expect to be endowed 
 with it, and of his many grandsons, there appeared 
 little chance that I — ^bom, too, out of Scotland, and 
 from a Saxon mother — should inherit it. Least of all, 
 at any rate, did such an idea cross my own mind for a 
 moment. I was in my fourteenth year, and had pro- 
 ceeded to spend my school-vacation with a relative in 
 the country. My father, when I left him, was in the 
 enjoyment of that rude health which always distin- 
 guished him, and made him, then, though in his sixtieth 
 year, a much stronger man than many who were his 
 juniors by ten or fifteen years. A few weeks passed 
 pleasantly on, and all accounts from home were satis- 
 factory. I well remember, that one morning, I hap- 
 pened to sit alone — if I can say I was alone, with one 
 of Scott's novels in my hand — when, happening to raise 
 my eyes towards the fire-place, over which was placed 
 a large mirror, I saw my father standing by it, with 
 his arm resting on the chimney-piece. My first impulse 
 w^as to jump from my chair, throw aside my book, and 
 hastily advance to my father. He did not stir, and his 
 eyes, as they looked at another object, appeared dull 
 and glassy. I had scarcely taken a second step for- 
 
273 
 
 ward, when I noticed that I could see into the mirror, 
 through my father, and that he cast no shadow upon 
 the glass. Instantly the thought rushed into my mind 
 that in this there was something unnatural. My ad- 
 vancing steps were suddenly arrested, and a horror 
 struck through my frame. I remember nothing more, 
 except that, late in the day, I found myself in bed, and 
 was told by one of my cousins that I had been taken 
 with a fit of some kind, for I had been found senseless 
 on the floor, and that the medical gentleman who had 
 seen me, had bled me. I could not resist the impulse, 
 even at the risk of being laughed at, to whisper to my 
 gentle cousin the cause of my sudden illness. On the 
 third day after, a letter from home told me that, at the 
 precise time I saw what I behe ved was my father he had 
 died. He had been visited by a sudden ailment, which 
 rapidly terminated in his death. Why this should have 
 occurred— for it did occur, as certainly as I am now 
 telling it to you — I am unable to explain. I only relate 
 a simple fact, which neither time, change, nor circum- 
 stance can obliterate from my memory." 
 
 After a silence of some duration — for there was sub- 
 ject for meditation in what I had heard — I ventured to 
 ask, on what other occasion he had experienced the 
 faculty ? 
 
 " The second and only other instance occurred," 
 said he, "about fifteen years ago, when I was in my 
 
274 friendship's off^iring. 
 
 twenty-second yeaj. I cannot account for the impulse 
 which has prompted me to converse, thus freely, with 
 a stranger, upon a subject of this kind, but I feel that 
 you do not laugh at what I tell' you, and, at times, the 
 overloaded mind is glad to have an auditor respecting 
 the superstition— if such it be — even if he does not 
 share its peculiar shades of speculation, to whom it 
 may unburthen itself without reserve. When I had 
 reached my eighteenth year — that age when the Girl 
 has already softly glided into the Woman, and the Boy 
 can scarcely be said to have attained Manhood — when, 
 in short, he yearns, most sinlessly, for the soft com- 
 panionship which soothes, and softens, and refines his 
 nature — -it was my fortune to be thrown a good deal 
 into the society of the gentle cousin I have already 
 mentioned, who was about my own age. I need not 
 fatigue you with a description of the lady. Beautiful 
 she certainly was — ^at least so / thought, — ^but the cha- 
 racter of her loveliness I feel that words could never 
 correctly make known to you. But, indeed, the mere 
 attractions of form and feature would not by themselves 
 have charmed me. I found that my cousin had a well- 
 informed intellect, and I have ever thought that it is 
 the mind which makes the body beautiful. In the 
 strange old country-house which was her dwelling- 
 place, and with no other being ef either sex of an age 
 at all near my own, it is scarcely wonderful — to say 
 
275 
 
 nothing whatever of the lady's charms — if I very 
 speedily became enamoured of her. Nor was it a tri- 
 fling consolation to know that the fancy or the passion 
 (for the true designation of the feeling is doubtful,) was 
 as reciprocal as heart could desire. Well do I remem- 
 ber, even as it were yesterday, when first I dared say 
 in words what my eyes had told long before, how 
 dearly I loved her. And her reply — it was given, not 
 in spoken language, but in the low and reheving sigh 
 which speaks, even in its silence. The blush upon 
 the cheek, — the heaving of her bosom, — the sudden 
 tears springing into her dark blue eyes, (like the dew 
 trembHng on the violets,) gave me the assurance that I 
 did not sue in vain. Even yet, though years have 
 passed away, the memory of that first hour of mutu- 
 ally confessed affection is green in my heart. Well, 
 it is some consolation, that though Hope may fly away, 
 Memory remains to solace us, however sadly ! 
 
 " It would be a bad reward for the patience with 
 which, my dear sir, you have hstened to all this ego- 
 tism, to try it further by inflicting upon you an account 
 of all the tenderness of protestation and promise which 
 followed the mutual confession I spoke of. The truth 
 is, we were thrown much together, when we had no- 
 thing to do but fall in love with each other, at the most 
 susceptible period of the threescore and ten years 
 allotted to human Hfe, and we certainly fulfilled our 
 
27C 
 
 destiny. Vows of eternal constancy we exchanged, of 
 course, and wisely agreed that at a fit and future time, 
 we should be espoused, and so — we parted. My lot 
 was speedily cast in the midst of the business and 
 bustle of the world, in which I had to win subsistence 
 and reputation ; and hers was destined to ghde on in 
 quiet, first in that home which to this hour is so haunt- 
 ed with recollections of the past, that it would be a 
 positive pain for me to revisit it, and finally in a se- 
 questered village in the most beautiful part of the South 
 of France. Our correspondence gradually grew less 
 frequent than it had been at first ; for my own part, I 
 must admit in candour, that at last, when I formed new 
 ties, it wholly ceased. 
 
 «I remember how — for our converse was* beyond 
 our years — we had spoken together of that world be- 
 yond the grave, of which so little is known, so much 
 idly guessed. « I believe,' said my cousin, who- was 
 fond of such speculations, « that disembodied spirits 
 may hover around those whom they loved on earth, 
 and,' she added, with more solemnity than I fancied 
 the occasion warranted, *if it should be so, depend 
 upon it that I shall first use my privilege to watch over 
 you, and — if it be permitted — even be a visitant visible 
 to you.' I had smiled at the promise thus made, half 
 in sport; I dreamed not then how Truth may lurk 
 amid the smiles of mirth. 
 
MEMORIES OF "THE SECOND SIGHT." 277 
 
 "Many years had past since I had last seen my 
 cousin. The sanguine youth had changed into the 
 man of the world, striving to gain that fame which, 
 when gained, is unsubstantial as the gorgeous domes 
 which fancy images in the sky on the eve of an autum- 
 nal day. I had < olive branches round about my table.' 
 I had taken an active and leading part in the strife of 
 politics and the business of Hfe. I was one of the last 
 persons, in short, whom any one would think likely to 
 be moved, even for a moment, by a superstitious fancy. 
 One night, when absent from my home on a visit to a 
 friend, I retired to bed early, and lay in that pleasant, 
 quiet state between repose and thought. Contempla- 
 tion, which had been busy, was momentarily fading, 
 but Sleep had not yet put his seal upon the phantasies. 
 As the clock commenced striking the midnight hour, I 
 heard, or thought I heard, the door of my chamber 
 slowly opened, and footsteps — they seemed a woman's 
 by their light tread — pace stealthily along. They 
 came near — yet nearer. They reached the side of my 
 bed, and paused. A Hght dimly appeared through the 
 curtains, as if some one cautiously held a lamp, half 
 veiling its light so as to allow a glance at me without 
 dazzling me. The curtains slowly opened and — and, 
 by heaven ! for it was not a dream — I saw a woman's 
 face, pale, melancholy, and indistinct, gazing into mine 
 with intent and mournful look. Of the lineaments of 
 
S78 friendship's offering. 
 
 that face, which yet appeared not wholly unknown to 
 me, I could gather little precisely in the brief glance I 
 had of them — for as I have said, they were indistinct. 
 But the eyes — so lustrous and so sorrowful — these I 
 could distinctly see : these were what I remembered, 
 but knew not how, where, or what was my knowledge 
 of them. I started from my stillness— spoke, to satisfy 
 myself that I was not in sleep — looked around to see 
 whether the light shining over me might not be that of 
 the moon peering in through the casement ; but it was 
 a dark and starless night. I turned to the vision — if 
 it were such — ^but as I was about speaking to it, it 
 slowly vanished. I followed it — ^but in vain. As it 
 retired, the light which mantled it grew less ; but the 
 unearthly lustre of those dark and brilliant eyes re- 
 mained the latest in my view. Just as all had faded 
 away, the clock pealed out its last stroke, and that clear 
 sound fell on my ear like the knell for a departed soul. 
 A shriek, too, more piercingly shrill and wildly hor- 
 rible than I had ever heard before, accompanied the 
 exit of the shadowy visitant. All, from first to last, 
 that I have described, had happened between the first 
 and the last stroke of the midnight hour. An age of 
 agony was concentrated into the compass of that mo- 
 ment ! 
 
