^ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA GIFT OF PROFESSOR GEORGE R. STEWART Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive in 2007 witii funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.arcliive.org/details/friendsliipsofferOOstewricli / ii] It "") u 11. ;*■: Kii N]^ , ^^ ^ ^^M¥% -^s^t:;- \'^. ■Wj (A:'- 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. * 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." ,' < 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, 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." — '