 "When the morning came, I found my door fastened 
 within, precisely as I had left it when I retired to rest. 
 
MEMORIES OF "THE SECOND SIGHT." 279 
 
 The circumstance appeared so startling, that I made a 
 memorandum that day, while each particular was 
 vividly fresh in my mind, of what I had seen or imagi- 
 ned. Why need I longer delay the result ? Within 
 ten days I received a letter informing me that my 
 cousin, who had long been separated from my very 
 thoughts, had died in the foreign land where she had 
 passed so many years. The startling coincidence was 
 that the breath of life had departed from her on the 
 very day and at the very hour when those dark unfa- 
 thomable eyes met mine, as I have told you. She died 
 suddenly, and by no Hngering illness. — I have no more 
 to tell." 
 
 To wonder at this strange relation, and to repeat, 
 with Hamlet, that there were more things in earth and 
 heaven than our philosophy had dreamed of, was only 
 natural. I had the curiosity to inquire what the nar- 
 rator really thought of the visit from the world of spirits, 
 for it was clear that such he conceived it to be, arid the 
 answer was " I doubt not that it was her departing 
 spirit which, as it hovered between dust and immor- 
 tahty, thus gave its latest token of remembrance to him 
 whom it had loved in hfe and until death — testifying, 
 by that last farewell, the truth of that affection which 
 the grave alone could terminate." 
 
THE NEGLECTED CHILD. 
 
 BY THOMAS H. BAYLY, ESQ. 
 
 I never was a favourite — 
 
 My mothernever smiled 
 On me, with half the tenderness 
 
 That blessed her fairer child : 
 I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek, 
 
 While fondled on her knee ; 
 I've turned away to hide my tears, — 
 
 There was n6 kiss for me ! 
 
 And yet I strove to please, with all 
 
 My httle store of sense ; 
 I strove to please, and infancy 
 
 Can rarely give offence : 
 But when my artless efforts met 
 
 A cold, ungentle check, 
 I did not dare to throw myself, 
 
 In tears, upon her neck. 
 
THE NEGLECTED CHILD. 281 
 
 How blessed are the beautiful ! 
 
 Love watches o'er their birth ; 
 Oh beauty ! in my nursery 
 
 I learned to know thy worth ; — 
 For even there, I often felt 
 
 Forsaken and forlorn ; 
 And wished — for others wished it tO' 
 
 I never had been born ! 
 
 Pm sure I was affectionate, — 
 
 But in my sister's face, 
 There was a look of love that claimed 
 
 A smile or an embrace. 
 But when / raised my lip, tp meet 
 
 The pressure children prize, 
 None knew the feehngs of my heart, — 
 
 They spoke not in my eyes. 
 
 But oh ! that heart too keenly felt 
 
 The anguish of neglect ; 
 I saw my sister's lovely form 
 
 With gems and roses decked ; 
 I did riot covet them ; but oft, 
 When wantonly reproved, 
 envied her the privilege 
 Of being so beloved. 
 23* 
 
282 ^ friendship's offering. 
 
 But soon a time of triumph came — 
 
 A time of sorrow too, — 
 For sickness, o'er my sister's form 
 
 Her venomed mantle threw ;: — 
 The features, once so beautiful, 
 
 Now wore the hue of death ; 
 And former friends shrank fearfully 
 
 From her infectious breath. 
 
 'Twas then, unwearied, day and night 
 
 I watched beside her bed, . 
 And fearlessly upon my breast 
 
 I pillowed her poor head. 
 She lived ! — she loved me for my care !- 
 
 My grief was at an end ; 
 I was a lonely being once. 
 
 But now I have a friend ! 
 
YOU CAN'T MARRY YOUR GRAND- 
 MOTHER! 
 
 BY T. HAYNES BAYLY, ESQ. 
 
 The most wretched of children is the spoiled child — 
 the pet who is under no subjection, and who gets all 
 the trash for which his little mouth waters. 'Tis he 
 who bumps his head, in the act of going somewhere he 
 was forbidden by papa to approach ; and 'tis he whose 
 little stomach aches considerably in consequence of eat- 
 ing too many sweet things, coaxed out of the cupboard 
 of a fond but injudicious mamma. 
 
 Spoil the boy, and what are we to expect of the man ? 
 Will the dog be well-behaved, which was let to go his 
 own way when a puppy ? Will the steed be steady in 
 harness, if, when a colt, no care was taken of it ? The 
 spoiled boy inevitably becomes the wilful man, and with 
 the wilfulness comes discontent. 
 
 Unfortunately, those who have always been accus- 
 tomed to find others yield to them, and to have their 
 
284 friendship's offering. 
 
 own way, become habitually selfish, and utterly regard- 
 less of the feelings and wishes of those about them. 
 Self-gratification is naturally the first wish of the child ; 
 but it is the fault of parents, if, by injudicious indulgence, 
 the man is led to anticipate that, as everybody yielded 
 to him in boyhood, everybody must yield in after life. 
 
 Frederick Fairleigh was the spoiled qhild of his 
 family, the youngest of three children, and the only boy. 
 He was the pet of both father and mother, and being 
 lively, inteUigent, and good-looking, he soon became a 
 favourite. Spoiled in infancy, he was umnanageable 
 in boyhood, and wilful and self-suiRcient in the early 
 days of maturity. Master Frederick having been used 
 to his own way, it was not likely that Mr. Frederick 
 would voluntarily relinquish so agreeable a privilege. 
 At college, therefore, he continued and matured the 
 habit of idleness, which had been censured, l^ut never 
 sufficiently corrected at school. 
 
 *' As for study, he never got further than stud," and 
 was much more frequently seen in a scarlet hunting-coat 
 than in his sombre academic costume. The idle man at 
 Oxford during term time is not likely to do much good 
 at home during the vacation.— Frederick Fairleigh did 
 none. Ere he ceased to be in years a boy, he became 
 what is termed a "lady's man," flirting with all the 
 pretty girls he met, and encouraged to flirt by many a 
 •married dame old enough to be his mother. Petted and 
 
YOU can't marry your grandmother. 285 
 
 spoiled by everybody, Frederick became the especial 
 favourite of his grandfather, Sir Peter Fairleigh, and 
 spent much more of his time at Oakley Park than at 
 his father's house. 
 
 Before young Fairleigh was one-and-twenty, his 
 father died, and being then the immediate heir to Sir 
 Peter's baronetcy and estates, he naturally became a 
 greater favourite than ever. One precept the old 
 gentleman was perpetually preaching to his grandson : 
 he advocated an early marriage, and the more evidently 
 the youth fluttered butterfly fashion, from flower to 
 flower, enjoying the present without a thought of the 
 future, the more strenuously did old Sir Peter urge the 
 point. 
 
 The spoiled child had no notion of rehnquishing old 
 privileges : he still had his own way, still flirted with 
 all the pretty girls in the neighbourhood, and thinking 
 only of himself, and the enjoyment of the^noment, never 
 dreamt of the pain he might inflict on some, who, view- 
 ing his attentions in a serious light, might keenly suflfer 
 in secret when they saw those attentions transferred to 
 another. 
 
 He was five-and-twenty when he first met Maria 
 Denman, the richest heiress and the prettiest girl of the 
 country ; and when the Baronet saw the handsome 
 pair rambhng together all the morning, and sitting 
 together in corners at night, he secretly exulted in the 
 
286 friendship's offering, 
 
 probable realization of one of his fondest hopes — the 
 union of his pet grandson with his fair favourite, Maria. 
 There could be no misunderstanding his attentions : 
 there was indeed a tacit understanding between the 
 young couple ; but Frederick Fairleigh certainly never 
 had in so many words distinctly said, " Maria, will you 
 marry me ?" Months flew away, two years had already 
 elapsed, and though Frederick certainly seemed attached 
 to Maria, yet, when other pretty people came in his 
 way, he still flirted in a manner not quite justifiable in 
 one who had a serious attachment, nay, almost an 
 engagement, elsewhere. 
 
 Poor Sir Peter did not manage matters well ; indeed, 
 with the best intentions in the world, he made them 
 worse. It was not hkely that one who had never been 
 accustomed to opposition should all at once obey the 
 dictation of a grandfather. Opposition to the match 
 would immediately have brought matters to the desired 
 point — for Frederick, though not quite aware of it him- 
 self, devotedly loved the fair Maria. But she, like the 
 rest of the world, had assisted to spoil him : she had 
 been too accessible, too easily won ; and really loving 
 him who had paid her such marked attention, Frederick 
 had never seen a look or a word bestowed upon another 
 which could give him the slightest uneasiness. A pang 
 of jealousy would probably have at once opened his 
 eyes to the state of his own heart. But always kindly 
 
YOU can't marry your grandmother. 287 
 
 received by Maria, and always happy in her society, 
 the spoiled child saw in her kindness, and in her smiles, 
 nothing beyond the voluntary and unsolicited preference 
 which he had been but too well accustomed to receive 
 from others. He was, therefore, never driven by doubt 
 or by solicitude to pause and scrutinize the state of his 
 own heart. 
 
 Instead of offering feigned opposition to the match, 
 however. Sir Peter openly opposed the hne of conduct 
 pursued by his volatile heir, and, by continually harping 
 on the subject, he at last really made the wilful young 
 man believe that, of all disagreeable things in the world, 
 a marriage with the woman who was really dearest to 
 him of all beings on earth, would be the very worst. 
 
 <'My dear Sir," he cried one morning at breakfast, 
 after hearing a long lecture on the subject, "how you 
 do tease me about Miss Denman !" 
 
 "Tease you, Fred," said Sir Peter, "tease you! for 
 shame : I am urging you to secure your own happi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Surely, Sir," he replied, "there is plenty of time,— . 
 I am still very young." 
 
 "Young Sir! — you are a boy, Sir; a boy in judg- 
 ment and discretion ; a very child. Sir ; and, and what's 
 worse, a spoiled child." 
 
 "Well," said Frederick, laughing, " don't be angry ; 
 if I am a spoiled child the fault is not mine." 
 
5?0» FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 *' Yes it is, Fred — I say it is; things that are really- 
 good of their kind are not so easily spoiled." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Frederick, with a look of innocent 
 surprise, and, taking up Sir Peter's gold watch which 
 lay upon the table, he opened it, and pretended to poke 
 about the wheels. 
 
 "I see what you mean, you satirical monkey," cried 
 Sir Peter, laughing ; " give me my watch. Sir, and let 
 me now tell you that where there is real good sense 
 and stabihty, the man will very soon learn to get rid of 
 the selfishness — yes, Fred, I am sorry to repeat it, 
 selfishness was my word — the selfishness and self-im- 
 portance resulting from over indulgence in childhood. 
 
 " I wonder, then, any one should care about a selfish 
 consequential fellow, like myself," said Frederick. 
 
 " You mean to insinuate that you have been and are 
 a general favourite, popular with every body, and well 
 received wherever you go ? I grant it, my dear boy, I 
 grant it, — and I should be the last person to say that I 
 wonder at it ; but then you have got into one or two 
 scrapes lately." 
 
 "How do you mean?" said his grandson, "when 
 and where ?" 
 
 " Why, for instance, the Simmonses, with whom you 
 were so intimate ; did not Mr. Simmons ask you rather 
 an awkward question the last time you were there ?" 
 
 "He asked me my intentions," said Frederick, "my 
 
YOU can't marry your grandmother. 289 
 
 views with respect to his eldest daughter, Caroline — he 
 inquired, in fact, if I was serious." 
 
 *« A puzzler that, hey, Fred I" chuckled the baronet 
 who was not sorry the occurrence had happened. 
 
 "It was awkwkrd, certainly," said the youth, ''but 
 how could I help it ? They invariably encouraged me 
 to go to the house, and I positively never was more 
 attentive to one daughter than to another." 
 
 ''Possibly not ; but depend on it, where there are 
 young unmarried daughters in a family, fathers and 
 mothers never receive the constant visits of a young man 
 without calculating probabilities, and looking to conse- 
 quences. However, for Susan Simmons I «are not three 
 straws ; I am only anxious that a similar occurrence 
 should not deprive you of Miss Denman's society." 
 
 " That is a very different affair. Sir," said Frederick, 
 " surely you would not compare Susan Simmons with 
 Maria?" 
 
 " Ah !" said the old man, "that dehghts me ; now 
 you are coming to the point, the other was a mere 
 flirtation — all your former fancies have been mere flirta- 
 tions'; but with Maria, (as you say,) it is different; you 
 really love her, she is the woman you select for a wife." 
 
 " I did not say any such thing : I have not thought 
 of marriage, I am too young, too unsteady, if you will." 
 
 " Unsteady enough, I admit," said Sir Peter, shrug- 
 24 
 
si9a 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERING. 
 
 ging his shoulders, "but by no means too young; 
 besides, your father being dead, and your mother having 
 made a second marriage, your home as a married man 
 will be so desirable for your sisters." 
 
 *' I wonder you nevejr married again, Sir," said 
 Frederick. 
 
 ^' You would not wonder," said Sir Peter, feelingly, 
 " had you witnessed my happiness with the woman I 
 loved ; never tell me that taking a second wife is com- 
 phmentary to the first. It is a tacit eulogium on the 
 marriage state, I grant you ; but I consider it anything 
 rather than a compHment to the individual in whose 
 place you put a successor. They who have loved 
 and who have been beloved like myself, cannot imagine 
 the possibility of meeting with similar happiness in a 
 second union. Plead the passions if you will as an 
 apology for second marriages, but never talk of the 
 affections ; at least never name the last, and the happi- 
 ness you enjoyed in her society, as a reason why you 
 lead a second bride by the tombstone of your first, and 
 vow at the altar to love and to cherish her." 
 
 " Why, my dear Sir, can there be any harm in a 
 man's marrying a second wife ?" 
 
 *< Not a bit of it ; I am speaking of it as a matter of 
 feehng, not of duty ; in fact, I only give you my own 
 individual feelings, without n notion of censuring others. 
 
YOU can't marry your grandmother. 291 
 
 But were I about to many, Maria D^nman is the woman 
 I should choose." 
 
 *' I wish you would then, my dear Sir," said Fred- 
 erick, carelessly, " for then I might enjoy her society 
 without the dread of being talked into a marriage." 
 With these words he left the room, and Sir Peter cogi- 
 tated most uncomfortably over the unsatisfactory result 
 of the conversation. 
 
 The next day Frederick Fairleigh was off to some 
 races which were held in the neighbourhood, and, as if 
 to show a laudable spirit, and to prove that he was 
 master of his own actions, he avoided Maria Denman 
 as much as possible, and flirted with a new acquaintance 
 — the beautiful widow of an officer. - 
 
 Sir Peter was in despair; Maria, who was an orphan, 
 and had been entrusted to his guardianship, was on a 
 visit to Oakley Park, and in her pensive countenance 
 and abstracted manner he plainly saw" that his ward 
 was really attached to Frederick, and was hurt and 
 distressed by his extraordinary conduct. 
 
 << I wish our Frederick would come home," said Sir 
 Peter, who had been watching his ward, while she 
 dihgently finished a cat's left whisker, in a worsted 
 work-stool which was fixed in her embroidery frame. 
 
 " Our Frederick !" said Maria, starting, 
 
 << Yes, my dear, our Frederick ; did you not know 
 he was in love with you ?" 
 
292 
 
 " I hope I am not apt to fancy young men are in love 
 with me, sir Peter, and certainly Mr. Fairleigh has 
 never given me any reason to — - — •" 
 , " Stop, stop, no fibs," said the Baronet. 
 
 " He has never told me that a — — " Maria hesitated. 
 
 ** He has never formally proposed for you ; is that 
 what you mean to say?" 
 
 " Decidedly." 
 
 " And never will, if we don't make him ; but do you 
 mean to say that he has never given you reason to 
 suppose that he loved you ?" 
 
 ^'Pray, my dear guardian," said Maria, evading a 
 direct reply, "look at your grandson; you must be 
 aw^re that his attentions are lavished indiscriminately, 
 on every young lady he gets acquainted with. Words 
 and looks that might be seriously interpreted with others, 
 evidently mean nothing with him. He — he gives it 
 out that he is riot a marrying man." 
 
 " Not a marrying man ! how I hate that phrase. No 
 man's a marrying man till he meets with the woman 
 that he wishes to marry. And if men are not marrying 
 men, I'd be glad to know what they are ? — a pack 
 of reprobate rogues ! As to Frederick, I'm deter- 
 
 mmed " 
 
 " Pray make no rash resolves respecting your grand- 
 son. Sir Peter — especially in any matter in which you 
 may think I am concerned." 
 
YOU can't marry your grandmother. 293 
 
 "I tell you what, Maria, I know you love him," said 
 Sir Peter. '' I see his attentions have won your heart. 
 You have been, and are, quite right to endeavour to 
 hide your feelings, but it is all in vain ; I see as plain 
 as possible that you are dying for the ungrateful, foolish, 
 abominable fellow." 
 
 " " Oh, Sir !" cried Maria, rising in confusion, but she 
 again sank into her chair, and covering her face with 
 her hands, burst into tears. 
 
 "Do not think me cruel and unkind, Maria," said the 
 old gentleman, seating himself by her side and taking 
 her hand ; " you are very dear to me, you and my grand- 
 son are the two beings on earth who engross my affections ; 
 and, believe me, Frederick devotedly loves you." 
 
 Maria shook her head, and continued weeping. 
 
 Many weeks had elapsed, and young Fairleigh was 
 still absent from Oakley Park. Maria had, however, 
 resumed her cheerfulness, and Sir Peter seemed less 
 annoyed than might have been, expected at his grand- 
 Son's evident determination not to follow his advice. To 
 account for this change we must state, that Sir Peter 
 having been accidentally obliged to search for some 
 book in Frederick's apartment,, had discovered several 
 matters that convinced him of his attachment to his 
 ward, and those presumptive proofs having been made 
 known to Maria, she made a full confession of the state 
 24* 
 
294 TRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING. 
 
 of her heart. A priiTt, which, when exhibited in a port- 
 foHo in the drawing-room, had been pronounced a perfect 
 resemblance of the then absent Maria, had been secretly 
 taken from the portfolio, and was now discovered in 
 Frederick's room. By its side was a withered nosegay, 
 which Maria recognized as one that she had gathered 
 and given to him ; and in the same place was found a 
 copy of verses addressed "To Maria," and breathing 
 forth a lover's fondest vows. 
 
 All this amounted to nothing as proofs that Frede- 
 rick Fairleigh was in duty bound to marry the said 
 Maria Denman. In a court of justice, no jury would 
 have adjudged damages in a suit for breach of promise 
 of marriage, on such trivial grounds as these ; but they 
 served to show Maria that he who had thus treasured 
 up her resemblance could not be altogether indifferent 
 to her, and she at least felt relieved from the humiha- 
 ting idea that she loved one who had never for a mo- 
 ment thought seriously about her. 
 
 Sir Peter and his ward were now often closeted to- 
 gether, and one day, after an unusually long discussion, 
 she said, 
 
 "Well, Sir Peter, I can say no more ; I consent." 
 " There's a dear good girl ! cried the old man, affec- 
 tionately kissing her, "and now we'll all be happy in 
 spite of him. But now for my plans. It will never 
 do to stay here at Oakley Park with all these servants 
 
YOU can't marry your grandmother. 295 
 
 to wonder and chatter ; no, no. To-morrow you and I, 
 and your maid and my confidential man, will go to 
 Bognor, the quietest place in the world, and we'll have 
 nice lodgings near the sea, and I'll write to that miser- 
 able boy to come and meet us." 
 
 Maria looked rather grave, but Sir Peter, chuckling 
 with dehght, gave her another kiss, and then went to 
 expedite their departure, and to write a letter to his 
 grandson. 
 
 Faii:leigh, who had begun to get very tired of the 
 fascinating widow, was yawning over a late breakfast 
 when his grandfather's letter was laid before him. 
 
 "Ah," thought he, "more good advice I suppose, 
 urging me to marry. One thing at all events I'm re- 
 solved on, never to marry a widow : if people would 
 but let me alone, really Maria after all is — but what 
 says the Baronet ?" 
 
 "My Dear Grandson, 
 
 "Finding tha;t all my good advice has been thrown 
 away, and at length perceiving that you never intend 
 to invite me to your wedding, I now write to announce 
 my own, and request you with all speed to hasten to 
 Bognor, where we are established at Beach Cottage, 
 and where nothing but your presence is wanting to 
 complete the happiness of your affectionate grandfather, 
 
 "Peter Fairleigh." 
 
29G friendship's offering. 
 
 " Astenishing 1 of all men in the wide world the 
 very last!" Well, there was no use in wondering; 
 Frederick hastily packed up, and was very shortly on 
 his way to Bognor to pay his respects to the new- 
 married couple. On inquiring for *^ Beach Cottage" 
 he was directed to a picturesque abode, the very beau 
 ideal of a house to '' honey-moon" in ; and he was im- 
 mediately ushered into the presence of the Baronet, 
 who was sitting alone in a charming apartment which 
 looked upon the sea. 
 
 The meeting occasioned some httle awkwardness on 
 both sides, and it was a relief to Frederick when Sir 
 Peter rose to leave the room, saying, " there is a lady 
 who will expect to be made acquainted with you." 
 
 "Yes, Sir," said Frederick; "pray permit me to 
 pay my respects — to — to ask her blessing ; pray. Sir, 
 present me to — my grandmother." 
 
 Sir Peter left the room, and Frederick, half inclined 
 to view the marriage in a ridiculous Hght, sat wonder- 
 ing what sort of old body could have been fool enough 
 to enter the married state so late in life. He heard a 
 footstep slowly approach the room, (rather decrepid, 
 thought he ;) a hand touched the lock of the door ; it 
 opened ; and Maria stood before him clothed in white. 
 
 She advanced towards him with a smile, held out 
 her hand, and welcomed him to Beach Cottage. 
 
 " Good heavens !" cried Frederick, sinking on the 
 
YOU can't marry your grandmother. 297 
 
 sofa, and turning as pale as a sheet, ''is it possible ! I 
 — I deserve this — fool, idiot, madman that I have been ; 
 but oh ! Maria, how could you consent to such a sacri- 
 fice ? You must have known, you must have seen my 
 attachment. Yet, no, no, I have no right to complain, 
 I alone have been to blame !" 
 
 Sir Peter had followed the young lady into the room ; 
 she hastily retreated to the window, and the Baronet, in 
 apparent amazement, addressed his grandson. 
 
 " What means this language addressed to that la(iy, 
 Sir ; a lady you avoided when I wished you to address 
 her, and now that she is lost to you for ever, you insult 
 her by a declaration of attachment !" 
 
 " Sir Peter," said the spoiled child, springing from 
 the sofa, " if you were not my father's father I'd — " 
 
 " Well, what would you do, young man ?" 
 
 "But you are!" cried Frederick, "you are, and 
 what avails expostulation ;" and he sank again on the 
 sofa, choking with agitation. 
 
 " Pray, young man," said Sir, Peter, " control your 
 emotions ; and as to rage, don't give way to it. Were 
 you to kill me, you could not marry my widow." 
 
 " Not marry her — could not, were she free !" cried 
 Frederick, as the utter hopelessness of the case flashed 
 upon him. 
 
 " No, my dear boy, no, not even if she were free." 
 
 " I would !" shouted the youth. 
 
298 friendship's offering. 
 
 .<^ Impossible ! if I were in rny grave, ycu couldn't." 
 
 *'I could ! I would ! I will !" cried Frederick. 
 
 " What ! marry your grandmother !" 
 
 " Yes !" said Fairleigh, clenching his fists, and al- 
 most foaming at the mouth, << yes, I repeat it, yes !" 
 
 It was impossible to hold out any longer. Sir P^ter 
 and Maria burst into immoderate laughter, which only 
 increased the agitation of the sufferer, until Sir Peter 
 wiping his eyes said, 
 
 *< Go to her, boy, go to her ; my plan has answered, 
 as I thought it would, and you will be a happy fellow 
 in spite of your folly." 
 
 Maria earnestly impressed upon her lover's mind 
 that she had most reluctantly yielded to the persuasions 
 of her guardian, in suffering this little drama to be got 
 up for his edification ; and Frederick having now ex- 
 perienced the anguish which he would have endured 
 had he really lost Maria, proved by his steady devotion 
 the strength of his attachment. ^' Beach Cottage" was 
 retained as the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Frederick 
 Fairleigh during the honey-moon, and Sir Peter danced 
 at their wedding. 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 A REVERT. 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 Reader; I know not what may be the history of 
 those upon whose domestic privacy the licensed pencil 
 of the artist has intruded, in order to produce the Httle 
 tableau that serves us for a theme this sunny afternoon. 
 I know not whether, indeed, the scene be real or 
 imaginary; nor is this ignorance of much importance. 
 In the field of light Hterature, the probable is more 
 available than the true, whether the object of the writer 
 be amusement or instruction ; and the muse being in a 
 dreamy, wandering, absent mood to-day, would deeply 
 regret being harnessed to the car of history, and com- 
 pelled to plod along the dusty turnpike road of real life, 
 hemmed in on either side by the stiff post-and-rail 
 fences of the " unities" of time and place, and jarred 
 or rendered foot sore by the sharp, angular rocks of 
 naked fact. Our seat, for the moment, (I speak mes- 
 
304 friendship's offering. 
 
 thorns of that green-briar overarching our wild-wood 
 bower, and let us muse upon it together. The destiny 
 of the rivulet cannot be changed, for it is determined 
 by unbending physical laws ; but are there not creatures 
 of loftier purpose, endowed with the god-like gift of 
 will, who can choose between the sunshine and the 
 shade ? It is for these that I would seek ^' Books in 
 running brooks ;" bringing the parental voice of nature 
 to criticise the works of art. Have we not here a scene 
 upon the very stage, of which the glowing pageantry 
 and exaggerated splendour so often tempt the humbly 
 happy from the calm shelter of domestic life into the 
 strife of men ? Let us not quarrel with ambition, 
 
 "The glorious fault of angela and of Gods :" 
 
 It is a noble or a grovelling passion — a virtue or a 
 vice — according to its object, and the means by which 
 that object is attempted : but, among the weaknesses of 
 human nature, the foibles of our species, no one is 
 productive of a larger amount of real suffering than the 
 almost universal envy of what the world calls greatness 
 or good fortune. How often, in the humbler walks of 
 life, this Stygian mist is permitted to cloud the bright 
 sky of existence, mildew the hnks of young affection, 
 and change to gloomy phantoms the shadows from high 
 heaven peopling Hope's early dream, as the boy gazes 
 with enchanted eye and wildly beating heart upon 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 306 
 
 the rosy mirror of the moon ! But, to our theme once 
 more ! 
 
 Proud lineage and station are attested by the ermined 
 robe of that high dame. Princely — it may be royal — 
 are the medalion hanging on the breast, and the tall 
 Eagle-plume of that young chief : — Scottish mo^t pro- 
 bably. The unadorned attire speaks of a kingly rank, 
 which calls not for personal display in aid of its pre- 
 tensions. These dramatis personse are relicts of an age 
 of comparative darkness, when man, unfitted to be free, 
 had need of stubborn rulers — when the will of one, 
 by " right divine," swayed the fierce hcense of the 
 untaught miUions. They died before the Corsican 
 commenced the modern game of bowls, in which mon- 
 archs stood for pins — before the blue-frocked rabble 
 danced, and jeered, and sang, guiding their midnight 
 gambols by the hght of burning thrones. 
 
 But while the world lasts, rank will last. Though 
 the days are rapidly passing away, in which mere 
 political power, rendered permanent by laws that have 
 lost their adaptation to the wants and feelings of man- 
 kind, can be permitted to define the boundaries of 
 classes, and close the gates on the great highway of 
 civilization against the vulgar crowd; — though the 
 parent who has achieved eminence by superior desert, 
 or inherited it by old prescription, can no longer say, 
 ^' this will I surely remit to my descendants, regardless of 
 
306 friendship's offering. 
 
 their merits ;" — yet each one for himself accumulates his 
 share of wealth or fame, and distances his fellows, as 
 skill, tact, or knowledge clears his path. Hence fol- 
 low those divisions in society which are still the cause 
 of such intense heart-burning with those who mistake 
 their strength, and pit themselves against superior 
 powers in the world's great hyppodrome, now open to 
 all comers. When will mankind perceive that wealth, 
 fame, and power are no potent talismans, raising their 
 fortunate possessors above the ills of hfe, but mere 
 delusive lenses, exaggerating to those who use them 
 alike the good and evil of existence, leaving the scale 
 of happiness unswayed. Would this were all ! but 
 they are also weapons : and for their proper use, the 
 holder owes fearful accountability. Above the ills of 
 hfe! Why, a mere breath, a look, which common 
 men pass by and smile at, haunting the memory of the 
 sleeping monarch, steals from his pillow all the balm 
 of rest and peoples night with phantoms : — a mere idle 
 word when the wine clouds discretion, shakes a pro- 
 vince. Above the ills of hfe ? Gaze on the upturned 
 eyes of that noble dame, seeking so pleadingly forgive- 
 ness for some momentary coldness or hasty word, born, 
 it may be, of a passing breeze of jealousy, or the un- 
 satisfied exactiveness of a woman's heart, that would 
 make whole nations wait upon . the idle whims of 
 woman's fondness. His Majesty, perhaps, sat late, 
 
TflE RECONCILIATION, 307 
 
 last night, in council ; — perhaps he chucked the smooth 
 chin of some maid of honour — "/air,/a^," but not quite 
 ^^ forty.'*'' Mark hoVv the prince — no, not the prince — the 
 husband — with palms spread forth in manly protestation, 
 wonders that such hght cause should overcast the morn- 
 ing sky, and almost gather into rain the bright dew 
 trembhng on the lashes of his gentle queen, feehng, 
 no doubt, more joy in the withdrawal of that little cloud 
 from the horizon of domestic peace, than if a conquered 
 realm were brought beneath his sway. The scene 
 would grace a cottage as aptly as a palace. — Alas, these 
 rulers of mankind are made of vulgar stuff. 
 
 Yet ambition is the natural stimulus of youth : — to 
 check it, would be destructive of an instinct to which, 
 the world owes all the noblest gifts which human 
 ingenuity and human industry have added to the store 
 of social blessings. If, in its excesses, this passion, 
 misdirected, has clothed whole tribes in mourning, left 
 nations desolate, exterminated races, and swept, like a 
 universal deluge, over human rights — leaving the bones 
 of murdered patriots, as buried fossils, to mark the age 
 of stratum after stratum among the rocks of history 
 upheaved by each convulsion which bripgs man nearer 
 to perfections— it is not that this passion is in itself an 
 evil, but that the path of the ambitious has been badly 
 chosen. It is a false philosophy which teaches that 
 the emotions of the human heart are in their very 
 25* 
 
308 friendship's offering. 
 
 nature criminal — which tells us to destroy where we 
 should merely guide with wisdom. The passions, like 
 all other faculties, are of a heavenly birth — they are 
 creations of the universal Father ; — and, except when 
 Providence steps forward, and for some special purpose, 
 breathes into the soul a higher, holier motive, such as 
 supports the martyr, smiling at the stake, they are the 
 proper handmaids of the virtues, until the infatuated 
 owner sells them in hopeless slavery to the vices. 
 
 But every sphere erf" hfe, however humble, presents 
 the appropriate food for every mental appetite, in 
 reasonable abundance. Ambition, uncorrupted, finds 
 ample support in the cottage, as well as in the palace : 
 •^those wild grapes, hanging in such profusion from 
 yonder vine, as it trails its graceful festoonery from the 
 bough of the tall oak to the branches of the neighbour- 
 ing hickory, may not possess the luscious flavour of 
 the highly cultivated friiit that crowns your arbours on 
 the margin of the Schuylkill, but their acid raciness is 
 suited to the place and the occasion. In the magnificent 
 halls of the capital, upon silver salvers, and warmed 
 into richer tints by glances from the eyes of sunny 
 beauty, even I would prefer the latter; but here, in this 
 distant region embosomed in the mountains and shaded 
 by primeval forests, where silver salvers are unknown, 
 and beauty travels barefoot in a homespun gown — say, 
 would you bring here, to this scene of simple, natural 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 309 
 
 beauty, such luxuries of cities ? To gratify desires so 
 libelling all taste, you must express the jtiice, — ferment 
 it to a poison, — change its very nature, — and then, at 
 last, it would not be the grape, but wine- — intoxicating 
 wine ! Instead of cooling, it would enhance the fever 
 of your hp : — the httle rivulet at your side laughs 
 louder at the very thought of such inebriate ambition ! 
 Let us look out upon the valley ; fot it is time to point 
 the moral of our theme. 
 
 See you yon meadow? Over one-half its surface 
 the thick piled velvet bows and bends, as wave after 
 wave of verdure rolls onward before the warm wind of 
 the summer noon, disturbing as it goes group after 
 group of snow-white flowers, which sparkle for a mo- 
 ment in the sunshine, tipping the passing billow with 
 a mimic spray-cap, then sinking from the sight. What 
 an ocean of rich life is that little meadow! — But look 
 upon the other half! There, the yellow earth peeps 
 forth among the stubble, and the wide space seems Hke 
 some lonely beach on which the high seas breaking 
 have chronicled the march of the retreating tide in 
 long dark rows of weeds, heaped where each ninth 
 wave fell. ^ The beautiful blossoms lie browned and 
 shrivelling in the heat ; for the strong, tall grass that 
 shielded them has fallen. Sweet are the odours of 
 those swarths of new-mown hay, and many a proud 
 steed, as he bears his ruddy-tinted mistress to church 
 
310 ' friendship's offering. 
 
 on Sunday, many a toil-worn ox retreating to his stall 
 as the cows co#ne lowing to the cottage gate, will bless 
 the hand that rifled thq field of its fragrant wealth — 
 a spoil that caused no tears. 
 
 Between the falling and the fallen grass, on comes 
 the train of mowers. Each blade glances brightly en 
 echelon, as with quickening stroke the emulous rustics 
 struggle to press upon their stout young leader, — the 
 heir apparent 6f a hundred acres. In vain ; they near 
 yon broad old oak that stands upon the margin of the 
 upland, overshadowing road and fence and meadow. 
 Each stroke as his strong arm springs to the labour, 
 widens his distance from the nearest competitor, till the 
 scythe edge ghdes harmless over the trampled green, 
 and stepping briskly under the venerable branches, he 
 sounds with clattering hone upon the ringing steel, the 
 rude but merry peal of rural victory. Casting his eye 
 in triumph towards the cottage door, hard by, where 
 sits an old man on a wooden bench smoking his long 
 Dutch pipe, the conqueror waits for his reward. Is it 
 the laurel crown ? No ; 'tis of the wild-rose and the 
 Kalmia leaf, the wreath yon maiden brings to bind his 
 brow, and shade those eye^ now dancing with the fire 
 of gratified ambition. With a frank smile and bound- 
 ing step — the napkin-covered lunch-basket swinging 
 lightly on an arm well formed for sober service, though 
 graceful as if born to sweep the harp in the rich halls 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. Sit 
 
 of cities — she trips to meet her lover, her affianced. 
 Cottage love needs not the stern restraints which guard 
 the feelings in more polished life. Where all is natu- 
 ral and innocent, why should there be reserve ? Where 
 all is free from soil, what need of circumspection ? 
 
 Happy, thrice happy swain ! Thy vision bounded 
 by "a few paternal acres;" thy wishes, like thy 
 knowledge, centred in a narrow sphere, where harvest . 
 follows seed-time and summer yields to autumn, — as in 
 thy labours, so hkewise in thy life ! The past, with 
 thee, foretells the certain future. Even in the solitary 
 grain of wheat, thou seest the teeming richness of the 
 next year's crop'— even in the calm smile of that hale 
 old smoker, thou seest thyself reflected — the ripeness of 
 thy day when ready for the sickle. All that thou hast 
 is truly thine ; thou knowest its origin and measurest its 
 end. Seek not to wander forth from this thy Eden, 
 into the labyrinth of capitals, or tortuous paths of 
 greatness. - , 
 
 Alas ! the dream is over ; that happy state in which 
 the soul is permitted to part company with its animal 
 yoke-fellow, and wander freely through all time — all 
 space — summoning at will the creatures of the past, 
 the present and the future, to hold sweet converse with 
 the poet or plead before the self-established court of 
 calm philosophy ! 
 
312 friendship's offering. 
 
 -» - "The power that bore my spirit up 
 
 ^b.ive this bank note world, is gone." 
 
 Gone is the mountain scene, the valley and the rivu- 
 let ; and here, in the crowded haunts of men, where 
 Philosophy sits scratching its ponderous forehead over 
 his ledger and day-book, while poor neglected Poetry 
 is quietly, though rather sadly, darning her stockings, 
 the bell is ringing for supper. Adieu, then, for the 
 present ; but let us each carry with us the moral of 
 the dream : 
 
 Rank, power, wealth, station, are but exaggerating 
 lenses, bringing nearer to the heart's eye the woes and 
 blessings of existence ; while duties well-performed in 
 any sphere, are the true means of happiness. The 
 heaven of hfe is ihe domestic circle, and a false ambi- 
 tion, wed to selfishness, the ruling spirit of an earthly 
 Tartarus. 
 
 Napoleon was at Brienne : — ^not the ardent boy, thril- 
 hng with hope and trembling at the shadowy thoughts, 
 the dim forebodings of his terrible mission — but the 
 earth's emperor, " the destroyer, the lion of cities." 
 The maps of many nations were before him : his finger 
 traced new boundaries for the mighty, by a still 
 mightier will : — " The iron tongue of time, in the old 
 tower, told of the revolutions before which even the 
 world's masters bow ; — Once more, he remembered the 
 
THE RECONCILIATION. 313 
 
 ardent boy — the days when even ambition was unsul- 
 lied, and a source of unalloyed delight — Napoleon 
 wept ! 
 
 Reader, wilt thou not join me in a prayer ? What- 
 ever be our destiny in the fierce struggle of mankind — 
 wherever duty calls us in the path laid down for each 
 that lives — grant us, kind heaven, an honest emulation, 
 but spare, oh, spare us envy, and that bitterest curse 
 
 "Vaulting ambition, that o'erlesips its sell!" 
 
VANITY FAIR. 
 
 BY THOMAS H. BAYLY, ESQ. 
 
 To Vanity Fair all my neighbours have been, 
 To see all the sights that were there to be seen ; 
 Old and young, rich and poor, were all hurrying there, 
 To pick up a bargain at Vanity Fair ! 
 
 A very rich mau ostentatiously came, 
 
 To buy with his lucre a liberal name ; 
 
 He published his charities everywhere. 
 
 And thought he' bought virtue at Vanity Fair ! 
 
 A lady, whose beauty was on the decline. 
 Rather tawny from age, like an over-kept wine ; 
 Bought lilies and roses, teeth, plumpers, and hair. 
 And emerged a new person from Vanity Fair ! 
 
VANITY FAIR. 315 
 
 Another, so plain that she really resigned 
 Pretensions to beauty — save that of the mind ; 
 Picked up a half-mad, intellectual air. 
 And came back a Genius from Vanity Fair ! 
 
 A soldier came next, and he flourished a flag, 
 By sword, gun, and bayonet torn to a rag ! 
 He had faced the grim mouth of a cannon, to share 
 Renown's twig of laurel in Vanity Fair ! 
 
 A mathematician there made up his mind 
 To sneer at all things of a frivolous kind ; 
 A circle, he vowed, is by no means a square. 
 And he thought he enlightened all Vanity Fair ! 
 
 Another, despising refinement and grace, 
 
 Growled at all who were near, with a frown on his face 
 
 He prided himself on being rude as a bear. 
 
 So he shone the Eccentric of Vanity Fair ! 
 
 A grand politician, unshaken, withstood 
 Individual ill for the national good ; 
 To mount a new step on promotion's high stair, 
 He toiled for precedence in Vanity Fair ! 
 26 
 
316 friendship's offering. 
 
 A ci-devant heau, with' one foot in the grave, 
 Still followed the ladies, their shadowy slave ; 
 Concealing his limp with a strut debonair, 
 He smoothed down his wrinkles in Vanity Fair ! 
 
 The next was an orater, longing to teach. 
 And to cut a great figure by figures of speech ; 
 At dinner he sat in the President's chair. 
 In attitudes purchased at Vanity Fair ! 
 
 One sailed to the Red Sea — and one to the Black ; 
 One danced on the tight rope — and one on the slack 
 And all were agog for the popular stare, — 
 All mad to be Lions in Vanity Fair ! 
 
 One raised on new doctrines his personal pride, — 
 His pen put the wisdom of ages aside ; 
 The apple of Eve after all was a pear ! 
 So said the Reformer of Vanity Fair ! 
 
 A poet came last, with a fine rolling eye. 
 His shirt collar open — his neckcloth thrown by : — * 
 Such matters evince inspiration, he'll swear. 
 So he sticks up his portrait in Vanity Fair ! 
 
THE FLOWER GIRL OF THE PONT NEUF. 
 
 I WAS crossing the Pont Neuf at the moment when a 
 porter belonging to the Bank of France, pretty well 
 tired of the weight he carried (it was a bag containing 
 nine thousand francs in silver), stopped to rest himself 
 by leaning against the parapet wall of the bridge; but 
 the moment that he did so, his valuable load, either 
 from awkwardness or carelessness, slipped out of his 
 hands, and fell into the Seine, which is very deep just 
 in that spot. 
 
 Never shall I forget his look of despair. He made 
 a movement as if to jump over ; and, I beheve, would 
 have effected his purpose, but for the presence of mind 
 of a girl ; a little delicate looking thing of about sixteen, 
 a violet-seller, who, clasping her arms around him, 
 cried for help, which in an instant was afforded. 
 
 Myself and some others seized him; he struggled 
 with us desperately. '' Let me go ! let me go !" cried 
 he ; "I am ruined for ever. My wife, my children, 
 what will become of you ?" A multitude of voices 
 
318 
 
 FRIENDSHIP S OFFERIKG. 
 
 were raised at once,- some to console, others to inquire ; 
 but above the rest were heard the clear and silver tones 
 of the little violet girl : — " My friend, have patience, 
 you Jiave lost nothing/' " Nothing ! Oh, heavens !" 
 "No, no; I tell you no. Let some one run for the 
 divers ; there is no doubt they will succeed in bringing 
 it up." << She is right," resounded from a number of 
 voices, and from mine among the rest ; and in an in- 
 stant, half-a-dozen people ran to fetch the divers. 
 
 Those who remained, exerted themselves as well as 
 they could to solace the poor porter. One brought 
 him a small glass of liqueur ; another, a httle brandy ; 
 a third, some eau de Cologne; and four or five pre- 
 sented the grand specific, sugar and water. The little 
 violet girl had been before all the rest in administering 
 a cordial ; and, perhaps, hers was the most efficacious 
 — 2i glass of pure water, which she held to his trem- 
 bhng lips, and made him swallow. "Drink," she 
 cried, " drink it up, it will do you good." 
 
 Whether it was the water, or the kind and sympa- 
 thetic manner with which it was offered, that relieved 
 him, I know not, but certainly one of the two had its 
 eflfect, for his looks grew less wild ; he burst into a pas- 
 sionate fit of weeping, and, by degrees, became com- 
 posed enough to make his acknowledgments to the 
 spectators, who had shown such interest in his misfor- 
 tune. . 
 
THE FLOWER GIRL OF THE PONT NEUF. 319 
 
 The divers soon came, and one of them descended 
 without loss of time. Never did I witness such an in- 
 tense anxiety as the search excited : if the fate of every- 
 one present had hung upon the success, they could 
 not have testified greater interest in it. He soon re- 
 appeared, bringing up — not the bag of silver, but a 
 small iron box. It was instantly broken open, and 
 found to be full of twenty-franc pieces in gold ; they 
 were quickly counted, and found to amount to nearly 
 twelve thousand francs ; about four hundred and fifty 
 pounds sterling. There were three divers, who, over- 
 joyed at their good fortune, speedily divided the prize 
 among themselves^ and directly afterwards another 
 descended in search of the porter's bag. 
 
 This time he returned with it in triumph. The poor 
 fellow could scarcely speak when it was put into his 
 hands. On coming to himself, he cried with vehe- 
 mence, " God reward you !" you know not what good 
 you have done — I am the father of five children. I 
 was formerly in good circumstances, but a series of 
 misfortunes reduced me to the greatest distress. All 
 that I had left was an irreproachable character, and 
 that procured me my present situation ; I have had it 
 but a week. To-day I should, without your help, 
 have lost it. My wife, my children, would have been 
 exposed to all the horrors of want ; they would have 
 been deprived of a husband and a father; for never, 
 26* 
 
320 friendship's offering. 
 
 no never, could I have survived the ruin I had brought 
 upon them ! It is you who have saved us all ; God 
 will reward you, he alone can." 
 
 While he thus spoke, he rummaged in his pockets, 
 and drew out some francs. " This is all I have, 'tis 
 very httle ; but tell me where you live, and to-morrow 
 — " ^' Not a farthing," interrupted they, with one 
 voice ; and one of them added, " Stop a bit, let me talk 
 to my comrades." They stepped aside for a moment; 
 I followed them with my eyes, and saw that they 
 listened to their companion with emotion. " We are 
 all of a mind," said he, returning with them. " Yes, 
 my friend, if we have been serviceable to you, you also 
 have been the cause of our good fortune ; it seems to 
 me that we ought to share with you what God has sent 
 us through your means. My companions think so too, 
 and we are going to divide it into four equal shares." 
 
 The porter would have remonstrated, but his voice 
 was drowned by the acclamations of the spectators. 
 << Generous fellows !" — << Much good may it do you !" 
 — "The same luck to you," resounded from every 
 mouth. There was not one present but seemed as 
 happy as if he or she were about to participate in the 
 contents of the box. The money was divided, and, in 
 spite of his excuses, the porter was forced to take his 
 share. 
 
 The generous divers went their way ; the crowd be- 
 
THE FLOWER GIRL OF THE PONT NEUF. 321 
 
 gan to disperse ; but the porter still lingered, and I had 
 the curiosity to remain, in order to watch his motions. 
 He approached the little violet girl. '' Ah ! my dear," 
 cried he, "what do I not owe you ! but for you it had 
 been all over with me. ,My wife, my little ones, must 
 thank you." '^ Ma foil it is not worth mentioning. 
 Would you have had me stand by and see you drown 
 yourself!" " But your courage, your strength ! could 
 one have expected it from so young a girll" <<Ah ! 
 there is no want of strength where there is good will." 
 <« And nobody ever had more of that. Give me six of 
 your bouquets, my dear ; my children are so fond of 
 violets, and never have they prized any as they will 
 do these." 
 
 She twisted a bit of thread round six of her fairy 
 nosegays, and presented them to him. He deposited 
 them carefully in his bosom, and shpped something into 
 her hand ; then, without waiting to hear the acknow- 
 ledgements which she began to pour forth, took to his 
 heels as if his bag had been made of feathers. 
 
 The girl looked after him with pleasure sparkling 
 in her eyes. " What will you take for the rest of 
 your nosegays?" said I, going up to her. " Whatever 
 you please to give me," cried she, with vivacity; "for 
 that good man's money will burn my pocket till I get 
 home to give it to my mother. Oh ! how glad will «he 
 be to have all that, and still more so when she knows 
 
322 
 
 why it has been given me." The reader will easily 
 believe that my purchase was speedily made ; the good 
 girl's purse was something the heavier for it ; and I 
 had the pleasure of thinking, that I contributed, in a 
 small degree, to reward the goodness of heart which 
 she had so unequivocally displayed. She hastened 
 home with her Jittle treasure, and I returned to my 
 lodging, to put my violets into water, promising myself, 
 as I did so, to be a frequent customer to the little nose- 
 gay girl of the Pont Neuf. 
 
THE FOUNT OF TEARS. 
 
 BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE. 
 
 I WATCHED beside him, when from earth 
 
 All that he loved had passed away ; 
 
 And mute, dark, desperate dreams have birth, 
 
 Which lead the soul astray, — 
 
 Fixed was his brow, and cahn his air ; 
 
 No tear was in his vacant eye, — 
 
 They said that tears would sooth despair : 
 
 I led him forth to try. 
 
 We sought the dweUing of the dead. 
 
 Where she — the loved ! the lost ! was laid ; 
 
 I bade him read the name — he read, 
 
 Yet not a look betrayed 
 
 The consciousness that here she slept 
 
 The last unchanging sleep ;— 
 
 Where friends less dear had waked and wept. 
 
 He only did not weep^ 
 
324 friendship's offering. 
 
 I led liim to the moss-clacLoak, 
 
 ^here they had pledged love's first fond vow ; 
 
 No sound the dreary stillness broke, 
 
 That whispered, << Where art thou ?" 
 
 Nought did he seem to hear or see 
 
 Of grief, in that familiar spot ; 
 
 " Poor maid," I thought, *' and can it be 
 
 That thou art thus forgot !" 
 
 Homeward we turned ; when through the wood 
 
 Came down a young and joyous pair. 
 
 The mourner started — trembled — stood ; 
 
 The spell I sought was there. 
 
 At sight of LIVING LOVE, awoke 
 
 The feehngs that so long had slept ; 
 
 The chain that bound his soul was broke, — 
 
 He sat him down and wept ! 
 
SONNET. 
 
 LOVE IS THE EULEILLTNG OF THE LAW.' 
 
 BY H- 
 
 " Lo here ! lo there !" the pompous schoolman cries, 
 
 " Omit those rites, perform these mummeries, 
 
 Perdition — paradise awaits the choice !" 
 
 Bewildered nature falters at the voice, 
 
 And leans despairing on the silent tomb. 
 
 O, Thou whose word can break the mystic gloom. 
 
 Teach me thyself ! nor leave me to this doom ; 
 
 Though storms and clouds obscure the Hve-long day, 
 
 And snares and sorrows 'tend on all the way, 
 
 Let me behold Thee seated on the throne ; 
 
 Thy sovereign will — the rule of right — alone. 
 
 Is the sure pilot of man's destiny. 
 
 In life — in death — let this my precept be ; 
 
 *» The true philosophy is love to Thee !" 
 
^THE HAUNTED SHIP. 
 
 A TRUE STORT— AS FAR AS IT GOES. 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF <'THE SKETCH-BOOK." 
 
 The world abounds with ghost-stories, but it is 
 exceedingly difficult to get them at first hand ; that is 
 to say ; from persons who have actually seen the ghosts : 
 this may be the reason why they have fallen into some 
 discredit with the dubious. I once, however, heard a 
 story of the kind from one who came within an ace of 
 being an eye-witness, and who behoved in it most 
 honestly. He was a worthy captain of the sea ; a native 
 either of Nantucket or Martha's Vineyard, I forget 
 which ; at any rate, of a place noted for its breed of 
 hardy mariners. I met with him in the ancient city of Se- 
 ville, having anchored with his brig in the Guadalquiver, 
 in the course of a wandering voyage. Our conversa- 
 tion, one day, turned upon the wonders and adventures 
 of the sea ; when he informed me that, among his multi- 
 
THE HAUNTED SHIP. 
 
 327 
 
 farious cruisings, he had once made a voyage on board 
 of a haunted ship. It was a vessel that had been met 
 with drifting, half dismantled, and with flagging sails, 
 about the sea near the Gulf of Florida, between the 
 mainland and the Bahama banks. Those who boarded 
 her found her without a hving soul on board ; the 
 hatch- ways were broken open ; the cargo had been 
 rifled ; the decks fore and aft were covered with blood ; 
 the shrouds and rigging were smeared with the same, 
 as if some wretched beings had been massacred as they 
 clung to them ; it was evident that the ship had been 
 plundered by pirates, and, to all appearance, the crew 
 had been murdered and thrown overboard. 
 
 The ship was taken possession of by the finders, and 
 brought to Boston, in New England ; but the sailors 
 who navigated her to port declared they would not 
 make such another voyage for all the wealth of Peru. 
 They had been harassed the whole way by the ghosts 
 of the murdered crew ; who at night would come up 
 out of the companion-way and the forecastle, run up 
 the shrouds, station themselves on the yards, and at the 
 mast-heads, and appear to perform all the usual duties 
 of the ship. 
 
 As no harm had resulted from this ghostly seaman- 
 ship, the story was treated hghtly, and the vessel was 
 fitted out for another voyage ; but when ready for sea, 
 no sailors could be got to embark in her. She lay for 
 37 
 
328 friendship's offering. 
 
 some time in Boston harbour, regarded by the super- 
 stitious seamen as a fated ship ; and there she might 
 have rotted, had not the worthy captain who related to 
 me the story, undertaken to command her. He suc- 
 ceeded in getting some hardy tars, who stood less in 
 awe of ghosts, to accompany him, and his brother-in-law 
 sailed with him as chief mate. 
 
 When they had got fairly to sea, the hobgoblin crew 
 began to play their pranks. At night there would be 
 the deuce to pay in the hold : such racketing and 
 rummaging, as if the whole cargo was overhauled ; 
 bales tumbled about, and boxes broken open ; and some- 
 times it seemed as if all the ballast was shifted from 
 side to side. All this was heard with dismay by the 
 sailors ; and even the captain's brother-in-law, who 
 appears to have been a very sagacious man, was 
 exceedingly troubled at it. As to the captain himself, 
 he honestly confessed to me that he never saw nor 
 heard any thing ; but then he slept soundly, and, when 
 once asleep, was hard to be awakened. 
 
 Notwithstanding all these ghostly vagaries, the ship 
 arrived safe at the destined end of her voyage, which 
 was one of the South American rivers under the hne. 
 The captain proposed to go in his boat to a town some 
 distance up the river, leaving his ship in charge of his 
 brother-in-law. The latter said he would anchor her 
 opposite to an island in the river, where he could go on 
 
THE HAUNTED SHIP^ 3*23 
 
 shore at night, and yet be at hand to keep guard upon 
 her ; but that nothing should tempt him to sleep on 
 board. The crew all swore the same. The captain 
 could not reasonably object to such an arrangement : so 
 the ship was anchored opposite to the island, and the 
 captain departed on his expedition. 
 
 For a time all went well ; the brother-in-law and his 
 sagacious comrades regularly abandoned the ship at 
 night-fall, and slept on shore ; the ghosts then took 
 command, and the ship remained as quietly at anchor 
 as though she had been manned by living bodies instead 
 of hobgoblin sprites. One night, however, the captain's 
 brother-in-law was awakened by a tremendous storm. 
 He hastened to the shore. The sea was lashed up in 
 foaming and roaring surges ; the rain came down in 
 torrents — the lightning flashed — the thunder bellowed. 
 It was one of those sudden tempests only known at the 
 tropics. The captain's brother-in-law cast a rueful look 
 at the poor tossing and labouring ship. He saw num- 
 bers of uncouth beings busy about her, who were only 
 to be descried by the flashes of lightning or by pale 
 fires that glided about the rigging ; he heard occasionally 
 the piping of a boatswain's whistle, or the bellowing of 
 a hoarse voice through a speaking-trumpet. The ghosts 
 were evidently striving to save the ship ; but a tropical 
 storm is sometimes an over-match for ghost, or goblin, 
 or even the himself. In a word, the ship parted 
 
330 friendship's offering. 
 
 her cables, drove before the wind, stranded on the 
 rocks, and there she laid her bones. 
 
 When the captain returned from his expedition up 
 the river, he found his late gallant vessel a mere hulk, 
 and received this wonderful account of her fate from 
 his sagacious brother-in-law. Whether the wreck 
 continued to be haunted or not, he could not inform 
 me ; and I forgot to ask whether the owners recovered 
 anything from the underwriters, who rarely insure 
 against accidents from ghosts. 
 
 Such is one of the nearest chances I have ever had 
 of getting to the fountain-head of a ghost-story. I have 
 often since regretted that the captain should have been 
 so sound a sleeper, and that I did not see his brother- 
 in-law. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 King Sc Baird, Print. No. George St- Philadelphia.